'I am going, Madame,' replied Gaston, calmly, 'but I thought I would come up in order to a.s.sist you to put the nugget in the trap.'

'Oh, Mr Marchurst would have done that,' said Madame, much gratified at Vandeloup's attention. 'I'm sorry you should miss your evening's pleasure for that.'

'Ah, Madame, I do but exchange a lesser pleasure for a greater one,'

said the gallant Frenchman, with a pleasant smile; 'but are you sure you will not want me to drive you home?'

'Not at all,' said Madame, as they all went outside; 'I am quite safe.'

'Still, with this,' said Mr Marchurst, bringing up the rear, with the nugget now safely placed in its wooden box, 'you might be robbed.'

'Not I,' replied Mrs Villiers, brightly, as the horse and trap were brought round to the gate by Brown. 'No one knows I've got it in the trap, and, besides, no one can catch up with Rory when he once starts.'

Marchurst put the nugget under the seat of the trap, but Madame was afraid it might slip out by some chance, so she put the box containing it in front, and then her feet on the box, so that it was absolutely impossible that it could get lost without her knowing. Then saying goodbye to everyone, and telling M. Vandeloup to be out at the Pactolus before noon the next day, she gathered up the reins and drove slowly down the hill, much to the delight of Mr Villiers, who was getting tired of waiting. Kitty and Vandeloup strolled off in the moonlight, while Marchurst went back to the house.

Villiers arose from his hiding-place, and looked up savagely at the serene moon, which was giving far too much light for his scheme to succeed. Fortunately, however, he saw a great black cloud rapidly advancing which threatened to hide the moon; so he set off down the hill at a run in order to catch his wife at a nasty part of the road some distance down, where she would be compelled to go slowly, and thus give him a chance to spring on the trap and take her by surprise. But quick as he was, Pierre was quicker, and both Vandeloup and Kitty could see the two black figures running rapidly along in the moonlight.

'Who are those?' asked Kitty, with a sudden start. 'Are they going after Madame?'

'Little goose,' whispered her lover, with a laugh; 'if they are they will never catch up to that horse. It's all right, Bebe,' with a rea.s.suring smile, seeing that Kitty still looked somewhat alarmed, 'they are only some miners out on a drunken frolic.'

Thus pacified, Kitty laughed gaily, and they wandered along in the moonlight, talking all the fond and foolish nonsense they could think of.

Meanwhile the great black cloud had completely hidden the moon, and the whole landscape was quite dark. This annoyed Madame, as, depending on the moonlight, the lamps of the trap were not lighted, and she could not see in the darkness how to drive down a very awkward bit of road that she was now on.

It was very steep, and there was a high bank on one side, while on the other there was a fall of about ten feet. She felt annoyed at the darkness, but on looking up saw that the cloud would soon pa.s.s, so drove on slowly quite content. Unluckily she did not see the figure on the high bank which ran along stealthily beside her, and while turning a corner, Mr Villiers--for it was he--dropped suddenly from the bank on to the trap, and caught her by the throat.

'My G.o.d!' cried the unfortunate woman, taken by surprise, and, involuntarily tightening the reins, the horse stopped--'who are you?'

Villiers never said a word, but tightened his grasp on her throat and shortened his stick to give her a blow on the head. Fortunately, Madame Midas saw his intention, and managed to wrench herself free, so the blow aimed at her only slightly touched her, otherwise it would have killed her.

As it was, however, she fell forward half stunned, and Villiers, hurriedly dropping his stick, bent down and seized the box which he felt under his feet and intuitively guessed contained the nugget.

With a cry of triumph he hurled it out on to the road, and sprang out after it; but the cry woke his wife from the semi-stupor into which she had fallen.

Her head felt dizzy and heavy from the blow, but still she had her senses about her, and the moon bursting out from behind a cloud, rendered the night as clear as day.

Villiers had picked up the box, and was standing on the edge of the bank, just about to leave. The unhappy woman recognised her husband, and uttered a cry.

'You! you!' she shrieked, wildly, 'coward! dastard! Give me back that nugget!' leaning out of the trap in her eagerness.

'I'll see you d.a.m.ned first,' retorted Villiers, who, now that he was recognised, was utterly reckless as to the result. 'We're quits now, my lady,' and he turned to go.

Maddened with anger and disgust, his wife s.n.a.t.c.hed up the stick he had dropped, and struck him on the head as he took a step forward. With a stifled cry he staggered and fell over the embankment, still clutching the box in his arms. Madame let the stick fall, and fell back fainting on the seat of the trap, while the horse, startled by the noise, tore down the road at a mad gallop.

Madame Midas lay in a dead faint for some time, and when she came to herself she was still in the trap, and Rory was calmly trotting along the road home. At the foot of the hill, the horse, knowing every inch of the way, had settled down into his steady trot for the Pactolus, but when Madame grasped the situation, she marvelled to herself how she had escaped being dashed to pieces in that mad gallop down the Black Hill.

Her head felt painful from the effects of the blow she had received, but her one thought was to get home to Archie and Selina, so gathering up the reins she sent Rory along as quickly as she could. When she drove up to the gate Archie and Selina were both out to receive her, and when the former went to lift her off the trap, he gave a cry of horror at seeing her dishevelled appearance and the blood on her face.

'G.o.d save us!' he cried, lifting her down; 'what's come t' ye, and where's the nugget?' seeing it was not in the trap.

'Lost!' she said, in a stupor, feeling her head swimming, 'but there's worse.'

