The morning following her interview with Emil Correlli, when Edith attempted to leave her room to go down to breakfast, she found, to her dismay, that her door had been fastened on the outside.
An angry flush leaped to her brow.
"So they imagine they can make me bend to their will by making a prisoner of me, do they?" she exclaimed, with flashing eyes and scornful lips. "We shall see!"
But she was powerless just then to help herself, and so was obliged to make the best of her situation for the present.
Presently some one knocked upon her door, and she heard a bolt moved—it having been placed there during the night. Then Mrs. Goddard appeared before her, smiling a gracious good-morning, and bearing a tray, upon which there was a daintily arranged breakfast.
"We thought it best for you to eat here, since you do not feel like coming down to the dining-room," she kindly remarked, as she set the tray upon the table.
Edith opened her lips to make some scathing retort; but, a bright thought suddenly flashing through her mind, she checked herself, and replied, appreciatively:
"Thank you, Mrs. Goddard."
The woman turned a surprised look upon her, for she had expected only tears and reproaches from her because of her imprisonment.
But Edith, without appearing to notice it, sat down and quietly prepared to eat her breakfast.
"Ah! she is beginning to come around," thought the wily woman.[138]
But, concealing her secret pleasure at this change in her victim, she remarked, in her ordinary tone:
"We shall leave for the city very soon after breakfast, so please have everything ready so as not to keep the horses standing in the cold."
"Everything is ready now," said Edith, glancing at her trunk, which she had locked just before trying the door.
"That is well, and I will send for you when the carriage comes around."
Edith simply bowed to show that she heard, and then her companion retired, locking the door after her, but marveling at the girl's apparent submission.
"There is no way to outwit rogues except with their own weapons—cunning and deceit," murmured the fair prisoner, bitterly, as she began to eat her breakfast. "I will be very wary and apparently submissive until I have matured my plans, and then they may chew their cud of defeat as long as it pleases them to do so."
After finishing her meal she dressed herself for the coming drive, but wondered why Mrs. Weld had not been up to see her, for, of course, she must know that something unusual had happened, or that she was ill again, since she had not joined her at breakfast.
A little later she heard a stealthy step outside her door, and the next moment an envelope was slipped beneath it into her room; then the steps retreated, and all was still again.
Rising, Edith picked up the missive and opened it, when another sealed envelope, addressed to her, in a beautiful, lady-like hand, and postmarked Boston, was revealed, together with a brief note hastily written with a pencil.
This latter proved to be from Mrs. Weld.
"Dear Child," it ran, "I have been requested not to go to you this morning, as you are particularly engaged, which, of course, I understand as a command to keep out of the way. But I want you to know that I mean to stand by you, and shall do all in my power[139] to help you. I shall manage to see or write to you again in a day or two. Meantime, don't lose heart.
"Affectionately yours,
"Gertrude Weld.
"P.S.—The inclosed letter came for you in last night's mail. I captured it for you."
With an eager light in her eyes, Edith opened it and read:
"Boston, Feb. —, 18—.
"My Dear Miss Allen:—I have learned of the wretched deception that has been practiced upon you, and hasten to write this to assure you that my previous offer of friendship—when we met at the time of the accident to my coachman—was not a mere matter of form. Again I say, if you need a friend, come to me, and I will do my utmost to shield you from those who have shown themselves your worst enemies, and whom I know to be unworthy of the position which they occupy in the social world. Come to me when you will, and I promise to protect you from them. I cannot say more upon paper.
"Sincerely yours,
Isabel Stewart."
"How very kind, and yet how very strange!" murmured Edith, as she refolded the letter. "I wonder who could have told her about that wretched affair of Tuesday evening. I wonder, too, what she knows about the Goddards, and if I had better accept her friendly offer."
She reflected upon the matter for a few minutes, and then continued:
"I think I will go to New York first, as I had planned, see what Mr. Bryant can do for me, and ascertain the meaning of that strange personal; then I think I will come back and ask her to take me as a companion—for I do not believe that what I shall learn to my financial advantage will amount to enough to preclude the necessity of my doing something for my support. I suppose I ought to answer this letter, though," she added, meditatively; "but I believe I[140] shall not dare to until I am safely away from Boston, for if my reply should fall into the hands of any member of this family, my plans might be frustrated."
She carefully concealed both notes about her person, and then sat down to await orders to go below.
A little later Mrs. Goddard came to her and said they were about ready to leave for the city, and requested her to go down into the hall.
Edith arose with apparent alacrity, and madam noticed with an expression of satisfaction that her bearing was less aggressive than when they had last met.
