“Excuse me, my dear lady,” he said, “but you are kissing the wrong face—are you not?” He afterwards thought that he might have expressed himself better, but he was agitated.
She, on the other hand, never lost her composure for a second. She spoke in English, with the faintest possible stammer:
“Yes, th—thanks; it is the wrong face. Would you t—take it away?”
He retired at once, walked twenty yards down the road, and then met the full humour of the situation. He laughed a long, suppressed laugh. He went on and on, away from the village, out over the heath, away from the haunts of men. And, as he walked, the humour of the situation vanished again; but the night was full of her music, her queenliness, the fragrant charm of her presence. “Viola,” he said softly, “Viola, what a heavenly mistake!”
Three years passed away. The poor but artistic man grew slowly wealthy in those years. The exaltation of that night never left him; he was full of brightness and happiness; his work was all light and strength. He grew popular—partly by reason of his excellent spirits, and partly because of his finer qualities. His luck was proverbially good; but he had enough hope, optimism, and vigour to have carried him safely through the most trying fortunes. His reputation was at its brightest when his death came.
He was in an accident—a commonplace railway accident—an accident that passed over a dishonest commercial traveller in one compartment, and killed the artist in the next. There was a short period, however, chiefly occupied by delirium, between the accident and the man’s death.
It was at the end of the delirium that he turned to the friend who was by his bedside, and asked abruptly:
“Have I been speaking of Viola?”
“Yes; of course I wouldn’t——”
“Of course. All the time?”