CONCLUSION.
Three months after the incidents related in our previous chapter a
large and fashionable audience assembled, one bright day, in a certain
church on Madison avenue to witness a marriage that had been
anticipated with considerable interest and curiosity among the smart
set.
Exactly at the last stroke of noon the bridal party passed down the
central aisle.
It was composed of four ushers, as many bridesmaids a maid of honor
and two stately, graceful figures in snow-white apparel.
One of these latter was a veiled bride, her tall, willowy figure clad
in gleaming satin, her golden head crowned with natural orange
blossoms, and she carried an exquisite bouquet of the same fragrant
flowers in her ungloved hands--for the groom had forbidden the
conventional white kids in this ceremony--while on her lovely face
there was a light and sweetness which only perfect happiness could
have painted there.
Her companion, a woman of regal presence and equally beautiful in her
way, was clothed in costly white velvet, richly garnished with pearls
and rare old point lace.
The fair bride and her attendant were no other than Isabel Stewart and
her daughter.
"Who should give away my darling save her own mother?" she had
questioned, with smiling but tremulous lips, when this matter was
being discussed, together with other preparations for the wedding.
Edith was delighted with the idea, and thus it was carried out in the
way described.
The party was met at the chancel by Roy, accompanied by his best man
and the clergyman, where the ceremony was impressively performed,
after which the happy couple led the way from the church with those
sweetest strains of Mendelssohn beating their melodious rhythm upon
their ears and joyful hearts.
It was an occasion for only smiles and gladness; but, away in a dim
corner of that vast edifice, there sat a solitary figure, with bowed
head and pale face, over which--as there fell upon his ears those
solemn words, "till death us do part"--hot tears streamed like rain.
The figure was Gerald Goddard. He had read the announcement of Edith's
marriage in the papers, and, with an irresistible yearning to see her
in her bridal robes, he had stolen into the church with the crowd, and
hidden himself where he could see without being seen.
But the scene was too much for him, for, as he watched that peerless
woman and her beautiful daughter move down the aisle, and listened to
the reverent responses of the young couple, there came to him, with
terrible force, the consciousness that if he had been true to the same
vows which he had once taken upon himself he need not now have been
shut out of this happy scene, like some lost soul shut out of heaven.
But no one heeded him; and, when the ceremony was over, he slipped
away as secretly as he had come, and no one dreamed that the father of
the beautiful bride had been an unbidden guest at her wedding.
In giving Edith to Roy Mrs. Stewart had begged that she need not be
separated from her newly recovered treasure--that for the present, at
least, they would make their home with her--or, rather, that they
would take the house, which was to be a part of Edith's dowry, and
allow her to remain with them as their guest.
This they were only too glad to do; therefore, after a delightful
wedding trip through the West, they came back to their elegant home,
where, with every luxury at their command, the future seemed to
promise unlimited happiness.
Poor Louis Raymond had failed very rapidly during the spring months;
indeed, he was not even able to attend the marriage of the girl for
whom he had formed a strong attachment, and who had bestowed upon him
many gracious attentions and services that had greatly brightened his
last days. He passed quietly away only a few weeks after their return
to New York.
One day, a couple of months after her marriage, Edith was about to
step into her carriage, on coming out of a store on Broadway, where
she had been shopping, when she was startled by excited shouts and
cries directly across the street from her.
Turning to see what had caused the commotion, she saw a heavily loaded
team just toppling over, while a man, who had been in the act of
crossing the street, was borne down under it, and, with a shriek which
she never forgot, apparently crushed to death.
Sick and faint with horror, she crept into her carriage, and ordered
her driver to get away from the dreadful scene as soon as possible.
That same evening, as she was looking over the _Telegram_, a low cry
of astonishment broke from her, as she read the following paragraph:
"A sad accident occurred on Broadway this morning. A carelessly loaded
team was overturned by its own top-heaviness as it was rounding the
corner of Twenty-ninth street, crushing beneath its cruel weight the
talented young sculptor, Emil Correlli. Both legs were broken, one in
two places, and it is feared that he has suffered fatal internal
injuries. He was taken in an unconscious state to the Roosevelt
Hospital, where he now lies hovering between life and death. The
surgeons have little hope of his recovery."
