Sweet Violet

Sweet Violet was very nervous and restless during the twenty-four hours that ensued upon the mailing of her letter to Cecil.

She had poured out to her lost lover all the story of Amber’s treachery, and prayed him to forgive her for the sorrow she had unwittingly brought on his devoted heart, in that she was an equal sufferer with himself in the agony of sorrow and separation.

She thought of him constantly now, wondering how he would receive her letter, if he would write to her, if he would come to her—above all, if he would see any way to free her from the detested fetters in which Harold Castello had bound her life.

She felt a little guilty, too, in having written to Cecil against the wishes of her friends, and determined at last to confess the truth to Lena.

On the evening when the tragic events were happening at her old home, Violet sat with Lena in the pretty little parlor of the Lavarre home. It was still early, not yet nine o’clock, but the widow, pleading a headache, had retired to her room, and the two girls were quite alone.

Lena was sitting near a table, crocheting a white wool shawl, and Violet, in an easy-chair, amused herself with the antics of a little Maltese kitten in her lap; but the gleam of the gas-light on her lovely face showed the smile on her lips belied by the haunting sadness of her great blue eyes.

She said, presently, with a long, quivering sigh:

“Dear Lena, you must not scold me very much when I tell you the truth. I have been very naughty, and disregarded your good advice. I have written to Cecil!”

Lena’s work dropped nervously from her hands, but ere she could speak, Violet, continued, tearfully:

“You cannot blame me, Lena, if you knew how wildly I love my precious Cecil, and how hard it is to know that he believed me fickle and false, while all the time I adored him! I have written and told him of all the treachery that drove me into that hated marriage, and somehow my heart feels lighter, for surely Cecil will know of some way to free me from the power of that wicked man. To-morrow, I shall expect to get a letter from my darling, and I know I shall not sleep an hour to-night, thinking about it!”

“Oh, my poor Violet”—began Lena, but she was interrupted by a sudden rat-tat upon the door knocker.

Visitors at that hour were so unusual that both girls uttered a startled:

“Oh!”

And the blue and brown eyes looked into each other in dismay.

“If it should be—Harold Castello!” cried Lena.

“If it should be—Cecil!” breathed Violet, rapturously and moved toward the door.

But Lena motioned her back, saying, fearfully:

“Let me go; for what if your enemies have traced you here?”

She left the room, and went out into the hall to open the front door, while Violet listened eagerly, at the parlor door, which was a little ajar.

She heard Lena open the door; she heard the murmur of a man’s voice—the voice that could almost have called her back from death itself!

She pushed wide the door, and called out in a voice that thrilled with joy, and love, and longing:

“Cecil! Darling Cecil!”

“Oh, dear!” exclaimed Lena Lavarre, for the intruder brushed wildly past her, and rushed into the parlor, where Violet, his love Violet, was waiting.

“My angel!” he cried, and caught her to his heart, clasping her close, and raining kisses on her beautiful, happy, upturned face.

In the bliss of that fond meeting, the reunited lovers quite forgot the barrier between their hearts. Violet was transported with joy and gratitude that he had come so soon in answer to her piteous appeal, and, nestling in the haven of his dear arms, she held up her red lips for his kisses like sweet flowers thirsting for rain.

Lena Lavarre stood in the door-way, gazing with wet eyes, at the lovers locked in each other’s arms, while her warm heart ached with pain as she thought how cruelly they had been sundered, and how brief must be the bliss of this meeting when both presently awoke to the realization of the awful barrier between them and happiness.

She did not wonder at Violet’s devotion when she saw the princely beauty of her tall, dark, stately lover, noble Cecil Grant. She remembered how madly she had loved once, when she believed the man she worshiped was noble and true.

She almost felt it wrong to be a witness of this touching scene of reunited love, and was softly closing the door to go away, when Violet caught the sound, and turned her head.

“Lena,” she called, quickly. “Dear Lena, do not leave us!”

Blushing deeply, she withdrew herself from Cecil’s arms, faltering miserably:

“Alas! I have no right to your love now, Cecil; but—but—I was so glad to hear your voice again, so thrilled by the sight of your face, that I forgot—everything!”

What a happy, reassuring laugh came from Cecil’s lips, as he cried:

“Come back to my heart, my own true love, for there is no barrier between us now. Harold Castello is dead!”

They heard a low, wild cry as Lena Lavarre quickly closed the door and darted away, but they did not know whether it was of joy or sorrow, they were so absorbed in each other.

Cecil threw himself upon a sofa, and, with his arms around Violet, told her briefly all that had happened. There was no time to dwell on it at length, for he had promised that he would take her home that night, to Judge Camden’s dying bed, if she would go.

When Violet heard of his sickness, and his bitter repentance, all her resentment melted away in a rush of tears. All his cruelty was forgotten, his kindness and love alone remembered.

“I will go back to him at once!” she exclaimed, and hurried up stairs to seek Lena and tell her all.

She found the poor girl weeping hysterically by her mother’s bedside, and told them everything as quickly as she could, ending by begging Lena to go with her to Golden Willows.

She hardly dared to hope that Lena would consent, but after a moment of thought, she accepted the invitation, saying, frankly, that she wished to hear from the judge’s own lips the story of Harold Castello’s death, for she hoped that he had repented of all his wickedness, and made his peace with Heaven.

It was strange that she should be anxious on the subject, but perhaps her wronged and outraged heart still held some lingering tenderness for the villain who had made shipwreck of her beautiful youth, for it is hard for a woman to unlearn the lesson of loving, and, knowing him dead, she hoped he would not be punished beyond the grave for his sins.

But Mrs. Lavarre, who could remember nothing but the murder of her good old husband, and the betrayal of her innocent daughter, rejoiced in the knowledge that Harold Castello had passed to his dread account with offended Heaven.

“Ah, how strange is life!” cried poor Lena. “Do you remember, mother and Violet, how I told you about seeing Jacques Brown in a funeral procession, on its way to the cemetery? How strange that my own heart did not tell me that Harold Castello lay in that coffin under the nodding hearse plumes, on his way to the grave! Yet, so it was, and he is swept from the earth, never more to bring sorrow to a woman’s heart.”

“It is Heaven’s judgment upon the wicked,” her mother answered, solemnly.

The two girls were soon ready for the trip, and after bidding an affectionate adieu to Mrs. Lavarre, they went down to the carriage that Cecil had waiting, and were soon driven to the train that was to take Violet back to the scenes from which she had been so cruelly torn. The journey was brief, and they talked but little, for the shadow of the tragedy at Golden Willows lay darkly on their hearts, and they wondered if Amber had indeed tried to murder her old grandfather, or if it was only an awful mistake. Perhaps she was already dead, and the mystery of the poison in her grandfather’s glass might never be revealed.

The carriage was waiting for them at the station, and it was just midnight when they arrived at Golden Willows.

Mrs. Shirley met Violet at the door, and sobbed for joy, as she kissed and caressed her bonny favorite, whom she had so sorely missed. She gave Lena Lavarre a cordial welcome, and then told them that Judge Camden was still alive, and seemingly better, although very weak. She added that he was counting the minutes until Violet’s arrival; so as soon as she had removed her heavy fur wraps, the girl hastened to his bedside.

Oh, what a cry of grief came from her sweet lips as she saw the proud, strong old man so altered, looking years older in the weeks since she had seen him—so old, so wan, so ill! She fell on her knees by his bed, and kissed his pale cheek, sobbing out all her love and her noble forgiveness.