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 putinto 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 withher 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 anexpression 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."
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 thecrême de la crêmeof 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. Goddardremarked, 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, "asit 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 headto 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.
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 spotlessrobe de nuitshe 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 hisinterview 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 girlheaved a long sigh and unclosed her eyes, looking about with complete consciousness for the first time since she fell to the floor in the parlor below.
The physician immediately administered a stimulant, for she was naturally weak and her pulses still feeble.
As this began to take effect, memory also resumed its torturing work.
Lifting her eyes to the housekeeper, who went at once to her side, a spasm of agony convulsed her beautiful features.
"Oh, Mrs. Weld!" she moaned, shivering from head to foot.
"Hush, child!" said the woman, bending over her and laying a gentle hand upon her head; "it will all come right, so just shut your eyes and try to go to sleep. I am going to stay with you to-night, and nobody else shall come near you. Don't talk before the servants," she added, in a swift whisper close to her ear.
An expression of intense relief swept over the fair sufferer's face at this friendly assurance, and lifting a grateful look to the housekeeper's face, she settled herself contentedly upon her pillow.
Dr. Arthur then drew Mrs. Weld to the opposite side of the room, where he gave her directions for the night and what to do in case the fainting should return—which, however, he said he did not anticipate, as the action of the heart had become normal and the circulation more natural.
A little later he took his leave, after which the housemaids were dismissed and Edith was alone with her friend.
When the door closed after them the girl stretched forth her hands in a gesture of helpless appeal to the woman.
"Oh, Mrs. Weld," she wailed, "must I be bound to that wretch during the remainder of my life? I cannot live and bear such a fate! Oh, what a shameful mockery it was! I felt, all the time, as if I were committing a sacrilege, and yet I never dreamed that I was being used so treacherously—"
The housekeeper sat down beside the excited girl,whose eyes were burning with a feverish light, and who showed symptoms of returning hysteria.
She removed her spectacles, and taking both of those trembling hands in hers, looked steadily into the troubled eyes.
"My child," she said, in a gentle, soothing tone, "you must not talk about it to-night—you must not even think about it. I have told you that it will all come out right; no man could hold you to such a marriage—no court would hold you bound when once it is understood how fraudulently you had been drawn into it."
"But who is going to be able to prove that it was fraudulent?" questioned Edith with increasing anxiety. "Apparently I went to the altar with that man of my own free will; with all the semblance of sincerity I took those marriage vows upon me and then received the congratulations of all those guests as if I were a real wife. Oh, it was terrible! terrible! terrible!" and her voice arose almost to a shriek of agony as she concluded.
"Hush! not another word! Edith look at me!" commanded Mrs. Weld with gentle but impressive authority.
The young girl, awed to silence in spite of her grief and nervous excitement, looked wonderingly up into those magnetic eyes which almost seemed to betray a dual nature.
"Oh, dear Mrs. Weld, you do not seem at all like yourself," she gasped. "What—who are you?"
"I am your friend, my dear," was the soothing response, "and I am going to prove it, first by forbidding you to refer to this subject again until after you have had a nice, long sleep. Trust me and obey me, dear; I am going to stand by you as long as you need a friend, and I promise you that you shall never be a slave to the man who has so wronged you to-night. Now put it all out of your mind. I do not want to give you an opiate if I can avoid it, for you would not be so well to-morrow after taking it; but I shall have to if you keep up this excitement."
She continued to hold the girl's trembling hands in a strong, protecting clasp, while she still gazed steadilyinto her eyes, until, as if overcome by a will stronger than her own—her physical strength being well-nigh exhausted—the white lids gradually drooped, the rigid form relaxed, the lines smoothed themselves out of her brow, and she was soon sleeping quietly and restfully.
When her regular breathing assured the watcher beside her that oblivion had sealed her senses for the time, she bent over her, touched her lips softly to her forehead, and murmured:
"Dear heart, they shall never hold you to that wicked ceremony—to that unholy bond! If the law will not cancel it, if they have sprung the trap upon you so cunningly that the court cannot free you, they shall at least leave you in peace and virtually free, and you shall never want for a friend as long as—as—Gertrude Weld lives," she concluded, a peculiar smile wreathing her lips.
