The Senator's Favorite

"Then, my son, your love was not worth much if it lacks the quality of forgiveness that is inherent in all true affection. And Ladybird, poor child, has been punished enough for her willful prank. Remember she went away without seeing you when you were wounded, although I have seen her wistful eyes turned often toward your door with a silent yearning that almost melted my heart. But we let her go without a sign that we understood her proud and silent grief. It was her punishment, and she bore it without murmuring. But now the heavy hand of orphanage and sorrow is upon her, and it is cruel to harbor resentment."

"Ah, mother, I wish I could be good, like you," he breathed huskily.

With a gentle sigh she answered:

"The good that is in us, Earle, has to be perfected by years of experience. As the ardor of our youthful passions fades we become more reasonable and more ready to condone the faults of others. I can see in your proud, impulsive nature the traits of your parents reflected, so I cannot blame you too severely for your unrelenting disposition toward your willful sweetheart; but, dear Earle, I can also assure you, out of the wisdom of suffering and experience, that forgiveness is one of the noblest attributes of human nature, and brings with it an exquisite peace and happiness that is its own best reward."

The violet eyes were soft with unshed tears, and the low voice was as sweet as music. Earle Winans' moody anger dissolved like mists of dawn before her sweet influence.

He put his arms lovingly about her, and as he kissed the calm, white brow he whispered:

"Angel-mother, you make me ashamed of my harshness. I will not cherish my resentment any longer. It shall be as you say. I will seek Ladybird and bring her home to you."

"Heaven speed your mission," she cried between tears and smiles, and before many hours he was on his way to New York, with a lighter heart than he had borne for months.

But four days later a brief note came to his mother:

"I have found the Stanleys, but Miss Conway is not with them. She married Jack Tennant two weeks ago, and went to California on her wedding tour.

Earle."

CHAPTER XXIX.

THE PRICE OF A SECRET

"As roses when the warm west blowsBreak to full flower and sweeten spring,My soul would break to a glorious rose,In such wise at his whispering;In vain I listen; well away!My love says nothing any day!"—Swinburne.

Although Congress was not to convene until the usual time in December, the Winans family went to Washington in October's last bright days ere the golden autumn haze was dimmed by the gray mists and fogs of November.

Among the series of fashionable entertainments with which the gay world opened the social season the coming out of Precious Winans marked a brilliant event.

Since her mother's first appearance in Washington society years ago as the senator's bride no such wonderful beauty had carried society by storm.

Society raved over the girl, to whose wondrous charms was added the sensation of last March, when, after her kidnaping at the Inauguration Ball, she had been so romantically rescued by Lord Chester. Her admirers were legion. She had a social triumph so splendid that it might have turned any young girl's head.

But Precious did not enjoy it as she would have done last winter, when all her artless heart had been set on long dresses and social pleasures.

The beautiful girl was strangely changed from six months ago.

Her pretty childishness had dropped from her like a garment, and in its place was a new, sweet dignity almost womanly. Much of her willfulness had left her, and instead of opposing Ethel as she had done in the old days Precious yielded passively to her sister's wishes, often saying, with a pensive shade on her brow:

"We must let Ethel have her own way about everything, because we are going to lose her so soon."

Ethel was radiant in those days. She did not envy her sister's social triumphs, she rejoiced in her success, and was always watching closely to see if any lover ever touched the girl's heart.

And surely, she thought, there were so many to choose from that Precious must yield her heart to one.

In the list of conquests were numbered a millionaire senator, middle-aged but handsome; a member of the French Legation, a German baron with his breast covered with jeweled orders of honor, two Southern colonels, a noted Northern general, and several score of "gilded" youths. No girl in her senses could reject all these brilliant opportunities.

But Precious had the same cheerful smile, the same kindly word for all, and if twitted in the domestic circle about her adorers she always cried out that she never intended to marry any one. She loved papa and mamma so well that she would never go away and leave them. Earle and Ethel would marry, of course—but as for her, no indeed, never!

And then she would nestle in her father's clasp, and stroke his dark whiskers with her dimpled white hands, and smile up at him with those dazzling dark-blue eyes in fondest affection, while he would answer that he wanted her to stay with him always, always, that it would break his heart if she ever married and went away.

