EARNEST AND TRUE.

BY FRANCES HENSHAW BADEN.

But still our place is kept and it will not wait; Ready for us to fill it soon or late, No star is ever lost we once have seen, We always may be, what we might have been.

"You have never loved me, Constance, or you could not thus calmly bid me go, without one word of hope for the future. Only say that I may some day call you mine, and I will win a name that you will not blush to bear."

"Would to Heaven I could, Ernest; but I can see no hope of my father's relenting. You heard how determined he was never to consent to my union with any one save Gerald. You say I have never loved you! Believing this, it will not be so hard for you to leave me. It is useless prolonging this interview! Every moment brings an increase of agony, making it harder to part. Bid me good-by, say God bless me, and go quickly, if you have any mercy for me."

"Listen just for a moment more! Oh, my darling, forgive my hasty word; but, Constance, if your love was as devoted and single as mine you would not thus resign one who loves you only of all the world; no one shares my heart with you. I know you love me, but not as I would be loved, or you would leave father and mother and cling to me. What right has your father, or any other father, to blast his child's happiness? Heed him not, love, but come with me. I will never let you feel a single regret. I will love you more than all their love combined. Nay, do not turn aside—you must hear me. Think what you are doing! wrecking my happiness, casting me forth, without hope, to drag out a miserable, useless existence. I may be cursed with long life. Constance, darling, come with me! With your parents it will only be a short grief—disappointed ambition—and, at the most, only the thwarting of their proud hopes. They will soon get over it; but even if they should not, in all human probability they have not the length of days to suffer that we have. Bid me hope!"

"Ernest, Heaven only knows what a severe trial this is to me. Yet your words only strengthen me in my duty. It is true, as you say, my parents are old. Can I grieve and wring their careworn hearts? No, no! What recompense can a child make her parents for all their unselfish love, and constant watching over, and providing for, from the first feeble baby days, to the time when they could, if willing, return all this, by simple duty; obedience to their will. Think, Ernest, how, in my days of illness, my mother watched over and soothed me. The long, sleepless nights spent over my cradle—praying God to spare her child—for what? to prove an ungrateful one! Oh, no! I could look for no blessing on our union if I should be deaf to the pleading of my parents, and heedless of God's own command.

"Perhaps some time hence they may think differently. Then, if you have not sought and won another, we may be happy. One thing you may rest assured of, I shall never wed Gerald Moreton, or any other. I obeyed my father in resigning you, but cannot perjure myself by taking the marriage vows, even at their command. Do not leave me in anger, Ernest. Let your last look be of kindness and forgiveness for the sorrow I cause you. Now, a long look into your eyes, to engrave them forever on my heart. Good-by—God bless you, Ernest."

She held out her arms, and was clasped in a long, last embrace. Breaking away, she was soon lost to view among the deep shadows of the garden.

"And this is the end! This is woman's love! Mere filial duty, I should say. Well, well, a final adieu to all thought of love. In future I devote myself to ambition, wedded only to my profession, in hope that in this I shall not meet with another such reward."

Constance Lyle was the only child of wealthy parents. Ever since her infancy her father had cherished the hope of uniting her with his ward, Gerald Moreton, the son of a very dear friend. Gerald was left an orphan before he had reached his tenth year. When Mr. Moreton, on his deathbed, placed his son under the care of his old friend, he intimated his desire that some time in the future, the little Constance (scarcely then four years old) should bear the name of Moreton. To this Mr. Lyle readily agreed. The little Gerald was truly a noble boy, and he was much attached to him, years before having lost a son of the same age; this child of his dearest friend had, in some degree, served to fill the aching void. Again, Gerald's prospects were very brilliant; but, to do Mr. Lyle justice, more than all this was the desire to please his friend, to make some amends for the past. In years gone by these two men had been rivals for the love of Constance's mother.

Moreton was a high-minded, noble fellow, and when he became sure that young Lyle was the favored one, not a thought of ill-feeling entered his heart against his friend; but going to him, with his usual candor and generosity, he said:

"I shall go away for a while. It will be rather too much for me to bear witnessing your happiness, just yet. I shall get over it in time, though. Heaven bless you, dear friend, and grant you happiness and prosperity. No one will pray for your welfare more sincerely than myself. Bid her good-by for me. After a while I'll be back, to stand god-father to some of your little ones, perhaps."