While this strange woman sat in that third-story room and watched her sleeping patient, the hours sped by on rapid wings to the merry dancers below, very few of whom concerned themselves about, or even knew of, the tragic ending of the marriage which they had witnessed earlier in the evening.
But oh, how heavily these hours dragged to one among that smiling throng!
Anna Goddard could scarcely control her impatience for her guests to be gone—for the terrible farce to end.
How terrible it all was to her not one of the gay people around her could suspect, for she was obliged to fawn and smile as if she were in thorough sympathy with the scene, and to attend to her duties as hostess and to all the petty details required by so-called etiquette, in order to preserve the prestige which she had acquired for entertaining handsomely.
But there was a deadly fear at her heart—an agony of apprehension, a dread of a fate which, to her, would have been worse than death.
Her husband and brother had disappeared entirely from the ball-room, a circumstance which only added to her perplexity and distress.
When she saw signs of the ball breaking up she sent an imperative message to her husband to join her, for she knew that it would cause unpleasant remarks if the master of the house should fail to put in an appearance to "speed the parting guest."
But she almost wished, when he came to her side, that she had not sent for him, for he seemed like one who had lost his hold upon every hope in the world, and looked so coldly upon her that she would rather have had him plunge a dagger into her heart.
But the weary evening was over at length—the last guest from outside was gone—the last visitor in the house had retired.
Her husband also had watched his opportunity, when she was looking another way, and had slipped out of the room and upstairs to escape having any complaints or questions from her.
And so Anna Goddard stood alone in her elegant drawing-room, a most miserable woman, in spite of the luxury that surrounded her.
She had everything that heart could wish of this world's goods—a beautiful home in the city, another in the country, horses, carriages, servants, fine raiment, costly jewels, and fared sumptuously every day.
But her heart was like a sepulcher, full of corruption that had tainted her whole life; and now, as she stood there beneath the glare of a hundred lights, so fair to look upon in her gleaming satins and flashing jewels, it seemed to her that she would gladly exchange places with the humblest country-woman if thereby she could be at peace with herself and with God, and be the center of a loving and loyal family, happy in the performances of her simple duties as a wife and mother.
Finally, with a weary sigh, the unhappy woman went slowly upstairs, feeling as if, in spite of the smiles and compliments which she had that evening received, she had not a real friend in the world.
Going to her dressing-case, she began to remove her jewels.
The house was very still—so still that it almost seemed deserted, and this feeling only served to add tothe sense of loneliness and desolation that was oppressing her.
Her face was full of pain, her beautiful lips quivered with suppressed emotion as she gathered up her costly treasures in both hands and stood looking at them a moment, thinking bitterly how much money they represented, and yet of how little real value they were to her as an essential element in her life.
She moved toward her casket to put her gems carefully away.
She stood looking down into the box for a minute, then, as if impelled by some irresistible impulse, she laid the priceless stones all in a heap upon the table, when, taking hold of a loop, which had escaped the housekeeper's notice, she lifted the cushion from its place, thus revealing the papers which had been concealed beneath it.
She seized the uppermost one with an eager hand.
"I believe I will destroy it," she mused, "I am afraid there is something more in his desire to possess it than he is willing to admit, for he is so determined to get possession of it."
She half unfolded the document as if to examine it, when a sudden shock went quivering through her frame and a look of amazement overspread her face.
"What can this mean?" she exclaimed, in a tone of alarm, as she dashed it upon the floor and seized another.
This also proved disappointing.
"It was here the last time I looked! I am sure I left it on top of the others!" she muttered, with white lips, as, with trembling hands and heaving bosom, she overturned everything in search of the missing document.
But the most rigid examination failed to reveal it, and, with a cry of mingled agony and anger, she sank weak and trembling upon the nearest chair.
"It is gone!" she whispered, hoarsely; "some one has stolen it!"
She sat there looking utterly helpless and wretched for a few moments.
Then her eyes began to blaze and her lips to twitch spasmodically.
"He has done this!" she cried, starting to her feet once more. "That was why he was absent so long from the ball-room to-night."
