CHAPTER XLII.
AMBER HEARS STARTLING NEWS.
A spasm of bitter rage tore Amber’s heart at the words of her remorseful grandfather.
Violet had escaped from the loathed husband she had been tricked into marrying.
At any moment she might return to Golden Willows, to denounce the traitors who had wronged her, and to convince Cecil of her love and fidelity!
Amber saw in fancy the whole fabric of her dearly bought happiness tumbling in ruins at her feet.
How Cecil would despise her when he learned all her wickedness, when he found that, under the guise of friendship, she had plotted to separate him from Violet and tried to steal into his darling’s place.
As the humiliating thought came over her, the warm hue of her cheeks faded to awful pallor, her eyes grew dim and glazed, and with a panting sigh, she let her head fall against the back of her chair.
Judge Camden thought she was fainting, and cried out, in alarm:
“Amber! Amber!”
The hazel eyes unclosed, and Amber feebly raised her head.
“Ah, my girl, it is dreadful, is it not?” cried the old man. “She ran away from Castello within an hour almost after they reached the house, and all search has proved utterly vain. For almost a week I have been searching for her, and I have put personals into the prominent newspapers, begging her to write to me or come home, but you see how fruitless all my efforts have proved. I fear that she is dead—that in her horror and despair at finding herself Castello’s bride, she has committed suicide!”
“I hope so,” thought Amber, vindictively; but, struggling for calmness, she said:
“Perhaps she fled to her father’s people, the Meads!”
“No; for I have been to them in Philadelphia. They knew nothing about her, and I asked her uncle to insert personals in the newspapers. He did so, but no answer came, and he shares my belief that poor Violet has surely been overtaken by some terrible fate.”
The belief certainly seemed plausible, but Amber dared not credit it. She trembled with horror at the threatening overthrow of all her hopes.
To lose her love Cecil now, when he was almost her very own—the thought was madness!
In a husky voice she cried:
“I do not believe that Violet is dead. She is probably in hiding, fearful to return lest she should be delivered up to Harold Castello. But how strange that he permitted her to escape! Have you seen him? Did he tell you how it happened?”
“I have seen him, and he told me his theory. The French maid he employed to guard Violet disappeared at the same time, and he believed that she proved false to her trust and helped her mistress to escape.”
In a feeble voice, broken by remorseful sighs, he told Amber of the fire in Violet’s room that night, and that Castello had been forced to leave the house to have his burns dressed by a physician. During his absence she had escaped.
“So it was Harold Castello who sent for you a week ago?” Amber cried, eagerly.
“Yes.”
“But, grandpapa, you said it was a sick friend.”
“Harold Castello was sick from his burns.”
Amber’s eyes began to dilate with an awful suspicion. She panted, wildly:
“But you told me, did you not, that your sick friend was dead?”
“Yes, I told you so!”
“Was it true?”
“Yes, yes,” Judge Camden answered, impatiently.
“Then—then—Harold Castello—Violet’s husband! Do you mean to tell me, grandpapa, that he is dead?” burst out Amber, in wildest dismay.
“Harold Castello is dead and buried,” was the startling reply.