A wet Sunday--dreary, dismal, and infinitely sloppy. Even the bells ringing the people into evening service seemed to feel the depressing influence of the weather, and their brazen voices sounded hoarse and grumbling, as if they rang under protest. Cold, too!--not a brisk sharp frost--for here in Melbourne frost and snow are unknown; but a persevering, insinuating, gnawing cold, just disagreeable enough to make one shiver and shake with anxiety to get home to a bright fire and dry clothes. Overhead a leaden-coloured sky, with great masses of black clouds, from out whose sombre bosoms poured the steady rain, splashing noisily on the shining roofs, and swelling the gutters in the streets to miniature torrents.
And then the wind,--a gusty, chilly wind,--that came along unexpectedly, and drove the unwilling rain against the umbrellas of struggling pedestrians, or else took a mean advantage of its power, and turned their umbrellas inside out, with a shrill whistle of triumph. The steady light streamed out from the painted church windows, and the dull, blurred glare of the street lamps was reflected in the wet pavements. Ugh! a night not fit for a dog to be out in, and yet there were a good many people hurrying along to the church, in answer to the clamorous voices of the bells.
Some folk, however--wise in their generation--preferred staying at home to sitting in church, with damp boots and a general sense of stickiness about their clothes, and though possibly their souls suffered from such an omission, their bodies were certainly more comfortable. Among these godless people, who thus preferred comfort to religion, were two young men occupying a room on a first floor, the windows of which looked across to the church, now full of damp and steaming worshippers.
A room in a boarding-house--especially one where boarders only pay twenty-five shillings a week--is not generally a very luxurious apartment, and this special room was certainly no exception to the rule. It was square, with a fairly lofty ceiling, and the walls were covered with a dull red paper, which, being mellowed by time, had assumed a somewhat rusty hue.
It was rapidly growing dark outside, and there was no light in the room, save that which came from a roaring coal fire blazing brightly up the chimney, and illuminating the apartment in a curiously fantastic manner. It sent out red shafts of light into dark corners, as if to find out what was hidden there, and then being disappointed, would sink back into a dull, sulky glow, only to fall into a chaotic mass, and blaze merrily up once more.
The apartment wherein the fire played these elfish tricks was furnished comfortably, but the furniture had a somewhat dingy look. The carpet was threadbare, except under the table, where there could be traced some vestiges of its original pattern. A cottage piano was pushed into a corner slanting ways, and beside it was a great untidy pile of music. At one end of the room, a desk covered with papers, and immediately above it a shelf containing a small array of well-worn books. Near the desk stood an aggravatingly bright sideboard, whereon were some glasses, a jug of water, and a half-empty bottle of whisky. Four or five lounging chairs of wicker-work were scattered about, covered with rugs of wallaby fur, whilst the walls and mantelpiece were almost covered with photographs, mostly of women, but here and there a male face, showing the well-known features of Beethoven, Chopin, and other famous musicians.
This somewhat incongruous apartment was a private sitting-room in an East Melbourne boarding-house, and was at present in the occupation of Ezra Lazarus, journalist. Ezra Lazarus himself was seated at the piano playing snatches of music, while on the hearth-rug, smoking a pipe, lay a man propped up on his elbow, with his head resting on his hand, staring into the burning coals, and listening to his friend playing.
Ezra Lazarus was a young man of medium height, with a slender figure, a pale face, rather dreamy, dark eyes, and black hair and beard carefully trimmed. He dressed neatly, and, in contrast to most of his race, wore no jewellery. Why he had become a journalist no one knew,--himself least of all,--as his tastes did not lie in the direction of newspaper work, for having all the Hebraic love of music, he was an accomplished pianist. As for the rest--staid in his demeanour, soft-spoken in his language, and much given to solitary wanderings. Yet he was no misanthrope, and those who knew him intimately found him a most charming companion, full of quaint ideas and bookish lore, but he was essentially a man of ideality, and shrank from contact with the work-a-day world. For such a nature as this a journalistic sphere was most unsuitable, and he felt it to be so, but having drifted into such a position, he lacked the energy to extricate himself from his uncongenial employment, and accepted his fate with oriental apathy, recompensing himself in some measure by giving every spare moment to the study of music.
The man lying before the fire was the direct opposite of Ezra, both in appearance and temperament. A tall, sinewy-figured young fellow of six-and-twenty, with restless keen grey eyes under strongly-marked eyebrows, and a sensitive mouth, almost hidden by a small fair moustache. His nose was thin and straight, with delicately-cut nostrils, and his head was well set on his broad shoulders, albeit he had a trick of throwing it back which gave him a somewhat haughty carriage. He had a fair complexion, with that reddish-brown hue which comes from constantly living in the open air, and altogether looked like a man addicted to sport rather than to study.
This was Keith Stewart, who, having passed most of his life in Gippsland, and in wandering about Australia generally, had a year previously come down to Melbourne with the laudable intention of devoting himself to literature. That he was poor might be surmised from his shabby, well-brushed clothes, and his face constantly wore that expression of watchfulness habitual to those who have to fight the world in their youth and be on their guard against everyone.
That two such dissimilar natures as these could find any reciprocity appears strange, but curiously enough some undercurrent of sympathy had drawn them together from the first time they met. Jew and Gentile, musician and student, different nationalities, different trains of thought, yet the mere fact that they could both live in an ideal world of their own creation, heedless of the restless life which seethed around, seemed to form a bond of concord between them, and their mutual isolation drew them almost imperceptibly together.
Keith had only been boarding in the house a week, consequently Ezra knew nothing about his friend's life, beyond the fact that he was poor and ambitious. As Stewart never volunteered any information about himself, Ezra, with the delicacy of a sensitive nature, shrank from forcing himself on his confidence. The inexhaustible subjects of books and music, a walk by the banks of the Yarra, or an occasional visit to the theatre, had been, so far, the limit of their social companionship. Their inner selves were still unknown to each other. To all, however, there comes a moment when the desire to unburden the mind to a sympathetic nature is strong, and it was in such a moment that Ezra Lazarus first learned the past life of Stewart.
On this dreary Sunday night Ezra let his fingers wander over the piano, vaguely following his thoughts, and the result was a queer mingling of melodies--now a bizarre polonaise of Chopin, with its fantastic blending of patriotic joy and despairing pain, then a rush of stormy chords, preluding a Spanish dance, instinct with the amorous languor and fierce passion of the south. Outside, the shrill wind could be heard sweeping past, a sheet of rain would lash wildly against the windows, and at intervals the musical thunder of the organ sounded from the adjacent church.
Keith smoked away steadily and listened drowsily to the pleasant mingling of sounds, until Ezra began to play the Traviata music, with its feverish brilliancy and undercurrent of sadness. Then he suddenly started, clenched his hand, and taking his pipe from his mouth, heaved an impatient sigh, upon hearing which, Lazarus stopped playing, and turned slowly round.
A link of memory? he said, in his soft voice, referring to the music.
Stewart replaced his pipe, blew a thick wreath of smoke, and sighed again.
Yes, he replied, after a pause; "it recalls to me--a woman."
Ezra laughed half sadly, half mockingly.
Always the Eternal feminine of George Sand.
Keith sat up cross-legged in front of the fire and shrugged his shoulders.
Don't be cynical old chap, he said, glancing round; "I'm sick of hearing the incessant railing against women--good heavens! are we men so pure ourselves, that we can afford to cast stones against the sex to which our mothers and sisters belong."
I did not mean to be cynical, replied Ezra, clasping his hands round one of his knees, "I only quoted Sand, because when a man is thinking, it is generally--a woman.
Or a debt--or a crime--or a sorrow, interposed the other quickly; "we can ring the changes on all of them."
Who is cynical now? asked the Jew, with a smile.
Not I, denied Keith, emphatically, drawing hard at his pipe; "or if I am, it is only that thin veneer of cynicism, under which we hide our natural feelings now-a-days; but the music took me back to the time when 'Plancus was consul'--exactly twelve months ago."
Bah! Plancus is consul still; don't be downhearted, my friend; you are still in the pleasant city of Prague.
Pleasant? that is as it may be. I think it a very disagreeable city without money. Bohemianism is charming in novels, but in real life it is generally a hunt after what Murger calls that voracious animal, the half-crown.
And after women!
Ah, bah! Lais and Phryne; both charming, but slightly improper, not to say expensive.
Take the other side of the shield, said the Jew gently.
Lucretia, and--and--by Jove, I can't recollect the name of any other virtuous woman.
Who is the lady of the music?
My affianced wife, retorted Stewart curtly.
Ah! said Ezra thoughtfully, "then we have a feeling in common, I am also engaged."
Stewart laughed gaily.
And we both think our lady-loves perfect, he said lightly. "'Dulcinea is the fairest woman in the world,'--poor Don Quixote."
Mine is to me, said Ezra emphatically.
Of course, answered Stewart, with a smile. "I can picture her, tall, dark, and stately, an imperial daughter of Judah, with the beauty of Bathsheba and the majesty of Esther."
Entirely wrong, replied Lazarus dryly, "she is neither tall, dark, nor stately, but--"
The exact opposite--I take your meaning, said Keith composedly; "well, my Dulcinea is like the sketch I have given--beautiful, clever, poor, and--a governess."
And you haven't seen her for a year?
No--a whole twelvemonth--she is up Sandhurst way trying to hammer dates and the rule of three into the thick heads of five small brats, and I--well I'm an unsuccessful literary man, doing what is vulgarly known as 'a perish.'
What made you take up writing? asked Lazarus.
What made me take up writing? repeated Stewart, staring vaguely into the fire. "Lord knows--destiny, I suppose--I've had a queer sort of life altogether. I was born of poor but honest parents, quite the orthodox style of thing, isn't it?"
Are your parents alive?
Dead! laconically.
There was a pause of a few moments, during which time Keith was evidently deep in thought.
According to Sir Walter Scott, he observed at length, "every Scotchman has a pedigree. I've got one as long as the tail of a kite, only not so useful. I'd sell all my ancestors, as readily as Charles Surface did his, for a few pounds. My people claim to be connected with the royal Stewarts."
Your name is spelt differently.
It's spelt correctly, retorted Keith coolly, "in the good old Scottish fashion; as for the other, it's the French method acclimatised by Mary Stuart when she married the Dauphin of France."
Well, now I know your pedigree, what is the story of your life?
My life?--oh! I'm like Canning's knife-grinder. 'Story, I've got none to tell.' My father and mother found royal descent was not bread and butter, so they sold the paternal acres and came out to Australia, where I was born. The gold fever was raging then, but I suppose they inherited the bad luck of the Stewarts, for they did not make a penny; then they started a farm in Gippsland and ruined themselves. My father died of a broken heart, and my mother soon followed, so I was left an orphan with next to nothing. I wandered all over Australia, and did anything that turned up. Suppressing the family pride, I took a situation in a Sandhurst store, kept by a man called Proggins, and there I met Eugénie Rainsford, who, as I told you, taught the juvenile Progginses. I had a desultory sort of education from my father, and having read a good deal, I determined to take to literature, inspired, I suppose, by the poetic melancholy of the Australian bush. I wrote poetry with the usual success; I then went on the stage, and found I wasn't a heaven-born genius by any means, so I became a member of the staff of a small country paper, wrote brilliant articles about the weather and crops, varied by paste-and-scissors' work. Burned the midnight oil, and wrote some articles, which were accepted in Melbourne, so, with the usual prudence of genius, I threw up my billet and came down here to set the Thames, or rather the Yarra, on fire. Needless to remark, I didn't succeed or I shouldn't be here, so there is my history in a nutshell.
And Miss Rainsford?
Oh, I engaged myself to her before I left Sandhurst, said Keith, his face growing tender, "bless her--the letters she has written me have been my bulwark against despair--ah! what a poor devil a man is in this world without a good woman's love to comfort him."
Are you doing anything now? said Ezra thoughtfully.
Nothing. I'm leading a hand-to-mouth, here-to-day-gone-to-morrow existence. I'm a vagabond on the face of the earth, a modern Cain, Bonnie Prince Charlie in exile--the infernal luck of my royal ancestors still sticks to me, but, ah, bah! shrugging his shoulders, "don't let's talk any more, old chap, we can resume the subject to-morrow, meanwhile play me something. I'm in a poetic mood, and would like to build castles in the air."
Ezra laughed, and, turning to the piano, began to play one of Henselt's morceaux, a pathetic, dreamy melody, which came stealing softly through the room, and filled the soul of the young man with vague yearnings.
Staring idly into the heart of the burning coals, he saw amid the bluish flames and red glimmer of the fire a vision of the dear dead days of long ago--shadows appeared, the shadows of last year.
A glowing sunset, bathing a wide plain in delicate crimson hues; a white gate leading to a garden bright with flowers, and over the gate the shadow of a beautiful woman stood talking to the shadow of a man--himself. Mnenosyne--saddest of deities--waved her wand, and the shadows talked.
And when will you come back, Keith? asked the girl shadow.
When I am a great man, replied the other shadow proudly. "I am riding forth like Poe's knight in search of El Dorado."
El Dorado is far away, returned the sweet voice of the girl; "it is the Holy Grail of wealth, and can never be discovered."
I will find it, replied the man shadow hopefully. "Meanwhile, you will wait and hope."
I will wait and hope, replied the girl, smiling sadly; and the shadows parted.
The rain beat steadily against the panes, the soft music stole through the room, and Stewart, with idle gaze, stared into the burning heart of the fire, as if he expected to find there the El Dorado of his dreams.
After a storm comes a calm; so next morning the sun was shining brightly in the blue sky, and the earth had that clean, wholesome appearance always to be seen after heavy rains. The high wind had dried the streets, the drenched foliage of the trees in the Fitzroy Gardens looked fresh and green, and there was a slight chilliness in the atmosphere which was highly invigorating. Indeed, it was like a spring morning, mildly inspiriting; whilst all around there seemed to be a pleasant sense of new-born gladness quickening both animal and vegetable life.
After breakfast, Ezra, who was going to the office of The Penny Whistle. the paper for which he worked, asked Keith to walk into town with him, and, as the young man had nothing particular to do, he gladly assented. They strolled slowly through the gardens, admiring the glistening green of the trees, the white statues sharply accentuated against their emerald back-ground, and the vivid dashes of bright colour given by the few flowers then in bloom.
