The morning following the great Goddard ball at Wyoming, found Edith much better, greatly to the surprise of every one.
She was quite weak, as was but natural after such a shock to her system, both physically and mentally; but she had slept very quietly through the night, after the housekeeper had gone to her and thrown the protection of her presence around her.
At Emil Correlli's request, the physician had remained in the house all night, in case he should be wanted; and when he visited her quite early in the morning, he expressed himself very much gratified to find her so comfortable, and said she would do well enough without any further medical treatment, but advised her to keep quiet for a day or two.
This Edith appeared perfectly willing to do, and lay contentedly among her pillows, watching her kind nurse while she put the room in order, making no remarks, asking no questions, but with a look of grave resolve growing in her eyes and about her sweet mouth, which betrayed that she was doing a good deal of thinking upon some subject.
Mrs. Goddard came to her door immediately after breakfast, but Edith refused to see her.
She had told Mrs. Weld not to admit any one; therefore, when the lady of the house sought admittance, the housekeeper firmly but respectfully denied her entrance.
"But I have something very important to say to Edith," madam persisted.
"Then it had best be left unsaid until the poor girl is stronger," Mrs. Weld replied, without moving her portly proportions and holding the door firmly in her hand.
"I have a message from my brother for her—it is necessary that I should deliver it," Mrs. Goddard obstinately returned. Mrs. Weld looked back into the room inquiringly.
"I do not wish to see any one," Edith weakly responded, but in a voice of decision which told the listener outside that the girl had no intention of yielding the point.
"Very well; then I will wait until she feels stronger," said the baffled woman, whereupon she beat an ignominious retreat, and the invalid was left in peace.
Mrs. Weld spent as much time as possible with her, but she of course had her duties below to attend to; so, at Edith's request, she locked her in and took the key with her when she was obliged to go downstairs.
Once, while she was absent, some one crept stealthily to the door and knocked.
Edith started up, and leaned upon her elbow, a momentary look of fear sweeping her face; but she made no response.
The knock was repeated.
Still the girl remained motionless and voiceless, only her great blue eyes began to blaze with mingled indignation and contempt, for she knew, instinctively, who was seeking admission.
"Miss Al—Edith, I must speak with you—I must have an interview with you," said the voice of Emil Correlli from without.
Still no answer from within; but the dazzling gleam in the girl's eyes plainly showed that that voice had aroused all the spirit within her in spite of her weak condition.
"Pray grant me an interview, Edith—I have much tosay to you—much to explain—much to entreat of you," continued the voice, with a note of earnest appeal.
But he might as well have addressed the walls for all the effect he produced.
There was a moment or two of silence, then the man continued, with something of authority:
"I have the right to come to you, Edith—I have a right to demand that you regard my wishes. If you are not prepared to receive me just now, name some time when I can see you, and I will wait patiently your pleasure; only speak and tell me that you will comply with my request."
It was both a pretty and a striking picture behind that closed door, if he could but have seen it—the fair girl, in her snowy robe, over which she had slipped a pretty light blue sack, reclining upon her elbow, her beautiful hair falling in graceful confusion about her shoulders; her violet eyes gleaming with a look of triumph in her advantage over the man without; her lips—into which the color was beginning to flow naturally again—parted just enough to reveal the milk-white teeth between them.
When the man outside asserted his right to come to her, the only sign she had made was a little toss of her golden-crowned head, indicative of defiance, while about the corners of her lovely mouth there lurked a smile of scorn that would have been maddening to Emil Correlli could he have seen it.
At last a discontented muttering and the sound of retreating steps in the hall told her that her persecutor had become discouraged, and gone. Then, with a sigh of relief, she sank back upon her pillow feeling both weak and weary from excitement.
Left alone once more, she fell into deep thought.
In spite of a feeling of despair which, at times, surged over her in view of the trying position in which she found herself, the base deception practiced upon her, aroused a spirit of indomitable resistance, to battle for herself and her outraged feelings, and outwit, if possible, these enemies of her peace.
"They have done this wicked thing—that woman andher brother," she said to herself; "they have cunningly plotted to lure me into this trap; but, though they have succeeded in fettering me for life, that is all the satisfaction that they will ever reap from their scheme. They cannot compel me, against my will, to live with a man whom I abhor. Even though I stood up before that multitude last evening, and appeared a willing actor in that disgraceful sacrilegious scene, no one can make me abide by it, and I shall denounce and defy them both; the world shall at least ring with scorn for their deed, even though I cannot free myself by proving a charge of fraud against them. But, oh—"
The proud little head suddenly drooped, and with a moan of pain she covered her convulsed face with her hands, as her thoughts flew to a certain room in New York, where she had spent one happy, blissful week in learning to love, with all her soul, the man whom she had served.
She had believed, as we know, that her love for Royal Bryant was hopeless—at least she had told herself so, and that she could never link her fate with his, after learning of her shameful origin.
Yet, now that there appeared to have arisen an even greater barrier, she began to realize that all hope had not been quite dead—that, in her heart, she had all the time been nursing a tender shoot of affection, and a faint belief that her lover would never relinquish his desire to win her.
But these sad thoughts finally set her mind running in another channel, and brought a gleam of hope to her.
"He is a true and honorable man," she mused, "I will appeal to him in my trouble; and if any one can find a loop-hole of escape for me I am sure he will be able to do so."
When Mrs. Weld brought her lunch, she sat up and ate it eagerly, resolved to get back her strength as soon as possibly in order to carry out her project at an early date. While she was eating, she told her friend of Emil Correlli's visit and its result.
"Why cannot they let you alone!" the woman cried, indignantly. "They shall not persecute you so."
"No, I do not intend they shall," Edith quietly replied, "but I think by to-morrow morning, I shall feel strong enough for an interview, when we will have my relations toward them established for all time," and by the settling of the girl's pretty chin, Mrs. Weld was convinced that she would be lacking in neither spirit nor decision.
"If you feel able to talk about it now, I wish you would tell me exactly how they managed to hoodwink you to such an extent. Perhaps I may be of some service to you, when the matter comes to a crisis," the woman remarked, as she studied the sweet face before her with kind and pitying eyes.
And Edith related just how Mrs. Goddard had drawn her into the net by representing that two of her actors had been called away in the midst of the play and that the whole representation would be spoiled unless she would consent to help her out.
