CHAPTER I.

A RUINED LIFE.

It was a calm southern night, with a silver moon shining serenely in a cloudless sky, and over the glittering expanse of ocean steamed the P. and O.'s vessel "Neptune" on her way from Brindisi to Malta. Every revolution of her powerful engines sent her plunging through the blue waters, with the waves breaking in tumbling masses of white foam from her towering sides. The passengers, numbering about three hundred, were all in high spirits, having had a most delightful voyage from Australia, and were looking forward, with pleasure, to their arrival at Valletta on the morrow.

Can there be anything in the world more pleasant than sea life on a steamship with jolly people? Anyone, who is a good sailor, will answer "No," though perhaps Ulysses, who travelled over these same waters, might not agree, but then the wandering Greek had not a P. and O. steamer at his command.

On this charming night a dance was in progress on the hurricane deck, and the immense area had been draped with brilliantly coloured flags, thus turning it into an admirable ball-room. Miss Kate Lester, the belle of the ship,--a position she knew she occupied, and, by the way took full advantage of all benefits to be derived therefrom,--was the pianist, and was playing the "Venetia Valse," to which a number of young people were dancing. The white dresses of the ladies, the darker costumes of the men, and the vivid tints of the flags, all seen under the powerful radiance of the electric lights, made up a very pretty picture.

Ronald Monteith thought so, at all events--and Mr. Monteith was a very good judge of beauty, especially if it were feminine. He leaned lazily against the bulwarks and surveyed the festive scene with a smile on his handsome face, but--Joseph like--took no notice of the many glances he received from bright eyes. Tall and sinewy, with fair hair and mustaches, blue eyes, and a skin bronzed by exposure to the hot southern sun, Monteith was decidedly good-looking, and by no means undervalued his personal appearance. His father was a wealthy Australian squatter, who owned large stations in the Riverina District, and, being a liberal-minded and liberal-handed man, had sent his son forth to see the world. Master Ronald, nothing loth, departed with a goodly supply of money, several letters of introduction, and a huge capacity of enjoyment; so, as can easily be seen, this lucky young man's lines were cast in pleasant places. There were lots of pretty girls on board who would have liked to marry him, nevertheless, his highness threw his handkerchief to none of them, yet flirted with all. He was not a clever man by any means, but he could ride, shoot, swim and box to perfection, all of which athletic accomplishments found favour in the eyes of women; he was, moreover, an honourable gentleman, with a kind heart and a generous spirit.

As he stood there in a meditative attitude, wondering if he could summon up sufficient courage to dance with the thermometer at somewhere about eighty, a young fellow who rejoiced in the name of Patrick Ryan, came up and took him by the arm.

"Come and have a drink, me boy," said Mr. Ryan, with a slight touch of the brogue. "I'm half dead with dancin', not to mention the way I've to talk to the girls, and tell 'em enough lies to make me recordin' angel take to shorthand."

"Then why the deuce don't you stop it?" retorted Ronald, as he accepted this bacchanalian invitation, and they went down to the bar.

"Oh, begad, think how the girls would tear their hair, and mine too, if I didn't look after them," replied Pat; "it's purely ornamental ye are, but 'tis better to be good than beautiful, and a mighty poor consolation anyhow."

Pat Ryan was certainly not beautiful, being short and dark, but his lack of good looks was more than made up by the possession of a clever tongue, which was generally going from morning till night, and as he could sing, play, write verses, and flatter a woman to perfection he was a great favourite on board.

"Well, I'm off to the halls of dazzlin' light," he observed when they had finished their drinks and were once more on deck; "come along, ye lazy divil, and I'll get you a partner."

"I'm too hot," objected Ronald, putting his hands in his pockets.

"Oh, jist hear him," said Pat in disgust. "Why, I've seen ye all day in the saddle under a burnin' sun, and divil a growl from ye, and yet when I offer ye a pretty girl to dance with, ye refuse; and as for the girl, begad, her beauty would tempt St. Anthony himself and small blame to him."

"Who is she?" asked the Australian, with some show of interest.

"Miss Lester, no less."

