Part 38 (1/2)
Her mother had sent from Europe a tasteful wardrobe, which, when unpacked, Mrs. Palma p.r.o.nounced perfect; while Olga a.s.serted that one particular sash surpa.s.sed anything of the kind she had ever seen, and was prevailed upon to accept and wear it.
With many conjectures concerning the import of Mr. Palma's supervision of her toilette, Regina obeyed his instructions, and fearful of trespa.s.sing on his patience, hurried down to the library.
With one arm behind him, and the hand of the other holding a half-smoked cigar, he was walking meditatively up and down the polished floor, that reflected his tall shadow.
”Where do you suppose you are going?”
”I have no idea.”
”Why do you not inquire?”
”Because you will not tell me till you choose; and I know that questions always annoy you.”
”Come in. You linger at the door as if this were the den of a lion at a menagerie, instead of a room to which you have been cordially invited several times. I am not voracious, have had my luncheon. You are quite ready?”
”Quite ready----”
She was slowly walking down the long room, and suddenly caught sight of something that seemed to take away her breath.
The clock on the mantle had been removed to the desk, and in its place was a large portrait neither square nor yet exactly kit-cat, but in proportion more nearly resembled the latter. In imitation of Da Vinci's celebrated picture in the Louvre, the background represented a stretch of arid rocky landscape, unrelieved by foliage, and against it rose in pose and general outline the counterpart of ”_La Joconde_.”
The dress and drapery were of black velvet, utterly bare of ornament, and out of the canvas looked a face of marvellous, yet mysteriously mournful beauty. The countenance of a comparatively young woman, whose radiant brown eyes had dwelt in some penetrale of woe, until their light was softened, saddened; whose regular features were statuesque in their solemn repose, and whose gold-tinted hair simply parted on her white round brow, fell in glinting waves down upon her polished shoulders. The mystical pale face of one who seemed alike incapable of hope or of regret, who gazed upon past, present, future, as proud, as pa.s.sionless and calm as Destiny; and whose perfect hands were folded in stern fateful rest.
As Regina looked up at it she stopped, then run to the hearth, and stood with her eyes riveted to the canvas, her lips parted and quivering.
Watching her, Mr. Palma came to her side, and asked:
”Whom can it be?”
Evidently she did not hear him. Her whole heart and soul appeared centred in the picture; but as she gazed, her own eloquent face grew whiter, she drew her breath quickly, and tears rolled over her cheeks, as she lifted her arms toward the painting.
”Mother I my beautiful sad-eyed mother!”
Sobs shook her frame, and she pressed toward the mantelpiece till the skirt of her dress swept dangerously close to the fire. Mr. Palma drew her back, and said quietly:
”For an uncultivated young rustic, I must say your appreciation of fine painting is rather surprising. Few city girls would have paid such a tearful tribute of heartfelt admiration to my pretty 'Mona Lisa.'”
Without removing her fascinated eyes she asked:
”When did it come?”
”I have had it several days. I presume that you know it is a copy of Da Vinci's celebrated picture, upon which he worked four years, and which now hangs in the gallery of the Louvre at Paris?”
She merely shook her head.
”In France it is called '_La Joconde_; but I prefer the softer 'Mona Lisa' for my treasure.”
”Is it not mine? She must have sent it to me?”
”She? Are you dreaming? Mona Lisa has been dead three hundred years!”