"It was very cleverly done," said Mrs. Weld, when she concluded; but she looked grave, for she saw that the entire affair had been so adroitly managed, it would be very difficult to prove that Edith had not been in the secret and a willing actor in the drama. "But do not worry, child; you may depend upon me to do my utmost to help you in every possible way."
The next morning Edith was able to be up and dressed, and she began to pack her trunk, preparatory to going away. The guests had all left on the previous day, and everything was being put in order for the house to be closed for the remainder of the winter, while it was stated that the family would return to the city on the next day, which would be Thursday.
Edith had almost everything ready for removal by noon, and, after lunch was over, sent word to Mrs. Goddard that she would like an interview with her.
The woman came immediately, and Edith marveled to see how pale and worn she looked—how she had appeared to age during the last day or two.
"I am so glad that you have decided to see me,Edith," she remarked, in a fondly confidential tone, as she drew a chair to the girl's side and sat down. "My brother is nearly distracted with grief and remorse over what has happened, and the attitude which you have assumed toward him. He adores you—he will be your slave if you only take the right way to win him. Surely, you will forgive him for the deception which his great affection led him to practice upon you," she concluded, with a coaxing smile, such as she would have assumed in dealing with a fractious child.
"No," said Edith, with quiet decision, "I shall never forgive either of you for your sin against me—it is beyond pardon."
"Ah! I will not intercede for myself—but think how Emil loves you," pleaded her companion.
"You should have said, 'think how he loves himself,' madam," Edith rejoined, with a scornful curl of her lips, "for nothing but the rankest selfishness could ever have led a person to commit an act of such duplicity and sacrilege as that which he and you adopted to secure your own ends. He does not desire to be pardoned. His only desire is that I should relent and yield to him—which I never shall do."
As she uttered these last words, she emphasized them with a decided little gesture of her left hand that betrayed a relentless purpose.
"Ah!" she cried, the next moment, with a start, the movement having attracted her eye to the ring upon her third finger, which until that moment she had entirely forgotten.
With a shiver of repulsion, she snatched it off and tossed it into the lap of her companion.
"Take it back to him," she said. "I had forgotten I had it on; I despise myself for having worn it even until now."
Madam flushed angrily at her act and words.
"You are very hard—you are very obdurate," she said, sharply.
"Very well; you can put whatever construction you choose upon the stand I have taken, but do not for a moment deceive yourself by imagining that I will everconsent to be known as Emil Correlli's wife; death would be preferable!" Edith calmly responded.
"Most girls would only be too eager and proud to assume the position—they would be sincerely grateful for the luxuries and pleasures they would enjoy as my brother's wife," Mrs. Goddard coldly remarked, but with an angry gleam in her eyes.
A little smile of contempt curled the corners of Edith's red mouth; but otherwise she did not deign to notice these boasting comments, a circumstance which so enraged her companion that she felt, for a moment, like strangling the girl there and then.
But there was far more to be considered than her own personal feelings, and she felt obliged to curb herself for the time.
If scandal was to be avoided, she must leave no inducement untried to bend Edith's stubborn will, and madam herself was too proud to contemplate anything so humiliating; she was willing to do or bear almost anything to escape becoming a target for the fashionable world to shoot their arrows of ridicule at.
"Edith, I beg that you will listen to me," she earnestly pleaded, after a few moments of thought. "This thing is done and cannot be undone, and now I want you to be reasonable and think of the advantages which, as Emil's wife, you may enjoy. You are a poor girl, without home or friends, and obliged to work for your living. There is an escape from all this if you will be tractable; you can have a beautiful house elegantly furnished, horses, carriages, diamonds, and velvets—in fact, not a wish you choose to express ungratified. You may travel the world over, if you desire, with no other object in view than to enjoy yourself. On the other hand, if you refuse, there will be no end of scandal—you will ruin the reputation of our whole family—Emil will become the butt of everybody's scorn and ridicule. I shall never be able to show my face again in society, either in Boston or New York; and my husband, who has always occupied a high position, will be terribly shocked and humiliated."
Edith listened quietly to all that she had to say, notonce attempting to interrupt her; but when madam finally paused, in expectation of a reply, she simply remarked:
"You should have thought of all this, madam, before you plotted for the ruin of my life; I am not responsible for the consequences of your treachery and crime."
"Crime! that is an ugly word," tartly cried Mrs. Goddard, who began to find the tax upon her patience almost greater than she could bear.
"Nevertheless, it is the correct term to apply to what you have done—it is what I shall charge you with—"
"What! do you dare to tell me that you intend to appeal to the courts?" exclaimed madam, aghast.
She had fondly imagined that, the deed once done, the girl having no friends whose protection she could claim, would make the best of it, and gracefully yield to the situation.
"That is what I intend to do."
Anna Goddard's face was almost livid at this intrepid response.
"And you utterly refuse to listen to reason?" she inquired, struggling hard for self-control.
"I utterly refuse to be known as Emil Correlli's wife, if that is what you mean by 'reason,'" said Edith, calmly.
"Girl! girl! take care—do not try my patience too far," cried her companion, with a flash of passion, "or we may have to resort to desperate measures with you."
"Such as what, if you please?" inquired Edith, still unmoved.
"That remains to be seen; but I warn you that you are bringing only wrath upon your own head. We shall never allow you to create a scandal—we shall find a way to compel you to do as we wish."
"That you can never do!" and the beautiful girl proudly faced the woman with such an undaunted air and look that she involuntarily quailed before her. "It is my nature," she went on, after a slight pause, "to be gentle and yielding in all things reasonable, and when I am kindly treated; but injustice and treachery, such as you have been guilty of, always arouse withinme a spirit which a thousand like you and your brother could never bend nor break."
"Do not be too sure, my pretty young Tartar," retorted madam, with a disagreeable sneer.
"I rejected Monsieur Correlli's proposals to me some weeks ago," Edith resumed, without heeding the rude interruption. "I made him clearly understand, and you also, that I could never marry him. You appeared to accept the situation only to scheme for my ruin; but, even though you have tricked me into compromising myself in the presence of many witnesses, it was only a trick, and therefore no legal marriage. At least I do not regard myself as morally bound; and, as I have said before, I shall appeal to the courts to annul whatever tie there may be supposed to exist. This is my irrevocable decision—nothing can change it—nothing will ever swerve me a hair's breadth from it. Go tell your brother, and then let me alone—I will never renew the subject with either of you."
And as Edith ceased she turned her resolute face to the window, and Anna Goddard knew that she had meant every word that she had uttered.
