Leslie’s Supper Rooms in Bourke Street East were very well known—that is, among a certain class. Religious people and steady businessmen knew nothing about such a place except by reputation, and looked upon it, with horror, as a haunt of vice and dissipation.
Though Leslie’s, in common with other places had to close at a certain hour, yet when the shutters were up, the door closed, and the lights extinguished in the front of the house, there was plenty of life and bustle going on at the back, where there were charmingly furnished little rooms for supper parties. Barty Jarper had engaged one of these apartments, and with about a dozen young men was having a good time of it when Vandeloup and Meddlechip drove up. After dismissing the cab and looking up and down the street to see that no policeman was in sight, Vandeloup knocked at the door in a peculiar manner, and it was immediately opened in a stealthy kind of way. Gaston gave his name, whereupon they were allowed to enter, and the door was closed after them in the same quiet manner, all of which was very distasteful to Mr Meddlechip, who, being a public man and a prominent citizen, felt that he was breaking the laws he had assisted to make. He looked round in some disgust at the crowds of waiters, and at the glimpses he caught every now and then of gentlemen in evening dress, and what annoyed him more than anything else—ladies in bright array. Oh! a dissipated place was Leslie’s, and even in the daytime had a rakish-looking appearance as if it had been up all night and knew a thing or two. Mr Meddlechip would have retreated from this den of iniquity if he could, but as he wanted to have a thorough explanation with Vandeloup, he meekly followed the Frenchman through a well-lighted passage, with statues on either side holding lamps, to a little room beautifully furnished, wherein a supper table was laid out. Here the waiter who conducted them took their hats and Meddlechip’s coat and hung them up, then waited respectfully for M. Vandeloup to give his orders. A portly looking waiter he was, with a white waistcoat, a white shirt, which bulged out in a most obtrusive manner, and a large white cravat, which was tied round an equally large white collar. When he walked he rolled along like a white-crested wave, and with his napkin under his arm, the heel of one foot in the hollow of the other, and his large red face, surmounted by a few straggling tufts of black hair, he was truly wonderful to behold.
This magnificent creature, who answered to the name of Gurchy, received Vandeloup’s orders with a majestic bend of his head, then rolling up to Mr Meddlechip, he presented the bill of fare to that gentleman, who, however, refused it.
‘I don’t want any supper,’ he said, curtly.
Gurchy, though a waiter, was human, and looked astonished, while Vandeloup remonstrated in a suave manner.
‘But, my dear sir,’ he said, leaning back in his chair, ‘you must have something to eat. I assure you,’ with a significant smile, ‘you will need it.’
Meddlechip’s lips twitched a little as the Frenchman spoke, then, with an uneasy laugh, he ordered something, and drew his chair up to the table.
‘And, waiter,’ said Vandeloup, softly, as Gurchy was rolling out of the door, ‘bring some wine, will you? Pommery, I think, is best,’ he added, turning to Meddlechip.
‘What you like,’ returned that gentleman, impatiently, ‘I don’t care.’
‘That’s a great mistake,’ replied Gaston, coolly; ‘bad wine plays the deuce with one’s digestion—two bottles of Pommery, waiter.’
Gurchy nodded, that is to say his head disappeared for a moment in the foam of his collar, then re-appeared again as he slowly rolled out of the door and vanished.
‘Now, then, sir,’ said Meddlechip, sharply, rising from his seat and closing the door, ‘what did you bring me here for?’
M. Vandeloup raised his eyebrows in surprise.
‘How energetic you are, my dear Kestrike,’ he said, smoothly, lying down on the sofa, and contemplating his shoes with great satisfaction; ‘just the same noisy, jolly fellow as of yore.’
‘Damn you!’ said the other, fiercely, at which Gaston laughed.
‘You had better leave that to God,’ he answered, mockingly; ‘he understands more about it than you do.’
‘Oh, I know you of old,’ said Meddlechip, walking up and down excitedly; ‘I know you of old, with your sneers and your coolness, but it won’t do here,’ stopping opposite the sofa, and glaring down at Vandeloup; ‘it won’t do here!’
‘So you’ve said twice,’ replied M. Vandeloup, with a yawn. ‘How do you want me to conduct myself? Do tell me; I am always open to improvement.’
‘You must leave Australia,’ said Meddlechip, sharply, and breathing hard.
‘If I refuse?’ asked M. Vandeloup, lazily, smiling to himself.
‘I will denounce you as a convict escaped from New Caledonia!’ hissed the other, putting his hands in his pockets, and bending forward.
‘Indeed,’ said Gaston, with a charming smile, ‘I don’t think you will go so far as that, my friend.’
‘I swear,’ said Meddlechip, loudly, raising his hand, ‘I swear—’
‘Oh, fie!’ observed M. Vandeloup, in a shocked tone; ‘an old man like you should not swear; it’s very wrong, I assure you; besides,’ with a disparaging glance, ‘you are not suited to melodrama.’
Meddlechip evidently saw it was no good trying to fight against the consummate coolness of this young man, so with a great effort resolved to adapt himself to the exigencies of the case, and fight his adversary with his own weapons.
‘Well,’ he said at length, resuming his seat at the table, and trying to speak calmly, though his flushed face and quivering lips showed what an effort it cost him; ‘let us have supper first, and we can talk afterwards.’
‘Ah, that’s much better,’ remarked M. Vandeloup, sitting up to the table, and unrolling his napkin. ‘I assure you, my dear fellow, if you treat me well, I’m a very easy person to deal with.’
The eyes of the two men met for a moment across the table, and Vandeloup’s had such a meaning look in them, that Meddlechip dropped his own with a shiver.
The door opened, and the billowy waiter rolled up to the table, and having left a deposit of plates and food thereon, subsided once more out of the door, then rolled in again with the champagne. He drew the cork of one of the bottles, filled the glasses on the table, and then after giving a glance round to see that all was in order, suddenly found that it was ebb-tide, and rolled slowly out of the door, which he closed after him.
