CHAPTER XXII. "'Though mammy and daddy and all gang mad.' "Mr. Rosslynn referred him to his father's letter and ordered him to depart. And then the reverend gentleman went to his wife's room and bitterly reproached her that her forward girl had been the cause of his losing his pupil and eighty pounds a year. "She told him that the fault was his own; that he should never have received a young man as a resident pupil in the house where there was a young girl. "A fierce quarrel ensued, which was ended at last by the reverend gentleman going out and banging the door behind him with a force that shook the house, and in a state of mind that rendered him singularly unfit to read the prayers for the sick beside the bed of a dying parishioner to whom he was urgently summoned. "Mrs. Rosslynn immediately hastened to wreak her vengeance on her step-daughter. She set her teeth as she seized the unlucky girl, whom she found at work in the kitchen, pushed her roughly on into the narrow passage up the steep stairs and into the little back loft that the child called her own bedroom. "Here she took a firmer grip upon the girl, and with a dog whip that she had hastily snatched from the hat rack in passing, she lashed the hapless creature over back and shoulder. "Ann never struggled or cried out, but held her tongue in fierce wrath and stubborn endurance. Could that woman, the victim of all ungovernable passions, have but known what she did, or foreseen its results! "At last she ceased, pushed the bruised and wounded child away from her, sank panting to a chair, and as soon as she recovered her breath, began to insult and abuse the orphan child of her deceased husband, charging her with disgracing the house by improper conduct, of which the girl had never even dreamed; accusing her of causing the loss of their pupil and the income derived from him, and reproaching her for making discord between herself (Mrs. Rosslynn) and her husband. "Ann replied by not one word. "At length the maddened woman, having talked herself out of breath, got up, left the room, and locked the door, not on her victim alone, but on all the evil spirits she had raised from Tartarus and left with the girl. "Ann sank upon the bed, weeping, moaning, and grinding her teeth, her body prostrated by pain, her soul filled with bitter wrath and scorn toward one whom she should rather have been led to love and honor. In the fiery torture of her flesh and the humiliation of her spirit she uttered but these piteous words: "'Oh, my own mother!—oh, my lost father! do you see your child?' "For more than an hour she lay there before the fierce smarting and burning of her scourged flesh began to subside. The short November afternoon darkened into night. No one came near her. The hour for supper passed. No one called her to the meal. She heard the family passing to their rooms. She heard her mother putting the other children to bed—a duty that she herself had hitherto performed. At last all sounds died away in the house, and she knew that all the inmates had retired, and the lights were out. She was meditating to run away; she did not know in what direction, or to what end, farther than to escape from the home that was hateful to her. "Evil spirits were with her, suggesting many desperate thoughts; at length they infused a deadly, horrible temptation to a deed of self-destruction so ghastly that its discovery should appal the family, the parish, and the whole world; that should cover her tormentors with shame, reproach and infamy. "She sprang up from her bed and went to search in the drawer of a little old wooden stand, until she found a half page of note paper and a bit of lead pencil. "She took them out and wrote to her persecutors, saying that she was going to throw herself—not into the sea, nor from a precipice, because both earth and sea give up their dead—but into the quicksands, which never give up anything; they, her tormentors, should never even see again the body they had bruised and torn and degraded; and she prayed that the Lord would ever deal by them as they had dealt with her. "It must have been near midnight when she heard a tap at her window, so light that at first she thought it was made by a large raindrop; but presently her name was softly called by a voice that she recognized. Then she understood it all, and her thoughts of the quicksands vanished. "Her room was a small one in the rear of the house, immediately over the back kitchen, and her back window opened upon the roof of the wood shed behind the kitchen. She went and hoisted the window, and there on the roof of the wood shed stood Alfred Whyte. "He told her that he had taken leave of the ogre and the ogress hours before, and they thought he was off to London by the four o'clock mail; but that he had gone no farther than the railway station, where he had bought a ticket, and had gone on the platform, as if to wait for his train; but when it came up, instead of taking his place on it, he had slipped away in the confusion of its arrival and had hidden himself in the woods on the other side of the road, where he had waited until it was dark, when he had come back to watch the parsonage until every one should have gone to bed, so that he could get speech with Ann. "And then he asked her if she were 'game for a bolt?" "She did not understand him; but when he next spoke plainly, and inquired if she would run away with him and be married, she answered promptly that she would. "He told her to get ready quickly, and to dress warmly, for the night was damp and cold, and to tie up a little bundle of things that she might need on the journey; but not to take much, because he had plenty of money, and could buy her all she needed. "'Much;' Poor little thing, she had not much to take! She put on her best dress—a well-worn blue serge—a coarse, black cloth walking jacket, and a little straw hat with a faded blue ribbon. She had no gloves. She tied up a hair brush, worn nearly to the wood, a tooth brush not much better, the half of a broken dressing comb, and one clean linen collar, in a small pocket handkerchief, and she was all ready for her wedding trip. "He told her to bolt her door before she came out, because that would take the ogres some little while to force it open, and would give the fugitives a better start. "Ann did everything her boy lover directed, and finally stepped out of the window on to the roof below, and joined him. He let down the window, and closed the shutters with a spring that securely fastened them. "That, he told her, would certainly give them a longer start, for it would take an hour at least to force the room open and discover her flight. "Then they left the parsonage together. "She had forgotten all about the parting note of malediction which she had left behind her on the stand, as she stepped along the lane leading to the highway. "He asked her to take his arm, and when they reached the public road, he inquired if she were game for a ten mile walk. "She told him that she could walk to the end of the world with him, because she was so happy to be beside the only one on earth who had ever been kind to her—since her father's death. "Then he explained the steps that he had taken, and must still take, to elude pursuit; how that he had gone to the railway station and bought a first class ticket for the four o'clock express to London, and afterward, when the train came up, he had mingled with the crowd getting off and getting on, and so eluded observation, and had slipped away and hidden himself in the thicket until dark, so as to make every one concerned believe that he had gone off by the mail train alone to London. "Now he told her that they must trudge straight on ten miles north, to take the train to Glasgow; so that while people were hunting for them in the south, they would be safe in the north. "As they walked on he told her that he wanted to get away from England and see the world—the new world across the ocean. He had seen Europe summer after summer, traveling with his father and mother on the Continent. Now he wanted to see America; and asked her if she did not also. "She told him that she wanted to see every place that he wanted to see, and to go everywhere he wanted to go, for that he was the only