‘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.’
Vandeloup bent down and examined the plant, with its large, round, smooth, purple-spotted stem – its smooth, shining green leaves, and the tiny white flowers with their disagreeable odour.
‘Yes, it is hemlock,’ he said, half to himself; ‘I did not know it could be grown here. Some day, Mademoiselle,’ he said, turning to Miss Twexby and walking back to the house with her, ‘I will ask you to let me have some of the roots of that plant to make an experiment with.’
‘As much as you like,’ said the fair Martha, amiably; ‘it’s a nasty smelling thing. What are you going to make out of it?’
‘Nothing particular,’ returned Vandeloup, with a yawn, as they entered the house and stopped at the door of Pierre’s room. ‘I’m a bit of a chemist, and amuse myself with these things.’
‘You are clever,’ observed Martha, admiringly; ‘but here’s that man’s room – we didn’t give him the best’ – apologetically – ‘as miners are so rough.’
‘Mademoiselle,’ said Vandeloup, eagerly, as she turned to go, ‘I see there are a few blossoms of hemlock left in your flower there,’ touching it with his finger; ‘will you give them to me?’
Martha Twexby stared; surely this was the long-expected come at last – she had secured a lover; and such a lover – handsome, young, and gallant, – the very hero of her dreams. She almost fainted in delighted surprise, and unfastening the flowers with trembling fingers, gave them to Gaston. He placed them in a button-hole of his flannel coat, then before she could scream, or even draw back in time, this audacious young man put his arm round her and kissed her virginal lips. Miss Twexby was so taken by surprise, that she could offer no resistance, and by the time she had recovered herself, Gaston had disappeared into Pierre’s room and closed the door after him.
‘Well,’ she said to herself, as she returned to the bar, ‘if that isn’t a case of love at first sight, my name ain’t Martha Twexby,’ and she sat down in the bar with her nerves all of a flutter, as she afterwards told a female friend who dropped in sometimes for a friendly cup of tea.
Gaston closed the door after him, and found himself in a moderately large room, with one window looking on to the garden, and having a dressing-table with a mirror in front of it. There were two beds, one on each side, and on the farthest of these Pierre was sleeping heavily, not even Gaston’s entrance having roused him. Going over to him, Vandeloup touched him slightly, and with a spring the dumb man sat up in bed as if he expected to be arrested, and was all on the alert to escape.
‘It’s only I, my friend,’ said Gaston, in French, crossing over to the other bed and sitting on it. ‘Come here; I wish to speak to you.’
Pierre rose from his sleeping place, and, stumbling across the room, stood before Gaston with downcast eyes, his shaggy hair all tossed and tumbled by the contact with the pillow. Gaston himself coolly relit his cigarette, which had gone out, threw his straw hat on the bed, and then, curling one leg inside the other, looked long and keenly at Pierre.
‘You saw Madame’s husband to-day?’ he said sharply, still eyeing the slouching figure before him, that seemed so restless under his steady gaze.
Pierre nodded and shuffled his large feet.
‘Did he want to know about his wife?’
Another nod.
‘I thought so; and about the new nugget also, I presume?’
Still another nod.
‘Humph,’ thoughtfully. ‘He’d like to get a share of it, I’ve no doubt.’
The dumb man nodded violently; then, crossing over to his own bed, he placed the pillow in the centre of it, and falling on his knees, imitated the action of miners in working at the wash. Then he arose to his feet and pointed to the pillow.
‘I see,’ said M. Vandeloup, who had been watching this pantomime with considerable interest; ‘that pillow is the nugget of which our friend wants a share.’
Pierre assented; then, snatching up the pillow, he ran with it to the end of the room.
‘Oh,’ said Gaston, after a moment’s thought, ‘so he’s going to run away with it. A very good idea; but how does he propose to get it?’
Pierre dropped his pillow and pointed in the direction of the Black Hill.
‘Does he know it’s up there?’ asked Vandeloup; ‘you told him, I suppose?’ As Pierre nodded, ‘Humph! I think I can see what Mr Villiers intends to do – rob his wife as she goes home tonight.’
Pierre nodded in a half doubtful manner.
‘You’re not quite sure,’ interrupted M. Vandeloup, ‘but I am. He won’t stop at anything to get money. You stay all night in town?’