Seizing the papers she had removed from the box, she hastily replaced them, also the cushion, restoring the jewels to their places, after which she shut and locked the casket, taking care to remove the key from its lock.
This done, she hurried from the room, looking more like a beautiful fiend than a woman.
With her exquisite robe trailing unheeded after her, Anna Goddard swept swiftly down the hall and rapped imperatively upon the door of her husband's room.
There was no answer from within.
She tried the handle. The door would not yield—it was locked on the inside.
"Gerald, are you in bed?" his wife inquired, putting her lips to the crack and speaking low.
"What do you wish, Anna?" the man questioned.
"I wish to see you—I must speak with you, even if you have retired," she returned, imperatively.
There was a slight movement within the room, then the door was thrown open, and Gerald Goddard stood before her.
But she shrank back almost immediately, a low exclamation of surprise escaping her as she saw his face, so white, so pain-drawn, and haggard.
"Gerald! what is the matter?" she demanded, forgetting, for the moment, her own anger and even her errand there, in the anxiety which she experienced for him.
"I am feeling quite well, Anna," he responded, in a mechanical tone. "What is it you wish to say to me?"
Sweeping into the room, she closed the door after her, then confronted him with accusing mien.
"What do I wish to say to you?" she repeated, her voice quivering with passion, her eyes blazing with a fierce expression. "I want that paper which you have stolen from me."
"I—I do not understand you, Anna," the man began, in a pre-occupied manner. "What paper—what—"
"I will bear no trifling," she passionately cried, interrupting him. "You know very well what paper I refer to—I never had but one document in my possession in which you had any interest; the one you have so beset me about during the last few weeks."
"That?" exclaimed the man, at last aroused from the apathy which had hitherto seemed to possess him.
"That!" retorted his companion, mockingly imitating his tone, "as if you did not very well know it was 'that,' and no other. Gerald Goddard, I have come to demand it of you," she went on shrilly. "You have no right to enter my rooms, like a thief, and steal my treasures! I—"
"Anna, be still!" commanded her husband, sternly. "You are losing control of yourself, and some of our guests may overhear you. I know nothing of the document."
"You lie!" hissed the woman, almost beside herself with mingled rage and fear. "Who, but you, could have any interest in the thing? who, save you, even knew of its existence, or that it had ever been in my possession? Give it back to me! I will have it! It's my only safeguard. You knew it, and you have stolen it, to make yourself independent of me."
"Anna, you shall not demean either yourself or me by giving expression to such unjust suspicions," Gerald Goddard returned with cold dignity. "I swear to you that I do not know anything about the paper. I have not even once laid my eyes upon it since you stole it from me. If it has been taken from the placewhere you have kept it concealed," he went on, "then other hands than mine have been guilty of the theft."
There was the ring of truth in his words, and she was forced to believe him; yet there was a mystery about the affair which was beyond her fathoming.
"Then who could have taken it," she gasped, growing ghastly white at the thought of there being a third party to their secret—"who on earth has done this thing?"
Gerald Goddard was silent. He had his suspicions, suspicions that made him quake inwardly, as he thought of what might be the outcome of them if they should prove to be true.
"Gerald, why do you not answer me?" his companion impatiently demanded. "Can you think of any one who would be likely to rob us in this way?"
"Have you no suspicion, Anna?" the man asked, and looking gravely into her eyes. "Was there no one among your guests to-night, who—"
"Who—what—!" she cried, as he faltered and stopped.
"Was there no one present who made you think of—of some one whom you—have known in the—the past?"
"Ha! do you refer to Mrs. Stewart?" said madam. "Did you also notice the—resemblance?"
"Could any one help it?—could any one ever mistake those eyes? Anna—she was Isabel herself!"
"No—no!" she panted wildly, "she may be some relative. Are you losing your mind? Isabel is—dead."
"She lives!"
"I tell you no! I—saw her dead."
"You? How could that be possible?" exclaimed Mr. Goddard, in astonishment. "We were both in Florence at the time of that tragedy."
"Nevertheless, I saw her dead and in her coffin," persisted his companion, with positive emphasis.
