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."
"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.
The breakfast bell rang out with much clamor, and the old man arose growling.
"And now you have cheated me out of my hour with the newspapers by your foolish talk. Come, come to breakfast and let us hear no more nonsense about going on that wild goose chase to the Indian frontier."
At the end of the morning meal he arose from the table, called his young wife to fetch him his hat, his gloves, his duster, and other belongings, and he got ready for his daily morning drive to the works.
"I shall remain at North End to bid you good-by, Sylvan. Call at my office there on your way to the depot," he said, as he left the house to step into his carriage waiting at the door.
As the sound of the wheels rolled off and died in the distance, Rose turned to Cora and inquired:
"My dear, does he know that you are going out West with Sylvan?"
"He should know it. I have spoken freely of my plans before you both for months past," said Cora.
"But, my dear, he never took the slightest notice of anything you said on that subject. Why, he did not even seem to hear you."
"He heard me perfectly. Nothing passes in my grandfather's presence that he does not see and hear and understand."
"Well, then, I reckon he thinks you have changed your mind; for he spoke of meeting Sylvan at North End to bid him good-by, but said not a word about you."
"He will believe that I am going when he sees me with Sylvan," said Cora.
And then she touched the bell and ordered her carriage to be brought to the door.
"We must go and take leave of Mrs. Fabian Rockharrt," she said to Rose.
Twenty minutes later Cora and Sylvan entered the pony carriage. Sylvan took the reins and started for Violet Banks.
They soon reached the lovely villa, where they found Violet seated in a Quaker rocking-chair on the front porch, with a basket workstand beside her, busily and happily engaged in her beloved work—embroidering an infant's white cashmere cloak. She jumped up, dropped her work, and ran to meet her visitors as they alighted from the carriage. She kissed Cora rapturously, and Sylvan kissed her.
"How lovely of you both to come! Wait a minute till I call a boy to take your chaise around to the stable. And, oh, sit down. You are going to stay all day with me, too, and late into the night—there is a fine moon to-night. Or maybe you will stay a week or a month. Why not? Oh, do stay," she rattled on, a little incoherently on account of her happy excitement.
"No, dear," said Cora, "we can only stay a very few minutes. The rising moon will see us far away on our route to New York."
"W-h-y! You astonish me! How sudden this is! Where are you going?" asked Violet, pausing in her hurry to call a groom.
"Let me explain," said Cora, taking one of the Quaker chairs and seating herself. "Sylvan has just received his commission as second lieutenant in the 3d Regiment of Infantry, now on Governor's Island, New York harbor, but under orders for Fort Farthermost, on the extreme frontier of the Indian Reserve. He leaves by the afternoon express, and I go with him."
"Cora!" exclaimed Violet, as she dropped into her chair. "I know you have talked about this, but I never thought you would do such a wild deed! Please don't think of going out among bears and Indians!"
"I must, dear, for many reasons. Sylvan and myself are all and all to each other at present, and we should not be parted. More than that, I wish to do something in the world. I can not do anything here. I am not wanted, you see. I must, therefore, go where I may be wanted and may do some good."
"But what can you do—out there?"
Cora then explained her plan of establishing a missionary home and school for Indian children.
"What a good, great, but, oh, what a Quixotic plan! Sylvan, why will you let her do it?" pleaded Violet.
"My dear, I would not presume to oppose Cora. If she thinks she is right in this matter, then she is right. If her resolution is fixed, then I will uphold and defend her in that resolution," said the young lieutenant, loyally. But all the same his secret thought was that some fine fellow in his own regiment might be able to persuade Cora to devote her time and fortune to him, instead of to the redskins.
After a little more talk Cora got up and kissed Violet good-by. Sylvan followed her example with a little more ardor than was absolutely necessary, perhaps.
At Rockhold luncheon was on the table, and young Mrs. Rockharrt waiting for them. Mr. Clarence was also at home, having determined to risk his father's displeasure and to neglect his business on this one day—this last day, for the sake of the niece and the nephew who were so dear to his heart.
After luncheon Sylvan went out to oversee the loading of the farm van, which was drawn by two sturdy mules, with the many heavy trunks and boxes that contained Cora's wardrobe and books—among the latter a large number of elementary school books. Mr. Clarence stood by his side to help him in case of need. Cora went up to her room, where nothing was now left to be done but to pack her little traveling bag with the necessaries for her journey, and then put on her traveling suit. She had a quantity of valuable jewelry, but this she put carefully into her hand bag, intending to convert it all into money as soon as she should reach New York, and to consecrate the fund, with the bulk of her fortune, to her projected home school for the Indian children.
