The Masked Bridal Part 47

"Part--forever? I do not feel that I can have it so," said Gerald G.o.ddard, with white lips, "for--I love you at this moment a thousand times more than I ever--"

"Stop!" Isabel Stewart firmly commanded. "Such an avowal from you at this time is but an added insult to me, as well as a cowardly wrong against her who, in the eyes of the world, at least, has sustained the relationship of wife to you for many years."

The head of the proud man dropped before her with an air of humility entirely foreign to the "distinguished" Gerald G.o.ddard whom the world knew; but, though crushed by a sense of shame and grief, he could but own to himself that her condemnation was just, and the faint hope that had sprung up in his heart died, then and there, its tragic death.

CHAPTER x.x.x.

"I HATE YOU WITH ALL THE STRENGTH OF MY ITALIAN BLOOD."

Isabel Stewart felt that she could not bear the painful interview any longer, and was about to touch the electric b.u.t.ton to summon her servant to show her visitor out, when he stayed her with a gesture of appeal.

"One moment more, Isabel, I implore," he exclaimed; "then I will go, never to trouble you again."

Her beautiful hand dropped by her side, and she turned again to him with a patient, inquiring glance.

"You have spoken of our--child," the man went on, eagerly, though a flush of shame dyed his face as he gave utterance to the p.r.o.noun denoting mutual possession. "Do you intend to continue your search for her?"

"Certainly; that will now be the one aim of my life. I could never take another moment of comfort knowing that my old friend and my child were dest.i.tute, as I have been led to believe they are."

"And if--you find her--shall--you tell her--your history?" faltered Gerald G.o.ddard, as he nervously moistened his dry lips.

His companion bent her head in thought for a moment. At length she remarked:

"I shall, of course, be governed somewhat by circ.u.mstances in such a matter; if I find Edith still in ignorance of the fact that she is an adopted daughter, I think I shall never undeceive her, but strive to be content with such love as she can give me, as her mother's friend. If, on the other hand, I find that she has learned the truth--especially if she should happen to be alone in the world--I shall take her into my arms and tell her the whole story of my life, beg her to share my future, and let me try to win as much as possible of her love."

"If you should find her, pray, pray do not teach her to regard me as a monster of all that is evil," pleaded her companion, in a tone of agony that was pitiful. "Ah, Isabel, I believe I should have been a better man if I could have had the love of little children thrown about me as a safeguard."

Isabel Stewart's red lips curled with momentary scorn at this attempt to shift the responsibility of his wasted and misguided life upon any one or anything rather than himself.

"What a pity, then, that you did not realize the fact before you discarded the unhappy young mother and her innocent babe, so many years ago," she remarked, in a tone that pierced his heart like a knife.

"I did go back to Rome for the child--I did try to find her after--I had heard that--that you were gone," he faltered. "I was told that the infant had doubtless perished with you, though its body was never found; but I have mourned her--I have yearned for her all my life."

"And do you imagine, even if you should meet her some time in the future, that she would reciprocate this affection which, strangely enough, you manifest at this late day?"

"Perhaps not, if you should meet her first and tell her your story,"

the man returned, with a heavy sigh.

"Which I shall a.s.suredly do," said Mrs. Stewart, resolutely; "that is, if, as I said before, I find her alone in the world; that much justification is my due--my child shall know the truth; then she shall be allowed to act according to the dictates of her own heart and judgment, regarding her future relationship toward both of us. I feel sure that she has been most carefully reared--that my old friend Edith would instill only precepts of truth and purity in her mind, and my heart tells me that she would be likely to shrink from one who had wronged her mother as you have wronged me."

"I see; you will keep her from me if you can," said Mr. G.o.ddard, with intense bitterness.

"I am free to confess that I should prefer you never to meet," said Mrs. Stewart, a look of pain sweeping over her beautiful face; "but Edith is twenty years of age, if she is living; and if, after learning my history, she desires to recognize the relationship between herself and you, I can, of course, but submit to her wish."

"It is very evident to me that you will teach her to hate her father,"

was the sullen retort.

"Her father?" the term was repeated with infinite scorn. "Pray in what respect have you shown yourself worthy to be so regarded?--you who even denied her legitimate birth, and turned your back upon her, totally indifferent to whether she starved or not."

"How hard you are upon me, Isabel!"

"I have told you only facts."

"I know--I know; but have some pity for me now, since, at last, I have come to my senses; for in my heart I have an insatiable longing for this daughter who, if she is living, must embody some of the virtues of her mother, who--G.o.d help me!--is lost, lost to me forever!"

The man's voice died away in a hoa.r.s.e whisper, while a heart-broken sob burst from his lips.

"Go, Gerald," said Mrs. Stewart, in a low, but not unkindly imperative tone; "it is better that this interview should terminate. The past is past--nothing can change it; but the future will be what we make it.

Go, and if I ever hear from you again, let me know that your present contrition has culminated in a better life."

She turned abruptly from him and disappeared within her chamber, quietly shutting the door after her, while Gerald G.o.ddard arose to "go" as he had been bidden.

As, with tottering gait and a pale, despairing face, he crossed the room and parted the draperies between the two pretty parlors, he found himself suddenly confronted by a woman so wan and haggard that, for an instant, he failed to recognize her.

"Idiot!" hissed Anna Correlli, through her pallid, tightly-drawn lips; "traitor! coward! viper!"

She was forced to pause simply because she was exhausted from the venom which she had expended in the utterance of those four expletives.

Then she sank, weak and faint, upon a chair, but with her eyes glittering like points of flame, fastened in a look of malignant hatred upon the astonished man.

"Anna! how came you here?--how long have you been here?" he finally found voice to say.

"Long enough to learn of the contemptible perfidy and meanness of the man whom, for twenty years, I have trusted," she panted, but the tone was so hollow he never would have known who was speaking had he not seen her.

He opened his dry lips to make some reply; but no sound came from them.

He put out his hand to support himself by the back of her chair, for all his strength and sense seemed on the point of failing him; while for the moment he felt as if he could almost have been grateful to any one who would slay him where he stood, and thus put him out of his misery--benumb his sense of degradation and the remorse which he experienced for his wasted life, and the wrongs of which he had been guilty.

But, by a powerful effort, he soon mastered himself, for he was anxious to escape from the house before the presence of his wife should be discovered.

"Come, Anna," he said; "let us go home, where we can talk over this matter by ourselves, without the fear of being overheard."

He attempted to a.s.sist her to rise, but she shrank away from him with a gesture of aversion, at the same time flashing a look up at him that almost seemed to curdle his blood, and sent a shudder of dread over him.

"Do not dare to touch me!" she cried, hoa.r.s.ely. "Go--call a carriage; I am not able to walk. Go; I will follow you."

Without a word, he turned to obey her, and pa.s.sed quickly out of the suite without encountering any one, she following, but with a gait so unsteady that any one watching her would have been tempted to believe her under the influence of some intoxicant.

Mr. G.o.ddard found a carriage standing near the entrance to the hotel, and they were soon on their way home.

Not a word was spoken by either during the ride, and it would have been impossible to have found two more utterly wretched people in all that great city.

Upon entering their house, they found Emil Correlli in a state bordering on frenzy, occasioned by the escape of Edith, and this circ.u.mstance served for a few moments to distract their thoughts from their own troubles.

Mr. G.o.ddard was intensely relieved by the intelligence, and plainly betrayed it in his manner.