Meddlechip ate his supper in silence, but drank a good deal of champagne to keep his courage up for the coming ordeal, which he knew he must go through. Vandeloup, on the other hand, ate and drank very little, as he talked gaily all the time about theatres, racing, boating, in fact of everything except the thing the other man wanted to hear.
‘I never mix up business with pleasure, my dear fellow,’ said Gaston, amiably, guessing his companion’s thoughts; ‘when we have finished supper and are enjoying our cigars, I will tell you a little story.’
‘I don’t want to hear it,’ retorted the other, harshly, having an intuitive idea what the story would be about.
‘Possibly not,’ replied M. Vandeloup, smoothly; ‘nevertheless it is my wish that you should hear it.’
Meddlechip looked as if he were inclined to resent this plain speaking, but after a pause evidently thought better of it, and went on tranquilly eating his supper.
When they had finished Gaston rang the bell, and when the billow rolled in, ordered a fresh bottle of wine and some choice cigars of a brand well known at Leslie’s. Gurchy’s head disappeared in foam again, and did not emerge therefrom till he was out of the door.
Try one of these,’ said M. Vandeloup, affably, to Meddlechip, when the billow had rolled in with the cigars and wine, ‘it’s an excellent brand.’
‘I don’t care about smoking,’ answered Meddlechip.
‘To please me,’ urged M. Vandeloup, persuasively; whereupon Meddlechip took one, and having lighted it puffed away evidently under protest, while the billow opened the new bottle of wine, freshened up the glasses, and then rolled majestically out of the door, like a tidal wave.
‘Now then for the story,’ said M. Vandeloup, leaning back luxuriously on the sofa, and blowing a cloud of smoke.
‘I don’t want to hear it,’ retorted the other, quickly; ‘name your terms and let us end the matter.’
‘Pardon me,’ said M. Vandeloup, with a smile, ‘but I refuse to accept any terms till I have given you thoroughly to understand what I mean; so you must hear this little tale of Adele Blondet.’
‘For God’s sake, no!’ cried the other, hoarsely, rising to his feet; ‘I tell you I am haunted by it; by day and by night, sleeping or waking, I see her face ever before me like an accusing angel.’
‘Curious,’ murmured M. Vandeloup, ‘especially as she was not by any means an angel.’
‘I thought it was done with,’ said Meddlechip, twisting his fingers together, while the large drops of perspiration stood on his forehead, ‘but here you come like a spectre from the past and revive all the old horrors.’
‘If you call Adele a horror,’ retorted Vandeloup, coolly, ‘I am certainly going to revive her, so you had best sit down and hear me to the end, for you certainly will not turn me from my purpose.’
Meddlechip sank back into his chair with a groan, while his relentless enemy curled himself up on the sofa in a more comfortable position and began to talk.
‘We will begin the story,’ said M. Vandeloup, in a conversational tone, with an airy wave of his delicate white hand, ‘in the good old-fashioned style of our fairy tales. Once upon a time—let us say three years ago—there lived in Paris a young man called Octave Braulard, who was well born and comfortably off. He had a fancy to be a doctor, and was studying for the medical profession when he became entangled with a woman. Mademoiselle Adele Blondet was a charmingly ugly actress, who was at that time the rage of Paris. She attracted all the men, not by her looks, but by her tongue. Octave Braulard,’ went on M. Vandeloup, complacently looking at himself, ‘was handsome, and she fell in love with him. She became his mistress, and caused a nine days’ wonder in Paris by remaining constant to him for six months. Then there came to Paris an English gentleman from Australia—name, Kestrike; position, independent; income, enormous. He had left Madame his wife in London, and came to our wicked Paris to amuse himself. He saw Adele Blondet, and was introduced to her by Braulard; result, Kestrike betrayed his friend Braulard by stealing from him his mistress. Why was this? Was Kestrike handsome? No. Was he fascinating? No. Was he rich? Yes. Therein lay the secret; Adele loved the purse, not the man. Braulard,’ said Gaston, rising from the sofa quickly and walking across the room, ‘felt his honour wounded. He remonstrated with Adele, no use; he offered to fight a duel with the perfidious Kestrike, no use; the thief was a coward.’
‘No,’ cried Meddlechip, rising, ‘no coward.’
‘I say, yes!’ said Vandeloup, crossing to him, and forcing him back in his chair; ‘he betrayed his friend and refused to give him the satisfaction of a gentleman. What did Braulard do? Rest quiet? No. Revenge his honour? Yes! One night,’ pursued Gaston, in a low concentrated voice, grasping Meddlechip’s wrist firmly, and looking at him with fiery eyes, ‘Braulard prepared a poison, a narcotic which was quick in its action, fatal in its results. He goes to the house of Adele Blondet at half-past twelve o’clock—the hour now,’ he said, rapidly swinging round and pointing to the clock on the mantelpiece, which had just struck the half-hour; ‘he found them at supper,’ releasing Meddlechip’s wrist and crossing to the sofa; ‘he sat opposite Kestrike, as he does now,’ leaning forward and glaring at Meddlechip, who shrank back in his chair. ‘Adele, at the head of the table, laughs and smiles; she looks at her old lover and sees murder in his face; she is ill and retires to her room. Kestrike follows her to see what is the matter. Braulard is left alone; he produces a bottle and pours its contents into a cup of coffee, waiting for Adele. Kestrike returns, saying Adele is ill; she wants a drink. He takes her the poisoned cup of coffee; she drinks it and falls’—with a long breath—‘asleep. Kestrike returns to the room, asks Braulard to leave the house. Braulard refuses. Kestrike is afraid, and would leave himself; he rises from the table; so does Braulard;’—here Gaston rose and crossed to Meddlechip, who was also on his feet—‘he goes to Kestrike, seizes his wrist, thus—drags him to the bedroom, and there on the bed lies Adele Blondet—dead—killed by the poison of one lover given her by the other—and the murderers look at one another—thus.’
