 
Transcriber's Notes:
MISS MEPHISTOPHELES.A NOVEL. | ||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
CONTENTS | |
| CHAP. | |
| I. | Faces in the Fire |
| II. | Keith meets with an Adventure |
| III. | Prince Carnival |
| IV. | Lazarus |
| V. | A Woman's Appeal |
| VI. | The Annoyance of Hiram J. Fenton |
| VII. | Mirth and Laughter |
| VIII. | A Mysterious Affair |
| IX. | An Unknown Benefactor |
| X. | Naball makes a Discovery |
| XI. | What Naball overheard |
| XII. | Naball tells a Story |
| XIII. | The Gossip of Clubs |
| XIV. | A Struggle for Fame |
| XV. | The Russell Street Crime |
| XVI. | The Inquest |
| XVII. | A Council of Three |
| XVIII. | Circumstantial Evidence |
| XIX. | A Lovers' Meeting |
| XX. | The Rivals |
| XXI. | A First Night at the Bon-Bon |
| XXII. | EugÉnie v. Naball |
| XXIII. | The Cypher |
| XXIV. | What Kitty knew |
| XXV. | The Evidence of a Bank Note |
| XXVI. | On The Track |
| XXVII. | Meg proves Useful |
| XXVIII. | Malton makes a Discovery |
| XXIX. | Light at Last |
| XXX. | Exit Kitty Marchurst |
MISS MEPHISTOPHELES.
CHAPTER I.
FACES IN THE FIRE.
A wet Sunday--dreary, dismal, and infinitely sloppy. Even the bells ringing the people into evening service seemed to feel the depressing influence of the weather, and their brazen voices sounded hoarse and grumbling, as if they rang under protest. Cold, too!--not a brisk sharp frost--for here in Melbourne frost and snow are unknown; but a persevering, insinuating, gnawing cold, just disagreeable enough to make one shiver and shake with anxiety to get home to a bright fire and dry clothes. Overhead a leaden-coloured sky, with great masses of black clouds, from out whose sombre bosoms poured the steady rain, splashing noisily on the shining roofs, and swelling the gutters in the streets to miniature torrents.
And then the wind,--a gusty, chilly wind,--that came along unexpectedly, and drove the unwilling rain against the umbrellas of struggling pedestrians, or else took a mean advantage of its power, and turned their umbrellas inside out, with a shrill whistle of triumph. The steady light streamed out from the painted church windows, and the dull, blurred glare of the street lamps was reflected in the wet pavements. Ugh! a night not fit for a dog to be out in, and yet there were a good many people hurrying along to the church, in answer to the clamorous voices of the bells.
Some folk, however--wise in their generation--preferred staying at home to sitting in church, with damp boots and a general sense of stickiness about their clothes, and though possibly their souls suffered from such an omission, their bodies were certainly more comfortable. Among these godless people, who thus preferred comfort to religion, were two young men occupying a room on a first floor, the windows of which looked across to the church, now full of damp and steaming worshippers.
A room in a boarding-house--especially one where boarders only pay twenty-five shillings a week--is not generally a very luxurious apartment, and this special room was certainly no exception to the rule. It was square, with a fairly lofty ceiling, and the walls were covered with a dull red paper, which, being mellowed by time, had assumed a somewhat rusty hue.
It was rapidly growing dark outside, and there was no light in the room, save that which came from a roaring coal fire blazing brightly up the chimney, and illuminating the apartment in a curiously fantastic manner. It sent out red shafts of light into dark corners, as if to find out what was hidden there, and then being disappointed, would sink back into a dull, sulky glow, only to fall into a chaotic mass, and blaze merrily up once more.
The apartment wherein the fire played these elfish tricks was furnished comfortably, but the furniture had a somewhat dingy look. The carpet was threadbare, except under the table, where there could be traced some vestiges of its original pattern. A cottage piano was pushed into a corner slanting ways, and beside it was a great untidy pile of music. At one end of the room, a desk covered with papers, and immediately above it a shelf containing a small array of well-worn books. Near the desk stood an aggravatingly bright sideboard, whereon were some glasses, a jug of water, and a half-empty bottle of whisky. Four or five lounging chairs of wicker-work were scattered about, covered with rugs of wallaby fur, whilst the walls and mantelpiece were almost covered with photographs, mostly of women, but here and there a male face, showing the well-known features of Beethoven, Chopin, and other famous musicians.
