A SAD STORY DISCLOSED TO AN EAGER LISTENER.
Royal Bryant was not very much surprised by this abrupt information
and interference with their movements.
What Edith had said to him, just before getting out of the train, had
suggested the possibility of such an incident, consequently he was not
thrown off his guard, as he might otherwise have been.
At the same time he flushed up hotly, and, confronting the officer
with flashing eyes, remarked, with freezing hauteur:
"I do not understand you, sir. I think you have made a mistake; this
lady is under my protection."
"But I have orders to intercept a person answering to this lady's
description," returned the policeman, but speaking with not quite his
previous assurance.
"By whose orders are you acting, if I may inquire?" demanded the young
man.
"A Boston party."
"And the lady's name, if you please?"
"No name is given, sir; but she is described as a girl of about
twenty, pure blonde, very pretty, slight and graceful in figure,
wearing a dark-brown dress and jacket and a brown hat with black
feathers. She will be alone and has no baggage," said the policeman,
reading from the telegram which he had received some two hours
previous.
Mr. Bryant smiled loftily.
"Your description hits the case in some respects, I admit," he
observed, with an appreciative glance at Edith, who stood beside him
outwardly calm and collected, though the hand that rested upon his arm
was tense with repressed emotion, "but in others it is wide of its
mark. You have her personal appearance, in a general way, and the
dress happens to correspond in everything but the hat. You will
observe that the lady wears a black hat with a scarlet wing instead of
a brown one with black feathers. She did not arrive alone, either, as
you perceive, we got off the train together."
The officer looked perplexed.
"What may your name be, sir, if you please?" he inquired, with more
civility than he had yet shown.
"Royal Bryant, of the firm of Bryant & Co., Attorneys. Here is my
card, and you can find me at my office between the hours of nine and
four any day you may wish," the young man frankly returned, as he
slipped the bit of pasteboard into the man's hand.
"And will you swear that you are not aiding and abetting this young
lady in trying to escape the legal authority of friends in Boston?"
questioned the policeman, as he sharply scanned the faces before him.
"Ahem! I was not aware that I was being examined under oath,"
responded the young lawyer, with quiet irony. "However, I am willing
to give you my word of honor, as a gentleman, that this lady is
accountable to no one in Boston for her movements."
"Well, I reckon I have made a mistake; but where in thunder, then, is
the girl I'm after?" muttered the officer, with an anxious air.
"Does your telegram authorize you to arrest a runaway from Boston?"
Mr. Bryant inquired, with every appearance of innocence.
"Yes, a girl from the smart set, who don't want any scandal over the
matter," replied the man, referring again to the yellow slip in his
hand.
"But she may not have come by the Boston and Albany line," objected
Mr. Bryant. "There are several trains that leave the city from
different stations about the same time; you may find your bird on a
later train, Mr. Officer," he concluded, in a reassuring tone.
"That is so," was the thoughtful response.
"Then I suppose you will not care to detain us any longer," Mr. Bryant
courteously remarked. "Come, Edith," he added, turning with a smile to
his companion, and then he started to move on.
"Hold on! I'm blamed if I don't think I'm right after all," said the
policeman, in a tone of conviction, as he again placed himself in
their path.
Royal Bryant flashed a look of fire at him.
"Have you a warrant for the lady's arrest?" he sternly demanded.
"No; I am simply ordered to detain her until her friends can come on
and take charge of her," the man reluctantly admitted, while he heaved
a sigh for the fat plum that had been promised him in the event of his
"bagging his game."
"Then, if you are not legally authorized in this matter, I would
advise you, as a friend, to make no mistake," gravely returned the
young lawyer. "You might heap up wrath for yourself; while, if your
patrons are anxious to avoid a scandal, you are taking the surest way
to create one by interfering with the movements of myself and my
companion. This young lady is my friend, and, as I have already told
you, under my protection; as her attorney, also, I shall stand no
nonsense, I assure you."
"Beg pardon, sir; but I'm only trying to obey orders," apologized the
official. "But would you have the goodness to tell me this young
lady's name."
At any other time and under any other circumstances Mr. Bryant would
have resented this inquiry as an impertinence; but it occurred to him
that an appearance of frankness and compliance might save them further
inconvenience.
"Certainly," he responded, with the utmost cheerfulness, "this lady's
name is Miss Edith Allandale and she is the daughter of the late
Albert Allandale, of Allandale & Capen, bankers."
