When Kitty left Mrs Pulchop’s residence she had no very definite idea as to what she was going to do with herself. Her sole thought was to get as far away from her former life as possible — to disappear in the crowd and never to be heard of again. Poor little soul, she never for a moment dreamed that it was a case of out of the frying pan into the fire, and that the world at large might prove more cruel to her than Vandeloup in particular. She had been cut to the heart by his harsh cold words, but notwithstanding he had spoken so bitterly she still loved him, and would have stayed beside him, but her jealous pride forbade her to do so. She who had been queen of his heart and the idol of his life could not bear to receive cold looks and careless words, and to be looked upon as an encumbrance and a trouble. So she thought if she left him altogether and never saw him again he would, perhaps, be sorry for her and cherish her memory tenderly for evermore. If she had only known Gaston’s true nature she would not thus have buoyed herself up with false hopes of his sorrow, but as she believed in him as implicitly as a woman in love with a man always does, in a spirit of self-abnegation she cut herself off from him, thinking it would be to his advantage if not to her own.
She went into town and wandered about listlessly, not knowing where to go, till nearly twelve o’clock, and the streets were gradually emptying themselves of their crowds. The coffee stalls were at all the corners, with hungry-looking people of both sexes crowded round them, and here and there in door steps could be seen some outcasts resting in huddled heaps, while the policemen every now and then would come up and make them move on.
Kitty was footsore and heart-weary, and felt inclined to cry, but was nevertheless resolved not to go back to her home in Richmond. She dragged herself along the lonely street, and round the corner came on a coffee stall with no one at it except one small boy whose head just reached up to the counter. Such a ragged boy as he was, with a broad comical-looking face — a shaggy head of red hair and a hat without any brim to it — his legs were bandy and his feet were encased in a pair of men’s boots several sizes too large for him. He had a bundle of newspapers under one arm and his other hand was in his pocket rattling some coppers together while he bargained with the coffee-stall keeper over a pie. The coffee stall had the name of Spilsby inscribed on it, so it is fair to suppose that the man therein was Spilsby himself. He had a long grey beard and a meek face, looking so like an old wether himself it appeared almost the act of a cannibal on his part to eat a mutton pie. A large placard at the back of the stall set forth the fact that ‘Spilsby’s Specials’ were sold there for the sum of one penny, and it was over ‘Spilsby’s Specials’ the ragged boy was arguing.
‘I tell you I ain’t agoin’ to eat fat,’ he said, in a hoarse voice, as if his throat was stuffed up with one of his own newspapers. ‘I want a special, I don’t want a hordinary.’
‘This are a special, I tells you,’ retorted Spilsby, ungrammatically, pushing a smoking pie towards the boy; ‘what a young wiper you are, Grattles, a-comin’ and spoilin’ my livin’ by cussin’ my wictuals.’
‘Look ’ere,’ retorted Grattles, standing on the tips of his large boots to look more imposing, ‘my stumick’s a bit orf when it comes to fat, and I wants the vally of my penny; give us a muttony one, with lots of gravy.’
‘’Ere y’are, then,’ said Spilsby, quite out of temper with his fastidious customer; ‘’ere’s a pie as is all made of ram as ‘adn’t got more fat on it than you ‘ave.’
Grattles examined the article classed under this promising description with a critical air, and then laid down his penny and took the pie.
‘It’s a special, ain’t it?’ he asked, suspiciously smelling it.
‘It’s the specialest I’ve got, any’ow,’ answered Spilsby, testily, putting the penny in his pocket; ‘you’d eat a ’ole sheep if you could get it for a penny, you greedy young devil, you.’
Here Kitty, who was feeling faint and ill with so much walking, came forward and asked for a cup of coffee.
‘Certainly, dear,’ said Spilsby, with a leer, pouring out the coffee; ‘I’m allays good to a pretty gal.’
‘It’s more nor your coffee is,’ growled Grattles, who had finished his special and was now licking his fingers, ‘it’s all grounds and ‘ot water.’
‘Go away, you wicious thing,’ retorted Spilsby, mildly, giving Kitty her coffee and change out of the money she handed him, ‘or I’ll set the perlice on yer.’
