Violet’s first act, on entering the hall, had been to turn on the light. She did this without giving a thought to the possibility of disturbing some prior occupant. The day’s events demonstrated how completely David was worthy of faith; she was assured that he would obey the behest in her letter. How much better would it have been had she trusted intuition in the first instance!

But it chanced that David had written a little note to her, on an open sheet of paper, which he pinned to the table-cloth in the dining-room in such a position that she could not fail to see it when there was a light. And this note, headed “To Violet,” contained the fateful message:

Van Hupfeldt, of course, had seen this thrice-convincing and accusing document, which proved not only that he and his secret were in David’s power, but that David had expected Violet to visit his dwelling. He was sitting at the table in a stupor of rage and terror, when he fancied he heard a rustling in the outer passage. Beside himself with anger at the threatened downfall of his cardboard castle, strung to a state of high nervous tension by the horror he had of that abode of dreadful memories, he half turned toward the door, which had swung back almost into its place.

Through the chink he noticed an exterior radiance; nevertheless, he paid no heed to it, although his wearied brain seemed to remind him that he had not left a light in the corridor. Yet again he heard another rustle, as of a woman’s garments. This time he sprang up, with the madness of hysteria in his eyes; he tore open the door, and saw Violet near to him. She, noting the movement of the door, stood stock-still with surprise and some fear, ungovernable emotions which undoubtedly gave a touch of wan tragedy to her expression. Moreover, the glow of the hall lamp was now behind her, and her features were somewhat in gloom; so it was not to be wondered at that Van Hupfeldt, with his conscience on the rack, thought he was actually looking at the embodied spirit of Gwendoline. He expected to see the dead woman, and he was far too unhinged to perceive that he was face to face with a living one.

He threw up his arms, uttered that horrible screech which had reached the ears of David and the porter, and collapsed limply to the floor, whence, from his knees, while he sank slowly, he gazed at the frightened girl with such an awful look of a doomed man that she, in turn, screamed aloud. Then she saw a thin stream of blood issuing from between his pallid lips, and, the strain being too great, she fainted; so that David, after bursting in the door and finding the two bodies prostrate, one on each side of the entrance to the dining-room, imagined for one agonizing second that another and more ghastly crime had been enacted in those haunted chambers.

He lifted Violet tenderly in his arms, and guessed at once that she had been overcome by the sight of Van Hupfeldt, who, at the first glance, seemed to have inflicted some mortal injury on himself.

The hall-porter, aghast at the discovery of two people apparently dead whom he had seen alive a few minutes earlier, kept his wits sufficiently together to stoop over Van Hupfeldt; then he, too, noticed the blood welling forth. “It’s all right, sir,” cried he, in a queer, cracked voice to David; “this here gent has on’y broke a blood-vessel!”

David said something which had better be forgotten; just then Violet, who was not at all of the lymphatic order, opened her eyes and looked at him.

“Thank God!” he whispered, close to her lips, and she, scarce comprehending her whereabouts yet, made a brave effort to smile at him.

He had carried her into the little drawing-room, and he now placed her in a chair. “Have no fear,” he said. “I am here. I shall not leave you.”

He ran to the door. “If that man’s condition is serious, you had better summon a doctor,” he cried to the porter, whom he saw engaged in the effort to prop Van Hupfeldt’s body against a chair. David was pitiless, perhaps; he had not recovered from the shock of finding Violet lying prostrate.

“He mustn’t be allowed to fall down, sir,” said Jim, anxiously, “or he will choke. I’ve seen a kise like this before.”

David, though quickly subsiding from his ferment, was divided between the claims of Violet and the demands of humanity. Personally, he thought that the Dutchman would be no loss to the world; but the man was helpless. And now Violet, recovering strength and recollection with each more regular breath, knew what had happened. She stood up tremblingly.

“Let us go to him,” she said, with the fine chivalry of woman, and soon, kneeling on each side of Van Hupfeldt, they supported him, and endeavored to stanch the outpouring from his lips.

The porter hurried away. David, wondering what to do for the best, held his enemy’s powerless body a little inclined forward, and asked Violet if she would bring a wet towel from the bath-room. She did this at once, and wrapped it round Van Hupfeldt’s forehead. The relief thus afforded was effective, and the flow of blood had ceased when the porter returned with a doctor who lived in the next block of dwellings.

