"JOHANN STRAUSS"
On Monday morning David made the acquaintance of the _genus_
"housekeeper," when the woman recommended by Dibbin arrived to take him
in hand. He had thought that she would sleep in the place, and had
rather looked forward to the human companionship, for nothing is more
cut off from the world of the living than a flat, if one is alone in it,
especially through the watches of the night. Surely, if there are ghosts
in want of undisturbed house-room, every bachelor's flat must be
haunted.
Mrs. Grover, the housekeeper, however, said that "sleeping in" was not
the arrangement suggested to her by Dibbin, since there were "the
children to be looked after." David, for his part, would not let it
appear that he cared at all; so Mrs. Grover, a busy little fat woman,
set to work making things rattle, on an understanding of "sleeping out"
and freedom for church services o' Sunday.
This Monday was David's appointed day for beginning work. But he did not
prosper very well. Plenty of paper, lots of ink, and a new gold pen make
no Shakespeare. And it is always hard to begin, even when the mind does
not wander. But Violet Mordaunt had brown eyes, so soft, so grave, as
those that beam with pity over the dying. She was more beautiful than
her sister, whose face, too, David could see through the back of his
head. Also, Van Hupfeldt was undoubtedly a more elegant object for the
eye of woman to rest upon than David Harcourt.
David wondered if Van Hupfeldt was engaged to Violet. He had certainly
spoken to her at the grave with much tender gallantry of manner, as if
something was understood between them. And since Violet's mother sent
this man to seek her in his carriage, that must mean that they were on
familiar terms; unless, indeed, the mother was pressingly anxious about
Violet, could not go herself, and had no one else to win the young woman
home from her sister's grave. Such questionings were the cause of long
pauses between the writing of David's sentences. He was glad when
something interrupted--when the bell rang, and Dibbin was ushered in.
"I have looked in for one minute on the subject of that--grate," said
the agent. "Do not disturb yourself, I beg. Well, I see that Mrs. Grover
is duly in her place, and you as snug here as a bird in its nest."
"So snug," said David, "that I feel stifled. It beats me how people can
get so accustomed to this sort of prison as not even to remember any
longer that they are in prison. No air, no room to stretch, coal-dust
in your very soul, and even at night in your bed!"
"Dash it all, don't say it."
"Say what?"
"Were you about to refer to any fresh experiences?"
"Of the ghost? Not a bit of it!" said David. "I have seen, heard, or
smelled nothing more of anything."
"Good, good!" went on Dibbin, softly. "Keep on like that, and we shall
pull through yet. I find you are well stocked with violets, meantime."
David laughed a little uneasily, and said "Yes"--no more. Whiffs
of violets in a lonely flat, for which one can't account, are not
altogether pleasant things. David had therefore surrounded himself with
violets, in order, when he was greeted with a scent of violets, to be
able to say to himself that the scent came from those which he had
bought. He had not admitted even to himself what his motive was in
buying; nor would he admit it to Mr. Dibbin. There, however, the violets
were in several pots, and their fragrance at once drew the notice of a
visitor, for the London florist has an art to heighten dull nature in
violets and much else.
"Have a seat, Mr. Dibbin," said David, "and let us talk."
"I am afraid I must be off," began the other.
"Well, have a B. and S. any way. I only want to hear from you whatever
you can tell me of Mrs. and Miss Violet Mordaunt."
"What? You have discovered their names?" cried Dibbin with a start.
"I have."
"Mr. Harcourt, you are a remarkable man," said the agent with quiet
certainty.
"Oh, not too remarkable. But since I do know something, you might let
yourself loose as to the rest, as I am interested. You have seen the
mother, I know. Have you seen the daughter, too?"
"Several times."
"Pretty girl, eh? Or what do you think?"
"Well, I am getting an old man now," said Dibbin; "but I have been
young, and I think I can remember how I should have felt at twenty-five
in the presence of such a being."
"Pretty, you think her, eh?"
"Rather!"
"Prettier than Gwendoline? Prettier than her sister?"
"Well, I don't know so much about that neither--different type--graver,
softer in the eye and hair, taller, darker, not so young; but that poor
dead girl was something to make the mouth water, too, sir--such a cut
diamond! to see her in her full war-paint, turned out like a daisy!--in
short, lovely beings, both of 'em, both of 'em."
"Fairly well fixed, the mother?"
"You mean financially? Oh, I think so. Got a fine place down in
Warwickshire, I know--not far from Kenilworth. Good old family, and
that sort of thing."
"But how on earth this man Strauss, more or less an adventurer, I take
it, could have got hold of such a girl, to the extent of drawing her
from her happy home, and sending her on the stage. He didn't marry her,
Dibbin? He didn't marry her?"
"How can I say?" asked Dibbin, blinking. "We can all make a shrewd
guess; but one can't be absolutely certain, though the fact of her
suicide would seem to be a sort of proof."