"I thought you were sweet there yourself Pat."

"I'm sweet on all the girls me boy--there's safety in numbers, and I believe in quantity as well as quality."

"You're getting too deep for me," said Ronald, pulling a very black pipe from his pocket, "so I'll go and have a smoke."

"A pipe too!" echoed Pat; "faith, it's woman's greatest enemy."

"And man's greatest friend," retorted Monteith, as he strolled off.

Pat, laughing, went away to arrange another dance, and to this end asked Mrs. Pellypop to play the Lancers. Mrs. Pellypop, tall, majestic and aggressively virtuous, was the mother-in-law of a Bishop, and was on her way home to pay her daughter a visit, an event regarded by the worthy prelate with anything but unmixed joy. She had an eye-glass--very effective to crush presuming people--a chilling smile and very strong opinions about her own position; in short she was a type of all that was virtuous and--disagreeable.

While the dancing was thus going on Ronald, having lighted his pipe, strolled up and down the long deck for a few minutes, then leaned meditatively over the side and watched the glittering waters sweeping past. While thus engaged he felt a light touch on his arm, and, on turning round, saw a man he knew standing near him.

"Hullo, Ventin," said Ronald, removing his beloved pipe for a moment, "why aren't you dancing?"

"Because I hate dancing," retorted Mr. Ventin irritably; "I'm sick of the perpetual jangle of that d--d piano, of Miss Lester's flirtations, and of Mother Pellypop's virtues--I'm sick of the whole thing and I wish the voyage were over."

"I don't," replied Ronald taking a seat on one of the deck chairs; "it's very jolly I think."

"Yes, I daresay," said Ventin gloomily; "you are young and rich, with all the world before you. I, on the contrary, am old."

"Rubbish!"

"If not in years, at least in experience. I have lost all my illusions, and have discovered the gold of fancy to be only the tinsel of reality. You stand on the threshold of a happy career; I can only look back on a ruined life."

Ronald looked at him curiously as he spoke. A handsome face certainly, but with innumerable wrinkles and hollow cheeks; dark, piercing, restless eyes; black, smooth hair touched with white at the temples; and a thin-lipped mouth, with a heavy, dark mustache. Yes, Lionel Ventin was handsome, but one whom a woman would rather fear than admire. For the rest, a slender figure, high-bred manner, and in general a cool, nonchalant demeanour, which but ill accorded with the restless glances of his eyes on this particular night.

Ronald had been introduced to him in Melbourne a year previously, and then lost sight of him, never expecting to set eyes on him again. But the first person he met on board the "Neptune" was Ventin, and a strong friendship soon sprung up between them, which seemed quite unaccountable, considering the difference in their dispositions. But the fact was Ventin liked Ronald's happy, pleasant manner, and, on his part, Monteith felt for the other that strong admiration which a young man always has for one who is older and knows more about the world than himself. Ventin had been everywhere, and seen everything. He had shot big game in the Rocky Mountains, hunted elephants in Africa and tigers in India, knew London, Paris, and Vienna thoroughly, and, when he chose to exert himself, could be a most delightful companion. To-night however, he seemed restless and ill at ease, which rather surprised Ronald accustomed, as he was, to the cool, careless manner of his friend.

"I don't know why the deuce I should trust you," said Ventin, sitting down near Ronald and eyeing him keenly; "we are only fellow-travellers, and I am not usually given to confidences, but occasionally it does a man good to open his heart to someone."

"Fire away old boy," said Ronald, puffing out a big cloud of smoke, and settling himself comfortably in his chair; "you look like a man with a history."

"Happy the nation that has no history," quoted Ventin, cynically. "I suppose the same remark applies to a man's life. My history begins in that accursed Malta, for it was there I met her."

"Oh! a woman?"

"Of course; most men's histories commence and end with a woman, that is why confidences are so monotonous. Well," turning restlessly in his seat, "I may as well say Ventin is not my real name. No--it is--well I need not tell you my real name, as it is quite unnecessary. I didn't do much credit to it when I had it, and I daresay my present name is not quite blameless. Bah! Why do I sentimentalize? Forty years of life ought to have knocked all that out of me."