"You needn't be afraid, papa, for I will always love you best," she laughed, but Ethel heard these promises with secret pain. They made her feel sure that Precious still loved Lord Chester with a hopeless passion that would make her go unwedded to her grave.

So the days fled fast, and very soon Lord Chester would arrive to bear away his dark-eyed bride. They would not await the conclusion of the lawsuit that still dragged wearily through the English courts. Ethel was anxious to prove the disinterestedness of her love. And in any case she would not be poor. Her father had promised her a magnificent dowry.

The trousseau had arrived from Paris, and was all that a woman's heart could crave. Ethel thrilled with delight over the beautiful creations, fancying how fair they would make her appear in Arthur's eyes. Ah, surely, surely, she would win back his truant heart that for a little while had strayed from its allegiance. And Precious was so young, so much admired, she would soon forget, and console herself with another lover.

These thoughts ran through her mind as she stood alone in her dressing-room, admiring the bridal veil as it lay upon a table for inspection.

"She is so young she will soon forget," she repeated again, and just then some one entered the room and stood by her side.

"Oh, Miss Ethel, how do you do? Norah said I might come right up and see you. She knew you wouldn't mind."

It was Hetty Wilkins, the deposed maid; but the girl was a mere wreck of her former blooming self, her cheeks all wan, her eyes heavy as if with unshed tears, her clothing sloven.

"Oh, Hetty, what have you been doing to yourself? You look ill, my poor girl."

"Oh, Miss Ethel, I am ill—heart-sick, too. Oh, please forgive me for coming, but you said if I ever needed help—and so I came."

"And quite right, Hetty," cried Ethel, dragging out her purse. She selected a ten-dollar gold piece, and held it out, saying generously:

"I have more if that is not enough, Hetty."

Hetty looked at the gold piece, but she did not offer to take it, and when Ethel doubled it with another piece she shook her head and whimpered reproachfully:

"It is too little; you must pay me more than that for keeping your dangerous secret! You were with your sister, miss, at the fortune-teller's when the fire broke out in the house. How was it you escaped and left her there? Why have you and she always kept the secret of your presence there—tell me that?"

The Parthian shaft told on Ethel. She recoiled with a gasp of terror from her accuser, and before she could speak Hetty followed up the advantage by adding:

"I think you'll own that a secret like that is worth more than a twenty-dollar gold piece, Miss Ethel, won't you? And I'm poor, and so is my young man. We want money to get married and start in life. A thousand dollars ain't much to you, with such a rich pa, but it'll be a mint of money to me."

"A thousand dollars!" gasped Ethel, then she whispered:

"Hetty, who has been telling you these falsehoods about me?"

"'Tain't false, Miss Ethel, it's God's own truth, no matter how I found it out. And unless you want me to out with it all to your pa and ma you must fork over a thousand dollars by to-morrow. I know you can do it. Mr. Winans will give you the money for your wedding fixings if you say the word. And I will come back to-morrow afternoon and get it."

The girl paused and looked at Ethel with a pleading air strangely at variance with her defiant tone, and in truth there was something of abject shame in her eyes as she waited cringingly for Ethel's answer.

"What if I refuse?" at length asked the young girl proudly.

"Oh, Miss Ethel, please don't," and Hetty's voice was almost a sob. "I—I—am almost ashamed of myself, but look, how poor I am, and these shabby clothes, too; I've not been in service since I left you, and I'm out of money, and I've gone hungry many a time. Oh, please, please, give me a thousand dollars," and Hetty suddenly fell on her knees and plucked piteously at Ethel's gown, adding: "It looks ungrateful in me I know, but I love you, and I never would have come only they made me—No, no, I don't mean that—my poor head is dazed. It was the dreadful poverty made me come."

"A hundred dollars would relieve your poverty, Hetty," the young girl said, coldly and suspiciously.

"Oh, no, Miss Ethel, not a cent less than one thousand. It's the price of your safety. Only give me that, and no one shall bother you afterward. You needn't fear the secret any more after that price is paid."

