be gone into without unlimited cash; but now he had a chance of making
money, he determined to try his hand at the business. True, he knew that
he was in for a swindle, but then he was behind the scenes, and would
benefit by the knowledge he had gained. If the question at issue had
really been that of getting gold out of the reef and paying dividends
with the profits, Gaston would have snapped his fingers scornfully, and
held aloof; but this was simply a running up of shares by means of a
rich reef being struck. He intended to buy at the present market value,
which was four shillings, and sell as soon as he could make a good
profit--say, at one pound--so there was not much chance of him losing
his money. The shares would probably drop again when the pocket of gold
was worked out, but then that would be none of his affair, as he would
by that time have sold out and made his pile. M. Vandeloup was a fly who
was going straight into the webs of stockbroking spiders, but then he
knew as much about this particular web as the spiders themselves.
Full of his scheme to make money, Vandeloup started for town to see a
broker--first, however, having settled with Mrs Pulchop over Kitty’s
disappearance. He had found a letter from Kitty in the bedroom, in which
she had bidden him good-bye for ever, but this he did not show to Mrs
Pulchop, merely stating to that worthy lady that his ‘wife’ had left
him.
‘And it ain’t to be wondered at, the outraged angel,’ she said to
Gaston, as he stood at the door, faultlessly dressed, ready to go into
town; ‘the way you treated her were shameful.’
Gaston shrugged his shoulders, lit a cigarette, and smiled at Mrs
Pulchop.
‘My dear lady,’ he said, blandly, ‘pray attend to your medicine bottles
and leave my domestic affairs alone; you certainly understand the one,
but I doubt your ability to come to any conclusion regarding the other.’
‘Fine words don’t butter no parsnips,’ retorted Mrs Pulchop, viciously;
‘and if Pulchop weren’t an Apoller, he had a kind heart.’
‘Spare me these domestic stories, please,’ said Vandeloup, coldly, ‘they
do not interest me in the least; since my “wife”,’ with a sneer, ‘has
gone, I will leave your hospitable roof. I will send for all my property
either today or to-morrow, and if you make out your account in the
meantime, my messenger will pay it. Good day!’ and without another
word Vandeloup walked slowly off down the path, leaving Mrs Pulchop
speechless with indignation.
He went into town first, to the City of Melbourne Bank, and cashed
Meddlechip’s cheque for six hundred pounds, then, calling a hansom, he
drove along to the Hibernian Bank, where he had an account, and paid
it into his credit, reserving ten pounds for his immediate use. Then
he reentered his hansom, and went along to the office of a stockbroker,
called Polglaze, who was a member of ‘The Bachelors’, and in whose hands
Vandeloup intended to place his business.
Polglaze was a short, stout man, scrupulously neatly dressed, with iron
grey hair standing straight up, and a habit of dropping out his words
one at a time, so that the listener had to construct quite a little
history between each, in order to arrive at their meaning, and the
connection they had with one another.
‘Morning!’ said Polglaze, letting the salutation fly out of his mouth
rapidly, and then closing it again in case any other word might be
waiting ready to pop out unknown to him.
Vandeloup sat down and stated his business briefly.
‘I want you to buy me some Magpie Reef shares,’ he said, leaning on the
table.
‘Many?’ dropped out of Polglaze’s mouth, and then it shut again with a
snap. ‘Depends on the price,’ replied Vandeloup, with a shrug; ‘I see in
the papers they are four shillings.’
Mr Polglaze took up his share book, and rapidly turned over the
leaves--found what he wanted, and nodded.
‘Oh!’ said Vandeloup, making a rapid mental calculation, ‘then buy
me two thousand five hundred. That will be about five hundred pounds’
worth.’
Mr Polglaze nodded; then whistled.
‘Your commission, I presume,’ said Vandeloup, making another
calculation, ‘will be threepence?’
‘Sixpence,’ interrupted the stockbroker.
‘Oh, I thought it was threepence,’ answered Vandeloup, quietly;
‘however, that does not make any difference to me. Your commission at
that rate will be twelve pounds ten shillings?’
Polglaze nodded again, and sat looking at Vandeloup like a stony
mercantile sphinx.
‘If you will, then, buy me these shares,’ said Vandeloup, rising, and
taking up his gloves and hat, ‘when am I to come along and see you?’
‘Four,’ said Polglaze.
Today?’ inquired Vandeloup.
A nod from the stockbroker.
‘Very well,’ said Vandeloup, quietly, ‘I’ll give you a cheque for the
amount, then. There’s nothing more to be said, I believe?’ and he walked
over to the door.
‘Say!’ from Polglaze.
‘Yes,’ replied Gaston, indolently, swinging his stick to and fro.
‘New?’ inquired the stockbroker.
‘You mean to this sort of thing?’ said Vandeloup, looking at him, and
receiving a nod in token of acquiescence, added, ‘entirely.’
‘Risky,’ dropped from the Polglaze mouth. ‘I never knew a gold mine that
wasn’t,’ retorted Vandeloup, dryly.
‘Bad,’ in an assertive tone, from Polglaze.
‘This particular mine, I suppose you mean?’ said Gaston, with a yawn,
‘very likely it is. However, I’m willing to take the risk. Good day! See
you at four,’ and with a careless nod, M. Vandeloup lounged out of the
office.
He walked along Collins Street, met a few friends, and kept a look-out
for Kitty. He, however, did not see her, but there was a surprise in
store for him, for turning round into Swanston Street, he came across
Archie McIntosh. Yes, there he was, with his grim, severe Scotch face,
with the white frill round it, and Gaston smiled as he saw the old man,
dressed in rigid broadcloth, casting disproving looks on the pretty
girls walking along.
‘A set o’ hizzies,’ growled the amiable Archie to himself, ‘prancin’
alang wi’ their gew-gaws an’ fine claes, like war horses--the daughters
o’ Zion that walk wi’ mincin’ steps an’ tinklin’ ornaments.’
‘How do you do?’ said Vandeloup, touching the broadcloth shoulder; upon
which McIntosh turned.
‘Lord save us!’ he ejaculated, grimly, ‘it’s yon French body. An’ hoo’s
a’ wi’ ye, laddie? Eh, but ye’re brawly dressed, my young man,’ with a
disproving look; ‘I’m hopin’ they duds are paid for.’
‘Of course they are,’ replied Vandeloup, gaily, ‘do you think I stole
them?’
‘Weel, I’ll no gae sa far as that,’ remarked Archie, cautiously; ‘maybe
ye have dwelt by the side o’ mony waters, an’ flourished. If he ken the
Screepture ye’ll see God helps those wha help themselves.’
‘That means you do all the work and give God the credit,’ retorted
Gaston, with a sneer; ‘I know all about that.’
‘Ah, ye’ll gang tae the pit o’ Tophet when ye dee,’ said Mr McIntosh,
who had heard this remark with horror; ‘an’ ye’ll no be sae ready wi’
your tongue there, I’m thinkin’; but ye are not speerin aboot Mistress
Villiers.’
‘Why, is she in town?’ asked Vandeloup, eagerly.
‘Ay, and Seliny wi’ her,’ answered Archie, fondling his frill; ‘she’s
varra rich noo, as ye’ve nae doot heard. Ay, ay,’ he went on, ‘she’s
gotten a braw hoose doon at St Kilda, and she’s going to set up a
carriage, ye ken. She tauld me,’ pursued Mr McIntosh, sourly, looking
at Vandeloup, ‘if I saw ye I was to be sure to tell ye to come an’ see
her.’
‘Present my compliments to Madame,’ said Vandeloup, quickly, ‘and I will
wait on her as soon as possible.’
‘Losh save us, laddie,’ said McIntosh, irritably, ‘you’re as fu’ o’ fine
wards as a play-actor. Have ye seen onything doon in this pit o’ Tophet
o’ the bairn that rin away?’
‘Oh, Miss Marchurst!’ said Vandeloup, smoothly, ready with a lie at
once. ‘No, I’m sorry to say I’ve never set eyes on her.’
‘The mistress is joost daft aboot her,’ observed McIntosh, querulously;
‘and she’s ganging tae look all thro’ the toun tae find the puir wee
thing.’
‘I hope she will!’ said M. Vandeloup, who devoutly hoped she wouldn’t.
‘Will you come and have a glass of wine, Mr McIntosh?’
‘Til hae a wee drappy o’ whusky if ye’ve got it gude,’ said McIntosh,
cautiously, ‘but I dinna care for they wines that sour on a body’s
stomach.’
McIntosh having thus graciously assented, Vandeloup took him up to
the Club, and introduced him all round as the manager of the famous
Pactolus. All the young men were wonderfully taken up with Archie and
his plain speaking, and had Mr McIntosh desired he could have drunk
oceans of his favourite beverage. However, being a Scotchman and
cautious, he took very little, and left Vandeloup to go down to Madame
Midas at St Kilda, and bearing a message from the Frenchman that he
would call there the next day.
Archie having departed, Vandeloup got through the rest of the day as
he best could. He met Mr Wopples in the street, who told him how he had
found Kitty, quite unaware that the young man before him was the villain
who had betrayed the girl. Vandeloup was delighted to think that Kitty
had not mentioned his name, and quite approved of Mr Wopples’ intention
to take the girl on tour. Having thus arranged for Kitty’s future,
Gaston went along to his broker, and found that the astute Polglaze had
got him his shares.
‘Going up,’ said Polglaze, as he handed the scrip to Vandeloup and got a
cheque in exchange.
‘Oh, indeed!’ said Vandeloup, with a smile. ‘I suppose my two friends
have begun their little game already,’ he thought, as he slipped the
scrip into his breast pocket.
‘Information?’ asked Polglaze, as Vandeloup was going.
‘Oh! you’d like to know where I got it,’ said M. Vandeloup, amiably.
‘Very sorry I can’t tell you; but you see, my dear sir, I am not a
woman, and can keep a secret.’
Vandeloup walked out, and Polglaze looked after him with a puzzled look,
then summed up his opinion in one word, sharp, incisive, and to the
point--
‘Clever!’ said Polglaze, and put the cheque in his safe.
Vandeloup strolled along the street thinking.
‘Bebe is out of my way,’ he thought, with a smile; ‘I have a small
fortune in my pocket, and,’ he continued, thoughtfully, ‘Madame Midas is
in Melbourne. I think now,’ said M. Vandeloup, with another smile, ‘that
I have conquered the blind goddess.’
CHAPTER VII
THE OPULENCE OF MADAME MIDAS
A wealthy man does not know the meaning of the word friendship. He is
not competent to judge, for his wealth precludes him giving a proper
opinion. Smug-faced philanthropists can preach comfortable doctrines in
pleasant rooms with well-spread tables and good clothing; they can talk
about human nature being unjustly accused, and of the kindly impulses
and good thoughts in everyone’s breasts. Pshaw! anyone can preach
thus from an altitude of a few thousands a year, but let these same
self-complacent kind-hearted gentlemen descend in the social scale--let
them look twice at a penny before spending it--let them face persistent
landladies, exorbitant landlords, or the bitter poverty of the streets,
and they will not talk so glibly of human nature and its inherent
kindness. No; human nature is a sort of fetish which is credited with
a great many amiable qualities it never possesses, and though there
are exceptions to the general rule, Balzac’s aphorism on mankind that
‘Nature works by self-interest,’ still holds good today.
