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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.