"Who is she, anyhow?" she questioned within herself with a strange feeling of unrest and perplexity. "I never even heard of her until after Emil came; yet there is something about her that makes me feel as if we had met in some other sphere."

She stole a searching glance at the woman's face, only to find her great, luminous eyes fastened upon her with an equally intent gaze.

"Ah!" and with this voiceless ejaculation and a great inward start, some long dormant memory seemed suddenly to have been aroused within her.

There was an instant of awkwardness; then madam, who seldom allowed anything to disturb her self-possession, remarked:

"I am sorry, Mrs. Stewart, that you did not arrive earlier to witness our little play."

But while she was giving utterance to this polite regret, she was saying to herself:

"Yes, there certainly is a look about her that reminds me of—Ugh! She may possibly be a relative, or the resemblance may be merely a coincidence. All the same, I shall not like her any the better for recalling that horror to me."

"Thank you," Mrs. Stewart replied; "no doubt I should have enjoyed it, especially as, I am told, it was original with you and terminated in a real and very pretty wedding."

"Yes; my brother finds that he must leave the city earlier than he anticipated; and, as he was anxious to take his bride with him, he chose this opportunity to celebrate his marriage, and to introduce his wife to our friends."

"Ah! I did not even know that Monsieur Correlli was contemplating matrimony. Who is the favored lady of his choice?" Mrs. Stewart inquired.

"A Miss Edith Allen."

"Edith Allen!" repeated the beautiful stranger, with a start.

"Yes," said Mrs. Goddard, regarding her with surprise, but unmixed with anxiety. "Did you ever meet her?"

"Is she very fair and lovely, with golden hair and deep-blue eyes, a tall, slender figure, and charming manners?" eagerly questioned Mrs. Stewart.

"Yes, you have described her exactly," answered madam, yet secretly more disturbed than before; "but I am surprised that you should know her, for she has been in the city only a short time, and I did not suppose she had made a single acquaintance outside the family."

"Oh, I cannot lay claim to an acquaintance with her, as I have only seen her once, and our meeting was purely accidental," the lady responded. "She rendered me efficient service one day when she was out for a walk, and I inquired her name."

She then proceeded to explain the nature of that service and the accident that had called it forth, and concluded by remarking:

"Allow me to say I think that Monsieur Correlli has shown excellent taste in his choice of a wife. I was charmed with the young lady, and I would like to meet her again. Will you introduce me?" and she looked eagerly about the room in search of the graceful form and lovely face which she was so desirous of seeing.

"I am very sorry that I cannot comply with your request," said Mrs. Goddard, flushing slightly; "but Edith is rather delicate and the reception, after the marriage, was such a strain upon her that she fainted and was obliged to retire."

"That was very unfortunate," Mrs. Stewart observed, while she searched her companion's face curiously, "but I trust that I may have the pleasure of meeting her later."

"I cannot promise as to that," madam replied, "as it is my brother's intention to go abroad as soon as he can complete his arrangements to do so, although no date has been set as yet. But—have you ever met my husband. Mrs. Stewart?" she inquired, as that gentleman was seen approaching their way that moment.

"No, I have never had that honor," the lady returned; then added, with a light laugh: "I feel very much like an intruder to be here to-night as a stranger to both my host and hostess."

"Pray do not be troubled on that account," madam hastened cordially to reply: "any friend of my brother would be a welcome guest, and I am charmed to have made your acquaintance."

"Thank you," responded the beautiful stranger; but madam marveled at the line of white encircling the scarlet lips, as she signaled to her husband and called him by name:

"Gerald."

He glanced up, and both women noticed the expression of weariness and trouble upon his brow.

"You have not been introduced to Emil's friend, I think," his wife continued. "Allow me to present Mrs. Stewart—Mrs. Stewart, my husband, Mr. Goddard."

The gentleman bowed with all his accustomed courtesy, but did not fairly get a glimpse of the lady's face until they both assumed an upright position again, when he found himself looking straight into the magnificent eyes of his guest.

As he met them it seemed as if some one had stabbed him to the heart, so sudden and terrible was the shock that he experienced.

He changed an involuntary groan into a cough, but he could not have been more ghastly if he had been dead, while he continued to gaze upon her as if fascinated.

"Ha! he has noticed it also!" said madam to herself, with a sudden heart-sinking.

Then realizing that something must be done to relieve the awkwardness of the situation, she hastened to observe:

"Mrs. Stewart has only just arrived—she did not come in season to witness our little drama."

Mr. Goddard murmured some polite words of regret, but feeling all the while as if he were turning to stone.

