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Title: The Masked Bridal
Author: Sheldon, Georgie, Mrs., 1843-1926
Language: English
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THE MASKED
BRIDAL
_By_ MRS. GEORGIE SHELDON
AUTHOR OF
"Edrie's Legacy," "Max," "Faithful Shirley,"
"Marguerites Heritage," "A True
Aristocrat," etc.
A. L. BURT COMPANY
PUBLISHERS NEW YORK
Copyright 1894, 1895, 1900
BY STREET & SMITH
* * * * *
Contents
Page
PROLOGUE. 3
I TWO UNEXPECTED VISITORS. 5
II A STANCH FRIEND MAKES A VAIN APPEAL. 11
III THE YOUNG LAWYER EXPERIENCES TWO EXTRAORDINARY
SURPRISES. 16
IV A MYSTERY EXPLAINED. 20
V A MOTHER'S LAST REQUEST. 26
VI A HERITAGE OF SHAME. 30
VII TWO NEW ACQUAINTANCES. 36
VIII THE VENOM OF JEALOUSY. 43
IX THE HOUSEKEEPER AT WYOMING. 50
X "THE GIRL IS DOOMED! SHE HAS SEALED HER OWN FATE!" 58
XI "NOW MY VINDICATION AND TRIUMPH WILL BE COMPLETE!" 65
XII THE MASKED BRIDAL. 71
XIII THE DASTARDLY PLOT IS REVEALED. 79
XIV "YOUR FAITHLESSNESS TURNED ME INTO A DEMON." 88
XV "OH, GOD! I KNEW IT! YOU ARE ISABEL!" 95
XVI "YOU SHALL NEVER WANT FOR A FRIEND." 104
XVII "WOULD YOU DARE BE FALSE TO ME, AFTER ALL
THESE YEARS?" 111
XVIII "I SHALL NEVER FORGIVE EITHER OF YOU FOR YOUR
SIN AGAINST ME." 119
XIX "I WILL NEVER BREAK BREAD WITH YOU, AT ANY TABLE." 128
XX EDITH RESOLVES TO MEET HER ENEMIES WITH THEIR
OWN WEAPONS. 137
XXI A MYSTERIOUS STRANGER PAYS EDITH AN UNEXPECTED
VISIT. 146
XXII "I WILL RISE ABOVE MY SIN AND SHAME!" 154
XXIII A SURPRISE AT THE GRAND CENTRAL STATION. 164
XXIV A SAD STORY DISCLOSED TO AN EAGER LISTENER. 173
XXV A NEW CHARACTER IS INTRODUCED. 181
XXVI AN EXCITING INTERVIEW AND AN APPALLING DISCOVERY. 189
XXVII MRS. GODDARD BECOMES AN EAVESDROPPER. 199
XXVIII ISABEL STEWART ASTOUNDS MR. GODDARD. 208
XXIX "OUR WAYS PART HERE, NEVER TO CROSS AGAIN." 217
XXX "I HATE YOU WITH ALL THE STRENGTH OF MY ITALIAN
BLOOD." 226
XXXI RECORDS SOME STARTLING DEVELOPMENTS. 234
XXXII "YOU WILL VACATE THESE PREMISES AT YOUR EARLIEST
CONVENIENCE." 242
XXXIII MR. BRYANT MEETS WITH UNEXPECTED DIFFICULTIES. 250
XXXIV AN UNEXPECTED MEETING RESULTS IN A WONDERFUL
DISCOVERY. 259
XXV "THAT MAN MY FATHER!" 268
XXXVI FURTHER EXPLANATIONS BETWEEN MOTHER AND DAUGHTER. 276
XXXVII "MY DARLING, YOU ARE FREE!" 285
XXXVIII AN UNEXPECTED ENCOUNTER. 292
XXXIX CONCLUSION. 298
* * * * *
THE MASKED BRIDAL.
PROLOGUE.
The most important and the most sacred event in a woman's life is her
marriage. It should never be lightly considered, no matter what may be
the allurement--honor, wealth, social position. To play at marriage,
even for a plausible pretext, is likely to be very imprudent, and may
prove a sin against both God and man.
The story we are about to tell chiefly concerns a refined and
beautiful girl who, for the ostensible entertainment of a number of
guests, agreed to represent a bride in a play.
The chief actors, just for the sake of illustrating a novel situation,
and perhaps to excite curiosity among the spectators, were to have
their faces concealed--it was to be a masked bridal.
Already the guests are assembled, and, amid slow and solemn music, the
principals take their places.
The clergyman, enacted by a gentleman who performs his part with
professional gravity and impressive effect, utters the solemn words
calling for "any one who could show just cause why the two before him
should not be joined in holy wedlock, to speak, or forever hold his
peace."
At the sound of these words, the bride visibly shudders; but as she is
masked, it can only be inferred that her features must indicate her
intense emotion.
But why should she exhibit emotion in such a scene? Is it not a play?
She cannot be a clever actress when she forgets, at such a time, that
it is the part of a bride--a willing bride--to appear supremely happy
on such a joyous occasion.
It is strange, too, that as the bride shudders, the bridegroom's hand
compresses hers with a sudden vigorous clutch, as if he feared to lose
her, even at that moment.
Was it merely acting? Was this "stage business" really in the play? Or
was it a little touch of nature, which could not be suppressed by the
stage training of those inexperienced actors?
The play goes on; the entranced spectators are now all aroused from
the apathy with which some of them had contemplated the opening part
of the remarkable ceremony.
As the groom proceeds to place the ring upon the finger of the bride,
she involuntarily resists, and tries to withdraw her hand from the
clasp of her companion. There is an embarrassing pause, and for an
instant she appears about to succumb to a feeling of deadly faintness.
She rouses herself, however, determined to go on with her part.
Every movement is closely watched by one of the witnesses--a woman
with glittering eye and pallid cheek. When the bride's repugnance
seemed about to overmaster her, and perhaps result in a swoon, this
woman gave utterance to a sigh almost of despair and with panting
breath and steadfast gaze anxiously watched and waited for the end of
the exciting drama.
The grave clergyman notices the bride's heroic efforts to restrain her
agitation, and the ceremony proceeds. At length the solemn sentence is
uttered which proclaims the masked couple man and wife.
Then there is a great surprise for the spectators.
As they behold the bride and groom, now unmasked, there is a stare of
wonder in every face, and expressions of intense amazement are heard
on all sides.
Then it dawns upon the witnesses that the principal actors in the play
are not the persons first chosen to represent the parts of the bride
and groom.
Why was a change made? What means the unannounced substitution of
other actors in the exciting play?
Ask the woman who caused the change--the woman who, with pallid cheek
and glittering eye, had intently watched every movement of the
apparently reluctant bride, evidently fearing the failure of the play
upon which she had set her heart.
It became painfully evident that the play was not ended yet, and some
there present had reason to believe that it was likely to end in a
tragedy.
Now let us portray the events which preceded the masked bridal.
CHAPTER I.
TWO UNEXPECTED VISITORS.
It was a cold, raw night in December, and the streets of New York
city, despite their myriads of electric lights and gayly illuminated
shop windows, were dismal and forlorn beyond description.
The sky was leaden. A piercing wind was blowing up from the East
River, and great flakes of snow were beginning to fall, when, out of
the darkness of a side street, there came the slight, graceful figure
of a young girl, who, crossing Broadway, glided into the glare of the
great arclight that was stationed directly opposite a pawnbroker's
shop.
She halted a moment just outside the door, one slender,
shabbily-gloved hand resting irresolutely upon its polished knob,
while an expression of mingled pain and disgust swept over her pale
but singularly beautiful face.
Presently, however, she straightened herself, and throwing up her head
with an air of resolution, she turned the knob, pushed open the door,
and entered the shop.
It was a large establishment of its kind, and upon every hand there
were indications that that relentless master, Poverty, had been very
busy about his work in the homes of the unfortunate, compelling his
victims to sacrifice their dearest possessions to his avaricious
grasp.
The young girl walked swiftly to the counter, behind which there stood
a shrewd-faced Israelite, who was the only occupant of the place, and
whose keen black eyes glittered with mingled admiration and cupidity
as they fastened themselves upon the lovely face before him.
With an air of quiet dignity the girl lifted her glance to his, as she
produced a ticket from the well-worn purse which she carried in her
hand.
"I have come, sir, to redeem the watch upon which you loaned me three
dollars last week," she remarked, as she laid the ticket upon the
counter before him.
"Aha! an' so, miss, you vishes to redeem de vatch!" remarked the man,
with a crafty smile, as he took up the ticket under pretense of
examining it to make sure that it was the same that he had issued to
her the week previous.
"Yes, sir."
"An' vat vill you redeem 'im mit?" he pursued, with a disagreeable
leer.
"With the same amount that you advanced me, of course," gravely
responded the girl.
"Ah! ve vill zee--ve vill zee! Vhere ish de money?" and the man
extended a huge soiled hand to her.
"I have a five-dollar gold-piece here," she returned, as she took it
from her purse and deposited it also upon the counter; for she shrank
from coming in contact with that repulsive, unwashed hand.
The pawnbroker seized the coin greedily, his eyes gleaming hungrily at
the sight of the yellow gold, while he examined it carefully to assure
himself that it was genuine.
"So! so! you vill vant de vatch," he at length observed, in a sullen
tone, as if he did not relish the idea of returning the valuable
time-piece upon which he had advanced the paltry sum of three dollars.
"Vell!" and irritably pulling out a drawer as he spoke, he dropped the
coin into it. "Ah!" he cried, with a sudden start and an angry frown,
as it dropped with a ringing sound upon the wood, "vat you mean? You
would sheat me!--you vould rob me! De money ish not goot--de coin ish
counterfeit! I vill send for de officer--you shall pe arrested--you
von little meek-faced robber! Ah!" he concluded, in a shrill tone of
well-simulated anger, as he shook his fist menacingly before his
companion.
The fair girl regarded him in frightened astonishment as he poured
forth this torrent of wrathful abuse upon her, while her beautiful
blue eyes dilated and her delicate lips quivered with repressed
excitement.
"I do not understand you!--what do you mean, sir?" she at length
demanded, when she could find voice for speech.
"You play de innocence very vell!" he sneered; then added, gruffly:
"You vill not get der vatch, for you haf prought me bad money."
"You are mistaken, sir; I have just received that gold-piece from a
respectable lawyer, for whom I have been working during the week, and
I know he would not take advantage of me by paying me with counterfeit
money," the young girl explained; but she had, nevertheless, grown
very pale while speaking.
"Ah! maybe not--maybe not, miss; not if he knew it," said the
pawnbroker, now adopting a wheedling and pitiful tone as he drew forth
the shining piece and pushed it toward her. "Somebody may haf sheeted
him; but it haf not der true ring of gold, and you'll haf to bring me
der t'ree dollars some oder time, miss."
The girl's delicate face flushed, and tears sprang to her eyes. She
stood looking sadly down upon the money for a moment, then, with a
weary sigh, replaced it in her purse, together with the ticket, and
left the shop without a word; while the tricky pawnbroker looked after
her, a smile of cunning triumph wreathing his coarse lips, as he
gleefully washed his hands, behind the counter, with "invisible soap
in imperceptible water."
"Oh, mamma! poor mamma! what shall I do?" murmured the girl, with a
heart-broken sob, as she stepped forth upon the street again. "I was
so happy to think I had earned enough to redeem your precious watch,
and also get something nice and nourishing for your Sunday dinner; but
now--what can I do? Oh, it is dreadful to be so poor!"
Another sob choked her utterance, and the glistening tears rolled
thick and fast over her cheeks; but she hurried on her way, and, after
a brisk walk of ten or fifteen minutes, turned into a side street and
presently entered a dilapidated-looking house.
Mounting a flight of rickety stairs, she entered a room where a dim
light revealed a pale and wasted woman lying upon a poor but
spotlessly clean couch.
The room was also clean and orderly, though very meagerly furnished,
but chill and cheerless, for there was not life enough in the
smoldering embers within the stove to impart much warmth with the
temperature outside almost down to zero.
"Edith, dear, I am so glad you have come," said a faint but sweet
voice from the bed.
"And, mamma, I never came home with a sadder heart," sighed the weary
and almost discouraged girl, as she sank upon a low chair at her
mother's side.
"How so, dear?" questioned the invalid; whereupon her daughter gave an
account of her recent interview with the pawnbroker.
"I know Mr. Bryant would never have given me the gold-piece if he had
not supposed it to be all right, for he has been so very kind and
considerate to me all the week," she remarked, in conclusion, with a
slight blush. "I am sure he would exchange it, even now; but he left
the office at four, and I do not know where he lives; so I suppose I
shall have to wait until Monday; but I am terribly disappointed about
the watch, while we have neither food nor fuel to get over Sunday
with."
The sick woman sighed gently. It was the only form of complaint that
she ever indulged in.
"Perhaps the money is not counterfeit, after all," she remarked, after
a moment of thought. "Perhaps the pawnbroker did not want to give up
the watch, and so took that way to get rid of you." "That is so! how
strange that I did not think of it myself!" exclaimed Edith, starting
eagerly to her feet, the look of discouragement vanishing from her
lovely face. "I will go around to the grocery at once, and perhaps
they will take the coin. What a comforter you always prove to be in
times of trouble, mamma!" she added, bending down to kiss the pale
face upon the pillow. "Cheer up; we will soon have a blazing fire and
something nice to eat."
She again put on her jacket and hat, and drew on her gloves,
preparatory to going forth to breast the storm and biting cold once
more.
"I cannot bear to have you go out again," said her mother, in an
anxious tone.
"I do not mind it in the least, mamma, dear," Edith brightly
responded, "if I can only make you comfortable over Sunday. Next week
I am to go again to Mr. Bryant, who thinks he can give me work
permanently. You should see him, mamma," she went on, flushing again
and turning slightly away from the eyes regarding her so curiously;
"he is so handsome, so courteous, and so very kind. Ah! I begin to
have courage once more," she concluded, with a little silvery laugh;
then went out, shutting the door softly behind her.
Half an hour later she returned with her arms full of packages, and
followed by a man bearing a generous basketful of coal and kindlings.
Her face was glowing, her eyes sparkling, and she was a bewildering
vision of beauty and happiness.
"The money wasn't bad, after all mamma," she said, when the man had
departed; "they didn't make the slightest objection to taking it at
the grocery. I believe you were right, and that the pawnbroker did not
want to give up the watch, so took that way to get rid of me. But I
will have it next week, and I shall have a policeman to go with me to
get it."
"Did you tell the grocer anything about the trouble you have had?" the
invalid inquired.
"No, mamma; I simply offered the coin in payment for what I bought,
and he took it without a word," Edith replied, but flushing slightly,
for she felt a trifle guilty about passing the money after what had
occurred.
"I almost wish you had," said her mother.
"I thought I would, at first, but--I knew we must have something to
eat, and fuel to keep us warm between now and Monday, and so I allowed
the grocer to take it upon his own responsibility," the young girl
responded, with a desperate little glitter in her lovely eyes.
Her companion made no reply, although there was a shade of anxiety
upon her wan face.
Edith, removing her things, bustled about, and soon had a cheerful
fire and an appetizing meal prepared.
Her spirits appeared to rise with the temperature of the room, and she
chatted cheerfully while about her work, telling a number of
interesting incidents that had occurred in connection with her
employment during the week.
"Now come, mamma," she remarked, at length; "let me help you into your
chair and wheel you up to the table, for supper is ready, and I am
sure you will enjoy these delicious oysters, which I have cooked as
you like them best."
Mother and daughter were chatting pleasantly, enjoying their meal,
when the door of their room was thrown rudely open and two men strode
into their presence.
Edith started to her feet in mingled indignation and alarm, then grew
deadly pale when she observed that one of the intruders was an
officer, and the other the grocer of whom she had made her recent
purchases.
"What is the meaning of this intrusion?" she demanded, trying in vain
to keep her tones steady and her heart from sinking with a terrible
dread.
"There! Mr. Officer; that is the girl who passed the counterfeit money
at my store," the grocer exclaimed, his face crimson with anger.
Edith uttered a smothered cry of anguish, then sank weakly back into
her chair, as the man went forward to her side, laid his hand upon
her shoulder, and remarked:
"You are my prisoner, miss."
CHAPTER II.
A STANCH FRIEND MAKES A VAIN APPEAL.
Beautiful Edith Allandale and her gentle, refined mother had been
suddenly hurled from affluence down into the very depths of poverty.
Only two years previous to the opening of our story the world had been
as bright to them as to any of the petted favorites of fortune who
dwell in the luxurious palaces on Fifth avenue.
Albert Allandale had been a wealthy broker in Wall street; for years
Fortune had showered her favors upon him, and everything he had
touched seemed literally to turn to gold in his grasp.
His family consisted of his wife, his beautiful daughter, and two
bright sons, ten and twelve years of age, upon whom the dearest hopes
of his life had centered.
But like a thunderbolt out of a clear sky, an illness of less than a
week had deprived him of both of his sons.
Diphtheria, that fell destroyer, laid its relentless hand upon them,
and they had died upon the same day, within a few hours of each other.
The heart-broken father was a changed man from the moment, when,
sitting in speechless agony beside these idolized boys, he watched
their young lives go out, and felt that the future held nothing to
tempt him to live on.
His mind appeared to be impaired by this crushing blow; he could
neither eat nor sleep; his business was neglected, and, day by day, he
failed, until, in less than six months from the time that death had so
robbed him, he had followed his boys, leaving his wife and lovely
daughter to struggle as best they could with poverty; for their great
wealth had melted like snow beneath the blazing sun when Mr. Allandale
lost his interest in the affairs of the world.
Keenly sensitive, and no less proud--crushed by their many sorrows,
the bereaved wife and daughter hid themselves and their grief from
every one, in a remote corner of the great city. But misfortune
followed misfortune--Mrs. Allandale having become a confirmed
invalid--until they were reduced to the straits described at the
opening of our story.
The week preceding they had spent their last dollar--obtained by
pawning one after another of their old-time treasures--and Edith
insisted upon seeking employment.
She had seen an advertisement for a copyist in one of the daily
papers, and, upon answering it in person, succeeded in obtaining the
situation with the young lawyer already mentioned.
Every day spent in her presence only served to make him admire her the
more; and, before the week was out, he had altogether lost his heart
to her.
When Saturday evening arrived, he paid her with the golden coin which
was destined to bring fresh sorrow upon her, and she went out from his
presence with a strange feeling of pride and independence over the
knowledge that she had earned it with her own hands, and henceforth
would be able to provide for her own and her mother's comfort.
But Royal Bryant had been conscience-smitten when he saw her beautiful
face light up with mingled pride and pleasure as he laid that tiny
piece of gold in her palm.
He would gladly have doubled the amount; but five dollars had been the
sum agreed upon for that first week's work, and he feared that he
would wound her pride by offering her a gratuity.
So he had told her that she would be worth more to him the next week,
and that he would continue to increase her wages in proportion as she
acquired speed and proficiency in her work.
Thus she had started forth, that dreary Saturday night, with a
comparatively light heart, to redeem her watch, before going home to
tell her mother her good news.
But, alas! how disastrously the day had closed!
"Come, miss," impatiently remarked the officer, as she sat with bowed
head, her face covered with her hands, "get on your things! I've no
time to be fooling away, and must run you into camp before it gets any
later."
"Oh, what do you mean?" cried Edith, starting wildly to her feet.
"Where are you going to take me?"
"To the station-house, of course, where you'll stay until Monday, when
you'll be taken to court for your examination," was the gruff reply.
"Oh, no! I can never spend two nights in such a place!" moaned the
nearly frantic girl, with a shiver of horror. "I have done no
intentional wrong," she continued, lifting an appealing look to the
man's face. "That money was given to me for some work that I have been
doing this week, and if any one is answerable for it being
counterfeit, it should be the person who paid it to me."
"Who paid you the money?" the officer demanded.
"A lawyer for whom I have been copying--Mr. Royal Bryant; his office
is at No. ---- Broadway."
"Then you'll have to appeal to him. But of course it's too late now to
find him at his office. Where does he live?"
"I do not know," sighed Edith, dejectedly. "I have only been with him
one week, and did not once hear him mention his residence."
"That's a pity, miss," returned the officer, in a gentler tone, for he
began to be moved by her beauty and distress. The condition of the
invalid, who had fallen back weak and faint in her chair when he
entered, also appealed to him.
"Unless you can prove your story true, and make up the grocer's loss
to him, I shall be obliged to lock you up to await your examination."
Edith's face lighted hopefully.
"Do you mean that if I could pay Mr. Pincher I need not be arrested?"
she eagerly inquired.
"Yes; the man only wants his money."
"Then he shall have it," Edith joyfully exclaimed. "I will give him
back the change he gave me, then I will go to Mr. Bryant the first
thing Monday morning and tell him about the gold-piece, when I am sure
he will make it all right, and I can pay Mr. Pincher for what I bought
to-night."
"No, you don't, miss," here interposed the grocer himself. "I've had
that game played on me too many times already. You'll just fork over
five dollars to me this very night or off you go to the lock-up. I'm
not going to run any risk of your skipping out of sight between now
and Monday, and leaving me in the lurch."
"But I have no money, save the change you gave me," said Edith,
wearily. "And do you think I would wish to run away when my mother is
too sick to be moved?" she added, indignantly. "I could not take her
with me, and I would not leave her. Oh, pray do not force me to go to
that dreadful place this fearful night! I promise that I will stay
quietly here and that you shall have every penny of your money on
Monday morning."
"She certainly will keep her word, gentlemen," Mrs. Allandale here
interposed, in a tremulous voice. "Do not force her to leave me, for I
am very ill and need her."
"I'm going to have my five dollars now, or to jail she will go," was
the gruff response of the obdurate grocer.
"Oh, I cannot go to jail!" wailed the persecuted girl.
Mrs. Allandale, almost unnerved by the sight of her grief, pleaded
again with pallid face and quivering lips for her. But the man was
relentless. He resolutely turned his back upon the two delicate women
and walked from the room, saying as he went:
"Do your duty, Mr. Officer, and I'll be on hand Monday morning, in
court, to tell 'em how I've been swindled."
With this he vanished, leaving the policeman no alternative but to
enforce the law.
"Oh, mamma! mamma! how can I live and suffer such shame?" cried the
despairing girl, as she sank upon her knees in front of the sick
woman, and shuddered from head to foot in view of the fate before her.
Mrs. Allandale was so overcome that she could not utter one word of
comfort. She was only able to lift one wasted hand and lay it upon the
golden head with a touch of infinite tenderness; then, with a gasp,
she fainted dead away.
"Oh, you have killed her!" Edith cried, in an agonized tone. "What
shall I do? How can I leave her? I will not. Oh! will no one come to
help me in this dreadful emergency?"
"Sure, Miss Allandale, ye know that Kate O'Brien is always willin' to
lend ye a hand when you're in trouble--bless yer bonny heart!" here
interposed a loud but kindly voice, and the next instant the
good-natured face of a buxom Irishwoman was thrust inside the door,
which the grocer had left ajar when he went out. "What is the matter
here?" she concluded, glancing from the officer to the senseless woman
in her chair, and over whom Edith was hanging, chafing her cold hands,
while bitter tears rolled over her face.
A few words sufficed to explain the situation, and then the
indignation of the warm-hearted daughter of Erin blazed forth more
forcibly than elegantly, and she berated the absent grocer and present
officer in no gentle terms.
Kate O'Brien would gladly have advanced the five dollars to the
grocer, but, unfortunately, she herself was at that moment almost
destitute of cash.
"Come, Miss Allandale," said the officer, somewhat impatiently, "I
can't wait any longer."
"Oh, mamma! how can I leave you like this?" moaned the girl, with a
despairing glance at the inanimate figure which, as yet, had given no
signs to returning life.
"She has only fainted, mavourneen," said Kate O'Brien, in a tender
tone, for she at last realized that it would be worse than useless to
contend against the majesty of the law. "She'll soon come to hersel',
and ye may safely trust her wid me--I'll not lave her till ye come
back again."
And with this assurance, Edith was forced to be content, for she saw,
by the officer's resolute face, that she could hope for no reprieve.
So, with one last agonizing look, she pressed a kiss upon the pallid
brow of her loved one; then, again donning her hat and shawl, she told
the policeman that she was ready, and went forth once more into the
darkness and the pitiless storm, feeling, almost, as if God himself
had forsaken her, and wondering if she should ever see her dear mother
alive again.
CHAPTER III.
THE YOUNG LAWYER EXPERIENCES TWO EXTRAORDINARY SURPRISES.
The next morning, in the matron's room of the Thirtieth street
station-house, a visitor came to see Edith Allandale. The visitor was
Kate O'Brien, who, after announcing the condition of the prisoner's
mother, declared her willingness to aid Edith in any way in her power.
Edith intrusted a letter to her for Mr. Royal Bryant, and early Monday
morning Kate was at the lawyer's office, and placed the missive in his
hands.
The young man instantly recognized the handwriting of his fair
copyist, and flushed to his brow at sight of it.
"Ah! she is ill and has sent me word that she cannot come to the
office to-day!" he said to himself.
"Sit down, madam," he said to his visitor, and he eagerly tore open
the letter and read the following:
"MR. BRYANT:--Dear Sir:--I am sorry to have to tell you that
the five-dollar gold-piece which you gave me on Saturday
evening was a counterfeit coin. I passed it at a grocery,
near which I reside, in payment for necessaries which I
purchased, and, half an hour later, was arrested for the
crime of passing spurious money. I could not appeal to you
at the time, for I did not know your address; but now I beg
that you will come to my aid to-morrow morning, when I shall
have to appear in court to answer the charge, for I do not
know of any one else upon whom to call in my present
extremity. Oh, pray come at once, for my mother is very ill
and needs me.
"Respectfully yours,
"EDITH M. ALLANDALE."
Royal Bryant's face was ghastly white when he finished reading this
brief epistle.
"Good heavens!" he muttered, "to think of that beautiful girl being
arrested and imprisoned for such an offense! Where is Miss Allandale?"
he added, aloud, turning to Mrs. O'Brien, who had been watching him
with a jealous eye ever since entering the room.
"In the Thirtieth street station-house, sir," she briefly responded.
"Infamous!" exclaimed the young man, in great excitement. "And has she
been in that vile place since Saturday evening?"
"She has, sir; but not with the common lot; the matron has been very
good to her, sir, and gave her a bed in her own room," the woman
explained.
"Blessed be the matron!" was Royal Bryant's inward comment. Then,
turning again to his companion, he inquired.
"What is your name, if you please, madam?"
"Kate O'Brien, at your service, sir."
"Thank you; and do you live near Miss Allandale?"
"Jist forninst her, sir--on the same floor, across the hall."
"She writes that her mother is very ill," proceeded the young man,
referring again to the letter.
"Whisht, sir; the poor lady's dyin', sir," said Kate in a tone of awe.
"Dying!" exclaimed Royal Bryant, aghast.
"Yes, sir; she has consumption; and just afther the officer--bad luck
to 'im!--took the young lady away, she had a bad coughin' spell, and
burst a blood-vessel, and she has been failin' ever since," the woman
explained, with trembling lips.
"Who is with Mrs. Allandale now?" questioned Mr. Bryant, with a look
of deep anxiety.
"The docthor, sir; he promised to stay wid her till I come back."
"Well, then, Mrs. O'Brien, if you will be good enough to hurry back
and care for Mrs. Allandale, I will go at once to her daughter; and I
am very sure that I can secure her release within a short time. Tell
her mother so, and that I will send her home immediately upon her
release."
"Bless yer kind heart!" cried the woman, heartily, and she hurried
away to take the blessed news to Edith's fast-failing mother.
The moment the door closed after her, Royal Bryant seized his overcoat
and began to put it on again, his face aflame with mingled indignation
and mortification.
"In a common city lock-up for the crime of passing counterfeit money!"
he muttered, hoarsely. "And to think that I brought such a fate upon
her!--I, who would suffer torture to save her a pang. Two nights and
an endless day, and her mother dying at home!--how she must have
suffered! I could go down upon my knees to ask her pardon, and yet I
cannot understand it. That money came directly from the bank into my
possession."
He was just fastening the last button of his coat when there came a
knock upon his door.
"Come in," he said, but frowning with impatience at the unwelcome
interruption and the probable detention which it portended.
An instant later a rather common-looking man, of perhaps forty years,
entered the room.
"Ah, Mr. Knowles! good-morning, good-morning," said young Bryant, with
his habitual cordiality. "What can I do for you to-day?"
"I--I have called to pay an installment upon what I owe you, Mr.
Bryant," the man responded, flushing slightly beneath the genial
glance of the lawyer.
"Ah, yes; I had forgotten that this was the date for the payment. I
hope, however, that you are not inconveniencing yourself in making it
to-day," remarked the young lawyer, as he observed that his client was
paler than usual and wore an anxious, care-worn expression.
"There is nothing that inconveniences me more than debt," the man
evasively replied, but quickly repressing a sigh, as he drew forth a
well-worn purse, while his companion saw that his lips trembled
slightly as he said it.
Opening the purse, Mr. Knowles produced a small coin and extended it
to the lawyer.
It was a five-dollar gold-piece.
Mr. Bryant took it mechanically, and thanked him; but at the same
time, feeling a strange reluctance in so doing, for he was sure the
man needed the money for his personal necessities, while his small
claim against him for advice rendered a few weeks previous could wait
well enough, and he would never miss the amount.
He experienced a sense of delicacy, however, about giving expression
to the thought, for he knew the gentleman to be both proud and
sensitive, and he did not wish to wound him by assuming that he was
unable to make the payment that had become due.
He stood awkwardly fingering the money and gazing absently down upon
it as these thoughts flitted through his mind, and thinking, too, that
it was somewhat singular that Mr. Knowles should have paid him in gold
coin and of the very same denomination as he had given Edith less than
forty-eight hours previous, and which had been the means of causing
her such deep trouble.
Almost unconsciously, he turned the money over, his glance still
riveted upon it.
As he did so he gave a violent start which caused his companion to
regard him curiously.
"Great Scott!" he exclaimed, in vehement excitement, as he bent to
examine the coin more closely, "this is the strangest thing that ever
happened to me in all my experience!"
CHAPTER IV.
A MYSTERY EXPLAINED.
Mr. Knowles regarded his companion with undisguised astonishment.
"Is there anything wrong about the money?" he inquired, a gleam of
anxiety in his eyes.
"Pardon me," said Royal Bryant, flushing, as he was thus recalled to
himself; "you are justified in asking the question, and I trust you
will not regard me as impertinently inquisitive if I inquire if you
can remember from whom you received this piece of money."
"Certainly I remember," Mr. Knowles replied, but flushing painfully in
his turn at the question.
"Will you kindly tell me the name of the person from whom you took
it?"
Mr. Knowles appeared even more embarrassed than before, and hesitated
about replying.
"I have a special and personal reason for asking you," Mr. Bryant
continued. "See!" he added, holding the gold-piece before him where
the light struck full upon it, "you perceive this coin is marked," and
he pointed out some vertical scratches which had been made just inside
the margin. "I made those marks myself."
"Can that be possible!" exclaimed his companion, astonished.
"Yes. This very piece of money was in my possession as late as five
o'clock last Saturday afternoon."
"I cannot understand," said Mr. Knowles, looking mystified.
"Let me explain," returned Mr. Bryant. "I owed my copyist exactly five
dollars, and, having nothing smaller in bills than tens, I was obliged
to pay her with this coin. While she was getting ready to leave the
office, I sat toying with it and scratched it, as you see, with the
point of my penknife; then I gave it to Miss Allandale, and thought
no more about the matter. But just before you came in this morning, I
received a note from her saying she had been arrested for passing the
coin with which I had paid her, it having been declared counterfeit,
and she begged me to come at once to her assistance and try to prove
her innocence. I was just on the point of doing so when you called."
"What a very singular circumstance," Mr. Knowles remarked,
reflectively. "It appears all the more so to me from the fact that I
also received this piece of money no later than seven o'clock on last
Saturday evening."
"You amaze me!" exclaimed Mr. Bryant. "Pray explain to me how you came
by it--it may help to solve this very perplexing mystery, for I am
confident that the coin is genuine, in spite of the trouble it has
brought upon Miss Allandale."
"Yes, I will be frank with you," his companion returned, but flushing
again, "and tell you that, in order to make this payment to you, I was
obliged to borrow the money and gave, as security, a valuable mantel
clock, which was one of my wife's wedding gifts. In other words, I
pawned it. It goes against my pride to confess it; but the idea of
debt is horrible to me: and, having been in very straitened
circumstances of late, from sickness in my family and other causes, I
had no other means of meeting my obligations to you, while I hoped to
be able to redeem the clock before the time allotted should expire."
"Mr. Knowles, I thank you heartily for telling me this, while, at the
same time, I am deeply pained," gravely returned Royal Bryant. "I
would not have had you so pressed for a great deal; my claim against
you can wait indefinitely, and you need feel no anxiety regarding it.
Take your own time about it, for I am sure that I can safely trust a
man to whom the idea of debt is so repulsive."
"You are very good," said Mr. Knowles, in a grateful tone.
"I shall return you this amount," the young lawyer resumed, "but in
bills, for I wish to retain this gold-piece; and I beg that you will
go at once and redeem your wife's clock. I am also going to throw a
little business in your way, for I would like to retain you as a
witness for Miss Allandale, and you shall be well paid for your
services. Now please give me the name of the pawnbroker from whom you
took the money."
"Solon Retz, No. ---- Third avenue."
"Ah, yes; I know him for a scheming and not over-scrupulous person. I
fought a tough battle with him a year or so ago."
But Royal Bryant still looked greatly perplexed.
He could not understand how the pawnbroker could have had that
particular gold-piece to loan upon Mr. Knowles' clock, before seven
o'clock on Saturday evening, when Edith Allandale had been arrested,
that same night, for trying to pass it off upon the grocer of whom she
had spoken in her note.
To him it seemed an inexplicable mystery.
However, he knew--he could take his oath--that the coin which he now
held in his hand was the identical piece of money which he had paid to
his beautiful but unfortunate copyist for her last week's work, and he
was also reasonably sure that it was not a counterfeit.
"I suppose you will have no objection to testifying as to how and from
whom you received the money?" he inquired of Mr. Knowles, after a few
moments' reflection.
"Certainly not, if such testimony will be of any benefit to the young
lady's cause," he readily replied. "And," he added, "I can easily
prove the truth of my assertions, as I have here the ticket which I
received from the pawnbroker."
"Ah! that is well thought of, and will undoubtedly score a strong
point for Miss Allandale," Mr. Bryant exclaimed, with animation. "And
now allow me to advance you the fee for your services as a witness,"
he added, as he pressed a ten-dollar note into his companion's hand.
"This will be sufficient to redeem your clock and remunerate you for
the time you may lose in appearing as a witness. Hereafter, Mr.
Knowles, if you find yourself short of cash, pray do not be troubled
about what is owing me--do not try to pay it until it is perfectly
convenient for you to do so."
"You are very considerate, Mr. Bryant," the man returned, with evident
emotion. "I cannot tell you how your generosity touches me, for the
world has gone very badly with me of late."
"Well, we will hope for better times in the future for you, sir," was
the cheery response of the noble-hearted young lawyer. "Now I must be
off," he added, "and I would like you to meet me at the Thirtieth
street station-house in an hour from now. I shall know by that time
what I shall be able to do for my young friend."
He bade the man good-morning and bowed him out of his office, and,
five minutes later, was on his way to the assistance of beautiful
Edith Allandale.
Before boarding a car, he stepped into a bank near-by and had the gold
coin tested.
It proved to be just as he had thought--it was perfectly good, and if
Edith had been arrested for passing it, some one would have to stand
damages for having subjected her to such an injustice.
Upon his arrival at the station-house, and requesting an interview
with Miss Allandale as her attorney, the police sergeant conducted him
directly to the room occupied by Edith, who looked so pale and wan
from anxiety and confinement that the young man's conscience smote him
keenly, although his heart bounded with sudden joy when he saw how her
sad face lighted at the sight of him.
"This is the most outrageous thing I ever heard of, Miss Allandale,"
he exclaimed, as he clasped her cold hand and looked regretfully into
the heavy blue eyes raised to his.
"I was sure you would come," she murmured, with a sigh of relief, but
flushing for an instant beneath his ardent gaze, while her lips
quivered with suppressed emotion, for his tone of sympathy had almost
unnerved her.
"Of course I would come--I would go to the ends of the earth to serve
you," he began, eagerly. "I am filled with remorse when I think what
you must have suffered and that I am responsible for your trouble,
though unintentionally and unconsciously."
"Yes, I am sure you could not have known that the money was
counterfeit," said Edith, wearily.
"And it was not," he quickly returned. "It is a genuine coin and
negotiable anywhere."
"But I was told by two different persons that it was spurious," Edith
replied, in a tone of surprise.
"Then you were misinformed in both cases, for I have had it tested at
a bank, and it has been pronounced good," returned her companion.
"You have had it tested? How can that be possible, when the grocer who
caused me to be arrested has the money in his possession this moment?"
the young girl exclaimed, in amazement.
Royal Bryant smiled as he drew forth the half-eagle which he had
received from Mr. Knowles, and laid it in her palm.
"That is the five-dollar gold-piece that I gave you on Saturday
evening," he remarked, in a quiet tone.
"Have you seen the grocer? Did you get it from him?" Edith gasped.
"No; an old client of mine brought it to me, about half an hour ago,
in part payment of a debt which he owes me."
"I do not understand--it cannot be the same," said Edith, with a look
of perplexity.
"But it is," was the smiling reply. "Look at it closely, and you will
find some fresh scratches upon one side of it--do you see?"
"Yes," the young girl admitted.
"Very well; I made them with my penknife during a fit of
absent-mindedness, while you were putting on your hat and shawl on
Saturday evening," Royal Bryant explained. "It was all the money I
had, excepting some large bills, and I was obliged to give it to you,
even though I knew it was not a convenient form--one is so liable to
lose such a small piece. I am sure I do not know what possessed me to
deface it in the way I did," he continued, after a slight pause; "but
there the marks are, fortunately, and I could swear to the coin among
a hundred others of the same denomination."
"Yes, I remember, now," Edith remarked, reflectively; "I noticed the
gold-piece in your hands and that you were using your knife upon it;
but how could it have come into the possession of your client? Surely
the grocer would not have parted with it voluntarily, for it was all
the proof he had against me."
"No; my client, Mr. Knowles, obtained it from a pawnbroker at No. ----
Third avenue," Mr. Bryant replied.
Instantly the red blood mounted to the girl's fair brow, and, like a
flash, Royal Bryant comprehended how all her trouble had come about.
"Yes," she sighed, after a moment, as if in reply to some question
from him, "the week before I went into your office I was obliged to
borrow some money upon a beautiful watch of mamma's. It was a very
valuable one, but the man would only advance me three dollars upon it.
Of course I felt that I must redeem it with the very first money I
earned, and I went immediately to the pawnbroker's to get it on
leaving your office. He seemed averse to the early redemption of the
watch, and threw my money impatiently into the drawer. The next
instant he gave it back to me, angrily telling me that it was
counterfeit, and charging me with trying to cheat him. But, even now,
I cannot understand--"
"So the pawnbroker threw your money into his drawer, did he?"
interposed Mr. Bryant, eagerly grasping at this important point.
"Yes; but, as I said, he returned it immediately to me, and I was
obliged to go home without my watch. I was in great distress because,
Mr. Bryant, it was all the money I had, and there were things that
mamma and I must have in order to be comfortable over Sunday," Edith
confessed, with crimson cheeks and downcast eyes, the sight of which
made her companion's heart ache for her. "Mamma suggested that the
money might not be bad, after all," she continued, determined that he
should know the whole truth about the matter; "that, possibly, the
pawnbroker had taken that way to retain the watch, with the hope of
ultimately securing it; so I started out to make my purchases. The
grocer made no objection to the money and gave me my change without a
word. But half an hour later he appeared with an officer and had me
arrested. He would not have pressed the matter if I could have
returned his money; but, as I could not, and he claimed he had
suffered from so many similar cases of swindling, he was obdurate, and
I was obliged to come here."
"It was shameful!" said the young lawyer, indignantly. "It was a
heartless thing to do. But, my little friend, I think we have a very
clear case, and you will soon be fully vindicated."
"Oh! do you? I shall be very grateful--" Edith began, then stopped,
choking back a sob that had almost burst from her trembling lips.
"I see you do not quite comprehend how that can be," continued her
friend, ignoring her emotion. "But the piece of money which the
pawnbroker pretended to return to you was not the same that you had
received from me--it was a spurious one which he had at hand for the
express purpose evidently of tricking the unwary, and Mr. Solon Retz
will, ere long, be compelled to exchange places with you, if I can
possibly bring him to justice."
CHAPTER V.
A MOTHER'S LAST REQUEST.
Two hours later, Royal Bryant was at the pawnbroker's shop, and had
redeemed Edith's watch, much against the wish of the money-lender, who
desired to retain it. And as the lawyer placed the watch in his
pocket, he made a sign to an officer on the street, who had
accompanied him to the spot.
Solon Retz was astounded when he found himself a prisoner, on the
charge of passing counterfeit money. He was hurried to court, and the
judge investigated the case at once. Mr. Bryant and Mr. Knowles gave
their testimony, and it was conclusively demonstrated that the
spurious coin must have come from the pawnbroker's drawer.
At Royal Bryant's suggestion the pawnbroker was ordered to be
searched, when no less than three more bogus pieces were found
concealed upon his person.
This was deemed sufficient proof of his guilt, without further
testimony, and he was sentenced to four years' imprisonment, without
Edith having been called to the witness stand to testify against him.
As the crestfallen pawnbroker was led away, Royal Bryant went eagerly
to Edith's side.
"You are free, Miss Allandale," he exclaimed, with a radiant face,
"and I think we are to be congratulated upon having made such quick
work of the case."
"It is all owing to your cleverness," Edith returned, lifting a pair
of grateful eyes to his face. "How can I thank you?"
"You do not need to do that, for I feel that I alone have been to
blame for all your trouble," he said, in a self-reproachful tone; then
he added, with a roguish gleam in his fine eyes: "I shall never be
guilty of paying my copyist in gold again. Now come, I have a carriage
waiting for you and will send you directly home to your mother," the
young man concluded, as he lifted her shawl from the chair where she
had been sitting and wrapped it about her shoulders.
Edith followed him to the street, where a hack stood ready to take her
home.
Mr. Bryant assisted her to enter it, when he laid a small package in
her lap.
"It is your watch," he said, in a low tone. Then, extending his hand
to her, he added: "I shall not ask you to return to the office for two
or three days--you need rest after your recent anxiety and excitement,
while I am to be away until Wednesday noon. Come to me on Thursday
morning, if you feel able, when I shall have plenty of work for you."
He pressed the hand he was holding with an unconscious fondness which
brought a rich color into the young girl's face, then, closing the
carriage door, he gave the order to the coachman, smiled another
adieu, as he lifted his hat to her, and the next moment Edith was
driven away.
There was a glad light in her eyes, a tender smile on her red lips,
and, in spite of her poverty and many cares, she was, for the moment,
supremely happy, for Royal Bryant's manner had been far more
suggestive to her than he had been aware of, and she was thrilled to
her very soul by the consciousness that he loved her.
She sat thus, in happy reverie, until the carriage turned into the
street where she lived; then, suddenly coming to herself, her
attention was again attracted to the package in her lap.
"There is something besides mamma's watch here!" she murmured, as she
noticed the thickness of it.
Untying the string and removing the wrapper, she found a pretty purse
with a silver clasp lying upon the case containing the watch.
With burning cheeks she opened it, and found within a crisp ten-dollar
note and Royal Bryant's card bearing these words upon the back:
"I shall deem it a favor if you will accept the inclosed
amount, as a loan, until you find yourself in more
comfortable circumstances financially. Yours, R.B."
Edith caught the purse to her lips with a thrill of joy.
"How kind! how delicate!" she murmured. "He knew that I was nearly
penniless--that I had almost nothing with which to tide over the next
few days, during his absence. He is a prince--he is a king among men,
and I--"
A vivid flush dyed her cheeks as she suddenly checked the confession
that had almost escaped her lips, her head drooped, her chest heaved
with the rapid beating of her heart, as she realized that her deepest
and strongest affections had been irrevocably given to the
noble-hearted young man who had been so kind to her in her recent
trouble.
The carriage stopped at last before the door of her home--if the
miserable tenenment-house could be designated by such a name--and she
sprang eagerly to the ground as the coachman opened the door for her
to alight.
"The fare is all paid, miss," he said, respectfully, as she hesitated
a moment; then she went bounding up the stairs to be met on the
threshold of her room by Kate O'Brien--who had seen the carriage
stop--with her finger on her lips and a look in her kind, honest eyes
that made the girl's heart sink with a sudden shock.
"My mother!" she breathed, with paling lips.
"Whisht, mavourneen!" said the woman, pitifully; then added, in a
lower tone: "She has been mortal ill, miss."
"And now?" panted Edith, leaning against the door-frame for support.
"'Sh! She is asleep."
Edith waited to hear no more. Something in the woman's face and manner
filled her with a terrible dread.
She pushed by her, entered the room, and glided swiftly but
noiselessly to the bed, looked down upon the scarcely breathing figure
lying there.
It was with difficulty that she repressed a shriek of agony at what
she saw, for the shadow of death was unmistakably settling over the
beloved face.
The invalid stirred slightly upon her pillow as Edith came to her side
and bent over her.
"My darling," she murmured weakly, as her white lids fluttered open,
and she bent a look full of love upon the fair face above her, "I--am
going--"
"No, no, mamma!" whispered the almost heart-broken girl, but
struggling mightily with her agony and to preserve calmness lest she
excite the invalid.
"Bring me the--Japanese box--quick!" the dying woman commanded, in a
scarcely audible tone.
Without a word Edith darted to a closet, opened a trunk, and from its
depths drew forth a beautiful casket inlaid with mother-of-pearl and
otherwise exquisitely decorated.
"The--key," gasped the sick one, fumbling feebly among the folds of
her night-robe.
Edith bent over her and unfastened a key from a golden chain which
encircled her mother's neck.
"Open!" she whispered, glancing toward the casket.
The girl, wondering, but awed and silent, unlocked the box and threw
back the cover, thus revealing several packages of letters and other
papers neatly arranged within it.
Mrs. Allandale reached forth a weak and bloodless hand, as if to take
something out of the box, when she suddenly choked, and in another
instant the red life-current was flowing from her lips.
"Letters--burn--" she gasped, with a last expiring effort, and then
became suddenly insensible.
In an agony of terror, Edith dashed the box upon the nearest chair and
began to chafe the cold hand that hung over the side of the bed, while
Mrs. O'Brien came forward, a look of awe on her face.
The frail chest of the invalid heaved two or three times, there was a
spasmodic twitching of the slender fingers lying on the young girl's
hand, then all was still, and Edith Allandale was motherless.
CHAPTER VI.
A HERITAGE OF SHAME.
We will not linger over the sad details of the ceremonies attending
Mrs. Allandale's burial. Suffice it to say that on Tuesday afternoon
her remains were borne away to Greenwood, and laid to rest, in the
family lot, beside those gone before, after which Edith returned to
her desolate abode more wretched than it is possible to describe.
She had made up her mind, however, that she could not remain there any
longer--that she must find a place for herself in a different
locality and among a different class of people. This she knew she
could do, since she had the promise of permanent work and now had only
herself to care for.
The change, too, must be made upon the following day, as Mr. Bryant
would expect her at his office on Thursday morning.
There was much to be done, many things to be packed for removal, while
what she did not care to retain must be disposed of; and, eager to
forget her grief and loneliness--for she knew she would be ill if she
sat tamely down and allowed herself to think--she began at once, upon
her return from the cemetery, to get ready to leave the cheerless home
where she had suffered so much.
She decided, first of all, to pack all wearing apparel; and, on going
to her closet to begin her work, the first thing her eyes fell upon
was the casket of letters, which her mother had requested her to bring
to her just before she died.
The sight of this unnerved her again, and, with a moan of pain, she
sank upon her knees and bowed her head upon it.
But the fountain of her tears had been so exhausted that she could not
weep; and, finally becoming somewhat composed, she took the beautiful
box out into the room and sat down near a light to examine its
contents.
"Mamma evidently wanted these letters destroyed," she murmured, as she
threw back the cover. "I will do as she wished, but I will first look
them over, to be sure there is nothing of value among them."
She set about her task at once and found that they were mostly
missives from intimate friends, with quite a number written by herself
to her mother, while she was away at boarding-school.
All these she burned after glancing casually at them. Nothing then
remained in the box but a small package of six or eight time-yellowed
epistles bound together with a blue ribbon.
"What peculiar writing!" Edith observed, as she separated one from
the others and examined the superscription upon the envelope. "Why, it
is postmarked Rome, Italy, away back in 18--, and addressed to mamma
in London! That must have been when she was on her wedding tour!"
Her curiosity was aroused, and, drawing the closely-written sheet from
its inclosure, she began to read it.
It was also dated from Rome, and the girl was soon deeply immersed in
a story of intense and romantic interest.
She readily understood that the letter had been written by a dear
friend of Mrs. Allandale's youth--one who had been both school and
roommate, and who unreservedly confided all her secrets and
experiences to her bosom companion. And yet, it was strange, Edith
thought, that she had never heard her mother speak of this friend.
It seemed that there had been quite an interval in their
correspondence, for the writer spoke of the surprise which her friend
would experience upon receiving a letter from her from that locality,
when she had probably believed her to be in her own home, living the
quiet life of a dutiful daughter.
Then it spoke of an "ideal love" that "had come to beautify her life;"
of a noble and wealthy artist who had won her heart, but who, for some
unaccountable reason, had not been acceptable to her parents, and they
had sternly rejected his proposal for her hand.
Next came the _denouement_, which told that the girl had eloped with
her lover and flown with him to Italy.
"I suppose it was not the right thing to do, darling," the missive
ran; "but papa, you know, is a very austere, relentless man, and when
he has once made up his mind, there is no hope of ever turning him; so
I have taken my fate into my own hands--or, rather, I have given it
into the keeping of my dear one, and we are so happy, Edith darling,
and lead an ideal life in this quaint old city of the seven hills, at
whose feet runs, like a thread of gold, the yellow Tiber. My husband
is everything to me--so noble, so kind, so generous; it is so very
strange that papa could not like him--that is the only drop of
bitterness in my overflowing cup of happiness."
There was much more of the same tenor, from which it is not necessary
to quote; and, after reading the letter through, Edith took up
another, interested to know how the pretty love-story of her mother's
friend would terminate. The second one, written a month later, was
more subdued, but not less tender, although the young girl thought she
detected a vein of sadness running through it.
The next two or three mentioned the fact that the writer was left much
alone, her "dear one" being obliged to be away a great deal of the
time, upon sketching expeditions, etc.
After an interval of three months another letter spoke in the fondest
manner of the "dear little stranger," that had come to bless and cheer
her loneliness--"lonely, dear Edith, because my husband's art
monopolizes his time, while he is often absent from home a week at a
time in connection with it, and I do not know what I should do, in
this strange country away from all my friends, if it were not for my
precious baby girl whom I have named for you, as I promised, in memory
of those happy days which we spent together at Vassar."
"Then mamma's friend had a daughter, who was also named Edith," mused
our fair heroine, breaking in upon her perusal of the letter. "I
wonder if she is living, and where? Those letters tell me nothing,
give no last name by which to identify either the writer or her
husband."
She turned back to the epistle, and read on:
"She is such a comfort to me," it ran, "and gives me an object in
life--something besides myself and my trou"--these last three words
were crossed out--"to think about. When will you come to Rome, dear
Edith? Your last letter was dated from St. Petersburgh. I am very
anxious that you should see your little namesake, and make me that
long-promised visit."
There was scarcely a word in this letter referring to her husband,
except those three crossed-out words; but it overflowed with praises
and love of her beautiful child, although it was evident that the
young wife was far from experiencing the conjugal happiness that had
permeated her previous missives.
There was only one more letter in the package, and Edith's face was
very grave and sympathetic as she drew it from its envelope.
"I am sure that her husband proved to be negligent of and unkind to
her," she murmured, "and that she repented her rashness in leaving her
home and friends. Oh, I wonder why girls will be so foolish and
headstrong as to go directly contrary to the advice of those who love
them best, and run away with men of whom they know comparatively
nothing!"
With a sigh of regret for the unfortunate wife, of whom she had been
reading, she unfolded the letter in her hands and began to read,
little dreaming what strange things she was to learn from it.
"Oh, Edith darling," it began, "how can I tell you?--how can I write
of the terrible calamity that has overtaken me? My heart is broken--my
life is ruined, and all because I would not heed those who loved me,
and who, I now realize, were my best and kindest counselors. I could
bear it for myself, perhaps--I could feel that it was but a just
judgment upon me for my obstinacy and unfilial conduct, and so drag
out my weary existence in submission to the inevitable; but when I
think of my innocent babe--my lovely Edith--your namesake! oh! I would
never have had her christened thus, I could not have insulted you so,
had I known! I feel almost inclined to doubt the justice and love of
God--if, indeed, there is a God."
The letter here looked as if the writer must have been overcome with
her wretchedness, and wept tears of bitter despair, for it was badly
blurred and defaced.
But Edith, her face now absolutely colorless, read eagerly on.
"I cannot bear it and live," the writer resumed, "and so--I am going
to--die. Edith, my husband--no, my betrayer, I ought rather to
say--has deserted me! He has gone to Florence with a beautiful
Italian countess, who is also very rich, and is living with her there
in her elegant palace, just outside the city. He has long been
attentive to her, but I never dreamed how far matters had gone until
yesterday, when I came upon them, unawares, in Everard's studio, and
heard him tell her how he loved her--that 'I was not his wife, only
his ----' I cannot write the vile word that makes my flesh creep with
horror. Then I learned of his base conduct to me, whom, as he
expressed it, he 'had cleverly deceived, and coaxed to run away with
him to while away his solitude during his sojourn in a strange
country.' It is a wonder that I did not drop dead where I stood--slain
by the dreadful truth; but the wicked lovers did not dream of being
overheard, and so I listened to the whole of their vile plot and then
stole away to try and decide upon a course of action. When Everard
came home, I charged him with his perfidy. Then--pity me, Edith--he
boldly told me that he was weary of me; that he would pay me a
handsome sum of money and I might take my child and go back to my
parents! Oh! I cannot go into details, or tell you what I have
suffered--no one will ever know that but God! Why, oh, why does He
permit such evil to exist? He does not--there is no God! there is no
God!"
There was a huge blot here, as if the pen had fallen from the fingers
that had dared to deny the existence of Deity; then the missive was
resumed in a different tone, as if a long interval of thought had
intervened.
"Edith, I am calmer now, and I am going to ask a great favor of you.
You are happily married, you have a noble husband and abundant means,
and you know we once pledged ourselves to befriend each other, if
either should ever find herself in trouble. Presuming upon that
pledge, I am going to ask if you will take my darling, my poor
innocent little waif, bring her up as your own, and never let her know
anything about the stain that rests upon her birth? She is pure; she
is not to blame for the sins of her parents, and I cannot bear the
thought of her growing up to learn of her heritage of shame, as she
would be sure to do if I should live and rear her as my child. Your
last letter tells me that you will be in Rome in less than a
fortnight. I cannot meet you--I can never again meet any one whom I
have known; and so, Edith--I am going to die. I give my child to
you--I believe you will not refuse my last request--and you will find
her, with the woman who nursed me when she was born, at No. 2 Via del
Vecchia. The woman has my instructions--she believes that I am only
going away on a little trip with my husband; but you will show her
this letter, and prove to her that you have authority to take the
child away. When you go home, you will take her with you, as your own,
and no one need ever know that she is not your own. Do not ever reveal
the truth to her; let her grow up happy and care-free, like other
girls who are of honorable birth; and if the dead can watch over and
shield the living, you and yours shall be so shielded and watched over
by your lost but still loving. BELLE."
"She was my mother! I am that child of shame!" came hoarsely from
Edith's bloodless lips as she finished reading that dreadful letter.
Then the paper slipped from her nerveless fingers, her head dropped
unconsciously upon the table before her, and she knew nothing more
until, long afterward, when she awoke from her swoon to find her lamp
gone out and the room growing cold, while her heart felt as if it had
been paralyzed in her bosom.
CHAPTER VII.
TWO NEW ACQUAINTANCES.
Edith, when consciousness returned, had not a doubt that the letters,
which she had been reading, had been penned by the hand of her own
mother; that she was that little baby who had been born in Rome--that
child of shame whose father had so heartlessly deserted it; whose
mother, her brain turned by her suffering and wrongs, had planned to
take her own life, rather than live to taint her little one's future
with the shadow of her own disgrace.
The knowledge of this seemed to blight, as with a lightning flash,
every hope of her life.
She groped her way to the bed, for she was becoming benumbed with the
cold, and threw herself upon it, utterly wretched, utterly hopeless.
For hours she lay there in a sort of stupor, conscious only of one
terrible fact--her shame--her ruined life!
She had never dreamed, until within that hour, that she was not the
daughter of those whom she had always known as her father and mother.
She had known that they had gone abroad immediately after their
marriage, and had spent more than a year visiting foreign countries.
She had been told that she was born in Rome, in 18--, and she now
realized that the letters which she had just read had been mostly
written during the same year.
Mrs. Allandale had never meant that she should learn this terrible
secret, and that is why she had been so anxious during her last
moments that the contents of the Japanese box should be destroyed.
Edith wondered why she had kept the letters at all--why she had not
destroyed them immediately upon adopting her, and thus prevented the
possibility of a revelation like this.
To be sure, no one save herself need ever know of the fact unless she
chose to disclose it; nevertheless, she felt just as deeply branded by
it as if all the world had known of it.
"Oh, I had begun to hope that--" she began, then abruptly ceased, a
burning flush suffusing her face as her thoughts thus went out toward
Royal Bryant, whose eyes had only the day before told her, as plainly
as eyes could speak, that he loved her, while her heart had thrilled
with secret joy over the revelation, and the knowledge that her own
affection had been irrevocably given to him, even though they had
known each other so short a time.
Even in the midst of her sorrow over her dead, the thought that she
loved and was beloved had been like the strains of soothing music to
her, and she had looked forward to her return to the young lawyer's
office as to a place of refuge, where she would meet with kindness and
sympathy that would comfort her immeasurably.
But these beautiful dreams had been ruthlessly shattered; she could
never be anything to Royal Bryant--he could never be anything to her,
after learning what she had learned that night.
Edith determined to leave New York at once. With this object in view,
she disposed of most of her furniture to a broker, who gave her sixty
dollars for it. She reserved articles she presented to her stanch
friend, Kate O'Brien. These matters attended to, she wrote a letter to
Mr. Bryant, mailed it, and a few hours later was on the train, en
route to Boston.
On Thursday morning Mr. Bryant, returning to town from a business
trip, cheerfully entered his office, expecting to behold there the
radiant face of Edith. To his great disappointment, she was absent;
and her absence was explained in the appended letter, which he read
with dismay and dejection.
"DEAR MR. BRYANT:--Inclosed you will find the amount which
you so kindly loaned me on Monday, and without which I
should have been in sore straits. On reaching home that day,
I found my mother dying. She was buried yesterday afternoon,
and I am now entirely alone in the world. I find that
circumstances will not permit me to return to your employ,
and when you receive this I shall have left New York. Pray
do not think that because I do not see you and thank you
personally before I go, I am ungrateful for all your recent
and unexampled kindness to me. I am not, I assure you; I
shall never forget it--it will be one of the sacred memories
of my life, that in you, in a time of dire need, I found a
true friend and helper.
Sincerely yours,
EDITH ALLANDALE."
The lawyer lost no time in hastening to Edith's late residence. There
he learned from Kate O'Brien that Edith had already gone, but she
knew not her destination. He stated that he wished to consult the
young lady upon a business matter and that if Mrs. O'Brien should
learn of her address, it would be considered a great favor if she
would bring it to him. This the kind-hearted Irish woman agreed to do,
and with a heavy heart the young lawyer returned to his place of
business.
Meanwhile, Edith was being wheeled along the rails toward her
destination. When the train reached New Haven, feeling faint, for she
had not been able to eat much breakfast, she got out to purchase a
lunch.
She entered the station and bought some sandwiches, together with a
little fruit, and then started to return to the train.
Just in front of her she noticed a fine-looking, richly-clad couple
who were evidently bound in the same direction.