She was amazed by this show of spirit and decision.
The girl had always been a perfect model of gentleness and kindness, ready to do whatever was required of her, obliging and invariably sweet-tempered.
She could hardly realize that the cold, determined, defiant, undaunted sentences to which she had just listened could have fallen from the lips of the mild, quiet Edith whom she had hitherto known.
But, as may be imagined, such an attitude from one who had been a servant to her was not calculated to soothe her ruffled feelings, and after the first flash of astonishment, anger got the better of her.
"Do you imagine you can defy us thus?" she cried, laying an almost brutal grip upon the girl's arm, as she arose to abandon, for the time, her apparently fruitless task. "No, indeed! You will find to your cost that you have stronger wills than your own to cope with."
With these hot words, Anna Goddard swept angrily from the room, leaving her victim alone.
As the door closed after the angry and baffled woman, the portly form of the housekeeper entered the room from an apartment adjoining, where, as had been previously arranged between Edith and herself, she had been stationed to overhear the whole of the foregoing conversation.
"What can I do?" sighed the young girl, wearily, and lifting an anxious glance to her companion; for, in spite of her apparent calmness throughout the recent interview, it had been a terrible strain upon her already shattered nerves.
"Nothing just yet, dear, but to try and get well and strong as soon as possible," cheerfully responded Mrs. Weld.
"Did you hear how she threatened me?"
"Yes, but her threats were only so many idle words—they cannot harm you; you need not fear them."
"But I do; somehow, I am impressed that they are plotting even greater wrongs against me," sighed Edith, who, now that the necessity of preserving a bold front was passed, seemed to lose her courage.
"They will not dare—" began Mrs. Weld, with some excitement. Then, suddenly checking herself, she added, soothingly: "But do not worry any more about it now, child—you never need 'cross a bridge until you come it.' Lie down and rest a while; it will do you good, and maybe you will catch a little nap, while I go down to see that everything is moving smoothly in the dining-room and kitchen."
Edith was only too willing to heed this sensible advice, and, shortly after the housekeeper's departure, fell into a restful sleep.
She did not awake until it was nearly dark, when, feeling much refreshed, she arose and dressed herself resolving that she would not trouble tired Mrs. Weldto bring up her dinner, but go downstairs and have it with her, as usual.
The house was very quiet, for, all the guests having gone, there was only the family and the servants in the house.
Edith remained in her room until she heard the dinner-bell ring, when she went to the door to listen for Mr. and Mrs. Goddard and Emil Correlli to go down, before she ventured forth, for she had a special object in view.
Presently she heard them enter the dining-room, whereupon she stole softly down after them and slipped into the library in search of the daily papers.
She found one, theTranscript, and then hurried back to her room, lighted the gas, and sat down to read.
Immediately a low cry of dismay burst from her, for the first thing that caught her eye were some conspicuous head-lines announcing:
"A STARTLING SURPRISE IN HIGH LIFE."
These were followed by a vivid description of the festivities at the Goddard mansion in Wyoming, on the previous evening, mentioning the "unique and original drama," which had wound up with "the great surprise" in the form of a "bona fide" marriage between the brother of the beautiful and accomplished hostess, Mrs. Goddard, and a lovely girl to whom the gentleman had long been attached, and whom he had taken this opportune and very novel way of introducing to his friends and society in general.
Then there followed arésuméof the play, giving the names of the various actors, an account of the fine scenery and brilliant costumes, etc.
The appearance of the masked bride and groom was then enlarged upon, an accurate description of the bride's elegant dress given, and a most flattering mention made of her beauty and grace, together with the perfect dignity and repose of manner with which she bore her introduction to the many friends of her husband during the reception that followed immediately after the ceremony.
No mention was made of her having fainted afterward, and the article concluded with a flattering tribute to the host and hostess for the success of their "Winter Frolic," which ended so delightfully in the brilliant and long-to-be-remembered ball.
Edith's face was full of pain and indignation after reading this sensational account.
She was sure that the affair had been written up by either madam or her brother, for the express purpose of bringing her more conspicuously before the public, and with the intention of fastening more securely the chain that bound her to the villain who had so wronged her.
"Oh, it is a plot worthy to be placed on record with the intrigues of the Court of France during the reign of Louis the Thirteenth and Richelieu!" Edith exclaimed. "But in this instance they have mistaken the character of their victim," she continued, throwing back her proud little head with an air of defiance, "for I will never yield to them; I will never acknowledge, by word or act, the tie which they claim binds me to him, and I will leave no effort untried to break it. Heavens! what a daring, what an atrocious wrong it was!" she exclaimed, with a shudder of repugnance; "and I am afraid that, aside from my own statements, I cannot bring one single fact to prove a charge of fraud against either of them."
She fell into a painful reverie, mechanically folding the paper as she sat rocking slowly back and forth trying to think of some way of escape from her unhappy situation.
But, at last, knowing that it was about time for Mrs. Weld to have her dinner, she arose to go down to join her.
As she did so the paper slipped from her hands to the floor.
She stooped to pick it up when an item headed, in large letters "Personal" caught her eye.
Without imagining that it could have any special interest for her, she glanced in an aimless way over it.
Suddenly every nerve was electrified.
"What is this?" she exclaimed, and read the paragraph again.
The following was the import of it:
"If Miss Allandale, who disappeared so suddenly from New York, on the 13th of last December, will call upon or send her address to Bryant & Co., Attorneys, No. —— Broadway, she will learn of something greatly to her advantage in a financial way."
"How very strange! What can it mean?" murmured the astonished girl, the rich color mounting to her brow as she realized that Royal Bryant must have inserted this "personal" in the paper in the hope that it would meet her eye.
"Who in the world is there to feel interested in me or my financial condition?" she continued, with a look of perplexity.
At first it occurred to her that Mr. Bryant might have taken this way to ascertain where she was from personal motives; but she soon discarded this thought, telling herself that he would never be guilty of practicing deception in any way to gain his ends. If he had simply desired her address he would have asked for that alone without the promise of any pecuniary reward.
She stood thinking the matter over for several moments.
At last her face cleared and a look of resolution flashed into her eyes.
"I will do it!" she murmured, "I will go back at once to New York—I will ascertain what this advertisement means, then I will tell him all that has happened to me here, and ask him if there is any way by which I can be released from this dreadful situation, into which I have been trapped. I am sure he will help me, if any one can."
