VIOLA’S VANITY;

OR

A BITTER EXPIATION

By MRS. ALEX. McVEIGH MILLER

HART SERIES NO. 67

COPYRIGHT 1897 BY GEORGE MUNRO’S SONS

Published by
THE ARTHUR WESTBROOK COMPANY,
Cleveland, Ohio, U. S. A.

INDEX

VIOLA’S VANITY

CHAPTER I.

“LIGHTLY WON IS LIGHTLY LOST.”

When the viols played their best,

Lamps above and laughs below,

“Love me,” sounded like a jest,

Fit for yes or fit for no.

—Mrs. Browning.

In the early spring of 1896, the morning papers of Washington, and afterwards every journal of any consequence in the United States, one day contained the following news item under the glaring headlines:

SOCIETY BELLE ELOPES.

Vagaries of a Beauty.

The Daughter of a High Government Official in Washington, Chief of an Important Bureau.—The Handsomest Girl in Society.—A Charming Coquette, Who Has Refused Scores of Eligibles, Jilts a Distinguished Member of Congress on the Very Eve of Her Bridal for the Sake of a Poor Young Journalist, Rolfe Maxwell, Whom She Secretly Preferred.

Fashionable society, which expected to get on its best togs today for the grand noon wedding of Congressman Desha and the lovely Miss Viola Van Lew, will stand aghast at learning that the marriage is off.

The young beauty, assuming the prerogative of woman to change her mind, left her prospective bridegroom in the lurch last evening, and eloped with a poor young man not in her set.

The marriage ceremony was solemnized last night at the rectory of All Souls’ Church by the genial rector, from whom these facts were gleaned by our reporter. It is understood that the jilted bridegroom is désolé, and the astonished father furious and unforgiving, but as the eloping bride inherits on her marriage the fortune of her deceased mother, she can afford to snap her jeweled fingers in papa’s irate face.

Behind this flippant announcement lay a thrilling romance of beauty, coquetry, love, and pride that may interest the amiable reader whose heart is yet young and warm enough to admire the good traits, excuse the follies, and sympathize with the dire misfortunes of a beautiful, thoughtless young girl.

If there was any excuse in the world for what Viola did, it lay in her youth and her thoughtlessness, and because she did not understand at all what a terrible force love is at its best or worst.

She had only heard of the grand passion in its lightest phases as it is pictured by merry young school-girls boasting to each other of their conquests, and it was plain to be seen that “the one with the most strings to her bow” was more envied than any other. They made “nets, not cages.”

She had the tenderest heart in the world. She would not have injured the smallest living thing, yet she had never heard that love is a flame that burns, and that one may carry its scars to the grave. They should have taught her that, those who guided her young life, for she had the fatal gift of beauty coupled with that subtle fascination that draws men’s hearts as plants turn their leaves to the sun.

Slender, lithe, and graceful as a young palm-tree, with the daintiest patrician hands and feet, piquant features, rose-leaf complexion, a cloud of scented dark hair, and a tempting mouth like a rare, red flower, her eyes alone would have made her lovely without the aid of other charms. They were large, almond-shaped, and luminous.

In the shadow they were gray as doves’ wings, in the sunlight blue as ocean’s deeps, at night they were dark like the sky, and flashing like the stars, so that it dazzled you to look at them beneath the thick fringe of the long black lashes. Then her voice, it was so sweet and low, and her laugh so musical, how could any man help but adore?

When she was presented in society there was no one to equal her in grace and charm. Women wondered and envied, men raved and adored. She could have her pick and choice of them all from the multi-millionaire, the gallant soldier, the haughty diplomat, down to the gilded youth who aimed to be the glass of fashion and the mold of form. All alike were Viola Van Lew’s slaves.

And the lovely, thoughtless creature, trained by indiscreet advisers to regard all this as simply her due, flirted demurely while immensely enjoying her conquests, as what fair maiden of eighteen would not, when launched on the glittering, effervescent sea of official life in Washington?

The first man that ever touched her heart was Florian Gay, a handsome, dashing young fellow of the cavalier type who would have become a great artist if he had not been very rich.

He had the divine afflatus, but lacked the incentive to work that poverty confers on the child of genius. Owning a handsome studio on a fashionable street, he trifled with art in a dilettante way, and devoted the most of his time to society.

He met Viola at a reception, and in due course of time, to quote an envious rival, “his scalp dangled, with dozens of others, at her belt.” In return he caught her fancy, and the flirtation became pronounced. In it she found a spice of delicious tenderness, a subtle attraction that she took for love.

He begged to paint Viola’s portrait, and accompanied by her chaperon—a good-natured old aunt—she gave him several sittings.

Before the end of the sittings they became engaged, though Florian secretly chafed at the secrecy she imposed.

“I should like to ask your father and make it public, so that those other fellows—confound them!—would quit dangling after you,” he said, betraying a spice of jealousy inherent in his nature.

