Sweet Violet

Amber could not understand the uneasy thrill that went through her at the mention of this stranger wanting to see the judge. She sank almost terrified into a chair, while the old man went to the hall-door to receive the visitor.

Yet there was nothing unusual about the matter, nothing that could possibly affect her, she thought over and over, to allay her strange excitement; but when her grandfather returned, she sprang up, pale and trembling, dreading she knew not what.

But he spoke very quietly:

“Amber, I am summoned to the bedside of a sick friend in Washington, and shall start at once. If I do not return until to-morrow, you need not be alarmed, as I may be obliged to remain even longer. Good-by,” and he bustled away, leaving her to the company of her own thoughts.

On the whole, she was relieved. A sick friend did not matter. She was rather glad to have him out of the way so that she might visit oftener at Bonnycastle without fear of detection.

She was eager to force Cecil into a declaration, although she could not yet see how she was going to bring the old judge to consent to the marriage. She did not wish to run the risk of offending him and losing her chance of inheriting his money, but she was determined to have Cecil, and trusted in her usual good luck to bring matters about as she desired.

Her thoughts followed Cecil longingly on his way back to Bonnycastle, and she smiled as she thought how Mrs. Grant would rejoice at the news that the debt on Bonnycastle was paid, and she would not be ousted from the home she loved so dearly.

“Ah,” thought Amber, in triumph, “she will be very grateful to me, and of course she will be forever sounding my praises in Cecil’s ears. Surely then his heart will turn to me!”

She forgot the perversity of love that has puzzled all the wise ones of the earth—forgot that love exists like jealousy—

Cecil Grant might marry Amber through gratitude for her seeming kindness, but the feeling would be far different from the passion he felt for his only love, sweet Violet—the passion that lived in his heart despite her desertion:

Amber could not believe in the constancy of Cecil’s love for Violet now that he believed her false and fickle. She was wildly determined to push this love from his breast by the force of her own will.

She hurried over to Bonnycastle the next morning and succeeded in her design of intercepting Cecil on his way to town as he walked along the bank by the murmuring river that always seemed to whisper to him of Violet, his fair, lost love.

It was a chilly morning in November. The frost-blighted willows drooped forlornly over the stream, and the lonely path was strewn with dead leaves that rustled to the tread.

When Cecil saw Amber coming toward him, he reproached himself for the feeling of regret that arose in his heart at the meeting with the brilliant beauty whose eyes beamed so joyously at his approach. He knew, although he despised himself for the instinctive thought, that she had come out purposely to intercept him on the way to the office.

“Good-morning,” she cried, pausing before him, with a bewitching smile. “I am glad I met you. I have a letter from our naughty Violet.”

“Indeed!” and Cecil grew paler, and would have passed on, but she detained him.

“Yes, it came this morning. They have arrived in Chicago, and she is delighted with her magnificent new home. She says she will be a social queen by reason of her husband’s wealth, and declares she is glad she married him instead of you. I am ashamed of her, the fickle, heartless girl! She even twitted me on my old love for you, and suggested that perhaps now she had proved faithless, I might win you back to your old allegiance.”

Stung by Violet’s heartlessness, he cried, warmly:

“Ah, would that I had never wandered from that first allegiance, and wounded your true heart, dear Amber.”

“Cecil! oh, Cecil!” she cried, with a melting glance that encouraged him to add:

“Is it too late to go back, Amber?”