Mrs. Stewart, however, responded in a pleasant vein, and chatted sociably for a few moments, when, some other friends joining them, more introductions followed, and the conversation became general.

Gerald Goddard improved this opportunity to slip away; but his wife, who was covertly watching his every look and movement, noticed that he walked with the uncertain step of one who was either blind or intoxicated.

A feeling of depression settled upon her—a sense of impending evil, which, try as she would, she could neither forget nor shake off.

She began to be very impatient of all the glitter, glare, and gayety around her, and told herself that she would be heartily glad when the last dance was over, and the last guest had departed.

Truly, there is many an aching heart hidden beneath costly raiment and glittering jewels; and society is, to a large extent, but a smiling mask in which people hold high revel over the tombs of dead hopes and disappointed ambitions.

But fashion and folly must have their time; and so, in spite of madam's heart-ache and weariness, the dancing and merriment went on, no one dreamed of the phantom memories and the ghosts from out the past that were stalking about the beautiful rooms of that elegant mansion; or that its enviable (?) master and mistress were treading upon the verge of a volcano which, at any moment, was liable to burst all bounds and pour forth its furious lava-tide to consume them.

An hour later Mrs. Stewart again sought her hostess and wished her good-night, remarking that circumstances which she could not control compelled her to take an early leave.

"Ah! that is unfortunate, for supper will shortly be announced; cannot you possibly remain to partake of it?" madam urged, with cordial hospitality.

"Thanks, no; but I am promising myself the pleasure of meeting you again in the near future," Mrs. Stewart returned, shooting a searching glance at her hostess.

Her language and manner were perfect; but, for the second time that evening, Anna Goddard noticed the peculiar shading in her words, and a chill that was like a breath from an iceberg went shivering over her.

She, however, replied courteously, and then Mrs. Stewart swept from the room upon the arm of her attendant.

Many earnest and curious glances followed the stately couple, for the lady was reported to be immensely rich, while it had also been whispered that the gentleman attending her—a distinguished artist—had long been a suitor for her hand; but, for some reason best known to herself, the lady had thus far turned a deaf ear to his entreaties, although it was evident that she regarded him with the greatest esteem, if not with sentiments of a tenderer nature.

After passing through the covered walk leading to the house, the two separated—the gentleman to attend to having their carriage called, the lady to go upstairs for her wraps.

As she was about to enter the dressing-room to get them, a picture hanging between two windows at the end of the hall attracted her eye.

"Ah!" she exclaimed, catching her breath sharply, and moving swiftly toward it, she seemed to forget everything, and stood, with clasped hands and heaving bosom, spell-bound before it.

It represented a portion of an old Roman wall—a marvelously picturesque bit of scenery, with climbing vines that seemed to cling to the gray stones lovingly, as if to conceal their irregular lines and other ravages which time and the elements had made upon them; while here and there, growing out from its crevices, were clusters of delicate maiden-hair fern, the bright green of which contrasted beautifully with the weather-beaten wall and the darker, richer coloring of the vines.

Just underneath, partly in the shadow of the wall, there sat, upon a rustic bench, a beautiful Italian girl, dressed in the costume of her country, while at her feet reclined her lover, his hat lying on the grass beside him, his handsome face upturned to the maiden, whom it was evident he adored.

It was a charming picture, very artistic, and finely executed, while the subject was one that appealed strongly to the tenderest sentiments of the human heart.

But the face of the woman who was gazing upon it was deathly white. She was motionless as a statue, and seemed to have forgotten time, place, and her surroundings, as she drank in with her wonderful eyes the scene before her.

"It is the wall upon the Appian Way in Rome," she breathed at last, with a long-drawn sigh.

"You are right, madam," responded a voice close at hand, the sound of which caused the woman to press her clasped hands hard upon her heaving bosom, though she gave no other sign of being startled.

The next moment she turned and faced the speaker.

It was Gerald Goddard.

"I heard no one approaching—I thought I was alone," she said, as she lifted those wonderful eyes of hers to his.

He shrank from her glance as under a lightning flash that had burst upon him unawares.

But quickly recovering himself, he courteously remarked:

"Pardon me—I trust I have not startled you."

"Only momentarily," she replied; then added: "I was admiring this painting; it is very lovely and—most faithfully portrays the scene from which it was copied."

"Ah! you recognize the—the locality?"

"Perfectly."

"You—you have been in—Rome?" the man faltered.

"Oh, yes."

"Recently?"

There was a sort of breathless intensity about the man as he asked this question.

