Little did Edith then suspect that she was assisting in a plan which was intended to force her into a detested marriage.



CHAPTER IX.

THE HOUSEKEEPER AT WYOMING.

The invitations for the merry-making were at length printed and forwarded to the favored guests, but the family were not to go to Wyoming for a week or so, and meantime, Mrs. Goddard devoutly hoped that the weather would change and send them a fine snowstorm, so that there would be good sleighing during their sojourn in the country.

She had her wish—everything seemed to favor the schemes of this crafty woman, for, three days later, there came a severe storm, which lasted as many more, and when at length the sun shone again there lay on the ground more than a foot of snow on a level, thus giving promise of rare enjoyment upon runners and behind spirited horses and musical bells.

At last the day of their departure arrived, and about ten o'clock, Mrs. Goddard and Edith, well wrapped in furs and robes, were driven over the well-trodden roads, in a hansome sleigh, and behind a pair of fine horses, toward Middlesex Falls.

It was only about an hour's drive, and upon their arrival they found the Goddards' beautiful country residence in fine order, with blazing fires in several of the rooms.

The housekeeper, Mrs. Weld, had attended to all the details of preparation, and was complimented by both Mr. and Mrs. Goddard. In appearance the housekeeper was very peculiar, very tall and very stout, and in no way graceful in form or feature. Mrs. Goddard voted her as "a perfect fright," with her eyes concealed behind large, dark-blue glasses. She had been employed through the agent of an intelligence office, and had come highly recommended. A close observer would have noted many oddities about her; and Edith, coming suddenly upon her in her own apartment, had reason to suspect that the housekeeper was not what she seemed—in fact, that she was disguised.

Noiselessly Mrs. Weld went about her duties, her footfalls dropping as quietly as the snow. On one occasion, arriving unexpectedly within hearing of her master and mistress, she heard him entreating her to give him possession of a certain document. This Mrs. Goddard refused until he had performed some act which, as it was apparent from the conversation, she had long been urging upon him as a duty.

Fearing discovery, Mrs. Weld did not wait to hear more, but silently walked away.

A few busy days succeeded, and then the guests began to arrive at Wyoming. The housekeeper seemed to take a great fancy to Edith, and the latter cheerfully assisted her in many ways. Various amusements were planned for the guests. The weather was cold, but fine; the sleighing continued to be excellent, and the gay company at Wyoming kept up their exciting round of pleasure both day and night.

A theatrical performance, planned by Mrs. Goddard, was one of the amusements arranged for the entertainment of the guests. On the afternoon of the day set for the presentation of the little dramatic episode, a great packing case arrived from the city, and was taken directly to madam's rooms.

A few minutes later, Edith was requested to go to her, and, upon presenting herself at the door of her boudoir, was drawn mysteriously inside, and the door locked.

"Come," said madam, with a curious smile, as she led the way into the chamber beyond, "I want you to assist me in unpacking something."

"Certainly, I shall be very glad to help you," the young girl replied, with cheerful acquiescence.

"It is one of the costumes that is to be worn this evening, and must be handled very carefully," Mrs. Goddard explained.

As she spoke, she cut the cords binding the great box, and, lifting the cover, revealed some articles enveloped in quantities of white tissue paper.

"Take it out!" commanded madam, indicating the upper package.

Edith obeyed, and, upon removing the spotless wrappings, a beautiful skirt of white satin, richly trimmed with lace of an exquisite pattern, was revealed.

"Oh, how lovely!" exclaimed the young girl, as shaking it carefully out, she laid the dainty robe upon the bed.

Next came the waist, or corsage, which was also a marvel of artistic taste and beauty.

This was laid against the skirt when the costume, thus complete, was a perfect delight to the eye.

"It looks like a bride's dress," Edith observed, as she gazed, admiringly, upon it.

"You are right! It is for the bride who figures in our play to-night," said madam. "This must be the veil, I think," she concluded, lifting a large box from the case, and passing it to her companion.

Edith removed the cover, and uttered an involuntary cry of delight, for before her there lay a great mass of finest tulle, made up into a bridal veil, and surmounted by a coronet of white waxen orange-blossoms.

An examination of two other boxes disclosed a pair of white satin boots, embroidered with pearls, and a pair of long white kid gloves.

"Everything is exquisite, and so complete," murmured Edith, as she laid them all out beside the dress, and then stood gazing in wrapt admiration upon the outfit.

"Yes, of course, the bride will be the most conspicuous figure—the cynosure of all eyes, in fact—so she would need to be as complete and perfect as possible," Mrs. Goddard explained, but watching the girl, warily, out of the corners of her eyes.

"Who is going to wear it?" Edith inquired, as she caressingly straightened out a spray of orange blossoms that had caught in a mesh of the lace.

Madam's eyes gleamed strangely at the question.

"Miss Kerby takes the part of the heroine of the play," she answered, "whom, by the way, I called Edith, because I like the name so much. I did not think you would mind."

"Oh, no," said the girl, absently. Then, with a little start, she exclaimed, as she lifted something from the box from which the gloves had been taken: "But what is this?"

It was a small half-circle of fine white gauze, edged with a fringe of frosted silver, while a tiny chain of the same material was attached to each end.

"Oh! that is the mask," said Mrs. Goddard.

"The mask?" repeated Edith, surprised.

"Yes; I don't wonder you look astonished, to find such a thing among the outfit of a bride," said madam, with a peculiar little laugh; "but although it is a profound secret to everybody outside the actors, I will explain it to you, as the time is so near. You understand this is a play that I have myself written."

"Yes."

"Well, I have entitled it 'The Masked Bridal,' and it is a very cunningly devised plot, on the part of a pair of lovers whose obdurate parents refuse to allow them to marry," Madam explained. "Edith Lancaster is an American girl, and Henri Bernard is a Frenchman. They have a couple of friends whose wedding is set for a certain date, and who plan to help them outwit the parents of Edith and Henri. The scene is, of course, laid in Paris, where everybody knows a marriage must be contracted in church. The friends of the two unfortunate lovers send out their cards, announcing their approaching nuptials, and also the fact that they will both be masked during the ceremony."

"How strange!" Edith murmured.

"Yes, it is both a novel and an extravagant idea," Mrs. Goddard assented; "but, of course, nobody minds that in a play—the more extravagant and unreal, the better it suits the public nowadays. Well, the parents and friends of the couple naturally object to this arrangement, but they finally carry their point. Everything is arranged, and the wedding-day arrives. Only the parents and a few friends are supposed to be present, and, at the appointed hour, the bridal party—consisting of the ushers and four bridesmaids, a maid-of-honor, and the bride, leaning upon her father's arm, proceed slowly to the altar, where they are met by the groom, best man, and clergyman. Then comes the ceremony, which seems just as real as if it were a bona-fide marriage, you know; and when the young couple turn to leave the church, as husband and wife, they remove their masks, and behold! the truth is revealed. There is, of course, great astonishment, and some dismay manifested on the part of the obdurate parents, who are among the invited guests; but the deed is done—it would not do to make a scene or any disturbance in church, and so they are forced to make the best of the affair, and accept the situation."

"But what becomes of the couple who planned all this for their friends?" Edith inquired.

"Oh, they were privately married half an hour earlier, and come in at a rear door just in season to follow the bridal party down the aisle, and join in the wedding-feast at home."

"It is a very strange plot—a very peculiar conception," murmured Edith, musingly.

"Yes, it is very Frenchy, and extremely unique, and will be carried out splendidly, if nothing unforeseen occurs to mar the acting, for the amateurs I have chosen are all very good. But now I must run down to see that everything is all right for the evening, before I dress. By the way," she added, as if the thought had just occurred to her, "I would like you to put on something pretty, and come to help me in the dressing-room during the play. Have you a white dress here?"

"Yes; it is not a very modern one, but it was nice in its day," Edith replied.

"Very well; I shall not mind the cut of it, if it is only white," said madam. "Now I must run. You can ring for some one to take away this rubbish," she concluded, glancing at the boxes and papers that were strewn about the room; then she went quickly out.

Edith obeyed her, and remained until the room was once more in order, after which she went up to her own chamber to ascertain if the dress, of which she had spoken, needed anything done to it before it could be worn.

Unpacking her trunk, she drew a box from the bottom, from which she took a pretty Lansdown dress, which she had worn at the wedding of one of her friends nearly two years previous. She had nice skirts, and a pair of pretty white slippers to go with it, and although it was, as she had stated, somewhat out of date, it was really a very dainty costume.

She laid everything out upon the bed, in readiness for the evening, and then went down to her dinner, which she always took with the housekeeper before the family meal was served.

