His wandering gaze fell on the open writing desk, which in his misery he had forgotten to close. He went to it and shut down the lid.

Then he passed out of the room, took his hat from the rack in the hall, opened the front door, passed out, closed it behind him, and left the house forever.

Outside was pandemonium. The illuminations in the windows had died down, but the streets were full of revelers, too much exhilarated as yet to retire, even if they had any place to retire to; for on that summer night many visitors to the inauguration chose to stay out in the open air until morning rather than to leave the city and lose the show.

Once again the hum and buzz of many voices was broken by a shrill cry of:

"Hooray for Rothsay!" which was taken up by the chorus and echoed and re-echoed from one end to the other of the city, and from earth to sky.

Poor Rothsay himself passed out upon the sidewalk, unrecognized in the obscurity.

An empty hack was standing at the corner of the square, a few hundred feet from the house.

To this he went, and spoke to the man on the box:

"Is this hack engaged?"

"Yes, sah, it is—took by four gents as can't get no lodgings at none of the hotels, nor yet boarding houses—no, sah. Dere dey is ober yonder in dat dere s'loon cross de street—yes, sah. But it don't keep open, dat s'loon don't, longer'n twelve o'clock—no, sah. It's mos' dat now, so dey'll soon call for dis hack—yes, sah!"

Rothsay left the talkative hackman and passed on.

A hand touched him on the arm.

He turned and saw old Scythia, clothed in a long, black cloak of some thin stuff, with its hood drawn over her head.

Rothsay stared.

"Come, Rule! You have tested woman's love to-day, and found it fail you; even as I tested man's faith in the long ago, and found it wrong me! Come, Rule! You and I have had enough of falsehood and treachery! Let us shake the dust of civilization off our shoes! Come, Rule!"



CHAPTER VI.

THE WIDOWED BRIDE.

The amazement and confusion that followed the discovery of the mysterious disappearance of Governor-elect Regulas Rothsay, on the morning of the day of his intended inauguration, has been already described in an earlier chapter of this story.

The most searching inquiries were made in all directions without any satisfactory result.

Then advertisements were put in all the principal newspapers in all the chief towns and cities throughout the country, offering large rewards for any information that should lead to the discovery of the missing man or of his fate.

These in time drew forth letters from all points of the compass from people anxious to take a chance in this lottery of a reward, and who fabricated reports of the lost governor having been seen in this, that, or the other place, or of his body having been found here, there or elsewhere.

Prompt investigation proved the falsehood of these fraudulent letters in every instance.

No one really knew the fate of the missing man. No one but Cora Rothsay had even the clew to the cause of his disappearance; and she—from her sensitive pride, no less than from her sacred promise not to reveal the subject of her communicaton to her husband on that fatal evening of his flight or of his death—kept her lips sealed on that subject.

Days, weeks and months passed away without bringing any authentic news of the lost ruler.

At length hope was given up. The advertisements were withdrawn from the papers.

Still occasionally, at long intervals of time, vague rumors reached his friends—a sailor had seen him in the streets of Rio de Janeiro; a fur trader had found him in Washington Territory; a miner had met him in California—but nothing came of all these reports.

One morning, late in December, there came some news, not of the actual fate of the governor, but of the long-lost man who had seen the last of him alive.

Despite the bitter pleading of the poor, bereaved bride, who dreaded the crowded city and desired to remain in seclusion in the country, old Aaron had removed his whole family to their town house for the winter.

They had been settled there only a few days, and were gathered around the breakfast table, when a card was brought in to Mr. Rockharrt.

"'Captain Ross!' Who, in the fiend's name, is Captain Ross? And what does he want at this early hour of the morning?" demanded the Iron King, after he had read the name on the card. Then, as he scrutinized it, he saw faintly penciled lines below the name and read:

"The late visitor who called on Governor-elect Rothsay on the evening of his disappearance."

"Show the man in the library, Jason," exclaimed old Aaron Rockharrt, rising, leaving his untasted breakfast, and striding out of the room.

In the library he found a young skipper, tall, robust, black bearded and sun burned.

"Captain Ross?" said the old man, interrogatively.

"The same, at your service, sir—Mr. Rockharrt, I presume?" said the visitor with a bow.

"That's my name. Sit down," said the Iron King, pointing to one chair for his visitor and taking another for himself.

"So you were the last visitor to Mr. Rothsay, eh?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, can you give any information regarding the disappearance of my grandson-in-law?"

"No, sir; but learning that I had been advertised for, I have come forward."

"At rather a late date, upon my soul and honor! Where have you been all this time?"

"At sea. When I called upon Mr. Rothsay, it was to congratulate him on his position and to bid him good-by. I was on the eve of sailing for India, and, in fact, left the city by the night's express and sailed the next morning. I think we must have been out of sight of land before the news of the governor's disappearance was spread abroad."

"What explanation can you give of his sudden disappearance?"

"None whatever, sir."

"Then, in the demon's name, why have you come forward at all at this time?"

"Because I was advertised for."

"That was months ago."

"But months ago I was at sea and knew nothing of the matter. I have but just returned from a long voyage, and hearing among other matters that Governor Rothsay had been missing since the day of his inauguration, that Governor Kennedy reigned in his stead, and that the latest visitor of the missing man had long been wanting, I have come."

"Do you appreciate the gravity of your own position, sir, under the circumstances?" sternly demanded the Iron King.

"I—don't—understand you," said the skipper, in evident perplexity.

"You don't? That is strange. You are the last man—the last person—who saw Governor-elect Rothsay alive, at eleven o'clock on the night of his disappearance. After that hour he was missing, and you had run away."

The young sailor smiled.

"Steamed away, and sailed away, you should say, sir. I see the suspicion to which your words point, and will answer them at once: On that night in question I was a guest of the Crockett House. I was absent from that house only half an hour—from a quarter to eleven to a quarter after eleven—during which time I walked to this house, saw the governor-elect, and walked back to the hotel, only to pay my bill, take a hack and drive to the railway station. Do you think that in half an hour I could have done all that and murdered the governor, and made away with his body besides, Mr. Rockharrt?"

"You would have to prove the truth of your words, sir," replied the Iron King.

"That is easily done by the people at the hotel. I did not tell them where I was going. I never even thought of telling them. But they know I was only gone half an hour; for before going out, or just as I was going out, I ordered the carriage to be ready to take me to the depot at a quarter past eleven."

"They may have forgotten all about you."

"Not at all. I am an old customer, though a young man. They know me very well."

"Then it is very strange that when every anxious inquiry was made for this latest visitor of the governor-elect, these hotel people did not come forward and name you."

"But I repeat, sir, that they did not know that I was that latest visitor. I did not think of telling any one that I was going to see Rothsay before I went, or of telling them that I had been to see him after I went. They had no more reason to identify me with that late caller than any other guest at the hotel, or, in fact, any other man in the world. Come, Mr. Rockharrt, you have complimented me with one of the blackest suspicions that could wrong an honest man, but I will not quarrel with you. I know very well that the last person seen with a missing man is often suspected of his taking off. As for me, I invite the most searching investigation."

"Why did you come here, after so long an interval?" demanded the Iron King, in no way mollified by the moderation of his visitor.

"As I explained to you, I come now because I have just heard that I had been advertised for; and after this long interval because I have been for months at sea. I had, however, another motive for coming—to tell you of the strange manner of Regulas Rothsay during my interview with him—a manner that does not seem to have been observed by any one else, for all speak and write of his health and extraordinarily good spirits on the evening of his arrival in the city only a few hours before I saw him, when he seemed very far from being in good health or good spirits. In fact, a more utterly broken man I never saw in my life."

"Ah! ah! What is this you tell me? Give me particulars! Give me particulars!" said the Iron King, rising and standing over his visitor.

"Indeed, I do not think I can give you particulars. The effect he seemed to produce was that of a general prostration of body and mind. On coming into the room where I waited for him, he looked pale and haggard; he tottered rather than walked; he dropped into his chair rather than sat down in it; his hands fell upon the arms rather than grasped them; he was gloomy, absent-minded, and when he spoke at all, seemed to speak with great effort."

"Ah! ah! ah!" exclaimed the Iron King.

"I thought the fatigue and excitement of the day had been too much for him. I made my visit very short, and soon bade him good-night. He wished me a prosperous voyage, but did not invite me to visit him on my return—a kindness that he had never before omitted."

"Ah, ah ah!" again exclaimed old Aaron Rockharrt.

