VIOLA’S VINDICATION.
“What lacks my heart, what makes it
So weary and full of pain?
That trembling hope forsakes it
Never to come again!
Only another heart,
Tender and all mine own,
In the still grave it lies;
I weep alone!”
“Shall you go to the door, aunt, or shall I?” repeated Mae Sweetland,
with a stifled heart-pang in her musical voice, the sight of Viola had
awakened so bitterly the memory of the night when she had first entered
the cottage as Rolfe’s bride, bringing woe and desolation in her train.
“Oh, I do not wish to see her! I--I hate the sight of the beautiful
face that drove poor Rolfe mad and sent him to his death!” groaned the
bereaved mother.
“Then I will go and send her away,” Mae cried quickly, rising to her
feet and moving unhindered to the door.
Another moment and the beautiful rivals stood face to face, but both
changed and saddened since that night when they had so balefully
crossed each other’s lives.
Viola flung back the somber folds of crape, and her face, pale and pure
as carved pearl, framed in short curls of the silken hair ruthlessly
shorn in the cruel fever, beamed on Mae with a plaintive smile as she
asked:
“Do you remember me? I have come to see you and Mrs. Maxwell.”
“How ill and changed she looks! Did she love Rolfe after all?” thought
Mae; but aloud she answered, coldly: “Yes, I remember you, but we--that
is, my aunt--begs to be excused.”
“Do you mean that she will not see me?” Viola cried, apprehensively,
the color flushing through her pale, transparent face like light within
a crystal globe.
“She will not see you, because you were cruel to our poor Rolfe,” Mae
returned, indignantly, her soft blue eyes beginning to flash and glow.
Viola recoiled as if the angry girl had struck her a blow, her face
paling, great burning tears flashing into her dark, somber eyes, her
voice trembling as she faltered:
“Oh, she must not refuse me! I must see her, if only once! I promised
him, and I must keep my word!”
Pushing Mae aside in her pretty, imperious fashion, Viola glided
into the hall and into the presence of the sobbing woman drooping so
forlornly in her arm-chair.
“Mother--mother!” she cried, kneeling down impetuously by her side,
winding her arms about the mourner, and laying her weary head on her
breast.
And Mae, coming in presently in a dazed fashion, found them mingling
their tears together.
She sat down helplessly a little apart, and began to weep, in a
pitiful, noiseless way. She could not help it, her heart was so full
with the thought of Rolfe, slain so cruelly in the splendor of his
youth.
Viola, when she could find her voice, sobbed, plaintively:
“Why are you so angry with me still? Have you never forgiven me
yet--you and Mae--because Rolfe loved me and made me his bride?”
The mother checked her sobs and sighed in answer:
“We could have forgiven you anything except that you did not love him
in return, and were cruel to my noble boy!”
“Cruel--cruel!” cried Viola, in passionate agitation. “Who could be
more cruel than Rolfe himself, going away from me--his wife--into
exile, peril, and danger--and not even coming to bid me good-bye--never
writing me one word while I lay ill on the very borders of death!”
They gazed at her in astonishment, the mature woman and the fair young
girl, who exclaimed, indignantly:
“Why should Rolfe write to you when you had cast him off? When you
refused to see him when he came to your father’s house to bid you
farewell? When you sent him word by your father that you regretted the
marriage and should sue for a divorce?”
Viola dragged herself up from her knees and sank uninvited into a
chair, turning her pale, startled face upon the resentful speaker, who
continued, angrily:
“Why should you come here and force yourself upon us when we hate you
for your cruelty to our poor Rolfe?”
“Yes, why?” echoed Mrs. Maxwell, dully.
Viola cried out in a strained voice:
“But you accuse me falsely! I did not refuse to see Rolfe. I did not
know he came that night to my father’s house. I never sent him the
cruel messages you repeat, for I had no other thought than to be his
true and faithful wife whenever he claimed me, so help me Heaven!”
They saw all in a minute how cruelly Rolfe had been deceived and sent
away with a broken heart.
Viola had not been false and fickle, as they believed, but the victim
of an angry father’s plot to separate her from her husband--a plot that
had succeeded all too well.
Rolfe lay in his untimely grave, and as for her, they read on her
wasted features and in her despairing eyes the story of a late remorse
more bitter than death.
“I understand everything now,” she added, faintly. “We were the victims
of an angry father’s despotic will. A prisoner in my own home, I never
knew of my husband’s call that night, nor of the cruel falsehoods he
was told. No wonder he never wrote to me. Oh, God! how bitter to think
he died believing me ungrateful and untrue. Pray Heaven, he knows
better now!” and she buried her face in her hands, her slight form
shaking with emotion.
At that moving sight Mae’s gentle heart began to melt with pity and
forgiveness. She hesitated a moment, then rushed to Viola’s side and
clasped her white arms around her neck.
“We have wronged you--forgive us!” she cried, impulsively; and they
clasped each other and wept together, jealous rivals no longer, but
loving friends.
“Mother, I knew something must be wrong, or you would have come to see
me while I lay ill so long. I suspected papa, because he had been so
angry over my marriage, so I decided to come and see you. And, oh, how
glad I am that I would not take Mae’s dismissal, but forced my way to
your presence! Will it not be some comfort to you to know that I was
true to Rolfe?” Viola said, presently, thinking--oh, so tenderly!--of
Rolfe’s plaintive letter, in which he had begged her to keep up a
little pretense of caring for him, just for his mother’s sake, that she
might be less unhappy when he was gone.
In his humility he had not guessed that Viola would not need to
pretend, since unconscious love had already taken deep root in her
grateful heart.
Yes, it made Mrs. Maxwell much happier to understand that Viola had
really cared for Rolfe. She did not deny it, and her heart warmed to
the sorrowful young widow.
“We must always be dear friends now. Will you both come and see me
sometimes?” said Viola.
But Mrs. Maxwell’s face hardened as she answered:
“We could not come under the roof of the man who wronged Rolfe and sent
him away so unhappy to his untimely death, dear Viola. Why, only think,
my daughter; if he had permitted your husband an interview with you
that night, you two might have come to an understanding, and he might
never have gone away. I hope I am a good Christian, but I am not able
to forgive your father yet for his sin.”
Viola could not blame her for her bitterness, since her own heart was
hot with anger against the author of her woe.
“You are right; but I shall come and see you often, and you shall tell
me stories of Rolfe. I shall want to hear all about him from his very
babyhood,” she said, earnestly; adding, with a sudden blush: “And I
wish above all things for a good picture of him. Can you give me one?”
“Gladly,” was the answer; and an album was brought out containing
pictures of Rolfe from infancy to manhood.
Amid raining tears Viola made a selection, then rose to go, begging Mae
to accompany her for a short drive.
The young girl hesitated, then looked inquiringly at her aunt.
“Go, dear; it will do you good,” Mrs. Maxwell answered, encouragingly,
for Viola’s fascination had already fallen over both. She was queen of
hearts still, in all her woe.
Mae hurried to her chamber, and quickly returned in a dark-blue gown
wondrously becoming to her delicate blonde beauty and the rich sheen of
her golden hair under the nodding black plumes of her hat.
“How lovely you are, sweet cousin!” cried Viola, wondering how Rolfe’s
heart had been proof against such beauty and sweetness.
Kissing Mrs. Maxwell a loving adieu, Viola returned to the carriage
with lovely Mae, and gave the order:
“Drive at once to the studio of Mr. Florian Gay.”