friend she had in all the wide world. "So they walked on for about three hours, and then, about two o'clock in the morning, they reached the little railway station of Skelton. They had to wait two hours for the parliamentary train, which came heavily puffing in about five o'clock on that November morning. "Young Whyte took second class tickets, and led his closely veiled companion to her seat on the train. And they moved off. "They reached Glasgow about ten o'clock the next day, and found that there was a steamer bound for New York, to sail at noon. No time was to be lost, so they both went to the agency together, represented themselves as a newly married pair, and engaged the only stateroom to be procured—which happened to be in the second cabin. Their tickets were filled in with the names of Mr. and Mrs. Alfred Whyte—which indeed constituted a legal marriage in Scotland, where a marriageable pair of lovers have only to declare themselves man and wife, in the presence of competent witnesses, to be as lawfully married as if the ceremony had been performed by the Archbishop of Canterbury in his own cathedral. "They took possession of their stateroom on the Caledonian, which sailed at noon of the same day, and in due time arrived at New York. "They spent two days at an uptown hotel, and then took the pretty cottage at Harlem, in which they lived for several months. Ann's boy-husband often told her that she grew prettier every day, and he seemed to grow fonder of her every day. He supplied her with a nicer outfit of clothing and more pocket money than she had ever had in her poverty-stricken life, and made her much happier every way than she had ever been before, as long as his money lasted. "He had left England with nearly one hundred pounds in his pocket—the amount of his half-yearly allowance. "On his arrival in New York, he had written to his father and confessed his marriage with his tutor's step-daughter and begged forgiveness and—remittances. "Ann declined to write to her step-mother or the curate, declaring that she preferred that they should believe that she had been driven by their cruelty to bury herself in the quicksands, and that they should suffer all the remorse of conscience and reprobation of society that their conduct toward her deserved. "But weeks passed, on and no letter filled with blessings and bank notes came from the offended and obdurate father, though the boy constantly assured his girl-wife that the expected epistle would surely come in time, for he was the 'old man's' only son, whom he would not be likely to discard. "Meanwhile their money was running low. The youth was anxious to travel and see the new world, and to take his bride with him, but he could not do so without funds. At the end of six weeks after he had written the first letter to his father he wrote a second, but received no answer; later still he wrote a third, with no better success. "They had gone a little into debt, in order to eke out their little ready money until the longed-for letters of credit should come from England; but at the end of six months credit and cash were nearly exhausted. "One morning in May the boy-husband took leave of the girl-wife, saying, as he kissed her good-by, that he was going down into the city to see if he could get some work to do. "Without the least misgiving, she received his farewell kiss, and saw him depart—watched him all the way down the street, until he got to Second Avenue and boarded a down-town car. "Then she re-entered the little gate, and began to tend the jonquils and hyacinths that were just coming into bloom in her little flower garden. She did not expect to see him until night, nor—did she see him even then. When the little gate opened at eight o'clock and a man came up the walk leading to the front door at which she stood, he was not her husband, but the letter carrier, who put a letter in her hand and went away. "She ran into the house, and lighted the gas to read her letter. Though it gave her a shock, it did not shake her faith in her boy. "The letter told her, in effect, that Alfred Whyte, when he left her that morning, had started to go to England in the only way by which he could get there—that is, by working his passage as a deck hand on board an outward bound ship; that he had decided on this course so as to get a personal interview with his father, to whom he would go as a penitent prodigal son; for he was sure of obtaining by this means forgiveness, and assistance that would enable him to return and bring his little wife back to England, where they would thenceforth live in comfort and luxury; that the reason he had not confided to her his intention of making the voyage was because he dreaded opposition from her that might have led him to abandon the one plan by which he hoped to better their condition. "He concluded by entreating her not to think for one instant that he intended to desert her, who was dearer to him than his own life, but to trust in him as he trusted in her. In a postscript he told her where to find the small balance of money they had left, as he had only taken enough for his car fare to the city. In a second postscript he promised to write by every opportunity. In a third and last postscript he begged her to keep up her heart. "It seemed a frank letter, yet it was reticent upon one point—the name of the ship on which he had sailed. This omission might have been accidental. It certainly did not raise any doubt of the boy's good faith in the mind of the girl. "She cried a great deal over the separation from her lad, and she made a confidant of the elderly Irishwoman who was her sole servant. "After two weeks, Ann began to watch daily for the letter carrier, in hope of getting a letter from Alfred; but day after day, week after week, passed and none came. But there came news of the wreck of the Porpoise, which had sailed from New York for London on the very day that Alfred Whyte had left the country—and which had gone down in a storm in mid-ocean with all on board. "But as numerous ships had left New York on that day bound for various British ports, it was impossible to discover whether the boy was on board, or if he shipped under his own name or an assumed one. "Ann cried more than ever for a few days, but then seemed to give up her lad for lost, and to resign herself to the 'inevitable.' "She wrote to Mr. Alfred Whyte, Senior, but got no reply to her letter; again and again she wrote with no better success. The little balance of money left by her boy-husband was all gone. She began to sell off the trifles of jewelry that he had given her. "One morning the letter carrier left a letter with a London postmark containing a bill of exchange for a hundred pounds, and not one word besides. "Had it come from her boy-husband, or from his father? She could not tell. "Well, to be brief, she never saw nor heard of him again. She lived comfortably with her motherly old servant, enjoyed life thoroughly and grew more beautiful every day, and this fool's paradise lasted as long as her money did. Before her last dollar was gone, she saw the advertisement in the Pursuivant for a nursery governess, and answered it, as has been told. "This, my dear Cora, is the substance of the story told me by Ann White on the day that I called on her in answer to her letter. What do you think of it?" inquired Mr. Fabian when he had finished his narrative. "I think the cruel neglect of her step-parents and the sufferings of her childhood accountable for all her faults, and I feel very sorry for her, notwithstanding that she seems to be a very heartless animal," replied Corona. "That is the secret of the wonderful preservation of her youth and beauty even up to this present time. Nothing wears a woman out as fast as her own heart." "You engaged her as you promised to do, but why did you introduce her at Rockhold as a single girl, and why under an alias?" gravely inquired Corona. "I introduced her as a single girl at her own request because of her extreme youth and her timidity. She naturally shrank from being known as a discarded wife or a doubtful widow. Besides, I never did say she was a single girl. I merely presented her as Rose Flowers, and left it to be inferred from her baby face that she was