The gentleman opened the door for his companion to pass out, but as
she did so, the heel of her boot caught upon the threshold, and she
would have fallen heavily to the platform if Edith had not sprung
forward and caught her by the hand which she threw out to save
herself.
As it was, she was evidently badly hurt, for she turned very white and
a sharp cry of pain was forced from her lips.
"Are you injured, madam? Can I do anything for you?" Edith inquired,
while her husband, springing to her aid, exclaimed, in a tone of
mingled concern and impatience:
"What have you done, Anna?"
"Turned my ankle, I think," the woman replied, as she leaned heavily
against his shoulder for support.
Edith stooped to pick up the beautiful Russia leather bag which she
had dropped as she stumbled, and followed the couple to the train,
where, with the help of a porter, the injured lady was assisted into a
parlor car.
The one adjoining it was the common passenger coach in which Edith had
ridden from New York.
"Here is madam's bag, sir," she remarked to the gentleman, as,
supporting his wife with one arm, he was about to pass into the
Pullman.
"Are you going on this train?" he inquired, looking back over his
shoulder at her.
"Yes, sir; but I do not belong in the parlor car."
"Never mind; we will fix that all right. Bring the bag along, if you
will be so kind," he returned, as he went on with his companion.
So Edith followed them to the little state-room at one end of the car,
where madam sank heavily into a chair, looking as if she were ready to
swoon.
"Oh, get off my boot!" she pleaded, thrusting out her injured foot.
Edith drew forward a hassock for it to rest upon, and then, with a
face full of sympathy, dropped upon her knees and began to unbutton
the boot, which, however, was no easy matter, as the ankle was already
much swollen.
The train began to move just at this moment, and the young girl
started to her feet, an anxious look sweeping over her face.
"Never mind," said the gentleman, reassuringly. "Unless you have
friends aboard the train to be troubled about you, I will take you
back to your car presently."
"I have no one--I am traveling alone," Edith responded, and flushing
slightly, as she encountered the gaze of earnest admiration which he
bestowed upon her.
The gentleman's face lighted at her reply.
"Then would it be presuming upon your kindness too much to ask you to
remain with my wife?" he inquired. "I am perfectly helpless, like most
men, when any one is ill and we know no one on the train."
"I will gladly stay, and do whatever I can for her," eagerly returned
Edith, who felt that it would be a great relief and safeguard if she
could complete her journey under the protection of these prepossessing
people; while, too, it would give her something to think of and keep
her from dwelling upon her own sorrows.
As Edith, from time to time, continued her ministering to the injured
foot, rubbing it with alcohol, to reduce the inflammation, she was
questioned by her new acquaintances, and informed them of her recent
bereavement and of her lonely condition, and stated that she was going
to Boston to try to secure employment.
She was applying the alcohol when the lady said:
"That will do for the present, Miss ---- What shall I call you,
please?" she remarked, signifying that she did not care to have the
foot rubbed any longer at that time.
"Edith Allen--Oh, what have I done?" the young girl suddenly cried
out, in a voice of pain, as the woman winced and gave vent to a moan
beneath her touch.
"Nothing--do not be troubled, dear--only you happened to touch a very
tender spot," exclaimed the lady, trying to smile reassuringly into
the girl's startled face. "So your name is Edith Allen; that sounds
very nice," she continued. "I am fond of pretty names as I am of
pretty people."
Edith opened her lips to correct her regarding her name; then suddenly
checked herself.
It did not matter, she thought, if they did not know her full name.
She might never see them again; she had a right to use only the first
half of her surname, if she chose, and it would not be nearly so
conspicuous as Allandale, which was so familiar in certain circles in
New York.
Thus she concluded to let the matter rest as it was.
The acquaintance thus begun was productive of an utterly unexpected
result. Before the trip was ended, the lady had induced Edith to
accept the position of traveling companion to her, at a salary of
twenty-five dollars a month. She stated that about a month previous
she had lost the services of the female who had filled the position,
and until this time had been unable to find a suitable person for the
place.
Edith decided to try the position for a month; "then," she added, "if
I meet your requirements, we can arrange for a longer time."
"Very well; I am pleased with that arrangement. And now, Edith--of
course I am not going to be so formal as to address you as Miss
Allen--"
"Certainly not," interposed Edith, with a charming little smile and
blush.
"I was about to remark," the lady went on, "that I think it is time we
were formally introduced to you. My husband is known as Gerald
Goddard, Esq., of No. ---- Commonwealth avenue, Boston, and I am--Mrs.
Goddard."
Edith wondered why she should have paused before speaking thus of
herself; why she should have shot that quick, flashing glance into her
husband's face as she did so.
She was a very handsome woman of perhaps forty-two or forty-three
years. She was slightly above the medium height, with a magnificently
proportioned figure. Her hair was coal-black, with a tendency to curl;
her eyes were of the same color, very large and brilliant, and
rendered peculiarly expressive by the long raven lashes which shaded
them. Her complexion was a pale olive, clear and smooth as satin; her
features were somewhat irregular, but singularly pleasing when she was
animated; her cheeks slightly tinted, her lips a vivid scarlet, her
teeth white as alabaster.
Later, when Edith saw her arrayed for an evening reception, she
thought her the most brilliantly handsome woman she had ever seen.
As Mrs. Goddard finished speaking, Edith involuntarily glanced up at
Mr. Gerald Goddard, when she was startled to find him sharply
scrutinizing her, with a look which seemed to be trying to read her
through and through.
His glance sent a strange chill running through her veins--a sensation
almost of fear and repulsion; and she found herself hoping that she
would not be obliged to see very much of the gentleman, even though
she was destined to become an inmate of his home.
He was evidently somewhat older than his wife, for his hair was almost
white and his face somewhat lined--whether from time, care, or
dissipation, Edith could not quite determine.
He would have been called and was regarded by the society in which he
moved as a remarkably handsome and distinguished looking man, who
entertained "like a prince," and possessed an exhaustless fund of wit
and knowledge.
Nevertheless, Edith was repelled by him, and felt that he was not a
man to be either trusted or loved, even though she had not been an
hour in his presence before she was made to realize that his wife
adored him.
CHAPTER VIII.
THE VENOM OF JEALOUSY.
And thus Edith became companion to the wife of the wealthy and
aristocratic Gerald Goddard, who was known as one of Boston's
millionaires.
They had a beautiful home on Commonwealth avenue, where they spent
their winters, a fine estate in Wyoming, besides a villa at Newport,
all of which were fitted up with an elegance which bespoke an
abundance of means. And so Edith was restored to a life of luxury akin
to that to which she had always been accustomed, previous to the
misfortunes which had overtaken her less than two years ago.
Her duties were comparatively light, consisting of reading to Mrs.
Goddard, whenever she was in the mood for such entertainment; singing
and playing to her when she was musically inclined; and accompanying
her upon drives and shopping expeditions, when she had no other
company.
Edith, however, was not long in the household before she made the
discovery that there was a skeleton in the family. At times Mr.
Goddard was morose and irritable, and his wife displayed symptoms of
intense jealousy. About five weeks after Edith's installation in the
home, Mrs. Goddard's brother, Monsieur Correlli, a young sculptor,
came there, on a visit to his sister. He was handsome and talented,
and had come from France, to "do the United States," during a long
vacation.
Mrs. Goddard was proud of her brother, and often attended receptions
and parties with him as her escort, and was delighted to show him off
to her friends and acquaintances in the most select of Boston society.
On returning to her home, after one of these receptions, she heard
merry laughter in the library. Listening attentively, she discovered
that it emanated from her husband and Edith, who sometimes, at his
request, read to him during the frequent absences of his wife.
The demon of jealousy at once took possession of her. Suddenly
entering the library she requested Edith to at once attend her in her
boudoir. On arriving there the enraged woman gave way to her passion
of jealousy. In blunt words she taunted the girl with attempting to
steal the affections of her husband, and closed her bitter comments
with the threat that "the woman who tried to win my husband from me
would never accomplish her purpose. _I would kill her!"_
Edith did her best to assure the angry woman that her suspicions were
unfounded, and in a little time Mrs. Goddard was half convinced that
she had been too hasty in her accusations.
That night the pure girl calmly deliberated upon the subject, and
recalled several occasions when Mr. Goddard had seemed to be deeply
absorbed in the contemplation of her features, eyeing her with glances
of undisguised admiration and rapture. She determined, therefore, to
be a little more circumspect hereafter, and avoid giving him such
opportunities.
Another trial awaited her about a week later. Emil Correlli had become
quite attentive to her, seeking every chance to be alone with her,
showering compliments upon her, and extolling her charms. On one of
these occasions he was bold enough to propose marriage, and, before
she could recover from her astonishment, had the effrontery to steal a
kiss from her unwilling lips.
This bold affront, added to the previous unfounded accusations of Mrs.
Goddard made Edith decide to leave the house at once. She announced
her decision to her mistress; but that lady, in great humiliation,
begged her to overlook her brother's impetuosity, saying that his
conduct should be considered only "a tribute to her manifold charms,"
and that hereafter she would have no cause for complaint of either him
or her.
The proud woman's deep contrition, and her earnest appeals, had the
effect intended, and Edith decided to remain.
That evening a prolonged interview occurred between Mrs. Goddard and
her brother. The result of it was that the sister agreed to do her
utmost to place Edith beyond the reach of her husband by combining a
scheme which would make her the bride of Emil Correlli.
Some days elapsed, and then an incident worthy of record occurred.
Edith had been out for a stroll, and, just as she was retracing her
steps along Commonwealth avenue, an elegant carriage came slowly
around the corner. The driver was in dark green livery, and seemed to
be under the influence of stimulants. Suddenly he leaned sideways, and
fell off the box, landing on the ground.
Edith impulsively started forward, shouted "Whoa!" to the horses, and
lifted the reins. The animals stopped immediately, and in a moment a
lovely face was thrust from the carriage window, and a sweet voice
asked,
"Thomas, what is the matter?--what has happened?"
She stepped from the carriage and was soon informed of the accident,
and its probable cause. She was a tall, elegantly-formed woman, of
perhaps forty-three years, with large, dark brown eyes and rich brown
hair. Her skin was fair and flawless, as that of a girl of twenty,
with a delicate flush upon her cheeks, and Edith thought her face the
most beautiful she had ever seen.
A policeman presently appeared upon the scene, and the lady requested
him to secure some competent person who would drive the vehicle to its
stable. To secure attention to this request, she gave the policeman a
bank note, and named the location of the stable. She then said to the
coachman, who was engaged in brushing the dust from his clothing:
"Thomas, you may come to me at nine o'clock to-morrow morning--without
the carriage."
As the coachman staggered off, the lady turned to Edith, thanked her
for the service she had performed, and gave her a card bearing a name
and address--"Mrs. I. G. Stewart, Copley Square Hotel, Boston, Mass."
At the solicitation of the lady, Edith gave her name, and stated that
she was the companion to Mrs. Gerald Goddard, of Commonwealth avenue.
This information caused Mrs. Stewart to turn pale, and otherwise
manifest a strange agitation. She quickly recovered, however, and
stated:
"Ah! I was introduced to Mrs. Goddard's brother, Monsieur Correlli, a
few evenings ago, but I have never had the pleasure of meeting Mrs.
Goddard. Now it is time for me to go, and I shall have to take an
electric car to get back to my hotel. Again let me thank you for your
timely service. I hope you and I will meet again some time; and, dear,
if you should ever need a friend, do not fail to come to me.
Good-afternoon."
Shortly after the departure of Mrs. Stewart, as Edith was walking
homeward, she was overtaken by Emil Correlli, who begged permission to
attend her, as they were both bound for the same destination. It would
have been rude to refuse, so Edith consented, although she would have
preferred to go alone.
They had not advanced far before Edith became aware that they were
followed by a woman, who kept parallel with them, on the opposite side
of the street. Monsieur Correlli seemed unconscious of this fact, as
he was apparently engrossed in the effort to entertain his companion
with animated conversation. When they were within a few yards of Mrs.
Goddard's residence, the woman suddenly darted across the avenue and
placed herself directly in their path.
In an instant Emil Correlli seemed turned to stone, so motionless and
rigid did he become. For a full minute his gaze was riveted upon the
stranger, as if in horrible fascination.
"_Giulia!_" he breathed, at last, in a scarcely audible voice. "_Le
diable!_"
The woman had a veil over her face, but Edith could see that she was
very handsome, with a warm, Southern kind of beauty, although it was
of a rather coarse type. She was evidently a foreigner, with brilliant
black eyes, an olive complexion, scarlet lips and cheeks, and a wealth
of purple-black hair, which was coiled in a massive knot at the back
of her head.
She was of medium height, with a plump but exquisitely proportioned
figure, as was revealed by her closely-fitting garment of navy-blue
velvet.
The moment Emil Correlli spoke her name, she burst passionately forth,
and began to address him in rapidly uttered sentences of some foreign
language, which Edith could not understand.
It was not French, for she could converse in that tongue, and she knew
it was not German. She therefore concluded it must be either Italian
or Spanish.
As the girl talked, her eyes roved from the man's face to Edith's,
with angry, jealous glances, while she gesticulated wildly with her
hands, and her voice was fierce and intense with passion.
She would not give Monsieur Correlli an opportunity to say one word,
until she had exhausted her seemingly endless vocabulary; but he was
as colorless as a piece of his own statuary, and a lurid, desperate
light burned in his eyes--a gleam, which, if she had been less intent
upon venting her own passion, would have warned her that she was doing
her cause, whatever it might be, more harm than good by the course she
was adopting.
At last she paused in her tirade, simply because she lacked breath to
go on, when Emil Correlli replied to her, in her own tongue, and with
equal fluency; but in tones that were both stern and authoritative,
while it was evident that he was excessively annoyed by her sudden and
unexpected appearance there.
Finally, after another attempt upon the girl's part to carry her
point, he stamped his foot imperatively, to emphasize some command,
and, with a look which made her cringe like a whipped cur before him;
when, shooting a glance of fire and hate at Edith, she turned away,
with a crestfallen air, and went, dejectedly, down the street.
Edith would have been glad, and had tried, to escape from this scene,
for after the first moment of surprise upon being so unceremoniously
confronted by the beautiful stranger, she had stepped aside, ascended
the steps, and rang the bell.
But, for some reason, no one came to the door, and she was obliged to
repeat the summons, but feeling very awkward to have to stand there
and listen to the altercation that was being carried on so near her,
although she could not understand a word that was said.
At last, just as Monsieur Correlli had delivered his authoritative
command, the butler made his appearance, and let Edith in.
Before she could enter, the woman was gone, and Emil Correlli sprang
up the steps, and was by her side.
He glanced anxiously down upon her face, which wore a grave and
pre-occupied look.
He knew that she was wondering who the fiery, but beautiful and
richly-dressed stranger was; knew that she could not fail to believe
that there must be something suspicious and mysterious in his
relations with her, and he was greatly exercised over the unfortunate
encounter.
He had set his heart upon winning her--he had vowed that nothing
should stand in the way of her becoming his wife, and now this--the
worst of all things--had happened, to compromise him in her eyes, and
he secretly breathed the fiercest anathemas upon the head of the
marplot who had just left them.
Later that evening, Emil Correlli took the first opportunity to
explain the unfortunate _contretemps_ to the wondering Edith. He
stated that the girl was the daughter of an Italian florist, who had
audaciously presumed to dun him for a small bill he owed her father
for floral purchases.
This matter, satisfactorily explained, as he thought, he renewed his
protestations of love to Edith, solicited her hand in marriage, and
was staggered by her emphatic refusal.
Her refusal was reported to Mrs. Goddard by that lady's brother, and
she counseled him to be patient.
"I have in mind," she said, "the germ of a most cunning plot, which
must succeed in your winning Edith Allen," and then she proceeded to
unfold her plan, which, for boldness, craft, and ingenuity, would have
been worthy of a French _intriguante_ of the seventeenth century.
"Anna, you are a trump!" Emil Correlli exclaimed, admiringly, when she
concluded. "If you can carry that out as you have planned it, it will
be a most unique scheme--the best thing of its kind on record!"
"I can carry it out if you will let me do it in my own way; only you
must take yourself off. I will not have you here to run the risk of
spoiling everything," said Mrs. Goddard, with a determined air.
"Very well, then; I will go this very night. I will take the eleven
o'clock express on the B. and A. I have such faith in your genius that
I am willing to be guided wholly by you, and trust my fate entirely in
your hands."
"I can write you from time to time, as the plan develops," she
replied, "and send you instructions regarding the final act."
"All right, go ahead--I give you _carte blanche_ for your expenses,"
said Monsieur Correlli, as he rose to leave the room.
Five hours later, he was fast asleep in a Pullman berth, and flying
over the rails toward New York.
Meanwhile Edith, who was inclined to leave the house, and throw
herself upon the kindness of Mrs. Stewart, found her mistress
unusually gracious, seeking her aid in forwarding invitations for a
reception, and in planning for what she called "a mid-winter frolic."
She also incidentally announced, to the great gratification of Edith,
that Monsieur Correlli had hurriedly departed for New York, with the
intention of being absent a considerable time.
Little did Edith then suspect that she was assisting in a plan which
was intended to force her into a detested marriage.
CHAPTER IX.
THE HOUSEKEEPER AT WYOMING.
The invitations for the merry-making were at length printed and
forwarded to the favored guests, but the family were not to go to
Wyoming for a week or so, and meantime, Mrs. Goddard devoutly hoped
that the weather would change and send them a fine snowstorm, so that
there would be good sleighing during their sojourn in the country.
She had her wish--everything seemed to favor the schemes of this
crafty woman, for, three days later, there came a severe storm, which
lasted as many more, and when at length the sun shone again there lay
on the ground more than a foot of snow on a level, thus giving promise
of rare enjoyment upon runners and behind spirited horses and musical
bells.
At last the day of their departure arrived, and about ten o'clock,
Mrs. Goddard and Edith, well wrapped in furs and robes, were driven
over the well-trodden roads, in a hansome sleigh, and behind a pair of
fine horses, toward Middlesex Falls.
It was only about an hour's drive, and upon their arrival they found
the Goddards' beautiful country residence in fine order, with blazing
fires in several of the rooms.
The housekeeper, Mrs. Weld, had attended to all the details of
preparation, and was complimented by both Mr. and Mrs. Goddard. In
appearance the housekeeper was very peculiar, very tall and very
stout, and in no way graceful in form or feature. Mrs. Goddard voted
her as "a perfect fright," with her eyes concealed behind large,
dark-blue glasses. She had been employed through the agent of an
intelligence office, and had come highly recommended. A close observer
would have noted many oddities about her; and Edith, coming suddenly
upon her in her own apartment, had reason to suspect that the
housekeeper was not what she seemed--in fact, that she was disguised.
Noiselessly Mrs. Weld went about her duties, her footfalls dropping as
quietly as the snow. On one occasion, arriving unexpectedly within
hearing of her master and mistress, she heard him entreating her to
give him possession of a certain document. This Mrs. Goddard refused
until he had performed some act which, as it was apparent from the
conversation, she had long been urging upon him as a duty.
Fearing discovery, Mrs. Weld did not wait to hear more, but silently
walked away.
A few busy days succeeded, and then the guests began to arrive at
Wyoming. The housekeeper seemed to take a great fancy to Edith, and
the latter cheerfully assisted her in many ways. Various amusements
were planned for the guests. The weather was cold, but fine; the
sleighing continued to be excellent, and the gay company at Wyoming
kept up their exciting round of pleasure both day and night.
A theatrical performance, planned by Mrs. Goddard, was one of the
amusements arranged for the entertainment of the guests. On the
afternoon of the day set for the presentation of the little dramatic
episode, a great packing case arrived from the city, and was taken
directly to madam's rooms.
A few minutes later, Edith was requested to go to her, and, upon
presenting herself at the door of her boudoir, was drawn mysteriously
inside, and the door locked.
"Come," said madam, with a curious smile, as she led the way into the
chamber beyond, "I want you to assist me in unpacking something."
"Certainly, I shall be very glad to help you," the young girl replied,
with cheerful acquiescence.
"It is one of the costumes that is to be worn this evening, and must
be handled very carefully," Mrs. Goddard explained.
As she spoke, she cut the cords binding the great box, and, lifting
the cover, revealed some articles enveloped in quantities of white
tissue paper.
"Take it out!" commanded madam, indicating the upper package.
Edith obeyed, and, upon removing the spotless wrappings, a beautiful
skirt of white satin, richly trimmed with lace of an exquisite
pattern, was revealed.
"Oh, how lovely!" exclaimed the young girl, as shaking it carefully
out, she laid the dainty robe upon the bed.
Next came the waist, or corsage, which was also a marvel of artistic
taste and beauty.
This was laid against the skirt when the costume, thus complete, was a
perfect delight to the eye.
"It looks like a bride's dress," Edith observed, as she gazed,
admiringly, upon it.
"You are right! It is for the bride who figures in our play to-night,"
said madam. "This must be the veil, I think," she concluded, lifting a
large box from the case, and passing it to her companion.
Edith removed the cover, and uttered an involuntary cry of delight,
for before her there lay a great mass of finest tulle, made up into a
bridal veil, and surmounted by a coronet of white waxen
orange-blossoms.
An examination of two other boxes disclosed a pair of white satin
boots, embroidered with pearls, and a pair of long white kid gloves.
"Everything is exquisite, and so complete," murmured Edith, as she
laid them all out beside the dress, and then stood gazing in wrapt
admiration upon the outfit.
"Yes, of course, the bride will be the most conspicuous figure--the
cynosure of all eyes, in fact--so she would need to be as complete and
perfect as possible," Mrs. Goddard explained, but watching the girl,
warily, out of the corners of her eyes.
"Who is going to wear it?" Edith inquired, as she caressingly
straightened out a spray of orange blossoms that had caught in a mesh
of the lace.
Madam's eyes gleamed strangely at the question.
"Miss Kerby takes the part of the heroine of the play," she answered,
"whom, by the way, I called Edith, because I like the name so much. I
did not think you would mind."
"Oh, no," said the girl, absently. Then, with a little start, she
exclaimed, as she lifted something from the box from which the gloves
had been taken: "But what is this?"
It was a small half-circle of fine white gauze, edged with a fringe of
frosted silver, while a tiny chain of the same material was attached
to each end.
"Oh! that is the mask," said Mrs. Goddard.
"The mask?" repeated Edith, surprised.
"Yes; I don't wonder you look astonished, to find such a thing among
the outfit of a bride," said madam, with a peculiar little laugh; "but
although it is a profound secret to everybody outside the actors, I
will explain it to you, as the time is so near. You understand this is
a play that I have myself written."
"Yes."
"Well, I have entitled it 'The Masked Bridal,' and it is a very
cunningly devised plot, on the part of a pair of lovers whose obdurate
parents refuse to allow them to marry," Madam explained. "Edith
Lancaster is an American girl, and Henri Bernard is a Frenchman. They
have a couple of friends whose wedding is set for a certain date, and
who plan to help them outwit the parents of Edith and Henri. The scene
is, of course, laid in Paris, where everybody knows a marriage must be
contracted in church. The friends of the two unfortunate lovers send
out their cards, announcing their approaching nuptials, and also the
fact that they will both be masked during the ceremony."
"How strange!" Edith murmured.
"Yes, it is both a novel and an extravagant idea," Mrs. Goddard
assented; "but, of course, nobody minds that in a play--the more
extravagant and unreal, the better it suits the public nowadays. Well,
the parents and friends of the couple naturally object to this
arrangement, but they finally carry their point. Everything is
arranged, and the wedding-day arrives. Only the parents and a few
friends are supposed to be present, and, at the appointed hour, the
bridal party--consisting of the ushers and four bridesmaids, a
maid-of-honor, and the bride, leaning upon her father's arm, proceed
slowly to the altar, where they are met by the groom, best man, and
clergyman. Then comes the ceremony, which seems just as real as if it
were a _bona-fide_ marriage, you know; and when the young couple turn
to leave the church, as husband and wife, they remove their masks, and
behold! the truth is revealed. There is, of course, great
astonishment, and some dismay manifested on the part of the obdurate
parents, who are among the invited guests; but the deed is done--it
would not do to make a scene or any disturbance in church, and so they
are forced to make the best of the affair, and accept the situation."
"But what becomes of the couple who planned all this for their
friends?" Edith inquired.
"Oh, they were privately married half an hour earlier, and come in at
a rear door just in season to follow the bridal party down the aisle,
and join in the wedding-feast at home."
"It is a very strange plot--a very peculiar conception," murmured
Edith, musingly.
"Yes, it is very Frenchy, and extremely unique, and will be carried
out splendidly, if nothing unforeseen occurs to mar the acting, for
the amateurs I have chosen are all very good. But now I must run down
to see that everything is all right for the evening, before I dress.
By the way," she added, as if the thought had just occurred to her, "I
would like you to put on something pretty, and come to help me in the
dressing-room during the play. Have you a white dress here?"
"Yes; it is not a very modern one, but it was nice in its day," Edith
replied.
"Very well; I shall not mind the cut of it, if it is only white," said
madam. "Now I must run. You can ring for some one to take away this
rubbish," she concluded, glancing at the boxes and papers that were
strewn about the room; then she went quickly out.
Edith obeyed her, and remained until the room was once more in order,
after which she went up to her own chamber to ascertain if the dress,
of which she had spoken, needed anything done to it before it could be
worn.
Unpacking her trunk, she drew a box from the bottom, from which she
took a pretty Lansdown dress, which she had worn at the wedding of one
of her friends nearly two years previous. She had nice skirts, and a
pair of pretty white slippers to go with it, and although it was, as
she had stated, somewhat out of date, it was really a very dainty
costume.
She laid everything out upon the bed, in readiness for the evening,
and then went down to her dinner, which she always took with the
housekeeper before the family meal was served.
Edith found Mrs. Weld looking unusually nice--although she was always
a model of neatness in her attire--in a handsome black silk, with
folds of soft, creamy lace across her ample breast, while upon her
head she wore a fashionable lace cap, adorned with dainty bows of
white ribbon.
"Oh! how very nice you are looking," Edith exclaimed, as she entered
the room. "What a lovely piece of silk your dress is made of, and your
cap is very pretty."
"I do believe," she added, to herself, "that she would be quite good
looking if it were not for those horrid moles and dreadful blue
glasses."
"Thank you, child," the woman responded, a queer little smile lurking
about her mouth. "Of course, I had to make a special effort for such
an occasion as this."
"If you would only take off your glasses, Mrs. Weld," said the young
girl, as she leaned forward, trying to look into her eyes. "Couldn't
you, just for this evening?"
"No, indeed, Miss Edith," hastily returned the housekeeper, her color
deepening a trifle under the sallow tinge upon her cheeks. "With all
the extra lights, I should be blinded."
"But you have such lovely eyes--"
"How do you know?" demanded Mrs. Weld, regarding her companion
curiously.
"Partly by guess--partly by observation," said Edith, laughing. "Let
me prove it," she continued, playfully, as she deftly captured the
obnoxious spectacles, and then looked mischievously straight into the
beautiful but startled orbs thus disclosed.
"Child! child! what are you doing?" exclaimed the woman, in a nervous
tone, as she tried to get possession of her property again. "Pray,
give them back to me at once."
But Edith playfully evaded her, and clasped them in her hands behind
her.
"I knew it! I knew it!" she cried, in a voice of merry triumph. "They
are remarkably beautiful, and no one would ever believe there was
anything the matter with them. Oh! I love such eyes as yours, Mrs.
Weld--they are such a delicious color--so clear, so soft, and
expressive."
And Edith, inspired by a sudden impulse, leaned forward and kissed the
woman on the forehead, just between the eyes which she had been so
admiring.
Mrs. Weld seemed to be strangely agitated by this affectionate little
act.
Tears sprang into her eyes, and her lips quivered with emotion for a
moment.
Then she put out her arms and clasped the beautiful girl in a fond
embrace, and softly returned her caress.
"You are a lovable little darling--every inch of you," she said, with
sudden fervor.
"What a mutual admiration society we have constituted ourselves, Mrs.
Weld! But, I am sure, I am very happy to know that there is some one
in the world who feels so tenderly toward me."
"No one who knew you could help it, my dear," gently returned the
woman, "and I shall always remember you very tenderly, for you have
been so kind and helpful to me in many ways since we have been here.
I suppose the affair to-night will wind up the frolic here," she went
on, thoughtfully. "You will go your way, I shall go mine, and we may
never meet again; but, I shall never forget you, Miss Allen--"
"Why, Mrs. Weld! how strangely you appear to-night!" Edith
involuntarily interposed. "You do not seem like yourself."
"I know it, child; but the Goddards expect to return to town
to-morrow, and I may not have an opportunity to see you again alone,"
returned the housekeeper, with a strange smile. "I do not want you to
forget me, either," she went on, drawing a little box from her pocket,
"so I am going to give you a souvenir to take away with you, if you
will do me the favor to accept it."
She slipped the tiny box into Edith's hand as she concluded.
More and more surprised, the fair girl opened it, and uttered a low
cry of admiration as she beheld its contents. Within, on a bed of
spotless cotton, there lay a gold chain of very delicate workmanship,
and suspended from it, by the stem, as fresh and green, apparently, as
if it had that moment been plucked from its native soil, was a
shamrock, in the heart of which there gleamed a small diamond of
purest water.
"Why, Mrs. Weld, how beautiful!" exclaimed Edith, flushing with
pleasure; "but--but--isn't the gift a little extravagant for me?"
"You are worthy of a stone ten times the size of that," said her
companion, smiling; "but, if you mean to imply that I have
impoverished myself to purchase it for you, do not fear; for it was a
little ornament that I used to wear when I was a girl, so it costs me
nothing but the pleasure of giving it to you."
"Thank you, a thousand times!" returned the happy girl, with starting
tears, "and I shall prize it all the more for that very reason. Now,
pray pardon me," she added, flushing, as she returned the glasses she
had so playfully captured, "I am afraid I was a little rude to remove
them without your permission."
"Never mind, dear; you have done no harm," said the housekeeper, as
she restored them to their place. "Come, now, we must have our dinner,
or I shall be late, and there must be no mistakes to-night, of all
times."
When the meal was finished, Mrs. Weld hastened away to attend to her
numerous duties, while Edith went slowly upstairs to dress herself for
the evening.
"There is something very, very queer about Mrs. Weld," she mused. "I
do not believe she is what she appears at all. She has come into this
house for some mysterious purpose--as mysterious, I believe, as the
people who have employed her."
CHAPTER X.
"THE GIRL IS DOOMED!--SHE HAS SEALED HER OWN FATE!"
Edith looked very lovely when her toilet for the evening was
completed.
We have never seen her in any but very ordinary costumes, for she had
worn mourning for her dear ones for two years, but if she was
attractive in these somber garments, symbols of her sorrows, she was a
hundred-fold more so in the spotless and dainty dress which was almost
the only souvenir that she possessed of those happy, beautiful days
when she had lived in a Fifth avenue palace, and was the petted
darling of fortune.
There was not a single ornament about her, excepting the pretty chain
and diamond-hearted shamrock which Mrs. Weld had that evening given to
her, and which she had involuntarily kissed before clasping it about
her neck.
Mrs. Goddard had commissioned her to superintend the dressing-rooms,
to see that the maids provided everything needful for the comfort of
her guests and to look in upon them occasionally and ascertain if
they were attending to their duties, until everybody had arrived;
after which she was to come to her behind the scenes in the
carriage-house.
Thus, after her toilet was completed, she descended to the second
floor, to see that these orders were carried out.
In the ladies' dressing-rooms, she found everything in the nicest
possible order, and then passed on to those allotted to the gentlemen,
in one of which she found that the maids had neglected to provide
drinking water.
She was upon the point of leaving the room to have the matter attended
to, when Mr. Goddard, attired in full evening dress, even to gloves,
entered.
"Where is Mollie?" he inquired, but with a visible start of surprise,
as he noticed Edith's exceeding loveliness.
"I think she is in one of the other rooms," she replied. "Shall I call
her for you?"
"Yes, if you please; or--" with a lingering glance of
admiration--"perhaps you will help me with these gloves. I find it
troublesome to button them."
"Certainly," replied the young girl, but flushing beneath his look,
and, taking the silver button-hook from him, she proceeded to perform
the simple service for him, but noticed, while doing so, the taint of
liquor on his breath.
"Thank you," he said, appreciatively, when the last button was
fastened. Then bending lower to look into her eyes, he added, softly:
"How lovely you are to-night, Miss Edith!"
She drew herself away from him, with an air of offended dignity, and
would have passed from the room had he not placed himself directly in
her way, thus cutting off her escape.
"Nay, nay, pretty one; do not be so shy of me," he went on,
insinuatingly. "Why have you avoided me of late? We have not had one
of our cozy social chats for a long time. Did madam's unreasonable fit
of jealousy that day in the library frighten you? Pray, do not mind
her--she has always been like that ever since--well, for many years."
"Mr. Goddard! I beg you will cease. I cannot listen to you!" cried
Edith. "Let me pass, if you please. I have an order to give one of the
housemaids."
"Tut! tut! little one; the order can wait, and it is not kind of you
to fly at me like that. I have been drawn toward you ever since you
came into the family, and every day only serves to strengthen the
spell that you have been weaving about me. Come now, tell me that you
will try to return my fondness for you--"
"Mr. Goddard! what is the meaning of this strange language? You have
no right to address me thus; it is an insult to me--a wicked wrong
against your wife--"
"My wife!" the man burst forth, mockingly, and with a strangely bitter
laugh.
A frown contracted his brow, and his lips were compressed into a
vindictive line, as he again bent toward the fair girl.
"I do not love her," he said, hoarsely; "she has killed all my
affection for her by her infernally variable moods, her jealousy, her
vanity, and her inordinate passion for worldly pleasure, to the
exclusion of all home responsibilities. Moreover--"
"I must not listen to you! Oh! let me go!" cried Edith, in a voice of
distress.
Before Edith was aware of his intention, he bent his lips close to her
face, and whispered something, in swift sentences, that made her
shrink from him with a sudden cry of mingled pain and dismay, and
cover her ears with her pretty hands.
"I do not believe it!" she panted; "oh! I cannot believe it. I am sure
you do not know what you are saying, Mr. Goddard."
Her words appeared to arouse him to a sense of the fact that he was
compromising himself most miserably in her estimation.
"No, I don't suppose you can," he muttered, a half-dazed expression on
his face; "and I've no business to be telling you any such things.
But, all the same, I am very fond of you, pretty one, and I do not
believe this is any place for you. You are too fair and sweet to
serve a woman with such a disposition as madam possesses, and I wish
you would leave her when we go back to the city. I know you are poor,
and have no friends upon whom you can depend; but I would settle a
comfortable annuity upon you, so that you could be independent, and
make a pretty little home for your--"
"How dare you talk to me like this? Do you think I have no pride--no
self-respect?" Edith demanded, as she haughtily threw back her proud
head and confronted the man with blazing eyes.
Her act and the flash of the diamond attracted his attention to the
little chain and shamrock upon her breast.
The sight seemed to paralyze him for a moment, for he stood like one
turned to marble.
"Where did you get it?" he at last demanded, in a scarcely, audible
voice, as he pointed a trembling finger at the jewel. "Tell me!--tell
me! how came you by it?"
Edith regarded him with astonishment.
Involuntarily she put up her hand and covered the ornament from his
gaze.
"It was given to me," she briefly replied.
"Who gave it to you?"
"A friend."
"Was it your--a relative?" cried the man, in a hoarse whisper.
"No, it was simply a friend."
"Tell me who!"
Edith thought a moment. If she should tell Mr. Goddard that the
shamrock had been given to her by the housekeeper, it might subject
the woman to an unpleasant interview with the master of the house,
and, perhaps, place her in a very awkward position.
She resolved upon the only course left--that of refusing to reveal the
name of the giver.
"All that I can tell you, Mr. Goddard," she gravely said, at last, "is
that the chain and ornament were given to me very recently by an aged
friend--"
"Aged!" the man interposed, eagerly.
"Yes, by a person who must be at least sixty years of age," the young
girl replied.
"Ah!" The ejaculation was one of supreme relief. "Excuse me, Miss
Allen!" he continued, in a more natural manner than he had yet spoken.
"I did not mean to be curious, but--a--a person whom I once knew had
an ornament very similar to the one you wear--"
He was interrupted just at this point by the sound of a rich, mellow
laugh that echoed down the hall like a strain of sweetest music;
whereupon Gerald Goddard jumped as if some one had dealt him a heavy
blow on the back.
"Good Heaven! who was that?" he cried, with livid lips.
But Edith, taking advantage of the diversion, glided swiftly from the
room, telling herself that nothing could induce her to dwell with the
family a single day after their return to the city, and that she would
take care not to come in contact with Mr. Goddard again--at least to
be alone with him--while she did remain with his wife.
The man stood motionless for a moment after her departure, as if
waiting for the sound, which had so startled him, to be repeated.
But it was not, and going to the door, he peered into the hall to see
who was there.
There was no one visible save the housekeeper, who just at that
moment, accosted a housemaid, to whom she appeared to be giving some
directions.
"Ah! it was only one of the guests," he muttered, "but the voice was
wonderfully like--like--Ugh!"
He waited a few moments longer, trying to compose his nerves, which
had been sadly unstrung, both by the wine he had drank in much larger
quantities than usual, and the incidents that had just occurred, and
then sought his own room, where he rang for a brandy-and-soda, and
after taking it, went below to attend to his duties as host.
But neither he nor Edith dreamed that their recent interview had been
observed by a third party, or had seen the white, convulsed face that
had been looking in upon them, between the blinds at one of the
windows, near which they had been standing.
Anna Goddard had sought her own room, directly after dinner, to make
some little change in her toilet, and get her gloves, which she had
left lying upon her dressing case.
As she opened the door of her boudoir she came very near giving
utterance to a scream of fear upon coming face to face with a man.
The man was Emil Correlli, who had gained entrance to the apartment by
climbing the vine trellis which led to the window. His secret return
was in accordance with a plan previously agreed upon.
He informed his sister that he had sent a card of invitation to Mrs.
Stewart of the Copley Square Hotel.
"I am glad you did," she responded; "I have long desired to meet her."
They then proceeded to discuss the important event of the evening, and
Mrs. Goddard assured him that their plot was progressing admirably.
Still, she manifested a twinge of remorse as she thought of the
despicable trick she had devised against the fair girl whom her
brother was so eager to possess.
"Anna, you must not fail me now!" he exclaimed, "or I will never
forgive you! The girl must be mine, or--"
"Hush!" she interposed, holding up her finger to check him. "Did some
one knock?"
"I heard nothing."
"Wait, I will see," she said, and cautiously opened the door. No one
was there.
"It was only a false alarm," she murmured, glancing down the hall;
then she started, as if stung, as she caught sight of two figures in
the room diagonally opposite hers.
Her face grew ghastly, but her eyes blazed with a tiger-like ferocity.
She closed the door noiselessly, then with stealthy, cat-like
movements, she stole toward the French door, leading out upon the
veranda, throwing a long mantle over her light dress and bare
shoulders. Then she passed out, and crept along the veranda toward a
window of the room where her husband and Edith were talking.
She could see them distinctly through the slats of the blinds, which
were movable--could see the man bending toward the graceful girl, whom
she had never seen so beautiful as now, his face eager, a wistful
light burning in his eyes, while his lips moved rapidly with the tale
that he was pouring into her ears.
She could not hear a word, but her jealous heart imputed the very
worst to him.
She could see that Edith repudiated him--that she was indignant and
dismayed; but this circumstance did not soothe her in the least.
It was enough to arouse all the worst elements of her fiery nature to
know that the girl's charms were alluring the man whom she worshiped,
and a very demon of jealousy and hatred possessed her.
She watched them until she saw her husband give that guilty start, of
which Edith took advantage to escape, and then, her hands clenched
until the nails almost pierced the tender flesh, her lips
convulsed--her whole face distorted with passion and pain, she turned
from the spot.
"I have no longer any conscience," she hissed, as she sped swiftly
back to her room. "The girl is doomed--she has sealed her own fate. As
for him--if I did not love him so, I would--"
A shudder completed her sentence, but smoothing her face, she removed
her wraps, and went to tell her brother that she must go below, but
would have his dinner sent up immediately.
Then drawing on her gloves, she hastened down to join her guests in
the drawing-room.
CHAPTER XI.
"NOW MY VINDICATION AND TRIUMPH WILL BE COMPLETE!"
When Anna Goddard descended to her spacious and elegant parlors, her
face was wreathed with the brightest smiles, which, alas! covered and
concealed the bitterness and anger of her corrupt heart, even while
she circulated among her friends with apparently the greatest
pleasure, and with her usual charm and grace and manner.
After a short time spent socially, the guests repaired to the spacious
carriage-house, where the theatrical performance was to take place, to
secure the most desirable seats for the play, before the multitude
from outside should arrive.
The place had been very handsomely decorated, and lighted by
electricity, for the occasion. Potted flowers, palms, and ferns were
artistically grouped in the corners, and handsome draperies were hung
here and there to simulate windows and doors, and to conceal whatever
might otherwise have been unsightly.
The floor had been covered with something smooth, linoleum or
oilcloth, and then thoroughly waxed, for after the play was over, the
place was to be cleared for dancing.
Across one end, a commodious stage had been erected, although this was
at present concealed by a beautiful drop-curtain of crimson felt,
bordered with old gold.
The room filled rapidly, and long before the time for the curtain to
ascend, every seat was occupied.
At eight o'clock, precisely, the signal was given, and the play began.
Programs had been distributed among the audience--dainty little cards
of embossed white and gold they were, too--announcing the title, "The
Masked Bridal," giving the names of the participants, and promising
that the affair would close with a genuine surprise to every one.
The piece opened in an elegantly appointed library, with a spirited
scene and dialogue between a young couple, who were desirous of
marrying, and the four objecting parents.
The actors all rendered their parts well, the heroine being especially
pretty and piquant, and winning the admiration and sympathy of the
audience at the outset.
In the next scene the unfortunate young couple are represented as
plotting with two other lovers, whose wedding-day is set, to
circumvent their obdurate parents, and carry out their determination
to become husband and wife.
This also was full of energy and interest, several bright hits and
witticisms being cleverly introduced, and the curtain went down amid
enthusiastic applause; then, while the stage settings were being
changed for the final act and the church wedding, some music was
introduced, both vocal and instrumental, to while away the time.
Edith, who had assisted madam in the dressing-room as long as she was
needed, had come outside, at the beginning of the scene, and stationed
herself at the back of the room to watch the progress of the play.
But she had been there only for a few moments when some one touched
her on the shoulder to attract her attention.
Glancing around, she saw a young girl, one of the guests in the house,
who remarked:
"Mrs. Goddard wished me to tell you to come to her at once in her
boudoir. Please be quick, as the matter is important."
Edith immediately glided from the room, but wondering what could have
happened that madam should want her in her own apartments, when she
supposed her to be behind the scenes.
Meantime, while the guests were being entertained with the play of
which their hostess was the acknowledged author, a mysterious scene
was being enacted within the mansion.
When the hour for the entertainment drew near, the house, as we know,
had been emptied of its guests, until only the housekeeper, the
butler, and the other servants remained as occupants.
The butler had been instructed to keep ward and watch below, while
Mrs. Weld went upstairs, ostensibly to ascertain that everything was
as it should be there, but in reality, to carry out a project of her
own.
Seeking the maids, who, since they had no duties at that particular
moment to occupy them, had gathered in the dressing-rooms, and were
discussing the merits of the various costumes which they had seen, she
remarked, in her kindly, good-natured way:
"Girls, I am sure you would like a peep at the play, and Mrs. Goddard
gave me permission to send you out, if you could be spared. I will
look after everything up here, and you may go now, if you like, only
be sure to hurry back the moment it is over, for you will then be
needed again."
They were of course delighted with this privilege, but Mollie, who was
an unusually considerate girl, and always willing to oblige others,
inquired:
"Wouldn't you like to see the play, Mrs. Weld? I will stay and let you
go."
"No, thank you, child. I had enough of such things years ago," the
housekeeper returned, indifferently. "Run along, all of you, so as to
be there when the curtain goes up."
And the girls, only too eager for the sport, needing no second
bidding, sped away, thanking her heartily for the privilege.
Thus the upper portion of the mansion was entirely deserted, but for
the housekeeper and the unsuspected presence of Emil Correlli, who was
locked within his own room, awaiting from his sister the signal for
his appearance upon the stage below.
The moment the housemaids were beyond hearing, Mrs. Weld gave
utterance to a long sigh of relief, whipped off her blue spectacles,
and with a swift, noise-less step, wholly unlike her usual waddling
gait, hurried down the hall, and into Mrs. Goddard's room, carefully
closing and locking the door after her.
Proceeding to the dressing-room, a quick, searching glance showed her
the object she was looking for--my lady's jewel-casket, standing wide
open upon a small, marble-top table near a full-length mirror.
It had been rifled of most of its contents, madam herself having worn
many of her jewels, while others had been loaned to the actors to
embellish their costumes for the play.
"Ah! my task is made much easier than I expected," murmured the woman,
as she peered curiously into the velvet-lined receptacle.
She saw only an empty tray, which she carefully removed, only to find
another exactly like it underneath.
This also she took out, revealing the bottom of the box, covered with
its velvet cushion, upon which there were indentations, to receive a
full set of jewelry, necklace, bracelets, tiara, brooch and ear-rings.
The housekeeper's face was ghastly pale, or would have been but for
the stain which gave her complexion its olive tinge, and she was
trembling with excitement.
"She surely took that paper from this box," she muttered, a note of
disappointment in her voice, as if she had expected to find what she
sought upon removing the second tray.
"I wonder if this cushion can be removed?" she continued, as she tried
to lift it from its place.
But it fitted so closely that she could not stir it.
Looking around the room for something to assist her in this effort,
she espied a pair of scissors on the dressing-case.
Seizing them, she attempted to pry up the cushion with them.
It was not an easy thing to do, without defacing the velvet, but, at
length, she succeeded in lifting one side, when she found no
difficulty in removing the whole thing.
Her agitation increased as her glance fell upon several papers snugly
packed in the bottom of the box.
"Ah! if it should prove to be something of no account to me!" she
breathed, with trembling lips.
At last she straightened herself with sudden resolution, and putting
her hand into the box drew forth the uppermost paper.
It was yellow with time, and so brittle that it cracked apart in one
of the creases as she opened it; but paying no heed to this, she
stepped to the dressing-case, and spread it out before her, while her
eager eyes swept the mystic page from top to bottom.
Then a cry that ended in a great sob burst from her hueless lips.
"It is! it is!" she gasped, in voiceless agitation. "Ah, Heaven, thou
art gracious to me at last! Now, I know why she would not surrender it
to him--now I know what the condition of its ransom must have been!
"How long has she had it, I wonder? and when did she first learn of
its existence?" she murmured. "Ah! but it does not matter--I have it
at last--I, who dared not hope for its existence, believing it must
have been destroyed, until the other day; and now"--throwing back her
head with an air that was very expressive--"my vindication and triumph
will be complete!"
With the greatest care, she refolded the paper, after which she
impulsively pressed it to her lips; then, putting it away in her
pocket, she turned back to the jewel-casket, and peered curiously into
it once more.
"I wonder what other intrigues she has been guilty of?" she muttered,
regarding its contents with a frown.
She laid her hand upon one of the papers, as if to remove it, then
drew back.
"No," she said, "I will touch nothing else; I have what I came to
seek, and have no right to meddle with what does not concern me. Let
her keep her other vile secrets to herself; my victory is already
complete."
She replaced the velvet cushion, pressing it hard down into its
place.
She then restored the trays as she had found them, but did not close
the casket, since she had found it open.
She retraced her steps into the boudoir, where, as she was passing
out, she trod upon something that attracted her attention.
She stooped to ascertain what it was, and discovered a gentleman's
glove.
"Ah," she said, as she picked it up and examined it, "I should say it
belongs to madam's brother! In that case, he must have returned this
evening to attend the grand finale, although I am sure he was not at
the dinner-table."
She dropped the glove upon the floor where she had found it, but there
was a look of perplexity upon her face as she did so.
"It seems a little strange," she mused, "that the young man should
have been away all this time; and if he was to return at all, I cannot
understand why there should have been this air of secrecy about it. He
has evidently been in this room to-night, but I am sure he has not
been seen about the house."
She opened the door and passed out into the hall, when she was
startled to hear the voice of Mrs. Goddard talking, in the hall below,
with the butler.
Mrs. Weld quietly slipped across to the room opposite--the same one in
which Edith and Mr. Goddard had held their interview earlier in the
evening--where, seating herself under a light, she caught up a book
from the table, and pretended to be deeply absorbed in its contents.
A moment later, madam, having ascended the stairs, came hurrying down
the hall, and saw her there.
She started.
It would never do for the woman to suspect the truth regarding what
she was about to do.
No one must dream that Edith was not lending herself willingly to the
last scene in the drama of the evening, and she expected to have some
difficulty in persuading her to take the part.
There must be no possibility of any one hearing any objections that
she might make, for, in that case, the charge of fraud could be
brought and proved against her and her brother, after all was over.
But after the first flash of dismay, the cunning woman devised a
scheme which would take the housekeeper out of her way, and leave the
field clear for her operations.
CHAPTER XII.
THE MASKED BRIDAL.
"Oh, Mrs. Weld!" Mrs. Goddard exclaimed, in tones of well-assumed
eagerness. "I am so glad you are here! I fear I have taken cold and am
going to have a chill; will you be so good as to go down and mix me a
hot lemonade and send it out behind the stage to me? for I must go
back directly, and I will drink it there."
The housekeeper arose at once and went out into the hall, where she
saw that madam appeared excited and trembling, while her face was very
pale, although her eyes were unusually bright.
Somehow, she did not believe her to be ill; but she cheerfully acceded
to her request, and went directly below to attend to her commission.
As she passed down the back stairs, Edith came hurrying up the front
way.
"What has happened?" she inquired, as she observed madam's unusual
excitement.
"The most unfortunate thing that could occur," she nervously replied.
"Miss Kerby and her brother, who had the leading parts in the play,
have just been summoned home, by telegraph, on account of sickness in
the family, and that leaves us without our hero and heroine."
"That is unfortunate, surely; the play will have to be given up, I
suppose?" Edith remarked.
"No, indeed! I should die of mortification!" cried madam, with
well-assumed consternation.
"But what can you do?" innocently inquired the young girl.
"The only thing to be done is to supply their places with others," was
the ready answer. "I have a gentleman friend who will take Mr. Kerby's
place, and I want you, Edith, to assume the part of the bride; you are
just about the size of Alice Kerby, and the costume will fit you to
perfection."
"But I am afraid I cannot--I never took part in a play in my life,"
objected Edith, who instinctively shrank from becoming so conspicuous
before such a multitude of people.
"Nonsense! there is but very little for you to do," said madam, "you
have simply to walk into the church, upon the arm of the supposed
bride's father. You will be masked, and no one will see your face
until after all is over, and you have not a word to say, except to
repeat the marriage service after the clergyman."
Edith shivered, and her face had grown very pale. She did not like the
idea at all; it was exceedingly repugnant to her.
"I wish you could find some one else," she said, appealingly.
"There is no time," said madam.
"Oh! but it seems almost like sacrilege to me, to stand before such an
audience and repeat words so solemn and significant, when they will
mean nothing, when the whole thing will be but a farce," Edith
tremulously remarked.
A strange expression swept over madam's face at this objection.
"You are absurdly conscientious, Edith," she coldly observed. "There
is not another girl in the house upon whom I can call--they are all
too large or too small, and the bridal costume would not fit one of
them. Pray, pray, Miss Allen, pocket your scruples, for once, and help
me out of this terrible predicament--the whole affair will be ruined
by this awkward _contretemps_ if you do not, and I, who have promised
so much to my friends, shall become the laughing-stock of every one
present."
Still the fair girl hesitated.
Some unaccountable influence seemed to be holding her back, and yet
she felt that it would be very ungenerous, very disobliging of her, to
allow Mrs. Goddard to be so humiliated before her hundreds of guests,
when this apparently slight concession upon her part would smooth
everything over so nicely.
"Oh, Edith! say you will!" cried the woman, appealingly. "You must!"
she added, imperatively. "Come to my room--the costume is there all
ready, and we will soon have you dressed."
She threw her arm around the girl's slender waist and almost compelled
her to accompany her.
The moment they were within Mrs. Goddard's chamber, the woman
nervously began to unfasten the young girl's dress, but her fingers
trembled so with excitement, showing how wrought up she was, that
Edith yielded without further demur, and assisted in removing her
clothing.
"That is good of you, dear," said madam, smiling upon her, "for we
must work very rapidly while the scenery is being changed--we have
just fifteen minutes"--glancing at the clock. "How fortunate it is
that I asked you to wear white this evening!" the crafty woman
remarked, as Edith's dress was removed, thus revealing her dainty
underwear, "for you are all ready for the wedding costume without any
other change. Here, dear, just help me, please, with this skirt, for
the train is so long it needs to be handled with care."
She lifted the beautiful satin skirt from the bed as she spoke, and
together they carefully slipped it over the young girl's head.
The next moment it was fastened about her waist, and the lustrous
material fell around her slender form in graceful and artistic folds.
The corsage was then put on and--wonderful to relate--it fitted her to
perfection.
"How strange! one would almost think it was made for me!" she
remarked, all unsuspicious that her measure had been accurately taken
from a dress that had been left in the city.
"Ha! ha!" laughed madam, in musical exultation, "I should say that it
was a very fortunate coincidence, and it shows that I made a wise
choice when I selected you to take Miss Kerby's place. I did not know
who else to call upon--of course I could not go out into the audience
to find some one, and thus betray my predicament to everybody; neither
could I take one of the housemaids, because she would have been sure
to blunder and be so awkward. Oh! isn't this dress just lovely?"
Thus madam chattered, while she worked, wholly unlike herself,
nervous, anxious, and covertly watching every expression of Edith's
sensitive face.
But the girl did not have the slightest suspicion that she was being
tricked.
The emergency of the moment appeared sufficient to tax the nerves of
any one to the utmost, and she attributed everything to that.
"It certainly is a very rich and elegant costume," Edith gravely
responded to the woman's query. "It seems to me to be far too nice and
elaborate for the occasion."
Mrs. Goddard reddened slightly, and shot a quick, searching look at
the girl's face.
"Well, of course it had to be nice to correspond with everything
else," she explained, "for all the other young ladies are to wear
their ball costumes, which are very elegant, and since the bride is to
be the most conspicuous of all, it would not do to have her less
richly attired. There!"--as she fastened a beautiful cluster of
orange-blossoms to the corsage and stepped back to study the
effect--"aren't you just lovely in it?"
"Now the veil," she continued, catching it up from the bed.
"Oh!"--with an expression of dismay--"we have forgotten the boots, and
you must not sit down to crush the dress. Here, support yourself upon
this chair, hold out your foot, and I will put them on for you."
And the haughty woman went down upon her knees and performed the
menial service, regardless, in her excitement, of her own elegant
costume, which was being crushed in the act.
Then the veil was adjusted, madam chatting all the while to keep the
girl's attention, and Edith, catching a glimpse of her reflection in
the glass and under the influence of her companion's magnetism and
enthusiasm, began to be imbued with something of the spirit of the
occasion and to enjoy seeing herself adorned with these beautiful
garments, which so enhanced her beauty.
When everything was done, madam stood back to look at her work, and
uttered an exclamation of delight.
"Oh! you are simply perfect, Edith!" she said. "You are just too
lovely for anything! Miss Kerby would not have made nearly so
beautiful a bride, and--and--I could almost wish that you were really
going to be married."
"Oh, no!" cried the fair girl, shrinking back from the strange gleam
that shone from the woman's eyes, as she made this remark, while her
thoughts flew, with the speed of light and with a yearning so intense
that it turned her white as snow, to Royal Bryant, the man to whom,
all unasked, she had given her heart.
Then, as if some instinct had accused her of unmaidenly presumption, a
flush, that was like the rosy dawn upon the eastern sky, suffused her
fair face, neck, and bosom.
"Ha! ha! not if you could marry the man of your choice?" queried
madam, with a gleam of malice in her dark eyes and a strange note of
triumph in her silvery laugh that again caused her companion to regard
her curiously.
"Oh! please do not jest about it in this light way--marriage is too
sacred to be treated with levity," said Edith, in a tremulous tone.
"But where is the mask?" she added, glancing anxiously toward the bed.
"You know you said the face of the bride was not to be seen."
"Here it is," responded madam, snatching the dainty thing from the
bed. "See! it goes on under the veil, like this"--and she dextrously
slipped the silver-fringed piece of gauze beneath the edge of the veil
and fastened the chain under the orange-wreath behind.
The fringe fell just to Edith's chin, thus effectually concealing her
features, while it was not thick enough to prevent her seeing,
distinctly, everything about her.
A few other details were attended to, and then Mrs. Goddard hurriedly
said:
"Come, now, we must hasten," and she gathered up the voluminous train
and laid it carefully over Edith's arm. "We shall have to go the back
way, through the billiard-room, because no one must see you until you
appear upon the stage."
The carriage-house adjoined the mansion, and was connected with it by
a door, at the end of a hall, that opened into a large room over it
which had been devoted to billiards.
In the rear of this there was a stairway, which led down to the first
floor and behind the stage; thus Madam and Edith were enabled to reach
the dressing-room without being seen by any one, and just as the
orchestra were playing the closing bars of the last selection before
the raising of the curtain.
Here they found a tall, elderly gentleman, in full evening dress, who
was to represent the supposed bride's father in giving his child away
to the groom.
All the other actors were already grouped upon the stage or in their
respective places behind the scenes awaiting the coming of the bride.
Outside, the audience were all upon the _qui vive_, for, not only was
the closing act of the very clever play looked forward to with much
interest, for its own sake, but the genuine surprise promised them was
a matter for much curious conjecture and eager anticipation.
As Edith stepped upon the stage, leaning upon the arm of her escort,
the bridesmaids and maid of honor filed into place before them from
the wings, and all were ready for the _grand finale_ just as the
signal was given for the curtain to go up.
A shiver ran over Edith, shaking her from head to foot as that sharp,
incisive sound from the silver bell went ringing through the room.
For, as she had stepped upon the stage and Mrs. Goddard laid her hand
upon the arm of the elderly gentleman, she had observed the two
exchange meaning smiles, while the maids and ushers, as they had filed
into place, had regarded her with marked and admiring curiosity.
The curtain was raised, revealing to the appreciative audience the
interior of a beautiful little church.
It was perfect and complete in all its appointments, even to the
stained glass windows, the altar, the chancel, the organ, and the
exquisite floral decorations suitable for a wedding ceremony.
Simultaneously with this revelation there broke upon the ear and the
breathless hush that prevailed throughout the rooms the sound of an
organ playing the customary wedding-march.
Presently, at the rear of the church, a door opened, and four ushers
entered, "with stately tread and slow," followed by as many
bridesmaids, dressed in exquisite costumes.
Then came the maid of honor, clad in pale-blue satin, and carrying a
huge bunch of pink roses that contrasted beautifully with her dainty
toilet.
Next, the veiled and masked bride appeared, leaning upon the arm of
her attendant and clasping a costly bouquet of white orchids, which
Mrs. Goddard had produced from some mysterious source, and thrust into
her hands at the last moment.
A thrill of awe, mingled with intensest curiosity, pervaded the
audience as the graceful figure of the beautiful girl came slowly into
view.
The whole affair was so vividly real and impressive that every one
watched the scene with breathless interest.
And now, at one side of the chancel, another door was seen to open,
when a spotlessly-gowned clergyman, followed by the groom and best
man, entered and proceeded slowly toward the altar.
The two men behind the minister were in full evening dress, the only
peculiar thing noticeable being the mask of black gauze edged with
silver fringe which the groom wore over his face.
They reached the altar at the same moment that the rest of the bridal
party paused before it.
Then, as the clergyman turned his face toward the audience and the
light from the chandelier above him fell full upon him, a flutter of
excitement ran throughout the room, while many persons were seen to
exchange glances of undisguised astonishment, for they had recognized
a popular young divine--the pastor of a church, which many of those
present, together with their hostess, were in the habit of attending.
What could it mean?
Surely, no ordained minister who respected himself and reverenced his
calling would lend himself to a sensational farce, such as they had
witnessed that evening--at least, to carry it to such an extent as to
read, in mockery, the service of the sacred ordinance of marriage over
a couple of giddy actors!
There was a nervous, fluttering of programs, a restless movement among
the fashionable throng, which betrayed that, however much they might
be given to pleasure and levity in certain directions, they could not
quite countenance this perversion of a divine institution as a matter
of amusement.