But Viola put aside his entreaties.

“I like to have them dangling after me, as you call it,” she cried, laughingly. “I like to be admired, and when I am married I wish to be able to say that I had first refused a hundred suitors.”

He could not help crying:

“Heavens, what idle vanity! Have you no mercy on the men, Viola?”

“Oh, it does not hurt. They soon go away and forget,” she replied, lightly.

“I do not think that I should soon forget if you had rejected me. I fancy it would have been a very serious matter to me,” Florian Gay replied, quite gravely; but his betrothed only laughed at him.

“Nonsense! You would have been courting another girl next day, Florian.”

“It is more likely that I should have put an end to my life, for I seem to live only in you, my darling, and if I were to lose you now after you had promised yourself to me, I could not answer for myself. I should commit some desperate deed, I am sure!” he exclaimed, with such sudden fire and passion that she started with alarm and queenly displeasure.

“I don’t like stage ranting, please, Florian, and I can’t abide jealousy. You are to keep our engagement secret, and not to interfere with my flirtations, as you promised, or everything will be over between us,” Viola said, resolutely, heedless of the jealous frown that lowered upon his handsome brow, and with no comprehension of his feelings, playing with fire like a thoughtless child.

A very madness of jealousy throbbed in the young man’s heart, but it was sternly hidden out of sight as he cried, eagerly:

“I will obey your wishes, Viola; but won’t you tell me when you will be willing to marry me?”

“Oh, not for ages yet, Florian. Remember, I am not nineteen yet, and have only been out in society a year. My judgment is scarcely formed now, and perhaps,” with an arch, sidelong glance from her dazzling eyes, “I may yet see another man I could like better and throw you over for his sake.”

“Woe be unto him at that hour!” the distracted lover muttered grimly between his teeth; but Viola did not overhear. She did not, in fact, apprehend any change in her constancy to Florian. She had simply been teasing him to test her power, and now she said, with a sudden, sweet smile:

“Poor auntie will wake up presently over there in her corner and think it is time to have this sitting over, yet you have hardly begun. Please go on.”

Florian took up the brush obediently, but his hand was unsteady with the hot throbbings of his jealous heart. He longed to kiss her now that she had granted him that sweet, tender smile, but she seldom permitted a caress, she was so proudly coy.

“Ah, Viola, how hard it is to paint you! Such beauty can not be transferred to canvas!” he sighed. “I am getting out of heart with my work, and the poet’s lines, ‘In an Atelier,’ often occur to me.

“‘Ah, dearest, I am sick at heart,

It is so little I can do—

I talk my jargon—live for art—

I’d much prefer to live for you!

How dull and lifeless colors are!

You smile, and all my picture lies.

I wish that I could crush a star

To make a pigment for your eyes.’”

Viola laughed and rose.

“Well, I can not stay any longer today, because auntie and I are going to the White House reception now. Will you come with us, Florian?”

“Delighted I am sure, but an engagement prevents.”

“Can’t you break it?”

“Not with this man, much as I would like to for the sake of going with you. But I’ve been badgering him ever since he came to Congress for a few sittings, and he has at last promised to begin this day—in fact, this very hour.”

“Who is my important rival?”

“Professor Desha.”

Viola instantly made a rosy moue of disdain, and exclaimed:

“I hate that man! He is too goody-goody!”

“He is a very noble and upright man, and I am particularly anxious to paint his portrait. His fine head and face remind me somewhat of the old masters’ pictures of Christ!” exclaimed Florian Gay, warmly.

“You are partial to him because he was your professor at college,” she retorted.

“Perhaps so, but it is because that gave me an opportunity to know his value better. Philip Desha is a noble fellow, with grand principles and high ideals, and I am sorry that he yielded to ambition and let his people elect him to Congress. Politics will prove a severe test to his upright character,” he answered with more seriousness than he usually displayed.

“Come, auntie, we must be going,” cried Viola, pettishly, waking up her aunt, and taking an abrupt leave in her fear of meeting her lover’s next sitter.

But she did encounter him coming up the steps, a very dignified looking man of medium size, and about thirty years old, with as the artist had remarked, a grave, noble, serene countenance much like the ideal heads of Christ.

They bowed to each other with marked hauteur, and Viola passed on to her waiting carriage.

CHAPTER II.

“Sweetheart, name the day for me,

When we twain shall wedded be.”

Viola had a secret grudge against Professor Desha, but it was so childish, she would have been ashamed to let any one know it.

She was piqued at him because he was the only man she knew who appeared quite indifferent to her charms.

In fact, a spiteful rival had told her that he had expressed himself strongly as holding coquettes in lively detestation.

“He is a simpleton, and nothing would please me better than to break his heart!” exclaimed Viola, scornfully; but whether the young congressman ever heard of this wicked speech or not, he did not give her the chance she wished. He held himself coldly and disapprovingly aloof, and paid attention “to the homeliest girls he met,” so Viola said, “wall-flowers that no one else would look at twice.”

