Rupert Godwin

FALCON AND DOVE.

The Saturday evening which succeeded the interview in Miss Vanberg’s drawing-room was almost a happy one for Violet Westford: for on this evening Mr. Maltravers announced to her that he was so much pleased with her graceful deportment in the burlesque that he had decided upon intrusting her with a small speaking part in a new piece, which was to be read aloud in the green-room on the following Monday morning.

This alone would have very little affected Violet, for she was too unhappy in the thought of George Stanmore’s supposed desertion to be ambitious of success upon the stage; but Mr. Maltravers also told her that he meant to increase her salary to a guinea and a half a week, and this sum seemed almost unheard-of wealth to the girl who had toiled so laboriously in order to earn Mrs. Trevor’s pitiful stipend of half-a-guinea.

She thought of the increased comforts she could procure for her mother; she remembered that now Lionel was earning money, and her own salary was to be increased, the dear mother need no longer slave at that tiresome Berlin-wool work, which was so poorly paid.

She thought that now they could leave their close lodging in the dark street near the Victoria Theatre; that they might find some better home farther away, towards Camberwell or Kennington, where there were trees and gardens and flowers.

Such innocent thoughts as these filled Violet Westford’s mind as Mr. Maltravers quitted her, after announcing her good fortune.

No vain triumph, no feeling of gratified pride, swelled her breast. She thought only of her mother, and the simple home comforts which might be provided by her increased salary.

She little knew the feelings of rage and envy that the stage-manager’s announcement had kindled in the breast of her bitter enemy, Esther Vanberg.

That ambitious young aspirant for dramatic honours had happened to be standing close at hand when Mr. Maltravers spoke to Violet. There had been nothing of a private nature in his communication, and he spoke quite openly. Miss Vanberg, therefore, had overheard every syllable—his praises, his promises of advancement.

If Esther Vanberg had wavered in her purpose, if she had hesitated as to her share in Rupert Godwin’s foul plot against the unconscious girl, this circumstance would have decided her.

“What do I care what trouble or disgrace comes upon her, so long as I can remove her from my pathway?” thought the ballet-girl bitterly; for she felt as if Violet had done her an absolute injury, by usurping the place which she herself had desired to fill.

Under better circumstances, and in a purer atmosphere, the nature of Esther Vanberg might not have been ignoble. She was impulsive, passionate, and revengeful, and she had never learnt to school her evil impulses, or to bridle her impetuous nature. She was a creature of the moment, lavishly generous to her friends, savagely vindictive in all dealings with her enemies. She was like some denizen of the jungle—graceful, beautiful, and dangerous. There was something of the Bohemian in her nature, and she had all the gipsy quickness of perception, and the gipsy cunning, as well as the gipsy love of gauds and gems, bright colours and fantastic raiment. She had shown no special capacity for acting on the boards of the Circenses, but in the dealings of every-day life she was a consummate actress.

So it was on this occasion, though she felt almost stifled by the envious rage that devoured her, she was yet able to suppress all outward evidence of her emotion, and to appear utterly indifferent to the conversation she had just overheard.

She stood for a few moments at the side scene, watching the piece that was being acted; and then, approaching Violet with a soft and gliding footstep that was peculiar to her, laid her hand lightly and with an almost caressing gesture upon the girl’s shoulder.

Violet turned, startled from her reverie by that light touch, and found herself face to face with Esther Vanberg. But to her surprise the ballet-girl was smiling upon her. Instead of the insolent and defiant frown which had always darkened her face when she had addressed her rival, Esther’s countenance now wore its most bewitching smile.

That brilliant countenance had the power to assume any expression at will. There were some people who fancied they knew Esther Vanberg; but there were very few who had ever fathomed the depths of her nature.

“Come, Miss Watson,” she said softly, almost pleadingly, “let us be friends. I daresay I have been very foolish, very childish, to feel as I have done about such a trifling disappointment. I wanted to fill your position in the burlesque; and when Mr. Maltravers refused my request, and chose you for the best place in the tableau, I was absurdly angry with you as well as with him. But to-night I am in a better humour, I suppose, and I feel quite ashamed of myself when I remember how silly I have been. Can you forgive me?”

She stretched out her little hand—a little brown hand which Murillo might have loved to paint. This pretty little brown hand was glittering with diamonds.

