THE FACE AT THE WINDOW.
Lord Cameron admired Wallace's independence, yet while he saw he would
hurt him deeply by insisting upon his acceptance of the check, he could
not feel satisfied to accept as a gift the valuable plans which he had
executed for him.
He therefore said no more about the money, but, before he slept, he
wrote several letters to prominent parties in New York, whom he knew, in
which he spoke with highest praise of Wallace's talents as an architect,
and solicited their influence and patronage for him in the future.
"Perhaps these may prove to be of more advantage to you than the
contents of that other envelope which you rejected," he remarked, with a
smile, as he slipped a half dozen letters of introduction into his hands
just before they retired.
"You are very thoughtful, Cameron," Wallace said, appreciatively; "and I
will thankfully make use of these."
The fifth of October, the date of Wallace's departure, dawned a bright,
lovely morning.
Lord Cameron had engaged to accompany him to Liverpool, determined to
delay their parting to the last moment, and dreading, more than he could
express, the return to his estate in Essex County, when he would begin
to realize something of the loneliness of his own situation. Wallace's
illness, and the care which he had been forced to give him, he now
realized had been a great blessing to him, for it had prevented, in a
measure, his brooding over his own troubles.
Vane had made thoughtful provision for his friend's voyage, supplying
him with everything he could think of to make his passage comfortable
and pleasant, and the two men, after taking an affectionate leave of
Lady Isabel, who also had become very fond of Wallace, drove away to
catch the express for Liverpool.
As they were passing through one of the busy thoroughfares of the city,
their progress was hindered for a few moments by a blockade of vehicles.
While waiting for an opportunity to advance, another carriage, going in
the opposite direction, slowly passed them--for the stream of teams was
not blocked on the other side of the street--and when it was directly
opposite them the face of a woman looked forth from the window for an
instant, then the coach passed on, and she was lost to view.
An agonized cry had burst from Wallace at that moment, and that, with
his fixed stare at the passing carriage, caused Lord Cameron also to
glance that way; but he only caught a fleeting glimpse of the outline of
a delicate face framed in golden hair, then it vanished beyond his
sight.
"Violet!" gasped Wallace, with ashen lips, and trembling violently from
head to foot. "Did you see her? Oh, let me out, quick! quick! I must
find her!"
He was terribly agitated and unnerved, almost frantic, in fact, and Lord
Cameron greatly feared another attack such as had previously prostrated
him.
He reached out his hand, and pushed him firmly yet kindly back upon his
seat.
"Be quiet, Richardson!" he said, with gentle authoritativeness. "It
could not have been Violet. It was but a delusion, a fancied
resemblance, or a trick of the imagination. Violet is dead. Did I not
see her with my own eyes? Did I not care for her, and lay her to rest
beneath the shade of that grand old beech?--while you yourself have seen
her grave."
"Oh, but it--the face--was so like--so like!" murmured Wallace, still
fearfully overcome.
"My friend," Vane continued, while he tried to control his own startled
nerves, "you must not allow yourself to be so unnerved by a fancied, or
even a real resemblance to the loved one whom you have lost. It is not
unlikely you may meet it again some time, but you must bear it bravely.
This great sorrow has been sent upon you, and you must meet it with
courage and resignation, as one who believes in God should meet the
trials which He sends upon you. There is work in the world for you to
do, or your life would not have been spared; take it up, carry it on to
its fulfillment, and do not ruin your health, your brain, your great
talent, by allowing the ghost of your lost happiness to haunt and weaken
you thus."
The young man spoke gravely and very earnestly, but his own face was
almost as pallid as Wallace's and it was easy to see that he had been
deeply moved by what had occurred. It might even be that he was striving
to fortify his own sore heart and wounded spirit with the admonitions
that he was giving his friend.
Wallace wiped the perspiration from his face, and strove manfully to
recover his self-possession; but it was no easy thing to do, and it was
long before he regained his natural color, or ceased to tremble visibly.
"I know what you say must be true," he returned, when he could speak,
"and my common sense tells me that I was deceived--that the face could
not have been Violet's; and yet--if--I could follow and find the woman
who looks so much like her--who seemed to be her exact counterpart, I
believed it would comfort me--would help to ease this ceaseless aching,
this never-ending longing of my heart."
"It would not," said Lord Cameron, positively; "it would but unsettle
you the more; and now that I come to think of it the more, that
face--though I caught but the merest glimpse of its outline--was thinner
and older than Violet's."
He immediately changed the subject, and strove to divert the mind of his
friend from the painful incident, but while he endeavored to talk and
appear like himself, he was secretly greatly shaken by what had
occurred.
Most of the journey to Liverpool was spent in discussing Lord Cameron's
plans regarding the school for the children of his tenants and the home
for aged people and orphans, and the young earl exacted a promise from
Wallace that, when the buildings were completed and ready for occupancy,
he would come again to England to be present at their dedication, and
pronounce his verdict upon them.
