"YOU SHALL NEVER WANT FOR A FRIEND."
Up in the third story, poor Edith lay upon her bed, still in an
unconscious state.
All the wedding finery had been removed and carried away, and she lay
scarcely less white than the spotless _robe de nuit_ she wore, her
lips blue and pinched, her eyes sunken and closed.
A physician sat beside her, his fingers upon her pulse, his eyes
gravely fixed upon the beautiful, waxen face lying on the pillow.
Two housemaids, looking frightened and anxious, were seated near him,
watching him and the still figure on the bed, but ready to obey
whatever command he might issue to them.
After introducing his sister to Mrs. Stewart, Emil Correlli had
slipped away from the scene of gayety, which had become almost
maddening to him, and mounted to that third-story room to inquire
again regarding the condition of the girl he had so wronged.
"No better," came the answer, which made him turn with dread, and a
terrible fear to take possession of his heart.
What if Edith should never revive? What if she should die in one of
these dreadful swoons?
His guilty conscience warned him that he would have been her murderer.
He could not endure the thought, and slinking away to his own room, he
drank deeply to stupefy himself, and then went to bed.
Gerald Goddard also was strangely exercised over the fair girl's
condition, and half an hour after his interview with Mrs. Stewart he
crept forth from his room again and went to see if there had been any
change in her condition.
"Yes," Dr. Arthur told him, "she is coming out of it, and if another
does not follow, she will come around all right in time. If you could
only find that housekeeper," he added, "she must have good care
through the night."
"I will go for her again," said Mr. Goddard, and he started downstairs
upon his quest.
He met the woman on the second floor and just coming up the back
stairs.
"Ah! Mrs. Weld, I am glad to find you. We have needed you sadly," he
eagerly exclaimed.
"I am sorry," the woman replied, in a regretful tone. "I was
unavoidably engaged and came just as soon as I was at liberty. What is
this I hear?" she continued, gravely; "what is this story about the
poor child being cheated into a real marriage with madam's brother? Is
it true?"
"Hush! no one must hear such a version," said Mr. Goddard, looking
anxiously about him.
He then proceeded to explain something of the matter, for he saw that
she knew too much to keep still, unless she was told more, and
cautioned not to discuss the matter with the servants.
"I knew nothing of the plot until it was all over--I swear to you I
did not," he said, when she began to express her indignation at the
affair. "I never would have permitted anything of the kind to have
been carried out in my house, if I had suspected it. It seems that
Correlli has been growing fond of her ever since he came. She has
refused him twice, but he swore that he would have her, in spite of
everything, and it seems that he concocted this plot to accomplish his
end."
"Well, sir, he is a dastardly villain, and, in my opinion, his sister
is no better than himself," Mrs. Weld exclaimed, in tones of hot
indignation, and then she swept past him and on up to Edith's room.
She opened the door and entered just as the poor girl heaved a long
sigh and unclosed her eyes, looking about with complete consciousness
for the first time since she fell to the floor in the parlor below.
The physician immediately administered a stimulant, for she was
naturally weak and her pulses still feeble.
As this began to take effect, memory also resumed its torturing work.
Lifting her eyes to the housekeeper, who went at once to her side, a
spasm of agony convulsed her beautiful features.
"Oh, Mrs. Weld!" she moaned, shivering from head to foot.
"Hush, child!" said the woman, bending over her and laying a gentle
hand upon her head; "it will all come right, so just shut your eyes
and try to go to sleep. I am going to stay with you to-night, and
nobody else shall come near you. Don't talk before the servants," she
added, in a swift whisper close to her ear.
An expression of intense relief swept over the fair sufferer's face at
this friendly assurance, and lifting a grateful look to the
housekeeper's face, she settled herself contentedly upon her pillow.
Dr. Arthur then drew Mrs. Weld to the opposite side of the room, where
he gave her directions for the night and what to do in case the
fainting should return--which, however, he said he did not anticipate,
as the action of the heart had become normal and the circulation more
natural.
A little later he took his leave, after which the housemaids were
dismissed and Edith was alone with her friend.
When the door closed after them the girl stretched forth her hands in
a gesture of helpless appeal to the woman.
"Oh, Mrs. Weld," she wailed, "must I be bound to that wretch during
the remainder of my life? I cannot live and bear such a fate! Oh, what
a shameful mockery it was! I felt, all the time, as if I were
committing a sacrilege, and yet I never dreamed that I was being used
so treacherously--"
The housekeeper sat down beside the excited girl, whose eyes were
burning with a feverish light, and who showed symptoms of returning
hysteria.
She removed her spectacles, and taking both of those trembling hands
in hers, looked steadily into the troubled eyes.
"My child," she said, in a gentle, soothing tone, "you must not talk
about it to-night--you must not even think about it. I have told you
that it will all come out right; no man could hold you to such a
marriage--no court would hold you bound when once it is understood how
fraudulently you had been drawn into it."
"But who is going to be able to prove that it was fraudulent?"
questioned Edith with increasing anxiety. "Apparently I went to the
altar with that man of my own free will; with all the semblance of
sincerity I took those marriage vows upon me and then received the
congratulations of all those guests as if I were a real wife. Oh, it
was terrible! terrible! terrible!" and her voice arose almost to a
shriek of agony as she concluded.
"Hush! not another word! Edith look at me!" commanded Mrs. Weld with
gentle but impressive authority.
The young girl, awed to silence in spite of her grief and nervous
excitement, looked wonderingly up into those magnetic eyes which
almost seemed to betray a dual nature.
"Oh, dear Mrs. Weld, you do not seem at all like yourself," she
gasped. "What--who are you?"
