VIOLET DECIDES
Violet, waked from broken rest by the cooing of doves, had rue in her
soul. She met her mother at breakfast, and the good woman, thinking her
daughter not altogether in her right senses, was disposed to be somewhat
snappish. So the girl was driven back on her sad imaginings, nor were
they dissipated by David's two little notes. When she sent the messenger
away the second time she was in a strange state of calm. Despair had
numbed her: she thought persistently of her sister, and wondered if the
only true rest was to be found in that dark nook of the grave.
She saw a carriage depart for the railway station to bring Van Hupfeldt.
In half an hour its wheels grated on the gravel of the drive, and a
servant came to her room to summon her to the fateful conclave. She was
on her knees, in dry-eyed prayer, and the frightened maid, who loved
Miss Violet, had a little catch in her voice as she said:
"You are wanted in the drawing-room, miss, and please, miss, I do hope
you won't take on so. Everybody says you ought to be happy; but
I"--sniff--"I know yer ain't, miss."
Violet rose and kissed the girl. It was good to have such honest
sympathy.
In the big, cheerful salon beneath she found her mother, stiff and
self-conscious, wondering what people would think if Violet persisted in
her folly; Van Hupfeldt, collected and deferential, wearing a buttonhole
of violets (of all flowers in creation!), and, seated gingerly on the
edge of a chair, a quietly dressed young woman with "domestic servant"
writ large upon her. But Dibbin, for whom Violet's eyes searched
dreamily, was not there.
Van Hupfeldt, who seemed to have an uncanny trick of reading her
thoughts when they were hostile, explained instantly: "Not all my
persuasions could bring Mr. Dibbin from his office to-day. He had some
business engagement which was imperative, he said. But I have done the
next best thing. Here is a letter from him. He will substantiate its
statements in person some later day."
He held out a letter. The girl took it mechanically. The envelope bore
her name, typed. She broke the seal and began to read; but her mother,
resolved to have "no nonsense this time," interrupted, with an unusual
sharpness:
"Aloud, please!"
So Violet read:
DEAR MISS MORDAUNT:--For some reason, not explained to me, a
gentleman named Van Hupfeldt has asked me to assure you that he
is not Johann Strauss, who rented the flat No. 7, Eddystone
Mansions, some two years since. Of course, I do that readily.
I much regret that I cannot travel to Rigsworth with Mr. Van
Hupfeldt to-day; but I do not suppose that the odd request he
makes is really so urgent as he would have me believe. Please
convey my respectful regards to Mrs. Mordaunt.
Yours faithfully,
JOHN DIBBIN.
Excepting the signature, the letter was typewritten. Violet knew the
old agent's scrawling handwriting very well. He had never sent her a
typewritten letter before. She laid the document on the table which
had borne the parchments of yesterday.
"Well? Is that satisfactory?" said Van Hupfeldt.
"Quite conclusive," murmured Mrs. Mordaunt.
"Who is this?" asked Violet, turning toward the nervous young person on
the edge of a chair.
"That is Sarah Gissing, poor Gwen's maid."
It was not Sarah Gissing; but Jenny, loaned by Miss Ermyn L'Estrange for
the day at a stiff figure paid to both--Jenny, schooled for her part and
glib enough at it, though her Cockney pertness was momentarily awed by
the old-world grandeur of Dale Manor and its two "real" ladies.
So Van Hupfeldt was playing with loaded dice; he had discarded the
dangerous notion of trying to buy Dibbin for the simpler expedient of
a forged letter. The marriage ceremony was now the great coup; let
that be an irrevocable fact and he believed he would be able to manage
everything.
"Ah!" said Violet, with a pathos that might have touched even a
calloused heart, "you are Sarah Gissing. You knew my dear sister?
You saw her in her last hours? You heard her last words?"
"Yes, miss," sniveled Jenny, "an' this gentleman ain't Mr. Strauss,
though he do resemble him a bit."
Now, this assurance came too quick on the heels of a natural question.
It had not been asked for as yet. Violet was ready to bare her heart
to this common-looking girl for sake of the knowledge that she was
Gwendoline's only confidante. But the exceeding promptitude of Jenny's
testimony forced back the rush of sentiment. Violet even recoiled a
little. Could it be possible that her sweet and gracious sister, the
laughing sprite of bygone days, had been driven to make something of a
friend of this coarse, small-faced, mean-eyed wench? How pitiful, how
sordid, was each fresh chapter of Gwen's hidden life!
