'Oh, "The Elect" think him perfect,' said Kitty, wisely.

'From their point of view, perhaps he is,' returned Gaston, with a faint sneer; 'but he's not a man given to exuberant mirth.'

'Well, he is rather dismal,' a.s.sented Kitty, doubtfully.

'Wouldn't you like to leave him and lead a jollier life?' asked Vandeloup, artfully, 'in Melbourne, for instance.'

Kitty looked at him half afraid.

'I--I don't know,' she faltered, looking down.

'But I do, Bebe,' whispered Gaston, putting his arm round her waist; 'you would like to come with me.'

'Why? Are you going?' cried Kitty, in dismay.

Vandeloup nodded.

'I think I spoke about this before,' he said, idly brushing some cigarette ash off his waistcoat.

'Yes,' returned Kitty, 'but I thought you did not mean it.'

'I never say anything I do not mean,' answered Vandeloup, with the ready lie on his lips in a moment; 'and I have got letters from France with money, so I am going to leave the Pactolus.'

'And me?' said Kitty, tearfully.

'That depends upon yourself, Bebe,' he said rapidly, pressing her burning cheek against his own; 'your father would never consent to my marriage, and I can't take you away from Ballarat without suspicions, so--'

'Yes?' said Kitty, eagerly, looking at him.

'You must run away,' he whispered, with a caressing smile.

'Alone?'

'For a time, yes,' he answered, throwing away his cigarette; 'listen--next week you must meet me here, and I will give you money to keep you in Melbourne for some time; then you must leave Ballarat at once and wait for me at the b.u.t.tercup Hotel in Gertrude Street, Carlton; you understand?'

'Yes,' faltered Kitty, nervously; 'I--I understand.'

'And you will come?' he asked anxiously, looking keenly at her, and pressing the little hand he held in his own. Just as she was going to answer, as if warning her of the fatal step she was about to take, a low roll of thunder broke on their ears, and Kitty shrank back appalled from her lover's embrace.

'No! no! no!' she almost shrieked, hysterically, trying to tear herself away from his arms, 'I cannot; G.o.d is speaking.'

'Bah!' sneered Vandeloup, with an evil look on his handsome face, 'he speaks too indistinctly for us to guess what he means; what are you afraid of? I will join you in Melbourne in two or three weeks, and then we will be married.'

'But my father,' she whispered, clasping her hot hands convulsively.

'Well, what of him?' asked Vandeloup, coolly; 'he is so wrapped up in his religion that he will not miss you; he will never find out where you are in Melbourne, and by the time he does you will be my wife. Come,'

he said, ardently, whispering the temptation in her ear, as if he was afraid of being heard, 'you must consent; say yes, Bebe; say yes.'

She felt his hot breath on her cheek, and felt rather than saw the scintillations of his wonderful eyes, which sent a thrill through her; so, utterly exhausted and worn out by the overpowering nervous force possessed by this man, she surrendered.

'Yes,' she whispered, clinging to him with dry lips and a beating heart; 'I will come!' Then her overstrained nature gave way, and with a burst of tears she threw herself on his breast.

Gaston let her sob quietly for some time, satisfied with having gained his end, and knowing that she would soon recover. At last Kitty grew calmer, and drying her eyes, she rose to her feet wan and haggard, as if she was worn out for the want of sleep, and not by any manner of means looking like a girl who was in love. This appearance was caused by the revolt of her religious training against doing what she knew was wrong.

In her breast a natural instinct had been fighting against an artificial one; and as Nature is always stronger than precept, Nature had conquered.

'My dear Bebe,' said Vandeloup, rising also, and kissing her white cheek, 'you must go home now, and get a little sleep; it will do you good.'

'But you?' asked Kitty, in a low voice, as they walked slowly along.

'Oh, I,' said M. Vandeloup, airily; 'I am going to the Wattle Tree Hotel to see my friend Pierre off to Melbourne.'

Then he exerted himself to amuse Kitty as they walked down to town, and succeeded so well that by the time they reached Lydiard Street, where Kitty left him to go up to Black Hill, she was laughing as merrily as possible. They parted at the railway crossing, and Kitty went gaily up the white dusty road, while M. Vandeloup strolled leisurely along the street on his way to the Wattle Tree Hotel.

When he arrived he found that Pierre's box had come, and was placed outside his door, as no one had been brave enough to venture inside, although Miss Twexby a.s.sured them he was unarmed--showing the knife as a proof.

Gaston, however, dragged the box into the room, and having made Pierre dress himself in his new clothes, he packed all the rest in a box, corded it, and put a ticket on it with his name and destination, then gave the dumb man the balance of his wages. It was now about six o'clock, so Vandeloup went down to dinner; then putting Pierre and his box into the cab, stepped in himself and drove off.