"No; I was in Rome—in the year 18—."

At this response, Gerald Goddard involuntarily put out his hand and laid it upon the balustrade, near which he was standing, while he gazed spell-bound into the proud, beautiful face before him, searching it with wild, eager eyes.

After a moment he partially recovered himself, and remarked:

"Is it possible? I myself was in Rome during the same year and painted this picture at that time. Were—were you in the city long?" he concluded, in a voice that trembled in spite of himself.

"From January until—until June."

For the second time that evening Mr. Goddard suppressed a groan with a cough.

"Ah! It is a singular coincidence, is it not, that I also was there during those months?" he finally managed to articulate.

"A coincidence?" his companion repeated, with a slight lifting of her shapely brows, a curious gleam in her eyes. Then throwing back her head with an air of defiance which was intensified by the glitter of those magnificent stones which crowned her lustrous hair, and with a peculiar cadence ringing through her tones, she observed: "Rome is a lovely city—do you not think so? And, as it happened, I resided in a delightful portion of it. Possibly you may remember the locality. It was a charming little house, with beautiful trees—oleander, orange, and fig—growing all around the spacious court. This pretty ideal home was Number 34, Via Nationale."

The wretched man stared helplessly at her for one brief moment when she had concluded, then a cry of despair burst from him.

"Oh, God! I knew it! You—you are Isabel?"

"Yes."

"Then you were not—you did not—"

"Die? No," was the brief response; but the beautiful eyes looking so steadily into his seemed to burn into his very soul.

A mighty shudder shook Gerald Goddard from head to foot as he reeled backward and leaned against the wall for support.

"Oh, God!" he cried again, in a voice of agony; then his head dropped heavily upon his breast.

His companion gazed silently upon him for a minute; then, turning, she brushed by him without a word and went on into the dressing-room for her wraps.

Presently she came forth again, enveloped from head to foot in a long garment richly lined with fur, the scarlet lining of the hood contrasting beautifully with her clear, flawless complexion and her brown eyes.

Gerald Goddard still stood where she had left him.

She would have passed him without a word, but he put out a trembling hand to detain her.

"Isabel!" he faltered.

"Mrs. Stewart, if you please," she corrected, in a cold, proud tone.

"Ha! you have married again!" he exclaimed, with a start, while he searched her face with a despairing look.

"Married again?" she repeated, with curling lips. "I have not so perjured myself."

"But—but—"'

"Yes, I know what you would say," she interposed, with a proud little gesture; "nevertheless, I claim the matron's title, and 'Stewart' was my mother's maiden name," and she was about to pass on again.

"Stay!" said the man, nervously. "I—I must see you again—I must talk further with you."

"Very well," the lady coldly returned, "and I also have some things which I wish to say to you. I shall be at the Copley Square Hotel on Thursday afternoon. I will see you as early as you choose to call."

Then, with an air of grave dignity, she passed on, and down the stairs, without casting one backward glance at him.

The man leaned over the balustrade and watched her.

She moved like a queen.

In the hall below she was joined by her attendant, whom she welcomed with a ravishing smile, and the next moment they had passed out of the house together.

"Heavens! and I deserted that glorious woman for—a virago!" Gerald Goddard muttered, hoarsely, as he strode, white and wretched, to his room.



CHAPTER XVI.

"YOU SHALL NEVER WANT FOR A FRIEND."

Up in the third story, poor Edith lay upon her bed, still in an unconscious state.

All the wedding finery had been removed and carried away, and she lay scarcely less white than the spotless robe de nuit she wore, her lips blue and pinched, her eyes sunken and closed.

A physician sat beside her, his fingers upon her pulse, his eyes gravely fixed upon the beautiful, waxen face lying on the pillow.

Two housemaids, looking frightened and anxious, were seated near him, watching him and the still figure on the bed, but ready to obey whatever command he might issue to them.

After introducing his sister to Mrs. Stewart, Emil Correlli had slipped away from the scene of gayety, which had become almost maddening to him, and mounted to that third-story room to inquire again regarding the condition of the girl he had so wronged.

"No better," came the answer, which made him turn with dread, and a terrible fear to take possession of his heart.

What if Edith should never revive? What if she should die in one of these dreadful swoons?

His guilty conscience warned him that he would have been her murderer.

He could not endure the thought, and slinking away to his own room, he drank deeply to stupefy himself, and then went to bed.

Gerald Goddard also was strangely exercised over the fair girl's condition, and half an hour after his interview with Mrs. Stewart he crept forth from his room again and went to see if there had been any change in her condition.

