CHAPTER V. A WOMAN'S APPEAL.

According to some writer, "Human beings are moulded by circumstances," and truly Kitty Marchurst, better known as Caprice, was an excellent illustration of this remark.

The daughter of a Ballarat clergyman, she was a charming and pure-minded girl, and would doubtless have married and become a happy woman, but for the intervention of circumstances in the form of M. Gaston Vandeloup. This gentleman, an ex-convict, and a brilliant and fascinating scoundrel, ruined the simple, confiding girl, and left her to starve in the streets of Melbourne. From this terrible fate, however, she was rescued by Mrs. Villiers, who had known her as a child, and it seemed as though she would once more be happy, when circumstances again intervened, and through her connection with a poisoning case, she was again thrown on the world. Weary of existence, she was about to drown herself in the Yarra, when Vandeloup met her, and tried to push her in. With a sudden craving for life, she struggled with him, and he, being weak for want of food, fell in and was drowned, while the unhappy girl fled away, she knew not whither.

A blind instinct led her to "The Home for Fallen Women," founded by a Miss Rawlins, who had herself been an unfortunate, and here for a time the weary, broken-hearted woman found rest. A child, of which Vandeloup was the father, came to cheer her loneliness, and she called the little one Margaret, hoping it would comfort her in the future. But the seeds of evil implanted in her breast by Vandeloup began to bear fruit, and with returning health came a craving; for excitement. She grew weary of the narrow, ascetic life she was leading--for young blood bounded through her veins--and she was still beautiful and brilliant. So, much against the wishes of the matron of the institution, she left the place and returned to the stage.

The Wopples family, with whom she had previously acted, had gone to America, and she was alone in the world, without a single friend. She called herself Caprice, for her real name and history were too notorious for such a public career as she had chosen. All avoided her, and this worked her ruin. Had one door been open to her--had one kind hand been stretched forth to save her--she might have redeemed the past; but the self-righteous Pharisees of the world condemned her, and in despair she determined to defy the world by giving it back scorn for scorn.

It was a terribly hard and dreary life she led at first--no friends, very little money, and a child to support. The future looked black enough before her; but she determined to succeed, and Fortune at length favoured her.

She was playing a minor part in a Christmas burlesque, when the lady who acted the principal character suddenly fell ill, and Kitty had to take her place at a very short notice. She, however, acquitted herself so well that, with one bound, she became a popular favourite, and the star still continuing ill for the rest of the run of the piece, she was able to consolidate the favourable impression she had made. She awoke to find herself famous, and played part after part in burlesque and modern comedy, always with great success. In a word, she became the fashion, and found herself both rich and famous.

Ted Mortimer, the manager of the Bon-Bon Theatre, persuaded her to try opera-bouffe, and she made her first appearance in the Grand Duchess with complete success. She followed up her triumph by playing the title r?les in Giroflé Girofla, La Perichole, and Boccaccio, scoring brilliantly each time; and now she had created the part of Prince Carnival, which proved to be her greatest success. Night after night the Bon-Bon was crowded, and the opera had a long and successful run, while Kitty, now at the height of her fame, set herself to work to accomplish her revenge on the world.

She hated women for the way they had scorned her, and she detested men for the free and easy manner in which they approached her; so she made up her mind to ruin all she could, and succeeded admirably. One after another, not only the gilded youth of Melbourne, but staid, sober men became entangled in her meshes, and many a man lived to curse the hour he first met Kitty Marchurst.

Her house at Toorak was furnished like a palace, and her dresses, jewels, horses, and extravagances formed a fruitful topic of conversation in clubs and drawing-rooms. She flung away thousands of pounds in the most reckless manner, and as soon as she had ruined one man, took up with another, and turned her back on the poor one with a cynical sneer. Her greatest delight was to take away other women's husbands, and many happy homes had she broken up by her wiles and fascinations. Consequently, she was hated and feared by all the women in Melbourne, and was wrathfully denounced as a base adventuress, without one redeeming feature. They were wrong: she loved her child.

Kitty simply idolised Meg, and was always in terror lest she should lose her. Consequently, when she heard how Keith had rescued her child from a terrible death, her gratitude knew no bounds. She heard of the young man's ambitions from Ezra, and determined to help him as far as it lay in her power. Thus, for the first time for many years, her conduct was actuated by a kindly feeling.

The drawing-room in Kitty's house at Toorak was a large, lofty apartment, furnished in a most luxurious style. Rich carpets, low lounging chairs, innumerable rugs and heavy velvet curtains. A magnificent grand piano, great masses of tropical foliage in fantastically-coloured jars, priceless cabinets of china, and costly, well-selected pictures. One of her lovers, a rich squatter, had furnished it for her. When he had lost all his money, and found her cold and cruel, he went off to the wilds of South America to try and forget her.

There were three French windows at the end of the room, which led out on to a broad verandah, and beyond was the lawn, girdled by laurels. Kitty sat at a writing-desk reading letters, and the morning sun shining through the window made a halo round her golden head. No one who saw her beautiful, childish face, and sad blue eyes, would have dreamed how cruel and relentless a soul lay beneath that fair exterior.