"But, Hetty, there's nothing to fear in that secret," cried Ethel, frantically explaining how the rope had broken. "I was half crazed with grief at first, and after my sister was saved we agreed between us that nothing need be said. I was ashamed of having gone to the old fortune-teller," she said, remembering with a keen pang the old hag's prediction: "You will sin and you will suffer."

But Hetty remained sullenly unconvinced, and answered boldly:

"You were certainly afraid of something, Miss Ethel, or you would not be keeping it so dark. And, anyway, you wouldn't like to be exposed after all these months, would you?"

"No, no," admitted Ethel miserably, and in the end she agreed to pay the price demanded for the keeping of her secret.

CHAPTER XXX.

"THE FLOWER OF FRIENDSHIP CAN ONLY BLOOM IN IMPERISHABLE BEAUTY IN THE CONGENIAL SOIL OF A NOBLE NATURE."

"Jar one chord, the harp is silent; move one stone, the arch is shattered;One small clarion cry of sorrow bids an armed host awake;One dark cloud can hide the sunlight; loose one string, the pearls are scattered;Think one thought, a soul may perish; speak one word, a heart may break!"—Adelaide Proctor.

It seemed strange and embarrassing that when Lord Chester arrived in the last week of November he should find no one at home but Precious.

They knew that he had sailed for America, but his steamer had made such rapid time that he arrived in Washington before they knew that he had landed.

Ethel had gone with her mother on a little shopping tour that morning, and Precious remained at home to rest from the fatigue of a ball she had attended the previous evening.

She had risen late and breakfasted in her own room. Then she came down to the drawing-room in a simple morning dress of soft pale blue with silver embroidery, and cords of blue and silver holding in the full loose folds at the waist. Her golden locks, half-loose, half-curled, fell carelessly about her shoulders, framing the exquisite face, with its deep-blue eyes and pink, dimpled cheeks.

She was all alone but for Kay, who lay curled up lazily at her feet on a splendid fur rug, now and then snapping crossly at the tiger-head with open jaws that seemed threatening his destruction.

She was not thinking of visitors that morning, and lay back at ease in a great armchair with her arms over her head in a pretty, careless pose, when suddenly, without warning, the portieres at the door were swept aside by a white hand, and a man entered the room. His step made no sound on the thick carpet, but perhaps her instinct told her the truth, for she turned her head, and their eyes met.

"Precious!"

"Lord Chester!"

It was their first meeting since that night by the river, when she had torn herself from the fond arms that claimed her for his own and sent him back to renew his troth with her unhappy sister.

The memory of that moment rushed over both. They grew pale with emotion, and their voices faltered.

Precious had started to her feet, and was looking at him with dilated blue eyes. With an effort he returned to the present.

"I'm afraid I startled you entering so suddenly, but James told me to come in and wait, that he thought all the family were in."

"No, papa is at the capitol, and mamma and Ethel are out shopping. I expect them in at any moment. You will sit down and wait?"

She was not very cordial. She had not offered him her hand, but he sat down in a chair close to her, and Kay went over and fawned upon him in delight.

"My old friend is glad to see me again," he said, caressing the mastiff's great head with tender hands, and she smiled pensively and continued:

"I—that is we—were not expecting you so soon."

"The Paris made a quick trip—almost broke the record. She was not really due until to-morrow. I came immediately to Washington, hoping," reproachfully, "for a warmer welcome."

Something in his voice and eyes went to her heart. She colored painfully, and stammered:

"They will be here directly, and Ethel will be delighted to find you here."

"But—you, Precious—what a cold welcome you have given me, not even a touch of your little hand."

He saw her young bosom heave with secret emotion. The color came and went like the rosy dawn light on her cheek.

"I—I—beg pardon. I did not think," she faltered, with what seemed to him frosty courtesy. He burst forth bitterly:

"Perhaps my altered prospects have changed your esteem for me. Between the heir of an earldom and a poor man there is a vast difference. It can even alter friendship."

Precious looked at him in surprise and indignation, and answered quickly:

"Not friendship, only its imitation. Nothing can change true friendship, mamma says; but she has also told me that nothing is so rare in the world as imperishable friendship. But between true friends no change of fortune can make any difference."

