A month later Violet Easton sat at the writing-desk in her little
private parlor. Her elbows were on the table, and her head rested on her
hands. Scalding tears were in her eyes, and try as she would they forced
themselves down her cheeks. Before her lay a letter, which she had read
for the twentieth time.
It was a simple, commonplace note at best, and seemed hardly worthy of
calling forth such feeling. It ran as follows, and was in a man's
handwriting:
"MY DEAR MISS EASTON,--Remembering that you told me you
expected this week to run up to New York, I write in behalf
of my wife to ask if you will give us both the pleasure of
your company at dinner on Thursday evening.
"If you like, we can go afterwards to the play.
"How is Midnight, and is he still performing as brilliantly
as ever?
"Sincerely, J. MORDAUNT."
At last, with a great effort, she stopped her tears, and wiping her eyes
with her soaking handkerchief, drew out a piece of note-paper from the
blotter and began to write.
The first three attempts were evidently failures, for she tore them up
and threw the pieces into a scrap-basket; the fourth effort, however,
seemed to prove satisfactory.
"MY DEAR MR. MORDAUNT,--Many thanks for your and your wife's
kind invitation. I have altered my plans, and no longer
expect to go to New York.
"Midnight is a friend I have never found wanting.
"Very sincerely, VIOLET EASTON."
She read this over carefully, folded, and placed it in an envelope. Upon
it she wrote the name of John Mordaunt, Esq., and the address, and
ringing a bell, delivered the letter to a hall-boy to mail.
Long after midnight she was still sitting there, gazing seemingly into
space.
* * * * *
Jack Mordaunt looked for an instant at the calendar which stood in front
of him upon his office desk.
In large numbers were printed 17, and underneath the month of March was
registered. He stopped writing for a moment. Somehow that date had
forced his mind back just one year, and as he sat there he was going
over again the incidents of that time. They were all so vivid--too
vivid, in fact, to be altogether pleasing. Had he forgotten Violet
Easton? He had tried to forget her, but his attempts were vain. Since
they parted he had never heard from or of her save that one short note,
and yet at odd intervals her remembrance would force itself upon his
mind. Her parting words, "You belong to me," haunted him.
And now, just as he was imagining that the little incident was to be
forever forgotten, that date had brought up freshly and distinctly every
detail of those three weeks. After all, what had he done? A passing
flirtation with an attractive girl! To be sure, he had omitted to say
that he was married, but, after all it was not absolutely necessary for
him to proclaim his family history to every passing acquaintance.
Somehow to-day the recollection of it all irritated him. He felt out of
sorts and angry with himself, and inclined to place the blame on others.
He shrugged his shoulders and went on with his work. He would dismiss
it all now and forever, and yet, try as he would, it would persist in
coming back.
He threw down his pen and left the table, going over to the window. The
outlook was far from encouraging, the March wind blew in eddies along
the street, and now and then the rain came down in sheets, so that the
opposite buildings were hardly visible. He shivered slightly; the room
felt cold. He went back to his desk and rang the bell. One of the clerks
answered it at once.
"Jones, I wish you would turn on the steam heat. The room seems chilly."
"Sorry, sir, but the steam is on full blast. Is there anything else that
you wish?"
"No; you can go."
He sat down, and for the next hour again tried to concentrate his mind
upon his work. It seemed useless. He looked at his watch; it was a
quarter to six. "I think I will have to go home," he muttered to
himself. "I don't feel very well, somehow."
John, the office-boy, here put in an appearance. "I beg pardon, Mr.
Mordaunt, if you don't want me any more to-night, may I go? All the
other clerks have gone."
"Yes." And John disappeared into the outer office.
A few minutes later he again put in his head. "Mr. Mordaunt, a lady
wishes to see you; shall I show her in?"
"Certainly."
The door was flung open, and Violet Easton entered.
So sudden and unexpected was her appearance that Jack had to grasp the
desk to steady himself. Really, he thought, my nerves must be
frightfully unstrung. I think I must take a holiday. Aloud, he said:
"Why, Miss Easton, this is a most unexpected pleasure. Won't you be
seated? Can I be of any service to you?"
He drew a chair up for her, and she took it, and he sank back into his
own.
And now for the first time he had an opportunity to look at her, for she
had pushed up the heavy veil that covered her face.
She looked ghastly white, and heavy black rings were round her eyes,
"Miss Easton, you look ill. Can I get you anything?"
"Oh no. I am not ill."
He said no more, but waited for her to speak. At last she did. "Mr.
Mordaunt, I thought a long time before troubling you, but I decided that
as it was purely a matter of business you would not object. I desire
you to draw out my will, and, as I am contemplating leaving the city
to-morrow, it would be a great convenience if you could do it now and
let me sign it. Then perhaps you would be good enough to keep it for me.
