AN UNEXPECTED MEETING RESULTS IN A WONDERFUL DISCOVERY.
"Well done, madam! you managed to pull the wool over his eyes in very
good shape," the man remarked, a look of evil triumph sweeping over
his face.
"Certainly, Mr. Correlli," the woman returned, in a tone of serene
satisfaction. "Only give me my price, and I am ready to make anybody
believe that black is white, every time; and now I'll take that five
hundred, if you please," she concluded, as she extended her fat hand
for the plump fee for which she had been so zealously working.
"You shall have it--you shall have it; I will write you a check for it
immediately," said Monsieur Correlli. "But--you are sure there is no
one in the house who knows anything about the facts of the case?" he
added, inquiringly, after a moment of thought.
"Yes, I am sure; I haven't a single servant now that was with me when
the girl was here."
"Have you any idea where they went after leaving you?" asked the man,
with evident uneasiness.
"Lor', no; you needn't have the slightest fear of their turning up,"
responded his companion, with a light laugh. "That lawyer might as
well try to hunt for a needle in a hay-mow as to seek them as
witnesses against you; while, as for the lodgers who were here at the
time, not one of them knew anything about your affairs. By the way,"
she added, curiously, "what has become of the girl?"
"She followed me to Boston, and is there now, doubtless."
"Would she be likely to know anything about the laws of New York
regarding marriage?"
"No, indeed; she is a perfect ignoramus as far as any knowledge of the
customs of this country is concerned."
"That is lucky for you; but, if you know where she can be found, I
would advise you to send her back to Italy with all possible dispatch.
She is liable to make trouble for you if she learns the truth,
for"--madam here shot a sly look at her companion--"a man can't live a
year or two with a woman here in New York, allowing her to believe
herself his wife, and her child to call him 'papa'--paying all her
bills, without giving her a pretty strong claim upon him. However,
mum's the word with me, provided I get my pay for it," she concluded,
with a knowing wink.
Emil Correlli frowned at her coarse familiarity and the indirect
threat implied in her last words; but, simply remarking that he "would
draw that check," he returned to the room whence he had come, while
his companion turned to a window, chuckling softly to herself.
Presently he reappeared and slipped into her hand a check for five
hundred dollars.
"Now, in case this matter should come to court, I shall rely upon you
to swear that the girl's story is false and the lawyer's charge simply
a romance of his imagination," he remarked.
"You may depend on me, sir--I will not fail you," madam responded, as,
with a complacent look, she neatly folded the check and deposited it
in her purse.
Emil Correlli had arrived in New York very early the same morning,
and, not caring to have his presence there known, he had sought a room
in the house of the woman with whom Giulia had boarded for nearly two
years.
Having partaken of a light breakfast, he went out again to seek the
policeman to whom he had telegraphed to detain Edith.
He readily found him, when he learned all that we already know of the
man's efforts to obey Correlli's orders.
"That was the girl, in spite of the lawyer's interference. You should
have never let her go," he angrily exclaimed, when the officer had
described Edith and told his story.
"But I couldn't, sir--I had no authority--no warrant--and I should
have got myself into trouble," the man objected, adding: "The lawyer
was a shrewd one and had a high and mighty way with him that made a
fellow go into his boots and fight shy of him."
Monsieur Correlli knew that the man was right, and saw that he must
make the best of the situation; so, taking possession of Roy's card,
and making his way directly to Broadway, he prowled about the vicinity
of his office to see what he could discover.
He had not waited very long when his heart bounded as he caught sight
of Edith coming down the street and escorted by a handsome, manly
fellow, whose beaming face and adoring eyes plainly betrayed his
secret to the jealous watcher, who gnashed his teeth in fury at the
sight.
The happy, unconscious couple soon disappeared within an office
building, whereupon Correlli went back to his lodgings to lay his
plans for future operations.
Some hours later, while he was conversing with his landlady in her
pretty parlor, he was startled to see Edith's champion of the morning
mounting the steps of the house.
Like a flash he seemed to comprehend the object of his visit there;
but he was puzzled to understand how it was possible for either Edith
or him to know that he or Giulia had ever lived there.
A few rapid words were sufficient to reveal the situation to his
landlady, to whom he promised a liberal reward if she would implicitly
follow his directions.
The result we know; and, although his bribe had been a heavy one, he
did not begrudge the money, since he believed he had thus securely
fortified himself against all attacks from the enemy.
Later in the day he attempted to dog the young lawyer's steps, hoping
thus to ferret out Edith's hiding place; but nothing satisfactory
resulted, for Roy, after his hard and somewhat disappointing day,
simply repaired to his club, where, after partaking of his dinner and
smoking a cigar to soothe his nerves, he retired to rest.
But the next morning, feeling secure of his position, Emil Correlli
boldly presented himself in his rival's office and demanded of him
Edith's address.
Roy was prepared for him, for his fruitless visit to Giulia's former
landlady had aroused his suspicions that Monsieur Correlli was in the
city.