Madame Midas, however, had experienced poverty and the coldness of
friends, so was completely disillusionised as to the disinterested
motives of the people who now came flocking around her. She was very
wealthy, and determined to stop in Melbourne for a year, and then go
home to Europe, so to this end she took a house at St Kilda, which had
been formerly occupied by Mark Frettlby, the millionaire, who had been
mixed up in the famous hansom cab murder nearly eighteen months before.
His daughter, Mrs Fitzgerald, was in Ireland with her husband, and had
given instructions to her agents to let the house furnished as it stood,
but such a large rent was demanded, that no one felt inclined to give
it till Mrs Villiers appeared on the scene. The house suited her, as
she did not want to furnish one of her own, seeing she was only going to
stop a year, so she saw Thinton and Tarbet, who had the letting of
the place, and took it for a year. The windows were flung open, the
furniture brushed and renovated, and the solitary charwoman who had been
ruler in the lonely rooms so long, was dismissed, and her place taken by
a whole retinue of servants. Madame Midas intended to live in style,
so went to work over the setting up of her establishment in such an
extravagant manner that Archie remonstrated. She took his interference
in a good humoured way, but still arranged things as she intended; and
when her house was ready, waited for her friends to call on her, and
prepared to amuse herself with the comedy of human life. She had not
long to wait, for a perfect deluge of affectionate people rolled
down upon her. Many remembered her--oh, quite well--when she was
the beautiful Miss Curtis; and then her husband--that dreadful
Villiers--they hoped he was dead--squandering her fortune as he had
done--they had always been sorry for her, and now she was rich--that
lovely Pactolus--indeed, she deserved it all--she would marry, of
course--oh, but indeed, she must. And so the comedy went on, and all the
actors flirted, and ogled, and nodded, and bowed, till Madame Midas was
quite sick of the falseness and frivolity of the whole thing. She knew
these people, with their simpering and smiling, would visit her and
eat her dinners and drink her wines, and then go away and abuse her
thoroughly. But then Madame Midas never expected anything else, so she
received them with smiles, saw through all their little ways, and when
she had amused herself sufficiently with their antics, she let them go.
Vandeloup called on Madame Midas the day after she arrived, and Mrs
Villiers was delighted to see him. Having an object in view, of course
Gaston made himself as charming as possible, and assisted Madame to
arrange her house, told her about the people who called on her, and made
cynical remarks about them, all of which amused Madame Midas mightily.
She grew weary of the inane gabble and narrow understandings of people,
and it was quite a relief for her to turn to Vandeloup, with his keen
tongue and clever brains. Gaston was not a charitable talker--few really
clever talkers are--but he saw through everyone with the uttermost ease
and summed them up in a sharp incisive way, which had at least the merit
of being clever. Madame Midas liked to hear him talk, and seeing what
humbugs the people who surrounded her were, and how well she knew their
motives in courting her for her wealth, it is not to be wondered at that
she should have been amused at having all their little weaknesses laid
bare and classified by such a master of satire as Vandeloup. So they sat
and watched the comedy and the unconscious actors playing their parts,
and felt that the air was filled with heavy sensuous perfume, and the
lights were garish, and that there was wanting entirely that keen cool
atmosphere which Mallock calls ‘the ozone of respectability’.
Vandeloup had prospered in his little venture in the mining market, for,
true to the prediction of Mr Barraclough--who, by the way, was very
much astonished at the sudden demand for shares by Polglaze, and vainly
pumped that reticent individual to find out what he was up to--the
Magpie Reef shares ran up rapidly. A telegram was published from the
manager stating a rich reef had been struck. Specimens of the very
richest kind were displayed in Melbourne, and the confiding public
suddenly woke to the fact that a golden tide was flowing past their
doors. They rushed the share market, and in two weeks the Magpie Reef
shares ran from four shillings to as many pounds. Vandeloup intended
to sell at one pound, but when he saw the rapid rise and heard everyone
talking about this Reef, which was to be a second Long Tunnel, he held
his shares till they touched four pounds, then, quite satisfied with his
profit, he sold out at once and pocketed nearly ten thousand pounds, so
that he was provided for the rest of his life. The shares ran up
still higher, to four pounds ten shillings, then dropped to three, in
consequence of certain rumours that the pocket of gold was worked out.
Then another rich lead was struck, and they ran up again to five pounds,
and afterwards sank to two pounds, which gradually became their regular
price in the market. That Barraclough and his friend did well was
sufficiently proved by the former taking a trip to Europe, while his
friend bought a station and set up as a squatter. They, however, never
knew how cleverly M. Vandeloup had turned their conversation to his
advantage, and that young gentleman, now that he had made a decent sum,
determined to touch gold mining no more, and, unlike many people, he
kept his word.
Now that he was a man of means, Vandeloup half decided to go to America,
as a larger field for a gentleman of his brilliant qualities, but
the arrival of Madame Midas in Melbourne made him alter his mind. Her
husband was no doubt dead, so Gaston thought that as soon as she had
settled down he would begin to pay his court to her, and without doubt
would be accepted, for this confident young man never for a moment
dreamed of failure. Meanwhile he sent all Kitty’s wardrobe after her as
she went with the Wopples family, and the poor girl, taking this as a
mark of renewed affection, wrote him a very tearful little note, which
M. Vandeloup threw into the fire. Then he looked about and ultimately
got a very handsome suite of rooms in Clarendon Street, East Melbourne.
He furnished these richly, and having invested his money in good
securities, prepared to enjoy himself.
Kitty, meanwhile, had become a great favourite with the Wopples family,
and they made a wonderful pet of her. Of course, being in Rome, she did
as the Romans did, and went on the stage as Miss Kathleen Wopples, being
endowed with the family name for dramatic reasons. The family were now
on tour among the small towns of Victoria, and seemed to be well-known,
as each member got a reception when he or she appeared on the stage. Mr
Theodore Wopples used to send his agent ahead to engage the theatre--or
more often a hall--bill the town, and publish sensational little notices
in the local papers. Then when the family arrived Mr Wopples, who was
really a gentleman and well-educated, called on all the principal people
of the town and so impressed them with the high class character of the
entertainment that he never failed to secure their patronage. He also
had a number of artful little schemes which he called ‘wheezes’, the
most successful of these being a lecture on ‘The Religious Teaching of
Shakespeare’, which he invariably delivered on a Sunday afternoon in
the theatre of any town he happened to be in, and not infrequently when
requested occupied the pulpit and preached capital sermons. By these
means Mr Wopples kept up the reputation of the family, and the upper
classes of all the towns invariably supported the show, while the lower
classes came as a matter of course. Mr Wopples, however, was equally as
clever in providing a bill of fare as in inducing the public to come to
the theatre, and the adaptability of the family was really wonderful.
One night they would play farcical comedy; then Hamlet, reduced to four
acts by Mr Wopples, would follow on the second night; the next night
burlesque would reign supreme; and when the curtain arose on the fourth
night Mr Wopples and the star artistes would be acting melodrama, and
throw one another off bridges and do strong starvation business with
ragged clothes amid paper snowstorms.
Kitty turned out to be a perfect treasure, as her pretty face and
charming voice soon made her a favourite, and when in burlesque she
played Princess to Fanny Wopples’ Prince, there was sure to be a crowded
house and lots of applause. Kitty’s voice was clear and sweet as a
lark’s, and her execution something wonderful, so Mr Wopples christened
her the Australian Nightingale, and caused her to be so advertised in
the papers. Moreover, her dainty appearance, and a certain dash and
abandon she had with her, carried the audience irresistibly away, and
had Fanny Wopples not been a really good girl, she would have been
jealous of the success achieved by the new-comer. She, however, taught
Kitty to dance breakdowns, and at Warrnambool they had a benefit, when
‘Faust, M.D.’ was produced, and Fanny sang her great success, ‘I’ve just
had a row with mamma’, and Kitty sang the jewel song from ‘Faust’ in
a manner worthy of Neilson, as the local critic--who had never heard
Neilson--said the next day. Altogether, Kitty fully repaid the good
action of Mr Wopples by making his tour a wonderful success, and the
family returned to Melbourne in high glee with full pockets.
‘Next year,’ said Mr Wopples, at a supper which they had to celebrate
the success of their tour, ‘we’ll have a theatre in Melbourne, and I’ll
make it the favourite house of the city, see if I don’t.’
It seemed, therefore, as though Kitty had found her vocation, and would
develop into an operatic star, but fate intervened, and Miss Marchurst
retired from the stage, which she had adorned so much. This was due to
Madame Midas, who, driving down Collins Street one day, saw Kitty at the
corner walking with Fanny Wopples. She immediately stopped her carriage,
and alighting therefrom, went straight up to the girl, who, turning and
seeing her for the first time, grew deadly pale.
‘Kitty, my dear,’ said Madame, gravely, ‘I have been looking for you
vainly for a year--but I have found you at last.’
Kitty’s breast was full of conflicting emotions; she thought that Madame
knew all about her intimacy with Vandeloup, and that she would speak
severely to her. Mrs Villiers’ next words, however, reassured her.
‘You left Ballarat to go on the stage, did you not?’ she said kindly,
looking at the girl; ‘why did you not come to me?--you knew I was always
your friend.’
‘Yes, Madame,’ said Kitty, putting out her hand and averting her head,
‘I would have come to you, but I thought you would stop me from going.’
‘My dear child,’ replied Madame, ‘I thought you knew me better than
that; what theatre are you at?’
‘She’s with us,’ said Miss Fanny, who had been staring at this grave,
handsomely-dressed lady who had alighted from such a swell carriage; ‘we
are the Wopples Family.’
‘Ah!’ said Mrs Villiers, thinking, ‘I remember, you were up at Ballarat
last year. Well, Kitty, will you and your friend drive down to St Kilda
with me, and I’ll show you my new house?’
Kitty would have refused, for she was afraid Madame Midas would perhaps
send her back to her father, but the appealing looks of Fanny Wopples,
who had never ridden in a carriage in her life, and was dying to do
so, decided her to accept. So they stepped into the carriage, and Mrs
Villiers told the coachman to drive home.
As they drove along, Mrs Villiers delicately refrained from asking Kitty
any questions about her flight, seeing that a stranger was present, but
determined to find out all about it when she got her alone down at St
Kilda.
Kitty, on her part, was thinking how to baffle Madame’s inquiries. She
knew she would be questioned closely by her, and resolved not to tell
more than she could help, as she, curiously enough--considering how he
had treated her--wished to shield Vandeloup. But she still cherished a
tender feeling for the man she loved, and had Vandeloup asked her to go
back and live with him, would, no doubt, have consented. The fact was,
the girl’s nature was becoming slightly demoralised, and the Kitty who
sat looking at Madame Midas now--though her face was as pretty, and her
eyes as pure as ever--was not the same innocent Kitty that had visited
the Pactolus, for she had eaten of the Tree of Knowledge, and was
already cultured in worldly wisdom. Madame, of course, believed that
Kitty had gone from Ballarat straight on to the stage, and never thought
for a moment that for a whole year she had been Vandeloup’s mistress,
so when Kitty found this out--as she very soon did--she took the cue at
once, and asserted positively to Madame that she had been on the stage
for eighteen months.
‘But how is it,’ asked Madame, who believed her fully, ‘that I could not
find you?’
