Part 5 (2/2)
A vivid flush dyed her cheeks as she suddenly checked the confession that had almost escaped her lips, her head drooped, her chest heaved with the rapid beating of her heart, as she realized that her deepest and strongest affections had been irrevocably given to the n.o.ble-hearted young man who had been so kind to her in her recent trouble.
The carriage stopped at last before the door of her home--if the miserable tenenment-house could be designated by such a name--and she sprang eagerly to the ground as the coachman opened the door for her to alight.
”The fare is all paid, miss,” he said, respectfully, as she hesitated a moment; then she went bounding up the stairs to be met on the threshold of her room by Kate O'Brien--who had seen the carriage stop--with her finger on her lips and a look in her kind, honest eyes that made the girl's heart sink with a sudden shock.
”My mother!” she breathed, with paling lips.
”Whisht, mavourneen!” said the woman, pitifully; then added, in a lower tone: ”She has been mortal ill, miss.”
”And now?” panted Edith, leaning against the door-frame for support.
”'s.h.!.+ She is asleep.”
Edith waited to hear no more. Something in the woman's face and manner filled her with a terrible dread.
She pushed by her, entered the room, and glided swiftly but noiselessly to the bed, looked down upon the scarcely breathing figure lying there.
It was with difficulty that she repressed a shriek of agony at what she saw, for the shadow of death was unmistakably settling over the beloved face.
The invalid stirred slightly upon her pillow as Edith came to her side and bent over her.
”My darling,” she murmured weakly, as her white lids fluttered open, and she bent a look full of love upon the fair face above her, ”I--am going--”
”No, no, mamma!” whispered the almost heart-broken girl, but struggling mightily with her agony and to preserve calmness lest she excite the invalid.
”Bring me the--j.a.panese box--quick!” the dying woman commanded, in a scarcely audible tone.
Without a word Edith darted to a closet, opened a trunk, and from its depths drew forth a beautiful casket inlaid with mother-of-pearl and otherwise exquisitely decorated.
”The--key,” gasped the sick one, fumbling feebly among the folds of her night-robe.
Edith bent over her and unfastened a key from a golden chain which encircled her mother's neck.
”Open!” she whispered, glancing toward the casket.
The girl, wondering, but awed and silent, unlocked the box and threw back the cover, thus revealing several packages of letters and other papers neatly arranged within it.
Mrs. Allandale reached forth a weak and bloodless hand, as if to take something out of the box, when she suddenly choked, and in another instant the red life-current was flowing from her lips.
”Letters--burn--” she gasped, with a last expiring effort, and then became suddenly insensible.
In an agony of terror, Edith dashed the box upon the nearest chair and began to chafe the cold hand that hung over the side of the bed, while Mrs. O'Brien came forward, a look of awe on her face.
The frail chest of the invalid heaved two or three times, there was a spasmodic twitching of the slender fingers lying on the young girl's hand, then all was still, and Edith Allandale was motherless.
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