"You stay here until I come back, Roy," she added. "Charlie was obliged to go out upon important business, and I shall be glad of your company for a while."

"Very well, Nellie! I will stay for a little chat, for I have something important which I wish to say to you."

As he concluded he darted a smiling glance at Edith, which again brought the lovely color to her cheeks and revealed to her the nature of the important communication that he intended to make to his cousin.

She bade him a smiling good-night, and then gladly accompanied her hostess above, for she was really more weary than she had acknowledged.

When Mrs. Morrell returned to the parlor, Roy related to her something of Edith's history, and also confessed his own relationship toward her, while the little woman listened with an absorbed attention which betrayed how thoroughly she enjoyed the romance of the affair.

"She is lovely!" she remarked, "and"—with a thoughtful air—"it seems to me as if I have heard the name before. Edith Allandale!—it sounds very familiar to me. Why, Roy! she was one of Sister Blanche's classmates at Vassar, and she has her picture in her class album!"

"That is a singular coincidence!" the young man observed, no less surprised at this revelation, "and it makes matters all the more pleasant for me to learn that she is not wholly unknown to the family."

"And you mean to marry her very soon?" inquired his cousin.

"Just as soon as I can settle matters with that rascal in Boston to her satisfaction," responded the young man, with a gleam of fire in his eyes. "I do not apprehend any serious trouble about the affair; still, it may take longer than I wish."

"And may I keep her until then?" eagerly inquired Mrs. Morrell.

"Nellie! that is like your kind, generous heart!" exclaimed the young man, gratefully; "and I thank you from the bottom of mine. But, of course, that will have to be as Edith herself decides, while this business which I have in charge for her may interfere with such an arrangement."

"Oh, you mean in connection with the strange gentleman who has been searching for her."

"Yes. But I must go now; it is getting late, and I have a couple of letters to write yet. Take good care of my treasure, Nellie, and I will run in as early to-morrow as possible to see you both."

He kissed her affectionately, then bade her good-night and hurried away to his rooms at his club; while pretty Mrs. Morrell went back to her parlor, after letting him out, to await her husband's return, and to think over the romantic story to which she had just listened with deep interest.

There had been so much of a personal and tender nature to occupy their minds that Mr. Bryant had not thought to tell Edith anything about the circumstances that had led him to advertise in various papers for intelligence of her.

Some three weeks previous, a gentleman, of about fifty years, and calling himself Louis Raymond, had presented himself in his office, and inquired if he could give him any information regarding the late Albert Allandale's family.

He stated that he had spent most of his life abroad, but, his health beginning to fail, he had decided to return to his own country.

He had been quite ill since his arrival, and he began to fear that he had not long to live, and it behooved him to settle his affairs without further delay.

He stated that he had no relatives or family—he had never married; but, being possessed of large wealth, he wished to settle half of it upon Mrs. Allandale, if she could be found, or, if she was not living, upon her children. The remaining half he designed as a legacy to a certain charitable institution in the city.

He stated that he had been searching for the Allandales for several weeks; he had learned of Mr. Allandale's financial troubles and subsequent death, but could get no trace whatever of the other members of the family. He was wearied out with his search, and now wished to turn the matter over to some one stronger than himself, and better versed in conducting such affairs.

Mr. Bryant could not fail to regard it as a singular coincidence that this business should have been thrown into his hands, especially as he was also so anxious to find Edith; and it can well be understood that he at once entered into the gentleman's plans with all his heart and soul.

He, of course, related all he knew of her history, and when he spoke of Mrs. Allandale's death he was startled to see his client grow deathly white and become so unnerved that, for a moment, he feared the shock would prove more than he could sustain.

But he recovered himself after a few moments.

"So she is gone!" he murmured, with a look in his eyes that told the secret of a deathless but unrequited love. "Well, Death's scythe spares no one, and perhaps it is better so. But this girl—her daughter," he added, rousing himself from his sad reflections; "we must try to find her."

"We will do our utmost," said the young lawyer, with a heartiness which betrayed the deep interest he felt in the matter. "As I have told you, I have not the slightest knowledge of her whereabouts, but think she may possibly be in Boston. Her letter to me, written just previous to her departure, gave me not the slightest clew to her destination. She promised to write to a woman who had been kind to her, and I arranged with her to let me know when she received a letter; but I have never seen her since—I once went to the house where she lived, but she had moved, and no one could tell me anything about her."

It may be as well to state here that shortly after Edith left New York, poor Mrs. O'Brien fell and broke her leg. She was taken to a hospital, and her children put into a home, consequently she never received Edith's letter, which was of course addressed to her old residence.

"I think our wisest course will be to advertise," the young lawyer pursued; "and if we do not achieve our end in that way, we can adopt other measures later on."

"Well, sir, do your best—I don't mind expense; and if the young lady can be found, I have a story to tell her which I think will deeply interest her," the gentleman returned. "If we should not be successful in the course of a few weeks, I will make a settlement upon her, to be left, with some other papers, in your hands for a reasonable period, in the event of my death. But if all your efforts prove unavailing, the money will eventually go, with the rest, to the institution I have named."

Thus the matter had been left, and Mr. Bryant had immediately advertised, as we have seen, in several New York and Boston papers.

Three weeks had elapsed without any response, and Royal Bryant was beginning to be discouraged when he was suddenly made jubilant by receiving the telegram which Edith had written on the train after leaving Boston.

Thus, after leaving the house of his cousin, he repaired to his club, where he wrote a letter to his client, Mr. Raymond, telling him that Miss Allandale was found, and asking him to meet him at his office at as early an hour the following morning as possible.



CHAPTER XXVI.

AN EXCITING INTERVIEW AND AN APPALLING DISCOVERY.

We must now transport ourselves to Boston, in order to find out how Edith's flight was discovered, and what effect it produced in the Goddards' elegant home on Commonwealth avenue.

Emil Correlli had been seated in the handsome library, reading a society novel, when his sister went out to make her call, leaving him as guard over their prisoner above.

He had been much pleased with the report which she brought him from Edith, namely, that she believed she was yielding, and would make her appearance at dinner; at the same time he did not allow himself for a moment to become so absorbed in his book as to forget that he was on the watch for the slightest movement above stairs.

He and Mrs. Goddard had agreed that it would be wise not to make the girl a prisoner within her room, lest they antagonize her by so doing.

But while they appeared to leave her free to go out or come in, they intended to guard her none the less securely, and thus Monsieur Correlli kept watch and ward below.

He knew that Edith could not leave the house by the front door without his knowing it, and as he also knew that the back stairway door was locked on the outside, he had no fear that she would escape that way.

He, had not reckoned, however, upon the fact of an outsider entering by means of the area door and going upstairs, thus leaving that way available for Edith; and Giulia Fiorini had accomplished her purpose so cleverly and so noiselessly that no one save Edith dreamed of her presence in the house.

The two girls had carried on their conversation in such subdued tones that not a sound could be heard by any one below, and thus Emil Correlli was taken entirely by surprise when there came a gentle knock upon the half-open library door to interrupt his reading.

"Come in," he called out, thinking it might be one of the servants.

But when the door was pushed wider, and a woman entered, bearing a child in her arms, the astonished man sprang to his feet, an angry oath leaping to his lips, and every atom of color fading out of his face.

"Giulia?" he exclaimed, under his breath.

"Papa! papa!" cried the child, clapping his little hands, as he struggled out of his mother's arms, and ran toward him.

He took no notice of the child, but frowningly demanded, as he faced the girl:

"How on earth did you ever get into this house?"

"By a door, of course," laconically responded the intruder, but with crimson cheeks and blazing eyes, for the man's rude manner had aroused all her spirit.

"Well, and what do you want?" he cried, angrily; then, with a violent start, he added, nervously: "Wait; sit down, and I will be back in a moment."

It had occurred to him that if Giulia had been able to gain admittance to the house without his hearing her, Edith might find it just as easy to make her escape from it.

So, darting out of the room, he ran swiftly upstairs, to ascertain, as we have seen, if his captive was still safe.

We know the result, and how adroitly Edith allayed his suspicions; whereupon, wholly reassured regarding her, he returned to the library to settle, once for all, as he secretly resolved, with his discarded plaything.

"Well, Giulia," he began, as he re-entered her presence, "what has brought you here? what is your business with me?"

