Sweet Violet

“Suzanne!” called her young mistress, sharply.

The woman halted on the threshold and looked back questioningly.

“I wish you to return and spend the night in my room.”

“Oui, madame,” answered the woman, retiring.

Then Violet turned passionately on the intruder.

“Leave the room, Harold Castello! I will not endure your presence!” she cried, angrily.

His answer was a mocking laugh.

“Obey me!” she exclaimed, imperiously, her blue eyes flashing scorn.

He stood immovable, his arms folded over his breast, his dark eyes fixed on her admiringly.

“What a magnificent beauty you are, Violet, especially when you get in a rage! But I like you all the better for your fire and spirit. There will be a zest in taming such a pretty tigress!” he laughed, insolently.

Her face became dead white; the lightnings of her indignant eyes might have blasted him where he stood. In a voice that vibrated with scorn and loathing, she cried:

“You are mad—mad! How can you dream that I will ever tolerate you? Why, I shrink from you in abhorrence too deep for words! Can I forget that a young girl’s ruin lies at your door, dastard? Can I forget that your hand is red with her father’s blood—murderer? Can I ever forgive myself that I did not risk the worst and denounce you to the law for your fiendish crime? Ah, had I not been such a coward, had I only done my duty and faced the consequences, I had never come to this terrible pass!”

“Hush! hush! the walls have ears!” he hissed, with a stifled oath, and the dew of deadly terror started out on his brow beneath the loose waves of his jetty hair.

“I will not hush! I have been silent too long! If the voice of conscience is dead in your heart, let me arouse it by taunting you with your sin!” Violet cried, in a passion of loathing anger that carried her beyond the bounds of prudence.

In another moment she realized her mistake, for, infuriated by her scorn, Harold Castello threw discretion to the winds, and sprang toward her, crying, maliciously:

“You shall not taunt me, lovely one, for I will smother the words on your lips with kisses!”

His arms were outstretched, his hot breath fanned her cheek, and in another moment he would have clasped her in his arms, but Violet eluded him by stooping suddenly, then darting forward in breathless flight toward the door.

With a bound, the man placed himself in her way; then commenced a terrible pursuit that could have but one end—his victory.

Violet flew round and round the room, shrieking in terror, and pursued by Castello, whom she cleverly eluded by darts and turns and doublings like a fleet-winged swallow, aiming always to reach the door and escape into the corridor, while her pursuer bent all his energies toward preventing her exit from the room, feeling sure that her strength would give out presently and leave her helpless at his mercy.

In this way the contest must surely have ended, for Violet was already growing faint and dizzy, and only her deadly terror of Castello enabled her to maintain her frenzied movements, but a sudden accident saved her in the very nick of time.

The draught of air created in the room by the swift movements of herself and Castello as they flew round and round blew the long lace curtains against a cluster of wax candles in a bunch of silver lilies on a stand close by, and the flame ignited the delicate draperies. In another instant leaping tongues of deadly flame sprang up to the ceiling.

The roar of the fire as it rapidly caught everything within reach and licked out crimson tongues for more prey, struck terror alike to the hearts of Violet and her pursuer. A cry of fear came from her lips, and an oath from his. Both came to a pause of blank dismay that lasted but an instant on the man’s part, then he sprang forward bravely and began tearing down the blazing curtains, trampling them under his feet, and throwing upon them heavy rugs caught up here and there, until in five minutes he had the fiery element under control, although his face and hair were scorched and his hands frightfully burned.

Then he glanced around for Violet.

Poor girl! her fictitious strength had given out just a moment too soon. She had tottered to the door, dragged it open, then fallen down unconscious upon the threshold.

The beautiful room was ruined, all the snowy furniture scorched or blackened with smoke or cinders. The master of it had burned his hands so severely that he shuddered with pain.

At that moment the vivacious Suzanne appeared, exclaiming in horror at the wreck of the room and the spectacle of her mistress like one dead across the threshold.

“The curtains ignited from the candles,” explained Harold Castello, adding: “I have burned my hands fearfully in extinguishing the flames, and must go to my doctor and have the burns dressed. You may take your mistress into another room, Suzanne, and care for her until my return.”

He disappeared, and Suzanne brought restoratives for Violet, applying them so skillfully that she soon opened her eyes, murmuring, languidly:

“Oh, what is this? Where am I?”

“With a friend,” murmured the French maid, significantly, and she assisted her mistress to rise and led her into the dressing-room adjoining the ruined boudoir.

“Lie down here on the sofa and rest, my dear,” she said, in quite a different tone from that she had used in her former interview, and the languid girl obeyed, for she was trembling so that she could not stand or even hold up her golden head.

Suzanne brought her a glass of wine, but she shook her head, exclaiming:

“I will touch neither food nor drink in this house.”

“Then rest a while in quiet, and I will return to you,” the woman replied kindly, and left the room.

She went down stairs and ascertained that Harold Castello had left the house with his valet, to seek a physician and have his burns dressed. The only other occupant of the house, a man-cook, was nodding sleepily over his kitchen table with a newspaper.

The woman returned to Violet, whom she found sitting up, looking with displeasure at the beautiful white silk gown she wore.

She said, coldly:

“Suzanne, I have just observed that you took the liberty of changing my dress while I was in a swoon.”

“It was during your first swoon, lady, when Mr. Castello first brought you in, and at his command.”

“Very well, Suzanne; but now I command you to bring back the traveling dress I wore when I came. I wish to resume it.”

She had feared a refusal, but to her surprise and relief the maid consented with alacrity and deftly assisted her to change her robe. She even brought Violet’s hat and placed it carefully on her golden hair.

“Now you are ready for your second journey,” she said.

A quiver passed over the beautiful form, and Violet cried:

“Does that man mean to take me away from here to-night?”

“No, my lady, I am going to rescue you,” breathed Suzanne, in a low and thrilling voice that startled Violet by its altered tone. She threw out her white hand and clutched the woman’s arm, sobbing, hysterically:

“Oh, Heaven, can this be true? Are you indeed my friend, or,” suspiciously, “is this a treacherous plan to lead me into some new danger?”

“Not so loud, dear lady, lest some one overhear us,” breathed the maid. “Sit down one moment and let me explain as rapidly as I can, for we must be gone from this house ere Harold Castello returns.”

While Violet gazed at her in blended hope and fear she went on, in a low, intense voice:

“Lady, I am no more a French maid than yourself. I disguised myself and answered Castello’s advertisement for a maid to further my own designs. My eyes are brown, to be sure; but my skin is as white, my hair as golden as yours, only that both are darkened by a brown dye that changes my appearance entirely. Else I should not dare venture into Castello’s presence for fear of recognition.”

“Who, then, are you, and why——” began Violet, but the maid interrupted:

“I am your friend and Castello’s enemy! When I talked to you so strangely in the boudoir it was all for effect, because I knew he was listening at the door. I bided my time to tell you the truth, and to help you to escape from the fiend’s power!”

Violet’s eyes began to glow with hope and joy.

“Oh, may Heaven bless you and reward you for your goodness!” she cried, clasping the speaker’s neck with grateful arms.

But with a long-drawn sigh, full of remorseful grief, the woman shrank away, answering, fearfully:

“Lady, you might not wish to touch me if you knew who and what I am. Have you ever heard the name of Lena Lavarre?”