MR. BRYANT MEETS WITH UNEXPECTED DIFFICULTIES.
Let us now return to Edith, to ascertain how she is faring under the
care of her new friends in New York.
On the morning following her arrival Mr. Bryant called at the house of
his cousin, Mrs. Morrell, as he had promised, to escort our fair
heroine to his office, to meet Mr. Louis Raymond, who had been so
anxiously searching for her.
The gentleman had not arrived when they reached the place that was so
familiar to Edith, and "Roy," as she was slyly beginning to call him,
conducted her directly to his own special sanctum, and seated her in
the most comfortable chair, to await the coming of the stranger.
"My sunshine has come back to me," he smilingly remarked, as he bent
over her and touched his lips to her forehead in a fond caress. "I
have not had one bright day since that morning when I returned from my
trip and found your letter, telling me that you were not coming to me
any more."
"I did not think, then, that I should ever return," Edith began,
gravely. Then she added, in a lighter tone: "But now, that I am here,
will you not set me at work?"
"Indeed, no; there shall be no more toiling for you, my darling,"
returned the young man, with almost passionate tenderness.
Edith shrank a little at his fond words, and a troubled expression
leaped into her eyes.
Somehow she could not feel that she had a right to accept his loving
attentions and terms of endearment, precious as they were to her,
while there was any possibility that another had a claim upon her.
Roy saw the movement, hardly noticeable though it was, and understood
the feeling that had prompted it, and he resolved that he would be
patient, and refrain from causing her even the slightest annoyance
until lie could prove to her that she was free.
A few moments later Mr. Raymond was ushered in, and Roy, after
greeting him cordially, presented him to Edith.
It was evident from the earnestness with which he studied her face
that the man had more than an ordinary interest in her; while, as he
clasped her hand, he appeared to be almost overcome with emotion.
"Pardon me," he said, as he struggled for self-control, "but this
meeting with you awakens memories that have proved too much for my
composure. You do not resemble your mother, Miss Edith," he concluded,
in a tone of regret, as he gazed wistfully into her eyes.
"No?" the fair girl returned, flushing, and feeling half guilty for
allowing him to believe that she was Mr. and Mrs. Allandale's own
child.
But she had determined to let him tell his story, or at least reveal
the nature of his business with her, and then be governed by
circumstances regarding her own disclosures.
"If you will kindly excuse me, I will look over my mail while you are
conversing with Miss Allandale," Roy remarked, thinking, with true
delicacy, that the man might have some communication to make which he
would not care to have a third party overhear.
Then, with a bow and a smile, he passed from the room, leaving the two
alone.
"I cannot tell you how gratified I am to find you, Miss Edith," Mr.
Raymond remarked, as the door closed. "I have met only disappointment
of late, and, indeed, throughout most of my life, and I feared that
our advertisements might not meet your eye. I was deeply pained upon
returning to America, after many years spent abroad, to learn of the
misfortunes of your family, while the knowledge of your mother's
privations during the last two years of her life--as related to me by
Mr. Bryant--has caused me more grief than I can express."
"Yes, mamma's last days were very, very sad," said Edith, while tears
dimmed her eyes.
"Tell me about them, please--tell me all about your father's death,
and how it happened that you became so reduced financially," said Mr.
Raymond.
Then the fair girl, beginning with the loss of her young brothers,
related all that had occurred during the two years following, up to
the time of her mother's death, while she spoke most touchingly of the
patience and fortitude with which the gentle invalid had borne their
struggles with poverty and hardship.
More than once her companion was forced to wipe the tears from his
cheeks, as he listened to the sad recital, while his eyes lingered
affectionately upon the faithful girl who--as he learned from Mr.
Bryant--had so heroically tried to provide for the necessities of one
whom, it was evident, he had loved with more than ordinary affection.
When she had concluded her story he remained silent for a few moments,
as if to fortify himself for the revelations which he had to make;
then he remarked:
"Your mother and I, Miss Edith, were 'neighbors and playmates' during
our childhood--'schoolmates and friends' for long years afterward, she
would have told you; but--ever since I can remember, she was the
dearest object the world held for me. This affection grew with my
growth until, when I was twenty-one years of age, I asked her to marry
me. Her answer was like obscuring the sun at midday, for she told me
that she loved another; she had met Albert Allendale, and he had won,
apparently without an effort, what I had courted for many years. I
could not blame her, for I was but too conscious that he was my
superior, both physically and mentally, while the position he offered
her was far above anything I could hope to give her--at least, for a
long time. But it was a terrible blow to me, and I immediately left
the country, feeling that I could never remain here to witness the
happiness that had been denied me. During my exile I heard from them
occasionally, through others, and of the ideal life they were leading;
but I never once thought of returning to this country until about six
months ago, when, my health suddenly failing, I felt that I would at
least like to die upon my native soil. You can, perhaps, imagine the
shock I experienced, upon arriving in New York, when I learned of Mr.