Edith found Mrs. Weld looking unusually nice—although she was always a model of neatness in her attire—in a handsome black silk, with folds of soft, creamy lace across her ample breast, while upon her head she wore a fashionable lace cap, adorned with dainty bows of white ribbon.

"Oh! how very nice you are looking," Edith exclaimed, as she entered the room. "What a lovely piece of silk your dress is made of, and your cap is very pretty."

"I do believe," she added, to herself, "that she would be quite good looking if it were not for those horrid moles and dreadful blue glasses."

"Thank you, child," the woman responded, a queer little smile lurking about her mouth. "Of course, I had to make a special effort for such an occasion as this."

"If you would only take off your glasses, Mrs. Weld," said the young girl, as she leaned forward, trying to look into her eyes. "Couldn't you, just for this evening?"

"No, indeed, Miss Edith," hastily returned the housekeeper, her color deepening a trifle under the sallow tinge upon her cheeks. "With all the extra lights, I should be blinded."

"But you have such lovely eyes—"

"How do you know?" demanded Mrs. Weld, regarding her companion curiously.

"Partly by guess—partly by observation," said Edith, laughing. "Let me prove it," she continued, playfully, as she deftly captured the obnoxious spectacles, and then looked mischievously straight into the beautiful but startled orbs thus disclosed.

"Child! child! what are you doing?" exclaimed the woman, in a nervous tone, as she tried to get possession of her property again. "Pray, give them back to me at once."

But Edith playfully evaded her, and clasped them in her hands behind her.

"I knew it! I knew it!" she cried, in a voice of merry triumph. "They are remarkably beautiful, and no one would ever believe there was anything the matter with them. Oh! I love such eyes as yours, Mrs. Weld—they are such a delicious color—so clear, so soft, and expressive."

And Edith, inspired by a sudden impulse, leaned forward and kissed the woman on the forehead, just between the eyes which she had been so admiring.

Mrs. Weld seemed to be strangely agitated by this affectionate little act.

Tears sprang into her eyes, and her lips quivered with emotion for a moment.

Then she put out her arms and clasped the beautiful girl in a fond embrace, and softly returned her caress.

"You are a lovable little darling—every inch of you," she said, with sudden fervor.

"What a mutual admiration society we have constituted ourselves, Mrs. Weld! But, I am sure, I am very happy to know that there is some one in the world who feels so tenderly toward me."

"No one who knew you could help it, my dear," gently returned the woman, "and I shall always remember you very tenderly, for you have been so kind and helpful to me in many ways since we have been here. I suppose the affair to-night will wind up the frolic here," she went on, thoughtfully. "You will go your way, I shall go mine, and we may never meet again; but, I shall never forget you, Miss Allen—"

"Why, Mrs. Weld! how strangely you appear to-night!" Edith involuntarily interposed. "You do not seem like yourself."

"I know it, child; but the Goddards expect to return to town to-morrow, and I may not have an opportunity to see you again alone," returned the housekeeper, with a strange smile. "I do not want you to forget me, either," she went on, drawing a little box from her pocket, "so I am going to give you a souvenir to take away with you, if you will do me the favor to accept it."

She slipped the tiny box into Edith's hand as she concluded.

More and more surprised, the fair girl opened it, and uttered a low cry of admiration as she beheld its contents. Within, on a bed of spotless cotton, there lay a gold chain of very delicate workmanship, and suspended from it, by the stem, as fresh and green, apparently, as if it had that moment been plucked from its native soil, was a shamrock, in the heart of which there gleamed a small diamond of purest water.

"Why, Mrs. Weld, how beautiful!" exclaimed Edith, flushing with pleasure; "but—but—isn't the gift a little extravagant for me?"

"You are worthy of a stone ten times the size of that," said her companion, smiling; "but, if you mean to imply that I have impoverished myself to purchase it for you, do not fear; for it was a little ornament that I used to wear when I was a girl, so it costs me nothing but the pleasure of giving it to you."

"Thank you, a thousand times!" returned the happy girl, with starting tears, "and I shall prize it all the more for that very reason. Now, pray pardon me," she added, flushing, as she returned the glasses she had so playfully captured, "I am afraid I was a little rude to remove them without your permission."

"Never mind, dear; you have done no harm," said the housekeeper, as she restored them to their place. "Come, now, we must have our dinner, or I shall be late, and there must be no mistakes to-night, of all times."

When the meal was finished, Mrs. Weld hastened away to attend to her numerous duties, while Edith went slowly upstairs to dress herself for the evening.

"There is something very, very queer about Mrs. Weld," she mused. "I do not believe she is what she appears at all. She has come into this house for some mysterious purpose—as mysterious, I believe, as the people who have employed her."



CHAPTER X.

"THE GIRL IS DOOMED!—SHE HAS SEALED HER OWN FATE!"

Edith looked very lovely when her toilet for the evening was completed.

We have never seen her in any but very ordinary costumes, for she had worn mourning for her dear ones for two years, but if she was attractive in these somber garments, symbols of her sorrows, she was a hundred-fold more so in the spotless and dainty dress which was almost the only souvenir that she possessed of those happy, beautiful days when she had lived in a Fifth avenue palace, and was the petted darling of fortune.

There was not a single ornament about her, excepting the pretty chain and diamond-hearted shamrock which Mrs. Weld had that evening given to her, and which she had involuntarily kissed before clasping it about her neck.

Mrs. Goddard had commissioned her to superintend the dressing-rooms, to see that the maids provided everything needful for the comfort of her guests and to look in upon them occasionally and ascertain if they were attending to their duties, until everybody had arrived; after which she was to come to her behind the scenes in the carriage-house.

Thus, after her toilet was completed, she descended to the second floor, to see that these orders were carried out.

In the ladies' dressing-rooms, she found everything in the nicest possible order, and then passed on to those allotted to the gentlemen, in one of which she found that the maids had neglected to provide drinking water.

She was upon the point of leaving the room to have the matter attended to, when Mr. Goddard, attired in full evening dress, even to gloves, entered.

"Where is Mollie?" he inquired, but with a visible start of surprise, as he noticed Edith's exceeding loveliness.

"I think she is in one of the other rooms," she replied. "Shall I call her for you?"

"Yes, if you please; or—" with a lingering glance of admiration—"perhaps you will help me with these gloves. I find it troublesome to button them."

"Certainly," replied the young girl, but flushing beneath his look, and, taking the silver button-hook from him, she proceeded to perform the simple service for him, but noticed, while doing so, the taint of liquor on his breath.

"Thank you," he said, appreciatively, when the last button was fastened. Then bending lower to look into her eyes, he added, softly: "How lovely you are to-night, Miss Edith!"

She drew herself away from him, with an air of offended dignity, and would have passed from the room had he not placed himself directly in her way, thus cutting off her escape.

"Nay, nay, pretty one; do not be so shy of me," he went on, insinuatingly. "Why have you avoided me of late? We have not had one of our cozy social chats for a long time. Did madam's unreasonable fit of jealousy that day in the library frighten you? Pray, do not mind her—she has always been like that ever since—well, for many years."

"Mr. Goddard! I beg you will cease. I cannot listen to you!" cried Edith. "Let me pass, if you please. I have an order to give one of the housemaids."

"Tut! tut! little one; the order can wait, and it is not kind of you to fly at me like that. I have been drawn toward you ever since you came into the family, and every day only serves to strengthen the spell that you have been weaving about me. Come now, tell me that you will try to return my fondness for you—"

"Mr. Goddard! what is the meaning of this strange language? You have no right to address me thus; it is an insult to me—a wicked wrong against your wife—"

"My wife!" the man burst forth, mockingly, and with a strangely bitter laugh.

A frown contracted his brow, and his lips were compressed into a vindictive line, as he again bent toward the fair girl.

"I do not love her," he said, hoarsely; "she has killed all my affection for her by her infernally variable moods, her jealousy, her vanity, and her inordinate passion for worldly pleasure, to the exclusion of all home responsibilities. Moreover—"

"I must not listen to you! Oh! let me go!" cried Edith, in a voice of distress.

Before Edith was aware of his intention, he bent his lips close to her face, and whispered something, in swift sentences, that made her shrink from him with a sudden cry of mingled pain and dismay, and cover her ears with her pretty hands.

"I do not believe it!" she panted; "oh! I cannot believe it. I am sure you do not know what you are saying, Mr. Goddard."

Her words appeared to arouse him to a sense of the fact that he was compromising himself most miserably in her estimation.

"No, I don't suppose you can," he muttered, a half-dazed expression on his face; "and I've no business to be telling you any such things. But, all the same, I am very fond of you, pretty one, and I do not believe this is any place for you. You are too fair and sweet to serve a woman with such a disposition as madam possesses, and I wish you would leave her when we go back to the city. I know you are poor, and have no friends upon whom you can depend; but I would settle a comfortable annuity upon you, so that you could be independent, and make a pretty little home for your—"

"How dare you talk to me like this? Do you think I have no pride—no self-respect?" Edith demanded, as she haughtily threw back her proud head and confronted the man with blazing eyes.