Edith was greatly shocked by the account, notwithstanding her aversion
to the man.
She had not supposed that he was in the city, for Roy believed that he
had left the country, rather than appear to defend himself against
Giulia's claims, and to escape paying the damages the court awarded
her, after proclaiming her his lawful wife.
The woman had since been supporting herself and her child by designing
and making dainty costumes for children, a vocation to which she
seemed especially adapted, and by which she was making a good living,
through the recommendation of both Mrs. Stewart and Edith.
The day after the accident Roy, on his way home from his office,
prompted by a feeling of humanity, went to the Roosevelt Hospital to
inquire for the injured man.
The surgeon looked grave when he made known his errand.
"There is hardly a ray of hope for him," he remarked; "he is still
unconscious. Do you know anything about him or his family?" he asked,
with sudden interest.
"Yes, I have had some acquaintance with him," Roy returned.
"Do you know his wife?" the man pursued. "A woman came here last
evening, claiming to be his wife, and insisting upon remaining by his
bedside as long as he should live."
"Yes, he has a wife," the young man briefly returned, but deeply
touched by this evidence of Giulia's devotion.
"Is she a dark, foreign-looking lady, of medium height, rather
handsome, and with a slight accent in her speech?"
"That answers exactly to her description."
"I am glad to know it, for we have been in some doubt as to the
propriety of allowing her to remain with our patient. We tried to make
her leave him, last night, even threatening to have her forcibly
removed; but she simply would not go, and is remarkably handy in
assisting the nurse, while her self-control is simply wonderful."
Roy wrote a few lines on one of his cards, saying that if either he or
Mrs. Bryant could be of any service at this trying time, she might be
free to call upon them.
This he gave to the surgeon to hand to Giulia, and then went away.
The following evening the woman made her appearance in their home with
her child, whom she begged them to care for "as long as Emil should
live."
It could not be very long, she said, with streaming eyes. She loved
him still, in spite of everything, and she must remain with him while
he breathed.
Edith willingly received Ino, saying she would be glad to keep him as
long as was necessary; then Giulia went immediately back to her sad
vigils beside the man who had caused her nothing but sorrow and shame.
But Emil Correlli did not die.
Very slowly and painfully he came back to life--to an existence,
rather, from which he would gladly have escaped when he realized what
it was to be.
When he first awakened to consciousness it was to find a pale, patient
woman beside him--one who met his sighs and moans with gentle
sympathy, and who ministered tirelessly to his every need and comfort.
No other hand was so cool and soft upon his heated head, or so deft to
arrange his covers and pillows; no voice was so gently modulated yet
so invariably cheerful--no step so quick and light; and, though the
querulous invalid often frowned upon her, and chided her sharply for
imaginary remissness, she never wavered in her sweetness and
gentleness.
Thus, little by little, the selfish man grew to appreciate her and to
yearn for her presence, if she was forced to be out of his sight for
even a few minutes at a time.
"She has saved your life--she has almost forced life upon you," the
surgeon remarked to him one day, when, as he came to make his
accustomed visit, Giulia slipped away for a moment of rest and a
breath of fresh air.
The invalid frowned. It was not exactly pleasant to be told that he
owed such a debt of gratitude to the woman he had wronged. He was too
callous to experience very much of gratitude as yet. It was only when
he was pronounced well enough to be moved, and informed that he must
make arrangements to be cared for outside, in order to make room for
more urgent cases, that he began to wonder how he should get along
without his faithful nurse and to realize how dependent he was upon
her.
He knew that he would be a cripple for life; his broken bones had
knitted nicely, and his limbs would be as sound as ever, in time; but
his spine had been injured, and he would never walk upright
again--henceforth he would only be able to get about upon crutches.
How, then, could he live without some one to wait upon him and bear
with him in his future state of helplessness?
"Where shall I go?" he questioned, querulously, when, later, he told
Giulia that his removal had been ordered. "A hotel is the most dismal
place in the world for a sick man."
"Emil, how would you like a home of your own?" Giulia gravely
inquired.
The word "home" thrilled him strangely, making him think yearningly of
his mother and the comforts of his childhood, and an irresistible
longing took possession of him.
"A home!" he repeated, bitterly. "How on earth could I make a home for
myself?"
"I will make it for you--I will go to take care of you in it, if you
like," she quietly answered.
