"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 hearest
The 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 lover
Whose hopes have been crossed,
Whose bosom may never recover
The light it hath lost.
As a young bride remembers the mother
She 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 dearest
That ever loved thee!
But a cloud on my pathway is glooming
That never must burst upon thine;
And Heaven that made thee all blooming
Ne'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.