This somewhat incongruous apartment was a private sitting-room in an East Melbourne boarding-house, and was at present in the occupation of Ezra Lazarus, journalist. Ezra Lazarus himself was seated at the piano playing snatches of music, while on the hearth-rug, smoking a pipe, lay a man propped up on his elbow, with his head resting on his hand, staring into the burning coals, and listening to his friend playing.
Ezra Lazarus was a young man of medium height, with a slender figure, a pale face, rather dreamy, dark eyes, and black hair and beard carefully trimmed. He dressed neatly, and, in contrast to most of his race, wore no jewellery. Why he had become a journalist no one knew,--himself least of all,--as his tastes did not lie in the direction of newspaper work, for having all the Hebraic love of music, he was an accomplished pianist. As for the rest--staid in his demeanour, soft-spoken in his language, and much given to solitary wanderings. Yet he was no misanthrope, and those who knew him intimately found him a most charming companion, full of quaint ideas and bookish lore, but he was essentially a man of ideality, and shrank from contact with the work-a-day world. For such a nature as this a journalistic sphere was most unsuitable, and he felt it to be so, but having drifted into such a position, he lacked the energy to extricate himself from his uncongenial employment, and accepted his fate with oriental apathy, recompensing himself in some measure by giving every spare moment to the study of music.
The man lying before the fire was the direct opposite of Ezra, both in appearance and temperament. A tall, sinewy-figured young fellow of six-and-twenty, with restless keen grey eyes under strongly-marked eyebrows, and a sensitive mouth, almost hidden by a small fair moustache. His nose was thin and straight, with delicately-cut nostrils, and his head was well set on his broad shoulders, albeit he had a trick of throwing it back which gave him a somewhat haughty carriage. He had a fair complexion, with that reddish-brown hue which comes from constantly living in the open air, and altogether looked like a man addicted to sport rather than to study.
This was Keith Stewart, who, having passed most of his life in Gippsland, and in wandering about Australia generally, had a year previously come down to Melbourne with the laudable intention of devoting himself to literature. That he was poor might be surmised from his shabby, well-brushed clothes, and his face constantly wore that expression of watchfulness habitual to those who have to fight the world in their youth and be on their guard against everyone.
That two such dissimilar natures as these could find any reciprocity appears strange, but curiously enough some undercurrent of sympathy had drawn them together from the first time they met. Jew and Gentile, musician and student, different nationalities, different trains of thought, yet the mere fact that they could both live in an ideal world of their own creation, heedless of the restless life which seethed around, seemed to form a bond of concord between them, and their mutual isolation drew them almost imperceptibly together.
Keith had only been boarding in the house a week, consequently Ezra knew nothing about his friend's life, beyond the fact that he was poor and ambitious. As Stewart never volunteered any information about himself, Ezra, with the delicacy of a sensitive nature, shrank from forcing himself on his confidence. The inexhaustible subjects of books and music, a walk by the banks of the Yarra, or an occasional visit to the theatre, had been, so far, the limit of their social companionship. Their inner selves were still unknown to each other. To all, however, there comes a moment when the desire to unburden the mind to a sympathetic nature is strong, and it was in such a moment that Ezra Lazarus first learned the past life of Stewart.
On this dreary Sunday night Ezra let his fingers wander over the piano, vaguely following his thoughts, and the result was a queer mingling of melodies--now a bizarre polonaise of Chopin, with its fantastic blending of patriotic joy and despairing pain, then a rush of stormy chords, preluding a Spanish dance, instinct with the amorous languor and fierce passion of the south. Outside, the shrill wind could be heard sweeping past, a sheet of rain would lash wildly against the windows, and at intervals the musical thunder of the organ sounded from the adjacent church.
Keith smoked away steadily and listened drowsily to the pleasant mingling of sounds, until Ezra began to play the Traviata music, with its feverish brilliancy and undercurrent of sadness. Then he suddenly started, clenched his hand, and taking his pipe from his mouth, heaved an impatient sigh, upon hearing which, Lazarus stopped playing, and turned slowly round.
"A link of memory?" he said, in his soft voice, referring to the music.
Stewart replaced his pipe, blew a thick wreath of smoke, and sighed again.
"Yes," he replied, after a pause; "it recalls to me--a woman."
Ezra laughed half sadly, half mockingly.
"Always the Eternal feminine of George Sand."
Keith sat up cross-legged in front of the fire and shrugged his shoulders.
