“Jessie, let me take that up to Mrs. Yorke,” she said in a pleading tone; “and you—you go out into the grounds for a little while. It will do you good to get the fresh air. You are looking very pale.”
Jessie Glyndon’s large gray eyes met the earnest gaze of Violet’s with a swift, half-startled expression in their depths.
“I—looking pale? Why, you must be mistaken, Miss Arleigh. I was never better nor stronger in my life.”
“But that is not the question,” persisted Violet; “and I want you to go out for a walk for a little while. Come with me, Jessie. Let Mrs. Yorke wait for this for once. It will not hurt her to wait, and it is so very early—hardly nightfall yet. Why should she wish to sleep at such an early hour as this? No wonder she is wakeful and nervous later in the night, if she goes to sleep with the birds in this fashion. Here, give me the potion; I will assume all responsibility. Now come with me out into the grounds. Really and truly, I will admit that I have a reason for making the request—not half a bad reason, either; and as it is the very first request I have ever made of you, I am sure you ought to gratify it.”
Violet took the vial from Jessie’s hand, and slipping her arm about the girl’s waist, led her half resisting (though never for an instant suspecting the truth) out through the open door into the pearly, moonlit night.
Violet’s face wore a look of determination that was really unique, and her dark eyes gleamed with delight as she led her captive swiftly down the broad walk in the direction of the magnolia-tree and the dark figure, in its well-fitting suit of brown serge, seated upon the rustic bench.
Jessie drew back with a startled exclamation as the moonlight glinted across his face.
“There is some one there, Miss Arleigh,” she whispered. “See! it is a man.”
“So it is,” cried Violet, innocently; “and as true as I live, Jessie, it is Captain Venners! Why, Captain Venners!”—in a tone of Jesuitical surprise—“when did you arrive?”
Will was shaking hands with Jessie, trying to ignore her very palpable coldness, trying in vain to look into her eyes and read the story hidden there. But, alas! it was Sanscrit to him.