It was a pretty tableau as the two stood together under a large tree, with the evening sun, setting just behind the distant hills, casting a golden glow over the green grass, and touching the silvery river with jeweled finger-tips. But Violet, in the bitterness of her heart, could see no beauty in the scene or the pretty picture.
“Leonard!”
Hilda’s voice was perfectly audible, and reached Violet’s ears distinctly where she stood concealed from view by trailing vines of Maréchal Neil roses which hung all around her.
“I have thought of this so many times,” went on the soft, sweet voice of Hilda, “and I have wondered if you really cared for Violet, or if—if you did not care a little for me.”
Pale and trembling, Violet still hesitated, while the soft, sweet voice went on:
“I have cared, Leonard, for, oh, ever so long! I thought that you surely knew it, or at least suspected my secret.”
Not a word was spoken. With a low moan of heart-break, Violet turned and swiftly retraced her steps up the narrow staircase, back to her own room.
“Hilda”—Leonard’s voice broke the silence at last, with a tone of intense regret and grieved surprise—“Hilda, believe me, I never dreamed of this. I—I thought that you knew how dearly I love Violet; and our engagement would have been announced but for her mother’s death. Violet is my promised wife.”
“Impossible!” Hilda Rutledge faced the young man with a pale, angry countenance, and her voice rang out clear and cold. “Leonard, your own common sense ought to show you that Violet is dead in love with Will Venners.”
That old jealous pang contracted Leonard’s heart with a sharp pain. He turned away. Then his eyes wandered to Hilda’s pale face, and his own grew white as death.