‘Oh, my eye!’ shrieked Grattles, executing a grimace after the fashion of a favourite comedian; ‘he ain’t a tart, oh, no —‘es a pie, ‘e are, a special, a muttony special; ‘e don’t kill no kittings and call ’em sheep, oh, no; ‘e don’t buy chicory and calls it coffee, blest if ‘e does; ‘e’s a corker, ‘e are, and ‘is name ain’t the same as ‘is father’s.’
‘What d’ye mean,’ asked Spilsby, fiercely — that is, as fiercely as his meek appearance would let him; ‘what do you know of my parents, you bandy-legged little devil? who’s your — progenitor, I’d like to know?’
‘A dook, in course,’ said Grattles loftily; ‘but we don’t, in consequence of ‘er Nibs bein’ mixed up with the old man’s mother, reweal the family skeletons to low piemen,’ then, with a fresh grimace, he darted along the street as quickly as his bandy legs could carry him.
Spilsby took no notice of this, but, seeing some people coming round the corner, commenced to sing out his praises of the specials.
‘ ‘Ere yer are — all ‘ot an’ steamin’,’ he cried, in a kind of loud bleat, which added still more to his sheep-like appearance: ‘Spilsby’s Specials — oh, lovely — ain’t they nice; my eye, fine muttin pies; who ses Spilsby’s; ‘ave one, miss?’ to Kitty.
Thank you, no,’ replied Kitty, with a faint smile as she put down her empty cup; ‘I’m going now.’
Spilsby was struck by the educated manner in which she spoke and by the air of refinement about her.
‘Go home, my dear,’ he said, kindly, leaning forward; ‘this ain’t no time for a young gal like you to be out.’
‘I’ve got no home,’ said Kitty, bitterly, ‘but if you could direct me —’
‘Here, you,’ cried a shrill female voice, as a woman dressed in a flaunting blue gown rushed up to the stall, ‘give us a pie quick; I’m starvin’; I’ve got no time to wait.’
‘No, nor manners either,’ said Spilsby, with a remonstrating bleat, pushing a pie towards her; ‘who are you, a-shovin’ your betters, Portwine Annie?’
‘My betters,’ scoffed the lady in blue, looking Kitty up and down with a disdainful smile on her painted face; ‘where are they, I’d like to know?’
‘’Ere, ’old your tongue,’ bleated Spilsby, angrily, ‘or I’ll tell the perlice at the corner.’
‘And much I care,’ retorted the shrill-voiced female, ‘seeing he’s a particular friend of mine.’
‘For God’s sake tell me where I can find a place to stop in,’ whispered Kitty to the coffee-stall keeper.
‘Come with me, dear,’ said Portwine Annie, eagerly, having overheard what was said, but Kitty shrank back, and then gathering her cloak around her ran down the street.
‘What do you do that for, you jade?’ said Spilsby, in a vexed tone; ‘don’t you see the girl’s a lady.’
‘Of course she is,’ retorted the other, finishing her pie; ‘we’re all ladies; look at our dresses, ain’t they fine enough? Look at our houses, aren’t they swell enough?’
‘Yes, and yer morals, ain’t they bad enough?’ said Spilsby, washing up the dirty plate.
‘They’re quite as good as many ladies in society, at all events,’ replied Portwine Annie, with a toss of her head as she walked off.
‘Oh, it’s a wicked world,’ bleated Spilsby, in a soft voice, looking after the retreating figure. ‘I’m sorry for that poor gal — I am indeed — but this ain’t business,’ and once more raising his voice he cried up his wares, ‘Oh, lovely; ain’t they muttony? Spilsby’s specials, all ’ot; one penny.’
Meanwhile Kitty was walking quickly down Elizabeth Street, and turning round the corner ran right up against a woman.
‘Hullo!’ said the woman, catching her wrist, ‘where are you off to?’
‘Let me go,’ cried Kitty, in a panting voice.
The woman was tall and handsome, but her face had a kindly expression on it, and she seemed touched with the terrified tone of the girl.
‘My poor child,’ she said, half contemptuously, releasing her, ‘I won’t hurt you. Go if you like. What are you doing out at this time of the night?’
‘Nothing,’ faltered Kitty, with quivering lips, lifting her face up to the pale moon. The other saw it in the full light and marked how pure and innocent it was.
‘Go home, dear,’ she said, in a soft tone, touching the girl kindly on the shoulder, ‘it’s not fit for you to be out at this hour. You are not one of us.’
‘My God! no,’ cried Kitty, shrinking away from her.
The other smiled bitterly.
