"I MUST FIND HER--I MUST FOLLOW HER."
This thrilling and unexpected announcement was electrical in its
results.
Mrs. Mencke gave vent to a shriek of horror, and sank, weak and
trembling, upon a chair, while her husband gazed at the young man with a
look of blank astonishment and dismay; indeed, for the moment, he seemed
almost paralyzed by the astounding declaration, for if Violet was indeed
Wallace's wife, he and his wife had been criminally guilty in trying to
drive her into a marriage with Lord Cameron, and in view of what the
consequence might have been had they succeeded and Violet had lived, he
had every reason to feel appalled.
Lady Cameron, also realizing all this, bowed her blanched face upon her
hands and sat quivering as if with ague. What a terrible fate had been
spared her son; but at what a fearful cost!
Lord Cameron alone betrayed no surprise, made no comment, though he
still remained as colorless as when Wallace had first revealed his
identity; while he stood regarding the young man with a sad, pitying
look, for he saw that Wallace did not suspect what they yet had to tell
him--had not even noticed that they spoke of her in the past tense or
that Mrs. Mencke was clad in deep mourning.
There was an oppressive silence in the room for the space of three or
four minutes then Wilhelm Mencke started forward, his phlegmatic nature
for once all aflame.
"It is an infernal lie!" he cried, shaking his massive fist before
Wallace's face; "all an infernal lie, I tell you, made up for the
occasion, with the design, perhaps, of claiming her money. But you'll
find, my would-be smart young man, that you have tackled the wrong
parties this time."
Wallace made no verbal reply to this coarse outbreak, but, quietly
slipping one hand within a breast-pocket, he drew forth a folded paper,
which he opened and held before the man.
"Read," he said, briefly.
With rapidly fading color, with eyes that grew round and wide, with
mingled conviction and dismay, Wilhelm Mencke read the marriage
certificate, which proved that Wallace Hamilton Richardson and Violet
Draper Huntington had been legally united, by a well-known clergyman of
Cincinnati, about three weeks previous to the sailing of the young girl
for Europe.
The man knew it was the truth, and this conviction was plainly stamped
upon his face as he read; but he was so enraged by the fact, and also by
the secret fear that Wallace might make him some trouble pecuniarily,
that he lost control of his temper and reason.
A coarse, angry oath escaped him, and then he cried out, as he grew
crimson with passion:
"It is a ---- forgery, cleverly executed for the purpose of gaining his
own ends."
Lord Cameron colored and drew himself up with dignity, while he
remarked, with marked displeasure:
"Mr. Mencke, allow me to request you to refrain from profanity in the
presence of my mother."
"Beg pardon, your lordship," said Mencke, looking somewhat abashed, "but
I am so upset by this blamed trick that I forgot myself entirely."
"It is no trick, sir--it is the truth," quietly returned Vane Cameron.
"What do you mean, Lord Cameron? How can you know anything about it?"
cried Mrs. Mencke, forgetting, for the moment, her weakness and
agitation in her surprise at his positive declaration.
"Violet told me--she confided the fact of her marriage to me," he calmly
returned.
"She told you," Wallace cried, his face lighting, his voice dropping to
a tender cadence, as he began to realize how true Violet had been to
him, in spite of her apparent faithlessness.
"Yes, when I asked her to become my wife," replied his lordship; then he
added: "But sit down, Mr. Richardson, and let us freely discuss this
matter, so that you can clearly understand it."
Vane rolled forward a comfortable chair for his visitor, a sad deference
in his manner, which betrayed how strongly his sympathies were enlisted
for the young man, who still had no suspicion of the sad news in store
for him. He then seated himself near him and proceeded to relate all
that had occurred in connection with his proposed marriage with Violet.
He would not tell him at once that the ceremony had never taken place,
for Wallace was still greatly excited, and he felt that his news must be
all broken to him gradually, or he would be completely unnerved.
"Evidently you have not learned that Miss Huntington was very ill for
several weeks in London," he began.
"No," Wallace said, with a start.
"Yes, she was very sick with brain fever. The attack was caused by
reading the notice of your death, and for a month her life was nearly
despaired of. When she began to recover, her physician recommended that
she be brought to Mentone for a change, and Mrs. Mencke acted
immediately upon his advice. Just previous to her illness I had confided
my feelings to Mrs. Mencke, and solicited her permission to address her
sister. It was freely given, but, of course, I could not avail myself of
it while Miss Huntington was so ill, and it was arranged--without her
knowledge, I have since learned--that I was to follow her hither when
she should have gained somewhat in strength. She had been here about a
month when I received word that I might come. A few days later I was
granted an interview, during which I confessed my affection and asked
her to become my wife.
