“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.
Have just concluded sale, after three days’ private negotiation here. Your moiety five hundred pounds. Letter follows.
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.”