Sweet Violet

Although Judge Camden was very proud of the offer he had received for Violet’s hand, he might not have insisted upon its acceptance so strongly had he not been determined to thwart her marriage to Cecil Grant.

The judge had a secret spite against Cecil’s mother that influenced him in rejecting the young man’s suit for Violet.

Mrs. Grant was a handsome widow, the descendant of a very aristocratic race, but impoverished by the war between the States, and struggling under a load of debt and worry. The ancestral estates were almost hopelessly mortgaged, and her only son, Cecil, a newly fledged lawyer, was barely able to keep up the interest and maintain his mother in simple style from his earnings and the small revenue from the stock and lands.

Judge Camden was a self-made man, very rich, and with the arrogant pride peculiar to that class of people. He fell in love with his neighbor, the poor, proud, but charming widow, and offered her his hand.

His proposal was politely, gently, but firmly rejected, and the old judge never forgave her for the slight.

He continued to cherish a secret anger against the lady, and his resentment included her son, then a young collegian.

When Cecil came home and opened his modest law-office in the village, he secretly did everything he could against the progress of the struggling young attorney, and delighted in all his misfortunes.

Now that Cecil had become a suitor for Violet’s hand, the old judge saw in it an opportunity to wreak vengeance on the son’s heart for all the pangs his mother had inflicted on his, and he was not slow to avail himself of the occasion.

No pity for the young hearts thus cruelly severed moved him from his stern resolve to force Violet, by fair or foul means, into a speedy marriage with Harold Castello.

When Mrs. Grant learned of the old judge’s refusal to sanction Cecil’s engagement to Violet, she was very indignant, and desired her son to break off the affair at once.

“I cannot bear to have my son called a fortune-hunter,” she cried, proudly, for some gossip had made her acquainted with the old judge’s insinuations.

Cecil flushed deeply as he answered:

“No one can call me so, mother, for Violet Mead is as poor as I am.”

“Yes, but it is expected that she and her cousin Amber will divide their grandfather’s fortune between them at his death.”

“That is, if they marry to please him, of course; otherwise he will disinherit them. So sweet Violet’s fate is already sealed, for she has promised to be my bride as soon as I am a little better off.”

“Oh, my son, how can you dream of taking bonny Violet away from her luxurious home at Golden Willows to live in such an old rack-rent castle as this?” demanded Mrs. Grant, in sorrowful dismay.

“We love each other, mother dear, and Violet vows that she will not mind my poverty,” he replied, gently.

“She is a child, and does not know anything about the stern realities of poverty and want. You had much better break off the engagement and leave Violet free for her rich suitor, or you might both repent your marriage when too late. And, to be frank, Cecil—I am not mercenary, but I have always hoped you would marry money, so as to pay off the mortgage and save your ancestral estates.”

“You should have thought of that yourself, mother, when you refused Judge Camden’s hand,” her son replied, demurely.

She flushed with surprise and exclaimed:

“You are guessing wildly, my dear Cecil.”

“No, mother, I am not. Do you think I do not understand that old man’s persecution of me? It is only an ignoble spite against the woman who would not marry him.”

“I believe you are right, dear,” she acknowledged, sadly; “I know that a marriage with him would have given us both many advantages we do not now possess. Are you angry because I rejected him?”

“No, mother, no! How could that hard, pompous old man have taken my noble father’s place in your heart? Not for the world would I have had you sacrifice yourself thus. But do not let your dislike of him prejudice you against my gentle Violet.”

Mrs. Grant gave him a fond, motherly smile, as she answered, kindly:

“Violet is a charming girl. I have loved her from childhood, but I cannot encourage your desire to marry her against her grandfather’s consent. He is so vindictive that nothing but trouble and sorrow could come of defiance to his will.”

She believed what she said, and had her son’s best interest at heart in thus advising him, but he turned away sighing, because he had received no encouragement.

All the opposing fates seemed to be leagued against him and Violet.

It was cruel, for they loved so truly that Heaven must have made them for each other—he so dark, and strong, and handsome, Violet so fair, and slight, and lovely.

It was very foolish that an old man’s malice over his thwarted love affair should have come between such fond and loving hearts.

Cecil wandered wretchedly along the river-bank, thinking of his darling, and planning all sorts of things for overthrowing the barriers that held them apart. He would have proposed an elopement, but he hesitated on account of his poverty. He would rather have waited until his prospects brightened so that he could give his fair bride something of the luxury to which she was accustomed at Golden Willows.

Here at Bonnycastle, his own home, the stately rooms were all out of repair, the fine oaken furniture was old and gloomy; the carpets worn and dingy; while outside the stone towers, in which his old English ancestor had gloried, were overgrown with ivy, in which owls screeched dismally by night and nestling birds sang by day.

It was little better than a picturesque ruin, although people said that it had been the finest place in the county, and would be again, if the owner could only afford to repair it and restore the ruined lawns and gardens with their rank growths to order and beauty again.

That was a dream that poor Cecil had dreamed from boyhood, but it seemed farther away from realization than ever now, as he thought of Violet and the fate her grandfather menaced her with—the marriage to an unknown wealthy suitor.

Everything looked very dark and hopeless, but he could not entertain, for one moment, his mother’s advice to give up Violet.

“She cannot dream how truly I love my darling, or she would know that the loss of her would wreck my life,” he thought. “Since I first met Violet the whole world has grown brighter and more joyful. I have seemed to live more fully, to rest more sweetly. I can never put her out of my heart, nor relinquish the hope of one day calling her mine,” and he recalled some sweet, tender lines, somewhere read, that seemed to image his own feelings:

The sound of light wheels startled him from his sorrowful reverie, and, looking quickly up, he saw that he had wandered from the river-path to the open road, and, in a natty little phaeton rolling along the smooth gravel sat Amber Laurens, superbly attired, and handling the ribbons with consummate skill.

Cecil tried to retreat to the shade of some trees by the road, but he was too late. The beauty had seen him, and she chirped to her little gray pony to stop.

Then she called, airily:

“If you hide from me, Mr. Grant, you will miss the message I have for you from Violet.”

These words brought him quickly to the side of the phaeton, where he bowed to her, stiffly, for it was their first meeting since the night he had saved Violet from the river, and his heart was hot with resentment over her treachery.

“You have a message for me from Violet?” he cried, eagerly. “Please tell it to me quickly, for my heart is almost broken with suspense over my poor, ill-treated, suffering girl.”