THE WIDOWED BRIDE.
The amazement and confusion that followed the discovery of the mysterious disappearance of Governor-elect Regulas Rothsay, on the morning of the day of his intended inauguration, has been already described in an earlier chapter of this story.
The most searching inquiries were made in all directions without any satisfactory result.
Then advertisements were put in all the principal newspapers in all the chief towns and cities throughout the country, offering large rewards for any information that should lead to the discovery of the missing man or of his fate.
These in time drew forth letters from all points of the compass from people anxious to take a chance in this lottery of a reward, and who fabricated reports of the lost governor having been seen in this, that, or the other place, or of his body having been found here, there or elsewhere.
Prompt investigation proved the falsehood of these fraudulent letters in every instance.
No one really knew the fate of the missing man. No one but Cora Rothsay had even the clew to the cause of his disappearance; and she—from her sensitive pride, no less than from her sacred promise not to reveal the subject of her communicaton to her husband on that fatal evening of his flight or of his death—kept her lips sealed on that subject.
Days, weeks and months passed away without bringing any authentic news of the lost ruler.
At length hope was given up. The advertisements were withdrawn from the papers.
Still occasionally, at long intervals of time, vague rumors reached his friends—a sailor had seen him in the streets of Rio de Janeiro; a fur trader had found him in Washington Territory; a miner had met him in California—but nothing came of all these reports.
One morning, late in December, there came some news, not of the actual fate of the governor, but of the long-lost man who had seen the last of him alive.
Despite the bitter pleading of the poor, bereaved bride, who dreaded the crowded city and desired to remain in seclusion in the country, old Aaron had removed his whole family to their town house for the winter.
They had been settled there only a few days, and were gathered around the breakfast table, when a card was brought in to Mr. Rockharrt.
"'Captain Ross!' Who, in the fiend's name, is Captain Ross? And what does he want at this early hour of the morning?" demanded the Iron King, after he had read the name on the card. Then, as he scrutinized it, he saw faintly penciled lines below the name and read:
"The late visitor who called on Governor-elect Rothsay on the evening of his disappearance."
"Show the man in the library, Jason," exclaimed old Aaron Rockharrt, rising, leaving his untasted breakfast, and striding out of the room.
In the library he found a young skipper, tall, robust, black bearded and sun burned.
"Captain Ross?" said the old man, interrogatively.
"The same, at your service, sir—Mr. Rockharrt, I presume?" said the visitor with a bow.
"That's my name. Sit down," said the Iron King, pointing to one chair for his visitor and taking another for himself.
"So you were the last visitor to Mr. Rothsay, eh?"
"Yes, sir."
"Well, can you give any information regarding the disappearance of my grandson-in-law?"
"No, sir; but learning that I had been advertised for, I have come forward."
"At rather a late date, upon my soul and honor! Where have you been all this time?"
"At sea. When I called upon Mr. Rothsay, it was to congratulate him on his position and to bid him good-by. I was on the eve of sailing for India, and, in fact, left the city by the night's express and sailed the next morning. I think we must have been out of sight of land before the news of the governor's disappearance was spread abroad."
"What explanation can you give of his sudden disappearance?"
"None whatever, sir."
"Then, in the demon's name, why have you come forward at all at this time?"
"Because I was advertised for."
"That was months ago."
"But months ago I was at sea and knew nothing of the matter. I have but just returned from a long voyage, and hearing among other matters that Governor Rothsay had been missing since the day of his inauguration, that Governor Kennedy reigned in his stead, and that the latest visitor of the missing man had long been wanting, I have come."
"Do you appreciate the gravity of your own position, sir, under the circumstances?" sternly demanded the Iron King.
"I—don't—understand you," said the skipper, in evident perplexity.
"You don't? That is strange. You are the last man—the last person—who saw Governor-elect Rothsay alive, at eleven o'clock on the night of his disappearance. After that hour he was missing, and you had run away."
The young sailor smiled.