Her act and the flash of the diamond attracted his attention to the little chain and shamrock upon her breast.

The sight seemed to paralyze him for a moment, for he stood like one turned to marble.

"Where did you get it?" he at last demanded, in a scarcely, audible voice, as he pointed a trembling finger at the jewel. "Tell me!—tell me! how came you by it?"

Edith regarded him with astonishment.

Involuntarily she put up her hand and covered the ornament from his gaze.

"It was given to me," she briefly replied.

"Who gave it to you?"

"A friend."

"Was it your—a relative?" cried the man, in a hoarse whisper.

"No, it was simply a friend."

"Tell me who!"

Edith thought a moment. If she should tell Mr. Goddard that the shamrock had been given to her by the housekeeper, it might subject the woman to an unpleasant interview with the master of the house, and, perhaps, place her in a very awkward position.

She resolved upon the only course left—that of refusing to reveal the name of the giver.

"All that I can tell you, Mr. Goddard," she gravely said, at last, "is that the chain and ornament were given to me very recently by an aged friend—"

"Aged!" the man interposed, eagerly.

"Yes, by a person who must be at least sixty years of age," the young girl replied.

"Ah!" The ejaculation was one of supreme relief. "Excuse me, Miss Allen!" he continued, in a more natural manner than he had yet spoken. "I did not mean to be curious, but—a—a person whom I once knew had an ornament very similar to the one you wear—"

He was interrupted just at this point by the sound of a rich, mellow laugh that echoed down the hall like a strain of sweetest music; whereupon Gerald Goddard jumped as if some one had dealt him a heavy blow on the back.

"Good Heaven! who was that?" he cried, with livid lips.

But Edith, taking advantage of the diversion, glided swiftly from the room, telling herself that nothing could induce her to dwell with the family a single day after their return to the city, and that she would take care not to come in contact with Mr. Goddard again—at least to be alone with him—while she did remain with his wife.

The man stood motionless for a moment after her departure, as if waiting for the sound, which had so startled him, to be repeated.

But it was not, and going to the door, he peered into the hall to see who was there.

There was no one visible save the housekeeper, who just at that moment, accosted a housemaid, to whom she appeared to be giving some directions.

"Ah! it was only one of the guests," he muttered, "but the voice was wonderfully like—like—Ugh!"

He waited a few moments longer, trying to compose his nerves, which had been sadly unstrung, both by the wine he had drank in much larger quantities than usual, and the incidents that had just occurred, and then sought his own room, where he rang for a brandy-and-soda, and after taking it, went below to attend to his duties as host.

But neither he nor Edith dreamed that their recent interview had been observed by a third party, or had seen the white, convulsed face that had been looking in upon them, between the blinds at one of the windows, near which they had been standing.

Anna Goddard had sought her own room, directly after dinner, to make some little change in her toilet, and get her gloves, which she had left lying upon her dressing case.

As she opened the door of her boudoir she came very near giving utterance to a scream of fear upon coming face to face with a man.

The man was Emil Correlli, who had gained entrance to the apartment by climbing the vine trellis which led to the window. His secret return was in accordance with a plan previously agreed upon.

He informed his sister that he had sent a card of invitation to Mrs. Stewart of the Copley Square Hotel.

"I am glad you did," she responded; "I have long desired to meet her."

They then proceeded to discuss the important event of the evening, and Mrs. Goddard assured him that their plot was progressing admirably. Still, she manifested a twinge of remorse as she thought of the despicable trick she had devised against the fair girl whom her brother was so eager to possess.

"Anna, you must not fail me now!" he exclaimed, "or I will never forgive you! The girl must be mine, or—"

"Hush!" she interposed, holding up her finger to check him. "Did some one knock?"

"I heard nothing."

"Wait, I will see," she said, and cautiously opened the door. No one was there.

"It was only a false alarm," she murmured, glancing down the hall; then she started, as if stung, as she caught sight of two figures in the room diagonally opposite hers.

Her face grew ghastly, but her eyes blazed with a tiger-like ferocity.

She closed the door noiselessly, then with stealthy, cat-like movements, she stole toward the French door, leading out upon the veranda, throwing a long mantle over her light dress and bare shoulders. Then she passed out, and crept along the veranda toward a window of the room where her husband and Edith were talking.

She could see them distinctly through the slats of the blinds, which were movable—could see the man bending toward the graceful girl, whom she had never seen so beautiful as now, his face eager, a wistful light burning in his eyes, while his lips moved rapidly with the tale that he was pouring into her ears.

She could not hear a word, but her jealous heart imputed the very worst to him.

She could see that Edith repudiated him—that she was indignant and dismayed; but this circumstance did not soothe her in the least.

It was enough to arouse all the worst elements of her fiery nature to know that the girl's charms were alluring the man whom she worshiped, and a very demon of jealousy and hatred possessed her.

She watched them until she saw her husband give that guilty start, of which Edith took advantage to escape, and then, her hands clenched until the nails almost pierced the tender flesh, her lips convulsed—her whole face distorted with passion and pain, she turned from the spot.

"I have no longer any conscience," she hissed, as she sped swiftly back to her room. "The girl is doomed—she has sealed her own fate. As for him—if I did not love him so, I would—"

A shudder completed her sentence, but smoothing her face, she removed her wraps, and went to tell her brother that she must go below, but would have his dinner sent up immediately.

Then drawing on her gloves, she hastened down to join her guests in the drawing-room.



CHAPTER XI.

"NOW MY VINDICATION AND TRIUMPH WILL BE COMPLETE!"

When Anna Goddard descended to her spacious and elegant parlors, her face was wreathed with the brightest smiles, which, alas! covered and concealed the bitterness and anger of her corrupt heart, even while she circulated among her friends with apparently the greatest pleasure, and with her usual charm and grace and manner.

After a short time spent socially, the guests repaired to the spacious carriage-house, where the theatrical performance was to take place, to secure the most desirable seats for the play, before the multitude from outside should arrive.

The place had been very handsomely decorated, and lighted by electricity, for the occasion. Potted flowers, palms, and ferns were artistically grouped in the corners, and handsome draperies were hung here and there to simulate windows and doors, and to conceal whatever might otherwise have been unsightly.

The floor had been covered with something smooth, linoleum or oilcloth, and then thoroughly waxed, for after the play was over, the place was to be cleared for dancing.

Across one end, a commodious stage had been erected, although this was at present concealed by a beautiful drop-curtain of crimson felt, bordered with old gold.

The room filled rapidly, and long before the time for the curtain to ascend, every seat was occupied.

At eight o'clock, precisely, the signal was given, and the play began.

Programs had been distributed among the audience—dainty little cards of embossed white and gold they were, too—announcing the title, "The Masked Bridal," giving the names of the participants, and promising that the affair would close with a genuine surprise to every one.

The piece opened in an elegantly appointed library, with a spirited scene and dialogue between a young couple, who were desirous of marrying, and the four objecting parents.

The actors all rendered their parts well, the heroine being especially pretty and piquant, and winning the admiration and sympathy of the audience at the outset.

In the next scene the unfortunate young couple are represented as plotting with two other lovers, whose wedding-day is set, to circumvent their obdurate parents, and carry out their determination to become husband and wife.

This also was full of energy and interest, several bright hits and witticisms being cleverly introduced, and the curtain went down amid enthusiastic applause; then, while the stage settings were being changed for the final act and the church wedding, some music was introduced, both vocal and instrumental, to while away the time.

Edith, who had assisted madam in the dressing-room as long as she was needed, had come outside, at the beginning of the scene, and stationed herself at the back of the room to watch the progress of the play.

But she had been there only for a few moments when some one touched her on the shoulder to attract her attention.

Glancing around, she saw a young girl, one of the guests in the house, who remarked:

"Mrs. Goddard wished me to tell you to come to her at once in her boudoir. Please be quick, as the matter is important."

Edith immediately glided from the room, but wondering what could have happened that madam should want her in her own apartments, when she supposed her to be behind the scenes.

Meantime, while the guests were being entertained with the play of which their hostess was the acknowledged author, a mysterious scene was being enacted within the mansion.

When the hour for the entertainment drew near, the house, as we know, had been emptied of its guests, until only the housekeeper, the butler, and the other servants remained as occupants.

The butler had been instructed to keep ward and watch below, while Mrs. Weld went upstairs, ostensibly to ascertain that everything was as it should be there, but in reality, to carry out a project of her own.