"Then I thought his manner and appearance only the effect of excessive fatigue and excitement. Now, seen in the light of future events, I attach a more serious meaning to them."

"What! what! what!" demanded the Iron King.

"I think that some fatal news, from some quarter or other, had reached him; or that some heavy sorrow had fallen upon him; or, worse than all, sudden insanity had overtaken him! That, under the lash of one or another, or all of these, he fled the house and the city, and—made away with himself."

"Now, Heaven forbid!" exclaimed old Aaron Rockharrt, dropping into his chair.

"One favor I have to ask you, Mr. Rockharrt, and that is, that the most searching investigation be made of my movements on that fatal evening of the governor's disappearance."

"It shall be done," said the Iron King.

"I shall remain at the David Crockett until all the friends of the late governor are satisfied so far as I am concerned. And now, having said all I have to say, I will bid you good morning," concluded the visitor as he arose, took up his hat, bowed, and left the room.

Old Aaron Rockharrt returned to the breakfast table, where his subservient family waited.

The coffee, that had been sent to the kitchen to be kept hot, was brought up again, with hot rolls and hot broiled partridges.

The old man resumed his breakfast in silence. He did not think proper to speak of his visitor, nor did any member of the family party venture to question him.

And this was well, so far as Cora was concerned.

Any allusion to the agonizing subject of her husband's mysterious disappearance was more than she could well bear; and to have hinted in her presence that some hidden sorrow had driven him to self-destruction might almost have wrecked her reason.

Cora now never mentioned his name; yet, as after events proved, he was never for a moment absent from her mind.

The old grandmother, who could not speak to Cora on the subject, and who dared not speak to her lord and master on any subject that he did not first broach, and yet who felt that she must talk to some one of that which oppressed her bosom so heavily, at length confided to her youngest son.

"I do think Cora's heart is breaking in this suspense, Clarence! If Rule had died there would have been an end of it, and she would have known the worst and submitted to the inevitable! But this awful suspense, anxiety, uncertainty as to his fate, is just killing her! I wish we could do something to save her, Clarence!"

"I wish so, too, mother! I see how she is failing and sinking, and I own that this surprises me! I really thought that Cora was fascinated by that fellow in London." (This was the irreverent manner in which Mr. Clarence spoke of his grace the Duke of Cumbervale.) "And I thought that she only married Rothsay from a sense of duty, keeping her word, and all that sort of thing! I can't understand her grieving herself to death for him now!"

"Oh, Clarence! she was fascinated by the rank and splendor and personal attractions of the young duke! Her fancy, vanity, ambition and imagination were fired; but her heart was never touched! She had not seen Rothsay for so long a time that his image had somewhat faded in her memory when this splendid young fellow crossed her path and dazzled her for a time! It was a brief madness—nothing more! But you can see for yourself how really she loved Rothsay when you see that anxiety for his fate is breaking her heart."

"I see, mother dear; but I don't understand! And I don't know what on earth we can do for her! If my father does not think proper to suggest something, we must not, for if we should do so it would make matters much worse."

"Yes," sighed the old lady; and the subject was dropped.

Clarence had said that he did not understand Cora's state of mind. No; nor did old Mrs. Rockharrt. How could they, when Cora had not understood herself, until suffering brought self-knowledge?

From her childhood up she had loved Rule Rothsay as a sister loves a favorite brother. In her girlhood, knowing no stronger love, on the strength of this she accepted the offered hand of Rothsay, and was engaged to be married to him. She meant to have been faithful to him; but it was a long engagement, during which she traveled with her grandparents for three years, while the memory of her calmly loved betrothed husband grew rather dim. Then came her meeting with the handsome and accomplished young Duke of Cumbervale, and the infatuation, the hallucination that enslaved her imagination for a period. Then began the mental conflict between inclination and duty, ending in her resolution to forget her English lover and to be true to Rule.

Up to the very wedding day she had suppressed and controlled her feelings with heroic firmness, but on the evening of that day, while waiting for her husband, the long, severe tension of her nerves utterly gave way, and when found in a paroxysm of tears and questioned by him, in her wretchedness and misery she had confessed the infidelity of her heart and pleaded for time to conquer it.

She had expected bitter reproaches, but there were none. She had dreaded fierce anger, but there was none. She had anticipated obduracy, but there was none. There was nothing but intense suffering, divine compassion, and infinite renunciation. He pitied her. He soothed her. He defended her from the reproaches of her own conscience. He protected her by an imposed provision that for her own sake she should not tell others what she had told him. And then—

He laid down all the honors that his life-long toil and self-denial had won for her sake, and he went out from his triumphs, went out from her life—out, out into the outer darkness of oblivion, to be seen no more of men, to be heard of no more by men. All for her sake. And before the majesty of such infinite love, such infinite renunciation, her whole soul bowed down in adoration. Yes, at last, in the hour of losing him she loved him as he longed to be loved by her. She had but one desire on earth—to be at his side. But one prayer, and that was her "vital breath"—for his return.

She felt herself to be unworthy of the measureless love that he had given her—that he still gave her, if he still lived, for his love had known no shadow of turning, nor ever would suffer change.

But, oh! where in space was he? How could she reach him? How could she make him hear the cry of her heart?

One message, like a voice from the grave, had, indeed, come to her from him since his disappearance, but it had been sent before he left the house; it was in the letter he had written and placed in the secret drawer of her writing desk before he went forth that fatal night, a "wanderer through the world's wilderness."

She had found it on that day, about three weeks after his loss, when she had come into the parlor for the first time since her illness, and when, left alone for a few minutes by her grandmother, she had gone to her writing desk, and in the idleness of misery had begun carelessly, aimlessly, to turn over her papers. In the same mood she pressed the spring of the secret drawer, and it sprang open and projected the letter before her. She recognized his handwriting, seized the paper and opened it. It contained only a few words of farewell, with a prayer for her happiness and a parting blessing.

There was no allusion made to the cause of their separation. Probably Rule had thought of the letter falling into other hands than hers; so he had refrained from referring to her secret, lest she should suffer reproach from her family.

Cora read this letter with deep emotion over and over again, until she found herself staring at the lines without gathering their meaning, and then she felt herself growing giddy and faint, for she was still very weak from recent illness, and she hastily dropped the letter into the desk and shut down the lid, only just before a film came over her eyes, a muffled sound in her ears, and oblivion over her senses. This is the swoon in which she was found by Mrs. Rockharrt, and for which she could give no satisfactory reason.

When Cora recovered from that swoon her first care, on the first opportunity, was to go to her writing desk to look for her precious letter—Rothsay's last letter to her. No one had opened her desk or disturbed its contents.

She found her letter; pressed it to her heart and lips many times; then made a little silken bag, into which she put it; then tied it around her neck with a narrow ribbon.

And from that day it rested on her heart. It was her priceless treasure to be cherished above all others, "the first to be saved in fire or flood." It was the only relic of her lost love with his last good-by, and prayers and blessings. It was her magic talisman, still connecting her in some occult way with the vanished one. It was her anchor of hope, still promising in some mysterious manner the final return of her lost husband.

While Cora mourned and dreamed away these first days of the family's return to their town house, old Aaron Rockharrt was sifting the evidence of the story told by Captain Ross; he proved the truth of the skipper's account; and he failed to connect the young man's late visit on that fatal night with the almost simultaneous disappearance of Rothsay.

The season passed on. Mr. and Mrs. Rockharrt gave dinner parties and supper parties; and received and accepted invitations to similar entertainments in return; but no persuasions nor arguments could prevail on Cora to go into any society. Not even the iron will of the Iron King could conquer in this matter. His granddaughter was his own personal property, and one of the attractions of his house; it was in her place to wear her best clothes and costliest jewels, and to show herself to his guests; and her persistent refusal to do this put him in a gloomy, teeth-grinding, impotent rage.

"Cora is of age! She has a very sufficient provision. And now if she does not return to her duty and render herself amenable to my authority and obedient to my commands, I shall order her to find another home; for I mean to be master of my own house and of everybody in it!" he said, savagely, to his timid wife, one evening when she was doing valet's duty by dressing his hair for a dinner party.

"Oh, Aaron! Aaron! have pity on the poor, heartbroken girl!" pleaded the old lady, falling into a fit of trembling that interfered with her task.

"Hold your tongue and heed my words, for I shall do as I say. And mind what you are about now! You have scratched my ear with the bristles of the brush."