"You're not forty!" said Ronald looking curiously at him.

"Why?" asked Ventin quickly turning his haggard face towards the Australian; "do you think these wrinkles due to age or dissipation?--To both I'm afraid, though I suspect the latter has had more to do with them than the former. God made man in His own image. He can't be very delighted when He sees how hard we strive to mar His handiwork."

There was silence for a few minutes, and the two men could hear the regular beating of the screw, the fitful sound of music mellowed by distance, and the gay laughter of the dancers. The voices of the whist players, disputing over some point in their game, came from the smoking-room, and in the semi-darkness extending along the deck could be heard the soft notes of a woman's voice, or the deeper tones from a man.

Then Ventin began to speak in slow, measured tones, quite different from his former vehement style.

"I was never a good young man," he said cynically; "but I don't think I was worse than the generality of fellows. Give a boy money and place him amid the temptations of London, and, in nine cases out of ten, he'll go to the devil, or, if he doesn't go, it is because some lucky accident prevents him. Perhaps he has a man-of-the-world friend who advises him--or he loses his money, and has to leave the primrose path--or, he may marry a good woman, and her influence may save him from his worst enemy, himself. Ah! if we only knew the value of a good woman's love--how she can be our guardian angel, and keep us pure and honourable in the midst of temptation! But we never find out the value of such treasures till it's too late,--but there,"--with a weary sigh,--"I am sentimentalizing again! Let me go on with my story.

"I lost both parents at the age of twenty, and I went to London with plenty of money and no experience whatever. Unluckily, I had no one to play the part of Mentor to my Telemachus, so I had to gain wisdom by experience, and pretty dearly I paid for it. I became a hard, cynical man of the world, for a thirteen years' residence in London was a liberal education to me in the _nil admirari_ philosophy of to-day, and then--well my money lasted longer than my health, and I became seriously ill--so bad indeed that my doctors ordered me to Malta to be cured. Oh, heavens how ironical is Fate--it was merely a case of out of the frying-pan into the fire--for my part I prefer the frying-pan. It was true the balmy air and bright skies of Malta cured me of one disease, but unfortunately I contracted another not so easily dealt with,--that of love.

"I became acquainted with two charmingly pretty girls of the ages of twenty-three and nineteen, and--forgive my apparent egotism--both fell in love with me. It was the choice of Hercules over again, but unluckily I chose the wrong lady, and married the elder. 'Hell has no fury like a woman scorned,' so the younger soon hated me like poison, and left Malta for England. I married the woman of my choice and then my punishment commenced. She was a perfect devil, with nothing but her beauty to recommend her. Her father boasted they had Arab blood in their veins, and my belief is that the ancestor of the family must have been Eblis himself. Often and often she threatened to kill me for some petty thing, and I believe she would had not some instinct of danger restrained her. If I looked at another woman, there was a storm of reproaches--if I were away for a day, her jealous mind conjured up a hundred infidelities--in short, our married life was a hell upon earth. At last, after a year of this cat-and-dog existence, I determined to leave her, and to this course she assented, after a good deal of persuasion. A deed of separation was drawn up, by which I allowed her a handsome income on condition that she resided in Valletta. She agreed to this and, after a stormy parting, I went to England, and lived there a moody, discontented man."

"You did not see the other sister?" asked Ronald.

"No," he replied; "I never set eyes on her again. She was a nice girl, and I dare say I did treat her badly by leading her to believe I cared for her.

"Well, I wandered all over the United Kingdom and, while staying with some friends in the Highlands, I met the woman who made a better man of me--for a time. She was an orphan was Elsie Macgregor. Her father had been a soldier who died of consumption contracted in the trenches of Sebastopol, during the Crimean War. Fair and slender, with quiet, blue eyes and hair like yellow corn--I loved her devotedly--yes, too well to wrong her innocence, and would have gone away in silence, but she, with a woman's keen instinct, saw there was something wrong, and begged me to tell her all. I did so, and she--oh, Monteith, what do you think she did?--left her home and her friends--defied the sneers of the world and the scornful looks of her own sex and became my mistress. Yes--she saw that hers alone was the hand that could arrest me in my downward course; so to save me she ruined herself. I lived with her for one happy year, and always looked back to that time as the brightest era in my life.

