When the governor-elect and his bride entered the Rockharrt town house, they were received by a group of obsequious servants, headed by Jason, the butler, and Jane, the housekeeper, and among whom stood Martha, lady’s maid to the new Mrs. Rothsay.

“Will you come into the drawing room and rest, dear, before going upstairs?” inquired Mr. Rothsay of his bride, as they stood together in the front hall.

“No, thank you.  I will go to my room.  Come, Martha!” said the bride, and she went up stairs, followed by her maid.

Rule stood where she had so hastily left him, in the hall, looking so much at a loss that presently Jason volunteered to say: 

“Shall I show you to your apartment, sir?”

“Yes,” answered Mr. Rothsay.  And he followed the servant up stairs to a large and handsomely furnished bed chamber, having a dressing room attached.

Jason lighted the wax candles on the dressing table and on the mantel piece, and then inquired: 

“Is there anything else I can do for you, sir?”

“No,” replied Mr. Rothsay.

And the servant retired.

Rothsay was alone in the room.  He had never set up a valet; he had always waited on himself.  Now, however, he was again at a loss.  He was covered with railway dust and smoke, yet he saw no conveniences for ablution.

While he stood there, a shout arose in the street outside.  A single voice raised the cheer: 

“Hoo-rah-ah-ah for Rothsay!”

He went to the front window of the room.  The sashes were hoisted, for the night was warm; but the shutters were closed.  He turned the slats a little and looked down on the square below.  It was filled with pedestrians, and every window of every house in sight was illuminated.  When the shouts had died away, he heard voices in the room.  He was himself accidentally concealed by the window curtains.  He looked around and saw his bride emerge from the dressing room, attired in an elegant dinner costume of rich maize-colored satin and black lace, with crocuses in her superb black hair.  She passed through the room without having seen him, and went down stairs followed by her maid.

He saw the door of the dressing room standing open and went into it.  It was no mere closet, but a large, well lighted and convenient apartment, furnished with every possible appurtenance for the toilet.  Here he found his trunk, his valise, his dressing case, all unpacked-his brushes and combs laid out in order, his dinner suit hung over a rack-every requirement of his toilet in complete readiness as if prepared by an experienced valet.  All this he had been accustomed to do, and expected to do, for himself.  Who had served him?  Had Corona and her maid?  Impossible!

He quickly made a refreshing evening toilet and went down stairs, for he was eager to rejoin his bride.  He found her in the drawing room; but scarcely had he seated himself at her side when the door was opened and dinner announced by Jason.

They both arose; he gave her his arm, and they followed the solemn butler to the dining room, which was on the opposite side of the front hall and in the rear of the library.

An elegant tete-a-tete dinner but for the presence of the old butler and one young footman who waited on them.

They did not linger long at table, but soon left it and returned together to the drawing room.

They had scarcely seated themselves when the door bell rang, and in a few moments afterward a card was brought in and handed to Mr. Rothsay, who took it and read: 

A.B.  Crawford.

“Show the judge into the library and say that I will be with him in a few moments,” he said to the servant.

“He is one of the judges of the supreme court of the State, dear, and I must go to him.  I hope he will not keep me long,” said Mr. Rothsay, as he raised the hand of his bride to his lips and then left the room.

With a sigh of intense relief Cora leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes.

People have been known to die suddenly in their chairs.  Why could not she die as she sat there, with her whole head heavy and her whole heart faint, she thought.

She listened-fearfully-for the return of her husband, but he did not come as soon as he had hoped to do; for while she listened the door bell rang again, and another visitor made his appearance, and after a short delay was shown into the library.

Then came another, and still another, and afterward others, until the library must have been half full of callers on the governor-elect.

And presently a large band of musicians halted before the house and began a serenade.  They played and sang “Hail to the Chief,” “Yankee Doodle,” “Hail Columbia,” and other popular or national airs.

Mr. Rothsay and his friends went out to see them and thank them, and then their shouts rent the air as they retired from the scene.

The gentlemen re-entered the house and retired to the library, where they resumed their discussion of official business, until another multitude had gathered before the house and shouts of-

“Hoo-rah-ah ah for Rothsay!” rose to the empyrean.

Neither the governor-elect nor his companions responded in any way to this compliment until loud, disorderly cries for-

“Rothsay!”

“Rothsay!”

“Rothsay!”

constrained them to appear.

The governor-elect was again greeted with thundering cheers.  When silence was restored he made a short, pithy address, which was received with rounds of applause at the close of every paragraph.

When the speech was finished, he bowed and withdrew, and the crowd, with a final cheer, dispersed.

Mr. Rothsay retired once more to the library, accompanied by his friends, to renew their discussion.