Consequently, she came to have a secret angry interest in the delinquent while pretending to hold him in profound contempt.

She knew that he had a noble nature, as Florian said, and that he cherished high ideals. He was good to look at, too, in his blonde type, with his fair hair and beard, and large clear blue eyes, and frank, kindly expression. But Viola would never have thought of him twice if he had fallen at her feet like the rest.

He excited her interest by his own astonishing indifference, and she had many speculations over it, always ending by the explanation that very likely he had a sweetheart in the State he had come from up North—“some goody-goody nonentity like himself.”

She was rather vexed that Florian was fond of him, and was going to paint his portrait, for she might have to meet him at the studio sometimes. Well, she would find out the days he was to come, and stay away herself at those hours.

So her bow, when they passed each other on the steps, was even more cold and uplifted than usual.

“He shall see how little I care for him,” she thought, with a pride that sent the hot blood mantling warmly to her cheek.

She stepped quickly into the carriage, and gentle old Aunt Edwina said:

“What a noble face and head Professor Desha has! Don’t you admire him, Viola?”

“No, not at all,” the young girl answered, huffily.

But in spite of her resolve not to meet her bête noire at the studio again, she encountered him there twice the next week. It was all by the merest chance, for how was she to know what hour he chose for his sittings?

On both of these occasions Viola had perforce to make herself agreeable to the young congressman, for she did not like to offend Florian by a contrary course. So she remained a short while on each call, and she pretended a simple friendliness with Professor Desha. He had to acknowledge to himself that she was fascinating, yet he could not say that he had observed the least coquetry in her manner, the least effort to win his admiration. Perhaps, he said to himself, she did not consider him worth her while. He knew that Florian Gay’s heart was at her feet, and supposed that this would afford her sufficient present amusement.

Yet he looked forward with secret pleasure to meeting her again at the studio. How beautiful she had looked in the rich artistic room, and how much more womanly and sweet she had appeared than when in social circles surrounded by the inevitable group of admirers!

But he did not meet her at the studio again.

The sittings for the portraits came to an abrupt end.

Florian Gay came unexpectedly one day to call upon his betrothed.

He was pale and agitated. She saw at once that he had received bad news.

A cablegram from his aged mother had conveyed the news that his father had suffered a stroke of paralysis at Carlsbad Springs, whither he had gone a few months previous for his health.

They had anxiously desired to have Florian accompany them, but his passion for Viola had made him refuse. He could not tear himself away from the land that held his idol. He remained, and was rewarded by Viola’s acceptance of his suit.

But now he must acquiesce in his mother’s entreaty for his presence by the couch of his dying father. He must go, and there was no telling how long he might be obliged to stay, paralysis was such an uncertain disease. The invalid might die before he reached Germany, or he might linger for months. He might even get well again.

Florian was deeply grieved, and most anxious to go to his father; but the pain of leaving Viola tore his jealous heart like a keen knife.

She was so capricious that she might forget him while he was gone. She might find some one she loved better and throw him over, as she had once gayly threatened.

The anguish of the thought almost took his breath away.

He determined on a bold step. He would entreat her to consent to a quiet marriage and go abroad with him.

“If she loves me half as well as I love her she will be willing to do as I wish, rather than face a separation of uncertain duration,” he said to himself, and plunged boldly into the subject, encouraged by the dismay and sympathy with which she received his news.

“You will miss me a little, Viola, my darling?” he cried, eagerly, when he saw the bright eyes softened with the dew of tears.

“More than a little, dear Florian!” she cried, warmly, for her really tender heart was softened by his grief. It pained her, too, to have him go away like this. There was no one else whose society was half so agreeable.

Taking quick advantage of her tender admissions, he plunged into the subject nearest his heart, begging her to marry him tonight or tomorrow and go with him abroad.

Viola was speechless at first with astonishment. When she caught her breath, she refused promptly.

“I thought you pretended to love me,” he cried, reproachfully.

“So I do, Florian, very dearly, but not enough to marry you offhand without a trousseau.”

“Bother the trousseau! You would order it from Paris, anyway, so you can get it just as easily when we go over.”

“I am not ready to be married yet, Florian, trousseau or no trousseau. I don’t want to be married so young.”

“But, darling, how long do you expect me to wait?”

“Until I choose to name the day, sir, and if you get too impatient, you are welcome to take back your freedom,” saucily.

“Oh, Viola, I should never wish to do that!” he groaned, clasping her little jeweled hand and pressing his hot lips upon it while he continued: “Viola, I may be absent for months, and I shall go mad with jealousy of the fortunate men who will be near you, who can feast their eyes on your beauty and hear your sweet voice and rippling laughter. Oh, are you sure, quite sure, that your love will last while I am gone, that you will be true to your promise?”

