SAVED BY FIRE.
“Suzanne!” called her young mistress, sharply.
The woman halted on the threshold and looked back questioningly.
“I wish you to return and spend the night in my room.”
“_Oui_, madame,” answered the woman, retiring.
Then Violet turned passionately on the intruder.
“Leave the room, Harold Castello! I will not endure your presence!” she
cried, angrily.
His answer was a mocking laugh.
“Obey me!” she exclaimed, imperiously, her blue eyes flashing scorn.
He stood immovable, his arms folded over his breast, his dark eyes
fixed on her admiringly.
“What a magnificent beauty you are, Violet, especially when you get in
a rage! But I like you all the better for your fire and spirit. There
will be a zest in taming such a pretty tigress!” he laughed, insolently.
Her face became dead white; the lightnings of her indignant eyes might
have blasted him where he stood. In a voice that vibrated with scorn
and loathing, she cried:
“You are mad--mad! How can you dream that I will ever tolerate you?
Why, I shrink from you in abhorrence too deep for words! Can I forget
that a young girl’s ruin lies at your door, dastard? Can I forget that
your hand is red with her father’s blood--murderer? Can I ever forgive
myself that I did not risk the worst and denounce you to the law for
your fiendish crime? Ah, had I not been such a coward, had I only done
my duty and faced the consequences, I had never come to this terrible
pass!”
“Hush! hush! the walls have ears!” he hissed, with a stifled oath, and
the dew of deadly terror started out on his brow beneath the loose
waves of his jetty hair.
“I will not hush! I have been silent too long! If the voice of
conscience is dead in your heart, let me arouse it by taunting you with
your sin!” Violet cried, in a passion of loathing anger that carried
her beyond the bounds of prudence.
In another moment she realized her mistake, for, infuriated by her
scorn, Harold Castello threw discretion to the winds, and sprang toward
her, crying, maliciously:
“You shall not taunt me, lovely one, for I will smother the words on
your lips with kisses!”
His arms were outstretched, his hot breath fanned her cheek, and in
another moment he would have clasped her in his arms, but Violet eluded
him by stooping suddenly, then darting forward in breathless flight
toward the door.
With a bound, the man placed himself in her way; then commenced a
terrible pursuit that could have but one end--his victory.
Violet flew round and round the room, shrieking in terror, and pursued
by Castello, whom she cleverly eluded by darts and turns and doublings
like a fleet-winged swallow, aiming always to reach the door and escape
into the corridor, while her pursuer bent all his energies toward
preventing her exit from the room, feeling sure that her strength would
give out presently and leave her helpless at his mercy.
In this way the contest must surely have ended, for Violet was already
growing faint and dizzy, and only her deadly terror of Castello
enabled her to maintain her frenzied movements, but a sudden accident
saved her in the very nick of time.
The draught of air created in the room by the swift movements of
herself and Castello as they flew round and round blew the long lace
curtains against a cluster of wax candles in a bunch of silver lilies
on a stand close by, and the flame ignited the delicate draperies.
In another instant leaping tongues of deadly flame sprang up to the
ceiling.
The roar of the fire as it rapidly caught everything within reach and
licked out crimson tongues for more prey, struck terror alike to the
hearts of Violet and her pursuer. A cry of fear came from her lips, and
an oath from his. Both came to a pause of blank dismay that lasted but
an instant on the man’s part, then he sprang forward bravely and began
tearing down the blazing curtains, trampling them under his feet, and
throwing upon them heavy rugs caught up here and there, until in five
minutes he had the fiery element under control, although his face and
hair were scorched and his hands frightfully burned.
Then he glanced around for Violet.
Poor girl! her fictitious strength had given out just a moment too
soon. She had tottered to the door, dragged it open, then fallen down
unconscious upon the threshold.
The beautiful room was ruined, all the snowy furniture scorched or
blackened with smoke or cinders. The master of it had burned his hands
so severely that he shuddered with pain.
At that moment the vivacious Suzanne appeared, exclaiming in horror at
the wreck of the room and the spectacle of her mistress like one dead
across the threshold.
“The curtains ignited from the candles,” explained Harold Castello,
adding: “I have burned my hands fearfully in extinguishing the flames,
and must go to my doctor and have the burns dressed. You may take your
mistress into another room, Suzanne, and care for her until my return.”
He disappeared, and Suzanne brought restoratives for Violet, applying
them so skillfully that she soon opened her eyes, murmuring, languidly:
“Oh, what is this? Where am I?”
“With a friend,” murmured the French maid, significantly, and she
assisted her mistress to rise and led her into the dressing-room
adjoining the ruined boudoir.
“Lie down here on the sofa and rest, my dear,” she said, in quite a
different tone from that she had used in her former interview, and the
languid girl obeyed, for she was trembling so that she could not stand
or even hold up her golden head.
Suzanne brought her a glass of wine, but she shook her head, exclaiming:
“I will touch neither food nor drink in this house.”
“Then rest a while in quiet, and I will return to you,” the woman
replied kindly, and left the room.
She went down stairs and ascertained that Harold Castello had left the
house with his valet, to seek a physician and have his burns dressed.
The only other occupant of the house, a man-cook, was nodding sleepily
over his kitchen table with a newspaper.
The woman returned to Violet, whom she found sitting up, looking with
displeasure at the beautiful white silk gown she wore.
She said, coldly:
“Suzanne, I have just observed that you took the liberty of changing my
dress while I was in a swoon.”
“It was during your first swoon, lady, when Mr. Castello first brought
you in, and at his command.”
“Very well, Suzanne; but now I command you to bring back the traveling
dress I wore when I came. I wish to resume it.”
She had feared a refusal, but to her surprise and relief the maid
consented with alacrity and deftly assisted her to change her robe. She
even brought Violet’s hat and placed it carefully on her golden hair.
“Now you are ready for your second journey,” she said.
A quiver passed over the beautiful form, and Violet cried:
“Does that man mean to take me away from here to-night?”
“No, my lady, I am going to rescue you,” breathed Suzanne, in a low and
thrilling voice that startled Violet by its altered tone. She threw out
her white hand and clutched the woman’s arm, sobbing, hysterically:
“Oh, Heaven, can this be true? Are you indeed my friend, or,”
suspiciously, “is this a treacherous plan to lead me into some new
danger?”
“Not so loud, dear lady, lest some one overhear us,” breathed the maid.
“Sit down one moment and let me explain as rapidly as I can, for we
must be gone from this house ere Harold Castello returns.”
While Violet gazed at her in blended hope and fear she went on, in a
low, intense voice:
“Lady, I am no more a French maid than yourself. I disguised myself
and answered Castello’s advertisement for a maid to further my own
designs. My eyes are brown, to be sure; but my skin is as white, my
hair as golden as yours, only that both are darkened by a brown dye
that changes my appearance entirely. Else I should not dare venture
into Castello’s presence for fear of recognition.”
“Who, then, are you, and why----” began Violet, but the maid
interrupted:
“I am your friend and Castello’s enemy! When I talked to you so
strangely in the boudoir it was all for effect, because I knew he was
listening at the door. I bided my time to tell you the truth, and to
help you to escape from the fiend’s power!”
Violet’s eyes began to glow with hope and joy.
“Oh, may Heaven bless you and reward you for your goodness!” she cried,
clasping the speaker’s neck with grateful arms.
But with a long-drawn sigh, full of remorseful grief, the woman shrank
away, answering, fearfully:
“Lady, you might not wish to touch me if you knew who and what I am.
Have you ever heard the name of Lena Lavarre?”