Part 57 (1/2)

Twining her arms about the girl's waist, she led her to a seat, and sitting beside her, she circ.u.mstantially related all that we already know of her history.

But not once did she mention the name of the man who had so deeply wronged her; for she had resolved, if it were possible, to keep from Edith the fact that Gerald G.o.ddard, under whose roof she had lived, was her father.

The young girl, however, was not satisfied, was not content to be thus kept in the dark; and, when her mother's story was ended, she inquired, with grave face and clouded eyes:

”Who was this man?--why have you so persistently retrained from identifying him? What was the name of that coward to whom--with shame I say it--I am indebted for my being?”

”My love, cannot you restrain your curiosity upon that point? Will you not let the dead past bury its dead, without erecting a tablet to its memory?” her companion pleaded, gently. ”It can do you no possible good--it might cause you infinite pain to know.”

”Is the man living?” Edith sternly demanded.

Mrs. Stewart flushed.

”Yes,” she replied, after a moment of hesitation.

”Then I must know--you must tell me, so that I may shun him as I would shun a deadly serpent,” the young girl exclaimed, with compressed lips and flas.h.i.+ng eyes.

Mrs. Stewart looked both pained and troubled.

”My love, I wish you would not press this point,” she remarked, nervously.

”Edith turned and gazed searchingly into her eyes.

”Do you still cherish an atom of affection for him?” she inquired.

”No! a thousand times no!” was the emphatic response, accompanied by a gesture of abhorrence.

”Then you can have no personal motive or sensitiveness concerning the matter.”

”No, my child--my desire is simply to save you pain--to spare you a shock, perchance.”

”Do I know him already?--have I ever seen him?” cried Edith, in a startled tone.

”Yes, dear.”

”Then tell me! tell me!” panted the girl. ”Oh! if I have spoken with him, it is a wonder that my tongue was not paralyzed in the act--that my very soul did not shrink and recoil with aversion from him!” she exclaimed, trembling from head to foot with excitement.

Her mother saw that it would be useless to attempt to keep the truth from her; that it would be better to tell her, or she might brood over the matter and make herself unhappy by vainly trying to solve the riddle in her own mind.

”Edith,” she said, with gentle gravity, ”the man is--Gerald G.o.ddard!”

The girl sprang to her feet, electrified by the startling revelation, a low cry of dismay escaping her.

”He! that man my--father!” she breathed, hoa.r.s.ely, with dilating nostrils and horrified eyes.

”It is true,” was the sad response. ”I would have saved you the pain of knowing this if I could.”

”Oh! and I have lived day after day in his presence! I have talked and jested with him! I have eaten of his bread, and his roof has sheltered me!” cried Edith, s.h.i.+vering with aversion. ”Why, oh, why did not some instinct warn me of the wretched truth, and enable me to repudiate him and then fly from him as from some monster of evil? Ah, I was warned, if I had but heeded the signs,” she continued, with flushed cheeks and flaming eyes. ”There were many times when some word or look would make me shrink from him with a strange repugnance, and that last night in Wyoming--oh, he revealed his evil nature to me in a way that made me loathe him!”