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diff --git a/old/54134-8.txt b/old/54134-8.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 91a6ffe..0000000 --- a/old/54134-8.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,10565 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Senator's Bride, by Mrs. Alex. McVeigh -Miller - - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - - - - -Title: The Senator's Bride - - -Author: Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller - - - -Release Date: February 8, 2017 [eBook #54134] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 - - -***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SENATOR'S BRIDE*** - - -E-text prepared by Demian Katz and the Online Distributed Proofreading -Team (http://www.pgdp.net) from page images generously made available by -Villanova University Digital Library -(https://digital.library.villanova.edu) - - - -Note: Images of the original pages are available through - Villanova University Digital Library. See - https://digital.library.villanova.edu/Item/vudl:440123# - - -Transcriber's note: - - Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_). - - Text enclosed by equal signs is in bold face (=bold=). - - - - - -No. 20 =10 Cents= - -THE SENATOR'S BRIDE - -[Illustration] - -MRS. ALEX -McVEIGH MILLER - -All Stories Copyrighted -Cannot be had in any -other edition - -EAGLE LIBRARY - -STREET -& SMITH -Publishers, New York - - - - -EAGLE LIBRARY NO. 20 - -A weekly publication devoted to good literature. -By subscription. $5 per year. July 12, 1897 -Entered as second-class matter at N. Y. post-office. - -_An Explosion in Prices!_ -_The Sensation of the Year!_ - -STREET & SMITH'S -EAGLE LIBRARY -OF -12mo. Copyrighted Books. - -RETAIL PRICE, 10 CENTS. - -[Illustration] - - -No. 1 of this series contains 256 pages full size, 12mo. Succeeding -issues are of similar bulk. Paper and printing equal to any 25 cent -book on the market. Handsome and Attractive Cover of different design -for each issue. - -[Illustration] - - -CATALOGUE. - - =16--The Fatal Card. By Haddon Chambers and B. C. Stephenson.= - =15--Doctor Jack. By St. George Rathborne.= - 14--Violet Lisle. By Bertha M. Clay. - 13--The Little Widow. By Julia Edwards. - 12--Edrie's Legacy. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon. - 11--The Gypsy's Daughter. By Bertha M. Clay. - 10--Little Sunshine. By Francis S. Smith. - 9--The Virginia Heiress. By May Agnes Flemming. - 8--Beautiful but Poor. By Julia Edwards. - 7--Two Keys. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon. - 6--The Midnight Marriage. By A. M. Douglas. - 5--The Senator's Favorite. Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller. - 4--For a Woman's Honor. By Bertha M. Clay. - 3--He Loves Me, He Loves Me Not. By Julia Edwards. - 2--Ruby's Reward. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon. - 1--Queen Bess. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon. - -THESE BOOKS CAN BE HAD IN NO OTHER SERIES - - - - -THE SENATOR'S BRIDE. - -by - -Mrs. ALEX. McVEIGH MILLER. - -[Illustration] - - - - - - -NEW YORK: -STREET & SMITH, Publishers, -31 Rose Street. - -Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1887, -BY STREET & SMITH, -In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington, D. C. - - - - -THE SENATOR'S BRIDE. - - - - -CONTENTS - - - CHAPTER I. THE FALL OF A METEOR. - CHAPTER II. TOO LATE. - CHAPTER III. "SWEETHEART, GOOD-BY." - CHAPTER IV. RENUNCIATION - CHAPTER V. WHAT THE WINNER'S HAND THREW BY. - CHAPTER VI. LULU. - CHAPTER VII. "I HATE IT--I HATE HER!" - CHAPTER VIII. "BUT AS FOR HER, SHE STAID AT HOME." - CHAPTER IX. "WHEN A WOMAN WILL, SHE WILL." - CHAPTER X. AT THE CAPITOL. - CHAPTER XI. "IT MAY BE FOR YEARS, AND IT MAY BE FOREVER." - CHAPTER XII. "FATE HAS DONE ITS WORST." - CHAPTER XIII. ON THE OCEAN. - CHAPTER XIV. "IN HIS HEART CONSENTING TO A PRAYER GONE BY." - CHAPTER XV. "HOPE SPRINGS ETERNAL IN THE HUMAN BREAST." - CHAPTER XVI. "SMILING AT GRIEF." - CHAPTER XVII. "TO BE, OR NOT TO BE." - CHAPTER XVIII. "OTHER REFUGE HAVE I NONE." - CHAPTER XIX. A NEW YEAR'S GIFT. - CHAPTER XX. WEDDING CARDS. - CHAPTER XXI. "RUE." - CHAPTER XXII. ON TIPTOE FOR A FLIGHT. - CHAPTER XXIII. IN MEMPHIS. - CHAPTER XXIV. LULU TO HER MOTHER. - CHAPTER XXV. THE PATHOS OF A QUIET LIFE. - CHAPTER XXVI. LULU TO HER MOTHER. - CHAPTER XXVII. "NEARER MY GOD TO THEE." - CHAPTER XXVIII. LULU TO HER MOTHER. - CHAPTER XXIX. LAST WORDS. - CHAPTER XXX. "BABY FINGERS, WAXEN TOUCHES." - CHAPTER XXXI. AT HER FEET. - - - - -CHAPTER I. - -THE FALL OF A METEOR. - - "Once those eyes, full sweet, full shy, - Told a certain thing to mine; - What they told me I put by, - Oh, so careless of the sign. - Such an easy thing to take, - And I did not want it then; - Fool! I wish my heart would break-- - Scorn is hard on hearts of men." - - --JEAN INGELOW. - - -It was 1866, on the evening of a lovely spring day, and my heroine was -gathering flowers in one of the loveliest of the lovely gardens of that -sea-port city, Norfolk, Virginia. - -A lovely garden indeed, with its spacious area, its graveled walks -and fountains, its graceful pavilions, its beautiful flowers, and the -tasteful villa that rose in the midst of this terrestrial paradise -looked very attractive outlined whitely against the dark green of -the lofty grove of trees stretching far into its rear. Built on the -suburbs of the city, in the portion of it known as Ocean View, you -could scarcely have imagined a fairer prospect than that which met the -eyes of the two gentlemen who idly smoked and talked on the wide piazza -fronting the sea. - -The sun was setting in a blue May sky, sinking slowly and sadly beneath -the level of the sea, while far away, just faintly outlined by its -fading beams, glimmered the white sails and tapering spars of an -outward-bound ship. How lonely it looked on that vast ocean in the -fading light, - - "Like the last beam that reddens over one-- - That sinks with those we love below the verge." - -To a poetic mind, the sight suggested many exquisite similitudes, and -Bruce Conway took the cigar from between his lips and mused sadly as -befitted the occasion, till the voice of his companion jarred suddenly -on his dreamy mood. - -"Bruce, my boy, will you favor me with the earthly name of the -white-robed divinity whom I have observed for the last half-hour -flitting about this paradisiacal garden? Since my advent here at noon -to-day, I have not had the pleasure of meeting my amiable hostess, yet -I am persuaded that this youthful creature cannot be your aunt." - -"Smitten at sight--eh, Clendenon?" answered Mr. Conway, with an attempt -at archness. "That, my dear fellow, is my aunt's companion, Miss Grey. -She is coming this way, and I'll introduce you." - -He puffed away indolently at his fragrant cigar, while the young girl -of whom he had spoken came up the broad avenue that led to the piazza -steps, bearing on her arm a dainty basket heaped high with flowers -and trailing vines that overflowed the edges of her basket and clung -lovingly about her white robe. She was, perhaps, seventeen years of -age, and endowed with a rare and peerless loveliness. A Mary of Scots, -a Cleopatra might have walked with that stately, uplifted grace, that -rare, unstudied poetry of motion. Slender, and tall, and lithe, with -her pale gold ringlets and marvelous fairness was combined so much -innocent sweetness that it brought the guest to his feet in involuntary -homage and admiration, while Mr. Conway himself tossed away his cigar, -and, hastening to meet her, took the flowery burden from her arm, and -assisted her up the steps. - -"Miss Grey, allow me to present to you my friend, Captain Clendenon," -he said, in his graceful, off-hand way. - -"Perfectly beautiful, faultily faultless!" murmured the captain to -himself, as he bowed over the delicate hand she shyly offered. - -With quiet grace she accepted the chair he placed for her, and, taking -up a great lapful of flowers, answered a question Mr. Conway asked: - -"Yes, your aunt's headache is better, and she will be down this -evening. These flowers are for the drawing-room. You know how she loves -to see a profusion of flowers about the house through the whole season." - - "'Ah! one rose-- - One rose, but one, by those fair fingers culled, - Were worth a hundred kisses pressed on lips - Less exquisite than thine.'" - -It was like Bruce Conway's graceful impudence to quote those lines, -smiling up into the Hebe-like face of the girl. He was the spoiled -darling of fortune, the handsome idol of the fair sex, as perfect in -his dark, manly beauty as she in her opposite angelic type. Yet she -hesitated, trifling saucily with her flowers, and half denying the rose -he craved. - -"I am chary of giving away roses obtained at the price of so many -thorns," said she, holding up a taper finger with a dark-red scratch -marking a zigzag course over its whiteness. "Gather your roses -yourself, sir." - -"If I might gather those that blossom on your cheeks, I might take the -risk of the thorns," he answered, daringly. - -The roses referred to deepened to vivid crimson, the golden lights -in the pansy-colored eyes sent a fiery gleam along the black-fringed -lashes, as she answered, indignantly: - -"You forget yourself, and presume, sir." - -"I did, indeed, but you know my idle habit of jesting. Pardon me." - -"Willingly, so that the offense is not repeated," she answered, more -gently, as she continued at her task, grouping the flowers into -tasteful bouquets, and ending by a fragrant gift to each gentleman of -a tiny posy for his button-hole, that restored sociability and brought -back the ease that had marked the first of the interview. - -"And to-morrow, Bruce," said the captain, presently, "I shall see -the last of you for years, if not forever. What possesses you to go -wandering off to Europe in this mad fashion?" - -A smothered cry of astonishment caused him to look at Grace Grey. She -was looking straight at Bruce Conway, the rose-bloom dying away from -her cheeks, and the beautiful eyes, eager, questioning, startled, with -a woman's love looking out of them, and a woman's love revealed, alas! -too plainly, in that mute gaze. - -Conway's dark eyes met hers for a moment with answering love in their -dark depths. Only a moment, though, and then they wavered and fell, and -he indifferently answered her mute question: - -"You look surprised, _ma petite_. Well, it is true that I leave here -to-morrow for an extended tour over Europe. I have long thought of it, -and the time has come at last." - -No answer. She could not have spoken if life or death had hung on -a single sentence from those sweet lips, from whence the rose-tint -had faded, leaving them cold and white, and drawn as if in pain. She -gathered up her fragrant burdens and carried them into the house, -leaving a momentary shocked silence behind her. - -Presently the captain spoke, in the calm, assured tone in which we -chide a dear and intimate friend: - -"Bruce, have you been flirting with that pretty, innocent child?" - -Conway fidgeted a little, but he answered nonchalantly enough: - -"Why do you ask? Have you fallen in love with her?" - -"I was not speaking of myself; we will keep to the subject, if you -please. She _loves_ you." His voice grew tender, reverential. - -"Well?" - -That simple monosyllable might have expressed many things. In Bruce -Conway's non-committal tone it meant nothing. - -"You will marry her?" - -"Why, no." - -The words came out with a jerk, as if they must be said, and the sooner -the better. The purple twilight hid his face and expression, yet the -captain persevered: - -"Yet you love her?" - -"Taking your assertion for granted," said Conway, coolly, "is that any -reason why I should marry Miss Grey?" - -"It seems one to me." - -"Very probably; but, _mon ami_, your view on this, as on many other -things, are old-fashioned and absurd, or, at least, behind the times -we live in. Do you happen to know, old fellow, that I have completely -run through my handsome fortune, and that my 'great expectations' as my -aunt's solo heir and favorite are all I have to depend on?" - -"I know it. What then?" - -"'What then?'" boyishly mimicking the sober tone of the older man. -"If I must tell you, Clen, my aunt has positively interdicted me from -making love to her fair companion. I might be courteously polite, -soberly kind--nothing more, on pain of disinheritance and eternal -banishment from my relative's imperious presence." - -"You have disobeyed her." - -"Not I. I have debarred myself from that exquisite pleasure, and kept -strictly to the letter of my aunt's command. I have never told her -I loved her, never addressed her a single word of love, save in the -ideal, poetical quotations to which she can attach no real meaning. -I am not to blame," talking a little savagely; "and I suffer, too. I -must go away. It is madness for me to stay here longer, and cruel to -her. My heart aches for her--she is so fair, so pure, so trusting. I -dare not stay here another day, or I should break through Aunt Conway's -prohibition and tell her all that is in my heart. But once away from -the sight of her maddening beauty, I can forget her, and returning home -some time, take possession of my handsome inheritance, and thank my -lucky stars for the decision I made to-day." - -"Think a moment, dear friend. Is it not just as possible that a day may -come when you shall bitterly regret that decision? When for the sake -of the loving, trusting, friendless child you desert to-day, you would -peril not only your hopes of present fortune and earthly prosperity, -but your aspirations for a brighter world?" - -"Why pursue a useless subject? I have let you have your say out, -and heard you in patience. Now hear me. I do love Grace Grey so -passionately that, having had everything I wanted heretofore in life, -it is a hard struggle to be compelled to resign her. But though I feel -that I am acting almost a villainous part, I cannot incur my aunt's -penalty. Love of ease and luxury is inherent in my nature, and I would -not resign the power of gratifying these propensities for the sake -of any woman's love. Even if I risked all to do the love-in-cottage -romance, what have I left to offer Miss Grey along with my name and -love?" - -"Your broad breast to shield her; your clear brain and strong arms to -toil for her." - -"Mere visionary fancies! I am too indolent to work with head or hands. -My vocation is that of an idler. I shall go to Europe, see all that is -to be seen, shiver foggy London, plunge head and soul into the gay and -giddy circles of dear delightful Paris, return, inherit Aunt Conway's -fortune, marry some heiress of her choosing, and live happy ever after." - -"I doubt it. Good-night." - -"Come back--you are not going? I shall drive you into town after -tea--my aunt expects to see you--Clendenon, I say!" - -He hurried down the walk after the tall, proud form stalking coldly -away, and stopped him with a hand upon his shoulder. - -"Clen, are you angry with me? Don't think of it! You know there are -some subjects on which we never agree. I am sorry I did not hear your -expostulations with more patience. That is saying more than I would say -to any other man living, but I don't forgot that it is for me you wear -that empty sleeve across your breast--that you gave freely to save my -worthless life the strong arm that was worth more than a dozen such men -as I. And are we to separate at last for a woman's sake?" - -It was true. They had shared the same camp-fire, slept under the same -scanty blanket, battled side by side in the far-famed gray uniform, -and when death threatened the one the strong arm of the other had been -raised to shield him. Had it been necessary he would have given his -life as freely as he gave his strong left arm. - -He could not forget in a moment the friendship of years, but he -yielded half-reluctantly to the detaining hand that drew him back to -the house. - -"I confess that I go back with you unwillingly," he said, in his grave, -frank way. "You have shown me a new phase of your character, Bruce, and -I do not in the least admire it. I trust yet to hear you repudiate your -decision as unworthy of yourself as well as unjust to the girl whose -sacred love you have trifled with." - -"Perhaps I may yet," was the hurried reply. "I am so divided between -conflicting emotions that I scarcely know my own mind yet. I may yet -decide as you wish me to do." - -Part of this was said to conciliate his friend, and part of it was -true, for Bruce Conway did not err when he said that he scarcely know -his own mind. The most of his failings and follies, as of a great many -other people, arose from this amiable trait in his character. - -He had not decided when the pleasant social ceremony of the nine -o'clock tea was over, and leaving Captain Clendenon deep in converse -with his stately hostess, he beguiled the younger lady into a walk down -to the sea-shore. There standing, arm in arm, on the pebbly beach, -he almost made up his mind. For she was _so_ beautiful, and he loved -beauty. A love of beauty was inherent in his luxurious nature, and -Grace Grey was the fairest creature he had ever beheld as she lifted -her shy glance to his in the brilliant moonlight, while as yet neither -had spoken a word. - -Why need they have spoken? It needed but that his hand should seek -and hold hers in that lingering clasp that tells the all and all of -love. But the soft breeze went sighing past like a spirit, the eternal -sea surged strangely on, the stars burned, and the moon went under a -transient cloud, while far away in the southern heavens a great red -_meteor_ flamed out and shone brilliantly among the silver stars. Both -saw it at once, and both uttered an affected cry of surprise--affected, -I say, because I do not think anything would have surprised them then, -they were so absorbed in each other, so happy and yet so unhappy, as -they stood together there, their young hearts throbbing "so near and -yet so far." - -She did not dream as she watched that fiery orb of light that her -future hung on its transient beaming. She knew, with a woman's keen -intuition, that he had brought her there to learn her fate. What it -was to be she could not guess. Certainly she did not think that the -man beside her had staked their two futures on the hazard of a meteor, -and that when it paled and faded from the stormy sky he whispered to -himself: "As was my love for her! Burning and comet-like as was that -meteor, it shall fade as soon and leave me free." - -Was it? Did the future prove so? Tenderly--more tenderly than he had -ever done--he lifted the thin white drapery, half falling from her -shoulders, and folded it closely about her. - -"How heavily the dew falls," he said, kindly. "We had better return to -the house." - -Mrs. Conway looked curiously up as the pair came slowly into the -drawing-room, and was content with what her keen glance read in the -faces that wore the light mask of indifferent smiles. - -"Gracie, child," in her most affable way, "don't let our guest leave us -without the rare treat of hearing you sing. Captain Clendenon, will you -turn the music for her?" - -"The attraction of Grace's music, its greatest charm, lies in its -wonderful pathos and expressiveness," condescended the haughty hostess, -as the guest's firm lip softened while listening to the spirit-like -melodies that sobbed and wailed along the piano keys, answering to the -touch of the skillful fingers and the sweet voice. - -At length she selected an old song, and with a single glance at Conway, -sang the first stanza through: - - "Sweetheart, good-by! the fluttering sail - Is set to bear me far from thee; - And soon before the favoring gale - My ship shall bound upon the sea. - Perchance, all desolate and forlorn, - These eyes shall miss thee many a year; - But unforgotten every charm, - Though lost to sight to mem'ry dear!" - -The wounded young heart could sustain itself no longer. She rose -and passed hastily from the room. It was her farewell to her -unworthy lover. When he left home in the early dawn, amid the tearful -lamentations of his adoring aunt, Miss Grey had not arisen from her -feverish slumbers. - - - - -CHAPTER II. - -TOO LATE. - - Ay, I saw her--we have met-- - Married eyes how sweet they be! - Are you happier, Margaret, - Than you might have been with me? - Come, but there is naught to say, - Married eyes with mine have met, - Silence, oh! I had my day! - Margaret! Margaret!--JEAN INGELOW. - - -Mrs. Conway was not wearing the willow for her wandering nephew. On -the contrary, her elegant rooms constantly witnessed merry gatherings, -where mirth and music reigned supreme. She was still a handsome woman, -still a brilliant woman, and the world of society, fashion, and folly -held her as one of its leaders. The delicate state of her health had -improved, she had dispensed with her fair companion, and on a sweet -spring night, just four years from the date of the beginning of this -story, she was giving a splendid ball in honor of the wife of the -distinguished and handsome Senator Winans, of Virginia. - -The elite of Norfolk was gathered there, the house was garnished with -wreaths and garlands of flowers, till the long drawing-rooms opening -into each other looked like fast succeeding vistas of intoxicating -bloom. Music rose voluptuously overall, and the proud hostess moved -among her guests looking handsome as a picture, and young for her -fifty-four years, in the sea-green silk and misty laces that accorded -so well with her dark eyes and hair, and sweetly smiling mouth. - -But under all her brightness and gayety Mrs. Conway carried an uneasy -pang in her proud heart. It was the neglect of her idolized nephew. -She had never had any children of her own, and at the death of her -husband the orphan boy of her only brother crept into her heart, and -held the only place in it that was worth having; for the heart of a -fashionable fine lady, I take it, has little room to spare from the -vanities of dress and fashion; but whatever vacant room there remained -in Mrs. Conway's, it all belonged to her self-exiled nephew, and for -many months no news had come of the traveler. He had roved from one end -of Europe to the other, and wearied of it all, but still talked not of -coming home, and his aunt missed him sadly. He had been unfeignedly -fond of her. He was her nearest living relative, her chosen heir, and -she wanted him home for the few remaining years of her life. But with -the underlying strength of her proud heart she kept those feelings to -herself, and none were the wiser for them. - -And in the midst of the music and dancing a stranger crept to the -door of the anteroom, and looked anxiously in--Bruce Conway. A little -thinner, a little bronzed by travel, a little more grave looking, but -every bit as handsome as the dashing young follow who had gambled with -a meteor for his chance of happiness and--lost. - -Was he looking for his aunt? Twice she passed near enough to have -touched him with her hand, but he smiled and let her pass on, not -dreaming of his near presence. - -At last his eyes encountered what they sought, and, half unconsciously, -he drew nearer, and scanned the peerless vision framed in the door-way -of the conservatory, in the soft but brilliant light of the wax-lights -half-hidden in flowers. - -Was she a creature of this lower earth? He had thought, that spring -four years ago, with Grace Grey at seventeen, leaning on his arm, -looking into his face in the moonlight, that she was more a creature -of heaven than earth. He thought so again to-night, as he looked -at her leaning there under the arch of flowers that framed the -conservatory door. He thought of all the living loveliness, the -sculptured perfection, the radiant beauty that seemed to breathe -on the canvas--all he had seen in his wanderings from shore to -shore--and nothing he could recall was half so glorious as Grace Grey -at twenty-one, in her calm repose, standing quietly looking on at the -scene, seeming herself, to the fascinated eyes that beheld her, like a -young angel strayed away from paradise. - -Mr. Conway slipped around and entered the room by a side door in the -rear of where she stood. At sound of his footstep she turned slowly and -looked at him carelessly, then looking again, threw up one hand. Was -she going to faint? Not she! Her face whitened, her pansy-violet eyes -grew black with intense emotion, but without a tremor she offered the -little cold hand he had dashed away from him so long before. It was as -cold now as it had been then--had it never been warm since, he wondered. - -"Welcome home!" he heard in the remembered music of her voice. - -"Oh, Grace, my darling, my wronged little love!" He knew his own mind -at last, and was down on his knees before she could prevent him, -passionately entreating, "My darling, will you forgive me, and give -yourself to me? I have come home to make reparation for the past. I -never knew how dear you were, how entirely I loved you, till the ocean -rolled between us." - -For a moment the silence of unspeakable emotion fell between them; she -struggled for speech, waving her hand for him to pause, while over her -pure, pale face a flood of indignant crimson warmly drifted. - -"Rise, sir," she answered, at last, in low, proud tones, "such words -are an insult to me!" - -"And why? Oh! Grace, can you not forgive me, can you not love me? You -loved me once, I know. Don't send me away. Promise that I may still -love you, that you will be my worshiped wife!" - -She did not laugh at him, as you or I might have done, my reader. It -was not in the nature of the girl Bruce Conway had scorned for her -low estate to be anything but sweet and merciful. She looked at him, -still faintly flushed and excited, but answered with unconsciously -straightening figure, and a firm but gentle dignity peculiar to her -always: - -"Possibly you are not aware, Mr. Conway, that your words of love are -addressed to one who is already a wife--and mother." - -Mr. Conway had never fainted in his life, but with a feeling that sense -and strength were giving way, he rose, and, dropping into a chair, -white as death, looked at the young creature whose quiet assertion of -matronly dignity had fallen on his ears like a death-warrant. And as -he looked, with that strange power we have of discriminating details -even in the most eventful hours, he noticed many things that went -far to prove the truth of her words. He had left her poor and almost -friendless, her richest dress a simple white muslin, and scarcely -another piece of jewelry than the simple trinket of gold and pearls -that clasped the frill of lace at her white throat. To-night she -wore a sweeping robe of costly white silk, with flouncings of real -lace, that was worth a small fortune in itself. There were diamonds -on the wavering swell of her white bosom, depending from the pearly -ears, scintillating fire from her restless taper wrists, clasping her -statuesque throat like sunshine glowing on snow. She was wealthy, -prosperous, beloved now, he read in the restful peace that crowned her -innocent brow; and bitterest thought of all to the man who had loved -and deserted her--another man called her _his wife_--another man's -child called her mother. - -While she stood with that flush of offended wifely dignity burning -hotly on her pure cheek, while he looked at her with a soul's despair -written on his handsome features, a gentleman entered the room carrying -an ice. He was tall and splendidly handsome, his countenance frank, -and pleasant, but a slight frown contracted his brow as he took in the -scene, and it did not clear away as the lady said, distantly: - -"Mr. Conway, allow me the pleasure of presenting to you my husband, -Senator Winans." - -Both gentlemen bowed ceremoniously, but neither offered the hand. -Mr. Conway hated Winans already, and the gentleman thus honored felt -intuitively that he should hate Conway. So their greeting was of the -briefest. The discomfited traveler turned and walked over to the Hon. -Mrs. Winans. - -"I beg your pardon," he said, in low, earnest tones; "I did not -know--had not heard the least hint of your marriage." - -He was gone the next moment. Senator Winans looked inquiringly at his -beautiful young wife. She did not speak; he fancied she shrank a little -as he looked at her, but as he set down the ice on a small flower-stand -near by, she took up the little golden spoon and let a tiny bit of the -frozen cream melt on her ruby lip, while a faint smile dimpled the -corners of her mouth. - -"My love," he said, lifting the small, white hand, and toying with its -jeweled fingers, "are you ill? Your hand is cold as ice." - -"I never felt better in my life," smiling up into his questioning -eyes, and nestling the small hand still closer in his. "The cold -cream chilled me after dancing so much, or," her natural truthfulness -asserting itself, "I may be a little nervous, and that makes my hands -cold." - -"And what has made you nervous to-night?" his tone unconsciously stern -and his thoughts full of the dark, despairing face that had looked up -from the depths of the arm-chair at his queenly looking wife. - -"Nothing," she answered, dreamily, while a swift flush burned on her -cheek, and she turned away a little petulantly and began to trifle with -the ice again. - -"I beg your pardon, but it was something, and that something was the -man who has just left us. Who and what is he?" - -"Mr. Bruce Conway, nephew and heir of our hostess. He has been abroad -four years, I think, and but just returned." - -"An old acquaintance of yours, then?" - -"Well, yes." - -She turned toward him with marvelous sweetness and self-command. - -"During my stay with Mrs. Conway I was naturally brought frequently in -contact with her nephew. I found him a pleasant acquaintance." - -"Nothing more--was he not a lover?" - -His beautiful dark eyes seemed to burn into her soul, so full were they -of jealous pain and sudden doubt. - -She came up to him, crossing her round white arms over one of his, -looking up at him with an arch, merry smile. - -"I really cannot say, since he never confessed to a tender passion for -me. The difference in our stations precluded anything of the sort. -You must remember that there are few men like you, my loyal love, who -stooped to lift a beggar-maid to share your throne." - -Her eyes were misty and full of unshed tears, partly out of gratitude -and love for him, and partly--she could not help it--because she was -conscious of a sharp, agonized remembrance of a night four years -before, the very thought of which made her turn white and cold as death -as she leaned upon her husband's arm. - -One hand beneath her dimpled chin lifted her face to meet his gaze. She -met it sweetly and frankly, but he knew her well enough to know that -the intense blackness of her dilated eyes denoted deep emotion. - -"Tell me the truth, Gracie," he entreated. "That man looked at you as -no mere acquaintance ever looked at a woman--looked at you as he had no -right to look at the wife of another man! What mystery is this you are -trying to withhold from me? If you refuse to answer what I have a right -to know you force me to seek satisfaction from him." - -He was terribly in earnest. The baleful fire of doubt and jealousy -burned in his eagle gaze, and startled the young creature who read its -language with a vague doubt creeping into her soul. She did not want to -deceive her husband--still less did she want to tell him the truth for -which he asked. - -"Spare me!" she entreated. "There is nothing to tell, my love--nothing -of any consequence, I mean. It would but annoy you to hear it, mortify -me to tell it," and once more the warm blush of insulted matronly pride -tinged the girlish cheek with crimson. - -"For all that I insist upon having an explanation of the scene I -witnessed here after leaving you scarcely a minute before!" - -Unconsciously to himself he shook off the small hands that clasped his -arm in his eager interest and excitement. She did not replace them, -but, folding both her arms across her breast, lifted her pale, earnest -face to his. - -Her answer came low and sweet, though perhaps a trifle impatient, as -though the subject seemed to her scarcely worth this "wordy war." - -"Well, then, Mr. Bruce Conway startled me very much by entering here -quite suddenly and making me an offer of his hand, declaring that he -had learned to love me while abroad. I checked him by telling him that -I was a wife and mother. You heard his apology to me--he did not know -of my marriage. That is all there is to tell." - -He looked at her and half smiled at thought of Conway's discomfiture; -but the passing merriment was displaced in a moment by the sharp pain -tugging at his heart-strings. He had the jealous Southern nature to -perfection. He could not endure even the thought that another had ever -enshrined in his heart the image of Grace, his lovely girl-bride. So -sharp a pang tore his heart that he could not move nor speak. - -"Paul, my husband"--she looked up at him as wondrously fair in his eyes -as she had been in Bruce Conway's, and with a timid grace that was -infinitely becoming to her--"surely you do not blame me. I could not -help it. I am sorry it has happened. I cannot say more." - -It was not in human nature to withstand the mute pleading of her -manner, or the soft gaze that met his own. He stooped and touched his -lips to her pure brow. - -"Let us go, love," he said. "I confess that I shall feel better away -from here and in our pleasant home." - -"But this reception was given for us. Our hostess will feel offended at -so early a departure." - -"I will tell her we were called away--that is, unless you wish to -remain." - -"No, indeed; I would rather be at home with my precious baby; and your -wishes are always mine, Paul." - -How exquisitely she tempered wifely submission and obedience with -gentleness and love! If there was a cross in her life, she wreathed it -over with flowers. Her soothing voice fell like the oil of peace on the -troubled waters of his soul. - -Long after their adieus to their hostess had been spoken, and his arm -had lovingly lifted her into her carriage, Bruce Conway's eyes watched -vacantly the spot where she had vanished from his sight, while that -haggard wanness of despair never left his face. Never until the hour -in which he knew her irrevocably lost to him did he realize how deeply -rooted in his soul his love had been. Amid all the glories of the -old world he had felt that life was a desert without her, and in the -Arabian deserts the knowledge had dawned slowly upon him, that even -here her mere presence would have created a paradise of bliss. Far -away from her, unconsciously to her, he had mentally renounced his -anticipated inheritance, and come home with the fixed intention of -winning her, and toiling, if need be, cheerfully for her. - -Not a thought of disappointment, not a possibility of her marriage -had crossed his mind. It was left to this hour, when he stood there -listening to the slow crunch of her carriage wheels that seemed -grinding over his heart as they rolled away, to know his own heart -truly, and to feel how much better than he knew himself his friend had -known him when he said, on almost the same spot where he now stood -alone: - -"Is it not just as possible that the day may come when for the sake of -the loving, trusting, friendless child you desert to-day, you would -peril not only your hopes of present fortune and future prosperity, but -your aspirations for a brighter world?" - -It had come. Passionate heart, undisciplined temper, unsatisfied -yearnings clamored fiercely for the woman who had loved him as he would -never be loved again. He would have given then, in his wild abandonment -to his love and despair, all his hopes of fortune, his dreams of fame, -his chances of futurity, to have stood for one hour in the place of the -man who, even then in his beautiful home, clasped wife and child in one -embrace to his noble heart, while he thanked God for the treasure of a -pure woman's love. - -A touch on his shoulder, a voice in his ear jarred suddenly on his -wild, semi-savage mood. - -"Be a man, Bruce, old fellow, be a man. It is too late for unavailing -regrets. Call all your manhood to your aid." - -"Clendenon, is it you?" He turned and wrung his friend's hand with a -grip that must have pained him. "Have you come to exult over my misery -with the stereotyped 'I told you so?'" - -"Can you think it of me? Bruce, I have watched you for the last five -minutes, and I understand your feelings. From my soul I pity you!" - -"Don't! Sympathy I cannot bear--even from you, old boy. Clen, how long -has it been--when was she,"--a great gulp--"married?" - -"More than eighteen months ago Senator Winans saw her first at one -of your aunt's receptions, where she was brought forward to perform a -difficult sonata for a musical party. He saw and loved (what man could -see her and not love her?) There was a brief courtship, a brilliant -marriage, under the rejoicing auspices of your aunt, and the beautiful -Hon. Mrs. Winans was the belle of last season in Washington, as her -husband was one of the most notable members of the Senate. She has been -'the fashion' ever since." - -"So she was like all other women, after all," sneered Conway, -in jealous rage. "Sold herself. So much beauty, intellect, and -frivolity--for a brilliant establishment, a proud name, and high -position." - -"I think not. They live very happily, I am told. He is worthy any -woman's love, and has won hers, no doubt. And, Bruce, I don't think -anything could make her worldly or calculating. As much of the angel is -about her as is possible for mortal to possess." - -Conway looked suddenly up into the handsome, inscrutable face of the -speaker. - -"Clen, _mon ami_, if it had to be any one else than me, I wish it had -been you that had married her. You are deserving of any blessing that -can come into a good man's life." - -"Thanks," his friend answered, simply, and moved aside to make way for -Mrs. Conway, who swept out on the piazza and up to the side of her -nephew. Somehow the news of his return had been noised about the rooms, -and she had come to seek him, vexed and mortified that he had not come -to her, but still very happy to know that he was there at all. - -"My dear boy," she said, as she clasped his hand and took the gallant -kiss he offered, "this is, indeed, a joyful surprise. Will you come up -into my boudoir, where we can have a quiet chat to ourselves, before -your many friends claim your attention?" - -Silent and moody he followed her. Once within the quiet seclusion of -her own special apartment, and she turned upon him with a sudden storm -of reproaches. - -"Bruce, what is all this I hear? That gossiping old maid, Miss Lavinia -Story, has spread from one guest to the other a sensational report of -your meeting Mrs. Winans in the conservatory just now, and proposing -to her under the impression that she was still Miss Grey, my late -companion. It can't be true of you; don't say it is, and make me -ashamed of you in the very hour of your return. You could not have been -guilty of such rashness and stupidity. Give me authority to deny it to -our friends." - -"I can't do it." He was always rather laconic in his way of speaking, -and he answered her now in a moody, don't-care, scarcely respectful -sort of style, without even looking at her. "It's all true, every word -of it, and more besides." - -"Bruce, Bruce, what madness!" - -"Was it? Well, I suppose you did not expect as much manliness as that -even from one who had been so ready to sell himself for your gold. -But I could not do it, Aunt Conway. You know well enough that I loved -her. That was why you were so willing I should go away. But I did not -forget her so easily as I thought I would. My love only strengthened -with time until I resolved to resign my claims to your fortune, come -home, win her, and work for her like a man. I came, saw her, forgot all -about the proprieties, and spoke at once. I didn't stop to think why -she wore silk instead of muslin, diamonds instead of flowers. I saw -only her heavenly, sweet face, and blundered straight into--making a -laughing-stock of myself for all your acquaintance!" - -"Exactly!" groaned Mrs. Conway. "Miss Story eavesdropped--she pretends -to have heard it purely accidentally. The old--" - -"News-carrier!" grimly suggested her nephew, finding her at a loss for -a word. - -"You may well say that! She will have it all over Norfolk to-morrow. -Oh! how it mortifies my pride to have anything occur to disgrace me so! -Bruce, I could almost find it in my heart to curse you!" - -"And I you! You are to blame for it all. But for you and your foolish -pride of wealth and position, I might have wooed and won her; but while -I wavered in my shameful vacillation and selfishness, a better and -nobler man has stepped in between us! You are proud to welcome _him_, -proud to do him honor; proud to welcome her in her beauty and grace, -now that you have put her forever out of my reach. But you are well -repaid to-night. Look at my blasted hopes and ruined life, and curse -yourself, your gold, everything that has come between two loving hearts -and sundered them forever!" - -He threw the words at her like a curse, stepped outside the door, and -slammed it heavily after him. - -She saw him no more that night. - - - - -CHAPTER III. - -"SWEETHEART, GOOD-BY." - - "Alas! how light a cause may move - Dissension between hearts that love!" - - -"You may go, Norah," said Grace Winans, looking up from the child on -her breast at the sleepy-eyed nurse. "If I need you again I can ring -the bell;" and, smiling, Norah bowed and withdrew. - -It was almost twelve o'clock, and Grace had exchanged her ball-dress -for a white _neglige_, and sat in the nursery, holding her babe in her -arms, and smiling thoughtfully down at the tiny, winsome face. Mother -and child made a wondrously fair picture in the soft shade of the -wax-lights, that burned with subdued brightness in the dainty, airy, -white-hung room. The girlish mother leaned a little forward as she sat -in the low rocking-chair, her bright curls falling over the loosely -flowing white dress like a golden glory. Her pure, innocent eyes -looked down at the babe that nestled in her arms, and a low murmur of -tenderness escaped her lips. - -"My Birdie! my baby!" - -"Still sitting up, Grace?" - -It was the voice of her husband entering to pay his nightly visit to -the little bright-eyed babe--sole heir of his proud name and wealth. - -"I am not tired," she answered, in her fresh young voice, "and our -little darling is so sweet I cannot bear to lay him down. Only look at -him, Paul!" - - -Paul Winans bent down and clasped mother and child in one fond embrace. - -"My two babes!" he whispered. - -A sunny smile broke over the young wife's face. The pet name pleased -her, for she was still scarcely more than a child in her quick -appreciation of affection, and, like a child, she could scarcely have -understood an affection that did not express itself in tender epithets -and warm caresses. She nestled her bright head against his arm, sighing -softly in the fullness of her content. - -Tender and trustful as a little child, always ready to sacrifice her -own wishes to those of others, only asking to love and be loved, our -pretty Grace made a charming wife and mother. Prosperity had not -spoiled her warm heart nor her clear judgment, and the greatest aim -of her loving life was to please her noble husband in all things--her -highest ambition to be to him always, as she was then, the guiding star -of his life. - - "Some flowers of Eden we still inherit, - But the trail of the serpent is over them all." - -Over this exquisite picture of domestic peace and love broke the -storm-cloud and the tempest. It was but a moment after Paul Winans -kissed his happy wife before the stillness of the midnight hour was -broken by a sound that rose from the street below, and was directly -beneath the window. - -First, a mournful guitar prelude; then a man's voice singing in the -very accents of despair, and he finished the song of which Grace had -sung the first stanza for him four years before: - - "Sweetheart, good-by! One last embrace! - O cruel fate! two souls to sever! - Yet in this heart's most sacred place - Thou, thou alone, shalt dwell forever! - - "And still shall recollection trace - In fancy's mirror, ever near, - Each smile, each tear, that form, that face-- - Though lost to sight, to mem'ry dear!" - -Husband and wife listened in unbroken silence to the strain. The -senator's arm tightened about his wife and child, and she sat mute and -still, every line of her face as moveless as if carved from marble. But -as the lingering notes died away, her hand sought and touched the tiny -blue-and-silver tassel that depended from the bell-cord, and sent its -low tinkle through the house. - -Norah, who always answered the nursery-bell, came in after the lapse of -a moment. To her Mrs. Winans said, in a voice that sounded stern and -cold for her silver-sweet tones: - -"Norah, go to the front door and tell that madman that he had better -move on--that the family do not wish to be disturbed by such nonsense -at this hour of the night." - -The woman withdrew obediently. - -Paul Winans turned, and walked restlessly up and down the room. - -"So he dares come and serenade my wife directly under my window!" - -His dark eyes blazed, his cheeks flamed, and his hand involuntarily -clenched itself. - -Grace looked up at him, still immovably calm and silent; but a slight -nervous movement of her arm showed that she heard and understood. She -looked up questioningly as Norah appeared in the door-way. - -"He was gone, ma'am, before I got down to the door." - -"Very well; you may go, then." - -And, as before, Norah went out, with her small courtesy, and left the -pair alone. - -"Grace!" - -"Well, dear?" - -Her voice had the same sweet cadence as usual, and her smile was as -gentle as ever when she looked up at the princely form before her. His -voice, his look, showed his insulted pride and outraged heart. Her only -trace of emotion showed in marble pallor and darkening eyes. - -"I do not understand this!" his voice slow and intense. "I thought I -had found a pearl so pure and isolated that no other man's eyes had -ever looked on it to covet its beauty for himself. That was my highest -glory. Fame, fortune, pleasure were nothing to me in comparison with my -pride in my wife, and that pride was the greater because a passionately -jealous nature like mine is only satisfied in holding the first place -in the beloved heart. And this I thought I held in yours. To-night I -learn for the first time that long before I ever met you another man -looked on you to love you; perhaps you loved him." - -His voice died away in a throb of passionate pain. He leaned against -the rosewood, lace-draped crib, and looked down at her with their -child in her arms, hoping she would deny it. She did not. Dead silence -fell between them, and her soft eyes never wavered in their frank, -upward look at him. They met his calmly, expectantly, their starry, -inscrutable depths telling no secrets. - -"Grace!" - -"What is it, Paul?" - -"Say something--you are so cold--anything to allay the fire that burns -in my veins. I think I am mad to-night." - -"My dearest, what can I say more than I have already told you? Mr. -Conway proposed to me under a most mortifying mistake. I am not -answerable for a man's infatuation with a fair face. I do not know what -has induced him to make such a demonstration here to-night. Possibly -he is under the influence of wine, and hardly knows the folly he is -perpetrating; possibly we may never see or hear of him after this. Let -us dismiss him from our thoughts." - -Spoken so sweetly, so calmly, so indifferently. Her seeming calmness -subdued and quelled momentarily his stormy feelings, as a strong, -well-balanced mind always curbs a fitful, unquiet one. - -"Then you do not care for him, Grace?" - -She was threading her slim fingers meditatively through the dark curls -that clustered on the brow of her child. She glanced up, her snow-white -cheek flushing a fitful scarlet, her voice and look full of proud -reproach. - -"Paul, you are speaking to the mother of your child." - -That quiet dignity recalled him to a sense of what was due to his wife. -His brow cleared, his voice softened, as he answered: - -"I beg your pardon, Gracie, dearest. I ought to have known your pure -heart better than to insult it by a doubt. Your heart, I know, is mine -now, or you would never have been my wife. I know your pure honor and -truth too well to think otherwise. But oh, my love, my sweet wife, if I -knew--if I knew that your warm, true heart had ever throbbed with one -sigh of love for another, I should, even though it had happened before -I ever saw you, never again know one happy moment. You may think it -is jealous madness--it may be--but it is inherent in my nature, and I -cannot help it. I repeat that I could never, never be happy again." - -No answer. Grace Winans' white arms wreathed themselves around her -baby, pressing it closer, as if to still the sharp pang that struck -home to her very heart. A faint shiver thrilled her, and rising, she -laid the little sleeper in its downy nest, smiling a little sadly as -she looked, but smiling still, for this tiny rosebud was the sweetest -and most wonderful thing that had ever come into her lonely life. -Deeply as she had loved the first object of her young affections, -purely and truly as she loved her gifted husband, the strongest, -deepest, most intense passion of her life was her maternal love. Some -one has written half jestingly that "the depths of a woman's love can -never be sounded till a baby is dropped into her heart," but it is -true of the majority of women. It was especially true of Grace Winans. -That little, rosy, lace-robed slumberer, small as it was, enshrining -a human soul, was the idol of the young mother's life. Perhaps she -was excusable. It was the only thing that had ever loved her purely -and unselfishly. She could scarcely recollect her parents, she could -not recall any one who had ever lavished on her such love as this -child gave her, so devoted, so unreasoning, so absorbing; and deeply, -unselfishly as she loved her husband, she loved his child better, -though no word nor sign ever betrayed the fact to his jealous eyes. She -reached up to him now, and drew him to her side, holding his arm about -her waist with both dimpled white hands. - -"My darling," she whispered, "don't be so unreasonable. You have no -_cause_ to be jealous, none at all. My whole heart is yours--yours and -the baby's. You must have faith in me, Paul--have faith in me, and -trust me as you do your own heart." - -Drawing his moody face down to hers she kissed him with child-like -simplicity. At the persuasive touch of those tender lips his brow -cleared, his listless clasp tightened around her, and both arms held -her strained closely to his breast, his lips raining kisses on her -brow, her cheeks, her lips, even her fair golden hair. - -"Now you are like yourself," the musical voice whispered gladly. -"You will not be jealous and unhappy again. I am yours alone, dear -one--heart, and soul, and body--your own loving, happy little wife." - -The sunshine on her face was tenderly reflected on his. She was so -sweet and winsome, so womanly, yet withal so child-like and oh, _so_ -beautiful! His strange, unusual mood was not proof against the witchery -of her loveliness, her flowing hair, the subtle perfume breathing from -her garments, the tenderness of her words and looks. - -"I don't think another man in the world has such a precious wife!" he -said. - -And though she knew that every man's private opinion regarding his own -wife was the same, she took heart at his words of praise, and laughed -archly. They two were that novel sight "under the sun," a pair of -married lovers. Why need he have gone back to the forbidden subject? -Ah! why have we always "done that which we ought not to have done?" -Because he wanted to make himself miserable, I suppose. There is no -other reason I can assign for his persistence; and, as for that, there -is no reason whatever in a jealous man. "He is simply jealous for he is -jealous," and where Shakespeare could not find a reason for a thing, -how can I? - -"Gracie, may I ask you one question?" - -"You may--certainly." - -"And will you answer it truthfully? - -"If I answer it at all," she gravely made answer, "it must needs be -truthfully, for I could not reply to you otherwise. But why ask a -question at all? I do not care to question you of your past; why should -you question me of mine? Let past and future alone, Paul. The present -only is ours--let us enjoy it." - -And heedless of the warning shadow that fell across her pathetic face, -he persevered: - -"Only tell me this, my precious wife. This Bruce Conway, who went -away to Europe to learn that he loved you, and came back to tell you -so. Gracie, in that past time when you knew him--before you ever knew -me--did you--tell me truly, mind--did you ever love him?" - -The question she had dreaded and shrunk from all the time! She knew it -would come, and now that it had, what could she say? - -How easy it would have been to confess the truth to a less passionate -and jealous mind. It was no sin, not even a fault in her, and she was -not afraid to tell him save with the moral cowardice that makes one -dread the necessary utterance of words that must inflict pain. What -harm was there in that dreamy passion that had cast its glamour over a -few months of her girlhood? It was unkind in him to probe her heart so -deeply. She dared not own the truth to him if its telling were to make -him unhappy! And along with this feeling there was another--the natural -shrinking of a proud woman from laying bare the hidden secrets of her -soul, pure though they be, to mortal sight. A woman does not want to -tell her husband, the man who loves her, and believes her irresistible -to all, that another man has been proof against her charms, that the -first pure waters of love's perennial fountain had gushed at the touch -of another, who let the tide flow on unheeding and uncaring, and a man -has no business to ask it. But where does the line of man's "little -brief authority" cross its boundaries? We have never found out yet. -It is left, perhaps, for some of the fair and curious ones of our sex -who are "strong-minded" in their "day and generation" to solve that -interesting problem. - -So, Gracie, debarred by confession by so many and grave considerations, -in desperation, parried the question. - -"Paul, do you know that I am sleepy and tired, while you are keeping me -up with such idle nonsense? If we must begin at this late day to worry -over our past loves and dreams, suppose you begin first by telling me -how many separate ladies you loved before you ever met me! Come, begin -with the first on the list." - -"It begins and ends with--yourself," he said, gravely and firmly. - -"Like the story of Mrs. Osgood's Evelyn," she rejoined, smiling, and -beginning to hum lightly: - - "It began with--'My Evelyn fairest!' - It ended with--'Evelyn best!' - And epithets fondest and dearest, - Were lavished between on the rest." - -Then breaking off, she says more seriously and softly: - -"Then try to think that is the same with me. Don't worry over such idle -speculations. I am tired and half sick, dear." - -"Gracie, you drive me to desperation. I asked you a simple -question--why do you try to evade it?" - -"Because it is unfair to me. I haven't asked you any such ridiculous -questions. I won't submit to be catechised so, positively, I won't! -Don't be angry, dear. I am sure the slightest reflection on your part -will convince you that I am right. I have partly forgotten the past; -have ignored it anyhow, not caring to look back any further in my -life than the two years in which I have known and loved you. All the -happiness I ever really knew has been showered on me by your lavish -hand. Be content in knowing that and spare me, Paul." - -"I thank you, Grace, for your sweet tribute to me, but I asked you a -question and I am--waiting for your answer." - -"I thought I had answered you plainly enough, Paul. Why will you -persist in making us both unhappy?" - -"Gracie, will you answer or not?" - -"Oh, darling! you have worried me into a nervous chill. I am cold as -ice," and to prove the truth of her words she pressed two icy little -hands upon his cheek, and for the first time in his life he pushed his -fairy away from him. - -"You must not trifle with me, Grace." - -"You still insist on it, Paul?" - -"I still insist on it." - -"At the risk of your own unhappiness?" - -"Yes." - -She looked at him sadly as she leaned across the crib near him, but not -touching him. - -"Paul," she ventured, suddenly, "even supposing that I had loved -another before I ever met you, what difference can that make to you? I -love you truly now." - -"So much difference, my wife, that I think I could never again be -happy if I knew you had ever loved another than myself; but I cannot -bear this suspense. I ask you nothing about other men. I only ask you, -_did_ you ever love Bruce Conway?" - -She could not utter a falsehood; she could not escape his keen, -persistent questioning; she must be frank with him