THE BRIDAL-EVE.
“It is the last token of love and of thee,
Thy once faith is broken, thou false one to me!
I think on the letters with which I must part--
Too dear are the fetters that wind round my heart.
“I deemed that I knew thee as none ever knew,
That ’twas mine to subdue thee and thine to be true,
Thy mask to the many was worn not to me,
I loved thee--can any seem like unto thee?
“I worshiped in terror a comet above--
Ah, fatal the error, ah, fatal the love!
For thy sake life never can charm me again,
Its beauty forever is vanished and vain!
“What slight words will sting us that breathe of the past,
And slight things will bring us thoughts fated to last;
The fond hopes that centered in thee are all dead,
But the iron has entered the soul where they fed.
“Like others in seeming, I must walk through life’s part,
Cold, careless, and dreaming--with death in the heart,
No hope, no forgiveness--the spring of life o’er,
All died with that sentence--I love thee no more!”
Viola having made the acquaintance of Rolfe Maxwell thus accidentally,
saw him several times afterward, twice when she tripped into the
library for a book she wanted, begging in sweetest accents that he
would not mind her coming, and several times when they simply passed
each other in the hall with polite bows of recognition, undreaming
yet of the part each was fated to play in the other’s life. He knew
that she was going to be married directly, and that the house was in
confusion with the preparations, and he worked as hard as he could to
get through with his task, coming back in the evenings and writing
sometimes till almost midnight.
So the days slipped quickly by till it was Viola’s wedding-eve.
Tomorrow at high noon she was to be married from a fashionable church,
attended by some of the prettiest girls in her set as maids of honor.
They were more than anxious to perform this service for Viola in their
eagerness to see the irresistible young beauty safely married off out
of their way.
Everything was in readiness; the bridal-gown--a dream of snow-white
beauty, brocaded satin, with priceless point-lace veil--was perfect;
the bridal-pearls--her father’s gift--exquisite. Her trunks were packed
with beautiful robes, the envy of all her feminine friends.
She sat alone that evening, waiting for Philip, who had promised to
make a short call, even though it was the bridal-eve, and Aunt Edwina
had hinted that Viola ought to have a long beauty sleep.
Against the background of her dark-blue silk, with its creamy laces,
her fair face shone like a delicate flower, smiles on her lips and joy
in her eyes.
She said to herself that she was the happiest girl in the wide world.
She knew she did not quite deserve it, because she had certainly
brought some unhappiness into others’ lives through her willful
coquetries; but that was all past and done with now, and she was going
to be a better girl.
She did not remember what one of the great masters of literature has
written:
“Consequences are unpitying.”
As her wedding-day came so near, with its attendant hurry and
excitement, she forgot the forebodings of evil that had tortured her
a few weeks ago. Every unpleasant thought had taken wing. She forgot
Florian and remembered only Philip.
Glancing around the luxurious room that seemed so lonely without him,
she tapped her dainty foot impatiently, murmuring:
“I wish he would come!”
As if in answer to her aspiration, she heard a ring at the front door,
and some one being ushered into the hall.
With a muffled heart-beat of joy, Viola sprang to her feet, waiting
with shining eyes and parted, smiling lips for the entrance of her
lover.
The heavy curtains at the door were thrust aside by an eager white
hand, and he stepped quickly over the threshold toward the eager,
waiting girl, catching her to his heart, pressing passionate lips to
hers, then holding her off to gaze fondly into her glorious eyes while
he murmured, thrillingly:
“My love--my love!”
From the girl’s white lips came a stifled moan of pain as if he had
thrust a dagger into her heart.
For the voice was not Philip Desha’s, and instead of his calm, tender
blue eyes she met the dark, sparkling gaze of Florian Gay.
* * * * *
She could never explain to herself afterward why she did not faint on
the spot, for all her strength seemed to fail her, and her face grew
as white as the face of a corpse. It must have been the horrible fear
of Philip coming at any moment and surprising her in the midst of a
terrible interview with her jilted lover. It flashed over her mind that
she must get him away as soon as possible.
Florian Gay cried out in tender alarm:
“Viola, my darling, how you tremble, and how pale your sweet face
has grown! I did not mean to shock you so; I only meant to give you
a pleasant surprise. Sit here on the sofa, darling, and you will be
better in a moment,” seating himself by her side, and gazing at her
with fond eyes before whose glance she shrank in infinite misery.
“When--when--did you come?” she faltered, in a dying voice.