He remained away three years; and then returned home, bringing with him a fair, fragile little creature, who remained with him scarce two years; leaving the little Gerald to comfort and console the bereaved man, and be a loving reminder of the gentle little dove, who had loved him so dearly, and then winged her flight above, to watch over and pray for the coming of her loved ones.

So it was that Mr. Lyle would look with no favor, or even patience, on any suitor. Even when Constance herself pleaded for Ernest Ellwood, telling him she could never love Gerald other than as a brother; and if he would not give her to the one she loved, that she would remain with them, but would never wed where she could not love.

Still he remained firm in his determination to give her to his friend's son or no one.

Years passed by—but she continued as firm and determined in her resolve as her father in his.

Gerald, like his father, was a noble fellow. He loved Constance, but when he found his love was a source of grief to her, he began to set himself to work to devise means of rendering her path in life rather more pleasant. She did not murmur at her self-sacrifice; this she considered her duty; but the constant and continual entreaties for the marriage wore upon her, and made her life almost miserable.

Gerald told Mr. Lyle he must beg to resign all pretensions to Constance; that upon examining his heart, he found out that it was as a sister he loved her, and was not willing to render her unhappy by making her his wife. If his father were living he would not wish it. That he thought a promise, made to the dead, had much better be broken, than kept by making the living miserable.

So, to carry out his views, he left home for a summer trip. After being absent three months, he wrote to Constance that he had decided to remain a while longer; and at the end of another month came a letter to Mr. Lyle, saying that he was about to be married—desiring certain business arrangements to be made—and ending by the remark, that he knew this marriage would not meet with the cordial approval of his kind guardian, and for this he was truly sorry; but was more than compensated for this by the knowledge that he had the best wishes of his dear sister, Constance, and begged Mr. Lyle to try and render her happy, in return for her unhappiness during the last ten years.

This was a dreadful blow to Mr. Lyle, and he declared that if Ernest Ellwood had not crossed their path that his dearest hopes would not have been thwarted. Not for a moment did he relent.

Constance had heard nothing from Ernest since she parted from him, except once, about five years after. She picked up a Western paper, and saw his name mentioned as one of the rising men of —— State—an extract from a political speech made by him—and finally the prediction of a brilliant career for this young man, whose talents and eloquence were placing him before the people, who, even now, in so young a man, recognized a master-spirit; and in all probability very shortly he would speak for his adopted State in the halls of the national Capitol.

This slip was cut out and treasured by her—and once when her father was grumbling and predicting bad luck to his evil genius, as he called him, she brought forth and displayed, with a grateful heart, this notice to prove she had not loved unworthily.

Her father listened with interest to the extract from the speech and the comments relative to the speaker. He had been considerable of a politician, and as Ernest was of the same party as himself, he felt really glad of his brilliant prospects.

"In all probability he is married long ago, and has almost, if not quite, forgotten you, Constance. At any rate, you see your sending him off did no hurt. Men are sensible; they don't die of love. Something more formidable, in the way of disease, must attack to carry them off, or affect their minds, either. Yes, yes, child, be sure he has transferred his affections long ago," remarked the father.

"I cannot tell, father. Perhaps it is so; you can judge of man's constancy better than I. If I judged him, it would be by my own heart, then I should be sure he is not married. I think that when alone, and freed from the care and toil of business, or, at rest from his studies, that his mind wanders back to the girl of his love. No! no! he has not forgotten me."

One after another of the joyous new years rushed into the world, passing on to maturity, growing older, and finally passing out, leaving the gentle, submissive girl, as they had found her, devoting herself to her father.

Now disease had settled on Mr. Lyle. For years he had been an invalid, nervous, fretful and impatient. No one but Constance could suit him. Not even his wife. Her gentle hand, only, could soothe his suffering. Her soft, loving tones alone would quiet his paroxysm of nervousness.

Time passed on, and Death entered the home of Constance, not to disturb the long-suffering father, but taking the apparently healthy mother. Swiftly, quietly, and without suffering, she passed from her slumbers to the home of her Maker.

