“IT WAS BUT A DREAM.”
Farewell, sweet Rosebud of the isles,
Yet one farewell to thee;
Brief was the blessing of thy smiles,
Like all of bliss for me!--FITZADAM.
The sun was five hours high when Vivian awakened from her restless
slumber. Her maid appeared directly with a tray containing a dainty
breakfast, but when she saw a tiny envelope tucked under the edge of
her plate she could not swallow one mouthful. She dismissed the girl,
and hastily opened the note.
It was in a beautiful chirography, clear, strong, and flowing, and
boyishly but earnestly worded:
“DEAR VIVA--I ask your pardon a million times for my abominable
awkwardness of last night by which you suffered so painful an
accident, and your forgiveness as well for what seemed rudeness in
declining to take wine with you. I hoped to justify myself in your
eyes, but your angry words afterward left no hope of being permitted
to do so. Still I cannot go away without leaving this note to say
to you, Viva, dear little Viva, that I would have died for you had
you bade me, but I dared not risk possible dishonor to the name I
hoped you would one day bear. I meant to ask you--forgive me--I see
how presumptuous that sounds now in the light of your last words of
hatred. It was but a dream, and it is over! MAX.”
Gone! She is sitting at the window now, and for a moment her face
drops in her hands, a red mist seems to float before her eyes, her
heart gives a painful throb, and is silent; the world stands still. It
is but a moment, then the clogged machinery of life goes whirring on
faster than before. The great black word seems painted all over the
fair face of nature, and a bird on the bough near her window has heard
her whisper it to herself and now flies away, singing it over and over
again to his merry mates in the green-wood tree: “Gone! gone! gone!”
A tap at the door makes her crumple the tell-tale note in her hand. She
pretends to smile when Charlton enters, looking lazy, bored, and sleepy.
“Well, lady-bird, and how is the little foot to-day?” he asks, and pats
the pale cheek as he draws a chair to the window.
“Better,” she calmly responds. “And how is Charlton?”
“Head aches wretchedly, sis. You see Essex and I got gloriously muddled
last night after you went up stairs. Nothing like champagne over night
to give one a headache next morning.
“That explains my headache this morning. I, too, drank champagne.”
“Apropos of Champagne, Viva weren’t you too hard on Max last night?
His rule against drinking is as immutable as the laws of the Medes and
Persians. Gay, good-natured fellow as he is, all the boys in college
know and respect his peculiarity, and the wildest one of us all would
not dare do what you did last night. Was it only to show your power,
Viva?”
She does not reply, only turns her face to the window and shields it
from his gaze with one fair little hand. Charlton looks away in kind
respect for her emotion, but presently resumes:
“He has gone this morning--cut his visit short off at the start. Father
and I were awfully sorry, you know, but we could not smooth over the
affair. You are a young lady now, and we could not bring forward the
plea of childishness to shield you. It is fearfully dull without Max,
though! I had rather it were Essex gone. He is moping about, smoking
himself to death. Can you come down and lie in the hammock if I carry
you?”
“Certainly,” she answers, with a smothered sigh. She longs to tell
him about the taunt that kindled her vanity last night, but maidenly
honor and pride forbid. So she keeps silence, and he takes the little
white-robed form in his arms and carries her easily down to the hammock
that is swung low on the broad piazza of the country mansion. Earle
Essex throws away his cigar and comes radiantly to greet the little
beauty, but she soon wearies of his flatteries and begins to devise
plans for getting rid of the bore of talking to him.
“It is just the hour for Tennyson’s ‘Lotus Eaters.’ Get the book and
read to me,” she commands.
He is only too happy to obey, since he has a good voice, clear and
well-trained, capable of the most tender inflections.
He takes a seat close to the lady of his heart, so as to catch every
expression of her face, opens the book and begins.
The smooth, languid sweep of rhythm flows on melodiously, and now
and then he looks up, hoping to catch a glance from the bright dark
eyes. She half reclines, resting her dark head on one round white arm,
from which the lace-trimmed sleeve has fallen back. The red lips are
slightly parted, the dark, curly lashes sweep the rounded cheek, her
breath comes soft and low. She seems enraptured with the reading, and
he tries to feel contented, although she is so silent, not answering
any of the comments he interperses between the Tennysonian rhymes.
But how softly the breath flutters over the parted lips--how the lashes
droop upon the cheek. He bends nearer, nearer, and to his chagrin finds
that beautiful Viva, lulled by the music of his voice and her own
weariness, has fallen sweetly asleep in the hammock, and is utterly
oblivious of his presence.