"It is all right, sir," said the officer, at last convinced that he
had made a mistake, for Allandale & Capen had been a well-known firm
to him. "You can go on," he added, touching his hat respectfully,
"and I beg pardon for troubling you."
Without more ado he turned away, while Edith and her escort passed on,
but the frightened girl was now trembling in every limb.
"Calm yourself, dear," whispered her companion, involuntarily using
the affectionate term, as he hastened to lead her into the fresh air.
"You are safe, and I will soon have you in a place where your enemies
will never think of looking for you."
He beckoned to the driver of a carriage as he spoke, and in another
minute was assisting Edith into it; then, taking a seat beside her, he
gave the man his order, and as the vehicle moved away in the darkness,
the poor girl began to breathe freely for the first time since
alighting from the train.
Mr. Bryant gave her a little time to recover herself, and then asked
her to tell him all her trouble.
This she was only too glad to do; and, beginning with the death of her
mother, she poured out the whole story of the last three months to
him, dwelling mostly, however, upon the persecutions of Emil Correlli
and the climax to which they had recently attained.
He listened attentively throughout, but interrupting her, now and
then, to ask a pertinent question as it occurred to him.
"I was in despair," Edith finally remarked in conclusion, "until
yesterday, when, by the merest chance, my eye fell upon that
advertisement of yours and it flashed upon me that the best course for
me to pursue would be to come directly to New York and seek your aid;
I felt sure you would be as willing to help me as upon a previous
occasion."
"Certainly I would--you judged me rightly," the young man responded,
"but"--bending nearer to her and speaking in a slightly reproachful
tone--"tell me, please, what was your object in leaving New York so
unceremoniously?"
He felt the slight shock which went quivering through her at the
question, and smiled to himself at her hesitation before she replied:
"I--I thought it was best," she faltered at last.
"Why for the 'best'?--for you or for me? Tell me, please," he pleaded,
gently.
"For--both," she replied in a scarcely audible tone that thrilled him
and made his face gleam with sudden tenderness.
"I--you will pardon me if I speak plainly--I thought it very strange,"
he remarked gravely. "It almost seemed to me as if you were fleeing
from me, for I fully expected that you would return to the office on
Thursday morning, as I had appointed. Had I done anything to offend
you or drive you away--Edith?"
"No--oh, no," she quickly returned.
"I am very glad to know that," said her companion, a slight
tremulousness in his tones, "for I have feared that I might have
betrayed my feelings in a way to wound or annoy you; for, Edith--I can
no longer keep the secret--I had learned to love you with all my heart
during that week that you spent in my office, and I resolved, on
parting with you at the carriage, the morning of your release, to
confess the fact to you as soon as you returned to the office, ask you
to be my wife and thus let me stand between you and the world for all
time. Nay,"--as Edith here made a little gesture as if to check
him--"I must make a full confession now, while I have the opportunity.
I was almost in despair when I received your brief note telling me
that you had left the city and without giving me the slightest clew to
your destination. All my plans, all my fond anticipations, were dashed
to the earth, dear. I loved you so I felt that I could not bear the
separation. I love you still, my darling--my heart leaped for joy this
afternoon when I received your telegram. And now, while I have you
here all to myself, I have dared to tell you of it, and beg you to
tell me if there is any hope for me? Can you love me in return!--will
you be my wife--?"
"Oh, hush! you forget the wretched tie that binds me to that villain
in Boston," cried Edith, and there was such keen pain in her voice
that tears involuntarily started to her companion's eyes, while at
the same time both words and tone thrilled him with sweetest hope.
"No tie binds you to him, dear," he whispered, tenderly. "Do you think
I would have opened my heart to you thus if I had really believed you
to be the wife of another?"
"Oh, do you mean that the marriage was not legal? Oh, if I could
believe that!" Edith exclaimed, with a note of such eager hope in her
tones that it almost amounted to the confession her lover had
solicited from her.
But he yearned to hear it in so many words from her lips.
"Tell me, Edith, if I can prove it to you, will there be hope for me?"
he whispered.
Ought she to answer him as her heart dictated? Dare she confess her
love with that stigma of her mother's early mistake resting upon her?
she asked herself, in anguish of spirit.
She sat silent and miserable, undecided what to do.
If she acknowledged her love for him, without telling him, and he
should afterward discover the story of her birth, might he not feel
that she had taken an unfair advantage of him.
And yet, how could she ever bring herself to disclose the shameful
secret of that sad, sad tragedy which had occurred twenty years
previous in Rome?