This was a terrible trial for the poor girl. She almost sank under it; but in a little while she rose above her own sorrows. Bowing with submission to the will of God, she now felt why it was her young hopes had been blasted. Before, all was dark; now, she saw plainly. She alone was left to cheer and solace the stricken father. No longer a single regret lingered in her heart. All was well. A holy calm broke over her, and she became almost happy, blessed with an approving conscience.

Suffering at last softened the stern nature of Mr. Lyle, and opened his eyes to the value of his child. He knew her devotion, her patient, untiring attendance on him, and he felt what a blessed boon she had been to him, and how illy he had merited so much loving kindness!

On one occasion he said:

"My daughter, I do not deserve such a blessing as you are to me. I have been very harsh and relentless, and caused you much sorrow; would that I could call back the past, and act differently. Heaven only knows how grieved I am for my mistaken views and actions."

Going up, and putting her arms around him, she replied:

"Do not worry about the past, father dear, nor about your daughter. Believe me, I am happy with you; and have no regrets. I would not be absent from you during your suffering, even to be with him."

"Where is Ernest? Do you love him still?" he asked.

"I only know (through the papers) that he has been elected to Congress. About my still loving him, depends entirely on whether I have the right to do so; he may have given that to another," she replied, and called to her beautiful lips a sweet smile, to try to convince him, more than her words would, that she was content, whate'er her lot should be.

It is a few weeks after the meeting of Congress. All Washington is on the qui vive about the passage of the —— Bill, and the appeal to be made in its favor by the new member from ——.

Constance Lyle stands before her mirror. More than usual care has she bestowed on her toilet.

We will play eavesdropper, dear reader, just for once, and peep over her shoulder, to view the changes time has made. No longer the fresh, brilliant beauty of her youthful days. Constant confinement in the sickroom, care, and anxiety have faded the roses that used to bloom on her cheeks; but to us she is more charming, this pale beauty, with her gentle dignity, and sweet, patient look, than the bright, merry girl of years ago.

There is something about her which makes us think we would like ever to be near her, side by side, to pass on life's pathway, feeling sure her beauty would never wane, but wax purer and brighter as she neared her journey's end. Listen! She says:

"How strange my birthday should be the one for his speech! This day I shall see him for the first time for fifteen years. Yes, I am thirty-three to-day, and this is the anniversary of our parting!"

Leaving her room she is soon by her father's side.

"I'll have to go early, father, dear. It will be very crowded, and Gerald is waiting. His wife is going to stay with you during my absence."

"How well you look, my daughter! Why, really, you are getting young again!"

"This is my birthday, father. I am a maiden of no particular age to the public, but I whisper in your ear privately," she joyously said; and, suiting the action to the word, bent down, whispered, kissed him, and was gone.

"How time flies! But she is still very beautiful. Heaven grant my prayers may be answered. She deserves to be happy; and when I am gone she will be very lonely, and then feel keenly my harsh treatment," he murmured.

Wearily passed the hours until he heard her light step on the stairs. She came in. He thought there seemed a shadow on her face, but she came forward, and said, pleasantly:

"Well, father, you are likely to keep your daughter. I heard Ernest. I had not expected too much; he was grandly eloquent. He has altered in his looks; he seems much older, and is quite gray; mental work and hard study, he says."

"Then you saw him, and spoke to him! What do you mean by saying I shall keep you? Is he mar——"

"Yes," she replied, before he had finished his question. "He introduced me to his daughter, a little miss of about twelve; so you were right when you said that men were too sensible to suffer for or from love. He must have married in two years after he left us. Gerald left little Constance and me in the library, and went and brought him to see us. We were with him only a very short time, when he was sent for. He excused himself, and bade us good-day. Now, father, I will remove my wrappings, and order dinner."

Day after day passed on, and Constance had schooled herself to think of Ernest only as a happy husband and father. She did not blame him for taking a companion. He was away from all kindred and friends, and she had given him no hope to induce him to wait through all these years for her.

One day, just a week after their meeting at Congress, she was sitting reading to her father, when a servant entered, and handed a card. She read, Ernest Ellwood!

Paler for a few moments, and tightly pressed were the sweet lips. She did not rise from her seat, until she had communed with her heart. Now, she thought, I must call up all my fortitude and self-control, and prove to Ernest, to my father, and, more than all, to myself, that my heart is not troubled!

"Father," she said, "Ernest is below. He is waiting, probably, to inquire after you. I told him you had long been an invalid. Will you see him?"