and hope for the -best. That was the only way the poor little heart reasoned then; so -with down-dropped eyes, and a sound in her ears that recalled the -whisper of the ocean in her ears one parting night, she drew a little -farther away from him, and answered, in a hushed, low voice, much like -a chidden child's: - -"_I did._" - -A silence fell between them so hushed that she could hear her own heart -beat. He had put up his hand to his face, and she could not see his -features nor guess what effect her words had on him. - -"Paul," she ventured, almost frightened at the sound of her own voice -in the stillness, "don't think of it any more. I was nothing but a -simple, dreaming child, and it is just as natural for a young girl to -fancy herself in love with the first handsome young man who flatters -her as it is for our baby there in his crib to cut his teeth and have -the measles when he grows older. It seems absurd to make yourself -miserable over so trifling a thing. I didn't like him so very much, -indeed I didn't. I soon learned how unworthy he was of any woman's -love. He is a fickle, wavering, unprincipled man, who never knows his -own mind, unworthy a second thought of yours, my noble husband." - -Unflattering verdict! but a true one. She understood the man who had -trifled with her young heart almost better than he did himself. In that -time when he had wavered so fatally between his pride and his happiness -she had fathomed his very soul with her suddenly awakened perceptions, -and she understood him well. She could look back now and thank Heaven -for what had seemed then a calamity scarcely to be borne. What it had -cost her only Heaven knew, for in her way she was a proud woman, and -never "wore her heart on her sleeve;" but nobody stops to question how -hard a struggle has been so that victory crowns it at last. To the -world it matters little who of its toiling, striving atoms have been -patient pilgrims to - - "That desert shrine - Which sorrow rears in the black realm--Despair!" - -so that they return with palms of victory in their hands and the cross -of honor upon their breasts. And Gracie, too, had fought a battle in -her life and conquered; if it left ineffaceable scars they were hidden -in her heart and left no token upon her fair, inscrutable face. - -He made no reply to her wistful defense. - -She went up to him and touched his hand with hers, still intent on -making peace with this proud, impatient spirit. He only put her very -gently but firmly away from him, and in a moment after turned suddenly -and left the room. She heard him go down to his study, close his door, -and fall heavily into a chair. - -Then her repressed impatience and anger broke out, as she paced back -and forth, like a spirit, in her flowing hair and long white robe. - -"The idiot! the madman! to come back here after all this time, and -throw the shadow of that unhappy love all over my future life! Did he -think that I had no pride? that I would bear coldness, carelessness, -neglect, and be glad to meet him after four years had passed, and say -yes to the question that in all honor he should have asked before he -went? I think I could spurn him with my foot if he knelt before me -again as he did to-night!" - -How she scorned him! How superb she was in her just anger and -resentment! Her changeful eyes darkened and flashed with pride, her lip -curled, her cheek glowed, her light step seemed to spurn the floor. - -"Mamma, mamma!" The soft, frightened voice of her child, waking -suddenly from his rosy sleep, recalled her to herself. In an instant -she was by his side, bending over him, kissing his brow, his lips, his -hands, his hair, in a passion of grieving tenderness. - -"My darling, my comfort, my pretty boy! I am so glad that you _are_ -a boy! You will never know the pains, the penalties, the trials and -crosses of a woman's life. If you were a little girl, and I knew that -if you lived you must bear all that I have borne and must still endure, -I could bear to see you dead rather than live to say, as I have done: -'Mother, why didn't you let me die when I was a little child?'" - -The little clock on the marble mantel chimed out the hour of three in -soft musical notes. She lifted the child in her arms, and, passing into -her sleeping apartment, laid him down on her own bed, for she never -slept without her treasure in her arms. Then, kneeling by his side, she -whispered a brief, agonized petition to Heaven before laying her tired -form down in the snowy nest of linen and lace. - -When the soft summer dawn began to break faintly over the earth, Paul -Winans rose up from his tiresome vigils and stole up stairs with a -noiseless footstep that did not waken her from her exhausted sleep. -Her child nestled close to her heart, and her lips, even in her fitful -slumber, were pressed upon his brow just as she had fallen asleep. The -long curls of her golden hair flowed over both, and wrapped them in a -mantle of sunshine. Her face wore a look of remembered pain and grief -that went to his heart, as kissing both so softly that they did not -stir, he laid a note upon the pillow, and went down the stairs and out -into the street. - - - - -CHAPTER IV. - -RENUNCIATION - - "Am I mad that I should cherish that which bears but bitter fruit? - I will pluck it from my bosom, though my heart be at the root!" - - --TENNYSON. - - -A misty, overcast morning dawned gloomily after the night of Mrs. -Conway's ball. In spite of it the lady rose early. She had not slept -at all, and, nervous and depressed, she roamed over the disordered -house, from which the servants were busily removing the _debris_ of the -evening's entertainment. Every moment she expected to see her nephew -enter, and as the day wore on and he failed to present himself, her -impatience brooked control no longer, and she sent a messenger into -Norfolk to the National Hotel, his usual stopping-place in the city, -to inquire after him. - -The boy's swift horse carried him into the city and back in two hours. -He came into the lady's presence bowing and grinning, the very picture -of a sleek, good-natured, well-fed darkey. - -"Did you see him, John?" - -"Yaas'm, I see him," grinned John, his hands in his pockets -complacently jingling the nickels his young master had just bestowed on -him. - -"You gave him my message? What did he say?" - -"Yaas'm; he say as how"--here John stopped jingling his nickels long -enough to make a low dip of his woolly head, as befitting the proper -deliverance of the message he had--"he will do heself de hon'r ob -takin' tea wid you dis even." - -"Was that all he said?" - -"All he says to you, ma'am--he ast me how come I stay 'long wid ole -mis' all dis time, and not go off like do rest of de little nigs? I -tell him----" - -Here John stopped to chuckle softly at the remembrance. - -"Well, you told him what?" - -"As how old mis' couldn't git 'long 'thout me nohow," and here John -turned and made a hasty exit in obedience to a "Go along, you impudent -little monkey!" from the said "ole mis'." - -He was at the gate that evening, ready to take his master's horse when -he cantered up in the gloom of the overcast sunset. - -"Glad to see you, Marse Bruce. Hopes you've come to stay. De ole place -nuvver seemed like home without you," said the young darkey, who as -a boy had blacked Bruce Conway's boots, run his errands, served as -an escape-valve for all his ill humors, and withal adored him, now -welcoming him home with the hearty affection that was so deeply rooted -in his simple nature. - -Freedom had not spoiled John in the least--possibly because so far as -kind treatment and almost unlimited indulgence went, he had been _free_ -all his life. - -But the young man merely threw him the reins, and with a careless "Take -good care of him, John," walked off in the direction of the house. - -"Humph!" commented the merry little darkey, as he led the horse off -to the stable. "Sulky! I dersay he's come to give the madam fits for -lettin' of his sweetheart git married afore he come back. Serves him -right, though. Why didn't he marry her fust, and take her 'long wid him -to that furrin parts? Poor, pretty little dear! she did look just like -an angel las' night, and they do say Marse Bruce took on some when he -seen her." - -For the servants had all been woefully disappointed when Bruce hurried -off to Europe without the grand wedding that the cook had prophesied -would take place between himself and Miss Grey; and the story of -the last night's _contretemps_ having been duly rumored from parlor -to kitchen, was the all-absorbing subject of comment between cook, -chambermaid, and boy-of-all-work--their sympathies and indignation -being in such a fluctuating state just now that they could hardly -decide who was the most deserving of their sympathy--the young man who, -as they phrased it, had gone off and apparently jilted his sweetheart, -or the young lady whom he had returned to find had really jilted him. - -And the young man who was furnishing food for so much feminine gossip -and conjecture that day, quite heedless of it all, walked on up the -steps and into the stately presence of his expectant aunt. - -She came forward very cordially, concealing any possible annoyance she -felt under an appearance of affection. She began to see that reproaches -and anger were not the way to bring this vacillating, reckless young -fellow to his senses. - -"I trust you are feeling well after your fatigue of last evening," he -pleasantly observed, as they shook hands. - -"No, I cannot say that I am. I have had no sleep, and felt worried and -anxious about you, my dear boy." - -"I am sorry to have caused you any such annoyance," he answered, -repentantly, throwing himself wearily among the cushions of a luxurious -sofa--"very sorry, indeed, Aunt Conway. I am not worth being a source -of anxiety to any one." - -The inflection of sadness and weariness in his tone touched her heart, -and swept away all lingering resentments. She looked at him as he lay -among the bright embroidered cushions, looking so handsome, yet so worn -and hopeless, and her womanly pity found vent in the simple words: - -"My poor boy!" - -"Don't pity me!" he answered, impatiently. "I am not deserving of pity, -and I don't want it. A man must sink very low, indeed, to become the -object of a woman's pity." - -What a strange mood he was in! Accustomed to him as she was, she could -not fathom him this evening. She folded her hands in her lap and -looked at him wistfully. He grew restless under her gaze, shifting his -position so that the light should not strike on his features. - -"You sent for me to give me a scolding, I suppose," he said, with a -short, dry laugh. "I am here to receive it." - -"I did not," she answered. "I sent for you because this is your home, -and I want you to stay with me if you will. It is very lonely here with -no one of my kindred, Bruce, and I am getting to be quite an old woman -now. Why cannot you give me the solace of your company and affection -for my few remaining years?" - -"My affection!" - -No words can do justice to the reckless cynicism of his look and tone. - -"Aunt Conway, I have very little affection to give any one. My heart -seems dead in my bosom. I came home, so full of noble resolves, so full -of hope, that my downfall has almost banished reason from its throne. -And as for my company, I fear I cannot even give you that. I owe it to -myself, to you, more than all to the wife of Senator Winans, to take -myself away from here, where no sight of me can recall my injustice to -her, and my crowning folly of last night." - -"Bruce!" - -"Well?" - -"You shall not talk so--shall not leave me again. Let Mrs. Winans -alone. You have been in banishment three--nay, four years for her -already. You shall not go again. Norfolk is surely large enough for -you two to live in without crossing the path of each other. As for -what happened last night, it is rather mortifying, but it will soon be -forgotten. Stay with me, Bruce; there are plenty of beauties in Norfolk -who will soon teach you to forget Mrs. Winans." - -"Forget her! Is it likely, when the prevailing topic of Norfolk is the -lovely Mrs. Winans, the brilliant Mrs. Winans, the accomplished Mrs. -Winans, with her accomplishments of fashion and folly? It seems quite -the fashion to talk about her now. No, Aunt Conway, you cannot dissuade -me from my purpose. I shall go away from here until I can learn to be -a man. Here I renounce my ill-fated love for her, and pledge myself to -forget her as an honorable man should do." - -His aunt looked at him, her regret and pain mingled with admiration. He -looked so noble, so proud, so manly as he spoke, that for a moment she -felt a pang at the thought of the wrong she had done; for that she had -done wrong she knew full well. She had known of her nephew's passionate -love for Grace Grey and knew that with her he would have found all the -happiness that is vouchsafed to mortals. But for a scruple of worldly -pride and position she had separated them, punishing herself thereby; -for in the long years of his banishment she had felt too truly that she -had, in tearing apart those two loving hearts, bitterly wounded her -own. The repressed longing for her boy, the pain of knowing herself -unloved and uncared for, had been a daily thorn in her heart, a wound - - "No after gladness - Could ever wholly heal." - -For a moment, as she looked at him in his manly beauty and brave -renunciation, a better impulse stirred her heart, and thinking of -the fair young creature who had made such sunlight in this dreary, -splendid home, a vague wish came into her soul that she had let them -have their way, and not so rudely sundered what God had joined together. - -Too late! When we take it upon ourselves to shape the life-destinies of -others we must not expect to undo our work when we find it completed -and unsatisfactory to us. When we see the hearts that our intermeddling -has bruised and torn go from us hungry and empty we must not expect -them to turn to us for the happiness we denied them. - -Oh, fathers and mothers, maneuvering sisters, aunts, and relatives, -when the young birds are mating and building, why cannot you let them -alone? Why cannot you understand that your special experience and -wisdom were given you by God for your guidance alone, and that every -one cannot walk the same chalked-out path, that every thinking, living -mind must choose for itself whether or not it be wisely or well? - -"As we make our beds we lie" has passed into a truth, but is it likely -that any other will make it better for us than we try to do for -ourselves? To be plain, no one has a right to dictate to us the way we -are to walk in life; or, if they have, why has God given to every one -of us thinking, reasoning, yearning minds, capable of knowing what we -want and what we need better than any one can know for us? - -"Bruce," she said, gently, "I have wronged you, you know. It was wrong -of me to tempt you with my gold to desert the girl you loved, and who -loved you. I never felt until this hour how basely I had acted. If I -could undo my work I would. But I trust you may yet find happiness, -and that the memory of all this suffering may pass from your soul as -rain-drops from a rose, leaving it brighter and lovelier after the -storm." - -"Nay," he said, smiling faintly and sadly, "since you have descended to -simile, let me remind you that there are two sides thereto. How often -have I seen in this lovely garden of yours the crushed rose-leaves -covering the ground, rain-beaten, pallid, and torn, as the storm had -passed and left them. So it is most likely to be with me." - -"I trust not. At any rate, Bruce, I ask your forgiveness. It is asking -much, I know, when I reflect that but for me you would have wedded the -girl you loved, and who, through my fault, is irrevocably lost to you. -But you are all I have to love--all I have to love! Don't deny me." - -"I do not," he answered, slowly. "Don't blame yourself entirely Aunt -Conway. Blame my weak, wavering, vacillating will, that made me -hesitate between Grace Grey and the noble inheritance you offered me. -We are about equal, I think. I sold myself--you bought me!" - -Oh, Grace, you are avenged! Deeply as you scorned him your contempt was -not deeper than that which in this hour he felt for himself. - -"I thank you, Bruce, dear boy, that you do not accord me all the blame, -though I feel I fully deserve it. Let us change the subject to one more -pleasant." - -"In one moment, but first I have a confession to make. You may hear it -from others, so I would like you to hear it first from me. You know -that I am truthful, though unstable, and you can believe just what I -say--not all the varnished reports you may hear." - -"Go on," she said anxiously, as he paused. - -"Well, then, I left you last night in a bad state of mind. I was mad, -I think--simply mad--and in Norfolk I took more wine than was good -for me. I swore to myself that I would not give up Grace. I hated her -husband for having won her--I hated the child that calls _her_ mother -and _him_ father--I hated you for separating us, and I swore that as -she had loved me once she should love me again. Under the influence of -this madness I took a guitar and sung under the window of the grand -Winans' mansion a love-song--yes, aunt," laughing a little as she -recoiled in dismay, "I dared to sing a love-song--I dared to serenade -the married belle of society and queen of beauty with a love-song she -had sung for me on the eve of our parting four years ago." - -"Oh, Bruce! what have you done?" - -"Gotten myself into a difficulty, perhaps. The question is, did they -hear me, or were they all asleep? If they heard and know me, I have -undoubtedly provoked the wrath of that haughty Senator who calls her -his own. I propose to extricate myself from this dilemma by leaving the -place as quietly as I returned; not through cowardice, Aunt Conway, I -won't have you think that," his eye flashed proudly, "but because I -have caused her trouble enough already. I'll not stay here to bring -further trouble and comment upon her. I won't have her pure name -dragged through the scandal of an affair of honor. The only thing is to -go away--that is the only reparation I can make, to go away and forget -her, and be myself forgotten." - -There was much that was noble in him yet; much that was high-toned, -chivalric, high-spirited, and tender--all of it, alas, marred by that -vacillating will, that wavering, doubting nature that was so long in -making its mind up, and when made up soon changed it again. - -The tea-bell suspended further converse on the subject. He gave her his -arm in courtly fashion, and they descended to the dining-room, both -too preoccupied to observe the curious kindly black faces that peeped -at them from obscure stations, eager to see the handsome young master -they remembered so well, and to see how he looked "since he'd come back -and found his sweetheart married and gone," as if people wore their -hearts in their faces. Ah, if they did what a gruesome looking crowd -would meet us whithersoever we went. - -Dainty and elegant as was the evening meal, I think Bruce Conway and -his handsome old aunt scarcely did justice to it. Her callous, worldly -heart was stirred as it had not been for years. For Bruce, I think he -might as well have eaten chips for all he enjoyed the spring chicken, -the pickled oysters, the rosy ham, and warmly-browned biscuit, the -golden honey and preserves, the luscious fruits, the fragrant tea -and chocolate. Across the glimmer of flowers, and silver, and dainty -cut-glass, and edibles, a shadowy form sat in the vacant chair at the -opposite side of the table, which had been the wonted place of the -rosy reality. A girl's fair face looked across at him, her white hands -trifled with the silver knife and fork, reached the preserve across -to him, poured the cream into his tea, showed him a dozen kindly -attentions, and once he said, absently, "No, I thank you, Grace," and -looked up into the shiny black face of John, who was changing his -plates for him, and who nearly exploded with repressed laughter, but -said, with mock earnestness, and a pretense of misapprehension: - -"Ole mis' nuvver say Grace afore meals, Marse Bruce, cepen' 'tis when -de minister stays to tea, sir." - -"Leave the room, you young scamp," said Mr. Conway, irascibly, and -John went, nothing loth to indulge himself in a fit of laughter at the -expense of his beloved young "Marse Bruce." But the little incident -served to make Bruce more wide-awake, and rousing himself to realities -the pansy-eyed phantom fled away from Mrs. Conway's well-appointed -table. - -"That boy is a perfect clown," complained the lady; "he's not fit to -wait on the table at all. I shall have to secure a good dining-room -servant." - -Mrs. Conway had said this so often that there was small danger of its -being put into execution. She was attached in a great degree to the -servants around her, all of whom had belonged to her in the days of -slavery, and who when "set free," during the war, had, unlike the -majority of the freedmen who sought new homes, promptly taken service -at extravagant wages from their whilom mistress and owner. John had -grown up to his seventeenth year in the service of his indulgent "ole -miss," and he was fully persuaded of the interesting fact that she -"couldn't do 'thout him, nohow." - -After tea the two repaired to the brightly lighted drawing-room. -The dull damp day rendered the closed shutters rather agreeable -than otherwise, and shut out thus, from the sight of much that -would have pained him, the young man made an effort to entertain -his aunt, narrating many of his adventures abroad, and interesting -an unthought-of listener, who was lazily curled up outside the door -listening to the sprightly converse of the returned traveler. - -"Wonder if all dat _kin_ be true," pondered John, dubiously; "but -course 'tis, if Marse Bruce says so. John Andrew Jackson Johnson, you -ain't fitten to be a Conway nigger if you can't believe what your young -gentleman tells," and thus apostrophizing himself, John relapsed into -silence. Nevertheless, his mouth and eyes during the next hour were -often extended to their utmost capacity, and I fear that if any other -than Bruce Conway had presumed to relate such remarkable things, John -would have been tempted to doubt his veracity. - -A sharp peal of the door-bell compelled him to forego his pleasant -occupation to answer it. He came back with a card on a silver salver. - -"Gentl'man to see Marse Bruce; showed him into libr'y, sir; he wished -to see you 'lone, sir," announced John, with much dignity. - -Mr. Conway took the card, and Mrs. Conway looked over his shoulder. - -"Captain Frank Fontenay, U. S. A.," he read aloud, and Mrs. Conway said: - -"A military gentleman--who is he, Bruce? I don't know him." - -"Nor I," said her nephew, grimly. - -He was white as marble, but his dark eyes never wavered in their firm, -cold glitter. Whatever else he was, Bruce Conway was not a coward. He -gently released himself from his aunt's detaining hand. - -"I will go and see this gentleman," he said. - -"Oh, Bruce!"--she clung to him in a nervous, hysterical tremor--"I feel -as if something dreadful were going to happen. Don't see him at all." - -He smiled at her womanly fears. - -"My dear aunt, don't be hysterical. John, call Mrs. Conway's maid -to attend her. Aunt Conway, there is nothing to alarm you--nothing -at all;" and, putting her back on her sofa, he went out to meet his -unbidden guest. - -The captain was a fine-looking man, of perhaps forty years, blue-eyed, -blonde-haired, and much be-whiskered. He stood very courteously in the -middle of the floor, hat in hand, as Bruce entered the library. - -"Mr. Conway?" he interrogated, smoothly. - -"At your service, sir," said Bruce. - -"Mr. Conway," said the gentleman, with a glittering smile that showed -all his lovely white teeth, "I am the bearer to you of a message from -Senator Winans. My friend, sir, considers himself insulted by you, and -demands such satisfaction as all gentlemen accord each other." - -He placed an open note in Mr. Conway's hand, who silently perused it. - -It was a challenge to fight a duel. - -"Any friend of yours can call on me to-morrow at three to settle the -preliminaries," suggested the blonde captain, placidly smiling up into -Mr. Conway's impassive face, and taking his acceptance for granted. - -"Very well, sir; I will send a friend of mine to you quite punctually -at three to-morrow. Is that satisfactory for the present?" - -"Quite so, sir; very much so, sir," smoothly returned Captain Fontenay, -bowing his quite imposing military presence out. - - - - -CHAPTER V. - -WHAT THE WINNER'S HAND THREW BY. - - "Here are a few of the unpleasant'st words - That ever blotted paper."--SHAKESPEARE. - - "Farewell!--a word that hath been and must be, - A sound that makes us linger--yet, farewell!" - - --BYRON'S CHILDE HAROLD. - - -Grace Winans waked from her troubled sleep with a vague presentiment of -impending evil. She heard the small clock on the mantel chiming seven, -and looked about her half bewildered. - -The shaded taper burned faintly in the room, and the gray morning light -stole dimly through the closed shutters and lace curtains. Her baby lay -on her arm, sleeping sweetly in his warm white nest. She raised her -head a little, only to sink back wearily with a dull, fevered throbbing -in her temples, and a sharp pang of remembrance that forced a low cry -from her lips: - -"Oh, Paul!" - -Where was he? She thought of the study, and with a pang at fancy of his -tiresome vigil, eased the baby lightly off her arm, and tucking him -softly round, donned dressing-gown and slippers, and stole gently down -stairs, rapped slightly at the door, then opened it and entered. - -The light still burned in the room, looking garish and wan in the pale -beams of morning; the easy-chair was drawn near the writing-table, but -vacant. She glanced around her. He was not there, and no trace of him -remained. - -The young wife slowly retraced her steps. - -"He will come presently," she whispered to herself, "but I wonder where -he is;" and as she bent over little Paul, laying her round, white arm -on the pillow, the sharp edge of the note grazed her velvet-like skin. -She looked at it, shrinking, afraid, it seemed, to touch it for the -moment; then, with a terrible effort over herself, her trembling hand -took it up, her shady, violet eyes ran over the contents: - - "Oh Grace!" it read, "you know that I adore you--too well, too well! - for I cannot bear to live with you and know that your heart--the - heart I thought so wholly and entirely mine--has ever held the image - of another! You should have told me of this before we married. You - wronged me bitterly, Gracie, but I will not upbraid you. Still, - until I can learn to curb this jealous passion of mine, I will not, - cannot remain where you are. I should only render you miserable. You - and my boy will remain in my home--remember, I command this--and - you will draw on my banker as usual for what sums you may need or - want. I do not limit you in anything, my wife, my own idolized - wife--please yourself in all things, do as you like, and try to be - content and happy. If I can ever overcome this jealous madness--can - ever reconcile myself to knowing that I was _second_ instead of first - in your pure heart, I will come to you, but not till then. Try to be - happy with our little boy, and forgive your own, erring, unhappy - - "PAUL." - -White and still as marble, the deserted wife sat holding that -mad note in her hand, looking before her into vacancy, moveless, -speechless--yes, and pallid as she would ever be in her coffin. - -A terrible, overwhelming sense of her desolation rushed upon her; -but, strangely enough, her first thoughts were not of her husband in -his jealous grief, but of herself--of the scandal, the disgrace, the -nine-days' wonder that would follow all this. She knew her husband well -enough to know that once his mad resolve was taken it would be adhered -to. - -He was no Bruce Conway, with wavering, doubting will, that could be -blown aside by a passing breeze. Firm, proud, sensitive, but unbending -as adamant, was Paul Winans when once his resolution was taken. No one -knew it better than his wife, though he had ever been kind and loving -to her. - -A dumb horror settled on her soul as she realized the meaning of his -letter. He blamed her as having willfully deceived him. She had not -meant to do so; she had not thought it a matter of any moment to Paul -Winans whether or not she had loved before she met him. Other men would -not have cared--why should he? He had not questioned her, had taken -her past for granted. How could she tell him of that unsought, scorned, -neglected love that had darkly shadowed the joy of her young girlhood? -He was unjust to her. She felt it keenly in the midst of her sufferings. - -Were all men like these two whom she had loved, she questioned herself, -mournfully. Not one of them was worthy of a true woman's love--no, not -one. - -It had come to this--a deserted wife--through no fault of hers was this -tribulation brought on her. She felt that the world had used her hardly -and cruelly. The passion and pride that underlie firm yet sweet natures -like hers, surged up to the surface and buoyed her up above the raging -billows of grief and sorrow. She felt too indignant to weep. She had -almost wept her heart out long ago. She meant to sit still with folded -hands and tranquil heart, and let the cold, harsh world go by heedless -of its pangs, as it was of hers. - -Her husband was using her cruelly in bringing this unmerited disgrace -upon her and her child. She half resolved to flee far away with her boy -where he could never find her in the hour when shame and repentance -should drive him back to her side. It was but for a moment. Then she -remembered the brief sentence in his note that commanded her to remain -in his home, and then her resolution wavered; for when Grace Grey had -taken that solemn oath before God to "love, honor, and _obey_," she had -meant to keep her word. - -Poor child! for hers was a strangely complex nature--a blending of the -child and woman that we often meet in fine, proud feminine natures, and -never wholly understand. - -A hundred conflicting emotions surged madly through her as she sat -there, motionless and pale, until moment after moment went by, and -the overtaxed brain, the overwrought heart gave way, and blessed -unconsciousness stole upon her. With her hands folded loosely in her -lap over that cruel note, a sharp despair shadowed forth in that lovely -face, the stately head fell forward and rested heavily on the pillow -beside the child, whose rosy, unconscious slumber was unbroken, as -though the hovering wings of angels brooded above him and his forsaken -mother. - -Norah found her thus when the cooing voice of the awakened babe -reached her ears in the nursery. His pretty black eyes were sparkling -with glee, his rosy lips prattled baby nothings, his dimpled, white -fingers were twisted in the bright curls of his mother's hair as they -swept luxuriantly over the pillow. - -With all the art of his babyhood he was trying to win a response from -his strangely silent mother. - -She came back to life with a gasping sigh, as Norah dashed a shower of -ice-water into her face, opened her eyes, said, "Don't, Norah, don't!" -and drifted back to the realms of unconsciousness; and so deep was -the swoon that this time all the restoratives of the frightened Norah -failed for a long time of any effect. - -"Looks like she's dead!" muttered the Irishwoman, divided between her -care for the child's mother and the child itself, who began to grow -fretful from inattention and hunger. - -Better for her if she had been, perhaps. There are but few women who -find the world so fair that the grave is not held as a refuge for their -tired souls and bodies. But Grace came back, with a little gasping -sigh, to the life that had never held much attraction for her, and with -a trembling arm drew her baby to her breast. - -"Poor little Paul!" she quavered, "he is hungry and fretful. Go and -get his bath ready, Norah. I can't think how I came to faint. I feel -well enough now, and it is quite unusual to me to lose consciousness so -easily." - -She was herself again. Pride sat regnant on her brow, on her curling -lip, in her quiet eyes. It held her up when the poor heart felt -like breaking. She had learned the lesson long ago--learned it too -thoroughly to forget. - -So the day passed quietly away. She had briefly explained to the -curious servants that their master had been called off by an emergency -that required his absence from home. She did not know at what time he -would return--he did not know himself yet. In the meantime all would go -on in the house as usual. And with this miserable subterfuge, for which -she despised herself, the young wife tried to shield her husband's name -from the sharp arrows of censure. - -Two or three visitors were announced that evening, but she quietly -declined seeing company; and so one of the longest days of her life -wore to its close, as even the longest, dreariest days will, if we only -have patience to wait. - -She was not patient, nor yet impatient. A dull, reckless endurance -upheld her in that and succeeding days of waiting that passed the same. -She heard nothing from her husband. In the excited, unnatural state of -her mind, smarting under the sense of injustice and wrong, it seemed to -her that she did not care to hear. - -She spent her time altogether with her little son, never seeing company -nor going out. When Norah took the child out for his daily airing -and ride through the fresh air, she whiled away the time till his -return by reckless playing on the grand piano or organ, in the elegant -drawing-room. She could not settle herself to reading, sewing, or any -other feminine employment. She filled up the great blank that had come -into her life as best she might with the sublime creations of the old -masters. - -Sometimes the very spirit of mirth and gayety soared in music's melting -strains from the grand piano; sometimes the soul of sadness and despair -wailed along the organ chords, but the fair face kept its changeless, -impassive calm through all, while the white fingers flew obedient to -her will. Sometimes she tried to sing, but the spirit of song was -wanting. She could not even sing to her child, could scarcely speak, -and started sometimes at the hollow echo of her own sweet voice. - -And thus a dreary week passed away. But even this semblance of calm and -repose was destined to be rudely broken. Miss Lavinia Story effected an -entrance one day, being determined not to be kept out any longer by the -stereotyped "not at home;" and with her tenderest smile she took both -hands of Mrs. Winans in hers, and looked with deep solicitude into her -calmly beautiful face. - -"Dear friend, you must forgive me for this intrusion, but I felt that I -must see you, must condole with you in your trying situation. You are -very pale, my dear, looking wretched I may say, but you bear up well, -remarkably well, I think, considering everything." - -Mrs. Winans invited her visitor to a seat with freezing politeness and -hauteur. Then she went back to her place on the music-stool. - -"I was playing when you came in," she remarked, coolly. "If you will -tell me what music you like, Miss Lavinia, I will play for you." - -"Not for the world would I lacerate your feelings so much," sighed the -old maid, putting her lace handkerchief to her eyes to wipe away a tear -that was not there. "What, when all Norfolk is sympathizing with you -in your distress and mortification, and commiserating you, shall I be -heartless enough to beg you to play for me, even though you are bearing -up so sweetly and wonderfully. No, my love, don't exert yourself for -me. I understand your feelings, and only wish to sympathize with -you--not to be a source of annoyance." - -"I beg your pardon, Miss Lavinia"--the soft eyes looked gravely at her, -the fair face keeping its chilling calm, the musical voice its polite -indifference--"I did not know myself so honored by the good people of -Norfolk, and really, I must say their commiseration is wasted in a bad -cause, and I do not know what has given them occasion for its exercise. -When I need sympathizers and 'Job's comforters,' I will seek them. At -present I do not feel their need." - -"Dear me! how high and mighty Mrs. Conway's companion has got to -be," thought Miss Lavinia, spitefully, but she only said: "My dear, -I am glad to see you bear up so well. Your strength of mind is quite -remarkable. Now, had such a thing happened to me I feel sure I should -have been extremely ill from shame and terror. But," with a simper, "I -am such a timid, nervous girl. With your beauty and notoriety you have -no doubt grown accustomed to this kind of thing, and do not mind it. -But my sympathy is truly great for your little boy." - -"Miss Story!"--her hostess whirled around on the music-stool, an -ominous fire blazing under her long dark lashes--"I pass over your -contemptible innuendoes to myself as unworthy my notice, but will -you kindly inform me what you are talking about--that is if you know -yourself, for I assuredly do not." - -What superb anger there was in her look and tone. It was scarcely like -her to be so irritable, but she was not herself this evening. The tamed -leopard, when goaded too hard, sometimes turns on its keeper, and the -gentlest heart has a spark of fire smoldering in its depths that may -be rudely stirred into a destructive flame. Miss Lavinia recoiled -timorously from the fire that blazed in those wondrous dark eyes. - -"I beg your pardon, Mrs. Winans," she answered, smoothly. "I did not -know you were so angry about it, though, of course, you feel irritated -about it, as every right-minded person must feel. I think myself Mr. -Conway has acted unbecomingly. You had a right to change your mind in -his absence if you liked, and it _was_ silly in him to make such ado -about it all, when the best plan was to let it all blow over." - -"Do you mean to insinuate that I was affianced to Mr. Conway during -his absence, and threw him over for a wealthier rival, Miss Story?" -demanded Grace, indignantly. - -"That is what rumor assigns as the cause of the late 'unpleasantness,' -to call it by a mild name," returned the persevering spinster, -carefully taking down mental notes of the conversation to report to her -gossips. - -"Then rumor is, as usual, mistaken. Mr. Conway never has been, never -can be, more than the merest acquaintance to me," answered Mrs. Winans, -briefly and coldly. - -"Indeed! Thank you, my dear friend, for reposing such implicit -confidence in me. I am glad to know the truth of the matter, and to be -able to tell people that you are not the heartless flirt they try to -make you out. Mr. Conway's folly is indeed reprehensible, and he no -doubt deserves all he suffers." - -All he suffers! The pale listener wondered if he suffered half so much -as she did. What was his selfish disappointment to the disgrace, the -trouble, the sorrow he had brought on her and her innocent baby. Her -heart hardened toward him as she listened. - -"Let us drop the subject," she said, proudly. "Mr. Conway is hardly -worth being the protracted subject of our conversation. It were better -had he remained on the other side of the ocean." - -"That's the truth," said Miss Lavinia, briskly. "The foolish fellow. To -come all the way home to be shot down for a woman who never even cared -for him, and a married woman at that." - -"To be shot down did you say, Miss Story? I confess I do not understand -you. Will you explain yourself? You have been talking in enigmas all -this time." - -Mrs. Winans rose from her seat, and taking a step forward, looked at -the incorrigible old gossip, her red lips half apart, her dusk-blue -orbs alight, her whole appearance indicative of eager, repressed -excitement. - -"Why, you seem surprised," said the spinster, maliciously. "Why Mrs. -Winans, didn't you know of the almost fatal termination of the duel? -Ah, that accounts for your calmness and composure. I thought you were -not utterly heartless. I see it all. They have kept the papers from -you." - -"The duel! What duel?" - -"Why, the duel between your husband and Bruce Conway, to be sure," -answered Miss Lavinia, in surprise at Grace's apparent stupidity. - -"Miss Story, do you mean to tell me that there has been a duel between -these two--my husband and Mr. Conway?" - -"Why, certainly there has. Haven't I been talking about it ever since -I came in here? And is it possible that you knew nothing at all of the -affair?" - -"I did not." Very low and sad fell the words from her white lips, and -she leaned one arm on the grand piano to steady her graceful figure. -"Miss Story, my husband--he was unhurt, I trust?" - -"He was not injured at all, and I hear has left the city, but that -unfortunate Mr. Conway fell at the first fire, and is very seriously -wounded, they say. Indeed, I believe the surgeon has small hopes of his -recovery. It's very sad, very shocking. It ought to be a warning to all -young men not to go falling in love with other men's wives." - - - - -CHAPTER VI. - -LULU. - - "There is many a maiden more lovely by far, - With the step of a fawn and the glance of a star; - But heart there was never more tender and true - Than beats in the bosom of darling Lulu." - - --OSGOOD. - - -Go with me, my reader, not many squares distant from that stately -Winans' mansion, to an humbler home--a small brick edifice standing -near to the street, and bearing over a side-door a small sign, with -the name of Willard Clendenon, Attorney-at-law, inscribed thereon in -very handsome gilt letters. But we have no business to transact with -the gallant captain, so we will not even look into his dusty office, -but pass on up the stairs, and without even knocking, enter the -guest-chamber of the house. - -It is a large, airy, prettily appointed chamber, but the shutters are -closely akimboed, the lace curtains are drooped over the windows, and -the quiet air of a sick-room pervades the apartment. On the low, white -bed that occupies the center of the apartment is the recumbent figure -of a man, in whose handsome features, even though his eyes are closed -in a death-like sleep, we recognize Bruce Conway. He looks like marble -as he lies there, his black hair flowing back from his broad, white -brow, his closed eyes encircled with purplish rings, the dark mustache -slightly shading his mouth, only revealing more plainly the deathly -pallor and suffering of the lips. - -Standing by the side of the bed, Captain Clendenon looks down at him -with infinite pity and tenderness in his dark-gray orbs. - -And standing by the captain's side is a little figure that looks -fairy-like by contrast with his manly proportions. She clings to his -arm as he stands there, and her brown head leans lightly against him, -her fair girlish face wearing a look of sadness and pain as she gazes -at the sufferer's sleeping face. - -"Oh, Brother Willie," she whispers, "I am so sorry for him! Oh, it is -so dreadful!" - -And then her red lips quiver like a grieved child's, and two pearly -tears start on her cheeks, and, rolling down, are lost in the ruffles -on the breast of her blue morning-dress. - -Captain Clendenon did not answer. He looked down at the quiet, handsome -face that the surgeon thought might never wake from that death-like -sleep, or if it did, it might only be to take on the deeper sleep of -eternity. He had lain like that all day--it was noon now. - -The duel had taken place a few days before, at a little distance out of -Norfolk. The captain had done everything in his power to prevent the -terrible affair, but in vain; had refused the application of Bruce -that he should become his second, in the hope that he might be enabled -to compromise the affair by prevailing on Bruce to offer Winans an -apology for his untimely serenade. - -Bruce had changed his mind about going away, and chose to feel offended -at the view taken by the captain of the whole affair; so he left him -out of his councils, and the duel came off without the captain's -knowledge or consent. A mere accident had brought the matter to his -knowledge at almost the hour appointed for it, and hurrying off to the -scene of action, he had arrived only in time to see him fall at the -first fire. - -The appointed place was seven miles from Mrs. Conway's residence, -and after the surgeon had dressed the wound and declared its serious -nature, the captain took the right of an old friend to convey him to -his own home in Norfolk, which was nearer, more especially as the -surgeon thought the last lingering hope of recovery would be destroyed -by jolting him over seven miles to his home at Ocean View. - -That was how he came to be lying there in that pleasant chamber, with -Captain Clendenon's pretty sister crying her brown eyes out over him. - -"Poor boy! poor Bruce!" he murmured. "How the bitter consequences of -his wrong-doing has followed him! And now, in all probability, he must -die; yet, after all," thought this loyal heart, "it cannot be so very -hard to die for her." - -The noiseless entrance of his pleasant-faced mother made him look up. -Taking a seat by the bed, she quietly dismissed them from the room. - -"I will watch by him myself," she said, kindly, "and the fewer in the -room the better, you know. Both of you go and rest yourselves." - -They both withdrew with lingering steps, and eyes that seemed loth to -quit that pale sleeper, but quietly obedient to their mother's wishes, -and content in knowing that she would do for him all that lay in human -power. - -But down in the quiet little parlor the brother and sister sat down to -talk it all over. - -"Oh, brother! what did Mrs. Conway say when you told her?" - -"Went off into strong hysterics. The maid had to put her to bed. I sent -the doctor out there as I rode in town." - -"How dreadful! all she had to love, poor, proud old lady; how I pity -her!" and the little maiden's tears flowed afresh from her sympathizing -soul. - -"She may thank herself for the most of it," he answered, half bitterly. -"Why did she tempt his weak mind with her wealth and pride? She knew -better than any one else how wavering a will was his. Why did she -continually thwart all his best impulses?" - -"But, brother, he ought to have had more manliness. But it is too -late to blame him now. I wonder if Mrs. Winans knows--how she feels -about it? Do you know, brother Willie, I would give much to see this -wonderful woman whose beauty has only been for bane. You have seen her. -Is she so very beautiful? What is she like?" - -"Like nothing you ever saw, little Lulu--like some fair saint, or -angel." - -The passion in his heart broke through his words. A faint red flushed -his brown cheek, and his eyes drooped as his sister looked up with -soft, astonished gaze. - -"Why, brother, did you love her, too? - -"That is the first time you have accused me of loving any one but -yourself, little sister," he answered, lightly, parrying the question. - -"Well, tell me this, brother. Did you ever go to see her at all? Did -you like her--did she like you?" - -"I went there sometimes--not often," his glance falling with -unconscious pathos on the empty sleeve that lay between him and any -aspiration toward woman's love. "I liked her very much indeed. She -was very sweet and attractive, very obliging always. She liked me a -little; I suppose, as a mere friend. I never presumed to ask for a -deeper regard. I knew she loved Bruce. I felt, Lulu, it seemed to me -then, in her dark days, every pang that struck home to that trusting -and deceived young heart. I felt sorry for her, and admired her for the -brave yet womanly strength that carried her through that bitter ordeal. -I rejoiced with her when she married a better man than Bruce and seemed -to have forgotten the past." - -The tender brown eyes looked gravely at him as he spoke, reading his -heart with a woman's quick intuition. She put both arms about his neck -and touched her lips to the noble brow over which the brown curls -fell so carelessly. The mute caress told him that she understood and -sympathized in his unspoken grief. The man's heart in him could not -bear it. He rose, putting her kindly and gently aside. - -"Lulu, she has a noble husband; a handsome, generous fellow, a 'man -among men,' but he is marred almost as much by his unreasoning jealousy -as is Bruce by his unstable character. I pity her. She is worthy of -confidence and all respect. It is an honor to any man to have loved her -even though hopelessly." - -"And Senator Winans has left her, they say, Brother Willie?" - -"So rumor says," he answered, meditatively. - -"Why don't you see him, brother, and talk with him, and try to make him -look at things fairly? It seems a pity she should suffer so, through no -fault of hers, too. My heart aches for her in her loneliness." - -He did not answer. He was walking slowly up and down the floor, pausing -now and then to look out of the window which overlooked the Elizabeth -River and the wharves crowded with the shipping of all nationalities. -His sister rose and paced the floor, also, her young heart full of -sympathy for the four people whose life-paths crossed each other so -strangely and sadly. She shuddered and hoped she would never love. -Of the three men who each loved Grace Winans in his own fashion, she -wondered which was the most unhappy; the husband who had stained his -hands in human blood for his selfish passion; Bruce Conway who was -dying for her, or her brother whose heart was silently breaking for -her. The little maiden who was all unversed in the lore of life found -herself bewildered in the maze of metaphysics into which she was -drifting. She sat herself down with a sigh, and thought of the handsome -face lying so deathly white up stairs, and half wishing her mother had -not banished her from the room. - -"Lulu!" - -"Yes, Brother Willie." - -He was looking at her as she looked up at him with a flitting blush -on her round, dimpled face. She was wonderfully pretty, this Lulu -Clendenon, with her arch brown eyes, and pink and white skin, the wavy -brown hair that was gathered in a soft, loosely braided coil at the -back of her small head, and her blue lawn dress, with its frillings, -and flutings, and puffings, was very becoming, setting off the -whiteness of her throat and wrists as no other color ever does for a -pretty woman. - -"Well," she said, as he did not answer her first reply. - -"My little sister, I won't have you tangling your brain up with useless -speculations over things that must happen as long as the world stands -and men and women live, and breathe, and have their being. Don't let me -see that pretty brow all puckered up again. What would mother and I do -if our household fairy became dull, and dreamy, and philosophical." - -"Brother Willie, am I always to be a child?" - -"Always, my sweet? Why how old are you--sixteen?" - -"I am nineteen, brother, and this Mrs. Winans of whom all Norfolk is -raving, who is a wife and mother--she, it is said, is barely more than -twenty." - -"Yes, love; but the loss of parents and friends forced Grace Grey into -premature womanhood and premature responsibilities; she took up the -cross early, but you, dear little one----" - -A low tinkle of the door-bell cut short whatever else he meant to say, -and he answered the summons himself. It was a messenger from Mrs. -Conway to inquire concerning her nephew. He sent back a message that -he still lay sleeping quietly. For the rest of the day the house was -besieged with callers and inquirers from all parts of the city, and -Captain Clendenon found himself kept busy in replying. - -In the midst of it all, in his deep grief and anxiety for his friend's -life, in his pity and sympathy for the exiled duelist, a fair face -brooded over all his thoughts, a pang for a woman's suffering struck -coldly to his heart. To know that she was mourning alone, bowed to -earth in her unmerited sorrow and shame, was the height and depth of -bitterness to the man who loved her tenderly and purely as he did his -own little sister. - -And the spring day wore to its close, and the silence of the balmy -spring night, with its wandering breeze of violets, its mysterious -stare, fell over all things. The string of inquirers from among the -friends of the wounded man thinned out, the surgeon came and went, and -still Bruce Conway lay locked in that strange pallid sleep on whose -waking so many hearts hung with anxiety and dread. - -At ten o'clock the captain admitted John, who had come to seek fresh -tidings for his mistress. His honest black face looked up in vague, -awe-struck grief at the captain's mournful features. - -"Oh, marse cap'en!" he pleaded, "lemme see him, if you please, sir, -once more before he dies!" - -"Be very quiet, then," said the captain, "and it will do no harm for -you to go in." - -The black boy went in with footfalls noiseless as the captain's own. -Lulu and her mother were there, one on each side of the bed, watching -the sleeper with anxious eyes. They looked up at the strange face of -the boy as he paused and gazed at the still, white face on the pillow. -His dark skin seemed to grow ashen white as he looked, his thick, ugly -lip quivered convulsively, and two tears darted from his black eyes -and rolled down upon his breast. He gazed long and mournfully, seeming -to take in every lineament of that beloved face; then, as he turned -reluctantly away, stooped carefully down, and touched his rough lips -tenderly and lightly on the cold, white hand that lay outside of the -coverlid. - -"Twas a hand that never struck me, and was always kind to me," he -murmured, mournfully, as he went out, followed by the injunction -from Mrs. Clendenon to report that Mr. Conway was still in the same -condition--sleeping quietly. - -Lulu looked down at the hand lying so still and lifeless on the -counterpane. A tear-drop that had fallen from the eyes of the poor -black boy lay on it, shining purely as a pearl in the subdued light. -Lulu would not wipe it away. It was a precious drop distilled from the -fountain of unselfish love and sorrow; it seemed to plead mutely to the -girl for the man who lay there so still and pale, unable to speak for -himself. - -"There must have been much good in the poor young man," she thought, -impulsively, "or his servants would not have loved him like that." - -By and by she stole down to her brother, who was still pacing, with -muffled footfalls, the parlor floor. He turned to her, inquiringly. - -"Well?" he queried. - -"No change yet--not the slightest." - -"Probably there will not be until midnight. I trust it will be -favorable, though we have no grounds to expect it. The surgeon fears -internal hemorrhage from that great bullet-wound in the side--it -narrowly escaped the heart. He will be here again to-night before the -crisis comes." - -Once more comes a low, muffled door-bell. Lulu drops into an arm-chair, -shivering, though the night is warm. Willard goes to the door. - -Presently he comes back, ushering in a stranger. She rises up, thinking -as a matter of course that this is the surgeon. - -"My sister, Lulu, Senator Winans," said her brother's quiet tones. - -Lulu nearly dropped to the floor in astonishment and terror. She was -very nervous to-night--so nervous that she actually trembled when he -lightly touched her hand, and she almost pushed his away, thinking, -angrily, that that firm white hand had done Bruce Conway to death. - -He was not so terrible to look at, though, she thought, as with woman's -proverbial curiosity she furtively scanned the tall, fine figure. - -He was very young to fill such a post of honor in his country--he -certainly did not look thirty--and the fine white brow, crowned by -curling, jet-black hair, might have worn a princely crown and honored -it in the wearing. Beautiful, dusk-black eyes, gloomy now as a starless -midnight, looked at her from under slender, arched, black brows. The -nose was perfectly chiseled, of Grecian shape and profile; the mouth -was flexible and expressive--one that might be sweet or stern at will; -the slight, curling mustache did not hide it, though his firm chin was -concealed by the dark beard that rippled luxuriantly over his breast. - -It was a face that breathed power; whose beauty was thoroughly -masculine; that was mobile always; that might be proud, or passionate, -or jealous--never ignoble. Altogether he was a splendidly handsome man. -Lulu could not help acknowledging this to herself--the very handsomest -man she had ever seen in her life. But for all that, after she had -politely offered him a chair, she retreated as far as possible from -his vicinity. Why had he come there in his proud, strong manhood and -beauty, and Bruce Conway lying up stairs like _that_? He did not take -the offered seat, but merely placing one hand on the back of it, looked -from her to her brother. - -"I feel that this is an unwelcome intrusion, Captain Clendenon," he -said, slowly, and in soft, sad tones, that thrilled the girl's heart, -in spite of the anger she felt for him, "but I cannot help it, though -you may not believe me when I tell you that it was so impossible for me -endure the suspense and horror of to-night that I have come here to beg -you for news of the man whom I have almost murdered." - -Black eyes and gray ones met each other without wavering. Soul met -soul, and read each other by the fine touchstone of a fellow-feeling. -Even in his anger for his friend, Willard Clendenon could not withhold -a merited kindly answer. - -"I do believe you," he answered, quietly, "and am glad you came, -though I can tell you nothing satisfactory. The patient has slept all -day--still sleeps---- he will awaken to life or death. We are only -waiting." - -"Waiting!" That word chilled the fiery, impulsive soul of Paul Winans -into a dumb horror. Waiting!