"I beg your pardon, Aaron, but my hand shakes so."

"If that young woman don't submit herself to my will, and obey my orders, I will pack her out of this house. And then, perhaps, your nerves will be quieter! I'll do it, for I am not particularly fond of having grass widows about me," he growled.

She made no reply. She could not trust herself to speak. It required all her self-control to steady her hands so as to complete her master's toilet.

Then she had to dress herself in haste and agitation to be ready in time to accompany her husband to the dinner party at the executive mansion, which was now occupied by Lieutenant-Governor Kenelm Kennedy—and from which the Iron King would not allow his wife to absent herself.

Old Aaron Rockharrt was the lion of the evening, as he was the lion of every party in the State capital, probably because he owned the lion's share of the State's wealth, and had more money, perhaps, than the State's treasury. He enjoyed this beast worship, and came to his town house every season and went into general society to receive it.

Mrs. Rockharrt was very anxious to have a talk with her granddaughter, to warn her of impending danger and to implore her to obey the wishes of her grandfather, but the poor old lady had no opportunity.

Cora sat up for her grandparents, in case they should need any of her services on their return.

They came in very late, and then the exactions of the domestic tyrant kept his wife in attendance on him until they were all in bed.



CHAPTER VII.

NEWS OF THE MISSING MAN.

The next morning, while Aaron Rockharrt slept the sleep of the dead-in-selfishness, his wife arose and crept into the bedroom of her granddaughter.

Cora was awake, but not yet up.

"Oh, grandma, you will get your death of cold! walking about the house in your night gown. What is it? What do you want? Can I do anything for you?" cried the girl, springing out of bed to turn on the heat of the register, and then wrapping a large shawl around the old lady, and putting her into the cushioned easy chair.

"Now what is it, dear grandma? What can I do for you?" she inquired, as she drew on her own wadded dressing gown and sat on the side of the bed near the old lady.

"You can do something to set my mind at ease, my dear; but it will be painful for you, and I do not know whether you will do it," said the old lady with timid hesitation.

"I can do this, dear? Then, of course, I will do it," replied the girl.

"It is almost too much to ask of you, my child."

"There is nothing, nothing that I would not do to give you peace—you, poor dear, who have so little peace," said Cora, tenderly, smoothing the silver hair away from the wrinkled brow of the old lady, who began to drop a few weak tears of self-pity, excited by Cora's sympathy.

"Well, my child," she said, "your grandfather is going to have a little talk with you soon—on the subject of your self-seclusion. Oh! my poor child, do not resist him, do not provoke, do not disobey him. Oh! for my sake, Cora, for my sake, do not!"

"Dearest dear, I will leave undone anything in the world you wish me not to do. I will no longer rebel against my grandfather's authority, even when he exercises it in such a despotic manner," said Cora, raising the clasped hands of the old lady and pressing them to her lips.

Mrs. Rockharrt gathered the girl in her arms and kissed her, with a few more weak tears, but with no more words.

She did not tell Cora of the cruel threat made by the tyrant to turn her out of doors if she failed to obey him, and she hoped that the girl might never hear of it, lest in her wounded pride she might forestall the threat and leave the house of her own accord.

"Now be at ease, dear," said Cora, soothingly. "No more trouble—"

A bell rang sharply and cut off the girl's speech.

"Oh, there he is awake! I must go to him," exclaimed the timid old creature.

Cora made her toilet, and then went down to the breakfast parlor, where she found the two old people about to sit down to the table. She bade her grandfather good morning and then took her place.

During breakfast Aaron Rockharrt said:

"Mrs. Rothsay, you will come to me in the library as soon as we leave the table. I have something to say to you that must be said at once and for the last time."

"Very well, sir," replied the girl.

Half an hour later she was closeted with her grandfather.

"Madam, I do not intend to waste much time over you this morning. I merely mean to put a test question, whose answer shall decide my future course in regard to you."

"Very well."

"I must preface my question by reminding you that you have constantly disregarded my wishes and disobeyed my orders by refusing to see my guests or to go out in company with me."

"Yes."

"When honored with an invitation to the state dinner at the executive mansion you declined to go, even though I expressed my will that you should accompany me."

"Yes."

"But for the future I intend to be master of my own house and of every living soul within it. Now, then, for my test question. You have received cards to the ball to be given at the house of the chief justice to-morrow evening. I wish you to attend it, and my wish should be a command."

"Of course."

"What is your answer? Think before you speak, for on your answer must depend your future position in my house."

Cora was silent for a few moments.

"Sir," she began at length, "you are a just man, at least, and you will not refuse to hear and consider my reasons for seclusion."

"I will consider nothing! I know them as well as you do. Morbid sensitiveness about your peculiar position; morbid dread of facing the world; morbid love of indulging in melancholy. And I will have none of it! None of it! I will be obeyed, and you shall go out into society, or else—"

"'Or else' what will be the alternative, sir?"

"You leave my house! I will have no rebel in my family!"

Had Cora followed the impulse of her proud and outraged spirit, she would have walked out of the library, gone to her room, put on her bonnet and cloak, and left the house, leaving all her goods to be sent after her; but the girl thought of her poor, gentle, suffering grandmother, and bore the insult.

"Sir," she said, with patient dignity, "do you think that it would have been decorous, under the peculiar circumstances, for me to appear in public, and especially at a state dinner at the executive mansion?"

"Madam, I instructed you to accept that invitation and to attend that dinner! Do you dare to hint that I would counsel you to any indecorous act?"

"No, sir; certainly not, if you had stopped to think of it; but weightier matters occupied your mind, no doubt."

"Let that go. But in the question of this ball? Do you mean to obey me?"

"Grandfather, please consider! How can I mix with gay scenes while the fate of my husband is still an awful mystery?"

"You must conquer your feelings, and go, or—take the consequences!"

"Even if I could forget the tragedy of my wedding day, and mix with the gay world again, what would people say?"

"What would people say, indeed? What would they dare to say of my granddaughter?"

"But, sir, it would be contrary to all the laws of etiquette and conventionality."

"My granddaughter, madam, should give the law to fashion and society, not receive it from them!" said the Iron King, throwing himself back in his arm chair as if it had been his throne.

Cora smiled faintly at this egotism, but made no reply in words.

"To come to the point!" he suddenly exclaimed—"Will you obey me and attend this ball, or will you take the other alternative?"

Cora's heart swelled; her eyes flashed; she longed to defy the despot, but she thought of her meek, patient, long-suffering grandmother, and answered coldly:

"I will go to the ball, sir, since you wish it."

"Very well. That will do. Now leave the room. I wish to read the morning papers."

Cora went out to find her grandmother and to relieve the lady's anxiety; old Aaron Rockharrt threw himself back in his arm chair with grim satisfaction at having conquered Cora and set his iron heel upon her neck. Yes; he had conquered Cora through her love for her poor, timid, abused grandmother. But now Fate was to conquer him.

But Fate had decided that Cora should not attend that ball, or any other place of amusement, for a long time. And he was just on the brink of discovering the impertinent interference of Fate in human affairs, and especially those of the Iron King.

He took up a Washington paper—a government organ—and read, opening his eyes to their widest extent as he read the following head-lines:

A MYSTERY CLEARED UP.

THE FATE OF GOVERNOR REGULAS ROTHSAY.

Killed by the Comanches on November 1st.

A dispatch from Fort Security to the Indian Bureau, received this morning, announces another inroad of the Comanches upon the new settlement of Terrepeur, in which the inhabitants were massacred and their dwellings burned. Among the victims who perished in the flames in their own huts was Regulas Rothsay, late Governor-elect of ——, and at the time of his death a volunteer missionary to this treacherous and bloodthirsty tribe.

Another man, under the circumstances, might have been unnerved by such sudden and awful news, and let fall the paper, but not the Iron King. He grasped it only with a firmer hand, and read it again with keener eyes.

"What under the heavens took that man out there? Had he gone suddenly mad? That seems to be the only possible explanation of his conduct. To abandon his bride on the day of his marriage—to abandon his high official position as governor of this State on the day of his inauguration, and without giving any living creature a hint of his intention, to fly off at a tangent and go to the Indian country and become a missionary to those red devils, and be massacred for his pains—it was the work of a raving maniac. But what drove him mad? Surely it was not his high elevation that turned his head, for if it had been, his madness would never have taken this particular direction of flying from his honors. No! it is as I have always suspected. He heard, in some way, of the girl's English lover, and he, with his besotted devotion to her, was just the man to be morbidly, madly jealous, and to do some such idiotic thing as he has done, and get himself murdered and burned to ashes for his pains! Yes; and it serves him right!—it serves him—right!"