Seeking the maids, who, since they had no duties at that particular moment to occupy them, had gathered in the dressing-rooms, and were discussing the merits of the various costumes which they had seen, she remarked, in her kindly, good-natured way:

"Girls, I am sure you would like a peep at the play, and Mrs. Goddard gave me permission to send you out, if you could be spared. I will look after everything up here, and you may go now, if you like, only be sure to hurry back the moment it is over, for you will then be needed again."

They were of course delighted with this privilege, but Mollie, who was an unusually considerate girl, and always willing to oblige others, inquired:

"Wouldn't you like to see the play, Mrs. Weld? I will stay and let you go."

"No, thank you, child. I had enough of such things years ago," the housekeeper returned, indifferently. "Run along, all of you, so as to be there when the curtain goes up."

And the girls, only too eager for the sport, needing no second bidding, sped away, thanking her heartily for the privilege.

Thus the upper portion of the mansion was entirely deserted, but for the housekeeper and the unsuspected presence of Emil Correlli, who was locked within his own room, awaiting from his sister the signal for his appearance upon the stage below.

The moment the housemaids were beyond hearing, Mrs. Weld gave utterance to a long sigh of relief, whipped off her blue spectacles, and with a swift, noise-less step, wholly unlike her usual waddling gait, hurried down the hall, and into Mrs. Goddard's room, carefully closing and locking the door after her.

Proceeding to the dressing-room, a quick, searching glance showed her the object she was looking for—my lady's jewel-casket, standing wide open upon a small, marble-top table near a full-length mirror.

It had been rifled of most of its contents, madam herself having worn many of her jewels, while others had been loaned to the actors to embellish their costumes for the play.

"Ah! my task is made much easier than I expected," murmured the woman, as she peered curiously into the velvet-lined receptacle.

She saw only an empty tray, which she carefully removed, only to find another exactly like it underneath.

This also she took out, revealing the bottom of the box, covered with its velvet cushion, upon which there were indentations, to receive a full set of jewelry, necklace, bracelets, tiara, brooch and ear-rings.

The housekeeper's face was ghastly pale, or would have been but for the stain which gave her complexion its olive tinge, and she was trembling with excitement.

"She surely took that paper from this box," she muttered, a note of disappointment in her voice, as if she had expected to find what she sought upon removing the second tray.

"I wonder if this cushion can be removed?" she continued, as she tried to lift it from its place.

But it fitted so closely that she could not stir it.

Looking around the room for something to assist her in this effort, she espied a pair of scissors on the dressing-case.

Seizing them, she attempted to pry up the cushion with them.

It was not an easy thing to do, without defacing the velvet, but, at length, she succeeded in lifting one side, when she found no difficulty in removing the whole thing.

Her agitation increased as her glance fell upon several papers snugly packed in the bottom of the box.

"Ah! if it should prove to be something of no account to me!" she breathed, with trembling lips.

At last she straightened herself with sudden resolution, and putting her hand into the box drew forth the uppermost paper.

It was yellow with time, and so brittle that it cracked apart in one of the creases as she opened it; but paying no heed to this, she stepped to the dressing-case, and spread it out before her, while her eager eyes swept the mystic page from top to bottom.

Then a cry that ended in a great sob burst from her hueless lips.

"It is! it is!" she gasped, in voiceless agitation. "Ah, Heaven, thou art gracious to me at last! Now, I know why she would not surrender it to him—now I know what the condition of its ransom must have been!

"How long has she had it, I wonder? and when did she first learn of its existence?" she murmured. "Ah! but it does not matter—I have it at last—I, who dared not hope for its existence, believing it must have been destroyed, until the other day; and now"—throwing back her head with an air that was very expressive—"my vindication and triumph will be complete!"

With the greatest care, she refolded the paper, after which she impulsively pressed it to her lips; then, putting it away in her pocket, she turned back to the jewel-casket, and peered curiously into it once more.

"I wonder what other intrigues she has been guilty of?" she muttered, regarding its contents with a frown.

She laid her hand upon one of the papers, as if to remove it, then drew back.

"No," she said, "I will touch nothing else; I have what I came to seek, and have no right to meddle with what does not concern me. Let her keep her other vile secrets to herself; my victory is already complete."

She replaced the velvet cushion, pressing it hard down into its place.

She then restored the trays as she had found them, but did not close the casket, since she had found it open.

She retraced her steps into the boudoir, where, as she was passing out, she trod upon something that attracted her attention.

She stooped to ascertain what it was, and discovered a gentleman's glove.

"Ah," she said, as she picked it up and examined it, "I should say it belongs to madam's brother! In that case, he must have returned this evening to attend the grand finale, although I am sure he was not at the dinner-table."

She dropped the glove upon the floor where she had found it, but there was a look of perplexity upon her face as she did so.

"It seems a little strange," she mused, "that the young man should have been away all this time; and if he was to return at all, I cannot understand why there should have been this air of secrecy about it. He has evidently been in this room to-night, but I am sure he has not been seen about the house."

She opened the door and passed out into the hall, when she was startled to hear the voice of Mrs. Goddard talking, in the hall below, with the butler.

Mrs. Weld quietly slipped across to the room opposite—the same one in which Edith and Mr. Goddard had held their interview earlier in the evening—where, seating herself under a light, she caught up a book from the table, and pretended to be deeply absorbed in its contents.

A moment later, madam, having ascended the stairs, came hurrying down the hall, and saw her there.

She started.

It would never do for the woman to suspect the truth regarding what she was about to do.

No one must dream that Edith was not lending herself willingly to the last scene in the drama of the evening, and she expected to have some difficulty in persuading her to take the part.

There must be no possibility of any one hearing any objections that she might make, for, in that case, the charge of fraud could be brought and proved against her and her brother, after all was over.

But after the first flash of dismay, the cunning woman devised a scheme which would take the housekeeper out of her way, and leave the field clear for her operations.



CHAPTER XII.

THE MASKED BRIDAL.

"Oh, Mrs. Weld!" Mrs. Goddard exclaimed, in tones of well-assumed eagerness. "I am so glad you are here! I fear I have taken cold and am going to have a chill; will you be so good as to go down and mix me a hot lemonade and send it out behind the stage to me? for I must go back directly, and I will drink it there."

The housekeeper arose at once and went out into the hall, where she saw that madam appeared excited and trembling, while her face was very pale, although her eyes were unusually bright.

Somehow, she did not believe her to be ill; but she cheerfully acceded to her request, and went directly below to attend to her commission.

As she passed down the back stairs, Edith came hurrying up the front way.

"What has happened?" she inquired, as she observed madam's unusual excitement.

"The most unfortunate thing that could occur," she nervously replied. "Miss Kerby and her brother, who had the leading parts in the play, have just been summoned home, by telegraph, on account of sickness in the family, and that leaves us without our hero and heroine."

"That is unfortunate, surely; the play will have to be given up, I suppose?" Edith remarked.

"No, indeed! I should die of mortification!" cried madam, with well-assumed consternation.

"But what can you do?" innocently inquired the young girl.

"The only thing to be done is to supply their places with others," was the ready answer. "I have a gentleman friend who will take Mr. Kerby's place, and I want you, Edith, to assume the part of the bride; you are just about the size of Alice Kerby, and the costume will fit you to perfection."

"But I am afraid I cannot—I never took part in a play in my life," objected Edith, who instinctively shrank from becoming so conspicuous before such a multitude of people.

"Nonsense! there is but very little for you to do," said madam, "you have simply to walk into the church, upon the arm of the supposed bride's father. You will be masked, and no one will see your face until after all is over, and you have not a word to say, except to repeat the marriage service after the clergyman."

Edith shivered, and her face had grown very pale. She did not like the idea at all; it was exceedingly repugnant to her.

"I wish you could find some one else," she said, appealingly.

"There is no time," said madam.

"Oh! but it seems almost like sacrilege to me, to stand before such an audience and repeat words so solemn and significant, when they will mean nothing, when the whole thing will be but a farce," Edith tremulously remarked.

A strange expression swept over madam's face at this objection.

"You are absurdly conscientious, Edith," she coldly observed. "There is not another girl in the house upon whom I can call—they are all too large or too small, and the bridal costume would not fit one of them. Pray, pray, Miss Allen, pocket your scruples, for once, and help me out of this terrible predicament—the whole affair will be ruined by this awkward contretemps if you do not, and I, who have promised so much to my friends, shall become the laughing-stock of every one present."

Still the fair girl hesitated.

Some unaccountable influence seemed to be holding her back, and yet she felt that it would be very ungenerous, very disobliging of her, to allow Mrs. Goddard to be so humiliated before her hundreds of guests, when this apparently slight concession upon her part would smooth everything over so nicely.

