CHAPTER XXXVII.
BON VOYAGE.
Viola saw that her father was deeply agitated over something, and cried out, excitedly:
“What is it, papa?”
“Read it, my dear, read it for yourself!” rejoined the judge, eagerly.
“Read it, my dear!” echoed her aunt, earnestly.
Viola’s eyes were so dim with the tears she had copiously shed out of sympathy with Philip Desha that at first she could scarcely see the lines, they wavered so before her gaze. She wiped them with her soft lace handkerchief, and made another effort to read the short paragraph that ran as follows:
“The vigorous Cuban policy of the new administration has resulted in setting free many American citizens long-imprisoned in Spanish dungeons, on false charges, and a strange story comes from one of these released men that the reported death of one of our famous war correspondents, Rolfe Maxwell by name, is untrue, and that the young man still lives a prisoner incommunicado in Morro Castle. Public opinion is greatly stirred up over this report, and Consul-General Lee, at Havana, will be asked to effect young Maxwell’s release at once.”
A loud and thrilling cry—a cry of rapture—rang through the room, and then Viola, faint from excess of joy, clung to her father’s arm.
“Quick, Edwina, she will faint!” exclaimed her father, anxiously.
“No, no, papa!” gasped Viola, eagerly; “no, no; I am too happy to faint! Oh, can this be true?”
“Do not build too strongly on it, dear, for newspaper reports are not always reliable, and I know nothing of this except the paragraph that you have just read,” replied the judge, holding her tenderly on his arm and stroking back her dark tresses that had fallen in disorder over her white brow.
“But, papa, this must be looked into at once. Can not you have an investigation made? Or—are you sorry that there is a chance of Rolfe’s living yet? You sent him away from me, you know!” the poor girl cried out, in an agony of doubt and hope commingled.
Judge Van Lew knew he deserved the reproach, and he flushed up to his hair as he answered:
“Darling, I wronged Rolfe Maxwell when I sent him from you as I did, but no one could be more anxious to undo a wrong than I am now, and I shall have this report fully investigated, and if possible your noble young husband shall be speedily restored to you with my blessing on your union. Can you find it in your heart to forgive me then, my child?”
“Oh, papa, I forgave you long ago, for you did it for my sake, believing it would insure my happiness. Now that you are reconciled to my marriage and willing to help me find my husband, all is atoned for at once. But what shall we do? Where shall we begin?” demanded Viola, with feverish eagerness, her great eyes shining like stars in her pale, excited face.
Her father was almost as much agitated as she was, and after a moment’s thought, answered, tenderly:
“I think I will go on the first train to New York to see the editor in whose paper this story appears, and get all the facts I can so as to bring the case to the attention of our Secretary of State, and enlist his kind offices to have Maxwell released at once.”
“Oh, how good you are to me, papa! I love you more than ever!” cried Viola, clinging to his neck and covering his face with kisses in the exuberance of her joy, for after the long, dark night of sorrow and despair, this little gleam of hope was like the sunshine itself.
An hour later her father was en route for New York, eagerly interested in his mission, and most anxious to do all he could to restore peace and happiness to Viola’s heart.
As for her, she could not sleep for hours. She spent the night reclining on a low couch drawn near to Rolfe’s portrait, where her eyes could rest on it every time they opened from wakeful dozing.
“Oh, is it true—is it true, my darling? Do you really live?” she cried over and over to the silent portrait, whose dark eyes seemed to rest on her in passionate love.
She knew it was almost silly, talking thus to an insensate portrait, but she could not restrain the words of tenderness, falling from her lips.
“Oh, my darling, my handsome, dark-eyed love, is it indeed true that you live? Shall I see you again, and will you love me still as you did that night when your saving love came between me and utter despair? Will you listen to my cry for forgiveness and love, and be happy that we are reunited forever?”
Then Viola would weep tender, indignant tears to think of the long months that Rolfe had lain in the Spanish prison, an innocent victim, denied all communication with the outside world, his friends believing him dead, while he suffered tortures perhaps worse than death.
Again she would kneel down and besiege Heaven with fervent prayers for Rolfe’s restoration to her yearning heart. At length she fell into a fitful repose that lasted till morning; but at the moment she finished breakfast she hastened to the cottage to carry her good news to Mrs. Maxwell and Mae.
After all, it did not amount to much, that brief little newspaper report. There might not be a word of truth in it; but what joy it brought to their fond, loving hearts, and how they rejoiced to each other, building a whole world of splendid anticipations on Rolfe’s return. It was like a rift of light in the black darkness of a great despair, and Mae could be unselfishly glad now too, since she was happy in the love of another.
Indeed, Florian came to call while Viola was there, and was speedily told the good news, whereat he unselfishly rejoiced with the rest.
Indeed, sweet, gentle Mae had so crept into his heart that he no longer envied Rolfe Maxwell the prize of Viola’s love. He wished her every happiness, but his secret sympathies went out to Philip Desha, with whom he had made friends only yesterday, and had been told frankly that he was going to try again for Viola’s heart.
It was late that night when Judge Van Lew returned from New York, but Viola was sitting up for him, too restless and agitated to retire until he came.
It went to his heart, the pale look of anxiety on the lovely face as she glided toward him, and he cried out, reassuringly:
“Cheer up, darling; I have goods news for you!”
He took her little cold hands in his, and kissed her tenderly, as he added:
“It is almost certain that Rolfe Maxwell is alive, a prisoner incommunicado in Morro Castle. The newspaper that he wrote for has very reliable news from a recently released prisoner, and steps have already been taken to secure his release. Consul-General Lee was cabled to yesterday to give immediate attention to the case.”
Viola’s head rested against his shoulder, her form shaking with sobs of joy.
“How long, papa, how long?” she faltered.
“Until his release?”
“Yes.”
“We hope it will be immediate, and if so, he ought to reach Havana in a very few days, en route for home.”
“Oh, papa, may I not go and meet him there?” eagerly.
“Dearest, it would not be prudent,” the father said, hesitatingly; adding, after a moment’s thought: “Send me in your place.”
“Papa, would you indeed be so kind?” cried Viola, astonished and delighted.
“I would do anything for your happiness, my dear child,” returned the judge, who never did anything by halves, and was in deep earnest now in his desire to help Viola.
“Oh, thank you, papa, thank you a thousand times, and please don’t think me troublesome, but—but—oh, papa, let us go together to Cuba, you and I, dear, and meet poor Rolfe and bring him home,” coaxed Viola.
Judge Van Lew would have preferred to leave his daughter at home with her aunt, but she would listen to neither argument nor persuasion; her whole heart was set on going, and as a result of her determination, he sailed for Cuba next day, taking her as his companion.