Van Hupfeldt saw that a check had occurred, though his seething brain,
intent only on securing an unalterable verdict, was unable to appreciate
the delicate poise of Violet's emotions. "Question her," he said gently.
"She will tell you all about her mistress, to whom she was very greatly
attached. Were you not, Sarah?"
"Oh, yes, sir. She were such a lovely lady, and so nice an' kind in her
ways, that nobody could help lovin' her."
That was better. Violet thawed again. "I hardly know what to ask you,"
she said wistfully. "Did she ever speak of us, of my mother and me?"
"She would talk about you for hours, miss. Many a time I could hardly
get on with my work, she was so anxious to have some one to gossip with.
Bless your 'eart, miss, I know your name as well as my own."
Strange, most unutterably strange, thought Violet; but she said, with a
sad smile: "You were much favored, Sarah. I would have given all I have
in the world to have changed places with you. Tell me, was this
man--this Mr. Strauss--kind to her?"
"He must have been, miss. He--"
"Must have been? But you saw and heard!"
Jenny kept her head, though she flushed a little. "People often do put
on a different way before servants, miss, to what they have in private.
Not that I have reason to think anyways bad of Mr. Strauss. He was a
very generous sort of gentleman, always free with his money. What I
meant was that Miss--er--Miss Gwendoline used to speak of him as a
lovin' husband."
Jenny caught her breath a trifle. She did not dare to look at Van
Hupfeldt, as he had specially warned her against doing so. Like most
of her class, she was prepared now to cover any mistake by excessive
volubility.
"Did you address her as 'Miss Gwendoline,' then?"
"Yes, miss. That is the way on the stage, you know."
"But this was not on the stage."
"Quite right, miss, only ladies in the profession mostly uses their
stage names in private."
"My sister never appeared on any stage, to my knowledge."
Jenny became a little defiant. "Of course, miss," she answered tartly,
"I didn't know much about my missus's comin's and goin's, but she used
to go regular to rehearsal. The call was for eleven and two most days."
Violet found herself in a new world. What could have come to Gwendoline
that she should have quitted her home and gone away among these strange
people? And what had she said that this servant-girl should suddenly
show the shrew in her?
She glanced toward her mother, who, indeed, was as greatly perturbed as
herself. The old lady could scarce comprehend that the talk was of her
darling Gwendoline. Then Van Hupfeldt, thinking to lead Violet's ideas
into a fresh channel, broke in:
"I was sure that these things would distress you," he said in the low
voice of sympathy. "Perhaps you would prefer to send Sarah to the
housekeeper's room while you look at the documents I have brought."
Violet, in whose brain a hundred wild questions as to her sister's life
were jostling, suddenly faced Jenny again. "What was my sister's baby
called?" she asked.
"Henry, miss, after its father."
"But why 'Henry,' since the father's name was Johann?"
"That is a puzzle, miss. I'm only tellin' you what I know."
"And what became of the child? Why was it spirited away from its mother?
or was it not taken away until after her death?"
Jenny had been told to be close as an oyster on this matter. "I don't
know why the baby was sent out to nurse, miss," she said. "I can only
tell you it was never in the flat."
Violet passed a hand across her eyes as though to clear a bewildered
brain. This domestic lived in a small flat with her sister, who
"gossiped" for "hours" with her, yet the girl knew little about a
child which Gwen must have idolized.
"Then you never saw the baby?" she asked.
"No, miss; that is, once, I think," for Jenny did now venture to look at
Van Hupfeldt, and his slight nod came at the instant of her denial. He
thought the infant a safe topic, in regard to its appearance, and the
mother's love of it.
Mrs. Mordaunt, who had been listening intently enough, caught Jenny's
hesitation. "It is odd," she said, "that you should have forgotten, or
be uncertain of, such a definite fact as seeing my daughter's child."
A maid entered with a telegram which she handed to Violet. In a quiet
country mansion the advent of a telegram is a rare event. People in
rural England regard this curt manner of communication as reserved only
for important items. Mrs. Mordaunt was a little alarmed. Her mind
quickly reviewed all her relatives' ailments.
"What is it, Vi?" she asked anxiously, while Van Hupfeldt wondered if
any unoccupied fiend had tempted David Harcourt to interfere at this
critical moment.
Violet opened the buff envelope and read the message slowly. It was a
perfectly marvelous thing that she retained her self-control, for the
telegram was from Dibbin at Dundee.
Have just concluded sale, after three days' private negotiation
here. Your moiety five hundred pounds. Letter follows.
