“I met him by chance at my sister’s grave. He told me that he is the tenant of the flat. He seemed good. I don’t know what to do!” She let herself fall into a chair, leaned her head on her hand, and stared miserably into vacancy, while Van Hupfeldt, limping nearer, said over her:
“You ought to promise me, Violet, never again to allow yourself to hold any sort of communication with this person. You will hardly, indeed, be able to see him again, for Mrs. Mordaunt has just been telling me of her sudden resolve to go down to Rigsworth to-morrow morning.”
“To-morrow?”
“So she says; and perhaps on the whole it is best, don’t you think?”
Violet shrugged hopeless shoulders. “I don’t care one bit either way,” she said.
“So, then, that is agreed between us. You won’t ever write to him again.”
“I don’t undertake anything of that kind,” she retorted. “I must have time to think. Are you quite sure that all this infamy is the God’s truth? It is as if you said that mountain streams ran ink. The man told me that there were certificates. They fell out of a picture-frame, he said. He looked true, he seemed good and honest; he is a young man with dark-blue eyes – ”
“He is a beast!”
“I don’t know that yet, I have no certain proof. I was to see him this evening.”
“To see him? Ah, but never again, never again! And would you now, after hearing – ”
“I am not sure. I must have time to think, I must have proof. I have no proof. It is hard on me, after all.”
“What is hard on you?” demanded Van Hupfeldt; and, had not the girl been so distraught, she would have seen that he had the semblance more of a murderer than of a lover. “What proofs do you want beyond my word? The man said that there were certificates, did he not? Well, let him produce them. The fact that he can’t is a proof that there were none.”
“Not quite. No – there is a doubt. He should have the benefit of the doubt. A man should not be condemned before he is tried, after all. If Miss L’Estrange was to say that there were no certificates, that would be proof. You must know her address – give it to me, and let me go straight to her – ”
“Certainly, I have her address,” said Van Hupfeldt, his eyes winking a little with crafty thought, “but not, of course, in my head. You shall have it in a day or two. You can then write and question her from Rigsworth, and she will tell you that no certificate ever fell out of any picture.” He thought to himself: “for I shall see that she tells you what I wish, if she has any love of money.”
“But couldn’t you give me the address to-day?” asked Violet. “That would settle everything at once.”
“To-day I’m afraid it is out of the question,” answered Van Hupfeldt. “I have it put away in some drawer of some bureau. It may take a day or two; but find it I will, and, meantime, is it much to expect that my angel will believe in her one best and eternal friend? Assure me now that you will not see this undesirable person this evening.”
“I do not mean to at this moment, but I do not decide. I said that I would. He pretends he has something to say to me – ”
“He has nothing! He is merely impudent. Where were you to see him? At the grave, I think? At the grave?”
Violet blushed and made no answer. Mrs. Mordaunt came in. “So, mother,” said Violet to her, “we go home to-morrow?”
“I have thought that it might be well, dear,” answered her mother, “in which case we shall have enough to do between now and then.”
“But why the sudden decision?”
“We are not at all moments our own masters and mistresses, dear. This at present seems the indicated course, and we must follow it.”
“May I have the pleasure to come with you, if only for a day or two?” asked Van Hupfeldt.
“Of course, we are always glad of your company, Mr. Van Hupfeldt,” answered Mrs. Mordaunt; “but it is such a trying journey, and it may affect your injury.”
“Not trying to me where Violet is,” said Van Hupfeldt.
“Violet should be a happy girl to have so much devotion lavished upon her, I am sure,” said Mrs. Mordaunt, with a fond smile at her daughter. “I do hope that she is duly grateful to you, and to the Giver of all our good.”
Violet said nothing. In her gloomy eyes, if one had looked, dwelt a rather hunted look. She presently left Van Hupfeldt and her mother, and in her own room lay on a couch thinking out her problem. “To go to the grave, or not to go?”
