MARRIED AND YET NOT MARRIED.
Bernard was now at the very acme of fame. He had succeeded in becoming
the most noted negro of his day. He felt that the time was not ripe
for him to gather up his wealth and honors and lay them, with his
heart, at Viola's feet. One afternoon he invited Viola to go out buggy
riding with him, and decided to lay bare his heart to her before their
return home. They drove out of Norfolk over Campostella bridge and
went far into the country, chatting pleasantly, oblivious of the farm
hands preparing the soil for seed sowing; for it was in balmy spring.
About eight o'clock they were returning to the city and Bernard felt
his veins throbbing; for he had determined to know his fate before he
reached Viola's home. When midway the bridge he pulled his reins and
the horse stood still. The dark waters of the small river swept on
beneath them. Night had just begun to spread out her sombre wings,
bedecked with silent stars. Just in front of them, as they looked out
upon the center of the river, the river took a bend which brought a
shore directly facing them. A green lawn began from the shore and ran
back to be lost in the shadows of the evening. Amid a group of trees,
there stood a little hut that looked to be the hut of an old widower,
for it appeared neglected, forsaken, sad.
Bernard gazed at this lonesome cottage and said: "Viola, I feel
to-night that all my honors are empty. They feel to me like a load
crushing me down rather than a pedestal raising me up. I am not happy.
I long for the solitude of those trees. That decaying old house calls
eloquently unto something within me. How I would like to enter there
and lay me down to sleep, free from the cares and divested of the
gewgaws of the world."
Viola was startled by these sombre reflections coming from Bernard.
She decided that something must be wrong. She was, by nature,
exceedingly tender of heart, and she turned her pretty eyes in
astonished grief at Bernard, handsome, melancholy, musing.
"Ah, Mr. Belgrave, something terrible is gnawing at your heart for one
so young, so brilliant, so prosperous as you are to talk thus. Make a
confidante of me and let me help to remove the load, if I can."
Bernard was silent and eat gazing out on the quiet flowing waters.
Viola's eyes eagerly scanned his face as if to divine his secret.
Bernard resumed speaking: "I have gone forth into life to win certain
honors and snatch from fame a wreath, and now that I have succeeded,
I behold this evening, as never before, that it is not worthy of the
purpose for which I designed it. My work is all in vain."
"Mr. Belgrave, you must not talk so sadly," said Viola, almost ready
to cry.
Bernard turned and suddenly grasped Viola's hands and said in
passionate tones: "Viola, I love you. I have nothing to offer you
worthy of you. I can find nothing worthy, attain nothing worthy. I
love you to desperation. Will you give yourself to a wretch like me?
Say no! don't throw away your beauty, your love on so common a piece
of clay."
Viola uttered a loud, piercing scream that dispersed all Bernard's
thoughts and frightened the horse. He went dashing across the bridge,
Bernard endeavoring to grasp the reins. When he at last succeeded,
Viola had fainted. Bernard drove hurriedly towards Viola's home,
puzzled beyond measure. He had never heard of a marriage proposal
frightening a girl into a faint and he thought that there was surely
something in the matter of which he knew nothing. Then, too, he was
racking his brain for an excuse to give Viola's parents. But happily
the cool air revived Viola and she awoke trembling violently and
begged Bernard to take her home at once. This he did and drove away,
much puzzled in mind.
He revived the whole matter in his mind, and thoughts and opinions
came and went. Perhaps she deemed him utterly unworthy of her. There
was one good reason for this last opinion and one good one against it.
He felt himself to be unworthy of such a girl, but on the other hand
Viola had frequently sung his praises in his own ears and in the ears
of others. He decided to go early in the morning and know definitely
his doom.
That night he did not sleep. He paced up and down the room glancing
at the clock every five minutes or so. He would now and then hoist
the window and strain his eyes to see if there were any sign of
approaching dawn. After what seemed to him at least a century, the
sun at last arose and ushered in the day. As soon as he thought Miss
Martin was astir and unengaged, he was standing at the door. They each
looked sad and forlorn. Viola knew and Bernard felt that some dark
shadow was to come between them.
Viola caught hold of Bernard's hand and led him silently into the
parlor. Bernard sat down on the divan and Viola took a seat thereon
close by his side. She turned her charming face, sweet in its sadness,
up to Bernard's and whispered "kiss me, Bernard."
Bernard seized her and kissed her rapturously. She then arose and sat
in a chair facing him, at a distance.
She then said calmly, determinedly, almost icily, looking Bernard
squarely in the face: "Bernard, you know that I love you. It was I
that asked you to kiss me. Always remember that. But as much as I love
you I shall never be your wife. Never, never."