"She told me frankly at once that she did not love me well enough to
marry me, and then, with sudden impulse, asked if she might make a
confession--might open her whole heart to me. Of course this request was
readily granted, and then she told me of her love for you, Mr.
Richardson; how it had originated, and how, when"--bending a grave look
upon Mrs. Mencke as he said this--"sorely pressed and alarmed by the
fear of being sent away from home and deprived of her liberty, she had
begged you to advise her what to do, and you told her that the only
safe-guard that you could throw around her would be to make her your
wife----"
"Yes," Wallace here interrupted, "Violet had been threatened with being
sent to a convent unless she would promise to cast me off. Such a fate
seemed to possess excessive terrors for her, and, being fully convinced
that nothing could change our affection for each other, I suggested that
we should be privately married, and then, if she was deprived of her
liberty, it would be in my power to aid her by claiming her as my wife."
"Yes, that was what she told me in substance," said Lord Cameron. "She
stated that you were married, but that you did not propose to claim her,
because of the opposition of her friends, until a year or two should
elapse and you were in a better position to make a home for her; that
you advised her to travel and see all of the world that was possible,
while you pursued your profession. Then came your separation, and she
made no secret of the unhappiness that this caused her, or of her
absorbing affection for you, and she spoke of the intense anxiety that
she experienced because she received no letters from you after leaving
home."
Surely Lord Cameron, with his usual noble self-abnegation, was doing all
in his power to soothe Wallace's wounded heart and prepare him for the
trial before him.
"But I wrote twice every week for more than two months," Wallace here
interposed, "without receiving a single letter from her. This fact also
we doubtless owe to the sisterly interposition that has been so vigilant
and active regarding her welfare," he concluded, bitterly.
"Her grief and despair over your supposed death," continued the young
earl, "was too deep for expression, and she said that life seemed hardly
worth the living. She told me that she dared not become my wife, feeling
thus; that her heart was dead, her dream of life was over, and she would
not wrong me by giving me the ashes of her love in return for the
devotion I offered her."
Lord Cameron paused a moment here, as if the memory of that
never-to-be-forgotten interview was too much for him; but presently he
controlled himself, and went on:
"I take upon myself all the blame for what followed," he said, "for I
still urged her to give herself to me. I knew she was not happy
here--that she was still weak from her illness and weary of travel, and
longed for rest and quiet. I told her I would be content if she would
but allow me to throw around her the protection of my name and love, and
let me take her, just as she was, into my heart and home. Her answer
was, 'I dare not, and yet----' That simple qualification made my heart
bound, for I accepted it as a sign of yielding.
"'And yet you want to--you will?' I said, assuming that that was what
she meant, and as I clasped her hand to seal the compact, I saw that she
had fainted. Later her sister came to me and said that it was all
right--that Violet had said she would marry me. Of course I was elated,
for I believed that I should win her in time--that eventually she must
yield to my love and devotion, when her wounded heart should have a
chance to heal, and I was satisfied to take her thus, even though she
had frankly said she could never love me as a wife should love her
husband. Still, as time passed, I began to fear that she regretted her
promise, and during an interview with her, on the evening previous to
the day set for our marriage, I was deeply pained and troubled by her
manner and a certain wretchedness which she could not conceal. But I
reasoned that when the wedding was once over, and we were quietly
settled in our home, she would gradually grow content."
Wallace had listened thus far with absorbing interest. At times when
Lord Cameron spoke of Violet's faithfulness to and love for him, of her
despairing grief over his supposed death, and her reluctance to become
the wife of another, his face would light up for an instant or grow
tender with love, as his emotions moved him; but gradually, as the
narrator drew near the end of his tale, he grew nervous and restless,
the tense lines of pain settled again about his mouth, his eyes grew
dark and moody in expression, while the spasmodic twitching of his
nerves could be plainly seen by every one in the room.
"'When once the wedding was over,'" he interposed hoarsely, at this
point of the story; "that was--a month ago--to-day----"
"Yes, that was the date set for the ceremony," Vane Cameron responded,
with a sinking heart, as he bent a pitying look upon the young and
terribly stricken husband.
Bitter as his own grief and disappointment had been when he lost Violet,
they now seemed to dwindle into nothing in comparison with Wallace's
greater suffering and the terrible tidings which he yet had to reveal to
him. His heart sank with a sickening dread; no duty had ever seemed so
hard before.
"I--I read a notice of it in a Cincinnati paper, and I started for
England at once----" Wallace began excitedly.
"You started at once!" said Lord Cameron, surprised. "It was announced a
month previous."
