CHAPTER XXVII.
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.