The young lady’s quarrels with her ducal admirer were of frequent occurrence, but the return of the Duke’s presents was no part of the programme. Miss Vanberg looked upon these costly offerings as a kind of spoil taken from the enemy, rather than as those rich gifts which “wax poor when givers prove unkind.”

“I am sure you are not a revengeful person, Miss Watson,” she said smiling. “Say that you forgive me.”

“Most willingly,” answered Violet, with a confiding smile; “I do not think I have much to forgive. I know you have spoken unkindly about me; but we were strangers, and I had no right to expect your friendship.”

“Henceforward it is yours,” returned the Jewess. “And those who know me best know what Esther Vanberg’s friendship or her hatred is worth. But it is nearly time for us to dress. Are you going upstairs?”

The two girls ascended the stairs together. The dressing-room of a theatre is by no means an unpleasant place, when its atmosphere is free from the poison of envy and malice. Half-a-dozen merry light-hearted girls attiring themselves in their picturesque costumes, and chatting gaily as they dress, form a very pleasant party.

Miss Vanberg was the queen of the dressing-room allotted to her and half-a-dozen other girls of the same rank. Her beauty, her diabolical temper, her lavish outlay of money, and the Duke of Harlington’s notorious infatuation, which might at any time raise this girl to the highest rank in the peerage, all combined to render her paramount amongst the more ignorant and weak-minded of the young women with whom she associated.

Everyone took her tone from the Jewess; and now that Esther was pleased to be civil to Violet Westford, her companions followed her example, and had only the sweetest words to bestow upon the Queen of Beauty.

But this change had very little effect upon Violet. She was so different a being from the girls amongst whom chance had thrown her, that it was quite impossible she could have any sympathy with them. Her gentle nature asserted itself alike in her dignified indifference to insolence, and in her calm acceptance of affected friendliness. Her heart was far away from that noisy chamber, and the talk and laughter of her companions fell on unheeding ears.

The Sunday which followed this evening was a pleasant one for Violet. She spent that day alone with her mother, accompanying her to the nearest church in the morning, and sitting all through the long afternoon and evening talking with that beloved friend and confidante of the happy days that were past—the pleasant hours that had been buried with the dead.

She told her mother of the good fortune which Mr. Maltravers had announced to her on the previous evening. On that same evening a letter had arrived from Lionel, containing a five-pound note, so the mother and daughter felt themselves actually rich.

“And Lionel is happy in his new employment, mamma?” asked Violet.

“I imagine so, dear, from the tone of his letter, though he makes no allusion to his employer, or his present mode of life. But he speaks with rapture of the delights of country air and country scenery, after this dingy quarter of London; and he begs me to find some comfortable lodging in the suburbs, where we too may enjoy fresh air and the sight of green trees and blooming gardens.”

“Dear Lionel, how thoughtful he is!” murmured Violet.

“He is, dear. But now, I want you to answer me a question, and candidly, my darling, for it is a vital question for me. You have now been some little time in the theatre—quite long enough to form a judgment of your new life. Tell me, dear, have you found the green-room of a theatre such a scene of danger as it has sometimes been asserted that it is? Your youth and attractions might render you the victim of many annoyances—I will not insult you by talking about temptations. Trust me then, Violet, and trust me as fully as a mother should be trusted. Tell me, what is your experience of the side-scenes of a theatre?”

“Very simple, dear mother. I have been almost as much at home at the Circenses as in these lodgings, and I can assure you that the popular idea of a green-room is quite a delusion. The people behind the scenes of the Circenses seem as much occupied by the business they have to do as if the theatre were a factory. Of course I was a little nervous at appearing before a London audience, but no one behind the scenes has in any way annoyed me; except, indeed—”

“Except whom, dear girl?”

“One of the girls employed in the burlesque—a Miss Vanberg—was at first rather disagreeable in her manner towards me, but last night she apologised for her rudeness, and we shall no doubt be very comfortable in future. Mr. Maltravers is extremely kind; and, for the rest, I go very quietly about my business—do what I have to do, and no one interferes with me.”

It was impossible to doubt Violet’s statement. Her manner was frankness itself.

The mother breathed a sigh of intense relief.

“My darling, how completely you have relieved my mind!” she exclaimed with delight. “I have heard so much about the dangers of a theatre; but now I shall have no further fear. I ought not to have feared. I ought to have remembered the story of Una and the Lion.”