“If you can not trust my love, if you are beginning to doubt me already, we had better break off now!” she cried, spiritedly.

“My beautiful love, how can you torture me so when I am already so unhappy?” groaned Florian.

“Then why will you be so silly? Do you not know that I have never loved any one but you, Florian, and never shall?” cried Viola, rashly, melted to tenderness by his grief and really feeling very sad indeed over his going, so that she took a very lukewarm emotion for eternal love.

Florian was transported with joy over her fond declaration, and again renewed his entreaties for an immediate marriage, but was soon warned off by her rising vexation.

“I must go and make my preparations for leaving at once,” he said, sadly, rising. “Oh, Viola, it breaks my heart to leave you, my precious one! Will you promise to write to me often if I am detained long?” pleadingly.

“I am not fond of writing letters, dear, but I will try not to neglect you while you are gone. If they are very short, you must not mind, because I am so busy.”

“Busy!” he echoed, with slight sarcasm, and she flushed slightly, exclaiming:

“Why will you take one up so? You know the demands of a social life are very pressing. But I dare say I shall not enjoy myself at all now, I shall be missing you so much,” her voice breaking and tears actually brimming over in her eyes.

Florian caught her in his fond arms and kissed them away. Then they had such a sad leave-taking that the emotional girl allowed her betrothed to persuade her to name the wedding-day as soon as he should return from abroad.

CHAPTER III.

THE MOTH AND THE STAR.

Florian, hurrying away with sad heart and dejected mien from the parting with Viola, stopped short at meeting Professor Desha strolling leisurely toward him. He stared at him in surprise, exclaiming:

“Well met, my friend, for I was going home to send you a message.”

“A message?”

“Yes—that I can not go on with the portrait just now. I am called most unexpectedly abroad.”

“Something is wrong?” cried the congressman, who had not failed to observe the pallor of his friend’s face.

“Yes; my father is paralyzed at Carlsbad, and mother has cabled me to start to her at once. I shall go on tonight to New York, and sail on the first steamer.” After a moment’s embarrassing pause, he added: “I have been calling on Miss Van Lew—to tell her we must leave off the sittings until my return, and to—bid her farewell.”

His voice was so wrung with emotion that it sounded strange in his own ears, for an almost unconquerable impulse had come over him to confide to this loyal friend the story of his betrothal to Viola and his distress at the separation.

Had he yielded to the temptation how much of the pain and tragedy of the future might have been spared both their hearts!

But he was a man of honor, and he remembered just in time his promise to Viola to keep secret their engagement.

He crushed back the words struggling for utterance on his lips, and said instead:

“I can not tell how long I may be absent—not long, if I can help it—but of course it will depend on the duration of my father’s illness. Do not forget that I shall hope to resume the sittings for your portrait as soon as I return. Now, I must hurry away. Good-bye,” and he held out his hand.

Professor Desha grasped it heartily with many expressions of sympathy and good will, and they parted thus in the cold air of December, not to meet again for several months, and then under the lowering shadow of tragic circumstances.

Desha had seen his friend coming down the steps of the Van Lew mansion, and he had drawn his own conclusions.

It did not seem to him that even the news of his father’s seizure was sufficient to bring that despairing look to Florian Gay’s handsome face. He said to himself:

“He adored that beautiful coquette, and has long been hovering between hope and fear. Now he has put his fate to the test, and been rejected, poor fellow!”

He was on his way to call on Viola himself, though he had not mentioned the fact to Florian in the haste of their parting.

The pretext for the visit was to get Viola to join a skating-party tomorrow to consist of his cousin—a gay society dame—and some other beaus and belles, the latter of whom Professor Desha had been sent by the aforesaid cousin to interview on the subject of their willingness.

He could not have explained to himself why he decided to call on Miss Van Lew first of all. He admired her beauty, to be sure, but he detested her coquetry, and a wave of indignation passed over him as he thought of how she had trifled with Florian’s heart, only to reject him in the end.

“No doubt I shall find her as gay and smiling as if she did not realize at all that another broken heart lies at her door,” he thought, as he mounted the steps.

Viola started with surprise when his card was brought up to her room.

“Tell him I will be down immediately,” she exclaimed, hurrying to her mirror to remove the traces of the tears she had shed over Florian’s departure.

Then she made a few effective additions to her already elegant morning toilet, saying to herself:

“I must be quite gay, and not let any one suspect how my heart aches over Florian’s going. Dear fellow, how fondly he loves me, and how hard it was for him to leave me! I love him dearly, but I would not have our engagement known for the world, for then I would have to wear the willow all during his absence, and perhaps never get another offer. Dear me, I wonder who will be the next one? Suppose—only suppose—” She laughed saucily to herself, and the daring wish chased away every sad thought of Florian, so that she was quite radiant in her welcome of her visitor, and he could read no slightest sign of emotion on the sparkling, riante face.