The manner and bearing of the man, however, was most reverential and
decorous, and, as he opened and began to read from the elegant
prayer-book which he carried in his hands, a breathless hush again
settled upon every person in the room.
For, like a flash, it had seemed to burst upon every mind that there
was to be a _bona fide_ marriage--that this was to be the "Genuine
Surprise" that had been promised them!
CHAPTER XIII.
THE DASTARDLY PLOT IS REVEALED.
Every thought and feeling was now merged in intense interest and
curiosity regarding the participants in the strange union, which was
being consummated before them. Who was the beautiful bride, so perfect
in form, so graceful in bearing, so elegantly and richly adorned?
Who the strange groom?
The parts of the plotting lovers of the play had hitherto been taken
by the brother and sister--Walter and Alice Kerby, who were well-known
in society.
But of course every one reasoned that they could not both officiate as
principals in the scene now being enacted before them.
The figure and bearing of that veiled bride upon the stage were
similar to that of Miss Kerby; but that young lady was known to be
engaged to a young lawyer who was now seated with the audience;
therefore, no one, who knew her, believed for a moment that she could
be personating the masked bride now standing before the altar, while
the groom beside her was neither so stout nor as tall as Walter Kerby.
The ceremony proceeded, according to the Episcopal form, although the
young minister was known to be a Universalist, and when he reached the
charge, calling for any one "who could show just cause why the two
before him should not be joined in lawful wedlock, to speak or forever
hold his peace," those sitting nearest the stage were startled to see
the bride shiver, from head to foot, while a deadly pallor seemed to
settle over that portion of her face that was visible, and to even
extend over her neck.
The service went on without any interruption, the groom making the
responses in clear, unfaltering tones, although those of his companion
were scarcely audible. When the symbol of their union was called for,
it was also noticed that Edith shrank from having the ring placed upon
her finger, but it was only a momentary hesitation, and the service
was soon completed with all due solemnity.
After the blessing, when the couple arose from their knees, the maid
of honor stepped forward, and, lifting the mask of the bride, adjusted
it above her forehead with the jeweled pin, while the audience sat
spell-bound, awaiting with breathless suspense the revelation that
would ensue.
At the same moment the groom also removed the covering from his face,
when those who could see him instantly recognized him as Emil
Correlli, the handsome and wealthy brother of the hostess of the
evening.
His countenance was white to ghastliness, betraying that he was
laboring under great excitement and mental strain.
But the fair young bride! who was she?
Not one in that great company recognized her for the moment, for
scarcely any one had ever seen her before--excepting those, of course,
who had been guests in the house during the week, and these failed to
identify her in the exquisite costume which was so different from the
simple black dresses which she had always worn, and enveloped, as she
was, in that voluminous, mist-like veil.
The clergyman omitted nothing, and immediately, upon the lifting of
the masks, greeted and congratulated the young couple with every
appearance of cordiality and sincerity.
To poor, reluctant Edith the whole affair had been utterly distasteful
and repulsive.
Indeed, she had felt as if she was almost guilty of a crime in
allowing herself to participate lightly in anything of so sacred a
nature, and, throughout the entire ceremony, she had shivered and
trembled with mingled nervousness and repugnance.
When the ring--an unusually massive circlet of gold--had been slipped
upon her finger, she had involuntarily tried to withdraw her hand from
the clasp of the man who was holding it, a sensation of deadly
faintness almost overpowering her for the moment.
But feeling that she must not fail madam and spoil everything at this
last moment, she braced herself to go on with the farce (?) to the
end.
She was so relieved when it was ended, so eager to get away from the
place and have the dread ordeal over, that she scarcely heard a word
the clergyman uttered while congratulating her. She was dimly
conscious of the clasp of his hand and the sound of his voice, but did
not even notice the hated name by which he addressed her.
Neither had she once glanced at the groom, though as he took her hand
and laid it upon his arm, when they turned to go out, she wondered
vaguely why he should continue to hold it clasped in his, and what
made his clinging fingers tremble so.
But Emil Correlli, now that his scheme was accomplished, led her, with
an air of mingled triumph and joy which sat well upon him, directly
out to the ladies' dressing-room, where they found madam alone
awaiting them.
She could not have been whiter if she had been dead, and her teeth
were actually chattering with nervousness as the two came toward her,
Edith still with bowed head and downcast eyes--her brother beaming
with the exultation he could not conceal.
But she braced herself to meet them with a brave front.
"Dear child, you went through it beautifully," she said, in a
caressing voice as she took Edith into her arms and kissed her upon
the forehead. "Let me thank and congratulate you--and you also, Emil."
At the sound of this name, Edith uttered a cry of dismay and turned
her glance, for the first time, upon the man at her side.
"You!" she gasped, starting away from him with a gesture of horror,
and marble could not have been whiter, nor a statue more frozen than
she for a moment after making this amazing discovery.
"Hush!" imperatively exclaimed Mrs. Goddard, who quickly arose to the
emergency. "Do not make a scene. It could not be helped--some one had
to take Mr. Kerby's place, and Emil, arriving at the last moment, was
pressed into the service the same as yourself."
"How could you? It was cruel! it was wicked! I never would have
consented had I suspected," cried the girl, in a voice resonant with
indignation.
"Hush!" again commanded madam, "you must not--you shall not spoil
everything now. The actors are all to hold an informal reception in
the parlors while this room is being cleared for dancing, and you two
must take your places with them--"
"I will not! I will not lend myself to such a wretched farce for
another moment!" Edith exclaimed, and never for an instant suspecting
that it was anything but a farce.
The face of Mrs. Goddard was a study, as was also her brother's, as
these resolute words fell upon her ears; but she had no intention of
undeceiving the girl at present, for she knew that if she threw up the
character which she had thus far been impersonating, their plot would
be ruined and a fearful scandal follow.
If they could only trick her into standing with the others to receive
the congratulations of her guests--to be publicly addressed as, and
appear to assent to the name of, Mrs. Correlli, she believed it would
be comparatively easy later on to convince her of the truth and compel
her to yield to the inevitable.
But she saw that Edith was thoroughly aroused--that she felt she had
been badly used--that she had been shamefully imposed upon by having
been cheated into figuring thus before hundreds of people with a man
who was obnoxious to her.
Madam was at her wits' end, for the girl's resolute air and blazing
eyes plainly indicated that she did not intend to be trifled with any
longer.
She shot a glance of dismay at her brother, only to see a dark frown
upon his brow, while he angrily gnawed his under lip.
She feared that, with his customary impulse, he might be
contemplating revealing the truth, and such a course she well knew
would result in a scene that would ruin the evening for everybody.
But just at this instant the bridesmaids came trooping into the room
and created a blessed diversion.
"Here we are, dear Mrs. Goddard," a gay girl exclaimed. "Didn't it all
go off beautifully, and isn't it time we were in our places for the
reception?"
"Yes, yes; run along, all of you. Lead the way, Nellie, please--you
know how to go up through the billiard-room," said Mrs. Goddard,
nervously, as she gently pushed the girl toward the stairway. Then
bending toward Edith, she whispered, imploringly:
"I beg, I entreat you, Edith, not to spoil everything--everybody will
wonder why you are not with the others, and I cannot explain why you
refused to stand with my brother. Go! go! you must not keep my guests
waiting. Emil, take her," and with an imperative gesture to her
brother, she swept on toward the stairway after the others to arrange
them effectively in the drawing-room.
Emil Correlli shot a searching look into the face of the girl beside
him.
It was cold and proud, the beautiful eyes still glowing with
indignation. But resolving upon a bold move, he reached down, took her
hand, and laid it upon his arm.
"Pardon me just this once," he said, humbly, "and let me add my
entreaties to my sister's," and he tried gently to force her toward
the stairway.
Edith drew herself up and took her hand from his arm.
"Go on," she said, haughtily, "and I will follow. Since I have been
tricked into this affair so far, a little more of the same folly
cannot matter, and rather than subject Mrs. Goddard to a public
mortification, I will yield the point."
She made a gesture for him to proceed, and he turned to obey, a gleam
of triumph leaping into his eyes at her concession.
Without a word they swiftly made their way back into the house and
down to the elegant parlors where, at the upper end, the first object
to greet their eyes was a beautiful floral arch with an exquisite
marriage bell suspended from it.
On either side of this the bridesmaids and ushers had taken their
places, and into the center of it Emil Correlli now led his companion.
And now ensued the last and most fiendish act in the dastardly plot.
Hardly were they in their places when the guests came pouring into the
room, and the ushers began their duties of presentation, while Edith,
with a sinking heart, but growing every moment more indignant and
disgusted with what appeared to her only a horrible and senseless
mockery, was obliged to respond to hundreds of congratulations and
bear in silence being addressed as Mrs. Correlli.
It galled her almost beyond endurance--it was torture beyond
description to her proud and sensitive spirit to be thus associated
with one for whom she had no respect, and who had made himself all the
more obnoxious by lending himself to the deception which had just been
practiced upon her.
Once, when there was a little pause, she turned haughtily upon the man
at her side.
"Why am I addressed thus?" she demanded.
"Why do you allow it? Why do you not correct these people and tell
them to use the name that was used in the play rather than yours?"
The man grew white about the lips at these questions.
"Perhaps they forget--I--I suppose it seems more natural to address me
by my name," he faltered.
"I do not like it--I will not submit to it a moment longer," Edith
indignantly returned.
"Hush! it is almost over," said her companion, in a swift whisper, as
others came forward just then, and she was obliged, though rebellious
and heart-sick, to submit to the ordeal.
But it was over at last, for, as the introductions were made, the
guests passed back to the carriage-house, which had been cleared for
dancing, and where the musicians were discoursing alluring strains in
rhythmic measure.
Even the bridesmaids and ushers, tempted by the sounds, at last
deserted their posts, and Emil Correlli and his victim were finally
left alone, the sole occupants of the drawing-room.
"Will you come and dance?" he inquired, as he turned a pleading look
upon her. "Just once, to show that you forgive me for what I have done
to-night."
"No, I cannot," said Edith, coldly and wearily. "I am going directly
upstairs to divest myself of this mocking finery as soon as possible."
A swift, hot flush suffused Emil Correlli's face, at these words.
"Pray do not speak so bitterly and slightingly of what has made you,
in my eyes at least, the most beautiful woman in this house to-night,"
he said, with a look of passionate yearning in his eyes.
"Flattery from you, sir, after what has occurred, is, to speak mildly,
exceedingly unbecoming," Edith haughtily responded and turned proudly
away from him as if about to leave the room.
But, at that moment, Mr. Goddard, who had not presented himself
before, came hurriedly forward and confronted them. His face was very
pale, but there was an angry light in his eyes and a bitter sneer upon
his lips.
"Well, Correlli, I am bound to confess that you have stolen a march
upon us to-night, in fine style," he remarked, in a mocking tone, "and
madam--Mrs. Correlli, I should say--allow me to observe that you have
outshone yourself this evening, both as an actress and a beauty!
Really, the surprise, the _denouement_, to which you have treated us
surpasses anything in my experience; it was certainly worthy of a
Dumas! Permit me to offer you my heartiest congratulations."
Edith crimsoned with anger to her brows and shot a look of scorn at
the man, for his manner was bitterly insolent and his tone had been
violent with wounded feeling and derision throughout his speech.
"Let this wretched farce end here and now," she said, straightening
herself and lifting her flashing eyes to his face. "I am heartily sick
of it, and I trust you will never again presume to address me by the
name that you have just used."
"Indeed! and are you so soon weary of your new title? Not yet an hour
a bride, and sick of your bargain!" retorted Gerald Goddard, with a
mocking laugh.
"I am no 'bride,' as you very well know, sir," spiritedly returned
Edith.
The man regarded her with a look of astonishment.
He had been very much interested in his wife's clever play, until the
last act, when he had been greatly startled by the change in the
leading characters, both of whom he had instantly recognized in spite
of their masks. He wondered why they had been substituted for Alice
and Walter Kerby; when, upon also recognizing the clergyman, it had
flashed upon him that this last scene was no "play"--it was to be a
_bona fide_ marriage planned, no doubt, by his wife for some secret
reason best known to her and the young couple.
He did not once suspect that Edith was being tricked into an unwilling
union.
He had known that Emil Correlli was fond of her, but he had not
supposed he would care to make her his wife, although he had no doubt
the girl would gladly avail herself of such an offer. Evidently the
courtship had been secretly and successfully carried on; still, he
could not understand why they should have adopted this exceedingly
strange way to consummate their union, when there was nothing to stand
in the way of a public marriage, if they desired it.
He was bitterly wounded and chagrined upon realizing how he had been
ignored in the matter by all parties, and thus allowed to rush
headlong into the piece of folly which he had committed, earlier in
the evening, in connection with Edith.
Thus he had held himself aloof from the couple until every one else
had left the parlors, when he mockingly saluted them as already
described.
"No bride?" he repeated, skeptically.
"No, sir. I told you it was simply a farce. I was merely appealed to
to take the place, in the play, of Miss Kerby, who was called home by
telegram," Edith explained.
Mr. Goddard glanced from her to his brother-in-law in unfeigned
perplexity.
"What are you saying?" he demanded. "Do you mean to tell me that you
believe that last act was a farce?--that you do not know that you have
been really and lawfully married to the man beside you?"
"Certainly I have not! What do you mean, sir, by such an unwarrantable
assertion?" spiritedly retorted the young girl, but losing every atom
of color, as a suspicion of the terrible truth flashed through her
mind.
Gerald Goddard turned fiercely upon his brother-in-law at this, for he
also now began to suspect treachery.
"What does she mean?" he cried, sternly. "Has she been led into this
thing blindfolded?"
"I think it would be injudicious to make a scene here," Emil Correlli
replied, in a low tone, but with white lips, as he realized that the
moment which he had so dreaded had come at last.
"What do you mean? Why do you act and speak as if you believed that
mockery to be a reality?" exclaimed Edith, looking from one face to
the other with wildly questioning eyes.
"Edith," began Mr. Goddard, in an impressive tone, "do you not know
that you are this man's wife?--that the ceremony on yonder stage was,
in every essential, a legal one, and performed by the Rev. Mr. ---- of
the ---- church in Boston?"
"No! never! I do not believe it. They never would have dared do such a
dastardly deed!" panted the startled girl, in a voice of horror.
Then drawing her perfect form erect, she turned with a withering
glance to the craven at her side.
"Speak!" she commanded. "Have you dared to play this miserable trick
upon me?"
Emil Correlli quailed beneath the righteous indignation expressed in
her flashing glance; his eyes drooped, and conscious guilt was shown
in his very attitude.
"Forgive me--I loved you so," he stammered, and--she was answered.
She threw out her hands in a gesture of repudiation and horror; she
flashed one withering, horrified look into his face, then, with a moan
of anguish, she swayed like a reed broken by the tempest, and would
have fallen to the floor in her spotless robes had not Gerald Goddard
caught her senseless form in his arms, and, lifting her by main
strength, he bore her from the room and upstairs to her own chamber.
CHAPTER XIV.
"YOUR FAITHLESSNESS TURNED ME INTO A DEMON."
Emil Correlli followed Mr. Goddard and his unconscious burden, looking
like anything but a happy bridegroom.
He had expected that Edith would weep and rave upon discovering the
trap into which she had been lured; but he had not expected that the
revelation would smite her with such terrible force, laying her like
one dead at his feet, as it had done, and he was thoroughly alarmed.
When Mr. Goddard reached the girl's room he laid her upon her bed, and
then sent one of the servants for the housekeeper. But Mrs. Weld could
not be found, so another maid was called, and Edith was gradually
restored to consciousness.
But the moment her glance fell upon Emil Correlli, who insisted upon
remaining in the room, and she realized what had occurred, she
relapsed into another swoon, so deathlike and prolonged that a
physician, who happened to be among the guests, was summoned from the
ball-room to attend her.
He excluded every one but the maids from the room, when he ordered his
patient to be undressed and put into bed, and after long and
unwearied efforts, she was again revived, when she became so unnerved
and hysterical that the physician, becoming alarmed, was about to give
her a powerful opiate, when she sank into a third fainting fit.
Meanwhile, in the ball-room below, gayety was at its height. There had
been a little stir and commotion when it was learned that Edith had
fainted; but the matter was passed over with a few well-bred comments
of regret, and then forgotten for the time. But as soon as she could
do so without being observed, madam stole from the place and went into
the house to ascertain how the girl was.
She was, of course, aware of the cause of the swoon, and, as may be
readily imagined, was in no comfortable frame of mind. She was met at
the head of the second flight of stairs by her husband, whose face was
grave and stern.
"How is she?" madam inquired.
"In a very critical condition; Dr. Arthur says she is liable to have
brain fever," he tersely replied.
"Brain fever!" exclaimed his wife, in a startled tone. "Surely, she
cannot be as bad as that!"
"Woman, what have you done?" the man demanded, in a hoarse whisper.
"How have you dared to plot and carry out the dastardly deed that you
have perpetrated this night?"
Anna Goddard's eyes began to blaze defiance.
"That is neither the tone nor the manner you should employ in
addressing me, Gerald, as you very well know," she retorted, with
colorless lips.
"Have done with your tragic airs, madam," he cried, laying a heavy
hand upon her arm. "I have had enough of them. I ask you again, how
have you dared to commit this crime?"
"Crime?" she repeated, with a start, but flashing him a glance that
made him wince as she shook herself free from his grasp. "You use a
harsh term, Gerald; but if you desire a reason for what has occurred
to-night, I can give you two."
"Name them," her companion curtly demanded.
"First and foremost, then--to protect myself."
"To protect yourself--from what?"
"From treachery and desertion."
"Anna!"
A bitter sneer curled the beautiful woman's lips.
"You know how to do it very well, Gerald," she tauntingly returned.
"That air of injured innocence is vastly becoming to you, and would be
very effective, if I did not know you so well; but it has disarmed me
for the last time. Pray never assume it again, for you will never
blind me by it in the future."
"Explain yourself, Anna. I fail to understand you."
"Very well; I will do so in a very few words; I was a witness of your
interview with the girl just after dinner to-night."
"You?" ejaculated the man, flushing hotly, and looking considerably
crestfallen. "Well, what of it?" he added, defiantly, the next moment.
"What of it, indeed? Do you imagine a wife is going to stand quietly
by and see her husband make love to her companion?"
"What nonsense you are talking, Anna! I went in search of one of the
housemaids to button my gloves for me, met Miss Allen instead, and she
was kind enough to oblige me."
"Bah! Gerald, I was too near you at the time to swallow such a very
lame vindication," vulgarly sneered his wife. "You were making love to
her, I tell you--you were telling her something which you had no
business to reveal, and I swore then that her fate should be sealed
this very night."
Gerald Goddard realized that there was no use arguing with his wife in
that mood, while he also felt that his case was rather weak, and so he
shifted his ground.
"But you must have plotted this thing long ago, for your play was
written, and your characters chosen before we left the city," he
remarked.
"Well?"
"But you said you had two reasons; what was the other?"
"Emil's love for the girl. He became infatuated with her from the
moment of his coming to us, as you must have noticed."
"Yes."
"Well, he tried to win her--he even asked her to marry him, but she
refused him. Think of it--that little nobody rejecting a man like
Emil, with his wealth and position!"
"Well, if she did not love him, she had a right to refuse, him."
"Oh, of course," sneered madam, irritably. "But you know what he is
when he once gets his heart set upon anything, and her obstinacy only
made him the more determined to carry his point. He appealed to me to
help him; and, as I have never refused him anything he wanted, if I
could possibly give it to him--"
"But this was such a wicked--such a heartless, cowardly thing to do!"
interposed Mr. Goddard, with a gesture of horror.
"I know it," madam retorted, with a defiant toss of her head; "but you
may thank yourself for it, after all; for, almost at the last moment,
I repented--I was on the point of giving the whole thing up and
letting the play go on without any change of characters, when your
faithlessness turned me into a demon, and doomed the girl."
"I believe you are a 'demon'--your jealousy has been the bane of your
whole life and mine; and now you have ruined the future of as
beautiful and pure a girl as ever walked the earth," said Gerald
Goddard, with a threatening brow, and in a tone so deadly cold that
the woman beside him shivered.
"Pshaw! don't be so tragic," she said, after a moment, and assuming an
air of lightness, "the affair will end all right--when Edith comes
fully to herself and realizes the situation, I am sure she will make
up her mind to submit gracefully to the inevitable."
"She shall not--I will help her to break the tie that binds her to
him."
"Will you?" mockingly questioned his wife. "How pray?"
"By claiming that she was tricked into the marriage."
"How will you prove that, Gerald?" was the smiling query.
The man was dumb. He knew he could not prove it.
"Did she not go willingly enough to the altar?" pursued madam. "Did
she not repeat the responses freely and unhesitatingly? Was she not
married by a regularly ordained minister? and was she not introduced
afterward to hundreds of people as the wife of my brother, and did she
not respond as such to the name of Mrs. Correlli? I hardly think you
could make out a case, Gerald."
"But the fact that the Kerbys were called away by telegram, and that
some one was needed to supply their places, would prove that Edith had
no knowledge of the affair--at least until the last moment," said Mr.
Goddard, eagerly seizing upon that point.
But madam broke into a musical little laugh as he ceased.
"Do you imagine that I would leave such a ragged end as that in my
plot?" she mockingly questioned. "The Kerbys were not called away by
telegram, and no one can prove that either was ever told they were.
The Kerbys are still here, dancing away as heartily as any one below,
and they have known, from the first, that they would not appear in the
last act--they and they only, were let into the secret that the play
was to end with a real marriage."
"It is the most devilish plot I ever heard of," said her companion,
passionately, through his tightly-locked teeth. "Your insane jealousy
and suspicion, during the years we have lived together, have shriveled
whatever affection I hitherto possessed for you!"
"Gerald!"
The name came hoarsely from the woman's white lips.
It was as if some one had stabbed her, and her heart had died with the
utterance of that loved name.
He left her abruptly, and descended the stairs, never once looking
back, while she watched him with an expression in her eyes that had
something of the fire of madness in it, as well as that of a breaking
heart.
When he reached the lower hall, she dashed down to the second floor,
and into her own room, locking herself in.
Fifteen minutes later she came out again, but in place of the usual
glow of health upon her cheeks, she had applied rouge to conceal the
ghastliness she could not otherwise overcome, while there was a look
of recklessness and defiance in her dark eyes that bespoke a nature
driven to the verge of despair.
Making her way back to the ball-room, she was soon mingling with the
merry dancers, and with a forced gayety that deceived every one save
her husband.
To all inquiries for the bride, she replied that she had recovered
consciousness, but it was doubtful if she would be able to make her
appearance again that night.
Then as her glance fell upon a tall, magnificently-formed woman, who
was standing near, and the center of an admiring group, she inquired,
in a tone of surprise:
"Why! who is that lady in garnet velvet and point lace?"
"That is a Mrs. Stewart, a very wealthy woman, who resides at the
Copley Square Hotel," was the reply.
"Oh, is that Mrs. Stewart?" said madam, with eager interest.
"Yes; but are you not acquainted with her?" questioned her guest, with
a look of well-bred astonishment.
"No; and no wonder you think it strange that she should be here by
invitation, and I have no personal acquaintance with her," the hostess
remarked, with a smile; "but such is the case, nevertheless; a card
was sent to her at the request of my brother, who has met her several
times, and who admires her very much. What magnificent diamonds she
wears!"
"Yes; she is said to be worth a great deal of money."
"She must have come in while I was upstairs inquiring about Edith,"
madam observed. "I must find my brother, and be presented to her.
Excuse me--I will see you later."
With a graceful obeisance, madam turned away and went in search of
Emil Correlli.
But, as she went, she wondered if she could ever have seen Mrs.
Stewart before.
The woman's face seemed strangely familiar to her, and yet she could
not remember having met her before.
The sensation was something like those mysterious occurrences which
sometimes make people feel that they are but a repetition of
experiences in a previous state of existence.
The stranger was an undeniably handsome woman. She was more than
handsome, for there was a sweet grace and influence about her every
movement and expression that proclaimed her to be a woman of noble and
lovely character.
She was a woman to be singled out from the multitude on account of the
taste and elegance of her costume, as well as for her great personal
beauty.
"She cannot have less than fifty thousand dollars' worth of diamonds
on her person," murmured Anna Goddard, with a pang of envy, as she
covertly watched her strange guest while she made her way through the
throng in search of her brother.
She met him near the door, he having just come in from the house, to
excuse himself to his sister, after having been to Edith's door for
the sixth time to inquire for her.
His face was pale, his brow gloomy, his eyes heavy with anxiety.
"Well, how is she now?" questioned his sister.
"She has fallen into her third swoon, and the doctor thinks she is in
a very critical state. He says her condition must have been induced by
a tremendous shock of some kind."
"Ah!" exclaimed Mrs. Goddard, looking relieved. "Judging from that, I
should say that the girl has not yet revealed the true state of
affairs."
"No; Dr. Arthur did not appear to know how to account for her
condition, and asked me if I knew anything that could have caused it."
"Of course, you did not?" said madam, meaningly.
"No; except the excitement, etc., of the occasion."
"Well, don't worry," Mrs. Goddard returned; "everything will come out
all right in time. It is a great piece of luck that she did not wail
and rave and let out the whole story before the doctor and the maids.
Your Mrs. Stewart is here--you must come and greet her and introduce
me," she concluded, glancing toward her guest as she spoke.
"I was coming to tell you that I am going to my room and to bed--I
have no heart for any gayety to-night," said Emil Correlli, gloomily.
"Nonsense! don't be so absurdly foolish, Emil," responded his sister,
impatiently.
"Indeed! I think it would be improper for me to remain when my wife is
so ill," he objected, but flushing as he uttered the word.
"Well, perhaps; do as you choose. But come and introduce me to Mrs.
Stewart before you go; she must feel rather awkward to be a guest here
and not know her hostess."
CHAPTER XV.
"OH, GOD! I KNEW IT! YOU ARE--ISABEL!"
With a somewhat reluctant air, Emil Correlli offered his arm to his
sister and led her toward the woman around whom a group of
distinguished people had gathered, and whom she was entertaining with
an ease and grace that proclaimed her perfectly at home among the
_crême de la crême_ of society.
She appeared not to perceive the approach of her hostess and her
brother, but continued the animated conversation in which she was
engaged.
A special observer, however, would have noticed the peculiar fire
which began to burn in her beautiful eyes.
When Mr. Correlli presented his sister, she turned with fascinating
grace, making a charming acknowledgment, although she did not offer
her hostess her hand.
"You are very welcome, Mrs. Stewart," Mrs. Goddard remarked, in
response to some words of apology for being a guest in the house
without a previous acquaintance. "I only regret that we have not met
before."
"Thanks; I, too, deplore the complication of circumstances which has
prevented an earlier meeting," was the sweet-voiced response.
But there was a peculiar shading in the remark which, somehow, grated
harshly upon Anna Goddard's ears and nerves.
"Who is she, anyhow?" she questioned within herself with a strange
feeling of unrest and perplexity. "I never even heard of her until
after Emil came; yet there is something about her that makes me feel
as if we had met in some other sphere."
She stole a searching glance at the woman's face, only to find her
great, luminous eyes fastened upon her with an equally intent gaze.
"Ah!" and with this voiceless ejaculation and a great inward start,
some long dormant memory seemed suddenly to have been aroused within
her.
There was an instant of awkwardness; then madam, who seldom allowed
anything to disturb her self-possession, remarked:
"I am sorry, Mrs. Stewart, that you did not arrive earlier to witness
our little play."
But while she was giving utterance to this polite regret, she was
saying to herself:
"Yes, there certainly is a look about her that reminds me of--Ugh!
She may possibly be a relative, or the resemblance may be merely a
coincidence. All the same, I shall not like her any the better for
recalling that horror to me."
"Thank you," Mrs. Stewart replied; "no doubt I should have enjoyed it,
especially as, I am told, it was original with you and terminated in a
real and very pretty wedding."
"Yes; my brother finds that he must leave the city earlier than he
anticipated; and, as he was anxious to take his bride with him, he
chose this opportunity to celebrate his marriage, and to introduce his
wife to our friends."
"Ah! I did not even know that Monsieur Correlli was contemplating
matrimony. Who is the favored lady of his choice?" Mrs. Stewart
inquired.
"A Miss Edith Allen."
"Edith Allen!" repeated the beautiful stranger, with a start.
"Yes," said Mrs. Goddard, regarding her with surprise, but unmixed
with anxiety. "Did you ever meet her?"
"Is she very fair and lovely, with golden hair and deep-blue eyes, a
tall, slender figure, and charming manners?" eagerly questioned Mrs.
Stewart.
"Yes, you have described her exactly," answered madam, yet secretly
more disturbed than before; "but I am surprised that you should know
her, for she has been in the city only a short time, and I did not
suppose she had made a single acquaintance outside the family."
"Oh, I cannot lay claim to an acquaintance with her, as I have only
seen her once, and our meeting was purely accidental," the lady
responded. "She rendered me efficient service one day when she was out
for a walk, and I inquired her name."
She then proceeded to explain the nature of that service and the
accident that had called it forth, and concluded by remarking:
"Allow me to say I think that Monsieur Correlli has shown excellent
taste in his choice of a wife. I was charmed with the young lady, and
I would like to meet her again. Will you introduce me?" and she looked
eagerly about the room in search of the graceful form and lovely face
which she was so desirous of seeing.
"I am very sorry that I cannot comply with your request," said Mrs.
Goddard, flushing slightly; "but Edith is rather delicate and the
reception, after the marriage, was such a strain upon her that she
fainted and was obliged to retire."
"That was very unfortunate," Mrs. Stewart observed, while she searched
her companion's face curiously, "but I trust that I may have the
pleasure of meeting her later."
"I cannot promise as to that," madam replied, "as it is my brother's
intention to go abroad as soon as he can complete his arrangements to
do so, although no date has been set as yet. But--have you ever met my
husband. Mrs. Stewart?" she inquired, as that gentleman was seen
approaching their way that moment.
"No, I have never had that honor," the lady returned; then added, with
a light laugh: "I feel very much like an intruder to be here to-night
as a stranger to both my host and hostess."
"Pray do not be troubled on that account," madam hastened cordially to
reply: "any friend of my brother would be a welcome guest, and I am
charmed to have made your acquaintance."
"Thank you," responded the beautiful stranger; but madam marveled at
the line of white encircling the scarlet lips, as she signaled to her
husband and called him by name:
"Gerald."
He glanced up, and both women noticed the expression of weariness and
trouble upon his brow.
"You have not been introduced to Emil's friend, I think," his wife
continued. "Allow me to present Mrs. Stewart--Mrs. Stewart, my
husband, Mr. Goddard."
The gentleman bowed with all his accustomed courtesy, but did not
fairly get a glimpse of the lady's face until they both assumed an
upright position again, when he found himself looking straight into
the magnificent eyes of his guest.
As he met them it seemed as if some one had stabbed him to the heart,
so sudden and terrible was the shock that he experienced.
He changed an involuntary groan into a cough, but he could not have
been more ghastly if he had been dead, while he continued to gaze upon
her as if fascinated.
"Ha! he has noticed it also!" said madam to herself, with a sudden
heart-sinking.
Then realizing that something must be done to relieve the awkwardness
of the situation, she hastened to observe:
"Mrs. Stewart has only just arrived--she did not come in season to
witness our little drama."
Mr. Goddard murmured some polite words of regret, but feeling all the
while as if he were turning to stone.
Mrs. Stewart, however, responded in a pleasant vein, and chatted
sociably for a few moments, when, some other friends joining them,
more introductions followed, and the conversation became general.
Gerald Goddard improved this opportunity to slip away; but his wife,
who was covertly watching his every look and movement, noticed that he
walked with the uncertain step of one who was either blind or
intoxicated.
A feeling of depression settled upon her--a sense of impending evil,
which, try as she would, she could neither forget nor shake off.
She began to be very impatient of all the glitter, glare, and gayety
around her, and told herself that she would be heartily glad when the
last dance was over, and the last guest had departed.
Truly, there is many an aching heart hidden beneath costly raiment and
glittering jewels; and society is, to a large extent, but a smiling
mask in which people hold high revel over the tombs of dead hopes and
disappointed ambitions.
But fashion and folly must have their time; and so, in spite of
madam's heart-ache and weariness, the dancing and merriment went on,
no one dreamed of the phantom memories and the ghosts from out the
past that were stalking about the beautiful rooms of that elegant
mansion; or that its enviable (?) master and mistress were treading
upon the verge of a volcano which, at any moment, was liable to burst
all bounds and pour forth its furious lava-tide to consume them.
An hour later Mrs. Stewart again sought her hostess and wished her
good-night, remarking that circumstances which she could not control
compelled her to take an early leave.
"Ah! that is unfortunate, for supper will shortly be announced; cannot
you possibly remain to partake of it?" madam urged, with cordial
hospitality.
"Thanks, no; but I am promising myself the pleasure of meeting you
again in the near future," Mrs. Stewart returned, shooting a searching
glance at her hostess.
Her language and manner were perfect; but, for the second time that
evening, Anna Goddard noticed the peculiar shading in her words, and a
chill that was like a breath from an iceberg went shivering over her.
She, however, replied courteously, and then Mrs. Stewart swept from
the room upon the arm of her attendant.
Many earnest and curious glances followed the stately couple, for the
lady was reported to be immensely rich, while it had also been
whispered that the gentleman attending her--a distinguished
artist--had long been a suitor for her hand; but, for some reason best
known to herself, the lady had thus far turned a deaf ear to his
entreaties, although it was evident that she regarded him with the
greatest esteem, if not with sentiments of a tenderer nature.
After passing through the covered walk leading to the house, the two
separated--the gentleman to attend to having their carriage called,
the lady to go upstairs for her wraps.
As she was about to enter the dressing-room to get them, a picture
hanging between two windows at the end of the hall attracted her eye.
"Ah!" she exclaimed, catching her breath sharply, and moving swiftly
toward it, she seemed to forget everything, and stood, with clasped
hands and heaving bosom, spell-bound before it.
It represented a portion of an old Roman wall--a marvelously
picturesque bit of scenery, with climbing vines that seemed to cling
to the gray stones lovingly, as if to conceal their irregular lines
and other ravages which time and the elements had made upon them;
while here and there, growing out from its crevices, were clusters of
delicate maiden-hair fern, the bright green of which contrasted
beautifully with the weather-beaten wall and the darker, richer
coloring of the vines.
Just underneath, partly in the shadow of the wall, there sat, upon a
rustic bench, a beautiful Italian girl, dressed in the costume of her
country, while at her feet reclined her lover, his hat lying on the
grass beside him, his handsome face upturned to the maiden, whom it
was evident he adored.
It was a charming picture, very artistic, and finely executed, while
the subject was one that appealed strongly to the tenderest sentiments
of the human heart.
But the face of the woman who was gazing upon it was deathly white.
She was motionless as a statue, and seemed to have forgotten time,
place, and her surroundings, as she drank in with her wonderful eyes
the scene before her.
"It is the wall upon the Appian Way in Rome," she breathed at last,
with a long-drawn sigh.
"You are right, madam," responded a voice close at hand, the sound of
which caused the woman to press her clasped hands hard upon her
heaving bosom, though she gave no other sign of being startled.
The next moment she turned and faced the speaker.
It was Gerald Goddard.
"I heard no one approaching--I thought I was alone," she said, as she
lifted those wonderful eyes of hers to his.
He shrank from her glance as under a lightning flash that had burst
upon him unawares.
But quickly recovering himself, he courteously remarked:
"Pardon me--I trust I have not startled you."
"Only momentarily," she replied; then added: "I was admiring this
painting; it is very lovely and--most faithfully portrays the scene
from which it was copied."
"Ah! you recognize the--the locality?"
"Perfectly."
"You--you have been in--Rome?" the man faltered.
"Oh, yes."
"Recently?"
There was a sort of breathless intensity about the man as he asked
this question.
"No; I was in Rome--in the year 18--."
At this response, Gerald Goddard involuntarily put out his hand and
laid it upon the balustrade, near which he was standing, while he
gazed spell-bound into the proud, beautiful face before him, searching
it with wild, eager eyes.
After a moment he partially recovered himself, and remarked:
"Is it possible? I myself was in Rome during the same year and painted
this picture at that time. Were--were you in the city long?" he
concluded, in a voice that trembled in spite of himself.
"From January until--until June."
For the second time that evening Mr. Goddard suppressed a groan with a
cough.
"Ah! It is a singular coincidence, is it not, that I also was there
during those months?" he finally managed to articulate.
"A coincidence?" his companion repeated, with a slight lifting of her
shapely brows, a curious gleam in her eyes. Then throwing back her
head with an air of defiance which was intensified by the glitter of
those magnificent stones which crowned her lustrous hair, and with a
peculiar cadence ringing through her tones, she observed: "Rome is a
lovely city--do you not think so? And, as it happened, I resided in a
delightful portion of it. Possibly you may remember the locality. It
was a charming little house, with beautiful trees--oleander, orange,
and fig--growing all around the spacious court. This pretty ideal home
was Number 34, Via Nationale."
The wretched man stared helplessly at her for one brief moment when
she had concluded, then a cry of despair burst from him.
"Oh, God! I knew it! You--you are Isabel?"
"Yes."
"Then you were not--you did not--"
"Die? No," was the brief response; but the beautiful eyes looking so
steadily into his seemed to burn into his very soul.
A mighty shudder shook Gerald Goddard from head to foot as he reeled
backward and leaned against the wall for support.
"Oh, God!" he cried again, in a voice of agony; then his head dropped
heavily upon his breast.
His companion gazed silently upon him for a minute; then, turning, she
brushed by him without a word and went on into the dressing-room for
her wraps.
Presently she came forth again, enveloped from head to foot in a long
garment richly lined with fur, the scarlet lining of the hood
contrasting beautifully with her clear, flawless complexion and her
brown eyes.
Gerald Goddard still stood where she had left him.
She would have passed him without a word, but he put out a trembling
hand to detain her.
"Isabel!" he faltered.
"Mrs. Stewart, if you please," she corrected, in a cold, proud tone.
"Ha! you have married again!" he exclaimed, with a start, while he
searched her face with a despairing look.
"Married again?" she repeated, with curling lips. "I have not so
perjured myself."
"But--but--"'
"Yes, I know what you would say," she interposed, with a proud little
gesture; "nevertheless, I claim the matron's title, and 'Stewart' was
my mother's maiden name," and she was about to pass on again.
"Stay!" said the man, nervously. "I--I must see you again--I must talk
further with you."
"Very well," the lady coldly returned, "and I also have some things
which I wish to say to you. I shall be at the Copley Square Hotel on
Thursday afternoon. I will see you as early as you choose to call."
Then, with an air of grave dignity, she passed on, and down the
stairs, without casting one backward glance at him.
The man leaned over the balustrade and watched her.
She moved like a queen.
In the hall below she was joined by her attendant, whom she welcomed
with a ravishing smile, and the next moment they had passed out of the
house together.
"Heavens! and I deserted that glorious woman for--a virago!" Gerald
Goddard muttered, hoarsely, as he strode, white and wretched, to his
room.
CHAPTER XVI.
"YOU SHALL NEVER WANT FOR A FRIEND."
Up in the third story, poor Edith lay upon her bed, still in an
unconscious state.
All the wedding finery had been removed and carried away, and she lay
scarcely less white than the spotless _robe de nuit_ she wore, her
lips blue and pinched, her eyes sunken and closed.
A physician sat beside her, his fingers upon her pulse, his eyes
gravely fixed upon the beautiful, waxen face lying on the pillow.
Two housemaids, looking frightened and anxious, were seated near him,
watching him and the still figure on the bed, but ready to obey
whatever command he might issue to them.
After introducing his sister to Mrs. Stewart, Emil Correlli had
slipped away from the scene of gayety, which had become almost
maddening to him, and mounted to that third-story room to inquire
again regarding the condition of the girl he had so wronged.
"No better," came the answer, which made him turn with dread, and a
terrible fear to take possession of his heart.
What if Edith should never revive? What if she should die in one of
these dreadful swoons?
His guilty conscience warned him that he would have been her murderer.
He could not endure the thought, and slinking away to his own room, he
drank deeply to stupefy himself, and then went to bed.
Gerald Goddard also was strangely exercised over the fair girl's
condition, and half an hour after his interview with Mrs. Stewart he
crept forth from his room again and went to see if there had been any
change in her condition.
"Yes," Dr. Arthur told him, "she is coming out of it, and if another
does not follow, she will come around all right in time. If you could
only find that housekeeper," he added, "she must have good care
through the night."
"I will go for her again," said Mr. Goddard, and he started downstairs
upon his quest.
He met the woman on the second floor and just coming up the back
stairs.
"Ah! Mrs. Weld, I am glad to find you. We have needed you sadly," he
eagerly exclaimed.
"I am sorry," the woman replied, in a regretful tone. "I was
unavoidably engaged and came just as soon as I was at liberty. What is
this I hear?" she continued, gravely; "what is this story about the
poor child being cheated into a real marriage with madam's brother? Is
it true?"
"Hush! no one must hear such a version," said Mr. Goddard, looking
anxiously about him.
He then proceeded to explain something of the matter, for he saw that
she knew too much to keep still, unless she was told more, and
cautioned not to discuss the matter with the servants.
"I knew nothing of the plot until it was all over--I swear to you I
did not," he said, when she began to express her indignation at the
affair. "I never would have permitted anything of the kind to have
been carried out in my house, if I had suspected it. It seems that
Correlli has been growing fond of her ever since he came. She has
refused him twice, but he swore that he would have her, in spite of
everything, and it seems that he concocted this plot to accomplish his
end."
"Well, sir, he is a dastardly villain, and, in my opinion, his sister
is no better than himself," Mrs. Weld exclaimed, in tones of hot
indignation, and then she swept past him and on up to Edith's room.
She opened the door and entered just as the poor girl heaved a long
sigh and unclosed her eyes, looking about with complete consciousness
for the first time since she fell to the floor in the parlor below.
The physician immediately administered a stimulant, for she was
naturally weak and her pulses still feeble.
As this began to take effect, memory also resumed its torturing work.
Lifting her eyes to the housekeeper, who went at once to her side, a
spasm of agony convulsed her beautiful features.
"Oh, Mrs. Weld!" she moaned, shivering from head to foot.
"Hush, child!" said the woman, bending over her and laying a gentle
hand upon her head; "it will all come right, so just shut your eyes
and try to go to sleep. I am going to stay with you to-night, and
nobody else shall come near you. Don't talk before the servants," she
added, in a swift whisper close to her ear.
An expression of intense relief swept over the fair sufferer's face at
this friendly assurance, and lifting a grateful look to the
housekeeper's face, she settled herself contentedly upon her pillow.
Dr. Arthur then drew Mrs. Weld to the opposite side of the room, where
he gave her directions for the night and what to do in case the
fainting should return--which, however, he said he did not anticipate,
as the action of the heart had become normal and the circulation more
natural.
A little later he took his leave, after which the housemaids were
dismissed and Edith was alone with her friend.
When the door closed after them the girl stretched forth her hands in
a gesture of helpless appeal to the woman.
"Oh, Mrs. Weld," she wailed, "must I be bound to that wretch during
the remainder of my life? I cannot live and bear such a fate! Oh, what
a shameful mockery it was! I felt, all the time, as if I were
committing a sacrilege, and yet I never dreamed that I was being used
so treacherously--"
The housekeeper sat down beside the excited girl, whose eyes were
burning with a feverish light, and who showed symptoms of returning
hysteria.
She removed her spectacles, and taking both of those trembling hands
in hers, looked steadily into the troubled eyes.
"My child," she said, in a gentle, soothing tone, "you must not talk
about it to-night--you must not even think about it. I have told you
that it will all come out right; no man could hold you to such a
marriage--no court would hold you bound when once it is understood how
fraudulently you had been drawn into it."
"But who is going to be able to prove that it was fraudulent?"
questioned Edith with increasing anxiety. "Apparently I went to the
altar with that man of my own free will; with all the semblance of
sincerity I took those marriage vows upon me and then received the
congratulations of all those guests as if I were a real wife. Oh, it
was terrible! terrible! terrible!" and her voice arose almost to a
shriek of agony as she concluded.
"Hush! not another word! Edith look at me!" commanded Mrs. Weld with
gentle but impressive authority.
The young girl, awed to silence in spite of her grief and nervous
excitement, looked wonderingly up into those magnetic eyes which
almost seemed to betray a dual nature.
"Oh, dear Mrs. Weld, you do not seem at all like yourself," she
gasped. "What--who are you?"
"I am your friend, my dear," was the soothing response, "and I am
going to prove it, first by forbidding you to refer to this subject
again until after you have had a nice, long sleep. Trust me and obey
me, dear; I am going to stand by you as long as you need a friend, and
I promise you that you shall never be a slave to the man who has so
wronged you to-night. Now put it all out of your mind. I do not want
to give you an opiate if I can avoid it, for you would not be so well
to-morrow after taking it; but I shall have to if you keep up this
excitement."
She continued to hold the girl's trembling hands in a strong,
protecting clasp, while she still gazed steadily into her eyes,
until, as if overcome by a will stronger than her own--her physical
strength being well-nigh exhausted--the white lids gradually drooped,
the rigid form relaxed, the lines smoothed themselves out of her brow,
and she was soon sleeping quietly and restfully.
When her regular breathing assured the watcher beside her that
oblivion had sealed her senses for the time, she bent over her,
touched her lips softly to her forehead, and murmured:
"Dear heart, they shall never hold you to that wicked ceremony--to
that unholy bond! If the law will not cancel it, if they have sprung
the trap upon you so cunningly that the court cannot free you, they
shall at least leave you in peace and virtually free, and you shall
never want for a friend as long as--as--Gertrude Weld lives," she
concluded, a peculiar smile wreathing her lips.
While this strange woman sat in that third-story room and watched her
sleeping patient, the hours sped by on rapid wings to the merry
dancers below, very few of whom concerned themselves about, or even
knew of, the tragic ending of the marriage which they had witnessed
earlier in the evening.
But oh, how heavily these hours dragged to one among that smiling
throng!
Anna Goddard could scarcely control her impatience for her guests to
be gone--for the terrible farce to end.
How terrible it all was to her not one of the gay people around her
could suspect, for she was obliged to fawn and smile as if she were in
thorough sympathy with the scene, and to attend to her duties as
hostess and to all the petty details required by so-called etiquette,
in order to preserve the prestige which she had acquired for
entertaining handsomely.
But there was a deadly fear at her heart--an agony of apprehension, a
dread of a fate which, to her, would have been worse than death.
Her husband and brother had disappeared entirely from the ball-room, a
circumstance which only added to her perplexity and distress.
When she saw signs of the ball breaking up she sent an imperative
message to her husband to join her, for she knew that it would cause
unpleasant remarks if the master of the house should fail to put in an
appearance to "speed the parting guest."
But she almost wished, when he came to her side, that she had not sent
for him, for he seemed like one who had lost his hold upon every hope
in the world, and looked so coldly upon her that she would rather have
had him plunge a dagger into her heart.
But the weary evening was over at length--the last guest from outside
was gone--the last visitor in the house had retired.
Her husband also had watched his opportunity, when she was looking
another way, and had slipped out of the room and upstairs to escape
having any complaints or questions from her.
And so Anna Goddard stood alone in her elegant drawing-room, a most
miserable woman, in spite of the luxury that surrounded her.
She had everything that heart could wish of this world's goods--a
beautiful home in the city, another in the country, horses, carriages,
servants, fine raiment, costly jewels, and fared sumptuously every
day.
But her heart was like a sepulcher, full of corruption that had
tainted her whole life; and now, as she stood there beneath the glare
of a hundred lights, so fair to look upon in her gleaming satins and
flashing jewels, it seemed to her that she would gladly exchange
places with the humblest country-woman if thereby she could be at
peace with herself and with God, and be the center of a loving and
loyal family, happy in the performances of her simple duties as a wife
and mother.
Finally, with a weary sigh, the unhappy woman went slowly upstairs,
feeling as if, in spite of the smiles and compliments which she had
that evening received, she had not a real friend in the world.
Going to her dressing-case, she began to remove her jewels.
The house was very still--so still that it almost seemed deserted, and
this feeling only served to add to the sense of loneliness and
desolation that was oppressing her.
Her face was full of pain, her beautiful lips quivered with suppressed
emotion as she gathered up her costly treasures in both hands and
stood looking at them a moment, thinking bitterly how much money they
represented, and yet of how little real value they were to her as an
essential element in her life.
She moved toward her casket to put her gems carefully away.
She stood looking down into the box for a minute, then, as if impelled
by some irresistible impulse, she laid the priceless stones all in a
heap upon the table, when, taking hold of a loop, which had escaped
the housekeeper's notice, she lifted the cushion from its place, thus
revealing the papers which had been concealed beneath it.
She seized the uppermost one with an eager hand.
"I believe I will destroy it," she mused, "I am afraid there is
something more in his desire to possess it than he is willing to
admit, for he is so determined to get possession of it."
She half unfolded the document as if to examine it, when a sudden
shock went quivering through her frame and a look of amazement
overspread her face.
"What can this mean?" she exclaimed, in a tone of alarm, as she dashed
it upon the floor and seized another.
This also proved disappointing.
"It was here the last time I looked! I am sure I left it on top of the
others!" she muttered, with white lips, as, with trembling hands and
heaving bosom, she overturned everything in search of the missing
document.
But the most rigid examination failed to reveal it, and, with a cry of
mingled agony and anger, she sank weak and trembling upon the nearest
chair.
"It is gone!" she whispered, hoarsely; "some one has stolen it!"
She sat there looking utterly helpless and wretched for a few
moments.
Then her eyes began to blaze and her lips to twitch spasmodically.
"He has done this!" she cried, starting to her feet once more. "That
was why he was absent so long from the ball-room to-night."
Seizing the papers she had removed from the box, she hastily replaced
them, also the cushion, restoring the jewels to their places, after
which she shut and locked the casket, taking care to remove the key
from its lock.
This done, she hurried from the room, looking more like a beautiful
fiend than a woman.
CHAPTER XVII.
"WOULD YOU DARE BE FALSE TO ME, AFTER ALL THESE YEARS?"
With her exquisite robe trailing unheeded after her, Anna Goddard
swept swiftly down the hall and rapped imperatively upon the door of
her husband's room.
There was no answer from within.
She tried the handle. The door would not yield--it was locked on the
inside.
"Gerald, are you in bed?" his wife inquired, putting her lips to the
crack and speaking low.
"What do you wish, Anna?" the man questioned.
"I wish to see you--I must speak with you, even if you have retired,"
she returned, imperatively.
There was a slight movement within the room, then the door was thrown
open, and Gerald Goddard stood before her.
But she shrank back almost immediately, a low exclamation of surprise
escaping her as she saw his face, so white, so pain-drawn, and
haggard.
"Gerald! what is the matter?" she demanded, forgetting, for the
moment, her own anger and even her errand there, in the anxiety which
she experienced for him.
"I am feeling quite well, Anna," he responded, in a mechanical tone.
"What is it you wish to say to me?"
Sweeping into the room, she closed the door after her, then confronted
him with accusing mien.
"What do I wish to say to you?" she repeated, her voice quivering with
passion, her eyes blazing with a fierce expression. "I want that paper
which you have stolen from me."
"I--I do not understand you, Anna," the man began, in a pre-occupied
manner. "What paper--what--"
"I will bear no trifling," she passionately cried, interrupting him.
"You know very well what paper I refer to--I never had but one
document in my possession in which you had any interest; the one you
have so beset me about during the last few weeks."
"That?" exclaimed the man, at last aroused from the apathy which had
hitherto seemed to possess him.
"That!" retorted his companion, mockingly imitating his tone, "as if
you did not very well know it was 'that,' and no other. Gerald
Goddard, I have come to demand it of you," she went on shrilly. "You
have no right to enter my rooms, like a thief, and steal my treasures!
I--"
"Anna, be still!" commanded her husband, sternly. "You are losing
control of yourself, and some of our guests may overhear you. I know
nothing of the document."
"You lie!" hissed the woman, almost beside herself with mingled rage
and fear. "Who, but you, could have any interest in the thing? who,
save you, even knew of its existence, or that it had ever been in my
possession? Give it back to me! I will have it! It's my only
safeguard. You knew it, and you have stolen it, to make yourself
independent of me."
"Anna, you shall not demean either yourself or me by giving expression
to such unjust suspicions," Gerald Goddard returned with cold dignity.
"I swear to you that I do not know anything about the paper. I have
not even once laid my eyes upon it since you stole it from me. If it
has been taken from the place where you have kept it concealed," he
went on, "then other hands than mine have been guilty of the theft."
There was the ring of truth in his words, and she was forced to
believe him; yet there was a mystery about the affair which was beyond
her fathoming.
"Then who could have taken it," she gasped, growing ghastly white at
the thought of there being a third party to their secret--"who on
earth has done this thing?"
Gerald Goddard was silent. He had his suspicions, suspicions that made
him quake inwardly, as he thought of what might be the outcome of them
if they should prove to be true.
"Gerald, why do you not answer me?" his companion impatiently
demanded. "Can you think of any one who would be likely to rob us in
this way?"
"Have you no suspicion, Anna?" the man asked, and looking gravely into
her eyes. "Was there no one among your guests to-night, who--"
"Who--what--!" she cried, as he faltered and stopped.
"Was there no one present who made you think of--of some one whom
you--have known in the--the past?"
"Ha! do you refer to Mrs. Stewart?" said madam. "Did you also notice
the--resemblance?"
"Could any one help it?--could any one ever mistake those eyes?
Anna--she was Isabel herself!"
"No--no!" she panted wildly, "she may be some relative. Are you losing
your mind? Isabel is--dead."
"She lives!"
"I tell you no! I--saw her dead."
"You? How could that be possible?" exclaimed Mr. Goddard, in
astonishment. "We were both in Florence at the time of that tragedy."
"Nevertheless, I saw her dead and in her coffin," persisted his
companion, with positive emphasis.
"Now you talk as if you were losing your mind," he answered, with
white lips.
"I am not. Do you not remember I told you one morning, I was going to
spend a couple of days with a friend at Fiesole?"
"Yes."
"Well, I had read of that tragedy that very day, and then hid the
paper, but I did not go to Fiesole at all. I took the first train for
Rome."
"Anna!"
"I wanted to be sure," she cried, excitedly. "I was jealous of her,
I--hated her; and I knew that if the report was true I should be at
rest. I went to the place where they had taken her. Some one had cared
for her very tenderly--she lay as if asleep, and looked like a
beautiful piece of sculpture in her white robe; one could hardly
believe that she was--dead. But they told me they were going to--to
bury her that afternoon unless some one came to claim her. They asked
me if I had known her--if she was a friend of mine. I told them
no--she was nothing to me; I had simply come out of curiosity, having
seen the story of her tragic end in a paper. Then I took the next
train back to Florence."
"Why have you never told me this before, Anna?" Gerald Goddard
inquired, with lips that were perfectly colorless, while he laid his
hand upon the back of a chair for support.
"Why?" she flashed out jealously at him. "Why should I talk of her to
you? She was dead--she could never come between us, and I wished to
put her entirely out of my mind, since I had satisfied myself of the
fact."
"Did--did you hear anything of--of--"
"Of the child? No; all I ever knew was what you yourself read in the
paper--that both mother and child had disappeared from their home and
both were supposed to have suffered the same fate, although the body
of the child was not found."
"Oh!" groaned Gerald Goddard, wiping the clammy moisture from his
brow. "I never realized the horror of it as I do at this moment, and I
never have forgiven myself for not going to Rome to institute a search
for myself; but--"
"But I wouldn't let you, I suppose you were about to add," said madam,
bitterly. "What was the use?" she went on, angrily. "Everything was
all over before you knew anything about it--"
"I could at least have erected a tablet to mark her resting-place,"
the man interposed.
"Ha! ha! it strikes me it was rather late then to manifest much
sentiment; that would have become you better before you broke her
heart and killed her by your neglect and desertion," sneered madam,
who was driven to the verge of despair by this late exhibition of
regard for a woman whom she had hated.
"Don't, Anna!" he cried, sharply. Then suddenly straightening himself,
he said, as if just awaking from some horrible nightmare: "But she did
not die. I have not that on my conscience, after all."
"She did--I tell you she did!" hoarsely retorted the excited woman.
"But I have seen and talked with her to-night, and she told me that
she was--Isabel!" he persisted.
Anna Goddard struck her palms together with a gesture bordering upon
despair.
"I do not believe it--I will not believe it!" she panted.
"He began to pity her, for he also was beginning to realize that, if
Isabel Stewart were really the woman whom he had wronged more than
twenty years previous, her situation was indeed deplorable.
"Anna," he said, gravely, and speaking with more calmness and
gentleness than at any time during the interview, "this is a stern
fact, and--we must look it in the face."
His tone and manner carried conviction to her heart.
She sank crouching at his feet, bowing her face upon her hands.
"Gerald! Gerald! it must not be so!" she wailed. "It is only some
cunning story invented to cheat us and avenge her. That woman shall
never separate us--I will never yield to her. Oh, Heaven! why did I
not destroy that paper when I had it? Gerald, give it to me now, if
you have it; it is not too late to burn it even now, and no one can
prove the truth--we can defy her to the last."
The man stooped to raise her from her humiliating position.
"Get up, Anna," he said, kindly. "Come, sit in this chair and let us
talk the matter over calmly. It is a stern fact that Isabel is alive
and well, and it is useless either to ignore it or deplore it."
With shivering sobs bursting from her with every breath, the wretched
woman allowed herself to be helped to the chair, into which she sank
with an air of abject despair.
Anna Goddard's was not a nature likely to readily yield to humiliation
or defeat, and after a few moments of silent battle with herself, she
raised her head and turned her proud face and searching eyes upon her
companion.
"You say that it is a 'stern fact' that Isabel lives," she remarked,
with compressed lips.
"I am sure--there can be no mistake," the man replied. Then he told
her of the interview which had occurred in the hall, where he had
found the woman standing before the picture which he had painted in
Rome so many years ago.
"She recognized it at once," he said; "she located the very spot from
which I had painted the scene."
"Oh, I cannot make it seem possible, for I tell you I saw her lying
dead in her casket," moaned madam, who, even in the face of all
proofs, could not bring herself to believe that her old rival was
living and had it in her power to ruin her life.
"She must have been in a trance--she must have been resuscitated by
those people who found her. As sure as you and I both live, she is
living also," Mr. Goddard solemnly responded.
"Oh, how could such a thing be?"
"I do not know--she did not tell me; she was very cold and proud."
"What was she doing here? How dared she enter this house?" cried
madam, her anger blazing up again.
"I cannot tell you. It was a question I was asking myself just as you
came to the door," said Mr. Goddard, with a sigh. "I have no doubt she
had some deep-laid purpose, however."
"Do you imagine her purpose was to get possession of that document?"
questioned madam.
"I had thought of that--I have felt almost sure of it since you told
me it had disappeared."
"But how could she have known that such a paper was in our possession?
You did not receive it until long after--"
"Yes, I know," interposed Mr. Goddard, with a shiver; "nevertheless I
am impressed that it is now in her possession, even though I did not
suppose that any one, save you and I and Will Forsyth, ever knew of
its existence."
There ensued an interval of silence, during which both appeared to be
absorbed in deep thought.
"If she has it, what will she do with it?" madam suddenly questioned,
lifting her heavy eyes to her companion.
"I am sure I cannot tell, Anna," he coldly returned.
His tone was like a match applied to powder.
"Well, then, what will you do, Gerald Goddard, in view of the fact, as
you believe, that she is alive and has learned the truth?" she
imperiously demanded.
"I--I do not think it will be wise for us to discuss that point just
at present," he faltered.
"Coward! Is that your answer to me after twenty years of adoration and
devotion?" cried the enraged woman, springing excitedly to her feet,
the look of a slumbering demon in her dusky eyes.
"After twenty years of jealousy, bickering, and turmoil, you should
have said, Anna," was the bitter response.
"Beware! Beware, Gerald! I have hot blood in my veins, as you very
well know," was the menacing retort.
"I have long had a proof of that," he returned, with quiet irony.
"Oh!" she cried, putting up her hand as if to ward off a blow, "you
are cruel to me." Then, with sudden passion, she added: "Perhaps,
after all, that document is in your possession--or at least that you
know something about it."
"I only wish your surmise were correct, Anna; for, in that case, I
should have no cause to fear her," said Mr. Goddard, gravely.
"Ha! Even you do 'fear' her?" cried madam, eagerly. "In what way?"