A thrill of triumph stirred Clara Westford’s heart as she spoke. In spite of her defiance of him, the banker’s sinister threats had not been without their effect upon her mind. She had trembled at the thought of dangers that might assail her child—alone, inexperienced, in an entirely new world, beautiful, helpless, innocent as an infant, and utterly unprotected.

But the mother’s fears were entirely set at rest by Violet’s candid assurances. Clara Westford was now ready to smile at what she believed to be the empty threats of her unscrupulous persecutor.

A quiet peace, that was almost akin to happiness, reigned in the breasts of both mother and daughter on that Sabbath-day. Not for a moment could Violet Westford forget that secret grief which had arisen out of her belief in George Stanmore’s falsehood. Not for a moment could the fond and trusting girl forget that the dearest dream of her life was broken. But there was no taint of selfishness in Violet’s character, and no sorrow of her own could entirely absorb her mind, or render her indifferent to the feelings of those she loved.

To-day she had seen a smile, a bright and peaceful smile, light up her mother’s face for the first time since that never-to-be-forgotten day when the tidings of the sailor’s death had fallen like a thunderbolt on the quiet country home. To-day, for the first time since that hour of despair, Clara Westford seemed almost happy; and this in itself was happiness for her devoted daughter.

Early the next morning Violet went to the Circenses to attend the reading of the new piece in which she was to make her début as an actress. Esther Vanberg was at the theatre—“dressed to death,” as her “intimate enemies” remarked to each other in confidence, after having congratulated the young lady upon the perfection of her costume with effusion. Miss Vanberg had no special business in the green-room this morning; but she was very anxious to know whether the part allotted to Violet in the new piece was only a few lines of young lady-like inanity, or one of those lively little sketches of character which might win applause for the young débutante.

Miss Vanberg appeared to be in an unusually gracious humour upon this particular morning, and she greeted Violet with the same warm friendliness of manner which she had displayed upon the Saturday night.

Violet, unsuspecting as a child, accepted that spurious friendship for the pure gold it represented. She had no reason to suspect hypocrisy. What motive could the Jewess have for wishing to deceive her?

In consequence, therefore, of Esther Vanberg’s artful manœuvres the two girls were on excellent terms on Monday night, and all was prepared for the vile plot concocted by the banker.

As for the Marquis, he was only a passive instrument in the hands of his tempter. Rupert Godwin had planned everything; and Lord Roxleydale was told that he had nothing to do except to act in accordance with the directions of his friend. His friend! Alas for ill-trained youth! these are the friends who lure their helpless dupes into the uttermost depths of vice and folly. And when the ruin is accomplished, when the poor weak-minded fool has parted alike with the last sixpence of his fortune, the last impulse of truth and honour that ever thrilled through his breast, then the so-called friend laughs his deluded victim to scorn, and goes away to seek a new dupe.

Violet was dressed for her part in the burlesque. She was looking her loveliest in her fantastic robe of silvery gauze, her draperies of rose-coloured crape, her crown of stars and flowers. Her long rippling golden hair fell upon her shoulders, long and thick as the tresses of a modern Godiva.

Under some artful pretence Esther Vanberg had lured her new friend into the green-room, and the two girls were sitting side by side upon a low ottoman, beneath the full light of a chandelier.

The green-room was deserted at this time of the evening, for all the actors were busy on the stage, or in their dressing-rooms. The two girls were sitting alone; and seen thus they might have served as a model for some artist’s rendering of a fallen angel and a spirit of light.

Esther Vanberg’s blue-black hair was drawn away from her low brow, and confined with a narrow circlet of diamonds, one of the Duke of Harlingford’s latest gifts, given at a time when he had intended to make her his Duchess, in spite of every opposing influence.

They had quarrelled since then; and Esther, with the pride of some despotic Eastern queen, rather than a figurante in a theatre, had forbidden the young Duke to approach her, and had ordered her servants to deny him admission to her house.

Unluckily for the Duke’s prospects in life, such wild freaks as these only rendered the shallow-brained young nobleman still more infatuated, still more inclined to sacrifice the wishes of all his best friends by uniting his fate to that of a woman whose only charm was her almost demoniac beauty.

The hour at which the Marquis and his two friends were to present themselves in the green-room had been planned by Esther; and now, while talking gaily to the unconscious Violet she glanced across the girl’s shoulder and saw the three men upon the threshold of the door.

Lord Roxleydale was really in love, after his own fashion; and he was almost as nervous as some school-girl who enters a ball-room for the first time.

