Upon entering their house, they found Emil Correlli in a state bordering on frenzy, occasioned by the escape of Edith, and this circumstance served for a few moments to distract their thoughts from their own troubles.

Mr. Goddard was intensely relieved by the intelligence, and plainly betrayed it in his manner.

When angrily called to account for it by his brother-in-law, he at once replied, with an air of reckless defiance:

"Yes, I am glad of it—I would even have helped the girl to get away; indeed, I was planning to do so, for such a dastardly fraud as you perpetrated upon her should never be allowed to prosper."

He was rewarded for this speech, so loyal to Edith, only by an angry oath, to which, however, he paid no attention.

Strangely enough, Anna Correlli, after the first emotion of surprise and dismay had passed, paid no heed to the exciting conversation; she had sunk into a chair by the window, where she sat pale and silent, and absolutely motionless, save for the wild restlessness of her fiery black eyes.

Mr. Goddard, finding the atmosphere so disagreeable, finally left the room, and, mounting the stairs, shut himself in his own chamber, while the enraged lover dashed out of the house to the nearest telegraph office to send the message that caused the policeman to intercept Edith upon her arrival in New York.

A few moments later, Mrs. Goddard—as we will, from courtesy, still call her—crept wearily up to her room, where, tottering to a couch, she threw herself prone upon her face, moaning and shivering with the agony she could no longer control.

The blow, which for twenty years she had been dreading, had fallen at last; but it was far more crushing and bitter than she had ever dreamed it could be.

She had come at last to the dregs of the cup which once had seemed so sweet and alluring to her senses, and they had poisoned her soul unto death.

She knew that never again while she lived would she be able to face the world and hide her misery beneath a mask of smiles; and the bitterest drop of all, the sharpest thorn in her lacerated heart, was the fact that the little insignificant girl who had once been her hated rival in Rome, should have developed into the peerlessly beautiful woman, whom all men admired and reverenced, and whom Gerald Goddard now idolized.

An hour passed, during which she lay where she had fallen and almost benumbed by her misery.

Then there came a knock upon her door, which was immediately opened, and Mr. Goddard entered the room.

He was still very pale, but grave and self-contained.

The woman started to a sitting posture, exclaiming, in an unnatural voice:

"What do you want here?"

"I have come, Anna, to talk over with you the events of the morning—to ask you to try to control yourself, and look at our peculiar situation with calmness and practical common sense," he calmly replied.

"Well?" was all the response vouchsafed, as he paused an instant.

"I have not come to offer any excuses for myself, or for what you overheard this morning," he thoughtfully resumed; "indeed, I have none to offer—my whole life, I own, has, as Isabel rightly said, been a failure thus far, and no one save myself is to blame for the fact. Do not sneer, Anna," he interposed, as her lips curled back from her dazzling teeth, which he saw were tightly locked with the effort she was making at self-control. "I have been thoroughly humiliated for the first time in my life—I have been made to see myself as I am, and I have reached a point where I am willing to make an effort to atone, as far as may be, for some of the wrongs of which I have been guilty. Will you help me, Anna?"

Again he paused, but this time his companion did not deign to avail herself of the opportunity to reply, if, indeed, she was able to do so.

She had not once removed her glittering eyes from his face, and her steady, inscrutable look gave him an uncanny sensation that was anything but agreeable.

"I have come to propose that we avail ourselves of the only remedy that seems practicable to relieve our peculiar situation," he continued, seeing she was waiting for him to go on. "I will apply to have the tie which binds me to Isabel annulled, with all possible secrecy—it can be done in the West without any notoriety; then I will make you my legal wife, as you have so often asked me to do, and we will go abroad again, where we will try to live out the remainder of our lives to some better purpose than we have done heretofore. I ask you again, will you try to help me? It is not going to be an easy thing at first; but if each will try, for the sake of the other, I believe we can yet attain comparative content, if not positive happiness."

"Content! happiness!"

The words were hissed out with a fierceness of passion that startled him, and caused him to regard her anxiously.

"Happiness!" she repeated. "Ha! ha! What mockery in the sound of that word from your lips, after what has occurred to-day!"

"I know that you have cause to be both grieved and angry, Anna," said Gerald Goddard, humbly; "but let us both put the past behind us—let us wipe out all old scores, and from this day begin a new life."

"'Begin a new life' upon a heap of ashes, without one spark among them to ignite the smallest flame!" was the mocking rejoinder. Then, with a burst of agony, she continued: "Oh, God! if you had taken a dagger and stabbed me to death in that room to-day, you could not have slain me more effectually than by the words you have uttered. Begin a new life with you, after your confessions, your pleadings and protestations to Isabel Stewart? Heaven! Never! I hate you! hate you; hate you! with all the strength of my Italian blood, and warn you—beware! And now, begone!"

The woman looked like a maniac as she poured this wild torrent upon him, and the man saw that she was in no mood to be reasoned with or to consider any subject; that it would be wiser to wait until the fierceness of her anger had spent itself.

He had broached the matter of their future relations, thus giving her something to think of, and now he would leave her to meditate upon it by herself; perhaps, in a few days, she would be in a more reasonable frame of mind, and look at the subject from a different point of view.

"Very well, Anna," he said, as he arose, "I will obey you. I do not pretend to claim that I have not given you cause to feel aggrieved in many respects; but, as I have already said, that is past. I simply ask you to do what I also will do—put all the old life behind us, and begin over again. I realize that we cannot discuss the question to any purpose now—we are both too wrought up to think or talk calmly, so I will leave you to rest, and we will speak of this at another time. Can I do anything for you before I go?—or perhaps you would like your maid sent to you?"

"No," she said, briefly, and not once having removed her wild eyes from his face while he was speaking.

He bowed, and passed out of the room, softly shutting the door after him, then walked slowly down the hall to his own apartment.

The moment he was gone Anna Goddard sprang like a cat to her feet.

Going to her writing-desk, she dashed off a few lines, which she hastily folded and slipped into an envelope, which she sealed and addressed.

She then touched the electric button above her desk to summon her maid, after which she sat motionless with the missive clasped in her hands until the girl appeared.

"Dress yourself for the street, Mary, and take this note to Mr. Clayton's office. Be quick about it, for it is a matter of importance," she commanded, while she forced herself to speak with outward calmness.

But Mary regarded her mistress with wonder, for, in all her "tantrums," as she termed them, she had never seen the awful look upon her face which was stamped upon it at that moment.

But she took the note without comment, and hastened away upon her errand, while Mrs. Goddard, throwing herself back in her chair, sat there waiting with an air of expectation that betrayed she was looking for the appearance of some one.

Half an hour later a gentleman was admitted to the house, and was shown directly up to my lady's boudoir.



CHAPTER XXXI.

RECORDS SOME STARTLING DEVELOPMENTS.

The gentleman caller referred to in the last chapter was closeted with Mrs. Goddard for fully two hours, when he quietly left the house.

A few moments later, however, he returned, accompanied by two other men—clerks from a neighboring drug store—whom he admitted with a latch-key, and then conducted them up to Mrs. Goddard's boudoir.

The strangers did not remain long; whatever their errand, it was soon finished, and they departed as silently as they had come.

Mr. Clayton remained some time longer, conversing with the mistress of the house, but their business being finally concluded, he also went away, bearing a package of papers with him.

Emil Correlli returned just in season for dinner, which, however, he was obliged to partake of alone, as Mr. and Mrs. Goddard did not make their appearance at the table.

The young man paid slight heed to ceremony, but after eating a hasty meal, sought his sister and informed her that he was going to start for New York on the late evening train.

The woman gave him one wild, startled glance, and seemed strangely agitated for a moment over his announcement.

He could not fail to notice her emotion, and that she was excessively pale.

"You look like a ghost, Anna," he remarked, as he searched her face with some anxiety. "What is the matter with you? I fear you are going to be ill."

"I am ill," she said, in a hoarse, unnatural tone.

"Then let me call your physician," said her brother, eagerly. "I am going out immediately, and will leave a message for him."

"No, no," she nervously replied; then with a hollow laugh that smote heavily upon her companion's heart, she added: "My case is beyond the reach of Dr. Hunt or any other physician."

"Anna, have you been quarreling with Gerald again?"

"Yes," was the brief response.

"Well, of course I can understand that such matters are beyond the skill of any physician," said the young man, with a half-impatient shrug of his shoulders; "neither have I any business to interfere between you," he added; "but my advice would be to make it up as soon as possible, and then try to live peaceably in the future. I do not like to leave you looking so white and miserable, but I must go. Take good care of yourself, and I shall hope to find you better and happier when I return."

He bent down to give her a farewell caress, and was amazed by the passion she manifested in returning it.

She threw her arms around his neck and held him in a convulsive embrace, while she quivered from head to foot with repressed emotion.

She did not utter one word of farewell, but a wild sob burst from her; then, as if she could bear no more, she pushed him from her and rushed into her chamber, shutting and locking the door behind her.