--for what! To see his work completed. What -had he done? Taken in cold blood a human life that at this moment, in -his swift remorse and self-accusation, he would have freely given his -own to save; in the height of his jealous madness committed a deed from -which his calmer retrospection revolted in horror. He looked from one -to the other in pale, impotent despair. He had gone his length--the -length of human power and passion--now God's hand held the balance. - -"Then, at least, you will let me wait," he said. "If he dies, I shall -surrender myself up to justice. If he lives, I shall all the sooner -know that I am not a murderer." - -"You shall stay, certainly, and welcome," Willard said, cordially, -touched by the evident suffering of the other. - -"Very well; I will sit here and wait, with thanks. I do not deserve -this kindness." - -Lulu stole from the room, leaving them alone together, and resumed -her place up stairs. The patient slept calmly on, her mother placidly -watching him. Once or twice her brother looked quietly in, and as -quietly withdrew. There was something on his mind that must be spoken. -He turned once and looked at his companion as he sat upright in his -chair, still and pale almost as his victim lay up stairs. - -"Winans," he said, slowly, "we have known each other for a long time, -and I knew your wife long before you ever met her, and knew her but to -reverence her as a pearl among women. Will you pardon me if I confess -to an interest in her that lends me to inquire frankly if you think you -are doing her justice?" - -"Clendenon, I know that I am not. I know that I am unworthy of -her--pure, injured angel that she is--but what can I do? I dare not -remain near her. I should but make her miserable. It maddens me, in -my jealous bitterness, when I remember that young, fair, and sweet as -she was when I first met her, the pure page of her heart had already -been inscribed with the burning legend of a first love. Her first love -lost to me, her second only given to me, I cannot bear! When I can -overcome this fiery passion, and if Bruce Conway lives, I will return -to her--not till then." - -"You are wrong, my friend--bitterly wrong. Think of what she suffers, -of the scandal, the conjecture that your course will create. You should -be her defender, not leave her defenseless to meet the barbed arrows of -caviling society. Return to your injured wife, Winans. Take the candid -advice of one who esteems you both. It is so hard on her. She suffers -deeply, I feel." - -"Clendenon, hush! You madden me, and cannot shake my firm -resolve--would that I had never met her." - -"Possibly she might have been happier," Clendenon says, with sudden -scathing sarcasm, "but I will say no more. It is not my province to -come between man and wife. May God have more mercy on her than you -have!" - -The words pierced that proud heart deeply. The erring, passionate man -arose and looked at the other in his calm, truthful scorn, and burning -words leaped to his lips. - -"Clendenon, you don't know what you are talking of. You blame me for -what I cannot overcome. Do you know where I was born? Under the burning -skies of Louisiana. The hot blood of the fiery South leaps through my -veins, the burning love of the Southern clime pours its flood-tide -through my heart, the passionate jealousy of the far South fires my -soul. I cannot help my nature. I cannot entirely control nor transform -it into a colder, calmer one. Blame me if you will, think me unmanly if -you will, but I have told you the truth. It shall be the study of my -life to bring this madness into subjection. Till then I will not hold -my wife in my arms, will not kiss her dear lips. It is for the best. I -will not frighten her from me forever by showing her how like a madman -I can be under the influence of my master-passion." - -Slowly, slowly the hours wore on until midnight. Mrs. Clendenon fell -into a light doze in the sick-room, but Lulu was still watching that -still form. The shaded lamps burned dimly, the room was full of -shadows, the strange silence and awe that fill a room at an hour like -this brooded solemnly over all things. - -Poor Lulu looked at her mother. The sweet old face, framed in its soft -lace cap, was locked in such gentle repose the girl had not the heart -to awaken her. It grew so lonely she wished her brother would return to -the room. - -Presently she bent forward and looked into Conway's face, and laid her -hand tenderly on his brow; it felt warmer and more natural; he stirred -slightly. Before she could move her hand his white lids unclosed, the -dark eyes looked at her with the calm light of reason in their depths. - -"Gracie, is it you?" he whispered, faintly. - -"Not Gracie--Lulu," she answered. - -"Not Gracie--Lulu?" he slowly murmured after her, and wearily closed -his eyes. - -"I think he will live," said a voice above her. - -She looked up. Her brother and the surgeon had come in so quietly she -had not heard them. She rose from her wearisome vigil and glided softly -down stairs, moved by a divine impulse of pity for the pale watcher -below. - -"I think it is life," she said, simply. - -He sprang up and looked at her, two stars dawning in the dusk eyes, a -glory shining on his darkly handsome face. - -"Thank God!" he cried, "I am not a murderer!" - -And strangely as he had come he was gone. - - - - -CHAPTER VII. - -"I HATE IT--I HATE HER!" - - "When first I saw my favorite child, - I thought my jealous heart would break, - But when the unconscious infant smiled, - I kissed it for its mother's sake." --BYRON. - - -With the rosy dawn of the summer day consciousness returned to Bruce -Conway--a dazed, half-consciousness, though, that only took in part of -the scene, and a memory that only held Grace Winans. He muttered of her -in his distracted slumbers; he waked and asked for her with a piteous -anxiety that went to Lulu's tender heart. - -"Had we better send for her?" she wistfully queried of her brother. - -"No, indeed, little sister; it would only complicate matters. She would -not come; he does not deserve it. Poor boy! I am sorry, but we can do -nothing." - -"Nothing, brother?" - -"To bring her here, I mean. Try to reason with him, Lulu, and talk him -out of this feverish fancy." - -"Grace--Gracie!" came in a whisper from the bed. - -Lulu was by him in an instant. - -"Will not I do as well as Grace?" - -"No." His pallid brow contracted in a vexed frown. "Go away; you are -not Grace." - -"No, but I am Willard's sister. Cannot you like me a little for -his sake, and not worry yourself so much?" she asked, gently and -persuasively. - -"Cannot you get Grace to come--won't you try?" he whispered, in a faint -voice. - -A low tinkle of the door-bell seemed to echo his words. Half raising -his handsome head, he looked at her eagerly. - -"That may be Grace now," he said. "Won't you go and see?" - -"Yes," she answered, gently, though she sighed as she went; "I will go -and see." - -She started in astonishment when she opened the door. Outside was a -pleasant-faced Irishwoman, dressed plainly and neatly, with a pretty -babe in her arms. It was Mrs. Winans' nurse and child. - -Grace had learned from Miss Story where Bruce was, and when Norah went -out to take the little boy for his morning airing, she had directed her -to call and inquire of Captain Clendenon how Mr. Conway was getting on. - -Norah introduced herself and her business briefly and clearly, and Lulu -invited her in and gave her a seat. - -"And this is Mrs. Winans' baby?" she said, taking the beautiful boy -from the nurse's arms and kissing his rosy face. "How lovely he is!" - -Little Paul smiled fearlessly back at her, and something in the dark -flash of his eyes so vividly recalled his father that she thought -suddenly of Bruce Conway waiting up stairs for her. - -"I will bring my brother down to tell you exactly how Mr. Conway is," -she said; and turning away with the little bundle of lace, and cambric, -and laughing babyhood in her arms, she went back to Bruce Conway's room. - -Her brother looked surprised at the strange little visitor. She smiled -and went up to the bedside, holding triumphantly up the tiny baby that, -quite unabashed by the strange scene, jumped, and crowed, and smiled -brilliantly at Bruce. - -"Mrs. Winans did not come, but she sent her representative, Mr. -Conway," she said, thinking it would please him to see the pretty -child. "This is her son." - -"Her son!" Bruce Conway's eyes dwelt a moment on that picture of rosy -health and beauty, and a shudder shook him from head to foot. "Her -child! his child! Take it away from me, Miss Clendenon. I hate it! I -hate her!" - -Lulu recoiled in terror at the sharp, angry tones and the jealous pain -and madness that gleamed in his eyes. She turned away surprised and -frightened at the mischief she had done, and was about to leave the -room. - -"Lulu, let me see the baby," said her brother's voice, as she reached -the door. - -His tones wore strangely moved, and as he came across to her she noted -the faint flush that colored his high forehead. He took it in his arms -and looked long and earnestly at the little face, finding amid its -darker beauty many infantile beauties borrowed from the fair lineaments -of its mother. - -"God bless you, little baby," he said, touching reverent lips to the -innocent brow, with a prayer in his heart for her whose brow was so -mirrored in that of her child that he flushed, then paled, as he kissed -it, thinking of hers that his lips might never press. - -He loved the child for its mother's sake. - -Bruce hated it for its father's sake. - -It was a fair exponent of the character of the two men. - -He gave it quietly back to Lulu, but she, explaining her errand sent -him to tell Norah, with the child in his arms, while she went back to -soothe the irritated invalid. - -"I am sorry," she began, penitently, "I would not have brought the -babe, but I thought, I fancied, that you would like it for its mother's -sake. Forgive me." - -The moody anger in his eyes cleared at sound of her magical, -silver-sweet tones. - -"Forgive _me_," he said, feebly. "I was a brute to speak to a lady -so--but I was not myself. You don't understand a man's feelings in such -a case, Miss Clendenon. Thank you for that forgiving smile." - -He caught up the little hand gently straightening his tumbled pillows, -and with feeble, pallid gallantry, touched it to his lips. A shiver of -bitter-sweet emotion thrilled the young girl as she hastily drew it -away. - -"You must not talk any more," she said, gently, "or brother will scold, -and the surgeon, too. Brother will be back in a minute, so be quiet. -Don't let anything occupy your mind, and try, do, to go to sleep -and rest." - -She put her finger to her lip and nodded archly at him. - -He smiled back, and half-closing his eyes, lay looking at her as she -took a chair at the other end of the room, and busied herself with a -bit of fancy work. - -"How pretty she is," he thought, vaguely, and when he fell into a -fitful slumber, her fair face blent with Grace's in his dreams, and -bewildered him with its bright, enchanting beauty. - - - - -CHAPTER VIII. - -"BUT AS FOR HER, SHE STAID AT HOME." - - To aid thy mind's development, to watch - The dawn of little joys, to sit and see - Almost thy very growth, to view thee catch - Knowledge of objects, wonders yet to see! - To hold thee lightly on a gentle knee, - And print on thy soft cheek a parent's kiss. - - --BYRON'S CHILDE HAROLD. - - -To Bruce Conway the months of slow and tardy convalescence seemed like -dead weights on his impatient, restless soul; to Grace Winans, in her -splendid but strangely silent home, where but few guests were received, -and which she rarely left, time passed as it did to Mariana in the -Moated Grange. But for all that, the summer passed like a painful -dream, and the "melancholy days" had come; "time does not stop for -tears." - -Mrs. Conway had prevailed on Bruce to compromise his intention of going -abroad again by spending the winter with her amid the gayeties of -Washington--the "Paris of America." - -How far a pretty face had influenced him in making this decision -it is impossible to say; but Mrs. Conway, in her gratitude to the -Clendenons for their kindness to her idol, had fairly worried them -into consenting to let Lulu pass the winter with her in the gay -capital city. For Lulu it may be said that no persuasion was needed -to obtain her consent, and how far her fancy for a handsome face had -influenced _her_, we will not undertake to say either. However this -may be, the Washington newspapers duly chronicled for the benefit of -fashionable society the interesting intelligence that the elegant Mr. -Bruce Conway, the hero of the much talked of Norfolk duel, and his -still brilliant aunt, Mrs. Conway--both so well known in Washington -circles--had taken a handsome suite of rooms at Willard's Hotel for the -winter. And the newspapers--which will flatter any woman in society, -be she fair or homely--added the information that Mrs. Conway had one -of the belles of Norfolk for her guest--the lovely Miss C.--concluding -with the stereotyped compliment that her marvelous beauty and varied -accomplishments would create a stir in fashionable society; and thus -was Lulu Clendenon launched on the sea of social dissipation. - -A deep flush of shame and annoyance tinged the girl's dimpled cheeks, -as leaning back in a great sleepy hollow of a chair in their private -parlor, skimming lightly over the "society news," she came upon this -paragraph about a week after their arrival. - -Bruce Conway, lounging idly in an opposite chair, marked that sudden -rose-flush under his half-closed lids, and wondered thereat. - -On her pallid cheek and forehead came a color and a light. - -"As I have seen the rosy red flushing in the Northern night," he -spouted, in his old non-commital fashion of quoting Tennyson to pretty -girls. - -She glanced across at him, her color brightening, "all the spirit -deeply dawning in the dusk of hazel eyes," but she uttered no word. - -"Well, Brownie, what is it?" he queried, giving her the name he often -called her for her nut-brown hair and eyes. - -"This." - -She folded down the paragraph and tossed it across to him, with a -willful pout of her red lips, and watched with solicitude for the -sympathetic indignation she expected to read in his eyes. - -He finished it, and laughed. - -"Umph! Some people wake up and find themselves famous. Well, what is -the matter with that? Is not the notice sufficiently flattering?" - -"It is not that!" She sprang up and began walking excitedly up and down -the floor. "I do not like it--I--it is a shame to drag a young girl's -name before the public that way. It puts a modest girl to the blush. -A 'stir in society,' indeed!" her lip curling, a comical anger in -her brown eyes. "I have a great mind to go home to mamma and Brother -Willie." - -Bruce Conway opened his sleepy eyes in polite amazement at this -home-bred girl, whose pure modesty recoiled from what was so grateful -to the ears of most modern belles. - -"Well, but you are a novelty," he laughed. "In these days of women's -rights, and shoddyism, and toadyism, and all the rest of the isms! -Why, the majority of the belles of society would give their ears for a -notice like that! That is why they court the journalists--assiduously -inviting them to receptions, soirees, and the like. They always -expect a flaming compliment. And new arrivals are always honored by a -flattering notice. The thing is quite _a la mode_." - -"Well, I do not like it. I think it is an abominable fashion," -persisted the little maiden. - -"I agree with you," said Bruce, seriously. "It is 'brushing the -delicate bloom from the grape.' But don't air such opinions in public, -Lulu, or Barnum will be wanting you for one of his curiosities." - -His glance turned from her and roved down the society column--then -he rose, his face a trifle paler, and crossing to the window, read -a paragraph almost directly beneath the one which had incited the -indignant protest of the little Norfolk beauty. - -"And by the way, society will miss its most brilliant jewel from its -setting, in the absence of the youthful and lovely Hon. Mrs. Winans, of -Norfolk. Rumor reports that the fair lady is so devoted to her infant -son that, with the concurrence of the indulgent Senator, she gladly -foregoes the dissipations of fashionable life to watch the budding and -unfolding of his infantile charms." - -And it, this grandiloquent style society, which knew perfectly well all -about the difference between Senator Winans and his lovely wife, was -informed that he did not intend to bring her to Washington during the -ensuing session of Congress. - -Conway ground his firm white teeth. - -"So he dares show the world how he neglects her," crushing the paper -viciously in his hand as though it were Paul Winans himself. "Poor -Gracie--poor wronged and injured girl!" sighing deeply. "Neither Winans -nor I was worthy of her." - -Lulu, who had resumed her seat, looked up wondering at the clouded brow -and unintelligibly muttered words. He smiled, subduing his emotion by a -strong effort of will. - -"You have not told me yet what are your plans for to-day--ah! here -comes my lady aunt. Dear madam, will you kindly designate what are your -plans for to-day, and command your humble servant?" - -Mrs. Conway smiled her brightest smile on her idol. - -"Let me see," glancing at her watch: "only ten o'clock. You can be off -for your morning cigar and stroll on the avenue--when you come back we -will have decided." - -He rose, handsome, smiling, _debonaire_, but desperately ennuied, and -glad, if truth must be told, to get away. Small talk was a bore to -him just then, in his perturbed mood. He picked up Lulu's embroidered -handkerchief that she had carelessly let fall to the floor, and -presenting it with a jaunty "by-by," went his way followed by their -admiring eyes. He was his aunt's acknowledged idol; Lulu's unconscious -one. - -Mrs. Conway plunged at once into the subject of amusements for the day. - -"Let us see--there is Mrs. R's reception at two--we musn't fail them. -You will see the _creme de la creme_ there, my dear. When we get away -we will have a drive over to the little city of Alexandria; at six, -dinner; at eight, the opera; at twelve, you and Bruce shall have an -hour for the German at Mrs. Morton's ball, and then--well, home again." - -"Quite an attractive programme," smiled her companion, from the depths -of the "sleepy hollow." - -Mrs. Conway smiled musingly, as she fixed her dark eyes on the pattern -of autumn-tinted leaves that trailed over the velvet carpet. - -"Yes," she said, with the indifference of one who is used to it -all, "it is last season over again; it is all very charming to one -unaccustomed to the round. Poor Gracie was here last winter--these, by -the by, were her rooms then, the handsomest suite in the hotel--we went -everywhere together. She enjoyed it all so much." - -A look of interest warmed the listless gaze of Lulu. The pet curiosity -of her soul was Grace Winans, heightened, perhaps, by an indefinable -jealousy that went far back into the past, when Grace Grey's -violet-pansy eyes had been the stars of Bruce Conway's adoration. She -said, regretfully: - -"Is it not a wonder that I have never seen Mrs. Winans? And there is no -one I would like so much to see. Is she so very beautiful?" - -"'Perfectly beautiful, faultily faultless,'" was Mrs. Conway's warmly -accorded praise, "and as lovely in mind as in person. She inherits both -qualities, I believe, from her mother, who was, I have heard, the most -amiable and beautiful woman in Memphis to the day of her death." - -"Ah! Is Mrs. Winans not a Virginian, then?" - -"No, only by adoption. Her father was a slave-holder before the -war--one of the out and out aristocrats of Memphis. He was a colonel -in the Confederate army, and killed at the head of his regiment during -the first of the war. He was a very noble young fellow, I believe, and -devoted to his wife and little daughter. The wife died broken-hearted -at his loss, and left this little Grace to the care of relatives, who -placed her in a boarding-school, where she remained until the close of -the war freed the slaves her father left her, and she was penniless. I -advertised about this time for a companion; she answered, and I engaged -her. She has been in Virginia ever since. She was just sixteen when she -came to me--a charming child--she is about twenty-one now." - -A tender throb of sympathy stirred Lulu's heart as she listened. -Brought up in the warm fold of a mother's love, caressed, petted, -beloved, all her life, she could vaguely conjecture how sad and -loveless had been the brief years of Grace Grey's life. - -"I regret that Bruce's unfortunate affair has, in some sort, put an end -to our intimacy," Mrs. Conway went on, pensively. "I was fond of Grace, -and had grown so used to her in her long stay with me, that she seemed -almost like one of my own family. I would have been proud of her as my -daughter. She might have been something almost as dear but for--well, -let us call it an error of judgment on my part and my nephew's." She -paused a moment, sighed deeply, and concluded with, "I would like you -to know her, Lulu. Your brother admired her very much, I think." - -"I think he did," Lulu answered, simply. - -"Next week Congress convenes," said the older lady, brightening; "then -I shall take you quite frequently to the capitol to hear the speeches -of the eminent men. Winans will be there, I presume. I hear he has been -traveling all summer, but he must, of course, be here in time for the -session. He is quite a brilliant speaker, and was excessively admired -last session." - -"Has all the far-famed Louisiana eloquence and fire, I presume?" says -Lulu, curiously. - -"Yes, although he has been many years away from there, but he has the -hot temper and unreasoning jealousy of the extreme South, as one may -see from his cruel treatment of his wife and child." - -"I have just seen him," said Bruce's voice at the door. - -"Seen whom?" - -"Winans, to be sure, the man you're talking of," sauntering in and -flinging his handsome person recliningly on the divan and looking -extremely bored and fatigued in spite of the shy smile that dawned on -Lulu's lip at his entrance. - -"Where did you see him?" Mrs. Conway queried, in some surprise and -anxiety. - -"Oh, tearing down the avenue on a magnificent black horse as if he were -going to destruction as fast as the steed would carry him--that is just -his reckless way though." - -"You recognized each other?" his aunt made haste dubiously to inquire. - -"Oh, certainly," says Bruce, with a light smile. "I threw away my cigar -to make him a polite bow; he returned it with a freezing salutation, -but there was something in his face that would have stirred a tender -heart like Brownie's here into pity for him, though stronger ones like -mine, for instance, acknowledge no such sentimental feelings." - -"How did he look?" queried Brownie, unmoved by his half-jesting -allusion to her. - -"Like a proud man who was trampling on the heart he had torn from his -bosom to save his pride; pale, cynical, melancholy, defiant--pshaw! -That sounds like a novel, doesn't it, Lulu?" - -"Poor Paul Winans!" she answered only; but the compassion in her voice -for him was not so great as the pained sympathy that looked out of her -speaking glance for Bruce Conway. - -For Lulu saw with preternaturally clear vision, the struggle that was -waging in the young man's soul; saw how truth, and honor and every -principle of right were battling for one end--the overthrow of the love -that having struck down its intertwining roots in his soul for years, -was hard to be torn up. She pitied him--and, ah! pity is so near akin -to love. - -Something of her pity he read in her expressive face, and straightway -set himself to work to dispel her gloom. Bruce never could bear to see -the face of a beauty overshadowed. - -"Brownie, have you tried that new song I sent you yesterday?" - -Lulu confessed she had not. - -"Try it now, then," he answered, rising, and throwing open the piano. - -She rose, smiling and happy once more, and took the seat at the piano. -He leaned by her side to turn the pages, and presently their voices -rose softly together in a sweet and plaintive love-song. But his heart -was full of another, and, as he turned the pages for Lulu with patient -gallantry, he remembered how he had turned them for another, how his -voice had risen thrillingly with hers in sweeter songs than this, -mingling with her bird-like notes as it never should "mingle again." - - - - -CHAPTER IX. - -"WHEN A WOMAN WILL, SHE WILL." - - "Although - The airs of Paradise did fan the house, - And angels offic'd all, I will be gone!" - - --SHAKESPEARE. - - "And underneath that face, like summer's oceans, - Its lip as noiseless, and its cheek as clear, - Slumbers a whirlwind of the heart's emotions, - Love--hatred--pride--hope--sorrow--all, save fear." - - --FITZ-GREEN HALLECK. - - -It was January, and the keen, cold sea-air swept over Norfolk, -freezing the snow as it fell, and chilling the very marrow of the -few pedestrians whom necessity compelled to be abroad that inclement -morning. The fast-falling flakes obscured everything from view, but -Mrs. Winans stood at a window of her elegant home gazing wistfully out -at the scene, though the richly appointed room, the fragrance of rare -exotic flowers that swung in baskets from the ceiling, the twitter of -two restless mockingbirds, all invited her gaze to linger within. But -the delicious warmth, the exquisite fragrance, the sweet bird-songs, -held no charm for the fair and forlorn young wife to-day. Now and then -she moved restlessly, disarranging the fleecy shawl of soft rose-color -that was thrown about her shoulders, and turning at last, she began to -walk swiftly across the floor, wringing her little white hands in a -sort of impotent pain. - -"I can't bear this, and I won't!" stopping suddenly, and stamping a -tiny slippered foot on the velvet carpet that scarcely gave back the -sound. "I am to stay here because _he_ says so; because he chooses -to desert me. He wearies, perhaps, of his fetters. Why cannot I go -to Washington, if I choose, for a few days anyhow? I could go up to -the capitol vailed, and see _his_ face, hear his voice once more. -Ah, heaven! that I should have to steal near enough to _see him_! My -darling--beloved, though so cruel to me--how can I bear this and live? -I must, must go--must look in for the last time in life, on your dear, -too cruelly dear face!" - -The violet eyes brightened strangely as the words fell from her lips -whose firm curves showed a fixed resolution. - -"Yes," she whispered to herself, firmly, "I _will_ go!" - -What was it that seemed to clutch at her heart like an icy hand, -freezing in her veins the warm blood that but a moment before had -bounded with passionate joy at thought of seeing her husband again? -What meant that chill presentiment of evil that seemed to whisper to -her soul, "You are wrong--do not go!" - -"I _will_ go!" she said again, as if in defiance of that inward -monitor, and folding her arms across her breast, she resumed her slow -walk across the floor. - -The pretty shawl fell from her shoulders, and lay, like a great -brilliant rose, unheeded on the floor; the long, sweeping train of her -blue cashmere morning-dress flowed over it as she walked, the white -ermine on her breast and at her throat trembling with the agitated -throbs of her heart. Her pure, pale cheek, her eyes darkening under -their black lashes, the white, innocent brow, the mobile lips, all -showed the trace of suffering bravely borne; but now the patient -spirit, tried too deeply, rose within her in desperate rebellion. - -For this one time she would take her own way, right or wrong. Go to -Washington she would, see her husband, herself unseen, once more, -she would; then she would go back to her dull, wearisome life--her -rebellion extended no farther than that. But she wanted, oh, so much, -to see how he looked; to see if suffering had written its dreary line -on his face as on hers; to see him because--well--because her whole -warm, womanly heart hungered, thirsted for a sight of the dusk-proud -beauty of her husband's face. - -The honest Irish face of Norah, entering with little Paul, clouded as -she took in the scene. She had grown wise enough to read the signs of -emotion in the face of the young lady, and now she saw the stamp of -pain too plainly written there to be misunderstood. - -"Pretty mamma!" lisped the toddling baby, stumbling over the pink -shawl in his eagerness to grasp the skirt of the blue dress in his baby -fingers. - -She stooped and lifted her idol in her arms, pressing him closely and -warmly to her aching heart. - -"What should I do without my baby, my darling? Why, I should die," she -cried, impulsively, as she sunk among a pile of oriental cushions and -began to play with the little fellow, her soft laugh blending with his -as he caught at her long sunny curls, his favorite playthings, and -wound them like golden strands about his fingers. - -The shadow of her clouded life never fell upon her child. In her -darkest hours she was always ready to respond to his mirth, to furnish -new diversion for his infant mind, though sometimes her heart quailed -with a great pang of bitterness as the laughing dark eyes, so like his -father's, looked brightly up into her face. - -But sad as her life was, it would have been unendurable without her -baby. He was so bright, so intelligent, so full of rosy, sturdy health -and beauty. The slowly increasing baby-teeth, the halting baby-walk, -the incoherent attempts at speech, were all sources of daily interest -to Grace, who was ardently fond of babies in general, and her own in -particular. And this baby did for Grace Winans what many another baby -has done for many another wretched wife--saved her heart from breaking. - -"Norah," she said, looking suddenly up with a flitting blush, "what do -you say to a trip to Washington next week, after this snow-storm is -quite cleared away--do you think it would be safe for little Paul?" - -"Hurt him! I think not. He is so strong and healthy; but has the -Senator written for you to come on?" asked Norah, eagerly. - -"No"--her brow clouded, and that warm flush hung out its signal-flag on -her cheek again--"he has not. I do not mean for him to know anything -about it. I shall stay but a day or two, only taking you and baby; then -we shall return as quietly as we went, and no one be the wiser; and -now, Norah, baby is falling asleep, take him to his nursery, and bring -me the Washington papers, if they have come in yet." - -"They came hours ago; it is eleven o'clock, Mrs. Winans, and you have -taken no breakfast yet. Won't you have it sent up here to you?" said -the kind-hearted nurse, solicitously. - -"Have I not taken breakfast? I believe I do not want any; I have -been thinking so intently I have lost my appetite, and was actually -forgetting that I had not breakfasted," then noting the pained look -that shaded Norah's face, "Oh, well, you may bring me a glass of milk -with the papers." - -But Norah, after depositing her sleeping burden in his crib in the -nursery, brought with the papers a waiter holding a cup of warm cocoa, -a broiled partridge, stewed oysters, warm muffins and fresh butter, the -specified glass of milk crowning all. Depositing the waiter on a little -marble table, she wheeled up a comfortable chair and installed Mrs. -Winans therein. - -"You are to take your breakfast first," she said, with the authority of -a privileged domestic, "then you can read the papers." - -She laid them on a stand by the side of her mistress and softly -withdrew to the nursery. And lifting the glass of milk to her lips -with one hand, Grace took up the Washington _Chronicle_ with the other -and ran her eyes hastily over the columns, devouring the bits of -Congressional news. - -As she read her cheek glowed, her pearly teeth showed themselves in a -smile half-pleased, half-sorrowful. Praise of her husband could not but -be dear to her, but her pride in him was tempered by the thought that -he cared not that she--his wife--should be witness of and sharer in his -triumphs. - -And turning away from the record of his brilliant speech on Southern -affairs, she glanced indolently down the column of society news, -recognizing among the names of women who stood high in the social scale -many who had been among her most intimate friends the preceding winter. -She had been the queen of them all then, reigning by right of her -beauty and intellect no less than by her wealth and high position--best -of all, queen of her husband's heart--and as the thought of all -that she had been "came o'er the memory of her doom," the dethroned -queen sprang from her chair and paced the floor again, burning with -passionate resentment, stirred to her soul's deepest depths with the -bitter leaven of scorn, not less a queen to-day though despoiled of her -kingdom. - -And thus one vassal, still loyal, found her as the servant ushered him -quite unceremoniously into the bright little parlor, startling her for -a moment as he came forward, a few wisps of snow still clinging to his -brown curls, and melting and dripping down upon his shoulders in the -pleasant warmth diffused around. - -She glanced at him, shrank back an instant, then came forward with -rising color and extended hand. - -"Captain Clendenon! This is indeed a pleasant and very welcome -surprise." - -He bowed low over the slim white hand, murmured some inarticulate words -of greeting, and stooped to replace the shawl that still lay unheeded -where she had dropped it on the floor. - -"Allow me," he said, with grave courtesy, and folded it with his one -arm very carefully, though perhaps awkwardly, about her shoulders. - -Then a momentary embarrassing silence ensued, during which he had -seated himself in a chair indicated by her, and opposite the one into -which she had languidly fallen. - -In that silence she glanced a little curiously at the face whose dark -gray eyes had not yet lifted themselves to hers. She had not seen him -in some months before, and he looked a little altered now--somewhat -thinner, a trifle more serious, but still frank and noble, and with -an indescribable respect and sympathy in the clear, honest eyes that -lifted just then and met her glance full. - -"I must ask your pardon for intruding on the entire seclusion that you -preserve, Mrs. Winans," he said, with the slight pleasant smile she -remembered so well. "The fact that I am your husband's lawyer, and that -I come on business, must plead my excuse." - -She bowed, then rallied from her surprise sufficiently to say that an -old and valued friend like Captain Clendenon needed no excuse to make -him welcome in her home. - -A faint flush of gratification tinged his white forehead an instant, -then faded as a look of pain on the lovely face before him showed that -some indefinable dread of his mission to her filled her mind. - -"I am not the bearer of any ill news," he hastened to remark. - -"Ah! thank you--I am glad," the fading color flowing back to her lips, -"we women are so nervous at thought of ill news--and--and I get so -depressed sometimes--I suppose all women do--that I can conjure up all -sorts of terrors at that word--the woman's bugbear--'business.'" - -"Yes, I presume all women _do_ get depressed who preserve such -inviolate seclusion as you do, Mrs. Winans," he answered, gravely, "and -that brings me to my object in coming here this morning. I had a letter -from your husband yesterday, in which he made special mention of you -in alluding to various reports which have reached him relative to your -utter retirement from society." - -"Well," she asked, coldly, as he paused, a little disconcerted by her -steady gaze, and by his consciousness of touching on a delicate subject. - -"And," he went on, "your husband seemed annoyed, or rather fearful that -your health might suffer from such unwonted seclusion. He begged me to -speak with you on the subject, and assure you that he would rather hear -that you took pleasure in the society of your friends, and passed your -time in walking, driving, and, in short, all the usual pursuits that -are so conducive to your health and the diversion of your mind from -brooding over troubles that cannot at present be remedied." - -A faint sarcastic curve of her red lip betrayed her contempt before it -breathed in her voice: - -"Is that all?" - -"Not quite," he flushed again beneath her steady gaze, and said, -abruptly, "Mrs. Winans, I trust you do not blame me for fulfilling your -husband's trust. It is not intended, either by him or myself to wound -you, and I have undertaken it, not--well, because I thought I could -express his wishes regarding you, to you better than another." - -"I am not thinking of blaming you," she said, gently, "not at all. I -thank you for your kindness; I do indeed. Captain Clendenon, you should -know me well enough to think better of me than that implied. Please go -on." - -"There is but little more," he answered, more at ease. "You will -recollect, I suppose, having signified to Senator Winans a wish to -revisit the home of your childhood?" - -She slightly bowed her head. - -"He merely wished me to tell you that should you still desire it, you -are at liberty to visit Memphis now, or whenever you wish to do so, to -remain as long as you please." - -He rose at the last word, and she rose also, pale, proud, defiant, -woman-like, having the "last words." - -"Ah, indeed! I may go to Memphis, then, if it so please me?" - -"Yes, Mrs. Winans;" and taking a step forward, he looked down at the -fair face that he saw for the first time shaded with contempt and -anger. "You are not angry?" - -A mutinous quiver of the red lip answered him; just then it seems -impossible for her to speak. A great, choking lump seems to rise into -her throat, and prevent her from speech. Her heart is in a whirl of -contending emotions--joy that her husband remembers and cares for her -comfort--grief, pain, indignation evoked by his message--he is willing -she should go far away from him, he is indifferent about seeing her, -while she--she has been so wild to see him. - -While she stands thus, the captain says, in his grave, singularly sweet -tones: - -"Mrs. Winans, I have known you so long, and am so much older, and -perhaps, wiser, than you--I have learned wisdom knocking around this -hard old world, you know--that you will pardon a word of advice from -an old friend, as you were kind enough to call me just now. Try and -overlook what seems to you injustice in your husband. His course toward -you seems to him the wiser one, and he is perhaps the best judge -of what was right for him--in this lately expressed wish of his he -seems actuated solely by a desire for your comfort and happiness--he -wishes ardently that you may content yourself during the period of his -voluntarily enforced absence. Think as kindly as you can of him. I am -sure that all this tangled web of fate will come straight and plain at -last." - -She responded to his wistful smile with another, as chill and pale as -moonlight. - -"Thank you; and, Captain Clendenon, you may tell your correspondent -that I shall avail myself of his gracious permission to visit another -city--not Memphis. I have no desire to visit there at present." - -He looked down at the sweet, flushed, mutinous face with a yearning -pity in his eyes, and a great throb of pain at his heart--the anguish -of a man who sees a woman that is dear to him bowed beneath sufferings -that he cannot alleviate. - -All he could do was to clasp the small hand in sympathetic farewell, -and beg her earnestly to call on him if ever she needed a friend's -services. - -"Since you will not go to Memphis," he said, relinquishing the small -hand. - -"No, I will not go--at least, not now," she answered, supplementing the -harsh reply by a very gentle good-by. - -When she _did_ go, Paul Winans would have given all he possessed on -earth to have recalled that freely accorded consent. - -"I like Captain Clendenon so much," she wrote, in daintiest of Italian -text, that night, within the sacred pages of her journal. "There is -something so supremely noble about him, and to-day he looked at me so -sorrowfully, so kindly, as I have fancied a dear brother or sister -might do, had I ever been blessed with one. I used to shrink at seeing -him; he brought back the first great shock of my life so vividly, -and does still, though not so painfully as of old. It is only like -touching the spot where a pain has been now--'what deep wound ever -healed without a scar?' And I do not mind it now, though the unspoken -sympathy in his great gray eyes used to wound my proud spirit deeply. -I don't think he ever dreamed of it, though. Mrs. Conway used to think -that he liked me excessively. I don't know--I think she was mistaken. I -cannot fancy Willard Clendenon loving any woman except with the calm, -superior love of a noble brother for a dear little sister. And he has -a sister, though I have never seen her--charmingly pretty, Norah says -she is. I believe I should like to know her, if she is at all like her -brother. But all women, as a rule, are so frivolous--or, at least, -all those whom fate has thrown in my way. At least, I should like to -have a brother like this quiet, unselfish captain--this sterling, -irreproachable character with the ring of the true metal about it--and -a sister like what I fancy his pretty sister must be. Oh, Paul, were -you not so cruel my poor heart would not be throwing out its bruised -tendrils so wildly, seeking for some sure support on which to lean its -fainting strength. It is so hard to stand alone----" - -She closed the book abruptly at a sound of baby laughter from the -nursery, and gliding into the room stood looking at Norah's busy -movements. She was giving Master Paul his nightly bath on the rug in -front of the fire. Up to his white and dimpled shoulders, in the marble -bath of perfumed water, the little fellow was laughing and enjoying -the fun to his heart's content. It won the child-like young mother to -laughter too. She seated herself on a low ottoman near him, and watched -the dear little baby, with its graceful, exquisite limbs flashing -through the water, a rosy, perfect little Cupid, and something like -content warmed her chilled and perturbed spirit. - -"I can never be utterly desolate while I have him," she murmured, -running her taper, jeweled fingers through the clustering rings of his -dark hair. - -Norah, looking across at her mistress, asked, timidly, if she were -quite resolved on going to Washington next week. - -Mrs. Winans' soft eyes fixed themselves on the bright anthracite fire -in the grate, as if an answer to the question might be evoked from its -mystic hearth. Her baby seized the opportunity thus afforded to catch -the nearest end of one of her floating ringlets, and dip it in the bath -with mischievous fingers. She caught it from his fingers with a fitful -smile, and began wringing the water from the golden tendrils, and -asking absently: - -"What was it you asked me, Norah?" - -"I asked if you really intended visiting Washington next week," -explained Norah, clearly and intelligibly. She was an educated -Irishwoman, and did not affect the brogue of her countrymen. - -"Yes, I certainly do so intend," decisively this time, and leaning a -little forward, twisting the damp curl into a hundred glittering little -spirals, she went on: "for a few days only though, as I believe I told -you this morning." - -"You will not take much baggage, then, I suppose?" - -"No," smiling at the baby's antics in the water, and dodging the drops -he mischievously splashed in her direction, "only a small trunk with -necessary changes for baby and myself. I certainly shall not stay more -than three days at the most." - -_Shall not?_ On the mystic page of our irrevocable destiny our resolves -are sometimes translated crosswise, and _will_ sometimes becomes _will -not_, and _shall not_ oft becomes _shall_! We, who cannot see a moment -beyond the present hour, undertake in the face of God to say what we -shall or shall not do in the unknown future! But poor human hearts, - - "Feeble and finite, oh! what can we know!" - - - - -CHAPTER X. - -AT THE CAPITOL. - - "Alone she sat--alone! that worn-out word, - So idly spoken and so coldly heard; - Yet all that poets sing and grief hath known, - Of hopes laid waste, knells in that word--alone!" - - --THE NEW TIMON. - - "How changed since last her speaking eye - Glanced gladness round the glittering room; - Where high-born men were proud to wait, - And beauty watched to imitate." - - --BYRON. - - -It was a crisp, cold, sunny morning toward the last of January, and -all the world--at least, all the Washington world--was packed in the -Senate galleries at the capitol, the occasion being the speech of one -of the master minds of the Senate on a very important subject that was -just then agitating the country North and South. But we have nothing -to do with this brilliant speech. We will leave the gentlemen in the -Reporters' Gallery to report it in irreproachable short-hand. For -ourselves we are looking for friends of ours who have eddied thither -with the crowd, and are occupying seats on the east side, where they -command a good view of the Senate floor. There they are--Mrs. Conway -in black silk, bonnet to match, gold eye-glasses, and the yellowest -and costliest of real lace shading throat and wrists--an out-and-out -aristocrat from the tip of her streaming ostrich plume to her small -kid boot. Near her sits Lulu Clendenon, the brilliant center of many -admiring eyes. The little Norfolk beauty has become a noted belle under -the chaperonage of Mrs. Conway, and to-day she looks rarely beautiful -in her brown silk dress, with soft facings and trimmings of seal-brown -velvet, her soft brown furs, and a sash of fringed scarlet silk at -her throat, confining the soft lace frill. Her great velvet-brown -eyes hold two restless stars, her round cheeks are dashed with fitful -scarlet, all her nut-brown hair is arranged on the top of her head in -a mass of lustrous braids, and one long heavy ringlet floats over her -sloping shoulder. The daintiest little hat of seal-brown velvet, with -the scarlet wing of a bird fluttering one side crowns the small head, -whose stately poise is grace itself. Bruce Conway, languid, handsome, -elegant, in attendance on the little beauty, is the envy of half the -Washington fops. - -They sit dutifully still and listen to the learned harangue from the -Senator on the floor below, admire his tropes, follow his gestures, -wonder how much longer he is going to continue, until Bruce, who has -come there every day that week, and listened to "that sort of thing" -till he wearies of it all, loses his interest in the subject, and -allows his appreciative glance to wander over the galleries at the -beaming faces of the "fair." - -"Lots of pretty girls here," he whispers to Lulu. - -"Yes," she murmurs back, then stifling a pretty yawn. "What a long -speech this is! Don't you think so?" bending one ear to him and the -other to the speaker. - -"Awfully slow," he answers, glancing at his watch. "Oh! I say, did I -tell you, Brownie, or did you know that Winans is expected to reply to -this speech?" - -"No. Is he?" she asks, eagerly. - -"Yes; and the other is winding up his peroration now, I think. Ah! -there he sits down, and there is my lordly Winans rising now--how -kingly he looks!" says Bruce, in honest admiration of the man who is -his enemy. - -Lulu settled herself for strict attention, as did every one else, a -low hum of admiration echoed through the galleries, and then silence -fell as the musical, resonant voice of Paul Winans filled the grand -old Senate Chamber, weakening the strong points of his opponent in the -political field with clear practical reasoning, handling his subject -skillfuly and well, keen shafts of wit and sarcasm flashing from his -lips, his dark eyes burning with inspiration, his whole frame expanding -with the fiery eloquence that carried his audience along with him on -its sparkling tide. He had never spoken so ably and brilliantly before, -and low murmured praises echoed on all sides from the audience and the -members, and pencils flew fast in the Reporters' Gallery. - -Lulu sat still and speechless, charmed with the eloquence of the -speaker, her eyes shining, her full red lips apart. At some argument -more telling than the rest, something that appealed forcibly to her -clear mind, she turned instinctively to seek sympathy in the eyes of -Bruce Conway, only to discover, with dismay, that he was not looking -at her nor the speaker. His face was strangely white, his eyes were -looking across at the opposite gallery at some one--a pretty girl Lulu -judged from the expression of rapt interest he wore. Silently her -glance followed his, roving over the sea of faces till it found the -focus of his, and this is what she saw: - -Near to, and on the right of the Reporters' Gallery, a lady leaning -forward against the railing, her dark, passionately mournful eyes -following Paul Winans with deep, absorbing interest. All the faces of -fair women around her paled into insignificance as Lulu looked at that -pale, clear profile, as classically chiseled, as "faultily faultless," -as if cut in white marble by some master-hand; the vivid line of the -crimson lips, the black, arched brows so clearly defined against the -pure forehead, the ripple of pale-gold hair that, escaping its jeweled -comb at the back, flowed in a cascade of brightness over the black -velvet dress, that fitted so closely and perfectly to the full yet -delicate figure as to reveal the perfection of gracefulness to the -watcher. A tiny mask vail of black lace that she wore had been pushed -unconsciously back over the top of her little black velvet hat, and so -she sat in her pure, melancholy loveliness before the eyes of the girl -who interpreted Bruce Conway's look aright, and knew before she asked a -word that this could be no other than the being she had so long wished -to gaze upon--the fair, forsaken wife, the beautiful and determined -recluse--Grace Winans. - -She touched his arm with an effort, her heart throbbing wildly, her -breath coming in a sort of gasp. - -"Will you tell me the earthly name of the divinity who absorbs your -flattering notice?" - -He started violently and looked round like one waking from a dream. Her -voice in its tones was much like her brother's, and she had used almost -his very words at Ocean View when he first saw Grace. No effort of his -will could subdue his voice into its ordinary firmness, as he answered: - -"Oh, that is the Hon. Mrs. Paul Winans." - -And Lulu answered, with an unconscious sigh: - -"I could not have imagined any one so perfectly lovely." - -"Grace here--is it possible?" commented Mrs. Conway, lifting her -eye-glass to stare across at the young wife. "Well, really, I wonder -what has happened, and why she is here, and where she is staying? I -must find out and call." - -In which laudable desire she continued to gaze across, trying to catch -the young lady's eye; but Mrs. Winans had neither eyes nor ears for any -one but her husband. Her whole soul was intent on him, and when the -speech came to an end she remained in the same rapt, eager position -until, just as he was resuming his seat amid the prolonged applause, -one of those strange psychological impressions that inform one of the -intense gaze of another caused him to look up, and his dark eyes, still -blazing with eloquent excitement, met the deep, impassioned gaze of her -violet orbs, swimming in unshed tears; he sank into his seat as if shot. - -As for her, she started up, horrified at having betrayed her presence, -and was trying to get out of the thronged gallery when a sudden request -to have the galleries cleared while the Senate went into executive -session set all the crowd on their feet and moving toward the doors. -Mingling with them and quite unaccustomed to visiting the capitol -unaccompanied, Grace found herself suddenly alone, and quite lost in a -maze of corridors far away from the moving throng of people. Perplexed -and frightened at she knew not what, she hurried on, only losing -herself more effectually, seeing no outer door to the vast, wandering -building, and, strangely enough, meeting no one of whom to learn the -way out, until as she desperately turned into yet another long corridor -she stumbled against a gentleman coming in the opposite direction. -Looking up she met the surprised eyes of Bruce Conway, and remembering -only that she wanted to get out of that place, that she was in trouble, -and that he had been her friend, her white detaining hand caught -nervously at his coat-sleeve. - -"Oh, Mr. Conway," she almost sobbed, "I have lost my way and cannot get -out of the capitol; will you set me right?" - -Before a word had passed his lips, while she yet stood with her dark, -uplifted, appealing eyes burning in Conway's soul, a quick, ringing -step came along the corridor, and Paul Winans stood beside them, -towering over both in his kingly height and beauty. - -And the untamed devil of a jealous nature rose in his eyes and shone -out upon the two. - -"Great God!" he breathed, in tones of concentrated passion, "Grace -Winans, are you as false as this?" - -The small hand fell nervelessly from Conway's coat-sleeve and -transferred itself to her husband's arm, her eyes lifted proudly, -gravely to his. - -"I am not false," she answered, in a ringing voice; "you know that I am -not, Paul." - -"Am I to disbelieve my eyes?" he questioned, in fiery tones. "I saw you -in the gallery--here in Washington, without my knowledge or consent--I -go to seek you and place you under proper protection, and find you--you -_my_ wife--clinging to this man's arm, your eyes uplifted in such -graceful adoration as would make your fortune on the tragic stage--and -yet you are not _false_! It would seem that Mr. Conway has not suffered -enough at my hands already." - -The latent nobility in Bruce Conway's nature passed over the taunt -unnoticed in his solicitude for the young creature who stood trembling -between them, beloved by each, rendered so fatally unhappy by both. - -"Senator Winans," he said, coldly, but earnestly and remarkably for one -of his wavering nature, "there is no need for this scene. I encountered -your wife in a purely accidental manner only this moment. She could -not find her way out, and requested me to show her the entrance. She -was frightened and alarmed, and had you not come up as you did, I -should have complied with her wish, placed her in her carriage, and -left her. I could not do less for any lady who needed my momentary -protection. This is all for which you have to upbraid Mrs. Winans, -whom, pardon me, you have injured enough already." - -Senator Winans passed over the concluding home thrust, and bowed coldly -but disbelievingly. He turned to his wife, still burning with resentful -anger, but the words he would have spoken faltered on his lips as he -looked at her. - -She had removed her hand from his arm, and fallen back a pace or two -from him, her slender figure thrown back, the trailing folds of her -rich black velvet robe sweeping far behind her on the marble floor. Her -small hands hung helpless at her sides, her fair face looked stony in a -fixed despair that seemed as changeless as the expression on the marble -face of the statue that stood in a niche near by. - -Poor child! Her heart was aching with its unmerited humiliation. Here -stood the man who had won her young heart in earlier days, only to -cast it aside as a worthless toy, a mute witness of the same thing -re-enacted by another, and that other one who had promised to love, -cherish, and protect her through all the storms of life. To her proud, -sensitive soul it was like the bitterness of death to stand there as -she stood between these two men. - -"Well, madam, I am waiting to hear what you have to say for yourself," -her husband said, coldly. - -She whirled toward him, a sudden contempt burning under her black -lashes, her voice cool, clear, decisive. - -"This: that I do not choose to stand here and bandy words with you, -Senator Winans, exposed to the comment of any chance passer-by. -Whatever more on the subject you can have to say to me I will hear at -my private parlor at Willard's Hotel this evening between eight and -nine o'clock, if you will do me the honor to call. At present, if one -of you gentlemen will take me to my carriage, which is in waiting, I -will put an end to this scene." - -She looked quite indifferently from one to the other, feeling all her -latent pride rise hotly to the surface, as neither stirred for an -instant. Then her lawful master drew her hand through his arm, with -the cold deference he might have accorded a stranger. She bowed to Mr. -Conway, and was led away and placed in the carriage that awaited her, -without a word on either side. - -And Bruce went back to his aunt and Lulu, whom he had left talking with -some friends in the rotunda. He said nothing to them, however, of the -scene that had just occurred. - -But the fact of Mrs. Winans' presence at the capitol was very well -known by this time. Some of her "dear five hundred" friends had seen -her when the little mask vail had been unconsciously thrown back in her -eager excitement, and those who had not seen her were told by those -who had. Many eyes curiously followed the hero of that long past love -affair, whose shadow still brooded so pitilessly over Grace Winans' -life, as he moved away by the side of the brown-eyed belle to whom -society reported him as _affianced_. - -"What next?" he queried, smiling down into the slightly thoughtful face. - -"I don't know--that is--I believe Mrs. Conway spoke of the Art Gallery -next," she answered, listlessly. - -"After luncheon, though. We go to the hotel first for lunch," -interposed Mrs. Conway, briskly, who not being young, nor in love, was -blessed with a good appetite. "After that the Art Gallery, and there is -that masquerade ball, you know, to-night." - -"As if our daily life were not masquerade enough," he thinks, with -smothered bitterness, as he attends them down the terraced walks to the -park, thence to the avenue, for they decide on walking to the hotel, -Lulu having a penchant for promenading the avenue on sunny days like -this when all the city is doing likewise. - -"For I like to look at people's faces," she naively explains to the -young man, "and build up little romances from the materials culled -thereby." - -"Ah, a youthful student of human nature! Can you read faces?" he -retorts, brusquely. - -"Sometimes, I fancy, but very imperfectly," she says, flushing a -little under his keen gaze, as she walks on, her silken skirts sweeping -the avenue, in the perfection of grace. - -"Read mine, then," he answers, half jestingly, half curious as to her -boasted power, as they fall a little behind the elder lady. - -"I cannot," she answers, "I would not attempt it." - -"Nay," he insists, "fair seeress, read me even one expression that has -crossed my tell-tale face to-day--come, I want to test your power." - -"Well," she answers, half-reluctantly, "once to-day in the gallery, -there was a look on your face--flitting and momentary, though--that -reminded me of this line which I have somewhere read: - - "'Despair that spurns atonement's power.'" - -"Was I right?" looking away from him half-sorry that she had said it, -and fearful of wounding him. - -And "silence gave consent." - - - - -CHAPTER XI. - -"IT MAY BE FOR YEARS, AND IT MAY BE FOREVER." - - "Enough that we are parted--that there rolls - A flood of headlong fate between our souls." - - --BYRON. - - -Between eight and nine o'clock Grace had specified as the hour when her -husband might call--and the French clock on the mantel of her private -parlor at Willard's hotel chimed the half-hour sharply as he was -ushered in by an obsequious waiter. - -The room was entirely deserted--no, a child was toddling uncertainly -across the floor, jingling in its baby hand that infantile source of -delight an ivory rattler, with multitudinous silver bells attached -thereto. - -What discordance will not a mother endure and call it music for the -baby's sake? - -One searching glance, and Paul Winans had his child in his arms, -clasped close to his hungry, aching heart. - -His boy! _his!