‘Because I was up the country all the time,’ replied Kitty, quickly,
‘and of course did not act under my real name.’
‘You would not like to go back to your father, I suppose,’ suggested
Madame.
Kitty made a gesture of dissent.
‘No,’ she answered, determinedly; ‘I was tired of my father and his
religion; I’m on the stage now, and I mean to stick to it.’
‘Kitty! Kitty!’ said Madame, sadly, ‘you little know the temptations--’
‘Oh! yes, I do,’ interrupted Kitty, impatiently; ‘I’ve been nearly two
years on the stage, and I have not seen any great wickedness--besides,
I’m always with Mrs Wopples.’
‘Then you still mean to be an actress?’ asked Madame.
‘Yes,’ replied Kitty, in a firm voice; ‘if I went back to my father, I’d
go mad leading that dull life.’
‘But why not stay with me, my dear?’ said Mrs Villiers, looking at her;
‘I am a lonely woman, as you know, and if you come to me, I will treat
you as a daughter.’
‘Ah! how good you are,’ cried the girl in a revulsion of feeling,
falling on her friend’s neck; ‘but indeed I cannot leave the stage--I’m
too fond of it.’
Madame sighed, and gave up the argument for a time, then showed the two
girls all over the house, and after they had dinner with her, she sent
them back to town in her carriage, with strict injunctions to Kitty to
come down next day and bring Mr Wopples with her. When the two girls
reached the hotel where the family was staying, Fanny gave her father
a glowing account of the opulence of Madame Midas, and Mr Wopples was
greatly interested in the whole affair. He was grave, however, when
Kitty spoke to him privately of what Madame had said to her, and asked
her if she would not like to accept Mrs Villiers’ offer. Kitty, however,
said she would remain on the stage, and as Wopples was to see Madame
Midas next day, made him promise he would say nothing about having
found her on the streets, or of her living with a lover. Wopples, who
thoroughly understood the girl’s desire to hide her shame from her
friends, agreed to this, so Kitty went to bed confident that she had
saved Vandeloup’s name from being dragged into the affair.
Wopples saw Madame next day, and a long talk ensued, which ended in
Kitty agreeing to stay six months with Mrs Villiers, and then, if she
still wished to continue on the stage, she was to go to Mr Wopples.
On the other hand, in consideration of Wopples losing the services of
Kitty, Madame promised that next year she would give him sufficient
money to start a theatre in Melbourne. So both parted mutually
satisfied. Kitty made presents to all the family, who were very sorry to
part with her, and then took up her abode with Mrs Villiers, as a kind
of adopted daughter, and was quite prepared to play her part in the
comedy of fashion.
So Madame Midas had been near the truth, yet never discovered it, and
sent a letter to Vandeloup asking him to come to dinner and meet an old
friend, little thinking how old and intimate a friend Kitty was to the
young man.
It was, as Mr Wopples would have said, a highly dramatic situation, but,
alas, that the confiding nature of Madame Midas should thus have been
betrayed, not only by Vandeloup, but by Kitty herself--the very girl
whom, out of womanly compassion, she took to her breast.
And yet the world talks about the inherent goodness of human nature.
CHAPTER VIII
M. VANDELOUP IS SURPRISED
Owing to the quiet life Kitty had led since she came to Melbourne,
and the fact that her appearance on the stage had taken place in the
country, she felt quite safe when making her appearance in Melbourne
society that no one would recognise her or know anything of her past
life. It was unlikely she would meet with any of the Pulchop family
again, and she knew Mr Wopples would hold his tongue regarding his first
meeting with her, so the only one who could reveal anything about her
would be Vandeloup, and he would certainly be silent for his own sake,
as she knew he valued the friendship of Madame Midas too much to lose
it. Nevertheless she awaited his coming in considerable trepidation, as
she was still in love with him, and was nervous as to what reception
she would meet with. Perhaps now that she occupied a position as Mrs
Villiers’ adopted daughter he would marry her, but, at all events,
when she met him she would know exactly how he felt towards her by his
demeanour.
Vandeloup, on the other hand, was quite unaware of the surprise in store
for him, and thought that the old friend he was to meet would be some
Ballarat acquaintance of his own and Madame’s. In his wildest flight
of fancy he never thought it would be Kitty, else his cool nonchalance
would for once have been upset at the thought of the two women he was
interested in being under the same roof. However, where ignorance is
bliss--well M. Vandeloup, after dressing himself carefully in evening
dress, put on his hat and coat, and, the evening being a pleasant one,
thought he would stroll through the Fitzroy Gardens down to the station.
It was pleasant in the gardens under the golden light of the sunset, and
the green arcades of trees looked delightfully cool after the glare of
the dusty streets. Vandeloup, strolling along idly, felt a touch on his
shoulder and wheeled round suddenly, for with his past life ever before
him he always had a haunting dread of being recaptured.
The man, however, who had thus drawn his attention was none other than
Pierre Lemaire, who stood in the centre of the broad asphalt path,
dirty, ragged and disreputable-looking. He had not altered much since he
left Ballarat, save that he looked more dilapidated-looking, but stood
there in his usual sullen manner, with his hat drawn down over his eyes.
Some stray wisps of grass showed that he had been camping out all the
hot day on the green turf under the shadow of the trees, and it was easy
to see from his appearance what a vagrant he was. Vandeloup was annoyed
at the meeting and cast a rapid look around to see if he was observed.
The few people, however, passing were too intent on their own business
to give more than a passing glance at the dusty tramp and the young man
in evening dress talking to him, so Vandeloup was reassured.
‘Well, my friend,’ he said, sharply, to the dumb man, ‘what do you
want?’
Pierre put his hand in his pocket.
‘Oh, of course,’ replied M. Vandeloup, mockingly, ‘money, money, always
money; do you think I’m a bank, always to be drawn on like this?’
The dumb man made no sign that he had heard, but stood sullenly rocking
himself to and fro an’d chewing a wisp of the grass he had picked off
his coat.
‘Here,’ said the young man, taking out a sovereign and giving it to
Pierre; ‘take this just now and don’t bother me, or upon my word,’ with
a disdainful look, ‘I shall positively have to hand you over to the
law.’
Pierre glanced up suddenly, and Vandeloup caught the gleam of his eyes
under the shadow of the hat.
‘Oh! you think it will be dangerous for me,’ he said, in a gay tone;
‘not at all, I assure you. I am a gentleman, and rich; you are a pauper,
and disreputable. Who will believe your word against mine? My faith!
your assurance is quite refreshing. Now, go away, and don’t trouble me
again, or,’ with a sudden keen glance, ‘I will do as I say.’
He nodded coolly to the dumb man, and strode gaily along under the shade
of the heavily foliaged oaks, while Pierre looked at the sovereign,
slipped it into his pocket, and slouched off in the opposite direction
without even a glance at his patron.
At the top of the street Vandeloup stepped into a cab, and telling the
man to drive to the St Kilda Station, in Elizabeth Street, went off into
a brown study. Pierre annoyed him seriously, as he never seemed to get
rid of him, and the dumb man kept turning up every now and then like the
mummy at the Egyptian feast to remind him of unpleasant things.
‘Confound him!’ muttered Vandeloup, angrily, as he alighted at the
station and paid the cabman, ‘he’s more trouble than Bebe was; she did
take the hint and go, but this man, my faith!’ shrugging his shoulders,
‘he’s the devil himself for sticking.’
All the way down to St Kilda his reflections were of the same unpleasant
nature, and he cast about in his own mind how he could get rid of this
pertinacious friend. He could not turn him off openly, as Pierre might
take offence, and as he knew more of M. Vandeloup’s private life than
that young gentleman cared about, it would not do to run the risk of an
exposure.
‘There’s only one thing to be done,’ said Gaston, quietly, as he walked
down to Mrs Villiers’ house; ‘I will try my luck at marrying Madame
Midas; if she consents, we can go away to Europe as man and wife; if
she does not I will go to America, and, in either case, Pierre will lose
trace of me.’
With this comfortable reflection he went into the house and was shown
into the drawing room by the servant. There were no lights in the room,
as it was not sufficiently dark for them, and Vandeloup smiled as he saw
a fire in the grate.
‘My faith!’ he said to himself, ‘Madame is as chilly as ever.’
The servant had retired, and he was all by himself in this large room,
with the subdued twilight all through it, and the flicker of the flames
on the ceiling. He went to the fire more from habit than anything else,
and suddenly came on a big armchair, drawn up close to the side, in
which a woman was sitting.
‘Ah! the sleeping beauty,’ said Vandeloup, carelessly; ‘in these cases
the proper thing to do in order to wake the lady is to kiss her.’
He was, without doubt, an extremely audacious young man, and though he
did not know who the young lady was, would certainly have put his design
into execution, had not the white figure suddenly rose and confronted
him. The light from the fire was fair on her face, and with a sudden
start Vandeloup saw before him the girl he had ruined and deserted.
‘Bebe?’ he gasped, recoiling a step.
‘Yes!’ said Kitty, in an agitated tone, ‘your mistress and your victim.’
‘Bah!’ said Gaston, coolly, having recovered from the first shock of
surprise. ‘That style suits Sarah Bernhardt, not you, my dear. The first
act of this comedy is excellent, but it is necessary the characters
should know one another in order to finish the play.’
‘Ah!’ said Kitty, with a bitter smile, ‘do I not know you too well, as
the man who promised me marriage and then broke his word? You forgot all
your vows to me.’
‘My dear child,’ replied Gaston leisurely, leaning up against the
mantelpiece, ‘if you had read Balzac you would discover that he says,
“Life would be intolerable without a certain amount of forgetting.” I
must say,’ smiling, ‘I agree with the novelist.’
Kitty looked at him as he stood there cool and complacent, and threw
herself back into the chair angrily.
‘Just the same,’ she muttered restlessly, ‘just the same.’
‘Of course,’ replied Vandeloup, raising his eyebrows in surprise. ‘You
have only been away from me six weeks, and it takes longer than that to
alter any one. By the way,’ he went on smoothly, ‘how have you been all
this time? I have no doubt your tour has been as adventurous as that of
Gil Bias.’
‘No, it has not,’ replied Kitty, clenching her hands. ‘You never cared
what became of me, and had not Mr Wopples met me in the street on that
fearful night, God knows where I would have been now.’
‘I can tell you,’ said Gaston, coolly, taking a seat. ‘With me. You
would have soon got tired of the poverty of the streets, and come back
to your cage.’
‘My cage, indeed!’ she echoed, bitterly, tapping the ground with her
foot. ‘Yes, a cage, though it was a gilded one.’
‘How Biblical you are getting,’ said the young man, ironically; ‘but
kindly stop speaking in parables, and tell me what position we are to
occupy to each other. As formerly?’
‘My God, no!’ she flashed out suddenly.
‘So much the better,’ he answered, bowing. ‘We will obliterate the last
year from our memories, and I will meet you to-night for the first time
since you left Ballarat. Of course,’ he went on, rather anxiously, ‘you
have told Madame nothing?’
‘Only what suited me,’ replied the girl, coldly, stung by the coldness
and utter heartlessness of this man.
‘Oh!’ with a smile. ‘Did it include my name?’
‘No,’ curtly.
‘Ah!’ with a long indrawn breath, ‘you are more sensible than I gave you
credit for.’