The doctor made light of the hemorrhage; but he detected a pulse which made him look up at the others gravely.

“This is a bad case of heart failure,” he said. “The rupture of a blood-vessel is a mere symptom. Has he had a sudden shock?”

“I fear so,” said David. “What can we do for him?”

“Nothing, at present,” was the ominous answer. “I dread even the necessity of moving him to a bed-room. Certainly he cannot be taken elsewhere. Is he a friend of yours? I understand he does not live here.”

David was saved from the difficulty of answering by a feeble indication of Van Hupfeldt’s wish to speak. The doctor gave him some water, then a little weak brandy and water. Violet again helped David to hold him, and the unfortunate man, seemingly recognizing her, now turned his head toward her.

“Forgive me!” he whispered, with the labored distinctness of one who speaks with the utmost effort. “I have deceived you vilely. I wished to make reparation.”

“I think I know all you wish to tell me,” said Violet, bravely, “and, even so, I am sorry for you.”

“You heard what the doctor said?” he muttered.

“Yes, but you will recover. Don’t try to talk. You must calm yourself. Then the doctor will help.”

“I know more than he knows of my own condition. I am dying. I shall be dead in a few minutes. It is only just. I shall die here, where Gwen died—my Gwen, whom I loved more than my own soul. May God forgive—”

“Oh, don’t!” cried Violet, brokenly; the presence of gray death, that last and greatest adjuster of wrong, obliterated many a bitter vow and stifled the cry for vengeance in her.

“It is just,” he whispered again. “I killed her by that letter. And now she has summoned me to the grave, she who gave her life to shield me. Ah! what a punishment was mine! when I flew here from Paris to tell her that all was well, and arrived only in time to see her die! She died in my arms, just as I am dying in yours, Vi! But she suffered, and I, who deserve all the suffering, am falling away without pain.”

Truly, he seemed to gain strength as he spoke; he still fancied he had seen Gwendoline; the gathering mists clouded his brain to that extent.

Violet’s eyes were dim with tears; her lips trembled so that she scarce could utter a word. The doctor, who was watching Van Hupfeldt narrowly, said to her in a low tone: “Take my advice, and leave us now.”

But Van Hupfeldt heard him, and roused himself determinedly for a final effort. Yet he spoke with difficulty and brokenly. “I escaped down the service-lift that night—once again when Harcourt shot at me. I only wished to atone, Vi! I made my will—you know—the lawyers will explain. The boy—Mrs. Carter—New Street, Birmingham. See to the boy, Vi, for Gwen’s sake. Ah, God! for her sake!”

And that was all.

Violet, weeping bitterly, was led away. From over the mantelpiece the wild eyes of a portrait in chalk of a beautiful woman looked down in pity, it may be, on the dead face of the man lying on the floor. And so ended the sad love story of Henry Van Hupfeldt and Gwendoline Mordaunt. In the street beneath, hansoms were jingling along, bringing people home from the restaurants. London recked little of the last scene of one of its many dramas.

Yet it had its sequel in life and love, for Violet and her mother, as the result of a telegram to Birmingham, took into their arms a happy and crowing infant, a fine baby boy who won his way to their hearts by his instant readiness to be fondled by them, and who retained his place in their affections by the likeness he bore to his dead mother; though his hair was dark, and he promised to have the Spanish profile of his father, his eyes were Gwen’s blue ones, and his lips parted in the merry smile they knew so well.

But that was next day, when the fount of tears was nearly dry, and the shudderings of the night had passed. Lucky it was for Violet that David was near. What would have become of her had she regained her senses and found herself alone in the flat, alone with a dead man?

David, somewhat hardened by his career in the turbulent West, quickly hit upon a line of action. The doctor, a good soul, volunteered to drive to Van Hupfeldt’s residence and summon Neil, who would probably bear the porter company during a night vigil in the flat. David, therefore, made Violet drink a little brandy, and, talking steadily the while, compelling occasional answers to his questions, he led her to a cab, which he directed to Porchester Gardens. He knew that in Mrs. Harrod she would find a friend, and it was an added relief to him to discover, after repeated ringing had brought a servant to the door, that Mrs. Mordaunt was there, too.

