Philip Desha and Florian Gay would never be such fond friends again as they had been before the love of a beautiful coquette came so fatally between their hearts.
It was true that Desha had not been lacking in outward observances such as were demanded by Florian’s bereavement.
He had made the usual visit of condolence, attended the funeral of the elder Gay, and showed no lack of sympathy, but all the same there kept widening between them the restraint engendered by the knowledge that they had been unconscious rivals for the same lovely prize.
Not that Desha suspected Florian’s share in humiliating Viola upon her wedding-eve. He would have despised his old friend had he suspected the truth, the same as he despised himself for the folly of an hour by which he had sundered himself from Viola forever, repenting when all too late to atone, saying to himself:
“It was for my sake she forgot Florian, for love of me she sinned against my friend. It was not for me to punish her but rather to forgive.”
And through the long unhappy night, when he paced the floor of his room, restless and remorseful, the white, stricken face of Viola, as it looked when he had upbraided her so harshly, rose before him like an accusing spirit, until at length love conquered everything, and seizing a pen, he wrote to her eloquently of his forgiveness and repentance, urging her to forget last night and let the marriage go on according to arrangement.
He sent the letter at early dawn, believing and hoping that all would be well; but when a short while later he opened a damp copy of the morning paper and read her marriage notice with its glaring head-lines, it seemed to him as if he should go mad.
He shut himself into his room, raging with pain and humiliation that would have touched Viola’s heart could she have known it, bitterly as she had longed for such a result.
It was true that he had told her she might tell the world she had jilted him, but he had scarcely expected to be taken at his word so literally as this, having the keen pain of jealousy of his fortunate rival mixed with the bitter pang of loss.
For awhile he felt as if he could never open that closed door again and go out to face the gibing world, secretly laughing at his humiliation by the beautiful, saucy coquette.