Her earnest blue eyes were raised to his with sudden frankness as she confessed: "I did not offer you my hand because—I was not sure you felt any friendship for me. You—you parted from me in anger."

"I was mad with pain. Forgive me for my anger," he answered sadly, and added: "Permit me to refer to the past just once, and no more forever."

She bowed with drooping lashes, and he continued in a voice that was freighted with deep emotion:

"At that time, Precious, I was mad for your love, and friendship seemed so poor and tame beside it that I would have counted it as of little worth. But how times change!"

He drew a long, quivering breath, and continued:

"We have put the past behind us. You, they tell me, are to be another man's wife. I am to be your sister's husband. You will be my sister, and something within me yearns for your friendship. Next to love it is the sweetest, purest emotion of life. Like the edelweiss growing on the high, pure altitudes of the Alps, the rare white flower of friendship can only bloom in imperishable beauty in the congenial soil of a noble nature. Will you grant me this great boon, Precious—your life-long friendship?"

The eager, dark-gray eyes looked at her pleadingly, but their light was almost holy as he prayed for this place in her heart and life, to be remembered as a faithful friend rather than a disappointed lover.

"A place in thy memory, dearest,Is all that I claim;To pause and look back when thou hearestThe sound of my name.Another may woo thee nearer,Another may win and wear;Although he may be the dearer,Let me be remembered there!"Remember me not as a loverWhose hopes have been crossed,Whose bosom may never recoverThe light it hath lost.As a young bride remembers the motherShe loves, but may never more see,As a sister remembers a brother,Oh, dearest, remember me!"Could I be thy true lover, dearest,Couldst thou smile on me,I would be the fondest and dearestThat ever loved thee!But a cloud on my pathway is gloomingThat never must burst upon thine;And Heaven that made thee all bloomingNe'er made thee to wither on mine!"

Something like these beautiful, holy thoughts beamed in Lord Chester's eyes and thrilled in his voice as he spoke to Precious, and melted her heart to responsiveness. Deeply moved she held out her little hand to him, and he clasped it warmly in his own.

At that moment the portieres of the door again parted noiselessly, and Ethel stood like a picture framed between them.

"Arthur!" Ethel almost shrieked, and the clasped hands fell apart quickly, and the young pair sprang to their feet, each one crying confusedly:

"Ethel!"

At the same moment they moved toward her and Precious glided instantly from the room, believing the meeting of the betrothed lovers too sacred to be intruded on even by a sister.

Was there a silent, unacknowledged pain also at the bottom of her young, noble heart?

If there was she would not have owned it even to her own heart. She went to the library, took a new book and tried to lose herself in its fascinating pages.

Meanwhile Arthur, with a pang like death at his heart, went forward and took Ethel's hand while he stooped and kissed her crimson lips with a feigned warmth, inquiring gently:

"Are you surprised?"

"Very much so," she replied with a sarcastic intonation.

"At my early arrival, I mean?" he went on with a flush rising to his brow. Leading her gently to a seat he continued:

"The Paris made a very fast trip and I am here before you expected me. Are you glad, Ethel?"

He looked anxiously into her dark eyes. They were flashing angrily and her slender foot tapped the carpet vehemently. Not a word came from her crimson lips.

"Are you glad?" he repeated gently, but she bit her lips without reply.

Lord Chester waited impatiently several minutes, but Ethel preserved the same scornful mien.

Then he rose indignantly.

"Perhaps I am unwelcome. You have repented your decision in my favor. I had better go," he said with hauteur.

Then she lifted her dainty gloved hand with a gesture for him to resume his seat.

"Do not go," she said icily, "until you have explained the tableau I witnessed when I entered just now."

"The tableau!"

She answered curtly:

"You and Precious sat close together with clasped hands like lovers. Am I to understand that my sister has deceitfully stolen my place in your heart, and that it would be best for me to resign my claim on your hand in her favor also?"

They were daring words, and if she had not known that Lord Chester was the soul of honor she would not have risked them. There was many a man who would have metaphorically "jumped at the chance" to be free of fetters that chafed so cruelly.

But Lord Chester, standing before her with arms folded on his broad chest, his dark-gray eyes ablaze with feeling, answered low and reproachfully:

"It grieves me, Ethel, to have you display a causeless jealousy for your noble and innocent young sister."