“Oh, did you know that we shall have no more sittings now for our portraits?” she cried. “Mr. Gay has just left here—perhaps you met him going out? He came to tell me that he is summoned to Europe by the illness of his father.”

Not a break in the sweet clear voice; so well did she play her part of indifference towards the lover for whom she secretly grieved. No one must guess that, lest she lose the chance of winning new victims.

Professor Desha thought, indignantly:

“How heartless—and how beautiful!”

Aloud he answered, deliberately:

“I am very sorry for Florian. I met him going away. Until he told me about his father I believed from his woe-begone face that you had given him his congé.”

It was almost a point-blank question, so intently did his large, honest blue eyes search her face, making her blush up to the edges of her wavy dark hair, while the long fringe of her lashes swept the rich damask of her cheek as she cried, with a forced, uneasy laugh:

“You do me injustice indeed. I was very sorry to have him go away. We are great friends, Florian and I, and I’m afraid I am going to miss him very much.”

Her candor only made him more certain of his conclusions. He felt quite positive that Florian had been refused, hence his pallor and dejection, and her gay indifference. There was no pensive cast on her white brow, such as one wears for the parting from a dear friend.

But he could not pursue the subject any further, so he stated the object of his call. His cousin, Mrs. Wellford, wished to have her join a skating-party the next morning, the party to lunch with her afterward. Would she come?

Viola thought of her lovely new skating suit, rich violet velvet trimmed with Russian sable, and rejoiced in her heart at such an opportunity to display it; but she cast down her eyes demurely, and appeared to reflect until he added, encouragingly:

“I will call for you at ten o’clock if you will permit me.”

“Thank you, I shall be glad,” she replied, frankly; and then he hurried away, almost frightened at himself for having impulsively offered her his escort, and half pleased, half repentant.

CHAPTER IV.

“AND THOU WERT GAY, THOUGH I WAS NOT WITH THEE!”

Go—strive the sea wave to control;

Or, wouldst thou keep me thine,

Be thou all being to my soul,

And fill each want divine;

Play every string in Love’s sweet lyre,

Set all its music flowing;

Be air, and dew, and light, and fire,

To keep the soul-flower growing;

Be less—thou art no love of mine,

So leave my love in peace;

’Tis helpless woman’s right divine—

Her only right—caprice!

—Osgood.

Viola did not lose much sleep over Florian’s going that night, for a pleasant excitement had been mixed with her thoughts by Philip Desha’s unexpected call, and her engagement with him for tomorrow.

She thought, mischievously:

“He is putting himself in my power, and no man has resisted me yet when I chose to exercise it. What fun to lead him on a little just to pay him out for detesting flirts!”

When he called for her promptly at ten the next morning, she was quite ready to go, and he started with delight as she came down the steps, her beauty and her costume were alike so flawless, while her bright smile seemed to shed sunshine upon the cold, wintry day.

At the foot of the steps a beggar had paused with outstretched hand and a piteous whine—a poor woman with an emaciated, half-starved babe clutched to her breast.

Viola paused and gazed at the wretched mendicants, the miserable young mother with her pinched face and unkept garb, and the poor infant with its half-clothed body, and blue, half-frozen toes peeping through ragged hose.

Large pitying tears flashed into the girl’s beautiful eyes.

Philip Desha thought he had never seen such a contrast in human life as the wretched, starving beggars and the beautiful, happy heiress. He slipped his fingers into his vest pocket for money, but Viola was quicker than he, she had already drawn out her tiny, silk-netted purse and taken from it a shining gold coin, which she pressed into the baby’s skinny little claw, saying in a voice that trembled with sympathy:

“There now, tell mamma to buy it a cloak and a pair of shoes, and something to eat.”

Philip pressed his silver dollar into the woman’s eager hand, and she burst into tearful thanks and praises.

“No, no, don’t thank us; thank God for putting it into our hearts to help you,” Viola murmured, gently, as she turned away to the carriage.

Professor Desha helped her in, and closed the door. His heart thrilled with sudden admiration, not so much at the charity, for he knew she could afford it, but at the tender pity and sympathy that had gone with the gift.

To his noble heart Viola had looked more beautiful with those tender tears softening the brilliance of her eyes than when sparkling with diamonds in some gala scene she had moved the cynosure of admiring glances. He thought:

“She has a true womanly heart in spite of her coquetry.”

They drove to his cousin’s home, where they were joined directly by a gay party of a dozen or so accomplished skaters, eager for the sport. Directly they sought the beautiful Potomac, whose glassy surface glittered clear as crystal beneath the deep blue sky and fitful sunshine of a cold and perfect winter day.

