Books: Madame Midas
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Fergus Hume >> Madame Midas
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"Oh, it will," said Vandeloup, cheerfully, "if we can only find the
Devil's Lead."
"An unholy name," groaned Marchurst sadly, shaking his head. "Why
did you not call it something else?"
"Simply because I didn't name it," replied Madame Midas, bluntly;
"but if the lead is rich, the name doesn't matter much."
"Of course not," broke in Kitty, impatiently, being anxious to see
the nugget. "Do open the box; I'm dying to see it."
"Katherine! Katherine!" said Marchurst, reprovingly, as Vandeloup
opened the box, "how you do exaggerate--ah!" he broke off his
exhortation suddenly, for the box was open, and the great mass of
gold was glittering in its depths. 'Wonderful!'
'What a size!' cried Kitty, clapping her hands as Vandeloup lifted
it out and placed it on the table; 'how much is it worth?'
'About twelve hundred pounds,' said Madame, quietly, though her
heart throbbed with pride as she looked at her nugget; 'it weighs
three hundred ounces.'
'Wonderful!' reiterated the old man, passing his thin hand lightly
over the rough surface; 'verily the Lord hath hidden great treasure
in the entrails of the earth, and the Pactolus would seem to be a
land of Ophir when it yields such wealth as this.'
The nugget was duly admired by everyone, and then Brown and Jane,
who formed the household of Marchurst, were called in to look at it.
They both expressed such astonishment and wonder, that Marchurst
felt himself compelled to admonish them against prizing the
treasures of earth above those of heaven. Vandeloup, afraid that
they were in for a sermon, beckoned quietly to Kitty, and they both
stealthily left the room, while Marchurst, with Brown, Jane, and
Madame for an audience, and the nugget for a text, delivered a short
discourse.
Kitty put on a great straw hat, underneath which her piquant face
blushed and grew pink beneath the fond gaze of her lover as they
left the house together and strolled up to the Black Hill.
Black Hill no doubt at one time deserved its name, being then
covered with dark trees and representing a black appearance at a
distance; but at present, owing to the mines which have been worked
there, the whole place is covered with dazzling white clay, or
mulloch, which now renders the title singularly inappropriate. On
the top of the hill there is a kind of irregular gully or pass,
which extends from one side of the hill to the other, and was cut in
the early days for mining purposes. Anything more extraordinary can
hardly be imagined than this chasm, for the sides, which tower up on
either side to the height of some fifty or sixty feet, are all pure
white, and at the top break into all sorts of fantastic forms. The
white surface of the rocks are all stained with colours which
alternate in shades of dark brown, bright red and delicate pink.
Great masses of rock have tumbled down on each side, often coming so
close together as to almost block up the path. Here and there in the
white walls can be seen the dark entrances of disused shafts; and
one, at the lowest level of the gully, pierces through the hill and
comes out on the other side. There is an old engine-house near the
end of the gully, with its red brick chimney standing up gaunt and
silent beside it, and the ugly tower of the winding gear adjacent.
All the machinery in the engine-house, with the huge wheels and
intricate mechanism, is silent now--for many years have elapsed
since this old shaft was abandoned by the Black Hill Gold Mining
Company.
At the lower end of the pass there is an engine-house in full
working order, and a great plateau of slate-coloured mulloch runs
out for some yards, and then there is a steep sloping bank formed by
the falling earth. In the moonlight this wonderful white gully looks
weird and bizarre; and even as Vandeloup and Kitty stood at the top
looking down into its dusty depths in the bright sunshine, it looks
fantastic and picturesque.
Seated on the highest point of the hill, under the shadow of a great
rock, the two lovers had a wonderful view of Ballarat. Here and
there they could see the galvanized iron roofs of the houses
gleaming like silver in the sunlight from amid the thick foliage of
the trees with which the city is studded. Indeed, Ballarat might
well be called the City of Trees, for seen from the Black Hill it
looks more like a huge park with a sprinkling of houses in it than
anything else. The green foliage rolls over it like the waves of the
ocean, and the houses rise up like isolated habitations. Now and
then a red brick building, or the slender white spire of a church
gave a touch of colour to the landscape, and contrasted pleasantly
with the bluish-white roofs and green trees. Scattered all through
the town were the huge mounds of earth marking the mining-shafts of
various colours, from dark brown to pure white, and beside them,
with the utmost regularity, were the skeleton towers of the poppet
heads, the tall red chimneys, and the squat, low forms of the
engine-houses. On the right, high up, could be seen the blue waters
of Lake Wendouree flashing like a mirror in the sunlight. The city
was completely encircled by the dark forests, which stretched far
away, having a reddish tinge over their trees, ending in a sharply
defined line against the clear sky; while, on the left arose Mount
Warreneip like an undulating mound and, further along, Mount
Bunniyong, with the same appearance.