‘Ah! you draw away from me now,’ she said, with a sneer; ‘but what are you, so pure and virtuous, doing on the streets at this hour? Go home in time, child, or you will become like me.’
‘I have no home,’ said Kitty, turning to go.
‘No home!’ echoed the other, in a softer tone; ‘poor child! I cannot take you with me — God help me; but here is some money,’ forcing a shilling into the girl’s hand, ‘go to Mrs Rawlins at Victoria Parade, Fitzroy — anyone will tell you where it is — and she will take you in.’
‘What kind of a place is it?’ said Kitty.
‘A home for fallen women, dear,’ answered the other, kindly.
‘I’m not a fallen woman!’ cried the girl, wildly, ‘I have left my home, but I will go back to it — anything better than this horrible life on the streets.’
‘Yes, dear,’ said the woman, softly, ‘go home; go home, for God’s sake, and if you have a father and mother to shield you from harm, thank heaven for that. Let me kiss you once,’ she added, bending forward, ‘it is so long since I felt a good woman’s kiss on my lips. Good-bye.’
‘Good-bye,’ sobbed Kitty, raising her face, and the other bent down and kissed the child-like face, then with a stifled cry, fled away through the moonlit night.
Kitty turned away slowly and walked up the street. She knew there was a cab starting opposite the Town Hall which went to Richmond, and determined to go home. After all, hard though her life might be in the future, it would be better than this cruel harshness of the streets.
At the top of the block, just as she was about to cross Swanston Street, a party of young men in evening dress came round the corner singing, and evidently were much exhilarated with wine. These were none other than Mr Jarper and his friends, who, having imbibed a good deal more than was good for them, were now ripe for any mischief. Bellthorp and Jarper, both quite intoxicated, were walking arm-in-arm, each trying to keep the other up, so that their walking mostly consisted of wild lurches forward, and required a good deal of balancing.
‘Hullo!’ cried Bellthorp solemnly — he was always solemn when intoxicated —‘girl — pretty — eh!’
‘Go ‘way,’ said Barty, staggering back against the wall, ‘we’re Christian young men.’
Kitty tried to get away from this inebriated crew, but they all closed round her, and she wrung her hands in despair. ‘If you are gentlemen you will let me go,’ she cried, trying to push past.
‘Give us kiss first,’ said a handsome young fellow, with his hat very much on one side, putting his arm round her waist, ‘pay toll, dear.’
She felt his hot breath on her cheek and shrieked out wildly, trying to push him away with all her force. The young man, however, paid no attention to her cries, but was about to kiss her when he was taken by the back of the neck and thrown into the gutter.
‘Gentlemen!’ said a rich rolling voice, which proceeded from a portly man who had just appeared on the scene. ‘I am astonished,’ with the emphasis on the first person singular, as if he were a man of great note.
‘Old boy,’ translated Bellthorp to the others, ‘is ‘tonished.’
‘You have,’ said the stranger, with an airy wave of his hand, ‘the appearance of gentlemen, but, alas! you are but whited sepulchres, fair to look upon, but full of dead men’s bones within.’
‘Jarper,’ said Bellthorp, solemnly, taking Barty’s arm, ‘you’re a tombstone with skeleton inside — come along — old boy is right — set of cads ‘suiting an unprotected gal — good night, sir.’
The others picked up their companion out of the gutter, and the whole lot rolled merrily down the street.
‘And this,’ said the gentleman, lifting up his face to the sky in mute appeal to heaven, ‘this is the generation which is to carry on Australia. Oh, Father Adam, what a dissipated family you have got — ah! — good for a comedy, I think.’
‘Oh!’ cried Kitty, recognising a familiar remark, ‘it’s Mr Wopples.’
‘The same,’ said the airy Theodore, laying his hand on his heart, ‘and you, my dear — why, bless me,’ looking closely at her, ‘it is the pretty girl I met in Ballarat — dear, dear — surely you have not come to this.’
‘No, no,’ said Kitty, quickly, laying her hand on his arm, ‘I will tell you all about it, Mr Wopples; but you must be a friend to me, for I sadly need one.’
‘I will be your friend,’ said the actor, emphatically, taking her arm and walking slowly down the street; ‘tell me how I find you thus.’
‘You won’t tell anyone if I do?’ said Kitty, imploringly.
‘On the honour of a gentleman,’ answered Wopples, with grave dignity.
