VIOLA’S WATERLOO.
“When I loved you, I can’t but allow
I had many an exquisite minute;
But the scorn that I feel for you now,
Has even more luxury in it.
“Thus, whether we’re on or we’re off,
Some witchery seems to await you;
To love you were pleasant enough,
But, oh, ’tis delicious to hate you!”
Viola’s beautiful eyes, black now with excitement, turned wildly on her
lover’s face, and she staggered toward him with outstretched hands,
faltering piteously:
“Dear Philip, I--I am ill!”
Silently he took the offered hands and led her to a large easy-chair.
Then allowing the cold little fingers to drop from his chilly hold, he
stepped back a pace and stood with his arms folded across his breast,
regarding her with a pale, stern face, whose expression was more
eloquent than words.
No need for her to wonder if he had heard her interview with Florian
Gay.
His cold avoidance, his reproachful face, spoke volumes.
“Philip!” she wailed, despairingly, then buried her shamed face in her
jeweled hands.
Then he spoke, in a cold, hard voice she scarcely recognized:
“I heard everything, Viola. When the servant admitted me he said you
already had a caller. So I went into the little morning sitting-room to
wait till he went away, not dreaming it was my friend Florian. I heard
your voices--they were raised in excitement so that I could not avoid
it. Every word sank like lead on my heart!”
Hot tears sprang to her eyes and streamed through her fingers as she
wondered what mercy she was to expect from her proud, high-minded lover
who considered flirting a deadly sin.
He was very angry, she knew from his face and his attitude. She would
have to be very humble and repentant to win his forgiveness.
She stole a glance at his face through her fingers, and saw that he was
waiting for her to speak.
She could think of only one word, and it came pleadingly, imploringly:
“Forgive!”
Then her lashes fell, and she waited in humble silence, hearing in the
stillness her own muffled heart-beats.
Pale, stern, handsome Philip Desha stood looking at the girl like her
avenging Nemesis.
He spoke, and she started at the hollow tone of his voice.
“Viola, how can you expect forgiveness for your cruelty?”
She murmured, faintly:
“I did not intend to be cruel, but my heart wandered from him to you!
Oh, Philip, can that be a crime in your eyes?”
“Not that, Viola, but your deceit. When I asked you to marry me, why
did you not confess your previous engagement, and tell me you would ask
Florian to release you? That would have been the honest way, and my
love could have forgiven that much, but this treachery _never_!”
“Philip!” incredulously, holding out her beautiful arms imploringly,
her streaming eyes upturned in prayerful entreaty.
But her love, her penitence, and her beauty did not move the honest
heart of her outraged lover to forgiveness.
He said, icily:
“Do not humble yourself to plead to me, Viola. My heart seems frozen
within me--frozen by the discovery of your unworthiness.”
She began to be vaguely frightened at his harshness. How dare he scold
her now, he who was to be her husband tomorrow!
A flash of pride shone through her tears, and she exclaimed, rashly:
“I will not let you scold me, Philip. Whatever I did, it was for your
sake--because I loved you!”
He answered, scathingly:
“Was it for my sake, then, you drove young George Merrington to
suicide?”
“Merciful Heaven! how came you by that knowledge, Philip?” she groaned.
“No matter how, Viola, so that you do not deny it. For a week that
knowledge has lain heavy as a stone on my heart. I have asked myself
how I could wed a woman with so cruel a nature that she drove men mad
just to gratify her insatiate vanity. You must know that my ideal
of true womanhood is based on angelic sweetness, tenderness, and
compassion, and the knowledge of your faults was a shock I could barely
endure. But our wedding-day was near, and my love for you triumphed
over my reason. I made all possible excuses for you, and let things
drift on until tonight.”
Viola bowed her head without a word, since he had told her that
pleading was useless. She could only listen in terrified silence,
wondering whither his words were tending.
He paused a moment, cleared his throat nervously, and proceeded:
“The cruelty of the treatment accorded Florian Gay transcends your
coquetry with young Merrington. I can find no fitting words to describe
your conduct. Besides, you have just said you would not permit me
to scold you. So it only remains for me to say that I fear a girl
who flirts so shamelessly before marriage could not refrain from it
afterwards. I could not trust and respect her as my wife.”
No answer from Viola, crouching speechless in her chair, and he
continued, sadly but firmly:
“These are bitter words, and I regret the bitter occasion for them,
but--Miss Van Lew, I can never be your husband!”
The listening statue started into indignant, palpitating life.
“Oh, Heaven! you would break faith with me now, at the last
hour--expose me to open shame! A jilted bride!”
“Forbid the thought,” he answered, quickly. “On my head fall all
the obloquy. You can tell the world that we quarreled bitterly
this evening, and that you refused to marry me. That will clear up
everything. No one,” bitterly, “will discredit this new proof of Miss
Van Lew’s fickleness and heartlessness and love of sensation.”
He waited a moment for the silent, statue-like figure to speak, but
from the tense white lips came not a word, either of blame or of
entreaty, so with a slight, cold bow, Philip Desha passed from her
presence out into the cold March night, as Florian Gay had done but a
little while before, his heart as crushed and heavy as Florian’s own,
but true to his high ideals of noble womanhood.
* * * * *
Viola did not move from her chair for fifteen minutes. She sat still as
a statue, the only sign of life in her gleaming, dark eyes, where pride
and despair alternately struggled for expression.
It was the bitterest and most tragic hour her brilliant life had ever
known.
She had lost the prize she had risked so much to win--lost the love
that was more to her than Heaven.
He despised her now, had thrown her aside in scorn.
Tomorrow the whole world would find it out, and mock at her misery,
pointing the gibing finger of scorn at the young bride jilted at the
altar.
She rose at last, muttering four baleful words:
“How I hate him!”
Crossing to a desk, she caught up a pen and dashed off nervously a few
incoherent words:
“DEAR FLORIAN,--He--the man I was to marry--was in the next room, and
heard all our conversation tonight. We quarreled bitterly, and--our
engagement is broken off. There will be no wedding to-morrow, unless
you will forgive me and take his place. Will you, Florian, to save me
the notoriety of a broken-off marriage? Besides I hate him now--and it
will be easy to teach me to love you again as I used to do.
“Will you come at once and see me, dear Florian, or send a message by
bearer?
“Your repentant
VIOLA.”
Having dispatched the message by a safe bearer, she hastened to
her room to remove as well as possible all traces of her terrible
agitation. Florian should not know the real truth of the broken
engagement.
She would make him think that the sight of him had reawakened all the
old love in her heart.
Oh, yes, she would punish false, cruel Philip in the bitterest fashion!
Pride enthroned itself in her heart.
The messenger returned swiftly, but Florian did not come. He had sent a
note, that she tore open with eager fingers:
“MISS VAN LEW,--I decline with contempt the offer to fill a truant
bridegroom’s place to-morrow. I have no doubt he has deserted you
in disgust at learning your treachery to me, and I rejoice at your
misfortune!
“FLORIAN GAY.”