“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: