Cora, meanwhile, living a secluded and almost solitary life at Rockhold, occupied herself with a labor of love, in writing the life of her late husband, with extracts from his letters, speeches, and newspaper articles. In doing this her soul seemed once more joined to his.
In this manner the year of mourning passed, and the month of January was at hand.
CHAPTER IX.
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.