She followed Mrs. Goddard downstairs and seated herself in the hall to await the signal for departure.
Presently Mr. Goddard came in from outdoors.
He started slightly upon seeing Edith, then paused and inquired kindly if she was feeling quite well again.
Edith thanked him, and briefly remarked that she was, when he startled her by stooping suddenly and whispering in her ear:
"Count upon me as your friend, my child; I promise you that I will do all in my power to help you thwart your enemies."
He waited for no answer, but passed quickly on and entered the library.
Edith was astonished, and while, for the moment, she was touched by his unexpected offer of assistance, she at the same time distrusted him.
"I will trust myself and my fate with no one but Royal Bryant," she said to herself, a flush of excitement rising to her cheek.
A few minutes later the carriage was driven to the door—the snow having become so soft they were obliged to return to the city on wheels—when Mrs. Goddard came hurrying from the dining-room, where she had been giving some last orders to the servants, and bidding Edith follow her, passed out of the house and entered the carriage.
Edith was scarcely seated beside her when Emil Correlli made his appearance and settled himself opposite her.[141]
The young girl flushed, but, schooling herself to carry out the part which she had determined to assume for the present, made no other sign to betray how distasteful his presence was to her.
She could not, however, bring herself to join in any conversation, except, once or twice, to respond to a direct question from madam, although the young man tried several times to draw her out, until, finally discouraged, he relapsed into a sullen and moody silence, greatly to the disgust of his sister, who seemed nervously inclined to talk.
Upon their arrival in town, Mrs. Goddard remarked to Edith:
"I have been obliged to take, for a servant, the room you used to occupy, dear; consequently, you will have to go into the south chamber for the present. Thomas," turning to a man and pointing to Edith's trunk, "take this trunk directly up to the south chamber."
Edith's heart gave a startled bound at this unexpected change.
The "south chamber" was the handsomest sleeping apartment in the house—the guest chamber, in fact—and she understood at once why it had thus been assigned to her.
It was intended that she should pose and be treated in every respect as became the wife of madam's brother, and thus the best room in the house had been set apart for her use.
She knew that it would be both useless and unwise to make any objections; the change had been determined upon, and doubtless her old room was already occupied by a servant, to prevent the possibility of her returning to it.
Thus, after the first glance of surprise at madam, she turned and quietly followed the man who was taking up her trunk.
But, on entering the "south chamber," another surprise awaited her, for the apartment had been fitted up with even greater luxury than previous to their leaving for the country.
The man unstrapped her trunk and departed, when[142] Edith looked around her with a flushed and excited face.
A beautiful little rocker, of carved ivory, inlaid with gold, was standing in the bay-window overlooking the avenue, and beside it there was an exquisite work-stand to match.
An elegant writing-desk, of unique design, and furnished with everything a lady of the daintiest tastes could desire, stood near another sunny window. The inkstand, paper weight, and blotter were of silver; the pen of gold, with a costly pearl handle.
There were several styles of paper and envelopes, and all stamped in gilt with a monogram composed of the initials E. C., and there was a tiny box of filigree silver filled with postage stamps.
It was an outfit to make glad the heart of almost any beauty-loving girl; but Edith's eyes flashed with angry scorn the moment she caught sight of the dainty monogram, wrought in gold, upon the paper and envelopes.
On the dressing-case there was a full set of toilet and manicure utensils, in solid silver, and also marked with the same initials; besides these there were exquisite bottles of cut glass, with gold stoppers filled with various kinds of perfumery.
Upon the bed there lay an elegant sealskin garment, which, at a glance, Edith knew must have been cut to fit her figure, and beside it there was a pretty muff and a Parisian hat that could not have cost less than thirty dollars, while over the foot-board there hung three or four beautiful dresses.
"Did they suppose that they could buy me over—tempt me to sell myself for this gorgeous finery?" the indignant girl exclaimed, in a voice that quivered with anger. "They must think me very weak-minded and variable if they did."
But her curiosity was excited to see how far they had carried their extravagant bribery; and, going back to the dressing-case, she drew out the upper drawer.
Notwithstanding her indignation and scorn, she could not suppress a cry of mingled astonishment and[143] admiration at what she saw there, for the receptacle contained the daintiest lingerie imaginable.
There were beautiful laces, handkerchiefs, and gloves, suitable for every occasion; three or four fans of costly material and exquisite workmanship; a pair of pearl-and-gold opera glasses.
More than this, and arranged so as to cunningly tempt the eye, there were several cases of jewels—comprising pearls, diamonds, emeralds, and rubies.