Not so the banker. He was perfectly self-possessed, quite able to play out the base game that he had planned.

He took care to address himself at first entirely to Esther Vanberg, and scarcely appeared to be aware of Violet’s presence, though at the same time he was surprised by the dazzling beauty of the girl whom he had only seen in her simple mourning dress at Mrs. Trevor’s party.

Presently, however, the introductions were made, and Miss Vanberg presented Mr. Sempronius Sykemore to her dearest friend, Miss Watson.

Violet, fully accustomed to society, was in no manner disturbed or confused by this introduction, nor by the introduction of the Marquis which immediately followed.

But Lord Roxleydale hung sheepishly in the background, sheltering himself behind his friend the banker, quite incapable of saying a word for himself, so deeply was he smitten by Violet’s loveliness. And beyond this, the young nobleman had been told to hold his tongue, and to leave the management of the plot entirely to his wiser friends.

He was silent therefore, and could only gaze in mute admiration upon Violet, while Mr. Sempronius Sykemore paid all manner of extravagant compliments to the two girls. Esther Vanberg was completely hoodwinked by the story which Rupert Godwin had told her, and which Mr. Sykemore’s manner seemed to confirm. With her face averted from Violet, she smiled at the banker, a smile full of malicious meaning.

Violet had no recollection of having seen Rupert Godwin before; for he had quite escaped her notice amongst the crowd of guests at Mrs. Trevor’s party.

And yet there was something in his face, something in the vivid light of his dark eyes, which seemed strangely familiar to her.

Surely it must be the same look which had so puzzled her in Esther Vanberg, the expression which bore a resemblance to that of George Stanmore, her false and fickle lover.

She could not help wondering about this, even while the two strange gentlemen and Esther were chattering round her. She was abstracted in the midst of their talk, and gave random answers to any observations that were addressed to her.

But presently the call-boy announced the last scene of the burlesque, and the two girls rose to leave the green-room.

Violet bowed to the gentlemen with an air of quiet dignity as she quitted the apartment. From first to last she behaved to them as she would have done had she met them in the drawing-room of an acquaintance; and she had no idea that they could think badly of her, simply because they found her earning her living in a theatre.

“Well, my dear Roxleydale!” exclaimed the banker, as the three friends were left alone in the green-room, “what do you think of your golden-haired goddess now? Are you still bewitched?”

“I’m completely annihilated,” answered the Marquis; “she’s an angel, divinity, a—a nice girl, and that kind of thing.”

“And are you prepared to go through fire and water to win her?”

“Through an ocean—across a blazing prairie, and that kind of thing,” exclaimed the young lord, who could venture to be poetical now that the object of his adoration was safely out of hearing.

“It is only fair to remind you that the enterprise of to-night will be one of some danger,” said Rupert Godwin, looking earnestly at the young man.

“Danger!” cried Lord Roxleydale; “my people learned to laugh at danger before the Normans conquered England.”

“Yes, that’s all very grand,” answered the banker coolly; “but nowadays there are legal penalties sometimes attaching to these matters. Whatever happens, Marquis, you will stand the consequences of this act yourself—you will not betray my share in the business?”

“I am a gentleman, and a Roxleydale,” returned the young man, with some touch of dignity; “and I only associate with those who can trust me.”

“Enough, Lord Roxleydale,” replied Rupert Godwin; “I will trust you freely. As soon as Vio—as soon as the girl they call Miss Watson returns to her dressing-room she will receive a message to the effect that her mother has been seized with sudden illness, and that a neighbouring doctor has sent his carriage for her. She will be conducted in all haste and confusion to the carriage, which will be standing in readiness in a quiet street between the Strand and Covent-garden. I need scarcely tell you that the carriage in question will be the vehicle provided to convey the yellow-haired goddess to your place in Essex.”

The Marquis did not look altogether delighted with this scheme.

“Isn’t it rather too bad,” he said, “that dodge about her mother?”

“My dear Roxleydale, need I remind you that all stratagems are fair in love as well as in war?”

The Marquis was too weak to resist his black-hearted tempter. The three men returned to the private box, which Lord Roxleydale had rented for the entire season.

Rupert Godwin did not remain long in the box. He quitted the theatre as the curtain fell upon the close of the burlesque, taking the Marquis with him.

All had been arranged with unfailing precision. The banker and Lord Roxleydale walked together to the quiet street, where the carriage was waiting, and paced slowly up and down the pavement, smoking their cigars, and watching for the moment when the foul plot would be set in action.