"Steamed away, and sailed away, you should say, sir. I see the suspicion to which your words point, and will answer them at once: On that night in question I was a guest of the Crockett House. I was absent from that house only half an hour—from a quarter to eleven to a quarter after eleven—during which time I walked to this house, saw the governor-elect, and walked back to the hotel, only to pay my bill, take a hack and drive to the railway station. Do you think that in half an hour I could have done all that and murdered the governor, and made away with his body besides, Mr. Rockharrt?"
"You would have to prove the truth of your words, sir," replied the Iron King.
"That is easily done by the people at the hotel. I did not tell them where I was going. I never even thought of telling them. But they know I was only gone half an hour; for before going out, or just as I was going out, I ordered the carriage to be ready to take me to the depot at a quarter past eleven."
"They may have forgotten all about you."
"Not at all. I am an old customer, though a young man. They know me very well."
"Then it is very strange that when every anxious inquiry was made for this latest visitor of the governor-elect, these hotel people did not come forward and name you."
"But I repeat, sir, that they did not know that I was that latest visitor. I did not think of telling any one that I was going to see Rothsay before I went, or of telling them that I had been to see him after I went. They had no more reason to identify me with that late caller than any other guest at the hotel, or, in fact, any other man in the world. Come, Mr. Rockharrt, you have complimented me with one of the blackest suspicions that could wrong an honest man, but I will not quarrel with you. I know very well that the last person seen with a missing man is often suspected of his taking off. As for me, I invite the most searching investigation."
"Why did you come here, after so long an interval?" demanded the Iron King, in no way mollified by the moderation of his visitor.
"As I explained to you, I come now because I have just heard that I had been advertised for; and after this long interval because I have been for months at sea. I had, however, another motive for coming—to tell you of the strange manner of Regulas Rothsay during my interview with him—a manner that does not seem to have been observed by any one else, for all speak and write of his health and extraordinarily good spirits on the evening of his arrival in the city only a few hours before I saw him, when he seemed very far from being in good health or good spirits. In fact, a more utterly broken man I never saw in my life."
"Ah! ah! What is this you tell me? Give me particulars! Give me particulars!" said the Iron King, rising and standing over his visitor.
"Indeed, I do not think I can give you particulars. The effect he seemed to produce was that of a general prostration of body and mind. On coming into the room where I waited for him, he looked pale and haggard; he tottered rather than walked; he dropped into his chair rather than sat down in it; his hands fell upon the arms rather than grasped them; he was gloomy, absent-minded, and when he spoke at all, seemed to speak with great effort."
"Ah! ah! ah!" exclaimed the Iron King.
"I thought the fatigue and excitement of the day had been too much for him. I made my visit very short, and soon bade him good-night. He wished me a prosperous voyage, but did not invite me to visit him on my return—a kindness that he had never before omitted."
"Ah, ah ah!" again exclaimed old Aaron Rockharrt.
"Then I thought his manner and appearance only the effect of excessive fatigue and excitement. Now, seen in the light of future events, I attach a more serious meaning to them."
"What! what! what!" demanded the Iron King.
"I think that some fatal news, from some quarter or other, had reached him; or that some heavy sorrow had fallen upon him; or, worse than all, sudden insanity had overtaken him! That, under the lash of one or another, or all of these, he fled the house and the city, and—made away with himself."
"Now, Heaven forbid!" exclaimed old Aaron Rockharrt, dropping into his chair.
"One favor I have to ask you, Mr. Rockharrt, and that is, that the most searching investigation be made of my movements on that fatal evening of the governor's disappearance."
"It shall be done," said the Iron King.
"I shall remain at the David Crockett until all the friends of the late governor are satisfied so far as I am concerned. And now, having said all I have to say, I will bid you good morning," concluded the visitor as he arose, took up his hat, bowed, and left the room.
Old Aaron Rockharrt returned to the breakfast table, where his subservient family waited.
The coffee, that had been sent to the kitchen to be kept hot, was brought up again, with hot rolls and hot broiled partridges.
The old man resumed his breakfast in silence. He did not think proper to speak of his visitor, nor did any member of the family party venture to question him.
And this was well, so far as Cora was concerned.
Any allusion to the agonizing subject of her husband's mysterious disappearance was more than she could well bear; and to have hinted in her presence that some hidden sorrow had driven him to self-destruction might almost have wrecked her reason.
