EARLE WAYNE’S NOBILITY


                       _By_ MRS. GEORGIE SHELDON

                               AUTHOR OF

 “Brownie’s Triumph,” “Virgie’s Inheritance,” “Nora,” “Trixy,” “Stella
                   Rosevelt,” “Wedded by Fate,” Etc.

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                           A. L. BURT COMPANY
                        PUBLISHERS      NEW YORK




                    Copyright 1880, 1881, 1882, 1903
                           By STREET & SMITH


                           Renewal Granted to
                       Mrs. Georgie Sheldon Downs
                                  1908


                         EARLE WAYNE’S NOBILITY




                         EARLE WAYNE’S NOBILITY




                               CHAPTER I
                         SENTENCE OF THE COURT


“Guilty!”

The deep, sonorous voice of the foreman of the jury sounded out upon the
solemn stillness of the crowded court-room like the knell of doom.

And doom it was, and to one who never consciously committed a mean act
in all his life.

The effect which that one word produced was marked.

There was a rustle of excitement and disapproval among the crowd, while
deep-drawn sighs and expressions of sorrow showed that sympathy was
strong for the prisoner at the bar, who for the last hour, while the
jury was absent to decide upon the verdict, had sat with bent head and
listless attitude, as if wearied out with the bitter trial to which he
had been subjected.

Now, however, as he had been commanded “to look upon the jury,” his head
was proudly lifted, revealing an exceedingly intelligent and handsome
face, and a pair of fine dark eyes met those of the foreman
unflinchingly while the least smile of scorn and bitterness disturbed
the firm, strong mouth, showing that he had believed he had not much to
hope for from him.

As the word was spoken which sealed his fate, a gray pallor settled over
his face, and he dropped into his former attitude; otherwise he betrayed
no sign of emotion.

Then something occurred which very seldom occurs in a crowded
court-room.

A low cry of pain not far from the prisoner made every eye turn that
way, and made him shiver as with a sudden chill.

A tender, sorrowful gleam crept into his dark eyes, the proud lips
unbent and trembled slightly, and a heavy sigh heaved his broad chest.

The next moment a slender, girlish form started up from her seat, and a
fair, flushed face was turned with eloquent pleading toward the grave
judge, sitting like a statue in his chair of state, while an earnest,
quivering voice rang out:

“Oh, sir, he is _not guilty_—I know that Earle Wayne _never was_ guilty
of such a deed.”

A touching picture, and very sweet and attractive withal, Editha Dalton
made, standing there so unconscious of herself, or that _she_ was guilty
of any breach of decorum; her fair hair floating like gleams of sunlight
upon her graceful shoulders, her sweet face flushed and full of pain,
her deep blue eyes filled with tears and raised beseechingly to the
judge, her delicate hands clasped imploringly and half-outstretched
toward him, as if seeking for mercy in the sentence he was about to
pronounce.

The old man’s face lost its habitual sternness for a moment, and his own
eyes softened almost to tenderness, as he caught the sweet tones, and
turned to look upon her, so beautiful in her appealing attitude.

It was not often that a culprit found one so earnest and beautiful to
plead his cause. The able lawyer who had had charge of the case for the
young man, with all his eloquence, had not moved him as did this fair
maiden, with her flushed, pained face, her pleading eyes, her
outstretched hands.

A murmur of sympathy sounded again throughout the room, and a wave of
regret swept over the judge’s heart as he turned from the girl to the
prisoner, feeling himself more than half convinced of the truth of her
words, as he marked again the noble face and the honest expression of
the clear, unflinching eyes.

But some one pulled Editha Dalton hastily back into the chair from which
she had arisen, and a stern voice uttered in her ear:

“Edie! Edie! sit down, child! What _are_ you thinking of, when your own
evidence did more toward convicting him than that of any one else?”

“Oh! I know it! I know it! but he is _not guilty_ all the same. It is
only the cruel force of circumstances that makes him appear so!” she
sobbed, wildly, burying her face, with a gesture of despair, in her
handkerchief.

The judge’s keen ears caught the words, and his sharp eyes wandered
again from her to the prisoner, a shade of uneasiness in their glance.
He marked the pallor that had overspread his face, making him almost
ghastly; the yearning, troubled look in the eyes now fixed so sadly upon
the weeping girl; the firmly compressed lips and clenched hands, which
told of a mighty effort at self-control and something whispered within
him that the jury was at fault—that the evidence, though so clear and
conclusive, was at fault and, since there could be no reprieve, to make
the sentence as light as possible.

“Prisoner at the bar, stand up,” he said, and Earle Wayne instant arose.

Tall, manly, and with conscious dignity, he confronted the judge to
receive his sentence, his eye never faltering, his face calm and proud,
though still exceedingly pale.

“You have heard the verdict of the jury—have you anything to say?”

“Nothing, save what I have already said, your honor. _I am not guilty of
the crime with which I am charged, and if I live I will yet prove it!_”

That was all; but the firm, unfaltering words seemed to carry conviction
with them, and even the jury began to look grave and troubled, as if
they, too, feared they had convicted an innocent man.

But the fiat had gone forth, and the judge, anxious to have the
uncomfortable matter disposed of, pronounced the lightest sentence
possible—“three years’ hard labor in the State prison at ——.”

A mighty sigh burst from the multitude, as if it had come from a single
breast, as he ceased, and then a hush like death pervaded the room. It
was the best the judge could do, and the very least they could expect;
but it was sad to see a promising young man of twenty condemned to penal
servitude for a term of years, be it ever so few.

The prisoner received it with the same calmness that had characterized
him throughout the trial, only a slight quivering of the eyelids showing
that he had heeded the words at all.

A moment of utter silence pervaded the room after the sentence was
pronounced, the court was dismissed, and then the curious but
sympathetic rabble went its way.

But, with winged feet, a slight form darted forward from the crowd, and,
almost before he was aware of her presence, Editha Dalton was beside the
prisoner, her pained, quivering face upraised to his.

She seized his hand in both of hers, she laid her hot, flushed cheek
upon it, and sobbed:

“Oh, Earle, forgive me! forgive me! but I _had_ to tell the truth, and
it has ruined you.”

“Hush, Edie—Miss Dalton. You have done perfectly right, and I have
nothing to forgive.”

The young man spoke kindly, soothingly, but a sudden flush mounted to
his brow, and the hot cheek against his hand thrilled him with a bitter
pain.

“But it was my evidence that told most against you. I tried not to tell
it all; but, oh! they made me, with their cruel questions. If I had not
had to say that I _saw_ you, and that the bracelet was mine, perhaps,
oh! _perhaps_ that dreadful jury would not have said you were——”

She stopped suddenly and shuddered, sobbing bitterly.

She could not speak the obnoxious word.

“Their _saying_ that I am guilty does not _make_ me so, even though I
must pay the penalty as if I were. But I have the consciousness _within_
that I am innocent of the crime, and I shall live to prove it yet to
you, Editha, and to all the world,” he answered, in clear, confident
tones, with a proud uplifting of his head.

“You do not _need_ to prove it to me, Earle; I _know_ it already. I
would take your word in the face of the whole world and a thousand
juries,” Editha asserted, with unshaken confidence.

A glad light leaped into the young man’s eyes, and illuminated his whole
face for the moment, at these words.

“Thank you,” he replied, in low, thrilling tones, and bending toward
her: “it will be very pleasant to remember what you have said while I
am——”

He stopped short—he could not finish the miserable sentence.

His sudden pause reminded the young girl anew of what was to come.

“Earle! Earle!” she cried, passionately, her face growing white and
agonized, “I _cannot_ have it so! Three years! three long, long,
wretched years! Oh, if I could only _do_ something! If I could only find
those wretches who did the deed for which _you_ must suffer; if—oh, it
is too, too cruel!”

“Hush, my little friend!” he said, bending nearer and speaking with deep
tenderness; “your sympathy is very sweet and comforting to me, but it
will unman me if I see you suffer so on my account.”

“Then I will be calm. I am thoughtless to wound you, when you have so
much to bear already,” she interrupted, choking back the sobs that
heaved her breast, and making an effort to be calm.

His lip trembled slightly as her blue eyes met his, so full of sympathy
and sorrow.

“God knows that this _is_ a fearful trial to me,” he went on, drawing a
deep breath, to free himself of the choking sensation in his throat;
but, trying to speak more hopefully: “I am young, and three years will
soon pass. I shall spend them to some purpose, too; and, Editha, with
the knowledge of _your_ trust and faith in me, I shall be able to bear
them patiently, and I shall come forth from the strange discipline
better prepared, I have no doubt, to battle with life than I am at this
moment. Every hour that is my own I shall spend in study; and, if _you_
will continue to have faith in me, I promise you shall never have cause
to blush to own me as a friend in the future.”

“Earle,” Editha replied, quietly, yet earnestly, now entirely
self-possessed, “you are just as brave and noble as you can be, and I am
proud of you as my friend to-day—now—this moment! I shall think of you
every day; I shall _pray_ for you every day; and, if they will let me, I
will come once in a while to see you.”

“No, _no_; please do not, Edie. I could not bear that _you_ should see
me _there_,” he cried, sharply, his face almost convulsed with pain at
the thought.

“Ah, no—I did not think; but you _would_ not like it; but I want to do
_something_ to comfort you and let you know that I do not forget you,”
she said, sadly, a troubled look on her fair face. “Will they let me
send you things?” she asked, after thinking a moment.

“Yes, that is allowed, I believe.”

“Then I shall send you something as often as I can; and you will be
comforted a little, will you not, Earle, if you know you are
remembered?” she asked, anxiously.

“Indeed I shall,” he said, deeply touched. “If I receive a flower, a
book, a paper, even, I shall be greatly cheered.”

“You shall have them. Every week I will send you something, and you will
know that there is one true friend who has faith in you,” she said,
eagerly.

“God bless you, Miss Dalton. You are a little comforter, and my heart is
lighter already. I have another friend—your uncle; he has been very
kind, and has fought hard for me.”

“Dear Uncle Richard! I believe he _is_ one of the best men that ever
lived,” Editha said, as her eyes sought a noble-looking man who was
talking in an earnest and somewhat excited manner to a group gathered
about him, and who had been Earle’s lawyer.

“I shall ever have cause to remember him gratefully. He did not give me
much encouragement regarding the issue of the case—the evidence was so
strong against me—and as we could get no clew to the real culprit, he
feared the worst. But he promised to help me in my studies, should the
case go against me, so that I may be ready for the bar when the term
expires. So you see that things are not quite so dark as they might be,”
Earle said, trying to speak hopefully.

Editha sighed.

The future looked dark enough at the best, she thought.

“If we could but have had more time—if you might only have another
trial. Could you not have appealed, Earle?” she asked.

He shook his head sadly.

“It could have done no good. The really guilty ones have covered their
tracks, and hidden their booty so effectually, that we could get no
clue. But do not grieve for me, my little friend. Other innocent men
have suffered for the guilty, and it can be no harder for me than it was
for them. And,” lowering his voice, and speaking reverently, “I do not
forget that there was once a Man who suffered for the sins of a _whole
world_. For thirty-four years He meekly bore His cross, praying at the
end that His enemies might be forgiven; and since He sees fit to send
this one upon me, I must not murmur, though I own ’tis hard.”

Editha was weeping quietly now. The tears would come in spite of her,
though she marveled at his words.

“Come, Editha, I have an engagement at four, and it lacks only fifteen
minutes of that hour now.”

The words were spoken in cold, measured tones at her side.

The fair girl started, flushed, and glanced around at the speaker in
surprise, as if unaccustomed to being addressed in that manner.

“Yes, papa, I will come; but I wanted to say good-by to Earle.”

“Ah, yes—ahem! I’m truly sorry for poor Earle,” Mr. Dalton said,
addressing him with a good deal of coldness and a very poor show of
sympathy, while he glanced impatiently at his daughter. “Very
unfortunate complication of circumstances,” he went on, his gold
repeater in his hand, and his eyes watching attentively the minute hand
as it crept toward the hour of his engagement. “The evidence was
strangely conclusive, and I wish for _your_ sake it could have been
refuted; but really, Editha, we must not delay longer.”

Earle Wayne bowed coldly to the would-be comforter, and stepped back as
if to end the interview.

He knew Mr. Dalton was no friend to him, and his words, which contained
no sincerity, were intolerable to him.

“Good-by, Miss Dalton,” he said, holding out his hand to Editha, and
which she had dropped upon hearing Mr. Dalton’s stern tones.

That gentleman frowned darkly at the act.

What right had a criminal to offer his hand to _his_ daughter?

“Good-bye, Earle,” she answered, clasping it warmly, while a big tear
trickled down her cheek and dropped hot and burning upon it.

Then she turned quickly away, drew her vail over her tear-stained face,
while Mr. Dalton led her from the room, himself bestowing only an
indifferent nod upon the offending culprit.




                               CHAPTER II
                              THE ROBBERY


About three months previous to the events related in the preceding
chapter, on a dark and stormy night, two men might have been seen
prowling around a stately mansion in an aristocratic portion of the city
of New York. After carefully reconnoitering the premises, to see that no
one was stirring within, one of them cautiously proceeded to cut out a
pane of glass in one of the basement windows, while the other kept watch
upon the sidewalk.

The glass was removed without the slightest noise, whereupon the burglar
unfastened the window and lifted the sash. Then making a little noise
like the twittering of a sparrow, he was immediately joined by his
companion, and both disappeared within the house.

A few minutes later a third man coming along the street, saw the sudden
glimmer of a light in one of the lower rooms of the mansion.

Something about it instantly attracted his attention.

It was a quick, sharp flare, and then seemed to go suddenly out.

He waited a minute or two, and the same thing was repeated.

“Aha! a burglar!” he muttered to himself. “I think I’ll have to look
into this thing.”

He stopped, and his first impulse was to turn and go in search of a
policeman.

Ah! if he had done so how much of future misery would have been saved
him.

But upon second thought he concluded not to do so, and quietly slipped
within the shadow of the great porch over the front entrance.

It seemed a long time that he stood waiting there, and he regretted that
he had not gone for an officer.

He did not know how long the burglars had been there, and he had feared
they would escape before he could return. But finally he heard cautious
steps approaching from the rear toward the corner where he was
stationed, and now he caught the sound of exultant whispers, that they
had been so successful as to get out undiscovered with their rich booty.

The next instant two men emerged into view, bearing their plunder in a
bag between them.

With a bound the new-comer darted forward and felled one man to the
ground with a blow that sounded like the descent of a sledge-hammer, and
then grappled with the other.

The burglar who had been felled had been only momentarily stunned, and,
almost instantly recovering himself, he had quietly picked up the bag,
which had also fallen to the ground in the melee, and made off with it,
leaving his companion to shift for himself as best he could.

The combatants fought bravely and well, but the assailant being lighter
than the burglar, and less experienced in pugilistic practice, gradually
lost ground, and finally a well-directed blow from his antagonist laid
him flat at his feet, when he, also, beat a hasty retreat, having first
dropped something on the ground beside his victim.

Steps were now heard approaching upon the pavement; the noise of the
scuffle had reached the ears of one of the protectors of the peace, and
he was hastening to the rescue.

A light at the same time appeared at a window in one of the lower rooms
of the mansion so lately robbed, while above a sash was thrown hastily
up, and a slight, white-robed figure leaned forth into the night.

The light in the window below streamed directly out upon the fallen
hero—alas! a hero no longer—who now began to gather himself and his
scattered senses together once more. As he arose to his feet a cry from
above rang out on the stillness of the night.

“Oh, Earle! Earle! how came you here, and what is the matter?”

The voice was that of Editha Dalton, and, springing forward under the
window, the young man replied, reassuringly:

“Do not be alarmed, Miss Editha. I have had a fall, but am all right
now. I’ll come and tell you to-morrow how I happened to be here
to-night.”

“So, so, my fine young gentleman, you’ll come and tell the lady
to-morrow, will you? I’m thinking mayhaps you will have a chance to tell
some one else by that time, you disturber of the peace;” and, before
Earle Wayne could scarcely realize what had happened, a pair of steel
bracelets were slipped about his wrists, and he was a prisoner.

“You have made a mistake, sir,” he said civilly, to his captor, yet
beginning to feel very uncomfortable in the position wherein he found
himself. “I was trying to stop a couple of thieves who had just robbed
this house, when one of them knocked me down and cleared.”

“Yes, yes; I find I always get hold of the wrong rogue—some one else
does the deed and the one I catch is always so ‘innocent,’” laughed the
policeman, with good-natured sarcasm. “Aha! what have we here?” he cried
again, as his foot came in contact with some glittering object and sent
it spinning on before him.

He stooped to pick it up, and, as the light fell upon it, he saw it was
a costly bracelet, set with a solitare diamond surrounded with emeralds.

“That looks ‘innocent,’ don’t it now?” he said, holding it up to the
light with a chuckle.

“That is Miss Dalton’s bracelet; I’ve seen her wear it,” the young man
thoughtlessly and injudiciously admitted.

“Oh, yes, no doubt; and you thought mayhaps that them glittering stones
might bring a pretty little sum. I came just in time to stop this little
game. Come, I think I can accommodate you with lodgings to-night, my
hearty.”

At this moment a man came out of the house upon the balcony in great
excitement.

“Help! help!” he cried. “I’ve been robbed! Stop thief! stop——”

“Ay, I _have_ stopped him, and just in the nick of time, sir,” responded
the policeman, leading Earle into view.

“_Earle Wayne!_” exclaimed Mr. Dalton, in greatest astonishment, as his
glance fell upon him.

“Yes, sir, it is I; but I am no thief, as you very well know.”

“No, this does not look like it!” interrupted the policeman, flourishing
the bracelet conspicuously.

“I have committed no robbery,” asserted Earle, with quiet dignity; “and
I did not see that bracelet until you picked it up and showed it to me.
It must have been dropped by one of the robber, who fled after I was
knocked down;” and he went on to explain how he happened to be there,
and what he had seen and heard.

“It’s a likely story now, isn’t it, sir,” sneered his captor, who was
all too eager for the _eclat_ of having captured the perpetrator of so
daring a theft, “when I’ve found him with his booty right here on the
spot?”

“Mr. Dalton,” Earle appealed, fearing he had got himself into a bad
predicament, “you know well enough that I would do no such a thing,
particularly in this house of all others;” and he glanced in a troubled
way up at that white-robed figure in the window.

“No, certainly not. Papa, we know _Earle_ would not be guilty of any
thing of the kind, and I believe every word he has said about the
encounter with those men,” Miss Dalton asserted, confidently.

“Did you see or hear any one else, Editha?” asked her father.

“No; I heard a heavy fall, and after listening a minute I came to the
window, where I saw Earle just getting up from the ground; and see! as
the light shines upon him he looks as if he had been having an encounter
with some one;” and she pointed at the young man’s disarranged and
soiled clothing.

But Mr. Dalton shook his head, while the policeman sneered. It looked
bad, and the presence of the bracelet seemed to them indisputable proof
that he was in some way criminally connected with the affair.

Further investigation proved that a quantity of silver, and all of Mrs.
Dalton’s diamonds, together with quite a large sum of money, had been
stolen.

Young Wayne was closely questioned as to who his accomplices were, for
the policeman insisted that he must have had one or more.

“Make a clean breast of it, young one, and being your first attempt,
perhaps they will let you off easy,” he said.

But Earle indignantly refused to answer any more questions, and was at
last led away to the station-house and locked up until his case could be
officially investigated.

The morning papers were full of the robbery, and the young man’s name
figured largely in their columns, while much was said about the
“culpable hardihood and stubbornness of one so young in years, but
apparently so old in crime.”

A day or two after the case was investigated, and, no further light
being gained upon the affair, he was committed for trial.

Richard Forrester, a lawyer of note and a brother of Mrs. Dalton, in
whose employ the young man had been for the past three years,
immediately gave bonds for him to the amount of ten thousand dollars,
and for the next three months devoted himself assiduously to working up
the complicated case.

The day for Earle Wayne’s trial came, and only the following facts came
to light:

His character, up to the night in question, as far as any one knew, was
unimpeachable.

He had been in Mr. Forrester’s employ for three years, and during that
time had gained that gentleman’s entire confidence and kind regard, and
he had even contemplated making him a partner in his business as soon as
he had completed his course of study and been admitted to the bar.

He spoke at some length, and in glowing terms, of his honesty and
industry, and said he had deemed him, if anything, _too_ rigid and
morbidly conscientious upon what seemed to him points of minor
importance.

All this spoke well for the prisoner, but it did not touch upon the
matter under consideration, and could not therefore be accepted as
evidence.

It seems that on the afternoon before the robbery Earle had asked
permission to go out of town on business for himself. He had not stated
what that business was, neither had Mr. Forrester inquired.

Now, however, the question came up, but Earle refused to state it, and
this of itself turned the tide strong against him.

He had obtained leave to leave the city on a train that left at two in
the afternoon, and had gone to the village of ——, only eighteen miles
out.

He transacted his business, which concerned only his private interests,
he said, and this much he could also say, “was connected with the events
of his early life,” and returned to the city by the late train, which
arrived about midnight.

On his way from the station to his lodgings he was obliged to pass Mr.
Dalton’s house, where he saw, as already described, the light within one
of the lower rooms.

He stated that his first impulse was to go for a police officer, but
fearing the man—he had not thought there would be more than one—would be
off with his booty before he could return, he resolved to remain,
encounter the villain single-handed, and bring him to justice.

He then went on to describe his tussle with the two ruffians.

But he had only his own word with which to battle all the evidence
against him. His story did not sound reasonable, the jury thought,
particularly as he so persistently refused to state the nature of his
business to the village of ——; and besides, the fact of the bracelet
having been found in his possession, or what amounted to the same thing,
was almost sufficient of itself to convict him.

“Earle, if you could only tell this business of yours, perhaps we might
be able to do something for you; otherwise I see no chance,” Mr.
Forrester had urged, when the opposing counsel had made such a point of
his refusal to do so.

“I cannot, sir. It is connected with a great wrong committed years ago,
and involves the name of my mother. I _cannot_ unveil the past before
the curious rabble gathered here—no, not even if I have to serve out a
ten-years’ sentence for keeping silent,” Earle said, firmly, but with
deep emotion.

Editha’s evidence—since she was the first to see and recognize him on
the night of the robbery—went further than almost anything else toward
condemning him, even though it was given with such reluctance, together
with her oft-asserted belief that he was innocent.

The tender-hearted, loyal girl would rather have had her tongue
paralyzed than to have been obliged to speak the words which so told
against him.

Earle was cross-examined and recross-questioned, but he told the same
story every time, never swerving in a single particular from his first
statements.

Every possible way was tried to make him confess who his accomplices
were, the opposing counsel maintaining that he must have had one or
more. But he always replied:

“I had no accomplice, for I have neither planned nor executed any
robbery.”

“But you assert that two men came out of the house.”

“I encountered two men at the corner of Mr. Dalton’s house; one I
surprised and felled to the ground, and then grappled with the other.
During the scuffle the first one got up and ran off with the bag which
contained their booty. I then received a blow which stunned and felled
me, and when I came to myself again both were gone. I know nothing of
either them or their plunder, and I am innocent of any complicity in the
matter.”

But all was of no avail against the positive evidence which opposed him,
and the fatal verdict was spoken, the fearful sentence pronounced.

Popular sympathy inclined strongly toward the unfortunate young man,
whom many knew and respected for his hitherto stainless character, while
his appearance, so noble and manly, prepossessed almost every one in his
favor.

As before stated, he had come to Richard Forrester when a youth of
seventeen, asking for work, and the great lawyer had employed him as an
office boy, and it was not long before he came to feel a deep interest
in the intelligent lad. He saw that he had what lawyers term “a long
head,” and could grasp all the details of a case almost as readily as he
himself could, and he resolved that he would educate him for the
profession.

Mr. Forrester was a bachelor of great wealth, and exceedingly fond of
his beautiful and vivacious niece, Editha Dalton, who, report said, was
to be his heiress.

She was a slight, sprightly girl of fourteen when Earle Wayne came into
her uncle’s employ, and a mutual admiration sprang up between them at
once, and steadily increased, until, on the part of the young man, it
grew into a deep and abiding love, although he had never presumed to
betray it by so much as a look or tone.

Editha, at seventeen, had not as yet analyzed her own feelings toward
her uncle’s _protege_; and thus we find her at the time of the trial
pouring out her impulsive regrets and grief in the most unreserved
manner, while her tender heart was filled with keenest anguish at the
fate of her _beau ideal_ of all manly excellence.

As for Mr. Dalton, he did not share the faith of either his daughter or
his brother-in-law; and, notwithstanding he was vastly astonished upon
discovering Earle Wayne in the hands of a policeman at his own door on
the night of the robbery, yet he was a man who could easily believe
almost anything of one whom he disliked.

He did dislike Earle, simply because Editha showed him so much favor;
and he was rather glad than otherwise now, if the truth were known, that
this very fascinating young hero was to be removed from his path, even
though he was to become a prisoner. He began to fear that she had
already grown to admire him more than was either wise or proper,
considering the vast difference in their relative social positions; and
it would never do for the aristocratic Miss Dalton, heiress-expectant,
to fall in love with an _office boy_.

And so Earle Wayne went to prison.

But he went with a stout heart and a manly courage that very few possess
who are doomed to drag out a weary term of years behind bolts, and bars,
and solid walls.




                              CHAPTER III
                            A FRIEND IN NEED


“I did not do it. I have not _that_ on my conscience to weigh me down. I
am to suffer for another’s crime, and though it is a bitter trial, yet
it is better so than that I was really guilty and could go free. I had
rather be in my place, dreadful as it is, than in that of the real
thief, and I will make my misfortune serve me a good turn in spite of
all. I will fit myself for the very highest position in life, and then,
when my three years are ended, _I will go out and occupy it_. I will not
be crushed. I will rise above the disgrace. I will live it down, and men
shall yet be _proud to call me friend_.”

So mused our hero as, for the first day in —— prison, he was doomed,
according to the rules of that institution, to solitary confinement.

Earle Wayne’s was no weak nature, to yield himself up to useless
repining and vain regrets.

The die was cast, and for the next three years he was to be like any
other criminal, and dead to all the world, except that portion of it
contained within those four dreary walls, and the one or two outside who
should continue faithful to him. Nothing could help it now, unless the
real thieves should confess their crime, which they were not at all
likely to do, and he bravely resolved to make the best of his situation,
hard though it was.

He went cheerfully to his work; he uttered no complaint, he sought no
sympathy, and improved every hour that he could call to his own to the
utmost.

Richard Forrester proved himself “a friend in need” at this dark time.
Obtaining permission of the authorities, he stocked a bookcase for Earle
with everything needful to complete a thorough course of study, and
drafted a plan for him to follow.

Once in three months he visited him, and between each visit he received
from him a synopsis of what knowledge he had acquired during that time,
which he criticised and returned with many useful hints, and then, when
he came, talked it all over with him.

He was surprised during his visits to see how thorough and clear he was
upon all points which he had been over.

“Earle, my boy,” he said, at one time, “you will make a better lawyer
than I, and I do not see where you find time for all that you have
learned.”

“I have nothing to distract my mind here, you know, and _I will not
brood over my fate_,” he replied, with a sad smile, “so it is easy to
concentrate my thoughts, and I learn rapidly.”

“How much better it would be for all these poor fellows here if they
could do the same, and be prepared for a better life when their time is
out,” said Mr. Forrester, reflectively.

“Most of them, instead, are only laying plans for more desperate deeds
than they have ever yet been guilty of; and I begin to think that these
severe measures of the law, instead of reforming men, only tend to
arouse their antagonism and make them worse,” Earle answered.

“But what would you do with them? They have violated the laws and must
be made to suffer for it in some way.”

“That is true; if they do mischief they must be put where they will be
restrained; but in order to reform them, and create a desire within them
for higher and better things, I think only such men as are actuated by
the highest principles—men who are honest, brave, and true—should be
allowed as officers within the walls of a prison. No man can accomplish
any _real_ good where he is not respected, and there is no one in the
world so quick and keen to detect a fraud as these criminals. There are
a few men here who are just in the right place—men who would not be
guilty of a mean or dishonorable act, and who, while they treat every
one with kindness, and even courtesy, yet demand exact and unhesitating
obedience. It is astonishing, and sometimes amusing, to observe how
differently they are respected and treated from the others.”

“You believe, then, that these men might be reformed by kindness and
judicious treatment?”

“I do,” Earle replied, gravely; “of course there are exceptions, but I
really would like to see the power of true, disinterested kindness tried
upon some of these reckless fellows.”

In after years he did see it tried, and of the result we have yet to
tell.

                  *       *       *       *       *

Upon leaving the court-room with her father, after bidding Earle
good-by, Editha appeared very much disturbed and kept shooting indignant
glances from beneath her vail at her unconscious companion.

At last, when they were seated in their carriage, and rolling smoothly
toward home, her wrath broke forth.

“Papa, I think it was real shabby of you not to shake hands with Earle,
and express a little genuine sympathy for him.”

“I do not know as I particularly desire to shake hands with, or that I
experience any great amount of ‘genuine’ sympathy for, the man who is
supposed to have robbed me,” returned Mr. Dalton, with exasperating
indifference.

“Papa Dalton! you _know_ Earle Wayne did not rob you as well as I do,”
Editha said, her eyes sparkling angrily; for the sweet little maiden
_could_ show anger upon occasion. “And as for myself,” she continued,
spiritedly, “I am _proud_ of him; I was proud to shake hands with him
before the multitude, and I shall be proud to greet him as my friend
when his term expires and he comes among us again.”

“Very likely,” Mr. Dalton answered sarcastically, his thin lips curling
with scorn; “and after the very marked exhibition to-day, I should be
prepared to know of your being ‘proud’ of him in almost any capacity.
But pray, Editha, do not _gush_ any more about it; it’s all very well
for a young lady to express her sympathy and proper feeling in a proper
way and at a proper time; but it was exceedingly mortifying to me to-day
to see you carry quite so much sail.”

Miss Editha tossed her pretty head somewhat defiantly and impatiently at
this curtain lecture, but a vivid scarlet burned upon her cheeks,
showing that she felt its stinging force, notwithstanding.

Mr. Dalton continued, with increasing sarcasm:

“You and the young culprit formed the center of attraction during your
tender little episode, and I doubt not, almost everybody thought you
were taking a heart-broken leave of your lover, instead of a poor
_protege_—a mere nobody—whom your philanthropic uncle had picked up.”

Editha had started violently as Mr. Dalton spoke of Earle as her
“_lover_,” and the burning blood rushed in a flood to her brow, over her
neck, arms, and hands, and tingled to the very tips of her toes.

Could it be possible that she had behaved in so unmaidenly a manner, and
given the gaping multitude such an impression?

Earle Wayne her lover!

She had never had such a thought before; but a strange thrill shot
through her heart now, bowing the defiant, sunny-haired head, and making
the sweet blue eyes droop half guiltily.

But she quickly rallied, and, tossing back the waves of hair from her
flushed face, she bravely returned to the combat.

“Well, and if he were—if—he were—what you have said of him, papa, I
should _still_ be proud of him, and—I’d be _true_ to him, too. I’d
_marry_ him—_yes_, I _would_—just as soon as ever he got through with
those hateful three years;” and she enforced her words with an emphatic
tap of her small boot.

Mr. Dalton leaned back in the carriage and laughed heartily at this
spirited outburst.

On the whole, he rather enjoyed seeing his charming daughter in a
passion.

It was not often that he had the opportunity, for she was generally the
happiest and gayest of maidens, and, being an only child, no cloud had
ever been allowed to overshadow her.

But Mr. Dalton had been extremely annoyed at the scene in the
court-room, deeming it vulgar in the extreme to be made so conspicuous
before the rabble, and he had uttered words sharper than had ever been
addressed to the petted child before during all her life.

But Editha was true and loyal to the core, and, when once she had made a
friend, no adversity could turn her from that friend; and her whole
nature had arisen to arms against the cruel injustice and wretched fate
which had condemned one so noble and good as Earle to durance vile.

Her father’s laugh capped the climax; the excitement, the pain in her
heart, and, above all, his last insinuation, had been almost more than
she could bear; but when his hearty laugh rang out so full of mocking
amusement, she could endure no more, and, girl fashion, she burst into
tears, believing herself the most deeply injured and abused maiden in
existence.

“Come, come, pet, don’t take it so much to heart; but in the future try
and be a little less demonstrative,” Mr. Dalton said, somewhat moved by
her tears.

But Edith was deeply wounded; her tears must have their way now, and not
another word was spoken during their drive.

Once at home, she darted into the house and up to her own room, where,
after she had wept her weep out alone, and something of the burden from
her heart, she sat down to think.

Her cheeks burned hotly every time she recalled her father’s light
words.

“Earle Wayne my lover!” she murmured, with tremulous lips, and burying
her face in her hands, with a feeling of shame that she should dare to
think of it, when Earle, doubtless, had never dreamed of such a thing
himself.

Nevertheless, the words possessed a strange fascination for her.

When she knelt in prayer and spoke his name, claiming Heaven’s tenderest
care for the smitten one, the burning flush returned to her cheek, the
thrill to her heart.

“Earle Wayne my lover!” she repeated, softly, as she laid her head upon
her pillow, and her dreams were full of a manly face, with deep, dark
eyes, in which shone a light tender and true, with lips that wore a
smile as sweet and gentle as a woman’s, but such as no woman’s ever wore
for her.

She still seemed to feel the clasp of his hand, the charm of his low
spoken words, and the music of his voice and, when at length she awoke
with the break of day, she was gay, careless Editha Dalton no longer.

A graver, quieter light looked out of her sunny eyes as she arose and
dressed; lines of firmness and decision had settled about the smiling,
happy mouth, and all the world had a deeper meaning for her than ever
before.

                    “Standing, with reluctant feet,
                    Where the brook and river meet,
                    Womanhood and childhood fleet.”

It was as if she had suddenly turned a new page within her heart, and
read thereon something which was to make her life in the future more
beautiful and sacred, and yet which brought with the knowledge something
of regret for the bright and careless days now gone forever.

She remembered that this was Earle’s first day in prison—the first of
those long, long three years—and the tears sprang to her eyes, a sob
trembled on her lips.

It was only a few hours since she had seen him, but it seemed as if
weeks had passed; and, if they had been so long to her, what must they
have been to him?

Could he ever endure it? Could she ever wait with patience so long?

She could not go to him—he had said he could not bear to have her see
him there—and so she had nothing to do but wait.

“But I will not forget him,” she murmured; “let papa say what he may, I
have promised to be a friend to him, and I shall keep my promise. He has
no one in all the world, or seems to have no one, save Uncle Richard and
me. Every week I will send him something, just to let him know that
there is one, at least, who cares a little and is sorry for him.”




                               CHAPTER IV
                           THE GREAT UNKNOWN


A year went by.

To Editha Dalton it seemed to fly as if with magic wings, for she was
yet a school-girl, and this last year was filled with study and
practice, and with all the bustle and excitement attendant upon
preparing for graduating.

To Earle Wayne it passed in a slow, tedious, monotonous manner, with its
changeless daily routine to and from the workshops and simple meals; its
never-varying sights and sounds, bolts and bars. But notwithstanding he
grew intensely wearied with all this, and oftentimes even heart-sick,
yet his courage and his purpose never wavered. Every day was filled to
the last moment with usefulness. Every day, when his task was completed,
he drew forth his book and spent the remaining hours in study, storing
his mind, increasing his knowledge of his chosen profession and
preparing to carve out for himself a future which, in spite of his
present misfortune, he fondly hoped would command the respect of all who
knew or should ever know him.

He was cheerful and patient, performed his tasks with alacrity, and
without the grumbling so usual among convicts; and, by his never-varying
courtesy and good behavior, he won for himself the commendation of the
officers, the good-will of his companions, and, better than all, the
days of grace allotted to those who are not reprimanded.

Every week on Saturday—the day on which any one may receive remembrances
from their friends in the way of fruit, flowers, and other
delicacies—there came to him some little token, that made his heart beat
and thrill with pleasure.

Sometimes it was a simple bunch of rosebuds, which, expanding day by
day, blossomed at length into full glory, cheering and filling his
gloomy cell with their beauty and fragrance.

Sometimes it was a box of lilies of the valley, or violets, or
heliotrope and myrtle blossoms; at others, a tempting basket of fruit,
with a book or periodical of some kind; and Earle knew that his little
friend had not forgotten him.

Faithfully, never missing a single day, they came for a year, when they
suddenly ceased, and he received them no more.

No one can realize how the poor prisoner missed these bright evidences
of remembrance, nor how eagerly he still looked for them every Saturday
for a long time, thinking that perhaps Editha was away or sick, and
could not send them for him.

“She has forgotten me, after all,” he sighed, sadly, after several
months had passed and he had not received a single flower; and it seemed
almost as if death had bereaved him—of some dear one as he returned to
his lonely cell at night, after his daily task was ended, and there was
no sweet perfume to greet him, no bright blossoms to cheer him.

All that remained to comfort him was a little box filled with dried and
faded flowers that he had not had the heart to throw away, and the
memory of the brightness that had been.

And what was the reason of all this?

Had Editha forgotten?

Had she, amid the busy cares which occupied her time and attention at
this time, grown careless and neglectful?

No. It happened in this way:

At the end of a year she graduated, doing honor to both her instructors
and herself.

There was a day apart for public exercises, when the graduating class
appeared before their many friends to show what they were capable of in
the way of essays, poems, and other accomplishments, and to receive
their diplomas.

Editha’s poem was greeted with enthusiasm, a perfect storm of applause
testifying to the appreciation of the public; whole floral offerings
were showered at her feet, until there were enough to have stocked a
florist in a small way.

Selecting the choicest of them all, she inclosed both bouquet and poem,
together with a little explanatory note, in a box, and dispatched it to
Earle.

Unfortunately, Mr. Dalton encountered the servant who was bearing this
box to the express office, confiscated it, and enjoined silence upon the
bearer regarding its untimely fate. The poem he preserved, but the
flowers were ruthlessly cast into the flames.

“We’ll put a stop to all this nonsense,” he muttered, as he watched
their beauty blacken and shrivel upon the glowing coals; and from that
day he took care that the lonely prisoner should receive no more flowers
or tokens of remembrance from his little friend, who, though she never
once failed to keep her promise, was yet destined, through the enmity of
another, to appear unfaithful to her promises.

The second year passed, and it was a year fraught with events of pain
and sorrow for our beautiful Editha.

Mrs. Dalton died—a woman of fashion and folly, but always kind, in her
way, to Editha; and though there had never been as much of sympathy and
harmony between them as there should be between mother and daughter, yet
it left her very lonely, and occasioned her the deepest grief that the
one whom she had always called by that sacred name should be taken from
her.

Six months later Richard Forrester suddenly sickened, and from the first
they knew that it was unto death.

This blow appeared likely to crush Editha, for “Uncle Richard” had
always been her friend and sympathizer.

To him she had always carried all her griefs, her hopes and fears (for
which no one else appeared to have neither time nor interest); and she
ever found him a ready listener, and came away comforted and lightened
of her burden, whatever it was.

If she wanted a particular favor, it was to Uncle Richard she applied.
He gratified every childish whim or wish, no matter what it was or what
expense, time, or trouble it involved.

He was her confident, too; all her little school-girl secrets were
whispered unreservedly in his ear, and, as she grew older, all her plans
were submitted to his judgment rather than to that of either father or
mother.

He always discussed them with her as with an equal, and as if they were
as interesting to him as to herself, while her parents were liable to
say, indulgently, yet with evident annoyance:

“Do as you like, child, but I am too busy to attend to anything of the
kind.”

From the moment of his attack, Mr. Forrester had insisted upon the
presence of Editha at his bedside; and there he lay and watched her,
with his heart in his eyes, as if he knew he was looking his last upon
the fair face and sunny-haired head that had been so dear to him for so
many years.

He had been stricken with paralysis while pleading a case in the
court-room, and was brought to his home never to leave it again until he
was borne forth by other feet, and laid away from the sight of men
forever.

His body was almost paralyzed, but, strange to say, his brain was clear,
and he arranged regarding the disposal of many thing which were not
mentioned in his will, and concerning the last services that were to be
observed over his own body.

“My little girlie,” he said, tenderly, to Editha one day, as she sat
beside him, holding one of his numb and withered hands, and longing to
do something to relieve his helplessness, “you have always loved Uncle
Richard a little, haven’t you?”

“A little!” she said, choking back a sob. “No one in all the world has
ever been to me what you have been. You have been my confidant—my most
intimate friend. I have never been able to go to papa, nor to poor mamma
while she lived, and tell them my troubles as I have to you. I don’t
know why it was, but papa always laughed at and teased me, and mamma was
too busy to attend to me. But you always put by everything and listened
to me. Uncle Richard, I believe—I ought not to say it, perhaps, but I
can just whisper it to _you_ now—I believe I love you best of any one in
all the world;” and Editha laid her cheek against his in a fond way that
told how very dear he was to her.

“My dear child,” the dying man said, with starting tears and trembling
lip, “your words are very precious. I have been a very lonesome man
for—for many years, but you have been a great comfort to me. Now, I want
to talk very seriously to you for a little while. Do you think you can
bear it?”

“Yes, but—but I am afraid it will not do for you to talk; the doctor
said you must not have any excitement,” Editha said knowing full well
what subject was uppermost in his mind and shrinking from talking about
it.

“It will not make any difference now, Edie, dear—a few hours or less
will not matter to me——”

“Uncle Richard!” gasped the girl, as if she could not bear it.

“My dear, we both know that death must come to me soon,” he said,
gently, but with a sad smile; “the parting _must_ come. If I do not get
excited, I suppose I may live a few hours longer; but I have some things
that must be said, whether they excite me or not, and which I can say
only to you; and, as I said before, a few hours will not matter. Do not
weep thus, my darling; I cannot bear _that_,” he added, as the golden
head dropped upon his breast and Editha wept rebelliously.

“Uncle Richard, you are my only real friend; I cannot, _cannot_ let you
go. What shall I do without you?”

“Edie, dear, you must not give way thus—you must be brave and calm; it
excites me more than anything else to see you grieve so,” he said,
huskily, as his lips pressed her shining hair, and his eyes were filled
with tears.

She raised her head instantly and made an effort at self-control.

“Then I will not trouble you any more. Forgive me;” and her red lips
sought his, so pale and drawn.

“That is right, dear do not let this, our last hour, perhaps, be wasted
in tears and vain regrets. You know, Edie,” he continued, after a few
minutes’ thought, “or, at least, I suppose you know, that I am
considered to be very rich.”

“Yes; but oh! if we could only give it all and have you well again,” she
mourned.

“Yes; gold is valueless when one comes to lie where I am to-day, and
there is nothing a man would not give in exchange for his life; but that
is something over which we can have no control, and so it is well at all
times to be ready to go when we are called. But I want to tell you that
several years ago I made a will, and made you my heiress; I have never
had any one to love as I have loved you, and all that I accumulated was
laid by for you. But now——”

He stopped, and a look of trouble and anxiety swept over his features.

“But what?” Editha asked; “have you any other wish now? I shall not care
and everything shall be just as you would like it to be.”

“Thank you, dear; and that is just the unselfish spirit that I like to
see in you, and I know that you will make a good use of your fortune.
But I _have_ another wish; it is something that I intended doing myself,
but have unwisely kept putting it off, and now I must leave it for you
to carry out.”

“Thank you for trusting me to do so, whatever it may be,” Editha said,
feeling deeply touched and grateful that he should deem her worthy to
carry out any plan of his.

“From the first,” he said, “I have been deeply interested in Earle——”

Editha started at the name, and the rosy tide swept over her fair face,
while her eyes drooped half guiltily, as if she feared he suspected
something of what her father had hinted so long ago regarding Earle.

The sick man observed it, and he regarded her keenly for a moment, then
heaved a deep sigh.

“He came to me, you know, dear,” he went on, “a poor, friendless boy of
seventeen, and I, attracted by his honest face and engaging manner, gave
him a place in my office. I was not long in discovering that I had found
no ordinary character, and I resolved I would cultivate his talents,
make a lawyer of him, and, when he should attain a proper age, make him
an equal partner in my business. But you know the unfortunate
circumstances which have blighted his career, and will mar it all his
life——”

“No, Uncle Richard, I do not believe that,” Editha interrupted, firmly.
“I know well enough that Earle is innocent of any crime, and I believe
he will rise above all his trouble.”

“Yes, I, too, believe him innocent, and suffering a grevious wrong; but,
unless his innocence is proven to the world, the disgrace of his
imprisonment will cripple him all his life—the world will always sneer
at and scorn him.”

“_I_ shall not, Uncle Richard; when he comes back to us, I shall be his
friend just as I always have been, and I shall defend him wherever I
go.”

Richard Forrester’s fading eyes lighted with admiration as they rested
upon the spirited face beside him, and he listened to these brave and
fearless words.

“I am proud of you, Editha, for standing up so bravely for the right,
even though others may curl the lip at you for doing it. It is no wonder
that I love you, dear,” he added, with wistful tenderness; “if—if I only
might have had—ah! what was I saying?”

He stopped suddenly, while a shudder shook him, and Editha, not
understanding his last words, feared his mind was wandering.

Presently, however, he resumed:

“But what I wanted to tell you was this: Since Earle’s misfortune I have
planned to do something for him as soon as his time expires. He will be
fitted for the bar by that time if he follows the course I have marked
out for him, and I intended offering him a partnership with me; or, in
case he did not feel like remaining here, giving him something handsome
with which to start life somewhere else. But I can do neither now—I
cannot even add a codicil to my will, as I would like to do, in his
favor, I am so helpless;” and he glanced down at his palsied hands with
a heavy sigh.

“That is just like you, Uncle Richard; but he can have the money even if
you are not able to change your will,” Editha said, in a glad tone.

“Yes, that is what I want; when he comes out from that dismal place he
will feel as if every man’s hand is against him, and I want him to be
independent until he can win his way and establish himself somewhere. I
want you, Editha, to give him ten thousand dollars; I shall leave you a
very handsome fortune, dear—more than a hundred and fifty thousand, and
you will not miss that sum.”

“No, indeed! Earle shall have twice that, if you would like. I do not
need so much money, for I have papa to take care of _me_, you know.”

Richard Forrester’s lips curled slightly at her last words. No one knew
better than he _how_ Sumner Dalton had been able to provide as
handsomely as he had for his family during the past years. But he said,
positively:

“No, Editha, just ten thousand and no more; and, if he is the man I
think he is, he will double it himself in a little while. Earle Wayne
will make a noble man, but—there is some mystery connected with his
early life.”

“A mystery! Of what nature?”

“I do not know; he would not tell me, and that business of his that he
went to transact on the day before the robbery, you remember, he said
was connected with his past, and he would not reveal it; and that was
one reason why the trial went against him.”

“Yes, I remember; and I have often wondered what it could be,” the young
girl answered, thoughtfully.

“You are perfectly willing that he should have a portion of your
fortune?” he asked, regarding her intently.

“Not only willing, but very _glad_, Uncle Richard,” she replied,
heartily.

He heaved a sigh of relief, as if that was a burden off his mind.

“He could not legally claim anything, even if he knew of my wish to give
him this, because my will leaves you everything but you will settle upon
him this amount as soon as his time is out?”

“Yes, I promise you that I will do _exactly_ as you wish; and, Uncle
Richard,” she added, with a little smile, “you know that you have always
taught me that I must keep my promises.”

“That is right, and now there is one thing more. In the private drawer
of my safe there is a sealed package belonging to Earle, and which he
committed to my care for the time of his imprisonment. This I also give
into your hands to keep for him, and when you settle the money upon him
you can return it to him; and _under no circumstances allow the seal to
be broken_.”

“Certainly not. I accept this as a sacred trust, and I will be faithful
to the letter.”

“Thank you, dear; that is all, I believe; and now”—with a yearning look
into the sweet, flushed face—“you will not forget ‘Uncle Richard’—you
will always think kindly of him?”

“As if I could ever think of you in any other way,” Editha said,
reproachfully, and with starting tears.

“My life has not been all smooth, darling. In my younger days there were
things that happened which I could not help and yet—and yet”—with a
shadow of pain on his brow—“perhaps I _might_ have helped them in a
degree if I had tried. But if—if you should ever hear anything that
seems strange or wrong to you, you will try not to blame me—you will
love me still?” he pleaded, yearningly.

“Uncle Richard, you cannot ever have done anything so very wrong. You
must not talk so; if you do, I shall not be able to listen to you
calmly. I shall break down in spite of myself, and I must not for your
sake,” Editha said, brokenly, and feeling as if her heart must burst
with its weight of sorrow.

“Well, well, dear, I will say no more, and it is pleasant to know you
trust me so. You cannot know _how_ much I have always loved you. You
have been like a little green oasis in the desert of my heart; always a
source of comfort and joy to me. I hope, my darling, that nothing will
ever cloud your future; but if there should, you will still love and
think of me kindly—you will not blame Uncle Richard for anything?” he
still persisted, as if some great and sudden fear had overtaken him at
the last moment.

“No—no, indeed. I cannot bear it. How strangely you talk!” the fair girl
said, deeply distressed by his words, and fearing that death was taking
the strength and vigor of his mind.

“I know—I know; I ought not to trouble you thus; but”—with a deep-drawn
sigh—“there are so many sad things in life. God bless you, my darling—my
_own_ darling—God ever bless and keep you from all sorrow and harm.”

He lay silent for several minutes, looking up into her face, as if he
knew it was the last time, and he must fix its every lineament upon his
memory before the great unknown wrapped him in its mystic folds.

At length he whispered:

“Now kiss me, dear, and go out into the fresh air. I have kept you too
long; your cheeks are pale, your eyes are dim. I fear I have been
selfish to keep you here so much.”

Editha stopped with a sob and kissed him upon his lips, his cheek, his
eyes, his hair, with passionate fervor, and then went away, glad to be
alone for a little while, that she might give vent unrestrained to her
nearly breaking heart.

The sick man watched her with fond and longing eyes, as she glided from
the room, and then murmured, prayerfully:

“Heaven grant that _that sin_ may never shadow _her_ life. Farewell, my
sweet Editha—the only gleam of real happiness my life has ever known.”

When early morning came, dim and quiet, and chill with the heavy dew,
the palsied limbs had grown cold and stiff; the great heart had ceased
its sluggish beating; the sightless eyes were closed; the noble face had
settled into peace, and the soul had passed through death’s portal and
waked in Paradise.

Yes, Richard Forrester was dead; and thus his life flowed out from its
mysterious urn into the great unknown.




                               CHAPTER V
                        “I SHALL KEEP MY PLEDGE”


Richard Forrester’s affairs were duly settled, and his property—an
exceedingly handsome property, too—passed into the hands of Editha
Dalton.

The young girl had grown wonderfully womanly and dignified during the
last two years.

She was not like the careless, sparkling, impulsive Editha who had so
dauntlessly stood up in the crowded court-room and defended the hero of
our story on that sad day when he received a felon’s doom.

She was more grave and self-contained, more thoughtful and dignified,
but not a whit less sweet and attractive.

If anything, the gentle gravity of the deep blue eyes, with their
steady, searching glance, possessed a greater charm than when they had
been so full of mirth and laughter; the calm, self-possessed manner was
more fascinating than the careless gayety of the light-hearted
school-girl.

She persisted—much to her father’s inward vexation and disgust, for he
had fondly hoped to have the handling of her money matters—in going over
all her uncle’s papers, and becoming thoroughly acquainted with all the
points of business pertaining to them.

He had said he felt sure she would make good use of the fortune which he
had left her, and she knew that, in order to do so, she must understand
in the beginning everything concerning it.

So she listened with the strictest attention while the prosy lawyer whom
Richard Forrester had appointed to settle his affairs explained, now and
then putting an intelligent question, which showed that her mind was
strong and clear to grasp every detail.

She would allow no one save herself to examine the private drawer of
Richard Forrester’s safe, although Mr. Dalton stood by chafing at her
obstinacy, and longing to see for himself what it contained.

She found, as she expected, the package belonging to Earle, of which her
uncle had spoken.

“What have you there, Editha?” her father asked, as, after examining its
address and seal, she was about to return it to the drawer.

“It is something—some papers, I think, that belonged to Earle,” Editha
answered, and he noticed the flush that sprang to her cheek as she
pronounced his name.

“Let me see it,” he said, holding out his hand for it.

“You can examine the outside, papa, if you like; but the package is not
to be opened,” she said, as she reluctantly handed it to him.

“Indeed! and by whose authority do you speak so emphatically?” Mr.
Dalton demanded, with a sneer, as he curiously examined the bold, clear
writing upon the wrapper, and wondered what secrets it contained.

“By Uncle Richard’s, papa,” Editha replied, firmly, the flush growing
deeper on her cheek at his sneer.

He spoke oftener now to her in that way than he had ever done before,
and not a day passed that he did not wound her deeply, and make her feel
as if her only remaining friend was becoming alienated from her.

Mr. Dalton, on his part, was very much chagrined that she should presume
to act so independently.

It was a great disappointment to him that he could not control her large
income, which he had intended should contribute as much to his own
enjoyment as to hers.

Money was his god; not to hoard and keep, but for the pleasure he could
get from it; and _he_ knew how to live for _that_ end as well as any one
in the world.

But Editha, after acquainting herself thoroughly with the details of her
position as her uncle’s heiress, had again committed everything into the
hands of Mr. Forrester’s lawyer, Mr. Felton saying he was to manage for
her just as he had done for him, and it was better he should do so,
since he understood everything, than to make any change.

“By your Uncle Richard’s, eh?” repeated Mr. Dalton, as he still regarded
the package belonging to Earle Wayne.

“Yes, sir; the last day of his life he gave me some directions, and
among other things committed these papers to my keeping until Earle’s
time should expire, and charged me _under no circumstances to allow the
seal to be broken_.”

“Pshaw! what a fuss over a little mess of papers; and what can it matter
to any one if we look inside? It is sealed with a regular seal, too. I
have considerable curiosity to know what silly secret the young convict
regards so sacredly.”

“I do not think it is very kind, sir, to speak of Earle in that way;
and, whether it is silly or not, it _is_ his secret, and no one has any
right to it but himself,” Editha answered with dignity and some show of
spirit.

“It seems to me you are unaccountably interested, and very valiant in
your defense of a convicted criminal,” retorted Mr. Dalton, considerably
irritated by his daughter’s independence.

“I am deeply interested in Earle Wayne, papa; he was my friend before he
was so unfortunate; he is my friend still,” she bravely returned.

“I suppose you even intend to take him under the shadow of your
sheltering wing when he comes out of prison?” he sneered.

“I shall certainly not withhold my friendship from him while he is in
every way worthy to retain it; and besides——”

“Besides what?” Sumner Dalton asked, with blazing eyes, as she
hesitated.

He had no idea that there was so much fire and spirit bottled up in the
little lady, who until quite recently had appeared to him only a
light-hearted, sweet-tempered child.

True, she had been willful at times, but he had not minded it when it
was confined to the little things of childhood, and never having had any
other children, it had been a pleasure to pet her and indulge her in
everything.

He had hitherto always laughed when she opposed him, and often teased
her for the sake of arousing her antagonism, which made her appear so
pretty and brilliant.

Now, however, it was another matter.

She was setting up her will in stubborn opposition to his, and upon
matters of vital importance to him, too.

He had no notion of allowing her to compromise herself by befriending a
miserable criminal, and he was bound to put a stop to it in some way.

“Besides what?” he repeated, as she did not immediately reply.

She looked at him askance, as if she was somewhat doubtful of the
propriety of telling him anything more.

But at length she said:

“You know that Uncle Richard was also deeply interested in, and
entertained a high regard for Earle——”

“Please adopt a different way of speaking of him; I do not like you to
use his name so familiarly,” interrupted Mr. Dalton, with an angry tap
of his foot.

“Very well; for Mr. Wayne, then,” she said, flushing; “and, during my
last interview with him, he said he regarded him as a young man of great
ability and promise, and that he had intended, as soon as he was fitted
for the bar, to make him a partner in his business. All this he was
going to do for one whom _you_ appear to hold in such contempt, and as
soon as his time should expire, if he would accept it.”

“I do believe that Richard Forrester was born with a soft spot
somewhere, after all,” began her father, impatiently.

“Yes, sir, and it was _in his heart_,” Edith interrupted, quietly, but
with an ominous sparkle in her blue eyes.

She could not tamely listen even to her father if anything disparaging
was said of her beloved Uncle Richard.

Mr. Dalton glanced at her as if resenting the interruption, and then
continued:

“He was keen enough in business and in making money, but he has shown
himself almost an imbecile about some other things during the forty
years that he had lived.”

“Papa, do you forget that you are speaking of the dead?” Editha asked,
in a low, constrained tone.

“No; but I have no patience with such foolishness as he has more than
once been guilty of,” was the impatient reply.

“What has Uncle Richard done that is so very foolish? He told me on that
last day that his life had not been all smooth. What has he done?”
Editha asked, with evident anxiety.

“No matter—no matter,” Mr. Dalton said, hastily; then, as if anxious to
change the subject, asked: “Is that all you were going to tell me?”

“No; but I’m afraid you will be even more displeased with the rest of it
than with what I have already told you,” the young girl said,
doubtfully.

“At all events, let me hear it.”

“He said if he had not been so helpless he would have added a codicil to
his will, and given Ear—Mr. Wayne something handsome to start in life
with, when his three years should expire——”

“Aha!”

“And he made me promise that I would settle ten thousand dollars upon
him just as soon as he should be free, and at the same time return his
package to him.”

“Ten thousand dollars!” exclaimed Sumner Dalton aghast.

“Yes, sir.”

“I don’t believe it, Editha Dalton. It is more like a sickly,
sentimental fancy of your own,” was the excited retort. Mr. Dalton was
furious at the thought. Ten thousand dollars of Editha’s fortune to be
given away to a beggar and a criminal!

“Papa!”

“I do not believe it, I say! Such a monstrous proceeding could never
have originated in the brain of a sane man.”

“Papa, was I ever guilty of telling you a falsehood?” the young girl
demanded, turning upon him, all the pride of her nature aroused by his
words.

“Not that I know of; but——”

“Then do not dare to accuse me of it now. I am telling you only truth,
and the wishes of a dying man. Uncle Richard’s wishes in this respect
are sacred to me, even if my own heart and my friendship for Mr. Wayne
did not prompt me to do him this little kindness out of my abundance.”

“Little kindness! It would not take very many such _little kindnesses_
to make a beggar of yourself,” sneered Mr. Dalton, wrathfully.

“I pledged myself to execute this wish just as soon as Earle’s time
expires, and I shall fulfill my pledge to the letter,” Editha returned,
somewhat proudly.

“Not if I know it, Miss Dalton. Such folly—such rashness, I could never
allow you to be guilty of.”

“Papa,” she began, pleadingly, her face full of pain, her eyes full of
tears, “why are you so changed toward me lately? You and I are all that
are left of our family. We have no near relatives; we are almost alone
in the world. Do not, _please_ do not, let there be any estrangement,
any disagreement between us.”

Mr. Dalton’s face softened for the moment.

“Certainly not, my dear,” he replied, adopting his usual fond tone and
manner, “there need be no estrangement, no disagreement, if you will be
reasonable; but, of course, I cannot allow you to squander your money in
the way you propose doing.”

“My money! How came it mine? Whose was it before it became mine?”

“Richard Forrester’s, of course,” he said, with some uneasiness.

“Yes; and before it became mine he reserved this ten thousand to be
given to Earle. Surely he had a right to do with his own as he would.”

“Very true; but you forget—his will was made years ago, giving you
_everything_.”

“He did not know Earle then; but he _said_ if he could only have the use
of his hands, he would have added a codicil to his will in his favor.”

“But he did _not_ do it. The will stands just as it always has, and he
can claim nothing. No part of your fortune is _legally_ his.”

“He told me it was his _wish_, and I shall give Earle the money,” Editha
answered, firmly.

“You will _not_,” asserted Mr. Dalton, positively.

“Papa, do you know how much I am worth in all?”

“A hundred and seventy-five thousand strong—a handsome fortune, a _very_
handsome fortune for a young girl like you to possess,” he said, rubbing
his hands together with an air of satisfaction, as if he expected to
reap no little benefit from the said fortune himself.

“That is more than Uncle Richard thought, owing, no doubt, to the
successful sale of that block I did not wish to keep and Mr. Felton
advised me to sell. Uncle Richard told me there would be more than a
hundred and fifty thousand; but you see I have nearly twenty-five
thousand more than he expected; and, even after giving Earle what he
wished, I shall have more than he thought.”

“What nonsense, child!”

“It is not nonsense. The money was set apart for him, and I should be a
thief and a robber not to do with it as I was bidden. I have promised,
and I shall fulfill,” Editha returned, steadfastly.

“Not with _my_ consent, miss,” Mr. Dalton cried, hotly.

“Then it will have to be done without it,” she answered, sadly.

“That cannot be; you are under age; you are only nineteen, and it will
be more than a year before you are free to act upon your own authority.
Meantime, I am your legal guardian, and you can transfer no property
without my consent,” her father replied, triumphantly.

“Is that so?” Editha asked, with a startled look.

“That is so, according to the law of this State.”

“Papa, you cannot mean what you say. You _must_ allow me to do this
thing; you would not be so dishonorable as to withhold this money from
Earle when it is really his. He has only about nine months longer to
stay——”

“A year, you mean,” Mr. Dalton interrupted.

“No; his ‘days of grace’ amount to three months, and so he will be free
in about nine; and he will be absolutely penniless—he will have nothing
upon which to begin life. It would be cruel to keep this money from him
when it is rightfully his, and he will need it so much. Pray, papa, be
kind and reasonable, and let me do as Uncle Richard wished,” pleaded the
fair girl, earnestly.

“Richard Forrester didn’t know what he wished himself, or he would never
have been guilty of such folly.”

“Papa, you _know_ that his mind was as clear as either yours or mine is
at this moment,” Editha exclaimed, nearly ready to weep at this cruel
opposition.

“It does not matter; I shall never consent to your fooling away ten
thousand dollars in any such manner; so let this end the controversy at
once,” he returned, doggedly.

“Poor Earle!” sighed Editha, regretfully; “then he’ll have to wait a
whole year for it. It is too bad.”

“Wait a _year_ for it—what do you mean?” demanded Mr. Dalton sharply.

“I mean, papa, that if I cannot give it to him without your consent,
that he will have to wait for it until I am twenty-one. But the very day
that I attain my majority I shall go to Mr. Felton and have him make
over ten thousand dollars to Earle Wayne,” and the gentle blue eyes met
his with a look that told him she would do just as she had said.

“Do you defy me, then? You will not dare!” he cried, actually quivering
with anger at her words.

“I have promised, and—I _shall keep my pledge_.”

Editha had grown very pale, but she spoke very firmly and steadily.

Sumner Dalton shot a dark look at the defiant little figure standing so
quietly opposite him, and muttered an oath under his breath.

Then, apparently thinking it unwise to say more upon the subject just
then, he turned his attention again to the package which he still held
in his hands.

Editha’s eyes followed his, and she held out her hand, saying:

“I will replace that in the safe now, if you please.”

“I wonder what there is in it?” he said, curiously.

Her lip curled a little, but she made no reply, still standing with
outstretched hand, waiting for him to give it to her.

“I’ve half a mind to open it,” he muttered.

“_No, indeed!_” she cried, in alarm, and taking a step forward.

“Pshaw! it can do no harm—it cannot contain anything so _very_
remarkable.”

“Sir, pray do not allow me to lose _all_ the respect I have for my own
father,” Editha cried, sternly, her eyes ablaze, her face flushing a
painful crimson, her form dilating with surprise, indignation, and
grief.

A peculiar, mocking laugh was all the reply he made to this, but he
handed back the package; not, however, without inwardly resolving to
ascertain, before very long, what it contained.

Editha hastily returned it to the private drawer, locked it and the safe
securely, and then, without a word, left the room.




                               CHAPTER VI
                              WHAT WAS IT?


Sumner Dalton was a supremely selfish man.

From his earliest boyhood his chief aim had been to get gold, no matter
how, that he might fill his life to the brim with pleasure, and his
highest ambition was to walk among the proudest of the land, and mingle
in their enjoyments as an equal.

Naught but a golden key would unlock the door leading into these charmed
regions, therefore gold became his idol. When everything went smoothly,
he was easy and tolerably good-natured; but when opposed or disappointed
by any one in his plans or schemes, it was anything but pleasant for
those about him, and he did not allow an opportunity to pass to revenge
himself of the offense.

He did not believe in grieving his life away for the dead; people must
die and be buried; the world was made for the enjoyment of the living,
and it was his maxim to improve those pleasures to the utmost while he
lived.

His wife died the last of October, Richard Forrester the following
April; and in June, when the hot weather came on, he told Editha to
prepare for the season at Newport as he intended spending the summer
there as usual, with, perhaps, a trip to Saratoga and Long Branch, by
way of variety.

Editha, with her heart saddened from her recent bereavement, would have
much preferred remaining quietly at home; feeling, too, that there was
more of comfort there in its large, airy, and beautiful rooms than in a
crowded, fashionable hotel, where, at the most, she could have but two
or three apartments, and those comparatively small and close.

Then she had no heart for the glitter and confusion of society; those
two dead faces, so cold and fixed, were too fresh in her memory for her
to take any pleasure in the gayeties of the world.

She ventured a protest when Mr. Dalton spoke of his intentions, but he
peremptorily silenced her by asking her if she supposed she was going to
have everything her own way since she had go to be an heiress.

He had treated her very coolly, and they had seemed to be growing
farther and farther apart ever since that spirited interview regarding
Richard Forrester’s bequest to Earle Wayne.

Edith was deeply hurt that he should consider her so selfish and
willful, and finally said she would go to Newport if he wished.

“I do wish it; and, Editha, I want you to leave all that somber black
trumpery at home, and put on something gay and pretty,” he added, with a
disappointing glance at her mourning robes.

“Papa! surely you do not mean me to take off my mourning!” she
exclaimed, in blank astonishment.

“Yes, I do; there can be no possible good in wearing such gloomy-looking
things; they are perfectly hateful.”

“But mamma has only been gone about nine months, and Uncle Richard not
quite three, and——”

A quick rush of tears into the sad blue eyes and a great choking lump in
her throat suddenly stopped her.

“Your mother would not wish to see you in such dismal garments; she
could never endure black anyway; and your Uncle Richard would much
prefer to see you looking bright and cheerful,” replied Mr. Dalton.

Editha knew this was true, but it seemed almost like treason to her
beloved ones to lay aside all evidence of her sorrow and go back to the
gay habiliments of the world. But she submitted to this _edict of
Dalton_ also for the sake of peace; and though she could not bring her
mind to assume gay colors, yet she bought charming suits of finest white
cambric and lawn, and muslins delicately sprigged with lavender, with
richer and more elegant damasse, silk and lace, all white, for evening
wear.

It was an exceedingly simple wardrobe, yet rich and charming withal, and
even her fastidious father could find no fault when he saw her arrayed
in it.

The night before they were to leave, at midnight, Sumner Dalton might
have been seen creeping steadily downstairs and into Editha’s private
library.

It was a room that had once been her mother’s morning sitting-room, and
where she had had all her uncle’s books, pictures, and safe removed
after his death, and here she spent much of her time, reading the books
he had loved, sewing a little, painting a little, and thinking a great
deal of the friend who had been so very dear to her.

Mr. Dalton acted as if he felt very much like an intruder or a thief as
he glided noiselessly into this room, closing and locking the door after
him.

He went directly to the safe; taking a bunch of keys from his pocket, he
selected one and proceeded to unlock it.

“Did the foolish little chit think to keep her secrets from me?” he
sneered, as he easily turned the lock and the door swung noiselessly
back. “She’ll find she will be obliged to use more stratagem than she
possesses in her small head before she can outwit an old one like mine,”
he continued, as he proceeded to search every drawer the safe contained.

None was locked save the private drawer in which he had seen Editha
place Earle’s package, and he found nothing of any interest in any of
them.

Selecting another key from his bunch, he quickly opened the private
drawer, and a grunt of satisfaction immediately escaped him, showing
that now he had found what he wanted.

He took it out, and the light revealed the package which Edith had
sought to treasure so sacredly.

“There was always something mysterious about that proud scamp,” he
muttered, eyeing the package curiously; “and now, if there is anything
here to tell me who and what he is, I’m going to know it. He said his
business _that night_,” he continued, reflectively, “concerned only his
own private interests, and was connected with his early life; perhaps I
shall learn something more about those ‘private interests’ and ‘early
life.’”

He removed the light from the floor where he had put it to see to unlock
the safe, to the table, seated himself comfortably in a revolving chair,
took out a handsome pocket-knife, and, in the most careful and delicate
manner imaginable, removed entire the heavy seal of wax from the
package.

Putting this in a place of safety that no harm might come to it, he
removed the wrapping of heavy paper and began to inspect the contents.

They consisted chiefly of letters addressed to Earle, in a delicate,
feminine hand, the sight of which made Sumner Dalton start violently and
grow a sudden crimson.

“Pshaw!” he said, impatiently, and drawing a deep breath, “there are
hundreds of women who write a similar hand.”

He opened one or two of the letters and read them.

They were all dated from a little town in England, and were addressed to
“My dear son,” and simply signed “Your loving mother.”

There was not much of interest in them to him, only now and then there
was an expression which seemed to touch some long dormant chord of
memory, and made him shiver as he read.

He soon grew weary of this occupation, however, and laid the letters
aside to examine further.

There were several pretty drawings wrapped in tissue paper, a sketch, in
water-colors, of a charming little cottage, half hidden by vines and
climbing roses, and in one corner of this there were three tiny
initials.

Sumner Dalton nearly bounded from his chair as he read them, repeating
them aloud as he did so.

The color forsook his face, his lips twitched nervously, and a startled,
anxious expression sprang to his eyes.

He hastily thrust the drawing one side and went on now more eagerly with
his quest.

The only remaining things in the package were a large envelope,
containing a few photographs, and a very heavy piece of parchment—more
like cardboard—about five inches wide and eight long, and upon which
there was some writing in cipher that he could not read.

It seemed to be there more as a foundation to build the package than
anything else, and Mr. Dalton, attaching no importance whatever to it,
pushed it one side and turned his attention to the pictures.

One by one he took them up and looked at them, but there was no familiar
face, and they were mostly pictures of young boys and girls, evidently
schoolmates of Earle’s.

At last he came to what seemed to be one carefully inclosed in a
separate envelope.

He opened this, and found that its contents were wrapped about with
tissue paper.

“Some pretty girl who has captivated his boyish fancy. Who knows but it
may be a picture of Editha herself?” he muttered, with a scornful smile.

He removed the wrapper, and two pictures dropped upon the table, and
also a lock of auburn hair, tied with a blue ribbon.

He took up one of the pictures with a yawn.

Surely this was not worth the loss of so much sleep and the treachery he
had employed to gain his object.

But—what is this?

Something that makes the blood rush back upon his heart with suffocating
force, his eyes to start with horror, and a clammy moisture to ooze from
every pore.

It is the face of a beautiful woman of perhaps thirty-five years.

Dark, abundant hair crowned the small, shapely head set most gracefully
upon a pair of sloping shoulders.

Grave, sad eyes looked up at the horror-stricken face with an expression
which strangely moved the strong man.

A straight, delicate nose and a mouth sweet and gentle in expression,
but deeply lined with suffering, completed the picture. Underneath, and
traced in the same delicate chirography which the letters bore, were the
words:

“Mother, to her dear boy.”

With trembling hands Sumner Dalton laid it down and took up the other
picture, and gazed as if fascinated upon it. It was the same face, only
evidently taken fifteen or twenty years previous.

It was a magic face, one of bewildering, entrancing beauty, and full of
mirth and careless glee.

Rippling curls that caught the sunlight with every breath; dancing eyes
of loveliest expression; the same straight, delicate nose as seen in the
other likeness, and a sweet mouth, whose bright and careless smile told
of not a care in all the world. This was the picture that held Sumner
Dalton spellbound with a strange horror.

Underneath, in the same delicate hand, were the three tiny initials that
he had seen upon the sketch in water-colors.

The strong man groaned aloud as he looked; the photograph dropped from
his nervous fingers, and he shook like one with the ague. He wiped the
sweat from his brow; he rubbed his eyes as if to clear his vision, and
looked again, comparing the two faces.

But only to groan again more bitterly than before.

There could be no doubt that both pictures were of the same person, only
taken at different times; one during happy girlhood days, the other at a
maturer age, and to gratify the wishes of her son.

“_Earle Wayne her son!_ Earle Wayne, the prisoner, the—criminal! Great
heaven!” he cried, with ashen lips, and in tones expressive of intense
horror and fear.

Then, with a round oath, he threw both pictures from him as if they
burned him, and, leaping to his feet, began pacing excitedly back and
forth upon the floor.

“What shade of evil has sent this thing to confront me at this late hour
of my life?” he cried, with exceeding bitterness. “Did I not have enough
of disappointment and regret to bear at _that_ time without being
reminded of it in this way now? I was cheated, foiled out of what I
would almost have given half a life-time to have attained. Oh! if I had
only known—_why_ was there no one to tell me? _Why_——”

He stopped in the midst of his walk, and clenched his hands and ground
his teeth in fiercest wrath.

“I was a fool!—an idiot! I hate myself, I hate her—I hate all the world,
who _knew_ and did not tell me. And _he_ is _her_ son, _he_ is——

“Ah! I have never loved him any _too_ well—I love him far less now,
for—_he is a living monument of my defeat_. No wonder he is proud; no
wonder he bore his trial with such fortitude, if he possesses a tithe of
the spirit and resolution that _she_ possessed and displayed more than
twenty years ago. I wish he had five times three years to serve; but
I’ll crush him when he comes out, as I would like to crush every one who
knew at _that time_, and did not tell me. He may go to the ——. It is
nothing to me if he _is_ innocent, and yet a prisoner. It shall not
disturb me, and I will not have my enjoyment destroyed by this grim
phantom of the past. I’ll cast care and worry to the winds, be merry,
and go my own way; but—let _him_ look out that he does not cross _my_
path again,” he concluded, with a fierceness that was terrible to
observe.

He lifted his head defiantly as he uttered those words, but continued
pacing back and forth for another half-hour, muttering constantly, but
indistinctly, to himself.

“Ugh! but it gives me a sickly feeling in spite of myself,” he said at
length, as he went back to the table and began to gather up the papers
scattered there.

He folded the pictures in their wrappers as he had found them, putting
the auburn lock of hair between them, though the touch of it sent the
cold chills down his back and another fierce oath to his lips.

He gazed curiously again at the piece of parchment with the peculiar
writing upon it, and wondered if it contained any meaning of importance
but he at last arranged everything just as he had found it, folding the
outside wrapper carefully over all.

He then melted a little wax from Editha’s stand, and dropped upon it to
fasten it, after which he carefully pressed the original seal into its
proper place.

It was all very neatly and nicely done, and no one save an expert would
ever have imagined that the package had been tampered with at all.

He replaced it just as he had found it in the private drawer of the
safe, locked it, closed and locked the safe, and then stole noiselessly
away to his own chamber, and to bed.