To save Violet the undue strain of an explanation, he asked that her mother might be aroused. There was no need for that. She was down-stairs promptly, having heard the imperative bell, certain that news of Violet was to hand.

So he told of the night’s doings to a tearful and perplexed woman who had never previously set eyes on him, and it was three o’clock ere he turned his face toward Eddystone Mansions again. Arrived there, he found that the porter and Neil had carried the unfortunate Van Hupfeldt to the room in which Gwendoline died. That was chance; it must have been something more than chance which caused David to pick up the bunch of violets, torn from the breast of their wearer when she fell in a faint, and place them on the pillow near the pallid head. David was sorry for the man, after all.

In one matter, the sorely tried mother and daughter were fortunate; there was no inquest. The doctor who was present at Van Hupfeldt’s death, after consulting the coroner and a West End specialist who had warned the sufferer of his dangerous state, was able to give a burial certificate in due form. Thus all scandal and sensation-mongering were avoided. The interment took place in Kensal Green cemetery. Van Hupfeldt’s mortal remains were laid to rest near to those of the woman he loved.

Violet was his sole heiress under the will he had executed. A sealed letter, attached by him to that document, explained his motive. In case of accident prior to the contemplated marriage, he thereby surmounted the legal difficulty and inevitable exposure of providing for the child. He asked Violet to take the requisite steps to administer the estate, bidding her reserve a capital sum sufficient to provide the ten thousand pounds per annum given her by the marriage settlement, and set apart the residue, under trustees, for the benefit of the boy.

At first she refused to touch a penny of the money; but wiser counsels prevailed. There would not only be a serious tangle in the business if she declined the bequest, but Van Hupfeldt was so rich that nearly five times the amount was left for the child, the value of the estate being considerably over a million sterling.

The requisite investigation of the sources of his wealth cleared up a good deal that was previously obscure. Undoubtedly he had been helped in his early career, that of a musician, by a Mrs. Strauss, widow of a California merchant. She educated him, and, yielding to a foolish passion, offered to make him her heir if he married her and assumed the name of Strauss, she having already attained some notoriety in Continental circles under that designation. She was a malade imaginaire, in the sense that she would seldom reside more than a few weeks in any one place, while she positively detested both England and America.

He was kind to her, and she was devoted to him; but unlimited wealth cloyed when it involved constant obedience to her whims. Yet, rather than lose him altogether, she agreed to his occasional visits to England during the season, and when hunting was toward. Eager to shake off the thraldom of the Strauss rÉgime, he then invariably passed under his real name of Van Hupfeldt.

Hence, when he fell in love with Gwendoline, and resolved to make her his in defiance of all social law, he was obliged to tell her that he was also Johann Strauss, and under an obligation to the Mrs. Strauss who had adopted him. Gwendoline’s diary, which, with the certificates, was found in a bureau, became clear enough when annotated with these facts. Van Hupfeldt himself left the fewest possible papers, the letter accompanying the will merely setting forth his wishes, and announcing that he desired to marry Violet as an act of reparation to the memory of her sister. This had become a mania with him. The unhappy man thought that, this way, he could win forgiveness.

And then the bright world became a Valley of Despair for David Harcourt. During many a bitter hour he lamented Van Hupfeldt’s death. Alive, he was a rival to be fought and conquered; dead, he had interposed that insurmountable barrier of great wealth between Violet and one who was sick for love of her. Poor David! He sought refuge in work, and found his way up some rungs of the literary ladder; but he could neither forget his Violet nor follow her to Dale Manor, the inaccessible, fenced in now by a wall of gold.

Once, he was in a hansom on the way to Euston, telling himself he was going to Rigsworth to give the gamekeeper that promised licking; but he stopped the cab and returned, saying bitterly: “Why am I trying to fool myself? That is not the David of my acquaintance.”

So he went back, calling in at a florist’s and buying a huge bowlful of violets, thinking to reach Nirvana by their scent, and thereby humbugging himself so egregiously that he was in despondent mood when he sat down to a lonely tea in his flat. He had not seen or heard of Violet in three long months, not since he took Mrs. Mordaunt and her to the train for Warwickshire, and, walking afterward with Dibbin from the station, learned the fateful news of her intolerable inheritance.

