When they reached the safe, quiet shelter of the lonely woods, they slackened their pace and talked softly together.
“Oh, if I were only free of this hated marriage!” cried Violet; and added: “Miss Lavarre, you told me Harold Castello deceived you by a mock marriage. Are you sure it was not legal?”
“Call me Lena, dear lady; it sounds more friendly; and I am but a little older than yourself, not yet nineteen,” answered the girl.
“Very well, Lena; and you shall call me Violet.”
“But I should not so presume—I on whom the shadow of such deep disgrace is resting,” half sobbed the poor girl in her wretchedness.
“It is not a real disgrace, for you were pure and innocent at heart, dreaming not of sin, when that villain deceived you; therefore you are not really to blame, and I can take your hand and call you friend, and love you,” answered Violet from the depths of her grateful heart, and she slipped her arm around Lena’s waist and nestled closer to her side.
Her tenderness went straight to Lena’s heart and soothed some of its sore and aching chords. Stifling back a sob, she exclaimed:
“You are like an angel to me, Violet, and I will always love you. But now let us go back to your question, dear.”
“I asked if you were sure that your marriage was illegal?” reminded Violet.
“It seemed very solemn to me, Violet, and the man looked just like a preacher; but Harold Castello swore to me two weeks afterward that it was his valet in disguise, and that he had performed the same ceremony for him several times before with silly, trusting girls like myself. Oh, Violet dear, I was mad with shame and despair, for I had worshiped my handsome husband, and he seemed to adore me. And, indeed, I was called a beautiful girl, with my dark-brown eyes, rosy cheeks, and golden hair. But he must have wearied of my devotion, for he soon threw me over.”