A faint, tender smile wreathed her lips as she mused thus, and recalled her last interview with Royal Bryant; his fond, eager words when he told her of her complete vindication at the conclusion of her trial in New York—of his tender look and hand-clasp when he badeher good-by at the door of the carriage that bore her home to her mother.
She began to think that she had perhaps not used him quite fairly in running away and hiding herself thus from him who had been so true a friend to her; and yet, if she remained in his employ, and he had asked her to be his wife, she knew that she must either have refused him, without giving him a sufficient reason, or else confessed to him her shameful origin.
"It would have been better, perhaps, if I had never come away," she sighed, "still it is too late now to regret it, and all I can do is to comply with the request of this 'personal.' I would leave this very night, only there are some things at the other house that I must take with me. But to-morrow night I will go, and I shall have to steal away, or they will find some way to prevent my going. I will not even tell dear Mrs. Weld, although she has been so kind to me; but I will write and explain it all to her after my arrival in New York."
Having settled this important matter in her mind, Edith went quietly downstairs, and returned the paper to the library, after which she repaired to the tiny room where she and Mrs. Weld were in the habit of taking their meals.
The kind-hearted woman chided her for coming down two flights of stairs, while she was still so weak; but Edith assured her that she really began to feel quite like herself again, and could not think of allowing her to wait upon her when she was so weary from her own numerous duties.
They had a pleasant chat over their meal, the young girl appearing far more cheerful than one would have naturally expected under existing circumstances. She flushed with painful embarrassment, however, when a servant came in to wait upon them, and gave her a stare of undisguised astonishment, which plainly told her that he thought her place was in the dining-room with the family.
She understood by it that all the servants knewwhat had occurred the previous night, and believed her to be the wife of Emil Correlli.
But nothing else occurred to mar the meal, and when it was finished Edith started to go up to her room again.
She went up the back way, hoping thus to avoid meeting any member of the family.
She reached the landing upon the second floor and was about to mount another flight when there came a swift step over the front stairs, and, before she could escape, Emil Correlli came into view.
Another instant and he was by her side.
"Edith!" he exclaimed, astonished to see her there, "where have you been?"
"Down to my dinner," she quietly replied, but confronting him with undaunted bearing.
"Down to your dinner?" he repeated, flushing hotly, a look of keen annoyance sweeping over his face. "If you were able to leave your room at all, your place was in the dining-room, with the family, and," he added, sternly, "I do not wish any gossip among the servants regarding my—wife."
It was Edith's turn to flush now, at that obnoxious term.
"You will please spare me all allusion to that mockery," she bitterly, but haughtily, retorted.
"It was no mockery—it was abona fidemarriage," he returned. "You are my lawful wife, and I wish you, henceforth, to occupy your proper position as such."
"I am not your wife. I shall never acknowledge, by word or act, any such relationship toward you," she calmly, but decidedly, responded.
"Oh, yes you will."
"Never!"
"But you have already done so, and there are hundreds of people who can prove it," he answered, hotly, but with an air of triumph.
"It will be a comparatively easy matter to make public a true statement of the case," said the girl, looking him straight in the eyes.
"You will not dare set idle tongues gossiping by repudiating our union!" exclaimed the young man, fiercely.
"I should dare anything that would set me free from you," was the dauntless response.
Her companion gnashed his teeth with rage.
"You would find very few who would believe your statements," he said; "for, besides the fact that hundreds witnessed the ceremony last night, the papers have published full accounts of the affair, and the whole city now knows about it."
"I know it—I have read the papers," said Edith, without appearing in the least disconcerted.
"What! already?"
"Yes."
"Well, what did you think of the account?" her companion inquired, regarding her curiously.
"That it was simply another clever piece of duplicity on your part, the only object of which was the accomplishment of your nefarious purposes. I believe you yourself were the author of it."
Emil Correlli started as if he had been stung.
He did not dream that she would attribute the article to him—the last thing he could wish would be that she should think it had emanated from his pen.
Nevertheless, his admiration for her was increased tenfold by her shrewdness in discerning the truth.
"You judge me harshly," he said, bitterly.
"I have no reason for judging you otherwise," Edith coldly remarked; then added, haughtily: "Allow me to pass, sir, if you please."
"I do not please. Oh, Edith, pray be reasonable; come into Anna's boudoir, and let us talk this matter over amicably and calmly," he pleaded, laying a gentle hand upon her arm.
She shook it off as if it had been a reptile.
"No, sir; I shall discuss nothing with you, either now or at any other time. If," she added, a fiery gleam in her beautiful eyes, "it is ever discussed in my presence it will be before a judge and jury!"
The man bit his lips to repress an oath.
"Yes, Anna told me you threatened that; but I hoped it was only an idle menace," he said. "Do you really mean that you intend to file an application to have the marriage annulled?"
"Most assuredly—at least, if, indeed, after laying the matter before the proper authorities, such a formality is deemed necessary," said the girl, with a scornful inflection that cut her listener to the quick.
He grew deadly white, more at her contemptuous tones than her threat.
"Edith—what can I say to win you?" he cried, after a momentary struggle with himself. "I swear to you that I cannot—will not live without you. I will be your slave—your lightest wish shall be my law, if you will yield this point—come with me as my honored wife, and let me, by my love and unceasing efforts, try to win even your friendly regard. I know I have done wrong," he went on, assuming a tone and air of humility; "I see it now when it is too late. I ask you to pardon me, and let me atone in whatever way you may deem best. See!—I kneel—I beg—I implore!"
And suiting the action to the words, he dropped upon one knee before her and extended his hands in earnest appeal to her.
"In whatever way I may deem best you will atone?" she repeated, looking him gravely in the face. "Then make a public confession of the fraud of which you have been guilty, and give me my freedom."
"Ah, anything but that—anything but that!" he exclaimed, flushing consciously beneath her gaze.
She moved back a pace or two from him, her lips curling with contempt.
"Your appeal was but a wretched farce—it is worse than useless—it is despicable," she said, with an accent that made him writhe like a whipped cur.
"Will nothing move you?" he passionately cried.
"Nothing."
"By Heaven! then I will meet you blade to blade!" he cried, furiously, and springing to his feet, his eyes blazing with passion. "If entreaties will not moveyou—if neither bribes nor promises will cause you to yield—we will try what lawful authority will do. I have no intention of being made the laughing stock of the world, I assure you; and, hereafter, I command that you conduct yourself in a manner becoming the position which I have given you. In the first place, then, to-morrow morning, you will breakfast in the dining-room with the family—do you hear?"