Kitty told him how she had left Ballarat, but suppressed the name of her lover, as she did not want any blame to fall on him. But all the rest she told freely, and when Mr Wopples heard how on that night she had left the man who had ruined her, he swore a mighty oath.
‘Oh, vile human nature,’ he said, in a sonorous tone, ‘to thus betray a confiding infant! Where,’ he continued, looking inquiringly at the serene sky, ‘where are the thunderbolts of Heaven that they fall not on such?’
No thunderbolt making its appearance to answer the question, Mr Wopples told Kitty he would take her home to the family, and as they were just starting out on tour again, she could come with them.
‘But will Mrs Wopples receive me?’ asked Kitty, timidly.
‘My dear,’ said the actor, gravely, ‘my wife is a good woman, and a mother herself, so she can feel for a poor child like you, who has been betrayed through sheer innocence.’
‘You do not despise me?’ said Kitty, in a low voice.
‘My dear,’ answered Wopples, quietly, ‘am I so pure myself that I can judge others? Who am I,’ with an oratorical wave of the hand, ‘that I should cast the first stone? — ahem! — from Holy Writ. In future I will be your father; Mrs Wopples, your mother, and you will have ten brothers and sisters — all star artistes.’
‘How kind you are,’ sobbed Kitty, clinging trustfully to him as they went along.
‘I only do unto others as I would be done by,’ said Mr Wopples, solemnly. ‘That sentiment,’ continued the actor, taking off his hat, ‘was uttered by One who, tho’ we may believe or disbelieve in His divinity as a God, will always remain the sublimest type of perfect manhood the world has ever seen.’
Kitty did not answer, and they walked quickly along; and surely this one good deed more than compensated for the rest of the actor’s failings.
Young Australia has a wonderful love for the excitement of gambling — take him away from the betting ring and he goes straight to the share market to dabble in gold and silver shares. The Great Humbug Gold Mining Company is floated on the Melbourne market — a perfect fortune in itself, which influential men are floating in a kind of semi-philanthropic manner to benefit mankind at large, and themselves in particular. Report by competent geologists; rich specimens of the reef exhibited to the confiding public; company of fifty thousand shares at a pound each; two shillings on application; two shillings on allotment; the balance in calls which influential men solemnly assure confiding public will never be needed. Young Australia sees a chance of making thousands in a week; buys one thousand shares at four shillings — only two hundred pounds; shares will rise and Young Australia hopefully looks forward to pocketing two or three thousand by his modest venture of two hundred; company floated, shares rising slowly. Young Australia will not sell at a profit, still dazzled by his chimerical thousands. Calls must be made to put up machinery; shares have a downward tendency. Never mind, there will only be one or two calls, so stick to shares as parents of possible thousands. Machinery erected; now crushing; two or three ounces to ton a certainty. Shares have an upward tendency; washing up takes place — two pennyweights to ton. Despair! Shares run down to nothing, and Young Australia sees his thousands disappear like snow in the sun. The Great Humbug Reef proves itself worthy of its name, and the company collapses amid the groans of confiding public and secret joy of influential men, who have sold at the top price.
Vandeloup knew all about this sort of thing, for he had seen it occur over and over again in Ballarat and Melbourne. So many came to the web and never got out alive, yet fresh flies were always to be found. Vandeloup was of a speculative nature himself, and had he been possessed of any surplus cash would, no doubt, have risked it in the jugglery of the share market, but as he had none to spare he stood back and amused himself with looking at the ‘spider and the fly’ business which was constantly going on. Sometimes, indeed, the fly got the better of spider number one, but was unable to keep away from the web, and was sure to fall into the web of spider number two.
M. Vandeloup, therefore, considered the whole affair as too risky to 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.’
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.
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.
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 Killer 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.’
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 Killer 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.’
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 Killer 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.’
Tor me?’ she echoed, ghastly pale; ‘I knew it — my husband is alive, and this is his work.’
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.
‘Apoplexy, the doctor says,’ said Bellthorp, lighting a cigarette; ‘she was in the same room with Mrs Villiers and was found dead in the morning.’
‘Miss Marchurst was also in the room,’ put in Barty, eagerly.
‘Oh, indeed!’ said Vandeloup, smoothly, turning to him; ‘do you think she had anything to do with it?’
‘Of course not,’ said Rolleston, who had just entered, ‘she had no reason to kill the woman.’
Vandeloup smiled.
