“Did you speak—­of me?”

“Never mentioned your name.  How could I, knowing as I did of the Stillwater episode in your story?”

“And he lives!  Alfred Whyte lives!  Oh, misery, misery, misery!  Evil fate has followed me all the days of my life,” moaned Rose, wringing her hands.

“Now, why should you take on so, because Whyte is living?  Would you have had that fine, vigorous man, in the prime of his life, die for your benefit?”

“But I thought he was dead long ago.”

“You were too ready to believe that, and to console yourself.  He was more faithful to your memory.”

“How do you know?  You said my name was never mentioned between you.”

“Not from him, but from a mutual acquaintance, of whom I asked how it was that Mr. Whyte had never married, I heard that he had grieved for her out of all reason and had ever remained faithful to the memory of his first and only love.  My own inference was, and is, that the report of your death was got up by his friends to break off the connection.”

“And you never told this ‘mutual friend’ that I still lived?”

“How could I, my dear, with my knowledge of your Stillwater affair?  No, no; I was not going to disturb the peace of a good man by telling him that his child-wife of twenty years ago was still living, but lost to him by a fall far worse than death.  No—­I let you remain dead to him.”

“Oh, misery! misery! misery!  I would to Heaven I were dead to everybody! dead, dead indeed!” she cried, wringing her hands in anguish.

“Come, come, don’t be a fool!  You see that you are utterly in my power and must do my will.  Do it, and you will come to no harm; but live and die in a luxurious home.”

CHAPTER XXIII.

SYLVAN’S ORDERS.

While the amiable Mr. Fabian was engaged in soothing the woman whom he was resolved to make his instrument in gaining the whole of his father’s great business bequeathed to him by will, carriage wheels were heard grating on the gravel of the drive leading up to the front door of the house, and a few minutes afterward the master’s knock was answered by the hall waiter, and old Aaron Rockharrt strode into the drawing room.

“I did not know that you had gone out again.  I left you on the library sofa asleep,” said Rose, deferentially, as she sprang up to meet him.

“I was called out on business that don’t concern you.  Ah, Fabian!  How is it that I find you here to-night?” inquired the Iron King, as he threw himself into a chair.

“I brought Cora home from the Banks,” replied the eldest son.

“Ah! how is Mrs. Fabian?”

“Still delicate.  I can scarcely hope that she will be stronger for some weeks yet.”

“When are you going to bring her to call on my wife?” demanded the Iron King, bending his gray brows somewhat angrily and looking suspiciously on his son; for he was not pleased that his daughter-in-law’s visit of ceremony had been so long delayed.