"I know--I know; but I did not get the paper for some time after," was
the agitated reply. "At the time Violet left for Europe I was called to
New York to consult with an architect about going into partnership with
him and accepting an important contract. The partnership was
consummated, the contract accepted, and I have been in New York ever
since. This was why I did not get the news earlier--it was a mere chance
that I got it at all. The paper stated that you were to start
immediately for your residence on the Isle of Wight, consequently I went
directly there, thus losing much more time. But--oh, I cannot stop for
all these details now," the young man cried, with a ghastly face, the
perspiration standing in great beads upon his brow, while he was
terribly excited. "Of course Violet is not your wife, even though ten
thousand ceremonies were performed over you. She is mine--mine! Oh,
Heaven! am I going mad? Where is she? Tell me--tell me! Why are you
still here? Why did you not go to the Isle of Wight? Why do you not
speak? Why do you keep me in such suspense?"
It was dreadful to look upon him, and no pen could portray the anguish
that was written upon his countenance, that vibrated in his hoarse,
quivering tones.
"We--did not go because--that marriage ceremony never took place," said
Lord Cameron, gravely, but inwardly quaking over what he must tell him
next.
Wallace sprang to his feet, a thrilling cry of joy bursting from him.
"Never took place!" he repeated, panting for breath. "Thank Heaven!
Violet, my love! you are still my own! Oh, say it again--say those
blessed words again!"
"Be calm, I beseech you, Mr. Richardson," said Lord Cameron, pitifully,
while convulsive sobs broke from Lady Isabel; "do not allow yourself to
become so unnerved and you shall learn all. I told you, if you remember,
that Violet--nay, do not frown when I speak of her thus," the noble
young man gently interposed, as Wallace's brow grew dark, to hear that
loved named drop so familiarly from his lips, "for had I known the
truth, I would have scorned to wrong either of you by even a confession
of my love. But I told you that she appeared strangely during my last
interview with her. I offered her a caress--I tell you this," he
interposed, a crimson flush mounting to his brow, "that you may have all
the comfort possible in knowing how wholly her heart belonged to
you--and she shrank from me in pain, if not with absolute loathing.
Later on, during the same evening, my mother saw her for a few minutes,
and she made some remarks which seemed very strange at the time, but
which were readily comprehended later; for the next morning when her
sister went to her room, to help her prepare for her bridal, she was not
there. She had gone--left the house and the place, and no one knew
whither."
A cry of mingled thankfulness and anxiety broke from Wallace at this,
and his sorely tried nerves, so long strung to their utmost tension,
gave way, and sob after sob burst from his overcharged heart as he sank
weakly back in his chair.
It was a pitiful sight to see that brave, strong young man weep thus
over the discovery of the faithfulness of his loved one.
It was almost more than Lord Cameron could bear and retain his
composure, while Lady Cameron wept unrestrainedly.
Wilhelm Mencke and his wife sat stolidly by viewing this affecting
sight, one racked with feelings of mingled anger, guilt, and remorse,
the other uneasily considering the chances of trouble for himself
regarding the disposition of Violet's fortune.
But Wallace soon mastered his emotion; he was not one to remain long
inactive when there was anything to be done.
"My faithful, true-hearted little wife!" he murmured, as he dashed aside
his tears, new hope and courage already glowing on his face, "her love
and instinct were stronger than the force of circumstances. But,"
starting again to his feet, "I must find her; I must follow her to the
ends of the earth, if need be, and when I do find her, as I surely
shall,"--with a stern glance at Mr. and Mrs. Mencke--"nothing save death
shall ever separate us again."
A chill ran over every listener at these confident words, and an ominous
silence fell over the shrinking group.
"Have you any idea whither she went? Has any one tried to follow her?"
Wallace asked, turning to Lord Cameron, and wondering why he should look
so ghastly; why Lady Cameron's sobs should have burst forth again with
renewed violence.
"Every possible effort was made to find her; day after day we have
searched for her," began his lordship, falteringly.
"And you have learned nothing--gained no clew?" impatiently demanded the
anxious young husband.
"Nothing--until the day before yesterday."
"Ah! then you have news at last!" cried Wallace, eagerly. "Tell
me!--tell me!--what have you learned?"
"Heaven help me! how can I tell you?" exclaimed Lord Cameron, in an
agonized tone. Then with a great effort for self-control, he solemnly
added: "Mr. Richardson, be brave--Violet is dead!--drowned! we found her
two days ago. She doubtless missed her footing during her flight in the
night, and fell into the sea."
But these last words fell upon unheeding ears, for when Lord Cameron
said that she was "dead"--"drowned"--Wallace had cast one horrified,
despairing look around upon those white, hopeless faces, and then,
without a word or cry, as if smitten by some mighty unseen power, he
fell forward on his face and lay like a log upon the floor, at Vane
Cameron's feet.