She had promised: but how if David Harcourt was truly the thing which he was said to be? Her maiden mind shrank and shuddered. It was possibly false, but, then, it was possibly true – all men seemed to be liars. She had better wait and first hear the truth from Miss L’Estrange. If Miss L’Estrange proved him false, she, Violet, would give herself one luxury, the writing to him of one note – such a note! stinging, crushing, killing! After which she would forget once and forever that such a being had ever lived, and seemed nice, and been detestable. Meantime, it would be too unmaidenly rash to see him. It could not be done; however much he drew her with his strong magnetism, she should not, and would not. Why could he not have been good, and grand, and high, and everything that is noble and wonderful, as a man should be? In that case, ah, then! As it was, how could she? It was his own fault, and she hated him. Still, she had promised, and one should keep one’s word unless the keeping becomes impossible. Moreover, since she was to leave London on the morrow, she should dearly like to see the grave once more. The new wreath must be already on its way from the florist’s. She would like to go, dearly, dearly, if only it were not for the lack of dignity and reserve.
Thinking such thoughts, she lay so long that Van Hupfeldt went away without seeing her again; but he had no intention of leaving it to chance whether she saw David that evening or not. Certain that the rendezvous was at the grave, his cautious mind proceeded to take due precautions, and by three o’clock the eyes of his spy, a young woman rather overdressed, were upon the grave in the Kensal Green cemetery, while Van Hupfeldt himself was sitting patient in the smoking-room of a near hotel, ready to be called the moment a sign of Violet should be seen.
Violet, however, did not go to the grave. About four o’clock one of the servants of 60A, Porchester Gardens, arrived at the cemetery in a cab, went to the grave, put the new wreath on it, and on the wreath put an envelope directed to “David Harcourt, Esq,” and went away. The moment she was gone, Van Hupfeldt’s spy had the envelope, and with it hurried to him in the hotel. Breaking it open without hesitation, he read the words: “Miss Mordaunt regrets that she is unable to visit her sister’s grave to-day, as she hoped, and from to-morrow morning she will be in the country; but if Mr. Harcourt really has anything of importance to communicate to her, he may write, and she will reply. Her address is Dale Manor, Rigsworth, near Kenilworth, Warwickshire.”
“What do you think of this handwriting?” Van Hupfeldt asked of his she-attendant, showing her the note. “Do you think you could imitate it?”
“It is big and bold enough; it doesn’t look difficult to imitate,” was the critical estimate.
“Just have a try, and let me see your skill. Write – ”
He dictated to her the words: “Miss Mordaunt has duly received from her fiancé, Mr. Van Hupfeldt, the certificates of which Mr. Harcourt spoke to her, so that all necessity for any communication between Mr. Harcourt and Miss Mordaunt is now at an end. Miss Mordaunt leaves London to-day.”
The scribe, after several rewritings, at last shaped the note into something really like Violet’s writing. It was then directed to “David Harcourt.” The young woman took it to the grave, and it was placed on the wreath of violets where the purloined note had lain.
Twenty minutes later, David, full of anticipation and hope, the diary in his hand, drew near to Kensal Green. For some time he did not go quite to the grave, but stood at the bend of the path, whence he should be able to see her feet coming, and the blooming beneath them of the March daisies in the turf. But she did not come. The minutes went draggingly by. Strolling presently nearer the grave, he noticed the fresh wreath, and the letter laid on it.
He stood a long while by the Iona cross over the violets, while the dusk deepened to a gloom like that of his mind. How empty seemed London now! And all life, how scantless and stale now, without the purple and perfume of her! For she was gone, and “all necessity for any communication between her and him was now at an end.” He went away from the cemetery whistling a tune, with a jaunty step, in order to persuade himself that his heart was not hollow, nor his mind black with care.
CHAPTER XIV
THE DIARY
For some time after this disappearance of Violet, David needed the focusing of all his manhood to set himself to work. His feeling was that nothing is worth while. He wished to sit in his easy-chair, stare, and be vaguely conscious of the coming and going of his charwoman. An old Londoner now, he no longer heard the roar, nor stifled at the smoke of that torrent that goes up forever. He could have sat over his fire in a sort of abstract state, without thought, hope, or care, for days. If he took up the pen he groaned; but he did take it up, and it proved medicinal. Little by little he acquired tone.