“I only reached Washington an hour ago. Father died at Carlsbad, and
mother and I brought him home at once for burial. The funeral will be
at noon to-morrow.”
Viola shuddered at his words. At noon to-morrow she was to be married!
What a strange coincidence! How was she going to tell him the awful
truth?
Despair made her reckless, desperate, cruel.
There was no time to break it gently, for at any moment Philip might
arrive--Philip, his successful rival.
She caught her breath with a great strangling gasp of fear, and pushed
him back with frantic, white hands as he leaned forward to offer a
caress.
“Do not touch me--do not touch me! I--I--love--you no longer, Florian!”
she cried out wildly.
“Viola!”
“It is true,” she went on cruelly. “You stayed away so long that my
fancy for you died. I do not think it ever was real love, for--for--my
heart soon turned to another--and--and--you must go away now, Florian,
and there is no use getting angry and reproaching me--it is too late
to do anything but forgive me and wish me joy! My wedding-cards are
out--and--I am to be married at noon tomorrow!”
Was ever such cruel truth blurted out so rudely to a fond, trusting
lover?
Florian Gay sat listening in an awful, incredulous silence like one
stiffened into stone, his dark, gleaming eyes fixed on her pallid face
with its strange expression, half fear, half defiance.
She waited a minute for him to speak, then added imploringly:
“Please go away now, Florian--please, please! I am very, very sorry to
have caused you pain; but it can not be helped now, and I hope you will
soon get over it. Oh, Florian, there is no use staying to reproach me!
Oh, go, go, go!--only go!”
Desperate with anxiety, she pointed to the door, and the wronged lover
slowly rose, his burning eyes still fixed on her fatally lovely face.
“Good-bye!” she cried, in a tone of relief, as she saw that he was
going.
Then he spoke in a strange and hollow voice:
“So you really mean it, Viola? This is not an ill-timed jest?”
“No, oh, no, it is the fatal truth!” she answered, quickly.
“Why did you not write to me, Viola?” his voice sharp with anguish.
“I meant to--but I feared your anger--I thought I would wait till after
my marriage.”
“Cruel heart!” he muttered, darkly, a soul’s despair in the burning,
dark eyes he fixed on her excited face.
“Go!” she answered, eagerly, pointing to the door.
But instead of obeying, he strode forward, clutching her extended wrist
in a grasp of steel.
Bending his dark head, he almost hissed in her ear:
“My rival--his name?”
“I will not tell you! Release my wrist!” defiantly.
“You will gain nothing by your silence. I will find it out, and woe be
the traitor who stole you from me, beautiful, accursed coquette! My
God! how false you are! Promising long ago to marry me, then binding
me to silence that you might be free to ensnare other hearts! Do you
remember the tender, loving words you used to write me before your
fickle heart grew cold? I have them now, those letters warm against
my breast! I will show them to your new conquest before I lay him dead
at my feet!” hissed the outraged lover, giving way to a tempest of
rage and revenge, as he threw her wrist from him so violently that she
almost fell.
Steadying herself against the back of a chair, Viola cried, in terror:
“Oh, you will not dare to do this dastardly thing! You will not expose
the weakness of a thoughtless girl who fancied that she loved you and
found out she was mistaken. Surely that is no crime! Do you think his
heart would turn against me so easily? Ah! no, no, no! Besides, why
should you wish to wound him with this knowledge? He knew nothing of
my engagement to you. He is not to blame for anything, unless you call
his loving me a fault. You shall not betray me,” her eyes flashing
luridly. “If you do I will fight you to the bitter end. I will deny
your accusations!”
“But you can not deny your letters!”
“Oh, Florian, give them to me!” her defiance melting into fear.
The cruel wrong he had suffered at her hands made him merciless.
“You shall never have them! They will help me to revenge, wicked,
false-hearted girl!” he almost hissed, rushing madly from her presence
out into the bleak March night, a man whose heart and hopes had been
blasted in an hour.
Viola sank into a chair, her eyes wild, her face death-white, her heart
beating to suffocation.
Clasping her white jeweled hands prayerfully, she lifted her face,
sobbing despairingly:
“God help and pity me, and save me from the retribution my sins have
brought upon me! Oh, what shall I do--what shall I do? Suppose he meets
Philip on the threshold coming in. He will tell him all, unknowing that
Philip is his successful rival. Oh, may Heaven hinder my dear love from
coming here tonight!”
“Too late! I am here!” answered a deep, stern voice; and Philip Desha
advanced through a door leading from the morning-room.