At her feet sat Meg, dressed in a sage-green frock, with her auburn curls falling over her face, playing with a box of bricks, and every now and then her mother would steal an affectionate glance at her.

Curiously enough, Kitty was reading a letter from the very man who had given her the house, and who was now dying in a pauper hospital in San Francisco.

"I forgive you freely," he wrote; "but, ah, Kitty, you might have feigned a love you did not feel, if only to spare me the degradation of dying a pauper, alone and without friends!"

The woman's face grew dark as she read these pitiful words, and, crushing up the letter in her hands, she threw it into the waste-paper basket with a cynical sneer.

"Bah!" she muttered contemptuously, "does he think to impose on me with such tricks? Feign a love! Yes, kiss and caress him to gratify his vanity. Did I not give him fair warning of the end? And now he whimpers about mercy--mercy from me to him--pshaw! let him die and go to his pauper grave, I'll not shed a tear!"

And she laughed harshly.

At this moment Meg, who had been building two edifices of bricks, began to talk to herself.

"This," said Meg, putting the top brick on one building, "is the House of Good, but the other is the House of Sin. Mumsey," raising her eyes, "which house would you like to live in?"

"In the House of Good, dear," said Kitty in a tremulous voice, touched by the artless question of the child. "Come to mumsey, darling, and tell her what you have been doing."

Meg, nothing loath, accepted this invitation, and, climbing up on her mother's knee, threw her arms round Kitty's neck.

"I had some bread and milk," she said confidentially; "then I went and saw my Guinea pigs. Dotty--you know, mumsey, the one with the long hair--oh, he squeaked--he did squeak! I think he was hungry."

"Have you been a good little girl?"

"Good?" echoed Meg doubtfully. "Well, not very good. I was cross with Bliggings. She put soap into my eyes."

"It's naughty to be cross, darling," said her mother, smoothing the child's hair. "What makes you naughty?"

"Mother," said Meg, nodding her head sagely, "it's the wicked spirit."

Kitty laughed, and, kissing the child, drew her closer to her.

"Mumsey!"

"Yes, darling?"

"I should like to give the man who stopped the wheels a present."

"What would you like to give him, my precious?"

This took some consideration, and Meg puckered up her small face into a frown.

"I think," she decided at length, "the man would like a knife."

"A knife cuts love, Meg."

"Not if you get a penny for it," asserted Meg wisely. "Bliggings told me; let me get a knife for the man, mumsey."

"Very well, dear," said Kitty smiling; "the man will then know my little daughter has a kind heart."

"Meg is a very good girl," asserted that small personage gravely; and, climbing down off her mother's knee, she began to play with the bricks, while Kitty went on with her correspondence.

The next letter evidently did not give Kitty much satisfaction, judging by the frown on her face. She had written to Hiram J. Fenton asking for some money, and he had curtly refused to give her any more. She tore up the letter, threw it into the waste-paper basket, and smiled sardonically.

"You won't, won't you?" she muttered angrily. "Very well, my friend, there are plenty of others to give me money if you won't."

At this moment there came a ring at the door, and shortly after the servant entered with a card. Kitty took it carelessly, and then started.

"Mrs. Malton," she muttered, in a puzzled tone. "Evan Malton's wife! what does she want, I wonder? I thought I was too wicked for virtue to call on me--it appears I'm not."

She glanced at the card again, then made up her mind.

"Show the lady in," she said calmly; and, when the servant disappeared, she called Meg. "Mumsey's sweetheart must go away for a few minutes."

"What for?" asked mumsey's sweetheart, setting her small mouth.

"Mumsey has to see a lady on business." Meg collected the bricks in a pinafore, and walked off to the French window, when she turned.

"Meg will play outside," she said, shaking her curls, "and will come in when mumsey calls."

Scarcely had Meg vanished when the servant threw open the door and announced,--

"Mrs. Malton."

A tall, slender girl entered the room quickly, and, as the door closed behind, paused a moment and looked steadily at Kitty through her thick veil.

"Mrs. Malton?" said Kitty interrogatively.

The visitor bowed, and, throwing back her veil, displayed a face of great beauty; but she had a restless, pitiful look in her eyes, and occasionally she moistened her dry lips with her tongue.

"Will you take a seat?" said the actress politely, taking in at a glance the beautiful, tired face and quiet, dark costume of her visitor.

"Thank you," replied Mrs. Malton, in a low, clear voice, and sat down in the chair indicated by her hostess, nervously clasping and unclasping her hands over the ivory handle of her umbrella. She glanced at Kitty again in a shrinking kind of manner, then, with a sudden effort, burst out quickly,--

"I have called--I have called to see you about my--my husband."

Kitty's lip curled, and she resumed her seat with an enigmatical smile.

"Yes; what about him?"

"Cannot you guess?" said Mrs. Malton imploringly.

Kitty shook her head in a supercilious manner.