'Worse?' echoed Selina and Archie, who were both standing looking terrified at one another.

'Yes,' said Mrs Villiers, in a hollow whisper, leaning forward and grasping Archie's coat, 'I've killed my husband,' and without another word, she fell fainting to the ground.

At the same time Vandeloup and Pierre walked into the bar at the Wattle Tree Hotel, and each had a gla.s.s of brandy, after which Pierre went to his bed, and Vandeloup, humming a gay song, turned on his heel and went to the theatre.

CHAPTER XIII

A GLIMPSE OF BOHEMIA

'AH!' says Thackeray, pathetically, 'Prague is a pleasant city, but we all lose our way to it late in life.'

The Wopples family were true Bohemians, and had not yet lost their way to the pleasant city. They accepted good and bad fortune with wonderful equanimity, and if their pockets were empty one day, there was always a possibility of their being full the next. When this was the case they generally celebrated the event by a little supper, and as their present season in Ballarat bid fair to be a successful one, Mr Theodore Wopples determined to have a convivial evening after the performance was over.

That the Wopples family were favourites with the Ballarat folk was amply seen by the crowded house which a.s.sembled to see 'The Cruet Stand'. The audience were very impatient for the curtain to rise, as they did not appreciate the overture, which consisted of airs from 'La Mascotte', adapted for the violin and piano by Mr Handel Wopples, who was the musical genius of the family, and sat in the conductor's seat, playing the violin and conducting the orchestra of one, which on this occasion was Miss Jemima Wopples, who presided at the piano. The Wopples family consisted of twelve star artistes, beginning with Mr Theodore Wopples, aged fifty, and ending with Master Sheridan Wopples, aged ten, who did the servants' characters, delivered letters, formed the background in tableaux, and made himself generally useful. As the cast of the comedy was only eight, two of the family acted as the orchestra, and the remaining two took money at the door. When their duties in this respect were over for the night, they went into the pit to lead the applause.

At last the orchestra finished, and the curtain drew up, displaying an ancient house belonging to a decayed family. The young Squire, present head of the decayed family (Mr Cibber Wopples), is fighting with his dishonest steward (admirably acted by Mr Dogbery Wopples), whose daughter he wants to marry. The dishonest steward, during Act I, without any apparent reason, is struck with remorse, and making his will in favour of the Squire, departs to America, but afterwards appears in the last act as someone else. Leaving his will on the drawing-room table, as he naturally would, it is seized by an Eton boy (Master Sheridan Wopples), who hides it, for some unexplained reason, in the cruet-stand, being the last piece of family plate remaining to the decayed family.

This is seized by a comic bailiff (Mr Theodore Wopples), who takes it to his home; and the decayed family, finding out about the will, start to chase the bailiff and recover the stolen property from him. This brought the play on to Act II, which consisted mainly of situations arising out of the indiscriminate use of doors and windows for entrances and exits.

The bailiff's mother-in-law (Mrs Wopples) appears in this act, and, being in want of a new dress, takes the cruet stand to her 'uncle' and p.a.w.ns it; so Act II ends with a general onslaught of the decayed family on Mrs Wopples.

Then the orchestra played the 'Wopples' Waltz', dedicated to Mr Theodore Wopples by Mr Handel Wopples, and during the performance of this Mr Villiers walked into the theatre. He was a little pale, as was only natural after such an adventure as he had been engaged in, but otherwise seemed all right. He walked up to the first row of the stalls, and took his seat beside a young man of about twenty-five, who was evidently much amused at the performance.

'Hullo, Villiers!' said this young gentleman, turning round to the new arrival, 'what d'ye think of the play?'

'Only just got in,' returned Mr Villiers, sulkily, looking at his programme. 'Any good?' in a more amiable tone.

'Well, not bad,' returned the other, pulling up his collar; 'I've seen it in Melbourne, you know--the original, I mean; this is a very second-hand affair.'

Mr Villiers nodded, and became absorbed in his programme; so, seeing he was disinclined for more conversation, the young gentleman turned his attention to the 'Wopples Waltz', which was now being played fast and furiously by the indefatigable orchestra of two.

Bartholomew Jarper--generally called Barty by his friends--was a bank clerk, and had come up to Ballarat on a visit. He was well known in Melbourne society, and looked upon himself quite as a leader of fashion.

He went everywhere, danced divinely--so the ladies said--sang two or three little songs, and played the same accompaniment to each of them, was seen constantly at the theatres, plunged a little at the races, and was altogether an extremely gay dog. It is, then, little to be wondered at that, satiated as he was with Melbourne gaiety, he should be vastly critical of the humble efforts of the Wopples family to please him. He had met Villiers at his hotel, when both of them being inebriated they swore eternal friendship. Mr Villiers, however, was very sulky on this particular night, for his head still pained him, so Barty stared round the house in a supercilious manner, and sucked the n.o.b of his cane for refreshment between the acts.

Just as the orchestra were making their final plunge into the finale of the 'Wopples' Waltz', M. Vandeloup, cool and calm as usual, strolled into the theatre, and, seeing a vacant seat beside Villiers, walked over and took it.

'Good evening, my friend,' he said, touching Villiers on the shoulder.

'Enjoying the play, eh?'

Villiers angrily pushed away the Frenchman's hand and glared vindictively at him.

'Ah, you still bear malice for that little episode of the ditch,' said Vandeloup with a gay laugh. 'Come, now, this is a mistake; let us be friends.'