OUIDA’S WELCOME VISITORS.
Mr. Connors, while awaiting Doane’s departure from the house of Ouida,
happened, accidentally, to brush into Olivia Winters.
“My friend, the politician,” she said, shaking hands. “I am glad to see
you.”
“I echo the sentiment,” he said. “Where have you been? I missed you
lately from your usual haunts.”
“The Tattler knows me no more. I have a magazine of my own.”
“And doing well, I sincerely hope,” remarked Mr. Connors.
“Largely experimental yet,” said Olivia. “I fear I shall have to
educate the public up to the point of appreciating fearlessness. I am
the freest lance today in the whole of New York.”
“I am glad of it,” said the politician. “Society needs a mirror in
whose sharp reflection it may know itself.”
“People at first,” said Olivia, “were pleased, then amazed; now they
are mad. But they read every line, and from the remonstrances I note in
other quarters, I am satisfied that my object is being accomplished.”
“Where are you going?” said he. “May I accompany you, so that we may
finish this delightful chat? You attract me. Now don’t imagine I am
paying you some silly compliment. We both know too much for that. But
there is something exceedingly refreshing in your society, especially
for one who, like me, has run the gauntlet of ambition and emotion.”
“One good turn deserves another,” remarked his companion. “I frankly
admit that your society is agreeable to me. While you are a politician,
you never fail to admit the truth. But I cannot let you go with me. I
am on a mission of mercy.”
“That spoils all of good you previously said,” insisted Connors. “Do
you think that in the whirl of politics, I have lost all heart, and so
am unfitted to be your companion, upon a deed of goodness?”
“No, I do not think so ill of you, but I am going to see one whom we
both knew when the world was at her feet. To see us together might
bring deeper pain to her troubled soul.”
“Your mission,” he said, with deep interest, “is no secret to me. I am
here on the same errand. I just met Doane, who was bent on visiting
her, with the idea of vengeance.”
“Then you may go with me,” she assented, “and perhaps together we may
smooth over the roughness of Doane’s contemptible behavior. But you
must agree in advance to back up all I say. Come, we will go together.”
As they approached the house of Ouida, Connors began to think very
seriously that Olivia would make a charming life companion, and
resolved, then and there, to further cultivate so sweet and strong a
personality.
They entered the lodging together, and were more than cordially greeted
by Ouida and Horatio.
“Welcome to you both,” said Ouida, “and you especially, Olivia, for
you are one of the only two women in New York whose hand I clasp in
friendship.”
“This is indeed good of both of you,” said Horatio.
“And I offer you both my complete attachment,” said Mr. Connors.
“In affluence,” said Ouida, “we would not have prided ourselves in the
devotion of kings. Today, when stripped of all, save humiliation, your
proffer is a consolation preciously dear.”
“Would to heaven, my dear Ouida,” fervently said Olivia, “that I could
impregnate you with some of the bubbling pleasures of my life.”
“Too late,” said Nugent, “we ourselves have spun a web of fate, that
fast imprisons us. We cannot break the chain.”
“You must not say that,” said Connors. “There is no mistake beyond
retrieving.”
“Pardon me,” said Ouida, with a slight impatience, “I have no faith in
such a sentiment. You, who have won the fight, forget the weary rounds
of ambition’s ladder.”
“Yes,” said Nugent, in echo of Ouida’s thought, “we do not bare our
souls to the insane multitude, but to you, dear friends, we say, that
we feel that further effort to rise from out the pit, is vain.”
“May I change the subject?” said Olivia.
“You certainly have my permission,” said Ouida.
“I met young Wald, the sculptor, a few days ago, and he inquired as to
your whereabouts. I evaded him, but he strongly hinted that discovery
of you by him would be to your advantage.”
“The dishonest wretch!” exclaimed Ouida, angrily, “what do you think he
would have had me do?”
“I don’t know, but I have had a very poor opinion of him ever since I
knew that his father paid Doane $5,000 for a flattering critique of his
‘Goddess of Progress,’ a thing of no real merit. But what did he want
of you?”
“To create, model, carve, and in his name.”
“I had no idea,” said Connors, “that there was such corruption in art
circles. It is needless for us to ask your answer.”
“We have sunk,” said Nugent, “to what you behold, but Ouida and I will
cut our throats, ere she shall thus prostitute her divine genius.”
“May we not help you in some way?” said Olivia.
“Not with ostentation,” quickly spoke up Connors. “Not even for
yourselves, if you will have it so, but for the world, that should not
be deprived of Ouida’s masterly creations.”
At this, Ouida wept, nor was she ashamed of her tears.
“I have not heretofore, through all my misery, shed a single tear,”
said Ouida, “till this delicate offer of your sweet sympathy, and yet I
cannot allow you to interfere with fate.”
“I have withstood the bitter hate of men,” said Nugent, “nor trembled
once, but your kindness makes me weak, like a child. Do not be
offended, but I must leave you. You will excuse me?”
“Yes,” said Connors, “if you so desire.”
“Kind friends,” said Ouida, “take your leave now. Your visit has left a
ray of sunshine, which Horatio and I will bask in long after you wend
your way from this place, out into the busy world. Leave us alone, to
work out our own salvation.”
“Will you, dearest Ouida,” pleaded Olivia, “thus drive forth two
earnest, loving friends, who desire no higher privilege than to stand
by your side?”
“Yes, my dear Ouida,” said Connors, “I am not without some power. The
strongest effort of my life is yours, absolutely, to command.”
“No, friends, go your way. With ourselves alone we must conduct this
mighty strife. If we should fail, all I ask is that, when we have
shuffled off this mortal coil, paint us as we really were, not as
biting tongues, tinged with malice, have told the story of our sin.”
“Come, Mr. Connors,” said Olivia, “it would be sinful, upon the rough
rack of this world, to longer vex the proud spirit of our friends.”
“Good-bye, dear friends,” said Connors, almost with affection, “and as
we say au revoir, let me breathe the earnest prayer, that the Supreme
Intelligence will lift you out of the valley of the shadow of grief, so
that from the hill tops, you may behold the dawn of a new and nobler
life.”
They left Ouida together, admiring, yet regretting, that marble pride
which prevented Ouida from accepting their proffered sympathy and aid.
But a contemplation of the history of Ouida and Horatio, drew them
closer together, though no word of love was spoken between the two.
Their mutual interest in the fate of their friends provided a bond of
sympathy between the two, that bid fair to develop into a deeper and
holier connection.