"Yes," Dr. Arthur told him, "she is coming out of it, and if another does not follow, she will come around all right in time. If you could only find that housekeeper," he added, "she must have good care through the night."

"I will go for her again," said Mr. Goddard, and he started downstairs upon his quest.

He met the woman on the second floor and just coming up the back stairs.

"Ah! Mrs. Weld, I am glad to find you. We have needed you sadly," he eagerly exclaimed.

"I am sorry," the woman replied, in a regretful tone. "I was unavoidably engaged and came just as soon as I was at liberty. What is this I hear?" she continued, gravely; "what is this story about the poor child being cheated into a real marriage with madam's brother? Is it true?"

"Hush! no one must hear such a version," said Mr. Goddard, looking anxiously about him.

He then proceeded to explain something of the matter, for he saw that she knew too much to keep still, unless she was told more, and cautioned not to discuss the matter with the servants.

"I knew nothing of the plot until it was all over—I swear to you I did not," he said, when she began to express her indignation at the affair. "I never would have permitted anything of the kind to have been carried out in my house, if I had suspected it. It seems that Correlli has been growing fond of her ever since he came. She has refused him twice, but he swore that he would have her, in spite of everything, and it seems that he concocted this plot to accomplish his end."

"Well, sir, he is a dastardly villain, and, in my opinion, his sister is no better than himself," Mrs. Weld exclaimed, in tones of hot indignation, and then she swept past him and on up to Edith's room.

She opened the door and entered just as the poor girl heaved a long sigh and unclosed her eyes, looking about with complete consciousness for the first time since she fell to the floor in the parlor below.

The physician immediately administered a stimulant, for she was naturally weak and her pulses still feeble.

As this began to take effect, memory also resumed its torturing work.

Lifting her eyes to the housekeeper, who went at once to her side, a spasm of agony convulsed her beautiful features.

"Oh, Mrs. Weld!" she moaned, shivering from head to foot.

"Hush, child!" said the woman, bending over her and laying a gentle hand upon her head; "it will all come right, so just shut your eyes and try to go to sleep. I am going to stay with you to-night, and nobody else shall come near you. Don't talk before the servants," she added, in a swift whisper close to her ear.

An expression of intense relief swept over the fair sufferer's face at this friendly assurance, and lifting a grateful look to the housekeeper's face, she settled herself contentedly upon her pillow.

Dr. Arthur then drew Mrs. Weld to the opposite side of the room, where he gave her directions for the night and what to do in case the fainting should return—which, however, he said he did not anticipate, as the action of the heart had become normal and the circulation more natural.

A little later he took his leave, after which the housemaids were dismissed and Edith was alone with her friend.

When the door closed after them the girl stretched forth her hands in a gesture of helpless appeal to the woman.

"Oh, Mrs. Weld," she wailed, "must I be bound to that wretch during the remainder of my life? I cannot live and bear such a fate! Oh, what a shameful mockery it was! I felt, all the time, as if I were committing a sacrilege, and yet I never dreamed that I was being used so treacherously—"

The housekeeper sat down beside the excited girl, whose eyes were burning with a feverish light, and who showed symptoms of returning hysteria.

She removed her spectacles, and taking both of those trembling hands in hers, looked steadily into the troubled eyes.

"My child," she said, in a gentle, soothing tone, "you must not talk about it to-night—you must not even think about it. I have told you that it will all come out right; no man could hold you to such a marriage—no court would hold you bound when once it is understood how fraudulently you had been drawn into it."

"But who is going to be able to prove that it was fraudulent?" questioned Edith with increasing anxiety. "Apparently I went to the altar with that man of my own free will; with all the semblance of sincerity I took those marriage vows upon me and then received the congratulations of all those guests as if I were a real wife. Oh, it was terrible! terrible! terrible!" and her voice arose almost to a shriek of agony as she concluded.

"Hush! not another word! Edith look at me!" commanded Mrs. Weld with gentle but impressive authority.

The young girl, awed to silence in spite of her grief and nervous excitement, looked wonderingly up into those magnetic eyes which almost seemed to betray a dual nature.

"Oh, dear Mrs. Weld, you do not seem at all like yourself," she gasped. "What—who are you?"

"I am your friend, my dear," was the soothing response, "and I am going to prove it, first by forbidding you to refer to this subject again until after you have had a nice, long sleep. Trust me and obey me, dear; I am going to stand by you as long as you need a friend, and I promise you that you shall never be a slave to the man who has so wronged you to-night. Now put it all out of your mind. I do not want to give you an opiate if I can avoid it, for you would not be so well to-morrow after taking it; but I shall have to if you keep up this excitement."

