CHAPTER XL.
“VIOLET, PLEASE COME HOME!”
Violet had fallen back in agonized silence, guessing the fatal truth from Lena’s incoherent speech. Her eyes grew dim, her face pale, and a hand of steel seemed to clutch her throat, pressing out all the joy and hope and life. She waited in dumb despair for Lena’s reply to her mother’s words.
“Look to Violet, mamma; she is almost fainting! Yes, that is right—make her lie down on the sofa and listen, for I have that to tell that will almost break her heart!” sobbed Lena.
When Violet was listening quietly on the sofa, her burning gaze devouring Lena’s tear-wet face, the speaker continued, hoarsely:
“Where did I see him, mamma? What does that matter? But I will tell you. As I was crossing Ninth street, I met a little funeral cortege on its way to the grave, with some poor soul doubtless happily released from the miseries of its earth-life. ‘Who was it?’ you ask! How do I know? I did not ask, I did not care; I only wished that your unhappy daughter lay in that black hearse with its funeral plumes nodding over her deep repose! But, Jacques? Yes, I saw him in one of the carriages, his evil face leering out at me! I stood dumb with surprise one moment, then I made a desperate gesture that I wished to speak to him. The carriage stopped for him to speak to me. He sprang out and came to my side.
“‘Miss Lavarre, is it you, or your ghost? I thought you died months ago, of brain fever, in Chicago. Really, this is a strange renconter at this time,’ he smirked.
“I could have killed the villain, I hated him so bitterly; but I schooled myself to calmness, and said, hastily:
“‘No, I did not die, although I wish that I had! But, Jacques Brown, as you value the salvation of your soul hereafter, tell me the truth! Was I legally Harold Castello’s wife, or—did you play the parson as he swore to me in Chicago, and help to deceive me into a mock marriage that wrecked my life.’
“The valet gazed into my tortured face almost pityingly for a moment, then answered, frankly:
“‘It’s no use for me to deny it to you, Miss Lavarre. Mr. Castello made me play the priest in your case, as he did in two more besides your own, only a few months before. He was a hardened roue, my master, and that’s the truth. But he paid me well for helping him in his wicked pleasures. Perhaps you know that he was married, though, fast and tight, only a week ago, to a beautiful young girl, Miss Violet Mead, who ran away from him the same night?’”
“‘You swear that Violet Mead alone is the legal wife of Harold Castello?’ I asked him, so solemnly that he grew pale and raised his hand to heaven, exclaiming:
“‘I swear before God that Miss Mead was his legal wife. All the others were deceived, like you, Miss Lavarre. But, excuse me; I am delaying the procession,’ and with a grim smile, he bowed to me, sprang back into the carriage, and it fell into line behind the funeral cortege that wound slowly along its solemn way, while I returned home with my cruel news for Violet.”
She sobbed hysterically again, but Violet lay still and white, the heavy lids shut tight over the dark-blue eyes—not unconscious, but still as death in her terrible despair.
The last hope was cut from beneath her feet. She belonged by law to the man she loathed and feared. At any moment he might ferret out her hiding-place and claim her as his own. His power was paramount, and no one could disclaim his right to take her away with him. What though she knew that he was one of the vilest criminals—what though she had seen him commit a foul murder—the law would not permit her to testify against her husband! She was his wife, she was powerless, almost friendless, a helpless fugitive hiding from her master!
The three unhappy women sank into hopeless silence, and Mrs. Lavarre sat down and mechanically unfolded the silk waist Lena had just brought in from the dressmaker’s. The package was wrapped in a newspaper of the day previous, and her sad eyes wandered carelessly over the advertising pages that lay open to her gaze.
Suddenly she gave an almost frightened start, and her passively sad countenance grew animated.
“Miss Mead!” she cried out, eagerly, and Violet opened her heavy eyes with a vacant gaze.
The newspaper was rustling nervously in the widow’s shaking hands, and she said, quickly:
“This must be intended for you, my dear girl.”
“What is it?” Violet asked, languidly, and Lena dashed the tears from her eyes, and gazed curiously at her mother.
“It is this paper that you brought around my silk waist, Lena,” explained Mrs. Lavarre. “I was just sitting here musing, with my eyes downcast, when they alighted on the personal column, and I read these words:
“Violet:—Will you please communicate at once with your anxious grandfather?”
“It is grandpapa!” cried Violet, sitting upright in eager excitement, while Lena cried, indignantly:
“A trap to betray you into your husband’s power.”
Then she started wildly at the cry of remonstrance that came from Violet’s trembling lips.
“Ah, Lena, for sweet pity’s sake, do not speak of that fiend as my husband again. Call his name, if you will, but never say of him that he is my husband, or that I am his wife. It drives me mad with despair.”
“My poor darling, I will try to remember,” soothed Lena, gently, and then they fell to discussing Judge Camden’s personal.
They agreed that it was best that Violet should ignore the personal, for her wicked old grandfather could have only one object in desiring to learn her whereabouts, and that object to betray her into the power of Harold Castello.
But the newspapers of the next day and the succeeding day were eagerly searched, and it was found that they contained the same personal, day after day. Then it varied into other words:
“Violet:—Please come home. I have good news for you.”
And again:
“Dear Violet:—For Heaven’s sake, write to us or come home. We are very unhappy over your fate!”
Each of the personals was signed “Grandfather,” and each one provoked only a contemptuous curl of the lip from sweet Violet.
Her bitter experience of his cruelty and unkindness had left Violet no faith in her grandfather’s affection. She believed that he was only acting on Harold Castello’s behalf.
Accordingly she ignored the personals, and clung more closely to her refuge under the hospitable roof of the gentle Widow Lavarre and her hapless daughter Lena.
At the end of a week the personals assumed another form:
“Will Violet please let me know where she is, and I will keep her secret if she wishes me to do so. I am very unhappy over her flight.
Uncle George Mead.”
Violet’s heart was so touched by this appeal that she would have replied to it, but her friends dissuaded her and whispered caution.
“Harold Castello has perhaps enlisted the Meads on his side, and if you write to them, it may be they will deliver you into his hands. Remember how rich he is, and what a power his great wealth gives him in influencing other people. Doubtless your relatives think that yours would be an enviable fate as his wife,” declared Lena; and there was so much truth in her words that Violet decided to ignore this personal as she had done the others. It seemed to her that the whole world was in league against her, that she had no friends outside of the two lonely women who gave her so warm a welcome beneath their roof.