_ Long months had flown away since he had looked on the -face of his child, and now he held him close, his proud, bearded lip -pressed to the fragrant lips of the babe, his breath coming thick and -fast, his jealous, passionate heart heaving with deep emotion. - -But the child started back, frightened at the bearded face of the -stranger, and his low cry of fear struck reproachfully to his father's -soul. - -"A stranger to my own child," he muttered, bitterly. "Why, my baby, my -baby, do you not know your own papa?" - -"Mamma! papa!" repeated the child, and with a sunny, fearless smile, he -stroked the noble brow that bent over him. - -Grace had taught his baby lips to love the name of "papa," and now -at the very sound his terror was removed, and he nestled closer in -the arms that held him as though the very name were a synonym for -everything that was sweet and gentle. - -The unhappy mother entering at that moment with pride and reserve -sitting regnant on her brow, reeled backward at that sight, with a -quivering lip, and pale hands clasped above her wildly throbbing heart. - -It was but for a moment. As he turned to the rustle of her silken robe, -with their child clasped in one strong arm, she came forward slowly, -very slowly, but standing before him at last with bowed head and hands -clasped loosely together. - -Captain Clendenon had said of her long before, that as much of an angel -as was possible for mortal to possess was about her. I don't know about -its being so much angel--I, who know women better than the captain -did, think that the best of them have quite sufficient of the opposite -attribute about them; but, at this moment, all of the angel within her -was roused by the sight of her husband with their child in his arms. - -A moment before her soul had been charged with desperate anger and -rebellion--now her face wore a soft, sad tenderness, her lifted eyes -the clear glory of a suppliant angel's. - -"Oh, my husband," she breathed, in low, intense accents, "you have -scorned all words of mine, turned away from me with my defense -unheard--let the pure love of our innocent babe plead for its innocent -mother!" - -It was like the low plaint for forgiveness from a wayward child that -comes sobbing home to its mother with its small fault to confess--and -she was so child-like, so very young, so very wretched. A sharp thrill -of agonized pity and self-reproach made his firm lip quiver as he -looked down at her, fiery love and hate struggling in his soul. A wild -impulse to clasp her to his bosom--to crush against his sore heart all -that pale yet glowing beauty, for one moment rushed over him, to be -sharply dispelled by the memory of his jealous vow, and he answered -not, but gazed on her for speechless moments, marking with eyes that -had hungered weary months for a sight of her, every separate charm that -distinguished this fatally fairest of women. - -And she was looking very lovely to-night. Her entire absence of color, -while it robbed her of one charm, bestowed another. That glowing yet -perfect pallor of impassioned melancholy--that dark brilliance of -eyes that could, but would not weep--made her beauty more luring than -before; for a sorrowful face always appeals most directly to the heart. - -She wore a dress he had always admired--a dinner-dress of pale, -creamy-hued silk, shading, as the lustrous folds fell together, into -pale wild-rose tints. A fragrant, half-blown tea-rose blossomed against -her whiter throat, among frills of snowy lace, and a slender cross of -pearls and diamonds depended from a slight golden chain that swung -almost to her slim, girlish waist; a bandeau of rare pearls clasped -on her brow with a diamond star held her golden hair in place, and -gave the last touch that was wanting to make her fairly royal in her -loveliness. - -This was _his_ wife! In all his jealous love and hatred, that name -thrilled his soul like a pćan of triumph. All that beauty was his, his -own; but--the undying thought thrilled him like a sword thrust--it -might have been another's, had that other asked it first. - -That other! he had seen her clinging to his arm that day, her magical -eyes uplifted to his in deep emotion. In the anger that rose at the -remembrance, he forgot the passionate pride and love that had shown on -him from the gallery that morning--forgot everything but that later -scene; and as it rushed vividly back to his mind, he put his hand to -his face and groaned aloud. - -And still she stood mute, moveless, with that hunted look deepening on -her face, as no word or sign betrayed his answer. - -"You will not even answer me!" she moaned, at last. - -"It needs not his love to plead your cause, Grace," he answered, in -heart-wrung accents. "While I thought that your only fault was in -deceiving me before our marriage, my own love pleaded unceasingly -for you, my every effort was directed to the destruction of my fiery -jealousy and anger toward you. I was succeeding. God knows this is -true. The message I sent you by Captain Clendenon was the outgrowth of -that milder mood. In all probability I should soon have returned to -you--glad to call you mine, even though I knew you to have once loved -another. _Once!_ My God! how little I knew of the dark reality! how -little I dreamed of your deception until I saw you here to-day--with -him!" - -"Oh! not _with him_!" she cried, in indignant denial--"oh! not _with -him_! I had met him but that moment, and by the merest accident. Paul, -was I to blame for that?" - -"Mamma, pretty mamma!" lisped the baby, reaching his arms to her -in vague alarm at the papa who was grieving her so, and, with cold -deference, he laid him in his mother's arms, as he answered: - -"Not to blame for meeting him accidentally, of course, Grace; but you -were to blame for stopping him, for clinging to him, for looking into -his eyes as you did, knowing what you did of the feelings existing -between himself and me--deeply to blame." - -"I was frightened," she pleaded. "I did not think--it would have -happened just the same had it been a stranger, and not Mr. Conway." - -"Ah, no!" he sneered, beside himself with jealous passion. "I have -learned, too late, that your marriage with me was one of ambition and -pride. There was love in the look you gave him, Grace--such love as you -have never accorded me." - -He was walking excitedly up and down the floor, never even glancing -at her. She sighed bitterly, pillowing her burning cheek against her -child, as though to gather strength before she spoke again. - -"You are mistaken; it was fright, alarm, foolish nervousness; not love, -God knows; anything else but that! I do not know how to please you, -my husband. You are fearfully, causelessly jealous--oh! what _did_ you -want me to do?" - -"I did not want you to touch him; I did not want you to speak to him or -notice him. I _am_ jealous, Grace," stopping suddenly beside her, and -gathering all her long fair ringlets into his hands, and lifting one -bright tendril caressingly to his lips--"so jealous that I am almost -angry with the very winds when they dare lift this treasured glory from -your shoulders." - -She trembled so violently that she was forced to put down the child on -a cushion at her feet. As she turned, with a mute gesture, as if to -throw herself into his arms, he dropped the golden mass from his hands -and coldly turned away. - -"I would like to know, madam," after a long pause, his voice ringing, -clear, cold, steady, from the opposite side of the room, "why you chose -to come to Washington at all--knowing it to be against my wishes--what -object could you possibly have had, unless it were to see him?" - -That cruel insult struck the warm fountain of tears, too oft repressed -by the proud, loving young wife. Her face dropped in her hands, bright -tears falling through her fingers; her voice came to him mournfully -earnest through its repressed sobs and moans: - -"Because, oh! because I wanted to see _you_, Paul, so much--oh, so -much!--that I felt I could brave your blame--dare all your anger, but -to look on your dear face once more! I hoped you would not see me. I -did not know you could be so cruel and unjust to me, or I would have -fought harder against the temptation to come." - -Moving toward her, he half opened his arms, then dropped them again at -his sides, with something like a moan. - -"Oh, God, if I could only believe you!" - -"And do you not?" she asked, slowly. - -"I cannot. The miserable doubt that you have never loved me, the fear -that your marriage with me arose from selfish considerations while your -heart was in the keeping of one who valued it so little then, however -much he may now--Gracie, with all these torturing doubts on my soul, I -try to believe you, and--I cannot." - -"Once for all," she says, still patiently, "let me tell you, whether -you credit or not, Paul, that my love for Bruce Conway compared with my -love for you was as moonlight unto sunlight, or as water unto wine. He -was the ideal of my silly, inexperienced girlhood--nay, childhood--he -_never_ could have been the choice of my maturer years. You are all I -can ask for in perfection of manliness, saving this unhappily jealous -nature, and my whole heart is yours. I did not marry you for any -selfish consideration, except that I loved you and wanted always to be -near that strong, true, noble heart, sheltered by its warm affection. -Paul, can you believe these things if I tell you so on my very knees?" - -He flung himself away from her with a heart-wrung sigh. - -"God help my jealous nature, I cannot!" - -"And you will leave me again after this--indefinitely--or forever?" -leaning her elbow on the low marble mantel, and looking at him with a -sort of wistful wonder in her tear-wet eyes. - -"I must. My vow is recorded--I cannot help myself--it must be -fulfilled." - -She smiled slightly, but with something in her smile that half maddened -him. The tears were quite dry on her lashes, her cheeks were pink as -rose-leaves, her bosom rose and fell more calmly. The smile that played -on her lips was not "all angel" now. She had sued for the last time to -her unjust lord. - -"Since this is your decision," she answered, in calm tones, that belied -her tortured heart, "would it not be as well to separate altogether? -Would not your freedom be better insured by a complete divorce from one -who has so deeply deceived you that it seems impossible to trust her -again? I confess that it is irksome to me to live upon the splendors -your wealth supplies while I am an exile and an alien from your heart. -Once fairly divorced, and we could go away--my baby and I--and never -trouble you again. I have worked for myself before; I am sure I can do -it again." - -He glared at her speechless, her cool, quiet words stinging him -sharply, and widening the gulf between them. Before it was a turbulent -stream; now a rushing river. - -"And then you might be Bruce Conway's wife," he says, bitterly, at -last, "and be happy ever after in his love. Is that what you mean, fair -lady?" - -"Oh, no, no, no! I should never marry again! I should not want to--nor -dare to! Oh, Heaven, what has love ever brought me but agony?" with a -despairing gesture of her clenched white hand. - -"Ta, ta!" he says, with a light, sarcastic laugh. "You should not -judge the future by the past. You 'may be happy yet,' as one of your -songs prettily expresses it. Certainly, you may have a divorce if you -wish, only,"--stooping to lift his boy in his arms--"in that case, you -know, the law will give this dear little fellow into my sole care and -keeping; though, of course, the blissful bride of Conway will not miss -the child of the man she never loved." - -If that last taunt struck home she did not betray it, save that she -whitened to her lips as she slowly reiterated his words. - -"The law would take my baby from me?" - -"Yes, of course; that is the law of the land--do you still desire to -have a divorce?" - -"Oh, God, no! I never did, except for your sake. I felt myself to be a -burden on your unwilling hands, on your unwilling heart, and I simply -could not bear the thought. But my baby--don't take him from me, Paul! -I have suffered until I thought I could bear no more, and that, oh! -that would be death. He is all I have to love me now." - -She caught her child from his arms and held him strained to her beating -heart, feeling for the first time the awful agony of a mother's dread -of losing her loved one. Her husband looked at her with no trace of his -feelings written on his still face, and merely said: - -"Do not fear; I shall not take him from you, unless in the event to -which we have alluded. But I hope you will let me see him while he is -so near me. When do you propose to leave Washington?" - -"On the day after to-morrow. I only came yesterday." - -"Ah! then I shall look for Norah, to-morrow--you have Norah with you?" - -"Yes, of course." - -"Then I shall expect Norah and my baby to call on me quite punctually, -at ten to-morrow. I want to see all I can of the little fellow while he -is here." - -He penciled his address on a card, and laid it on the marble mantel. -She watched him mutely as he turned toward her, thinking gravely to -herself what a great, grand, kingly nature was marred by the jealous -passion that laid waste the fair garden of this man's soul. - -"Hear me now, Grace, and understand that what I wrote you in my parting -note is still my wish. You will remain in our home with our little boy; -command my banker for unlimited sums, and be as happy as you can. Do -not, I beg of you, seek to see me again." - -"No," she answers, slowly and proudly; "the next time, _you will seek -me_!" - -"Indeed, I hope so," he gravely answers, "so do not worry, and think as -kindly of me as you can until we meet again." - -"Until we meet again," she murmurs, under her breath. - -"Until we meet again," he repeats, with a lingering look, and a deep, -low bow. - -She makes a pained, impatient gesture. He turns and goes out, humming -with a cruel lightness that breaks her heart, the sad refrain of an old -song: - - "It may be for years, and it may be forever." - - - - -CHAPTER XII. - -"FATE HAS DONE ITS WORST." - - "I touch this flower of silken leaf my earlier days that knew, - Its soft leaves wound me with a grief whose balsam never grew." - - --EMERSON. - - -Four o'clock striking in Mrs. Conway's parlor, and our three friends -variously disposed therein; Mrs. Conway trifling with some light affair -of fancy work, in bright-colored Berlin wool; Bruce with the daily -paper; Lulu, a trifle restless, and sitting before the piano, striking -low, wandering chords and symphonies, turning now and then an impatient -glance at the newspaper that diverts the gentleman's attention from -her. Women are invariably jealous of newspapers. - -"What a nice thing it is to be interested in politics," she says, -petulantly, at last. - -He is deeply immersed in a synopsis of the speech of Senator Winans, -having missed it the preceding day by being absorbed in contemplation -of the Senator's wife; but he looks up to retort, lightly: - -"What a nice thing it is to be a belle and take on airs." - -She pouts, with a toss of her small head, then smiles. - -"Meaning me?" she queries. - -"Meaning you," he answers, glancing at the white fingers that go -straying over the keys, waking a low accompaniment, to which she sings, -softly: - - "Violets, roses, - Sweet-scented posies, - Who'll buy my roses, - All scattered with dew?" - -"Meaning the mammoth bouquet that came this morning with the captain's -compliments?" he interrupts her to ask, with a glimmer of fun in his -dark eye. - -She breaks off, laughing, half-blushing, and saucily retorting: - -"Indeed, no. Were I ever so avaricious a flower-vendor I could not part -with the gift of the gallant captain." - -"By the way," he says, suddenly and mischievously ("by the way" being -a byword of the captain under discussion), "it strikes me as rather -droll that such a charming flirtation should have sprung up between you -and Captain Frank Fontenay--the man who tried to help kill me, and the -little fairy who helped cure me." - -"Ah, yes, now I think of it," with an infinitesimal shudder, "he _was_ -Senator Winans' second in that affair. Well," saucily this, "you could -not have been _seconded_ by a finer gentleman." - -He rises and saunters over to her side, out of reach of Mrs. Conway's -ears, who is near the window (exactly what Lulu wishes him to do). Long -ago he has read, like an open page, the pure, adoring heart of this -girl--no vanity in him, for it is so palpable to all; to a certain -degree he loves her, admires her fresh, young beauty, her sunny ways; -means certainly some day to make her his wife; and something under her -surface gayety now that reveals a wistful, unsatisfied yearning touches -him to greater tenderness than he has ever felt for her before. As he -bends to speak she turns her head, with a deepening flush; the movement -wafts to him the subtle fragrance of a white rose worn in her brown -hair, and the words she longs to hear die unspoken on his lips. What is -there in the fragrance of a flower that can pierce one deeper than a -sword-thrust with the sweet-bitterness of memory? What kinship does it -bear to the roses that blossomed in other days, in other hands that we -have loved? Who can tell? - -Impatiently he disengages it from its becoming brown setting and tosses -it far from him. - -"Never wear white roses where I am, Lulu; I cannot bear their -perfume--it absolutely sickens me. I like you best in scarlet. It suits -your piquant beauty best." - -"Did _she_ wear white roses?" she queries, with inexpressible -bitterness, and reaching conclusions with a woman's quick wit. - -"_She_ wore white roses--yes," he answers, slowly, as if impelled by -some power stronger than his own volition; "and, Lulu, she sat one -evening with her lap full of white roses, and her hands glanced among -them as white as they--you have heard the whole story before--and the -only really cowardly act of my life, the only dastardly speech of my -life, was made then--oh, Heaven! I shall never forget the eyes she -lifted to my face; white roses always stir me with remorse--always -breathe the funereal air of dead hopes." - -"It is a sin to love her so--now," she whispered, under her breath. - -"I know, I know; but cannot you understand, Lu, that this is remorse -that has built its habitation over the grave of love? Another love is -rising in my heart above the wreck of my earlier one, but my regret for -what _I_ caused her to suffer then--for what I have unwittingly caused -her to bear since--is, and must ever be, unceasing." - -"You need not grieve so deeply," she urges, trying to comfort him. "She -found consolation--she has 'learned to love another.'" - -"Yes, my loss was his gain, but still the influence of what I did in -the past throws its blighting consequence over her life; but let us -not speak of it, Lulu. There are themes more pleasant to me--ah, if I -mistake not," glancing out of a near window, "there's the captain's -faultless equipage outside--do you drive with him this evening?" - -"I believe I did promise him," she says, reluctantly, and the next -moment the fine-looking captain is ushered in, and Bruce goes back to -his former seat. - -Coolly polite are the greetings between the two gentlemen. The words -that pass between them are of the briefest, while Lulu goes for her -wrappings. - -He smiles, as standing at the window he meets her regretful smile, and -knows how much rather she had been with him than dashing off in that -handsome phaeton. - -She carries that smile in her heart as they whirl down the avenue, past -the White House, and off by a pretty circuitous route for the little -city of Georgetown. There is a glow on her cheek, a sweet, serious -light in her eyes, a slight abstraction in her manner, that charms her -companion. He bends near her, a sparkle in his blue eyes, a gratified -smile on his lips, for he fancies that he has called that added charm -to her face. - -She has taken his heart by storm, and before she can realize it, he -has capitulated and laid the spoils of war at her feet--namely, the -battered old heart of a forty-year-old captain in the U. S. A., a -brown-stone front on Capitol Hill, and fifty thousand dollars. - -She looks up in utter amaze at the fair blonde face of the really -handsome veteran, with its rippling beard and sunny expression of -good-humor, then her eyes fall, and she softly laughs at his folly in -the charmingly incredulous way with which some women refuse an offer. - -"My dear sir, you do me too much honor, and I would not for the world -exchange my maiden freedom for 'a name and a ring.'" - -The captain is not so very much disheartened. He is of a sanguine -temperament, and says he will not despair yet--in short, means to try -again at some fitting future period; and she, leaning back, listless, -half sorry for him, and a little flattered at his preference, wishes -with all her heart that this were Bruce Conway instead. - -"Ah! by the way," he breaks in presently, "there is a rumor--I beg your -pardon if I offend--but is it true, as society declares, that you are -to marry Conway?" - -Her heart gives a great muffled throb, that almost stifles her, then -the small head lifts erect and calm. - -"It is not a fact--at least, I am not aware of it--unless, indeed, -society means to marry us willy-nilly." - -"Society has made worse matches," he lightly rejoins. "Conway is a -prize in the market matrimonial--Miss Clendenon certainly has no peer!" - -She laughs. Indeed, it is one of her charming ways that she laughs at -everything that can be possibly laughed at, and since her laugh is most -musical, and her teeth twin rows of pearls, we can excuse her--ah, how -much nonsense we pardon to youth and beauty! - -"Ah, by the way," (this favorite formula), "talking of Conway reminds -me of my friend, Winans--in the Senate, you know. A strange affair that -of his child--don't you think so?" - -She is busy fighting the wind, that blows the long loose strands of her -solitary brown ringlet all over her pink cheeks, and turns half-way to -him, the sunny smile utterly forsaking her lip, answering vaguely and -in some surprise: - -"What about it? I have heard nothing." - -"Have not?--ah!" as they turn a corner and come upon a lovely view of -the noble Potomac. "There you have a fine view, Miss Clendenon." - -She looks mechanically. - -"Yes, it is grand, but--but what did you say about the child of Senator -Winans?" - -"Ah, yes, I was going to tell you, I had not forgotten," he smiled. -"Why, it seems that his wife was in the city, and he called on her last -evening at the hotel where she is stopping--he told me, poor fellow, -in confidence that they parted more bitterly alienated than before. -I blame him, though, the most. I know his hot temper, you see, Miss -Lulu--and he desired her to send the child and nurse around to his -hotel this morning, that he might see as much as possible of the child -before she returned to Norfolk, as she designed doing to-day." - -"Well?" she breathes eagerly. - -She is twisting the wayward ringlet round and round one taper finger -and listening with absorbing interest as he goes on. - -"Well, Norah O'Neil, the nurse, took the child very punctually to its -father at ten o'clock this morning. He received them in his private -parlor that opened on a long handsome hall, where similar parlors -opened in a similar manner. And--but this cannot be interesting to you, -Miss Clendenon, since you do not know the parties." - -"On the contrary, I am deeply interested," she said. "Go on if you -please." - -"Well, it seems that Winans kept the little thing so long with him that -it began to grow hungry and fretful. Winans suggested that Norah, the -nurse, you know, should go down to the lower regions of the hotel and -bring up some warm milk and crackers for the hungry child. She went, -attended by a waiter Winans summoned for the purpose, and remained -some time--ah! Miss Clendenon, here we are on Prospect Hill with a -charming sea-view before us--and there--you see that romantic-looking -cottage not a stone's throw from us--that is the home of the well-known -novelist, Mrs. Southworth." - -"Ah!" she said, brightly, turning a look of deep interest at the spot. -"But about the child--what happened while the nurse was gone?" - -"In a moment, Miss Lulu," touching whip to the prancing iron-gray -ponies and setting them off at a dashing rate. "Yes, as I was saying, -Winans played with the child that kept fretting for Norah and the milk, -and I dare say he grew tired of playing the nurse--I should in his -place, I know--and thought of taking a comfortable smoke. He left the -baby sitting on a divan, stopped into his dressing-room, selected a -good weed, lighted it, and stepped back again." - -"And what happened then?" Lulu inquired. - -"Would you believe it!--the little thing that could no more than toddle -by itself--that he had left but a moment before, sitting on the divan, -fretting for Norah and its milk--it was gone." - -"Gone--where?" asked Lulu, staring blankly at him. - -"The Lord in heaven knows, Miss Clendenon. Winans ran to the door--it -had stood ajar all the time for fresh air--and looked up and down the -hall for him, in vain though. Then the nurse came up with the milk, and -they began to search together, called up the waiters, alarmed the whole -house, in fact; and all was useless. Every room was searched, every one -inquired of, but not a trace of the child was found; he was clearly -not in the house. I happened in just then and joined in the search. At -four this evening the search had become widespread; two detectives have -scoured the city, and it seems impossible to throw the least light on -the affair. Winans is perfectly wild about it--never saw a man suffer -so." - -"Oh, how dreadful!" breathed Lulu, "and who broke it to _her_--the -wretched mother?" - -"Norah absolutely refused to go to her with news which she said must -certainly kill her. Winans shrunk from the task in the same desperate -horror. She does not know it yet, and he clings to a hope of finding -it before dark, and sending it back by Norah as though nothing had -happened; but I fear he will fail. Little Paul has undoubtedly been -stolen for the sake of a ransom, no doubt, or his fine clothes; and it -is probable they will get him back, but scarcely to-day." - -"Oh, poor unhappy Grace!" murmured Lulu, and all her miserable, -half-indefinable jealousy of the beautiful woman melted in a hot rain -of tears for the terribly bereaved young mother. - -The captain, greatly surprised at this feminine outburst, was really -at a loss to offer consolation. Having all a man's horror of woman's -tears, he let the sudden rain-storm have its way, and then hazarded a -remark: - -"Why, you do not know her; I beg your pardon, do you?" - -"No," brushing away the pearly drops with a dainty lace-bordered -handkerchief. "I have seen her, heard her trouble, and take a very deep -interest in her, and," as she dried the last tear and looked pensively -up, "I am such a baby that my tears are ready on all occasions." - -"An April day," is his oft-quoted comment, "'all smiles and tears.'" - -Silence falls. Captain Fontenay looks a little sad, intensely -thoughtful, evidently revolving something in his mind. - -"You speak of having heard of Mrs. Winans' troubles," he ventured at -last. "Mrs. Conway is one of her friends, I believe?" - -"Yes, she has known Mrs. Winans for years--loves and admires her -greatly." - -"Perhaps then," pulling his mustache doubtfully, as they drive slowly -on, and looking anxious as to how his remark will be received, "perhaps -since Winans and the nurse both are so reluctant to carry the news to -Mrs. Winans--perhaps Mrs. Conway would be a proper person to break it -to her--that is if she would undertake the painful task." - -"I am sure she would do so; painful as it would be to her I feel she -would rather it were her than a stranger; she could tell it more gently -than one unaccustomed to Grace--I call her Grace because I have gotten -into the familiar habit from hearing Mrs. Conway call her so," she -said, apologetically. - -"Then, if you think so," he makes answer, "I will call on our return -and ask her to do so, seeing Winans afterward to let him know of her -willingness to assume the unpleasant task. Then, if he thinks best, I -will call and take Mrs. Conway to her hotel." - -They drove back, and broke the sad news to Mrs. Conway. Shocked, -surprised, and grieved as she was, she eschewed for once the nerves of -a fashionable, and professed herself willing and anxious to go to the -bereaved young mother. - -At seven o'clock that evening the captain called for her. - -"No tidings of him yet," he said, "and Winans is anxious you should -go to her at once and break it with all possible tenderness, with the -assurance that he expects at any hour to find the baby and bring it to -her. Norah will come back after it is told. Poor lady! fate has done -its worst for her." - -At the door of Grace's room let us pause, dear reader. We have heard -the moan of that aching, tortured heart so often, as she quailed -before the shafts of fate, that we dare not look on the agony whose -remembrance will haunt even the callous heart of the fashionable and -world-worn Mrs. Conway through all her future years. It was the agony -of Rachel weeping for her children, and would not be comforted, because -they were not. - - - - -CHAPTER XIII. - -ON THE OCEAN. - - "Wan was her cheek - With hollow watch, her mantle torn, - Red grief and mother's hunger in her eye." - - --TENNYSON'S "PRINCESS." - - "There is none - In all this cold and hollow world, no fount - Of deep, strong, deathless love, save that within - A mother's heart." - - --HEMANS. - - -At dusk of the next day Paul Winans walked impatiently up and down -the floor of his room at the Arlington House. He was waiting for the -appearance of Keene, the best detective in the District, who had -promised to meet him at six o'clock that evening, to report progress. - -Norah had gone back to her suffering mistress the night before, and a -vague report that had reached Winans to-day relative to Grace's illness -weighed heavily on him, as, with clasped hands and a beating heart, he -walked up and down, restlessly, striving with his agony. - -Remorse was busy with his soul. In this great shock that had come upon -him and his wife he lost sight of his own personal grievance, and -thought only of her, forgetting his hot rage of two nights before, and -thinking only that the breach his senseless jealousy had made between -their two hearts was now immeasurably widened by the hand of fate. In -some sort he felt himself an innocent agent in the child's loss, and -scarcely dared hope for his wife's forgiveness. - -"Come in," he said, pausing, as a knock echoed on the door with -military precision. "Ah! Fontenay, is it you? I expected Keene, the -detective. Come in--sit down." - -Captain Fontenay did as requested, turning a silent look of -commiseration on his friend. - -"I have just come from calling on Miss Clendenon," he observed, "and -learned that Mrs. Conway has not yet returned from Mrs. Winans' -hotel. In fact, I believe she thinks best to remain with her until -she gets better. She has, as Miss Lulu informed me, taken rooms for -herself, and Miss Clendenon, of course, who is to rejoin her there this -evening--Conway remaining at his hotel." - -"Ah! that is kind of Mrs. Conway," said Winans, surprisedly. "I should -not have expected so much kind feeling from one who has always appeared -to me a mere cold-hearted devotee of fashion and pleasure." - -"The devil is not as black as he is painted," the captain quotes, -sententiously. - -"This Miss Clendenon seems a pleasant, or rather, a sweet little -creature," mused the Senator, aloud; "one of the sort of women, I -think--don't you?--who is worthy the devoted affection of any one." - -"I think so," says the captain, with enthusiasm. - -"I was thinking"--musingly this--"that I would like her to know my -wife--like to see a cordial friendship grow up between the two. Grace -has never had an intimate female friend. She is singularly quiet, -reticent, and reserved with every one. It would, I think, be something -of a comfort to her to be brought into familiar intercourse with -Willard Clendenon's sister. She needs the sympathy and society of one -of her own sex." - -"Let us hope they may become friends," says the captain, heartily. - -"But, Fontenay, this illness of Grace--I heard a rumor of it -to-day--our unfortunate affairs are by this time a town-talk. She is -not seriously out of sorts, I presume, and I am not brave enough to go -there now, and look on the desolation I have wrought." - -Fontenay walked across the room and laid his hand on the other's arm, -gravely and sympathizingly. - -"No--yes," he says; "well, the truth is, Winans, I hate to be the -bearer of the tidings, but the fact is simply this: Mrs. Winans' -excessive agitation and grief have culminated in what the physician -calls a serious attack of brain fever." - -"Great Heaven! what have I done?" - -The strong man reeled backward as if from a blow just as another -professional rap sounded on the door. - -"Come in," he says, with a strong effort at self-control. - -This time it was Keene. Slender, small, and shrewd-looking, he fits -his name, and his name fits him. He bows to both gentlemen, leisurely -taking the seat he is offered. - -"Anything new?" he is asked. - -"A moment, if you please. Senator, if you will be so kind as to order -up the chamber-maid who attends the ladies' parlors on this floor, I -will ask her a few questions." - -Winans rang the bell violently. - -"You do not suppose _she_ has stolen the child?" he queries, a little -astonished. - -"Not at all," Mr. Keene smiled cheerfully back. - -A white-aproned waiter answered the bell just then, Winans gave the -desired order, and resumed his moody walk again, until interrupted -by the entrance of the maid he had summoned. A rather pretty and -pleasant-faced girl she was, neatly dressed, and with a due modicum -of modesty, for the color came into her smooth, round cheek, and she -looked down and trifled with her apron-string as Mr. Keene smiled -approval at her. - -"What is your name, my girl?" - -"Annie Brady, sir." - -"Ah, yes. Well, Miss Annie, you preside over the ladies' rooms on this -floor? Attend to the ladies, I mean?" - -"Oh! yes, sir." - -"Well, Annie, I have heard--you can tell me if it is true--did any of -the ladies you have been waiting on in this hotel leave here yesterday -for a foreign port?" - -The pretty Irish girl reflected. - -"Yes, sir," with a small courtesy; "and indade I believe there was wan." - -"You believe. Are you quite _certain_?" - -"Yes, sir, I am quite certain. It were the poor English lady whose room -was opposite this one--number 20, sir." - -She half-opened the door and indicated number 20 with her finger. - -"Just across the hall." - -"The _poor_ English lady; and why do you call her poor?" asked the -detective, curiously, while the two gentlemen listened in silence, and -the girl herself edged nearer the door in surprise and bewilderment -commingled. "Was she in bad circumstances?" - -"Why, no, sir, not that way; she seemed quite comfortable so far as -money went. It were her mind, sir," said the girl, tapping her forehead -significantly. "She seemed not quite right here, sir." - -"And what sort of a lady was she, and what was her name?" - -"Her name? It was Mrs. Moreland, sir, and she looked about thirty year -old--a pretty little blue-eyed lady, quite broken down with trouble and -grief. She came on here a few days ago from New York, and was going -home to her friends in London." - -"Ah! and was she alone? Did she talk with you much, and tell you the -cause of her trouble?" - -"She did talk to me sometimes. She seemed lonely and unsettled-like, -and I thought it did her good to talk to some wan of her trials. A sore -heart, ye know, sir, is all the betther for telling its griefs over to -a sympathizing heart," said Annie, apologetically. - -"Yes," said Keene, a little impatiently, "but you have not told us what -her trouble was." - -"To be sure," answered Annie, good-humoredly. "She had come over some -two years since from London with her husband to seek a better fortune, -and just when they were so snugly settled down in a dear little home -in Brooklyn, and beginning to do well in the world, and wan little -baby-bird come to make sunshine in the home, the husband and baby -sickened and died, wan after the other, sir, and the poor heart-broken -widdy is just going back to her friends almost crazy with the grief of -it all," concluded Annie, quite breathless with her long speech. - -A sparkle of blue lightning flashed in Keene's eyes. - -"She had lost a child, you said?" - -"Yes, sir, a pretty boy, scarce a year old. She showed me a photograph -of them all--five little ones she had lost, he the last of them -all--black-eyed, curly-headed little beauties they were--like their -poor father, she said." - -"And she was inconsolable at the loss of the baby?" - -"Yes, sir; she fretted for it all the long days, sir--not quite right -in her head, she was not, I know, but," said Annie, wiping away a -glittering tear from her pink cheek, "it were pitiful like to see her -a tossing on the sofa, and moaning, and like as not laughing wildly as -she talked of baby Earle, as she called him." - -"Seemed insane, you think?" asked Keene, in his quick, short manner. - -"Not like that," answered Annie, with mild wonder at the gentleman's -pertinacious curiosity, "but a little out of her mind--you've heard of -people being melancholy mad, sir." - -"Yes, oh, yes," said Keene, "and so you said good-by to this -interesting little widow yesterday at about between eleven and twelve -o'clock, and she left here and took the steamer for Liverpool?" - -"She did go away at that time, sir, but I told her good-by earlier as -my duties called me to another part of the building. She told nobody -good-by. Indeed, all the waiters in the house--she always had a kind -word for them, ye see--they all wondered they did not see her go out, -and so missed saying good-by to her." - -"But her baggage, Annie? How did her baggage go down?" - -"Oh! her passage was taken, and her baggage sent to the steamer, -yesterday." - -"Yes; thank you, Miss Annie, and I believe that is all I want to ask -you this evening." - -Senator Winans supplemented Keene's thanks with a banknote, and Annie -went bowing and smiling back to the regions whence she came. - -The three men looked at each other, Keene breaking the ominous silence -that had fallen: - -"This is what I came to tell you, Senator Winans. Mrs. Moreland is on -the ocean with your little boy. I have already telegraphed to Liverpool -to have her stopped when she lands there. I have found that a woman -answering her description left on the steamer yesterday with a child -answering the description of yours; with the cunning of insanity that -poor creature probably saw the child at the moment of leaving, and -kidnapped it with the thought that it was her own." - -He turned away, inured as he was to sorrow, from the white anguish of -the father's face. - -"It is very probable you will get him back; don't give up all as lost," -he said, cheerfully. - -"I will not," the stern energy of the man asserting itself. "We will -follow them on the next steamer, and track every inch of ground till -we find him. Every dollar I own shall be expended if necessary. But, -oh, Heaven! I cannot--his mother--she is ill, wretched--perhaps -death-stricken. I dare not leave here." - -"I don't know that it is necessary to follow them," Keene said, -doubtfully. "If they get him in Liverpool, he can be sent home in the -captain's care. You will not care, I suppose, to punish her. She is -probably half insane, and under a natural hallucination that it was her -own, and abducted it." - -"No, poor creature! she has already suffered enough," said Winans, -pityingly. - -"Ah, by the way, Winans," here interposed the captain, "why not call -and see your wife to-night, and learn if her illness is too serious to -admit of your leaving; she may be better, and you at liberty to go. It -seems the best thing under the circumstances, in my humble judgment, -that you should pursue this woman as speedily as is possible." - -"Perhaps so. Then, Mr. Keene, I suppose we can do nothing more till -to-morrow. If you will call on me at an early hour in the morning we -will discuss the best steps to be taken in the matter." - -And there being no more to say on the subject, the detective bowed -himself out, leaving the two friends alone together. - -"Fontenay, I am afraid to go to her. She would spurn me from her -presence; I deserve it." - -He strode across the room, and began stirring the coal fire, shaking -down the ashes, and tearing open its burning heart, just as wounded -love and bitter pain and yearning were sweeping the ashes of pride and -jealousy from his, and showing him the living fire that burned undimmed -below. - -"You can but try," said the gallant captain. "'Faint heart never won -fair lady.'" - -And Winans resolved to "try." - - - - -CHAPTER XIV. - -"IN HIS HEART CONSENTING TO A PRAYER GONE BY." - - "The boon for which we gasp in vain, - If hardly won at length, too late made ours, - When the soul's wing is broken, comes like rain." - - --HEMANS. - - "Fare thee well! Yet think awhile - On one whose bosom bleeds to doubt thee; - Who now would rather trust than smile, - And die with thee than live without thee." - - --MOORE. - - -Sitting at her window watching the radiant day hiding its blushes on -the breast of night, Lulu Clendenon's heart was full of a strange, -aching pain. She had, as Captain Fontenay had told Winans, removed -to the hotel where Mrs. Conway had taken rooms, to remain until Mrs. -Winans recovered from her attack of impending brain fever. - -As yet she had not seen Mrs. Winans, no one being permitted to enter -the sick-room excepting those who were in close attendance on the -patient; and, truth to tell, Lulu was lonely. She missed Bruce Conway. -For many weeks now the twilight hour had been the pleasantest of the -day to her, for it had been passed in his company. Now as she sat at -the window, cuddled up in a great easy-chair, her cheek pressed down in -the hollow of her little white hand, her wistful brown eyes watching -the fairy hues of sunset, Lulu was waking to a realization of her own -heart. - -The little sister that Captain Clendenon had wanted to keep a child -forever was a child no longer. Love--the old, old story, old as the -world, and yet new and sweet as the blushing flowers of to-day's -blossoming--had opened for her the portals of a broader existence, and -Lulu was learning the strength and depth of her woman's heart first by -its intense aching. - -According to the verdict of the world, it is a woman's shame to love -unsought; and yet I think that that is scarcely love which waits to -be given leave to love. Flowers blossom of their own sweet will, and -often as not their sweetest perfume rises under the heedless feet that -trample them down. It is much so with the human heart. It gives love, -not where it is asked always, but often where it is uncared for and -unknown; and the cold steel of disappointment is but to such love as -the knife that digs round the roots of our flowers--it makes the fibers -strike deeper in the soil of the heart. - - "Successful love may sate itself away, - The wretched are the faithful." - -Lulu wished idly that she were floating in ether on the top of that -gold-tinged cloud that rose in the far west, wave on wave, over masses -of violet, rose, and crimson; or that she might have laid her hot cheek -against that white drift that looked like a chilly bank of snow, and -cooled the fever that sent its warm flushes over her face. - -The pretty lip trembled a little, and Lulu felt as if she wanted to go -home, like a tired and weary child, to her mother. - -Mrs. Conway's light footsteps, as she entered softly, startled her from -her painful reverie. She roused up into a more dignified posture, and -inquired touching the state of the young patient. - -"She has been delirious to-day, but is now for the time being quite -rational, though still and silent. I want to take you to see her, my -dear. You will have to help nurse her (we cannot leave her solely to -the care of that nurse and the doctor--it would be cruel), and it is -better to have her get acquainted with you now, and accustomed to -seeing you about her room. You can come now, if you please, dear. I -have spoken to her of you, and she will be prepared to see you." - -Lulu rose from her easy-chair, shook out her tumbled skirts, trying to -shake off a portion of her heart's heaviness at the same time, and -smoothing her dark braids a little, followed her friend. - -But her heart rose to her throat as they crossed the threshold of the -sick-room, and stood in the presence of a woman who had always been -such an object of interest to her. - -The fading winter sunshine glimmered into the apartment and shone on -Norah, where she sat, grave and anxious-looking, at the side of the -low French bed, whose sweeping canopy of lace thrown back over the top -revealed the form of Grace Winans lying under the silken coverlet, like -some rare picture, her cheeks flushed scarlet with fever, the white -lids drooping over her brilliant eyes, her arms thrown back over her -head, her small hands twisted in the bright drift of golden hair that -swept back over the embroidered pillow. - -"Dear Grace," Mrs. Conway said, softly, "this is my young friend, Lulu, -Mrs. Winans, Miss Clendenon." - -Slowly the sweeping lashes lifted, and the melancholy gaze dwelt on -Lulu's face, but the lips that opened to speak only trembled and shut -again in that set, firm line with which proud women keep back a sob. -One little hand came down from over her head, and was softly laid -in Lulu's own. As it lay there, warm, feverish, fluttering like a -wounded bird, the young girl's heart swelled with a throb of passionate -sympathy. - -She bent impulsively and pressed her cool, dewy lips on the fevered -brow of the other, while she registered a vow in her unselfish soul, -that she would stand between Grace Winans and every sorrow that effort -or sacrifice of hers could avert. - -How potent is the spell of sympathy! The light pressure of those soft -lips touched a chord in Grace's tortured heart that never in after -years ceased to vibrate. Her husband had spoken truly in saying that -she had no intimate woman-friend, but it was scarcely her fault. -Her nature was a singularly pure and elevated one; the majority of -the women she knew had few feelings in common with her, and she was -too much superior to them not to be an object of envy rather than a -congenial friend to most. She had found a kindred spirit at last in the -sister of Willard Clendenon; and if the shifting current of fate had -ordered her life otherwise than what it was--had she married Willard -Clendenon, maimed, comparatively poor, unskilled in the current coin of -worldly compliment though he was, she would have found her soul-mate. -But these strange mistakes lie scattered all along the path of life, -and it is true that matches, if made in heaven, sometimes get woefully -mismatched coming down. - -"Her fever is getting higher," Mrs. Conway said, as she anxiously -fingered the blue-veined wrist. - -It rose higher and higher; delirium set in, and in restless visions the -young mother babbled of her lost child; she was seeking him--seeking -him everywhere, through the wide, thronged avenues of Washington, the -long corridors of the capitol, the dull, narrow streets of Norfolk, -by the moonlit shores of Ocean View; and the red light of a meteor in -the sky was blinding her so that she could not see; and when it faded -she was in darkness--and now burning reproaches scorched the sweet -lips with their fiery breath, and Paul Winans' name was whispered, -but with inexpressible bitterness. The impression on her mind, -strengthened by his words at their last interview, was that he had -intentionally secreted her baby to punish her in some sort for what -seemed to him faults in her. He had struck a blow at her heart where -it was most vulnerable; she had told him it would be her death, and -he had wanted her to die; and this dismal refrain haunted her fevered -slumbers through long hours. In vain Norah cooled the burning head -with linen strips, holding masses of powdered ice; the white arms -tossed restlessly, the lips still babbled incoherent grief and anger; -the physician came, watched her for an hour, went through the formula -of prescribing, and shaking his head and promising to see her in the -morning, went his way; and the hours went on--it was ten o'clock, and -quieter slumbers seemed to fall upon the worn-out patient; she talked -less incoherently, tossed and moaned less often. - -"A gentleman to see Mrs. Conway," was announced by the subdued voice of -a servant at the door. - -Supposing that it was her nephew, she glided softly out, returning -in ten minutes, to find Grace feebly tossing again and staring with -wide-open eyes at every object in the dimly lighted room. She bent -over her and tried to fix her wavering attention. - -"My dear, will you see your husband? Senator Winans desires an -interview with you." - -Something in the name seemed to fix and hold her wandering thoughts. -She half-lifted herself, resting on her elbow and sweeping her hand -across her brow. - -"My husband--did you say that?" - -"Yes; listen, dear. He has come to see you, and is waiting in the -parlor. May I bring him in? Will you see him?" - -A flash of hope in the fever-bright violet eyes, a hopeful ring in the -trembling voice: - -"The baby--he has brought the baby?" - -"No, not yet; he hopes to soon," taking the small hands and softly -caressing them with hers, "indeed, you are mistaken, Gracie, in -thinking, dear child, that he is deceiving you in this matter. He is in -great distress, longs to tell you so, and to try to comfort you; say -that you will see him." - -"No, not I; you do not know him--he is so cruel. Oh, my poor heart!" -clasping her hands across her heaving breast, "He has come to triumph -in my anguish, to laugh at the wreck he has made of my life." - -"Not so, Gracie, dear little one, he has come to sympathize with -you--won't you let him come?" - -"No, no, never!" rising straight up and shaking herself free of Mrs. -Conway's detaining hand, the delirium clouding her brain again. "Oh, -never till he comes to me with our baby in his arms will I look upon -his face again. Tell him this, and say that if he entered that door I -would most surely spring from that window rather than look on his face -with its smile of triumph at my suffering." - -She fell back, exhausted and quite delirious now, and Mrs. Conway -turned with a heavy heart to carry the ill tidings to the man who -waited in the next room. She was spared that pain. The clear, bell-like -voice, sharpened by anger and scorn that was strange to that gentle -spirit, had penetrated the next room, and he knew his doom and felt -it to be just, as he stood in the middle of the floor, his hands -clasped behind him, his head bowed on his breast, a perfect picture of -humiliation and despair. - -"I have heard," he said, with a ghastly smile, as her fingers touched -his arm. - -"My poor boy!" she said. - -"It is just," he said, in a whisper of intense pain. "God knows I -merit worse at her hands, but, all the same, it goes hard with me--the -worse because, as I told you just now, I leave for Europe to-morrow in -quest of our child. Oh! Mrs. Conway, take care of her while I am gone. -Don't--don't let her die!" - -"She shall not die," said Lulu's soft, low tones, as she glided into -the room and up to his side. "I will--we all will--do everything to -keep her for you until you come back to make her happiness your chief -care in life hereafter. She must not, will not, die!" - -He looked up, caught her hand, and touched it gratefully to his lips. - -"God bless you for those words, Miss Clendenon! You always come with -renewed life and promises of hope. Oh! watch over her well, I entreat -you; and, oh! teach her, if you can, to think less harshly of me. May -God forgive me for my folly and wickedness to her, and give me a chance -to retrieve the past by the future." - -The two ladies looked at each other, deeply moved. - -"I am coming back at the very earliest possible day after I recover my -child," he went on; "but never till then. I have heard my doom from her -own lips." Then he stopped, too deeply pained for words, and with only -a heart-wrung "good-by," was gone. - -"The next time _you will seek me_," she had said, at their last fatal -interview. - -There are many thoughtless words spoken that afterward seem like -prophecies. - -Mrs. Conway and Lulu went back to the room where they were doomed to -watch for many long weeks yet to come over the sick-bed where life and -death were waging fierce warfare over a life-weary, reckless victim. -But the "balance so fearfully and darkly hung" that a touch may turn -the scale toward "that bourne whence no traveler returns," wavered, and -dropped its pale burden back into the arms of those who loved her; and, -shadowy, wasted, and hopeless, Grace Winans took up the cross of her -life again, with all the sunshine gone out of it, the only comfort left -to her bruised heart that "comfort scorned of devils"--that comfort -that is "sorrow's crown"--"remembering happier things." - - - - -CHAPTER XV. - -"HOPE SPRINGS ETERNAL IN THE HUMAN BREAST." - - "Ah! one rose, - One rose, but one by those fair fingers culled, - Were worth a hundred kisses, pressed on lips - Less exquisite