CHAPTER VII.
TWO NEW ACQUAINTANCES.
Edith, when consciousness returned, had not a doubt that the letters,which she had been reading, had been penned by the hand of her ownmother; that she was that little baby who had been born in Rome--thatchild of shame whose father had so heartlessly deserted it; whosemother, her brain turned by her suffering and wrongs, had planned totake her own life, rather than live to taint her little one's futurewith the shadow of her own disgrace.
The knowledge of this seemed to blight, as with a lightning flash,every hope of her life.
She groped her way to the bed, for she was becoming benumbed with thecold, and threw herself upon it, utterly wretched, utterly hopeless.For hours she lay there in a sort of stupor, conscious only of oneterrible fact--her shame--her ruined life!
She had never dreamed, until within that hour, that she was not thedaughter of those whom she had always known as her father and mother.
She had known that they had gone abroad immediately after theirmarriage, and had spent more than a year visiting foreign countries.
She had been told that she was born in Rome, in 18--, and she nowrealized that the letters which she had just read had been mostlywritten during the same year.
Mrs. Allandale had never meant that she should learn this terriblesecret, and that is why she had been so anxious during her lastmoments that the contents of the Japanese box should be destroyed.
Edith wondered why she had kept the letters at all--why she had notdestroyed them immediately upon adopting her, and thus prevented thepossibility of a revelation like this.
To be sure, no one save herself need ever know of the fact unless shechose to disclose it; nevertheless, she felt just as deeply branded byit as if all the world had known of it.
"Oh, I had begun to hope that--" she began, then abruptly ceased, aburning flush suffusing her face as her thoughts thus went out towardRoyal Bryant, whose eyes had only the day before told her, as plainlyas eyes could speak, that he loved her, while her heart had thrilledwith secret joy over the revelation, and the knowledge that her ownaffection had been irrevocably given to him, even though they hadknown each other so short a time.
Even in the midst of her sorrow over her dead, the thought that sheloved and was beloved had been like the strains of soothing music toher, and she had looked forward to her return to the young lawyer'soffice as to a place of refuge, where she would meet with kindness andsympathy that would comfort her immeasurably.
But these beautiful dreams had been ruthlessly shattered; she couldnever be anything to Royal Bryant--he could never be anything to her,after learning what she had learned that night.
Edith determined to leave New York at once. With this object in view,she disposed of most of her furniture to a broker, who gave her sixtydollars for it. She reserved articles she presented to her stanchfriend, Kate O'Brien. These matters attended to, she wrote a letter toMr. Bryant, mailed it, and a few hours later was on the train, enroute to Boston.
On Thursday morning Mr. Bryant, returning to town from a businesstrip, cheerfully entered his office, expecting to behold there theradiant face of Edith. To his great disappointment, she was absent;and her absence was explained in the appended letter, which he readwith dismay and dejection.
"DEAR MR. BRYANT:--Inclosed you will find the amount which you so kindly loaned me on Monday, and without which I should have been in sore straits. On reaching home that day, I found my mother dying. She was buried yesterday afternoon, and I am now entirely alone in the world. I find that circumstances will not permit me to return to your employ, and when you receive this I shall have left New York. Pray do not think that because I do not see you and thank you personally before I go, I am ungrateful for all your recent and unexampled kindness to me. I am not, I assure you; I shall never forget it--it will be one of the sacred memories of my life, that in you, in a time of dire need, I found a true friend and helper.
Sincerely yours, EDITH ALLANDALE."
The lawyer lost no time in hastening to Edith's late residence. Therehe learned from Kate O'Brien that Edith had already gone, but sheknew not her destination. He stated that he wished to consult theyoung lady upon a business matter and that if Mrs. O'Brien shouldlearn of her address, it would be considered a great favor if shewould bring it to him. This the kind-hearted Irish woman agreed to do,and with a heavy heart the young lawyer returned to his place ofbusiness.
Meanwhile, Edith was being wheeled along the rails toward herdestination. When the train reached New Haven, feeling faint, for shehad not been able to eat much breakfast, she got out to purchase alunch.
She entered the station and bought some sandwiches, together with alittle fruit, and then started to return to the train.
Just in front of her she noticed a fine-looking, richly-clad couplewho were evidently bound in the same direction.
The gentleman opened the door for his companion to pass out, but asshe did so, the heel of her boot caught upon the threshold, and shewould have fallen heavily to the platform if Edith had not sprungforward and caught her by the hand which she threw out to saveherself.
As it was, she was evidently badly hurt, for she turned very white anda sharp cry of pain was forced from her lips.
"Are you injured, madam? Can I do anything for you?" Edith inquired,while her husband, springing to her aid, exclaimed, in a tone ofmingled concern and impatience:
"What have you done, Anna?"
"Turned my ankle, I think," the woman replied, as she leaned heavilyagainst his shoulder for support.
Edith stooped to pick up the beautiful Russia leather bag which shehad dropped as she stumbled, and followed the couple to the train,where, with the help of a porter, the injured lady was assisted into aparlor car.
The one adjoining it was the common passenger coach in which Edith hadridden from New York.
"Here is madam's bag, sir," she remarked to the gentleman, as,supporting his wife with one arm, he was about to pass into thePullman.