As she sat there, she was by some occult agency led to think of her grandfather's young wife—to think of her tenderly, charitably, compassionately. Poor Rose! In infancy, from the day of her father's death, an unloved, neglected, persecuted child; in childhood, driven to desperation and elopement by the miseries of her home; in girlhood, deceived and abandoned by her lover; now, in womanhood, as friendless and unhappy as if she had not married a wealthy man, and was not living in a luxurious home. Poor Rose! She had lost her sense of honor, or she never would have married Mr. Rockharrt, even for a refuge. But, through all her sins and sorrows, she had not lost her tender heart, her sweet temper, or her amiable desire to serve and to please. She had now a hard time with her aged, despotic husband. He had not gratified her ambition by taking her into the upper circles of society, for he seemed now to have given up society; he had not pleased her harmless vanity with presents of fine dress and jewelry; no, nor even regarded her services with any sort of affectionate recognition.
Cora sat there feeling sorry that she had ever shown herself cold and haughty to the helpless creature who had always done all that she could to win her (Cora's) love, and whom she was about to leave to the tender mercies of a hard and selfish old man, who, though he highly approved of his young wife's meekness, humility and subserviency, and held her up as an example to her whole sex, yet did not care for her, did not consult her wishes in anything, did not consider her happiness.
Cora sat wondering what she could do to give this poor little soul some little pleasure before leaving her. Suddenly she thought of her jewels. She resolved to select a set and give it to Rose with some kind parting word.
She took her hand bag and withdrew from it case after case, examining each in turn. There was a set of diamonds worth many thousand dollars; a set of rubies and pearls, worth almost as much; a set of emeralds, very costly; but none of them as lovely as a set of sapphires, pearls, and diamonds, artistically arranged together, the sapphires encircled by a row of pearls, with an outer circle of small diamonds; the whole suggesting the blue color, the foam, and the sparkle of the sea.
This Cora selected as a parting present to her grandfather's young wife.
She took them in her hand and hurried to Rose's room, knocked at the door and entered. Rose was seated in a white dimity-covered arm chair, engaged in reading a novel. She looked surprised, and almost frightened, at the sight of Cora, who had never before condescended to enter this private room.
"Have I disturbed you?" inquired Cora.
"Oh, no; no, indeed. Pray come in. Please sit down. Will you have this arm chair?" eagerly inquired the young woman, rising from her seat.
"No, thank you, Rose; I have scarcely time to sit. I have brought you a keepsake which I hope you will sometimes wear in memory of your old pupil," said Cora, opening the casket and displaying the gems.
Rose's face was a study—all that was good and evil in her was aroused at the sight of the rich and costly jewels—vanity, cupidity, gratitude, tenderness.
"Oh, how superb they are! I never saw such splendid gems! A parure for a princess, and you give them to me? What a munificent present! How kind you are, Cora! What can I do? How shall I ever be able to return your kindness?" said Rose, as tears of delight and wonder filled her eyes.
"Wear them and enjoy them. They suit your fair complexion very well. And now let me bid you good-by, here."
"No, no; not yet. I will go down and see you off—see the very last of you, Cora, until the carriage takes you out of sight. Oh, dear, it may indeed be the very last that I shall ever see of you, sure enough."
"I hope not. Why do you speak so sadly?"
"Because I am not strong. My father died of consumption; so did my elder brothers and sisters, the children of his first marriage, and often I think I shall follow them."
Mrs. Rothsay looked at the speaker. The transparent delicacy of complexion, the tenderness of the limpid blue eyes, the infantile softness of face, throat, and hands, certainly did not seem to promise much strength or long life; but Cora spoke cheerfully:
"Such hereditary weakness may be overcome in these days of science, Rose. You must banish fear and take care of yourself. Now, I really must go and put on my bonnet."
"Very well, then, if you must. I will meet you in the hall. Oh, my dear, I am so very grateful to you for these precious jewels, and more than all for the friendship and kindness that prompted the gift," said Rose; and perhaps she really did believe that she prized the giver more than the gift; for such self-deception would have been in keeping with her superficial character.
Cora left the room and hurried to her chamber, where she put on her bonnet and her linen duster. She had scarcely fastened the last button when her brother knocked at the door, calling out:
"Come, Cora, come, or we shall miss the train."
Cora caught up her traveling bag, cast
"A long, last, lingering look"
around the dear, familiar room which she had occupied when at Rockhold from her childhood's days, and then went out and joined her brother.
