"I WILL RISE ABOVE MY SIN AND SHAME!"
Edith's strange visitor stood contemplating her with a look of mingled
perplexity and sadness.
It was evident that she could not understand how any one could be glad
to renounce a man like Emil Correlli, with the fortune and position
which he could give the woman of his choice.
The two made a striking tableau as they stood there facing each other,
with that beautiful child between them; for in style and coloring,
they were exactly the opposite of each other.
Edith, so fair and slight, with her delicate features and golden hair,
her great innocent blue eyes, graceful bearing, and cultivated manner,
which plainly betrayed that she had been reared in an atmosphere of
gentleness and refinement.
The other was of a far different type, yet, perhaps, not less striking
and beautiful in her way.
She was of medium height, with a full, voluptuous form, a complexion
of pale olive, with brilliantly scarlet lips, and eyes like "black
diamonds," and hair that had almost a purple tinge in its ebon masses;
her features, though far from being regular, were piquant, and when
she was speaking lighted into fascinating animation with every passing
emotion.
"I shall be free!" Edith murmured again with a long-drawn sigh of
relief, "for of course you will assert your claim upon him, and"--with
a glance at the child--"he will not dare to deny it."
"You are so anxious to be free? You would bless me for helping you to
be free?" repeated her companion, studying the girl's face earnestly,
questioningly.
"Ah, yes; I was almost in despair when you came in," Edith replied,
shivering, and with starting tears; "now I begin to hope that my life
has not been utterly ruined."
Her visitor flushed crimson, and her great black eyes flashed with
sudden anger.
"My curse be upon him for all the evil he has done!" she cried,
passionately. "Oh! how gladly would I break the bond that binds you to
him, but--I have not the power; I have no claim upon him."
Edith regarded her with astonishment.
"No claim upon him?" she repeated, with another glance at the little
one who was gazing from one to another with wondering eyes.
The mother's glance followed hers, and an expression of despair swept
over her face.
"Oh, Holy Virgin, pity me!" she moaned, a blush of shame mantling her
cheeks.
Then lifting her heavy eyes once more to Edith, she continued,
falteringly:
"The boy is his and--mine; but--I have no legal claim upon him--I am
no wife."
For a moment after this humiliating confession there was an unbroken
silence in that elegant room.
Then a hot wave of sympathetic color flashed up to Edith's brow, while
a look of tender, almost divine, compassion gleamed in her lovely
eyes.
For the time she forgot her own wretchedness in her sympathy for her
erring and more unfortunate sister--for the woman and the mother who
had been outraged beyond compare.
At length she raised her hand and laid it half-timidly, but with
exceeding kindness, upon her shoulder.
"I understand you now," she said, gently, "and I am very sorry."
The words were very simple and commonplace; but the tone, the look,
and the gesture that accompanied them spoke more than volumes, and
completely won the heart of the passionate and despairing creature
before her for all time.
They also proved too much for her self-possession, and, with a moan of
anguish, throwing herself upon her knees beside her child, she clasped
him convulsively in her arms and burst into a flood of weeping.
"Oh! my poor, innocent baby! to think that this curse must rest upon
you all your life--it breaks my heart!" she moaned, while she
passionately covered his head and face with kisses. "They tell me
there is a God," she went on, hoarsely, as she again struggled to her
feet, "but I do not believe it--no God of love would ever create
monsters like Emil Correlli, and allow them to deceive and ruin
innocent girls, blackening their pure souls and turning them to fiends
incarnate! Yes, I mean it," she panted, excitedly, as she caught
Edith's look of horror at her irreverent and reckless expressions.
"Listen!" she continued, eagerly. "Only three years ago I was a pure
and happy girl, living with my parents in my native land--fair,
beautiful, sunny Italy--"
"Italy?" breathlessly interposed Edith, as she suddenly remembered
that she also had been born in that far Southern clime. Then she grew
suddenly pale as she caught the eyes of the little one gazing
curiously into her face, and also remembered that "the curse" which
his mother had but a moment before so deplored, rested upon her as
well.