"Don't be cynical old chap," he said, glancing round; "I'm sick of hearing the incessant railing against women--good heavens! are we men so pure ourselves, that we can afford to cast stones against the sex to which our mothers and sisters belong."
"I did not mean to be cynical," replied Ezra, clasping his hands round one of his knees, "I only quoted Sand, because when a man is thinking, it is generally--a woman.
"Or a debt--or a crime--or a sorrow," interposed the other quickly; "we can ring the changes on all of them."
"Who is cynical now?" asked the Jew, with a smile.
"Not I," denied Keith, emphatically, drawing hard at his pipe; "or if I am, it is only that thin veneer of cynicism, under which we hide our natural feelings now-a-days; but the music took me back to the time when 'Plancus was consul'--exactly twelve months ago."
"Bah! Plancus is consul still; don't be downhearted, my friend; you are still in the pleasant city of Prague."
"Pleasant? that is as it may be. I think it a very disagreeable city without money. Bohemianism is charming in novels, but in real life it is generally a hunt after what Murger calls that voracious animal, the half-crown."
"And after women!"
"Ah, bah! Lais and Phryne; both charming, but slightly improper, not to say expensive."
"Take the other side of the shield," said the Jew gently.
"Lucretia, and--and--by Jove, I can't recollect the name of any other virtuous woman."
"Who is the lady of the music?"
"My affianced wife," retorted Stewart curtly.
"Ah!" said Ezra thoughtfully, "then we have a feeling in common, I am also engaged."
Stewart laughed gaily.
"And we both think our lady-loves perfect," he said lightly. "'Dulcinea is the fairest woman in the world,'--poor Don Quixote."
"Mine is to me," said Ezra emphatically.
"Of course," answered Stewart, with a smile. "I can picture her, tall, dark, and stately, an imperial daughter of Judah, with the beauty of Bathsheba and the majesty of Esther."
"Entirely wrong," replied Lazarus dryly, "she is neither tall, dark, nor stately, but--"
"The exact opposite--I take your meaning," said Keith composedly; "well, my Dulcinea is like the sketch I have given--beautiful, clever, poor, and--a governess."
"And you haven't seen her for a year?"
"No--a whole twelvemonth--she is up Sandhurst way trying to hammer dates and the rule of three into the thick heads of five small brats, and I--well I'm an unsuccessful literary man, doing what is vulgarly known as 'a perish.'"
"What made you take up writing?" asked Lazarus.
"What made me take up writing?" repeated Stewart, staring vaguely into the fire. "Lord knows--destiny, I suppose--I've had a queer sort of life altogether. I was born of poor but honest parents, quite the orthodox style of thing, isn't it?"
"Are your parents alive?"
"Dead!" laconically.
There was a pause of a few moments, during which time Keith was evidently deep in thought.
"According to Sir Walter Scott," he observed at length, "every Scotchman has a pedigree. I've got one as long as the tail of a kite, only not so useful. I'd sell all my ancestors, as readily as Charles Surface did his, for a few pounds. My people claim to be connected with the royal Stewarts."
"Your name is spelt differently."
"It's spelt correctly," retorted Keith coolly, "in the good old Scottish fashion; as for the other, it's the French method acclimatised by Mary Stuart when she married the Dauphin of France."
"Well, now I know your pedigree, what is the story of your life?"
"My life?--oh! I'm like Canning's knife-grinder. 'Story, I've got none to tell.' My father and mother found royal descent was not bread and butter, so they sold the paternal acres and came out to Australia, where I was born. The gold fever was raging then, but I suppose they inherited the bad luck of the Stewarts, for they did not make a penny; then they started a farm in Gippsland and ruined themselves. My father died of a broken heart, and my mother soon followed, so I was left an orphan with next to nothing. I wandered all over Australia, and did anything that turned up. Suppressing the family pride, I took a situation in a Sandhurst store, kept by a man called Proggins, and there I met EugÉnie Rainsford, who, as I told you, taught the juvenile Progginses. I had a desultory sort of education from my father, and having read a good deal, I determined to take to literature, inspired, I suppose, by the poetic melancholy of the Australian bush. I wrote poetry with the usual success; I then went on the stage, and found I wasn't a heaven-born genius by any means, so I became a member of the staff of a small country paper, wrote brilliant articles about the weather and crops, varied by paste-and-scissors' work. Burned the midnight oil, and wrote some articles, which were accepted in Melbourne, so, with the usual prudence of genius, I threw up my billet and came down here to set the Thames, or rather the Yarra, on fire. Needless to remark, I didn't succeed or I shouldn't be here, so there is my history in a nutshell."
