Violets and Other Tales

								

Then began some of the happiest hours that ever the jolly old sun beamed
upon, or the love-sick moon clothed in her rays of silver. Deceived me?
No, no. He admitted that the old love for Blanche was still in his
heart, but that he had lost all faith and respect for her, and could
nevermore be other than a friend. Well, I was fool enough to be content
with such crumbs.
We had five months of happiness. I tamed down beautifully in that
time,--even consented to adopt the peerless Blanche as a model. I gave
up all my most ambitious plans and cherished schemes, because he
disliked women whose names were constantly in the mouth of the public.
In fact, I became quiet, sedate, dignified, renounced too some of my
best and dearest friends. I lived, breathed, thought, acted only for
him; for me there was but one soul in the universe--Bernard's. Still,
for all the suffering I've experienced, I'd be willing to go through it
all again just to go over those five months. Every day together, at
nights on the lake-shore listening to the soft lap of the waters as the
silver sheen of the moon spread over the dainty curled waves; sometimes
in a hammock swinging among the trees talking of love and reading
poetry. Talk about Heaven! I just think there can't he a better time
among the angels.
But there is an end to all things. A violent illness, and his father
relenting, sent for the wayward son. I will always believe he loved me,
but he was eager to get home to his mother, and anxious to view Blanche
in the light of their new relationship. We had a whole series of parting
scenes,--tears and vows and kisses exchanged. We clung to each other
after the regulation fashion, and swore never to forget, and to write
every day. Then there was a final wrench. I went back to my old
life--he, away home.
For a while I was content, there were daily letters from him to read;
his constant admonitions to practice; his many little tokens to
adore--until there came a change,--letters less frequent, more mention
of Blanche and her love for him, less of his love for me, until the
truth was forced upon me. Then I grew cold and proud, and with an iron
will crushed and stamped all love for him out of my tortured heart and
cried for vengeance.
Yes, quite melo-dramatic, wasn't it? It is a dramatic tale, though.
So I threw off my habits of seclusion and mingled again with men and
women, and took up all my long-forgotten plans. It's no use telling you
how I succeeded. It was really wonderful, wasn't it? It seems as though
that fickle goddess, Fortune, showered every blessing, save one, on my
path. Success followed success, triumph succeeded triumph. I was
lionized, feted, petted, caressed by the social and literary world. You
often used to wonder how I stood it in all those years. God knows; with
the heart-sick weariness and the fierce loathing that possessed me, I
don't know myself.
But, mind you, Eleanor, I schemed well. I had everything seemingly that