so." "But why Rose Flowers when her name was Ann White?" "What a cross-questioner you are, Corona! but I will answer you. Again it was by her own desire that I presented her as Rose Flowers, which was not an alias, as she explained to me, but a part of her true name. She had been baptized as Rose Anna Flowers, which was the maiden name of her grandmother, her father's mother." Cora might have asked another question, not so easily answered, if she had known the circumstances to which it related, namely: why Mr. Fabian had fabricated that false story of the young governess which he palmed upon his parents; but, in fact, Cora, at that time a child seven years old, had never heard of it. But she made another inquiry. "What became of Rose Flowers after she left us? Did she really go to another place? Who was—Captain Stillwater?" "Mr. Fabian drove slowly and thoughtfully on without answering her question until she had repeated it. Then he said: "Cora, my dear, that is a story I cannot tell you. Let it be enough for me to say, the Stillwater episode in the life of this lady is the ground upon which I forbid my wife to visit her and object to my niece associating with her." "Does Violet know the Stillwater story?" "No; not so much of it even as you have heard. Now, look here, Cora, you think it inconsistent perhaps that I should have brought this woman to Rockhold years ago to become your governess, and now, when she is my father's wife, object to your intimacy with her. In the first instance she has been far, very far, 'more sinned against than sinning;' she had been very imprudent, that was all. She was really the wife, by Scotch law, of the boy she ran away with and then lost. I saw nothing in her case that ought to prevent her entrance into a respectable family, and Heaven knows I pitied her and tried to save her by bringing her to Rockhold. I saved her only for a few years. After she left us—but there, I cannot tell you that story! You must not be intimate with her." "Yet she is my grandfather's wife!" "An irreparable misfortune. I can't expose her life to him; such a blow to his pride might be his death, at his age. No! events must take their course; but I hope he will not take her to any place where she is likely to be recognized. Nor do I think he will. He is aging fast, and will be likely to live quietly at Rockhold." "And I think she also would avoid such risks. She was terribly frightened when she recognized the Dean of Olivet. Was he really her stepfather, the once poor curate?" "Yes. You see while they were lionizing him in the Eastern cities, his portrait, with a short biographical notice, was published in one of the illustrated weeklies, where I read of him, and identified him by comparing notes with what I had heard." "How came he to rise so high?" "Oh, he was a learned divine and eloquent orator. He was well connected, too. It would seem that a very few months after his step-daughter's flight he was inducted into that rich living for which he had been waiting so many years. From that position his rise was slow indeed, covering a period of twenty years, until a few months ago, when he was made Dean of Olivet." "To think that a man capable of quarreling with his wife and ill-using their step-child should fill so sacred a position in the church!" exclaimed Cora. "Yes; but you see, my dear, the church is his profession, not his vocation. He is a brilliant pulpit orator, with influential friends; but every brilliant pulpit orator is not necessarily a saint. And as for his quarreling with his wife and ill-using their step-daughter, we have heard but one side of that story." When they entered the Rockhold drawing room they found Mrs. Rockharrt alone. She arose and came forward and received them with a smile. "Your grandfather, my dear," she explained to Cora, "came home later than usual from North End, and very much more than usually fatigued. Immediately after dinner he lay down and I left him asleep." "Where is Uncle Clarence?" inquired Corona. "He remains at the works for the night. Will you have this chair, love?" said Rose, pulling forward a luxurious "sleepy hollow." "No, thank you. I must go to my room and change my dress. Will you excuse me for half an hour, Uncle Fabian?" inquired Cora. "Most willingly, my dear," replied Mr. Fabian, with a very pleased look. Cora left the room. "I will go with you," exclaimed Rose, turning pale and starting up to follow the young lady. "No. You will not," said Mr. Fabian, in a tone of authority, as he laid his hand heavily on the woman's shoulder. "Sit down. I have something to say to you." CHAPTER XXII. FABIAN AND ROSE. "What do you mean?" "I should rather ask what do you mean, or rather what did you mean, by daring to marry any honest man, and of all men—Aaron Rockharrt? It was the most audacious challenging of destruction that the most reckless desperado could venture upon." Fabian Rockharrt continued, mercilessly: "Do you not know what, if Mr. Rockharrt were to discover the deception you put upon him, he might do and think himself justified in doing to you?" Rose shuddered in silence. "The very least that he would do would be to turn you out of his house, without a dollar, and shut his doors on you forever. Then what would become of you? Who would take you in?" "Oh, Fabian!" she screamed at last. "Do not talk to me so. You will frighten me into hysterics." "Now don't make a noise. For if you do, you will precipitate the catastrophe that you fear. Be quiet, I beg you," said Mr. Fabian, composedly, putting his thumbs in his vest pockets and leaning back. "Why do you say such cruel things to me, then? Such inconsistent things, too. If I was good enough to marry you, I was good enough to marry your father." "But you were never good enough to marry either of us, my dear. If you will take a little time to reflect on your antecedents, you will acknowledge that you were not quite good enough to marry any honest man," said Mr. Fabian, coolly. "Yet you asked me to marry you," she said, sobbing softly, with her handkerchief to her eyes. "Beg pardon, my dear. I think the asking was rather on the other side. You were very urgent that we should be married, and that our betrothal should be formally announced." "Yes; because you led me to believe that you were going to marry me." "Excuse me. I never led you to believe so, simply allowed you to believe so. What could a gentleman do under the circumstances? He couldn't contradict a lady." "Oh, what a prevarication, Fabian Rockharrt, when every word, every deed, every look you bestowed on me went to assure me that you loved me and wished to marry me!" "Softly, my dear. Softly. I was sorry for you and generous to you. I gave you the use of a pretty little house and a sufficient income during good behavior. But you were ungrateful to me, Rose. You were unkind to me." "I was not. I would have married you. I could not have done more than that." "But, my dear, your good sense must have told you that I could not marry you. I have done the best I could by you always. Twice I rescued you from ruin. Once when you were but little more than a child, and your boy-lover, or husband, had left you alone, a young stranger in a strange land—a girl friendless, penniless, beautiful, and so in deadly peril of perdition, I took you on your own representation, and introduced you into my own family as the governess of my niece. I became responsible for you." "And did I not try my best to please everybody?" sobbed the woman. "That you did," heartily responded Mr. Fabian. "And everybody loved you. So that, at the end of five years' service, when my niece was to enter a finishing school, and you were to go to another situation, you took with you the best testimonials from my father and mother and from the minister of our parish. But you did not keep your second situation long." "How could I? I was but half taught. The Warrens would have had me teach their children French and German, and music on the harp and the piano. I knew no language but my own, and no music except that of the piano, which the dear, gentle lady, your mother, taught me out of the kindness of her heart. I was told that I must leave at the end of the term. And my term was nearly out when Captain Stillwater