But here came Violet, all rosy now with wonder, for her blood was racing, though in her eyes, which reflected her thoughts, was an anger which David missed in his joy. She stood framed in the narrow doorway of the summer-house, and half turned as though to leave it quickly. “Now, what have you to say to me?” she breathed hurriedly.
David, who thought he was shy with women, soon found winged words to pierce the armor of a disdain he did not yet understand. “If I obeyed my heart, Violet,” he said, and she thrilled a little under the shock of hearing her Christian name so glib on his lips, “I would begin by telling you that I love you, and so throw to the winds all other considerations.”
She turned and faced him, palpitating, with a certain deer-like readiness to fly. “How dare you?”
“I am not daring. Daring springs from the heart, you know. Moreover, though the knowledge of my love is old to me, old as weary days and sleepless nights can make it, it may be new to you, unless, somehow, my love has bridged the void, and made you responsive to my passion. Ah, don’t be afraid, now,” for David thought she shrank from him—though in very truth this maiden’s soul was all a-quiver with the conviction that not so had Van Hupfeldt spoken, not so had his ardor shaken her. “I am not here to-day as your lover, as your avowed lover I would rather say, but only as your self-appointed guardian, as one who would save you from a fate worse than death. Listen now, and believe me, for I can prove the truth. Van Hupfeldt, who would marry you, is none other than Strauss, the man who married your sister.”
Violet’s eyes dilated. Her lips parted as if to utter a shriek. David caught her by the wrist and drew her gently toward him. Before either of them knew what was happening, his arms were about her.
“Be brave, there’s a dear girl!” he whispered. “Be brave and silent! Can you listen? Tell me you are not afraid to listen.”
Again Violet was conscious that the touch of David Harcourt’s arms was a different thing to the impetuous embrace of Van Hupfeldt. A sob came from her. She seemed to lose a little of her fine stature. She was becoming smaller, more timidly womanlike, so near this masterful man.
“He married your sister,” went on David. “He married Gwen in his own name of Van Hupfeldt, and the birth of their child is registered in that name. I wrote and told you of the certificates being in existence. He obtained them by bribery and a trick. That is nothing. Even if they are destroyed, they can be replaced by the proper authorities. I know where the child is living. I can take you to it. I can bring Dibbin, the agent, here, to face Van Hupfeldt and prove that he is none other than Strauss, your sister’s husband and slayer. I can bring Sarah Gissing, your sister’s servant, to identify him as the man whom poor Gwen loved as her husband and the father of her child. Were it not for my own folly, I could have brought you her diary—”
“Her diary! Has it been found?” gasped Violet, lifting up her eyes to his in sheer amazement.