“Look to Violet, mamma; she is almost fainting! Yes, that is right—make her lie down on the sofa and listen, for I have that to tell that will almost break her heart!” sobbed Lena.
When Violet was listening quietly on the sofa, her burning gaze devouring Lena’s tear-wet face, the speaker continued, hoarsely:
“Where did I see him, mamma? What does that matter? But I will tell you. As I was crossing Ninth street, I met a little funeral cortege on its way to the grave, with some poor soul doubtless happily released from the miseries of its earth-life. ‘Who was it?’ you ask! How do I know? I did not ask, I did not care; I only wished that your unhappy daughter lay in that black hearse with its funeral plumes nodding over her deep repose! But, Jacques? Yes, I saw him in one of the carriages, his evil face leering out at me! I stood dumb with surprise one moment, then I made a desperate gesture that I wished to speak to him. The carriage stopped for him to speak to me. He sprang out and came to my side.
“‘Miss Lavarre, is it you, or your ghost? I thought you died months ago, of brain fever, in Chicago. Really, this is a strange renconter at this time,’ he smirked.
“I could have killed the villain, I hated him so bitterly; but I schooled myself to calmness, and said, hastily:
“‘No, I did not die, although I wish that I had! But, Jacques Brown, as you value the salvation of your soul hereafter, tell me the truth! Was I legally Harold Castello’s wife, or—did you play the parson as he swore to me in Chicago, and help to deceive me into a mock marriage that wrecked my life.’
“The valet gazed into my tortured face almost pityingly for a moment, then answered, frankly:
“‘It’s no use for me to deny it to you, Miss Lavarre. Mr. Castello made me play the priest in your case, as he did in two more besides your own, only a few months before. He was a hardened roue, my master, and that’s the truth. But he paid me well for helping him in his wicked pleasures. Perhaps you know that he was married, though, fast and tight, only a week ago, to a beautiful young girl, Miss Violet Mead, who ran away from him the same night?’”
“‘You swear that Violet Mead alone is the legal wife of Harold Castello?’ I asked him, so solemnly that he grew pale and raised his hand to heaven, exclaiming:
“‘I swear before God that Miss Mead was his legal wife. All the others were deceived, like you, Miss Lavarre. But, excuse me; I am delaying the procession,’ and with a grim smile, he bowed to me, sprang back into the carriage, and it fell into line behind the funeral cortege that wound slowly along its solemn way, while I returned home with my cruel news for Violet.”