became a daily visitor to the house, and I saw him every evening. He was a tall, handsome man, with a dark complexion and black hair and beard. And I always did admire that sort of a man. Indeed, that was the reason why I always admired you." "Don't attempt to flatter me." "I am not flattering anybody. I am telling you why I liked Captain Stillwater. And he was always so good to me! I told him all my troubles. And he sympathized with me! And when I told him that I should be obliged to leave my situation at the end of the quarter, he bade me never mind. And he asked me to be his wife. I did consent to be his wife. I was glad of the chance to get a husband, and a home. So all was arranged. He advised me not to tell the Warrens that we were to be married, however. So at the end of my quarter I went away to a hotel, where Captain Stillwater came for me and took me away to the church where we were married." "You had no knowledge that Alfred Whyte was dead, and that you were free to wed!" "He had been lost seven years and was as good as dead to me! Besides, when a man is missing and has; not been heard of for seven years, his wife is free to marry again, is she not?" "No. She has good grounds for a divorce that is all! To risk a second marriage without these legal formalities, would be dangerous! Might be disastrous! The first husband might turn up and make trouble!" "I did not know that! But, after all, as it turned out, it did not matter!" sighed Rose. "Not in the least!" assented Mr. Fabian, amiably. "After all, it was not my fault! I married him in good faith; I did, indeed!" "Did you tell him of your previous marriage? That is what you have not told me yet!" "N-n-no; I was afraid if I did he might break off with me." "Ah!" "And I was in such extremity for the want of a home!" "Had not my father and mother told you that if ever you should find yourself out of a situation, you should come to them? Why did you not take them at their word? They had always been very kind to you, and they would have given you a warm welcome and a happy home. Now, why need you have rushed into a reckless marriage for a home?" "Oh, Fabian!" she exclaimed, impatiently, "don't pretend to talk like an idiot, for you are not one! Don't talk to me as if I were a wax doll or a wooden woman, for you know I am not one!" "I am sure I do not know what you mean!" "Well, then, I loved the man! There, it is out! I loved him more than I ever loved any one else in the whole world! And I was afraid of losing him!" "And so it was because you loved him so well that you deceived him so much!" "Didn't he deceive me much more?" "There were a pair of you—well matched! So well, it seems a pity that you were parted!" "Oh, how very unkind you are to me!" "Not yet unkind! Only waiting to see how you are going to behave!" "I have never behaved badly! I was not wicked; I was unhappy! Unhappy from my birth, almost! I had no evil designs against anybody. I only wanted to be happy and to see people happy. I honestly believed I was lawfully married to Captain Stillwater. He took me to the Wirt House and registered our names as Mr. and Mrs. Stillwater. And we were very happy until his ship sailed. He gave me plenty of money before he went away; but I was heartbroken to part with him, and could take no pleasure in anything until I got a little used to his absence." "I think you told me that you met him once more before your final separation. When was that meeting? Eh?" "Fabian Rockharrt, are you trying to catch me in a falsehood? You know very well that I never told you anything of the sort I told you that I never saw him again after he sailed away that autumn day! I waited all the autumn and heard nothing from him, I wrote to him often, but none of my letters were answered. At length I longed so much to see him that I grew wild and reckless and resolved to follow him. I took passage in the second cabin of the Africa and sailed for Liverpool, where I arrived about the middle of December. I went to the agency of the Blue Star Line, to which his ship belonged, and inquired where he was to be found. They told me he had sailed for Calcutta and had taken his wife with him! It turned me to stone—to stone, Fabian—almost! I remember I sat down on a bench and felt numb and cold. And then I asked how long he had been married—hoping, if it was true, that my own was the first and the lawful union. They told me, for ten years, but as they had no family, his wife usually accompanied him on all his voyages. So she had now gone with him to Calcutta." "I suspect the people in that office were pretty well acquainted with the handsome skipper's 'ways and manners,' and that they understood your case at once." "I do really believe they did," said Rose; "for they looked at me so strangely, and one man, who seemed to be a porter or a messenger, or something of that sort, said something about a sailor having a wife at every port." "So after that you came back to New York, and did, at last, what you should have done at first—you wrote to me." "There was no one on earth to whom, under the peculiar circumstances, I could have written but to you. Oh, Fabian! to whom else could I appeal?" "And did I not respond promptly to your call?" "Indeed you did, like a true knight, as you were. And I did not deceive you by any false story, Fabian. I told you all—even thing—how basely I had been deceived—and you soothed and consoled me, and told me that, as I had not sinned intentionally, I had not sinned at all; and you brought me with you to the State capital, and established me comfortably there." "But you were very ungrateful, my dear. You took everything; gave nothing." "I would have given you myself in marriage, but you would not have me. You did not think me good enough for you." "But, bless my wig, child! for your age you had been too much married already—a great deal too much married! You got into the habit of getting married." "Oh! how merciless you are to me!" Rose said, beginning to weep. "No; I am not. I have never been unkind to you—as yet. I don't know what I may be! My course toward you will depend very much upon yourself. Have I not always hitherto been your best friend? Ungrateful, unresponsive though you were at that time, did I not procure for you an invitation from my mother to accompany her party on that long, delightful summer trip?" "I had an impression at the time that I owed the invitation to your father, who suggested to your mother to write and ask me to accompany them." Mr. Fabian looked surprised, and said—for he never hesitated to tell a fib: "Oh! that was quite a mistake. It was I myself who suggested the invitation. I thought it would be agreeable to you. Was it not I myself who sent you forward in advance to the Wirt House, Baltimore, there to await the arrival of our party, and join us in our summer travel? And didn't you have a long, delightful tour with us through the most sublime scenery in the most salubrious climates on earth? Didn't you return a perfect Hebe in health and bloom?" "I acknowledge all that. I acknowledge all my obligations to your family; but at the same time I declare that I also did my part. I was as a white slave to your parents. I was lady's maid to your mother, foot boy to your father. I don't know, indeed, what the old people would have done without me, for no hired servant could have served them as faithfully as I did." "Oh, yes; you were grateful and devoted to all the family except to me, your best friend—to me, who gave you the use of a lovely home, and a liberal income, and a faithful friendship; and then trusted in your sense of justice for my reward." "I would have given you all I possessed in the world—my own poor self in marriage—and you led me on to believe that you wished to marry me, but, finally, you would not have me. You went off and married another woman." "Bah! we are talking around in a circle, and getting back to where we began. Let us come to the point." "Very well; come to the point," said Rose, sulkily. "Listen, then: It is not for your reckless elopement with your step-father's pupil, when you were driven from home by cruelty; it is not for your false marriage with Stillwater, when you yourself were deceived; but because with all these antecedents