CHAPTER XXXVIII.
“AS FLIES THE DOVE TO SEEK ITS MATE.”
How long the journey seemed to Viola ere they gained at last the beautiful Cuban shores, now, alas! laid waste by cruel, devastating war!
By reason of a railway accident that belated them twenty-four hours in a Floridian town, they did not reach Havana till the fifth day.
Then, weary and impatient, they took quarters at the best hotel, and the judge, leaving his daughter to rest in her rooms, went out at once in search of news of Maxwell.
Viola was too eager and impatient to rest long, now that she seemed to have attained the goal of her desires.
She could think of nothing but the longed-for reunion with the husband of an hour, from whom she had been so long and cruelly parted, believing him dead and herself widowed.
She glanced at her black gown, rejoicing that she should so soon be able to lay it aside for the bright robes of happiness.
Aunt Edwina had wished her to lay her mourning aside before leaving, but she had demurred.
“I wish my husband to see me first in the garb of woe, then he will know how truly I have mourned him,” she said, wondering if Rolfe would not be proud and glad to learn that she had loved him all the while.
“How have I thought of thee? As flies
The dove to seek its mate,
Trembling lest some rude hand has laid
Her sweet home desolate;
Thus timidly I seek in thine
The only heart that throbs with mine.
“How have I thought of thee? As turns
The flower to meet the sun,
E’en though when clouds and storms arise
It be not shone upon;
Thus, dear one, in thine eyes I see
The only light that beams for me.”
She had not waited more than an hour before her father returned with such a radiant face that she knew before he spoke he brought good news.
“Dear papa!” she cried, inquiringly, springing up to meet him.
“Viola, we are fortunate, most fortunate, in our quest. Rolfe Maxwell has been set free, and arrived in Havana this very morning!” he exclaimed, gladly.
“Dear Heaven, I thank Thee!” she cried, fervently, tears of wild joy starting to her brilliant, upraised eyes, while she trembled violently with joyful emotion.
To have loved and lost, and to find again, what rapture! Will not this be one of the supremest joys of Heaven when we “cross the moaning bar” and find waiting for us on the golden shore the dear ones who went from us through the dark portals of death to endless life?
It was joy akin to this that thrilled Viola at her father’s words.
Reading through his tenderness her yearning thought, the judge continued:
“I have prepared a pleasant surprise for your husband, Viola. I have sent a messenger to bring him here to us, simply saying that some American friends long very much to see him.”
“Then he will be coming—directly!” gasped Viola, dizzy with joy.
“Yes, dear, and I shall give directions to have him come directly to your private parlor, so that you can receive him first alone, as naturally that will be most proper,” added the judge, kindly.
Viola could not speak for emotion; she could only look her fervent gratitude as he turned to the door, saying:
“Now make yourself as lovely as possible, and I will send you word as soon as he comes.”
Viola changed her plain traveling-gown for a soft, lusterless black silk, with touches of filmy white at throat and wrists, then sat down to wait in wild impatience, her heart throbbing fiercely, her cheeks glowing, her eyes brilliant with tenderness, her beauty almost unearthly in its splendor of joy.
Suddenly a servant appeared at the door, saying:
“Mr. Maxwell is waiting in your private parlor to see you.”
Viola leaped to her feet and flew to the room, impatience urging her like wings.
In the elegant apartment she saw a tall figure standing at the window, with its face turned away, the fine head crowned with waves of soft dark hair.
“Rolfe, dear Rolfe!” she cried out, in a tempest of feeling.