The idea that his wife should take the liberty of ordering the house to be closed for the night at this unusual hour of the afternoon, without his authority, enraged him:

"Help me off with my ulster," he said.

When the servant had performed this office the master said:

"Serve dinner at once."

And then he strode into the back parlor, which was the usual sitting room of his wife and granddaughter. The room was empty and darkened.

More than ever infuriated by fatigue, hunger, and the supposed disregard of his authority, he came out and walked up stairs to look for his wife in her own room. He pushed open the door and entered. That room was also dark, only for the faint red light that came from the coal fire in the grate. By this he dimly perceived a female form sitting near the bed, and whom he supposed to be his wife.

"Why, in the fiend's name, is the whole house as dark as pitch?" he roughly demanded, as he went to a front window and threw open the shutters, letting in the white light of the snow storm.

"Grandfather!"

It was the voice of Cora that spoke, and there was a something in its tone that struck and almost awed even the Iron King.

He turned abruptly.

Cora had risen from her chair and was now standing by the bed. But on the bed lay a little, still, fair form, with hands folded over its breast, with the eyes shut down forever, and all over the fair, wan, placid face was "the peace of G.o.d which pa.s.seth all understanding."

"What is this?" demanded Old Aaron Rockharrt, as he came up to the bed.

"Look at her. She rests at last. I have been with her twenty years, and this is the first time I have ever seen her rest in peace."

Old Aaron Rockharrt stood like a stone beside the bed, gazing down on the dead.

"She is safe now, never more to be startled, or frightened, or tortured by any one. 'Safe, where the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest,'" continued Cora.

Still Old Aaron stood like a stone beside the bed and gazed down on the dead.

Suddenly, without moving or withdrawing his gaze from where it rested, he asked in a low, gruff tone:

"How did this happen?"

"She fainted in her chair, and died in that faint."

"When? where? from what?"

"Within an hour after you had left us together in the back parlor, with the paper containing the news of my husband's death," answered Cora, speaking in a tone of most unnatural calmness.

"Had that excitement anything to do with her swoon?"

"I do not know."

"Give me the particulars."

"We--or, rather, she--first took up the paper, and without knowing what the news was that you told us to look at, gave it to me, and asked me to read it. I, as soon as I saw what it was--I lost all control over myself. I do not know how I behaved. But she took the paper, to see what it was that had so disturbed me, and then, she, too, became very much agitated; but she tried to console me, tried for a long while to comfort me, standing over my chair, and caressing and talking. At last she left me, and sat down and leaned back in her own chair. I was trying to be quiet, and at last succeeded, and then I arose and went to her, meaning to tell her that I would be calm and not distress her any more. When I looked at her, I found that she had fainted. I rang and sent off for a doctor instantly, and while waiting for him did all that was possible to revive her, but without effect. When the doctor came and examined her condition he p.r.o.nounced her quite dead."

"This must have occurred four or five hours ago. Why was I not sent for?"

"You were sent for immediately. Messengers were dispatched in every direction. But you could nowhere be found. They did not, indeed, know where to look for you."

"Now close the window again, and then go and leave me alone; and do not let any one disturb me on any account," said the old man, who had not once moved from the bedside, or even lifted his gaze from the face of the dead.

"I have telegraphed to North End for Uncle Fabian and Clarence, also to West Point for Sylva.n.u.s. Sylvan cannot reach here before to-morrow, but my uncles will be here this evening. Shall I send you word when they arrive?"

"No. Let no one come to me to-night."

"Shall I send you up anything, grandfather?"

"No, no. If I require anything I will ring for it. Go now, Cora, and leave me to myself."

The girl went away, closing the door behind her. As she descended the stairs she heard the key turned, and knew that her grandfather had so shut out all intruders.

He who had come home hungry and furious as a famished wolf never appeared at the dinner that he had so peremptorily ordered to be served at once, but shut himself up fasting with his dead. If his eyes were now opened to see how much he had made her suffer through his selfishness, cruelty, and despotism all her married life--if his late remorse awoke--if he grieved for her--no one ever knew it. He never gave expression to it.

CHAPTER VIII.

"THE PEACE OF G.o.d WHICH Pa.s.sETH ALL UNDERSTANDING."

In the late dawn of that dark winter day Mr. Clarence came down into the parlor, and found Cora still there, with one gas jet burning low.

"Up so early, my dear child?" he said, as he took her hand and gave her the good morning kiss.

"I have not been in bed," she replied.

"Not in bed all night! That was wrong. How cold your hands are? Go to bed now, dear."

"I cannot. I do not wish to."

"My poor, doubly bereaved child, how much I feel for you!" he said, in a tender tone, and still holding her hand.

"Do not mind me, Uncle Clarence. I do not feel for myself. I am numb. I feel nothing--nothing," she replied.

Mr. Clarence, still holding her hand, led her to a large easy chair, and put her in it.

Then he went and rang the bell.

"Tell the cook to make a strong cup of coffee as quickly as she can, and bring it up here to Mrs. Rothsay," he said to the man who answered the call.

The latter touched his forehead and left the room.

Mr. Clarence had tact enough not to worry his niece with any more words.

He went and opened one of the front windows to look out upon the wintry morning. The ground was covered very deeply with the snow, which was now falling so thickly as to obscure every object.