But no sleep came to him that night, “to weigh his eyelids down, or
steep his senses in forgetfulness.” Visions of the past seemed to haunt
him with a vividness which appeared to arouse every evil passion in his
nature.

He tossed incessantly on his pillow, and groaned, and raged, and swore,
first at himself and then at all the world, for some wrong, real or
imaginary, which he had suffered during the earlier years of his life.

Some secret he evidently had on his mind, which filled him first with
remorse and then with anger; and so the night wore out and morning
broke, and found him haggard, hollow-eyed, and exhausted from the storm
of fury which had raged so long in his soul.

What was it?

What was this strange secret connected with his previous history with
Earle Wayne, and with the beautiful woman whose pictures he had found in
the package which had been given into Richard Forrester’s hands for safe
keeping?




                              CHAPTER VII
                          EDITHA’S RESOLUTION


Everybody who knows anything about Newport—the Brighton of America—knows
that the season there is one long scene of gayety, pleasure, and
splendor.

And this year bade fair to eclipse all previous years owing to the
unusual brilliancy and elegance of its entertainments, its incessant
round of pleasure, the presence of numberless beautiful women, with
their magnificent toilets, and the great number of distinguished guests
from abroad.

Among these latter one in particular seemed to attract great attention,
on account of his noble personal attractions, the report of his great
wealth, and, more than all, because of his being unmarried, handsome,
and—thirty.

He was an F. R. C. S., had graduated with high honors, and the
reputation of his skill was in everybody’s mouth, while it was stated
upon the best authority that he was heir prospective to large estates in
both England and France, though where they were situated, and of their
extent, no one seemed to know.

“Mr. Tressalia, allow me to present to you my daughter, Miss Dalton.”

Such was the introduction of Paul Tressalia, the distinguished stranger,
to Edith Dalton, as performed by Mr. Dalton, one golden summer evening,
as Editha sat by herself upon the broad piazza of their hotel, musing
rather pensively upon the events of the past two years.

Editha lifted her large blue eyes, which filled with instant admiration
as they rested upon the handsome stranger, and she gracefully saluted
him, realizing at once that she was in the presence of a man of
power—one of superior intellect, and yet with a velvet hand withal, as
the mild dark eyes and the gentle expression of his mouth asserted.

Mr. Tressalia, on his part, was evidently powerfully attracted by those
same large and expressive eyes, which were reading his face with such a
comprehensive glance.

His gaze rested admiringly on the slender figure, with its mien of
blended grace, reserve, and dignity, attired, so simply yet
artistically, in its force of spotless embroidered muslin; on the small
head, with its silken aureate crown; on the sweet face, so full of
expression and the impress of latent character.

Her small hands seemed to him like “symmetrical snowflakes,” her feet
like little mice peeping from beneath the flowing robe, and all her
movements full of “sweet, attractive grace.”

Mr. Tressalia noted all this during the ceremony of introduction, and
realized at once that he had “met his fate” in this being “fair as
Venus,” whose

                  “Face and figure wove a spell
                  While her bright eyes were beaming.”

Editha had not mingled very much in the gayeties of Newport as yet—she
could not enjoy them; her heart was sore and sad; she could not forget
the two dear ones so recently gone, nor the young promising life
confined by prison walls.

Not a day passed that Earle Wayne’s noble face did not rise up before
her, and she seemed to hear his rich, clear voice asserting constantly,
“Their _saying_ that I am guilty does not _make_ me so. I have the
consciousness within me that I am innocent of a crime, and I will live
to prove it yet to _you_ and the world,” and the knowledge of his cruel
fate was a constant pain. But now she was almost insensibly drawn out of
herself and her sad musings.

Mr. Tressalia possessed a peculiar charm in his gentle manner, and in
his brilliant and intelligent conversation; and, almost before she was
aware of it, Editha found herself joining and enjoying the party of
choice spirits who seemed to own him as their center.

The ice once broken, who shall tell of the bright, delightful days that
followed?

And yet in the midst of all this she did not forget Earle; every morning
on rising, and at evening on retiring, her thoughts fled to that gloomy
cell, with its innocent inmate suffering for another’s crime.

Every week she faithfully dispatched her floral remembrance; but Mr.
Dalton’s servant having received permanent instructions upon that
subject, they never left the hotel, and were ruthlessly destroyed and
their beauty lost.

People were not long in discovering that the beautiful heiress, Miss
Dalton, was the charm that bound the distinguished Mr. Tressalia to
Newport, and the desirableness and suitableness of an alliance between
them began to be freely discussed and commented upon; while, as if by
common consent, all other suitors dropped out of the field, as if
convinced of the hopelessness of their cause, and she thereby fell to
the charge of the young Englishman upon all occasions.

But Editha began to feel somewhat uneasy at the way matters were
settling themselves.

She liked her new friend extremely; he was a man that could not fail to
command everywhere respect and admiration, and she could not help
enjoying his cultivated society; but she did not enjoy being paired off
with him, to the exclusion of everybody else, upon every occasion; for
her woman’s instinct told her whither all this was tending, and she knew
it ought not to be.

Mr. Dalton, however, was exceedingly elated over the prospect, and took
no pains to conceal his satisfaction, nor to contradict the gossip
regarding an approaching engagement, while, at the same time, he was
never weary of recounting Mr. Tressalia’s merits to his daughter.

When at length Editha began to excuse herself from accompanying him upon
excursions of pleasure, and to retire to her own rooms upon some slight
pretext when he joined them at evening on the piazza, her father became
highly incensed, and fumed and fretted himself almost into a fever on
account of it.

“Editha, you will oblige me by not being quite so indifferent to Mr.
Tressalia’s attentions,” Mr. Dalton said one day, upon their return from
a brilliant reception given on board a French man-of-war lying at anchor
in the harbor.

The commander was a friend of Mr. Tressalia’s, and had given an
elaborate breakfast and reception to him and his friends, together with
some distinguished people sojourning at Newport.

Editha and Mr. Dalton had been among the guests, and the former had been
perfectly charming, in her dainty lawn, embroidered with rich purple
pansies, and her jaunty hat, surrounded with a wreath of the same
flowers.

She had attracted marked attention from commander and officers, and also
from many of the guests, and in this way had succeeded in saving herself
from the usual “pairing off.”

She had been somewhat reserved, too, in her manner toward Mr. Tressalia,
and her father swore more than once to himself at her evident avoidance
of him.

She blushed at his remark, but said, very quietly:

“I am not aware that I treat Mr. Tressalia indifferently, papa. He is a
very pleasant gentleman, and I enjoy his society exceedingly.”

“Then why did you avoid him so persistently to-day?” he demanded.

“I would not appear to avoid any of our friends,” Editha said, with a
deepening flush; “but really I do not enjoy being monopolized by one
person so entirely as I have been the past two or three weeks.”

“What particular objection have you to Mr. Tressalia?”

“None whatever. I repeat, he is a very cultivated and agreeable
gentleman, and I enjoy his society.”

“Then I desire that you may show a little more pleasure in it,” Mr.
Dalton returned, impatiently.

“In what way, papa? _How_ shall I _show_ my pleasure in Mr. Tressalia’s
society?” Editha asked, looking up at him with a droll expression of
innocence.

Mr. Dalton flushed hotly himself now. It was not an easy question to
answer, for, of course, he could not say that he would like her to
become unmaidenly conspicuous in her pleasure, and it was rather a
difficult and perplexing matter to make a _rule_ for her to follow, and
one, too, that would bring about the end he so much desired.

“What a question, Editha!” he exclaimed, after a moment’s thought; “when
you are pleased with _anything_, it is not difficult to show it, is it?”

“Oh, no; but then there are different degrees of pleasure, you know;
and, from the way you spoke, I thought perhaps you desired me to adopt
the _superlative_, and that, I fear, would be ‘mortifying’ to you,” she
said, with a sparkle of mischief in her tones.

She was laughing at him now, and Mr. Dalton did not find himself in a
very agreeable position.

He remembered that he had once chided her very severely for being so
demonstrative, and cautioned her not to “_gush_,” saying it was all
“very well for a young lady to express her feelings in a proper way, and
at a proper time, but it was _mortifying_ to him to have her carry quite
so much sail.”

Editha doubtless remembered it also, and referred to this very lecture,
judging from her words and manner, and for a moment he hardly knew what
reply to make.

“I think your sarcasm is a little ill-timed,” he at length said,
stiffly. “Mr. Tressalia has hitherto paid you marked attention, and you
have not demurred; but your avoidance of him to-day could not fail to
occasion him surprise and pain, and also remark on the part of others.
As for your being monopolized by one person, as you express it, there
are very few young ladies in Newport who would not be very glad to be
chosen from among the many by a man like Paul Tressalia.”

“It is not Mr. Tressalia that I object to at all; it is the idea of
always being paired off with him, as if no other gentleman had any right
to approach me,” Editha said, with heightening color.

“You object to him, then, as a permanent escort?”

“Yes, sir, I do,” she answered, decidedly.

“And why, if I may ask?”

“Because I do not wish to accept attentions which might lead Mr.
Tressalia to imagine that I possess a deeper regard for him than I
really have,” Editha said, candidly, yet with some confusion.

“Then you mean me to understand you regard Paul Tressalia only in the
light of a friend, and you are unwilling that friendship should develop
into any warmer sentiment?” Mr. Dalton asked, with lowering brow.

“Yes, sir,” was the firm though low reply.

“That places me in a very fine position; for—for—I may as well out with
it first as last—that gentleman has asked my permission to address you
with a view to marriage, and I have given it;” and Mr. Dalton looked
very much disturbed and angry.

“Oh, papa!” Editha exclaimed, in pained surprise, and flushing deepest
crimson.

“Well?” he demanded, almost fiercely, while he eyed her keenly.

“I am very sorry you have done so, for it cannot be;” and her voice
trembled slightly as she said it.

“Why?”

“Because—I can never care for him in any such way as _that_.”

“In any such way as what?” he asked, with a sneer.

“You know what I mean well enough—the warmer sentiment of which I have
already spoken,” she answered, with a rush of tears to her eyes at his
unkind tone. She struggled a moment for self-control, and then
continued:

“I admire Mr. Tressalia exceedingly; he is a man who must command any
woman’s respect and esteem; he is cultivated and refined, and possesses
one of the kindest, most generous natures, but——”

“But you don’t want to marry him, is that it?” he interrupted.

“No, sir, I do not,” she said, very firmly, but with another rush of
color to the beautiful face.

Mr. Dalton’s face grew dark, and he twitched nervously in his chair.

“I am sure I cannot conceive what possible objection you can have to him
as a husband; he is handsome as a king, polished, distinguished in his
profession, and rich enough to surround you with every elegance the
world can afford.”

“I have already told you my sole objection—I do not love him,” the fair
girl said, wearily.

“Pshaw! I am sure he is fitted to command the love of any woman.”

“Yes, sir; he is very noble, very good, very attractive; and I cannot
tell you _why_ I do not, but simply that I _do_ not.”

“And you would not accept him if he should propose for your hand?”

“No, sir,” was the low but very steady reply.

Mr. Dalton’s eyes flashed ominously; he was growing furious at her
obstinacy.

He had decreed that she should marry the distinguished young surgeon,
and who was reported heir to such large possessions.

It will be remembered that we have stated gold was Mr. Dalton’s idol,
consequently he was anxious to secure so valuable a prize, so that in
case his own supply of this world’s goods should fail him, he would have
an exhaustless reservoir to which he could go and replenish.

“I desire that you consent to marry Paul Tressalia whenever he sees fit
to ask you to become his wife,” he said, in tones of command.

“I regret that I cannot gratify that desire, sir.”

“You will not?”

“I _cannot_.”

“Do you utterly refuse to do so?”

“I do most emphatically,” Editha answered, coldly and decidedly.

“Perhaps your affections are already engaged—perhaps you have already
experienced that passion you term ‘love’ for some one else?” her father
said, half eagerly, half sneeringly.

“I have never been asked to marry any one; no one has ever spoken of
love to me,” she replied, with drooping lids and very crimson cheeks.

“That was very cleverly evaded, Miss Dalton,” he returned, with a
mocking laugh. “I was not speaking of the love of any one for _you_, but
of _yours_ for some one _else_.”

“I decline to discuss the subject further with you, sir, but refuse to
accept Mr. Tressalia’s attentions any longer with a view to an alliance
with him.”

Miss Dalton was beginning to show her independent spirit.

“Perhaps,” sneered Mr. Dalton, now thoroughly aroused, and made reckless
by her opposition, “your tastes would lead you to prefer to marry that
handsome young convict whom you professed to admire so much once upon a
time.”

Mr. Dalton had had his fears upon this subject for some time, owing to
the constancy with which she sent him the tokens of her remembrance; but
he had never hinted at such a thing until now.

Editha’s proud little head was lifted suddenly erect at his words; her
eyes, blue and gentle as they were usually, had grown dark, and flashed
dangerously; her nostrils dilated, and her breath came quickly from her
red, parted lips.

He had touched upon a tender point.

“Papa,” she cried, in proud, ringing tones, “if I loved any one, and he
was worthy, I should never be ashamed of that love.”

“Nor to marry its object, even though he had served a sentence in a
State prison,” he jeered.

“Nor to marry its object, even though he had served a matter what
misfortunes had overtaken him, nor what position in life he occupied.”

If Earle Wayne could have heard those words how he would have blessed
their author!

“Aha!” her father cried, bitterly; “perhaps you _do_ even love
this—this——”

“Father!” Miss Dalton had risen now from her chair, and stood calmly
confronting the enraged man; but she was very pale. “Father,” she
repeated, “I cannot understand why you should be so exceedingly bitter
toward me whenever I happen to differ from you upon any point; neither
can I understand the change in your general treatment of me during the
last two years. You used to be gentle and indulgent with me until after
mamma and Uncle Richard died, and it is very hard for me to bear your
scorn and anger. But—please do not think I intend to be disrespectful or
willful—but I consider that neither you nor any one else has a right to
speak to me in the way you have done to-day regarding a subject so
sacred as the disposal of my affections. They are my own, to be bestowed
whenever and upon whoever my heart shall dictate. Hear me out, please,”
she said, as he was about to angrily interrupt her. “I claim that I have
a perfect and indisputable right to judge for myself in a matter so
vital to my own interests and happiness, and when the proper time
comes—I shall exercise that right. Do not misunderstand me. I have no
desire to displease you, nor to go contrary to your wishes. I would not
seem to threaten, either; but you have wounded me more deeply than you
imagine to-day, and I must speak freely, once for all. I cannot allow
any one—not even my own father—to dispose of my future for me.”

“Do I understand you to mean that you would marry a man whom everybody
looked down upon and despised, if you happened to take a fancy to him?”
Mr. Dalton demanded, in a voice of thunder, and utterly confounded by
the girl’s independence.

“It would make no difference to me whether _others_ despised him or not,
if he was mentally my equal, and I considered him worthy of my
affection,” was the brave, proud reply.

“Even if disgraced as a felon, as Earle Wayne has been disgraced?”

“Even if he had _innocently_ suffered disgrace, and expiated another’s
crime, as Earle Wayne has done, and is doing,” she answered quietly; but
the deep blue eyes were hidden beneath the white lids; two very bright
spots had settled on her cheeks and her hands trembled nervously.

It was cruel to wring her secret from her thus; but he was her father
and she must bear it as patiently as she could.

His next words, however, acted like an electric battery upon her.

They were spoken hoarsely and menacingly:

“Editha Dalton, you are a fool and I would see your whole life a wreck
before I would see you wedded to _him_!”

“Thank you, papa, for your flattering estimate of my mental faculties,
and also for the tender, fraternal interest which you manifest in my
future happiness; but if you please we will close the discussion here.”

With uplifted hand, flashing eyes, and a haughty little bend of her
slender body, she glided quietly from the room.

               “Pride in her port, defiance in her eye.”

Sumner Dalton looked after her in amaze, and ground his teeth in baffled
rage.




                              CHAPTER VIII
                            HOPES AND FEARS


“Whew!” he exclaimed, after a moment, “my beloved daughter is developing
a surprising spirit. I had no idea there was so much grit bottled up in
her little body. I shall have to mind my p’s and q’s, or all my plans
will amount to nothing; it will not do to arouse her antagonism like
this. I must remember the wisdom of Burke, who sagely remarked: ‘He that
wrestles with us strengthens our nerves and sharpens our skill; our
antagonist is our helper.’ I have no desire to strengthen _her_ nerves,
or sharpen _her_ skill—clearly, opposition won’t do for Editha Dalton;
we must employ winning smiles, soft speeches and strategy. I must take
heed to my ways, else my independent, fiery little banker will yet be
refusing me the handling of her plethoric purse, and that, under the
circumstances, is a pleasure I should miss exceedingly. Nevertheless, I
intend to have my own way about certain matters and things.”

Such was Sumner Dalton’s muttered colloquy with himself, after having
been so abruptly left alone by his indignant daughter.

For some time past he had made large demands upon Editha’s income,
giving as a reason for so doing that he had loaned largely to a friend
of late, who, having failed to pay as he had promised, he was somewhat
crippled in his own money affairs.

Editha, generous and tender-hearted to a fault, of course credited his
statements, and immediately surrendered the most of her income into his
hands, and it is needless to remark that it slipped through his fingers
in the easiest manner imaginable, and he presented himself to her on
quarter-day with a punctuality that was a surprising, knowing his
habits, as it would in a better cause have been commendable.

But for the present he said no more to her on the subject of either Mr.
Tressalia’s attentions or intentions.

His manner was more affectionate and kind, and Editha began to feel that
she had perhaps spoken more hastily and severely than she ought to her
only parent; consequently she exerted herself more to please him for the
little while they remained at Newport.

Mr. Dalton, watching his opportunity, hinted to Mr. Tressalia that
perhaps it would not be well to hurry matters to a crisis, even though
they had only a few days longer to remain at Newport; but he gave him a
cordial invitation to visit them in their city home, encouraging him to
hope that on a more intimate acquaintance he could not fail to win the
fair Editha.

That gentleman appeared to see the wisdom of all this, particularly as
he had noticed and been somewhat hurt by her avoidance of him, and he
did not force his attentions upon her, nor seek to monopolize her
society as he had heretofore done.

So the last week of Editha’s stay at the sea-side was marked by only
pleasant events, and there was nothing to look upon with regret as they
returned to their home for the winter.

It was the last of October when they left Newport, and the twenty-third
of December was the day set for Earle Wayne’s release from prison.

He had entered the tenth of April, but, according to the State law, a
prisoner was allowed two days of mercy in every month for prompt
obedience to the rules of the institution and the faithful performance
of all duties; consequently he had gained during the three years, three
months and eighteen days.

Editha knew of this through Mr. Forrester, and Earle Wayne himself did
not keep a more accurate account of his time than did the fair, brave
girl who, despite everything, was so true and firm a friend to him.

The first duty upon returning to her home was to write him a little
note.

  “MR. WAYNE,” it ran, a little formal, perhaps, on account of Mr.
  Dalton’s sneers and insinuations, “in about two months I shall expect
  to shake hands with you once more. Will you come directly to my home
  at that time, as I have an important message for you, also a package
  belonging to you and left in my care by Uncle Richard, just before he
  died?

                                                Ever your friend,
                                                        “EDITHA DALTON.”

When this note was handed to Earle, and he instantly recognized the
handwriting, every particle of color forsook his face, his hand
trembled, and a mist gathered before his eyes.

He had not seen that writing since his lovely flowers had ceased to
come, and its familiar characters aroused so many emotions that for the
moment he was nearly unmanned.

He thrust it hastily into his bosom, for he could not open it with so
many eyes upon him, and there it lay all day long against his beating
heart, waiting to be opened when he could be alone and unobserved.

When at last he did break the seal and read it, it was sadly
disappointing.

It seemed cold and distant—a mere formal request to come and get what
belonged to him and receive the message (doubtless something regarding
his studies) which Richard Forrester had left for him.

His heart was full of bitterness, for since Mr. Forrester’s death he had
not seen a single friendly face or received one word of kindly
remembrance from any one.

He could not forget Editha’s long neglect of him—the long, weary months,
during which she had promised to send him some token, and none had come.

She had other cares and pleasures; her time was probably occupied by her
fashionable friends and acquaintances, and it could not be expected that
she would give much thought to a miserable convict; doubtless she would
not have remembered him now had it not been a duty she owed to the
wishes of her uncle, he reasoned, with a dreary pain in his heart.

Editha was, he knew, nearly or quite twenty now; she had already been in
society nearly two years, and, perchance, she had already given her
heart to some worthy, fortunate man, who could place her in a position
befitting her beauty and culture; and what business had _he_, who would
henceforth be a marked man—a pariah among men—to imagine that she would
think of him except, perhaps, with a passing feeling of pity?

But even though he reasoned thus with himself, and tried to school his
mind to think that he must never presume to believe that Editha could
cherish anything of regard for him, even though she had signed herself
“ever your friend,” yet he experienced a dull feeling of despair
creeping over him, and even the prospect of his approaching liberation
could not cheer him.

He had a little box in which he treasured some dried and faded
flowers—the last he had received from her—and he looked at these
occasionally with a mournful smile and a swelling tenderness in his
heart, and his eyes grew misty with unshed tears as he remembered the
sweet-faced, impulsive girl who had so generously stood up and defended
him in that crowded court-room.

He remembered how she had grieved over her own reluctantly given
evidence, which had gone so far toward convicting him—how she had laid
her hot cheek upon his hand and sobbed out her plea for forgiveness, and
her look of firm faith and trust in him when she had told him that he
did not need to prove his innocence to her, she would take his word in
the face of the whole world.

A strange thrill always went through him as he thought of the burning
tears she had shed for him and his sad fate, and which had rained upon
the hand which she had held clasped in both of hers.

It was a sort of sad pleasure to look back upon all this, and think how
kind she had been, and in his own heart he knew that he loved her as he
could never love another; but he had no right to think of her in that
way. If she had only remembered him occasionally, it would not be quite
so hard to bear; but she had not kept her promise—she _had_ forgotten
him in spite of her eager protestations that she would not.

He would gladly have gone away from the city as soon as he should be
liberated, and thus avoid the pain of meeting and parting with her, but
she had written and requested it, and he must have his package again,
while he would treasure any message which his kind friend, Richard
Forrester, had left for him.

His eyes dwelt fondly over those three last words, “ever your friend,”
even though he sighed as he read them.

They were stereotyped, what she might kindly have written to any
unfortunate person; yet his face did brighten, and they were like
precious ointment to his bruised spirit, and cheered the few remaining
weeks of his stay not a little.

“Yes, I will obey her summons,” he said, with a sigh, as he folded the
tiny sheet, carefully replaced it in its envelope, and then returned it
to that inner pocket near his heart. “I will go to her; I will look into
her deep, clear eyes and fair, beautiful face once more; I will touch
her soft hand once again, even if it be in a long farewell. I shall hear
her speak my name, and then I will go away from her forever. To stay
where I should be sure to meet her, even once in a while, and perhaps to
see her happy in the love of another, would be more pain than I could
bear.

“But, oh, my darling!” he cried, in a voice of anguish, “if only this
terrible blight need not have come upon me—if I might but have won you,
there would have come a day when I could have given you such a position
as—but, ah! why do I indulge in such vain dreamings?—it can never be,
and God alone can help me to bear the dread future.”

Yet notwithstanding his despair of never being anything but an object of
pity to the woman whom he idolized, those last two months of his stay
were the brighter for the coming of that little white-winged messenger
which Editha had sent him, and which day and night lay above his heart.

“Earle will be free the twenty-third—Christmas comes two days later. I
will have the papers conveying Uncle Richard’s bequest made out and all
ready, and he shall have it for a Christmas gift, if I can get papa’s
consent.”

Thus Editha planned as the month of December came in cold and wintry,
and growing more and more impatient with every succeeding day.

“Papa has been more kind to me of late—I do not believe but that I can
persuade him to sign the papers, and then I will ask Earle to eat the
Christmas goose with us. I will make everything so lovely and cheerful
that he will forget those dreary walls and the long, long months he has
been so cruelly detailed there.”

But she realized, even as she mused and planned thus, that she would
doubtless have trouble regarding these matters; and yet she hoped
against hope.

“Papa _cannot_ be so cruel. I shall get Mr. Felton to intercede for
me—it is such a little sum compared with the whole, and the money would
do Earle so much good; it will help him to hold up his head until he
gets nicely started in business for himself. I wonder if he is changed
much?” she went on, with heightened color and a quickly beating heart,
as she remembered the strong, proud face, with its dark, handsome eyes,
the tender yet manly mouth, which used to part into such a luminous
smile whenever he looked up to her. “I wonder if he has liked my
flowers?—how fond of them he always was! I will have them everywhere
about the house on Christmas Day. There shall be no other guests except
Mr. Felton; I will coax papa to let me have it all my own way for once,
and I will try and make Earle forget.”

Thus day by day she thought of him and planned for his comfort and
happiness. The days grew longer and longer to her as the time drew
nearer, until she became so restless, nervous and impatient, that her
appetite failed, and all her interest in other things waned.

The week before Christmas she sought her lawyer, and had a long talk
with him regarding her uncle’s strange bequest.

It was the first he had heard of it, for she had been loth to say much
about it, knowing her father’s bitter opposition. But it could be put
off no longer, and she hoped Mr. Dalton would be ashamed to refuse his
signature when the paper should be presented by the lawyer; and though
Mr. Felton was somewhat surprised at the information, yet his admiration
for the fair girl increased fourfold as he observed how heartily she
appeared to second Mr. Forrester’s wishes.

“I will make out the papers with pleasure, Miss Editha,” he said; “you
want them for Christmas Day—they shall be ready, and a fine gift it will
be for the young man. Poor fellow! I always felt sorry for him, he was
such a promising chap; and I’m glad he’s going to have something to
start with—he’ll need it bad enough with every man’s hand against him.”

“Yes, sir; but I believe Mr. Wayne will live down his misfortune and
command the respect of every one who ever knew him,” said Editha
flushing.

She did not like to hear Earle pitied in that way, as if he had fallen
into sudden temptation and was guilty; she _knew_ he was innocent, and
she wanted everybody else to think so, too.

“You will come and dine with us that day, will you not, Mr. Felton? I
shall invite Earle to dinner. I want to make the day pleasant for him if
I can—he is so alone in the world, you know,” she added.

Mr. Felton searched the flushed face keenly a moment, then said:

“Thank you, Miss Editha; I shall be happy to do so, as I am also
somewhat alone in the world—that is, if it will be agreeable to all
parties. Have you talked this matter over with Mr. Dalton? Does he
approve of the measures you are taking?”

Editha’s face clouded.

“No,” she answered, reluctantly; “papa does not approve of my giving Mr.
Wayne the money; but, of course, it must be done. It was Uncle Richard’s
wish.”

“Ahem! Excuse me, Miss Editha, but how old are you?” Mr. Felton asked,
reflectively.

“I was twenty the twentieth of November, but——”

“Then you will not be of age until the twentieth of _next_ November. I
am sorry to disappoint you; but since this bequest was not included in
the will of Mr. Forrester, and you are under age, you can convey no
property to any one without Mr. Dalton’s sanction.”

Editha’s face was very sad and perplexed.

“So papa told me himself,” she sighed. “Is there _no_ way, Mr. Felton,
that I can give Earle this money without his signing the papers?”

“I am afraid not. He is your natural guardian, and everything will have
to be submitted to his approval, at least until the twentieth of next
November, nearly a year.”

“But Uncle Richard made me promise that I would give it to Mr. Wayne
just as soon as his time expired, and _I must do it_,” Editha said,
almost in tears.

She had hoped that Mr. Felton could find a way to help her out of this
trouble.

“The law is a hard master sometimes,” he said, sympathizing with her
evident distress; “but I will make out the papers as you desire, and
perhaps we can advise and prevail upon your father to do what is right
on Christmas Day.”

“Then you do think it is right Earle should have this money?” she asked,
eagerly.

“Certainly, if it was Mr. Forrester’s wish, since the money was his own
to do with as he chose; but I am sorry he was not able to add a codicil
to his will. It would have saved all this trouble, for no one could have
gainsaid that. Do not be discouraged, however; we may be able to
persuade Mr. Dalton to see things as we do. You shall have the papers by
the twenty-fifth.”

“I have been thinking,” Editha said, musingly, “that if you could have
it before, and we could get papa to sign it, it might save some
unpleasant feelings. If we should wait until Christmas Day, and he
should refuse before Earle, it might make him very uncomfortable.”

“Perhaps that would be the better way, and I will attend to it for you
as soon as possible,” Mr. Felton assented.

Editha went home in rather a doubtful frame of mind.

“What will Earle do if papa will not consent?” she murmured, the tears
chasing each other down her cheeks. “He will not have any money, and,
with no one to hold out a helping hand, he will become disheartened.”

“A clear case of love!” Mr. Felton said, thoughtfully, upon Edith’s
departure. “It’s too bad, too, for, of course it would never do for her
to marry him, with the stigma upon his character. Poor fellow! he’ll
have a hard time of it if Dalton won’t give in, for people are mighty
shy of jail-birds, be they ever so promising; and her father, according
to my way of thinking, loves money too well to give up a pretty sum like
ten thousand.”




                               CHAPTER IX
                         “THAT IS MY ULTIMATUM”


The twenty-third of December arrived, and Earle Wayne was a free man
once more.

Who can portray his feelings as, once more clad in the habiliments of a
citizen—his prison garb, like the chrysalis of the grub, having dropped
from him forever—he came forth into the world and sought the haunts of
men? No one can do justice to them; such feelings are indescribable.

Earle Wayne was not twenty-three years old.

He was tall, broad-shouldered, and stalwart of form.

His face was the face of nature’s nobleman; a clear, dark skin, eyes of
deep hazel, with hair of just a darker shade crowning a forehead broad,
full, and at every point well developed.

His nose was somewhat large, and of the Roman type; his mouth sweet and
gentle in expression, but full of manly strength and firmness; it had
also now something of sadness in its lines, from the long term of cruel
endurance and restraint which he had undergone.

But his step was as free and proud, his head as erect, his gaze as clear
and unflinching as before any one had dared to accuse him of having
robbed his fellow-man, or he had served a criminal’s sentence.

And why not?

He had not sinned; he had done no wrong; he had never wilfully harmed a
human being in all his life. His own conscience told him he was as true
and noble a man at heart as any that walked the earth; and he would not
sacrifice his self-respect because, upon circumstantial evidence, he had
been obliged to serve out a sentence in a State prison for another man’s
crime.

He returned to the city that had been his home before his imprisonment,
and where he had served three pleasant years with Richard Forrester, and
where now, since he was dead and gone, he had no hope of having a
friendly hand extended to him. His first night he spent in a quiet, but
respectable hotel, and slept restfully and well.

The next morning Mr. Felton wended his way, with the all-important
document which Editha desired in his pocket, to Mr. Dalton’s residence
on ——th street.

He meant to have attended to it before, but had been unexpectedly called
from town on business the morning after Editha’s visit to him, and had
had no time until then to go to her.

Editha was in a fever of anxiety and impatience on account of it, and
for two whole days had watched for his coming from her window almost
incessantly.

When at last she saw him ascending the steps, she sped to the door and
answered his ring, whereupon she led him directly to the library, where
her father was sitting.

“Papa,” she said, speaking as indifferently as she could, after the two
men had exchanged greetings, “Mr. Felton has called to-day to settle
that business of Uncle Richard’s bequest to Mr. Wayne.”

Mr. Dalton started and flushed angrily, frowning darkly upon her; then
by an effort curbing his anger, he turned to the lawyer with a light
laugh.

“Has this young lady been importuning you also upon her sentimental
whims?” he asked.

“Miss Editha called several days ago and told me of her uncle’s request,
and asked me to prepare the necessary documents,” Mr. Felton replied,
quietly, and with a sympathetic glance at Editha’s hot cheeks.

“Well, what do you think of it? Did you ever hear of such a piece of
foolishness as she contemplates?”

“It is a question with me whether it _is_ a piece of foolishness to
desire to fulfill the request of a dying man,” returned the lawyer,
gravely.

Editha gave him a grateful look.

“Pshaw! Richard Forrester did not know what he was about. He was a
feeble paralytic, and not accountable for what he said at that time,”
said Mr. Dalton, impatiently.

“Oh, papa! how can you say that, when you know that his mind was
perfectly clear?” Editha exclaimed, reproachfully.

“Did you invite Mr. Felton here to-day to argue this point with me?” he
demanded sharply of her.

“I asked him, as he has stated, to prepare the necessary papers to
settle this money upon Mr. Wayne, hoping that he might convince you that
it is best to allow me to do so.”

“Indeed!”

“You know Earle’s time expired yesterday, and I am expecting him every
moment,” Editha said, with some agitation.

“_You are expecting him every moment!_” repeated Mr. Dalton, growing
excited also, though in a different way, and from a different cause.

He had not forgotten the night that he had stolen into her library and
tampered with the package committed to her care, nor what secrets that
package contained.

“Yes, sir; I wrote to him to come directly here as soon as he was free.”

“And, pray, did you tell him what he was to come for?” thundered Mr.
Dalton, in a rage.

“I told him I had a message for him, and also a package belonging to
him,” Editha said, quietly.

She was growing more calm as he became excited.

“Did you ever hear of such folly?” he asked of Mr. Felton.

“I think Miss Dalton is perfectly right in wishing to carry out her
uncle’s desires. She will have a large fortune left, even after giving
up the ten thousand, and my advice to you would be to put no obstacle in
her path. Of course, I know she cannot do this without your consent—at
least, not at present.”

“Of course not; and I shall not allow it. I am surprised that a man of
your prudence and judgment should advise such a thing,” Mr. Dalton
answered with some heat.

“I simply believe in doing as we would be done by. Put yourself in young
Wayne’s place Mr. Dalton and consider whether a little friendly help
from the dead friend who was always so kind to him would not be very
acceptable just at this time,” Mr. Felton answered earnestly.

A dark flush mounted to Mr. Dalton’s brow at these words. Put himself in
Earle Wayne’s—_her son’s_—place! Imagine him to be in the position of
the man he had such cause to hate! The thought stirred all the bad blood
in his nature.

“He shall never have _one penny_ of my daughter’s fortune. I will never
put my name to any paper like what you have brought here to-day!” he
cried angrily and smiting the table near which he sat heavily.

“Papa let me plead with you,” Editha said gently beseechingly. “I
_promised_ to do this thing at this time. Please do not make me break my
word; for _my_ sake let me do as Uncle Richard wished; do not force me
to do a _worse_ thing than that for which Earle was so cruelly
sentenced!”

“I force you to commit no robbery! Girl, what do you mean? I am
preventing you from robbing yourself!” he cried, angrily.

“Not so, Mr. Dalton,” Mr. Felton said, with dignity; for he longed to
pommel the man for speaking so to the beautiful girl before him. “I can
appreciate Miss Editha’s feelings; she not only wishes to befriend this
unfortunate young man on her own account, but she believes that after
to-day the ten thousand dollars are no longer hers. Richard Forrester
gave the sum from his own property before it became hers, to young
Wayne, and, if you refuse to allow her to settle it upon him, _you_ are
not only committing a wrong, but forcing her to commit one also.”

“Do I understand that you two are trying to make me out a thief?”
demanded Mr. Dalton, hoarsely.

“It is an ugly word; but, morally speaking, I should say it was the
right one to use in this case; legally, however, since there was no
codicil to the will, I suppose Miss Dalton is entitled to everything,”
Mr. Felton observed, dryly, with a scornful curve of his lip.

Mr. Dalton for a moment was too enraged to reply; then he burst forth:

“I will see him in —— before he shall ever touch a penny of her money!
That is my ultimatum.”

Mr. Felton, upon this, turned to Editha, who was standing, very pale, by
the table.

Her father’s anger and words had shocked her beyond expression; but they
had also aroused some of the reserve force of her character.

“In that case, Miss Editha, my services are not needed here to-day. I
suppose I shall destroy the document I have prepared?”

“_No, sir!_ Keep it if you please.”

“Keep it! What for, pray?” demanded her father, with a sneer.

She turned to him very quietly, but with a mien which he was learning to
dread, and said, in low, firm tones:

“I shall be twenty-one, sir, in a little less than a year, and,
according to the law of the land, my own mistress. I shall not then need
to obtain the consent of any one in order to do as I like with my money.
On the twentieth of November next Earle Wayne will receive his ten
thousand dollars, _with a year’s interest added_. That is the best I can
do.”

Then, without waiting for Mr. Dalton to reply, and wholly ignoring his
dark looks, she turned to Mr. Felton, with one of her charming smiles,
and said:

“We will drop our business for to-day; and, as there is the lunch-bell,
won’t you come out and try the merits of a cup of coffee and a plate of
chicken salad?”

The lawyer regarded her with a gleam of admiration in his fine old eyes;
he had not thought she possessed so much character.

“No, I thank you,” he replied, thinking it best to get out of the
tempest as soon as practicable. “You know it is the day before
Christmas, and that is usually a busy time; besides, I have another
engagement in half an hour, and there is barely time to reach my office.
You will also excuse me for to-morrow,” he added, in a lower tone; and
Editha knew that, after what had occurred to-day, it would be no
pleasure to him to dine with them, as she had asked him to do. She knew,
too, that her little plan regarding making a pleasant day for Earle was
blighted.

He bowed coldly to Mr. Dalton, and Editha followed him to the door.

“Do not worry over what you cannot help, Miss Editha; eleven months
won’t be so very long to wait, and, meanwhile, if you will send young
Wayne to me, I think I can put him in a way to keep his head above water
until that time,” he said, kindly, as he shook her hand in farewell at
the door.

Editha thanked him, with tears in her eyes, and then would have sought
her own rooms, but she heard her father calling her, and so she returned
to the library, though she dreaded another scene.

“A fine spectacle you have made of yourself to-day,” were the sneering,
angry words which greeted her entrance.

She walked quietly to where he sat, and stood before him; but two very
bright spots now relieved her unusual paleness.

“Did you wish anything particular of me, papa? If not, I think it would
be better not to keep lunch waiting any longer,” she said gently, though
with an evident effort at self-control.

“Do I want anything of you? I would like to give you a wholesome shaking
for what you have done to-day.”

She lifted her head, and encountered his two blazing, angry eyes, her
own glance clear, steadfast, and unflinching.

“You are a wilful little—fool!” he said, nettled by her calm demeanor,
and almost beside himself with rage.

Still she said nothing, and he instantly grew ashamed of those last
words.

“You have no idea how angry you have made me to-day,” he said, half
apologetically.

“I have no desire to make you angry, sir. I only desire and _intend_ to
do right,” she answered, quietly.

“Intend! Is that a threat?”

“No, sir—merely a statement of a fact.”

“And refers to what you said just before Mr. Felton went out?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Edith Dalton, if you dare to defy me in this thing, I’ll make your life
so miserable that you will wish you were dead,” he said, in concentrated
tones of passion.

She paled again at the fearful words, and a keen pain smote her heart
that her own father should speak thus to her; then she replied,
steadily:

“I have no wish to defy you, sir, but——”

“But you will not obey me—you would set my authority aside if you
could,” he interrupted.

“I acknowledge your authority as the highest of any on earth, and I will
yield you cheerful obedience in all that is right—beyond that I cannot
go, I _will_ not go. I have reached an age where I am capable of judging
for myself upon all moral questions, and I must exercise that judgment.”

“This is a point of business, upon which you set aside my wishes and my
authority,” he said, moodily, and his eyes wavering uneasily beneath her
steady gaze.

“It involves the principles of right and wrong also. I promised that
Earle Wayne should have this money, and if you will not let me give it
to him now, I shall pay it to him, as I said, a year from now, with
interest.”

He knew she meant it, and, in his passion, he half raised his clenched
hand as if to strike her.

But the soft blue eyes, with the keen pain in them, disarmed him, and it
dropped heavily back upon the arm of his chair.

“Oh, papa,” she said, her voice full of unshed tears, “why need we
disagree upon so slight a thing?”

“Do you call a matter involving ten thousand dollars a slight thing?” he
asked, with a sneer.

“Yes, in comparison with what will remain, my father,” laying her hand
softly on his shoulder and pleading in tones that ought to have melted a
harder heart. “Let us do what is right; let us be friends and united in
heart, instead of growing so widely apart as we have been during the
past year or two.”

“You will not yield to me.”

“In all that is right, I shall be only too glad to,” she answered, with
a heavy sigh.

“But you persist in giving this money to that——”

“_I must._ That is settled,” she interrupted, firmly, and to prevent the
utterance of some obnoxious word, she knew not what.

“Never—_never!_ Do you think I would let you give it to him—_him_ of all
others in the world?”

Edith regarded him in surprise at these excited words. They seemed to
imply a deadly hatred for which she could not account, knowing that
Earle had never done her father any injury.

“A thief—a robber—a criminal!” he added, noticing her look, and having
no desire to have her inquire into the real nature of his hatred.

“Earle never was either of those,” she said, proudly.

“No matter; he has suffered the disgrace of them all, and there can be
no peace between you and me until you promise to yield to me.”

“I cannot in this instance.”

“Then the consequences be upon your own head. I’ll try and have patience
with you until the year is out; then, if you defy me, I’ll make you rue
it. Go!” and he pointed impatiently toward the door.

Without a word, Editha glided from the room, her heart heavy and sore.

Soon after she heard him leave the house, and ten minutes later there
came a ring at the door that, spite of her pain, sent the rosy blood
leaping to her very brow, in a burning tide, and made her heart leap
like a frightened bird in her bosom.

“Earle has come,” she murmured, as she sat listening for the servant to
come to summon her, and trying to still her throbbing nerves.




                               CHAPTER X
                     “MY LIFE SHALL BE FOURSQUARE”


The servant who answered the ring at Mr. Dalton’s door found standing
there a tall, dignified young man, with the unmistakable stamp of the
gentleman upon him.

To his inquiry if Miss Dalton was at home, he replied that she was, and
ushered him into a small reception-room opposite the drawing-room.

“Take this, if you please, to her,” Earle Wayne said, handing the man a
blank, unsealed envelope.

The servant took it with a bow and withdrew, wondering what that
spotless envelope contained, and who the gentleman was who sent no
card—unless, perhaps, it might be in the envelope, and was intended for
Edith’s eyes alone.

The fair girl arose with apparent calmness at his rap, and, taking the
missive from his hand, opened it, and found within her own note, that
she had written bidding Earle come to her as soon as he should be free.

At that moment she realized how very short and formal it was, and a
feeling of remorse stole into her heart that she had not written more
freely and kindly, in spite of her sensitiveness at her father’s sneers
and insinuations.

Waiting a moment or two to cool the hot color in her cheeks, and to
still the fierce beating of her heart, she then went slowly and
trembling down to meet the brave hero, whom she had not seen for nearly
three years.

Would he be much changed? Would he be pale, haggard, and miserable in
appearance? Would he look the same, and speak the same, as he had done
on that sad day when she had bidden him farewell and left him to go to
his dreary fate within those four gloomy walls, or would he be broken
and disheartened, and feel that the future held nothing but scorn and
contempt for him?

She had read of men, noble, spirited, and energetic, who, having been
imprisoned for a term of years, were ruined by it, and who had settled
down into an existence of profound melancholy and inaction upon
regaining their freedom.

Would Earle be like this?

These were some of the anxious questions which flitted through her mind
on the way from her chamber to the reception-room, where Earle, with
equal agitation, was awaiting her coming.

She opened the door softly and went in.

He did not hear her—he was standing at a window, his back toward her,
and absorbed in thought.

As if shod with velvet, Editha crossed the room and stood at his side.

Her eyes had lighted wondrously as they rested upon the proud, handsome
figure before her, and the rich color coming and going in her cheeks
made her marvelously beautiful.

“Earle, I am so glad you have come,” she said, simply, yet with
tremulous tones that betrayed her gladness was almost unto tears, while
with something of her old impulse she held out both fair hands to him.

He started and turned quickly at the sweet tones, and searched the
glowing face with eager scrutiny.

Could this tall, beautiful woman, with the shining, silken crown about
her shapely head, with her deep, glowing eyes, her rich, varying color,
her cordial, tremulous greeting, be the same Editha of three years ago?

She had been a fair, plump, and laughing girl, her sunny hair falling in
graceful waves over her rounded shoulders, her eyes dancing with fun and
merriment, her moods never twice the same, a creature of heart and
impulse.

Now her form was grown; she was more fully developed, with a stately
poise which she was not wont to have; her features were more deeply
lined with character, and glorified with a richer, more mature beauty,
and the waving, sunny hair had been gathered up and wreathed her head in
a plaited golden coronet.

But these eyes—those clear, truthful, heaven-blue eyes were the same;
the smile was the same upon the scarlet lips, and the sweet, tender
tremulous tones were the same; he had never forgotten their music, and
his heart bounded with a joy that was almost pain as they again fell
upon his ear.

“Earle, I am so glad you have come.”

Words so simple, yet full of heartfelt gladness, never greeted mortal
ears before.

He grasped both her outstretched hands, forgetting all her supposed
neglect of him, and without the least hesitation as to his own
worthiness to do so.

He knew he was worthy—his hands, morally speaking, were as fair and free
from stain as her own.

Yet he had not expected to find her so cordial and glad to see him, and
her manner filled him with deepest gratitude and admiration.

“Editha—Miss Dalton,” he said, his whole face glowing, “I thank you for
your words of welcome—I cannot doubt their heartiness.”

“Of course not; why should you, Earle?” she asked, with some surprise,
as she searched his face.

“I told you that I should not forget you—that I should always be your
friend; what reason could you have to think I would not greet you
heartily?” she urged, a little look of grieved surprise in her eyes.

“I should not if—if—pardon me, I ought not to speak thus. Have you been
well?” and he tried to change the subject.

“Quite well; and you?”

“Do not my looks speak for me?” he asked, smiling, yet with the shadow
deepening in his eyes.

He might be well physically, but it would take a long while to heal the
wound in his soul.

“Earle,” Editha said, gravely, meeting his eyes with a steady, earnest
look, “what made you speak as you did about doubting the heartiness of
my welcome? I can see that you have some reason for it; please tell
me—surely you did not think I would have broken my promise—my flowers
must have proven that I did not forget.”

Earle gave her a quick, surprised glance.

“That was just why I was in doubt,” he said, flushing slightly. “I have
not received a single token of remembrance from you for nearly two
years.”

“Earle!”

Editha instantly grew crimson to the line of gold above her forehead,
then white as the delicate lace at her throat at this startling
intelligence.

What could this strange thing mean? Who could have appropriated her
flowers and kept them from him?

Then, with a feeling of shame, not unmixed with indignation, her heart
told her that her _father_, in his prejudice against Earle, must have
intercepted them.

“How cruel!” she murmured. “I do not wonder that you doubted my
friendship; but, to exonerate myself, I must tell you that every week I
have sent you flowers, or fruit, or _something_, to show you that you
were remembered—not once have I failed.”

“Then forgive me for all the hard things I have thought,” he said, in
tones of self-reproach. “I can never tell you how those sweet little
messages cheered me during my first year in—that place, nor how dreary
and lonely I was when they came no longer to brighten my gloomy cell.
After Mr. Forrester died,” he continued, with emotion, “I felt as if my
only friend had been taken from me. I had not one to whom to turn for a
ray of comfort.”

“I know,” Editha said, with starting tears, then, with rising color, “if
you had only dropped me a line, I would have taken care that my
offerings reached you safely after that.”

“You know the old saying, ‘one may as well be neglected as forgotten;’ I
never mistrusted that they had been sent and failed to reach their
destination, and so imagined a good many things I had no right to,
and——”

“And were too proud to remind me of my negligence,” Editha interrupted,
with a smile.

“Doubtless some enemy has done this, or they could not _all_ have missed
coming to me. Am I forgiven for doubting my stanch little friend?” he
asked, gently.

“Freely; I could not blame you under the circumstances.”

“Then let us talk of something else,” Earle said for he began to
mistrust from Editha’s manner _who_ had been the guilty one. “Tell me of
Mr. Forrester and of yourself during these years.”

And thus their conversation drifted to other subjects, and, as they
conversed, their old freedom of manner returned in a measure—in a
measure, I repeat, for there could not be quite the former carelessness
and sparkle, while each was trying to conceal the secret which their
hearts held, and which, for the time, at least, they felt they must not
reveal.

Earle told her of his life in prison—of how he had spent his time—of the
knowledge he had acquired, and something of his plans for the future.

“Earle,” she said, glancing up at him through the tears she could not
restrain, when he had completed his account, “you have borne it so
nobly, this suffering for another, that I want to tell you how proud I
am of you; and Uncle Richard would say the same thing if he were
living.”

“Thank you,” he said, with emotion; “it is almost worth having been a
prisoner for three years to hear you say that. If only the world might
feel as assured of my innocence as you do, and hold out the same
friendly hand of welcome,” he concluded, with a sigh.

“It will in time, Earle—I feel sure that some day your innocence will be
established.”

“I shall devote my energies to that purpose, and if the guilty ones are
never brought to justice, I will _live_ my innocence. I will prove it by
my life—my life shall be _foursquare_, and I will yet command the faith
and respect of all who know me. It will be hard, but I shall strive to
fight my battle bravely, and I feel that I shall conquer in the end. You
know Pope tells us that ‘He’s armed _without_ that’s innocent
_within_.’”

“You _will_ succeed—you cannot fail with such an earnest purpose in your
heart,” Editha said, eagerly; then she added, musingly: “You said you
would make your life ‘foursquare.’ I do not think I quite understand
that.”

Earle Wayne smiled a rare, sweet smile, as, leaning nearer his fair
companion, he said, in a low, reverent tone:

“You have read of the ‘city that lieth foursquare,’ whose length is as
large as it breadth, whose ‘walls are of jasper,’ and whose ‘gates are
of pearl.’ That city, Editha, a perfect square, and embellished with the
most precious stones, is, I believe, the emblem or symbol of a pure and
perfect life, and so, with the help of God, I mean that mine shall be
‘foursquare.’”

Editha gave him a look as if she thought it could not be far from that
even now.

After a moment of silence he continued:

“From my early boyhood I have always had a desire to become a thoroughly
good man—a man honored and respected by my fellow-men. My mother ever
tried to impress me never to be guilty of a mean or ignoble action. I
thought her the perfection of womanhood while she lived, and have tried
to treasure her precepts since she died; so you can judge something of
what I have endured in the disgrace of serving out a criminal’s
sentence. I could not speak of this to any one else,” he added, with
some excitement; “but you have been so kind and sympathizing that it
relieves my burden somewhat to speak of it to you.”

Editha did not reply—she had no words with which to answer him; but she
lifted her blue eyes to his face, and he saw that they were full of
tears.

“I am glad,” Earle went on, a slight tremulousness in his tones, “that
my mother did not live to know of my deep trouble—much as I have needed
her sympathy, love, and counsel—for she must have suffered torture on
account of it. If she knows anything about it now, she knows that I am
innocent, and also just why this sad experience was permitted to come to
me.”

“Earle, how deeply you have suffered from it,” Editha said, almost awed
by the intensity of his feeling, and wondering, too, at his way of
looking at the past, as if in some way his trial was meant for his
ultimate good.

“But I will rise above it yet; it may be hard for me to battle against
the frowns and distrust of the world for awhile, but I sail not allow
them to dishearten me—if only I had a few more friends,” he added,
wistfully.

“You cannot long be without them, with such nobility and resolution in
your soul,” Editha answered, her face glowing with admiration for him,
“and you may count me the warmest of them all until you find a better.”

She involuntarily held out her hand as if to seal the compact as she
spoke.

He grasped it eagerly, his whole face luminous with sudden joy; his
breath came quickly, his broad breast rose and fell, his eyes sought
hers with an intensity of expression that made her vail them with her
white lids.

She did not know how she was tempting him—she could not know how he had
grown to love her during the past six years, and how sweet and cheering
her sympathy was to him just now, when he felt himself so friendless and
alone in the great cold world.

“God bless you, Editha! If—I——”

He had begun to speak in low, concentrated tones, but now he stopped
short, as if some great inward shock had suddenly cut off his power of
speech.

He shut his teeth tightly together and drew in his breath with a quick
gasp; the great veins in his forehead filled and stood out full and
purple, and his hands locked themselves together with the intensity of
some deep, inward emotion.

One quick, searching look Edith flashed up at him, and then her eyes
fell again, a rosy flush rising to her very brow at what she had seen on
his face.

“I beg your pardon,” he said at length, nervously pushing back the hair
from his brow; “I fear you will think me very thoughtless and selfish to
weary you thus with my troubles.”

“No, Earle, I—am _glad_ that you think me worthy of your confidence,”
she answered, softly.

He looked at her in surprise.

How exceedingly beautiful she was, sitting there with her downcast eyes,
the lovely color in her face, and the womanly sympathy beaming in every
feature.

“Worthy!” he repeated.

“Yes, worthy,” she said, her lips relaxing just a trifle into a
tremulous smile. “I would like to be your friend in all your
troubles—maybe I could help you if you would trust me enough to tell me
of them. I used to think there was no one like you when I was a wild and
impulsive girl, and you were with Uncle Richard—you were always so
upright so strong, and self-reliant.”

“You _used_ to think that of me, Editha?” he said, flushing again and
trembling.

If she had known how her words moved him—but she did not dream of his
love for her.

He began to grow dizzy with the new, delicious hope that seized him as
she spoke.

Could it be that this fair girl had learned to love him?

He had thought of her night and day, at his work and in his lonely cell,
and her image would be stamped indelibly on his heart as long as he
should live.

But he had no right to speak one word of it to her now—his disgrace
clung to him, and would clog him, perhaps, for long years.

Oh! if he could but break the cruel fetters that bound him—if he could
but discover the real criminal, and clear his own name, then he might
hope to win the respect of the world once more, fame and position, and
the right to tell this gentle girl how dear she was to him.

“Yes,” she returned, noticing his emphasis, and fearing she might have
wounded him by wording her sentence thus; “and, Earle. I think you are
very—very noble now, to bear your trouble so patiently and
uncomplainingly, and something tells me that it will not be so very long
before all the world will be proud to call you friend.”

She spoke softly, but in a tone that thrilled him through and through.

“And then——”

The words came breathlessly, and before he could stop them. They would
not be stayed.

He bent eagerly toward her, his heart in his eyes, his face full of
passion which so nearly mastered him.

But he checked them, biting them off short as he had done before, but
growing white even to his lips with the effort it cost him.

Something in his tones made her start and look up, and she read it all
as in an open book—all his love for her, all the blighted hopes of the
past, the longing and bitterness of the present, wherein he writhed
beneath the stigma resting upon him, and the mighty self-control which
would not presume upon her sympathy.

A flood of crimson suddenly dyed her face and throat, and even the soft,
white hands which lay in her lap, and which were now seized with nervous
trembling.

Then a look of resolution gleamed in her eyes, the red lips settled into
an expression of firmness, and, though her heart beat like the
frightened thing it was, her sweet tones did not falter as she replied:

“And then—_Editha Dalton will be very proud also_.”

Was ever heaven’s music sweeter than those few low-spoken, unfaltering
words?

There was no mistaking them—they had been uttered with a purpose, and he
knew that his love was returned.

Eager brown eyes looked into tender blue for one long, delicious minute.
No word was spoken, but both knew that for all time they belonged to
each other.

Then Earle Wayne, with a glad, though solemn light illumining his face,
lifted the white hand that lay nearest him, touched it reverently with
his lips, and then gently laid it back in its place.

It was as though he blessed her for the hope thus delicately held out to
him, but his innate nobility and self-respect would not allow him to
bind her to him by so much as a word until he could stand proudly before
her and offer her a name that should not have so much as the shadow of a
stain upon it.




                               CHAPTER XI
                           THE BUNCH OF HOLLY

           “Silence is the perfect herald of joy;
           I were but little happy it I could say how much.”


Words were never more applicable than these to those undeclared lovers,
sitting in such a mute happiness side by side, in the little
reception-room, on that bright morning so near Christmastide.

Editha was the first to break the spell.

“I have not told you Uncle Richard’s message yet,” she said, and an
expression of anxiety for the moment chased the radiant look from her
face.

“True—it was like his kindness to remember me,” Earle returned, a shadow
stealing over his fine face.

“He thought a great deal of you, and had great hopes for your future——”

“Which, if it amounts to anything, will be in a great measure owing to
his goodness,” he interrupted, with emotion.

“Yes, Uncle Richard was a true, good man; but, Earle, now I have
something unpleasant to tell you. I—he left you a _token_ of his
remembrance.”

She hesitated, and he said, with a smile:

“I’m sure there is nothing unpleasant about that.”

“No; but wait,” she began, in some confusion and hardly knowing how to
go on with her disagreeable task; “he left you a little money, ten
thousand dollars, to give you a start in life, he said.”

Earle Wayne startled and flushed deeply.

“Did Mr. Forrester do that?” he asked, greatly moved.

“Yes; and now comes the disagreeable part of it all. I do not like to
tell you, but I must,” she said, lifting her crimson, troubled face to
him, and he wondered what there was about it that should make her appear
so. “Papa did not like it very well,” she went on, dropping her eyes
with a feeling of shame. “He thought that it was not right the money
should go to a stranger, and—and—oh! Earle, I know it seems selfish and
cruel, but he says you cannot have it.”

Editha nearly broke down here; it had required all her courage to tell
him this; and now she sat still, covered with shame and confusion. A
shade of bitterness passed over the young man’s face at her last words,
and then the least smile of scorn curled his fine lips.

He had never experienced very much respect for Sumner Dalton; he knew
him to be a man devoid of principle, of small mind, and smaller soul;
but he was Editha’s father, and he could speak no word against him. He
saw how ashamed and uncomfortable she felt to be obliged to make this
humiliating confession regarding her only parent, while he admired the
fine sense of honor that would not allow her to shrink from her duty in
telling him.

“I am going to tell you just how the matter stands,” she resumed
presently: “and then you must excuse papa as best you can. You doubtless
have heard that Uncle Richard was paralyzed—he had no use of either his
hands or his feet, and was entirely helpless, although his mind was
clear until just before his second shock, which came suddenly in the
night. He told me the day before that he knew he could not live, and
gave me directions just what to do. He said if he could only use his
hands, he would have added a codicil to his will in your favor, but as
it was, I must attend to his wishes. He said it—the will—had been made
many years ago, giving everything to me; but ever since he became
interested in you he had intended doing something handsome for you; if
he had lived and you wished it, he would have wanted you to go back to
him as a partner in his business, as soon as you should be free to do
so. But he charged me—_made me promise_—to make over to you ten thousand
dollars as soon as your time expired.

“He left a large fortune, more than I shall ever know what to do with,
and I was _so glad_ of this bequest to you,” Editha went on, heartily.
“I asked Mr. Felton to see that everything was done properly, so that
you could have the money at once. He did so, and I wanted you to have it
as a sort of Christmas gift; but, Earle, I am not twenty-one yet; papa
is still my natural guardian.”

“Well?” Earle said, encouragingly, as she stopped in distress, and he
pitied her for having to make this confession to him, while a tender
smile wreathed his lips at her truthfulness and her sorrow on his
account.

“So there is no way—you will have to wait a little while for your money.
I shall be twenty-one the twentieth of next November, and my own
mistress; and, Earle, you shall have it then, with the year’s interest
added.”

He nearly laughed to see how eager she was for him to have exactly his
due; then he grew suddenly grave, and said, gently but firmly:

“No, Editha, I do not wish, I cannot take _one dollar_ of this money.”

“But it was Uncle Richard’s dying wish and bequest to you—it _belongs_
to you by _right_,” she pleaded, bitterly disappointed by his refusal to
take it.

“No, by your uncle’s will, which he did not any way change, it all
belongs to you.”

“But he would have changed the will if he could have held a pen; he said
so; and the money is not mine,” she cried, almost in tears.

“The law would judge differently—your father is right. It should not
come to me”—this was said with a touch of bitterness, however—“and I
will not have one dollar of it.”

“Supposing that you were in my place just now, and I in yours, would you
claim that it all belonged to you?” she asked, lifting her searching
glance to his face.

“No,” he said; “but the difference in our positions, because I am _not_
in your place and you in mine, alters the case altogether.”

“I cannot agree with you; and you would have considered me mean and
dishonorable if I had taken advantage of the will and claimed the whole,
would you not?”

“But you did not; you have done your duty, and consequently have nothing
to regret,” Earle replied, evasively.

“But you did not answer my question,” Editha persisted; “would you think
that I had done right if I had not wished to give you this money and
withheld it from you?”

“N-o,” he admitted, reluctantly.

“And, morally speaking, it does not belong to me.”

“The will gave you everything——”

“That is not the question,” she interrupted. “If you were pleading the
case for some one else, you would claim that the money did not belong to
me, and that, morally speaking, I had no right whatever to it?”

“Editha, you should be a lawyer yourself.”

“That is a side issue; as they say in court, stick to the point, if you
please,” she again interrupted; “have I not stated the truth?”

“I am obliged to confess that you have; but, Editha, I do not want the
money, though I am very grateful to Mr. Forrester for his kindness in
remembering me, and to you for wishing to carry out his wishes so
faithfully.”

“Please, Earle, take it; I _want_ you to have it, and I wish to do just
as he told me to do; you will wound me deeply if you refuse it,” she
urged.

It was a very sweet, earnest face that looked up into his, and, had she
pleaded for almost anything else, Earle would have found it impossible
to resist her. His own face grew grave, almost sorrowful, as he
returned:

“I would not cause you a moment’s unnecessary pain, Editha, but I must
be firm in this decision. Forgive me if I wound you; but, on the whole,
I am glad that Mr. Dalton win a name and position entirely by my own
merits. By my own strong arm will I carve out my future and win my way
in the world; by my own indomitable will and energy, with the help of a
greater than I, I will rise to honor, and _not_ upon the foundation that
another has built,” he concluded, with an earnestness and solemnity that
made Editha’s heart thrill with pride and the conviction of his ultimate
success.

“You are very brave,” she said, with admiring but still wistful eyes.
“But suppose Uncle Richard _had_ added a codicil to his will in your
favor, what then?”

A smile of amusement curled his lips.

“Then I suppose the wheels of my car of ambition would have been
unavoidably clogged with this fortune. It would not then have been
optional with me whether I would have it or not.”

“It shall not be now; the money is not mine—I _will not_ keep it. I
should be as bad as those wretches who robbed us, and then left you to
suffer for their crime,” Editha exclaimed, passionately, and almost in
despair at his obstinacy.

“I do not see how you can do otherwise than keep it; every one will tell
you that it is legally yours.”

“There is many a moral wrong perpetuated under the cloak of ‘legality,’”
she began, somewhat sarcastically, then continued, more earnestly: “My
proud, self-willed knight, whose watchwords are truth and honor, whose
life is to be ‘foursquare,’ do you think there are no others whose
natures are reaching out after the same heights? There _are_ others,
Earle,” she said, more softly, with glowing cheeks and drooping lids,
“who look with longing eyes toward the ‘jasper walls,’ and ‘gates of
pearl;’ and can one be ‘true and honorable’ and keep what does not
belong to one?”

“How can I convince you, Editha, that I _cannot_ take this money?”

“But what _will_ you do, Earle? How will you begin life again?” she
asked, anxiously.

“I have a little, enough for that, laid by; and now, with three years’
interest added, it will be sufficient to give me a start, and I shall do
very well. Do not allow my refusal to comply with your wishes to disturb
you. Try to imagine that if Mr. Forrester had never known me he would
never have thought of making a change in the disposition of his
property,” Earle concluded, lightly.

“But the _if_ exists, nevertheless. He _did_ make the change; and, once
for all, I will not have my conscience burdened with what is not my own.
Earle, on the twentieth of next November I shall deposit in the First
National Bank of this city ten thousand dollars, with a year’s interest,
to your credit,” she asserted, resolutely. “Meanwhile,” she added, “Mr.
Felton told me to say to you that he thought he could arrange some way
for you to keep your head above board, if you will go to him.”

“I thank Mr. Felton, but I think the term ‘self-willed’ may be applied
to some one else besides myself,” Earle answered, smilingly.

“Earle,” cried the lovely girl, turning suddenly upon him, and, with
something of her old girlish impulse, laying one white hand on his, “if
you won’t do as I wish for your _own_ sake, won’t you for _mine_?
and”—the color mounting to her forehead as she made the delicate
offer—“until the year expires, won’t you please go to Mr. Felton and get
whatever you need?”

If Earle was ever impatient and rebellious in his life he was at that
moment at the cruel fate that kept him from reaching out and clasping
his beautiful beloved in his arms, and telling her all the love of his
great heart.

How delicately she had worded her proposition! She had not coarsely
offered to give him money from her own income, feeling that his proud
spirit would recoil from coming to her, a woman, for help; but she had
made Mr. Felton the medium through which all his needs might be supplied
until he could establish himself in business.

He ventured to take that small hand and press it gratefully.

“Editha,” he said, striving to control the quiver in his tones, “to both
of your requests I must repeat the inevitable ‘No;’ and for the first, I
entreat you not to tempt me, for I cannot tell you how hard it is to
refuse anything you ask me, and particularly in that way. As for the
other there will be no need, I trust, for I have enough for all my
present wants, and before that is gone I hope to be in a way to supply
all future needs.”

Editha sighed, but saw that his decision was unalterable, and so let the
matter drop for the time.

They chatted for an hour on various topics, and then Earle rose to take
his leave.

She longed to ask him to come again on the morrow to dine, as she had
planned, knowing how lonely he would be when everybody else was so gay;
but she knew that it would be no pleasure for him to meet Mr. Dalton in
his present mood; but she did ask him to call whenever he was at
liberty, and she added, with one of her charming smiles:

“Uncle Richard’s books are all here; won’t you come and avail yourself
of them whenever you like?”

He thanked her with a look that made her cheeks hot again; and then she
asked him to wait a moment and she would bring him his package. She was
gone scarcely three minutes, and then came back with it in one hand, and
the loveliest little bouquet imaginable in the other.

It was composed of stiff holly leaves, with their glossy sheen and
bright winter berries, clear and red, and vivid in their contrast. It
was as lovely a bit of floral handicraft as Earle had ever seen, and his
eyes lighted admiringly as they rested on it.

“It is for you, Earle,” Editha said, simply, seeing his look, and
handing it to him. “I made it for you this morning, hoping you would
come to-day. You will not expect me to wish you a ‘merry Christmas;’
but,” in low, sweet tones, “I will say instead, ‘_Peace_, good-will
toward men.’”

Earle was too deeply moved to reply.

He stood looking down upon the glossy red and green, a mist gathering
over his eyes in spite of his manhood, and blessing her in his heart for
those precious words which told him he had been remembered before he was
seen.

She had “made it for him that morning, hoping he would come to-day!”

Her white fingers had put every shining spray in its place, and she had
thought of him the while!

Oh, why must he stand there with sealed lips, when he longed to say so
much?

She would not mock him with the usual Christmas formula; but what could
have been sweeter or more appropriate than the gentle, low-spoken
“Peace, good-will toward men?”

He slipped the package into an inside pocket, never mistrusting that it
had been tampered with, nor that its contents had unlocked for Sumner
Dalton the door to a mystery which he had long sought to penetrate in
vain.

“Thank you,” he said, as he buttoned his coat, “for caring for this; it
is very precious to me; and some day I will tell you why and show you
its contents. This much I will tell you now—had it been lost or
destroyed, _my identity_ would also have been destroyed.”

Editha looked up in surprise, but she asked no question.

His _identity_ destroyed! Was it possible that Sumner Dalton’s keen eyes
could have missed anything of importance within that package?

Editha accompanied him to the door, and parted from him with a simple
“good-night,” and then went quietly and gravely to her own room. But she
had sent him forth full of courage and hope in spite of his present
loneliness and unpromising future; and that bunch of holly was the most
precious thing that the world held for him that day, the fair giver
excepted.




                              CHAPTER XII
                          THE ECCENTRIC CLIENT


Several months passed, and bravely did Earle Wayne battle with the world
and fate.

Cheerfully, too; for, although he did not permit himself to see much of
Editha, lest his purpose not to speak of love should fail him, yet in
his heart he knew that she loved him, and would wait patiently until his
conscience would allow him to utter the words that should bind her to
him.

This he felt he had no right to do until his name could be cleared from
the stain resting upon it, and he had also gained a footing and practice
in the world which would warrant his asking the aristocratic Miss Dalton
to be his wife. It was hard, up-hill work, however, for Notwithstanding
he had passed a brilliant examination and been admitted to the bar, yet
it seemed as if some unseen force or enemy was at work to press him down
and keep him from climbing the ladder of either fame or wealth.

And there was such an enemy!

Sumner Dalton hated him. He hated him for what he had so dishonorably
learned regarding him—who and what he was—and for the relationship which
he bore to that face which he had seen in his mysterious package.

He hated him for the interest which Editha manifested in him, and also
because Richard Forrester had desired him to have a portion of his vast
fortune, and the former had dared to oppose and defy him regarding the
matter.

He could never brook opposition from any one, and he had always
possessed a strange desire to be revenged upon anybody who stood in his
way in any form whatever.

It would not do for him to revenge himself directly upon Editha, for
she, with all her money, was altogether too important a personage to
him; but he knew he could do so indirectly through Earle, and so set
himself to work to crush him.

Thus, through his efforts, many a client, who would have gladly availed
themselves of the brilliant young lawyer’s services, were influenced to
go elsewhere, and their fees, which would have been such a help to Earle
in these first dark days went to enrich the already overflowing coffers
of some more noted and “respectable” practitioner of Blackstone.

But, for all this, he won for himself some practice, in which he proved
himself very successful, and not unfrequently gained the admiration of
judge, jury, and spectators by his intelligence, shrewdness, and
eloquence.

But a covert sneer always followed every effort.

Brother lawyers shrugged their shoulders and remarked, “what a pity it
was that so much talent was not better appreciated, and that the taint
upon his name must always mar his life,” it was a “pity, too, that so
fine a young man otherwise, to all _outward appearance_, could not make
a better living; but then people were apt to be shy of employing
‘prison-birds,’ the old proverb ‘set a thief to catch a thief’ to the
contrary notwithstanding.”

It was Sumner Dalton who had set this ball a-rolling, and had kept it in
motion until the day came when Earle was obliged to sit from morning
till night in his office, and no one came to him for advice or counsel.

He remembered what Editha had told him to do if he had need—go to Mr.
Felton and get enough for his wants; but he was too proud to do this—he
would be dependent upon no one but himself.

He could have gone and asked that lawyer to give him work, as he had
said he would do; but if he had recourse to his offer, Editha would
doubtless hear of it, and, thinking him to be in need, would be made
unhappy thereby.

Many a time the tempter whispered, when there was scarcely a dollar left
in his purse:

“Never mind, in a few months you will have but to reach forth your hand
and pluck the golden harvest which Richard Forrester has set apart for
you, and all your trials will be at an end.”

It needed but Editha’s majority and her signature to insure him
independence. But he would not yield.

“I will build up my own foundation, or I will not build at all,” he
would say at such times, with gloomy brow and firmly compressed lips,
but with undaunted resolution.

One evening he sat in his office more than usually depressed.

He had not had a single call during the week, and now, as it was
beginning to grow dusk, he yielded himself up to the sad thoughts that
oppressed him.

It was beginning to storm outside, and as he looked forth into the
dismal street, a feeling of desperation and dreariness came over him,
such as he had not experienced before.

His office was excessively gloomy, for he did not indulge much in the
luxury of gas nowadays, since he had not the wherewith to pay for it.
His purse lay upon the table before him—he had been inspecting its
contents and counting his money.

All that remained to him in the world was a two-dollar bill and some
small pieces of silver.

“It will keep me just one week longer, not counting in any washing,” he
muttered; then adding, with a grim smile: “and a lawyer with dirty
wristbands and collar is not likely to invite many clients.”

Just then a newsboy passed through the corridor, calling his paper.

“I shall be wrecked indeed if I cannot have the daily news,” Earle said,
bitterly, as he sprang impatiently to his feet.

He picked up a bit of silver, and, going to the door, bought a paper.

Coming back, and, as if reckless of consequences, he lighted the gas,
turning on the full blaze, and then seating himself comfortably in one
chair and putting his feet in another, he began to read.

Scarcely had he done so when he heard a shuffling step outside in the
corridor, and then there came a rap on his door.

Wondering who should seek him at that hour, he arose and opened it.

A short, thin-visaged, wiry man, of about fifty, stood without.

With a little bob of his head, he said, in a voice as thin as his face:

“You’re the chap that conducted the Galgren case, ain’t you?”

“Yes, sir; will you come in and have a seat?” Earle replied, politely,
yet with a slight smile at the way he had addressed him, and wondering
what this rather seedy personage could desire of him.

The man entered and sat down with his hat on, eyeing Earle sharply the
while.

“Ain’t doing much just now?” he said, his sharp eyes wandering from him
to his empty table, noticing the purse with its scant contents, and then
at the books undisturbed on their shelves.

“No, sir, I have not been very busy this week,” Earle quietly replied.

“That Galgren case was a tough one, eh?” the man then remarked,
abruptly.

“Rather a knotty problem, that is a fact,” replied Earle, somewhat
surprised at the interest the man manifested in a case so long past.

“Would you like another of the same sort, only a thousand times worse?”
he asked, with a keen glance.

“I want _work_, sir, let it be of what kind it may; and I am willing to
do almost _anything_ in an honorable way.”

“Well, then, I can give it to you. I’ve a knot that I want untied that
is worse than forty Gordian knots woven into one; and if you can untie
it, or even cut it asunder for me, as Alexander did of old, and relieve
me of the fix I’m in, I think I can promise you something handsome for
your trouble.”

“Your statement does not sound very favorable for my being able to do
so, but I can try,” Earle replied, the look of bitterness and anxiety
beginning to fade out of his face, while his eyes lighted with a look of
keenness and eagerness at the thought of work.

He sat up in his chair with a movement full of energy, and then added,
with a smile:

“Let me take your hat, sir; then show me this wonderful knot of yours,
and we’ll see what can be done with it.”

The man removed his hat, and Earle saw that it was half full of papers,
letters, etc., which he turned out upon the table, and then proceeded to
unfold the case which he wished the young lawyer to take charge of.

A long conference followed; question after question was put and
answered, and every paper looked into and explained, and the clock on
the belfry-tower near by struck the hour of midnight before Earle’s
strange visitor left him, and a handsome retaining fee as well.

This he did not demand, but the man’s keen eyes had more than once
rested on that empty pocket-book lying upon the table, and he doubtless
knew that it would not come amiss.

For the next four months Earle had no need to complain of a lack of
work—night and day he toiled, quietly, steadily, persistently, a stern
purpose visible in his face, a light in his fine eyes which meant
“victory,” if such a result was possible.

This case, which indeed proved a most perplexing one, he felt assured
would either “make or mar” his whole future; and, if there was any such
thing as winning, he was determined to conquer.

It was to come to trial the first of October.

He had had about four months to work it up in, and now, on the last
night of September, he sat again alone in his office, with folded hands
and weary brain, but with a smile of satisfaction lighting up his face
instead of the weary expression of bitterness which rested there on that
dreary night when he received his first visit from the thin-visaged,
wiry man.