It referred to a long-deferred bequest from a cousin, and was a simple
matter enough. But Dibbin realizing an estate in the north of Scotland
and Dibbin writing typewritten testimonials of Van Hupfeldt in London on
one and the same day was a Mahatma performance, a case of psychic
projection which did not enter into the ordinary scheme of things.
Nevertheless, Violet, save for one flash of intensest surprise in
those deep eyes of hers, maintained her self-control. She had been so
tried already that her mind could withstand any shock. "It is nothing,
mother--merely a reference to the Auchlachan affair," she said, crushing
the telegram into a little ball in her hand.
"Ah!" said Mrs. Mordaunt, greatly relieved. "I dreamed of Aunt Jane last
night."
"Well, now," said Van Hupfeldt, after a bound or two of his heart, "what
do you say? Mr. Sharpe will be here soon."
"You have the certificates and the diary?" said Violet.
"The certificates, yes; not the diary. On calm thought, I have decided
irrevocably that the diary shall not be placed in your hands until the
lapse of our six months' agreement. I have yielded every other point;
there I am rigid."
"Do you assign any reason?"
"Yes, my right as your affianced husband to preserve you from the grief
and morbidness of reading a record of suffering. I would not have you a
weeping bride. When we return from our wedding-tour I shall hand you the
diary, no sooner."
"The certificates, then," said Violet, composedly.
Van Hupfeldt took two papers from a pocket-book. One recorded the
marriage of Henry Van Hupfeldt to Gwendoline Mordaunt at the office of
the Brighton registrar. The other was the certificate of the birth of
the child in the same town a year later.
It was a fine piece of daring for the man to produce these documents.
His own name; his age, thirty eight; his occupation, gentleman, were set
forth on the long narrow strip, and the address was given as No. 7,
Eddystone Mansions, London, W. Even Mrs. Mordaunt was startled when she
glanced over her daughter's shoulder at the papers.
Suddenly Violet thought she saw a ray of light. "Was this man a brother,
some near relative, of yours?" she asked.
"No, no relation." Van Hupfeldt was taken aback, and the negative flew
out before he realized that this might have been a good card to play.
But no; Violet would never have married him then.
"What a mystery! To think that he should adopt your name, be of your
apparent age, and yet that you should come here to Rigsworth and make
our acquaintance!"
"No mystery at all. You drag everything from me like a skilled lawyer.
Strauss did more than borrow my name; he forged it. There was a police
inquiry. I was called into it. My curiosity was aroused. I learned
something of your sister's story, and I took steps to meet you."
"Introduced by Lord Vanstone!" murmured Mrs. Mordaunt.
"Yes, some one. I quickly forgot all else when I was granted the
privilege of your friendship."
And he took Violet's hand and kissed it, with a delicate grace that was
courtly in him.
Sharpe was announced. Mrs. Mordaunt sent Jenny away in a maid's escort,
and Violet knew that her hour of final yielding was near.
She still held the certificates. "Am I to keep these?" she asked, while
her mouth quivered slightly. She was thinking, thinking, all the time,
of David and Dibbin and of the queer collapse of Gwendoline which made
that little Cockney woman her companion. But what plea could she urge
now? She could only ask for a few days' respite, just to clear away some
lingering doubts, and then--But, for mother's sake, no protests now, nor
tears, nor questions.
Sharpe's ferret eyes took in the altered situation. Yesterday's clouds
had passed. A glance from Van Hupfeldt brought him to business. There
was a marriage settlement of five thousand pounds _per annum_, to be
increased to twice the amount in the event of widowhood--and Sharpe
explained the legal proviso that Violet was to be free to marry again,
if so minded, without forfeiting any portion of this magnificent yearly
revenue.
"Most generous!" Mrs. Mordaunt could not help saying, and even the girl
herself, miserable and drooping as a caged thrush, knew that Van
Hupfeldt was showing himself a princely suitor.
"And now follows a somewhat unusual document," said Sharpe in his brisk
legal way. "Mr. Van Hupfeldt has instructed me to prepare a will,
leaving all his real and personal estate to Miss Violet Mordaunt, he
being confident that she will faithfully carry out certain instructions
of his own. Of course, this instrument will have a very brief life.
Marriage, I may explain, Miss Mordaunt, invalidates all wills previously
executed by either of the parties. Hence, it is intended only to cover
the interregnum, so to speak, between to-day's bachelordom and the
marriage ceremony of--er--"
"Of this day week?" asked Van Hupfeldt, eagerly.
"Be it so," said Violet, for she had a plan in her mind now, and
whatever happened, a week's grace was sufficient.
