Chapter VI: Vivian “is Sorry.”

“If I had known in the morning
How wearily all the day,
The words unkind would trouble my mind.
That I said when you went away;
I had been more careful, darling,
Nor given you heedless pain;
But we vex our own with look and tone
We may never take back again!”

“How cool and comfortable you look, madam. May I come in and talk to you awhile?”

It is almost a week since the Kingsleys came, and Vivian is hesitating at the door of the large, bright school-room, where Madame Orne sits alone, leisurely cutting the leaves of a new magazine. She lifts a smiling face at Vivian’s question--a very young face, too--and answers fondly:

“Certainly, dear. It is a pleasure to see your bright face in our sanctum again.”

“The girls have gone to their rooms to dress for the evening. I must go, too, presently--but--I wanted to speak to you first.”

Coming nearer, suddenly, she falls on her knees and hides her face on the lady’s lap, her voice breaking in a pathetic sob.

The lady smooths the silky head with a loving hand.

“Ah, my love, I understand,” she murmurs. “You are sorry. You have repented your unkindness to Max.”

“Yes, oh, yes. I was hasty and unreasonable. Even Charlton says I was in the wrong. I want Max to know that I am sorry--that I did not mean the unkind words I said in my sudden anger and pain.”

“Has he written, Viva?”

“Only a note.”

She puts it shyly in the governess’ hand, sobbing hysterically as she reads it.

“You have not answered it, dear?” gently.

“No, I was so angry at first I never meant to. But I cannot bear it any longer. I am miserable!”

“Then you will write and tell him so, Viva--you will recall him to your side? Poor boy, he will be so happy when he gets your letter.”

“He will never come unless I write?” pride struggling with her love.

“No, I think not. You have wounded him so bitterly that you owe him a very contrite apology.”

“Then I will write,” she murmurs. “Dear old Max--so true, so kind--we will not be parted by such a trifle.”

“That is my sweet, brave Viva!” The fair, sweet face, so young still, though older and sadder than Viva’s, and bearing too plainly the impress of a heavy sorrow, bends down, and her lips press the white brow.

“Write now, before you change your mind,” she urges tenderly.

She obeys; she writes:

“DEAR MAX:--I am very, very sorry for my rudeness that night. I did
not mean one word of it. Won’t you forgive and forget my fault, and
come back to us? We miss you more and more.

Your little friend, VIVA.”

Some one flutters in as she bends over her desk addressing the letter, and looking over her shoulder, reads aloud:

“Dr. Max Verne, Richmond, Virginia.”

It is Eve, with Mr. Essex following, and she says maliciously:

“We did not know you were writing to Max, or we would not have come in. But we want you to walk down to the river with us.”

“I am engaged,” Vivian answers brusquely, tossing her letter into the desk and slamming the lid down with a bang. “I must go and dress.” She flirts out angrily, leaving the meddlesome pair to the mercies of Madame Orne.

That lady takes up her book, ignoring them so entirely that they have no alternative but to beat a hasty retreat from the field.