"Now you talk as if you were losing your mind," he answered, with white lips.
"I am not. Do you not remember I told you onemorning, I was going to spend a couple of days with a friend at Fiesole?"
"Yes."
"Well, I had read of that tragedy that very day, and then hid the paper, but I did not go to Fiesole at all. I took the first train for Rome."
"Anna!"
"I wanted to be sure," she cried, excitedly. "I was jealous of her, I—hated her; and I knew that if the report was true I should be at rest. I went to the place where they had taken her. Some one had cared for her very tenderly—she lay as if asleep, and looked like a beautiful piece of sculpture in her white robe; one could hardly believe that she was—dead. But they told me they were going to—to bury her that afternoon unless some one came to claim her. They asked me if I had known her—if she was a friend of mine. I told them no—she was nothing to me; I had simply come out of curiosity, having seen the story of her tragic end in a paper. Then I took the next train back to Florence."
"Why have you never told me this before, Anna?" Gerald Goddard inquired, with lips that were perfectly colorless, while he laid his hand upon the back of a chair for support.
"Why?" she flashed out jealously at him. "Why should I talk of her to you? She was dead—she could never come between us, and I wished to put her entirely out of my mind, since I had satisfied myself of the fact."
"Did—did you hear anything of—of—"
"Of the child? No; all I ever knew was what you yourself read in the paper—that both mother and child had disappeared from their home and both were supposed to have suffered the same fate, although the body of the child was not found."
"Oh!" groaned Gerald Goddard, wiping the clammy moisture from his brow. "I never realized the horror of it as I do at this moment, and I never have forgiven myself for not going to Rome to institute a search for myself; but—"
"But I wouldn't let you, I suppose you were about to add," said madam, bitterly. "What was the use?" she went on, angrily. "Everything was all over before you knew anything about it—"
"I could at least have erected a tablet to mark her resting-place," the man interposed.
"Ha! ha! it strikes me it was rather late then to manifest much sentiment; that would have become you better before you broke her heart and killed her by your neglect and desertion," sneered madam, who was driven to the verge of despair by this late exhibition of regard for a woman whom she had hated.
"Don't, Anna!" he cried, sharply. Then suddenly straightening himself, he said, as if just awaking from some horrible nightmare: "But she did not die. I have not that on my conscience, after all."
"She did—I tell you she did!" hoarsely retorted the excited woman.
"But I have seen and talked with her to-night, and she told me that she was—Isabel!" he persisted.
Anna Goddard struck her palms together with a gesture bordering upon despair.
"I do not believe it—I will not believe it!" she panted.
"He began to pity her, for he also was beginning to realize that, if Isabel Stewart were really the woman whom he had wronged more than twenty years previous, her situation was indeed deplorable.
"Anna," he said, gravely, and speaking with more calmness and gentleness than at any time during the interview, "this is a stern fact, and—we must look it in the face."
His tone and manner carried conviction to her heart.
She sank crouching at his feet, bowing her face upon her hands.
"Gerald! Gerald! it must not be so!" she wailed. "It is only some cunning story invented to cheat us and avenge her. That woman shall never separate us—I will never yield to her. Oh, Heaven! why did I not destroy that paper when I had it? Gerald, give it to me now, if you have it; it is not too late to burn it evennow, and no one can prove the truth—we can defy her to the last."
The man stooped to raise her from her humiliating position.
"Get up, Anna," he said, kindly. "Come, sit in this chair and let us talk the matter over calmly. It is a stern fact that Isabel is alive and well, and it is useless either to ignore it or deplore it."
With shivering sobs bursting from her with every breath, the wretched woman allowed herself to be helped to the chair, into which she sank with an air of abject despair.
Anna Goddard's was not a nature likely to readily yield to humiliation or defeat, and after a few moments of silent battle with herself, she raised her head and turned her proud face and searching eyes upon her companion.
"You say that it is a 'stern fact' that Isabel lives," she remarked, with compressed lips.
"I am sure—there can be no mistake," the man replied. Then he told her of the interview which had occurred in the hall, where he had found the woman standing before the picture which he had painted in Rome so many years ago.