Emil Correlli left the boudoir, a puzzled expression on his handsome face; for, although his sister was subject to strange attacks, he had never seen her like this before.

"Anna will come to grief some day with that cursed temper of hers," he muttered, as he went to his room to pack his portmanteau, but he was too intent upon his own affairs to dwell long upon even the trouble of his sister, and a couple of hours later was on his way to New York to begin his search for his runaway bride.

The next morning Mrs. Goddard was "too ill to rise," she told her maid, when she came at the usual hour to her door. She would not admit her, but sent word to her husband that she could not join him at breakfast.

He went up later to see if she would allow him to call a physician for her, but she would not see him, simply telling him she "would do well enough without advice—all she needed was rest, and she did not wish to be disturbed by any one until she rang."

Feeling deeply disappointed and depressed by her unusual obstinacy, the wretched man went downstairs and shut himself into the library, where he remained all day, while there was such an atmosphere of loneliness and desolation about the house that even the servants appeared to feel it, and went about with solemn faces and almost stealthy steps.

Could any one have looked behind those closed doors he could not have failed to have experienced a feeling of pity for the man; for if ever a human being went down into the valley of humiliation, Gerald Goddard sounded its uttermost depths, while he battled alone with all the powers of evil that beset his soul.

When night came he was utterly exhausted, and sought his couch, looking at least ten years older than he had appeared forty-eight hours previous.

He slept heavily and dreamlessly, and did not awake till late, when an imperative knock upon the door and a voice, calling in distress, caused him to spring suddenly from his bed, and impressed him with a sense of impending evil.

"What is it, Mary?" he inquired, upon recognizing the voice of his wife's maid.

"Oh, sir! come—come to madam; she is very ill!" cried the girl, in a frightened tone.

"I will be there immediately. Send James for the doctor, and then go back to her," commanded her master, as he hurriedly began to dress.

Five minutes later he was in his wife's room, to find her lying upon the lounge, just as he had seen her thirty-six hours previous.

It was evident that she had not been in bed at all for two nights, for she still had on the same dress that she had worn at the Copley Square Hotel.

But the shadow of death was on her white face; her eyes were glazed, and though only partially closed, it was evident that she saw nothing.

She was still breathing, but faintly and irregularly. Her hands were icy cold, and at the base of the nails there was the unmistakable purple tint that indicated approaching dissolution.

Gerald Goddard was shocked beyond measure to find her thus, but he arose to the occasion.

With his own hands and the assistance of the maid, he removed her clothing, then wrapped her in blankets and put her in bed, when he called for hot water bottles to place around her, hoping thus by artificial heat to quicken the sluggish circulation and her failing pulses.

But apparently there was no change in her, and when the physician came and made his examination, he told them plainly that "no effort could avail; it was a case of sudden heart failure, and the end was but a question of moments."

Mr. Goddard was horrified and stricken with remorse at the hopeless verdict, for it seemed to him that he was in a measure accountable for the untimely shock which was fast depriving of life this woman who had loved him so passionately, though unwisely.

He put his lips to her ear and called her by name.

"Anna! Anna! You must try to arouse yourself," he cried, in a voice of agony.

At first the appeal seemed to produce no effect, but after several attempts he thought he detected a gleam of intelligence in the almost sightless eyes, while the cold fingers resting on his hand made an effort to close over his.

These slight signs convinced him that though she was past the power of speech, she yet knew him and clung to him, in spite of the clutch which the relentless enemy of all mankind had laid upon her.

"Doctor, she knows me!" he exclaimed. "Pray give her some stimulant to arouse her dormant faculties, if only for a moment."

"I fear it will be of no use," the physician replied, "but I will try."

He hurriedly prepared and administered a powerful restorative; then they waited with breathless interest for several moments for some sign of improvement.

It came at last; she began to breathe a trifle more regularly; the set features became a little less rigid, and the pulse a shade stronger, until finally the white lids were lifted and the dying woman turned her eyes with a pitiful expression of appeal upon the man whom, even in death, she still adored.

"Leave us alone!" commanded Gerald Goddard, in a hoarse whisper, and physician and servants stole noiselessly from the room.

"Anna, you know me—you understand what I am saying?" the wretched man then questioned.

A slight pressure from the cold fingers was the only reply.

"You know that you are dying?" he pursued.

Again that faint sign of assent.

"Then, dear, let us be at peace before you go," he pleaded, gently. "My soul bows in humiliation and remorse before you; for years I have wronged you. I wronged you in those first days in Rome. I have no excuse to offer. I simply tell you that my spirit is crushed within me as I look back and realize all that I am accountable for. I would have been glad to atone, as far as was in my power, could you have lived to share my future. Give me some sign of forgiveness to tell me that you retract those last bitter words of hate—to let me feel that in this final moment we part in peace."

At his pleading a look of agony dawned in the woman's failing eyes—a look so pitiful in its yearning and despair that the strong man broke down and sobbed from sorrow and contrition; but the sign he had begged for was not given.

"Oh, Anna! pray show me, in some way, that you will not die hating me," he pleaded. "Forgive—oh, forgive!"

At those last words those almost palsied fingers closed convulsively over his; the look of agony in those dusky orbs was superseded by one of adoration and tenderness; a faint expression of something like peace crept into the tense lines about the drawn mouth, and the repentant watcher knew that she would not go out into the great unknown bearing in her heart a relentless hatred against him.

That effort was the last flicker of the expiring flame, for the white lids drooped over the dark eyes; the cold fingers relaxed their hold, and Gerald Goddard knew the end had almost come.

He touched the bell, and the physician instantly re-entered the room.

"It is almost over," he remarked, as he went to the bedside, and his practiced fingers sought her pulse.

Even as he spoke her breast heaved once—then again, and all was still.

Who shall describe the misery that surged over Gerald Goddard's soul as he looked upon the still form and realized that the grandly beautiful woman, who for twenty years had reigned over his home, was no more—that never again would he hear her voice, either in words of fond adoration or in passionate anger; never see her again, arrayed in the costly apparel and gleaming jewels which she so loved, mingling with the gay people of the world, or graciously entertaining guests in her own house?

He felt almost like a murderer; for, in spite of Dr. Hunt's verdict that she had died of "sudden heart failure," he feared that the proud woman had been so crushed by what she had overheard in Isabel Stewart's apartments that she had voluntarily ended her life.

It was only a dim suspicion—a vague impression, for there was not the slightest evidence of anything of the kind, and he would never dare to give voice to it to any human being; nevertheless, it pressed heavily upon his soul with a sense of guilt that was almost intolerable.

A message was immediately sent flying over the wires to New York to inform Emil Correlli of the sad news, and eight hours later he was back in Boston crushed for the time by the loss of the sister for whom he entertained perhaps the purest love of which his selfish heart was capable of experiencing.

We will not dwell upon the harrowing events of the next few days.

Suffice it to say that society, or that portion of it that had known the brilliant Mrs. Goddard, was greatly shocked by the sudden death of one of its "brightest ornaments," and gracefully mourned her by covering her costly casket with choicest flowers; then closed up its ranks and went its way, trying to forget the pale charger which they knew would come again and again upon his grim errand.

The day following Anna Correlli's interment in Forest Hill Cemetery, Mr. Goddard and his brother-in-law were waited upon by the well-known lawyer, Arthur Clayton, who informed them that he had an important communication to make to them.

"Two days previous to her death I received this note from Mrs. Goddard," he remarked, at the same time handing a daintily perfumed missive to the elder gentleman. "In it you will observe that she asks me to come to her immediately. I obeyed her, and found her looking very ill, and seemingly greatly distressed in body and mind. She told me she was impressed that she had not long to live—that she had an affection of the heart that warned her to put her affairs in order. She desired me to draw up a will at once, according to her instructions, and have it signed and witnessed before I left the house. I did so, calling in at her request two witnesses from a neighboring drug store, after which she gave the will into my keeping, to be retained until her death. This is the document, gentlemen," he remarked, in conclusion, "and here, also, is another communication, which she wrote herself and directed me to hand to you, sir."

He arose and passed both the will and the letter to Mr. Goddard, who had seemed greatly agitated while he was speaking.

He simply took the letter, remarking:

"Since you are already acquainted with the contents of the will, sir, will you kindly read it aloud in our presence?"

Mr. Clayton flushed slightly as he bowed acquiescence.

The document proved to be very short and to the point, and bequeathed everything that the woman had possessed—"excepting what the law would allow as Gerald Goddard's right"—to her beloved brother, Emil Correlli, who was requested to pay the servants certain amounts which she named.

That was all, and Mr. Goddard knew that in the heat of her anger against him she had made this rash disposition of her property—as she had the right to do, since it had all been settled upon her—to be revenged upon him by leaving him entirely dependent upon his own resources.

At first he experienced a severe shock at her act, for the thought of poverty was anything but agreeable to him.

He had lived a life of idleness and pleasure for so many years that it would not be an easy matter for him to give up the many luxuries to which he had been accustomed without a thought or care concerning their cost.