Therefore he had resolved neither to evade nor parley with him, but
boldly defy the man, by acknowledging himself the wronged girl's
champion and legal adviser.
"I cannot give you Miss Allandale's address," he quietly responded to
his visitor's demand.
"Do you mean to imply that you do not know it?" he questioned,
arrogantly.
"Not at all, sir; the lady is under my protection, as my client;
therefore, in her interest I refuse to reveal her place of residence,"
Roy coolly responded.
"But she is my wife, and I have a right to know where she is," said
the would-be husband, his anger flaming up hotly at being thus balked
in his desires.
"Your wife?" repeated the young lawyer, in an incredulous tone, but
growing white about the mouth from the effort he made to retain
command of himself, as the obnoxious term fell from the villain's
lips.
"Certainly--I claim her as such; my right to do so cannot be
questioned."
"There may be a difference of opinion regarding that matter," Roy
calmly rejoined.
"But we were publicly married on the twenty-fifth."
"Ah! but there are circumstances under which even such a ceremony can
have no legal significance."
The fiery Italian was no match for the lawyer in that cool, calm mood,
and his anger increased as he realized it.
"But I have my certificate, and can produce plenty of witnesses to
prove my statements," he retorted.
"The court will decide whether your evidence is sufficient to
substantiate your claim," Mr. Bryant composedly remarked.
"The court?--will she take the matter into court?--will she dare
create such a scandal?" exclaimed the man, in a startled tone.
"I do not feel at liberty, even had I the inclination, to reveal any
points in my client's case," coldly replied the young lawyer. "This
much I will say, however," he added, sternly, "I shall leave nothing
undone to free her from a tie that is both hateful and fraudulent."
"I warn you that you will have a battle to fight that will cost you
something," snarled the baffled villain.
"That also remains to be seen, sir; but whether you or I win this
battle, let me tell you, once for all, that Miss Allandale will never
submit to any authority which you may imagine you have acquired over
her by tricking her into this so-called marriage; she will never live
one hour with you; she will never respond to your name."
Royal Bryant arose as he concluded this defiant speech, thus
intimating to his visitor that he wished to put an end to the
interview, for the curb that he was putting upon himself was becoming
almost unbearable.
Emil Correlli gazed searchingly into his face for a moment, as if
trying to measure his foe.
He could not fail to realize the superiority of the man, mentally,
morally and physically, and the thought was maddening that perhaps
Edith had freely given to him the love for which he had abjectly sued
in vain.
"Well," he finally remarked, as he also arose, while he revealed his
white teeth in a vicious smile, "it may be in her power to carry out
that resolution, but one thing is sure, she can never free herself
from the fetters which she finds so galling--she can never marry any
other man while I live."
This shot told, for the blue veins in Roy's temples suddenly swelled
out full at the malignant retort.
But he mastered his first impulse to seize the wretch and throw him
from the window into the street, and quietly remarked:
"As I have twice before observed, sir, all these things remain to be
seen and proved. Now, can I do anything further for you to-day?"
The man could not do otherwise than take the hint; besides, there was
that in Roy's eye which warned him that it would not be safe for him
to try him too far. So, abruptly turning upon his heel, he left the
room, while our young lawyer, with tightly compressed lips and
care-lined brow, walked the floor in troubled thought.
After leaving his office Emil Correlli repaired to the hotel where his
letters were usually sent, and found awaiting him there a telegram
announcing the sudden death of his sister and requesting his immediate
return to Boston.
Shocked beyond measure, and grieved to the soul by this unexpected
bereavement, he dropped everything and left New York on the next
eastward express.
We know all that occurred in that home where death had come so
unexpectedly; how, after the burial of Mrs. Goddard, Emil Correlli had
suddenly found his already large fortune greatly augmented by the
strange will of his sister, while the man whom she had always
professed to adore was left destitute, and to shift for himself as
best he could.
The day after he had turned Gerald Goddard out of his home, so to
speak, the young man dismissed all his servants, closed the house, and
put it into the hands of a real estate agent to be disposed of at the
best advantage.
He made an effort to find Giulia and her child, with the intention of
settling a comfortable income upon them, provided he could make the
girl promise to return to Italy and never trouble him again.
But she had disappeared, and he could learn absolutely nothing
regarding her movements; and, impressed with a feeling that she would
yet revenge herself upon him in some unexpected way, he finally
returned to New York, determined to ferret out Edith's hiding place.
Meantime the fair girl had been very happy with her new friends, who
were also growing very fond of her.
But she would not allow herself to build too much upon the hope of
attaining her freedom which Roy had tried to arouse in her heart
shortly after her arrival in New York.
Indeed, she had begun to notice that, after the first day or two, he
had avoided conversing upon the subject, while he often wore a look of
anxiety and care which betrayed that he was deeply troubled about
something.
In fact, Roy was very heavy-hearted, for, since his failure to learn
anything from Giulia's former landlady to prove his theory correct, he
had begun to fear that it would be a very difficult matter to free the
girl he loved from the chain that bound her to Correlli.