Meddlechip wrenched his hand from Vandeloup’s iron grip and fell back ghastly white in his chair, with a strangled cry, while the Frenchman stood over him with eyes gleaming with hatred.
‘Kestrike,’ pursued Vandeloup, rapidly, ‘is little known in Paris—his name is an assumed one—he leaves France before the police can discover how he has poisoned Adele Blondet, and crosses to England—meets Madame, his wife, and returns to Australia, where he is called—Meddlechip.’
The man in the chair threw up his hands as if to keep the other off, and uttered a stifled cry.
‘He then goes to China,’ went on Gaston, bending nearer to the shrinking figure, ‘and returns after twelve months, where he meets Octave Braulard in the theatre—yes, the two murderers meet in Melbourne! How came Braulard here? Was it chance? No. Was it design? No. Was it Fate? Yes.’
He hissed the words in Meddlechip’s ear, and the wretched man shrank away from him again.
‘Braulard,’ pursued Vandeloup, in a calmer tone, ‘also left the house of Adele Blondet. She is found dead; one of her lovers cannot be found; the other, Braulard, is accused of the crime; he defies the police to prove it; she has been poisoned. Bah! there is no trace. Braulard will be free. Stop! who is this man called Prevol, who appears? He is a fellow student of Braulard’s, and knows the poison. Braulard is lost! Prevol examines the body, proves that poison has been given—by whom? Braulard, and none other. He is sentenced to death; but he is so handsome that Paris urges pardon. No; it is not according to the law. Still, spare his life? Yes. His life is spared. The galleys at Toulon? No. New Caledonia? Yes. He is sent there. But is Braulard a coward? No. Does he rest as a convict? No. He makes friends with another convict; they steal a boat, and fly from the island; they drift, and drift, for days and days; the sun rises, the sun sets—still they drift; their food is giving out, the water in the barrel is low—God! are they to die of thirst and famine? No. The sky is red—like blood—the sun is sinking; land is in the distance—they are saved!’ falling on his knees; ‘they are saved, thank God!’
Meddlechip, who had recovered himself, wiped his face with his handkerchief, and sneered with his white lips at the theatrical way Gaston was behaving in. Vandeloup saw this, and, springing to his feet, crossed to the millionaire.
‘Braulard,’ he continued, quickly, ‘lands on the coast of Queensland; he comes to Sydney—no work; to Melbourne—no work; he goes to Ball’rat—work there at a gold-mine. Braulard takes the name of Vandeloup and makes money; he comes to Melbourne, lives there a year, he is in want of money, he is in despair; at the theatre he overhears a plan which will give him money, but he needs capital—despair again, he will never get it. Aha! Fate once more intervenes—he sees M. Kestrike, now Meddlechip, he will ask him for the money, and the question is, will he get it? So the story is at an end.’ He ended with his usual smile, all his excitement having passed away, and lounging over to the supper-table lit a cigarette and sat down on the sofa.
Meddlechip sat silently looking at the disordered supper-table and thinking deeply. The dishes were scattered about the white cloth, and some vividly red cherries had fallen down from the fruit dish in the centre, some salt was spilt near his elbow, the napkins, twisted into thin wisps, were lying among the dirty dishes, and the champagne glasses, half filled with the straw-coloured wine, were standing near the empty bottles. Meddlechip thought for a few moments, and then looked up suddenly in a cool, collected, business-like manner.
‘As I understand you,’ he said, in a steady voice, ‘the case stands thus: you know a portion, or rather, I should say, an episode of my life, I would gladly forget. I did not commit the murder.’
‘No, but you gave her the poison.’
‘Innocently I did, I confess.’
‘Bah! who will believe that?’ retorted M. Vandeloup, with a shrug; ‘but never mind this at present; let me hear what you intend to do.’
‘You know a secret,’ said Meddlechip, nervously, ‘which is dangerous to me; you want to sell it; well, I will be the buyer—name your price.’
‘Five hundred pounds,’ said Vandeloup, quietly.
‘Is that all?’ asked the other, with a start of surprise; ‘I was prepared for five thousand.’
‘I am not exorbitant in my demands,’ answered Vandeloup, smoothly; ‘and as I told you, I have a scheme on hand by which I may make a lot of money-five hundred pounds is sufficient to do what I want. If the scheme succeeds, I will be rich enough to do without any more money from you.’
‘Yes; but if it fails?’ said Meddlechip, doubtfully.
‘If it fails, I will be obliged to draw on you again,’ returned Gaston, candidly; ‘you can’t say, however, that I am behaving badly to you.’
‘No,’ answered Meddlechip, looking at him. ‘I must say you are easier to deal with than I anticipated. Well, if I give you my cheque for five hundred—’
‘Say six hundred,’ observed Vandeloup, rising and going to a small table in the corner of the room on which were pens and ink. ‘I want an extra hundred.’
‘Six hundred then be it,’ answered Meddlechip, quietly, rising and going to his overcoat, from whence he took his cheque book. ‘For this amount you will be silent.’
M. Vandeloup bowed gracefully.
‘On my word of honour,’ he replied, gaily; ‘but, of course,’ with a sudden glance at Meddlechip, ‘you will treat me as a friend—ask me to your house, and introduce me to Madame, your wife.’
‘I don’t see the necessity,’ returned Meddlechip, angrily, going over to the small table and sitting down.
‘Pardon me, I do’ answered the Frenchman, with a dangerous gleam in his eyes.
‘Well, well, I agree,’ said Meddlechip, testily, taking up a pen and opening his cheque book. ‘You, of course, can dictate your own terms.’
‘I understand that perfectly,’ replied Vandeloup, delicately, lighting a cigarette, ‘and have done so. You can’t say they are hard, as I said before.’
