Harold Castello drew close to the young girl’s side, slipped his arm about her waist, and clasped her close, so that the golden head nestled against his shoulder, and he could feel the quick pulsations of her heart as she rested so near him. He did not speak, fearing that he might not so successfully disguise his voice as he had done in the church.
His heart throbbed with passionate joy as he held Violet, poor unconscious Violet, so close to his heart, stealing caresses that would never be permitted him when she should learn his identity with the rejected suitor she both hated and feared.
Violet began to wonder at her own heavy heart.
She had expected to feel so blithe and happy when she was Cecil’s bride!
Suddenly she sobbed, heart-brokenly:
“Oh, Cecil, speak to me! Tell me why I am so wretchedly unhappy in this hour that promised so much bliss!”
“My darling!” he murmured, indistinctly, as he pressed his burning lips to the pure white brow against his shoulder.
“Oh, Cecil, I am so frightened! Will grandpapa overtake us, do you think? Will he—do anything—dreadful?” continued the deceived girl, apprehensively.
“No, no, my own darling, he will not overtake us now! Rest easy, for your adoring husband will defend you against the whole world!” reassured Harold Castello, in a muffled voice, hoping that she would not detect the strange sound.
But Violet half lifted her head from his shoulder, exclaiming: