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.