Stewart appeared to have quite recovered from his megrims of the previous night, and strolled gaily along, every now and then inhaling a long breath of the keen air. Ezra, who was watching him closely, saw from his actions his intense appreciation of his surroundings, and was satisfied that the young man possessed in a high degree that poetical instinct which has such an affinity with the joyousness or gloom of Nature.
Ah! this is a morning when it is good to live, said Keith brightly. "I always envied the satyrs and dryades of heathendom, with their intense animal enjoyment of Nature--not sensuality, but exuberant capability of enjoying a simple life."
Like that with which Hawthorn endowed Donatallo? suggested Ezra.
Poor Donatallo! said Stewart, with a sigh; "he is a delightful illustration of the proverb, 'Where ignorance is bliss'--he was happy till he loved--so was Undine till she obtained a soul."
You seem to have read a great deal? observed Lazarus, looking at him.
Oh, faith; my reading has been somewhat desultory, replied Stewart carelessly. "All is fish that comes to my net, and the result is a queer jumble of information; but let us leave this pleasant gossiping, and come down to this matter-of-fact world. How do you think I can better my position?"
I hardly know as yet, replied the Jew, thoughtfully caressing his beard; "but if you want immediate work, I can put you in the way of obtaining employment."
Literary work?
Unfortunately no--a clerkship in a--a--well, an office.
Ugh! I hate the idea of being cribbed and confined in an office; it's such an artificial existence. However, beggars can't be choosers, so tell me all about it.
My father wants a clerk, said Ezra deliberately, "and if I recommended you I think you could get the position."
Humph! And what is your father's occupation?
Not a very aristocratic one,--a pawnbroker.
Keith stopped short, and looked at his companion in surprise.
I can't imagine you being the son of a pawnbroker, he said in a puzzled tone.
Why not? asked Ezra serenely. "I must be the son of some one."
Yes; but a pawnbroker, it's so horribly un-poetical. Your father ought to have been a man of letters--of vague speculations and abstruse theories--a modern Rabbi Judah holding disputations about the Talmud.
Lazarus shrugged his shoulders, and walked slowly onward, followed by his companion.
My dear lad, the days of Maimonides are past, and we are essentially a money-making race. The curse which Jehovah pronounced on the Jews was the same as that of Midas--they turn everything they touch into gold.
A pleasant enough punishment.
Midas did not find it so; but to resume--my father, Jacob Lazarus, has his shop in Russell Street, so I will speak to him to-day, and if he is agreeable, I will take you with me to-morrow. I've no doubt you'll get the billet, but the wages will be small.
At all events, they will keep body and soul together till I find my El Dorado.
You refer to literary fame, I suppose. How did you first take to writing?
I think you asked me that question last night, said Keith, smiling, "and I told you I couldn't explain. Like Pope, I lisped in numbers, and the numbers came. I've no doubt they were sufficiently bad. I'm sure I don't know why all authors begin with verse; perhaps it's because rhymes are so easy--fountain suggests mountain, and dove is invariably followed by love."
Have you had any articles accepted since your arrival in Melbourne?
One or two, but generally speaking, no one acknowledges that a possible Shakespeare or Dickens is embodied in me. I've sent plays to managers, which have been declined on the plea that all plays come from London. I have seen editors, and have been told there was no room on the press--publishers have seen me, and pointed out that a colonial novel means ruination--encouraging for the future brainworkers of Australia, isn't it?
We must all serve our apprenticeship, answered Lazarus quietly. "The longest lane has a turning."
No doubt; but my particular lane seems devilish long.
Ezra laughed, and they walked down Collins Street, watching the crowd of people hurrying along to business, the cabs darting here and there, and the cable tramcars sliding smoothly along. Pausing a moment near the Scotch Church, they heard a street organ playing a bright melody.
What tune is that? asked Keith, as they resumed their walk. "Sounds awfully pretty."
Song from 'Prince Carnival,' replied Ezra, referring to an opera then running at the Bon-Bon Theatre. "Caprice sings it."
Oh, Caprice. I'd like to see that opera, said Keith. "You might take me to the theatre to-night to see it."
Very well, assented Ezra. "You will like Caprice--she is very charming."
And if rumour speaks truly, very wicked.
Added to which, she is the best-hearted woman in the world, finished the Jew dryly.
What a contradiction, laughed Stewart.
Women are always contradictory--'tis a privilege of the sex.
And one they take full advantage of.
This airy badinage came to an end somewhat abruptly, for just as they arrived near the Victoria Coffee Palace, they were startled by the shriek of a woman.
On the other side of the street a gaudily-dressed girl was crying and wringing her hands, while a child of about seven years of age was standing paralysed with fear directly in the way of a tram-car that came rushing down the incline. The two men stood horror-struck at what seemed to be the inevitable death of the child, for, though the driver put on the brakes, the speed was too great, and destruction appeared inevitable. Suddenly Keith seemed to recover the use of his limbs, and, with a sudden spring, bounded forward and tore the child off the fatal track, himself falling together with the child to the ground. He was not a moment too soon, for hardly had he fallen before the car at a slower speed rolled past, and ultimately came to a standstill at the foot of the incline.
Stewart arose to his feet considerably shaken, his clothes torn and covered with mud, and a painful feeling in the arm, on which he had fallen. Ezra crossed over to him, and the rescued child was standing on the footpath in the grasp of the gaudily-dressed girl who spoke volubly, regardless of the crowd of people standing by.
The conductor of the car came to inquire into the affair, and having found that no one was hurt, retired, and the tram was soon sliding down the street. The crowd dispersed gradually, until only the child, Ezra, Keith, and the shrill-voiced girl were left.
Oh! gracious, good 'eavens! said this young lady, who appeared to be a nursemaid, and spoke rapidly, without any stops; "to think as you should have bin nearly squashed by that ingine, and all comin' of runnin' out into the road, an' taking no notice of me as was postin' a letter in the pillar-box, not seeing anythin', thro' want of eyes at the back of me 'ead."
The child, a quaint, thin-faced little girl, with dark eyes and glorious reddish-coloured hair, took no notice of this outburst, but pulled Keith's coat to attract his attention.
Thank you, man, she said, in a thin, reedy voice; "I will tell mumsey, and she will say nice things to you, and I will give you a kiss."
Keith was touched in his soft heart by this na?ve appeal, and, bending down, kissed the pale little face presented to him, much to the alarm of the nursemaid, who lifted up her hands in horror.
Oh! gracious, good 'eavens! she piped shrilly, "as to what your mar will say, Miss Megs, I don't know, a-kissin' strange gents in the h'open street; not but what he don't deserve it, a-dragin' you from under the ingine, as oughtn't to be let run to spile--"
Hold your tongue, Bliggings, said Ezra sharply; "you ought to look more carefully after Meg, or she'll be killed some day."
Oh! gracious and good 'eavens! cried Bliggings sniffing, "if it ain't Mr. Lazarhouse; and, beggin' your pardon, sir, it ain't my fault, as is well known to you as children will 'ookit unbeknown't to the most wary."
There, there, said Lazarus, bending down to kiss Meg; "least said, soonest mended; thanks to my friend here, it's no worse."
Which he ought to git a meddler, asserted Miss Bliggings, on whose feminine heart Keith's handsome face had made an impression. "But, gracious and good 'eavens, they only gives 'em for drowndin', though I never lets Miss Megs go near water, ingines bein' unexpected in their actions, and not to be counted on in their movin's."
Good-bye, Meg, said Lazarus, cutting short Bliggings in despair. "Tell your mamma I'll call and see her about this."
And bring the man, said Meg, glancing at Keith.
Yes, and bring the man, repeated Ezra, upon which Meg, being satisfied, made a quaint-like curtsey to both men, and was going away, when she suddenly came back, and pulling Keith's coat till he bent down, put her arms round his neck and kissed him.
Mumsey will be nice, she murmured, and then trotted quietly off with Bliggings, who kept expressing her opinion that, "Oh! gracious, good 'eavens! she was red up to her eyes at such conduct," a somewhat unnecessary assertion, seeing her complexion was permanently the colour of beetroot.
Come into Lane's Hotel and have a glass of brandy, said Ezra, when Meg and her attendant had disappeared; "you need it after the shaking you have had."
What is the child's name? asked Keith, as he went into the bar. "You seem to know her."
Ezra laughed softly, and ordered a glass of brandy for his friend.
A curious way Fate has of working, he said, rather irrelevantly. "She has played into your hands to-day, for that child is Kitty Marchurst's, better known as 'Caprice.'"
I didn't know she had a child, said Keith. "Who is the father? Is she married?"
No, she is not married. As to the father, it's a long story; I'll tell you all about it some day. Meanwhile, you have done her a service she will never forget.
Much good it will be to me, said Keith disbelievingly
You've exactly hit it, replied Ezra composedly. "She can do you a great deal of good, seeing that she is the reigning favourite of the stage at present. I will introduce you to her to-night, and then--"
Well?
Ezra shrugged his shoulders, and replied slowly,--
The best friend an ambitious man can have is a clever woman; a wiser man than I made that remark.
The "Bon-Bon" was the smallest, prettiest, and most luxurious theatre in Melbourne, and was exclusively devoted to farcical comedy, burlesque, and opera-bouffe, the latter class of entertainment being now the attraction. There was no pit, the circle and boxes being raised but little above the level of the stalls. The decorations were pink, white, and gold, the seats being covered with pale, rose-coloured plush, with curtains and hangings to match, while the electric lights, shining through pink globes, gave quite a warm glow to the theatre. The dome was decorated with allegorical figures representing Momus, the God of laughter, and Apollo, the God of music, while all round the walls were exquisitely-painted medallions of scenes from celebrated operas and burlesques. The proscenium was a broad frame of dullish gold, the curtain of roseate plush, and on either side of the stage were life-size statues of Offenbach and Planché in white marble. Altogether, a charming theatre, more like a cosy drawing-room than a place of public entertainment.
At the entrance was a high flight of white marble stairs, leading to a wide corridor, the walls of which were hidden by enormous mirrors, and at intervals stood white marble statues of the Greek divinities, holding aloft electric lights. On the one side was the smoking-room,--a luxurious lounge,--and on the other a refreshment bar, all glass and glitter, which was crowded between the acts by the thirsty patrons of the play.
Ezra and Keith arrived about nine o'clock, just as the first act of "Prince Carnival" was over, and finding the salon tolerably full, Lazarus sat down near one of the small, marble-topped tables, and lighting his cigarette, proceeded to point out to Keith all the notabilities present.
The first to whom he called Stewart's attention was a group of three. One, a tall, portly-looking man, with a red, clean-shaven face and black hair, was irreproachably attired in evening dress, and chatted to a fair-haired youth with a supercilious smile, and a short, bald-headed old gentleman.
You see those three? said Ezra, indicating the group. "The dark man of the ponderous Samuel Johnson type is Ted Mortimer, the lessee of the theatre; the idiot with the eyeglass is Lord Santon, who has come out from London to see us barbarians, and the apoplectic party with the bald head is no less a personage than Mr. Columbus Wilks, the great globe-trotter, who is going to write a book about Australia and New Zealand."
That will take him some time, observed Keith, with a smile.
Not at all, said Lazarus coolly. "He will run through the whole of Australasia in a few weeks, be the guest of the governors of the different colonies, and then give his impressions of our government, politics, trade, amusements, and scenery in a series of brilliant articles, whose truth and accuracy will be quite in accordance with the time which he has taken to collect his materials."
But he cannot judge of things so rapidly.
Of course not; but he will view everything through the rose-coloured spectacles of champagne and adulation, so his book will depict our land as a kind of nineteenth-century Utopia.
And Lord Santon?
An hereditary legislator, who is being fêted for his title, and will go back to his ancestral halls with the firm conviction that we are a kind-hearted race of--savages.
You are severe, said Keith, in an amused tone; "you ought to give a lecture, entitled 'Men I have noticed;' it would certainly draw."
Yes, all the women, not the men; they don't care for hearing remarks about themselves; but there is the bell for the rising of the curtain, so we had better go to our seats.
They left the now empty salon, and went into the dress circle, which holds the same rank in the colonies as the stalls do in the London theatres. Though the house was crowded, they succeeded in getting excellent seats, being, in fact, those always reserved for the critics of The Penny Whistle. The orchestra played a lively waltz, to which the gods in the gallery kept time, and then the curtain drew up on a charming scene, representing a square in Rome.
Prince Carnival was one of those frivolous French operas with a slightly naughty plot, witty dialogue, brilliant music, and plenty of opportunity for gay dresses and picturesque scenery. The principals and chorus consisted mostly of girls, with just a sprinkling of men, so that their deeper voices might balance the shrillness of those of the women. Of the plot, the least said the better, as it was merely a string of intrigues, connected by piquant couplets and sparkling choruses, with occasional ballets intervening.
As far as Keith could gather, it had something to do with the adventures of the quack Cagliostra in Rome, who was the comic man of the play, and figured in various disguises, the most successful being that of a prominent politician. Cagliostra tries to gain the affections of a young girl beloved by a mountebank called Prince Carnival, who thwarts him all through the play. The second act was the carnival at Rome, and a crowd of masquers were singing a riotous chorus and pelting one another with flowers. Suddenly, during a lull in this fantastic medley, a high, clear voice was heard executing a brilliant shake, and immediately afterwards Caprice bounded gaily on to the stage, singing a melodious waltz song, to which the masquers moved in measured time.
She was dressed in a harlequin costume, a mask on her face, a fool's baton in her hand, and innumerable silver bells hanging from her cap and dress, which jingled incessantly as she danced. But what attracted Keith's attention were the diamonds she wore--several stars and a necklace. She seemed one splendid blaze of jewels, and his eyes ached watching their flash and glitter during the rapid gyrations of her restless figure.
Are those paste jewels? he asked Ezra, in a whisper.
Paste! echoed that young man, with a soft, satirical laugh. "Caprice wear paste jewels! Ask the men she's ruined where all their thousands went---where all their lands, horses, shares, salaries, disappeared to! Paste! Bah! my dear fellow, you don't know the number of ruined homes and broken hearts those diamonds represent."
