Madame Midas

by Fergus Hume

  They soon arrived at the hotel, and having entered, Mr Wopples pushed open the door of a room from whence the sound of laughter proceeded, and introduced the three strangers to his family. The whole ten, together with Mrs Wopples, were present, and were seated around a large table plentifully laden with cold beef and pickles, salads, bottles of beer, and other things too numerous to mention. Mr Wopples presented them first to his wife, a faded, washed-out looking lady, with a perpetual simper on her face, and clad in a lavender muslin gown with ribbons of the same description, she looked wonderfully light and airy. In fact she had a sketchy appearance as if she required to be touched up here and there, to make her appear solid, which was of great service to her in her theatrical career, as it enabled her to paint on the background of herself any character she wished to represent.

  ‘This,’ said Mr Wopples in his deep voice, holding his wife’s hand as if he were afraid she would float upward thro’ the ceiling like a bubble—a not unlikely thing seeing how remarkably ethereal she looked; ‘this is my flutterer.’

  Why he called her his flutterer no one ever knew, unless it was because her ribbons were incessantly fluttering; but, had he called her his shadow, the name would have been more appropriate.

  Mrs Wopples fluttered down to the ground in a bow, and then fluttered up again.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ she said, in a thin, clear voice, ‘you are welcome. Did you enjoy the performance?’

  ‘Madame,’ returned Vandeloup, with a smile, ‘need you ask that?’

  A shadowy smile floated over Mrs Wopples’ indistinct features, and then her husband introduced the rest of the family in a bunch.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ he said, waving his hand to the expectant ten, who stood in a line of five male and five female, ‘the celebrated Wopples family.’

  The ten all simultaneously bowed at this as if they were worked by machinery, and then everyone sat down to supper, Mr Theodore Wopples taking the head of the table. All the family seemed to admire him immensely, and kept their eyes fastened on his face with affectionate regard.

  ‘Pa,’ whispered Miss Siddons Wopples to Villiers, who sat next to her, ‘is a most wonderful man. Observe his facial expression.’

  Villiers observed it, and admitted also in a whisper that it was truly marvellous.

  Cold beef formed the staple viand on the table, and everyone did full justice to it, as also to beer and porter, of which Mr Wopples was very generous.

  ‘I prefer to give my friends good beer instead of bad champagne,’ he said, pompously. ‘Ha! ha! the antithesis, I think, is good.’

  The Wopples family unanimously agreed that it was excellent, and Mr Handel Wopples observed to Barty that his father often made jokes worthy of Tom Hood, to which Barty agreed hastily, as he did not know who Tom Hood was, and besides was flirting in a mild manner with Miss Fanny Wopples, a pretty girl, who did the burlesque business.

  ‘And are all these big boys and girls yours, Madame?’ asked Vandeloup, who was rather astonished at the number of the family, and thought some of them might have been hired for theatrical purposes. Mrs Wopples nodded affirmatively with a gratified flutter, and her husband endorsed it.

  ‘There are four dead,’ he said, in a solemn voice. ‘Rest their souls.’

  All the ten faces round the board reflected the gloom on the parental countenance, and for a few moments no one spoke.

  ‘This,’ said Mr Wopples, looking round with a smile, at which all the other faces lighted up, ‘this is not calculated to make our supper enjoyable, children. I may tell you that, in consequence of the great success of “The Cruet Stand”, we play it again to-morrow night.’

  ‘Ah!’ said Mr Buckstone Wopples, with his mouth full, ‘I knew it would knock ‘em; that business of yours, father, with the writ is simply wonderful.’

  All the family chorused ‘Yes,’ and Mr Wopples admitted, with a modest smile, that it was wonderful.

  ‘Practise,’ said Mr Wopples, waving a fork with a piece of cold beef at the end of it, ‘makes perfect. My dear Vandeloup, if you will permit me to call you so, my son Buckstone is truly a wonderful critic.’

  Vandeloup smiled at this, and came to the conclusion that the Wopples family was a mutual admiration society. However, as it was now nearly twelve o’clock, he rose to take his leave.

  ‘Oh, you’re not going yet,’ said Mr Wopples, upon which all the family echoed, ‘Surely, not yet,’ in a most hospitable manner.

  ‘I must,’ said Vandeloup, with a smile. ‘I know Madame will excuse me,’ with a bow to Mrs Wopples, who thereupon fluttered nervously; ‘but I have to be up very early in the morning.’

