by Fergus Hume
On this bright afternoon, when everything was bathed in sunshine, Mr Marchurst, instead of being outside and enjoying the beauties of Nature, was mewed up in his dismal little study, with curtains closely drawn to exclude the light, a cup of strong tea, and the Bible open at ‘The Lamentations of Jeremiah’. His room was lined with books, but they had not that friendly look books generally have, but, bound in dingy brown calf, looked as grim and uninviting as their contents, which were mostly sermons and cheerful anticipations of the bottomless pit. It was against Marchurst’s principles to gratify his senses by having nice things around him, and his whole house was furnished in the same dismal manner.
So far did he carry this idea of mortifying the flesh through the eyes that he had tried to induce Kitty to wear sad-coloured dresses and poke bonnets; but in this attempt he failed lamentably, as Kitty flatly refused to make a guy of herself, and always wore dresses of the lightest and gayest description.
Marchurst groaned over this display of vanity, but as he could do nothing with the obdurate Kitty, he allowed her to have her own way, and made a virtue of necessity by calling her his ‘thorn in the flesh’.
He was a tall thin man, of a bleached appearance, from staying so much in the dark, and so loosely put together that when he bowed he did not as much bend as tumble down from a height. In fact, he looked so carelessly fixed up that when he sat down he made the onlooker feel quite nervous lest he should subside into a ruin, and scatter his legs, arms, and head promiscuously all over the place. He had a sad, pale, eager-looking face, with dreamy eyes, which always seemed to be looking into the spiritual world. He wore his brown hair long, as he always maintained a man’s hair was as much his glory as a woman’s was hers, quoting Samson and Absalom in support of this opinion. His arms were long and thin, and when he gesticulated in the pulpit on Sundays flew about like a couple of flails, which gave him a most unhappy resemblance to a windmill. The ‘Lamentations of Jeremiah’ are not the most cheerful of reading, and Mr Marchurst, imbued with the sadness of the Jewish prophet, drinking strong tea and sitting in a darkened room, was rapidly sinking into a very dismal frame of mind, which an outsider would have termed a fit of the blues. He sat in his straight-backed chair taking notes of such parts of the ‘Lamentations’ as would tend to depress the spirits of the ‘Elect’ on Sunday, and teach them to regard life in a proper and thoroughly miserable manner.
He was roused from his dismal musings by the quick opening of the door of his study, when Kitty, joyous and gay in her white dress, burst like a sunbeam into the room.
“I wish, Katherine,” said her father, in a severe voice, “I wish you would not enter so noisily and disturb my meditations.”
“You’ll have to put your meditations aside for a bit,” said Kitty, disrespectfully, crossing to the window and pulling aside the curtains, “for Madame Midas and M. Vandeloup have come to see you.”
A flood of golden light streamed into the dusky room, and Marchurst put his hand to his eyes for a moment, as they were dazzled by the sudden glare.
“They’ve got something to show you, papa,” said Kitty, going back to the door: “a big nugget—such a size—as large as your head.”
Her father put his hand mechanically to his head to judge of the size, and was about to answer when Madame Midas, calm, cool, and handsome, entered the room, followed by Vandeloup, carrying a wooden box containing the nugget. It was by no means light, and Vandeloup was quite thankful when he placed it on the table.
“I hope I’m not disturbing you, Mr Marchurst,” said Madame, sitting down and casting a glance at the scattered papers, the cup of tea, and the open Bible, “but I couldn’t help gratifying my vanity by bringing the new nugget for you to see.”
“It’s very kind of you, I’m sure,” responded Mr Marchurst, politely, giving way suddenly in the middle as if he had a hinge in his back, which was his idea of a bow. “I hope this,” laying his hand on the box, “may be the forerunner of many such.”
“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 t
o 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.
