The Masked Bridal
by Mrs. Georgie Sheldon · English · Gutenberg #29524 · 614,345 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: The Masked Bridal
Author: Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
Release date: July 27, 2009 [eBook #29524]
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/29524
Credits: Produced by Sankar Viswanathan, Suzanne Shell, and the
Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MASKED BRIDAL ***
Produced by Sankar Viswanathan, Suzanne Shell, and the
Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
Transcriber's Note:
The Table of Contents is not part of the original book.
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
_creme de la creme_ 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 a
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