against you—antecedents which constituted you, however unjustly, a pariah, who should have lived quietly and obscurely, but who, instead of doing so, took advantage of kindness shown her, and betrayed the family who sheltered her by luring into a disgraceful marriage its revered father, and bringing to deep dishonor the gray head of Aaron Rockharrt, a man of stern integrity and unblemished reputation—you should be denounced and punished." "Oh, Fabian, have mercy! have mercy! You would not now, after years of friendship, you would not now ruin me?" "Listen to me! You checkmated me in that matter of the cottage and the income. Yes, simple as you seem, and sharp as I may appear, you certainly managed to take all and give nothing. And when you found but that you could not take my hand and my name, you waylaid me at the railway station, when I was on my wedding tour, and you swore to be revenged. I laughed at you. I advised you to be anything rather than dramatic. I never imagined the possibility of your threatened revenge taking the form of your marriage. Well, my dear, you have your revenge, I admit; but in your blindness, you could not see that revenge itself might be met by retribution! One man kills another for revenge, and does not, in his blind fury, see the gallows looming in the distance." "What do you mean? You cannot hang me for marrying your father," exclaimed Rose. "No; don't raise your voice, or you may be heard. No, Rose, I cannot hang you for treachery; but, my dear, there are worse fates than neat and tidy hanging, which is over in a few minutes. I could expose your past life to my father. You know him, and you know that he would show no ruth, no mercy to deception and treachery such as yours. You know that he would turn you out of the house without money or character, destitute and degraded. What then would be your fate at your age—a fading rose past thirty-seven years old? Sooner or later, and very little later, the poor-house or the hospital. Better a sweet, tidy little hanging and be done with it, if possible." "You are a fiend to talk to me so! a fiend! Fabian Rockharrt," exclaimed Rose, bursting into hysterical sobs and tears. "Now, be quiet, my child; you'll raise the house, and then there will be an explosion." "I don't care if there will be. You are cruel, savage, barbarous! I never meant to do any harm by marrying Mr. Rockharrt. I never meant to be revenged on you or anybody. I only said so because I was so excited by your desertion of me. I married the old gentleman for a refuge from the world. I meant to do my duty by him, though he is as cross as a bear with a bruised head. But do your worst; I don't care. I would just as lief die as live. I am tired of trying to be good; tired of trying to please people; tired, oh, very tired of living!" "Come, come," said soft-hearted Mr. Fabian; "none of that nonsense. Place yourself in my hands, to be guided by me and to work for my interests, and none of these evils shall happen to you. You shall live and die in wealth and luxury, my father's honored wife, the mistress of Rockhold." He spoke slowly, tenderly, caressingly, and as she listened to him her sobs and tears subsided and she grew calmer. "What is it you want me to do for you? What can I do for you, indeed, powerless as I am?" she inquired at last. "You must use all your influence with my father in my interests, and use it discreetly and perseveringly," he whispered. "But I have no influence. Never was the young wife of an old man—and I am young in comparison to him—treated so harshly. I am not his pet; I am his slave!" she complained. "But you must obtain influence over him. You can do that. You are with him night and day when he is not at his business. You are his shadow—beg pardon, I ought to have said his sunshine." "I am his slave, I tell you." "Then be his humble, submissive, obedient slave; betray no disappointment, discontent, or impatience at your lot. The harsher he is, the humbler must you be; the more despotic he becomes, the more subservient you must seem. Make yourself so perfectly complying in all his moods that he shall believe you to be the very 'perfect rose of womanhood,' more excellent even than he thought when he married you, and so as he grows older and weaker in mind as well as body you will gain not only influence but ascendency over him, and these you must use in my interest." "But how? I don't understand." "Pay attention, then, and you will understand Mr. Rockharrt is aged. In the course of nature he must soon pass away. Fie has made no will. Should he die intestate, the whole property, by the laws of this commonwealth, would fall to pieces; that is to say, it would be divided into three parts—one-third would go to you—" Rose started, caught her breath, and stared at the speaker; the greed of gain dilating her great blue eyes. The third of the Rockharrt's fabulous wealth to be hers at her husband's death! Amazing! How many millions or tens of millions would that be? Incredible! And all for her, and she with, perhaps, half a century of life to live and enjoy it! What a vista! "Why do you stare at me so?" demanded Mr. Fabian. "Because I was so surprised. That is not the law in England. In England there are usually what are called marriage settlements, which make a suitable provision for the wife, but leave the bulk of the property to go to the children—generally to the oldest son." "And such should be the law here, but it isn't; and so if my father should die without having made a will, the great estate would break, as I said, into three parts—one part would be yours, the other two parts would be divided into three shares, to me, to my brother, and to the heirs of my sister. The business at North End would probably be carried on by Aaron Rockharrt's sons." "But would not that be equitable?" inquired Rose, who had no mind to have her third interfered with. "It would not be expedient, nor is such a disposition of his property the intention of Aaron Rockharrt. I know, from what he has occasionally hinted, that he means to bequeath the Great North End Works to me and my brother Clarence, share and share alike; but he puts off making this will, which indeed must never be made. The North End Works should not be a monster with two heads, but a colossus with one head with my head. So that I wish my father to make a will leaving the North End Works to me exclusively—to me alone as the one head." "I think if I dared to suggest such a thing to him, he would take off my head!" said Rose, with grim humor. "I think he would if you should do so suddenly or clumsily. But you must insinuate the idea very slowly and subtlely. Clarence is not for the works; Clarence is too good for this world—at least for the business of this world. I think him half an imbecile! My father does not hesitate to call him a perfect idiot. Do you begin to see your way now? Clarence can be moderately provided for, but should have no share in the North End Works." "The North End Works to be left to you solely; Clarence to be moderately provided for; and what of the two children of the late Mrs. Haught?" "Oh! my father never intends to leave them more than a modest legacy. They have each inherited money from their father. No; understand me once for all, Rose. I must be the sole heir of all my father's wealth, with the exceptions I have named, and the sole successor to his business, without any exception whatever. You must live, serve him and bear with him only to obtain such an ascendency over him as to induce him to make such a will as I have dictated to you. You can do this. You can insinuate it so subtlely that he will never suspect the suggestion came from you. I say you can do this, and you must do it. The woman who could deceive and entrap old Aaron Rockharrt, the Iron King, into matrimony, can do anything else in the world that she pleases to do with him if only she will be as subtle, as patient, and as complacent to him after marriage as she had been before marriage." "If Clarence is to be so provided for, Cora and Sylvan to have modest legacies, and you to have the huge bulk of the estate—where is my third to come from?" "Why, my dear, I could never let you have so vast a slice out of the mammoth fortune! Your third of