"I have come to ascertain if this is true, and what you have to say about it," she answered, as she brought forth the newspaper which she had shown Edith, and pointed to the article relating to the wedding at Wyoming.

The man tried to smile indifferently, but his eyes wavered beneath her blazing glance.

"Well, what of it?" he at last questioned, assuming a defiant air; "what if it is true?"

"Is it true?" she persisted; "have you really married that girl?"

"And what if I have?" he again questioned, evasively.

"I want the truth from your own lips—yes or no, Emil Correlli."

"Well, then—yes," he said, with a flash of anger.

"You own it—you dare own it to me, and—in the presence of your child?" almost shrieked the outraged woman.

"Stop, Giulia!" commanded her companion, sternly. "I will have no scene here to create a scandal among the servants. I intended to see you within a day or two; but, since you have sought me, we may as well at once come to an understanding. Did you think that you could hold me all my life? A man in my position must have a home in which to receive his friends, also a mistress in it to entertain them—"

"Have you forgotten all your vows and promises to me?" interposed Giulia, in tremulous tones; "that you swore everlasting fidelity to me?"

"A man vows a great many things that he finds he cannot fulfill," was the unfeeling response. "Surely, Giulia, you must realize that neither your birth nor education could entitle you to such a position as my wife must occupy."

"My birth was respectable, my education the best my country afforded," said the girl, with white lips. "Had you no intention of marrying me when you enticed me from my home to cross the ocean with you?"

"No."

The monosyllable seemed to fall like a heavy blow upon the girl's heart, for she shivered, and her face was distorted with agony.

"Oh, had you no heart? Why did you do such a fiendish thing?" she cried.

"Because you were pretty and agreeable, and I liked pleasant company. I have been accustomed to have whatever I wished for all my life."

"And you never loved me?"

"Oh, yes, for nearly three years I was quite fond of you—really, Giulia, I consider that I have been as faithful to you as you could expect."

"Oh, wretch! but you love this other girl more?"

"It would be worse than useless to attempt to deceive you on that point," said the man, his whole face softening at this mention of Edith.

"You lied to me, then, Emil Correlli!" cried the miserable woman, hoarsely; "you swore to me that the girl was nothing to you—that she was simply your sister's companion."

"And I simply told you the truth," he retorted. "She was nothing to me at that time; she was 'only my sister's companion.' However," he added, straightening himself haughtily, "there is no use in wrangling over the matter any further. I married Edith Allen the night before last, and henceforth she will be the mistress of my home. I confess it is a trifle hard on you, Giulia," he continued, speaking in a conciliatory tone, "but you must try to be sensible about it. I will settle a comfortable annuity upon you, and you can either go back to your parents or make a pleasant home for yourself somewhere in this country."

"And what of this boy?" questioned the discarded girl, laying her trembling hand upon the head of her child, who was looking from one to the other, a wondering expression on his young face.

Emil Correlli's lips twitched spasmodically for a moment. He would never have confessed it to a human being, but the little one was the dearest object the world held for him.

"I will provide handsomely for his future," he said, after considering for a minute. "If you will give him up to me he shall be reared as carefully as any gentleman's son, and, when he attains a proper age, I will establish him in some business or profession that will enable him to make his mark in the world."

"You would take him away from me to do this?" Giulia exclaimed, as she passionately caught her darling to her breast.

"That would be necessary, in order to carry out my purpose as I wish," the man coldly replied.

"Never! You are a monster in human form to suggest such a thing. Do you think I would ever give him up to you?"

"Just as you choose," her companion remarked, indifferently. "I have made you the proposition, and you can accept or reject it as you see fit, but if I take him, I cannot have his future hampered by any environments or associations that would be likely to mar his life."

"Coward!" the word was thrown at him in a way that stung him like a lash, "do you dare twit me for what you alone are to blame? Where is your honor—where your humanity? Have you forgotten how you used every art to persuade me to leave the shelter of my pleasant home—the protection of my honest father and mother, to come hither with you? how you promised, by all that was sacred, to make me your wife if I would do your bidding? What I am you have made me—what this child is, you are responsible for. Ah, Emil Correlli, you have much to answer for, and the day will yet come when you will bitterly repent these irreparable wrongs—"

"Come, come Giulia! you are getting beside yourself with your tragic airs," her companion here interposed, in a would-be soothing tone. "There is no use working yourself up into a passion and running on like this. What has been done is done, and cannot be changed, so you had best make the most of what is left you. As I said before, I will give you a handsome allowance, and, if you will keep me posted regarding your whereabouts, I will make you and the boy a little visit now and then."

The girl regarded him with flashing eyes and sullen brow.

"You will live to repent," she remarked, as she gathered the child up in her arms and arose to leave the room, "and before this day is ended your punishment shall begin; you shall never know one moment of happiness with the girl whom you have dared to put in my place."

"Bah! all this is idle chatter, Giulia," said Emil Correlli, contemptuously; nevertheless, he paled visibly, and a cold chill ran over him, for somehow her words impressed him as a prophecy.

"What! are you going in such a temper as that?" he added, as she turned toward the door. "Well, when you get over it, let me hear from you occasionally."

"Never fear; you will hear from me oftener than you will like," she flashed out at him, with a look that made him cringe, as she laid her hand upon the knob of the door.

"Stay, Giulia! Aren't you going to let me have a word with Ino? Here, you black-eyed little rascal, haven't you anything to say to your daddy?" he added, in a coaxing tone to the child.

"Mamma, may I talk to papa?" queried the little one, turning a pleading glance upon his mother.

"By the way," interposed the man, before she could reply, "you must put a stop to the youngster calling me that; it might be awkward, you see, if we should happen to meet some time upon the street. I like the little chap well enough, but you must teach him to keep his mouth shut when he comes near me."

"Who taught him the name?" sharply retorted Giulia. "Who boasted how bright and clever he was the first time he uttered the English word?"

Her listener flushed hotly and frowned.

"Your tongue is very sharp, Giulia," he said. "It would be more to your advantage to be upon good terms with me."

She made no reply, but, opening the door, passed out into the hall, he following her.

"As you will," he curtly said; then added, imperatively: "Come this way," and, leading her to the front door, he let her quietly out, glad to be rid of her before the butler or any of the other servants could learn of her presence in the house.

He watched her pass down the steps and out upon the street, then, softly closing the door, went back to the library.

He threw himself into a chair with a long-drawn sigh.

"I am afraid she means mischief," he muttered, with a frown. "I must get Edith away as soon as possible; I would not have them meet for anything. What a little vixen the girl is, curse her!"

He glanced at the clock.

It was five minutes of three, and twenty-fire since he went up to Edith's room.

"It is about time she came down," he mused, with a shrug of impatience.

He arose and paced the room for a few moments, then passed out into the hall and listened.

The house was very still; he could not detect a sound anywhere.

He went slowly upstairs, walked up and down the hall once or twice, then rapped again upon Edith's door.

There was no response from within.

He knocked again.

Still silence!

He tried the door.

It was not locked; it yielded to his touch, and he pushed it open.

A quick glance around showed him that no one was there, and with a great heart-throb of fear he boldly entered.

Everything was exactly as he had left it when, the day before, he had so carefully arranged the room for the girl's comfort and pleasure.

The beautiful dresses hung over the foot-board of the bed—not even a fold had been disturbed—while the elegant sealskin cloak and the dainty hat and muff lay exactly as he had placed them, to display them to the best advantage.

The veins swelled out hard and full on his forehead—a gleam of baffled rage leaped into his eyes.

He sprang to the closet, throwing wide the door.

It was empty.

"She may have gone to the toilet-room," he muttered, grasping at this straw of hope.

He dashed across the hall and rapped upon the door.

But he met with no response.

He entered. The place was empty.

Back into the south chamber he sprang again, and began to search for Edith's hats and wraps.

Not an article of her clothing was visible.

He tried to open her trunk.

Of course it was locked.

He was now white as death, and actually shaking with anger.

He went to the dressing-case and mechanically opened the upper drawer.

All the costly treasures that he had purchased to tempt his bride lay there, exactly as he had placed them; he doubted if she had even seen them.

With a curse on his lips he went out, and looked into every other room on that floor; but it was, of course, a fruitless search.

Then he turned into the rear hall and went down the back stairs.

Ah! the door at the bottom was ajar.

Another moment he was in the lower hall, to find the area door unfastened; then he knew how his bird had flown.

