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:

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.

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:

“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:

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:

Finally to David he wired:

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.