But after the first feeling of dismay had passed, a sense of relief took possession of him; for, with his suspicions regarding the cause of Anna's death, he knew that he could never have known one moment of comfort in living upon her fortune, even had she left it unreservedly to him rather than to her brother.

Emil Correlli was made sole executor of the estate; and, as there was nothing further for Mr. Clayton to do after reading the will, he quietly took his departure leaving the two men to discuss it at their leisure.



CHAPTER XXXII.

"YOU WILL VACATE THESE PREMISES AT YOUR EARLIEST CONVENIENCE."

"Well, Gerald, I must confess this is rather tough on you!" Monsieur Correlli remarked, in a voice of undisguised astonishment, as soon as the lawyer disappeared. "I call it downright shabby of Anna to have left you so in the lurch."

"It does not matter," returned the elder man, but somewhat coldly; for, despite his feeling of relief over the disposition of her property, he experienced a twinge of jealousy toward the more fortunate heir, whose pity was excessively galling to him under the circumstances.

Although the two men had quarreled just before Monsieur Correlli's departure for New York, all ill-feeling had been ignored in view of their common loss and sorrow, and each had conducted himself with a courteous bearing toward the other during the last few days.

"What in the world do you suppose possessed her to make such a will?" the young man inquired, while he searched his companion's face with keen scrutiny. "And how strange that she should have imagined all of a sudden that she was going to die, and so put her affairs in order!"

Mr. Goddard saw that he had no suspicion of the real state of things, and he had no intention of betraying any secrets if he could avoid doing so.

No one—not even her own brother—should ever know that Anna had not been his wife. He would do what he could to shield her memory from every reproach, and no one should ever dream that—he could not divest himself of the suspicion—she had died willfully.

Therefore, he replied with apparent frankness:

"I think I can explain why she did so. On the day of our return from Wyoming, Anna and I had a more serious quarrel than usual; I never saw her so angry as she was at that time; she even went so far as to tell me that she hated me; and so, I presume, in the heat of her anger, she resolved to cut me off with the proverbial shilling to be revenged upon me."

"Well, she has done so with a vengeance," muttered his brother-in-law.

"I went to her afterward and tried to make it up," his companion resumed, "but she would have nothing to say to me. She was looking very ill, also; and when the next morning she sent me word that she was not able to join me at breakfast, I went again to her door and begged her to allow me to send for Dr. Hunt, but she would not even admit me."

"What was this quarrel about?"

"Oh, almost all our quarrels have been about a certain document which has long been a bone of contention between us, and this one was an outgrowth from the same subject."

"Was that document a certificate of marriage?" craftily inquired Emil Correlli.

"Yes."

"Gerald, were you ever really married to Anna?" demanded the young man, bending toward him with an eager look.

His companion flushed hotly at the question, and yet it assured him that he did not really know just what relations his sister had sustained toward him.

"Isn't that a very singular question, Emil?" he inquired, with a cool dignity that was very effective. "What led you to ask it?"

"Something that Anna herself once said to me suggested the thought," Emil replied. "I know, of course, the circumstances of your early attachment—that for her you left another woman whom you had taken to Rome. I once asked Anna the same question, but she would not answer me directly—she evaded it in a way to confirm my suspicions rather than to allay them. And now this will—it seems very strange that she should have made it if—"

"Pray, Emil, do not distress yourself over anything so absurd," coldly interposed Gerald Goddard, but with almost hueless lips. "However, if you continue to entertain doubts upon the subject, you have but to go to the Church of the —— the next time you visit Rome, ask to see the records for the year 18—, and you will find the marriage of your sister duly recorded there."

"I beg your pardon," apologized the doubter, now fully reassured by the above shrewdly fashioned answer, "but Anna was always so infernally jealous of you, and made herself so wretched over the fear of losing your affection, that I could think of no other reason for her foolishness. Now, about this will," he added, hastily changing the subject and referring to the document. "I don't feel quite right to have all Anna's fortune, in addition to my own, and no doubt the poor girl would have repented of her rash act if she could have lived long enough to get over her anger and realize what she was doing. I don't need the money, and, Gerald, I am willing to make over something to you, especially as I happen to know that you have sunk the most of your money in unfortunate speculations," the young man concluded, Mr. Goddard's sad, white face appealing to his generosity in spite of their recent difference.

"Thank you, Emil," he quietly replied; "but I cannot accept your very kind offer. Since it was Anna's wish that you should have her property, I prefer that the will should stand exactly as she made it. I cannot take a dollar of the money—not even what 'the law would allow' in view of our relations to each other."

Those last words were uttered in a tone of peculiar bitterness that caused Monsieur Correlli to regard him curiously.

"Pray do not take it to heart like that, old boy," he said, kindly, after a moment, "and let me persuade you to accept at least a few thousands."

"Thank you, but I cannot. Please do not press the matter, for my decision is unalterable."

"But how the deuce are you going to get along?" questioned the young man.

"I shall manage very well," was the grave rejoinder. "I have a few hundreds which will suffice for my present needs, and, if my hands have not lost their cunning, I can abundantly provide for my future by means of my profession. By the way, what are your own plans?—if I may inquire," he concluded, to change the subject.

The young man paled at the question, and an angry frown settled upon his brow.

"I am going to return immediately to New York—I am bound to find that girl," he said, with an air of sullen resolution.

"Then you were not successful in your search?" Mr. Goddard remarked, dropping his lids to hide the flash of satisfaction that leaped into his eyes at the words.

"No, and yes. I found out that she arrived safely in New York, where she was met by a young lawyer—Royal Bryant by name—who immediately spirited her away to some place after dodging the policeman I had set on her track. I surmise that he has put her in the care of some of his own friends. I went to him and demanded that he tell me where she was, but I might just as well have tried to extract information from a stone as from that astute disciple of the law—blast him! He finally intimated that my room would be better than my company, and that I might hear from him later on."

"Ah! he has doubtless taken her case in hand—she has chosen him as her attorney," said Mr. Goddard.

"It looks like it," snapped the young man; "but he will not find it an easy matter to free her from me; the marriage was too public and too shrewdly managed to be successfully contested."

"It was the most shameful and dastardly piece of villainy that I ever heard of," exclaimed Gerald Goddard, indignantly, "and—"

"And you evidently intend to take the girl's part against me," sneered his companion, his anger blazing forth hotly. "If I remember rightly, you rather admired her yourself."

"I certainly did; she was one of the purest and sweetest girls I ever met," was the dignified reply. "Emil, you have not a ghost of a chance of supporting your claim if the matter comes to trial, and I beg that you will quietly relinquish it without litigation," he concluded, appealingly.

"Not if I know myself," was the defiant retort.

"But that farce was no marriage."

"All the requirements of the law were fulfilled, and I fancy that any one who attempts to prove to the contrary will find himself in deeper water than will be comfortable, in spite of your assertion that I 'have not a ghost of a chance.'"

"Possibly, but I doubt it. All the same, I warn you, here and now, Correlli, that I shall use what influence I have toward freeing that beautiful girl from your power," Mr. Goddard affirmed, with an air of determination not to be mistaken.

"Do you mean it—you will publicly appear against me if the matter goes into court?"

"I do."

The young man appeared to be in a white rage for a moment; then, snapping his fingers defiantly in his companion's face, he cried:

"Do your worst! I do not fear you; you can prove nothing."

"No, I have no absolute proof, but I can at least give the court the benefit of my suspicions and opinion."

"What! and compromise your dead wife before a scandal-loving public?"

"Emil, if Anna could speak at this moment, I believe she would tell the truth herself, and save that innocent and lovely child from a fate which to her must seem worse than death," Mr. Goddard solemnly asserted.

"Thank you—you are, to say the least, not very flattering to me in your comparisons," angrily retorted Monsieur Correlli, as he sprang from his chair and moved toward the door.

He stopped as he laid his hand upon the silver knob and turned a white, vindictive face upon the other.

"Well, then," he said, between his white, set teeth, "since you have determined to take this stand against me, it will not be agreeable for us to meet as heretofore, and I feel compelled to ask you to vacate these premises at your earliest convenience."

"Very well! I shall, of course, immediately comply with your request. A few hours will suffice me to make the move you suggest," frigidly responded Gerald Goddard; but he had grown ghastly white with wounded pride and anger at being thus ignominiously turned out of the house where for so many years he had reigned supreme.

Emil Correlli bowed as he concluded, and left the room without a word in reply.

As the door closed after him Mr. Goddard sank back in his chair with a heavy sigh, as he realized fully, for the first time, how entirely alone in the world he was, and what a desolate future lay before him, shorn, as he was, of home and friends and all the wealth which for so long had paved a shining way for him through the world.

His head sank heavily upon his breast, and he sat thus for several minutes absorbed in painful reflections.

He was finally aroused by the shutting of the street door, when, looking up, he saw the new master of the house pass the window, and he knew that henceforth he would be his bitter enemy.