Edith had stood calmly regarding him during this speech; but, wishing him to go on, if he had anything further to say, she did not attempt to reply as he paused after the above question.
"Immediately after breakfast," he resumed, with something less of excitement, and not feeling very comfortable beneath her unwavering glance, "we shall return to the city, and the following morning you and I will start for St. Augustine, Florida—thence go to California and later to Europe."
The young girl straightened herself to her full height, and she had never seemed more lovely than at that moment.
"Monsieur Correlli," she said, in a voice that rang with an irrevocable decision, "I shall never go to Florida with you, nor yet to California, neither to Europe; I shall never appear anywhere with you in public, neither will I ever break bread with you, at any table. There, sir, you have my answer to your 'commands.' Now, let me pass."
Without waiting to see what effect her remarks might have upon him, she pushed resolutely by him and went swiftly upstairs to her room.
The man gazed after her in undisguised astonishment.
"By St. Michael! the girl has a tremendous spirit in that slight frame of hers. She has always seemed such a sweet little angel, too—no one would have suspected it. However, there are more ways than one to accomplish my purpose, and I flatter myself that I shall yet conquer her."
With this comforting reflection, he sought his sister, to relate what had occurred, and enlist her craftytalents in planning his next move in the desperate game he was playing.
The morning following her interview with Emil Correlli, when Edith attempted to leave her room to go down to breakfast, she found, to her dismay, that her door had been fastened on the outside.
An angry flush leaped to her brow.
"So they imagine they can make me bend to their will by making a prisoner of me, do they?" she exclaimed, with flashing eyes and scornful lips. "We shall see!"
But she was powerless just then to help herself, and so was obliged to make the best of her situation for the present.
Presently some one knocked upon her door, and she heard a bolt moved—it having been placed there during the night. Then Mrs. Goddard appeared before her, smiling a gracious good-morning, and bearing a tray, upon which there was a daintily arranged breakfast.
"We thought it best for you to eat here, since you do not feel like coming down to the dining-room," she kindly remarked, as she set the tray upon the table.
Edith opened her lips to make some scathing retort; but, a bright thought suddenly flashing through her mind, she checked herself, and replied, appreciatively:
"Thank you, Mrs. Goddard."
The woman turned a surprised look upon her, for she had expected only tears and reproaches from her because of her imprisonment.
But Edith, without appearing to notice it, sat down and quietly prepared to eat her breakfast.
"Ah! she is beginning to come around," thought the wily woman.
But, concealing her secret pleasure at this change in her victim, she remarked, in her ordinary tone:
"We shall leave for the city very soon after breakfast, so please have everything ready so as not to keep the horses standing in the cold."
"Everything is ready now," said Edith, glancing at her trunk, which she had locked just before trying the door.
"That is well, and I will send for you when the carriage comes around."
Edith simply bowed to show that she heard, and then her companion retired, locking the door after her, but marveling at the girl's apparent submission.
"There is no way to outwit rogues except with their own weapons—cunning and deceit," murmured the fair prisoner, bitterly, as she began to eat her breakfast. "I will be very wary and apparently submissive until I have matured my plans, and then they may chew their cud of defeat as long as it pleases them to do so."
After finishing her meal she dressed herself for the coming drive, but wondered why Mrs. Weld had not been up to see her, for, of course, she must know that something unusual had happened, or that she was ill again, since she had not joined her at breakfast.
A little later she heard a stealthy step outside her door, and the next moment an envelope was slipped beneath it into her room; then the steps retreated, and all was still again.
Rising, Edith picked up the missive and opened it, when another sealed envelope, addressed to her, in a beautiful, lady-like hand, and postmarked Boston, was revealed, together with a brief note hastily written with a pencil.
This latter proved to be from Mrs. Weld.
"Dear Child," it ran, "I have been requested not to go to you this morning, as you are particularly engaged, which, of course, I understand as a command to keep out of the way. But I want you to know that I mean to stand by you, and shall do all in my powerto help you. I shall manage to see or write to you again in a day or two. Meantime, don't lose heart.
"Dear Child," it ran, "I have been requested not to go to you this morning, as you are particularly engaged, which, of course, I understand as a command to keep out of the way. But I want you to know that I mean to stand by you, and shall do all in my powerto help you. I shall manage to see or write to you again in a day or two. Meantime, don't lose heart.
"Affectionately yours,
"Gertrude Weld.
"P.S.—The inclosed letter came for you in last night's mail. I captured it for you."
"P.S.—The inclosed letter came for you in last night's mail. I captured it for you."
With an eager light in her eyes, Edith opened it and read:
"Boston, Feb. —, 18—.
"My Dear Miss Allen:—I have learned of the wretched deception that has been practiced upon you, and hasten to write this to assure you that my previous offer of friendship—when we met at the time of the accident to my coachman—was not a mere matter of form. Again I say, if you need a friend, come to me, and I will do my utmost to shield you from those who have shown themselves your worst enemies, and whom I know to be unworthy of the position which they occupy in the social world. Come to me when you will, and I promise to protect you from them. I cannot say more upon paper.
"My Dear Miss Allen:—I have learned of the wretched deception that has been practiced upon you, and hasten to write this to assure you that my previous offer of friendship—when we met at the time of the accident to my coachman—was not a mere matter of form. Again I say, if you need a friend, come to me, and I will do my utmost to shield you from those who have shown themselves your worst enemies, and whom I know to be unworthy of the position which they occupy in the social world. Come to me when you will, and I promise to protect you from them. I cannot say more upon paper.
"Sincerely yours,
Isabel Stewart."
"How very kind, and yet how very strange!" murmured Edith, as she refolded the letter. "I wonder who could have told her about that wretched affair of Tuesday evening. I wonder, too, what she knows about the Goddards, and if I had better accept her friendly offer."
She reflected upon the matter for a few minutes, and then continued:
"I think I will go to New York first, as I had planned, see what Mr. Bryant can do for me, and ascertain the meaning of that strange personal; then I think I will come back and ask her to take me as a companion—for I do not believe that what I shall learn to my financial advantage will amount to enough to preclude the necessity of my doing something for my support. I suppose I ought to answer this letter, though," she added, meditatively; "but I believe Ishall not dare to until I am safely away from Boston, for if my reply should fall into the hands of any member of this family, my plans might be frustrated."
She carefully concealed both notes about her person, and then sat down to await orders to go below.
