Wishing to deliver Will’s poem at once—for she felt certain that this was more than a mere flirtation—Violet hastened in pursuit of Miss Glyndon. On—on to the conservatory Violet made her way, and at last, just beside the fountain, whose silvery spray fell into a marble basin full of water-lilies, Violet found herself face to face with—Leonard Yorke. Hilda had disappeared. He came swiftly to her side, his face was pale, but he was determined not to betray his emotions.
“What is the matter, Violet?” he asked, gently. “You look troubled. Tell me what it is that is making you unhappy?”
Her great dark eyes were lifted to his face. She forgot everything but that she loved him.
“I am never unhappy when I am with you, Leonard,” she returned, simply; “but I will confess that I am troubled about mamma. I never felt so strangely in my life. Wherever I go I am haunted by the sight of her pale face. Oh, Leonard, if anything should happen to her it would kill me! She is so——”
She stopped short, and the words died away into silence upon her quivering lips.
What was that?
A shriek, an awful shriek, had resounded throughout the house—a wild, heart-rending cry of agony. Violet’s face grew ashen white.
“What has happened?” she moaned. “Oh, Leonard, Leonard, something awful has happened! What is it?”
He turned to the door, then slipped back to Violet’s side and took her in his arms. For the moment all jealous doubts were set at rest—for the moment only—it is hard to kill jealousy.
“Be brave and calm, my darling,” he whispered, gently; “I will stand between you and all harm!”