"I--dare not tell you," she murmured at last.
The young man started, then bent eagerly toward her.
"You 'dare' not tell me!" he cried, joyfully. "Darling, I am answered
already! But why do you hesitate to open your heart to me?"
A sudden resolve took possession of her; she would tell him the whole
truth, let come what might.
"I will not," she said. "I have a sad story to tell you; but first,
explain to me what you meant when you said that no tie binds me to
that man?"
"I meant that that marriage was simply a farce, in spite of the
sacrilegious attempt of your enemies to legalize it," said the young
lawyer, gravely.
"Can that be possible?" sighed Edith, her voice tremulous with joy.
"I will prove it to you. You have told me that this man Correlli lived
with that Italian woman here in New York for two years or more."
"Yes."
"Do you know whether he allowed her to be known by his name?"
"No; but she told me that he allowed her to appear as his wife in the
house where they lived."
"Well, then, if that can be proven--and I have not much doubt about
the matter--the girl, by the laws of New York, which decree that if a
couple live together in this State as husband and wife, they are
such--this girl, I say, is the legal wife of Emil Correlli,
consequently he can lay no claim to you without making himself liable
to prosecution for the crime of bigamy."
"Are you sure?" breathed Edith, and almost faint from joy, in view of
this blessed release from a fate which to her would have been worse
than death.
"So sure, dear, that I have nothing to fear for your future, regarding
your connection with this man, and everything to hope for regarding
your happiness and mine, if you will but tell me that you love me,"
her lover returned, as he boldly captured the hand that lay alluringly
near him.
She did not withdraw it from his clasp.
It was so sweet to feel herself beloved and safe, under the protection
of this true-hearted man, that a feeling of restfulness and content
swept over her, and for the moment every other was absorbed by this.
Still, Royal Bryant realized that she had some reason for hesitating
to acknowledge her affection for him, and after a moment of silence he
said, gently:
"Forgive my impatience, dear, and tell me the 'sad story' to which you
referred a little while ago."
A heavy sigh escaped Edith.
"You will be surprised to learn," she began, "that Mr. and Mrs.
Allandale were not my own parents--that I was their adopted daughter."
"Indeed! I am surprised!" exclaimed Mr. Bryant.
"I did not discover the fact, however," the young girl pursued, "until
the night after my mother's burial."
And then she proceeded to relate all that had occurred in connection
with the box of letters which Mrs. Allandale had desired, when dying,
to be burned.
She told of her subsequent examination of them, especially of those
signed "Belle," and the story which they had revealed. How the young
girl had left her home and parents to flee to Italy with the man whom
she loved; how she had discovered, later, that her supposed marriage
with him was a sham; how, soon after the birth of her child--Edith--her
husband had deserted her for another, leaving her alone and unprotected
in that strange land.
She related how, in her despair, her mother had resolved to die, and
pleaded with her friend, Mrs. Allandale, to take her little one and
rear it as her own, thus securing to her a happy home and life without
the possibility of ever discovering the stigma attached to her birth
or the cruel fate of her mother.
Royal Bryant listened to the pathetic tale without once interrupting
the fair narrator, and Edith's heart sank more and more in her bosom
as she proceeded, and feared that she was so shocking him by these
revelations that his affection for her would die with this expose of
her secret.
But he still held her hand clasped in his; and when, at the conclusion
of her story, she gently tried to withdraw it, his fingers closed more
firmly over hers, when, bending still nearer to her, he questioned, in
fond, eager tones:
"Was this the reason of your leaving New York so abruptly last
December?"
"Yes."
"Was it because you loved me and could not trust yourself to meet me
day after day without betraying the fact when you feared that the
knowledge of your birth might become a barrier between us? Tell me, my
darling, truly!"
"Yes," Edith confessed; "but how could you guess it--how could you
read my heart so like an open book?"
The young man laughed out musically, and there was a ring of joyous
triumph in the sound.
"'Tis said that 'love is blind,'" he said, "but mine was keen to read
the signs I coveted, and I believed, even when you were in your
deepest trouble, that you were beginning to love me, and that I should
eventually win you."
"Why! did you begin to--" Edith began, and then checked herself in
sudden confusion.
"Did I begin to plan to win you so far back as that?" he laughingly
exclaimed, and putting his own interpretation upon her half-finished
sentence. "My darling, I began to love you and to wish for you even
before your first day's work was done for me."