IN HER TOILS AGAIN.
Who was so happy as Viola when she received Florian’s frank letter
explaining everything in his inimitable manner, and asking her
congratulations on his engagement to Mae.
The thought that her old lover was happy at last lightened the weight
of remorse on her mind, and made her smile with joy as she thought:
“I hope to hear just such good news some time of George Merrington and
the others. Perhaps even Philip Desha may find consolation.”
She and Mother Maxwell exchanged congratulations, for Mae had written
her aunt by the same post, telling of her happiness.
“Florian is a splendid match for sweet Mae--young, rich, talented, and
good. She will be very happy, I am sure,” cried Viola; adding: “He says
he wants to be married in May, so I think, mother dear, that I shall
slip over to Paris, select a handsome _trousseau_ as my wedding-gift
to our dear girl, and then we will turn our faces homeward, so as to
assist at the wedding.”
So, when the snow-drops and crocus began to star the greensward in
early March, Viola came home again to her father and aunt, who had
fretted sorely over her absence, though they had not complained,
because, as Aunt Edwina naively said, they hoped she was “getting over
things.”
Whether she had “got over things” or not, Viola did not say. She was
even more beautiful, if that were possible, than before she went
abroad; but it was not the arch beauty of the girl Viola, but the
chastened loveliness of the woman who has suffered, and gained depth
of feeling and nobility by her experience. In her great, luminous gray
eyes lurked a haunting sadness, and her smile had a pensive expression
unknown to it before.
“Since I met thee last,
O’er thy brow a change hath passed;
In the softness of thine eyes,
Deep and still a shadow lies;
From thy voice there thrills a tone
Never to thy childhood known;
Through thy soul a storm has moved--
Gentle mourner, thou hast loved.”
Her first visit was made to the portrait still waiting for her at the
studio.
“You will leave me alone with it, please, Florian,” she said, with a
quivering lip; and he retired with Mae to the alcove, where in sweet
lovers’ talk they took no note of the time that flew while Viola
remained motionless before the portrait, gazing with humid eyes at the
likeness so faithfully transferred to canvas thinking:
“Oh, that those lips had language! Life has passed
With me but roughly since I heard them last.
Those lips are thine; thine own sweet smile I see,
The same that erst didst gently comfort me.
Voice only fails, else how distinct they say:
‘Grieve not, my love, chase all thy fears away!’”
When she turned away at last, and sought Florian with outstretched
hand, she faltered:
“It is perfect. I can find no words strong enough for my gratitude.”
“It is enough that I have pleased you,” the artist answered, gladly;
and then she and Mae took leave, promising to bring Mrs. Maxwell to the
studio tomorrow, after which the portrait would be removed to her own
home.
Florian was deeply puzzled over Viola’s emotion, thinking:
“It looks somehow as if she really loved the fellow after all; but I
do not understand it, for she certainly married him out of pure pique
after being jilted by Desha, whom she claimed to love so dearly. Well,
these women, they are past finding out.”
Viola accompanied Mae to the cottage, and they spent several hours
unpacking the boxes of beautiful things she had brought for the
_trousseau_.
Mae was wild with delight and gratitude. She sobbed on Viola’s neck:
“I do not deserve your goodness. There were weeks when I hated you and
almost wished you dead.”
“That is all past now, dear. Let us forget it,” Viola answered, with a
smothered sigh, as she held up a pattern of pale-blue brocade against
Mae’s face, adding, admiringly: “This silver hue is very becoming to
your complexion, Mae.”
She had sighed at thought of her own exquisite _trousseau_ lying
unworn, even to the bridal gown, in her trunks at home. What happy
hours she had spent over the costly robes fated never to be worn, she
thought, stifling the unbidden sigh that heaved her breast.
When she went home she found that several friends had already called,
and among the cards was that of Philip Desha. She smiled a little
bitterly:
“Perhaps he thinks, like Florian, that he should be loyal to me till I
give him an honorable discharge. Well, that will be easy enough.”
But Desha did not call again for some time. It was Inauguration Week,
and some of his Northern friends were in the city. In showing them the
proper courtesies he found no time for any one else, so that at the
last he met Viola first elsewhere.
It was at a reception, one of the first given by the new President. She
had unwillingly accompanied her father and aunt, lightening her somber
black for the occasion by some bunches of white and purple violets.
They had paid their respects to the new Executive and were getting out
of the crush when he came to her side, and their eyes met.
Viola held out her tiny black-gloved hand.
“I am glad to see you, Professor Desha, and sorry I was not at home
when you called last week.”
It was the graceful _aplomb_ of the woman of the world, mixed with
cordiality that went a little deeper. His heart leaped quickly as he
pressed her hand, and asked, eagerly:
“Then I may take the privilege of coming again?”
“Certainly,” she answered, with the gleam of a gracious smile; and
then the crowd swept them apart, and a few people who had observed the
meeting, with surprise, nudged each other, observing:
“The audacious little flirt! Not out of her mourning yet, and she has
got the foolish fellow into her toils again! Has he neither sense nor
pride?”