"You!" he exclaimed in surprise, while, with sudden discernment, he
remarked a certain refined beauty in her face that he had never
observed before.
Then he added, with a sullen glance at his useless limbs, a strange
sense of shame creeping over him:
"Do you still care enough for me to take that trouble?"
"I am willing to do my duty, Emil," she gravely replied.
"Ha! you evade me!" he cried, sharply, and piqued by her answer. "Tell
me truly, Giulia, do you still love me well enough to be willing to
devote your life to such a misshapen wretch as I shall always be?"
The woman turned her face away from him, to hide the sudden light of
hope that leaped into her eyes at his words, which she fancied had in
them a note of appeal.
But she had been learning wisdom during her long weeks of service in
the hospital--learning that anything, to be appreciated, must be
hardly won; and so she answered as before, without betraying a sign of
the eager desire that had taken root in her heart:
"I told you, Emil, that I was willing to do my duty. I bear your
name--you are Ino's father--my proper place is in your home; and if
you see fit to decide that we shall all live together under the same
roof, I will do my utmost to make you comfortable, and your future as
pleasant as possible. More than that I cannot promise--now."
"And you really mean this, Giulia?" he questioned, in a low tone.
"Yes, if my proposal meets with your approval, we can at least make
the experiment. If it should not prove a success, we can easily
abandon it whenever you choose."
He knew that he could not do without her--knew that she had become so
essential to him that he was appalled at the mere thought of losing
her, while the sound of that magic word "home," around which clustered
everything that was comfortable and attractive, opened before him the
promise of something better than he had ever yet known in life.
Let us slip over the six months following, to find this little family
pleasantly settled in an elegant villa a few miles up the Hudson.
It is replete with every luxury that money can purchase.
The choicest in art of every description decorates its walls, and
pleasant, sunny rooms, while in a spacious studio, opening out upon a
wide lawn, may be seen numerous unfinished pieces of statuary, upon
which the crippled but ambitious master of the house has already begun
to work, although his strength will permit him to do but little at a
time.
Giulia, or "Madame Correlli," as she is now known, is the presiding
genius of this ideal spot, and she fills her place with both dignity
and grace; while her watchful care and never-failing patience and
cheerfulness are beginning to assert their charm upon the man to whom
she is devoting herself, as is noticeable in his many efforts to make
life pleasant to her, in his frequent appeals to her judgment and
approval of his work, and the courtesy which he invariably accords
her.
Ino has grown, although he is still a beautiful child--very bright and
forward for his age, and a source of great enjoyment to his father,
who, even now, has begun to direct his tiny hands in the use of the
mallet and chisel.
* * * * *
It was more than a year after her marriage that Edith, accompanied by
her mother, visited the annual exhibition of the ---- Academy of Art.
Among the numerous pictures which were shown there were two which
attracted more attention than all the others. They were evidently
intended as companion-pieces, and had been painted by the same artist.
The scene was laid in an avenue of a park. On either side there grew
beautiful, great trees, whose widespread branches made graceful
shadows on the graveled walk beneath. In the center of this avenue--in
the first picture--two figures stood facing each other; one an elderly
man, proud and haughty in his bearing, richly dressed and with a
certain air of the world investing him, but with a face--although
possessing great natural beauty--so wretched and full of remorse, so
lined and seamed with soul-anguish, that the heart of every beholder
was instantly moved to deepest sympathy.
Before him stood a beautiful maiden who was the embodiment of all that
was pure and happy. Her face was lovely beyond description--its every
feature perfect, its expression full of sweetness and peace, while a
divine pity and yearning shone forth from her heavenly blue eyes,
which were upraised to the despairing countenance of her companion.
Her dress was simple white, belted at the waist with a girdle and
flowing ends of gleaming satin ribbon, while a dainty straw hat, from
which a single white plume drooped gracefully, crowned her golden
head.
The gentleman was standing with outstretched hands, as if in the act
of making some appeal to the fair girl, whose grave sweetness, while
it suggested no yielding, yet indicated pity and sorrow for the
other's suffering.
The second picture presented the same figures, but its import was
entirely different.