He sat glowering at the paragraph, and growling over his news for some time longer, but at length he took it up and walked over to the back parlor, where he felt sure he should find his two women.

Mrs. Rockharrt and Cora, who sat at a table before the gloomy coal fire, and were engaged in some fancy needlework, looked up uneasily as he entered; not that they expected bad news, but that they feared bad temper.

"Cora," he began, "I shall not insist on your going to the ball to-morrow."

She looked up in surprise, and a grateful exclamation was on her lips, but he forestalled it by saying:

"I suppose the news is all over the city by this time. I am going out to hear what the people are saying about it, and to see if the government house and the public offices are to be hung in mourning. There—there it is told in the first column of this paper."

And with cruel abruptness he laid the newspaper on the table between the two women, and pointed out the fatal paragraph.

Then he stalked out of the room, and called his man-servant to help him on with his heavy overcoat.

That house, on the previous night, had been one blaze of light in honor of the State dinner. Now, as well as he could see dimly through the falling snow, it was all closed up, and men on ladders were festooning every row of windows with black goods.

"Yes, of course. It is as I expected. The news has gone all over the town already," said old Aaron Rockharrt, as he strode through the snowstorm to the business center of the city.

Every acquaintance whom he met stopped him with the same question in slightly different words.

"Have you heard?" and so forth.

Every intimate friend he encountered asked:

"How does Mrs. Rothsay bear it?" or—

"What on earth ever took the governor out there?"

To all questions the Iron King gave curt answers that discouraged discussion of the subject. He walked on, noticing that the stores and offices of the city were being festooned with mourning, and that notwithstanding the severity of the storm the street corners were occupied by groups talking excitedly of the fatal news.

He went into the editorial rooms of all the city newspapers and wished and attempted to dictate to the proprietors the manner in which they should write of the tragic event which was then in the minds and on the tongues of all persons.

As he spent an hour on the average at each office, it was late in the winter afternoon when he got home. It was not yet dark, however, and he was surprised to see a man servant engaged in closing the shutters.

He entered and demanded severely why the servant shut the windows before night.

The old man looked nervous and distressed, and answered vaguely:

"It is the missus, sah."

The idea that his wife should take the liberty of ordering the house to be closed for the night at this unusual hour of the afternoon, without his authority, enraged him:

"Help me off with my ulster," he said.

When the servant had performed this office the master said:

"Serve dinner at once."

And then he strode into the back parlor, which was the usual sitting room of his wife and granddaughter. The room was empty and darkened. More than ever infuriated by fatigue, hunger, and the supposed disregard of his authority, he came out and walked up stairs to look for his wife in her own room. He pushed open the door and entered. That room was also dark, only for the faint red light that came from the coal fire in the grate. By this he dimly perceived a female form sitting near the bed, and whom he supposed to be his wife.

"Why, in the fiend's name, is the whole house as dark as pitch?" he roughly demanded, as he went to a front window and threw open the shutters, letting in the white light of the snow storm.

"Grandfather!"

It was the voice of Cora that spoke, and there was a something in its tone that struck and almost awed even the Iron King.

He turned abruptly.

Cora had risen from her chair and was now standing by the bed. But on the bed lay a little, still, fair form, with hands folded over its breast, with the eyes shut down forever, and all over the fair, wan, placid face was "the peace of God which passeth all understanding."

"What is this?" demanded Old Aaron Rockharrt, as he came up to the bed.

"Look at her. She rests at last. I have been with her twenty years, and this is the first time I have ever seen her rest in peace."

Old Aaron Rockharrt stood like a stone beside the bed, gazing down on the dead.

"She is safe now, never more to be startled, or frightened, or tortured by any one. 'Safe, where the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest,'" continued Cora.

Still Old Aaron stood like a stone beside the bed and gazed down on the dead.

Suddenly, without moving or withdrawing his gaze from where it rested, he asked in a low, gruff tone:

"How did this happen?"

"She fainted in her chair, and died in that faint."

"When? where? from what?"

"Within an hour after you had left us together in the back parlor, with the paper containing the news of my husband's death," answered Cora, speaking in a tone of most unnatural calmness.

"Had that excitement anything to do with her swoon?"

"I do not know."

"Give me the particulars."

"We—or, rather, she—first took up the paper, and without knowing what the news was that you told us to look at, gave it to me, and asked me to read it. I, as soon as I saw what it was—I lost all control over myself. I do not know how I behaved. But she took the paper, to see what it was that had so disturbed me, and then, she, too, became very much agitated; but she tried to console me, tried for a long while to comfort me, standing over my chair, and caressing and talking. At last she left me, and sat down and leaned back in her own chair. I was trying to be quiet, and at last succeeded, and then I arose and went to her, meaning to tell her that I would be calm and not distress her any more. When I looked at her, I found that she had fainted. I rang and sent off for a doctor instantly, and while waiting for him did all that was possible to revive her, but without effect. When the doctor came and examined her condition he pronounced her quite dead."

"This must have occurred four or five hours ago. Why was I not sent for?"

"You were sent for immediately. Messengers were dispatched in every direction. But you could nowhere be found. They did not, indeed, know where to look for you."

"Now close the window again, and then go and leave me alone; and do not let any one disturb me on any account," said the old man, who had not once moved from the bedside, or even lifted his gaze from the face of the dead.

"I have telegraphed to North End for Uncle Fabian and Clarence, also to West Point for Sylvanus. Sylvan cannot reach here before to-morrow, but my uncles will be here this evening. Shall I send you word when they arrive?"

"No. Let no one come to me to-night."

"Shall I send you up anything, grandfather?"

"No, no. If I require anything I will ring for it. Go now, Cora, and leave me to myself."

The girl went away, closing the door behind her. As she descended the stairs she heard the key turned, and knew that her grandfather had so shut out all intruders.

He who had come home hungry and furious as a famished wolf never appeared at the dinner that he had so peremptorily ordered to be served at once, but shut himself up fasting with his dead. If his eyes were now opened to see how much he had made her suffer through his selfishness, cruelty, and despotism all her married life—if his late remorse awoke—if he grieved for her—no one ever knew it. He never gave expression to it.



CHAPTER VIII.

"THE PEACE OF GOD WHICH PASSETH ALL UNDERSTANDING."

In the late dawn of that dark winter day Mr. Clarence came down into the parlor, and found Cora still there, with one gas jet burning low.

"Up so early, my dear child?" he said, as he took her hand and gave her the good morning kiss.

"I have not been in bed," she replied.

"Not in bed all night! That was wrong. How cold your hands are? Go to bed now, dear."

"I cannot. I do not wish to."

"My poor, doubly bereaved child, how much I feel for you!" he said, in a tender tone, and still holding her hand.

"Do not mind me, Uncle Clarence. I do not feel for myself. I am numb. I feel nothing—nothing," she replied.

Mr. Clarence, still holding her hand, led her to a large easy chair, and put her in it.

Then he went and rang the bell.

"Tell the cook to make a strong cup of coffee as quickly as she can, and bring it up here to Mrs. Rothsay," he said to the man who answered the call.

The latter touched his forehead and left the room.

Mr. Clarence had tact enough not to worry his niece with any more words. He went and opened one of the front windows to look out upon the wintry morning. The ground was covered very deeply with the snow, which was now falling so thickly as to obscure every object.

When the servant entered with the coffee, Mr. Clarence himself took it from the man's hand, and carried it to his niece and persuaded her to drink it.

The servant meanwhile, mindful of the proprieties, when he saw the front window open, went and closed it, and then passed down the room and opened both the back windows, which gave sufficient light to the whole area of the apartment.

Finally he turned off the gas, and taking up the empty coffee service, left the room.

Presently after Mr. Fabian came in, and greeted his niece and his brother in a grave, muffled voice.

A little later breakfast was served.

"Some one should go up to see if grandpa will have anything sent to him. Will you, Uncle Fabian?" inquired Cora, as they seated themselves at the table.

Mr. Fabian left his chair for the purpose, but before he had crossed the room they heard the heavy footsteps of the Iron King coming down the stairs.

He entered the dining room, and all arose to receive him. He came up and shook hands with each of his sons in turn and in silence. Then he took his place at the table. The three younger members of the family looked at him furtively, whenever they could do so without attracting his attention, and, perhaps, awakening his wrath.

