TURMOIL OF THE WORLD.
The Rockharrts were again in the State capital. It was but thirteen months since the death of his wife and since the news of the murder of his grandson-in law had been received—calamities which had doubly bereaved the family, and thrown them in the deepest mourning—yet the Iron King, elated by his marvelous financial success, had thrown open his house to society, and insisted that his granddaughter should do its honors.
Cora, who, since the death of the grandmother, had deeply pitied the grandfather, yielded to his wishes in this respect, though much against her secret inclination. She did not leave off her widow's mourning, but she modified it when she presided at the head of the Rockharrt table on those frequent occasions of the sumptuous and unrivaled dinners given by the Iron King to those whose fortunes he was making, with his own, by his mammoth enterprise.
The old man was certainly the lion of the season. He had steadily gone on from step to step on the ladder of fame (for enormous wealth), until now he was quoted as not only the richest man of his State, but as one of the ten richest men in the world.
It was at this time that Mr. Fabian bethought himself of taking a wife. It was indeed quite time that he should marry, if he ever intended to do so. He was nearly fifty-two years of age, though looking no more than forty; his erect and active figure, his fresh and smooth complexion, his curling brown hair and beard, his smiling countenance and cheerful demeanor, rendered him quite an attractive man to young ladies, who credited him with fully twenty years less than his due.
There was, at this time, among the lovely "rosebuds" opening in the fashionable drawing rooms of the city, a sweet "wood violet," otherwise Violet Wood; a perfect blonde, with perfect features and a petite figure. Her beauty was peculiar; she was very small, very dainty; her hair the palest yellow, her face so white that almost the only color on her features were her deep blue eyes and crimson lips.
She was an orphan heiress, without any near relation in the world. Though but eighteen years of age, and just from school, she had already entered on the possession of her fortune by the terms of her father's will. She lived with her former guardians, the Chief Justice Pendletime and his wife.
They had given a grand ball to introduce their ward into society. The Rockharrts had been invited, of course. And they had all been present. The Wood Violet, as admirers transposed her name, was equally, of course, the belle of the evening.
The tall, towering sunflower, Mr. Fabian, fell instantly and irrecoverably in love with this tiny white wood violet. Many others fell in love with her, but none to the depth of Mr. Fabian. He resolved to "take time by the forelock," "not to let the grass grow under his feet" in this love chase.
The very next morning he said to his father:
"You have lately expressed a wish to see me married, sir. I have been, in obedience to your commands, looking out for a wife. I think I have found a woman to suit me, and, what is more to the purpose, to suit you, sir. However, if I should be mistaken in your taste, I shall, of course, give up the thought of proposing to her," added artful Mr. Fabian, who felt perfectly sure that his father would approve his choice.
"Who is she?" demanded the Iron King.
"Miss Violet Wood, the ward of Chief Justice Pendletime."
"You could not have made a wiser choice. You have my full approval. And the sooner you are married, the better I shall like it."
Mr. Fabian bowed in silence.
"And you remember that we were planning to send a confidential agent to Europe to establish syndicates for our shares in the principal cities. Now you can utilize your wedding tour by taking your bride to Europe and looking after this business in person."
"Yes, of course," assented Mr. Fabian.
"Other details may be thought of afterward. You had better begin to call on the lady. It is well to be the first in the market."
"Of course, sir."
Mr. Fabian groomed himself into as charming a toilet as a gentleman's morning suit would admit. He then set forth in his carriage and made the round of the three conservatories of which the town could boast before he could find a cluster of white wood violets to pin on the lapel of his coat. He also got a splendid and fragrant bouquet, and armed with these fascinators he drove to the house of the chief justice and sent in his card.
The ladies were at home. He was shown into the drawing room, where, oh! beneficence of fortune, he found his inamorata alone.
In a pale blue cashmere home dress trimmed with swan's down and lace, she looked fairer, sweeter, daintier, more suggestive of a wood violet than ever.
She left her seat at the piano and came to meet him, saying simply:
"Good morning, Mr. Rockharrt. Mrs. Pendletime will be down presently. She is not in good health, and so she slept late this morning after the ball. Oh! what lovely, lovely flowers! For me? Oh! thank you so much, Mr. Rockharrt," she added, as Mr. Fabian, with a deep bow and a sweet smile, presented his offering.