He glanced wistfully around the beautiful room—the dearest in the house to him; at the elegant cases of valuable books, every one of which he himself had chosen and caused to be uniformly bound; at the choice paintings in their costly frames upon the walls, and many of which had been painted by his own hands; at the numerous pieces of statuary and rare curios which he knew would never assume their familiar aspect in any other place.

How could he ever make up his mind to dismantle that home-like spot and bury his treasures in a close and gloomy storage warehouse?

"Homeless, penniless, and alone?" he murmured, crushing back into his breast a sob that arose to his throat.

Then suddenly his glance fell upon the table beside him and rested upon the letter that Mr. Clayton had given to him, and which, in the exciting occurrences of the last hour, he had entirely forgotten.

He took it up and sighed heavily again as the faint odor of Anna's favorite perfume was wafted to his nostrils.

"How changed is everything since she wrote this!—what a complete revolution in one's life a few hours can make!" he mused.

He broke the seal with some curiosity, but with something of awe as well, for it seemed to him almost like a message from the other world, and drew forth two sheets of closely-written paper.

The missive was not addressed to any one; the writer had simply begun what she had to say and told her story through to the end, and then signed her name in full in a clear, bold hand.

The man had not read half the first page before his manner betrayed that its contents were of the most vital importance.

On and on he read, his face expressing various emotions until by the time he reached the end there was an eagerness in his manner, a gleam of animation in his eyes which told that the communication had been of a nature to entirely change the current of his thoughts and distract them from everything of an unpleasant character regarding himself.

He folded and returned the letter to its envelope with trembling hands.

"Oh, Anna! Anna!" he murmured, "why could you not have been always governed by your better impulses, instead of yielding so weakly to the evil in your nature? This makes my way plain at least—now I am ready to bid farewell to this home and all that is behind me, and try to fathom what the future holds for me."

He carefully put the letter away into an inner pocket, then sat down to his desk and began to look over his private papers.

When that task was completed he ordered the butler to have some boxes and packing cases, that were stored in the cellar, brought up to the library, when he carefully packed away such books, pictures and other things as he wished to take away with him.

It was not an easy task, and he could almost as readily have committed them to the flames as to have despoiled that beautiful home of what, for so long, had made it so dear and attractive to him.

When his work was completed he went out, slipped over into Boylston street, where he knew there were plenty of rooms to be rented, and where he soon engaged a suite that would answer his purpose for the present.

This done, he secured a man and team to move his possessions, and before the shades of night had fallen he had stored everything he owned away in his new quarters and bidden farewell forever to the aristocratic dwelling on Commonwealth avenue, where he had lived so luxuriously and entertained so elaborately the creme de la creme of Boston society.

Three days later he had disappeared from the city—"gone abroad" the papers said, "for a change of scene and to recuperate from the effects of the shock caused by his wife's sudden death."



CHAPTER XXXIII.

MR. BRYANT MEETS WITH UNEXPECTED DIFFICULTIES.

Let us now return to Edith, to ascertain how she is faring under the care of her new friends in New York.

On the morning following her arrival Mr. Bryant called at the house of his cousin, Mrs. Morrell, as he had promised, to escort our fair heroine to his office, to meet Mr. Louis Raymond, who had been so anxiously searching for her.

The gentleman had not arrived when they reached the place that was so familiar to Edith, and "Roy," as she was slyly beginning to call him, conducted her directly to his own special sanctum, and seated her in the most comfortable chair, to await the coming of the stranger.

"My sunshine has come back to me," he smilingly remarked, as he bent over her and touched his lips to her forehead in a fond caress. "I have not had one bright day since that morning when I returned from my trip and found your letter, telling me that you were not coming to me any more."

"I did not think, then, that I should ever return," Edith began, gravely. Then she added, in a lighter tone: "But now, that I am here, will you not set me at work?"

"Indeed, no; there shall be no more toiling for you, my darling," returned the young man, with almost passionate tenderness.

Edith shrank a little at his fond words, and a troubled expression leaped into her eyes.

Somehow she could not feel that she had a right to accept his loving attentions and terms of endearment, precious as they were to her, while there was any possibility that another had a claim upon her.

Roy saw the movement, hardly noticeable though it was, and understood the feeling that had prompted it, and he resolved that he would be patient, and refrain from causing her even the slightest annoyance until lie could prove to her that she was free.

A few moments later Mr. Raymond was ushered in, and Roy, after greeting him cordially, presented him to Edith.

It was evident from the earnestness with which he studied her face that the man had more than an ordinary interest in her; while, as he clasped her hand, he appeared to be almost overcome with emotion.

"Pardon me," he said, as he struggled for self-control, "but this meeting with you awakens memories that have proved too much for my composure. You do not resemble your mother, Miss Edith," he concluded, in a tone of regret, as he gazed wistfully into her eyes.

"No?" the fair girl returned, flushing, and feeling half guilty for allowing him to believe that she was Mr. and Mrs. Allandale's own child.

But she had determined to let him tell his story, or at least reveal the nature of his business with her, and then be governed by circumstances regarding her own disclosures.

"If you will kindly excuse me, I will look over my mail while you are conversing with Miss Allandale," Roy remarked, thinking, with true delicacy, that the man might have some communication to make which he would not care to have a third party overhear.

Then, with a bow and a smile, he passed from the room, leaving the two alone.

"I cannot tell you how gratified I am to find you, Miss Edith," Mr. Raymond remarked, as the door closed. "I have met only disappointment of late, and, indeed, throughout most of my life, and I feared that our advertisements might not meet your eye. I was deeply pained upon returning to America, after many years spent abroad, to learn of the misfortunes of your family, while the knowledge of your mother's privations during the last two years of her life—as related to me by Mr. Bryant—has caused me more grief than I can express."

"Yes, mamma's last days were very, very sad," said Edith, while tears dimmed her eyes.

"Tell me about them, please—tell me all about your father's death, and how it happened that you became so reduced financially," said Mr. Raymond.

Then the fair girl, beginning with the loss of her young brothers, related all that had occurred during the two years following, up to the time of her mother's death, while she spoke most touchingly of the patience and fortitude with which the gentle invalid had borne their struggles with poverty and hardship.

More than once her companion was forced to wipe the tears from his cheeks, as he listened to the sad recital, while his eyes lingered affectionately upon the faithful girl who—as he learned from Mr. Bryant—had so heroically tried to provide for the necessities of one whom, it was evident, he had loved with more than ordinary affection.

When she had concluded her story he remained silent for a few moments, as if to fortify himself for the revelations which he had to make; then he remarked:

"Your mother and I, Miss Edith, were 'neighbors and playmates' during our childhood—'schoolmates and friends' for long years afterward, she would have told you; but—ever since I can remember, she was the dearest object the world held for me. This affection grew with my growth until, when I was twenty-one years of age, I asked her to marry me. Her answer was like obscuring the sun at midday, for she told me that she loved another; she had met Albert Allendale, and he had won, apparently without an effort, what I had courted for many years. I could not blame her, for I was but too conscious that he was my superior, both physically and mentally, while the position he offered her was far above anything I could hope to give her—at least, for a long time. But it was a terrible blow to me, and I immediately left the country, feeling that I could never remain here to witness the happiness that had been denied me. During my exile I heard from them occasionally, through others, and of the ideal life they were leading; but I never once thought of returning to this country until about six months ago, when, my health suddenly failing, I felt that I would at least like to die upon my native soil. You can, perhaps, imagine the shock I experienced, upon arriving in New York, when I learned of Mr. Allendale's misfortunes and death, and also that his wife and only surviving child had been left destitute and were hiding themselves and their poverty in some remote corner, unknown to their former friends. I searched the city for you, and then, discouraged with my lack of success, I put my case into the hands of Mr. Bryant, from whom I learned of the death of your mother and your brave struggles with want and hardships; whereupon I commissioned him to spare no effort or expense to find you; hence the advertisement which, his note to me last evening told me, met your eye in a Boston paper, and brought you hither."

"What a strange, romantic story!" Edith murmured, as Mr. Raymond paused at this point; "and, although it is so very sad, it makes you seem almost like an old friend to know that you once knew and loved mamma."

"Thank you, dear child," returned the man, eagerly, a smile hovering for a moment around his thin lips. "I hardly expected you to greet me thus, but it nevertheless sounds very pleasant to my unaccustomed ears. And now, having told you my story in brief, my wish is to settle upon you, for your dear mother's sake, as well as for your own, a sum that will place you above the necessity of ever laboring for your support in the future. During the last ten years I have greatly prospered in business—indeed, I have accumulated quite a handsome fortune—while, strange to say, I have not a relative in the world to inherit it. The disease which has attacked me warns me that I have not long to live; therefore I wish to arrange everything before my mind and strength fail me. One-half of my property I desire to leave to a certain charitable institution in this city; the remainder is to be yours, my child, and may the blessing of an old and world-weary man go with it."

As he concluded, Edith raised her tearful eyes to find him regarding her with a look of tender earnestness that was very pathetic.

"You are very, very kind, Mr. Raymond," she responded, in tremulous tones, "and I should have been inexpressibly happy if mamma could have been benefited by your generosity; but—I feel that I have no right to receive this bequest from you."