Cora now never mentioned his name; yet, as after events proved, he was never for a moment absent from her mind.
The old grandmother, who could not speak to Cora on the subject, and who dared not speak to her lord and master on any subject that he did not first broach, and yet who felt that she must talk to some one of that which oppressed her bosom so heavily, at length confided to her youngest son.
"I do think Cora's heart is breaking in this suspense, Clarence! If Rule had died there would have been an end of it, and she would have known the worst and submitted to the inevitable! But this awful suspense, anxiety, uncertainty as to his fate, is just killing her! I wish we could do something to save her, Clarence!"
"I wish so, too, mother! I see how she is failing and sinking, and I own that this surprises me! I really thought that Cora was fascinated by that fellow in London." (This was the irreverent manner in which Mr. Clarence spoke of his grace the Duke of Cumbervale.) "And I thought that she only married Rothsay from a sense of duty, keeping her word, and all that sort of thing! I can't understand her grieving herself to death for him now!"
"Oh, Clarence! she was fascinated by the rank and splendor and personal attractions of the young duke! Her fancy, vanity, ambition and imagination were fired; but her heart was never touched! She had not seen Rothsay for so long a time that his image had somewhat faded in her memory when this splendid young fellow crossed her path and dazzled her for a time! It was a brief madness—nothing more! But you can see for yourself how really she loved Rothsay when you see that anxiety for his fate is breaking her heart."
"I see, mother dear; but I don't understand! And I don't know what on earth we can do for her! If my father does not think proper to suggest something, we must not, for if we should do so it would make matters much worse."
"Yes," sighed the old lady; and the subject was dropped.
Clarence had said that he did not understand Cora's state of mind. No; nor did old Mrs. Rockharrt. How could they, when Cora had not understood herself, until suffering brought self-knowledge?
From her childhood up she had loved Rule Rothsay as a sister loves a favorite brother. In her girlhood, knowing no stronger love, on the strength of this she accepted the offered hand of Rothsay, and was engaged to be married to him. She meant to have been faithful to him; but it was a long engagement, during which she traveled with her grandparents for three years, while the memory of her calmly loved betrothed husband grew rather dim. Then came her meeting with the handsome and accomplished young Duke of Cumbervale, and the infatuation, the hallucination that enslaved her imagination for a period. Then began the mental conflict between inclination and duty, ending in her resolution to forget her English lover and to be true to Rule.
Up to the very wedding day she had suppressed and controlled her feelings with heroic firmness, but on the evening of that day, while waiting for her husband, the long, severe tension of her nerves utterly gave way, and when found in a paroxysm of tears and questioned by him, in her wretchedness and misery she had confessed the infidelity of her heart and pleaded for time to conquer it.
She had expected bitter reproaches, but there were none. She had dreaded fierce anger, but there was none. She had anticipated obduracy, but there was none. There was nothing but intense suffering, divine compassion, and infinite renunciation. He pitied her. He soothed her. He defended her from the reproaches of her own conscience. He protected her by an imposed provision that for her own sake she should not tell others what she had told him. And then—
He laid down all the honors that his life-long toil and self-denial had won for her sake, and he went out from his triumphs, went out from her life—out, out into the outer darkness of oblivion, to be seen no more of men, to be heard of no more by men. All for her sake. And before the majesty of such infinite love, such infinite renunciation, her whole soul bowed down in adoration. Yes, at last, in the hour of losing him she loved him as he longed to be loved by her. She had but one desire on earth—to be at his side. But one prayer, and that was her "vital breath"—for his return.
She felt herself to be unworthy of the measureless love that he had given her—that he still gave her, if he still lived, for his love had known no shadow of turning, nor ever would suffer change.
But, oh! where in space was he? How could she reach him? How could she make him hear the cry of her heart?
One message, like a voice from the grave, had, indeed, come to her from him since his disappearance, but it had been sent before he left the house; it was in the letter he had written and placed in the secret drawer of her writing desk before he went forth that fatal night, a "wanderer through the world's wilderness."
