TWO NEW ACQUAINTANCES.
Edith, when consciousness returned, had not a doubt that the letters,
which she had been reading, had been penned by the hand of her own
mother; that she was that little baby who had been born in Rome--that
child of shame whose father had so heartlessly deserted it; whose
mother, her brain turned by her suffering and wrongs, had planned to
take her own life, rather than live to taint her little one's future
with the shadow of her own disgrace.
The knowledge of this seemed to blight, as with a lightning flash,
every hope of her life.
She groped her way to the bed, for she was becoming benumbed with the
cold, and threw herself upon it, utterly wretched, utterly hopeless.
For hours she lay there in a sort of stupor, conscious only of one
terrible fact--her shame--her ruined life!
She had never dreamed, until within that hour, that she was not the
daughter of those whom she had always known as her father and mother.
She had known that they had gone abroad immediately after their
marriage, and had spent more than a year visiting foreign countries.
She had been told that she was born in Rome, in 18--, and she now
realized that the letters which she had just read had been mostly
written during the same year.
Mrs. Allandale had never meant that she should learn this terrible
secret, and that is why she had been so anxious during her last
moments that the contents of the Japanese box should be destroyed.
Edith wondered why she had kept the letters at all--why she had not
destroyed them immediately upon adopting her, and thus prevented the
possibility of a revelation like this.
To be sure, no one save herself need ever know of the fact unless she
chose to disclose it; nevertheless, she felt just as deeply branded by
it as if all the world had known of it.
"Oh, I had begun to hope that--" she began, then abruptly ceased, a
burning flush suffusing her face as her thoughts thus went out toward
Royal Bryant, whose eyes had only the day before told her, as plainly
as eyes could speak, that he loved her, while her heart had thrilled
with secret joy over the revelation, and the knowledge that her own
affection had been irrevocably given to him, even though they had
known each other so short a time.
Even in the midst of her sorrow over her dead, the thought that she
loved and was beloved had been like the strains of soothing music to
her, and she had looked forward to her return to the young lawyer's
office as to a place of refuge, where she would meet with kindness and
sympathy that would comfort her immeasurably.
But these beautiful dreams had been ruthlessly shattered; she could
never be anything to Royal Bryant--he could never be anything to her,
after learning what she had learned that night.
Edith determined to leave New York at once. With this object in view,
she disposed of most of her furniture to a broker, who gave her sixty
dollars for it. She reserved articles she presented to her stanch
friend, Kate O'Brien. These matters attended to, she wrote a letter to
Mr. Bryant, mailed it, and a few hours later was on the train, en
route to Boston.
On Thursday morning Mr. Bryant, returning to town from a business
trip, cheerfully entered his office, expecting to behold there the
radiant face of Edith. To his great disappointment, she was absent;
and her absence was explained in the appended letter, which he read
with dismay and dejection.
"DEAR MR. BRYANT:--Inclosed you will find the amount which
you so kindly loaned me on Monday, and without which I
should have been in sore straits. On reaching home that day,
I found my mother dying. She was buried yesterday afternoon,
and I am now entirely alone in the world. I find that
circumstances will not permit me to return to your employ,
and when you receive this I shall have left New York. Pray
do not think that because I do not see you and thank you
personally before I go, I am ungrateful for all your recent
and unexampled kindness to me. I am not, I assure you; I
shall never forget it--it will be one of the sacred memories
of my life, that in you, in a time of dire need, I found a
true friend and helper.
Sincerely yours,
EDITH ALLANDALE."
The lawyer lost no time in hastening to Edith's late residence. There
he learned from Kate O'Brien that Edith had already gone, but she
knew not her destination. He stated that he wished to consult the
young lady upon a business matter and that if Mrs. O'Brien should
learn of her address, it would be considered a great favor if she
would bring it to him. This the kind-hearted Irish woman agreed to do,
and with a heavy heart the young lawyer returned to his place of
business.
Meanwhile, Edith was being wheeled along the rails toward her
destination. When the train reached New Haven, feeling faint, for she
had not been able to eat much breakfast, she got out to purchase a
lunch.
She entered the station and bought some sandwiches, together with a
little fruit, and then started to return to the train.
Just in front of her she noticed a fine-looking, richly-clad couple
who were evidently bound in the same direction.
The gentleman opened the door for his companion to pass out, but as
she did so, the heel of her boot caught upon the threshold, and she
would have fallen heavily to the platform if Edith had not sprung
forward and caught her by the hand which she threw out to save
herself.
As it was, she was evidently badly hurt, for she turned very white and
a sharp cry of pain was forced from her lips.
"Are you injured, madam? Can I do anything for you?" Edith inquired,
while her husband, springing to her aid, exclaimed, in a tone of
mingled concern and impatience:
"What have you done, Anna?"
"Turned my ankle, I think," the woman replied, as she leaned heavily
against his shoulder for support.
Edith stooped to pick up the beautiful Russia leather bag which she
had dropped as she stumbled, and followed the couple to the train,
where, with the help of a porter, the injured lady was assisted into a
parlor car.
The one adjoining it was the common passenger coach in which Edith had
ridden from New York.
"Here is madam's bag, sir," she remarked to the gentleman, as,
supporting his wife with one arm, he was about to pass into the
Pullman.