The dumb man assented.
‘So do I,’ replied Vandeloup; ‘it’s a happy coincidence, because I see a chance of our getting that nugget.’ Pierre’s dull eyes brightened, and he rubbed his hands together in a pleased manner.
‘Sit down,’ said Vandeloup, in a peremptory tone, pointing to the floor. ‘I wish to tell you what I think.’
Pierre obediently dropped on to the floor, where he squatted like a huge misshapen toad, while Vandeloup, after going to the door to see that it was closed, returned to the bed, sat down again, and, having lighted another cigarette, began to speak. All this precaution was somewhat needless, as he was talking rapidly in French, but then M. Vandeloup knew that walls have ears and possibly might understand foreign languages.
‘I need hardly remind you,’ said Vandeloup, in a pleasant voice, ‘that when we landed in Australia I told you that there was war between ourselves and society, and that, at any cost, we must try to make money; so far, we have only been able to earn an honest livelihood – a way of getting rich which you must admit is remarkably slow. Here, however, is a chance of making, if not a fortune, at least a good sum of money at one stroke. This M. Villiers is going to rob his wife, and his plan will no doubt be this: he will lie in wait for her, and when she drives slowly down the hill, he will spring on to the trap and perhaps attempt to kill her; at all events, he will seize the box containing the nugget, and try to make off with it. How he intends to manage it I cannot tell you – it must be left to the chapter of accidents; but,’ in a lower voice, bending forward, ‘when he does get the nugget we must obtain it from him.’
Pierre looked up and drew his hand across his throat.
‘Not necessarily,’ returned Vandeloup, coolly; ‘I know your adage, “dead men tell no tales,” but it is a mistake – they do, and to kill him is dangerous. No, if we stun him we can go off with the nugget, and then make our way to Melbourne, where we can get rid of it quietly. As to Madame Midas, if her husband allows her to live – which I think is unlikely – I will make our excuses to her for leaving the mine. Now, I’m going up to M. Marchurst’s house, so you can meet me at the top of the hill, at eight o’clock tonight. Madame will probably start at half-past eight or nine, so that will give us plenty of time to see what M. Villiers is going to do.’
They both rose to their feet. Then Vandeloup put on his hat, and, going to the glass, arranged his tie in as cool and nonchalant a manner as if he had been merely planning the details for a picnic instead of a possible crime. While admiring himself in the glass he caught sight of the bunch of flowers given to him by Miss Twexby, and, taking them from his coat, he turned round to Pierre, who stood watching him in his usual sullen manner.
‘Do you see these?’ he asked, touching the white blossoms with the cigarette he held between his fingers.
Pierre intimated that he did.
‘From the plant of these, my friend,’ said Vandeloup, looking at them critically, ‘I can prepare a vegetable poison as deadly as any of Caesar Borgia’s. It is a powerful narcotic, and leaves hardly any trace. Having been a medical student, you know,’ he went on, conversationally, ‘I made quite a study of toxicology, and the juice of this plant,’ touching the white flower, ‘has done me good service, although it was the cause of my exile to New Caledonia. Well,’ with a shrug of the shoulders as he put the flowers back in his coat, ‘it is always something to have in reserve; I did not know that I could get this plant here, my friend. But now that I have I will prepare a little of this poison, – it will always be useful in emergencies.’
Pierre looked steadily at the young man, and then slipping his hand behind his back he drew forth from the waistband of his trousers a long, sharp, cruel-looking knife, which for safety had a leather sheath. Drawing this off, the dumb man ran his thumb along the keen edge, and held the knife out towards Vandeloup, who refused it with a cynical smile.
‘You don’t believe in this, I can see,’ he said, touching the dainty bunch of flowers as Pierre put the knife in its sheath again and returned it to its hiding-place. ‘I’m afraid your ideas are still crude – you believe in the good old-fashioned style of blood-letting. Quite a mistake, I assure you; poison is much more artistic and neat in its work, and to my mind involves less risk. You see, my Pierre,’ he continued, lazily watching the blue wreaths of smoke from his cigarette curl round his head, ‘crime must improve with civilization; and since the Cain and Abel epoch we have refined the art of murder in a most wonderful manner – decidedly we are becoming more civilized; and now, my friend,’ in a kind tone, laying his slender white hand on the shoulder of the dumb man, ‘you must really take a little rest, for I have no doubt but what you will need all your strength tonight should M. Villiers prove obstinate. Of course,’ with a shrug, ‘if he does not succeed in getting the nugget, our time will be simply wasted, and then,’ with a gay smile, touching the flowers, ‘I will see what I can do in the artistic line.’
