FROM THE DEPTHS
Violet entered the drawing-room with the air of one who rejoices in
good news. Consider that she had just learned the certainty of her
sister's fair fame, and that, in the same breath, she was freed from Van
Hupfeldt's pestering: was it to be wondered at if, since the dread day
she received a letter from a loved one already dead, she had never once
looked so light-hearted, so full of the wine of life, as when she danced
into the house after her interview with David. And this quickening of
her pulses boded no good to Van Hupfeldt.
A lawyer-like man was arranging parchments on a table--a large, square
table which had evidently been brought from a library for the purpose,
as the day was chill indoors and the drawing-room was cozy with a
log fire. Van Hupfeldt, who had turned from the window before Violet
appeared, affected to be examining the great red seals on the green
ribbons laced into the vellum. That weak heart of his was knocking hard
at his ribs; but his lips were tight set: he was fighting with his back
to the wall, for that interloper, David Harcourt, must have told Violet
everything. So, really, Van Hupfeldt deserved some consideration for
his splendid nonchalance.
Mrs. Mordaunt sat in an easy-chair, stroking her toy Pom. She was
anxious for these preliminaries to be done with. Dale Manor was an
expensive place to keep up; Van Hupfeldt's millions would restore the
Falerian order. So she hailed her daughter pleasantly, after one
critical glance.
"Your little walk did, indeed, bring out the roses, Vi. But you were
rather beyond the ten minutes, and Mr. Sharpe is a business man, dear;
we must not detain him unduly."
Mr. Sharpe coughed with deference. He was open to be detained or
retained for the rest of his life, at the price _per diem_.
"Ah, yes," said Violet, softly, giving Van Hupfeldt a queer look which
he alone understood. "There are things to be signed, something about
some one of the first part and some other person of the second part. Why
do you use such odd terms, Mr. Sharpe?"
"It is the jargon of the law, Miss Mordaunt. Every line adds a mite to
the small incomes of us poor lawyers."
"But who are these people?"
Sharpe looked puzzled. "The first deed recites the marriage contract
between you and Mr. Van Hupfeldt," he began to explain.
But Violet said, and her words had the cold clink of ice in a glass:
"Who is Mr. Van Hupfeldt?"
"Vi!" This from Mrs. Mordaunt.
"Mother, better not interfere. You don't seem to understand, Mr. Sharpe.
You spoke of a Mr. Henry Van Hupfeldt. Who is he?"
The lawyer, smirking at the hidden joke, pointed to the man standing by
the table. "Of course, that is he," he said.
"Oh, no. That is Johann Strauss, the man who married and, it may be
found, killed my sister. You must look further into your papers, Mr.
Sharpe. There is some terrible mistake. Perhaps, if you went on your
knees and prayed to God for guidance in your work, it might be better!"
"Vi!" shrieked her mother again, and the dog in her lap sprang off in
alarm.
The solicitor stood dumfounded, still thinking that some bizarre piece
of humor was toward.
It was Van Hupfeldt who saved Mrs. Mordaunt from imminent hysteria.
"Violet has been talking to that fellow Harcourt, of whom I told you,"
he said coolly. "She is, unfortunately, only too ready to believe him,
and a further wall of distrust is built between us at a most inopportune
moment. I am sorry, Mrs. Mordaunt; it is not my fault. And I would have
saved you from this, Violet. I knew he had left London, so I wired
precautions. But he is a scamp of unparalleled audacity and resource.
Surely you have given him no money?"
Violet, scarce trusting her ears, listened to the calm, smooth
sentences with rising indignation. But she mastered herself sufficiently
to say: "He has told me everything--about the certificates, the diary,
all. The time of lies has passed. Did you, then, kill my sister?"
"Why condense the tale? Of course he assured you that Dibbin, the agent
who let the flat to your sister's husband, will readily identify me as
Strauss; that Sarah Gissing, her servant, will hail me as her former
master?"
"Yes. He did say that."
"Why did he not bring them here?"
