"Bring me the—Japanese 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.
CHAPTER VI.
A HERITAGE OF SHAME.
We will not linger over the sad details of the ceremonies attending Mrs. Allandale's burial. Suffice it to say that on Tuesday afternoon her remains were borne away to Greenwood, and laid to rest, in the family lot, beside those gone before, after which Edith returned to her desolate abode more wretched than it is possible to describe.
She had made up her mind, however, that she could not remain there any longer—that she must find a place for herself in a different locality and among a different class of people. This she knew she could do, since she had the promise of permanent work and now had only herself to care for.
The change, too, must be made upon the following day, as Mr. Bryant would expect her at his office on Thursday morning.
There was much to be done, many things to be packed for removal, while what she did not care to retain must be disposed of; and, eager to forget her grief and loneliness—for she knew she would be ill if she sat tamely down and allowed herself to think—she began at once, upon her return from the cemetery, to get ready to leave the cheerless home where she had suffered so much.
She decided, first of all, to pack all wearing apparel; and, on going to her closet to begin her work, the first thing her eyes fell upon was the casket of letters, which her mother had requested her to bring to her just before she died.
The sight of this unnerved her again, and, with a moan of pain, she sank upon her knees and bowed her head upon it.
But the fountain of her tears had been so exhausted that she could not weep; and, finally becoming somewhat composed, she took the beautiful box out into the room and sat down near a light to examine its contents.
"Mamma evidently wanted these letters destroyed," she murmured, as she threw back the cover. "I will do as she wished, but I will first look them over, to be sure there is nothing of value among them."
She set about her task at once and found that they were mostly missives from intimate friends, with quite a number written by herself to her mother, while she was away at boarding-school.
All these she burned after glancing casually at them. Nothing then remained in the box but a small package of six or eight time-yellowed epistles bound together with a blue ribbon.
"What peculiar writing!" Edith observed, as she separated one from the others and examined the superscription upon the envelope. "Why, it is postmarked Rome, Italy, away back in 18—, and addressed to mamma in London! That must have been when she was on her wedding tour!"
Her curiosity was aroused, and, drawing the closely-written sheet from its inclosure, she began to read it.
It was also dated from Rome, and the girl was soon deeply immersed in a story of intense and romantic interest.
She readily understood that the letter had been written by a dear friend of Mrs. Allandale's youth—one who had been both school and roommate, and who unreservedly confided all her secrets and experiences to her bosom companion. And yet, it was strange, Edith thought, that she had never heard her mother speak of this friend.
It seemed that there had been quite an interval in their correspondence, for the writer spoke of the surprise which her friend would experience upon receiving a letter from her from that locality, when she had probably believed her to be in her own home, living the quiet life of a dutiful daughter.
Then it spoke of an "ideal love" that "had come to beautify her life;" of a noble and wealthy artist who had won her heart, but who, for some unaccountable reason, had not been acceptable to her parents, and they had sternly rejected his proposal for her hand.
Next came the denouement, which told that the girl had eloped with her lover and flown with him to Italy.
"I suppose it was not the right thing to do, darling," the missive ran; "but papa, you know, is a very austere, relentless man, and when he has once made up his mind, there is no hope of ever turning him; so I have taken my fate into my own hands—or, rather, I have given it into the keeping of my dear one, and we are so happy, Edith darling, and lead an ideal life in this quaint old city of the seven hills, at whose feet runs, like a thread of gold, the yellow Tiber. My husband is everything to me—so noble, so kind, so generous; it is so very strange that papa could not like him—that is the only drop of bitterness in my overflowing cup of happiness."
There was much more of the same tenor, from which it is not necessary to quote; and, after reading the letter through, Edith took up another, interested to know how the pretty love-story of her mother's friend would terminate. The second one, written a month later, was more subdued, but not less tender, although the young girl thought she detected a vein of sadness running through it.
The next two or three mentioned the fact that the writer was left much alone, her "dear one" being obliged to be away a great deal of the time, upon sketching expeditions, etc.
After an interval of three months another letter spoke in the fondest manner of the "dear little stranger," that had come to bless and cheer her loneliness—"lonely, dear Edith, because my husband's art monopolizes his time, while he is often absent from home a week at a time in connection with it, and I do not know what I should do, in this strange country away from all my friends, if it were not for my precious baby girl whom I have named for you, as I promised, in memory of those happy days which we spent together at Vassar."
"Then mamma's friend had a daughter, who was also named Edith," mused our fair heroine, breaking in upon her perusal of the letter. "I wonder if she is living, and where? Those letters tell me nothing, give no last name by which to identify either the writer or her husband."
She turned back to the epistle, and read on:
"She is such a comfort to me," it ran, "and gives me an object in life—something besides myself and my trou"—these last three words were crossed out—"to think about. When will you come to Rome, dear Edith? Your last letter was dated from St. Petersburgh. I am very anxious that you should see your little namesake, and make me that long-promised visit."
There was scarcely a word in this letter referring to her husband, except those three crossed-out words; but it overflowed with praises and love of her beautiful child, although it was evident that the young wife was far from experiencing the conjugal happiness that had permeated her previous missives.