Kitty rose to her feet and crossed rapidly over to where he sat calm and
smiling.
‘Gaston Vandeloup!’ she hissed in his ear, while her face was quite
distorted by the violence of her passion, ‘when I met you I was an
innocent girl--you ruined me, and then cast me off as soon as you grew
weary of your toy. I thought you loved me, and,’ with a stifled sob,
‘God help me, I love you still.’
‘Yes, my Bebe,’ he said, in a caressing tone, taking her hand.
‘No! no,’ she cried, wrenching them away, while an angry spot of colour
glowed on her cheek, ‘I loved you as you were--not as you are now--we
are done with sentiment, M. Vandeloup,’ she said, sneering, ‘and now our
relations to one another will be purely business ones.’
He bowed and smiled.
‘So glad you understand the position,’ he said, blandly; ‘I see the age
of miracles is not yet past when a woman can talk sense.’
‘You won’t disturb me with your sneers,’ retorted the girl, glaring
fiercely at him out of the gathering gloom in the room; ‘I am not the
innocent girl I once was.’
‘It is needless to tell me that,’ he said, coarsely.
She drew herself up at the extreme insult.
‘Have a care, Gaston,’ she muttered, hurriedly, ‘I know more about your
past life than you think.’
He rose from his seat and approached his face, now white as her own, to
hers.
‘What do you know?’ he asked, in a low, passionate voice.
‘Enough to be dangerous to you,’ she retorted, defiantly.
They both looked at one another steadily, but the white face of the
woman did not blench before the scintillations of his eyes.
‘What you know I don’t know,’ he said, steadily; ‘but whatever it is,
keep it to yourself, or--,’ catching her wrist.
‘Or what?’ she asked, boldly.
He threw her away from him with a laugh, and the sombre fire died out of
his eyes.
‘Bah!’ he said, gaily, ‘our comedy is turning into a tragedy; I am as
foolish as you; I think,’ significantly, ‘we understand one another.’
‘Yes, I think we do,’ she answered, calmly, the colour coming back to
her cheek. ‘Neither of us are to refer to the past, and we both go on
our different roads unhindered.’
‘Mademoiselle Marchurst,’ said Vandeloup, ceremoniously, ‘I am delighted
to meet you after a year’s absence--come,’ with a gay laugh, ‘let us
begin the comedy thus, for here,’ he added quickly, as the door opened,
‘here comes the spectators.’
‘Well, young people,’ said Madame’s voice, as she came slowly into the
room, ‘you are all in the dark; ring the bell for lights, M. Vandeloup.’
‘Certainly, Madame,’ he answered, touching the electric button, ‘Miss
Marchurst and myself were renewing our former friendship.’
‘How do you think she is looking?’ asked Madame, as the servant came in
and lit the gas.
‘Charming,’ replied Vandeloup, looking at the dainty little figure in
white standing under the blaze of the chandelier; ‘she is more beautiful
than ever.’
Kitty made a saucy little curtsey, and burst into a musical laugh.
‘He is just the same, Madame,’ she said merrily to the tall, grave
woman in black velvet, who stood looking at her affectionately, ‘full
of compliments, and not meaning one; but when is dinner to be ready?’
pathetically, ‘I’m dying of starvation.’
‘I hope you have peaches, Madame,’ said Vandeloup, gaily; ‘the first
time I met Mademoiselle she was longing for peaches.’
‘I am unchanged in that respect,’ retorted Kitty, brightly; ‘I adore
peaches still.’
‘I am just waiting for Mr Calton,’ said Madame Midas, looking at her
watch; ‘he ought to be here by now.’
‘Is that the lawyer, Madame?’ asked Vandeloup.
‘Yes,’ she replied, quietly, ‘he is a most delightful man.’
‘So I have heard,’ answered Vandeloup, nonchalantly, ‘and he had
something to do with a former owner of this house, I think.’
‘Oh, don’t talk of that,’ said Mrs Villiers, nervously; ‘the first time
I took the house, I heard all about the Hansom Cab murder.’
‘Why, Madame, you are not nervous,’ said Kitty, gaily.
‘No, my dear,’ replied the elder, quietly, ‘but I must confess that for
some reason or another I have been a little upset since coming here; I
don’t like being alone.’
‘You shall never be that,’ said Kitty, fondly nestling to her.
‘Thank you, puss,’ said Madame, tapping her cheek; ‘but I am nervous,’
she said, rapidly; ‘at night especially. Sometimes I have to get Selina
to come into my room and stay all night.’
‘Madame Midas nervous,’ thought Vandeloup to himself; ‘then I can guess
the reason; she is afraid of her husband coming back to her.’
Just at this moment the servant announced Mr Calton, and he entered,
with his sharp, incisive face, looking clever and keen.
‘I must apologise for being late, Mrs Villiers,’ he said, shaking hands
with his hostess; ‘but business, you know, the pleasure of business.’
‘Now,’ said Madame, quickly, ‘I hope you have come to the business of
pleasure.’
‘Very epigrammatic, my dear lady,’ said Calton, in his high, clear
voice; ‘pray introduce me.’
Madame did so, and they all went to dinner, Madame with Calton and Kitty
following with Vandeloup.
‘This,’ observed Calton, when they were all seated at the dinner table,
‘is the perfection of dining; for we are four, and the guests, according
to an epicure, should never be less than the Graces nor greater than the
Muses.’
And a very merry little dinner it was. All four were clever talkers,
and Vandeloup and Calton being pitted against one another, excelled
themselves; witty remarks, satirical sayings, and well-told stories were
constantly coming from their lips, and they told their stories as their
own and did not father them on Sydney Smith.
‘If Sydney Smith was alive,’ said Calton, in reference to this, ‘he
would be astonished at the number of stories he did not tell.’
‘Yes,’ chimed in Vandeloup, gaily, ‘and astounded at their brilliancy.’
‘After all,’ said Madame, smiling, ‘he’s a sheet-anchor for some people;
for the best original story may fail, a dull one ascribed to Sydney
Smith must produce a laugh.’
‘Why?’ asked Kitty, in some wonder.
‘Because,’ explained Calton, gravely, ‘society goes mainly by tradition,
and our grandmothers having laughed at Sydney Smith’s jokes, they must
necessarily be amusing. Depend upon it, jokes can be sanctified by time
quite as much as creeds.’
‘They are more amusing, at all events,’ said Madame, satirically.
‘Creeds generally cause quarrels.’
Vandeloup shrugged his shoulders.
‘And quarrels generally cause stories,’ he said, smiling; ‘it is the law
of compensation.’
They then went to the drawing-room and Kitty and Vandeloup both sang,
and treated one another in a delightfully polite way. Madame Midas and
Calton were both clever, but how much cleverer were the two young people
at the piano.
‘Are you going to Meddlechip’s ball?’ said Calton to Madame.
‘Oh, yes,’ she answered, nodding her head, ‘I and Miss Marchurst are
both going.’
‘Who is Mr Meddlechip?’ asked Kitty, swinging round on the piano-stool.
‘He is the most charitable man in Melbourne,’ said Gaston, with a faint
sneer.
‘Great is Diana of the Ephesians,’ said Calton, mockingly. ‘Because
Mr Meddlechip suffers from too much money, and has to get rid of it to
prevent himself being crushed like Tarpeia by the Sabine shields, he is
called charitable.’
‘He does good, though, doesn’t he?’ asked Madame.
‘See advertisement,’ scoffed Calton. ‘Oh, yes! he will give thousands of
pounds for any public object, but private charity is a waste of money in
his eyes.’
‘You are very hard on him,’ said Madame Midas, with a laugh.
‘Ah! Mr Calton believes as I do,’ cried Vandeloup, ‘that it’s no good
having friends unless you’re privileged to abuse them.’
‘It’s one you take full advantage of, then,’ observed Kitty, saucily.
‘I always take what I can get,’ he returned, mockingly; whereon she
shivered, and Calton saw it.
‘Ah!’ said that astute reader of character to himself, ‘there’s
something between those two. ‘Gad! I’ll cross-examine my French friend.’
They said good-night to the ladies, and walked to the St Kilda station,
from thence took the train to town, and Calton put into force his
cross-examination. He might as well have tried his artful questions on
a rock as on Vandeloup, for that clever young gentleman saw through the
barrister at once, and baffled him at every turn with his epigrammatic
answers and consummate coolness.
‘I confess,’ said Calton, when they said good-night to one another, ‘I
confess you puzzle me.’
‘Language,’ observed M. Vandeloup, with a smile, ‘was given to us to
conceal our thoughts. Good night!’
And they parted.
‘The comedy is over for the night,’ thought Gaston as he walked along,
‘and it was so true to nature that the spectators never thought it was
art.’
He was wrong, for Calton did.
CHAPTER IX
A PROFESSIONAL PHILANTHROPIST
We have professional diners-out, professional beauties, professional
Christians, then why not professional philanthropists? This brilliant
century of ours has nothing to do with the word charity, as it savours
too much of stealthy benevolence, so it has substituted in its place the
long word philanthropy, which is much more genteel and comprehensive.
Charity, the meekest of the Christian graces, has been long since
dethroned, and her place is taken by the blatant braggard Philanthropy,
who does his good deeds in a most ostentatious manner, and loudly
invites the world to see his generosity, and praise him for it. Charity,
modestly hooded, went into the houses of the poor, and tendered her
gifts with smiles. Philanthropy now builds almshouses and hospitals,
and rails at poverty if it has too much pride to occupy them. And
what indeed, has poverty to do with pride?--it’s far too sumptuous and
expensive an article, and can only be possessed by the rich, who can
afford to wear it because it is paid for. Mr Meddlechip was rich, so
he bought a large stock of pride, and wore it everywhere. It was not
personal pride--he was not good-looking; it was not family pride--he
never had a grandfather; nor was it pecuniary pride--he had too much
money for that. But it was a mean, sneaking, insinuating pride that
wrapped him round like a cloak, and pretended to be very humble, and
only holding its money in trust for the poor. The poor ye have always
with you--did not Mr Meddlechip know it? Ask the old men and women
in the almshouses, and they would answer yes; but ask the squalid
inhabitants of the slums, and they would probably say, ‘Meddlechip,
‘o’s ‘e?’ Not that the great Ebenezer Meddlechip was unknown--oh,
dear, no--he was a representative colonial; he sat in Parliament, and
frequently spoke at those enlarged vestry meetings about the prosperity
of the country. He laid foundation stones. He took the chair at public
meetings. In fact, he had his finger in every public pie likely to bring
him into notoriety; but not in private pies, oh, dear, no; he never did
good by stealth and blush to find it fame. Any blushes he might have had
would have been angry ones at his good deed not being known.