He was reasonably sure of success, notwithstanding that the opposing
counsel was one of the oldest and ablest lawyers in the city, and he was
aware that if he gained the case against him he could not fail to be
looked upon with respect for the future.

It provided a tedious trial, for a whole week was occupied in hearing
the case, and as point after point, cunning and complicated in the
extreme, came up in opposition to the prosecution, and was calmly and
clearly rebutted and overthrown, it was plainly to be seen that the tide
of popular feeling was turning in favor of the young and gifted lawyer,
and Earle felt that his weary labor of four months had been well spent,
if it gained him even this.

And who shall describe the eloquence that flowed from his lips as, with
his whole heart in his work, he stood up before the multitude and made
his plea?

It was clear and concise, witty and brilliant—a masterpiece of rhetoric,
logic, and conclusive evidence, combined with a thorough knowledge of
all the intricacies of the law, and which did not fail to impress every
hearer; and, when at last he sat down, cheer after cheer arose, and a
perfect storm of applause that would not be stayed testified to the
admiration and conviction which he had excited.

It was a proud moment for Earle Wayne, the poor, despised convict, and
Sumner Dalton, sitting there, heard all, and ground his teeth in
fiercest rage.

He had not known of the case until almost the last, having been again at
Newport. But it had got into the papers recently, and Earle’s name as
counsel for the prosecution had attracted his attention, and he had
returned to the city and been present during the last few days of the
trial.

Something very like a sob burst from our hero’s grateful heart at this
acknowledgment of his worth and power, but it was drowned in the din,
and, though nearly every eye was fixed upon him, they saw nothing
unusual—only a very handsome young man, who looked somewhat pale and
worn with hard work and the excitement of the week.

The victory was his; the case was won, for a verdict was rendered in
favor of his client, and the men who had hitherto shunned him and curled
the lips of scorn and pity for the “poor chap with the stigma resting on
his name,” now came forward to shake hands and congratulate him on his
victory. His rigid course of study and discipline under Richard
Forrester’s direction spoke for itself; _he_ had been a keen,
sharp-witted, successful lawyer, and his pupil bade fair to outstrip
even his brilliant achievements.

“Who are you?” abruptly asked the wiry, thin-visaged man, as he grasped
Earle’s hand in grateful acknowledgment after the court was dismissed.

“I do not think I have changed my identity since I last saw you, sir. I
am Earle Wayne,” Earle said, with an amused smile.

“Yes, yes; but I tell you you’ve got blue blood in your veins. A man
that can do what you have done is worth knowing, and _I_ want to know
what stock you came from.”

A shadow flitted across Earle’s handsome face at these remarks, but it
soon passed, and, still smiling, he returned:

“I pretend to no superior attributes; I was a poor boy, without home or
friends, until Mr. Forrester took me in and gave me the benefit of his
knowledge and instruction. I have been unfortunate also since then, as
you very well know, and when you came to me to take charge of this case,
I was well-nigh discouraged.”

“I knew it—I knew it; but I knew also that the true grit was in you. I
saw it in the Galgren case, and I’ve watched you since. Besides,” with a
shrewd look up into the handsome face, “I knew hungry dogs always work
hardest for a bone, and they seldom fail to get it, too; that’s one
reason I brought you my case, and I’m proud of the result.”

“Thank you, sir,” Earle said, laughing at the simile of the hungry dog.
“I am glad that your confidence was not misplaced, and I congratulate
you upon our success—it gives you a very handsome fortune.”

“Yes, yes; a decent bit of property, I’ll admit; but how much of it are
you going to want?”

Earle colored at his way of putting this question; it seemed to him a
trifle surly and ungrateful after his hard work.

“I trust not more than is right, sir; but we will talk of this another
time, if you please,” he said, with dignity.

The little man chuckled to himself, as, slipping his arm familiarly
within Earle’s, he drew him one side.

“How much do you want? Remember, it takes a good deal to pay for a
_pound of desk_, and you’ve lost a good many since I came to you that
night four months ago,” he persisted.

Earle saw that the man was really kind at heart, and meant well by him
in spite of his unprepossessing manner.

“And you must remember, sir, that the reputation of this success is
worth considerable to me but I suppose this is a very unbusiness-like
way to talk, and if you are in a hurry for me to set my fee, I will do
so,” and he named a sum which he thought would pay him well for his
labor.

The little, thin-visaged, wiry man chuckled again, and clapped Earle
upon the shoulder in an approving manner.

“Very moderate and proper for a youngster, only let me whisper a little
bit of advice in your ear, albeit I’m no lawyer. When you can find a fat
customer, _salt a good slice of him for yourself_, and when a _lean_ one
comes along, don’t cut in quite so deep. How’s that for counsel?”

“Very good,” Earle said, with a hearty laugh; “but,” with a sparkle of
mischief in his eye, as it traversed the thin form of his client from
top to toe, “I’m in some doubt as to which class you would prefer to
belong to.”

The little man tapped his pockets significantly, and then shoving a hand
into each, drew forth two good-sized rolls of bills and showed them to
him.

“Fat, youngster, when I’ve any dealings with you, though I can tell you
I know how to _pinch hard_ in the right place;” and his wiry fingers
closed over the bills in a way that reminded Earle of miniature boa
constrictors.

He was a strange character, and though during the trial things had come
out which seemed to make him out a miser, harsh and soulless in all his
dealings with men, yet Earle thought there must be a spot of goodness
and generosity about him somewhere, for he seemed so appreciative of his
services. And the result proved he was right.

“I’ll call around and settle to-morrow; I want this thing off my mind;
and I reckon you’ve not found many bones to pick besides this during the
last four months,” he said at parting.

“No, sir; this gigantic one has occupied all my time and skill.”

“Spoiled any teeth?” his client asked, facetiously.

“No, sir; sharpened them; ready for another,” Earle responded, in the
same strain, to carry out the poor joke.

“You’ll do; I would like you for a son; wish I had a daughter—you should
marry her;” and the little man, with his characteristic bob of the head,
turned and went his way, while Earle, musing upon the events of the day
returned to his office, but thinking that if his client happened to have
a daughter, he might wish to be excused from a nearer relationship to
him, notwithstanding the now plethoric state of his money-bags.

The next morning he received a check for five thousand dollars from the
eccentric man, together with an expression of gratitude for his faithful
services. And this was the foundation—the “foundation laid with his own
hands”—which Earle now began to build upon.

There were no more idle days for him. Work poured in upon him from every
side. Success brought countless friends, where before he had not
possessed one and he bade fair ere long to fulfill Richard Forrester’s
prediction concerning him—that he had a brilliant career before him.




                              CHAPTER XIII
                         WILL HE BEAR THE TEST


Editha knew something of all this, for she read the papers, and at the
termination of the trial enough could not be said of the brilliant
victory which the young lawyer had achieved.

She was at Newport, but she would gladly have returned to the city with
her father to attend the trial had she known of it in season.

But he had merely said he was obliged to go home upon business, which
she judged upon his return must have been of an unpleasant nature, since
for several days afterward he was morose and in every way disagreeable.

Every one remarked how much more beautiful Miss Dalton was this summer
than the preceding one.

Many attributed it to the change in her dress, as she no longer refused
to wear colors, and her wardrobe was remarkable for its taste and
elegance, while others said her sorrow was wearing away and her spirits
were returning.

No one but Editha herself, however, knew the secret of her own
beauty—she had loved and was beloved; and, though her hopes might not be
crowned for a long while, yet she waited in patience for Earle to speak,
having full faith that he would eventually rise superior to every trial,
and trample every obstacle beneath his feet.

She and her father were less in sympathy than ever before.

She had dared to displease him again by rejecting Mr. Tressalia’s
proposals of marriage.

The day following Earle’s call upon her—on that very Christmas Day when
she had contemplated asking him to dinner, and making the day so
pleasant to him—Mr. Dalton had brought Mr. Tressalia home with him to be
their guest, and he had sat in the seat she had destined for Earle, and
she had been obliged to exert herself to entertain him instead.

He had also attended a grand reception with them in the evening, and
altogether that Christmas was so entirely different from what she had
planned it should be, that she was a little inclined to feel almost as
much out of patience with the innocent cause of it as with her father.

A few days later Paul Tressalia had asked her to be his wife, and she
had been obliged to tell him “No, it could not be.”

Mr. Dalton was very angry, but secretly bade the rejected lover hope,
assuring him that Editha’s affections were not engaged, and he, three
months later, taking courage, renewed his proposal, to receive the same
answered as before.

A stormy interview between father and daughter had followed, Mr. Dalton
declaring that she _should_ marry the rich Englishman, and Editha as
firmly asserting that she should not do so.

The disappointed lover, however, followed them to Newport, where he
continually haunted every scene of pleasure where the fair girl was to
be found; and, to Editha’s shame, she was at last forced to believe that
her father was still bidding him hope against hope.

It might be thought that Paul Tressalia was lacking in either pride for
himself or proper respect for the woman he professed to love, by being
so persistent but it was the one passion of his life, although he was
thirty years of age, and he could not easily yield to her gentle though
firm refusal, particularly when Mr. Dalton told him he must eventually
overcome her objections if he was patient.

He was not presuming in his attentions; he never forced his society upon
her; yet, with a patience and faithfulness that deserved a better
return, he waited and hoped.

“If you would but give me the least ray of hope that I may eventually
win your love, Miss Editha; my life will be _ruined_ without the crown
of your love,” he had ventured to urge once more, in a sorrowful kind of
way, on the last evening of her stay at Newport.

He had heard she was going on the morrow and he could not bear it; he
_must_ put his fate to the test once more and for the last time.

“Mr. Tressalia,” she entreated, in a pained voice, “what _shall_ I tell
you to make you understand that it cannot be?”

“There could be only _one_ thing that you could tell me that would
destroy every gleam of hope.”

“And that?” she interrupted, with a quick breath and a fluttering of her
white lids.

“That your love is given to another,” he said, passionately, and
searching, with sudden foreboding, the beautiful face he loved so well.

The rich blood surged instantly over cheek brow, and neck.

Could she confess that she loved another, when that love was as yet
unspoken even to its object?

And yet she must not go away and leave him to feed on a hopeless
passion.

Would it be maidenly? Would it be proper?

“Editha, have I been deceived all this while? Have I been persecuting
you with my attentions, while you loved another?” he cried, in
consternation, as he marked that startled flush, and intuitively knew
its cause.

She looked up into his white, pained face, and pitied him from the
depths of her tender heart.

“Mr. Tressalia,” she said, with sudden resolution, “it is cruel to allow
you to hope when there is no hope. I will make you my confidant. You are
noble and good, and you will not betray my trust. What you have said—is
true.”

Her voice was low, and sweet, and tremulous, as she confessed it, but
her face was dyed with hottest blushes.

“You _do_ love some one else?” he cried, in a hollow voice, his noble
face growing gray and sharp with agony.

“Yes,” she whispered, “but only the exigency of the case would force me
to confess it.”

And then she told him frankly all the story of her early regard for
Earle Wayne—his misfortune and patient endurance for another’s crime—of
his return, and of their mutual though unspoken affection for each
other.

“Earle Wayne!” he repeated with a start. “Who is he? Where did he come
from?” he demanded, with eager interest, as she spoke his name.

“I do not know. He came to my uncle when seventeen years of age. He was
fatherless, motherless, and friendless; but he has proved himself, if
not honored among men, to be stamped with Heaven’s nobility.”

Would that Earle Wayne could have heard this tribute from the woman he
so loved!

“Wayne—is it spelled with a y?” Mr. Tressalia asked.

“Yes.”

“Of what nationality is he?”

“American, I judge, though I never heard him say aught upon the
subject.”

“Strange! strange!” Mr. Tressalia muttered, with thoughtful brow.

But after a few minutes of musing, he reached out and clasped her hand.

The confession she had made, and he had listened to, was a strange one
for a delicate and sensitive woman to make, and his great heart was
touched with sympathy for the gallant lover, and with admiration for the
woman who could be so true and loyal to him.

“Miss Dalton,” he said, in earnest though slightly tremulous tones, “I
realize that all my hope must die; but what you have told me only makes
my loss so much greater and harder to bear, for I honor you above women
for the courage you have manifested in telling me this. You are a noble
daughter of a noble country, and he who has won your love will have
cause to adore you all his life. That he is worthy of you,
notwithstanding his misfortune, I cannot doubt, after what you have told
me, and I do not believe _you_ could love _unworthily_. God bless him
for his nobility, and _you_ for your constancy!”

Editha looked up astonished at this heartfelt benediction. She had begun
to regard him as lacking somewhat in character and pride, when he had
returned to plead his cause after her repeated refusal, but now she saw
that she had underrated him. She saw that his love was deep and true for
her, and that he suffered as great men alone can suffer when he found
that he could never win her love; but a mind that was capable of such
generosity as to rise above self—to admire and sympathize with a
rival—was worthy of the highest regard.

“I am proud,” he went on, not noticing her look, “that you have
considered me worthy of this confidence; and, if anything could assuage
the pain I experience, the trust that you repose in me would do it. Your
confidence shall be inviolable, and if there is anything that I can do
at any time to promote your happiness and Mr. Wayne’s interests, I pray
you will not hesitate to let me know it, and I will gladly serve you
both.”

Paul Tressalia did not realize what he was promising when he said that,
but there came a time when he was tried as few men are ever tried;
and—did he bear the test? We shall see.

Never in all her life had Editha regretted anything as she did at this
moment that she had been obliged to blight the hopes of this noble,
whole-souled man.

The bright drops chased each other over her cheeks as she thanked him
for his kindness, and expressed her regret that she had been obliged to
cause him pain.

“Do not grieve for me,” he said, gently, as almost involuntarily he
wiped her tears away with his own handkerchief. “I know I must suffer as
few suffer; but, Editha, believe me, I would rather you would be happy
in _another’s_ care and love than _unhappy_ in _mine_. God bless you, my
love—by one only love, and perhaps He will yet comfort me.”

Editha arose and gave him her hand. She could not speak; she could not
bear anything more.

It was her “good-night” and “good-by,” for the early morning would find
her on her way home.

He watched her until the last flutter of her light robe disappeared from
view, and then, springing to his feet as if a hot iron were burning his
soul, he went out into the night to battle alone with his rebellious
heart.

The late mail that evening brought him letters containing important news
from and requiring his immediate presence abroad. He left the next day
for England, firmly believing, that he never should look upon the face
of Editha Dalton in this world again.

Mr. Dalton and his daughter returned to their home in the city, and
settled down for the winter—Editha cheered and happy to see Earle
occasionally and to know of his increasing success.

Without saying anything to any one, on the morning of her twenty-first
birthday she repaired to Mr. Felton’s office, and with a resolute face
and steady hand, signed the papers that gave to Earle Wayne ten thousand
dollars, together with a year’s interest, even as she had said she would
do.

These papers she desired should be taken to him at once, and in case he
refused to accept the bequest, Mr. Felton was authorized to safely
invest the money and retain the papers in his own possession until they
should be called for.

Earle firmly refused to touch a cent of it, saying his business was fast
increasing, and he did not need it.

It was therefore taken by Mr. Felton to the First National Bank,
deposited in his name, and left to accumulate.




                              CHAPTER XIV
                        AN INTERVIEW INTERRUPTED


One day Earle was looking over his papers and arranging them more
systematically, when he came across a package containing the memoranda
and evidence used during that “knotty case” wherein he was so
successful.

These had been wrapped in a newspaper, and had remained untouched since
that time.

As he was looking them over, and considering whether it would be best to
keep them any longer or destroy them, his eye caught sight of a
paragraph, or name rather, in the paper that instantly riveted his
attention, and, with staring eyes and paling cheek, he read it eagerly
through.

Then he turned to look at the date of the paper.

It was the very same that he had bought that night when he had been so
forlorn and dreary, when for a week no one had come to him to get him to
do even so much as a little copying, when he had counted his money and
discovered all he possessed in the world was a little over two dollars.

Then he remembered how recklessly he had gone to the door to purchase
the paper, and, returning, had turned on the full blaze of gas to read
by, and, before he had read half a dozen lines, his strange client had
appeared, and the paper had been entirely forgotten from that time.

Doubtless it would have been destroyed, and he never would have seen
this, to him, highly important paragraph had it not been used as a
wrapper for the papers which the little, thin-visaged, wiry man had
brought him.

“It is hardly six months now since this paper was printed,” he said,
with a shade of anxiety on his face, as he turned to look at the date
again.

Then he sat down to think, evidently deeply troubled and perplexed about
something.

Meanwhile the boy brought him in his evening paper, for he could afford
to have one regularly now, and mechanically he unfolded it and began to
read. He had nearly looked it through, when, under the heading of
“Gleanings,” he read this:

  “It will be remembered by the frequenters of Newport that Mr. Paul
  Tressalia was suddenly recalled abroad, at the last of the season, by
  the serious illness of his uncle, the Marquis of Wycliffe, who has
  since died, and, being childless, Mr. Tressalia thus becomes heir to
  his vast possessions in both England and France, and also to his
  title.”

Earle’s face was startlingly pale as he read this, while his broad chest
rose and fell heavily, as if he found a difficulty in breathing.

“That must be the Paul Tressalia who was here last winter, and—who was
so attentive to Editha,” he said, with white lips.

For an hour he sat with bent head, deeply-lined brow, and an expression
of deep pain and perplexity on his face.

“I must do it,” he said at last, “and the quicker the better.”

He turned to the shipping list and looked to see what steamers sailed
soon. He found two that were to sail on the morrow.

“That will do,” he said, and laid aside his paper, with an expression of
resolution on his face.

Then he arose, locked his safe, donned his coat and hat, and made his
way directly to Mr. Dalton’s aristocratic mansion on ——th street.

He inquired for Editha of the servant who answered his ring, and was
immediately shown into the drawing-room, where she sat alone. Her face
lighted and flushed with pleasure as she arose to greet him.

“Earle, you are very, _very_ much of a stranger,” she said, half
reproachfully.

“I have been very, _very_ busy,” he answered, smiling.

“I know—I read of your great success, and the papers speak very
creditably of the rising young lawyer, and the friends of that young
lawyer would be glad to see more of him. Just think, you have only
called once since our return from Newport, and then I had other callers,
and only saw you for a few moments, while I have only met you once or
twice since on the street.”

“It would be very pleasant to come oftener, but you know duty before
pleasure and I fear my friends, what few I have, will see even less of
me in the future.”

“How so?”

“I have business that calls me abroad immediately; it is of that I came
to tell you to-night,” he said, with a grave face.

“Abroad! Where?” Editha demanded, breathlessly.

“To Europe.”

“Will—will you be gone long, Earle?” she asked, all the light and
beautiful color fading out of her face at this intelligence.

“I do not know—no longer than I can possibly help, for I have work of
great importance to do here yet,” he said, with a sigh, and a note of
bitterness in his tone.

Editha knew that he referred to the solving of the mystery of the
robbery. She, too, sighed heavily. It was like taking all the joy out of
her existence to know of his going away.

While he was in the same city and near, so that she could see him
occasionally, or hear of him even indirectly, she could be reasonably
content; but, with the ocean dividing them, her heart would be heavy
enough.

Earle marked her emotion, and his heart thrilled.

How sweet it was to know that she loved him and would miss him.

He arose from his chair, and going to her, sat down by her side.

“Editha,” he said, in low, eager tones, “you will be glad to learn that
I think I have at last a clew to that wretched business.”

“Earle, is it possible? And is that why you are going away?” she asked,
eagerly. “Have you found out who did the deed?”

“No, not quite that; but I have a clew, and I wish I need not go just
now; but other business of the most important nature demands it. I had
fondly hoped that before many weeks should elapse I should be able to
come to you and tell you that no stain rests on my name.”

Editha’s eyes fell beneath his earnest glance. Well she knew what would
follow if he could once tell her that.

“But, of course,” he went on, “all my work in that direction will now
have to be suspended for awhile. But, Editha,” leaning toward her and
scanning her drooping face with great earnestness, “is your faith in me
as strong as ever?”

“Yes, Earle.”

Very sweet and low but firm came the reply.

“And you will still trust me, even though I may be away a long time?”

“_Always_, Earle.”

But this with a quick, deep sigh.

He looked at her still, his lips trembling as if he longed to say
something, yet hesitated. Then he sat suddenly erect and folded his arms
tight across his chest, as if to still the heavy beating of his heart.

“Editha,” he began, trying to steady his shaking voice, “you have told
me that you have read of my success, and know that I am winning the
esteem and respect of men in spite of the past. I am rising higher on
the ladder of prosperity every day, and money flows in rapidly upon me
from every side. If my business abroad proves as successful as it has
here, I have reason to hope that great good in a worldly point of view
is coming to me—just what that is I cannot explain to you now—but under
the circumstances I feel that I cannot be silent any longer. I _cannot_
go away from you without speaking the words I have so longed to utter—to
tell you of the deep and mighty love I have had to chain as with iron
bands for a long time. Editha, I have loved you for more than half a
dozen years. When I came to you last Christmas, alone and friendless,
believing that you also had ceased to remember me, I can never tell you
the revulsion of feeling I experienced when you gave me your simple but
heartfelt greeting, while there was that in your eyes and manner which
told me I might hope that you could love me in return. Your kindness and
trust in me were almost more than I could bear at that time. I could
have fallen down before you and kissed the hem of your garments, for
your divine charity toward one upon whom all others looked with scorn or
pity, as if I was afflicted with some deadly and incurable plague. My
darling, did I read aright? Did not your yes tell me that day that you
could love me if I could come to you with stainless name? Will you give
me that assurance now, before I go away? Will you tell me that when I
have cleared away that blight from my life—_as I shall clear it yet_—you
will be my wife?”

The last word was spoken in an intense whisper, as if it was too sacred
to be uttered aloud, while he paused and scarcely breathed as he awaited
her reply, his noble face illuminated with an earnest pleading more
eloquent than his burning words had been.

We have seen all along that Editha Dalton was possessed of a character
remarkable for its veracity and straightforward feeling. She realized
now that this was the most serious and sacred moment of her whole
life—that upon her reply hung the happiness of her own and Earle’s
future.

There was no coyness, no hesitation in her answer, though no lack of
maidenly delicacy and dignity in her words and manner, as she lifted her
flushed face, glorified with the light of her noble, steadfast love for
him, and said:

“Earle, if you had told me all this last Christmas-time you need not
have lived quite such a lonely, loveless life ever since. I believe I
have loved you from the time when you first came to Uncle Richard’s,
only I never found it out until the day of your trial.”

“Editha, can it be possible?” Earle exclaimed, his face almost
transfigured by her words.

“Yes, Earle, I used to wish that you were my _brother_ in those days;
but when I bade you good-by that afternoon after your trial, it came to
me that it was no sisterly feeling that I entertained for you, but
something deeper, stronger, and more sacred.”

“My darling,” he cried, fairly trembling beneath the weight of his great
happiness, and yet scarcely able to credit what he heard, “you _would_
not say this if you did not _mean_ it—you would not allow me to grasp
this hope and then let it _fail_ me?”

She lifted her clear eyes to his.

“Earle, do you think I could love you all these years and then trifle
with the affection which is the most precious gift Heaven ever sent to
me?” she asked, with grave sweetness.

“No, no; and yet for the moment my brain almost reeled—it did not seem
possible that such joy could be really meant for me, after what I have
suffered,” he returned, with a deep breath of thankfulness that was
almost a sob, as he drew her tenderly into his arms and laid the golden
head upon his breast.

“It was cruel, _so_ cruel,” she murmured, with trembling lips; “I know I
shall never be able to realize all you have suffered, Earle, but not a
day passed that my heart did not cry out in rebellion against your
fate.”

“It is all past now, my own; let us not live it over again; and the joy
you have given me to-day will brighten all the future,” he said, laying
his lips reverently against the shining hair that crowned the head upon
his breast. “Can it be possible,” he added, after a few moments of
silence, “that you would have pledged yourself to me last Christmas—to
_me_ only a few hours out of prison, after serving a _convict’s
sentence_?”

She laid her hand upon his lips as if to stay the hateful words.

“The fact of your having suffered unjustly for the crime of another only
made me love you the more tenderly—I regarded you just as worthy of my
affection then as you will ever be,” Editha returned, gravely.

“God ever bless you for those words, my darling! And you will be my
wife, Editha, some time when——”

“I _will_ be your wife, Earle,” she interrupted, not allowing him to
finish his sentence, for she knew what he was about to add.

“But suppose I should never succeed in finding those rascals who
committed the robbery—suppose the doubt must ever rest upon me?” he
persisted.

“It will make no difference, Earle. _You_ know you are innocent; _I_
know it! why then need we make ourselves miserable over what the world
may say or think?”

“And you do not care—you will never be troubled or ashamed if others
scorn me and give me the cold shoulder?” he asked, astonished.

“Nay, dear,” she said, with a smile that had something of sadness in it;
“I cannot say that I do not care, for I would like every one to honor
you, even as I honor you, and I feel assured that they will yet do so;
meanwhile we will be as happy as we can be. _Ashamed_ of you I can
_never_ be—please do not allow such a thought to enter your mind again.”

“Editha, you were rightly named. Do you know what it means?”

“No; I never even thought to ask if it had a meaning.”

“It means happiness. Who gave it to you?”

“Uncle Richard said that he named me.” Editha answered, with a
thoughtful, far-away look in her eyes.

“It must have been an inspiration, for I believe you bring happiness to
every one with whom you come in contact,” Earle said, in tones of
intense feeling.

“Then you _are_ happy, Earle, in spite of all?” Editha asked, lifting
her head and regarding him wistfully.

“My darling—my darling, I cannot tell you how happy; the very best of
earth’s treasures should be laid at your feet, if I had them, to testify
to it, and I trust the day is not far distant when I shall be able to
bring you a goodly measure of them,” he returned, folding her closer.

“You have brought me the most precious one in all the world to-day,
Earle—your dear love,” the fair girl answered, softly, and almost awed
by the strength and depth of his affection for her.

“Ah! if I did not need to go away!” Earle said, with a sigh.

“I, too, wish that you did not—the time will seem long until you
return,” Editha returned, regretfully; then she added, suddenly: “Is it
absolutely necessary that you should go?”

“Yes; it cannot be avoided. If I were sure of success I would tell you
the nature of the business which calls me abroad; but you can trust me a
little longer?”

“Always.”

“And would you, some time in the future, be willing to go abroad to live
if it was necessary?” Earle asked, with a peculiar expression on his
face.

“Anywhere in the world with you, Earle, if need be;” and, with a tender
smile, Editha laid both her hands on his.

It was as if she was willing to renounce everything in the world for him
and his precious love, and the act touched him as nothing ever had done
before.

He bowed his manly head until his lips rested upon them in a fervent,
reverent caress.

At that instant the door near which they were sitting swung softly open,
and before they were aware of his presence, Mr. Dalton had entered, and
was standing before them.

He had come in a few minutes previous, and the waiter had told him that
Earle Wayne was there, which intelligence so enraged him that he
determined at once to put a stop to all further visits from him.

Whether he had been guilty of listening before entering the room they
could not tell, but certain it is that he presented himself before them
with a most disagreeable smile upon his face and a glitter in his
steel-gray eyes that boded them no good.




                               CHAPTER XV
                           A FATHER’S THREAT


“Ah! Mr. _Wayne_!” with a peculiar emphasis upon his name that somehow
startled Earle. “Quite an interesting occasion. Pray, Miss Dalton, are
you in the _habit_ of entertaining your callers in this
extremely—ah—_amazing_ manner?” he demanded, with a cold sneer.

Editha’s fair face flushed with mingled shame and indignation at his
coarseness, while Earle’s eyes flashed dangerously at his almost
insulting manner to his betrothed.

“Papa, Mr. Wayne sails for Europe to-morrow,” Editha said, to divert his
attention, and hoping thus to tide over a scene until Earle should be
out of the way.

“Ah, indeed? I am happy to hear it—extremely happy to hear it,” with a
satirical bow to Earle, yet with a start of surprise and a searching
glance into the young man’s face; “and I presume he was taking a
_friendly_ leave of you, my dear; quite interesting—quite affecting—ah!
quite.”

It is impossible to describe the malice and satire contained in his
words, or the evil expression on Mr. Dalton’s face, as his eyes
restlessly searched first one countenance and then the other of the
lovers before him.

“_No, sir!_” Earle replied, rising, and pale to ghastliness with the
effort he made at self-control at this insulting language and manner. “I
was not taking _leave_ of Miss Dalton, and, since I do not approve of
concealments or secret engagements, I will state that she has just
consented to do me the honor to become my wife at some future time.”

The young man stood proudly erect, confronting his enemy, and still
holding one of Editha’s hands, as he made this bold statement.

“Do _you_ dare stand there and tell _me_ this?” Mr. Dalton hissed, with
strange malignity.

“And why should I not dare, sir?” Earle asked, with forced respect,
remembering that he was speaking to Editha’s father.

Sumner Dalton did not reply, but, turning fiercely upon Editha,
demanded, in a voice of concentrated passion:

“Is what he says truth?”

“Yes, papa,” she replied, firmly, but with downcast eyes and painfully
flushed cheeks.

“You have promised to _marry him_?” pointing with a shaking finger at
Earle, and speaking in the same tone as before.

“Yes, sir.”

“You have dared to do this thing without either my knowledge or
sanction? _You_ marry a thing like _him_!”

The blue eyes were downcast no longer, but flashed up to meet his, with
a clear and steady glance.

“Sir!” she began, and her tones, though respectful, were firm and
unfaltering, “I was twenty-one years of age some time ago, and I can
now, so to speak, act upon my own authority, if I choose. I am, at all
events, old enough to know my own mind, and I believe I told you once
before that I consider I have a right to judge and act for myself in a
matter so vital to my own happiness and interests.”

She paused a moment, and her look of independence changed to one of
pain, as she added, more gently:

“I would much to prefer to have your consent and approbation in all that
I do, but——”

“You will have my curses and hate instead,” he interrupted, nearly
purple with passion that she should face him so dauntlessly.

“Please do not say that, papa,” Editha cried, in deep distress.

“Mr. Dalton,” Earle now said gravely, yet feeling as if he could hardly
keep his hands off the man for wounding her so, “may I ask _what_ your
objections are to my union with Miss Dalton?”

“It seems exceedingly strange to me that you should _need_ to ask any
_respectable_ and honorable citizen what his objections would naturally
be to _your_ marrying his daughter,” was the intensely sarcastic reply.

Earle flushed, but still controlled himself.

“I understand you, sir,” he said, proudly “but I can assure you that I
am guiltless of the deed which you would impute to me. I have even now a
clew to the real culprits——”

“You have?” Mr. Dalton interrupted, with a startled look.

“Yes, sir, and though I have suffered a felon’s disgrace; yet let them
once be brought to justice, and my name will be cleared from every
breath of taint.”

“_Your name will be cleared from every breath of taint!_” Mr. Dalton
repeated, with an emphasis and look that made Earle start violently and
regard him with perplexity.

Then he answered, with firm assurance:

“Yes, sir; I think I can safely promise that in six months from this
time I shall be able to convince you that I am as honorable and
respectable a man as you yourself claim to be, and shall be able to
offer Miss Dalton a position in life that even you will be proud to
accept for her.”

Mr. Dalton now started as if stung at these last words, and his face
would have been a study for a painter.

He had grown very pale while Earle was speaking, and his countenance
wore a half-frightened, perplexed expression, while his eyes were fixed
upon the young man as if fascinated.

“How can you do this thing? What do you mean?” he at last demanded, in a
wondering tone.

“Pardon me if I say I cannot explain just now,” he answered, with a
slight smile, and a quick, fond glance at Editha, as if _she_ would be
the first one to be told of any good that came to him; “but, providing
that I can thus convince you of my honesty and respectability, will you
then consent to my union with Editha?”

“_No!_” burst from the irate man, who seemed to recover himself at this
question.

Earle looked surprised, and as if utterly unable to comprehend the man’s
strange demeanor, and his peculiar animosity toward him.

“Have you any _other_ objection to my making Miss Dalton my wife?” he
asked, in his straightforward way.

“Yes, sir, _I have_.”

“May I ask what it is?”

“You may ask, but it does not follow that I shall tell you. Suffice it
to say that you shall _never_ marry Editha Dalton.”

Earle Wayne smiled calmly.

“Pardon me, but that is a question which Editha alone can decide,” he
replied, respectfully but confidently.

“Aha! do you think so?” sneered Mr. Dalton. Then turning to Editha, with
a malicious smile, he demanded: “And what is _your_ opinion about the
matter, miss?”

“I wish we could be at peace, papa. Oh, why cannot you be reasonable,
and let me be happy?” she exclaimed, with gathering tears and a bitter
pain at the rupture she foresaw.

“Speak! What do you think of your lover’s statement?” reiterated Mr.
Dalton, harshly.

“If I must speak—then—I must,” she began, with quiet dignity, “although
I dislike to cause you either anger or sorrow. I think this is a matter
which _I_ alone can decide, and—_I have decided_.”

“_How_ have you decided?” thundered Mr. Dalton, striding toward her.

“I have decided that if we both do live, I shall be Earle Wayne’s wife,”
she said, with a quiet firmness that left no room for doubt.

A proud, glad light leaped into Earle’s face at these brave words,
though he would cheerfully have shielded her at almost any cost from
this angry scene with her father.

“Aha! you have, have you?” he returned, in tones that made her shrink
from him and move nearer Earle, as if for protection from some impending
ill, though she knew not what.

Mr. Dalton marked the gesture, and it enraged him still more.

“I suppose you think you love this fine young gentleman very much,” he
said, with a strange smile upon his lips.

“Yes, sir, I do,” she answered, unflinchingly.

“And you, sir?” turning fiercely upon Earle.

He would not have deigned to reply to the trivial question had he not
deemed it best for Editha’s sake to temporize with him.

“I have loved Miss Dalton since the day Mr. Forrester introduced me to
her, more than six years ago,” he answered, quietly.

“I can crush you both with a breath—you shall _never_ marry each other,”
Sumner Dalton whispered, hoarsely.

Earle thought this but an idle threat, uttered in the heat of passion,
and paid no particular heed to it; but he longed to put an end to the
disgraceful scene.

“Mr. Dalton,” he said, speaking very calmly, “why will you not listen to
reason? Do you not see that there is nothing to be gained by so much
passionate opposition? Editha and I are both of age, capable to act for
ourselves, and we both also believe that there can be no impediment to
our union except, perhaps, the fancied one of a social unfitness; and
for that we do not propose to sacrifice the happiness of our lives. I do
not desire to be at enmity with you, and I cannot understand why you
should be so violent in your dislike of me, since I am not conscious of
ever having done you any injury. I do not mean to be unreasonable in my
resistance of your will and authority, but your own good sense will tell
you that no man would lightly yield the woman he loved as his own life;
and, while I believe that every child should obey the divine injunction
to ‘honor one’s parents,’ yet there _is_ a limit beyond which this will
not apply. Now, if you have any good and sufficient reason for what you
assert, I desire to hear it.”

Mr. Dalton’s eyes had been fixed upon him while he was speaking in that
same strange gaze that he had noticed once before, and now, as then, he
had grown deadly pale.

“I have a good and sufficient reason, and I would see her on the rack
before I would allow _you_ to marry her,” he said, bending towards him
and speaking with a vindictiveness that sent a cold chill creeping over
Earle’s flesh.

“Oh, papa, what can you mean?” exclaimed Editha, with a shudder.

“I cannot understand this fierce hatred which you seem to entertain for
me,” began Earle, regarding him thoughtfully.

“You have hit the nail on the head at last. I hate you—_I hate you_—and
I have _cause_ to hate you,” Sumner Dalton answered, shaking like a leaf
in the wind, as he uttered the fearful words.

“I repeat, I cannot understand it,” Earle said, wonderingly.

“I suppose, practically speaking, you do not even know the meaning of
the word,” sneered Mr. Dalton.

“I _hope_ I do not, sir. We are commanded not to hate, but rather to
love our enemies, and to do good to those who injure us.”

“I suppose you put that in practice, since you preach it?”

“I _desire_ to practice it most certainly,” was the grave response.

“How would it be if you could find those real thieves, for whom you
pretend you have suffered disgrace?” was the searching query.

Earle’s face was very noble and earnest as he returned, thoughtfully:

“Beyond proving my own innocence, and justifying myself in the yes of
the world, I believe I can honestly say I wish them no ill.”

“And you would revenge yourself by making them serve a _double
sentence_, if you could?” demanded Mr. Dalton, skeptically.

“It might be necessary for the good of the public that they should be
put where they could do no more injury; but it would afford me no
personal gratification, I can assure you,” Earle answered, with a sigh,
feeling that it would be but sad pleasure to be the cause of another’s
serving out a term of weary years in State prison, as he had done.

Then, with a pitying glance at his enemy, he said, even more gently than
he had yet spoken:

“Mr. Dalton, did you never read what Milton says of that ignoble
sentiment of which you speak?

               ‘Revenge, at first though sweet,
               Bitter ere long back on itself recoils.’”

Mr. Dalton laughed, mockingly.

“You should have continued your very apt quotation, for, if I remember
rightly, a few lines below read like this:

                 ‘I reck not, so it light well aimed—

                        ·       ·       ·       ·       ·

                 Spite then with spite is best repaid.’

I must confess that your creed is beyond both my comprehension and
inclination; and, mark my words, you yourself will yet prove it
fallacious by practical illustration.”

“I trust not, sir; the world would be a sad place in which to live if
such passion ran riot in the hearts of all men,” Earle said, sadly.

“Let an enemy fall into your hands and see; let some one do you a deadly
injury—let him crush your hopes, and every prospect for the fulfillment
of your ambitious desires, and bar you forever from the one prize you
covet most on earth, and then see if you will preach about love to your
enemies,” Mr. Dalton said, with a fierceness that was absolutely
startling, and Earle wondered more and more what possible connection all
this could have with his hatred of him.

He was not conscious of having crushed any of his hopes, nor of
hindering the fulfillment of any ambitious desires, nor of barring him
from any coveted prize, although he thought Mr. Dalton was guilty of all
this in regard to himself.

“Are _you_ not doing that very thing now? Are you not seeking to wrest
from me the dearest object which earth holds for me?” he asked, gently,
and really pitying one who was so at the mercy of his fierce passions.

“Yes; and aren’t you longing to grapple me with those powerful hands of
yours and crush me for it?” he laughed in return.

“Honestly, no, Mr. Dalton,” Earle exclaimed, with solemn earnestness; “I
would not avail myself of the slightest advantage to do you an injury.
You suffer more from the exercise of your own vindictiveness than I ever
can from its effects.”

“And yet you are determined to marry _her_,” with a gesture toward
Editha, who now sat with bowed head weeping, “in spite of all my
threats?”

“Not ‘in spite of your threats,’ Mr. Dalton, for they do not move me in
the least; but because our love and our happiness are both too sacred to
be sacrificed to the malice of any one,” Earle replied, with dignity.

“You will not heed me—you are determined to marry Editha?” he demanded,
scowling darkly.

“If Miss Dalton consents to be my wife, I shall most certainly make her
so.”

“And you will not be warned?”

“What possible cause, sir, can you have for this fierce opposition and
resentment? _Will_ you tell me?” Earle demanded, nearly wearied out with
this controversy.

“_No_; that is my secret—I shall not tell it to you. _I shall keep it to
crush you both with; and crush you it will, if you attempt to thwart
me_,” he answered, sternly.

Earle bent his head in deep thought for a moment, then, seeking Mr.
Dalton’s eye with a searching look, he said:

“Mr. Dalton, tell me one thing; it is not possible—you do not think that
it is Editha’s money I am seeking?”

“It would not be so strange a thing if you were; Editha has a pretty
penny of her own; but let me tell you not a dollar of it will you get
more than you have already got,” he snapped, savagely, and with a scowl
at his daughter, as he thus referred to her defiance of him regarding
Richard Forrester’s legacy to Earle.

“I have never touched that money, sir, nor do I ever intend to do so;
and it seems to me as if that fact alone should convince you that I am
no fortune-hunter,” the young man said, flushing with disgust that such
a motive should be imputed to him.

“That is a very pretty theory, and doubtless wins that silly girl’s
warmest admiration, as being so disinterested and noble in you; when, if
you should be so fortunate as to succeed in your designs to marry her,
you would have the handling of the whole,” was the sarcastic rejoinder.

“Sir, if you were any other than Editha’s father you would be made to
repent of and apologize for those words.”

Earle’s eyes emitted glances of fire, and his clenched hands and heaving
chest showed how hard it was for him to refrain from bestowing the
chastisement the evil-minded man so richly merited.

A sardonic grin for a moment distorted Mr. Dalton’s features at these
words; but, turning to Editha, who at that last insult to her lover had
risen and now stood at his side, white and quivering with pain and
indignation, he said, in low, concentrated tones:

“Remember, if you dare to defy me in this matter as you did in the
other, my secret and my hate shall crush you both.”

Then, without another word, he turned and left the room.




                              CHAPTER XVI
                              THE PARTING


“Oh, Earle, what can he mean? For the first time in my life I am
actually afraid of my own father,” Editha said, sinking back upon the
sofa from which she had so recently arisen, and bursting into nervous
weeping.

Earle knelt upon the floor beside her, and, lifting her head to his
breast, folded his strong arms around her.

“My darling, I think he is so beside himself with anger at some fancied
injury that he scarcely knows what he means himself. Do not allow his
words to distress you, Editha, and time, I feel, will bring everything
right,” he said, soothingly.

“Papa has changed so during the last two or three years—I cannot
understand it at all. He used to pet and indulge me as a child, and only
laughed at my whims and fancies, as he termed my childish wilfulness;
but, since mamma’s and Uncle Richard’s death, he has seemed entirely
indifferent. He will not bear the least opposition from me upon any
subject. We have had more than one controversy regarding you, Earle—I
_will_ stand up for what I know to be right and honorable, and if it
happens to conflict with his ideas, he is so angry. Besides——”

She stopped suddenly, blushing vividly.

“Well, my ‘happiness?’” Earle said, encouragingly.

“I had occasion to offend him deeply not long ago, and I suppose he
cannot recover from his disappointment.”

Then she went on to tell him of Mr. Tressalia’s proposals, and her
repeated rejection of the same.

“I should not feel it right to speak of this to any one else,” she said,
in conclusion, “for I think it is very wrong for any woman to boast of
having given pain in any such way; but henceforth I am to have no
secrets from you, and it is but proper that you should know of this.”

“I thought perhaps Mr. Tressalia would win you, Editha, at one time, and
such _was_ the report,” Earle said, wondering if she had read of that
gentleman’s succession to a marquisate and great possessions.

But she knew nothing of it as yet, and only nestled nearer to him as she
returned:

“Did you hear of that, Earle, and did you believe it?”

“I cannot say that I _really_ believed it, for I cherished a little hope
myself all the time; and yet I do not know but that it is a wonder he
did not carry off my treasure after all,” he returned, as he folded her
closer.

“No, it is not a wonder; if there had been no _Earle Wayne_ in
existence, I _might have_ learned to love _him_, but there _was_ an
Earle Wayne in the world, consequently it was an impossibility,” Editha
answered, with a twinkling little smile in her deep blue eyes.

Earle bent and touched her red lips with fond thanks for the sweet words
they had uttered; but there was an expression of thoughtfulness mingled
with anxiety on his brow.

“Mr. Tressalia is a noble man, if he is all you represent him, and it is
a sad thing to have all his hopes blighted thus,” he said, in tones of
regret.

“Yes; I cannot tell you how sorry I was for him, and I hope I may never
see such a look on another face as long as I live as I saw on his when I
left him that night,” Editha replied, her eyes filling with tears at the
remembrance.

“Editha,” Earle said, suddenly, after a short silence, “_you_ do not
believe that I care for your fortune—that I give it even a thought?”

“My sensitive Earle, no,” she answered, with a skeptical smile.

“Then I am going to propose a bold measure. I dread—I almost fear to go
away and leave you. I know you will be unhappy with your father’s
displeasure constantly following you, and I have a strange
presentiment—something tells me that I must not leave you behind. Editha
will you marry me and go with me to Europe to-morrow as my wife?”

“Earle!”

She started from his unfolding arms, sitting suddenly erect, her face as
white as a snow-flake at the proposition.

“Does the idea startle you so, my own? It is so sudden, I know; but
would it not be best for our mutual happiness?”

“And papa—would be left behind entirely alone,” she said, thoughtfully.

“Only for a short time, dearest. I shall return as soon as I can arrange
my business there to do so, even if I have to go back afterward. Perhaps
by that time Mr. Dalton will look at matters in a different light from
what he does now,” Earle urged.

Editha heaved a long sigh that meant a good many things.

“Earle, I would like it _so_ much,” she said, sorrowfully, after a long
and thoughtful pause, “both the going to Europe, where I have always
longed to go, and—being your wife; but——”

His arms clasped her more tightly at that word of doubt.

“Must there be a ‘but?’” he whispered.

“I am afraid there must,” and her hand went up to his face with a
caressing motion. “Perhaps if I stay and wait I may be able to win papa
over to our way of thinking. At any rate, I must strive for peace with
him. It will not be so very long, will it, Earle?”

“I cannot tell, dear, exactly how long. I may have to be gone six
months; I do not think it can possibly take any longer than that to
decide my case.”

“Six months!” with another sigh and slight quiver of her lips. “I feel
that it is best to wait, Earle. I must be patient, and try to do what is
right. Papa may be angry with me, but I cannot think he is wholly devoid
of affection for me, and he is so alone in the world, he might miss me.”

“It shall be just as you wish or say,” Earle replied, but looking
disappointed nevertheless. It really seemed to him as if something told
him he _must not_ leave her behind. “I would rather come to you with my
hands full,” he added; “and Editha, if I am successful in my business
abroad, I feel that even your father, with all his prejudice against me,
will be proud to give you to me.”

“That settles it, then Earle; we shall wait; for it is better to win
than to displease him. But I shall miss you; it is hard to let you go,”
she said, with a quiver in her voice.

“My darling, do you not think it is hard also for me to go away and
leave you—particularly as I fear you are not going to be very happy?
And, dearest, for fear that something may happen to our letters, in the
_same way that there did your flowers_, I will secure a lock-box at the
office for you before I go, and send you the key.”

“That will be a good plan,” she answered, flushing.

It was hard to feel that her father would be guilty of anything so
underhanded as to intercept her letters, but she had discovered, by
questioning his servant, that he had intercepted and destroyed her
flowers, and the distrust now would naturally arise.

“Every mail, dear,” Earle went on, “I shall expect to hear from you, and
I will write as often to you. Now, my darling, I must say farewell. I
shall not have time to come again, as I have much to do, and the steamer
sails to-morrow at noon.”

“So soon? Can I let you go so soon?” Editha sighed; then, looking up
with an effort to smile, she added: “I ought not to murmur, for, of
course, the sooner you go the sooner you will return.”

“That is my brave little comforter. I could not bear to leave you
sorrowing. Now put your hands in mine and tell me once for all that you
love me, then I can go quite content,” Earle pleaded; but his lips
trembled slightly, nevertheless, as they sought hers in a mute caress,
for this parting was not an easy thing for him, strong man though he
was.

Editha folded her white hands together and laid them upon his palm.

“I love you, Earle; I never have loved any one but you; and I shall love
only you as long as my life shall last,” she said, solemnly, her grave,
sweet eyes lifted with a beautiful trust to his face.

“Bless you, my ‘happiness;’ I cannot help calling you that, it is so
fitting; those words will ring sweetly in my ears all the long months I
am separated from you.”

He bent and touched her white forehead with his lips, then, with a long,
fond embrace, he bade her farewell and went away.

                  *       *       *       *       *

At half-past eleven the next morning Editha Dalton’s carriage might have
been seen drawn close to the wharf near where the great steamer which
was to bear her lover across the ocean lay panting like a thing of life
in mortal agony.

Earle had said he could not come to see her again, but she had resolved
to go to see him off instead.

She must look once more into his face, and hear him speak again in the
tones that had grown so dear to her.

Her fair face looked forth from the carriage window, her eager eyes
anxiously searching the countenance of each new-comer as he hurried
toward the boat anxious to secure his state-room and get settled for the
voyage.

Perhaps, after all, she thinks, as she looks in vain for the beloved
face, she was foolish to come, and will miss him in the throng and
confusion.

But her heart longs inexpressibly for one last look, and word, and
hand-clasp, and she resolves to linger until the last moment.

But suddenly her face lights and flushes, and a glad, tender gleam beams
from her beautiful eyes. She sees a manly form coming with quick, firm
tread toward the wharf.

He also is evidently musing upon something pleasant for a smile of rare
sweetness curls his handsome lips, and lights his noble face.

All at once he lifts his head, and, as if drawn by some magnetic
influence, his eyes meet those of his betrothed, and, with a bound, he
is beside her carriage in an instant.

“My darling! I did not expect this,” he said, with a warm clasp of her
hand, his face all aglow.

“I could not help it, Earle; it was foolish in me, I suppose, after you
had once said ‘good-by,’” she said, with a lovely color rising in her
cheeks.

“A very agreeable kind of foolishness to me, dear; and I shall take it
as a good omen for my journey, that I have had such a pleasant
surprise,” he answered, smiling tenderly down upon that lovely face,
with its shining golden crown.

It was the most beautiful thing in all the world to him.

“I was not sure of seeing you, but I thought at least I should see the
vessel that was to take you away from me, and that would be something,”
she returned, with an answering smile, though it bade fair to be rather
a dewy one, judging from the tears in her eyes.

“Do you so dread to have me go, Editha? I _wish_ I might have taken you
with me,” he said, wistfully, as he noted the tears “something
unaccountably impresses me that you will not be safe until I have you
within my sheltering care.”

“I shall not express another regret if it is going to trouble you so;
but, Earle, I shall be glad to have _you_ safely back again,” she
returned, leaning toward him with a yearning on her fair face that
thrilled him through and through.

“My darling, do you know how very lovely you are?” he asked, with eager
fondness, as his eyes lingered upon the sweet picture before him.

She flashed a brilliant glance at him and colored beautifully at this
involuntary tribute.

“You should not say such things to me, Earle. You will make me vain,”
she said, with playful chiding, yet her lips wore a smile of tremulous
tenderness, as if she was glad to be lovely in his eyes.

He laughed softly.

“I am to tell you just what I like, my own, all the rest of your life.
Do you know it? And I am not in the least afraid of the result of which
you speak. Do you know, beloved,” dropping his voice and speaking with
an intensity that moved her whole being, “that all the world has changed
for me since yesterday?”

A quick, luminous glance up into the eyes bent so fondly upon her, a
rare, sweet smile and a deepening flush, told him that this change had
not touched him alone.

The ringing of a bell now startled them.

“I must not detain you,” Editha said, with a sigh and an anxious glance
at the steamer, where all was bustle and confusion.

“Not long, I fear. But you will take good care of my ‘happiness’ for me
while I am away?” he returned, tenderly.

“I will do the best that I can, Earle; but how I shall wish the time
away. See, I have brought you these, and,” with a sly look and smile,
“if you can read this mute language, you will know all I would like to
tell you and cannot,” and she put into his hands an elegant and
carefully selected bouquet of flowers.

He took them with fond thanks, and involuntarily laid the bright
blossoms, weighted with their fragrance, against his lips. Then, with a
sudden start and a brilliant smile, he said, eagerly:

“Ah! strange I did not think before; but now I can give you something
that I purchased this morning, hoping to have time to drop it in the
office for you, but did not after all.”

He took a little case from his pocket, opened it, and drew forth a
lovely ring, set with one large, rare, pure pearl.

“Hold out the finger I want, Editha,” he commanded, softly.

And, with downcast eyes and a deeper, richer surging of color, she held
out the forefinger of her left hand, while, with a look of reverence and
solemn joy, he slipped the ring to its place.

“I am glad that I can put it on myself, instead of sending it, as I
thought I must. Do you like it, Editha?” he asked, regarding the shyly
downcast face with exceeding tenderness.

“I cannot tell you how much, Earle.”

“I am glad. I suppose, however, that a diamond would have been the
proper thing, since, being the most precious stone, it perhaps more
fitly represents the most precious gift a man can receive; but to me
this pure hearted pearl is a more appropriate symbol of the love I have
won than the cold glitter of diamonds. My darling, this small hand
belongs to me now.”

“Yes, Earle, it is all your own,” Editha answered, now raising her eyes,
which were full of tender tears, to his.

Then, with a movement graceful as it was involuntary, she lifted her
hand and touched her lips to the pure, gleaming pearl.

Earle’s look spoke volumes as he noted the act, and brought the
ever-ready blushes quickly to the fair face again.

Editha smiled, and, to cover her confusion, said, archly:

“It is well, is it not, to yield _gracefully_ to the bonds that bind
one?”

“My love—my love!” Earle answered, with a look of tender affection, “you
never can know how precious you are to me. I wish—oh, how I wish I could
take you with me; but I must go now.”

With no other farewell than one long, long hand-clasp, one fond,
lingering glance—for other eyes were upon them—he was gone, mingling
with the crowd, and so passed from her sight.

That night, when Sumner Dalton saw the pale gleam of that pure pearl
upon Editha’s finger, a sinister look crept into his eyes and curved the
corners of his mouth, though he gave no other sign that he had seen it.

“Do they think to defy me thus?” he muttered to himself, when he was
alone again. “Let them beware, _both_ of them. I will not brook such
opposition to my will. If it were not for the very convenient purse of
little Miss Independence, I would crush her now, before this thing goes
any further. What can the youngster have gone to Europe for? It cannot
be that——”

Sumner Dalton seemed to be smitten with some sudden and startling
thought that made him grow very pale and troubled.

“No, no,” he went on, after thinking awhile, “it is as utterly
_impossible_ as that the sun should cease to shine.”




                              CHAPTER XVII
                         EDITHA BESTOWS CHARITY


The time, for the first week or two after Earle’s departure, dragged
heavily to Editha, and then, with her usual good sense, she resolved to
fill up the months of his absence with work—the very best antidote in
the world for all life’s weariness and ills. Consequently, she set
herself a daily task in music and in perfecting herself in the languages
of German and French, and after that time flew as if on magic wings.

Twice every week she wrote to Earle, and twice every week she heard from
him. And such letters as they were, too! Full of such deep, strong,
abiding devotion as only such men as he are capable of feeling and
expressing.

Whether Mr. Dalton suspected the flight and reception of these little
white-winged messengers of love was a matter of doubt to Editha. At all
events they were none of them intercepted or tampered with, since she
alone held the key to lock-box 1,004, and trusted no one else with it.

She wondered often what the nature of Earle’s business abroad could be,
and what great good he expected it to bring him if he was successful.

She wondered if it was some case connected with the lords and nobles of
that country, and by which some American descendant expected to be
elevated to the nobility of the land.

She built many a romance and castle in the air, but whether they would
stand or fall she could not tell until her lover’s return. He did not
mention business matters to her in his letters, and therefore she had no
means of knowing whether he was meeting with success or not.

                  *       *       *       *       *

“Please, miss, give me a dime, my father is dying and we’ve neither fire
nor bread.”

These were the plaintive words which greeted Editha’s ears one cold,
threatening evening, as she was hurrying to reach the shelter of her
home before the storm should overtake her.

She had been out, as usual, to recite her German and French, and on
returning had stopped to do a little shopping, and it had begun to grow
dark before she was through.

In passing through a narrow alley to shorten the distance and catch a
car, the above words had fallen upon her ears.

No bread, no fire this cold, dismal night, she thought, with a shudder,
as a blue, emaciated hand was extended to receive the pittance craved.

Editha involuntarily stopped and turned toward the voice, and found
herself face to face with a young girl of about fourteen years of age.

She was tall for her age, and painfully thin, and very scantily clad. A
thin and tattered shawl was wrapped around her shoulders, and one end
also served for a covering for her head.

Her stockings were nothing but a covering to hide the nakedness of her
limbs, while through the gaping shoes, which had never been mates,
Editha could plainly see her cold and purple toes.

The sad face was blue and pinched, with such a hungry, appealing look in
the large, dark eyes that it went straight to Miss Dalton’s heart.

For an instant, as she stood there beside the forlorn little waif, her
own rich furs and elegant velvet cloak, with its costly trimmings,
brushing that scantily-clad figure, a feeling of shame and
self-condemnation rushed over her that so much should be lavished upon
herself while one of Christ’s poor was in want and suffering so near.

“How cold you look, my poor child! Why don’t you go home, instead of
staying here in the dismal street?” she asked, pityingly. The girl
shivered.

“We haven’t got any fire at home. If some one would only give me a
dime!” she pleaded.

“No fire on this wretched day?” Editha repeated, sorrowfully.

“No, miss; and father’s dying, and mother nearly stupid with the cold,
and we haven’t had anything to eat to-day.”

“Oh!” gasped Editha, horrified.

“I thought, miss, if I could only beg a dime of some one,” the girl went
on, encouraged by her sympathy, “I could buy a few coals and make father
a little gruel—there _is_ a handful of meal left.”

Her pitying heart prompted her to go at once to ascertain and relieve
the necessities of these wretched people; but she knew it was not always
safe for a lady to enter those poverty-stricken abodes alone, and
particularly so late in the day.

She was not sure either that the girl was telling her the truth, though
she undoubtedly was an object of charity, and should not be left to
suffer in her thin clothing—and there was no mistaking the look of
hunger in her wan face.

Looking up, she espied a policeman not far distant. She beckoned him,
and he immediately responded to her summons.

“Do you know much about the people in this street?” she asked.

“Yes, miss; I know that they’re a miserable set, mostly,” he returned,
politely touching his hat.

“Miserable?—how?”

“Why, so poor they can hardly keep soul and body together, while some of
them are desperate and vicious.”

“This girl tells me that her father is dying, and they have no fire, nor
anything to eat. Do you know her?” Editha asked, calling his attention
to her companion.

“Oh, this is Milly Loker,” he said, recognizing her at once. “Yes, I
know her well, and I reckon she’s told you the truth, for they’ve had a
hard time of it along back.”

“If this is the case I will go home with her and see what I can do to
relieve their suffering. I am alone, and it is growing dark, so if you
will please have an eye upon this vicinity for the next half-hour or so,
I shall be obliged to you,” Editha said, as she turned to go with Milly.

“Yes, miss; I’ll see that no harm comes to you, and the house is only a
few steps from here,” he answered respectfully.

“Thank you. And now, my poor child, I will see what I can do for your
comfort,” Editha said, turning to the girl.

She found her wiping away the great tears with a corner of her shawl,
and her heart was deeply touched at the sight.

Without saying anything in reply, she turned and walked toward a
miserable-looking tenement-house only a few steps away. The door hung
swinging upon one hinge, making a dismal, creaking noise that sent the
chills anew over Editha.

Passing up a flight of dirty, broken stairs, Milly opened another door,
which led into a bare and wretched-looking apartment, having only one
window, and that broken in several places, the holes being stuffed with
rags. Upon a rude bed in one corner lay the wasted form of a man; his
hollow and unshaven face making an unsightly spectacle against the not
too clean pillow on which it lay.

He was sleeping, and a woman, scarcely less wretched in appearance, sat
in a broken chair by his side, her elbows resting upon her knees, and
her head bowed upon her hands. A small, cracked stove, upon which there
was a broken-nosed tea-kettle, was the only other piece of furniture in
the room.

“Mother,” whispered Milly, as soon as Editha had entered and she had
closed the door, “here is a lady who says she will help us.”

The girl passed lightly over the floor and stood by the woman’s side,
placing one hand on her shoulder to attract her attention.

She lifted her haggard face in a bewildered way, and gazed with a vacant
stare first upon her child, then upon Editha.

“Help!” she muttered, her hands working nervously. “We’ll need help
soon, or——”

A shudder finished the sentence more impressively than words could have
done, and then, without taking any further notice of her strange
visitor, she relapsed into her former indifference and position.

Editha was appalled at what she saw. She had not dreamed of such misery
as this, and her face grew white and grave with sorrow and pity. Drawing
her purse from her pocket, she took a bill from it with eager, trembling
fingers.

“Milly,” she said, in a low tone, pressing it into her hand, “go quickly
and get something with which to make a fire and something to eat; you
know what you need better than I can tell you.”

The words were scarcely uttered when the child’s thin fingers clutched
the money, and with a smothered cry of thankfulness, she was gone like a
flash of light.

Editha then turned her attention to the mother. Going to her side, she
touched her gently on the shoulder.

“My poor woman,” she said, kindly, “how long have you been like this?”

She looked up again, with the same vacant stare as before.

“What?” she said, in hollow tones.

Editha repeated her question.

“We’ve had no fire for a week, miss,” she said, with an effort to arouse
herself; “but it hasn’t been quite so bad until to-day, for the sun
comes in at the window when it’s pleasant, and we could sit in that and
keep comfortable.”

Comfortable!

Editha thought of the cheerful fire in her grate at home, while the
house was also heated from attic to cellar with steam, and her heart
smote her painfully.

“And have you absolutely _nothing_ to eat?” she asked, her eyes filling
with tears.

“We have not been entirely without food until to-day; we ate our last
penny’s worth of bread yesterday,” the woman answered, with a deep-drawn
sigh, and, from her manner of speaking, Editha instinctively knew that
at some previous time in her life she had known “better days.”

“Has your husband been ill long?” she asked, with a glance toward the
ghastly sleeper.

“Two or three months; he had a bad fall awhile ago, and lay out in the
rain and cold for several hours. The fall strained him, and that, with
the cold he took, threw him into a quick consumption. He will live only
a few days longer,” she concluded, with a sigh. “But how do _you_ happen
to be here?” she asked a moment after, with a stare of surprise at
Editha’s rich garments. It had but just come to her that she was
entertaining a very unusual guest.

“I met your daughter in the street, and she told me of your suffering;
so I came to see what I could do for you,” was the gentle answer.

“Poor Milly!” the woman sighed, and then, seeming to be overcome by
stupor, fell back into her former position.

She was so weakened by hunger, and cold, and the fatigue of watching,
that she was scarcely conscious of Editha’s presence, and had answered
her questions in a mechanical sort of way.

Ere long a quick, light step sounded on the stairs, and the next moment
Milly entered, bearing a basket of coal in one hand, a pail and two or
three packages in the other.

“Here, mother, come quick,” she said, in an eager whisper; “help me make
a fire and warm broth for father. I got it ’round the corner at the
oyster-house.”

She had deposited her burdens in the middle of the floor, and was down
upon her knees before the warped and cracked stove before she had ceased
speaking, nimbly yet quietly laying the kindlings, which in another
instant she kindled, and a cheerful roar and crackling sounded through
the room, giving promise of warmth and comfort ere long.

“That’s the sweetest music we’ve heard for a month, isn’t it mother?”
Milly said, in a cheery whisper; and Mrs. Loker, as if aroused by the
unaccustomed sound, arose and dragged her weary steps across the floor
toward where she sat.

But her strength was exhausted before she reached her, and she sank down
beside the stove, helpless and nearly fainting.

Milly, meanwhile, had produced a candle from somewhere, which she
lighted and set upon the mantel over the stove.

“Drink a little of this, mother,” the child said, springing to her and
putting the pail to her blue lips.

The woman eagerly grasped it and swallowed a few mouthfuls of the oyster
broth which it contained.

“Poor mother!” Milly said, pityingly. “I know you feel as if the bottom
had dropped out of your stomach. I did, and I _couldn’t_ help nibbling
just a little on the way home. Now eat this;” and she broke off a
mouthful of soft roll and gently forced it into Mrs. Loker’s mouth.

It was the saddest sight that the delicate and daintily-bred Editha
Dalton had ever seen in her life; and she could only stand there and
weep silently, while she watched that hungry child feeding her starving
mother with tender, loving hands.

Do pearls and diamonds never grow heavy with the weight of poverty’s
tears? Does the rustle of satins and silks never whisper of
hunger-moans? Do those rare and ghost-like laces, wrought with the
cunning device, and worth their weight in gold, never oppress the hearts
of the fair women who wear them?—are they never burdened with the sighs
of those whose scant covering scarcely conceals their nakedness, and
much less serves as a protection against the chilling blasts of winter,
and whom it would take the price of but one single yard of that delicate
lace to feed, and warm, and clothe?

Will the gratification of pride, and the wilful extravagance of which
these things are the result, afford any satisfaction when, at the last
call, the rich and the poor must meet on equal ground, and one shall
say: “I was an hungered and ye gave me no meat, I was athirst and ye
gave me no drink, naked and ye clothed me not, sick and in prison and ye
visited me not?”

Something of all this flitted through Editha Dalton’s mind as, standing
in that wretched room, she witnessed the heart-rending scene already
described, and, with a silent prayer that God would strengthen her
purpose, she resolved that henceforth her charities should be increased
fourfold.

A genial warmth began to pervade the room, a gentle simmering sound came
from the pail upon the stove, and an appetizing smell as well.

The woman, gaining strength from the nourishment she had taken, and also
feeling cheered and refreshed, arose and assisted her child to prepare
something for the husband and father.

The sick man now stirred and coughed feebly, then, becoming aware that
something unusual was transpiring, he opened his sunken eyes and looked
around.

The first object they rested upon was Editha, who had turned toward him
when he moved, and who looked like some fair, beautiful creature from
another sphere, as she was standing there with the flickering light
falling full upon her face, her golden hair, and rich robes.

The man no sooner saw her than an expression of recognition and fear
stole over his features.

“She has come! She has hunted me down at last!” he cried, in hollow
tones, and shrinking further down in the bed, but with his eyes still
fastened as if by magnetism upon Editha.

“Father,” cried Milly, cheerfully, “I’ll have something nice for you in
a moment.”

“No, no; don’t let them take me away to jail; I ain’t able to go to
prison,” he moaned, feebly, and trembling as if with fear.

His wife hastened to his side.

“No, John; no one shall disturb you or harm you,” she said, soothingly.
“His mind is weak, ma’am, when he first wakes,” she continued, turning
to Editha.

“No, my mind isn’t weak,” the man replied, impatiently. “I know her, and
she’s found me out at last;” and, raising his emaciated hand, he pointed
with one long, bony finger at their visitor.

“John, be quiet. You do not know the lady; she is a stranger, who came
with Milly to help us,” returned his wife, trying to quiet him.

“She’s found me out at last,” he repeated, his eyes still fixed upon
Editha. “She’s the rich chap’s girl, whose house we—Tom Drake and
I—cracked three or four years ago. She was asleep when we went into her
room and stole her trinkets; but she looked so beautiful that I’ve never
forgotten her face. I tried to make Tom leave her bracelets and rings,
but he wouldn’t. It’s Miss Dalton, Maria, and I tell you she’s come to
send me to prison.”




                             CHAPTER XVIII
                        JOHN LOKER’S CONFESSION


The man had risen on his elbow, and was staring with the most abject
fear at Editha, trembling and shivering until his teeth chattered in his
head.

His mind evidently was very weak—so weak that, under the influence of
the sudden shock caused by seeing the young girl, he was babbling of
secrets which otherwise he would never have dared to betray.

His first words had caused Editha only surprise, but as he went on her
heart gave a sudden, wild bound that for the moment turned her giddy and
faint.

She comprehended at once, when he spoke of having “cracked” her father’s
house and of taking her “trinkets,” that she was in the presence of one
who knew something about, and doubtless had participated in, that
robbery so long ago, and for which crime Earle had so unjustly suffered.
A cry of thankfulness nearly escaped her lips at this almost
overwhelming knowledge.

Earle would be free at last—every taint would be obliterated, and he
could henceforth walk the earth as proudly as the proudest.

This was the one thought that was uppermost in her mind as she waited
almost breathlessly for him to say more.

“You see, miss,” his wife here interfered, turning a white, anxious face
to her, “he does not know what he is saying, and he is getting very much
excited. If—if—I thank you—I _bless_ you for your kindness and the
comfort you have brought us; but if you will please go away now while I
quiet him——”

“No, no, Maria, you shall not send her away!” exclaimed the sick man,
growing more excited. “She shall stay now, and I’ll tell her all about
it, if she’ll only promise not to send me to prison.”

“No one shall send you there, John,” Mrs. Loker tried to say quietly,
though Editha could see that she was very much disturbed also.

The opportunity was one that must not be lost, however.

She felt that the man was dying—he could not live many days; and if he
knew anything that would clear Earle from dishonor, she must discover it
now.

She walked quickly and softly to his bedside, and, speaking very kindly,
said:

“Mr. Loker, do not be disturbed. I promise you that no harm shall come
to you, and you shall have every comfort as long as you live, if you can
prove to me that what you have just stated is true.”

Her tones were so gentle, and her eyes so mild and kind, that he was
instantly reassured.

He fell back upon his pillow, panting for breath.

“Do you hear, Maria? She says—no harm shall—come. I’ve dreamed—of her
for weeks—as she lay there sleeping—so innocent—and—beautiful—while—we
stole her treasures.”

“Hush, John, _please_,” whispered his wife, greatly distressed.

“No, Maria; I want to tell her all about it now. It _is_ Miss Dalton,
isn’t it?” and he scanned her face eagerly, as if he feared he might
possibly have made a mistake.

“Yes, I am Miss Dalton; and, if you are able, I want you to tell me all
about the night of which you speak,” Editha answered.

“I’d have been glad to confess it then, rather than let that fine young
fellow go to prison,” he continued, with a deep sigh; “but Tom declared
he’d kill me if I peached, and so I—had to hold my tongue.”

He paused for breath, and Mr. Loker, turning beseechingly to Editha,
said:

“Miss, I cannot bear him to run on so. Won’t you _please_ go?”

But Editha was determined she would not. Here she had, in the strangest
manner imaginable, stumbled across one of the burglars who had so
successfully committed a great robbery and then escaped punishment,
while another had paid the penalty; and she was resolved to learn the
whole story now, if such a thing was possible.

If the man should die without confessing the guilt that seemed to lie so
heavy on his conscience, all possibility of clearing Earle from
suspicion and restoring his fair fame would be forever lost.

She disliked to give the suffering woman pain, but Earle’s character was
dearer to her than aught else, and it would be a cruel wrong to him to
heed her request and go.

The man was evidently anxious to confess his guilt; it lay heavy on his
heart. He doubtless knew he could not live long, and he desired to make
a clean breast of everything before he should die.

No, she must stay and learn what she could; but first she felt that the
sufferer ought to have some nourishment; he was already much exhausted
from his recent excitement, and his strength would not hold out unless
he could first have something to eat.

Editha went to Milly and assisted her to prepare the broth, which was
already warm, and the child then, with grateful thanks, took it to him
and fed him with her own hands.

He eagerly took all she gave him as if he also was nearly famished, and
then seized the soft roll which she had in her hand, eating it with
evident relish.

His hunger satisfied, he beckoned Editha again to his side.

“How came you here to-night, Miss Dalton?” he asked.

She explained how it had happened, and he muttered, half to himself:

“Yes, yes, I see; you were sent here that justice might at last be
done.”

“John,” pleaded his wife anxiously, “you are not strong enough to talk
any more.”

She shrank from the disgraceful confession she saw he had determined to
make.

“Maria, you keep still,” he returned, with some show of impatience; “you
know how heavy this thing has lain on my conscience ever since that
youngster went to prison in my stead; and now that fate has opened a
way, I am going to make it right, or as right as I can, if I die the
next minute. Miss Dalton cannot stand,” he added, with considerable
thoughtfulness; “let her have your chair, and you sit on the bed.”

In obedience to his request, Mrs. Loker arose from the chair, but,
instead of sitting upon the bed, she sank down upon the floor beside it
and buried her face in the clothes with a groan.

Editha gladly took the seat thus vacated for her, for she, too, was weak
and trembling with excitement.

“I suppose you see that I cannot live long,” John Loker said to her; and
holding up his thin hand between his eyes and the light, it looked
almost transparent.

“You look very ill, sir,” she answered, gently.

“What’s become of that young chap who was sentenced for that robbery?”
he demanded, abruptly, after a moment.

“He is in Europe now.”

“He had true grit in him; he never winced nor showed the white feather
once during the trial,” he said, in an admiring tone.

“How do you know?” Editha asked, in surprise.

“Tom Drake and I sat by and heard the whole thing through.”

“You did?” she cried out in pain. “How could you?”

Only to think of it—the real criminals so near to justice and Earle
convicted instead! It was horrible!

“Yes, we heard the case clear through; we heard the sentence passed upon
him; and he stood up so proud, and calm, and handsome, and bore it
without a whimper.”

“How could you?” Editha again asked, reproachfully.

“I don’t know, Miss Dalton, but folks get hardened to almost anything
nowadays,” he replied, sighing. “It was cheeky, risky business for us to
sit there, with some of those very diamonds and trinkets hidden away on
our persons, and let another man be tried for what we had done.”

Editha shuddered.

“I must confess,” he went on, “that I never felt so mean in all my life
as when I saw him turn white about the mouth when the jury brought in
their verdict; and then, when you jumped up so brave and eager, and
declared he _was not guilty_, I was so near confessing the whole thing
that Tom laid a heavy hand on me and told me, with a look in his eye
that meant business, that he’d kill me on the spot if I made so much as
a sign. Of course, I did not dare to move after that,” he went on, with
a deprecating look into the fair girl’s reproachful eyes.

“But there is such a thing as turning State’s evidence. Couldn’t you
have done that, and then, if this other one was more guilty than you, he
would have suffered the penalty, and you would have gone free?” Editha
asked eagerly.

“I thought of that, miss, and I know Tom suspected me, too, for he
dogged me all the time; and then, I’d been entangled in so many other
things, I should probably have got deeper into the mire. We reasoned
that they would be easy with the young chap—he’d only have a short
sentence—when, if they’d caught us, we’d have had ten or fifteen years
for being old hands at the business.”

“It was a wicked, cruel thing to do, to let an innocent man suffer as he
suffered!” Editha exclaimed, forgetting for a moment, in her
indignation, that she was speaking to a dying man.

“I know it—I see it now, miss, and I’ve been afraid to die with that on
my mind; perhaps, if I confess the whole, I shall feel easier. I’ll tell
you the whole story, if you like,” he returned, humbly.

“Yes, do,” she cried, eagerly. “It can do no harm to confess it now, and
will be an act of justice to the innocent—it will clear Mr. Wayne from
the disgrace that otherwise must always rest upon him.”

“Wayne! Yes, that was his name. What was the other? It was a sort of
high-sounding one, if I remember right,” he asked.

“Earle Wayne was the name,” Editha replied, with a rising flush as she
pronounced it.

Whether it was “high-sounding” or not, it was the dearest name in all
the world to her, and she could not speak it without a thrill.

“He was a particular friend o’ yours, wan’t he?” he inquired, with, a
quick, searching look into the glowing face.

“Yes; but I’m ready to hear your story now.”

She did not deem it at all necessary to enter into the particulars of
her relationship with Earle for his benefit.

“Well, as you say, it can do no harm to confess it now, and Tom Drake
can’t hurt me, either—nobody will dare touch a dying man, though he did
swear he’d kill me if I ever lisped a word of it. I know he meant what
he said; and, miss, though I’ve been _driven_ to stealing for a living,
yet I’ve always _loved_ my wife and child.”

He paused abruptly and glanced at those two faithful ones—the _only_
ones in all the world who cared that he was dying, and who would miss
him when he was dead.