The act proceeded; the dialogue scintillating with wit, and the choruses becoming more riotous. Intrigue followed after intrigue, and situation after situation, in all of which Caprice was the central figure, until the climax was reached, in a wild bizarre chorus, in which she danced a vigorous cancan with Cagliostra, and finished by bounding on his shoulders to form the tableau as the curtain fell, amid the enthusiastic applause of the audience.
Ezra and Stewart went out into the smoking-room to light their cigarettes, and heard on all sides eulogies of Caprice.
She'd make her fortune on the London stage, said Santon to Mortimer. "Got such a lot of the devil in her--eh?--by Jove! Why the deuce don't she show in town?"
Aha! replied Mortimer shrewdly, "I'm not going to let her go if I can help it. Don't tempt away my only ewe lamb, when you've got so many flocks of your own."
She doesn't look much like a lamb, said Columbus Wilks dryly.
Then she doesn't belie her looks, retorted Mortimer coolly. "My dear sir, she's got the temper of a fiend, but she's such a favourite, that I put up with her tantrums for the sake of the cash."
While this conversation was going on, Ezra and his friend were smoking quietly in a corner of the room chatting about the opera, when the Jew suddenly drew Keith's attention to a tall man talking to a friend in a confidential manner. He had a thin, sharp-looking face, keen blue eyes, and fair hair and beard.
That gentleman, said Lazarus, "could probably tell you something about those diamonds, he is an American called Hiram Jackson Fenton, manager of the 'Never-say-die Life Insurance Company.' Rumour--which is true in this case, contrary to its usual custom--says he is Caprice's latest fancy."
He must have a lot of money to satisfy her whims, said Keith, looking at the American.
Money! Ezra shrugged his shoulders. "He hasn't much actual cash, for he lives far above his income. However, with a little judicious dabbling in the share market, and an occasional help from the children of Israel, he manages to get along all right. Our friend Caprice will ruin him shortly, and then he'll return to the Great Republic, I presume--good riddance of bad rubbish for Australia."
And who is that colourless-looking little man who has just come up?
He is rather washed out, isn't he? said Ezra critically. "That is his assistant manager, Evan Malton. For some inexplicable reason they are inseparable."
Oh, and is Mr. Malton also smitten with Caprice.
Very badly--more shame to him, as he's only been married for twelve months--he neglects his young wife, and dances attendance at the heels of his divinity.
Doesn't Hiram J--what's his name, object?
Not at all. You see they're both mixed up in speculation, and work together for their mutual benefit. Malton is the Lazarus--I don't mean myself--who picks up the crumbs of love that fall from Mr. Dives Fenton's table.
It can't last long, said Keith in disgust.
It will last till Malton gets rid of Fenton, or Fenton gets the better of Malton--then there'll be a row, and the weakest will go to the wall. Tell me, whom do you think will win?
I should say Fenton, replied Keith, glancing from the effeminate countenance of Malton to the shrewd, powerful face of the American.
Exactly; he is, I fancy, the stronger villain of the two.
Villain?
Yes; I call any man a villain who neglects his wife for the sake of a light-o'-love. As for Fenton, he is the most unscrupulous man I know.
You seem to be pretty well acquainted with the scandal of Melbourne society, said Stewart as they went back to their seats.
Of course, it is my duty; the press is ubiquitous. But tell me your opinion of Caprice?
Judging by her acting to-night, she's a devil.
Wait till the end of this act, and you'll swear she's an angel.
Which will be correct?
Both--she's a mixture!
The curtain again drew up, amid the shuffling of the audience settling themselves in their places, and represented a fête in the gardens of Cagliostra's palace, brilliant with coloured lights and fantastically-dressed people. According to the story, Cagliostra has obtained possession of his prize, and woos her successfully, when Prince Carnival enters and sings a ballad, "So Long Ago," in the hope of touching the heart of his false love.
Caprice, dressed in a tight-fitting costume of silk and velvet, which showed off her beautiful figure to perfection, stood in the centre of the stage with a sad smile, and sang the waltz-refrain of the song with great feeling.
"For it was long ago, love, That time of joy and woe, love! Yet still that heart of thine Is mine, dear love, is mine!
"She gave to the jingling words a touch of pathos which was exquisitely beautiful.
I believe she feels what she sings, whispered Keith.
If you knew her story you would scarcely wonder at that, said Ezra bitterly.
The song was redemanded, but Caprice refused to respond, and, the clamour still continuing, she shrugged her shoulders and walked coolly up the stage.
She's in a temper to-night, said Mortimer to Santon. "They can applaud till they're black in the face, but devil an answer they'll get from her, the jade! She isn't called Caprice for nothing."
And so it happened, for the audience, finding she would not gratify them, subsided into a sulky silence, and Caprice went coolly on with the dialogue. Cagliostra, repentant, surrenders the girl to Prince Carnival, and the opera ended with a repetition of the galop chorus, wherein Keith saw the sad-eyed woman of a few moments before once more a mocking jibing fiend, dancing and singing with a reckless abandon that half-fascinated and half-disgusted him.
What a contradiction, said Keith, as they left the theatre; "one moment all tears, the next all laughter!"
With a spice of the devil in both, replied Ezra cynically. "She is the Sphinx woman of Heine--her lips caress while her claws wound."
They had a drink and a smoke together, after which they went round to the stage-door, as Ezra, in pursuance of improving Keith's fortunes, was anxious to introduce him to Caprice. Lazarus appeared to be well-known to the door-keeper, for, after a few words with him, they were admitted to the mysterious region behind the scenes. Caprice, wrapped up in a heavy fur cloak, was standing on the stage talking to Fenton. All around was comparatively quiet, as the scene-shifters having ended their duties for the night had left the theatre. Stewart could hardly believe that the little golden-haired woman he saw before him was the brilliant being of the previous hour, she looked so pale and weary. But soon another side of her versatile nature showed itself, for Fenton, saying something to displease her, she rebuked him sharply, and turned her back on the discomfited American. In doing so she caught sight of Lazarus, and ran quickly towards him with outstretched hand.
My dear Mr. Lazarus, she said rapidly, "I'm so glad to see you! Meg told me all about her accident to-day, and how narrowly she escaped death. Good God, if I had lost her! But the gentleman who saved her--where is he?"
He is here, said Lazarus, indicating Keith, who stood blushing and confused before this divinity of the stage.
In another moment, with a sudden impulse, she was by his side, holding his two hands in her own.
You have done what I can never repay, she said rapidly, in a low voice. "Saved my child's life, and you will not find me ungrateful. Words are idle, but if actions can prove gratitude, you may command me."
I hope the young lady is all right, stammered Keith, as she dropped his hands.
Oh, yes; rather shaken, but quite well, answered Caprice, in a relieved tone. "Dear me, how careless I am; let me introduce you to these gentlemen--Mr. Fenton, Mr. Malton, and last, but not least, Mr. Mortimer."
The three gentlemen bowed coldly, Fenton in particular, eyeing Keith in a supercilious manner, which made him blush with rage, as he thought it was owing to his shabby clothes.
Is my carriage there? said Caprice, in reply to a speech of Malton's. "Oh, then, I may as well go. Good-night, everybody. Mr. Stewart, will you give me your arm?" and she walked off with the delighted Keith, leaving Fenton and Malton transfixed with rage, while Mortimer and Ezra looked on chuckling.
Caprice talked brightly to her new friend till he placed her in her brougham, then suddenly became grave.
Come down and have supper with me on Sunday fortnight, she said, leaning out of the window. "Mr. Lazarus will be your guide. Good-bye at present," giving him her gloved hand. "God bless you for saving my child."
The carriage drove off, but not before Keith had seen that tears were falling down her face, whereat he marvelled at this strange nature, and stood looking after the carriage.
She's not as bad as they say, he said aloud.
Ezra, who was just behind him, laughed aloud.
I knew you'd say she was an angel.
It was a very little shop of squat appearance, as if the upper storey had gradually crushed down the lower. Three gilt balls dangling in mid-air over the wide door indicated the calling of the owner, and, in order that there should be no mistake, the dusty, rain-streaked windows displayed the legend, "Lazarus, Pawnbroker," in blistered golden letters. There were three windows in the upper storey, and these being innocent of blinds or curtains, with the addition of one or two panes being broken, gave the top of the house a somewhat dismantled look. The lower windows, however, made up for the blankness of the upper ones, being full of marvels, and behind their dingy glass could be seen innumerable articles, representing the battered wrecks of former prosperity.
Gold and silver watches, with little parchment labels attached, setting forth their value, displayed themselves in a tempting row, and their chains were gracefully festooned between them, intermixed with strings of red coral, old-fashioned lockets, and bracelets of jet and amber. Worn-out silver teapots were placed dismally at the back in company with cracked cups and saucers of apparently rare old Worcester and Sêvres china. Dingy velvet trays, containing innumerable coins and medals of every description, antique jewellery of a mode long since out of date, were incongruously mingled with revolvers, guns, spoons, cruets, and japanned trays, decorated with sprawling golden dragons; richly-chased Indian daggers, tarnished silver mugs, in company with deadly-looking American bowie knives; bank-notes of long since insolvent banks were displayed as curiosities, while a child's rattle lay next to a Book of Beauty, from out whose pages looked forth simpering faces of the time of D'Orsay and Lady Blessington. And over all this queer heterogeneous mixture the dust lay thick and grey, as if trying for very pity to hide these remnants of past splendours and ruined lives.
The shop was broad, low-roofed, and shallow, with a choky atmosphere of dust, through which the golden sunlight slanted in heavy, solid-looking beams. On the one side there was a row of little partitions like bathing-boxes, designed to secure secrecy to those who transacted business with Mr. Lazarus, and, on the other, long rows of old clothes were hanging up against the wall, looking like the phantoms of their former owners. At the back, a door, covered with faded green baize, and decorated with brass-headed nails, gave admittance to the private office of the presiding genius of the place. The whole appearance of the shop was gloomy in the extreme, and the floor, being covered with boxes and bundles, with a little clearing here and there, it was naturally rather embarrassing to strangers (especially as the bright sunlight outside prevented them seeing an inch before their noses) when they first entered the dismal den wherein Mr. Lazarus sat like a spider waiting for unwary flies.
In one of the bathing machines aforesaid, a large red-faced woman, with a gruff voice and a strong odour of gin, was trying to conclude a bargain with a small, white-faced Jewish youth whose black beady eyes were scornfully examining a dilapidated teapot, which the gruff lady asserted was silver, and which the Jewish youth emphatically declared was not. The gruff female, who answered to the name of Tibsey, grew wrathful at this opposition, and prepared to do battle.
Old 'uns knows more nor youngers, she growled in an angry tone. "'Tain't by the sauce of babes and sucklers as I'm goin' to be teached."
'Old your row, squeaked Isaiah, that being the shrill boy's name. "Five bob, and dear at that."
Mrs. Tibsey snorted, and her garments--a tartan shawl and a brown wincey--shook with wrath.
Lor a mussy, 'ear the brat, she said, lifting up her fat hands; "why, five poun' wouldn't buy it noo; don't be 'ard on me, my lovey--me as 'ave popped everythink with you, includin' four silver spoons, a kittle, a girdiron, an' a coal-scuttle; don't be 'ard, ducky; say ten an' a tizy."
Five bob, returned the immovable Isaiah.
You Jewesis is the cuss of hus hall, cried Mrs. Tibsey, whacking the counter with a woefully ragged umbrella. "You cheats an' you swindles like wipers, an' I 'ates the sight of your 'ook noses, I do."
You'll 'ave the boss out, said Isaiah, in a high voice, like a steam whistle, to which Mrs. Tibsey replied in a rolling bass, a duet which grew wilder and wilder till the sudden opening of the green baize door reduced them both to silence.
An old man appeared--such a little old man--very much bent, and dressed in a greasy old ulster which covered him right down to his ragged carpet slippers. He had white hair and beard, piercing black eyes under shaggy white eyebrows, sharply-cut features, and a complexion like dirty parchment, seared all over with innumerable lines.
You again? he said, in a feeble Jewish voice. "Oh, you devil!--you--you--" here a fit of coughing seized him, and he contented himself with glaring at Mrs. Tibsey, upon which he was immediately confronted by that indomitable female, who seized the teapot and shook it in his face.
Five bob! she shrieked; "five bob for this!"
Too much--far too much, said Lazarus in dismay; "say four, my dear, four."
Ten; I want ten, said Mrs. Tibsey.
No, no; four; you say ten, but you mean four.
Say six.
Four.
Then take it, said Mrs. Tibsey, clashing it down in wrath, "and the devil take you."
All in good time--all in good time, chuckled the old man, and disappeared through the door.
You see, you oughter 'ave taken the five, sniggered Isaiah, making out the pawnticket. "There's four bob, don't spend it in drink."
Me drink, you hugly himp, said the lady, sweeping the money into her capacious pocket, where it reposed in company with an empty gin bottle; "me drink, as takes in washin' and goes hout nussin', an' was quite the lady afore I fell into the company of wipers: me dr-- well," and, language failing her, Mrs. Tibsey sailed majestically out of the shop, coming into collision with Ezra and Keith, who were just entering.
A whirlwind in petticoats, said Keith, startled by this ragged apparition.
Askin' your parding, gents both, said Mrs. Tibsey, dropping a very shaky curtsey, "but a young limb h'insides bin puttin' my back hup like the wrigglin' heel 'e h'are, and if you're goin' to pop anythink, don't let it be a silver teapot, 'cause old Sating h'inside is the cuss of orphens and widders," and, having relieved her mind, Mrs. Tibsey flounced indignantly away to refresh herself with her favourite beverage.
Complimentary to your parent, observed Keith, as they entered the shop.
Oh, they're much worse sometimes, said Ezra complacently. "Isaiah, where's my father?"
In 'is room, replied Isaiah, resuming the reading of a sporting newspaper.
Ezra opened the green baize door without knocking, and entered, followed by Keith. A small square room, even dingier than the shop. At one side a truckle bed pushed up against the wall, and next to it a large iron safe. A rusty grate, with a starved-looking fire, had an old battered kettle simmering on its hob. At the back a square dirty-paned window, through which the light fell on a small table covered with greasy green cloth, and piled up with papers. At this table sat old Lazarus, mumbling over some figures. He looked up suddenly when the young men entered, and cackled a greeting to his son, after which effort he was seized with a violent fit of coughing, which seemed to shake him to pieces. The paroxysm having passed, he began to talk in his feeble, Jewish voice.
