CHAPTER XXIX.
ALIENATION.
How sad it is to see the waning of a beautiful friendship between two noble hearts—friendship that should have lasted unbroken till death—to see the cold blight of alienation creeping in between those hearts day by day, till naught is left of those old, sweet emotions but the sadness of memory more cruel than forgetfulness.
Philip Desha and Florian Gay would never be such fond friends again as they had been before the love of a beautiful coquette came so fatally between their hearts.
It was true that Desha had not been lacking in outward observances such as were demanded by Florian’s bereavement.
He had made the usual visit of condolence, attended the funeral of the elder Gay, and showed no lack of sympathy, but all the same there kept widening between them the restraint engendered by the knowledge that they had been unconscious rivals for the same lovely prize.
Not that Desha suspected Florian’s share in humiliating Viola upon her wedding-eve. He would have despised his old friend had he suspected the truth, the same as he despised himself for the folly of an hour by which he had sundered himself from Viola forever, repenting when all too late to atone, saying to himself:
“It was for my sake she forgot Florian, for love of me she sinned against my friend. It was not for me to punish her but rather to forgive.”
And through the long unhappy night, when he paced the floor of his room, restless and remorseful, the white, stricken face of Viola, as it looked when he had upbraided her so harshly, rose before him like an accusing spirit, until at length love conquered everything, and seizing a pen, he wrote to her eloquently of his forgiveness and repentance, urging her to forget last night and let the marriage go on according to arrangement.
He sent the letter at early dawn, believing and hoping that all would be well; but when a short while later he opened a damp copy of the morning paper and read her marriage notice with its glaring head-lines, it seemed to him as if he should go mad.
He shut himself into his room, raging with pain and humiliation that would have touched Viola’s heart could she have known it, bitterly as she had longed for such a result.
It was true that he had told her she might tell the world she had jilted him, but he had scarcely expected to be taken at his word so literally as this, having the keen pain of jealousy of his fortunate rival mixed with the bitter pang of loss.
For awhile he felt as if he could never open that closed door again and go out to face the gibing world, secretly laughing at his humiliation by the beautiful, saucy coquette.
Then his native manliness came to his aid, helped by sudden hot resentment against the girl who had used him so mercilessly in her desire for revenge.
He vowed that he would tear her from his heart, that no weak woman, slight and frail, with no weapon but beauty, should spoil the bright promise of his life with vain regrets gnawing at his heart like canker in a rose.
“Am I mad that I should cherish
That which leaves but bitter fruit?
I will pluck it from my bosom,
Though my heart be at the root!
“Weakness to be wroth with weakness!
Woman’s pleasure, woman’s pain—
Nature made them blinder motions,
Bounded in a shallower brain.
“Where is comfort? In division
Of the records of the mind?
Can I part her from herself
And love her, as I knew her kind?
“Can I think of her as dead,
And love her for the love she bore?
No; she never loved me truly,
Love is love for evermore!”
He fought fiercely with his sorrow and shame, and went boldly out into the world again; but it would have been easier to face the cannon of an opposing army than the curious faces of his friends and acquaintances, and even of strangers who knew him by sight, and pointed him out to others as a jilted bridegroom, the latest victim of Miss Van Lew.
It was hard, it was cruel, it was living martyrdom, and Viola’s deepest thirst for revenge might have been more than satiated could she have looked into his heart.
So the days came and went, but it was not so easy to put aside the thought of Viola. The agony of loss tugged at his heart-strings, and he grew pale and thin and graver and quieter than ever, so that people could not help seeing that his trouble preyed on his mind. His cousin, Mrs. Wellford, indeed counseled him angrily to forget Viola, reminding him how she had always advised him against the match, saying that the lovely coquette was not worthy of a good man’s love.
“I would prefer not to discuss that subject with you, Ruby,” he replied, with a sternness that insured her future silence, although he knew that had he felt free to tell her the circumstances she might have viewed everything differently.
But his desire to conceal his own blunder and keep his promise to Viola, that she might give the world any explanation she chose, held him silent.
“I can not vindicate either Viola or myself, let the world say what it will,” he concluded.
So the time flew by, and he heard of Viola’s critical illness and then her sudden widowhood. Perhaps a ray of hope for future days penetrated the sadness of his heart.
He heard with joy of her convalescence, and said to himself:
“Her twelve months of widowhood will soon pass, and when I come back to Congress next year—who knows?” not acknowledging to himself that he was glad Rolfe Maxwell was dead, yet feeling a new spring in life.
He knew that Florian Gay had returned to his studio work with renewed zest after his long play-spell, and a sudden fancy seized him one day to call and ask if he desired to have any more sittings on the portrait begun last year.
“We used to be such good friends, it seems a pity we should drift apart; though, of course, Florian had terrible provocation to hate me,” he thought; but pursuing his plan of reconciliation, he presented himself at the studio.
Florian received him coldly and with reserve, secretly resenting the visit.
He was working very busily, and he did not conceal from his caller that it was Viola’s portrait he was finishing by the efficient aid of memory.
“Love, unperceived,
A more ideal artist he than all,
Came, drew his pencil from him, made those eyes
Darker than darkest pansies, and that hair
More black than ash-buds in the front of March.”
Desha gazed long and steadily at the picture, his heart throbbing with passion; but he made no sign, saying, with pretended calmness:
“It is an ideal head and a good likeness. Memory stands you in good stead. But how about mine? Has it fared as well?”
Florian flushed up to his brow, and answered, evasively:
“No; it did not please me somehow, and I preferred not to finish it. So I painted out what I had begun.”
Desha understood, but he felt that he had no fault to find. He changed the subject by saying:
“Have you any curios to show me? Anything new from abroad?”
“Yes, there, behind that curtain. Pray examine them at your leisure, and excuse me for going on with my work. It is one of my days of inspiration.”
He seized his brush and went doggedly to work on Viola’s portrait, while Desha retired behind the curtain, somewhat discomfited by his cool reception, and thinking:
“He has forgiven her, it seems, by his going on with her portrait, but I am still in his black books. Strange, when he certainly knows I was unconsciously his rival, and ought to give me the benefit of that knowledge.”
He examined the valuable curios with but a languid interest, while Florian, with his handsome brows drawn together in a vexed frown, and an angry gleam in his dark eyes, painted away with great energy on the beautiful head of his false love, thinking:
“The impudence of the fellow intruding here after stealing Viola from me!”
Suddenly a low, musical voice came to him from just inside the curtained door leading into the hall. It said, cordially:
“How well you paint from memory!”
Florian turned with a start and saw, facing him, the beautiful original of the portrait that was absorbing all his energy.