He instantly summoned the servants, and took them to task for their negligence.

Both the cook and the chambermaid avowed that no one but the gas-man had entered or gone out by the area door that afternoon.

But, upon questioning them closely, Emil Correlli ascertained that the outer door had been left unfastened "just a moment, while the man went to the meter, to take the figures."

A close search revealed the fact that the key to the stairway door was missing, and, putting this and that together, the keen-witted man reasoned out just what had happened.

He believed that Giulia had stolen in through the area door close upon the heels of the gas-man; that she had found the key, unlocked the stairway-door, and made her way up to the library to seek an interview with him—he did not once suspect her of having seen Edith—while Edith, upon reconnoitering and finding the back way clear, had taken advantage of the situation and flown.

He was almost frantic with mingled rage and despair.

He angrily berated the servants for their carelessness, and vowed that he would have them discharged; then, having exhausted his vocabulary upon them, he went back to the library, wrathfully cursing Giulia for having forced herself into his presence to distract his attention, and thus allow his captive an opportunity to escape.

Mr. and Mrs. Goddard returned about this time, both looking as if they also had met with some crushing blow, for the former was white and haggard, and the latter wild-eyed, and shivering from time to time, as if from a chill.

Both were apparently too absorbed in some trouble of their own to feel very much disturbed by the flight of Edith, although Mr. Goddard's face involuntarily lighted for an instant when he was told of her escape.

Emil Correlli flew to the nearest telegraph office and dashed off a message to a New York policeman, with whom he had had some dealings while living in that city, giving him a description of Edith, and ordering him, if he could lay his hands upon her, to telegraph back, and then detain her until he could arrive and relieve him of his charge.

He reasoned—and rightly, as we have seen—that Edith, would be more likely to return to her old home, where she knew every crook and turn, rather than to seek refuge in Boston, where she was friendless and a comparative stranger.

A few hours later he received a reply from the policeman, giving him an account of his adventure with Miss Edith Allandale and her escort.

"By heavens, she shall not thus escape me!" he exclaimed; and at once made rapid preparations for a journey.

Half an hour afterward he was on the eleven o'clock express train, in pursuit of the fair fugitive, in a state of mind that was far from enviable.



CHAPTER XXVII.

MRS. GODDARD BECOMES AN EAVESDROPPER.

When, after her interview with Edith, Mrs. Goddard went out to make her call, leaving her brother to keep watch and ward over their fair captive, she proceeded with all possible speed to the Copley Square Hotel, where she inquired for Mrs. Stewart.

The elevator bore her to the second floor, and the pretty maid, who answered her ring at the door of the elegant suite to which she had been directed, told her that her mistress was engaged just at present, but, if madam would walk into the reception-room and wait a while, she had no doubt that Mrs. Stewart would soon be at liberty. "Would madam be kind enough to give her a card to take in?"

Mrs. Goddard pretended to look for her card-case, first in one pocket of her wrap, then in another.

"Ah!" she exclaimed, "I must have left my cards at home! How unfortunate! But it does not matter," she added, with one of her brilliant smiles; "I am an old acquaintance, and you can simply announce me when I am admitted."

The girl bowed and went away, leaving the visitor by herself in the pretty reception-room, for she had been told not to disturb her mistress until she should ring for her.

Mrs. Goddard looked curiously around her, and was impressed with the elegance of everything in the apartment.

Exquisite paintings and engravings graced the delicately tinted walls; choice statuettes, bric-a-brac, and old-world curios of every description, which she knew must have cost a small fortune even in the countries where they were produced, were artistically arranged about the room.

There was also an air of refinement and rare taste in the draperies, carpets, and blending of color, which proclaimed the occupant of the place to be above the average lady in point of culture and appreciation of all that was beautiful.

Impressed with all this, and looking back to her meeting with Mrs. Stewart, on the evening of the ball at Wyoming—remembering her beauty and grace, and the elegance of her costume, madam's heart sank within her, and she seemed to age with every passing moment.

"Oh, to think of it!—to think of it, after all these years! I will not believe it!" she murmured, with white, trembling lips, as she arose and nervously paced the room.

Presently the sound of muffled voices in a room beyond attracted her attention.

She started and bent her ear to listen.

She could catch no word that was spoken, although she could distinguish now a man's and then a woman's tones.

With stealthy movements she glided into the next room, which was even more luxuriously furnished than the one she had left, when she observed that the portieres, draping an arch leading into still another apartment, were closely drawn.

And now, although she could not hear what was being said, she suddenly recognized, with a pang of agony that made her gasp for breath, the voice of her husband in earnest conversation with the woman who had been her guest two nights previous.

As noiselessly as a cat creeps after her prey, Anna Goddard stole across that spacious apartment and concealed herself among the voluminous folds of the draperies, where she found that she could easily hear all that was said.

"You are very hard, Isabel," she heard Gerald Goddard remark, in a reproachful voice.

"I grant you that," responded the liquid tones of his companion, "as far as you and—that woman are concerned, I have no more feeling than a stone."

At those words, "that woman," spoken in accents of supreme contempt, the eyes of Anna Goddard began to blaze with a baneful gleam.

"And you will never forgive me for the wrong I did you so long ago?" pleaded the man, with a sigh.

"What do you mean by that word 'forgive?'" coldly inquired Mrs. Stewart.

"Pardon, remission—as Shakespeare has it, 'forgive and quite forget old faults,'" returned Gerald Goddard, in a voice tremulous with repressed emotion.

"Forget!" repeated the beautiful woman, in a wondering tone.

"Ah, if you could," eagerly cried her visitor; then, as if he could control himself no longer, he went on, with passionate vehemence: "Oh, Isabel! when you burst upon me, so like a radiant star, the other night, and I realized that you were still in the flesh, instead of lying in that lonely grave in far-off-Italy—when I saw you so grandly beautiful—saw how wonderfully you had developed in every way, all the old love came back to me, and I realized my foolish mistake of that by-gone time as I had never realized it before."

Ah! if the man could have seen the white, set face concealed among the draperies so near him—if he could have caught the deadly gleam that shone with tiger-like fury in Anna Goddard's dusky eyes—he never would have dared to face her again after giving utterance to those maddening words.

"It strikes me, Mr. Goddard, that it is rather late—after twenty years—to make such an acknowledgment to me," Isabel Stewart retorted, with quiet irony.

"I know it—I feel it now," he responded, in accents of despair. "I know that I forfeited both your love and respect when I began to yield to the charms and flatteries of Anna Correlli. She was handsome, as you know; she began to be fond of me from the moment of our introduction; and when, in an unguarded moment, I revealed the—the fact that you were not my wife, she resolved that she would supplant you—"

"Yes, 'the woman—she gavest me and I did eat,'" interposed his companion, with a scathing ring of scorn in the words. "That is always the cry of cowards like you, when they find themselves worsted by their own folly," she went on, indignantly. "Woman must always bear the scorpion lash of blame from her betrayer while the world also awards her only shame and ostracism from society, if she yields to the persuasive voice of her charmer, admiring and believing in him and allowing him to go unsmirched by the venomous breath of scandal. It is only his victim—his innocent victim oftentimes, as in my case—who suffers; he is greeted everywhere with open arms and flattering smiles, even though he repeats his offenses again and again."

"Isabel! spare me!"

"No, I will not spare you," she continued, sternly. "You know, Gerald Goddard, that I was a pure and innocent girl when you tempted me to leave my father's house and flee with you to Italy. You were older than I, by eight years; you had seen much of the world, and you knew your power. You cunningly planned that secret marriage, which you intended from the first should be only a farce, but which, I have learned since, was in every respect a legal ceremony—"

"Ha! I thought so!" cried her companion, with a sudden shock. "When did you hear?—who told you?"

"I met your friend, Will Forsyth, only two years ago—just before my return to this country—and when I took him to task for the shameful part which he had played to assist you in carrying out your ignominious plot, telling him that you had owned to his being disguised as an aged minister to perform the sacrilegious ceremony, he confessed to me that, at the last moment, his heart had failed him, whereupon he went to an old clergyman, a friend of his father, revealed everything, and persuaded him to perform the marriage in a legal manner; and thus, Gerald Goddard, I became your lawful wife instead of your victim, as you supposed."

"Yes, I know it. Forsyth afterward sent me the certificate and explained everything to me," the man admitted, with a guilty flush. "I received the paper about a year after the report of your death."