She continued to hold the girl's trembling hands in a strong, protecting clasp, while she still gazed steadily into her eyes, until, as if overcome by a will stronger than her own—her physical strength being well-nigh exhausted—the white lids gradually drooped, the rigid form relaxed, the lines smoothed themselves out of her brow, and she was soon sleeping quietly and restfully.

When her regular breathing assured the watcher beside her that oblivion had sealed her senses for the time, she bent over her, touched her lips softly to her forehead, and murmured:

"Dear heart, they shall never hold you to that wicked ceremony—to that unholy bond! If the law will not cancel it, if they have sprung the trap upon you so cunningly that the court cannot free you, they shall at least leave you in peace and virtually free, and you shall never want for a friend as long as—as—Gertrude Weld lives," she concluded, a peculiar smile wreathing her lips.

While this strange woman sat in that third-story room and watched her sleeping patient, the hours sped by on rapid wings to the merry dancers below, very few of whom concerned themselves about, or even knew of, the tragic ending of the marriage which they had witnessed earlier in the evening.

But oh, how heavily these hours dragged to one among that smiling throng!

Anna Goddard could scarcely control her impatience for her guests to be gone—for the terrible farce to end.

How terrible it all was to her not one of the gay people around her could suspect, for she was obliged to fawn and smile as if she were in thorough sympathy with the scene, and to attend to her duties as hostess and to all the petty details required by so-called etiquette, in order to preserve the prestige which she had acquired for entertaining handsomely.

But there was a deadly fear at her heart—an agony of apprehension, a dread of a fate which, to her, would have been worse than death.

Her husband and brother had disappeared entirely from the ball-room, a circumstance which only added to her perplexity and distress.

When she saw signs of the ball breaking up she sent an imperative message to her husband to join her, for she knew that it would cause unpleasant remarks if the master of the house should fail to put in an appearance to "speed the parting guest."

But she almost wished, when he came to her side, that she had not sent for him, for he seemed like one who had lost his hold upon every hope in the world, and looked so coldly upon her that she would rather have had him plunge a dagger into her heart.

But the weary evening was over at length—the last guest from outside was gone—the last visitor in the house had retired.

Her husband also had watched his opportunity, when she was looking another way, and had slipped out of the room and upstairs to escape having any complaints or questions from her.

And so Anna Goddard stood alone in her elegant drawing-room, a most miserable woman, in spite of the luxury that surrounded her.

She had everything that heart could wish of this world's goods—a beautiful home in the city, another in the country, horses, carriages, servants, fine raiment, costly jewels, and fared sumptuously every day.

But her heart was like a sepulcher, full of corruption that had tainted her whole life; and now, as she stood there beneath the glare of a hundred lights, so fair to look upon in her gleaming satins and flashing jewels, it seemed to her that she would gladly exchange places with the humblest country-woman if thereby she could be at peace with herself and with God, and be the center of a loving and loyal family, happy in the performances of her simple duties as a wife and mother.

Finally, with a weary sigh, the unhappy woman went slowly upstairs, feeling as if, in spite of the smiles and compliments which she had that evening received, she had not a real friend in the world.

Going to her dressing-case, she began to remove her jewels.

The house was very still—so still that it almost seemed deserted, and this feeling only served to add to the sense of loneliness and desolation that was oppressing her.

Her face was full of pain, her beautiful lips quivered with suppressed emotion as she gathered up her costly treasures in both hands and stood looking at them a moment, thinking bitterly how much money they represented, and yet of how little real value they were to her as an essential element in her life.

She moved toward her casket to put her gems carefully away.

She stood looking down into the box for a minute, then, as if impelled by some irresistible impulse, she laid the priceless stones all in a heap upon the table, when, taking hold of a loop, which had escaped the housekeeper's notice, she lifted the cushion from its place, thus revealing the papers which had been concealed beneath it.

She seized the uppermost one with an eager hand.

"I believe I will destroy it," she mused, "I am afraid there is something more in his desire to possess it than he is willing to admit, for he is so determined to get possession of it."

She half unfolded the document as if to examine it, when a sudden shock went quivering through her frame and a look of amazement overspread her face.

"What can this mean?" she exclaimed, in a tone of alarm, as she dashed it upon the floor and seized another.

This also proved disappointing.

"It was here the last time I looked! I am sure I left it on top of the others!" she muttered, with white lips, as, with trembling hands and heaving bosom, she overturned everything in search of the missing document.