Ethel's red lips had curled at Arthur's tribute of praise to her sister, and she cried out quickly:

"It is plain that you admire my sister very much."

"I do," he replied quietly. "Do you object, Ethel?"

She sighed bitterly as she answered:

"Forgive me, dearest Arthur; but I love you so dearly that I would fain have you find no woman fair or admirable but myself."

He kissed her hand loyally.

"My first thoughts must be for you always, my liege lady," he replied, gallantly, then added: "But you must permit me to admire always your lovely mother and sister. Indeed, just before you entered I had begged Precious for the promise of her friendship. She was so shy and cold when I first came in she would not let me clasp her little hand. But I teased her so much, ascribing her coldness to my altered fortunes, that she was compelled to disclaim such cruelty, and gave me her hand in token of unaltered friendship. Will you believe that this was all, Ethel—that in neither word nor deed were we disloyal to you?"

She could not doubt the truth in the dear, earnest eyes, and in another moment she was sobbing against his shoulder.

"Oh, Arthur, I was wrong; but my jealous nature often goads me almost to madness. Forgive me, and love me, dearest, or my heart will break."

The anguished cry went to his heart, and he put his arm about her and soothed her as well as he could, presently winning her to calmness again.

But his own heart was very heavy.

Ethel's confession of her jealousy pained him and aroused fears for the future, for he had an innate horror of a jealous woman.

In two more weeks she would be his wife, and all his happiness would rest in her keeping. Would she torture him always by unreasonable jealousy?

The prospect was not pleasant, and he quailed in secret before it, but it seemed to him there was no retreat from this marriage, whose fetters would soon hold him in bondage. It was a point of honor.

With a stifled sigh he gave himself up to the task of entertaining his betrothed with an account of his summer, and his trip across, and so well did he succeed that soon the moody shadow faded from her brow and smiles dimpled the crimson lips.

CHAPTER XXXI.

A STARTLING DISCOVERY

"Let your summer friends go by,With the summer weather;Hearts there are that will not fly,Though the storm should gather."Flowers of feeling pure and warm,Hearts that cannot wither,These for thee shall bide the stormAs the sunny weather."—Frances Sargent Osgood.

It was not long after this that Mrs. Winans made the discovery that Mr. Stanley had come in as an office-holder under the new administration and that therefore he and his family were living in Washington. So with a definite purpose she called very soon on Miss Stanley, taking with her Ethel and Precious. The latter she had instructed to ask casually for Ladybird's address.

Precious was so eager over the matter that she soon asked the question in a thoroughly natural manner, for she loved Ladybird very dearly.

"Miss Stanley, I wish very much to have the address of my old friend, Miss Conway."

Aura's red cheeks turned a deeper shade, and she said hesitatingly:

"She is married now, you know!"

"Yes, I have heard so, and I wish very much to write to her, as we were so fond of each other last summer," answered Precious, with such a loving light in her deep blue eyes for her old friend that Aura hated Ladybird more than ever.

Tossing her dark head with a careless grace she exclaimed:

"Indeed, I'm very sorry, Miss Precious, that I can't give you her address; but, really, I have not the faintest idea where she is at present. She was such an ungrateful girl that she has never written us a line since she married Jack Tennant and went away."

"Oh, I am so sorry, for we all loved Ladybird dearly, and I wished to invite her to my wedding," murmured Ethel, suddenly taking part in the conversation.

"Perhaps your father knows her address," Mrs. Winans said, looking suspiciously at the changing color of the crafty girl.

"Oh, dear, no, papa hasn't the slightest idea where—" began Aura hastily, but just then she was interrupted.

The curtains at the door had been twitching nervously several moments, and now they suddenly parted, and a slender little figure rushed into the room. It was all in black, and the pretty face was pale and sad, but they knew it in a minute by the mass of dancing golden-brown curls for Ladybird!

"Aura Stanley, you wicked girl, how dare you tell my friends such falsehoods about me? You know very well I am not married, and that I have lived under your father's roof ever since the day I came from Europe!" she cried angrily, her hazel eyes flashing like stars, and her pale cheeks beginning to glow with resentment.