than thine." - - --TENNYSON'S "GARDENER'S DAUGHTER." - - -It is the latter part of the month of February, and Norfolk is waking -up from its winter torpor. Our friends who wintered in Washington are -all at home again. Mrs. Conway and her well-beloved nephew are located -once more at Ocean View. Mrs. Winans, only just recovered from her -severe and lengthy illness, is once more established in her handsome -residence in Cumberland street, and has prevailed on Miss Clendenon to -spend the first few weeks after their return with her--Mrs. Clendenon, -though lonely without her, willingly giving up those weeks of her -daughter's treasured society to the fair woman of whom both son and -daughter speak in terms of such unqualified praise. - -They are very fond of each other--Grace and Lulu--and, indeed, the fair -mistress of that grand home feels as if life will be a blank indeed -when Lulu, too, leaves her, for her pleasant company helps to dispel -the aching sense of waiting and suspense that broods drearily over her -own heart. - -Senator Winans has not returned to the United States--indeed, seems -in no haste to return--for he has resigned his seat in Congress, and -writes that he will never return until accompanied by the child so -strangely lost. - -At present the fate of that little child is wrapped in impenetrable -mystery. The detectives in Liverpool who were watching for the -arrival of the steamer there, were eluded by the cunning of his poor, -half-insane abductor, and not a trace of her afterward could be -found, though the story was widely circulated in the prominent papers, -munificent rewards offered for his restoration to his father, and the -best detectives employed to hunt the woman down. In vain. - -Whether the little Paul yet lived was a matter of doubt to many who -considered the subject carefully, and remembered how irresponsible, how -poorly fitted to take care of the tenderly nurtured babe, was the poor, -grief-stricken, demented creature. But Winans remained abroad, resolved -that he would never give up the search nor return home until success -crowned his efforts. And with him, to make a resolve was generally to -keep it. - -As for Grace, the first sharp agony of her grief being past, a sort -of apathy settled upon her, a quietude that appeared to infold her so -closely it seemed as if joy or pain could never touch her more. Very -still and quiet, though sweet, and gently observant of the cares of -others, she glided through the elegant rooms of her strangely quiet and -solitary home, and books and music, and long, lonely drives, shared -only by Lulu, formed the only objects of her daily occupation. Health -returned to her so slowly that life seemed slipping from her grasp -by gradual declining, and the fair cheek, never very rosy, wore the -settled shadow of an inward strife, the girlish lip a quiet resolution -that moved the gazer to wonder. - -And for Lulu, also, a slight paleness has usurped the place of the -brilliant roses she carried to Washington. The starry brown eyes hold -a grave thoughtfulness new to their soft depths, and sometimes, when -suddenly spoken to, the girl starts, as if her thoughts had strayed -hundreds of miles away, though the truth of the matter is they never -strayed further than Ocean View, where the handsome object of their -thoughts dawdled life away, "killing time" and thought as best he -might, and seldom coming into Norfolk--"recruiting after a fatiguing -season," he was wont to say, when rallied on the subject by his -numerous friends in the city, and had Lulu been at her mother's, he -would very possibly have called occasionally to see her, but while she -staid with Grace she was debarred the pleasure of seeing him, for Bruce -never expected to cross the threshold of the house that called Mrs. -Winans its mistress, and where Lulu sat one bright, sunny morning, -toward the last of the month of February. As is often the case, -February had borrowed a windy day from March, and the "homeless winds" -shrieked around the corners, and moaned dismally in the trees that were -just putting out the safest and greenest of velvet buds, and Lulu, -sitting alone in the cozy morning parlor, idly turning the pages of a -new volume, started up in surprise and pleasure as a servant ushered -"dear brother Willie" quite unexpectedly into the room. - -"So glad to see you," she said, brightly, putting both hands in his -one, and rising on tiptoe for a kiss. - -He stooped and gave her a dozen before he accepted the chair she placed -for him beside her own. - -"Mother is well? I haven't seen her these two days," she queries, -anxiously. - -"Mother is well--yes, and sent her love." - -"Now," she chattered, laying aside her book, and concentrating all her -attention on him, "give me all the news." - -"Well, Lulu, all the news I have is soon told. I am come to bid you -good-by. Winans has been urging me so earnestly in his letters to join -him abroad in his search for the little Paul, that I have not the heart -to refuse, if I wished, which I do not, and I start to-night. There is -no use putting it off, and I do not need to. The only thing I regret -is that this will curtail your stay with Mrs. Winans, as mother cannot -spare us both at once, and will want to have you with her to console -her anxieties while 'with a smile at her doleful face, her Willie's on -the dark blue sea.' Still, dear little sister, you can spend much of -your time with Mrs. Winans, which I hope you will do." - -"I certainly will do so," she gravely promises. - -"It is solely for her sake that I go," he concluded. "Otherwise I do -not care for the trip, and it rather encroaches on my business at this -time. But if I can help lift the cloud from her life, no effort of mine -shall be wanting. _Noblesse oblige_, you know, little sister." - -She glanced up into the soft, serious, gray eyes, that met her gaze so -kindly with a smothered sigh. - - "How noble and calm was that forehead, - 'Neath its tresses of dark curling hair; - The sadness of thought slept upon it, - And a look that a seraph might wear." - -"My darling," he bent and looked into the face that lay against his -shoulder, "you are not well--you do not look like my bright, happy -bird. What is it--what has troubled you?" - -"Nothing; indeed it is nothing. I have the least bit of a headache, but -it is wearing off in the joy of seeing you," she answered, smiling a -little, and then, woman-like, touched by a sympathizing word, breaking -into tears and sobbing against his shoulder. - -He put his arm around her, inexpressibly shocked and pained. - -"Something _has_ troubled you, and I know it. Tell me, Lulu, or I -cannot be content to cross the ocean leaving you with some untold grief -in your happy young heart. Come, you do not have any secrets from -brother Willie." - -"No, no, it is nothing, dear brother, but I am so nervous of late--have -learned to be a fashionable lady, you know," smiling faintly to allay -his anxiety, "and I am so shocked to think you are going away--so far, -and so _soon_--how long do you mean to stay?" - -"I cannot tell. I shall write to you often, anyhow, so that you and -mother shall not miss me so much. I shall throw all my powers into this -undertaking. And, Lulu, I think--that is--I should like to see _her_ -and say good-by--if you think she would see any one?" - -"She would see you, certainly; she is very fond of you; talks often -of you. You can go down into the conservatory; she was there a little -while since. I know she is there still. After you tell her good-by, you -will come back to me--will you?" - -"Yes, dear," he answered, as he rose and left her, passing on through -the continuation of the elegant suite of rooms leading out to the door -of the conservatory and glancing in for her he sought. - -She was there. He caught his breath with a pang as he saw the slender -figure standing under a slim young palm tree, looking like a sculptured -image of thought with her downcast eyes and gravely quiet lips. A -furred, white morning robe of fine French merino, girded at the waist -by silken white cords and tassels, fell softly about her form and -trailed its sweeping length on the marble floor. There were faint blue -shadows around the glorious eyes, though they may have been but the -shadow of the sweeping black lashes--there was a glow but no color on -the pure, fragile cheek, and a dumb suggestion of quiet martyrdom in -the droop of the hands that loosely clasped each other, as - - "Stiller than chiseled marble standing there, - A daughter of the gods, divinely tall, - And most divinely fair," - -the eyes of Captain Clendenon dwell on her for a moment with a mist -before their sight, and then--but then she lifted the sweeping lids of -those rare pansy-vailed eyes, and looked up at him. - -The ghost of a smile touched her lips as she gave him her hand. - -"It seems a long time since I saw you," she said, "though it really is -not two months." - -"Sometimes," he answered, gravely, "so much suffering can be crowded -into two months that it may well seem two centuries." - -"Ah! yes." She set her lips suddenly in the straight line with which -she was wont to keep back a sob. After a moment, "Have you seen Lulu?" - -"Yes, I have seen her," going over patiently, and at more length, the -information he had just given his sister, talking this time brightly -and cheerfully. "I feel almost assured he will be found; he must -be--'there is no such word as fail,' you know, in the 'lexicon of -youth,'--and I think you are giving up too easily. You will undermine -your health already weakened by your severe illness. Why, you have the -appearance of one who has given up all hope." - -"And I have," she calmly made answer. - -"That is simply suicidal," he said, trying to rouse her into hope with -all the strength of his strong, true nature. - -"You are so kind, Captain Clendenon," she flashed a blinding ray of -gratitude from her dusk eyes upon him, "so kind to go and look for -him--my baby--believe me, I never, never can forget it, though I feel -that all search will be in vain--still, still, it is so kind, so noble -in you to do all this, and I know you are doing it for me," laying her -small hand mechanically on his coat-sleeve in a childish fashion she -had, and keeping the grateful eyes still on his face. - -"Mrs. Winans," he answered, quite gravely, "I would go to the ends of -the earth to serve you--any man who knows your unmerited sufferings, -and appreciates you as well as I do, could not do less, I think." - -"Thank you," she murmured, with the faintest quiver in the music of her -voice. - -"And now," he spoke less gravely, and more brightly, "I think I must be -saying good-by. Is there anything I can do for you on the other side of -the Atlantic--any commission for Parisian finery--any message for your -husband?" - -"Nothing--thanks," she answered, decisively. - -He sighed, but did not urge the matter. - -"You are not going to send me to Europe without one flower, and so rich -in floral blessings?" his glance roving over the booming wilderness of -beauty and fragrance all around her. - -"No, indeed, but you are not going yet. You will certainly stay to -luncheon, will you not?" - -"I cannot--thanks!" - -"You shall have all the flowers you want. What are your favorites? Pray -help yourself to all you fancy, and welcome," she urged, earnestly. - -He glanced around. Everything rare, and sweet, and bright he could -think of, glowed lavishly around him, but the only white rose that had -blown that day she had quite mechanically broken and placed on her -breast. - -"I only want one flower. I like white roses best," he answers. - -She turned her head, bending forward to see if any were there, and one -of her long, fair curls swept across and tangled itself in a thorny -bush beside her. She caught it impatiently away, leaving a tangle of -broken gold strands on the thorny stem. Before she turned back to him -he had broken off the spray and hid it in his breast. - -"There is not a rose," lifting regretful eyes to his face, "excepting -this one I wear. I carelessly broke it, but it is still fresh. You are -welcome to that, if you will have it," she said, sweetly. - -"If you please." - -She disengaged it, and put it in his hand. He retained hers a moment. - -"Thanks, and--good-by." - -"Good-by," her voice said, regretfully, then added: "Oh! Captain -Clendenon, find him for me, if you can! Oh, try your best!" - -"I pledge you my word I will," he answered, "but promise me that you -will have faith in my endeavor; that you will live in hope." - -"Oh! I cannot, I cannot! I feel that I can never hope again!" she -cried, but with a brightening glance. - -"But you will," he answered, cheerily. "Health, and hope, and love -will all come back to you in time. 'Hope springs eternal in the human -breast.' God bless you, and good-by." - -Their hands met a moment in a strong, friendly clasp; her violet orbs -dusk and dewy with feeling; her voice scarce audible as it quivered: - -"Good-by!" - - - - -CHAPTER XVI. - -"SMILING AT GRIEF." - - "Come, rouse thee, dearest; 'tis not well - To let the spirit brood - Thus darkly o'er the cares that swell - Life's current to a flood." - - --MRS. DINNIES. - - "And if I laugh at any mortal thing, - 'Tis that I may not weep; and if I weep, - 'Tis that our nature cannot always bring - Itself to apathy, which we must steep - First in the icy depths of Lethe's spring - Ere what we least wish to behold will sleep." - - --BYRON. - - -"Lulu, I have come to take you for a drive," said Grace Winans, as -she glided lightly into Miss Clendenon's sanctum, looking fair and -fresh, and smiling, in faultless summer costume of frilled and fluted -white muslin, and the daintiest of gray kid driving-gloves, for it is -six months since Captain Clendenon went to Europe, and the last days -of August are raining their burning sunshine on the sea-girt city of -Norfolk. - -But Lulu's room, cool, fresh, inviting, a very bower of innocent -maidenhood--offers an exquisite relief from the burning heat and -general parched look of the world outside. A cool, white India matting -covers the floor; the chairs are light graceful affairs of willow-work; -the windows are shaded with curtains of pale green silk and lace, -swaying softly in the faint breeze that stirs the trees outside. A -few rare paintings adorn the creamy-hued walls--pictures of cool -woodland dells and streams, with meek-eyed cows standing knee-deep -in meadow grass; a charmingly romantic sketch of the Chesapeake Bay, -and over the white, dainty-covered lounge, where Lulu is reclining -at ease, a picture of a cross, to which a slender form, with a vail -of sweeping hair, clings with dark, uplifted eyes that breathe the -spirit of the inscription beneath: "Helpless to thy cross I cling." -A vase of fragrant and beautifully arranged flowers adorns the marble -center-table where the poems of Tennyson, Hemans, Owen Meredith, and -all the authors, peculiarly the favorites of young ladies, are ranged -in bindings of green and gold. Lulu, herself, lying idly with white -arms clasped over her head, her face like a rose, her dainty white -morning-dress loosely flowing, "a single stream of all her soft brown -hair poured on one side," looked as if Rose, the "Gardener's Daughter" -had stepped down out of Tennyson and laid herself down to rest. - -"To drive--where?" she asked, as she rose to a sitting posture, and -"wound her looser hair in braid." - -"To Ocean View, to call on Mrs. Conway. My neglect of her since her -great kindness to me in my illness is really unpardonable, so we will -drive down this morning, make a long, informal call, stay to luncheon, -and drive back in the cool of the afternoon." - -"Hum! is not nine miles a long distance to drive this warm day?" asks -Lulu, rising and flitting into her dressing-room, the door of which -stands open beyond. - -"What! Through the cool leafy arches of the woods, with the birds -singing, the bees humming, the flowers wasting their perfume for our -sole benefit, the spirit of summer abroad in the air--it will be -exquisite!" Mrs. Winans answers gayly, as she floats up and down the -room, and, pausing before a mirror, settles her broad straw hat a -little more jauntily on her waving ringlets. - -"Sit down, won't you?" Lulu calls, from the dressing-room, where she is -attiring herself in fresh white robes similar to those of Grace. - -"I thank you, no," she is answered back. "I am fidgety. I am -restless--not in the mood for keeping quiet. I prefer to walk about." - -"Ah! Hysterical, I presume--is that it?" questions Lulu's rosy lips at -the door, glancing at her with gently solicitous eyes. - -"I dare say," not pausing in her restless walk, and Lulu, looking -closer under the light mask of gayety, reads with a sigh traces of -unrest in the fair, proud face. - -It is a peculiarity of Grace's constitution or temperament that she can -never keep still under the pressure of excitement or trouble. She is -always in a quiver, and even when sitting down she is always rocking -or tapping her foot, or perhaps it is only in the convulsive pressure -of her pearly teeth on her red lips that she betrays inward unrest. I -cannot give any psychological nor physical reason for this. I only know -that it is so, and Lulu had found out this characteristic of Grace long -ago. - -"Darling," she says, coming into the room, swinging her broad straw hat -by its blue ribbons. "Darling, what is it that troubles you?--anything -new?" - -"Anything new?" Mrs. Winans laughs, provokingly. "Lulu, dearest, is -there anything new under the sun?" - -"I am certain the sun never shone on anything before as rare as -yourself," Lulu answers, with winning affection, lifting the small, -half-gloved hand to her tender lips. - -Mrs. Winans pulls it away, and dashes it across eyes that look -suspiciously misty and dark. - -"Don't, Lulu, you silly child! You are always making me cry." - -"And I wish I could," she answers. "I am tired of this surface gayety, -my liege lady. Oh, I am going to talk plainly! You don't mean it--I -know how you suffer, Grace, darling, bravely as you repress it, and I -know, too, that you would feel better if you let it all blow over in -a great passionate storm--rain! But you won't. You have been living -the last few months in a whirl of gayety and pretended pleasure, and -damming up the fountain of feeling, till now it is breaking over all -your frail barriers of pride and scorn, and you will not give it way, -and it is bearing you on its current--where, oh! dearest, where?" - -"Hush!" came in a stifled moan, from behind the hands that hid the -girlish wife's convulsed face. "You shall not talk so--I cannot bear -it!" - -"But I must, love," and Lulu's arm stole around the convulsed form -that still held itself proudly erect, as if disdaining human help and -sympathy. "I must, and you will forgive poor Lulu, for it is her duty, -and I must be less your devoted friend than I am if I did not speak. -Oh, you know you are not taking the right course to procure oblivion -of your sad and grievous troubles! It does not make you happy to whirl -through the thoughtless rounds of society amusements and pleasures; it -does not make you happy nor contented to dazzle men's eyes and hearts -with your inaccessible beauty, when seas are rolling between you and -the only man in whose eyes you care to seem fair. Darling, I know -when you go back to your silent home your heart sinks heavier by the -contrast; I know that when you lay this lovely head upon its pillow you -recall, with agony, the time when your baby's cheek was pillowed there -against your own----" - -"Oh, Heaven!" shuddered the listener, "be silent, Lulu. You will drive -me mad. I cannot, cannot bear the least reference to my child! Only -just now, as I drove up Main street in my little phaeton, taking a -silly sort of triumph to myself at the sensation created by my pretty -face and cream-white ponies, I met the funeral of a little child on its -way to the cemetery--the casket was covered with lilies and roses--and, -oh, Lulu, I thought of my own little one, and its probable fate! and, -oh, I wished my heart would break! Why, why does not God let me die!" -and, shivering with repressed agony, the young wife suffered Lulu to -hold her in her close-clasped arms, while she wept and moaned on her -breast. - -And Lulu, wise in her young experience, let the saving tears flow on, -until Mrs. Winans lifted her head and said, mournfully; - -"Oh, Lulu, you should not reproach me for trying to fill up in some way -the great blank in my life as best I can! I dare not brood alone over -my vacant heart and wretched doom, for I should go mad. I must seek -diversion, oblivion!--what would you have me do?" - -Lulu's brown eyes lifted to the picture that hung over the lounge. - -"Gracie," she said impressively, "is there no other way to fill up your -vacant heart and life than by utter abandonment to the pleasures of the -social world?" - -The listener's eyes followed hers. - -"'Simply to Thy cross I cling,'" she repeated listlessly. - -"If you must have a salve for your wounded heart," Lulu went on, as -she toyed with the bright curls that lay against her shoulder still, -"there is nothing on earth that so fills up vacant heart and life as -the cross of Christ the Crucified; Gracie, do you ever pray?" - -"I am too wretched," she answered, hopelessly. - -"Too wretched! Oh, Gracie, dear friend, do you forget how in the -darkest hours our Lord spent in the Garden of Gethsemane that, _being -in an agony, He prayed more earnestly_? It is in hours of the deepest -suffering that we should pray most. When we feel that earth offers -no consolation, where can we look but to heaven? And the blessing of -God _must_ follow such prayers, since Christ himself has set us the -example," continued the young mentor, earnestly. - -"No blessings ever follow my prayers," answered the mourner, with her -eyes fixed sadly, through a mist of tears, on the figure that clung -"helpless" to the cross, "even when I pray, which I do--sometimes." - -"You do not pray in the right spirit, then," said her friend, gently -but firmly. "You do not expect a blessing to follow your prayers, and -we are only healed by faith, not by the simple act of prayer, but by -the faith that breathes in it. If you asked a blessing nightly, it -would follow prayer, be sure. Remember His promise, 'Ask and it shall -be given you, seek and ye shall find.'" - -"I know, I know," answered Grace, mournfully; "but heaven and earth -alike seem to have no mercy on me. Come, Lulu, my little ponies -are impatient waiting so long," and pausing a moment to bathe her -tear-stained face in a basin of perfumed water, she floated down the -stairs, followed by the sweet little preacher. - -"Now, then," with a forced laugh, as they disposed the elegant blue -silk carriage-robe over their white dresses to keep out the summer -dust, and dashed off in the exquisite little phaeton that was the envy -of all Norfolk; "now, then, we are off like the wind for Ocean View." - -She was a skillful driver, and the beautiful, spirited little ponies -knew no law but her will. They flew like the wind, as she had said; -but as they rode on out of the narrow streets of Norfolk, and into -the cool, shady forest road, the sunshine glinting down through -interstices of the trees, the leafy boughs bending till they swept -against the brims of their broad straw hats--in the midst of all her -idle and incessant chatter, she heard one low sentence ringing in her -ears, and an involuntary prayer was rising in her heart: "Lord, teach -me to feel that simply to Thy cross I cling." She had been too proud -almost to humble herself even before the throne of God; she had felt -that God himself was unjust to her, and willful and wretched, she had -gone on her darkened way, asking no pity from God nor man. To-day, the -kind words of Lulu had stirred a chord in her thoughtful heart that -vibrated painfully as the question forced itself on her mind: "Have I -been unjust to and neglectful of my God?" In a mind so pure and clearly -balanced as was hers, the seeds of evil could not take very deep root, -and the word spoken "in season" by the gentle Lulu was beginning to -bear fruit already, though Lulu dreamed not of it, as she kept time -with the stream of light and careless words her companion unceasingly -kept up. - -"Let me drive," she said, at last, noting the unwonted rose-tint that -colored the fair cheek, and thinking it was the effect of fatigue; "you -have been driving nearly an hour, and it will be another hour before -we see Ocean View," and taking the reins with gentle force, drove on; -while the other, relieving her fair hands of their damp driving-gloves, -folded them across her lap, and laying back her head, gave herself -up to mournful retrospection, watching the blue heavens smiling over -their heads, the play of the sunshine on the leaves and flowers as -they flashed past, and the transient glimpses of the sea now and then -glimmering through openings in the woods. Lulu's gaze dwelt pityingly -on the fair face that looked so child-like as it lay back against the -silken cushioning of the phaeton, the long black lashes shading the -flushed cheek, the golden locks, moist with the warmth of the day, -clustering in short, spiral rings all about the pearl-fair forehead, -whose blue veins were so distinctly outlined that Lulu could see how -they throbbed with the intensity of her thoughts. There was so much -fire and spirit, combined with sweetness in that face; its exquisite -chiseling, its full yet delicate lips, its round, dimpled chin, the -small, sensitive nostril, the perfection of dainty coloring and -expression, that Lulu could well understand how this beauty, joined to -so sweet a soul, could hold men willing captives, and at thought of her -brother, Lulu sighed deeply, and to shake off the depression that was -creeping over her, she said, gayly: - -"A penny for your thoughts, lady fair." - -The black lashes fluttered upward, and the pansy eyes met Lulu's own -with such impotent anguish in their soft depths that the girl started. - -"Darling, what can you possibly be thinking of?" - -"Of nothing that need alarm you, my dearest," answered Grace, summoning -a smile to her lips as she said, "and here we are at last at Ocean -View." - -"And there is John to take the horses," jumping lightly out, and -shaking her tumbled skirts. "Is Mrs. Conway at home, John?" - -"Ya'as'm, ole miss is at home," answered John, with a grin of delight, -as the fairy idol of the Conway retainers sprang lightly out, and -stood looking listlessly about her, nodding graciously to John as she -followed Lulu's example by shaking out her innumerable white frills and -embroideries, and leading the way to the house. - -"Clar to gracious!" John said, looking open-mouthed after them, "if she -don't grow mo' angelical every day of her life! Shouldn't wonder if she -took wings any day and flew away to heben. T'other's pretty enough for -anything, but _she_--oh! _she's_ a fitter mate for de _President_!" - -With which compliment he led away the ponies for food and water. - -Mrs. Conway was charmed at the arrival of her two favorites. - -"Just thinking of you both," she said, in her graceful way. "Talk of -angels and you'll see their wings." - -The young ladies pleasantly returned the compliment as they refreshed -themselves with the iced wine and sponge cake she had ordered for them -immediately after their long and tiresome drive. - -"And, indeed, Grace," she said, with some concern, "you do not look -as well as you should be doing by this time--really seem harassed -and worn. I am afraid you are too gay. I hear so frequently of your -appearance in social gatherings and society in general, that I hope -you are not overtaxing your strength." - -"I think not," Mrs. Winans answered, with her grave, sweet dignity. "My -constitution is superb, you know." - -"I should say it was," Mrs. Conway said, "after all it survived in -Washington. Still you are not looking over strong now. Your drive in -the warm sun has wearied you. Won't you go up to your old room and lie -down to rest?" - -"No, thank you; I am feeling very well;" and Lulu, seeing the rapid -flutter of Grace's fan, knew she was getting excited and nervous, -and interposed with some trifling remark that diverted the attention -of their amiable hostess, who remembered then to ask when Captain -Clendenon had written, and how he was progressing in his mission abroad. - -"He writes hopefully," Lulu answered, checking a sigh; "has nothing -definite, but still keeps on with the search, which he thinks must at -last be crowned with success." - -"Let us hope so," Mrs. Conway said, fervently. - -Presently our old friend, Bruce, saunters in, handsome, perfumed, -elegant as ever. He bows low to Mrs. Winans, offers a light -congratulation on her improving health, and shakes hands with Lulu, -who is blushing "celestial rosy red," for she has not seen him for a -month before, and her fluttering pulses move unsteadily, her whole -frame quivers with subdued ecstasy. Oh! love, conquerer of all hearts, -whether high or lowly, what a passionate, blissful pain thou art! - -"And you had the energy to drive out here this sweltering day?" in -subdued surprise he queries. - -"Yes, giving Mrs. Winans the credit of planning the trip--her energy is -untiring in creating pleasurable surprises for my benefit." - -Grace turns aside from her chatter with her hostess to acknowledge the -compliment with a passing, fond smile on her favorite. - -"If I remember rightly," Mr. Conway bows slightly toward her, "Mrs. -Winans has always had a quiet fund of energy in her composition that is -a reproach to many who are stronger physically, but, alas! weaker in -mental gifts. I am, unfortunately, Miss Lulu, one of those unstable -ones who shall not excel in anything." - -Mrs. Winans never glances that way. She holds her small head high, her -underlying pride never more noticeable than now as she goes on talking -with Mrs. Conway, languidly fanning herself the while. - -Is memory busy at her heart? We think not, or if it is she would not -go back to those happy, idly dreaming hours this spot recalls could -they bestow all the happiness they promised then, and denied her. So -often in our maturer experience we see the wisdom of God in withholding -gifts we craved, whose attainment could but disappoint expectation and -anticipation. - -Bruce Conway would make Lulu, with her loving capacity of twisting -love's garlands over wanting capabilities, a very happy wife--he never -could have quite filled up the illimitable depths of Grace's heart, nor -crowned her life with the fullness of content. - -"Will you go to see our flowers?" he asks, bending to Lulu with one of -his rarely sweet smiles. "You favor my aunt so seldom in this way that -I must needs do the honors in as great perfection as is possible to -me--one never expects any great quota of perfection from my indolence, -you know." - -She smiles as she dons again the broad straw hat that, by Mrs. Conway's -request, she has laid aside, and rises to go. - -He rises, too--oh, how peerless in her eyes, in his suit of cool white -linen, and his graceful indolence. - -"I am going to rifle your flower-garden of its sweets, Mrs. Conway," -she says, lightly, as she follows him out on the broad piazza, down the -steps, and into that exquisite garden that lay budding and glowing in -the burning August sunshine. - - "Ah, life is sweet when life is young, - And life and love are both so long!" - - - - -CHAPTER XVII. - -"TO BE, OR NOT TO BE." - - Ah, me! what matter? The world goes round. - And bliss and bale are but outside things; - I never can lose what in him I found, - Though love be sorrow with half-grown wings; - And if love flies when we are young, - Why life is still not long--not long. - - --MISS MULOCH. - - -"It has been almost a month since I saw you," Conway says, drawing the -small hand of Lulu within his arm as they saunter down a shady path -where the crape myrtle boughs meet over their heads, showering pink -blossoms in prodigal sweetness beneath their feet. - -No answer. She is looking ahead at a little bird hopping timidly about -the path, and only turns to him when he goes on pathetically: - -"I have missed you so much." - -"You know where I lived," she answers, dryly. - -An amused smile outlines itself around the corners of his handsome -mouth. - -"So you think it is solely my own fault that I have missed you--have -not seen you. Well, perhaps it is--yet----" - -"Yet what?" - -"Oh, nothing--it does not matter." - -"No, I suppose not," she responds, a little scornfully. "Nothing seems -to matter much to you, Mr. Conway. I believe you have found the fabled -Lotos. It would suit you, and such as you, - - "In the hollow Lotos land to live and lie reclined - On the hills like gods together, careless of mankind." - -"Whew! since when has my little Brownie learned to be sarcastic?" he -queries, in genuine astonishment, trying to look into her face, but it -is turned away from him, and she is idly stripping the thorns from the -stem of a rose she has just broken. Ah! if she could only as easily -eradicate the thorns that rankle in her gentle heart! - -"Why don't you talk to me?" he says, pettishly. - -"And have I not been talking?" turning an innocent, unconscious face -toward him, a piquant smile on her lips. - -"I know, but without taking any interest," he says, in an injured tone. -"Don't you care to talk? Are you weary of me?" - -"Weary of you!" she laughs. "Ah! that gives me a pretext to quote -poetry to you," and she repeats, with a very faint tremor in her voice, -the delicious lines of Mrs. Osgood: - - "Weary of you! I should weary as soon - Of a fountain playing its low lute tune, - With its mellow contralto lapsing in - Like a message of love through this worldly din." - -He looks down into the faintly flushed face with a light, triumphant -smile she does not see. He knows as well, and better than herself, how -much she means the poetry that she has repeated in that light, jesting -tone. - -"Thank you," he answers only. "I wish I could think you meant it." - -She stoops suddenly and breaks off a half-dozen great purplish velvet -pansies from a bed on the side of the patch, and puts them into his -hands. - -"'There's pansies--that's for thoughts,'" she says, gayly. "Think what -you will." - -"May I think that you love me?" he queries, audaciously, as only Bruce -Conway can do. - -"I have said think what you will," she answers, growing suddenly -crimson. "But why are you throwing my pansies away?" - -A faint flush crimsons his fair forehead, too. Their eyes look at each -other as he answers: - -"I--I do not like pansies; they are too sad. Sometimes when I stroll -down this path with my morning cigar, Lu, they look up at me bathed in -glittering dew, and--I am not romantic, child, but they always remind -me of blue eyes swimming in tears." - -"They always remind me of the velvet darkness of Grace Winans' eyes," -she says, meditatively. - -"'There's _rue_!'" he says, and is suddenly silent. The little, -irresistible feminine shaft has struck home. - -He looks down at the flickering sunshine lying in spots on the graveled -path, and reflects on the acute perceptions of woman--this little -woman--in particular. She sees his pain, and is sorry. - -"I wonder"--stirring up a little drift of pink blossoms on the path -with the tip of her small slippered foot--"I wonder if all our -life-path is to be flower-strewn!" - -A light flashes into his handsome dark eyes as he clasps in his the -small hand lying within his arm. - -"Lulu dearest," he murmurs, "if you will promise to walk hand in hand -with me through life, your path shall be strewn with all the flowers -love's sunshine can warm into life." - -A shiver thrills her from head to foot; the blue heavens darken above -her head; the warm and fragrant air that rushes down the myrtle avenue -sickens her almost to fainting. Passionate bliss is always closely -allied to passionate pain. - -"'To be, or not to be!'" he questions softly, bending over the drooping -form, though he feels very sure in his heart what the answer will be. - -She is silent, leaning more heavily on his arm, her face growing white -and mournful. - -"Dear, am I to take silence for consent?" he persists, as though -talking to a petulant child who is going to yield, he knows. "I asked -you is it to be or not to be?" - -"_Not._" - -She outdoes his usual laconics in this specimen of brevity. It is fully -a minute before he recovers from his astonishment enough to laugh: - -"Don't jest with me, Lulu, I am in earnest." - -"So am I." - -For answer he lifts her face and scrutinizes it closely. The soft gaze -meets his--half-happy, half-grieved--like a doubtful child's. - -"You are not in earnest, Lulu. You do love me--you will be my wife?" - -"I cannot." - -He stops still under a tall myrtle and puts his arm around her slim, -girlish waist. - -"Brownie, willful, teasing little fairy that you are--you cannot, you -will not deny that you love me--can you, honestly, now?" - -"I have not denied it--have I?" her gaze falling before his. - -"Not in so many words, perhaps; but you refuse to be my wife--if you -loved me, how could you?" - -"If I loved you I would still refuse." - -"Brownie, _why_?" - -"Because----" - -"That is a woman's reason. Give me a better one." - -"How can I, a woman, give you a better one?" she answers, evasively, -tilting the brim of her hat a little further over her face. She does -not want him to see the white and red flushes hotly coming and going. - -"Because a better one is due me," he persists, his earnestness -strengthened by her refusal. "Surely, a man, when he lays his heart, -and hand, and fortune at a lady's feet, deserves a better reason for -his refusal than '_because_.'" - -Her cheek dimples archly a moment, but she brightens as she says, -almost inaudibly: - -"Well, then, it is because you do not love me." - -"Lulu, silly child, why should I ask you to be my wife then? I do love -you--as love goes nowadays--fondly and truly." - -"Ah! that is it," she cries, bitterly, "as love goes nowadays--and I do -not want such love--my heart, where it loves, resigns its whole ardent -being, and it will not take less in return." - -"And have I offered you less?"--reproachfully this. - -She nods in silence. - -"Lulu, dear, unreasonable child that you are--why do you think that I -do not love you? Be candid with me and let us understand one another. I -will not be offended at anything you say to me." - -"Nothing?" - -"Nothing! If you can show just cause why and wherefore such a thing as -my not loving you can be, I surely cannot be offended." - -"I know you love me a little," she returns, trying hard to speak -lightly and calmly, "but I also know, dear Bruce, that your heart, it -may be unconsciously to yourself, still retains too much of its old -feeling for one I need not name, for you to love me as I should like to -be loved. Understand that I am not blaming you for this, but you know -in your heart, Bruce, that were she free, and would she listen to your -suit, you would not look twice at poor me." - -Another home-thrust! He stands fire like a soldier, rallies, and meets -her with another shot. - -"This from you, Lulu! I did not think it in you to twit me with loving -another man's wife!" - -"I did not mean it that way," she answers, flushed and imploringly. -"I meant--only meant to show you, Bruce, that I could not--oh! that I -cared too much for you to be happy with you unless your love was strong -and deep as mine." - -"I did not think you could be so jealous and exacting, child." - -"I am not jealous nor exacting. I am only true to my woman's nature," -she answers, sweetly and firmly. - -"Nonsense!" he answers, brusquely, "let all that pass--I do love you, -Brownie, not as I loved her, I own it. But you are so sweet and lovable -that it will be easy for you to fill up my heart, to the exclusion of -all other past love. Try it and see, dear. Promise me that you will -give yourself to me." - -"I cannot." - -"Is that final?" - -"Final!" she gasped, as white as her dress, and leaning unwillingly -against his shoulder. - -"Why, Brownie, child, dearest, look up--heavens! she is fainting," -cried Bruce, and taking her in his arms, he ran into a little pavilion -near by, and laying her down on the low, rustic bench within, opened -the gold-stoppered bottle of salts that swung by a golden chain to her -belt, and applied it to her nostrils. - -She struggled up to a sitting posture and drew a long breath, while -tears rolled over her cheeks. Both lily white hands were uplifted to -prevent another application of the pungent salts. - -"Don't please," she said, "you are taking away all the breath I have -left." - -"You deserve some such punishment for your cruelty to me," he retorts, -in a very good humor with himself and her, for he feels he has done his -duty in his second love affair, and if she will not marry him, why that -is her own affair, and he cheerfully swallows his chagrin, and also a -spice of genuine regret as he smiles down at her. - -"I am going back, if you please." She steps out of the pavilion while -speaking, and he attends her. As they walk silently on he gathers a -flower here and there, the rarest that blow in the garden, and putting -them together they grow into a graceful bouquet before they reach -the house. Then he presents it with the kindest of smiles and quite -ignoring the unkind cut she has given his vanity. - -She takes it, thanks him, and notes with quick eyes that no roses, no -white ones at least, nor pansies are there--those flowers are sacred to -memory, or, perchance, remorse. - -"We may be friends at least?" he queries, trying to look into the eyes -that meet his unwillingly. And "always, I hope," she answers, as they -reach the piazza steps. - -Mrs. Winans is at the piano singing for her hostess. A dumb agony -settles down on Lulu's racked heart as the rich, sweetly trained voice -floats out to them as they ascend the steps, blending its music with -the deep melancholy notes of old ocean in the plaintive words of an old -song that is a favorite of Mrs. Conway's: - - "Oh! never name departed days, - Nor vows you whispered then, - O'er which too sad a feeling plays - To trust their tones again. - Regard their shadows round you cast - As if we ne'er had met-- - And thus, unmindful of the past, - We may be happy yet." - -"Let us take that for an augury, little one," he says, cheerfully; "'we -may be happy yet.'" - - - - -CHAPTER XVIII. - -"OTHER REFUGE HAVE I NONE." - - "There's a stone--the Asbestos--that flung in the flame, - Unsullied comes forth with a color more sure-- - Thus shall virtue, the victim of sorrow and shame, - Refined by the trial, forever endure." --OSGOOD. - - -Mrs. Winans sat in her dressing-room before the mirror in the softest -of easy-chairs, the daintiest of dressing-gowns, under the skillful -hands of Norah, whom she had retained as her personal attendant. - -It was a chilly night in November, but a soft warmth pervaded the -rooms, which were heated by Latrobe stoves in the basement of the -house, and the light, and fragrance, and beauty within seemed even more -delightful by contrast with the cold winds that whistled sharply and -sullenly without. A look of sadness was noticeable on Norah's rosy face -as with gentle touches she brushed out the long curls of Grace's hair -that crinkled and waved in spite of all effort to straighten it. - -"Norah," Mrs. Winans had said, a moment before, "it is the fifteenth -day of November--do you recollect? Little Paul--dear little baby--is -two years old to-night." - -"And sure did I not recollect?" answered Norah, brushing away a -quick-starting tear; "but did not speak of it to you hoping it had -escaped your own memory." - -"As if I could forget," murmured Grace, looking down, and beginning to -slip the diamond ring that blazed on her taper finger nervously off and -on; "as if I could forget." - -"'Tis so strange he can't be found," mused Norah, keeping time to her -words with the brush that she was plying on that lovely hair, "and -such a great reward offered by his father for his restoration--forty -thousand dollars--why that's a fortune itself. Mrs. Winans, have you -heard nothing of the matter lately?" - -"Miss Clendenon received a letter from her brother yesterday--she came -around to tell me this morning--in which he stated there was positively -not the slightest cue yet. The supposition is that--oh, Norah, think of -it!--is that my little boy is _dead_. Captain Clendenon is coming home -by Christmas--he has been in Europe ever since February, now, and even -he, hopeful as he was, has given up the search in vain!" - -"And your husband, ma'am? Has he also given up the search? Is he, too, -coming home?" asked Norah, cautiously. - -"He has put the whole affair in the hands of skillful detectives to -be kept up six months longer; then if unsuccessful to be abandoned as -hopeless. Captain Clendenon has the management of his business affairs, -and will take charge of this as of the others. Senator Winans himself, -Norah, has gone over to Paris--to France." - -"To France?" Norah echoes in surprise, "why there is a war there--the -French are fighting the Dutch." - -"Yes, there is a war there," comes the low reply, "my husband is -by birth a Louisianian, Norah, and partly, I believe, of French -extraction--his whole sympathies are with that nation. He has joined -the French army and is gone to fight the Germans--ah! there goes my -ring--pick it up, Norah. It has rolled away under the sofa." - -Norah obeys and in silence replaces the ring on the little hand that in -spite of the warmth pervading the room is cold and icy as she takes it -in hers. - -"You are nervous," she ventures to say, watching the still, impassive -face, "will you take some valerian, wine, or something?" - -"Nothing, Norah," but, all the same, Norah goes out and comes back with -a silver salver holding a small Venetian goblet of ruby wine. - -"Just a few drops," she urges with loving voice, and touching the glass -to the pale lips. - -"I think you always take your own way, Norah," her mistress answers, as -she takes the goblet and drains it obediently. "Now, finish my hair, -please, and you can go. It is almost eleven o'clock." - -Silently Norah obeys, gathering up the shining mass in her hands, and -twisting it into a burnished coil at the back of the small head where -she confines it with a diminutive silver comb. Then with a wistful -sigh, and pitying backward glance, she says good-night and Grace is -left alone. - -Alone! how cruelly alone! All her life-time now it seems to her she -will be thus solitary. She leans her small head back, and stares -vacantly at the face whose wondrous beauty is reflected there in the -mirror, and a light scornful smile curves her lips as she thinks: - - "Is this the form-- - That won his praise night and morn? - She thought: my spirit is here alone, - Walks forgotten, and is forlorn." - -Rising suddenly she threw up the window and looked out into the night. -A gust of cold wind and rain blew into her face. She faced it a moment, -then, shutting down the window and dropping the crimson curtains -together, passed into her sleeping apartment. But she could not rest. -Her downy pillows might have been a bed of thorns. She rose, and -gliding across the floor and, pausing one moment in grave irresolution, -put her hand on the sliding door of the adjoining nursery, pushed it -open and entered by the light that streamed from her own apartment. - -All was still and silent here. Shadows lay on everything as heavy as -those that clouded her life. She stood gazing mutely around her for an -instant; then, with a low, smothered sob of agony, rushed forward, and -pushing up the sweeping Valenciennes canopy of the rosewood crib that -stood in the center of the room, buried her face in the small pillow -that still held the impress of a baby's head. - -Then silence fell. Some women carry beneath a calm, perhaps smiling, -face, a deeper pain than was ever clothed in words or tears. The -acme of human suffering crushes, paralyzes some hearts into terrible -silence. It was thus with Grace. Her sorrow had sunk to the bottom of -the sea of anguish, so deep that not a ripple on the surface, not a -sparkling drop, leaped up to show where it fell. - -Ten, fifteen, twenty minutes went by. She lifted her face at last--as -white and chill as that of the dead, but lighted by - - "Melancholy eyes divine, - The home of woe without a tear." - -She comes to this room as to a grave. Over the grave of the child of -her heart she may never kneel. She fancies it in her mind sometimes -away off under foreign skies, lying in the shadow of some frowning -English church, with not a flower on its low mound, unless Nature, more -loving than cold humanity, has dropped it there like a jewel in the -grass. She sees the sunshine lying on it in the quiet days, hears the -birds--the only thing that ever sings in a graveyard--warbling matin -songs and vesper hymns in the ivy that clings to the imaginary old -church. _There_ she may never kneel--here are gathered all her simple -mementoes of him-- - - "Playthings upon the carpet, - And dainty little shoes-- - With snow-white caps and dresses - That seem too fair to use." - -There is the crib where she has watched his rosy slumbers; there in -the corner is the little bathing-tub where she has seen the dimpled -struggling limbs flashing through the diamond spray of cold water, -like polished marbles; there upon the wall, smiling down at her in its -infantile beauty and joy, hangs the pictured semblance of the face that -her foreboding heart whispers to her is moldering into kindred dust -beneath the coffin-lid. This room is to her alike a shrine and a grave. - -How it rains! - -In the dead, unhappy night, when the rain is on the roof, with what -vivid distinctness does memory recall scenes and hopes that are past. -Poor Grace hears the winds and the rain as they hold their midnight -revels outside, and shudders as the thronging ghosts of memory flit by. -Her brief and exquisite wedded happiness, her love for the dark-eyed -husband who has wronged her so cruelly--she shudders and tries to put -these thoughts away. - -But she cannot. She has tried before. So long as her child was left, -with "baby fingers" to "press him from the mother's breast," she had -tried to put her husband away from her heart; tried to be content -with his darling little prototype; tried with all the strength of her -resolute young soul to crush her love for him. But there are some -things that the strongest and bravest of us cannot do. Love is "beyond -us all;" the battle is not always to the strong; success does not -always crown the bravest efforts. It is something to know that they who -fail are sometimes braver than they who succeed. - -Now, when the little child that was such a darling comfort to her sad, -lonely life is so rudely wrested from that yearning heart, her thoughts -irresistibly center about the father of her child. She had loved her -baby best--the maternal love was more deeply developed in her than the -conjugal--but even then her husband had been blessed with a fervent, -tender worship that is the overflow of only such deep, strong natures -as hers--natures prodigal of sweetness. Latterly, when the terrible -news that he had six months before joined the army of France had come -to her with all its terrible possibilities, she had only begun to -fathom the depths of her unsounded love for him. It amazed herself--she -put it from her with angry pain, and rushed into the whirl of social -life to keep herself from thinking; wore the mask of smiles above her -pain, and sunned herself in the light of admiring eyes, but though -fashion and pride and station bowed low to the Senator's deserted -wife, acknowledging her calm supremacy still, though sympathy and -curiosity--(softly be it spoken) met her with open arms, though the -wine-cup circled in the gay and brilliant coterie, it held no Lethean -draught for her, and weary and heart-sick she turned from it all, and -sought oblivion in the seclusion of home, and the ever welcome company -of cheerful Lulu Clendenon. But her heart would not be satisfied thus. -Failing in its earthly love and hope, true to itself through all her -mistakes and follies, the heaven-born soul yearned for more than all -this to fill up its aching vacancy, for more than all this to bind -round the tortured heart and keep it from breaking. - -"Where shall I turn?" she asked herself, as with folded arms she paced -the floor with rapid steps, keeping time to the falling rain outside -that poured in swift torrents as "though the heart of heaven were -breaking in tears o'er the fallen earth." Human love, human ties seemed -lost to her, earth offered no refuge from her suffering. Poor, wronged, -and tortured young spirit, "breathing in bondage but to bear the ills -she never wrought"--where could she turn but to Him who pours the oil -of comfort on wounds that in His strange providence may grow to be -"blessings in disguise?" - -She paused in the middle of the floor, lifting her eyes mournfully -upward, half-clasping her hands, wavered an instant, then falling on -her knees, lifted reverent hands and eyes, while from her lips broke -the humble rhymic prayer: - - "Other refuge have I none, - Helpless to Thy cross I cling; - Cover my defenseless head - With the shadow of Thy wing." - -Surely, if "He giveth his angels charge concerning us," that pure, -heart-wrung petition floated upward on wings seraphic. - - - - -CHAPTER XIX. - -A NEW YEAR'S GIFT. - - "And why, if we must part, Lulu! - Why let me love you so? - Nay, waste no more your sweet farewells, - I _cannot_ let you go-- - Not let you go, Lulu! - I cannot let you go!" --MRS. OSGOOD. - - -On the following Christmas morning Mrs. Clendenon, Mrs. Winans and -Lulu, together with the returned captain, all attended divine service -at the Protestant Episcopal Church. - -It seems strange how many of us become recognized members of the Church -of Christ under religious conviction, without ever having any great and -realizing sense of the saving power of God, not only in the matter of -the world beyond, but in the limitless power of sustaining us among the -trials of this. - -This had been peculiarly the case with our heroine. She had for -years been a member of the Episcopal Church, and, as the world goes, -a dutiful member. But religion had been to her mind too much in the -abstract, too much a thing above and beyond her to be taken into her -daily life in the part of a comforter and sustainer. She had gone to -the world for consolation in the hour of her trial. It had failed her. -To-day as the glorious old "Te Deum" rose and soared grandly through -the arches of the temple of worship, filling her soul with sublime -pathos, she began to see how He, who had dimly held to her the place -of a Saviour in the world beyond, is an ever-present Comforter and -sustainer in the fateful Gethsemane of this probationary earth. - -Captain Clendenon, as he sat by her side and heard the low, musical -voice as it uttered the prayerful responses to the Litany, thought -her but little lower than the angels. She in her deep and newly -roused humility felt herself scarcely worthy to take the name of a -long misunderstood Saviour on her lips. Few of the congregation who -commented, on dispersing, relative to the pearl-fair beauty and elegant -apparel of the Senator's deserted wife, fathomed the feelings that -throbbed tumultuously beneath that pale calm bearing as they left the -sacred edifice. - -"Lulu," she queried later, as up in the young lady's dressing-room they -had laid aside their warm wrappings and furs. "Lulu, what do you do for -Christ?" - -Lulu turned about in some surprise: - -"What do I do for Christ?" she repeated. "Oh, Gracie, too little, I -fear." - -"'Tell me," she persisted. - -"Well, then, I have my Sabbath-school class, my list of Christ's poor, -whom I visit and aid to the best of my ability, my missionary fund, and -finally, Gracie, dearest, whatever my hand 'findeth to do,' I try to do -with all my might." - -Gracie stood still, twisting one of the long curls that swept to her -waist over one diamond-ringed white finger. - -"Darling, why do you ask?" Lulu said, with her arm about the other's -waist. - -The fair cheek nestled confidingly against Lulu's own. - -"I want to help you, if you will let me--let me go with you on your -errands for Christ. I belong to the world no longer. Show me how to -fill up the measure of my days with prayerful work for the Master." - -One pearly drop from Lulu's eyes fell down on the golden head that had -pillowed itself on her breast. - -"God, I thank Thee," she murmured, "that there is joy in heaven to-day -over the lamb that has come into the fold." - -She whispered it to Brother Willie that day at a far corner of the -parlor when they happened to be alone for a moment together. - -He glanced across at the slender, stately figure standing at the window -between the falling lace curtains, looking wistfully out. - -"It is natural," he said. "A nature so pure, so strong, so devotional -as hers must needs have more than the world can give to satisfy its -immortal cravings. Poor girl! she is passing through the fire of -affliction. Let us thank God that she is coming out _pure gold_." - -After awhile, when Lulu had slipped from the room, leaving them -alone together, he crossed over to her side, and began telling her -of his experiences and adventures abroad. She listened, pleased and -interested, soothed by his kind, almost brotherly tone. - -"You do not ask me after Winans," said he, playfully, at last. - -She did not answer, save by a heightened flush. - -"You did not know that through his reckless bravery, his gentleness and -humanity to his men, he has risen to the rank of general in the army of -France?" A soldierly flash in the clear gray eyes. - -"Yes," she answered in a low voice; "I have seen it in the newspapers." - -"You have? Then you have seen also that he----" - -He paused, looking down at her quiet face in some perplexity and doubt. - -"That he--what?" she asked, looking up at him, and growing slightly -pale. - -"I do not know how to tell you, if you do not know," his eyes, full of -grave compassion, fixed on hers. - -One of her small hands groped blindly out, and clung firmly to his arm. - -"Captain Clendenon, I know that the Franco-Prussian war is ended. Is -that what you mean? Is he--my husband--is he coming home--to America?" - -She read in his eyes the negative she felt she could not speak. - -"Tell me," she said, desperately, "if he is not coming home, what is -it? I am braver than you think. I can bear a great deal. Is he--is -he--_dead_?" - -"May God have mercy on your poor, tired little soul," he answered, -solemnly. "It is more than we know. In the last great battle, General -Winans was wounded near unto death, and left on the field. When search -was made for him he was not found. Whatever his fate was--whether he -was buried, unshrouded and uncoffined, like many of those poor fellows, -in an unknown grave, or whether an unknown fate met him, is as yet -uncertain. We hope for the best while we fear the worst." - -One hand still lay on his coat-sleeve--the other one followed it, -clasped itself over it, and she laid her white face down upon them, -creeping closer to him as if to shield herself against his strong, true -heart from the storms that beat on her frail woman-life. One moment he -felt the wild throb of her agonized heart against his own; then all was -still. Lifting the lifeless form on his arm, he laid it on a sofa and -called to Lulu: - -"I had to tell her!" he exclaimed. "She did not bear it as well as we -hoped. I am afraid I have killed her." - -Ah! grief seldom kills. If it did, this fair world would not have so -many of us striving, busy atoms struggling for its possession. - -She came back to life again, lying still and white in Lulu's loving -arms. Captain Clendenon and his mother went out and left them together. -They would not intrude on the sore heart whose wound they could not -heal. - -"After all we can hope still," Lulu said, cheerily. "All is uncertainty -and mere conjecture. We can still hope on, until something more -definite is known." - -"Hope," repeated the listener, mournfully. - -"Hope, yes," was the firm reply. "Hope and pray. One of Brother -Willie's favorite maxims is that hope springs eternal in the human -breast!" - -"I can bear it," came softly from the other. "I have borne so much, I -can still endure. With God's help I will be patient under all." - -"Whom He loveth He chasteneth," answered Lulu. - - * * * * * - -When New Year's Day came with its social gayeties, receptions, and -friendly calls, one of Lulu's latest and most surprising visits was -from our old friend, Bruce Conway. He had not called on her for a long -time, and she had heard that he was in Washington. The warm blood -suffused her face as she stood alone in the parlor, with his card in -her hand, and it grew rosier as he entered, and with his inimitable, -indolent grace, paid the compliments of the season. - -"You do not ask me where I have been these many days," he said, as he -sipped the steaming mocha she offered him in the daintiest of China -cups. She never offered her friends wine. - -"I had heard that you were in Washington," she answered, apologetically. - -"Right--and what was I doing there? Can you undertake to guess?" - -"I am sure it is beyond me." This with her most languid air. "Flirting, -perhaps." - -A light smile curves his mustached lip. Certainly this little beauty, -he thinks, is "good at guessing." - -"Have your callers been many to-day?" he asked. - -"Quite a number of my friends have called--all, I think. I expect no -more this evening," she answers, demurely. - -"I am glad of that. I shall have you all to myself, Lulu--willful, -indifferent still, since you will not ask my object in Washington, I -will e'en tell you anyhow." - -"Go on--I am listening." - -Putting down the cup he had finished, he seated himself on the sofa by -her side, good-humoredly taking no notice of the fact that she moved a -little farther away from him. - -"How pretty you are looking, _ma belle_. Your blue silk is the -loveliest shade--so becoming; your laces exquisite. Scarlet geraniums -in your hair--ah! Lulu, for whose sake?" - -"Not for yours," she flashes, with a hot remembrance that he has always -liked her in scarlet geraniums. - -A slow smile dawns in his eyes--his lips keep their pretense of gravity. - - "Her hair is braided not for me, - Her eye is turned away." - -he begins to hum. - -"All this is not telling me what mischief you were at in Washington?" -she interrupts. - -"Oh," trying to look demure, but woefully failing, "no mischief at -all--only paying off old scores--spoiling Fontenay's fun for him as he -did for me last winter. - - "Satan finds some mischief still - For idle hands to do." - -"Miss Clendenon, you are hard on a poor follow. Why don't you ask _her_ -name; if she is pretty; if she is in the 'set;' if she is rich; and so -on, _ad infinitum_?" - -"I hardly care to know," she answers, with pretty unconcern. - -"Hardly care to know--now, really? I shall tell you anyhow. Well, she -is an heiress; is pretty; in her second Washington season; father in -the banking business, and Fontenay, despairing of winning you, has -transferred his 'young affections' to her. She rather likes him--will -marry him, perhaps, but then----" - -"But then?" - -"She likes me, too, and I have teased the gallant captain considerably. -Oh, the drives I have had with the fair Cordelia, the gas-light -flirtations; the morning strolls to the capitol; the art-gallery; -everywhere, in short, where you went with the major. I am not sure but -she would throw him over for me altogether." - -Her heart sinks within her. Has his fickle love turned from her so soon -to this "fair Cordelia?" Better so, perhaps, for her in the end; but -now--oh! she has never loved him so well as at this moment, sitting -beside her in his dusk patrician beauty, with a certain odd earnestness -underlying his flippant manner. - -"Mrs. Conway is well, I hope?" she says, to change that painful -conversation. - -"Is well?