Meddlechip did not answer, but wrote out a cheque for six hundred pounds, and then handed it to Vandeloup, who received it with a bow and slipped it into his waistcoat pocket.
‘With this,’ he said, touching his pocket, ‘I hope to make nearly ten thousand in a fortnight.’
Meddlechip stared at him.
‘I hope you will,’ he answered, gruffly, ‘all the better for my purse if you do.’
‘That, of course, goes without saying,’ replied Vandeloup, lazily. ‘Have some more wine?’ touching the bell.
‘No more, thank you,’ said Meddlechip, putting on his overcoat. ‘It’s time I was off.’
‘By the way,’ said M. Vandeloup, coolly, ‘I have not any change in my pocket; you might settle for the supper.’
Meddlechip burst out laughing.
‘Confound your impudence,’ he said, quickly, ‘I thought you asked me to supper.’
‘Oh, yes,’ replied Vandeloup, taking his hat and stick, ‘but I intended you to pay for it.’
‘You were pretty certain of your game, then?’
‘I always am,’ answered Vandeloup, as the door opened, and Gurchy rolled slowly into the room.
Meddlechip paid the bill without making further objections, and then they both left Leslie’s with the same precautions as had attended their entry. They walked slowly down Bourke Street, and parted at the corner, Meddlechip going to Toorak, while Vandeloup got into a cab and told the man to drive to Richmond, then lit a cigarette and gave himself up to reflection as he drove along.
‘I’ve done a good stroke of business tonight,’ he said, smiling, as he felt the cheque in his pocket, ‘and I’ll venture the whole lot on this Magpie reef. If it succeeds I will be rich; if it does not—well, there is always Meddlechip as my banker.’ Then his thoughts went back to Kitty, for the reason of his going home so late was that he wanted to find out in what frame of mind she was.
‘She’ll never leave me,’ he said, with a laugh, as the cab drew up in front of Mrs Pulchop’s house; ‘if she does, so much the better for me.’
He dismissed his cab, and let himself in with the latch key; then hanging up his hat in the hall he went straight to the bedroom and lit the gas. He then crossed to the bed, expecting to find Kitty sound asleep, but to his surprise the bed was untouched, and she was not there.
‘Ah!’ he said, quietly, ‘so she has gone, after all. Poor little girl, I wonder where she is. I must really look after her to-morrow; at present,’ he said, pulling off his coat, with a yawn, ‘I think I’ll go to bed.’
He went to bed, and laying his head on the pillow was soon fast asleep, without even a thought for the girl he had ruined.
When Kitty left Mrs Pulchop’s residence she had no very definite idea as to what she was going to do with herself. Her sole thought was to get as far away from her former life as possible—to disappear in the crowd and never to be heard of again. Poor little soul, she never for a moment dreamed that it was a case of out of the frying pan into the fire, and that the world at large might prove more cruel to her than Vandeloup in particular. She had been cut to the heart by his harsh cold words, but notwithstanding he had spoken so bitterly she still loved him, and would have stayed beside him, but her jealous pride forbade her to do so. She who had been queen of his heart and the idol of his life could not bear to receive cold looks and careless words, and to be looked upon as an encumbrance and a trouble. So she thought if she left him altogether and never saw him again he would, perhaps, be sorry for her and cherish her memory tenderly for evermore. If she had only known Gaston’s true nature she would not thus have buoyed herself up with false hopes of his sorrow, but as she believed in him as implicitly as a woman in love with a man always does, in a spirit of self-abnegation she cut herself off from him, thinking it would be to his advantage if not to her own.
She went into town and wandered about listlessly, not knowing where to go, till nearly twelve o’clock, and the streets were gradually emptying themselves of their crowds. The coffee stalls were at all the corners, with hungry-looking people of both sexes crowded round them, and here and there in door steps could be seen some outcasts resting in huddled heaps, while the policemen every now and then would come up and make them move on.
Kitty was footsore and heart-weary, and felt inclined to cry, but was nevertheless resolved not to go back to her home in Richmond. She dragged herself along the lonely street, and round the corner came on a coffee stall with no one at it except one small boy whose head just reached up to the counter. Such a ragged boy as he was, with a broad comical-looking face—a shaggy head of red hair and a hat without any brim to it—his legs were bandy and his feet were encased in a pair of men’s boots several sizes too large for him. He had a bundle of newspapers under one arm and his other hand was in his pocket rattling some coppers together while he bargained with the coffee-stall keeper over a pie. The coffee stall had the name of Spilsby inscribed on it, so it is fair to suppose that the man therein was Spilsby himself. He had a long grey beard and a meek face, looking so like an old wether himself it appeared almost the act of a cannibal on his part to eat a mutton pie. A large placard at the back of the stall set forth the fact that ‘Spilsby’s Specials’ were sold there for the sum of one penny, and it was over ‘Spilsby’s Specials’ the ragged boy was arguing.
‘I tell you I ain’t agoin’ to eat fat,’ he said, in a hoarse voice, as if his throat was stuffed up with one of his own newspapers. ‘I want a special, I don’t want a hordinary.’
‘This are a special, I tells you,’ retorted Spilsby, ungrammatically, pushing a smoking pie towards the boy; ‘what a young wiper you are, Grattles, a-comin’ and spoilin’ my livin’ by cussin’ my wictuals.’
‘Look ‘ere,’ retorted Grattles, standing on the tips of his large boots to look more imposing, ‘my stumick’s a bit orf when it comes to fat, and I wants the vally of my penny; give us a muttony one, with lots of gravy.’
‘’Ere y’are, then,’ said Spilsby, quite out of temper with his fastidious customer; ‘’ere’s a pie as is all made of ram as ‘adn’t got more fat on it than you ‘ave.’
Grattles examined the article classed under this promising description with a critical air, and then laid down his penny and took the pie.
‘It’s a special, ain’t it?’ he asked, suspiciously smelling it.