"And why not, pray?" exclaimed her companion, in surprise, a look of keen disappointment sweeping over his face.

"Because—truth compels me to tell you that I am the child of Mr. and Mrs. Allandale only by adoption," said Edith, with quivering lips, for it always pained her to think of her relationship to those whom she had so loved, in this light.

"Can that be possible?" cried Mr. Raymond, in astonishment.

"Yes, sir; it hurts me to speak of it—to even think of if; but it is true," she replied.

Then she proceeded to relate the circumstances of her adoption, as far as she could do so without casting any reflections upon the unhappy young mother who had been so wronged in Rome.

"Of course, I loved papa and mamma just the same as if they had really been my own parents," she remarked, in conclusion, "for I had not a suspicion of the truth until after mamma died. I was always treated exactly as if I had been as near to them as the children who died."

"And have you no knowledge of your own parents?" Mr. Raymond inquired.

"Not the slightest. The only clews I possess are some letters in my mother's handwriting and the name Belle that she signed to him. Strange as it may seem, there is not a surname nor any reference made to the locality where she lived in her youth, to aid me in my search for her relatives."

"That seems very singular," said the gentleman, musingly.

"It is not only that, but it is also very trying," Edith returned. "Of course, my mother is dead; my father"—this with a proud uplifting of her pretty head—"I have no desire even to look upon his face. I could never own the relationship, even should we meet; but I would like to know something about my mother's family, for, as far as I know, I have—like yourself—not a relative in the world."

"Then pray, Miss Edith, for the sake of that other Edith whom I loved, regard me, while I live, as your stanch, true friend," said Mr. Raymond, earnestly. "The fact that you were the child of Edith Allandale only by adoption will make no difference in my plans for you. To all intents and purposes you were her daughter—she loved you as such—you were faithful and tender toward her until the end; therefore I shall settle the half of my property upon you for your immediate use. I beg that you will feel no delicacy in accepting this provision for your future," he interposed, appealingly, as he remarked her heightened color. "Mr. Bryant had full instructions to carry out my wishes, and the money would have been yours unconditionally, had I never been so happy as to meet you. The only favor I ask of you in return is the privilege of seeing you occasionally, to talk with you of your mother."

The tears rolled thick and fast over the young girl's face at this appeal, for she was deeply touched by the man's tender regard for her interests, and by his yearning to be in sympathy with one who had known so intimately the one love of his life.

"You are very kind," she said, when she could command her voice sufficiently to speak. "I have no words adequate to thank you, and it will be only a delight to me to tell you anything you may wish to know about her who was so dear to us both. I could never tire of talking of mamma. More than this, I trust you will allow me to be of some comfort to you," she added, earnestly. "When you are lonely or ill I shall be glad to minister to you in any way that I may be able."

"It is very thoughtful of you, Miss Edith, to suggest anything of the kind," Louis Raymond responded, his wan face lighting with pleasure at her words, "and no doubt I shall be glad to avail myself now and then of your kindness; but we will talk of that at another time."

He arose as he concluded, and, opening the door leading into the outer office, requested Mr. Bryant to join them, when the conversation became general.

Later that same day, at Mr. Raymond's desire, the papers were drawn up that made Edith the mistress of a snug little fortune in her own right, the income from which would insure her every comfort during the remainder of her life.

The man was unwilling that the matter should be delayed, lest something should interfere to balk his plans.

When Roy took Edith back to Mrs. Morrell's he expressed his admiration and sympathy in the highest terms for the generous-hearted invalid.

"When we make a home for ourselves, darling, let us invite him to share it, and we will try to make his last days his happiest days. What do you say to the plan, sweet?" he queried, as he bent to look into the beautiful face beside him.

Edith flushed painfully at his question and hesitated to reply.

"What is it, love?" he urged, forgetting for the moment the resolve he had made earlier in the day.

"Of course, Roy, I would be glad to do anything in the world for one who was so devoted to mamma, and who, for her sake, has been so considerate for my future; but—"

"Well, what is this dreadful 'but'?" was the smiling query.

"I am afraid that you are too sanguine regarding our prospects," returned the fair girl, gravely. "I am somehow impressed that we shall meet with difficulties that you do not anticipate in the way of your happiness."

"Do not be faint-hearted, dear," said her lover, tenderly, although a shade of anxiety swept over his face as he spoke. "I am going immediately to look up that woman with whom Giulia Fiorini told you she boarded, and ascertain what evidence she can give me to sustain my theory regarding Correlli's relations with the girl."

He left Edith at Mrs. Morrell's door, and then hastened away upon his errand.

He easily found the street and number which Edith had given him, and, to his joy, the name of the woman he sought was on the door.

A portly matron, richly dressed, but with a very shrewd face, answered his ring, and greeted him with suave politeness.

"Yes, she remembered Giulia Fiorini," she remarked, in answer to his inquiry. "She was a pretty Italian girl who had run away from her own country, wasn't she? Would the gentleman kindly walk in? and she would willingly respond to any further questions he might wish to ask."

Roy followed her into a handsomely-furnished parlor, that was separated from another by elegant portieres, which, however, were closely drawn, thus concealing the room beyond.

"Yes," madam continued, "the girl had a child—a boy—a fine little fellow, whom she called Ino, and she did remember that a gentleman visited them occasionally—the girl's brother, cousin, or some other relation, she believed"—with a look of perplexity that would lead one to infer that such visits had been so rare she found it difficult to place the gentleman at all.

"No, she did not even know his name, and she had never heard him admit that the girl was his wife—certainly not!—nor the child call him father or papa. There had always been something mysterious about Giulia, but she had appeared to have plenty of money, and had paid her well, and thus she had not concerned herself about her private affairs."

Roy's heart grew cold and heavy within him as he listened to these suave and evasive replies to his every question.

It was evident to him that she had already received instructions what to say in the event of such a visit, and was paid liberally to carry them out.

He spent nearly an hour with her trying to make her contradict or commit herself in some way, but she never once made a mistake; her answers were very pat and to the point, and he knew no more when he arose to leave than he had known when he entered the house.

He was very heavy-hearted—indeed, a feeling of despair began to settle down upon him; for, unless he could prove that Emil Correlli had taken Giulia Fiorini to that house, and lived with her there as her husband, he felt that he had very little to hope for regarding his future with Edith.

Madam ushered him out as courteously as she had invited him in, regretting exceedingly that she could not give him all the information he desired, and hoped that the matter was not so important as to cause him any especial annoyance.

She even inquired if he knew where Giulia was at that time, remarking that she "had been invariably sweet-tempered and lady-like, and she should always feel an interest in her, in spite of a certain air of mystery that seemed to envelop her."

But the moment the door closed after her visitor madam's keen, black eyes began to glitter and a shrewd smile played about her cunning mouth.

A little gurgling laugh of triumph broke from her red lips as she returned to the parlor, when the portieres between it and the room were swept aside, and Emil Correlli himself walked into her presence.



CHAPTER XXXIV.

AN UNEXPECTED MEETING RESULTS IN A WONDERFUL DISCOVERY.

"Well done, madam! you managed to pull the wool over his eyes in very good shape," the man remarked, a look of evil triumph sweeping over his face.

"Certainly, Mr. Correlli," the woman returned, in a tone of serene satisfaction. "Only give me my price, and I am ready to make anybody believe that black is white, every time; and now I'll take that five hundred, if you please," she concluded, as she extended her fat hand for the plump fee for which she had been so zealously working.

"You shall have it—you shall have it; I will write you a check for it immediately," said Monsieur Correlli. "But—you are sure there is no one in the house who knows anything about the facts of the case?" he added, inquiringly, after a moment of thought.

"Yes, I am sure; I haven't a single servant now that was with me when the girl was here."

"Have you any idea where they went after leaving you?" asked the man, with evident uneasiness.

"Lor', no; you needn't have the slightest fear of their turning up," responded his companion, with a light laugh. "That lawyer might as well try to hunt for a needle in a hay-mow as to seek them as witnesses against you; while, as for the lodgers who were here at the time, not one of them knew anything about your affairs. By the way," she added, curiously, "what has become of the girl?"

"She followed me to Boston, and is there now, doubtless."

"Would she be likely to know anything about the laws of New York regarding marriage?"

"No, indeed; she is a perfect ignoramus as far as any knowledge of the customs of this country is concerned."

"That is lucky for you; but, if you know where she can be found, I would advise you to send her back to Italy with all possible dispatch. She is liable to make trouble for you if she learns the truth, for"—madam here shot a sly look at her companion—"a man can't live a year or two with a woman here in New York, allowing her to believe herself his wife, and her child to call him 'papa'—paying all her bills, without giving her a pretty strong claim upon him. However, mum's the word with me, provided I get my pay for it," she concluded, with a knowing wink.

Emil Correlli frowned at her coarse familiarity and the indirect threat implied in her last words; but, simply remarking that he "would draw that check," he returned to the room whence he had come, while his companion turned to a window, chuckling softly to herself.