A little later Mrs. Goddard came to her and said they were about ready to leave for the city, and requested her to go down into the hall.
Edith arose with apparent alacrity, and madam noticed with an expression of satisfaction that her bearing was less aggressive than when they had last met.
She followed Mrs. Goddard downstairs and seated herself in the hall to await the signal for departure.
Presently Mr. Goddard came in from outdoors.
He started slightly upon seeing Edith, then paused and inquired kindly if she was feeling quite well again.
Edith thanked him, and briefly remarked that she was, when he startled her by stooping suddenly and whispering in her ear:
"Count upon me as your friend, my child; I promise you that I will do all in my power to help you thwart your enemies."
He waited for no answer, but passed quickly on and entered the library.
Edith was astonished, and while, for the moment, she was touched by his unexpected offer of assistance, she at the same time distrusted him.
"I will trust myself and my fate with no one but Royal Bryant," she said to herself, a flush of excitement rising to her cheek.
A few minutes later the carriage was driven to the door—the snow having become so soft they were obliged to return to the city on wheels—when Mrs. Goddard came hurrying from the dining-room, where she had been giving some last orders to the servants, and bidding Edith follow her, passed out of the house and entered the carriage.
Edith was scarcely seated beside her when Emil Correlli made his appearance and settled himself opposite her.
The young girl flushed, but, schooling herself to carry out the part which she had determined to assume for the present, made no other sign to betray how distasteful his presence was to her.
She could not, however, bring herself to join in any conversation, except, once or twice, to respond to a direct question from madam, although the young man tried several times to draw her out, until, finally discouraged, he relapsed into a sullen and moody silence, greatly to the disgust of his sister, who seemed nervously inclined to talk.
Upon their arrival in town, Mrs. Goddard remarked to Edith:
"I have been obliged to take, for a servant, the room you used to occupy, dear; consequently, you will have to go into the south chamber for the present. Thomas," turning to a man and pointing to Edith's trunk, "take this trunk directly up to the south chamber."
Edith's heart gave a startled bound at this unexpected change.
The "south chamber" was the handsomest sleeping apartment in the house—the guest chamber, in fact—and she understood at once why it had thus been assigned to her.
It was intended that she should pose and be treated in every respect as became the wife of madam's brother, and thus the best room in the house had been set apart for her use.
She knew that it would be both useless and unwise to make any objections; the change had been determined upon, and doubtless her old room was already occupied by a servant, to prevent the possibility of her returning to it.
Thus, after the first glance of surprise at madam, she turned and quietly followed the man who was taking up her trunk.
But, on entering the "south chamber," another surprise awaited her, for the apartment had been fitted up with even greater luxury than previous to their leaving for the country.
The man unstrapped her trunk and departed, whenEdith looked around her with a flushed and excited face.
A beautiful little rocker, of carved ivory, inlaid with gold, was standing in the bay-window overlooking the avenue, and beside it there was an exquisite work-stand to match.
An elegant writing-desk, of unique design, and furnished with everything a lady of the daintiest tastes could desire, stood near another sunny window. The inkstand, paper weight, and blotter were of silver; the pen of gold, with a costly pearl handle.
There were several styles of paper and envelopes, and all stamped in gilt with a monogram composed of the initials E. C., and there was a tiny box of filigree silver filled with postage stamps.
It was an outfit to make glad the heart of almost any beauty-loving girl; but Edith's eyes flashed with angry scorn the moment she caught sight of the dainty monogram, wrought in gold, upon the paper and envelopes.
On the dressing-case there was a full set of toilet and manicure utensils, in solid silver, and also marked with the same initials; besides these there were exquisite bottles of cut glass, with gold stoppers filled with various kinds of perfumery.
Upon the bed there lay an elegant sealskin garment, which, at a glance, Edith knew must have been cut to fit her figure, and beside it there was a pretty muff and a Parisian hat that could not have cost less than thirty dollars, while over the foot-board there hung three or four beautiful dresses.
"Did they suppose that they could buy me over—tempt me to sell myself for this gorgeous finery?" the indignant girl exclaimed, in a voice that quivered with anger. "They must think me very weak-minded and variable if they did."
But her curiosity was excited to see how far they had carried their extravagant bribery; and, going back to the dressing-case, she drew out the upper drawer.
Notwithstanding her indignation and scorn, she could not suppress a cry of mingled astonishment andadmiration at what she saw there, for the receptacle contained the daintiest lingerie imaginable.
There were beautiful laces, handkerchiefs, and gloves, suitable for every occasion; three or four fans of costly material and exquisite workmanship; a pair of pearl-and-gold opera glasses.
More than this, and arranged so as to cunningly tempt the eye, there were several cases of jewels—comprising pearls, diamonds, emeralds, and rubies.
It was an array to tempt the most obdurate heart and fancy, and Edith stood gazing upon the lovely things with admiring eyes while, after a moment, a little sigh of regret accompanied her resolute act of shutting the drawer and turning the key in its lock.
The second and third contained several suits of exquisite underwear of finest material, and comprising everything that a lady could need or desire in that line; in the fourth drawer there were boxes of silken hose of various colors, together with lovely French boots and slippers suitable for different costumes.
"What a pity to spend so much money for nothing," Edith murmured, regretfully, when she had concluded her inspection. "It is very evident that they look upon me as a silly, vacillating girl, who can be easily managed and won over by pretty clothes and glittering baubles. I suppose there are girls whose highest ambition in life is to possess such things, and to lead an existence of luxury and pleasure—who would doubtless sell themselves for them; but I should hate and scorn myself for accepting anything of the kind from a man whom I could neither respect nor love."
She gave utterance to a heavy sigh as she closed the drawer and turned away from the dressing-case; not, however, because she longed to possess the beautiful things she had seen, but in view of the difficulties which might lie before her to hamper her movements in the effort to escape from her enemies.
"I suppose I must remain here for a few hours at least," she continued, an expression of anxiety flitting over her face, "and if I expect to carry out my planssuccessfully I must begin by assuming a submissive role."
She removed her hat and wraps, hanging them in a closet; then, going to her trunk, she selected what few articles she would absolutely need on her journey to New York, and some important papers—among them the letters which her own mother had written—and after hastily making them up into a neat package, returned them again to the trunk for concealment, until she should be ready to leave the house.
This done, she sat down by a window to await and meet, with what fortitude she could command, the next act in the drama of her life.