Involuntarily, she took his little hand, and lifting it to her lips,
imprinted a soft caress upon it, at which the child smiled, showing
his pretty white teeth, and murmured some fond musical term in
Italian.
"You are an angel not to hate us both," said his mother, a sudden
warmth in her tones, a gleam of gratitude in her dusky eyes. "But were
you ever in Italy?" she added, curiously.
"Yes, when I was a little child; but I do not remember anything about
it," said Edith, with a sigh. "Do not stand with the child in your
arms," she added, thoughtfully. "Come, sit here, and then you can go
on with what you were going to tell me."
And, with a little sense of malicious triumph, Edith pulled forward
the beautiful rocker of carved ivory, and saw the woman sink wearily
into it with a feeling of keen satisfaction. It seemed to her like the
irony of fate that it should be thus occupied for the first time.
She would have been only too glad to heap all the beautiful clothes,
jewels, and laces upon the woman also, but she felt that they did not
belong to her, and she had no right to do so. Taking her little one on
her knee, the young woman laid his head upon her breast, and swaying
gently back and forth, began her story.
"My father was an olive grower, and owned a large vineyard besides, in
the suburbs of Rome. He was a man of ample means, and took no little
pride in the pretty home which he was enabled to provide for his
family. My mother was a beautiful woman, somewhat above him socially,
although I never knew her to refer to the fact, and I was their only
child.
"Like many other fond parents who have but one upon whom to expend
their love and money, they thought I must be carefully reared and
educated--nothing was considered too good for me, and I had every
advantage which they could bestow. I was happy--I led an ideal life
until I was seventeen years of age. When carnival time came around,
we all went in to Rome to join in the festivities, and there I met my
fate, in the form of Emil Correlli."
"Ah! but I thought that he was a Frenchman!" interposed Edith, in
surprise.
"His father was a Frenchman, but his mother was born and reared in
Italy, where, in Rome, he studied under the great sculptor, Powers,"
her guest explained. Then she resumed: "We met just as we were both
entering the church of St. Peter's. He accidently jostled me; then, as
he turned to apologize, our eyes met, and from that moment my fate was
sealed. I cannot tell you all that followed, dear lady, it would take
too long; but, during the next three months it seemed to me as if I
were living in Paradise. Before half that time had passed, Emil had
confessed his love for me, and made an excuse to see me almost every
day. But my parents did not approve; they objected to his attentions;
his mother, they learned by some means, belonged to a noble family,
and 'lords and counts should not mate with peasants,' they said."
"Then I made the fatal mistake of disobeying them and meeting my lover
in secret. Ah, lady," she here interposed with a bitter sigh, "the
rest is but the old story of man's deception and a maiden's blind
confidence in him; and when, all too late, I discovered my error,
there seemed but one thing for me to do, and that was to flee with him
to America, whither he was coming to pursue his profession in a great
city."
"And--did he not offer to--to marry you before you came?" queried
Edith, aghast.
"No; he pretended that he dared not--he was so well-known in Rome that
the secret would be sure to be discovered, he said, and then my father
would separate us forever; but he promised that when we arrived in New
York, he would make everything all right; therefore, I, still blindly
trusting him, let him lead me whither he would.
"I was very ill during the passage, and for weeks following our
arrival, and so the time slipped rapidly by without the consummation
of my hopes, and though he gave me a pleasant home and everything
that I wished for in the house where we lived, even allowing it to
appear that I was his wife, we had not been here long before I saw
that he was beginning to tire of me. I did everything I could to keep
his love, I studied tirelessly to master the language of the country,
and kept myself posted upon art and subjects which interested him
most, in order to make myself companionable to him. Time after time I
entreated him to fight the wrong he was doing me and another, who
would soon come either into the shelter of his fatherhood or to
inherit the stigma of a dishonored mother; but he always had some
excuse with which to put me off. At last this little one came"--she
said, folding the child more closely in her arms--"and I had something
pure and sweet to love, even though I was heart-broken over knowing
that a blight must always rest upon his life, and something to occupy
the weary hours which, at times, hung so heavily upon my hands. After
that Emil seemed to become more and more indifferent to me--there
would be weeks at a time that I would not see him at all; I used
sometimes to think that the boy was a reproach to him, and he could
not bear the stings of his own conscience in his presence."