‘So logical you are,’ he murmured, ‘you want a reason for everything.’
‘Naturally,’ retorted Felix, fixing in his eyeglass, ‘there is no effect without a cause.’
‘It couldn’t have been Miss Marchurst,’ said Bellthorp, ‘they say that the poison was poured out of a bottle held by a hand which came through the window — it’s quite true,’ defiantly looking at the disbelieving faces round him; ‘one of Mrs Villiers’ servants heard it in the house and told Mrs Killer’s maid.’
‘From whence,’ said Vandeloup, politely, ‘it was transmitted to you — precisely.’
Bellthorp reddened slightly, and turned away as he saw the other smiling, for his relations with Mrs Killer were well known.
‘That hand business is all bosh,’ observed Felix Rolleston, authoritatively; ‘it’s in a play called “The Hidden Hand”.’
‘Perhaps the person who poisoned Miss Sprotts, got the idea from it?’ suggested Jarper.
‘Pshaw, my dear fellow,’ said Vandeloup, languidly; ‘people don’t go to melodrama for ideas. Everyone has got their own version of this story; the best thing to do is to await the result of the inquest.’
‘Is there to be an inquest?’ cried all.
‘So I’ve heard,’ replied the Frenchman, coolly; ‘sounds as if there was something wrong, doesn’t it?’
‘It’s a curious poisoning case,’ observed Bellthorp.
‘Ah, but it isn’t proved that there is any poisoning about it,’ said Vandeloup, looking keenly at him; ‘you jump to conclusions.’
‘There is no smoke without fire,’ replied Rolleston, sagely. ‘I expect we’ll all be rather astonished when the inquest is held,’ and so the discussion closed.
The inquest was appointed to take place next day, and Calton had been asked by Madame Midas to be present on her behalf. Kilsip, a detective officer, was also present, and, curled up like a cat in the corner, was listening to every word of the evidence.
The first witness called was Madame Midas, who deposed that the deceased, Selina Jane Sprotts, was her servant. She had gone to bed in excellent health, and next morning she had found her dead.
The Coroner asked a few questions relative to the case.
Q. Miss Marchurst awoke you, I believe?
A. Yes.
Q. And her room is off yours?
A. Yes.
Q. Had she to go through your room to reach her own?
A. She had. There was no other way of getting there.
Q. One of the windows of your room was open?
A. It was — all night.
Miss Kitty Marchurst was then called, and being sworn, gave her story of the hand coming through the window. This caused a great sensation in Court, and Calton looked puzzled, while Kilsip, scenting a mystery, rubbed his lean hands together softly.
Q. You live with Mrs Villiers, I believe, Miss Marchurst?
A. I do.
Q. And you knew the deceased intimately?
A. I had known her all my life.
Q. Had she anyone who would wish to injure her?
A. Not that I knew of. She was a favourite with everyone.
Q. What time did you come home from the ball you were at?
A. About half-past two, I think. I went straight to Mrs Villiers’ room.
Q. With the intention of going through it to reach your own?
A. Yes.
Q. You say you fell asleep looking at a portrait. How long did you sleep?
A. I don’t know. I was awakened by a noise at the window, and saw the hand appear.
Q. Was it a man’s hand or a woman’s?
A. I don’t know. It was too indistinct for me to see clearly; and I was so afraid, I fainted.
Q. You saw it pour something from a bottle into the glass on the table?
A. Yes; but I did not see it withdraw. I fainted right off.
Q. When you recovered your senses, the deceased had drank the contents of the glass?
A. Yes. She must have felt thirsty and drank it, not knowing it was poisoned. Q. How do you know it was poisoned?
A. I only suppose so. I don’t think anyone would come to a window and pour anything into a glass without some evil purpose.
The Coroner then asked why the glass with what remained of the contents had not been put in evidence, but was informed that the glass was broken.
When Kitty had ended her evidence and was stepping down, she caught the eye of Vandeloup, who was looking at her keenly. She met his gaze defiantly, and he smiled meaningly at her. At this moment, however, Kilsip bent forward and whispered something to the Coroner, whereupon Kitty was recalled.