Not long after she heard a step in the hall, then there came a knock on her door, and madam's voice called out:
"It is only I, Edith; may I come in?"
"Yes, come," unhesitatingly responded the girl, and Mrs. Goddard, her face beaming with smiles and good nature, entered the room.
"How do you like your new quarters, dear?" she inquired, searching Edith's fair face with eager eyes.
"Of course, everything is very beautiful," she returned, glancing admiringly around the apartment.
"And are you pleased with the additions to the furnishings?—the chair, the work-table, and writing-desk?"
"I have never seen anything more lovely," Edith replied, bending forward as if to examine more closely the filigree stamp box on the desk, but in reality to conceal the flush of scorn that leaped into her eyes.
"I knew you would like them," said madam, with a little note of triumph in her voice; "they are exquisite, and Emil is going to have them carefully packed, and take them along for you to use wherever you stop in your travels. And the cloak and dresses—aren't they perfectly elegant? The jewels, too, and other things in the dressing-case; have you seen them?"
"Yes, I have seen them all; but—but I am very sorry that so much money should have been spent for me," Edith faltered, a hot flush, which her companioninterpreted as one of pleasure and gratified vanity, suffusing her cheeks.
"Oh, the money is of no account, if you are only happy," Mrs. Goddard lightly remarked. "And now," she went on eagerly, "I want you to dress yourself just as nicely as you can, and be ready, when the bell rings, to come down to lunch, as it becomes—my sister. Will you, dear?" she concluded, coaxingly. "Do, Edith, be reasonable; let us bury the hatchet, and all be on good terms."
"I—I do not think I can quite make up my mind to go down to lunch," Edith faltered, with averted face.
Madam frowned; she had begun to think her victory was won, and the disappointment nettled her. But she controlled herself and remarked pleasantly:
"Well, then, I will send up your lunch, if you will promise to come down and dine with us, will you?"
Edith hesitated a moment; then, drawing a long breath, she remarked, as if with bashful hesitancy:
"I think, perhaps—I will go down later—by and by."
"Now you are beginning to be sensible, dear," said madam, flashing a covert look of exultation at her, "and Emil will be so happy. Put on this silver-gray silk—it is so lovely, trimmed with white lace—and the pearls; you will be charming in the costume. I am sorry I have to go directly after lunch," she continued, regretfully, "but I have a call to make, and shall not be back for a couple of hours; but Emil will be here; so if you can find it in your heart to be a little kind to him, just put on the gray silk—or anything else you may prefer—and go down to him. May I tell him that you will?"
"I will not promise—at least until after you return," murmured Edith, in a low voice.
Madam could have laughed in triumph, for she believed the victory was hers.
"Well, perhaps you would feel a trifle shy about it," she said, good-naturedly, "it would be pleasanter and easier for you, no doubt, if I were here, so I will come for you when I get back. Good-by, till then."
And with a satisfied little nod and smile, madam left her and went downstairs to tell her brother that his munificence had won the day, and he would have no further trouble with a fractious bride.
Edith listened until she heard madam descend the stairs, when she sprang to her feet in a fever of excitement.
"Oh, how I hate myself for practicing even that much of deceit!" she bitterly exclaimed; "to allow her to think for a moment that I have been won over by those baubles. Although I told her no lie, I do intend to go down by and by if I can see an opportunity to get out of the house. But I did so long to stand boldly up and repudiate her proposals and all these costly bribes. Dress myself in those things!" she continued, with a scornful glance toward the bed; "make myself look 'pretty and nice,' with the price of my self-respect, and then go down to flaunt before the man who has grossly insulted me by assuming that he could bribe me to submission! I would rather be clothed in rags—the very sight of these things makes me sick at heart."
She turned resolutely from them, and, drawing the stiffest and hardest chair in the room to a window, sat down with her back to the allurements around her and gazed out upon the street.
She remained there until her lunch was sent up, when she ate enough to barely satisfy her hunger, after which she went back to her post to watch for the departure of Mrs. Goddard.
The house stood upon a corner, and thus faced upon two streets—the avenue in front, and at the side a cross-street that led through to Beacon street. Thus,Edith's room being upon the front of the mansion, she had a wide outlook in two directions.
Not long after stationing herself at the window, she saw Mrs. Goddard go out, and then she began to wonder how she could manage to make her escape before her return.
She knew that she was only a prisoner in the house, in spite of the fact that her door was not locked; that Emil Correlli had been left below simply to act as her keeper; and, should she make the slightest attempt to escape, he would immediately intercept her.
She could not get out of the house except by the front way, and to do this she would have to pass down a long flight of stairs and by two or three rooms, in any one of which Emil Correlli might be on the watch in anticipation of this very proceeding.
There was a back stairway; but as this led directly up from the area hall, the door at the bottom was always carefully kept locked—the key hanging on a concealed nail for fear of burglars; and Edith, knowing this, did not once think of attempting to go out that way.
While she sat by the window, trying to think of some way out of her difficulties, her attention was attracted by the peculiar movements of a woman on the opposite side of the street—it was the side street leading through to Beacon.
She was of medium height, richly clad in a long seal garment, but heavily veiled, and she was leading a little child, of two or three years, by the hand.
But for her strange behavior, Edith would have simply thought her to be some young mother, who was giving her little one an airing on that pleasant winter afternoon. She appeared very anxious to shun observation, dropping her head whenever any one passed her, and sometimes turning abruptly around to avoid the gaze of the curious.
She never entirely passed the house, but walked back and forth again and again from the corner to a point opposite the area door near the rear of the dwelling, while she eagerly scanned every window, asif seeking for a glimpse of some one whom she knew. Moreover, from time to time, her eyes appeared to rest curiously upon Edith, whom she could plainly perceive at her post above.
For nearly half an hour she kept this up; then, suddenly crossing the street, disappeared within the area entrance to the house, greatly to the surprise of our fair heroine.
"How very strange!" Edith remarked, in astonishment. "She is certainly too richly clad to be the friend of any of the servants, and if she desires to see Mrs. Goddard, why did she not go to the front entrance and ring?"
While she was pondering the singular incident, she saw the gas-man emerge from the same door, and pass down the street toward another house; then her mind reverted again to her own precarious situation, and she forgot about the intruder and her child below.
The house was very still—there was not even a servant moving about to disturb the almost uncanny silence that reigned throughout it. It was Thursday, and Edith knew that the housemaid and cook's assistant were to have that afternoon out, which, doubtless, accounted in a measure for the unusual quiet.
