A GILDED CAGE.
Ten minutes’ rapid driving brought Harold Castello to a dreary suburb
of Washington, where the carriage paused before a large, square,
brown-stone building standing in the midst of fine, well-kept grounds,
that were walled in with stone, like a prison. It had once been the
home of a wretched misanthrope, who had chosen to seclude himself from
the world he hated behind the gloomy walls that hid him from his kind
in almost prison-like solitude. The house stood far back from the road,
and there was not another one within half a mile of this lonely place,
on whose dreary walls the moonlight shone, giving it even a more than
usually forbidding aspect by contrast with its silvery radiance.
Harold Castello alighted from the carriage with unconscious Violet in
his arms, and knocked at the high stone gate with sculptured dragons
guarding the posts.
From the windows of the dreary house, not a single ray of light
gleamed forth, and it had the appearance of being totally uninhabited;
yet Harold Castello was expected, for the heavy gates were promptly
unlocked, and a man and woman were discovered standing obsequiously
within.
“Lead the way!” the young man said, impatiently, and bore his lovely
burden to the house.
The man unlocked the door and exposed a wide, tiled hall, with marble
statues glimmering whitely here and there, and a broad, shallow
stairway of black oak, dimly lighted by overhanging gas-jets. Up this
splendid stairway Harold Castello followed the woman to a magnificent
suite of rooms, luxuriously furnished in white and gold, glowing in
warmth and light and perfume, from rare vases of exotic flowers. It was
a veritable bridal-bower, and no expense had been spared to make it
worthy the occupancy of a queen.
Harold Castello entered the dainty boudoir and laid his stolen bride
upon a soft, white couch, kissed her pale, cold lips, then turned to
the woman, who had the air of a ladies’ maid.
“She has fainted. Of course you will know how to restore her, Suzanne,”
he said, anxiously.
“Yes, monsieur, you may trust me,” smiled the trim maid.
“Very well,” he said; then added: “And you may change her traveling
clothing for a pretty white _robe de chambre_, so that she will feel
more comfortable. When she is ready to see me I shall be waiting at the
door.”
He retired to a luxurious suite of rooms across the hall, to smoke
a cigar and wait, with mingled eagerness and trepidation, for the
interview with his stolen bride, the fair and hapless Violet.
Meanwhile Suzanne was busy with her unconscious charge.
She brought from the dressing-room a robe of soft, silvery white silk,
with a loose front trimmed in billowy cascades of frosty white lace.
Then she proceeded to undress Violet and array her lovely form in the
dainty garment. Then, and not till then, did she make the least effort
to restore Violet from her heavy swoon.
While she bathed the pale face and hands in _eau de cologne_, she gazed
in amazement and delight at the exquisite face and form, the curly
golden tresses, the marvelous grace of the hapless girl.
“Mon Dieu, what wealth of golden hair! What beauty! of a certainement,
zis bride is ze fairest of ze fair!” she exclaimed, in rapture.
Suddenly Violet’s fair breast heaved with returning life, her white
lids trembled, then flared wide open, and the woman beheld her charge’s
greatest charm, the splendid dark-blue eyes like violets in the spring,
touched with golden sunshine.
She gave a low cry of admiration, and drew those glorious eyes to her
face.
“I--I--oh, who are you, and where am I?” cried Violet, weakly, staring
in amazement at the dark, strange face of the French maid.
“Miladi, you are at home. You have arrived with your husband one little
while ago, remember you not?” replied the vivacious Suzanne.
Violet pressed her hand to her brow in bewilderment, and, lifting her
head, gazed about the unfamiliar apartment.
She saw a spacious apartment hung with draperies of white and gold--a
sumptuous apartment lined with massive mirrors that reflected
everywhere luxury and beauty, couches of white velvet and gold satin,
exquisite statuettes, costly pictures in richly gilded frames,
flowers everywhere, roses and violets predominating, and the whole
scene lighted softly by wax candles burning in exquisite candlesticks
fashioned like white lilies--a room fit for a queen.
Mademoiselle Suzanne waited eagerly for some cry of admiration from
miladi, but none came, and she exclaimed:
“It is beautiful, magnifique, is it not?”
The blue eyes turned back to her face.
“What is your name? What are you doing here?” asked Violet.
“Suzanne, miladi, your French maid. Monsieur, your husband, engage me
to have care of you.”
“You must not call me miladi. I am an American girl and my name is Miss
Mead.”
“Oh, madame, I crave pardon. You are married now. Do you forget? Your
name it is Mrs. Harold Castello.”
She saw the beautiful face blanch to the hue of death, heard a stifled
cry of anguish cross the pale lips, and cried out, soothingly.
“Be comforted. You have a rich and handsome husband. That is what all
the ladies desire. Is it not so?”
“Go, send that man to me. I must speak to him!” exclaimed Violet, with
flashing eyes and a tone of command.