"And Miss Rainsford?"
"Oh, I engaged myself to her before I left Sandhurst," said Keith, his face growing tender, "bless her--the letters she has written me have been my bulwark against despair--ah! what a poor devil a man is in this world without a good woman's love to comfort him."
"Are you doing anything now?" said Ezra thoughtfully.
"Nothing. I'm leading a hand-to-mouth, here-to-day-gone-to-morrow existence. I'm a vagabond on the face of the earth, a modern Cain, Bonnie Prince Charlie in exile--the infernal luck of my royal ancestors still sticks to me, but, ah, bah!" shrugging his shoulders, "don't let's talk any more, old chap, we can resume the subject to-morrow, meanwhile play me something. I'm in a poetic mood, and would like to build castles in the air."
Ezra laughed, and, turning to the piano, began to play one of Henselt's morceaux, a pathetic, dreamy melody, which came stealing softly through the room, and filled the soul of the young man with vague yearnings.
Staring idly into the heart of the burning coals, he saw amid the bluish flames and red glimmer of the fire a vision of the dear dead days of long ago--shadows appeared, the shadows of last year.
A glowing sunset, bathing a wide plain in delicate crimson hues; a white gate leading to a garden bright with flowers, and over the gate the shadow of a beautiful woman stood talking to the shadow of a man--himself. Mnenosyne--saddest of deities--waved her wand, and the shadows talked.
"And when will you come back, Keith?" asked the girl shadow.
"When I am a great man," replied the other shadow proudly. "I am riding forth like Poe's knight in search of El Dorado."
"El Dorado is far away," returned the sweet voice of the girl; "it is the Holy Grail of wealth, and can never be discovered."
"I will find it," replied the man shadow hopefully. "Meanwhile, you will wait and hope."
"I will wait and hope," replied the girl, smiling sadly; and the shadows parted.
The rain beat steadily against the panes, the soft music stole through the room, and Stewart, with idle gaze, stared into the burning heart of the fire, as if he expected to find there the El Dorado of his dreams.
CHAPTER II.
KEITH MEETS WITH AN ADVENTURE.
After a storm comes a calm; so next morning the sun was shining brightly in the blue sky, and the earth had that clean, wholesome appearance always to be seen after heavy rains. The high wind had dried the streets, the drenched foliage of the trees in the Fitzroy Gardens looked fresh and green, and there was a slight chilliness in the atmosphere which was highly invigorating. Indeed, it was like a spring morning, mildly inspiriting; whilst all around there seemed to be a pleasant sense of new-born gladness quickening both animal and vegetable life.
After breakfast, Ezra, who was going to the office of The Penny Whistle. the paper for which he worked, asked Keith to walk into town with him, and, as the young man had nothing particular to do, he gladly assented. They strolled slowly through the gardens, admiring the glistening green of the trees, the white statues sharply accentuated against their emerald back-ground, and the vivid dashes of bright colour given by the few flowers then in bloom.
Stewart appeared to have quite recovered from his megrims of the previous night, and strolled gaily along, every now and then inhaling a long breath of the keen air. Ezra, who was watching him closely, saw from his actions his intense appreciation of his surroundings, and was satisfied that the young man possessed in a high degree that poetical instinct which has such an affinity with the joyousness or gloom of Nature.
"Ah! this is a morning when it is good to live," said Keith brightly. "I always envied the satyrs and dryades of heathendom, with their intense animal enjoyment of Nature--not sensuality, but exuberant capability of enjoying a simple life."
"Like that with which Hawthorn endowed Donatallo?" suggested Ezra.
"Poor Donatallo!" said Stewart, with a sigh; "he is a delightful illustration of the proverb, 'Where ignorance is bliss'--he was happy till he loved--so was Undine till she obtained a soul."
"You seem to have read a great deal?" observed Lazarus, looking at him.
"Oh, faith; my reading has been somewhat desultory," replied Stewart carelessly. "All is fish that comes to my net, and the result is a queer jumble of information; but let us leave this pleasant gossiping, and come down to this matter-of-fact world. How do you think I can better my position?"
"I hardly know as yet," replied the Jew, thoughtfully caressing his beard; "but if you want immediate work, I can put you in the way of obtaining employment."
