THE VIOLET GIRL
In spite of laughter the Army obeyed the command with gratifying
promptness. They stood up, saluted; remained standing. Every pair of
bright eyes was fixed on General Dean. Only one pair, however, betrayed
curious speculation. Their owner had suddenly become canny. Miss Susanna
decided the conspiracy was not against Mr. Dean, since he appeared to
head it. Captain looked as though she knew all about it, too. The old
lady concluded with affectionate vexation that it must be against
herself.
General Dean had returned the salute. While the Army still remained at
standing he went over to the Christmas tree and took from it a large,
oval, canvas-wrapped object. He loosened the canvas wrapping, but did
not remove it. Then he came forward with it and took up a position still
well away from Miss Hamilton, but exactly opposite her.
As he faced the sturdy little figure in the chaise lounge his levity
dropped from him. “Miss Susanna, the Eleven Travelers wish you a very
merry Christmas,” he said, his tone impressive in its pleasant
sincerity. “They have traveled far and wide in the country of College to
find a fitting expression of their love for you. They now feel sure they
have found the one thing under the sun which will please you most.”
A sudden swift movement of one hand and the enveloping canvas fell from
the oval, plain gold setting of a portrait. Life size and wonderful from
out of the oval frame smiled a lovely, familiar face. There was a
life-like quality about the portrait of the beautiful girl in the
violet-shaded evening frock, with the huge bunch of purple English
violets pinned to the waist of her gown. It was so utterly natural as to
wring a sharp emotional little “Ah-h-h!” from Miss Susanna. It claimed a
united breath of admiration from the others as well.
“I’m going to—to—cry, Marvelous Manager,” quavered Miss Susanna. “I
don’t—want—to—”
“Cry right on Marjorie’s shoulder.” Marjorie cuddled the old lady’s head
against her breast. “Only I’d rather you laugh.”
“I shall weep myself. Now I know why General set me foreninst Miss
Susanna,” Leila grew unduly Irish. “Now for my tears, and I know I can
weep the loudest.” She sent out a sudden melancholy banshee wail that
raised a shout from the Army and sent Miss Susanna into wild, hysterical
mirth.
“Start something jolly and keep it going,” counseled Jerry of the other
girls. “We won’t give her a minute’s chance to be sad and splashy over
beloved Bean’s beloved portrait.”
She stretched out a hand to Ronny, who took it and offered Muriel her
free one. Next minute she had gathered up Mrs. Dean, Helen, Lucy, Robin
and Kathie. They took hands and pranced about in front of the chaise
lounge. Jerry led them vocally, loudly and a trifle off key with: “Come
choose your east; come choose your west. These are the three we all love
best.” The dancers were soon singing it at top voice.
General Dean, not to be outdone, hospitably formed another prancing
little circle with Hal, Charlie and Delia, which gyrated so rapidly
despite Delia’s giggling protests, and executed such quaint pas-seuls as
to turn what might have been a tearful moment into one of wild hilarity.
“No, I couldn’t cry to save me,” Miss Hamilton presently declared. “I’m
glad of it. I hate tears as much as a man hates to see them. I shall
love my violet girl every day in the year, and hang her in my room where
I can see her first thing in the morning; last thing at night. It is a
magnificent study, child. Who painted it? When did you ever have time to
sit for it?” The old lady showed decided curiosity upon this point.
“I posed for it at the beach last summer, Miss Susanna. The Travelers
thought you might like it best of anything we could choose. It was
Leila’s idea. We planned it at Commencement. Raoul Verlaine, a friend of
the General’s, painted it. He is famed for portraits. He was in Sanford
after I came back from Hamilton in the late summer. I gave him the last
sittings then. That’s all.” Marjorie paused, overtaken by the sense of
embarrassment which visited her whenever she stopped to realize that she
had figured as the central object in the affair.
Placed upon a light easel which had held the portrait since completion,
the party of friends gathered around it to admire afresh both the work
and subject. Marjorie, overwhelmed by her own importance, left Miss
Susanna’s side and slipped from the room. She went into the living room,
and, standing at a window, looked out happily. She was glad to forget
herself in a rapt contemplation of the wide snow-covered lawn, the tall
bare trees, the deserted pagoda; all her treasures of home. She thought
Miss Susanna could not love Hamilton Arms better than she loved her own
Castle Dean.
Reminded that the tree was yet to be stripped of its Christmas bloom,
she turned from the window to go back to the merry, buzzing company in
the drawing room. She slipped back into the room as quietly as she had
left it. General was calling for attention and making ready to bestir
himself as a kind of military Santa Claus.
On the way across the room to her father, who was standing near the
tree, Marjorie’s eyes came to rest on Hal. He and Charlie Stevens were
standing back from the portrait in an interested viewing of it. Charlie
was talking animatedly and gesturing like a foreigner. Hal was listening
with apparent gravity. In his face, as he viewed the portrait, was an
expression of repression that cut Marjorie to the heart. It was the look
of a man, smiling under torture. She came into a new and depressing
understanding of the depth of Hal’s love for her.
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