“That wicked old man forgot he was a gentleman, in the blind heat of his passion at your disobedience, and struck your face with his open hand. You reeled and fell, striking your head on the marble hearth. Then you were unconscious for hours, and since then very ill, sometimes raving, sometimes quiet, but never conscious until now.”
“And grandpapa, poor old man—was he sorry, Amber?”
“He has never relented for a moment, never expressed any repentance. He has ordered your trousseau from New York; and, if you live, you will be married in three weeks.”
“To that mysterious man he has chosen for me, Amber?”
“Yes; but do not excite yourself, Violet. It will make you worse again. Perhaps I ought not to tell you anything more.”
She saw the wild pulsations of Violet’s heart heaving the folds of her white gown, and knew that she had told too much already.
“But, Amber, one—word—more!” and the articulation was faint, because her heart beat so fast and chokingly. “Oh, Amber, what of—Cecil?”
“He went away to-day.”
“Knowing that—I—was ill?”
“Why not, you silly child? He had lost you forever. Grandpapa vowed he would disinherit you if you married him, so Cecil thought it best to break with his dream forever. He knew you could not bear poverty.”