But the most rigid examination failed to reveal it, and, with a cry of mingled agony and anger, she sank weak and trembling upon the nearest chair.

"It is gone!" she whispered, hoarsely; "some one has stolen it!"

She sat there looking utterly helpless and wretched for a few moments.

Then her eyes began to blaze and her lips to twitch spasmodically.

"He has done this!" she cried, starting to her feet once more. "That was why he was absent so long from the ball-room to-night."

Seizing the papers she had removed from the box, she hastily replaced them, also the cushion, restoring the jewels to their places, after which she shut and locked the casket, taking care to remove the key from its lock.

This done, she hurried from the room, looking more like a beautiful fiend than a woman.



CHAPTER XVII.

"WOULD YOU DARE BE FALSE TO ME, AFTER ALL THESE YEARS?"

With her exquisite robe trailing unheeded after her, Anna Goddard swept swiftly down the hall and rapped imperatively upon the door of her husband's room.

There was no answer from within.

She tried the handle. The door would not yield—it was locked on the inside.

"Gerald, are you in bed?" his wife inquired, putting her lips to the crack and speaking low.

"What do you wish, Anna?" the man questioned.

"I wish to see you—I must speak with you, even if you have retired," she returned, imperatively.

There was a slight movement within the room, then the door was thrown open, and Gerald Goddard stood before her.

But she shrank back almost immediately, a low exclamation of surprise escaping her as she saw his face, so white, so pain-drawn, and haggard.

"Gerald! what is the matter?" she demanded, forgetting, for the moment, her own anger and even her errand there, in the anxiety which she experienced for him.

"I am feeling quite well, Anna," he responded, in a mechanical tone. "What is it you wish to say to me?"

Sweeping into the room, she closed the door after her, then confronted him with accusing mien.

"What do I wish to say to you?" she repeated, her voice quivering with passion, her eyes blazing with a fierce expression. "I want that paper which you have stolen from me."

"I—I do not understand you, Anna," the man began, in a pre-occupied manner. "What paper—what—"

"I will bear no trifling," she passionately cried, interrupting him. "You know very well what paper I refer to—I never had but one document in my possession in which you had any interest; the one you have so beset me about during the last few weeks."

"That?" exclaimed the man, at last aroused from the apathy which had hitherto seemed to possess him.

"That!" retorted his companion, mockingly imitating his tone, "as if you did not very well know it was 'that,' and no other. Gerald Goddard, I have come to demand it of you," she went on shrilly. "You have no right to enter my rooms, like a thief, and steal my treasures! I—"

"Anna, be still!" commanded her husband, sternly. "You are losing control of yourself, and some of our guests may overhear you. I know nothing of the document."

"You lie!" hissed the woman, almost beside herself with mingled rage and fear. "Who, but you, could have any interest in the thing? who, save you, even knew of its existence, or that it had ever been in my possession? Give it back to me! I will have it! It's my only safeguard. You knew it, and you have stolen it, to make yourself independent of me."

"Anna, you shall not demean either yourself or me by giving expression to such unjust suspicions," Gerald Goddard returned with cold dignity. "I swear to you that I do not know anything about the paper. I have not even once laid my eyes upon it since you stole it from me. If it has been taken from the place where you have kept it concealed," he went on, "then other hands than mine have been guilty of the theft."

There was the ring of truth in his words, and she was forced to believe him; yet there was a mystery about the affair which was beyond her fathoming.

"Then who could have taken it," she gasped, growing ghastly white at the thought of there being a third party to their secret—"who on earth has done this thing?"

Gerald Goddard was silent. He had his suspicions, suspicions that made him quake inwardly, as he thought of what might be the outcome of them if they should prove to be true.

"Gerald, why do you not answer me?" his companion impatiently demanded. "Can you think of any one who would be likely to rob us in this way?"

"Have you no suspicion, Anna?" the man asked, and looking gravely into her eyes. "Was there no one among your guests to-night, who—"

"Who—what—!" she cried, as he faltered and stopped.

"Was there no one present who made you think of—of some one whom you—have known in the—the past?"

"Ha! do you refer to Mrs. Stewart?" said madam. "Did you also notice the—resemblance?"

"Could any one help it?—could any one ever mistake those eyes? Anna—she was Isabel herself!"

"No—no!" she panted wildly, "she may be some relative. Are you losing your mind? Isabel is—dead."

"She lives!"

"I tell you no! I—saw her dead."

"You? How could that be possible?" exclaimed Mr. Goddard, in astonishment. "We were both in Florence at the time of that tragedy."