"Oh, Edith! say you will!" cried the woman, appealingly. "You must!" she added, imperatively. "Come to my room—the costume is there all ready, and we will soon have you dressed."

She threw her arm around the girl's slender waist and almost compelled her to accompany her.

The moment they were within Mrs. Goddard's chamber, the woman nervously began to unfasten the young girl's dress, but her fingers trembled so with excitement, showing how wrought up she was, that Edith yielded without further demur, and assisted in removing her clothing.

"That is good of you, dear," said madam, smiling upon her, "for we must work very rapidly while the scenery is being changed—we have just fifteen minutes"—glancing at the clock. "How fortunate it is that I asked you to wear white this evening!" the crafty woman remarked, as Edith's dress was removed, thus revealing her dainty underwear, "for you are all ready for the wedding costume without any other change. Here, dear, just help me, please, with this skirt, for the train is so long it needs to be handled with care."

She lifted the beautiful satin skirt from the bed as she spoke, and together they carefully slipped it over the young girl's head.

The next moment it was fastened about her waist, and the lustrous material fell around her slender form in graceful and artistic folds.

The corsage was then put on and—wonderful to relate—it fitted her to perfection.

"How strange! one would almost think it was made for me!" she remarked, all unsuspicious that her measure had been accurately taken from a dress that had been left in the city.

"Ha! ha!" laughed madam, in musical exultation, "I should say that it was a very fortunate coincidence, and it shows that I made a wise choice when I selected you to take Miss Kerby's place. I did not know who else to call upon—of course I could not go out into the audience to find some one, and thus betray my predicament to everybody; neither could I take one of the housemaids, because she would have been sure to blunder and be so awkward. Oh! isn't this dress just lovely?"

Thus madam chattered, while she worked, wholly unlike herself, nervous, anxious, and covertly watching every expression of Edith's sensitive face.

But the girl did not have the slightest suspicion that she was being tricked.

The emergency of the moment appeared sufficient to tax the nerves of any one to the utmost, and she attributed everything to that.

"It certainly is a very rich and elegant costume," Edith gravely responded to the woman's query. "It seems to me to be far too nice and elaborate for the occasion."

Mrs. Goddard reddened slightly, and shot a quick, searching look at the girl's face.

"Well, of course it had to be nice to correspond with everything else," she explained, "for all the other young ladies are to wear their ball costumes, which are very elegant, and since the bride is to be the most conspicuous of all, it would not do to have her less richly attired. There!"—as she fastened a beautiful cluster of orange-blossoms to the corsage and stepped back to study the effect—"aren't you just lovely in it?"

"Now the veil," she continued, catching it up from the bed. "Oh!"—with an expression of dismay—"we have forgotten the boots, and you must not sit down to crush the dress. Here, support yourself upon this chair, hold out your foot, and I will put them on for you."

And the haughty woman went down upon her knees and performed the menial service, regardless, in her excitement, of her own elegant costume, which was being crushed in the act.

Then the veil was adjusted, madam chatting all the while to keep the girl's attention, and Edith, catching a glimpse of her reflection in the glass and under the influence of her companion's magnetism and enthusiasm, began to be imbued with something of the spirit of the occasion and to enjoy seeing herself adorned with these beautiful garments, which so enhanced her beauty.

When everything was done, madam stood back to look at her work, and uttered an exclamation of delight.

"Oh! you are simply perfect, Edith!" she said. "You are just too lovely for anything! Miss Kerby would not have made nearly so beautiful a bride, and—and—I could almost wish that you were really going to be married."

"Oh, no!" cried the fair girl, shrinking back from the strange gleam that shone from the woman's eyes, as she made this remark, while her thoughts flew, with the speed of light and with a yearning so intense that it turned her white as snow, to Royal Bryant, the man to whom, all unasked, she had given her heart.

Then, as if some instinct had accused her of unmaidenly presumption, a flush, that was like the rosy dawn upon the eastern sky, suffused her fair face, neck, and bosom.

"Ha! ha! not if you could marry the man of your choice?" queried madam, with a gleam of malice in her dark eyes and a strange note of triumph in her silvery laugh that again caused her companion to regard her curiously.

"Oh! please do not jest about it in this light way—marriage is too sacred to be treated with levity," said Edith, in a tremulous tone. "But where is the mask?" she added, glancing anxiously toward the bed. "You know you said the face of the bride was not to be seen."

"Here it is," responded madam, snatching the dainty thing from the bed. "See! it goes on under the veil, like this"—and she dextrously slipped the silver-fringed piece of gauze beneath the edge of the veil and fastened the chain under the orange-wreath behind.

The fringe fell just to Edith's chin, thus effectually concealing her features, while it was not thick enough to prevent her seeing, distinctly, everything about her.

A few other details were attended to, and then Mrs. Goddard hurriedly said:

"Come, now, we must hasten," and she gathered up the voluminous train and laid it carefully over Edith's arm. "We shall have to go the back way, through the billiard-room, because no one must see you until you appear upon the stage."

The carriage-house adjoined the mansion, and was connected with it by a door, at the end of a hall, that opened into a large room over it which had been devoted to billiards.

In the rear of this there was a stairway, which led down to the first floor and behind the stage; thus Madam and Edith were enabled to reach the dressing-room without being seen by any one, and just as the orchestra were playing the closing bars of the last selection before the raising of the curtain.

Here they found a tall, elderly gentleman, in full evening dress, who was to represent the supposed bride's father in giving his child away to the groom.

All the other actors were already grouped upon the stage or in their respective places behind the scenes awaiting the coming of the bride.

Outside, the audience were all upon the qui vive, for, not only was the closing act of the very clever play looked forward to with much interest, for its own sake, but the genuine surprise promised them was a matter for much curious conjecture and eager anticipation.

As Edith stepped upon the stage, leaning upon the arm of her escort, the bridesmaids and maid of honor filed into place before them from the wings, and all were ready for the grand finale just as the signal was given for the curtain to go up.

A shiver ran over Edith, shaking her from head to foot as that sharp, incisive sound from the silver bell went ringing through the room.

For, as she had stepped upon the stage and Mrs. Goddard laid her hand upon the arm of the elderly gentleman, she had observed the two exchange meaning smiles, while the maids and ushers, as they had filed into place, had regarded her with marked and admiring curiosity.

The curtain was raised, revealing to the appreciative audience the interior of a beautiful little church.

It was perfect and complete in all its appointments, even to the stained glass windows, the altar, the chancel, the organ, and the exquisite floral decorations suitable for a wedding ceremony.

Simultaneously with this revelation there broke upon the ear and the breathless hush that prevailed throughout the rooms the sound of an organ playing the customary wedding-march.

Presently, at the rear of the church, a door opened, and four ushers entered, "with stately tread and slow," followed by as many bridesmaids, dressed in exquisite costumes.

Then came the maid of honor, clad in pale-blue satin, and carrying a huge bunch of pink roses that contrasted beautifully with her dainty toilet.

Next, the veiled and masked bride appeared, leaning upon the arm of her attendant and clasping a costly bouquet of white orchids, which Mrs. Goddard had produced from some mysterious source, and thrust into her hands at the last moment.

A thrill of awe, mingled with intensest curiosity, pervaded the audience as the graceful figure of the beautiful girl came slowly into view.

The whole affair was so vividly real and impressive that every one watched the scene with breathless interest.

And now, at one side of the chancel, another door was seen to open, when a spotlessly-gowned clergyman, followed by the groom and best man, entered and proceeded slowly toward the altar.

The two men behind the minister were in full evening dress, the only peculiar thing noticeable being the mask of black gauze edged with silver fringe which the groom wore over his face.

They reached the altar at the same moment that the rest of the bridal party paused before it.

Then, as the clergyman turned his face toward the audience and the light from the chandelier above him fell full upon him, a flutter of excitement ran throughout the room, while many persons were seen to exchange glances of undisguised astonishment, for they had recognized a popular young divine—the pastor of a church, which many of those present, together with their hostess, were in the habit of attending.

What could it mean?

Surely, no ordained minister who respected himself and reverenced his calling would lend himself to a sensational farce, such as they had witnessed that evening—at least, to carry it to such an extent as to read, in mockery, the service of the sacred ordinance of marriage over a couple of giddy actors!

There was a nervous, fluttering of programs, a restless movement among the fashionable throng, which betrayed that, however much they might be given to pleasure and levity in certain directions, they could not quite countenance this perversion of a divine institution as a matter of amusement.

The manner and bearing of the man, however, was most reverential and decorous, and, as he opened and began to read from the elegant prayer-book which he carried in his hands, a breathless hush again settled upon every person in the room.

For, like a flash, it had seemed to burst upon every mind that there was to be a bona fide marriage—that this was to be the "Genuine Surprise" that had been promised them!



CHAPTER XIII.

