ISABEL STEWART ASTOUNDS MR. GODDARD.
But there was not a sound to be heard in the room beyond, although the
curtains still continued to vibrate gently, thus showing the presence
of some object that had caused the movement.
Mrs. Stewart arose to investigate, for the conversation in which she
had been engaged and the story she was relating were of such a nature
that she did not care to have a third party, especially a servant,
overhear it.
She parted the draperies and looked curiously into the room beyond.
But her act only revealed a pretty maltese kitten, which, being thus
aroused from its slumbers in its cozy place of concealment, rolled
over on its back and began to play with the heavy fringe that bordered
the costly hangings.
"Ah, Greylocks! so you are the rogue who has startled us!" said the
lady, with an amused smile. "I feared that we had an eavesdropper. You
are a very innocent one, however, and we will not take the trouble to
banish you."
She went back to her chair reassured, and without a suspicion of the
presence of one who hated her with a deadly hatred, and who still
stood, pale and trembling, concealed by the voluminous folds of the
draperies, but waiting with eager curiosity to overhear what should
follow.
Meantime the maid who had admitted Mrs. Goddard, feeling that she must
become wearied with her long waiting, had returned to the
reception-room to ascertain if she still desired to remain until her
mistress should be at liberty; but finding it empty, had concluded
that the lady had left the house, and so went about her business,
thinking no more of the matter.
"Yes," resumed Mrs. Stewart, after she had resumed her seat, "I knew,
from the description which my kind friends afterward gave me, that
Anna Correlli had come there to assure herself that her rival was
really dead. When--suspecting from her manner that she might know
something about me--they questioned her, she told them that, 'from
what she had read in the papers, she feared it might be some one whom
she knew; but she was mistaken--I was nothing to her--she had never
seen me before.' Then she went away with an air of utter indifference,
and I was left fortunately to the kindness of that noble hearted
brother and sister. They did everything that the fondest relatives
could have done, and, in their divine pity for one so friendless and
unfortunate, neglected not the smallest detail which they would have
bestowed upon an own sister. Only they, besides the undertaker and the
one Protestant pastor in the city, were present during the reading of
the service; and when that was over, Willard Livermore, actuated by
some unaccountable impulse, insisted upon closing the casket. He bent
over me to remove a Roman lily which his sister had placed in my
hands, and which he wished to preserve, and, while doing so, observed
that my fingers were no longer rigid--that the nails were even faintly
tinted. He was startled, and instantly summoned his sister. Hardly had
her own fingers pressed my pulse in search of evidence of life, when
my eyes unclosed and I moaned:
"'Don't let her come near me! She has stolen all the love out of my
life!"
"Then I immediately relapsed again into unconsciousness without even
knowing I had spoken. Later, when told of the fact, I could dimly
recall the sensation of a sudden shock which was instantly followed by
a vision of Anna Correlli's face and the sound of her voice, and I
firmly believe, to-day, that it was her presence alone that startled
my chilled pulses once more into action and thus awoke to new life the
torpid soul which had so nearly passed out into the great unknown."
Could the narrator have seen the face of the listener outside, her
tongue would have been paralyzed and the remainder of her story would
never have been told; for Anna Goddard, upon learning that she had
been the means of calling back to earth the woman whose existence had
shorn her of every future hope, looked--with her wild eyes and
demoniac face--as if she could be capable of any act that would
utterly annihilate the unsuspicious companion of the man whom her
untamed soul worshiped as only such a fierce and selfish nature could
worship a human being.
But she made no sign or sound to betray her presence, for she was
curious to hear the remainder of this strange story--to learn how her
beautiful rival had risen from disgrace and obscurity to her present
prosperity and enviable position in society.
"Of course," Mrs. Stewart resumed, "Mr. and Miss Livermore were both
thrown into a state of great excitement at such an unexpected
manifestation; but my words told them that there was some sad and
mysterious story connected with my life and the rash deed I had
committed, and they resolved to still surround me with their care and
protection until I should recover--if that were possible--instead of
committing me to a hospital, as many would have done.
"They bound both the clergyman and the undertaker to the strictest
secrecy; then I was immediately conveyed to Miss Livermore's own room,
where that noble girl cared for me as tenderly as a mother would nurse
her own child. For weeks I hovered between life and death, then slowly
began to mend. When I was able, I related to my kind friends the story
of my wrongs, to receive only gentle sympathy and encouragement,
instead of coldness and censure, such as the world usually metes out
to girls who err as I had erred. As I grew stronger, and realized that
I was to live, my mother-heart began to long for its child. Miss
Livermore agreed with me that it would be better for me to have her,
and went herself to make inquiries regarding her. But the nurse had
moved and none of her neighbors could give any information about her,
except that for a time she had charge of an infant, but after its
parents had come to claim it, she had moved away, and no one could
tell whither she had gone.