"Literary work?"
"Unfortunately no--a clerkship in a--a--well, an office."
"Ugh! I hate the idea of being cribbed and confined in an office; it's such an artificial existence. However, beggars can't be choosers, so tell me all about it."
"My father wants a clerk," said Ezra deliberately, "and if I recommended you I think you could get the position."
"Humph! And what is your father's occupation?"
"Not a very aristocratic one,--a pawnbroker."
Keith stopped short, and looked at his companion in surprise.
"I can't imagine you being the son of a pawnbroker," he said in a puzzled tone.
"Why not?" asked Ezra serenely. "I must be the son of some one."
"Yes; but a pawnbroker, it's so horribly un-poetical. Your father ought to have been a man of letters--of vague speculations and abstruse theories--a modern Rabbi Judah holding disputations about the Talmud."
Lazarus shrugged his shoulders, and walked slowly onward, followed by his companion.
"My dear lad, the days of Maimonides are past, and we are essentially a money-making race. The curse which Jehovah pronounced on the Jews was the same as that of Midas--they turn everything they touch into gold."
"A pleasant enough punishment."
"Midas did not find it so; but to resume--my father, Jacob Lazarus, has his shop in Russell Street, so I will speak to him to-day, and if he is agreeable, I will take you with me to-morrow. I've no doubt you'll get the billet, but the wages will be small."
"At all events, they will keep body and soul together till I find my El Dorado."
"You refer to literary fame, I suppose. How did you first take to writing?"
"I think you asked me that question last night," said Keith, smiling, "and I told you I couldn't explain. Like Pope, I lisped in numbers, and the numbers came. I've no doubt they were sufficiently bad. I'm sure I don't know why all authors begin with verse; perhaps it's because rhymes are so easy--fountain suggests mountain, and dove is invariably followed by love."
"Have you had any articles accepted since your arrival in Melbourne?"
"One or two, but generally speaking, no one acknowledges that a possible Shakespeare or Dickens is embodied in me. I've sent plays to managers, which have been declined on the plea that all plays come from London. I have seen editors, and have been told there was no room on the press--publishers have seen me, and pointed out that a colonial novel means ruination--encouraging for the future brainworkers of Australia, isn't it?"
"We must all serve our apprenticeship," answered Lazarus quietly. "The longest lane has a turning."
"No doubt; but my particular lane seems devilish long."
Ezra laughed, and they walked down Collins Street, watching the crowd of people hurrying along to business, the cabs darting here and there, and the cable tramcars sliding smoothly along. Pausing a moment near the Scotch Church, they heard a street organ playing a bright melody.
"What tune is that?" asked Keith, as they resumed their walk. "Sounds awfully pretty."
"Song from 'Prince Carnival,'" replied Ezra, referring to an opera then running at the Bon-Bon Theatre. "Caprice sings it."
"Oh, Caprice. I'd like to see that opera," said Keith. "You might take me to the theatre to-night to see it."
"Very well," assented Ezra. "You will like Caprice--she is very charming."
"And if rumour speaks truly, very wicked."
"Added to which, she is the best-hearted woman in the world," finished the Jew dryly.
"What a contradiction," laughed Stewart.
"Women are always contradictory--'tis a privilege of the sex."
"And one they take full advantage of."
This airy badinage came to an end somewhat abruptly, for just as they arrived near the Victoria Coffee Palace, they were startled by the shriek of a woman.
On the other side of the street a gaudily-dressed girl was crying and wringing her hands, while a child of about seven years of age was standing paralysed with fear directly in the way of a tram-car that came rushing down the incline. The two men stood horror-struck at what seemed to be the inevitable death of the child, for, though the driver put on the brakes, the speed was too great, and destruction appeared inevitable. Suddenly Keith seemed to recover the use of his limbs, and, with a sudden spring, bounded forward and tore the child off the fatal track, himself falling together with the child to the ground. He was not a moment too soon, for hardly had he fallen before the car at a slower speed rolled past, and ultimately came to a standstill at the foot of the incline.
Stewart arose to his feet considerably shaken, his clothes torn and covered with mud, and a painful feeling in the arm, on which he had fallen. Ezra crossed over to him, and the rescued child was standing on the footpath in the grasp of the gaudily-dressed girl who spoke volubly, regardless of the crowd of people standing by.