the estate must follow Clarence's share of the business—into nothingness. You must play magnanimity, sacrifice your third, and content yourself with a suitable provision," said Fabian, equably. "I will never do that! I would not do it to save your life, Fabian Rockharrt!" "Oh, yes, you will, my darling. Not to save my life, but to save yourself from being denounced to Mr. Rockharrt, and turned out of this house, destitute and degraded." "I don't care if I should be! Do you think me quite a baby in your hands? I have been reflecting since you have been talking to me. I have been remembering that you told me that the law gives the widow one third of her late husband's property when he dies intestate, and entitles her to it, no matter what sort of a will he makes." "Unless there has been a settlement, my angel," said Mr. Fabian, composedly. "Well, there has been no settlement in my case. So whether Aaron Rockharrt should die intestate, or whether he should make a will, I am sure of my lawful third. So I defy you, Mr. Fabian Rockharrt. You may denounce me to your father He may turn me out of doors without a penny, and 'without a character,' as the servants say, but he cannot divorce me, because I have been faithful to him ever since our marriage. I could compel him by law to support me, even though he might not let me share his home. He would be obliged by law to give me alimony in proportion to his income, and, oh! what a magnificent revenue that would be for me—with freedom from his tyranny into the bargain! And at his death, which could not be long coming at his age, and after such a shock as his dutiful son proposes to give him, I should come in for my third. And, oh, where so rich a widow as I should be! With forty or fifty years of life before me in which to enjoy my fortune! Ah, you see, my clever Mr. Fabian Rockharrt, though you frightened me out of self-possession at first, when I come to think over the situation, I find that you can do me no great harm. If you should put your threats in execution and bring about a violent separation between myself and my husband, you would do me a signal favor, for I should gain my personal freedom, with a handsome alimony during his life, and at his death a third of his vast estate," she concluded, snapping her fingers in his face. "I think not." "Yes; I would." "No; you would not." "Indeed! Why would I not, pray?" she inquired, with mocking incredulity. "Oh, because of a mere trifle in your code of morals—an insignificant impediment." "Tchut!" she exclaimed, contemptuously. "Do you think me quite an idiot?" "I think you would be much worse than an idiot if, in case of my father's discarding you, you should move an inch toward obtaining alimony or in the case of the coveted 'third.'" "Pshaw! Why, pray?" "Because you have not, and never can have, the shadow of a right to either." "Bah! why not?" "Because—Alfred Whyte is living!" She caught her breath and gazed at the speaker with great dilating blue eyes. "What—do—you—mean?" she faltered. "Alfred Whyte, your husband of twenty years ago, is still living and likely to live—a very handsome man of forty years old, residing at his magnificent country seat, Whyte Hall, Dulwich, near London." "Married again?" she whispered, hoarsely. "Certainly not; an English gentleman does not commit bigamy." "How did you—become acquainted—with these facts?" "I was sufficiently interested in you to seek him out, when I was in England. I discovered where he lived; also that he was looking out for the best investment of his idle capital. I called on him personally in the interests of our great enterprise. He is now a member of the London syndicate." "Did you speak—of me?" "Never mentioned your name. How could I, knowing as I did of the Stillwater episode in your story?" "And he lives! Alfred Whyte lives! Oh, misery, misery, misery! Evil fate has followed me all the days of my life," moaned Rose, wringing her hands. "Now, why should you take on so, because Whyte is living? Would you have had that fine, vigorous man, in the prime of his life, die for your benefit?" "But I thought he was dead long ago." "You were too ready to believe that, and to console yourself. He was more faithful to your memory." "How do you know? You said my name was never mentioned between you." "Not from him, but from a mutual acquaintance, of whom I asked how it was that Mr. Whyte had never married, I heard that he had grieved for her out of all reason and had ever remained faithful to the memory of his first and only love. My own inference was, and is, that the report of your death was got up by his friends to break off the connection." "And you never told this 'mutual friend' that I still lived?" "How could I, my dear, with my knowledge of your Stillwater affair? No, no; I was not going to disturb the peace of a good man by telling him that his child-wife of twenty years ago was still living, but lost to him by a fall far worse than death. No—I let you remain dead to him." "Oh, misery! misery! misery! I would to Heaven I were dead to everybody! dead, dead indeed!" she cried, wringing her hands in anguish. "Come, come, don't be a fool! You see that you are utterly in my power and must do my will. Do it, and you will come to no harm; but live and die in a luxurious home." CHAPTER XXIII. SYLVAN'S ORDERS. While the amiable Mr. Fabian was engaged in soothing the woman whom he was resolved to make his instrument in gaining the whole of his father's great business bequeathed to him by will, carriage wheels were heard grating on the gravel of the drive leading up to the front door of the house, and a few minutes afterward the master's knock was answered by the hall waiter, and old Aaron Rockharrt strode into the drawing room. "I did not know that you had gone out again. I left you on the library sofa asleep," said Rose, deferentially, as she sprang up to meet him. "I was called out on business that don't concern you. Ah, Fabian! How is it that I find you here to-night?" inquired the Iron King, as he threw himself into a chair. "I brought Cora home from the Banks," replied the eldest son. "Ah! how is Mrs. Fabian?" "Still delicate. I can scarcely hope that she will be stronger for some weeks yet." "When are you going to bring her to call on my wife?" demanded the Iron King, bending his gray brows somewhat angrily and looking suspiciously on his son; for he was not pleased that his daughter-in-law's visit of ceremony had been so long delayed. "As soon as she is able to leave the house. Our physician has forbidden her to take any long walk or ride for some time yet." "And how long is this seclusion to last?" "Until after a certain event to take place at the end of three months." "Ah! and then another month for convalescence! So it will be late in the autumn before we can hope to see Mrs. Fabian Rockharrt at Rockhold!" "I fear so, indeed, sir!" "I do not approve of this petting, coddling, and indulging women. It makes the weak creatures weaker. If you choose to seclude your wife or allow her to seclude herself on account of a purely physiological condition, I will not allow Mrs. Rockharrt to go near her until she goes to return her call." When Cora reached her chamber that evening, she sat down to reflect on all that her Uncle Fabian had told her of the past history of her grandfather's young wife, and to anticipate the possible movements of her brother. Her own life, since the loss of her husband—now loved so deeply, though loved too late—she felt was over. The future had nothing for herself. What, therefore, could she do with the dull years in which she might long vegetate through life but to give them in useful service to those who needed help? She would go with her brother to the frontier, and find some field of labor among the Indians. She would found a school with her fortune, and devote her life to the education of Indian children. And she would call the school by her lost husband's name, and so make of it a monument to his memory. Revolving these plans in her mind, Cora Rothsay retired to rest. The next morning she arose at her usual hour, dressed, and went down stairs. Old Aaron Rockharrt and his young wife were already in the parlor, waiting for the breakfast bell to ring. She had but just greeted