Cora, in her restlessness of spirit, arose from her seat and walked several times up and down the floor.

Presently, weary of walking, and attracted by the coolness and darkness of the back drawing room, in which the chandeliers had not been lighted, she passed between the draped blue satin portieres that divided it from the front room and entered the apartment.

The French windows stood open upon a richly stored flower garden, from which the refreshing fragrance of dewy roses, lilies, violets, cape jasmines, and other aromatic plants was wafted by the westerly breeze.

Cora seated herself upon the sofa between the two low French windows, and waited.

Presently she heard the visitors taking leave.

“The committee will wait on you between ten and eleven to-morrow morning,” she heard one gentleman say, as they passed out.

Then several “good nights” were uttered, and the guests all departed, and the door was closed.

Cora heard her husband’s quick, eager step as he hurried into the front drawing room, seeking his wife.

She felt her heart sinking, the high nervous tension of her whole frame relaxing.  She heard the hall clock strike ten.  When the last stroke died away, she heard her husband’s voice calling, softly: 

“Cora, love, wife, where are you?”

She could bear no more.  The overtasked heart gave way.

When, the next instant, the eager bridegroom pushed aside the satin portieres and entered the apartment, with a flood of light from the room in front, he found his bride had thrown herself down on the Persian rug before the sofa in the wildest anguish and despair and in a paroxysm of passionate sobs and tears.

What a sight to meet a newly-made, adoring husband’s eyes on his marriage evening and on the eve of the day of his highest triumph, in love as in ambition!

For one petrified moment he gazed on her, too much amazed to utter a word.

Then suddenly he stooped, raised her as lightly as if she had been a baby, and laid her on the sofa.

“Cora-love-wife!  Oh! what is this?” he cried, bending over her.

She did not answer; she could not, for choking sobs and drowning tears.

He knelt beside her, and took her hand, and bent his face to hers, and murmured: 

“Oh, my love! my wife! what troubles you?”

She wrenched her hand from his, turned her face from him, buried her head in the cushions of the sofa, and gave way to a fresh storm of anguish.

When she repulsed him in this spasmodic manner, he recoiled as a man might do who had received a sudden blow; but he did not rise from his position, but watched beside her sofa, in great distress of mind, patiently waiting for her to speak and explain.

Gradually her tempest of emotion seemed to be raging itself into the rest of exhaustion.  Her sobs and tears grew fainter and fewer; and presently after that she drew out her handkerchief, and raised herself to a sitting position, and began to wipe her wet and tear-stained face and eyes.  Though her tears and sobs had ceased, still her bosom heaved convulsively.

He arose and seated himself beside her, put his arm around her, and drew her beautiful black, curled head upon his faithful breast, and bending his face to hers, entreated her to tell him the cause of her grief.

“What is it, dear one?  Have you had bad news?  A telegram from Rockhold?  Either of the old people had a stroke?  Tell me, dear?”

“Nothing-has-happened,” she answered, giving each word with a gasp.

“Then what troubles you, dear?  Tell me, wife! tell me!  I am your husband!” he whispered, smoothing her black hair, and gazing with infinite tenderness on her troubled face.

“Oh, Rule!  Rule!  Rule!” she moaned, closing her eyes, that could not bear his gaze.

“Tell me, dear,” he murmured, gently, continuing to stroke her hair.

“I am-nervous-Rule,” she breathed.  “I shall get over it-presently.  Give me-a little time,” she gasped.

“Nervous?” He gazed down on her woe-writhen face, with its closed eyes that would not meet his own.  Yes, doubtless she was nervous-very nervous-but she was more than that.  Mere nervousness never blanched a woman’s face, wrung her features or convulsed her form like this.

“Cora, look at me, dear.  There is something I have to say to you.”

She forced herself to lift her eyelids and meet the honest, truthful eyes that looked down into hers.

“Cora,” he said, with a certain grave yet sweet tone of authority, “there is some great burden on your mind, dear-a burden too heavy for you to bear alone.”

“Oh, it is! it is! it is!” she wailed, as if the words had broken from her without her knowledge.

“Then let me share it,” he pleaded.

“Oh, Rule!  Rule!  Rule!” she wailed, dropping her head upon his breast.

“Is your trouble so bitter, dear?  What is it, Cora?  It can be nothing that I may not share and relieve.  Tell me, dear.”

“Oh, Rule, bear with me!  I did not wish to distress you with my folly, my madness.  Do not mind it, Rule.  It will pass away.  Indeed, it will.  I will do my duty by you.  I will be a true wife to you, after all.  Only do not disturb your own righteous spirit about me, do not notice my moods; and give me time.  I shall come all right.  I shall be to you-all that you wish me to be.  But, for the Lord’s love, Rule, give me time!” she pleaded, with voice and eyes so full of woe that the man’s heart sank in his bosom.