"Ah! that could not have been very gratifying to—your other—victim," remarked Mrs. Stewart, with quiet sarcasm.

"Isabel! you are merciless!" cried the man, writhing under her scorn. "But since you have learned so much, I may as well tell you everything. Of course Anna was furious when she discovered that she was no wife, for I had sworn to her that there was no legal tie between you and me—"

"Ah! then she also learned the truth!" interposed his companion. "I almost wonder you did not try to keep the knowledge from her."

"I could not—she was present when the document arrived, and the shock to me was so great I betrayed it, and she insisted upon knowing what had caused it, when she raved like an insane person, for a time."

"But I suppose you packed her by being married over again, since you have lived with her for nearly twenty years," remarked Mrs. Stewart.

"No, I did not," returned her visitor, hotly. "To tell the truth, I had begun to tire of her even then—she was so furiously jealous, passionate, and unreasonable upon the slightest pretext that at times she made life wretched for me. So I told myself that so long as I held that certificate as proof that she had no legal hold upon me, I should have it in my power to manage her and cow her into submission when she became ungovernable by other means. I represented to her that, to all intents and purposes, we were man and wife, and if we should have the ceremony repeated, after having lived together so long, it would create a scandal, for some one would be sure to find it out, sooner or later. For a time this appeared to pacify her; but one day, during my absence from home, she stole the certificate, although I thought I had concealed it where no one would think of looking for it. It has been in her possession ever since. I have tried many times to recover it; but she was more clever than I, and I never could find it, while she has always told me that she would never relinquish it, except upon one condition—"

"And that was—what?"

"Ever the same old demand—that I would make her legally my wife."

"But she never could have been that so long as I lived," objected Mrs. Stewart.

"True; but she would have been satisfied with a repetition of the ceremony, as we did not know that you were living."

"If you have been so unhappy, why have you lived with her all these years?"

The man hesitated for a moment before replying to this question. At length he said, although he flushed scarlet over the confession:

"There have been several reasons. In spite of her variable moods and many faults, Anna is a handsome and accomplished woman. She entertains magnificently, and has made an elegant mistress for our establishment. We have been over the world together several times, and are known in many cities both in this country and abroad, consequently it would have occasioned no end of scandal if there had been a separation. Thus, though she has tried my patience sorely at times, we have perhaps, on the whole, got along as amicably as hundreds of other couples. Besides—ahem!—"

The man abruptly ceased, as if, unwittingly, he had been about to say something that had better be left unsaid.

"Well—besides what?" queried his listener.

"Doubtless you will think it rather a humiliating confession to make," said Gerald Goddard, with a crestfallen air, "but during the last few years I have lost a great deal of money in unfortunate speculation, so—I have been somewhat dependent upon Anna in a financial way."

"Ah! I understand," remarked Mrs. Stewart, her delicate nostrils dilating scornfully at this evidence of a weak, ease-loving nature, that would be content to lean upon a rich wife, rather than be up and doing for himself, and making his own way in the world. "Are you not engaged with your profession?"

"No; Anna has not been willing, for a long time, that I should paint for money."

"And so your talents are deteriorating for want of use."

The scorn in her tones stung him keenly, and he flushed to his temples.

"You do not appear to lack for the luxuries of life," he retorted, glancing about the elegant apartment, with a sullen air, but ignoring her thrust.

"No, I have an abundance," she quietly replied; but evidently she did not deem it necessary to explain how she happened to be so favored.

"Will you explain to me the mystery of your existence, Isabel?" Mr. Goddard inquired, after an awkward silence. "I cannot understand it—I am sometimes tempted to believe that you are not Isabel, after all, but some one else who—"

"Pray disabuse yourself of all such doubts," she quickly interposed, "for I assure you that I am none other than that confiding but misguided girl whom you sought to lure to her destruction twenty years ago. If it were necessary, I could give you every detail of our life from the time I left my home until that fatal day when you deserted me for Anna Correlli."

"But Anna claims that she saw you dead in your casket."

A slight shiver shook the beautiful woman from head to foot at this reference to the ghastly subject.

"Yes, I know it—"

"You know it!" exclaimed the man, amazed.

"Exactly; but I will tell you the whole story, and then you will no longer have any doubt regarding my identity," Mrs. Stewart remarked. "After you left Rome with Anna Correlli, and I realized that I had been abandoned, and my child left to the tender mercies of a world that would not hesitate to brand her with a terrible stigma, for which her father alone was to blame, I resolved that I would not live. Grief, shame, and despair for the time rendered me insane, else I, who had been religiously reared, with a feeling of horror for the suicide's end, would never have dared to meditate taking the life that belonged to God. I was not so bereft of sense, however, but that my motherhood inspired me to make an effort to provide for my little one, and I wrote an earnest appeal to my old schoolmate and friend, Edith Allandale, who, I knew, would shortly be in Rome, asking her to take the child and rear her as her own—"

"What! Then you did not try to drown the child as well as yourself!" gasped Gerald Goddard, in an excited tone.

"No; had I done so, I should never have lived to tell you this story," said the woman, tremulously. "But wait—you shall learn everything, as far as I know, just as it happened. Having written my appeal, which I felt sure would be heeded, I took my baby to the woman who had nursed me, told her that I had been suddenly called away, and asked her to care for her until my return. She readily promised, not once suspecting that a stranger would come for her in my place, and that it was my purpose never to see her again. From the moment of my leaving the woman's house—that last straw of surrendering my baby was more than my heart and brain could bear—everything, with one exception, was a blank to me until I awoke to consciousness, five weeks later, to find myself being tenderly cared for in the home of a young man, who was spending the winter in Rome for his health. His sister—a lovely girl, a few years his senior—was with him, acting both as his nurse and physician, she having taken her degree in a Philadelphia medical college, just out of love for the profession. And she it was who had cared for me during my long illness. She told me that her brother was in the habit of spending a great deal of his time upon the Tiber; that one evening, just at dusk, as he was upon the point of passing under a bridge, a little way out of the city, he was startled to see some one leap from it into the water and immediately sink. He shot his boat to the spot, and when the figure arose to the surface, he was ready to grasp it. It was no easy matter to lift it into his boat, but he succeeded at last, when he rowed with all possible speed back to the city, where, instead of notifying the police and giving me into their hands to be taken either to a hospital or to the morgue, as the case might demand, he procured a carriage and took me directly to his home, where he felt that his sister could do more for me than any one else."

"Who was this young man?" Gerald Goddard here interposed, while he searched his companion's face curiously.

"Willard Livermore," calmly replied Mrs. Stewart, as she steadily met his glance, although the color in her cheeks deepened visibly.

"Ha! the man who accompanied you to Wyoming night before last?"

"Yes."

"I have heard that he has long wanted to marry you—that he is your lover," said Mr. Goddard, flashing a jealous look at her.

"He is my friend, stanch and true; a man whom I honor above all men," was the composed reply; but the woman's voice was vibrant with an earnestness which betrayed how much the words meant to her.

"Then why have you not married him?"

"Because I was already bound."

"But you have told me that you did not know you were legally bound until within the last two years."

Isabel Stewart lifted a grave glance to her companion's face.

"When, as a girl, I left my home to go with you to Italy," she said, solemnly, "I took upon myself vows which only death could cancel—they were as binding upon me as if you had always been true to me; and so, while you lived, I could never become the wife of another. I have lived my life as a pure and faithful wife should live. Although my youth was marred by an irrevocable mistake, which resulted in an act of frenzy for which I was not accountable, no willful wrong has ever cast a blight upon my character since the day that Willard Livermore rescued me from a watery grave in the depths of the yellow Tiber."

And Gerald Goddard, looking into the beautiful and noble face before him, knew that she spoke only the truth, while a blush of shame surged over his own, and caused his head to droop before the purity of her steadfast eyes.

"All efforts upon the part of Miss Livermore and her brother to resuscitate me," Mrs. Stewart resumed, going on with her story from the point where she had been interrupted, "were unavailing. Another physician was called to their assistance; but he at once pronounced life to be extinct, and their efforts were reluctantly abandoned. Even then that noble brother and sister would not allow me to be sent to the morgue. They advertised in all the papers, giving a careful description of me, and begging my friends—if there were such in Rome—to come to claim me. Among the many curious gazers who—attracted by the air of mystery which enveloped me—came to look upon me, only one person seemed to betray the slightest evidence of ever having seen me before. That person was Anna Correlli—Ah! what was that?"

