“Mother, before Heaven I never dreamed of such fancies on your part, or Mae’s, whom I loved as a dear little sister only, and I am sorry I have unwittingly given her pain. But you have done wrong to betray my cousin’s tender secret to me and to my wife.”
The invalid turned her sorrowful dark eyes quickly on Viola, exclaiming:
“I beg your pardon for my indiscreet speech, dear, and for forgetting to welcome you in my fright over Mae. I am sure I shall love Rolfe’s wife dearly.”
And she held out her hand; but the one that Viola placed in it was cold as ice, as she answered, proudly:
“I am sorry I have disappointed your wishes for your son, madame.”
Meanwhile, Rolfe stooped over Mae, and lifting her gently in his arms, said:
“Mother, I had better carry her to her room, so that you can attend to her, I think.”
“Yes,” she answered, following him weakly, then sending him out, saying, bitterly: “Go back to your haughty bride. I can manage Mae best alone.”
He returned to Viola, most bitterly pained and chagrined by this awkward contretemps.
She had thrown herself into an easy-chair, her burning eyes fixed on the floor, and her face a marble mask in its deep pallor.