Presently he reappeared and slipped into her hand a check for five hundred dollars.

"Now, in case this matter should come to court, I shall rely upon you to swear that the girl's story is false and the lawyer's charge simply a romance of his imagination," he remarked.

"You may depend on me, sir—I will not fail you," madam responded, as, with a complacent look, she neatly folded the check and deposited it in her purse.

Emil Correlli had arrived in New York very early the same morning, and, not caring to have his presence there known, he had sought a room in the house of the woman with whom Giulia had boarded for nearly two years.

Having partaken of a light breakfast, he went out again to seek the policeman to whom he had telegraphed to detain Edith.

He readily found him, when he learned all that we already know of the man's efforts to obey Correlli's orders.

"That was the girl, in spite of the lawyer's interference. You should have never let her go," he angrily exclaimed, when the officer had described Edith and told his story.

"But I couldn't, sir—I had no authority—no warrant—and I should have got myself into trouble," the man objected, adding: "The lawyer was a shrewd one and had a high and mighty way with him that made a fellow go into his boots and fight shy of him."

Monsieur Correlli knew that the man was right, and saw that he must make the best of the situation; so, taking possession of Roy's card, and making his way directly to Broadway, he prowled about the vicinity of his office to see what he could discover.

He had not waited very long when his heart bounded as he caught sight of Edith coming down the street and escorted by a handsome, manly fellow, whose beaming face and adoring eyes plainly betrayed his secret to the jealous watcher, who gnashed his teeth in fury at the sight.

The happy, unconscious couple soon disappeared within an office building, whereupon Correlli went back to his lodgings to lay his plans for future operations.

Some hours later, while he was conversing with his landlady in her pretty parlor, he was startled to see Edith's champion of the morning mounting the steps of the house.

Like a flash he seemed to comprehend the object of his visit there; but he was puzzled to understand how it was possible for either Edith or him to know that he or Giulia had ever lived there.

A few rapid words were sufficient to reveal the situation to his landlady, to whom he promised a liberal reward if she would implicitly follow his directions.

The result we know; and, although his bribe had been a heavy one, he did not begrudge the money, since he believed he had thus securely fortified himself against all attacks from the enemy.

Later in the day he attempted to dog the young lawyer's steps, hoping thus to ferret out Edith's hiding place; but nothing satisfactory resulted, for Roy, after his hard and somewhat disappointing day, simply repaired to his club, where, after partaking of his dinner and smoking a cigar to soothe his nerves, he retired to rest.

But the next morning, feeling secure of his position, Emil Correlli boldly presented himself in his rival's office and demanded of him Edith's address.

Roy was prepared for him, for his fruitless visit to Giulia's former landlady had aroused his suspicions that Monsieur Correlli was in the city.

Therefore he had resolved neither to evade nor parley with him, but boldly defy the man, by acknowledging himself the wronged girl's champion and legal adviser.

"I cannot give you Miss Allandale's address," he quietly responded to his visitor's demand.

"Do you mean to imply that you do not know it?" he questioned, arrogantly.

"Not at all, sir; the lady is under my protection, as my client; therefore, in her interest I refuse to reveal her place of residence," Roy coolly responded.

"But she is my wife, and I have a right to know where she is," said the would-be husband, his anger flaming up hotly at being thus balked in his desires.

"Your wife?" repeated the young lawyer, in an incredulous tone, but growing white about the mouth from the effort he made to retain command of himself, as the obnoxious term fell from the villain's lips.

"Certainly—I claim her as such; my right to do so cannot be questioned."

"There may be a difference of opinion regarding that matter," Roy calmly rejoined.

"But we were publicly married on the twenty-fifth."

"Ah! but there are circumstances under which even such a ceremony can have no legal significance."

The fiery Italian was no match for the lawyer in that cool, calm mood, and his anger increased as he realized it.

"But I have my certificate, and can produce plenty of witnesses to prove my statements," he retorted.

"The court will decide whether your evidence is sufficient to substantiate your claim," Mr. Bryant composedly remarked.

"The court?—will she take the matter into court?—will she dare create such a scandal?" exclaimed the man, in a startled tone.

"I do not feel at liberty, even had I the inclination, to reveal any points in my client's case," coldly replied the young lawyer. "This much I will say, however," he added, sternly, "I shall leave nothing undone to free her from a tie that is both hateful and fraudulent."

"I warn you that you will have a battle to fight that will cost you something," snarled the baffled villain.

"That also remains to be seen, sir; but whether you or I win this battle, let me tell you, once for all, that Miss Allandale will never submit to any authority which you may imagine you have acquired over her by tricking her into this so-called marriage; she will never live one hour with you; she will never respond to your name."

Royal Bryant arose as he concluded this defiant speech, thus intimating to his visitor that he wished to put an end to the interview, for the curb that he was putting upon himself was becoming almost unbearable.

Emil Correlli gazed searchingly into his face for a moment, as if trying to measure his foe.

He could not fail to realize the superiority of the man, mentally, morally and physically, and the thought was maddening that perhaps Edith had freely given to him the love for which he had abjectly sued in vain.

"Well," he finally remarked, as he also arose, while he revealed his white teeth in a vicious smile, "it may be in her power to carry out that resolution, but one thing is sure, she can never free herself from the fetters which she finds so galling—she can never marry any other man while I live."

This shot told, for the blue veins in Roy's temples suddenly swelled out full at the malignant retort.

But he mastered his first impulse to seize the wretch and throw him from the window into the street, and quietly remarked:

"As I have twice before observed, sir, all these things remain to be seen and proved. Now, can I do anything further for you to-day?"

The man could not do otherwise than take the hint; besides, there was that in Roy's eye which warned him that it would not be safe for him to try him too far. So, abruptly turning upon his heel, he left the room, while our young lawyer, with tightly compressed lips and care-lined brow, walked the floor in troubled thought.

After leaving his office Emil Correlli repaired to the hotel where his letters were usually sent, and found awaiting him there a telegram announcing the sudden death of his sister and requesting his immediate return to Boston.

Shocked beyond measure, and grieved to the soul by this unexpected bereavement, he dropped everything and left New York on the next eastward express.

We know all that occurred in that home where death had come so unexpectedly; how, after the burial of Mrs. Goddard, Emil Correlli had suddenly found his already large fortune greatly augmented by the strange will of his sister, while the man whom she had always professed to adore was left destitute, and to shift for himself as best he could.

The day after he had turned Gerald Goddard out of his home, so to speak, the young man dismissed all his servants, closed the house, and put it into the hands of a real estate agent to be disposed of at the best advantage.

He made an effort to find Giulia and her child, with the intention of settling a comfortable income upon them, provided he could make the girl promise to return to Italy and never trouble him again.

But she had disappeared, and he could learn absolutely nothing regarding her movements; and, impressed with a feeling that she would yet revenge herself upon him in some unexpected way, he finally returned to New York, determined to ferret out Edith's hiding place.

Meantime the fair girl had been very happy with her new friends, who were also growing very fond of her.

But she would not allow herself to build too much upon the hope of attaining her freedom which Roy had tried to arouse in her heart shortly after her arrival in New York.

Indeed, she had begun to notice that, after the first day or two, he had avoided conversing upon the subject, while he often wore a look of anxiety and care which betrayed that he was deeply troubled about something.

In fact, Roy was very heavy-hearted, for, since his failure to learn anything from Giulia's former landlady to prove his theory correct, he had begun to fear that it would be a very difficult matter to free the girl he loved from the chain that bound her to Correlli.

If he could have found the discarded girl herself he believed that, with her assistance, he would soon discover the servants who had been in the house during her residence there, and, through them, find some substantial evidence to work upon.

But although he had advertised for her in several Boston papers, he had not been able to get any trace of her.

He had, however, filed a plea to have Edith's so-called marriage set aside, and was anxiously waiting for some time to be appointed for a hearing of the' case.

Edith and her new acquaintance, Mr. Raymond, were fast becoming firm friends, in spite of the suspense that was hanging over the former regarding her future.

The young girl had first been drawn toward the invalid from a feeling of sympathy, and because of his old-time fondness for her mother. But, upon becoming better acquainted with him, she began to admire him for his many noble qualities, both of mind and heart, while she ever found him a most entertaining companion, as he possessed an exhaustless fund of anecdote and personal experiences, acquired during his extensive travels, which he never wearied of relating when he could find an appreciative listener.

Thus she spent a great deal of time with him, while by her many little attentions to his comfort she won a large place in his heart.

One day Mrs. Morrell and Edith went to attend a charity exhibition that was under the supervision of a friend of the former, at her own house.

Upon their arrival they were ushered into the drawing-room, which was beautifully decorated and hung with many exquisite paintings, while some rare gems were resting conspicuously upon easels.

In one corner, and artistically draped with a beautiful scarf, Edith was startled, almost at the moment of her entrance, to see a painting that was very familiar.

It was that representing a portion of an old Roman wall, with the lovers resting in its shadow, which had attracted the attention of Mrs. Stewart on the last night of the "winter frolic," at Wyoming.