--yes, and misses you amid the gay scenes of the capital. What -have _you_ been doing secluded here in your quiet home, little saint?" - -"Oh! nothing particularly." - -"You have not been falling in love, have you?" - -"Why?" with an irrepressible blush. - -"I wanted to know--that is all. Brownie, Aunt Conway, and I are going -abroad this spring to stay, oh, ever so long." - -He is watching her narrowly. She knows it, and changes her sudden start -into one of pretty affected surprise. - -"Oh, indeed! Will wedding cards and the 'fair Cordelia' bear you -company?" - -"Not if some one else will. Brownie, cannot you guess why I have come -here this evening?" his voice growing eagerly earnest, a genuine love -and earnestness shining in his eyes. - -"To make a New Year's call, I guess," she answers, with innocent -unconsciousness in her large dark eyes, and the faintest dimples around -her lips. - -"Guess again, Brownie?" - -"I cannot; I have not the faintest idea," turning slightly from him. - -"Then, Brownie," taking her unwilling hand in his. "I have come to ask -you for a New Year's gift." - -A scarlet geranium is fastened in with the lace at her throat. She -plucks it out and holds it toward him with a mischievous smile. - -"Will you take this? I am sorry it is all I have to offer." - -He takes the hand that holds the flower and puts it to his lips. - -"It is all I ask; so your heart comes with it." - -Vainly she tries to draw back; he holds the small hand tighter, bending -till his breath floats over her forehead. - -"Lulu, I did not come here for the gift of a hot-house flower, though -coming from you it is dearer than would be a very flower from those -botanical gardens that are the glory of Washington. I wanted a rarer -flower--even yourself." - -Her face is hidden in one small hand. In low tones she answers: - -"I thought this matter was settled long ago. Did I not tell you no?" - -There is a long pause. Presently he answers, with a wondrous patience -for him: - -"You did, and rightly _then_, for I did not fully appreciate your pure -womanly affection. I thought I could easily win you, and having lost -you I loved you more. Lulu, I am woefully in earnest. Refuse me now, -and you, perhaps, drive me away from you for years--it may be forever. -I love you more than I did then--a thousand times better." - -Still she is silent. - -"Brownie," he pleads, "I am not so fickle as you think me. I have -fancied many pretty women, but only loved two--Grace Grey and yourself. -My love for her is a thing of the past, and has to do with the past -only--'echoes of harp-strings that broke long ago'--my love for you -is a thing of the present, and will influence my whole future. You -can make of me a nobler man than what I am. Willard is willing, your -mother is willing, I have asked them both. Brownie, let us make of that -Continental trip a wedding tour?" - -Her shy eyes lifted, meeting in his a deeper love than she has ever -expected to see in them for her. - -"Let me see," he goes on, "Aunt Conway and I are going to Europe in -June--that is time enough for you to get ready. Think of it, Brownie, I -am to be gone months and months. Can you bear to let me go alone?" - -"No, I cannot," she sobs, hiding her face against his shoulder; and -Bruce takes her in his arms and kisses her with a genuine fondness, -prizing her, after the fashion of most men, all the better because she -was so hard to win. - - - - -CHAPTER XX. - -WEDDING CARDS. - - "Now she adores thee as one without spot, - Dreams not of sorrow to darken her lot, - Joyful, yet tearful, I yield her to thee; - Take her, the light of thy dwelling to be." - - -Fair Lulu found so little time amid the preparations that went so -swiftly forward for her marriage that she was very glad to avail -herself of Grace's offered assistance in looking after her poor people, -her missionary box, &c., and so the lonely and depressed young creature -found something to occupy her time as well as to fill up her thoughts. -She was of great assistance, too, to Lulu in the selection and purchase -of the bridal trousseau in which she took a pleasant feminine interest. - -Lulu, who deferred always to her friend's exquisite taste, would suffer -nothing to be purchased until first pronounced _comme il faut_ by Mrs. -Winans; and Bruce Conway, who had returned in the midst of the season -from Washington, and haunted Lulu's steps with lover-like devotion, -declared that his most dangerous rival in Lulu's heart was Mrs. Winans. - -The old yearning passion he had felt for Grace had passed into a -dream of the past; something he never liked to recall, because there -was something of pain about it still like the soreness of an old -wound--"what deep wound ever healed without a scar?" But they were very -good friends now--not cordial--they would never be that, but still very -pleasant and genial to each other. - -Mrs. Conway, who was very well pleased to see Bruce about to marry, -wished it to be so, Lulu wished it to be so; and these two who had been -so much to each other, and who were so little now, tried, and succeeded -in overcoming a certain embarrassment they felt, and for Lulu's sake, -and not to shadow her happiness, endured each other's presence. - -"Mrs. Winans," he had said one day, when some odd chance had left them -alone together in Lulu's parlor, "it is an unpleasant thing to speak -of. Yet I have always wanted to tell you how, from the very depths of -my soul, I am sorry that any folly of mine has brought upon you so much -unmerited suffering. Can you ever forgive me?" - -She glanced up at him from the small bit of embroidery that occupied -her glancing white fingers, her eyes a thought bluer for the moment -with the stirring of the still waters that flowed through the dim -fields of memory and the pure young spirit came up a moment to look at -him through those serene orbs. - -"Can I, yes," she answered, gravely. "When I pray, nightly, that Our -Father will forgive me my trespasses as I forgive those who trespass -against me, my heart is free from ill-feeling toward any one. How else -could I expect to be forgiven?" - -And Lulu's entrance, with a song on her happy lips, had put an end to -the conversation that was never again revived between them. - -And days, and weeks, and months went by and brought June. In that month -the wedding was to be, and Lulu and her mother, beginning to realize -the parting that loomed up so close before them, began to make April -weather in the home that had been all sunshine. - -But "time does not stop for tears." The fateful day came when Lulu, -in her white silk dress, and floating vail and orange blossoms, stood -before the altar and took on her sweet lips the vow to be faithful -until death do us part, and, as in a dream, she was whirled back to her -home to the wedding reception and breakfast, after which she was to -depart on that European tour. - -Is there any need to describe it all? Do not all wedding breakfasts -look and taste very nearly alike? Do not all our dear "five hundred -friends" say the same agreeable things when they congratulate us? Is -it not to be supposed that the bridal reception of the charming Miss -Clendenon and the elegant Bruce Conway is _comme il faut_? We are not -good at describing such things, dear reader, so we will leave it all to -your imagination, which we know will do it ample justice. We want to -follow Captain Clendenon and Mrs. Winans as they slowly promenade the -back parlor where the wedding gifts are displayed for the pleasure of -the wedding guests. - -"Now, is not that an exquisite set of bronzes?" she is saying, with her -hand lightly touching his arm. "And that silver tea-service from the -Bernards--is it not superb? That statuette I have never seen equaled. -Ah, see! there is the gift of Major Fontenay, that ice-cream set in -silver, lined with gold. That is generous in him--is it not, poor -fellow?" - -"To my mind, that exquisitely bound Bible is the prettiest thing in the -collection," he returns. - -"It is beautiful. That is from her Sunday-school children. This ruby -necklace, set in gold and pearls, is from Mrs. Conway----" - -"And this?" he touches a sandal-wood jewel casket, satin-lined, -and holding a pair of slender dead-gold bracelets with monograms -exquisitely wrought in diamonds--"this is----" - -"My gift to Lulu." - -"Oh! they are beautiful, as are all the things. But, do you know, Mrs. -Winans, that I am so old-fashioned in my ideas that I do not approve -of the habit of making wedding presents--no, I do not mean where -friendship or love prompts the gift--but the indiscriminate practice, -you understand!" - -"You are right; but in the case of your sister, Captain Clendenon, I -think that the most of her very pretty collection of wedding gifts are -the spontaneous expressions of genuine affection and respect. Lulu is -very much beloved among her circle of friends." - -"You, at least," he says, reflectively, "will miss her greatly. You -have so long honored her by your preference for her society and -companionship. How will you fill up the long months of her absence?" - -She sighs softly. - -"She has left me a precious charge--all her poor to look after, her -heathen fund, her sewing society--much that has been her sole charge -heretofore, and which I fear may be but imperfectly fulfilled by me. -Still I will do my best." - -"You always do your best, I think, in all that you undertake," says -this loyal heart. - -"Whatever is worth doing at all is worth doing well, I think," she -answers, with a faint flush evoked by his quiet meed of praise. - -Then people begin to flock in to look at the wedding gifts and at Grace -Winans, who is the loveliest thing of all. She has on a wedding garment -in the shape of pale violet silk, with overdress of cool muslin, -trimmed with Valenciennes, white kid gloves and turquois ornaments -set in pearls. The wedding guests wore their bonnets, and she had a -flimsy affair of white lace studded with pansies on the top of her -graceful head. Her dress was somewhat after the style of fashionable -half-mourning. She had selected it purposely because not knowing if she -were wife or widow a more showy attire was repugnant to her feelings. - -"This," she said, touching a costly little prayer-book with golden -cross, monogram, and clasps. "This, I fancy, is from you." - -"You are right," he answered. "This set of the poets so handsomely -bound is from mother. But are you not weary of looking at all these -things? Shall we not go and find Lulu?" - -"By the way," she says, idly, as they slowly pass through the politely -staring throng, exchanging frequent nods and smiles with acquaintances, -and occasional compliments with more intimate friends, "there is a -report--have you heard it?--from Memphis, Tennessee--of the _yellow -fever_." - -"Yes," he answers, slowly. "I have heard the faintest rumor of it," -looking down with a cloud in his clear eyes at the fair inscrutable -face. "Are you worried about it? I remember to have heard you say your -nearest relatives were there." - -"Only distant relatives," she answers, composedly. "I am no more -worried about them than about the other inhabitants of that city. My -relatives had little sympathy for me in the days of my bereavement and -destitution, and though one may overlook and forgive such things one -does not easily forget." - -He was looking at her all the time she was speaking, though her eyes -had not lifted to his. On the sweet, outwardly serene face he saw the -impress of a growing purpose. What it was he dared not whisper to his -own heart. - -The cloud only leaves his brow when they reach his radiant sister. She -stands beneath a bridal arch of fragrant white blossoms, roses, and -lilies, and orange blossoms dropping their pendant leaves down over -her head as she receives the congratulations and adieus of her friends -before she goes to change her bridal robe for the traveling-dress in -which she is to start for the other shores of the Atlantic. Conway is -beside her, nonchalant, smiling, handsome, very well satisfied with -himself and the world. As his glance falls on the fair, pensive face of -the Senator's deserted wife, the smile forsakes his lip, one sigh is -given to the memory of "what might have been," and turning again to his -young bride, the past is put away from him forever, and he is content. - -And presently the new-made Mrs. Conway flits up stairs with Gracie, to -array herself in the sober gray traveling-silk. - -Grace parts the misty folds of the bridal vail and kisses the -pearl-fair forehead. - -"Oh, darling!" she whispers, "may God be very good to you--may he bless -you in your union with the man of your choice." - -Lulu's tears, always lying near the surface, begin to flow. - -"Oh, Gracie," she says, suddenly, "if all should not be as we fear--if -I should chance to see your husband on the shores of Europe, may I tell -him--remember he has suffered so much--may I tell him that you take -back the words you said in the first agony of your baby's loss?" - -"What was it I said?" asked Gracie, with soft surprise. - -"Do you not remember the night you were taken ill, when you were half -delirious, and he came to see you----" - -"_Did_ he come to see me?" interrupts Grace. - -"Certainly--don't you remember? You were half delirious, and you -fancied your husband had hidden away the child to worry you, and you -said----" - -"I said--oh, what did I say, Lulu?" breathed the listener, impatiently. - -Lulu stopped short, looking, in surprise, at the other. - -"Gracie, is it possible that you were entirely delirious, and that you -recollect nothing of your husband's visit and your refusal to see him?" - -"This is the first I ever knew of it," said Grace, sadly; "but go on, -Lulu, and tell me, please, what I did say." - -"You refused to see him, though entreated to do so by Mrs. Conway; you -said you would never see him--never, never--unless he came with the -missing child in his arms." - -"Did I say all that, Lulu?" asked Grace, in repentant surprise. - -"All that, and more. You said that if he attempted to enter your room -you would spring from the window--and he was in the parlor; he heard -every word from your own lips." - -"Oh, Lulu, I must have been delirious; I remember nothing of all -that, and it has, perhaps, kept him from me all the time," came in -a moan from the unhappy young creature, as she leaned against the -toilet-table, with one hand clasping her heart. - -Lulu caught up a bottle of eau-de-cologne and showered the fine, -fragrant spray over the white face, just as Mrs. Clendenon hurried in. - -"My darling, do you know you should have been down stairs before this -time--hurry, do." - -And too much absorbed in her own grief to observe the ill-concealed -agitation of Mrs. Winans, or attributing it to her sorrow at losing -Lulu, the mother assisted the young bride to change her white silk for -her traveling one. - -Then for one moment Lulu flung herself in passionate tears on her -friend's breast, with a hundred incoherent injunctions and promises, -from which she was disturbed by the entrance of Mrs. Conway, radiantly -announcing that the carriage waited and they had no time to spare. And -Lulu, lingering only for a blessing from her mother's lips, a prayerful -"God bless you" from her brother's, went forth with hope on her path, -love in her heart, and the sunshine on her head, to the new life she -had chosen. - -When the last guest had departed, the "banquet fled, the garland dead," -Mrs. Winans removed her bonnet, and spent the remainder of the day in -diverting the sad mother whose heart was aching at the loss of her -youngest darling. - -"It seems as if all the sunshine had gone out of the house with her," -Willard said, sadly, to Grace, as they stood looking together at the -deserted bridal arch that seemed drooping and fading, as if in grief -for the absent head over which it had lately blossomed. "I fancied we -should keep our baby with us always in the dear home nest; but she -is gone, so soon--a wife before I had realized she had passed the -boundaries of childhood." - -"The months of absence will pass away very quickly," she said, gently, -trying to comfort him as best she could, "and you will have her back -with you." - -"I don't know," he said, with a half-sob in his manly voice, lifting -a long, trailing spray of white blossoms that an hour before he had -seen resting against the dear brown head of his sister, touching it -tenderly to his lips--"I don't know, Mrs. Winans. I don't believe in -presentiments--I am not at all superstitious--but to-day, when I kissed -my sister's lips in farewell, a chill crept through my frame, a voice, -that seemed as clear and distinct as any human voice, seemed to whisper -in my ear, '_Never again on this side of eternity!_' _What_ did it -mean?" - -Ah! Willard Clendenon--that the fleshly vail that separates your -pure spirit from the angels is so clear that a gleam of your near -immortality glimmered through! - - - - -CHAPTER XXI. - -"RUE." - - "Hope, cheated too often when life's in its spring, - From the bosom that nursed it forever takes wing; - And memory comes as its promises fade - To brood o'er the havoc that passion has made." - - --C. F. HOFFMAN. - - -The gossips of Norfolk are weary of wondering at the vagaries of the -Hon. Mrs. Winans. They admired and envied her very much in the _role_ -of queen of beauty and fashion; they are simply amazed when she glides -before the foot-lights in the garb of a "ministering angel." - -When she first began to aid and assist Miss Clendenon in her charitable -undertakings they thought it only natural, in view of the sudden -intimacy that had sprung up between the two, that the one should be -found wherever the other was. But it was quite a different thing when -the Senator's lovely and exclusive wife assumed those duties alone. -Society, wounded by her quiet and almost complete withdrawal from its -fascinations, set it down to a lack of a new sensation, and predicted -that as soon as the novelty wore out Mrs. Winans would seek some newer -and fresher hobby. - -But quietly oblivious to it all, the young lady went her way, smoothing -with gentle advice and over thoughtful bounty many a thorny path where -poverty walked falteringly on, lending a patient and sympathetic -ear to the grievous complaints that rose from the homes of want and -distress, strangely gentle to all little children, careful of their -needs, thoughtful of their future, dropping the gentle promises of -Christ along darkened paths barren of such precious seeds, and often -society was scandalized by the not unfrequent sight of the young lady -taking out for an airing on the cool, breezy suburbs or sea-shore some -puny child or ailing adult from the haunts of poverty and making them -comfortable by her side in that darling little phaeton that all Norfolk -ran to their windows to gaze at when it passed. - -Miss Lavinia Story--dear old spinster!--undertook to interview the lady -on the subject of her going so far in alleviating the "fancied wants -and grievances of those wretched poor trash," and was fairly driven -from the field when Mrs. Winans, with a glimmer of mischief under her -black lashes and a very serious voice asked her if her leisure would -admit of her joining the sewing society, of which she was manager. - -"For indeed," said Grace, half playfully, half in earnest, "we are in -want of workers very badly. A lady from 'our set' volunteered very -kindly last week as operator on the sewing-machine I donated the -society, and they are so dreadfully in want of basters. Surely, Miss -Lavinia, you will enlist as baster--that, if not more. Think of the -poor people who need clothing so badly, and say 'yes.'" - -"I? I would not spoil _my_ eyesight with everlasting stitching for poor -people, who are always lazy and shiftless, and smell of onions," said -Miss Story, loftily. - -"I beg your pardon, I am sure," smoothly returned her merciless -tormentor. "I forgot that your eyesight cannot be as strong as it once -was. Perhaps you would not object to becoming a visitor of the sick, or -something of that sort." - -"My eyesight not as strong as it once was?" returned the lady, in -perceptible anger. "You mistake very much, Mrs. Winans; my eyes are as -young as they ever were" (she was fifty at the least), "but I can use -them to better advantage than by wearing them out in the service of -your sewing circle." - -"It _is_ rather tedious--this endless stitching," confessed the zealous -advocate of the sewing society, "but perhaps you would not object to -taking a little sewing at home occasionally--little dresses or aprons, -and such trifling things for the little folks--even that would be a -help to us in the present limited number of workers--won't you try to -help us out that much?" - -Miss Lavinia adjusted her spectacles on her high Roman nose, the better -to annihilate with a flashing glance the persistent young lady whom -she felt dimly persuaded in her own mind was "laughing in her sleeve -at her," and Mrs. Winans, with the pearly edge of one little tooth -repressing the smile that wanted to dimple on her lip, sat demurely -expectant. - -"I did not call on you, Mrs. Winans, I assure you, to solicit a -situation as seamstress. I never allow myself to be brought into -personal contact with the filthy and odious poor. I do my share in -taking care of them by contributing to the regular poor fund of the -church." - -"Oh, indeed?" said the listener, still unmoved and demure. "I am sure -it is very considerate of you and very comforting to the poor people -besides." - -"I think, my dear," answered Miss Lavinia, pacified by the rather -equivocal compliment, "that it would be better for you to confine -yourself to the same plan. Let those who have not our refined and -delicate instincts minister to those of the poor class who are really -deserving of pity and of assistance, while we can do our part just as -well by placing our contributions in the hands of some worthy person -who can undertake its proper distribution. It hardly looks well for a -lady of your standing to be brought into such frequent and familiar -intercourse with the vulgar and low people to be met in the homes of -poverty, if you will pardon such plain speaking from an old friend and -well-wisher." - -"And so you will not undertake to help us sew," persisted the placid -little tormentor, as the rustle of Miss Story's brown silk flounces -announced impending departure. - -"No, indeed--quite out of the question," answered the irate spinster, -as she hurried indignantly away to report to her gossips, and only -sorry that it was out of her power or that of any of her peers to -socially ostracize the self-possessed young advocate of the sewing -society. - -"The most persistent little woman you ever saw," she said. "I fairly -thought she'd have coaxed me into that low sewing-circle, or sent me -away with a bundle of poor children's rags to mend. I won't undertake -to advise her again in a hurry; and my advice to all of her friends is -to let her alone. She is 'joined to her idols.'" - -And the "persistent little woman" ran up stairs and jotted down a -spirited account of her pleasant sparring with the spinster in her -friendly, even sympathetic journal--the dear little book to which was -confided the gentle thoughts of her pure young heart. - -"Dear little book," she murmured, softly fluttering the scented leaves -and glancing here and there at little detatched jottings in her pretty -Italian text, "how many of my thoughts, nay hopes and griefs are -recorded here." - -Now and then a smile dawns in her blue eyes, and anon her sweet lip -quivers as the written record of a joy or grief meets her gaze. Looking -back over earlier years, the pleasures of the fleeting hours, the -dawning hopes of maidenhood, the deep, wild sorrow of her slighted -love, she suddenly pauses, her finger between the pages, and says to -herself with a half-sad smile: - -"And this was about the time when I fancied myself a poet. Why have I -not torn this out long ago? I wonder why I have kept this foolish rhyme -all these years?" - -In soft, murmuring tones she read it aloud, a faint inflection of scorn -running through her low, musical voice: - - RUE! - - "Violets in the spring - You gave me with the dew-tears in their eyes, - I said, in faint surprise: - Love do not tearful omens round them cling? - You answered: Pure as dew - Our new-born love, no omens sad have we - From morning violets, save that love shall be - Forever fresh and new. - - "Roses, through summer's scope, - You brought me when the violets were flown-- - Flushed, like the dawn--full-blown; - No folded leaves where hope could 'live in hope,' - I moaned; the perfume soon departs; - The scented leaves fall from the thorny stem. - You said: But they were sun-kissed, child, what then? - The fragrance lingers yet within our hearts. - - "November's 'flying gold' - Drives through the 'ruined woodlands,' drift on drift, - Nor violet nor rose, your later gift, - Love's foolish, sun-kissed story has been told. - Dear, were you false or true? - I know not--only this: Love had its blight; - Nor dews nor fragrance fill my heart to-night-- - But only--_Rue_! - - "OCEAN VIEW, November, 1866." - -"Rue!" she repeats, with a low, bitter laugh; "ah, me, I have been -gathering a harvest of _rue_ all my life." - -The leaves fall together over the sorrowful, girlish rhyme, the book -drops from her hand, and, sighing, she throws herself down on a low -divan of cushioned pale blue silk, looking idly out of the open window -at the evening sky glowing with the opalescent hues of a summer's -sunset. - -"I daresay it's quite natural to make a dunce of one's self once in -a life-time," she muses, "and I presume there is a practical era in -every one's life. All the same I wish it had never come to me; the -consequences have followed me through life." - -Her small hand goes up to her throat, touching the spring of the -pearl-studded locket she wears there. The lid flying open shows the -dusk glory of Paul Winans' pictured face smiling on her through a mist -of her own tears. - -"And I drove you from me. Lulu says I did it; spoke my own doom with -fever-parched, delirious lips! _Why_ did they believe me? Why did they -not tell me of it long ago? They should have known I could not have -been so cruel! All this time you have thought I hated you, all this -time I have thought you hated me! You _did_ come; you did want to make -peace with your wronged though willful wife. It is joy to know that -though too late for hope even. Why did I go to Washington? Why did I -go in defiance of his will? All might have been well with us ere this. -Both of them--the darling baby and the darling father--might have -been mine now. Instead--oh, Heaven, Paul dearest, you will never know -now--unless, perchance, you are in heaven--how deeply, how devotedly I -loved you! Who is to blame? Ah, me! It is all _rue_!" - -A moment her lips trembled against the pictured face, then she shuts it -with a snap, and lies with closed eyes and compressed lips, thinking -deeply and intensely, as "hearts too much alone" always think. But with -the passing moments her sudden heart-ache softens a little. Rousing -herself she walks over to the window, saying, with a faint, fluttering -sigh: - -"Ah, well! 'Fate is above us all.'" - -How sweet the air is! The salt breeze catches the odor of the -mignonette in her window, and wafts it to her, lifting the soft tresses -from her aching temples with its scented breath, and with the sublime -association that there is in some faint flower perfumes and grief, the -bitter leaven at her heart swells again with all the painful luxury of -sorrow. - -"I am so weary of it all--life's daily treadmill round! What is it -worth? How is it endurable when love is lost to us?" - -Ah! poor child! Love is not all of life. When love is lost life's cares -and duties still remain. We _must_ endure it. Well for us that God's -love is over all. - -Some thought like this calms the seething waves of passion in her -heart. She picks up her journal from the floor where it had fallen, -and listlessly tears out the page that holds the simple rhyme of her -girlhood's folly. Leaning on the window she takes it daintily between -her fingers and tears it into tiny bits that scatter like snow-flakes -down on the graveled path of the garden below. - -"Loved by two," she says, musingly. "What was Bruce Conway's love -worth, I wonder? Or Paul Winans' either, for that matter? The one -fickle, unstable, the other jealous, proud, unbending as Lucifer! Not -quite my ideal of perfect love, either one of them! After all, what is -any man's love worth, I wonder, that it should blight a woman's life?" - -Loved by three she might have said, but she did not know. How much the -fleshly vail between our spirits hides from our finite eyes. How often -and often a purer, better, stronger love than we have ever known is -laid in silence at our feet, over which we walk blinded and never know -the truth. - -And yet by some odd chance, nay, rather unconscious prescience, she -thinks of Willard Clendenon, recalling his words on the day of his -sister's marriage: - -"Never again on this side of eternity." - -"What did it mean?" she mused aloud. "It was strange at the least. I -trust no harm will come to Lulu, little darling. She is still well and -happy, or at least her letters say so." And drawing from her pocket a -letter lately received from Lulu, she ran over its contents again with -all a woman's innocent pleasure in re-reading letters. - -"How happy she seems," a faint smile curving the perfect lips; "and how -devoted is Mr. Conway; how her innocent, joyous, loving heart mirrors -itself in her letters! Sunshine, roses, honeymoon, bliss. Ah, me," with -a light sigh chasing the smile away, "how evanescent are all things -new and sweet; like that sky late aglow with the radiance of day, now -darkening with the shades of twilight." - -Norah comes in to light the gas, and is gently motioned away. - -"Not yet, Norah. I have a fancy to sit in the twilight. You can come in -later." - -And Norah goes obediently. - -Then she incloses the perfumed pink epistle in the dainty envelope -bearing the monogram of the newly made wife, and laying it aside -rests her head upon her hands, watching with dusk pained eyes the -shadows that darken over the sky and over her golden head as she -sits alone, her heart on fire with that keenest refinement of human -suffering--"remembering happier things." All her brightness, all -her love lies behind her in the past, in the green land of memory. -The present holds no joy, the future no promise. The dimness of -uncertainty, of doubt, of suspense, lies darkly on the present hour, -the hopelessness of hope clouds the future. Heaven seems so far away -as she lifts her mournful gaze to the purple, mysterious twilight -sky, life seems so long as she remembers how young she is, and what -possibilities for length of days lie before her. What wonder that her -brave, long-tried strength fails her a little, that her sensitive -spirit quails momentarily, and the angel of the human breast, hope, - - "Comes back with worn and wounded wing, - To die upon the heart she could not cheer." - - - - -CHAPTER XXII. - -ON TIPTOE FOR A FLIGHT. - - "If it be a sin to love thee, - Then my soul is deeply dyed - With a stain more dark than crimson, - That hath all the world defied; - For it holds thine image nearer - Than all else this earth hath given, - And regarded thee as dearer - Almost than its hopes of heaven!" - - -A period of three months goes by after Lulu's marriage, swiftly to -those who are gone, slowly to those who remain. Mrs. Clendenon, in -quiet household employments, in prayerful study of her Bible, fills up -the aching void of her daughter's absence. Grace, in pursuance of the -charge Lulu has left her, finds much of her leisure employed in scenes -and undertakings that gently divert her mind from her own troubles to -those of others. Under it all, the wound that time has only seared -lies hidden, as near as she can hide it, from the probing of careless -fingers. - -Captain Clendenon shuts himself up in his dusty law office with his -red-tape documents and law books. Of late he has covered himself with -glory in the winning of a difficult suit at law, and Norfolk is loud -in praise of the one-armed soldier, the maimed hero who has grown into -such an erudite lawyer. He takes the adulation very quietly. "The -time has passed when he sighed for praise." A shadow lies darkly on -his life--the shadow of Grace Winans' unhappiness. In that strong, -pure heart of his, no thought of himself, no selfish wish for his own -happiness ever intrudes. Had peace folded his white wings over her fair -head she would long ago have become to his high, honorable heart, a -thing apart from his life, as something fair and lovely that was dead; -and with her safe in the shelter of another man's love he would have -tutored his heart to forget her. As it was, when he looked on the fair -face that was to him but a reflex of the saintly soul within, his whole -soul yearned over her; his love, which had in it more of heaven than -earth, infolded her within the sphere of its own idolizing influence. -She became to him, not the fair, fascinating, but sometimes faulty -mortal woman the world saw in her, but rather a goddess, a creature -most like - - "That ethereal flower-- - No more a fabled wonder-- - That builds in air its azure bower, - And floats the starlight under. - Too pure to touch our sinful earth, - Too human yet for heaven, - Half-way it has its glorious birth, - With no root to be riven." - -Such worship as this has always been the attribute of the purest, most -unselfish love. - -He sat alone in his office one day, his head bowed idly over -Blackstone, his thoughts far away, when the sharp grating of wheels -on the street outside startled him into rising and glancing out of -the window. _She_ was springing from her little pony-phaeton, and in -another moment came flitting down the steps and into the room like a -ray of sunshine. - -"Moping, are you?" she asked with her head on one side, and a glimmer -of her old-time jaunty grace. - -"Not exactly," he answered, cheerfully bowing over the gloved hand she -extended with frank sweetness--"only thinking; our life is too short -for moping." - -She might have added: - - "I myself must mix with action - Lest I wither by despair." - -"Are you busy?" glancing, as he offered her a seat, at the table -littered with books and papers. - -"Not at all; I am at your service," he replied. - -"I want to talk to you; but--excuse me--your office looks so -gloomy--makes me _blue_," she shivered a little. "Is your mother quite -well?" - -"Quite well--thanks. Will you not go up and see her?--or shall I bring -her down?" - -"Thanks--neither, I believe. I saw her a day or two since, and I am -come on business now. Captain Clendenon, is it quite _comme il faut_ -for a lady to ask you to take a drive? If so, my phaeton is at your -service. I want to ask you something; I cannot here. Some of your -tiresome clients may disturb me." - -The soft appealing eyes and voice work their will with this -infatuated man. If she had asked him to lie down under the hoofs -of her cream-white ponies and be trampled on, I fear he would have -done it. A man's love for a woman sometimes rises above its ordinary -ridiculousness into the sublimity of pathos, and how little it is for -him to consent to sit by her side and hear those magical tones, perhaps -give some advice to that ever restless young spirit. He calls his -office boy, takes his hat, and goes. Presently they are rolling over -one of Norfolk's handsome drives, and censorious people, looking from -their windows, exchange opinions that Mrs. Winans is "rather fast." - - "Alas! for the rarity - Of Christian charity - Under the sun." - -"I have been over to Portsmouth this morning," she says, in the midst -of their small talk. "It is rather a nice little jaunt over there on -the ferry-boat over the Elizabeth River--don't you think so?" - -"Yes, I do think so; had you a nice time?" - -"I don't know--yes, I suppose so. I visited some friends, and we went -down and saw the beautiful grounds of the Naval Hospital--what a -handsome building it is! The pride of Portsmouth. And what romantic -grounds! I sat there a long time and looked at the sea." - -To what is all this idle chatter leading, he wonders, seeing perfectly -well with what consummate art she is leading the subject whither she -wants it to go. - -"We were all talking of that dreadful fever at Memphis," she resumes, -constrainedly. "What swift progress it is making! The newspaper -accounts of it are just terrible--heart-rending, indeed; and they are -so fearfully in need of nurses and money. I have sent them a small -sum--a mere 'drop in the ocean.'" - -"So have I," he answers, white to the lips. He knows what is coming. - -She gives him a flitting glance, fanning herself energetically the -while. A useless proceeding, for the sea-breeze, that flutters her fair -curls like golden banners, is simply delicious. - -"I heard something about you over there," she ventures. "One always has -to go abroad to hear news from home, you know." - -"Very likely; you can hear anything you want to over there. Little -Portsmouth is the hot bed of gossip," he answers, smiling dryly. - -"Well, for that matter, all places are," she returns. "But you do not -ask what it was that I heard?" - -"Is it worth the repetition?" - -"I think so, but you are not interested, I see;" and she leans back -with some displeasure--a pout on the curve of her crimson lip. - -He rouses himself, all penitence and forced gallantry. - -"I beg your pardon, Mrs. Winans. Any remark from yourself cannot fail -to be interesting." - -"I heard--I wonder you did not tell me of it yourself--that you and -your mother are going next week to Memphis to help to nurse the fever -patients." - -No answer. - -"Is this true?" - -Her eyes are seeking his. He looks down on her, answering constrainedly: - -"It is perfectly true, Mrs. Winans." - -"Why have you kept it from me?" in some wonder this. - -"We intended telling you, of course, before we left; but it is -such a harrowing topic--the sufferings of those poor yellow fever -patients--that I have hesitated in mentioning it to you." - -"Was that your only reason?" - -No answer. He cannot bear to speak. - -"I know," she resumes, "why you have not told me. You feared I would -want to go, too, and so kept it from me in your good, true, brotherly -love; but in this case," smiling willfully up into his disturbed face, -"your painstaking has been 'Love's Labor Lost.' I have been making my -mind up to go all along, and now I mean to make the trip there under -the protection of your mother and yourself--if you will permit me." - -The murder is out. She looks away from him demurely, waiting his reply. -It comes, full of a shocked horror. - -"Mrs. Winans, are you mad?" - -"Not at all; are you? I am quite as strong, quite as able to help those -poor sufferers, as your mother is; and yet you do not think she is -mad," she answers, half offended. - -"No; for she has had the fever, and so have I. You have heard of the -fever that desolated Norfolk and Portsmouth in 1855? Mother and I -both had the _yellow fever_ in its worst form then, so you see it is -perfectly safe and our bounden duty for us to go to the relief of those -poor sufferers. But you are frail and delicate yourself. You have -never had the fever; you are not acclimated there, and would only fall -a victim. It would be a sort of disguised suicide, for you would be -voluntarily rushing into the jaws of death." - -"No, no," she answered, half bitterly. "I bear a charmed life. Nothing -seems to check the current of my doomed existence. And you forget that -Memphis is my native home. I lived there the first sixteen years of -my life, and am quite accustomed to the peculiar climate. And what if -death should come? It would only be to 'leave all disappointment, care, -and sorrow, and be at rest forever,' But no, I shall not die. I have -borne illness, suffering, sorrow--everything that breaks the heart, -and snaps the frail threads of existence--yet here I am still, quite -healthy, passably rosy, and willing to devote my strength to those -who need it. I have been 'through the fire,' Captain Clendenon, and -really," with a subdued smile, "I think I am _fireproof_." - -"Some are refined in the furnace of affliction," he repeats, very -gently. - -Soothed by the softly spoken words, she asks, timidly: - -"Tell me if I may go under your care?" - -"If you _will_ go, I shall be most happy to take all the annoyances of -travel off your hands; but, little friend, think better of it, and give -up this mad, quixotic scheme." - -"Do you think it such a mad scheme?" she asks, mortified and -humiliated. "Do you think I could do no good to those poor suffering -victims who need gentle womanly tending so badly? Do you think the -sacrifice of my ease, and luxury, and comfort, would count as nothing -with Christ? If you think this, Captain Clendenon, tell me so frankly, -and I will remain in Norfolk--not otherwise." - -There is nothing for him to urge against this appeal. She touches up -the ponies with her slim, little whip, lightly and impatiently. They -are off, like the wind, for home again, as he makes the last appeal he -can think of to this indomitable young spirit. - -"News may come of your husband at any time, Mrs. Winans. Were you -to go, and he, returning, found you gone, he would be most bitterly -displeased. Remember, it was his express desire that you should remain -in your home here. I beg your pardon, if I seem persistent, but it -is only through friendly interest in you and yours that I take the -liberty." - -"Ah! but," a gleam of triumph lightening under her black lashes, "you -forget that I have my husband's consent to visit Memphis? You brought -it to me. I'm returning to the home of my childhood. I am not violating -any command or desire of his." - -"Once more," he says, desperately "let me beg you not to think, for -the sake of all those who love you, all you love, of going to that -plague-stricken city." - -"It is useless." She set her lips firmly. "I am sorry to refuse -your request, but the call of duty I must obey. My arrangements are -all made. Norah is to stay and to take care of my home. My visit to -Portsmouth this morning was for the purpose of leaving Lulu's precious -charge in the hands of a dear Christian friend; so," trying to win him -to smile by an affected lightness, "you may tell your mother she will -have company she did not anticipate, though you were so ungallant as to -persuade me not to come." - -"When a woman will she will." - -She carried her point against the entreaties of all her friends, -and in less than two weeks, three dusty travelers--weary in body, -but very strong in prayerful resolves and hopes--were entered as -assistants in nursing in one of the crowded hospitals of the desolated, -plague-stricken city of Memphis. - - - - -CHAPTER XXIII. - -IN MEMPHIS. - - - "To be found untired, - Watching the stars out by the bed of pain, - With a pale cheek, and yet a brow inspired, - And a true heart of hope, though hope be vain, - Meekly to bear with wrong, to cheer decay, - And, oh! to love through all things--therefore pray." - - --HEMANS. - -One of Grace's first acts after reaching Memphis was to inquire for -her relatives, whom she had not seen, and but seldom heard from, since -leaving Memphis, in her sixteenth year, to make her own way in the hard -world. Not that she owed them much affection, or any gratitude--only -the natural respect and remembrance of kinship induced her to seek -them out. But her efforts were not crowned with success, for she -learned that they had been among the first of the native families to -flee the city at the approach of the pestilence, and Grace was greatly -disappointed thereat. - -For a few weeks her voluntarily assumed duties were arduous and -embarrassing in the extreme. Mrs. Clendenon and Willard, having had -the fever themselves, and having been witnesses of its ravages in their -own city, entered at once with confidence and experience on the task of -caring for the poor victims who filled the hospitals, and even private -houses. To Grace it was all new, and strange, and terrible, and though -her will was strong, her sensitive spirit quailed at the horrors she -daily saw, so unused was she to these scenes, and so diffident of her -own powers for service, that she half doubted her abilities, and was, -for a time, overwhelmed by the feeling which we have all experienced at -times of willingness to perform duties from which we are deterred by -ignorance, or lacking self-confidence. - -But this feeling was not long suffered to deter her from usefulness. -Laborers were too sadly needed in the terrible harvest of death, and -as her increasing familiarity with the details of the awful disease -rendered her more efficient, she became an invaluable nurse to the -patients, and a reliable and prized aid to the physician of the ward -where she was placed. - -The Clendenons were in the same hospital, and in the performance of -their several duties the trio often met, when a sweet sentence of -praise from the lady, and a cheerful word of encouragement from him, -went far to keep up her flagging spirits, and stimulate her to renewed -exertions. - -Her strong, healthy constitution upheld her well in those days; for the -fiery scourge rolled on and on like some great prairie fire, hourly -seizing fresh victims, and erecting its everlasting monuments in the -long rows of new-made graves in the cemeteries that swelled upward, -side by side, close and many, like the green billows of old ocean, save -that they gave back no solemn, tolling dirge, to tell where youth and -love, hope and beauty, old age and infancy, joy and sorrow, went down -to the stillness of the grave. - -In the universal suffering, the universal grief of those around her, -the anguish of those bereaved of whole families, of friends the young -lady put away her own griefs from her heart, and threw herself, heart, -and soul, and body, into her work; and, though her two friends were -doing precisely the same thing, they pleaded, expostulated, scolded and -warned in turn. - -All in vain; for a rock would have flown from "its firm base" as soon -as Grace Winans from the position she has taken. She had, as she -pathetically protested, so little to live for, that she was all the -more willing and desirous to sacrifice herself for the sake of saving -others who had more ties in life than herself. - -"That is a poor policy," Mrs. Clendenon argued, stoutly. "You have no -right to commit a moral suicide, however few your ties in life may be. -Your life is God's, and He has some plan in life for you, or He would -not have placed you on the earth." - -"And this may have been His plan for me, then," persisted the candidate -for self-sacrificial honors. "He may have meant for me to take up this -very cross. I have been brought to it by many subtle windings." - -"I do not know," Mrs. Clendenon answers, with sweet seriousness, "that -God gives it to us to fathom exactly what are His plans for us. I think -He means for us to take proper care of the health and strength He has -given us, and to do His will in all things as near as we can, leaving -to Him the fulfillment of the grand plan under which, by His fixed -laws, every created being is a necessary and responsible agent." - -And Grace answers only by silence and sadness. For Captain Clendenon, -he has long ceased to argue the question with her willful spirit, -having very implicit confidence in the grand old adage that - - "When a woman will, she will--you may depend on't! - And when she won't, she won't--and there's an end on't!" - -"Oddly enough," he says, trying to change the conversation from its -theological turn, "I met with an old comrade to-day--one of the boys -from my company--a Virginian, and one of the bravest in the regiment. -He had drifted down here since the war." - -"What was he doing to-day? Nursing in the hospital?" Mrs. Clendenon -asks, curiously. - -"_Dying_ in the hospital," the captain answers, with a break in his -clear voice. "Down with the fever--died this evening." - -"Poor boy!" his mother said, pityingly, and a tear in the younger -woman's eye echoed it. - -"The worst of it is," the captain goes on, "he leaves a poor, timid -little wife, and two rosebuds of children--the mother as childish and -fragile as the rest." - -"And what is to become of her?" query both ladies at once. - -"I want to send her home to her relatives. She was a Richmond girl. -I remember meeting her there once when my company passed through on -its way to Manassas. Arthur, poor fellow! invited me to call on her. -She was then a charming little creature, very different from the -heart-broken little thing she is now. Mother, I would like it very -much if you would call on her to-morrow, and try to comfort her a -little--she seems so friendless and desolate. You, too, Mrs. Winans, if -you can conveniently do so." - -Both ladies expressed a desire to visit the bereaved young widow and -her little ones. - -"Then I will take you down there to-morrow," he said, gratefully, with -a smile in his honest gray eyes. "Ah! how it pains me to meet, as one -must frequently do here, old friends and old faces, only to close the -lids over eyes that have been so dear! Poor Arthur! poor boy! but it is -one of the sad inevitable experiences of life." - -"Grace, my love," Mrs. Clendenon went on to say, "I have Doctor -Constant's authority to forbid your appearance at the hospital -to-night. He says you are so unremitting in attentions to his patients -that there is danger of your falling sick, and our losing your valuable -services altogether, if you persist in taking no rest at all." - -In the quiet hotel at which all three are registered they are seated at -supper in the small private dining-room. The round, neatly appointed -table at which they sit is loaded with luxuries to which they are -doing but meager justice. It is late in October, and a small fire -burns on the hearth, tempering the slightly chilly air, and lending -cheerfulness to the room. Bright gas-light glimmers down on crimson -carpets, curtains, chairs, that throw into vivid relief the faces of -our three friends--pale all of them, and thin, earnest, and full of -thoughtful gravity. It is no child's play, this nursing the yellow -fever patients in houses and hospitals. These faces bear the impress -of sleepless nights and days, and the silver threads on the elder -lady's brow are more abundant, while