  ‘In that case,’ said Mr Wopples, rising, ‘I will not detain you; early to bed and early to rise, you know; not that I believe in it much myself, but I understand it is practised with good results by some people.’

  Vandeloup shook hands with Mr and Mrs Wopples, but feeling unequal to taking leave of the ten star artistes in the same way, he bowed in a comprehensive manner, whereupon the whole ten arose from their chairs and bowed unanimously in return.

  ‘Good night, Messrs Villiers and Jarper,’ said Vandeloup, going out of the door, ‘I will see you to-morrow.’

  ‘And we also, I hope,’ said Mr Wopples, ungrammatically. ‘Come and see “The Cruet Stand” again. I’ll put your name on the free list.’

  M. Vandeloup thanked the actor warmly for this kind offer, and took himself off; as he passed along the street he heard a burst of laughter from the Wopples family, no doubt caused by some witticism of the head of the clan.

  He walked slowly home to the hotel, smoking a cigarette, and thinking deeply. When he arrived at the ‘Wattle Tree’ he saw a light still burning in the bar, and, on knocking at the door, was admitted by Miss Twexby, who had been making up accounts, and whose virgin head was adorned with curl-papers.

  ‘My!’ said this damsel, when she saw him, ‘you are a nice young man coming home at this hour—twelve o’clock. See?’ and, as a proof of her assertion, she pointed to the clock.

  ‘Were you waiting up for me, dear?’ asked Vandeloup, audaciously.

  ‘Not I,’ retorted Miss Twexby, tossing her curl-papers; ‘I’ve been attending to par’s business; but, oh, gracious!’ with a sudden recollection of her head-gear, ‘you’ve seen me in undress.’

  ‘And you look more charming than ever,’ finished Vandeloup, as he took his bedroom candle from her. ‘I will see you in the morning. My friend still asleep, I suppose?’

  ‘I’m sure I don’t know. I haven’t seen him all the evening,’ replied Miss Twexby, tossing her head, ‘now, go away. You’re a naughty, wicked, deceitful thing. I declare I’m quite afraid of you.’

  ‘There’s no need, I assure you,’ replied Vandeloup, in a slightly sarcastic voice, as he surveyed the plain-looking woman before him; ‘you are quite safe from me.’

  He left the bar, whistling an air, while the fair Martha returned to her accounts, and wondered indignantly whether his last remark was a compliment or otherwise.

  The conclusion she came to was that it was otherwise, and she retired to bed in a very wrathful frame of mind.

  CHAPTER XIV. A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

  Madame Midas, as may be easily guessed, did not pass a very pleasant night after the encounter with Villiers. Her head was very painful with the blow he had given her, and added to this she was certain she had killed him.

  Though she hated the man who had ruined her life, and who had tried to rob her, still she did not care about becoming his murderess, and the thought was madness to her. Not that she was afraid of punishment, for she had only acted in self-defence, and Villiers, not she, was the aggressor.

  Meanwhile she waited to hear if the body had been found, for ill news travels fast; and as everyone knew Villiers was her husband, she was satisfied that when the corpse was found she would be the first to be told about it.

  But the day wore on, and no news came, so she asked Archie to go into Ballarar and se
e if the discovery had been made.

  ”Deed, mem,’ said Archie, in a consoling tone, ‘I’m thinkin’ there’s na word at all. Maybe ye only stapped his pranks for a wee bit, and he’s a’ richt.’

  Madame shook her head.

  ‘I gave him such a terrible blow,’ she said, mournfully, ‘and he fell like a stone over the embankment.’

  ‘He didna leave go the nugget, onyhow, ye ken,’ said Archie, dryly; ‘so he couldna hae been verra far gone, but I’ll gang intil the toun and see what I can hear.’

  There was no need for this, however, for just as McIntosh got to the door, Vandeloup, cool and complacent, sauntered in, but stopped short at the sight of Mrs Villiers sitting in the arm-chair looking so ill.

  ‘My dear Madame,’ he cried in dismay, going over to her, ‘what is the matter with you?’

  ‘Matter enow,’ growled McIntosh, with his hand on the door handle; ‘that deil o’ a’ husband o’ her’s has robbed her o’ the nugget.’

  ‘Yes, and I killed him,’ said Madame between her clenched teeth.