This sudden break and startled query was caused by the rattling of the rings which held the portieres upon the pole across the archway between the two rooms, and by the gentle swaying of the draperies to and fro.



CHAPTER XXVIII.

ISABEL STEWART ASTOUNDS MR. GODDARD.

But there was not a sound to be heard in the room beyond, although the curtains still continued to vibrate gently, thus showing the presence of some object that had caused the movement.

Mrs. Stewart arose to investigate, for the conversation in which she had been engaged and the story she was relating were of such a nature that she did not care to have a third party, especially a servant, overhear it.

She parted the draperies and looked curiously into the room beyond.

But her act only revealed a pretty maltese kitten, which, being thus aroused from its slumbers in its cozy place of concealment, rolled over on its back and began to play with the heavy fringe that bordered the costly hangings.

"Ah, Greylocks! so you are the rogue who has startled us!" said the lady, with an amused smile. "I feared that we had an eavesdropper. You are a very innocent one, however, and we will not take the trouble to banish you."

She went back to her chair reassured, and without a suspicion of the presence of one who hated her with a deadly hatred, and who still stood, pale and trembling, concealed by the voluminous folds of the draperies, but waiting with eager curiosity to overhear what should follow.

Meantime the maid who had admitted Mrs. Goddard, feeling that she must become wearied with her long waiting, had returned to the reception-room to ascertain if she still desired to remain until her mistress should be at liberty; but finding it empty, had concluded that the lady had left the house, and so went about her business, thinking no more of the matter.

"Yes," resumed Mrs. Stewart, after she had resumed her seat, "I knew, from the description which my kind friends afterward gave me, that Anna Correlli had come there to assure herself that her rival was really dead. When—suspecting from her manner that she might know something about me—they questioned her, she told them that, 'from what she had read in the papers, she feared it might be some one whom she knew; but she was mistaken—I was nothing to her—she had never seen me before.' Then she went away with an air of utter indifference, and I was left fortunately to the kindness of that noble hearted brother and sister. They did everything that the fondest relatives could have done, and, in their divine pity for one so friendless and unfortunate, neglected not the smallest detail which they would have bestowed upon an own sister. Only they, besides the undertaker and the one Protestant pastor in the city, were present during the reading of the service; and when that was over, Willard Livermore, actuated by some unaccountable impulse, insisted upon closing the casket. He bent over me to remove a Roman lily which his sister had placed in my hands, and which he wished to preserve, and, while doing so, observed that my fingers were no longer rigid—that the nails were even faintly tinted. He was startled, and instantly summoned his sister. Hardly had her own fingers pressed my pulse in search of evidence of life, when my eyes unclosed and I moaned:

"'Don't let her come near me! She has stolen all the love out of my life!"

"Then I immediately relapsed again into unconsciousness without even knowing I had spoken. Later, when told of the fact, I could dimly recall the sensation of a sudden shock which was instantly followed by a vision of Anna Correlli's face and the sound of her voice, and I firmly believe, to-day, that it was her presence alone that startled my chilled pulses once more into action and thus awoke to new life the torpid soul which had so nearly passed out into the great unknown."

Could the narrator have seen the face of the listener outside, her tongue would have been paralyzed and the remainder of her story would never have been told; for Anna Goddard, upon learning that she had been the means of calling back to earth the woman whose existence had shorn her of every future hope, looked—with her wild eyes and demoniac face—as if she could be capable of any act that would utterly annihilate the unsuspicious companion of the man whom her untamed soul worshiped as only such a fierce and selfish nature could worship a human being.

But she made no sign or sound to betray her presence, for she was curious to hear the remainder of this strange story—to learn how her beautiful rival had risen from disgrace and obscurity to her present prosperity and enviable position in society.

"Of course," Mrs. Stewart resumed, "Mr. and Miss Livermore were both thrown into a state of great excitement at such an unexpected manifestation; but my words told them that there was some sad and mysterious story connected with my life and the rash deed I had committed, and they resolved to still surround me with their care and protection until I should recover—if that were possible—instead of committing me to a hospital, as many would have done.

"They bound both the clergyman and the undertaker to the strictest secrecy; then I was immediately conveyed to Miss Livermore's own room, where that noble girl cared for me as tenderly as a mother would nurse her own child. For weeks I hovered between life and death, then slowly began to mend. When I was able, I related to my kind friends the story of my wrongs, to receive only gentle sympathy and encouragement, instead of coldness and censure, such as the world usually metes out to girls who err as I had erred. As I grew stronger, and realized that I was to live, my mother-heart began to long for its child. Miss Livermore agreed with me that it would be better for me to have her, and went herself to make inquiries regarding her. But the nurse had moved and none of her neighbors could give any information about her, except that for a time she had charge of an infant, but after its parents had come to claim it, she had moved away, and no one could tell whither she had gone.

"From this I knew that my old friend, Edith Allendale, had responded nobly to my appeal—that she had taken my child and adopted it as her own. At first I was inclined to be disappointed, and contemplated writing to Edith, telling her what had happened and ask her to surrender the little one to me; but after thinking the matter over more at length, I reasoned that it would be best to let everything rest just as it was. I knew that my darling would be tenderly reared in her new home; she would grow up to a happy womanhood without ever knowing of the blight that rested upon her birth, or that her father had been a villain, her mother a wronged and ruined woman—almost a suicide. So I decided that I would never reveal myself to my old friend, or undeceive her regarding my supposed fate, to disturb her peace or her enjoyment of the child.

"But, following the advice of my new friends, I finally wrote to my father and mother, confessing everything to them, imploring their forgiveness for the grief and shame I had brought upon them, and asking their counsel and wishes regarding my future. Imagine my joy and gratitude when, three weeks later, they walked in upon me and took me at once to their hearts, ignoring all the past, as far as any censure or condemnation were concerned, and began to plan to make my future as peaceful and happy as circumstances would allow.

"They had come abroad with the intention of remaining, they told me; they would never ask me to return to my former home, where the fact that I had eloped with an artist was known, but would settle in London, where my father had some business interests, and where, surrounded by the multitude, our former friends would never be likely to meet us. We lived there, a quiet, peaceful, prosperous life, I devoting myself assiduously to study to make up for what I had sacrificed by leaving school so early, and to keep my mind from dwelling upon my unhappy past.

"So the time slipped away until, five years ago, this tranquil life was suddenly interrupted by my father's death. Six months later my mother followed him, and I was again left alone, without a relative in the world, the sole heiress to a half-million pounds—"

"A half-million pounds?" interposed Gerald Goddard, in a tone of amazement.

"Yes; but of what value is money without some one to share it with you?" questioned Isabel Stewart, in a voice of sadness.

Her companion passed his hand across his brow, a dazed expression upon his face, while he was saying to himself, that, in his folly, he had missed an ideal existence with this brilliantly beautiful and accomplished woman, who, in addition, was now the possessor of two and a half million dollars.

What an idiot he had been! What an unconscionable craven, to sacrifice this pure and conscientious creature to his passion for one who had made his life wretched by her variable moods and selfishness!

"Occasionally I heard from my child," Mrs. Stewart resumed, after a moment of silence, while tears started into her beautiful eyes. "My father crossed the ocean from time to time, for the sole purpose of learning something of her, in order to satisfy my hungry heart. He never revealed the fact of my existence to any one, however, although he managed to learn that my darling was happy, growing up to be a pure and lovely girl, as well as a great comfort to her adopted parents, and with nothing to mar her future prospects. Of course such tidings were always gleams of great comfort to my sad and quiet life, and I tried to be satisfied with them—tried to be grateful for them. But, oh! since the death of my parents, I have yearned for her with an inexpressible heart-hunger—"

A sob of pain burst from the beautiful woman's lips and interrupted her narrative at this point.

But she recovered herself almost immediately, and resumed:

"A year or two after I was left alone I happened to meet your former friend, Will Forsyth, and from him learned that I had always been your legal wife, and that he had sent you proofs of the fact, about a year after your desertion of me.

"This astonishing intelligence animated me with a new purpose, and I resolved that I would seek the world over for you, and demand that proof from you.