"Nevertheless, I saw her dead and in her coffin," persisted his companion, with positive emphasis.

"Now you talk as if you were losing your mind," he answered, with white lips.

"I am not. Do you not remember I told you one morning, I was going to spend a couple of days with a friend at Fiesole?"

"Yes."

"Well, I had read of that tragedy that very day, and then hid the paper, but I did not go to Fiesole at all. I took the first train for Rome."

"Anna!"

"I wanted to be sure," she cried, excitedly. "I was jealous of her, I—hated her; and I knew that if the report was true I should be at rest. I went to the place where they had taken her. Some one had cared for her very tenderly—she lay as if asleep, and looked like a beautiful piece of sculpture in her white robe; one could hardly believe that she was—dead. But they told me they were going to—to bury her that afternoon unless some one came to claim her. They asked me if I had known her—if she was a friend of mine. I told them no—she was nothing to me; I had simply come out of curiosity, having seen the story of her tragic end in a paper. Then I took the next train back to Florence."

"Why have you never told me this before, Anna?" Gerald Goddard inquired, with lips that were perfectly colorless, while he laid his hand upon the back of a chair for support.

"Why?" she flashed out jealously at him. "Why should I talk of her to you? She was dead—she could never come between us, and I wished to put her entirely out of my mind, since I had satisfied myself of the fact."

"Did—did you hear anything of—of—"

"Of the child? No; all I ever knew was what you yourself read in the paper—that both mother and child had disappeared from their home and both were supposed to have suffered the same fate, although the body of the child was not found."

"Oh!" groaned Gerald Goddard, wiping the clammy moisture from his brow. "I never realized the horror of it as I do at this moment, and I never have forgiven myself for not going to Rome to institute a search for myself; but—"

"But I wouldn't let you, I suppose you were about to add," said madam, bitterly. "What was the use?" she went on, angrily. "Everything was all over before you knew anything about it—"

"I could at least have erected a tablet to mark her resting-place," the man interposed.

"Ha! ha! it strikes me it was rather late then to manifest much sentiment; that would have become you better before you broke her heart and killed her by your neglect and desertion," sneered madam, who was driven to the verge of despair by this late exhibition of regard for a woman whom she had hated.

"Don't, Anna!" he cried, sharply. Then suddenly straightening himself, he said, as if just awaking from some horrible nightmare: "But she did not die. I have not that on my conscience, after all."

"She did—I tell you she did!" hoarsely retorted the excited woman.

"But I have seen and talked with her to-night, and she told me that she was—Isabel!" he persisted.

Anna Goddard struck her palms together with a gesture bordering upon despair.

"I do not believe it—I will not believe it!" she panted.

"He began to pity her, for he also was beginning to realize that, if Isabel Stewart were really the woman whom he had wronged more than twenty years previous, her situation was indeed deplorable.

"Anna," he said, gravely, and speaking with more calmness and gentleness than at any time during the interview, "this is a stern fact, and—we must look it in the face."

His tone and manner carried conviction to her heart.

She sank crouching at his feet, bowing her face upon her hands.

"Gerald! Gerald! it must not be so!" she wailed. "It is only some cunning story invented to cheat us and avenge her. That woman shall never separate us—I will never yield to her. Oh, Heaven! why did I not destroy that paper when I had it? Gerald, give it to me now, if you have it; it is not too late to burn it even now, and no one can prove the truth—we can defy her to the last."

The man stooped to raise her from her humiliating position.

"Get up, Anna," he said, kindly. "Come, sit in this chair and let us talk the matter over calmly. It is a stern fact that Isabel is alive and well, and it is useless either to ignore it or deplore it."

With shivering sobs bursting from her with every breath, the wretched woman allowed herself to be helped to the chair, into which she sank with an air of abject despair.

Anna Goddard's was not a nature likely to readily yield to humiliation or defeat, and after a few moments of silent battle with herself, she raised her head and turned her proud face and searching eyes upon her companion.

"You say that it is a 'stern fact' that Isabel lives," she remarked, with compressed lips.

"I am sure—there can be no mistake," the man replied. Then he told her of the interview which had occurred in the hall, where he had found the woman standing before the picture which he had painted in Rome so many years ago.

"She recognized it at once," he said; "she located the very spot from which I had painted the scene."

"Oh, I cannot make it seem possible, for I tell you I saw her lying dead in her casket," moaned madam, who, even in the face of all proofs, could not bring herself to believe that her old rival was living and had it in her power to ruin her life.