"Are you going on this train?" he inquired, looking back over hisshoulder at her.
"Yes, sir; but I do not belong in the parlor car."
"Never mind; we will fix that all right. Bring the bag along, if youwill be so kind," he returned, as he went on with his companion.
So Edith followed them to the little state-room at one end of the car,where madam sank heavily into a chair, looking as if she were ready toswoon.
"Oh, get off my boot!" she pleaded, thrusting out her injured foot.
Edith drew forward a hassock for it to rest upon, and then, with aface full of sympathy, dropped upon her knees and began to unbuttonthe boot, which, however, was no easy matter, as the ankle was alreadymuch swollen.
The train began to move just at this moment, and the young girlstarted to her feet, an anxious look sweeping over her face.
"Never mind," said the gentleman, reassuringly. "Unless you havefriends aboard the train to be troubled about you, I will take youback to your car presently."
"I have no one--I am traveling alone," Edith responded, and flushingslightly, as she encountered the gaze of earnest admiration which hebestowed upon her.
The gentleman's face lighted at her reply.
"Then would it be presuming upon your kindness too much to ask you toremain with my wife?" he inquired. "I am perfectly helpless, like mostmen, when any one is ill and we know no one on the train."
"I will gladly stay, and do whatever I can for her," eagerly returnedEdith, who felt that it would be a great relief and safeguard if shecould complete her journey under the protection of these prepossessingpeople; while, too, it would give her something to think of and keepher from dwelling upon her own sorrows.
As Edith, from time to time, continued her ministering to the injuredfoot, rubbing it with alcohol, to reduce the inflammation, she wasquestioned by her new acquaintances, and informed them of her recentbereavement and o
f her lonely condition, and stated that she was goingto Boston to try to secure employment.
She was applying the alcohol when the lady said:
"That will do for the present, Miss ---- What shall I call you,please?" she remarked, signifying that she did not care to have thefoot rubbed any longer at that time.
"Edith Allen--Oh, what have I done?" the young girl suddenly criedout, in a voice of pain, as the woman winced and gave vent to a moanbeneath her touch.
"Nothing--do not be troubled, dear--only you happened to touch a verytender spot," exclaimed the lady, trying to smile reassuringly intothe girl's startled face. "So your name is Edith Allen; that soundsvery nice," she continued. "I am fond of pretty names as I am ofpretty people."
Edith opened her lips to correct her regarding her name; then suddenlychecked herself.
It did not matter, she thought, if they did not know her full name.She might never see them again; she had a right to use only the firsthalf of her surname, if she chose, and it would not be nearly soconspicuous as Allandale, which was so familiar in certain circles inNew York.
Thus she concluded to let the matter rest as it was.
The acquaintance thus begun was productive of an utterly unexpectedresult. Before the trip was ended, the lady had induced Edith toaccept the position of traveling companion to her, at a salary oftwenty-five dollars a month. She stated that about a month previousshe had lost the services of the female who had filled the position,and until this time had been unable to find a suitable person for theplace.
Edith decided to try the position for a month; "then," she added, "ifI meet your requirements, we can arrange for a longer time."
"Very well; I am pleased with that arrangement. And now, Edith--ofcourse I am not going to be so formal as to address you as MissAllen--"
"Certainly not," interposed Edith, with a charming little smile andblush.
"I was about to remark," the lady went on, "that I think it is time wewere formally introduced to you. My husband is known as GeraldGoddard, Esq., of No. ---- Commonwealth avenue, Boston, and I am--Mrs.Goddard."
Edith wondered why she should have paused before speaking thus ofherself; why she should have shot that quick, flashing glance into herhusband's face as she did so.
She was a very handsome woman of perhaps forty-two or forty-threeyears. She was slightly above the medium height, with a magnificentlyproportioned figure. Her hair was coal-black, with a tendency to curl;her eyes were of the same color, very large and brilliant, andrendered peculiarly expressive by the long raven lashes which shadedthem. Her complexion was a pale olive, clear and smooth as satin; herfeatures were somewhat irregular, but singularly pleasing when she wasanimated; her cheeks slightly tinted, her lips a vivid scarlet, herteeth white as alabaster.
Later, when Edith saw her arrayed for an evening reception, shethought her the most brilliantly handsome woman she had ever seen.
As Mrs. Goddard finished speaking, Edith involuntarily glanced up atMr. Gerald Goddard, when she was startled to find him sharplyscrutinizing her, with a look which seemed to be trying to read herthrough and through.
His glance sent a strange chill running through her veins--a sensationalmost of fear and repulsion; and she found herself hoping that shewould not be obliged to see very much of the gentleman, even thoughshe was destined to become an inmate of his home.
He was evidently somewhat older than his wife, for his hair was almostwhite and his face somewhat lined--whether from time, care, ordissipation, Edith could not quite determine.
He would have been called and was regarded by the society in which hemoved as a remarkably handsome and distinguished looking man, whoentertained "like a prince," and possessed an exhaustless fund of witand knowledge.
Nevertheless, Edith was repelled by him, and felt that he was not aman to be either trusted or loved, even though she had not been anhour in his presence before she was made to realize that his wifeadored him.