CHAPTER XXX.
RIVALS STILL.
Philip Desha, dawdling behind the curtain, caught the sound of that musical voice, and his heart leaped violently with blended pain and pleasure as he thrust aside a slight fold and peered out into the studio to assure himself that he was not deceived, not dreaming, but possessed of his sober senses.
Yes, there she stood!
Viola herself—not the rosy, smiling Viola of the portrait, but a woman far more beautiful, now that sorrow and illness had touched her with refining fingers—Viola, pale and slender and wan, with great, somber gray eyes gazing at him out of that exquisite pale face, thrown into strong relief by the blackness of her mourning garments.
She had a companion; but Florian scarcely noticed the beautiful, golden-haired young creature as he gasped in deep agitation:
“Viola!”
“Yes, Florian,” she answered, gently, coming forward to him, and adding: “You see, I forgive you for that night, and bear you no ill-will. Indeed, I have come to ask a favor at your hands.”
“A favor?” he muttered, gazing eagerly at her pale and lovely face, his heart beginning to thump furiously against his side, then sinking with futile regret for that night when his revengeful haste had lost him her heart forever.
“Well, love and pain
Be kinsfolk twain;
Yet would, oh, would, I could love again!”
Viola was the more self-possessed of the two, calm, quiet, and gently deprecating, as she repeated:
“Yes, a favor, but first let me present you to my cousin, Miss Sweetland. Dear Mae, this is an old friend of mine, Mr. Gay.”
They bowed to each other, and Florian could not help seeing that the young girl was very lovely, even when contrasted with peerless Viola.
He hastened to place seats for them, wondering uneasily what Desha would think, but hoping devoutly he would remain hidden behind the curtain.
Viola continued, gently and frankly:
“If you can forgive my past folly, and be friends again, I wish you to paint a life-size picture for me from a photograph of my dead husband. Will you do it, Florian?”
Viola did not mean to wound him, but her words quivered like an arrow in his heart. He started, paled, then exclaimed, almost violently:
“How can you ask me? No, I will not do it!”
Suddenly she comprehended from his emotion the enormity of her offense, and flushed and faltered:
“I am very sorry—and perhaps I ought not to have asked you—but I knew you could do it better than any one else. Forgive me, and—good-bye,” her voice breaking as she moved toward the door.
But at that moment Philip Desha came quickly from behind the curtain and placed himself in her way.
“I beg your pardon for detaining you—Mrs. Maxwell,” he exclaimed, eagerly. “But—but—since our good friend Florian is so busy, will you let me recommend a very talented artist whom I know quite well?”
Viola started, paled, and trembled at the sound of his voice, and her heart smote her with remorse as she gazed into his face and saw what a change had come over it since their parting. With an effort she murmured:
“If you will be so kind, I shall indeed be most grateful.”
Pretty Mae, looking on at the agitation of all three, wondered to herself at the cause of it all.
Florian seized with sudden jealousy of Desha, thought, angrily:
“How clever he is, trying to ingratiate himself with her again! I will forestall his plans, no matter what pangs it costs my own heart!”
Hurrying forward, he exclaimed, eagerly:
“Viola, I was hasty in refusing. Indeed, I should like to oblige you in this matter, if you are not in too great a hurry over it. Could you give me three months?”
“Yes; for I am going South in a few days, to be absent several months, so that I should be quite satisfied to have it done by the time of my return,” she cried, sweetly.
“Then I will undertake it,” he replied, glad to disappoint Desha’s scheme.
Viola took out the fine cabinet photograph of Rolfe Maxwell and handed it to him in silent emotion, while both men gazed with interest at the handsome rival who had seized the prize they had let slip from their grasp.
Florian’s heart throbbed with keen jealousy of the dead man, and Desha uttered a cry of recognition and surprise.
“What is it?” cried Viola, turning eagerly to him; and he answered:
“I thought I had never seen the man you married, but I recognized him instantly as the young man who saved your life the day you skated through the ice. But of course he told you?”
Viola’s eyes flashed through starting tears.
“No; he did not tell me! Can it really be true?” she exclaimed.
Mae Sweetland clasped her hand, and answered, unexpectedly:
“Yes, Viola; it is quite true. Rolfe confessed it all to Aunt Margaret during the illness that followed his wetting and exposure that day. He was so modest that he would never permit his name to be known, though he almost died of pneumonia afterward.”
Viola put her handkerchief to her face, sobbing:
“I have all the more reason to love his memory.”
Meanwhile, Desha looked curiously at the lovely young stranger, and Florian hastened to present her as Viola’s cousin, while Mae added:
“I was Rolfe Maxwell’s cousin.”
They both wondered why Maxwell had not lost his heart to this artless beauty before he ever saw Viola, but of course they could not utter their thoughts aloud, and the embarrassing scene quickly ended by Viola dashing the tears from her eyes and wishing them a faltering good-bye as she moved to the door with Mae by her side.
The two men were left alone standing, with the portrait of the dead man upturned to their eyes in Florian’s hand.
“Deuced handsome beggar!” he growled; then, after a pause: “It was clever in him to go off and die like that, and leave her free, eh?”
“It seems heartless to the dead to say so,” Desha answered, generously; and then there fell an embarrassing silence.
Florian broke it by saying, abruptly:
“Let us be frank with each other. Viola is free again. She has served us each a bad turn, yet I believe we have both got over our rage, and love her still. Am I right?”
Philip Desha sighed as he answered:
“You are right.”
“That is what I thought,” answered Florian, sullenly; adding: “I give you fair warning that I intend to woo Viola for the second time.”
A quick flash came to Desha’s blue eyes, and he said, firmly:
“You understand that I shall be your rival?”
“I feared so. You stole her from me once, and no doubt you will do so again, if possible,” Florian replied with bitterness, his lips curling in a sneer.
Desha would have been angry with any one else but Florian, but he understood the young man’s fiery temper and pitied his sorrow, not dreaming of the slight he also had put upon Viola on her wedding-eve.
Gazing reproachfully at the young man, he exclaimed:
“Are you doing me justice, Florian?”
“Justice?”
“Yes, justice! You must surely be aware that when I became a suitor for Viola’s hand I was ignorant of any claim you had on her heart.”
“Yes, I know it, and I have made due allowance for the fact; but if you wish me to forgive you and to atone for the past, the way is clear.”
“How?”
“Give up your pretensions to her hand, and leave the field clear for me to win her again,” boldly answered Florian.
Philip Desha reflected in anguish a moment, then answered, firmly:
“I can not yield to you in this matter, Florian, because I must consider Viola’s happiness as well as my own. I believe she loves me still, and that she only married Maxwell out of pique because we quarreled on our wedding-eve and broke our engagement. Under present circumstances I hold myself loyally bound to her still if she will accept me.”
“Then you and I are henceforth rivals and enemies,” Florian cried, violently, and Desha bowed in silence, and took an abrupt leave.