All this wonderful panorama, however, was so familiar to Kitty and
her lover that they did not trouble themselves to look much at it;
but the girl sat down under the big rock, and Vandeloup flung
himself lazily at her feet.
'Bebe,' said Vandeloup, who had given her this pet name, 'how long
is this sort of life going to last?'
Kitty looked down at him with a vague feeling of terror at her
heart. She had never known any life but the simple one she was now
leading, and could not imagine it coming to an end.
'I'm getting tired of it,' said Vandeloup, lying back on the grass,
and, putting his hands under his head, stared idly at the blue sky.
'Unfortunately, human life is so short nowadays that we cannot
afford to waste a moment of it. I am not suited for a lotus-eating
existence, and I think I shall go to Melbourne.'
'And leave me?' cried Kitty, in dismay, never having contemplated
such a thing as likely to happen.
'That depends on yourself, Bebe,' said her lover, quickly rolling
over and looking steadily at her, with his chin resting on his
hands; 'will you come with me?'
'As your wife?' murmured Kitty, whose innocent mind never dreamt of
any other form of companionship.
Vandeloup turned away his face to conceal the sneering smile that
crept over it. His wife, indeed! as if he were going to encumber
himself with marriage before he had made a fortune, and even then it
was questionable as to whether he would surrender the freedom of
bachelorhood for the ties of matrimony.
'Of course,' he said, in a reassuring tone, still keeping his face
turned away, 'we will get married in Melbourne as soon as we
arrive.'
'Why can't papa marry us,' pouted Kitty, in an aggrieved tone.
'My dear child,' said the Frenchman, getting on his knees and coming
close to her, 'in the first place, your father would not consent to
the match, as I am poor and unknown, and not by any means the man he
would choose for you; and in the second place, being a Catholic,'--
here M. Vandeloup looked duly religious--'I must be married by one
of my own priests.'
'Then why not in Ballarat?' objected Kitty, still unconvinced.
'Because your father would never consent,' he whispered, putting his
arm round her waist; 'we must run away quietly, and when we are
married can ask his pardon and,' with a sardonic sneer, 'his
blessing.'
A delicious thrill passed through Kitty when she heard this. A real
elopement with a handsome lover--just like the heroines in the story
books. It was delightfully romantic, and yet there seemed to be
something wrong about it. She was like a timid bather, longing to
plunge into the water, yet hesitating through a vague fear. With a
quick catching of the breath she turned to Vandeloup, and saw him
with his burning scintillating eyes fastened on her face.
'Don't look like that,' she said, with a touch of virginal fear,
pushing him away, 'you frighten me.'
'Frighten you, Bebe?' he said, in a caressing tone; 'my heart's
idol, you are cruel to speak like that; you must come with me, for I
cannot and will not leave you behind.'
'When do you go?' asked Kitty, who was now trembling violently.
'Ah!' M. Vandeloup was puzzled what to say, as he had no very
decided plan of action. He had not sufficient money saved to justify
him in leaving the Pactolus--still there were always possibilities,
and Fortune was fond of playing wild pranks. At the same time there
was nothing tangible in view likely to make him rich, so, as these
thoughts rapidly passed through his mind, he resolved to temporize.
'I can't tell you, Bebe,' he said, in a caressing tone, smoothing
her curly hair. 'I want you to think over what I have said, and when
I do go, perhaps in a month or so, you will be ready to come with
me. No,' he said, as Kitty was about to answer, 'I don't want you to
reply now, take time to consider, little one,' and with a smile on
his lips he bent over and kissed her tenderly.
They sat silently together for some time, each intent on their own
thoughts, and then Vandeloup suddenly looked up.
'Will Madame stay to dinner with you, Bebe?' he asked.
Kitty nodded.
'She always does,' she answered; 'you will come too.'
Vandeloup shook his head.
'I am going down to Ballarat to the Wattle Tree Hotel to see my
friend Pierre,' he said, in a preoccupied manner, 'and will have
something to eat there. Then I will come up again about eight
o'clock, in time to see Madame off.'
'Aren't you going back with her?' asked Kitty, in surprise, as they
rose to their feet.
'No,' he replied, dusting his knees with his hand, 'I stay all night
in Ballarat, with Madame's kind permission, to see the theatre. Now,
good-bye at present, Bebe,' kissing her, 'I will be back at eight
o'clock, so you can excuse me to Madame till then.'