Mr. Fabian made good use of his time, and had advanced considerably in the good graces of his fair little love before the lady of the house entered.
Mrs. Chief Justice Pendletime greeted Mr. Fabian most graciously, inquiring after the health of his father.
A little small talk, a few compliments, and the delightful chat was broken into by the arrival of other callers, fine youths, admirers of Violet Wood and secret aspirants to her favor. Even most amiable Mr. Fabian felt a strong desire to kick them all out of the drawing room, through the front door and into the street.
He made himself doubly agreeable to the beauty and her chaperon, and finally offered them a box at the opera for the next evening, and when it was accepted he at last took leave.
"I have got the inside track and mean to keep it!" he said to himself, as he drove homeward. And he did keep it. He was really a very fascinating man when he chose to be so, and he generally did choose to be so. And he could "make love like an angel." Now, whether he really won the affections of Violet Wood by his charms of person and address, or whether he only dazzled the girl's imagination by the splendor of his wealth and position, or whether her guardians advocated his cause with the beauty, or whether there was something of all these influences at work upon her will, I do not quite know. But certain it is that when Mr. Fabian, after two weeks' courtship, offered his heart, hand, and fortune to the little beauty, she accepted them, and not only accepted, but seemed very happy in doing so.
The betrothed lover pleaded for an early wedding day. Violet Wood answered that she would consult her chaperon and abide by her decision. Mr. Fabian then took the precaution to see Mrs. Pendletime, and pray that the marriage might take place early in February. The lady answered that she would consult her young protegee and be governed by her wishes.
Mr. Fabian bowed, thanked her warmly, shook hands with her cordially and left the house. He went straight home, took from his safe a casket of diamonds he had bought for his bride, and saying to himself:
"I can get Violet another and twice as costly a set; and what I need now is to save time." He called Jason and dispatched him with this casket and his card done up in a neat parcel, and directed to Mrs. Chief Justice Pendletime. So prompt had been his action that the chaperon received this silent bribe before she had spoken to her protegee on the subject of fixing a day for her marriage.
Now the fire of these diamonds threw such a radiant light on the matter that Mrs. Pendletime saw at once, and quite clearly, that February, early in February, was the very best time for the wedding.
She sent for her protegee, and had a talk with her. Now Violet Wood was by nature a simple-hearted, good-humored girl, who loved to be well dressed, well housed, well served, and, above all, to be much petted, especially by such a charming master of the art as was Mr. Fabian. She also loved to oblige her friends.
So she yielded to the arguments of Mrs. Pendletime and consented to be married in February—only not during the first week in February, but about the middle of the month—the fourteenth, say. Saint Valentine's day, the birds' bridal day, would be a very appropriate time for a wood violet to wed.
When Mr. Fabian came to pay his usual visit the next morning, Mrs. Pendletime received him, thanked him profusely for his munificent gift, telling him at the same time that she should certainly never have accepted such a costly present from any one who was not connected or about to be connected with her family. Mr. Fabian bowed deprecatingly and asked if he might be permitted to see Miss Wood. Surely he might, she had only intercepted him to thank him for his gift. Then she told him that he would find Violet alone in the drawing room. He went in, and found the little creature perched upon the music stool, before the open piano, trying a new piece of music. She lighted down like a little bird from a twig and came to meet him. He greeted his betrothed with more warmth of love than a younger man might have ventured upon—but, then, Mr. Fabian was no freshman in the college of love. And Violet, though she did not like to be squeezed so tight and kissed so much, thought it was all right, since he was her first lover and her betrothed husband. She was not sufficiently in love with him to be afraid of him. This was as if one of her school girl friends had hugged and kissed her so much. When they were seated side by side on the sofa, Mr. Fabian told her that immediately after their wedding breakfast they should take the train for New York and thence sail for Liverpool. They should reach London near the beginning of the fashionable season, which is not winter, as with us, but spring.
Violet listened in the rapture of anticipation.
"And at the end of the London season we will make a leisurely tour through England—see the monuments of its great old history; palaces and castles of kings and chieftains who have been dust for ages. Then the homes and haunts of the great poets and painters."
The door opened, and the servant announced a visitor. Mr. Fabian, secure now of his prize, arose and said good morning, leaving Violet to entertain one of her young adorers. Mr. Fabian went home and sought his father in the library, where the old man now passed much of his time.