"She recognized it at once," he said; "she located the very spot from which I had painted the scene."
"Oh, I cannot make it seem possible, for I tell you I saw her lying dead in her casket," moaned madam, who, even in the face of all proofs, could not bring herself to believe that her old rival was living and had it in her power to ruin her life.
"She must have been in a trance—she must have been resuscitated by those people who found her. As sure as you and I both live, she is living also," Mr. Goddard solemnly responded.
"Oh, how could such a thing be?"
"I do not know—she did not tell me; she was very cold and proud."
"What was she doing here? How dared she enter this house?" cried madam, her anger blazing up again.
"I cannot tell you. It was a question I was askingmyself just as you came to the door," said Mr. Goddard, with a sigh. "I have no doubt she had some deep-laid purpose, however."
"Do you imagine her purpose was to get possession of that document?" questioned madam.
"I had thought of that—I have felt almost sure of it since you told me it had disappeared."
"But how could she have known that such a paper was in our possession? You did not receive it until long after—"
"Yes, I know," interposed Mr. Goddard, with a shiver; "nevertheless I am impressed that it is now in her possession, even though I did not suppose that any one, save you and I and Will Forsyth, ever knew of its existence."
There ensued an interval of silence, during which both appeared to be absorbed in deep thought.
"If she has it, what will she do with it?" madam suddenly questioned, lifting her heavy eyes to her companion.
"I am sure I cannot tell, Anna," he coldly returned.
His tone was like a match applied to powder.
"Well, then, what will you do, Gerald Goddard, in view of the fact, as you believe, that she is alive and has learned the truth?" she imperiously demanded.
"I—I do not think it will be wise for us to discuss that point just at present," he faltered.
"Coward! Is that your answer to me after twenty years of adoration and devotion?" cried the enraged woman, springing excitedly to her feet, the look of a slumbering demon in her dusky eyes.
"After twenty years of jealousy, bickering, and turmoil, you should have said, Anna," was the bitter response.
"Beware! Beware, Gerald! I have hot blood in my veins, as you very well know," was the menacing retort.
"I have long had a proof of that," he returned, with quiet irony.
"Oh!" she cried, putting up her hand as if to ward off a blow, "you are cruel to me." Then, with sudden passion, she added: "Perhaps, after all, that document is in your possession—or at least that you know something about it."
"I only wish your surmise were correct, Anna; for, in that case, I should have no cause to fear her," said Mr. Goddard, gravely.
"Ha! Even you do 'fear' her?" cried madam, eagerly. "In what way?"
"Can you not see? If she has gained possession of the paper, she has it in her power to do both of us irreparable harm," the gentleman explained.
Anna Goddard shivered.
"Yes, yes," she moaned, "she could make society ring with our names—she could ruin us, socially; but"—shooting a stealthy glance at her companion, who sat with bowed head and clouded brow—"I could better bear that than that she should assert a claim upon you—that she should use her power to—to separate us. She shall not, Gerald!" she went on, passionately; "there are other countries where you and I can go and be happy, utterly indifferent to what she may do here."
The man made no reply to these words—he was apparently absorbed in his own thoughts.
"Gerald! have you nothing to say to me?" madam sharply cried, after watching him for a full minute.
"What can I say, Anna? There is nothing that either of us can do but await further developments," the man returned, but careful to keep to himself the fact that he had an appointment with the woman whom she so feared and hated.
"Would you dare to be false to me, after all these years?" his companion demanded, in repressed tones, and leaning toward him with flaming eyes.
"Pshaw, Anna! what a senseless question," he replied, with a forced laugh.
"But you admire—you think her very beautiful?" she questioned, eagerly.
"Why, that is a self-evident fact—every one must admit that she is a fine-looking woman," was the somewhat evasive response.
Anna Goddard sprang to her feet, her face scarlet.
"You will be very careful what you do, Gerald," shehissed. "I have never had overmuch confidence in you, in spite of my love for you; but there is one thing that I will not bear, at this late day, and that is, that you should turn traitor to me; so be warned in time."
She did not wait to see what effect her words would have upon him, but, turning abruptly, swept from the room, leaving him to his own reflections.