With an expression of astonishment she went forward to examine it more closely and to assure herself that it was the original, and not a copy.

Yes, those two tiny letters, G. G., in one corner, told their own story, and proved her surmise to be correct.

"How strange that it should be here!" she breathed.

She had hardly uttered the words when some one arose from behind the easel, and—she stood face to face with Gerald Goddard himself.

The girl stood white and almost paralyzed before him, and the man appeared scarcely less astonished on beholding her.

"Miss Allen!" he faltered. "I never dreamed of meeting you here!"

"Oh, pray do not tell Monsieur Correlli that you have seen me," she gasped, fear for the moment superseding every other thought.

"Do not be troubled—he shall learn nothing from me," said the man, reassuringly. "Correlli and I are not very good friends just now, simply because I told him that I should do all in my power to help you prove that he had no just claim upon you."

"Thank you," said Edith, flushing with hope, but involuntarily shrinking from him, for she could not forget how he had degraded himself before her on that last horrible night at Wyoming.

"I suppose you have heard of my—of Mrs. Goddard's death?" he remarked, after a moment of silence.

"Mrs. Goddard—dead?" exclaimed Edith, shocked beyond expression.

"Yes, she died very suddenly, the second morning after you left Boston."

Edith was about to respond with some expression of regret and sympathy, when she saw him start violently, and a look of agony, that bordered on despair, leap into his eyes.

Involuntarily she turned to see what had caused it, and was both surprised and delighted to behold Mrs. Stewart—whom she supposed to be in Boston—just entering the room, and looking especially lovely in a rich black velvet costume, with a hat to match, but brightened by two or three exquisite pink roses.

At that instant a lady, to whom she had recently been introduced, laid her hand upon Edith's arm, remarking in quick, incisive tones:

"Miss Allandale, your friend, Mrs. Morrell, is beckoning you to come to her."

Again Gerald Goddard started, and so violently that he nearly knocked his picture from the easel.

He shot one quick, horrified glance at the girl.

"Miss Allandale!" he repeated, in a dazed tone, as all that the name implied forced itself upon his mind.

Another in the room had also caught the name, and turned to see who had been thus addressed.

As her glance fell upon Edith her beautiful face grew radiant.

"Oh, if it should be—" she breathed.

The next moment she had crossed the room to the girl's side.

"What did Mrs. Baldwin call you, dear?" she breathlessly inquired, regardless of etiquette, for she had not yet greeted her hostess. "Was it Miss Allandale?"

"Yes, that is my name," said Edith, flushing, but frankly meeting her look of eager inquiry.

"But you told me—" Mrs. Stewart whispered.

"Yes," interposed the young girl, "while I was in Boston I was known simply as Edith Allen—why, I will explain to you at some other time; but my real name is Edith Allandale."

The woman seemed turned to stone for a moment by this unexpected revelation, so statue-like did she become, as she also realized all that this confession embodied.

Then, as if compelled by some magnetic influence, her eyes were drawn toward the no less statue-like man standing by that never-to-be forgotten picture on the easel.

Their gaze met, and each read in that one brief look the conviction that made one heart bound with joy, the other to sink with despair—each knew that the beautiful girl, standing so wonderingly beside that stately woman, was the child that had been born to them in the pretty Italian villa hard by the old Roman wall which Gerald Goddard had so faithfully reproduced upon canvas.



CHAPTER XXXV.

"THAT MAN MY FATHER!"

Isabel Stewart was the first to recover herself, when, gently linking her arm within Edith's, she whispered, softly:

"Come with me, dear; I would like to see you alone for a few minutes."

She led her unresistingly from the room, across the hall, to a small reception-room, when, closing the door to keep out intruders, she turned and laid both her trembling hands upon the girl's shoulders.

"Tell me," she said, looking wistfully into her wondering eyes, "are you the daughter of Albert and Edith Allandale?"

"Yes."

It was all the answer that Edith, in her excitement, could make.

The beautiful woman caught her breath graspingly, and every particle of color faded from her face.

"Tell me, also," she went on, hurriedly, "did you ever hear your—your mother speak of a friend by the name of Belle Haven?"

Edith's heart leaped into her throat at this question, and she, too, began to tremble, as a suspicion of the truth flashed through her mind.

"No," she said, with quivering lips, "I never heard her mention such a person; but—"

"Yes—'but'—" eagerly repeated her companion.

"But," the fair girl continued, gravely, while she searched with a look of pain the eyes looking so eagerly into hers, "the evening after mamma was buried, I found some letters which had been written to her from Rome, and which were all signed 'Belle.'"

"Oh!—"

It was a sharp cry of agony that burst from Isabel Stewart's lips.

"Oh, why did she keep them?" she went on, wildly; "how could she have been so unwise? Why—why did she not destroy them?"

At these words a light so eager, so beautiful, so tender that it seemed to transfigure her, suddenly illumined Edith's face, for they confirmed, beyond a doubt, the suspicion and hope that had been creeping into her heart.

"Tell me—are you that 'Belle'?" she whispered, bending nearer to her with gleaming eyes.

"Oh, do not ask me!" cried the unhappy woman, a bitter sob escaping her.

She had never dreamed of anything so dreadful as that those fatal letters would fall into the hands of her child, to prejudice her and make her shrink from her with aversion.

She had planned, if she was ever so fortunate as to find her, and had to reveal her history to her, to smooth over all that would be likely to shock her—that she would never confess to her how despair had driven her to the verge of that one crime upon which she now looked back with unspeakable horror.

The thought that this beautiful girl knew all, and believed the worst—as she could not fail to do, she reasoned, after reading the crude facts mentioned in those letters—filled her with shame and grief: for how could she ever eradicate those first impressions, and win the love she so craved?

Thus she was wholly unprepared for what followed immediately upon her indirect acknowledgment of her identity.

The gentle girl, her expressive face radiant with mingled joy, love, sympathy, slipped both arms around her companion's waist, and dropping her head upon her shoulder, murmured, fondly:

"Ah, I am sure you are!—I am sure that I have found my mother, and—I am almost too happy to live."

"Child! my own darling! Is it possible that you can thus open your heart of hearts to me?" sobbed the astonished woman, as she clasped the slight form to her in a convulsive embrace.

"Oh, yes—yes; I have longed for you, with longing unspeakable, ever since I knew," Edith murmured, tremulously.

"Longed for me? Ah, I never dared to hope that Heaven could be so kind. I feared, love, that you would despise me, as a weak and willful woman, even after I should tell you all my story, with its extenuating circumstances; but now, while knowing and believing only the worst, you take me into the arms of your love, and own me—your mother!"

She broke down utterly at this point, and both, clasped in each other's embrace, sobbed in silent sympathy for a few moments.

"Well, dearest, this will never do," Mrs. Stewart at last exclaimed, as she lifted her face and smiled tenderly upon Edith; "we must at least compose ourselves long enough to make our adieus to our hostess; then I am going to take you home with me, to have all the story of our tangled past unraveled and explained. Come, let us sit down for a few moments, until we get rid of the traces of our tears, and you shall tell me how you happened to be in Boston under the name of Edith Allen."

She drew her toward a couch as she spoke, and there Edith related how she had happened to meet the Goddard's on the train, between New York and Boston, and was engaged to act as madam's companion, and how also the mistake regarding her name had occurred.

"And were you happy with them, my dear?" inquired Mrs. Stewart, regarding her curiously.

The fair girl flushed.

"Indeed I was not," she replied, "I think they were the strangest people I ever met."

Almost as she spoke the door of the reception-room opened, and Gerald Goddard himself appeared upon the threshold.

He was pale to ghastliness, and looked years older than when Edith had seen him in the drawing-room a few minutes previous.

"Pardon me this intrusion, Miss—Edith," he began, shrinkingly, while he searched both faces before him with despairing eyes; "but I am about to leave, and I wished to give you this note before I went. If, after reading it, you should care to communicate with me, you can address me at the Murry Hill Hotel."

He laid the missive upon a table near the door, then, with a bow, withdrew, leaving the mother and daughter alone again.

"That was Mr. Goddard," Edith explained to her companion, as she arose to take the letter; but without a suspicion that the two had ever met before, or that the man was her own father—the "monster" who had so wronged her beautiful mother.

Mrs. Stewart made no reply to the remark; and Edith, breaking the seal of the envelope in her hands, drew forth several closely-written pages.

"Why!" she exclaimed, in a startled tone, "this is Mrs. Goddard's handwriting!"

She hastily unfolded the sheets and ran her eye rapidly down the first page, when a low cry broke from her lips, and, throwing herself upon her knees before her mother, she buried her face in her lap, murmuring joyfully:

"Saved! saved!"

"Darling, tell me!—what is this that excites you so?" Mrs. Stewart pleaded, as she bent over her and softly kissed her flushed cheek.

Edith put the letter into her hands, saying, eagerly:

"Read it—read it!—it will tell its own story."