Some change had come over him, but not of a softening nature. His hard, stern, set face was, if possible, more stony than ever.

Neither Mr. Clarence nor Cora dared to speak to him; but Mr. Fabian, feeling the silence awkward and oppressive, at length ventured to say:

"My dear father, in this our severe bereavement—"

But he got no further in his speech. Old Aaron Rockharrt raised his hand and stopped him right there, and then said:

"Not one word from any one of you to me or in my presence on this event, either now or ever. It happened in the course of nature. Drop the subject. Fabian, how are matters going on at the works?"

"I do not know, sir," replied Mr. Fabian, speaking for the first and last and only time, abruptly and indiscreetly to his despotic father.

But the Iron King took no notice of the words, nor did he repeat the question. He drank one cup of coffee, ate half a roll, and then arose and left the table, without a word. He did not return to his dead wife's chamber, which he probably knew would now have to be given up to dressers of the dead and to the undertakers.

He went and locked himself in the library, and was seen no more that day.

Cora, with her woman's intuition, understood the accession of hardness that was worn as a mask to conceal grief and remorse.

"Be patient with him, Uncle Fabian. He is your father, after all. And he suffers! Oh, he suffers! Yes; much more than any of us do," she said.

"Do you think so, Cora?" inquired Mr. Fabian, looking at her in surprise.

"I know he does," she answered.

"Well, he has good reason to!" concluded Mr. Fabian. Then, after a pause, he added: "But I am sorry I spoke roughly to my father! I will make it up to him, or try to do so, by extra deference."

Then they all arose from the table.

Mr. Fabian and Mr. Clarence to attend to the business of the mournful occasion, which Old Aaron Rockharrt, in his proud, reserved, absorbed sorrow, seemed to have ignored or forgotten.

Cora stepped away to her grandmother's room, to have a quiet hour beside the beloved dead before the undertaker should come in and take possession.

"It is only her body that is dead, I know. But the hands had caressed me and the lips kissed me; and, right or wrong, I love that body as well as the heavenly soul that lived within it! The flesh cleaves to the flesh. And so long as we are in the flesh we will, we must, haunt the shrines that contain the bodies of those we love," she thought, as reverently she entered the chamber of death, closed the door, and went up to the bed whereon lay the tenantless temple in which so lately lived the most loving, the most patient spirit she had ever known!

But what is this! Into what strange sphere of ineffable peace has Cora entered? She could not understand the change that came over her. She had a gentle impulse to close her eyes to all visible matters and yield herself up to the sweetness of this sphere. Her dear one was living, was young again, was happy, was sleeping, watched by angels, who would presently awaken her to the eternal life.

Cora knelt down by the bed and lifted up her heart to the Lord of life in silent, wordless, thoughtless, profoundly quiet aspiration. She did not wish to move or speak, or form a sentence even in her mind. She found her state a strange one, but she did not even wonder at it, so deep was the calm that enveloped her spirit.

Not long had she knelt there in this rapt serenity, when she was conscious that some one was rapping softly at the door. This did not disturb her. She arose from her knees, still in deep peace, went to the door, and said:

"Presently. I will open presently. Wait a moment."

Then she went back to the bed, turned down the sheet, and gazed upon the beloved face. How placid it was, and how beautiful. Death had smoothed every trace of age and care from that little fair old face. She lay as if sleeping, and almost smiling in her sleep—

"As though by fitness she had won The secret of some happy dream."

Cora stooped and kissed the placid brow, then covered the face, and went to open the door.

The gray-haired old Jason was waiting outside.

"If you please, ma'am, it is the—"

"I know, I know," said Cora, quietly. "Show them in."

And she passed out and went to her own room.

Her front windows were closed; but through the slats of the shutters she saw that it was still snowing fast.

"What a winding sheet this will make for her grave," she thought, as she looked out upon the wintry scene.

There was no wind, the fine white snow fell softly and steadily, giving only the dimmest view of the government house on the opposite side of the square draped in mourning.

The funeral of Mrs. Rockharrt took place on the third day after her death. The snow had ceased, and the winter sun was shining brightly from a clear blue sky on a white world, whose trees wore pendent diamonds instead of green leaves, and as every house in the city was hung in black for the dead governor, the effect of all this glare and glitter and gloom was very weird and strange, as the funeral cortege passed from the Rockharrt home to the Church of the Lord's Peace.

After the rites were over, the family returned to their city home, but only for the night; for preparation had been already completed for their removal to Rockhold, there to pass the year of mourning.

Old Aaron Rockharrt never changed from his look of stony immobility. If he mourned for his patient wife of more than half a century, no outward sign betrayed his feelings. If his spirit suffered with suppressed grief, his strong frame bore up under it without the slightest weakening.

On the afternoon of his return from his wife's funeral he shut himself up in his library and remained there all the evening, refusing to come to dinner, calling for a bottle of wine and a sandwich and desiring afterward to be left alone.

Later in the evening he sent for Mr. Fabian to come to him, and there opened to his eldest son and partner, in whose business talents he had great confidence, a scheme of speculation so venturous, so gigantic that the younger man was shocked and staggered, and began to lose faith in the sound intellect of the Iron King.

"This will make us twice told the wealthiest men in the United States, if not in the whole world," concluded Old Aaron Rockharrt.

"If it should succeed," said Mr. Fabian, dubiously.

"It shall succeed; I say it. We shall go down to Rockhold to-morrow morning and the next day to the works, and there I shall give my whole mind to this matter and make it succeed, do you hear? Make it succeed! And place my name at the head of the list of wealthy men of this age."

Mr. Fabian did not dare to raise any objection.

"I am pleased, sir," he said, "that you find in this new enterprise an object of so much interest to engage your mind. Employ me in any way you think fit. I am quite at your service, as it is my bounden duty to be."

"Very well; that is as it should be. Now I am going to bed. Good night," said the Iron King, abruptly dismissing his son, then rising and ringing for his valet, whose office, since the patient old lady's death, was now no longer a sinecure.

It seems passing strange that a man of seventy-six years, who had just lost his life-long and beloved companion—for in his own selfish way he loved her after a sort, and perhaps more than he loved any human being in the world—and who must expect before many years to follow her, should be so full of this world's avarice and ambition; so eager to make more, and more, and more money, and to stand at the head of the list of all the wealthiest men in the land. Strange, yet the name of such a one is legion. But in the case of Old Aaron Rockharrt there might have been this additional motive—the necessity to seek refuge from the pains of grief and remorse in the anxieties and activities of speculation. So he was very eager to get back as soon as possible to business and to enter at once upon the enterprise he had planned.

Cora was also anxious to leave the city, which she knew was in a fresh ferment of gossip and conjecture on the subject of her lost husband, the deceased governor-elect. The news from the Indian Territory had renewed all the public interest in the mystery of his disappearance.

For some months before this news arrived, the community had settled down to the conviction that the missing governor had been murdered and his body made away with, although, as there was no proof to establish the fact of their theory, there was no thought of inaugurating the lieutenant-governor as chief magistrate of the State.

Yet, now, when the startling news came that the missing statesman had been killed by the Comanches in the wilds of the Indian Reservation, far from any agency, and that he had been living and preaching there as a volunteer missionary for many months before the massacre, the mystery of his sudden and unexplained disappearance from the State capital on the day of his inauguration was not cleared up and made intelligible, but darkened and rendered more inscrutable.

It was easy enough to understand why a missing man might have been lured away from his dwelling by some false letter or plausible message, and murdered in some secret place where his body lay buried in earth or water, for such crimes were not unfrequent.

But that a bridegroom should secretly depart on the evening of his wedding day, that a governor should take flight on the evening before his inauguration, was a course of action only to be explained on the ground of insanity; and yet Regulas Rothsay was always considered one of the most level-headed and mentally well balanced among the rising young statesmen of the country.

Conjecture had once been wild as to the cause of his disappearance—had he been murdered, or kidnapped, or both? Those were the questions then.

Conjecture was now rampant as to the cause of his sudden flight and self expatriation to the Indian Territory. Had he suddenly gone mad? Or committed a capital crime which was on the eve of discovery? These were the questions now.

Every newspaper was full of the problem, which none but one could solve, and she was bound to secrecy.

