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: