"For it was long ago, love,That time of joy and woe, love!Yet still that heart of thineIs mine, dear love, is mine!"
"For it was long ago, love,That time of joy and woe, love!Yet still that heart of thineIs 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 recklessabandonthat 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 titlerôlesin 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: you 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. Maltonsub rosâ.
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 forThe Penny Whistleunder thenom de plumeof "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."