in Captain Clendenon's curly brown -locks one or two snow-flakes from the winter of care, not time, are -distinctly visible. There are slight hollows in the smooth cheeks of -Grace, faint blue circles around her large eyes, and no color at all in -her face except the vivid line of her red lips. She looks like a little -Quakeress in the pale gray dress that clings closely about the slight -figure, relieved only by white frills at throat and wrists. All her -bright hair is drawn back in soft waves from her face, and confined at -the back with a silver arrow that lets it fall in a soft, bright mass -of natural curls below the waist--lovely still, though pallid, sad, and -worn; and in this quiet nun-like garb, with a beauty that grows daily -less earthly, and more heavenly. - -The pensive shade of a smile dwells on her lip a moment as she looks -across on Mrs. Clendenon in mute rebellion at the physician's mandate. - -"You need not look defiance," the lady returns, "for I shall add my -commands to those of Doctor Constant. This is Thursday, and you have -not slept a single night this week, while I have had two nights' rest. -My dear child, listen to reason, and remain at the hotel to-night and -get some sleep." - -"I am not so very tired. I can hold out to watch to-night." - -"Oh, of course! and die at your post. What can you be thinking of, -Grace? Flesh and blood cannot stand such a strain. You must take -needful rest, or you will fall a victim to the fever through sheer -exhaustion." - -"I cannot rest," she answered, wearily. "It is a physical impossibility -for me to take rest and sleep when I know how many are suffering and -needing attention that I could render them." - -"There are others who will supply your place," interposed the captain. -"I learned this evening that you were at two death-beds to-day. This, -I think, is too much strain on your nervous system, and did I dare I -should add my commands to the rest that you remain in your room and -take needful repose to-night. As it is, I can only offer my earnest -entreaties." - -The resolute look on her face relaxes a little. She looks up to this -quiet, clear-headed captain much as Lulu does; has great respect for -his judgment; wishes sometimes that he were her brother, too--that her -tired young heart might rest against his brave and grand strength. He -sees the half-relenting in her face, and desists for fear of saying too -much. - -"Two death-beds!" Mrs. Clendenon echoes. "Why, Allie Winters was only -taken ill last night, and you have been nursing her ever since. Gracie, -you don't mean to tell me that Allie Winters is dead--so soon!" - -"She died this evening with her arms about my neck," Grace answers, in -low, pained tones. "She had the fever in its worst and most rapid form." - -"Ah, me, that poor child! So young, so sweet, so beautiful, and -scarcely sixteen, I think. Was it not hard to be taken away from this -bright world so young?" sighed Mrs. Clendenon. - -"Well, opinions may differ as to that," Mrs. Winans answers, half -bitterly. "The most fervent prayer I breathed over her still form was -one of thankfulness that she was taken perhaps from 'evil to come.' She -was the last of the family. They have all died with the fever. She was -poor, and almost friendless--beautiful--and beauty is often the cause -of poverty. Had she lived her life must inevitably have been a sad one. -Better, perhaps, that she is at rest." - -She pushes back her chair, folds her napkin, and makes a motion to -rise. Mrs. Clendenon remonstrates. - -"Gracie, you have not taken a mouthful, child." - -"No, but I have taken my cocoa. Andrew," sinking listlessly back into -her chair, and speaking to the white-aproned waiter, "you may give me -another cup." - -"There seems to be no abatement of the fever?" she says, -interrogatively, to the captain, as she balances her spoon on the edge -of her cup. - -"On the contrary," his grave face growing graver, "the number of -victims is daily augmented." - -Her grieved sigh is echoed by Mrs. Clendenon's as they rise from the -table. The next moment a sharp rap sounds at the door. Andrew opens it, -admitting Doctor Constant himself--fine-looking, noble, with the snows -of sixty earnest winters on his head and on the beautiful beard flowing -over his breast--genial, cheerful, gentle, as a physician should always -be--he makes a bow to our three friends, but declines to be seated at -all. - -"I have but a moment. I came out of my rounds to make sure that Mrs. -Winans does not go out to-night," and as an eager remonstrance formed -itself on her lip, he said, resolutely: "It is no use; you must not -think of going. It is imperative that you should sleep. You are not -more than half alive now." - -"But, doctor, there are so many who need me," she says, with a last -endeavor to go. - -"Others can take your place. We had new and fresh nurses to come -in to-day. Pardon me if I appear persistent, madam, but I was your -mother's family physician, and thoroughly understood her condition. -Your own resembles it in a high degree, and I warn you that you have -stood as much as you can without rest. You are your own mistress, of -course, and can do as you please; but if you go to-night you are very -apt to fall from exhaustion." - -"Very well," she answers, wearily, as if not caring to contest the -point longer. "Since I do not wish to commit suicide, I will stay at -home and rest to-night." - -"That is right. Your nervous system is disordered, and needs -recuperation. You will feel better to-morrow, and may come back to the -hospital. As for Mrs. Clendenon and the captain, they may come back -to-night." - -She does not really know how tired she is until she goes up to her room -and throws herself on the lounge, face downward, like a weary child, -to rest. But, exhausted as she is, it is hours before she sleeps. -Nervous temperaments like hers are not heavy sleepers. After long -seasons of wakefulness she finds it almost impossible to regain the -habit of natural repose. Now she lies quite still, every tense nerve -quivering with weariness, but with eyelids that seem forced open by -some intangible power, and busy, active brain that repeats all the -exciting scenes of the past week. When twelve o'clock sounds sharply on -the still of the night she rises, chilled and unrefreshed, and crouches -over the dying fire that has smoldered into ashes on the hearth long -since. She looks down at it vacantly, with a passing thought that it -is like her life, from which the sunshine and brightness have faded -long since, leaving only the chill whiteness of despair. Often in still -moments like these her young heart rises in half angry bitterness, and -beats against the bars of life, longing to be free. "Only half alive," -Dr. Constant had said to her, and patient and long-suffering as she -was, I fear it had sent a half-thrill of joy to her bosom. Life held -so little for her, was so full of repressed agony and pathos, pressed -down its heavy crosses so reluctantly on her fair young shoulders, -and sometimes even the love of God failed to fill up that empty heart -that hungered, as every human soul must, while bounded in human frame, -for human, mortal, tangible love. Resignation to her fate she tried -sedulously to cultivate, and succeeded generally. Only in hours like -this, when oppressed with a sense of her great loneliness, the past -rushed over her, with all its sweet and bitter memories, and was put -away from her thoughts with uncontrollable rebellion against--_what_ -she scarcely dared speak, since a higher power than mortal ruled the -affairs of her destiny. - -"God help me!" she murmured, as, pushing up a window-sash, she leaned -out and looked at the quiet city of Memphis lying under the starry -midnight sky, silent save for the occasional rumble of wheels in the -distance telling the watcher that the work of death still went grimly -on--the dead being hustled out of the way to make room for the sick and -dying. - -The chilly night air, the cold white glimmer of the moon and stars, -cooled the feverish blood that throbbed in her temples, a soft awe -crept into her heart--the deep, all-pervading presence of God's -infinity; and as she shut down the window and went back to the lounge, -her pained, half-bitter retrospections were overflowed by something of -that "peace which passeth all understanding." - -Sleep fell on her very softly--a deep, refreshing slumber--from which -only the morning sunshine aroused her. She rose with renewed energy for -her labor of love, and kept at her post for weeks afterward, with only -occasional seasons of rest and sleep. Her superb organism kept her up -through it all, aided and abetted by her unfaltering will. Through it -all there came no tidings of her husband or child. Letters came often -from the absentees in Europe, but without mention of either, and Grace -began to feel herself a widow indeed. - -The Clendenons, too, were indefatigable in their exertions for the -victims of the fever. They were always devoted and earnest in their -efforts, and kept a watchful care, too, over Grace, whose zeal and -willingness often outran her strength and power of endurance. - -Mrs. Clendenon's gentle, placid old face began to look many months -older, but it was in Willard that the greatest change was perceptible. -His cheerful spirit never flagged, but gradually the two women who -loved him each in her own way, began to see that the tall, fine form -grew thinner and slighter, the face paler, and a trifle more serious, -while silver threads began to sprinkle themselves thickly in his dark -hair. He was wearing out his strong young manhood in hard, unremitting -toil, and leaving his constitution enfeebled and open to the attacks of -disease. The idolizing heart of his mother noted all this with secret -alarm, and she would fain have persuaded him to retire from his arduous -duties and return to Norfolk. His gentle but firm refusal checked all -allusion to the matter, and, as the weeks wore away, and the fever -began to lose its hold and abate its virulence, she hoped that they -would soon be released from their wearing tasks, and allowed time for -recuperation. - -The contents of a letter received more than two months previous from -Lulu weighed also on Mrs. Clendenon's mind, and she could not, as she -often did in other matters, seek the sympathy of Grace, as Lulu had -desired she should not know anything of it. So Mrs. Clendenon bore her -burden of anxiety all alone, save for Him who carries the half of all -our burdens. - - - - -CHAPTER XXIV. - -LULU TO HER MOTHER. - - "Even to the delicacy of their hands - There was resemblance, such as true blood wears." - - --BYRON. - - - "LONDON, ENG., November 16th, 1873. - - "Dear, dearest mother, whom I long so much to see that it seems - impossible to write you, sitting tamely here, all that is in my - heart, how can I express my grief and anxiety at hearing that you - are still in that terribly stricken city, and that there seems no - present prospect of the abatement of that awful epidemic? Oh, - mother, how could you go--you, and brother Willie, and Grace--all - my dear ones--when you knew what anguish it must cause me in my - absence? I know that it is right--know that it is a Christian's - bounden duty to comfort the sick and afflicted, and I honor you each - in my whole heart for such noble, self-sacrificing devotion as you - are displaying. But oh, how my heart is aching with the dread! Oh, - mother, what if one of you should be taken away? Oh, I cannot, cannot - bear the thought! And yet a strange _presentiment_ weighs on me - that on one or the other of your dear faces I will never look again - in this world. Bruce, dear Bruce, who is so kind and loving to me, - tells me these are only homesick fancies. Aunt Conway persuades me - that I am only nervous and depressed, and that my fancies are but - the result of my feeble condition of health just now; but am certain - that it is more than all this. I pray that it may not be, but my - whole heart sinks with a sense of prophetic dread, and if Bruce would - only consent, I should at once return to the United States and join - you in Memphis; but neither he nor Aunt Conway will listen to such - a thing--their plans being made to spend a portion of the winter in - Italy, certainly--and the chances are I shall not see you, my sweet - mamma, until spring, though how I shall survive our separation so - long I cannot tell. I miss you--oh, I miss you so much! and I have - wished for you so often! Even dear Bruce cannot make up to me my loss - in you. - - "I suppose it is not necessary to describe all that I have seen - in this great city, as Brother Willie's letters from here were so - exhaustive and entertaining that they have left no new field of - description on which to waste my spare stock of adjectives. - - "But, mother, I am so demure and quiet in my tastes that I care very - little for all the glories of the old world, and I pine to go to you, - and to be at home again, much to my dear husband's chagrin, who is - disappointed that I do not enter with more enthusiasm into all the - beauties of art and nature that we have seen in our travels. Mrs. - Conway applauds everything, but I believe it is the fashion to do - so--is it not? and _she_ is _so_ fashionable, you know! I honestly - appreciate all I see that is appreciable, I think, but not with the - keen pleasure of most travelers. I am a home-bird, I suppose--one of - the little timid brown birds that hop contentedly about the quiet - garden paths, and though having wings, do not care to fly. - - "'The world of the affections is my world, - Not that of man's ambition.'" - - "Mother, do you remember when I wrote you from Brighton, England, - about the little child in whom I was so strangely interested?--whose - great resemblance to some one of whom I could not think puzzled and - interested me so? Well, I have met again with the little darling - here, and have visited his grandparents at their elegant villa - just outside the city--very old people, I believe I wrote you they - were--and devoted to this child, who is, so I am told, the last - of the race and name, which has been in its time a very noble, as - it is now, a very old one. They are very wealthy and very proud - people--the old baronet, Sir Robert Willoughby, the haughtiest old - aristocrat I ever met. His wife, Lady Marguerite, is of a sweeter, - gentler type, yet, I fancy, very much in awe of her stern lord. - Little Earle--the heir of this great wealth and proud title--is one - of the most interesting little children I ever saw--wonderfully - bright and intelligent. He has taken a flattering liking to me, and - is always, when in my company, exerting his childish powers for my - entertainment. We visit quite frequently--"charming people," Aunt - Conway calls them. The little boy prattles to me, sometimes in an - incoherent sort of fashion, of his mother, who seems to be a sort of - faint, almost forgotten image in his baby mind. He is not more than - three or four years old--well grown for his age. I have observed - (Bruce, teasing fellow, says I have only fancied it,) that they do - not like to hear the little boy speak of his mother. They never - mention her themselves, and I have been given to understand that she - is dead, but they have never said so in plain terms. The little one - does not at all resemble his grandparents. - - "I commented casually on this to Lady Marguerite one day, and she - answered no, that, to her great regret, the child resembled his - father's family most, and she colored, and looked so annoyed, that - I felt sorry I had said so much, and tried to mend the matter by - saying that he had more the appearance of an American child than an - English one. She flushed even deeper than before, and said that - she had never been in America, and never to her knowledge seen an - American child, but that Earle's parents were in that country at the - time of his birth, and remained there some time after, which probably - accounted for his American look--she did not know. We said no more - on the subject, but the slight mystery that seemed to surround it - made me think of it all the more; and, mother, now I will tell you - why I have taken such an interest in the child. Aunt Conway and Bruce - jestingly declare me a monomaniac on this subject, though they do - not pretend to deny the fact of the likeness, which struck me the - very first time I saw him. Mother, this little baronet that is to - be, this little English child, with his long line of proud ancestry, - his haughty, blue-eyed grandparents, his fragile, blue-eyed mother, - whose picture I have seen in their picture-gallery--this little - dark-eyed boy is enough like Paul and Grace Winans to be the _child - they lost so strangely in Washington two years ago_! He has the - rarely beautiful dark eyes, the dazzling smile of Senator Winans, the - very features, expression, peculiar gestures, and seraphic fairness - of Grace. It was a long time before this united likeness became clear - to me. Then it dawned on me like a flash of lightning, and now I am - continually reminded of dear Grace in the features and expressions - of this little child. It perplexes and worries me, although Bruce - assures me that it can only be one of those accidental resemblances - that we meet sometimes at opposite sides of the world. Can this be - so? It puzzles me, anyhow, and I heartily wish that the missing - Senator--or General Winans he is now, you know--were here. I should - certainly give him a glimpse of little Earle Willoughby (he bears - the name of his grandparents by their wish), who is his living - image, and then we should 'see what we should see.' But it seems - that the prevailing belief in his death must be true for the papers - now speak of it as a settled fact, and give him the most honorable - mention. Poor, poor Grace! how my very heart bleeds at thought of her - bereavement, and her beautiful, unselfish devotion to the cause of - 'suffering, sad humanity.' Dear mother, please do not mention to her - what I have written about the child. She cannot bear to have little - Paul's name mentioned to her, and no wonder, poor, suffering, brave - heart! But, mother, darling, I mean to get at the bottom of the - slight mystery that enshrouds those people. If I discover anything - worth writing I will mention it in my next letter to you. - - "Aunt Conway and Bruce join me in love to you all. My warmest love to - brother Willie and Grace, to both of whom I shall shortly write. Be - careful of your health, dearest mother, I beg, and write early and - often to your devoted daughter, - - "LULU C. CONWAY." - - - - -CHAPTER XXV. - -THE PATHOS OF A QUIET LIFE. - - "Oh, being of beauty and bliss! seen and known - In the depths of my soul, and possessed there alone! - My days know thee not; and my lips name thee never; - Thy place in my poor life is vacant forever. - We have met; we have parted. No more is recorded - In my annals on earth." - - --FROM LUCILLE. - - -Captain Clendenon is taking an afternoon cigar. - -He has stepped out of the hospital, where, thank God! there are fewer -patients and less need of him now, for a stroll in the fresh air, and -while he meanders down the principal thoroughfare, he lights a Havana -and enjoys his walk. - -In financial panics one sees a crowded thoroughfare, with people -rushing hither and thither, and blockading the banks; in pestilential -panics one sees silent, deserted streets, and dreary, deserted-looking -buildings. This is all that meets Willard's gaze as he stops on the -corner, man-fashion, and looks idly up and down at the occasional -passers-by, for human faces are the exception, not the rule. Now and -then a man goes by, looks hard at him, and nods respectfully. He is -very well known here as the noted Norfolk lawyer who has so nobly -volunteered in the cause of suffering humanity. Not a woman but looks -twice at the tall figure, with its fine military bearing, its handsome -head, set so grandly on its broad shoulders, its empty, pathetic -coat-sleeve pinned across the left breast. - -Old death has been at work here. Those whom he has not mowed down -with his awful scythe have fled, terrified, beyond his present -harvest-field. There are places of business closed--some of whose -owners are abroad in other cities, others of whom are holding commerce -now with the worm and the grave. Here and there a school-house -is closed, the most of whose little pupils have gone to learn of -the angels. It is the dreariness of desolation, and as he puffs -meditatively away, these familiar lines of Hemans come into his -thoughts: - - "Leaves have their time to fall, - And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath, - And stars to set, but all, - Thou hast all seasons for thine own, oh, death! - We know when moons shall wane, - When summer birds from far shall cross the sea, - When autumn's hue shall touch the golden grain-- - But who shall tell us when to look for thee?" - -"A penny for your thoughts, Captain Clendenon," says a fresh, young -voice, and a small hand taps him on the shoulder. - -He turns with a start. One of the dusky-eyed belles of Memphis, with -whom he has a casual acquaintance, has stopped to chat with him--a -tall, handsome young lady in a mannish costume of navy-blue velvet, -double-breasted English walking-jacket, a mannish hat set jauntily on -her black hair, and a set of Grecian features, and large, black eyes. - -His gray eyes light momentarily. - -"Ah! Miss De Vere, this _is_ a pleasure! About the thoughts--they were -not worth your inquiry." - -"I am the best judge of that," and something in her tones, not her -careless words, imply that all his thoughts are precious to her. - -He tosses his cigar away, and turning, asks, politely: - -"Are you out for a stroll? May I walk with you?" - -"Am I out for a stroll? Yes, but on my way home now. You may see me -there with pleasure." - -They walk on together down the quiet street, and her cheek flushes a -warmer red as she chatters softly to him, he rather listening than -talking. It is his way. - -"I thought you were out of the city--at the North," he says, in answer -to some remark. "Your father told me two months ago he meant to take -his family away from the pestilence." - -"And so we were. We have but just gotten back since the fever began to -lose its hold. How brave you were to stay here! Ugh!" she shuddered a -little, "that terrible fever! Do you know people say that you are a -hero?" - -"Do they?" - -A low laugh ripples over his serene, finely cut lips. He wears no -beard, no mustache, and every flitting emotion shows itself about his -mobile mouth. - -She sees a careless sort of surprise on his face now--nothing more. - -"Don't you care for it? It is so pleasant to be praised," she says, in -some wonder. - -"I don't know--is it?" - -"Is it not? Do you mean to say that you attach no value to fame--fame -that is won by good deeds?" - -"I don't know," he answers again, in an absent way. "I might have done -it in my younger days--scarcely now. I like to do good for its own -sake--not for any praise that may follow it." - -"I know--I have heard at least," she stammered, with strange timidity, -"that you lost your arm to--to save another man's life! Is it so, -Captain Clendenon--did you give your arm for his life?" her dusky eyes -kindling with a passionate hero-worship, that is characteristic of -Southern women. - -"Yes, I gave my arm for his life," he says, grimly. "I might as -well have given him my life, for when I buried my left arm on the -battle-field at Chancellorsville I buried with it all the hopes that -make a man's life worth the living." - -"And why?" an unspoken sympathy on her pretty face. "What hopes can -there be that your misfortune can possibly destroy?" - -They turn a corner into a side street, where her home lies, meeting a -group coming toward them, a man with a bright-faced wife clinging to -one arm, a little laughing child by the other hand, and two others -following after. His glance marks them out a moment, then meets hers, -as he quotes, half-sadly: - - "'Domestic happiness! thou only bliss - Of Paradise that has survived the fall.' - -"Miss De Vere, cannot you suppose that a man getting into the 'sere and -yellow leaf'--I am almost six-and-thirty years old--must feel the need -of some 'fair spirit for his minister?' And," his glance falling, hers -following, on his empty sleeve, "what woman could I ask to give herself -to half a man?" - -She slackens her pace to look up at him, in genuine honest astonishment. - -"Captain Clendenon, you have never been so quixotic, so absurdly -chivalrous as to think that any woman would not feel honored to cast -her lot with yours in spite of your honorable misfortune--yes, if you -had lost both your arms in the army as nobly as you have lost one!" - -"Thank you! thank you!" he answers, deeply moved, and seeing the sudden -waves of hot color breaking over the warm Southern beauty of her face, -he looks blindly away and thinks what a noble-hearted girl she is, and -how he has misjudged her in thinking her a fine, fashionable flirt, as -all along he had been doing, when he thought of her at all, which was -but seldom. - -And then they are at the steps of the elegant De Vere mansion, and she -gently invites him to enter. He shakes his head. - -"I thank you; but I will continue my stroll. One gets so little fresh -air indoors, and I have been so confined lately. To-day I am off duty, -and making the most of it. My respects to the family." - -"Oh!" she says, turning, with her foot on the marble step. "May I ask -you one question?" - -"A dozen, if you please," he returned, gallantly. - -"It is only this: It is a current report here that the Hon. Mrs. -Winans, who came down here with your party to help nurse the fever -patients, is, or was, Miss Grace Grey of this city--do you know if this -is true?" lifting eager, inquiring eyes to his face. - -"Yes, it is certainly true," and she sees some sort of a change pass -over his face--what, she cannot fathom. - -"Indeed!" she says, in quick surprise and pleasure. "I knew her -intimately as a child; we were next-door neighbors"--she nods at the -handsome residence standing next to her own, and he looks at it with -tender interest--"and afterward we were in boarding-school together. I -always liked her so much. Will you give her Stella De Vere's love, and -tell her I will come and see her if she will let me?" - -"I certainly will, with pleasure," and they shake hands and say good-by -again, and she runs up the steps of her father's stately home, pausing -in the door-way as he turns away. - -"He _is_ a hero," she says, with a dreamy light in her dark eyes. "How -I _could love_ him, if----" - -She shuts the door, half-sighing, and goes in. - -For him, he walks away, stopping a moment in front of the next-door -house to light a fresh cigar, and glancing at the green grounds, with -their graveled paths, goes away with a fancy in his mind of a fairy -child with violet eyes and golden curls at play beside the marble -fountain under its dashing spray. - -Grace Grey! - -He walks on down the lonely street, his heart full of Grace Grey, not -Grace Winans; full of the child and girl whose light steps have danced -down this street in happier days--not the Senator's sad-eyed wife--he -has no right to think of _her_. But this fairy, winning child, this -innocent, joyous maiden, who grows into shape and life in his loving -imagination--she is his own, his very own, to hold in his "heart of -hearts," to think of, to idealize, to worship. He creates in his own -mind the goddess she was, goes back from the days when he first knew -her to those earlier days when Stella De Vere knew her. Then an idle -remembrance of Stella's praise of him sets him thinking. Was it true? -Would any woman have loved him as well with his one arm as with two? -Would Grace have done it had he tried to win her? For a moment a -half-wish that he had tried, that he had won her for his own idolized -wife, overwhelmed him. - -"She might have been quietly content with me," he thinks. "At least -she should never have known the suffering, the passionate pathos that -darkens her young life now." - -Too late! "Her place in his poor life is vacant for ever," and, as -Grace has said once, he repeats: - -"Fate is above us all." - -He goes back to his visions of the child and maiden again; his heart -thrills with passionate fondness for the happy child, the lovely girl -whose dual lives have merged into the shadowed life of beautiful Grace -Winans. Fancies come and go, the "light that never was on sea nor land" -shining over his mild pictures of what "might have been," and never -opium-eater's visions were fairer than the ideal dreams that go curling -up in the blue, fantastic smoke-wreaths of Captain Clendenon's cigar. - -Sunset drives him to his hotel, chilled and thoughtful. The winter -sunshine, pleasant enough in this southern city, in its declining, has -left a chill in the air that seems to strike to his heart. At the door -he tosses away the remains of that magic cigar and goes up to his room, -where a cheerful fire throws its genial warmth over everything, and -brings out the stale odor of cigar smoke that clings to him. He throws -off his coat, and in his white shirt-sleeves, pours fresh water from -the pitcher into the basin. - -"Phew!" he says, in disgust, "how smoky I am!" pushing back his neat -linen cuff and bending over, in manly fashion, to dip head and hand -into the water; he gives a slight cough, then, gasping, bends lower, -while a crimson stream flows fast from his lips into the crystal water, -turning it all to blood. - -Again and again that slight cough, again and again that warm tide -flowing from his lips--and yet he seems not in the least surprised, not -in the least alarmed, only steadies himself, with his hand pressed on -the edge of the wash-stand, and watches the flowing life-stream, his -face growing white as marble. - -Then the stream thins, grows less and less, and less, and gradually -ceases. Taking up a glass of fresh water he rinses his mouth of -the blood, and standing, looking down at the scarlet flood in the -wash-basin, says thoughtfully, but not fearfully: - -"This is the second time I have done it. I think I will see Dr. -Constant to-morrow." - -A tap at the door. - -"Mother must not _know_," he says, and hurriedly laying a large towel -over the wash-basin, is sitting comfortably in front of his fire when -he calls out: - -"Come in." - -It is Mrs. Clendenon, just come in from the hospital, her gentle face -flushed from walking, a placid smile on her lip. - -"Willard, are you here? Gracie and I have but just come in and missed -you--why, how pale you are--are you sick?" - -"No, not sick. I have but just come in also. I was out walking and came -in chilled--have not thawed out yet." - -"Oh, Willard, my boy!" she cries, in a horrified tone, "what is that?" - -A great spat of blood he had not observed stained his spotless linen -cuff; she turned dead white as she saw it. - -"It is nothing," he answers, with his handkerchief at his lips, but he -draws it away dashed with minute streaks of blood; "sit down, mother, -dear, don't get nervous, don't get excited." - -She is leaning over his chair, her arm around his shoulder, her eyes -full of piteous mother's love and fear fixed on his pale face. - -"My son, what does it mean?" - -"Mother, nothing much. I have only had a slight hemorrhage from the -lungs--from over-exertion, I presume. It is all over now; but to make -all sure I will consult Doctor Constant to-morrow, and I will be more -careful of my health and strength hereafter, I promise you." - -"Oh, I knew you were killing yourself," she wailed; "I knew it!" - -"Don't, mother--don't talk so wildly. It was for the best, I assure -you; it had to come. I shall be very much better after this; Doctor -Constant will tell you so," he says, tenderly, to the wild-eyed mother, -who is white with fear for her boy, and with all a woman's physical -horror at the sight of blood. - -She glances around her vacantly, then suddenly walks across the room, -lifting the towel from the wash-basin. She looks with reeling brain and -dazed eyes on that scarlet tide, and turns on her son a look of awful -horror and anguish--such anguish as a mother's heart can feel--down, -down, down in its fathomless, illimitable depths. He comes forth and -steadies her reeling form with his one arm about her waist, looking -down at her with those earnest, beautiful gray eyes. - -"Oh, mother, don't look so--don't grieve so! I tell you, certainly, I -shall be better after this. I have only lost a little blood. Cheer up, -little mother. Doctor Constant shall give me a tonic, and make it all -right. You won't tell Mrs. Winans? I would rather she did not know. She -would worry over it, too, and there is nothing to alarm either of your -tender hearts." - -He did get better of it, though Doctor Constant shook his head -warningly when he met him still at his labors in the hospital. Grace -knew nothing of it, by his wish, and in February a letter from -Lulu, who had spent a portion of the winter in Italy, filled Mrs. -Clendenon with the same perplexities, doubts, and hopes that agitated -Lulu's heart in her far away home in London, which, with its foggy -atmosphere and chilly rains, made itself peculiarly disagreeable to -the young American lady who pined for the clear, pure atmosphere and -health-giving sea-breeze of her own native home, while she gently -deferred to the wishes of her husband and his aunt, and remained abroad -until it pleased them to turn their faces homeward. - - - - -CHAPTER XXVI. - -LULU TO HER MOTHER. - - "Tis strange but true; for truth is always strange, - Stranger than fiction." --BYRON. - - - "LONDON, ENG., March 20th, 1874. - - "I promised to write you, dear mother if I should discover anything - of interest relating to the little child of whom I wrote you in the - autumn; and thanks to dear Bruce (who pretended not to take any - interest in the matter at all) I have something to write you which, - if nothing more comes of it, is certainly one of the strangest - coincidences that ever happened. Mrs. Conway and Bruce think it can - be only a coincidence, but my hopeful heart whispers that it may be - more. But I will tell you of it, mother dearest, and leave you to - judge for yourself. - - "In the first place, then, my dear Bruce used only to be amused at - my fondness for and interest in the child that bore such marked - resemblance to two of my friends, though he could not but admit the - likeness himself. But after he became convinced, as I was, that there - was some mystery or some secret about the little one's parentage, - he, quite unknown to me (not wishing to arouse hopes that might be - disappointed in the end), set about making inquiries in a quiet and - cautious manner, which brought to light the facts I am about to - relate. - - "I suppose it is hardly necessary I should remind you, mother, that - the Englishwoman, Mrs. Moreland, who stole little Paul Winans from - the hotel in Washington, D. C., and was traced to the steamer that - left for England, told the servant-girl there that she had buried - her husband in New York, as also a little girl and boy one year old, - and that he was the last child of five. You will also remember that - the girl, Annie Grady, and other waiters in the hotel thought that - Mrs. Moreland was not quite right in her mind--that is to say, she - was on the verge of insanity, and it was supposed that, under some - hallucination that the child was her own, she kidnapped little Paul, - and, with a lunatic's proverbial cunning, succeeded in getting away - with him. - - "Now, mother, this is what Bruce has discovered. First, that Sir - Robert and Lady Marguerite Willoughby never had but one child, a fair - and gentle young daughter, who mortally offended them by eloping with - and marrying her drawing-master, a young man with the beauty of a - Greek god and the humble station and sheer poverty which is too often - the birthright of such beauty. For this offense she was disinherited - and exiled forever from the presence of her haughty patrician father. - It is said that the gentle mother would gladly have forgiven the - erring child and made the best of the _mesalliance_, but Sir Robert's - will being law, she had no choice but to abide by it. Secondly, - that the disinherited daughter and her poor and handsome husband - led a precarious existence in London for ten years, during which - time four children were successively born to them and died; all this - time the cruel parents of the willful daughter refusing her appeal - for forgiveness. At the death of the last child the unfortunate but - devoted pair concluded to try their fortune in America, whither - they accordingly went, settling in New York. There another child - was born to them, and fortune, long unpropitious, began to smile - on the loving pair, when the sudden death of the husband left the - timid young mother a widow and a stranger, with a fatherless child. - The shock nearly unsettled her reason, and she waited only for the - burial of her husband before she started for England with her baby, - and on reaching here, presented herself, homeless, friendless, almost - destitute, before her cruel parents, with an ill and fretful babe in - her arms. They would have been inhuman to have turned her away. She - was taken back to their home and hearts, but too late, for she was - barely sane enough to give an incoherent account of her husband's - death in America before her melancholy madness reached such a violent - stage that they were compelled to remove her to a lunatic asylum, - where she still remains, a hopeless maniac. - - "The child, whose dark beauty and lack of resemblance to his mother's - family they attributed to a perfect likeness of its deceased father, - they received into their home and hearts, and formally adopted as - their own, since they two, being really the last of his race, this - child was the only one left to perpetuate the name and title of the - proud Willoughbys. Remorse for the part they acted to their unhappy - daughter leads them to preserve entire silence as to her and the - sad story I have been telling you. All this Bruce learned from one - who is intimate with the family, and, indeed, the story is well - known in London, though they never mention it to strangers. But her - parents, of course, knowing of her life while in New York, have not - the slightest doubt of the little boy being their grandchild, the son - of their daughter, Christine, and her husband, Earle Moreland. You - will remember, mother, that the kidnapper of Grace's little son was - registered at the Washington hotel as Mrs. Earle Moreland. I think - we only need to prove that Mrs. Moreland's child died in New York - to claim this little child of Grace. But I leave you to draw all - inferences, dear mother, and I know that you will agree with me that - there is more than coincidence in the case. - - "All that I have told you Bruce discovered before we went to Italy. - Now that we have returned he intends to push the matter further and - try to get at the truth of the whole affair. I do not yet know what - steps he will take in the matter, but pray with me, my own beloved - mother, that 'the truth may be made manifest,' and that dear, patient - Grace may have her child restored to her, for I feel certain that - this darling little boy, of whom we are all so fond, is her own - child. And, oh! what a pleasure it will be to me to see him restored - to her by any instrumentality of mine. - - "Still I think it best to keep her in ignorance of all this yet - awhile; for uncertainty and suspense on this subject now would be, - I know, more than she could bear; and, besides, we cannot yet know - what the end may be. I will send you further tidings as soon as we - have any. You can tell brother Willie of it all. His clear, prudent - judgment may be of use to us, but he is not to let Grace know. - - "I am almost counting the days, mother, between this and the happy - day that shall bring me to your dear, loving arms again! I miss you - _so_ much, and brother Willie, and dear Gracie, too. - - "I had intended to tell you of my pleasant time at Lady T----'s - reception, my dining at the embassy, and many other interesting - things, which I will have to postpone until my next, as my husband is - now waiting to take me for a drive, and I, as of old, dear mother, am - so fond of driving. How I used to like dear Grace's little phaeton! - - "Bruce and Aunt Conway both join me in love to all, and both are - well, but beginning, I believe, like myself, to feel a little - homesick. - - "My warmest love to dear Gracie and my darling brother Willie, and, - mother, dear, do, do, all of you, take care of your health, and don't - kill yourselves in that awful Memphis, and do not fail to write at - earliest convenience to your - - "Devoted daughter, - - "LULU C. CONWAY." - - - - -CHAPTER XXVII. - -"NEARER MY GOD TO THEE." - - "The heavier cross the easier dying. - Death is a friendlier face to see; - To life's decay one bids defying, - From life's distress one then is free! - Ah! happy he, with all his loss, - Whom God hath set beneath the cross." - - -To Captain Clendenon, who lay tossing on the bed of sickness his mother -had long foreboded, the news that Lulu's letter brought was cheering -in the highest degree. His clear judgment brought him to the same -conclusion as his sister, and had he been well he would have instantly -started for New York to take up the missing links in the old quest for -the lost child of Grace. But just as the fever epidemic had come to an -end, and the three jaded nurses were thinking of a return to Norfolk, -the weakness that had been growing on him for months culminated in an -attack of typhoid fever, that dire enemy of an enfeebled system. He -had lain for two weeks now consumed with fever, tortured with pain, -and inwardly chafing because the two patient women, who had thought -their labors for the sick ended for the season, were now indefatigably -devoted to the task of lightening, as far as mortal power could do, his -intense suffering. - -Doctor Constant came and went with the last days of March, going out -always with a look that Mrs. Clendenon and Grace--who had learned to -read his countenance--felt almost hopeless at seeing. Weeks passed, -and the strange fever that seemed playing "fast and loose" with the -patient--that rises and falls, but never goes--kept its fiery hold -on its victim. His mother was always by his side, mixing medicines, -pouring cooling drinks, watching and noting every fluctuation of the -disease with the grave, sad patience we often note in elderly women -who have grown so used to affliction that they bear it with a fortitude -impossible to younger women like Grace, who fretted and chafed and -grieved at the slow disease that held her friend in its tenacious -grasp. Yet she was only second in her exertions for him to the -mother. It was her small, soft hand that bathed the burning forehead -in sprinkling ice-water and pungent perfume; her hand that fluttered -the grateful palm-leaf fan that kept such fresh and pure air around -the bedside; her hand that was always ready and willing to undertake -anything that promised relief, or even alleviation; her presence that -lent sunshine to the darkened chamber, where the angels of life and -death were striving for Willard Clendenon's soul. - -Pretty Stella De Vere, hearing of his illness, called often to inquire -about him, and sent daily gifts of hot-house flowers and fruits to -tempt the delicate appetite, and in the solitude of her own soul knew -that a dear, dear hope was fading from her life forever. - -Sometimes, when the hot, delirious fever fell, and reason held her -throne against the enemy, the young man's heart ached at the sight -of the pale, worn faces that always wore a cheerful smile for his -waking hours. In the contest that was waging he felt very sure which -would come off conqueror; but with the fortitude which had marked his -life, he kept his opinions to himself, unwilling to grieve his mother -and Grace, and unwilling to hasten Lulu's return on account of the -investigation she was pursuing, much as he longed to see her. One -unsatisfied wish troubled his feverish hours, and lent a wistful light -to his eyes that Grace could not bear to see. Had it pleased God to -restore his health, he would have liked to have gone to London and have -brought back her child to her, that he might have had the pleasure of -reviving hope in her desolate heart. Still it was a comfort to know -that it would almost certainly be brought back to her some time. With -this thought he must content himself, and he did as well as he was able. - -"I am wearing you both out," he said, sadly, one day, to the two who -were trying to hide beneath cheerful smiles the heart-ache which a -recent visit from Doctor Constant had left, his grave face showing his -opinion too plainly. "This long illness, after all you have endured, -is unpardonable in me. Mother, why not have a nurse for me, and allow -yourself and Mrs. Winans some rest?" - -The trembling hand of the gray-haired mother fluttered down like a -blessing on the burning brow of her eldest-born--the son who had always -been a blessing to her from the hour when his baby lips stirred the -mother-love into life within her breast until now, when the hand that -had smoothed her widowed path so gently, lay still and wasted on the -counterpane, never to take up life's burden again. - -"Always unselfish," she answered, in faltering tones. "No, Willie, dear -boy, I cannot delegate to others the dear task of soothing your hours -of pain." - -"Nor can I," supplemented Grace, laying an impulsive, clasping hand on -the thin one that rested outside the counterpane. "I have put myself -in Lulu's place, and it is as a sister that I claim the privilege of -waiting on you." - -"Thanks," he answered, deeply moved, and Mrs. Clendenon, with an -irrepressible sob, went gliding from the room. - -"Oh, about Lulu," she says, with assumed carelessness to hide her real -feelings. "Why is it you won't consent to have your mother send for her -to come on while you are so sick? Don't you want to see her?" - -"Don't I?" a wistful pain in his dark eyes. "Dear little sister Lulu, -how I long to see her I cannot tell you! But why hasten her? She is -coming shortly anyhow. She may be in time to see me; if not, we still -shall meet again some time. She will come to me." - -"Don't talk that way," she says, in distress and pain. "You will get -better as soon as this fever breaks." - -"Or worse," he amends. "You know a crisis must come then, Mrs. Winans, -whether for better or worse, we cannot now tell. But we all know--you, -mother, and the doctor, though you try to hide it from me--that the -indications point to the worst. Yesterday, I had slight hemorrhage from -the lungs again." - -"Don't talk so," she pleads again. "How can any of us--the doctor, -even--tell what will be the result of the crisis? We hope for the best. -Do you not remember how ill I was in Washington with brain fever, and -how Lulu would not let them shave off my long curls? No one thought I -would recover, yet I did. So, I trust, will you." - -"Yes, if it so please God; but I think, Mrs. Winans, that He is going -to be very merciful, and take me to Himself." - -"Going to be very merciful," she repeats, with a grave wonder in -her large eyes, as at something new and strange. She cannot at all -understand how this quiet heart that has always seemed to her so -untouched by any great joy or grief, can be so eagerly content in going -"home." "Why, you do not want to die so young. The world needs good -men like you so much that God will not take you yet! Why, what can you -mean?" - -"Just this, Mrs. Winans," he lifts his honest gray eyes to her -fair face--his fever is falling, and he seems quite cool, though -earnest--"that God, when he puts a life-long sorrow on our hearts, -usually compensates for it by giving us a brief span in which to endure -it. Sorrow like yours, that may be turned into joys again, He lets us -live to bear. Crosses like mine, that may be blessing, but never joy, -He lets one lay down early at the foot of the Great White Throne." - -Sweeping lashes shade her cheeks to hide her great surprise. She asks -nothing of Captain Clendenon's cross, though till now she has never -dreamed of its existence. - -"Some lost love," she guesses, with ready sympathy in her heart, and -answers, sadly: - -"Sorrows like mine can never turn into joys, _mon ami_." - -"They can, they will," he cries, in glad excitement. "I know, I feel, -that one of your lost ones, at least, will be restored to you." - -"Oh! what can you mean?" - -In eager hope she rises, looking down at him with eyes that would fain -read the secret he had almost betrayed. - -"Sit down," he answers, in calmer tones, "and forgive me for startling -you so. I only meant that I felt like this, dear friend; and I do feel -as if the shadows are passing from your life, and that, ere long, all -will be well with you. It is given sometimes, you know, to dying eyes -to see very clearly." - -A flashing drop from her blue eyes falls down upon the hand that still -lies under the soft clasp of hers, and in low tones she answers: - -"Hush, now, you had better not talk any more. I fear you will overtask -your strength. I am going to read some for you." - -And closing his eyes he listens peacefully to the sweet, tremulous -voice that reads the fourteenth chapter of St. John, beginning: - - "Let not your heart be troubled." - -And thus the days pass by, each one stealing a hope from the watcher's -heart, and so many hours from Willard's life. Their patience does not -waver, nor does his quiet courage. He knows that the world is fair -outside, that the Southern sky is blue and bright--that flowers are -blossoming, that birds are singing--knows, too, that all "Creation's -deep musical chorus, unintermitting, goes up into Heaven," and is fain -to go with it. Very bravely and contentedly he breasts the dark waters, -knowing that a strong arm upholds him, even His who said to the ocean's -tumult: - - "Peace, be still!" - -Mrs. Clendenon has written to Lulu that he is ill, but ere that long -delayed letter reaches her his wasted frame may perchance "be out of -pain, his soul be out of prison;" for it is the last of March now, and -Doctor Constant and his consulting physicians think that the fever -is almost broken, and the crisis near at hand. What the result will -be they almost certainly know, but still whisper feeble hope to the -agonized heart of the mother, whose yearning prayer goes up to God that -He will spare her first-born. - -He does not always answer such prayers in the way that seems good to -us. But all the same, He who is Maker of all things, Judge of all -things, judges best for us poor finite reasoners. - - "Who knows the Inscrutable design? - Blessed be He who took and gave-- - Why should your mother, Charles, not mine. - Be weeping o'er her darling's grave?" - -"Why? ah, why?" The answer to such queries we shall find written -in letters of light, perchance, within the pearly gates of the new -Jerusalem. - -Closer and closer yet grew the fond tie between mother and son as -the long days waned to the lovely Southern twilight. Many gentle -conversations blessed the absent sister from whom another letter came -on the third of April, to say that no letters from home had reached her -for a month; so she was still ignorant of that fatal illness her tender -heart had foreboded mouths before. One portion of the letter which -she specially desired her brother to read, he was too ill to see for -several days after its reception. Not until after that night at whose -eve Doctor Constant said sadly to his mother: - -"The fever is gone. It will be decided to-night. We shall know in the -morning." - -And the grave-yard twilight brightened into starry night--the softest, -balmiest Southern night--and three watched by the bedside, for Doctor -Constant came, too, to share that vigil, in the strong, friendly love -he felt for the man who had worked so bravely for the death-stricken in -that doomed city. Hand in hand Gracie and the mother watched, each torn -with the agony of dread, for Grace had taken him into her deep heart as -a dear and faithful brother, and felt that one more pleasure would be -buried for her in Willard Clendenon's early grave. - -So the hours wore on; the mystic midnight came--passed--and in the -morning they _knew_. - -"It is the will of God," Doctor Constant said, holding the weeping -mother's hand fast in his, and speaking in the strong assurance and -resignation of a Christian faith. "He is wise and just, and knows the -right better than you or I, dear friend. Be strong, for the end is -near; the angels will come for him at sunset." - - * * * * * - -"Willard, dear son, there is a letter from your sister that she wished -you to read. Are your eyes strong enough, or shall I read it for you?" - -Lying back among his pillows, as white as they, very much wasted, with -the dark curls waving back from the high, pale brow, and a very quiet -peace in his grave, sweet eyes, Willard takes that letter, and reads -it, slowly and painfully through. - -A dimness crosses his vision as he holds it more than once, and a -remembrance comes to him as he notes the clear, running chirography, -of how his own hand once guided the little fingers that traced these -lines in their first labored efforts to write. But the light of a very -sweet content irradiates his face as he turns its pages. If there is -aught that can heighten the content of these, his dying hours, it is -the story that is told in the pages of his sister's letter--the fair -and tenderly loved young sister whom he will see no more until, as -redeemed souls, they clasp each other on the sunny shores that are -laved by the surf rolling up from the shadowless river. - - "We part forever?