them when the call came, and all moved toward the breakfast room. Just as the three had seated themselves at the table, and while Rose was pouring out the coffee, the sound of carriage wheels was heard approaching the house, and a few minutes later Mr. Clarence and Sylvan entered the breakfast room with joyous bustle. "What—what—what does this unseemly excitement mean?" sternly demanded the Iron King, while Cora arose to shake hands with her uncle and brother; and while Rose, fearful of doing wrong, did nothing at all. "What is the matter? What has happened? Why have you left the works at this hour of the morning, Clarence?" he requested of his son. "I came with Sylvan, sir, for the last time before he leaves us for distant and dangerous service, and for an unlimited period." "Ah! you have your orders, then?" said Mr. Rockharrt, in a somewhat mollified tone. "Yes, sir," said the young lieutenant. "I received my commission by the earliest mail this morning, with orders to report for duty to Colonel Glennin, of the Third Regiment of Infantry, now at Governor's Island, New York harbor, and under orders to start for Fort Farthermost, on the Mexican frontier. I must leave to-night in order to report in time." Cora looked at him with the deepest interest. Rose thought now she might venture on a little civility without giving offense to her despotic lord. "Have you had breakfast, you two?" she inquired. "No, indeed. We started immediately after receiving the orders," said Sylvan. "And we are as hungry as two bears." "Bring chairs to the table, Mark, for the gentlemen," said young Mrs. Rockharrt, who then rang for two more covers and hot coffee. "Cora," whispered Sylvan, as soon as he got a chance to speak to his sister, "you can never get ready to go with me on so short a notice. Women have so much to do." "Sylvan," she replied, "I have been ready for a month." CHAPTER XXIV. SOMETHING UNEXPECTED. The day succeeding that on which Sylvanus Haught had received his commission as second lieutenant in the 3d Regiment of Infantry, then on Governor's Island, New York harbor, and under orders for Fort Farthermost, on the southwestern frontier, was a very busy one for Cora Rothsay; for, however well she had been prepared for a sudden journey, there were many little final details to be attended to which would require all the time she had left at her disposal. A farewell visit must be paid to Violet Rockharrt, and—worse than all—an explanatory interview must be held with her grandfather in relation to her departure with Sylvanus Haught, and that interview must be held before the Iron King should leave Rockhold that morning for his daily visit to the works. Cora had often, during the last year, and oftener since her grandfather's second marriage, taken occasion to allude to her intention of accompanying her brother to his post of duty, however distant and dangerous that post might be. She had done this with the fixed purpose of preparing this autocratic old gentleman's mind for the event. Now, the day of her intended departure had arrived; she was to leave Rockhold with her brother that afternoon to take the evening express to New York. And as she could not go without taking leave of her grandfather, it was necessary that she should announce her intention to him before he should start on his daily visit to North End. Therefore Cora had risen very early that morning and had gone down into the little office or library of the Iron King, that was situated at the rear of the middle hall, there to wait for him, as it was his custom to rise early and go into his study, to look over the papers before breakfast. These papers were brought by a special messenger from North End, who started from the depot as soon as the earliest train arrived with the morning's mail and reached Rockhold by seven o'clock. She had not sat there many minutes before Mr. Rockharrt entered the study. "I am going away with my brother," Cora said, without any preface whatever, "to Fort Farthermost, on the southwestern Indian frontier." "I think you must be crazy." "Dear grandpa, this is no impulsive purpose of mine. I have thought of it ever since—ever since—the death of my dear husband," said Cora, in a broken voice. "Oh! the death of your dear husband!" he exclaimed, rudely interrupting her. "Much you cared for the death of your dear husband! If you had, you would never have driven him forth to his death!—for that is what you did! You cannot deceive me now. As long as the fate of Rule Rothsay was a mystery, I was myself at somewhat of a loss to account for his disappearance—though I suspected you even then—but when the news came that he had been killed by the Comanches near the boundaries of Mexico, and I had time to reflect on it all, I knew that he had been driven away by you—you! And all for the sake of a titled English dandy! You need not deny it, Cora Rothsay!" "It would be quite useless to deny anything that you choose to assert, sir," replied the young lady, coldly but respectfully. "Yet I must say this, that I loved and honored my husband more than I ever did or ever can love and honor any other human being. His departure broke my spirit, and his death has nearly broken my heart—certainly it has blasted my future. My life is worth nothing, nothing to me, except as I make it useful to those who need my help." "Rubbish!" exclaimed old Aaron Rockharrt, turning over the leaves of his paper and looking for the financial column. "Grandfather, please hear me patiently for a few minutes, for after to-day I do not know that we may ever meet again," pleaded Cora. The old man laid his open paper on his knees, set his spectacles up on his head, and looked at her. "What the devil do you mean?" he slowly inquired. "Sir, I am to leave Rockhold with my brother this afternoon, to go with him, first to Governor's Island, and within a few days start with him for the distant frontier fort which may be his post of duty for many years to come. We may not be able to return within your lifetime, grandfather," said Cora, gravely and tenderly. "And what in Satan's name, unless you are stark mad, should take you out to the Indian frontier?" he demanded. "I might answer, to be with my only brother, I being his only sister." "Bosh! Men's wives very seldom accompany them to these savage posts, much less their sisters! What does a young officer want his sister tagging after him for?" "It is not that Sylvan especially wants me, nor for his sake alone that I go." "Well, then, what in the name of lunacy do you go for?" "That I may devote my time and fortune to a good cause—to the education of Indian girls and boys. I mean to build—" "That, or something like that, was what Rothsay tried to do when you drove him away, as if he had been a leper, to the desert. Well, go on! What next? Let us hear the whole of the mad scheme!" "I mean to build a capacious school house, in which I will receive, board, lodge, and teach as many Indian children as may be intrusted to me, until the house shall be full." "Moonstruck mania! That is what your mad husband driven mad by you—attempted on a smaller scale, and failed." "That is why I wish to do this. I wish to follow in his footsteps It is the best thing I can do to honor his memory." "But he was murdered for his pains." Cora shuddered and covered her face with her hands for a space; then she answered, slowly: "There may be many failures; but there will never be any success unless the failures are made stepping stones to final victory." "Fudge! See here, mistress! No doubt you suffer a good many stings of conscience for having driven the best man that ever lived—except, hem! well—to his death! But you need not on that account expatriate yourself from civilization, to go out to try to teach those red devils who murdered your husband and burned his hut, and who will probably murder you and burn your school house! You have been a false woman and a miserable sinner, Cora Rothsay! And you have deserved to suffer and you have suffered, there is no doubt about that! But you have repented, and may be pardoned. You need not immolate yourself at your age. You are a mere girl. You will get over your morbid grief. You may marry again." Cora slowly, sadly, silently shook her head. "Oh, yes; you