"Ah," interposed Edith, with a scornful curl of her red lips, "such
men have no conscience; they live only to gratify their selfish
impulses."
"Perhaps; while those they wrong live on and on, with a never-dying
worm gnawing at their vitals," returned her companion, repressing a
sob.
"At last," she resumed, "I began to grow jealous of him, and to spy
upon his movements. I discovered that he went a great deal to one of
the up-town hotels, and I sometimes saw him go out with a handsome
woman, whom I afterward learned was his sister--the Mrs. Goddard, who
lives here, and who visits New York several times every year. I did
not mind so much when I discovered the relationship between them,
although I suffered many a bitter pang to see how fond they were of
each other, while I was starving for some expression of his love.
"This went on for nearly two years; then about two months ago, Emil
disappeared from New York, without saying anything to me of his
intentions, although he left plenty of money deposited to my account.
He was always generous in that way, and insisted that Ino must have
everything he wished or needed--I am sure he is fond of the child, in
spite of everything. By perseverance and ceaseless inquiry, I finally
learned that he had come to Boston, and I immediately followed him. I
am suspicious and jealous by nature, like all my people, and that day,
when I saw him walking with you, and looking at you just as he used to
look at me in those old delicious days in Italy, all the passion of my
nature was aroused to arms. Braving everything, I rushed over to him
and denounced him for his treachery to me, also accusing him of making
love to you."
"And did it seem to you that I was receiving his attentions with
pleasure?" questioned Edith, with a repugnant shrug of her shoulders.
"I assure you he had forced his company upon me, and I only endured it
to save making a scene in the street."
"I did not stop to reason about your appearance," said the woman; "at
least not further than to realize that you were very lovely, and just
the style of beauty to attract Emil; but he swore to me that you were
only the companion of his sister, and he had only met you on the
street by accident--that you were nothing to him. He asked me to tell
him where he could find me, and promised that he would come to me
later. He kept his word, and has visited me every few days ever since,
treating me more kindly than for a long time, but insisting that I
must keep entirely out of the way of his sister. And so it came upon
me like a deadly blow when I read that account of his marriage in
yesterday's paper. I was wrought up to a perfect frenzy, especially
when I came to the statement that Monsieur and Madam Correlli would
return immediately to Boston, but leave soon after for a trip South
and West, and ultimately sail for Europe. That was more than outraged
nature could bear, and I vowed that I would wreak a swift and sure
revenge upon you both, and so, for two days, I have haunted this
house, seeking for an opportunity to gain an entrance unobserved. I
saw you sitting at the window--I recognized you instantly. I believed,
of course, that you were a willing bride, and imagined that if I could
get in I should find you both in this room. While I watched my chance,
one of the servants came to the area door to let in the gas-man, and
carelessly left it ajar, while she went back with him into one of the
rooms. In a moment I was in the lower hall, looking for a back
stairway; if any one had found me I was going to beg a drink of water
for my child. There was a door there, but it was locked; but
desperation makes one keen, and I was not long in finding a key
hanging up on a nail beneath a window-sill. The next instant the door
was unlocked, and I on my way upstairs--"
"And the key! oh! what did you do with the key?" breathlessly
interposed Edith, grasping at this unexpected chance to escape.
"I have it here, lady," said her companion, as she produced it. "I
thought it might be convenient for me to go out the same way, so took
possession of it."
"Ah, then the door to the back stairway is still unlocked?" breathed
Edith, with trembling lips.
"Yes; I did not stop to lock it after me; I hurried straight up here,
but--expecting to have a very different interview from what I have
had," responded the woman, with a heavy sigh. "Now, lady, you have my
story," she continued, after a moment of silence, "you can see that I
have been deeply wronged, and though from a moral standpoint, I have
every claim upon Emil Correlli, yet legally, I have none whatever;
and, unless you can prove some flaw in that ceremony of night before
last--prove that he fraudulently tricked you into a marriage with him,
you are irrevocably bound to him."
Edith shivered with pain and abhorrence at these last words, but she
did not respond to them in any way.