"From this I knew that my old friend, Edith Allendale, had responded
nobly to my appeal--that she had taken my child and adopted it as her
own. At first I was inclined to be disappointed, and contemplated
writing to Edith, telling her what had happened and ask her to
surrender the little one to me; but after thinking the matter over
more at length, I reasoned that it would be best to let everything
rest just as it was. I knew that my darling would be tenderly reared
in her new home; she would grow up to a happy womanhood without ever
knowing of the blight that rested upon her birth, or that her father
had been a villain, her mother a wronged and ruined woman--almost a
suicide. So I decided that I would never reveal myself to my old
friend, or undeceive her regarding my supposed fate, to disturb her
peace or her enjoyment of the child.
"But, following the advice of my new friends, I finally wrote to my
father and mother, confessing everything to them, imploring their
forgiveness for the grief and shame I had brought upon them, and
asking their counsel and wishes regarding my future. Imagine my joy
and gratitude when, three weeks later, they walked in upon me and took
me at once to their hearts, ignoring all the past, as far as any
censure or condemnation were concerned, and began to plan to make my
future as peaceful and happy as circumstances would allow.
"They had come abroad with the intention of remaining, they told me;
they would never ask me to return to my former home, where the fact
that I had eloped with an artist was known, but would settle in
London, where my father had some business interests, and where,
surrounded by the multitude, our former friends would never be likely
to meet us. We lived there, a quiet, peaceful, prosperous life, I
devoting myself assiduously to study to make up for what I had
sacrificed by leaving school so early, and to keep my mind from
dwelling upon my unhappy past.
"So the time slipped away until, five years ago, this tranquil life
was suddenly interrupted by my father's death. Six months later my
mother followed him, and I was again left alone, without a relative in
the world, the sole heiress to a half-million pounds--"
"A half-million pounds?" interposed Gerald Goddard, in a tone of
amazement.
"Yes; but of what value is money without some one to share it with
you?" questioned Isabel Stewart, in a voice of sadness.
Her companion passed his hand across his brow, a dazed expression upon
his face, while he was saying to himself, that, in his folly, he had
missed an ideal existence with this brilliantly beautiful and
accomplished woman, who, in addition, was now the possessor of two and
a half million dollars.
What an idiot he had been! What an unconscionable craven, to
sacrifice this pure and conscientious creature to his passion for one
who had made his life wretched by her variable moods and selfishness!
"Occasionally I heard from my child," Mrs. Stewart resumed, after a
moment of silence, while tears started into her beautiful eyes. "My
father crossed the ocean from time to time, for the sole purpose of
learning something of her, in order to satisfy my hungry heart. He
never revealed the fact of my existence to any one, however, although
he managed to learn that my darling was happy, growing up to be a pure
and lovely girl, as well as a great comfort to her adopted parents,
and with nothing to mar her future prospects. Of course such tidings
were always gleams of great comfort to my sad and quiet life, and I
tried to be satisfied with them--tried to be grateful for them. But,
oh! since the death of my parents, I have yearned for her with an
inexpressible heart-hunger--"
A sob of pain burst from the beautiful woman's lips and interrupted
her narrative at this point.
But she recovered herself almost immediately, and resumed:
"A year or two after I was left alone I happened to meet your former
friend, Will Forsyth, and from him learned that I had always been your
legal wife, and that he had sent you proofs of the fact, about a year
after your desertion of me.
"This astonishing intelligence animated me with a new purpose, and I
resolved that I would seek the world over for you, and demand that
proof from you.
"I returned immediately to this country and established myself in New
York, where, Mr. Forsyth told me, he thought you were residing. Soon
after my arrival I learned, to my dismay, that Mr. Allandale had
recently died, leaving his family in a destitute condition. This
knowledge changed my plans somewhat; I gave up my quest for you, for
the time, and began to search for my old friend who, for eighteen
years, had been a mother to my child. I had no intention of
interrupting the relations between them--my only thought was to
provide for their future in a way to preclude the possibility of
their ever knowing the meaning of the word poverty. But my utmost
efforts proved unavailing--I could learn nothing of them; but I
finally did get trace of you, and two months ago came on to Boston,
determined to face you and compel you to surrender to me the
certificate of our marriage."