He, he! my dear, looking sharply at Keith, "is this the young man you spoke of? Well, well--too good-looking, my dear--the women--ah, the women, devil take 'em, they'll be turning his head."
That's his own business, not yours, said Ezra curtly.
He, he! but it is my business--they'll love him, and love means presents--that means money--my money--I can't trust him.
That's rather severe, isn't it? said Keith, speaking for the first time. "You can't tell a man's character altogether by his face--good looks do not invariably mean libertine principles."
Ah! I know, I know! muttered Lazarus, rubbing his hands together; "well, well, can you keep books?"
Yes, I have been accustomed to do so.
Are you honest?
Keith laughed.
I'm generally considered so.
He, he! that's not saying much. What wages do you want?
Three pounds a week, said Stewart modestly.
Oh, my dear, my dear, what a large sum; say two, my dear, two pounds, or forty shillings, it's very large; you can save out of two pounds.
I'm glad you think so, said Keith dryly. "I've got my doubts on the subject; however, beggars must not be choosers, so I agree."
On trial, mind on trial, muttered the old man cautiously.
I'm quite agreeable, replied Keith complacently, hoping that by the time his trial is over he would be on the staff of some paper. "What are the hours?"
Nine, my dear, said Lazarus, stroking his beard, "nine till six, with half-an-hour for something to eat in the day--a bun and a cup of coffee--don't be extravagant."
I can't very well be, on such a salary, replied Stewart. "Well, Mr. Lazarus, as it's all settled, I'll come at nine o'clock to-morrow morning."
Yes! yes! quite right; but no horse-racing, no gambling, no women--they're the devil, my dear, the devil.
You're rather hard on the sex, father, said Ezra satirically, "considering how useful they are to you."
Aha! quite right, quite right, chuckled the old man. "Oh, I know fine ladies; they come to old Lazarus for money--to sell diamonds--ah, my dear, there's lots of diamonds in that safe, he, he!"
I wonder you're not afraid of being robbed, said Keith.
The old man looked up with a sudden gleam of suspicion in his eyes.
No, no; I keep the keys under my pillow, and I've got a pistol. I can fire it, oh, yes, I can fire it, then the neighbours, my dear, all round; oh, I'm quite safe--yes, yes, quite safe; no one would hurt old Lazarus. How's Esther, my dear? turning suddenly to his son.
Esther was the girl to whom Ezra was engaged.
Oh, she's all right, he replied. "I took her the other night to see Caprice."
Aha! cried old Lazarus, lifting up his hands. "Oh, dear, dear, what a woman. I know her, oh, I know her."
Personally? asked Keith, whereupon Mr. Lazarus suddenly became deaf.
Yes, yes, a fine woman; ruins everybody, ruins 'em body and soul, and laughs at 'em, like the fiend she is.
Ezra looked at his paternal relative in disgust, and took Keith's arm. "Come along," he said, "I've got an engagement."
Good boy, good boy, muttered his parent, nodding his head, "make money, my dear, make--" here another fit of coughing interrupted him, and Ezra hurried Keith away.
Faugh! said Ezra, lifting up his hat when they were in the street; "how I hate the miasma of that place. It's like the upas tree, and kills all who come within its circle."
Do you think your father knows Caprice? asked Keith, as they walked down Bourke Street.
Can't tell you, answered Lazarus coolly; "I shouldn't be surprised--he knows half the women in Melbourne. When a spendthrift wants money, he goes to my father; when a woman is in trouble, she goes there also; in spite of her lovers, Caprice is such an extravagant woman, that I've no doubt she's had dealings with my father. If the secret life of Lazarus the pawnbroker were only written, it would be very interesting, I assure you."
I'm glad I got the place, said Keith thoughtfully; "it isn't much, but will keep me alive till I get on my feet."
You are sure to drop into a newspaper appointment, replied Ezra, "and of course I will do my best for you."
You're very good, answered Keith gratefully; "ha, ha, what queer tricks the jade Fortune plays us. I come to Melbourne full of poetic dreams, and find my fate in a pawnbroker's office--it isn't romantic, but it's bread and butter."
You're not the first poet who has gone to the pawnbroker.
I expect I'm the first that ever went on such good terms, retorted Keith shrewdly.
According to some writer, "Human beings are moulded by circumstances," and truly Kitty Marchurst, better known as Caprice, was an excellent illustration of this remark.
The daughter of a Ballarat clergyman, she was a charming and pure-minded girl, and would doubtless have married and become a happy woman, but for the intervention of circumstances in the form of M. Gaston Vandeloup. This gentleman, an ex-convict, and a brilliant and fascinating scoundrel, ruined the simple, confiding girl, and left her to starve in the streets of Melbourne. From this terrible fate, however, she was rescued by Mrs. Villiers, who had known her as a child, and it seemed as though she would once more be happy, when circumstances again intervened, and through her connection with a poisoning case, she was again thrown on the world. Weary of existence, she was about to drown herself in the Yarra, when Vandeloup met her, and tried to push her in. With a sudden craving for life, she struggled with him, and he, being weak for want of food, fell in and was drowned, while the unhappy girl fled away, she knew not whither.
A blind instinct led her to "The Home for Fallen Women," founded by a Miss Rawlins, who had herself been an unfortunate, and here for a time the weary, broken-hearted woman found rest. A child, of which Vandeloup was the father, came to cheer her loneliness, and she called the little one Margaret, hoping it would comfort her in the future. But the seeds of evil implanted in her breast by Vandeloup began to bear fruit, and with returning health came a craving; for excitement. She grew weary of the narrow, ascetic life she was leading--for young blood bounded through her veins--and she was still beautiful and brilliant. So, much against the wishes of the matron of the institution, she left the place and returned to the stage.
The Wopples family, with whom she had previously acted, had gone to America, and she was alone in the world, without a single friend. She called herself Caprice, for her real name and history were too notorious for such a public career as she had chosen. All avoided her, and this worked her ruin. Had one door been open to her--had one kind hand been stretched forth to save her--she might have redeemed the past; but the self-righteous Pharisees of the world condemned her, and in despair she determined to defy the world by giving it back scorn for scorn.
It was a terribly hard and dreary life she led at first--no friends, very little money, and a child to support. The future looked black enough before her; but she determined to succeed, and Fortune at length favoured her.
She was playing a minor part in a Christmas burlesque, when the lady who acted the principal character suddenly fell ill, and Kitty had to take her place at a very short notice. She, however, acquitted herself so well that, with one bound, she became a popular favourite, and the star still continuing ill for the rest of the run of the piece, she was able to consolidate the favourable impression she had made. She awoke to find herself famous, and played part after part in burlesque and modern comedy, always with great success. In a word, she became the fashion, and found herself both rich and famous.
Ted Mortimer, the manager of the Bon-Bon Theatre, persuaded her to try opera-bouffe, and she made her first appearance in the Grand Duchess with complete success. She followed up her triumph by playing the title r?les in Giroflé Girofla, La Perichole, and Boccaccio, scoring brilliantly each time; and now she had created the part of Prince Carnival, which proved to be her greatest success. Night after night the Bon-Bon was crowded, and the opera had a long and successful run, while Kitty, now at the height of her fame, set herself to work to accomplish her revenge on the world.
She hated women for the way they had scorned her, and she detested men for the free and easy manner in which they approached her; so she made up her mind to ruin all she could, and succeeded admirably. One after another, not only the gilded youth of Melbourne, but staid, sober men became entangled in her meshes, and many a man lived to curse the hour he first met Kitty Marchurst.
Her house at Toorak was furnished like a palace, and her dresses, jewels, horses, and extravagances formed a fruitful topic of conversation in clubs and drawing-rooms. She flung away thousands of pounds in the most reckless manner, and as soon as she had ruined one man, took up with another, and turned her back on the poor one with a cynical sneer. Her greatest delight was to take away other women's husbands, and many happy homes had she broken up by her wiles and fascinations. Consequently, she was hated and feared by all the women in Melbourne, and was wrathfully denounced as a base adventuress, without one redeeming feature. They were wrong: she loved her child.
Kitty simply idolised Meg, and was always in terror lest she should lose her. Consequently, when she heard how Keith had rescued her child from a terrible death, her gratitude knew no bounds. She heard of the young man's ambitions from Ezra, and determined to help him as far as it lay in her power. Thus, for the first time for many years, her conduct was actuated by a kindly feeling.
The drawing-room in Kitty's house at Toorak was a large, lofty apartment, furnished in a most luxurious style. Rich carpets, low lounging chairs, innumerable rugs and heavy velvet curtains. A magnificent grand piano, great masses of tropical foliage in fantastically-coloured jars, priceless cabinets of china, and costly, well-selected pictures. One of her lovers, a rich squatter, had furnished it for her. When he had lost all his money, and found her cold and cruel, he went off to the wilds of South America to try and forget her.
There were three French windows at the end of the room, which led out on to a broad verandah, and beyond was the lawn, girdled by laurels. Kitty sat at a writing-desk reading letters, and the morning sun shining through the window made a halo round her golden head. No one who saw her beautiful, childish face, and sad blue eyes, would have dreamed how cruel and relentless a soul lay beneath that fair exterior.
At her feet sat Meg, dressed in a sage-green frock, with her auburn curls falling over her face, playing with a box of bricks, and every now and then her mother would steal an affectionate glance at her.
Curiously enough, Kitty was reading a letter from the very man who had given her the house, and who was now dying in a pauper hospital in San Francisco.
I forgive you freely, he wrote; "but, ah, Kitty, you might have feigned a love you did not feel, if only to spare me the degradation of dying a pauper, alone and without friends!"
The woman's face grew dark as she read these pitiful words, and, crushing up the letter in her hands, she threw it into the waste-paper basket with a cynical sneer.
Bah! she muttered contemptuously, "does he think to impose on me with such tricks? Feign a love! Yes, kiss and caress him to gratify his vanity. Did I not give him fair warning of the end? And now he whimpers about mercy--mercy from me to him--pshaw! let him die and go to his pauper grave, I'll not shed a tear!"
And she laughed harshly.
At this moment Meg, who had been building two edifices of bricks, began to talk to herself.
This, said Meg, putting the top brick on one building, "is the House of Good, but the other is the House of Sin. Mumsey," raising her eyes, "which house would you like to live in?"
In the House of Good, dear, said Kitty in a tremulous voice, touched by the artless question of the child. "Come to mumsey, darling, and tell her what you have been doing."
Meg, nothing loath, accepted this invitation, and, climbing up on her mother's knee, threw her arms round Kitty's neck.
I had some bread and milk, she said confidentially; "then I went and saw my Guinea pigs. Dotty--you know, mumsey, the one with the long hair--oh, he squeaked--he did squeak! I think he was hungry."
Have you been a good little girl?
Good? echoed Meg doubtfully. "Well, not very good. I was cross with Bliggings. She put soap into my eyes."
It's naughty to be cross, darling, said her mother, smoothing the child's hair. "What makes you naughty?"
Mother, said Meg, nodding her head sagely, "it's the wicked spirit."
Kitty laughed, and, kissing the child, drew her closer to her.
Mumsey!
Yes, darling?
I should like to give the man who stopped the wheels a present.
What would you like to give him, my precious?
This took some consideration, and Meg puckered up her small face into a frown.
I think, she decided at length, "the man would like a knife."
A knife cuts love, Meg.
Not if you get a penny for it, asserted Meg wisely. "Bliggings told me; let me get a knife for the man, mumsey."
Very well, dear, said Kitty smiling; "the man will then know my little daughter has a kind heart."
Meg is a very good girl, asserted that small personage gravely; and, climbing down off her mother's knee, she began to play with the bricks, while Kitty went on with her correspondence.
The next letter evidently did not give Kitty much satisfaction, judging by the frown on her face. She had written to Hiram J. Fenton asking for some money, and he had curtly refused to give her any more. She tore up the letter, threw it into the waste-paper basket, and smiled sardonically.
You won't, won't you? she muttered angrily. "Very well, my friend, there are plenty of others to give me money if you won't."
At this moment there came a ring at the door, and shortly after the servant entered with a card. Kitty took it carelessly, and then started.
Mrs. Malton, she muttered, in a puzzled tone. "Evan Malton's wife! what does she want, I wonder? I thought I was too wicked for virtue to call on me--it appears I'm not."
She glanced at the card again, then made up her mind.
Show the lady in, she said calmly; and, when the servant disappeared, she called Meg. "Mumsey's sweetheart must go away for a few minutes."
What for? asked mumsey's sweetheart, setting her small mouth.
Mumsey has to see a lady on business. Meg collected the bricks in a pinafore, and walked off to the French window, when she turned.
Meg will play outside, she said, shaking her curls, "and will come in when mumsey calls."
Scarcely had Meg vanished when the servant threw open the door and announced,--
Mrs. Malton.
A tall, slender girl entered the room quickly, and, as the door closed behind, paused a moment and looked steadily at Kitty through her thick veil.
Mrs. Malton? said Kitty interrogatively.
The visitor bowed, and, throwing back her veil, displayed a face of great beauty; but she had a restless, pitiful look in her eyes, and occasionally she moistened her dry lips with her tongue.
Will you take a seat? said the actress politely, taking in at a glance the beautiful, tired face and quiet, dark costume of her visitor.
Thank you, replied Mrs. Malton, in a low, clear voice, and sat down in the chair indicated by her hostess, nervously clasping and unclasping her hands over the ivory handle of her umbrella. She glanced at Kitty again in a shrinking kind of manner, then, with a sudden effort, burst out quickly,--
I have called--I have called to see you about my--my husband.
Kitty's lip curled, and she resumed her seat with an enigmatical smile.
Yes; what about him?
Cannot you guess? said Mrs. Malton imploringly.
Kitty shook her head in a supercilious manner.
I am at a loss to understand the reason of your visit, she said, in a cold, measured manner.
I am Evan Malton's wife, said the other rapidly. "We have only been married a year--and--and we have one child."