The conductor of the car came to inquire into the affair, and having found that no one was hurt, retired, and the tram was soon sliding down the street. The crowd dispersed gradually, until only the child, Ezra, Keith, and the shrill-voiced girl were left.
"Oh! gracious, good 'eavens!" said this young lady, who appeared to be a nursemaid, and spoke rapidly, without any stops; "to think as you should have bin nearly squashed by that ingine, and all comin' of runnin' out into the road, an' taking no notice of me as was postin' a letter in the pillar-box, not seeing anythin', thro' want of eyes at the back of me 'ead."
The child, a quaint, thin-faced little girl, with dark eyes and glorious reddish-coloured hair, took no notice of this outburst, but pulled Keith's coat to attract his attention.
"Thank you, man," she said, in a thin, reedy voice; "I will tell mumsey, and she will say nice things to you, and I will give you a kiss."
Keith was touched in his soft heart by this naÏve appeal, and, bending down, kissed the pale little face presented to him, much to the alarm of the nursemaid, who lifted up her hands in horror.
"Oh! gracious, good 'eavens!" she piped shrilly, "as to what your mar will say, Miss Megs, I don't know, a-kissin' strange gents in the h'open street; not but what he don't deserve it, a-dragin' you from under the ingine, as oughtn't to be let run to spile--"
"Hold your tongue, Bliggings," said Ezra sharply; "you ought to look more carefully after Meg, or she'll be killed some day."
"Oh! gracious and good 'eavens!" cried Bliggings sniffing, "if it ain't Mr. Lazarhouse; and, beggin' your pardon, sir, it ain't my fault, as is well known to you as children will 'ookit unbeknown't to the most wary."
"There, there," said Lazarus, bending down to kiss Meg; "least said, soonest mended; thanks to my friend here, it's no worse."
"Which he ought to git a meddler," asserted Miss Bliggings, on whose feminine heart Keith's handsome face had made an impression. "But, gracious and good 'eavens, they only gives 'em for drowndin', though I never lets Miss Megs go near water, ingines bein' unexpected in their actions, and not to be counted on in their movin's."
"Good-bye, Meg," said Lazarus, cutting short Bliggings in despair. "Tell your mamma I'll call and see her about this."
"And bring the man," said Meg, glancing at Keith.
"Yes, and bring the man," repeated Ezra, upon which Meg, being satisfied, made a quaint-like curtsey to both men, and was going away, when she suddenly came back, and pulling Keith's coat till he bent down, put her arms round his neck and kissed him.
"Mumsey will be nice," she murmured, and then trotted quietly off with Bliggings, who kept expressing her opinion that, "Oh! gracious, good 'eavens! she was red up to her eyes at such conduct," a somewhat unnecessary assertion, seeing her complexion was permanently the colour of beetroot.
"Come into Lane's Hotel and have a glass of brandy," said Ezra, when Meg and her attendant had disappeared; "you need it after the shaking you have had."
"What is the child's name?" asked Keith, as he went into the bar. "You seem to know her."
Ezra laughed softly, and ordered a glass of brandy for his friend.
"A curious way Fate has of working," he said, rather irrelevantly. "She has played into your hands to-day, for that child is Kitty Marchurst's, better known as 'Caprice.'"
"I didn't know she had a child," said Keith. "Who is the father? Is she married?"
"No, she is not married. As to the father, it's a long story; I'll tell you all about it some day. Meanwhile, you have done her a service she will never forget."
"Much good it will be to me," said Keith disbelievingly
"You've exactly hit it," replied Ezra composedly. "She can do you a great deal of good, seeing that she is the reigning favourite of the stage at present. I will introduce you to her to-night, and then--"
"Well?"
Ezra shrugged his shoulders, and replied slowly,--
"The best friend an ambitious man can have is a clever woman; a wiser man than I made that remark."
CHAPTER III.
PRINCE CARNIVAL.
The "Bon-Bon" was the smallest, prettiest, and most luxurious theatre in Melbourne, and was exclusively devoted to farcical comedy, burlesque, and opera-bouffe, the latter class of entertainment being now the attraction. There was no pit, the circle and boxes being raised but little above the level of the stalls. The decorations were pink, white, and gold, the seats being covered with pale, rose-coloured plush, with curtains and hangings to match, while the electric lights, shining through pink globes, gave quite a warm glow to the theatre. The dome was decorated with allegorical figures representing Momus, the God of laughter, and Apollo, the God of music, while all round the walls were exquisitely-painted medallions of scenes from celebrated operas and burlesques. The proscenium was a broad frame of dullish gold, the curtain of roseate plush, and on either side of the stage were life-size statues of Offenbach and PlanchÉ in white marble. Altogether, a charming theatre, more like a cosy drawing-room than a place of public entertainment.