THE DASTARDLY PLOT IS REVEALED.

Every thought and feeling was now merged in intense interest and curiosity regarding the participants in the strange union, which was being consummated before them. Who was the beautiful bride, so perfect in form, so graceful in bearing, so elegantly and richly adorned?

Who the strange groom?

The parts of the plotting lovers of the play had hitherto been taken by the brother and sister—Walter and Alice Kerby, who were well-known in society.

But of course every one reasoned that they could not both officiate as principals in the scene now being enacted before them.

The figure and bearing of that veiled bride upon the stage were similar to that of Miss Kerby; but that young lady was known to be engaged to a young lawyer who was now seated with the audience; therefore, no one, who knew her, believed for a moment that she could be personating the masked bride now standing before the altar, while the groom beside her was neither so stout nor as tall as Walter Kerby.

The ceremony proceeded, according to the Episcopal form, although the young minister was known to be a Universalist, and when he reached the charge, calling for any one "who could show just cause why the two before him should not be joined in lawful wedlock, to speak or forever hold his peace," those sitting nearest the stage were startled to see the bride shiver, from head to foot, while a deadly pallor seemed to settle over that portion of her face that was visible, and to even extend over her neck.

The service went on without any interruption, the groom making the responses in clear, unfaltering tones, although those of his companion were scarcely audible. When the symbol of their union was called for, it was also noticed that Edith shrank from having the ring placed upon her finger, but it was only a momentary hesitation, and the service was soon completed with all due solemnity.

After the blessing, when the couple arose from their knees, the maid of honor stepped forward, and, lifting the mask of the bride, adjusted it above her forehead with the jeweled pin, while the audience sat spell-bound, awaiting with breathless suspense the revelation that would ensue.

At the same moment the groom also removed the covering from his face, when those who could see him instantly recognized him as Emil Correlli, the handsome and wealthy brother of the hostess of the evening.

His countenance was white to ghastliness, betraying that he was laboring under great excitement and mental strain.

But the fair young bride! who was she?

Not one in that great company recognized her for the moment, for scarcely any one had ever seen her before—excepting those, of course, who had been guests in the house during the week, and these failed to identify her in the exquisite costume which was so different from the simple black dresses which she had always worn, and enveloped, as she was, in that voluminous, mist-like veil.

The clergyman omitted nothing, and immediately, upon the lifting of the masks, greeted and congratulated the young couple with every appearance of cordiality and sincerity.

To poor, reluctant Edith the whole affair had been utterly distasteful and repulsive.

Indeed, she had felt as if she was almost guilty of a crime in allowing herself to participate lightly in anything of so sacred a nature, and, throughout the entire ceremony, she had shivered and trembled with mingled nervousness and repugnance.

When the ring—an unusually massive circlet of gold—had been slipped upon her finger, she had involuntarily tried to withdraw her hand from the clasp of the man who was holding it, a sensation of deadly faintness almost overpowering her for the moment.

But feeling that she must not fail madam and spoil everything at this last moment, she braced herself to go on with the farce (?) to the end.

She was so relieved when it was ended, so eager to get away from the place and have the dread ordeal over, that she scarcely heard a word the clergyman uttered while congratulating her. She was dimly conscious of the clasp of his hand and the sound of his voice, but did not even notice the hated name by which he addressed her.

Neither had she once glanced at the groom, though as he took her hand and laid it upon his arm, when they turned to go out, she wondered vaguely why he should continue to hold it clasped in his, and what made his clinging fingers tremble so.

But Emil Correlli, now that his scheme was accomplished, led her, with an air of mingled triumph and joy which sat well upon him, directly out to the ladies' dressing-room, where they found madam alone awaiting them.

She could not have been whiter if she had been dead, and her teeth were actually chattering with nervousness as the two came toward her, Edith still with bowed head and downcast eyes—her brother beaming with the exultation he could not conceal.

But she braced herself to meet them with a brave front.

"Dear child, you went through it beautifully," she said, in a caressing voice as she took Edith into her arms and kissed her upon the forehead. "Let me thank and congratulate you—and you also, Emil."

At the sound of this name, Edith uttered a cry of dismay and turned her glance, for the first time, upon the man at her side.

"You!" she gasped, starting away from him with a gesture of horror, and marble could not have been whiter, nor a statue more frozen than she for a moment after making this amazing discovery.

"Hush!" imperatively exclaimed Mrs. Goddard, who quickly arose to the emergency. "Do not make a scene. It could not be helped—some one had to take Mr. Kerby's place, and Emil, arriving at the last moment, was pressed into the service the same as yourself."

"How could you? It was cruel! it was wicked! I never would have consented had I suspected," cried the girl, in a voice resonant with indignation.

"Hush!" again commanded madam, "you must not—you shall not spoil everything now. The actors are all to hold an informal reception in the parlors while this room is being cleared for dancing, and you two must take your places with them—"

"I will not! I will not lend myself to such a wretched farce for another moment!" Edith exclaimed, and never for an instant suspecting that it was anything but a farce.

The face of Mrs. Goddard was a study, as was also her brother's, as these resolute words fell upon her ears; but she had no intention of undeceiving the girl at present, for she knew that if she threw up the character which she had thus far been impersonating, their plot would be ruined and a fearful scandal follow.

If they could only trick her into standing with the others to receive the congratulations of her guests—to be publicly addressed as, and appear to assent to the name of, Mrs. Correlli, she believed it would be comparatively easy later on to convince her of the truth and compel her to yield to the inevitable.

But she saw that Edith was thoroughly aroused—that she felt she had been badly used—that she had been shamefully imposed upon by having been cheated into figuring thus before hundreds of people with a man who was obnoxious to her.

Madam was at her wits' end, for the girl's resolute air and blazing eyes plainly indicated that she did not intend to be trifled with any longer.

She shot a glance of dismay at her brother, only to see a dark frown upon his brow, while he angrily gnawed his under lip.

She feared that, with his customary impulse, he might be contemplating revealing the truth, and such a course she well knew would result in a scene that would ruin the evening for everybody.

But just at this instant the bridesmaids came trooping into the room and created a blessed diversion.

"Here we are, dear Mrs. Goddard," a gay girl exclaimed. "Didn't it all go off beautifully, and isn't it time we were in our places for the reception?"

"Yes, yes; run along, all of you. Lead the way, Nellie, please—you know how to go up through the billiard-room," said Mrs. Goddard, nervously, as she gently pushed the girl toward the stairway. Then bending toward Edith, she whispered, imploringly:

"I beg, I entreat you, Edith, not to spoil everything—everybody will wonder why you are not with the others, and I cannot explain why you refused to stand with my brother. Go! go! you must not keep my guests waiting. Emil, take her," and with an imperative gesture to her brother, she swept on toward the stairway after the others to arrange them effectively in the drawing-room.

Emil Correlli shot a searching look into the face of the girl beside him.

It was cold and proud, the beautiful eyes still glowing with indignation. But resolving upon a bold move, he reached down, took her hand, and laid it upon his arm.

"Pardon me just this once," he said, humbly, "and let me add my entreaties to my sister's," and he tried gently to force her toward the stairway.

Edith drew herself up and took her hand from his arm.

"Go on," she said, haughtily, "and I will follow. Since I have been tricked into this affair so far, a little more of the same folly cannot matter, and rather than subject Mrs. Goddard to a public mortification, I will yield the point."

She made a gesture for him to proceed, and he turned to obey, a gleam of triumph leaping into his eyes at her concession.

Without a word they swiftly made their way back into the house and down to the elegant parlors where, at the upper end, the first object to greet their eyes was a beautiful floral arch with an exquisite marriage bell suspended from it.

On either side of this the bridesmaids and ushers had taken their places, and into the center of it Emil Correlli now led his companion.

And now ensued the last and most fiendish act in the dastardly plot.

Hardly were they in their places when the guests came pouring into the room, and the ushers began their duties of presentation, while Edith, with a sinking heart, but growing every moment more indignant and disgusted with what appeared to her only a horrible and senseless mockery, was obliged to respond to hundreds of congratulations and bear in silence being addressed as Mrs. Correlli.

It galled her almost beyond endurance—it was torture beyond description to her proud and sensitive spirit to be thus associated with one for whom she had no respect, and who had made himself all the more obnoxious by lending himself to the deception which had just been practiced upon her.

Once, when there was a little pause, she turned haughtily upon the man at her side.

"Why am I addressed thus?" she demanded.

"Why do you allow it? Why do you not correct these people and tell them to use the name that was used in the play rather than yours?"

The man grew white about the lips at these questions.

"Perhaps they forget—I—I suppose it seems more natural to address me by my name," he faltered.

"I do not like it—I will not submit to it a moment longer," Edith indignantly returned.