I presume you did not call to inform me of your domestic affairs, replied Kitty mercilessly.
He was so fond of me--we loved one another devotedly till--till--
Till he met me, I suppose, said Kitty coolly, throwing herself back with an amused laugh. "I've heard that complaint before--you wives never seem to know how to retain your husbands' affections."
Give him back to me--oh give him back to me, cried the young wife, clasping her hands. "You have many richer and better than he. I love my husband, and you have parted us--oh, do--do--give him back to me."
My dear Mrs. Malton, replied the actress coldly, "I do not encourage him, I assure you. He's a bore, and I detest bores."
But he loves you--he loves you--he worships the ground you tread on.
A waste of good material; for his devotion will never be rewarded.
Then you don't love him? said Mrs. Malton breathlessly.
Kitty rose to her feet, and laughed bitterly.
Love him--love any one, she muttered, with a choking cry. "I hate the whole lot of them. Do you think I care for their flattery, their kisses, their protestations--bah! I know the value of such things. Love--I hate the word."
Yet my husband comes here, said the other timidly.
Kitty turned on her fiercely.
Can I help that? Is it the candle's fault that the moths are attracted? I don't ask your husband to come; if he finds in me what he misses in you, it is your fault, not mine--your errand is useless, I cannot help you.
She turned to go, but the young woman sprang forward and caught her dress.
You shall not go--you shall not! she almost shrieked. "You and Fenton are dragging us both to perdition; he has ruined himself for your sake, and his friend--God help him--his friend has insulted me with words of love."
Am I the guardian of your virtue? said Kitty pitilessly.
Mrs. Malton stood wringing her hands.
Oh, God, have you no pity? I am a woman like yourself--my husband should protect me, but he leaves me for you--and, in a whisper, "you don't know all--he has given you presents, rich presents, and to do so has committed a crime."
A crime!
Hush! hush! glancing fearfully around, "not so loud--not so loud--yes, he has embezzled money, thousands of pounds, for your sake."
Kitty gave a cry, and grasped at a chair for support.
I--I--did not--not ask him for his presents.
No; but it was for your sake--your sake. You must help him.
I, laughed Kitty mockingly, "help him? Help him!--help any man! My good woman, if he went into the prisoner's dock to-morrow, I would not lift one finger to save him."
Mrs. Malton fell on her knees.
Oh, my God, don't talk like that! she cried wildly. "You will ruin him--you will ruin him."
Kitty swept round with a cold glitter, like steel, in her eyes.
Yes! it is my business to ruin men. When I was poor, and anxious to lead a good life, any outstretched hand might have saved me; but no, I was a pariah and outcast--they closed their doors against me. I asked for bread, they gave me a stone--they made of me a scourge for their own evil doing--this is the time for my revenge; fallen and degraded though I be, I can wring their hearts and ruin their homes through their nearest and dearest, and you come to ask me to relent--you, who, if you saw me to-morrow on the streets, would draw your skirts aside from the moral leper!
No, no! moaned the other, beating her breasts with her hands. "Have mercy, have mercy!"
What do you want me to do?
You know the manager of the company, Mr. Fenton; he is your lover--he can refuse you nothing. Speak to him, and see if anything can be done.
No!
For God's sake!
No!
You have a child?
What is my child to you?
Everything. You are a mother--so am I: yon love your child--I love mine; yet you would make my innocent child suffer for its father's crime. Oh, if you have any feelings of a mother, spare the father for the sake of the child.
Kitty stood irresolute, while the woman at her feet burst into wild and passionate weeping.
At this moment Meg entered the room by the window, and paused for a moment.
Mumsey, she said, "why does the lady cry?"
Kitty would have interposed, but Mrs. Malton stretched out her hands to Meg with a quiet in-drawing of her breath.
I am crying for my little girl.
Is she dead? asked Meg, coming to the kneeling woman, and touching her shoulder. "Poor lady--poor, poor lady!"
Kitty could contain herself no longer. With a sudden impulse, she bent down and raised the weeping woman.
I will do what I can, she said huskily, and sank into a chair.
Thank God! cried Mrs. Malton, advancing, but Kitty waved her off, while Meg stood looking from one to the other in amazement.
Go, go!
Mrs. Malton bent down and kissed her hand.
May God be merciful to you, as you have been to me, and, without another word, she departed.
Mumsey, said Meg, trying to take her mother's hands from her face, "were you cross to the lady?"
No, darling, no! replied Kitty, drawing Meg close to her. "Mother was kind to the lady because of her little girl."
Good mumsey, dear mumsey; Meg loves you, and she put her arms round Kitty's neck, while the poor woman leaned her aching head against the innocent breast of her child, and burst into tears.
It is a curious fact that Melbourne has, in its social and business aspects, a strong leaven of Americanism, and visitors from the great Republic find themselves quite at home in the Metropolis of the South. There are the same bold, speculative qualities, the same restless pursuit of pleasure, and the same rapidity and promptness of action which characterises the citizen of San Francisco or New York. Consequently, there are many Americans to be found in a city so congenial to their tastes, and of these Hiram J. Fenton was one.
He had come over from the States as the agent of a dry-goods firm, and, travelling all through the Australasian colonies, soon saw the enormous capabilities of wealth that lay before him. Gifted with a ready tongue and a persuasive manner, he interested several opulent Victorians in a scheme for floating a Life Insurance Company. A prospectus was drawn up, which promised incalculable wealth to those who would take shares, and, by means of Mr. Fenton's brilliant command of words, and skilful manipulation of figures, The Never-say-die Insurance Company soon became an accomplished fact. A handsome suite of offices was taken in Collins' Street, a large staff of clerks engaged, a genial medical man, whose smile itself was a recommendation, remained on the premises to examine intending policy-holders, and the emissaries of the company went to the four quarters of the globe to trumpet forth the praises of the affair, and persuade people to insure their lives. The company prospered, a handsome dividend was soon declared, and, thanks to his Yankee sharpness, Mr. Fenton now found himself occupying the enviable position of manager with a large salary.
He was a handsome man in a bold, sensual way, with a certain dash and swagger about him which impressed strangers favourably, but a physiognomist would have mistrusted his too ready tongue and the keen glance of his eye. There is no greater mistake than to suppose a villain cannot meet an honest eye, for, as a matter of fact, a successful villain having his nerves under admirable control can stare any one out of countenance, and the keen, rapid glance can take in at once the weak points of a stranger.
Mr. Fenton occupied pleasant apartments, went into society a great deal, and altogether was a very popular man. Cold, calculating, and far-seeing as he was, he had yet a weak spot in his character, and this was extreme partiality for the female sex. Any woman, provided she was pretty, could twist him round her finger; and as Kitty Marchurst now had him in her toils, she took full advantage of his infatuation. There was a certain amount of notoriety in being the lover of the now famous Caprice; but Fenton had to pay pretty dearly for his position. Kitty spent his money like water, and when he ventured to remonstrate, laughed in his face, and told him he could go if he liked, an intimation which only made him resolve to stick closer to her. Nevertheless, about this time relations were rather strained between them, and any one knowing the facts of the case would have seen that the end was not far off.
As to Evan Malton, he was Fenton's assistant manager, and was the moon to the astute American's sun. Weak, irresolute, and foolish, he was, nevertheless, by some strange contradiction, a capital business man. This arose from his long training in office work; he could do nothing by himself, but guided by Fenton, he made an admirable subordinate, and was amenable to his superior in every way. He admired Fenton greatly, copied him in his dress and mannerisms, affected a rakish demeanour towards his friend's mistress, and thoroughly neglected his poor wife, a neglect of which Fenton tried to take advantage. Had Malton known this, it would doubtless have changed his feelings towards the American, for though he thought he was justified in leading a fast life, he strongly objected to his wife showing any liking for any one but himself. Fenton, however, believing in no woman's virtue, did not despair, but protected Kitty openly, to delude Malton into a false security, and made love to Mrs. Malton sub rosa.
It was quite warm out of doors in spite of the season, and out on Kitty's lawn were a group of people laughing and talking together. Kitty, in a comfortable chair, was chatting to Keith and Ezra, who had just arrived, and there were several other ladies present, including Milly Maxwell, who was the second lady at the Bon-Bon--dark-browed, majestic, and passionate; Dora Avenant, who looked like a doll and had the brains of one; and Mrs. Wadby, who wrote scandal and dresses for The Penny Whistle under the nom de plume of "Baby."
As to the gentlemen, there were present Ted Mortimer, bland and smiling; Slingsby, the parliamentary reporter; Delp, the theatrical critic; Toltby, the low comedian at the Bon-Bon, and about half-a-dozen others, who were more or less connected with the stage and the press. The men were smoking, chatting, or drinking, according to their various tastes, whilst the ladies were sipping their afternoon tea; and, of course, the conversation was mostly about theatrical matters.
In the drawing-room, however, close to the window, sat Meg, buried in a big armchair, reading a fairy tale, and a pretty picture she made with her little loose white dress, and her glorious hair falling about her pale face.
And the beautiful Princess, read Meg in ecstasy, "fell asleep in the Magic Castle for one hundred years--oh!" breaking off suddenly, "how hungry she must have been when she woke up."
Meg shook her head over this problem and resumed the story.
And a great forest grew round the castle, which could not be got through till the handsome Prince arrived. Here the drawing-room door opened, and Meg looked up, half expecting to see the handsome prince.
It was only Fenton, however, and he disliked Meg intensely, a dislike which that young person was by no means backward in returning, so she went calmly on reading her book.
Well, where's mother? asked Fenton, in his slightly nasal voice, looking at the little figure with a frown.
Mumsey's in the garden, replied Meg with great dignity, flinging back her curls.
Just where you ought to be, said Fenton ill-naturedly, "getting fresh air."
I'm reading a fairy tale, explained Meg, closing her book; "mumsey said I could do what I liked."
Your mother don't rear you well, retorted the American, and he walked away, when a peal of laughter made him turn round.
What funny faces you make, said the child; "I feel quite laughy."
I'd like to spank you, observed Fenton, with no very amiable expression of countenance.
You're a bad man, said Meg indignantly; "I don't know a badder--not a bit like my Mr. Keith."
Oh, sneered Fenton, "and who is Mr. Keith?"
He is a very nice gentleman, replied Meg, pursing up her lips; "he stopped the wheels going over me."
I wish he hadn't, muttered Fenton vindictively. "Meg, go and tell mother I want her right away."
I sha'n't, retorted Meg obstinately; "you're a rude man."
I'll make you smart, said Fenton, catching her arm.
Oh, mumsey, cried the child, in a tone of relief, and Fenton turned just to see Kitty looking at him like an enraged tigress.
You lay a finger on my child, she said viciously, "and I'll kill you!"
The American released his hold on Meg with an awkward laugh, and took a seat.
Why don't you teach her manners, he growled.
That's my business, flashed out Kitty haughtily. "And now you are here, I wish to speak with you. Meg, my treasure, run out and say mumsey won't be long."
Mumsey's going to be cross with you now, said Meg consolingly to Fenton, and then ran out laughing, the man looking angrily after her.
Left alone, Kitty sat down near Fenton and began to talk.
I asked you for five hundred, she said coldly.
Yes--and I refused, sulkily.
So I saw by your letter. What is your reason?
That's my business.
Mine also. Why did you refuse? she reiterated.
I'm sick of your extravagance.
Caprice laughed in a sneering way that brought the blush to his cheek.
Do you think I'm dependent on you for money? she said, with scorn. "I know fifty better men than you who would give me the money if I asked them."
Then go and ask them, he returned brutally.
Kitty sprang to her feet.
Of course I will; that means your dismissal.
Fenton caught at her dress in genuine alarm.
No, no! don't go; you know I love you--
So well, she interrupted, "that you refuse me a paltry five hundred pounds."
I would give it to you, but I haven't got it.
Then get it, she said coolly.
I'm nearly ruined, he cried desperately.
Then retire, and make room for better men.
You're a devil! hissed Fenton.
No doubt. I told you what to expect when I first met you.
Do you mean to say you will throw me over because I've no money left? he said fiercely, grasping her wrist.
Like an old glove, she retorted.
I'll kill you first.
Bah! you are melodramatic.
Oh, Kitty, Kitty! with a sudden change to tenderness.
Don't call me by that name, said the woman, in a low, harsh voice. "Kitty Marchurst is dead; she died when she went on the stage, and all womanly pity died with her. You are speaking to Caprice, the most notorious woman in Melbourne."
Fenton sat sullenly silent, glancing every now and then at her beautiful, scornful face.
If you won't give me money, she said at length, mindful of her promise to Mrs. Malton, "you can do something else."
What's that? eagerly.
Mrs. Malton was here--
Mrs. Malton! he interrupted, springing to his feet. "What did she say?"
Several unpleasant things about your love for her, said Kitty coolly.
It's a lie, he began, but Kitty shrugged her shoulders.
Bah! I'm not jealous; I only care for your money, not for you. But about this visit; her husband has embezzled money in your office.
Fenton turned a little pale, and looked steadily at her.
Embezzled money, the scoundrel! he said furiously.
Yes, isn't he? said Kitty derisively. "Not a noble, upright gentleman like Hiram Fenton."
He turned from her with an oath.
I've been a good friend to him right along, he said in an angry tone. "He was fixed up for life, if he'd only behaved himself; now I'll put him in prison."
So that you can make love to his wife, retorted Kitty coolly.
I don't care two straws about his wife, replied Fenton, with a scowl. "You are the only woman I love."
Then promise me to help this unhappy man?
Certainly not; you are asking me to compound a felony.
I'm not a lawyer, she said coldly, "and don't understand legal terms. I am only asking you to save him from gaol for his wife's sake."
You don't love him? jealously.
Bah! do I love any one except myself?
And your child, with a sneer.
Let my child be. Will you help Evan Malton?
No; the law must take its course.
Then I'll help him myself.
But how?
That's my business--the money must be replaced--find out how much is missing, and let me know.
What's the good? you've not got the cash.
Do what I ask!
Very well! sulkily. "I can't pay the money myself; but I'll give him time to repay it."
You will?
Yes; and Kitty, shamefacedly, "I'll let you have that five hundred.'
