"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, hoa.r.s.ely.
"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 antic.i.p.ate 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.