"Ha! did you expect that I would yield to you?" questioned Gerald
Goddard, a note of defiance in his voice.
"Certainly--I knew I could compel you to do so."
"Indeed? You were sanguine! By what arguments did you expect to
achieve your desire? How could you even prove that I had such a
paper?"
"I do not know that I could have proven that you possessed the
certificate," quietly responded Mrs. Stewart; "but I could at least
prove that such a paper once existed, for Mr. Forsyth assured me that,
if I needed assistance to establish the fact of my marriage he would
be ready to give it at any time. I did not think I should need to call
upon him, however; I reasoned that, rather than submit to an arrest
and scandal, for--bigamy, you would quietly surrender the certificate
to me."
Gerald Goddard shivered at the sound of those three ugly words, while
the listener, behind the draperies, clinched her hands and locked her
teeth to keep herself from shrieking aloud in her agony, and thus
revealing her presence.
"I am afraid you will find that you have reckoned without your host,
madam," the man at length retorted, for he was stung to the soul with
the covert threat which had suggested the possibility that he, Gerald
Goddard, the noted artist, the distinguished society man, and princely
entertainer, might be made to figure conspicuously in a criminal court
under a charge that would brand him for all time.
"Ah! how so?" quietly inquired his companion.
"No power on earth would ever have compelled me to relinquish it, Mr.
Forsyth's assurance to the contrary notwithstanding."
The man paused, to see what effect this assertion would have upon his
listener; but she made no response--she simply sat quietly regarding
him, while a curious little smile hovered about her beautiful mouth.
"You look skeptical," Mr. Goddard continued, gazing at her
searchingly; "but let me tell you that you will find it no easy matter
to prove the statements you have made--no person of common sense would
credit your story."
"Indeed! But have you not already admitted that you received the
certificate of which Mr. Forsyth told me?"
"Yes; but we have been here alone, with no witness to swear to what
has passed between us. However, as I have already told you, Anna stole
the paper from me years ago, and I have never seen it since."
"Yes, I know you told me so!"
"Do you not believe me?"
"I think my past relations with you have not served to establish a
feeling of excessive confidence in you," was the quietly ironical
response.
The man flushed hotly, while anger for the moment rendered him
speechless.
"Possibly you might be able to induce your--companion to surrender the
document," the lady added, after a minute of awkward silence.
Gerald Goddard gnawed his under lip in impotent wrath at this
sarcastic reference to the woman who had shared his life for so many
years; while the wretched eavesdropper herself barely suppressed a
moan of passionate anguish.
"You have very little idea of Anna's spirit, if you imagine that she
would ever yield one jot to you," Mr. Goddard at length retorted, his
face crimson with rage.
Isabel Stewart arose from her chair and stood calm and cold before
him.
She gazed with a steady, searching look into his eyes, then remarked,
with slow emphasis:
"She will never be asked to yield to me, and I am spared the necessity
of suing to either of you, for--that all-important certificate of
marriage is already in my possession."
As we know, Gerald Goddard had feared this; he had even suggested the
possibility to Anna, on the night of the ball at Wyoming, when she
told him of the disappearance of the paper.
Nevertheless, the announcement of the fact at this time came upon him
like a thunderbolt, for which he was utterly unprepared.
"Zounds!" he cried, starting to his feet, as if electrified, "can you
mean it? Then you stole it the night of the ball!"
"You are greatly mistaken, Mr. Goddard; it was in my possession before
the night of the ball," quietly returned his companion.
"I do not believe it!" cried the man, excitedly.
"I will prove it to you if you desire," Mrs. Stewart remarked.
"I defy you to do so."
"Very well; I accept your gage. You will, however, have to excuse me
for a few moments," and, with these few words, the stately and
graceful woman turned and disappeared within a chamber that opened
from the room they were in.
It would be difficult to describe the conflict of emotions that raged
in Gerald Goddard's breast during her absence.
While he was almost beside himself with anger and chagrin, over the
very precarious position in which he found himself, he was also
tormented by intense disappointment and a sense of irritation to think
he had so fatally marred his life by his heartless desertion of the
beautiful woman who had just left him.
Anna was not to be compared with her; she was perhaps more brilliant
and pronounced in her style; but she lacked the charm of refinement
and sweet graciousness that characterized Isabel; while, more than all
else, he lamented the loss of the princely inheritance which had
fallen to her, and which he would have shared if he had been true to
her.
Ten minutes passed, and then he was aroused from his wretched
reflections by the opening of the chamber door near him, when his late
housekeeper at Wyoming walked into the room.