"You will not need to be absent from your business more than three weeks
or a month," he said, "and I am sure you will have earned the right to
that much of a vacation by that time. However, I shall see you again
before then, since I do not intend to entirely desert the land of my
birth, even though my home must be in England, and every year I shall
make a short trip to America. I am not going to lose sight of my friend
either; remember, Richardson, we are pledged to each other for life."
The hand which he extended with this remark was warmly grasped, and both
young men felt that their souls were "knit unto each other," in a bond
as strong and tender as that which had united David and Jonathan of old.
The steamer was to sail at sundown, and the little time that intervened,
after their arrival in Liverpool, the two friends spent in looking over
the mammoth vessel.
When at last the signal for departure sounded, they parted with a
lingering hand-clasp and a simple "God bless you;" but Lord Cameron, as
he journeyed back alone to his princely home, felt as if half the light
had suddenly gone out of his life.
Wallace had a quick and comfortable passage, and, having cabled the time
of his departure, and the name of the steamer, found his partner
awaiting him at the pier upon his arrival in New York.
He greeted him with great warmth, which had in it an undertone of
genuine sympathy for his troubles, and then informed him that he had
just secured a contract for a sixty-thousand-dollar building; remarking,
too, that he hoped Wallace felt in the spirit for work, as they would
have their hands full during the coming year.
"Work will be the mainspring of my life after this," Wallace briefly
returned, but he appeared gratified with the encouraging report of
business which his partner had given him.
He threw himself heart and soul into his profession from that day. He
worked at his office from morning until evening, when not out upon
duties of inspection, and for hours in his own room at night; worked to
keep his mind from dwelling upon his great sorrow, and until he was so
weary in body that sleep came to him, unbidden, as soon as his head
touched his pillow.
He took the earliest opportunity possible to present his letters of
introduction to the parties whom Lord Cameron had addressed in his
behalf.
These recommendations proved to be worth a great deal to him, for to be
the valued friend of an English earl and a man of genius as well, were
facts calculated to give him prestige with even the most conservative,
and business flowed in upon the firm of Harlow & Richardson in such a
continuous stream that they bade fair to have more work than they could
handle.
At the close of the first year, after Wallace's return, they found they
had cleared twenty thousand dollars, while they had contracts ahead for
another twelve months, besides applications that were constantly coming
in.
Wallace had never been in better health than during this time. He loved
his work and forgot himself in it, and was fast winning a name and fame
that promised to place him, not far in the future, at the head of his
profession; while already rumors of his success had somehow been set
afloat in his old home in Cincinnati, and people there were beginning to
talk of that "promising young Richardson" whom they had once known only
as an humble carpenter.
He had acquired also during this year both strength of character and
dignity of bearing, and was a grand looking young man.
He went, now and then, into society, for Mr. Harlow, who was some years
his senior, had a delightful home and a lovely wife, and they insisted
upon his visiting them occasionally. In this way he met many agreeable
people, who, in their turn, solicited his presence in their homes.
But society had comparatively few attractions for him, even though
several ambitious mothers smiled encouragingly upon the rising young
architect, and many fair, bright-eyed damsels shot alluring glances at
him.
But he had no heart to offer any one, and met all these advances with
quiet but dignified courtesy.
He heard regularly from Lord Cameron, who was throwing all his energies
toward pushing his benevolent schemes to completion, and the buildings
which Wallace had planned would, he wrote, be finished and ready for
occupancy by another spring.
He had intended to visit America before this, his last letter said, but
the press of business and the delicate state of his mother's health had
thus far prevented; he hoped, however, before many weeks should pass to
tread again the familiar streets of New York.
He also stated that he had met Mr. and Mrs. Mencke once during the past
year. It was during the London season, and he and his mother had run
across them at a brilliant reception--a circumstance that surprised him
somewhat, as he did not suppose they would go into society so soon after
the death of their sister.
The meeting had occurred in this way.
After making an extended tour of the Alps, Mr. and Mrs. Mencke had
returned to London, to meet Mrs. Hawley, who was to spend a few weeks
there and then go on to Milan, to remain for the winter with Nellie
Bailey, who had concluded to devote another year to her beloved music
before returning to America.
Mrs. Hawley was a woman who dearly loved society, and always had a long
list of engagements--one who had it in her power to be so charming could
not fail to be a welcome guest wherever she went--consequently, it was
perfectly natural that she should wish her friend to participate in her
enjoyment.
Mrs. Mencke at first faintly demurred upon the ground of being in
mourning, but Mrs. Hawley, who did not believe in mourning anyway,
easily overruled her scruples.
"What is the harm?" she questioned. "You cannot do Violet any good by
secluding yourself, and no one here knows you well enough to gossip
about you. It would be different, perhaps, if you were at home, where
people have known you all your life."
So Mrs. Mencke, who liked gay life as well as any one, smothered her
conscience, and, never doing things by halves, went everywhere.
It was at a reception given by the American Consul that she met Lord
Cameron and his mother, Lady Isabel having been an intimate friend of
the gentleman's family when her home was in New York.