At the entrance was a high flight of white marble stairs, leading to a wide corridor, the walls of which were hidden by enormous mirrors, and at intervals stood white marble statues of the Greek divinities, holding aloft electric lights. On the one side was the smoking-room,--a luxurious lounge,--and on the other a refreshment bar, all glass and glitter, which was crowded between the acts by the thirsty patrons of the play.
Ezra and Keith arrived about nine o'clock, just as the first act of "Prince Carnival" was over, and finding the salon tolerably full, Lazarus sat down near one of the small, marble-topped tables, and lighting his cigarette, proceeded to point out to Keith all the notabilities present.
The first to whom he called Stewart's attention was a group of three. One, a tall, portly-looking man, with a red, clean-shaven face and black hair, was irreproachably attired in evening dress, and chatted to a fair-haired youth with a supercilious smile, and a short, bald-headed old gentleman.
"You see those three?" said Ezra, indicating the group. "The dark man of the ponderous Samuel Johnson type is Ted Mortimer, the lessee of the theatre; the idiot with the eyeglass is Lord Santon, who has come out from London to see us barbarians, and the apoplectic party with the bald head is no less a personage than Mr. Columbus Wilks, the great globe-trotter, who is going to write a book about Australia and New Zealand."
"That will take him some time," observed Keith, with a smile.
"Not at all," said Lazarus coolly. "He will run through the whole of Australasia in a few weeks, be the guest of the governors of the different colonies, and then give his impressions of our government, politics, trade, amusements, and scenery in a series of brilliant articles, whose truth and accuracy will be quite in accordance with the time which he has taken to collect his materials."
"But he cannot judge of things so rapidly."
"Of course not; but he will view everything through the rose-coloured spectacles of champagne and adulation, so his book will depict our land as a kind of nineteenth-century Utopia."
"And Lord Santon?"
"An hereditary legislator, who is being fÊted for his title, and will go back to his ancestral halls with the firm conviction that we are a kind-hearted race of--savages."
"You are severe," said Keith, in an amused tone; "you ought to give a lecture, entitled 'Men I have noticed;' it would certainly draw."
"Yes, all the women, not the men; they don't care for hearing remarks about themselves; but there is the bell for the rising of the curtain, so we had better go to our seats."
They left the now empty salon, and went into the dress circle, which holds the same rank in the colonies as the stalls do in the London theatres. Though the house was crowded, they succeeded in getting excellent seats, being, in fact, those always reserved for the critics of The Penny Whistle. The orchestra played a lively waltz, to which the gods in the gallery kept time, and then the curtain drew up on a charming scene, representing a square in Rome.
"Prince Carnival" was one of those frivolous French operas with a slightly naughty plot, witty dialogue, brilliant music, and plenty of opportunity for gay dresses and picturesque scenery. The principals and chorus consisted mostly of girls, with just a sprinkling of men, so that their deeper voices might balance the shrillness of those of the women. Of the plot, the least said the better, as it was merely a string of intrigues, connected by piquant couplets and sparkling choruses, with occasional ballets intervening.
As far as Keith could gather, it had something to do with the adventures of the quack Cagliostra in Rome, who was the comic man of the play, and figured in various disguises, the most successful being that of a prominent politician. Cagliostra tries to gain the affections of a young girl beloved by a mountebank called Prince Carnival, who thwarts him all through the play. The second act was the carnival at Rome, and a crowd of masquers were singing a riotous chorus and pelting one another with flowers. Suddenly, during a lull in this fantastic medley, a high, clear voice was heard executing a brilliant shake, and immediately afterwards Caprice bounded gaily on to the stage, singing a melodious waltz song, to which the masquers moved in measured time.
She was dressed in a harlequin costume, a mask on her face, a fool's baton in her hand, and innumerable silver bells hanging from her cap and dress, which jingled incessantly as she danced. But what attracted Keith's attention were the diamonds she wore--several stars and a necklace. She seemed one splendid blaze of jewels, and his eyes ached watching their flash and glitter during the rapid gyrations of her restless figure.
"Are those paste jewels?" he asked Ezra, in a whisper.