But it gave her inexpressible pain to know that his motives and his character were being discussed and censured for that course of conduct for which only herself was to be blamed, and which only she could explain. A word from her would show him in a very different light before his critics. But she must not speak that word to save his reputation.

So Cora was anxious to leave the city.

The next morning the whole family set out on their return journey to Rockhold, where they arrived early in the afternoon. They found everything in good order, for Cora had taken the precaution to write to the housekeeper, and warn her of the return of the family.

The grief of the servants for the loss of their kind and gentle old mistress broke out afresh at the sight of the young lady. And it was long before the latter could soothe and quiet them.

Fortunately Mr. Rockharrt had gone at once to his room, and so he escaped annoyance from their loud lamentations, and they escaped stern rebuke for their want of self-control.

The two young Rockharrts had left the family party at North End, to inspect the condition of the works, and were to remain there overnight. Old Aaron Rockharrt, Sylvanus Haught, and Cora Rothsay were, therefore, the only ones who sat down at the once full dinner table.

The meal passed in almost utter silence, for neither Sylvan nor Cora ventured to address one word to the hard old man who, whenever they had spoken to him since his loss of his wife, had replied in short, harsh words, or not replied at all. The brother and sister, therefore, only spoke in suppressed tones, at intervals, to each other.

After dinner the old man bade them an abrupt good night, and left the room to retire to his own chamber. Cora felt sorry for him, despite all his harshness. She stepped after him and asked:

"Grandfather, can I be of any service to you at all? Help you at your—"

He stopped her by turning and bending his gray brows over the fierce black eyes which fixed her motionless. He stared at her for an instant and then said:

"No. Certainly not," and turned and went up stairs.

Cora walked slowly back into the drawing room, at the open door of which stood Sylvan, who had heard all that passed.

"You had better let the old man alone, Cora. Or you'll have your head bitten off. I don't want to break the fifth commandment by saying anything irreverent of our grandfather, but indeed, indeed, indeed it is as much as one's life, or at least as one's temper, is worth to speak to him," said the young man.

"I never reverenced my grandfather as much as I do now, Sylvan," gravely replied the young lady.

"That is all right! Reverence him as much as you please; but don't go too near the old lion in his present mood. Come and sit down on the sofa by me, sister, and let us have a pleasant talk—"

"Pleasant talk! Oh, Sylvan!"

"Well, then, Cora, dear sister, a cozy, confidential talk. Do you know we have not had one for years and years and years?"

They sat down side by side holding each other's hands in silence for a little while, when Cora said:

"Do you think you will graduate next year, Sylvan?"

"Yes, Cora, certainly."

"And then you will come home for a long visit."

"For a short one, on leave."

"And afterward, Sylvan?"

"Well, afterward I shall be ordered out to 'The Devil's Icy Peak.'"

"What!"

"That was Aunt Cassy's name for all remote parts, you know. 'Devil's Icy Peak,' which in my destination means some remote frontier fort, among hostile Indians, border ruffians, grizzly bears, buffaloes, rattlesnakes, mosquitoes, malaria, and other wild beasts. There is where they send all the new-fledged military officers from West Point, and there they may spend the best part of their lives," said Sylvan.

"Unless they have influence with the higher authorities. If they have such influence, they may be sent to choice posts near the great cities, in reach of all the best society, best libraries, and all the luxuries and advantages of the highest civilization."

"Yes, I know; but—" said the young cadet, hesitatingly.

"You, or rather our grandfather, has influence enough to have you ordered to Washington, New York, Portsmouth—any place."

"Yes, I know; but—"

"But what, Sylvan?"

"Cora, our grandfather's influence is that of wealth—great wealth—and it is a mighty power in this world at this age; but, you see, Aaron Rockharrt would not use it in such a way. He would not consider it honest to do so. Nor would I have it either. No; since the government has given me a free military education, I think it my duty to go exactly wherever they may order me, without attempting to evade orders through the influence of friends or money."

"You are entirely right, dear brother. And I tell you this: Though I must and will remain with my grandfather so long as he shall need me—so long as he shall live—yet, when he departs, if you should be stationed at one of those border posts, I will go out and join you, Sylvan," said Cora Rothsay, taking both his hands and pressing them warmly.

"No, dear sister; you shall not make such a sacrifice for me," he answered.

"But after my aged grandfather, whose days on earth cannot be long, whom have I in this world to live for but you, Sylvan?"

"Other interests in life, I hope, will arise, sister, to give you happiness," he replied.

Cora shook her head, and as the waiter now entered the parlor with the bedroom candles, she lighted one, bade her brother good night, and retired.

The next morning, as but one day of his leave of absence remained, the young cadet bade good-by to his friends, and left Rockhold for West Point, where he arrived the next morning just in time to report for duty, and save his honor.

Old Aaron Rockharrt went up to North End, where his sons awaited him; there to inspect the works, and commence proceedings toward that vast enterprise which the Iron King had planned out while in the city.

And from this day forth. "Rockharrt & Sons" devoted all their energies to this mammoth speculation, while, as the months passed, it grew into huge and huger proportions, and great and greater success.

Old Aaron Rockharrt's spirits rose with the splendor of his fortune.

He was nearly seventy-seven years of age, yet he said to himself, in effect: "Soul, thou hast much goods laid up for many years."

Cora, meanwhile, living a secluded and almost solitary life at Rockhold, occupied herself with a labor of love, in writing the life of her late husband, with extracts from his letters, speeches, and newspaper articles. In doing this her soul seemed once more joined to his.

In this manner the year of mourning passed, and the month of January was at hand.



CHAPTER IX.

TURMOIL OF THE WORLD.

The Rockharrts were again in the State capital. It was but thirteen months since the death of his wife and since the news of the murder of his grandson-in law had been received—calamities which had doubly bereaved the family, and thrown them in the deepest mourning—yet the Iron King, elated by his marvelous financial success, had thrown open his house to society, and insisted that his granddaughter should do its honors.

Cora, who, since the death of the grandmother, had deeply pitied the grandfather, yielded to his wishes in this respect, though much against her secret inclination. She did not leave off her widow's mourning, but she modified it when she presided at the head of the Rockharrt table on those frequent occasions of the sumptuous and unrivaled dinners given by the Iron King to those whose fortunes he was making, with his own, by his mammoth enterprise.

The old man was certainly the lion of the season. He had steadily gone on from step to step on the ladder of fame (for enormous wealth), until now he was quoted as not only the richest man of his State, but as one of the ten richest men in the world.

It was at this time that Mr. Fabian bethought himself of taking a wife. It was indeed quite time that he should marry, if he ever intended to do so. He was nearly fifty-two years of age, though looking no more than forty; his erect and active figure, his fresh and smooth complexion, his curling brown hair and beard, his smiling countenance and cheerful demeanor, rendered him quite an attractive man to young ladies, who credited him with fully twenty years less than his due.

There was, at this time, among the lovely "rosebuds" opening in the fashionable drawing rooms of the city, a sweet "wood violet," otherwise Violet Wood; a perfect blonde, with perfect features and a petite figure. Her beauty was peculiar; she was very small, very dainty; her hair the palest yellow, her face so white that almost the only color on her features were her deep blue eyes and crimson lips.

She was an orphan heiress, without any near relation in the world. Though but eighteen years of age, and just from school, she had already entered on the possession of her fortune by the terms of her father's will. She lived with her former guardians, the Chief Justice Pendletime and his wife.

They had given a grand ball to introduce their ward into society. The Rockharrts had been invited, of course. And they had all been present. The Wood Violet, as admirers transposed her name, was equally, of course, the belle of the evening.

The tall, towering sunflower, Mr. Fabian, fell instantly and irrecoverably in love with this tiny white wood violet. Many others fell in love with her, but none to the depth of Mr. Fabian. He resolved to "take time by the forelock," "not to let the grass grow under his feet" in this love chase.

The very next morning he said to his father:

"You have lately expressed a wish to see me married, sir. I have been, in obedience to your commands, looking out for a wife. I think I have found a woman to suit me, and, what is more to the purpose, to suit you, sir. However, if I should be mistaken in your taste, I shall, of course, give up the thought of proposing to her," added artful Mr. Fabian, who felt perfectly sure that his father would approve his choice.

"Who is she?" demanded the Iron King.

"Miss Violet Wood, the ward of Chief Justice Pendletime."

"You could not have made a wiser choice. You have my full approval. And the sooner you are married, the better I shall like it."

Mr. Fabian bowed in silence.