"She must have been in a trance—she must have been resuscitated by those people who found her. As sure as you and I both live, she is living also," Mr. Goddard solemnly responded.

"Oh, how could such a thing be?"

"I do not know—she did not tell me; she was very cold and proud."

"What was she doing here? How dared she enter this house?" cried madam, her anger blazing up again.

"I cannot tell you. It was a question I was asking myself just as you came to the door," said Mr. Goddard, with a sigh. "I have no doubt she had some deep-laid purpose, however."

"Do you imagine her purpose was to get possession of that document?" questioned madam.

"I had thought of that—I have felt almost sure of it since you told me it had disappeared."

"But how could she have known that such a paper was in our possession? You did not receive it until long after—"

"Yes, I know," interposed Mr. Goddard, with a shiver; "nevertheless I am impressed that it is now in her possession, even though I did not suppose that any one, save you and I and Will Forsyth, ever knew of its existence."

There ensued an interval of silence, during which both appeared to be absorbed in deep thought.

"If she has it, what will she do with it?" madam suddenly questioned, lifting her heavy eyes to her companion.

"I am sure I cannot tell, Anna," he coldly returned.

His tone was like a match applied to powder.

"Well, then, what will you do, Gerald Goddard, in view of the fact, as you believe, that she is alive and has learned the truth?" she imperiously demanded.

"I—I do not think it will be wise for us to discuss that point just at present," he faltered.

"Coward! Is that your answer to me after twenty years of adoration and devotion?" cried the enraged woman, springing excitedly to her feet, the look of a slumbering demon in her dusky eyes.

"After twenty years of jealousy, bickering, and turmoil, you should have said, Anna," was the bitter response.

"Beware! Beware, Gerald! I have hot blood in my veins, as you very well know," was the menacing retort.

"I have long had a proof of that," he returned, with quiet irony.

"Oh!" she cried, putting up her hand as if to ward off a blow, "you are cruel to me." Then, with sudden passion, she added: "Perhaps, after all, that document is in your possession—or at least that you know something about it."

"I only wish your surmise were correct, Anna; for, in that case, I should have no cause to fear her," said Mr. Goddard, gravely.

"Ha! Even you do 'fear' her?" cried madam, eagerly. "In what way?"

"Can you not see? If she has gained possession of the paper, she has it in her power to do both of us irreparable harm," the gentleman explained.

Anna Goddard shivered.

"Yes, yes," she moaned, "she could make society ring with our names—she could ruin us, socially; but"—shooting a stealthy glance at her companion, who sat with bowed head and clouded brow—"I could better bear that than that she should assert a claim upon you—that she should use her power to—to separate us. She shall not, Gerald!" she went on, passionately; "there are other countries where you and I can go and be happy, utterly indifferent to what she may do here."

The man made no reply to these words—he was apparently absorbed in his own thoughts.

"Gerald! have you nothing to say to me?" madam sharply cried, after watching him for a full minute.

"What can I say, Anna? There is nothing that either of us can do but await further developments," the man returned, but careful to keep to himself the fact that he had an appointment with the woman whom she so feared and hated.

"Would you dare to be false to me, after all these years?" his companion demanded, in repressed tones, and leaning toward him with flaming eyes.

"Pshaw, Anna! what a senseless question," he replied, with a forced laugh.

"But you admire—you think her very beautiful?" she questioned, eagerly.

"Why, that is a self-evident fact—every one must admit that she is a fine-looking woman," was the somewhat evasive response.

Anna Goddard sprang to her feet, her face scarlet.

"You will be very careful what you do, Gerald," she hissed. "I have never had overmuch confidence in you, in spite of my love for you; but there is one thing that I will not bear, at this late day, and that is, that you should turn traitor to me; so be warned in time."

She did not wait to see what effect her words would have upon him, but, turning abruptly, swept from the room, leaving him to his own reflections.



CHAPTER XVIII.

"I SHALL NEVER FORGIVE EITHER OF YOU FOR YOUR SIN AGAINST ME."

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 to say 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 and her 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 ever consent 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, not once 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 within me 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.



CHAPTER XIX.

"I WILL NEVER BREAK BREAD WITH YOU, AT ANY TABLE."

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. Weld to 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, the Transcript, 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 a resume of 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 bade her 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 knew what 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 a bona fide marriage," 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 move you—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 crafty talents in planning his next move in the desperate game he was playing.



CHAPTER XX.

EDITH RESOLVES TO MEET HER ENEMIES WITH THEIR OWN WEAPONS.

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 power to 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."

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.

"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 I shall 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, when Edith 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.