"He will bring them to-morrow."
Van Hupfeldt smiled wearily. It seemed as though he could not help
himself. "Forgive me, Violet," he said. "It is I who will bring
them--not Harcourt. He dare not. His bubble bursts the moment you ask
for proof. Indeed, I am beginning to think the man is mad. He must have
conceived an insane affection for you, and you are committing a great
wrong in giving him these clandestine meetings."
This was too much. Violet advanced toward him with eyes aflame. "There
were days in the history of the world when men were struck dead from
Heaven!" she cried.
"That is yet possible," he answered with a strange humility.
"Do you deny all, all?" she almost screamed.
"Not only do I deny, but I affirm, and I have my proofs. I have known
for some time, not very long, it is true, that a man named Johann
Strauss did assume my name when he married your sister. There is nothing
remarkable in that. I am a rich man, known to many. The adoption of a
pseudonym is a common device of actors. There was no real resemblance
between this person Strauss and myself. Of that fact those who were well
acquainted with him--Dibbin and Sarah Gissing--will assure you to-morrow
in this house. I have your sister's marriage certificate, and the birth
registration of her child. I know where the child is. I will bring the
foster-mother to tell you that I was not the man who intrusted the
infant to her care. I have your sister's diary, which this Harcourt did
really secure. I got it from him by a trick, I admit, but only to save
you from becoming his dupe. Now I have placed all my cards on the table,
by the side of your marriage settlement. Can David Harcourt do as much?"
The girl's lips quivered a little. What was she to believe? In whom was
she to trust? She wanted to cry, but she dug her nails into her white
hands; for the encircling clasp of David's arms still tingled on her
shoulders. "Why do you tell me all this only when I force it from you?"
she asked.
"You answer your own question. You force it from me. Exactly I would
prefer that my promised wife should have trust in me. I wished to spare
you certain sordid revelations; but because some American adventurer
happens upon a family tragedy and uses it for his own purposes--whether
base or not I do not stop to inquire--you treat me as the one quite
unworthy of belief. Violet, you hurt me more than you know." The man's
voice broke. Tears stood in his eyes.
The girl was nearly distraught under the stress of the struggle going on
with her. "Henry Van Hupfeldt," she said solemnly, looking him straight
in the face, "may the Lord judge between me and you if I have wronged
you!"
"No, sweet girl, you cannot wrong me; for my conscience is clear, but it
is a hard thing that you should incline rather to this blackmailer than
to me."
"Blackmailer!" The ugly word came from her lips in sheer protest; the
lash of a whip could not have stung as cruelly.
"Yes, most certainly. Did he not demand a hundred pounds from you? Let
me go to him and offer five hundred, and you will never see or hear of
him again."
"Oh, if that is so, there is no faith or honesty in the world."
"Is _he_ your world, then?" demanded Van Hupfeldt, bitterly, and even
Mrs. Mordaunt broke in with her moan:
"Oh, Vi!"
"Let us end this distressing scene," went on Van Hupfeldt with a
repressed indignation that was exceedingly convincing. "Mr. Sharpe, you
see, of course, that Miss Mordaunt cannot be expected to complete these
agreements to-day. Please be here to-morrow at the same time. Before
that hour I shall be back from London with all the witnesses and
documents which shall prove to Miss Mordaunt's complete satisfaction
that she has been grossly misled by a cleverly concocted story. Indeed,
I would be glad if, subsequently, you interviewed this David Harcourt.
It seems to me almost credible now that he himself believed the
extraordinary tale he has made up."
"Whatever you please shall be done, sir," said the lawyer. "And may I
add, for the benefit of these two ladies, that--er--my own knowledge of
your position and--er--career completely excludes such a
preposterous--er--"
"Thank you, Mr. Sharpe," broke in Van Hupfeldt. "You mean that kindly,
I know; but this is a matter between Miss Mordaunt and myself at the
moment."
