MAX VERNE AT HOME.
“Who thought, that saw the postman pass
That morning on his round,
That in the package tightly clasped
A weight of woe was bound?”
--MRS. M. A. KIDDER.
A handsome, commodious residence set in a smooth green lawn at the
aristocratic west end of Richmond. The closed doors at the top of the
broad marble steps frown on you with all the grimness of a bachelor
establishment; but once within, you pass along a very stately hall,
with ghastly statuary glimmering here and there in niches, and mount
the stairs--two flights of them--and emerge at one end of the upper
regions into a spacious apartment with a skylight set into the top, and
commonly known as “the den.”
The windows are wide open, and all the light and beauty of the summer
morning float into the room deliciously, while audacious bees and
butterflies come roving in with the breeze, and flutter out again
precipitately, alarmed by the sight of various entomological specimens
pinned over the mantel, or enclosed in glass boxes on the shelves,
for Max Verne has gathered a small museum of boyish treasures
here; geological specimens, stuffed birds, imported butterflies,
birds’-nests, autumn leaves, while graceful garlands of silvery gray
moss entwine about dainty bits of woodland pictures and wreathe a small
aquarium that holds a few gold-fish and a water-lily in glorious bloom.
On the top of one tall cabinet is placed a human skull, surveying the
scene with grinning satisfaction. An opposite cabinet, crowded with
scientific works, is surmounted by a phrenological bust in plaster
of Paris. Over the low marble mantel hangs a photograph of Vivian
Leigh, daintily framed in rustic twigs and wood-moss. Beneath it is a
small vase holding a white lily and some sprigs of mignonette, whose
fragrance pleasantly pervades the den.
The owner of this heterogeneous collection of curiosities sits writing
at a rosewood desk, grimly presided over by an owl with great staring
glass eyes.
It is less than a week since he left Leigh Place, but to Max it seems
more than a year.
The olden charm of the “den” has flown.
The volumes rest unopened on the shelves, and the ghastly skeleton
grins incessantly at his despair. The phrenological head is no longer
studied. He is more interested in hearts. The face over the mantel
holds his eyes, absorbs all his thoughts.
“It is no go,” he tells himself, in boyish slang, at last. “I can’t
feel satisfied to let it all end like this. It was such a lovely dream.
I will throw pride to the winds, and write again to little Viva.”
So Max is writing a love-letter in spite of his own pride, in spite of
the sage, whose staring eyes seem to blink disapproval over his desk,
in spite of the grinning skull that laughs at the vanity of human love
and hope.
He bends over his task, the careless locks pushed back from the noble
white brow, a flush on his cheek, a tender light in the earnest eyes as
he pens the impassionate letter. No matter what he writes. I shall not
tell you. We all know what beautiful things First Love writes to its
faultless idol.
Time drags heavily when the tender missive has gone its way. It will
be so long before an answer comes, and he is so impatient. He takes to
furious horseback riding in the interval, and gallops miles over the
Grove Road daily, to the imminent danger of pedestrians on the way. He
takes a new, sweet interest in the prosaic postman on his daily rounds.
And, after all, it is only two days before the reply comes to hand, and
is joyously opened in the sunny precincts of the “den” with a hand that
trembles in spite of “manhood’s iron nerve.” Oh, what has she written?
Surely she will forgive, and “call him back again.”
Her letter is short. It does not cover three sides of the dainty,
satin-smoothed sheet.
But the words burn themselves in on Max Verne’s memory, searing it with
a red-hot iron:
“Your letter received, I wonder how you can presume to write to me.
Never dare to do so again. I scorn the offer of your poor, weak love.
My heart is given to one who knows how to appreciate me rightly,
as your weak, selfish nature never can. This is the last of any
intercourse between us two, and I believe that my father and brother
have no wish to continue acquaintance with one who is capable of such
discourtesy to a lady. VIVIAN LEIGH.”
That is all, and the dainty sheet falls from his hands, he folds his
arms on the desk, and lays down his bonny head upon them in awful
silence.
Minutes, nay hours, of the summer afternoon go by unheeded.
The strong, manly form bowed there on the desk is still as death--never
stirs save now and then when the light breeze rustles the letter that
has fallen at his feet. Then he shudders all over, as if some icy hand
had clutched him.
The purple dusk is falling when Max rises and shakes himself out of
that cramped position.
His face is very pale, his step a trifle heavy as he takes several
dejected turns across the room. Pausing before the mantel, with the
muttered word “adieu,” he turns the girl’s fair face to the wall, then
picks up the letter, holding it a moment shudderingly in his hand.
Then he strides across the room, crumples the letter tightly into the
hollow of his hand, then crams it into the cavity of the hideous skull,
turning away with a hollow, mirthless laugh.
Just then the tea-bell rings down stairs, startling him to the
consciousness of sublunary things.
People must eat and drink three times a day, no matter how tragical
life may be, and Max’s bachelor uncle loves punctuality. He descends,
and they meet at table--a taciturn pair--and the housekeeper’s curious
eyes notice that both look strange. Max is pale and unlike himself. His
uncle looks flustered, embarrassed, full of a shy consciousness. He
starts violently when Max asks for a few moments’ conversation in the
library.
“Certainly, certainly, my dear boy. I was about to propose that very
thing.”
They pass down the wide hall together, and the heavy door closes behind
them, while the old housekeeper shakes her head despondently.