He ran gaily down the hill waving his hat, and Kitty stood looking
after him with pride in her heart. He was a lover any girl might
have been proud of, but Kitty would not have been so satisfied with
him had she known what his real thoughts were.
'Marry!' he said to himself, with a laugh, as he walked gaily along;
'hardly! When we get to Melbourne, my sweet Bebe, I will find some
way to keep you off that idea--and when we grow tired of one
another, we can separate without the trouble or expense of a
divorce.'
And this heartless, cynical man of the world was the keeper into
whose hands innocent Kitty was about to commit the whole of her
future life.
After all, the fabled Sirens have their equivalent in the male sex,
and Homer's description symbolizes a cruel truth.
CHAPTER X
FRIENDS IN COUNCIL
The Wattle Tree Hotel, to which Mr McIntosh had directed Pierre, was
a quiet little public-house in a quiet street. It was far away from
the main thoroughfares of the city, and a stranger had to go up any
number of quiet streets to get to it, and turn and twist round
corners and down narrow lanes until it became a perfect miracle how
he ever found the hotel at all.
To a casual spectator it would seem that a tavern so difficult of
access would not be very good for business, but Simon Twexby, the
landlord, knew better. It had its regular customers, who came there
day after day, and sat in the little back parlour and talked and
chatted over their drinks. The Wattle Tree was such a quiet haven of
rest, and kept such good liquor, that once a man discovered it he
always came back again; so Mr Twexby did a very comfortable trade.
Rumour said he had made a lot of money out of gold-mining, and that
he kept the hotel more for amusement than anything else; but,
however this might be, the trade of the Wattle Tree brought him in a
very decent income, and Mr Twexby could afford to take things easy--
which he certainly did.
Anyone going into the bar could see old Simon--a stolid, fat man,
with a sleepy-looking face, always in his shirt sleeves, and wearing
a white apron, sitting in a chair at the end, while his daughter, a
sharp, red-nosed damsel, who was thirty-five years of age, and
confessed to twenty-two, served out the drinks. Mrs Twexby had long
ago departed this life, leaving behind her the sharp, red-nosed
damsel to be her father's comfort. As a matter of fact, she was just
the opposite, and Simon often wished that his daughter had departed
to a better world in company with her mother. Thin, tight-laced,
with a shrill voice and an acidulated temper, Miss Twexby was still
a spinster, and not even the fact of her being an heiress could
tempt any of the Ballarat youth to lead her to the altar.
Consequently Miss Twexby's temper was not a golden one, and she
ruled the hotel and its inmates--her father included--with a rod of
iron.
Mr Villiers was a frequent customer at the Wattle Tree, and was in
the back parlour drinking brandy and water and talking to old Twexby
on the day that Pierre arrived. The dumb man came into the bar out
of the dusty road, and, leaning over the counter, pushed a letter
under Miss Twexby's nose.
'Bills?' queried that damsel, sharply.
Pierre, of course, did not answer, but touched his lips with his
hand to indicate he was dumb. Miss Twexby, however, read the action
another way.
'You want a drink,' she said, with a scornful toss of her head.
'Where's your money?'
Pierre pointed out the letter, and although it was directed to her
father, Miss Twexby, who managed everything, opened it and found it
was from McIntosh, saying that the bearer, Pierre Lemaire, was to
have a bed for the night, meals, drinks, and whatever else he
required, and that he--McIntosh--would be responsible for the money.
He furthermore added that the bearer was dumb.
'Oh, so you're dumb, are you,' said Miss Twexby, folding up the
letter and looking complacently at Pierre. 'I wish there were a few
more men the same way; then, perhaps, we'd have less chat.'
This being undeniable, the fair Martha--for that was the name of the
Twexby heiress--without waiting for any assent, walking into the
back parlour, read the letter to her father, and waited
instructions, for she always referred to Simon as the head of the
house, though as a matter of fact she never did what she was told
save when it tallied with her own wishes.
'It will be all right, Martha, I suppose,' said Simon sleepily.
Martha asserted with decision that it would be all right, or she
would know the reason why; then marching out again to the bar, she
drew a pot of beer for Pierre--without asking him what he would
have--and ordered him to sit down and be quiet, which last remark
was rather unnecessary, considering that the man was dumb. Then she
sat down behind her bar and resumed her perusal of a novel called
The Duke's Duchesses, or The Milliner's Mystery,' which contained a
ducal hero with bigamistic proclivities, and a virtuous milliner
whom the aforesaid duke persecuted. All of which was very
entertaining and improbable, and gave Miss Twexby much pleasure,
judging from the sympathetic sighs she was heaving.