But this very fact she knew would only serve to make any movement on her part all the more noticeable, and while she was wondering how she should manage her escape before the return of Mrs. Goddard, a slight noise behind her suddenly warned her of the presence of another in the room.
She turned quickly, and a low cry of surprise broke from her as she saw standing, just inside the door, the very woman whom, a few moments before she had seen disappear within the area door of the house.
She was now holding her child in her arms and regarding Edith through her veil with a look of fire and hatred that made the girl's flesh creep with a sense of horror.
Putting the little one down on the floor, she braced herself against the door and remarked, with a bittersneer, but in a rich, musical voice, and with a foreign accent:
"Without doubt I am in the presence of Madam Correlli."
Edith flushed crimson at her words.
"I—I do not understand you," she faltered, filled with surprise and dismay at being thus addressed by the veiled stranger.
"I wish to see Madam Correlli," the woman remarked, in an impatient and bitter tone. "I am sure I am not mistaken addressing you thus."
"Yes, you are mistaken—there is no such person," Edith boldly replied, determined that she would never commit herself by responding to that hated name.
"Are you not the girl whose name was Edith Allen?" demanded her companion, sharply.
"My name is Edith Allen—"
She checked herself suddenly, for she had unwittingly come near uttering the rest of it. She went a step or two nearer the woman, trying to distinguish her features, which were so shadowed by the veil she wore that she could not tell how she looked.
"Ah! so you will admit your identity, but you will not confess to the name by which I have addressed you. Why?" demanded the unknown visitor, with a sneer.
"Because I do not choose," said Edith, coldly. "Who are you, and why have you forced yourself upon me thus?"
"And you will also deny this?" cried the stranger, in tones of repressed passion, but ignoring the girl's questions, as she pulled a paper from her pocket and thrust under her eyes a notice of the marriage at Wyoming.
Edith grew pale at the sight of it, when the other, quick to observe it, laughed softly but derisively.
"Ah, no; you cannot deny that you were married to Emil Correlli, only the night before last, in the presence of many, many people," she said, in a hoarse, passionate whisper. "Do you think you can deceive me? Do you dare to lie to me?"
"I have no wish to deceive you. I would not knowingly utter a falsehood to any one," Edith gravely returned. "I know, of course, to what you refer; but"—throwing back her head with a defiant air—"I will never answer to the name by which you have called me!"
"Ha! say you so! And why?" eagerly exclaimed her companion, regarding her curiously. "Can you deny that you went to the altar with Emil Correlli?" she continued, excitedly. "That a clergyman read the marriage service over you?—that you were afterward introduced to many people as his wife?—and that you are now living under the same roof with him, surrounded by all this luxury"—sweeping her eyes around the room—"for which he has paid?"
"No, I cannot deny it!" said Edith, with a weary sigh. "All that you have read in that paper really happened; but—"
"Aha! Well, but what?" interposed the woman, with a malicious sneer that instantly aroused all Edith's spirit.
"Pardon me," she said, drawing herself proudly erect and speaking with offended dignity, "but I cannot understand what right you, an utter stranger to me, have to intrude upon me thus. Who are you, madam, and why have you forced yourself here to question me in such a dictatorial manner?"
"Ha! ha! ha!" The mirthless laugh was scarcely audible, but it was replete with a bitterness that made Edith shiver with a nameless horror. "Who am I, indeed? Let me assure you that I am one who would never take the stand that you have just taken; who would never refuse to be known as the wife of Emil Correlli, or to be called by his name if I could but have the right to such a position. Look at me!" she commanded, tearing the veil from her face. "We have met before."
Edith beheld her, and was amazed, for it needed but a glance to show her that she was the girl who had accosted Emil Correlli on the street that afternoon when he had overtaken and walked home with herafter the singular accident and encounter with Mrs. Stewart.
"Aha! and so you know me," the girl went on—for she could not have been a day older than Edith herself, Although there were lines of care and suffering upon her brilliant face—seeking the look of recognition in her eyes; "you remember how I confronted him that day when he was walking with you."
"Yes, I remember; but—"
"But that does not tell you who—or what I am, would perhaps be the better way of putting it," said the stranger, with bitter irony. "Look here; perhaps this will tell you better than any other form of introduction," she added, almost fiercely, as, with one hand, she snatched the cap off her child's head and then turned his face toward Edith.
The startled girl involuntarily uttered a cry of mingled surprise and dismay, for, in face and form and bearing, she beheld—a miniature Emil Correlli!
For a moment she was speechless, thrilled with greater loathing for the man than she had ever before experienced, as a suspicion of the truth flashed through her brain.
Then she lifted her astonished eyes to the woman, to find her regarding her with a look of mingled curiosity, hatred, and triumph.
"The boy is—his child?" Edith murmured at last, in an inquiring tone.
A slow smile crept over the mother's face as she stood for a moment looking at Edith—a smile of malice which betrayed that she gloried in seeing that the girl at last understood her purpose in bringing the little one there.
"Yes, you see—you understand," she said, at last; "any one would know that Correlli is his father."
"And you—" Edith breathed, in a scarcely audible voice, while she began to tremble with a secret hope.
"I am the child's mother—yes," the girl returned, with a look of despair in her dusky orbs.
But she was not prepared for the light of eager joy that leaped into Edith's eyes at this confession—thenew life and hope that swept over her face and animated her manner until she seemed almost transformed, from the weary, spiritless appearing girl she had seemed on her entrance, into a new creature.
"Then, of course, you are Emil Correlli's wife," she cried, in a glad tone; "you have come to tell me this—to tell me that I am free from the hateful tie which I supposed bound me to him? Oh, I thank you! I thank you!"
"You thank me?"
"Yes, a thousand times."
"Ha! and you say the tie that binds you to him is hateful?" whispered the strange woman, while she studied Edith's face with mingled wonder and curiosity.
"More hateful than I can express," said Edith, with incisive bitterness.
"And you do not—love him?"
"Love him? Oh, no!"
The tone was too replete with aversion to be doubted.
"Ah, it is I who do not understand now!" exclaimed Edith's visitor, with a look of perplexity.
"Let me tell you," said the young girl, drawing nearer and speaking rapidly. "I was Mrs. Goddard's companion, and quite happy and content with my work until he—her villainous brother—came. Ah, perhaps I shall wound you if I say more," she interposed, and breaking off suddenly, as she saw her companion wince.