“I never saw any one so madly, foolishly in love in my life,” said the matron. “It was tiresome to see him mooning about after the wicked little flirt. Every one was wishing he would propose and get his congé, so that we might get some new affair on the tapis to amuse us, when quite suddenly it ended almost tragically. He was fooling with a pistol the other night—unloaded, of course,” satirically, “and he put a bullet in his breast.”
“Not dead?”
“No, not yet; but at Garfield Hospital in a precarious condition. And they say Viola is secretly taking it hard. She can not bear to hear it alluded to at all, growing pale and nervous, and almost weeping. And she is certainly changed—no more flirting, no more gayety save of the most dignified kind. How strange if she had really lost her heart to him after all!”
His face paled and his heart beat violently with a keen, stinging pain. Was it jealousy of young Merrington who had wrought in her that subtle change he had wondered over?
He said, slowly:
“What if it be remorse, not love? What if he had already received his congé? What if the accident—was not an accident?”
Mrs. Wellford shuddered.
“What a terrible suggestion! Fortunately for Viola’s peace of mind, it is not true. My husband was one of the men who witnessed the accident. It shocked him so much, he does not like to go over the details even to me,” replied Mrs. Wellford, innocently.
CHAPTER XII.
HIDDEN GRIEF.