Allendale's misfortunes and death, and also that his wife and only
surviving child had been left destitute and were hiding themselves and
their poverty in some remote corner, unknown to their former friends.
I searched the city for you, and then, discouraged with my lack of
success, I put my case into the hands of Mr. Bryant, from whom I
learned of the death of your mother and your brave struggles with want
and hardships; whereupon I commissioned him to spare no effort or
expense to find you; hence the advertisement which, his note to me
last evening told me, met your eye in a Boston paper, and brought you
hither."
"What a strange, romantic story!" Edith murmured, as Mr. Raymond
paused at this point; "and, although it is so very sad, it makes you
seem almost like an old friend to know that you once knew and loved
mamma."
"Thank you, dear child," returned the man, eagerly, a smile hovering
for a moment around his thin lips. "I hardly expected you to greet me
thus, but it nevertheless sounds very pleasant to my unaccustomed
ears. And now, having told you my story in brief, my wish is to settle
upon you, for your dear mother's sake, as well as for your own, a sum
that will place you above the necessity of ever laboring for your
support in the future. During the last ten years I have greatly
prospered in business--indeed, I have accumulated quite a handsome
fortune--while, strange to say, I have not a relative in the world to
inherit it. The disease which has attacked me warns me that I have not
long to live; therefore I wish to arrange everything before my mind
and strength fail me. One-half of my property I desire to leave to a
certain charitable institution in this city; the remainder is to be
yours, my child, and may the blessing of an old and world-weary man go
with it."
As he concluded, Edith raised her tearful eyes to find him regarding
her with a look of tender earnestness that was very pathetic.
"You are very, very kind, Mr. Raymond," she responded, in tremulous
tones, "and I should have been inexpressibly happy if mamma could have
been benefited by your generosity; but--I feel that I have no right to
receive this bequest from you."
"And why not, pray?" exclaimed her companion, in surprise, a look of
keen disappointment sweeping over his face.
"Because--truth compels me to tell you that I am the child of Mr. and
Mrs. Allandale only by adoption," said Edith, with quivering lips, for
it always pained her to think of her relationship to those whom she
had so loved, in this light.
"Can that be possible?" cried Mr. Raymond, in astonishment.
"Yes, sir; it hurts me to speak of it--to even think of if; but it is
true," she replied.
Then she proceeded to relate the circumstances of her adoption, as far
as she could do so without casting any reflections upon the unhappy
young mother who had been so wronged in Rome.
"Of course, I loved papa and mamma just the same as if they had really
been my own parents," she remarked, in conclusion, "for I had not a
suspicion of the truth until after mamma died. I was always treated
exactly as if I had been as near to them as the children who died."
"And have you no knowledge of your own parents?" Mr. Raymond inquired.
"Not the slightest. The only clews I possess are some letters in my
mother's handwriting and the name Belle that she signed to him.
Strange as it may seem, there is not a surname nor any reference made
to the locality where she lived in her youth, to aid me in my search
for her relatives."
"That seems very singular," said the gentleman, musingly.
"It is not only that, but it is also very trying," Edith returned. "Of
course, my mother is dead; my father"--this with a proud uplifting of
her pretty head--"I have no desire even to look upon his face. I could
never own the relationship, even should we meet; but I would like to
know something about my mother's family, for, as far as I know, I
have--like yourself--not a relative in the world."
"Then pray, Miss Edith, for the sake of that other Edith whom I loved,
regard me, while I live, as your stanch, true friend," said Mr.
Raymond, earnestly. "The fact that you were the child of Edith
Allandale only by adoption will make no difference in my plans for
you. To all intents and purposes you were her daughter--she loved you
as such--you were faithful and tender toward her until the end;
therefore I shall settle the half of my property upon you for your
immediate use. I beg that you will feel no delicacy in accepting this
provision for your future," he interposed, appealingly, as he remarked
her heightened color. "Mr. Bryant had full instructions to carry out
my wishes, and the money would have been yours unconditionally, had I
never been so happy as to meet you. The only favor I ask of you in
return is the privilege of seeing you occasionally, to talk with you
of your mother."
The tears rolled thick and fast over the young girl's face at this
appeal, for she was deeply touched by the man's tender regard for her
interests, and by his yearning to be in sympathy with one who had
known so intimately the one love of his life.