will." "No, no; no, dear grandpa. I will bear my dear, lost husband's name to the end of my life, and it shall be inscribed on my tomb. Ah! would to Heaven that at the last, I might lay my ashes beside his," she moaned. "Now don't be a confounded fool, Cora Rothsay! To be sure, all women are fools! But, then, a girl with a drop of my blood in her veins should not be such a consummate idiot as you are showing yourself to be. You shall not go out with Sylvan to that savage frontier. It is no place for a woman, particularly for an unmarried woman. You would come to a bad end. I shall speak to Sylvan. I shall forbid him to take you there," said the old autocrat. Cora smiled, but answered nothing. She had firmly made up her mind to go with her brother, whether her grandfather should approve the action or not; but she thought it unnecessary to dispute the matter with him just now. "So, mistress, you will stay here, under my guardianship, until you accept a husband, like a respectable woman," continued old Aaron Rockharrt. Still Cora remained silent, standing by his chair, with her hand resting on the table, and her eyes cast down. The egotist seemed not to object to having all the talk to himself. "Come!" he exclaimed, with sudden animation, sitting bolt upright in his chair, "When I found you in this room just now, you said you had something to tell me. And you told it. Naturally, it was not worth hearing. Now, then, I have something to tell you, which is so well worth hearing that when you have heard it your missionary madness may be cured, and your Quixotic expedition given up: in fact, all your plans in life changed—a splendid prospect opened before you." Cora looked up, her languor all gone, her interest aroused. Something was rising in her mind; not a sun of hope ah! no—but nebula, obscure, unformed, indistinct, yet with possible suns of hope, worlds of happiness, within it. What did her grandfather mean? Had he heard something about—Was Rule yet— Swift as lightning flashed these thoughts through her mind while her grandfather drew his breath between his utterances. "Listen! This is what I had to tell you: I had a letter a few days ago from an old suitor of yours," he said, looking keenly at his granddaughter. Cora's eyes fell, her spirits drooped. The nebula of unknown hopes and joys had faded away, leaving her prospect dark again. She looked depressed and disappointed. She could feel no shadow of interest in her old suitors. "I received this letter several days since, and being at leisure just then. I answered it. But in the pressure of some important matters I forgot to tell you of it, though it concerned yourself mostly, I might say entirely. Shouldn't have remembered it now, I suppose, if it had not been for your foolish talk about going out for a missionary to the savages. Ah! another destiny awaits your acceptance." Cora sighed in silence. "Now, then. Of course you must know who this correspondent is." "Without offense to you, grandfather, I neither know nor care," languidly replied the lady. "But it is not without offense to me. You are the most eccentric and inconsistent woman I ever met in all the course of my life. You are not constant even to your inconstancy." Having uttered this paradox, the old man threw himself back in his chair and gazed at his granddaughter. "I am not yet clear as to your meaning, sir," she said, coldly but respectfully. "What! Have you quite forgotten the titled dandy for whom you were near breaking your heart three years ago? For whom you were ready to throw over one of the best and truest men that ever lived! For whom you really did drive Regulas Rothsay, on the proudest and happiest day of his life, into exile and death!" "Oh, don't! don't! grandfather! Don't!" wailed Cora, sinking on an office stool, and dropping her hands and head on the table. "Now, none of that, mistress. No hysterics, if you please. I won't permit any woman about me to indulge in such tantrums. Listen to me, ma'am. My correspondent was young Cumbervale, the noodle!" "Then I never wish to see or hear or think of him again!" exclaimed Cora. "Indeed! But that is a woman all through. She will do or suffer anything to get her own way. She will defy all her friends and relations, all principles of truth and honor; she will move Heaven and earth, go through fire and water, to get her own way; and when she does get it she don't want it, and she won't have it." "Grandfather!" pleaded Cora. "Silence! Three years ago you would have walked over all our dead bodies, if necessary, to marry that noble booby. And you would have married him if it had not been for me! I would not permit you to wed him then, because you were in honor bound to Regulas Rothsay. I shall insist on your accepting him now, because poor Rothsay is in his grave, and this will be the best thing to do for you to help you out of harm's way from redskins and rattlesnakes and other reptiles. I don't think much of the fellow; but he seems to be a harmless idiot, and is good enough for you." Cora answered never a word, but she felt quite sure that not even the iron will of the Iron King could ever coerce her into marriage with any man, least of all with the man whose memory was identified with her heart's tragedy. The old man continued his monologue. "The best thing about the fellow is his constancy. He was after your imaginary fortune once. I am sure of that. And he was so dazzled by the illumination of that ignis fatuus that he didn't see you, perhaps, and didn't recognize how much he really cared for you. At all events, in his letter to me—and, by the way, it is very strange that he should write to me after the snubbing I gave him in London," said the Iron King, reflectively. Cora did not think that was strange. She, at least, felt sure that it was as impossible for the young duke to take offense at the rudeness of the old iron man as at the raging of a dog or the tearing of a bull. But she did not drop a hint of this to the egotist, who never imagined passive insolence to be at the bottom of the duke's forbearance. "In his letter to me," resumed old Aaron Rockharrt, "the young fool tells me that, immediately after his great disappointment in being rejected by you, he left England—and, indeed, Europe—and traveled through every accessible portion of Asia and Africa, in the hope of overcoming his misplaced affection, but in vain, for that he returned home at the end of two years with his heart unchanged. There he learned through the newspapers that you had been recently widowed, through the murder of your husband in an Indian mutiny. That's how he put it. He farther wrote that, in the face of such a tragedy as that, he felt bound to forbear the faintest approach toward resuming his acquaintance with you until some considerable time should have elapsed, although, he was careful to add, he always believed that you had given him your heart, and would have given him your hand had you been permitted to do so. He ended his letter by asking me to give him your address, that he might write to you. He evidently supposed you to be keeping house for yourself, as English widows of condition usually do. Well, my girl, what do you think I did?" "You told me, sir, that, being at leisure just then, you answered his letter immediately," coldly replied Cora. "Yes; and I told him that you were living with me. I gave him the full address. And I told him that I was pleased with his frankness and fidelity, qualities which I highly approved; and I added that if he wished to renew his suit to you, he need not waste time in writing, but that he might come over and court you in person here at Rockhold, where he should receive a hearty, old-fashioned welcome." Cora gazed at the old man aghast. "Oh, grandfather, you never wrote that!" she exclaimed. "I never wrote that? What do you mean, mistress? Am I in the habit of saying what is not true?" "Oh, no; but I am so grieved that you should have written such a letter." "Why, pray?" "Because I cannot bear that any one should think for a moment that I could ever marry again." "Rubbish!" "Well, it does not matter after all. If the duke should come on this fool's errand, I shall be far enough out of his reach," thought Cora; but she said no more.