"What do the mother and Miss Mordaunt think of it? Do they assume that
she was married? Or do they know enough of the world to guess that she
was not? I suppose you don't know."
"They know what the world thinks, I'm afraid," answered Dibbin. "I am
sure of that much. Yes, they know, they know. I have been with Mrs.
Mordaunt a good many times, for one reason or another. I can tell how
she feels, and I'm afraid that she not only guesses what the world
thinks, but agrees with the world's view. On the other hand, I have
reason to think that Miss Mordaunt has an obstinate faith in her
sister, and neither believes that she died unmarried, nor even that
she committed suicide. Well, well, you can't expect much clear
reasoning from a poor sister with a head half turned with grief."
Dibbin tossed off his brandy, while David paced the room, his hands
behind him, with a clouded brow.
"Have they no protector, these women?" he asked. "Isn't Miss Mordaunt
engaged?"
"I fancy not," said the agent. "In fact, I think I can say undoubtedly
not. She was not engaged before the death of her sister, I am certain;
and this disaster of her sister appears to have inspired the poor girl
with such a detestation of the whole male sex--"
"Do you happen to know who a certain Mr. Van Hupfeldt is?" asked David.
"Van Hupfeldt, Van Hupfeldt? No, never heard of him. What of him?"
"He seems to be a pretty close friend of the Mordaunts, if I am right."
"He may be a close friend, and yet a new one," said Dibbin, "as
sometimes happens. Never heard of him, although I thought that I knew
the names of most of Mrs. Mordaunt's connections, either through herself
or her solicitors."
"But to go back to this Strauss," said David. "Do you mean to say that
neither the mother nor Miss Mordaunt ever once saw him?"
"Not once that they know of."
"Then, how did he get hold of Gwendoline?"
"That's the question. It is suspected that he met her in the
hunting-field, persuaded her to meet him secretly, and finally won her
to fly from home. To me this is quite credible; for I've seen Johann
Strauss twice, and each time have been struck with the thought how
fascinating this man must be in the eyes of a young woman!"
"What was he like, then, this Mr. Johann Strauss of the flourishy
signature?"
"A most handsome young man," said Mr. Dibbin, impressively; "hard to
describe exactly. Came from the States, I think, or had lived there--had
just a touch of the talk, perhaps--of Dutch extraction, I take it.
Handsome fellow, handsome fellow; the kind of man girls throw themselves
over precipices after: teeth flashing between the wings of his black
mustache--tall, thin man, always most elegantly dressed--dark
skin--sallow--"
At that word "sallow," David started, the description of Johann Strauss
had so strangely reminded him of Van Hupfeldt! But the thought that the
cause of the one sister's undoing should be friendly with the other
sister, paying his court to her over the grave of the ill-fated dead,
was too wild to find for itself a place all at once in the mind.
David frowned down the notion of such a horror. He told himself that it
was dark when he had seen Van Hupfeldt, that there were many tall men
with white teeth and black mustaches, and sallow, dark skins. If he had
felt some sort of antipathy to Van Hupfeldt at first sight, this was no
proof of evil in Van Hupfeldt's nature, but a proof only, perhaps, of
David's capabilities of being jealous of one more favored than himself
by nature as he fancied--and by Violet Mordaunt, which was the notion
that rankled.
And yet he tingled. Dibbin had said that this Van Hupfeldt might be "a
new friend--one who had become a friend since the death of Gwendoline."
David paced the room with slow steps, and while Dibbin talked on of one
or another of the people who had known Gwendoline Mordaunt in the flesh,
vowed to himself that he would take this matter on his shoulders and see
it through.
"Speaking of the Miss L'Estrange who was in the flat before me," said
he; "how long did she stay in it?"
"Three months, nearly," answered Dibbin, "and then all of a sudden she
wouldn't stay another day. And I had no means of forcing her to do so
either."
"What? Did the ghost suddenly get worse?"
"I couldn't quite tell you what happened. Miss Ermyn L'Estrange isn't a
lady altogether easy to understand when in an excited condition. Suffice
it to say, she wouldn't stay another hour, and went off with a noise
like a catherine-wheel."
"Quite so. But I say, Dibbin, can you give me the address of the lady?"
"With pleasure," said the agent, in whom brandy and soda acted as a
solvent. "I am a man, Mr. Harcourt, with three hundred and odd addresses
in my head, I do assure you. But, then, Miss L'Estrange is a bird of
passage--"
"All right, just write down the address that you know; and there is one
other address that I want, Mr. Dibbin--that of the girl who acted as
help to Miss Gwendoline Mordaunt."
Dibbin had known this address also, and with the promise to see if he
could find it among his papers--for it was he who had recommended the
girl--went away. He was hardly gone when Harcourt, who did not let the
grass grow under his feet, put on hat and coat, and started out to call
upon Miss Ermyn L'Estrange.