Meanwhile, Villiers having heard the name of Pierre Lemaire, and
knowing he was engaged in the Pactolus claim, came round to see him
and try to find out all about the nugget. Pierre was sulky at first,
and sat drinking his beer sullenly, with his old black hat drawn
down so far over his eyes that only his bushy black beard was
visible, but Mr Villiers' suavity, together with the present of
half-a-crown, had a marked effect on him. As he was dumb, Mr
Villiers was somewhat perplexed how to carry on a conversation with
him, but he ultimately drew forth a piece of paper, and sketched a
rough presentation of a nugget thereon, which he showed to Pierre.
The Frenchman, however, did not comprehend until Villiers produced a
sovereign from his pocket, and pointed first to the gold, and then
to the drawing, upon which Pierre nodded his head several times in
order to show that he understood. Villiers then drew a picture of
the Pactolus claim, and asked Pierre in French if the nugget was
still there, as he showed him the sketch. Pierre shook his head,
and, taking the pencil in his hand, drew a rough representation of a
horse and cart, and put a square box in the latter to show the
nugget was on a journey.
'Hullo!' said Villiers to himself, 'it's not at her own house, and
she's driving somewhere with it, I wonder where to?'
Pierre--who not being able to write, was in the habit of drawing
pictures to express his thoughts--nudged his elbow and showed him a
sketch of a man in a box waving his arms.
'Auctioneer?' hazarded Mr Villiers, looking at this keenly. Pierre
stared at him blankly; his comprehension of English was none of the
best, so he did not know what auctioneer meant. However, he saw that
Villiers did not understand, so he rapidly sketched an altar with a
priest standing before it blessing the people.
'Oh, a priest, eh?--a minister?' said Villiers, nodding his head to
show he understood. 'She's taken the nugget to show it to a
minister! Wonder who it is?'
This was speedily answered by Pierre, who, throwing down the pencil
and paper, dragged him outside on to the road, and pointed to the
white top of the Black Hill. Mr Villiers instantly comprehended.
'Marchurst, by God!' he said in English, smiting his leg with his
open hand. 'Is Madame there now?' he added in French, turning to
Pierre.
The dumb man nodded and slouched slowly back into the hotel.
Villiers stood out in the blazing sunshine, thinking.
'She's got the nugget with her in the trap,' he said to himself;
'and she's taken it to show Marchurst. Well, she's sure to stop
there to tea, and won't start for home till about nine o'clock: it
will be pretty dark by then. She'll be by herself, and if I--' here
he stopped and looked round cautiously, and then, without another
word, set off down the street at a run.
The fact was, Mr Villiers had come to the conclusion that as his
wife would not give him money willingly, the best thing to be done
would be to take it by force, and accordingly he had made up his
mind to rob her of the nugget that night if possible. Of course
there was a risk, for he knew his wife was a determined woman;
still, while she was driving in the darkness down the hill, if he
took her by surprise he would be able to stun her with a blow and
get possession of the nugget. Then he could hide it in one of the
old shafts of the Black Hill Company until he required it. As to the
possibility of his wife knowing him, there would be no chance of
that in the darkness, so he could escape any unpleasant inquiries,
then take the nugget to Melbourne and get it melted down secretly.
He would be able to make nearly twelve hundred pounds out of it, so
the game would certainly be worth the candle. Full of this brilliant
idea of making a good sum at one stroke, Mr Villiers went home, had
something to eat, and taking with him a good stout stick, the nob of
which was loaded with lead, he started for the Black Hill with the
intent of watching Marchurst's house until his wife left there, and
then following her down the hill and possessing himself of the
nugget.
The afternoon wore drowsily along, and the great heat made everybody
inclined to sleep. Pierre had demanded by signs to be shown his
bedroom, and having been conducted thereto by a crushed-looking
waiter, who drifted aimlessly before him, threw himself on the bed
and went fast asleep.
Old Simon, in the dimly-lit back parlour, was already snoring, and
only Miss Twexby, amid the glitter of the glasses in the bar and the
glare of the sunshine through the open door, was wide awake.
Customers came in for foaming tankards of beer, and sometimes a
little girl, with a jug hidden under her apron, would appear, with a
request that it might be filled for 'mother', who was ironing.
Indeed, the number of women who were ironing that afternoon, and
wanted to quench their thirst, was something wonderful; but Miss
Twexby seemed to know all about it as she put a frothy head on each
jug, and received the silver in exchange. At last, however, even
Martha the wide-awake was yielding to the somniferous heat of the
day when a young man entered the bar and made her sit up with great
alacrity, beaming all over her hard wooden face.