“It’s been torture to me lately,” he went on, with emotion, “to see them
going cold and hungry, taking the bread from their own mouths to keep
life a little longer in my worthless body; but, miss, folks that are
down in the world and driven into a corner can _love_ just as strong as
those who never knew a want.”

“Indeed, I do not doubt it,” Editha said, feeling a deep pity for him,
notwithstanding he had so deeply injured one whom _she_ so fondly loved.

“I know it is but adding insult to injury; but, miss, if you—if I could
only be assured they need not want for bread when I am gone, it would be
a great comfort,” he added, with a wistfulness that brought the tears to
her eyes.

“They shall not—I promise you that I will see that they do not suffer,”
she said, heartily.

“I do not deserve it from you, Miss Dalton, after using _him_ so,” she
said.

He seemed to have an intuitive idea of how matters stood between her and
Earle, and her kindness moved him deeply; and Editha just then heard a
smothered sob from the woman kneeling beside the bed.

“Have you a pencil and a piece of paper about you?” John Loker asked,
after resting a few moments. “I want you to write down what I am going
to tell you, and then I will sign it. It will be a strange ‘last will
and testament,’” he added, with a bitter smile; “but perhaps it will do
as much good as if I left a large fortune.”

Editha thought it would, too.

Yes, she had a pencil, and there was some paper in her French book that
she had taken to write an exercise on and had not used. She produced
these, and, using her books for a table, she was ready to write down the
confession that would secure to her betrothed an unspotted name and
place him where no man’s scorn would dare assail him.




                              CHAPTER XIX
                         THE FACE AT THE WINDOW


“I’ll give you a description of Tom Drake first, so you will not fail to
know him if you should ever see him,” John Loker said, when Editha
motioned him to begin.

“He’s a scamp, if there ever was one abroad in the world, and it would
be a good thing for the public if he should yet have to serve a term of
years somewhere.

“He is a tall, broad-shouldered, burly-looking man, with an ugly face on
him, square, heavy jaws, and fierce black eyes.

“His hair is red, too—something you don’t often see with black eyes.
There is a piece gone, too, from the lobe of his left ear, where he was
once shot by a policeman, and came near losing his life. He has a scar
under his right eye, and the little finger on his left hand is missing;
that was done in blowing open a safe at one time.”

Editha did not think she could fail to know him after this description,
and she already felt a sort of creeping horror in her veins as in her
mind’s eye she saw this dreadful man.

“Well, miss,” the invalid continued, “about that robbery; we’d planned
to do the thing—or, rather, he’d planned it all, and I was to help do
the dirty work, a long, long time before we found a chance to carry it
out. We’d got all the bearings, and knew just how every room in the
house lay before we ever entered it.

“On that night—it was cloudy and dark, if you remember—Tom cut out a
pane of glass from one of the area windows with a diamond he has on
purpose, while I watched to see that no one was around.

“We then easily entered by that window, and made as short work as
possible of clearing out everything of value that we could lay our hands
on in the house.

“It was about the neatest and most profitable job that was ever done in
a private house, and not a soul awoke through it all.

“There were the silver spoons and gold-lined salt-cellars, and a lot of
other stuff in the china closet out of the dining-room, all clean, solid
silver, too. We cracked the safe in the library, and, though we did not
get much money, we got a lot of diamonds belonging to your mother, miss,
like enough, and then we went upstairs to see what we could find there.

“I didn’t much mind taking the things we found below; I’d got hardened
to stealing a good while before that; but when we came to your room
where you lay asleep, looking so innocent and pretty, with all that soft
stuff ruffled round your neck and wrists, my heart failed me, for I
thought of Milly here, whom I suppose I love just as well as rich folks
love their children, and I knew just how she’d have loved all the pretty
things we saw laying about you. I begged Tom to leave your rings and
trinkets, and knick-knacks, but he growled at my nonsense and grabbed
everything he could lay his hands upon, holding the lantern and revolver
all the while.

“Once I thought what should I do if you awoke and found us there. And,
miss, I’d have shot him, bad as I was myself, and about as much to blame
for that dirty business, before I would have let him lay so much as a
finger upon you.”

The sick man was here seized with a violent fit of coughing, which so
exhausted him that it was some time before he could resume his
confession again.

Editha beckoned Milly to bring him some more of the warm broth, which
she did, and this appearing to revive him, he was soon able to go on.

“Have you got all I have told you written down?” he asked, glancing at
the paper in her lap.

“Yes, everything,” Editha answered.

She had had ample time to do so, for he was obliged to stop every little
while to rest and recover his breath.

“That is right,” he said; “don’t leave out anything, for I must make a
clean breast of it all, now that I have begun; and, miss, if the thing
can be done, I want that handsome young chap—and he’s a lawyer, I
hear—to bring Tom Drake to justice, for a bigger rascal does not walk
the earth. Why, miss, if you will believe me, he pocketed all the swag,
and I never got so much as a penny’s worth of it for my share in that
night’s job.”

“But I thought you told me that you wore it concealed upon your person
at the time of Mr. Wayne’s trial?” Editha said, regarding him in
surprise, and thinking his statements did not correspond very well.

“And so we did, miss—the diamonds—we didn’t dare hide them with the
other stuff, for fear they might happen to be found, and so they were
sewed into the lining of our vests; but after awhile Tom said he’d found
a chance to send them off and turn them into money, and took those I had
away from me. I’ve never seen anything of them since—he never would tell
me whether he had sold them or not, and I’ve never had a dollar for my
share in that job. I was raving mad over it, until I had that fall, and
then since I’ve been sick and had a chance to think it all over, I’ve
been glad that I didn’t get anything.”

The invalid was here interrupted by another coughing turn, and, while
Editha was waiting for it to pass, she happened to cast her eye toward
the window back of the bed, and there a sight greeted her that seemed to
stop the beating of her heart, and freeze the blood in her veins, and a
numbness seized her limbs, rendering her powerless to move for the time
being. It was the face of a man—and _such_ a face!—pressed close against
the pane, and his ear—_an ear with part of the lobe gone_—covering a
small hole in the glass.

He was a “burly-looking man,” with an “ugly face” on him, “heavy jaws,”
and “fierce,” restless “black eyes.”

His hair, too, was red, and—there could be but one person in the world
answering to that description.

In an instant—in that one flash of her eyes, Editha had recognized Tom
Drake, the burglar and midnight robber!

How long had he been there? How much had he heard, and did he recognize
her as John Loker had done? were the thoughts that flashed through her
brain during that brief moment that her quick, startled glance rested
upon that appalling sight. Her first impulse was to cry out with fright,
but with an effort she controlled it, and glanced hastily at the other
occupant of her room, to see whether they were in any danger of also
discovering the presence of the listener.

She was glad to find that she alone was conscious of it.

Milly, overcome by the genial warmth after her exposure to the cold, and
also by the effective quietus of a full stomach, had fallen asleep by
the stove, her head resting against the side of the house, while Mrs.
Loker still kept her motionless position by the bedside, her head buried
in the clothes; whether she also was asleep or not, Editha could not
tell, but she earnestly hoped she was, for she feared, she knew not
what, if the man at the window should become aware that his presence was
discovered.

The window was at the head of the bed; so, of course, the invalid was
wholly unconscious of, and in no danger of knowing, that he had another
listener to his confession. The man himself, Editha thought, had not
seen her glance that way, for his ear had been laid against the hole in
the glass, and he appeared to be listening intently.

After the first excess of fright had passed the stagnated blood rushed
through her veins in a swift torrent, sending sharp, tingling pains
throughout her whole body, until it seemed as if she was literally
swathed in nettles.

But she gave no outward sign. Her thoughts flew to Earle, her manly
lover across the sea.

She held in her hands the evidence which, a little more complete, and
signed by the man before her, would vindicate his honor and restore him
the respect and confidence of all who knew him.

So she resolved to sit quietly there until this was accomplished, though
she wondered if her weak and trembling fingers would be able to hold the
pencil and trace the words that yet remained to be spoken.

She did not even dare to consider how she was to get home in the fast
gathering gloom with that precious paper in her possession; she did not
dare to think whether that dreadful creature outside would allow her to
leave that place and carry with her the evidence that would serve to
doom him to a felon’s cell for a long and tedious term of years.

She only found herself wondering how he had attained his position at
that window, for she knew they were in the second story of the building,
and it seemed a marvel to her that he should be there at all.

Had he seen and recognized her while she was talking with Milly outside,
and then, fearing what would follow, obtained a ladder and climbed to
the window?

It was a puzzle to her, but she did not know of the low building
attached to the house, and which rendered it very easy for any one to
climb and look in upon that poverty-stricken family within.

Neither could she know that it had of late been a custom with that
wicked man to go there every few nights to see how fast the only person
in the world who knew his dread secrets was dying.

Tom Drake longed to be rid of the accomplice who knew so much of his
evil course, and whom he constantly feared would turn against him.

He had heard that day that John Loker was dying, and, determined to see
for himself how near he was to his end, he had, as soon as the darkness
favored him, climbed to his usual post.

His consternation can be better imagined than described as he beheld and
recognized Editha Dalton, of all persons in the world the last one he
expected to find there, sitting by the dying man’s bedside, writing the
confession that branded him the thief and robber that he was.

And Editha, notwithstanding that every nerve in her body was vibrating
with pain from her startling discovery still sat there, apparently calm
and unmoved, waiting to hear the rest.

She even turned in her chair a little at last, as if carelessly changing
her position.

But it was done with a purpose.

She was afraid if she sat directly opposite that window the magnetism
and fascination, horrible though it was, of that terrible face and those
fierce eyes, which affected her as face and eyes had never done before,
would irresistibly draw her glance in that direction and betray her
knowledge of the presence there.

“Well, miss,” the sick man resumed at length—and the sound of his voice
breaking the silence that had been so fraught with horror to her sent a
painful shock through her whole being—“we got out of the house with our
booty, which we carried in a bag, without disturbing any one, and we
were congratulating ourselves that we had done a wonderful, neat and
profitable job, when, just as we came around the corner by the front
entrance, a young chap pounced out upon us and felled Tom to the ground
with a swinging, unexpected blow.

“He then came for me as brave as a young giant, and I grappled with him.
He gave me a tough struggle of it, I can tell you; but, I knew the
boxing game better than he, and it wasn’t long before I had him laid out
as flat as a flounder.

“I did it just in the nick of time, too, for a ‘cop’ having got wind
that something wrong was up, came running down the street; so I just
dropped a bracelet, which Tom had made me stuff in my pocket, down
beside the fallen hero, to turn the scent upon him, and took to my
heels.

“Tom served me a mean trick, though,” the man went on, with a scowl,
“for he had only been slightly stunned by his fall, and while I was
fighting with the young chap, instead of coming to my help, he picked up
the bag, cleared out and hid it, and it was only a piece of good luck
that I got off at all. He said afterwards he thought I was able to take
care of myself, and he was afraid if he did not slip off with the booty
the noise of the rumpus would bring a cop along, and we’d lose it all.
But he’d got it hid before I found him, and I never saw anything of it
afterward, excepting the diamonds.

“I coaxed, begged and threatened, but he kept putting me off with
excuses; and, of course, I’d been with him so much in his dirty work
that he knew I would not dare turn against him, for I should only get as
deep into the mire as he would.

“As long as I was well, and able to help him in his plots, I managed to
squeezed enough out of him to keep us tolerably comfortable; but after I
got sick we all began to suffer.

“Miss Dalton,” the man said, excitedly, “Tom Drake is a rich man; he’s
got money and swag enough hid up to keep a dozen families handsome all
their lives. Why, those diamonds o’ your mother’s were a fortune in
themselves, and we’ve been starving and freezing here for the last two
months; _he’s known it, too_, and wouldn’t give us a dime to buy a loaf
of bread with.

“But I am dying now; _he_ can’t harm me, and the _law_ can’t touch me,
and I’ve outwitted him at last; his meanness is half that’s made me want
to show him up, and if you will only bring him to justice, you’ll do the
world a favor, besides clearing that fine young chap, who was as brave
as a lion, from disgrace; for I tell you Tom Drake is one of the worst
robbers in the United States.”

He paused, and Editha thought he had got through. She hoped he had, for
she felt she could not sit there much longer; it was as much as she
could do to keep in her chair and feel that that fearful face, with
those fierce, restless black eyes, was looking down upon her, watching
her every movement.

But the invalid resumed, after resting a moment:

“We, Tom and me, went to court every day while the youngster was being
tried for the robbery we had committed; and we thought it fine fun that
the scent had been so completely turned from us to him. It was as clear
a case of circumstantial evidence as I ever heard of, and many’s the
joke we’ve cracked at that poor fellow’s expense. But, miss, I must
confess I’ve had mighty uncomfortable dreams over it since lying here
sick, and thinking of him locked in behind those bolts and bars for
three long years, and he as innocent as a baby all the time, and we
abroad doing more of the devil’s work.”

He really appeared deeply moved, and Editha knew that he must have
suffered on account of it.

“I’ve been a bad man,” he continued with a sigh of regret, “and I
suppose I’ll get my deserts where I’m going; but I know I shall deserve
it all, whatever it may be.

“Have you written everything just as I’ve told you?” he asked again,
anxiously, turning his sunken eyes upon the closely written sheets in
her lap.

“Yes; I have everything correct, I think,” Editha answered, longing to
know if that dreadful face was still glaring upon them, yet not daring
to look.

“Then give me the pencil and hold the paper while I sign it. I want this
business off my mind; then perhaps I’ll feel easier,” he said, eagerly,
and holding out his thin hand for the pencil.

Editha placed it between his fingers, and then holding her books with
the paper laid on them so that he could write, he laboriously scrawled
beneath what she had already written:

  “I swear that this is the living truth. JOHN LOKER.”

“Thank you,” Editha said, with a breath of relief, hastily folding the
paper, and wondering where and how she should hide it from those fierce,
restless eyes above her.

She ventured to flash one swift glance out of the corners of her eyes
toward the window, and, to her intense relief, she found that there was
nothing there.

Tom Drake had disappeared as silently and as suddenly as he had come.

But her heart instinctively told her that that was not the last of him.

Perhaps he was even now hiding somewhere near, waiting to pounce upon
her when she should go out of that wretched place, and wrest that
precious confession from her.

But he should not have it—he _must not_ have it; she would make a bold
fight, frail woman though she was, before she would yield up the only
thing in the world that would clear her betrothed lover’s name from
dishonor.

She had one hope, else her courage would have failed her utterly—the
policeman whom she had asked to have a care for her safety and who had
been so civil to her.

But she had been gone much longer than she had told him she would be,
and possibly he had become tired of waiting for her and gone away.

A tumult of thoughts like these filled her mind and nearly bewildered
her, but above and over all was a stern determination never to part with
that paper until all the world should know of its contents.

Convinced that the face no longer glared upon her, she slipped it within
her bosom and buttoned her dress close over it. Then she arose to go.

Yes, she could not bear to leave that dying man, perhaps never to see
him alive again, without a few comforting words. His own last words had
told her that he feared the future—that he dreaded to go forth into the
great and mysterious eternity, and she longed to give him a little
cheer, even though she knew that every moment’s delay but increased her
own danger.

“I must leave you now,” she said, gently, and bending nearer to him, a
great pity shining in her lovely face; “and I thank you more than I can
tell you for the act of justice that you have at last done.”

“I thank _you_, miss,” he said, feebly, and with quivering lips, “for
being so kind and gentle to me, and I hope you’ll forgive me as well for
my share in that night’s business,” he concluded, humbly.

_Could_ she forgive it?

Editha’s heart gave a little startled leap at the humble request. She
could readily forgive the robbery, and the loss of so much that was
valuable; but could she forgive the wrong done to Earle? Could she ever
overlook those long, weary days of suffering which he had borne—the
scorn, insult, and abuse heaped upon him, and the disgrace which had
followed him ever since?

But he was to be free from it all at last. To be sure, those years could
not be given back to him, but all other fetters were to drop from him.
She held the key that was to unlock them, and John Loker, the man now
asking so meekly for pardon, had given it to her.

“Forgive us our debts as we forgive our debtors.”

The divine words came to her like a message of light.

“Yes, I do forgive you,” she said, sweetly; “and God will forgive you
even more freely, and take away all the dread you have of the future, if
you ask Him.”

“Thank you _again_, miss; those are _good_ words,” he said, with a sigh
of relief and thankfulness that she had forgiven him.

“And cannot you believe them,” she asked—“that God will forgive you,
too?”

He shook his head wearily.

“My mother used to teach me about God when I was a boy, but I’ve
forgotten Him, and been bad for so long, that I guess I ain’t of much
account to Him now.”

The pathos with which he said it, and the look of stony despair in his
eyes, made Editha’s heart ache for him.

“Do you not regret that your life has been so full of wrong, and such a
failure?” she asked.

“Yes, indeed, miss,” he replied, earnestly; “I’m bitter sorry, and I’ve
thought it all over and over again the long nights I’ve had to lie awake
here with the cough, but I couldn’t see any way out of it.”

“_Jesus_ is the way, the truth, and the light,” came involuntarily from
Editha’s lips.

“Yes, I’ve heard that more times than I can count, but I can’t
understand it, some way,” he said, with a perplexed look.

Editha sighed.

What could she say to comfort him? And the thought came to her that,
after all, she would rather be in Earle’s place, who had patiently and
innocently suffered a great wrong, even though the cloud which now
overshadowed him should never be dissipated until that day when all
things shall be revealed, than to be lying here like this guilty one,
upon the borders of eternity, with no hope beyond, even though his life
of sin had escaped all worldly chastisement.

“If you were in some dark and dangerous place,” she said again, and
speaking very slowly and earnestly, “and I should tell you to take my
hand, for I knew the way, and would lead you safely out, would you
refuse to do as I asked you?”

“Truth, no, miss; and you would not have to ask me more than once,
either. But the future is mighty dark to me, and _you_ can’t lead me
through _that_.”

“No; but the Friend of sinners can.”

“_Friend_ of sinners!” he repeated, feebly. “That sounds pleasant.”

“That is just what Jesus Christ is,” Editha answered, eagerly. “Put your
hand in His; it is always held out to all who _need_ help; and He will
lead you safely out of all danger.”

Another deep-drawn sigh was all the reply she received to this; and,
after waiting a moment, she said again:

“I must not stay longer now, but I will come and see you again soon.”

“You’ll not find me here, miss, I fear,” he said, with a wistful look at
her, as if to see her again would do him good; “but _they’ll_ be here,
and you have said you’ll be good to them,” indicating by a glance his
wife and child, who were both now heavily sleeping.

“Yes; I will see that they are made comfortable, and I will leave this,
so that if you need anything you can send Milly for it.”

Editha put a five-dollar note in his wasted hand as she spoke, and then,
with a kind good-night to him, she aroused his wife, after which she
went away alone into the dark and dismal night.




                               CHAPTER XX
                        MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE


It was quite dark in the street, she found, when she had groped her way
down the rickety stairs to it, and a fine, chill rain was falling.

With a wildly beating heart, and dilating, frightened eyes, Editha
looked up and down the sidewalk, hoping to catch sight of the friendly
policeman again. But he was nowhere to be seen, and there were very few
people to be either seen or heard, every one who was fortunate enough to
have a shelter having sought its protection against the storm.

Drawing her cloak closer about her, and calling all her resolution to
her aid, she sped her way, half expecting that at every step some
horrible creature would rise up and confront her, demanding the precious
treasure that lay so close above her fluttering heart. But no such
person was in sight, and no one appeared to be following her; and,
gaining courage from the fact, she grew more calm, and began to breathe
more freely, as she almost flew over the way.

She had nearly gained a more public street, where she could see the
friendly lights glimmering and beckoning her on, and where, once
reached, she intended taking a car home.

Her courage arose with every step; she had only one more low,
ill-looking building to pass, then an open space, before she would be
where no possible harm could come to her. Her heart beat lightly and
cried out within her: “Victory! victory!” for now Earle would be free
from all taint or suspicion—he could hereafter proudly face the whole
world, and no one would dare to point the finger of scorn at him again.

How happy she would be to be able to give him this evidence when he
should return. She had never dared to think that _she_ would be the one
to bestow upon him such exceeding joy, and she hugged to her bosom with
a strange feeling of exultation the closely-penciled paper that was to
accomplish all this.

The low building was nearly passed—two minutes more and she would be——

Safe! she would have added; but a sudden shock prevented her ever
finishing the interrupted thought.

A heavy hand dropped upon her shoulder like the stroke of a hammer, and
a fierce voice whispered in her ear:

“Make no noise and I will do you no harm; scream _once_, and I’ll choke
you; but I must have that paper that John Loker signed for you.”

She knew the instant she felt the touch of that hand—before even a word
was uttered—_who_ it was that had captured her there in the darkness and
rain.

She did not need the aid of a light to know that a burly head, with
flaming red hair, and an ugly face, with a scar under the right eye, and
an ear with part of the lobe gone, towered above her; she could almost
_feel_ that the hand lying so heavily upon her was minus a portion of
the little finger, and a shudder ran through her as it flashed upon her
how much of crime that hand was guilty of, and might be stained even
more deeply, yet, before it should be removed from her.

The sudden shock seemed to paralyze her for the moment, so that she was
powerless to resist. She _could_ not have cried out, even if his threat
had not intimidated her, so terrible was the fright she sustained.

“I will do you no injury, Editha Dalton; but I must have that paper; and
be quick about it, too,” the man repeated, in low tones.

Give up that precious paper voluntarily—that treasure worth more to her
than her whole fortune! Give up all the evidence there was in the world
that Earle Wayne was an innocent, injured, and long-suffering man!

_Never!_

Her whole soul arose at once to arms to do valiant battle for the noble
lover and his honor.

She had been fearful and trembling all the way from John Loker’s house
to this spot, dreading every step lest she should meet this very foe.

Now that the danger was encountered, and she, a frail, delicate girl,
was actually in the power of a desperate villain, and not a person
within hearing to help her, she grew suddenly calm, her brain clear, and
quick, and keen to think, her nerves steady to act.

“How do you know that I have any paper signed by John Loker?” she
quietly demanded.

She knew well enough how, but she asked the question to gain time.

The man laughed a short, scornful laugh; then he said:

“You are a brave little woman, and a good actress;” and there was a note
of admiration in his voice as he spoke. “You thought I did not see you
glance up at the window back of John Loker’s bed half an hour ago,” he
went on, in quick, low tones; “you did not scream nor make any fuss, as
most women would have done on seeing a face like mine peering in upon
them; you knew it was your only chance to get the evidence that would
clear an innocent man from the suspicion of a crime; you showed a plucky
spirit, Miss Dalton, to sit there and write so quietly, when you knew
Tom Drake’s ugly face was looking down upon you. But did you think I
would let you get away with that evidence? Not much—my business is too
profitable to be stopped by having my likeness displayed to the world,
even though it was taken by a hand as pretty as yours. So make haste and
pass it over,” he said, not unkindly, for her dauntless spirit had
really inspired him with admiration for her.

“_You cannot have it!_” Edith said, firmly, while she made an effort to
free herself from the grasp of her captor.

The next instant she would have screamed for help in spite of his
threat, but he, anticipating this, threw one powerful arm around her
slight form, placing his other hand at the same time over her mouth,
and, lifting her from her feet as easily as if she had been a child, he
carried her within the shadow of a door-way in the low building before
referred to.

Once there, he sat her down upon her feet again, though he still kept
her mouth firmly covered with his hand.

“_I’ve got to have it_, d’ye hear?” he said, fiercely; “if not by fair
means, why, then, by foul. I’ve no wish to harm you, and if you’ll give
it up _quietly_ I’ll let you go; if you won’t, it will be the worst for
you, that’s all. Will you give it up? Nod your head if you mean yes.”

Editha could scarcely breathe, his hand was so heavily pressed over her
mouth and nostrils, and she was absolutely powerless in the strong man’s
grasp.

She knew she was at his mercy, but she knew also that he could not get
possession of her treasure without removing his hand from her face,
which would give her an advantage over him, because she could call for
help.

So, instead of nodding her head as he had commanded her to do, she
resolutely signified her defiance by a decided shake.

The man uttered a round oath at this.

Evidently he had not anticipated any such determined resistance, and for
a moment he appeared undecided what to do.

“I’d like to strangle what little life there is left in that traitor out
of him,” he muttered, angrily, referring to John Loker.

His sentence was hardly completed when he uttered a suppressed howl.

Editha’s white teeth had suddenly closed over the fleshy part of his
palm with a force that made him cringe with pain, and at the same time
remove something of the pressure over her mouth.

Taking advantage of this, she threw back her head with a violent motion
and sent forth a shrill cry for help.

The cry was her salvation, and help was nearer than either of them
thought.

A quick, firm tread soon sounded upon the pavement, and then the tall
form of a policeman became visible close at hand.

The villain saw that his “game was up,” and that the wisest thing for
him to do would be to get out of the way, and, with another fierce oath,
he released his hold upon his victim and beat a hasty and inglorious
retreat, vowing vengeance upon her in the future.

With succor at hand, and the disappearance of her captor, Editha’s
courage and strength failed her utterly.

Her nerves had received a terrible shock, for which she of necessity had
now to pay the penalty.

She did not faint, nor go into hysterics, nor make any Other
disturbance, but she clung in speechless terror and trembling to the
sturdy policeman who had come to her aid.

“Are you hurt, miss? Did the villain _dare_ to hurt you?” he asked,
sternly.

“No, not much; but, oh, oh! he frightened me terribly,” she whispered,
shaking as with the ague, and her teeth chattering audibly.

“Poor thing! poor thing! this is a bad place for such as you to be in,”
he answered, pityingly. “I thought to watch for you,” he continued,
“until you came out from John Loker’s house, and then take you safely
through this dismal street; but there was a scrimmage down here apiece,
and I had to go. But I was a sort ’o looking for you as I came along
back, and I suspected at once that it was you when I heard you cry out.
Did the wretch steal anything from you?”

“No; but he wanted something which he knew I had, and I wouldn’t give it
to him.”

“_Wouldn’t_, eh?” repeated the policeman, with a little chuckle at her
spirit and resolute tone. “Should you know him if you should ever meet
him again?” he asked, presently.

“Oh, yes,” Editha answered, with a shudder, feeling that it would be
impossible ever to forget that repulsive face that had so startled her
at the window in John Loker’s miserable home.

She was now beginning to recover her strength, and signified her
readiness to go on if her companion would accompany her. She longed to
get away from the dismal place, and as if she would never dare enter a
by-street again as long as she lived.

The man readily went with her to the next street, and waited to see her
safely seated in a car, and in less than fifteen minutes she was once
more in her own luxurious home, heartily thankful for her escape from a
ruffian’s power.

Mr. Dalton expressed some surprise at her being out so late—remarked,
with some indifference, that she looked pale, and asked if she was not
well, and then added that dinner had been waiting for more than half an
hour.

She simply replied that she was well, and regretted that he should have
waited dinner for her, but she had been unavoidably detained.

Editha Dalton knew that she must keep her own counsel regarding that
evening’s adventures.

The time had come when she could not trust her dearest interests in the
hands of her father. She knew he would have no sympathy with her
regarding the confession she had obtained and would oppose rather than
aid her in making it public to vindicate Earle.

But she had resolved to go to Mr. Felton, on the morrow, put the
precious evidence in his hands, and be guided by his ever wise counsel.

She retired to her own rooms as soon as dinner was dispatched, and
immediately set herself to work to make a careful copy of John Loker’s
confession to send to Earle. And then, with something of the fear
creeping over her that she had experienced while in Tom Drake’s power,
she looked around for a safe place in which to hide the original. She
would not take it below and put in into the safe, for she knew that
burglars were not troubled nowadays about opening such things, let them
have ever so complicated a lock, and she could not sleep until it was
safely disposed of somewhere.

“_What_ shall I do with it?” she said, with flushed cheeks and anxious
brow. “Something tells me I must _hide_ it even for to-night.”

No drawer with any common lock would be a safe place, she reasoned—she
could not keep it about her person, and for a long time it was a matter
that caused her much perplexity. All at once her eyes lighted. In her
jewel-box, which was quite a large one, there was a raised velvet
cushion, with places on it for the different articles of jewelry she was
in the habit of wearing.

This cushion was securely glued to the bottom of the box. What omen of
impending evil could have inspired Editha with the idea that underneath
this would be a safe place to hide her evidence?

She carefully pried it from the box, folded the papers just to fit the
bottom, then, pressing the cushions firmly back into its place, she once
more arranged her jewels in their accustomed position, and then,
apparently satisfied with her work, she resumed her seat and began to
write an account of her adventures to her dear one across the sea.

It is said that “coming events cast their shadows before;” whether this
be true or not, I cannot say, but one thing is certain, and that is that
it was _well_ for Earle Wayne’s honor that Editha Dalton was guided by
her impressions to so adroitly conceal John Loker’s confession just
where she did and just _when_ she did.

The next morning Editha did not make her appearance at the
breakfast-table.

This was something unusual, for the young girl had always made it a
point, even since Mrs. Dalton’s death, to be neatly and attractively
dressed and in her place opposite her father promptly every morning upon
the ringing of the breakfast-bell.

Mr. Dalton, angry at thus being obliged to wait two successive meals for
her, curtly ordered a servant to go and awake her, and tell her he was
waiting for her.

The girl hastened to do his bidding, but soon returned, with pale and
affrighted face, saying that Miss Editha was not in her chamber, her bed
had not been occupied during the night, and that both sitting-room and
bedroom were in the direst confusion.

Mr. Dalton, was of course, instantly alarmed at this startling
intelligence, and hastened at once to investigate the matter.

He found it was even worse than the girl had stated. Drawers, boxes, and
closets had been overturned and emptied of their contents, and lay
scattered in every direction upon the floor, chairs, and bed. Clothing
had been unfolded, shaken out, and then thrown hastily aside; dresses
were lying over chairs, with their pockets turned inside out and rifled
of their contents. Editha’s costly writing-desk was overturned upon the
floor, her letters and papers scattered in every direction; and then it
was for the first time that Mr. Dalton knew for a certainty of her
correspondence with Earle, for stooping down to pick up these letters,
he had gathered up with others those that the young man had sent across
the sea to her.

Never had those beautiful rooms been in such dire confusion before, and
nothing seemed to be missing but Editha’s jewelry, which had been taken
from its box, and that was left standing, empty and open, in its
accustomed place, and a very common hat and circular waterproof, which
she had been in the habit of wearing in stormy weather. Editha herself
was gone—that was evident, and no one appeared to know when nor whither.

Mr. Dalton was nearly stupefied at first, and the thought flashed upon
him that she might have fled to Earle.

But he soon dismissed this idea, for he knew her character well enough
to know that if she was bound to marry Earle Wayne she would do it
boldly, openly, and in defiance of the whole world; moreover, she never
would have gone away voluntarily and left things in that style, taking
nothing with her for her own comfort or needs.

No, it was a deep and incomprehensible mystery.

Days and weeks were devoted to the search of her. Detectives were
employed, the police were notified, and advertisements were inserted in
all the leading papers, but all without avail; no clew could be gained
as to the whereabouts of the missing girl; and Mr. Dalton was at last
left entirely alone and desolate in his beautiful home.

Only one thing was discovered that seemed to have any bearing on the
matter, and that was her adventure with the unknown ruffian after her
visit to John Loker’s house.

The policeman who had rescued her gave an account of what he knew of the
matter, and then Mr. Dalton went himself to see the wretched family,
thinking perhaps some further information might be gleaned from them.

But John Loker had died the day following Editha’s visit there, and
after the funeral the family had disappeared, and no one knew anything
of them.

To say that Mr. Dalton was not extremely distressed over the strange
affair would be very unjust to him.

He availed himself of every possible means to solve the dreadful
mystery; but, as we have already seen, he was an utterly selfish man,
and it was not in his nature to brood over anything either troublesome
or disagreeable; and the source from which he at length drew consolation
may perhaps be revealed by the following soliloquy with himself, as he
sat one night in the library, considering the pros and cons of the
future:

“If anything—ah—fatal—_should_ have—happened to Editha—if she should not
be—_living_, her—fortune then will be—_mine_, I suppose.”

And even while he spoke a strange look settled over his face, there was
a queer quaver in his voice, and he was as white as the immaculate tie
which he wore about his neck.




                              CHAPTER XXI
                              FATAL TRUST


Twenty-one or two years before our story opens there resided in
Richmond, one of the beautiful suburbs of London, the Right Honorable
Warrenton Fairfield Vance, Marquis of Wycliffe, and who also possessed
another title; but of that more hereafter.

He was the eldest of the two children of a previous Warrenton Fairfield
Vance, whose strange will created so much discussion and remark at the
time of his death, several years before.

There were only two children, we have said, the present marquis and his
sister, who, although considerably younger than himself, had married,
very early in life, a man of literary profession, though of a wealthy
and respectable family—Tressalia by name.

She had one child, a son, Arthur Tressalia, and father of the Paul
Tressalia of our story.

Arthur Tressalia died when his son Paul was only three years of age, and
his grandmother, the marquis’ sister, two years afterward.

The old marquis’ will, before referred to, had entailed his estates in a
very peculiar and rather perplexing way.

They were to descend to the eldest _legitimate_ child of each
generation, be it son or daughter.

In case it should be a daughter, it was stated that, upon her marriage,
her husband would be obliged to assume the family name, and so
perpetuate the race.

In case the eldest child died without issue, or gave birth to an
illegitimate child, the entail would be cut off from that branch of the
family and revert in the same way to the eldest child.

For instance, if the present Marquis of Wycliffe died without legitimate
issue, the estates, title, and name would descend to his sister, Mrs.
Tressalia, and her legitimate heirs, according to the provisions of the
will.

In the event of an utter failure of legitimate issue, the estates would
fall to the crown, and the personal property to the enrichment of
several public charitable institutions mentioned in the will.

The Marquis of Wycliffe, at the time we speak of in the beginning of the
chapter, had one child, a daughter, sixteen years of age.

He had not married until long after his sister, having been disappointed
by a heartless coquette when quite a young man, before coming into his
property, and for many years he could not endure the thought of
marriage. But he had at length wedded a gentle, lovable girl of good
family, and she had given birth to this little daughter, and no more
children were granted them.

It had been a great disappointment to the marquis that this child was
not a son; but the little Marion Vance was a very beautiful and charming
little piece of humanity, although exceedingly high-spirited and wilful,
as will be seen ere long.

Her mother had died when she was only twelve years of age, after which
she was left to the care of a not too conscientious governess, who
enjoyed her own ease and reading French novels more than she did the
training of her wild and rebellious pupil.

Thus the motherless girl was left to come up pretty much after her own
will, and it is not so much to be wondered at that, with no wise and
tender hand to guide, no warning voice to chide, counsel, and direct,
her future should be planted with thorns, and that the life which gave
promise in its budding of so much beauty and joy should, in the
blooming, be marred and blighted by grave and fatal mistakes.

During the summer of Marion Vance’s sixteenth year the marquis permitted
her to visit some distant relatives of the family living at Rye, near
the sea, in South Sussex County.

These relatives consisted of father, mother, and four gay, blooming
daughters, the latter as full of fun and mischief as the day is long;
and no one was ever known, up to this time, to visit the Surrey mansion
and go away without regretting the bright days that had flown all too
quickly.

We have said that Marion Vance was wilful, and a little incident will
serve to prove our assertion. Upon reaching her destination on this
eventful summer, the obstinate little marchioness elect had insisted
upon being introduced into the society frequented by the Surrey family
as plain Miss Vance, devoid of either title or any particularly alluring
future prospects.

“I shall be so much happier not to be hampered with all the forms and
ceremonies that are so irksome at home, and which papa is so tenacious
of,” said the little lady, as she persistently argued her point with the
family.

“But I am in doubt as to the propriety of such a proceeding for that
very reason—your papa would not approve,” demurred Madam Surrey,
disliking to refuse the bright girl’s request, yet fearing even more to
offend the marquis.

“Ah, _please_ let me be happy in my own way for a little while. At home
I am my Lady This and my Lady That, until I hate the word, and long to
get out of my straitjacket and enjoy a little freedom,” sighed the fair
pleader, coaxingly.

There was no resisting the insinuating tones, the sweet blue eyes, and
the pretty, pouting mouth; so for eight short, happy weeks the child of
the aristocratic Marquis of Wycliffe was simply Miss Marion Vance, and a
merrier quintette than those five—Kate, Ida, Caroline, and Isabel, with
Marion—made could not have been found elsewhere in all South Sussex
County.

The Honorable Andrew Surrey’s residence was a most charming one,
overlooking the sea, and that year it was christened by the surrounding
neighborhood “The Home of the Nymphs,” in honor of the charming beauties
residing there.

But dire calamity and sorrow were destined to overtake these beautiful
and careless nymphs ere their summer holiday, begun with so much of
happiness and promise, should end, and the memory of it was the means of
saddening their whole after life.

During one of their many excursions and picnics, Marion Vance made the
acquaintance of a young man, who was introduced to her as Mr. George
Sumner.

He was about twenty-two years of age, not handsome, nor even
fine-looking, but possessed of a singular fascination of manner that
attracted her from the very first.

He was introduced by a young man who was somewhat attentive to Miss Kate
Surrey, and who had met him at the German University, where he was
studying.

He knew nothing of him, beyond that he always had plenty of money, and
report said he was to fall heir to great possessions upon the death of
some aged relative.

He had been well received at the university, and it was supposed that he
belonged to a highly respectable family, and he was consequently
admitted into the best of society there.

Marion Vance, with her fresh young heart, her susceptible nature and
impulse, was not long in learning to love this fascinating stranger,
which feeling Mr. Sumner appeared to reciprocate, and, before half of
her visit had expired, he was secretly her declared lover.

The gay Misses Surreys, intent upon their own beaux and pleasures, were
culpably heedless of the mischief that was brewing in their midst, and
of the toils which were being so cunningly woven around their fair young
visitor.

They were all older than Marion, and should have guarded her against the
constant attentions of any one.

Madam Surrey, amid her many household cares, could not always attend
them upon their excursions, and whenever she did accompany them she
never dreamed that beneath the quiet and polite attentions of Mr. Sumner
to Marion there lurked any deeper feeling than that of mere friendship.

Marion, too, with wonderful tact, disguised her feelings, for Mr.
Sumner, and, for various unexplained reasons, had insisted that their
love for each other must for the present be kept a profound secret; but,
with the fire and impulse which made up her nature, she gave her whole
heart up into his keeping, and learned only when it was too late the
heartlessness and treachery of which her lover was capable and she the
victim.

George Sumner, on his own part, had no other motive in winning the
affections of this beautiful and trusting girl than his own selfish
enjoyment of an idle summer’s day.

His vacation must be spent somewhere, and he had drifted in an aimless
way to the neighborhood, having heard of its beauties in the way of
scenery and its advantages as a summer resort.

Marion was beautiful in looks, gay and attractive in manner, and just
such a girl as he liked to flirt with, but as for ever marrying and
acknowledging her as his wife, he had not such a thought.

He supposed her a simple country girl, defective in education and
knowledge of social customs—as, indeed, the poor child was, having been
left so long to the tender mercies of a careless governess.

He never dreamed that she was other than she pretended to be—simply
Marion Vance, with neither dowry nor position in life. But _his_ wife,
when he married, must possess something more substantial than a pretty
face and winning manners—she must have wealth and position in order to
satisfy the ambitious desires of the aspiring Mr. Sumner.

But Marion, fondly believing that he loved her for herself alone,
drifted carelessly and happily along with the tide, and, being of a
somewhat romantic turn of mind, resolved to enjoy till the very last
this simple love-making, and, when she had fully tested the strength and
devotion of her valiant knight, come out grandly and declare who she
was, thus surprising and rewarding him abundantly for his fidelity.
Silly child! Fatal trust!

Like the cunning spider, he wove his net firmly about her, and then left
her to die by inches in its cruel toils.

Before six weeks of her visit had passed he had enticed her into a
secret marriage, sighing sweetly of “love in a cottage” and the
“devotion of a life-time;” and Marion too blissfully happy to stop to
look into the future, and enjoying the novelty and romance of her
position in being so tenderly loved for her own bright self, never
dreamed of the abyss into which she was plunging with such headlong
speed.

They were married one still summer night, in a little chapel in a
neighboring town, by an aged minister, who (somewhat to the surprise and
annoyance of Mr. Sumner, who had no idea of carrying the sacrilege so
far) gave into the young bride’s hands at the close of the ceremony a
certificate of that transaction.

But when the time came for her return to her father, Marion began to
fear she had made a great mistake, and grave questions began to suggest
themselves for answering.

How would the proud and aristocratic marquis receive the knowledge of
her marriage?

How would he regard the son-in-law who would stoop to win and marry his
daughter in this underhanded and clandestine manner?

During the last week of her stay at Rye, Mr. Sumner informed her that he
had received an imperative summons away on business.

“But, George, I must go home next week, and then papa must be told of
our marriage. I supposed, of course, you would go with me, and we could
confess it together,” Marion opposed.

Mr. Sumner frowned at this remark, then looked troubled and perplexed.

“I cannot go with you now; my summons is positive. You will have to be
patient and wait awhile until I can come to you,” he answered, as
indifferently as though he had not been plotting the cruelest wrong in
the world.

“But I want the matter settled. I want papa to see you, and I also
wanted to tell you——”

She stopped, resolving that she would not tell him of her future
prospects until they could confess their secret marriage to her father.

“It cannot be just yet,” he said, impatiently, and not heeding her
interrupted sentence. “My business must be attended to, and our secret
can wait a little longer.”

“You are sure you love me only for my very self, George?” she asked,
nestling in his arms, and winding her own around his neck.

“What else should I love you for, little one?” he returned; and well it
was for her peace of mind that she could not see the smile of scorn that
curled his lips at her question.

She laughed a merry, happy laugh, thinking how proud she should be when
he returned to her, and she should tell him that she was the child of a
marquis and heiress to almost unlimited wealth.

“And you do not regret what we have done?” she asked, laying her golden
head upon his breast, with a gesture so full of confidence and love that
a feeling of startled fear stole over him for the moment.

“What is there to regret, my little one? Have we not been happy as the
day is long?” he asked, evasively.

“You are _sure_ you do not regret, George?” she persisted; and now the
blue eyes were lifted anxiously to read his face.

“No, I do not regret,” he said; and the sickening horror with which she
afterward remembered those words she never forgot as long as she lived.

He would write to her often until he could come to her, he said, when
she wept at parting, and agreed with her that their marriage must be
kept a secret until he could come himself and tell her father.

As his letters would arouse suspicion if sent directly to Wycliffe in
her name, and as he was not known at Richmond, he would direct them to
Mrs. George Sumner, and she could get them herself at the office.

Marion went home to Wycliffe to wait for his coming, and growing to fear
more and more, as the days went by, that she had done very wrong, and
her father would be very angry when he should discover it, but hoping
that all would come right when she should be able to introduce her
husband, and the marquis would be charmed as she had been by his
fascinating manners and his brilliant power of conversation.

But the weeks lengthened into months, and though his letters came quite
regularly, no George Sumner made his appearance, or gave any hope that
he should be able to do so for a good while to come.

At last his letters ceased coming, and then, indeed, the poor child grew
nearly wild with grief, fear, and anxiety.

She became pale and thin, her eyes lusterless and heavy, while she spent
hours in her own rooms weeping and walking the floor, her hands clasped
convulsively on her breast, her head drooping with its burden of
anguish.

She wrote and wrote again with the same result, and at last, in despair,
sent forth an appeal that ought to have melted the stoutest heart.

He _must_ come to her, she said—it was not possible that their marriage
could be kept a secret any longer. They must tell her father and share
the consequences as best they could.

She waited a week, ten days, a fortnight, and no answer came to her
distressing appeal, and she wept and moaned almost constantly, admitting
no one to her presence, and scarcely leaving her apartments.

About this time the marquis was called away from home on business that
would occupy him for a week.

Scarcely had he taken his departure when, with sudden resolution, Marion
informed her governess that she, also, was going away for a few days.

Mademoiselle Dufrond at once became very angry at this intimation.

The marquis had recently expressed himself displeased that his daughter
was not attending more closely to her studies, and desired that
Mademoiselle Dufrond would be more particular henceforth.

“Mademoiselle must not go away,” she reiterated, “Monsieur, her father,
had explicitly said she must attend more closely to her studies.”

Study! with that terrible burden pressing her down until she was almost
crushed.

The child felt that she should scream aloud at the thought.

“I cannot study; I am sick,” she said; and, unheeding the angry
remonstrance that followed, she left Wycliffe the day following the
marquis’ departure, and told no one whither she was going.




                              CHAPTER XXII
                            A WIFE’S APPEAL


Mr. George Sumner was agreeably entertaining a few of his friends in his
handsome lodgings in London one raw, dismal night in January.

But there was no suspicion of either cold or gloom in the luxurious
rooms where these boon companions were making merry.

A cheerful fire burned brightly in the polished grate; the candelabra
were filled with waxen tapers, which, shedding their light over the
closely drawn crimson curtains, cast a rosy glow over the whole
apartment.

Pictures hung upon the walls, some fine and beautiful, while others were
not of the most chaste character imaginable; flowers bloomed and shed
their fragrance from various costly vases; busts of marble and figures
in bronze were scattered here and there, and the whole apartment bespoke
extravagance and luxurious living.

A table was spread in the center of the room, glittering with cut glass
and silver, and heaped with a profusion of viands, fruits, and wines of
a quality to tempt the daintiest epicurean taste.

Four young men sat around this table, but for the moment suspending
their operations upon the good things set before them, while they
listened to a bacchanalian song from one of their number.

A knock at this moment interrupted the singer, and Mr. Sumner, arising,
went to answer the summons.

A servant handed him a card and waited for orders, a look of curious
interest upon his face.

A scowl of anger clouded George Sumner’s face as he read the name which
Marion had written with trembling fingers upon its smooth surface.

He passed out into the corridor, shutting the door after him.

“Where is the lady?” he asked of the servant, in a low tone.

“In the anteroom at the end of the passage,” he answered, with a
peculiar grin.

It was not considered just the thing for a young lady to call,
unattended, upon a gentleman at his lodgings, particularly at so late an
hour of the night.

“Very well; tell her I will be there in a few minutes,” George Sumner
said, feeling exceedingly uncomfortable.

The servant bowed and retired, while he returned to his company.

As soon as he could make it come right, he said:

“Boys, I’m in a troublesome fix; I’ve just received a summons upon
important business, and shall be obliged to leave you.”

Mr. Sumner, it seems, was in the habit of receiving “summons upon
important business,” and there was now a noisy protest against his
leaving them.

“I must,” he said, with some show of impatience; “but you can stay and
finish the feast; and, if I can possibly put off the unpleasant affair,
or get excused, I’ll return right away.”

Not staying to listen to their repeated regrets, George Sumner hurried
from the room and bent his steps to the little reception-room at the end
of the corridor.

As he opened the door the first object that met his eyes was a forlorn
figure seated upon the sofa, her golden head bowed in an attitude of
weariness and misery upon its arm.

As he expected, it was Marion.

At the first sound of his footsteps upon the threshold she started
wildly up and threw herself, weeping, into his arms.

“Oh, George, I am so miserable! Why did you not come to me? Why did you
not write to me?” she cried excitedly.

“I did not come to you because I could not. I did not write because I
was too busy. You should have had patience,” he said, coldly; and,
releasing himself from her embrace, he seated her again upon the sofa,
and then stood waiting before her.

His coolness, almost amounting to disgust, calmed her more effectually
than any words could have done.

She caught her breath back in a sob of pain, and regarded him with
wondering eyes.

“And if I had ‘patience,’ how soon would you have come to me?” she
asked, with a note of scorn in her voice.

“I don’t know,” he answered, moodily.

“_You don’t know!_ after what I wrote you!” she cried, in breathless
astonishment, and with quivering lips.

“Marion,” he said, after a moment’s thought, and with sudden resolution,
“_I could not have come at all!_”

“_You—could—not—have—come—at—all!_” she repeated, every bit of color
forsaking her face at the dreadful words.

“That was what I said,” he replied, sullenly, and feeling as he had
never in his life felt before, with those eyes, so full of horrible
anguish, fixed upon him.

“George, _what_ do you mean? Surely _not_ what you say?”

The hollow tones in which these words were uttered were fearfully calm
now, and the little hands which he had so often held and kissed were
clenched until the nails were purple.

“Yes, Marion,” he said, firmly, and with a cold, merciless glitter in
his eyes—he might as well finish this business first as last—“I do mean
just what I have said, and it was very imprudent in you to come here
to-night; it will subject me to very unpleasant and annoying remarks.”

“I do not understand you,” the white lips uttered, in the same tone as
before, though Marion’s blue eyes glittered as he had never seen them,
and her small head was lifted in sudden though bitter pride. “I cannot
understand how the coming of your _wife_ can subject you to ‘unpleasant
and annoying remarks,’” she added, when he did not reply.

“Can you not, when it is not known that I have a wife?” he asked, a
little smile that she could not interpret curving his lips.

His coldness and indifference were nearly killing her.

“True! I have forgotten; I am bewildered; I am nearly _crazed_ with my
misery. But, George, that fact can be no longer concealed; you must
return with me to Richmond and confess our marriage to papa. I must be
owned as a lawful wife before another day passes,” she said, wearily,
yet with decision.

“Impossible, Marion!”

“And why impossible?” she demanded, with flashing eyes. “Do you
understand that the secret _cannot_ be kept any longer—that it must be
confessed at once?”

“Nevertheless it _is_ impossible! I—I regret that there should be
anything unpleasant about the matter; but I cannot go with you to Mr.
Vance and tell him that you are my wife, simply because, Marion, _you
are not my wife_!” he concluded, with a sigh of relief that the truth
was at last out.

“_George!_ why _will_ you jest thus when I am so miserable?” shrieked
the unhappy girl, throwing up her arms with a gesture of despair.

She could not believe that he spoke the truth, and yet there was
something horribly real about it all.

George Sumner looked uneasily around at that outburst. It would not do
to have the whole house know that a young and beautiful girl had sought
him there at that time of night.

He went to her side and seized her firmly by the wrists.

“Be still, Marion,” he said, angrily, “and listen to me, and do not make
another sound while you are here, unless you intend to ruin us both.”

She looked at him with hollow, bewildered eyes, too miserable and
stunned by his words and manner to hardly comprehend what he was saying.

“When I went down to Rye last summer,” he resumed, coldly, and with a
determined air, “I went merely to have a jolly good time. I found a lot
of pretty girls there, and I joined their set and met you, and had not
then the slightest intention of doing you any wrong. You were young,
gay, and pretty, and I made love to you, as I have done to a dozen
others before. On the impulse of the moment I proposed a secret
marriage, not having the least idea that you would consent to it; but
you did, and I found myself in a fix. I _could_ not marry you in good
faith, for the girl whom I marry must have plenty of money and an
established position in the world; you had neither, and I had to get out
of the scrape I was in as best I could.”

Marion Vance here opened her lips with sudden eagerness, as if to speak,
then as suddenly closed them again, and a strange look of fire and scorn
mingled with the bitterness and pain in her eyes.

“But,” he went on, not noticing it, too intent upon getting the scene
over with as soon as possible, “when you accepted my proposal I had to
do _something_; so I got a friend of mine to disguise himself to look
like the old rector of St. John’s chapel, and, by bribing the sexton, he
allowed us to go into the church for the ceremony to be performed.”

“And _that_ was the way you married me—_me!_” she whispered, in
suppressed tones, never once having taken her eyes from his during the
horrible recital.

“I could not help it, Marion—you gave yourself away to me so readily,
you adopted so eagerly my proposals,” he said, excusing himself by
blaming her.

Her lips curled.

“Have you nothing better than that to say for yourself? Have you no
reparation to offer me?” she asked.

And he answered, coldly:

“None!”

“George,” she cried, in agony, “think how I have loved you, how I have
trusted you! Can you let me suffer thus and show me no pity?”

“My pity could do you no practical good now,” he answered, carelessly.

“And you _will not_ right the wrong—you will not cover my shame?”

“I cannot,” he still repeated.

“George Sumner, you do not know the bitter, cruel wrong that you are
doing. Ah, Heaven! why was I so blind, so mad that I did not see and
realize it myself? You do not once dream of the misery you are entailing
upon future generations,” she cried, with clasped hands upraised in
agony, as she remembered her father in his pride, and the will of the
previous marquis, and knew that unless she became a lawful wife the
entail would be cut off from that branch of their family, her father’s
hopes forever destroyed, and herself irretrievably disgraced; and yet
with a strange perversity she would not tell the man who had betrayed
her of her position, when she knew it was that alone he desired, and not
herself or her love.

She would rather die than marry him and lift him to the position he
craved, and know all the time that she was an unloved wife, a despised
stepping-stone to his ambition.

If he would but show the least sign of relenting, or of his by-gone
affection for her, she would have told him joyfully.

But he did not, he had none to show, and his next words extinguished
every hope.

“Marion, there is no use in prolonging this interview; what you wish
cannot be.”

Reader, did you ever see any one grow instantly old—the light, and life,
and joy fade forever out of a face that had been fresh and lovely in one
moment of time; and lines of age, misery, and care settle where there
had been nothing but beauty before? If so, you may know something of how
Marion Vance looked as she listened to what George Sumner told her on
that dismal night in January, as she sat in that little reception-room
at the end of the passage.

“Can I believe you?” she said. “Can I believe any one would ruin a young
and trusting girl like that? You mean to tell me that it was only a mock
marriage—that ceremony and certificate that the pretended old man gave
me only a sham?”

“That was all,” George Sumner confessed, feeling strangely uneasy with
those unearthly eyes fixed so steadily upon him.

“That was _all_!” she repeated, with bitter emphasis. “I have but one
more question to ask you,” she continued, still unnaturally calm, but
looking like a dead person, all but her burning, restless eyes. “Once
for all, will you marry me _now_, legally and honorably?”

“I cannot.”

“Why?”

“Because, as I told you, it is absolutely necessary that the woman I
marry should have plenty of money and an established position in the
world,” he said, flushing beneath her look.

Marion smiled that strange smile again.

“Then, if I could bring you plenty of money, and assure of my undisputed
right to a good position in society, you would perhaps do me the honor
to make me your wife?”

“Yes—I suppose I might,” he replied, hesitatingly.

“And you will _not_ do that act of justice to save the woman you have
professed to love ‘better than your own life’ from the shame and
disgrace that must surely come upon her without?”

“I cannot; I——”

“_What_ hinders you?” she interrupted, with an imperative gesture.

His face assumed a dogged expression.

“The determination to be _rich_ and move in the highest circles,” he
said, his tone assuming something of defiance.

“Then you are not _rich_ now—you do not rightly belong to the high
sphere that is accredited to you—you are only a poor, miserable
fortune-hunter after all—a sham and impostor!” she cried, with biting
sarcasm and indignation.

He flushed even more hotly than before; his gaze wavered and fell
beneath the scorn in her eye, and he stood revealed in his real
character before her.

“You cannot, therefore, be hampered with a poor wife; she would be a
miserable clog upon your laudable ambition. Love, pure and holy though
it might be, weighs as nothing compared with the treasures you seek,”
she went on, until, goaded to desperation by her scorn, he turned upon
her with a snarl.

“You have learned the truth at last—what more do you want?”

“I want to know, George Sumner—and I charge you speak the truth—did you
_ever_ love me as _I_ understand the word? Is there anything of that
feeling still in your heart for me? Is there a particle of feeling in
your heart that would prompt you to sacrifice a single interest to save
me from my impending ruin? Do not dare to speak falsely—tell me, have
you any love for me?” she concluded, with a solemnity that made his
flesh creep, bold and bad as he was.

With his eyes fixed upon the carpet, as though they had been weighted
and held there, he answered:

“No; I do not love you, Marion.”

“Is there one in all the world whom you do love thus?”

“Not one,” he said.

“Not even among the ‘dozen’ with whom you have flirted?” she said, with
a hard laugh.

He cringed uneasily. He was showing himself up in a way that was not at
all agreeable to him.

“Enough!” she cried, sternly, without waiting for him to reply; and she
arose and stood before him, confronting him like an avenging angel.
“George Sumner, you are a heartless wretch, selfish to the core, and
bent upon your own sensual enjoyment alone. You stand there and seek to
cast the blame of my misery all upon me. You say ‘you’ could not help
it. I ‘gave myself away to you so readily,’ and ‘adopted your proposals
too eagerly.’ Who was it that begged and pleaded for my love, who could
not live without me, who would be willing to share a crust, so that he
might but be blessed with my presence? Who was it that swore life-long
devotion to me, and tempted me with blissful pictures of ‘love in a
cottage,’ and whose heart would break if separated from me for but a
day? It does not sound so well repeated under existing circumstances,
does it, my aspiring knight?” she continued, even more bitterly: “the
heart of the sentiment is gone, and it becomes but an empty, mocking
sound. But do you realize how young I was, George Sumner?” she said,
speaking sternly now—“_sixteen!_ with no mother to guide me, no dear,
wise friend in whom to confide, or of whom to seek counsel. You were
twenty-two, and had flirted with a dozen before me. Did you ruin them
all, traitor, coward that you are? Did you lure them all into secret
marriages, and then cast them off in their misery, as you are to-night
casting me? Or were they wiser than I—not so eager to give themselves
away, or to adopt your proposals?

“You need not speak,” she cried, bitterly, as he opened his lips as if
to defend himself. “I never wish to hear your voice again, and if I
could paralyze your tongue so that you could never cheat a trusting
woman again, I would do it; but it is not for me to avenge—your
punishment is coming; it is nearer even than you dream. You are
ambitious, but that very ambition has overreached itself, as you will
find before you are a great deal older. You are a cheat, a liar, and a
coward; and now let me tell you that I would not marry _you if my doing
so would save both your life and mine_. I will bear my shame alone, and
some day your eyes will be opened, and you will curse yourself with
bitterest curses that you have dared to do the thing that you have done.
I was a young and inexperienced girl; you won my fresh, pure love, and
ruined me, to pass away a dull hour and have a ‘jolly good time.’ A day,
an hour will come when you will turn sick with remorse, and be willing
to give the best years of your life to undo the foul wrong which you
have so heartlessly wrought; but you will never see Marion Vance, the
girl with neither ‘name,’ nor ‘wealth,’ nor ‘position,’ again.”

She turned and walked, with a quick, firm tread, from the room, before
he could recover his almost stupefied senses.

He had never dreamed that the simple, trusting, loving girl, whom he had
hitherto been able to mold to his lightest wish, possessed so much
spirit and reserve power, and her burning, blighting words had fallen
upon him like flashes of lightning, blinding and bewildering him with
their vividness.

But she was gone—that farce was played out to the end, and though the
end had been anything but agreeable, yet it was over at last; and,
smoothing his ruffled brow and calling a smile to his false lips, he
went back to his boon companions, and tried to drown the heart-broken
words of a ruined girl in copious draughts of sparkling champagne.




                             CHAPTER XXIII
                         A STARTLING DISCOVERY


Marion Vance, after leaving the man whom, during that one hour’s
interview, she had learned to loathe and despise as intensely as before
she had loved him, returned directly to Wycliffe, where in the silence
of her own room, she waited in dumb despair for the return of the
marquis.

Then, with a stern, set face, she sought everything—how she had refused
while away on her visit to be introduced as his daughter, and thus
brought upon herself this misery—and that when she found that the one
upon whom she had lavished her affection cared only for position and
wealth, she had kept silence, resolving rather to suffer her shame than
to gratify his ambition when he proved to be so heartless and base. The
only thing she reserved was the name of the man for whom she had
sacrificed her birthright; and no amount of persuasions or threats could
compel her to reveal it.

The marquis sat stern and rigid while listening to this confession from
his only child.

He uttered no reproaches, he gave way to no violent passion or grief,
only when she had concluded, he pointed with shaking finger to the door,
saying, with perfectly hueless lips:

“Do you know, Marion Vance, what you have done? You have cut off the
inheritance forever from my heirs—you have sold your birthright for a
mess of pottage, and it will go to Arthur Tressalia’s son, your cousin
Paul. Do you hear? You have ruined both yourself and me. You have made
me worse than childless. Go, and never let me look upon your face again
while you live.”

“Papa, do not—oh! do not send me away alone—alone into the cold, cruel
world. I am your only child. I have no one but you. I love you, papa.
Oh, have mercy! Let me stay here in my home. I will be very quiet and
humble. I will never trouble you, only let me be where I can see and
hear you sometimes,” Marion cried, in her despair, as she cast herself
upon her knees before the stern man.

He turned away from her with a face of stone, yet with a heart bursting
with disappointment and agony equal to her own.

“Go, I say. You shall not suffer; you shall have three hundred pounds a
year, and more if that is not enough; but never let me see you again. I
could not bear it and live,” was all he said in reply to her agonized
entreaties.

Marion tottered from the room, praying that the earth would open and
swallow her and her misery, and bury her in oblivion.

That day she left Wycliffe forever.

She fled to a small town in the southwest of England, assumed a name,
and lived there in quiet seclusion until her son was seventeen years of
age.

Her heart was broken, her life was ruined, but she never told her boy
the story of her shame and the disgrace she had entailed upon him until
she lay upon her dying bed.

He had got the idea, and always believed, that his father had died
before he was born, and seeing that it pained his mother to talk of the
past, he never mentioned it.

Marion determined, since she had been the means of robbing him of his
proud title and position, that she would devote her life to him, and
rear him with a character stamped with grandeur with which no worldly
title could ever endow him.

She taught him to hate everything mean or low—to love and cling to the
truth, no matter what opposed—to be a _manly man_, never despising or
exalting any one on account of position alone; but to admire and emulate
true worth wherever he might find it, and regard every one whom he could
respect as an equal.

She gave him the very best education that her means would allow; and,
being naturally bright and talented, he was at seventeen far in advance
of other youths of his age. Marion’s health now began to fail, and it
soon became evident to her that all that remained to her of life would
be a very brief span.

As she grew weaker day by day, she became greatly depressed in her mind
regarding the past and its connection with her son’s future, and at last
she called him to her and told him all the sad story of her life; and
all his outraged manhood, all his deep and tender love for her, arose in
arms as he listened.

“Mother!” he cried, his head thrown back, his eyes flashing fire, his
nostrils dilating, his lips quivering with indignation, shame, and
wounded pride, “I will find the man—no, I cannot call him a _man_—the
brute who dared to do so vile a thing, and I will brand him the traitor
and the coward that he is.”

“My son, never forget that vengeance belongs to a mightier arm than your
own—never forget that _you_ belong to a noble race; and even though you
may never claim your kindred, let your life testify to the respect you
bear for the blood which flowed in your mother’s veins,” was all the
reply which Marion vouchsafed to his boyish outburst of anger.

“Ah! my dear, gentle little mother,” he said, kissing her wasted hands,
“you always teach me to do right; but I bear my kindred no love; they
have cruelly wronged you. I think I cannot even respect that man whom
you say is my grandfather, even though he be the Marquis of Wycliffe.
How could he have driven you forth from your home in such bitterness?”

“You do not realize the cruel disappointment it was to him to have his
hopes thus ruined. If I had not been so blind and foolish in my love,
_you_ would now be the heir of all his proud possessions. I have wronged
you also, my noble boy,” she sighed, in bitter pain.

“Do not think of it, dear mother. It was not your fault; you were
cheated and ruined by a designing villain. Oh, that I may meet him some
day!” he cried, all the blood of his noble ancestors running riot in his
veins.

He was very handsome, and his mother told him that he looked like his
grandfather, the Marquis of Wycliffe, which to him, in his bitterness
against his treatment of her, sounded like very tame praise.

“Mother,” he burst out one day afterward, “have you one particle of
affection remaining for—that man?”

“No, my dear. That was crushed; all my wild love was burned to ashes
that night when, in my misery, he turned from me, and I went out alone
to battle with my shame.”

“That is well. But, mother, please do not call it _shame_. _You_ were
guiltless of any wrong. The _shame_, if there be any, is his,” he urged,
with troubled brow.

Marion sighed and let the matter drop. If the shame was not to be
imputed to her, she had suffered as though it were.

From that day her son was changed.

A new dignity of purpose seemed to crown him. His boyishness dropped
from him all at once, and he suddenly developed, mentally, into the full
stature of a man. He became grave and thoughtful, but a new and deeper
tenderness pervaded all his care of his mother thereafter, making him
gentle as a woman in his sympathy and attention to her wants.

She died blessing him, and telling him what a comfort he had been to her
all his life, and bidding him not forget the lessons she had taught him
of truth and right.

With an almost breaking heart, he buried her under a noble, sweeping
elm, in a quiet spot of the village cemetery, and felt as if he had not
a friend upon the face of the earth.

He sent a notice of her death to the Marquis of Wycliffe, declining all
further aid from him upon his own behalf, and then went forth into the
world to battle for himself.

One thing he resolved to do before settling down to the real business of
life, and that was to visit the place where his mother had been made the
victim of such baseness and treachery.

He went down to South Sussex County, visited Rye, and all the places she
had described to him, and thought of her there, as a fair and innocent
girl, filled to the brim with joy and gayety.

He saw the house, the Surrey mansion, where she had spent those eight
short, happy weeks and longed to enter, that he might see the rooms
where her gay laughter had rang out and her light and nimble feet had
danced to tuneful measure.

But he did not even enter the grounds, passing them with a heavy sigh
for the happiness that had been sacrificed there; and then he took his
way to the little village where St. John’s chapel stood, and where that
sacrilegious fraud had been perpetrated.

And there he made a startling discovery!

It was nearly sunset when he reached the chapel, and as he lifted his
hat on entering the sacred place, still thinking of his mother, who
believed herself a happy bride when her feet had crossed its threshold,
the last notes of a sweet hymn died away on the organ within.

He crossed the vestibule, and was about opening the inner door, when a
lady came down from the organ loft and met him face to face.

She was about twenty-five or six years of age, with a very sweet and
lovely though sad face, and she bowed kindly and graciously to the
stranger.

He returned the salutation, and then asked if she would tell him where
he could find the sexton.

She pointed out to him a little cottage near by, and as he started to go
toward it, she turned and walked with him, remarking the beauty of the
day and the glorious sunset, which they could see through the
overarching trees that grew about the chapel.

More than once he found himself searching her sweet face, and there was
something in her manner and in the tones of her voice which made him
wonder it at some time in her life she, too, had not suffered deeply.

“Perhaps,” he thought, “there is another tale of wrong, and misery, and
disappointment connected with _her_ life.”

They walked together as far as the sexton’s house, she passing in to
speak to the wife, while he sought the man who was working in the
garden.

He questioned him regarding the incidents already related, about the
secret marriage that had occurred nearly eighteen years previous; and
when the young man told him who he was—the son of that fair young
bride—he was surprised to see him betray deep emotion.

“Yes, mister,” he said, eyeing him keenly, “I remember clearly the young
gentleman and pretty lady that came here to be married, and he, the
groom, paid me a handsome sum to leave the chapel unlocked, so that they
could go there for the ceremony. He would bring his own clergyman, he
said, and as the marriage would have to be kept secret for awhile, he
wanted it done as late as possible, and no lights.”

The sexton here stopped and leaned reflectively upon the handle of his
spade, while he contemplated the neat little chapel visible through the
trees.

“I tell you, sir,” he at length resumed, “the sight of the gentleman’s
money won me at first, but when I came to think it all over, I seemed to
think that somehow it did not have a right look—their not wanting any
lights and coming so late in the evening, to say nothing about their
bribing me to let them into the chapel. I thought if it was honest and
square, even if the marriage was to be a secret, they might have come
quietly but openly, and at a proper time, for the ceremony; and, sir—I
beg your pardon if I did wrong, but my conscience was heavy—the gold
seemed like the price of innocent blood to me, and I went and confessed
the whole thing to the old rector himself, and gave him the money to put
in the poor-box.”

Marion’s son started violently at these last words, and he grew white
and trembling.

“_When_ did you make this confession—_before_ or _after_ marriage?” he
asked, with intense eagerness.

“The afternoon before, sir. I felt that if there was anything wrong
about the affair, the good old rector would see that it was made right.
He reprimanded me severely for the betrayal of my trust, as he called
it, but he relieved my mind by saying that no wrong should be done. Sir,
you are faint,” he said, noticing his visitor’s ghastly face, which was
absolutely startling in its pallor.

“No; go on! go on!” he breathed, in a voice that sounded strange even to
himself.

“Well, sir, you had better sit down upon the bench, for you don’t look
able to stand;” and he indicated a rustic bench near by, and the young
man sank weakly upon it, motioning his companion to proceed. “I don’t
know, sir, how the old rector managed that business, but I _do_ know
that after that young couple had entered the chapel I crept softly up
and looked in through an open window, and—_I heard his reverence marry
them good and strong as ever a couple was married in the world_.”

“Are you _sure_?” demanded his listener, actually gasping for breath at
this startling and unexpected announcement, while he wiped away the
great drops of sweat that had gathered upon his brow.

“As sure, sir, as that I am talking to you at this moment,” returned the
old man, confidently. “I could not _see_ the rector, it is true, for the
chapel was dark, but I knew the good old man’s voice well, and I _know_
that, instead of the young man’s clergyman—if a clergyman he had with
him at all—marrying them, the rector of St. John’s chapel said the
ceremony over them himself.”

“Oh, if you could prove this to me!” Marion’s son said, an agony of
longing in his concentrated tones.

The sexton shook his head with an air of perplexity.

“I cannot prove it, sir, except by my word, and I’ve never told any one
before; but you, sir, being the son of the pretty young lady—I had seen
her before, strolling with the gentleman—you being her child, have a
right to know it.”

“The rector! the rector! where is he? If this is true, he can prove it,”
his companion cried, starting up with excitement.

“Ah, sir, he has been dead these ten years, and there is a young man in
his place who could not know anything about this,” the sexton replied,
with a look of pity at the handsome young stranger who was so painfully
agitated.

“And there were no other witnesses—you were the only one who saw and
heard this?”

“Yes, sir, I was the only one as far as I know; but,” with sudden
thought, “I’ve heard that the old rector never went to bed at night
without first writing down everything that had happened during the day,
and perhaps Miss Isabel—that’s the rector’s daughter, sir, as came with
you hither, bless her kind heart!—perhaps she could tell you something
more about it.”

“Thank you. What you have told me to-night is of the most vital
importance, as you have doubtless judged by my unavoidable excitement.
If what you say can be proved, it will repair one of the greatest wrongs
ever committed upon this earth,” Marion’s son replied, very gravely.

“I feared it—I feared it at the time—may God forgive me for ever
betraying my trust,” murmured the old man, brokenly.

“But you atoned for it—you were tempted as all are liable to be tempted,
and I hope and trust that your repentance may have been the means of
saving a proud name from dishonor.”

“Miss Isabel can tell you if any one can,” answered the sexton.

“I will wait, then, until she comes from the cottage, and seek an
interview with her,” returned the youth; and, though his stock of money
was none too large, he generously dropped a golden guinea into the old
man’s hand, and then, too deeply moved to remain quiet, he paced back
and forth beneath the trees, while waiting for the rector’s daughter to
appear.




                              CHAPTER XXIV
                           THE RECTOR’S DIARY


The sweet-faced Miss Isabel did not try his patience long.

She had been deeply interested in the young and handsome stranger,
wondering who he was, and whence he came, as well as why he should seek
their quiet little chapel, and then the old sexton.

She had heard his last words to the old man, and knew that he was
desirous of speaking with her. She at once arose, and, as soon as she
came forth from the cottage, he immediately approached her.

“Pardon,” he said, courteously, lifting his hat, “but may I crave a
little conversation with you?”

“Certainly,” she answered, with a sweet graciousness that made him think
of his mother.

He then stated something of his object in coming there, and also the
startling revelation of the sexton, as well as what he had said
regarding the rector’s diary, and begged her, if it was in her power, to
let him know the truth of the matter.

Her face grew sad and full of pity as she listened to him, and realized
something of the wrong that had been suffered for so many years, and
when he had finished she said simply:

“Yes, I can give you comfort. Come with me.”

How his heart bounded at the words “I can give you comfort;” and,
heaving a breath that was almost a sob, a cry of thankfulness went up to
God from his heart for the light that was beginning to shine upon his
darkened life.

Miss Isabel Grafton, for that was the lady’s name, led the way toward a
small villa, built in the Gothic style, near by.

It was a charming little place, covered with vines and climbing roses,
and surrounded by noble trees with here and there a patch of gay flowers
adding brightness to the scene.

She invited him to enter, and ushered him into a cool and shady parlor,
when she excused herself for a few moments. She was not gone long, and
when she returned she carried two or three large books in her hand.

“These books,” she explained, laying them carefully upon the table, as
if they were a precious treasure, “comprise my father’s diary, and, I
think, never during his life did he omit the record of a single day. I
have taken a sad pleasure,” she continued, with a starting tear, “in
reading them since his death, and I also think that there is
considerable here regarding the events of which you speak. Now, if you
will please give me the date I will see if I can find it for you.”

He told her, and then sat in painful suspense while she turned those
pages penned by a hand long since palsied in death, and which might
contain so much of hope for him.

“Yes,” she said at last, “here is one entry—the first, I think, since it
corresponds with the date you gave me;” and she passed him the book to
let him read for himself.

His emotion was so great that at first the words seemed blurred and
indistinct, and it was a minute or two before his vision became clear
enough to read.

Then he read this:

“August 11th, 18—. A strange thing occurred to-day. Thomas Wight, the
sexton of St. John’s chapel, came to me in evident distress, and
confessed a conspiracy in which he was concerned, or rather a wrong into
which he had been tempted by the offer of gold, and which lay exceeding
heavy on his heart. A young man had hired him to leave the chapel open
after dark that evening, that he might come to be married secretly to a
young and beautiful girl, and he told him, moreover, that he would bring
his own clergyman with him to perform the ceremony. He paid the sexton a
golden eagle to do him the service, which the poor fellow,
conscience-smitten like Judas of old, came and delivered up to me for
the poor. I resolved at once to investigate the affair, for it appeared
to me as if a wrong of some kind was being perpetrated, wherein a young,
trusting and perhaps motherless girl, like my own fair Isabel, was being
deceived. The result proved even as I thought—a romance begun, a wrong
beheaded.

“An hour before the time that Thomas Wight told me was set apart for the
strange couple to come to the chapel, I repaired thither and concealed
myself behind the drapery of a curtain in the robing-room. It was nearly
dark, but not so dark but that I could distinguish objects quite
distinctly, and I had not been there long before a young man, of perhaps
thirty years, quietly entered, and immediately proceeded to disguise
himself with a white wig and a full, flowing white beard. I knew then,
beyond a doubt, that a great wrong was contemplated, for the hair and
beard was an exact counterpart of my own. He then approached my private
closet, took down the robe and surplice, and was about to put them on,
when I stepped forth from my hiding-place and addressed him thus:

“‘Friend, what art thou about to do with these emblems of a sacred
office? Those are holy vestures which none but a priest unto God has a
right to wear.’

“The robe dropped from his nerveless hand upon the floor, and he turned
a white, startled face to me.

“‘Who are you?’ he at length demanded, with an effort to recover
himself.