Meantime, he would often re-read the note which had had so powerful an effect on him, until one day, in the ripening of his mind, the thought rose in him: “There’s something queer here. She must have been very agitated when she wrote this!”
Then he began to think that it was not quite like Violet’s writing. Presently hope, energy, action burst into blossom afresh within him. Suppose, he thought, that the whole business was somehow a trick of that man? Suppose that she was in London all the time? He wrote to her at Porchester Gardens that day, but received no answer. Van Hupfeldt had given orders that all letters for the Mordaunts should be sent to him, nor did he send on David’s letter to Violet, for he knew David’s writing. Moreover, he had warned the proprietors at Porchester Gardens that a certain man, who was likely to make himself troublesome to the Mordaunts, might present himself there in the hope of learning their address in the country, in view of which they had better give the address to no one.
Now, at David’s only meeting with Violet at the grave, she had mentioned to him her country address, but, having heard it only once and that heedlessly, when his brain was full of new notions, it had so far passed out of his mind in the course of time that all that he could remember of it was that it was in Warwickshire. Nor could any racking of his brains bring back more of it than the name of the county. After some days he betook himself to Porchester Gardens.
“Is Mrs. Mordaunt at home?” he asked.
“No,” was the answer, “she isn’t staying here now. She is in the country.”
That much, then, of the note found on the grave was true.
“When did she go?” he asked.
“Last Tuesday week,” was the answer.
The note was true!
“I have written Miss Mordaunt a letter,” said David, “telling her that I have in my possession something which I know that she would like to have, and have received no answer. I suppose you forward her letters on to her?”
“Yes; we send them to a gentleman who forwards them on.”
“Ah? What gentleman is that?”
“A Mr. Van Hupfeldt.”
“I see. But can you give me Mrs. Mordaunt’s address?”
“We are not to give it; but any letters will be sent on.”
“Through Mr. Van Hupfeldt?”
“Yes.”
“But suppose I send you one with a cross on the envelope, would you do me the special favor to send that one on direct, not through Mr. Van Hupfeldt?”
“We have instructions as to the Mordaunts’ letters,” said the landlady, “and, of course, we follow them.”
“Well, but you seem very inflexible, especially as I tell you – ”
“Can’t help that, sir. We were told that you would be turning up, and I give you the answer which I was directed to give. It is quite useless to come here making any request as to the Mordaunts.”
David went away discomforted. There remained to him one hope – Dibbin. He ran round to Dibbin’s and asked for the address.
“I’m afraid I’m hardly authorized to do that,” answered the agent, to whom such appeals were matters of every-day business.
“Do be reasonable,” urged David. “Miss Mordaunt herself gave me her address, only I have let it slip out of my mind.”
Dibbin shook his head like an emblem of doubt. “Of course,” he said, “I shall be happy to send on anything which you commit to me.”
“Direct?” asked David, “or through Van Hupfeldt?”
“Direct, of course,” answered Dibbin. “I have no sort of instructions with respect to Mr. Van Hupfeldt.”
“Have you ever seen him, Dibbin?”
“Never.”
“Don’t happen to know his address?”
“No; I merely knew his name quite lately by repute as that of a man of wealth about town, and as an acquaintance of the Mordaunts.”
“‘Acquaintance’ is good, as a phrase,” David could not help blurting out. “Well, I have something belonging to Miss Mordaunt, and will send you a letter to forward.”
That day the letter was written and sent, a stiff-stark little missive, informing Miss Mordaunt that Mr. Harcourt had duly received the note left on the grave, and had once before written her to say so, as well as to tell her that he had in his possession a book which he believed to be the diary of her sister. He did not care to send it her through another, but would at once forward it on receiving a line from her.