‘It’s the specialest I’ve got, any’ow,’ answered Spilsby, testily, putting the penny in his pocket; ‘you’d eat a ‘ole sheep if you could get it for a penny, you greedy young devil, you.’
Here Kitty, who was feeling faint and ill with so much walking, came forward and asked for a cup of coffee.
‘Certainly, dear,’ said Spilsby, with a leer, pouring out the coffee; ‘I’m allays good to a pretty gal.’
‘It’s more nor your coffee is,’ growled Grattles, who had finished his special and was now licking his fingers, ‘it’s all grounds and ‘ot water.’
‘Go away, you wicious thing,’ retorted Spilsby, mildly, giving Kitty her coffee and change out of the money she handed him, ‘or I’ll set the perlice on yer.’
‘Oh, my eye!’ shrieked Grattles, executing a grimace after the fashion of a favourite comedian; ‘he ain’t a tart, oh, no—‘es a pie, ‘e are, a special, a muttony special; ‘e don’t kill no kittings and call ‘em sheep, oh, no; ‘e don’t buy chicory and calls it coffee, blest if ‘e does; ‘e’s a corker, ‘e are, and ‘is name ain’t the same as ‘is father’s.’
‘What d’ye mean,’ asked Spilsby, fiercely—that is, as fiercely as his meek appearance would let him; ‘what do you know of my parents, you bandy-legged little devil? who’s your—progenitor, I’d like to know?’
‘A dook, in course,’ said Grattles loftily; ‘but we don’t, in consequence of ‘er Nibs bein’ mixed up with the old man’s mother, reweal the family skeletons to low piemen,’ then, with a fresh grimace, he darted along the street as quickly as his bandy legs could carry him.
Spilsby took no notice of this, but, seeing some people coming round the corner, commenced to sing out his praises of the specials.
‘’Ere yer are—all ‘ot an’ steamin’,’ he cried, in a kind of loud bleat, which added still more to his sheep-like appearance: ‘Spilsby’s Specials—oh, lovely—ain’t they nice; my eye, fine muttin pies; who ses Spilsby’s; ‘ave one, miss?’ to Kitty.
Thank you, no,’ replied Kitty, with a faint smile as she put down her empty cup; ‘I’m going now.’
Spilsby was struck by the educated manner in which she spoke and by the air of refinement about her.
‘Go home, my dear,’ he said, kindly, leaning forward; ‘this ain’t no time for a young gal like you to be out.’
‘I’ve got no home,’ said Kitty, bitterly, ‘but if you could direct me—’
‘Here, you,’ cried a shrill female voice, as a woman dressed in a flaunting blue gown rushed up to the stall, ‘give us a pie quick; I’m starvin’; I’ve got no time to wait.’
‘No, nor manners either,’ said Spilsby, with a remonstrating bleat, pushing a pie towards her; ‘who are you, a-shovin’ your betters, Portwine Annie?’
‘My betters,’ scoffed the lady in blue, looking Kitty up and down with a disdainful smile on her painted face; ‘where are they, I’d like to know?’
‘’Ere, ‘old your tongue,’ bleated Spilsby, angrily, ‘or I’ll tell the perlice at the corner.’
‘And much I care,’ retorted the shrill-voiced female, ‘seeing he’s a particular friend of mine.’
‘For God’s sake tell me where I can find a place to stop in,’ whispered Kitty to the coffee-stall keeper.
‘Come with me, dear,’ said Portwine Annie, eagerly, having overheard what was said, but Kitty shrank back, and then gathering her cloak around her ran down the street.
‘What do you do that for, you jade?’ said Spilsby, in a vexed tone; ‘don’t you see the girl’s a lady.’
‘Of course she is,’ retorted the other, finishing her pie; ‘we’re all ladies; look at our dresses, ain’t they fine enough? Look at our houses, aren’t they swell enough?’
‘Yes, and yer morals, ain’t they bad enough?’ said Spilsby, washing up the dirty plate.
‘They’re quite as good as many ladies in society, at all events,’ replied Portwine Annie, with a toss of her head as she walked off.
‘Oh, it’s a wicked world,’ bleated Spilsby, in a soft voice, looking after the retreating figure. ‘I’m sorry for that poor gal—I am indeed—but this ain’t business,’ and once more raising his voice he cried up his wares, ‘Oh, lovely; ain’t they muttony? Spilsby’s specials, all ‘ot; one penny.’
Meanwhile Kitty was walking quickly down Elizabeth Street, and turning round the corner ran right up against a woman.
‘Hullo!’ said the woman, catching her wrist, ‘where are you off to?’
‘Let me go,’ cried Kitty, in a panting voice.
The woman was tall and handsome, but her face had a kindly expression on it, and she seemed touched with the terrified tone of the girl.
‘My poor child,’ she said, half contemptuously, releasing her, ‘I won’t hurt you. Go if you like. What are you doing out at this time of the night?’
‘Nothing,’ faltered Kitty, with quivering lips, lifting her face up to the pale moon. The other saw it in the full light and marked how pure and innocent it was.
‘Go home, dear,’ she said, in a soft tone, touching the girl kindly on the shoulder, ‘it’s not fit for you to be out at this hour. You are not one of us.’
‘My God! no,’ cried Kitty, shrinking away from her.
The other smiled bitterly.
‘Ah! you draw away from me now,’ she said, with a sneer; ‘but what are you, so pure and virtuous, doing on the streets at this hour? Go home in time, child, or you will become like me.’
‘I have no home,’ said Kitty, turning to go.
‘No home!’ echoed the other, in a softer tone; ‘poor child! I cannot take you with me—God help me; but here is some money,’ forcing a shilling into the girl’s hand, ‘go to Mrs Rawlins at Victoria Parade, Fitzroy—anyone will tell you where it is—and she will take you in.’
‘What kind of a place is it?’ said Kitty.
‘A home for fallen women, dear,’ answered the other, kindly.