Her companion obeyed her, and, as she read, her face grew stern and white—her eyes glittered with a fiery light which told of an outraged spirit aroused to a point where it would have been dangerous for the woman who once had deeply wronged her, had she been living, to have crossed her path again.

"If I had known!—if I had known—" she began, when she reached the end. Then, suddenly checking herself, she added, tenderly, to Edith: "My love, it seems so wonderful—all this that has happened to you and to me! We must take time to talk it all over by ourselves. You can excuse yourself to your friend, can you not, and come with me to the Waldorf? Say that I wish to keep you for the remainder of the day and night, but will return you to her in the morning."

Edith's face beamed with delight at this proposal.

"Yes, indeed," she said, rising to comply at once with the request. "I am sure Nellie will willingly give me up, when I whisper the truth in her ear. My dear—dear mother!" she added, tremulously, as she bent forward and kissed the beautiful face with quivering lips, "this wonderful revelation seems too joyful to be true!"

"Edith, my child," gravely said Isabel Stewart, as she held the girl a little away from her and searched her face with anxious eyes, "after learning what you did of me, from those horrible letters, is there no shrinking in your heart—is there no feeling of—of shame or of pitiful contempt for me?"

"Not an atom, dear," whispered the trustful maiden, whose keen intuitions had long since fathomed the character of the woman before her; "to me you are as pure and dear as if that man—whoever he may have been—had never cast a shadow upon your life by the shameful deception which he practiced upon you."

"My blessed little comforter! you shall be rewarded for your faith in me," returned Mrs. Stewart, her lips wreathed in fondest smiles, her eyes glowing with happiness. "But go excuse yourself to Mrs. Morrell, then we will take leave of our hostess, and go home."

Ten minutes later they were on their way to the Waldorf.

It was rather a silent drive, for both were still too deeply moved over their recent reunion to care to enter into details just then. It was happiness enough to sit side by side, hand clasped in hand, knowing that they were mother and daughter, and in tenderest sympathy with each other.

Upon arriving at her hotel Mrs. Stewart led the way directly to her delightful suite of rooms, where, the moment the door was closed, she turned and once more gathered Edith into her arms.

"I must hold you—I must feel you, else I shall not be quite sure that I am not dreaming," she exclaimed. "I find it difficult to realize my great happiness. Can it be possible that I have my own again, after so many years! that you were once the tiny baby that I held in my arms in Rome, and loved better than any other earthly object? It is wonderful! wonderful! and strangest of all is the fact that your heart turns so fondly to me! Are you sure, dear, that you can unreservedly accept and love your mother, in spite of those letters, and what they revealed regarding my past life?"

And again she searched Edith's face and eyes as if she would read her inmost thoughts.

She met her glance clearly, unshrinkingly.

"I am sure that you never committed a willful wrong in your life," she gravely replied. "It was a sad mistake to go away from your home and parents, as you did; but there is no intent to sin to be laid to your charge—your soul shines, like a beacon light, through these dear eyes, and I am sure it is as pure and lovely as your face is beautiful."

"May He who always judges with divine mercy bless you for your sweet charity and faith," murmured Isabel Stewart, in tremulous tones, as she passionately kissed the lips which had just voiced such a blessed assurance of trust and love.

"Now come," she went on, a moment later, while, with her own hands, she tenderly removed Edith's hat and wrap, "we will make ourselves comfortable, then I will tell you all the sad story of my misguided youth."

Twining her arms about the girl's waist, she led her to a seat, and sitting beside her, she circumstantially related all that we already know of her history.

But not once did she mention the name of the man who had so deeply wronged her; for she had resolved, if it were possible, to keep from Edith the fact that Gerald Goddard, under whose roof she had lived, was her father.

The young girl, however, was not satisfied, was not content to be thus kept in the dark; and, when her mother's story was ended, she inquired, with grave face and clouded eyes:

"Who was this man?—why have you so persistently retrained from identifying him? What was the name of that coward to whom—with shame I say it—I am indebted for my being?"

"My love, cannot you restrain your curiosity upon that point? Will you not let the dead past bury its dead, without erecting a tablet to its memory?" her companion pleaded, gently. "It can do you no possible good—it might cause you infinite pain to know."

"Is the man living?" Edith sternly demanded.

Mrs. Stewart flushed.

"Yes," she replied, after a moment of hesitation.

"Then I must know—you must tell me, so that I may shun him as I would shun a deadly serpent," the young girl exclaimed, with compressed lips and flashing eyes.

Mrs. Stewart looked both pained and troubled.

"My love, I wish you would not press this point," she remarked, nervously.

"Edith turned and gazed searchingly into her eyes.

"Do you still cherish an atom of affection for him?" she inquired.

"No! a thousand times no!" was the emphatic response, accompanied by a gesture of abhorrence.

"Then you can have no personal motive or sensitiveness concerning the matter."

"No, my child—my desire is simply to save you pain—to spare you a shock, perchance."

"Do I know him already?—have I ever seen him?" cried Edith, in a startled tone.

"Yes, dear."

"Then tell me! tell me!" panted the girl. "Oh! if I have spoken with him, it is a wonder that my tongue was not paralyzed in the act—that my very soul did not shrink and recoil with aversion from him!" she exclaimed, trembling from head to foot with excitement.

Her mother saw that it would be useless to attempt to keep the truth from her; that it would be better to tell her, or she might brood over the matter and make herself unhappy by vainly trying to solve the riddle in her own mind.

"Edith," she said, with gentle gravity, "the man is—Gerald Goddard!"

The girl sprang to her feet, electrified by the startling revelation, a low cry of dismay escaping her.

"He! that man my—father!" she breathed, hoarsely, with dilating nostrils and horrified eyes.

"It is true," was the sad response. "I would have saved you the pain of knowing this if I could."

"Oh! and I have lived day after day in his presence! I have talked and jested with him! I have eaten of his bread, and his roof has sheltered me!" cried Edith, shivering with aversion. "Why, oh, why did not some instinct warn me of the wretched truth, and enable me to repudiate him and then fly from him as from some monster of evil? Ah, I was warned, if I had but heeded the signs," she continued, with flushed cheeks and flaming eyes. "There were many times when some word or look would make me shrink from him with a strange repugnance, and that last night in Wyoming—oh, he revealed his evil nature to me in a way that made me loathe him!"

"My child, pray calm yourself," pleaded her mother, regarding her with astonishment, for she never could have believed, but for this manifestation, that the usually gentle girl could have displayed so much spirit under any circumstances. "Come," she added, "sit down again, and explain what you meant by your reference to that last night at Wyoming."

And Edith, obeying her, related the conversation that had occurred between Mr. Goddard and herself, on the night of the ball, when the man had come to the dressing-room and asked her to button his gloves.



CHAPTER XXXVI.

FURTHER EXPLANATIONS BETWEEN MOTHER AND DAUGHTER.

"It was very, very strange that you should have drifted into his home in such a way," Mrs. Stewart observed, when Edith's narrative was ended. "But, dear, I am not sorry—it was perhaps the best thing that could have happened, under the circumstances, for it afforded you an opportunity to gain an insight into the man's character without having been previously influenced or prejudiced by any one. If you had never met him, you might have imagined, after hearing my story, that I was more bitter and unforgiving toward him than he justly merited."

"He must have recognized you instantly when you entered Mrs. Wallace's drawing-room to-day," said Edith, musingly; "for, did you notice how strangely he looked when Mrs. Baldwin called me Miss Allandale, and you came to me so eagerly?"

"Yes; the relationship you bear to us both must have flashed upon him with as great a shock as upon me," Mrs. Stewart returned.

"And how perfectly wretched he appeared when he came to the reception-room door to give me the letter," Edith remarked, musingly, as that white, pained face arose before her mind's eye.

"Can you wonder, dear? How could he help being appalled when he remembered the treatment you had received while you were a member of his family?"

"It all seems very wonderful!" said the fair girl, thoughtfully, "and the fact of your being in the house at the same time, seems strangest of all!"

"It was a very bold thing to do, I admit," responded Mrs. Stewart; "but the case demanded some risk on my part—I was determined to get hold of that certificate, if it was in existence. I thought it better to employ strategy, rather than come into open controversy with them, as I wished to avoid all publicity if possible. I firmly believe that, if Anna Correlli had suspected that I was still alive, she would have destroyed the document rather than allow it to come into my possession."

"But you could have proved your marriage, through Mr. Forsyth, even if she had," Edith interposed.

"Yes; but it would have caused a terrible scandal, for Mr. Goddard would have had to answer to the charge of bigamy; while the publicity I should have had to endure would have been exceedingly disagreeable to me. If, however, I had failed in my plans I should not have hesitated to adopt bold measures—for I was determined, for your sake as well as my own, to have proof that I was a legal wife and my child entitled to bear the name of her father, even though he might be unworthy of her respect."

"How did you happen to discover where the certificate was concealed?" Edith inquired.

"Do you remember, dear, the day when you came upon me, sitting faint and weary on the back stairs, and insisted that I should exchange work with you?" her companion questioned, with a fond smile.