Such men as Rupert Godwin select their servants to suit their own purposes, and generally contrive to find willing tools in those they employ. The banker’s confidential servant was a man whose principles were about on a level with those of his master, and Mr. Godwin had no fear of rebellion or discontent when he wanted help in some villanous business.

Violet had nearly finished dressing, when she was summoned to the door of the apartment, where she found one of the men belonging to the theatre waiting for her with a letter in his hand.

The letter consisted of only a few words, written in pencil:

“Miss Westford is requested to follow the bearer of this to Dr. Maldon’s carriage. Dr. Maldon is now in attendance upon Mrs. Westford, who has been taken seriously ill. Her daughter will do well to lose no time in following the messenger.”

Violet almost fainted under the terrible shock caused by these few lines. Her mother ill—seriously ill; a physician in attendance, a carriage sent for her, and an urgent request that no time should be lost! The case must indeed be serious.

The excited girl snatched her bonnet from the peg where it hung, flung her shawl around her, and hurried back to the passage where she had left the messenger.

“Take me to him!” she cried impetuously, “the man who brought this letter—where is he?”

“In the hall, Miss. He begged me to say as you was to be very quick.”

“Yes, yes,” gasped Violet, “not a minute is to be lost—not a moment!”

She rushed past the astonished messenger, and ran down the stairs, scarcely conscious of the ground upon which she trod. She forgot everything, except that her mother was ill; and her heart throbbed loud and fast with a terror that was almost too painful to bear.

No thought of falsehood or imposture ever flashed across her mind. How should it do so? How could this innocent girl imagine that there lived a wretch so base as to betray his victim by practising on the sacred love of a daughter for her mother?

James Spence, the banker’s valet, was the person who had been intrusted with the pretended physician’s note. He was just the sort of man to assist in such a scheme. Silent, soft of foot and of voice, false in every word and look, he was fully qualified to carry out the plans his master confided to him; and he served the banker well, for he knew that with few other masters could he have had so profitable a place. No class of employers pay so liberally as the wicked. For them fidelity is priceless. There must have been good times for the servants in the house of Lucrezia Borgia, Princess of Ferrara!

The banker’s valet assumed an expression of profound sympathy as Violet approached him. He was a very respectable-looking man—grave, middle-aged, dressed with a scrupulous neatness that was almost Quaker-like; and he looked exactly the sort of man a physician’s servant might be supposed to be.

“O, pray let us lose no time!” Violet exclaimed. “You are the person who brought this letter, are you not?”

“I am, Miss.”

“Then I am ready to come with you at once.”

No more was said until they had left the theatre; then James Spence addressed Violet in his most respectful tone.

“If you would allow me to suggest that you should take my arm, Miss, I think we should reach the carriage sooner,” he said, “for we may have to pass through a crowd.”

“Yes; you are very good; I will take your arm,” answered the excited girl. “O, pray let us hurry to the carriage.”

The valet lost no time in obeying this behest. He led Violet through the busy streets at a rapid pace, and they reached the quiet thoroughfare where the carriage was waiting, before the agonized and trembling girl had been able to collect her thoughts, or recover from the first effects of the shock she had so lately received.

Had she been a little calmer, she must have wondered at the style of carriage waiting to receive her, which bore little resemblance to the kind of vehicle usually employed by a medical man. Had she been calmer, she might have remarked the presence of a man enveloped in a loose overcoat, who sat in the rumble of the carriage smoking a cigar.

But as it was, Violet observed nothing. The carriage-door was opened for her, she sprang into the vehicle, and sank half-fainting on the seat.

“Pray beg the coachman to drive quickly!” she cried in an imploring voice as James Spence closed the door.

“O yes, Miss, we’ll drive fast enough,” the valet answered, with a sinister grin, as he stepped back upon the pavement, while the horses hurried off in the direction of the Strand.

The man wrapped in an overcoat, and seated in the rumble, was the Marquis of Roxleydale. Another man, lounging at the corner of the street, watched the departing vehicle.

“So, Clara Westford,” he muttered between his set teeth, “I think at last I am fairly revenged upon you for your insolence. You have chosen to defy me. Be it my task to show you what a helpless creature you are.”

Helpless! Yes, Rupert Godwin; but the helpless are beneath the special care of Providence—that Power which is strong enough to triumph over even such schemers as you!