"Can you not see? If she has gained possession of the paper, she has
it in her power to do both of us irreparable harm," the gentleman
explained.
Anna Goddard shivered.
"Yes, yes," she moaned, "she could make society ring with our
names--she could ruin us, socially; but"--shooting a stealthy glance
at her companion, who sat with bowed head and clouded brow--"I could
better bear that than that she should assert a claim upon you--that
she should use her power to--to separate us. She shall not, Gerald!"
she went on, passionately; "there are other countries where you and I
can go and be happy, utterly indifferent to what she may do here."
The man made no reply to these words--he was apparently absorbed in
his own thoughts.
"Gerald! have you nothing to say to me?" madam sharply cried, after
watching him for a full minute.
"What can I say, Anna? There is nothing that either of us can do but
await further developments," the man returned, but careful to keep to
himself the fact that he had an appointment with the woman whom she so
feared and hated.
"Would you dare to be false to me, after all these years?" his
companion demanded, in repressed tones, and leaning toward him with
flaming eyes.
"Pshaw, Anna! what a senseless question," he replied, with a forced
laugh.
"But you admire--you think her very beautiful?" she questioned,
eagerly.
"Why, that is a self-evident fact--every one must admit that she is a
fine-looking woman," was the somewhat evasive response.
Anna Goddard sprang to her feet, her face scarlet.
"You will be very careful what you do, Gerald," she hissed. "I have
never had overmuch confidence in you, in spite of my love for you; but
there is one thing that I will not bear, at this late day, and that
is, that you should turn traitor to me; so be warned in time."
She did not wait to see what effect her words would have upon him,
but, turning abruptly, swept from the room, leaving him to his own
reflections.
CHAPTER XVIII.
"I SHALL NEVER FORGIVE EITHER OF YOU FOR YOUR SIN AGAINST ME."
The morning following the great Goddard ball at Wyoming, found Edith
much better, greatly to the surprise of every one.
She was quite weak, as was but natural after such a shock to her
system, both physically and mentally; but she had slept very quietly
through the night, after the housekeeper had gone to her and thrown
the protection of her presence around her.
At Emil Correlli's request, the physician had remained in the house
all night, in case he should be wanted; and when he visited her quite
early in the morning, he expressed himself very much gratified to find
her so comfortable, and said she would do well enough without any
further medical treatment, but advised her to keep quiet for a day or
two.
This Edith appeared perfectly willing to do, and lay contentedly among
her pillows, watching her kind nurse while she put the room in order,
making no remarks, asking no questions, but with a look of grave
resolve growing in her eyes and about her sweet mouth, which betrayed
that she was doing a good deal of thinking upon some subject.
Mrs. Goddard came to her door immediately after breakfast, but Edith
refused to see her.
She had told Mrs. Weld not to admit any one; therefore, when the lady
of the house sought admittance, the housekeeper firmly but
respectfully denied her entrance.
"But I have something very important to say to Edith," madam
persisted.
"Then it had best be left unsaid until the poor girl is stronger,"
Mrs. Weld replied, without moving her portly proportions and holding
the door firmly in her hand.
"I have a message from my brother for her--it is necessary that I
should deliver it," Mrs. Goddard obstinately returned. Mrs. Weld
looked back into the room inquiringly.
"I do not wish to see any one," Edith weakly responded, but in a voice
of decision which told the listener outside that the girl had no
intention of yielding the point.
"Very well; then I will wait until she feels stronger," said the
baffled woman, whereupon she beat an ignominious retreat, and the
invalid was left in peace.
Mrs. Weld spent as much time as possible with her, but she of course
had her duties below to attend to; so, at Edith's request, she locked
her in and took the key with her when she was obliged to go
downstairs.
Once, while she was absent, some one crept stealthily to the door and
knocked.
Edith started up, and leaned upon her elbow, a momentary look of fear
sweeping her face; but she made no response.
The knock was repeated.
Still the girl remained motionless and voiceless, only her great blue
eyes began to blaze with mingled indignation and contempt, for she
knew, instinctively, who was seeking admission.
"Miss Al--Edith, I must speak with you--I must have an interview with
you," said the voice of Emil Correlli from without.
Still no answer from within; but the dazzling gleam in the girl's eyes
plainly showed that that voice had aroused all the spirit within her
in spite of her weak condition.
"Pray grant me an interview, Edith--I have much to say to you--much
to explain--much to entreat of you," continued the voice, with a note
of earnest appeal.
But he might as well have addressed the walls for all the effect he
produced.
There was a moment or two of silence, then the man continued, with
something of authority:
"I have the right to come to you, Edith--I have a right to demand that
you regard my wishes. If you are not prepared to receive me just now,
name some time when I can see you, and I will wait patiently your
pleasure; only speak and tell me that you will comply with my
request."
It was both a pretty and a striking picture behind that closed door,
if he could but have seen it--the fair girl, in her snowy robe, over
which she had slipped a pretty light blue sack, reclining upon her
elbow, her beautiful hair falling in graceful confusion about her
shoulders; her violet eyes gleaming with a look of triumph in her
advantage over the man without; her lips--into which the color was
beginning to flow naturally again--parted just enough to reveal the
milk-white teeth between them.
When the man outside asserted his right to come to her, the only sign
she had made was a little toss of her golden-crowned head, indicative
of defiance, while about the corners of her lovely mouth there lurked
a smile of scorn that would have been maddening to Emil Correlli could
he have seen it.
At last a discontented muttering and the sound of retreating steps in
the hall told her that her persecutor had become discouraged, and
gone. Then, with a sigh of relief, she sank back upon her pillow
feeling both weak and weary from excitement.
Left alone once more, she fell into deep thought.
In spite of a feeling of despair which, at times, surged over her in
view of the trying position in which she found herself, the base
deception practiced upon her, aroused a spirit of indomitable
resistance, to battle for herself and her outraged feelings, and
outwit, if possible, these enemies of her peace.
"They have done this wicked thing--that woman and her brother," she
said to herself; "they have cunningly plotted to lure me into this
trap; but, though they have succeeded in fettering me for life, that
is all the satisfaction that they will ever reap from their scheme.
They cannot compel me, against my will, to live with a man whom I
abhor. Even though I stood up before that multitude last evening, and
appeared a willing actor in that disgraceful sacrilegious scene, no
one can make me abide by it, and I shall denounce and defy them both;
the world shall at least ring with scorn for their deed, even though I
cannot free myself by proving a charge of fraud against them. But,
oh--"
The proud little head suddenly drooped, and with a moan of pain she
covered her convulsed face with her hands, as her thoughts flew to a
certain room in New York, where she had spent one happy, blissful week
in learning to love, with all her soul, the man whom she had served.
She had believed, as we know, that her love for Royal Bryant was
hopeless--at least she had told herself so, and that she could never
link her fate with his, after learning of her shameful origin.
Yet, now that there appeared to have arisen an even greater barrier,
she began to realize that all hope had not been quite dead--that, in
her heart, she had all the time been nursing a tender shoot of
affection, and a faint belief that her lover would never relinquish
his desire to win her.
But these sad thoughts finally set her mind running in another
channel, and brought a gleam of hope to her.
"He is a true and honorable man," she mused, "I will appeal to him in
my trouble; and if any one can find a loop-hole of escape for me I am
sure he will be able to do so."
When Mrs. Weld brought her lunch, she sat up and ate it eagerly,
resolved to get back her strength as soon as possibly in order to
carry out her project at an early date. While she was eating, she told
her friend of Emil Correlli's visit and its result.
"Why cannot they let you alone!" the woman cried, indignantly. "They
shall not persecute you so."
"No, I do not intend they shall," Edith quietly replied, "but I think
by to-morrow morning, I shall feel strong enough for an interview,
when we will have my relations toward them established for all time,"
and by the settling of the girl's pretty chin, Mrs. Weld was convinced
that she would be lacking in neither spirit nor decision.
"If you feel able to talk about it now, I wish you would tell me
exactly how they managed to hoodwink you to such an extent. Perhaps I
may be of some service to you, when the matter comes to a crisis," the
woman remarked, as she studied the sweet face before her with kind and
pitying eyes.
And Edith related just how Mrs. Goddard had drawn her into the net by
representing that two of her actors had been called away in the midst
of the play and that the whole representation would be spoiled unless
she would consent to help her out.
"It was very cleverly done," said Mrs. Weld, when she concluded; but
she looked grave, for she saw that the entire affair had been so
adroitly managed, it would be very difficult to prove that Edith had
not been in the secret and a willing actor in the drama. "But do not
worry, child; you may depend upon me to do my utmost to help you in
every possible way."
The next morning Edith was able to be up and dressed, and she began to
pack her trunk, preparatory to going away. The guests had all left on
the previous day, and everything was being put in order for the house
to be closed for the remainder of the winter, while it was stated that
the family would return to the city on the next day, which would be
Thursday.
Edith had almost everything ready for removal by noon, and, after
lunch was over, sent word to Mrs. Goddard that she would like an
interview with her.
The woman came immediately, and Edith marveled to see how pale and
worn she looked--how she had appeared to age during the last day or
two.
"I am so glad that you have decided to see me, Edith," she remarked,
in a fondly confidential tone, as she drew a chair to the girl's side
and sat down. "My brother is nearly distracted with grief and remorse
over what has happened, and the attitude which you have assumed toward
him. He adores you--he will be your slave if you only take the right
way to win him. Surely, you will forgive him for the deception which
his great affection led him to practice upon you," she concluded, with
a coaxing smile, such as she would have assumed in dealing with a
fractious child.
"No," said Edith, with quiet decision, "I shall never forgive either
of you for your sin against me--it is beyond pardon."
"Ah! I will not intercede for myself--but think how Emil loves you,"
pleaded her companion.
"You should have said, 'think how he loves himself,' madam," Edith
rejoined, with a scornful curl of her lips, "for nothing but the
rankest selfishness could ever have led a person to commit an act of
such duplicity and sacrilege as that which he and you adopted to
secure your own ends. He does not desire to be pardoned. His only
desire is that I should relent and yield to him--which I never shall
do."
As she uttered these last words, she emphasized them with a decided
little gesture of her left hand that betrayed a relentless purpose.
"Ah!" she cried, the next moment, with a start, the movement having
attracted her eye to the ring upon her third finger, which until that
moment she had entirely forgotten.
With a shiver of repulsion, she snatched it off and tossed it into the
lap of her companion.
"Take it back to him," she said. "I had forgotten I had it on; I
despise myself for having worn it even until now."
Madam flushed angrily at her act and words.
"You are very hard--you are very obdurate," she said, sharply.
"Very well; you can put whatever construction you choose upon the
stand I have taken, but do not for a moment deceive yourself by
imagining that I will ever consent to be known as Emil Correlli's
wife; death would be preferable!" Edith calmly responded.
"Most girls would only be too eager and proud to assume the
position--they would be sincerely grateful for the luxuries and
pleasures they would enjoy as my brother's wife," Mrs. Goddard coldly
remarked, but with an angry gleam in her eyes.
A little smile of contempt curled the corners of Edith's red mouth;
but otherwise she did not deign to notice these boasting comments, a
circumstance which so enraged her companion that she felt, for a
moment, like strangling the girl there and then.
But there was far more to be considered than her own personal
feelings, and she felt obliged to curb herself for the time.
If scandal was to be avoided, she must leave no inducement untried to
bend Edith's stubborn will, and madam herself was too proud to
contemplate anything so humiliating; she was willing to do or bear
almost anything to escape becoming a target for the fashionable world
to shoot their arrows of ridicule at.
"Edith, I beg that you will listen to me," she earnestly pleaded,
after a few moments of thought. "This thing is done and cannot be
undone, and now I want you to be reasonable and think of the
advantages which, as Emil's wife, you may enjoy. You are a poor girl,
without home or friends, and obliged to work for your living. There is
an escape from all this if you will be tractable; you can have a
beautiful house elegantly furnished, horses, carriages, diamonds, and
velvets--in fact, not a wish you choose to express ungratified. You
may travel the world over, if you desire, with no other object in view
than to enjoy yourself. On the other hand, if you refuse, there will
be no end of scandal--you will ruin the reputation of our whole
family--Emil will become the butt of everybody's scorn and ridicule. I
shall never be able to show my face again in society, either in Boston
or New York; and my husband, who has always occupied a high position,
will be terribly shocked and humiliated."
Edith listened quietly to all that she had to say, not once
attempting to interrupt her; but when madam finally paused, in
expectation of a reply, she simply remarked:
"You should have thought of all this, madam, before you plotted for
the ruin of my life; I am not responsible for the consequences of your
treachery and crime."
"Crime! that is an ugly word," tartly cried Mrs. Goddard, who began to
find the tax upon her patience almost greater than she could bear.
"Nevertheless, it is the correct term to apply to what you have
done--it is what I shall charge you with--"
"What! do you dare to tell me that you intend to appeal to the
courts?" exclaimed madam, aghast.
She had fondly imagined that, the deed once done, the girl having no
friends whose protection she could claim, would make the best of it,
and gracefully yield to the situation.
"That is what I intend to do."
Anna Goddard's face was almost livid at this intrepid response.
"And you utterly refuse to listen to reason?" she inquired, struggling
hard for self-control.
"I utterly refuse to be known as Emil Correlli's wife, if that is what
you mean by 'reason,'" said Edith, calmly.
"Girl! girl! take care--do not try my patience too far," cried her
companion, with a flash of passion, "or we may have to resort to
desperate measures with you."
"Such as what, if you please?" inquired Edith, still unmoved.
"That remains to be seen; but I warn you that you are bringing only
wrath upon your own head. We shall never allow you to create a
scandal--we shall find a way to compel you to do as we wish."
"That you can never do!" and the beautiful girl proudly faced the
woman with such an undaunted air and look that she involuntarily
quailed before her. "It is my nature," she went on, after a slight
pause, "to be gentle and yielding in all things reasonable, and when I
am kindly treated; but injustice and treachery, such as you have been
guilty of, always arouse within me a spirit which a thousand like you
and your brother could never bend nor break."
"Do not be too sure, my pretty young Tartar," retorted madam, with a
disagreeable sneer.
"I rejected Monsieur Correlli's proposals to me some weeks ago," Edith
resumed, without heeding the rude interruption. "I made him clearly
understand, and you also, that I could never marry him. You appeared
to accept the situation only to scheme for my ruin; but, even though
you have tricked me into compromising myself in the presence of many
witnesses, it was only a trick, and therefore no legal marriage. At
least I do not regard myself as morally bound; and, as I have said
before, I shall appeal to the courts to annul whatever tie there may
be supposed to exist. This is my irrevocable decision--nothing can
change it--nothing will ever swerve me a hair's breadth from it. Go
tell your brother, and then let me alone--I will never renew the
subject with either of you."
And as Edith ceased she turned her resolute face to the window, and
Anna Goddard knew that she had meant every word that she had uttered.
She was amazed by this show of spirit and decision.
The girl had always been a perfect model of gentleness and kindness,
ready to do whatever was required of her, obliging and invariably
sweet-tempered.
She could hardly realize that the cold, determined, defiant, undaunted
sentences to which she had just listened could have fallen from the
lips of the mild, quiet Edith whom she had hitherto known.
But, as may be imagined, such an attitude from one who had been a
servant to her was not calculated to soothe her ruffled feelings, and
after the first flash of astonishment, anger got the better of her.
"Do you imagine you can defy us thus?" she cried, laying an almost
brutal grip upon the girl's arm, as she arose to abandon, for the
time, her apparently fruitless task. "No, indeed! You will find to
your cost that you have stronger wills than your own to cope with."
With these hot words, Anna Goddard swept angrily from the room,
leaving her victim alone.
CHAPTER XIX.
"I WILL NEVER BREAK BREAD WITH YOU, AT ANY TABLE."
As the door closed after the angry and baffled woman, the portly form
of the housekeeper entered the room from an apartment adjoining,
where, as had been previously arranged between Edith and herself, she
had been stationed to overhear the whole of the foregoing
conversation.
"What can I do?" sighed the young girl, wearily, and lifting an
anxious glance to her companion; for, in spite of her apparent
calmness throughout the recent interview, it had been a terrible
strain upon her already shattered nerves.
"Nothing just yet, dear, but to try and get well and strong as soon as
possible," cheerfully responded Mrs. Weld.
"Did you hear how she threatened me?"
"Yes, but her threats were only so many idle words--they cannot harm
you; you need not fear them."
"But I do; somehow, I am impressed that they are plotting even greater
wrongs against me," sighed Edith, who, now that the necessity of
preserving a bold front was passed, seemed to lose her courage.
"They will not dare--" began Mrs. Weld, with some excitement. Then,
suddenly checking herself, she added, soothingly: "But do not worry
any more about it now, child--you never need 'cross a bridge until you
come it.' Lie down and rest a while; it will do you good, and maybe
you will catch a little nap, while I go down to see that everything is
moving smoothly in the dining-room and kitchen."
Edith was only too willing to heed this sensible advice, and, shortly
after the housekeeper's departure, fell into a restful sleep.
She did not awake until it was nearly dark, when, feeling much
refreshed, she arose and dressed herself resolving that she would not
trouble tired Mrs. Weld to bring up her dinner, but go downstairs and
have it with her, as usual.
The house was very quiet, for, all the guests having gone, there was
only the family and the servants in the house.
Edith remained in her room until she heard the dinner-bell ring, when
she went to the door to listen for Mr. and Mrs. Goddard and Emil
Correlli to go down, before she ventured forth, for she had a special
object in view.
Presently she heard them enter the dining-room, whereupon she stole
softly down after them and slipped into the library in search of the
daily papers.
She found one, the _Transcript_, and then hurried back to her room,
lighted the gas, and sat down to read.
Immediately a low cry of dismay burst from her, for the first thing
that caught her eye were some conspicuous head-lines announcing:
"A STARTLING SURPRISE IN HIGH LIFE."
These were followed by a vivid description of the festivities at the
Goddard mansion in Wyoming, on the previous evening, mentioning the
"unique and original drama," which had wound up with "the great
surprise" in the form of a "_bona fide_" marriage between the brother
of the beautiful and accomplished hostess, Mrs. Goddard, and a lovely
girl to whom the gentleman had long been attached, and whom he had
taken this opportune and very novel way of introducing to his friends
and society in general.
Then there followed a _résumé_ of the play, giving the names of the
various actors, an account of the fine scenery and brilliant costumes,
etc.
The appearance of the masked bride and groom was then enlarged upon,
an accurate description of the bride's elegant dress given, and a most
flattering mention made of her beauty and grace, together with the
perfect dignity and repose of manner with which she bore her
introduction to the many friends of her husband during the reception
that followed immediately after the ceremony.
No mention was made of her having fainted afterward, and the article
concluded with a flattering tribute to the host and hostess for the
success of their "Winter Frolic," which ended so delightfully in the
brilliant and long-to-be-remembered ball.
Edith's face was full of pain and indignation after reading this
sensational account.
She was sure that the affair had been written up by either madam or
her brother, for the express purpose of bringing her more
conspicuously before the public, and with the intention of fastening
more securely the chain that bound her to the villain who had so
wronged her.
"Oh, it is a plot worthy to be placed on record with the intrigues of
the Court of France during the reign of Louis the Thirteenth and
Richelieu!" Edith exclaimed. "But in this instance they have mistaken
the character of their victim," she continued, throwing back her proud
little head with an air of defiance, "for I will never yield to them;
I will never acknowledge, by word or act, the tie which they claim
binds me to him, and I will leave no effort untried to break it.
Heavens! what a daring, what an atrocious wrong it was!" she
exclaimed, with a shudder of repugnance; "and I am afraid that, aside
from my own statements, I cannot bring one single fact to prove a
charge of fraud against either of them."
She fell into a painful reverie, mechanically folding the paper as she
sat rocking slowly back and forth trying to think of some way of
escape from her unhappy situation.
But, at last, knowing that it was about time for Mrs. Weld to have her
dinner, she arose to go down to join her.
As she did so the paper slipped from her hands to the floor.
She stooped to pick it up when an item headed, in large letters
"Personal" caught her eye.
Without imagining that it could have any special interest for her, she
glanced in an aimless way over it.
Suddenly every nerve was electrified.
"What is this?" she exclaimed, and read the paragraph again.
The following was the import of it:
"If Miss Allandale, who disappeared so suddenly from New
York, on the 13th of last December, will call upon or send
her address to Bryant & Co., Attorneys, No. ---- Broadway,
she will learn of something greatly to her advantage in a
financial way."
"How very strange! What can it mean?" murmured the astonished girl,
the rich color mounting to her brow as she realized that Royal Bryant
must have inserted this "personal" in the paper in the hope that it
would meet her eye.
"Who in the world is there to feel interested in me or my financial
condition?" she continued, with a look of perplexity.
At first it occurred to her that Mr. Bryant might have taken this way
to ascertain where she was from personal motives; but she soon
discarded this thought, telling herself that he would never be guilty
of practicing deception in any way to gain his ends. If he had simply
desired her address he would have asked for that alone without the
promise of any pecuniary reward.
She stood thinking the matter over for several moments.
At last her face cleared and a look of resolution flashed into her
eyes.
"I will do it!" she murmured, "I will go back at once to New York--I
will ascertain what this advertisement means, then I will tell him all
that has happened to me here, and ask him if there is any way by which
I can be released from this dreadful situation, into which I have been
trapped. I am sure he will help me, if any one can."
A faint, tender smile wreathed her lips as she mused thus, and
recalled her last interview with Royal Bryant; his fond, eager words
when he told her of her complete vindication at the conclusion of her
trial in New York--of his tender look and hand-clasp when he bade her
good-by at the door of the carriage that bore her home to her mother.
She began to think that she had perhaps not used him quite fairly in
running away and hiding herself thus from him who had been so true a
friend to her; and yet, if she remained in his employ, and he had
asked her to be his wife, she knew that she must either have refused
him, without giving him a sufficient reason, or else confessed to him
her shameful origin.
"It would have been better, perhaps, if I had never come away," she
sighed, "still it is too late now to regret it, and all I can do is to
comply with the request of this 'personal.' I would leave this very
night, only there are some things at the other house that I must take
with me. But to-morrow night I will go, and I shall have to steal
away, or they will find some way to prevent my going. I will not even
tell dear Mrs. Weld, although she has been so kind to me; but I will
write and explain it all to her after my arrival in New York."
Having settled this important matter in her mind, Edith went quietly
downstairs, and returned the paper to the library, after which she
repaired to the tiny room where she and Mrs. Weld were in the habit of
taking their meals.
The kind-hearted woman chided her for coming down two flights of
stairs, while she was still so weak; but Edith assured her that she
really began to feel quite like herself again, and could not think of
allowing her to wait upon her when she was so weary from her own
numerous duties.
They had a pleasant chat over their meal, the young girl appearing far
more cheerful than one would have naturally expected under existing
circumstances. She flushed with painful embarrassment, however, when a
servant came in to wait upon them, and gave her a stare of undisguised
astonishment, which plainly told her that he thought her place was in
the dining-room with the family.
She understood by it that all the servants knew what had occurred the
previous night, and believed her to be the wife of Emil Correlli.
But nothing else occurred to mar the meal, and when it was finished
Edith started to go up to her room again.
She went up the back way, hoping thus to avoid meeting any member of
the family.
She reached the landing upon the second floor and was about to mount
another flight when there came a swift step over the front stairs,
and, before she could escape, Emil Correlli came into view.
Another instant and he was by her side.
"Edith!" he exclaimed, astonished to see her there, "where have you
been?"
"Down to my dinner," she quietly replied, but confronting him with
undaunted bearing.
"Down to your dinner?" he repeated, flushing hotly, a look of keen
annoyance sweeping over his face. "If you were able to leave your room
at all, your place was in the dining-room, with the family, and," he
added, sternly, "I do not wish any gossip among the servants regarding
my--wife."
It was Edith's turn to flush now, at that obnoxious term.
"You will please spare me all allusion to that mockery," she bitterly,
but haughtily, retorted.
"It was no mockery--it was a _bona fide_ marriage," he returned. "You
are my lawful wife, and I wish you, henceforth, to occupy your proper
position as such."
"I am not your wife. I shall never acknowledge, by word or act, any
such relationship toward you," she calmly, but decidedly, responded.
"Oh, yes you will."
"Never!"
"But you have already done so, and there are hundreds of people who
can prove it," he answered, hotly, but with an air of triumph.
"It will be a comparatively easy matter to make public a true
statement of the case," said the girl, looking him straight in the
eyes.
"You will not dare set idle tongues gossiping by repudiating our
union!" exclaimed the young man, fiercely.
"I should dare anything that would set me free from you," was the
dauntless response.
Her companion gnashed his teeth with rage.
"You would find very few who would believe your statements," he said;
"for, besides the fact that hundreds witnessed the ceremony last
night, the papers have published full accounts of the affair, and the
whole city now knows about it."
"I know it--I have read the papers," said Edith, without appearing in
the least disconcerted.
"What! already?"
"Yes."
"Well, what did you think of the account?" her companion inquired,
regarding her curiously.
"That it was simply another clever piece of duplicity on your part,
the only object of which was the accomplishment of your nefarious
purposes. I believe you yourself were the author of it."
Emil Correlli started as if he had been stung.
He did not dream that she would attribute the article to him--the last
thing he could wish would be that she should think it had emanated
from his pen.
Nevertheless, his admiration for her was increased tenfold by her
shrewdness in discerning the truth.
"You judge me harshly," he said, bitterly.
"I have no reason for judging you otherwise," Edith coldly remarked;
then added, haughtily: "Allow me to pass, sir, if you please."
"I do not please. Oh, Edith, pray be reasonable; come into Anna's
boudoir, and let us talk this matter over amicably and calmly," he
pleaded, laying a gentle hand upon her arm.
She shook it off as if it had been a reptile.
"No, sir; I shall discuss nothing with you, either now or at any other
time. If," she added, a fiery gleam in her beautiful eyes, "it is ever
discussed in my presence it will be before a judge and jury!"
The man bit his lips to repress an oath.
"Yes, Anna told me you threatened that; but I hoped it was only an
idle menace," he said. "Do you really mean that you intend to file an
application to have the marriage annulled?"
"Most assuredly--at least, if, indeed, after laying the matter before
the proper authorities, such a formality is deemed necessary," said
the girl, with a scornful inflection that cut her listener to the
quick.
He grew deadly white, more at her contemptuous tones than her threat.
"Edith--what can I say to win you?" he cried, after a momentary
struggle with himself. "I swear to you that I cannot--will not live
without you. I will be your slave--your lightest wish shall be my law,
if you will yield this point--come with me as my honored wife, and let
me, by my love and unceasing efforts, try to win even your friendly
regard. I know I have done wrong," he went on, assuming a tone and air
of humility; "I see it now when it is too late. I ask you to pardon
me, and let me atone in whatever way you may deem best. See!--I
kneel--I beg--I implore!"
And suiting the action to the words, he dropped upon one knee before
her and extended his hands in earnest appeal to her.
"In whatever way I may deem best you will atone?" she repeated,
looking him gravely in the face. "Then make a public confession of the
fraud of which you have been guilty, and give me my freedom."
"Ah, anything but that--anything but that!" he exclaimed, flushing
consciously beneath her gaze.
She moved back a pace or two from him, her lips curling with contempt.
"Your appeal was but a wretched farce--it is worse than useless--it is
despicable," she said, with an accent that made him writhe like a
whipped cur.
"Will nothing move you?" he passionately cried.
"Nothing."
"By Heaven! then I will meet you blade to blade!" he cried, furiously,
and springing to his feet, his eyes blazing with passion. "If
entreaties will not move you--if neither bribes nor promises will
cause you to yield--we will try what lawful authority will do. I have
no intention of being made the laughing stock of the world, I assure
you; and, hereafter, I command that you conduct yourself in a manner
becoming the position which I have given you. In the first place,
then, to-morrow morning, you will breakfast in the dining-room with
the family--do you hear?"
Edith had stood calmly regarding him during this speech; but, wishing
him to go on, if he had anything further to say, she did not attempt
to reply as he paused after the above question.
"Immediately after breakfast," he resumed, with something less of
excitement, and not feeling very comfortable beneath her unwavering
glance, "we shall return to the city, and the following morning you
and I will start for St. Augustine, Florida--thence go to California
and later to Europe."
The young girl straightened herself to her full height, and she had
never seemed more lovely than at that moment.
"Monsieur Correlli," she said, in a voice that rang with an
irrevocable decision, "I shall never go to Florida with you, nor yet
to California, neither to Europe; I shall never appear anywhere with
you in public, neither will I ever break bread with you, at any table.
There, sir, you have my answer to your 'commands.' Now, let me pass."
Without waiting to see what effect her remarks might have upon him,
she pushed resolutely by him and went swiftly upstairs to her room.
The man gazed after her in undisguised astonishment.
"By St. Michael! the girl has a tremendous spirit in that slight frame
of hers. She has always seemed such a sweet little angel, too--no one
would have suspected it. However, there are more ways than one to
accomplish my purpose, and I flatter myself that I shall yet conquer
her."
With this comforting reflection, he sought his sister, to relate what
had occurred, and enlist her crafty talents in planning his next move
in the desperate game he was playing.
CHAPTER XX.
EDITH RESOLVES TO MEET HER ENEMIES WITH THEIR OWN WEAPONS.
The morning following her interview with Emil Correlli, when Edith
attempted to leave her room to go down to breakfast, she found, to her
dismay, that her door had been fastened on the outside.
An angry flush leaped to her brow.
"So they imagine they can make me bend to their will by making a
prisoner of me, do they?" she exclaimed, with flashing eyes and
scornful lips. "We shall see!"
But she was powerless just then to help herself, and so was obliged to
make the best of her situation for the present.
Presently some one knocked upon her door, and she heard a bolt
moved--it having been placed there during the night. Then Mrs. Goddard
appeared before her, smiling a gracious good-morning, and bearing a
tray, upon which there was a daintily arranged breakfast.
"We thought it best for you to eat here, since you do not feel like
coming down to the dining-room," she kindly remarked, as she set the
tray upon the table.
Edith opened her lips to make some scathing retort; but, a bright
thought suddenly flashing through her mind, she checked herself, and
replied, appreciatively:
"Thank you, Mrs. Goddard."
The woman turned a surprised look upon her, for she had expected only
tears and reproaches from her because of her imprisonment.
But Edith, without appearing to notice it, sat down and quietly
prepared to eat her breakfast.
"Ah! she is beginning to come around," thought the wily woman.
But, concealing her secret pleasure at this change in her victim, she
remarked, in her ordinary tone:
"We shall leave for the city very soon after breakfast, so please have
everything ready so as not to keep the horses standing in the cold."
"Everything is ready now," said Edith, glancing at her trunk, which
she had locked just before trying the door.
"That is well, and I will send for you when the carriage comes
around."
Edith simply bowed to show that she heard, and then her companion
retired, locking the door after her, but marveling at the girl's
apparent submission.
"There is no way to outwit rogues except with their own
weapons--cunning and deceit," murmured the fair prisoner, bitterly, as
she began to eat her breakfast. "I will be very wary and apparently
submissive until I have matured my plans, and then they may chew their
cud of defeat as long as it pleases them to do so."
After finishing her meal she dressed herself for the coming drive, but
wondered why Mrs. Weld had not been up to see her, for, of course, she
must know that something unusual had happened, or that she was ill
again, since she had not joined her at breakfast.
A little later she heard a stealthy step outside her door, and the
next moment an envelope was slipped beneath it into her room; then the
steps retreated, and all was still again.
Rising, Edith picked up the missive and opened it, when another sealed
envelope, addressed to her, in a beautiful, lady-like hand, and
postmarked Boston, was revealed, together with a brief note hastily
written with a pencil.
This latter proved to be from Mrs. Weld.
"Dear Child," it ran, "I have been requested not to go to
you this morning, as you are particularly engaged, which, of
course, I understand as a command to keep out of the way.
But I want you to know that I mean to stand by you, and
shall do all in my power to help you. I shall manage to see
or write to you again in a day or two. Meantime, don't lose
heart.
"Affectionately yours,
"GERTRUDE WELD.
"P.S.--The inclosed letter came for you in last night's
mail. I captured it for you."
With an eager light in her eyes, Edith opened it and read:
"Boston, Feb. --, 18--.
"MY DEAR MISS ALLEN:--I have learned of the wretched
deception that has been practiced upon you, and hasten to
write this to assure you that my previous offer of
friendship--when we met at the time of the accident to my
coachman--was not a mere matter of form. Again I say, if you
need a friend, come to me, and I will do my utmost to shield
you from those who have shown themselves your worst enemies,
and whom I know to be unworthy of the position which they
occupy in the social world. Come to me when you will, and I
promise to protect you from them. I cannot say more upon
paper.
"Sincerely yours,
ISABEL STEWART."
"How very kind, and yet how very strange!" murmured Edith, as she
refolded the letter. "I wonder who could have told her about that
wretched affair of Tuesday evening. I wonder, too, what she knows
about the Goddards, and if I had better accept her friendly offer."
She reflected upon the matter for a few minutes, and then continued:
"I think I will go to New York first, as I had planned, see what Mr.
Bryant can do for me, and ascertain the meaning of that strange
personal; then I think I will come back and ask her to take me as a
companion--for I do not believe that what I shall learn to my
financial advantage will amount to enough to preclude the necessity of
my doing something for my support. I suppose I ought to answer this
letter, though," she added, meditatively; "but I believe I shall not
dare to until I am safely away from Boston, for if my reply should
fall into the hands of any member of this family, my plans might be
frustrated."
She carefully concealed both notes about her person, and then sat down
to await orders to go below.
A little later Mrs. Goddard came to her and said they were about ready
to leave for the city, and requested her to go down into the hall.
Edith arose with apparent alacrity, and madam noticed with an
expression of satisfaction that her bearing was less aggressive than
when they had last met.
She followed Mrs. Goddard downstairs and seated herself in the hall to
await the signal for departure.
Presently Mr. Goddard came in from outdoors.
He started slightly upon seeing Edith, then paused and inquired kindly
if she was feeling quite well again.
Edith thanked him, and briefly remarked that she was, when he startled
her by stooping suddenly and whispering in her ear:
"Count upon me as your friend, my child; I promise you that I will do
all in my power to help you thwart your enemies."
He waited for no answer, but passed quickly on and entered the
library.
Edith was astonished, and while, for the moment, she was touched by
his unexpected offer of assistance, she at the same time distrusted
him.
"I will trust myself and my fate with no one but Royal Bryant," she
said to herself, a flush of excitement rising to her cheek.
A few minutes later the carriage was driven to the door--the snow
having become so soft they were obliged to return to the city on
wheels--when Mrs. Goddard came hurrying from the dining-room, where
she had been giving some last orders to the servants, and bidding
Edith follow her, passed out of the house and entered the carriage.
Edith was scarcely seated beside her when Emil Correlli made his
appearance and settled himself opposite her.
The young girl flushed, but, schooling herself to carry out the part
which she had determined to assume for the present, made no other sign
to betray how distasteful his presence was to her.
She could not, however, bring herself to join in any conversation,
except, once or twice, to respond to a direct question from madam,
although the young man tried several times to draw her out, until,
finally discouraged, he relapsed into a sullen and moody silence,
greatly to the disgust of his sister, who seemed nervously inclined to
talk.
Upon their arrival in town, Mrs. Goddard remarked to Edith:
"I have been obliged to take, for a servant, the room you used to
occupy, dear; consequently, you will have to go into the south chamber
for the present. Thomas," turning to a man and pointing to Edith's
trunk, "take this trunk directly up to the south chamber."
Edith's heart gave a startled bound at this unexpected change.
The "south chamber" was the handsomest sleeping apartment in the
house--the guest chamber, in fact--and she understood at once why it
had thus been assigned to her.
It was intended that she should pose and be treated in every respect
as became the wife of madam's brother, and thus the best room in the
house had been set apart for her use.
She knew that it would be both useless and unwise to make any
objections; the change had been determined upon, and doubtless her old
room was already occupied by a servant, to prevent the possibility of
her returning to it.
Thus, after the first glance of surprise at madam, she turned and
quietly followed the man who was taking up her trunk.
But, on entering the "south chamber," another surprise awaited her,
for the apartment had been fitted up with even greater luxury than
previous to their leaving for the country.
The man unstrapped her trunk and departed, when Edith looked around
her with a flushed and excited face.
A beautiful little rocker, of carved ivory, inlaid with gold, was
standing in the bay-window overlooking the avenue, and beside it there
was an exquisite work-stand to match.
An elegant writing-desk, of unique design, and furnished with
everything a lady of the daintiest tastes could desire, stood near
another sunny window. The inkstand, paper weight, and blotter were of
silver; the pen of gold, with a costly pearl handle.
There were several styles of paper and envelopes, and all stamped in
gilt with a monogram composed of the initials E. C., and there was a
tiny box of filigree silver filled with postage stamps.
It was an outfit to make glad the heart of almost any beauty-loving
girl; but Edith's eyes flashed with angry scorn the moment she caught
sight of the dainty monogram, wrought in gold, upon the paper and
envelopes.
On the dressing-case there was a full set of toilet and manicure
utensils, in solid silver, and also marked with the same initials;
besides these there were exquisite bottles of cut glass, with gold
stoppers filled with various kinds of perfumery.
Upon the bed there lay an elegant sealskin garment, which, at a
glance, Edith knew must have been cut to fit her figure, and beside it
there was a pretty muff and a Parisian hat that could not have cost
less than thirty dollars, while over the foot-board there hung three
or four beautiful dresses.
"Did they suppose that they could buy me over--tempt me to sell myself
for this gorgeous finery?" the indignant girl exclaimed, in a voice
that quivered with anger. "They must think me very weak-minded and
variable if they did."
But her curiosity was excited to see how far they had carried their
extravagant bribery; and, going back to the dressing-case, she drew
out the upper drawer.
Notwithstanding her indignation and scorn, she could not suppress a
cry of mingled astonishment and admiration at what she saw there, for
the receptacle contained the daintiest lingerie imaginable.
There were beautiful laces, handkerchiefs, and gloves, suitable for
every occasion; three or four fans of costly material and exquisite
workmanship; a pair of pearl-and-gold opera glasses.
More than this, and arranged so as to cunningly tempt the eye, there
were several cases of jewels--comprising pearls, diamonds, emeralds,
and rubies.
It was an array to tempt the most obdurate heart and fancy, and Edith
stood gazing upon the lovely things with admiring eyes while, after a
moment, a little sigh of regret accompanied her resolute act of
shutting the drawer and turning the key in its lock.
The second and third contained several suits of exquisite underwear of
finest material, and comprising everything that a lady could need or
desire in that line; in the fourth drawer there were boxes of silken
hose of various colors, together with lovely French boots and slippers
suitable for different costumes.
"What a pity to spend so much money for nothing," Edith murmured,
regretfully, when she had concluded her inspection. "It is very
evident that they look upon me as a silly, vacillating girl, who can
be easily managed and won over by pretty clothes and glittering
baubles. I suppose there are girls whose highest ambition in life is
to possess such things, and to lead an existence of luxury and
pleasure--who would doubtless sell themselves for them; but I should
hate and scorn myself for accepting anything of the kind from a man
whom I could neither respect nor love."
She gave utterance to a heavy sigh as she closed the drawer and turned
away from the dressing-case; not, however, because she longed to
possess the beautiful things she had seen, but in view of the
difficulties which might lie before her to hamper her movements in the
effort to escape from her enemies.
"I suppose I must remain here for a few hours at least," she
continued, an expression of anxiety flitting over her face, "and if I
expect to carry out my plans successfully I must begin by assuming a
submissive role."
She removed her hat and wraps, hanging them in a closet; then, going
to her trunk, she selected what few articles she would absolutely need
on her journey to New York, and some important papers--among them the
letters which her own mother had written--and after hastily making
them up into a neat package, returned them again to the trunk for
concealment, until she should be ready to leave the house.
This done, she sat down by a window to await and meet, with what
fortitude she could command, the next act in the drama of her life.
Not long after she heard a step in the hall, then there came a knock
on her door, and madam's voice called out:
"It is only I, Edith; may I come in?"
"Yes, come," unhesitatingly responded the girl, and Mrs. Goddard, her
face beaming with smiles and good nature, entered the room.
"How do you like your new quarters, dear?" she inquired, searching
Edith's fair face with eager eyes.
"Of course, everything is very beautiful," she returned, glancing
admiringly around the apartment.
"And are you pleased with the additions to the furnishings?--the
chair, the work-table, and writing-desk?"
"I have never seen anything more lovely," Edith replied, bending
forward as if to examine more closely the filigree stamp box on the
desk, but in reality to conceal the flush of scorn that leaped into
her eyes.
"I knew you would like them," said madam, with a little note of
triumph in her voice; "they are exquisite, and Emil is going to have
them carefully packed, and take them along for you to use wherever you
stop in your travels. And the cloak and dresses--aren't they perfectly
elegant? The jewels, too, and other things in the dressing-case; have
you seen them?"
"Yes, I have seen them all; but--but I am very sorry that so much
money should have been spent for me," Edith faltered, a hot flush,
which her companion interpreted as one of pleasure and gratified
vanity, suffusing her cheeks.
"Oh, the money is of no account, if you are only happy," Mrs. Goddard
lightly remarked. "And now," she went on eagerly, "I want you to dress
yourself just as nicely as you can, and be ready, when the bell rings,
to come down to lunch, as it becomes--my sister. Will you, dear?" she
concluded, coaxingly. "Do, Edith, be reasonable; let us bury the
hatchet, and all be on good terms."
"I--I do not think I can quite make up my mind to go down to lunch,"
Edith faltered, with averted face.
Madam frowned; she had begun to think her victory was won, and the
disappointment nettled her. But she controlled herself and remarked
pleasantly:
"Well, then, I will send up your lunch, if you will promise to come
down and dine with us, will you?"
Edith hesitated a moment; then, drawing a long breath, she remarked,
as if with bashful hesitancy:
"I think, perhaps--I will go down later--by and by."
"Now you are beginning to be sensible, dear," said madam, flashing a
covert look of exultation at her, "and Emil will be so happy. Put on
this silver-gray silk--it is so lovely, trimmed with white lace--and
the pearls; you will be charming in the costume. I am sorry I have to
go directly after lunch," she continued, regretfully, "but I have a
call to make, and shall not be back for a couple of hours; but Emil
will be here; so if you can find it in your heart to be a little kind
to him, just put on the gray silk--or anything else you may
prefer--and go down to him. May I tell him that you will?"
"I will not promise--at least until after you return," murmured Edith,
in a low voice.
Madam could have laughed in triumph, for she believed the victory was
hers.
"Well, perhaps you would feel a trifle shy about it," she said,
good-naturedly, "it would be pleasanter and easier for you, no doubt,
if I were here, so I will come for you when I get back. Good-by, till
then."
And with a satisfied little nod and smile, madam left her and went
downstairs to tell her brother that his munificence had won the day,
and he would have no further trouble with a fractious bride.
CHAPTER XXI.
A MYSTERIOUS STRANGER PAYS EDITH AN UNEXPECTED VISIT.
Edith listened until she heard madam descend the stairs, when she
sprang to her feet in a fever of excitement.
"Oh, how I hate myself for practicing even that much of deceit!" she
bitterly exclaimed; "to allow her to think for a moment that I have
been won over by those baubles. Although I told her no lie, I do
intend to go down by and by if I can see an opportunity to get out of
the house. But I did so long to stand boldly up and repudiate her
proposals and all these costly bribes. Dress myself in those things!"
she continued, with a scornful glance toward the bed; "make myself
look 'pretty and nice,' with the price of my self-respect, and then go
down to flaunt before the man who has grossly insulted me by assuming
that he could bribe me to submission! I would rather be clothed in
rags--the very sight of these things makes me sick at heart."
She turned resolutely from them, and, drawing the stiffest and hardest
chair in the room to a window, sat down with her back to the
allurements around her and gazed out upon the street.
She remained there until her lunch was sent up, when she ate enough to
barely satisfy her hunger, after which she went back to her post to
watch for the departure of Mrs. Goddard.
The house stood upon a corner, and thus faced upon two streets--the
avenue in front, and at the side a cross-street that led through to
Beacon street. Thus, Edith's room being upon the front of the
mansion, she had a wide outlook in two directions.
Not long after stationing herself at the window, she saw Mrs. Goddard
go out, and then she began to wonder how she could manage to make her
escape before her return.
She knew that she was only a prisoner in the house, in spite of the
fact that her door was not locked; that Emil Correlli had been left
below simply to act as her keeper; and, should she make the slightest
attempt to escape, he would immediately intercept her.
She could not get out of the house except by the front way, and to do
this she would have to pass down a long flight of stairs and by two or
three rooms, in any one of which Emil Correlli might be on the watch
in anticipation of this very proceeding.
There was a back stairway; but as this led directly up from the area
hall, the door at the bottom was always carefully kept locked--the key
hanging on a concealed nail for fear of burglars; and Edith, knowing
this, did not once think of attempting to go out that way.
While she sat by the window, trying to think of some way out of her
difficulties, her attention was attracted by the peculiar movements of
a woman on the opposite side of the street--it was the side street
leading through to Beacon.
She was of medium height, richly clad in a long seal garment, but
heavily veiled, and she was leading a little child, of two or three
years, by the hand.
But for her strange behavior, Edith would have simply thought her to
be some young mother, who was giving her little one an airing on that
pleasant winter afternoon. She appeared very anxious to shun
observation, dropping her head whenever any one passed her, and
sometimes turning abruptly around to avoid the gaze of the curious.
She never entirely passed the house, but walked back and forth again
and again from the corner to a point opposite the area door near the
rear of the dwelling, while she eagerly scanned every window, as if
seeking for a glimpse of some one whom she knew. Moreover, from time
to time, her eyes appeared to rest curiously upon Edith, whom she
could plainly perceive at her post above.
For nearly half an hour she kept this up; then, suddenly crossing the
street, disappeared within the area entrance to the house, greatly to
the surprise of our fair heroine.
"How very strange!" Edith remarked, in astonishment. "She is certainly
too richly clad to be the friend of any of the servants, and if she
desires to see Mrs. Goddard, why did she not go to the front entrance
and ring?"
While she was pondering the singular incident, she saw the gas-man
emerge from the same door, and pass down the street toward another
house; then her mind reverted again to her own precarious situation,
and she forgot about the intruder and her child below.
The house was very still--there was not even a servant moving about to
disturb the almost uncanny silence that reigned throughout it. It was
Thursday, and Edith knew that the housemaid and cook's assistant were
to have that afternoon out, which, doubtless, accounted in a measure
for the unusual quiet.
But this very fact she knew would only serve to make any movement on
her part all the more noticeable, and while she was wondering how she
should manage her escape before the return of Mrs. Goddard, a slight
noise behind her suddenly warned her of the presence of another in the
room.
She turned quickly, and a low cry of surprise broke from her as she
saw standing, just inside the door, the very woman whom, a few moments
before she had seen disappear within the area door of the house.
She was now holding her child in her arms and regarding Edith through
her veil with a look of fire and hatred that made the girl's flesh
creep with a sense of horror.
Putting the little one down on the floor, she braced herself against
the door and remarked, with a bitter sneer, but in a rich, musical
voice, and with a foreign accent:
"Without doubt I am in the presence of Madam Correlli."
Edith flushed crimson at her words.
"I--I do not understand you," she faltered, filled with surprise and
dismay at being thus addressed by the veiled stranger.
"I wish to see Madam Correlli," the woman remarked, in an impatient
and bitter tone. "I am sure I am not mistaken addressing you thus."
"Yes, you are mistaken--there is no such person," Edith boldly
replied, determined that she would never commit herself by responding
to that hated name.
"Are you not the girl whose name was Edith Allen?" demanded her
companion, sharply.
"My name is Edith Allen--"
She checked herself suddenly, for she had unwittingly come near
uttering the rest of it. She went a step or two nearer the woman,
trying to distinguish her features, which were so shadowed by the veil
she wore that she could not tell how she looked.
"Ah! so you will admit your identity, but you will not confess to the
name by which I have addressed you. Why?" demanded the unknown
visitor, with a sneer.
"Because I do not choose," said Edith, coldly. "Who are you, and why
have you forced yourself upon me thus?"
"And you will also deny this?" cried the stranger, in tones of
repressed passion, but ignoring the girl's questions, as she pulled a
paper from her pocket and thrust under her eyes a notice of the
marriage at Wyoming.
Edith grew pale at the sight of it, when the other, quick to observe
it, laughed softly but derisively.
"Ah, no; you cannot deny that you were married to Emil Correlli, only
the night before last, in the presence of many, many people," she
said, in a hoarse, passionate whisper. "Do you think you can deceive
me? Do you dare to lie to me?"
"I have no wish to deceive you. I would not knowingly utter a
falsehood to any one," Edith gravely returned. "I know, of course, to
what you refer; but"--throwing back her head with a defiant air--"I
will never answer to the name by which you have called me!"
"Ha! say you so! And why?" eagerly exclaimed her companion, regarding
her curiously. "Can you deny that you went to the altar with Emil
Correlli?" she continued, excitedly. "That a clergyman read the
marriage service over you?--that you were afterward introduced to many
people as his wife?--and that you are now living under the same roof
with him, surrounded by all this luxury"--sweeping her eyes around the
room--"for which he has paid?"
"No, I cannot deny it!" said Edith, with a weary sigh. "All that you
have read in that paper really happened; but--"
"Aha! Well, but what?" interposed the woman, with a malicious sneer
that instantly aroused all Edith's spirit.
"Pardon me," she said, drawing herself proudly erect and speaking with
offended dignity, "but I cannot understand what right you, an utter
stranger to me, have to intrude upon me thus. Who are you, madam, and
why have you forced yourself here to question me in such a dictatorial
manner?"
"Ha! ha! ha!" The mirthless laugh was scarcely audible, but it was
replete with a bitterness that made Edith shiver with a nameless
horror. "Who am I, indeed? Let me assure you that I am one who would
never take the stand that you have just taken; who would never refuse
to be known as the wife of Emil Correlli, or to be called by his name
if I could but have the right to such a position. Look at me!" she
commanded, tearing the veil from her face. "We have met before."
Edith beheld her, and was amazed, for it needed but a glance to show
her that she was the girl who had accosted Emil Correlli on the street
that afternoon when he had overtaken and walked home with her after
the singular accident and encounter with Mrs. Stewart.
"Aha! and so you know me," the girl went on--for she could not have
been a day older than Edith herself, Although there were lines of care
and suffering upon her brilliant face--seeking the look of recognition
in her eyes; "you remember how I confronted him that day when he was
walking with you."
"Yes, I remember; but--"
"But that does not tell you who--or what I am, would perhaps be the
better way of putting it," said the stranger, with bitter irony. "Look
here; perhaps this will tell you better than any other form of
introduction," she added, almost fiercely, as, with one hand, she
snatched the cap off her child's head and then turned his face toward
Edith.
The startled girl involuntarily uttered a cry of mingled surprise and
dismay, for, in face and form and bearing, she beheld--a miniature
Emil Correlli!
For a moment she was speechless, thrilled with greater loathing for
the man than she had ever before experienced, as a suspicion of the
truth flashed through her brain.
Then she lifted her astonished eyes to the woman, to find her
regarding her with a look of mingled curiosity, hatred, and triumph.
"The boy is--his child?" Edith murmured at last, in an inquiring tone.
A slow smile crept over the mother's face as she stood for a moment
looking at Edith--a smile of malice which betrayed that she gloried in
seeing that the girl at last understood her purpose in bringing the
little one there.
"Yes, you see--you understand," she said, at last; "any one would know
that Correlli is his father."
"And you--" Edith breathed, in a scarcely audible voice, while she
began to tremble with a secret hope.
"I am the child's mother--yes," the girl returned, with a look of
despair in her dusky orbs.
But she was not prepared for the light of eager joy that leaped into
Edith's eyes at this confession--the new life and hope that swept
over her face and animated her manner until she seemed almost
transformed, from the weary, spiritless appearing girl she had seemed
on her entrance, into a new creature.
"Then, of course, you are Emil Correlli's wife," she cried, in a glad
tone; "you have come to tell me this--to tell me that I am free from
the hateful tie which I supposed bound me to him? Oh, I thank you! I
thank you!"
"You thank me?"
"Yes, a thousand times."
"Ha! and you say the tie that binds you to him is hateful?" whispered
the strange woman, while she studied Edith's face with mingled wonder
and curiosity.
"More hateful than I can express," said Edith, with incisive
bitterness.
"And you do not--love him?"
"Love him? Oh, no!"
The tone was too replete with aversion to be doubted.
"Ah, it is I who do not understand now!" exclaimed Edith's visitor,
with a look of perplexity.
"Let me tell you," said the young girl, drawing nearer and speaking
rapidly. "I was Mrs. Goddard's companion, and quite happy and content
with my work until he--her villainous brother--came. Ah, perhaps I
shall wound you if I say more," she interposed, and breaking off
suddenly, as she saw her companion wince.
"No, no; go on," commanded her guest, imperatively.
"Well, Monsieur Correlli began to make love to me and to persecute me
with his attentions soon after he came here. He proposed marriage to
me some weeks ago, and I refused to listen to him--"
"You refused him!"
"Why, yes, certainly; I did not love him; I would not marry any one
whom I could not love," Edith replied, with a little scornful curl of
her lips at the astonished interruption, which had betrayed that her
guest thought no girl could be indifferent to the charms of the man
whom she so adored.
"He was offended," Edith resumed, "and insisted that he would not take
my refusal as final. When I finally convinced him that I meant what I
had said, he and his sister plotted together to accomplish their
object, and make me his wife by strategy. Madam planned a winter
frolic at her country residence; she wrote the play of which you have
an account in that paper; she chose her characters, and it was
rehearsed to perfection. At the last moment, on the evening of its
presentation before her friends, she removed the two principal
characters--telling me that they had been called home by a
telegram--and substituted her brother and me in their places. She did
not even tell me who was to take the gentleman's place--she simply
said a friend; it was all done so hurriedly there was no time,
apparently, for explanations. And then--oh! it is too horrible to
think of!" interposed Edith, bringing her hands together with a
despairing gesture, "she had that ordained minister come on the stage
and legally marry us. From beginning to end it was all a fraud!"
"Stop, girl! and swear that you are telling me the truth!" cried her
strange companion, as she stepped close to Edith's side, laid a
violent hand upon her arm, and searched her face with a look that must
have made her shrink and cower if she had been trying to deceive.
"Oh, I would give the world if it were not true!" Edith exclaimed,
with an earnestness that could not be doubted--"if the last scene in
that drama had never been enacted, or if I could have been warned in
time of the treachery of which I was being made the victim!"
"Suppose you had been warned!" demanded her guest, still clutching her
arm with painful force, "would you have dared refuse to do their
bidding?"
"Would I have dared refuse?" exclaimed Edith, drawing herself
haughtily erect. "No power on earth could have made me marry that
man."
"I don't know! I don't know! He is rich, handsome, talented," muttered
the other, regarding her suspiciously. "Will you swear that it was
fraud--that you did not know you were being married to him? Do not
try to lie to me," she went on, warningly. "I came here this afternoon
with a heart full of bitter hatred toward you; in my soul I believe I
was almost a murderess. But--if you also are the victim of a bad man's
perfidy, then we have a common cause."
"I have told you only the truth," responded Edith, gravely. "Monsieur
Correlli was utterly repulsive to me, and I never could have consented
to marry him, under any circumstances. I know he is considered
handsome--I know he is rich and talented; but all that would be no
temptation to me--I could never sell myself for fortune or position. I
am very sorry if you have been made unhappy because of me," she went
on gently; "but I have not willfully wronged you in any way. And if
you have come here to tell me that you are Monsieur Correlli's wife,
you have saved me from a fate I abhorred--and I shall be--I am free!
and I shall bless you as long as I live!"
CHAPTER XXII.
"I WILL RISE ABOVE MY SIN AND SHAME!"
Edith's strange visitor stood contemplating her with a look of mingled
perplexity and sadness.
It was evident that she could not understand how any one could be glad
to renounce a man like Emil Correlli, with the fortune and position
which he could give the woman of his choice.
The two made a striking tableau as they stood there facing each other,
with that beautiful child between them; for in style and coloring,
they were exactly the opposite of each other.
Edith, so fair and slight, with her delicate features and golden hair,
her great innocent blue eyes, graceful bearing, and cultivated manner,
which plainly betrayed that she had been reared in an atmosphere of
gentleness and refinement.
The other was of a far different type, yet, perhaps, not less striking
and beautiful in her way.
She was of medium height, with a full, voluptuous form, a complexion
of pale olive, with brilliantly scarlet lips, and eyes like "black
diamonds," and hair that had almost a purple tinge in its ebon masses;
her features, though far from being regular, were piquant, and when
she was speaking lighted into fascinating animation with every passing
emotion.
"I shall be free!" Edith murmured again with a long-drawn sigh of
relief, "for of course you will assert your claim upon him, and"--with
a glance at the child--"he will not dare to deny it."
"You are so anxious to be free? You would bless me for helping you to
be free?" repeated her companion, studying the girl's face earnestly,
questioningly.
"Ah, yes; I was almost in despair when you came in," Edith replied,
shivering, and with starting tears; "now I begin to hope that my life
has not been utterly ruined."
Her visitor flushed crimson, and her great black eyes flashed with
sudden anger.
"My curse be upon him for all the evil he has done!" she cried,
passionately. "Oh! how gladly would I break the bond that binds you to
him, but--I have not the power; I have no claim upon him."
Edith regarded her with astonishment.
"No claim upon him?" she repeated, with another glance at the little
one who was gazing from one to another with wondering eyes.
The mother's glance followed hers, and an expression of despair swept
over her face.
"Oh, Holy Virgin, pity me!" she moaned, a blush of shame mantling her
cheeks.
Then lifting her heavy eyes once more to Edith, she continued,
falteringly:
"The boy is his and--mine; but--I have no legal claim upon him--I am
no wife."
For a moment after this humiliating confession there was an unbroken
silence in that elegant room.
Then a hot wave of sympathetic color flashed up to Edith's brow, while
a look of tender, almost divine, compassion gleamed in her lovely
eyes.
For the time she forgot her own wretchedness in her sympathy for her
erring and more unfortunate sister--for the woman and the mother who
had been outraged beyond compare.
At length she raised her hand and laid it half-timidly, but with
exceeding kindness, upon her shoulder.
"I understand you now," she said, gently, "and I am very sorry."
The words were very simple and commonplace; but the tone, the look,
and the gesture that accompanied them spoke more than volumes, and
completely won the heart of the passionate and despairing creature
before her for all time.
They also proved too much for her self-possession, and, with a moan of
anguish, throwing herself upon her knees beside her child, she clasped
him convulsively in her arms and burst into a flood of weeping.
"Oh! my poor, innocent baby! to think that this curse must rest upon
you all your life--it breaks my heart!" she moaned, while she
passionately covered his head and face with kisses. "They tell me
there is a God," she went on, hoarsely, as she again struggled to her
feet, "but I do not believe it--no God of love would ever create
monsters like Emil Correlli, and allow them to deceive and ruin
innocent girls, blackening their pure souls and turning them to fiends
incarnate! Yes, I mean it," she panted, excitedly, as she caught
Edith's look of horror at her irreverent and reckless expressions.
"Listen!" she continued, eagerly. "Only three years ago I was a pure
and happy girl, living with my parents in my native land--fair,
beautiful, sunny Italy--"
"Italy?" breathlessly interposed Edith, as she suddenly remembered
that she also had been born in that far Southern clime. Then she grew
suddenly pale as she caught the eyes of the little one gazing
curiously into her face, and also remembered that "the curse" which
his mother had but a moment before so deplored, rested upon her as
well.
Involuntarily, she took his little hand, and lifting it to her lips,
imprinted a soft caress upon it, at which the child smiled, showing
his pretty white teeth, and murmured some fond musical term in
Italian.
"You are an angel not to hate us both," said his mother, a sudden
warmth in her tones, a gleam of gratitude in her dusky eyes. "But were
you ever in Italy?" she added, curiously.
"Yes, when I was a little child; but I do not remember anything about
it," said Edith, with a sigh. "Do not stand with the child in your
arms," she added, thoughtfully. "Come, sit here, and then you can go
on with what you were going to tell me."
And, with a little sense of malicious triumph, Edith pulled forward
the beautiful rocker of carved ivory, and saw the woman sink wearily
into it with a feeling of keen satisfaction. It seemed to her like the
irony of fate that it should be thus occupied for the first time.
