She sobbed hysterically again, but Violet lay still and white, the heavy lids shut tight over the dark-blue eyes—not unconscious, but still as death in her terrible despair.
The last hope was cut from beneath her feet. She belonged by law to the man she loathed and feared. At any moment he might ferret out her hiding-place and claim her as his own. His power was paramount, and no one could disclaim his right to take her away with him. What though she knew that he was one of the vilest criminals—what though she had seen him commit a foul murder—the law would not permit her to testify against her husband! She was his wife, she was powerless, almost friendless, a helpless fugitive hiding from her master!
The three unhappy women sank into hopeless silence, and Mrs. Lavarre sat down and mechanically unfolded the silk waist Lena had just brought in from the dressmaker’s. The package was wrapped in a newspaper of the day previous, and her sad eyes wandered carelessly over the advertising pages that lay open to her gaze.
Suddenly she gave an almost frightened start, and her passively sad countenance grew animated.
“Miss Mead!” she cried out, eagerly, and Violet opened her heavy eyes with a vacant gaze.
The newspaper was rustling nervously in the widow’s shaking hands, and she said, quickly:
“This must be intended for you, my dear girl.”
“What is it?” Violet asked, languidly, and Lena dashed the tears from her eyes, and gazed curiously at her mother.
“It is this paper that you brought around my silk waist, Lena,” explained Mrs. Lavarre. “I was just sitting here musing, with my eyes downcast, when they alighted on the personal column, and I read these words:
“Violet:—Will you please communicate at once with your anxious grandfather?”