This was none other than M. Vandeloup, who had come down to see
Pierre. Dressed in flannels, with a blue scarf tied carelessly round
his waist, a blue necktie knotted loosely round his throat under the
collar of his shirt, and wearing a straw hat on his fair head, he
looked wonderfully cool and handsome, and as he leaned over the
counter composedly smoking a cigarette, Miss Twexby thought that the
hero of her novel must have stepped bodily out of the book. Gaston
stared complacently at her while he pulled at his fair moustache,
and thought how horribly plain-looking she was, and what a contrast
to his charming Bebe.
'I'll take something cool to drink,' he said, with a yawn, 'and also
a chair, if you have no objection,' suiting the action to the word;
'whew! how warm it is.'
'What would you like to drink, sir?' asked the fair Martha, putting
on her brightest smile, which seemed rather out of place on her
features; 'brandy and soda?'
'Thank you, I'll have a lemon squash if you will kindly make me
one,' he said, carelessly, and as Martha flew to obey his order, he
added, 'you might put a little curacoa in it.'
'It's very hot, ain't it,' observed Miss Twexby, affably, as she cut
up the lemon; 'par's gone to sleep in the other room,' jerking her
head in the direction of the parlour, 'but Mr Villiers went out in
all the heat, and it ain't no wonder if he gets a sunstroke.'
'Oh, was Mr Villiers here?' asked Gaston, idly, not that he cared
much about that gentleman's movements, but merely for something to
say.
'Lor, yes, sir,' giggled Martha, 'he's one of our regulars, sir.'
'I can understand that, Mademoiselle,' said Vandeloup, bowing as he
took the drink from her hand.
Miss Twexby giggled again, and her nose grew a shade redder at the
pleasure of being bantered by this handsome young man.
'You're a furriner,' she said, shortly; 'I knew you were,' she went
on triumphantly as he nodded, 'you talk well enough, but there's
something wrong about the way you pronounces your words.'
Vandeloup hardly thought Miss Twexby a mistress of Queen's English,
but he did not attempt to contradict her.
'I must get you to give me a few lessons,' he replied, gallantly,
setting down the empty glass; 'and what has Mr Villiers gone out
into the heat for?'
'It's more nor I can tell,' said Martha, emphatically, nodding her
head till the short curls dangling over her ears vibrated as if they
were made of wire. 'He spoke to the dumb man and drew pictures for
him, and then off he goes.'
The dumb man! Gaston pricked up his ears at this, and, wondering
what Villiers wanted to talk to Pierre about, he determined to find
out.
'That dumb man is one of our miners from the Pactolus,' he said,
lighting another cigarette; 'I wish to speak to him--has he gone out
also?'
'No, he ain't,' returned Miss Twexby, decisively; 'he's gone to lie
down; d'ye want to see him; I'll send for him--' with her hand on
the bell-rope.
'No, thank you,' said Vandeloup, stopping her, 'I'll go up to his
room if you will show me the way.'
'Oh, I don't mind,' said Martha, preparing to leave the bar, but
first ringing the bell so that the crushed-looking waiter might come
and attend to possible customers; 'he's on the ground floor, and
there ain't no stairs to climb--now what are you looking at, sir?'
with another gratified giggle, as she caught Vandeloup staring at
her.
But he was not looking at her somewhat mature charms, but at a bunch
of pale blue flowers, among which were some white blossoms she wore
in the front of her dress.
'What are these?' he asked, touching the white blossoms lightly with
his finger.
'I do declare it's that nasty hemlock!' said Martha, in surprise,
pulling the white flowers out of the bunch; 'and I never knew it was
there. Pah!' and she threw the blossom down with a gesture of
disgust. 'How they smell!'
Gaston picked up one of the flowers, and crushed it between his
fingers, upon which it gave out a peculiar mousy odour eminently
disagreeable. It was hemlock sure enough, and he wondered how such a
plant had come into Australia.
'Does it grow in your garden?' he asked Martha.
That damsel intimated it did, and offered to show him the plant, so
that he could believe his own eyes.
Vandeloup assented eagerly, and they were soon in the flower garden
at the back of the house, which was blazing with vivid colours, in
the hot glare of the sunshine.
There you are,' said Miss Twexby, pointing to a corner of the garden
near the fence where the plant was growing; 'par brought a lot of
seeds from home, and that beastly thing got mixed up with them. Par
keeps it growing, though, 'cause no one else has got it. It's quite
a curiosity.'
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