CHAPTER XIX.
A WARNING.
Violet broke the seal of the letter with a strange misgiving in her heart. It was written in a plain though somewhat cramped hand, and ran as follows:
“Dear Miss Arleigh—You and yours have been cruelly wronged. If you would avenge your mother and gain possession of your own rights, visit the east chamber at Yorke Towers and search for certain papers which are said to be concealed there. I can tell you no more than this. I am your friend, though necessity compels me to conceal my identity from you. Be on your guard and act with prudence and caution, and God will help the friendless orphan.
“Your Friend.”
Violet read and reread this strange epistle, her heart full of unpleasant forebodings. It flashed across her mind then, the strange condition of affairs between her mother and Mrs. Yorke. There had been polite intercourse between them as friends and neighbors, but at the same time, under it all there had been something like distrust, a certain ill-concealed jealousy. Violet thought of it all now, and wondered what could be the reason for this condition of affairs.
She slipped the letter into her pocket, and removing her street-dress, donned a pretty black lawn, with a jet necklace and bracelets. Then she stepped out upon the balcony and stood gazing around her upon the fair scene stretched out before her eyes. Off in the distance a gleam of silver, where the pretty river wound in and out amid green hills and smiling dales; overhead, a blue sky with a few fleecy white clouds sailing over its azure bosom; below, a smooth, green lawn stretching down to the river’s edge, and dotted with gorgeous flower-beds.
A lovely place was Yorke Towers. No wonder that Helen Yorke had clung to it and fought for it, and would almost lay her life down in its defense.
And then Violet’s eyes wandered over to the eastern portion of the huge old building, to the room where that awful tragedy had taken place so many years before, where the mysterious letter had told Violet to search for the documents referred to.
What papers were they, and why must she search for them? In vain did Violet turn the question over in her mind; she could find no answer to it. But a strange feeling had taken possession of her heart, a feeling for which she could not account, but which led her to feel that the letter, no matter from whom it had come, spoke the truth, and was of real importance to her.
“I will say nothing to any one,” she decided at length; “but I will watch my opportunity to visit the east chamber; and once there, I will search it thoroughly. But I really do not know what I expect to find, and it does not seem proper to take such liberties with Mrs. Yorke’s house.”
She felt greatly distressed and troubled over this matter; but at last she decided to dismiss the subject from her mind.
She descended the narrow staircase which led from the balcony out into the grounds, and was soon wandering through a green and shady arcade with hedges of roses on either side and the air laden with fragrance.
All at once the sound of suppressed sobbing fell upon her ears, followed by an outburst of weeping speedily controlled.
Violet came to a halt, uncertain whether to advance or retreat; and then she saw, crouching at the foot of a large tree, a white-robed figure with bowed head—a girl, weeping bitterly. A second glance, and Violet saw that it was Jessie Glyndon. It did not seem possible that the proud, self-possessed Miss Glyndon could be huddled up in that crumpled heap at the foot of the tree, weeping and sobbing as though her heart would break. And as Violet turned to leave the spot, her light footsteps unheard upon the soft grass, she caught the sound of a name which Miss Glyndon breathed forth in a tone of heart-break and despair. That name was “Will!”
Violet felt a swift sensation of surprise. Why, who would ever have thought that Jessie Glyndon cared enough for Will Venners to cry about him? So thought Violet to herself. Yet, after all, it might not be Will Venners, for there are hundreds of other Wills in the world.
Violet stole quietly away, and made her way to the house once more, and Jessie Glyndon never dreamed that she had been a spectator to her grief.
Violet found Leonard in the hall. He looked relieved at sight of her.
“I began to fear that you were never coming, sweetheart!” he said, as he joined her. “So you have been out in the grounds?”
Violet smiled. It was very pleasant to hear him speak in the same old, tender way once more.
“Yes, I have been looking about,” she returned. “By the way, Leonard, will you allow me to visit the east chamber while I am here? It has long been a desire of mine to do so.”
His face grew dark. He disliked the legend; and then, it was told of the Arleighs, and Violet was an Arleigh.
“It is nothing to be proud of, dear,” he said, quietly.
Violet’s face flushed.
“Indeed I am not proud of it, Leonard,” she cried; “but I wish to see the room very much. And, after all, it was my ancestors of whom the story was told. But there comes Hilda!”
Hilda floated into the room, a radiant vision, all in pure white garnitured with black velvet, looking lovely, as she always did.
At sight of the two alone together, her face grew stern; but she forced a smile to her red lips.
“Come, Leonard, let us go out into the grounds,” she began, gayly, monopolizing Leonard, as usual.
It struck home to Violet’s heart in that moment that the engagement between Leonard and herself ought to be made public, and then Hilda would not be quite so officious. But just then Mrs. Rutledge made her appearance, and they all went out into the grounds together, where they remained until luncheon was announced.
At the lunch-table they found Jessie looking pale and subdued, but outwardly calm. No one seeing her would have dreamed that she had been going through the stormy scene such a little while before out in the grim and silent grounds.
Luncheon over, they all made a call upon Mrs. Yorke. As they entered the great Gothic chamber a tall, gaunt female in a rusty black gown, and wearing a cap upon her scanty gray locks, strode out of the room with the air of a tragedy queen.
“That is Betty Harwood—mother’s maid,” volunteered Leonard. “She is quite a character, and mother thinks she could not exist without Betty.”
Something struck to Violet’s heart with an odd feeling of certainty, that she was destined to know more of this woman before she left Yorke Towers. She had caught a swift glance from her small gray eyes as she had passed Violet in her exit from the room, and that glance had made the girl slightly uneasy. She felt almost afraid of the woman.
“I must be getting nervous and fanciful,” Violet said to herself, with a smile. “Betty Harwood is Mrs. Yorke’s maid, and has been with her for many months. She is devoted to the invalid. I am a foolish girl to imagine any harm in her. The woman’s history is too well known to Mrs. Yorke, doubtless, for her to be anything that she ought not to be.”
Yet, strive as she might, Violet could not divest herself of the impression, and a feeling of uneasiness lingered in her heart.
Later in the day she encountered Betty in a deserted corridor. The old woman gave her a furtive glance from her little gray eyes, with their scant light lashes, and nodded mysteriously.
Violet turned coldly away. She certainly wished no secret understanding with Mrs. Yorke’s servants. But as she passed on down the long corridor, old Betty glided softly to her side, and bending her head, whispered in a hissing tone:
“Be on your guard! There is fraud and wrong-doing around you. You have been fearfully wronged, young lady. No; you need not shrink from me in that cold, scornful fashion. Take my advice and visit the east chamber at the first opportunity. Stay there as long as possible, and if you can stay there alone, do so. Never give up the search until you have proved my words to be true.”
Violet lifted her head with a haughty gesture.
“I shall complain to Mrs. Yorke of you!” she said, sternly. “I share no secrets with Mrs. Yorke’s servants; please remember that!”
But as she passed on down the corridor and descended the staircase, Betty’s keen gray eyes followed the slight figure with a malignant expression, and she muttered hoarsely:
“Ah, my fine young lady, you will be glad to take all that back, and look to old Betty for assistance, before many days have come and gone. There is trouble coming—awful trouble for you, Miss Violet Arleigh, and I would save you if you would let me!”
Then she went slowly back to Mrs. Yorke’s chamber, that inscrutable expression still upon her wrinkled face, and her gray eyes full of sullen wrath.
