The Masked Bridal Part 52

CHAPTER x.x.xIII.

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 pa.s.sionate 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 circ.u.mstances 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 pa.s.sed 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 advertis.e.m.e.nts 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 fort.i.tude 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 dest.i.tute 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 advertis.e.m.e.nt 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 acc.u.mulated 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 inst.i.tution 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 circ.u.mstances 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.