Not that Desha suspected Florian’s share in humiliating Viola upon her wedding-eve. He would have despised his old friend had he suspected the truth, the same as he despised himself for the folly of an hour by which he had sundered himself from Viola forever, repenting when all too late to atone, saying to himself: “It was for my sake she forgot Florian, for love of me she sinned against my friend. It was not for me to punish her but rather to forgive.” And through the long unhappy night, when he paced the floor of his room, restless and remorseful, the white, stricken face of Viola, as it looked when he had upbraided her so harshly, rose before him like an accusing spirit, until at length love conquered everything, and seizing a pen, he wrote to her eloquently of his forgiveness and repentance, urging her to forget last night and let the marriage go on according to arrangement. He sent the letter at early dawn, believing and hoping that all would be well; but when a short while later he opened a damp copy of the morning paper and read her marriage notice with its glaring head-lines, it seemed to him as if he should go mad. He shut himself into his room, raging with pain and humiliation that would have touched Viola’s heart could she have known it, bitterly as she had longed for such a result. It was true that he had told her she might tell the world she had jilted him, but he had scarcely expected to be taken at his word so literally as this, having the keen pain of jealousy of his fortunate rival mixed with the bitter pang of loss. For awhile he felt as if he could never open that closed door again and go out to face the gibing world, secretly laughing at his humiliation by the beautiful, saucy coquette. Then his native manliness came to his aid, helped by sudden hot resentment against the girl who had used him so mercilessly in her desire for revenge. He vowed that he would tear her from his heart, that no weak woman, slight and frail, with no weapon but beauty, should spoil the bright promise of his life with vain regrets gnawing at his heart like canker in a rose. “Am I mad that I should cherish That which leaves but bitter fruit? I will pluck it from my bosom, Though my heart be at the root! “Weakness to be wroth with weakness! Woman’s pleasure, woman’s pain-- Nature made them blinder motions, Bounded in a shallower brain. “Where is comfort? In division Of the records of the mind? Can I part her from herself And love her, as I knew her kind? “Can I think of her as dead, And love her for the love she bore? No; she never loved me truly, Love is love for evermore!”