  ‘The deuce you did,’ said Vandeloup, in surprise, taking a seat, ‘then he was the liveliest dead man I ever saw.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Madame, leaning forward, with both hands gripping the arms of her chair; ‘is—is he alive?’

  ‘Of course he is,’ began Vandeloup; ‘I—’ but here he was stopped by a cry from Selina, for her mistress had fallen back in her chair in a dead faint.

  Hastily waving for the men to go away, she applied remedies, and Madame soon revived. Vandeloup had gone outside with McIntosh, and was asking him about the robbery, and then told him in return about Villiers’ movements on that night. Selina called them in again, as Madame wanted to hear all about her husband, and Vandeloup was just entering when he turned to McIntosh.

  ‘Oh, by the way,’ he said, in a vexed tone, ‘Pierre will not be at work today.’

  ‘What for no?’ asked McIntosh, sharply.

  ‘He’s drunk,’ replied Vandeloup, curtly, ‘and he’s likely to keep the game up for a week.’

  ‘We’ll see about that,’ said Mr McIntosh, wrathfully; ‘I tauld yon gowk o’ a Twexby to give the mon food and drink, but I didna tell him to mack the deil fu’.’

  ‘It wasn’t the landlord’s fault,’ said Vandeloup; ‘I gave Pierre money—if I had known what he wanted it for I wouldn’t have done it- -but it’s too late now.’

  McIntosh was about to answer sharply as to the folly of giving the man money, when Madame’s voice was heard calling them impatiently, and they both had to go in at once.

  Mrs Villiers was ghastly pale, but there was a look of determination about her which showed that she was anxious to hear all. Pointing to a seat near herself she said to Vandeloup—

  ‘Tell me everything that happened from the time I left you last night.’

  ‘My faith,’ replied Vandeloup, carelessly taking the seat, ‘there isn’t much to tell—I said goodbye to Monsieur Marchurst and Mademoiselle Kitty and went down to Ballarar.’

  ‘How was it you did not pass me on the way?’ asked Madame, quickly fixing her piercing eyes on him. ‘I drove slowly.’

  He bore her scrutiny without blenching or even changing colour.

  ‘Easily enough,’ he said, calmly, ‘I went the other direction instead of the usual way, as it was the shortest route to the place I was stopping at.’

  ‘The “Wattle Tree”, ye ken, Madame,’ interposed McIntosh.

  ‘I had something to eat there,’ pursued Vandeloup, ‘and then went to the theatre. Your husband came in towards the end of the performance and sat next to me.’

  ‘Was he all right?’ asked Mrs Villiers, eagerly.

  Vandeloup shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘I didn’t pay much attention to him,’ he said, coolly; ‘he seemed to enjoy the play, and afterwards, when we went to supper with the actors, he certainly ate very heartily for a dead man. I don’t think you need trouble yourself, Madame; your husband is quite well.’

  ‘What time did you leave him?’ she asked, after a pause.

  ‘About twenty minutes to twelve, I think,’ replied Vandeloup, ‘at least, I reached the “Wattle Tree” at about twelve o’clock, and I think it did take twenty minutes to walk there. Monsieur Villiers stopped behind with the theatre people to enjoy himself.’

  Enjoying himself, and she, thinking him dead, was crying over his miserable end; it was infamous! Was this man a monster who could thus commit a crime one moment and go to an amusement the next? It seemed like it, and Mrs Villiers felt intense disgust towards her husband as she sat with tightly clenched hands and dry eyes listening to Vandeloup’s recital.

  ‘Weel,’ said Mr McIntosh at length, rubbing his scanty hair, ‘the deil looks after his ain, as we read in Screepture, and this child of Belial is flourishing like a green bay tree by mony waters; but we ma’ cut it doon an’ lay an axe at the root thereof.’

  ‘And how do you propose to chop him down?’ asked Vandeloup, flippantly.

  ‘Pit him intil the Tolbooth for rinnin’ awa’ wi’ the nugget,’ retorted Mr McIntosh, vindictively.

  ‘A very sensible suggestion,’ said Gaston, approvingly, smoothing his moustache. ‘What do you say, Madame?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Let him keep his ill-gotten gains,’ she said, resignedly. ‘Now that he has obtained what he wanted, perhaps he’ll leave me alone; I will do nothing.’

