"Well, if he should be elected—and I really believe he will be, for he is the most popular man in the State—I shall throw no obstacles in the way of your immediate marriage with him. You have been engaged long enough—long enough! We shall set out for home on the first of next month, and so be in full time for the election."
Cora did not reply. She grew pale and cold.
The Iron King looked at his granddaughter, bending his gray brows over keenly penetrating eyes.
"See here, mistress!" he said. "You don't seem to rejoice in this news. What is the matter with you? Have any of these English foplings and lordlings, with more peers in their pedigrees than pennies in their pockets, turned your head? If so, it is time for me to take you home."
Cora did not reply. Only the night before, at the ball given by the Marchioness of Netherby, the Duke of Cumbervale had proposed to her, and had been referred to her grandfather. He was coming that very morning to ask the hand of the supposed heiress of the Iron King. Cora was that very day intending to write to Rule and tell him the whole truth, and ask him to release her from her engagement; and she knew full well that he would have no alternative but to grant her request.
"Why do you not answer me, Corona? What is the matter with you?" again demanded old Aaron Rockharrt.
But at that moment a waiter entered, and laid a card on the table before the old gentleman. He took it up and read:
The Duke of Cumbervale.
"What in the deuce does the young fellow want of me? Show him into the parlor, William, and say that I will be with him in a few minutes."
The waiter left the room to do his errand, and was soon followed by Mr. Rockharrt, who found the young duke pacing rather restlessly up and down the room.