"I would rather not, darling, unless you wish it. Go down a while, and if he must come up, let me know first."

Slowly she descended the steps, passed through the long hall, and entered the drawing-room, advancing with quiet dignity to welcome the distinguished representative.

He listened a moment to her words, so calm and cold; then, clasping her in his arms, he drew her down beside him, and said:

"Oh, my darling! thank Heaven, I find you still Constance Lyle!"

She tried to draw herself away from his side, but his arms held her tightly, and his hand clasped hers. His eyes were gazing so earnestly and lovingly in hers, as in by-gone days. She tried to speak, but he said:

"Nay, my beautiful love, you must not move or speak until you have heard me through, and then I shall await your verdict. I know you think it so strange that I have not been to you before. I have been the victim of a miserable mistake. The day I entered this city I walked past here to catch a glimpse of you, perhaps. As I neared the door, I beheld seated on the steps that pretty little girl that I afterward saw with you. I stopped, spoke to her, and asked her name. Constance, she told me, and her father's, Gerald. Oh, my love, the long years of suspense were ended to me then! I cannot tell you how dark the world seemed to me then. I struggled on, however, with my sorrows. Then I met you. Your being with Gerald and having the little one with you only too truly proved that my conjecture was right. I saw you, as I believed, the happy wife of Gerald, and knew no difference until this morning. When I met him then, he stopped and urged me to come and see him. I asked after his wife, and remarked that time had changed her but very little, when, to my amazement, he said he did not know I had ever met Mrs. Moreton. Then came the explanation. I parted with the noble fellow only a few moments ago, and here I am now. Tell me, love, that all my waiting—never wandering from my love for you for an hour, has not been in vain. Speak, love!"

"Ernest Ellwood, what mean you by speaking to me thus? Allow me to rise. Your mind is certainly very much affected. Nothing but insanity can excuse this language to me. I will order the carriage to convey you home to your wife and daughter."

"My wife—oh, yes, now I know. Gerald told me. We have all been very busy blundering. My darling, I have no wife or daughter. Louise is only mine by adoption. Her father was my dearest friend. This little one was placed in my arms, an orphan, when only three years old—and she knew no parent but myself. Can I go to your father, love?"

She no longer tried to release herself from his arms. Lower and lower drooped the beautiful head until it was pillowed on his breast. He felt her heart throbbing against his own, and almost bursting with its fulness of joy. He was answered—rewarded for all the years of waiting.

At length she raised her head. In her eyes he saw all the love of years beaming there.

"At last, my Ernest," she said. "I must go to father first and prepare him to see you."

Springing lightly up the stairs, she entered the room and stood beside her father's armchair.

He saw her beaming look, and said:

"What is it, Constance? What has brought this great joy to you? You look so happy."

"Father, we have all been under a great mistake. Ernest has never been married. That was his adopted daughter. He is waiting to see you; may I bring him up?"

"Yes, yes. Thank God! my prayers are answered."

In a few moments she stands before him, with her hand clasped in Ernest's.

"Here I am again, Mr. Lyle, as in years gone by, pleading for your blessing on our love. May I have her now, after all these years of waiting?"

"Ernest Moreton, I am profoundly thankful to Heaven for sparing me to see this day. Welcome back to your home and old friends, and welcome to the hand of my daughter. Take her; she has been a loving, patient, dutiful child. She has brightened and cheered my path for a long, weary time, and now I resign this blessing to you, and beg your forgiveness for these long years, lost to both, which might have been passed happily together."

"Not resign, but only share with me, this blessing; she shall never leave you, sir," replied Ernest.

"Father, do not speak of years lost; they have not been. Ernest would not have gone away, and devoted himself to study, if we had been united then; just think then what his adopted State would have lost! and I have been cheering you—think what you would have lost without your little Constance! Nay, there is nothing lost; all is gain, and simply by keeping God's command, 'Honor thy father and thy mother.'"

"Let me come in to rejoice with you all, and make my speech," exclaimed the noble Gerald, grasping the hand of each. "I say that they are worthy of each other. He by his earnest, unwavering love for his lady fair, and earnest, untiring endeavors to serve his State—who has now won the respect and confidence of his countrymen—he alone is worthy of the woman ever constant to her early love, yet never faltering in her chosen path of filial duty."