"Paste!" echoed that young man, with a soft, satirical laugh. "Caprice wear paste jewels! Ask the men she's ruined where all their thousands went---where all their lands, horses, shares, salaries, disappeared to! Paste! Bah! my dear fellow, you don't know the number of ruined homes and broken hearts those diamonds represent."
The act proceeded; the dialogue scintillating with wit, and the choruses becoming more riotous. Intrigue followed after intrigue, and situation after situation, in all of which Caprice was the central figure, until the climax was reached, in a wild bizarre chorus, in which she danced a vigorous cancan with Cagliostra, and finished by bounding on his shoulders to form the tableau as the curtain fell, amid the enthusiastic applause of the audience.
Ezra and Stewart went out into the smoking-room to light their cigarettes, and heard on all sides eulogies of Caprice.
"She'd make her fortune on the London stage," said Santon to Mortimer. "Got such a lot of the devil in her--eh?--by Jove! Why the deuce don't she show in town?"
"Aha!" replied Mortimer shrewdly, "I'm not going to let her go if I can help it. Don't tempt away my only ewe lamb, when you've got so many flocks of your own."
"She doesn't look much like a lamb," said Columbus Wilks dryly.
"Then she doesn't belie her looks," retorted Mortimer coolly. "My dear sir, she's got the temper of a fiend, but she's such a favourite, that I put up with her tantrums for the sake of the cash."
While this conversation was going on, Ezra and his friend were smoking quietly in a corner of the room chatting about the opera, when the Jew suddenly drew Keith's attention to a tall man talking to a friend in a confidential manner. He had a thin, sharp-looking face, keen blue eyes, and fair hair and beard.
"That gentleman," said Lazarus, "could probably tell you something about those diamonds, he is an American called Hiram Jackson Fenton, manager of the 'Never-say-die Life Insurance Company.' Rumour--which is true in this case, contrary to its usual custom--says he is Caprice's latest fancy."
"He must have a lot of money to satisfy her whims," said Keith, looking at the American.
"Money!" Ezra shrugged his shoulders. "He hasn't much actual cash, for he lives far above his income. However, with a little judicious dabbling in the share market, and an occasional help from the children of Israel, he manages to get along all right. Our friend Caprice will ruin him shortly, and then he'll return to the Great Republic, I presume--good riddance of bad rubbish for Australia."
"And who is that colourless-looking little man who has just come up?"
"He is rather washed out, isn't he?" said Ezra critically. "That is his assistant manager, Evan Malton. For some inexplicable reason they are inseparable."
"Oh, and is Mr. Malton also smitten with Caprice."
"Very badly--more shame to him, as he's only been married for twelve months--he neglects his young wife, and dances attendance at the heels of his divinity."
"Doesn't Hiram J--what's his name, object?"
"Not at all. You see they're both mixed up in speculation, and work together for their mutual benefit. Malton is the Lazarus--I don't mean myself--who picks up the crumbs of love that fall from Mr. Dives Fenton's table."
"It can't last long," said Keith in disgust.
"It will last till Malton gets rid of Fenton, or Fenton gets the better of Malton--then there'll be a row, and the weakest will go to the wall. Tell me, whom do you think will win?"
"I should say Fenton," replied Keith, glancing from the effeminate countenance of Malton to the shrewd, powerful face of the American.
"Exactly; he is, I fancy, the stronger villain of the two."
"Villain?"
"Yes; I call any man a villain who neglects his wife for the sake of a light-o'-love. As for Fenton, he is the most unscrupulous man I know."
"You seem to be pretty well acquainted with the scandal of Melbourne society," said Stewart as they went back to their seats.
"Of course, it is my duty; the press is ubiquitous. But tell me your opinion of Caprice?"
"Judging by her acting to-night, she's a devil."
"Wait till the end of this act, and you'll swear she's an angel."
"Which will be correct?"
"Both--she's a mixture!"
The curtain again drew up, amid the shuffling of the audience settling themselves in their places, and represented a fÊte in the gardens of Cagliostra's palace, brilliant with coloured lights and fantastically-dressed people. According to the story, Cagliostra has obtained possession of his prize, and woos her successfully, when Prince Carnival enters and sings a ballad, "So Long Ago," in the hope of touching the heart of his false love.
Caprice, dressed in a tight-fitting costume of silk and velvet, which showed off her beautiful figure to perfection, stood in the centre of the stage with a sad smile, and sang the waltz-refrain of the song with great feeling.