After two days came an answer: Miss Mordaunt thanked Mr. Harcourt extremely for his pains, and would be glad to receive the book to which he referred at “the above address,” that address being: “The Cedars, Birdlip, Gloucestershire.”
David actually had the diary wrapped up to send to this address. Then he paused. The handwriting of the note was not quite like that of the note in which she had made the appointment with him at the grave. It was rather like the writing of the note which he had found with the wreath – not quite, perhaps, the same. And then again the address which she had given him by word of mouth that first evening at Kensal Green was in Warwickshire. He remembered that much, beyond doubt. Was she, then, spending some time with friends at “The Cedars” in – Gloucestershire? He thought that it might be a good thing, before sending the diary, if he took a run down into Gloucestershire to make sure that she was really there.
This he did the next day, and found that “The Cedars” was a mansion two miles from the village of Birdlip, old, somewhat dismantled, shut up, occupied only by a few retainers. No Violet was there.
He learned at one of the village taverns that the place was the property of Van Hupfeldt. He took the diary back to London with him that same night.
What seemed certain to him now was that Van Hupfeldt himself or some agent of Van Hupfeldt’s must be in the Mordaunts’ house, and that this letter sent through Dibbin had never reached Violet. So again he was cut off from her. Not one word could he speak to her. He craved only for one small word. When that marriage of hers with Van Hupfeldt was to take place he did not know; but he felt that it might be soon. He had taken upon himself to say to her that it should never be, and not one word could he utter to prevent it. He had forgotten, and his brain would not give up its dead. He beat his brow upon his dining-room table where his head had dropped wearily on his coming home that early morning from the country.
To go to her, to tell her all, to stop the indecent marriage, to cast himself at her feet, and call upon her pity for his passionate youth – this impulse drove him; but he could not stir a step. A great “No” bewitched him. His straining was against ropes of steel. Half-thoughts, half-inventions of every impossible kind passed like smoke through his mind, and went away, and came wearily again. The only one of any likelihood was the thought of kneeling to Dibbin, of telling him that Van Hupfeldt was probably Strauss, and beseeching him for the Mordaunts’ sake to give the address. But he had not the least faith in the success of such a thing. To that dried man, fossilized all through, incrusted in agency, anything that implied a new departure, a new point of view, was a thing impossible. His shake of the head was as stubborn a fact in nature as any Andes. There was only the diary left – the diary might contain the address!
David did not wish to open those locked thoughts. He had hardly the right, but, after a whole day spent in eying the book, he laughed wildly and decided. It was a question of life, of several lives. He put the book to his lips, with a kiss of desperation, inhaling its faded scent of violets.
At once he rushed out with it to a tradesman skilled in locks, and was surprised at the ease with which the man shot back the tiny lever with a bit of twisted wire.
“I can make you a key by the morning,” said the man, squinting into the lock, and listening to its action as he turned the wire in his fingers. “It is a simple mechanism with two wards. Meantime, here it is, opened.”
He refused even to be paid for “so slight a thing.” David handed him a cigar – and ran; and was soon deep in it. The first passage thrilled him as with solemn music:
O silent one, I must tell my sweets and bitters to you, since I mayn’t to others. You will treasure each syllable, and speak of me as I am, “nothing extenuate nor set down aught in malice.”
But please, as you are good, bring not upon me any further declamation of the unhappy Moor! Pray Heaven you may not have to record the “unlucky deeds” of “one that lov’d, not wisely, but too well,” nor your pallid cheeks reveal your grief because my “subdued eyes,
Albeit unused to the melting mood,
Drop tears as fast as the Arabian trees
Their med’cinable gum!”
