"They bound both the clergyman and the undertaker to the strictest secrecy; then I was immediately conveyed to Miss Livermore's own room, where that noble girl cared for me as tenderly as a mother would nurse her own child. For weeks I hovered between life and death, then slowly began to mend. When I was able, I related to my kind friends the story of my wrongs, to receive only gentle sympathy and encouragement, instead of coldness and censure, such as the world usually metes out to girls who err as I had erred. As I grew stronger, and realized that I was to live, my mother-heart began to long for its child. Miss Livermore agreed with me that it would be better for me to have her, and went herself to make inquiries regarding her. But the nurse had moved and none of her neighbors could give any information about her, except that for a time she had charge of an infant, but after its parents had come to claim it, she had moved away, and no one could tell whither she had gone.
"From this I knew that my old friend, Edith Allendale, had responded nobly to my appeal—that she had taken my child and adopted it as her own. At first I was inclined to be disappointed, and contemplated writing to Edith, telling her what had happened and ask her to surrender the little one to me; but after thinking the matter over more at length, I reasoned that it would be best to let everything rest just as it was. I knew that my darling would be tenderly reared in her new home; she would grow up to a happy womanhood without ever knowing of the blight that rested upon her birth, or that her father had been a villain, her mother a wronged and ruined woman—almost a suicide. So I decided that I would never reveal myself to my old friend, or undeceive her regarding my supposed fate, to disturb her peace or her enjoyment of the child.
"But, following the advice of my new friends, I finally wrote to my father and mother, confessing everything to them, imploring their forgiveness for the grief and shame I had brought upon them, and asking their counsel and wishes regarding my future. Imagine my joy and gratitude when, three weeks later, they walked in upon me and took me at once to their hearts, ignoring all the past, as far as any censure or condemnation were concerned, and began to plan to make my future as peaceful and happy as circumstances would allow.
"They had come abroad with the intention of remaining, they told me; they would never ask me to return to my former home, where the fact that I had eloped with an artist was known, but would settle in London, where my father had some business interests, and where, surrounded by the multitude, our former friends would never be likely to meet us. We lived there, a quiet, peaceful, prosperous life, I devoting myself assiduously to study to make up for what I had sacrificed by leaving school so early, and to keep my mind from dwelling upon my unhappy past.
"So the time slipped away until, five years ago, this tranquil life was suddenly interrupted by my father's death. Six months later my mother followed him, and I was again left alone, without a relative in the world, the sole heiress to a half-million pounds—"
"A half-million pounds?" interposed Gerald Goddard, in a tone of amazement.
"Yes; but of what value is money without some one to share it with you?" questioned Isabel Stewart, in a voice of sadness.
Her companion passed his hand across his brow, a dazed expression upon his face, while he was saying to himself, that, in his folly, he had missed an ideal existence with this brilliantly beautiful and accomplished woman, who, in addition, was now the possessor of two and a half million dollars.
What an idiot he had been! What an unconscionable craven, to sacrifice this pure and conscientious creature to his passion for one who had made his life wretched by her variable moods and selfishness!
"Occasionally I heard from my child," Mrs. Stewart resumed, after a moment of silence, while tears started into her beautiful eyes. "My father crossed the ocean from time to time, for the sole purpose of learning something of her, in order to satisfy my hungry heart. He never revealed the fact of my existence to any one, however, although he managed to learn that my darling was happy, growing up to be a pure and lovely girl, as well as a great comfort to her adopted parents, and with nothing to mar her future prospects. Of course such tidings were always gleams of great comfort to my sad and quiet life, and I tried to be satisfied with them—tried to be grateful for them. But, oh! since the death of my parents, I have yearned for her with an inexpressible heart-hunger—"