He had come in the early days of the colony, and made a lot of money,
being a shrewd man, and one who took advantage of every tide in the
affairs of men. He was honest, that is honest as our present elastic
acceptation of the word goes--and when he had accumulated a fortune he
set to work to buy a few things. He bought a grand house at Toorak,
then he bought a wife to do the honours of the grand house, and when
his domestic affairs were quite settled, he bought popularity, which
is about the cheapest thing anyone can buy. When the Society for the
Supplying of Aborigines with White Waistcoats was started he headed the
list with one thousand pounds--bravo, Meddlechip! The Secretary of
the Band of Hard-up Matrons asked him for fifty pounds, and got five
hundred--generous Meddlechip! And at the meeting of the Society for the
Suppression of Vice among Married Men he gave two thousand pounds, and
made a speech on the occasion, which made all the married men present
tremble lest their sins should find them out--noble Meddlechip! He would
give thousands away in public charity, have it well advertised in the
newspapers, and then wonder, with humility, how the information got
there; and he would give a poor woman in charge for asking for a penny,
on the ground that she was a vagrant. Here, indeed, was a man for
Victoria to be proud of; put up a statue to him in the centre of the
city; let all the school children study a list of his noble actions as
lessons; let the public at large grovel before him, and lick the dust of
his benevolent shoes, for he is a professional philanthropist.
Mrs Meddlechip, large, florid, and loud-voiced, was equally as well
known as her husband, but in a different way. He posed as benevolence,
she was the type of all that’s fashionable--that is, she knew everyone;
gave large parties, went out to balls, theatres, and lawn tennis, and
dressed in the very latest style, whether it suited her or not. She had
been born and brought up in the colonies, but when her husband went to
London as a representative colonial she went also, and stayed there
a whole year, after which she came out to her native land and ran
everything down in the most merciless manner. They did not do this in
England--oh! dear no! nothing so common--the people in Melbourne had
such dreadfully vulgar manners; but then, of course, they are not
English; there was no aristocracy; even the dogs and horses were
different; they had not the stamp of centuries of birth and breeding on
them. In fact, to hear Mrs Meddlechip talk one would think that England
was a perfect aristocratic paradise, and Victoria a vulgar--other place.
She totally ignored the marvellously rapid growth of the country, and
that the men and women in it were actually the men and women who had
built it up year by year, so that even now it was taking its place among
the nations of the earth. But Mrs Meddlechip was far too ladylike and
fashionable for troubling about such things--oh dear, no--she left
all these dry facts to Ebenezer, who could speak about them in his own
pompous, blatant style at public meetings.
This lady was one of those modern inventions known as a frisky matron,
and said and did all manner of dreadful things, which people winked
at because--she was Mrs Meddlechip, and eccentric. She had a young
man always dangling after her at theatres and dances--sometimes one,
sometimes another, but there was one who was a fixture. This was Barty
Jarper, who acted as her poodle dog, and fetched and carried for her in
the most amiable manner. When any new poodle dog came on the scene Barty
would meekly resign his position, and retire into the background until
such time as he was whistled back again to go through his antics.
Barty attended her everywhere, made up her programmes, wrote out her
invitations, danced with whosoever he was told, and was rewarded for all
these services by being given the crumbs from the rich man’s table.
Mr Jarper had a meek little way with Mrs Meddlechip, as if he was
constantly apologising for having dared to have come into the world
without her permission, but to other people he was rude enough, and in
his own mean little soul looked upon himself quite as a man of fashion.
How he managed to go about as he did was a standing puzzle to his
friends, as he got only a small salary at the Hibernian Bank; yet he was
to be seen at balls, theatres, tennis parties; constantly driving about
in hansoms; in fact, lived as if he had an independent income. The
general opinion was that he was supplied with money by Mrs Meddlechip,
while others said he gambled; and, indeed, Barty was rather clever at
throwing sixes, and frequently at the Bachelors’ Club won a sufficient
sum to give him a new suit of clothes or pay his club subscription for
the year. He was one of those bubbles which dance on the surface of
society, yet are sure to vanish some day, and if God tempered the wind
to any particular shorn lamb, that shorn lamb was Barty Jarper.
The Meddlechips were giving a ball, therefore the mansion at Toorak
was brilliantly illuminated and crowded with fashionable people. The
ball-room was at the side of the house, and from it French windows
opened on to a wide verandah, which was enclosed with drapery and hung
with many-coloured Chinese lanterns. Beyond this the smooth green lawns
stretched away to a thick fringe of trees, which grew beside the fence
and screened the Meddlechip residence from the curious gaze of vulgar
eyes.
Kitty came under the guardianship of Mrs Riller, a young matron with
dark hair, an imperious manner, and a young man always at her heels. Mrs
Villiers intended to have come, but at the last moment was seized with
one of her nervous fits, so decided to stop at home with Selina for
company. Kitty, therefore, accompanied Mrs Riller to the ball, but the
guardianship of that lady was more nominal than anything else, as she
went off with Mr Bellthorp after introducing Kitty to Mrs Meddlechip,
and flirted and danced with him the whole evening. Kitty, however,
did not in the least mind being left to her own devices, for being an
extremely pretty girl she soon had plenty of young men round her anxious
to be introduced. She filled her programme rapidly and kept two valses
for Vandeloup, as she knew he was going to be present, but he as yet had
not made his appearance.
He arrived about a quarter past ten o’clock, and was strolling leisurely
up to the house, when he saw Pierre, standing amid a number of idlers
at the gate. The dumb man stepped forward, and Vandeloup paused with a
smile on his handsome lips, though he was angry enough at the meeting.
‘Money again, I suppose?’ he said to Pierre, in a low voice, in French;
‘don’t trouble me now, but come to my rooms to-morrow.’
The dumb man nodded, and Vandeloup walked leisurely up the path. Then
Pierre followed him right up to the steps which led to the house, saw
him enter the brilliantly-lighted hall, and then hid himself in the
shrubs which grew on the edge of the lawn. There, in close hiding, he
could hear the sound of music and voices, and could see the door of
the fernery wide open, and caught glimpses of dainty dresses and bare
shoulders within.
Vandeloup, quite ignorant that his friend was watching the house, put on
his gloves leisurely, and walked in search of his hostess.
Mrs Meddlechip glanced approvingly at Vandeloup as he came up, for he
was extremely good-looking, and good-looking men were Mrs Meddlechip’s
pet weakness. Barty was in attendance on his liege lady, and when he
saw how she admired Vandeloup, he foresaw he would be off duty for some
time. It would be Vandeloup promoted vice Jarper resigned, but Barty
very well knew that Gaston was not a man to conduct himself like a
poodle dog, so came to the conclusion he would be retained for use
and M. Vandeloup for ornament. Meanwhile, he left Mrs Meddlechip to
cultivate the acquaintance of the young Frenchman, and went off with a
red-haired girl to the supper-room. Red-haired girl, who was remarkably
ugly and self-complacent, had been a wallflower all the evening, but
thought none the less of herself on that account. She assured Barty she
was not hungry, but when she finished supper Mr Jarper was very glad,
for the supper’s sake, she had no appetite.
‘She’s the hungriest girl I ever met in my life,’ he said to Bellthorp
afterwards; ‘ate up everything I gave her, and drank so much lemonade, I
thought she’d go up like a balloon.’
When Barty had satisfied the red-haired girl’s appetite--no easy
matter--he left her to play wallflower and make spiteful remarks on
the girls who were dancing, and took out another damsel, who smiled
and smiled, and trod on his toes when he danced, till he wished her in
Jericho. He asked if she was hungry, but, unlike the other girl, she was
not; he said she must be tired, but oh, dear no, she was quite fresh; so
she danced the whole waltz through and bumped Barty against everyone in
the room; then said his step did not suit hers, which exasperated him so
much--for Barty flattered himself on his waltzing--that he left her
just as she was getting up a flirtation, and went to have a glass of
champagne to soothe his feelings. Released from Mrs Meddlechip, Gaston
went in search of Kitty, and found her flirting with Felix Rolleston,
who was amusing her with his gay chatter.
‘This is a deuced good-looking chappie,’ said Mr Rolleston, fixing his
eyeglass in his eye and looking critically at Gaston as he approached
them; ‘M. Vandeloup, isn’t it?’
Kitty said it was.
‘Oh! yes,’ went on Felix, brightly, ‘saw him about town--don’t know him
personally; awfully like a fellow I once knew called Fitzgerald--Brian
Fitzgerald--married now and got a family; funny thing, married Miss
Frettlby, who used to live in your house.’
‘Oh! that hansom cab murder,’ said Kitty, looking at him, ‘I’ve heard
all about that.’
‘Egad! I should think you had,’ observed Mr Rolleston, with a grin, ‘it
was a nine days’ wonder; but here’s your friend, introduce me, pray,’ as
Vandeloup came up.
Kitty did so, and Felix improved the occasion.
‘Knew you by sight,’ he said, shaking hands with Gaston, ‘but it’s a
case of we never speak as we pass by, and all that sort of thing--come
and look me up,’ hospitably, ‘South Yarra.’
‘Delighted,’ said Gaston, smoothly, taking Kitty’s programme and putting
his name down for the two vacant waltzes.
‘Reciprocal, I assure you,’ said the lively Felix. ‘Oh, by Jove! excuse
me, Miss Marchurst--there’s a polka--got to dance with a girl--you’ll
see me in a minute--she’s a maypole--I’m not, ha! ha! You’ll say it’s
the long and the short of it--ta-ta at present.’
He hopped off gaily, and they soon saw him steering the maypole round
the room, or rather, the maypole steered Felix, for her idea of the
dance was to let Felix skip gaily round her; then she lifted him up and
put him down a few feet further on, when he again skipped, and so the
performance went on, to the intense amusement of Kitty and Gaston.
‘My faith!’ said Vandeloup, satirically, dropping into a seat beside
Kitty, ‘she is a maypole, and he’s a merry peasant dancing round it. By
the way, Bebe, why isn’t Madame here to-night?’
‘She’s not well,’ replied Kitty, unfurling her fan; ‘I don’t know what’s
come over her, she’s so nervous.’
‘Oh! indeed,’ said Vandeloup, politely; ‘Hum!--still afraid of her
husband turning up,’ he said to himself, as Kitty was carried away for a
valse by Mr Bellthorp; ‘how slow all this is?’ he went on, yawning, and
rising from his seat; ‘I shan’t stay long, or that old woman will be
seizing me again. Poor Kestrike, surely his sin has been punished enough
in having such a wife,’ and M. Vandeloup strolled away to speak to Mrs
Riller, who, being bereft of Bellthorp, was making signals to him with
her fan.
Barty Jarper had been hard at work all night on the poodle-dog system,
and had danced with girls who could not dance, and talked with girls
that could not talk, so, as a reward for his work, he promised himself a
dance with Kitty. At the beginning of the evening he had secured a dance
from her, and now, all his duties for the evening being over, he went to
get it. Bellthorp had long since returned to Mrs Riller and flirtation,
and Kitty had been dancing with a tall young man, with unsteady legs and
an eye-glass that would not stick in his eye. She did not particularly
care about Mr Jarper, with his effeminate little ways, but was quite
glad when he came to carry her off from the unsteady legs and the
eye-glass. The dance was the Lancers; but Kitty declared she would not
dance it as she felt weary, so made Mr Jarper take her to supper. Barty
was delighted, as he was hungry himself, so they secured a pleasant
little nook, and Barty foraged for provisions.
‘You know all about this house,’ said Kitty, when she saw how successful
the young man was in getting nice things.
‘Oh, yes,’ murmured Barty, quite delighted, ‘I know most of the houses
in Melbourne--I know yours.’
‘Mrs Villiers’?’ asked Kitty.
Barty nodded.
‘Used to go down there a lot when Mr Frettlby lived there,’ he said,
sipping his wine. ‘I know every room in it.’
‘You’d be invaluable as a burglar,’ said Kitty, a little contemptuously,
as she looked at his slim figure.