“‘I am Bishop Grafton, and rector of St. John’s parish. Who are you?’ I
asked mildly, in return.

“‘It does not matter who I am,’ he muttered, angrily, and standing
before me with an exceedingly crest-fallen air; and I proceeded with
solemn gravity:

“‘Friend, I learned this afternoon that a great wrong was to be
committed here this evening, and I came here to stop it, if possible.’

“I spoke the words at a venture—and not so, either, for the man’s manner
had convinced me of the fact already—and my words took immediate effect,
for, with a muttered imprecation, he tore the wig and beard from his
head and face and threw them also upon the floor beside the robe and
surplice.

“‘Friend,’ I then demanded, sternly, ‘are you a minister of Jesus
Christ?’

“‘No,’ he muttered, with a vile oath.

“‘Then you were about to personate a bishop of the church and commit
sacrilege. I will relieve you from both the mockery and the sin. I will
myself perform this marriage ceremony.’

“‘But——’ he began, in an excited manner.

“‘You will please give me the names of the parties about to be united,
and the _correct ones_,’ I interrupted, peremptorily.

“He gave them, and, lighting a taper, I inserted them in the blanks of
the certificate with which I had provided myself before leaving home.

“‘Now you can go,’ I added, and pointed to the rear door, which led into
the church-yard.

“He hesitated, and began to stammer something about some one being very
angry at the turn affairs were taking.

“‘Enough!’ I cried, sternly. ‘Do not dare to interfere with me; you can
quietly retire and leave things to take their course; or, since I now
recognize you as one of the strangers visiting Rye for the summer, I
will cause you to be arrested on the morrow for sacrilege, and having
tampered with things belonging to the house of God. Hark!’ I added, as
we heard steps entering the chapel; ‘they have come; choose quickly and
go; or, if you fear to do that, acknowledge, in the presence of yonder
couple, the fraud you were about to commit. I will not have so foul a
wrong perpetrated; if a young and trusting maiden believes she is about
to become a lawful wife, a wife she _shall_ be; I will not allow her to
be deceived.’

“A moment longer he hesitated, as if undecided which course to pursue,
then, with a terrible imprecation upon me and the whole proceeding, he
turned away and glided forth into the darkness, and I saw him no more.

“It was but the work of an instant for me to don the robe and surplice
which he had dropped in his fright, and I was at the altar in time to
receive the strange couple, one of whom I was now convinced was a
designing villain, the other his victim.

“The maiden was apparently very young, and my heart was pained for her;
her voice was sweet and childish as she made the responses, and I felt
in my soul that she must be motherless, or she would not be there in any
such way as that.

“The propriety of my adopting the course I did might be questioned by
some, and the thought arise why I did not instead denounce the villain
and save the child. I had reasoned all that within myself, and was
convinced that if she was so infatuated with her lover that he had won
her consent to a secret marriage, it would not be difficult for him to
win her again to his will, and, even in the face of my revelation, to do
her the foul wrong he had planned. I judged that the greatest kindness I
could do her would be to make her really a wife.

“In less than ten minutes the vows which made them one were pronounced,
and they were as truly man and wife as any who ever took upon themselves
the vows of matrimony; and, putting the certificate of the transaction
in the young bride’s hand, I saw them go forth into their new life,
feeling that whatever happened, I had done what I could.

“I did not believe that with that certificate in her possession, whereon
my name was written in my boldest hand, to prove the transaction, that
any very great harm could come to that child-wife. I returned to the
robing-room, removed my vestures, picked up the wig and beard which
still lay there, and brought them home with me as trophies of a strange
adventure. They are locked within the third drawer of the old Grafton
bureau. God bless and spare that innocent maiden; my heart yearneth over
her.”

Thus ended the bishop’s first entry regarding that strange adventure,
and a long, deep sigh, as if some heavy burden had rolled from his
heart, burst from Marion Vance’s son as he finished reading it and laid
down the book.

“Thank God!” he said, devoutly.

“Amen!” murmured the sweet-faced Miss Isabel, who had sat silently
watching him as he read, and who seemed to comprehend and sympathize
with all that that burst of thanks meant.

“There is something more, I believe, a little farther on,” she said,
after a moment of silence, and reaching for the book. “Here it is,” she
added, after turning several pages. “I have read it a great many times,
and _hoped_ that that young girl might have been happy; and yet I feared
for her—there is _so much_ that is sad in the world,” she concluded,
with a sigh.

The excited youth again seized the book eagerly, and read:

“September 10th, 18—. My heart has been unaccountably heavy to-day for
that young maiden whom I so strangely wedded about a month ago. Perhaps
the event was recalled by my meeting the villain who was to perform the
mock ceremony. He avoided me with a blush of shame, turning short in his
tracks as he saw me approaching. It is well that he can feel even shame
for his sin. But something impressed me that that young wife might some
time need even stronger evidence than the certificate I gave her—it
might be lost, destroyed, or _stolen_, and then there would be nothing
to prove her position if I should die; and so, I resolved to make a
record here of their names, and the date of their marriage:

  “MARRIED—In St. John’s Chapel, Winchelsea, August 11th, 18—, by the
  Reverend Joshua Grafton, bishop, and rector of St. John’s parish,
  George Sumner, of Rye, to Miss Marion Vance, also of Rye. I take my
  oath that this is a true statement.

  “September 10th, 18—. JOSHUA GRAFTON, Rector.”

That was all; but was it not enough?

The book dropped from the youth’s nerveless hand, and his involuntary
cry smote heavily the heart of the gentle woman sitting so silently in
the gathering twilight near him.

“Oh, mother—mother!”

It was as though he could not bear it, and she not there to share it
with him—this tardy justice, this blessed revelation. His heart was
filled almost to bursting with grief that she should have suffered all
those long years, bearing so patiently her burden of shame, when she
might even now be living, honored and respected.

She was only thirty-four when she died—just the time when life should
have been at its prime.

She was beautiful, and so constituted that she could have enjoyed to
their fullest extent all the good things that belonged to her high
position in life; and it seemed too cruel, when they might all have been
hers—when they _were_ hers by right—that she should have been so
crushed, and her life so corroded and early destroyed by this foul
wrong.

But Marion Vance had learned submission and humility from her life of
trial—she had learned to _trust_ where the way was so dark that she
could not _see_, and she had told her son on her death-bed that
notwithstanding she could not fathom the wisdom of the lesson of sorrow
that she had had to learn, yet she did not doubt that it would all
result for good in the end.

“You may perhaps be a nobler man,” she had said, with her hand resting
fondly on his chestnut curls, “for having been reared in obscurity,
instead of an heir to great possessions; you will, at all events,
realize that a noble character is more to be desired than a mere
noble-sounding name, and if you should ever rise to eminence by your own
efforts, you will not forget the teachings of your mother, and they will
help to keep you in the path of rectitude and honor.”

He remembered those last words now, and though he was always comforted
when he thought of them, yet he could not keep down the wish that she
might have lived, and he been permitted to see her face light up with
hope and joy that there was no stain resting upon her or him.

But doubtless she knew it all in Heaven now, and was rejoicing on his
account.

He was no longer a nameless outcast from society; he could now hold his
head aloft with the proudest in the land—he had no cause for shame, save
the knowledge that his father had been one of the vilest villains who
walked the face of the earth.

“Where was he now?” he wondered, a hot flush of anger mounting his brow,
as it always did when he thought of him.

Was he living or dead?

_Dead_, he hoped, but that was a thing he had yet to find out.

He wondered how the Marquis of Wycliffe would receive the knowledge that
he had gained to-day.

He could now seek him and claim his inheritance if he chose—there was no
reason why he should not do so, except that his heart shrank with
indignation and bitterness from the stern man who, with a face of flint,
had sent his mother, a tender, suffering woman, so cruelly into the
world to wrestle with life’s stern realities, with neither sympathy nor
love to smooth its rough way.

He knew that he should claim his inheritance some time; it belonged to
him as Marion’s legitimate son, and according to the conditions of the
old marquis’ will.

He would go and rule Wycliffe some day, and show the world how Marion
Vance, the despised and scorned, had reared her son. Oh, if she could
but have lived to be proud of him and enjoy the good that was coming to
him! This was ever the burden of his thought, but it could not be, and
he could only strive to remember and follow her pure teachings, and win
for himself the respect that had been denied her.

But first he had a work to do. He could not go to Wycliffe yet, much as
he desired to re-establish his mother’s reputation. He must first find
the man who had sought her ruin, to “pass away a summer holiday and to
have a jolly good time.” If he were dead he would find his grave and be
satisfied. If he was living, he would search until he found him, brand
him with his traitorous designs, and prove to him that in his wickedness
he had overreached himself.

Then, and not until then, could he present himself before the Marquis of
Wycliffe, and demand to be acknowledged as his heir.




                              CHAPTER XXV
                           THE RIGHTFUL HEIR


He did not realize how long he had been sitting there musing over these
things until a slight movement of Miss Grafton’s aroused him.

“Thank you, and pardon me for my absent-mindedness,” he said, starting.
“I shall not soon forget your kindness; and may I trespass upon it still
further? Will you allow me to make a copy of what I have read?”

“Certainly, if it will be of any benefit to you,” Miss Grafton answered,
the look of kindly sympathy still on her face.

He noticed it, and, after a moment’s thoughtful hesitation, said, with a
rising flush:

“This young bride of whom the rector has written was my mother.”

“_Was?_” she repeated in a sad tone.

“Yes, was,” he said, with a trembling lip. “She died only a week ago,
and I feel that it is due to you, for your kindness to me, that I should
tell you this. She believed, and has believed all these long years, that
she was most cruelly wronged. She was driven from her beautiful home on
account of it, and has suffered in silence ever since. I knew nothing of
her sad history, believing my father had died before my birth, until a
very short time before her own death. It was true that she had the
certificate of which the rector speaks, but that man told her, and she
believed, it was a sham and a forgery. Whether he was ever told or
discovered that his accomplice was foiled and driven from the field, and
a _bona fide_ marriage performed, is a mystery; but I am rather inclined
to think he did not, since, if he ever discovered my mother’s position
in life, he would undoubtedly have been anxious to claim her as his
wife. She was a lady, and occupied a station in every way honorable
before this sad trouble overtook her; and I to-day, with this to prove
it, can claim a name as proud as any in England. She was the daughter of
the Marquis of Wycliffe, of whom you have doubtless heard.”

“Is it possible?” Miss Grafton exclaimed, greatly surprised; “and you
are therefore the heir of Wycliffe.”

“Yes; but before I present my claim I have a work to do. I must find him
who wronged and ruined my mother’s life,” he returned, with firmly
compressed lips and lowering brow.

“Thank you for telling me this,” Miss Grafton said, wiping the tears
from her eyes. “I have often thought of the young girl, of whom my
father used frequently to speak, and wonder if all was well with her. I
congratulate you. I am glad that the wrong-doer was outwitted, and that
the innocent will be righted at last.”

“My poor, innocent mother can never be righted; those years of suffering
and humiliation can never be atoned for,” the young man said, in
trembling tones.

“My friend,” Miss Isabel Grafton said, meeting his eyes with a sweet
gravity that was all her own, “can you not _trust_ that where she has
gone all sorrow has ceased, all tears are wiped, and that pain is
remembered no more? _She_ can see now, if _you_ cannot, why all this was
permitted.”

“Miss Grafton, you remind me of my mother, only you are younger—she used
to talk that way to me, and she said almost the same thing to me just
before she died,” he said, with a touch of reverence in his tones.

Miss Grafton sighed, yet at the same time her lips parted in a little
tremulous smile.

The sigh bespoke the memory of some bitter struggle of the past—the
smile of the trust and hope of which she had just spoken.

She set before him a pen, ink, and paper, and then quietly left the room
while he copied those blessed words from the rector’s diary, which in
one hour had changed all his life.

Just as he had finished Miss Grafton returned to the parlor, bringing a
tempting little lunch for him, and chatted socially with him while he
ate it.

When at last he arose to go, bade her farewell, and thanked her again
for her kindness, and then went away, she for the first time losing all
self-control, threw herself prone upon the floor and cried aloud:

“Another, O Lord! Why in Thy mercy dost Thou permit the brightest hopes
to be destroyed, the happiest and most innocent to suffer such cruel
blight?”

Thus the story of another sweet woman’s life was told.

Isabel Grafton’s own youth had been blasted, her own heart crushed and
broken by the treachery of one whom she had trusted. She had loved and
plighted herself to one who, all unworthy, had deserted her for the
brighter smiles of another but the day before he was to have led her to
the altar.

                  *       *       *       *       *

The son of Marion Vance went forth upon his self-imposed mission—to find
the man who had plotted to betray his mother, prove to him the validity
of his marriage, and then, leaving him forever, return to Wycliffe and
claim his inheritance there.

Leaving him thus engaged, we must for a time turn our thoughts in
another direction—to Paul Tressalia, who was called from Newport so
suddenly, as already mentioned in our story.

It will be remembered that on the same night of his final rejection by
Editha Dalton, he had received important letters which demanded his
immediate presence abroad, and that summons, with his heart so sore from
his disappointment, he was only too glad to obey.

We have already explained how Paul Tressalia was related to the Marquis
of Wycliffe, his grandmother being the marquis’ only sister, and, should
he die without issue, her heirs would inherit the proud name and wealth
belonging to him.

When the blow came that destroyed all the marquis’ fond hopes, and
Marion Vance was driven forth from her home to hide her disgrace, and
bring up her illegitimate child far from the immaculate precincts of
Wycliffe, little Paul Tressalia, then about six years of age, was at
once acknowledged the heir, and from that time educated accordingly.

It was the news of the sudden death of the marquis and of his own
succession to his vast property, both in France and England, that had
hastened his departure from Newport.

This letter, by some unaccountable means, had been missent, and did not
reach him until more than a month after his kinsman’s death, and so,
without any delay, he hastened to present himself at Wycliffe.

He had never mentioned his prospects to any one during his sojourn in
America, where he had tarried longer by a year than he at first
intended, on account of his love for Editha. So, although he was
reported to be the heir to vast wealth, no one really seemed to know
just in what that wealth consisted, or what his future prospects were.
He was very modest and unassuming regarding them, preferring to be
accepted solely upon his own merits wherever he went, rather than upon
the dignity of his prospective grandeur.

He took possession of Wycliffe immediately upon his return to England,
and also of all the property belonging to the previous marquis. And yet,
in the midst of all his prosperity, he was sad and depressed.

The one woman whom he loved could not share it with him, and all his
bright prospects, like the apples of Sodom, turned to ashes in his
grasp.

“Oh, my bright Editha!” he moaned, “why could you not have loved me,
when I could have given you everything that would make life beautiful to
you, when you are so well fitted to grace the position you would have
filled as my wife? The beautiful things around me are but mockery—they
are nothing to me compared with the boon I crave.”

This was his continual cry, and he would shut himself away from every
human eye for days, and battle with himself, striving to conquer his
hopeless love.

Then it began to be whispered and suggested to him that Wycliffe must
have a mistress—he was over thirty, and it was high time that some good,
true woman came there to reign, where for so many years there had been
no mistress.

“Oh, God!” he cried, after some one had spoken to him of this; “I love
but one—I cannot, I _will_ not yield her place to another! Must it be—is
there no escape?” and his sense of what was right and proper told him
that it _ought_ to be.

And so several months went by, while all the county yielded him homage,
and every matron with a marriageable damsel upon her hands showered upon
him every attention that her fertile brains could suggest.

One day he was sitting alone in his library thinking of this—and a
magnificent room, be it known, was this library at Wycliffe, furnished
with ebony, upholstered in olive, green, and gold. The rich ebony
bookcase, inlaid with pearl and precious woods, reached from ceiling to
floor, and were filled with countless volumes, each collection bound in
uniform covers. It had been the pride of the previous marquis’ heart,
his one solace and comfort, after his bitter trouble came upon him, and
he had spent the greater part of his life there among his choice books.

And it seemed likely also to be the resort of Paul Tressalia, for here
he brought himself and his troubles, and, locked within his fort, no one
dared to intrude; and, as he sat there one morning thinking bitterly of
what might have been, a servant came to the door and knocked for
admittance. With a shrug and frown of impatience, he arose and went to
the door, where he was handed a card.

It bore the name of a noted lawyer from London—“Archibald Faxon.”

“Show him in,” the young marquis said, with a weary sigh at being
obliged to see any one, and wondering what this noted stranger could
want of him.

The Hon. Archibald Faxon soon made his appearance—a wiry, sharp-featured
man, with a keen, restless eye that was capable of reading a man through
almost instantly—any one would have known he was a lawyer, and a
successful one, too, merely to look at him.

The young marquis greeted him with a show of cordiality, and then
politely waited for him to state his business.

He was not long in coming to the point.

“I fear I have come to you upon a very unpleasant errand,” he said,
suavely, and yet with an appearance of regret in his manner.

“Indeed!” was Paul Tressalia’s indifferent reply.

It did not appear to him that anything could move him after what he had
already suffered.

“Yes, your lordship; I have to present to you the claims of another to
this property of Wycliffe, and all other properties connected with it.”

Paul Tressalia regarded the man with almost stupid wonder for a moment.
A more ridiculous assertion, it struck him, could not have been made by
the most witless fool in the kingdom.

“Sir, I do not understand you,” he managed to say, at last.

The noted Mr. Faxon very deliberately and distinctly repeated his
statement.

“Are you aware how very absurd such an assertion sounds, Mr. Faxon?”
Paul Tressalia asked, with curling lips. “Why, I am the only living
representative of the whole family, and what you assert is simply
preposterous.”

“Not so much so as you may suppose,” returned the lawyer, calmly.

Mr. Tressalia began to grow rather red in the face at this; he could not
exactly make out whether the lawyer meant to insult him or not; his
manner was courteous, but what he said was such an unheard of
proposition that he was at a loss to comprehend it.

“If that is the nature of your business with me to-day, you will excuse
me if I say I cannot listen to you any further,” he said, rather coldly.

“Bear with me, if you please, my lord, for a few moments,” returned the
imperturbable lawyer, with a wave of his shapely hand, “and allow me to
ask you a few questions. Did not the former marquis have an only child?”

“Yes; but she forfeited all claim to the property according to the
conditions of the entail, and was disowned by her father more than
twenty years ago.”

“That child gave birth to a son, I’ve been told?” remarked Mr. Faxon,
not heeding Mr. Tressalia’s last statement.

“I really cannot say whether it was a son or daughter,” he answered, his
lips curling again just a trifle. “Whichever it was, it was
illegitimate, and could inherit nothing.”

“If it had been born in wedlock it would have inherited the property
which you now hold, would it not?”

“Yes; but it was _not_ born in wedlock, consequently all this argument
is utterly useless,” the young marquis said, impatiently.

“Are you _quite sure_, my lord, of the truth of what you assert?” was
the next unruffled query.

“Certainly; it is according to Miss Vance’s own confession to her
father; she owned she had been deceived, and that only a mock marriage
had been consummated.”

“Is it not barely possible that Miss Vance herself may have been
mistaken in the matter?”

“I should think _not_, when interests of so vital importance were at
stake,” Paul Tressalia answered, with something very like a sneer upon
his fine face.

The question was so utterly devoid of sense and reason, at least to him,
that he could not control it.

“But it is my duty to prove to you that such _was_ the case,
notwithstanding. May I ask your attention to some documents which I have
in my possession?” and the lawyer, with great deference, drew forth a
package from his pocket.

With an expression of incredulity upon his handsome face, Paul Tressalia
drew up his chair to the table, to comply with his request.

He spread them before him, and immediately entered upon an explanation
of their contents, going over them step by step until, in spite of his
unbelief, the young marquis’ face grew grave, anxious, and perplexed,
and he began to fear that his fair inheritance, his proud name and
title, were in danger of being wrested from him after all.

He read the certificate signed so boldly by Joshua Grafton, bishop, and
rector of St. John’s parish, and which had been given to Marion upon the
completion of the marriage ceremony, and which also she had regarded
only as so much worthless paper; yet some unaccountable instinct had
always prevented her destroying it whenever she had been tempted to do
so.

He carefully read those extracts which Marion’s son had made from the
rector’s diary, and with which we are so familiar. He listened with
painful interest to the repetition of the sexton’s story of his
confession, and how he became a witness to the marriage ceremony, and he
could scarcely credit his own sense of hearing as he heard the marvelous
tale, and his better judgment told him that every word was true.

But when one is already suffering, as he was suffering, with his heart
so sore and bitter, one’s natural antagonism and rebellion against the
iron hand of fate is more easily aroused.

So it was now with Paul Tressalia; he had been obliged to relinquish his
dearest hopes—to give up the woman he loved; and now, with this almost
incontestable evidence before him, it seemed as if every hope of his
manhood was destined to be crushed; and, with a strange perversity, even
in the face of such stern facts as had just been presented to him, he
said within himself that he _would not yield_ his inheritance to this
unknown child of Marion Vance—he _would not_ give up his position, his
wealth, his proud and honored name.

“It is a cunningly devised fable,” he said, with a stern, white face,
“and I defy the claim.”

“I am sorry, my lord; for, with all my experience in the law, I must say
I never undertook a clearer case,” the Hon. Mr. Faxon replied, with the
same unvarying politeness that he had displayed all through the
interview.

“Nevertheless, I shall resist to the uttermost of my ability. Tell your
client so. He will have to fight a mighty hard battle before he will win
one foot of Wycliffe,” the young marquis returned, moodily.

“He is prepared to do so, if necessary, your lordship, for his mother’s
sake alone. He has expressed deep regret at your disappointment, but
_her_ honor and purity must be established at all events, whether he
wins anything else or not. He will at once take measures to establish
the validity of her marriage, that all who formerly knew her may know
that no shadow of stain rests upon her character.”

“Who is he? Where has he been all these years? Where is he now?”
demanded the marquis, with clouded brow.

He saw the reasonableness of what the young man contemplated, and knew
that if those facts were once established there would be no hope left
for him.

“Until about seven years ago he resided with his mother in ——, a little
town in the southwest of England. After her death, prompted by
curiosity, he visited the place where she believed she had been so
grossly deceived, and accidentally stumbled upon the evidence with which
I have presented you to-day.”

“Then his mother knew nothing of all this?—she believed up to the time
of her death that she had forfeited all claim to this property?” Mr.
Tressalia inquired, gravely.

“Most assuredly, or she would have returned immediately to her father
and vindicated herself, for the sake of her child’s future.”

“Why did he not present himself to his grandfather, then, as soon as he
made this discovery?” the marquis inquired, thinking it very strange
that he had not done so.

“His first impulse was to do so. But he is very proud—he inherits all
the fire and spirit of his race—and, feeling very sore and indignant at
the treatment which his mother received from his grandfather, he
naturally shrank from him. Moreover, he concluded that his first duty
was to find the man who had so wronged him and her, and notify him of
the validity of the marriage which he had supposed to be but a sham.”

“Did he succeed?”

“He did not, although he has used every means in his power to discover
the man’s place of residence, and whether he was living or dead. He
would not now present his claim to this property, but recently learning
of the death of his grandfather, he deemed it best to establish his
identity and continue his search afterward.”

“He is rather late in the day; he should have come immediately upon the
marquis’ death, and before I had taken possession,” Paul Tressalia said,
with some excitement.

“He would have done so had it been possible; but it is only a fortnight
since he learned that fact.”

“On your honor as a gentleman, do you believe the statements you have
made to me to-day?” the marquis asked, after considering the matter in a
long and thoughtful pause, and fixing his eyes keenly upon the lawyer.

“On my honor as a gentleman, and _as a friend_ of the previous Marquis
of Wycliffe, I have not a single doubt upon the subject.”

“These are only copies,” Mr. Tressalia said, laying his hand upon the
papers before him. “Have you seen the original, written in the hand of
Bishop Grafton?”

“I have, and examined them carefully.”

“Does his signature there correspond with this upon the certificate of
marriage?”

“Exactly; except that this is written in rather a bolder hand. I have
also seen the sexton and questioned him closely,” Mr. Faxon returned,
feeling deeply for the young man, who was to lose so much upon the proof
of these facts.

“Where did you say the claimant is at this time?” Paul Tressalia asked.

“Here at Wycliffe, awaiting an interview with yourself. I think you will
find him disposed to be very considerate and generous with you in his
dealings; and you will acknowledge that, despite the obscurity in which
he has been reared, he is an honor to your race. Shall I bring him to
you now?” Mr. Faxon asked.

“If you please; I am ready to meet him now,” Paul Tressalia said, with a
weary sigh.

The lawyer immediately arose and left the room, but returned again
almost instantly, accompanied by a tall, handsome stranger, whose
peculiarly noble and attractive face at once riveted Paul Tressalia’s
eye.

“My lord,” the Hon Archibald Faxon said, in his most gracious manner,
“allow me to present to you my client, who is also your relative, and by
the name his mother gave him—_Earle Wayne_!”




                              CHAPTER XXVI
                             THE BATTLE WON


In the great library at Wycliffe three strongly contrasted men had met
to solve one of life’s most complex problems.

Paul Tressalia, the present master of Wycliffe, was face to face with
the grim possibility of being turned out of his estates.

The Hon. Archibald Faxon, a famous London lawyer, had entered the
library a moment before and introduced to the astounded Paul Tressalia a
claimant in the shape of a cousin upon whose name had rested the shadow
of shame.

But it was not simply this that had driven the blood from Paul
Tressalia’s face. It was the fact that the lawyer had introduced his
client as “Earle Wayne.”

“_Earle Wayne!_” repeated Paul Tressalia, in a startled tone, a sharp,
sudden pain running throughout his frame at the name as he remembered an
interview with pretty Editha Dalton, and instantly knew that his rival
for her love, and the claimant for his supposed inheritance, were one
and the same person.

Then quickly recovering himself, he greeted his kinsman with the
courtesy that always characterized him.

“Yes, sir,” explained the lawyer; “every one is aware that the Marquis
of Wycliffe possessed another title—Viscount Wayne. When Miss Vance—or,
I should now more properly say, Mrs. Sumner—left her father’s house,
under the impression that she had been lured into a mock marriage, she
could not endure the thought of retaining the name by which she had
always been known, and, feeling utterly unable to renounce _every_ tie
that bound her to the old life, she adopted the name of Mrs. Wayne as
one little likely to attract attention, and, when her son was born,
bestowed upon him that of Earle Wayne, and which he always believed
belonged to him by right, until his mother lay upon her death-bed.”

For the first time in his life Earle Wayne stood in the home of his
mother—in the halls of his ancestors.

From what he had learned of Paul Tressalia, he admired and honored him
as one of earth’s noblest men.

“My lord,” he said, as he held him by the hand and courteously addressed
him, by the title which more rightly belonged to himself, “I regret more
than I can express the necessity that brings me here to-day. Believe me,
I care little for the advantages I may reap upon the establishment of my
claim compared with the vindication of my innocent mother, who suffered
so long in silence and obscurity.”

It was frankly spoken, and the regret expressed was real, there could be
no doubt of it, while the title he had used did not escape the notice of
either the lawyer or Paul Tressalia.

“I can scarcely realize it,” the latter said, passing his hand wearily
across his brow and speaking with white lips. “Are you the Mr. Wayne
who—who——”

“Who for the last seven years has resided in the city of New York, in
the United States,” Earle hastened to say, to fill up the awkward pause,
and knowing but too well of what he was thinking.

He felt deeply for him, and it was a very trying moment for even the
noblest nature.

“Yes, yes!” Paul Tressalia said, and then bowed his head upon his breast
and sat apparently lost in thought for many minutes.

The Hon. Archibald Faxon regarded them in astonishment. He had not
supposed that either knew anything personally of the other until this
moment, and never dreamed of the romance so closely woven into their
lives.

“Mr. Wayne,” Paul Tressalia said at last, lifting his face, which seemed
to have grown suddenly old, and turning it full upon Earle, “will you
allow me a few hours in which to think this matter over alone before we
talk further upon it?”

He was nearly unmanned and crushed beneath this avalanche of stern facts
and bitter trouble which had come so suddenly upon him, and he must be
alone for awhile, or he knew he should break down utterly.

“Certainly, as long as you like,” Earle said, with hearty kindness,
adding: “I have no desire to inconvenience you in any way. Take a week,
a month, or even longer, if you wish, and I will meet you again at any
place and time you see fit to designate.”

“Thank you; you are very kind; and if you have no other engagement for
to-day, I will give you my decision this afternoon. Meantime, the horses
and carriages in the stables are at your service. You can go over the
estate, or occupy yourselves in any way agreeable to you,” Paul
Tressalia replied, with grave courtesy.

He arose, gathered up the papers the lawyer had brought, then, with a
bow to both gentlemen, withdrew from the room and sought his private
apartments.

Once there, and all doors securely locked, his firmness deserted him
utterly.

“_Can_ I bear it?” he groaned, sinking into a chair and dropping his
head upon the table. “Can I _ever_ bear it, that she should be his wife?
I must, for she loves him, and though to lose her rends my soul, yet _I_
love _her_ so well that to see her happy I would not shrink from any
suffering however great. But can I bear to lose all _this_, and have him
here at Wycliffe, where _I_ had hoped to bring her as its mistress and
_my_ wife? I _cannot_ bear it!” he cried aloud, beating the air wildly
with his hands, his face convulsed with pain. “I was proud of my
inheritance,” he went on; “I was proud of my name and position, and
hoped to rule wisely and well over the trust committed to my care. _Can
I give it up?_ I had hoped to make the proud name I bear even more
honorable and revered; I had hoped to make it, wherever it was uttered,
the synonym for virtue, truth, and probity. Must I surrender all these
aspirations, and calmly lay down every ambitious desire. _If_ I yield,
_he_ will marry _her_ at once, and bring her here. She will indeed be
mistress of Wycliffe; but, oh! how differently from what I wished! I
_cannot_ bear it!”

He sprang to his feet and paced back and forth, fighting his agony and
rebellious heart as only men of his character can fight and suffer.

For more than two hours he argued the case with himself in every
possible light, and then, with an expression strong as iron upon his
marble face, and eyes that glowed with a relentless purpose, he drew his
chair again to the table, sat down, unfolded the papers he had brought
with him, and for another hour studied them intently.

Earle’s lawyer—though himself a successful lawyer, he yet deemed that he
needed maturer judgment than his own upon this case, and in a strange
country, and so had sought one of the best—had prepared a clear and
succinct account of Marion Vance’s whole history, as related to him by
his client, from the time of her leaving her home to visit her friends
at Rye, until her death. This, with the certificate of marriage, and the
extracts from the old rector’s journal, and the sexton’s tale, made
everything so plain that Paul Tressalia could not doubt the truth of
what he read.

He did not for a moment question Earle Wayne’s identity, as many might
have done, and seize this as a weapon with which to fight him.

That he was the son of Marion Vance seemed to him a self-evident fact.
He resembled the former marquis in form, in his proud bearing, his
clear-cut, Roman features, his grand and noble head.

Marion had resembled her mother, but the blood of the Vance race showed
itself clearly enough in Earle, and Paul had recognized it at once upon
beholding him.

The only point he had been at all inclined to doubt was the validity of
the marriage.

But this point was established now, if the lawyer’s statement was
correct, and the extracts _bona fide_; and that could be easily
ascertained by comparing the signatures upon the certificate with the
writing in the rector’s diary.

“I shall go and read that account for myself, and if all this is true,
what shall I do?” the sorely-tried man asked himself for the hundredth
time.

And then, as his mind leaped forward into the future again, and he saw
Earle established in the halls of his ancestors, proud, prosperous, and
happy, with Editha Dalton as his wife, and sunny-haired, merry-hearted
children playing about them, he covered his face, and writhing with
pain, groaned again. Then a miserable temptation beset him; his
rebellious heart refusing to bear patiently the crushing burdens imposed
upon it.

“Possession is nine points in law—hold on to the Wycliffe estates with a
grasp of iron as long as your strength holds out—defy this new and
hitherto unknown claimant until the very last,” whispered the evil
spirit within him.

“What good would it do? He must win in the end,” he opposed.

“But you can keep him out of it for years, perhaps, and all the while
enjoy the luxuries you have so fondly believed your own. He has won
_her_ love away from you; it is not fair that he should have everything
and you nothing.”

“There is no true love without sacrifice,” came to him as if softly
wafted upon the breath of some good angel. “If you truly love Editha
Dalton—if it is a pure and unselfish love, you will do _right_ and let
her be happy, no matter what the cost is to yourself. Would she respect
you? Would she honor you? Would she be proud to call you friend, as she
once said, if, convinced of the right, you wilfully do wrong?”

“No,” he said, with uplifted head, and speaking aloud, as if some one
had spoken directly to him; “_I’ll keep my manhood pure, even though I
am beggared by the result._”

A noble spirit of self-abnegation and sacrifice arose within him; the
battle was won, but his heart was broken.

Editha Dalton should spend her life without a shadow to mar its
brightness, as far as it lay within his power to contribute to that
result; and Earle Wayne—a true and noble man he believed him to be, and
every way worthy of her priceless love—should have his own without
contention.

“Wycliffe will have a noble master,” he murmured; “he will add
brightness and honor to the name—perhaps more than I could have done. I
will try to bear it patiently; I will give her my blessing with my
inheritance, and then, when I come to the crossing ’twixt earth and the
great beyond, I can pass over without a regret. I shall have done right
and what was my duty.”

He sighed heavily and threw himself upon a couch, as if exhausted with
the struggle; and the good angels watching him must have come to comfort
him, for almost unconsciously his eyes closed, and sleep wrapped him for
the time in the mantle of forgetfulness.

Did they whisper to him that almost divine message from some sweet,
mystic pen:

                  “Oh, fear not in a world like this,
                    And thou shalt know ere long—
                  Know how sublime a thing it is
                    To suffer and be strong?”

He had ordered dinner to be served at three o’clock. A little before
that time he awoke, and went down to his guests the calm,
self-contained, courteous host.

The dinner-hour passed pleasantly and socially, the three gentlemen
conversing unreservedly upon the topics of the day.

When at length they arose from the table, Paul Tressalia requested a few
minutes’ private conversation with Earle.

It was cordially granted, and they repaired to the library again, while
the Hon. Archibald Faxon lingered upon the dining-room balcony smoking
his fragrant Havana.

There was a moment’s awkward silence as those two claimants of the
Wycliffe property stood facing each other; then Paul Tressalia frankly
extended his hand, which Earle cordially grasped.

“It is not often that rivals, such as you and I are _in every sense of
the word_, can shake hands thus,” said the former, with a smile. “I will
confess to you that I have had a bitter struggle with my own heart
during the last few hours, but I have conquered myself. I am obliged to
be convinced of the truth of the evidence you have brought me to-day,
and, looking in your face, which unmistakably proclaims your
relationship to the late marquis, I know that you are nearer of kin to
him than I. Of course, I shall take pains to ascertain everything
regarding the rector’s story for myself, and that the signatures are all
right, and so forth. If there is nothing there to contradict your
statements, I shall at once yield my position here, and you will
henceforth be recognized as the Marquis of Wycliffe and Viscount Wayne.”

Earle could scarcely credit his sense of hearing as he listened to this
noble renunciation of all the brightest prospects of his life.

He had believed that he should be obliged to have recourse to the extent
of the law in order to establish his claim, and now its possessor was
giving up everything without a demur. He could only look the
astonishment that he could not speak. Again Paul Tressalia smiled—a
smile that was sadder than tears.

“You look surprised at my decision,” he said; “you expected I would
resist your claim. I suppose I might, if I were so disposed, and thus
make you much trouble; but that would not be right, convinced as I am
that you are what you say—the legitimate son of Marion Vance and George
Sumner; and for the sake of one whom we both love—you fortunately, I
most unfortunately—I will not place one obstacle in your path.”

Earle was deeply moved by his kinsman’s manliness, and touched by his
confession of his hopeless love for Editha. Still clasping the hand that
had been extended so frankly to him, he said, in a voice that was not
quite steady:

“With such a spirit as that, _you_ should be master here at Wycliffe,
and not I. It seems to me unjust that your whole life should be
destroyed thus, and mine built up out of its ruins. If it were possible
for me to share my inheritance with you equally, I would gladly do it;
but I suppose the entail forbids that.”

“Yes, it could not be, even if I were willing to accept such an
obligation,” Paul Tressalia said, not unkindly, yet with a little show
of spirit.

Earle regarded him with admiration.

“I have heard of you before—how true and good you are, and I am proud to
know that I have _one_ such relative in the world. If you cannot accept
any aid from me, will you not stay with me as my adviser, my elder
brother, my friend?” he said, in low, earnest tones.

But Tressalia shook his head, a look of pain leaping to his eyes.

“I fear that would not be possible,” he said; “your own heart will tell
you that I could not remain here after—after you come here permanently.”

Earle saw that it could not be, and sighed. He longed to comfort him,
but what could he say?

Delicacy forbade his expressing any pity for his suffering and loss, for
that would be but vaunting his own happiness and prosperity.

“We can be friends, can we not?” he asked wistfully.

“Most assuredly. I shall be glad to claim your friendship, and will aid
you in everything as far as I am able; believe me, I bear you no
ill-will because brighter stars beam upon your way than upon mine just
now. You have suffered in the past and borne it like a hero, and I am
truly glad that your future is so promising.”

Tears stood in Earle’s eyes as he said, with a burst of enthusiasm:

“Paul Tressalia, _you_ are a hero! You make me think of those lines by
Joseph Addison:

               ‘Unbounded courage and compassion joined,
               Tempering each other in the victor’s mind,
               Alternately proclaim him good and great,
               And make the hero and the man complete.’”

“You make me out greater than I am,” was the sad reply, as he remembered
the terrible thoughts and temptations that had come to him a few hours
before. “I cannot deny,” he continued, after a slight pause, “that I am
bitterly disappointed—that it is a trial almost greater than I can bear
to lose all I had so firmly believed to be mine—that I had grown up from
youth believing _would_ be mine! and had I the least idea now that your
claim was invalid, I should do battle valiantly before I would yield up
one foot of my possessions to you. Human nature will assert itself, you
know, and I am conscious that I am not above its weaknesses. But, Earle,
I mean to fight them down until, with the last one under my heel, I
shall be able at length to cheerfully contemplate God’s richest
blessings abiding on you and—yours.”

The last word was spoken in a hoarse whisper, and his companion realized
that all the force of a mighty will had been employed to let him know
how entirely he relinquished everything and acknowledged his superior
claim, even to Editha Dalton’s love.

Paul Tressalia could bear no more, and, wringing Earle’s hand, he went
quickly away, leaving him alone and deeply moved.




                             CHAPTER XXVII
                         THE SEARCH FOR EDITHA


Three months later saw Earle Wayne firmly established as the master of
Wycliffe, and over all other property belonging to the former Marquis of
Wycliffe and Viscount Wayne. His mother’s character was cleared of every
imputation of evil, her body removed to the vaults of her ancestors,
where it rested as peacefully and quietly as the noblest of all the race
of Vance, and the friends of her youth now looked back with sadness and
regret upon the sufferings of the beautiful injured girl, which their
own sneers and coldness had helped to aggravate.

All this change made no small stir in the social world.

Paul Tressalia first of all went down to Winchelsea, where he
interviewed the old sexton of St. John’s Chapel, who told him exactly
the same story that he had told Earle seven years before. He next sought
Miss Isabel Grafton, and craved permission to peruse her father’s diary.

She received him with the same graciousness that she had accorded Earle,
and talked long and freely with him upon the strange, sad events of
Marion Vance’s history, while he in return related much regarding
Earle’s manly battling with the cold world, omitting, of course, that
sad epoch wherein he, too, had suffered so much for another’s wrong.

In a simple, manly fashion he mentioned the fact that the establishment
of his young kinsman’s identity dethroned him from Wycliffe and one of
the proudest positions in England, and Miss Grafton’s expressions of
sincere regret and sympathy were the sweetest and most comforting sounds
that had fallen on his ear since that night when Editha Dalton had
crushed his last hope of ever winning her love.

He was convinced beyond the shadow of a doubt that Earle was the
rightful heir, and he gave up everything to his possession without a
demur; and then, out of the nobility of his nature, took upon himself
the defense of Marion Vance’s character.

He caused a notice of the marriage to be inserted in all the leading
papers, with the date of the event, wrote a brief and simple account of
the manner in which it had occurred, the wrong that had been attempted
but fortunately outwitted, and how at last the real heir, her son, had
been restored to his rights.

It was not long after this before the whole world—Marion’s world—knew of
her innocence, and immediately recognized and cordially received Earle
as Marquis of Wycliffe and Viscount Wayne.

This accomplished, Earle’s impatient heart told him he now might return
to Editha and claim the reward of all his patient waiting, and to make
one last effort to discover the criminals for whom he had so unjustly
suffered.

He did not dream that when he should inform Mr. Dalton of the great
change in his prospects, and the position to which he had attained, he
would longer withhold his consent to his marriage with his daughter; and
so it was with a light heart that he left Paul Tressalia to rule at
Wycliffe until his return, and set sail for the United States.

The “wings of the wind” were not half rapid enough to bear him thither,
for, for several weeks past, his heart had been filled with great
anxiety.

Editha’s letters had suddenly ceased, and though he wrote again and
again, it was ever with the same result—not one came in reply.

He did not for a moment doubt her constancy; he knew she simply _could
not_ be untrue to him, and he was forced to believe that Mr. Dalton had
discovered the fact of their correspondence, and had taken measures to
stop it, in perhaps the same way that he had before intercepted her
flowers.

The passage across the Atlantic was an unusually long one, owing to
unfavorable winds and storms, and he was nearly sick with the delay and
his patience exhausted, when at last the vessel touched her pier, and he
sprang ashore like a restless bird escaped from its cage.

Two hours later he stood on the steps of Mr. Dalton’s residence, his
heart beating with a strange, unaccountable fear of something wrong,
though he knew not what.

A servant answered his impatient ring, and to his eager inquiry, “Is
Miss Dalton at home?” returned a surprised “No, sir.”

He then inquired for Mr. Dalton, and the reply suddenly stilled his
rapid heart-beats and drove every shade of color from his face and lips.

“No, sir, Mr. Dalton is not at home; he has been searching for Miss
Dalton ever since her strange disappearance,” the man said.

“_Strange disappearance!_ Man! what do you mean?” gasped Earle, actually
staggering beneath the unexpected blow.

The servant, pitying his distress, asked him to come in, saying he would
tell him all about the affair.

He mechanically obeyed, and his heart nearly died within him as he
listened to the strange account of her sudden disappearance and
protracted absence.

Nothing had been heard of her during all that time beyond what has
already been related in a previous chapter, although every one reasoned,
from the account which the policeman gave of her encounter with the
ruffian on her return from John Loker’s house, that _he_ must have had
something to do with it, since she seemed to possess something that he
was bound to have, and she as determined not to relinquish.

The detectives employed to unravel the mystery could learn nothing; they
were baffled at every point. They would seem to gain a clew to her
whereabouts, and then would suddenly lose it again.

Her fate remained a dark and perplexing mystery, and seemed likely to
remain so indefinitely, and it had created a great deal of excitement,
not only in her own city but all over the State.

At first Earle inclined to think that Mr. Dalton himself was criminally
concerned in the affair, remembering as he did his excessive anger upon
discovering that Editha had promised to be his wife, and also his
insulting language, sneers, and sarcasm both to her and him the day
before his departure for Europe.

But after he had seen and conversed with Mr. Felton, Editha’s lawyer, he
changed his mind upon this point.

Mr. Felton asserted that Mr. Dalton was now traveling in search of her,
and had been unwearied in his efforts to find her ever since her
disappearance.

He privately informed him also that his business affairs were
inextricably involved, and that for a long time he had been dependent
upon Editha’s income, which she had freely and generously shared with
him.

Now, however, since she was of age and controlled her property, he would
be cut off from that source of supply until she was found, as Mr. Felton
had no right to pay over anything to him without her sanction; so it was
for his interest that he exert every effort in his power to find her.

Earle’s every interest and thought for himself was now also swallowed up
in this great and unexpected trouble.

He no longer thought of seeking those unpunished criminals, or of
clearing his own name from dishonor.

What cared he for any disgrace that might cling to _him_, so long as
_her_ fate remained such a dark mystery, and she, perhaps, sick and
suffering, or—dead, for all any one would ever know?

For a week he was nearly mad, neither eating nor sleeping, but wandering
aimlessly about the streets, peering into every face he met, as if he
hoped that by some chance he might meet her. At night he was like some
restless, caged lion, helplessly shut in by the darkness, as it were,
behind its bars, against which he constantly fretted and fumed, until,
with the first sign of dawn, he could return to his vain search.

But at the end of a week he began to realize the uselessness of his
present course and then determined to settle down to some methodical
plan upon which to work.

He resolved that he would visit very town, village and hamlet in the
State, and that failing, he would search every other State in the Union
in the same way.

Of course, this would entail upon him a life-long search, and the
detectives told him he would only have his labor for his pains—that he
would never find her in that way. They held to the belief that she was
either in that city, or else in one of the adjoining cities, and within
easy reach of the great metropolis, and they declared that they should
confine their efforts to those places.

Earle wrote something of all this to Paul Tressalia, begging him to
remain and rule at Wycliffe until his return, even though it should not
be for a long time, and then he began his weary search.

It would be wearisome in the extreme to follow him, step by step,
through the long weeks that followed, and during which he spared neither
himself nor his money. He grew pale, thin and nervous, and disheartened,
too, as the time went by, and he seemed no nearer the accomplishment of
his object than at the very first.

“What shall I do?” he wrote, almost in despair, to Mr. Felton from a
distant town. “I am nearly distracted, for all my efforts are vain. I
have interviewed a number of detectives in different cities, and no two
advise the same mode of procedure, and have advanced so many plans and
theories that I am like a ship far out at sea, without either rudder or
sail. I suffer continually the tortures of the rack. There is no rest
for me, and there will be no charm in life for me until I find my lost
one. Can you give me any hope? Has any clew been discovered? Telegraph
me instantly if there is a single ray of hope.”

“Poor fellow!” the lawyer sighed, as he folded the letter after reading
it; “it is a hard case. It is a most _trying_ case, and no one can tell
how it will end,” he mused, “else, with her resolution and natural
keenness, it seems as if she must have found some way of giving us a
hint of her whereabouts if she is detained anywhere against her will.”

But he could only telegraph to Earle: “No clew has yet been discovered.”

And the weary lover resumed his sad quest by himself.

But poor, frail humanity cannot endure everything; there is a point
beyond which tired nature refuses to go, and at last, worn almost to a
shadow, Earle felt that he must do something to recruit his strength, or
he would give out entirely. A fever seemed to be burning in his veins,
drying his blood and parching his skin; his appetite failed him, his
strength was leaving him, and he grew so nervous and irritable that the
slightest noise startled him painfully, the least opposition or
disappointment tried him almost beyond endurance.

“I am going to be sick,” he said one day, when he was nearly prostrated,
and looking at his thin, trembling hands. “This anxiety and ceaseless
search are fast wearing me out. I must rest, or I shall die, and who
then will find my Editha?”

Longing for the sight of some familiar face, and hoping that Mr. Felton
might by this time be able to give him a “drop of comfort,” he returned
with all speed to the city whence he had started.

Arriving in the evening, some unaccountable repugnance to repairing to
the hotel where he usually stopped, and where he had before spent so
many restless, miserable nights, seized him, and calling a coach, he
gave the name of a smaller, but no less respectable house, located in a
quiet street, and was driven thither.

He sought the clerk and asked for a room.

As it happened, the hotel that week was overflowing with transient
visitors, and at first the clerk told him that there was not a room to
be had in the house.

“You must manage some way to accommodate me, for I am too weary and ill
to move another step,” Earle said; and indeed his looks did not belie
his words.

The clerk went to consult with one of the proprietors, and then
returned, saying they would give him a room in which to sleep that
night, if he did not mind a little noise now and then, and by another
day there would probably be better accommodations for him.

“I shall mind nothing, so that I can have a bed on which to rest,” the
tired traveler said, much relieved by the intelligence.

“I shall have to give you one of a suite of rooms hired by a lady and
her daughter. It is reserved for her son, who occasionally visits her
and remains over night. He went away this morning, and, as he probably
will not be here to-night, you can have that room,” explained the clerk.

“Will not the madam object?” Earle asked, instinctively recoiling from
the idea of in any way incommoding a lady.

“Oh, no; we have done the same thing, with her consent, once or twice
before, when the house has been full,” was the confident and reassuring
reply.

“All right; I am ready to occupy it at once,” Earle said, rising, and
anxious to be at rest.

The clerk hesitated before leading the way.

“I ought perhaps to tell you, sir,” he began, “that madam’s daughter is
an invalid—she is a little cracked,” he added, touching his forehead
significantly, “and sometimes takes on a little during the night. I
thought you ought to be told this, so that if you were disturbed you
might know the cause and not be alarmed.”

“The door between the rooms can be locked, of course?” Earle asked.

“Oh, yes; madam keeps it locked on her side, and there is also a bolt
upon the other side. The young lady is perfectly harmless, only her
brother informed me that when the spells come upon her she moans
constantly, as if in distress, and they come on mostly in the night. She
may not disturb you at all, however.”

“I shall not mind it, now that you have told me this; it might have
disturbed me otherwise,” Earle answered, as he wearily turned to follow
his guide.

Taking the elevator, they were borne into the fourth story, and he was
shown into a room at the top of the house.

It was a long, rather narrow room, comfortably furnished, and having two
doors to it, one leading into the hall, the other into the room
adjoining. There was a transom over both doors, and through the one
leading into the others of the suite Earle could see a dim light, but
all was perfectly quiet within.

He looked to see that the bolt was perfectly fast in its socket, and
then, giving his neighbors no further thought, he hastily disrobed, and,
wearied out, crept into bed.




                             CHAPTER XXVIII
                       EARLE WAYNE’S BOLD VENTURE


He almost instantly fell into a profound and dreamless slumber.

How long he slept thus he could not have told, but he was suddenly
awakened during the night by a low, sobbing noise proceeding from the
room on his right.

Arousing so suddenly, and being consequently somewhat confused, it
seemed to him at first as if some one had called his name.

He sat erect in bed and listened.

All was silence for a few moments, then he heard the tones of a man
speaking as if in anger, and the same low sobbing instantly began again,
while a sweet voice seemed pleading for something.

Then he heard the man’s voice somewhat louder, and speaking impatiently,
as if he had commanded some one to do something, and had not been
obeyed.

It was followed, as before, by the low sobbing, and a faint,
heart-broken moaning that made Earle Wayne feel very strangely.

“There is something wrong going on in there,” he muttered to himself.
“The clerk said the man would not return here to-night; but it seems he
has, and I don’t like the sound of things at all.”

He arose and went softly to the door which led into the other apartment.

It was a very thick, solid door, and prevented his hearing distinctly
anything that was said.

He bent his head to the keyhole, but even then could only catch the
sound of a man and woman conversing in low tones, without distinguishing
a word.

The sobbing had ceased for the moment, but, at a question apparently
addressed to a third party, it immediately began again.

A cold sweat gathered upon Earle Wayne’s forehead.

The sounds affected him as he had never been affected before. He longed
to know what piece of wickedness—for wickedness he was convinced it
was—was being enacted within those walls at that time of night.

A faint light from the other room shone into his through the transom, so
that he could distinguish every object in it. He glanced up at the
light, a sudden thought striking him.

The transom, of course, was glazed, and he had no doubt that it was
fastened upon the other side, but possibly he might hear a little more
distinctly if he could get up to it, and it would do no harm for him to
investigate and see if it was fastened.

He brought the center-table and put it softly down by the door. He then
took a blanket from his bed and covered the marble top, set a chair upon
this, and then noiselessly mounting upon that by the aid of another, he
found himself upon a level with the transom.

To his intense satisfaction, he discovered that it was not fastened; it
was tightly closed, but it yielded beneath his cautious touch, and he
knew if he could open it ever so little without attracting the attention
of the occupants of that room, he could satisfy himself regarding the
nature of the proceedings there.

While he stood there waiting for a favorable opportunity to push the
transom open, a neighboring clock struck the hour of two.

“Unless the young lady has been taken suddenly sick, I am satisfied that
mischief of some kind is brewing,” he said to himself, and resolving not
to leave his post until he had ascertained whether he was right or not.

He found he could hear more plainly now—could catch a word occasionally,
though not enough to give him any idea of the nature of the conversation
carried on there.

As soon as he heard that low sobbing again he gently tried to move the
transom still more.

It yielded a trifle, but grated a little on the wood work. He waited a
moment, and then made another effort, and it moved just enough to admit
a line of light at the bottom. Then he could hear quite plainly.

A man seemed to be asking the strangest questions of some one.

“Your name is Ellen Wood?” he heard him say, in a mocking tone.

“Yes, Ellen Wood,” came the reply, in a plaintive voice that made
Earle’s hair at once stand on end.

“You are _sure_ your name is Ellen Wood?”

“Yes, Ellen Wood,” in the same tone as before.

“Where were you born?”

“In Texas.”

“Who is your father?”

“Judge Allen Wood.”

“Where is he now?”

“He is dead.”

“Who is this woman?”

“She is my—mother,” with a shuddering accent on the last word.

“And I am your brother, am I not?”

“N-n-o, oh!” a gasping voice uttered, with a moan between each word.

“You ain’t over fond of me, I see,” the man returned, with a low,
mocking laugh. “You’ve got your lesson pretty well learned, though, and
if any one should ask you any questions to-morrow when you go out to
take the air—as you must do for the sake of your health—you’ll know how
to answer them. Now take that ring from your finger and give it to me,”
he commanded, sternly.

“I can’t, I can’t!” moaned the plaintive voice.

“Curse your obstinacy and my lack of power!” he growled. “Now tell me
where that paper is—quick!”

“No, no, no! no, no, no!”

And immediately the sobbing and moaning were resumed, but in a way that
seemed to show that the speaker’s strength was almost exhausted.

The man swore a fearful oath, and then Earle heard another voice—a
woman’s—say:

“It’s of no use, Tom—your power is not strong enough to make her tell
that, and you are wearing her out; she can’t stand this kind of thing
much longer.”

“I’ll never let her go until she does tell me,” he answered, fiercely,
with another oath. “If I was sure,” he added, “that it was hid in that
house, I’d go and burn it down to-night, and then let her go. I’m sick
and tired of the whole thing.”

“Better let her go anyway, and run the risk,” said his companion; “you
will soon kill her at this rate.”

“Dead men tell no tales,” he answered, moodily; “but the risk is too
great, for if that paper contains a description of me, I’m a marked man
as long as I live.”

Earle now ventured to push the transom a little more.

It was clear of the wood work, now, and swung quite easily and
noiselessly, so that he could get a good view of the room, and he saw a
sight that made his heart stand still with horror, while an almost
superhuman effort alone prevented a sharp cry of agony escaping his
lips.

Upon a bed in the corner opposite him lay Editha Dalton. She was as
white as the counterpane covering her, and wasted to a mere skeleton.

She was sobbing in a nervous, excited way, her thin white hands clasped
upon her heaving breast, her eyes wild and staring, and fixed in a
fascinated gaze upon a burly, repulsive-looking man, who stood by the
bedside scowling fiercely upon her.

By his side there also stood a nicely dressed, rather prepossessing
woman of about fifty-five.

Their backs were toward the door where Earle was stationed, consequently
they had seen nothing of the almost noiseless movement of that transom
behind them.

It took all the force of Earle’s will to control his intense excitement
as he looked upon the scene just described.

Never in his life had he felt so dizzy and faint as he did at that
moment, while a weakening, sickening tremor pervaded every nerve in his
body.

“Better let her alone now, Tom, and don’t come here again for a week.
Let her get a little strength before you exert your power over her
again,” the woman said in reply to the man’s last observation.

“The weaker she is the less will she will have,” he muttered.

“Her will is so strong that you will never move her to tell what you
want to know; and you do not want to kill her, I know.”

“No,” he admitted, with a scowl.

“She will do almost anything you tell her, except to reveal what will
injure that one person; that seems to be an instinct which nothing can
conquer, and your magnetic force is not sufficient to overcome it.”

“You do not need to tell me that,” he growled.

“Well, I want you to let her alone for awhile; _I_ don’t want her dying
on _my_ hands,” returned the woman, with decision.

The ill-looking man did not reply, but made a few passes over Editha’s
head and face, touching her on the forehead and in the region of the
epigastrium.

Almost instantly the wild look faded from her eyes, her clasped hands
dropped apart, and fell limp and nerveless upon the counterpane, while
she lay panting and exhausted, but looking much more natural to Earle
than she had done a moment before with that strained look on her face.

The woman came forward, gently raised her head, and held a bowl to her
lips, from which she drank eagerly, and seemed much refreshed.

Once more the villain turned toward her, and said, with sullen ferocity:

“Well, my plucky fine lady, how much longer do you suppose you can stand
this kind of thing?”

Editha made no reply, but her eyes, which seemed unnaturally large, now
that she was so thin, gleamed defiance at him.

“You are getting weaker every day, and you’re getting so pale and poor
that that fine young chap you’re so fond of would not know you if he
should see you now,” he continued, heartlessly.

A look of inexpressible sadness settled upon the fair face, the white
lids quivered a moment and then drooped over the blue eyes, and the pale
lips trembled painfully; but she made no other sign of her suffering,
uttered no word to his cruel taunt.

Her silence exasperated him, and, leaning down so that his face came
almost on a level with hers, he hissed:

“You _shall_ tell me where that paper is, or you shall never see the
outside of these walls again. Do you hear?”

“I will _never_ tell you,” she now said, in a weak voice, but with a
firmness that made another fierce oath leap to his lips, and sent a
shudder through her slight frame.

Earle ground his teeth, but waited to hear no more.

He noiselessly descended from his perch, dressed himself with all
possible dispatch, all excepting his boots; then quietly unlocking his
door, opened it a crack, and stood there in the dark waiting.

His mind was made up to do a bold thing.

His weariness and illness were all forgotten; his nerves were steady and
quiet, and the strength of a Samson seemed quivering in every muscle.

He waited perhaps fifteen minutes, when he heard the key turn in the
door of the room on his right.

Another moment and the wretch whom he had seen there came forth and took
a preliminary survey of the hall before proceeding further.

How he expected to get out of the hotel at that hour of the night
without being discovered, particularly when he had three flights of
stairs and as many halls to traverse, was a point Earle did not allow
himself time to consider.

The man, apparently satisfied that there was nothing to impede his
progress, glided velvet-shod over the soft carpet.

Earle allowed him to get well past his door, then, stealing out without
a sound, he crept up behind him and hit out square from his shoulder a
tremendous blow, which taking his prey just behind the ear, doubled him
up in an instant.

He caught him in his arms before he could fall to the floor, for he had
no desire to make any disturbance at that hour of the night, and then by
main strength half carried, half dragged him back into the room he had
occupied, laid him upon the floor, and locked him in.

Not a sleeper had been aroused.

The blow he had dealt was quick and powerful, but not loud enough to
awaken any one from a sound slumber, though it had rendered his victim
unconscious for the time, and the noise of dragging him the short
distance to his room had not disturbed any one.

The next thing was to get inside that other room without creating any
confusion.

He knew that his captive was only stunned, and would doubtless soon
recover from the effects of the blow he had given him; but locked within
that room, he knew he could not escape for he was in the fourth story,
and could not, of course, make his way out by the window.

He did not think, either, that he would make any noise upon returning to
his senses, for he would be sure to bring upon himself deeper trouble if
he did so.

He stood and listened a moment or two outside the door of the room where
Editha lay, thinking that something of the disturbance must have reached
its occupants, since both were awake, and the affair had occurred so
near to them.

He hoped the attendant would come to the door and look out to see what
was the trouble, when he would easily be able to get inside, and into
Editha’s presence, without using any forcible means.

If her attendant had not been attracted, and she did not come, he had
resolved to knock gently for admittance. Even then he feared he should
not gain it, since he surmised, and correctly, too, that the man must
have some signal by which his presence could be known from that of any
one else.

Earle’s conjectures, however, proved correct. Editha’s attendant had
heard a slight noise in the hall and been startled by it.

“Did you hear anything?” she asked, turning to the girl on the bed.

“No, nothing,” she answered, wearily.

“Something has happened, I fear,” she said to herself, and then going to
the door, bent her head to listen, an expression of great anxiety on her
face.

She could hear nothing, however; but apparently not quite satisfied, she
ventured to unlock the door and peer forth into the hall. This was Earle
Wayne’s opportunity.

With noiseless tread he stepped quickly up to her, and, before she was
hardly aware of his intention, pushed the door open, forced her back
into the room, and entered himself.

Another instant and the door was again shut, locked, and the key in his
pocket.

His next movement was to see if the door leading into that other room
was locked also.

It proved to be, but the key was in the lock, and he pocketed this, too,
thus gaining all the power he wanted for the present.

The whole transaction had not occupied above six or seven minutes, nor
had a word been spoken; but Earle had done a good thing, for in that
time he had captured single-handed, one of the most successful robbers
in the United States, as well as his accomplice, and doubtless had saved
the girl he loved from even greater sufferings than she had already
experienced.

With this accomplished, and both keys in his pocket, he now turned his
attention to the occupant of the bed.

But Editha had fainted dead away.




                              CHAPTER XXIX
                           THE MISSING PAPER


“How dare you enter this room at such an hour?” demanded the woman in
attendance, who, after the first shock had passed, quickly recovered
herself and was now prepared to do battle.

“We will have no words upon the subject just now, if you please—it is
one that will keep, for awhile, at least; get restoratives and revive
this fainting girl without delay,” Earle commanded, in quiet though
stern tones, and then bent anxiously over his unconscious loved one.

The woman, cowed by his authoritative manner, proceeded to attend Editha
at once, although it was with a face nearly as white as the waxen one
upon the pillow. With a sinking heart Earle stood by jealously watching
her every movement.

Editha, his darling, his promised wife, lay there looking more like a
beautiful piece of sculpture than like a human being who would ever
breathe or speak again, and a great fear took possession of him that she
never would recover. But the woman was evidently a good nurse, and,
under the influence of the restoratives she was using, Editha soon gave
signs of returning life.

When she at last opened her eyes, Earle was sitting by her side, and
smiled upon her as she looked at him, as if it was the most natural
thing in the world for him to be there.

Yet he actually held his breath, fearing that the shock of his presence
might make her swoon again.

“Earle!” she breathed, a look of awe stealing over her countenance.

The look told him that for the moment she believed herself dead, and to
have met him in another world.

“Yes, my darling, Earle, and no one else,” he said, softly, bending down
and touching her forehead with his lips. That caress brought her more to
herself. A wave of gladness swept over her face, her eyes lighted with a
beautiful and almost holy look of love, then, with a sigh that seemed to
throw off all its burdens and fear, every feature settled into
restfulness and peace.

“I am _so_ glad!” was all she could say, and that in a voice too weak
for anything but a whisper.

He could have bowed his head and wept over her to find her thus, all her
bright beauty faded, her strength nearly spent, almost dying, he feared.

But he knew he must control himself and minister to her, if he would
save her.

“Have you anything that will give her strength?” he asked, turning to
her attendant.

“Yes; there are wines and liquors in the cabinet, and beef-tea warm upon
the gas-stove in the bath-room.”

Earle had convinced himself with a glance before this that there was
only one door to the bath-room, and he now commanded her to bring some
of the beef-tea.

She brought it almost immediately.

“Taste it yourself first,” he said, curtly.

“You need not fear for her—I have no desire to have the life of _any_
one to answer for,” she said scornfully, and flushing.

“Drink some of it,” he persisted.

He would not trust her, and she swallowed a mouthful unhesitatingly.

He then slipped his arm gently under Editha’s pillow, and lifted her
until she could lean comfortably against his shoulder.

“Drink this now, dear, for my sake,” he said, putting the bowl to her
lips.

Without a question she obeyed, drinking slowly until the last drop had
disappeared, and Earle’s heart began to grow lighter.

If she would do that often she would soon be better, he thought.

“That will give you strength,” he said; “now lie down and try to sleep.
I shall not leave you again to-night, and when you are refreshed I will
let you talk with me a little.”

He laid her gently back, stopping to kiss her almost hueless lips as he
did so.

She put one hand up over the back of his neck and held him a moment so,
his face almost touching hers.

“You have saved me, Earle,” she said, feebly.

“I trust so, my injured darling,” he answered, with unsteady voice, and
then watched her while the tired eyes closed; the wan face settled into
peace, and she slept like a weary child.

Then he turned his attention to the woman, who had watched him with
wondering eyes all the while.

Pointing to a lounge on the opposite side of the room, he said:

“Madam, if you are weary you can lie down there until morning. I shall
take charge of your patient henceforth.”

“By what right?” she demanded, bridling.

“The right of her promised husband,” he answered, sternly.

The woman started violently, searched his face a moment, her own growing
very pale again.

“Are you——” she began, but her lips refused to complete the sentence.

“My name is Earle Wayne. Doubtless you have heard it before, and now
surmised as much,” he said, not pitying her agitation in the least.

“I do not believe it,” she at last said, in a low, angry tone, while at
the same time she steathily moved in the direction of the bell-pull.

Earle marked the movement.

“You will please sit over there,” he said, quietly, and pointing to the
lounge. “I am not in need of any assistance at present, and can summon
it myself if I think it necessary. It will be wiser for you to comply
with my request,” he added, sternly, as she hesitated. “If you make any
disturbance, I will have you lodged in a station-house in less than half
an hour.”

The woman cowed at once at this, and retreated in sullen silence to the
lounge, where, settling herself comfortably, she did not move again,
while Earle for the next two hours kept his vigil by Editha’s bedside,
where she slept quietly, sweetly, and refreshingly.

While she is thus sleeping we will take a bird’s-eye view of the time
that had elapsed since her encounter with Tom Drake, after leaving John
Loker’s house, and from which she was rescued by the sturdy policeman,
only to fall into still deeper trouble.

It will be remembered that after she had taken tea with her father she
repaired to her own room, where she made a careful copy of John Loker’s
confession, and then hid the original, with his signature attached,
beneath the cushion of her jewel-box. She then inclosed the copy in an
envelope addressed to Earle, and proceeded to write a long letter to
him, recounting her adventures of the evening.

Her father had gone out immediately after supper, the servants were all
abed in their rooms, and she was entirely alone in the front portion of
the house.

It had taken her so long to make a copy of the confession that she was
not half through with her letter when the cathedral clock near by struck
the hour of eleven.

Almost simultaneously with its last stroke the door of her room swung
noiselessly open, and a fierce, ugly face, half shaded by a slouch hat,
appeared in the aperture. A moment after the figure of a man entered,
the door was softly closed, and he advanced with a stealthy, cat-like
tread to where the young girl, who was deeply engaged in writing to her
lover, sat bending over her writing-desk. She was not conscious of the
presence of the intruder until, reaching for a new pen, she chanced to
raise her eyes, and saw him standing close by her side.

A cry of fright parted her lips as she instantly recognized the
repulsive features and burly form of Tom Drake. Without giving her time
to repeat her cry, he clapped his hand over her mouth in the same way he
had done earlier in the evening.

“Ah, ha! my plucky jade, did you think I would tamely give up the
chase?” he asked, with a horrible leer. “Not so, my pretty,” he
continued; “there is altogether too much at stake for that. But I can’t
stand here to hold you—will you promise to keep still if I’ll take my
hand from your mouth? You’d better, or I——”

He stopped short, with a fierce look that frightened her excessively.

“The old man is out,” he went on, as she did not make any sign of
promise. “I’ve been watching around all the evening—came directly here
after I was obliged to leave you so abruptly—ha, ha! and I saw him make
for the theater; he probably won’t be home for an hour or two yet, as I
have invited one of my friends to give him a little outside
entertainment on the way. The servants all went to bed more than an hour
ago, and you are completely in my power. Now, once for all, will you be
reasonable, and promise not to make a fuss?”

Editha saw that there was no way but to yield, and a feeling of
thankfulness stole over her, despite her terror at finding herself again
in the wretch’s power, that she had concealed John Loker’s confession
early in the evening.

She signified her assent to the villain’s terms by a motion of her head.

“Honor bright?” he asked, adding, fiercely: “I’ll choke you instanter if
you attempt to make any disturbance.”

She nodded again, and he at once released his hold of her.

“Now, little Miss Pluck,” he resumed, “what have you done with that
paper I asked you for once before? I want it, and _I’m going to have
it_. Do you hear?”

Editha did hear, and the lines about her small mouth settled into an
expression of unyielding firmness.

“You don’t mean to give it to me, hey?” he demanded, reading aright her
look.

She was too weak and excited from fright to speak, but she shook her
head resolutely.

“But I tell you I’m _going_ to have it, my lady, or it’ll be the worse
for _you_.”

A bright thought darted into her mind, and she immediately acted upon
it.

“If I will give you the paper, will you go away at once as quietly as
you came, and leave me and everything in the house unmolested?” she
asked.

“That’s the talk—now you’re sensible,” the ruffian returned, in a
satisfied tone.

“Do you promise?” she persisted.

“Yes; I’ll go instanter. You see it’s very important for my future
career that the little document doesn’t get into circulation; so hand it
over, and I’ll be off as quiet and quick as a mouse.”

Editha drew from the envelope she had addressed to Earle the copy she
had made, and passed it to him.

He reached out and took the envelope from her, and read the name written
upon the back before looking at the paper.

“So, ho! you were going to send it right to headquarters, were you?—and
I was just in the nick of time.”

Chuckling to himself, he unfolded the paper she had given him and began
to read.

The contents seemed to amuse him immensely, for he continued to chuckle
and laugh to himself all the way through; but his face grew stern and
threatening as he reached the end, and Editha’s heart failed her when he
said, fiercely:

“This won’t do, miss; this is only a copy, and I want the original. Hand
it over quick. Did you think I would be so readily cheated?”

“How do you know it is a copy?” she asked.

She had written that also with a pencil, as she could write more
rapidly, and she had thought perhaps he would think it was the one she
had written in John Loker’s house.

“Because I saw John Loker sign the other,” he said, with a malignant
scowl, adding: “Now, will you hand the other over to me?”

“No, sir, I will not,” was the firm reply.

He seemed staggered for a moment at this.

“You won’t?” he repeated, at length, with an oath, and fixing his eyes
upon her in a way that made her catch her breath and feel as if her
strength was forsaking her.

“Do you know,” he added, “that you are in the power of a desperate man?”

“Yes, I suppose so; but that paper is of more importance to me than any
other possession in the world.”

“Ah, ha! is that the way the wind blows? _He’s_ a lover, eh?” laughed
the villain, coarsely, and with a leer that made the blood boil in the
young girl’s veins and glow hotly in her cheeks. “Allow me to ask,” he
continued, with a sinister gleam in his eye, “if it is more precious to
you than your—_life_?”

She shrank from him in sudden terror at the question, but, after a
moment’s thought, she said:

“N-o, I cannot say that it is; but I do not think you would quite dare
to _murder_ me to get it. At all events _I shall not give it to you_.”

He looked at her with something akin to admiration on his face; he
evidently had not expected to find her so resolute, but at the same time
her obstinacy angered him.

“You think I would not _dare_ to put you out of the way?” he repeated,
savagely.

“What good would it do you? You surely would not accomplish your object
then,” Editha strove to say, dauntlessly, but feeling inwardly very weak
and trembling.

He saw the force of her argument and swore again, and, turning to her
writing-desk, began turning over its contents.

Of course, he did not find what he sought there, and then commenced a
general search of the room.

Bureau drawers, boxes, and every other receptacle that she had were
overturned and thoroughly searched.

Her closets also were ransacked, and the pockets of every dress turned
wrong side out, but with the same result.

Her jewel-casket stood on her dressing-case open, with all her jewelry
nicely arranged on its velvet cushion.

Editha’s heart stood still as she saw him approach this, but she did not
move or give a sign of the great fear that oppressed her.

He stooped and looked at the pretty things there, took up one or two and
examined them more closely, then laid them back again in their place,
and turned his attention to something else.

A mighty burden rolled from the fair girl’s heart as this danger was
passed.

She had expected he would put every article in his pocket, and then
perhaps turn the box upside down to seek for more; but evidently he did
not care for plunder to-night. At last he came and stood before her.

“I have searched everywhere. It must be upon your person,” he said, with
a desperate gleam in his eye.

She started from him with a look of terror.

“I swear to you that it is not anywhere about me,” she said. “As soon as
I made a copy of it I went and hid it, though I could not then have told
what made me do it. Now I know,” she added, thoughtfully.

He saw that she was speaking only truth, and in great perplexity he sat
down to think.

“Is it in this room?” he asked, at length.

“I shall not tell you,” Editha answered, her courage beginning to rise
as he became discouraged.

“Is it in this house?”

“I shall not tell you,” she repeated.

“You’re a—plucky piece,” he muttered between his teeth, and fixing his
fierce eyes again upon her in the strange way she had noticed before.

They seemed to transfix her, and a shuddering sensation pervaded her
frame whenever she met them.

“Do you mean to brave me and risk the consequences?” he demanded.

“If you ever gain that paper it will be through your own efforts alone.
I shall never _tell_ you where it is,” she replied, slowly and firmly.

He acted for a moment as if undecided what to do next. Then he took up
the letter she had been writing Earle and read it through.

She could not help this, of course, but her cheeks burned and her eyes
flashed indignantly as she thought of the tender little passages that
she had thrown in now and then, and that had been intended for her
lover’s eye alone.

She had told him a good deal of her adventure, and how that, as soon as
she had copied it, she had hidden the precious original; but strangely
enough she never mentioned even to him _where_, but said that no one but
herself knew of its hiding-place, and to-morrow she intended taking it
to Mr. Felton to see what he advised about it.

“Aha!” said the wretch, as he read this; “no one knows anything about
the precious document but yourself?”

“No.”

“And to-morrow you were intending to tell some one else about it,” he
said, rattling the letter he held in his hand.

“Yes.”

“And you are sure _nothing_ will make you give it to _me_?”

“Never!”

“Then there is but one thing left for me to do,” he muttered, striding
angrily toward her.

He seized both her hands in his, and again fixed his cruel eye upon
hers.

For one moment she looked defiance at him, though she was so frightened
by his manner that she had no power to cry out, nor make any effort to
release herself from his hold; the next her expression changed, and her
eyes began to droop.

“_Look at me!_” he commanded, bending nearer to her.

She obeyed, and gazed into his face as if suddenly fascinated.

For a moment he held her glance, while she felt as if all her will-power
was forsaking her.

He made a few passes over her head and face, touched her upon the pit of
the stomach, and she instantly became like a reed in his hands.

He had mesmerized her.




                              CHAPTER XXX
                                 FLOWN


Yes, the strange man had mesmerized Editha Dalton.

He possessed that peculiar power, or magnetic influence, something of
which almost every one has either seen or heard, and which should never
be exercised except in the most judicious manner, and governed by
unquestionable principles.

To all appearances Editha was completely in his power, but whether it
was strong enough to make her comply with his every command or not yet
remained to be seen.

We have all learned something of the young girl’s strength of will, in
her resolute adherence to the right and her persistent opposition to
everything wrong.

Whether this was all instinct rooted and grounded in her nature, and
strengthened for years by conscientious cultivation, which would in a
measure protect her and prevent her from becoming his abject slave,
could not yet be determined. But he immediately proceeded to test his
power.