Good boy, said Kitty approvingly, and laughed. She had gained both her points, so could afford to do so. At this moment Meg entered the room from the garden, followed by Keith, on seeing whom Fenton's face darkened.
Mumsey! said Meg, bounding up to Kitty, "I've given him the knife, and he says it's lovely--don't you," turning to Keith.
Words fail me to express my appreciation, said Stewart, with a smile, looking at the large--very large ivory-handled knife, "and it's got an inscription, 'From Meg,'--beautiful."
It will cut love, Mr. Stewart, said Kitty, with a laugh.
Oh, no, interposed Meg, "he's given me a lucky sixpence. He says we're engaged now, and when I grow up, mumsey, I'm going to marry him."
Is this true? asks Kitty gaily. "Are you going to rob me of my daughter? This is dreadful! What do you say, Mr. Fenton?"
Mr. Fenton smiled in a ghastly manner, then hurried away muttering under his breath.
It's bad temper, observed Stewart, looking after him.
No, my dear, said Kitty airily, "it's jealousy."
Kitty's supper parties were always delightful, though slightly godless. The guests were usually men and women of the world, connected with art, literature, and the drama, so a general tone of brilliancy permeated the atmosphere. The hostess herself was an admirable conversationalist, and what with the wine, the laughter, and the influence of the midnight hour, the excitement seemed contagious. Every one was amusing, and witty stories, caustic remarks, and sarcastic epigrams followed one after the other in reckless profusion.
Very pretty the supper-table looked, though, it must be confessed, rather disorderly. It was not a very large table, but accommodated the present company admirably, and under the soft light of the tapers, with which the room was illuminated, the silver and glass sparked brilliantly. Half-filled glasses of champagne and burgundy, crumbs on the white table-cloth, and a general array of disorderly plates, showed that supper was over. The guests had pushed away their chairs, and were smoking and chatting, while a light breeze came in through the open French window, and somewhat cooled the temperature of the room. The smoky atmosphere, the flashing of the light on the bare shoulders of the women, gay feminine, laughter, and the general air of unconventionality, fascinated Keith as he sat beside his hostess, listening to the desultory conversation, and occasionally joining in. Slingsby was speaking about a new book which had come out, and this gave rise to a brilliant rattle of pungent wit.
It's called 'Connie's Crime,' a mixture of blood and atheism.
Yes, so they say; a hash-up of the Newgate Calendar and Queen Mab, with a dash of realism to render it attractive.
Awfully bad for the public.
Bah! they read worse in papers. The Penny Whistle was bewailing the prevalence of criminal literature, yet you can't take up a night's issue without finding a divorce case or a murder--the pot calling the kettle black with a vengeance.
Don't suppose either it or shilling shockers have much to do with the morals of the public--we're all going to the deuce.
Pessimistic!
But true. It's a game of follow my leader, with Father Adam at the head.
Gad, he ought to have arrived at his destination by this time!
Oh! we'll all find that out when we get there.
But' you forget we start in this new country with all the old-world civilisation.
Yes, and all the old-world vices.
Which are a natural concomitant of aforesaid civilisation.
How abusive you all are, said Kitty, shrugging her shoulders; "people are not so bad as you make out."
No, they're worse, said Delp lightly. "Put on your diamonds and go through Victoria like that young person in Moore's song, 'Rich and rare were the gems she wore,' you won't be treated as well, I promise you."
I'm afraid I'm very careless of my diamonds, laughed Kitty; "I certainly take them home from the theatre every night, but I generally put the case safely away in the drawer of my looking-glass."
A very safe place, observed Lazarus approvingly; "for illustration see Poe's story of 'The Purloined Letter.'"
All the same, I wouldn't trust to fiction for suggestions, said Fenton gaily; "some night you'll be minus your jewels."
I'll take the risk, retorted Kitty rising. "I'm going into the drawing-room. Mr. Lazarus, you come also. I have got the score of that new opera-bouffé 'Eblis,' and I want you to try it."
Bah! a failure in town, growled Mortimer.
That doesn't necessarily mean a failure in Melbourne, replied Kitty, and with this parting shot she went away, followed by the ladies and Ezra Lazarus. Keith remained behind, and, lighting a fresh cigarette, listened to the conversation, which was now slightly horsey.
"I know what's going to win the cup. Never knew a man who didn't.""
"This is true, 'Devil-may-care.'
An outsider.
They generally win, but don't prophesy too soon.
No, or like Casandra, your prophecies won't be believed.
Who is Casandra--another dark 'un?
No--a woman.
Talking about women, I wish you'd get more chorus girls, Mortimer.
Got quite enough.
Of course--quantity, not quality.
They've been snubbing you?
Wrong again; they never snub any one who can give them diamonds.
Which you can't.
No, by Jove. I wish I had some myself--say Caprice's.
Don't grudge them to her, dear boy--the savings of years.
Every one grinned.
Meanwhile, Keith grew tired of this scintillating talk, and leaving Ezra rattling away at a gallop in the drawing-room, he arose and went out into the hall. Glancing carelessly up the stairs, he saw a little figure in white coming down.
Why, Meg, said Keith, going to the foot of the stairs to receive her, "what are you doing at this hour of the night?"
Meg wants mumsey, said the child, putting her arms round his neck.
Mumsey's busy, replied Keith, lifting her up. "I'll take you back to bed, dear."
Don't want to go to bed, said the child, though she could hardly keep her eyes open.
Keith laughed, and rocked her slowly to and fro in his arms for a few minutes, humming softly till Meg grew tired.
Will Meg go to bed now? he whispered, seeing she had closed her eyes.
Yes! Meg's sleepy.
Keith went upstairs with the quiet little figure in his arms, and seeing an open door leading to a room in which there was a subdued light, caused by the lowering of the gas, he went in, and finding Meg's cot, placed her in it, and tucked her carefully in.
Good-night, dear, he whispered, kissing her.
Good-night, mumsey; good-night, God, murmured Meg, thinking she was saying her prayers, and fell fast asleep.
Keith went downstairs again, and met Fenton in the hall.
Say! exclaimed that gentleman, "where have you been?"
Putting Meg to bed, replied Stewart, laughing. "I found her wandering about like an unquiet spirit," and having no desire for a conversation with Fenton, he strolled off to the drawing-room leaving the American looking after him with an angry frown.
No one was in the drawing-room but Ezra and the ladies--the former being seated at the piano playing over the music of "Eblis," while Kitty Marchurst stood beside him, looking over his shoulder. Lazarus had just finished a valse, which was not by any means original, being made out of reminiscences of other music.
There's only one decent thing in the whole opera, said Kitty impatiently--"this," and she hummed a few bars; "it's called, 'Woman's Deceit.'"
Disagreeable title, said Keith idly.
But a capital song, retorted Kitty "Eblis sings it--that's the principal character."
You seem anxious to play the devil, said Stewart, with a smile.
What do you mean?
Keith shrugged his shoulders.
Eblis is the Oriental name for the Devil.
Oh, I understand. Kitty's quick perception seized the idea at once. "Yes, there would be some fun in playing such a character."
Then give myself and Lazarus a commission to write you a part. I am anxious to make a start, and I think Lazarus would write charming music. I'll be librettist, and, of course, can write the character to suit you.
Kitty glanced critically at him.
Can you compose music, she asked Lazarus.
In answer, he played a charming gavotte, bright and crisp, with a quaint rhythm.
Very pretty, said Kitty critically, "but not my style. Play something with a little more 'go' in it."
Like this? He brought his hands down on the ivory keys with a tremendous crash, and plunged into a wild fantastic galop that made everybody long to dance. Kitty clapped her hands, and her whole face lighted up with enthusiasm as the brilliancy and dash of the melody carried her away.
Bravo! she cried, when he finished. "That's what I want; write me music like that, and I'll engage to have it produced. You'll do. Now, sir," turning to Keith, "what's your idea?"
Rather a burlesque than opera-bouffe, he answered; "what would you say to 'Faust Upset?'"
Ah, bah! we've had so many burlesques on Faust.
Not such a one as I propose to write. I intend to twist the whole legend round; make Miss Faust a Girton girl who has grown old, and longs for love, invokes the Power of Evil, enter Caprice as Miss Mephistopheles, a female demon, rejuvenates Miss Faust by paint and powder, takes her to see Mr. Marguerite, who is a young athlete, and so throughout the whole legend; to conclude with Miss Mephistopheles falling in love with Mr. Marguerite, and disputing possession with Miss Faust.
Ha! ha! laughed Kitty, "what a capital idea. It will be new, at all events; but I won't decide till I see the first act complete; if it's as good as it promises, I'll get Mortimer to stage it after 'Prince Carnival.'"
Keith was delighted, as now he seemed to have obtained a chance of seeing what he could do. Ezra smiled, and nodded to Stewart.
I told you she'd be a good friend, he said.
The gentlemen all came into the room, and in a short time there was a perfect babel of voices talking about everything and everyone. Suddenly Fenton, with a half-smoked cigar in his hand, entered the room and crossed over to Kitty.
There's a rough-looking man outside who wants to see you, he said quietly.
What's his name?
Villiers.
Kitty turned a little pale.
The husband of Madame Midas, she said, in an annoyed tone. "Where is he?"
Walking up and down in front of the dining-room.
Remain here; I'll see him, she said, in a decided tone, and, without being noticed, left the room.
On entering the dining-room, she found Mr. Villiers seated at the supper-table drinking champagne from a half-empty bottle, having entered through the window.
What do you want? she asked, coming down to him.
Mr. Villiers was in his usual condition of intoxication, and began to weep.
It's Kitty, dear little Kitty, he said, in a maudlin tone, "the friend of my dear wife."
Your dear wife, said Kitty scornfully; "the woman you deceived so shamefully; she was well quit of you when she went to live in England."
She left me to die alone, wept Villiers, filling his glass again, "and only lets me have a hundred pounds a year, and she's rolling in money."
Quite enough for you to get drunk on, retorted Kitty. "What do you want?"
Money.
You sha'n't get a penny.
Yes I shall. You talk about me treating my wife badly; what about you--eh?
Kitty clenched her hands.
I did treat her badly, she said, with a cry. "God help me, I've repented it often enough since!"
You were a nice girl till you met Vandeloup, said Villiers. "Ah, that confounded Frenchman, how he made me suffer!"
Leave Vandeloup alone; he's dead, and it will do no good you reviling him now. At all events, he was a man, not a drunkard.
She loves him still, blow me! hiccupped Mr. Villiers rising--"loves him still."
Here's a sovereign, said Kitty, thrusting some money into his hand. "Now, go away at once."
I want more.
You won't get more. Get away, or I'll order my servants to turn you out.
Villiers staggered up to her.
Will you, indeed? Who are you to talk to me like this? I'll go now, but I'll come back, my beauty! Don't try your fine airs on me. I'll get money from you when I want it; if I don't, I'll make you repent it.
Kitty stood looking at him like a statue of marble, and pointed to the open window.
I spare you for your wife's sake, she said coldly. "Go!"
Villiers lurched towards the window, then, turning round, shook his fist at her.
I've not done with you yet, my fine madam, he said thickly. "You'll be sorry for these fine airs, you----"
He staggered out without saying the vile word, and disappeared in the darkness.
A vile word, and yet what was that Mrs. Malton said about her child blushing for her father? God help her, would Meg live to blush for her mother? Kitty put out her hands with a sob, when a burst of laughter from the next room sounded in her ears. The momentary fit of tenderness was over, and, with a harsh laugh, she poured out a glass of champagne and drank it off.
My world is there, she muttered. "I must part with the child for her own good, and she will lead that virtuous, happy life which a miserable wretch like myself can never hope to reach."
The Penny Whistle was a purely sensational newspaper, and all those who liked spicy articles and exaggerated details purchased it, in order to gratify their tastes. Its circulation was enormous, and its sale increased still more when the following article appeared in its columns on the Tuesday after Kitty's supper party:--
"Burglary at the House of a well-known Actress. We often hear accounts of great jewel robberies having taken place in London, but nothing of the kind, at least in any noticeable degree, has been perpetrated in the colonies until last Sunday night, or, to speak more exactly, Monday morning, when the house of Caprice, the well-known actress, was entered, and jewels to the amount of ￡5000 were stolen. The house in question is situated in Toorak, almost immediately on the banks of the Yarra-Yarra, and, as far as we can learn, the following are the circumstances connected with the affair:--
"On Sunday night Caprice entertained a number of friends at a supper party, and the servants all being downstairs attending to the guests, the upper part of the house was left entirely uninhabited. It is at this time, probably between twelve and one o'clock, that the burglary is supposed to have been perpetrated. The company departed about three o'clock, and on going up to her room, Caprice found the window wide open. Knowing that it had been closed, she suspected something was wrong, and went to the place where she kept her diamonds, only to find them gone. She sent at once for her servants, and an examination was made. It was found that the house had evidently been entered from the outside, as the window was not very far from the ground, and some ivy growing on the wall made a kind of natural ladder, which any man of ordinary agility could scale. Curiously enough Caprice's child, aged seven, was asleep in the room, but appears to have heard nothing. Next morning another examination was made, and it was found that the ivy was broken in several places, showing clearly the mode of entrance. The window had not been latched, as no chance of a burglary was apprehended, the house always having been looked upon as a remarkably safe one. The diamonds were usually kept in a small safe, but on returning from the theatre on Saturday night they had been placed in the drawer of the looking-glass, where they were judged to be safe, as it was not thought likely any thief would look in so unlikely a place for valuable jewellery. Below will be found a plan of the house and grounds as furnished by our special reporter, and the probable track of the burglars indicated.
House Floor Plan
Floor Plan of First and Ground Floor.
"It will be seen from this plan that the drawing-room and dining-room, in both of which the guests were assembled, are in the front of the house, so that the most likely thing is that the burglar or burglars entered the grounds by the gate, or along the banks of the river, and climbed up into the house by the window C shown on the plan. After securing the plunder, two modes of exit were available, either as indicated by the dotted line which would take the thief out of the gate into the road, from whence it would be easy to escape, or along the banks of the river, as shown by the other lines. In either case escape was perfectly easy. Of course the danger lay in detection while in the house, but this was considerably guarded against by the fact that the noise and laughter going on below effectually drowned all sounds of any one entering the house.
