THE PORTRAIT.
Viola’s physician had said that she must have change of scene, and at
first she had rebelled, preferring to remain at home and brood over her
troubles.
But with the lapse of time she began to see that it would be wiser to
go away.
As soon as she became convalescent, her social world turned out _en
masse_ to make calls of condolence on the lovely young widow.
From a few she met real sympathy, from the many that veiled curiosity
that drives one frantic.
She could guess but too easily how they wondered and gossiped over
her affairs, blaming her for jilting Desha, asking each other what
sensational freak she would indulge in next.
It was torture to the sensitive girl, who looked back with keen regret
to those thoughtless days when she had played with men’s hearts as
toys, never stopping to think until brought to bay by her father’s
reprimand and the terrible affair of young Merrington.
When Viola thought of that, and how narrowly she had escaped life-long
remorse at his death, she always shuddered with fear and renewed her
vows never to flirt again.
But the carping world could not guess at her remorse and penitence,
and she knew well that hard things were whispered of her on the sly,
even while the speakers smiled their sweetest, pretending friendship of
which they were incapable.
Ah, how cold and hollow is the world, and how little truth is found
in the human heart!--just here and there one pure, white, noble soul,
disdaining every petty meanness, lonely on earth because its mates are
so few.
“Ah, the bewildering masquerade of Life,
Where strangers walk as friends and friends as strangers;
Where whispers overheard betray false hearts,
And through the mazes of the crowd we chase
Some form of loveliness that smiles and beckons,
And cheats us with fair words, only to leave us,
A mockery and a jest, maddened, confused,
Not knowing friend from foe.”
Viola grew frantic with secret impatience of her life. She decided to
fly from her embarrassments by seeking change of scene, as advised by
the thoughtful physician.
A trip to the South was at first projected, but suddenly Viola changed
her mind and decided to go abroad. She wanted to put the whole width of
the ocean between herself and every haunting reminder of the past.
She asked her father if he could accompany her; but he frankly said
that nothing was more impossible, although nothing would have pleased
him better.
“You see, my dear, I can not desert my post,” he explained. “This year
of 1896 will witness the presidential campaign, and I must be, as
ever, in the thick of the political fight. My party will need me, and I
must remain at the post of duty, much as I would love to accompany you.
Can you not make the tour chaperoned by your aunt and a maid?”
Mrs. Herman, who was timid and nervous, cried out in alarm that she
would as soon be asked to cross the river of Styx as the dangerous
Atlantic. No, no; Viola must take some one else. She was getting too
old to go junketing about the world, and would rather stay at home and
keep her brother comfortable.
Viola was discomfited at first, then a bright thought flashed into her
mind.
“Why, there is Mrs. Maxwell!” she cried. “The dear old lady is quite
alone in her little cottage, because Mae went away yesterday to make a
long visit to some country relations.”
Judge Van Lew answered quite affably:
“Take Mrs. Maxwell, if you choose, my dear. It would be a very proper
arrangement.”
And when Viola went to see about it she did not find her hard to
persuade, she had such pleasant recollections of two previous journeys
across the ocean in better days.
“One was my bridal trip, dear, and the other when Rolfe was fifteen
years old. Ah, how my poor boy enjoyed that summer abroad!” she sighed,
wiping away the quick, starting tears.
Viola wept, too, in sympathy, and said, tenderly:
“We will visit all the places he liked best, and you shall tell me all
he said and did there. It will be like getting better acquainted with
my husband, whom I knew such a little while.”
It was setting a pleasant task for the bereaved mother, this rehearsing
the past sayings and doings of her beloved dead. Such stories as she
could tell Viola of Rolfe’s bright ways, his manliness, his tenderness,
his bravery, were enough to thrill any woman’s heart, and Viola grew to
know him well, now he was gone, and the aching cry of her heart grew
more intense with time:
“Could ye come back to me, Douglas, Douglas!”
In the golden May-time they journeyed across the ocean, leaving the
little cottage boarded up and deserted, so that weeks later, when the
postman opened the gate with a letter that would have brought gladness
to the mourner’s heart, there was no one to receive it, and the
neighbors said Mrs. Maxwell had gone away weeks before, and they did
not know her address.
The postman sent the letter to the Dead Letter Office, marked “Can not
be found,” and several bulky ones that followed it shared the same
fate, until by autumn they ceased to come, the writer evidently giving
up in despair. It could not have been Mae Sweetland, for she knew that
her aunt was in Europe, and kept up an animated correspondence with her
and Viola, so it was quite a mystery who could have been sending those
letters to Mrs. Maxwell.
To pretty Mae Sweetland Viola had intrusted the task of seeing now and
then after the progress of Rolfe’s portrait; for, as she assured Mae,
the artist was very indolent, and would never apply himself to the
task unless goaded to it by pertinacious attention.
So now and then Mae came up to Washington with her cousins on little
pleasure trips, and they always invaded Florian’s studio, sometimes
finding him there, but oftener out, for he worked but seldom, since the
prize for which he consented to paint the portrait, the hope of Viola’s
occasional visits, was denied by her lengthened absence.
He had thought she would be coming every week to see how his work
progressed, and that they would gradually return to the footing of the
dear old days before he had been forced away from his fickle betrothed,
leaving her to forget him in the fascinations of an unsuspected rival.
Florian thought he would have an easy task ousting Desha from her
heart, and that they would mutually forgive each other, and marry
happily after all their ups and downs; but things looked different
somehow when he learned that she was sailing for Europe for an
indefinite stay, and had deputed to that golden-haired fairy, Miss
Sweetland, the task of watching the progress of Rolfe’s portrait.
Mae was very shy, and she dreaded the visits to the handsome artist,
who at first was rather curt and indifferent in his disappointment over
Viola, and made careless excuses for not having begun the portrait when
Mae made her third call in the month of July.
“Too hot to work now. I’ve concluded not to begin till fall,” he said;
then started as he saw quick tears sparkle in her lovely blue eyes.
“Oh, how grieved Viola will be! The disappointment will quite break
her heart!” she cried; and Florian smiled cynically.
Mae continued, reproachfully:
“You promised it in three months, you know, and now you break your
promise so easily. How can you be so cruel?”
“How spirited the little thing is!” he thought, looking at her with
suddenly aroused interest.
“So you think me cruel, Miss Sweetland? Well, I dare say I deserve it!
But would you be willing to make a personal sacrifice to induce me to
give over my indolence and begin your cousin’s portrait?”
“Name it,” she replied, hopefully; and Florian said, in one of his
daring moods:
“It is dull work painting from a photograph. I prefer living subjects
when possible, and I have a great desire to copy your face for an
ideal picture I mean to paint. Will you give me two sittings each week
if I will promise to work all the intervening time on Mr. Maxwell’s
portrait?”
Mae dimpled and blushed and looked inquiringly at her cousin, Mrs.
Graham, who said, decisively:
“Yes, I will bring her twice a week for the sittings; and mind that you
have Rolfe’s portrait commenced the next time we come.”
When Mae’s letter went across the sea, telling all this, Viola smiled
roguishly to herself at the success of the design she had formed
against Florian the day she first took Mae to his studio.