Pierre lay down again on the bed, and turning his face to the wall fell fast asleep, while M. Vandeloup, humming a merry tune, walked gaily out of the room to the bar, and asked Miss Twexby for another drink.
‘Brandy and soda this time, please,’ he said, lazily lighting another cigarette; ‘this heat is so enervating, and I’m going to walk up to Black Hill. By the way, Mademoiselle,’ he went on, as she opened the soda water, ‘as I see there are two beds in my friend’s room I will stay here all night.’
‘You shall have the best room,’ said Martha, decisively, as she handed him the brandy and soda.
‘You are too kind,’ replied M. Vandeloup, coolly, as he took the drink from her, ‘but I prefer to stay with my silent friend. He was one of the sailors in the ship when I was wrecked, as you have no doubt heard, and looks upon me as a sort of fetish.’
Miss Twexby knew all about the wreck, and thought it was beautiful that he should condescend to be so friendly with a common sailor. Vandeloup received all her speeches with a polite smile, then set down his empty glass and prepared to leave.
‘Mademoiselle,’ he said, touching the flowers, ‘you see I still have them – they will remind me of you,’ and raising his hat he strolled idly out of the hotel, and went off in the direction of the Black Hill.
Miss Twexby ran to the door, and shading her eyes with her hands from the blinding glare of the sun, she watched him lounging along the street, tall, slender, and handsome.
‘He’s just lovely,’ she said to herself, as she returned to the bar ‘but his eyes are so wicked; I don’t think he’s a good young man.’
What would she have said if she had heard the conversation in the bedroom?
CHAPTER XI. – THEODORE WOPPLES, ACTOR
Mr Villiers walked in a leisurely manner along the lower part of the town, with the intent of going up to his destination through the old mining gully. He took this route for two reasons – first, because the afternoon was hot, and it was easier climbing up that way than going by the ordinary road; and, second, on his journey through the chasm he would be able to mark some place where he could hide the nugget. With his stick under his arm, Mr Villiers trudged merrily along in a happy humour, as if he was bent on pleasure instead of robbery. And after all, as he said to himself, it could not be called a genuine robbery, as everything belonging to his wife was his by right of the marriage service, and he was only going to have his own again. With this comfortable thought he climbed slowly up the broken tortuous path which led to the Black Hill, and every now and then would pause to rest, and admire the view.
It was now nearly six o’clock, and the sun was sinking amid a blaze of splendour. The whole of the western sky was a sea of shimmering gold, and this, intensified near the horizon to almost blinding brightness, faded off towards the zenith of the sky into a delicate green, and thence melted imperceptibly into a cold blue.
Villiers, however, being of the earth, earthy, could not be troubled looking very long at such a common-place sight as a sunset; the same thing occurred every evening, and he had more important things to do than to waste his time gratifying his artistic eye. Arriving on the plateau of earth just in front of the gully, he was soon entering the narrow gorge, and tramped steadily along in deep thought, with bent head and wrinkled brows. The way being narrow, and Villiers being preoccupied, it was not surprising that as a man was coming down in the opposite direction, also preoccupied, they should run against one another. When this took place it gave Mr Villiers rather a start, as it suggested a possible witness to the deed he contemplated, a thing for which he was by no means anxious.
‘Really, sir,’ said the stranger, in a rich, rolling voice, and in a dignified tone, ‘I think you might look where you are going. From what I saw of you, your eyes were not fixed on the stars, and thus to cause your unwatched feet to stumble; in fact,’ said the speaker, looking up to the sky, ‘I see no stars whereon you could fix your gaze.’
This somewhat strange mode of remonstrance was delivered in a solemn manner, with appropriate gestures, and tickled Mr Villiers so much that he leaned up against a great rock abutting on the path, and laughed long and loudly.