"You are very kind," she said, when she could command her voice
sufficiently to speak. "I have no words adequate to thank you, and it
will be only a delight to me to tell you anything you may wish to know
about her who was so dear to us both. I could never tire of talking of
mamma. More than this, I trust you will allow me to be of some
comfort to you," she added, earnestly. "When you are lonely or ill I
shall be glad to minister to you in any way that I may be able."
"It is very thoughtful of you, Miss Edith, to suggest anything of the
kind," Louis Raymond responded, his wan face lighting with pleasure at
her words, "and no doubt I shall be glad to avail myself now and then
of your kindness; but we will talk of that at another time."
He arose as he concluded, and, opening the door leading into the outer
office, requested Mr. Bryant to join them, when the conversation
became general.
Later that same day, at Mr. Raymond's desire, the papers were drawn up
that made Edith the mistress of a snug little fortune in her own
right, the income from which would insure her every comfort during the
remainder of her life.
The man was unwilling that the matter should be delayed, lest
something should interfere to balk his plans.
When Roy took Edith back to Mrs. Morrell's he expressed his admiration
and sympathy in the highest terms for the generous-hearted invalid.
"When we make a home for ourselves, darling, let us invite him to
share it, and we will try to make his last days his happiest days.
What do you say to the plan, sweet?" he queried, as he bent to look
into the beautiful face beside him.
Edith flushed painfully at his question and hesitated to reply.
"What is it, love?" he urged, forgetting for the moment the resolve he
had made earlier in the day.
"Of course, Roy, I would be glad to do anything in the world for one
who was so devoted to mamma, and who, for her sake, has been so
considerate for my future; but--"
"Well, what is this dreadful 'but'?" was the smiling query.
"I am afraid that you are too sanguine regarding our prospects,"
returned the fair girl, gravely. "I am somehow impressed that we
shall meet with difficulties that you do not anticipate in the way of
your happiness."
"Do not be faint-hearted, dear," said her lover, tenderly, although a
shade of anxiety swept over his face as he spoke. "I am going
immediately to look up that woman with whom Giulia Fiorini told you
she boarded, and ascertain what evidence she can give me to sustain my
theory regarding Correlli's relations with the girl."
He left Edith at Mrs. Morrell's door, and then hastened away upon his
errand.
He easily found the street and number which Edith had given him, and,
to his joy, the name of the woman he sought was on the door.
A portly matron, richly dressed, but with a very shrewd face, answered
his ring, and greeted him with suave politeness.
"Yes, she remembered Giulia Fiorini," she remarked, in answer to his
inquiry. "She was a pretty Italian girl who had run away from her own
country, wasn't she? Would the gentleman kindly walk in? and she would
willingly respond to any further questions he might wish to ask."
Roy followed her into a handsomely-furnished parlor, that was
separated from another by elegant portieres, which, however, were
closely drawn, thus concealing the room beyond.
"Yes," madam continued, "the girl had a child--a boy--a fine little
fellow, whom she called Ino, and she did remember that a gentleman
visited them occasionally--the girl's brother, cousin, or some other
relation, she believed"--with a look of perplexity that would lead one
to infer that such visits had been so rare she found it difficult to
place the gentleman at all.
"No, she did not even know his name, and she had never heard him admit
that the girl was his wife--certainly not!--nor the child call him
father or papa. There had always been something mysterious about
Giulia, but she had appeared to have plenty of money, and had paid her
well, and thus she had not concerned herself about her private
affairs."
Roy's heart grew cold and heavy within him as he listened to these
suave and evasive replies to his every question.
It was evident to him that she had already received instructions what
to say in the event of such a visit, and was paid liberally to carry
them out.
He spent nearly an hour with her trying to make her contradict or
commit herself in some way, but she never once made a mistake; her
answers were very pat and to the point, and he knew no more when he
arose to leave than he had known when he entered the house.
He was very heavy-hearted--indeed, a feeling of despair began to
settle down upon him; for, unless he could prove that Emil Correlli
had taken Giulia Fiorini to that house, and lived with her there as
her husband, he felt that he had very little to hope for regarding his
future with Edith.
Madam ushered him out as courteously as she had invited him in,
regretting exceedingly that she could not give him all the information
he desired, and hoped that the matter was not so important as to cause
him any especial annoyance.
She even inquired if he knew where Giulia was at that time, remarking
that she "had been invariably sweet-tempered and lady-like, and she
should always feel an interest in her, in spite of a certain air of
mystery that seemed to envelop her."
But the moment the door closed after her visitor madam's keen, black
eyes began to glitter and a shrewd smile played about her cunning
mouth.
A little gurgling laugh of triumph broke from her red lips as she
returned to the parlor, when the portieres between it and the room
were swept aside, and Emil Correlli himself walked into her presence.