ONLY A MONTH
“When a woman will, she will
And when she won’t, she won’t,
And there’s an end on’t!”
Judge Van Lew, with all his threats and entreaties, found it impossible
to combat Viola’s resolution.
She refused point-blank to apply for a divorce from Rolfe Maxwell.
“Papa, he was kind to me when I did not seem to have a friend left on
earth, when all my lovers had turned against me!” she said, plaintively.
“You had me, Viola.”
“I was afraid of your just wrath, when you should find out how I had
played fast and loose with Philip and Florian. The future looked as
black as a stormy night without a star. In the desperation of my
wounded love and pride, I went out to seek death rather than face
the cruel morrow. Do you remember, papa, where I should be now had
not Rolfe Maxwell’s hand been outstretched to save me? You would be
standing over my coffin now, weeping over my mutilated beauty, crying:
‘Alas! poor Viola!’”
Her voice broke in tears at the pathetic picture, poor Viola, who had
always loved life so dearly and thought it so beautiful, though for one
mad moment she had been tempted to cast it away.
Judge Van Lew would not give way to weakness. He answered, gruffly:
“I am weeping over you now in my heart, Viola, over the wreck you have
made of your life.”
“Do not say so,” she answered, bravely. “It is not so bad, papa. Is
he not very handsome and clever? And he has shown himself most noble.
Why, if I cast him off now I should be the most ungrateful girl in the
world!”
“Yon can be as grateful to him as you please, but you need not give him
your life as a sacrifice. I tell you, Viola, I will not have this poor
and obscure young man for a son-in-law when you can have your pick of
the richest and most distinguished! You shall apply for a divorce as
soon as I can prepare the papers.”
“And I tell you that I will not, papa; so you had just as well let me
go back to my husband’s home and wait for him there in peace!” his
daughter cried, with kindling cheeks.
“You are insane, Viola. I have permitted you to have your own way till
you are going mad with silly caprices. But I will no longer humor your
whims. I tell you now, and I mean it, that you shall give up Rolfe
Maxwell or remain a prisoner in this house until you come to your
senses!” stormed the judge, now thoroughly enraged at her stubbornness.
But Viola had a will of her own, too, and it flashed into her eyes as
she cried, bitterly:
“I defy your power!”
His answer was to stalk out of the room, banging the door in wrath, and
not forgetting to lock it after him and deliver the key to the tearful
Mrs. Herman, who did not know what to do between her brother and her
niece, thus playing at cross purposes.
What the outcome of their feud might have been had Viola remained well,
none could tell, for kind Aunt Edwina found the poor girl presently in
a high fever, her cheeks scarlet, her eyes glaring, while delirious
murmurs babbled over her parched lips.
A physician was hastily summoned, who declared that Viola was in the
first stages of brain fever.
The terrible excitement of the past two days had culminated in illness
of the most dangerous type.
The sensation caused in the social world by her remarkable elopement
gave place to the excitement of her illness and the report that death
was about to claim her for its own.
It was so sad, people said, that her young husband, who had parted from
her the very night of the wedding to go to Cuba, should be far from
her side now in her terrible extremity; but there were others who did
not mind saying that she was getting punishment now for jilting Philip
Desha, who went about with a face like a dead man’s, in his cruel
humiliation, and was feared to be losing his mind.
As for Florian Gay, no one guessed what a part he had played in the
tragedy of Viola’s life. He kept his own counsel and sought what
diversion he could, soothing his pain with the triumph of the revenge
he had taken on his false love.
Weeks came and went while Viola lay in her white-hung chamber, battling
with the dread disease that threatened her life, and meanwhile stirring
events took place outside.
As the bleak March days passed into the showers and sunshine of
fickle April, and the people of the United States began to have their
sympathies aroused for poor Cuba, bleeding in the chains of Spanish
tyranny, news came from the beautiful island in the sea that blanched
the cheek and crushed the loving heart of the poor mother waiting in
her cottage home, while her only son risked the dangers of invading the
insurgents’ lines in quest of reliable news for his paper at home.
For about three weeks he had electrified his countrymen by his
thrilling accounts of the war and the true state of affairs in Cuba.
His pen-pictures and illustrations were read and gazed upon with
interest by millions of eager eyes. From the position of an unknown
reporter he had leaped at a bound to fame. It was as if he had thrown
himself heart and soul into his work, determined to find in its
fascinating toil and danger a balm for the pangs of despised love.
Suddenly his newspaper ceased to print anything more from his pen, and
directly it announced the reason.
By order of the notorious General Weyler, commander of the Spanish
army, Rolfe Maxwell had been seized and thrown into prison for the news
he had been sending to America. Accused as a spy, he had been placed in
the terrible prison, Morro Castle, when each morning at day-break rang
out the fatal shots that told off the lives of hapless prisoners.
Swiftly following the news of Rolfe Maxwell’s arrest his name appeared
in the list of those who had suffered death in Morro Castle for his
sympathy with Cuba, and his fearless recital of her cruel wrongs to
a sympathizing world. The heroic young correspondent had been foully
slain, and a nation mourned his loss.
It was barely five weeks since he had been sent to his doom by the
relentless father of Viola, who shuddered as he read the news,
muttering:
“He spoke prophetically when he said Viola might be a widow before she
secured a divorce.”