  ‘Dae naethin’!’ echoed Archie, in great wrath. ‘Will ye let that freend o’ Belzibub rin awa’ wid a three hun’red ounces of gold an’ dae naethin’? Na, na, ye mauna dae it, I tell ye. Oh, aye, ye may sit there, mem, and glower awa’ like a boggle, but ye aren’a gangin’ to make yoursel’ a martyr for yon. Keep the nugget? I’ll see him damned first.’

  This was the first time that Archie had ever dared to cross Mrs Villiers’ wishes, and she stared in amazement at the unwonted spectacle. This time, however, McIntosh found an unexpected ally in Vandeloup, who urged that Villiers should be prosecuted.

  ‘He is not only guilty of robbery, Madame,’ said the young Frenchman, ‘but also of an attempt to murder you, and while he is allowed to go free, your life is not safe.’

  Selina also contributed her mite of wisdom in the form of a proverb:—

  ‘A stitch in time saves nine,’ intimating thereby that Mr Villiers should be locked up and never let out again, in case he tried the same game on with the next big nugget found.

  Madame thought for a few moments, and, seeing that they were all unanimous, she agreed to the proposal that Villiers should be prosecuted, with the stipulation, however, that he should be first written to and asked to give up the nugget. If he did, and promised to leave the district, no further steps would be taken; but if he declined to do so, his wife would prosecute him with the uttermost rigour of the law. Then Madame dismissed them, as she was anxious to get a little sleep, and Vandeloup went to the office to write the letter, accompanied by McIntosh, who wanted to assist in its composition.

  Meanwhile there was another individual in Ballarat who was much interested in Villiers, and this kind-hearted gentleman was none other than Slivers. Villiers was accustomed to come and sit in his office every morning, and talk to him about things in general, and the Pactolus claim in particular. On this morning, however, he did not arrive, and Slivers was much annoyed thereat. He determined to give Villiers a piece of his mind when he did see him. He went about his business at ‘The Corner’, bought some shares, sold others, and swindled as many people as he was able, then came back to his office and waited in all the afternoon for his friend, who, however, did not come.

  Slivers was just going out to seek him when the door of his office was violently flung open, and a tall, raw-boned female entered in a very excited manner. Dressed in a dusty black gown, with a crape bonnet placed askew on her rough hair, this lady banged on Slivers’ table a huge umbrella and demanded where Villiers was.

  ‘I don’t know,’ snapp
ed Slivers, viciously; ‘how the devil should I?’

  ‘Don’t swear at me, you wooden-legged little monster,’ cried the virago, with another bang of the umbrella, which raised such a cloud of dust that it nearly made Slivers sneeze his head off. ‘He ain’t been home all night, and you’ve been leading him into bad habits, you cork-armed libertine.’

  ‘Hasn’t been home all night, eh?’ said Slivers, sitting up quickly, while Billy, who had been considerably alarmed at the gaunt female, retired to the fireplace, and tried to conceal himself up the chimney. ‘May I ask who you are?’

  ‘You may,’ said the angry lady, folding her arms and holding the umbrella in such an awkward manner that she nearly poked Slivers’ remaining eye out.

  ‘Well, who are you?’ snapped Slivers, crossly, after waiting a reasonable time for an answer and getting none.

  ‘I’m his landlady,’ retorted the other, with a defiant snort. ‘Matilda Cheedle is my name, and I don’t care who knows it.’

  ‘It’s not a pretty name,’ snarled Slivers, prodding the ground with his wooden leg, as he always did when angry. ‘Neither are you. What do you mean by banging into my office like an insane giraffe?’—this in allusion to Mrs Cheedle’s height.

  ‘Oh, go on! go on!’ said that lady defiantly; ‘I’ve heard it all before; I’m used to it; but here I sit until you tell me where my lodger is;’ and suiting the action to the word, Mrs Cheedle sat down in a chair with such a bang that Billy gave a screech of alarm and said, ‘Pickles!’

  ‘Pickles, you little bag of bones!’ cried Mrs Cheedle, who thought that the word had proceeded from Slivers, ‘don’t you call me “Pickles”—but I’m used to it. I’m a lonely woman since Cheedle went to the cemetery, and I’m always being insulted. Oh, my nerves are shattered under such treatment’—this last because she saw the whisky bottle on the table, and thought she might get some.

  Slivers took the hint, and filling a glass with whisky and water passed it to her, and Mrs Cheedle, with many protestations that she never touched spirits, drank it to the last drop.