The promise of rain in the afternoon was now fulfilled, and it was pouring in torrents. The gutters were rivers, and every now and then through the driving rain came the bluish dart of a lightning flash.

'Bah!' said Vandeloup, with a shiver, as they got out on the station platform, 'what a devil of a night.'

He made the cab wait for him, and, having got Pierre's ticket, put him in a second-cla.s.s carriage and saw that his box was safely placed in the luggage-van. The station was crowded with people going and others coming to say goodbye; the rain was beating on the high-arched tin roof, and the engine at the end of the long train was fretting and fuming like a living thing impatient to be gone.

'You are now on your own responsibility, my friend,' said Vandeloup to Pierre, as he stood at the window of the carriage; 'for we must part, though long together have we been. Perhaps I will see you in Melbourne; if I do you will find I have not forgotten the past,' and, with a significant look at the dumb man, Vandeloup lounged slowly away.

The whistle blew shrilly, the last goodbyes were spoken, the guard shouted 'All aboard for Melbourne,' and shut all the doors, then, with another shriek and puff of white steam, the train, like a long, lithe serpent, glided into the rain and darkness with its human freight.

'At last I have rid myself of this dead weight,' said Vandeloup, as he drove along the wet streets to Craig's Hotel, where he intended to stay for the night, 'and can now shape my own fortune. Pierre is gone, Bebe will follow, and now I must look after myself.'

CHAPTER XVIII

M. VANDELOUP IS UNJUSTLY SUSPECTED

'It never rains but it pours' is an excellent proverb, and a very true one, for it is remarkable how events of a similar nature follow closely on one another's heels when the first that happened has set the ball a-rolling. Madame Midas believed to a certain extent in this, and she half expected that when Pierre went he would be followed by M.

Vandeloup, but she certainly did not think that the disappearance of her husband would be followed by that of Kitty Marchurst. Yet such was the case, for Mr Marchurst, not seeing Kitty at family prayers, had sent in the servant to seek for her, and the scared domestic had returned with a startled face and a letter for her master. Marchurst read the tear-blotted little note, in which Kitty said she was going down to Melbourne to appear on the stage. Crushing it up in his hand, he went on with family prayers in his usual manner, and after dismissing his servants for the night, he went up to his daughter's room, and found that she had left nearly everything behind, only taking a few needful things with her. Seeing her portrait on the wall he took it down and placed it in his pocket. Then, searching through her room, he found some ribbons and lace, a yellow-backed novel, which he handled with the utmost loathing, and a pair of gloves. Regarding these things as the instruments of Satan, by which his daughter had been led to destruction, he carried them downstairs to his dismal study and piled them in the empty fireplace. Placing his daughter's portrait on top he put a light to the little pile of frivolities, and saw them slowly burn away. The novel curled and cracked in the scorching flame, but the filmy lace vanished like cobwebs, and the gloves crackled and shrank into mere wisps of black leather. And over all, through the flames, her face, bright and charming, looked out with laughing lips and merry eyes--so like her mother's, and yet so unlike in its piquant grace--until that too fell into the hollow heart of the flames, and burned slowly away into a small pile of white ashes.

Marchurst, leaving the dead ashes cold and grey in the dark fireplace, went to his writing table, and falling on his knees he pa.s.sed the rest of the night in prayer.

Meanwhile, the man who was the primary cause of all this trouble was working in the office of the Pactolus claim with a light heart and cool head. Gaston had really managed to get Kitty away in a very clever manner, inasmuch as he never appeared publicly to be concerned in it, but directed the whole business secretly. He had given Kitty sufficient money to keep her for some months in Melbourne, as he was in doubt when he could leave the Pactolus without being suspected of being concerned in her disappearance. He also told her what day to leave, and all that day stayed at the mine working at his accounts, and afterwards spent the evening very pleasantly with Madame Midas. Next day McIntosh went into Ballarat on business, and on returning from the city, where he had heard all about it--rumour, of course, magnifying the whole affair greatly--he saw Vandeloup come out of the office, and drew up in the trap beside the young man.

'Aha, Monsieur,' said Vandeloup, gaily, rolling a cigarette in his slender fingers, and shooting a keen glance at Archie; 'you have had a pleasant day.'

'Maybe yes, maybe no,' returned McIntosh, cautiously, fumbling in the bag; 'there's naething muckle in the toun, but--deil tack the bag,'

he continued, tetchily shaking it. 'I've gotten a letter or so fra'