A COUP D’ÉTAT.
“Poor little girl!” murmured Rolfe Maxwell, very softly; and he could
not help pressing the little hand that lay upon his arm.
The tenderness sank into Viola’s heart, so hungry for pity and sympathy.
She sighed heavily, and walked along by his side in silence a few
minutes, without thinking how strange her position was--walking at this
time of night with Rolfe Maxwell, her father’s employe, and almost a
stranger to herself.
In the distraught state of her mind nothing seemed strange or out of
the way now.
The man’s gentleness and sympathy stole like balm into her aching heart
and melted it, where coldness and blame would have steeled it into
pride and anger.
“Do you really mean,” she murmured in a wistful voice such as no one
had ever heard from her before, “that you really want to be my friend,
that you would help me out of my trouble--for indeed I have a great
trouble--if you could?”
“Yes, I mean it; for I am very sorry for you, Miss Van Lew. I will do
anything in the world to help you, if you will only tell me how,” he
returned, gently and encouragingly, with an earnestness that wooed her
confidence.
Viola was so proud that she wanted to keep her humiliating secret from
the whole world, and would not confide it even to her aunt and father;
but, obeying the magnetic influence of the moment, she opened her whole
passionate heart to this stranger.
She did not spare herself; she did not gloss over anything; she accused
herself as if she had been some one else; and then she waited for his
decision, after saying, piteously:
“Perhaps you will think that I fully deserve my punishment.”
She did not know herself how piteously she awaited his reply, crushed
and humiliated by the experiences of the night, and longing for
something to rehabilitate herself in her own esteem. Her whole heart
seemed to hang tremblingly on his next words.
Would he still proclaim himself her friend when he knew what a wicked
little flirt she had been, and how cruelly she had been punished?
But Rolfe Maxwell had heard of her coquetries long before, and had
always made excuses for her in his heart.
It seemed to him that one so rarely gifted by nature and fortune could
not be entirely to blame. Royally dowered with beauty and fascination,
she commanded love without seeking it; and perhaps, in her youth and
innocence, she did not indeed value the emotion at its true worth.
Had she not confessed to him her dismay at her father’s lecture, and
the changed life she had led afterward, save for her cowardice in
confessing the truth to Florian?
So he replied, warmly:
“Your punishment was greater than the offense warranted. I should say
that Professor Desha and Florian Gay were both lacking in some of the
elements of true manliness, or they never could have served you so ill
a turn. I should say that your father would be perfectly right to call
Desha to account.”
“Oh, no, no, never! Papa must never know how I have been treated. But I
am so glad you take my part, that you think they were to blame!” cried
poor Viola, gratefully.
“Yes, I take your part. You have been shamefully treated; but I should
say that in my opinion you are well rid of both of the poltroons. Such
love as theirs was not worth having,” the young man cried, indignantly;
adding: “But I have said I would be your friend. Trust me now, and tell
me what I can do to help you. Perhaps if I should go and reason the
case with Philip Desha, he might stoop from his haughty pedestal and
return to his allegiance.”
“Do you think I would permit you? Never!” her form trembling with
indignation.
“Perhaps, then, you would not mind my speaking to Florian Gay?”
“Sue to those monsters? Never! As for Florian, I did not want him
anyway. It was only--only--to save myself from tomorrow’s sensation,
and to punish Desha,” she half-sobbed, growing hysterical in the
realization of the impending morrow. “Oh, why did I not die?” she
moaned, wildly.
“My dear young lady, would you sacrifice yourself for such ignoble
wretches?” he remonstrated, gravely.
“I have told you I can not face tomorrow!” she groaned.
“You shall!” He caught his breath quickly. “I have a plan--rather a
desperate one--to help you out of your difficulty, if you can consider
it.”
“Oh!” she cried, her heart bounding out of the gulf of black despair up
into the light of hope.
“It is only a suggestion, mind. You are not obliged to take my advice.
Suppose you married some other man tonight, and get a paragraph into
the morning papers making it appear you eloped with a favored suitor
and left Desha in the lurch.”
“Oh!” she cried, impulsively again; and he continued:
“There would be no one to contradict this story, because Desha and Gay
would surely be ashamed to confess their dastardly share in driving you
to desperation. Thus your pride would be saved, and no one the wiser,
your reputation for coquetry making it easy for the public to accept
the story.”
Viola’s laugh rang out hysterically.
“Capital! How clever you are, Mr. Maxwell!”
“Then you like the idea of my little _coup d’état_?”
“Immensely!” she cried, recklessly. “But a man will be necessary to our
success. Where shall we find him?”
Was it a daring challenge that rang in her voice?
His heart leaped wildly against her arm, and then he asked, in a thick,
agitated voice:
“How would young George Merrington suit you, Miss Van Lew?”
“Why, he is only a lovesick boy! Besides, I could not go and ask him
to marry me! I have been refused by two men already tonight, and am
discouraged with my luck!” Viola answered, petulantly.
There was silence between them for a few minutes; then he murmured, low
and hesitatingly:
“There are others, Miss Van Lew.”
“You mean--” she said, catching her breath with a sort of gasp of
surprise; and he answered, passionately:
“My heart is at your feet!”