She would have been only too glad to heap all the beautiful clothes,
jewels, and laces upon the woman also, but she felt that they did not
belong to her, and she had no right to do so. Taking her little one on
her knee, the young woman laid his head upon her breast, and swaying
gently back and forth, began her story.
"My father was an olive grower, and owned a large vineyard besides, in
the suburbs of Rome. He was a man of ample means, and took no little
pride in the pretty home which he was enabled to provide for his
family. My mother was a beautiful woman, somewhat above him socially,
although I never knew her to refer to the fact, and I was their only
child.
"Like many other fond parents who have but one upon whom to expend
their love and money, they thought I must be carefully reared and
educated--nothing was considered too good for me, and I had every
advantage which they could bestow. I was happy--I led an ideal life
until I was seventeen years of age. When carnival time came around,
we all went in to Rome to join in the festivities, and there I met my
fate, in the form of Emil Correlli."
"Ah! but I thought that he was a Frenchman!" interposed Edith, in
surprise.
"His father was a Frenchman, but his mother was born and reared in
Italy, where, in Rome, he studied under the great sculptor, Powers,"
her guest explained. Then she resumed: "We met just as we were both
entering the church of St. Peter's. He accidently jostled me; then, as
he turned to apologize, our eyes met, and from that moment my fate was
sealed. I cannot tell you all that followed, dear lady, it would take
too long; but, during the next three months it seemed to me as if I
were living in Paradise. Before half that time had passed, Emil had
confessed his love for me, and made an excuse to see me almost every
day. But my parents did not approve; they objected to his attentions;
his mother, they learned by some means, belonged to a noble family,
and 'lords and counts should not mate with peasants,' they said."
"Then I made the fatal mistake of disobeying them and meeting my lover
in secret. Ah, lady," she here interposed with a bitter sigh, "the
rest is but the old story of man's deception and a maiden's blind
confidence in him; and when, all too late, I discovered my error,
there seemed but one thing for me to do, and that was to flee with him
to America, whither he was coming to pursue his profession in a great
city."
"And--did he not offer to--to marry you before you came?" queried
Edith, aghast.
"No; he pretended that he dared not--he was so well-known in Rome that
the secret would be sure to be discovered, he said, and then my father
would separate us forever; but he promised that when we arrived in New
York, he would make everything all right; therefore, I, still blindly
trusting him, let him lead me whither he would.
"I was very ill during the passage, and for weeks following our
arrival, and so the time slipped rapidly by without the consummation
of my hopes, and though he gave me a pleasant home and everything
that I wished for in the house where we lived, even allowing it to
appear that I was his wife, we had not been here long before I saw
that he was beginning to tire of me. I did everything I could to keep
his love, I studied tirelessly to master the language of the country,
and kept myself posted upon art and subjects which interested him
most, in order to make myself companionable to him. Time after time I
entreated him to fight the wrong he was doing me and another, who
would soon come either into the shelter of his fatherhood or to
inherit the stigma of a dishonored mother; but he always had some
excuse with which to put me off. At last this little one came"--she
said, folding the child more closely in her arms--"and I had something
pure and sweet to love, even though I was heart-broken over knowing
that a blight must always rest upon his life, and something to occupy
the weary hours which, at times, hung so heavily upon my hands. After
that Emil seemed to become more and more indifferent to me--there
would be weeks at a time that I would not see him at all; I used
sometimes to think that the boy was a reproach to him, and he could
not bear the stings of his own conscience in his presence."
"Ah," interposed Edith, with a scornful curl of her red lips, "such
men have no conscience; they live only to gratify their selfish
impulses."
"Perhaps; while those they wrong live on and on, with a never-dying
worm gnawing at their vitals," returned her companion, repressing a
sob.
"At last," she resumed, "I began to grow jealous of him, and to spy
upon his movements. I discovered that he went a great deal to one of
the up-town hotels, and I sometimes saw him go out with a handsome
woman, whom I afterward learned was his sister--the Mrs. Goddard, who
lives here, and who visits New York several times every year. I did
not mind so much when I discovered the relationship between them,
although I suffered many a bitter pang to see how fond they were of
each other, while I was starving for some expression of his love.
"This went on for nearly two years; then about two months ago, Emil
disappeared from New York, without saying anything to me of his
intentions, although he left plenty of money deposited to my account.
He was always generous in that way, and insisted that Ino must have
everything he wished or needed--I am sure he is fond of the child, in
spite of everything. By perseverance and ceaseless inquiry, I finally
learned that he had come to Boston, and I immediately followed him. I
am suspicious and jealous by nature, like all my people, and that day,
when I saw him walking with you, and looking at you just as he used to
look at me in those old delicious days in Italy, all the passion of my
nature was aroused to arms. Braving everything, I rushed over to him
and denounced him for his treachery to me, also accusing him of making
love to you."
"And did it seem to you that I was receiving his attentions with
pleasure?" questioned Edith, with a repugnant shrug of her shoulders.
"I assure you he had forced his company upon me, and I only endured it
to save making a scene in the street."
"I did not stop to reason about your appearance," said the woman; "at
least not further than to realize that you were very lovely, and just
the style of beauty to attract Emil; but he swore to me that you were
only the companion of his sister, and he had only met you on the
street by accident--that you were nothing to him. He asked me to tell
him where he could find me, and promised that he would come to me
later. He kept his word, and has visited me every few days ever since,
treating me more kindly than for a long time, but insisting that I
must keep entirely out of the way of his sister. And so it came upon
me like a deadly blow when I read that account of his marriage in
yesterday's paper. I was wrought up to a perfect frenzy, especially
when I came to the statement that Monsieur and Madam Correlli would
return immediately to Boston, but leave soon after for a trip South
and West, and ultimately sail for Europe. That was more than outraged
nature could bear, and I vowed that I would wreak a swift and sure
revenge upon you both, and so, for two days, I have haunted this
house, seeking for an opportunity to gain an entrance unobserved. I
saw you sitting at the window--I recognized you instantly. I believed,
of course, that you were a willing bride, and imagined that if I could
get in I should find you both in this room. While I watched my chance,
one of the servants came to the area door to let in the gas-man, and
carelessly left it ajar, while she went back with him into one of the
rooms. In a moment I was in the lower hall, looking for a back
stairway; if any one had found me I was going to beg a drink of water
for my child. There was a door there, but it was locked; but
desperation makes one keen, and I was not long in finding a key
hanging up on a nail beneath a window-sill. The next instant the door
was unlocked, and I on my way upstairs--"
"And the key! oh! what did you do with the key?" breathlessly
interposed Edith, grasping at this unexpected chance to escape.
"I have it here, lady," said her companion, as she produced it. "I
thought it might be convenient for me to go out the same way, so took
possession of it."
"Ah, then the door to the back stairway is still unlocked?" breathed
Edith, with trembling lips.
"Yes; I did not stop to lock it after me; I hurried straight up here,
but--expecting to have a very different interview from what I have
had," responded the woman, with a heavy sigh. "Now, lady, you have my
story," she continued, after a moment of silence, "you can see that I
have been deeply wronged, and though from a moral standpoint, I have
every claim upon Emil Correlli, yet legally, I have none whatever;
and, unless you can prove some flaw in that ceremony of night before
last--prove that he fraudulently tricked you into a marriage with him,
you are irrevocably bound to him."
Edith shivered with pain and abhorrence at these last words, but she
did not respond to them in any way.
"I came here with hatred in my heart toward you," the other went on,
"but I shall go away blessing you for your kindness to me; for,
instead of shrinking from me, as one defiled and too depraved to be
tolerated, you have held out the hand of sympathy to me and listened
patiently and pityingly to the story of my wrongs."
As she concluded, she dropped her face upon the head of her child with
a weary, disheartened air that touched Edith deeply.
"Will you tell me your name?" she questioned, gently, after a moment
or two of silence. "Pardon me," she added, flushing, as her companion
looked up sharply, "I am not curious, but I do not know how to address
you."
"Giulia Fiorini. Holy Mother forgive me the shame I have brought upon
it!" she returned, with a sob. "I have called him"--laying her
trembling hand upon the soft, silky curls of her child--"Ino Emil."
"Thank you," said Edith, "and for your confidence in me as well. You
have been greatly wronged; and if there is any justice or humanity in
law, this tie, which so fetters me, shall be annulled; then,
perchance, Monsieur Correlli may be persuaded to do what is right
toward you.
"No, lady, I have no hope of that," said Giulia, dejectedly, "for when
a man begins to tire of the woman whom he has injured he also begins
to despise her, and to consider himself ill-used because she even
dares to exist."
"Perhaps you would wish to repudiate him," suggested Edith, who felt
that such would be her attitude toward any man who had so wronged her.
"Oh, no; much as I have suffered, I still love Emil, and would gladly
serve him for the remainder of my life, if he would but honor me with
his name; but I know him too well ever to hope for that--I know that
he is utterly selfish and would mercilessly set his heel upon me if I
should attempt to stand in the way of his purposes. There is nothing
left for me but to go back to my own country, confess my sin to my
parents, and hide myself from the world until I die."
"Ah! but you forget that you have your child to rear and educate, his
mind and life to mold, and--try to make him a better man than his
father," said Edith, with a tender earnestness, which instantly melted
the injured girl to tears.
"Oh, that you should have thought of that, when I, his mother, forget
my duty to him, and think only of my own unhappiness!" sobbed the
conscience-stricken girl, as she hugged the wondering child closer to
her breast. "Yesterday I told myself that I would send Ino to him, and
then end my misery forever."
"Don't!" exclaimed Edith, sharply, her face almost convulsed with
pain. "Your life belongs to God, and--this baby. Live above your
trouble, Giulia; never let your darling have the pain and shame of
learning that his mother was a suicide. If you have made one mistake,
do not imagine that you can expiate it by committing another a
hundred-fold worse. Ah! think what comfort there would be in rearing
your boy to a noble manhood, and then hear him say, 'What I am my
mother has made me!'"
She had spoken earnestly, appealingly, and when she ceased, the
unhappy woman seized her hand and covered it with kisses.
"Oh, you have saved me!" she sobbed; "you have poured oil into my
wounds. I will do as you say--I will rise above my sin and shame; and
if Ino lives to be an honor to himself and the world, I shall tell him
of the angel who saved us both. I am very sorry for you," she added,
looking, regretfully, up at Edith; "I could almost lay down my life
for you now; but--Correlli is rich--very rich, and you may, perhaps,
be able to get some comfort out of life by--"
Edith started to her feet, her face crimson.
"What?" she cried, scornfully, "do you suppose that I could ever take
pleasure in spending even one dollar of his money? Look there!"
pointing to the elegant apparel upon the bed. "I found all those
awaiting me when I came here to-day. In the dressing-case yonder there
are laces, jewels, and fine raiment of every description, but I would
go in rags before I would make use of a single article. I loathe the
sight of them," she added, shuddering. "I should feel degraded,
indeed, could I experience one moment of pleasure arrayed in them."
Suddenly she started, and looked at her watch, a wild hope animating
her.
It was exactly quarter past two.
A train left for New York, via the Boston & Albany Railroad, at three
o'clock.
If she could reach the Columbus avenue station, which was less than
fifteen minutes' walk from Commonwealth avenue, without being missed,
she would be in New York by nine o'clock, and safe, for a time at
least, from the man she both hated and feared.
CHAPTER XXIII.
A SURPRISE AT THE GRAND CENTRAL STATION.
"Will you help me?" Edith eagerly inquired, turning to her companion,
who had regarded her wonderingly while she repudiated the costly gifts
which Emil Correlli had showered upon her.
"How can I help you, lady?" Giulia inquired, with a look of surprise.
"Call me Edith--I am only a poor, friendless girl, like yourself," she
gently returned. "But I want to go away from this house immediately--I
must get out of it unobserved; then I can catch a train that leaves
Boston at three o'clock, for New York."
"Ah! you wish to run away from Emil!" exclaimed Giulia, her face
lighting with eagerness.
"Yes--I would never own myself his wife for a single hour. I was
planning, when you came in, to get away to-night when the house was
quiet; but doubtless they would lock my door if I continued to be
obstinate, and it would be a great deal better for me, every way, if I
could go now," Edith explained.
"Yes, I will help you--I will do anything you wish," said Giulia,
heartily.
"Then come!" exclaimed Edith, excitedly, "I want you to go down to
him; he is in one of the rooms below--in the library, I think--a room
under the one opposite this. He will be so astonished by your
unexpected visit that he will be thrown off his guard, and you must
manage to occupy his attention until you are sure I am well out of the
house--which will be in less than ten minutes after you are in his
presence--and then I shall have nothing more to fear from him."
"I will do it," said the Italian girl, rising, a look of resolve on
her handsome but care-lined face.
"Thank you! thank you!" returned Edith, earnestly. "I am going
straight to New York, to friends; but of course, you will not betray
my plans."
"No, indeed; but do you think your friends can help you break with
Emil--do you believe that ceremony can be canceled?" breathlessly
inquired Giulia.
"I hope so," Edith gravely answered; "at all events, if I can but once
put myself under the protection of my friends, I shall no longer fear
him. I shall then try to have the marriage annulled. Perhaps, when he
realizes how determined I am, he may even be willing to submit to it."
"Oh, do you think so?--do you think so?" cried Giulia, tremulously,
and with hopeful eagerness.
"I will hope so," replied Edith, gravely, "and I will also hope that I
may be able to do something to make you and this dear child happy once
more. What a sweet little fellow he is!" she concluded, as she leaned
forward and kissed him softly on the cheek, an act which brought the
quick tears to his mother's eyes.
Again she seized the girl's delicate hand and carried it to her lips.
"Ah, to think! An hour ago I hated you!--now I worship you!" she
cried, in an impassioned tone, a sob bursting from her trembling lips.
"You must go," said Edith, advancing to the door, and softly opening
it. "I have no time to lose if I am to catch my train. Remember, the
room under the one opposite this--you will easily find it. Now
good-by, and Heaven bless you both."
With a look of deepest gratitude and veneration, Giulia Fiorini, her
child clasped in her arms, passed out of the room and moved swiftly
toward the grand staircase leading to the lower part of the house;
while Edith, closing and locking the door after her, stood listening
until she should reach the library, where she was sure Emil Correlli
sat reading.
She heard the sweep of the girl's robes upon the stairs; then, a
moment later, a stifled exclamation of mingled surprise and anger fell
upon her ears, after which the library door was hastily shut, and
Edith began to breathe more freely.
She hastened to put on her jacket, preparatory to leaving the house.
But an instant afterward her heart leaped into her throat, as she
caught the sound of the hurried opening and shutting of the library
door again.
Then there came swift steps over the stairs.
Edith knew that Emil Correlli was coming to ascertain if she were safe
within her room; that he feared if Giulia had succeeded in gaining an
entrance there, without being discovered, she might possibly have
escaped in the same way.
She moved noiselessly across the room toward the dressing-case and
opened a drawer, just as there came a knock on her door.
"Is that you, Mrs. Goddard?" Edith questioned, in her usual tone of
voice, though her heart was beating with great, frightened throbs.
"No; it is I," responded Emil Correlli. "I wish to speak with you a
moment, Edith."
"You must excuse me just now, Mr. Correlli," the girl replied, as she
rattled the stopper to one of the perfumery bottles on the
dressing-case; "I am dressing, and cannot see any one just at
present."
"Oh!" returned the voice from without, in a modified tone, as if the
man were intensely relieved by her reply. "I beg your pardon; but when
can I see you--how long will it take you to finish dressing?"
Edith glanced at the clock, and a little smile of triumph curled her
lips, for she saw that the hands pointed to half-past two.
"Not more than fifteen or twenty minutes, perhaps," she returned.
"Ah, you are relenting!" said the man, eagerly. "You will come down by
and by--you will dine with us this evening, Edith?" he concluded, in
an appealing tone.
There was again a moment of hesitation on Edith's part, as if she were
debating the question with herself; but if he could have seen her
eyes, he would have been appalled by the look of fire and loathing
that blazed in them.
"Mr. Correlli," she said at last, in a tone which he interpreted as
one of timid concession, "I--I wish to do what is right and--I think
perhaps I will come down as soon as I finish dressing."
His face lighted and flushed with triumph.
He believed that she was yielding--won over by the munificent gifts
with which he had crowded her room.
"Ah! thank you! thank you!" he responded, with delight. "But take your
own time, dear, and make yourself just as beautiful as possible, and I
will come up for you in the course of half an hour."
He flattered himself that he would be well rid of Giulia by that time;
and having assured himself that Edith was safe in her room, and, as he
believed, gradually submitting to his terms, he retraced his steps
downstairs, the cruel lines about his mouth hardening as he went, for
he had resolved to cast off forever the girl who had become nothing
but a burden and an annoyance to him.
Edith did not move until she heard him enter the library again and
close the door after him.
Then, hurriedly buttoning her jacket and pinning on her hat, she took
from her trunk the package which she had made up an hour before, stole
softly from her room and down the back stairs to the area hall.
The outer door was closed and bolted--the gas-man having long since
finished his errand and departed--and she could hear the cook and one
of the maids conversing in the kitchen just across the hall.
Evidently no one had attempted to go upstairs since Giulia's entrance,
consequently the key had not yet been missed nor the door discovered
to be unlocked.
Cautiously slipping the bolt to the street door, Edith quickly passed
out, closing it noiselessly after her.
Another moment she was in the street, speeding with swift, light steps
across the park.
Then, bending her course through Dartmouth street, she came to a
narrow, crooked way called Buckingham street, which led her directly
out upon Columbus avenue, when, turning to the left, she soon came to
the station known by the same name.
Here she had ten minutes to wait, after purchasing her ticket, and the
uneasiness with which she watched the slowly moving hands upon the
clock in the gloomy waiting-room may be imagined.
Her waiting was over at last, and, exactly on time, the train came
thundering to the station.
Edith quickly boarded it, then sank weak and trembling upon the
nearest empty seat, her heart beating so rapidly that she panted with
every breath.
Then the train began to move, and, with a prayer of thankfulness over
her escape, the excited girl leaned back against the cushion and gave
herself up to rest, knowing that she could not now be overtaken before
arriving in New York.
This feeling of security did not last long, however, and she was
filled with dismay as she thought that Emil Correlli would doubtless
discover her flight in the course of half an hour, if he had not
already done so, when he would probably surmise that she would go
immediately to New York and so telegraph to have her arrested upon her
arrival there.
This was a difficulty which she had not foreseen.
What should she do?--how could she circumvent him? how protect herself
and defy his authority over her?
A bright idea flashed into her mind.
She would telegraph to Royal Bryant at the first stop made by the
train, ask him to meet her upon her arrival, and thus secure his
protection against any plot that Emil Correlli might lay for her.
The first stopping-place she knew was Framingham, a small town about
twenty miles from Boston.
The first time the conductor came through the car she asked him for a
Western Union slip, when she wrote the following message and addressed
it to Royal Bryant's office on Broadway:
"Shall arrive at Grand Central Station, via. B. & A. R. R.,
at nine o'clock. Do not fail to meet me. Important.
"EDITH ALLANDALE."
When the conductor came back again, she gave this to him, with the
necessary money, and asked if he would kindly forward it from
Framingham for her.
He cheerfully promised to do so. Then, feeling greatly relieved, Edith
settled herself contentedly for a nap, for she was very weary and
heavy-eyed from the long strain upon her nerves and lack of sleep.
She did not wake for more than three hours, when she found that
daylight had faded, and that the lamps had been lighted in the car.
At New Haven she obtained a light lunch from a boy who was crying his
viands through the train, and when her hunger was satisfied she
straightened her hat and drew on her gloves, knowing that another two
hours would bring her to her destination.
Then she began to speculate upon possible and impossible things, and
to grow very anxious regarding her safety upon her arrival in New
York.
Perhaps Royal Bryant had not received her message.
He might have left his office before it arrived; maybe the officials
at Framingham had even neglected to send it; or Mr. Bryant might have
been out of town.
What could she do if, upon alighting from the train, some burly
policeman should step up to her and claim her as his prisoner?
She had thus worked herself up to a very nervous and excited state by
the time the lights of the great metropolis could be seen in the
distance; her face grew flushed and feverish, her eyes were like two
points of light, her temples throbbed, her pulses leaped, and her
heart beat with great, frightened throbs.
The train had to make a short stop where one road crossed another just
before entering the city, and the poor girl actually grew faint and
dizzy with the fear that an officer might perhaps board the train at
that point.
Almost as the thought flashed through her brain, the car door opened
and a man entered, when a thrill of pain went quivering through every
nerve, prickling to her very finger-tips.
A second glance showed her that it was a familiar form, and she almost
cried out with joy as she recognized Royal Bryant and realized that
she was--safe!
He saw her immediately and went directly to her, his gleaming eyes
telling a story from his heart which instantly sent the rich color to
her brow.
"Miss Allandale!" he exclaimed, in a low, eager tone, as he clasped
her outstretched hand. "I am more than glad to see you once again."
"Then you received my telegram," she said, with a sigh of relief.
"Yes, else I should not be here," he smilingly returned; "but I came
very near missing it. I was just on the point of leaving the office
when the messenger-boy brought it in. I suppose our advertisement is
to be thanked for your appearance in New York thus opportunely."
"Not wholly," Edith returned, with some embarrassment. "If it had been
that alone which called me here, I need not have telegraphed you. I
saw it only yesterday; but my chief reason for coming hither is that I
am a fugitive."
"A fugitive!" repeated her companion, in surprise. "Ah, yes, I
wondered a little over that word 'important' in your message. It
strikes me," he added, smiling significantly down upon her, "that you
left New York in very much the same manner." "Yes," she faltered,
flushing rosily.
"From whom and what were you fleeing, Edith? Surely not from one who
would have been only too glad to shield you from every ill?" said the
young man, in a tenderly reproachful tone, the import of which there
was no mistaking.
She shot one swift glance into his face and saw that his eyes were
luminous with the great love that was throbbing in his manly heart,
and with an inward start of exceeding joy she dropped her lids again,
but not before he had read in the look and the tell-tale flush that
flooded cheek, brow, and neck, that his affection was returned.
"I will forgive you, dear, if you will be kind to me in the future,"
he whispered, taking courage from her sweet shyness and bashfulness.
"And now tell me why you are a fugitive from Boston, for your telegram
was dated from that city."
Thus recalled to herself, and a realization of her cruel situation,
Edith shivered, and a deadly paleness banished the rosy blushes from
her cheeks.
"I will," she murmured, "I will tell you all about the dreadful things
that have happened to me; but not here," she added, with an anxious
glance around. "Will you take me to some place where I shall be safe?"
she continued, appealingly. "I have no place to go unless it is to
some hotel, and I shrink from a public house."
"My child, why are you trembling so?" the young man inquired, as he
saw she was shaking from head to foot. "I am very glad," he added,
"that I was inspired to board the train at the crossing, and thus can
give you my protection in the confusion of your arrival."
"I am glad, too; it was very thoughtful of you," said Edith,
appreciatively; "but--but I am also going to need your help again in a
legal way."
He started slightly at this; but replied, cheerfully:
"You shall have it; I am ready to throw myself heart and hand between
you and any trouble of whatever nature. Now about a safe place for you
to stay while you are in the city. I have a married cousin who lives
on West Fortieth street; we are the best of friends and she will
gladly entertain you at my request, until you can make other
arrangements."
"But to intrude upon an entire stranger--" began Edith, looking
greatly disturbed.
"Nellie will not seem like a stranger to you, two minutes after you
have been introduced to her," the young man smilingly returned. "She
is the dearest, sweetest little cousin a man ever had, and she has an
equal admiration for your humble servant. She will thank me for
bringing you to her, and I am sure that you will be happy with her.
But why do you start so?--why are you so nervous?" he concluded, as
she sprang from her seat, when the train stopped, and looked wildly
about her.
"I am afraid," she gasped.
"Afraid of what?" he urged, with gentle persistence.
"Of a man who has been persecuting me," she panted, the look of
anxious fear still in her eyes. "I ran away from him to-day, and I
have been afraid, all the way to New York, that he would telegraph
ahead of the train, and have me stopped--that was why I sent the
message to you."
"I am very glad you did," said the young man, gravely. "But, Edith,
pray do not look so terrified; you are sure to attract attention with
that expression on your face. Calm yourself and trust me," he
concluded, as he took her hand and laid it upon his arm.
"I do--I will," she said; but her fingers closed over his with a
spasmodic clasp which told him how thoroughly wrought up she was.
"Have you a trunk?" he inquired, as they moved toward the door, the
train having now entered the Grand Central Station.
"No; I left everything but a few necessary articles--I can send for it
later by express," she responded.
The young man assisted her from the train, then replacing her hand
upon his arm, was about to signal for a carriage when they were
suddenly confronted by a policeman and brought to a halt in the most
summary manner.
"Sorry to trouble you, sir," said the man, speaking in a business-like
tone to Mr. Bryant, "but I have orders to take this lady into
custody."
CHAPTER XXIV.
A SAD STORY DISCLOSED TO AN EAGER LISTENER.
Royal Bryant was not very much surprised by this abrupt information
and interference with their movements.
What Edith had said to him, just before getting out of the train, had
suggested the possibility of such an incident, consequently he was not
thrown off his guard, as he might otherwise have been.
At the same time he flushed up hotly, and, confronting the officer
with flashing eyes, remarked, with freezing hauteur:
"I do not understand you, sir. I think you have made a mistake; this
lady is under my protection."
"But I have orders to intercept a person answering to this lady's
description," returned the policeman, but speaking with not quite his
previous assurance.
"By whose orders are you acting, if I may inquire?" demanded the young
man.
"A Boston party."
"And the lady's name, if you please?"
"No name is given, sir; but she is described as a girl of about
twenty, pure blonde, very pretty, slight and graceful in figure,
wearing a dark-brown dress and jacket and a brown hat with black
feathers. She will be alone and has no baggage," said the policeman,
reading from the telegram which he had received some two hours
previous.
Mr. Bryant smiled loftily.
"Your description hits the case in some respects, I admit," he
observed, with an appreciative glance at Edith, who stood beside him
outwardly calm and collected, though the hand that rested upon his arm
was tense with repressed emotion, "but in others it is wide of its
mark. You have her personal appearance, in a general way, and the
dress happens to correspond in everything but the hat. You will
observe that the lady wears a black hat with a scarlet wing instead of
a brown one with black feathers. She did not arrive alone, either, as
you perceive, we got off the train together."
The officer looked perplexed.
"What may your name be, sir, if you please?" he inquired, with more
civility than he had yet shown.
"Royal Bryant, of the firm of Bryant & Co., Attorneys. Here is my
card, and you can find me at my office between the hours of nine and
four any day you may wish," the young man frankly returned, as he
slipped the bit of pasteboard into the man's hand.
"And will you swear that you are not aiding and abetting this young
lady in trying to escape the legal authority of friends in Boston?"
questioned the policeman, as he sharply scanned the faces before him.
"Ahem! I was not aware that I was being examined under oath,"
responded the young lawyer, with quiet irony. "However, I am willing
to give you my word of honor, as a gentleman, that this lady is
accountable to no one in Boston for her movements."
"Well, I reckon I have made a mistake; but where in thunder, then, is
the girl I'm after?" muttered the officer, with an anxious air.
"Does your telegram authorize you to arrest a runaway from Boston?"
Mr. Bryant inquired, with every appearance of innocence.
"Yes, a girl from the smart set, who don't want any scandal over the
matter," replied the man, referring again to the yellow slip in his
hand.
"But she may not have come by the Boston and Albany line," objected
Mr. Bryant. "There are several trains that leave the city from
different stations about the same time; you may find your bird on a
later train, Mr. Officer," he concluded, in a reassuring tone.
"That is so," was the thoughtful response.
"Then I suppose you will not care to detain us any longer," Mr. Bryant
courteously remarked. "Come, Edith," he added, turning with a smile to
his companion, and then he started to move on.
"Hold on! I'm blamed if I don't think I'm right after all," said the
policeman, in a tone of conviction, as he again placed himself in
their path.
Royal Bryant flashed a look of fire at him.
"Have you a warrant for the lady's arrest?" he sternly demanded.
"No; I am simply ordered to detain her until her friends can come on
and take charge of her," the man reluctantly admitted, while he heaved
a sigh for the fat plum that had been promised him in the event of his
"bagging his game."
"Then, if you are not legally authorized in this matter, I would
advise you, as a friend, to make no mistake," gravely returned the
young lawyer. "You might heap up wrath for yourself; while, if your
patrons are anxious to avoid a scandal, you are taking the surest way
to create one by interfering with the movements of myself and my
companion. This young lady is my friend, and, as I have already told
you, under my protection; as her attorney, also, I shall stand no
nonsense, I assure you."
"Beg pardon, sir; but I'm only trying to obey orders," apologized the
official. "But would you have the goodness to tell me this young
lady's name."
At any other time and under any other circumstances Mr. Bryant would
have resented this inquiry as an impertinence; but it occurred to him
that an appearance of frankness and compliance might save them further
inconvenience.
"Certainly," he responded, with the utmost cheerfulness, "this lady's
name is Miss Edith Allandale and she is the daughter of the late
Albert Allandale, of Allandale & Capen, bankers."
"It is all right, sir," said the officer, at last convinced that he
had made a mistake, for Allandale & Capen had been a well-known firm
to him. "You can go on," he added, touching his hat respectfully,
"and I beg pardon for troubling you."
Without more ado he turned away, while Edith and her escort passed on,
but the frightened girl was now trembling in every limb.
"Calm yourself, dear," whispered her companion, involuntarily using
the affectionate term, as he hastened to lead her into the fresh air.
"You are safe, and I will soon have you in a place where your enemies
will never think of looking for you."
He beckoned to the driver of a carriage as he spoke, and in another
minute was assisting Edith into it; then, taking a seat beside her, he
gave the man his order, and as the vehicle moved away in the darkness,
the poor girl began to breathe freely for the first time since
alighting from the train.
Mr. Bryant gave her a little time to recover herself, and then asked
her to tell him all her trouble.
This she was only too glad to do; and, beginning with the death of her
mother, she poured out the whole story of the last three months to
him, dwelling mostly, however, upon the persecutions of Emil Correlli
and the climax to which they had recently attained.
He listened attentively throughout, but interrupting her, now and
then, to ask a pertinent question as it occurred to him.
"I was in despair," Edith finally remarked in conclusion, "until
yesterday, when, by the merest chance, my eye fell upon that
advertisement of yours and it flashed upon me that the best course for
me to pursue would be to come directly to New York and seek your aid;
I felt sure you would be as willing to help me as upon a previous
occasion."
"Certainly I would--you judged me rightly," the young man responded,
"but"--bending nearer to her and speaking in a slightly reproachful
tone--"tell me, please, what was your object in leaving New York so
unceremoniously?"
He felt the slight shock which went quivering through her at the
question, and smiled to himself at her hesitation before she replied:
"I--I thought it was best," she faltered at last.
"Why for the 'best'?--for you or for me? Tell me, please," he pleaded,
gently.
"For--both," she replied in a scarcely audible tone that thrilled him
and made his face gleam with sudden tenderness.
"I--you will pardon me if I speak plainly--I thought it very strange,"
he remarked gravely. "It almost seemed to me as if you were fleeing
from me, for I fully expected that you would return to the office on
Thursday morning, as I had appointed. Had I done anything to offend
you or drive you away--Edith?"
"No--oh, no," she quickly returned.
"I am very glad to know that," said her companion, a slight
tremulousness in his tones, "for I have feared that I might have
betrayed my feelings in a way to wound or annoy you; for, Edith--I can
no longer keep the secret--I had learned to love you with all my heart
during that week that you spent in my office, and I resolved, on
parting with you at the carriage, the morning of your release, to
confess the fact to you as soon as you returned to the office, ask you
to be my wife and thus let me stand between you and the world for all
time. Nay,"--as Edith here made a little gesture as if to check
him--"I must make a full confession now, while I have the opportunity.
I was almost in despair when I received your brief note telling me
that you had left the city and without giving me the slightest clew to
your destination. All my plans, all my fond anticipations, were dashed
to the earth, dear. I loved you so I felt that I could not bear the
separation. I love you still, my darling--my heart leaped for joy this
afternoon when I received your telegram. And now, while I have you
here all to myself, I have dared to tell you of it, and beg you to
tell me if there is any hope for me? Can you love me in return!--will
you be my wife--?"
"Oh, hush! you forget the wretched tie that binds me to that villain
in Boston," cried Edith, and there was such keen pain in her voice
that tears involuntarily started to her companion's eyes, while at
the same time both words and tone thrilled him with sweetest hope.
"No tie binds you to him, dear," he whispered, tenderly. "Do you think
I would have opened my heart to you thus if I had really believed you
to be the wife of another?"
"Oh, do you mean that the marriage was not legal? Oh, if I could
believe that!" Edith exclaimed, with a note of such eager hope in her
tones that it almost amounted to the confession her lover had
solicited from her.
But he yearned to hear it in so many words from her lips.
"Tell me, Edith, if I can prove it to you, will there be hope for me?"
he whispered.
Ought she to answer him as her heart dictated? Dare she confess her
love with that stigma of her mother's early mistake resting upon her?
she asked herself, in anguish of spirit.
She sat silent and miserable, undecided what to do.
If she acknowledged her love for him, without telling him, and he
should afterward discover the story of her birth, might he not feel
that she had taken an unfair advantage of him.
And yet, how could she ever bring herself to disclose the shameful
secret of that sad, sad tragedy which had occurred twenty years
previous in Rome?
"I--dare not tell you," she murmured at last.
The young man started, then bent eagerly toward her.
"You 'dare' not tell me!" he cried, joyfully. "Darling, I am answered
already! But why do you hesitate to open your heart to me?"
A sudden resolve took possession of her; she would tell him the whole
truth, let come what might.
"I will not," she said. "I have a sad story to tell you; but first,
explain to me what you meant when you said that no tie binds me to
that man?"
"I meant that that marriage was simply a farce, in spite of the
sacrilegious attempt of your enemies to legalize it," said the young
lawyer, gravely.
"Can that be possible?" sighed Edith, her voice tremulous with joy.
"I will prove it to you. You have told me that this man Correlli lived
with that Italian woman here in New York for two years or more."
"Yes."
"Do you know whether he allowed her to be known by his name?"
"No; but she told me that he allowed her to appear as his wife in the
house where they lived."
"Well, then, if that can be proven--and I have not much doubt about
the matter--the girl, by the laws of New York, which decree that if a
couple live together in this State as husband and wife, they are
such--this girl, I say, is the legal wife of Emil Correlli,
consequently he can lay no claim to you without making himself liable
to prosecution for the crime of bigamy."
"Are you sure?" breathed Edith, and almost faint from joy, in view of
this blessed release from a fate which to her would have been worse
than death.
"So sure, dear, that I have nothing to fear for your future, regarding
your connection with this man, and everything to hope for regarding
your happiness and mine, if you will but tell me that you love me,"
her lover returned, as he boldly captured the hand that lay alluringly
near him.
She did not withdraw it from his clasp.
It was so sweet to feel herself beloved and safe, under the protection
of this true-hearted man, that a feeling of restfulness and content
swept over her, and for the moment every other was absorbed by this.
Still, Royal Bryant realized that she had some reason for hesitating
to acknowledge her affection for him, and after a moment of silence he
said, gently:
"Forgive my impatience, dear, and tell me the 'sad story' to which you
referred a little while ago."
A heavy sigh escaped Edith.
"You will be surprised to learn," she began, "that Mr. and Mrs.
Allandale were not my own parents--that I was their adopted daughter."
"Indeed! I am surprised!" exclaimed Mr. Bryant.
"I did not discover the fact, however," the young girl pursued, "until
the night after my mother's burial."
And then she proceeded to relate all that had occurred in connection
with the box of letters which Mrs. Allandale had desired, when dying,
to be burned.
She told of her subsequent examination of them, especially of those
signed "Belle," and the story which they had revealed. How the young
girl had left her home and parents to flee to Italy with the man whom
she loved; how she had discovered, later, that her supposed marriage
with him was a sham; how, soon after the birth of her child--Edith--her
husband had deserted her for another, leaving her alone and unprotected
in that strange land.
She related how, in her despair, her mother had resolved to die, and
pleaded with her friend, Mrs. Allandale, to take her little one and
rear it as her own, thus securing to her a happy home and life without
the possibility of ever discovering the stigma attached to her birth
or the cruel fate of her mother.
Royal Bryant listened to the pathetic tale without once interrupting
the fair narrator, and Edith's heart sank more and more in her bosom
as she proceeded, and feared that she was so shocking him by these
revelations that his affection for her would die with this expose of
her secret.
But he still held her hand clasped in his; and when, at the conclusion
of her story, she gently tried to withdraw it, his fingers closed more
firmly over hers, when, bending still nearer to her, he questioned, in
fond, eager tones:
"Was this the reason of your leaving New York so abruptly last
December?"
"Yes."
"Was it because you loved me and could not trust yourself to meet me
day after day without betraying the fact when you feared that the
knowledge of your birth might become a barrier between us? Tell me, my
darling, truly!"
"Yes," Edith confessed; "but how could you guess it--how could you
read my heart so like an open book?"
The young man laughed out musically, and there was a ring of joyous
triumph in the sound.
"'Tis said that 'love is blind,'" he said, "but mine was keen to read
the signs I coveted, and I believed, even when you were in your
deepest trouble, that you were beginning to love me, and that I should
eventually win you."
"Why! did you begin to--" Edith began, and then checked herself in
sudden confusion.
"Did I begin to plan to win you so far back as that?" he laughingly
exclaimed, and putting his own interpretation upon her half-finished
sentence. "My darling, I began to love you and to wish for you even
before your first day's work was done for me."
CHAPTER XXV.
A NEW CHARACTER IS INTRODUCED.
"And now, love," the eager wooer continued, as he dropped the hand he
had been holding and drew the happy girl into his arms, "you will give
yourself to me--you will give me the right to stand between you and
all future care or trouble?"
"Then you do not mind what I have just told you?" questioned Edith,
timidly.
"Not in the least, only so far as it occasions you unhappiness or
anxiety," unhesitatingly replied the young man. "You are unscathed by
it--the sin and the shame belong alone to the man who ruined the life
of your mother. You are my pearl, my fair lily, unspotted by any
blight, and I should be unworthy of you, indeed, did I allow what you
have told me to prejudice me in the slightest degree. Now tell me,
Edith, that henceforth there shall be no barrier between us--tell me
that you love me."
"How can I help it?" she murmured, as with a flood of ineffable joy
sweeping into her soul she dropped her bright head upon his breast and
yielded to his embrace.
"And will you be my wife?"
"Oh, if it is possible--if I can be," she faltered. "Are you sure that
I am not already bound?"
"Leave all that to me--do not fret, even for one second, over it," her
lover tenderly returned. Then he added, more lightly: "I am so sure,
sweetheart, that to-morrow I shall bring you a letter which will
proclaim to all whom it may concern, that henceforth you belong to
me."
He lifted her face when he ceased speaking, and pressed his first
caress upon her lips.
A little later he inquired:
"And have you no clue to the name of your parents?"
"No; all the clue that I have is simply the name of 'Belle' that was
signed to the letters of which I have told you," Edith replied, with a
regretful sigh.
"It is perhaps just as well, dear, after all," said her lover,
cheerfully; "if you knew more, and should ever chance to meet the man
who so wronged your mother, it might cause you a great deal of
unhappiness."
"I have not a regret on his account," said Edith, bitterly; "but I
would like to know something about my mother's early history and her
friends. I have only sympathy and love in my heart for her, in spite
of the fact that she erred greatly in leaving her home as she did,
and, worse than all, in taking her own life."
"Poor little woman!" said Royal Bryant, with gentle sympathy; "despair
must have turned her brain--she was more sinned against than sinning.
But girls do not realize what a terrible mistake they are making when
they allow men to persuade them to elope, leave their homes and best
friends, and submit to a secret marriage. No man of honor would ever
make such proposals to any woman--no man is worthy of any pure girl's
love who will ask such a sacrifice on her part; and, in nine cases out
of ten, I believe nothing but misery results from such a step."
"As in the case of poor Giulia Fiorini," remarked Edith, sadly. "But
maybe she will be somewhat comforted when she discovers that she is
Emil Correlli's legal wife."
"I fear that such knowledge will be but small satisfaction to her,"
her companion responded, "for if she should take measures to compel
him to recognize the tie, he would doubtless rebel against the
decision of the court; and, if she still loves him as you have
represented, he would make her very wretched. However, he can be
forced to make generous settlements, which will enable her to live
comfortably and educate her child."
"And he will be entitled to his father's name, will he not?" inquired
Edith, eagerly; "that would comfort her more than anything else."
"Yes, if he has ever acknowledged her as his wife, or allowed it to be
assumed that she was, the child is entitled to the name," returned her
lover. Then, as the carriage stopped, he added: "But here we are, my
darling and I am sure you must be very weary after your long journey."
"Yes, I am tired, but very, very happy," the fair girl replied,
looking up into his face with a sigh of content.
He smiled fondly upon her as he led her up the steps of a modest but
pretty house, between the draperies at the windows of which there
streamed a cheerful light.
"Well, we will soon have you settled in a cozy room where you can rest
to your heart's content," he remarked, and at the same time touching
the electric button by his side.
"Really, Mr. Bryant, I cannot help feeling guilty to intrude upon an
entire stranger at this time of night," Edith observed, in a troubled
tone.
"You need not, dear, for I assure you Nellie will be delighted;
but"--bending over her with a roguish laugh--"Mr. Bryant does not
enjoy being addressed with so much formality by his fiancee. The name
I love best--Roy--my mother gave me when I was a boy, and I want
always to hear it from your lips after this."
A servant admitted them just at that moment, and upon responding to
Mr. Bryant's inquiry, said that Mrs. Morrell was at home, and ushered
them at once to her pretty parlor.
Presently the young hostess--a lady of perhaps twenty-five years--made
her appearance and greeted her cousin With great cordiality.
"You know I am always glad to see you, Roy," she said, giving him both
her hands and putting up her red lips for a cousinly kiss.
"I know you always make a fellow feel very welcome," said the young
man, smiling. "And, Nellie, this is Miss Edith Allandale; she has just
arrived from Boston, and I am going to ask you to receive her as your
guest for a few days," he concluded, thus introducing Edith.
Mrs. Morrell turned smilingly to the beautiful girl.
"Miss Allandale is doubly welcome, for her own sake, as well as
yours," was her gracious response, as she clasped Edith's hand, and if
she experienced any surprise at thus having an utter stranger thrust
upon her hospitality at that hour, she betrayed none, but proceeded at
once to help her remove her hat and wraps.
Tears sprang to the eyes of the homeless girl at this cordial
reception, and her lips quivered with repressed emotion as she thanked
the gentle lady for it.
"What was that Roy was saying--that you have come from Boston this
afternoon?" queried Mrs. Morrell, hastening to cover her embarrassment
by changing the subject. "Then you must be nearly famished, and you
must have a lunch before you go to rest."
"Pray, do not trouble yourself--" Edith began.
"Please let me--I like such 'trouble,' as you are pleased to term it,"
smilingly interposed the pretty hostess; and with a bright nod and a
hurried "excuse me," she was gone before Edith could make further
objections.
"Nellie is the most hospitable little woman in the universe," Mr.
Bryant remarked, as the door closed after her; "she is never so happy
as when she is feeding the hungry or making somebody comfortable."
Fifteen minutes later she reappeared, a lovely flush on her round
cheeks, her eyes bright with the pleasure she experienced in doing a
kind act for the young stranger, toward whom she had been instantly
attracted.
"Come, now," she said, holding out a hand to her, "and I know Roy will
join us--he never yet refused a cup of tea of my own brewing."
"You are right, Nellie," smilingly replied that gentleman; "and I
believe I am hungry, in spite of my hearty dinner at six o'clock. A
ride over the pavements of New York will prepare almost any one for an
extra meal. I only hope you have a slice of Aunt Janes's old-fashioned
gingerbread for me."
Mrs. Morrell laughed out musically at this last remark.
"I never dare to be without it," she retorted, "for you never fail to
ask for it. This cousin of mine, Miss Allandale, is always hungry when
he comes to see me, and is never satisfied to go away without his
slice of gingerbread. Perhaps," she added, shooting a roguish glance
from one face to the other, for she had been quick to fathom their
relations, "you will some time like to have mamma's recipe for it."
A conscious flush mantled Edith's cheek at this playful thrust, while
the young lawyer gave vent to a hearty laugh of amusement in which a
certain joyous ring betrayed to the shrewd little woman that she had
not fired her shot amiss.
Then she led them into her home-like dining-room, where a table was
laid for three, and where, over a generous supply of cold chicken,
delicious bread and butter, home-made preserves, and the much lauded
gingerbread, the trio spent a social half-hour, and Edith felt a sense
of rest and content such as she had not experienced since leaving her
Fifth avenue home, more than two years previous.
As soon as the meal was finished, Mrs. Morrell, who saw how weary and
heavy-eyed the fair girl appeared, remarked to her cousin, with a
pretty air of authority, that she was "going to carry her guest off
upstairs to bed immediately."
"You stay here until I come back, Roy," she added. "Charlie was
obliged to go out upon important business, and I shall be glad of your
company for a while."
"Very well, Nellie! I will stay for a little chat, for I have
something important which I wish to say to you."
As he concluded he darted a smiling glance at Edith, which again
brought the lovely color to her cheeks and revealed to her the nature
of the important communication that he intended to make to his cousin.
She bade him a smiling good-night, and then gladly accompanied her
hostess above, for she was really more weary than she had
acknowledged.
When Mrs. Morrell returned to the parlor, Roy related to her something
of Edith's history, and also confessed his own relationship toward
her, while the little woman listened with an absorbed attention which
betrayed how thoroughly she enjoyed the romance of the affair.
"She is lovely!" she remarked, "and"--with a thoughtful air--"it seems
to me as if I have heard the name before. Edith Allandale!--it sounds
very familiar to me. Why, Roy! she was one of Sister Blanche's
classmates at Vassar, and she has her picture in her class album!"
"That is a singular coincidence!" the young man observed, no less
surprised at this revelation, "and it makes matters all the more
pleasant for me to learn that she is not wholly unknown to the
family."
"And you mean to marry her very soon?" inquired his cousin.
"Just as soon as I can settle matters with that rascal in Boston to
her satisfaction," responded the young man, with a gleam of fire in
his eyes. "I do not apprehend any serious trouble about the affair;
still, it may take longer than I wish."
"And may I keep her until then?" eagerly inquired Mrs. Morrell.
"Nellie! that is like your kind, generous heart!" exclaimed the young
man, gratefully; "and I thank you from the bottom of mine. But, of
course, that will have to be as Edith herself decides, while this
business which I have in charge for her may interfere with such an
arrangement."
"Oh, you mean in connection with the strange gentleman who has been
searching for her."
"Yes. But I must go now; it is getting late, and I have a couple of
letters to write yet. Take good care of my treasure, Nellie, and I
will run in as early to-morrow as possible to see you both."
He kissed her affectionately, then bade her good-night and hurried
away to his rooms at his club; while pretty Mrs. Morrell went back to
her parlor, after letting him out, to await her husband's return, and
to think over the romantic story to which she had just listened with
deep interest.
There had been so much of a personal and tender nature to occupy their
minds that Mr. Bryant had not thought to tell Edith anything about the
circumstances that had led him to advertise in various papers for
intelligence of her.
Some three weeks previous, a gentleman, of about fifty years, and
calling himself Louis Raymond, had presented himself in his office,
and inquired if he could give him any information regarding the late
Albert Allandale's family.
He stated that he had spent most of his life abroad, but, his health
beginning to fail, he had decided to return to his own country.
He had been quite ill since his arrival, and he began to fear that he
had not long to live, and it behooved him to settle his affairs
without further delay.
He stated that he had no relatives or family--he had never married;
but, being possessed of large wealth, he wished to settle half of it
upon Mrs. Allandale, if she could be found, or, if she was not living,
upon her children. The remaining half he designed as a legacy to a
certain charitable institution in the city.
He stated that he had been searching for the Allandales for several
weeks; he had learned of Mr. Allandale's financial troubles and
subsequent death, but could get no trace whatever of the other members
of the family. He was wearied out with his search, and now wished to
turn the matter over to some one stronger than himself, and better
versed in conducting such affairs.
Mr. Bryant could not fail to regard it as a singular coincidence that
this business should have been thrown into his hands, especially as he
was also so anxious to find Edith; and it can well be understood that
he at once entered into the gentleman's plans with all his heart and
soul.
He, of course, related all he knew of her history, and when he spoke
of Mrs. Allandale's death he was startled to see his client grow
deathly white and become so unnerved that, for a moment, he feared the
shock would prove more than he could sustain.
But he recovered himself after a few moments.
"So she is gone!" he murmured, with a look in his eyes that told the
secret of a deathless but unrequited love. "Well, Death's scythe
spares no one, and perhaps it is better so. But this girl--her
daughter," he added, rousing himself from his sad reflections; "we
must try to find her."
"We will do our utmost," said the young lawyer, with a heartiness
which betrayed the deep interest he felt in the matter. "As I have
told you, I have not the slightest knowledge of her whereabouts, but
think she may possibly be in Boston. Her letter to me, written just
previous to her departure, gave me not the slightest clew to her
destination. She promised to write to a woman who had been kind to
her, and I arranged with her to let me know when she received a
letter; but I have never seen her since--I once went to the house
where she lived, but she had moved, and no one could tell me anything
about her."
It may be as well to state here that shortly after Edith left New
York, poor Mrs. O'Brien fell and broke her leg. She was taken to a
hospital, and her children put into a home, consequently she never
received Edith's letter, which was of course addressed to her old
residence.
"I think our wisest course will be to advertise," the young lawyer
pursued; "and if we do not achieve our end in that way, we can adopt
other measures later on."
"Well, sir, do your best--I don't mind expense; and if the young lady
can be found, I have a story to tell her which I think will deeply
interest her," the gentleman returned. "If we should not be successful
in the course of a few weeks, I will make a settlement upon her, to be
left, with some other papers, in your hands for a reasonable period,
in the event of my death. But if all your efforts prove unavailing,
the money will eventually go, with the rest, to the institution I have
named."
Thus the matter had been left, and Mr. Bryant had immediately
advertised, as we have seen, in several New York and Boston papers.
Three weeks had elapsed without any response, and Royal Bryant was
beginning to be discouraged when he was suddenly made jubilant by
receiving the telegram which Edith had written on the train after
leaving Boston.
Thus, after leaving the house of his cousin, he repaired to his club,
where he wrote a letter to his client, Mr. Raymond, telling him that
Miss Allandale was found, and asking him to meet him at his office at
as early an hour the following morning as possible.
CHAPTER XXVI.
AN EXCITING INTERVIEW AND AN APPALLING DISCOVERY.
We must now transport ourselves to Boston, in order to find out how
Edith's flight was discovered, and what effect it produced in the
Goddards' elegant home on Commonwealth avenue.
Emil Correlli had been seated in the handsome library, reading a
society novel, when his sister went out to make her call, leaving him
as guard over their prisoner above.
He had been much pleased with the report which she brought him from
Edith, namely, that she believed she was yielding, and would make her
appearance at dinner; at the same time he did not allow himself for a
moment to become so absorbed in his book as to forget that he was on
the watch for the slightest movement above stairs.
He and Mrs. Goddard had agreed that it would be wise not to make the
girl a prisoner within her room, lest they antagonize her by so doing.
But while they appeared to leave her free to go out or come in, they
intended to guard her none the less securely, and thus Monsieur
Correlli kept watch and ward below.
He knew that Edith could not leave the house by the front door without
his knowing it, and as he also knew that the back stairway door was
locked on the outside, he had no fear that she would escape that way.
He, had not reckoned, however, upon the fact of an outsider entering
by means of the area door and going upstairs, thus leaving that way
available for Edith; and Giulia Fiorini had accomplished her purpose
so cleverly and so noiselessly that no one save Edith dreamed of her
presence in the house.
The two girls had carried on their conversation in such subdued tones
that not a sound could be heard by any one below, and thus Emil
Correlli was taken entirely by surprise when there came a gentle knock
upon the half-open library door to interrupt his reading.
"Come in," he called out, thinking it might be one of the servants.
But when the door was pushed wider, and a woman entered, bearing a
child in her arms, the astonished man sprang to his feet, an angry
oath leaping to his lips, and every atom of color fading out of his
face.
"Giulia?" he exclaimed, under his breath.
"Papa! papa!" cried the child, clapping his little hands, as he
struggled out of his mother's arms, and ran toward him.
He took no notice of the child, but frowningly demanded, as he faced
the girl:
"How on earth did you ever get into this house?"
"By a door, of course," laconically responded the intruder, but with
crimson cheeks and blazing eyes, for the man's rude manner had aroused
all her spirit.
"Well, and what do you want?" he cried, angrily; then, with a violent
start, he added, nervously: "Wait; sit down, and I will be back in a
moment."
It had occurred to him that if Giulia had been able to gain admittance
to the house without his hearing her, Edith might find it just as easy
to make her escape from it.
So, darting out of the room, he ran swiftly upstairs, to ascertain, as
we have seen, if his captive was still safe.
We know the result, and how adroitly Edith allayed his suspicions;
whereupon, wholly reassured regarding her, he returned to the library
to settle, once for all, as he secretly resolved, with his discarded
plaything.
"Well, Giulia," he began, as he re-entered her presence, "what has
brought you here? what is your business with me?"
"I have come to ascertain if this is true, and what you have to say
about it," she answered, as she brought forth the newspaper which she
had shown Edith, and pointed to the article relating to the wedding at
Wyoming.
The man tried to smile indifferently, but his eyes wavered beneath her
blazing glance.
"Well, what of it?" he at last questioned, assuming a defiant air;
"what if it is true?"
"Is it true?" she persisted; "have you really married that girl?"
"And what if I have?" he again questioned, evasively.
"I want the truth from your own lips--yes or no, Emil Correlli."
"Well, then--yes," he said, with a flash of anger.
"You own it--you dare own it to me, and--in the presence of your
child?" almost shrieked the outraged woman.
"Stop, Giulia!" commanded her companion, sternly. "I will have no
scene here to create a scandal among the servants. I intended to see
you within a day or two; but, since you have sought me, we may as well
at once come to an understanding. Did you think that you could hold me
all my life? A man in my position must have a home in which to receive
his friends, also a mistress in it to entertain them--"
"Have you forgotten all your vows and promises to me?" interposed
Giulia, in tremulous tones; "that you swore everlasting fidelity to
me?"
"A man vows a great many things that he finds he cannot fulfill," was
the unfeeling response. "Surely, Giulia, you must realize that neither
your birth nor education could entitle you to such a position as my
wife must occupy."
"My birth was respectable, my education the best my country afforded,"
said the girl, with white lips. "Had you no intention of marrying me
when you enticed me from my home to cross the ocean with you?"
"No."
The monosyllable seemed to fall like a heavy blow upon the girl's
heart, for she shivered, and her face was distorted with agony.
"Oh, had you no heart? Why did you do such a fiendish thing?" she
cried.
"Because you were pretty and agreeable, and I liked pleasant company.
I have been accustomed to have whatever I wished for all my life."
"And you never loved me?"
"Oh, yes, for nearly three years I was quite fond of you--really,
Giulia, I consider that I have been as faithful to you as you could
expect."
"Oh, wretch! but you love this other girl more?"
"It would be worse than useless to attempt to deceive you on that
point," said the man, his whole face softening at this mention of
Edith.
"You lied to me, then, Emil Correlli!" cried the miserable woman,
hoarsely; "you swore to me that the girl was nothing to you--that she
was simply your sister's companion."
"And I simply told you the truth," he retorted. "She was nothing to me
at that time; she was 'only my sister's companion.' However," he
added, straightening himself haughtily, "there is no use in wrangling
over the matter any further. I married Edith Allen the night before
last, and henceforth she will be the mistress of my home. I confess it
is a trifle hard on you, Giulia," he continued, speaking in a
conciliatory tone, "but you must try to be sensible about it. I will
settle a comfortable annuity upon you, and you can either go back to
your parents or make a pleasant home for yourself somewhere in this
country."
"And what of this boy?" questioned the discarded girl, laying her
trembling hand upon the head of her child, who was looking from one to
the other, a wondering expression on his young face.
Emil Correlli's lips twitched spasmodically for a moment. He would
never have confessed it to a human being, but the little one was the
dearest object the world held for him.
"I will provide handsomely for his future," he said, after considering
for a minute. "If you will give him up to me he shall be reared as
carefully as any gentleman's son, and, when he attains a proper age, I
will establish him in some business or profession that will enable him
to make his mark in the world."
"You would take him away from me to do this?" Giulia exclaimed, as she
passionately caught her darling to her breast.
"That would be necessary, in order to carry out my purpose as I wish,"
the man coldly replied.
"Never! You are a monster in human form to suggest such a thing. Do
you think I would ever give him up to you?"
"Just as you choose," her companion remarked, indifferently. "I have
made you the proposition, and you can accept or reject it as you see
fit, but if I take him, I cannot have his future hampered by any
environments or associations that would be likely to mar his life."
"Coward!" the word was thrown at him in a way that stung him like a
lash, "do you dare twit me for what you alone are to blame? Where is
your honor--where your humanity? Have you forgotten how you used every
art to persuade me to leave the shelter of my pleasant home--the
protection of my honest father and mother, to come hither with you?
how you promised, by all that was sacred, to make me your wife if I
would do your bidding? What I am you have made me--what this child is,
you are responsible for. Ah, Emil Correlli, you have much to answer
for, and the day will yet come when you will bitterly repent these
irreparable wrongs--"
"Come, come Giulia! you are getting beside yourself with your tragic
airs," her companion here interposed, in a would-be soothing tone.
"There is no use working yourself up into a passion and running on
like this. What has been done is done, and cannot be changed, so you
had best make the most of what is left you. As I said before, I will
give you a handsome allowance, and, if you will keep me posted
regarding your whereabouts, I will make you and the boy a little visit
now and then."
The girl regarded him with flashing eyes and sullen brow.
"You will live to repent," she remarked, as she gathered the child up
in her arms and arose to leave the room, "and before this day is ended
your punishment shall begin; you shall never know one moment of
happiness with the girl whom you have dared to put in my place."
"Bah! all this is idle chatter, Giulia," said Emil Correlli,
contemptuously; nevertheless, he paled visibly, and a cold chill ran
over him, for somehow her words impressed him as a prophecy.
"What! are you going in such a temper as that?" he added, as she
turned toward the door. "Well, when you get over it, let me hear from
you occasionally."
"Never fear; you will hear from me oftener than you will like," she
flashed out at him, with a look that made him cringe, as she laid her
hand upon the knob of the door.
"Stay, Giulia! Aren't you going to let me have a word with Ino? Here,
you black-eyed little rascal, haven't you anything to say to your
daddy?" he added, in a coaxing tone to the child.
"Mamma, may I talk to papa?" queried the little one, turning a
pleading glance upon his mother.
"By the way," interposed the man, before she could reply, "you must
put a stop to the youngster calling me that; it might be awkward, you
see, if we should happen to meet some time upon the street. I like the
little chap well enough, but you must teach him to keep his mouth shut
when he comes near me."
"Who taught him the name?" sharply retorted Giulia. "Who boasted how
bright and clever he was the first time he uttered the English word?"
Her listener flushed hotly and frowned.
"Your tongue is very sharp, Giulia," he said. "It would be more to
your advantage to be upon good terms with me."
She made no reply, but, opening the door, passed out into the hall, he
following her.
"As you will," he curtly said; then added, imperatively: "Come this
way," and, leading her to the front door, he let her quietly out, glad
to be rid of her before the butler or any of the other servants could
learn of her presence in the house.
He watched her pass down the steps and out upon the street, then,
softly closing the door, went back to the library.
He threw himself into a chair with a long-drawn sigh.
"I am afraid she means mischief," he muttered, with a frown. "I must
get Edith away as soon as possible; I would not have them meet for
anything. What a little vixen the girl is, curse her!"
He glanced at the clock.
It was five minutes of three, and twenty-fire since he went up to
Edith's room.
"It is about time she came down," he mused, with a shrug of
impatience.
He arose and paced the room for a few moments, then passed out into
the hall and listened.
The house was very still; he could not detect a sound anywhere.
He went slowly upstairs, walked up and down the hall once or twice,
then rapped again upon Edith's door.
There was no response from within.
He knocked again.
Still silence!
He tried the door.
It was not locked; it yielded to his touch, and he pushed it open.
A quick glance around showed him that no one was there, and with a
great heart-throb of fear he boldly entered.
Everything was exactly as he had left it when, the day before, he had
so carefully arranged the room for the girl's comfort and pleasure.