In the hall below they were met by Rose
"Be good to her, poor thing," whispered Cora to Sylvan.
"All right," replied the young lieutenant.
Rose's eyes were filled with tears. It seemed to the friendless creature very hard to lose Cora, just as Cora was beginning to be friendly.
"Good-by," said Mrs. Rothsay, taking the woman's hand. But Rose burst into tears, threw her arms around the young lady's neck, hugged her close, and kissed her many times.
"Good-by, my pretty step-grandmother-in-law," said Sylvan, gayly, taking her hand and giving her a kiss. "You are still
'The rose that all admire,'
but the best of friends must part."
And leaving Rose in tears, he opened the door for his sister to pass out before him. But she, at least, passed no farther than the front porch, where she stood looking down the lawn in surprise and anxiety, while Sylvan hurried off to see what was the meaning of that which had so suddenly startled them. What was it? What had happened?
A crowd of men, silent, but with faces full of suppressed excitement and surrounding something that was borne in their midst, was slowly marching up the avenue.
Cora watched Sylvan as he went to meet them; saw him speak to them, though she could not hear what he said; saw them stop and put the something, which they bore along and escorted, down on the gravel; saw a parley between her brother and the crowd, and finally saw her brother turn and hurry back toward the house, wearing a pale and troubled countenance.
"You may take the carriage back to the stables, John," said the lieutenant to the wondering negro groom, as he passed it in returning to the porch.
"What is the matter, Sylvan? What has happened? Why have you sent the carriage away?" Cora anxiously inquired.
"Because, my dear, we must not leave Rockhold at present," he gravely replied. "There has been an accident, Cora."
"An accident! On the railroad?"
"No, my dear; to our old grandfather."
"To grandfather! Oh, Sylvan! no! no!" she cried, turning white, and dropping upon a bench, all her latent affection for the aged patriarch—the unsuspected affection—waking in her heart.
"Yes, dear," said Sylvan, softly.
"Seriously? Dangerously? Fatally? Perhaps he is dead and you are trying to break it to me! You can't do it! You can't! Oh, Sylvan, is grandfather dead?" she wildly demanded.
"No, dear! No, no, no! Compose yourself. They are bringing him here, and he is perfectly conscious. He must not see you so much agitated. It would annoy him. We do not yet know how seriously he is hurt. He was thrown from his carriage when near North End. The horses took fright at the passing of a train. They ran away and went over that steep bank just at the entrance of the village. The carriage was shattered all to pieces; the coachman killed outright—poor old Joseph—and the horses so injured that they had to be shot."
"Poor old Joseph! I am so sorry! so very sorry! But grandfather! grandfather!"
"He was picked up insensible; carried to the hotel on a mattress laid on planks, borne by half a dozen workmen, and the doctor was summoned immediately. He was laid in bed, and all means were tried to restore consciousness. But as soon as he came to his senses he demanded to be brought home. The doctor thought it dangerous to do so. But you know the grandfather's obstinacy. So a stretcher was prepared, a spring mattress laid on it, and he has been borne all the way from North End to Rockhold Ferry by relays of six men at a time, relieving each other at short intervals, and escorted by the doctor and our two uncles. That, Cora, is all I can tell you."
He then entered the house, followed by Cora.
They found Rose still in the front hall, where they had left her a few minutes before. She was seated in one of the oak chairs wiping her eyes. She had not seen the approaching procession with the burden they carried. And of course she had not heard their silent movements.
She looked up in surprise at the re-entrance of Cora and Sylvan.
"Oh!" she exclaimed "Have you forgotten anything? So glad to see you back, even for half a minute. For, after all, I couldn't see you drive away. I just shut the door and flung myself into this chair to have a good cry. Can't you put off your journey now, just for to-night and start to-morrow? You will have to do it anyhow. You can't catch the 6:30 express now," she added, coming toward them.
"We shall not attempt it, Rose," said Sylvan, in a kinder tone than he usually used in speaking to her.
"I am so glad," she said, but her further words were arrested by the grave looks of the young man.
"What is the matter with you?" she suddenly inquired.
"There has been an accident, Rose. Not fatal, my dear, so don't be frightened. My grandfather has been thrown from his carriage and stunned. But he has recovered consciousness, and they are bringing him home a deal shaken, but not in serious danger."
While Sylvan spoke, Rose gazed at him in perfect silence, with her blue eyes widening. When he finished, she asked:
"How did it happen?"