‘I dare say,’ replied Barty, who took the compliment in good faith.
‘Some night I’ll climb up to your room and give you a fright.’
‘Shows how much you know,’ retorted Miss Marchurst. ‘My room is next to
Madame’s on the ground floor.’
‘I know,’ said Barty, sagely, nodding his head. ‘It used to be a
boudoir--nice little room. By the way, where is Mrs Villiers to-night?’
‘She’s not well,’ replied Kitty, yawning behind her fan, for she was
weary of Barty and his small talk. ‘She’s very worried.’
‘Over money matters, I suppose?’
Kitty laughed and shook her head.
‘Hardly,’ she answered.
‘I dare say,’ replied Barty, ‘she’s awfully rich. You know, I’m in the
bank where her account is, and I know all about her. Rich! oh, she is
rich! Lucky thing for that French fellow if he marries her.’
‘Marries her?’ echoed Kitty, her face growing pale. ‘M. Vandeloup?’
‘Yes,’ replied Barty, pleased at having made a sensation. ‘Her first
husband has vanished, you know, and all the fellows are laying bets
about Van marrying the grass widow.’
‘What nonsense!’ said Kitty, in an agitated voice. ‘M. Vandeloup is her
friend--nothing more.’
Barty grinned.
‘I’ve seen so much of that “friendship, and nothing more”, business,’ he
said, significantly, whereupon Kitty rose to her feet.
‘I’m tired,’ she said, coldly. ‘Kindly take me to Mrs Riller.’
‘I’ve put my foot into it,’ thought Jarper, as he led her away. ‘I
believe she’s spoons on Van herself.’
Mrs Riller was not very pleased to see Kitty, as Mr Bellthorp was
telling her some amusing scandals about her dearest friends, and, of
course, had to stop when Kitty came up.
‘Not dancing, dear?’ she asked, with a sympathetic smile, glancing
angrily at Bellthorp, who seemed more struck with Kitty than he had any
right to be, considering he was her property.
‘No,’ replied Kitty, ‘I’m a little tired.’
‘Miss Marchurst,’ observed Bellthorp, leaning towards her, ‘I’m sure
I’ve seen you before.’
Kitty felt a chill running through her veins as she remembered where
their last meeting had been. The extremity of the danger gave her
courage.
‘I dare say,’ she replied, coldly turning her back on the young man,
‘I’m not invisible.’
Mrs Riller looked with all her eyes, for she wanted to know all about
this pretty girl who dropped so unexpectedly into Melbourne society, so
she determined to question Bellthorp when she got him alone. To this end
she finessed.
‘Oh! there’s that lovely valse,’ she said, as the band struck up ‘One
summer’s night in Munich’. ‘If you are not engaged, Mr Bellthorp, we
must have a turn.’
‘Delighted,’ replied Bellthorp, languidly offering his arm, but thinking
meanwhile, ‘confound these women, how they do work a man.’
‘You, I suppose,’ said Mrs Riller to Kitty, ‘are going to play
wallflower.’
‘Hardly,’ observed a cool voice behind them; ‘Miss Marchurst dances this
with me--you see, Mrs Riller,’ as that lady turned and saw Vandeloup,
‘she has not your capability at playing wallflower,’ with a significant
glance at Bellthorp.
Mrs Riller understood the look, which seemed to pierce into the very
depths of her frivolous little soul, and flushed angrily as she moved
away with Mr Bellthorp and mentally determined to be even with Vandeloup
on the first occasion.
Gaston, quite conscious of the storm he had raised, smiled serenely, and
then offered his arm to Kitty, which she refused, as she was determined
to find out from his own lips the truth of Jarper’s statement regarding
Madame Midas.
‘I don’t want to dance,’ she said curtly, pointing to the seat beside
her as an invitation for him to sit down.
‘Pardon me,’ observed Vandeloup, blandly, ‘I do; we can talk afterwards
if you like.’
Their eyes met, and then Kitty arose and took his arm, with a charming
pout. It was no good fighting against the quiet, masterful manner of
this man, so she allowed him to put his arm round her waist and swing
her slowly into the centre of the room. ‘One summer’s night in Munich’
was a favourite valse, and everyone who could dance, and a good many who
could not, were up on the floor. Every now and then, through the steady
beat of the music, came the light laugh of a woman or the deeper tones
of a man’s voice; and the glare of the lights, the flashing jewels on
the bare necks and arms of women, the soft frou-frou of their dresses,
as their partners swung them steadily round, and the subtle perfume of
flowers gave an indescribable sensuous flavour to the whole scene. And
the valse--who does not know it? with its sad refrain, which comes in
every now and then throughout, even in the most brilliant passages.
The whole story of a man’s faith and a woman’s treachery is contained
therein.
‘One summer’s night in Munich,’ sighed the heavy bass instruments,
sadly and reproachfully, ‘I thought your heart was true!’ Listen to the
melancholy notes of the prelude which recall the whole scene--do you not
remember? The stars are shining, the night wind is blowing, and we are
on the terrace looking down on the glittering lights of the city. Hark!
that joyous sparkling strain, full of riant laughter, recalls the sad
students who wandered past, and then from amid the airy ripple of
notes comes the sweet, mellow strain of the ‘cello, which tells of love
eternal amid the summer roses; how the tender melody sweeps on full
of the perfume and mystic meanings of that night. Hark! is that the
nightingale in the trees, or only the silvery notes of a violin,
which comes stealing through the steady throb and swing of the heavier
stringed instruments? Ah! why does the rhythm stop? A few chords
breaking up the dream, the sound of a bugle calling you away, and
the valse goes into the farewell motif with its tender longing and
passionate anguish. Good-bye! you will be true? Your heart is mine,
good-bye, sweetheart! Stop! that discord of angry notes--she is false
to her soldier lover! The stars are pale, the nightingale is silent, the
rose leaves fall, and the sad refrain comes stealing through the room
again with its bitter reproach, ‘One summer’s night in Munich I knew
your heart was false.’
Kitty danced for a little time, but was too much agitated to enjoy the
valse, in spite of the admirable partner M. Vandeloup made. She was
determined to find out the truth, so stopped abruptly, and insisted on
Vandeloup taking her to the conservatory.
‘What for?’ he asked, as they threaded their way through the crowded
room. ‘Is it important?’
‘Very,’ she replied, looking straight at him; ‘it is essential to our
comedy.’
M. Vandeloup shrugged his shoulders.
‘My faith!’ he murmured, as they entered the fernery; ‘this comedy is
becoming monotonous.’
CHAPTER X
IN THE FERNERY
The fernery was a huge glass building on one side of the ballroom,
filled with Australian and New Zealand ferns, and having a large
fountain in the centre sending up a sparkling jet of water, which fell
into the shallow stone basin filled with water lilies and their pure
white flowers. At the end was a mimic representation of a mountain
torrent, with real water tumbling down real rocks, and here and there
in the crannies and crevices grew delicate little ferns, while overhead
towered the great fronds of the tree ferns. The roof was a dense mass of
greenery, and wire baskets filled with sinuous creepers hung down, with
their contents straggling over. Electric lights in green globes were
skilfully hidden all round, and a faint aquamarine twilight permeated
the whole place, and made it look like a mermaid’s grotto in the depths
of the sea. Here and there were delightful nooks, with well-cushioned
seats, many of which were occupied by pretty girls and their attendant
cavaliers. On one side of the fernery a wide door opened on to a low
terrace, from whence steps went down to the lawn, and beyond was the
dark fringe of trees wherein Pierre was concealed.
Kitty and Vandeloup found a very comfortable nook just opposite the
door, and they could see the white gleam of the terrace in the luminous
starlight. Every now and then a couple would pass, black silhouettes
against the clear sky, and around they could hear the murmur of voices
and the musical tinkling of the fountain, while the melancholy music
of the valse, with its haunting refrain, sounded through the pale green
twilight. Barty Jarper was talking near them, in his mild little way, to
a tall young lady in a bilious-looking green dress, and further off Mr
Bellthorp was laughing with Mrs Riller behind the friendly shelter of
her fan.
‘Well,’ said Vandeloup, amiably, as he sank into a seat beside Kitty,
‘what is this great matter you wish to speak about?’
‘Madame Midas,’ retorted Kitty, looking straight at him.
‘Such a delightful subject,’ murmured Gaston, closing his eyes, as he
guessed what was coming; ‘go on, I’m all attention.’
‘You are going to marry her,’ said Miss Marchurst, bending towards him
and closing her fan with a snap.
Vandeloup smiled faintly.
‘You don’t say so?’ he murmured, opening his eyes and looking at her
lazily; ‘who told you this news--for news it is to me, I assure you?’
‘Then it’s not true?’ added Kitty, eagerly, with a kind of gasp.
‘I’m sure I don’t know,’ he replied, indolently fingering his moustache;
‘I haven’t asked her yet.’
‘You are not going to do so?’ she said, rapidly, with a flush on her
face.
‘Why not?’ in surprise; ‘do you object?’
‘Object? my God!’ she ejaculated, in a low fierce tone; ‘have you
forgotten what we are to one another?’
‘Friends, I understand,’ he said, looking at his hands, admiringly.
‘And something more,’ she added, bitterly; ‘lovers!’
‘Don’t talk so loud, my dear,’ replied Vandeloup, coolly; ‘it doesn’t do
to let everyone know your private business.’
‘It’s private now,’ she said, in a voice of passion, ‘but it will soon
be public enough.’
‘Indeed! which paper do you advertise in?’
‘Listen to me, Gaston,’ she said, taking no notice of his sneer; ‘you
will never marry Madame Midas; sooner than that, I will reveal all and
kill myself.’
‘You forget,’ he said, gently; ‘it is comedy, not tragedy, we play.’
‘That is as I choose,’ she retorted; ‘see!’ and with a sudden gesture
she put her hand into the bosom of her dress and took out the bottle of
poison with the red bands. ‘I have it still.’
‘So I perceive,’ he answered, smiling. ‘Do you always carry it about
with you, like a modern Lucrezia Borgia?’
‘Yes,’ she answered quietly; ‘it never leaves me, you see,’ with a
sneer. ‘As you said yourself, it’s always well to be prepared for
emergencies.’
‘So it appears,’ observed Vandeloup, with a yawn, sitting up. ‘I
wouldn’t use that poison if I were you; it is risky.’
‘Oh, no, it’s not,’ answered Kitty; ‘it is fatal in its results, and
leaves no trace behind.’
‘There you are wrong,’ replied Gaston, coolly; ‘it does leave traces
behind, but makes it appear as if apoplexy was the cause of death. Give
me the bottle?’ peremptorily.
‘No!’ she answered, defiantly, clenching it in her hand.
‘I say yes,’ he said, in an angry whisper; ‘that poison is my secret,
and I’m not going to have you play fast and loose with it; give it up,’
and he placed his hand on her wrist.
‘You hurt my wrist,’ she said.
‘I’ll break your wrist, my darling,’ he said, quietly, ‘if you don’t
give me that bottle.’
Kitty wrenched her hand away, and rose to her feet.
‘Sooner than that, I’ll throw it away,’ she said, and before he could
stop her, she flung the bottle out on to the lawn, where it fell down
near the trees.
‘Bah! I will find it,’ he said, springing to his feet, but Kitty was too
quick for him.