The beautiful dresses hung over the foot-board of the bed--not even a
fold had been disturbed--while the elegant sealskin cloak and the
dainty hat and muff lay exactly as he had placed them, to display them
to the best advantage.
The veins swelled out hard and full on his forehead--a gleam of
baffled rage leaped into his eyes.
He sprang to the closet, throwing wide the door.
It was empty.
"She may have gone to the toilet-room," he muttered, grasping at this
straw of hope.
He dashed across the hall and rapped upon the door.
But he met with no response.
He entered. The place was empty.
Back into the south chamber he sprang again, and began to search for
Edith's hats and wraps.
Not an article of her clothing was visible.
He tried to open her trunk.
Of course it was locked.
He was now white as death, and actually shaking with anger.
He went to the dressing-case and mechanically opened the upper drawer.
All the costly treasures that he had purchased to tempt his bride lay
there, exactly as he had placed them; he doubted if she had even seen
them.
With a curse on his lips he went out, and looked into every other room
on that floor; but it was, of course, a fruitless search.
Then he turned into the rear hall and went down the back stairs.
Ah! the door at the bottom was ajar.
Another moment he was in the lower hall, to find the area door
unfastened; then he knew how his bird had flown.
He instantly summoned the servants, and took them to task for their
negligence.
Both the cook and the chambermaid avowed that no one but the gas-man
had entered or gone out by the area door that afternoon.
But, upon questioning them closely, Emil Correlli ascertained that the
outer door had been left unfastened "just a moment, while the man went
to the meter, to take the figures."
A close search revealed the fact that the key to the stairway door was
missing, and, putting this and that together, the keen-witted man
reasoned out just what had happened.
He believed that Giulia had stolen in through the area door close upon
the heels of the gas-man; that she had found the key, unlocked the
stairway-door, and made her way up to the library to seek an interview
with him--he did not once suspect her of having seen Edith--while
Edith, upon reconnoitering and finding the back way clear, had taken
advantage of the situation and flown.
He was almost frantic with mingled rage and despair.
He angrily berated the servants for their carelessness, and vowed
that he would have them discharged; then, having exhausted his
vocabulary upon them, he went back to the library, wrathfully cursing
Giulia for having forced herself into his presence to distract his
attention, and thus allow his captive an opportunity to escape.
Mr. and Mrs. Goddard returned about this time, both looking as if they
also had met with some crushing blow, for the former was white and
haggard, and the latter wild-eyed, and shivering from time to time, as
if from a chill.
Both were apparently too absorbed in some trouble of their own to feel
very much disturbed by the flight of Edith, although Mr. Goddard's
face involuntarily lighted for an instant when he was told of her
escape.
Emil Correlli flew to the nearest telegraph office and dashed off a
message to a New York policeman, with whom he had had some dealings
while living in that city, giving him a description of Edith, and
ordering him, if he could lay his hands upon her, to telegraph back,
and then detain her until he could arrive and relieve him of his
charge.
He reasoned--and rightly, as we have seen--that Edith, would be more
likely to return to her old home, where she knew every crook and turn,
rather than to seek refuge in Boston, where she was friendless and a
comparative stranger.
A few hours later he received a reply from the policeman, giving him
an account of his adventure with Miss Edith Allandale and her escort.
"By heavens, she shall not thus escape me!" he exclaimed; and at once
made rapid preparations for a journey.
Half an hour afterward he was on the eleven o'clock express train, in
pursuit of the fair fugitive, in a state of mind that was far from
enviable.
CHAPTER XXVII.
MRS. GODDARD BECOMES AN EAVESDROPPER.
When, after her interview with Edith, Mrs. Goddard went out to make
her call, leaving her brother to keep watch and ward over their fair
captive, she proceeded with all possible speed to the Copley Square
Hotel, where she inquired for Mrs. Stewart.
The elevator bore her to the second floor, and the pretty maid, who
answered her ring at the door of the elegant suite to which she had
been directed, told her that her mistress was engaged just at present,
but, if madam would walk into the reception-room and wait a while, she
had no doubt that Mrs. Stewart would soon be at liberty. "Would madam
be kind enough to give her a card to take in?"
Mrs. Goddard pretended to look for her card-case, first in one pocket
of her wrap, then in another.
"Ah!" she exclaimed, "I must have left my cards at home! How
unfortunate! But it does not matter," she added, with one of her
brilliant smiles; "I am an old acquaintance, and you can simply
announce me when I am admitted."
The girl bowed and went away, leaving the visitor by herself in the
pretty reception-room, for she had been told not to disturb her
mistress until she should ring for her.
Mrs. Goddard looked curiously around her, and was impressed with the
elegance of everything in the apartment.
Exquisite paintings and engravings graced the delicately tinted walls;
choice statuettes, bric-a-brac, and old-world curios of every
description, which she knew must have cost a small fortune even in the
countries where they were produced, were artistically arranged about
the room.
There was also an air of refinement and rare taste in the draperies,
carpets, and blending of color, which proclaimed the occupant of the
place to be above the average lady in point of culture and
appreciation of all that was beautiful.
Impressed with all this, and looking back to her meeting with Mrs.
Stewart, on the evening of the ball at Wyoming--remembering her beauty
and grace, and the elegance of her costume, madam's heart sank within
her, and she seemed to age with every passing moment.
"Oh, to think of it!--to think of it, after all these years! I will
not believe it!" she murmured, with white, trembling lips, as she
arose and nervously paced the room.
Presently the sound of muffled voices in a room beyond attracted her
attention.
She started and bent her ear to listen.
She could catch no word that was spoken, although she could
distinguish now a man's and then a woman's tones.
With stealthy movements she glided into the next room, which was even
more luxuriously furnished than the one she had left, when she
observed that the portieres, draping an arch leading into still
another apartment, were closely drawn.
And now, although she could not hear what was being said, she suddenly
recognized, with a pang of agony that made her gasp for breath, the
voice of her husband in earnest conversation with the woman who had
been her guest two nights previous.
As noiselessly as a cat creeps after her prey, Anna Goddard stole
across that spacious apartment and concealed herself among the
voluminous folds of the draperies, where she found that she could
easily hear all that was said.
"You are very hard, Isabel," she heard Gerald Goddard remark, in a
reproachful voice.
"I grant you that," responded the liquid tones of his companion, "as
far as you and--that woman are concerned, I have no more feeling than
a stone."
At those words, "that woman," spoken in accents of supreme contempt,
the eyes of Anna Goddard began to blaze with a baneful gleam.
"And you will never forgive me for the wrong I did you so long ago?"
pleaded the man, with a sigh.
"What do you mean by that word 'forgive?'" coldly inquired Mrs.
Stewart.
"Pardon, remission--as Shakespeare has it, 'forgive and quite forget
old faults,'" returned Gerald Goddard, in a voice tremulous with
repressed emotion.
"Forget!" repeated the beautiful woman, in a wondering tone.
"Ah, if you could," eagerly cried her visitor; then, as if he could
control himself no longer, he went on, with passionate vehemence: "Oh,
Isabel! when you burst upon me, so like a radiant star, the other
night, and I realized that you were still in the flesh, instead of
lying in that lonely grave in far-off-Italy--when I saw you so grandly
beautiful--saw how wonderfully you had developed in every way, all the
old love came back to me, and I realized my foolish mistake of that
by-gone time as I had never realized it before."
Ah! if the man could have seen the white, set face concealed among the
draperies so near him--if he could have caught the deadly gleam that
shone with tiger-like fury in Anna Goddard's dusky eyes--he never
would have dared to face her again after giving utterance to those
maddening words.
"It strikes me, Mr. Goddard, that it is rather late--after twenty
years--to make such an acknowledgment to me," Isabel Stewart retorted,
with quiet irony.
"I know it--I feel it now," he responded, in accents of despair. "I
know that I forfeited both your love and respect when I began to yield
to the charms and flatteries of Anna Correlli. She was handsome, as
you know; she began to be fond of me from the moment of our
introduction; and when, in an unguarded moment, I revealed the--the
fact that you were not my wife, she resolved that she would supplant
you--"
"Yes, 'the woman--she gavest me and I did eat,'" interposed his
companion, with a scathing ring of scorn in the words. "That is always
the cry of cowards like you, when they find themselves worsted by
their own folly," she went on, indignantly. "Woman must always bear
the scorpion lash of blame from her betrayer while the world also
awards her only shame and ostracism from society, if she yields to the
persuasive voice of her charmer, admiring and believing in him and
allowing him to go unsmirched by the venomous breath of scandal. It is
only his victim--his innocent victim oftentimes, as in my case--who
suffers; he is greeted everywhere with open arms and flattering
smiles, even though he repeats his offenses again and again."
"Isabel! spare me!"
"No, I will not spare you," she continued, sternly. "You know, Gerald
Goddard, that I was a pure and innocent girl when you tempted me to
leave my father's house and flee with you to Italy. You were older
than I, by eight years; you had seen much of the world, and you knew
your power. You cunningly planned that secret marriage, which you
intended from the first should be only a farce, but which, I have
learned since, was in every respect a legal ceremony--"
"Ha! I thought so!" cried her companion, with a sudden shock. "When
did you hear?--who told you?"
"I met your friend, Will Forsyth, only two years ago--just before my
return to this country--and when I took him to task for the shameful
part which he had played to assist you in carrying out your
ignominious plot, telling him that you had owned to his being
disguised as an aged minister to perform the sacrilegious ceremony, he
confessed to me that, at the last moment, his heart had failed him,
whereupon he went to an old clergyman, a friend of his father,
revealed everything, and persuaded him to perform the marriage in a
legal manner; and thus, Gerald Goddard, I became your lawful wife
instead of your victim, as you supposed."
"Yes, I know it. Forsyth afterward sent me the certificate and
explained everything to me," the man admitted, with a guilty flush. "I
received the paper about a year after the report of your death."
"Ah! that could not have been very gratifying to--your other--victim,"
remarked Mrs. Stewart, with quiet sarcasm.
"Isabel! you are merciless!" cried the man, writhing under her scorn.
"But since you have learned so much, I may as well tell you
everything. Of course Anna was furious when she discovered that she
was no wife, for I had sworn to her that there was no legal tie
between you and me--"
"Ah! then she also learned the truth!" interposed his companion. "I
almost wonder you did not try to keep the knowledge from her."
"I could not--she was present when the document arrived, and the shock
to me was so great I betrayed it, and she insisted upon knowing what
had caused it, when she raved like an insane person, for a time."
"But I suppose you packed her by being married over again, since you
have lived with her for nearly twenty years," remarked Mrs. Stewart.
"No, I did not," returned her visitor, hotly. "To tell the truth, I
had begun to tire of her even then--she was so furiously jealous,
passionate, and unreasonable upon the slightest pretext that at times
she made life wretched for me. So I told myself that so long as I held
that certificate as proof that she had no legal hold upon me, I should
have it in my power to manage her and cow her into submission when she
became ungovernable by other means. I represented to her that, to all
intents and purposes, we were man and wife, and if we should have the
ceremony repeated, after having lived together so long, it would
create a scandal, for some one would be sure to find it out, sooner or
later. For a time this appeared to pacify her; but one day, during my
absence from home, she stole the certificate, although I thought I had
concealed it where no one would think of looking for it. It has been
in her possession ever since. I have tried many times to recover it;
but she was more clever than I, and I never could find it, while she
has always told me that she would never relinquish it, except upon one
condition--"
"And that was--what?"
"Ever the same old demand--that I would make her legally my wife."
"But she never could have been that so long as I lived," objected Mrs.
Stewart.
"True; but she would have been satisfied with a repetition of the
ceremony, as we did not know that you were living."
"If you have been so unhappy, why have you lived with her all these
years?"
The man hesitated for a moment before replying to this question. At
length he said, although he flushed scarlet over the confession:
"There have been several reasons. In spite of her variable moods and
many faults, Anna is a handsome and accomplished woman. She entertains
magnificently, and has made an elegant mistress for our establishment.
We have been over the world together several times, and are known in
many cities both in this country and abroad, consequently it would
have occasioned no end of scandal if there had been a separation.
Thus, though she has tried my patience sorely at times, we have
perhaps, on the whole, got along as amicably as hundreds of other
couples. Besides--ahem!--"
The man abruptly ceased, as if, unwittingly, he had been about to say
something that had better be left unsaid.
"Well--besides what?" queried his listener.
"Doubtless you will think it rather a humiliating confession to make,"
said Gerald Goddard, with a crestfallen air, "but during the last few
years I have lost a great deal of money in unfortunate speculation,
so--I have been somewhat dependent upon Anna in a financial way."
"Ah! I understand," remarked Mrs. Stewart, her delicate nostrils
dilating scornfully at this evidence of a weak, ease-loving nature,
that would be content to lean upon a rich wife, rather than be up and
doing for himself, and making his own way in the world. "Are you not
engaged with your profession?"
"No; Anna has not been willing, for a long time, that I should paint
for money."
"And so your talents are deteriorating for want of use."
The scorn in her tones stung him keenly, and he flushed to his
temples.
"You do not appear to lack for the luxuries of life," he retorted,
glancing about the elegant apartment, with a sullen air, but ignoring
her thrust.
"No, I have an abundance," she quietly replied; but evidently she did
not deem it necessary to explain how she happened to be so favored.
"Will you explain to me the mystery of your existence, Isabel?" Mr.
Goddard inquired, after an awkward silence. "I cannot understand it--I
am sometimes tempted to believe that you are not Isabel, after all,
but some one else who--"
"Pray disabuse yourself of all such doubts," she quickly interposed,
"for I assure you that I am none other than that confiding but
misguided girl whom you sought to lure to her destruction twenty years
ago. If it were necessary, I could give you every detail of our life
from the time I left my home until that fatal day when you deserted me
for Anna Correlli."
"But Anna claims that she saw you dead in your casket."
A slight shiver shook the beautiful woman from head to foot at this
reference to the ghastly subject.
"Yes, I know it--"
"You know it!" exclaimed the man, amazed.
"Exactly; but I will tell you the whole story, and then you will no
longer have any doubt regarding my identity," Mrs. Stewart remarked.
"After you left Rome with Anna Correlli, and I realized that I had
been abandoned, and my child left to the tender mercies of a world
that would not hesitate to brand her with a terrible stigma, for which
her father alone was to blame, I resolved that I would not live.
Grief, shame, and despair for the time rendered me insane, else I, who
had been religiously reared, with a feeling of horror for the
suicide's end, would never have dared to meditate taking the life that
belonged to God. I was not so bereft of sense, however, but that my
motherhood inspired me to make an effort to provide for my little one,
and I wrote an earnest appeal to my old schoolmate and friend, Edith
Allandale, who, I knew, would shortly be in Rome, asking her to take
the child and rear her as her own--"
"What! Then you did not try to drown the child as well as yourself!"
gasped Gerald Goddard, in an excited tone.
"No; had I done so, I should never have lived to tell you this story,"
said the woman, tremulously. "But wait--you shall learn everything, as
far as I know, just as it happened. Having written my appeal, which I
felt sure would be heeded, I took my baby to the woman who had nursed
me, told her that I had been suddenly called away, and asked her to
care for her until my return. She readily promised, not once
suspecting that a stranger would come for her in my place, and that it
was my purpose never to see her again. From the moment of my leaving
the woman's house--that last straw of surrendering my baby was more
than my heart and brain could bear--everything, with one exception,
was a blank to me until I awoke to consciousness, five weeks later, to
find myself being tenderly cared for in the home of a young man, who
was spending the winter in Rome for his health. His sister--a lovely
girl, a few years his senior--was with him, acting both as his nurse
and physician, she having taken her degree in a Philadelphia medical
college, just out of love for the profession. And she it was who had
cared for me during my long illness. She told me that her brother was
in the habit of spending a great deal of his time upon the Tiber; that
one evening, just at dusk, as he was upon the point of passing under a
bridge, a little way out of the city, he was startled to see some one
leap from it into the water and immediately sink. He shot his boat to
the spot, and when the figure arose to the surface, he was ready to
grasp it. It was no easy matter to lift it into his boat, but he
succeeded at last, when he rowed with all possible speed back to the
city, where, instead of notifying the police and giving me into their
hands to be taken either to a hospital or to the morgue, as the case
might demand, he procured a carriage and took me directly to his home,
where he felt that his sister could do more for me than any one else."
"Who was this young man?" Gerald Goddard here interposed, while he
searched his companion's face curiously.
"Willard Livermore," calmly replied Mrs. Stewart, as she steadily met
his glance, although the color in her cheeks deepened visibly.
"Ha! the man who accompanied you to Wyoming night before last?"
"Yes."
"I have heard that he has long wanted to marry you--that he is your
lover," said Mr. Goddard, flashing a jealous look at her.
"He is my friend, stanch and true; a man whom I honor above all men,"
was the composed reply; but the woman's voice was vibrant with an
earnestness which betrayed how much the words meant to her.
"Then why have you not married him?"
"Because I was already bound."
"But you have told me that you did not know you were legally bound
until within the last two years."
Isabel Stewart lifted a grave glance to her companion's face.
"When, as a girl, I left my home to go with you to Italy," she said,
solemnly, "I took upon myself vows which only death could cancel--they
were as binding upon me as if you had always been true to me; and so,
while you lived, I could never become the wife of another. I have
lived my life as a pure and faithful wife should live. Although my
youth was marred by an irrevocable mistake, which resulted in an act
of frenzy for which I was not accountable, no willful wrong has ever
cast a blight upon my character since the day that Willard Livermore
rescued me from a watery grave in the depths of the yellow Tiber."
And Gerald Goddard, looking into the beautiful and noble face before
him, knew that she spoke only the truth, while a blush of shame surged
over his own, and caused his head to droop before the purity of her
steadfast eyes.
"All efforts upon the part of Miss Livermore and her brother to
resuscitate me," Mrs. Stewart resumed, going on with her story from
the point where she had been interrupted, "were unavailing. Another
physician was called to their assistance; but he at once pronounced
life to be extinct, and their efforts were reluctantly abandoned. Even
then that noble brother and sister would not allow me to be sent to
the morgue. They advertised in all the papers, giving a careful
description of me, and begging my friends--if there were such in
Rome--to come to claim me. Among the many curious gazers
who--attracted by the air of mystery which enveloped me--came to look
upon me, only one person seemed to betray the slightest evidence of
ever having seen me before. That person was Anna Correlli--Ah! what
was that?"
This sudden break and startled query was caused by the rattling of the
rings which held the portieres upon the pole across the archway
between the two rooms, and by the gentle swaying of the draperies to
and fro.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
ISABEL STEWART ASTOUNDS MR. GODDARD.
But there was not a sound to be heard in the room beyond, although the
curtains still continued to vibrate gently, thus showing the presence
of some object that had caused the movement.
Mrs. Stewart arose to investigate, for the conversation in which she
had been engaged and the story she was relating were of such a nature
that she did not care to have a third party, especially a servant,
overhear it.
She parted the draperies and looked curiously into the room beyond.
But her act only revealed a pretty maltese kitten, which, being thus
aroused from its slumbers in its cozy place of concealment, rolled
over on its back and began to play with the heavy fringe that bordered
the costly hangings.
"Ah, Greylocks! so you are the rogue who has startled us!" said the
lady, with an amused smile. "I feared that we had an eavesdropper. You
are a very innocent one, however, and we will not take the trouble to
banish you."
She went back to her chair reassured, and without a suspicion of the
presence of one who hated her with a deadly hatred, and who still
stood, pale and trembling, concealed by the voluminous folds of the
draperies, but waiting with eager curiosity to overhear what should
follow.
Meantime the maid who had admitted Mrs. Goddard, feeling that she must
become wearied with her long waiting, had returned to the
reception-room to ascertain if she still desired to remain until her
mistress should be at liberty; but finding it empty, had concluded
that the lady had left the house, and so went about her business,
thinking no more of the matter.
"Yes," resumed Mrs. Stewart, after she had resumed her seat, "I knew,
from the description which my kind friends afterward gave me, that
Anna Correlli had come there to assure herself that her rival was
really dead. When--suspecting from her manner that she might know
something about me--they questioned her, she told them that, 'from
what she had read in the papers, she feared it might be some one whom
she knew; but she was mistaken--I was nothing to her--she had never
seen me before.' Then she went away with an air of utter indifference,
and I was left fortunately to the kindness of that noble hearted
brother and sister. They did everything that the fondest relatives
could have done, and, in their divine pity for one so friendless and
unfortunate, neglected not the smallest detail which they would have
bestowed upon an own sister. Only they, besides the undertaker and the
one Protestant pastor in the city, were present during the reading of
the service; and when that was over, Willard Livermore, actuated by
some unaccountable impulse, insisted upon closing the casket. He bent
over me to remove a Roman lily which his sister had placed in my
hands, and which he wished to preserve, and, while doing so, observed
that my fingers were no longer rigid--that the nails were even faintly
tinted. He was startled, and instantly summoned his sister. Hardly had
her own fingers pressed my pulse in search of evidence of life, when
my eyes unclosed and I moaned:
"'Don't let her come near me! She has stolen all the love out of my
life!"
"Then I immediately relapsed again into unconsciousness without even
knowing I had spoken. Later, when told of the fact, I could dimly
recall the sensation of a sudden shock which was instantly followed by
a vision of Anna Correlli's face and the sound of her voice, and I
firmly believe, to-day, that it was her presence alone that startled
my chilled pulses once more into action and thus awoke to new life the
torpid soul which had so nearly passed out into the great unknown."
Could the narrator have seen the face of the listener outside, her
tongue would have been paralyzed and the remainder of her story would
never have been told; for Anna Goddard, upon learning that she had
been the means of calling back to earth the woman whose existence had
shorn her of every future hope, looked--with her wild eyes and
demoniac face--as if she could be capable of any act that would
utterly annihilate the unsuspicious companion of the man whom her
untamed soul worshiped as only such a fierce and selfish nature could
worship a human being.
But she made no sign or sound to betray her presence, for she was
curious to hear the remainder of this strange story--to learn how her
beautiful rival had risen from disgrace and obscurity to her present
prosperity and enviable position in society.
"Of course," Mrs. Stewart resumed, "Mr. and Miss Livermore were both
thrown into a state of great excitement at such an unexpected
manifestation; but my words told them that there was some sad and
mysterious story connected with my life and the rash deed I had
committed, and they resolved to still surround me with their care and
protection until I should recover--if that were possible--instead of
committing me to a hospital, as many would have done.
"They bound both the clergyman and the undertaker to the strictest
secrecy; then I was immediately conveyed to Miss Livermore's own room,
where that noble girl cared for me as tenderly as a mother would nurse
her own child. For weeks I hovered between life and death, then slowly
began to mend. When I was able, I related to my kind friends the story
of my wrongs, to receive only gentle sympathy and encouragement,
instead of coldness and censure, such as the world usually metes out
to girls who err as I had erred. As I grew stronger, and realized that
I was to live, my mother-heart began to long for its child. Miss
Livermore agreed with me that it would be better for me to have her,
and went herself to make inquiries regarding her. But the nurse had
moved and none of her neighbors could give any information about her,
except that for a time she had charge of an infant, but after its
parents had come to claim it, she had moved away, and no one could
tell whither she had gone.
"From this I knew that my old friend, Edith Allendale, had responded
nobly to my appeal--that she had taken my child and adopted it as her
own. At first I was inclined to be disappointed, and contemplated
writing to Edith, telling her what had happened and ask her to
surrender the little one to me; but after thinking the matter over
more at length, I reasoned that it would be best to let everything
rest just as it was. I knew that my darling would be tenderly reared
in her new home; she would grow up to a happy womanhood without ever
knowing of the blight that rested upon her birth, or that her father
had been a villain, her mother a wronged and ruined woman--almost a
suicide. So I decided that I would never reveal myself to my old
friend, or undeceive her regarding my supposed fate, to disturb her
peace or her enjoyment of the child.
"But, following the advice of my new friends, I finally wrote to my
father and mother, confessing everything to them, imploring their
forgiveness for the grief and shame I had brought upon them, and
asking their counsel and wishes regarding my future. Imagine my joy
and gratitude when, three weeks later, they walked in upon me and took
me at once to their hearts, ignoring all the past, as far as any
censure or condemnation were concerned, and began to plan to make my
future as peaceful and happy as circumstances would allow.
"They had come abroad with the intention of remaining, they told me;
they would never ask me to return to my former home, where the fact
that I had eloped with an artist was known, but would settle in
London, where my father had some business interests, and where,
surrounded by the multitude, our former friends would never be likely
to meet us. We lived there, a quiet, peaceful, prosperous life, I
devoting myself assiduously to study to make up for what I had
sacrificed by leaving school so early, and to keep my mind from
dwelling upon my unhappy past.
"So the time slipped away until, five years ago, this tranquil life
was suddenly interrupted by my father's death. Six months later my
mother followed him, and I was again left alone, without a relative in
the world, the sole heiress to a half-million pounds--"
"A half-million pounds?" interposed Gerald Goddard, in a tone of
amazement.
"Yes; but of what value is money without some one to share it with
you?" questioned Isabel Stewart, in a voice of sadness.
Her companion passed his hand across his brow, a dazed expression upon
his face, while he was saying to himself, that, in his folly, he had
missed an ideal existence with this brilliantly beautiful and
accomplished woman, who, in addition, was now the possessor of two and
a half million dollars.
What an idiot he had been! What an unconscionable craven, to
sacrifice this pure and conscientious creature to his passion for one
who had made his life wretched by her variable moods and selfishness!
"Occasionally I heard from my child," Mrs. Stewart resumed, after a
moment of silence, while tears started into her beautiful eyes. "My
father crossed the ocean from time to time, for the sole purpose of
learning something of her, in order to satisfy my hungry heart. He
never revealed the fact of my existence to any one, however, although
he managed to learn that my darling was happy, growing up to be a pure
and lovely girl, as well as a great comfort to her adopted parents,
and with nothing to mar her future prospects. Of course such tidings
were always gleams of great comfort to my sad and quiet life, and I
tried to be satisfied with them--tried to be grateful for them. But,
oh! since the death of my parents, I have yearned for her with an
inexpressible heart-hunger--"
A sob of pain burst from the beautiful woman's lips and interrupted
her narrative at this point.
But she recovered herself almost immediately, and resumed:
"A year or two after I was left alone I happened to meet your former
friend, Will Forsyth, and from him learned that I had always been your
legal wife, and that he had sent you proofs of the fact, about a year
after your desertion of me.
"This astonishing intelligence animated me with a new purpose, and I
resolved that I would seek the world over for you, and demand that
proof from you.
"I returned immediately to this country and established myself in New
York, where, Mr. Forsyth told me, he thought you were residing. Soon
after my arrival I learned, to my dismay, that Mr. Allandale had
recently died, leaving his family in a destitute condition. This
knowledge changed my plans somewhat; I gave up my quest for you, for
the time, and began to search for my old friend who, for eighteen
years, had been a mother to my child. I had no intention of
interrupting the relations between them--my only thought was to
provide for their future in a way to preclude the possibility of
their ever knowing the meaning of the word poverty. But my utmost
efforts proved unavailing--I could learn nothing of them; but I
finally did get trace of you, and two months ago came on to Boston,
determined to face you and compel you to surrender to me the
certificate of our marriage."
"Ha! did you expect that I would yield to you?" questioned Gerald
Goddard, a note of defiance in his voice.
"Certainly--I knew I could compel you to do so."
"Indeed? You were sanguine! By what arguments did you expect to
achieve your desire? How could you even prove that I had such a
paper?"
"I do not know that I could have proven that you possessed the
certificate," quietly responded Mrs. Stewart; "but I could at least
prove that such a paper once existed, for Mr. Forsyth assured me that,
if I needed assistance to establish the fact of my marriage he would
be ready to give it at any time. I did not think I should need to call
upon him, however; I reasoned that, rather than submit to an arrest
and scandal, for--bigamy, you would quietly surrender the certificate
to me."
Gerald Goddard shivered at the sound of those three ugly words, while
the listener, behind the draperies, clinched her hands and locked her
teeth to keep herself from shrieking aloud in her agony, and thus
revealing her presence.
"I am afraid you will find that you have reckoned without your host,
madam," the man at length retorted, for he was stung to the soul with
the covert threat which had suggested the possibility that he, Gerald
Goddard, the noted artist, the distinguished society man, and princely
entertainer, might be made to figure conspicuously in a criminal court
under a charge that would brand him for all time.
"Ah! how so?" quietly inquired his companion.
"No power on earth would ever have compelled me to relinquish it, Mr.
Forsyth's assurance to the contrary notwithstanding."
The man paused, to see what effect this assertion would have upon his
listener; but she made no response--she simply sat quietly regarding
him, while a curious little smile hovered about her beautiful mouth.
"You look skeptical," Mr. Goddard continued, gazing at her
searchingly; "but let me tell you that you will find it no easy matter
to prove the statements you have made--no person of common sense would
credit your story."
"Indeed! But have you not already admitted that you received the
certificate of which Mr. Forsyth told me?"
"Yes; but we have been here alone, with no witness to swear to what
has passed between us. However, as I have already told you, Anna stole
the paper from me years ago, and I have never seen it since."
"Yes, I know you told me so!"
"Do you not believe me?"
"I think my past relations with you have not served to establish a
feeling of excessive confidence in you," was the quietly ironical
response.
The man flushed hotly, while anger for the moment rendered him
speechless.
"Possibly you might be able to induce your--companion to surrender the
document," the lady added, after a minute of awkward silence.
Gerald Goddard gnawed his under lip in impotent wrath at this
sarcastic reference to the woman who had shared his life for so many
years; while the wretched eavesdropper herself barely suppressed a
moan of passionate anguish.
"You have very little idea of Anna's spirit, if you imagine that she
would ever yield one jot to you," Mr. Goddard at length retorted, his
face crimson with rage.
Isabel Stewart arose from her chair and stood calm and cold before
him.
She gazed with a steady, searching look into his eyes, then remarked,
with slow emphasis:
"She will never be asked to yield to me, and I am spared the necessity
of suing to either of you, for--that all-important certificate of
marriage is already in my possession."
As we know, Gerald Goddard had feared this; he had even suggested the
possibility to Anna, on the night of the ball at Wyoming, when she
told him of the disappearance of the paper.
Nevertheless, the announcement of the fact at this time came upon him
like a thunderbolt, for which he was utterly unprepared.
"Zounds!" he cried, starting to his feet, as if electrified, "can you
mean it? Then you stole it the night of the ball!"
"You are greatly mistaken, Mr. Goddard; it was in my possession before
the night of the ball," quietly returned his companion.
"I do not believe it!" cried the man, excitedly.
"I will prove it to you if you desire," Mrs. Stewart remarked.
"I defy you to do so."
"Very well; I accept your gage. You will, however, have to excuse me
for a few moments," and, with these few words, the stately and
graceful woman turned and disappeared within a chamber that opened
from the room they were in.
It would be difficult to describe the conflict of emotions that raged
in Gerald Goddard's breast during her absence.
While he was almost beside himself with anger and chagrin, over the
very precarious position in which he found himself, he was also
tormented by intense disappointment and a sense of irritation to think
he had so fatally marred his life by his heartless desertion of the
beautiful woman who had just left him.
Anna was not to be compared with her; she was perhaps more brilliant
and pronounced in her style; but she lacked the charm of refinement
and sweet graciousness that characterized Isabel; while, more than all
else, he lamented the loss of the princely inheritance which had
fallen to her, and which he would have shared if he had been true to
her.
Ten minutes passed, and then he was aroused from his wretched
reflections by the opening of the chamber door near him, when his late
housekeeper at Wyoming walked into the room.
CHAPTER XXIX.
"OUR WAYS PART HERE, NEVER TO CROSS AGAIN."
Gerald Goddard arose from his chair, and stared at the woman in
unfeigned astonishment.
"Really, Mrs. Weld! this is an unexpected meeting--I had no thought of
seeing you here, or even that you were acquainted with Mrs. Stewart,"
he remarked, while he searched his recent housekeeper's face with
curious eyes.
"I have known Isabel Haven all her life," the woman replied, without
appearing in the least disconcerted by the gentleman's scrutiny.
"Can that be possible?" exclaimed her companion, but losing some of
his color at the information.
"Yes."
"Then I presume you are familiar with her history."
"I am; with every item of it, from her cradle to the present hour."
"And were you aware of her presence in Boston when you applied for
your position at Wyoming?"
"I was."
"Perchance it was at her instigation that you sought the place," Mr.
Goddard remarked, a sudden suspicion making him feel sick at heart.
"Mrs. Stewart certainly knew that I was to have charge of your house,"
calmly responded Mrs. Weld.
"Then there was a plot between you--you had some deep-laid scheme in
seeking the situation."
"I do not deny the charge, sir."
"What! do you boldly affirm it? What was your object?" demanded the
man, in a towering rage, but growing deathly white at the explanation
that suggested itself to his mind.
"I perceive that you have your suspicions, Mr. Goddard," coolly
remarked the woman, without losing an atom of her self-possession in
view of his anger.
"I have. Great Heavens! I understand it all now," cried her companion,
hoarsely. "It was you who stole that certificate from my wife's room!"
"Yes, sir; I was fortunate enough to find it, two days previous to the
ball."
"You confess it!--you dare own it to me, madam! You are worse than a
professional thief, and I will have you arrested for your crime!" and
Gerald Goddard was almost beside himself with passion at her cool
effrontery.
"I hardly think you will, Mr. Goddard," was the quiet response. "I
imagine that you would hesitate to bring such a charge against me,
since such a course would necessitate explanations that might be to
you somewhat distasteful, if not mortifying. You would hardly like to
reveal the character of the document, which, however, you have made a
mistake in asserting that I stole--"
"But you have admitted the charge," he excitedly interposed.
"I beg your pardon, I have not acknowledged the crime of theft--I
simply stated that I was fortunate enough to find the document in
question."
"It seems to me that that is a distinction without a difference," he
sneered.
"One can hardly be accused of stealing what rightly belongs to one's
self," Mrs. Weld composedly said.
"What--what on earth can you mean? Explain yourself."
"Certainly; that is exactly what I came here to do," she answered, as,
with a dexterous movement, she tore the glasses from her eyes, and
swept the moles from her face, after which she snatched the cap and
wig from her head, and stood before her companion revealed as Isabel
Stewart herself.
"Good Heaven!" he gasped, then sank back upon his chair, staring in
blank amazement at her.
Mrs. Stewart seized this opportunity to again slip from the room, and
when she returned, a few minutes later, her superabundance of cellular
tissue (?) had disappeared and she was her own peerless self once
more.
She quietly resumed her seat, gravely remarking, as she did so:
"A woman who has been wronged as you have wronged me, Gerald Goddard,
will risk a great deal to re-establish her good name. When I first
learned of your whereabouts I thought I would go and boldly demand
that certificate of you. I tried to meet you in society here, but,
strange to say, I failed in this attempt, for, as it happened, neither
you nor your--Anna Correlli frequented the places where I was
entertained, although I did meet Monsieur Correlli two or three times.
Then I saw that advertisement for a housekeeper to go out to Wyoming,
to take charge of your house during a mid-winter frolic; and, prompted
by a feeling of curiosity to learn something of your private life with
the woman who had supplanted me, I conceived the idea of applying for
the situation and thus trying to obtain that certificate by strategy.
How did I know that it was you who advertised?" she interposed, as Mr.
Goddard looked up inquiringly. "Because I chanced to overhear some one
say that the Goddards were going out of town for the same purpose as
that which your notice mentioned. So I disguised myself, as you have
seen, went to your office, found I was right, and secured the
position."
"Now I know why I was so startled that day, when you dropped your
glasses in the dining-room," groaned the wretched man.
"Yes; I saw that you had never forgotten the eyes which you used to
call your 'windows of paradise,'" responded his companion, with quiet
irony, and Gerald Goddard shrank under the familiar smile as under a
blow.
"Gerald," she went on, after a moment of painful silence, but with a
note of pity pervading her musical tones, "a man can never escape the
galling consciousness of wrong that he has done until he repents of
it; even then the consequences of his sin must follow him through
life. Yours was a nature of splendid possibilities; there was scarcely
any height to which you might not have attained, had you lived up to
your opportunities. You had wealth and position, and a physique such
as few men possess; you were finely educated, and you were a superior
artist. What have you to show for all this? what have you done with
your God-given talents? how will you answer to Him, when He calls you
to account for the gifts intrusted to your care? What excuse, also,
will you give for the wreck you have made of two women's lives? You
began all wrong; in the first place, you weakly yielded to the selfish
gratification of your own pleasure; you lived upon the principle that
you must have a good time, no matter who suffered in consequence--you
must be amused, regardless of who or what was sacrificed to subserve
that end--"
"You are very hard upon me, Isabel; I have been no worse than hundreds
of other men in those respects," interposed Gerald Goddard, who
smarted under her searching questions and scathing charges as under a
lash.
"Granted that you 'are no worse than hundreds of other men,'" she
retorted, with scornful emphasis, "and more's the pity. But how does
that lessen the measure of your responsibility, pray tell me? There
will come a time when each and every man must answer for himself. I
have nothing to do with any one else, but I have the right to call you
to account for the selfishness and sins which have had such a baneful
influence upon my life; I have the right, by reason of all that I have
suffered at your hands--by the broken heart of my youth--the loss of
my self-respect--the despair which so nearly drove me to crime--and,
more than all else, by that terrible renunciation that deprived me of
my child, that innocent baby whom I loved with no ordinary
affection--I say I have the right to arraign you in the sight of
Heaven and of your own conscience, and to make one last attempt to
save you, if you will be saved."
"What do you care--what does it matter to you now whether I am saved
or lost?" the man huskily demanded, and in a tone of intense
bitterness, for her solemn words had pierced his heart like a
double-edged dagger.
"I care because you are a human being, with a soul that must live
eternally--because I am striving to serve One who has commanded us to
follow Him in seeking to save that which is lost," the fair woman
gravely replied. "Look at yourself, Gerald--your inner self, I mean.
Outwardly you are a specimen of God's noblest handiwork. How does your
spiritual self compare with your physical frame?--has it attained the
same perfection? No; it has become so dwarfed and misshapen by your
indulgence in sin and vice--so hardened by yielding to so-called
'pleasure,' your intellect so warped, your talents so misapplied that
even your Maker would scarcely recognize the being that He Himself had
brought into existence. You are forty-nine years old, Gerald--you may
have ten, twenty, even thirty more to live. How will you spend them?
Will you go on as you have been living for almost half a century, or
is there still a germ of good within you that you will have strength
and resolution to develop, as far as may be, toward that perfect
symmetry which God desires every human soul to attain? Think!--choose!
Make this hour the turning point in your career; go back to your
painting, retrieve your skill, and work to some purpose and for some
worthy object. If you do not need the money such work will bring, for
your own support, use it for the good of others--of those unfortunate
ones, perchance, whose lives have been blighted, as mine was blighted,
by those 'hundreds of other men' like you."
As the beautiful woman concluded her earnest appeal, the
conscience-smitten man dropped his head upon the table beside which he
sat, and groaned aloud.
For the first time in his life he saw himself as he was, and loathed
himself, his past life, and all the alluring influences that had
conspired to decoy him into the downward path which he had trodden.
"I will! I will! Oh, Isabel, forgive and help me," he pleaded, in a
voice thrilling with despair.
"I help you?" she repeated, in an inquiring tone, in which there was a
note of surprise.
"Yes, with your sweet counsel, your pure example and influence."
"I do not understand you, quite," she responded, her lovely color
waning as a suspicion of his meaning began to dawn upon her.
He raised his face, which was drawn and haggard from the remorse he
was suffering, and looked appealingly into hers. But, as he met the
gaze of her pure, grave eyes, a flush of shame mounted to his brow as
he realized how despicable he must appear to her in now suing so
humbly for what he had once trampled under foot as worthless.
Yet an unspeakable yearning to regain her love had taken possession of
him, and every other emotion was, for the moment, surmounted by that.
"I mean, come back to me! try to love me again! and let me, under the
influence of your sweet presence, your precepts and noble example,
strive to become the man you have described, and that, at last, my own
heart yearns to be."
His plea was like the cry of a despairing soul, who realized, all too
late, the fatal depths of the pit into which he had voluntarily
plunged.
Isabel Stewart saw this, and pitied him, as she would have pitied any
other human being who had become so lost to all honor and virtue; but
his suggestion, his appeal that she would go back to him, live with
him, associate with him from day to day, was so repulsive to her that
she could not quite repress her aversion, and a slight shiver ran over
her frame, so chilling that all her color faded, even from her lips;
and Gerald Goddard, seeing it, realized the hopelessness of his desire
even before she could command herself sufficiently to answer him.
"That would not be possible, Gerald," she finally replied. "Truth
compels me to tell you plainly that whatever affection I may once have
entertained for you has become an emotion of the past; it was killed
outright when I believed myself a deserted outcast in Rome. I should
do sinful violence to my own heart and nature if I should heed your
request, and also become but a galling reproach to you, rather than a
help."
"Then you repudiate me utterly, in spite of the fact that the law yet
binds us to each other? I am no more to you than any other human
being?" groaned the humbled man.
"Only in the sense that through you I have keenly suffered," she
gravely returned.
"Then there is no hope for me," he whispered, hoarsely, as his head
sank heavily upon his breast.
"You are mistaken, Gerald," his companion responded, with sweet
solemnity; "there is every hope for you--the same hope and promise
that our Master held out to the woman whom the Pharisees were about to
stone to death when he interfered to save her. I presume to cast no
revengeful 'stone' at you. I do not arrogantly condemn you. I simply
say as he said, 'Go and sin no more.'"
"Oh, Isabel, have mercy! With you to aid me, I could climb to almost
any height," cried the broken-spirited man, throwing out his hands in
despairing appeal.
"I am more merciful in my rejection of your proposal than I could
possibly be in acceding to it," she answered. "You broke every moral
tie and obligation that bound me to you when you left me and my child
to amuse yourself with another. Legally, I suppose, I am still your
wife, but I can never recognize the bond; henceforth, I can be nothing
but a stranger to you, though I wish you no ill, and would not lift my
hand against you in any way--"
"Do you mean by that that you would not even bring mortification or
scandal upon me by seeking to publicly prove the legality of our
marriage?" Mr. Goddard interposed, in a tone of surprise.
"Yes, I mean just that. Since the certificate is in my possession, and
I have the power to vindicate myself, in case any question regarding
the matter arises in the future, I am content."
"But I thought--I supposed--Will you not even use it to obtain a
divorce from me?" stammered the man, who suddenly remembered a certain
rumor regarding a distinguished gentleman's devotion to the beautiful
Mrs. Stewart.
"No; death alone can break the tie that binds me to you," she
returned, her lovely lips contracting slightly with pain.
"What! Have you no wish to be free?" he questioned, regarding her with
astonishment.
"Yes, I would be very glad to feel that no fetters bound me," she
answered, with clouded eyes; "but I vowed to be true as long as life
should last, and I will never break my word."
"True!" repeated her companion, bitterly.
A flush of indignation mounted to the beautiful woman's brow at the
reproach implied in his word and tone.
But she controlled the impulse to make an equally scathing retort, and
remarked, with a quiet irony that was tenfold more effective.
"Well, if that word offends you, I will qualify it so far as to say
that, at least, I have never dishonored my marriage vows; I never will
dishonor them."
Gerald Goddard threw out his hands with a gesture of torture, and for
a moment he became deathly white, showing how keenly his companion's
arrow had pierced his conscience.
There was a painful silence of several moments, and then he inquired,
in constrained tones:
"What, then, is my duty? What relations must I henceforth sustain
toward--Anna?"
"I cannot be conscience for you, Gerald," said Isabel Stewart, coldly;
"at least, I could offer no suggestion regarding such a matter as
that. I can only live out my own life as my heart and judgment of what
is right and wrong approve; but if you have no scruples on that
score--if you desire to institute proceedings for a divorce, in order
to repair, as far as may be, the wrong you have also done Anna
Correlli--I shall lay no obstacle in your way."
She arose as she ceased speaking, thus intimating that she desired the
interview to terminate.
"And that is all you have to say to me? Oh, Isabel!" Gerald Goddard
gasped, and realizing how regally beautiful she had become, how
infinitely superior, physically and morally, spiritually and
intellectually, she was to the woman for whose sake he had trampled
her in the dust. And the fact was forced upon him that she was one to
be worshiped for her sweet graciousness and purity of character--to be
reverenced for her innate nobility and stanch adherence to principle,
and to be exultantly proud of, could he have had the right to be--as a
queen among women.
"That is all," she replied, with slow thoughtfulness, "unless, as a
woman who is deeply interested in the moral advancement of humanity in
general, I urge you once more to make your future better than your
past has been, that thus the world may be benefited, in ever so slight
a measure, because you have lived. As for you and me, our ways part
here, never to cross again, I trust; for, while I have ceased to
grieve over the blighted hopes of my youth, it would be painful to be
reminded of my early mistakes."
"Part--forever? I do not feel that I can have it so," said Gerald
Goddard, with white lips, "for--I love you at this moment a thousand
times more than I ever--"
"Stop!" Isabel Stewart firmly commanded. "Such an avowal from you at
this time is but an added insult to me, as well as a cowardly wrong
against her who, in the eyes of the world, at least, has sustained the
relationship of wife to you for many years."
The head of the proud man dropped before her with an air of humility
entirely foreign to the "distinguished" Gerald Goddard whom the world
knew; but, though crushed by a sense of shame and grief, he could but
own to himself that her condemnation was just, and the faint hope that
had sprung up in his heart died, then and there, its tragic death.
CHAPTER XXX.
"I HATE YOU WITH ALL THE STRENGTH OF MY ITALIAN BLOOD."
Isabel Stewart felt that she could not bear the painful interview any
longer, and was about to touch the electric button to summon her
servant to show her visitor out, when he stayed her with a gesture of
appeal.
"One moment more, Isabel, I implore," he exclaimed; "then I will go,
never to trouble you again."
Her beautiful hand dropped by her side, and she turned again to him
with a patient, inquiring glance.
"You have spoken of our--child," the man went on, eagerly, though a
flush of shame dyed his face as he gave utterance to the pronoun
denoting mutual possession. "Do you intend to continue your search for
her?"
"Certainly; that will now be the one aim of my life. I could never
take another moment of comfort knowing that my old friend and my child
were destitute, as I have been led to believe they are."
"And if--you find her--shall--you tell her--your history?" faltered
Gerald Goddard, as he nervously moistened his dry lips.
His companion bent her head in thought for a moment. At length she
remarked:
"I shall, of course, be governed somewhat by circumstances in such a
matter; if I find Edith still in ignorance of the fact that she is an
adopted daughter, I think I shall never undeceive her, but strive to be
content with such love as she can give me, as her mother's friend. If,
on the other hand, I find that she has learned the truth--especially if
she should happen to be alone in the world--I shall take her into my
arms and tell her the whole story of my life, beg her to share my
future, and let me try to win as much as possible of her love."
"If you should find her, pray, pray do not teach her to regard me as a
monster of all that is evil," pleaded her companion, in a tone of
agony that was pitiful. "Ah, Isabel, I believe I should have been a
better man if I could have had the love of little children thrown
about me as a safeguard."
Isabel Stewart's red lips curled with momentary scorn at this attempt
to shift the responsibility of his wasted and misguided life upon any
one or anything rather than himself.
"What a pity, then, that you did not realize the fact before you
discarded the unhappy young mother and her innocent babe, so many
years ago," she remarked, in a tone that pierced his heart like a
knife.
"I did go back to Rome for the child--I did try to find her after--I
had heard that--that you were gone," he faltered. "I was told that the
infant had doubtless perished with you, though its body was never
found; but I have mourned her--I have yearned for her all my life."
"And do you imagine, even if you should meet her some time in the
future, that she would reciprocate this affection which, strangely
enough, you manifest at this late day?"
"Perhaps not, if you should meet her first and tell her your story,"
the man returned, with a heavy sigh.
"Which I shall assuredly do," said Mrs. Stewart, resolutely; "that is,
if, as I said before, I find her alone in the world; that much
justification is my due--my child shall know the truth; then she shall
be allowed to act according to the dictates of her own heart and
judgment, regarding her future relationship toward both of us. I feel
sure that she has been most carefully reared--that my old friend Edith
would instill only precepts of truth and purity in her mind, and my
heart tells me that she would be likely to shrink from one who had
wronged her mother as you have wronged me."
"I see; you will keep her from me if you can," said Mr. Goddard, with
intense bitterness.
"I am free to confess that I should prefer you never to meet," said
Mrs. Stewart, a look of pain sweeping over her beautiful face; "but
Edith is twenty years of age, if she is living; and if, after learning
my history, she desires to recognize the relationship between herself
and you, I can, of course, but submit to her wish."
"It is very evident to me that you will teach her to hate her father,"
was the sullen retort.
"Her father?" the term was repeated with infinite scorn. "Pray in what
respect have you shown yourself worthy to be so regarded?--you who
even denied her legitimate birth, and turned your back upon her,
totally indifferent to whether she starved or not."
"How hard you are upon me, Isabel!"
"I have told you only facts."
"I know--I know; but have some pity for me now, since, at last, I have
come to my senses; for in my heart I have an insatiable longing for
this daughter who, if she is living, must embody some of the virtues
of her mother, who--God help me!--is lost, lost to me forever!"
The man's voice died away in a hoarse whisper, while a heart-broken
sob burst from his lips.
"Go, Gerald," said Mrs. Stewart, in a low, but not unkindly imperative
tone; "it is better that this interview should terminate. The past is
past--nothing can change it; but the future will be what we make it.
Go, and if I ever hear from you again, let me know that your present
contrition has culminated in a better life."
She turned abruptly from him and disappeared within her chamber,
quietly shutting the door after her, while Gerald Goddard arose to
"go" as he had been bidden.
As, with tottering gait and a pale, despairing face, he crossed the
room and parted the draperies between the two pretty parlors, he found
himself suddenly confronted by a woman so wan and haggard that, for an
instant, he failed to recognize her.
"Idiot!" hissed Anna Correlli, through her pallid, tightly-drawn lips;
"traitor! coward! viper!"
She was forced to pause simply because she was exhausted from the
venom which she had expended in the utterance of those four
expletives.
Then she sank, weak and faint, upon a chair, but with her eyes
glittering like points of flame, fastened in a look of malignant
hatred upon the astonished man.
"Anna! how came you here?--how long have you been here?" he finally
found voice to say.
"Long enough to learn of the contemptible perfidy and meanness of the
man whom, for twenty years, I have trusted," she panted, but the tone
was so hollow he never would have known who was speaking had he not
seen her.
He opened his dry lips to make some reply; but no sound came from
them.
He put out his hand to support himself by the back of her chair, for
all his strength and sense seemed on the point of failing him; while
for the moment he felt as if he could almost have been grateful to any
one who would slay him where he stood, and thus put him out of his
misery--benumb his sense of degradation and the remorse which he
experienced for his wasted life, and the wrongs of which he had been
guilty.
But, by a powerful effort, he soon mastered himself, for he was
anxious to escape from the house before the presence of his wife
should be discovered.
"Come, Anna," he said; "let us go home, where we can talk over this
matter by ourselves, without the fear of being overheard."
He attempted to assist her to rise, but she shrank away from him with
a gesture of aversion, at the same time flashing a look up at him that
almost seemed to curdle his blood, and sent a shudder of dread over
him.
"Do not dare to touch me!" she cried, hoarsely. "Go--call a carriage;
I am not able to walk. Go; I will follow you."
Without a word, he turned to obey her, and passed quickly out of the
suite without encountering any one, she following, but with a gait so
unsteady that any one watching her would have been tempted to believe
her under the influence of some intoxicant.
Mr. Goddard found a carriage standing near the entrance to the hotel,
and they were soon on their way home.
Not a word was spoken by either during the ride, and it would have
been impossible to have found two more utterly wretched people in all
that great city.
Upon entering their house, they found Emil Correlli in a state
bordering on frenzy, occasioned by the escape of Edith, and this
circumstance served for a few moments to distract their thoughts from
their own troubles.
Mr. Goddard was intensely relieved by the intelligence, and plainly
betrayed it in his manner.
When angrily called to account for it by his brother-in-law, he at
once replied, with an air of reckless defiance:
"Yes, I am glad of it--I would even have helped the girl to get away;
indeed, I was planning to do so, for such a dastardly fraud as you
perpetrated upon her should never be allowed to prosper."
He was rewarded for this speech, so loyal to Edith, only by an angry
oath, to which, however, he paid no attention.
Strangely enough, Anna Correlli, after the first emotion of surprise
and dismay had passed, paid no heed to the exciting conversation; she
had sunk into a chair by the window, where she sat pale and silent,
and absolutely motionless, save for the wild restlessness of her fiery
black eyes.
Mr. Goddard, finding the atmosphere so disagreeable, finally left the
room, and, mounting the stairs, shut himself in his own chamber, while
the enraged lover dashed out of the house to the nearest telegraph
office to send the message that caused the policeman to intercept
Edith upon her arrival in New York.
A few moments later, Mrs. Goddard--as we will, from courtesy, still
call her--crept wearily up to her room, where, tottering to a couch,
she threw herself prone upon her face, moaning and shivering with the
agony she could no longer control.
The blow, which for twenty years she had been dreading, had fallen at
last; but it was far more crushing and bitter than she had ever
dreamed it could be.
She had come at last to the dregs of the cup which once had seemed so
sweet and alluring to her senses, and they had poisoned her soul unto
death.
She knew that never again while she lived would she be able to face
the world and hide her misery beneath a mask of smiles; and the
bitterest drop of all, the sharpest thorn in her lacerated heart, was
the fact that the little insignificant girl who had once been her
hated rival in Rome, should have developed into the peerlessly
beautiful woman, whom all men admired and reverenced, and whom Gerald
Goddard now idolized.
An hour passed, during which she lay where she had fallen and almost
benumbed by her misery.
Then there came a knock upon her door, which was immediately opened,
and Mr. Goddard entered the room.
He was still very pale, but grave and self-contained.
The woman started to a sitting posture, exclaiming, in an unnatural
voice:
"What do you want here?"
"I have come, Anna, to talk over with you the events of the
morning--to ask you to try to control yourself, and look at our
peculiar situation with calmness and practical common sense," he
calmly replied.
"Well?" was all the response vouchsafed, as he paused an instant.
"I have not come to offer any excuses for myself, or for what you
overheard this morning," he thoughtfully resumed; "indeed, I have none
to offer--my whole life, I own, has, as Isabel rightly said, been a
failure thus far, and no one save myself is to blame for the fact. Do
not sneer, Anna," he interposed, as her lips curled back from her
dazzling teeth, which he saw were tightly locked with the effort she
was making at self-control. "I have been thoroughly humiliated for
the first time in my life--I have been made to see myself as I am, and
I have reached a point where I am willing to make an effort to atone,
as far as may be, for some of the wrongs of which I have been guilty.
Will you help me, Anna?"
Again he paused, but this time his companion did not deign to avail
herself of the opportunity to reply, if, indeed, she was able to do
so.
She had not once removed her glittering eyes from his face, and her
steady, inscrutable look gave him an uncanny sensation that was
anything but agreeable.
"I have come to propose that we avail ourselves of the only remedy
that seems practicable to relieve our peculiar situation," he
continued, seeing she was waiting for him to go on. "I will apply to
have the tie which binds me to Isabel annulled, with all possible
secrecy--it can be done in the West without any notoriety; then I will
make you my legal wife, as you have so often asked me to do, and we
will go abroad again, where we will try to live out the remainder of
our lives to some better purpose than we have done heretofore. I ask
you again, will you try to help me? It is not going to be an easy
thing at first; but if each will try, for the sake of the other, I
believe we can yet attain comparative content, if not positive
happiness."
"Content! happiness!"
The words were hissed out with a fierceness of passion that startled
him, and caused him to regard her anxiously.
"Happiness!" she repeated. "Ha! ha! What mockery in the sound of that
word from your lips, after what has occurred to-day!"
"I know that you have cause to be both grieved and angry, Anna," said
Gerald Goddard, humbly; "but let us both put the past behind us--let
us wipe out all old scores, and from this day begin a new life."
"'Begin a new life' upon a heap of ashes, without one spark among them
to ignite the smallest flame!" was the mocking rejoinder. Then, with a
burst of agony, she continued: "Oh, God! if you had taken a dagger
and stabbed me to death in that room to-day, you could not have slain
me more effectually than by the words you have uttered. Begin a new
life with you, after your confessions, your pleadings and
protestations to Isabel Stewart? Heaven! Never! I hate you! hate you;
hate you! with all the strength of my Italian blood, and warn
you--beware! And now, begone!"
The woman looked like a maniac as she poured this wild torrent upon
him, and the man saw that she was in no mood to be reasoned with or to
consider any subject; that it would be wiser to wait until the
fierceness of her anger had spent itself.
He had broached the matter of their future relations, thus giving her
something to think of, and now he would leave her to meditate upon it
by herself; perhaps, in a few days, she would be in a more reasonable
frame of mind, and look at the subject from a different point of view.
"Very well, Anna," he said, as he arose, "I will obey you. I do not
pretend to claim that I have not given you cause to feel aggrieved in
many respects; but, as I have already said, that is past. I simply ask
you to do what I also will do--put all the old life behind us, and
begin over again. I realize that we cannot discuss the question to any
purpose now--we are both too wrought up to think or talk calmly, so I
will leave you to rest, and we will speak of this at another time. Can
I do anything for you before I go?--or perhaps you would like your
maid sent to you?"
"No," she said, briefly, and not once having removed her wild eyes
from his face while he was speaking.
He bowed, and passed out of the room, softly shutting the door after
him, then walked slowly down the hall to his own apartment.
The moment he was gone Anna Goddard sprang like a cat to her feet.
Going to her writing-desk, she dashed off a few lines, which she
hastily folded and slipped into an envelope, which she sealed and
addressed.
She then touched the electric button above her desk to summon her
maid, after which she sat motionless with the missive clasped in her
hands until the girl appeared.
"Dress yourself for the street, Mary, and take this note to Mr.
Clayton's office. Be quick about it, for it is a matter of
importance," she commanded, while she forced herself to speak with
outward calmness.
But Mary regarded her mistress with wonder, for, in all her
"tantrums," as she termed them, she had never seen the awful look upon
her face which was stamped upon it at that moment.
But she took the note without comment, and hastened away upon her
errand, while Mrs. Goddard, throwing herself back in her chair, sat
there waiting with an air of expectation that betrayed she was looking
for the appearance of some one.
Half an hour later a gentleman was admitted to the house, and was
shown directly up to my lady's boudoir.
CHAPTER XXXI.
RECORDS SOME STARTLING DEVELOPMENTS.
The gentleman caller referred to in the last chapter was closeted with
Mrs. Goddard for fully two hours, when he quietly left the house.
A few moments later, however, he returned, accompanied by two other
men--clerks from a neighboring drug store--whom he admitted with a
latch-key, and then conducted them up to Mrs. Goddard's boudoir.
The strangers did not remain long; whatever their errand, it was soon
finished, and they departed as silently as they had come.
Mr. Clayton remained some time longer, conversing with the mistress of
the house, but their business being finally concluded, he also went
away, bearing a package of papers with him.
Emil Correlli returned just in season for dinner, which, however, he
was obliged to partake of alone, as Mr. and Mrs. Goddard did not make
their appearance at the table.
The young man paid slight heed to ceremony, but after eating a hasty
meal, sought his sister and informed her that he was going to start
for New York on the late evening train.
The woman gave him one wild, startled glance, and seemed strangely
agitated for a moment over his announcement.
He could not fail to notice her emotion, and that she was excessively
pale.
"You look like a ghost, Anna," he remarked, as he searched her face
with some anxiety. "What is the matter with you? I fear you are going
to be ill."
"I am ill," she said, in a hoarse, unnatural tone.
"Then let me call your physician," said her brother, eagerly. "I am
going out immediately, and will leave a message for him."
"No, no," she nervously replied; then with a hollow laugh that smote
heavily upon her companion's heart, she added: "My case is beyond the
reach of Dr. Hunt or any other physician."
"Anna, have you been quarreling with Gerald again?"
"Yes," was the brief response.
"Well, of course I can understand that such matters are beyond the
skill of any physician," said the young man, with a half-impatient
shrug of his shoulders; "neither have I any business to interfere
between you," he added; "but my advice would be to make it up as soon
as possible, and then try to live peaceably in the future. I do not
like to leave you looking so white and miserable, but I must go. Take
good care of yourself, and I shall hope to find you better and happier
when I return."