"Hush! it is almost over," said her companion, in a swift whisper, as others came forward just then, and she was obliged, though rebellious and heart-sick, to submit to the ordeal.

But it was over at last, for, as the introductions were made, the guests passed back to the carriage-house, which had been cleared for dancing, and where the musicians were discoursing alluring strains in rhythmic measure.

Even the bridesmaids and ushers, tempted by the sounds, at last deserted their posts, and Emil Correlli and his victim were finally left alone, the sole occupants of the drawing-room.

"Will you come and dance?" he inquired, as he turned a pleading look upon her. "Just once, to show that you forgive me for what I have done to-night."

"No, I cannot," said Edith, coldly and wearily. "I am going directly upstairs to divest myself of this mocking finery as soon as possible."

A swift, hot flush suffused Emil Correlli's face, at these words.

"Pray do not speak so bitterly and slightingly of what has made you, in my eyes at least, the most beautiful woman in this house to-night," he said, with a look of passionate yearning in his eyes.

"Flattery from you, sir, after what has occurred, is, to speak mildly, exceedingly unbecoming," Edith haughtily responded and turned proudly away from him as if about to leave the room.

But, at that moment, Mr. Goddard, who had not presented himself before, came hurriedly forward and confronted them. His face was very pale, but there was an angry light in his eyes and a bitter sneer upon his lips.

"Well, Correlli, I am bound to confess that you have stolen a march upon us to-night, in fine style," he remarked, in a mocking tone, "and madam—Mrs. Correlli, I should say—allow me to observe that you have outshone yourself this evening, both as an actress and a beauty! Really, the surprise, the denouement, to which you have treated us surpasses anything in my experience; it was certainly worthy of a Dumas! Permit me to offer you my heartiest congratulations."

Edith crimsoned with anger to her brows and shot a look of scorn at the man, for his manner was bitterly insolent and his tone had been violent with wounded feeling and derision throughout his speech.

"Let this wretched farce end here and now," she said, straightening herself and lifting her flashing eyes to his face. "I am heartily sick of it, and I trust you will never again presume to address me by the name that you have just used."

"Indeed! and are you so soon weary of your new title? Not yet an hour a bride, and sick of your bargain!" retorted Gerald Goddard, with a mocking laugh.

"I am no 'bride,' as you very well know, sir," spiritedly returned Edith.

The man regarded her with a look of astonishment.

He had been very much interested in his wife's clever play, until the last act, when he had been greatly startled by the change in the leading characters, both of whom he had instantly recognized in spite of their masks. He wondered why they had been substituted for Alice and Walter Kerby; when, upon also recognizing the clergyman, it had flashed upon him that this last scene was no "play"—it was to be a bona fide marriage planned, no doubt, by his wife for some secret reason best known to her and the young couple.

He did not once suspect that Edith was being tricked into an unwilling union.

He had known that Emil Correlli was fond of her, but he had not supposed he would care to make her his wife, although he had no doubt the girl would gladly avail herself of such an offer. Evidently the courtship had been secretly and successfully carried on; still, he could not understand why they should have adopted this exceedingly strange way to consummate their union, when there was nothing to stand in the way of a public marriage, if they desired it.

He was bitterly wounded and chagrined upon realizing how he had been ignored in the matter by all parties, and thus allowed to rush headlong into the piece of folly which he had committed, earlier in the evening, in connection with Edith.

Thus he had held himself aloof from the couple until every one else had left the parlors, when he mockingly saluted them as already described.

"No bride?" he repeated, skeptically.

"No, sir. I told you it was simply a farce. I was merely appealed to to take the place, in the play, of Miss Kerby, who was called home by telegram," Edith explained.

Mr. Goddard glanced from her to his brother-in-law in unfeigned perplexity.

"What are you saying?" he demanded. "Do you mean to tell me that you believe that last act was a farce?—that you do not know that you have been really and lawfully married to the man beside you?"

"Certainly I have not! What do you mean, sir, by such an unwarrantable assertion?" spiritedly retorted the young girl, but losing every atom of color, as a suspicion of the terrible truth flashed through her mind.

Gerald Goddard turned fiercely upon his brother-in-law at this, for he also now began to suspect treachery.

"What does she mean?" he cried, sternly. "Has she been led into this thing blindfolded?"

"I think it would be injudicious to make a scene here," Emil Correlli replied, in a low tone, but with white lips, as he realized that the moment which he had so dreaded had come at last.

"What do you mean? Why do you act and speak as if you believed that mockery to be a reality?" exclaimed Edith, looking from one face to the other with wildly questioning eyes.

"Edith," began Mr. Goddard, in an impressive tone, "do you not know that you are this man's wife?—that the ceremony on yonder stage was, in every essential, a legal one, and performed by the Rev. Mr. —— of the —— church in Boston?"

"No! never! I do not believe it. They never would have dared do such a dastardly deed!" panted the startled girl, in a voice of horror.

Then drawing her perfect form erect, she turned with a withering glance to the craven at her side.

"Speak!" she commanded. "Have you dared to play this miserable trick upon me?"

Emil Correlli quailed beneath the righteous indignation expressed in her flashing glance; his eyes drooped, and conscious guilt was shown in his very attitude.

"Forgive me—I loved you so," he stammered, and—she was answered.

She threw out her hands in a gesture of repudiation and horror; she flashed one withering, horrified look into his face, then, with a moan of anguish, she swayed like a reed broken by the tempest, and would have fallen to the floor in her spotless robes had not Gerald Goddard caught her senseless form in his arms, and, lifting her by main strength, he bore her from the room and upstairs to her own chamber.



CHAPTER XIV.

"YOUR FAITHLESSNESS TURNED ME INTO A DEMON."

Emil Correlli followed Mr. Goddard and his unconscious burden, looking like anything but a happy bridegroom.

He had expected that Edith would weep and rave upon discovering the trap into which she had been lured; but he had not expected that the revelation would smite her with such terrible force, laying her like one dead at his feet, as it had done, and he was thoroughly alarmed.

When Mr. Goddard reached the girl's room he laid her upon her bed, and then sent one of the servants for the housekeeper. But Mrs. Weld could not be found, so another maid was called, and Edith was gradually restored to consciousness.

But the moment her glance fell upon Emil Correlli, who insisted upon remaining in the room, and she realized what had occurred, she relapsed into another swoon, so deathlike and prolonged that a physician, who happened to be among the guests, was summoned from the ball-room to attend her.

He excluded every one but the maids from the room, when he ordered his patient to be undressed and put into bed, and after long and unwearied efforts, she was again revived, when she became so unnerved and hysterical that the physician, becoming alarmed, was about to give her a powerful opiate, when she sank into a third fainting fit.

Meanwhile, in the ball-room below, gayety was at its height. There had been a little stir and commotion when it was learned that Edith had fainted; but the matter was passed over with a few well-bred comments of regret, and then forgotten for the time. But as soon as she could do so without being observed, madam stole from the place and went into the house to ascertain how the girl was.

She was, of course, aware of the cause of the swoon, and, as may be readily imagined, was in no comfortable frame of mind. She was met at the head of the second flight of stairs by her husband, whose face was grave and stern.

"How is she?" madam inquired.

"In a very critical condition; Dr. Arthur says she is liable to have brain fever," he tersely replied.

"Brain fever!" exclaimed his wife, in a startled tone. "Surely, she cannot be as bad as that!"

"Woman, what have you done?" the man demanded, in a hoarse whisper. "How have you dared to plot and carry out the dastardly deed that you have perpetrated this night?"

Anna Goddard's eyes began to blaze defiance.

"That is neither the tone nor the manner you should employ in addressing me, Gerald, as you very well know," she retorted, with colorless lips.

"Have done with your tragic airs, madam," he cried, laying a heavy hand upon her arm. "I have had enough of them. I ask you again, how have you dared to commit this crime?"

"Crime?" she repeated, with a start, but flashing him a glance that made him wince as she shook herself free from his grasp. "You use a harsh term, Gerald; but if you desire a reason for what has occurred to-night, I can give you two."

"Name them," her companion curtly demanded.

"First and foremost, then—to protect myself."

"To protect yourself—from what?"

"From treachery and desertion."

"Anna!"

A bitter sneer curled the beautiful woman's lips.

"You know how to do it very well, Gerald," she tauntingly returned. "That air of injured innocence is vastly becoming to you, and would be very effective, if I did not know you so well; but it has disarmed me for the last time. Pray never assume it again, for you will never blind me by it in the future."

"Explain yourself, Anna. I fail to understand you."

"Very well; I will do so in a very few words; I was a witness of your interview with the girl just after dinner to-night."

"You?" ejaculated the man, flushing hotly, and looking considerably crestfallen. "Well, what of it?" he added, defiantly, the next moment.