"I came here with hatred in my heart toward you," the other went on,
"but I shall go away blessing you for your kindness to me; for,
instead of shrinking from me, as one defiled and too depraved to be
tolerated, you have held out the hand of sympathy to me and listened
patiently and pityingly to the story of my wrongs."
As she concluded, she dropped her face upon the head of her child with
a weary, disheartened air that touched Edith deeply.
"Will you tell me your name?" she questioned, gently, after a moment
or two of silence. "Pardon me," she added, flushing, as her companion
looked up sharply, "I am not curious, but I do not know how to address
you."
"Giulia Fiorini. Holy Mother forgive me the shame I have brought upon
it!" she returned, with a sob. "I have called him"--laying her
trembling hand upon the soft, silky curls of her child--"Ino Emil."
"Thank you," said Edith, "and for your confidence in me as well. You
have been greatly wronged; and if there is any justice or humanity in
law, this tie, which so fetters me, shall be annulled; then,
perchance, Monsieur Correlli may be persuaded to do what is right
toward you.
"No, lady, I have no hope of that," said Giulia, dejectedly, "for when
a man begins to tire of the woman whom he has injured he also begins
to despise her, and to consider himself ill-used because she even
dares to exist."
"Perhaps you would wish to repudiate him," suggested Edith, who felt
that such would be her attitude toward any man who had so wronged her.
"Oh, no; much as I have suffered, I still love Emil, and would gladly
serve him for the remainder of my life, if he would but honor me with
his name; but I know him too well ever to hope for that--I know that
he is utterly selfish and would mercilessly set his heel upon me if I
should attempt to stand in the way of his purposes. There is nothing
left for me but to go back to my own country, confess my sin to my
parents, and hide myself from the world until I die."
"Ah! but you forget that you have your child to rear and educate, his
mind and life to mold, and--try to make him a better man than his
father," said Edith, with a tender earnestness, which instantly melted
the injured girl to tears.
"Oh, that you should have thought of that, when I, his mother, forget
my duty to him, and think only of my own unhappiness!" sobbed the
conscience-stricken girl, as she hugged the wondering child closer to
her breast. "Yesterday I told myself that I would send Ino to him, and
then end my misery forever."
"Don't!" exclaimed Edith, sharply, her face almost convulsed with
pain. "Your life belongs to God, and--this baby. Live above your
trouble, Giulia; never let your darling have the pain and shame of
learning that his mother was a suicide. If you have made one mistake,
do not imagine that you can expiate it by committing another a
hundred-fold worse. Ah! think what comfort there would be in rearing
your boy to a noble manhood, and then hear him say, 'What I am my
mother has made me!'"
She had spoken earnestly, appealingly, and when she ceased, the
unhappy woman seized her hand and covered it with kisses.
"Oh, you have saved me!" she sobbed; "you have poured oil into my
wounds. I will do as you say--I will rise above my sin and shame; and
if Ino lives to be an honor to himself and the world, I shall tell him
of the angel who saved us both. I am very sorry for you," she added,
looking, regretfully, up at Edith; "I could almost lay down my life
for you now; but--Correlli is rich--very rich, and you may, perhaps,
be able to get some comfort out of life by--"
Edith started to her feet, her face crimson.
"What?" she cried, scornfully, "do you suppose that I could ever take
pleasure in spending even one dollar of his money? Look there!"
pointing to the elegant apparel upon the bed. "I found all those
awaiting me when I came here to-day. In the dressing-case yonder there
are laces, jewels, and fine raiment of every description, but I would
go in rags before I would make use of a single article. I loathe the
sight of them," she added, shuddering. "I should feel degraded,
indeed, could I experience one moment of pleasure arrayed in them."
Suddenly she started, and looked at her watch, a wild hope animating
her.
It was exactly quarter past two.
A train left for New York, via the Boston & Albany Railroad, at three
o'clock.
If she could reach the Columbus avenue station, which was less than
fifteen minutes' walk from Commonwealth avenue, without being missed,
she would be in New York by nine o'clock, and safe, for a time at
least, from the man she both hated and feared.