He bent down to give her a farewell caress, and was amazed by the
passion she manifested in returning it.
She threw her arms around his neck and held him in a convulsive
embrace, while she quivered from head to foot with repressed emotion.
She did not utter one word of farewell, but a wild sob burst from her;
then, as if she could bear no more, she pushed him from her and rushed
into her chamber, shutting and locking the door behind her.
Emil Correlli left the boudoir, a puzzled expression on his handsome
face; for, although his sister was subject to strange attacks, he had
never seen her like this before.
"Anna will come to grief some day with that cursed temper of hers," he
muttered, as he went to his room to pack his portmanteau, but he was
too intent upon his own affairs to dwell long upon even the trouble of
his sister, and a couple of hours later was on his way to New York to
begin his search for his runaway bride.
The next morning Mrs. Goddard was "too ill to rise," she told her
maid, when she came at the usual hour to her door. She would not admit
her, but sent word to her husband that she could not join him at
breakfast.
He went up later to see if she would allow him to call a physician for
her, but she would not see him, simply telling him she "would do well
enough without advice--all she needed was rest, and she did not wish
to be disturbed by any one until she rang."
Feeling deeply disappointed and depressed by her unusual obstinacy,
the wretched man went downstairs and shut himself into the library,
where he remained all day, while there was such an atmosphere of
loneliness and desolation about the house that even the servants
appeared to feel it, and went about with solemn faces and almost
stealthy steps.
Could any one have looked behind those closed doors he could not have
failed to have experienced a feeling of pity for the man; for if ever
a human being went down into the valley of humiliation, Gerald Goddard
sounded its uttermost depths, while he battled alone with all the
powers of evil that beset his soul.
When night came he was utterly exhausted, and sought his couch,
looking at least ten years older than he had appeared forty-eight
hours previous.
He slept heavily and dreamlessly, and did not awake till late, when
an imperative knock upon the door and a voice, calling in distress,
caused him to spring suddenly from his bed, and impressed him with a
sense of impending evil.
"What is it, Mary?" he inquired, upon recognizing the voice of his
wife's maid.
"Oh, sir! come--come to madam; she is very ill!" cried the girl, in a
frightened tone.
"I will be there immediately. Send James for the doctor, and then go
back to her," commanded her master, as he hurriedly began to dress.
Five minutes later he was in his wife's room, to find her lying upon
the lounge, just as he had seen her thirty-six hours previous.
It was evident that she had not been in bed at all for two nights, for
she still had on the same dress that she had worn at the Copley Square
Hotel.
But the shadow of death was on her white face; her eyes were glazed,
and though only partially closed, it was evident that she saw nothing.
She was still breathing, but faintly and irregularly. Her hands were
icy cold, and at the base of the nails there was the unmistakable
purple tint that indicated approaching dissolution.
Gerald Goddard was shocked beyond measure to find her thus, but he
arose to the occasion.
With his own hands and the assistance of the maid, he removed her
clothing, then wrapped her in blankets and put her in bed, when he
called for hot water bottles to place around her, hoping thus by
artificial heat to quicken the sluggish circulation and her failing
pulses.
But apparently there was no change in her, and when the physician came
and made his examination, he told them plainly that "no effort could
avail; it was a case of sudden heart failure, and the end was but a
question of moments."
Mr. Goddard was horrified and stricken with remorse at the hopeless
verdict, for it seemed to him that he was in a measure accountable for
the untimely shock which was fast depriving of life this woman who
had loved him so passionately, though unwisely.
He put his lips to her ear and called her by name.
"Anna! Anna! You must try to arouse yourself," he cried, in a voice of
agony.
At first the appeal seemed to produce no effect, but after several
attempts he thought he detected a gleam of intelligence in the almost
sightless eyes, while the cold fingers resting on his hand made an
effort to close over his.
These slight signs convinced him that though she was past the power of
speech, she yet knew him and clung to him, in spite of the clutch
which the relentless enemy of all mankind had laid upon her.
"Doctor, she knows me!" he exclaimed. "Pray give her some stimulant to
arouse her dormant faculties, if only for a moment."
"I fear it will be of no use," the physician replied, "but I will
try."
He hurriedly prepared and administered a powerful restorative; then
they waited with breathless interest for several moments for some sign
of improvement.
It came at last; she began to breathe a trifle more regularly; the set
features became a little less rigid, and the pulse a shade stronger,
until finally the white lids were lifted and the dying woman turned
her eyes with a pitiful expression of appeal upon the man whom, even
in death, she still adored.
"Leave us alone!" commanded Gerald Goddard, in a hoarse whisper, and
physician and servants stole noiselessly from the room.
"Anna, you know me--you understand what I am saying?" the wretched man
then questioned.
A slight pressure from the cold fingers was the only reply.
"You know that you are dying?" he pursued.
Again that faint sign of assent.
"Then, dear, let us be at peace before you go," he pleaded, gently.
"My soul bows in humiliation and remorse before you; for years I have
wronged you. I wronged you in those first days in Rome. I have no
excuse to offer. I simply tell you that my spirit is crushed within me
as I look back and realize all that I am accountable for. I would have
been glad to atone, as far as was in my power, could you have lived to
share my future. Give me some sign of forgiveness to tell me that you
retract those last bitter words of hate--to let me feel that in this
final moment we part in peace."
At his pleading a look of agony dawned in the woman's failing eyes--a
look so pitiful in its yearning and despair that the strong man broke
down and sobbed from sorrow and contrition; but the sign he had begged
for was not given.
"Oh, Anna! pray show me, in some way, that you will not die hating
me," he pleaded. "Forgive--oh, forgive!"
At those last words those almost palsied fingers closed convulsively
over his; the look of agony in those dusky orbs was superseded by one
of adoration and tenderness; a faint expression of something like
peace crept into the tense lines about the drawn mouth, and the
repentant watcher knew that she would not go out into the great
unknown bearing in her heart a relentless hatred against him.
That effort was the last flicker of the expiring flame, for the white
lids drooped over the dark eyes; the cold fingers relaxed their hold,
and Gerald Goddard knew the end had almost come.
He touched the bell, and the physician instantly re-entered the room.
"It is almost over," he remarked, as he went to the bedside, and his
practiced fingers sought her pulse.
Even as he spoke her breast heaved once--then again, and all was
still.
Who shall describe the misery that surged over Gerald Goddard's soul
as he looked upon the still form and realized that the grandly
beautiful woman, who for twenty years had reigned over his home, was
no more--that never again would he hear her voice, either in words of
fond adoration or in passionate anger; never see her again, arrayed in
the costly apparel and gleaming jewels which she so loved, mingling
with the gay people of the world, or graciously entertaining guests in
her own house?
He felt almost like a murderer; for, in spite of Dr. Hunt's verdict
that she had died of "sudden heart failure," he feared that the proud
woman had been so crushed by what she had overheard in Isabel
Stewart's apartments that she had voluntarily ended her life.
It was only a dim suspicion--a vague impression, for there was not the
slightest evidence of anything of the kind, and he would never dare to
give voice to it to any human being; nevertheless, it pressed heavily
upon his soul with a sense of guilt that was almost intolerable.
A message was immediately sent flying over the wires to New York to
inform Emil Correlli of the sad news, and eight hours later he was
back in Boston crushed for the time by the loss of the sister for whom
he entertained perhaps the purest love of which his selfish heart was
capable of experiencing.
We will not dwell upon the harrowing events of the next few days.
Suffice it to say that society, or that portion of it that had known
the brilliant Mrs. Goddard, was greatly shocked by the sudden death of
one of its "brightest ornaments," and gracefully mourned her by
covering her costly casket with choicest flowers; then closed up its
ranks and went its way, trying to forget the pale charger which they
knew would come again and again upon his grim errand.
The day following Anna Correlli's interment in Forest Hill Cemetery,
Mr. Goddard and his brother-in-law were waited upon by the well-known
lawyer, Arthur Clayton, who informed them that he had an important
communication to make to them.
"Two days previous to her death I received this note from Mrs.
Goddard," he remarked, at the same time handing a daintily perfumed
missive to the elder gentleman. "In it you will observe that she asks
me to come to her immediately. I obeyed her, and found her looking
very ill, and seemingly greatly distressed in body and mind. She told
me she was impressed that she had not long to live--that she had an
affection of the heart that warned her to put her affairs in order.
She desired me to draw up a will at once, according to her
instructions, and have it signed and witnessed before I left the
house. I did so, calling in at her request two witnesses from a
neighboring drug store, after which she gave the will into my keeping,
to be retained until her death. This is the document, gentlemen," he
remarked, in conclusion, "and here, also, is another communication,
which she wrote herself and directed me to hand to you, sir."
He arose and passed both the will and the letter to Mr. Goddard, who
had seemed greatly agitated while he was speaking.
He simply took the letter, remarking:
"Since you are already acquainted with the contents of the will, sir,
will you kindly read it aloud in our presence?"
Mr. Clayton flushed slightly as he bowed acquiescence.
The document proved to be very short and to the point, and bequeathed
everything that the woman had possessed--"excepting what the law would
allow as Gerald Goddard's right"--to her beloved brother, Emil
Correlli, who was requested to pay the servants certain amounts which
she named.
That was all, and Mr. Goddard knew that in the heat of her anger
against him she had made this rash disposition of her property--as she
had the right to do, since it had all been settled upon her--to be
revenged upon him by leaving him entirely dependent upon his own
resources.
At first he experienced a severe shock at her act, for the thought of
poverty was anything but agreeable to him.
He had lived a life of idleness and pleasure for so many years that it
would not be an easy matter for him to give up the many luxuries to
which he had been accustomed without a thought or care concerning
their cost.
But after the first feeling of dismay had passed, a sense of relief
took possession of him; for, with his suspicions regarding the cause
of Anna's death, he knew that he could never have known one moment of
comfort in living upon her fortune, even had she left it unreservedly
to him rather than to her brother.
Emil Correlli was made sole executor of the estate; and, as there was
nothing further for Mr. Clayton to do after reading the will, he
quietly took his departure leaving the two men to discuss it at their
leisure.
CHAPTER XXXII.
"YOU WILL VACATE THESE PREMISES AT YOUR EARLIEST CONVENIENCE."
"Well, Gerald, I must confess this is rather tough on you!" Monsieur
Correlli remarked, in a voice of undisguised astonishment, as soon as
the lawyer disappeared. "I call it downright shabby of Anna to have
left you so in the lurch."
"It does not matter," returned the elder man, but somewhat coldly;
for, despite his feeling of relief over the disposition of her
property, he experienced a twinge of jealousy toward the more
fortunate heir, whose pity was excessively galling to him under the
circumstances.
Although the two men had quarreled just before Monsieur Correlli's
departure for New York, all ill-feeling had been ignored in view of
their common loss and sorrow, and each had conducted himself with a
courteous bearing toward the other during the last few days.
"What in the world do you suppose possessed her to make such a will?"
the young man inquired, while he searched his companion's face with
keen scrutiny. "And how strange that she should have imagined all of
a sudden that she was going to die, and so put her affairs in order!"
Mr. Goddard saw that he had no suspicion of the real state of things,
and he had no intention of betraying any secrets if he could avoid
doing so.
No one--not even her own brother--should ever know that Anna had not
been his wife. He would do what he could to shield her memory from
every reproach, and no one should ever dream that--he could not divest
himself of the suspicion--she had died willfully.
Therefore, he replied with apparent frankness:
"I think I can explain why she did so. On the day of our return from
Wyoming, Anna and I had a more serious quarrel than usual; I never saw
her so angry as she was at that time; she even went so far as to tell
me that she hated me; and so, I presume, in the heat of her anger, she
resolved to cut me off with the proverbial shilling to be revenged
upon me."
"Well, she has done so with a vengeance," muttered his brother-in-law.
"I went to her afterward and tried to make it up," his companion
resumed, "but she would have nothing to say to me. She was looking
very ill, also; and when the next morning she sent me word that she
was not able to join me at breakfast, I went again to her door and
begged her to allow me to send for Dr. Hunt, but she would not even
admit me."
"What was this quarrel about?"
"Oh, almost all our quarrels have been about a certain document which
has long been a bone of contention between us, and this one was an
outgrowth from the same subject."
"Was that document a certificate of marriage?" craftily inquired Emil
Correlli.
"Yes."
"Gerald, were you ever really married to Anna?" demanded the young
man, bending toward him with an eager look.
His companion flushed hotly at the question, and yet it assured him
that he did not really know just what relations his sister had
sustained toward him.
"Isn't that a very singular question, Emil?" he inquired, with a cool
dignity that was very effective. "What led you to ask it?"
"Something that Anna herself once said to me suggested the thought,"
Emil replied. "I know, of course, the circumstances of your early
attachment--that for her you left another woman whom you had taken to
Rome. I once asked Anna the same question, but she would not answer me
directly--she evaded it in a way to confirm my suspicions rather than
to allay them. And now this will--it seems very strange that she
should have made it if--"
"Pray, Emil, do not distress yourself over anything so absurd," coldly
interposed Gerald Goddard, but with almost hueless lips. "However, if
you continue to entertain doubts upon the subject, you have but to go
to the Church of the ---- the next time you visit Rome, ask to see the
records for the year 18--, and you will find the marriage of your
sister duly recorded there."
"I beg your pardon," apologized the doubter, now fully reassured by
the above shrewdly fashioned answer, "but Anna was always so
infernally jealous of you, and made herself so wretched over the fear
of losing your affection, that I could think of no other reason for
her foolishness. Now, about this will," he added, hastily changing the
subject and referring to the document. "I don't feel quite right to
have all Anna's fortune, in addition to my own, and no doubt the poor
girl would have repented of her rash act if she could have lived long
enough to get over her anger and realize what she was doing. I don't
need the money, and, Gerald, I am willing to make over something to
you, especially as I happen to know that you have sunk the most of
your money in unfortunate speculations," the young man concluded, Mr.
Goddard's sad, white face appealing to his generosity in spite of
their recent difference.
"Thank you, Emil," he quietly replied; "but I cannot accept your very
kind offer. Since it was Anna's wish that you should have her
property, I prefer that the will should stand exactly as she made it.
I cannot take a dollar of the money--not even what 'the law would
allow' in view of our relations to each other."
Those last words were uttered in a tone of peculiar bitterness that
caused Monsieur Correlli to regard him curiously.
"Pray do not take it to heart like that, old boy," he said, kindly,
after a moment, "and let me persuade you to accept at least a few
thousands."
"Thank you, but I cannot. Please do not press the matter, for my
decision is unalterable."
"But how the deuce are you going to get along?" questioned the young
man.
"I shall manage very well," was the grave rejoinder. "I have a few
hundreds which will suffice for my present needs, and, if my hands
have not lost their cunning, I can abundantly provide for my future by
means of my profession. By the way, what are your own plans?--if I may
inquire," he concluded, to change the subject.
The young man paled at the question, and an angry frown settled upon
his brow.
"I am going to return immediately to New York--I am bound to find that
girl," he said, with an air of sullen resolution.
"Then you were not successful in your search?" Mr. Goddard remarked,
dropping his lids to hide the flash of satisfaction that leaped into
his eyes at the words.
"No, and yes. I found out that she arrived safely in New York, where
she was met by a young lawyer--Royal Bryant by name--who immediately
spirited her away to some place after dodging the policeman I had set
on her track. I surmise that he has put her in the care of some of his
own friends. I went to him and demanded that he tell me where she was,
but I might just as well have tried to extract information from a
stone as from that astute disciple of the law--blast him! He finally
intimated that my room would be better than my company, and that I
might hear from him later on."
"Ah! he has doubtless taken her case in hand--she has chosen him as
her attorney," said Mr. Goddard.
"It looks like it," snapped the young man; "but he will not find it an
easy matter to free her from me; the marriage was too public and too
shrewdly managed to be successfully contested."
"It was the most shameful and dastardly piece of villainy that I ever
heard of," exclaimed Gerald Goddard, indignantly, "and--"
"And you evidently intend to take the girl's part against me," sneered
his companion, his anger blazing forth hotly. "If I remember rightly,
you rather admired her yourself."
"I certainly did; she was one of the purest and sweetest girls I ever
met," was the dignified reply. "Emil, you have not a ghost of a chance
of supporting your claim if the matter comes to trial, and I beg that
you will quietly relinquish it without litigation," he concluded,
appealingly.
"Not if I know myself," was the defiant retort.
"But that farce was no marriage."
"All the requirements of the law were fulfilled, and I fancy that any
one who attempts to prove to the contrary will find himself in deeper
water than will be comfortable, in spite of your assertion that I
'have not a ghost of a chance.'"
"Possibly, but I doubt it. All the same, I warn you, here and now,
Correlli, that I shall use what influence I have toward freeing that
beautiful girl from your power," Mr. Goddard affirmed, with an air of
determination not to be mistaken.
"Do you mean it--you will publicly appear against me if the matter
goes into court?"
"I do."
The young man appeared to be in a white rage for a moment; then,
snapping his fingers defiantly in his companion's face, he cried:
"Do your worst! I do not fear you; you can prove nothing."
"No, I have no absolute proof, but I can at least give the court the
benefit of my suspicions and opinion."
"What! and compromise your dead wife before a scandal-loving public?"
"Emil, if Anna could speak at this moment, I believe she would tell
the truth herself, and save that innocent and lovely child from a fate
which to her must seem worse than death," Mr. Goddard solemnly
asserted.
"Thank you--you are, to say the least, not very flattering to me in
your comparisons," angrily retorted Monsieur Correlli, as he sprang
from his chair and moved toward the door.
He stopped as he laid his hand upon the silver knob and turned a
white, vindictive face upon the other.
"Well, then," he said, between his white, set teeth, "since you have
determined to take this stand against me, it will not be agreeable for
us to meet as heretofore, and I feel compelled to ask you to vacate
these premises at your earliest convenience."
"Very well! I shall, of course, immediately comply with your request.
A few hours will suffice me to make the move you suggest," frigidly
responded Gerald Goddard; but he had grown ghastly white with wounded
pride and anger at being thus ignominiously turned out of the house
where for so many years he had reigned supreme.
Emil Correlli bowed as he concluded, and left the room without a word
in reply.
As the door closed after him Mr. Goddard sank back in his chair with a
heavy sigh, as he realized fully, for the first time, how entirely
alone in the world he was, and what a desolate future lay before him,
shorn, as he was, of home and friends and all the wealth which for so
long had paved a shining way for him through the world.
His head sank heavily upon his breast, and he sat thus for several
minutes absorbed in painful reflections.
He was finally aroused by the shutting of the street door, when,
looking up, he saw the new master of the house pass the window, and he
knew that henceforth he would be his bitter enemy.
He glanced wistfully around the beautiful room--the dearest in the
house to him; at the elegant cases of valuable books, every one of
which he himself had chosen and caused to be uniformly bound; at the
choice paintings in their costly frames upon the walls, and many of
which had been painted by his own hands; at the numerous pieces of
statuary and rare curios which he knew would never assume their
familiar aspect in any other place.
How could he ever make up his mind to dismantle that home-like spot
and bury his treasures in a close and gloomy storage warehouse?
"Homeless, penniless, and alone?" he murmured, crushing back into his
breast a sob that arose to his throat.
Then suddenly his glance fell upon the table beside him and rested
upon the letter that Mr. Clayton had given to him, and which, in the
exciting occurrences of the last hour, he had entirely forgotten.
He took it up and sighed heavily again as the faint odor of Anna's
favorite perfume was wafted to his nostrils.
"How changed is everything since she wrote this!--what a complete
revolution in one's life a few hours can make!" he mused.
He broke the seal with some curiosity, but with something of awe as
well, for it seemed to him almost like a message from the other world,
and drew forth two sheets of closely-written paper.
The missive was not addressed to any one; the writer had simply begun
what she had to say and told her story through to the end, and then
signed her name in full in a clear, bold hand.
The man had not read half the first page before his manner betrayed
that its contents were of the most vital importance.
On and on he read, his face expressing various emotions until by the
time he reached the end there was an eagerness in his manner, a gleam
of animation in his eyes which told that the communication had been of
a nature to entirely change the current of his thoughts and distract
them from everything of an unpleasant character regarding himself.
He folded and returned the letter to its envelope with trembling
hands.
"Oh, Anna! Anna!" he murmured, "why could you not have been always
governed by your better impulses, instead of yielding so weakly to the
evil in your nature? This makes my way plain at least--now I am ready
to bid farewell to this home and all that is behind me, and try to
fathom what the future holds for me."
He carefully put the letter away into an inner pocket, then sat down
to his desk and began to look over his private papers.
When that task was completed he ordered the butler to have some boxes
and packing cases, that were stored in the cellar, brought up to the
library, when he carefully packed away such books, pictures and other
things as he wished to take away with him.
It was not an easy task, and he could almost as readily have committed
them to the flames as to have despoiled that beautiful home of what,
for so long, had made it so dear and attractive to him.
When his work was completed he went out, slipped over into Boylston
street, where he knew there were plenty of rooms to be rented, and
where he soon engaged a _suite_ that would answer his purpose for the
present.
This done, he secured a man and team to move his possessions, and
before the shades of night had fallen he had stored everything he
owned away in his new quarters and bidden farewell forever to the
aristocratic dwelling on Commonwealth avenue, where he had lived so
luxuriously and entertained so elaborately the _crême de la crême_ of
Boston society.
Three days later he had disappeared from the city--"gone abroad" the
papers said, "for a change of scene and to recuperate from the
effects of the shock caused by his wife's sudden death."
CHAPTER XXXIII.
MR. BRYANT MEETS WITH UNEXPECTED DIFFICULTIES.
Let us now return to Edith, to ascertain how she is faring under the
care of her new friends in New York.
On the morning following her arrival Mr. Bryant called at the house of
his cousin, Mrs. Morrell, as he had promised, to escort our fair
heroine to his office, to meet Mr. Louis Raymond, who had been so
anxiously searching for her.
The gentleman had not arrived when they reached the place that was so
familiar to Edith, and "Roy," as she was slyly beginning to call him,
conducted her directly to his own special sanctum, and seated her in
the most comfortable chair, to await the coming of the stranger.
"My sunshine has come back to me," he smilingly remarked, as he bent
over her and touched his lips to her forehead in a fond caress. "I
have not had one bright day since that morning when I returned from my
trip and found your letter, telling me that you were not coming to me
any more."
"I did not think, then, that I should ever return," Edith began,
gravely. Then she added, in a lighter tone: "But now, that I am here,
will you not set me at work?"
"Indeed, no; there shall be no more toiling for you, my darling,"
returned the young man, with almost passionate tenderness.
Edith shrank a little at his fond words, and a troubled expression
leaped into her eyes.
Somehow she could not feel that she had a right to accept his loving
attentions and terms of endearment, precious as they were to her,
while there was any possibility that another had a claim upon her.
Roy saw the movement, hardly noticeable though it was, and understood
the feeling that had prompted it, and he resolved that he would be
patient, and refrain from causing her even the slightest annoyance
until lie could prove to her that she was free.
A few moments later Mr. Raymond was ushered in, and Roy, after
greeting him cordially, presented him to Edith.
It was evident from the earnestness with which he studied her face
that the man had more than an ordinary interest in her; while, as he
clasped her hand, he appeared to be almost overcome with emotion.
"Pardon me," he said, as he struggled for self-control, "but this
meeting with you awakens memories that have proved too much for my
composure. You do not resemble your mother, Miss Edith," he concluded,
in a tone of regret, as he gazed wistfully into her eyes.
"No?" the fair girl returned, flushing, and feeling half guilty for
allowing him to believe that she was Mr. and Mrs. Allandale's own
child.
But she had determined to let him tell his story, or at least reveal
the nature of his business with her, and then be governed by
circumstances regarding her own disclosures.
"If you will kindly excuse me, I will look over my mail while you are
conversing with Miss Allandale," Roy remarked, thinking, with true
delicacy, that the man might have some communication to make which he
would not care to have a third party overhear.
Then, with a bow and a smile, he passed from the room, leaving the two
alone.
"I cannot tell you how gratified I am to find you, Miss Edith," Mr.
Raymond remarked, as the door closed. "I have met only disappointment
of late, and, indeed, throughout most of my life, and I feared that
our advertisements might not meet your eye. I was deeply pained upon
returning to America, after many years spent abroad, to learn of the
misfortunes of your family, while the knowledge of your mother's
privations during the last two years of her life--as related to me by
Mr. Bryant--has caused me more grief than I can express."
"Yes, mamma's last days were very, very sad," said Edith, while tears
dimmed her eyes.
"Tell me about them, please--tell me all about your father's death,
and how it happened that you became so reduced financially," said Mr.
Raymond.
Then the fair girl, beginning with the loss of her young brothers,
related all that had occurred during the two years following, up to
the time of her mother's death, while she spoke most touchingly of the
patience and fortitude with which the gentle invalid had borne their
struggles with poverty and hardship.
More than once her companion was forced to wipe the tears from his
cheeks, as he listened to the sad recital, while his eyes lingered
affectionately upon the faithful girl who--as he learned from Mr.
Bryant--had so heroically tried to provide for the necessities of one
whom, it was evident, he had loved with more than ordinary affection.
When she had concluded her story he remained silent for a few moments,
as if to fortify himself for the revelations which he had to make;
then he remarked:
"Your mother and I, Miss Edith, were 'neighbors and playmates' during
our childhood--'schoolmates and friends' for long years afterward, she
would have told you; but--ever since I can remember, she was the
dearest object the world held for me. This affection grew with my
growth until, when I was twenty-one years of age, I asked her to marry
me. Her answer was like obscuring the sun at midday, for she told me
that she loved another; she had met Albert Allendale, and he had won,
apparently without an effort, what I had courted for many years. I
could not blame her, for I was but too conscious that he was my
superior, both physically and mentally, while the position he offered
her was far above anything I could hope to give her--at least, for a
long time. But it was a terrible blow to me, and I immediately left
the country, feeling that I could never remain here to witness the
happiness that had been denied me. During my exile I heard from them
occasionally, through others, and of the ideal life they were leading;
but I never once thought of returning to this country until about six
months ago, when, my health suddenly failing, I felt that I would at
least like to die upon my native soil. You can, perhaps, imagine the
shock I experienced, upon arriving in New York, when I learned of Mr.
Allendale's misfortunes and death, and also that his wife and only
surviving child had been left destitute and were hiding themselves and
their poverty in some remote corner, unknown to their former friends.
I searched the city for you, and then, discouraged with my lack of
success, I put my case into the hands of Mr. Bryant, from whom I
learned of the death of your mother and your brave struggles with want
and hardships; whereupon I commissioned him to spare no effort or
expense to find you; hence the advertisement which, his note to me
last evening told me, met your eye in a Boston paper, and brought you
hither."
"What a strange, romantic story!" Edith murmured, as Mr. Raymond
paused at this point; "and, although it is so very sad, it makes you
seem almost like an old friend to know that you once knew and loved
mamma."
"Thank you, dear child," returned the man, eagerly, a smile hovering
for a moment around his thin lips. "I hardly expected you to greet me
thus, but it nevertheless sounds very pleasant to my unaccustomed
ears. And now, having told you my story in brief, my wish is to settle
upon you, for your dear mother's sake, as well as for your own, a sum
that will place you above the necessity of ever laboring for your
support in the future. During the last ten years I have greatly
prospered in business--indeed, I have accumulated quite a handsome
fortune--while, strange to say, I have not a relative in the world to
inherit it. The disease which has attacked me warns me that I have not
long to live; therefore I wish to arrange everything before my mind
and strength fail me. One-half of my property I desire to leave to a
certain charitable institution in this city; the remainder is to be
yours, my child, and may the blessing of an old and world-weary man go
with it."
As he concluded, Edith raised her tearful eyes to find him regarding
her with a look of tender earnestness that was very pathetic.
"You are very, very kind, Mr. Raymond," she responded, in tremulous
tones, "and I should have been inexpressibly happy if mamma could have
been benefited by your generosity; but--I feel that I have no right to
receive this bequest from you."
"And why not, pray?" exclaimed her companion, in surprise, a look of
keen disappointment sweeping over his face.
"Because--truth compels me to tell you that I am the child of Mr. and
Mrs. Allandale only by adoption," said Edith, with quivering lips, for
it always pained her to think of her relationship to those whom she
had so loved, in this light.
"Can that be possible?" cried Mr. Raymond, in astonishment.
"Yes, sir; it hurts me to speak of it--to even think of if; but it is
true," she replied.
Then she proceeded to relate the circumstances of her adoption, as far
as she could do so without casting any reflections upon the unhappy
young mother who had been so wronged in Rome.
"Of course, I loved papa and mamma just the same as if they had really
been my own parents," she remarked, in conclusion, "for I had not a
suspicion of the truth until after mamma died. I was always treated
exactly as if I had been as near to them as the children who died."
"And have you no knowledge of your own parents?" Mr. Raymond inquired.
"Not the slightest. The only clews I possess are some letters in my
mother's handwriting and the name Belle that she signed to him.
Strange as it may seem, there is not a surname nor any reference made
to the locality where she lived in her youth, to aid me in my search
for her relatives."
"That seems very singular," said the gentleman, musingly.
"It is not only that, but it is also very trying," Edith returned. "Of
course, my mother is dead; my father"--this with a proud uplifting of
her pretty head--"I have no desire even to look upon his face. I could
never own the relationship, even should we meet; but I would like to
know something about my mother's family, for, as far as I know, I
have--like yourself--not a relative in the world."
"Then pray, Miss Edith, for the sake of that other Edith whom I loved,
regard me, while I live, as your stanch, true friend," said Mr.
Raymond, earnestly. "The fact that you were the child of Edith
Allandale only by adoption will make no difference in my plans for
you. To all intents and purposes you were her daughter--she loved you
as such--you were faithful and tender toward her until the end;
therefore I shall settle the half of my property upon you for your
immediate use. I beg that you will feel no delicacy in accepting this
provision for your future," he interposed, appealingly, as he remarked
her heightened color. "Mr. Bryant had full instructions to carry out
my wishes, and the money would have been yours unconditionally, had I
never been so happy as to meet you. The only favor I ask of you in
return is the privilege of seeing you occasionally, to talk with you
of your mother."
The tears rolled thick and fast over the young girl's face at this
appeal, for she was deeply touched by the man's tender regard for her
interests, and by his yearning to be in sympathy with one who had
known so intimately the one love of his life.
"You are very kind," she said, when she could command her voice
sufficiently to speak. "I have no words adequate to thank you, and it
will be only a delight to me to tell you anything you may wish to know
about her who was so dear to us both. I could never tire of talking of
mamma. More than this, I trust you will allow me to be of some
comfort to you," she added, earnestly. "When you are lonely or ill I
shall be glad to minister to you in any way that I may be able."
"It is very thoughtful of you, Miss Edith, to suggest anything of the
kind," Louis Raymond responded, his wan face lighting with pleasure at
her words, "and no doubt I shall be glad to avail myself now and then
of your kindness; but we will talk of that at another time."
He arose as he concluded, and, opening the door leading into the outer
office, requested Mr. Bryant to join them, when the conversation
became general.
Later that same day, at Mr. Raymond's desire, the papers were drawn up
that made Edith the mistress of a snug little fortune in her own
right, the income from which would insure her every comfort during the
remainder of her life.
The man was unwilling that the matter should be delayed, lest
something should interfere to balk his plans.
When Roy took Edith back to Mrs. Morrell's he expressed his admiration
and sympathy in the highest terms for the generous-hearted invalid.
"When we make a home for ourselves, darling, let us invite him to
share it, and we will try to make his last days his happiest days.
What do you say to the plan, sweet?" he queried, as he bent to look
into the beautiful face beside him.
Edith flushed painfully at his question and hesitated to reply.
"What is it, love?" he urged, forgetting for the moment the resolve he
had made earlier in the day.
"Of course, Roy, I would be glad to do anything in the world for one
who was so devoted to mamma, and who, for her sake, has been so
considerate for my future; but--"
"Well, what is this dreadful 'but'?" was the smiling query.
"I am afraid that you are too sanguine regarding our prospects,"
returned the fair girl, gravely. "I am somehow impressed that we
shall meet with difficulties that you do not anticipate in the way of
your happiness."
"Do not be faint-hearted, dear," said her lover, tenderly, although a
shade of anxiety swept over his face as he spoke. "I am going
immediately to look up that woman with whom Giulia Fiorini told you
she boarded, and ascertain what evidence she can give me to sustain my
theory regarding Correlli's relations with the girl."
He left Edith at Mrs. Morrell's door, and then hastened away upon his
errand.
He easily found the street and number which Edith had given him, and,
to his joy, the name of the woman he sought was on the door.
A portly matron, richly dressed, but with a very shrewd face, answered
his ring, and greeted him with suave politeness.
"Yes, she remembered Giulia Fiorini," she remarked, in answer to his
inquiry. "She was a pretty Italian girl who had run away from her own
country, wasn't she? Would the gentleman kindly walk in? and she would
willingly respond to any further questions he might wish to ask."
Roy followed her into a handsomely-furnished parlor, that was
separated from another by elegant portieres, which, however, were
closely drawn, thus concealing the room beyond.
"Yes," madam continued, "the girl had a child--a boy--a fine little
fellow, whom she called Ino, and she did remember that a gentleman
visited them occasionally--the girl's brother, cousin, or some other
relation, she believed"--with a look of perplexity that would lead one
to infer that such visits had been so rare she found it difficult to
place the gentleman at all.
"No, she did not even know his name, and she had never heard him admit
that the girl was his wife--certainly not!--nor the child call him
father or papa. There had always been something mysterious about
Giulia, but she had appeared to have plenty of money, and had paid her
well, and thus she had not concerned herself about her private
affairs."
Roy's heart grew cold and heavy within him as he listened to these
suave and evasive replies to his every question.
It was evident to him that she had already received instructions what
to say in the event of such a visit, and was paid liberally to carry
them out.
He spent nearly an hour with her trying to make her contradict or
commit herself in some way, but she never once made a mistake; her
answers were very pat and to the point, and he knew no more when he
arose to leave than he had known when he entered the house.
He was very heavy-hearted--indeed, a feeling of despair began to
settle down upon him; for, unless he could prove that Emil Correlli
had taken Giulia Fiorini to that house, and lived with her there as
her husband, he felt that he had very little to hope for regarding his
future with Edith.
Madam ushered him out as courteously as she had invited him in,
regretting exceedingly that she could not give him all the information
he desired, and hoped that the matter was not so important as to cause
him any especial annoyance.
She even inquired if he knew where Giulia was at that time, remarking
that she "had been invariably sweet-tempered and lady-like, and she
should always feel an interest in her, in spite of a certain air of
mystery that seemed to envelop her."
But the moment the door closed after her visitor madam's keen, black
eyes began to glitter and a shrewd smile played about her cunning
mouth.
A little gurgling laugh of triumph broke from her red lips as she
returned to the parlor, when the portieres between it and the room
were swept aside, and Emil Correlli himself walked into her presence.
CHAPTER XXXIV.
AN UNEXPECTED MEETING RESULTS IN A WONDERFUL DISCOVERY.
"Well done, madam! you managed to pull the wool over his eyes in very
good shape," the man remarked, a look of evil triumph sweeping over
his face.
"Certainly, Mr. Correlli," the woman returned, in a tone of serene
satisfaction. "Only give me my price, and I am ready to make anybody
believe that black is white, every time; and now I'll take that five
hundred, if you please," she concluded, as she extended her fat hand
for the plump fee for which she had been so zealously working.
"You shall have it--you shall have it; I will write you a check for it
immediately," said Monsieur Correlli. "But--you are sure there is no
one in the house who knows anything about the facts of the case?" he
added, inquiringly, after a moment of thought.
"Yes, I am sure; I haven't a single servant now that was with me when
the girl was here."
"Have you any idea where they went after leaving you?" asked the man,
with evident uneasiness.
"Lor', no; you needn't have the slightest fear of their turning up,"
responded his companion, with a light laugh. "That lawyer might as
well try to hunt for a needle in a hay-mow as to seek them as
witnesses against you; while, as for the lodgers who were here at the
time, not one of them knew anything about your affairs. By the way,"
she added, curiously, "what has become of the girl?"
"She followed me to Boston, and is there now, doubtless."
"Would she be likely to know anything about the laws of New York
regarding marriage?"
"No, indeed; she is a perfect ignoramus as far as any knowledge of the
customs of this country is concerned."
"That is lucky for you; but, if you know where she can be found, I
would advise you to send her back to Italy with all possible dispatch.
She is liable to make trouble for you if she learns the truth,
for"--madam here shot a sly look at her companion--"a man can't live a
year or two with a woman here in New York, allowing her to believe
herself his wife, and her child to call him 'papa'--paying all her
bills, without giving her a pretty strong claim upon him. However,
mum's the word with me, provided I get my pay for it," she concluded,
with a knowing wink.
Emil Correlli frowned at her coarse familiarity and the indirect
threat implied in her last words; but, simply remarking that he "would
draw that check," he returned to the room whence he had come, while
his companion turned to a window, chuckling softly to herself.
Presently he reappeared and slipped into her hand a check for five
hundred dollars.
"Now, in case this matter should come to court, I shall rely upon you
to swear that the girl's story is false and the lawyer's charge simply
a romance of his imagination," he remarked.
"You may depend on me, sir--I will not fail you," madam responded, as,
with a complacent look, she neatly folded the check and deposited it
in her purse.
Emil Correlli had arrived in New York very early the same morning,
and, not caring to have his presence there known, he had sought a room
in the house of the woman with whom Giulia had boarded for nearly two
years.
Having partaken of a light breakfast, he went out again to seek the
policeman to whom he had telegraphed to detain Edith.
He readily found him, when he learned all that we already know of the
man's efforts to obey Correlli's orders.
"That was the girl, in spite of the lawyer's interference. You should
have never let her go," he angrily exclaimed, when the officer had
described Edith and told his story.
"But I couldn't, sir--I had no authority--no warrant--and I should
have got myself into trouble," the man objected, adding: "The lawyer
was a shrewd one and had a high and mighty way with him that made a
fellow go into his boots and fight shy of him."
Monsieur Correlli knew that the man was right, and saw that he must
make the best of the situation; so, taking possession of Roy's card,
and making his way directly to Broadway, he prowled about the vicinity
of his office to see what he could discover.
He had not waited very long when his heart bounded as he caught sight
of Edith coming down the street and escorted by a handsome, manly
fellow, whose beaming face and adoring eyes plainly betrayed his
secret to the jealous watcher, who gnashed his teeth in fury at the
sight.
The happy, unconscious couple soon disappeared within an office
building, whereupon Correlli went back to his lodgings to lay his
plans for future operations.
Some hours later, while he was conversing with his landlady in her
pretty parlor, he was startled to see Edith's champion of the morning
mounting the steps of the house.
Like a flash he seemed to comprehend the object of his visit there;
but he was puzzled to understand how it was possible for either Edith
or him to know that he or Giulia had ever lived there.
A few rapid words were sufficient to reveal the situation to his
landlady, to whom he promised a liberal reward if she would implicitly
follow his directions.
The result we know; and, although his bribe had been a heavy one, he
did not begrudge the money, since he believed he had thus securely
fortified himself against all attacks from the enemy.
Later in the day he attempted to dog the young lawyer's steps, hoping
thus to ferret out Edith's hiding place; but nothing satisfactory
resulted, for Roy, after his hard and somewhat disappointing day,
simply repaired to his club, where, after partaking of his dinner and
smoking a cigar to soothe his nerves, he retired to rest.
But the next morning, feeling secure of his position, Emil Correlli
boldly presented himself in his rival's office and demanded of him
Edith's address.
Roy was prepared for him, for his fruitless visit to Giulia's former
landlady had aroused his suspicions that Monsieur Correlli was in the
city.
Therefore he had resolved neither to evade nor parley with him, but
boldly defy the man, by acknowledging himself the wronged girl's
champion and legal adviser.
"I cannot give you Miss Allandale's address," he quietly responded to
his visitor's demand.
"Do you mean to imply that you do not know it?" he questioned,
arrogantly.
"Not at all, sir; the lady is under my protection, as my client;
therefore, in her interest I refuse to reveal her place of residence,"
Roy coolly responded.
"But she is my wife, and I have a right to know where she is," said
the would-be husband, his anger flaming up hotly at being thus balked
in his desires.
"Your wife?" repeated the young lawyer, in an incredulous tone, but
growing white about the mouth from the effort he made to retain
command of himself, as the obnoxious term fell from the villain's
lips.
"Certainly--I claim her as such; my right to do so cannot be
questioned."
"There may be a difference of opinion regarding that matter," Roy
calmly rejoined.
"But we were publicly married on the twenty-fifth."
"Ah! but there are circumstances under which even such a ceremony can
have no legal significance."
The fiery Italian was no match for the lawyer in that cool, calm mood,
and his anger increased as he realized it.
"But I have my certificate, and can produce plenty of witnesses to
prove my statements," he retorted.
"The court will decide whether your evidence is sufficient to
substantiate your claim," Mr. Bryant composedly remarked.
"The court?--will she take the matter into court?--will she dare
create such a scandal?" exclaimed the man, in a startled tone.
"I do not feel at liberty, even had I the inclination, to reveal any
points in my client's case," coldly replied the young lawyer. "This
much I will say, however," he added, sternly, "I shall leave nothing
undone to free her from a tie that is both hateful and fraudulent."
"I warn you that you will have a battle to fight that will cost you
something," snarled the baffled villain.
"That also remains to be seen, sir; but whether you or I win this
battle, let me tell you, once for all, that Miss Allandale will never
submit to any authority which you may imagine you have acquired over
her by tricking her into this so-called marriage; she will never live
one hour with you; she will never respond to your name."
Royal Bryant arose as he concluded this defiant speech, thus
intimating to his visitor that he wished to put an end to the
interview, for the curb that he was putting upon himself was becoming
almost unbearable.
Emil Correlli gazed searchingly into his face for a moment, as if
trying to measure his foe.
He could not fail to realize the superiority of the man, mentally,
morally and physically, and the thought was maddening that perhaps
Edith had freely given to him the love for which he had abjectly sued
in vain.
"Well," he finally remarked, as he also arose, while he revealed his
white teeth in a vicious smile, "it may be in her power to carry out
that resolution, but one thing is sure, she can never free herself
from the fetters which she finds so galling--she can never marry any
other man while I live."
This shot told, for the blue veins in Roy's temples suddenly swelled
out full at the malignant retort.
But he mastered his first impulse to seize the wretch and throw him
from the window into the street, and quietly remarked:
"As I have twice before observed, sir, all these things remain to be
seen and proved. Now, can I do anything further for you to-day?"
The man could not do otherwise than take the hint; besides, there was
that in Roy's eye which warned him that it would not be safe for him
to try him too far. So, abruptly turning upon his heel, he left the
room, while our young lawyer, with tightly compressed lips and
care-lined brow, walked the floor in troubled thought.
After leaving his office Emil Correlli repaired to the hotel where his
letters were usually sent, and found awaiting him there a telegram
announcing the sudden death of his sister and requesting his immediate
return to Boston.
Shocked beyond measure, and grieved to the soul by this unexpected
bereavement, he dropped everything and left New York on the next
eastward express.
We know all that occurred in that home where death had come so
unexpectedly; how, after the burial of Mrs. Goddard, Emil Correlli had
suddenly found his already large fortune greatly augmented by the
strange will of his sister, while the man whom she had always
professed to adore was left destitute, and to shift for himself as
best he could.
The day after he had turned Gerald Goddard out of his home, so to
speak, the young man dismissed all his servants, closed the house, and
put it into the hands of a real estate agent to be disposed of at the
best advantage.
He made an effort to find Giulia and her child, with the intention of
settling a comfortable income upon them, provided he could make the
girl promise to return to Italy and never trouble him again.
But she had disappeared, and he could learn absolutely nothing
regarding her movements; and, impressed with a feeling that she would
yet revenge herself upon him in some unexpected way, he finally
returned to New York, determined to ferret out Edith's hiding place.
Meantime the fair girl had been very happy with her new friends, who
were also growing very fond of her.
But she would not allow herself to build too much upon the hope of
attaining her freedom which Roy had tried to arouse in her heart
shortly after her arrival in New York.
Indeed, she had begun to notice that, after the first day or two, he
had avoided conversing upon the subject, while he often wore a look of
anxiety and care which betrayed that he was deeply troubled about
something.
In fact, Roy was very heavy-hearted, for, since his failure to learn
anything from Giulia's former landlady to prove his theory correct, he
had begun to fear that it would be a very difficult matter to free the
girl he loved from the chain that bound her to Correlli.
If he could have found the discarded girl herself he believed that,
with her assistance, he would soon discover the servants who had been
in the house during her residence there, and, through them, find some
substantial evidence to work upon.
But although he had advertised for her in several Boston papers, he
had not been able to get any trace of her.
He had, however, filed a plea to have Edith's so-called marriage set
aside, and was anxiously waiting for some time to be appointed for a
hearing of the' case.
Edith and her new acquaintance, Mr. Raymond, were fast becoming firm
friends, in spite of the suspense that was hanging over the former
regarding her future.
The young girl had first been drawn toward the invalid from a feeling
of sympathy, and because of his old-time fondness for her mother. But,
upon becoming better acquainted with him, she began to admire him for
his many noble qualities, both of mind and heart, while she ever found
him a most entertaining companion, as he possessed an exhaustless fund
of anecdote and personal experiences, acquired during his extensive
travels, which he never wearied of relating when he could find an
appreciative listener.
Thus she spent a great deal of time with him, while by her many little
attentions to his comfort she won a large place in his heart.
One day Mrs. Morrell and Edith went to attend a charity exhibition
that was under the supervision of a friend of the former, at her own
house.
Upon their arrival they were ushered into the drawing-room, which was
beautifully decorated and hung with many exquisite paintings, while
some rare gems were resting conspicuously upon easels.
In one corner, and artistically draped with a beautiful scarf, Edith
was startled, almost at the moment of her entrance, to see a painting
that was very familiar.
It was that representing a portion of an old Roman wall, with the
lovers resting in its shadow, which had attracted the attention of
Mrs. Stewart on the last night of the "winter frolic," at Wyoming.
With an expression of astonishment she went forward to examine it more
closely and to assure herself that it was the original, and not a
copy.
Yes, those two tiny letters, G. G., in one corner, told their own
story, and proved her surmise to be correct.
"How strange that it should be here!" she breathed.
She had hardly uttered the words when some one arose from behind the
easel, and--she stood face to face with Gerald Goddard himself.
The girl stood white and almost paralyzed before him, and the man
appeared scarcely less astonished on beholding her.
"Miss Allen!" he faltered. "I never dreamed of meeting you here!"
"Oh, pray do not tell Monsieur Correlli that you have seen me," she
gasped, fear for the moment superseding every other thought.
"Do not be troubled--he shall learn nothing from me," said the man,
reassuringly. "Correlli and I are not very good friends just now,
simply because I told him that I should do all in my power to help you
prove that he had no just claim upon you."
"Thank you," said Edith, flushing with hope, but involuntarily
shrinking from him, for she could not forget how he had degraded
himself before her on that last horrible night at Wyoming.
"I suppose you have heard of my--of Mrs. Goddard's death?" he
remarked, after a moment of silence.
"Mrs. Goddard--dead?" exclaimed Edith, shocked beyond expression.
"Yes, she died very suddenly, the second morning after you left
Boston."
Edith was about to respond with some expression of regret and
sympathy, when she saw him start violently, and a look of agony, that
bordered on despair, leap into his eyes.
Involuntarily she turned to see what had caused it, and was both
surprised and delighted to behold Mrs. Stewart--whom she supposed to
be in Boston--just entering the room, and looking especially lovely in
a rich black velvet costume, with a hat to match, but brightened by
two or three exquisite pink roses.
At that instant a lady, to whom she had recently been introduced, laid
her hand upon Edith's arm, remarking in quick, incisive tones:
"Miss Allandale, your friend, Mrs. Morrell, is beckoning you to come
to her."
Again Gerald Goddard started, and so violently that he nearly knocked
his picture from the easel.
He shot one quick, horrified glance at the girl.
"Miss Allandale!" he repeated, in a dazed tone, as all that the name
implied forced itself upon his mind.
Another in the room had also caught the name, and turned to see who
had been thus addressed.
As her glance fell upon Edith her beautiful face grew radiant.
"Oh, if it should be--" she breathed.
The next moment she had crossed the room to the girl's side.
"What did Mrs. Baldwin call you, dear?" she breathlessly inquired,
regardless of etiquette, for she had not yet greeted her hostess. "Was
it Miss Allandale?"
"Yes, that is my name," said Edith, flushing, but frankly meeting her
look of eager inquiry.
"But you told me--" Mrs. Stewart whispered.
"Yes," interposed the young girl, "while I was in Boston I was known
simply as Edith Allen--why, I will explain to you at some other time;
but my real name is Edith Allandale."
The woman seemed turned to stone for a moment by this unexpected
revelation, so statue-like did she become, as she also realized all
that this confession embodied.
Then, as if compelled by some magnetic influence, her eyes were drawn
toward the no less statue-like man standing by that never-to-be
forgotten picture on the easel.
Their gaze met, and each read in that one brief look the conviction
that made one heart bound with joy, the other to sink with
despair--each knew that the beautiful girl, standing so wonderingly
beside that stately woman, was the child that had been born to them in
the pretty Italian villa hard by the old Roman wall which Gerald
Goddard had so faithfully reproduced upon canvas.
CHAPTER XXXV.
"THAT MAN MY FATHER!"
Isabel Stewart was the first to recover herself, when, gently linking
her arm within Edith's, she whispered, softly:
"Come with me, dear; I would like to see you alone for a few minutes."
She led her unresistingly from the room, across the hall, to a small
reception-room, when, closing the door to keep out intruders, she
turned and laid both her trembling hands upon the girl's shoulders.
"Tell me," she said, looking wistfully into her wondering eyes, "are
you the daughter of Albert and Edith Allandale?"
"Yes."
It was all the answer that Edith, in her excitement, could make.
The beautiful woman caught her breath graspingly, and every particle
of color faded from her face.
"Tell me, also," she went on, hurriedly, "did you ever hear your--your
mother speak of a friend by the name of Belle Haven?"
Edith's heart leaped into her throat at this question, and she, too,
began to tremble, as a suspicion of the truth flashed through her
mind.
"No," she said, with quivering lips, "I never heard her mention such a
person; but--"
"Yes--'but'--" eagerly repeated her companion.
"But," the fair girl continued, gravely, while she searched with a
look of pain the eyes looking so eagerly into hers, "the evening after
mamma was buried, I found some letters which had been written to her
from Rome, and which were all signed 'Belle.'"
"Oh!--"
It was a sharp cry of agony that burst from Isabel Stewart's lips.
"Oh, why did she keep them?" she went on, wildly; "how could she have
been so unwise? Why--why did she not destroy them?"
At these words a light so eager, so beautiful, so tender that it
seemed to transfigure her, suddenly illumined Edith's face, for they
confirmed, beyond a doubt, the suspicion and hope that had been
creeping into her heart.
"Tell me--are you that 'Belle'?" she whispered, bending nearer to her
with gleaming eyes.
"Oh, do not ask me!" cried the unhappy woman, a bitter sob escaping
her.
She had never dreamed of anything so dreadful as that those fatal
letters would fall into the hands of her child, to prejudice her and
make her shrink from her with aversion.
She had planned, if she was ever so fortunate as to find her, and had
to reveal her history to her, to smooth over all that would be likely
to shock her--that she would never confess to her how despair had
driven her to the verge of that one crime upon which she now looked
back with unspeakable horror.
The thought that this beautiful girl knew all, and believed the
worst--as she could not fail to do, she reasoned, after reading the
crude facts mentioned in those letters--filled her with shame and
grief: for how could she ever eradicate those first impressions, and
win the love she so craved?
Thus she was wholly unprepared for what followed immediately upon her
indirect acknowledgment of her identity.
The gentle girl, her expressive face radiant with mingled joy, love,
sympathy, slipped both arms around her companion's waist, and dropping
her head upon her shoulder, murmured, fondly:
"Ah, I am sure you are!--I am sure that I have found my mother, and--I
am almost too happy to live."
"Child! my own darling! Is it possible that you can thus open your
heart of hearts to me?" sobbed the astonished woman, as she clasped
the slight form to her in a convulsive embrace.
"Oh, yes--yes; I have longed for you, with longing unspeakable, ever
since I knew," Edith murmured, tremulously.
"Longed for me? Ah, I never dared to hope that Heaven could be so
kind. I feared, love, that you would despise me, as a weak and willful
woman, even after I should tell you all my story, with its extenuating
circumstances; but now, while knowing and believing only the worst,
you take me into the arms of your love, and own me--your mother!"
She broke down utterly at this point, and both, clasped in each
other's embrace, sobbed in silent sympathy for a few moments.
"Well, dearest, this will never do," Mrs. Stewart at last exclaimed,
as she lifted her face and smiled tenderly upon Edith; "we must at
least compose ourselves long enough to make our adieus to our hostess;
then I am going to take you home with me, to have all the story of our
tangled past unraveled and explained. Come, let us sit down for a few
moments, until we get rid of the traces of our tears, and you shall
tell me how you happened to be in Boston under the name of Edith
Allen."
She drew her toward a couch as she spoke, and there Edith related how
she had happened to meet the Goddard's on the train, between New York
and Boston, and was engaged to act as madam's companion, and how also
the mistake regarding her name had occurred.
"And were you happy with them, my dear?" inquired Mrs. Stewart,
regarding her curiously.
The fair girl flushed.
"Indeed I was not," she replied, "I think they were the strangest
people I ever met."
Almost as she spoke the door of the reception-room opened, and Gerald
Goddard himself appeared upon the threshold.
He was pale to ghastliness, and looked years older than when Edith had
seen him in the drawing-room a few minutes previous.
"Pardon me this intrusion, Miss--Edith," he began, shrinkingly, while
he searched both faces before him with despairing eyes; "but I am
about to leave, and I wished to give you this note before I went. If,
after reading it, you should care to communicate with me, you can
address me at the Murry Hill Hotel."
He laid the missive upon a table near the door, then, with a bow,
withdrew, leaving the mother and daughter alone again.
"That was Mr. Goddard," Edith explained to her companion, as she arose
to take the letter; but without a suspicion that the two had ever met
before, or that the man was her own father--the "monster" who had so
wronged her beautiful mother.
Mrs. Stewart made no reply to the remark; and Edith, breaking the seal
of the envelope in her hands, drew forth several closely-written
pages.
"Why!" she exclaimed, in a startled tone, "this is Mrs. Goddard's
handwriting!"
She hastily unfolded the sheets and ran her eye rapidly down the first
page, when a low cry broke from her lips, and, throwing herself upon
her knees before her mother, she buried her face in her lap,
murmuring joyfully:
"Saved! saved!"
"Darling, tell me!--what is this that excites you so?" Mrs. Stewart
pleaded, as she bent over her and softly kissed her flushed cheek.
Edith put the letter into her hands, saying, eagerly:
"Read it--read it!--it will tell its own story."
Her companion obeyed her, and, as she read, her face grew stern and
white--her eyes glittered with a fiery light which told of an outraged
spirit aroused to a point where it would have been dangerous for the
woman who once had deeply wronged her, had she been living, to have
crossed her path again.
"If I had known!--if I had known--" she began, when she reached the
end. Then, suddenly checking herself, she added, tenderly, to Edith:
"My love, it seems so wonderful--all this that has happened to you and
to me! We must take time to talk it all over by ourselves. You can
excuse yourself to your friend, can you not, and come with me to the
Waldorf? Say that I wish to keep you for the remainder of the day and
night, but will return you to her in the morning."
Edith's face beamed with delight at this proposal.
"Yes, indeed," she said, rising to comply at once with the request. "I
am sure Nellie will willingly give me up, when I whisper the truth in
her ear. My dear--dear mother!" she added, tremulously, as she bent
forward and kissed the beautiful face with quivering lips, "this
wonderful revelation seems too joyful to be true!"
"Edith, my child," gravely said Isabel Stewart, as she held the girl a
little away from her and searched her face with anxious eyes, "after
learning what you did of me, from those horrible letters, is there no
shrinking in your heart--is there no feeling of--of shame or of
pitiful contempt for me?"
"Not an atom, dear," whispered the trustful maiden, whose keen
intuitions had long since fathomed the character of the woman before
her; "to me you are as pure and dear as if that man--whoever he may
have been--had never cast a shadow upon your life by the shameful
deception which he practiced upon you."
"My blessed little comforter! you shall be rewarded for your faith in
me," returned Mrs. Stewart, her lips wreathed in fondest smiles, her
eyes glowing with happiness. "But go excuse yourself to Mrs. Morrell,
then we will take leave of our hostess, and go home."
Ten minutes later they were on their way to the Waldorf.
It was rather a silent drive, for both were still too deeply moved
over their recent reunion to care to enter into details just then. It
was happiness enough to sit side by side, hand clasped in hand,
knowing that they were mother and daughter, and in tenderest sympathy
with each other.
Upon arriving at her hotel Mrs. Stewart led the way directly to her
delightful suite of rooms, where, the moment the door was closed, she
turned and once more gathered Edith into her arms.
"I must hold you--I must feel you, else I shall not be quite sure that
I am not dreaming," she exclaimed. "I find it difficult to realize my
great happiness. Can it be possible that I have my own again, after so
many years! that you were once the tiny baby that I held in my arms in
Rome, and loved better than any other earthly object? It is wonderful!
wonderful! and strangest of all is the fact that your heart turns so
fondly to me! Are you sure, dear, that you can unreservedly accept and
love your mother, in spite of those letters, and what they revealed
regarding my past life?"
And again she searched Edith's face and eyes as if she would read her
inmost thoughts.
She met her glance clearly, unshrinkingly.
"I am sure that you never committed a willful wrong in your life," she
gravely replied. "It was a sad mistake to go away from your home and
parents, as you did; but there is no intent to sin to be laid to your
charge--your soul shines, like a beacon light, through these dear
eyes, and I am sure it is as pure and lovely as your face is
beautiful."
"May He who always judges with divine mercy bless you for your sweet
charity and faith," murmured Isabel Stewart, in tremulous tones, as
she passionately kissed the lips which had just voiced such a blessed
assurance of trust and love.
"Now come," she went on, a moment later, while, with her own hands,
she tenderly removed Edith's hat and wrap, "we will make ourselves
comfortable, then I will tell you all the sad story of my misguided
youth."
Twining her arms about the girl's waist, she led her to a seat, and
sitting beside her, she circumstantially related all that we already
know of her history.
But not once did she mention the name of the man who had so deeply
wronged her; for she had resolved, if it were possible, to keep from
Edith the fact that Gerald Goddard, under whose roof she had lived,
was her father.
The young girl, however, was not satisfied, was not content to be thus
kept in the dark; and, when her mother's story was ended, she
inquired, with grave face and clouded eyes:
"Who was this man?--why have you so persistently retrained from
identifying him? What was the name of that coward to whom--with shame
I say it--I am indebted for my being?"
"My love, cannot you restrain your curiosity upon that point? Will you
not let the dead past bury its dead, without erecting a tablet to its
memory?" her companion pleaded, gently. "It can do you no possible
good--it might cause you infinite pain to know."
"Is the man living?" Edith sternly demanded.
Mrs. Stewart flushed.
"Yes," she replied, after a moment of hesitation.
"Then I must know--you must tell me, so that I may shun him as I would
shun a deadly serpent," the young girl exclaimed, with compressed lips
and flashing eyes.
Mrs. Stewart looked both pained and troubled.
"My love, I wish you would not press this point," she remarked,
nervously.
"Edith turned and gazed searchingly into her eyes.
"Do you still cherish an atom of affection for him?" she inquired.
"No! a thousand times no!" was the emphatic response, accompanied by a
gesture of abhorrence.
"Then you can have no personal motive or sensitiveness concerning the
matter."
"No, my child--my desire is simply to save you pain--to spare you a
shock, perchance."
"Do I know him already?--have I ever seen him?" cried Edith, in a
startled tone.
"Yes, dear."
"Then tell me! tell me!" panted the girl. "Oh! if I have spoken with
him, it is a wonder that my tongue was not paralyzed in the act--that
my very soul did not shrink and recoil with aversion from him!" she
exclaimed, trembling from head to foot with excitement.
Her mother saw that it would be useless to attempt to keep the truth
from her; that it would be better to tell her, or she might brood over
the matter and make herself unhappy by vainly trying to solve the
riddle in her own mind.
"Edith," she said, with gentle gravity, "the man is--Gerald Goddard!"