‘That is right, sir,’ said the stranger, approvingly; ‘laughter is to the soul what food is to the body. I think, sir,’ in a Johnsonian manner, ‘the thought is a happy one.’
Villiers assented with a nod, and examined the speaker attentively. He was a man of medium height, rather portly than otherwise, with a clean-shaved face, clearly-cut features, and two merry grey eyes, which twinkled like stars as they rested on Villiers. His hair was greyish, and inclined to curl, but could not follow its natural inclination owing to the unsparing use of the barber’s shears. He wore a coat and trousers of white flannel, but no waistcoat; canvas shoes were on his feet, and a juvenile straw hat was perched on his iron-grey hair, the rim of which encircled his head like a halo of glory. He had small, well-shaped hands, one of which grasped a light cane, and the other a white silk pocket handkerchief, with which he frequently wiped his brow. He seemed very hot, and, leaning on the opposite side of the path against a rock, fanned himself first with his handkerchief and then with his hat, all the time looking at Mr Villiers with a beaming smile. At last he took a silver-mounted flask from his pocket and offered it to Villiers, with a pleasant bow.
‘It’s very hot, you know,’ he said, in his rich voice, as Villiers accepted the flask.
‘What, this?’ asked Villiers, indicating the flask, as he slowly unscrewed the top.
‘No; the day, my boy, the day. Ha! ha! ha!’ said the lively stranger, going off into fits of laughter, which vibrated like small thunder amid the high rocks surrounding them. ‘Good line for a comedy, I think. Ha! ha! – gad, I’ll make a note of it,’ and diving into one of the pockets of his coat, he produced therefrom an old letter, on the back of which he inscribed the witticism with the stump of a pencil.
Meanwhile Villiers, thinking the flask contained brandy, or at least whisky, took a long drink of it, but found to his horror it was merely a weak solution of sherry and water.
‘Oh, my poor stomach,’ he gasped, taking the flask from his lips.
‘Colic?’ inquired the stranger with a pleasant smile, as he put back the letter and pencil, ‘hot water fomentations are what you need. Wonderful cure. Will bring you to life again though you were at your last gasp. Ha!’ struck with a sudden idea, ‘“His Last Gasp”, good title for a melodrama – mustn’t forget that,’ and out came the letter and the pencil again.
Mr Villiers explained in a somewhat gruff tone that it was not colic, but that his medical attendant allowed him to drink nothing but whisky.
‘To be taken twenty times a day, I presume,’ observed the stranger, with a wink; ‘no offence meant, sir,’ as Villiers showed a disposition to resent this, ‘merely a repartee. Good for a comedy, I fancy; what do you think?’
‘I think,’ said Mr Villiers, handing him back the flask, ‘that you’re very eccentric.’
‘Eccentric?’ replied the other, in an airy tone, ‘not at all, sir. I’m merely a civilized being with the veneer off. I am not hidden under an artificial coat of manner. No, I laugh – ha! ha! I skip, ha! ha!’ with a light trip on one foot. ‘I cry,’ in a dismal tone. ‘In fact, I am a man in his natural state – civilized sufficiently, but not over civilized.’
‘What’s your name?’ asked Mr Villiers, wondering whether the portly gentleman was mad.
For reply the stranger dived into another pocket, and, bringing to light a long bill-poster, held it up before Mr Villiers.
‘Read! mark! and inwardly digest!’ he said in a muffled tone behind the bill.
This document set forth in red, black, and blue letters, that the celebrated Wopples Family, consisting of twelve star artistes, were now in Ballarat, and would that night appear at the Academy of Music in their new and original farcical comedy, called ‘The Cruet-Stand’. Act I: Pepper! Act II: Mustard! Act III: Vinegar.
‘You, then,’ said Villiers, after he had perused this document, ‘are Mr Wopples?’
‘Theodore Wopples, at your service,’ said that gentleman, rolling up the bill, then putting it into his pocket, he produced therefrom a batch of tickets. ‘One of these,’ handing a ticket to Villiers, ‘will admit you to the stalls tonight, where you will see myself and the children in “The Cruet-Stand”.’
‘Rather a peculiar title, isn’t it?’ said Villiers, taking the ticket.
