“Whom first we love, you know, we seldom wed.”
The portrait of Rolfe Maxwell was finished, and awaited Viola’s return.
It hung upon Florian’s studio wall--a magnificent likeness of the
handsome, dark-eyed original that would delight Viola’s tender heart.
Florian himself had written to tell her how well he had succeeded in
his undertaking, and how anxious he was to hear her verdict of well
done.
The young widow had written promptly, expressing her fervent gratitude,
and gracefully offering the most liberal compensation.
Florian had quite as gracefully disclaimed the intention of receiving
any reward for his work, save the longed for guerdon of her forgiveness
for the madness of an hour that he would willingly lay down his life to
recall. Could Viola find this forgiveness in her heart?
In reply came the most charming letter. Was it possible her dear friend
could think she harbored malice for that fatal night?
No, no; she had deserved it all, and more, and accepted her punishment
in all humility. He and Philip Desha had both taught her a lesson for
which she was profoundly grateful. She was a changed girl now, and had
firmly resolved never to flirt again. She hoped Florian would forget
the past, just as she was trying to do.
When Florian replied, thanking her ardently for her forgiveness, and
vaguely hinting at a continuance of the correspondence, she did not
answer, and it carried a bitter pang to his heart; but he determined
to bide his time in patience. No doubt she wished to spend the year of
widowhood in proper seclusion.
But that was months and months ago, and Viola still lingered abroad,
although Christmas had come and gone, and it was 1897 now, so that in
a very short time she would have been widowed a year. Of course Desha
would be making up to her again then, and Florian determined to get
ahead of him if possible.
He was tempted to take a little run over to Europe and try his fate
again, but when he hinted of such a possible trip to his mother, she
opposed it so strenuously, alleging her weak health and loneliness,
that he gave up the idea, and wrote instead to Viola, pouring out all
his hopes and fears, and again laying heart and hand at her feet.
He waited most impatiently for the answer, and in those days of
suspense stood often before her completed portrait as it stood on the
easel brightening the room with its arch beauty, while close beside it
hung the fancy head he had made of Mae Sweetland, a Cupid emerging from
light-tinted clouds such as suited her fairy-like beauty. It was a fine
likeness and a lovely piece of work, and Florian took much pride in it,
often saying to himself:
“Jove! what a little angel! If I had not met Viola first, I should
certainly have been a captive to Mae’s bow and spear.”
He would not admit even to himself that it was perhaps a feeling of
loyalty to Viola that had made him avoid Mae after the portrait was
finished, afraid of a sudden indefinable attraction that she had begun
to exercise over him, lest his thoughts should stray from her who had
the first claim on them.
He had not seen Mae for some time, but he knew she was back in the city
this winter, because he had met Mrs. Graham accidentally on the street
one day, and on asking eagerly after the young girl, had been told that
she was staying at a boarding-house near the Capitol, till her aunt
should return from abroad.
He had asked for her address, and said he would call on her very soon;
and Mrs. Graham duly reported it to Mae, who watched eagerly, day by
day, until she gave up in despair, for he never came.
“He does not care,” she thought to herself, wondering if he was not
something of a flirt; for he had certainly seemed to take a flattering
interest in her during the painting of the portraits. “I am almost
sorry I gave him those sittings now. He is very ungrateful not even
to call once. But I shall not fret, though he is very handsome; for I
gave my heart unasked once, and I never shall again,” she resolved,
valiantly fighting down her heart pangs.
She was very lovely and winning, and in the select boarding-house
where she was staying with a very distant relative, she found many
admirers who gave her little time to bewail the indifference of one
cold cavalier; for her invitations were many, and she received enough
attentions to turn her golden head, if she had not been quite a
self-poised little creature whose one disappointment in love had been
sufficient to check any budding vanity.
But one evening in January when she was sitting quietly in her room,
with an interesting new novel, a card was brought her that sent a
sudden, warm, sea-shell glow flushing into her fair cheeks, for it bore
the name of Florian Gay.
“At last!” she thought, in a flutter of mingled delight and pique, and
hastened to make herself as irresistible as she could by the aid of
dress before descending to her relative’s private parlor, where she
found Florian eagerly awaiting her, and looking marvelously handsome in
his dark, cavalier style.
“Are you surprised?” he queried, pressing the tiny hand a trifle more
warmly than was necessary, so that she blushingly drew it away.