Viola was an accomplished skater and dearly loved the exercise. She appeared more beautiful upon the ice than in a ball-room. Her perfect complexion glowed with enchanting color, and her luminous eyes caught a peculiar deep blue like the ocean’s waves, her soft, musical laugh disclosed little teeth like rows of pearls between perfect scarlet lips that it would have been Heaven to kiss.

Very naturally she and Desha paired off together, as he, too, was an excellent skater, and soon the bright surface of the river was the scene of exhilarating sport that drew hundreds of gazers to the banks to gaze at the merry crowd, while among them appeared reporters, with their pencils busy taking notes and sketches of the doings of gay society for their respective papers.

Viola was very happy, but now and then a regretful thought of Florian intruded on her gayety like a breath blown upon the clear surface of a sparkling mirror.

“Poor, dear Florian! I wish that he was here with me now. He would enjoy this so much. And how sad he must feel, going away today for such an uncertain absence when we were so happy in our love. Perhaps I ought not to be so gay while he is so sad. But then I dare not give way to moping, lest some one suspect our engagement,” she thought, self-excusingly, and turned a radiant face on her companion, answering a remark he was making about one of the young girls who was just learning to skate and had suffered several falls, to the amusement of her companions and her own chagrin.

“It is too bad, poor thing! And then her partner is not very skillful either. Now if she had you to teach her—” began Viola, delicately hinting for him to go and help the poor girl.

Desha was loth to leave his charming companion. Her subtle charm was beginning to enthrall him as it had done others. He regretted that he had drawn her attention to the other girl.

But she added, coaxingly:

“Do go and teach the poor thing how to keep on her feet. I feel so sorry for her forlorn plight. There now, she has tumbled down again!” laughing in spite of herself.

“Remember, I shall not stay away from you long,” he answered, as he tore himself away to do her bidding.

“Suppose you skate awhile with me, Miss Hyer,” he said, smilingly, to the young girl, who accepted with delight, for he and Viola had been the observed of all observers.

Viola, left to herself, began to do some very graceful figures on the ice that she had learned while wintering in Canada two years before.

Hundreds of admiring eyes watched her with wonder and delight. But glancing back to see how Desha was progressing with his pupil, she observed Miss Hyer’s former clumsy partner making the best speed he could in her direction.

“Oh, dear, that stupid! I’ll escape him if I have to skate across the river,” she pouted, in dismay, and struck out for the opposite shore.

Directly a cry of horror rose on the air as the gliding form rushed upon thin ice that cracked beneath its weight. There was an answering cry of deadly fear, a gleam of violet velvet and shining fur, and Viola’s form sank from view beneath the treacherous breaking ice into the deep, ingulfing waves.

CHAPTER V.

THE MYSTERIOUS STRANGER.

Sudden as a thunderbolt from a clear sky was the change that came over the gay party of skaters and the applauding spectators as they echoed the loud, horrified shriek of Viola crashing through the thin ice and disappearing into the depths of the river below.

The faces but a moment ago so gay and laughing, paled with grief and terror, and a terrible panic arose, all the skaters pressing forward toward the hole in the ice, the crowd on the shore also venturing out pell-mell, till the crystal sheet began to tremble with their heavy weight. Some fell down, and were trampled in the mad rush of others, and a dreadful loss of life seemed imminent, when all at once there rang out, high over every other sound, a loud, thrilling, masculine voice, crying authoritatively:

“Go back, all of you! Do you not feel the ice trembling? Directly it will break with your weight, and hundreds be drowned! Be warned, and return to the shore, leaving only such men as will assist in saving the young lady!”

The exodus for the shore began as suddenly as it had rushed the other way just now, reason being excited in the startled mass of surging people. And they were none too quick, for the ice began to crack ominously before it was cleared of all save Professor Desha and a few other men, foremost among them the tall stranger whose voice of command had driven back the terror-stricken mob.

This man had evidently been simply a spectator, for he wore no skates, but he was rapidly sliding toward the scene of the accident, and following him at some distance was Desha, whose speed had been greatly retarded by the hysterical clinging of his partner, Miss Hyer, whom he could not shake off till he thrust her into the hands of another man, crying, as he darted away:

“For God’s sake, take care of her! I must save Miss Van Lew!”

Heaven alone knew the frenzy of his thoughts as he skated swiftly toward the middle of the river, reckless of aught save that he should save Viola from drowning.

But the stranger who had routed the crowd was before him. He threw off his coat and dropped down flat on the broken ice, peering carefully down into the water.

The next minute he dived over the ragged, splintered edge, and disappeared from view, while the sight of such gallant daring evoked a swelling cry of admiration from the shore, men cheering to the echo, women and children bursting into tears, for there seemed little chance of either life being saved from the deadly current beneath the ice.

Questions ran from lip to lip.

“Who is the splendid fellow, anyway?”

But no one could answer that question.

Every one knew directly who the girl was—Miss Van Lew, the beautiful heiress, daughter of the chief of an important bureau—but no one there had ever seen the young hero before.