The solicitor gathered up his papers and withdrew. For a little while
there was no sound in the room except the mother's sobbing and the
daughter's labored breathing; for unhappy Violet was so torn with doubt
that her breast appeared to be unable to harbor its agitation. A few
minutes ago she deemed herself free from a compact hateful to her soul;
yet, here was Van Hupfeldt more convincing, more compelling, than ever.
To her terrified eyes the man assumed the shape and properties of a
python, a monstrous snake from which there was no escape.
And then the sibilant hiss of his voice reached her dulled ears. "Mrs.
Mordaunt, may I appeal to your authority? Surely this Harcourt will not
be admitted here in my absence? I do not ask much, only a respite of
twenty-four hours. Then I return, with all the proofs."
"Why have they been withheld so long?" came Violet's agonized protest.
"I do declare, Vi," broke in her mother, "that you would try the
patience of Job! Have you lost all your fine sense of honor and
fairness? What more can Mr. Van Hupfeldt do to please you? And where do
you meet this young man who so unwarrantably thrusts himself into our
affairs, I should like to know?"
Poor Violet knew that the British matron instinct was fighting against
her now. And there never was a girl more bound up in her family ties
than this one. "Forgive me, mother," she said wearily. "The long
struggle is at an end, now. Let Mr. Van Hupfeldt keep his promise, and
I shall not cause further difficulty."
"Well said!" cried Van Hupfeldt, eagerly. "That is a brave resolve. I
accept it implicitly. Mrs. Mordaunt, I trust you will not be angry with
my Violet while I am away. I know how she has suffered. It is for me to
make amends for all that. And I promise her happiness, a full cup. And,
meanwhile, Violet--"
"I agree. I neither see nor speak to nor send any message to David
Harcourt, as far as lies in my power, until your return to-morrow."
"I kiss my hand to you both!" cried Van Hupfeldt with the gallant air
which came natural to him, and he went out. His preparations were soon
made. A carriage took him to the station; but before he quitted the
manor, he sent for the gamekeeper.
"You were remiss in your duty," he said sternly to the man. "The person
of whom I warned you has been in the park and has spoken to Miss Violet.
Now, listen carefully to what I say. Obtain any help you require and
guard this house and its grounds so that not a bird can fly over it nor
a rabbit scamper among the bushes without your knowledge. Do this until
I return to-morrow and I give you fifty pounds, but fail in the least
particular and you will be dismissed instantly." He was gone, with a
rush of whipped horses.
Velveteens took thought. "Twiced in one day!" he growled. "A licking or
the sack, an' fifty quid or the sack--which is it to be?"
It might be one, or all, or none. Of such firsts, seconds, and thirds is
the acrostic of life made up. But the promise of money stirred the man's
dull wits. No watch-dog could have been more faithful to his trust, and,
by lavish offers of silver and beer--deferred luxuries, of course--he
secured the aid of certain local poachers, his lasting enemies, but his
friends for the night. In a word, if David had crept again into the
park, he would probably have been beaten to a jelly.
But David attempted nothing of the sort. He was loyal to his pact with
Violet, never dreaming of the ordeal to which the girl had submitted.
Nevertheless, having no sort of occupation, he kept his eyes and ears
open. He saw Sharpe drive through the village, and was told that the
lawyer was head of a trusted firm in the county town. He saw Van
Hupfeldt pass toward the station, and the ostler learned from a railway
porter that the "gentleman from the manor" had gone to "Lunnon."
This gave David cause to think, seeing that there was no news from
Violet. But he waited, with much hope and some spasms of miserableness,
through the long dull evening; heard nothing from her; went to bed;
tossed restlessly until the sun rose; met the village postman at the
door of the inn; and still received no tidings. He breakfasted, hung
about, watched the road, sauntered as far as the lodge, nodded affably
to velveteens behind the bars, and caught no glimpse of Violet. Then he
determined to break the spell of silence. He returned to the inn and
wrote a letter, which he intrusted to His Majesty's Postmaster-General
for express delivery.