Bernard arose and started toward Viola. He paused and gazed down upon
that beautiful image that sat before him and said in anguish: "Oh God!
Is all my labor in vain, my honors common dirt, my future one dreary
waste? Shall I lose that which has been an ever shining, never setting
sun to me? Viola! If you love me you shall be my wife."
Viola bowed her head and shook it sadly, saying: "A power higher than
either you or I has decreed it otherwise."
"Who is he? Tell me who he is that dare separate us and I swear I will
kill him," cried Bernard in a frenzy of rage.
Viola looked up, her eyes swimming in tears, and said: "Would you kill
God?"
This question brought Bernard to his senses and he returned to his
seat and sat down suddenly. He then said: "Viola Martin, you are
making a fool of me. Tell me plainly why we cannot be man and wife, if
you love me as you say you do?"
"Bernard, call here to-morrow at 10 o'clock and I will tell you all.
If you can then remove my objections all will be well."
Bernard leaped up eager to get away, feeling that that would somewhat
hasten the time for him to return. Viola did not seem to share his
feelings of elation. But he did not mind that. He felt himself fully
able to demolish any and all objections that Viola could bring. He
went home and spent the day perusing his text-book on logic. He would
conjure up imaginary objections and would proceed to demolish them
in short order. He slept somewhat that night, anticipating a decisive
victory on the morrow.
When Bernard left Viola that morning, she threw herself prostrate on
the floor, moaning and sobbing. After a while she arose and went to
the dining room door. She looked in upon her mother, quietly sewing,
and tried to say in a cheerful manner: "Mamma, I shall be busy writing
all day in my room. Let no one disturb me." Her mother looked at her
gently and lovingly and assured her that no one should disturb her.
Her mother surmised that all had not gone well with her and Bernard,
and that Viola was wrestling with her grief. Knowing that spats were
common to young people in love she supposed it would soon be over.
Viola went upstairs and entered her room. This room, thanks to Viola's
industry and exquisite taste, was the beauty spot of the whole house.
Pictures of her own painting adorned the walls, and scattered here
and there in proper places were articles of fancy work put together in
most lovely manner by her delicate fingers. Viola was fond of flowers
and her room was alive with the scent of pretty flowers and beautiful
roses. This room was a fitting scene for what was to follow. She
opened her tiny writing desk. She wrote a letter to her father, one to
her mother and one to Bernard. Her letter to Bernard had to be torn
up and re-written time and again, for fast falling tears spoiled it
almost as fast as she wrote. At last she succeeded in finishing his
letter to her satisfaction.
At eventide she came down stairs and with her mother, sat on the rear
porch and saw the sun glide gently out of sight, without a struggle,
without a murmur. Her eye lingered long on the spot where the sun had
set and watched the hidden sun gradually steal all of his rays from
the skies to use them in another world. Drawing a heavy sigh, she
lovingly caught her mother around the waist and led her into the
parlor. Viola now became all gayety, but her mother could see that it
was forced. She took a seat at the piano and played and sang. Her rich
soprano voice rang out clear and sweet and passers by paused to listen
to the glorious strains. Those who paused to hear her sing passed
on feeling sad at heart. Beginning in somewhat low tones, her voice
gradually swelled and the full, round tones full of melody and pathos
seemed to lift up and bear one irresistibly away.
Viola's mother sat by and looked with tender solicitude on her
daughter singing and playing as she had never before in her life.
"What did it mean?" she asked herself. When Viola's father came from
the postoffice, where he was a clerk, Viola ran to him joyously. She
pulled him into the parlor and sat on his knee stroking his chin and
nestling her head on his bosom. She made him tell her tales as he did
when she was a child and she would laugh, but her laugh did not have
its accustomed clear, golden ring.
Kissing them good night, she started up to her bed room. When at the
head of the stairway she returned and without saying a word kissed her
parents again.
When she was gone, the parents looked at each other and shook their
heads. They knew that Viola was feeling keenly on account of something
but felt that her cheerful nature would soon throw it off. But the
blade was in her heart deeper than they knew. Viola entered her room,
fastening the door behind her. She went to her desk, secured the three
letters that she had written and placed them on the floor a few inches
apart in a position where they would attract immediate attention upon
entering the room. She then lay down upon her bed and put one arm
across her bosom. With her other hand she turned on the gas jet by the
head of her bed. She then placed this other hand across her bosom and
ere long fell asleep to wake no more.
The moon arose and shed its sad, quiet light through the half turned
shutters, through the window pane. It seemed to force its way in in
order to linger and weep over such queenly beauty, such worth, meeting
with such an accursed end.
Thus in this forbidden path Viola Martin had gone to him who said:
"Come unto Me all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give
you rest."