He had promised to write, but he had not written. What was he to say? That he still loved her, although she was rich? Perhaps he dreamed that she would write to him. But no; silence was the steady scheme of things—and work, fourteen hours a day work as the solatium, until his bronzed face began to take on the student’s cast, and he wondered, at times, if he had ever caught and saddled a bronco, or slept under the stars. Or was it all a dream?

Wanting some bread, and being alone, the charwoman having believed his statement that he would be away until next midday, he went into the kitchen. It was now high summer; hot, with the stable-like heat of London, and the kitchen window was wide open. Some impulse prompted him to look out and examine the service-lift by way of which Van Hupfeldt had twice quitted the flat, once when driven by mad fear of being held guilty of Gwendoline’s death, and again to save his life from David’s revolver.

Given a steady brain and some little athletic skill, the feat was easy enough. All that was needed was to cling to two greasy iron uprights and slide from one floor to the next, where cross-bars marked the different stories and provided halting-places for the lift. It was typical of Van Hupfeldt that he had the nerve to essay this means of escape and the cunning to think of it.

David was looking into the well of the building a hundred feet below, when an electric bell jarred over his head. Some one was at the front door. It was a porter.

“You are wanted down-stairs, sir,” said he, his honest face all of a grin.

“Down-stairs?” repeated David, puzzled.

“Yes, sir. There’s a hansom waitin’, sir.”

“Oh,” said David, wondering what he had left in his cab.

He went down, hatless, and not a word said Jim, though he watched David out of the corner of his eye, and smiled broadly when he saw David’s sudden recognition of Violet through the side-window of the hansom.

She, too, smiled delightedly when David appeared. “I want you to come with me for a little drive,” she said; “but not without a hat. That would be odd.”

David, casting off three months’ cobwebs in a second, was equal to the emergency. Somehow, the damask of Violet’s flushed cheeks banished the dull tints in his.

“Jim,” he said, “here’s my key. Bring me a hat—any old hat—first you can grab.”

Then he climbed into the vacant seat by her side. “Do you know,” he said, “I was nearly going to Rigsworth to-day?”

“I only know,” she replied, “that you were to write to me, and I have had no letter.”

“Don’t put me on my self-defense, or I shan’t care tuppence if you are worth ten thousand or ten millions a year,” he said.

Violet leaned over the door. “That man is a long time going for your hat,” she said. “By the way, can you spare the time to drive with me to Kensal Green? And then I am to take you to Porchester Gardens, where mother expects you to dine with us, en famille, so you need not return here.” She was a little breathless, and spoke in a fluster.

Jim arrived, with the missing head-gear. The driver whipped up his horse, and David’s left arm went round Violet’s waist. She bent forward, astonished, with a sidelong glance of questioning.

“It is a reasonable precaution,” said David. “If the horse goes down, you don’t fall out.”

Violet laughed and blushed prettily.

A bus-driver, eying them, jerked his head at the cabman. “All right, the lydy,” he said, and the cabman winked. But the two inside knew nothing of this ribaldry.

So, you see, David simply couldn’t help himself, or rather, from another point of view, he did help himself to a remarkably charming wife and a considerable fortune.

Miss Ermyn L’Estrange insisted on an invitation to the wedding, which took place at Rigsworth as quietly as the inhabitants of the village would allow. The volatile actress won such favor from a local land agent in a fair way of business that he goes to town far too frequently, people say, and it is highly probable that her name will be changed soon to a less euphonious one, which will be good for her and excellent for the land agent’s business.

Sarah Gissing found a new post as Master Henry’s nurse, and Mrs. Carter was well rewarded for the care she had taken of the boy. The postmistress’s sister received a fine diamond ring when David, by dint of judicious questioning, found out the identity of the “friend” who sent that most timely telegram, and, strangely enough, the surly gamekeeper never received either the fifty pounds, or the thrashing, or the sack; but was minus the silver paid to his poacher assistants for their night watch.

So, even this little side issue, out of the many grave ones raised by David’s tenancy of an ordinary flat in an ordinary London mansion, shows how often the unexpected happens, even in ordinary life.

THE END

Transcriber’s Note:

Minor changes have been made to correct typesetters’ errors; otherwise, every effort has been made to remain true to the author’s words and intent.