VIOLA’S NEW ROLE.
“The lady whom I spake of rose again
From the red fever’s couch, to careless eyes
Perchance the same as she had ever been;
But, oh, how altered to herself! She felt
That weariness which hath but outward part
In what the world calls pleasure, and that chill
Which makes life taste the bitterness of death.”
Mrs. Maxwell would never forget to her dying day how surprised she was
that bright May afternoon when the elegant Van Lew carriage, with its
liveried coachman, stopped before the cottage gate, while the footman
handed out a graceful figure in deep mourning, who came slowly up the
walk and knocked timidly on the door.
As she gazed from the window, her heart swelled with bitterness toward
the beautiful girl who had been so cruel to poor Rolfe. The memory was
still fresh in her mind of that night when her handsome boy had taken
her into his confidence and told her so sadly that his bride’s father
had persuaded her to forsake him.
“Do not think unkindly of her, dear mother. She was so young and
thoughtless, she scarcely knew her own mind, I suppose, and her haughty
father probably bullied her into giving me up,” he said, touching the
truth nearer than he knew in his anxiety to shield Viola from his
mother’s natural resentment.
Then, despite her opposition to his plans, he had gone away to Cuba,
and she had read in the papers afterward of the dangerous illness
of Viola, but it did not at all soften her heart that was aching in
sympathy with her son’s pain. Though she was one of the best women in
the world, she could not help thinking most bitterly:
“It will be no great loss if she dies, the cruel coquette!”
Then came occasional letters from Rolfe, always full of interest for
her motherly heart, and she was glad that he seemed to have forgotten
in his absorbing work the painful episode of his marriage, since he
never mentioned Viola’s name. She, on her part, preserved the same
silence in her replies, never alluding to the fact that the young girl
lay ill unto death of brain fever.
“Time enough to tell him if she dies!” was her resentful thought, while
she wondered if he would grieve much, for she knew he had given the
fickle girl the wealth of a wonderful love.
“We break the glass whose sacred wine
To some beloved health we drain,
Lest future pledges, less divine,
Should e’er the hallowed toy profane.
And thus I broke a heart that poured
Its tide of feelings out for thee,
In draughts by after-times deplored,
Yet dear to memory.”
Mrs. Maxwell found Mae Sweetland very quiet and apathetic in those days
after Rolfe’s going away, and she was very patient and tender with the
poor girl. She guessed that she was ashamed and repentant over her
violent self-betrayal the night Rolfe brought his bride home, and that
she was trying to tear from her heart its hopeless dream of love.
“Ah, how much better for us all if he had loved sweet Mae, instead of
that proud, fickle beauty, Viola Van Lew!” she thought, with unavailing
regret.
Then came the journalistic triumphs of that beloved son that made his
name a household word, followed so swiftly by the tragedy that left her
childless and alone in the world.
At first she could not believe that her darling was dead. “There must
be some mistake!” she cried, in her terrible agony of bereavement.
Surely the newspapers would begin to deny the story soon, for news from
the seat of war was often unreliable.
And she did not give up looking for a letter from Rolfe; but the
postman on his daily rounds passed the gate each day without a glance
at the tearful face glued to the window-pane, and the long days slipped
away, and there was no official contradiction of the news of Rolfe’s
death, while the newspapers daily filled columns on the atrocities of
his murderer. Then the sensation yielded to another one; the bright
spring days advanced joyfully, as if there were no such things as death
and sorrow in the big, round world; the bare trees put on garbings of
tender, green leaves; the fragrant hyacinths bloomed in the green plat
before the front door, the bereaved mother gave up hope, and permitted
Mae to choose for her some somber mourning gowns.
Only that morning she had had such a start when the postman opened the
gate at last and came in; but it was only a letter for Mae from some of
her distant relatives, inviting her for a visit down into the country.
“You must go, my dear. It will be such a pleasant change for you from
this sorrowful house,” her aunt said.
“And leave you here all alone? That would be cruel!” cried Mae,
generously, though her heart had secretly leaped at the thought of
needed change of scene.
“You shall go, darling, because you need a change so much. Your rosy
cheeks have grown pale, and your bright eyes dim, with confinement
and loneliness,” insisted Mrs. Maxwell; and they were talking it over
that afternoon at the window together when the carriage stopped in the
street and the graceful form in heavy black came in at the gate and up
the narrow walk to the door.
The poor mother caught her breath with a gasp of pain as Mae exclaimed,
bitterly:
“It is poor Rolfe’s widow! How strange that she has put on mourning!
Will you go to the door, aunt? Or shall I?”
She would have wondered yet more at Viola’s wearing black if she had
known what opposition she had had to encounter at home.
Judge Van Lew and Aunt Edwina had both been dead set against it, but
her strong will had carried the day.
They had not dared oppose her too much, for Viola had been so near the
borders of the grave in her month’s illness, and she was still so weak
and nervous they had delayed as long as possible the telling her of
Rolfe Maxwell’s death.
Only two weeks ago they had informed her as cautiously as possible of
the dreadful tragedy of his taking off.
A long swoon had resulted, and they feared at first a relapse into
serious illness.
But in a day or two Viola rallied, though a new expression had come
into her face that startled them with its somber, far-away look. She
did not mention her dead husband’s name, but she insisted on being
fitted out at once in widow’s mourning.
They entreated and expostulated, but Viola insisted all the more
resolutely, and in her weak, nervous state it was dangerous to thwart
her wishes, so she had her way.
“After all, it may be better so,” Mrs. Herman said, soothingly, to the
perturbed judge. “Fortunately, the young man died before you had begun
the action for divorce, so if Viola chooses to enact the part of a
bereaved young widow, it will excite less comment than if she appeared
indifferent and wore no black.”
So, because it seemed the easiest way to prevent talk, Viola was
permitted to take up the role of a grieving young widow, though her
father said, brusquely:
“Viola must be genuinely fond of a sensation, or she would not be
willing to carry out such a farce of mourning for a man she never
pretended to love.”
“It is to punish Desha, perhaps,” returned Mrs. Herman, who had been
taken into the bitter secret of Viola’s wedding-eve; and she added,
thoughtfully: “No one can tell just what is in Viola’s mind. She is
so strange since she heard the news of Maxwell’s death. And really it
would not have been hard to love such a magnificent young man if her
heart had not already been engaged by Desha. I remember, when you first
sent him here, I tried to prevent an interview between them, fearing a
flirtation, she was so giddy.”
“I made a great mistake having him here at all,” groaned the judge.
“But it is too late to repent it now. After all, he was a fine young
fellow, and made himself a splendid fame before he died. One need not
be ashamed of such a son-in-law.”
“No; and we must not be hard on poor Viola,” said the gentle lady.
And as Viola never did things by halves, they were not surprised when
she said frankly one day:
“Papa, I think it is only right that I should make a call on my
mother-in-law. She will feel as if I did not love Rolfe much if I
neglect my duty to her now that he is dead.”
“How superbly she carries out the farce,” he thought; but he did not
express his disapprobation of her wish. He merely said, coldly and
briefly: “Of course you must do as you think best, my dear.”
“Thank you,” she faltered, sensitively, conscious of his disapproval,
but ordering the carriage just the same for that afternoon.