I have my reasons--"
"I can assure you that I shall be more than pleased to do anything you
request."
"Then will you kindly write as I dictate? Of course I wish you to put it
in legal form, as," and she smiled, "I prefer to avoid litigation."
He drew towards him several sheets of legal cap, and began to write as
she dictated.
He read it over to her when it was finished, and she nodded approval.
"And now, if you will execute it, I will try and get the janitor and his
wife to acknowledge the instrument. I regret to say all my clerks have
gone home."
He got up and left the room, returning in a short time with the janitor
and his spouse. Miss Easton took the pen from Jack's hand and wrote her
name, Violet Easton, in a clear, distinct manner. The janitor subscribed
his name as one of the witnesses, and his wife did the same.
Jack thanked them both for their trouble, and they departed. He took the
document, and having placed it in an envelope, sealed it with his own
seal, and put it away in the safe.
"I don't know how I can thank you, Mr. Mordaunt. If you will kindly send
your account to me in Washington, it will be paid."
Jack protested. "I could not think of taking any pay for such a trifling
service, I assure you."
"Yes, but if I insist?"
"Oh, very well; I will do as you wish."
"And now I must be going." She rose from her chair and began drawing on
her gloves, while he sat and watched her. Suddenly an irresistible
desire seemed to take possession of him. A desire in some way to make
amends for the past.
He pushed back his chair and stood facing her. Several times he
attempted to speak, but no sound would come from his parched and burning
lips. He stretched forth his hand and took her ungloved one, the same as
he had done a year ago. It seemed to him that it was icy cold. Again he
tried in vain to say something. Slowly he drew her close, still closer
to him, until their lips again met in one long kiss.
Her lips were cold, while his were burning hot. It seemed a long, long
time before she gently disengaged herself from his embrace. A sweet
smile flitted across her pale face.
"Yes," she said, as if speaking to herself, "this is the second time,
but it will be the last. And now I must be going. Adieu!"
He went with her into the hall and down to the elevator, and saw her
into the cab. He forgot to ask her where she was staying. His brain
seemed to be on fire.
The next morning he felt far from well, and at the breakfast-table his
wife remarked upon his looks.
"Oh, it's nothing, dear; I think I am a little overworked. As soon as I
can dispose of the Farley case I shall try and get away, but it is too
important to leave before it is decided. Is there any news in this
morning's paper?"
"Nothing very startling, except I see the death of your friend Miss
Easton, in Washington."
"What!" Jack fairly grasped the table for support. "Impossible! There is
some mistake." He was now deathly white.
"Perhaps there is some mistake; but here is the notice," and she handed
him the paper.
Hurriedly he ran his eye along the death notices until he came to this
one:
"EASTON, VIOLET.--On the 17th day of March, at the residence
of her father, K Street, Washington, of diphtheria, aged
twenty-three years. Notice of funeral hereafter."
For some time he sat there as if stunned, until his wife broke in upon
his thoughts.
"It seems to me," she said, "that you take this matter very much to
heart."
He did not answer her, but soon excused himself, and left the table.
He went straight to his office and into his private room. With trembling
fingers he made out the combination of the safe, and opened the heavy
iron doors. There, where he had placed it the night before, lay the
sealed envelope. Beads of perspiration stood out upon his forehead, and
he was shaking like an aspen leaf. Surely, he thought, I must be ill or
mad. He took the envelope and tore it open; his hands were trembling so
that he found it difficult to unfold the document. There, at the bottom,
in her clear handwriting, was the signature of Violet Easton. There,
also, were the signatures of the janitor and his wife. In feverish haste
he read the will. It was just as he had written it the night before. It
left all her money to her father with the exception of a few gifts.
Midnight had been left to him. He remembered protesting, but she had
told him that she was sure he would always be kind to the animal.
He rang the bell, and John appeared.
"Did you show a lady in here last night just before you went home?"
"No, sir."
"Are you positive?"
"Yes, sir."
"Go and get the janitor, and tell him I wish to speak to him."
In a few minutes that dignitary put in an appearance.
"Is that your signature?" and Jack handed him the will.
"Yes, sir; I signed it last night at your request, and so did my wife."
"Was there a lady here at the time?"
"No, sir."
Jack put his hand up to his forehead. "My God!" he muttered, "I must be
going mad." Suddenly everything began to whirl about him, and he sank
exhausted into his chair.
"John," he said, "send for a cab; I am feeling very ill, and must go
home."
Four days later he was dead. The family doctor pronounced the case one
of malignant diphtheria.