Democratic Sentinel, Volume 9, Number 11, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 10 April 1885 — Doux Souvenir. [ARTICLE]

Doux Souvenir.

The room was one of those harmonious little bowers often seen in these aesthetic days. Nora had fallen in love with the description of a violet boudoir, and when her taste was consulted about her own boudoir she unhesitatingly declared it should be hung and furnished in shades of purple from the deepest to the palest, and it was done. Cn this afternoon her own dress harmonized with the room. Violet silk and velvet trained over the purple carpet, and a band of sparkling amethyst violets bound her golden hair. Even the air was laden with faint fragrance of the fresh flowers. Nora was seated at the piano playing, while Philip Leighton leaned his fair head against the dark damask of an easy chair, and listened with half-closed eyes. His violin lay lovingly against his liqart, and his long, slender “violin hand’’ still carelessly held the bow. “Play No. 1 of the Lieder,” he said, ■as she paused, with a faint, inquiring chord; “the one which they call ‘Sweet Remembrance.’ ” She shivered slightly, and opened her lips to refuse, then resolutely turning, she began to play. Philip s eyes were open now, and he watched her closely, as, with tight-shut mouth and sad, strained eyes, she played it through with rare feeling, but evident pain. Like a flash, there passed through his mind the thought of a cruel wind driving before it two forms with fapes he knew. As the last note died away Nora rose so pale and wan that Philip started to his feet, looking at her in surprise; but almost instantly her color returned, and she laughed lightly. “I once read,” he said, quietly, as he reseated himself in his purple chair, "a very strange story about every one Graving a key-note. A certain note in the scale dominated over them in some mysterious fashion, and every one who discovered this possessed a singular power over the person who responded to it. The story pretended that this was universal. I think it fanciful myself, though I have never tried toprove it. lam certain, however, that 1 have found a combination of sounds which has a strange effect upon you, Nora. Why do you never play that piece without evident suffering?” Again a slight shudder passed over (her, but after a moment’s hesitation she replied: “I don’t know. That it is so is true, •nd although I am unconscious of -changing color, I know that, too, is so; lor, after playing it, people have sometimes come up and offered me a fan or vinaigrette, as if they thought me faint.” “What does it make you think of ?” he asked. “Of the wind. Whoever named it ‘ Doux Souvenir ’ must have had different ears from mine. It also makes me think of or see a picture.” “Representing— T — ?” “Two shadowy figures driven by the "wind. Such sad, sad looks they turn one to the other; but sadness full of longing, lingering love.” This time he, too, turned pale. He rose. « “My dear Nora,” he said, “this is growing absurd. Absolutely, I begin myself to shiver. Come, accompany me; let us play it together.” Complying at once, she went to the piano. Once or twice she raised her ■eyes to his face beseechingly, as if im{doring him to stop; but he was merciessly determined to fight away this "something,” and he held her to the very last. Softly, faintly, the murmuring wind-sounds died away, until they blended into silence; but as he turned to chide her playfully, her eyes looked dimly into his, then closed as she fainted in his arms. Neither had noticed her father, who, drawn by the music, had been standing in the curtained doorway. He hurried in as his daughter fell, and, taking her somewhat abruptly from Philip’s arms, •aid a word to him, and the young man retired. A moment after, Nora opened her eyes in fague wonder, and, seeing her father’s face could recall nothing of what had Jmssed. He gently explained. % “I was ;S |ust going to call your mother,” he added; “but since you are better —come, take a turn up and down with me; there, now, your color is