"Well, my dear sir, it is all settled. With your approbation, we—Miss Violet Wood and myself—will be married on the fourteenth proximo, and leave for Europe immediately afterward," said Mr. Fabian, seating himself.
"That is right. I am glad that you will sail in February. You will thereby escape the winds of March and the tempests of the spring equinox," said the Iron King, sententiously.
"I am very glad you approve," said Mr. Fabian.
Old Aaron Rockharrt nodded in silence.
Fabian looked at him; saw that the old man looked grave, depressed, yet stern and strong as adamant. He felt very sorry for his father. His own present happiness rendered good-natured Mr. Fabian very compassionate toward the lonely old widower. He had something, inspired by this compassion, to suggest to the old man, yet he feared to do so straightforwardly.
"Father," he said at length, for he didn't mind lying the least in the world—"Father, I heard a strange report about you this morning."
"Indeed! What was it? That I had failed in business, or quadrupled my fortune?" inquired the egotist, who was always interested when the question concerned himself.
"Neither, sir. I heard you were going to be married."
"Fabian!" sternly exclaimed the Iron King, darkly gathering his brows.
"Yes, sir," said the benevolent Mr. Fabian, who, now that the ice was broken, could go on lying glibly with the best intentions and without the slightest scruple; "yes, sir; you know such rumors must necessarily get afloat about such a fine-looking, marriageable man as yourself."
"Ah! and since the community have made so free, pray what lady's name have they honored me by associating with mine?" inquired the Iron King somewhat sarcastically, yet not ill-pleased to learn that he was still to be considered a great prize in the matrimonial market.
"Why, of course there could be but one lady in the question; and equally, of course, you will be able to place her," said Mr. Fabian, smiling.
"Upon my soul, I am not."
"Well, then, the lady to whom you are reported to be engaged is the beautiful Mrs. Bloomingfield."
"The beautiful and accomplished Mrs. Bloomingfield, with whom you sat and talked during the whole evening of the governor's State dinner party."
"Oh, the widow of General Bloomingfield, who died three years ago. Yes, I remember her—a very fine creature, most certainly—but I never dreamed of her in the light of a wife. In fact, I never dreamed of marrying again," said the Iron King, speaking with unusual gentleness.
Mr. Fabian laughed in his sleeve. He thought of the soft place in the hard head of the Iron King, a weak part in the strong character of old Aaron Rockharrt—personal vanity.
"With all possible respect and submission, my dear father, I would suggest that if you never thought of marrying again, you should do so now."
"Fabian, I am seventy-seven years old."
"In years, yes; but that is nothing to you. You are not half that age in health, strength, vigor, and activity of mind and body. What man of forty do you know who has anything approaching your energy?"
"None that I know of, indeed, Fabian," said the Iron King, softening into complacency.
"No, none," assented Mr. Fabian. "Men die of old age at almost any time in their lives—at forty, fifty, sixty, seventy—but you in your strength of manhood are likely to reach your hundredth year and to be a hale old man then. Now, and for many years to come, you will not be old at all."
"Yes; I think I have twenty-five or thirty years longer to live."
"And will you live those years in loneliness? Cora will be sure to marry. A young woman like Cora will not wear the willow long, believe me. And when Cora leaves you, what then will you do? You have no other daughter or granddaughter. As for my promised wife, you yourself made it a condition of our marriage that we should have an establishment of our own."
"For the dignity of the house of Rockharrt. Yes, Fabian."
"And when Cora shall have left you, you will be alone—you who require the gentle ministrations of woman more than any man I ever knew."
"Fabian!" exclaimed old Aaron Rockharrt, suddenly and suspiciously, bringing his strong black eyes to bear pointedly upon the face of his son. "What is your motive in wishing me to marry?"
"Heaven bear me witness, sir, that my motive, my only motive, is your own comfort and happiness," said Fabian, and this time he spoke the truth.
"I believe you, Fabian. But this lady with whom the world associates my name is too young for me. She cannot be more than twenty-five," said Old Aaron Rockharrt reflectively.
"Well, sir! What did the sages and prophets recommend to David? A young woman to comfort the king. I am not very well posted in Bible history, but I think that is the story," said Mr. Fabian.