--o'er my soul is sadness, - No more the music of thy voice shall glide - Low with deep feeling till a passionate gladness - Thrilled to each tone, and in wild tears replied. - - "'We meet in Paradise!' To hallowed duty - Here with a loyal, a heroic heart, - Bind we our lives--that so divinest beauty - May bless that heaven where naught our souls can part." - - - - -CHAPTER XXVIII. - -LULU TO HER MOTHER. - - "The earth has nothing like a she epistle, - And hardly heaven--because it never ends." --BYRON. - - - "LONDON, ENG., April 3, 1874 - - "Such a joyful thing has happened, dear mother, that I could scarcely - believe my own ears when (now more than two weeks ago) Bruce came in - and told me General Winans was in London, not dead at all, and only - just returned from France, where he had remained until thoroughly - cured of the wound which had left him for dead on the dreadful - battle-field. It seems that he was removed from the field by a poor - and devoted young French soldier, a private in the ranks, and carried - to a secure though humble place, where he was attended by a skillful - old Frenchwoman who dressed his wounds with real surgical skill, and - took care of him through a long period of convalescence, he having - two protracted relapses and nearly losing his life, sure enough. The - reason he was so carefully concealed by the old woman and her nephew, - was through fear of the Germans, as the war ended with that battle, - you remember, and the conquerors had things all their own way. When - quite recovered he rewarded the kind couple and left for London, and - had been here but two days when Bruce met him quite accidentally on - the street. You remember his old feud with Bruce, dear mother? - - "Well, my dear husband tells me that he drew up his fine, princely - figure, and would have passed him without recognition had not Bruce, - with a resolution quite foreign to his easy nature, absolutely - button-holed the proud fellow, and told him, all in a breath, about - his marriage and his bridal-tour, and invited him to see Aunt Conway - and me at our hotel. Of course, in view of Bruce's being married, he - forgave him all he at present held against him, and came, nothing - loth, to see us, and was so delighted--not more than I, though, I - will admit. We kept him all the evening, and heard from his own lips - the romantic story of his joining and fighting in the army of France, - and of his rescue from death by the young French private. I used - to be half afraid of him, but now I think, mother, he is the most - fascinating and admirable gentleman I ever met--you know such an odor - of romance and adventure clings about him. - - "He had a perfect torrent of questions to ask me about Grace. All of - them I answered to the best of my ability, but I was not, I confess, - prepared for his great agony when I told him she was at Memphis, - nursing the fever patients there. Mother, I never saw a human being - turn so pallid as he did. He sat quite still for a while, his hand - pressed to his brow, and only once I heard a sort of moan from - his lips, that sounded like, 'Oh, Grace, you have indeed avenged - yourself!' I hastened to assure him that the fever had abated, and - the nurses were all returning to their homes, and I expected Grace, - as also you and brother Willie, would soon return to Norfolk. And, - mother, I felt so sorry for him that I at once blurted out the story - of the little boy, Earle Willoughby. Oh, such happy, incredulous - excitement I never saw in any one before. Bruce had to tell it all - over to him. I was both laughing and crying during my relation of - it--'silly child!' as Aunt Conway says. Well, he and Bruce entered at - once upon an investigation that has resulted in restoring hope and - happiness to two that I love, and in making warm friends and allies - of those two men who once stood up on Norfolk's outskirts to try to - murder each other, with fiery hatred in their hearts. - - "But time has changed all that. My Bruce is a better man to-day than - he was then, and General Winans is reasonable, less fiery, less - causelessly jealous. Painful experience has taught both of them - wisdom. - - "Oh, mother, it is all as I expected. I am so happy in the happiness - that is to come to our beautiful Grace; my whole heart throbs with - such joyous emotion, - - "'I could laugh out as children laugh - Upon the hills at play.' - - "General Winans and Bruce lost no time in calling on the Willoughbys - to acquaint them with their suspicions. They found them away from - home. Investigation disclosed the fact that they had been summoned - to the mad-house of which their daughter, poor Christine Moreland, - was an inmate. She was very ill, and, as I am told many lunatics - do, recovered sense and reason when the cold hand of death was laid - upon her. She sent for her parents to confess the crime, the full - knowledge and remembrance of which first rushed upon her in that - hour. Bruce and General Winans followed them at once to the asylum, - which was an elegant and private one in high repute. They had no need - to tell their story. Sir Robert and Lady Marguerite knew all, were in - possession of all proofs, and in all their desolation gave back the - child, without an objection, to its rejoicing father. He has his own - again, and lacks but Grace's presence and forgiveness to make him the - happiest man in the world. - - "But, mother, there seems some reactionary power in the laws of this - world that makes the sorrows of some the prices of others' happiness. - The grief of that lonely old pair, so suddenly despoiled of all they - looked on as kindred to them is something mournfully pathetic. Old, - and sad, and worn, as they looked, bending over the costly casket - that held poor little Mrs. Moreland, at the imposing funeral, I shall - never cease to compassionate them. Little Paul, or Earle, as he will - continue to be called, and his father, are their guests now, as they - cannot bear to give up the little boy until the last moment. But Sir - Robert, in his attachment to his little adopted son, intends making - him his sole heir, since the property is not entailed, and there is - no kin. General Winans has promised--with the proviso of his wife's - consent--that his son shall always bear the name of Earle Willoughby - Winans. General Winans has promised to visit them this summer again, - bringing his wife, if she will come. Gracie, you know, mother, has - never been abroad, and General Winans wants to bring her over here - for an extended tour. - - "How my pen has run on jumbling up statements in happy, inextricable - confusion! But, mother, you must all be at home in May, for in May we - shall all be with you once again--oh, joyful thought! - - "But, mother, Gracie, dear, patient, long-suffering darling, is not - to know anything about the child until we come home. General Winans - wishes it. He wants to bring her the joyful tidings in his arms, and - who can blame him? Mrs. Conway thinks it perfectly natural and right, - so does Bruce, so do I--and do not you think so, too, dear mother? - - "The rest of the story--about General Winans being alive, and coming - home so soon--I want her to know. And, mother, I would like brother - Willard to tell her of it. He will take such pleasure in it! was - always so fond of her, so desirous of her happiness, that I want the - good news to come to her from his lips, because I think he would like - it to be so. - - "Dear, dear brother Willie! Mother, I think sometimes that he is not - as happy as the rest of us. He has never said so--it may be only my - fancy--but my heart holds always such a great, unutterable tenderness - for him, and a sort of sacred reverence, as for some unspoken grief - of his. How happy I am that, God willing, I shall soon be folded - again to his dear, loving heart! - - "Mother, do try to induce Gracie to take proper rest and sleep, so - as to regain her bright looks before we got home. She is never less - than lovely, but I want her to be at her best for the eyes of her - husband. For, mother, I do like him so much--indeed, he is a fine, - frank, noble follow, one whom you will like, I know. And he and Bruce - are quite good friends, so that there will be no more envyings, - jealousies, and such like, but the brooding dove of peace over our - hearts and homes, I trust, forever. - - "I am so happy at thought of seeing you all again, and at all that - has happened, that I am too nervous, too glad, or too something, to - write more. Aunt Conway, looking over my shoulder at this, says it is - hysterical. I am not sure it is not; so, mother, dear, try to evolve - order out of this confused chaos of facts, and we will tell the story - more lengthily and intelligibly when we all get home, which, thank - Heaven, will be very soon. I have had no letter from you for a month. - Why is it? - - "With tendered regards to all, I am your devoted daughter, - - "LULU C. CONWAY. - - "P. S.--General Winans would write to Grace, but fears repulse in - spite of my assurances to the contrary. He tells me he must ask - pardon only on his knees for the irreparable suffering he has caused - her gentle spirit. Perhaps he is right--I cannot tell. Once more with - fondest love, _au revoir_. - - "LULU." - - - - -CHAPTER XXIX. - -LAST WORDS. - - "As the bird to its sheltering nest, - When the storm on the hills is abroad. - So his spirit has flown from this world of unrest, - To repose on the bosom of God." - - --W. H. BURLEIGH. - - "Who has not kept some trifling thing, - More prized than jewels rare, - A faded flower, a broken ring, - A tress of golden hair?" - - -"Grace, love, will you go to Willard? He has something to say to you." - -The southern sun hung low in the western heavens; the day was -excessively warm for April, and a little cloud in the sky, "no bigger -than a man's hand," foreboded a shower. Grace turned from the window -where she stood watching the shifting white clouds in the blue sky, and -went back to the room from which she had stolen to hide the bitter pain -at her heart. - -A very solemn silence hung about the white-draped chamber. The window -shutters were open to admit the balmy air, and a slanting ray of -sunshine had stolen in and brightened the top of the sick man's pillow, -touching into golden radiance the dark locks pushed away from his brow. -The wan and wasted face wore a beautiful serenity that was not of -earth. "God's finger" had "touched him" very gently, but palpably. - -Grace bent over him, taking his cold white hand in hers with voiceless -emotion. She had grown so fond of him in a warm, sisterly fashion, -reverenced his brave, pure, upright spirit so highly that it seemed to -her a close and kindred soul was winging its way from her side to the -bright beyond, leaving her more alone and desolate than ever. - -"It is almost over," he said, looking up at her with the reflex of a -smile in the beautiful dark-gray orbs that kept their luminous radiance -to the last. - -She answers not. How can she break with the sounds of human grief the -brooding peace that shines on the pathway of this departing spirit? Her -voice, the sweetest one he will ever hear on this side of eternity, -rises low but firm in one of the old-fashioned hymns the old-fashioned -captain loved: - - "Fear not, I am with thee. O be not dismay'd, - I, I am thy God, and will still give thee aid; - I'll strengthen thee, help thee, and cause thee to stand, - Upheld by my righteous, omnipotent hand. - - "When through the deep waters I call thee to go, - The rivers of grief shall not thee overflow; - For I will be with thee thy troubles to bless, - And sanctify to thee thy deepest distress." - -"Amen," he whispers, lowly. "His rod and His staff they comfort me." - -Silence falls for a brief space. He is gathering his fainting strength -for the words that come slowly from his lips: - -"I have been the bearer to you of unwelcome tidings so often, Mrs. -Winans, that it absolutely pains me now to recall it." - -"Do not recall it," she rejoins, earnestly. "Why should you? The power -overruling such things is higher than we are. You have been a comforter -to me more often than you know of--take only that thought with you." - -He smiles as she re-arranges his pillows, lifting his head so that -his faint breath comes more evenly. The stray end of one of her long -silken curls falls over his breast an instant, and he touches it with a -caressing hand. - -"It is given to me," he answers, "to bear you good tidings before I go. -Your memories of me--will not thus be all unpleasant ones." - -The eager remonstrance forming itself on her lip dies unspoken as he -goes on: - -"You have borne sorrow with a very brave heart, Gracie--have been, as -you once told me, and as I really think, _fireproof_! Can you bear joy -as well?" - -She cannot possibly speak. Something rising in her throat literally -chokes her breath. - -"Little sister, be strong. Lulu has written--well, that your -husband--that Winans is in London, alive and well--and is coming home -to you--in May." - -There is utter silence. She is quiet always, in pain or pleasure. He -sees only her small hands clasping each other close, and her violet -eyes--those unerring indices of her feelings--growing dusk black under -the lashes. But something in the curve of her firm lip does not satisfy -him. He feebly lifts his hand to touch hers. - -"You will not be hard and unforgiving? It is not like Grace Winans -to be that. Promise me that you will forgive him freely! If he acted -wrongly he has suffered for it. It is so easy to go wrong--to err is -human, you know." - -No wavering in that sternly curved red lip shows acquiescence. His -voice rises higher, with a throb of pain in it: - -"'If ye forgive not men their trespasses how shall my Father which is -in heaven forgive you?' Gracie, say 'I promise.'" - -All the sudden hot anger against the husband she had loved--the husband -who had wronged her, and left desolate the sweetest years of her -life--fades out of her heart. The words falter as hollowly from her -lips as from his: - -"I promise." - -"Thanks. May God bless you--and--and make all your future years happy -ones. Mother--call mother, please." - -She puts a little cordial to the panting lips and tearfully obeys. - -On her knees at the other side of the bed the anguished mother listens -to the tender message to the absent sister, the soft words of comfort, -the low farewell. With the last kiss of her son on her lips she buries -her face speechlessly in his pillow. - -"Gracie, will _you_ raise me a little?" - -She bends with one arm under his shoulders, the other across his -breast, and lifts him so that his head rests comfortably against her -shoulder--an easy task, fragile and wearied as she is, for he has -wasted in the grasp of that destroying fever until he is scarcely more -than a wan shadow of himself. - -Bending to look into his face, she asks, softly: - -"Willard, are you easy now?" - -"Quite _easy_," he answers, in a strangely contented tone, with such -a tender caress in it that Grace starts; and as he falters "good-by," -she bends with a sudden impulse and just touches her lips to his in a -pure thrill of sisterly affection and grief; his glance lifts to hers -an instant and remains fixed; a quivering sigh, a scarcely perceptible -shudder, and Willard Clendenon's spirit has flown out of the earthly -heaven of her arms to the higher heaven of his soul. - - * * * * * - -Later, as Grace lay weeping in her own room, the bereaved mother came -gliding in. The soft flame of a wax candle lent a faint, pure light to -the room, and showed her gentle face, free from tears, but seamed with -a touching resignation beautiful in the extreme. What a mournful pathos -lies in the grief of an old face! It is more eloquent than tears, even -as silence can be more eloquent than speech. - -Sitting on the edge of Grace's lounge, gently smoothing the disheveled -curls with her cool fingers, it would seem as if the younger woman were -the mourner, she the comforter. - -"God knows best," she says, with a Christian's strong reliance; and -then she added, pathetically: "And it has come to me suddenly, Gracie, -child, that my poor boy was not, perhaps, quite happy, or, at least, -that some grief, at which we never guessed, was mingled with the quiet -thread of his life." - -A sudden memory of words of his came into Grace's mind. - -"God, when He puts a life-long sorrow on our hearts, usually -compensates for it by giving us a brief span of life in which to endure -it." - -"He deserved to be happy," she answered, warmly. "He was so good, so -true. If any merited perfect content, it was your son." - -"You have seen him sometimes in the whirl of gay society, Grace; did -you ever notice in him any peculiar attachment for a woman?" - -"Never," Grace answered, wondering. "He was courteously polite, -deferentially chivalrous to all, but seemed attached to none in -particular. Why do you ask?" - -"Because I found this--I would show it to none but you, Grace--on his -poor dead heart. It tells its own sad story." - -She put into the young girl's hand a broad, flat gold locket, swinging -by a slight gold chain. Almost as if she touched a coffin-lid, Grace -moved the spring. - -It flew open. No woman's pictured face smiled back at her--the upper -lid had a deeply cut inscription, _February_, 1871--in the other deeper -side lay a dead white rose, its short, thorny stem wound about with a -tangle of pale-gold hair. - -That was all. A sudden memory stirred at Grace's heart, and it all came -back to her. The winter morning in her conservatory at Norfolk--the -white rose on her breast, the tangled, broken curl, the gentle good-by. -Warm flushes of irrepressible color surged up to her pale face, and -with a sudden shocked horror Mrs. Clendenon glanced from the stem of -the withered rose to the soft curls she was mechanically smoothing. - -It was enough. "My poor boy!" she murmured and taking Grace Winans in -her tender, forgiving, motherly arms, kissed her forehead. - -And the tie between the two women never grew less close and warm. The -still form they carried home to Norfolk to lay in its grave was a -mutual sorrowful tie between them forever. - -Stella De Vere came next day, heavily vailed, on her father's arm, and -kissed Captain Clendenon in his coffin, leaving a bouquet of lilies on -his pulseless breast. - -But at early morning's dawn a slender, white-robed form bent over him, -all her golden tresses sweeping over the heart that lay under its -treasured keepsake still, and a sister's pained and tender kiss rested -warmly on the sealed lips whose untold secret had come so strangely -into her keeping. - - - - -CHAPTER XXX. - -"BABY FINGERS, WAXEN TOUCHES." - - "My heart grew softer as I gazed upon - That youthful mother as she soothed to rest, - With a low song, her loved and cherished one, - The bud of promise on her gentle breast; - For 'tis a sight that angel ones above - May stoop to gaze on from their bowers of bliss, - When Innocence upon the breast of Love - Is cradled in a sinful world like this." - - --AMELIA B. WELBY. - - -The telegraphic message that flashed across the ocean to Lulu Conway -with such mournful tidings never reached her; she was already on the -ocean, homeward bound, having just received the letter that told of -Willard's illness at Memphis. It was not until she reached home in May, -and was safely domiciled at Ocean View, that Bruce went into Norfolk -and brought back the sad-faced mother, whose mourning weeds were the -first indication to Lulu of her bitter bereavement. - -Mrs. Winans, too, was domiciled safely at home again, to the great -delight of honest Norah, who had been left in entire charge of the -stately Winans' mansion, and had fretted herself almost to a shadow in -anticipation of losing her mistress by that "fatal yellow fever." Even -now Norah was hardly morally convinced that this were really she. But -as the days went by and the young lady's cheek began to gather color -and roundness again, and her soft, unwonted laugh to wake the sweeping -echoes of the large, silent house, Norah's doubts were displaced by -joyful certainty, and she began to hope that a happier life for the -young lady was presaged by her returning smile and lighter spirits. - -Norah did not know that the hope springing softly in the wife's heart -had such sure foundation to build upon. Grace had withheld from her the -fact that General Winans was coming home in May, and Norah's secret -thoughts and misgivings on this subject were many. - -Poor Norah had never forgiven herself for the loss of the little child -that had been left in its father's care to be so strangely spirited -away. She reproached herself always, in her sensitive soul feeling -herself entirely to blame, and humbly wondering sometimes how Mrs. -Winans could abide the sight of her, much less her daily personal -attendance; while Mrs. Winans herself, always just, gentle, and -considerate to her domestics as to others, never blamed her in the -least, really was fond of the honest creature, and in her sensitive -dread of new faces around, would not have consented to be deprived of -Norah. Indeed, her whole domestic staff had entered her service when -she came as a bride to Senator Winans' new and beautiful home, and were -likely to remain as long as they behaved passably well. She never drew -a tight rein on the poor creatures, following as nearly as she could, -in her daily life, the golden rule. - -A charmingly affectionate billet from Mrs. Conway, the morning -succeeding their return to Ocean View, invited Grace to come out and -see them, as they were all in the deepest grief for the poor, dear -captain--Lulu, indeed, being excessively shocked and ill, with the -physician in close attendance. - -The afternoon found Gracie springing from her phaeton at the gates of -Ocean View, where John, as of old, met her with an adoring smile on his -dark visage. - -"And what is the news with you, John?" she asked, good-naturedly, as -she saw that some unusual news agitated his shallow brain. "What have -you been doing all this time with yourself?" - -"Only jist gittin' married, Miss Grace," he responded, with a -glittering smile, "to jist the prettiest yaller gal ole mis' eber -owned! You 'members of Julie, de chambermaid?" - -Grace supplemented her uncontrollable smile with a solid congratulation -in the shape of a bridal gift from her well-filled porte-monnaie, and -swept on to the house. - -Mrs. Conway and her nephew met her in the hall, both unaffectedly glad -to see her, and in the midst of much whispering, they left Bruce below, -and went up to Lulu's chamber. - -It was so dark in here that Grace, coming directly in from the May -sunshine, at first saw nothing; then, as the gloom cleared away a -little, she distinguished Mrs. Clendenon's black-robed form sitting -near the bed where Lulu lay, white, and still, and grief-stricken, -under the white draperies, with a tiny mite of a girl-baby (prematurely -hurried into the world by grief that oftenest hurries people out of it) -on her arm. - -She stooped and kissed the quivering lips that tried to speak, but -could not; and, indeed, what could either say that breathed aught of -comfort to that shocked and distressed young spirit whose life hung -vibrant on a quivering thread? Silence was perhaps the best comforter -then, and Grace took the little newcomer in her arms, and gently -diverted the young mother's thoughts by tracing vague resemblances to -its handsome parents in the pink and infinitesimal morsel of life--and -what a power there is in a simple baby-life sometimes! - -Lulu's pain was softened momentarily by this idle feminine chatter and -small talk so vigorously maintained, and her tears remained awhile -unwept in their fountains, while now and then a low whisper to her old -friend showed how welcome and appreciated was that visit. - -"If baby lives," she murmured in an undertone to Grace, "we mean to -call it _Grace Willard_, for you--and--brother," with a falter over the -name. "I think he would have liked it so." - -And Mrs. Winans has hard work to keep back her own tears at the -memories that flow while she holds Lulu's mite of a girl in her -arms--thronging memories of her own early days of motherhood--her -nestling baby-boy, her darling so rudely torn from her breast. She is -glad when the afternoon wanes and it is time to go for she cannot bear -to sit there smiling and outwardly content with that heavy, aching -heart. - -"Gracie"--Lulu draws her down to whisper with pink lips against her -ear--"you may expect him--General Winans--at any hour. He gets into -Norfolk to-day. We traveled from Europe together, but he had to stop in -Washington on business, and gets here this evening, I think. Will you -be glad, dear?" - -She cannot answer. Her heart is in a great whirl of painful feelings. -Her baby! She wants _her_ baby! The unhealed wound in the mother-heart -will not be satisfied thus. Lulu's motherhood has thrilled that aching -chord afresh; the years that have passed are but a dream, and she -longs to hold her rosy, laughing boy again to her tortured breast. -Mother-love never grows cold nor dead, mother-grief never can be healed -nor even seared. It "lives eternal" in the mother's breast, the most -exquisite joy, the most exquisite searching pain the human heart can -know. - -"You are going to be so happy," Lulu whispers again in her loving -tone, "and, Gracie," with a fluttering sigh. "I have been so happy in -anticipating your happiness!" - -Touched to the depths of her warm heart Grace bends to leave a tender -kiss on the pale brow, and promising to come again, goes out. Her -adieus are hastily made to the rest, and once more in the little pony -phaeton she skims over the miles between her and home. The bright roses -that blossom on her cheeks are sources of undisguised admiration to -Norah, who opines that Mrs. Winans ought to drive every evening. - -"Never mind about that, Norah," she answers, indifferently; "only -please brush my curls over fresh, and give me a pretty white muslin -dress to wear this evening." - -And Norah obeys in secret wonder at her mistress' suddenly-developed -vanity. - -She is lovely enough to be vain when Norah turns her off her hands as -"finished." All that golden glory of ringlets ripples away from the -fair, pure brow enchantingly, sweeping to her dainty waist in a sweet -girlish fashion. A faint flush covers her cheeks, two stars burn in -the violet depths of her eyes, her lips are unwontedly tender and -sweet. The slim, perfect figure is draped in the misty folds of a snowy -muslin, whose loose sleeves falling open, leave bare her dimpled white -arms and hands. The low frill of misty lace leaves the white curve of -her throat exposed, with no other ornament than a tea-rose budding -against its lovely whiteness. So as lovely as one can fancy Eve, fresh -from the hands of her Creator, the beautiful, unhappy, wronged young -wife passed from her dressing-room and into that lovely shrine of her -garnered griefs that saw what the world saw not--the desolation of that -sensitive heart--the nursery of her loved, lost baby! - - - - -CHAPTER XXXI. - -AT HER FEET. - - "But all in vain, to thought's tumultuous flow - I strive to give the strength of glowing words; - The waves of feeling, tossing to and fro, - In broken music o'er my heart's loose chords, - Give but their fainting echoes from my soul, - As through its silent depths their wild, swift currents roll." - - --AMELIA B. WELBY. - - "Hope's precious pearl in sorrow's cup, - Unmelted at the bottom lay, - To shine again when all drunk up, - The bitterness should pass away." - - --MOORE'S LOVES OF THE ANGELS. - - -She pushes back the sliding-doors between her own room and this one, -letting the soft, clear light flood its dim recesses, opens the windows -admitting the balmy sea breeze and the moonlight. Divided then between -suspense and pain she throws upward the lace canopy and stands leaning -once more over the empty crib that seems to her now more like a grave. - -"It was May, 1870, when we quarreled here over baby's crib," she muses -to herself, "and it seems as if years, and years, and years have gone -over my head--yet this is only May, 1874. Ah! me." - -Did minutes or hours go by? She never knew as she steadied her soul -against the rushing, headlong waves of memory that threatened to engulf -her in its chilling tide. She had put the past away from her in the -excitement of other pursuits and other aims, and now--now it came -back, relentless, remorseless, sweeping her quivering heart-strings, -atuning all her sensitive nerves to pain. - -_Would_ he come? Her helpless heart throbbed a passive denial. _If_ he -came, as Lulu had asked her, _would_ she be glad? - -She scarcely knew. She loved him--loved him with a pure, deep love -that having once given its pledge to last till death, no earthly power -could alter. Hers was a very strong and faithful devotion, but human -resentment must hold a small place in the human breast as long as life -lasts. And Grace Winans, brave, patient, tried by fire as she had been, -was still only mortal. If he came, strengthened, purified, enobled by -suffering and sad experience, they must still meet, she thinks, with -a sharp heart-pang, as over a _grave_--the grave of their child; the -winsome baby whom she sees in fancy at his childish play on the nursery -rug, toddling over the floor, laughing in her arms, catching at her -long, bright curls--what shall she say to the man whose folly has -deprived her of all this joy, when he comes to ask forgiveness? - -"God help me!" she moans, and drops her hopeless head upon her hands. - -"Gracie!" - -Does her heart deceive her ears? She glances shyly up, sees _him_ -standing not three feet from her, and he lifts the little child by his -side, and tossing him into the crib, growing too small for his boyish -proportions, says, wistfully: - -"Gracie, I have brought him back to you to plead his father's cause." - -One long look into the boyish beauty of that face that has not outgrown -its infantile bloom, and her arms are about the little form, though -silent in her joy as in her grief no word escapes her lips. - -"Mamma, my own lovely mamma!" the little boy lisps, tutored thereto no -doubt by his father's wisdom, and her only answer is in raining kisses, -smiles and tears. - -It is so long before she thinks of the silent father that when she -turns it is only to find him kneeling at her feet. On the dusk beauty -of that proud face she sees the sharp traces of suffering, weariness, -almost hopelessness. He takes the small hand that falls passive to her -side, touching it lightly to his feverish lips. - -"Gracie," she hears in the low, strong accents of despair, "there -is nothing I can say for myself--I am at your foot to hear my doom! -Whatever you accord me, it cannot be utter despair, since I am blessed -beyond measure in having looked even once more on your beloved face." - -For minutes she looked down on that bowed head in silence. All the love -and pride, all the good and evil in her nature are warring against each -other. Shall she let the cruel past go by, or shall she--and then, -between her and these tumultuous thoughts, rises the face of one who -is an angel in heaven--her lips part to speak, and close mutely; she -smiles, then slowly falling like the perfuming petals of a great white -rose, her white robes waver to the floor, and her small hand flutters -down on his shoulder, and she is kneeling beside him. - -He looks up with an unspoken prayer of thanksgiving on his mobile -features, and twines strong, loving arms about the form that has fallen -unconscious against his breast. - - * * * * * - -General Winans takes his wife abroad to escape the "nine days wonder." -Norah goes with them, in charge of little Earle, her face glowing like -a miniature sun with delight at the way that "things," in her homely -phraseology "have turned out." - -They visit the adopted grandparents of little Earle, and are _feted_ -and flattered by them, until sweet Grace in the fullness of her own -happiness and her compassion for them, promises them an annual visit. -_Deo volent_, from the small idol of her heart and theirs. - -And, "by the way," in Paris--"dear, delightful Paris"--where they -sojourn awhile, they meet--who else but Major Frank Fontenay, U. S. A., -"doing the honeymoon" in most approved style with the "fair Cordelia, -the banker's heiress." And thus has the susceptible major consoled -himself for Lulu's rejection. It is needless to say that these two -couples uniting, "do" the tour of Europe in the most leisurely and -pleasant manner, and are duly favored with honors and attentions. - -Latest advises from Norfolk report the Winans and Conway families as on -the happiest terms. Rumor says, indeed, that the two young mothers have -prospectively betrothed the fragile little brown-eyed Grace Willard to -the handsome young Earle Willoughby, the hopeful heir of two fortunes. -"However these things be," we leave them to the future, which takes -care of itself. - - * * * * * - -And far down a shady path in one of Norfolk's lovely cemeteries there -rises a low green grave, over which a costly white marble shaft, never -without its daily wreath of fresh white roses through all of summer's -golden days, tapers sadly against the blue sky, telling all who care to -know that - - WILLARD CLENDENON, - AGED 36, - RESTS HERE. - - "Nature doth mourn for thee. There is no need - For man to strike his plaintive lyre and fail, - As fail he must if he attempts thy praise." - - - [THE END] - - - - -[Illustration: Chesapeake & Ohio Ry.] - - "THE RHINE, - THE ALPS, - And the BATTLEFIELD LINE." - - The Famous F.F.V. 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Connecting at New London with Steamers of the Line due New York -=7.00 A. M.= - -Norwich Line trains leave and arrive Kneeland St. Station (Plymouth -Div. N. Y., N. H. & H. Rd.), Boston. - -Tickets, Staterooms on Steamers, and full information at offices, - - Pier 40, North River, NEW YORK. - 3 Old State House, { - Kneeland St. Station (Plymouth { BOSTON. - Div N. Y., N. H. & H. Rd.) { - -W. R. BABCOCK, General Passenger Agent, Boston. - - October 17, 1896. - - - - -TAKE - -[Illustration: THE MK _AND_ T MISSOURI, KANSAS & TEXAS RAILWAY.] - -FOR ALL PRINCIPAL POINTS IN - - MISSOURI, - KANSAS, - INDIAN TERRITORY, - - TEXAS, - MEXICO _AND_ - CALIFORNIA. - - -FREE RECLINING CHAIR CARS ON ALL TRAINS. - - -_THROUGH WAGNER PALACE BUFFET SLEEPING CARS FROM THE_ GREAT LAKES _TO -THE_ GULF OF MEXICO. - - -For further information call on or address your nearest Ticket Agent, or - - =JAMES BARKER=, G. P. & T. A. - St. Louis, Mo. - - - - -THE DELAWARE AND HUDSON RAILROAD. - -[Illustration] - -THE ONLY DIRECT ROUTE TO THE GREAT - -ADIRONDACK MOUNTAINS, - -Lake George, Lake Champlain, Ausable Chasm, the Adirondack Mountains, -Saratoga, Round Lake, Sharon Springs, Cooperstown, Howe's Cave, and -the Celebrated Gravity Railroad between Carbondale and Honesdale, Pa., -present the - -Greatest Combination of Health and Pleasure Resorts in America. - -THE DIRECT LINE TO THE SUPERB SUMMER HOTEL OF THE NORTH, - -"THE HOTEL CHAMPLAIN," - -(Three Miles South of Pittsburgh, on Lake Champlain.) - -THE SHORTEST AND MOST COMFORTABLE ROUTE BETWEEN NEW YORK AND MONTREAL. - - -In Connection with the Erie Railway, the most Picturesque and -Interesting Route between Chicago and Boston. The only through Pullman -Line. - - -Inclose Six Cents in Stamps for Illustrated Guide to - - H. G. YOUNG, - 2d Vice-President. - - J. W. BURDICK, - Gen'l Pass. Agent, Albany, N. Y. - - - - -JUST TO REMIND YOU - -[Illustration: QUEBEC, NEW BRUNSWICK, NOVA SCOTIA, CAPE BRETON - -A - -PERFECT TRACK - -STEAM HEAT - -FROM LOCOMOTIVE - -ELECTRIC LIGHT - -SCENIC ROUTE - -SAFETY, SPEED, COMFORT - -FACTS SPIKED DOWN] - -THAT - -THE INTERCOLONIAL RAILWAY - - _CONNECTING - HALIFAX, ST. JOHN, - SYDNEY AND QUEBEC_ - -IS THE POPULAR ROUTE FOR SUMMER TRAVEL. - -UNEQUALLED FOR MAGNIFICENT SCENERY. - -Starting at QUEBEC it skirts for TWO HUNDRED MILES the MAJESTIC ST. -LAWRENCE RIVER, thence through the FAMOUS LAKE, MOUNTAIN and VALLEY -region of the - -METAPEDIA AND RESTICOUCHE RIVERS - -and on to the WORLD-RENOWNED BRAS D'OR LAKES in Cape Breton. - -Connecting at Point du Chene, N. B., and Picton, N. S., for PRINCE -EDWARD ISLAND, "THE GARDEN OF THE GULF." - -No other railway in America presents to PLEASURE SEEKERS, INVALIDS and -SPORTSMEN so many unrivalled attractions. - -The ONLY ALL RAIL ROUTE between HALIFAX and ST. JOHN. - - =GEO. W. ROBINSON=, Eastern Freight and Passenger Agent, - 128 St. James Street, (opp. St. Lawrence Hall), Montreal. - - =N. WEATHERSTON=, Western Freight and Passenger Agent, - 93 York Street, Rossin House Block, Toronto. - -_Maps, Time Tables and Guide Books free on application._ - - D. POTTINGER, - General Manager. - - JNO. M. LYONS, - General Pass. Agent. - -MONCTON, N. B., CANADA. - - - - -[Illustration] - -LAKE ERIE AND WESTERN RAILROAD, - -Ft. Wayne, Cincinnati, and Louisville Railroad. - - "Natural Gas Route." The Popular Short Line - -BETWEEN - -Peoria, Bloomington, Chicago, St. Louis, Springfield, Lafayette, -Frankfort, Muncie, Portland, Lima, Findlay, Fostoria, Fremont, -Sandusky, Indianapolis, Kokomo, Peru, Rochester, Plymouth, LaPorte, -Michigan City, Ft. Wayne, Hartford, Bluffton, Connorsville, and -Cincinnati, making - -Direct Connections for all Points East, West, North and South. - - -THE ONLY LINE TRAVERSING - -THE GREAT NATURAL GAS AND OIL FIELDS - -Of Ohio and Indiana, giving the patrons of this POPULAR ROUTE an -opportunity to witness the grand sight from the train as they pass -through. Great fields covered with tanks, in which are stored millions -of gallons of oil, NATURAL GAS wells shooting their flames high in the -air, and the most beautiful cities, fairly alive with glass and all -kinds of factories. - -We furnish our patrons with Elegant Reclining Chair Car Seats FREE, on -day trains, and L. E. & W. Palace Sleeping and Parlor Cars, on night -trains, at very reasonable rates. - -Direct connections to and from Cleveland, Buffalo, New York, Boston, -Philadelphia, Baltimore, Pittsburg, Washington, Kansas City, Denver, -Omaha, Portland, San Francisco, and all points in the United States and -Canada. - -This is the popular route with the ladies, on account of its courteous -and accommodating train officials, and with the commercial traveler and -general public for its comforts, quick time and sure connections. - -For any further particulars call on or address any Ticket Agent. - - H. C. PARKER, - Traffic Manager, - INDIANAPOLIS, IND. - - CHAS. F. DALY, - Gen'l Pass. & Tkt. Agt. - - - - -There is little need of emphasizing the FACT that the - -_MAINE CENTRAL RAILROAD_ - -Has been the developer of BAR HARBOR, and has made this incomparable -summer home the - -_Crown of the Atlantic Coast._ - - -_AND MOREOVER_: - - The Natural Wonders of the White Mountains, - The Wierd Grandeur of the Dixville Notch, - The Quaint Ways and Scenes of Quebec, - The Multifarious Attractions of Montreal, - The Elegance of Poland Springs, - The Inexhaustible Fishing of Rangeley, - The Unique Scenery of Moosehead, - The Remarkable Healthfulness of St. Andrews. - -Are all within contact of the ever-lengthening arms of the Maine -Central Railroad. - -[Illustration] - -The Renowned Vacation Line. - -Or, to those who enjoy Ocean Sailing, the statement is made that the -pioneer line along the coast of Maine, making numerous landings at -picturesque points, almost encircling the Island of Mt. Desert is the - -_PORTLAND, MT. DESERT AND MACHIAS STEAMBOAT CO._ - -The New, Large and Luxurious Steamer, "Frank Jones," makes, during the -summer season, two round trips per week between Portland, Rockland, Bar -Harbor and Machiasport. - -Illustrated outlines, details of transportation, and other information -upon application to - - F. E. BOOTHBY, - G. P. and T. Agt. - - GEO. F. EVANS, - Gen. Mgr. - -PORTLAND, ME. - - - - -GISMONDA. - -BY VICTORIEN SARDOU. - -[Illustration] - -_A Novelization of the Celebrated Play_, - -BY A. D. HALL. - -[Illustration] - - -The _New York World_ says: To "dramatize" a novel is common work, -to "novelize" a play comparatively rare. The latest in this line is -"Gismonda," in which Miss Fanny Davenport has been so successful, and -Mr. A. D. Hall has told the story in a very interesting manner. - -_Philadelphia Press_: The story is an interesting one, and with a plot -quite out of the common. - -_Portland Oregonian_: A story that holds the interest. - -_Denver Republican_: The characters are exceedingly well depicted. -"Gismonda" will prove a favorite with the novel-reading public and -become one of the popular books of the season. - -_Philadelphia Item_: The kind of book which one sits over till he has -finished the last word. It is a clever piece of literary work. - -_New Orleans Picayune_: It is needless to say, as it is Sardou's -creation, that it is of intense interest. - -_Buffalo News_: A vivid and powerful story. - -_Brooklyn Eagle_: The amplification into the novel is done by Mr. A. D. -Hall, who presents a full and interesting picture of modern or rather -medieval Greece. The plot is quite original. - -_Milwaukee Journal_: While its situations are dramatic, it is by no -means stagy. - -_Albany Argus_: We have every reason to believe that the excellent -novelization will achieve popularity. - -_Boston Traveler_: It has basis for great interest. - -_Syracuse Herald_: The "novelizator" seems to have acquitted himself -fairly well, and to have transformed the play into a highly romantic -story. - -_Burlington Hawkeye_: Excellent novelization, and without a dull moment -from beginning to end. - -_Detroit Tribune_: As the play has been a success, the novel will -undoubtedly prove one also. The story has a unique plot, and the -characters are well depicted. - -_Albany Times-Union_: No play produced during the past year has made -such an instantaneous and overwhelming success as that of "Gismonda," -and we have every reason to believe that the excellent novelization -will achieve the same measure of popularity. - - * * * * * - - =GISMONDA= is No. 1. of "Drama Series," for sale by all Newsdealers, - or will be sent, on receipt of price, 25 cents, to any address - postpaid, by =STREET & SMITH, 25-31 Rose St., New York=. - - - - -A GENTLEMAN FROM GASCONY. - -BY BICKNELL DUDLEY - - -_OPINIONS OF THE PRESS_: - -_Brooklyn Standard-Union_: A most captivating story. - -_Buffalo Times_: The story is full of dramatic situations. - -_Pittsburgh Leader_: It is a romance well worth reading. - -_Philadelphia Call_: An interesting and graphic story good for -seashore, hammock or mountain. - -_The New York World_: A very charming novel of the romantic school, -full of love and adventure. - -_Albany Times_: "A Gentleman from Gascony," by Bicknell Dudley, is an -exciting and well-told story. - -_The Brooklyn Citizen_: The story is full of fine dramatic situations, -and is never lacking in action. The author has the knack of holding the -reader's attention throughout the entire story. - -_San Francisco Chronicle_: "A Gentleman from Gascony," by Bicknell -Dudley, while it at once recalls our dear old friends of the "Three -Musketeers," is a bright, clever, well-written and entertaining story. -The book gives a graphic and vivid picture of one of the great historic -epochs of France. - -_Rochester Herald_: It is a positive relief to turn from the morbid -fancies of the Madame Grands and the Grant Allens to such a purely -romantic love tale as "A Gentleman from Gascony," by Bicknell Dudley, -which Street & Smith publish in yellow covers, while deserving of -more substantial garb. The story is a formidable rival of Mr. Stanley -Weyman's premier effort. - -_Louisville Courier-Journal_: It is a thoroughly readable novel that -Bicknell Dudley has contributed to current literature under the title -of "A Gentleman from Gascony." Although the title recalls Stanley -Weyman's "Gentleman of France" and the scenes of both stories are laid -in the time of Henri of Navarre, they are not alike, save in the fact -that both the "Gentleman of France," and the "Gentleman from Gascony" -are heroes in the fullest sense of the term from a romantic standpoint. - -_Pittsburgh Press_: Bicknell Dudley has written another story, based -on French history, around the time of the St. Bartholomew massacre. -It is a tale of adventure with a single hero, who embodies in himself -the wile of an Aramis, the strength of a Porthos, and the gallantry of -a D'Artagnan. The adventures of the Chevalier de Puycadere are, even -if impossible in these days, still redolent of the times of knight -errantry, when every good sword won its way and was faithful. Although -he was an illustrious chevalier both in love and war, he was certainly -no chevalier d'industrie, and happily comes out triumphant. - -_The Argus_, Albany, N. Y.: The hero is a young Gascon full of dash and -courage, of good blood but impoverished estates, who comes to Paris to -seek his fortune. This he accomplishes after many adventures, sometimes -by bravado, sometimes by bravery. There is a strong love story between -Gabrielle de Vrissac, a maid of honor to the Queen of Navarre, and the -Gascon, Raoul de Puycadere. Many historical characters figure among -them--Henri of Navarre, Marguerite de Valois, Catherine de Medicis, and -Charles IX., and Admiral Coliquy. The author, Bicknell Dudley, exhibits -literary ability of the very first order. - -_Baltimore American_: "A Gentleman from Gascony," by Bicknell Dudley. -This is a tale of the time of Charles IX., the story opening in the -year 1572. Raoul de Puycadere is of a noble family, but his possessions -have been squandered by his ancestors, and he leaves for Paris to -better his position at court. He arrives on the eve of the massacre -of St. Bartholomew, and his lady love, Gabrielle, having heard of the -contemplated killing, binds a sign on his arm to protect him. By great -good luck he is made equerry to the King of Navarre, and between his -duties as equerry and his lovemaking passes through many exciting -adventures. - - "A Gentleman from Gascony" is No. 11 of the Criterion Series. For - sale by all booksellers and newsdealers, or sent postage free on - receipt of price, fifty cents, by the publishers. - - STREET & SMITH, - 25 to 31 Rose Street, New York. - - - - -Richard Forrest, Bachelor. - -By Clement R. Marley. - - -_PRESS OPINIONS_: - -"'Richard Forrest, Bachelor,' by Clement R. Marley, is a bright and -pleasing story. The love story of the old bachelor, whose heart was so -long steeled to woman's charms, but who succumbs at last to the girl -who attempts to take the life of his best friend because she imagines -he wronged her young and beautiful sister, is prettily told."--_Boston -Times._ - -"'Richard Forrest, Bachelor,' is a story whose narration is simple and -direct, but it has also a freshness and vivacity which add greatly to -its charms. The characters are well drawn."--_Newark Advertiser._ - -"An entertaining story, telling of the capture of the heart of an old -bachelor."--_New York Press._ - -"A story of most unconventional type. The theme is good, and it is well -told. It is all very natural and true to life, and when all is said -and done it lingers in the mind as a pleasant memory."--_Nashville -American._ - -"'Richard Forrest, Bachelor,' is a very pleasing love story, most -entertainingly told."--_Fort Worth Gazette._ - -"The author tells a very unconventional story in 'Richard Forrest, -Bachelor,' and it is very entertaining."--_Brooklyn Eagle._ - -"In 'Richard Forrest, Bachelor,' the author gives a very pretty -story. There are strong religious sentiments, and the author puts -forth some well-defined ideas on the social relations of men and -women."--_Philadelphia Call._ - -"A novel of more than usual interest is 'Richard Forrest, Bachelor.' -It describes scenes and incidents that may be seen and experienced by -any one in similar circumstances. There is much that is strange and -stirring in the story, yet nature is not departed from either in the -incidents or characters introduced."--_Brooklyn Citizen._ - -"A well-told tale of sustained interest and dramatic -character."--_Sacramento Record-Union._ - -"The author tells the story of an old bachelor's love. He gets well -along in life invulnerable to Cupid's dart, and then he detects -the woman of his heart's choice in an attempt upon the life of his -bosom friend, to avenge an imaginary wrong. It is very true to -life."--_Atlanta Journal._ - -"'Richard Forrest, Bachelor,' is after the style of 'Mr. Barnes of New -York,' but is rather better written."--_Hartford Times._ - - * * * * * - - RICHARD FORREST, BACHELOR, is No. 16 of "Criterion Series," for sale - by all Booksellers or Newsdealers or sent postpaid to any address on - receipt of price, 50 cents, by the publishers, - - STREET & SMITH, 25-31 Rose street, New York. - - - - -The Criterion Series. - -[Illustration] - -_Paper Edition, 50 Cents._ - -[Illustration] - - -In presenting this series of high-class novels to the public we take -pride in announcing that every number will be of the highest merit, -printed in the best style on the first quality of paper. This series -will be our best, both as regards contents and appearance. - - 6--Miss Caprice. By the author of Dr. Jack. - 7--Baron Sam. By the author of Dr. Jack. - 8--Monsieur Bob. By the author of Dr. Jack. - 9--The Colonel by Brevet. By the author of Dr. Jack. - 10--Major Matterson of Kentucky. By the author of Dr. Jack. - 11--A Gentleman from Gascony. By Bicknell Dudley. - 12--A Daughter of Delilah. By Robert Lee Tyler. - 13--The Nabob of Singapore. By the author of Dr. Jack. - 14--The Bachelor of the Midway. By the author of Dr. Jack. - 15--None but the Brave. By Robert Lee Tyler. - 16--Richard Forrest, Bachelor. By Clement R. Marley. - 17--Mrs. Bob. By the author of Dr. Jack. - 18--The Great Mogul. By the author of Dr. Jack. - 19--A Yale Man. By Robert Lee Tyler. - 20--The Mission of Poubalov. By Frederick R. Burton. - -For sale by all booksellers and newsdealers, or sent postage free on -receipt of price, by the publishers. - - STREET & SMITH, New York. - - - - -The Shield Series. - -[Illustration] - -_Price, Paper Edition, 25 Cents._ - -[Illustration] - - -Devoted to tales of the detection of crime, by those brave knights of -the shield--the tireless sleuths of the detective force. - - 1--Caught in the toils (new). By Nick Carter. - 2--The Old Detective's Pupil. By Nick Carter. - 3--A Wall Street Haul. By Nick Carter. - 4--The Crime of a Countess. By Nick Carter. - 5--A Titled Counterfeiter. By Nick Carter. - 6--A Woman's Hand. By Nick Carter. - 7--Fighting Against Millions. By Nick Carter. - 8--The Piano Box Mystery. By Nick Carter. - 9--A Stolen Identity. By Nick Carter. - 10--The Great Enigma. By Nick Carter. - 11--The Gambler's Syndicate. By Nick Carter. - 12--Playing a Bold Game. By Nick Carter. - 13--The American Marquis. By Nick Carter. - 14--Tracked Across the Atlantic (new). By Nick Carter. - 15--The Mysterious Mail Robbery (new). By Nick Carter. - 16--Brant Adams, the Emperor of Detectives. By Old Sleuth. - 17--Bruce Angelo, the City Detective. By Old Sleuth. - 18--Van, the Government Detective. By Old Sleuth. - 19--Old Stonewall, the Colorado Detective. By Judson R. Taylor. - 20--The Masked Detective. By Judson R. Taylor. - 21--The Chosen Man. By Judson R. Taylor. - 22--Tom and Jerry. By Judson R. Taylor. - 23--The Swordsman of Warsaw. By Judson R. Taylor. - 24--Detective Bob Bridger. By R. M. Taylor. - 25--The Poker King. By Marline Manly. - 26--Old Specie, the Treasury Detective. By Marline Manly. - 27--The Vestibule Limited Mystery. By Marline Manly. - 28--Caught in the Net. By Emile Gaboriau. - 29--The Champdoce Mystery. By Emile Gaboriau. - 30--The Detective's Dilemma. By Emile Gaboriau. - 31--The Detective's Triumph. By Emile Gaboriau. - 32--The Widow's Lerouge. By Emile Gaboriau. - 33--The Clique of Gold. By Emile Gaboriau. - 34--File 113. By Emile Gaboriau. - 35--A Chance Discovery. By Nick Carter. - 36--A Deposit Vault Puzzle. By Nick Carter. - 37--Evidence by Telephone. By Nick Carter. - 38--The Red Lottery Ticket. By Fortune du Boisgobey. - 39--The Steel Necklace. By Fortune du Boisgobey. - 40--The Convict Colonel. By Fortune du Boisgobey. - 41--(vol. I) The Crime of the Opera House. By Fortune du Boisgobey. - 41--(vol. II) The Crime of the Opera House. By Fortune du Boisgobey. - -For sale by all booksellers and newsdealers, or sent postage free, on -receipt of price, by the publishers. - - STREET & SMITH, - 29 to 31 Rose St., New York. - - - - - THE - - YELLOW KID MAGAZINE - - .. IS .. - - _THE SUCCESS - OF THE - CENTURY_. - -_5c. per copy._ - -Forty-eight pages of delightfully varied reading matter, all of which -is properly and profusely illustrated. It is the climax of latter-day -literature--neither cheap, costly nor cumbrous. - - -HOWARD, AINSLEE & CO., - -_238 William St., New York._ - -If your newsdealer hasn't got it, write to us. - - - - -_What is a Novel Worth?_ - - For years Novels and Magazines have been sold at prices ranging - from 25 to 50 Cents. Improved machinery has decreased the cost of - production, and the Ten Cent Magazine has become an established fact. - Now the Eagle Library is offered to the public as the original first - quality novel at - - -_Ten Cents_ - - The Eagle Library is not composed of poor stories printed on cheap - paper. The Eagle Library is not a collection of unsalable books - offered at reduced prices because they cannot be sold otherwise. The - Eagle Library is not a series of stories by unknown authors. - - -_The Eagle Library_ - - Is offered at Ten Cents because that is the correct modern price for - a first class copyright novel. In these books the type is clear and - legible, the paper of good quality, the stories by the best known - popular authors, the covers of most attractive design and - - -_The Price is Right_ - - Read one and you will want another. - Do not be fooled by inferior books at a higher price. - The Eagle Library is published by - - Street & Smith, New York. - - - - - * * * * * * - - - - -Transcriber's note: - -This story was originally serialized in Street & Smith's _New York -Weekly_ from July 4, 1881 to September 26, 1881. - -Added table of contents. - -Some inconsistent hyphenation (e.g. "chambermaid" vs. "chamber-maid") -has been retained from the original. - -Archaic spellings ("vail", "staid", etc.) retained from the original. - -Several missing periods and a letter 'y' (probably attributable to -light printing) have been added to the "Catalogue" on the inside front -cover. - -Page 14, corrected comma to period after "husband, Senator Winans." - -Page 16, inserted "as" into "cold as death." - -Page 17, corrected "you" to "your" in "your wishes are always mine, -Paul." - -Page 18, added missing close single quote after "I told you so?" - -Page 22, corrected typographical error "peaae" in "domestic peace -and love." - -Page 24, corrected comma to period after "I think I am mad to-night." - -Page 31, added missing close single quote after "when I was a little -child?" - -Page 32, corrected "ole miss'" to "ole mis'" for consistency in 'from -the said "ole mis'."' Corrected Mars to Marse in "Glad to see you, -Marse Bruce." Corrected typographical error "commennted" in "commented -the merry little darkey." - -Page 35, corrected "Gray" to "Grey" in "passionate love for Grace -Grey." Corrected typographical error "worldy" in "scruple of worldly -pride." Removed unnecessary comma after "splendid" in "dreary, -splendid home." - -Page 42, corrected typographical error "tesolve" in "resolve was -taken." - -Page 43, corrected "Gray" to "Grey" in "when Grace Grey had." - -Page 46, added missing close quote after "Miss Story!" Changed "you" to -"your" in "your contemptible innuendoes." - -Page 50, grammatical mismatch between "consequences" and "has" retained -from original. - -Page 51, corrected "had have" to "have had" in "ought to have had more -manliness." - -Page 54, added missing quote before "or his servants would not." -Removed unnecessary comma after "honest black face." - -Page 56, added missing quote after "Waiting!" Corrected "William" to -"Willard" in "Willard Clendenon could not withhold." - -Page 57, corrected typographical error "conjucture" in "the scandal, -the conjecture." - -Page 61, removed duplicate "and" from "and try, do." - -Page 62, corrected "Child Harold" to "Childe Harold" at head of chapter -VIII. - -Page 64, changed "wrong" to "wronged" in "poor wronged and injured -girl." - -Page 65, retained unusual contraction "musn't" from original. - -Page 67, corrected typographical error "your" in "the man you're -talking of." - -Page 68, changed ! to ? after "that new song I sent you yesterday?" - -Page 70, removed stray period and space before question mark in "her -husband again?" - -Page 72, corrected typographical error "privilged" in "privileged -domestic." - -Page 73, corrected typographical error "embarassing" in "momentary -embarrassing silence." - -Page 79, changed ? to ! after "What a long speech this is!" - -Page 80, retained unusual spelling "skillfuly" from original. - -Page 81, corrected comma to period after "first saw Grace." - -Page 84, corrected double "whom" in "whom he had left talking." - -Page 87, corrected "pean" to "pćan." Removed unnecessary quote before -"That other!" - -Page 90, corrected comma to period after "alien from your heart." - -Page 93, removed unnecessary quote before "Well" in "that affair. Well." - -Page 100, moved quote from after "Ah!" to before it in "Ah! Fontenay." - -Page 101, changed single to double quote after "No--yes." - -Page 112, corrected typographical error "brused" in "her brused heart." - -Page 120, corrected single to double quote before "a single stream of -all her soft brown hair." - -Page 123, corrected typographical error "Gethsemene" in "Garden of -Gethsemane." Added missing close single quote after "seek and ye shall -find." - -Page 125, added missing close quote after ""And, indeed, Grace." - -Page 128, corrected comma to period after "you--have not seen you." - -Page 130, corrected typographical error "alway" in "They always -remind me." - -Page 136, corrected typographical error "dimunitive" in "a diminutive -silver comb." - -Page 138, corrected comma to period after "keep it from breaking." - -Page 144, removed unnecessary period between _ad infinitum_ and -question mark. - -Page 147, corrected "Mr." to "Mrs." in "Mrs. Conway, who was very well -pleased." - -Page 149, added missing quote before "this is----" - -Page 154, removed duplicate "and often" from "and often society was -scandalized." - -Page 156, retained unusual spelling "detatched" from original. Added -missing quote before "And this was about the time." - -Page 157, corrected "Pure as due" to "Pure as dew" and "Winan's" to -"Winans'" in "Paul Winans' pictured face." - -Page 158, added missing close quote after "It is all _rue_!" - -Page 159, corrected "thing" to "things" in "how evanescent are all -things." - -Page 162, added missing quote before "It is rather a nice little jaunt." - -Page 164, corrected typographical error "Bt" in "But no, I shall -not die." - -Page 165, corrected comma to period after "indomitable young spirit." - -Page 168, added missing quote before "Down with the fever--died this -evening." - -Page 173, corrected "it" to "its" in "fever in its worst." Corrected -typographical error "indefatigible." - -Page 175, corrected typographical error "restrospections" in -"half-bitter retrospections." - -Page 176, corrected typographical error "belive" in "I believe I -wrote you." - -Page 178, corrected "passes-by" to "passers-by". Corrected comma to -period after "pinned across the left breast." - -Page 180, added missing quote before "Your father told me two months." -Corrected "dusk" to "dusky" in "her dusky eyes." - -Page 181, added space to "DeVere" in "Miss De Vere, cannot you suppose." - -Page 189, corrected typographical error "heaver" in "The heavier cross -the easier dying." - -Page 193, added missing quote after "Why? ah, why?" - -Page 194, capitalized sentence beginning "Many gentle conversations." - -Page 196, corrected "left for France" to "left for London." - -Page 201, removed unnecessary quote after "Little sister, be strong." -Added missing comma in "Gracie, say 'I promise.'" - -Page 203, removed unnecessary quote before "It was enough." - -Page 205, corrected typographical error "retutning" in "her returning -smile." Changed "father care" to "father's care." - -Page 209, corrected comma to period after "as long as life lasts." - -Page 210, added missing close single quote after "have turned out." - -Maine Central Railroad ad, retained incorrect spelling "wierd" from -original. - -Gentleman from Gascony ad, removed duplicate "a" from "There is a -strong love story." 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