For Woman's Love Part 18

"Show the gentleman to the library, and say that I will be with him in a few minutes," said Rothsay.

"If you please, sir, the lights are out and the library locked. I did not know that it would be wanted again to-night. But I will light up, sir."

"Wax candles? It would take too long. Show the gentleman into this front room," said the governor-elect.

The servant went to do his bidding.

Then Rothsay turned to Cora, saying:

"I must see this man, dear, late as it is! I will bid you good night now. G.o.d bless you, dear."

And without even a farewell kiss, Rothsay pa.s.sed out.

And Cora did not know that he had gone for good.

She rang for her maid and retired to her room, there to pa.s.s a sleepless, anxious, remorseful night.

What would be the result of her confession to her husband? She dared not to conjecture.

He had been gentle, tender, most considerate, and most charitable to her weakness, never speaking of his own wrongs, never reproaching her for inconstancy.

He had said, in effect, that he would come to an understanding with her later, when they both should be stronger.

When would that be? To-morrow?

Scarcely, for the ceremonies of the coming day must occupy every moment of his time.

And what, eventually, would he do?

His words, divinely compa.s.sionate as they had been, had shadowed forth a separation between them. Had he not told her that to be the wife of a husband she could not love would be a sacrifice that no woman should ever make and no man should ever accept? That she should not so offer up her life for him?

What could this mean but a contemplated separation?

So Cora lay sleepless and tortured by these harra.s.sing questions.

When Rule Rothsay entered the front drawing room he found there a young merchant marine captain whom he had known for many years, though not intimately.

"Ah, how do you do, Ross?" he said.

"How do you do, Governor? I must ask pardon for calling so late, but--"

"Not at all. How can I be of use to you?"

"Why, in no way whatever. Don't suppose that every one who calls to see you has an office to seek or an ax to grind. Though, I suppose, most of them have," said the visitor, as he seated himself.

Rothsay dropped into a chair, and forced himself to talk to the young sailor.

"Just in from a voyage, Ross?"

"No; just going out, Governor."

Rothsay smiled at this premature bestowal of the high official t.i.tle, but did not set the matter right. It was of too little importance.

"I was going to explain, Governor, that I was just pa.s.sing through the city on my way to Norfolk, from which my s.h.i.+p is to sail to-morrow. So I had to take the midnight train. But I could not go without trying for a chance to see and shake hands with you and congratulate you."

"You are very kind, Ross. I thank you," said Rothsay, somewhat wearily.

"You're not looking well, Governor. I suppose all this 'fuss and feathers' is about as hara.s.sing as a stormy sea voyage. Well, I will not keep you up long. I should have been here earlier, only I went first to the hotel to inquire for you, and there I learned that you were here in old Rockharrt's house, and had married his granddaughter. Congratulate you again, Governor. Not many men have had such a double triumph as you.

She is a splendidly beautiful woman. I saw her once in Was.h.i.+ngton City, at the President's reception. She was the greatest belle in the place.

That reminds me that I must not keep you away from her ladys.h.i.+p. This is only hail and farewell. Good night. I declare, Rothsay, you look quite worn out. Don't see any other visitor to-night, in case there should be another fool besides myself come to worry you at this hour. Now good-by," said the visitor, rising and offering his hand.

"Good-by, Ross. I wish you a pleasant and prosperous voyage," said Rothsay, rising to shake hands with his visitor.

He followed the young sailor to the hall, and seeing nothing of the porter, he let the visitor out and locked the door after him.

Then he returned to the drawing room. Holding his head between his hands he walked slowly up and down the floor--up and down the floor--up and down--many times.

"This is weakness," he muttered, "to be thinking of myself when I should think only of her and the long life before her, which might be so joyous but for me--but for me! Dear one who, in her tender childhood, pitied the orphan boy, and with patient, painstaking earnestness taught him to read and write, and gave him the first impulse and inspiration to a higher life. And now she would give her life to me. And for all the good she has done me all her days, for all the blessings she has brought me, shall I blight her happiness? Shall I make her this black return? No, no. Better that I should pa.s.s forever out of her life--pa.s.s forever out of sight--forever out of this world--than live to make her suffer. Make her suffer? I? Oh, no! Let fame, life, honors, all go down, so that she is saved--so that she is made happy."

He paused in his walk and listened. All the house was profoundly still--all the household evidently asleep--except her! He felt sure that she was sleepless. Oh, that he could go and comfort her! even as a mother comforts her child; but he could not.

"I suppose many would say," he murmured to himself, "that I owe my first earthly duty to the people who have called me to this high office; that private sorrows and private conscience should yield to the public, and they would be right. Yet with me it is as if death had stepped in and relieved me of official duty to be taken up by my successor just the same--"

He stopped and put his hand to his head, murmuring:

"Is this special pleading? I wonder if I am quite sane?"

Then dropping into a chair he covered his face with his hands and wept aloud.

Does any one charge him with weakness? Think of the tragedy of a whole life compressed in that one crucial hour!

After a little while he grew more composed. The tears had relieved the overladen heart. He arose and recommenced his walk, reflecting with more calmness on the cruel situation.

"I shall right her wrongs in the only possible way in which it can be done, and I shall do no harm to the State. Kennedy will be a better governor than I could have been. He is an older, wiser, more experienced statesman. I am conscious that I have been over-rated by the people who love me. I was elected for my popularity, not for my merit. And now--I am not even the man that I was--my life seems torn out of my bosom. Oh, Cora, Cora! life of my life! But you shall be happy, dear one! free and happy after a little while. Ah! I know your gentle heart. You will weep for the fate of him whom you loved--as a brother. Oh! Heaven! but your tears will come from a pa.s.sing cloud that will leave your future life all clear and bright--not darkened forever by the slavery of a union with one whom you do not--only because you cannot--love."

He walked slowly up and down the floor a few more turns, then glanced at the clock on the mantel piece, and said:

"Time pa.s.ses. I must write my letters."

There was an elegant little writing desk standing in the corner of the room and filled with stationery, mostly for the convenience of the ladies of the family when the Rockharrts occupied their town house.

He went to this, sat down and opened it, laid paper out, and then with his elbow on the desk and his head leaning on the palm of his hand, he fell into deep thought.

At length he began to write rapidly. He soon finished and sealed this letter. Then he wrote a second and a longer one, sealed that also.

One--the first written--he put in the secret drawer of the desk; the other he dropped into his pocket.

Then he took "a long, last, lingering look" around the room. This was the room in which he had first met Cora after long years of separation; where he had pa.s.sed so many happy evenings with her, when his official duties as an a.s.semblyman permitted him to do so; this was the room in which they had plighted their troth to each other, and to which, only six hours before, they had returned--to all appearance--a most happy bride and groom. Ah, Heaven!