The girl sprang to her feet, electrified by the startling revelation,
a low cry of dismay escaping her.
"He! that man my--father!" she breathed, hoarsely, with dilating
nostrils and horrified eyes.
"It is true," was the sad response. "I would have saved you the pain
of knowing this if I could."
"Oh! and I have lived day after day in his presence! I have talked and
jested with him! I have eaten of his bread, and his roof has sheltered
me!" cried Edith, shivering with aversion. "Why, oh, why did not some
instinct warn me of the wretched truth, and enable me to repudiate him
and then fly from him as from some monster of evil? Ah, I was warned,
if I had but heeded the signs," she continued, with flushed cheeks and
flaming eyes. "There were many times when some word or look would
make me shrink from him with a strange repugnance, and that last night
in Wyoming--oh, he revealed his evil nature to me in a way that made
me loathe him!"
"My child, pray calm yourself," pleaded her mother, regarding her with
astonishment, for she never could have believed, but for this
manifestation, that the usually gentle girl could have displayed so
much spirit under any circumstances. "Come," she added, "sit down
again, and explain what you meant by your reference to that last night
at Wyoming."
And Edith, obeying her, related the conversation that had occurred
between Mr. Goddard and herself, on the night of the ball, when the
man had come to the dressing-room and asked her to button his gloves.
CHAPTER XXXVI.
FURTHER EXPLANATIONS BETWEEN MOTHER AND DAUGHTER.
"It was very, very strange that you should have drifted into his home
in such a way," Mrs. Stewart observed, when Edith's narrative was
ended. "But, dear, I am not sorry--it was perhaps the best thing that
could have happened, under the circumstances, for it afforded you an
opportunity to gain an insight into the man's character without having
been previously influenced or prejudiced by any one. If you had never
met him, you might have imagined, after hearing my story, that I was
more bitter and unforgiving toward him than he justly merited."
"He must have recognized you instantly when you entered Mrs. Wallace's
drawing-room to-day," said Edith, musingly; "for, did you notice how
strangely he looked when Mrs. Baldwin called me Miss Allandale, and
you came to me so eagerly?"
"Yes; the relationship you bear to us both must have flashed upon him
with as great a shock as upon me," Mrs. Stewart returned.
"And how perfectly wretched he appeared when he came to the
reception-room door to give me the letter," Edith remarked, musingly,
as that white, pained face arose before her mind's eye.
"Can you wonder, dear? How could he help being appalled when he
remembered the treatment you had received while you were a member of
his family?"
"It all seems very wonderful!" said the fair girl, thoughtfully, "and
the fact of your being in the house at the same time, seems strangest
of all!"
"It was a very bold thing to do, I admit," responded Mrs. Stewart;
"but the case demanded some risk on my part--I was determined to get
hold of that certificate, if it was in existence. I thought it better
to employ strategy, rather than come into open controversy with them,
as I wished to avoid all publicity if possible. I firmly believe that,
if Anna Correlli had suspected that I was still alive, she would have
destroyed the document rather than allow it to come into my
possession."
"But you could have proved your marriage, through Mr. Forsyth, even if
she had," Edith interposed.
"Yes; but it would have caused a terrible scandal, for Mr. Goddard
would have had to answer to the charge of bigamy; while the publicity
I should have had to endure would have been exceedingly disagreeable
to me. If, however, I had failed in my plans I should not have
hesitated to adopt bold measures--for I was determined, for your sake
as well as my own, to have proof that I was a legal wife and my child
entitled to bear the name of her father, even though he might be
unworthy of her respect."
"How did you happen to discover where the certificate was concealed?"
Edith inquired.
"Do you remember, dear, the day when you came upon me, sitting faint
and weary on the back stairs, and insisted that I should exchange work
with you?" her companion questioned, with a fond smile.
"Yes, indeed, but I little thought that it was my own mother who was
so worn out by performing such unaccustomed labor," the young girl
responded, as she raised the hand she was holding and touched her lips
softly to it.
"Neither of us had a suspicion of the tie between us," returned Mrs.
Stewart; "and yet, from the moment that you entered the house, I
experienced an unaccountable fondness for you."
"And I was immediately impressed that there was something very
mysterious about you--our portly housekeeper," Edith smilingly
replied.
"Did you?"
"Yes; for one thing, these hands"--regarding them fondly--"never
looked as if they really belonged to portly Mrs. Weld, and, several
times, you forgot to speak in your coarse, assumed tones; while, that
evening, when I captured your hideous blue glasses, and looked into
these lovely eyes, I was almost sure that you were not the woman you
appeared to be."
"I remember," said her mother, "and I was conscious of your
suspicions; but I did not mind, for my mission in that house was
almost ended, and I intended, as soon as I could resume my real
character, to renew my acquaintance with you, as Mrs. Stewart, and see
if I could not persuade you to leave that uncongenial atmosphere and
come to me."
"How strange!" murmured Edith.
"It was the motherly instinct reaching out after its own," was the
tender response. "But, about my finding the certificate: You remember
you offered to put the rooms in order, if I would sew for you
meanwhile?"
"Yes."
"Well, that was the time that I learned where that precious paper
could be found," and then she proceeded to relate the conversation
that she had overheard between Mr. and Mrs. Goddard, and how,
emboldened by it, she had afterward gone to the room of the latter to
find her in the act of examining the very document she wanted.
She also told how, later, she had gone, by herself, to the room and
deliberately taken possession of it.
She also mentioned the incident that had occurred on the same day in
the dining-room, when Mr. Goddard had knocked her glasses off and
seemed so disconcerted upon looking into her eyes.
"He appeared like one who had suddenly come face to face with some
ghost of his past--as indeed he had," she concluded, with a sigh.
"I do not see how it can be possible for him to have known one
peaceful moment since the day of his desertion of you in Rome," Edith
remarked, with a grave, thoughtful face.
"I do not think he has," said her mother. "No one can be really at
peace while leading a life of sin and selfish indulgence. I would
rather, a thousand times, have lived my life, saddened and
overshadowed by a great wrong and a lasting disgrace--as I have
believed it to be--than to have exchanged places with either Gerald
Goddard or Anna Correlli."
"How relieved you must have been when you met Mr. Forsyth and learned
that your marriage had been a legal one," Edith observed, while she
uttered a sigh of gratitude as she realized that thus all reproach had
also been removed from her.
"Indeed I was, love; but more on your account than mine. And I
immediately returned to America to prove it, and then reveal to my
dear old friend, Edith, the fact that no stigma rested upon the birth
of the child whom she had so nobly adopted as her own. Poor Edith! I
loved her with all my heart," interposed the fair woman, with starting
tears. "I wish I might have seen her once more, to bless her, from the
depths of my grateful soul, for having so sacredly treasured the jewel
that I committed to her care. If I could but have known two years
earlier, and found her, she never need have suffered the privations
which I am sure hastened her untimely death. You, too, my darling,
would have been spared the wretched experience of which you have told
me."
"I do not mind so much for myself, but was in despair sometimes to
see how much mamma missed and needed the comforts to which she had
always been accustomed," said Edith, the tears rolling over her cheeks
as she remembered the patient sufferer who never murmured, even when
she was enduring the pangs of hunger.
"Well, dear, do not grieve," said Mrs. Stewart, folding her in a fond
embrace. "I know, from what you have told me, that you did your utmost
to shield her from every ill; and, judging from what you have said
regarding the state of her health at the time of Mr. Allandale's
death, I believe she could not have lived very much longer, even under
the most favorable circumstances. Now, my child," she continued, more
brightly, and to distract the girl's thoughts from the sad past,
"since everything is all explained, tell me something about these new
friends of whom you have spoken--Mr. Bryant, Mrs. Morrell and Mr.
Raymond."
Edith blushed rosily at the mention of her lover's name, and almost
involuntarily she slipped her hand into her pocket and clasped a
letter that lay concealed there.
"Mr. Bryant is the gentleman in whose office I was working at the time
of mamma's death," she explained. "He, too, was the one who was so
kind when I got into trouble with the five-dollar gold piece, and so
it was to him I applied for advice, after escaping from Emil
Correlli."
"Ah!" simply remarked Mrs. Stewart, but she was quick to observe the
shy smile that hovered about the beautiful girl's mouth while she was
speaking of Roy.
"I telegraphed him to meet me when I should arrive in New York," Edith
resumed, "because I knew it would be late, and I did not know where it
would be best for me to go. He did so, and took me directly to his
cousin, and that is how I happened to be with Mrs. Morrell."
Mrs. Stewart put one taper finger beneath Edith's pretty, round chin,
and gently lifting her downcast face, looked searchingly into her
eyes.
"Darling, you are very fond of Mr. Bryant, are you not?" she softly
questioned.
Instantly the fair face was dyed crimson, and, dropping her head upon
her mother's shoulder, she murmured:
"How can I help it?"
"And he is going to win my daughter from me? I hope he is worthy."
"Oh, he is noble to the core of his heart," was the earnest reply.
"I believe he must be, dear, or you could not love him," smilingly
returned her companion, adding: "At all events, he has been very kind
and faithful to you, and therefore deserves my everlasting gratitude.
Now tell me of this Mr. Raymond."
So Edith proceeded to relate the story of that gentleman's unfortunate
love for and devotion to Mrs. Allandale; his recent quest for her,
after learning of Mr. Allandale's misfortune and death, in order to
leave his money to her; and how, after learning from Roy that she had
died, he had then advertised for herself, and, since her return to New
York, had settled the half of his fortune upon her.
"Really, it is like a romance, dear," said Mrs. Stewart, smiling,
though somewhat sadly, when she concluded her pathetic tale. "To think
that, after all, I should find my little girl an heiress in her own
right! What a rich little body you will be by and by, when you also
come in possession of your mother's inheritance," she added, lightly.
"Oh, pray do not suggest such a thought!" cried Edith, clinging to
her. "All the wealth of the world could not make up to me the loss of
my mother. Now that we have found each other, pray Heaven that we may
be spared many, many years to enjoy our happiness."
"Forgive me, Edith--I should not have spoken like that," said Mrs.
Stewart, bending forward to kiss the sweet, pained face beside her.
"We will not begin to apprehend a parting in this first hour of our
joy. Now I suppose we ought to consider what relationship we are
going to sustain to each other in the future, before the world. Of
course, neither of us would enjoy the notoriety which a true statement
of our affairs would entail; at the same time, having found you, my
darling, I feel that I can never allow you to call me anything but
'mother'--which is music to my hungry ears."
"No, indeed--I can never be denied the privilege of owning you," cried
Edith, earnestly.
"Well, then, suppose you submit to a second adoption?" Mrs. Stewart
suggested. "It will be very easy, and perfectly truthful, to state
that, having been a dear friend of Mrs. Allandale's youth, and
returning from abroad to find you alone in the world, I solicited the
privilege of adopting the child of my old schoolmate and providing for
her future. Such an arrangement would appear perfectly natural to the
world, and no one could criticise us for loving each other just as
tenderly as we choose, or question your right to give me the title I
desire. What do you say, dear?"
"I think the plan a very nice one, and agree to it with all my heart,"
Edith eagerly responded.
"Then we will proceed to carry it out immediately, for I am very
impatient to set up an establishment of my own, and introduce my
darling daughter to society," smilingly returned Mrs. Stewart; adding,
as she observed her somewhat curiously, "Are you fond of society and
gay life, Edith?"
"Y-es, to a certain extent," was the rather thoughtful reply.
"How am I to interpret that slightly indefinite remark?" Mrs. Stewart
playfully inquired. "Most girls are only too eager for fashionable
life."
"And I used to enjoy it exceedingly," said the young girl, gravely,
"but I have had an opportunity to see the other side during the last
two years, and my ideas regarding what constitutes true enjoyment and
happiness have become somewhat modified. I am sure that I shall still
enjoy refined society; but, mother, dear, if your means are so ample,
and you intend to set up an establishment of your own, let us, at the
outset, take a stand in the social world that no one can mistake, and
maintain it most rigidly."
"A 'stand,' Edith! I don't quite clearly comprehend your meaning,"
said Mrs. Stewart, as she paused an instant.
"I mean regarding the people with whom we will and will not mingle.
Have you ever heard of Paula Nelson, mother?"
"Yes, dear; I met her only a few evenings ago, at the house of Mrs.
Raymond Ventnor; she is a noble woman, with a noble mission. I begin
to comprehend you now, Edith."
"Then let us join her, heart and hand--let us take our stand for
chastity and morality," Edith earnestly resumed. "Let us pledge
ourselves never to admit within our doors any man who bears the
reputation of being immoral, or who lightly esteems the purity of any
woman, however humble; while, on the other hand, let us never refuse
to hold out a helping hand to those poor, unfortunate girls, who,
having once been deceived, honestly desire to rise above their
mistake."
"That is bravely spoken, my noble Edith," said Mrs. Stewart, with dewy
eyes. "And surely I, who have so much greater cause for taking such a
stand than you, will second you most heartily in maintaining it in our
future home. I believe that such a determination on the part of every
pure woman, would soon make a radical change in the tone of society."
Both were silent for a few moments after this, but finally Edith
turned to her companion and inquired:
"Mother, dear, where is Mr. Willard Livermore--the gentleman who
rescued you from the Tiber--and his sister, also, who cared for you so
faithfully during your long illness?"
"Alice Livermore is in Philadelphia, where she has long been
practicing medicine for sweet charity's sake. Mr. Livermore is--here
in New York," Mrs. Stewart responded, but flushing slightly as she
spoke the name of the gentleman.
Something in her tone caused Edith to glance up curiously into her
face, and she read there, in the lovely flush and tender eye, which
told her that her mother regarded her deliverer with a sentiment far
stronger and deeper than that of mere gratitude or admiration.
"Ah! you--" she began, impulsively, and then stopped, confused.
"Yes, love," confessed the beautiful woman, with shining eyes, "I will
have no secrets from you--we both love each other with an everlasting
love; for long years this has been so; and had we been sure that there
existed no obstacle to our union, it is probable that I should have
married Mr. Livermore long ago. But we both believe in the Bible
ritual, and those words, 'until death doth part,' have been a barrier
which neither of us was willing to overleap. Each knows the heart of
the other; and, though it sometimes seems hard that our lives must be
divided, when our tastes are so congenial in every particular, yet we
have mutually decided that only as 'friends' have we the right to
clasp hands and greet each other in this world."
Edith put up her lips and softly kissed the flushed cheek nearest her.
"How I love and honor you!" she whispered.
"We will never speak about this again, if you please, dear," said
Isabel Stewart, in a slightly tremulous tone. "I wished you to know
the truth, but I cannot talk about it. I do not deny the affection;
that is something over which I have no control; but I can at least say
'thus far and no farther,' for the sake of conscience and
self-respect. Now, about that letter which was handed to you to-day,"
she continued, suddenly changing the subject. "Suppose we look it over
again, and then I think it should go directly into the hands of Mr.
Bryant."
She had hardly finished speaking when there came a knock upon her
door.
Rising, she opened it, to find a servant standing without and waiting
to deliver a card that lay upon a silver salver.
Mrs. Stewart took it and read the name of Royal Bryant, together with
the following lines, written in pencil:
"Will Mrs. Stewart kindly excuse this seeming intrusion of a
stranger? but I understand that Miss Allandale is with you,
and it is necessary that I have a few moments' conversation
with her.
R. B."
"Show the gentleman up," the lady quietly remarked to the servant,
then stepped back into the room and passed the card to Edith.
The young girl's eyes lighted with sudden joy, and the quick color
flushed her cheeks, betraying how even the sight of Roy's name and
handwriting had power to move her.
A few moments later there came another tap to tell her that her dear
one was awaiting admittance, and she herself went to receive him.
"Roy! I am so glad you have come!" she exclaimed, holding out both
hands to him, her face radiant with happiness.
CHAPTER XXXVII.
"MY DARLING, YOU ARE FREE!"
The young man regarded her with astonishment, for she had never
greeted him so warmly before.
Edith saw his look and met it with a blush. She took his hat, then led
him directly to Mrs. Stewart.
"Roy, you will be astonished," she remarked, "but my first duty is to
introduce you to--my mother."
With a look of blank amazement, the young man mechanically put out his
hand to greet the beautiful woman who approached and graciously
welcomed him.
"That was rather an abrupt and startling announcement, Mr. Bryant,"
she smilingly remarked, to cover his confusion; "but pray be seated
and we will soon explain the mysterious situation."
"Pardon my bewilderment," said the young man, as he bowed over her
extended hand; "but really, ladies, I am free to confess that you have
almost taken my breath away."
"Then you will know how to sympathize with us," cried Edith, with a
silvery little laugh, "for we have both been in the same condition
during the last few hours."
"Indeed! Then I must say you look very bright for a person who has not
breathed for 'hours,'" he retorted, as he began to recover himself.
"Well, figuratively speaking, our respiration has been retarded many
times, during a short interval, by the strangest developments
imaginable," Edith explained. "But how did you trace me to the
Waldorf?"
"I had something important to tell you, so ran up to Nellie's to see
you, but was told that you had accompanied Mrs. Stewart thither," Roy
explained. "I hope, however, I shall be pardoned for interrupting your
interview," he concluded with an apologetic glance at the elder lady.
"Certainly; and, strange to say, we were speaking of you almost at the
moment that your card was brought to us," she returned. "Edith has had
an important communication handed her to-day, which I thought you
ought to have, since you are her attorney, without any unnecessary
delay."
"Oh! it is most wonderful, Roy! This is it," said the young girl,
producing it from her pocket. "But first I must tell you that in Mrs.
Stewart I have discovered mamma's old friend--the writer of those
letters of which I told you. She did not die in Rome, as was feared."
"Can that be possible?" exclaimed Mr. Bryant.
"Yes, dear. It is a long story, and I cannot stop to tell it all now,"
Edith went on, eagerly, "but I must explain that she has discovered an
important document that proves what makes me the happiest girl in New
York to-day. We met at Mrs. Wallace's this afternoon, where some one
addressed me as Miss Allandale, when she instantly knew that I must be
her child. Isn't it all too wonderful to seem true?"
After chatting a little longer over the wonderful revelations, he
suddenly remembered the "important communication" which Mrs. Stewart
had mentioned.
"What was the matter of business which you felt needed early
consideration?" he inquired.
Instantly Edith's lovely face was suffused with blushes, and Mrs.
Stewart, thinking it would be wise to leave the lovers alone during
the forthcoming explanations, excused herself and quietly slipped into
an adjoining room.
Edith immediately went to the young man's side and gave her letter to
him.
"Roy, this is even more wonderful than what I have already told you,"
she gravely remarked. "Read it; it will explain itself better than any
words of mine can do."
He drew the contents from the envelope, and began at once to read the
following confession:
"For the sake of performing one right act in my life, I wish
to make the following statement, namely: I hereby declare
that the marriage of my brother, Emil Correlli, to Miss
Edith Allen, who, for several weeks, has acted as my
companion, was not a legal ceremony, inasmuch as it was
accomplished solely by fraud and treachery. Miss Allen was
tricked into it by being overpersuaded to personate a
supposed character in a play, entitled 'The Masked Bridal.'
The play was written and acted before a large audience for
the sole purpose of deceiving Miss Allen and making her the
wife of my brother, whom she had absolutely refused to
marry, but who was determined to carry his point at all
hazards. Motives of affection for him, and of jealousy, on
account of my husband's apparent fondness for the girl,
alone prompted me to aid him in his bold design. I hereby
declare again that it was all a trick, from beginning to
end, and it was only by my indomitable will, and by working
upon Miss Allen's sympathies, that I was enabled to carry
out my purpose." (Then followed a detailed account of the
plot of the play and its concluding ceremony, after which
the document closed as follows): "I am impressed that I have
not long to live; and wishing, if it can be done, to right
this great wrong, and make it possible for the proper
officials to declare Miss Allen freed from her bonds, I make
this confession of a fraud that weighs too heavily upon my
conscience to be borne.
"ANNA CORRELLI GODDARD."
The above was dated the day previous to that of madam's death, and
underneath she had appended a few lines to Mr. Goddard, stating that
she knew he was in sympathy with Edith; therefore she should leave the
epistle with her lawyer, to be given to him, in the event of her
death, and she enjoined him to see that justice was done the girl whom
she had injured.
This was the missive that the lawyer had passed to Mr. Goddard at the
same time that he had read the woman's will in the presence of her
husband and Emil Correlli, and over which, as we have seen, he
afterward became so strangely agitated.
We know how he had hurriedly removed from his former elegant home to a
habitation on another street; after which, instead of going abroad, as
the papers had stated, he had gone directly to New York, upon the same
quest as Emil Correlli, but with a very different purpose in
view--that of giving to Edith the precious document that was to
declare her free from the man whom she loathed.
He could get no trace of her, however; unlike Correlli, he had no
knowledge of her acquaintance with Royal Bryant, and therefore all he
could do was to carry the letter about with him, wherever he went, in
the hope of some day meeting her upon the street, or elsewhere.
One day he was out at Central Park, when he suddenly came upon a
former friend--Mrs. Wallace--who immediately announced to him her
intention of arranging a charitable art exhibition and solicited
contributions from him to aid her in the good work.
Thus the appearance of that bit of old "Roman Wall" is accounted for,
as well as the presence of Mr. Goddard himself, who was particularly
requested by Mrs. Wallace to honor the occasion, and allow her to
introduce him to some of her friends.
It would be difficult to describe the terrible shock which the man
sustained when he heard Edith addressed by and respond to the
name--Miss Allandale.
Like a flash of light it was revealed to him that the beautiful girl
was his own daughter!--that, in her, he had, for months, been
"entertaining an angel unawares," but only to abuse his privilege in a
way to reap her lasting contempt and aversion.
This blighting knowledge was followed by a sense of sickening despair
and misery, when, almost at the same moment, he saw Isabel Stewart
start forward to claim her child and lead her from the room, when he
knew she must learn the wretched truth regarding his life of
selfishness and sin.
As they disappeared from sight, he sank back behind the easel that
supported his Roman picture, groaning in spirit with remorse and
humiliation.
A little later he stole unseen from the room, and, crossing the hall,
opened the door of the reception-room, which he had seen Edith and her
mother enter.
He had determined to give the young girl the letter that would serve
to release her from her hateful fetters; he would, perhaps, experience
some comfort in the thought that he had rendered her this one simple
service that would bring her happiness; then he would go away--hide
himself and his misery from all who knew him, and live out his future
to what purpose he could.
We know how he carried out his resolve regarding the confession of
Anna Correlli; and the picture which met his eye, as he opened that
door and looked upon the mother and daughter clasped in each other's
arms, was one that haunted his memory during the rest of his life.
As soon as Royal Bryant comprehended the import of Anna Correlli's
confession, he turned to Edith with a radiant face and open arms.
"My darling! nothing can keep us apart now!" he murmured, in tones
vibrant with joy, "you are free--free as the air you breathe--free to
give yourself to me! Come!"
With a smile of love and happiness Edith sprang into his embrace and
laid her face upon his breast.
"Oh, Roy!" she breathed, "all this seems too much joy to be real or to
be borne in one day!"
"I think we can manage to endure it," returned her lover, with a fond
smile. "I confess, however, that it seems like a day especially
dedicated to blessings, for I have other good news for you."
"Can it be possible? What more could I ask, or even think of?"
exclaimed Edith, wonderingly.
Roy smiled mysteriously, and returned, with a roguish gleam in his
eyes:
"My news will keep a while--until you give me the pledge I crave, my
darling. You will be my wife, Edith?" he added, with tender
earnestness.
"You know that I will, Roy," she whispered; and, lifting her face to
his, their mutual vows were sealed by their betrothal caress.
The young man drew from an inner pocket a tiny circlet of gold in
which there blazed a flawless stone, clear as a drop of dew, and
slipped it upon the third finger of Edith's left hand.
"I have had it ever since the day after your arrival in New York," he
smilingly remarked, "but coward conscience would not allow me to give
it to you; however, it will prove to you that I was lacking in neither
faith nor hope."
"Now for my good news," he added, after Edith had thanked him, in a
shy, sweet way that thrilled him anew, while he gently drew her to a
seat. "I met Giulia Fiorini on the street this afternoon."
"Oh, Roy! did you?"
"Yes; she is here, searching for Correlli. I recognized her and the
child from your description. I boldly resolved to address her, as I
feared it might be my only opportunity. I did so, asking if I was
right in supposing her to be Madam Fiorini, and told her that I was
searching for her, at your request. She almost wept at the sound of
your name, and eagerly inquired where she could find you. I took her
to my office, where I told her what I wished to prove regarding her
relations with Correlli, and that, if I could accomplish my purpose,
it would give her and the child a claim upon him which he could not
ignore. She at once frankly related her story to me, and stated that
when they had first arrived in New York from Italy, Correlli had taken
her to Madam ----'s boarding-house, where he had made arrangements for
himself, wife and child--"
"Oh, then that settles the question of her claim upon him!" Edith here
interposed, eagerly.
"Yes--if we can prove her statements, and I think we can; for when I
told Giulia of my visit to madam, and how I had failed to elicit the
slightest information from her, she said that she knew where one of
the servants--who was in the house when she went there--could be
found, for she had stumbled across the girl in the street and learned
where she is now living. She gave me her address, and I went
immediately to interview her. Luck was in my favor--the girl was at
home, and remembered the 'pretty Italian girl, who was so sweet-spoken
and polite;' she also knew where her previous fellow-servant could be
found, and asserted that they would both be willing to swear that
madam herself had told them to 'always to be very attentive to the
handsome Italian's wife, for she made more out of them than out of any
of her other boarders.' So, I flatter myself that I have gathered
conclusive evidence against the man," Roy added, in a tone of
satisfaction. "I shall interview Monsieur Correlli at once, and
perhaps, when he realizes that his supposed claim upon you is null and
void, he may be persuaded to do what is right regarding his wife and
child."
The lovers then fell to talking of their own affairs, Edith relating
what she had so recently learned from her mother, and concluded by
mentioning the plan of readoption, suggested by Mrs. Stewart, in order
to avoid the gossip of the world.
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
AN UNEXPECTED ENCOUNTER.
The morning following his conference with his betrothed, our young
lawyer went early to seek an interview with Emil Correlli.
He was fortunate enough to find him at the hotel where he had told him
he could be found if wanted.
In a few terse sentences he stated the object of his visit, cited the
evidence he possessed of Correlli's bigamous exploit, and then
startled that audacious person by summarizing the contents of the late
Mrs. Goddard's confession.
"If you are not already sure of the fact," the lawyer emphatically
added, "allow me to inform you that your sister was never the wife of
Mr. Gerald Goddard, as that gentleman had been married previous to his
meeting with Miss Correlli. It was supposed that his first wife was
drowned in Rome, but the report was false, as the woman is still
living."
"I do not believe it," angrily exclaimed Emil Correlli, and yet, in
his heart, he felt that it was true, for it but verified his own
previous suspicions. "I tell you it is all a lie, for Goddard himself
told me, only two days after my sister's death, that, if I chose to
look, I would find the record of his marriage to her in the books of
the ---- Church in Rome."
"That is true; Mr. Goddard supposed the marriage to have been legal,
because, at the time he deserted his lovely wife for Miss Correlli, he
did not know that he was lawfully bound to her. But, later, both he
and your sister learned the truth, and the secret of their unfortunate
relations embittered the lives of both, especially after they
discovered that the real Mrs. Goddard is still living," Roy exclaimed.
"How do you know this?" hoarsely demanded his companion.
"I have recently seen and conversed with Mrs. Goddard, and all the
facts of her history are in my possession."
"Who is she? Under what name is she known?"
"That is a question that I must refuse to answer, as the revelation of
the lady's identity cannot affect the case in hand; unless--it should
come before the courts and the truth be forced from me," Roy replied.
"Then why have you told me this wretched story?" cried the man, almost
savagely.
"A lawyer, in fighting his cases, is often obliged to use a variety of
weapons," was the significant response. "I thought it might be just as
well to warn you, at the outset, that your sister's reputation might
suffer in the event of a lawsuit, during which much might be revealed
which otherwise would remain a secret among ourselves."
To convince Correlli of the truth of his disclosures Mr. Bryant
announced that he had in his possession, at that moment, a copy of
Mrs. Goddard's confession, and proceeded to read it, having first
declared that the original was in his office safe.
Emil Correlli, was ghastly white when Roy stopped, after reading the
entire confession. He realized that his case was hopeless; that he had
been ignominiously defeated in his scheme to possess Edith, and
nothing remained to him but to submit to the inevitable.
"Now I have just one question to ask you, Mr. Correlli," Roy remarked,
as he refolded the paper and laid it upon the table for him to examine
at his leisure. "What is your decision? Will you still contest the
point of Miss Allandale's freedom, or will you quietly withdraw your
claim, and allow it to be publicly announced, through the Boston
papers, that that ceremony in Wyoming was simply a farce after all?"
"You leave me no choice," was the sullen response; "but," with a
murderous gleam in his dusky eyes, "if you had brought the original
confession with you to-day, you would never have gone out of this
house with it in your possession."
"Excuse me for contradicting you, sir; but I think I should," Roy
returned, with the utmost courtesy. "I took all proper precautions
before coming to you, as it was--although not because of any personal
fear of you. No less than three persons in this house, and as many
more outside, know of my visit to you at this hour. And, now, since
you have decided to yield to my requirements, I have here some papers
for you to sign."
He drew them forth as he spoke, spreading them out upon the table,
after which he arose and touched the electric button over the mantel.
"What is that for?" curtly demanded his companion.
"To summon witnesses to your signature to these documents."
"Your assurance is something refreshing," sneered the elder man. "How
do you know that I will sign them?"
"I feel very sure that you will, Mr. Correlli," was the quiet
rejoinder; "for, in the event of your refusal, there is an officer in
waiting to arrest you upon the two serious charges before mentioned."
The baffled man snarled in impotent rage; but before he could frame a
retort, there came a knock on the door.
Roy answered it, and bade the servant without to "show up the
gentlemen who were waiting in the office."
Five minutes later they appeared, when Emil Correlli, without a demur,
signed the papers which Roy had brought and now read aloud in their
presence.
His signature was then duly witnessed by them, after which they
withdrew, Mr. Bryant's clerk, who was one of the number, taking the
documents with him.
Roy, however, remained behind.
"Mr. Correlli," he said, as soon as the door closed, "I have one more
request to make of you, before I leave; it is that you will openly
acknowledge as your wife the woman you have wronged, and thus bestow
upon your child the name which it is his right to bear."
"I will see them both--"
"Hush!" sternly interrupted Roy, before he could complete his
passionate sentence. "I simply wish to give you the opportunity to do
what is right, of your own free will. If you refuse, I shall do my
utmost to compel you; and, mark my words, it can be done. That woman
and her child are justly entitled to your name and support, and they
shall have their rights, even though you may never look upon their
faces again. I give you just one week to think over the matter. You
can leave the country if you choose, and thus escape appearing in
court; but you doubtless know what will happen if you do--the case
will go by default, and Giulia and Ino will come off victors."
The man knew that what the lawyer said was true, but he was so enraged
over his inability to help himself that he was utterly reckless, and
cried out, fiercely:
"Do your worst--I defy you to the last! And now, the quicker you
relieve me of your presence the better I shall like it."
The young lawyer took up his hat, bowed politely to his defeated foe,
and quietly left the room, very well satisfied with the result of his
morning's work.
All the necessary forms of law were complied with to release Edith
from even a seeming alliance with the man who had been so determined
to win her.
An announcement was inserted in the Boston papers explaining as much
as was deemed necessary, and thus the fair girl was free!--free to
give herself to him whom her heart had chosen.
Then she was formally adopted by Mrs. Stewart, the old schoolmate of
the late Mrs. Allandale, and a little later, when they were settled in
their elegant residence on one of the fashionable avenues, society was
bidden to a great feast to honor the new relationship and to
congratulate the charming hostess and her beautiful daughter, who was
thus restored to a position she was so well fitted to grace.
At the same time Edith's engagement to the young lawyer was announced,
and it seemed to the happy young couple as if the future held for them
only visions of joy.
True to his promise, Roy gave Emil Correlli the week specified to
decide either for or against Giulia; then, not having heard from him,
he instituted proceedings to establish her claim upon him.
Correlli did not appear to defend himself, consequently the court
indorsed her petition and awarded her a handsome maintenance.
Once only Gerald Goddard met his daughter after she learned the facts
relating to her birth and parentage.
They suddenly came face to face, one morning, in one of the up-town
parks. He looked ill and wretched; his hair had become white as snow,
his face thin and pale, and his clothing hung loosely about him.
"Pardon me," he began, in uncertain tones, while he searched her face
wistfully. "No doubt you despise me too thoroughly to wish to hold any
intercourse with me; still, I feel that I must tell you how deeply I
regret, and ask your pardon for, what occurred in the dressing-room at
Wyoming on the last night of that 'winter frolic.'"
Edith's tender heart could not fail to experience a feeling of
sympathy for the proud man in his humiliated and broken state.
Remembering that it was through him that her blessed freedom from Emil
Correlli and her present happiness had come, she forced herself to
respond in a gentle tone:
"I have always felt, Mr. Goddard, that you were not fully conscious of
what you were saying to me at that time."
"I was not," he eagerly returned, his face lighting a trifle that she
should judge him thus leniently. "I had been drinking too much; still,
that fact should, perhaps, also be a cause for shame. Pray assure me
of your pardon for what I can never forgive myself."
"Certainly; I have no right to withhold it, in view of your apology,"
she responded.
"Thank you; and--and may I presume to ask you one question more?" he
pleaded.
Edith's heart leaped into her throat at this, for she was impressed
with a knowledge and a dread of what was coming.
For the moment she could not speak--she could only bow her assent to
his request.
"I want to ask if--if, since you left my house, you have learned
anything regarding my previous history?" he inquired, with pale lips.
"Yes," she said, sadly, "I know it all. My mother told me only because
I demanded the truth. She would have preferred to keep some things
from me, for your sake as well as mine, but I could not be satisfied
with any partial disclosure."
"How you must hate me!" the man burst forth, while great drops of
agony gathered about his mouth.
He had never believed that a human being could suffer as he suffered
at that moment, in knowing that by his own vileness he had forever
barred himself outside the affections of this lovely girl, toward whom
he had always--since the first hour of their meeting--been strangely
attracted, and whose love and respect, now that he knew she was his
own child, seemed the most priceless boons that earth could hold for
him.
At first Edith could make no reply to his passionate outburst.
"No," she said, at last, and lifting a regretful look to him, "I hope
that there is not an atom of 'hate' in my heart toward any human
being, especially toward any one who might experience an honest,
though late, repentance for misdeeds."
"Ah! thank you; then have you not some word of comfort--some message
of peace for me?" tremulously pleaded the once haughty,
self-sufficient man, while he half extended his hands toward her, in a
gesture of entreaty.
Her lips quivered, and tears sprang involuntarily to her eyes, while
it was only after a prolonged effort that she was able to respond.
"Yes," she said, at last, a solemn sweetness in her unsteady tones,
"the Lord lift up His countenance upon thee and give thee peace."
She often wondered afterward how it happened that those words of
blessing, once uttered by a patriarch of old, should have slipped
almost unconsciously from her lips.
She did not even wait to note their effect upon her companion, but,
gliding swiftly past him, went on her way.
CHAPTER XXXIX.
CONCLUSION.
Three months after the incidents related in our previous chapter a
large and fashionable audience assembled, one bright day, in a certain
church on Madison avenue to witness a marriage that had been
anticipated with considerable interest and curiosity among the smart
set.
Exactly at the last stroke of noon the bridal party passed down the
central aisle.
It was composed of four ushers, as many bridesmaids a maid of honor
and two stately, graceful figures in snow-white apparel.
One of these latter was a veiled bride, her tall, willowy figure clad
in gleaming satin, her golden head crowned with natural orange
blossoms, and she carried an exquisite bouquet of the same fragrant
flowers in her ungloved hands--for the groom had forbidden the
conventional white kids in this ceremony--while on her lovely face
there was a light and sweetness which only perfect happiness could
have painted there.
Her companion, a woman of regal presence and equally beautiful in her
way, was clothed in costly white velvet, richly garnished with pearls
and rare old point lace.
The fair bride and her attendant were no other than Isabel Stewart and
her daughter.
"Who should give away my darling save her own mother?" she had
questioned, with smiling but tremulous lips, when this matter was
being discussed, together with other preparations for the wedding.
Edith was delighted with the idea, and thus it was carried out in the
way described.
The party was met at the chancel by Roy, accompanied by his best man
and the clergyman, where the ceremony was impressively performed,
after which the happy couple led the way from the church with those
sweetest strains of Mendelssohn beating their melodious rhythm upon
their ears and joyful hearts.
It was an occasion for only smiles and gladness; but, away in a dim
corner of that vast edifice, there sat a solitary figure, with bowed
head and pale face, over which--as there fell upon his ears those
solemn words, "till death us do part"--hot tears streamed like rain.
The figure was Gerald Goddard. He had read the announcement of Edith's
marriage in the papers, and, with an irresistible yearning to see her
in her bridal robes, he had stolen into the church with the crowd, and
hidden himself where he could see without being seen.
But the scene was too much for him, for, as he watched that peerless
woman and her beautiful daughter move down the aisle, and listened to
the reverent responses of the young couple, there came to him, with
terrible force, the consciousness that if he had been true to the same
vows which he had once taken upon himself he need not now have been
shut out of this happy scene, like some lost soul shut out of heaven.
But no one heeded him; and, when the ceremony was over, he slipped
away as secretly as he had come, and no one dreamed that the father of
the beautiful bride had been an unbidden guest at her wedding.
In giving Edith to Roy Mrs. Stewart had begged that she need not be
separated from her newly recovered treasure--that for the present, at
least, they would make their home with her--or, rather, that they
would take the house, which was to be a part of Edith's dowry, and
allow her to remain with them as their guest.
This they were only too glad to do; therefore, after a delightful
wedding trip through the West, they came back to their elegant home,
where, with every luxury at their command, the future seemed to
promise unlimited happiness.
Poor Louis Raymond had failed very rapidly during the spring months;
indeed, he was not even able to attend the marriage of the girl for
whom he had formed a strong attachment, and who had bestowed upon him
many gracious attentions and services that had greatly brightened his
last days. He passed quietly away only a few weeks after their return
to New York.
One day, a couple of months after her marriage, Edith was about to
step into her carriage, on coming out of a store on Broadway, where
she had been shopping, when she was startled by excited shouts and
cries directly across the street from her.
Turning to see what had caused the commotion, she saw a heavily loaded
team just toppling over, while a man, who had been in the act of
crossing the street, was borne down under it, and, with a shriek which
she never forgot, apparently crushed to death.
Sick and faint with horror, she crept into her carriage, and ordered
her driver to get away from the dreadful scene as soon as possible.
That same evening, as she was looking over the _Telegram_, a low cry
of astonishment broke from her, as she read the following paragraph:
"A sad accident occurred on Broadway this morning. A carelessly loaded
team was overturned by its own top-heaviness as it was rounding the
corner of Twenty-ninth street, crushing beneath its cruel weight the
talented young sculptor, Emil Correlli. Both legs were broken, one in
two places, and it is feared that he has suffered fatal internal
injuries. He was taken in an unconscious state to the Roosevelt
Hospital, where he now lies hovering between life and death. The
surgeons have little hope of his recovery."
Edith was greatly shocked by the account, notwithstanding her aversion
to the man.
She had not supposed that he was in the city, for Roy believed that he
had left the country, rather than appear to defend himself against
Giulia's claims, and to escape paying the damages the court awarded
her, after proclaiming her his lawful wife.
The woman had since been supporting herself and her child by designing
and making dainty costumes for children, a vocation to which she
seemed especially adapted, and by which she was making a good living,
through the recommendation of both Mrs. Stewart and Edith.
The day after the accident Roy, on his way home from his office,
prompted by a feeling of humanity, went to the Roosevelt Hospital to
inquire for the injured man.
The surgeon looked grave when he made known his errand.
"There is hardly a ray of hope for him," he remarked; "he is still
unconscious. Do you know anything about him or his family?" he asked,
with sudden interest.
"Yes, I have had some acquaintance with him," Roy returned.
"Do you know his wife?" the man pursued. "A woman came here last
evening, claiming to be his wife, and insisting upon remaining by his
bedside as long as he should live."
"Yes, he has a wife," the young man briefly returned, but deeply
touched by this evidence of Giulia's devotion.
"Is she a dark, foreign-looking lady, of medium height, rather
handsome, and with a slight accent in her speech?"
"That answers exactly to her description."
"I am glad to know it, for we have been in some doubt as to the
propriety of allowing her to remain with our patient. We tried to make
her leave him, last night, even threatening to have her forcibly
removed; but she simply would not go, and is remarkably handy in
assisting the nurse, while her self-control is simply wonderful."
Roy wrote a few lines on one of his cards, saying that if either he or
Mrs. Bryant could be of any service at this trying time, she might be
free to call upon them.
This he gave to the surgeon to hand to Giulia, and then went away.
The following evening the woman made her appearance in their home with
her child, whom she begged them to care for "as long as Emil should
live."
It could not be very long, she said, with streaming eyes. She loved
him still, in spite of everything, and she must remain with him while
he breathed.
Edith willingly received Ino, saying she would be glad to keep him as
long as was necessary; then Giulia went immediately back to her sad
vigils beside the man who had caused her nothing but sorrow and shame.
But Emil Correlli did not die.
Very slowly and painfully he came back to life--to an existence,
rather, from which he would gladly have escaped when he realized what
it was to be.
When he first awakened to consciousness it was to find a pale, patient
woman beside him--one who met his sighs and moans with gentle
sympathy, and who ministered tirelessly to his every need and comfort.
No other hand was so cool and soft upon his heated head, or so deft to
arrange his covers and pillows; no voice was so gently modulated yet
so invariably cheerful--no step so quick and light; and, though the
querulous invalid often frowned upon her, and chided her sharply for
imaginary remissness, she never wavered in her sweetness and
gentleness.
Thus, little by little, the selfish man grew to appreciate her and to
yearn for her presence, if she was forced to be out of his sight for
even a few minutes at a time.
"She has saved your life--she has almost forced life upon you," the
surgeon remarked to him one day, when, as he came to make his
accustomed visit, Giulia slipped away for a moment of rest and a
breath of fresh air.
The invalid frowned. It was not exactly pleasant to be told that he
owed such a debt of gratitude to the woman he had wronged. He was too
callous to experience very much of gratitude as yet. It was only when
he was pronounced well enough to be moved, and informed that he must
make arrangements to be cared for outside, in order to make room for
more urgent cases, that he began to wonder how he should get along
without his faithful nurse and to realize how dependent he was upon
her.
He knew that he would be a cripple for life; his broken bones had
knitted nicely, and his limbs would be as sound as ever, in time; but
his spine had been injured, and he would never walk upright
again--henceforth he would only be able to get about upon crutches.
How, then, could he live without some one to wait upon him and bear
with him in his future state of helplessness?
"Where shall I go?" he questioned, querulously, when, later, he told
Giulia that his removal had been ordered. "A hotel is the most dismal
place in the world for a sick man."
"Emil, how would you like a home of your own?" Giulia gravely
inquired.
The word "home" thrilled him strangely, making him think yearningly of
his mother and the comforts of his childhood, and an irresistible
longing took possession of him.
"A home!" he repeated, bitterly. "How on earth could I make a home for
myself?"
"I will make it for you--I will go to take care of you in it, if you
like," she quietly answered.
"You!" he exclaimed in surprise, while, with sudden discernment, he
remarked a certain refined beauty in her face that he had never
observed before.
Then he added, with a sullen glance at his useless limbs, a strange
sense of shame creeping over him:
"Do you still care enough for me to take that trouble?"
"I am willing to do my duty, Emil," she gravely replied.
"Ha! you evade me!" he cried, sharply, and piqued by her answer. "Tell
me truly, Giulia, do you still love me well enough to be willing to
devote your life to such a misshapen wretch as I shall always be?"
The woman turned her face away from him, to hide the sudden light of
hope that leaped into her eyes at his words, which she fancied had in
them a note of appeal.
But she had been learning wisdom during her long weeks of service in
the hospital--learning that anything, to be appreciated, must be
hardly won; and so she answered as before, without betraying a sign of
the eager desire that had taken root in her heart:
"I told you, Emil, that I was willing to do my duty. I bear your
name--you are Ino's father--my proper place is in your home; and if
you see fit to decide that we shall all live together under the same
roof, I will do my utmost to make you comfortable, and your future as
pleasant as possible. More than that I cannot promise--now."
"And you really mean this, Giulia?" he questioned, in a low tone.
"Yes, if my proposal meets with your approval, we can at least make
the experiment. If it should not prove a success, we can easily
abandon it whenever you choose."
He knew that he could not do without her--knew that she had become so
essential to him that he was appalled at the mere thought of losing
her, while the sound of that magic word "home," around which clustered
everything that was comfortable and attractive, opened before him the
promise of something better than he had ever yet known in life.
Let us slip over the six months following, to find this little family
pleasantly settled in an elegant villa a few miles up the Hudson.
It is replete with every luxury that money can purchase.
The choicest in art of every description decorates its walls, and
pleasant, sunny rooms, while in a spacious studio, opening out upon a
wide lawn, may be seen numerous unfinished pieces of statuary, upon
which the crippled but ambitious master of the house has already begun
to work, although his strength will permit him to do but little at a
time.
Giulia, or "Madame Correlli," as she is now known, is the presiding
genius of this ideal spot, and she fills her place with both dignity
and grace; while her watchful care and never-failing patience and
cheerfulness are beginning to assert their charm upon the man to whom
she is devoting herself, as is noticeable in his many efforts to make
life pleasant to her, in his frequent appeals to her judgment and
approval of his work, and the courtesy which he invariably accords
her.
Ino has grown, although he is still a beautiful child--very bright and
forward for his age, and a source of great enjoyment to his father,
who, even now, has begun to direct his tiny hands in the use of the
mallet and chisel.
* * * * *
It was more than a year after her marriage that Edith, accompanied by
her mother, visited the annual exhibition of the ---- Academy of Art.
Among the numerous pictures which were shown there were two which
attracted more attention than all the others. They were evidently
intended as companion-pieces, and had been painted by the same artist.
The scene was laid in an avenue of a park. On either side there grew
beautiful, great trees, whose widespread branches made graceful
shadows on the graveled walk beneath. In the center of this avenue--in
the first picture--two figures stood facing each other; one an elderly
man, proud and haughty in his bearing, richly dressed and with a
certain air of the world investing him, but with a face--although
possessing great natural beauty--so wretched and full of remorse, so
lined and seamed with soul-anguish, that the heart of every beholder
was instantly moved to deepest sympathy.
Before him stood a beautiful maiden who was the embodiment of all that
was pure and happy. Her face was lovely beyond description--its every
feature perfect, its expression full of sweetness and peace, while a
divine pity and yearning shone forth from her heavenly blue eyes,
which were upraised to the despairing countenance of her companion.
Her dress was simple white, belted at the waist with a girdle and
flowing ends of gleaming satin ribbon, while a dainty straw hat, from
which a single white plume drooped gracefully, crowned her golden
head.
The gentleman was standing with outstretched hands, as if in the act
of making some appeal to the fair girl, whose grave sweetness, while
it suggested no yielding, yet indicated pity and sorrow for the
other's suffering.
The second picture presented the same figures, but its import was
entirely different.
Away down the avenue, the young girl, looking even more fair and
graceful, was just passing out of sight, while the gentleman had
turned and was gazing after her, a rapt expression on his face, the
misery all obliterated from it, the despair all gone from his eyes,
while in their place there had dawned a look of resignation and peace,
and a faint smile even seemed to hover about the previously pain-lined
mouth, which told that he had just learned some lesson from his
vanishing angel that had changed the whole future for him.
As Edith looked upon these paintings, which betrayed a master-hand in
every stroke of the brush, a rush of tears blinded her eyes, for she
instantly recognized the scene, although there had been no attempt at
portraiture in the faces, and she read at once the story they were
intended to reveal.
They were catalogued as "Unrest" and "Peace."
She knew, even before she discovered the initials--"G. G."--in one
corner, that Gerald Goddard had painted these pictures, and that he
had taken for his subject their meeting in the park the previous year.
They took the first prize, and the artist immediately received
numerous and flattering offers for them, but his agent replied to all
such that the pictures were not for sale.
A month later a sealed package was delivered at Edith's door, and it
was addressed to her.
Upon opening it she found a document bequeathing to her two paintings,
lately exhibited at the Academy, which would be delivered to her upon
application to a certain art dealer in the city, whose address was
inclosed. The communication stated that she was free to make whatever
disposition of them she saw fit.
Upon a heavy card accompanying them there was written the following
words:
"The blessing of Aaron has been fulfilled. May the same
peace rest upon thee and thine forever. G. G."
Upon inquiring about the pictures of the dealer referred to, Edith was
informed that Gerald Goddard had died only the week previous of quick
consumption, and his body had been quietly interred in Greenwood,
according to his own instructions.
His two paintings, "Unrest" and "Peace," were left in the care of his
friend, to be delivered to Mrs. Royal Bryant, whenever she should call
for them.
Edith was deeply touched by this act, and by the fact that the man had
devoted the remnant of his life to picturing that scene which seemed
to have made such a deep impression upon his mind, while a feeling of
thankfulness swelled in her heart with the thought that perhaps she
had spoken the "word in season" that had helped to lead into the
"paths of peace" the weary worlding, who, even then, was treading so
swiftly toward the verge of the "Great Unknown."
Not many weeks later the New York _Herald_ contained the following
announcement:
"MARRIED.--On Wednesday, the 18th, the Honorable Willard
Livermore to Mrs. Isabel Stewart, both of New York."
THE END.
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without the usual embellishments of blood and thunder, it has no
equal.
NICK OF THE WOODS. A story of the Early Settlers of Kentucky. By
Robert Montgomery Bird. Cloth, 12mo. with four illustrations by J.
Watson Davis. Price, $1.00.
This most popular novel and thrilling story of early frontier life in
Kentucky was originally published in the year 1837. The novel, long
out of print, had in its day a phenomenal sale, for its realistic
presentation of Indian and frontier life in the early days of
settlement in the South, narrated in the tale with all the art of a
practiced writer. A very charming love romance runs through the story.
This new and tasteful edition of "Nick of the Woods" will be certain
to make many new admirers for this enchanting story from Dr. Bird's
clever and versatile pen.
WINDSOR CASTLE. A Historical Romance of the Reign of Henry VIII.,
Catharine of Aragon and Anne Boleyn. By Wm. Harrison Ainsworth. Cloth,
12mo. with four illustrations by George Cruikshank. Price, $1.00.
"Windsor Castle" is the story of Henry VIII., Catharine, and Anne
Boleyn. "Bluff King Hal," although a well-loved monarch, was none too
good a one in many ways. Of all his selfishness and unwarrantable
acts, none was more discreditable than his divorce from Catharine, and
his marriage to the beautiful Anne Boleyn. The King's love was as
brief as it was vehement. Jane Seymour, waiting maid on the Queen,
attracted him, and Anne Boleyn was forced to the block to make room
for her successor. This romance is one of extreme interest to all
readers.
HORSESHOE ROBINSON. A tale of the Tory Ascendency in South Carolina in
1780. By John P. Kennedy. Cloth, 12mo. with four illustrations by J.
Watson Davis. Price, $1.00.
Among the old favorites in the field of what is known as historical
fiction, there are none which appeal to a larger number of Americans
than Horseshoe Robinson, and this because it is the only story which
depicts with fidelity to the facts the heroic efforts of the colonists
in South Carolina to defend their homes against the brutal oppression
of the British under such leaders as Cornwallis and Tarleton.
The reader is charmed with the story of love which forms the thread of
the tale, and then impressed with the wealth of detail concerning
those times. The picture of the manifold sufferings of the people, is
never overdrawn, but painted faithfully and honestly by one who spared
neither time nor labor in his efforts to present in this charming love
story all that price in blood and tears which the Carolinians paid as
their share in the winning of the republic.
Take it all in all, "Horseshoe Robinson" is a work which should be
found on every book-shelf, not only because it is a most entertaining
story, but because of the wealth of valuable information concerning
the colonists which it contains. That it has been brought out once
more, well illustrated, is something which will give pleasure to
thousands who have long desired an opportunity to read the story
again, and to the many who have tried vainly in these latter days to
procure a copy that they might read it for the first time.
THE PEARL OF ORR'S ISLAND. A story of the Coast of Maine. By Harriet
Beecher Stowe. Cloth, 12mo. Illustrated. Price, $1.00.
Written prior to 1862, the "Pearl of Orr's Island" is ever new; a book
filled with delicate fancies, such as seemingly array themselves anew
each time one reads them. One sees the "sea like an unbroken mirror
all around the pine-girt, lonely shores of Orr's Island," and
straightway comes "the heavy, hollow moan of the surf on the beach,
like the wild angry howl of some savage animal."
Who can read of the beginning of that sweet life, named Mara, which
came into this world under the very shadow of the Death angel's wings,
without having an intense desire to know how the premature bud
blossomed? Again and again one lingers over the descriptions of the
character of that baby boy Moses, who came through the tempest, amid
the angry billows, pillowed on his dead mother's breast.
There is no more faithful portrayal of New England life than that
which Mrs. Stowe gives in "The Pearl of Orr's Island."
GUY FAWKES. A Romance of the Gunpowder Treason. By Wm. Harrison
Ainsworth. Cloth, 12mo. with four illustrations by George Cruikshank.
Price, $1.00.
The "Gunpowder Plot" was a modest attempt to blow up Parliament, the
King and his Counsellors. James of Scotland, then King of England, was
weak-minded and extravagant. He hit upon the efficient scheme of
extorting money from the people by imposing taxes on the Catholics. In
their natural resentment to this extortion, a handful of bold spirits
concluded to overthrow the government. Finally the plotters were
arrested, and the King put to torture Guy Fawkes and the other
prisoners with royal vigor. A very intense love story runs through the
entire romance.
THE SPIRIT OF THE BORDER. A Romance of the Early Settlers in the Ohio
Valley. By Zane Grey. Cloth, 12mo. with four illustrations by J.
Watson Davis. Price, $1.00.
A book rather out of the ordinary is this "Spirit of the Border." The
main thread of the story has to do with the work of the Moravian
missionaries in the Ohio Valley. Incidentally the reader is given
details of the frontier life of those hardy pioneers who broke the
wilderness for the planting of this great nation. Chief among these,
as a matter of course, is Lewis Wetzel, one of the most peculiar, and
at the same time the most admirable of all the brave men who spent
their lives battling with the savage foe, that others might dwell in
comparative security.
Details of the establishment and destruction of the Moravian "Village
of Peace" are given at some length, and with minute description. The
efforts to Christianize the Indians are described as they never have
been before, and the author has depicted the characters of the leaders
of the several Indian tribes with great care, which of itself will be
of interest to the student.
By no means least among the charms of the story are the vivid
word-pictures of the thrilling adventures, and the intense paintings
of the beauties of nature, as seen in the almost unbroken forests.
It is the spirit of the frontier which is described, and one can by
it, perhaps, the better understand why men, and women, too, willingly
braved every privation and danger that the westward progress of the
star of empire might be the more certain and rapid. A love story,
simple and tender, runs through the book.
RICHELIEU. A tale of France in the reign of King Louis XIII. By G. P.
R. James. Cloth, 12mo. with four illustrations by J. Watson Davis.
Price, $1.00.
In 1829 Mr. James published his first romance, "Richelieu," and was
recognized at once as one of the masters of the craft.
In this book he laid the story during those later days of the great
cardinal's life, when his power was beginning to wane, but while it
was yet sufficiently strong to permit now and then of volcanic
outbursts which overwhelmed foes and carried friends to the topmost
wave of prosperity. One of the most striking portions of the story is
that of Cinq Mar's conspiracy; the method of conducting criminal
cases, and the political trickery resorted to by royal favorites,
affording a better insight into the state-craft of that day than can
be had even by an exhaustive study of history. It is a powerful
romance of love and diplomacy, and in point of thrilling and absorbing
interest has never been excelled.
ROB OF THE BOWL. A Story of the Early Days of Maryland. By John P.
Kennedy. Cloth, 12mo. Four page illustrations by J. Watson Davis.
Price, $1.00.
This story is an authentic exposition of the manners and customs
during Lord Baltimore's rule. The greater portion of the action takes
place in St. Mary's--the original capital of the State.
The quaint character of Rob, the loss of whose legs was supplied by a
wooden bowl strapped to his thighs, his misfortunes and mother wit,
far outshine those fair to look upon. Pirates and smugglers did Rob
consort with for gain, and it was to him that Blanche Werden owed her
life and her happiness, as the author has told us in such an
enchanting manner.
As a series of pictures of early colonial life in Maryland, "Rob of
the Bowl" has no equal. The story is full of splendid action, with a
charming love story, and a plot that never loosens the grip of its
interest to its last page.
TICONDEROGA. A Story of Early Frontier Life in the Mohawk Valley. By
G. P. R. James. Cloth, 12mo. Four page illustrations by J. Watson
Davis. Price, $1.00.
The setting of the story is decidedly more picturesque than any ever
evolved by Cooper. The story is located on the frontier of New York
State. The principal characters in the story include an English
gentleman, his beautiful daughter, Lord Howe, and certain Indian
sachems belonging to the Five Nations, and the story ends with the
Battle of Ticonderoga.
The character of Captain Brooks, who voluntarily decides to sacrifice
his own life in order to save the son of the Englishman, is not among
the least of the attractions of this story, which holds the attention
of the reader even to the last page.
Interwoven with the plot is the Indian "blood" law, which demands a
life for a life, whether it be that of the murderer or one of his
race. A more charming story of mingled love and adventure has never
been written than "Ticonderoga."
MARY DERWENT. A tale of the Wyoming Valley in 1778. By Mrs. Ann S.
Stephens. Cloth, 12mo. Four illustrations by J. Watson Davis. Price,
$1.00.
The scene of this fascinating story of early frontier life is laid in
the Valley of Wyoming. Aside from Mary Derwent, who is of course the
heroine, the story deals with Queen Esther's son, Giengwatah, the
Butlers of notorious memory, and the adventures of the Colonists with
the Indians.
Though much is made of the Massacre of Wyoming, a great portion of the
tale describes the love making between Mary Derwent's sister, Walter
Butler, and one of the defenders of Forty Fort.
This historical novel stands out bright and pleasing, because of the
mystery and notoriety of several of the actors, the tender love
scenes, descriptions of the different localities, and the struggles of
the settlers. It holds the attention of the reader, even to the last
page.
THE LAST TRAIL. A story of early days in the Ohio Valley. By Zane
Grey. Cloth, 12mo. Four page illustrations by J. Watson Davis. Price,
$1.00.
"The Last Trail" is a story of the border. The scene is laid at Fort
Henry, where Col. Ebenezer Zane with his family have built up a
village despite the attacks of savages and renegades. The Colonel's
brother and Wetzel, known as Deathwind by the Indians, are the
bordermen who devote their lives to the welfare of the white people. A
splendid love story runs through the book.
That Helen Sheppard, the heroine, should fall in love with such a
brave, skilful scout as Jonathan Zane seems only reasonable after his
years of association and defense of the people of the settlement from
savages and renegades.
If one has a liking for stories of the trail, where the white man
matches brains against savage cunning, for tales of ambush and
constant striving for the mastery, "The Last Trail" will be greatly to
his liking.
THE KNIGHTS OF THE HORSESHOE. A traditionary tale of the Cocked Hat
Gentry in the Old Dominion. By Dr. Wm. A. Caruthers. Cloth, 12mo. Four
page illustrations by J. Watson Davis. Price, $1.00.
Many will hail with delight the re-publication of this rare and justly
famous story of early American colonial life and old-time Virginian
hospitality.
Much that is charmingly interesting will be found in this tale that so
faithfully depicts early American colonial life, and also here is
found all the details of the founding of the Tramontane Order, around
which has ever been such a delicious flavor of romance.
Early customs, much love making, plantation life, politics, intrigues,
and finally that wonderful march across the mountains which resulted
in the discovery and conquest of the fair Valley of Virginia. A rare
book filled with a delicious Savor of romance.
BY BERWEN BANKS. A Romance of Welsh Life. By Allen Raine. Cloth, 12mo.
Four page illustrations by J. Watson Davis. Price, $1.00.
It is a tender and beautiful romance of the idyllic. A charming
picture of life in a Welsh seaside village. It is something of a
prose-poem, true, tender and graceful.
For sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of price by
the publishers, A. L. BURT COMPANY, 52-58 Duane St., New York.
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