I was married last Tuesday. As the carriage rolled back along the sea front, and my darling husband’s arm clasped my waist as tightly as a silver arm clasps you, little book, the old jingle came into my head: “Monday for health, Tuesday for wealth, Wednesday the best day of all.” The nasty things predicted for the other days of the week do not matter a jot, do they? Well, thank God, I am healthy enough, and Harry says that we shall have plenty of money by and by. Given health and wealth, there remains but happiness, and that is of our own contriving. And I am happy. Of that there can be no manner of doubt. Of course, I should have enjoyed the pomp and circumstance of marriage in the parish church with its joy-bells, its laughing tears, its nice speeches, while the dear old rector beamed on me, and the good folk of R – set their eyes a-goggle to see how I looked and how Harry carried himself.
I flatter myself I should have made a pretty bride, and, as for Harry, even under the chilling influences of a registrar’s office he had the air of a man who knows his own mind. How often, tittering at my thoughts, have I pictured my wedding-day long before Prince Charming hove in sight! And how different it all has been to the conceits of girlhood! When he did come, he hoisted an unknown flag and bore me off like any pirate.
Then references to life in a hotel, not named, and the good-natured scrutiny of strangers “who knew us at once as a newly-married couple, though we tried to be offhand to each other.”
Later she described the beginning of housekeeping in London, “where all is so strange”; then a few phrases which sighed.
I have come to hate the word “Miss.” It is a constant reminder of the compact. Harry says it will not be long now before our marriage can be proclaimed; but meantime I always catch myself smiling graciously when a shop-walker hails me as “madam.” There is a recognition in the word! “Miss” is only a trifle less endurable than the “my dear” of the theater, which I heard to-day for the first time.
After some days there was a darker mood:
It has given me a shock to find myself described as “domesticated.” I came home to an empty house, after to-day’s rehearsal, tired and a bit peevish, perhaps. It is so slow, this novitiate. Harry says that his influence will quickly bring me to the front, that I must have patience, that the theatrical world is so compact, yet so split up into cliques, that, were our relationship suspected, I should encounter hostility instead of the indifference which I now resent. So, in unamiable mood, I began to rate my charlady about the dust which gives its brown tone to London interiors. Thinking that a display of energy might prove a tonic, I cleared out the dining-room and made things shine. My help raised her eyebrows and a duster in astonishment. “Lor’, miss,” she said, “you are domesticated! You must have had a good mother?” A good mother! She didn’t know how that word felt.
How odiously some of the men speak, gaze. If a woman is attractive, they ogle her; if she is passée, she is less than nothing. Men did not talk and leer in that way at R. Did they think so? I cannot say. Even Harry laughed when I lost my temper in describing the impudence of a young fop who had bought his way into the chorus. “You must get used to that sort of thing in town!” he said. Then: “Bear with it a little while, sweetheart. Soon the pretense will be ended, and I shall be only too happy if you have lost the glamour of the footlights by that time. It was no wish of mine that you should become an actress.” That is quite, quite true. But I wish now – no, I don’t. I am silly and miserable. Please, diary, don’t be angry if I weep over you, and if I write foolish things.
Then, some four months after marriage:
Harry away a whole week now. Telegram from Paris: “Cannot leave Mrs. S. for some time yet.” He is glad that I have decided to give up the stage without delay. So soon, so soon! I am glad, too, for some reasons, and sorry for others. Is not that life in a few words?..
Créature d’un jour qui t’agites une heure,
De quoi viens-tu te plaindre et que te fait gémir?
Ton âme t’inquiète et tu crois qu’elle pleure:
Ton âme est immortelle, et tes pleurs vont tarur.
It is strange that I should regret the passing of the stage, now that it becomes a necessity. There I found companionship, of a sort. I shall be so lonely. But not for long. Harry returns next week, “on the 10th” his second message says, and then I think really that I must begin to insist upon seeing my mother. He can hardly refuse now. To meet her again! though our eyes will be flooded with tears. And Vi! dear, dear Vi! Will she be eager to hear all about it? But the reproach in her eyes! What did she think when she opened that letter of mine? How she would weep over her old flighty Gwen! Oh, darling mother, and sweet, ever-forgiving sister, how I long to hold you in my arms! If Harry only knew you he would surely trust you, and then I would not care if the publication of the marriage was delayed another year.