‘The play is still more peculiar, sir,’ replied Mr Wopples, restoring the bulky packet of tickets to his pocket, ‘dealing as it does with the adventures of a youth who hides his father’s will in a cruet stand, which is afterwards annexed by a comic bailiff.’
‘But isn’t it rather a curious thing to hide a will in a cruet stand?’ asked Villiers, smiling at the oddity of the idea.
‘Therein, sir, lies the peculiarity of the play,’ said Mr Wopples, grandly. ‘Of course the characters find out in Act I that the will is in the cruet stand; in Act II, while pursuing it, they get mixed up with the bailiff’s mother-in-law; and in Act III,’ finished Mr Wopples, exultingly, ‘they run it to earth in a pawnshop. Oh, I assure you it is a most original play.’
‘Very,’ assented the other, dryly; ‘the author must be a man of genius – who wrote it?’
‘It’s a translation from the German, sir,’ said Mr Wopples, taking a drink of sherry and water, ‘and was originally produced in London as “The Pickle Bottle”, the will being hidden with the family onions. In Melbourne it was the success of the year under the same title. I,’ with an air of genius, ‘called it “The Cruet Stand”.’
‘Then how did you get a hold of it,’ asked Villiers.
‘My wife, sir,’ said the actor, rolling out the words in his deep voice. ‘A wonderful woman, sir; paid a visit to Melbourne, and there, sir, seated at the back of the pit between a coal-heaver and an apple-woman, she copied the whole thing down.’
‘But isn’t that rather mean?’
‘Certainly not,’ retorted Wopples, haughtily; ‘the opulent Melbourne managers refuse to let me have their new pieces, so I have to take the law into my own hands. I’ll get all the latest London successes in the same way. We play “Ours” under the title of “The Hero’s Return, or the Soldier’s Bride”: we have done the “Silver King” as “The Living Dead”, which was an immense success.’
Villiers thought that under such a contradictory title it would rather pique the curiosity of the public.
‘To-morrow night,’ pursued Mr Wopples, ‘we act “Called Back”, but it is billed as “The Blind Detective”; thus,’ said the actor, with virtuous scorn, ‘do we evade the grasping avarice of the Melbourne managers, who would make us pay fees for them.’
‘By the way,’ said Mr Wopples, breaking off suddenly in a light and airy manner, ‘as I came down here I saw a lovely girl – a veritable fairy, sir – with golden hair, and a bright smile that haunts me still. I exchanged a few remarks with her regarding the beauty of the day, and thus allegorically referred to the beauty of herself – a charming flight of fancy, I think, sir.’
‘It must have been Kitty Marchurst,’ said Villiers, not attending to the latter portion of Mr Wopples’ remarks.
‘Ah, indeed,’ said Mr Wopples, lightly, ‘how beautiful is the name of Kitty; it suggests poetry immediately – for instance:
Kitty, ah Kitty, You are so pretty, Charming and witty, That ‘twere a pity I sung not this ditty In praise of my Kitty.
On the spur of the moment, sir, I assure you; does it not remind you of Herrick?’
Mr Villiers bluntly said it did not.
‘Ah! perhaps it’s more like Shakespeare?’ observed the actor, quite unabashed. ‘You think so?’
Mr Villiers was doubtful, and displayed such anxiety to get away that Mr Wopples held out his hand to say goodbye.
‘You’ll excuse me, I know,’ said Mr Wopples, in an apologetic tone, ‘but the show commences at eight, and it is now half-past six. I trust I shall see you tonight.’
‘It’s very kind of you to give me this ticket,’ said Villiers, in whom the gentlemanly instinct still survived.
‘Not at all; not at all,’ retorted Mr Wopples, with a wink. ‘Business, my boy, business. Always have a good house first night, so must go into the highways and byways for an audience. Ha! Biblical illustration, you see;’ and with a gracious wave of his hand he skipped lightly down the path and disappeared from sight.
It was now getting dark; so Mr Villiers went on his own way, and having selected a mining shaft where he could hide the nugget, he climbed up to the top of the hill, and lying down under the shadow of a rock where he could get a good view of Marchurst’s house, he waited patiently till such time as his wife would start for home.
‘I’ll pay you out for all you’ve done,’ he muttered to himself, as he lay curled up in the black shadow like a noisome reptile. ‘Tit for tat, my lady! – tit for tat!’