He grew pale and withdrew his arm from her neck.  She lifted her head from his breast then and leaned back in the corner of the sofa.  She trembled with fear now, lest she had betrayed her secret, which she had resolved to keep for his own sake.  She looked and waited for his words.  He was very still, pale and grave.  Presently he spoke very gently to the grieving woman.

“Dear, you have said too much and too little.  Tell me all now, Cora.  It is best that you should, dear.”

“Rule! oh, Rule! must I? must I?” she pleaded, wringing her hands.

“Yes, Cora; it is best, dear.”

“Oh, I would have borne anything to have spared you this.  But-I betrayed myself.  Oh, Rule, please try to forget what you have seen and heard.  Bear with me for a little while.  Give me some little time to get over this, and you shall see how truly I will do my duty-how earnestly I will try to make you happy,” she prayed.

“I know, dear-I know you will be a good, dear wife, and a dearly loved and fondly cherished wife.  But begin, dear, by giving me your confidence.  There can be no real union without confidence between husband and wife, my Cora.  Surely, you may trust me, dear,” he said, with serious tenderness.

“Yes; I can trust you.  I will trust you with all, through all, Rule.  You are wise and good.  You will forgive me and help me to do right.”  She spoke so wildly and so excitedly that he laid his hand tenderly, soothingly, on her head, and begged her to be calm and to confide in him without hesitation.

Then she told him all.

What a story for a newly-married husband to hear from his wife on the evening of their wedding day!

He listened in silence, and without moving a muscle of his face or form.  When he had heard all he arose from the sofa, stood up, then reeled to an arm chair near at hand and dropped heavily into it, his huge, stalwart frame as weak from sudden faintness as that of an infant.

“Oh, Rule!  Rule! your anger is just!  It is just!” cried Cora, wringing her hands in despair.

He looked at her in great trouble, but his beautiful eyes expressed only the most painful compassion.  He could not answer her.  He could not trust himself to speak yet.  His breast was heaving, working tumultuously.  His tawny-bearded chin was quivering.  He shut his lips firmly together, and tried to still the convulsion of his frame.

“Oh, Rule, be angry with me, blame me, reproach me, for I am to blame-bitterly, bitterly to blame.  But do not hate me, for I love you, Rule, with a sister’s love.  And forgive me, Rule-not just now, for that would be impossible, perhaps.  But, oh! do forgive me after a while, Rule, for I do repent-oh, I do repent that treason of the heart-that treason against one so worthy of the truest love and honor which woman gives to man.  You will forgive me-after a while-after a-probation?”

She paused and looked wistfully at his grave, pained, patient face.

He could not yet answer her.

“Oh, if you will give me time, Rule, I will-I will banish every thought, every memory of my-my-my season in London, and will devote myself to you with all my heart and soul.  No man ever had, or ever could have, a more devoted wife than I will be to you, if you will only trust me and be happy, Rule.  Oh!” she suddenly burst forth, seeing that he did not reply to her, “you are bitterly angry with me.  You hate me.  You cannot forgive me.  You blame me without mercy.  And you are right.  You are right.”

Now he forced himself to speak, though in a low and broken voice.

“Angry?  With you, Cora?  No, dear, no.”

“You blame me, though.  You must blame me,” she sobbed.

“Blame you?  No, dear.  You have not been to blame,” he faltered, faintly, for he was an almost mortally wounded man.

“Ah! what do you mean?  Why do you speak to me so kindly, so gently?  I could bear your anger, your reproaches, Rule, better than this tenderness, that breaks my heart with shame and remorse!” cried Cora, bursting into a passion of sobs and tears.

He did not come near her to take her in his arms and comfort her as before.  A gulf had opened between them which he felt that he could not pass, but he spoke to her very gently and compassionately.

“Do not grieve so bitterly, dear,” he said.  “Do not accuse yourself so unjustly.  You have done no wrong to me, or to any human being.  You have done nothing but good to me, and to every human being in your reach.  To me you have been more than tongue can tell-my first friend, my muse, my angel, my inspiration to all that is best, greatest, highest in human life-the goal of all my earthly, all my heavenly aspirations.  That I should love you with a pure, single, ardent passion of enthusiasm was natural, was inevitable.  But that you, dear, should mistake your feelings toward me, mistake sisterly affection, womanly sympathy, intellectual appreciation, for that living fire of eternal love which only should unite man and woman, was natural, too, though most unfortunate.  I am not fair to look upon, Cora.  I have no form, no comeliness, that any one should-

He was suddenly interrupted by the girl, who sprang from her seat and sank at his feet, clasped his knees, and dropped her head upon his hands in a tempest of sobs and tears, crying: 

“Oh, Rule!  I never did deserve your love!  I never was worthy of you!  And I long have known it.  But I do love you!  I do love you!  Oh, give me time and opportunity to prove it!” she pleaded, with many tears, saying the same words over and over again, or words with the same meaning.

