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 theywere 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 toserve 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 hadseen 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 mantleover 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.
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 MaskedBridal," 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 anyobjections 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.
"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 awkwardcontretempsif 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 thather 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 kneesand 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 daintything 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 thequi 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 thegrand finalejust 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 abona fidemarriage—that this was to be the "Genuine Surprise" that had been promised them!
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 claspof 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, hemight 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 backinto 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, thedenouement, 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 abona fidemarriage 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 eyesdrooped, 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.