Sylvan told her.
Rose dropped into a chair and covered her face with her hands. She was more shocked than grieved by all that she had heard. If her tyrant had been brought home dead, I think she would only have sighed
"With the sigh of a great deliverance!"
"Let us go now, Rose, and prepare his bed. Sylvan will stay hereto receive him," said Cora.
The two women went up to the old man's room and turned down the bedclothes, and laid out a change of linen, and many towels in case they should be needed, and then went to the head of the stairs and waited and listened.
Presently, through the open hall door, they heard the muffled tread and subdued tones of the men, who presently entered, bearing the stretcher on which was laid the huge form of the Iron King, covered, all except his face, with a white bed-spread. Slowly, carefully, and with some difficulty they bore him up the broad staircase head first—preceded by the family physician, Dr. Cummins, and followed by Messrs. Fabian and Clarence.
Rose and Cora stood each side the open chamber door, and when the men bore the stretcher in and set it down on the floor, the two women approached and looked down on the injured man.
His countenance was scarcely affected by his accident. He was no paler than usual. He was frowning—it might be from pain or it might be from anger—and he was glaring around. Rose was afraid to speak to him, prone on the stretcher as he was, lest she should get her head bitten off. Cora bent over him and said tenderly:
"Dear grandfather, I am very sorry for this. I hope you are not hurt much."
And she had her head immediately snapped off.
"Don't be a confounded idiot!" he growled, hoarsely. "Go and send old black Martha here. She is worth a hundred of you two."
Rose hurried off to obey this order, glad enough of an excuse to escape. And now the room was cleared of all the men except the family physician, the two sons, and the grandson.
These approached the stretcher and carefully and tenderly undressed the patient and laid him on his bed.
Then the physician made a more careful examination.
There were no bones broken. The injuries seemed to be all internal; but of their seriousness or dangerousness the physician could not yet judge. The nervous shock had certainly been severe, and that in itself was a grave misfortune to a man of Aaron Rockharrt's age, and might have been instantaneously fatal to any one of less remarkable strength.
Dr. Cummins told Mr. Fabian that he should remain in attendance on his patient all night. Then, at the desire of Mr. Rockharrt, he cleared the sick room of every one except the old negro woman.
When the door was shut upon them all, and the chamber was quiet, he administered a sedative to his patient and advised him to close his eyes and try to compose himself.
Then the doctor sat down on the right side of the bed, with old Martha on his left.
There was utter silence for a few minutes, and then old Aaron Rockharrt spoke.
"What's the hour, doctor?"
"Seven," replied the physician after consulting his gold repeater. "But I advise you to keep quiet and try to sleep," he added, returning his timepiece to his fob.
As if the Iron King ever followed advice! As if he did not, on general principles, always run counter to it!
"Didn't I see my fool of a grandson among the other lunatics who ran after me here?" he next inquired.
"Yes."
"Where is he now?"
"With the ladies, I think."
"Send—him—up—to—me!"
The doctor shrugged his shoulders and went to obey the order. The obstinacy of this self-willed egotist was surely growing into a monomania, and perhaps it would have been more dangerous to oppose him than to comply with his whim. In a few moments Dr. Cummins re-entered the room, followed by Sylvan Haught.
"I hope you are feeling easier," said the lieutenant, as he bent over his grandfather.
"I have not complained of feeling uneasy yet, have I?" growled the Iron King.
"You sent for me, sir. Can I do anything for you?"
"For me? No; not likely! But you can do your duty to your country! How is it that you are not on your way to join your regiment?"
"I had actually bidden good-by and left the house to start on my journey, when I met men bringing you home."
"What the demon had that to do with it?"
"I could not go on, sir, and leave you under such circumstances."
"Look here, young sir!" said the Iron King, speaking hoarsely, faintly, yet with strong determination. "Do you call yourself a soldier or a shirk? Let me tell you that it is the first duty of a soldier to obey orders, at all times, under all circumstances, and at all costs! If you had been a married man, and your wife had been dying—if you had been a father, and your child had been dying, it would have been your duty to leave them!"
"But, sir, there was no real need that I should go by this night's express. If I should start to-morrow morning, I shall be in good time to report for duty. It was only my zeal to be better than prompt which induced me to start earlier than necessary. To-morrow will be quite time enough to leave for New York."
"Very well; then go to-morrow by the first train," said the Iron King in a more subdued manner, for the sedative was beginning to take effect.
At a hint from the doctor the young lieutenant bade his grandfather good-night and softly stepped out of the room.