He was handsome as a king, fine, and soldierly looking, with a ringing voice of command; but not a soul knew his name, though many a silent prayer went up that he might be saved, together with the beautiful girl for whom he had risked his life.

Professor Desha and three others now came in for the next round of cheers as they reached the fatal spot, and cautiously prostrated themselves on the ice to gaze down into the depths.

They raised their voices then in shouts of joy, for the sight they saw filled their hearts with gladness.

The icy current had not swept away the victims, as they dreaded. There was the hero keeping himself up in the water by a terrific exercise of skill and strength, while he supported on one arm the limp form of Viola, whose pallid face and closed eyes looked like death.

“Courage! courage!” they cried to him, and reached eager arms to their aid, first taking out Viola, and then her gallant rescuer, who gasped, hoarsely:

“You were not a minute too soon. It was so freezing cold in the water I could not have sustained myself long with such a dead weight on my arm, and the current rushing so fast!”

“You are a hero, my dear fellow!” cried Desha, admiringly, as they set out across the ice, bearing Viola’s limp form, fearing that death had already claimed the beautiful creature for his own.

A physician was fortunately on the spot, and placing her in a carriage, accompanied by Mrs. Wellford and Professor Desha, he took her home.

When others turned to do a like kindness to the gallant rescuer, he had disappeared.

“What has become of him?” they cried; and several answered at once:

“He just beckoned a cab, jumped in, and was driven away, refusing to answer any questions.”

And strange to say, not one in that crowd knew his name or anything about him. He was quite strange to them all. And the reporters, in graphically describing the affair for the evening papers, could only refer to him as “the handsome and mysterious rescuer of Miss Van Lew from a watery grave, the unknown hero,” etc., while earnestly requesting him to announce himself to a curious and admiring public.

Later on Viola’s father appeared in print, thanking the unknown savior of his daughter’s life, and begging the favor of his acquaintance; but no reply came to any of these overtures—the man’s identity remained as deeply hidden as if he had sunk forever under the swirling waves of the deep river from which he had rescued Viola.

Meanwhile, our heroine being taken home and resuscitated with difficulty from her unconscious condition, was quite ill for a week, from the shock and wetting she had received.

She knew nothing of the stranger who had snatched her back to life as she was sinking a second time beneath the cold waves, for she was unconscious when he grasped her; but as she began to convalesce, and heard from Aunt Edwina the story of her rescue, she became greatly interested in her unknown savior.

“Oh, how stupid it was in everybody not to find out his name! I shall never be happy till I know him and can thank him for saving my life!” she cried, eagerly.

Wise Aunt Edwina presently began to grow uneasy over her niece’s anxiety about the handsome unknown. She said to herself:

“Come; this will not do. If she ever finds him out she will be falling in love with him, the silly, romantic child, and as like as not, he may be some handsome ne’er-do-well not fit for her to speak to, so I will disenchant her if I can.”

And the next time Viola began to dilate on her anxiety to know her rescuer, she cleared her throat, the dear, shy old lady, and observed, gently:

“My dear, I wouldn’t harp too much on my rescuer if I were you. I have a shrewd suspicion why he does not disclose himself.”

“What reason could he have, dear Aunt Edwina?”

“Well, then, every one who has described him calls him tall and dark—they always dwell particularly on the dark—so maybe—mind, I only say maybe—he was one of those handsome young mulatto men.”

Viola’s eyes flashed disapprobation, and she exclaimed:

“But that is no reason he should hide himself—he was a hero all the same. And you know papa would reward him handsomely if he would accept it.”

“Probably he does not need it, or perhaps he is married and doesn’t wish to make his wife jealous by letting her know he risked his life to save a pretty young girl,” pursued Aunt Edwina, relentlessly throwing cold water on Viola’s romance.

Viola pouted indignantly and dropped the subject, for dread of ridicule was her weak point, as her relative well knew.

At the end of a week she received a tender love letter from Florian, written during the days on ship-board and mailed at Queenstown. It was so fond, and couched in such beautiful phrases, interspersed with love poems, that it warmed Viola’s heart, that had not wandered to him often in his absence, being distracted by her illness and thoughts of the unknown savior of her life.

“Dear fellow, how much he loves me, and how distracted he will be when I write him all that has happened to me since he went away!” she thought; and not to spare him the sensation, she wrote the next day a full account of it, not forgetting the handsome stranger, of whom she said:

“I do so long to know him; but, after all, perhaps it is better not, for I am so romantic I might fall in love with him and forget all about you, you know. But that is only fun, for of course I could never care for any one else as I do for you, dear Florian.”

She actually believed this herself, and smiled as she reread it, thinking:

“How it will please him to read those words!”