"The thief must have known that the diamonds were in the bedroom, and that a number of people would be present on Sunday night, therefore he chose a time when he would be most likely to escape detection. We believe that a detective has gone down to Toorak to make inquiries, and we have no doubt that the thief will soon be secured, as it would be impossible for such valuable jewels to be disposed of in Melbourne or other colonial cities without arousing suspicion.
It was Fenton who insisted upon a detective being employed to investigate the robbery, as, for some extraordinary reason, Kitty seemed unwilling to allow the matter to be inquired into.
The detective who accompanied Fenton to Kitty's house was known by the name of Naball, and on the retirement of Kilsip had taken his place. He was only of the age of thirty, but remarkably clever, and had already distinguished himself in several difficult cases. Detective work was a positive mania with him, and he was never so happy as when engaged on a difficult case--it had for him the same fascination as an abstruse mathematical problem would have for an enthusiastic student. To Kilsip belonged the proud honour of having discovered this genius, and it seemed as though the pupil would soon surpass the master in his wonderful instinct for unravelling criminal puzzles. Mr. Naball was an ordinary-looking young man, who always dressed fashionably, and had very little to say for himself, so that few guessed the keen astute brain that was hidden under this somewhat foppish exterior. He listened to everything said to him, and rarely ventured an opinion, but the thieves of Melbourne well knew that when "The Toff," as they called Naball, was on their track, there was very little chance of escape from punishment.
On this day when they were on their way to Toorak, Fenton was excited over the matter, and ventured all kinds of theories on the subject, while Mr. Naball smoked a cigarette, and admired the fit of his gloves.
Do you think the thief will try and dispose of them in Melbourne? he asked.
Possibly, returned Naball, "if he's a born fool."
I'm certain I know the thief, said Fenton quietly. "I told you that the man Villiers was seen about the place on the night of the robbery."
By whom?
Myself and Caprice.
Who saw him last?
Caprice.
Oh, said Naball imperturbably, "then she's the best person to see on the subject."
He's a bad lot, said Fenton; "he was mixed up in that poisoning case eight years ago."
The Midas case?
Yes. Caprice, or rather Kitty Marchurst, was concerned in it also.
So I believe, replied Naball; "every one was innocent except Jarper and Vandeloup--one was hanged, the other committed suicide. I don't see what it has to do with the present case."
Simply this, said Fenton sharply, annoyed at the other's tone, "Villiers is a scoundrel, and wouldn't stop at robbery if he could make some money over it."
He knew Caprice had diamonds worth five thousand?
Of course; every one in Melbourne knows that.
Did he know where they were kept?
There's a safe in the room, and a thief, of course--
Would go there first--precisely--but you forget the diamonds were taken out of the drawer of her looking-glass--a most unlikely place for a thief to examine. The man who stole the jewels must have known where they were kept.
Oh, said Fenton, and looked astonished, as he was quite unable to explain this. He was about to reply, when the train having arrived at its destination, they got out, and walked to Kitty's house.
She was in the drawing-room writing letters and looked pale and haggard, her eyes having dark circles beneath them, which told of a sleepless night. When the two men entered the room she welcomed them gracefully, and then resumed her seat as they began to talk.
I have brought you Mr. Naball to look after this affair, said Fenton, looking at her.
You are very kind, she replied coldly; "but, the fact is, I have not yet decided about placing it in the hands of the police."
But the diamonds?--began Fenton in amazement.
Were mine, finished Kitty coolly; "and as the loss is mine, not yours, I will act as I think fit in the matter."
Then, turning her back on the discomfited Fenton, she addressed herself to the detective.
I should like your opinion on the subject, she said graciously, "and then I will see if the case can be gone on with."
Naball, who had been keeping his keen eyes on her face the whole time, bowed.
Tell me all the details of the robbery, he observed cautiously.
They are simple enough, replied Kitty, folding her hands. "I bring them home from the theatre every night, and usually put them in the safe, which is in my room. On Saturday night, however, I was tired, and, I must confess, rather careless, and as the case was on my dressing-table, I placed it in the drawer of my looking-glass, to save me the trouble of going to the safe. I gave a supper party on Sunday night, and when every one had gone away, I went upstairs to bed, and found the window open; recollecting where I had put the diamonds, I opened the drawer and found them gone. My servants examined the ground beneath the window, and found footmarks on the mould of the flower-bed, so I suppose the thief must have entered by the window, stolen the jewels, and made off with them."
When she had finished, Naball remained silent for a minute, but just as Fenton was about to speak, he interposed.
I will ask you a few questions, madame, he said thoughtfully. "When did you see the diamonds last?"
About six o'clock on Sunday night. I opened the drawer to get something, and saw the case.
Not the diamonds?
They were in the case.
Are you sure?
Where else would they be?
Some one might have stolen them previously, and left the case there to avert suspicion.
Kitty shook her head.
Impossible. The case is also gone besides, I locked the case on Saturday night, and had the key with me. No other key could have opened it, and had the case been forced, I would have seen it at once. See, lifting up her arm, "I always wear this bracelet, and the key is attached to it by a chain."
Naball glanced carelessly at it, and went on with his questions.
You generally kept the diamonds in the safe?
Yes.
And it was quite an oversight not placing them in there on Saturday?
Quite.
No one knew they were in the drawer of your looking-glass on that particular night?
No one.
Here Fenton interposed.
You get along too fast, he said quickly. "Everyone at the supper-table knew you kept them there; you said it to them yourself."
Naball glanced sharply at Kitty.
I know I did, she replied quietly; "but I spoke as if the diamonds were always kept there, which they were not. I did not say they were in the drawer on that particular night."
You mentioned it generally? said Naball tranquilly.
Yes. All the people present were my guests, and I hardly think any of them would rob me of my diamonds.
Were any of the servants in the room when you made the remark? said the detective slowly.
No, none; and the door was closed.
Naball paused a moment.
I tell you what, he said slowly, "the diamonds were stolen between six o'clock and the time you went to bed."
About three o'clock, said Kitty.
Precisely. You saw the diamonds last at six; they were gone by three; you mentioned where you kept them at the supper-table; now, the thief must have overheard you.
You--you suspect my guests, sir, cried Kitty angrily.
Certainly not, said the detective quietly; "but I suspect Villiers."
Villiers!
Yes. Mr. Fenton tells me you saw him on that night.
Kitty flashed a look of anger on the American, who bore it unmoved.
Yes, he was outside, and wanted to see me. I saw him, gave him some money, and he left.
Then I tell you he overheard you say where you kept the diamonds, because he was hiding outside the window; so, after seeing you, he committed the robbery.
That's what I think, said Fenton.
You! cried Kitty. "What have you got to do with it? I don't believe he stole them, and, whether he did or not, I'm not going to continue this case."
You'll lose your diamonds, cried Fenton.
That's my business, she returned, rising haughtily; "at all events, I have decided to let the matter rest, so Mr. Naball will have all his trouble for nothing. Should I desire to reopen the affair, I will let you both know. At present, good morning," and, with a sweeping bow, she turned and left the room.
Fenton stared after her in blank amazement.
Good God! what a fool! he cried, rising. "What's to be done now?"
Naball shrugged his shoulders.
Nothing, he replied, "since she declines to give me power to investigate. I must throw the affair up. But," also rising, and putting on his hat, "I'd like to have a look at the ground beneath the window."
They both went out, Naball silent, and Fenton in great wrath, talking of Kitty's conduct.
What an idiot she is! he cried. "What is she going on in this way for?"
I don't know.
She must have some motive.
Women don't require a motive for anything, said Naball, imperturbably proceeding to examine the ground under the window, through which the thief had made his exit. The flower-bed was filled with tall hollyhocks, and some of these were broken as if some heavy body had fallen from above.
He clambered down by the ivy, murmured Naball to himself, as he bent down. "The ivy is broken here and there; the flowers are also broken, so he fell on them in a heap--probably having missed his footing. Humph! Clever man, as he did not step again on the flower-bed, but jumped from where he fell on to the grass. Humph! grass hard and rather dry; no chance of footmarks. Question is, which way did he go?"
By the gate, of course, said Fenton impatiently.
The detective walked across the lawn to the gate, but could find no trace of footmarks, as the lawn was dry, and the footpath, leading out into the pavement of the street was asphalted.
No; he did not go by the gate, as a man in such rags as Villiers would have been sure to be seen coming out of a private house. That would be suspicious; besides, he would have been afraid.
Of the police?
Exactly; he's been in prison two or three times since his connection with the Midas case, and has got a wholesome dread of the law. No; he did not go by the gate, but by the river.
The river! repeated Fenton, in amazement.
Naball did not answer, but walked back to the window, then along the side of the house, turned the corner, and went down the sloping green bank which led to the river. Still he could see no footmarks. The grass ended at an iron fence, and beyond was the uncultivated vegetation, rank and unwholesome, that clothed the banks of the river. Between this and the grass, however, there was a strip of black earth, and this Naball examined carefully, but could find nothing. If Villiers had come this way, he could only have climbed the fence by first standing on this earth in order to get near enough, but apparently he had not done so.
He did not come this way, he said, as they walked back.
But how could he have left the place? asked Fenton.
By the gate.
The gate? You said he would be afraid of the police.
So he would, had he been doing anything wrong. Had he stolen the diamonds, he would have gone down by the bank of the river rather than chance meeting a policeman on the street.
But what does this prove?
That, had he met a policeman, he could have explained everything, and referred him to Caprice as to his interview, and right to come out of the house. In a word, it proves he did not steal the diamonds.
Then who, in Heaven's name, did?
I don't give an opinion unless I'm certain, said Naball deliberately; "but I'll tell you what I think. You heard Caprice say she won't go on with the case?
Yes; I can't understand her reason.
I can; she stole the diamonds herself.
Everyone was greatly excited over the great jewel robbery, especially as it had taken place at the house of so celebrated a person as Caprice, and numerous were the conjectures as to the discovery of the thieves. When, however, it became known that the lady in question declined to allow an investigation to be made, and was apparently contented to lose five thousand pounds' worth of diamonds, the excitement grew intense. What was her motive for acting in such a strange way? All Melbourne asked itself this question, but without obtaining a satisfactory answer. Reference was made to Kitty's antecedents in connection with the Midas poisoning case, and the public were quite prepared to hear any evil of her, particularly as her career since then had been anything but pure.
The name of Villiers was mentioned, and then it transpired that Villiers had been seen outside her house on the night of the robbery It was curious that another crime should have happened where these two, formerly implicated in a murder case, should have come together, and disagreeable rumours began to circulate. Then, by some unexplained means, the opinion of Naball became known regarding his assertion that Caprice had stolen the diamonds herself. Here was another mystery. Why on earth should she steal her own jewels? One theory was that she required money, and had sold them for this purpose, pretending that they were stolen, in order to satisfy the lovers who gave them to her. This was clearly absurd, as Caprice cared nothing for the opinion of her lovers, and, moreover, the donors of the diamonds were long since dead or ruined, so the idea of the detective was unanimously laughed at. But then the fact remained, she would not allow an investigation to be made; and how was this to be accounted for? One idea was mooted, that Villiers had stolen the diamonds, and she would not prosecute him because he was the husband of the woman who had been kind to her. In this case, however, she would have easily got back her jewels by a threat of prosecution, whereas they were still missing. Other solutions of the problem were offered, but they were unsatisfactory, and Melbourne settled itself down to the opinion that the whole affair was a mystery which would never be solved.
Keith and Ezra had both been puzzled over the affair, and offered Kitty their services to unravel the mystery, but she curtly dismissed them with the remark that she wished the affair left alone, so they had to obey her, and remain in ignorance like the rest of the public. Affairs thus went on as usual, and the weeks slipped by with no further information being forthcoming.
Meanwhile, "Prince Carnival" was still running to crowded houses, and Kitty appeared nightly, being now a still greater attraction on account of the robbery of which she was the heroine. She had fulfilled her promise to Keith, in seeing Mortimer about the chances of production for "Faust Upset." The manager was doubtful about the success of the experiment of trying Colonial work, and told Kitty plainly he could not afford to lose money on such a speculation.
It's all stuff, he said to her when she urged him to give the young men a chance; "I can get operas from London whose success is already assured, and I don't see why I should waste money on the crude production of two unknown Colonials."
That's all very true, retorted Caprice, "and, from a business point of view, correct; but considering you make your money out of Colonial audiences, I don't see why you shouldn't give at least one chance to see what Colonial brains can do. As to crudity, wait and see. I don't want you to take the opera if it is bad, but if you approve of it, give it a chance."
In the end Mortimer promised, that if he approved of the libretto and music, he would try the piece at the end of the run of "Prince Carnival," but put "Eblis" in rehearsal, in case his forebodings of failure should be justified. When, however, the first act was finished and shown to him, he was graciously pleased to say there was good stuff in it, and began to be a little more hopeful as to its success. So Keith worked hard all day at his employment, and at night on his libretto, to which Ezra put bright, tuneful music. With the usual sanguine expectations of youth, they never dreamt of failure, and Keith wrote the most enthusiastic letters to his betrothed, announcing the gratifying fact that he had got his foot on the lowest rung of the ladder of fame.
As to his uncongenial employment at the pawnshop, he strove to conquer his repugnance to it, and succeeded in winning the approval of old Lazarus by his assiduous attention to business. He attended to the books, and, as time went on, the pawnbroker actually let him pay money into the bank, so great had his confidence in the young man become. He increased Keith's salary, and even then chuckled to himself over his cleverness in retaining such a clever servant at so low a price.
Though his business was ostensibly that of a pawnbroker, he was in the habit of conducting very much more delicate transactions. In his dingy little den at the back of the shop he sat like a great spider waiting for flies, and the flies generally came in at a little door which led from the room into a dirty yard, and there was a kind of narrow right-of-way which gave admittance to this yard from the street. By this humble way many well-known people came, particularly at night--the fast young man who had backed the wrong horse, the speculative sharebroker, and the spendthrift society lady, all came here in quest of money, which they always got, provided their security was good, and, of course, they paid an exorbitant percentage. Lazarus had dealings with all sorts and conditions of men and women, but he was as silent as the grave over their affairs, and no one knew what secrets that dirty old Hebrew carried in his breast. Of these nocturnal visitors Keith saw nothing, as he left at six o'clock, after which Isaiah shut up the shop, and the front of the house was left in profound darkness, while business went on in the little back room.
