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,