‘M. Vandeloup,’ she said aloud, so that everyone could hear; ‘kindly
take me back to the ball-room, will you, to finish our valse.’
Vandeloup would have refused, but she had his arm, and as everyone
was looking at him, he could not refuse without being guilty of marked
discourtesy. Kitty had beaten him with his own weapons, so, with a
half-admiring glance at her, he took her back to the ball-room, where
the waltz was just ending.
‘At all events,’ he said in her ear, as they went smoothly gliding round
the room, ‘you won’t be able to do any mischief with it now to yourself
or to anyone else.’
‘Won’t I?’ she retorted quickly; ‘I have some more at home.’
‘The deuce!’ he ejaculated.
‘Yes,’ she replied, triumphantly; ‘the bottle I got that belonged to
you, I put half its contents into another. So you see I can still do
mischief, and,’ in a fierce whisper, ‘I will, if you don’t give up this
idea of marrying Madame Midas.’
‘I thought you knew me better than that,’ he said, in a tone of
concentrated passion. ‘I will not.’
Then I’ll poison her,’ she retorted.
‘What, the woman who has been so kind to you?’
‘Yes, I’d rather see her dead than married to a devil like you.’
‘How amiable you are, Bebe,’ he said, with a laugh, as the music
stopped.
‘I am what you have made me,’ she replied, bitterly, and they walked
into the drawing-room.
After this Vandeloup clearly saw that it was a case of diamond cut
diamond, for Kitty was becoming as clever with her tongue as he was.
After all, though she was his pupil, and was getting as hardened and
cynical as possible, he did not think it fair she should use his own
weapons against himself. He did not believe she would try and poison
Madame Midas, even though she was certain of not being detected, for
he thought she was too tender-hearted. But, alas! he had taught her
excellently well, and Kitty was rapidly arriving at the conclusion
he had long since come to, that number one was the greatest number.
Besides, her love for Vandeloup, though not so ardent as it had been,
was too intense for her to let any other woman get a hold of him.
Altogether, M. Vandeloup was in an extremely unpleasant position, and
one of his own making.
Having given Kitty over to the tender care of Mrs Rolleston, Vandeloup
hurried outside to look for the missing bottle. He had guessed the
position it fell in, and, striking a match, went to look over the smooth
close-shorn turf. But though he was a long time, and looked carefully,
the bottle was gone.
‘The devil!’ said Vandeloup, startled by this discovery. ‘Who could have
picked it up?’
He went back into the conservatory, and, sitting down in his old place,
commenced to review the position.
It was most annoying about the poison, there was no doubt of that.
He only hoped that whoever picked it up would know nothing about its
dangerous qualities. After all, he could be certain about that, as no
one but himself knew what the poison was and how it could be used. The
person who picked up the bottle would probably throw it away again as
useless; and then, again, perhaps when Kitty threw the bottle away the
stopper came out, and the contents would be lost. And then Kitty still
had more left, but--bah!--she would not use it on Madame Midas. That was
the vague threat of a jealous woman to frighten him. The real danger he
was in lay in the fact that she might tell Madame Midas the relations
between them, and then there would be no chance of his marrying at all.
If he could only stop Kitty’s mouth in some way--persuasion was thrown
away on her. If he could with safety get rid of her he would. Ah! that
was an idea. He had some of this poison--if he could only manage to give
it to her, and thus remove her from his path. There would be no risk of
discovery, as the poison left no traces behind, and if it came to the
worst, it would appear she had committed suicide, for poison similar
to what she had used would be found in her possession. It was a pity to
kill her, so young and pretty, and yet his safety demanded it; for if
she told Madame Midas all, it might lead to further inquiries, and M.
Vandeloup well knew his past life would not bear looking into. Another
thing, she had threatened him about some secret she held--he did not
know what it was, and yet almost guessed; if that was the secret she
must be got rid of, for it would imperil not only his liberty, but
his life. Well, if he had to get rid of her, the sooner he did so the
better, for even on the next day she might tell all--he would have to
give her the poison that night--but how? that was the difficulty.
He could not do it at this ball, as it would be too apparent if she
died--no--it would have to be administered secretly when she went home.
But then she would go to Madame Midas’ room to see how she was, and
then would retire to her own room. He knew where that was--just off
Mrs Villiers’ room; there were French windows in both rooms--two in Mrs
Villiers’, and one in Kitty’s. That was the plan--they would be left
open as the night was hot. Suppose he went down to St Kilda, and got
into the garden, he knew every inch of the way; then he could slip into
the open window, and if it was not open, he could use a diamond ring
to cut the glass. He had a diamond ring he never wore, so if Kitty was
discovered to be poisoned, and the glass cut, they would never suspect
him, as he did not wear rings at all, and the evidence of the cut window
would show a diamond must have been used. Well, suppose he got inside,
Kitty would be asleep, and he could put the poison into the water
carafe, or he could put it in a glass of water and leave it standing;
the risk would be, would she drink it or not--he would have to run that
risk; if he failed this time, he would not the next. But, then, suppose
she awoke and screamed--pshaw! when she saw it was he Kitty would not
dare to make a scene, and he could easily make some excuse for his
presence there. It was a wild scheme, but then he was in such a
dangerous position that he had to try everything.
When M. Vandeloup had come to this conclusion he arose, and, going to
the supper room, drank a glass of brandy; for even he, cool as he was,
felt a little nervous over the crime he was about to commit. He thought
he would give Kitty one last chance, so when she was already cloaked,
waiting with Mrs Riller for the carriage, he drew her aside.
‘You did not mean what you said tonight,’ he whispered, looking
searchingly at her.
‘Yes, I did,’ she replied, defiantly; ‘if you push me to extremities,
you must take the consequences.’
‘It will be the worse for you,’ he said, threateningly, as the carriage
drove up.
‘I’m not afraid of you,’ she retorted, shrugging her shoulders, a trick
she had learned from him; ‘you have ruined my life, but I’m not going to
let you ruin Madame’s. I’d sooner see her dead than in your arms.’
‘Remember, I have warned you,’ he said, gravely, handing her to the
carriage. ‘Good night!’
‘Good night!’ she answered, mockingly; ‘and to-morrow,’ in a low voice,
‘you will be astonished.’
‘And to-morrow,’ he said to himself, as the carriage drove off, ‘you
will be dead.’
CHAPTER XI
THE VISION OF MISS KITTY MARCHURST
Everyone knows the story of Damocles, and how uncomfortable he felt with
the sword suspended by a hair over his head. No one could enjoy their
dinner under such circumstances, and it is much to be thankful for that
hosts of the present day do not indulge in these practical jokes. But
though history does not repeat itself exactly regarding the suspended
sword, yet there are cases when a sense of impending misfortune has the
same effect on the spirits. This was the case of Madame Midas. She
was not by any means of a nervous temperature, yet ever since the
disappearance of her husband she was a prey to a secret dread, which,
reacting on her nerves, rendered her miserable. Had Mr Villiers only
appeared, she would have known how to deal with him, and done so
promptly, but it was his absence that made her afraid. Was he dead?
If so, why was his body not found; if he was not dead, why did he not
reappear on the scene. Allowing, for the sake of argument, that he had
stolen the nugget and left the colony in order to enjoy the fruits of
his villainy--well, the nugget weighed about three hundred ounces--and
that if he disposed of it, as he must have done, it would give him a sum
of money a little over one thousand pounds. True, his possession of such
a large mass of gold would awake suspicions in the mind of anyone he
went to; but then, there were people who were always ready to do shady
things, provided they were well paid. So whomsoever he went to would
levy blackmail on him on threat of informing the police and having him
arrested. Therefore, the most feasible thing would be that he had got
about half of the value of the nugget, which would be about six hundred
pounds. Say that he did so, a whole year had elapsed, and Madame Midas
knew her husband well enough to know that six hundred pounds would soon
slip through his fingers, so at the present time he must once more be
penniless. If he was, why did he not come back to her and demand more
money now she was rich? Even had he gone to a distant place, he would
always have kept enough money to pay his way back to Victoria, so that
he could wring money out of her. It was this unpleasant feeling of being
watched that haunted her and made her uneasy. The constant strain began
to tell on her; she became ill and haggard-looking, and her eyes were
always glancing around in the anxious manner common to hunted animals.
She felt as though she were advancing on a masked battery, and at any
moment a shot might strike her from the most unexpected quarter. She
tried to laugh off the feeling and blamed herself severely for the
morbid state of mind into which she was falling; but it was no use, for
by day and night the sense of impending misfortune hung over her like
the sword of Damocles, ready to fall at any moment. If her husband would
only appear, she would settle an income on him, on condition he ceased
to trouble her, but at present she was fighting in the dark with an
unknown enemy. She became afraid of being left alone, and even when
seated quietly with Selina, would suddenly start and look apprehensively
towards the door, as if she heard his footstep. Imagination, when
uncontrolled, can keep the mind on a mental rack, to which that of the
Inquisition was a bed of roses.
Selina was grieved at this state of things, and tried to argue and
comfort her mistress with the most amiable proverbs, but she was quite
unable to administer to a mind diseased, and Mrs Villiers’ life became a
perfect hell upon earth.
‘Are my troubles never going to end?’ she said to Selina on the night of
the Meddlechip ball, as she paced restlessly up and down her room; ‘this
man has embittered the whole of my life, and now he is stabbing me in
the dark.’
‘Let the dead past bury its dead,’ quoted Selina, who was arranging the
room for the night.
‘Pshaw!’ retorted Madame, impatiently, walking to the French window at
the end of the room and opening it; ‘how do you know he is dead? Come
here, Selina,’ she went on, beckoning to the old woman, and pointing
outside to the garden bathed in moonlight; ‘I have always a dread
lest he may be watching the house. Even now he may be concealed
yonder’--pointing down the garden.
Selina looked out, but could see nothing. There was a smooth lawn, burnt
and yellow with the heat, which stretched for about fifty feet, and
ended in a low quickset hedge at the foot of a red brick wall which ran
down that side of the property. The top of this wall was set with broken
bottles, and beyond was the street, where they could hear people passing
along. The moonlight rendered all this as light as day, and, as Selina
pointed out to her mistress, there was no place where a man could
conceal himself. But this did not satisfy Madame; she left the window
half open, so that the cool night wind could blow in, and drew together
the red velvet curtains which hung there.
‘You’ve left the window open,’ remarked Selina, looking at her mistress,
‘and if you are nervous it will not make you feel safe.’
Madame Midas glanced at the window.
‘It’s so hot,’ she said, plaintively, ‘I will get no sleep. Can’t you
manage to fix it up, so that I can leave it open?’
‘I’ll try,’ answered Selina, and she undressed her mistress and put her
to bed, then proceeded to fix up a kind of burglar trap. The bed was a
four-poster, with heavy crimson curtains, and the top was pushed against
the wall, near the window. The curtains of the window and those of
the bed prevented any draught blowing in; and directly in front of the
window, Selina set a small wood table, so that anyone who tried to enter
would throw it over, and thus put the sleeper on the alert. On this she
put a night-light, a book, in case Madame should wake up and want to
read--a thing she very often did--and a glass of homemade lemonade, for
a night drink. Then she locked the other window and drew the curtains,
and, after going into Kitty’s room, which opened off the larger one, and
fixing up the one window there in the same way, she prepared to retire,
but Madame stopped her.