"I am at a loss to understand the reason of your visit," she said, in a cold, measured manner.

"I am Evan Malton's wife," said the other rapidly. "We have only been married a year--and--and we have one child."

"I presume you did not call to inform me of your domestic affairs," replied Kitty mercilessly.

"He was so fond of me--we loved one another devotedly till--till--"

"Till he met me, I suppose," said Kitty coolly, throwing herself back with an amused laugh. "I've heard that complaint before--you wives never seem to know how to retain your husbands' affections."

"Give him back to me--oh give him back to me," cried the young wife, clasping her hands. "You have many richer and better than he. I love my husband, and you have parted us--oh, do--do--give him back to me."

"My dear Mrs. Malton," replied the actress coldly, "I do not encourage him, I assure you. He's a bore, and I detest bores."

"But he loves you--he loves you--he worships the ground you tread on."

"A waste of good material; for his devotion will never be rewarded."

"Then you don't love him?" said Mrs. Malton breathlessly.

Kitty rose to her feet, and laughed bitterly.

"Love him--love any one," she muttered, with a choking cry. "I hate the whole lot of them. Do you think I care for their flattery, their kisses, their protestations--bah! I know the value of such things. Love--I hate the word."

"Yet my husband comes here," said the other timidly.

Kitty turned on her fiercely.

"Can I help that? Is it the candle's fault that the moths are attracted? I don't ask your husband to come; if he finds in me what he misses in you, it is your fault, not mine--your errand is useless, I cannot help you."

She turned to go, but the young woman sprang forward and caught her dress.

"You shall not go--you shall not!" she almost shrieked. "You and Fenton are dragging us both to perdition; he has ruined himself for your sake, and his friend--God help him--his friend has insulted me with words of love."

"Am I the guardian of your virtue?" said Kitty pitilessly.

Mrs. Malton stood wringing her hands.

"Oh, God, have you no pity? I am a woman like yourself--my husband should protect me, but he leaves me for you--and," in a whisper, "you don't know all--he has given you presents, rich presents, and to do so has committed a crime."

"A crime!"

"Hush! hush!" glancing fearfully around, "not so loud--not so loud--yes, he has embezzled money, thousands of pounds, for your sake."

Kitty gave a cry, and grasped at a chair for support.

"I--I--did not--not ask him for his presents."

"No; but it was for your sake--your sake. You must help him."

"I," laughed Kitty mockingly, "help him? Help him!--help any man! My good woman, if he went into the prisoner's dock to-morrow, I would not lift one finger to save him."

Mrs. Malton fell on her knees.

"Oh, my God, don't talk like that!" she cried wildly. "You will ruin him--you will ruin him."

Kitty swept round with a cold glitter, like steel, in her eyes.

"Yes! it is my business to ruin men. When I was poor, and anxious to lead a good life, any outstretched hand might have saved me; but no, I was a pariah and outcast--they closed their doors against me. I asked for bread, they gave me a stone--they made of me a scourge for their own evil doing--this is the time for my revenge; fallen and degraded though I be, I can wring their hearts and ruin their homes through their nearest and dearest, and you come to ask me to relent--you, who, if you saw me to-morrow on the streets, would draw your skirts aside from the moral leper!"

"No, no!" moaned the other, beating her breasts with her hands. "Have mercy, have mercy!"

"What do you want me to do?"

"You know the manager of the company, Mr. Fenton; he is your lover--he can refuse you nothing. Speak to him, and see if anything can be done."

"No!"

"For God's sake!"

"No!"

"You have a child?"

"What is my child to you?"

"Everything. You are a mother--so am I: yon love your child--I love mine; yet you would make my innocent child suffer for its father's crime. Oh, if you have any feelings of a mother, spare the father for the sake of the child."

Kitty stood irresolute, while the woman at her feet burst into wild and passionate weeping.

At this moment Meg entered the room by the window, and paused for a moment.

"Mumsey," she said, "why does the lady cry?"

Kitty would have interposed, but Mrs. Malton stretched out her hands to Meg with a quiet in-drawing of her breath.

"I am crying for my little girl."

"Is she dead?" asked Meg, coming to the kneeling woman, and touching her shoulder. "Poor lady--poor, poor lady!"

Kitty could contain herself no longer. With a sudden impulse, she bent down and raised the weeping woman.

"I will do what I can," she said huskily, and sank into a chair.

"Thank God!" cried Mrs. Malton, advancing, but Kitty waved her off, while Meg stood looking from one to the other in amazement.

"Go, go!"

Mrs. Malton bent down and kissed her hand.

"May God be merciful to you, as you have been to me," and, without another word, she departed.

"Mumsey," said Meg, trying to take her mother's hands from her face, "were you cross to the lady?"

"No, darling, no!" replied Kitty, drawing Meg close to her. "Mother was kind to the lady because of her little girl."

"Good mumsey, dear mumsey; Meg loves you," and she put her arms round Kitty's neck, while the poor woman leaned her aching head against the innocent breast of her child, and burst into tears.