It was an array to tempt the most obdurate heart and fancy, and Edith stood gazing upon the lovely things with admiring eyes while, after a moment, a little sigh of regret accompanied her resolute act of shutting the drawer and turning the key in its lock.
The second and third contained several suits of exquisite underwear of finest material, and comprising everything that a lady could need or desire in that line; in the fourth drawer there were boxes of silken hose of various colors, together with lovely French boots and slippers suitable for different costumes.
"What a pity to spend so much money for nothing," Edith murmured, regretfully, when she had concluded her inspection. "It is very evident that they look upon me as a silly, vacillating girl, who can be easily managed and won over by pretty clothes and glittering baubles. I suppose there are girls whose highest ambition in life is to possess such things, and to lead an existence of luxury and pleasure—who would doubtless sell themselves for them; but I should hate and scorn myself for accepting anything of the kind from a man whom I could neither respect nor love."
She gave utterance to a heavy sigh as she closed the drawer and turned away from the dressing-case; not, however, because she longed to possess the beautiful things she had seen, but in view of the difficulties which might lie before her to hamper her movements in the effort to escape from her enemies.
"I suppose I must remain here for a few hours at least," she continued, an expression of anxiety flitting over her face, "and if I expect to carry out my plans[144] successfully I must begin by assuming a submissive role."
She removed her hat and wraps, hanging them in a closet; then, going to her trunk, she selected what few articles she would absolutely need on her journey to New York, and some important papers—among them the letters which her own mother had written—and after hastily making them up into a neat package, returned them again to the trunk for concealment, until she should be ready to leave the house.
This done, she sat down by a window to await and meet, with what fortitude she could command, the next act in the drama of her life.
Not long after she heard a step in the hall, then there came a knock on her door, and madam's voice called out:
"It is only I, Edith; may I come in?"
"Yes, come," unhesitatingly responded the girl, and Mrs. Goddard, her face beaming with smiles and good nature, entered the room.
"How do you like your new quarters, dear?" she inquired, searching Edith's fair face with eager eyes.
"Of course, everything is very beautiful," she returned, glancing admiringly around the apartment.
"And are you pleased with the additions to the furnishings?—the chair, the work-table, and writing-desk?"
"I have never seen anything more lovely," Edith replied, bending forward as if to examine more closely the filigree stamp box on the desk, but in reality to conceal the flush of scorn that leaped into her eyes.
"I knew you would like them," said madam, with a little note of triumph in her voice; "they are exquisite, and Emil is going to have them carefully packed, and take them along for you to use wherever you stop in your travels. And the cloak and dresses—aren't they perfectly elegant? The jewels, too, and other things in the dressing-case; have you seen them?"
"Yes, I have seen them all; but—but I am very sorry that so much money should have been spent for me," Edith faltered, a hot flush, which her companion[145] interpreted as one of pleasure and gratified vanity, suffusing her cheeks.
"Oh, the money is of no account, if you are only happy," Mrs. Goddard lightly remarked. "And now," she went on eagerly, "I want you to dress yourself just as nicely as you can, and be ready, when the bell rings, to come down to lunch, as it becomes—my sister. Will you, dear?" she concluded, coaxingly. "Do, Edith, be reasonable; let us bury the hatchet, and all be on good terms."
"I—I do not think I can quite make up my mind to go down to lunch," Edith faltered, with averted face.
Madam frowned; she had begun to think her victory was won, and the disappointment nettled her. But she controlled herself and remarked pleasantly:
"Well, then, I will send up your lunch, if you will promise to come down and dine with us, will you?"
Edith hesitated a moment; then, drawing a long breath, she remarked, as if with bashful hesitancy:
"I think, perhaps—I will go down later—by and by."
"Now you are beginning to be sensible, dear," said madam, flashing a covert look of exultation at her, "and Emil will be so happy. Put on this silver-gray silk—it is so lovely, trimmed with white lace—and the pearls; you will be charming in the costume. I am sorry I have to go directly after lunch," she continued, regretfully, "but I have a call to make, and shall not be back for a couple of hours; but Emil will be here; so if you can find it in your heart to be a little kind to him, just put on the gray silk—or anything else you may prefer—and go down to him. May I tell him that you will?"
"I will not promise—at least until after you return," murmured Edith, in a low voice.
Madam could have laughed in triumph, for she believed the victory was hers.
"Well, perhaps you would feel a trifle shy about it," she said, good-naturedly, "it would be pleasanter and easier for you, no doubt, if I were here, so I will come for you when I get back. Good-by, till then."[146]
And with a satisfied little nod and smile, madam left her and went downstairs to tell her brother that his munificence had won the day, and he would have no further trouble with a fractious bride.