"I returned immediately to this country and established myself in New York, where, Mr. Forsyth told me, he thought you were residing. Soon after my arrival I learned, to my dismay, that Mr. Allandale had recently died, leaving his family in a destitute condition. This knowledge changed my plans somewhat; I gave up my quest for you, for the time, and began to search for my old friend who, for eighteen years, had been a mother to my child. I had no intention of interrupting the relations between them—my only thought was to provide for their future in a way to preclude the possibility of their ever knowing the meaning of the word poverty. But my utmost efforts proved unavailing—I could learn nothing of them; but I finally did get trace of you, and two months ago came on to Boston, determined to face you and compel you to surrender to me the certificate of our marriage."

"Ha! did you expect that I would yield to you?" questioned Gerald Goddard, a note of defiance in his voice.

"Certainly—I knew I could compel you to do so."

"Indeed? You were sanguine! By what arguments did you expect to achieve your desire? How could you even prove that I had such a paper?"

"I do not know that I could have proven that you possessed the certificate," quietly responded Mrs. Stewart; "but I could at least prove that such a paper once existed, for Mr. Forsyth assured me that, if I needed assistance to establish the fact of my marriage he would be ready to give it at any time. I did not think I should need to call upon him, however; I reasoned that, rather than submit to an arrest and scandal, for—bigamy, you would quietly surrender the certificate to me."

Gerald Goddard shivered at the sound of those three ugly words, while the listener, behind the draperies, clinched her hands and locked her teeth to keep herself from shrieking aloud in her agony, and thus revealing her presence.

"I am afraid you will find that you have reckoned without your host, madam," the man at length retorted, for he was stung to the soul with the covert threat which had suggested the possibility that he, Gerald Goddard, the noted artist, the distinguished society man, and princely entertainer, might be made to figure conspicuously in a criminal court under a charge that would brand him for all time.

"Ah! how so?" quietly inquired his companion.

"No power on earth would ever have compelled me to relinquish it, Mr. Forsyth's assurance to the contrary notwithstanding."

The man paused, to see what effect this assertion would have upon his listener; but she made no response—she simply sat quietly regarding him, while a curious little smile hovered about her beautiful mouth.

"You look skeptical," Mr. Goddard continued, gazing at her searchingly; "but let me tell you that you will find it no easy matter to prove the statements you have made—no person of common sense would credit your story."

"Indeed! But have you not already admitted that you received the certificate of which Mr. Forsyth told me?"

"Yes; but we have been here alone, with no witness to swear to what has passed between us. However, as I have already told you, Anna stole the paper from me years ago, and I have never seen it since."

"Yes, I know you told me so!"

"Do you not believe me?"

"I think my past relations with you have not served to establish a feeling of excessive confidence in you," was the quietly ironical response.

The man flushed hotly, while anger for the moment rendered him speechless.

"Possibly you might be able to induce your—companion to surrender the document," the lady added, after a minute of awkward silence.

Gerald Goddard gnawed his under lip in impotent wrath at this sarcastic reference to the woman who had shared his life for so many years; while the wretched eavesdropper herself barely suppressed a moan of passionate anguish.

"You have very little idea of Anna's spirit, if you imagine that she would ever yield one jot to you," Mr. Goddard at length retorted, his face crimson with rage.

Isabel Stewart arose from her chair and stood calm and cold before him.

She gazed with a steady, searching look into his eyes, then remarked, with slow emphasis:

"She will never be asked to yield to me, and I am spared the necessity of suing to either of you, for—that all-important certificate of marriage is already in my possession."

As we know, Gerald Goddard had feared this; he had even suggested the possibility to Anna, on the night of the ball at Wyoming, when she told him of the disappearance of the paper.

Nevertheless, the announcement of the fact at this time came upon him like a thunderbolt, for which he was utterly unprepared.

"Zounds!" he cried, starting to his feet, as if electrified, "can you mean it? Then you stole it the night of the ball!"

"You are greatly mistaken, Mr. Goddard; it was in my possession before the night of the ball," quietly returned his companion.

"I do not believe it!" cried the man, excitedly.

"I will prove it to you if you desire," Mrs. Stewart remarked.

"I defy you to do so."

"Very well; I accept your gage. You will, however, have to excuse me for a few moments," and, with these few words, the stately and graceful woman turned and disappeared within a chamber that opened from the room they were in.

It would be difficult to describe the conflict of emotions that raged in Gerald Goddard's breast during her absence.

While he was almost beside himself with anger and chagrin, over the very precarious position in which he found himself, he was also tormented by intense disappointment and a sense of irritation to think he had so fatally marred his life by his heartless desertion of the beautiful woman who had just left him.

Anna was not to be compared with her; she was perhaps more brilliant and pronounced in her style; but she lacked the charm of refinement and sweet graciousness that characterized Isabel; while, more than all else, he lamented the loss of the princely inheritance which had fallen to her, and which he would have shared if he had been true to her.

Ten minutes passed, and then he was aroused from his wretched reflections by the opening of the chamber door near him, when his late housekeeper at Wyoming walked into the room.



CHAPTER XXIX.

"OUR WAYS PART HERE, NEVER TO CROSS AGAIN."

Gerald Goddard arose from his chair, and stared at the woman in unfeigned astonishment.

"Really, Mrs. Weld! this is an unexpected meeting—I had no thought of seeing you here, or even that you were acquainted with Mrs. Stewart," he remarked, while he searched his recent housekeeper's face with curious eyes.

"I have known Isabel Haven all her life," the woman replied, without appearing in the least disconcerted by the gentleman's scrutiny.

"Can that be possible?" exclaimed her companion, but losing some of his color at the information.

"Yes."

"Then I presume you are familiar with her history."

"I am; with every item of it, from her cradle to the present hour."

"And were you aware of her presence in Boston when you applied for your position at Wyoming?"

"I was."

"Perchance it was at her instigation that you sought the place," Mr. Goddard remarked, a sudden suspicion making him feel sick at heart.

"Mrs. Stewart certainly knew that I was to have charge of your house," calmly responded Mrs. Weld.

"Then there was a plot between you—you had some deep-laid scheme in seeking the situation."

"I do not deny the charge, sir."

"What! do you boldly affirm it? What was your object?" demanded the man, in a towering rage, but growing deathly white at the explanation that suggested itself to his mind.

"I perceive that you have your suspicions, Mr. Goddard," coolly remarked the woman, without losing an atom of her self-possession in view of his anger.

"I have. Great Heavens! I understand it all now," cried her companion, hoarsely. "It was you who stole that certificate from my wife's room!"

"Yes, sir; I was fortunate enough to find it, two days previous to the ball."

"You confess it!—you dare own it to me, madam! You are worse than a professional thief, and I will have you arrested for your crime!" and Gerald Goddard was almost beside himself with passion at her cool effrontery.

"I hardly think you will, Mr. Goddard," was the quiet response. "I imagine that you would hesitate to bring such a charge against me, since such a course would necessitate explanations that might be to you somewhat distasteful, if not mortifying. You would hardly like to reveal the character of the document, which, however, you have made a mistake in asserting that I stole—"

"But you have admitted the charge," he excitedly interposed.

"I beg your pardon, I have not acknowledged the crime of theft—I simply stated that I was fortunate enough to find the document in question."

"It seems to me that that is a distinction without a difference," he sneered.

"One can hardly be accused of stealing what rightly belongs to one's self," Mrs. Weld composedly said.

"What—what on earth can you mean? Explain yourself."

"Certainly; that is exactly what I came here to do," she answered, as, with a dexterous movement, she tore the glasses from her eyes, and swept the moles from her face, after which she snatched the cap and wig from her head, and stood before her companion revealed as Isabel Stewart herself.

"Good Heaven!" he gasped, then sank back upon his chair, staring in blank amazement at her.

Mrs. Stewart seized this opportunity to again slip from the room, and when she returned, a few minutes later, her superabundance of cellular tissue (?) had disappeared and she was her own peerless self once more.