"Mrs. Mordaunt and I are appointed trustees _pro tem_ for the purposes
of the marriage settlement," went on Sharpe. "Mr. Van Hupfeldt will, of
course, execute a fresh will after marriage. All we need now are two
witnesses for various signatures. My clerk, who is waiting in the hall,
will serve as one."
"The girl, Sarah Gissing, who was here just now, might be called in,"
said Mrs. Mordaunt.
"No, no!" cried Van Hupfeldt. "She is a stranger. After to-day she
vanishes from our lives. Please summon one of your own servants--the
housekeeper, or a footman."
So Violet and Van Hupfeldt and Mrs. Mordaunt and the witnesses signed
their names on various parchments at places where the lawyer had marked
little crosses in pencil.
Violet, as in a dream, saw the name "Henry Van Hupfeldt" above that of
"Violet Mordaunt," just as it appeared over "Gwendoline Mordaunt" in
the marriage certificate. In her eyes, the tiny crosses made the great
squares of vellum look like the chart of a cemetery. Yet there was
something singing sweetly in her ears: "You still have a week of
liberty. Use your time well. Not all the law in the land can force you
to the altar unless you wish it." And this lullaby was soothing.
Soon the solicitor took off himself and his duplicates, for he handed
certain originals to Violet, advising her to intrust them to the care of
a bank or her mother's legal advisers. Van Hupfeldt, with a creditable
tact, set himself to entertain the two ladies, and when Violet wished to
interview "Sarah Gissing" again, he explained that the girl had been
sent back to London by his orders.
"No more tears," he said earnestly; "no more doubtings and wonderings.
When we return from a tour in the States you shall meet her again and
satisfy all your cravings."
Evidently his design was to remain at Dale Manor until they were
quietly married, and, meanwhile, surround the place with every possible
protection. It came, therefore, as a dreadful shock to him when Violet
disappeared for a whole hour after breakfast next morning, and then Mrs.
Mordaunt, red-eyed and incoherent, rushed to find him with a note which
had just reached her from the station.
It read:
DEAR MOTHER--I suppose I have freedom of action for two days
out of my seven. I wish to make certain inquiries; so I am
going away until to-morrow night, or, possibly, the next
morning. I think Mr. Van Hupfeldt will say this is fair, and,
in justice to him, I wish to state that I shall not see Mr.
David Harcourt by design. Should I see him by chance I shall
refuse to speak to him.
Your loving daughter,
VIOLET.
"It is ended! I have done with her! She has played me false!" screamed
the man when he understood that Violet had really quitted Rigsworth. His
paroxysm of rage was so fierce that Mrs. Mordaunt was terrified that he
would die on the spot; but his passion ended in an equally vehement
declaration of sorrow and affection. He would follow her and bring her
back. Mrs. Mordaunt must come with him instantly. The girl must be saved
from herself. Surely they would find her, even in London, whither he was
certain she had gone, for she would only go to her accustomed haunts.
He infected the grief-stricken mother with some of his own frenzy. She
promised to be at the station in time for the next train; he tore off
to the telegraph office, where he wrote messages in a white fever of
action. First, he bade his factotum Neil meet the train from Rigsworth
in which Violet traveled, and ascertain her movements, if possible.
The second was to Dibbin:
A client has recommended you to me. Leave by earliest train for
Portsmouth and call at offices of (a named firm of solicitors)
for instructions. I forward herewith fifty pounds for
preliminary expenses.
HENRY VAN HUPFELDT.
The fifty pounds which he thus telegraphed to Dibbin were notes which he
had brought for the gamekeeper; so this payment was deferred, at the
least.
Then he sent word to the Portsmouth firm that Dibbin was to be
dispatched on a secret estate-hunting quest in Devonshire, at any terms
he chose to demand. His next telegram was to Mrs. Carter at Pangley:
Take baby at once by train to Station Hotel, New-street,
Birmingham. Leave word with neighbors and at station to say
where you have gone. I will write you at Birmingham and send
money to-night.
Finally to David he wired:
I now know everything. Mrs. Carter is about to take my sister's
child away from Pangley. Please go there at once, find out
where she has gone, and follow her. Wire me to-morrow, or next
day, what you have discovered. Forgive yesterday's silence; it
was unavoidable.
VIOLET.
That was all he could devise in the present chaos of his mind. But it
would serve, he thought, to give a few hours' breathing-space. He was
hard pressed, but far from beaten yet. And now that Violet and her
mother were away from Dale Manor, he would take care that they did not
return to the house until Violet was his wife. Perhaps even in this
desperate hour things had happened for the best.