He laid both his large hands softly on her bowed head and held them there with a soothing, quieting, mesmeric touch, until she had sobbed, and cried, and talked herself into silence, and then he said: 

“No, Cora!  No, dear!  You are good and true to the depths of your soul; but you deceive yourself.  You do not love me.  It is not your fault.  You cannot do so!  You pity, you esteem, you appreciate; and you mistake these sentiments as you mistook sisterly affection for such love as only should sanctify the union of man and woman.”

“But I will, Rule.  I will love you even so!  Give me time!  A little time!  I am your own,” she pleaded.

“No, dear, no.  I am sure that you would do your best, at any cost to yourself.  You would consecrate your life to one whom yet you do not love, because you cannot love.  But the sacrifice is too great, dear-a sacrifice which no woman should ever make for any cause, which no man should ever accept under any circumstances.  You must not immolate yourself on my unworthy shrine, Cora.”

“Oh, Rule!  What do you mean?  You frighten me!  What do you intend to do?” exclaimed Cora, with a new fear in her heart.

“I will tell you later, dear, when we are both quieter.  And, Cora, promise me one thing-for your own sake, dear.”

“I will promise you anything you wish, Rule.  And be glad to do so.  Glad to do anything that will please you,” she earnestly assured him.

“Then promise that whatever may happen, you will never tell any human being what you have told me to-night.”

“I promise this on my honor, Rule.”

“Promise that you will never repeat one word of this interview between us to any living being.”

“I promise this, also, on my honor, Rule.”

“That is all I ask, and it is exacted for your own sake, dear.  The fair name of a woman is so white and pure that the smallest speck can be seen upon it.  And now, dear, it is nearly eleven o’clock.  Will you ring for your maid and go to your room?  I have letters to write-in the library-which, I think, will occupy me the whole night,” he said, as he took her hand and gently raised her to her feet.

At that moment a servant entered, bringing a card.

Mr. Rothsay took it toward the portiere and read it by the light of the chandelier in the front room.

“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.  God bless you, dear.”

And without even a farewell kiss, Rothsay passed out.

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

She rang for her maid and retired to her room, there to pass 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 compassionate 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 harrassing 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 title, but did not set the matter right.  It was of too little importance.

“I was going to explain, Governor, that I was just passing through the city on my way to Norfolk, from which my ship 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 harassing 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 Washington 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 ladyship.  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 pass forever out of her life-pass 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 passing 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 passes.  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 passed so many happy evenings with her, when his official duties as an assemblyman 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!

His wandering gaze fell on the open writing desk, which in his misery he had forgotten to close.  He went to it and shut down the lid.

Then he passed out of the room, took his hat from the rack in the hall, opened the front door, passed out, closed it behind him, and left the house forever.

Outside was pandemonium.  The illuminations in the windows had died down, but the streets were full of revelers, too much exhilarated as yet to retire, even if they had any place to retire to; for on that summer night many visitors to the inauguration chose to stay out in the open air until morning rather than to leave the city and lose the show.

Once again the hum and buzz of many voices was broken by a shrill cry of: 

“Hooray for Rothsay!” which was taken up by the chorus and echoed and re-echoed from one end to the other of the city, and from earth to sky.

Poor Rothsay himself passed out upon the sidewalk, unrecognized in the obscurity.

An empty hack was standing at the corner of the square, a few hundred feet from the house.

To this he went, and spoke to the man on the box: 

“Is this hack engaged?”

“Yes, sah, it is-took by four gents as can’t get no lodgings at none of the hotels, nor yet boarding houses-no, sah.  Dere dey is ober yonder in dat dere s’loon cross de street-yes, sah.  But it don’t keep open, dat s’loon don’t, longer’n twelve o’clock-no, sah.  It’s mos’ dat now, so dey’ll soon call for dis hack-yes, sah!”

Rothsay left the talkative hackman and passed on.

A hand touched him on the arm.

He turned and saw old Scythia, clothed in a long, black cloak of some thin stuff, with its hood drawn over her head.

Rothsay stared.

“Come, Rule!  You have tested woman’s love to-day, and found it fail you; even as I tested man’s faith in the long ago, and found it wrong me!  Come, Rule!  You and I have had enough of falsehood and treachery!  Let us shake the dust of civilization off our shoes!  Come, Rule!”