They were the only words of love in the letter, for she had so much news to tell, including this item:

“You will be glad to hear that I like your goody-goody friend much better than I did when you were here. He has been very kind and attentive, sending to inquire about me every day, and yesterday sent beautiful flowers and a kind note, regretting so much it was not he who had saved my life instead of a stranger, and saying he would have been first to the rescue but for that aggravating Minnie Hyer clinging to him in hysterics and holding him back, till he actually pushed her into another man’s arms and escaped to assist me. You see, I am answering your letter right away, Florian, though I am propped up with pillows in bed; but I knew you would be anxious to hear from me and interested in—everything.”

When this entertaining letter reached Florian at Carlsbad, where he had found his father very low but still alive, the poor fellow was indeed almost distracted at hearing of his sweetheart’s narrow escape from death. He longed passionately, impatiently, to fly back to her side; but it was impossible to desert his sorrowing mother and slowly dying father.

“Oh, my darling, my darling, if only you would have come with me!” he groaned, as he read and reread the dear letter, hungering for words of tenderness of which he found so few.

It dawned on him presently that half her letter had been devoted to Professor Desha and her unknown rescuer.

“Confound them both!” he muttered, jealously, crossing out with pencil all the offending lines, and leaving only what referred to herself.

CHAPTER VI.

VIOLA’S REPENTANCE.

“Since I must love thee—since a weird, wild fate

Impels me to thy heart against my will—

Do thou this justice to the soul I yield:

Be its ideal. Let it not blush to love.

* * * Be noble, truthful, brave,

Love honor more than Love, and more than me.”

When Viola was well enough to receive callers again, Professor Desha was among the first announced.

Since the day of her accident his heart had been in a tumult of emotion.

He had realized that the interest he took in the fair coquette was deep and painful—painful because he deemed it no less than a calamity to lose his heart to one like Viola, who only played at love, and seemed to have no conception of its depth and sacredness.

Although he was in his dignified way a very attractive man, he did not have enough personal vanity to suppose that he could succeed in winning her heart where so many others had failed—even Florian Gay, so young and handsome, and much richer than himself.

So while she lay ill he began to read his own heart in dismay, and entered on a struggle with the passion that had stolen on him unawares, bursting into full flower that tragic day when she had gone down so swiftly through the broken ice into the black, flowing river to what might so quickly have been cruel death.

She filled his whole heart and thoughts, and he stood aghast at his own weakness and folly.

Time was, but a little while ago, that he had frankly despised and avoided her in his detestation of her heartlessness.

But the few unavoidable meetings with her at the studio of Florian Gay had removed the keen edge of his dislike. No one could be in Viola’s company and not yield to the magnetic charm of her presence. After all, she seemed but a simple, unaffected girl, perhaps not realizing the harm she did by her gayety and beauty.

So love had come to him against his will, and he chafed bitterly under it, feeling that the light coquette was not worthy the sacrifice of a true man’s heart.

He determined to conquer his ill-starred passion as speedily as possible, and never let Viola have the triumph of knowing she had ever touched his heart.

While she was ill he did not succeed very well in his desire, because pity and sympathy softened his feelings.

Then when she began to convalesce, it made him so glad he could not resist a kind little note and some flowers. It seemed an almost necessary courtesy, and he intended to stop right there, and never see her again if he could avoid it.

But Viola sent him a sweet little perfumed note in reply, at the end of which she said:

“I am almost well again, and indeed you must not blame yourself for having left me alone on the ice that day, because I sent you, you know, to help poor Minnie Hyer. I pitied her so much, poor thing! tumbling about on the ice till she must have been black and blue with bruises. Then, of course, you never thought of my skating out so far alone—neither did I, indeed—but I’ll tell you why I did it when I see you again.”

Much brooding over the last sentence persuaded him that he owed Viola a duty call.

Evidently she expected it, and—besides, his curiosity was aroused. What reason had she had for skating out so far indeed?

“I will go—just once. Then I must certainly put the little beauty out of my thoughts. One can not play with fire. I must give myself up to my political duties and abjure society,” he decided, grimly.

So he set out for his last call, and when ushered into her charming presence, the young statesman of thirty—cool and self-possessed enough ordinarily—trembled so that he could scarcely speak, so keen was his delight at seeing her again.

Viola had known well that he would come. She had faith in the potency of those well-chosen words, “when I see you again.”

She smiled him a cordial welcome, and it seemed to him that never before had she looked so lovely.

Illness had softened down the exuberant vitality of her beauty, stealing a little roundness and bloom from her cheek, and a little of the mischief from her luminous eyes. There was a delicate, appealing languor in her movements, aided by the trailing house-gown whose warm red tints contrasted so well with her fairness.

“You will pardon me for half reclining among my cushions. I am not strong yet,” she explained.

“Only lazy, professor,” bantered Aunt Edwina, who then went on with her fancy-work in an absent-minded way, as if she had almost forgotten his presence.

Viola set herself to be charming, and presently he overcame his seizure of timidity, that she took in some alarm for indifference.