Away down the avenue, the young girl, looking even more fair and
graceful, was just passing out of sight, while the gentleman had
turned and was gazing after her, a rapt expression on his face, the
misery all obliterated from it, the despair all gone from his eyes,
while in their place there had dawned a look of resignation and peace,
and a faint smile even seemed to hover about the previously pain-lined
mouth, which told that he had just learned some lesson from his
vanishing angel that had changed the whole future for him.
As Edith looked upon these paintings, which betrayed a master-hand in
every stroke of the brush, a rush of tears blinded her eyes, for she
instantly recognized the scene, although there had been no attempt at
portraiture in the faces, and she read at once the story they were
intended to reveal.
They were catalogued as "Unrest" and "Peace."
She knew, even before she discovered the initials--"G. G."--in one
corner, that Gerald Goddard had painted these pictures, and that he
had taken for his subject their meeting in the park the previous year.
They took the first prize, and the artist immediately received
numerous and flattering offers for them, but his agent replied to all
such that the pictures were not for sale.
A month later a sealed package was delivered at Edith's door, and it
was addressed to her.
Upon opening it she found a document bequeathing to her two paintings,
lately exhibited at the Academy, which would be delivered to her upon
application to a certain art dealer in the city, whose address was
inclosed. The communication stated that she was free to make whatever
disposition of them she saw fit.
Upon a heavy card accompanying them there was written the following
words:
"The blessing of Aaron has been fulfilled. May the same
peace rest upon thee and thine forever. G. G."
Upon inquiring about the pictures of the dealer referred to, Edith was
informed that Gerald Goddard had died only the week previous of quick
consumption, and his body had been quietly interred in Greenwood,
according to his own instructions.
His two paintings, "Unrest" and "Peace," were left in the care of his
friend, to be delivered to Mrs. Royal Bryant, whenever she should call
for them.
Edith was deeply touched by this act, and by the fact that the man had
devoted the remnant of his life to picturing that scene which seemed
to have made such a deep impression upon his mind, while a feeling of
thankfulness swelled in her heart with the thought that perhaps she
had spoken the "word in season" that had helped to lead into the
"paths of peace" the weary worlding, who, even then, was treading so
swiftly toward the verge of the "Great Unknown."
Not many weeks later the New York _Herald_ contained the following
announcement:
"MARRIED.--On Wednesday, the 18th, the Honorable Willard
Livermore to Mrs. Isabel Stewart, both of New York."
THE END.
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been before, and the author has depicted the characters of the leaders
of the several Indian tribes with great care, which of itself will be
of interest to the student.
By no means least among the charms of the story are the vivid
word-pictures of the thrilling adventures, and the intense paintings
of the beauties of nature, as seen in the almost unbroken forests.
It is the spirit of the frontier which is described, and one can by
it, perhaps, the better understand why men, and women, too, willingly
braved every privation and danger that the westward progress of the
star of empire might be the more certain and rapid. A love story,
simple and tender, runs through the book.
RICHELIEU. A tale of France in the reign of King Louis XIII. By G. P.
R. James. Cloth, 12mo. with four illustrations by J. Watson Davis.
Price, $1.00.
In 1829 Mr. James published his first romance, "Richelieu," and was
recognized at once as one of the masters of the craft.
In this book he laid the story during those later days of the great
cardinal's life, when his power was beginning to wane, but while it
was yet sufficiently strong to permit now and then of volcanic
outbursts which overwhelmed foes and carried friends to the topmost
wave of prosperity. One of the most striking portions of the story is
that of Cinq Mar's conspiracy; the method of conducting criminal
cases, and the political trickery resorted to by royal favorites,
affording a better insight into the state-craft of that day than can
be had even by an exhaustive study of history. It is a powerful
romance of love and diplomacy, and in point of thrilling and absorbing
interest has never been excelled.
ROB OF THE BOWL. A Story of the Early Days of Maryland. By John P.
Kennedy. Cloth, 12mo. Four page illustrations by J. Watson Davis.
Price, $1.00.
This story is an authentic exposition of the manners and customs
during Lord Baltimore's rule. The greater portion of the action takes
place in St. Mary's--the original capital of the State.
The quaint character of Rob, the loss of whose legs was supplied by a
wooden bowl strapped to his thighs, his misfortunes and mother wit,
far outshine those fair to look upon. Pirates and smugglers did Rob
consort with for gain, and it was to him that Blanche Werden owed her
life and her happiness, as the author has told us in such an
enchanting manner.