‘I’m not a fallen woman!’ cried the girl, wildly, ‘I have left my home, but I will go back to it—anything better than this horrible life on the streets.’
‘Yes, dear,’ said the woman, softly, ‘go home; go home, for God’s sake, and if you have a father and mother to shield you from harm, thank heaven for that. Let me kiss you once,’ she added, bending forward, ‘it is so long since I felt a good woman’s kiss on my lips. Good-bye.’
‘Good-bye,’ sobbed Kitty, raising her face, and the other bent down and kissed the child-like face, then with a stifled cry, fled away through the moonlit night.
Kitty turned away slowly and walked up the street. She knew there was a cab starting opposite the Town Hall which went to Richmond, and determined to go home. After all, hard though her life might be in the future, it would be better than this cruel harshness of the streets.
At the top of the block, just as she was about to cross Swanston Street, a party of young men in evening dress came round the corner singing, and evidently were much exhilarated with wine. These were none other than Mr Jarper and his friends, who, having imbibed a good deal more than was good for them, were now ripe for any mischief. Bellthorp and Jarper, both quite intoxicated, were walking arm-in-arm, each trying to keep the other up, so that their walking mostly consisted of wild lurches forward, and required a good deal of balancing.
‘Hullo!’ cried Bellthorp solemnly—he was always solemn when intoxicated—‘girl—pretty—eh!’
‘Go ‘way,’ said Barty, staggering back against the wall, ‘we’re Christian young men.’
Kitty tried to get away from this inebriated crew, but they all closed round her, and she wrung her hands in despair. ‘If you are gentlemen you will let me go,’ she cried, trying to push past.
‘Give us kiss first,’ said a handsome young fellow, with his hat very much on one side, putting his arm round her waist, ‘pay toll, dear.’
She felt his hot breath on her cheek and shrieked out wildly, trying to push him away with all her force. The young man, however, paid no attention to her cries, but was about to kiss her when he was taken by the back of the neck and thrown into the gutter.
‘Gentlemen!’ said a rich rolling voice, which proceeded from a portly man who had just appeared on the scene. ‘I am astonished,’ with the emphasis on the first person singular, as if he were a man of great note.
‘Old boy,’ translated Bellthorp to the others, ‘is ‘tonished.’
‘You have,’ said the stranger, with an airy wave of his hand, ‘the appearance of gentlemen, but, alas! you are but whited sepulchres, fair to look upon, but full of dead men’s bones within.’
‘Jarper,’ said Bellthorp, solemnly, taking Barty’s arm, ‘you’re a tombstone with skeleton inside—come along—old boy is right—set of cads ‘suiting an unprotected gal—good night, sir.’
The others picked up their companion out of the gutter, and the whole lot rolled merrily down the street.
‘And this,’ said the gentleman, lifting up his face to the sky in mute appeal to heaven, ‘this is the generation which is to carry on Australia. Oh, Father Adam, what a dissipated family you have got—ah!—good for a comedy, I think.’
‘Oh!’ cried Kitty, recognising a familiar remark, ‘it’s Mr Wopples.’
‘The same,’ said the airy Theodore, laying his hand on his heart, ‘and you, my dear—why, bless me,’ looking closely at her, ‘it is the pretty girl I met in Ballarat—dear, dear—surely you have not come to this.’
‘No, no,’ said Kitty, quickly, laying her hand on his arm, ‘I will tell you all about it, Mr Wopples; but you must be a friend to me, for I sadly need one.’
‘I will be your friend,’ said the actor, emphatically, taking her arm and walking slowly down the street; ‘tell me how I find you thus.’
‘You won’t tell anyone if I do?’ said Kitty, imploringly.
‘On the honour of a gentleman,’ answered Wopples, with grave dignity.
Kitty told him how she had left Ballarat, but suppressed the name of her lover, as she did not want any blame to fall on him. But all the rest she told freely, and when Mr Wopples heard how on that night she had left the man who had ruined her, he swore a mighty oath.
‘Oh, vile human nature,’ he said, in a sonorous tone, ‘to thus betray a confiding infant! Where,’ he continued, looking inquiringly at the serene sky, ‘where are the thunderbolts of Heaven that they fall not on such?’
No thunderbolt making its appearance to answer the question, Mr Wopples told Kitty he would take her home to the family, and as they were just starting out on tour again, she could come with them.
‘But will Mrs Wopples receive me?’ asked Kitty, timidly.
‘My dear,’ said the actor, gravely, ‘my wife is a good woman, and a mother herself, so she can feel for a poor child like you, who has been betrayed through sheer innocence.’
‘You do not despise me?’ said Kitty, in a low voice.
‘My dear,’ answered Wopples, quietly, ‘am I so pure myself that I can judge others? Who am I,’ with an oratorical wave of the hand, ‘that I should cast the first stone?—ahem!—from Holy Writ. In future I will be your father; Mrs Wopples, your mother, and you will have ten brothers and sisters—all star artistes.’
‘How kind you are,’ sobbed Kitty, clinging trustfully to him as they went along.
‘I only do unto others as I would be done by,’ said Mr Wopples, solemnly. ‘That sentiment,’ continued the actor, taking off his hat, ‘was uttered by One who, tho’ we may believe or disbelieve in His divinity as a God, will always remain the sublimest type of perfect manhood the world has ever seen.’
Kitty did not answer, and they walked quickly along; and surely this one good deed more than compensated for the rest of the actor’s failings.