She quietly resumed her seat, gravely remarking, as she did so:

"A woman who has been wronged as you have wronged me, Gerald Goddard, will risk a great deal to re-establish her good name. When I first learned of your whereabouts I thought I would go and boldly demand that certificate of you. I tried to meet you in society here, but, strange to say, I failed in this attempt, for, as it happened, neither you nor your—Anna Correlli frequented the places where I was entertained, although I did meet Monsieur Correlli two or three times. Then I saw that advertisement for a housekeeper to go out to Wyoming, to take charge of your house during a mid-winter frolic; and, prompted by a feeling of curiosity to learn something of your private life with the woman who had supplanted me, I conceived the idea of applying for the situation and thus trying to obtain that certificate by strategy. How did I know that it was you who advertised?" she interposed, as Mr. Goddard looked up inquiringly. "Because I chanced to overhear some one say that the Goddards were going out of town for the same purpose as that which your notice mentioned. So I disguised myself, as you have seen, went to your office, found I was right, and secured the position."

"Now I know why I was so startled that day, when you dropped your glasses in the dining-room," groaned the wretched man.

"Yes; I saw that you had never forgotten the eyes which you used to call your 'windows of paradise,'" responded his companion, with quiet irony, and Gerald Goddard shrank under the familiar smile as under a blow.

"Gerald," she went on, after a moment of painful silence, but with a note of pity pervading her musical tones, "a man can never escape the galling consciousness of wrong that he has done until he repents of it; even then the consequences of his sin must follow him through life. Yours was a nature of splendid possibilities; there was scarcely any height to which you might not have attained, had you lived up to your opportunities. You had wealth and position, and a physique such as few men possess; you were finely educated, and you were a superior artist. What have you to show for all this? what have you done with your God-given talents? how will you answer to Him, when He calls you to account for the gifts intrusted to your care? What excuse, also, will you give for the wreck you have made of two women's lives? You began all wrong; in the first place, you weakly yielded to the selfish gratification of your own pleasure; you lived upon the principle that you must have a good time, no matter who suffered in consequence—you must be amused, regardless of who or what was sacrificed to subserve that end—"

"You are very hard upon me, Isabel; I have been no worse than hundreds of other men in those respects," interposed Gerald Goddard, who smarted under her searching questions and scathing charges as under a lash.

"Granted that you 'are no worse than hundreds of other men,'" she retorted, with scornful emphasis, "and more's the pity. But how does that lessen the measure of your responsibility, pray tell me? There will come a time when each and every man must answer for himself. I have nothing to do with any one else, but I have the right to call you to account for the selfishness and sins which have had such a baneful influence upon my life; I have the right, by reason of all that I have suffered at your hands—by the broken heart of my youth—the loss of my self-respect—the despair which so nearly drove me to crime—and, more than all else, by that terrible renunciation that deprived me of my child, that innocent baby whom I loved with no ordinary affection—I say I have the right to arraign you in the sight of Heaven and of your own conscience, and to make one last attempt to save you, if you will be saved."

"What do you care—what does it matter to you now whether I am saved or lost?" the man huskily demanded, and in a tone of intense bitterness, for her solemn words had pierced his heart like a double-edged dagger.

"I care because you are a human being, with a soul that must live eternally—because I am striving to serve One who has commanded us to follow Him in seeking to save that which is lost," the fair woman gravely replied. "Look at yourself, Gerald—your inner self, I mean. Outwardly you are a specimen of God's noblest handiwork. How does your spiritual self compare with your physical frame?—has it attained the same perfection? No; it has become so dwarfed and misshapen by your indulgence in sin and vice—so hardened by yielding to so-called 'pleasure,' your intellect so warped, your talents so misapplied that even your Maker would scarcely recognize the being that He Himself had brought into existence. You are forty-nine years old, Gerald—you may have ten, twenty, even thirty more to live. How will you spend them? Will you go on as you have been living for almost half a century, or is there still a germ of good within you that you will have strength and resolution to develop, as far as may be, toward that perfect symmetry which God desires every human soul to attain? Think!—choose! Make this hour the turning point in your career; go back to your painting, retrieve your skill, and work to some purpose and for some worthy object. If you do not need the money such work will bring, for your own support, use it for the good of others—of those unfortunate ones, perchance, whose lives have been blighted, as mine was blighted, by those 'hundreds of other men' like you."

As the beautiful woman concluded her earnest appeal, the conscience-smitten man dropped his head upon the table beside which he sat, and groaned aloud.

For the first time in his life he saw himself as he was, and loathed himself, his past life, and all the alluring influences that had conspired to decoy him into the downward path which he had trodden.

"I will! I will! Oh, Isabel, forgive and help me," he pleaded, in a voice thrilling with despair.

"I help you?" she repeated, in an inquiring tone, in which there was a note of surprise.

"Yes, with your sweet counsel, your pure example and influence."

"I do not understand you, quite," she responded, her lovely color waning as a suspicion of his meaning began to dawn upon her.

He raised his face, which was drawn and haggard from the remorse he was suffering, and looked appealingly into hers. But, as he met the gaze of her pure, grave eyes, a flush of shame mounted to his brow as he realized how despicable he must appear to her in now suing so humbly for what he had once trampled under foot as worthless.

Yet an unspeakable yearning to regain her love had taken possession of him, and every other emotion was, for the moment, surmounted by that.

"I mean, come back to me! try to love me again! and let me, under the influence of your sweet presence, your precepts and noble example, strive to become the man you have described, and that, at last, my own heart yearns to be."

His plea was like the cry of a despairing soul, who realized, all too late, the fatal depths of the pit into which he had voluntarily plunged.

Isabel Stewart saw this, and pitied him, as she would have pitied any other human being who had become so lost to all honor and virtue; but his suggestion, his appeal that she would go back to him, live with him, associate with him from day to day, was so repulsive to her that she could not quite repress her aversion, and a slight shiver ran over her frame, so chilling that all her color faded, even from her lips; and Gerald Goddard, seeing it, realized the hopelessness of his desire even before she could command herself sufficiently to answer him.

"That would not be possible, Gerald," she finally replied. "Truth compels me to tell you plainly that whatever affection I may once have entertained for you has become an emotion of the past; it was killed outright when I believed myself a deserted outcast in Rome. I should do sinful violence to my own heart and nature if I should heed your request, and also become but a galling reproach to you, rather than a help."

"Then you repudiate me utterly, in spite of the fact that the law yet binds us to each other? I am no more to you than any other human being?" groaned the humbled man.

"Only in the sense that through you I have keenly suffered," she gravely returned.

"Then there is no hope for me," he whispered, hoarsely, as his head sank heavily upon his breast.

"You are mistaken, Gerald," his companion responded, with sweet solemnity; "there is every hope for you—the same hope and promise that our Master held out to the woman whom the Pharisees were about to stone to death when he interfered to save her. I presume to cast no revengeful 'stone' at you. I do not arrogantly condemn you. I simply say as he said, 'Go and sin no more.'"

"Oh, Isabel, have mercy! With you to aid me, I could climb to almost any height," cried the broken-spirited man, throwing out his hands in despairing appeal.

"I am more merciful in my rejection of your proposal than I could possibly be in acceding to it," she answered. "You broke every moral tie and obligation that bound me to you when you left me and my child to amuse yourself with another. Legally, I suppose, I am still your wife, but I can never recognize the bond; henceforth, I can be nothing but a stranger to you, though I wish you no ill, and would not lift my hand against you in any way—"

"Do you mean by that that you would not even bring mortification or scandal upon me by seeking to publicly prove the legality of our marriage?" Mr. Goddard interposed, in a tone of surprise.

"Yes, I mean just that. Since the certificate is in my possession, and I have the power to vindicate myself, in case any question regarding the matter arises in the future, I am content."

"But I thought—I supposed—Will you not even use it to obtain a divorce from me?" stammered the man, who suddenly remembered a certain rumor regarding a distinguished gentleman's devotion to the beautiful Mrs. Stewart.

"No; death alone can break the tie that binds me to you," she returned, her lovely lips contracting slightly with pain.

"What! Have you no wish to be free?" he questioned, regarding her with astonishment.

"Yes, I would be very glad to feel that no fetters bound me," she answered, with clouded eyes; "but I vowed to be true as long as life should last, and I will never break my word."

"True!" repeated her companion, bitterly.

A flush of indignation mounted to the beautiful woman's brow at the reproach implied in his word and tone.

But she controlled the impulse to make an equally scathing retort, and remarked, with a quiet irony that was tenfold more effective.

"Well, if that word offends you, I will qualify it so far as to say that, at least, I have never dishonored my marriage vows; I never will dishonor them."

Gerald Goddard threw out his hands with a gesture of torture, and for a moment he became deathly white, showing how keenly his companion's arrow had pierced his conscience.

