The Greatest Works of Fergus Hume - 22 Mystery Novels in One Edition. Fergus Hume
her fan.
Barty Jarper had been hard at work all night on the poodle-dog system, and had danced with girls who could not dance, and talked with girls that could not talk, so, as a reward for his work, he promised himself a dance with Kitty. At the beginning of the evening he had secured a dance from her, and now, all his duties for the evening being over, he went to get it. Bellthorp had long since returned to Mrs Riller and flirtation, and Kitty had been dancing with a tall young man, with unsteady legs and an eye-glass that would not stick in his eye. She did not particularly care about Mr Jarper, with his effeminate little ways, but was quite glad when he came to carry her off from the unsteady legs and the eye-glass. The dance was the Lancers; but Kitty declared she would not dance it as she felt weary, so made Mr Jarper take her to supper. Barty was delighted, as he was hungry himself, so they secured a pleasant little nook, and Barty foraged for provisions.
‘You know all about this house,’ said Kitty, when she saw how successful the young man was in getting nice things.
‘Oh, yes,’ murmured Barty, quite delighted, ‘I know most of the houses in Melbourne—I know yours.’
‘Mrs Villiers’?’ asked Kitty.
Barty nodded.
‘Used to go down there a lot when Mr Frettlby lived there,’ he said, sipping his wine. ‘I know every room in it.’
‘You’d be invaluable as a burglar,’ said Kitty, a little contemptuously, as she looked at his slim figure.
‘I dare say,’ replied Barty, who took the compliment in good faith. ‘Some night I’ll climb up to your room and give you a fright.’
‘Shows how much you know,’ retorted Miss Marchurst. ‘My room is next to Madame’s on the ground floor.’
‘I know,’ said Barty, sagely, nodding his head. ‘It used to be a boudoir—nice little room. By the way, where is Mrs Villiers to-night?’
‘She’s not well,’ replied Kitty, yawning behind her fan, for she was weary of Barty and his small talk. ‘She’s very worried.’
‘Over money matters, I suppose?’
Kitty laughed and shook her head.
‘Hardly,’ she answered.
‘I dare say,’ replied Barty, ‘she’s awfully rich. You know, I’m in the bank where her account is, and I know all about her. Rich! oh, she is rich! Lucky thing for that French fellow if he marries her.’
‘Marries her?’ echoed Kitty, her face growing pale. ‘M. Vandeloup?’
‘Yes,’ replied Barty, pleased at having made a sensation. ‘Her first husband has vanished, you know, and all the fellows are laying bets about Van marrying the grass widow.’
‘What nonsense!’ said Kitty, in an agitated voice. ‘M. Vandeloup is her friend—nothing more.’
Barty grinned.
‘I’ve seen so much of that “friendship, and nothing more”, business,’ he said, significantly, whereupon Kitty rose to her feet.
‘I’m tired,’ she said, coldly. ‘Kindly take me to Mrs Riller.’
‘I’ve put my foot into it,’ thought Jarper, as he led her away. ‘I believe she’s spoons on Van herself.’
Mrs Riller was not very pleased to see Kitty, as Mr Bellthorp was telling her some amusing scandals about her dearest friends, and, of course, had to stop when Kitty came up.
‘Not dancing, dear?’ she asked, with a sympathetic smile, glancing angrily at Bellthorp, who seemed more struck with Kitty than he had any right to be, considering he was her property.
‘No,’ replied Kitty, ‘I’m a little tired.’
‘Miss Marchurst,’ observed Bellthorp, leaning towards her, ‘I’m sure I’ve seen you before.’
Kitty felt a chill running through her veins as she remembered where their last meeting had been. The extremity of the danger gave her courage.
‘I dare say,’ she replied, coldly turning her back on the young man, ‘I’m not invisible.’
Mrs Riller looked with all her eyes, for she wanted to know all about this pretty girl who dropped so unexpectedly into Melbourne society, so she determined to question Bellthorp when she got him alone. To this end she finessed.
‘Oh! there’s that lovely valse,’ she said, as the band struck up ‘One summer’s night in Munich’. ‘If you are not engaged, Mr Bellthorp, we must have a turn.’
‘Delighted,’ replied Bellthorp, languidly offering his arm, but thinking meanwhile, ‘confound these women, how they do work a man.’
‘You, I suppose,’ said Mrs Riller to Kitty, ‘are going to play wallflower.’
‘Hardly,’ observed a cool voice behind them; ‘Miss Marchurst dances this with me—you see, Mrs Riller,’ as that lady turned and saw Vandeloup, ‘she has not your capability at playing wallflower,’ with a significant glance at Bellthorp.
Mrs Riller understood the look, which seemed to pierce into the very depths of her frivolous little soul, and flushed angrily as she moved away with Mr Bellthorp and mentally determined to be even with Vandeloup on the first occasion.
Gaston, quite conscious of the storm he had raised, smiled serenely, and then offered his arm to Kitty, which she refused, as she was determined to find out from his own lips the truth of Jarper’s statement regarding Madame Midas.
‘I don’t want to dance,’ she said curtly, pointing to the seat beside her as an invitation for him to sit down.
‘Pardon me,’ observed Vandeloup, blandly, ‘I do; we can talk afterwards if you like.’
Their eyes met, and then Kitty arose and took his arm, with a charming pout. It was no good fighting against the quiet, masterful manner of this man, so she allowed him to put his arm round her waist and swing her slowly into the centre of the room. ‘One summer’s night in Munich’ was a favourite valse, and everyone who could dance, and a good many who could not, were up on the floor. Every now and then, through the steady beat of the music, came the light laugh of a woman or the deeper tones of a man’s voice; and the glare of the lights, the flashing jewels on the bare necks and arms of women, the soft frou-frou of their dresses, as their partners swung them steadily round, and the subtle perfume of flowers gave an indescribable sensuous flavour to the whole scene. And the valse—who does not know it? with its sad refrain, which comes in every now and then throughout, even in the most brilliant passages. The whole story of a man’s faith and a woman’s treachery is contained therein.
‘One summer’s night in Munich,’ sighed the heavy bass instruments, sadly and reproachfully, ‘I thought your heart was true!’ Listen to the melancholy notes of the prelude which recall the whole scene—do you not remember? The stars are shining, the night wind is blowing, and we are on the terrace looking down on the glittering lights of the city. Hark! that joyous sparkling strain, full of riant laughter, recalls the sad students who wandered past, and then from amid the airy ripple of notes comes the sweet, mellow strain of the ‘cello, which tells of love eternal amid the summer roses; how the tender melody sweeps on full of the perfume and mystic meanings of that night. Hark! is that the nightingale in the trees, or only the silvery notes of a violin, which comes stealing through the steady throb and swing of the heavier stringed instruments? Ah! why does the rhythm stop? A few chords breaking up the dream, the sound of a bugle calling you away, and the valse goes into the farewell motif with its tender longing and passionate anguish. Good-bye! you will be true? Your heart is mine, good-bye, sweetheart! Stop! that discord of angry notes—she is false to her soldier lover! The stars are pale, the nightingale is silent, the rose leaves fall, and the sad refrain comes stealing through the room again with its bitter reproach, ‘One summer’s night in Munich I knew your heart was