“Pick up and bring me that paper,” he commanded, pointing to the copy of
John Loker’s confession, which had fallen upon the floor.

She stooped obediently and handed it to him.

“Bring me your watch and chain,” was the next mandate.

She hesitated a moment. It had been a gift from Richard Forrester, was
very valuable, and she prized it above all her other trinkets.

“Bring it,” he repeated.

She went to do his bidding, and gave it to him without a murmur.

But he did not care for it, it seemed, as he laid it down upon her
writing-desk and left it there untouched.

“Now give me that ring from your finger,” he said, pointing to the
beautiful pearl that Earle had placed upon her hand.

She involuntarily clasped her hands tightly together, and stood staring
helplessly at him without obeying him.

“Take it off,” he repeated, more sternly; but she did not move.

He muttered a curse, and then bade her go bring the contents of her
jewel-box.

Instantly she turned to do his bidding, carefully gathered up every
article and brought them to him.

Then he commanded her to take them back and arrange them as they
belonged.

She unhesitatingly obeyed, quickly arranging everything in its place,
and giving no sign of the precious treasure concealed beneath.

Then she went and stood humbly before him again.

“Now go and get that paper signed by John Loker and bring it to me,” he
said, bending all the power of his will to influence her.

She took one step forward, her eyelids quivered, her nostrils dilated,
her bosom heaved; then she stopped, staring helplessly at him, while her
hands were again locked in a nervous clasp.

“Strange!” he muttered, with a frown.

He then issued several other commands, which she obediently executed,
and at last he told her once more to bring that paper, but with the same
result as before.

She would not do it. Her love for Earle, and her determination not to
yield anything connected with him, seemed to be an instinct stronger
than his power over her.

Again and again he tried to gain his point, but without avail, and, with
a perplexed and angry look, he muttered:

“It won’t do—my power is not strong enough yet—it will take time; but
she says no one knows where the paper is but herself, so _I will take
care of her_. She has hid what I want, and now I’ll hide her. It will be
risky business, but there is no other way; if I go away and leave her,
some one else will have it to-morrow morning, and then the whole world
will know.”

He sat thinking the matter over for some little time, Editha standing
patiently by him, as if waiting to do his bidding still further.

“Put those things on,” he said, at last, and pointing to a hat and
waterproof that had been thrown upon the floor.

She immediately put them on.

“Now get a vail and tie over your face.”

With the humility of a servant she obeyed him.

He then went to the door and looked out.

All was still.

The gas in both halls had been partially turned off, and now burned
dimly, and nothing was moving in all that great house.

He stepped back into the room, took Editha by the arm, and said,
roughly:

“You are to go with me—see that you make no noise.”

He then led her out, down the broad stairway, through the lower hall, to
the outer door.

In a moment more they were in the street, and he hurried her from the
place as fast as she was able to walk.

Reaching a corner several blocks away, he stopped by a carriage which
seemed to be waiting there.

This he bade Editha enter, then following her, gathered up the reins and
drove rapidly away.

Very early the next morning a very respectable appearing lady and her
invalid daughter, the latter much wrapped to shield her from the
weather, arrived at the quiet hotel before mentioned.

They had come from a distant part of the State—had been traveling all
night, madam said, in order that the sick girl might avail herself of
the skill of a noted physician residing in the city.

They took rooms in the upper story of the hotel; it was not so full
usually, and more quiet; besides, madam hinted, her daughter was
sometimes not quite herself, and they preferred being where they could
not disturb others.

She took a whole suite, as her son would occasionally visit them, and be
obliged to remain over night.

And thus Editha Dalton was spirited away from her home and hidden away
in the very heart of her own city, and there she remained for several
weeks until found so strangely by Earle.

Once established there, paying regularly for their accommodations, and
giving no trouble, they were regarded as very quiet and respectable
boarders, seldom going out except when the young lady was able to ride,
closely wrapped, and vailed, and magnetized, and always in a closed
carriage, always taking their meals in their own room, as the invalid
was “unable to go to the public table,” and madam was “unwilling to
leave her poor, dear child.”

Once in awhile a servant or the clerk, in passing through the upper hall
late at night, thought they heard a low sobbing and moaning in their
rooms, but they had been told something of the invalid’s infirmity, and
so gave themselves no uneasiness upon the subject.

And so right there in the very midst of the great city, with the
detectives at work all about them, and the excitement that the deep
mystery was creating, this great wrong was being perpetrated; and had it
not been for Earle Wayne’s strange whim to change his hotel upon that
particular night, when the house was so full, and madam’s “son” absent,
the story of Editha’s remarkable disappearance and rescue would never
have been related.

                  *       *       *       *       *

When Editha awoke, after two hours of undisturbed refreshing sleep, she
found Earle still sitting beside her, and her former attendant, with her
face buried in her hands, sitting in sullen silence upon the lounge
opposite.

“I _did_ not dream it, then?” she said, looking up into her lover’s face
with a long-drawn, trembling sigh.

“No, my darling; you have slept too soundly to dream of anything. Are
you rested?” he asked, bending down to kiss the sweet quivering lips.

“Yes; but, oh! Earle, don’t let _him_ come back again,” she pleaded,
with a shudder, as she reached out her thin hand and grasped his with
nervous strength.

He bent his lips to her ear, and whispered:

“No, my own; he is safely locked within the next room, and he can never
hurt you again. Bring some more of that drink,” he added, addressing the
woman opposite.

She arose and obeyed, and Editha drank as eagerly as before.

“Could you eat something?” he asked, regarding with a thrill of pain the
thin hands that held the bowl.

“No, not now, Earle; I will wait and take breakfast with you by and by,”
she answered, with a bright, hopeful look into his anxious face.

“You are feeling better already?” he asked, eagerly.

“Yes,” she returned, with a ripple of happy laughter. “You know ‘a merry
heart doeth good like a medicine,’ and I feel very happy and _safe_ just
now.”

Indeed, she did not look like the same person that Earle had seen
through the transom.

Her eyes were now bright and hopeful, and her face shining with
happiness and content.

“You will let me talk now? I cannot sleep any more,” she said, as she
settled back upon the pillow which he arranged for her.

“If you are able, a little. I do not wish you to get too weary.”

“I want to tell you how I happen to be here—at least, all that I know
about it myself—and I have _such_ good news for you.”

“Then let it be in just as few words as possible, or the excitement will
be too much for you,” he replied, feeling greatly relieved to see her
looking so much brighter, and to hear her speak in her natural tone once
more.

She began by relating her visit to the Loker’s family, and the
confession of John Loker, her adventure with the ruffian upon the
street, her escape, and his subsequent entrance to her room during the
same night.

His face grew grave and troubled as she told him how persistently she
had refused to reveal the hiding-place of the precious paper.

“My darling, you ran a terrible risk; he might have taken your life,” he
said, with a shudder.

“But it was the only proof of _your honor_; it alone would give you back
the respect and esteem of men, and I _would not_ give it to him,” she
said, with a sparkle of the old defiance in her eye, then continued: “I
did not think he would quite dare do me any personal violence, and I was
willing to suffer a great deal rather than lose anything so precious. I
do not seem to remember much of what happened after he seized my hands
and looked at me in that dreadful way; only it seemed at times, when he
spoke to me, as if some force within me was trying to part soul and
body—until I found myself here with this strange woman. I was left
quietly with her for two or three days, when he came again and tried to
frighten me into telling him what he wanted to know. I always refused
until he lost his patience and temper, when he would dart toward me,
seize my hands, look into my eyes, and almost instantly everything would
be a blank to me, and when I came to myself again I would be so
exhausted and ill I could not rise.”

“The villain mesmerized you,” Earle said, with a white, stern face.

“Yes, that was the only explanation that I could think of to account for
his peculiar power over me. He has told me almost every time he came
that he would allow me to go home if I would tell him my secret; but, of
course, I would not do that when I was myself, and, from the fact of his
continuing to exercise his influence, I suppose I am just as wilful when
under his magnetic control regarding that one thing. Earle,” she
concluded, slipping her hand confidingly into his, “you have given me a
blessed release. I do not believe I could have borne it very much
longer, for I have been growing very weak of late; but my prayer night
and day has been that I might be spared to you, and that God would not
allow him to wring my precious secret from me.”

“Why did I find him torturing you with such strange questions about your
name and parentage to-night?” Earle asked.

Editha shook her head with a sad smile.

“He almost always came in the night; I suppose there was less danger of
his being discovered then; but as for his questions and my answers, I
know no more about them than you could have done during all these weeks.
Everything became a blank as soon as he touched me and looked at me in a
certain way, and I do not know, what I have done or said; I only know
that I have suffered horribly sometimes;” and a trembling seized her at
the remembrance.

“Woman, what have you to say regarding this strange story?” Earle
demanded, turning to the attendant, who had sat motionless during
Editha’s narrative.

“I have nothing to say,” she returned, lifting a defiant face to him.

“It will be better for you to show a friendly disposition,” Earle
returned, quietly. “I have this villain of whom Miss Dalton speaks
securely locked up and ready for the officers as soon as morning breaks,
and I will punish you to the extent of the law, also, unless you show a
disposition to do what is right.”

He then related how he happened to be there that night—how he had
searched for her so wearily, until he felt that he must have rest, and
coming there, and hearing her sobbing, he had been strangely impressed
that something was wrong, and had proceeded to investigate the matter.
He told how he had attacked Tom Drake in the hall, dragged and locked
him within his own room, and then resolved to enter hers.

The woman appeared greatly disturbed as she listened to this; she
evidently had not supposed anything so serious had happened to her
partner, and it was a very pale face that Earle looked into as he asked:

“Was it not mesmeric power that the wretch used to try to force Miss
Dalton’s secret from her?”

“Yes; it can do no harm to tell that much,” she muttered.

“What was the meaning of those very strange questions he put to her
to-night?”

She thought a moment, and then said:

“It was necessary for Miss Dalton’s health that she should go out at
times and get the air; but we never took her out unless she was
mesmerized, and Tom thought that if anything happened to us at any time,
and she should be questioned, if she answered as he taught her, no one
would suspect or molest her.”

“Is he in the habit of exercising his power over people in this way in
carrying on his nefarious business?” Earle demanded.

The woman would not reply, and Editha said:

“Whether he has ever carried it so far with any one else is doubtful;
but I heard him say once, when they both thought I was asleep, that
unless something turned up pretty soon he would be obliged to go to
lecturing again, and showing off in the old way, which I took to mean
that he had once lectured upon the subject of mesmerism, and tried his
experiments upon the public.”

“The wretch! He will have an opportunity to practice something else, and
show off in a different way before long, I’m thinking,” Earle answered,
sternly.

Day was beginning to break, and the occupants of the house were arousing
from their slumbers.

“My darling,” Earle said to Editha, “you must have a larger and more
airy room than this immediately;” and he arose and rang the bell.

“Earle, you will not leave me?” she said, the frightened look returning
to her face.

“No; I shall only go to the door to speak with the waiter; and you,”
turning to her attendant, “will please assist Miss Dalton to dress
meanwhile, so that she can be moved.”

The waiter soon knocked at the door, and Earle stepped just outside to
converse with him.

He told him something of what had happened during the night, and the man
expressed no little surprise at what he heard, and that the long lost
Miss Dalton had been concealed in that house. He then asked him if it
would be possible for him to give Miss Dalton a better room, and he
replied that some of the guests had already departed on an early train,
and he should have a first-class room at his disposal in fifteen
minutes.

A half-hour later Editha was borne into a beautiful apartment, where not
long after she and Earle breakfasted together, a heavy burden lifted
from both their hearts, while the former, happy in the presence of her
lover, seemed to grow brighter, stronger, and more like herself every
moment.

At eight o’clock Earle bethought himself of his prisoner, he having
locked the woman into the room as soon as Editha had been removed.

“When I have attended to that matter,” he said, drawing her tenderly to
him and kissing her now smiling lips, “I will telegraph immediately to
Mr. Dalton; and, darling, when he comes I have some joyful news to tell
you both. I do not fear that he will oppose any obstacles to our
marriage now. I trust all our troubles are over.”

Alas! they could not know that they were standing upon the brink of even
a more fearful precipice—about to be plunged into a deeper abyss of
grief and trouble than either had yet known. Earle went out for an
officer to arrest his prisoners, and, soon returning, proceeded to the
rooms where he had left them, as he thought, so secure.

Both doors were open! Both birds had flown!




                              CHAPTER XXXI
                           A STORMY INTERVIEW


The consternation that Earle and the officers experienced when they
discovered that both Tom Drake and his accomplice had escaped, can be
better imagined than described. But there was no help for it; the former
had undoubtedly had burglars’ instruments in his possession, and while
Editha was being removed and attended to, had picked the lock upon the
door where he was confined, and then released his companion in mischief
and fled.

The news that Miss Dalton was at last found, with many of the
circumstances attending her discovery, spread like wild-fire, and soon
brought numerous friends and acquaintances to see and congratulate her
upon the happy event.

Mr. Felton was among the first, and the old gentleman appeared as
rejoiced to see her as if she had been his own child, and was
enthusiastic in his praises of her courage and bravery in refusing to
give up the precious document that could alone restore Earle his honor.

Mr. Dalton was immediately telegraphed to, and three days later he,
also, made his appearance in her room at the hotel.

She had improved very rapidly during those three days, and though she
was still exceedingly weak and nervous, starting at the lightest noise,
the wild light returning to her eyes, yet the color was beginning to
return to her cheeks and lips, the music to her voice, and the old look
of brightness to her face.

Mr. Dalton greeted Editha with some show of fondness, but he appeared
anything but pleased when he heard of Earle’s return, and that it was
through his instrumentality that she obtained her release, and almost
immediately his manner began to assume its former coolness toward her.
But Miss Dalton was not a daughter to be slighted by any means, when she
had such a snug fortune of her own; and it now began to be whispered
quite generally that Mr. Dalton had been exceedingly unfortunate in some
of his speculations, and that it was a very fine thing that he could
have her income to fall back upon during this rainy day.

While he was not exactly uncivil or aggressive in his treatment of
Earle, yet he testified his displeasure at his presence by sullen looks,
sarcasm and sneers, until Earle more than once lost patience, and would
have had it out with him had he not feared that any trouble would be
serious injury to Editha in her weak state.

But although he was very forbearing and always courteous, yet he never
seemed to gain any ground with his enemy, and at last resolved to bring
matters to a crisis.

He called upon Mr. Dalton one morning at his own room, and formally
proposed for Editha’s hand in marriage. Of course he had anticipated a
refusal, and of course he got it.

“I think, Mr. Dalton,” he said, not at all disconcerted, “that if you
will listen while I explain to you something of the change that has
occurred in my prospects during the last few months, you will not only
be willing to waive all your objections, but give us both your blessing,
instead of so curt a refusal.”

Mr. Dalton sneered visibly at this; indeed his face was gradually
acquiring a habitual sneer, as if things generally were disturbing his
tranquillity.

“Ahem! Mr. Wayne, permit me to say that no change, _of whatever nature_,
in your prospects would affect my decision. You cannot marry Miss
Dalton.”

“But, sir, remember that no stain rests upon my name now. I am free from
every taint.”

“Indeed! I am glad that _you_ are so happy as to think so,” he returned,
satirically.

Earle flushed, but, controlling his indignation, he returned:

“I not only think so, but all the world will be obliged to acknowledge
it very soon, as I have already taken measures to have John Loker’s
confession made public.”

“What the world may think does not concern me at all; you will please
consider my answer as final and unalterable;” and he waived his hand as
if to dismiss the subject entirely.

Again the hot blood rushed to Earle’s very forehead, and it was all he
could do not to let his temper fly.

“Will you please to give me some reason for what seems to me an
unreasonable refusal?” he asked, quietly; then, after an instant’s
thought, he added. “I have lately fallen heir to quite a handsome
property, and can place Miss Dalton in a position befitting her worth.”

“I regret, for your sake, that I am unable to confer the favor requested
upon one _so noble_ and heir to such _brilliant_ prospects; but even
were it possible, allow me to ask what _name_ you could bestow upon Miss
Dalton?” and the look accompanying this question was so cunning and full
of malice that for a moment Earle was startled.

“The woman I wed will never have cause to blush for the name she bears,
sir,” he replied, with an indignant flush, and wondering if it was
possible that Mr. Dalton could know aught concerning his previous
history.

“Ah, indeed!” was the sarcastic reply. “I trust—I hope truly that you
may find one _worthy to bear it_. Miss Dalton cannot. I decline that
honor for her.”

“Miss Dalton is of age, I believe, sir,” Earle said, very quietly, but
the words were rather ominous.

“Miss Dalton is about twenty-two, Mr.—ah—_Wayne_.”

Why was it, Earle wondered, that Mr. Dalton almost always addressed him
in this peculiar way now, with a pause, an interjection, and that
strange emphasis on his last name?

But he replied to his last remark with a dignity that became him well:

“Then, sir, we will leave the question for her to decide, and abide by
her verdict. I desired to render you all due courtesy, but, of course,
you are as well aware as I that my seeking your approval was a mere
matter of form. Good-morning, sir.”

“Good-morning,” Mr. Dalton returned, with a mocking bow, and saw him
depart with a sinister smile and an almost fiendish chuckle.

Earle immediately sought Editha, and communicated the result of the
interview to her.

“I shall not ask you to run away with me, my darling,” he said, with a
fond smile, “for I must marry my wife in an honorable way. Neither shall
I use any arguments to try to persuade you to defy your father and marry
me openly. I shall leave it entirely with you. It must be just as your
own heart dictates. Editha, you must decide this matter for yourself and
me.”

“Oh, Earle, it is hard,” she said; “my heart tells me that I belong to
you, while a feeling of pity and affection prompts me to consider, as
far as is right, the feelings and wishes of my father. I cannot
understand him; he is so changed since mamma and Uncle Richard died, I
sometimes fear that his mind is affected.”

Earle thought that his mind was affected decidedly, being possessed with
an evil spirit of some kind.

“An impassable barrier seems to have arisen between us,” Editha
continued, sadly; “and he has taken such an unaccountable dislike to you
that it seems very strange to me. Let me think it all over for one
night, Earle. Come to me to-morrow at this time and you shall have my
answer.”

Earle complied with her request and left her, feeling sad and depressed
himself.

He knew that he ought to return immediately to Wycliffe. He had been
gone a long time now, and was trespassing more than he liked upon Mr.
Tressalia’s good nature; but he did not feel as if he could even think
of such a thing as returning and leaving Editha behind.

The more he considered the matter the more inexplicable Mr. Dalton’s
fierce spite against him appeared. It seemed so almost childishly
unreasonable that he would not even listen while he told him of his
prospects. He seemed to talk as if he was aware of something very
shameful and degrading connected with him, and yet he could not
understand how Mr. Dalton, here in America, could possibly know aught of
his previous history, or the shadow of shame that had hung over his
early life.

Then, too, his declaring that “_no change of whatever nature_” in his
prospects could affect his answer seemed to imply some deep and bitter
personal hatred that, not being conscious of ever having done him an
injury, he could not fathom.

“It surely could not be,” he thought, “because Richard Forrester had so
kindly remembered him at the time of his death, and it was a petty
feeling of jealousy.”

He had not touched the money which Editha had so nobly insisted upon
investing for him. It still lay accumulating in the bank, and would
remain there until the end of time for any use that he would make of it.

And so, after perplexing his brain over the matter, only to become more
deeply puzzled, he resolved to let it drop, hoping that everything would
come out right in the end.

Notwithstanding Mr. Dalton’s sarcastic and almost insulting language and
manner to him, Earle did not cherish the least feeling of ill-will
toward him.

At the time a feeling of indignation and impatience at his injustice
would momentarily arouse his hot blood, but this soon passed, and he
sincerely pitied him for being the slave of such unholy passions as he
manifested.

The next morning, feeling very uneasy and apprehensive of he knew not
what, he called, as Editha had desired.

He could not shake off the feeling that he was about to meet some
dreadful impending fate; it seemed almost as if a voiceless, wordless
warning was impressing him, and he found himself involuntarily repeating
the words of one who said:

                      “Often do the spirits
              Of great events stride on before the events,
              And in to-day already walks to-morrow.”

He found Editha calm, but looking weary and very sad, as if the struggle
of deciding had been too much for her strength.

She came and went toward him, looking so pale that she seemed more like
some beautiful spirit about to fade from his sight than a woman whom he
longed to call “wife.”

“I have decided, Earle,” she said, the tears shining in her eyes as she
held out both hands to him in greeting.

He took them and drew her toward him, searching her fair face with his
anxious eyes.

“My darling!” he said, in low, intense pleading tones.

“I am going with _you_,” she whispered; and his arms instantly encircled
her, a low-spoken thanksgiving and blessing falling from his lips, the
burden rolling from his heart.

“Papa is already so estranged from me,” she continued, “that I know I
should be miserable to let you go back alone; you would be very unhappy
also.”

The closer clasp of the arms infolding her confirmed the truth of her
statements, and told her how very dear she was to him.

The golden head drooped and rested trustfully against his shoulder, and
she went on:

“Perhaps, when he sees how determined I am, he may relent and consent to
go with us. At all events, I feel that I have no right to ruin both our
lives, and yield to an unreasonable command of his.”

Before Earle could reply, Mr. Dalton himself entered the room.

“Ah! quite an affecting tableau,” he said, with a disagreeable sneer;
“it seems to be my privilege to—to have the benefit of these interesting
scenes.”

His eyes glittered with anger as they rested upon Earle, but he
continued, speaking to Editha:

“I must beg pardon for the intrusion; I merely came to say that I want
you to be ready to go to Newport next week.”

Editha flushed.

He had never spoken quite so peremptorily to her before; he had been
more willing to consult her convenience and pleasure, more especially
since he had in a measure been dependent upon her income to supply his
own wants.

She had seen, too, the look of malignant hatred which he had cast upon
Earle, and her spirit arose in rebellion against it.

She had quietly withdrawn from her lover’s embrace when the door opened,
but remained standing by his side.

“Papa, I—I am not going to Newport this summer,” she said, with outward
calmness; but Earle could almost feel her tremble, and his heart ached
for her, in prospect of the conflict which he knew must come.

“Not going to Newport!” Mr. Dalton said, with raised eyebrows and
well-feigned surprise. “Who ever heard of such a thing as our not going
to Newport during the summer? Of course you are going to Newport,
Editha; I could not think of leaving you at home alone, and—I should be
so exceedingly lonesome;” and he shot a cunning glance at the young
couple, that disagreeable sneer still upon his lips.

“Papa, I am really sorry if you will be lonely——” began Editha, a
tremble in her voice, when Earle quietly laid his hand upon hers and
stopped her.

“Mr. Dalton,” he said, in a cold, business-like tone, “we may as well
come to the point and have this matter settled once for all. Editha has
already decided to return with me to Europe as my wife.”

Instead of a blaze of anger, as he had expected, Mr. Dalton chuckled
audibly, and gleefully rubbed his hands together, as if this were really
a delightful piece of news to him.

But he took no more notice of Earle than if he had not been there.
Instead, he again addressed himself to Editha:

“My dear, did I understand that last statement of Mr.—ah—_Wayne’s_
correctly?”

“You did, papa,” she answered, but it was a great effort for her to
utter the three short words.

“You have decided to spend your future in Europe?”

“Yes, sir.”

She ventured to glance at him. She could understand neither his tone nor
his mood.

“You will leave your native land and go with a stranger to a foreign
country?”

“Earle is no stranger, papa,” she said, quickly; “we have known him for
years, and surely you ought to be willing to trust me with one so good
and true as he is.”

“So good and true!” he repeated, mockingly. “You are exceedingly fond of
Mr. Wayne?”

“Yes, sir, I _am_,” Editha now said, boldly, and turning her flashing
eyes full upon him.

Her indignation was rising—her patience giving out under his scathing
sarcasms.

“Mr. Wayne ought to be a happy man—he doubtless _is_ a happy man in
having so brave and fair a champion. It is so beautiful to witness such
entire trust and confidence—such fervent affection. My dear, you can go
to Europe with Mr. Wayne if you choose, I suppose, seeing that you have
attained your majority, as he has once hinted to me, but—_you cannot as
his wife_!”

The whole sentence was spoken with great apparent calmness and
deliberation, but his eyes glowed like a burning flame upon the lovers
standing so proudly side by side.

“If my majority gives me the right to choose upon one point, it does
upon the other also, I suppose,” she returned, coldly.

“Oh, no, my dear, you are entirely mistaken there,” returned Mr. Dalton,
with aggravating affability, and darting a fiery glance at Earle.

“Papa, I do not understand you in this mood at all,” Editha said, with
some hauteur; “but I will say, once for all, that I think you are
exceedingly unkind, as well as unreasonable. What possible objection can
you have to Earle in a moral point of view?”

A gleam of malicious amusement flashed over his face as he answered:

“You must excuse me, Editha, but—really—I should not presume to set
myself up as a judge upon Mr.—ah—_Wayne’s_ morals—nor indeed upon the
morals of any one.”

“Then I do not consider that you have any right, for a mere prejudice,
to ruin both his life and mine—our united happiness depends upon this
union; and, papa, I shall marry Mr. Wayne—if not _with_ your consent,
then without it,” she concluded, firmly.

“My dear, allow me to repeat, you _cannot_ marry Mr. Wayne.”

“And _I_ repeat that I _shall_ do so.”

Mr. Dalton chuckled again.

“Mr. _Wayne_ will, I suppose, be very _proud_ to bestow his _name_ upon
you,” he said, significantly.

“Allow me to ask what you mean to insinuate by that assertion?” Earle
here interposed, flushing deeply.

“Wayne is a name that one might well be proud of, if one had a _right_
to it,” he answered, maliciously.

“And you mean me to understand that you think I have no right to it?”

“I have my doubts upon the matter.”

“You think I am an impostor—that I have been seeking Miss Dalton’s
affections under false pretentions—under an assumed name?” Earle
demanded, with dignity.

“I _have_ had some such idea; yes,” Mr. Dalton answered, with a strange
smile.

“Mr. Dalton, _what_ do you mean? What do you really know about me?”

Mr. Dalton replied only by a low laugh, and Earle continued, with some
excitement:

“My name _is_ Earle Wayne—it is the name that my mother gave to me upon
my birth, and I will now say——”

“_Your mother!_” he interrupted, and a scornful, bitter laugh rang out,
making both his listeners shudder, it was so fiendishly unnatural.

“Papa, why do you talk like this? _Why_ are you so prejudiced against
Earle?” Editha burst forth, unable to bear any more.

“‘_Prejudice_’ is a _very mild term_, Editha,” he replied with
glittering eyes.

“What reason have you for hating him, then?” she cried, passionately.

“I have the very best reason in the world, according to my judgment, for
_hating not only him, but all that ever belonged to him_,” Mr. Dalton
answered, with deliberate emphasis.

“Sir,” exclaimed Earle, in startled surprise, “_what_ do you know about
me, or those belonging to me? and why do you still persist in saying
that Miss Dalton cannot be my wife, when she has distinctly stated that
she has decided the matter? What possible barrier can there be to our
union save the petty spite you so ignobly manifest toward me?”

Mr. Dalton laughed again at this—a low, mocking laugh—and rubbed his
hands in sardonic glee, while Earle regarded him in amazed perplexity,
and Editha wondered if her father was not losing his mind that he should
act thus.

“Does it surprise you, young man, that I appear to have some knowledge
of you? and shall I tell you, Editha Dalton, why you can _never_ become
his wife?” he asked, and Editha shivered and grew white at his ominous
words. “You know,” he continued, still addressing her, “that I never
tolerate or forgive opposition from any one—never forgive either a
fancied or a real wrong. Mine is a peculiar temperament, I know, yet I
am what I am, and those who foil or oppose me must take the
consequences. I have never _loved_ your devoted admirer, and since I
have discovered _his secret_——”

“Secret!” breathed both his listeners, in surprise.

“Yes, _secret_. Had you no secret when you came to Richard Forrester?”
demanded Mr. Dalton of Earle, and gnawing his lip savagely.

“Yes, I own that I had,” Earle answered, with a sigh; “but——”

“But a smooth tongue and lying lips will gloss almost anything over,”
his enemy interrupted, sneeringly.

“Papa, you are fearfully unjust. Earle is the soul of truth,” Editha
cried, indignantly, adding: “What if he had a secret?—he had a right to
it, and no one should seek to pry into it. At any rate, I do not believe
it is anything that affected his honor or nobility.”

“Thank you, Editha,” Earle said, gracefully. “I _had_ a secret, but,
thank Heaven, it need be a secret no longer; and if you will both listen
calmly, I will explain its nature to you; I have only been waiting for a
favorable opportunity to do so.”

“You hear, Editha?—he has a secret, and such a secret! Shall I tell it?
I think I can do so much more effectively than he. He is a ——”

We will not write the horrible word that sent every bit of blood back
upon Editha’s heart and made Earle speechless from astonishment and
indignation.

It was uttered with a venomous hatred such as few are capable of either
feeling or showing; and then, without waiting to note the effect of his
words, he went on, in wild and excited tones:

“Now, my fair champion of high-toned morality, is not that a piece of
news to make your ears tingle? You have dared to oppose me time and
again,” he continued, with a scowl at her; “you have set aside my wishes
and authority to favor _him_, until I am determined that you shall
suffer for it; and your punishment, as well as his, will be no light
one. Now, what have you to say? Have I not advanced a good and
sufficient reason for your not marrying him, or shall I be obliged to
add another and stronger one?”

He glared upon the fair girl, his whole face working with the passion
that raged within him.

For a moment she could not speak.

She glanced from him to Earle, who stood very pale but calm, and with a
slight curl upon his handsome lips.

For an instant he had been tempted to cast the lie in the teeth of his
foe, then he decided to await Editha’s reply.

She had not been whiter on that night when he had found her in the power
of Tom Drake than she was at this moment, and a weary, hunted look shone
in her blue eyes.

“I do not believe it,” she said, drawing herself to her full height;
“but even if it were true, it is _not_ a sufficient reason, for the sin
and shame are not his—they belong to a previous generation.”

A wild, mocking laugh burst from Mr. Dalton’s lips at this.

“Such disinterested devotion it has never been my pleasure to witness
before,” he cried.

Earle’s deep-drawn sigh of gratitude and thankfulness at Editha’s reply
had not been lost upon him, and it had seemed to work him up to the
highest pitch of excitement.

“Mr. Dalton——” the young man began.

“_Hush!_ will you? I’ll attend to you when I get through with her,” he
said, with a gesture of authority; “this girl has got to learn that she
cannot defy _me_ with impunity. Now, miss, as I’ve driven that nail
home, hadn’t I better clinch it? Shall I tell you yet more to convince
you that you can never marry this nameless vagabond?” and he bent toward
her until his evil face almost touched hers.

She drew back from him with an involuntary expression of disgust.

Then she said, with a strangely sinking heart and shaking voice:

“If you have anything more to tell me, please tell it _quick_!”

“A ‘_good, and sufficient reason_’ I told you I had,” he returned, very
slowly and deliberately, and glancing from one to the other to mark the
effect of his words. “Yes, it is; and I think you will both be obliged
to acknowledge it when I tell you that _Earle Wayne_, as he calls
himself, IS MY OWN SON!”




                             CHAPTER XXXII
                           THE TABLES TURNED

                “Revenge, at first though sweet,
                Bitter ere long back on itself recoils.”


Earle suddenly reeled at these astounding words, as if some one had
struck him a heavy blow.

“Mr. Dalton! Sir!” he cried, aghast, and regarding him for the moment in
helpless amazement.

“Papa!” Editha exclaimed, an expression of utter incredulity upon her
face.

She really thought that her father was deranged. She believed that he
had cherished his bitterness toward Earle until he had become a
monomaniac upon that point, and now, under the excitement of the moment,
and their defiance of him, he had lost his reason entirely.

“Does all this surprise you, my _children_?” Mr. Dalton asked, with a
gloating grin at Earle. “It is not to be wondered at,” he went on; “but
it is true, nevertheless. Earle Wayne, as he calls himself, though he
has no more right to the name than I have, is bone of my bone and flesh
of my flesh.”

Earle was terribly moved by his speech. His breath came labored and
heavily, his teeth were locked together, and his hands were clenched
until they were fairly livid.

He took one fierce stride forward, as if he could have felled the man to
the floor, then suddenly stopped, and asked, in low, concentrated tones:

“Prove what you have said! Is your real name Dalton?” yet even as he
asked the question a cold sweat settled upon his forehead and about his
mouth.

“Yes; I have always answered to the name of George Sumner Dalton, though
for brevity’s sake I dropped the first name many years ago.”

“_George Sumner Dalton!_” repeated Earle, mechanically.

“Yes, you have it correct. Do you recognize any part of it?” was the
mocking reply.

“I see, I see,” murmured the young man, pressing his hands upon his
temples, and looking as if he was paralyzed with the suddenness of the
intelligence.

Then all his mother’s sufferings—all the wrongs and disgraces of his own
early life suddenly surged over him with overwhelming force, and he
turned fiercely upon the man who dared to stand there and taunt him with
those cruel facts.

“Then _you_ are the man whom I have been looking for for seven long
years,” he cried. “_You_ are the wretch who plotted to betray my mother,
and you dare stand there and _own_ the dastardly act—you dare
acknowledge the deed that makes you a man to be shunned and despised by
all true, good men, brands you worse than a second Cain, and makes me
loathe you until my very soul is sick, notwithstanding that the same
blood may flow in our veins?”

“Earle! Earle! _what_ are you saying?” cried Editha, wildly, and
springing to his side, as the burning words fell with almost blighting
force from his lips. “Spare him, Earle—I do not think he knows what he
has been saying; this wild, wild story cannot be true; he must be
_mad_!” And she clung to him, trembling in every limb, her teeth
chattering with nervousness.

Earle himself shuddered as her words fell upon his ear, and his very
heart seemed dying within him as he bent a look of keenest anguish upon
her face.

Sumner Dalton his father and hers!

Could any torture more horrible than the knowledge of that fact be
poured out upon him?

Yet he saw that she did not credit the story—ay, it seemed too wild for
any one to credit. But he knew it was true.

He put his arm around her and led her to a seat.

“My darling—my darling!” he cried, in a voice of despair, “can we ever
bear it? I thought our sorrows were all at an end; they have but just
begun. God give us both strength to bear it.”

“Earle,” she said, with a piteous look into his quivering face, “you
_do_ not believe what he has said? Oh!” clasping her hands with a
frightened look, “just think what it means, if it _should_ be true. You
_do_ not believe it, Earle?”

He bowed his head until his forehead touched her golden hair, and
groaned aloud.

“My darling, I believe the knowledge will kill me, but _I know that it
is true_,” he said, in a hoarse and unnatural voice.

She shrank from his sheltering arm with a cry that rang in his ears for
years.

Folding his arms tight across his breast, as if to keep his hands from
performing a swift and terrible vengeance, Earle instantly turned and
faced the man who owned himself his father.

“You _know_ it, do you?” Mr. Dalton said, before he could speak. “You
own the relationship, then? You know all your mother’s story, and how
she cheated me, and kept me from the knowledge of who she was, the
position she occupied, and the great wealth she was to inherit some day?
If she had told _me_, I should to-day have been the father of the
Marquis of Wycliffe, and occupying one of the proudest positions in
England. I would have married her honorably if she had told me, but she
cheated me out of a magnificent fortune, and I stand here to-day a
ruined man, a beggar. Do you wonder that I hated _you_, for her sake,
when I found out who you were? Do you wonder that I have always hated
Marion Vance for defrauding me thus?”

“Hold!” cried Earle, so sternly that he stopped involuntarily. “Do not
dare to take my mother’s pure name upon your vile lips, nor vent your
petty spite upon her for what you were _alone_ to blame.”

“_Pure name!_” burst forth the furious man, recklessly. “Doubtless you
are very proud of it—the name that you should bear instead of the one
you do. But I have had my revenge, or at least a part of it; for, if
through her obstinacy I lost the glory which should have been mine, I
did not suffer alone—she was driven out, a nameless outcast, from her
ancestral home, never to enter there again, while her proud inheritance
descended to another branch of the family, though I don’t know who, and
made her offspring a beggar. If she had only told me that night in
London,” he went on, talking more to himself than to any one else, “I
would gladly have married her on the spot. But she didn’t; when she
found I wouldn’t compromise myself, she let her pride ruin both her and
me; and _how_ I have hated her ever since. But her suffering was the
greater, and I know her sensitive soul must have nearly died within her
at the idea of entailing her disgrace upon her offspring. Ah! if I could
have found her after that, I’d have made her pay the penalty for
cheating me so,” he concluded, with intense bitterness, remembering what
he had lost.

“Do not forget that _you_ were the traitor,” Earle said. “You lured her
on to destruction with soft words and smiles; you won her pure heart,
and tempted her into a secret marriage, professing to love her as simple
Marion Vance, and for the innocent love she lavished upon you. You did
all this to _amuse_ yourself and _pass away an idle summer_. She
believed you, and trusted in your honor, and she gloried in her secret,
because of the joyful surprise she would be able to give you when you
should go with her to her father to confess that she was your wife. If
you had been true to her, if you had not tried to play that dastardly
trick upon her, you might have attained to the greatness which your mean
and ambitious soul coveted. You _cheated yourself_, and now the meanest
of all traits that weak human nature is heir to is revealed in you—_you
hate the one you sought to injure, simply because you overreached
yourself, and the wrong recoiled in a measure upon you_.”

Sumner Dalton glared angrily at him, for Earle read his degraded nature
like an open book, and it was by no means pleasant to be compelled to
view the picture he had drawn.

“You appear to know all about your mother’s history,” he said at last,
with some curiosity.

“Yes,” he answered, with a look of pain; “I know it all—how she suffered
when you did not come to her—how anxious she grew when she discovered
that her honor must be vindicated, and you did not even write to her in
answer to her heart-rending appeals—how she determined that she would be
acknowledged as your lawful wife, and sought you in London one dismal
night, and begged you, with all the eloquence which she could command,
to right the wrong you had done her. Had you consented, she resolved to
tell you then and there of the brilliant future awaiting you. But you
spurned her from you instead—you turned coldly from her and her almost
idolatrous love, mocking her misery, and telling her that the woman you
married must be endowed with wealth and position—if she could assure you
of these, you would consent to make her an honorable wife; but you would
not marry her to save her from the shame that you had brought upon her.
Then it was that she learned your utter heartlessness—that you cared for
nothing or for no one but yourself and the things that would serve to
gratify your selfish ambition. She would not be an _unloved_ wife, and
she knew that when you should discover the greatness you had missed you
would be rightly punished; and so, in her pride, she turned from you in
silence regarding her prospects, vowing that she would not wed you then
if it would save both your lives; she resolved to bear her shame alone,
knowing that the day was not far distant when you would be willing to
sacrifice much to undo that wrong—when you would curse yourself for your
folly. I judge from your words to-day that that time did come—that you
suffered keenly when you discovered that the trap you had set for your
victim had also sprung on yourself. As I said before, you are the man
for whom I have been searching for the last seven years—that was the
business upon which I went that night when this house was robbed, and
returning became entangled in the affair. I thought I had gained a clew
to the whereabouts of a George Sumner, and I meant, if I found you, to
brand you the traitor and the coward that you are——”

“Softly—softly, young man,” interrupted Sumner Dalton, a white light
gleaming from his eyes. “I suppose you mean by that that you would like
to pommel me within an inch of my life; but this is a country which does
not permit such things—there are penalties for such indiscretions as
those, and as you have already served one term for the benefit of the
State, I hardly think you would enjoy another.”

Oh, how the heart of Earle Wayne rebelled against this insult! But he
knew that retribution did not always fall upon the offender in the form
of blows, and he answered, with quiet scorn:

“You mistake, sir. I would not degrade myself enough to lay even a
finger upon you.”

This shot told; Earle could see by the twitching of the muscles about
his mouth, and the sudden clenching of his hands, and he replied, with
malevolent spite:

“Yes; what you say is true—I am the George Sumner who enticed Marion
Vance into secret marriage. I got Austin Osgood to perform the
ceremony—a clever fellow, and always up to all sorts of mischief; but
the scamp has never shown his face to me since, for some unaccountable
reason. I must confess I did feel a little squeamish and sorry for the
girl when she took on so; but when I found how she had deceived me, I
had not a regret—I gloried in her shame, and the shame she must entail
upon her offspring. I gloried in the suffering I knew she would
experience, as day after day she looked upon her child and thought of
the noble inheritance she had deprived it of by her folly. A week after
she came to me one of my friends told me the story of Marion Vance’s
dishonor—how that all the world knew then that she had been driven from
her father’s house in disgrace. It was then that I learned _who_ she was
and _what_ I had lost. I left everything and began to search for her,
resolved I would make her marry me, so that our child might be born in
wedlock and inherit the estates of Wycliffe. But she had hidden herself
so securely that she could not be found, and, when the time had passed
that must elapse before her child was born, I gave up the search and
returned to America. But I had learned to hate her with all the strength
of my nature, and if by any means I had ever encountered her, I would
have crushed her as relentlessly as I would crush a reptile. When I
discovered that you were her son, I knew that through you I could
doubtless make her suffer, and I meant to crush you, too. Now you know
why I have been your bitter foe for all these years,” he concluded, with
a look so baleful that Earle turned away in disgust.

“My mother is forever beyond your reach—she died more than seven years
ago,” he said, solemnly. A slight shiver disturbed Sumner Dalton’s
frame, but he made no reply.

“How did you discover that I was Marion Vance’s child?” Earle asked,
after a few moments of silence.

Mr. Dalton laughed, but a feeling of shame made him color,
notwithstanding.

“Perhaps you remember leaving a package of papers with Richard Forrester
for safe keeping while you were absent for three years,” he said,
recklessly. “He left them with Editha when he died, and, I being
somewhat curious to know what was so carefully guarded by so large a
seal, I took the liberty to inspect them, little thinking that I should
discover so _near_ and _dear_ a relative by so doing.”

Editha here started up, and, lifting her white face from her trembling
hands, cried out:

“Shame!”

“Thank you; a very respectful way of addressing a parent,” Mr. Dalton
sneered, while Earle’s lip curled disdainfully, and a hot flush again
mounted to his brow. “I must say, however,” Mr. Dalton continued, “that
the package was not worthy of the effort it cost me to open it, and
contained nothing of interest to me beyond the pictures and writing that
proved to me you were Marion Vance’s child, unless, I except some
hieroglyphics on a piece of cardboard that I could not read.”

Earle’s expression was a peculiar one, as he asked:

“Did you examine that piece of cardboard critically?”

“No; I tossed it one side when I found I could not read it.”

“I have it with me now—I always carry it with me, for it contains matter
of the most vital importance to me, and might possibly interest you
considerably.”

He drew it from his pocket as he spoke, and held it so that Mr. Dalton
could see the writing in cipher.

He recognized it instantly.

“These hieroglyphics, as you call them, merely tell what the cardboard
contains.”

“What it contains!” repeated Mr. Dalton, his curiosity now fully
aroused.

To him it appeared only a single piece of rather heavy cardboard.

“Yes; if you had examined it carefully you would have noticed that it is
apparently composed of three layers, but the middle one is cut out very
near the edge, so as to allow of some closely written sheets of thin
paper to be inserted. I remove one end of what appears the middle
layer—thus, and you perceive that the papers easily slide out of their
pocket.”

He held it upside down, gave it a little shake, and some very thin
sheets of paper, upon which there was writing, with another long, narrow
slip which was not so thin, fell upon the table.

“This, perhaps, may contain something of interest to you,” Earle said,
taking the latter up and holding it before Mr. Dalton.

It was the marriage certificate which the old rector had given Marion on
the evening of her marriage.

He laughed long, loud, and scornfully as he saw it.

“I always thought Austin Osgood carried matters a little too far when he
dared to sign the old rector’s name to a real marriage certificate, and
give it to Marion. But I suppose it made it seem more real to the girl,
only I wonder at her keeping the useless paper after she discovered the
fraud. As for Austin, I told you before, I never saw him again. Perhaps
he, also, thought he had gone too far in the matter, and was afraid he
might be overhauled for forgery.”

Earle did not make any reply to these remarks; he merely returned the
certificate to the cardboard pocket and took up another paper.

“Here is some information that I stumbled upon purely by accident—no, I
should not say that,” he added, in a reverent tone; “I ought to say, a
Divine Providence led me to it. Shall I read it to you, or will you read
it for yourself? It is very closely connected with that little drama in
St. John’s Chapel at Winchelsea.”

Mr. Dalton moved uneasily in his chair. Somehow the words of this grave,
calm young man, with his self-contained bearing, and a suspicion of
great reserve force about him, made him feel as if he might have the
advantage in his hands.

He began to fear that those papers might contain something very
disagreeable, and something that had been reserved especially for him.

What could Earle Wayne have been searching for him for during all these
years?

Surely not merely to acquaint him with the fact that he knew he was the
illegitimate son of himself and Marion Vance.

But he held out his hand for the paper, preferring to read it for
himself.

Earle gave it to him, saying:

“This is simply a copy of something in Bishop Grafton’s diary. I made it
myself from the original.”

Sumner Dalton unfolded that paper with a feeling of great uneasiness,
and began to read how the sexton had confessed the trouble on his mind
to the rector—how the old man had himself gone to the chapel, and,
concealing himself, had seen a young man come into the robing-room,
disguise himself, and then proceed to assume the sacred vestures.

He read how the rector had interposed, ascertained the names of the
young couple, driven the accomplice ignominiously from the field, filled
out and signed the marriage certificate, and then himself proceeded to
the chapel and married the unsuspecting pair.

A terrible oath leaped from Sumner Dalton’s lips, and the paper dropped
from his nerveless hand, as he finished reading this startling
revelation.

“It is a lie!” he cried, his face ashen, and a great fear in his eyes.

“It is no lie,” Earle returned, sternly. “I went myself to see the place
where I supposed my gentle mother had been so cruelly deceived. I sought
the sexton, and he told me concerning his part in the transaction, and
then directed me to Bishop Grafton’s daughter for further information,
he being dead. She was only too glad to aid me—told me of her father’s
diary, and what she had read of this there. She then brought it to me,
and kindly allowed me to make this copy. The signature upon the marriage
certificate corresponds exactly with his own in the journal, and Miss
Grafton is perfectly willing that any one interested or concerned in
this matter should see the original. There is a little more,” Earle
added, taking up another paper, “which I think will convince you beyond
a doubt of the truth of what you have already read.”

He then read himself aloud how the good man’s heart had been troubled on
account of the young and tender maiden, and, fearing that some great
trouble might come to her, he had resolved to make that last entry in
his diary;

  “MARRIED—In St. John’s Chapel, Winchelsea, August 11th, 18—, by the
  Reverend Joshua Grafton, bishop, and rector of St. John’s parish,
  George Sumner, of Rye, to Miss Marion Vance, also of Rye. I take my
  oath that this is a true statement.

  “September 10th, 18—. JOSHUA GRAFTON, Rector.”

For what seemed a long time after the reading of this, Sumner Dalton sat
as if turned to stone, his face white as his shirt-bosom, his eyes wild
and staring, and his hands locked together in a painful clasp.

Then starting up with an exclamation of horror, he cried:

“Then I have been doubly cheated and duped. No wonder that Austin Osgood
never dared to come near me again.”

“And,” Earle said, quietly and impressively, “Marion Vance’s honor was
never marred by the shadow of a stain, though she suffered the same as
if it had been, and—_her son was not born illegitimate_!”




                             CHAPTER XXXIII
                          “I OWE YOU NOTHING”


“Oh, why did I not know of this?” groaned Sumner Dalton, beating his
brow with his hands. “I was, after all, the legal husband of the heiress
of Wycliffe. All these years I might have occupied that proud position,
and with unlimited wealth at my command. It is too much—too much to
bear. What evil genius has been pursuing me all my life, that I should
have missed it all?”

“That ‘evil genius,’ as you term it, was but your own villainy—the
spirit that rules in your own evil heart. You sought to ruin an innocent
girl, and you overreached yourself. For once justice and punishment has
been meted out where it belongs, and you have no one to blame for it but
yourself,” Earle answered, sternly.

“’Tis _false_! She should have told me. She had no right to hide the
knowledge from me—her husband.”

“You forget that you scorned her, and told her she had no claim upon
you, and also that you refused to give her any right to call you
husband.”

“But she had no business to consent to marry me under such false
pretenses. ’Twas _she_ who has kept me from my rights, when I might have
been master of Wycliffe all these years—twenty-five years of glory and
honor lost. It is _too_ much; and if I could make her feel my vengeance
now I would,” he groaned.

Earle turned from him, almost sick with disgust.

He was like many other people who have sought to do another some
irreparable injury. He hated his blameless victim because, having
overreached himself, the wrong had at last rebounded upon himself, and
he was the chief sufferer from his own folly.

Gentle Marion Vance had done him no conscious wrong. She had loved and
trusted him; she would have devoted her life to him and his interests.
But, although he had not really succeeded in destroying her, and
entailing lasting dishonor upon her name, yet she had suffered for the
time as if he had accomplished his purpose.

But the truth had triumphed at last, as it always does. He stood exposed
in all his baseness; his evil doings were revealed, and the shame and
injury done to himself were far greater than he had ever dreamed of
bringing upon her. Marion at last stood vindicated before the world as
the pure and innocent girl she was, while the whole black catalogue of
Sumner Dalton’s guilt was now sweeping down like an avalanche upon him,
threatening to ruin and crush him utterly.

He might live ten, twenty, even thirty years longer, but his treachery
would follow him forever; it would never be forgotten by any one who had
known of it. Henceforth he would be a marked man, and one never more to
be trusted or honored.

“Stay!” Mr. Dalton suddenly exclaimed, as if a new thought had struck
him. “The legal husband of Marion Vance would have rights there even
now. I will see to this matter. Who has been master at Wycliffe all
these years?”

“Warrenton Fairfield Vance, my mother’s father, has ruled there until
his death, which occurred only a few months ago,” Earle answered,
quietly, but reading at once what was passing in the man’s mind.

“And who came into the property then?” he demanded, eagerly.

“A cousin of my mother’s—Paul Tressalia by name.”

“Zounds! Girl, do you hear that?” exclaimed Mr. Dalton, very much
astonished, and turning to Editha. “But——” he began again, with a
perplexed look.

“But he is not master there now,” Earle interrupted, calmly.

“Ah!” Mr. Dalton uttered, leaning forward with breathless interest, half
expecting what was to follow.

“_I_ am now the acknowledged Marquis of Wycliffe and Viscount Wayne,”
Earle said.

“Have you proved your claim? Was it not contested? How——”

Mr. Dalton was very much excited, so much so that he trembled visibly,
and leaned back, white and weak, in his chair.

“I have proved my claim; it was not contested,” the young man began.
“When I first discovered that my mother’s marriage was valid, and that I
was the rightful heir to Wycliffe, I thought I would go at once and
compel my grandfather to acknowledge me as such. But he had been so
stern and cruel to my mother that I recoiled from him. I was under age,
and I knew he would be apt to deal sternly with me also, and demand
implicit obedience to him. I knew if I went to him he would in all
probability refuse to allow me to follow the course I had marked out for
myself. So I resolved I would never cross the threshold over which my
mother had been so relentlessly driven until I had either discovered the
man who had so wronged her, and could tell the marquis that I had found
him and proved that he had legally bound himself to her, or until his
death, when of course it would become necessary that I should reveal my
identity. So I began my lonely wanderings upon a very uncertain mission.
I discovered upon inquiry that a George Sumner had been studying at a
certain German university. I immediately repaired thither, and found,
upon examining the books, that he was an American from a certain town in
the State of New York. And now allow me to ask why you registered only a
part of your name instead of the whole?” Earle asked, pausing.

“It does not matter,” Mr. Dalton muttered, uneasily, and with a rising
flush.

It might as well be mentioned here what Earle afterward discovered, that
he became implicated in a very shameful affair while studying in a noted
college of his own country, and was expelled in deep disgrace, whereupon
he had immediately gone abroad to finish his course in the German
university referred to.

Fearing that there might be other American students there who knew of
the disgraceful affair in which he had been a leader, he resolved not to
give his whole name, and thus escaped being a marked man.

He accordingly gave only his first two names, and though there were, as
he feared, other students there who did know of the escapade connected
with his previous college life, yet they never suspected that George
Sumner and George Dalton, as he had before been known, were the same
person. With a slight curl of his lip at the man’s reply, Earle
continued:

“As soon as I found he was an American, I resolved to come to America
and prosecute my search. But I was a poor boy; I had refused the aid
which my grandfather had hitherto given my mother—I could not use the
money of a man who had so long disowned me, even though it might belong
to me by right—and so I was obliged to do something for my support. That
was how I came to be in Mr. Forrester’s employ; and every holiday, every
spare day that he would grant me, I devoted to my search. I procured the
directories of several cities, and studied up all the Sumners they
contained, but could find none, upon seeking them out, who answered to
the George Sumner that my dying mother had described to me.

“I never thought of such a thing as you being the man I was seeking; had
I even suspected it, I never should have had to serve those three years
in that miserable prison; for, as I told you before, it was while
searching for you that I became entangled in that robbery. You, it
seems, knew, during the greater part of my imprisonment, of the relation
I sustained toward you. It would seem as if common humanity would have
prompted you to make some effort for my release, or, at least, for a
mitigation of my sentence; but instead, you sought to deprive me of the
only comfort I had, for I am convinced that it was you who intercepted
all the flowers and kind messages which I should otherwise have
received.”

Earle fixed his stern glance upon Mr. Dalton as he said this, and knew
by the guilty way his eyes fell that he was correct in his surmise.

“I do not wonder at it, now that I know something of your nature, but it
will only be an added thorn planted in your pillow of remorse, as will
also be the injuries which you sought to do me after my release, and in
the end you will be the worst sufferer. But in spite of your every
effort I conquered. I was beginning to make for myself a name and
reputation, when I read in a paper of the death of the Marquis of
Wycliffe. He had been dead some time, for this notice was only an item
gleaned from European news, and reported in connection with the fact
that Mr. Tressalia, of Newport fame, had succeeded to his vast property.
I knew then that I must attend to my claim at once, and I immediately
left for Europe. I found Mr. Tressalia, as I expected, already
established as the Marquis of Wycliffe; but, like the noble man that he
is, when he found that I was the rightful heir he relinquished
everything and kindly assisted me in establishing my identity. Then,
feeling that the change in my prospects would be sufficient to make you
waive all objections regarding me, I left my affairs in his hands, and
returned for Editha——”

Earle suddenly stopped appalled—he could not go on. All his dreams of
happiness were at an end now; that hour had crushed his every
hope—Editha Dalton was his half-sister, and he must never dare to think
of her again as becoming his wife.

But, God forgive him! he could never love her as a sister.

His great heart swelled within him with agony at the thought; the veins
upon his forehead filled out hard and full, while the perspiration
gathered upon his face, and, rolling off, dropped upon the floor.

Editha Dalton his half-sister!

He could not realize it, and it was the bitterest blow his life had ever
known. How could he live all the long years that were before him, with
the sin of this undying love clinging to him?

Now he knew something of what Paul Tressalia must have suffered from his
unrequited affection.

Paul Tressalia!

The thought of him thrilled him with a sharper, fiercer pain.

Perhaps in time, now that Editha was lost to him, he might succeed in
winning her.

It was too much for him to bear silently, and, bowing his head upon the
table near which he had sat down, he groaned aloud.

Sumner Dalton smiled at the sound, while a cunning, sinister expression
crept into his eyes. It did him good to know that Earle could suffer,
and his strange hatred of him on his mother’s account made him inwardly
exult over the sight.

But he had been revolving matters of importance in his mind while Earle
was talking.

He had been immeasurably startled and mortified to learn how the rector
of St. John’s chapel at Winchelsea had outwitted him, and fearfully
angry and irritated when he realized how he had missed all the luxuries
and magnificence of Wycliffe for so many years.

If he had only known that the marriage had been legal when he had opened
that package and discovered that Earle was his son and heir of all the
Marquis of Wycliffe’s great possessions, how differently he would have
conducted himself.

If he could but have known what that piece of cardboard contained—if he
could have read all this evidence then, and assured himself of its
truth, as he would have taken pains to have done, how eagerly he would
have worked for Earle’s release, and canceled every evidence of the evil
passion within him. He would then have made peace with him, and have
reaped all the advantages which the father of so noted a person as the
future Marquis of Wycliffe would be would naturally enjoy.

But a faint hope animated him that perhaps it might not be too late,
after all.

Earle was his son—that fact was established beyond a doubt—and he had
said he would never stoop to anything like revenge; he had once said
that he would not avail himself of the slightest advantage to do him an
injury; he had also said that he desired to put in practice the mandate,
“Love your enemies, do good to those who despitefully injure you.” If
that was the case he would doubtless be ready to forgive him for all the
wrong he had done him in the past, and if he expressed sorrow in a
proper manner he would doubtless receive him into favor, and he could
after all be able to worm himself into Wycliffe and be looked up to and
honored as the father of the young marquis. It was strange that no
feelings of guilt or shame restrained him. He did not hate Marion one
whit the less, nor Earle either, because he henceforth might be able to
enjoy what had so long been denied him.

But he was resolved to make the fact of their relationship serve him a
good turn; he would get all he could out of him, gratify every selfish
desire, accept every good thing that he could possibly worm out of him,
and let all the former wrong he had done him go for naught.

He still hated him, I say, as such natures always hate those who have
risen triumphant above them, and he would have gloried in it if he could
have hurled him from his proud position and made the whole world despise
and hate him likewise; but, as long as there was any prospect of
advantage to be gained for himself, he must hide it and put on the
semblance of regret and future good-will.

“You say that your claim is indisputably established at Wycliffe?” he
asked, after he had thought these things well over.

“Yes,” Earle answered, lifting his haggard face, with a heavy sigh;
“everything was so clearly proved that no one could gainsay it.”

“That is exceedingly fortunate. When shall you return?”

“Immediately,” Earle said, with white lips.

“How did you find the estates and rent-roll?” Mr. Dalton asked, with
another cunning gleam in his eyes.

“In a very flourishing condition,” Earle answered briefly.

He was beginning to mistrust toward what these inquiries were tending.

“But what will you do? You have never had any experience in managing so
large a property.”

“I can learn, sir.”

“I know; but that would be so tedious, and you are liable to make many
mistakes. You need some one older and wiser than yourself to advise
you.”

Mr. Dalton hesitates a moment and leans nearer Earle, eagerly searching
his handsome face. But Earle sits pale and quiet, knowing, nevertheless,
what is to follow, and conscious also of what the result will be.

“If—if,” began Mr. Dalton, with some hesitation, “you could
be—ahem!—persuaded to—to overlook the past—if we could make a treaty to
bury the hatchet, and be at peace. I—I really regret, you know, all that
has gone by—and if we could come to some sort of terms, I—would consent
to return to Wycliffe with you, and give you the benefit of my superior
judgment and advice.”

Such amazing disinterestedness, such unblushing assurance was absolutely
startling.

A quick, hot flush mounted to Earle’s brow, and for a moment his lips
trembled as if scathing and terrible words rushed unbidden there for
utterance.

Then he lifted his dark eyes and fixed them in a quiet, steady gaze upon
the man opposite him.

Sumner Dalton could not meet that gaze unmoved. In spite of his
hardihood, a blush of confusion mantled his face, and his guilty look
told that all sense of shame was not yet quite dead within him.

“When I was simply Earle Wayne,” he began, without removing his glance,
“a poor boy working for his daily bread, I was considered unworthy of
your notice. When misfortune overtook me and I became a criminal in the
sight of the law, even after you knew that it was your son who had been
sentenced to hard labor for three years, you made no effort to help
me—you did not come near me to offer me one kind and sympathizing word
even. When your daughter was kind to me, and I dared to feel a tender
regard for her, you resolved to crush me. When a kind friend remembered
me on his death-bed, you would have wrested from me the comparatively
small sum that he had bequeathed to me out of his abundance. You have
scorned, insulted, and wronged me in every possible way. You have even
owned to an implacable enmity toward me. For all this I could forgive
you, if convinced that you were truly repentant, since it was against me
alone that all your malice and hatred were turned; but for the slight,
the scorn, and the misery which you plotted, and, to all intents and
purposes, executed against my gentle and innocent mother, I cannot. I
have no right to forgive you. By your own wickedness and folly you have
forfeited all right to be acknowledged as either her husband or my
father. Mr. Dalton, _you_ can never cross the threshold of Wycliffe.”

He had listened to Earle with a sinking heart, and when he concluded he
fairly gnashed his teeth from anger and disappointment.

Earle had spoken very quietly. There was not the slightest excitement
visible in his manner, but every word had in it the ring of an
unalterable purpose.

“Do you mean it?” Mr. Dalton asked, in low, repressed tones.

“Most emphatically, sir; _you_ can never enter the home from which my
mother was driven in disgrace on account of your baseness and
treachery.”

Mr. Dalton sat in sullen thought for awhile. How he hated this calm,
proud young man, from whom, even though he was his own son, he knew he
had no right to expect anything of respect or consideration.

But the things of the world were desperate with him just at present, and
he controlled his fierce passion to make one last appeal.

It was true that Editha still had her fortune, and while she still
remained single he knew he need not want for anything within reason;
still he could not in any way control her property, and all he received
had to come through her hands, which, to a man so proud and spirited as
himself, was, to say the least, humiliating.

But if he could but once lay hand upon the overflowing coffers of
Wycliffe his future would be one long day of luxury and pleasure, and,
having been wronged out of his share for so many years, he would feel no
compunctions about scattering with lavish hand the shining treasure of
the house of Vance.

“I will be frank with you,” he said, trying to speak in a conciliatory
tone. “I am a ruined man. I have been speculating, and every dollar of
my handsome property is gone. Even my house and furniture are mortgaged,
and liable to be taken from me any day. I say again I regret the past
sincerely;” and so he did, so much of it as had served to keep him out
of Wycliffe, though no part of his sin. “I wish to be at peace with you,
but if you turn against me now, I must come down to the level of the
common herd.”

To the level of the common herd! How the words galled Earle. He would
sink to the level of the common herd, of which he had once believed his
mother was one, and so it had not mattered if he had ruined her.

Bitter words arose to his lips; his heart was full of scorn and
indignation, but he controlled it, and answered, as calmly as before,
but with an unmoved face:

“I regret that you have been so unfortunate—speculating is very
precarious business, but I can never consent to your becoming an inmate
of Wycliffe, or of the home where I reside. It would not be right that I
should overlook the past and treat you as if you had been guilty of no
wrong; you have no right to expect me to entertain anything of either
respect or affection for you, even though the same blood may flow in our
veins—you have forfeited all right and title to any such feelings. I
must, on the other hand, frankly confess to an aversion for you, but I
would harbor no ill-will, I would do you no injury even though I cannot
tolerate your presence.”

“Is this your creed?” burst forth Mr. Dalton, unable to control himself
any longer. “Is this your boasted forgiveness of your enemies—your
‘good-will toward men?’”

“You do not _wish_ to be forgiven—you have no _real sorrow_ for your
sin. If any effort of mine could serve to make you truly repentant
before God, I would not spare it. If you were sick and needy, I would
minister to you, for my Master’s sake, as I would to any other stranger.
But your feelings toward me are unchanged—were it not for what I
_possess_, you would not even now make these overtures to me, and all
idea of our residing under the same roof, or of sharing anything in
common, is entirely out of the question. Still, I repeat, I bear you no
malice, or cherish no spirit of revenge toward you, and to prove it,
since you have been so unfortunate, I will make over to you, if Editha
does not object, the ten thousand dollars which Mr. Forrester bequeathed
to me, and which has remained untouched since she invested it for me.
The interest of that will give you a comfortable living during the
remainder of your life, if you do not touch the principal.”

A perfect tornado of wrath raged in Sumner Dalton’s breast at this
calmly spoken but unalterable decision.

“So you will deign to give me, _your father_, a paltry ten thousand out
of your exhaustless revenue!” he sneered, with exceeding bitterness.

“I owe you _nothing_ on the score of relationship,” Earle answered,
coldly; “and as for the ‘paltry ten thousand,’ allow me to remind you
that you did not consider it in that light when Mr. Forrester bequeathed
it to me.”

Again Mr. Dalton flushed.

How all his sins, one after another, were being visited upon himself.

With a fearful look of rage and hate convulsing his features, he leaned
toward Earle and hissed:

“I would crush you this instant if I could; there is nothing of all the
world’s ills too horrible for me to wish upon you, and I will yet be
revenged upon you for what I have suffered this day. I will yet make you
feel the power of my hate!” and he glanced darkly toward Editha as he
said this.

Earle’s eyes involuntarily followed his look, and the bitterness of
death seemed upon him as he realized that they two would have a
life-long sorrow to bear.

A sudden fear startled him, as Mr. Dalton spoke, that he contemplated
injury to her in order to carry out the revenge he meant to wreak upon
him.

“You will be very careful _what_ you do,” he said, with a sternness that
cowed the man in spite of his bravado; “you will not forget that you
occupy a very delicate position even now, and that I have it in my power
to make your own future very uncomfortable.”

“What do you mean?” demanded Mr. Dalton, with glittering eyes.

“I mean that if I choose I can make you answerable to the law; for,
while one wife was living, you married another, and are liable at any
time to be prosecuted for bigamy.”

Sumner Dalton swore a fearful oath, his white face testifying to the
dreadful punishment which anything of such a nature would be to him,
while a low, heart-rending moan burst at the same moment from Editha.




                             CHAPTER XXXIV
                      “IS THERE NO WAY OF ESCAPE?”


Earle started at that sound. His mind was so intent upon dealing with
the strange man who claimed to be his father that he had not considered
how his words might wound Editha, and he now blamed himself severely for
having allowed these disclosures to be made in her presence. What must
the poor girl have suffered as she listened and realized her own
position, and all the wrong of which her father was guilty?

He had proved that her father had been legally married to his mother,
consequently he, who had hitherto been regarded as a child of dishonor,
was now without taint, and entitled to one of the proudest positions in
the world. But in the heat and excitement of explaining all this, he had
not stopped to consider that his own glory must necessarily arise out of
the ruins of her life.

After Mr. Dalton had failed in his search for Marion Vance he returned
to the United States, where, shortly after, he had met and married the
sister of Richard Forrester, who was reputed to be quite wealthy.

Disappointment awaited him in this, however, for Miss Forrester
possessed but a small sum in her own right.

But matters could not be helped, and the chagrined husband made the most
of it, invested his wife’s small fortune carefully, and, by earnest
attention to business, made money steadily for several years.

Report said, also, that Richard Forrester gave him a handsome lift, and
it was not long before he was reputed to be the possessor of a large
fortune.

But, of course, his marriage with Miss Forrester was not legal, although
he had confidently believed it to be so until this very day; and Earle
condemned himself for many things that he had said, after being reminded
by that low moan of how much Editha had been made to suffer.

Mr. Dalton saw how it wounded him, and laughed maliciously, whereupon
Earle turned upon him almost savagely.

“Do you mean me to understand that you will wound me by venting your
malice upon her? Let me assure you that if I know of your willfully
causing her even one moment’s unhappiness, I will have no mercy on you,”
he said.

Mr. Dalton chuckled.

“You are really fond of—ah—your _sister_; it is really pleasant to see
such unity in a family. I trust you will always be as fond of
your—_sister_.”

He seemed to take a satanic delight in repeating the word. He knew that
it fell upon both their hearts like the blow from a hammer.

“My sister! God forgive me, she _is_ my sister; but I do not love her
_as such_,” Earle groaned, as he wiped the cold sweat from his forehead.

This was music to Sumner Dalton’s ears, but he knew it would not do to
trespass too far; so, rising, he said, with the most consummate
coolness:

“Since it would not sound well for a man in your position to allow his
father to suffer for the necessaries of life, I will consent to accept
your offer of that ten thousand, and you can make it over to me with as
little delay as possible. And now I will bid you good-morning, leaving
you and your _sister_ to talk over your future prospects and comfort one
another as best you can.”

With a low, echoing, mocking laugh, he left the room and those two
wretched young people were alone.

In the exceeding bitterness of his soul Earle again dropped his head
upon the table, and a long, long silence ensued.

Editha lay perfectly still upon the sofa.

At last Earle arose and went and knelt down beside her.

“Editha!” he said; and it is not possible to convey any idea of the pain
crowded into the one word.

Only a low moan answered him.

“Editha,” he said again, almost wildly, “I would have saved you from
this had it been possible.”

She turned her face up to him at this in speechless misery. She had shed
no tears over what she had heard; the horror of it had seemed to scorch
and burn them up at their very fountain. Her eyes were heavy, her face
perfectly hueless, her lips parched and drawn, her hands hot and
burning.

That one look of hers, so piteous and full of anguish, unmanned Earle
completely, and, dropping his head upon the pillow beside hers, sob
after sob broke from him.

At the sight of his suffering, woman-like, she forgot her own in a
measure.

She put up her hot hand and laid it caressingly against his cheek, and
cried:

“Earle—Earle—don’t! _I_ cannot bear it if _you_ give way so. God will
help us; He will send no more upon us than He is willing to give us
strength to bear. But, oh!” she added, wildly, “that I should have to
call _such_ a man _father_.”

“My darling, that is a sorrow that we share in common,” Earle answered,
with an effort at self-control.

“I am glad mamma is dead. I am glad Uncle Richard is dead. How could
they have borne this?” Editha moaned.

“Your Uncle Richard would have counseled us what to do, dear; he would
have been a help to us,” Earle replied, feeling deeply the need of such
a friend as Richard Forrester would have been.

“I believe he would have killed papa if he had lived to know of all
this. I have been told that his temper was fearful when once aroused,”
Editha said, with a shudder.

“He is not here, and we must take counsel of each other. My darling we
have some stern facts to look in the face. All——”

His courage failed him for the moment, and it seemed as if his reason
was forsaking him.

After a while he went on:

“All our former hopes are crushed and destroyed. Oh, why were we ever
permitted to love each other as we have done, only to suffer thus? But,
Editha, I cannot—I do not feel that I ought to go back and leave you
here with _him_. Will you come with me to Wycliffe and share my
home—your _brother’s_ home?”

She put him away from her with a gesture of despair.

A cry of bitterness rang through the room, and then, as if all power of
self-control had deserted her, she cried out:

“No, _no_, NO! Earle, how can you torture me with such a proposal? Go
away—hide from me—put the sea between us, until—_until I can learn to
love you less_.”

And the poor, tired, almost bursting heart found relief in a flood of
scalding tears.

Earle was glad to see her weep, though every word had been fresh torture
to him. He did not check her, but only knelt by her, gently smoothing
her shining hair, and wishing he could have borne all this great grief
alone.

How could he bear to leave her? How could he put the ocean between them!
How could he bear to let long years go by and not look upon her face,
perhaps _never_ see her again? She would not be happy with her father,
he knew, after what she had learned to-day. She had no other friends to
whom to go, and what would become of her?

She repelled the idea of making Wycliffe her home, where she would be
obliged to see him every day, and strive to conquer the love which now
she had no right to give him. And his own heart told him that it would
be a burden too heavy for either of them to bear.

Something told him that he could never love her after the quiet fashion
of a brother. His heart had gone out to her in the first strong, deep
passion of his manhood, and he could no more control it than he could
control the wind that blew.

All this he thought over as she lay there in the abandonment of her
grief, and he knew that she had judged rightly; they must be separated,
or their sorrow would wear them both out in a little while. He must go
back to Wycliffe and take up his duties there, and she must choose for
herself what she would do here.

Her sobs grew less violent after awhile, and at last he said, with an
effort to speak calmly:

“Editha, I will do whatever you say; but it seems to me as if all the
world from this hour will be palled in deepest gloom—as if nothing could
ever look bright or beautiful again. I came back to you so joyous—so
proud of the position that was mine to offer you; and now every hope is
crushed. Oh, what shall we do? How are we to bear it?” he groaned.

“You must go away—back to England,” she said, in a shaking, weakened
voice. “I cannot bear it if you stay here; neither can I go to Wycliffe.
Don’t you see we could not bear _that_? We must live apart, and strive
to forget if we can. Perhaps when long years have passed, if we live,
and we have not seen each other, we may be able to love each other
less.”

“God forbid! And yet the sin of it will crush me,” he cried,
despairingly. “I cannot forget—I do not want to forget—I will _not_. Oh,
Editha, why are we permitted to be tortured thus?”

“To teach us, perhaps, that earthly idols are but dust, and God is
supreme. He has said we must put no other in _His_ place,” she
whispered, with a solemnity that awed him.

“Have _you_ loved _me_ like that?” he asked.

“Hush!” she answered, with a shiver, and laying her fingers gently on
his lips. “I must not tell you _how much_. We have no right to talk of
that any more. I want you to bid me good-by now, Earle, and let it be a
long, long good-by, too.”

“My darling, I _cannot_; it is too, too cruel,” he moaned; and,
forgetting everything but his deep and mighty love for her, he gathered
her into his arms and clasped her with such rebellious strength that she
was powerless in his embrace.

“Earle,” she said, with a calmness born of despair, yet speaking
authoritatively, “you must let me go.”

He instantly released her—he could not disobey her when she spoke in
that tone, but the look on his face made her cry out with pain.

“Forgive me,” she almost sobbed. “I would not wound you, but we must end
this for the sake of both. Will you do as I wish? Will you go back to
Wycliffe at once?”

“I will do anything that you bid me, Editha,” he answered, in a hollow
tone, but with a look such as she hoped never to see again on any mortal
face.

“Thank you, Earle—I do bid you go—it is right—it will be best,
and—and——”

She had risen, and was standing before him, looking almost as wan and
ghastly as she had looked on that night when he had found her in the
power of Tom Drake.

She had stopped suddenly, catching her breath, and she reeled like a
person drunken with wine; but, pressing her hand to her side, as if to
still her fierce heart-throbs she strove to go on, though every word
came with a pant:

“And, Earle, do not mourn—do not grieve any more than you can help; it
would not be right—you have a noble career before you, and you must do
honor to the name you bear——”

“What are honors to me? What is anything in the world worth to me
_now_?” he interrupted, hoarsely.

“You must conquer that reckless spirit, Earle—try not to think of me any
more than it is possible to help; I shall do very well, I hope. I shall
stay with papa, and strive to win him to better things.”

Her pale lips quivered as she thought how dreary the world would be when
he was gone, and how thankless the task she had set herself to
accomplish.

After a moment she quietly drew off the beautiful ring he had placed
upon her finger and held it out to him.

“I must not wear this any more,” she said, brokenly; “it means too much
to me, and I have loved it so dearly for the sake of what it meant, and
I do not wish to even see anything that can remind me of the—the
happiness I have lost. Take it and put it away, Earle; but if—if——”

She caught her breath quickly, while he felt as if he were turning to
stone.

“If ever,” she began again, with a great effort, but looking so white
and deathly that Earle feared she would drop dead at his feet—“if ever
in the future you meet any one whom you think will make you happy, tell
her all about our sorrow, Earle, and give her this with—my blessing.”

“Oh, Heaven! Editha, do you wish to drive me mad?” he groaned.