There was a painful silence of several moments, and then he inquired, in constrained tones:

"What, then, is my duty? What relations must I henceforth sustain toward—Anna?"

"I cannot be conscience for you, Gerald," said Isabel Stewart, coldly; "at least, I could offer no suggestion regarding such a matter as that. I can only live out my own life as my heart and judgment of what is right and wrong approve; but if you have no scruples on that score—if you desire to institute proceedings for a divorce, in order to repair, as far as may be, the wrong you have also done Anna Correlli—I shall lay no obstacle in your way."

She arose as she ceased speaking, thus intimating that she desired the interview to terminate.

"And that is all you have to say to me? Oh, Isabel!" Gerald Goddard gasped, and realizing how regally beautiful she had become, how infinitely superior, physically and morally, spiritually and intellectually, she was to the woman for whose sake he had trampled her in the dust. And the fact was forced upon him that she was one to be worshiped for her sweet graciousness and purity of character—to be reverenced for her innate nobility and stanch adherence to principle, and to be exultantly proud of, could he have had the right to be—as a queen among women.

"That is all," she replied, with slow thoughtfulness, "unless, as a woman who is deeply interested in the moral advancement of humanity in general, I urge you once more to make your future better than your past has been, that thus the world may be benefited, in ever so slight a measure, because you have lived. As for you and me, our ways part here, never to cross again, I trust; for, while I have ceased to grieve over the blighted hopes of my youth, it would be painful to be reminded of my early mistakes."

"Part—forever? I do not feel that I can have it so," said Gerald Goddard, with white lips, "for—I love you at this moment a thousand times more than I ever—"

"Stop!" Isabel Stewart firmly commanded. "Such an avowal from you at this time is but an added insult to me, as well as a cowardly wrong against her who, in the eyes of the world, at least, has sustained the relationship of wife to you for many years."

The head of the proud man dropped before her with an air of humility entirely foreign to the "distinguished" Gerald Goddard whom the world knew; but, though crushed by a sense of shame and grief, he could but own to himself that her condemnation was just, and the faint hope that had sprung up in his heart died, then and there, its tragic death.



CHAPTER XXX.

"I HATE YOU WITH ALL THE STRENGTH OF MY ITALIAN BLOOD."

Isabel Stewart felt that she could not bear the painful interview any longer, and was about to touch the electric button to summon her servant to show her visitor out, when he stayed her with a gesture of appeal.

"One moment more, Isabel, I implore," he exclaimed; "then I will go, never to trouble you again."

Her beautiful hand dropped by her side, and she turned again to him with a patient, inquiring glance.

"You have spoken of our—child," the man went on, eagerly, though a flush of shame dyed his face as he gave utterance to the pronoun denoting mutual possession. "Do you intend to continue your search for her?"

"Certainly; that will now be the one aim of my life. I could never take another moment of comfort knowing that my old friend and my child were destitute, as I have been led to believe they are."

"And if—you find her—shall—you tell her—your history?" faltered Gerald Goddard, as he nervously moistened his dry lips.

His companion bent her head in thought for a moment. At length she remarked:

"I shall, of course, be governed somewhat by circumstances in such a matter; if I find Edith still in ignorance of the fact that she is an adopted daughter, I think I shall never undeceive her, but strive to be content with such love as she can give me, as her mother's friend. If, on the other hand, I find that she has learned the truth—especially if she should happen to be alone in the world—I shall take her into my arms and tell her the whole story of my life, beg her to share my future, and let me try to win as much as possible of her love."

"If you should find her, pray, pray do not teach her to regard me as a monster of all that is evil," pleaded her companion, in a tone of agony that was pitiful. "Ah, Isabel, I believe I should have been a better man if I could have had the love of little children thrown about me as a safeguard."

Isabel Stewart's red lips curled with momentary scorn at this attempt to shift the responsibility of his wasted and misguided life upon any one or anything rather than himself.

"What a pity, then, that you did not realize the fact before you discarded the unhappy young mother and her innocent babe, so many years ago," she remarked, in a tone that pierced his heart like a knife.

"I did go back to Rome for the child—I did try to find her after—I had heard that—that you were gone," he faltered. "I was told that the infant had doubtless perished with you, though its body was never found; but I have mourned her—I have yearned for her all my life."

"And do you imagine, even if you should meet her some time in the future, that she would reciprocate this affection which, strangely enough, you manifest at this late day?"

"Perhaps not, if you should meet her first and tell her your story," the man returned, with a heavy sigh.

"Which I shall assuredly do," said Mrs. Stewart, resolutely; "that is, if, as I said before, I find her alone in the world; that much justification is my due—my child shall know the truth; then she shall be allowed to act according to the dictates of her own heart and judgment, regarding her future relationship toward both of us. I feel sure that she has been most carefully reared—that my old friend Edith would instill only precepts of truth and purity in her mind, and my heart tells me that she would be likely to shrink from one who had wronged her mother as you have wronged me."

"I see; you will keep her from me if you can," said Mr. Goddard, with intense bitterness.

"I am free to confess that I should prefer you never to meet," said Mrs. Stewart, a look of pain sweeping over her beautiful face; "but Edith is twenty years of age, if she is living; and if, after learning my history, she desires to recognize the relationship between herself and you, I can, of course, but submit to her wish."

"It is very evident to me that you will teach her to hate her father," was the sullen retort.

"Her father?" the term was repeated with infinite scorn. "Pray in what respect have you shown yourself worthy to be so regarded?—you who even denied her legitimate birth, and turned your back upon her, totally indifferent to whether she starved or not."

"How hard you are upon me, Isabel!"

"I have told you only facts."

"I know—I know; but have some pity for me now, since, at last, I have come to my senses; for in my heart I have an insatiable longing for this daughter who, if she is living, must embody some of the virtues of her mother, who—God help me!—is lost, lost to me forever!"

The man's voice died away in a hoarse whisper, while a heart-broken sob burst from his lips.

"Go, Gerald," said Mrs. Stewart, in a low, but not unkindly imperative tone; "it is better that this interview should terminate. The past is past—nothing can change it; but the future will be what we make it. Go, and if I ever hear from you again, let me know that your present contrition has culminated in a better life."

She turned abruptly from him and disappeared within her chamber, quietly shutting the door after her, while Gerald Goddard arose to "go" as he had been bidden.

As, with tottering gait and a pale, despairing face, he crossed the room and parted the draperies between the two pretty parlors, he found himself suddenly confronted by a woman so wan and haggard that, for an instant, he failed to recognize her.

"Idiot!" hissed Anna Correlli, through her pallid, tightly-drawn lips; "traitor! coward! viper!"

She was forced to pause simply because she was exhausted from the venom which she had expended in the utterance of those four expletives.

Then she sank, weak and faint, upon a chair, but with her eyes glittering like points of flame, fastened in a look of malignant hatred upon the astonished man.

"Anna! how came you here?—how long have you been here?" he finally found voice to say.

"Long enough to learn of the contemptible perfidy and meanness of the man whom, for twenty years, I have trusted," she panted, but the tone was so hollow he never would have known who was speaking had he not seen her.

He opened his dry lips to make some reply; but no sound came from them.

He put out his hand to support himself by the back of her chair, for all his strength and sense seemed on the point of failing him; while for the moment he felt as if he could almost have been grateful to any one who would slay him where he stood, and thus put him out of his misery—benumb his sense of degradation and the remorse which he experienced for his wasted life, and the wrongs of which he had been guilty.

But, by a powerful effort, he soon mastered himself, for he was anxious to escape from the house before the presence of his wife should be discovered.

"Come, Anna," he said; "let us go home, where we can talk over this matter by ourselves, without the fear of being overheard."

He attempted to assist her to rise, but she shrank away from him with a gesture of aversion, at the same time flashing a look up at him that almost seemed to curdle his blood, and sent a shudder of dread over him.

"Do not dare to touch me!" she cried, hoarsely. "Go—call a carriage; I am not able to walk. Go; I will follow you."

Without a word, he turned to obey her, and passed quickly out of the suite without encountering any one, she following, but with a gait so unsteady that any one watching her would have been tempted to believe her under the influence of some intoxicant.

Mr. Goddard found a carriage standing near the entrance to the hotel, and they were soon on their way home.

Not a word was spoken by either during the ride, and it would have been impossible to have found two more utterly wretched people in all that great city.