Sure enough, the postmistress's young sister refused to be turned back
by the Cerberus at the gate, nor would she tell her business. The man
knew her, suspected her errand, but dared not interfere, having a
wholesome regard for the law; so all he could do was to note her coming
and going, and report to his briber, for he was Mrs. Mordaunt's servant.
And this is what David wrote:
MY DEAR ONE--Can it be that some newly conceived lie has kept
you from sending for me? I only ask your full inquiry: I stand
or fall by that. But spare me this silence; for I am eating my
heart out.
Yours,
DAVID.
The messenger tripped back. "No answer, sir," she said, and the words
smote David such a blow that his cheek blanched, while the girl
wondered.
"To whom did you hand my note?" he managed to ask.
"To Miss Violet, sir."
"Are you sure?"
"Oh, yes, sir. Gave it to her myself."
"And she read it?"
"Yes, sir."
"Did she say anything?"
"Just that, sir; no answer."
Then David, in a mighty wrath and fume, dashed off another note.
Very well, be it so. I return to London. God help you if you
marry that man! You will sink to the pit, and the angels alone
will be able to lift you therefrom. Let there be no error this
time. I leave for London at one fifteen, P.M. If you want me
you must either detain me now or come to me in London.
Back went the postmistress's sister, marveling at the strangeness of
these one-sided missives between the young woman of the manor and a
handsome young man at the Feathers. Being seventeen, she took David's
side as against Violet. So she added, on her own account, when she saw
the white-faced aristocrat in the house, the explanatory statement that
"the young gentleman seemed to be very much upset at receiving no
reply."
Poor Violet, in whom loyalty was hereditary, could not break her word.
But she did say: "I have no message to-day; but I know Mr. Harcourt's
address."
That was the only crumb of comfort vouchsafed to David. Away he went at
quarter-past one, nor did the volcano in him show any sign of subsidence
when he reached the gloom and shadows of No. 7 Eddystone Mansions.
For a little drop of acutest poison had been poured into his ear by the
gossip of the village. In the bar overnight he heard yokels talking of
the need of money at the big house, how Van Hupfeldt's wealth would make
the flowers grow again in Rigsworth. He smiled at the conceit then; now
he knew that deadly nightshade was sown in the garden of his hopes, for
he imagined that money had proved more potent than love.
It was a remarkable thing that of all the pictures in the flat he had
left untouched the portrait in chalk which hung over the dining-room
fireplace. It savored too much of sacrilege to disturb that ethereal
face; but David was in far too savage a mood to check at sentiment
during those dark hours. He surveyed the portrait almost vindictively,
though had he been less bitter he might have seen a reassuring smile in
the parted lips. So it came to pass that, after eating some dry bread,
which was the only food he found in the larder, he lit a pipe, looked
at the picture again, and yielded to the impulse to examine it.
Strong as were his nerves, he had to force himself to apply a knife to
its brown-papered back. And then, with a queer vindictive howl of
triumph, he drew forth a curiously insipid portrait of Van Hupfeldt,
inscribed "To Gwen," with a date, and, folded behind it, a terrible
little note, merely dated "Paris; Tuesday," which read:
MY POOR GIRL--At last, then, you force the miserable truth from
me. Mrs. Strauss is my wife. She is twice my age. She forced me
to marry her ten years ago for her money. She is, indeed,
dying, and then I can fly to you. For the sake of our boy,
forgive me.
HARRY.
"Ah!" There was something sadly animal in David's triumph. He felt like
a dog which has seized the rat after which it has been straining, and,
in a minute or two, he had the grace to be ashamed of himself. Then he
thought of Violet, and he broke down, crying like a child. Those tears
were good for him; they brought him back to sanity and garnished the
dark places of his heart.
But what to do? That was more than ever the problem. He bolted and
barred his door that night, and the photograph and letter lay beside
his revolver under his pillow. Not forty Van Hupfeldts nor a legion
of ghosts should reave him of those telling pieces of evidence!