“Dear Earle, it is hard—I cannot tell you _how_ hard it is for me to say
this, but I know that what I tell you will be right for you to do, and—I
do want you to be happy.”

“Happy! Do you not know that that word will mock me all the remainder of
my life?” he cried, with exceeding bitterness.

“I hope not, Earle;” and her sweet lips quivered like a grieved child’s.

“Do you think you will ever know happiness again, Editha?” Earle asked,
almost fiercely, and yet her sad face smote him for the question.

“If it is God’s will,” she answered, with a weariness that pierced him
to his heart’s core; but in her soul she knew that apart from him the
world would never hold any charm for her again.

“There are some things in life,” she went on, with mournful sweetness,
after a moment, “that we cannot understand—this trial of ours is one of
them. I remember reading somewhere that

                         ‘Never morning wore
                 To evening, but some heart did break,’

and if that is so, we are not alone in our sorrow; perhaps all will be
well in the end, and we shall live to realize it—let us trust that it
may be so. But, Earle, you have a beautiful home, and probably there are
long years of useful life before you, but there can be no comfort in a
household without a skilful hand to beautify and direct. Do not forget
what I say—remember that I even wish it, should the time ever come when
you can realize it; and now, Earle,” reaching out her hands with a sob
that seemed wrung from her against her will, “good-by—God ever bless and
keep you.”

His hands dropped suddenly, and the ring rolled to his feet; he had not
taken it—he had seemed to have no power; and she, feeling that she could
bear no more, turned as if to leave him.

He had stood like one stunned while she was speaking. He could not seem
to realize that she really meant this for her last, long farewell; but,
as she turned from him, he cried out suddenly, in a voice of agony:

“Editha! oh, my lost love, do not leave me thus!”

She stopped, her head drooping upon her bosom, her hands hanging
listlessly by her side.

He sprang to her, and, forgetting everything but the pain of the moment,
he drew her passionately to his breast.

“Editha—my happiness—my love—all that is dearest and best in the world,
how can you go away from me so? I cannot bear it. I will not believe
this fearful thing that is to rob us of all our bright future.”

She lay resistless in his embrace now; it was for the last time, she
thought, even if she had not been too weak to move.

“Tell me, Editha, is there no way of escape? _Must_ we live out our
dreary future, this poisoned arrow corroding in our hearts? Ah! if this
terrible tale could be refuted.”

“But it cannot, Earle; there is no way but to bear it patiently,” she
breathed.

“No, there is no other way, for I _know_ that that man is my father, and
that fact destroys our every hope. It is hard, my beloved; let me call
you so once more; let me hold you close for the last time; let me kiss
these dear lips, and touch this shining hair, and then I will go away as
you wish. I will not add one pang to what I know you already suffer.
Heaven bless you, my weary, stricken one—my lost love.”

With one strong arm he held her close against his almost bursting heart,
while with his other hand he drew back the shining head until he could
look down into the beautiful face that he felt might perhaps be looking
his very last upon.

His lips lingered upon her hair, touched her forehead with tremulous
tenderness, and then, with a sob wrung from the depths of his soul, he
pressed one long, passionate kiss upon her lips, gently released her,
stooped to pick up the ring she had wished him to have, and then strode
from the room.

A fortnight later Earle Wayne had returned to Wycliffe sad, almost
broken-hearted, and, at twenty-five, deeming life a burden too heavy to
be borne.




                              CHAPTER XXXV
                        THE BEGINNING OF THE END


Editha Dalton and her father went to Newport—he to get all the pleasure
out of life that he could by mingling in the sports of the gay world and
spending his daughter’s money, she to bear with what submission she
could the weary routine in which she had no heart, and which was but a
mockery to her.

Earle had, faithful to his word, made over the long disputed ten
thousand dollars to Mr. Dalton, and this, together with Editha’s
handsome income which she tacitly yielded up to him, enabled him to live
like a prince.

But people wondered to see how the brightness had faded from the fair
girl’s life.

She took no interest in the pleasure and frivolities of the fashionable
watering-place.

She would not attend their parties and social gatherings, but wandered
alone by the sea, or sat in seclusion of her own room, pale, sad, and
silent, thinking ever of the one so dear, who at her bidding had put the
ocean between them.

Her rebellious heart had refused to banish him from the place so long
his own, or yield up one tithe of the love which she had lavished upon
him.

The very name of brother, applied to him, made her shudder with
repulsion, and the thought of being his sister made her cry out with
despair, and grow sick and faint with horror.

Mr. Dalton, to his credit be it said, after Earle was well out of the
way, changed his course and treated her with great gentleness and
kindness.

Perhaps he felt a thrill of remorse as he saw her day by day growing so
frail and slight, and bearing with such sad patience the sorrow which he
had brought upon her.

Perhaps, since we cannot conscientiously attribute really unselfish
motives to him, he only realized that she was the goose who brought him
the golden eggs, and considered it a matter of policy to conciliate her
favor.

Be this as it may, he improved his advantage to the fullest extent.

Money slipped through his fingers like water; he had never seemed so
gay, reckless, and intent upon his pleasure before, and more than one
old associate remarked that “Mr. Dalton grew fast as he grew old.”

But a Nemesis was on his track.

A relentless fate was pursuing him, crying, “No quarter until the mighty
one is fallen.”

His days of unholy living and revenge, of treachery and wrong, were
numbered, though he knew it not, and no spirit of warning whispered that
for every evil deed he had done he must soon give an account.

It was a matter of some surprise to Paul Tressalia that Earle should
return to England alone.

He had fully expected that he would bring Editha as a bride to Wycliffe,
and he had tried to school his own heart to bear it. He saw at once that
there was some deep trouble on his mind; no one ever had such heavy
hollow eyes, such a worn, haggard face, without some adequate cause.
But, as Earle did not offer any explanation for it, he could not
question him. And so the days went by, while he began to mature his
plans for his own future.

Earle at once entered upon his duties as master of Wycliffe, and was
received most heartily by all the adherents of the former marquis, and
soon gained an influence and footing in the country which ought to have
satisfied the most exacting.

He was _feted_ and flattered, quoted, advised, and sought after; but
never for a moment did he forget that sad white face that for a few
minutes had lain on his breast for the last time, nor the last
heart-broken farewell and the low-murmured “God ever bless and keep
you.”

But the time came when he had to fight another mighty battle with
himself.

His hopes for the future had all been destroyed by a single blow; but
Paul Tressalia still loved Editha, he knew, and there might be a ray of
hope for him.

The question arose within him, “Ought he not to tell him of the change
in the relations which existed between Editha and himself, and if there
was the shadow of a possibility of his winning her love, ought he not to
allow him to put it to the test?”

One day he sought him, with a pale, worn face.

He had conquered a mighty foe—himself.

He remembered that Editha had once told him, when speaking of her
refusal of Mr. Tressalia’s offer of marriage, that “she had never
suffered more at the thought of giving pain than she did in refusing
him.”

Some one has written, “Pity melts the mind to love,” and perchance, out
of her sympathy for him, something of affection might arise, and a life
of quiet happiness be gained for her as well as for his cousin.

“Paul, I have something of importance to communicate to you,” he said,
coming to the point at once.

“Say on, then; are you in trouble? Can I do anything for you?” Mr.
Tressalia asked, with an anxious glance into the worn face.

“No, there is nothing that you or any one else can do for me; it is to
give you a chance in the race after happiness that I come to you,” Earle
answered, with something of bitterness in his tone.

“I do not understand you,” he returned, a flush rising to his cheek.

“Do you still love Editha Dalton?” Earle asked, setting his teeth to
keep back a rebellious groan.

“Do you need to ask me that question?” Paul Tressalia, returned,
reproachfully, his face suddenly paling now. “I must always love her.”

“Then go and win her if you can; the way is open; there is nothing to
hinder you,” Earle said, wiping the cold sweat from his face.

His cousin looked at him in blank astonishment, wondering if he was
losing his mind that he should make such a statement as that, or if it
was some lover’s quarrel that had driven Earle home in such despair.

Earle, without waiting for a reply, proceeded to relate to him the story
of Editha’s relationship to himself.

“It is killing me,” he said, when he had finished. “I rebel every day
against the cruel fate that has separated us, for I love her only as a
man can love the woman who should be his wife, and shall love her thus
until I die. You love her, also; and perhaps, if you can win her, you
both may yet know much of domestic peace. If I cannot conquer my sinful
heart I may die, and you will then regain what you have lost, while
Editha will, after all, be mistress of Wycliffe.”

“Earle, do not speak thus,” Mr. Tressalia said, with deep emotion, for
the wild bitterness and misery of his cousin grieved him. “I was glad to
relinquish Wycliffe to you when I knew that it rightly belonged to you.
I do not covet it, and I would not have matters in this respect other
than as they are. I hope, too, that you may live to see a lusty heir
growing up to take it after you. But this is a strange story you have
told me—Editha your half-sister! Mr. Dalton your father!”

“Yes, it is even so, though I would gladly give every acre of my
inheritance to have it proved otherwise.”

“You must resemble your mother’s family alone, then, and she her mother,
for there is not a single point of resemblance between you to testify to
any such relationship.”

“I do not know as to that. I only know that the _facts exist_ to prove
it,” Earle said, dejectedly.

“Poor child! she loved you so devotedly, she was so proud of you, and
she must have suffered also. I would that I could give you both back
your lost happiness. Is it not strange that only out of the ruin of
either your hopes or mine happiness can come to either of us?” Mr.
Tressalia said, regretfully.

“It is ruined whether you win or not, and yet I go on sinning day after
day, loving her as madly as ever,” Earle cried, clenching his hands in
his pain. “Go, go,” he added; “when she is once your wife, I may be able
to gain something of peace, or the semblance of it.”

Paul Tressalia needed no second bidding, though it must be confessed he
was not elated by any very strong hope of success.

His heart told him that if Editha loved with the same intensity as
Earle, it would be as enduring as eternity, and he could never hope to
win her as his wife.

Still he could not rest content until he had once more put his fate to
the test, and, with a tender though sad parting from his noble-hearted
kinsman, he once more crossed the broad Atlantic.

He reached Newport in the height of its gayety, and was enthusiastically
welcomed by his old acquaintances.

To his surprise Mr. Dalton received him with great coolness, surmising
at once the errand upon which he had come.

He had discovered, if others had not, that Paul Tressalia was no longer
“heir to great expectations,” and he was not at all anxious now either
that Editha should marry.

She was ill, failing daily and hourly, as every one could see, and many
predicted a rapid decline and an early death unless some change for the
better occurred soon.

Mr. Dalton shook his head sadly and sighed heavily, as a fond and
anxious parent should do, whenever interviewed upon the subject, but
secretly he was calculating his chances of falling heir to her snug
fortune.

“She is my daughter,” he would say to himself, rubbing his hands
together in that peculiar way he had. “If she dies unmarried and without
a will—and I don’t think she has thought of such a thing as that—of
course, being her nearest blood relation, I shall inherit;” and he
always ended these confidential cogitations with a chuckle, accompanied
by a look of infinite cunning.

So it will be readily seen that Mr. Dalton had no idea of encouraging
Mr. Tressalia as a suitor, especially as he could no longer offer her
any peculiar advantages.

But that young man was shocked at the change in the fair girl. The
laughing eyes were sad and lusterless now; the rounded cheeks had fallen
away, leaving great hollows where before had been a delicate sea-shell
bloom; the scarlet lips, which had ever been wreathed in sunniest
smiles, wore a mournful droop, and were sad, blue, and drawn with pain.

She greeted him, however, with more than her accustomed cordiality, and
listened eagerly while he told her all about Earle and the magnificent
inheritance that had fallen to him. Any one who could tell her aught
concerning her dear one was doubly welcome.

She was never weary of hearing about Wycliffe, and all the noble
ancestors of the noble house of Vance. She took a strange, sad pleasure
in the mournful history of the unfortunate Marion, and Paul Tressalia,
seeing it, gratified her as far as he was able, though he could but
realize that he was making no progress in her affections.

“I am afraid Newport does not agree with you, Miss Dalton,” he remarked
one day, as he came upon her sitting listless and dejected under a tree
near the sea-shore, her eyes fixed dreamily upon the restless waves, a
look of pain contracting her fair forehead.

“I do not enjoy Newport,” she said, with a sigh; “at least the gay hurry
and bustle that we are constantly in.”

“Then why not go to some more quiet place? Why not go to some farm among
the mountains, where the air is drier and purer? I do not like to see
you looking so ill,” he returned, with visible anxiety.

“Papa is not content unless he can be where there is considerable
excitement,” she answered, wearily; “and I don’t know as it matters
much,” she added, with a far-away look.

“It does matter,” Paul Tressalia burst forth, indignantly; “if this air
is too heavy and bracing for you, you should not be allowed to remain
here another day. Do you not see that your health is failing? You are
weaker and thinner even than when I came, a week ago.”

She smiled faintly, and, lifting her thin hand, held it up between her
eyes and the sun.

It shone almost transparent, while every bone, vein, and cord could be
distinctly traced.

With a little sign she let it drop again into her lap, and, turning to
her companion, said, with a grave, thoughtful look on her face:

“I wonder what the spiritual body will be like?”

“Miss Dalton—Editha, what made you think of that?” he asked, startled by
her words, yet knowing very well what had made her think of it—that
little hand had more of a spiritual than a material look about it.

“One cannot help thinking of it when the physical body is so frail and
so easily destroyed. When one is putting off the mortal, one naturally
is curious to know what the immortal is like;” and she spoke as calmly
as if she were merely talking of changing a dress.

“Editha, you are not—you do not think you are so ill as that?” he cried,
almost awe-stricken.

“Yes, I hope so; what have I to live for now?” she asked, turning her
sad eyes upon him, and his heart sank in despair within him. “You know
all my trouble,” she added, a moment after; “you know how all my hopes
were crushed. I am, as I might say, entirely alone in the world; I have
hardly a friend on whom to depend, no one to comfort and cheer me, and I
have no right even to the name I bear. Do you think that life holds out
very much that is pleasant to me? I am young to die, and I cannot say
that I do not dread the thought of being laid away and forgotten, and
yet I know it would cure my pain—there _is_ no pain beyond, you know. If
I had anything to do, if I might be of any comfort or use to _any_ one,
if I had even _one_ friend who needed me, I should feel differently.”

The sadness and hopelessness of her tone and words almost made him weep
in spite of his manhood.

He threw himself down upon the grass beside her, with a low cry.

“Editha, there _is_; _I_ need you; my heart has never ceased to cry out
for you; my life is miserable and aimless without you. Come to me and
comfort me, and let me try to win back the light in your eyes, the color
to your cheeks and lips, and nurse you back to health. I do not ask, I
do not _expect_, that you can learn to love me at once as you _have_
loved, but if you will only let me take care of you, give _me_ the right
to love _you_ all I wish, I do believe there may be something of peace
for you yet even in this world. But I _cannot_ see you die while you are
so young and bright. Be my wife, Editha, and let me take you away from
this noise and tumult where you can regain your health, and the world
will not seem so dark to you then.”

The young girl was seized with a violent trembling while he was
speaking; she shook and shivered with nervousness and excitement, as if
some icy blast from a snow-clad mountain had swept down upon her,
chilling her through.

A bright hectic flush tinged either cheek, and her eyes, no longer
listless, glowed with a brilliancy that was almost dazzling. Never while
in perfect health had Paul Tressalia seen her so strangely beautiful as
she was at this moment, and yet it was with a beauty that made his heart
tremble with a terrible fear. With almost the impulse of a child, she
reached out both her hands to him as he ceased speaking.

But he knew instinctively that it was not a gesture of assent, though he
clasped them involuntarily, and started, to find how hot and feverish
they were.

“Mr. Tressalia,” she said, excitedly, “I know how true and noble you
are, and I know, too, that you love me with a deep, pure love. I know
that you would be very tender and indulgent to me, and never allow me to
know a sorrow that you could shield me from. But I cannot be your wife—I
cannot be anybody’s wife—and I should only add sin to sin if I should
grant your request, for I can never for a moment cease to love Earle in
a way that I should not. It is that that is eating my life away—let me
confess it to you, and perhaps it will help me to bear it better. I know
that I ought to trample upon every tendril of affection that is reaching
out after him, but I cannot; my love is stronger than I, and this
constant inward warfare is fast wearing me out. Oh, if you would simply
be my friend, and let me talk to you freely like this, and never speak
to me of love again, it would be such a comfort to me.”

She paused a moment for breath, and then continued:

“I can trust you; I have confidence in you as I have in no other in this
land. Mr. Tressalia, _will_ you be my friend, strong and true, and _only
that_, for the time that I, may need you?”

There was intense yearning in her look and tone. She did need just such
a friend, strong and protecting, as he would be, if he could have the
strength to endure it.

She could not trust her father; her heart had recoiled from him ever
since that day when so much of his evil nature had been revealed to her,
and she had no one in whom to confide.

Day and night her busy, excited brain went over all the horror of that
last interview with Earle, and day and night she constantly fought the
obstinate love in her heart.

It was, as she had said, wearing her life away, and if she could but
have some one in whom she could confide, it would be a comfort to her.

But could he stay in her presence, receive her confidences, hear her
daily talk of Earle and her blighted hopes, and make no sign of his own
sorrow and bitter disappointment?

“Be her friend, strong and true, and _only that_!”

The words were like the knell of doom to him; but she needed him. If she
could relieve her heart of something of its burden, health might return
and her life be saved. Was not his duty clear?

“And _never_ anything more?” was his last appeal, as he held her hot,
trembling hands and looked into her glittering eyes.

“And never anything more,” she repeated, after him. “It _cannot_
be—_will_ you not believe it?” and he knew that so it _must_ be.

Back, back into his aching, almost bursting heart he crushed his great
love, with every rebellious thought, and all the hopes that had begun to
bud anew.

He would do _anything_ so that she need not die; he would “trample upon
every tendril of affection reaching out after her,” as she had said
regarding her love for Earle, and become only the true and faithful
friend, if by so doing he could comfort and perchance save her.

Something of the struggle that this resolve cost him could be traced in
the pale but resolute face, and in his quivering lips.

“Editha,” he said, solemnly, as if recording a vow, and still clasping
those small hands, “it shall be as you wish; I will never utter another
word of love to you; I will be your steadfast friend.”

“Oh, thank you!” and, like a weary, grieved child who has restrained its
sobs until it could reach the safe and tender shelter of its mother’s
arms, she dropped her head upon his shoulder and burst into nervous
weeping.

He did not move, he did not speak one word to stay her tears, for he
knew that they were like the refreshing rain upon the parched and
sun-baked earth, and she would be lighter of heart and freer from pain
for their flow.

But who shall describe the feelings of his own tried heart as he knelt
there with that golden head resting so near it, and from which, for her
sake, he had resolved to crush relentlessly every hope for the future?




                             CHAPTER XXXVI
                            A NEW CHARACTER


From that day Paul Tressalia put every thought of self aside, and
devoted himself in delicate, tireless efforts to interest and amuse the
frail girl who had such entire confidence and faith in him.

His own heart would have prompted him to go away from all sight and
sound of her, but he had promised that he would be her “steadfast
friend.” There was no particular necessity of his returning to England
at present, and, if he could do this unhappy girl any good, he resolved
to stay and comfort her until she should need him no longer.

Little by little he drew her away from her own sad thoughts—at least
during the day; he could not, of course, know how she spent her nights,
whether in refreshing sleep or in sad and morbid brooding.

He took her on long, delightful drives to places where, with a dainty
little lunch and a tempting book, they would spend a few quiet hours,
and then return, just weary enough to make a rest in a comfortable
corner of the broad piazza the most enjoyable thing in the world, while
he talked of a hundred entertaining things in the twilight.

By and by he ventured to invite two or three entertaining people to go
with them, and such charming little picnics and excursions as they made!
They were quiet but cultivated people, and deeply interested in the
fading girl, and they exerted themselves in an unobtrusive way to
minister to her amusement.

Almost unconsciously Editha was beguiled from her melancholy; little by
little the look of tense agony faded from her face; her eyes lost their
heavy, despairing look; something of animation and interest replaced her
listless, preoccupied manner, and an occasional smile—albeit it was a
mournful one—parted her sweet lips, which gradually began to regain
something of their original color.

Mr. Tressalia was very wise in all his maneuvers; everything he did was
done without any apparent effort, everything moved along smoothly and
naturally, and, if any one joined the party, it was brought about so
quietly as to seem almost a matter of course.

Her failing appetite he managed as adroitly as he did her wonderful
heart; every day some tempting little bit would find its way to her
room—where, owing to her health, she took her meals—just at dinner-time.
It was never much at a time, just enough, and served so attractively as
to make her taste, and tasting was followed by a desire to eat the
whole, and then she involuntarily found herself wishing he had sent a
little more.

In this way she was not surfeited with anything, but a natural craving
for food was gradually created, until she found herself able to eat
quite a respectable meal.

One day they went, as they often did, to Truro Park. Mr. Tressalia had
found a cozy, retired rock, where they could sit, and talk, and read
without fear of being disturbed, and see without being seen.

The day was delightful, and had tempted many people abroad, and the park
was filled with gay visitors.

Editha, reclining on a soft shawl which Mr. Tressalia had spread over a
moss-covered rock, was the picture of comfort as she listened to her
companion’s rich voice as he read from a new and interesting book, while
her face involuntarily lighted as she caught the sound of merry laughter
and children’s happy voices in the distance.

She found herself wondering if she could be the same miserable creature
that she had been three weeks before.

A feeling of peace was stealing over her, a sense of care and protection
surrounded her, and she knew that health and strength were gradually
returning to her.

Her heart was still wounded and sore—it could not be otherwise; but
there was not quite the intolerable burden crushing her that there had
been before the coming of her kind friend.

Mr. Tressalia closed his book at last, and a look of satisfaction stole
into his eye as he marked her look of interest, and the faint tinge of
color that for the first time he saw in her cheek.

He drew from his pocket a silver fruit-knife, and, reaching for a tiny
basket that he had brought with him, but had kept tantalizingly covered
all the time, he exposed to view two of the largest and most luscious
peaches imaginable.

“Now, when you have eaten one of these as an appetizer, we will return
for our dinner,” he said, with a smile, as he deftly extracted the stone
from the crimson and yellow fruit, and, placing the two halves on a
large grape-leaf, laid it in her lap.

“It is too beautiful to eat,” Editha said, viewing it with admiring
eyes; but she disposed of it with evident relish, nevertheless.

The other was prepared in the same way, and ready for her as the last
mouthful disappeared, but she demurred.

“You have not had your share,” she said, smiling.

“You are my patient, remember, and I shall prescribe for you as I judge
best; but if you feel very sensitive about it, I will share with you
this time;” and, while he ate one-half, he watched the other disappear
with intense satisfaction.

Editha could not fail to improve if her appetite could be coaxed back in
this way.

They arose to return to their hotel, and, as they left their cozy
retreat, they saw approaching them a lady leaning upon the arm of a
gentleman.

They were both distinguished looking, and instantly attracted the
attention of Editha and her attendant.

As they drew nearer, Mr. Tressalia started and uttered a low
exclamation; the next instant he smiled, lifted his hat with a low bow,
and, returning his salutation, they passed on.

Mr. Tressalia would have stopped and greeted them, but he knew how shy
Editha was of strangers in her weak state, and he did not deem it best.

Editha, in her one passing glance, had instantly been attracted by the
tall, queenly woman, who might perhaps have been about forty-two or
three years of age.

Her face was fair, and sweet, and beautiful as a picture, and was
surrounded by soft, waving chestnut hair.

Her eyes were large and blue, but rather mournful in expression, while
there was a grieved droop about the full, handsome mouth.

Her companion was a middle-aged gentleman, though somewhat older than
the lady, and, from their resemblance to each other, Editha judged them
to be brother and sister.

“There goes a woman with a history, and a sad one, too,” Mr. Tressalia
remarked, when they were beyond hearing.

Editha sighed and wondered how many women there were in the world who
had sad histories, but she only said:

“They are acquaintances of yours, then?”

“Yes; the lady is called Madam Sylvester, though I have been told that
it is not her real name, being her maiden name, resumed after some
unpleasantness connected with an unfortunate marriage. I met her in
Paris two winters ago, and I think I never saw a more charming woman of
her age in my life.”

“She is certainly very pleasant to look at, though she shows that she
has known sorrow of some kind,” Editha said, thoughtfully.

“Would you like to know her history—at least as much of it as I am able
to tell you? It is quite interesting.”

“Yes, if you please.”

“Report says that when quite young she fell in love with her own cousin
and became engaged to him. This was a secret between them, since the
lover was not in a position to marry. He went to sea to seek his
fortune, as the story goes, and not long after was reported lost. Miss
Sylvester, to hide her grief, immediately plunged into all sorts of
gayety and dissipation, and only a few months after her lover’s death
met a young American, who was instantly attracted by her great beauty.
He soon made her an offer of marriage, and, after a very short
courtship, they were married. A year later the former lover suddenly
turned up—he was not lost, though had been nearly drowned, and afterward
lay a long time in a fever. The young wife, in her joy at seeing him
once more, thoughtlessly betrayed her love for him, which even then was
not dead. The husband grew furious and unreasonably jealous, charged her
with wilfully deceiving him, and a hot and angry scene followed. The
next day the wife was missing—‘she had fled,’ those who knew anything of
the circumstances said, ‘with her early lover.’ She returned almost
immediately, however, humbled and repentant; but her husband denounced
her, although she swore that she had committed no wrong. He returned to
America; she hid herself broken-hearted for awhile, but finally sought
her brother, whom she convinced of her chastity, since which time,
having no other friends, they have seemed to live for each other. She
would never consent to be called by her husband’s name after that—though
I never heard what that was—but took her maiden name. She is a wonderful
woman, however; her life has been devoted to doing good; she is chastity
itself, and is beloved by everybody who knows her, while her sympathy
for the erring is boundless. That is an outline of her history, or as
much as I know of it; but I believe there are some self-righteous people
who shun her on account of what they term her ‘early sin,’ but the
majority revere her, while I must confess to a feeling of great
admiration for her.”

“What became of the young lover with whom it was supposed she fled?”
Editha asked, deeply interested in the sad tale.

“I do not know—I never heard. Madam never speaks of her past, and that
is a mystery to the curious.”

“I should like to know her,” Editha said, feeling strangely drawn toward
one who, like herself, had suffered so much.

“Would you? That is easily managed. I will ascertain where she is
stopping, call upon her, and, as her heart is always touched for the
sick, I know she will gladly come and see you,” Mr. Tressalia said,
eagerly, exceedingly pleased to have Editha manifest so much interest in
his friend.

“Thank you. I should like it if she would; her history is very sad, and
her face attracts me strangely,” she replied.

Three days afterwards they were in the Redwood Library, examining some
of the valuable manuscripts on exhibition there, when Madam Sylvester
and her brother entered.

Mr. Tressalia had tried to ascertain where they were stopping, but, to
his great disappointment, he had failed to do so.

He now went forward at once to greet them, and they seemed very much
pleased to renew their acquaintance with him.

After chatting a few moments, he brought Editha to madam and introduced
her.

She studied the sweet face for a moment, then her faultlessly gloved
hand closed over Editha’s fingers in a strong yet tender clasp of
sympathy and friendliness.

She had read in the pale, sorrow-lined face a grief kindred to what she,
too, had suffered in the past.

“You are not well, my dear,” she said, with a wistful look into the sad
blue eyes, still keeping her hand closely clasped in hers.

“Miss Dalton has not been well, but we hope she is on the gain a little
now. Have you seen the new piece of statuary that was brought in
yesterday?” Mr. Tressalia asked, to draw her attention from Editha.

She was quite sensitive about having her illness remarked by strangers,
and the color was now creeping with painful heat into her cheeks.

Madam took the hint at once, and turned to look at the new statue, and
for a while kept up a spirited conversation with Mr. Tressalia about the
objects of general interest in Newport.

But ever and anon her eyes sought the fair face bending with curious
interest over the manuscripts with a look of pity and tenderness that
told she was deeply interested in the frail-looking stranger.

“Who is she? Some one in whom you are _particularly_ interested?” she
asked, with the privilege of an old friend, as she drew Paul still
farther away, ostensibly to look at some pictures.

He started, and his noble face was clouded with pain as he answered:

“Yes, I am particularly interested in her, but not in the way you mean,
for her heart belongs to another.”

“Ah! I thought from appearances that she belonged, or would some day,
belong to you,” returned madam, with a keen look into his handsome face.

“No,” he said, gravely; “I am simply her friend. She has recently met
with a great sorrow.”

“I knew it,” madam replied, with a soft glance at Editha, and a slight
trembling of her lips. “Has the dear child a mother?”

“No; her mother died some years ago. She has no relatives living
excepting her father, and he is not in sympathy with her.”

“Ah! how I would like to comfort her. Come and see me this evening, and
tell me more about her. I am strangely attracted toward her.”

Paul Tressalia promised, and then they went back to Editha. Madam
monopolized her, while he entertained her brother, and it was not long
before the fair girl’s heart was completely won by the beautiful and
tender-hearted woman.

Madam Sylvester was remarkable for her tact and great versatility of
talents, not the least of which was her charming manner in conversation.

She could be grave or gay, witty or learned, and fascinating in any
role.

Paul Tressalia regarded her in surprise while she talked with Editha,
drawing her from one subject to another, until she made her forget that
there was such a person in the world as poor, heart-broken Editha
Dalton.

She won the smiles back to her lips, drove the lines of care and trouble
from her brow, and once, as she related some droll incident that had
occurred on the steamer in which she came over, made her laugh aloud—the
old-timed, clear, sweet laugh, that made Paul’s heart thrill with
delight.

“Miss Dalton, I am coming to see you. I am a dear lover of young
people,” she said, as they began to talk of going.

“Do; I shall be delighted,” Editha said, with a sudden lighting of her
sad eyes.

“I am a stranger here in Newport, never having been in this country
before,” madam continued. “I wish you and Mr. Tressalia would take pity
upon me, and give me the benefit of your familiarity with the objects of
interest here.”

Editha unhesitatingly promised, not even suspecting that this request
was made more for her own sake than for the beautiful stranger’s; and
then they all left the library together.

As they were about entering their carriage, Mr. Dalton drove by in his
sporting sulky.

He bowed to Editha, and then bestowed a passing glance upon her new
acquaintances.

That glance made him start and bestow a more searching look upon Madam
Sylvester; then he grew a sudden and deep crimson, while a look of great
anxiety settled on his face.

He turned and looked back again after he had driven by.

“There can be but one face like that in the world. I must look into
this,” he muttered, uneasily.

“Who was that lady and gentleman with whom I saw you to-day at the
Redwood Library?” he asked of Editha that evening.

“A Mrs. Sylvester and her brother,” she replied.

“_Mrs. Sylvester!_” repeated Mr. Dalton, with a slight emphasis on the
title.

“Mr. Tressalia introduced her as Madam Sylvester. Do you know anything
about her?” she asked, looking up in surprise.

“Ah! Mr. Tressalia knows her, then? Where is she from?” he returned,
thoughtfully, and not heeding her question.

“From Paris, France; they are French people, and extremely agreeable.”

Mr. Dalton’s face lost something of its habitual glow at this
information, and he appeared ill at ease.

“Um! strangers, then, here. Does Tressalia know them intimately?” and he
shot a searching, anxious glance at his daughter.

“Yes; he was telling me something of madam’s history a day or two ago.”

“What! have they been here any length of time?” interrupted Mr. Dalton,
with a frown.

“Less than a week, I believe.”

“Yes, yes; go on with what you were going to tell me,” he again
interrupted, impatiently.

“He said madam had seen a great deal of trouble—there was some
misunderstanding between herself and husband, who, by the way, was an
American, which resulted in their separation after they had been married
only a year. But she appears like a very lovely woman to me,” Editha
replied, with a dreary look, as she remembered how she had been drawn
toward the beautiful stranger.

Mr. Dalton watched her keenly out of the corners of his eyes; he was
exceedingly moved and nervous about something; the corners of his mouth
twitched convulsively, while he kept clasping and unclasping his hands
in an excited way.

He paced the floor in silence for a few moments, then abruptly left the
room.

Half an hour after he returned, and, while pretending to look over the
newspaper, said:

“Editha, I’ve about concluded that I’d like a look at Saratoga; it is
just the height of the season now; everything will be lovely, and
Newport is getting a little tame.”

“Tame, papa! Why, I thought there was no place like Newport to you!” she
exclaimed, in surprise.

“I know; Newport is a sort of summer home to me, and, of course, there
is no place like home; but, if you do not mind, I’d like a change for a
little while.”

“Cannot you go without me? I am very comfortable here,” Editha asked,
with a sigh.

She had no heart for gayety, and she was really happier just now there
at Newport—notwithstanding her assertion to Mr. Tressalia that she did
not enjoy Newport—than she had ever hoped to be again.

“No, indeed,” he returned, quickly and decidedly. “I could not think of
leaving you alone while you are so delicate; and besides, I cannot spare
you, Editha—you and I are rather alone in this busy world.”

She looked up in surprise at him at this unusual remark. It was a very
rare occurrence for him to address her in such an affectionate manner.

It almost seemed to her, with the distrust she had lately had of him,
that there was some sinister motive prompting this sudden change; but
she stifled the feeling, and answered:

“Very well, I will go to Saratoga if you like. When do you wish to
start?”

“To-morrow, if you can arrange it,” Mr. Dalton replied, the cloud
lifting from his face.

“Yes, I can arrange it;” but she sighed as she said it, for she was
really beginning to wake up to a little life, and she dreaded any
change.

She had been so calmly content since she had come to a definite
understanding with Mr. Tressalia, and she wondered, with a feeling of
sadness stealing over her, what she should do without her tireless
friend.

She had grown to depend upon him for amusement; besides, he heard
regularly from Earle, and though she did not dare acknowledge it even to
her own heart, yet those letters from over the sea were the great events
of the week to her.

She was sorry to go away without becoming more intimately acquainted
with Madam Sylvester, for she had been strangely drawn toward her,
thinking almost constantly of her and her charming ways ever since her
introduction to her. All during the evening she kept hoping that Mr.
Tressalia would drop in, that she might tell him of the change in their
plans, half wishing that he would join himself to their party and
accompany them.

But he was spending the evening with Madam Sylvester, and meant to see
Editha as early as possible the next morning.

But in this he was disappointed, for a gentleman friend sought him to
give his advice upon the merits of a horse that he was contemplating
buying, and before the bargain was completed Editha was gone, without
even a word of good-by.




                             CHAPTER XXXVII
                           A CHANGE OF SCENE


It was two o’clock in the afternoon when at length Paul Tressalia
knocked upon Editha’s parlor door.

It was opened by the chambermaid, of whom he inquired for Miss Dalton.

“She is gone, sir,” was the unexpected reply.

“Gone! Where?” he exclaimed, infinitely surprised.

“I don’t know, sir; they left on the noon boat.”

“Did they leave no word—no message for me?”

“Yes, sir; Miss Dalton left a note,” the girl answered, producing it
from the depths of her pocket.

Paul eagerly tore it open and devoured its contents:

  “DEAR FRIEND:—Papa has suddenly decided that Newport is ‘tame,’ and
  longs for Saratoga. We are to leave on the twelve-o’clock boat, and do
  not know when we shall return. I shall not soon forget the days you
  have made so pleasant for me, nor the great good your cheerful society
  has done me. I would rather stay than go, but think it best to yield
  to papa’s wishes. I hoped to see you before we left, but suppose you
  were engaged. Please give my kind remembrances to Madam Sylvester. _Au
  revoir._

                                                                EDITHA.”

“What in the name of Jupiter can have made him take this sudden start?”
Paul Tressalia muttered, with a clouded brow, as with a terrible feeling
of loneliness he sought his own rooms. “Can anything have transpired to
upset his equilibrium?” he continued. “It must have been a _very_ sudden
start, for I do not believe he contemplated any such thing yesterday
morning.”

He sat a long time thinking the matter over, and longing to follow them
immediately.

He knew Editha would miss his care and attention, while as for him, it
seemed as if the sun had suddenly been put out of existence.

Mr. Dalton had not treated him with his usual politeness this summer,
and he was not sure but that he had done this purposely, in order to
remove Editha from his society, and, if that was the case, he doubted
the propriety of going after them.

These reflections were interrupted by the entrance of a servant, who
brought him a card.

It proved to be that of Madam Sylvester, and he immediately went down to
the reception-room, taking with him the note Editha had written.

“Why that brow of gloom, my friend? You look as if you had met with some
sudden and great disappointment,” madam said, playfully, after they had
exchanged greetings.

“And so I have. I have just learned that Miss Dalton and her father have
gone to Saratoga; and the suddenness of the movement disturbs and
perplexes me exceedingly.”

“Gone! Now _I_ am dismayed, for I had come to call and be introduced to
Papa Dalton, and ask him to spare his charming daughter to me for a few
days. We are going to join a party to the White Mountains, and I thought
if I could tempt Miss Dalton to accompany us, the change would do her
good,” madam said, with regret.

“It would have been beneficial to her, and it was very thoughtful in you
to remember her,” replied Mr. Tressalia, much pleased at this attention.

“Do not give me any credit for what is pure selfishness on my part,”
madam said, laughing. “I am over head and ears in love, as they say
here, with your lovely little friend, and I wanted her under the shadow
of my own wing for awhile to get better acquainted with her;” and the
lady’s face was very wistful, notwithstanding her playful speech.

“I cannot understand their sudden flight—for such it seems to me,”
returned Mr. Tressalia, moodily.

“Then you did not know anything of their intention?”

“Not a breath, until about half an hour ago, when I knocked at Miss
Dalton’s door, and the chambermaid gave me this note;” and he handed it
to her.

“What a pretty hand she writes,” said madam, smiling, as she noted the
delicate chirography upon the perfumed envelope.

She read it through, growing grave as she marked the regret the note
expressed at being obliged to go away.

Her eyes lighted with tenderness at the mention of herself, but she
started as if in sudden pain, her fair face flushing a vivid crimson, as
she read and involuntarily repeated the name signed at the bottom.

“Editha! Mr. Tressalia, you never told me what your friend’s name is,”
and he thought her lips quivered slightly, as if at the remembrance of
some sad incident of the past.

“No; I usually call her Miss Dalton when speaking of her to others. It
is the dearest name in the world to me,” he added, with a slight
huskiness in his voice, “though I never utter it without pain.”

“_Et tu_,” madam said, softly, noting the pain in his face, and knew all
about it at once. “I thought you said——” she began again, and then
suddenly stopped, as if she were trespassing upon forbidden ground.

“I know to what you refer,” he replied. “I thought when you asked me if
I was ‘particularly interested’ in her that you meant to infer an
engagement between us, but—I may as well confess it—I have loved her
hopelessly for two years.”

Madam sighed heavily.

“Why is it that the world always goes wrong for some people?” he asked,
passionately, and longing for sympathy now that he had begun to unburden
his heart, and realizing, also that now Editha was gone, Newport was a
blank to him, and fearing that his boasted “friendship” had not been so
disinterested after all.

“Ah, why, unless to fit us for something better than earth’s fleeting
pleasures? There are some people in the world who would never own
allegiance to the Great King, if they were not driven to Him by sorrow.
It were better to suffer a few years here than to miss the bright
Forever,” madam, said, musingly, and as if talking with herself rather
than to him. “But,” she added, shaking off her dreaminess, “tell me more
of this beautiful girl and your unfortunate regard for her—I am an old
and privileged friend, you know, and the name ‘Editha’ has a charm for
me which will only cease when I cease to live.”

Paul Tressalia, glad to have so sweet a confidante, related all the
story of his love for the fair girl, his disappointment on learning of
her affection for Earle Wayne, his hasty summons home to take possession
of his supposed inheritance, which lost half its charm when he knew that
Editha could not become its mistress and his wife.

He told her how he had been obliged to resign Wycliffe to Earle, who
also hoped to make Miss Dalton mistress there, and who had returned so
full of joy and hope to claim her as his own.

Then came the story of her strange abduction, her release from her
captor’s power by her lover, and then, when they believed their trials
were all at an end, the dreadful blow came which had nearly broken both
their hearts, and had seemed likely to wear Editha into her grave.

“What a sad, wonderful story it is. And you, I suppose, after the
discovery which had ruined the life of your cousin, came thither to test
your fate again?” madam said, her eyes beaming gentlest of sympathy upon
the rejected lover.

“Yes; but I might have known better,” he answered, bitterly, and with a
sigh that was almost a sob heaving his broad chest. “I might have known
that a love like hers, so pure, so strong, and noble, could never be won
by another.”

“Truly things do seem to go wrong sometimes in this world,” madam said,
sadly, and thinking of the poor sweet child who had passed through such
deep water. Then, suddenly looking up at her companion with a keen
glance, she continued: “You have suffered, my friend, deeply—you suffer
now, even though you strive so nobly to overcome it; but—would you deem
me very unsympathetic if I should tell you that I believe it will be
better for you, after all, not to have married Editha Dalton, even
though she could have given her wounded heart into your keeping?”

Paul Tressalia regarded her with astonishment.

“Why should you say that?” he asked.

“She is not exactly fitted for you—you might have passed a quiet,
peaceful life together, but you could not have met all the wants of her
nature, nor she of yours. You are maturer for your years than she is for
hers, and beautiful, talented, lovable though she may be, there would
have come a time in your lives when you both would have discovered there
was something wanting to fill out the measure of your happiness.”

“You speak like a prophetess,” Paul Tressalia said, with a sad,
skeptical smile.

“I have not lived my lonely life for naught,” she answered, with a sigh.
“I have studied human nature in all its phases, and, from what I know of
you, I feel that the woman whom you should marry should be quiet and
self-contained like yourself, with a little touch of sorrow in her life
to mate your own, and nearer your age.”

“I shall never marry,” he said, with a pale and suffering face, and yet
wondering at his companion’s strange words, while somehow his thoughts
involuntarily took a swift flight, and he saw in the quiet parlor of a
vine-clad gothic villa a gentle woman, with a sweet though sad face,
which, next to Editha Dalton’s, he had once told himself was the most
beautiful his eyes had ever rested upon, while her voice, with its
plaintive music, had vibrated upon his heart as the gentle summer breeze
vibrates upon the strings of an æolian harp.

He had called it sympathy then. Would the mystic future, as it drew on
apace, gradually efface this bitter pain from his heart, and he find
beneath it a new name written there?

“You may think so now, but believe me, Paul, my friend, you will find
her yet—this gentle, beautiful woman whom you should marry,” madam said,
in reply to his remark about not marrying.

“My dear madam,” he returned, with a smile and a shake of his head, “you
are but building castles in the air, which the lightest breath will
dissipate. A man can never love but once as I have loved Editha Dalton.”

“That may be true,” madam smilingly assented; “but the first fierce,
wild passion may not always be the wisest love. Wait a little, _mon
ami_, and we shall see. You know—

                    ‘No one is so accursed by fate,
                    No one so utterly desolate,
                    But some heart, though unknown,
                    Responds unto his own.’

But, meantime, I have a strange, irrepressible longing to see more of
this motherless girl, whose life has been so sadly blighted at the
outset. Mr. Tressalia, I think _I_ would like to see a little of
Saratoga myself, and I feel confident that Miss Editha would not feel
sorry to see her friend again.”

“Do you think so?” he asked, eagerly.

“I am sure of it. This little note breathes of a strong regret that she
was obliged to go away at all. I am afraid she will wilt again if she
cannot be under genial influences.”

Madam’s face was full of a strange, wistful tenderness as she spoke, and
Paul Tressalia wondered why she should feel so strangely drawn toward
Editha. It was a matter of wonder to all.

“Does that mean that you think we had better follow Mr. Dalton and his
daughter to Saratoga?” he asked.

“Yes; but first I must go to the White Mountains, since I proposed the
trip, and others would be disappointed if it was given up. I must
postpone my trip to Saratoga until my return,” returned madam, with a
look which plainly said she wished she had not planned the trip to the
mountains at all.

“I wonder——” Paul began, and then stopped.

“Well? And so do I,” laughed his companion, after waiting a moment and
he did not go on.

“I was pondering the question whether it is best for me to go to
Saratoga at all,” he said, gravely.

“And why not?”

“If Editha is really on the gain, it would perhaps be better for me to
return at once to England and not see her again.”

“Does it hurt you so, my friend?” asked madam, pityingly. “You must
conquer that, if possible, though I myself know how hard a thing that is
to do, and it seems cold advice to give. But it would give me pleasure
if you would accompany us to Saratoga. We know nothing about the ins and
outs of the place, and it would really be a comfort to have a pilot.”

“Then that settles the matter. I will go with you,” he said.

“Not if it is to interfere with any necessary business,” madam said,
hastily, yet decidedly.

“It will not. I have no business—I have no aim in life now,” he added,
bitterly.

“Come with us to the mountains,” Madam Sylvester said, with a sudden
thought. “You need a little judicious comforting as well as Miss Dalton,
and I believe I am just the one to take you in hand. Will you come?”

“Yes, thanks; I cannot resist. I believe you charm every one with whom
you come in contact,” he answered, laughing, and glad to be invited.

“That is pleasant to hear. We will make our trip as short as possible,
and then fly to the far-famed springs of Saratoga, to drink of their
mystic waters.”

And so it was arranged, and Paul Tressalia was drawn irresistibly to do
this woman’s bidding, yet wondering at himself for doing it, and more
and more surprised to see how Editha had fascinated her.

But he could not know how rapidly an invisible hand was turning the
pages of life, and that he was soon to read a strange story in that
mystic book of fate, which Heaven so seldom deigns to open to mortal
eyes.




                            CHAPTER XXXVIII
                              AT SARATOGA


Madam Sylvester went to the White Mountains with her party, as she had
planned to do, while Mr. Dalton, congratulating himself upon the success
of his maneuver—the reason for which he supposed no one but himself knew
anything about—was enjoying the brilliant society at Saratoga to the
full.

“I flatter myself that I have played my little game very nicely,” he
said many times to himself, when thinking of their hasty flitting from
Newport; and those soft white hands of his were rubbed together in the
most approving manner, accompanied by a most approving chuckle.

He insisted now that Editha was well enough to join in the gayeties of
the place and accompany him to the different places of amusement and
pleasure.

She would have preferred the solitude of her own room or to be allowed
to roam quietly by herself in the different parks during the morning,
when there were few abroad; but he persisted, and, thinking it could not
matter much what she did, she yielded for the sake of peace, although
she did not really feel able to bear the excitement as yet.

The result was highly gratifying to Mr. Dalton, for Editha at once
became a star of no small magnitude. Her delicate, almost ethereal
beauty instantly attracted a crowd of admirers. She was “new,” and after
an entirely different pattern from most of the fashionable belles who
frequented the place, which, together with the fact of her being an
heiress, was considered sufficient cause for any amount of admiration
and homage being paid her. And so she was whirled into the vortex of
fashionable life. The days were turned into night, night into day, and
all the quiet which she had so enjoyed at Newport into an endless round
of excitement.

One evening there was to be a garden-party—“the most brilliant affair of
the season,” according to the flaming announcement.

Editha did not want to go.

“I am tired out now, papa, besides having no heart for anything of the
kind,” she said, wearily, when Mr. Dalton began to talk of the details
of her dress, about which he was very particular for a man.

“Pshaw!” he returned, impatiently; “you have been moping yourself to
death, and need waking up. This is to be the finest occasion of the
season, I am told, and I shall take no pleasure in it unless I can have
you with me.”

It was not Editha that he particularly wanted for the sake of the
pleasure he would take in her society, but a handsomely dressed lady by
his side, to be admired, and to help him pass the time agreeably.

Of course Editha yielded rather than to have any words about it, and
gave her attention, with what interest she could command, to the
wearisome business of preparation.

When the night arrived, and she appeared before her father in the finest
of black Brussels net, embroidered in rich golden-hearted daisies, and
gracefully looped over rose-colored silk, from which here and there
flashed superb ornaments of diamonds, and above which her delicate face
rose like some pure, clear-cut cameo, Mr. Dalton was for a moment
speechless with admiration, and Editha really felt paid for the effort
she had made.

“Editha,” exclaimed her father, when he at last found his voice, “there
will be no one so beautiful as yourself in the park to-night. I shall
have the honor of escorting the fairest woman in Saratoga.”

“Thank you, papa. I never heard you compliment any one like that
before,” laughed Editha, surprised at his enthusiasm, and never
realizing how exceedingly lovely she was.

“I never had occasion, I can assure you,” he answered, as his eyes
lingered proudly upon her graceful form.

Editha was not one of those variable young ladies who adopt every new
fashion for dressing the hair, whether it is becoming or not.

Her hair to-night, as always, was worn in plaited bands of satin
smoothness, and coiled around her shapely head, its only ornament a
small cluster of daisies fastened on one side with a diamond aigrette.

Tiny daisies, in the center of whose golden heart there glittered a
diamond like a drop of dew, hung in her ears, while on her arms of
Parian whiteness were bracelets to match.

It would indeed be impossible to imagine a fairer vision or a more
unique and attractive costume among the hundreds that would assemble
that evening.

The weather was perfect, and the decorations of the park were very
elaborate and elegant. Flags hung gracefully canopied over the entrance
like curtains, and festooned along the fanciful frame-work.

Light frames of stars, triangles, hearts, shields, and many other
devices, were fastened everywhere among the trees to support the
transparent lanterns of almost magical beauty. The electric light
flooded the whole scene with almost the brightness of day, and made the
place seem as if touched by the wand of an enchanter.

The finest dressing of the season graced this party, and, as some one
has said, “it did not require a great stretch of the imagination to
convert the passing throng into elves and fairies, their raiment
appearing to have been woven with the gossamer threads of the cobwebs,
and out of the butterflies’ wings, as if the dew of the morning, the
mist of the moon, the dew-drops gathered from the calyx of the lily, had
all been collected and laid with homage at the feet of the ethereal
creatures who lead captive the sons of men.”

And that the fairest of them all was Editha Dalton seemed to be
generally admitted by both old and young.

Strangers, catching sight of that fair face rising above the
golden-hearted daisies, pointed her out, and asked who she was. Friends
and acquaintances crowded around to catch a word, a smile, a look even,
and wondering why they had never before realized how exquisitely lovely
she was.

Something of the beauty and excitement of the occasion seemed to animate
her. Her burden of sorrow for the time seemed to drop from her heart,
and she appeared to become a part of the brightness which surrounded
her, while she danced, chatted, and laughed much like the free-hearted,
blithesome Editha of old.

Many remarked it afterward, and declared that she must have been a
fairy, or elf, who, since they never saw her again, must have floated
away at some magic hour of the night at the stern decree of some uncanny
ogre. Nor were they far out of the way in their surmises.

The small hours were approaching, and the merriment was at its height.
Editha had been dancing with a friend of Mr. Dalton’s, and seemed to
enjoy it, as much as any one. She evidently liked her companion, for she
made herself very agreeable to him, while he more than once, by his wit
and sparkling repartee, had called the familiar silvery laughter from
her beautiful lips.

When the dance was through he led her to a quiet place to rest. He did
not leave her, but remained standing by her side, watching her
expressive face, as she in turn watched the passing throng, forgetful
for the time of all save the life and joy of the occasion.

Suddenly he saw her start. A flush leaped into her cheeks, a brighter
light to her eyes, as she arose and extended both hands to a gentleman
who was approaching.

“Mr. Tressalia! How glad I am! When did you arrive, and how did you find
me?” she asked, all in a breath.

“Thank you. I arrived on the late evening train, and I found you by the
power of intuition, I think,” he answered, laughing, as he glanced from
her to her companion, and heartily shook both hands.

Editha introduced the two gentlemen, and, after a few moments’
conversation, her former companion excused himself and went away with a
clouded brow, muttering something about the unexpected appearance of old
lovers.

Editha was really delighted to see her friend. She had missed him sadly,
and she was chatting away with him in the most social manner, asking all
sorts of questions about Newport and her friends, when Mr. Dalton all at
once came upon the scene.

He expressed no surprise at seeing Mr. Tressalia, but the frown upon his
brow testified to his displeasure, although he politely inquired
regarding his arrival.

“I came on with some old friends who were anxious to visit the
place—Madam Sylvester and her brother,” he answered.

Mr. Dalton started violently, and flushed hotly at this information, and
appeared all at once so nervous and strangely excited that Mr. Tressalia
regarded him with surprise.

“Madam Sylvester!” exclaimed Editha, joyously, and not noticing her
father’s agitation. “I am so glad. I liked her so much at Newport. I
shall be glad to extend our acquaintance.”

“Your pleasure is reciprocated, I can assure you, for madam was equally
delighted with you,” Paul returned, with his eyes still on Mr. Dalton.

He had withdrawn a trifle within the shadow of a tree, and stood with
his head bent, looking down upon the ground, his face dark with anger,
while he worked his hands in a nervous way and gnawed his under lip.

“What in thunder ails the man, to make him look and act so strangely?”
the young man asked, within himself.

“Are madam and her brother here at the garden-party?” Editha asked.

“Yes; the fame of it reached us before we arrived, and you know the
electric light is visible for several miles before we reach Saratoga;
so, notwithstanding our weariness, we all thought we must come and take
a look at the enchanted place.”

“It is lovely, isn’t it?” she asked, her eyes roving in every direction
over the bright scene.

“Yes, indeed; I never saw anything like it before. Madam and her brother
went to the dancing pavilion to see if they could find you, but I
thought I should discover you in some quiet nook, as I have.”

Editha laughed, and the beautiful color rushed half guiltily to her
cheeks.

“You would not have thought so if you had come fifteen minutes earlier.
I think the music has bewildered me to-night for I have been dancing
with the merriest. But how does it happen that you are a visitor at
Saratoga?” she asked, to change the subject.

“Oh, after receiving your note telling me of your destination, Newport
lost its charms, and I felt in immediate need of medicinal spring
water,” he said, in a playful strain, delighted to find her so improved
and animated. “Madam Sylvester was affected in the same way,” he added.
“I expect that remarkable woman will be tempted to kidnap you and bear
you away to regions unknown before long, she has taken such a fancy to
you.”

“Just hear that, papa—fancy any one taking such a liking to me that they
would want to kidnap me. Why, what is the matter? Are you ill?” Editha
cried, as she turned toward her father, and was transfixed by one glance
into his face.

It was white as alabaster, and his eyes glowed like two coals of fire
with some violent inward emotion.

“No, no; not ill, but very tired. I think we ought to return at once to
our hotel, Editha,” he answered, with an evident effort to regain his
composure.

“I am sorry if you are tired, papa; I thought you were enjoying yourself
immensely. Sit down and rest in some quiet place, please. I really do
not like to return just yet.”

“But you are not strong; I fear the dampness will do you injury,” Mr.
Dalton said, anxious to get her away at once, and never having given a
thought to the dampness until that moment.

“I am very warm and comfortable; indeed I thought the air remarkably
clear and dry to-night,” Editha said, without moving.

“Really, Editha, I think I must insist——”

“Please don’t insist upon anything, papa,” returned the girl, wilfully;
“if you are so weary, go _you_ back to the Grand Union, and Mr.
Tressalia will bring me by and by.”

She was determined that she would not be walked off thus summarily like
a little girl in petticoats, and Mr. Dalton had to beat a retreat.

“I think I will go for a smoke, then,” he said, as he turned and walked
abruptly away.

Paul Tressalia wondered what it all meant.

The man had betrayed his great agitation only upon the mention of Madam
Sylvester’s name.

Did he know her, and if so was there enmity between them? Was that the
reason of his sudden flight from Newport?

His manner was certainly very strange, and he had evidently intended to
get Editha away before any meeting occurred between her and madam, but
he could not very well urge the matter any further without betraying
himself, and so he had walked away in no enviable frame of mind.

Editha watched him curiously until he passed from sight, then turning to
her companion, she said:

“I do not believe papa is feeling very well; perhaps I ought to have
gone.”

“Shall I take you to him?” Paul asked, considerately.

“Not just yet. I would like to see Madam Sylvester a moment, if we can
find her; but first tell me”—and the beautiful face instantly lost all
its lovely color—“have you heard again from—from—Earle?”

“Yes; I had a letter day before yesterday, and he is not very well, he
writes; the doctor does not think the climate exactly agrees with him,”
Mr. Tressalia answered, his own face growing grave as he saw the
brightness die out of hers.

Editha sighed, and the old grieved look returned to her lips.

“Would you like to read his letter? I have it with me,” he asked,
considerately.

“No, no; I could not do that. Tell me, please, what you like about him;
but I cannot quite bear to read his own words just yet,” she said, with
unutterable sadness.

“My poor little friend, your lot is a hard one,” he said, softly.

“Don’t pity me, please—life is hard enough for us all, I think,” she
returned, quickly and bitterly.

“Earle thinks he will have to have a change as soon as he can get away,”
Mr. Tressalia continued, “and asks if I will resume the charge of
Wycliffe for him. Shall I tell you all that he says about it?”

“Yes, yes; go on,” the poor girl said, eagerly, though every word was
fresh torture to her.

“He says he cannot live longer away from you, Editha; it is killing him,
and he _must_ come where he can see you once in awhile. He writes, ‘Ask
her if I may. I will say nothing that shall wound her. I will be firm
and strong; but, oh! I am so homesick for a look into her eyes, for a
clasp of her hand. Ask her, Paul, if I may come.’”

“No, _no_, NO!” burst in a low, frightened tone from the girl’s lips.
“He must not come. Write to him instantly and tell him so. Mr.
Tressalia, I could not bear that of all things in the world. I will not
see him. He must not come. I will hide from him. Oh! why must I suffer
so?”

The words ended in a low, heart-broken sob. She had clasped both hands
convulsively around her companion’s arm in her excitement, and was now
shivering and trembling so that he was greatly alarmed.

The brightness and exceeding beauty that had been hers when he first saw
her had only been the result of a momentary excitement after all.

He had flattered himself that she was really better and stronger, both
in body and spirit, but now he saw that her poor heart was just as sore
and wounded as ever, and that her fatal love was still eating at her
vitals.

Earle, he knew from the letter he had so lately received, was suffering
in the same way, and what these poor tried ones were to do all their
future was a sore trouble to him.

“Be calm, dear child,” he said, in low, quiet tones. “Earle shall do
just as you wish. Come and walk with me until your nerves are a little
more steady.”

He unclasped those locked fingers from his arm, and drawing one hand
within it, led her away into a retired path, and talked gravely of other
things, until he saw the wild look fade from her eyes, the hand on his
arm grow quiet, and knew that her intense excitement was gradually
subsiding.

But it hurt him deeply to hear every few minutes a deep, shuddering,
sobbing sigh come from her pale lips—something as a child breathes after
it has exhausted itself with weeping and fallen asleep.

He would gladly have restored happiness both to Earle and her if he
could have done so, even to the sacrificing of his own life, but he
could not—each must bear his own burden. It seemed as if they had been
beset on every hand with troubles during the past few years, fulfilling
those words of Shakespeare’s:

            “When sorrows come, they come not single spies,
            But in battalions.”

“Earle has had an adventure. Shall I tell you about it?” he asked, when
at length she had apparently grown quite calm, and intuitively knowing
that she would like to hear more.

“If you please.”

“There has been an attempt made to rob Wycliffe, and but for his
calmness and bravery great mischief would have been done.”

“Ah! he was always brave; but—but I hope he was not injured,” Editha
cried, a feeling of faintness stealing over her.

“Bless you, no; else he would not now be talking of a change. He not
only prevented a robbery and protected himself, but he has captured the
robber.”

“I am sure that is good news,” she said, now deeply interested.

“And, Editha, who do you suppose the robber proved to be?”

“I am sure I cannot imagine; and yet you—you cannot mean——”

“Yes, I do mean it,” he answered, reading her thought. “It was no other
than that wretch who robbed your father’s house several years ago, and
for whom Earle suffered the penalty. It was _Tom Drake_, that man whom
you met after your visit to John Loker’s, and who afterwards entered
your house the second time and compelled you by his mesmeric power to go
away with him.”

Editha shuddered, and yet she could hardly believe her ears. She had
always been afraid of meeting that dreadful man again, and now to know
that he was away in England and a captive, was a great relief to her.

“It does not seem possible,” she said.

“It is righteous judgment that he should at last be taken by the very
one who unjustly served out the sentence that ought to have been
pronounced upon him threefold,” was the stern reply.

“Tell me how it happened, please—that is, if you know?”

“Yes; Earle wrote me a good deal about it. It seems that the fellow did
not deem the United States a safe place for him after John Loker’s
confession was made public—the description of himself was too accurate
for that—so he fled to England, and has undoubtedly been carrying on his
nefarious operations there ever since. About a month after I left
Wycliffe, Earle was awakened one night by the sound as of some one
stepping cautiously around in his dressing-room. His revolver was in
reach, and he instantly secured it. The next moment a man passed into
his room. It was not a very dark night, and as the robber glided between
the bed and the window his figure was clearly outlined, and Earle,
aiming low, fired at him. He fell with a groan. It was but the work of a
minute to strike a light and go to the prostrate man, who was too badly
wounded to make any resistance, and he found that his fallen foe was
none other than his and your enemy Tom Drake.

“What a strange adventure; and—Earle was in great danger,” Editha
whispered, with a deep-drawn breath.

“Yes; but the strangest of all is yet to come,” pursued Mr. Tressalia.
“Instead of giving the wretch up to the authorities, as any one else
would have done in spite of his fearful sufferings, he enjoined
strictest silence upon the servants, called in the old family physician
and swore him to secrecy, and is now nursing the wretch back to health
as tenderly as if he was his own brother.”

“This is just like Earle’s nobility—he is ‘a noble of nature’s own
creating!’” said Editha, admiringly; and her face glowed with pride for
this grand act of one whom she so fondly loved.

“Was the man very severely injured?” she asked, after a moment of
silence.

“Yes, in the thigh; he will probably be a cripple for life, Earle says.”

“How sad! What will be done with him when he recovers?”

“Earle did not write what his intentions were, but he will probably be
transported for life, where, with a ball and chain attached to him, you
will never need fear him any more.”

“Poor fellow! The English laws are more severe than our own, then,” she
said, with a sigh.

“If the laws of the United States were more stringent, and the penalties
for extreme cases more severe, your prisons would not be so full, and,
in my opinion, there would be less mischief done,” Mr. Tressalia
replied, thoughtfully.

At this moment some one spoke his name, and, turning, they saw Madam
Sylvester and her brother approaching.

Pleasant greetings were exchanged, and then they all sought seats at a
little distance near a fountain for a few moments’ conversation before
returning to their hotel.




                             CHAPTER XXXIX
                       CIRCUMSTANCES ALTER CASES


When Mr. Dalton turned so abruptly and left Mr. Tressalia and Editha he
was indeed terribly excited.

He walked rapidly to a remote portion of the park, where, out of the
sight and sound of every one, he paced back and forth under the trees,
muttering fierce imprecations upon some one, and gesticulating in a wild
and angry manner.

“I must get away from here at once,” he muttered. “Whatever could have
possessed _them_ to follow us here? Of course _she_ cannot _know_
anything, and what especial interest can she have in my daughter? But
I’m terribly afraid some unlucky remark or question will expose
all—Editha is so _charmingly ingenuous_,” he went on, with sarcastic
bitterness; “and I have lost enough already—I will not be balked at this
late day. I have fought fate all my life, and now I’ll conquer or die.
We will get out of this place instantly; and since they are French, they
will not mind, perhaps, if we take ‘French leave.’”

A half-hour or more Mr. Dalton spent by himself giving vent to his anger
and vexation, and then, in a somewhat calmer frame of mind, he went to
seek Editha to return to their hotel. He was obliged to search some
time, for the throng was immense, and it was no easy matter to discover
a person once lost sight of.

But he found them at length all together, Madam Sylvester and her
brother, Mr. Tressalia and Editha, standing by one of the fountains, as
if they had just arisen from their seats and were contemplating retiring
from the place.

Madam was standing by Editha, her arm lightly clasping her waist, and
talking in her gentle, charming way, while the young girl’s eyes were
fixed upon her face in a look of earnest admiration.

“A very touching scene,” sneered Mr. Dalton, as he came in sight of
them. “A clear case of mutual affinity that is remarkable under the
circumstances. My daughter seems to possess a power of attraction _in
certain directions_ that is truly wonderful.”

He stood looking at the group for a few moments with a dark frown upon
his brow, and as if undecided whether it was best to advance or retreat.

He seemed at length to decide upon the latter course, for he turned, and
was about slipping away, when Editha espied him, and called out:

“There he is now. Papa, come here, please;” and she went toward him,
drawing Madam Sylvester with her. “I want to introduce you to my friend,
Madam Sylvester,” she said, with a sweet smile, and all unsuspicious of
the tempest raging within Mr. Dalton’s bosom.

It was done, and there was no escape now; but it was a very pale face
that Sumner Dalton bent before madam and the steel-like glitter of his
eyes repelled her, and made her think of Editha as a poor lamb in the
clutches of a wolf.

“She does not look like him; she must resemble her mother; but she has
hair and eyes like——” was madam’s inward comment, but which was broken
short off at this point with a regretful sigh.

But the next moment she had turned to him again with her usual
graciousness.

“Mr. Dalton,” she said, “I have been telling your daughter how
disappointed I was to find her gone so suddenly from Newport. I had only
just become acquainted with her, to be sure, but I had promised myself
much pleasure in my intercourse with her.”

Mr. Dalton bowed and smiled, and mechanically repeated something
stereotyped about “mutual pleasure,” &c., and then turned to be
presented to Mr. Gustave Sylvester, but not before madam had noticed
again that steel-like glitter in his eyes.

“My dear,” she said to Editha, “I have not yet asked you where you are
stopping?”

“At the Grand Union.”

“That is capital, for we have all secured rooms there also, and I hope
we shall see much of each other.”

“I hope so, too,” Editha said, heartily, and thinking how all her life
she had longed for just such a friend as she thought madam would be.

“How long do you remain?” she asked.

“I am sure I cannot tell. As long as papa desires, I suppose, as I make
my plans conform to his as much as possible,” and Editha cast an anxious
glance at Mr. Dalton, whose strange manner she had remarked; and was
somewhat troubled by it. He was sustaining rather a forced conversation
with Mr. Gustave Sylvester, but his manner was nervous and his brow
gloomy and lowering.

“You are looking better than when I saw you at Newport,” madam said,
with an admiring glance at her beautiful companion.

“Yes, I think my health is improving,” Editha answered; but she sighed
as she said it, and a look of pain crossed her face.

Speaking of her ill-health always reminded her of its cause, and sent
her thoughts flying over the sea to Earle.

The sigh touched madam, for she divined its cause; and, drawing the fair
girl a little closer within her encircling arm, she laid her lips
against her ear and tenderly whispered:

“We must never forget, dear, no matter how dark our lot, that One has
said, ‘Thy strength is sufficient for thee.’”

Editha started, and her lip quivered a trifle.

“Do you think it is possible to realize that under all circumstances?”
she asked, a slight tremulousness in her tone, notwithstanding her
effort at self-control.

Madam drew her gently one side, and began walking slowly around the
fountain, in order to be beyond the hearing of the others.

“In the first moments of our blind, unreasoning grief, perhaps not,” she
answered, with grave sweetness. “I have known, dear child, what it is—

           ‘To wander on without a ray of hope,
             To find no respite even in our sleep,
           Life’s sun extinguished, in the dark to grope,
             And hopeless through the weary world to creep.’

That is the way life seemed to me once, but in time I came to realize
that in this world of weary toil and waiting there must be some
burden-bearers, and God meant me to be one of them.”

“But all burdens are not heavy alike,” murmured Editha.

“No, dear; but if ‘Our Father’ sends them, we may be very sure that it
is right for us to bear them; and Frances Anne Kemble tells us:

              ‘A sacred burden is this life ye bear,
              Look on it—lift it, bear it patiently,
              Stand up and walk beneath it steadfastly,
              Fail not for sorrow, falter not for sin,
              But onward, upward, till the goal ye win.’”

“Those are brave, cheering words. If I could but have some kind
comforter like you all the time, I could bear it better,” Editha said,
with fast-dropping tears, and realizing more than she had ever done
before how utterly alone she was in the world.

“My dear, you forget the great Divine Comforter. Haven’t you yet learned
to trust Him?” madam asked, with great tenderness.

“You—oh, yes; at least I _thought_ I had until this last trouble came
upon me, which has made it seem almost as if ‘a blank despair like the
shadow of a starless night was thrown over the world in which I moved
alone.’ Many and many a time I have felt as if I must lie down like a
weary child and weep out the life of sorrow which I have borne, and
which I still must bear until the end,” the young girl said, with almost
passionate earnestness.

“My poor child, how my heart grieves for you. Mr. Tressalia has told me
something of your trouble, and I think I never knew of anything quite so
sad before; but, believe me, some good must come out of it. You are
young, and this sad lesson patiently learned will give you strength of
character for the future, whatever it may be. You know we are told that
out of sorrow we come forth purified if we bear it rightly.”

“Then I fear I shall never become purified,” Editha answered, bitterly.
“I _cannot_ bear it rightly. I am not patient. My heart is constantly
rebelling against the unjustness, as it seems to me, of it all. Why did
not some instinct warn me that Earle was my brother before I had learned
to love him so well?” she concluded, wildly.

“Hush, dear,” madam said, with gentle reproof, but her fine face was
very grave and troubled. “We cannot understand the _why_ of a great many
things; we know that they _are_, and we have no right to question the
wisdom of anything that is beyond our comprehension; but I am greatly
interested in this sorrow of yours and the young Marquis of Wycliffe. I
know it will do you good to unburden your heart, and if you can trust me
who am almost a stranger to you, tell me more about it.”

“You do not seem like a stranger to me. You are more like a dear,
long-tried friend, and I can never tell you how comforting your kind
sympathy is to me,” Editha returned, with eyes full of tears.

Madam’s only reply was a closer clasp around the slender waist, and the
young girl continued:

“When we met you that day in Redwood Library at Newport, and your hand
closed over mine with such a strong yet fond clasp, and you looked into
my eyes in that earnest, tender way you have, I could have wound my arms
about your neck and wept out my grief upon your bosom even then.”

Madam’s eyes were full of tears now, but Editha did not see them, and
went on:

“I will gladly tell you all about my sad trouble, only I would not like
to weary you.”

“It will not weary me, dear.”

And so Editha, won more and more by this beautiful woman’s sweetness and
gentleness, poured into her sympathizing ear all her story, beginning
with the time Earle had come a poor boy into her uncle’s employ, and
ending with their final separation when they were told that they were
both children of one father.

“It is a very strange, sad history,” madam said, when she had finished;
“but the facts of the case are so very evident that there can be no way
of disputing them; and this uncle of yours, what a noble man he was.”

“Yes; he was mamma’s brother, and a dear, dear uncle. Oh! if he could
but have lived,” Editha sighed.

“My dear, he could not have prevented this.”

“No; but he would have comforted me as no other could have done.”

“You were every fond of him, then?”

“Yes; I believe I loved him better than any one in the world. That does
not seem just right to say, perhaps, when papa and mamma were living,
but he was always so sympathizing and tender with me. He would always
listen patiently and with interest to all my little trials, and
sympathize with me when everybody else laughed at them as trifles.”

“Had he no family of his own?”

“No; he was what we call an old bachelor,” Editha replied, with a little
smile; “and he was the dearest old bachelor that ever lived. I used to
think sometimes that he must have loved some one long ago, for there
were times when he was very sad. But he never seemed to like the ladies
very well; he would never go into company if he could help it, and,
whenever I said anything to him about it, he used to tell me, in a
laughing way, that he was waiting to be my escort, so as to frighten
away all unworthy suitors.”

“He did not like the society of ladies, you say?”

“No; he was always coldly polite to them, but would never show them any
attention.”

“He liked _one_ well enough, it seems, to leave her all his fortune,”
madam said, with an arch look into the beautiful face at her side.

“Yes; he gave me all he had, excepting the ten thousand that Earle was
to have. I was always his ‘pet,’ his ‘ray of sunshine,’ his ‘happiness,’
but I would rather have my dear, kind uncle back than all the fortunes
in the world,” she said sadly.

“He was your mother’s brother, you say, dear—what was his name?” asked
madam, who had been very deeply interested in all she had heard.

“It is a name that he was always very proud of—Ri——”

“Editha!” suddenly called Mr. Dalton from behind them. “I have been
chasing you around for the last half-hour. Do you know what time it is?”

“No, papa.”

“It is after one, and time that delicate people were at rest.”

“Very well; I am ready to go now, if you wish,” she said, quietly.

Mr. Tressalia and Mr. Sylvester now joined them, and the former made
some proposal to madam regarding an excursion for the morrow.

While they were discussing the question Mr. Dalton tried to hurry Editha
away, regardless of the propriety of the thing.

“I must bid them good-night, papa,” she said, coldly, and wilfully
standing her ground, while she wondered at his extreme haste.

“Be quick about it, then, for I am dused tired,” he said, impatiently.

She then said good-night to them in a general way, and turned to
accompany her father, not very well pleased to be treated so like a
child.

“My dear,” called madam, with an anxious look in her eye, as she saw how
pale and weary Editha was looking, “get all the rest you can, and then
come to me as soon as you have breakfasted to-morrow, for I have
something very particular to say to you. My room is No. 105.”

Editha promised, while Sumner Dalton ground his teeth with inward rage
at this familiar request.

“What you can see in _her_ to admire is more than I can imagine,” he
remarked, curtly, on their way out of the park.

“Why, papa, where are your eyes? I think she is the most charming woman
I ever met,” Editha replied, with unwise enthusiasm.

“I prefer you should not be quite so free with an entire stranger—it is
not proper,” he growled.

She set her little chin, and her eyes flashed with a light which told
that she considered herself old enough and capable of judging for
herself upon such matters.

“Have you enjoyed the evening?” she asked, avoiding any reply to his
remark.

“Well enough until _they_ came,” was the curt retort.

“I am sorry if you do not like my new friends, papa, but I thought you
used to admire Mr. Tressalia,” Editha returned, a little spirit of
mischief prompting the last half of her remark.

“He is well enough, only, according to my way of looking at things, it
does not seem just the thing for him to be hanging around you all the
time and running after you as if you belonged to him,” Mr. Dalton said,
crossly.

He was evidently entirely out of sorts, and Editha knew it would be
better to let the matter drop, but she could not resist one more little
shaft.

“I thought you liked me to receive Mr. Tressalia’s attentions,” she
said, innocently.

“So I did once, but circumstances alter cases sometimes; and—we will not
discuss Mr. Tressalia further, if you please.”

He was undeniably cross, and she was glad to escape to her room as soon
as they reached the hotel, while she was inwardly rejoicing at the
prospect of having Madam Sylvester’s companionship for awhile at least.

Madam stood and watched her as she left them and moved away with her
father.

Her face was very sad and her voice trembled slightly as, turning to her
brother, she asked:

“Of whom does she remind you, Gustave?”

“Of no one in particular,” he returned, indifferently.

“Not of——” and she bent forward and whispered the rest of the sentence
in his ear.

“No, not if my memory serves me right,” he said, shaking his head; “and
yet,” he added, “there _may_ be an expression about the eyes that is
familiar. I had not thought of it before.”