"What of it, indeed? Do you imagine a wife is going to stand quietly by and see her husband make love to her companion?"

"What nonsense you are talking, Anna! I went in search of one of the housemaids to button my gloves for me, met Miss Allen instead, and she was kind enough to oblige me."

"Bah! Gerald, I was too near you at the time to swallow such a very lame vindication," vulgarly sneered his wife. "You were making love to her, I tell you—you were telling her something which you had no business to reveal, and I swore then that her fate should be sealed this very night."

Gerald Goddard realized that there was no use arguing with his wife in that mood, while he also felt that his case was rather weak, and so he shifted his ground.

"But you must have plotted this thing long ago, for your play was written, and your characters chosen before we left the city," he remarked.

"Well?"

"But you said you had two reasons; what was the other?"

"Emil's love for the girl. He became infatuated with her from the moment of his coming to us, as you must have noticed."

"Yes."

"Well, he tried to win her—he even asked her to marry him, but she refused him. Think of it—that little nobody rejecting a man like Emil, with his wealth and position!"

"Well, if she did not love him, she had a right to refuse, him."

"Oh, of course," sneered madam, irritably. "But you know what he is when he once gets his heart set upon anything, and her obstinacy only made him the more determined to carry his point. He appealed to me to help him; and, as I have never refused him anything he wanted, if I could possibly give it to him—"

"But this was such a wicked—such a heartless, cowardly thing to do!" interposed Mr. Goddard, with a gesture of horror.

"I know it," madam retorted, with a defiant toss of her head; "but you may thank yourself for it, after all; for, almost at the last moment, I repented—I was on the point of giving the whole thing up and letting the play go on without any change of characters, when your faithlessness turned me into a demon, and doomed the girl."

"I believe you are a 'demon'—your jealousy has been the bane of your whole life and mine; and now you have ruined the future of as beautiful and pure a girl as ever walked the earth," said Gerald Goddard, with a threatening brow, and in a tone so deadly cold that the woman beside him shivered.

"Pshaw! don't be so tragic," she said, after a moment, and assuming an air of lightness, "the affair will end all right—when Edith comes fully to herself and realizes the situation, I am sure she will make up her mind to submit gracefully to the inevitable."

"She shall not—I will help her to break the tie that binds her to him."

"Will you?" mockingly questioned his wife. "How pray?"

"By claiming that she was tricked into the marriage."

"How will you prove that, Gerald?" was the smiling query.

The man was dumb. He knew he could not prove it.

"Did she not go willingly enough to the altar?" pursued madam. "Did she not repeat the responses freely and unhesitatingly? Was she not married by a regularly ordained minister? and was she not introduced afterward to hundreds of people as the wife of my brother, and did she not respond as such to the name of Mrs. Correlli? I hardly think you could make out a case, Gerald."

"But the fact that the Kerbys were called away by telegram, and that some one was needed to supply their places, would prove that Edith had no knowledge of the affair—at least until the last moment," said Mr. Goddard, eagerly seizing upon that point.

But madam broke into a musical little laugh as he ceased.

"Do you imagine that I would leave such a ragged end as that in my plot?" she mockingly questioned. "The Kerbys were not called away by telegram, and no one can prove that either was ever told they were. The Kerbys are still here, dancing away as heartily as any one below, and they have known, from the first, that they would not appear in the last act—they and they only, were let into the secret that the play was to end with a real marriage."

"It is the most devilish plot I ever heard of," said her companion, passionately, through his tightly-locked teeth. "Your insane jealousy and suspicion, during the years we have lived together, have shriveled whatever affection I hitherto possessed for you!"

"Gerald!"

The name came hoarsely from the woman's white lips.

It was as if some one had stabbed her, and her heart had died with the utterance of that loved name.

He left her abruptly, and descended the stairs, never once looking back, while she watched him with an expression in her eyes that had something of the fire of madness in it, as well as that of a breaking heart.

When he reached the lower hall, she dashed down to the second floor, and into her own room, locking herself in.

Fifteen minutes later she came out again, but in place of the usual glow of health upon her cheeks, she had applied rouge to conceal the ghastliness she could not otherwise overcome, while there was a look of recklessness and defiance in her dark eyes that bespoke a nature driven to the verge of despair.

Making her way back to the ball-room, she was soon mingling with the merry dancers, and with a forced gayety that deceived every one save her husband.

To all inquiries for the bride, she replied that she had recovered consciousness, but it was doubtful if she would be able to make her appearance again that night.

Then as her glance fell upon a tall, magnificently-formed woman, who was standing near, and the center of an admiring group, she inquired, in a tone of surprise:

"Why! who is that lady in garnet velvet and point lace?"

"That is a Mrs. Stewart, a very wealthy woman, who resides at the Copley Square Hotel," was the reply.

"Oh, is that Mrs. Stewart?" said madam, with eager interest.

"Yes; but are you not acquainted with her?" questioned her guest, with a look of well-bred astonishment.

"No; and no wonder you think it strange that she should be here by invitation, and I have no personal acquaintance with her," the hostess remarked, with a smile; "but such is the case, nevertheless; a card was sent to her at the request of my brother, who has met her several times, and who admires her very much. What magnificent diamonds she wears!"

"Yes; she is said to be worth a great deal of money."

"She must have come in while I was upstairs inquiring about Edith," madam observed. "I must find my brother, and be presented to her. Excuse me—I will see you later."

With a graceful obeisance, madam turned away and went in search of Emil Correlli.

But, as she went, she wondered if she could ever have seen Mrs. Stewart before.

The woman's face seemed strangely familiar to her, and yet she could not remember having met her before.

The sensation was something like those mysterious occurrences which sometimes make people feel that they are but a repetition of experiences in a previous state of existence.

The stranger was an undeniably handsome woman. She was more than handsome, for there was a sweet grace and influence about her every movement and expression that proclaimed her to be a woman of noble and lovely character.

She was a woman to be singled out from the multitude on account of the taste and elegance of her costume, as well as for her great personal beauty.

"She cannot have less than fifty thousand dollars' worth of diamonds on her person," murmured Anna Goddard, with a pang of envy, as she covertly watched her strange guest while she made her way through the throng in search of her brother.

She met him near the door, he having just come in from the house, to excuse himself to his sister, after having been to Edith's door for the sixth time to inquire for her.

His face was pale, his brow gloomy, his eyes heavy with anxiety.

"Well, how is she now?" questioned his sister.

"She has fallen into her third swoon, and the doctor thinks she is in a very critical state. He says her condition must have been induced by a tremendous shock of some kind."

"Ah!" exclaimed Mrs. Goddard, looking relieved. "Judging from that, I should say that the girl has not yet revealed the true state of affairs."

"No; Dr. Arthur did not appear to know how to account for her condition, and asked me if I knew anything that could have caused it."

"Of course, you did not?" said madam, meaningly.

"No; except the excitement, etc., of the occasion."

"Well, don't worry," Mrs. Goddard returned; "everything will come out all right in time. It is a great piece of luck that she did not wail and rave and let out the whole story before the doctor and the maids. Your Mrs. Stewart is here—you must come and greet her and introduce me," she concluded, glancing toward her guest as she spoke.

"I was coming to tell you that I am going to my room and to bed—I have no heart for any gayety to-night," said Emil Correlli, gloomily.

"Nonsense! don't be so absurdly foolish, Emil," responded his sister, impatiently.

"Indeed! I think it would be improper for me to remain when my wife is so ill," he objected, but flushing as he uttered the word.

"Well, perhaps; do as you choose. But come and introduce me to Mrs. Stewart before you go; she must feel rather awkward to be a guest here and not know her hostess."



CHAPTER XV.

"OH, GOD! I KNEW IT! YOU ARE—ISABEL!"

With a somewhat reluctant air, Emil Correlli offered his arm to his sister and led her toward the woman around whom a group of distinguished people had gathered, and whom she was entertaining with an ease and grace that proclaimed her perfectly at home among the creme de la creme of society.

She appeared not to perceive the approach of her hostess and her brother, but continued the animated conversation in which she was engaged.

A special observer, however, would have noticed the peculiar fire which began to burn in her beautiful eyes.

When Mr. Correlli presented his sister, she turned with fascinating grace, making a charming acknowledgment, although she did not offer her hostess her hand.

"You are very welcome, Mrs. Stewart," Mrs. Goddard remarked, in response to some words of apology for being a guest in the house without a previous acquaintance. "I only regret that we have not met before."

"Thanks; I, too, deplore the complication of circumstances which has prevented an earlier meeting," was the sweet-voiced response.

But there was a peculiar shading in the remark which, somehow, grated harshly upon Anna Goddard's ears and nerves.