Young Australia has a wonderful love for the excitement of gambling—take him away from the betting ring and he goes straight to the share market to dabble in gold and silver shares. The Great Humbug Gold Mining Company is floated on the Melbourne market—a perfect fortune in itself, which influential men are floating in a kind of semi-philanthropic manner to benefit mankind at large, and themselves in particular. Report by competent geologists; rich specimens of the reef exhibited to the confiding public; company of fifty thousand shares at a pound each; two shillings on application; two shillings on allotment; the balance in calls which influential men solemnly assure confiding public will never be needed. Young Australia sees a chance of making thousands in a week; buys one thousand shares at four shillings—only two hundred pounds; shares will rise and Young Australia hopefully looks forward to pocketing two or three thousand by his modest venture of two hundred; company floated, shares rising slowly. Young Australia will not sell at a profit, still dazzled by his chimerical thousands. Calls must be made to put up machinery; shares have a downward tendency. Never mind, there will only be one or two calls, so stick to shares as parents of possible thousands. Machinery erected; now crushing; two or three ounces to ton a certainty. Shares have an upward tendency; washing up takes place—two pennyweights to ton. Despair! Shares run down to nothing, and Young Australia sees his thousands disappear like snow in the sun. The Great Humbug Reef proves itself worthy of its name, and the company collapses amid the groans of confiding public and secret joy of influential men, who have sold at the top price.
Vandeloup knew all about this sort of thing, for he had seen it occur over and over again in Ballarat and Melbourne. So many came to the web and never got out alive, yet fresh flies were always to be found. Vandeloup was of a speculative nature himself, and had he been possessed of any surplus cash would, no doubt, have risked it in the jugglery of the share market, but as he had none to spare he stood back and amused himself with looking at the ‘spider and the fly’ business which was constantly going on. Sometimes, indeed, the fly got the better of spider number one, but was unable to keep away from the web, and was sure to fall into the web of spider number two.
M. Vandeloup, therefore, considered the whole affair as too risky to be gone into without unlimited cash; but now he had a chance of making money, he determined to try his hand at the business. True, he knew that he was in for a swindle, but then he was behind the scenes, and would benefit by the knowledge he had gained. If the question at issue had really been that of getting gold out of the reef and paying dividends with the profits, Gaston would have snapped his fingers scornfully, and held aloof; but this was simply a running up of shares by means of a rich reef being struck. He intended to buy at the present market value, which was four shillings, and sell as soon as he could make a good profit—say, at one pound—so there was not much chance of him losing his money. The shares would probably drop again when the pocket of gold was worked out, but then that would be none of his affair, as he would by that time have sold out and made his pile. M. Vandeloup was a fly who was going straight into the webs of stockbroking spiders, but then he knew as much about this particular web as the spiders themselves.
Full of his scheme to make money, Vandeloup started for town to see a broker—first, however, having settled with Mrs Pulchop over Kitty’s disappearance. He had found a letter from Kitty in the bedroom, in which she had bidden him good-bye for ever, but this he did not show to Mrs Pulchop, merely stating to that worthy lady that his ‘wife’ had left him.
‘And it ain’t to be wondered at, the outraged angel,’ she said to Gaston, as he stood at the door, faultlessly dressed, ready to go into town; ‘the way you treated her were shameful.’
Gaston shrugged his shoulders, lit a cigarette, and smiled at Mrs Pulchop.
‘My dear lady,’ he said, blandly, ‘pray attend to your medicine bottles and leave my domestic affairs alone; you certainly understand the one, but I doubt your ability to come to any conclusion regarding the other.’
‘Fine words don’t butter no parsnips,’ retorted Mrs Pulchop, viciously; ‘and if Pulchop weren’t an Apoller, he had a kind heart.’
‘Spare me these domestic stories, please,’ said Vandeloup, coldly, ‘they do not interest me in the least; since my “wife”,’ with a sneer, ‘has gone, I will leave your hospitable roof. I will send for all my property either today or to-morrow, and if you make out your account in the meantime, my messenger will pay it. Good day!’ and without another word Vandeloup walked slowly off down the path, leaving Mrs Pulchop speechless with indignation.
He went into town first, to the City of Melbourne Bank, and cashed Meddlechip’s cheque for six hundred pounds, then, calling a hansom, he drove along to the Hibernian Bank, where he had an account, and paid it into his credit, reserving ten pounds for his immediate use. Then he reentered his hansom, and went along to the office of a stockbroker, called Polglaze, who was a member of ‘The Bachelors’, and in whose hands Vandeloup intended to place his business.
Polglaze was a short, stout man, scrupulously neatly dressed, with iron grey hair standing straight up, and a habit of dropping out his words one at a time, so that the listener had to construct quite a little history between each, in order to arrive at their meaning, and the connection they had with one another.
‘Morning!’ said Polglaze, letting the salutation fly out of his mouth rapidly, and then closing it again in case any other word might be waiting ready to pop out unknown to him.
Vandeloup sat down and stated his business briefly.
‘I want you to buy me some Magpie Reef shares,’ he said, leaning on the table.
‘Many?’ dropped out of Polglaze’s mouth, and then it shut again with a snap. ‘Depends on the price,’ replied Vandeloup, with a shrug; ‘I see in the papers they are four shillings.’
Mr Polglaze took up his share book, and rapidly turned over the leaves—found what he wanted, and nodded.
‘Oh!’ said Vandeloup, making a rapid mental calculation, ‘then buy me two thousand five hundred. That will be about five hundred pounds’ worth.’
Mr Polglaze nodded; then whistled.
‘Your commission, I presume,’ said Vandeloup, making another calculation, ‘will be threepence?’
‘Sixpence,’ interrupted the stockbroker.
‘Oh, I thought it was threepence,’ answered Vandeloup, quietly; ‘however, that does not make any difference to me. Your commission at that rate will be twelve pounds ten shillings?’
Polglaze nodded again, and sat looking at Vandeloup like a stony mercantile sphinx.
‘If you will, then, buy me these shares,’ said Vandeloup, rising, and taking up his gloves and hat, ‘when am I to come along and see you?’
‘Four,’ said Polglaze.
Today?’ inquired Vandeloup.
A nod from the stockbroker.
‘Very well,’ said Vandeloup, quietly, ‘I’ll give you a cheque for the amount, then. There’s nothing more to be said, I believe?’ and he walked over to the door.