"Then my devil of a wife found me out and instituted proceedings in the Divorce Court against me. I did not object, as I thought I would then be free to marry Elsie. The decree was pronounced, and as soon as I was able I married Elsie and took my passage with her to Australia--there intending to start a new life in a new land. We built castles in the air of a happy future, but it was not to be; for, just as the ship was leaving, that Maltese devil came on board, and then a fearful scene took place. I cannot describe to you the terrible way she went on, and Elsie, being in delicate health, clung to my arm nearly fainting. At last the climax came, for my former wife sprang forward and struck Elsie on the face--the poor girl fell in a faint on the deck, and after considerable difficulty that Maltese fiend was removed by force from the ship. We sailed, and I thought Elsie would soon recover, but the iron had entered into her soul, and before we rounded the Cape she was buried at sea."

Here Ventin covered his face with his hands, and Ronald, respecting his emotion, said nothing.

After a few moments of silence, Ventin resumed in an unsteady voice:

"I landed in Australia, a broken-hearted man--heedless of my life, and with no hope of happiness in the future. I went from Australia to New Zealand, thence to America, and travelled all over the new world trying to drown my bitter thoughts in dissipation, but without success. I went in for gambling, drinking, racing, threw away money on women, kept a theatre; in fact did everything I could to ruin myself. Then, wearied of the reckless life I was leading, I went back to Australia and tried to settle down, but it was no use. Like Orestes, pursued by the Furies, I had to fly, so I took my passage on board the 'Neptune,' and thus, here you find me a ruined cynic at the age of forty, and all through a woman."

"And what do you intend to do when you reach England?" asked Ronald, who had been listening with the deepest interest.

"England!" murmured Ventin dreamily; "perhaps I may never see England."

"What do you mean?" asked the Australian, a little startled as the thought of suicide flashed across his mind.

"No not that," replied Ventin, guessing his thoughts, "but when I was in Australia I received a letter from my first wife saying she would kill me the first time we met."

"She would never dare----"

"Oh yes she would--she has Arab blood in her veins remember; and when she is mad with rage, she would put a knife in me and take the consequences."

"But are you sure the letter was from her?"

"Who else could it be from?" said Ventin, shrugging his shoulders; "it was not signed, and the handwriting was slightly different from her usual style, but then she often threatened to kill me, and I've no doubt puts into writing what she often said."

"You have no enemies?"

"None that would go so far as to desire my death. No my friend, the letter was from the charming Maltese, and she'll carry out her purpose if she can."

"Is she in Valletta?"

"I don't know; if she is, and find me out, well--I may reach England alive, but I doubt it; and after all I don't think I'd care much: I'm sick of life, and if one could be only certain that death is an eternal sleep--well," with a sneer, "I think I'd be inclined for the nap; but come," rising to his feet, "I've bored you enough for one night, let us go into the smoking-room and have one pipe before turning in."

Ronald assented, and walked slowly after Ventin, wondering at the strange story he had heard, and at the strange man who told it to him.

"He's had a queer life," mused Monteith as they stepped into the smoking-room. "I wonder if his end will be as queer."

The dance being over all the ladies had gone below, the electric lights were out in the saloon and on deck, and only the smoking-room was lighted up for the benefit of the night-birds. Here they all came flushed and excited with their exercise, and soon all the marble-topped tables were covered with glasses containing different beverages from whisky-and-soda down to a modest squash, while the atmosphere resembled nothing so much as a London fog. Ventin had recovered his spirits, and told stories, made epigrams, and sang songs, until Ronald could hardly believe he saw before him the same man who had told him such a pitiful story.

Ventin saw his friend's eyes directed curiously at him once or twice, and guessing the meaning of his looks, came up to him to say "Good-night."

"I've put on the cap and bells, you see," he said, cynically; "broken hearts are not in favour with the world, and life is only a masquerade after all."