The Senator's Bride

"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 glideLow with deep feeling till a passionate gladnessThrilled to each tone, and in wild tears replied."'We meet in Paradise!' To hallowed dutyHere with a loyal, a heroic heart,Bind we our lives—that so divinest beautyMay 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 laughUpon 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?