She had found it on that day, about three weeks after his loss, when she had come into the parlor for the first time since her illness, and when, left alone for a few minutes by her grandmother, she had gone to her writing desk, and in the idleness of misery had begun carelessly, aimlessly, to turn over her papers. In the same mood she pressed the spring of the secret drawer, and it sprang open and projected the letter before her. She recognized his handwriting, seized the paper and opened it. It contained only a few words of farewell, with a prayer for her happiness and a parting blessing.
There was no allusion made to the cause of their separation. Probably Rule had thought of the letter falling into other hands than hers; so he had refrained from referring to her secret, lest she should suffer reproach from her family.
Cora read this letter with deep emotion over and over again, until she found herself staring at the lines without gathering their meaning, and then she felt herself growing giddy and faint, for she was still very weak from recent illness, and she hastily dropped the letter into the desk and shut down the lid, only just before a film came over her eyes, a muffled sound in her ears, and oblivion over her senses. This is the swoon in which she was found by Mrs. Rockharrt, and for which she could give no satisfactory reason.
When Cora recovered from that swoon her first care, on the first opportunity, was to go to her writing desk to look for her precious letter—Rothsay's last letter to her. No one had opened her desk or disturbed its contents.
She found her letter; pressed it to her heart and lips many times; then made a little silken bag, into which she put it; then tied it around her neck with a narrow ribbon.
And from that day it rested on her heart. It was her priceless treasure to be cherished above all others, "the first to be saved in fire or flood." It was the only relic of her lost love with his last good-by, and prayers and blessings. It was her magic talisman, still connecting her in some occult way with the vanished one. It was her anchor of hope, still promising in some mysterious manner the final return of her lost husband.
While Cora mourned and dreamed away these first days of the family's return to their town house, old Aaron Rockharrt was sifting the evidence of the story told by Captain Ross; he proved the truth of the skipper's account; and he failed to connect the young man's late visit on that fatal night with the almost simultaneous disappearance of Rothsay.
The season passed on. Mr. and Mrs. Rockharrt gave dinner parties and supper parties; and received and accepted invitations to similar entertainments in return; but no persuasions nor arguments could prevail on Cora to go into any society. Not even the iron will of the Iron King could conquer in this matter. His granddaughter was his own personal property, and one of the attractions of his house; it was in her place to wear her best clothes and costliest jewels, and to show herself to his guests; and her persistent refusal to do this put him in a gloomy, teeth-grinding, impotent rage.
"Cora is of age! She has a very sufficient provision. And now if she does not return to her duty and render herself amenable to my authority and obedient to my commands, I shall order her to find another home; for I mean to be master of my own house and of everybody in it!" he said, savagely, to his timid wife, one evening when she was doing valet's duty by dressing his hair for a dinner party.
"Oh, Aaron! Aaron! have pity on the poor, heartbroken girl!" pleaded the old lady, falling into a fit of trembling that interfered with her task.
"Hold your tongue and heed my words, for I shall do as I say. And mind what you are about now! You have scratched my ear with the bristles of the brush."
"I beg your pardon, Aaron, but my hand shakes so."
"If that young woman don't submit herself to my will, and obey my orders, I will pack her out of this house. And then, perhaps, your nerves will be quieter! I'll do it, for I am not particularly fond of having grass widows about me," he growled.
She made no reply. She could not trust herself to speak. It required all her self-control to steady her hands so as to complete her master's toilet.
Then she had to dress herself in haste and agitation to be ready in time to accompany her husband to the dinner party at the executive mansion, which was now occupied by Lieutenant-Governor Kenelm Kennedy—and from which the Iron King would not allow his wife to absent herself.
Old Aaron Rockharrt was the lion of the evening, as he was the lion of every party in the State capital, probably because he owned the lion's share of the State's wealth, and had more money, perhaps, than the State's treasury. He enjoyed this beast worship, and came to his town house every season and went into general society to receive it.
Mrs. Rockharrt was very anxious to have a talk with her granddaughter, to warn her of impending danger and to implore her to obey the wishes of her grandfather, but the poor old lady had no opportunity.
Cora sat up for her grandparents, in case they should need any of her services on their return.
They came in very late, and then the exactions of the domestic tyrant kept his wife in attendance on him until they were all in bed.