"And you remember that we were planning to send a confidential agent to Europe to establish syndicates for our shares in the principal cities. Now you can utilize your wedding tour by taking your bride to Europe and looking after this business in person."

"Yes, of course," assented Mr. Fabian.

"Other details may be thought of afterward. You had better begin to call on the lady. It is well to be the first in the market."

"Of course, sir."

This ended the conference.

Mr. Fabian groomed himself into as charming a toilet as a gentleman's morning suit would admit. He then set forth in his carriage and made the round of the three conservatories of which the town could boast before he could find a cluster of white wood violets to pin on the lapel of his coat. He also got a splendid and fragrant bouquet, and armed with these fascinators he drove to the house of the chief justice and sent in his card.

The ladies were at home. He was shown into the drawing room, where, oh! beneficence of fortune, he found his inamorata alone.

In a pale blue cashmere home dress trimmed with swan's down and lace, she looked fairer, sweeter, daintier, more suggestive of a wood violet than ever.

She left her seat at the piano and came to meet him, saying simply:

"Good morning, Mr. Rockharrt. Mrs. Pendletime will be down presently. She is not in good health, and so she slept late this morning after the ball. Oh! what lovely, lovely flowers! For me? Oh! thank you so much, Mr. Rockharrt," she added, as Mr. Fabian, with a deep bow and a sweet smile, presented his offering.

Mr. Fabian made good use of his time, and had advanced considerably in the good graces of his fair little love before the lady of the house entered.

Mrs. Chief Justice Pendletime greeted Mr. Fabian most graciously, inquiring after the health of his father.

A little small talk, a few compliments, and the delightful chat was broken into by the arrival of other callers, fine youths, admirers of Violet Wood and secret aspirants to her favor. Even most amiable Mr. Fabian felt a strong desire to kick them all out of the drawing room, through the front door and into the street.

He made himself doubly agreeable to the beauty and her chaperon, and finally offered them a box at the opera for the next evening, and when it was accepted he at last took leave.

"I have got the inside track and mean to keep it!" he said to himself, as he drove homeward. And he did keep it. He was really a very fascinating man when he chose to be so, and he generally did choose to be so. And he could "make love like an angel." Now, whether he really won the affections of Violet Wood by his charms of person and address, or whether he only dazzled the girl's imagination by the splendor of his wealth and position, or whether her guardians advocated his cause with the beauty, or whether there was something of all these influences at work upon her will, I do not quite know. But certain it is that when Mr. Fabian, after two weeks' courtship, offered his heart, hand, and fortune to the little beauty, she accepted them, and not only accepted, but seemed very happy in doing so.

The betrothed lover pleaded for an early wedding day. Violet Wood answered that she would consult her chaperon and abide by her decision. Mr. Fabian then took the precaution to see Mrs. Pendletime, and pray that the marriage might take place early in February. The lady answered that she would consult her young protegee and be governed by her wishes.

Mr. Fabian bowed, thanked her warmly, shook hands with her cordially and left the house. He went straight home, took from his safe a casket of diamonds he had bought for his bride, and saying to himself:

"I can get Violet another and twice as costly a set; and what I need now is to save time." He called Jason and dispatched him with this casket and his card done up in a neat parcel, and directed to Mrs. Chief Justice Pendletime. So prompt had been his action that the chaperon received this silent bribe before she had spoken to her protegee on the subject of fixing a day for her marriage.

Now the fire of these diamonds threw such a radiant light on the matter that Mrs. Pendletime saw at once, and quite clearly, that February, early in February, was the very best time for the wedding.

She sent for her protegee, and had a talk with her. Now Violet Wood was by nature a simple-hearted, good-humored girl, who loved to be well dressed, well housed, well served, and, above all, to be much petted, especially by such a charming master of the art as was Mr. Fabian. She also loved to oblige her friends.

So she yielded to the arguments of Mrs. Pendletime and consented to be married in February—only not during the first week in February, but about the middle of the month—the fourteenth, say. Saint Valentine's day, the birds' bridal day, would be a very appropriate time for a wood violet to wed.

When Mr. Fabian came to pay his usual visit the next morning, Mrs. Pendletime received him, thanked him profusely for his munificent gift, telling him at the same time that she should certainly never have accepted such a costly present from any one who was not connected or about to be connected with her family. Mr. Fabian bowed deprecatingly and asked if he might be permitted to see Miss Wood. Surely he might, she had only intercepted him to thank him for his gift. Then she told him that he would find Violet alone in the drawing room. He went in, and found the little creature perched upon the music stool, before the open piano, trying a new piece of music. She lighted down like a little bird from a twig and came to meet him. He greeted his betrothed with more warmth of love than a younger man might have ventured upon—but, then, Mr. Fabian was no freshman in the college of love. And Violet, though she did not like to be squeezed so tight and kissed so much, thought it was all right, since he was her first lover and her betrothed husband. She was not sufficiently in love with him to be afraid of him. This was as if one of her school girl friends had hugged and kissed her so much. When they were seated side by side on the sofa, Mr. Fabian told her that immediately after their wedding breakfast they should take the train for New York and thence sail for Liverpool. They should reach London near the beginning of the fashionable season, which is not winter, as with us, but spring.

Violet listened in the rapture of anticipation.

"And at the end of the London season we will make a leisurely tour through England—see the monuments of its great old history; palaces and castles of kings and chieftains who have been dust for ages. Then the homes and haunts of the great poets and painters."

The door opened, and the servant announced a visitor. Mr. Fabian, secure now of his prize, arose and said good morning, leaving Violet to entertain one of her young adorers. Mr. Fabian went home and sought his father in the library, where the old man now passed much of his time.

"Well, my dear sir, it is all settled. With your approbation, we—Miss Violet Wood and myself—will be married on the fourteenth proximo, and leave for Europe immediately afterward," said Mr. Fabian, seating himself.

"That is right. I am glad that you will sail in February. You will thereby escape the winds of March and the tempests of the spring equinox," said the Iron King, sententiously.

"I am very glad you approve," said Mr. Fabian.

Old Aaron Rockharrt nodded in silence.

Fabian looked at him; saw that the old man looked grave, depressed, yet stern and strong as adamant. He felt very sorry for his father. His own present happiness rendered good-natured Mr. Fabian very compassionate toward the lonely old widower. He had something, inspired by this compassion, to suggest to the old man, yet he feared to do so straightforwardly.

"Father," he said at length, for he didn't mind lying the least in the world—"Father, I heard a strange report about you this morning."

"Indeed! What was it? That I had failed in business, or quadrupled my fortune?" inquired the egotist, who was always interested when the question concerned himself.

"Neither, sir. I heard you were going to be married."

"Fabian!" sternly exclaimed the Iron King, darkly gathering his brows.

"Yes, sir," said the benevolent Mr. Fabian, who, now that the ice was broken, could go on lying glibly with the best intentions and without the slightest scruple; "yes, sir; you know such rumors must necessarily get afloat about such a fine-looking, marriageable man as yourself."

"Ah! and since the community have made so free, pray what lady's name have they honored me by associating with mine?" inquired the Iron King somewhat sarcastically, yet not ill-pleased to learn that he was still to be considered a great prize in the matrimonial market.

"Why, of course there could be but one lady in the question; and equally, of course, you will be able to place her," said Mr. Fabian, smiling.

"Upon my soul, I am not."

"Well, then, the lady to whom you are reported to be engaged is the beautiful Mrs. Bloomingfield."

"Who?"

"The beautiful and accomplished Mrs. Bloomingfield, with whom you sat and talked during the whole evening of the governor's State dinner party."

"Oh, the widow of General Bloomingfield, who died three years ago. Yes, I remember her—a very fine creature, most certainly—but I never dreamed of her in the light of a wife. In fact, I never dreamed of marrying again," said the Iron King, speaking with unusual gentleness.

Mr. Fabian laughed in his sleeve. He thought of the soft place in the hard head of the Iron King, a weak part in the strong character of old Aaron Rockharrt—personal vanity.

"With all possible respect and submission, my dear father, I would suggest that if you never thought of marrying again, you should do so now."

"Fabian, I am seventy-seven years old."

"In years, yes; but that is nothing to you. You are not half that age in health, strength, vigor, and activity of mind and body. What man of forty do you know who has anything approaching your energy?"

"None that I know of, indeed, Fabian," said the Iron King, softening into complacency.

