Sweet Violet

“If I could only see my darling Cecil, for even one short hour!” Violet sighed, day after day.

It was so lonely in her chamber, which Judge Camden would not permit her to leave, and where no one was allowed to visit her except Amber and Mrs. Shirley.

“I am quite well enough to go down stairs now,” she insisted, impatiently, to Mrs. Shirley every day, but the meek little widow shook her head and sighed:

“Your grandfather thinks differently, my dear, and of course that settles the matter.”

It certainly settled it as far as Mrs. Shirley was concerned, for she was the meek slave of the irascible old man, and lived in a chronic state of fear lest she should offend him and be sent away from Golden Willows in disgrace.

When he took her to bring up his two orphan granddaughters, he had rescued her from a life of grinding poverty and toil, the needle her only defense against hunger and privation. As she was not aggressive nor high-spirited, she preferred to endure all the caprices and ill-humor of her benefactor rather than lose her luxurious home. She did not dare oppose the tyrant in the slightest thing. His will was her law.

So Violet could not expect any help from Cousin Shirley, as they called her, her relationship being vague and distant, and her interests being centered in the preservation of her own selfish comfort in accordance with the first law of nature.

Yet Mrs. Shirley was not cruel or unkind. She was only the slave of circumstance, as we all are in a great degree.

There is no help or hope for poor Violet in that household, where her tyrannical old grandfather held the balance of power.

And she knew that quiet preparations for her marriage were going steadily forward, and that Harold Castello was expected to arrive in three days more.

She began to grow doubtful and frightened, to wonder if they really had the power to force her into a marriage against her will, to dwell feverishly on the thought of escape.

But where could she go that her grandfather, her legal guardian, could not force her to return to his protection? The protection of the wolf for the lamb, she thought, despairingly.

The only gleam of brightness in her life was when Amber brought the daily letter from Cecil, the fond, loving letters, counseling courage and patience, and assuring her that, no matter how much the judge might bluster, he could not marry her to Harold Castello without her consent.

Cecil did not really know how wicked and cruel the old man could be. Violet had kept from him, in very shame, the knowledge of the cruel blow that had caused her almost fatal illness.

She could not bring herself to confide the humiliating story to her noble lover, but she knew well that he did not fully realize the perils by which she was surrounded.

“Only to see him, if but for one short hour!” was the yearning cry of her anguished heart. It seemed as if one look into his beautiful, brave, dark eyes, one clasp of his strong white hand, would endow her with new life and hope.

In her despair, she turned to Amber, crying:

“Oh, Amber, you are so good, so clever, do think of some plan to let me see my darling Cecil, if only for one short hour!”

Amber smiled, gayly, as she answered:

“Those are almost the very same words that Cecil said to me about you this morning, and I have been racking my brain to invent a plan, for, oh! I feel so sorry for you both!”

“You are so good, Amber. I can never thank you enough. Oh, may Heaven soon send you a lover as noble and handsome as my Cecil!”

“You have wished that before, Violet,” laughed Amber.

“And I could not make a better wish for you, dear; for I believe that love is the sweetest thing in life.”

“And the bitterest when unrequited,” Amber answered, in so harsh a tone that Violet started in affright and cried out:

“Oh, I—I forgot! You—you once loved—Cecil, very dearly! But oh, I think, I hope, you have got over it, dear Amber, have you not?”

“Oh, yes, of course, Violet! It is so easy to get over a slighted love, you know,” laughed Amber, with a bitterness she could scarcely conceal, while to her throbbing heart she cried:

“How I will torture pretty golden-haired Violet for those words some day! I will pay her back pang for pang all the pain that I have suffered.”

And she was willing to give her some little happiness now, because in the future Violet would feel the contrast more keenly between fleeting bliss and endless despair.

So she brought the love-letters to and fro, getting her own reward in the fetters of gratitude that she was winding around Cecil’s heart, and she even planned a meeting for the lovers.

That beautiful September day, when the air was so still, so balmy and sweet, and the leaves just beginning to turn crimson in the woods, she came smiling into Violet’s room, exclaiming:

“I have tormented grandpapa until he has granted my wish, and you will be allowed to go with me for a drive this afternoon. What do you think of that for a victory, little Violet?”