“I was certainly not expecting you,” she replied; and his quick ear
caught the tone of irrepressible pique in her voice.
“I knew you were in the city, and I have been dying to call on you; but
you would never guess in a hundred years the strange reason that has
kept me away,” cried Florian, eagerly.
“No,” she replied, curiously; and he hastened to explain:
“I did not come because I was afraid of falling in love with you.”
Mae started with surprise and confusion, the long lashes drooping to
her crimson cheeks, while Florian continued:
“I was afraid of falling in love with you, because I found you almost
irresistible, and I thought myself in honor bound to another whom I had
loved before I ever met you. But now I am free from that fancied bond,
and perhaps I ought to tell you all about it before I risk my fate with
you. Do you care to listen, little one?” tenderly.
“Yes; oh, yes,” she smiled encouragingly, her young heart throbbing
wildly with a strange, new joy.
Thereupon Florian valiantly rehearsed for her benefit the story of his
eventful love affair with Viola, taking due blame to himself for his
hasty revenge that had recoiled so heavily on his own heart.
“When I came to my senses and longed to make reparation for my folly,
she had recklessly bound herself to another,” he said. “But when death
so soon snapped that bond, I resolved to try my fate again, holding
myself loyally bound to her if she cared to take me. I still loved
her madly until--those days when you gave me the sittings for your
portrait, when I found my allegiance wavering under the spell of your
charms, until I saw that to be true to Viola I must avoid you. I did so
until her year of widowhood was so nearly ended that I thought I might
propose without giving offense. This was several weeks ago, and a while
ago I received her answer--a very kind rejection.”
“Oh!” cried Mae.
“A rejection,” repeated Florian, frankly; and added: “But it did not
hurt me so badly as might have been expected, because you had divided
my thoughts with her so long that on reading her letter my heart
quickly rebounded from the blow and turned with a new, sweet hope to
you.”
What a strange wooing this was, thought Mae, who did not relish taking
the half of a heart only; and she cried in pique:
“If she had wanted you I should never have been given another thought!”
“It would have been wrong to think of you then, but now I can think of
nothing else!” cried Florian, frankly, and his handsome face took on
a very pleading look as he added: “Oh, Mae, are you going to be cruel
to me because I was frank and honest with you, fearing you might hear
my story from some others? It is best to own that I loved Viola dearly
once, but now my heart is all your own, and will never stray again if
you will accept its devotion, believing that it is possible to give
love twice.”
Mae did not answer, for a swift pain cleft her heart, and a red flush
burned her face as her lover added:
“Young, romantic girls like you may imagine that it is not possible to
love twice, but indeed it is not true. If you will let me teach you the
sweet lesson of love, you shall be adored as devotedly as ever Viola
was.”
“Hush!” she murmured, faintly; and the tears flashed into her soft blue
eyes. She was thinking, sweet Mae, of her own broken love-dream.
“Whom first we love, you know, we seldom wed.”
She dashed away the tears, and murmured, softly:
“I am not blaming you, for--for I know you speak truly. I will be as
frank as you. I, too, have loved--but he is dead.”
She bent her face in her hands, and the tears fell through her fingers,
thinking of her brief, broken love-dream so pitifully ended.
Yes, it was all over now. She was not sore and angry over it any
longer, realizing, as Florian had said, that it was possible to love
twice.
He was startled and surprised, scarcely dreaming that so young a girl
had already loved, but he did not ask her any questions, simply drew
away the little hands from her face and kissed the wet fingertips,
saying gently:
“Can we not fold down these sad pages in our hearts, dear Mae, and
begin again with a new love and a new hope for the future? I will be as
patient as you wish me, waiting for your answer as long as you desire,
so that you give me a spark of hope now.”
And looking in her tender eyes, he read that he need not wait an hour,
for his devotion had touched the smoldering spark of love into flame.
He kissed her tenderly, and whispered:
“God bless you, darling! I will try to make you the happiest woman in
the world. And as for Viola, I suppose she is in love with Desha still,
and he will get her in the end. I will hunt him up tomorrow and renew
our old friendship, telling him that I am engaged to the sweetest girl
on earth, and no longer his rival and enemy.”
And thus ended successfully the little plot of Viola to console Florian
and Mae for their former disappointments by making them fall in love
with each other.