"No, none," assented Mr. Fabian. "Men die of old age at almost any time in their lives—at forty, fifty, sixty, seventy—but you in your strength of manhood are likely to reach your hundredth year and to be a hale old man then. Now, and for many years to come, you will not be old at all."

"Yes; I think I have twenty-five or thirty years longer to live."

"And will you live those years in loneliness? Cora will be sure to marry. A young woman like Cora will not wear the willow long, believe me. And when Cora leaves you, what then will you do? You have no other daughter or granddaughter. As for my promised wife, you yourself made it a condition of our marriage that we should have an establishment of our own."

"For the dignity of the house of Rockharrt. Yes, Fabian."

"And when Cora shall have left you, you will be alone—you who require the gentle ministrations of woman more than any man I ever knew."

"Fabian!" exclaimed old Aaron Rockharrt, suddenly and suspiciously, bringing his strong black eyes to bear pointedly upon the face of his son. "What is your motive in wishing me to marry?"

"Heaven bear me witness, sir, that my motive, my only motive, is your own comfort and happiness," said Fabian, and this time he spoke the truth.

"I believe you, Fabian. But this lady with whom the world associates my name is too young for me. She cannot be more than twenty-five," said Old Aaron Rockharrt reflectively.

"Well, sir! What did the sages and prophets recommend to David? A young woman to comfort the king. I am not very well posted in Bible history, but I think that is the story," said Mr. Fabian.



CHAPTER X.

ANOTHER FINE WEDDING.

The marriage of Mr. Fabian Rockharrt and Miss Violet Wood was to be the great event of the winter.

When the approaching wedding was announced in the newspapers of the day, it caused a sensation, I assure you. Mr. Fabian Rockharrt, the eldest son of the renowned millionaire, the confirmed bachelor, for whom "caps" had been "set" for the last twenty-five years; who had flirted with maidens who were now wives of elderly men and mothers of grown-up daughters, and in some cases even grandmothers of growing boys and girls—Mr. Fabian Rockharrt to be won at last by a little wood violet! Preposterous!

The fourteenth of February, Saint Valentine's Day, the Birds' Wedding Day, dawned in that Southern climate like a May day. The snow had vanished weeks before; the ground was warm and moist; the grass was springing; the trees were budding; the wood violets were opening their sweet eyes in sheltered nooks of the forest.

I do not know in what mood Violet Wood arose on that momentous morning of her life—probably in a very pleasant one. Her chaperon confided to an intimate friend that the child was not in love; that she had never been in love in her life, and did not even know what being in love meant; but that she was rather fond of the fine fellow who adored her, flattered her, petted her, promised her everything she wanted, and whose enormous wealth constituted him a sort of magician who could command the riches, the splendors, the luxuries, and all the delights of life! She was full of rapturous anticipations of extravagant enjoyments.

Mr. Fabian Rockharrt, utterly unprincipled as he was, yet had the grace to recognize the purity of the young being whom he was about to make his wife. He was very kind hearted and good humored with every one; he really loved this girl, as he had never loved any one in all his life; and it was his pleasure to indulge her in every wish and whim—even to suggest and create in her mind more wishes and more whims, such as she never could have imagined, so that he might have the joy of gratifying them.

Before starting to church that morning his father called him into the library for a private interview, and lectured him as if he had been a lad of twenty-one, who was about to contract marriage—lectured him on the duties of a husband, of the master of a household and the head of a family.

The arrival of Mr. Clarence from North End, and of Mr. Sylvan from West Point by the same train, to be present at the wedding, interrupted the bridegroom's reflections.

"It is now nine o'clock, boys. You have just time to get your breakfast comfortably and dress yourselves properly before we leave for the church. So look sharp," was the greeting of Mr. Fabian, as he shook hands with his brother and his nephew.

At ten o'clock the carriage containing Mr. Rockharrt, Mrs. Rothsay and Cadet Haught left the house for the church, which they entered by the central front door, from which they were marshaled up the center aisle to their seats in the right hand front pew.

At a quarter past ten the bridegroom, with his best man, Clarence Rockharrt, followed in another very handsome carriage.

They drove around to the side of the church, and passed in through the rector's door to the vestry on the left of the chancel, where they awaited the arrival of the bride's party, and through the open door of which they looked in upon the splendidly decorated and crowded church. An affluence of rare exotic flowers everywhere. The green-houses of the State capital and of three neighboring cities had been laid under contribution by Mr. Fabian, and had yielded up their sweetest treasures for this occasion. Floral arches spanned the center aisle from side to side, all the way up from the door to the chancel; festoons of flowers were looped from the galleries on three sides of the church; wreaths of flowers were wound around the pillars from floor to ceiling; the railing around the chancel was covered with flowers; the pulpit and reading desk were hidden under flowers. The pews were filled with the beauty, fashion, and aristocracy of the capital, and a splendid crowd they formed. Every lady held a rich bouquet; every gentleman wore a rare boutonniere.

Mr. Fabian looked at his watch from moment to moment. We have scarcely ever seen a more impatient bridegroom than Mr. Fabian Rockharrt. But, then, childish disorders go hard with elderly folks. Just as the clock struck eleven, with dramatic punctuality, the gentlemanly white-satin-badged ushers threw open the double doors, and the bride's procession entered. She wore a trained dress of rich white satin, with an overskirt, berthe and veil, all of duchess lace, looped, fastened and festooned here and there and everywhere with orange buds; and a magnificent set of diamonds, consisting of a coronet, necklace, ear-drops, brooch, and bracelets—too much for the little creature—lighting her up like fireworks as she passed under the blaze of the sunlit windows. She carried in her white-gloved hand a bouquet of white wood violets, with her monogram in purple violets in the center. She was leaning on the arm of her guardian, the chief justice, followed by eight bridesmaids.

The bishop, with two other clergymen, in their white vestments, entered and took their places at the altar. The choir struck up Mendelssohn's wedding march. The bride's procession came slowly up under all the floral arches of the center aisle to the floral hedge around the chancel.

The bridegroom came gayly out of the vestry room to meet her, smiling, radiant, tripping as if he had been a slim young lover of twenty, instead of a tall and heavy giant of fifty odd. He took her hand, lifted it to his lips, and led her to the altar, where both knelt. The bridesmaids grouped behind them. The best man stood on the groom's right. Old Aaron Rockharrt, Mrs. Rothsay and Cadet Haught came out of their pew and formed a group behind the bridegroom.

Mrs. Chief Justice Pendletime, and a few intimate friends, came out of her pew and grouped behind the bride and her maids.

The rest of the congregation remained in their pews, but stood up, and those in the rear raised on tiptoes and craned their necks to witness the proceedings. As soon as the bridegroom and the bride had knelt under the floral arch, from the high center of which hung a wedding bell of white wood violets, the bishop and his assistants stepped down from the high altar steps, and opened their books.

The rites commenced, and went on without any unusual disturbance of their course until they came to the question:

"Who giveth this woman to be married to this man?"

Her guardian, the chief justice, a portly, ponderous person, was moving solemnly forward to perform this duty, when—

Old Aaron Rockharrt—not from officiousness, but out of pure simple egotism—took the bride's hand and placed it in that of the groom, saying:

"I do."

You may judge the effect of this. The bride was mildly amazed; the bridegroom was deeply annoyed; the chief justice, the rightful owner of the thunder, was highly offended, and withdrew back in solemn dignity. Meanwhile the ceremony went on to its end. The benediction was pronounced, and congratulations were in order.

The marriage feast was a great success, like most other affairs of the kind. The chief justice had not got over the affront given him at the church, but he could not show resentment in his own house, and on the occasion of his young ward's wedding breakfast. As for Old Aaron Rockharrt, he had not the faintest idea that he had committed any breach of propriety. The deuce, you say! Was it not his own eldest son's wedding? Had he not a right to give away the bride? He never even asked himself the question. He took it for granted as a matter of course. Besides, was not he the greatest man present? And should not he do just as he thought fit? So in utter ignorance of any offense given to any one, the Iron King unbent his stiffness for once, and was very genial to every one, especially to the chief justice, who, secretly offended as he was, could not but respond to this friendliness.

Among the wedding guests around the board was the beautiful widow, Mrs. Bloomingfield. Mrs. Pendletime had requested Mr. Rockharrt to take her to the table, and he had offered her his arm, placing her at the board, and seated himself beside her. The Iron King looked at the lady with more interest than he would have felt had not Mr. Fabian invented a rumor to the effect that he, Aaron Rockharrt, was addressing her.