‘Say!’ from Polglaze.
‘Yes,’ replied Gaston, indolently, swinging his stick to and fro.
‘New?’ inquired the stockbroker.
‘You mean to this sort of thing?’ said Vandeloup, looking at him, and receiving a nod in token of acquiescence, added, ‘entirely.’
‘Risky,’ dropped from the Polglaze mouth. ‘I never knew a gold mine that wasn’t,’ retorted Vandeloup, dryly.
‘Bad,’ in an assertive tone, from Polglaze.
‘This particular mine, I suppose you mean?’ said Gaston, with a yawn, ‘very likely it is. However, I’m willing to take the risk. Good day! See you at four,’ and with a careless nod, M. Vandeloup lounged out of the office.
He walked along Collins Street, met a few friends, and kept a look-out for Kitty. He, however, did not see her, but there was a surprise in store for him, for turning round into Swanston Street, he came across Archie McIntosh. Yes, there he was, with his grim, severe Scotch face, with the white frill round it, and Gaston smiled as he saw the old man, dressed in rigid broadcloth, casting disproving looks on the pretty girls walking along.
‘A set o’ hizzies,’ growled the amiable Archie to himself, ‘prancin’ alang wi’ their gew-gaws an’ fine claes, like war horses—the daughters o’ Zion that walk wi’ mincin’ steps an’ tinklin’ ornaments.’
‘How do you do?’ said Vandeloup, touching the broadcloth shoulder; upon which McIntosh turned.
‘Lord save us!’ he ejaculated, grimly, ‘it’s yon French body. An’ hoo’s a’ wi’ ye, laddie? Eh, but ye’re brawly dressed, my young man,’ with a disproving look; ‘I’m hopin’ they duds are paid for.’
‘Of course they are,’ replied Vandeloup, gaily, ‘do you think I stole them?’
‘Weel, I’ll no gae sa far as that,’ remarked Archie, cautiously; ‘maybe ye have dwelt by the side o’ mony waters, an’ flourished. If he ken the Screepture ye’ll see God helps those wha help themselves.’
‘That means you do all the work and give God the credit,’ retorted Gaston, with a sneer; ‘I know all about that.’
‘Ah, ye’ll gang tae the pit o’ Tophet when ye dee,’ said Mr McIntosh, who had heard this remark with horror; ‘an’ ye’ll no be sae ready wi’ your tongue there, I’m thinkin’; but ye are not speerin aboot Mistress Villiers.’
‘Why, is she in town?’ asked Vandeloup, eagerly.
‘Ay, and Seliny wi’ her,’ answered Archie, fondling his frill; ‘she’s varra rich noo, as ye’ve nae doot heard. Ay, ay,’ he went on, ‘she’s gotten a braw hoose doon at St Kilda, and she’s going to set up a carriage, ye ken. She tauld me,’ pursued Mr McIntosh, sourly, looking at Vandeloup, ‘if I saw ye I was to be sure to tell ye to come an’ see her.’
‘Present my compliments to Madame,’ said Vandeloup, quickly, ‘and I will wait on her as soon as possible.’
‘Losh save us, laddie,’ said McIntosh, irritably, ‘you’re as fu’ o’ fine wards as a play-actor. Have ye seen onything doon in this pit o’ Tophet o’ the bairn that rin away?’
‘Oh, Miss Marchurst!’ said Vandeloup, smoothly, ready with a lie at once. ‘No, I’m sorry to say I’ve never set eyes on her.’
‘The mistress is joost daft aboot her,’ observed McIntosh, querulously; ‘and she’s ganging tae look all thro’ the toun tae find the puir wee thing.’
‘I hope she will!’ said M. Vandeloup, who devoutly hoped she wouldn’t. ‘Will you come and have a glass of wine, Mr McIntosh?’
‘I’l hae a wee drappy o’ whusky if ye’ve got it gude,’ said McIntosh, cautiously, ‘but I dinna care for they wines that sour on a body’s stomach.’
McIntosh having thus graciously assented, Vandeloup took him up to the Club, and introduced him all round as the manager of the famous Pactolus. All the young men were wonderfully taken up with Archie and his plain speaking, and had Mr McIntosh desired he could have drunk oceans of his favourite beverage. However, being a Scotchman and cautious, he took very little, and left Vandeloup to go down to Madame Midas at St Kilda, and bearing a message from the Frenchman that he would call there the next day.
Archie having departed, Vandeloup got through the rest of the day as he best could. He met Mr Wopples in the street, who told him how he had found Kitty, quite unaware that the young man before him was the villain who had betrayed the girl. Vandeloup was delighted to think that Kitty had not mentioned his name, and quite approved of Mr Wopples’ intention to take the girl on tour. Having thus arranged for Kitty’s future, Gaston went along to his broker, and found that the astute Polglaze had got him his shares.
‘Going up,’ said Polglaze, as he handed the scrip to Vandeloup and got a cheque in exchange.
‘Oh, indeed!’ said Vandeloup, with a smile. ‘I suppose my two friends have begun their little game already,’ he thought, as he slipped the scrip into his breast pocket.
‘Information?’ asked Polglaze, as Vandeloup was going.
‘Oh! you’d like to know where I got it,’ said M. Vandeloup, amiably. ‘Very sorry I can’t tell you; but you see, my dear sir, I am not a woman, and can keep a secret.’
Vandeloup walked out, and Polglaze looked after him with a puzzled look, then summed up his opinion in one word, sharp, incisive, and to the point—
‘Clever!’ said Polglaze, and put the cheque in his safe.
Vandeloup strolled along the street thinking.
‘Bebe is out of my way,’ he thought, with a smile; ‘I have a small fortune in my pocket, and,’ he continued, thoughtfully, ‘Madame Midas is in Melbourne. I think now,’ said M. Vandeloup, with another smile, ‘that I have conquered the blind goddess.’