If he could have found the discarded girl herself he believed that,
with her assistance, he would soon discover the servants who had been
in the house during her residence there, and, through them, find some
substantial evidence to work upon.
But although he had advertised for her in several Boston papers, he
had not been able to get any trace of her.
He had, however, filed a plea to have Edith's so-called marriage set
aside, and was anxiously waiting for some time to be appointed for a
hearing of the' case.
Edith and her new acquaintance, Mr. Raymond, were fast becoming firm
friends, in spite of the suspense that was hanging over the former
regarding her future.
The young girl had first been drawn toward the invalid from a feeling
of sympathy, and because of his old-time fondness for her mother. But,
upon becoming better acquainted with him, she began to admire him for
his many noble qualities, both of mind and heart, while she ever found
him a most entertaining companion, as he possessed an exhaustless fund
of anecdote and personal experiences, acquired during his extensive
travels, which he never wearied of relating when he could find an
appreciative listener.
Thus she spent a great deal of time with him, while by her many little
attentions to his comfort she won a large place in his heart.
One day Mrs. Morrell and Edith went to attend a charity exhibition
that was under the supervision of a friend of the former, at her own
house.
Upon their arrival they were ushered into the drawing-room, which was
beautifully decorated and hung with many exquisite paintings, while
some rare gems were resting conspicuously upon easels.
In one corner, and artistically draped with a beautiful scarf, Edith
was startled, almost at the moment of her entrance, to see a painting
that was very familiar.
It was that representing a portion of an old Roman wall, with the
lovers resting in its shadow, which had attracted the attention of
Mrs. Stewart on the last night of the "winter frolic," at Wyoming.
With an expression of astonishment she went forward to examine it more
closely and to assure herself that it was the original, and not a
copy.
Yes, those two tiny letters, G. G., in one corner, told their own
story, and proved her surmise to be correct.
"How strange that it should be here!" she breathed.
She had hardly uttered the words when some one arose from behind the
easel, and--she stood face to face with Gerald Goddard himself.
The girl stood white and almost paralyzed before him, and the man
appeared scarcely less astonished on beholding her.
"Miss Allen!" he faltered. "I never dreamed of meeting you here!"
"Oh, pray do not tell Monsieur Correlli that you have seen me," she
gasped, fear for the moment superseding every other thought.
"Do not be troubled--he shall learn nothing from me," said the man,
reassuringly. "Correlli and I are not very good friends just now,
simply because I told him that I should do all in my power to help you
prove that he had no just claim upon you."
"Thank you," said Edith, flushing with hope, but involuntarily
shrinking from him, for she could not forget how he had degraded
himself before her on that last horrible night at Wyoming.
"I suppose you have heard of my--of Mrs. Goddard's death?" he
remarked, after a moment of silence.
"Mrs. Goddard--dead?" exclaimed Edith, shocked beyond expression.
"Yes, she died very suddenly, the second morning after you left
Boston."
Edith was about to respond with some expression of regret and
sympathy, when she saw him start violently, and a look of agony, that
bordered on despair, leap into his eyes.
Involuntarily she turned to see what had caused it, and was both
surprised and delighted to behold Mrs. Stewart--whom she supposed to
be in Boston--just entering the room, and looking especially lovely in
a rich black velvet costume, with a hat to match, but brightened by
two or three exquisite pink roses.
At that instant a lady, to whom she had recently been introduced, laid
her hand upon Edith's arm, remarking in quick, incisive tones:
"Miss Allandale, your friend, Mrs. Morrell, is beckoning you to come
to her."
Again Gerald Goddard started, and so violently that he nearly knocked
his picture from the easel.
He shot one quick, horrified glance at the girl.
"Miss Allandale!" he repeated, in a dazed tone, as all that the name
implied forced itself upon his mind.
Another in the room had also caught the name, and turned to see who
had been thus addressed.
As her glance fell upon Edith her beautiful face grew radiant.
"Oh, if it should be--" she breathed.
The next moment she had crossed the room to the girl's side.
"What did Mrs. Baldwin call you, dear?" she breathlessly inquired,
regardless of etiquette, for she had not yet greeted her hostess. "Was
it Miss Allandale?"
"Yes, that is my name," said Edith, flushing, but frankly meeting her
look of eager inquiry.
"But you told me--" Mrs. Stewart whispered.
"Yes," interposed the young girl, "while I was in Boston I was known
simply as Edith Allen--why, I will explain to you at some other time;
but my real name is Edith Allandale."
The woman seemed turned to stone for a moment by this unexpected
revelation, so statue-like did she become, as she also realized all
that this confession embodied.
Then, as if compelled by some magnetic influence, her eyes were drawn
toward the no less statue-like man standing by that never-to-be
forgotten picture on the easel.
Their gaze met, and each read in that one brief look the conviction
that made one heart bound with joy, the other to sink with
despair--each knew that the beautiful girl, standing so wonderingly
beside that stately woman, was the child that had been born to them in
the pretty Italian villa hard by the old Roman wall which Gerald
Goddard had so faithfully reproduced upon canvas.