As a series of pictures of early colonial life in Maryland, "Rob of
the Bowl" has no equal. The story is full of splendid action, with a
charming love story, and a plot that never loosens the grip of its
interest to its last page.
TICONDEROGA. A Story of Early Frontier Life in the Mohawk Valley. By
G. P. R. James. Cloth, 12mo. Four page illustrations by J. Watson
Davis. Price, $1.00.
The setting of the story is decidedly more picturesque than any ever
evolved by Cooper. The story is located on the frontier of New York
State. The principal characters in the story include an English
gentleman, his beautiful daughter, Lord Howe, and certain Indian
sachems belonging to the Five Nations, and the story ends with the
Battle of Ticonderoga.
The character of Captain Brooks, who voluntarily decides to sacrifice
his own life in order to save the son of the Englishman, is not among
the least of the attractions of this story, which holds the attention
of the reader even to the last page.
Interwoven with the plot is the Indian "blood" law, which demands a
life for a life, whether it be that of the murderer or one of his
race. A more charming story of mingled love and adventure has never
been written than "Ticonderoga."
MARY DERWENT. A tale of the Wyoming Valley in 1778. By Mrs. Ann S.
Stephens. Cloth, 12mo. Four illustrations by J. Watson Davis. Price,
$1.00.
The scene of this fascinating story of early frontier life is laid in
the Valley of Wyoming. Aside from Mary Derwent, who is of course the
heroine, the story deals with Queen Esther's son, Giengwatah, the
Butlers of notorious memory, and the adventures of the Colonists with
the Indians.
Though much is made of the Massacre of Wyoming, a great portion of the
tale describes the love making between Mary Derwent's sister, Walter
Butler, and one of the defenders of Forty Fort.
This historical novel stands out bright and pleasing, because of the
mystery and notoriety of several of the actors, the tender love
scenes, descriptions of the different localities, and the struggles of
the settlers. It holds the attention of the reader, even to the last
page.
THE LAST TRAIL. A story of early days in the Ohio Valley. By Zane
Grey. Cloth, 12mo. Four page illustrations by J. Watson Davis. Price,
$1.00.
"The Last Trail" is a story of the border. The scene is laid at Fort
Henry, where Col. Ebenezer Zane with his family have built up a
village despite the attacks of savages and renegades. The Colonel's
brother and Wetzel, known as Deathwind by the Indians, are the
bordermen who devote their lives to the welfare of the white people. A
splendid love story runs through the book.
That Helen Sheppard, the heroine, should fall in love with such a
brave, skilful scout as Jonathan Zane seems only reasonable after his
years of association and defense of the people of the settlement from
savages and renegades.
If one has a liking for stories of the trail, where the white man
matches brains against savage cunning, for tales of ambush and
constant striving for the mastery, "The Last Trail" will be greatly to
his liking.
THE KNIGHTS OF THE HORSESHOE. A traditionary tale of the Cocked Hat
Gentry in the Old Dominion. By Dr. Wm. A. Caruthers. Cloth, 12mo. Four
page illustrations by J. Watson Davis. Price, $1.00.
Many will hail with delight the re-publication of this rare and justly
famous story of early American colonial life and old-time Virginian
hospitality.
Much that is charmingly interesting will be found in this tale that so
faithfully depicts early American colonial life, and also here is
found all the details of the founding of the Tramontane Order, around
which has ever been such a delicious flavor of romance.
Early customs, much love making, plantation life, politics, intrigues,
and finally that wonderful march across the mountains which resulted
in the discovery and conquest of the fair Valley of Virginia. A rare
book filled with a delicious Savor of romance.
BY BERWEN BANKS. A Romance of Welsh Life. By Allen Raine. Cloth, 12mo.
Four page illustrations by J. Watson Davis. Price, $1.00.
It is a tender and beautiful romance of the idyllic. A charming
picture of life in a Welsh seaside village. It is something of a
prose-poem, true, tender and graceful.
For sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of price by
the publishers, A. L. BURT COMPANY, 52-58 Duane St., New York.
* * * * *
End of Project Gutenberg's The Masked Bridal, by Mrs. Georgie Sheldon