"Are you going on this train?" he inquired, looking back over his
shoulder at her.
"Yes, sir; but I do not belong in the parlor car."
"Never mind; we will fix that all right. Bring the bag along, if you
will be so kind," he returned, as he went on with his companion.
So Edith followed them to the little state-room at one end of the car,
where madam sank heavily into a chair, looking as if she were ready to
swoon.
"Oh, get off my boot!" she pleaded, thrusting out her injured foot.
Edith drew forward a hassock for it to rest upon, and then, with a
face full of sympathy, dropped upon her knees and began to unbutton
the boot, which, however, was no easy matter, as the ankle was already
much swollen.
The train began to move just at this moment, and the young girl
started to her feet, an anxious look sweeping over her face.
"Never mind," said the gentleman, reassuringly. "Unless you have
friends aboard the train to be troubled about you, I will take you
back to your car presently."
"I have no one--I am traveling alone," Edith responded, and flushing
slightly, as she encountered the gaze of earnest admiration which he
bestowed upon her.
The gentleman's face lighted at her reply.
"Then would it be presuming upon your kindness too much to ask you to
remain with my wife?" he inquired. "I am perfectly helpless, like most
men, when any one is ill and we know no one on the train."
"I will gladly stay, and do whatever I can for her," eagerly returned
Edith, who felt that it would be a great relief and safeguard if she
could complete her journey under the protection of these prepossessing
people; while, too, it would give her something to think of and keep
her from dwelling upon her own sorrows.
As Edith, from time to time, continued her ministering to the injured
foot, rubbing it with alcohol, to reduce the inflammation, she was
questioned by her new acquaintances, and informed them of her recent
bereavement and of her lonely condition, and stated that she was going
to Boston to try to secure employment.
She was applying the alcohol when the lady said:
"That will do for the present, Miss ---- What shall I call you,
please?" she remarked, signifying that she did not care to have the
foot rubbed any longer at that time.
"Edith Allen--Oh, what have I done?" the young girl suddenly cried
out, in a voice of pain, as the woman winced and gave vent to a moan
beneath her touch.
"Nothing--do not be troubled, dear--only you happened to touch a very
tender spot," exclaimed the lady, trying to smile reassuringly into
the girl's startled face. "So your name is Edith Allen; that sounds
very nice," she continued. "I am fond of pretty names as I am of
pretty people."
Edith opened her lips to correct her regarding her name; then suddenly
checked herself.
It did not matter, she thought, if they did not know her full name.
She might never see them again; she had a right to use only the first
half of her surname, if she chose, and it would not be nearly so
conspicuous as Allandale, which was so familiar in certain circles in
New York.
Thus she concluded to let the matter rest as it was.
The acquaintance thus begun was productive of an utterly unexpected
result. Before the trip was ended, the lady had induced Edith to
accept the position of traveling companion to her, at a salary of
twenty-five dollars a month. She stated that about a month previous
she had lost the services of the female who had filled the position,
and until this time had been unable to find a suitable person for the
place.
Edith decided to try the position for a month; "then," she added, "if
I meet your requirements, we can arrange for a longer time."
"Very well; I am pleased with that arrangement. And now, Edith--of
course I am not going to be so formal as to address you as Miss
Allen--"
"Certainly not," interposed Edith, with a charming little smile and
blush.
"I was about to remark," the lady went on, "that I think it is time we
were formally introduced to you. My husband is known as Gerald
Goddard, Esq., of No. ---- Commonwealth avenue, Boston, and I am--Mrs.
Goddard."
Edith wondered why she should have paused before speaking thus of
herself; why she should have shot that quick, flashing glance into her
husband's face as she did so.
She was a very handsome woman of perhaps forty-two or forty-three
years. She was slightly above the medium height, with a magnificently
proportioned figure. Her hair was coal-black, with a tendency to curl;
her eyes were of the same color, very large and brilliant, and
rendered peculiarly expressive by the long raven lashes which shaded
them. Her complexion was a pale olive, clear and smooth as satin; her
features were somewhat irregular, but singularly pleasing when she was
animated; her cheeks slightly tinted, her lips a vivid scarlet, her
teeth white as alabaster.
Later, when Edith saw her arrayed for an evening reception, she
thought her the most brilliantly handsome woman she had ever seen.
As Mrs. Goddard finished speaking, Edith involuntarily glanced up at
Mr. Gerald Goddard, when she was startled to find him sharply
scrutinizing her, with a look which seemed to be trying to read her
through and through.
His glance sent a strange chill running through her veins--a sensation
almost of fear and repulsion; and she found herself hoping that she
would not be obliged to see very much of the gentleman, even though
she was destined to become an inmate of his home.
He was evidently somewhat older than his wife, for his hair was almost
white and his face somewhat lined--whether from time, care, or
dissipation, Edith could not quite determine.
He would have been called and was regarded by the society in which he
moved as a remarkably handsome and distinguished looking man, who
entertained "like a prince," and possessed an exhaustless fund of wit
and knowledge.
Nevertheless, Edith was repelled by him, and felt that he was not a
man to be either trusted or loved, even though she had not been an
hour in his presence before she was made to realize that his wife
adored him.