coming. Nora, 1 will take this oppor tunity to say that I do not wish you to see so much of Philip.” “Oh, papa, he had nothing to do with my fainting—nothing at all.” “Do you know,” said her father, slowly, “all the circumstances of Philip’s life?” “No,” she answered frankly, “I do not. I only know there is something painful in his past, about which no one speaks. ” “It concerns a woman,” began her father, then he hesitated. “Papa,” said Nora, “if you wish to tell me anything, whatever it may be, do not be afraid of agitating me. Philip has never made love to me—is nothing to me, as you seem to fear.” “Ah, then,” in a tone of relief, “you ought to know the story. Philip is married, and his wife is supposed to be living.” In spite of herself Nora shivered and turned pale. “Well, when did this happen ? Please tell me all,” she said, as quietly as she could. “It isn’t a long story, and it’s not a very romantic one. He was drawn into the thing when a college youth. He married his landlady’s daughter privately ; and six weeks after she ran away with his most intimate friend. All this before his college course was ended. He took no steps to trace his wife, and there the matter rested.” “I am glad you told me this, papa,” Nora said, simply. “One ought to be posted upon these matters.” Her manner then and after was so calm that her father congratulated himself on his timely revelation. “I might have been too late,” he said to himself. Days passed. Philip did not appear. Then one day a package came to Nora, containing a very small copy of “Doux Souvenir,” exquisitely bound in violet. From the pages dropped a note: “Noba—l have seen your father, who tells me you know all/this has brought me to a sense of my own peril, and I feel I dare not meet you again. “Philip.” Nora told herself she should not, would not, care, and she forced herself to be brave; but she did care for all that, and she laid away “Doux Souvenir”—ah! “Triste Souvenir,” and never played it now. Still her life went on the same; and one evening she found herself in the artists’ reception in company with some friends. Exquisitely dressed groups passed up and down before the beautiful pictures, the air was filled with sweet sounds and the scent of rare flowers, and Nora was almost forgetting to feel sad. There was a pause in the music, and her friends were chatting gayly around her, when softly, sweetly from an adjoining room came the sounds of “Doux Souvenir.” Turning quickly, Nora met Philip’s eyes. He stepped forward. “I must speak to you this once,” he said. With a word of excuse to her friends she took his offered arm and walked with him up and down, always within sound of the song. “Nora,” he whispered passionately, “I can not keep away from you—l can not live without you. Speak one word to strengthen me, to comfort me.” But the same set look was on her face, and she stopped suddenly. Her eyes were on a picture hanging near. Two shadowy forms driven by a terrible, cruel wind, and the low, sad moaning of the song might have been the sound of its passing. His sad eyes followed hers, his face, too, grew deathly white. “I accept the portent,” he sighed; “I take warning. Come away, Nora, come away. Oh, come!” “No,” she answered, dreamily, “I would rather stay. ” “Nora,” he pleaded, “won’t you listen to me ? I implore you, for my sake, if you will not for your own.” “I can not move,” she whispered; “something holds me to the spot.” A look of torture passed over his face, followed by one of sudden relief, as a young artist passed close to him. “Ernest!” he said, addressing him. “quick! stop thaft music. I will explain later—only be quick!” An exclamation of surprise and pain escaped the artist’s lips; but the next moment he dashed forward, saying. “The lady has fainted! Here, this way, I will show you. ” He threw wide a small door beside them, which had been concealed by a heavy curtain, and opened into a quiet room. Philip carried in Nora and laid her on a lounge, while the other hastened to admit the air. Then while she lay restored, but white and still, too weak to open her eyes, she heard the stranger say, “Philip, old friend, forgive me if you can. I loved her; you did not.” Philip only answered, quietly, “Where is she now ?” “Dead,” groaned the artist; “dead two months since. You never cared for her, and I would have given my life to save her. Do not excuse my sin. I only ask your pardon. ” Nora opened her eyes to see Philip lay his hand in that of the man who had so hearlessly betrayed him. “I forgive you now,” she heard him say. “I once thought I never should. You painted the Francesca da Rimini?” “Yes. You noticed the likeness? And did you read the repentance and misery that could only paint such anguish?” “I think I did,” he answered. Nora rose. “Did you paint that lovely, beautiful picture ?” she asked turning to the artist. He bowed. “I cannot think,” she sighed, passing her hand over her brow, “how it is possible; but that is what has haunted me for years when I played ‘Doux Souvenir,’ until the notes have come to sound like storm winds, and I could flee so plainly those weary forms drifting

| hither and thither—one, ah I one was i like you, only a shadow, and the i other * “She is dead now,” he said, hoarsely “let her rest.” N ora turned gently and gave him hei . hand. “I am sorry for you,” she said. < Then Philip drew her away. Withi out a word he took her back to her ; friends, made his adieux and left. She I did not see him again for months. Then one day, when she was in her violet j room, he came. “I want to try an experiment,” he [ said, after greeting her. “Have you ever played ‘ Dioux Souvenir’ since that night?” “Never,” she replied. “Do so now.” Nora shrank and shivered. “I am certain the spell is gone,” he said. “You have seen the picture in reality. You will not fear it now,” Then she obeyed. First came the hushed prelude, then the sighing, tender song, then the wailing sadness of the closing phrase; but her face no longer paled, a bright flush covered her cheeks, perhaps because Philip’s arm was held round her, while hea happy head leaned on his breast.