Q. You were an actress, Miss Marchurst?
A. Yes. I was on tour with Mr Theodore Wopples for some time.
Q. Do you know a drama called ‘The Hidden Hand’?
A. Yes — I have played in it once or twice.
Q. Is there not a strong resemblance between your story of this crime and the drama?
A. Yes, it is very much the same.
Kilsip then gave his evidence, and deposed that he had examined the ground between the window, where the hand was alleged to have appeared, and the garden wall. There were no footmarks on the flower-bed under the window, which was the only place where footmarks would show, as the lawn itself was hard and dry. He also examined the wall, but could find no evidence that anyone had climbed over it, as it was defended by broken bottles, and the bushes at its foot were not crushed or disturbed in any way.
Dr Chinston was then called, and deposed that he had made a post-mortem examination of the body of the deceased. The body was that of a woman of apparently fifty or fifty-five years of age, and of medium height; the body was well nourished. There were no ulcers or other signs of disease, and no marks of violence on the body. The brain was congested and soft, and there was an abnormal amount of fluid in the spaces known as the ventricles of the brain; the lungs were gorged with dark fluid blood; the heart appeared healthy, its left side was contracted and empty, but the right was dilated and filled with dark fluid blood; the stomach was somewhat congested, and contained a little partially digested food; the intestines here and there were congested, and throughout the body the blood was dark and fluid.
Q. What then, in your opinion, was the cause of death?
A. In my opinion death resulted from serous effusion on the brain, commonly known as serous apoplexy.
Q. Then you found no appearances in the stomach, or elsewhere, which would lead you to believe poison had been taken?
A. No, none.
Q. From the post-mortem examination could you say the death of the deceased was not due to some narcotic poison?
A. No: the post-mortem appearances of the body are quite consistent with those of poisoning by certain poisons, but there is no reason to suppose that any poison has been administered in this case, as I, of course, go by what I see; and the presence of poisons, especially vegetable poisons, can only be detected by chemical analysis.
Q. Did you analyse the contents of the stomach chemically?
A. No; it was not my duty to do so; I handed over the stomach to the police, seeing that there is suspicion of poison, and thence it will go to the Government analyst.
Q. It is stated that the deceased had convulsions before she died — is this not a symptom of narcotic poisoning?
A. In some cases, yes, but not commonly; aconite, for instance, always produces convulsions in animals, seldom in man.
Q. How do you account for the congested condition of the lungs?
A. I believe the serous effusion caused death by suspended respiration.
Q. Was there any odour perceptible?
A. No, none whatsoever.
The inquest was then adjourned till next day, and there was great excitement over the affair. If Kitty Marchurst’s statement was true, the deceased must have died from the administration of poison; but, on the other hand, Dr Chinston asserted positively that there was no trace of poison, and that the deceased had clearly died from apoplexy. Public opinion was very much divided, some asserting that Kitty’s story was true, while others said she had got the idea from ‘The Hidden Hand’, and only told it in order to make herself notorious. There were plenty of letters written to the papers on the subject, each offering a new solution of the difficulty, but the fact remained the same, that Kitty said the deceased had been poisoned; the doctor that she had died of apoplexy. Calton was considerably puzzled over the matter. Of course, there was no doubt that the man who committed the murder had intended to poison Madame Midas, but the fact that Selina stayed all night with her, had resulted in the wrong person being killed. Madame Midas told Calton the whole story of her life, and asserted positively that if the poison was meant for her, Villiers must have administered it. This was all very well, but the question then arose, was Villiers alive? The police were once more set to work, and once more their search resulted in nothing. Altogether the whole affair was wrapped in mystery, as it could not even be told if a murder had been committed, or if the deceased had died from natural causes. The only chance of finding out the truth would be to have the stomach analysed, and the cause of death ascertained; once that was done, and the matter could be gone on with, or dropped, according to the report of the analyst. If he said it was apoplexy, Kitty’s story would necessarily have to be discredited as an invention; but if, on the other hand, the traces of poison were found, search would have to be made for the murderer. Matters were at a deadlock, and everyone waited impatiently for the report of the analyst. Suddenly, however, a new interest was given to the case by the assertion that a Ballarat doctor, called Gollipeck, who was a noted toxicologist, had come down to Melbourne to assist at the analysis of the stomach, and knew something which would throw light on the mysterious death.
Vandeloup saw the paragraph which gave this information, and it disturbed him very much.
‘Curse that book of Prevol’s,’ he said to himself, as he threw down the paper: ‘it will put them on the right track, and then — well,’ observed M. Vandeloup, sententiously, ‘they say danger sharpens a man’s wits; it’s lucky for me if it does.’