"I am your friend, my dear," was the soothing response, "and I am
going to prove it, first by forbidding you to refer to this subject
again until after you have had a nice, long sleep. Trust me and obey
me, dear; I am going to stand by you as long as you need a friend, and
I promise you that you shall never be a slave to the man who has so
wronged you to-night. Now put it all out of your mind. I do not want
to give you an opiate if I can avoid it, for you would not be so well
to-morrow after taking it; but I shall have to if you keep up this
excitement."
She continued to hold the girl's trembling hands in a strong,
protecting clasp, while she still gazed steadily into her eyes,
until, as if overcome by a will stronger than her own--her physical
strength being well-nigh exhausted--the white lids gradually drooped,
the rigid form relaxed, the lines smoothed themselves out of her brow,
and she was soon sleeping quietly and restfully.
When her regular breathing assured the watcher beside her that
oblivion had sealed her senses for the time, she bent over her,
touched her lips softly to her forehead, and murmured:
"Dear heart, they shall never hold you to that wicked ceremony--to
that unholy bond! If the law will not cancel it, if they have sprung
the trap upon you so cunningly that the court cannot free you, they
shall at least leave you in peace and virtually free, and you shall
never want for a friend as long as--as--Gertrude Weld lives," she
concluded, a peculiar smile wreathing her lips.
While this strange woman sat in that third-story room and watched her
sleeping patient, the hours sped by on rapid wings to the merry
dancers below, very few of whom concerned themselves about, or even
knew of, the tragic ending of the marriage which they had witnessed
earlier in the evening.
But oh, how heavily these hours dragged to one among that smiling
throng!
Anna Goddard could scarcely control her impatience for her guests to
be gone--for the terrible farce to end.
How terrible it all was to her not one of the gay people around her
could suspect, for she was obliged to fawn and smile as if she were in
thorough sympathy with the scene, and to attend to her duties as
hostess and to all the petty details required by so-called etiquette,
in order to preserve the prestige which she had acquired for
entertaining handsomely.
But there was a deadly fear at her heart--an agony of apprehension, a
dread of a fate which, to her, would have been worse than death.
Her husband and brother had disappeared entirely from the ball-room, a
circumstance which only added to her perplexity and distress.
When she saw signs of the ball breaking up she sent an imperative
message to her husband to join her, for she knew that it would cause
unpleasant remarks if the master of the house should fail to put in an
appearance to "speed the parting guest."
But she almost wished, when he came to her side, that she had not sent
for him, for he seemed like one who had lost his hold upon every hope
in the world, and looked so coldly upon her that she would rather have
had him plunge a dagger into her heart.
But the weary evening was over at length--the last guest from outside
was gone--the last visitor in the house had retired.
Her husband also had watched his opportunity, when she was looking
another way, and had slipped out of the room and upstairs to escape
having any complaints or questions from her.
And so Anna Goddard stood alone in her elegant drawing-room, a most
miserable woman, in spite of the luxury that surrounded her.
She had everything that heart could wish of this world's goods--a
beautiful home in the city, another in the country, horses, carriages,
servants, fine raiment, costly jewels, and fared sumptuously every
day.
But her heart was like a sepulcher, full of corruption that had
tainted her whole life; and now, as she stood there beneath the glare
of a hundred lights, so fair to look upon in her gleaming satins and
flashing jewels, it seemed to her that she would gladly exchange
places with the humblest country-woman if thereby she could be at
peace with herself and with God, and be the center of a loving and
loyal family, happy in the performances of her simple duties as a wife
and mother.
Finally, with a weary sigh, the unhappy woman went slowly upstairs,
feeling as if, in spite of the smiles and compliments which she had
that evening received, she had not a real friend in the world.
Going to her dressing-case, she began to remove her jewels.
The house was very still--so still that it almost seemed deserted, and
this feeling only served to add to the sense of loneliness and
desolation that was oppressing her.
Her face was full of pain, her beautiful lips quivered with suppressed
emotion as she gathered up her costly treasures in both hands and
stood looking at them a moment, thinking bitterly how much money they
represented, and yet of how little real value they were to her as an
essential element in her life.
She moved toward her casket to put her gems carefully away.
She stood looking down into the box for a minute, then, as if impelled
by some irresistible impulse, she laid the priceless stones all in a
heap upon the table, when, taking hold of a loop, which had escaped
the housekeeper's notice, she lifted the cushion from its place, thus
revealing the papers which had been concealed beneath it.
She seized the uppermost one with an eager hand.
"I believe I will destroy it," she mused, "I am afraid there is
something more in his desire to possess it than he is willing to
admit, for he is so determined to get possession of it."
She half unfolded the document as if to examine it, when a sudden
shock went quivering through her frame and a look of amazement
overspread her face.
"What can this mean?" she exclaimed, in a tone of alarm, as she dashed
it upon the floor and seized another.
This also proved disappointing.
"It was here the last time I looked! I am sure I left it on top of the
others!" she muttered, with white lips, as, with trembling hands and
heaving bosom, she overturned everything in search of the missing
document.
But the most rigid examination failed to reveal it, and, with a cry of
mingled agony and anger, she sank weak and trembling upon the nearest
chair.
"It is gone!" she whispered, hoarsely; "some one has stolen it!"
She sat there looking utterly helpless and wretched for a few
moments.
Then her eyes began to blaze and her lips to twitch spasmodically.
"He has done this!" she cried, starting to her feet once more. "That
was why he was absent so long from the ball-room to-night."
Seizing the papers she had removed from the box, she hastily replaced
them, also the cushion, restoring the jewels to their places, after
which she shut and locked the casket, taking care to remove the key
from its lock.
This done, she hurried from the room, looking more like a beautiful
fiend than a woman.