“I am quite pleased to be taken into your and Leonard’s confidence at last; though it strikes me as being a little late, when you consider that Leonard is my only son—my only child. Strange, that he should have neglected to mention the matter to me!” she added, thoughtfully. “I can scarcely believe that he is really in earnest. Why, I might never have heard of the matter at all, and might not have suspected any sentimental folly between you two, but for some remarks let fall by one of the neighbors. Then I asked Miss Glyndon some questions in regard to the affair, and although she was very prudent and careful concerning what she said, I could see that she looked upon the matter in the same light that I do. Miss Arleigh, I ask you, do you expect to marry my son?”
The question was abrupt, not to say rude. Violet’s checks flushed, then grew pale as marble; her eyes flashed.
“If I did not expect to become his wife some day, Mrs. Yorke,” she said, firmly, “I would never have promised to marry him.”
“Humph! I suppose not. Well, you may go now; I wish to be alone,” Mrs. Yorke added, curtly. And with flaming cheeks and flashing eyes, Violet left the room and sought her own apartment. At its door she encountered old Betty Harwood.
“So you have seen madame? And I rather guess you didn’t get too much kindness and courtesy!” cried the woman. “I tell you, Miss Arleigh, Mrs. Yorke is half crazy, and, in my opinion, she is a dangerous person to deal with. She thinks that there is no one on earth but her son. If I were you, I would have your engagement publicly announced.”
But without a word, trembling with indignation so that she could not speak, Violet entered her own room and closed and locked its door.
“I will not stay here,” she pouted, angrily, as soon as she was alone. “I have been outraged and insulted upon every side, by my hostess herself and by her servant. How dared Mrs. Yorke speak to me as she did? I am just as good as she. The Arleighs are every bit as good as the Yorkes.”
For a moment Violet’s anger was so intense that she even forgot her love for Leonard Yorke. She felt only indignation at his mother’s insults and the insolence of old Betty. Yet all the time, away down in the depths of her sore little heart, Violet was conscious of a feeling which corroborated the words to which she had just listened. If Leonard Yorke loved her well enough to wish to make her his wife, why did he not openly announce the engagement between them? Why did he not at least tell his own mother, and not leave it for her to find out from strangers, or to put the delicate questions to Violet with which she had just tortured her?
“I will go to Leonard at once,” decided Violet, when the first paroxysm of anger was over and she was a little more calm. “He must explain to me his reasons for this strange secrecy, and set it all right, or our engagement shall be at an end.”
She descended the outer staircase which led from her own room to the grounds, and the first person upon whom her eyes fell was Leonard himself. But he was not alone; Hilda was with him—Hilda, with a pale and eager face uplifted to his own, and a look of pleading in her beautiful dusky eyes.