Mrs. Mencke, ignoring entirely the barriers that had arisen between them
at Mentone, appeared delighted to meet her "dear friends," but the
greetings upon their part were decidedly cool, while Lady Cameron looked
the reproaches she could not utter at Mrs. Mencke's gay manner and
attire, and uttered a sigh of regret that the gentle girl, whom she had
begun to love as a daughter, should so soon have been forgotten by her
only relative.
"Are you in London for any length of time, Lady Cameron?" Mrs. Mencke
inquired, secretly hoping that she might get an invitation to visit her
at her town-house.
"Only for a week or two longer, as my son's affairs call him to his
estate in Essex," was the somewhat formal reply.
"Indeed! and have you been in town long?"
"About a month."
"Really? I wonder that we have not met before, then," Mrs. Mencke
remarked, with some surprise.
"It is not strange," said Lady Cameron, with a sigh, "for my son and I
are still too sad to care to go much into company, and we should not
have been here this evening but for a special request of your consul,
who is an old and valued friend."
Mrs. Mencke colored vividly at this reply, and began to make excuses for
her own presence there; but Lady Cameron, with a disapproving glance
over her elegant and showy costume, only bowed with reserved courtesy in
reply, and then, as Lord Cameron accosted an acquaintance who was
approached, she excused herself and turned to greet her friend, leaving
Mrs. Mencke boiling with rage over their distant reception, and bitterly
disappointed at not having secured an invitation even to call upon them.
She felt humiliated as well as angry, and too wrought up to longer enjoy
the gayeties of the evening, she retired at an early hour from the
reception.
The unhappy woman had other causes, aside from the failure of her
matrimonial schemes and the contempt of the Camerons, for anxiety and
unhappiness.
Her husband, during the last few months, while visiting various resorts,
had developed an alarming taste for gambling, and had, to her knowledge,
lost large sums of money; while he seemed perfectly reckless in his
expenditure, and she felt sure, though she did not yet dream the worst,
that their own as well as Violet's fortune was fast melting away.
Deep and frequent potations at the cup, too, were showing their effect
upon him; he was growing more gross and coarse, and his temper suffered
in proportion with the continuous nervous excitement under which he was
laboring.
All this must have an end sooner or later, she knew, but she was not
prepared to have it come so soon as it did.
Four weeks after her meeting with the Camerons the man returned to her,
late one night, from a terrible orgie. His face was bloated and crimson
from drink; his eyes wild and blood-shot, his hair disheveled, and his
clothing soiled and disordered.
Coming rudely into his wife's presence, he cried out with a shocking
oath:
"It's all gone!--hic--every--dollar we had in the world, and, Belle,
we're--hic--beggars!"
"What do you mean, Will?" his wife demanded, with a sinking heart and
white face.
"Are you deaf?" he bawled, with another oath. "We're--hic--beggars, I
tell--hic--you. I've just--hic--rattled away the hic--last dollar."
There was a scene then, as might be expected, for Mrs. Mencke was not a
woman to tamely submit to such wrong and abuse, and the thought that the
whole of her own, as well as Violet's fortune, had been squandered at
the gaming-table and the race-track was more than she could bear. She
could talk as few women can talk, and when she had ceased her
denunciations, Wilhelm Mencke was completely sobered, and sat pale and
sullen and cowed before her.
She did not realize how exceedingly bitter and stinging her
denunciations were until the next morning, when, upon rising, she found
the jewel-box, in which she kept the jewelry which she commonly wore
(her diamonds and more valuable gems being locked in a trunk,
fortunately) together with all that Violet had possessed, was rifled of
its contents and her husband gone, together with his traveling-bag and a
change of clothes.
The desertion of her husband was the most humiliating of all her
troubles; but her proud spirit would not yield to even this blow. She
calmly stated that her husband had been suddenly called home and that
she was to follow him by the next steamer.
Fortunately she had considerable money with her, and she settled every
bill with a grave front, and finally took her departure from the hotel
with as much pomp and state as she had maintained throughout her sojourn
there.
A week from the day of her husband's flight she was crossing the
Atlantic alone, and immediately upon reaching New York proceeded to
Cincinnati in the hope of saving something by the sale of her house and
furniture. The house had already been disposed of, though she learned
that not much had been realized on it, for it had been heavily mortgaged
and the sale was a forced one.
This fact told her that her husband was in America, although no one had
seen him, for the sale had been made through an agent, and she tried to
feel thankful that he had had the grace to leave her the furniture. This
she turned into money, but it did not bring her a third of its real
value, for she was forced to sacrifice it at auction.
Where now was the proud woman's boasted wealth and position? Where now
her vaunted superiority over the "low-born carpenter" because of his
poverty?
Gone! for she had not--aside from some valuable jewels and clothing--a
thousand dollars in the world, while she had the exceeding mortification
of realizing the stern fact that she would be obliged to seek some
employment in order to live honestly.
It was the bitterest drop in her already bitter cup, and too proud to
remain in the city where she had hitherto been a leader in society, she
suddenly disappeared from the place and no one knew whither she had
gone.