‘You must stay all night with me, Selina,’ she said, irritably. ‘I can’t
be left alone.’
‘But, Miss Kitty,’ objected Selina, ‘she’ll expect to be waited for
coming home from the ball.’
‘Well, she comes in here to go to her own room,’ said Madame,
impatiently; ‘you can leave the door unlocked.’
‘Well,’ observed Miss Sprotts, grimly, beginning to undress herself,
‘for a nervous woman, you leave a great many windows and doors open.’
‘I’m not afraid as long as you are with me,’ said Madame, yawning; ‘it’s
by myself I get nervous.’
Miss Sprotts sniffed, and observed that ‘Prevention is better than
cure,’ then went to bed, and both she and Madame were soon fast asleep.
Selina slept on the outside of the bed, and Madame, having a sense of
security from being with someone, slumbered calmly; so the night wore
drowsily on, and nothing could be heard but the steady ticking of the
clock and the heavy breathing of the two women.
A sleepy servant admitted Kitty when she came home from the ball, and
had said goodbye to Mrs Riller and Bellthorp. Then Mrs Riller, whose
husband had gone home three hours before, drove away with Bellthorp, and
Kitty went into Madame’s room, while the sleepy servant, thankful that
his vigil for the night was over, went to bed. Kitty found Madame’s door
ajar, and went in softly, fearful lest she might wake her. She did not
know that Selina was in the room, and as she heard the steady breathing
of the sleepers, she concluded that Madame was asleep, and resolved to
go quietly into her own room without disturbing the sleeper. So eerie
the room looked with the faint night-light burning on the table beside
the bed, and all the shadows, not marked and distinct as in a strong
glare, were faintly confused. Just near the door was a long
chevral glass, and Kitty caught sight of herself in it, wan and
spectral-looking, in her white dress, and, as she let the heavy blue
cloak fall from her shoulders, a perfect shower of apple blossoms were
shaken on to the floor. Her hair had come undone from its sleek, smooth
plaits, and now hung like a veil of gold on her shoulders. She looked
closely at herself in the glass, and her face looked worn and haggard in
the dim light. A pungent acrid odour permeated the room, and the heavy
velvet curtains moved with subdued rustlings as the wind stole in
through the window. On a table near her was a portrait of Vandeloup,
which he had given Madame two days before, and though she could not
see the face she knew it was his. Stretching out her hand she took the
photograph from its stand, and sank into a low chair which stood at
the end of the room some distance from the bed. So noiseless were her
movements that the two sleepers never awoke, and the girl sat in
the chair with the portrait in her hand dreaming of the man whom it
represented. She knew his handsome face was smiling up at her out of the
glimmering gloom, and clenched her hands in anger as she thought how he
had treated her. She let the portrait fall on her lap, and leaning back
in the chair, with all her golden hair showering down loosely over her
shoulders, gave herself up to reflection.
He was going to marry Madame Midas--the man who had ruined her life; he
would hold another woman in his arms and tell her all the false tales he
had told her. He would look into her eyes with his own, and she would be
unable to see the treachery and guile hidden in their depths. She could
not stand it. False friend, false lover, he had been, but to see him
married to another--no! it was too much. And yet what could she do? A
woman in love believes no ill of the man she adores, and if she was to
tell Madame Midas all she would not be believed. Ah! it was useless
to fight against fate, it was too strong for her, so she would have to
suffer in silence, and see them happy. That story of Hans Andersen’s,
which she had read, about the little mermaid who danced, and felt that
swords were wounding her feet while the prince smiled on his bride--yes,
that was her case. She would have to stand by in silence and see him
caressing another woman, while every caress would stab her like a sword.
Was there no way of stopping it? Ah! what is that? The poison--no! no!
anything but that. Madame had been kind to her, and she could not repay
her trust with treachery. No, she was not weak enough for that. And yet
suppose Madame died? no one could tell she had been poisoned, and then
she could marry Vandeloup. Madame was sleeping in yonder bed, and on the
table there was a glass with some liquid in it. She would only have to
go to her room, fetch the poison, and put it in there--then retire to
bed. Madame would surely drink during the night, and then--yes, there
was only one way--the poison!
How still the house was: not a sound but the ticking of the clock in the
hall and the rushing scamper of a rat or mouse. The dawn reddens faintly
in the east and the chill morning breeze comes up from the south, salt
with the odours of the ocean. Ah! what is that? a scream--a woman’s
voice--then another, and the bell rings furiously. The frightened
servants collect from all parts of the house, in all shapes of dress and
undress. The bell sounds from the bedroom of Mrs Villiers, and having
ascertained this they all rush in. What a sight meets their eyes. Kitty
Marchurst, still in her ball dress, clinging convulsively to the chair;
Madame Midas, pale but calm, ringing the bell; and on the bed, with one
arm hanging over, lies Selina Sprotts--dead! The table near the bed
was overturned on the floor, and the glass and the night-lamp both lie
smashed to pieces on the carpet.
‘Send for a doctor at once,’ cried Madame, letting go the bell-rope and
crossing to the window; ‘Selina has had a fit of some sort.’
Startled servant goes out to stables and wakes up the grooms, one
of whom is soon on horseback riding for dear life to Dr Chinston.
Clatter--clatter along in the keen morning air; a few workmen on their
way to work gaze in surprise at this furious rider. Luckily, the doctor
lives in St Kilda, and being awoke out of his sleep, dresses himself
quickly, and taking the groom’s horse, rides back to Mrs Villiers’
house. He dismounts, enters the house, then the bedroom. Kitty, pale and
wan, is seated in the chair; the window curtains are drawn, and the cold
light of day pours into the room, while Madame Midas is kneeling beside
the corpse, with all the servants around her. Dr Chinston lifts the arm;
it falls limply down. The face is ghastly white, the eyes staring; there
is a streak of foam on the tightly clenched mouth. The doctor puts his
hand on the heart--not a throb; he closes the staring eyes reverently,
and turns to the kneeling woman and the frightened servants.
‘She is dead,’ he says, briefly, and orders them to leave the room.
‘When did this occur, Mrs Villiers?’ he asked, when the room had been
cleared and only himself, Madame, and Kitty remained.
‘I can’t tell you,’ replied Madame, weeping; ‘she was all right last
night when we went to bed, and she stayed all night with me because I
was nervous. I slept soundly, when I was awakened by a cry and saw Kitty
standing beside the bed and Selina in convulsions; then she became quite
still and lay like that till you came. What is the cause?’
‘Apoplexy,’ replied the doctor, doubtfully; ‘at least, judging from the
symptoms; but perhaps Miss Marchurst can tell us when the attack came
on?’
He turned to Kitty, who was shivering in the chair and looked so pale
that Madame Midas went over to her to see what was the matter. The
girl, however, shrank away with a cry as the elder woman approached, and
rising to her feet moved unsteadily towards the doctor.
‘You say she,’ pointing to the body, ‘died of apoplexy?’
‘Yes,’ he answered, curtly, ‘all the symptoms of apoplexy are there.’
‘You are wrong!’ gasped Kitty, laying her hand on his arm, ‘it is
poison!’
‘Poison!’ echoed Madame and the Doctor in surprise.
‘Listen,’ said Kitty, quickly, pulling herself together by a great
effort. ‘I came home from the ball between two and three, I entered
the room to go to my own,’ pointing to the other door; ‘I did not know
Selina was with Madame.’
‘No,’ said Madame, quietly, ‘that is true, I only asked her to stop at
the last moment.’
‘I was going quietly to bed,’ resumed Kitty, hurriedly, ‘in order not
to waken Madame, when I saw the portrait of M. Vandeloup on the table; I
took it up to look at it.’
‘How could you see without a light?’ asked Dr Chinston, sharply, looking
at her.
‘There was a night light burning,’ replied Kitty, pointing to the
fragments on the floor; ‘and I could only guess it was M. Vandeloup’s
portrait; but at all events,’ she said, quickly, ‘I sat down in the
chair over there and fell asleep.’
‘You see, doctor, she had been to a ball and was tired,’ interposed
Madame Midas; ‘but go on, Kitty, I want to know why you say Selina was
poisoned.’
‘I don’t know how long I was asleep,’ said Kitty, wetting her dry lips
with her tongue, ‘but I was awoke by a noise at the window there,’
pointing towards the window, upon which both her listeners turned
towards it, ‘and looking, I saw a hand coming out from behind the
curtain with a bottle in it; it held the bottle over the glass on the
table, and after pouring the contents in, then withdrew.’
‘And why did you not cry out for assistance?’ asked the doctor, quickly.
‘I couldn’t,’ she replied, ‘I was so afraid that I fainted. I recovered
my senses, Selina had drank the poison, and when I got up on my feet and
went to the bed she was in convulsions; I woke Madame, and that’s all.’
‘A strange story,’ said Chinston, musingly, ‘where is the glass?’
‘It’s broken, doctor,’ replied Madame Midas; ‘in getting out of bed I
knocked the table down, and both the night lamp and glass smashed.’
‘No one could have been concealed behind the curtain of the window?’
said the doctor to Madame Midas.
‘No,’ she replied, ‘but the window was open all night; so if it is as
Kitty says, the man who gave the poison must have put his hand through
the open window.’
Dr Chinston went to the window and looked out; there were no marks of
feet on the flower bed, where it was so soft that anyone standing on it
would have left a footmark behind.
‘Strange,’ said the doctor, ‘it’s a peculiar story,’ looking at Kitty
keenly.
‘But a true one,’ she replied boldly, the colour coming back to her
face; ‘I say she was poisoned.’
‘By whom?’ asked Madame Midas, the memory of her husband coming back to
her.
‘I can’t tell you,’ answered Kitty, ‘I only saw the hand.’
‘At all events,’ said Chinston, slowly, ‘the poisoner did not know that
your nurse was with you, so the poison was meant for Mrs Villiers.’
For me?’ she echoed, ghastly pale; ‘I knew it,--my husband is alive, and
this is his work.’
CHAPTER XII
A STARTLING DISCOVERY
Ill news travels fast, and before noon the death of Selina Sprotts was
known all over Melbourne. The ubiquitous reporter, of course, appeared
on the scene, and the evening papers gave its own version of the affair,
and a hint at foul play. There was no grounds for this statement, as Dr
Chinston told Kitty and Madame Midas to say nothing about the poison,
and it was generally understood that the deceased had died from
apoplexy. A rumour, however, which originated none knew how, crept about
among everyone that poison was the cause of death, and this, being added
to by some and embellished in all its little details by others, there
was soon a complete story made up about the affair. At the Bachelor’s
Club it was being warmly spoken about when Vandeloup came in about
eight o’clock in the evening; and when he appeared he was immediately
overwhelmed with inquiries. He looked cool and calm as usual, and stood
smiling quietly on the excited group before him.
‘You know Mrs Villiers,’ said Bellthorp, in an assertive tone, ‘so you
must know all about the affair.’ ‘I don’t see that,’ returned Gaston,
pulling at his moustache, ‘knowing anyone does not include a knowledge
of all that goes on in the house. I assure you, beyond what there is in
the papers, I am as ignorant as you are.’
‘They say this woman--Sprotts or Potts, or something--died from
poison,’ said Barty Jarper, who had been all round the place collecting
information.