At any other time and under any other circ.u.mstances Mr. Bryant would have resented this inquiry as an impertinence; but it occurred to him that an appearance of frankness and compliance might save them further inconvenience.
"Certainly," he responded, with the utmost cheerfulness, "this lady"s name is Miss Edith Allandale and she is the daughter of the late Albert Allandale, of Allandale & Capen, bankers."
"It is all right, sir," said the officer, at last convinced that he had made a mistake, for Allandale & Capen had been a well-known firm to him. "You can go on," he added, touching his hat respectfully, "and I beg pardon for troubling you."
Without more ado he turned away, while Edith and her escort pa.s.sed on, but the frightened girl was now trembling in every limb.
"Calm yourself, dear," whispered her companion, involuntarily using the affectionate term, as he hastened to lead her into the fresh air.
"You are safe, and I will soon have you in a place where your enemies will never think of looking for you."
He beckoned to the driver of a carriage as he spoke, and in another minute was a.s.sisting Edith into it; then, taking a seat beside her, he gave the man his order, and as the vehicle moved away in the darkness, the poor girl began to breathe freely for the first time since alighting from the train.
Mr. Bryant gave her a little time to recover herself, and then asked her to tell him all her trouble.
This she was only too glad to do; and, beginning with the death of her mother, she poured out the whole story of the last three months to him, dwelling mostly, however, upon the persecutions of Emil Correlli and the climax to which they had recently attained.
He listened attentively throughout, but interrupting her, now and then, to ask a pertinent question as it occurred to him.
"I was in despair," Edith finally remarked in conclusion, "until yesterday, when, by the merest chance, my eye fell upon that advertis.e.m.e.nt of yours and it flashed upon me that the best course for me to pursue would be to come directly to New York and seek your aid; I felt sure you would be as willing to help me as upon a previous occasion."
"Certainly I would--you judged me rightly," the young man responded, "but"--bending nearer to her and speaking in a slightly reproachful tone--"tell me, please, what was your object in leaving New York so unceremoniously?"
He felt the slight shock which went quivering through her at the question, and smiled to himself at her hesitation before she replied:
"I--I thought it was best," she faltered at last.
"Why for the "best"?--for you or for me? Tell me, please," he pleaded, gently.
"For--both," she replied in a scarcely audible tone that thrilled him and made his face gleam with sudden tenderness.
"I--you will pardon me if I speak plainly--I thought it very strange,"
he remarked gravely. "It almost seemed to me as if you were fleeing from me, for I fully expected that you would return to the office on Thursday morning, as I had appointed. Had I done anything to offend you or drive you away--Edith?"
"No--oh, no," she quickly returned.
"I am very glad to know that," said her companion, a slight tremulousness in his tones, "for I have feared that I might have betrayed my feelings in a way to wound or annoy you; for, Edith--I can no longer keep the secret--I had learned to love you with all my heart during that week that you spent in my office, and I resolved, on parting with you at the carriage, the morning of your release, to confess the fact to you as soon as you returned to the office, ask you to be my wife and thus let me stand between you and the world for all time. Nay,"--as Edith here made a little gesture as if to check him--"I must make a full confession now, while I have the opportunity.
I was almost in despair when I received your brief note telling me that you had left the city and without giving me the slightest clew to your destination. All my plans, all my fond antic.i.p.ations, were dashed to the earth, dear. I loved you so I felt that I could not bear the separation. I love you still, my darling--my heart leaped for joy this afternoon when I received your telegram. And now, while I have you here all to myself, I have dared to tell you of it, and beg you to tell me if there is any hope for me? Can you love me in return!--will you be my wife--?"
"Oh, hush! you forget the wretched tie that binds me to that villain in Boston," cried Edith, and there was such keen pain in her voice that tears involuntarily started to her companion"s eyes, while at the same time both words and tone thrilled him with sweetest hope.
"No tie binds you to him, dear," he whispered, tenderly. "Do you think I would have opened my heart to you thus if I had really believed you to be the wife of another?"
"Oh, do you mean that the marriage was not legal? Oh, if I could believe that!" Edith exclaimed, with a note of such eager hope in her tones that it almost amounted to the confession her lover had solicited from her.
But he yearned to hear it in so many words from her lips.
"Tell me, Edith, if I can prove it to you, will there be hope for me?"
he whispered.
Ought she to answer him as her heart dictated? Dare she confess her love with that stigma of her mother"s early mistake resting upon her?
she asked herself, in anguish of spirit.
She sat silent and miserable, undecided what to do.
If she acknowledged her love for him, without telling him, and he should afterward discover the story of her birth, might he not feel that she had taken an unfair advantage of him.
And yet, how could she ever bring herself to disclose the shameful secret of that sad, sad tragedy which had occurred twenty years previous in Rome?
"I--dare not tell you," she murmured at last.
The young man started, then bent eagerly toward her.
"You "dare" not tell me!" he cried, joyfully. "Darling, I am answered already! But why do you hesitate to open your heart to me?"
A sudden resolve took possession of her; she would tell him the whole truth, let come what might.
"I will not," she said. "I have a sad story to tell you; but first, explain to me what you meant when you said that no tie binds me to that man?"
"I meant that that marriage was simply a farce, in spite of the sacrilegious attempt of your enemies to legalize it," said the young lawyer, gravely.
"Can that be possible?" sighed Edith, her voice tremulous with joy.
"I will prove it to you. You have told me that this man Correlli lived with that Italian woman here in New York for two years or more."
"Yes."
"Do you know whether he allowed her to be known by his name?"
"No; but she told me that he allowed her to appear as his wife in the house where they lived."
"Well, then, if that can be proven--and I have not much doubt about the matter--the girl, by the laws of New York, which decree that if a couple live together in this State as husband and wife, they are such--this girl, I say, is the legal wife of Emil Correlli, consequently he can lay no claim to you without making himself liable to prosecution for the crime of bigamy."
"Are you sure?" breathed Edith, and almost faint from joy, in view of this blessed release from a fate which to her would have been worse than death.
"So sure, dear, that I have nothing to fear for your future, regarding your connection with this man, and everything to hope for regarding your happiness and mine, if you will but tell me that you love me,"
her lover returned, as he boldly captured the hand that lay alluringly near him.
She did not withdraw it from his clasp.
It was so sweet to feel herself beloved and safe, under the protection of this true-hearted man, that a feeling of restfulness and content swept over her, and for the moment every other was absorbed by this.
Still, Royal Bryant realized that she had some reason for hesitating to acknowledge her affection for him, and after a moment of silence he said, gently:
"Forgive my impatience, dear, and tell me the "sad story" to which you referred a little while ago."
A heavy sigh escaped Edith.
"You will be surprised to learn," she began, "that Mr. and Mrs.