AT BAY.
“I am here, my darling Violet, eagerly awaiting the summons to your
presence!” exclaimed Harold Castello, quickly entering the room.
She sprang from the sofa and stood up like an indignant queen to
receive him.
“Ah, how lovely you are, my fair bride, among these congenial
surroundings!” he continued, his eyes gloating on her lovely face and
form, set off so exquisitely by the white silk robe.
“A truce to compliments, sir,” Violet answered, coldly, and he started
with surprise.
He had expected tears, upbraiding hysterics, and threats from the
lovely girl he had tricked into becoming his wife.
Yet how calmly she spoke!
Was it possible she was going to take it coolly, after all--to resign
herself to the inevitable?
He devoutly hoped so, and with a smile he answered:
“I can no more help telling you of your beauty, Violet, than I can help
breathing. You are the most beautiful woman in the world, and I rejoice
that you are my bride!”
He saw a spasm of despair move the beautiful face and added, quickly:
“Ah, my adored one, forgive me for the treachery that won you! Think
how I love you, remember how rich I am and what a luxurious life you
can have as my wife. Can I not teach you to forget my rival, and to
love me?”
He threw himself at her feet, and was proceeding with his passionate
protestations, but, with a queenly gesture, she interrupted him:
“Rise, Harold Castello. I did not send for you here to listen to your
abhorred love. I summoned you to tell me how I was entrapped into this
unholy marriage.”
The calmness of despair breathed in the low, musical voice, the pallor
of despair was on the exquisite face. She was no longer the simple
girl, Violet, moved to tears or laughter at a breath; she was a woman
who had lost her love, whose life lay in ruins, whose soul quailed in
secret at its terrible betrayal.
She realized the despotic power of the man who had cheated her into
this union, she knew as well as if he had already told her that this
gilded cage was her prison, that she was surrounded by his minions,
that nothing remained to her but submission or--death. That would be
her only escape from her loathed husband.
So, with a calmness that she could not understand, she faced him:
“It’s too late for recriminations, too late for entreaties. I know your
flinty heart too well. I realize my fate too thoroughly. Only tell me
why Cecil did not come; tell me who detained him; tell me who plotted
this terrible thing?”
“Suppose I answer that it was all my own doing, Violet?”
“All your own? Then, how did you keep Cecil away? It seemed to me
that nothing but death could have kept my beloved from my side in our
bridal hour! Did you--did you”--her face blanching to yet more deadly
pallor--“meet him and murder him on his way to me?”
“Good heavens, no! Cecil Grant is alive and well.”
“And loves me still,” she cried, suddenly lifting her hand on which the
magnificent oriental opal glowed in rainbow hues. Then she saw above
it a plain gold band, and wrenching it off, flung it far from her in
disgust. “How dare you?” she half sobbed, in sudden, futile passion.
Harold Castello laughed lightly.
“As for his loving you still, that is doubtful. He believes you false
to him, and your cunning rival will perchance catch his heart on the
rebound.”
“Rival? I have no rival!” she panted, wildly.
“Do you forget your cousin, beautiful Amber Laurens?”
“My cousin Amber, my best friend--you are mad!”
Harold Castello laughed again harshly, significantly.
“Ah, Violet, what an innocent baby you are! Can you dream that an
angry, jealous rival can be turned into a friend?”
Something came into her throat, and seemed to choke her like a
murderous hand.
“Do you not remember,” he continued, “that Amber once loved Cecil
Grant, and was angry because you won him? She only duped you when she
pretended forgiveness. All the while she was working against you. It
was Amber who helped her grandfather in his pet scheme of making you my
bride. It was her revenge.”
“Revenge?” echoed Violet’s pale, writhing lips.
“Yes, she wanted you out of the way, that she might have another chance
with Cecil. She has told him you were false, that you married me
willingly, out of resentment at his delay--the delay that she planned
so cunningly.”
Her intent blue eyes invited further confidence, and without hesitation
he told her all that he knew, eager to divert her wrath against himself
to Amber.
She did not doubt one word of his story, false and wicked as she knew
him to be.
But the past rushed over her in dizzy waves--Amber’s rivalry, Amber’s
jealousy, Amber’s hate, with later looks and tones that had wounded,
although scarcely understood. Now she realized all their dreadful
import.
“She was false to your trust and plotted against you, Violet. Can you
wonder that I took advantage of the situation to win you for my own? I
loved you madly, and love is my excuse. Forgive me dearest,” pleaded
Harold Castello.
“Leave me!” she answered, with a look of proud disdain, pointing to the
door.
“You forget you are my own now. My place is by your side.”
With cold, scornful lips she replied:
“I acknowledge no right over me given by that fraudulent marriage
ceremony. I will never be your wife save in name.”
“Nonsense, Violet. These lofty airs do not become you. You had better
reconcile yourself at once to circumstances. I may as well tell you
that you are virtually a prisoner, and will remain so until you give
yourself to me with a wife’s obedience. As for your last lover, why
grieve for him? He has not a roof to shelter his poverty-stricken head
to-night, since Bonnycastle has been wrested from him by Amber’s arts.
But doubtless she will find means to console him and to make herself
his bride.”
“That is enough. Now go,” the stricken girl answered, with icy
calmness, but he laughed mockingly and answered:
“Forgive me for disobeying you, sweet one, but I should be desolate
without your company. Come Violet, one kiss, and let us get reconciled
to each other.”
He advanced a step, but her outstretched white hands waved him back.
“No nearer, as you value your life!” she cried, wildly.
He halted in consternation.
“What do you mean, Violet? Have you a hidden dagger about you?” he
demanded.
“No, I have no weapon to defend myself, Harold Castello, and yet I
solemnly swear that your life shall pay the forfeit if you force your
love upon me. Do not stare, for I will find a way to kill you unless
you leave me. I am desperate, maddened. I am your prisoner, but I shall
never be more to you than I am now! So go and leave me to my misery!”
she answered, in such a voice and with such a face, that he deemed it
politic to obey, momentarily awed by the contact with a desperate woman
at bay.