It was now a fortnight since the robbery, and the nine days' wonder having ceased to amuse, people were beginning to forget all about it. Keith still lived in East Melbourne with Ezra, and on going home one night was surprised to find a letter from the manager of the Hibernian Bank, which informed him that the sum of five hundred pounds had been placed to his credit. Stewart went next day to find out the name of his unknown benefactor, but the manager refused to tell him, as he had been pledged to secrecy So Keith returned to Ezra in a state of great perplexity to talk over the affair. They sat in Ezra's sitting-room, and discussed the matter late at night with great assiduity, but were unable to come to any conclusion.
You don't know any one who would do you a good turn? asked Lazarus, when he heard this news.
No--no one, replied Keith. "I haven't a single relative in the Colonies, and no friend rich enough to give me so much money--unless it were your father," with a sudden inspiration.
He! laughed Ezra scornfully; "he'd as soon part with his blood. Why, I asked him to give me some money so that I could marry, and he refused. What he wouldn't do for his son he certainly would not do for a stranger."
It's very queer, observed Keith meditatively. "It can't be Caprice?"
Not likely; she needs all her money herself, said Ezra. "Besides, I hear she's been rather hard up of late. I suppose Fenton will soon go broke, and then, Le roi est mort, vive le roi."
What a pity she goes on like that, said Keith, regretfully. "I like her so much."
Yes, and she likes you, retorted Ezra pointedly. "Don't you get entangled in the nets, or you'll forget all about the girl at Sandhurst. Does she know you're engaged?"
No.
I wouldn't tell her if I were you, said the Jew significantly, "or she'll withdraw the light of her countenance, and then it will be all up with our burlesque."
Pooh, nonsense, replied Stewart, with an uneasy laugh. "I wonder who'll be Fenton's successor?"
Yourself.
Not I. I'm not far enough gone for that. Besides, I've no money.
True, except your anonymous five hundred, which would be nothing to Caprice. So, as she wants money, I expect it will be old Meddlechip.
But he's married.
True, O Sir Galahad, retorted Ezra sarcastically; "but he's an unholy old man for all that--she'll ensnare him, and we'll see how long it will take her to break the richest man in the Colonies."
Oh, the deuce take Kitty Marchurst and her affairs, said Keith impatiently. "I want to know who sent me this money?"
Better not ask, murmured Ezra. "Curiosity is a vice. Remember Adam and Eve, Bluebeard's wife, etcetera. Take the goods the gods bestow, and don't try to find out where they come from; but now you are rich, you'll be giving up the shop."
No, I'll stay on for a time till I find that the five hundred is really and truly mine. Who knows, some day it may take to itself wings and fly.
It certainly would with some young men, said Ezra; "but I don't think you are that sort."
You are right. I want to save up all my money for Eugénie.
Ah! you are going to marry her?
When I get rich. Yes.
You won't marry her if Caprice can help it.
Why? disbelievingly.
"Because she's fallen in love with you, and her love, like the gifts of the Danaes, is fatal. Rubbish. I'm not a child. Caprice will never take my heart from Eugénie.""
"Hercules, remarked Ezra musingly, "was a strong man; yet he became the slave of a woman. Solomon was a wise man--same result. My friend, you are neither Hercules nor Solomon, therefore--"
Keith departed hurriedly.
When Kilsip undertook to educate Naball in the business of a detective, he gave him an epigrammatical piece of advice: "Cultivate curiosity." This golden rule Naball constantly followed, and found it of infinite service to him in his difficult profession. He was always on the lookout for queer cases, and when he discovered one that piqued his curiosity, he never rested until he found out all about it. The Red Indian follows the trail of his enemy by noting the most trivial signs, which to others with a less highly cultivated instinct would appear worthless. And Naball was a social Red Indian, following up the trail of a mystery by a constant attention to surrounding events. A casual observation, a fleeting expression, a scrap of paper--these were the sign-posts which led him to a satisfactory conclusion, and he never neglected any opportunity of exercising his faculties. By this constant practice he sharpened his senses in a wonderful degree, and cultivated to the highest extent the unerring instinct which he possessed in discovering crimes.
Consequently, when he found there was no legal authority to be given him in unravelling the mystery of the diamond robbery, he determined to investigate it on his own account, in order to satisfy his curiosity. To a casual spectator, it appeared to be a mere vulgar burglary, in which the thieves had got off with their plunder, and until his interview with Caprice the detective had supposed it to be so. But when he went over in his own mind the peculiar circumstances of that interview, he saw there was a complicated criminal case to be investigated, so he set himself to work to unravel the mystery, and gratify his inquiring mind.
In the first place, he drew up a statement of the case pure and simple, and then, deducing different theories from the circumstances, he tried to get a point from whence to start. He placed his ideas in the form of questions and answers, as follows:--
Q. Was Villiers outside on the verandah when Caprice mentioned where her diamonds were kept?
A. To all appearances he was.
Q. Had he any inducement to steal the diamonds?
A. Undoubtedly. He was poor, and wanted money, proved by his calling on Caprice and asking for some. He said he would be revenged because she did not give him more than a sovereign, and there would be no sweeter revenge than to steal her diamonds, as it would punish her, and benefit himself.
Q. Did he know the room where the diamonds were kept?
A. Yes. Caprice said her bedroom, and as Villiers had been several times to the house before, he knew where it was.
Q. Did Caprice know Villiers had stolen her jewels?
A. Extremely probably, hence her refusal to prosecute, as he was the husband of Madame Midas, whom she had treated so basely. The refusal to prosecute Villiers might be, in Caprice's opinion, an act of expiation.
When he had got thus far, Naball paused. After all, this was pure theory. He had not a single well authenticated fact to go on, but all the circumstances of the case seemed to point to Villiers, so he determined to go on the trail of Villiers, and find out what he was doing.
Mr. Villiers had of late been under the espionage of the police, owing to some shady transactions with which he was connected, so Naball knew exactly where to find him, and, putting on an overcoat, he sallied forth in the direction of the slums in Little Bourke Street, with the intention of calling on a Chinaman named Ah Goon, who kept an opium den in that unsavoury locality.
To his drinking habits Villiers now added that of being a confirmed opium smoker, and was on terms of intimacy with Ah Goon, in whose den he was accustomed to pass his evenings. Naball therefore intended to watch for Villiers, and find out, if possible, when, owing to drink and opium combined, he was not master of himself, what he had done on the night of the robbery after leaving Caprice.
He soon entered Little Bourke Street, and plunged into the labyrinth of slums, which he knew thoroughly. It was a clear, starry night, but the cool, fresh air was tainted in this locality by the foul miasma which pervaded the neighbourhood, and even the detective, accustomed as he was to the place, felt disgusted with the sickly odours that permeated the atmosphere.
Ah Goon's house was in a narrow right-of-way off one of the larger alleys, and there was a faint candle burning in the window to attract customers. Pausing at the door a moment, Naball listened to hear if there was any European within. The monotonous chant of a Chinese beggar could be heard coming down the alley, and every now and then the screams of two women fighting, while occasionally a number of noisy larrikins would come tramping heavily along, forming a strong contrast to the silent, soft-footed Orientals.
Pushing open the door, Naball entered the den, a small, low-ceilinged room, which was filled with a dull, smoky atmosphere. At the end was a gaudy-looking shrine, all yellow, red, and green, with tinsel flowers, and long red bills with fantastic Chinese letters on them in long rows. Candles were burning in front of this, and cast a feeble light around--on a pile of bamboo canes and baskets heaped up against the wall; on strange-looking Chinese stools of cane-work; on bizarre ivory carvings set on shelves; and on a low raised platform at the end of the room, whereon the opium-smokers reclined. Above this ground-floor were two or three other broad, shallow shelves, in each of which a Chinaman was lying, sunk deep in an opium slumber; there was also a kerosene lamp on the lower floor, beside which Ah Goon was reclining, and deftly preparing a pipe of opium for a fat, stolid-looking Chinaman, who watched the process with silent apathy.
Ah Goon looked up as the detective entered, and a bland smile spread over his face as he nodded to him, and went on preparing his pipe, while Naball stood watching the queer operation. There was an oil lamp with a clear flame in front of Ah Goon, who was holding a kind of darning-needle. Dipping this into a thick, brown, sticky-looking substance, contained in a small pot, he twirled the needle rapidly, spinning round the glutinous mass like treacle. Then he placed it in the flame of the lamp, and turned it slowly round and round for a short time until it was ready; then, having placed it in the small hole of the opium pipe, which he held ready in his other hand, he gave it to his countryman, who received it with a grunt of satisfaction, and, lying back, took the long stem between his lips and inhaled the smoke with long, steady breaths. When his pipe was done, which was accomplished in three or four whiffs, he devoted himself to preparing another, while Ah Goon arose to his feet to speak to Naball.
He was a tall man, with a thin, yellow-skinned, emaciated face, cunning, oblong eyes, and flattish nose. His pigtail, of course--black hair craftily lengthened by thick twisted silk--was coiled on top of his head; and his dress, consisting of a dull blue blouse, wide trousers of the same colour, and thick, white-soled Chinese slippers, by no means added to his personal beauty. Standing before Naball, with an unctuous smile on his face, and his long, slender hands clasped in front of him, Ah Goon waited for the detective to speak.
Naball glanced rapidly round the apartment, and not seeing Villiers, addressed himself to the stolid Celestial, who was looking slyly at him.
Ah Goon, where is the white man who comes here every night?
Plenty he come allee muchee night--me no have seen, replied Ah Goon, blinking his black eyes.
Yes, I know that, retorted Naball quickly; "but this one is short--black hair and whiskers--smokes opium--drinks a lot--is called Villiers."
Whether Ah Goon recognised the gentleman thus elegantly described was doubtful; at all events, he put on a stolid air.
Me no sabee, he answered.
Naball held out a half-a crown, upon which Ah Goon fixed his eyes lovingly.
Where is he?
The money was too much for Ah Goon's cupidity, so he gave in.
Him playee fan-tan-ayah! he answered, in a sing-song voice, "allee same."
Oh!
Mr. Naball did not waste any words, but threw the half-crown to the expectant Ah Goon, and turned towards the door. Just as he reached it there was a noise of hurried footsteps outside, and Villiers' voice, husky and savage, was heard,--
Ah Goon, you yellow devil, where are you? and there came a heavy kick at the door.
In a moment Naball drew back into a shadowy corner, and placed his finger on his lips to ensure silence, a pantomime which the intelligent Ah Goon understood at once.
Villiers opened the door and lurched noisily into the room, stopping for a minute on the threshold, dazed by the yellow, smoky glare.
Here, you, Ah Goon, he cried, catching sight of the Chinaman, "I want some money--more money."
Ah Goon no have, murmured that individual, clutching his half-crown.
I've lost all I had on that infernal fan-tan of yours, shrieked Villiers, not heeding him; "but my luck must change--give me another fiver."
Ah Goon no have, reiterated the Chinaman, edging away from the excited Villiers.
Curse your no have, he said fiercely; "why, I've only had twenty pounds from you, and those diamonds were worth fifty."
Diamonds! Naball pricked up his ears at this. He was winning after all. Kitty did not steal her jewels, but this was the thief, or perhaps an accomplice.
Give me more money, cried Villiers, lurching forward, and would have laid his hand on the shoulder of the shrinking Chinaman, when Naball stepped out of his corner.
What's the matter? he asked, in his silky voice.
Villiers turned on the new-comer with a sudden start, and stared suspiciously at him; but the detective being muffled up in a heavy ulster, with his hat pulled over his eyes, he did not recognise him.
What do you want? he said ungraciously.
Nothing, replied Naball quickly. "I'm only strolling round the Chinese quarter out of curiosity, and heard you rowing this poor devil."
Poor devil! sneered Villiers, with a glance of fury at Ah Goon, who had complacently resumed his occupation of preparing an opium pipe; "he's rich enough."
Indeed, said the detective, carelessly--"to lend money?"
What's that to you? growled Villiers, with a snarl. "I s'pose I can borrow money if I like."
Certainly, if you've got good security to give.
Villiers glared angrily at the young man.
Don't know what you're talking about, he said sulkily.
Security, explained Naball smoothly; means "borrowing money on land, clothes, or--or diamonds."
Villiers gave a sudden start, and was about to reply, when the door opened violently, and a bold, handsome woman, dressed in a bright green silk, dashed into the room and swooped down on Ah Goon.
Well, my dear, she said effusively, "'ere I am; bin to the theatre, and 'ere you are preparing that pisin of yours. Oh, I must 'ave one pipe to-night, just one, and--Who the blazes are you?" catching sight of the two strangers.
Shut up, said Villiers, and made a step towards her, for just on the bosom of her dress sparkled a small crescent of diamonds set in silver. The woman's eyes caught his covetous glance, and she put her hand over the ornament.
No, you don't, she said scowling. "Lay a finger on me and I'll--ah!"
She ended with a stifled cry, for without warning, Villiers had sprung on her, and his hands were round her throat. Ah Goon and another Chinaman jumped up and threw themselves on the two, trying to separate them. The woman got Villiers' hands off her, and started to sing out freely, so Naball began to think of retreating, as the noise would bring all the undesirable bullies of the neighbourhood into the unsavoury den.
While thus hesitating, the woman flung the diamond ornament away from her with an oath, and it fell at Naball's feet. In a moment the detective had picked it up and slipped in into his pocket.
Villiers, seeing the ornament was gone, flung the woman from him with a howl of fury, and turned to look for it, when the door was burst violently open, and a crowd of Chinese, all chattering in their high shrill voices like magpies, surged into the room. Ah Goon, with many gesticulations, began to explain, Villiers to swear, and the woman to shriek, so in the midst of this pandemonium Naball slipped away, and was soon walking swiftly down Little Bourke Street, with the diamond ornament safe in his pocket.
I believe this is one of the stolen jewels, he muttered exultingly, "and Villiers was the thief after all. Humph! I'm not so sure of that. Well, I'll find out the truth when I see how she looks on being shown this little bit of evidence."