CHAPTER XXXIII.
“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.