“Gustave, her name is Editha,” madam said, in a low voice, her face very
pale, and with an eager look into her brother’s face.

“There are doubtless a thousand Edithas in the world; do not allow
yourself to become imaginative at this late day, Estelle,” he returned;
and, dropping the matter there, madam signified her readiness to return
to the hotel also.




                               CHAPTER XL
                           ADIEU TO SARATOGA


Editha had told her maid that she need not sit up for her, as it would
doubtless be very late when she returned from the park; but she almost
regretted that she had done so, for, on reaching her room, and with the
false strength which excitement gives gone, she found herself very weak
and weary.

She sank listlessly into a chair and began removing her ornaments, and
while thus engaged there came a knock upon her door.

Almost simultaneously it was opened, for she had not locked it, and Mr.
Dalton thrust in his head.

“Where is Annie?” he asked.

“In bed, papa. I told her she need not wait for me. Do you want anything
very particularly?”

“I want to see you,” he replied, coming in and shutting the door. “I am
sorry it is so late. I wish we had come home earlier. I have had bad
news. I have important business, that calls me home immediately,” he
concluded, speaking disconnectedly and excitedly.

“Home?” exclaimed Editha, greatly surprised, and feeling deeply
disappointed, for, of course, she knew he would expect her to go with
him. Besides, she could not bear the thought of leaving so soon after
Madam Sylvester’s arrival.

“Yes; we must start by six to-morrow morning. Can you be ready?”

“So soon?” she said, with a weary sigh.

“Yes; I must go immediately. If there was a train in an hour, and we
could get ready, I would take it,” he answered, excitedly.

“Why, papa, what can possibly have happened to recall you so suddenly?”

“You would not understand if I should tell you,” he said, uneasily; “it
is private business of my own. Will you be ready?”

“It is very little time,” Editha replied, wearily. “Would it not do to
wait a day or two longer?”

“No, not an hour longer than it will take to pack our trunks and catch a
train,” Mr. Dalton said, with a frown.

He was beginning to be very angry to be thus opposed.

“I _wish_ this had not happened just now, and _they_ have only arrived
to-night,” Editha murmured, reflectively.

Mr. Dalton scowled angrily, and muttered something about the selfishness
of women generally.

Editha sat thinking for a few moments, and then asked:

“Could you not go home without me, papa, if this business is so very
urgent? I would really like to remain at the Springs a little longer,
and I know that Madam Sylvester would gladly act as my chaperon until
you can return.”

It was all that Mr. Dalton could do to suppress an oath at this request.

“No, no,” he said, quickly. “I am nearly sick with all this worry and
fuss, and I cannot spare you.”

He did indeed look worried over something, and his face was pale, his
eyes very bright and restless; but Editha could not think it necessary
that she should be hurried off in such an unheard-of manner, just for a
matter of business.

“If you must go, and think you cannot get along without me, suppose you
go on an early train, and I will follow with Annie later?” she said. “A
few hours cannot make much difference to you, and I really think it
would be uncivil to hurry away so, and without even a word of farewell
to our friends. Besides, I promised I would see Madam Sylvester in the
morning.”

“I should think you were fairly bewitched with this French madam. I will
not have it. You must return with me; and, if report speaks the truth,
your wonderful friend is no fit companion for _my_ daughter,” Mr. Dalton
cried, with angry hauteur.

“Then you knew her before to-night. I thought so from your manner.
_What_ do you know about her?” Editha asked, greatly surprised.

“I cannot say that I had that honor,” her father returned,
sarcastically. “I never spoke with her until to-night, and I cannot say
that I wish to extend the acquaintance.”

“She is a very lovely, as well as a good, pure woman,” Editha asserted,
with flushing cheeks, and indignant with him for speaking so slightingly
of her new friend. “Mr. Tressalia,” she added, “knows all about her, and
he says that, excepting for a mistake or two during the early part of
her life, her character is above suspicion.”

“A mistake or two in one’s early life, as you express it, often ruins
one for all time,” remarked Mr. Dalton, dryly.

Having proved the truth of that axiom to a certain extent, he knew
whereof he spoke.

“Then you would not be willing for me to remain with her under any
circumstances?” Editha asked, with a searching look into his face.

“Certainly not; and I desire you to hold no further communication with
her.”

“You will have to give me some good and sufficient reason for your wish
before I shall feel called upon to comply with it,” she returned,
firmly, and calmly meeting his eye.

“I should think that by this time you had seen the folly of defying me,”
he said, with a fierceness that was startling. “But enough of this. I
suppose you consent to return with me?”

“Yes, rather than have any more words about it; but I am very much
disappointed,” she returned, with a sigh, and beginning to think that
Mr. Dalton was jealous of her sudden liking for Madam Sylvester, and
that was why he was hurrying her away so.

“And please do not trouble yourself to inform Mr. Tressalia _or any one
else_ concerning our plans. I do not care to have my steps dogged again
as they have been hither, and for which it seems I have you to thank,”
her father said, fretfully.

Editha glanced at him in a puzzled way; she could not understand him
to-night.

That he was strangely excited over something she could see, for he was
very pale, his eyes glowed fiercely, and he was very nervous and
irritable, and she did not really believe his story regarding urgent
business calling him home.

Somehow she became possessed with the idea that madam was in some way
connected with this inexplicable move, but how or why she could not
imagine.

“You had better call Annie, and I will help you pack your trunks, so
that there will be nothing to do in the morning,” Mr. Dalton said,
rising and beginning to gather up some articles that lay on the table.

He was an expert at packing, and Editha, too utterly wearied out to feel
equal to any effort, was glad to avail herself of this offer.

She went to call Annie, wondering if all her life-long she would have to
be subject to his caprices in this way, and feeling more sad than she
could express.

In less than an hour, under the nimble and experienced fingers of Mr.
Dalton and Annie, every article was packed, the trunks strapped, and
labeled, and ready for the porter to take down in the morning.

Then the weary girl crept into bed, feeling more friendless and alone
than ever before, and wept herself to sleep.

She had been forbidden to communicate with Mr. Tressalia regarding their
departure, and she did not know whether she should ever meet him again,
and it seemed such a shabby and unkind way to treat a friend who had
sacrificed so much for her. She had been forbidden to hold any further
communication with Madam Sylvester, for whom she was beginning to feel a
strong affection, and all this by a man selfish and domineering, and
determined to bend her to his lightest will.

She knew that she could refuse point-blank to obey him if she chose—she
could go her own way and he his; but if she did this she would cut
herself loose from every hold upon the old life, and from every natural
tie—she would not have a friend left in the world, while Mr. Dalton
would also be left alone.

Every day she was conscious that her affection for him waned more and
more, but for her mother’s sake she could not quite bear the thought of
leaving him without any restraining influences; besides, if she should
pursue any such course, she would take away all his means of support,
for his ten thousand was slipping through his fingers like water.

She never stopped to reason that this might be the very best thing she
could do—that if he stood in a little wholesome fear of losing his
present share of her handsome income, he would not be likely to domineer
over her quite to such an extent. But the future looked darker than ever
to her, and her heart was very sad and depressed.

At five o’clock the next morning Mr. Dalton came to arouse her and her
maid, and as soon as she was dressed he sent her up a tempting little
breakfast, with a word to take plenty of time and eat all she could.

This he had accomplished by heavily feeing one of the waiters the night
before, and the steaming cup of rich chocolate, the broiled chicken done
to a turn, the eggs and delicate toast, really formed an appetizing
meal.

With all his selfishness and the determination to bend Editha to his own
will, Mr. Dalton always liked to have her fare well, as well as dress
richly and becomingly.

At six o’clock the early train steamed out of the Saratoga depot, and
Editha could not refrain from dropping a few more tears behind her vail
as a sad farewell to the friends whom she feared she should never meet
again.

Mr. Dalton eyed her closely, but was too well pleased to have got her
away so successfully to trouble her with any more words about the
matter.

When they arrived in their own city, some time during the afternoon, Mr.
Dalton proposed that they go directly to some hotel, since their own
house was shut up, and no word had been sent to the servants to prepare
for their coming.

Editha assented, and he engaged some cheerful, handsome rooms in a
first-class house for them both.

A week went by, and she thought it strange he should say no more about
going home; and one day she ventured to suggest their return.

“I believe I like it here better,” he said, glancing around the
beautiful room.

“Better than our own spacious home?” Editha cried, astonished.

She knew that their elegant house on —th street had always been the
pride of his heart, and the one thing he mourned about at Newport or
anywhere else was the want of the comforts and conveniences of their
elegantly appointed residence.

After his confession to Earle that he was a ruined man, his house and
furniture mortgaged, and the mortgage liable to be foreclosed any day,
she had generously proposed clearing it off, and it was now free from
debt.

“Yes,” he replied to her surprised remark; “the house seems so large and
lonely with only two people in it besides the servants, and really I
have never been so comfortable at any hotel before.”

“I know; but one has so much more freedom in one’s own home,” Editha
said, disappointed.

Hotel life was always obnoxious to her, and her father knew it, too. But
her preferences were of minor importance to him.

“Yes,” he said; “but there is a great deal of care in providing for a
family, and I shall get rid of all that if we board. I propose that we
rent the house for awhile; it will give us a snug little sum, and it
will be more economical to live this way.”

Editha opened her eyes wide at this new departure. She had never heard
her father preach economy before; but she saw at once where the
advantage was coming, and in her heart she grew very indignant toward
him.

If he rented the house it would indeed bring _him_ a handsome sum, which
he would pocket, while the hotel bill would doubtless come out of her
income; but though she read him correctly, in a measure, she did not
give him credit for the deep scheme he had in mind.

He thought that Mr. Tressalia, on finding that they had again taken
French leave, would try to find them, and follow them as he had done
before; and if he, with madam and her brother, should take a notion to
seek them there in the city, and should find their house either closed
or rented, they would come to the conclusion that they were still absent
at some summer resort, and go away again. Thus he would escape them
entirely.

But the matter ended, as all such matters ended, in Editha’s yielding
assent.

                  *       *       *       *       *

Some things in Editha’s story had moved Madam Sylvester deeply, and she
passed a sleepless night after her return to the hotel on the night of
the garden-party.

She lay reviewing all the ground, recalling little items which at the
time possessed no significance to her, but which now impressed her
powerfully; she thought of the strange attraction she felt toward the
young girl, and revolved many other things of which only she and her
brother knew anything about, until it seemed as if she could not wait
for morning to come.

As soon as Mr. Tressalia made his appearance she sought him and asked
him a few questions that she had intended asking Editha the night
before, but had not had an opportunity, and the effect which his answers
produced upon her startled him not a little.

She lost her self-possession entirely, trembled, and grew frightfully
pale, while the tears fairly rained over her fine face as, grasping both
his hands in hers, she exclaimed:

“My friend Paul, you have proved yourself a good _genie_ more than once;
and now shall I tell you something you will like to know?”

Of course he was very curious about the matter; but the nature of the
secret cannot be disclosed just here, although he deemed it of so much
importance that he felt justified in seeking Mr. Dalton at once, to
demand an explanation regarding some things that had occurred during his
early life.

He came back to madam with the startling intelligence that Mr. Dalton
and his party had left on the early train.

“Gone?” almost shrieked Madam Sylvester. “He knew it—he knew what I have
told you. I remember how he appeared last night when he met me, and now
he has fled to escape me.”

Both Paul and Mr. Gustave Sylvester were on their mettle now, and
proceeded to ascertain whither Mr. Dalton had gone.

The waiter who had served them, and the porter who had assisted in
removing their trunks, were interviewed and feed, but neither had
noticed the labels on the departing visitors’ baggage, and so their
destination was a matter of doubt.

But that afternoon madam’s party also bade adieu to Saratoga, their
object being to ferret out the hiding-place of Sumner Dalton, and compel
him to do an act of justice long delayed.




                              CHAPTER XLI
                        TOM DRAKE’S BEWILDERMENT


We have left Earle for a long time in his magnificent loneliness at
Wycliffe.

But magnificent loneliness it indeed was, for in his great house there
was not a soul to whom he could go for either sympathy or cheer.

He was surrounded on every hand by everything that almost unlimited
wealth could buy; he possessed one of the finest estates in England, and
farms and forests in France, which, as yet, he had never seen; he
occupied a position second to none save royalty; he had the finest
horses and carriages in the county; cattle and hounds of choicest breed;
he had all this, and yet he was heart-sick with a bitterness that seemed
unbearable.

He could interest himself in nothing—he took pleasure in nothing—all his
fair domains and riches were like a mockery to him; he never stood in
the oriel window that looked out from the center of the main building at
Wycliffe, and viewed the broad expanse spread out before him, and
beautiful as Eden’s fair gardens, without feeling that he was cursed
worse even than Adam and Eve were cursed when driven from Paradise.

His beautiful gardens, shining streams stocked with finest trout, broad
fields of waving golden grain, the noble park with its grand old trees,
God’s most glorious handiwork, all mocked him with their loveliness.

It was as if they said to him, “You can have all this—you can revel in
everything that serves to make the world bright and beautiful; you can
buy and sell, and get gain, add to your stores, and get fame and honor,
but after all is told, you must ever carry a desolate heart in your
bosom; you can never possess the one jewel worth sevenfold more than all
you possess; you can never behold the fair face, dearer than all the
world, beaming upon you in your home as you go and come on the round of
daily duties.”

What did it amount to?—of what value was it all to him if he could not
share it with the only woman whom he could ever love?

He forced himself day after day to go over the estate to see that
everything was in order, and that his commands were properly obeyed; but
there was no heart in anything that he did, while the servants and
workmen all wondered to see him so sad and dispirited.

The interior of Wycliffe was in keeping with the surroundings.

Entering the wide and lofty hall, with its carpetings of velvet, its
panelings of polished oak, its rich furnishings, its statuary and
pictures, one gained something of an idea of the luxury awaiting beyond.

Upon one side of this hall was a suite of parlors—three in number.

The first and third were large lofty rooms and furnished alike. The
ceilings were paneled and painted in the most exquisite designs. The
walls were delicately tinted, with rosewood dados, in which were set
panels of variegated marble beautifully carved. The carpets were of a
bright and graceful pattern, and of richest texture, the hangings of
crimson plush, and the furniture, no two pieces of which were alike, was
upholstered to match.

The middle room was larger than the other two, and even more dazzling in
its furnishings, and was separated from the others by arches, supported
by graceful marble columns richly carved. The walls were delicately
tinted, the same as in the other rooms, but the dados were of white
Italian marble. The ceiling was painted with daisies and buttercups,
arranged in most tasteful design; the carpet was a marvel of richness
and delicate beauty—a white ground dotted with golden heads of wheat;
the curtains were of golden satin festooned with lace; the furniture, of
different kinds of precious wood, inlaid with gold and pearl, was
cushioned with white satin brocaded with golden coreopsis; the
lambrequins, which were of velvet embroidered with daisies, gave a
superb effect to the whole.

Every accessory in the way of mirrors, etageres, pictures, statuary,
etc., was perfect, and the elegance of the whole suite it would be
difficult to exceed.

On the opposite side of the hall were the library, sitting-rooms, and
dining-room, while leading from the latter was a very fine conservatory.

Above, there were suites of rooms for the family and guests, and all in
keeping with the elegance of those below; and if wealth and the good
things it brings could possibly gladden the heart of man, Earle Wayne,
Marquis of Wycliffe, ought to be a very happy one.

There is an old saying, “Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown,” and
we might add, heavy is the heart whose all lies in a weighty purse, for
in all England it would not have been possible to find a more wretched
being than Earle Wayne.

And so the time went by until there came a strange break in the monotony
of his life—the adventure of which Mr. Tressalia had told Editha.

He had been told by one of the servants, during the day before, that a
suspicious-looking character was prowling about the place; but he did
not pay much attention to the matter, and when night came he retired as
usual, and went to sleep without a thought of danger.

About two in the morning he had been awakened by the sound of muffled
footsteps in his dressing-room. The next moment he saw the flash of a
dark lantern, and knew there was mischief brewing.

As before related, it was but the work of a second for him to reach out
and grasp his revolver, which, remembering the robbery at Mr. Dalton’s,
he always kept by him ready for use.

When the man passed between his bed and the window, he knew that was his
best chance, and fired.

The intruder dropped instantly, with a groan, and his lantern went out
as it fell to the floor.

Earle was out of bed and had struck a light in less time that it takes
to tell it.

“Who are you?” he demanded, stooping over his fallen foe.

Then he started back with an exclamation of surprise, as he immediately
recognized the wretch in whose power he had found Editha, and who had so
cleverly escaped from him that morning in the hotel.

It was indeed Tom Drake, and his career as a midnight robber was ended
for all time.

He appeared to be suffering terribly, and, upon examination, Earle found
that the ball had entered the leg just below the thigh, and, as he could
not move it, had probably shattered the bone. Now that his enemy was
fallen, Earle’s sympathies were at once aroused. Suffering in any form
always touched his heart.

“Well, my man,” he said, kindly, as he bent over him, “what am I going
to do for you, I wonder?”

“I guess you’ve done for me already,” was the rough response,
accompanied by a fearful oath and a groan as he recognized his captor.

“I’m very sorry to cause you suffering, but ‘self-preservation is the
first law of nature,’ you know,” Earle answered, as he stepped quickly
to the bell-cord and gave it a violent pull.

In less than five minutes a servant appeared in answer to the summons.

“Here, Robert,” Earle said, as composedly as if nothing had happened; “I
have invited a stranger to stop with me for a little while. Lend a hand,
and we will take him across the hall to the south suite; then I want you
to go for Dr. Sargeant as quickly as possible.”

The burglar was borne to the rooms mentioned, but carefully as he was
handled, he fainted during the removal, and was a long time regaining
consciousness afterward.

The doctor arrived in about three-quarters of an hour, and, after much
difficulty and probing, succeeded in extracting the ball. The ugly wound
was then dressed, and the patient made as comfortable as possible.

As the physician was about departing, Earle sought him privately.

“If you please,” he said, “I would like nothing said about this affair.
I do not wish to create any sensation, and the country will be alive
with excitement if the events of to-night become known.”

“But, my lord, the man ought to be given up to justice,” said the
physician, with a frown.

“No one knows better than yourself that he is no fit subject for justice
now, nor will he be for a good while to come.”

“That is so. He’ll have a hard time of it before he gets through. The
bone is shattered. There will be fever, and a great deal of pain; while
if mortification sets in, he’ll get justice in another world.”

“Then please oblige me by keeping the matter quiet, and do the best you
can for him at my expense.”

“Surely you don’t mean to keep the fellow here?” exclaimed the doctor,
in amazement.

“Certainly. What did you suppose I would do with him?” Earle asked
quietly.

“Send him to the alms-house or hospital. It belongs to the authorities
to take care of such scamps.”

“If a friend of yours had been injured in this way, would you advocate
sending him to the hospital? Would the excitement and fatigue of the
removal be beneficial?” Earle asked pointedly.

“No; inflammation would probably follow, and the patient would doubtless
die,” the physician coolly admitted.

“That is the way I reasoned the question; therefore I hold myself, in a
measure, responsible for this man’s life,” was the grave reply.

“The earth would be well rid of a villain,” answered the doctor,
gruffly. “It was only the luck of the thing that prevented your being
where he is now, or perhaps a corpse.”

“Not ‘luck,’ my friend, but the hand of Providence,” Earle interposed,
with his rare smile. “Your judgment and my conscience tell me that the
man will die unless he has the very best of care. He must be kept quiet,
and free from anxiety; so I have decided that he shall remain here until
he recovers.”

“But who will take care of him?” asked the physician, his gruffness all
gone, and a look that was not disapprobation in his eye.

“I will see that he lacks for no care or attention; as a wounded and
suffering man, he will be the same to me as a friend or guest until he
gets well; and as such I shall expect you will also exercise your utmost
skill, and do the very best you can for him,” Earle said, quietly.

“Well, well, well!” muttered the astonished disciple of Esculapius; and
then he stood regarding his companion for a moment, with raised
eyebrows, and his mouth puckered into the smallest possible compass.

“Unless you object to treating such a patient,” Earle added, with a
little hauteur.

“No, no, no; bless you, no!” Dr. Sargeant returned quickly. “I will do
my very best for the poor wretch; you are right—it would be sacrificing
his life to have him removed, and you may rely upon my discretion.”

And the noted doctor went away somewhat mystified as to what manner of
man the young marquis might be, that he was willing to turn his
magnificent home into a hospital for thieves and robbers.

Earle went back to his charge, whom he found restless, feverish and
burning with intolerable thirst.

He swore savagely as Earle made his appearance, and defiantly demanded
what he was going to do with him.

“Take care of you until you get on your legs again,” was the calm reply,
as he held some pleasant, cooling drink to the man’s parched lips.

He drank eagerly, and then fell back among the soft pillows with a
groan.

“Bosh! that’s a likely story!” he returned, after a minute, with an
angry flash of his eyes; “out with it, and don’t keep me in suspense;
I’ve enough to bear with this pain.”

“So you have, poor fellow!” Earle answered, kindly; “and it is just as I
have told you—you are to stay here and be nursed until you get well.”

“What! stay here?” and the man’s eyes wandered around the luxurious
apartment in a look of amazement.

“Yes, in this very room. Don’t you know that you cannot bear to be
removed?”

“I don’t feel much like it, that’s a fact,” he said, suppressing another
groan; “but”—with a keen look into the kind face above him—“what right
have _you_ to say it?”

“The right of ownership—I am master here.”

“_You!_”

“Yes; you recognize me, then?”

“Of course I do; and you knew me instanter, which isn’t strange,
considering one isn’t likely to forget a phiz like mine; but—but——”

“But you had no idea that you were breaking into _my_ house when you
came here last night,” interrupted Earle.

“No; I’ll be —— if I did!” was the irreverent but energetic reply.

“There has been a change in my circumstances of late.”

“I should think so! Then _you_ are the Marquis of Wycliffe?”

“Yes. What did you expect to find here in the way of plunder?”

“I may as well own up, I suppose, since I’m where I can’t help myself,”
the man replied, recklessly. “I was after the family jewels, which I was
told were kept here.”

“They are not here. I had them deposited in the treasure vault more than
a month ago. There was only a little money in my safe, for I had paid
off my help only yesterday; so you see, my friend, you have had your sin
and risked your life for nothing,” Earle said, gravely.

Tom Drake swore savagely again at this information.

“Do not be profane—indeed I must request you to drop that sort of talk
while you are here,” Earle said, with decision.

“And you really don’t mean to send me to the hospital?”

“No, indeed. I do not need to tell you that you have a long, hard job
before you from the wound my ball gave you, and that it will be a good
while before you will get about again.”

Earle thought he might as well talk of things just as they were. Tom
Drake nodded assent, a look of grim endurance on his ugly face.

“And,” continued Earle, “unless you have good care—the very best care—it
is doubtful whether you ever have the use of your leg again.”

“And what should that matter to _you_?” was the gruff query, accompanied
by a suspicious glance.

“It matters this to me: One whom I profess to serve has bidden me to
care for the sick and needy,” Earle said, gently.

“Humph! that’s all cant. You’ll watch me as a cat does a mouse, and just
as soon as I begin to spruce up a little, you’ll hand me over to her
majesty’s minions, and I shall have a nice little ornament attached to
my leg, eh?”

He tried to put a bold front on, but it was evident that he experienced
considerable anxiety regarding his future.

“There will be time enough to talk of that matter by and by,” Earle
answered; indeed, he had not given a thought to the subject, and had no
idea what course he should pursue.

“Now I have to give you this quieting powder,” he added, taking up one
from the table, “and the doctor wishes you to get all the rest and sleep
you can before the inflammation increases.”

He mixed the powder in some kind of tempting jelly, the man watching him
curiously all the time.

“Who is going to take care of me?” he asked, after he had swallowed it
and taken a cooling draught.

“I shall take care of you for the present.”

“You!” with another curious look. “I suppose you’ve plenty of servants?”

“Yes.”

“They would do to look after a chap like me; and”—speaking more humbly
than he had yet done—“this is too fine a room to upset on my account.”

This was encouraging; it showed that the wretch had a little feeling and
regret for the trouble he was giving.

Earle bent nearer and said, in a friendly tone:

“I shall not trust you to the care of servants until the doctor
pronounces your wound to be mending. If you should be neglected ever so
little, there is no telling what the result might be. As for the room,
you need give yourself no uneasiness about it; you are to have just as
much attention as if you were my friend or my brother. Now try to forget
that you have been my enemy, as I shall; for as you are situated now, I
feel only sympathy for you. You must not talk any more, but try to get
some rest.”

Earle smoothed the tumbled bed-clothes, changed the wet cloth upon the
sufferer’s burning head, drew down the curtains to shade the light from
his eyes, and was about to seat himself at a distance and leave him to
sleep, when his voice again arrested him.

“Say!”

“Well?” he asked, again coming to his side to see if he wished anything.

The man hesitated a minute while he searched his face keenly, and then
burst forth:

“I am _cussed_ if I can make out what kind of a chap you are, anyhow!”

Earle smiled slightly at his evident perplexity, and the invalid
continued:

“First, you hit a fellow a swinger on the back of the head that knocks
the life out of him, and makes one think that the fury of seven Jupiters
is concentrated in you; next, you shoot him with a revolver, and then
turn around and nurse him as tender as a woman—I can’t make it out.”

“I did give you a heavy blow that night in the hotel, I admit; the case
was desperate, and I knew I must not fail to lay you out the first time.
If you had not escaped, I should have given you up to the authorities,
and you would doubtless have been serving out your sentence now, instead
of lying here. But you are wounded and suffering, you will probably, be
sick a long time, and however much I may think you deserve punishment
for your past crimes, your condition appeals to my humanity. As a
sufferer, you are, instead of an enemy and a robber, my neighbor, my
friend, and as such I shall treat you while you lie here,” Earle
explained, and there was no mistaking the friendliness of his tones.

“Your neighbor! your friend!” Tom Drake repeated, in low, suppressed
tones, and feeling almost as if he had got into a new world.

“Yes, just that; and now, to ease your mind and make you trust me, I
will tell you that no one save the doctor, myself, and my servants, know
what transpired last night, and no one else will know of the affair
while you are sick here. Now go to sleep, if you can.”

Earle moved away without giving him a chance to reply, the man watching
his retreating figure in stupid amazement.




                              CHAPTER XLII
                           TOM DRAKE’S TRUST


Tom Drake did have a hard time, as the physician predicted and Earle
feared.

He paid dearly for his one night’s adventure within the walls of
Wycliffe; and yet, perchance, the end will prove it to have been a
“blessing in disguise.”

For three weeks he raved in the wildest delirium of fever, unconscious
alike of his own condition, the care he was receiving, or the trouble
and weariness he caused, and it was three weeks longer before the
skilful physician pronounced him out of danger, or would give any hope
that the wounded limb could be saved.

“Save it if you can, doctor; the poor fellow has had a rough time of it,
and I should dislike to send him away from here a cripple,” Earle had
pleaded, when the doctor spoke of amputation.

“He will be a cripple any way; so much of the bone is diseased and will
have to come out, that the leg will always be weak, and he will be lame,
even if we save it. But for your sake I will do my best, though it is
more than the wretch deserves,” grumbled the physician.

He had not much faith or patience in nursing the “miserable wretch,” as
he called him.

“Like enough he will turn round and cut your throat, some fine day, when
he gets well. Such people have no feeling, no gratitude; they are like
the brutes and have no souls, and should be treated accordingly.”

“‘Inasmuch as you have done it unto one of the least of these,’” Earle
gravely repeated once, after one of the doctor’s outbursts.

“Humph! such high-toned philanthropy will doubtless be rewarded in a way
you don’t expect.”

But with all his apparent gruffness and contempt for the kindness Earle
was bestowing upon the unfortunate criminal, the young marquis could see
that he was always very gentle with him, and was satisfied that he was
bestowing the very best treatment that his knowledge and skill could
suggest.

When at last the fever left him he lay weak as a baby, and only able to
be lifted gently in the arms of strong men when he wished to change his
position.

He did not look nearly so repulsive to Earle as he lay there so pale,
and thin, and helpless, and a great pity crept into his heart for this
brother-man whose life had been so steeped in sin and infamy.

He had scarcely left him during those six long weeks when he lay in such
danger, catching what rest he could while his patient slept, and lying
upon a couch near his bed; and Earle himself looked almost as if he had
had a fit of sickness, he was so worn and weary with his watching.

It was six weeks longer before Tom Drake could be dressed and move about
his room, supported by a servant on one side and a crutch on the other.

He had grown more quiet and gentle in his manner during these weeks of
convalescence. After regaining consciousness when his fever turned, his
speech became more chaste, no oath left his lips to offend Earle’s ears,
while now and then some expression of gratitude, rough though it was,
would escape him for the attention and kindness he was receiving.

He became very thoughtful, even sad at times, and then Earle would bring
some interesting book and read to him; but though he listened
attentively, and appeared grateful for the attention, yet he could see
that he did not really enjoy it, and often grew nervous at the
monotonous sound of his voice.

One day he brought in a beautiful chess-table, and, after arranging the
curiously carved men upon it, asked him if he would like to learn the
game.

He was astonished to see his face light up with delight, as he
exclaimed:

“Aha! them are real beauties, and now I can stand it.”

He already knew the game—was even a skilful player and from that time
until he was able to ride out, Earle was never at a loss to know how to
amuse him.

But as he grew stronger, Earle could see that some heavy burden
oppressed him, and when not riding or playing chess, he would sit in
moody silence, his hands folded, his head bent, and a look of deep
trouble on his face, and frequent sighs escaped him.

One day Earle had been reading the newspaper to him—the only thing of
the literary kind in which he manifested any interest. A heavy sigh
interrupted him, and looking up, he found his companion’s eyes fixed
sadly on his face, while apparently he had not heard a word that he had
been reading.

“Well, Tom, are you feeling badly to-day?” Earle asked, laying down his
paper.

“N-o,” he returned, hesitatingly, and with some embarrassment.

Then, with an air of recklessness that Earle had not noticed before
during all his sickness, he asked:

“I say, what kind of a place is Botany Bay?”

Earle started, the question was so entirely unexpected; but he
understood at once now why he had been so sad and absent-minded of late.
He had been thinking of his probable future.

“It is supposed to be rather a desolate kind of place,” he said.

“Folks who are sent there at the expense of the Crown, don’t get rich
very fast, and it is somewhat inconvenient about getting away from there
if one should happen to wish to visit his native land, eh?” Tom Drake
said, with a ghastly attempt to be facetious.

“No,” Earle replied, very gravely, and with a searching glance at his
companion.

“There’s some comfort in knowing a fellow hain’t got to leave many
behind him to grieve over him,” he said, absently, and as if speaking
more to himself than to Earle.

“Where do your friends reside?” he asked.

“All the friend I’ve got in the world, sir, is my old mother, and her I
haven’t seen for many a long year.”

Earle thought there was a suspicious huskiness in his voice as he said
this, and that a tear dropped on his hand as he turned quickly to look
out of the window; but he might have been mistaken, and the man was
still very weak after his long illness, and tears come unbidden at such
a time.

“Your mother! Have you a mother living?”

“Yes, sir, as good a woman as ever drew breath,” Tom said, heartily.

“Who was that woman you had at the hotel in New York?” Earle asked.

“That was one of—the profession. She was nothing to me, and I paid her
well for that job. I—I——”

“Well?” Earle said, encouragingly, as he saw Tom evidently had something
on his mind, and did not know just how to get rid of it.

“I ain’t usually very white-livered nor tender-hearted, sir. I never
thought I was thin-skinned; but—I—I want to tell you that that rascally
business about the young lady has laid heavily on my mind this many a
day. She was a—particular friend o’ yours, weren’t she?”

“Yes,” Earle said, with a heavy sigh.

Tom Drake started at the sound, and shot an anxious glance at him, while
he grew, if possible, paler than he was before.

“I—I hope, sir, no harm came to her from the mesmerizing,” he said, in a
sort of hushed tone.

“No; she is quite well now.”

Tom looked intensely relieved, and went on, speaking with a rough kind
of earnestness and gratitude:

“You’ve been wonderful good to me after it all; you’ve given me the best
you have, and treated me as if I were a gentleman instead of a
gallows-bird. That was a pesky job—that business with the girl. She was
a pretty little thing, but plucky as the—I beg pardon, sir; but she was
the most spirited little woman I ever set eyes on; and many a time it
has given me the shivers, on waking up in the night, to think of her
lying there, growing so pale and weak, dying by inches.”

“It was a cruel thing to do,” Earle said, with a far-away look and a
very pale face.

He, too, often remembered that waxen face, with its great mournful eyes,
in the still hours of the night; but that now was not the saddest of his
troubles.

“You are right, sir,” Tom went on, with a strange mixture of humility
and defiance; “but I had three or four fat jobs on hand just at that
time, and I knew that if John Loker’s confession got abroad, there’d be
no more work for me in the United States. I was going to crack a safe
that very night, and had all my tools about me; so, as soon as you took
the young lady off, I set to work, picked the locks, and we took to our
heels with all the speed we had. You hadn’t made much noise about the
affair, so when madam and I walked out of the private entrance together,
no one suspected us, and we got off scot-free. I knew it wouldn’t be
safe for me to be seen around there after that, so I made for a steamer
that was just ready to start out, and came over here to try my luck,
never dreaming I’d fall into _your_ clutches a second time.”

“Have you been at this kind of thing long?” Earle asked.

“Nigh on to twenty years. I got in with a gang when I was a youngster,
learned all the tricks of the trade, and have lived by my wits and a
burglar’s kit ever since.”

“Have you, as a rule, found it a very _satisfactory_ kind of business?”
his listener asked, pointedly.

Tom Drake flushed a vivid crimson, and for an instant a fierce gleam of
anger shot from his eye; then he burst out vehemently:

“_No, sir; I haven’t._ I’ve always had to hide and sneak about like a
whipped cur. It’s all up with me now, though, and I might as well own to
it first as last, and there’s no comfort in it from beginning to end;
but when a fellow once gets started in it, there don’t seem to be any
place to stop, however bad you may want to. I’d got kind of hardened to
it, though, until—until that job at Dalton’s that _you_ got hauled up
for. I’ve cursed myself times without number for that affair, but I
hadn’t the grit to own up and take my chances; though, if I did put on a
bold front, every hair on my head stood on end when I saw you stand up
so proud and calm, and take the sentence and never squeal.”

Tom was getting excited over the remembrance, and his whole frame shook,
while Earle could see the perspiration that had gathered on his upper
lip.

His eyes were bent upon his hands, which were trembling with
nervousness, or some other emotion, and his voice was not quite steady.

“You’re a gentleman, sir, every inch of you,” he went on, after a few
minutes of awkward silence. “I’ve heard charity preached about no end of
times, and never knew what it meant before. I suppose you won’t believe
it, or think I am capable of feeling it, but I do—I feel mean clear
through, though I never would have owned to it before. Here I’ve been
for three months and more, making a deal of trouble, being waited upon
by your servants as if I was a prince, drinking your wine, and eating
all sorts of nice things that I never thought to taste, while you’ve
tended me until you’re nigh about worn out yourself. I tell you I
feel—mean! There, it’s out—I couldn’t hold it any longer; and if I have
to wear a ball and chain all the rest of my life, I shall feel better to
think I’ve said it; and I shall never forget to my dying day that there
was one man in the world who was willing to do a kindness to his worst
enemy.”

He had assumed a roughness of tone that had been unusual for the last
few weeks, but Earle knew it was done to cover his emotion.

It was evident that he felt every word he uttered, and that the
confession had cost him a great effort, as his nervousness and pallor
testified.

It was apparent also that he expected no mercy, as his reference to
Botany Bay and the ball and chain plainly showed. Earle pitied him
during his long siege of suffering.

He was a man of no small amount of intelligence, and had evidently
received a moderately good education before he began his career of
crime, and if he had started right in life he would, no doubt, have made
a smart man.

Earle had as yet come to no definite decision as to what course he
should pursue regarding him when he should fully recover, and he could
not bear to think of it even now.

He knew that his sentence, if tried and found guilty, would be a very
severe one, and his own sad experience naturally made him incline to the
side of mercy.

“But, Tom, whatever you may have been in the past, I do not consider
that you are my enemy now,” he said, kindly, when he had concluded his
excited speech.

“But I _am_, sir. I have done you the worst wrong a man can do
another—I’ve wronged you in _every_ way—I’m a wretch, and whatever they
do with me, it’ll serve me right, and I’ll never open my lips,” he said,
excitedly.

“Yes, you have wronged me, and I have suffered in your stead the worst
disgrace that a man can suffer. But that is all past now; my innocence
has been established, and no shadow of sin rests on my name—John Loker’s
confession accomplished that.”

“But, sir, it could not give you back those three years of your life
that—that you lost; you——”

“No,” Earle interrupted; “but those three years, long and weary as they
were, were not ‘lost’ by any means, Tom. They taught me a lesson of
patience and trust which, perhaps, I never should have learned in any
other way. It was a hard trial—a _bitter_ trial!” Earle exclaimed, with
a shudder, as something of the horror came back to him; “but”—in a
reverent tone—“I know that nothing which God sends upon us, if it is
rightly borne, can end in harm; nothing but our own sins can do that.”

“Did you feel that way _then_?” Tom asked, regarding the young marquis
with wonder.

“Not at first, perhaps, but it came to me after a little; for, Tom, I
had a good Christian mother.”

“Ay, and so had I,” he replied, with a sigh that ended in what sounded
very like a sob. But Tom was not strong, you know, and consequently more
easily moved.

“She used to teach me that suffering was often blessing in disguise.”

“I never heard that doctrine before, sir,” Tom returned, looking down
upon his emaciated hands, and thinking of his bandaged limb, which was
still very sore.

“I suppose you would not think that the wound I gave you, and the
terrible sickness which has followed, were blessings, would you, Tom?”
Earle asked, with a smile, as he noticed the look and divined his
thought.

“Hardly that, sir, when my reason tells me how it is all to end; but,
sir, I’ll say this much, my own mother couldn’t have been kinder, nor
given me better care; and, for the first time in my life, _I’ve learned
what it is to trust a man_!” he said, earnestly.

“Thank you, Tom,” Earle returned, heartily.

“You’ve no cause, sir. I should have killed you that night if I had
known you were there and awake, and then the world would have lost a
good man and gained another murderer. Perhaps, looking at it in that
way, sir, the wound and the sickness were blessings in disguise, as you
call them,” he concluded, reflectively, and he shivered slightly as he
spoke, as if the thought of crime had acquired a strange horror to him.

“We will not talk of this any more now,” Earle said, fearing the
excitement would be injurious to him. “I am only too glad that your life
was spared and I did not slay you, even in self-defense. I am glad to
know also that I have gained your confidence; and I firmly believe that
if you should ever be free to go forth into the world again, you would
never lift your hand to harm me or mine.”

“Thank you, sir; it is kind of you to say that,” was the humble reply.

“Now I want you to tell me something about your mother. She must be
quite old,” Earle continued, to change the subject.

“Sixty last March, sir, and I haven’t seen her for twenty years, though
I’ve sent her enough to give her a good living all that time. I used
to—to—love my mother,” he concluded, as if rather ashamed to make
confession of a sentiment so tender.

“Used to, Tom?”

“I ain’t fit to own to love for anybody now, sir! and it would break her
heart to know what I’ve been up to all these years.”

“Where does she live?”

“At Farnham, in this county, sir.”

“Here in England! Why, that is only twenty-five or thirty miles from
here!” exclaimed Earle, in surprise.

“Yes, sir; and if I had made a good haul here, I was going down to see
her, and settle something handsome on her,” he frankly confessed, but
his face flushed, nevertheless, at the acknowledgment.

“Wouldn’t you like to see her now?” asked Earle.

“That I would, sir; and I suppose the poor old lady has been worrying
and wondering what’s happened to me, that I did not send my usual letter
and money.”

“Did you send her money regularly?”

Earle began to think there was a little green spot in the man’s heart
after all, and there might be some hope of reclaiming him even yet.

“Once in three months—sometimes more, sometimes less, as my luck was,
but always _something_ as often as that, though it’s six months now
since she’s heard a word from me, poor old lady,” he said, with a sigh.

“Why did you not tell me of this before? Your mother should not be
allowed to want,” Earle said, feeling a deep interest in the lonely
mother.

“What right had I to burden you with my cares? You’ve had more than
enough of me as it is,” Tom replied, flushing more deeply than he had
yet done.

It was evident that he felt his obligation to Earle was no light one.

Earle did not reply, and at that moment the door opened, and a man
entered bearing a large tray, covered with a tempting array of viands
that would have done the heart of an epicure good.

“You must be hungry, Tom, after this long walk, so while you are eating
I will go away, as I have some letters to write,” Earle said, rising.

Tom looked up at him with a troubled air, opened his lips as if to
speak, shut them again resolutely, and then finally said, in a
half-reckless, half-humble way:

“You can take my softness for what it’s worth, sir; I couldn’t help it;
but—I’d have been broken on the wheel before I’d have said as much to
any one else. Tom Drake’s known nothing but hard knocks for the last
twenty years, until a bullet laid him here.”

Earle went out of the room with a very grave face.

“If I was only sure,” he murmured, with a deep-drawn sigh, as he passed
into the library and shut the door.




                             CHAPTER XLIII
                             TRUE NOBILITY


At the end of two hours Earle went back to his charge, with a letter in
his hand.

Tom had been much refreshed by his nice dinner, and had been asleep for
an hour.

But he now lay with a troubled, anxious expression on his face, which
Earle could not fail to notice, even though his lips relaxed into a
faint smile of welcome at his entrance.

He went up to the couch where he was reclining, and said, as he handed
him the letter:

“I would like, if you feel able, to have you direct this letter to your
mother, and after that you can read it, if you like. I have thought best
to write her something of your illness, knowing that she must be very
anxious at not hearing from you for so long. I would gladly have done so
before had you spoken of it.”

“Thank you, sir,” Tom said, in a low voice, as, taking the envelope and
the pen filled with ink that Earle had brought him, he directed the
letter, in rather a trembling hand. Then he unfolded it and read the few
simple words that were written within.

  “DEAR MADAM,” it said, “your son has been quite sick during the past
  three months, and I write this that you may feel no further anxiety
  regarding him. He is improving daily, and will, we hope, soon be well.
  Should you feel able to come to him, you will come directly to
  Wycliffe, where you will be cordially received. Inclosed you will find
  a sum which your son would have sent you before now had he been able
  to write. Very truly,

                                                           EARLE WAYNE.”

A five-pound note had been inclosed within the letter, at the sight of
which Tom Drake’s lips suddenly tightened into a firm line.

He read the letter through, and, when he had finished, it dropped from
his fingers upon the counterpane, and lay there while he turned his face
to the wall, and for some minutes did not speak.

“What did you do that for?” he at last demanded, almost fiercely, but
with lips that trembled in spite of himself.

“To comfort an aged, anxious mother, and give a sick fellow a chance to
see a familiar face. You would surely like to see your mother, Tom?”

“Yes; but it will be a little hard on the old lady when she finds we’ll
have to part again so soon,” he said, with a stony look in his eyes.

“Don’t think of that now,” Earle said, kindly. “Is there anything more
you would like me to add to the letter?”

Tom shook his head, and, picking up the letter and the note, tried to
replace them in the envelope, but his hand shook so that he could not do
it.

Earle gently took them from him, folded and sealed the letter, and went
out, leaving him alone.

A groan burst from the huge chest of the once hardened wretch as the
door closed after him, and burying his head in his pillow, he lay a long
time without moving.

The next morning he seemed very silent and much depressed. It was a fine
day, and Earle took him for a drive in the beautiful park around
Wycliffe.

He did not talk much, but appeared lost in thought, until the horses’
heads were turned toward home; then he astonished Earle by seizing his
hand and bursting out:

“Sir, can you believe a wretch like me has any heart left? I didn’t
think it myself, but you’ve got down to it at last. I’ll plead
guilty—though once I thought that ten thousand devils couldn’t drive me
to it; but you’ve broke me down completely; I can never hold up my head
again, and I deserve the very worst they can give me I’d like it over
with and settled as soon as possible after _she_ has been here. She’ll
not stay long, probably. I’m well enough not to be a burden here any
longer, and I’d feel easier in my mind to know just what is before me.”

The poor fellow was frightfully pale, and so excited that his sentences
were disjointed and broken, and spoken through teeth so tightly shut
that Earle could hear them grate.

The young marquis was deeply affected; he had uttered no fawning or
servile protestations of sorrow or shame, asked for no mercy, expected
none; but he could see that he was, as he said “completely broken down;”
his heart had been melted by kindness, and little shoots of the original
good that was in him had begun to spring up in the unusual atmosphere by
which he had recently been surrounded.

Earle believed that a great and radical change was begun in the man,
and, if rightly dealt with now, he might be saved.

Kindness had melted him; then why had he not a right to feel that
kindness would hold him and mold him anew? His was undoubtedly one of
those natures which grow reckless and harden itself against everything
like stern justice and punishment, and only grow more desperate at the
thought of penalty.

If tried and sentenced now for the attempt at robbery, even though he
might protest himself deserving of it, yet he would go to his doom in
dogged, sullen silence; nothing would ever reach his better nature
again, and he would die as miserable as he had lived.

“Tom,” Earle said, gravely, after a thoughtful silence, during which
these things had passed through his mind, “from what you say, I judge
that you regret your past life, and, if you were to live it over again,
you would spend it very differently.”

“Regrets won’t do me any good, and I don’t like to cry for quarter when
I’m only getting my just deserts,” he said, with a kind of reckless
bravery; then he added, with a heavy sigh that spoke volumes: “But I
think it would be sort of comforting to a chap if he could look back and
feel that he’d _tried_ to live like a—_man_.”

“Then why not try to live like a ‘man’ in the future?” Earle said,
earnestly, his fine face glowing with a noble purpose.

“Transportation for life isn’t likely to give a body much courage for
anything,” the man answered, moodily, his face hardening at the thought.

“No; and I hope no such evil will ever overtake you to discourage you,
if you really have a desire to mend your course. Tom, you expect that I
am going to arraign you before a tribunal, and have you punished for the
wrong you have done me; but—I am going to do no such thing.”

A gasp interrupted him at this, and Tom Drake sank back in the carriage
as if the intelligence had taken all his strength; but Earle went on:

“If you had appeared to have no regret for the past—if, as you gained in
strength, you had exhibited no sorrow, nor expressed any appreciation of
what had been done for you, or any desire to retrieve your errors, I
might have felt that it would be better for others that you should be
put where you could do no further mischief. But if you really want to
try to become a good man, I am willing to help you. I will be your
friend; I will give you employment as soon as you are able for it, and
as long as you show a disposition to live aright, I will keep the secret
of your past, and no harm shall ever come to you on account of it. Now
tell me, Tom, if you are willing to make the trial? Shall we start fair
and square from this moment, and see how much better we can make the
world for having lived in it?” and Earle turned to the astonished man
with a frank, kindly smile on his earnest, handsome face. The man was
speechless—dumb.

Such a proposal as this had never occurred to him. He had fully expected
that as soon as he should be able to bear it he would be transferred
from his present luxurious quarters to some vile prison, there to await
his trial, and then he had no expectation of anything better than to be
sentenced to banishment as a convict for a long term of years, or
perhaps for life.

Instead, here was hope, happiness, and the prospects of earning an
honest living held out to him, and by the hand of him whom he had so
terribly wronged.

No words came to his lips to express his astonishment, nor the strange
tumult of feelings that raged within his heart. His whole soul bowed
down before the grand nature that could rise above his own injuries and
do this noble thing.

Tamora, Queen of the Goth, when suing for the life of her first-born
son, prayed thus before Titus Andronicus:

              “Wilt thou draw near the nature of the gods?
              Draw near them, then, in being merciful;
              Sweet mercy is nobility’s true badge.”

And thus Earle Wayne partook of the nature of the gods; his mercy, his
grand self-abnegation and forgiveness, with the helping hand held out so
kindly to one of earth’s lost and degraded ones, was indeed the surest
badge of his nobility. And Marion Vance, in her meekness, had prophesied
truly when she had told him, on her dying bed, that “good would come out
of her sorrow.” She had said:

“You may, perhaps, be a nobler man for having been reared in obscurity;
you will, at all events, realize that a noble character is more to be
desired than a mere noble-sounding name.”

He was now living out the pure precepts that she had so untiringly
taught him during those long, sorrowful years when she was so sadly and
uncomplainingly bearing her banishment and disgrace.

Tom Drake dropped his face upon his hands to hide the humility and
reverence he could not speak, and the tears he could not stay and was
ashamed to show.

Earle Wayne’s enemy was utterly routed at last; he had stormed a citadel
by a method of warfare hitherto untried, and it lay in ruins at his
feet.

“I—I’m afraid I do not quite understand. You will not have me arrested
or tried—I am to be a free man?” Tom Drake breathed, in low, suppressed
tones.

“No; if you are sentenced to drag out a weary term of years as a
convict, you would become discouraged, and be ready for almost any
desperate deed if you should live to return; and, Tom, I have come to
believe that you would really like to lead a different life from what
your past has been.”

“I would, sir, I would; but I never should have thought of it but for
you—but for that bullet. It was indeed, as you said, a ‘blessing in
disguise,’” he said, weakly but earnestly.

Earle smiled his rare, luminous smile, then said, gravely:

“Then I will help you all I can; but you must do your share also; it
cannot be done in a moment, and you must not get disheartened. It will
be something like this wound of yours; sin, like the bullet, has entered
deep—the disease lies deep, and only the most rigid and skilful
handling, with patient endurance, will work the cure.”

He did not preach him a long sermon on human depravity, original sin,
and the wrath of God.

This little warning was all he then gave, hoping by practical
illustration to draw him by and by nearer to the Divine Master whose
commands he was endeavoring to obey.

“And you—you make no account of anything? You forgive all those three
years—the harm to the girl? _How can you?_” and the man lifted his
earnest, wondering eyes to the grand face at his side.

“Yes, Tom, I can forgive it all,” Earle said; but his face grew pale and
a trifle pained at the remembrance of all that those words called up;
“and I shall feel that the experience was not in vain if _you_ do not
disappoint my expectations. If you will faithfully and honestly strive
to overcome whatever there is of evil within you, or whatever may tempt
you in the future, I shall feel that your character reclaimed is the
‘good’ that has come out of my ‘sorrow.’ Tom, will you strive to make an
honest man, God’s noblest work, of yourself? I want your promise.”

“Sir, from the bottom of my heart I’d _like_ to be an honest man,
but—I’m afraid I can’t stand it,” he said, huskily.

“Can’t stand what, Tom?” Earle asked, with a look of perplexity and
anxiety.

Were the temptations and habits of the old life so strong that he could
not relinquish or overcome them?

“I feel as if a millstone had crushed me; I’m afraid I can’t stand it to
face you day after day, with the memory of all I’ve done staring me in
the face.”

Earle’s face lighted—this was the best proof he had had of the man’s
sincerity.

“Tom, I want to tell you a little story; you will recognize it, perhaps,
as you say your mother is a Christian woman. There was once a Man who
was crushed beneath the sins of a world. He wore a crown of thorns, and
the purple robe of scorn and derision. His tender flesh was pierced,
bruised, and mangled by His enemies, and His only cry was, ‘Father,
forgive them, for they know not what they do.’ There came a time when I
realized that _my_ sins helped to do all this, and I felt something, as
you say, as if a ‘millstone had crushed me,’ and as if I could never
live in His presence with the memory of it ever in my mind. But I read
in His word, ‘Thy sins are remembered no more against thee _forever_;
they are _blotted out_.’ The same word tells me to ‘forgive as I am
forgiven.’ Of course we cannot actually forget all that we have
suffered, nor who was the immediate cause of it, but we can cherish no
evil—we can regard and treat as kindly those who have injured us as if
it had never been. That is the way I want to ‘blot out’ all the past
between you and me. Do you understand me, Tom?”

“Yes, sir,” Tom Drake said, in scarcely audible tones, but his face was
full of feeling and of an earnest purpose.

“May I feel then, that I can trust you _fully_ from this hour?”

“You may, sir,” very decidedly the reply came; and, after a moment’s
hesitation, he continued, in a resolute tone: “I’ll not waste my breath
nor weary you with promises; but, sir, I’ll begin to _live_ from this
moment.”

“That is right; and here is my hand to seal our compact;” and the young
Marquis of Wycliffe grasped the hand of poor degraded Tom Drake as
heartily as if he had been another peer of the realm.

He had won an enemy—he had conquered a reckless, defiant human heart,
with neither sword nor spear, but by the power of love and kindness.

Thrice blessed Marion Vance! Out of her sorrow had grown her
Christianity, out of her Christianity had grown the education of this
noble man, and out of his nobility the salvation of another.

Who can estimate the mighty influence of a pure example and faithful
precepts?

Did she, now looking down upon this scene, realize toward what all the
dark and winding path of her desolate life had tended?

She had learned to _trust_ while here, where the way was so dark that
she could not see; and may we not hope that faith had now ended in
sight, and that the joy she had missed on earth was increased a hundred
fold in the better world?

Neither Earle nor his companion spoke again during the remainder of
their drive.

Tom Drake went immediately to his rooms when they reached the house, and
no one but himself and his Maker knew how he passed that solitary hour
that followed his return.

Earle gave the reins to a groom, and went to the library to see if there
were any letters, but a servant met him on the way and handed him a
telegram that had just arrived. It was a cable dispatch from the United
States.




                              CHAPTER XLV
                       SUMNER DALTON’S CONFESSION


The telegram was from Paul Tressalia, and extremely startling and
imperative in its nature.

“Mr. Dalton can live but a short time,” it said, “and begs continually
for you. Come at once. Editha also desires it.”

Earle was deeply excited by what he read.

George Sumner Dalton dying!—face to face at last with the terrible
messenger who, sooner or later, comes to summon all!

He was asking for _him_—longing for the son whom he had wronged and
hated all his life-long.

For the moment Earle’s heart rebelled at the thought of going to him;
for if he went, he felt he must be prepared to give him comfort in his
last hours; he must be ready to forgive everything—his own and his
mother’s wrongs, and be at peace with the man who was soon to stand
before the Supreme Judge to answer for his earthly career.

Could he do this in all sincerity?

He stood there in the grand hall of his ancestors, with bent head and
stern, corrugated brow, asking himself these questions over and over
again.

Then the words that he had spoken only a little while before to Tom
Drake came to his mind:

“Forgive, _as_ we are forgiven.”

It was as if Marion’s gentle spirit, hovering over him, had whispered
the words in his ear—as if from the realms of peace, where she dwelt,
she had brought him an olive branch to bear across the waters to the
erring, dying one.

“I will go,” he said, at last, a pitiful expression replacing the stern
look, a grave though kindly light beaming from his eyes. “I will go, and
God help me to go in the right spirit. Editha, too, desires it,” he
repeated, reading from the telegram, “and that of itself should make me
willing.”

And yet, much as he longed to see the beloved one once more, he felt as
if he could never endure a second parting from her. Then graver thoughts
presented themselves.

If Mr. Dalton should die, what would become of Editha?

She had not a friend in the world on whom to depend; would she feel that
she could now return with him and share his home?

The matter troubled him deeply, and yet he clearly felt that it would be
his duty henceforth to protect and care for her.

He went into the library and consulted the papers.

A steamer would sail the next day from London, and he decided that he
would go at once.

He might not be in time to see Mr. Dalton alive, but he would not delay;
he would do his best to grant his request, let the result be what it
might.

He disliked very much leaving Tom just at this time. He knew that he
depended upon him for encouragement, and would doubtless be very much
depressed, if not discouraged, if he went away for any length of time.

But it could not be helped, and the test might be beneficial. It would
at all events teach him self-reliance, and perhaps prove the man’s
sincerity better than in any other way.

He went at once to him, and said:

“Tom, I am very unexpectedly called away. I am sorry that it happened
just at this time, but it cannot be helped. Can you manage with only the
servants for company until your mother arrives?”

“Yes, sir; but will you be gone long?”

“I do not know how long; I cannot fix any definite time for my return,
as it depends upon others rather than on myself. You will be quite
lonely, and I am sorry on your account.”

“Never mind me, sir; but—I hope it’s no trouble on _my_ account,” and he
glanced anxiously at the telegram, which Earle still had in his hand.

“No—oh, no. I may tell you, I suppose—it is more trouble for Miss
Dalton; her father is dying, and they have sent for me,” Earle
explained.

“To the United States, sir!” Tom exclaimed, in dismay, and feeling as if
some strong support was slipping from under him.

“Yes, and I may have to be absent a month or two, perhaps longer but you
must try to make the best of it. Your mother will probably arrive by
to-morrow, and I would be glad if she could remain with you until I
return,” Earle said, thinking his mother’s influence, and love, and care
would be the best guardians he could possibly leave in his absence.

“Thank you, sir,” Tom answered, heartily then, after thinking a moment,
he added, wistfully: “I am getting strong and well so fast that I would
like to begin to do something, sir. If you could leave me some work I
should be glad, and the time would not seem so long.”

Earle thought a moment, and then asked:

“Are you good at accounts?”

“I used to be fair at them. I learned Comer’s method after I went to
America, thinking to make a business man of myself.”

“Then if you would take the trouble to straighten out some accounts that
got badly mixed during the last year of the old marquis’ life, it would
help me wonderfully.”

Tom’s face brightened at once.

“I should like it,” he said, eagerly; and Earle felt better at once
about leaving him, knowing that if he felt he was making himself useful,
he would be more contented.

The next day found him on board the Ethiopia, bound for New York, and
scarcely able to control his impatience, even though the noble steamer,
with favorable wind and weather, was plowing the pathless water with
unusual speed.

At the end of eight days he stood once more upon American soil, and an
hour or two later found him again ascending the steps of Mr. Dalton’s
residence.

His hand trembled as he pulled the bell, and his heart beat with heavy,
painful strokes, so many memories, both sweet and bitter, agitated him.

A servant let him quietly in, and an ominous stillness at once struck a
chill to his heart.

“Is Mr. Dalton living?” he asked.

“Yes, sir, but very low,” was the reply.

He led him to the same little reception-room where he had seen Editha on
that day before Christmas, and where she had given him that little bunch
of holly, and wished him, not the stereotyped “Merry Christmas,” but
“peace, good-will to men,” instead.

It came to him now, that sweet message, with strange vividness, and he
grew suddenly calm and solemn as he realized that he had indeed come
with “peace” in his heart, and “good-will” toward one who had been his
life-long enemy.

He gave his card to the servant, and then sat down to wait. Would Editha
come to greet him? he asked himself, and would he be able to meet her as
a brother should meet a sister?

Fifteen minutes elapsed, and then a door softly opened again. Earle
turned, his heart leaping to his throat, but it was not Editha.

He saw a strange but noble-looking woman coming toward him, and wondered
to see her there.

He bowed courteously, but she cordially extended her hand, as her eyes
sought his card, which the servant had given her, and upon which was
simply engraven the two names he had always borne. He made no display of
his title, nor of his new position.

“Mr. Wayne,” she said, “we hardly expected you to-day; but I am very
glad you have arrived. My name is Sylvester, and I am the only one at
liberty to come to you just now.”

Earle returned her greeting, wondering who Mrs. Sylvester could
be—certainly not the housekeeper, for her manner and bearing forbade him
to believe that she occupied that position; and he had heard Editha say
they had no near relatives living.

She might be some friend or neighbor come in to relieve her and share
her lonely vigils, he thought.

He inquired if Miss Dalton was well, and noticed that a queer little
smile wreathed the lady’s lips, as she replied:

“Editha is quite well, and is sleeping just now. Mr. Dalton had an
extremely distressing night, and she would persist in sitting up with
him until nearly morning. The poor darling has been unremitting in her
care, and is nearly worn out,” Mrs. Sylvester concluded, speaking with
great tenderness.

Earle then inquired concerning Mr. Dalton’s illness and its cause.

“That is a long, long story, and I will leave it for Editha to tell you
when she wakes, and you are rested. I will only say that it was brought
on by excessive excitement, during which he ruptured a blood vessel.”

Earle expressed great surprise at this, and madam continued:

“He recovered somewhat from the first attack of bleeding, and we were
hoping his recovery would be permanent, when he had another, since which
he has been rapidly failing. As soon as he became conscious that he
could not live, he seemed to be exceedingly troubled regarding some
injury which he had done you, and wished you sent for immediately. He
will be much relieved to know of your arrival, for he has been very
restless and anxious ever since Mr. Tressalia sent the telegram.”

“Is there no possible hope of his recovery?”

“No; there is not the slightest hope of that. The physician does not
think he can live many days. Now, if you will excuse me, I will go and
see if he feels able to see you, as he wished to be told the moment you
arrived,” madam concluded, rising, and with a graceful bow, left him
once more alone.

She had not been gone many minutes when a servant entered, bearing a
tray, on which was arranged a most tempting lunch.

“Madam directed this to be served,” explained the servant; and again
Earle wondered who this cultivated woman could be, who was evidently a
power in the house.

He partook of the lunch, however, with evident relish, for he was
hungry, having been too eager and excited to do justice to his breakfast
that morning.

Half an hour later madam returned, saying that Mr. Dalton was ready and
anxious to see him.

He arose and followed her to the sick man’s chamber, and almost
wondering if it could be true that he was about to stand at his own
father’s death-bed, and if ever before a son stood in such strange
relations toward a parent.

He was shocked at the change in Mr. Dalton.

Ghastly, wan, and panting with every breath, he lay bolstered up with
pillows, and Earle knew at a glance that he could not live many days.

An expression of pain convulsed his features as the door opened and his
anxious eyes rested upon the young man’s handsome face and noble form;
and then, with a slight motion of his head, he signified his wish for
him to come and sit beside him.

It was a strange, sad meeting of a father and son.

The one so strong and manly, and in full vigor of life; the other pale,
emaciated, and dying, and neither experiencing nor expressing any
natural regard for the other.

Earle’s humanity was touched as soon as he saw the sufferer. He forgot
all his past bitterness, he forgot that this was one who claimed to be
an implacable foe, who had said he “hated him and all that ever belonged
to him.” He only thought of him now as a sick and dying man who needed
sympathy and care.

“You did not expect when you went away that when next we met you would
find your enemy laid so low, did you?” Mr. Dalton asked, in a hollow
voice, when Earle was seated, and searching his face with a keen glance.

“I have never wished you any ill, sir,” he replied, respectfully.

“I cannot say the same regarding you, for there was nothing I would not
have done, for the sake of the hatred I bore your mother, to have hurled
you from the proud position you occupy.”

“Shall we not drop all this now and forever?” Earle interrupted, gently,
fearing he would become excited if this topic was renewed.

“No; I must have my say out now. I’ve been saving my strength for this,
and I have much to tell you, and the sooner it is over with, the better
for me. One’s sentiments change when a body feels life slipping from his
grasp, and I felt that I would like you to know before I die that I
realize at last, instead of injuring others only, I have been my own
worst enemy. I don’t know _why_ I should always have hated others for
what has really been my own fault; for all through my life my folly has
been the cause of all my disappointments.

“I have seen a child get angry with his toys—his top or his ball, when
it would not spin or bound as he wished it—and vent his anger by
destroying them, when it was only his own lack of judgment and skill
that prevented his enjoying them. I suppose it was that same trait in
me, only in tenfold degree, that has made me wish to destroy every one
who opposed or disappointed me in my schemes or ambition.”

He paused a moment, and Earle watched him curiously. He had never heard
anything so strange before.

“Had I lived for ten, twenty, or even forty years more, I suppose I
should have gone on in the same way,” Mr. Dalton resumed. “I suppose as
long as I knew you were enjoying the position and possessions I had so
coveted, I should have continued to hate you, and striven to do you
injury. But my hatred can do you no further harm now, nor me any good
where I am going; neither money nor position, the two things that I have
most coveted all my life, can benefit me further. I have never believed
in a God, have tried to believe that man was like the brutes, and
consequently must get all the enjoyments possible out of this life; but
now that I have come to this”—lifting his wasted hand and regarding it
with a strange expression of wonder, and perplexity, and regret—“I do
not feel quite so confident that God and eternity are not solemn truths.
That the mind is something greater than the body, and will probably
exist in another state, I am at last convinced; but I have no time to
discuss metaphysics now. My life has been a failure, for I have missed
_everything_ for which I sought most eagerly. I have never known what it
is to be really happy. I have done a great deal of evil, and I do not
know a single human being that is better for my having lived in the
world. The only good thing that I can think of connected with myself is,
that no one will sorrow or be made unhappy by my death;” and the smile
that accompanied these words was intensely bitter.

“I have told you how I disliked you from the first, simply because
Richard Forrester was interested in you, and I was jealous of any one
who was likely to win anything from him. You know how I scorned you
because Editha took a girlish fancy to you, and you dared to treat her
as if you considered yourself her equal. I was so angry that day in
court that I could have blotted you out of existence had I possessed the
power, and throttled her when she stood up so fearlessly in that crowded
room and asserted your innocence. I was afraid she would learn to love
you, and persist in marrying you. I knew that Richard Forrester was
rich, and that she would have all his money; but I meant she should get
more, by making a wealthy marriage. The more _she_ had, the more I
thought _I_ should have, and stand the higher in the world for it.”

Again he paused to rest, and Earle would have been glad if he would
cease entirely. He knew all this, and he could not see the good of its
all being rehearsed, neither could he understand toward what it was
drifting; but he was soon to know, and a great surprise awaited him.

“When Richard Forrester died,” he began again, “and left you that ten
thousand dollars, I vowed you should not have it, for I felt sure it
would give you a start in life, and you would want to marry Editha. I
was bound she should wed a rich man, and I would not be thwarted. Then I
made the discovery of who you were; and if your sentence had been for
life, I would not have lifted my finger to have had it mitigated in the
slightest degree. I seemed to gloat over the fact that Marion’s son, the
son of the woman whose high spirit had prevented me from reaching the
goal I sought, was thus disgraced, and, not knowing that she was dead, I
thought I could imagine some of her sufferings on account of it.

“I do not wonder that you shudder,” he said, seeing a quiver of pain run
over Earle’s body at this heartless speech; “and I can see now just how
such fiendish malice appears to others. If I had known, however, that
_my_ marriage with Marion had been legal, you may be sure I should have
adopted a very different course. If, when from motives of curiosity I
opened that package belonging to you, I had discovered those papers in
the cardboard pocket, my ambition and selfishness would have prompted me
to court the favor of the heir of Wycliffe. But I did _not_ know, and
when you told me, and refused to let me share your honors, my ire
increased tenfold, and I vowed I would make you suffer for it in some
way.”

Earle’s face was very grave and pale as he listened, and it seemed as if
he was almost living over again the troubles he had been through, to be
reminded of them in this way.

“There was only _one_ way that I could do this,” Mr. Dalton said, with a
troubled glance at the white, set face by his side, “and that was
through Editha. You loved her, and she loved you, and I gloated over the
fact that through her I could make you miserable, though you stood on
the very pinnacle of where I had longed to climb, _and even though I
sacrificed her in so doing_.”

Earle’s lips twitched nervously at this, and, had not the man before him
been helpless and dying, his indignation must have burst forth at this
startling and inhuman statement.

Mr. Dalton noticed his emotion, and his lips curled in a bitter smile.

“One is not often allowed the privilege of reading such a page of
heart-history as I am turning for you to-day; one does not often meet a
_father_ who could cherish such bitterness and antagonism toward his
only son, and so utterly devoid of natural affection also for the child
whom he has reared from infancy; but I will make no half-confession—I
want you to know just how black my record has been, and then I will make
what restitution there is in my power.

“With all my other sins, I had a secret that I had kept for more than
twenty years, and expected it would die with me. I did not believe there
was a soul living who knew aught of it, or who could ever discover it.

“But there was; justice was on my track, and, like an avenging Nemesis,
pursued me with a relentless determination. I fled, I hid, I vowed I
would not be thwarted out of _every_ scheme I had formed, but all to no
purpose, and one day I was brought face to face with a foe, of whose
existence I had not dreamed until only a short time before.

“Foiled at every point, my last weapon wrested from me, I lost all
control of myself, and in my anger and mortification ruptured a blood
vessel in the lungs, and knew that my days were numbered.

“It was not a pleasant thing to know that death had set his mark upon
me, and for awhile I tried to fight the conviction; but it was of no
use, and then I began to think; and one has very different ideas
regarding the end and aim of man, when ‘Death sits grinning his
horrible, ghastly smile upon him,’ than when in the full vigor of life.

“Like two vivid pictures, your life and mine arose up before me—my own,
full of pride, ambition, and selfishness, with no principle of truth or
goodness in it, and ending in utter wreck; yours, in the face of
mountain-like difficulties, filled with the beauty of high resolves,
noble purposes, and unwavering rectitude and nobility, not the least of
which was the fact that even while smarting beneath the fiercest strokes
of your enemy, you did not cease to be generous—that ten thousand
dollars, with all my arrogance and bravado, has lain heavy on my
conscience ever since you made it over to me.

“I am nearly done. I could not rest—I could not die until I had told you
all this. I do not ask you to forgive me; the words would seem but
mockery to you. The purity of your life, standing out in such bold
relief against the blackness of mine, enraged me. If I could have seen
you angry—if I could really have found a flaw in you—perhaps I should
not have always been so bitter. I say it always angered me, until I was
obliged to lie here and think. Now it shames me, and I would be glad if
I could annihilate from _your_ memory the shame of having had such a
father. I cannot make any atonement for the past to either you or
Editha. I can only wish that your future may be as full of happiness as
you both deserve, and perhaps I may be able to contribute a trifle to it
by being the first to tell you that _Editha is not my child at all_!”




                              CHAPTER XLV
                        MADAM SYLVESTER’S STORY


Earle nearly bounded from his seat at this startling intelligence, and
then, controlling himself for the sake of the sick man, sank back into
his chair with a low, suppressed cry, his face almost as colorless as
that of the dying man’s upon the pillow.

“Editha not your child!” he said at last, in a strained, unnatural
voice, his heart beating with great heavy throbs.

“No; not a drop of my blood flows in her veins,” Mr. Dalton panted.

His strength was all gone, now that his story was told, and it was with
difficulty that he spoke at all.

“Who’s child is she, then?” Earle asked, trembling with eagerness, a
glad gleam leaping into his eyes in spite of his sad surroundings and
his sympathy for the panting form upon the bed.

Madam Sylvester now came to the bedside.

She had entered so quietly a few moments before that neither Earle nor
Mr. Dalton was aware of her presence until this moment.

“Mr. Dalton must rest now; he is nearly exhausted,” she said, adding: “I
will summon the nurse, and as Editha is still sleeping, and you are
doubtless anxious to have the mystery explained, I will finish the story
of Editha’s parentage.”

Earle instantly arose, and a sudden thought made him glance at her more
keenly than he had yet done; then, with a look of sympathy at the
panting sufferer, he turned to follow her. Mr. Dalton had seen that
look, however, and it stirred his soul to its very depths.

He reached out his wasted hand as if to stay him, and said, weakly,
while his features writhed in pain:

“A good father might have been proud to own you as his son. As it is, I
cannot even ask you to take my hand.”

Earle turned quickly and bent over him, his manly face softened to
almost womanly tenderness and beauty—not from the dawn of any filial
affection! that could not be, after all the bitter past—but from pity
and compassion for a soul standing alone upon the brink of eternity,
with nothing to lean upon as he entered the dark valley of the shadow of
death, and no hope in the mysterious future toward which he was
hastening.

As his humanity would have prompted him to reach out his strong right
hand to save either friend or foe in case of danger, so his grand nature
yearned to lead this darkened mind into the light of hope.

“We will not talk of the past any more,” he said, gently; “It is gone,
and it is vain to dwell upon it. The future is what we must think of
now.”

“The future—my future! What will it be like, I wonder?” Sumner Dalton
asked, helplessly, and searching that noble face with painful
earnestness, as if he could tell him.

“The future means ‘heaven’ to those who are ready for it,” was the
grave, dignified reply.

“Yes, yes; but to those who are _not_ ready for it?” came breathlessly
from the blue lips of the sufferer.

“_All may_ be ready for it if they will,” Earle answered, in low, sweet
tones. Then seeing how excited Mr. Dalton was becoming, he added: “You
must rest now—you have talked long, and are very weary. I will come to
you again when you have slept, and we will talk more of this.”

“You will stay—you will not go away until—after——” the dying man began,
wildly, but finished with a groan.

The thought of death was anguish.

“I shall stay for the present—as long as you need me,” Earle replied,
understanding him, and pitying him deeply.

A sigh of relief followed this assurance.

In the hour of his weakness and need he turned, with a strange feeling
of confidence, to the strong, true nature which he had once so scorned
and despised.

His eyes followed the manly form wistfully as it quietly passed from the
room, then, with a weary sigh, he turned upon his pillow and slept.

Madam Sylvester led Earle back to the room where she had first met him,
and motioning him to a chair, took one herself near him.

“I know you are anxious to see Editha,” she said; “but she is not yet
awake. I peeped into her room on my way to Mr. Dalton’s, and the dear
child has not moved since I looked in before. She was nearly worn out
this morning when she went to rest. Now I will do as you say—leave this
interesting story for her to finish, or relieve your suspense and tell
you myself while she sleeps,” she added, with her charming manner.

“Tell me by all means,” Earle said, earnestly. “I cannot endure the
suspense, and I am utterly amazed by Mr. Dalton’s last statement to me.”

“It is not to be wondered at, and your amazement probably will not end
there. Your query, when he told you Editha was not his child, very
naturally was, ‘Whose is she, then?’ My lord, _I am Editha’s mother_!”

Earle looked the astonishment that he could not express, and yet the
shadow of suspicion of this had crossed his mind just before leaving Mr.
Dalton’s room.

“I never believed anything would ever again give me such joy as this
knowledge does,” Earle said, with a deep-drawn sigh of thankfulness, and
beginning to realize something of the joy that might be in store for
him.

Editha, no longer regarded as a sister, might now be claimed as a wife.

Madam smiled. She greatly admired the handsome young marquis, and her
heart was very light to know of the brilliant future that lay before her
beautiful daughter.

“It gives me pleasure to hear you say that,” she said. “And now, if you
have patience, I will tell you my sad story and all regarding Editha’s
parentage, as I have already related it to her.”

“I have patience,” Earle said, smiling; and madam began:

“Nearly twenty-three years ago I met with the saddest loss that ever
falls to the lot of woman—the loss of a love that would have brightened
all my future life. From my early girlhood I had an affection for my own
cousin, and was beloved in return by him. As we grew older that
affection increased, until at the age of eighteen I was betrothed to
him. Soon after, he went to sea, hoping on his return to be able to make
me his wife. He had a share in a trading-vessel, and, if they made a
successful voyage, he hoped to realize a handsome sum, which, with what
he already had, would enable him to support a wife. Three months later
came the news of the loss of the vessel, and his name was among the list
of those who perished. Our engagement had been a secret, and so it was
only in secret that I could mourn. In the presence of others, of course,
I must appear the same as usual, and so, to hide the grief that was
burning my heart to ashes, I assumed a reckless gayety that deceived
every one. About this time a stranger appeared in our circle. He was
wealthy, fascinating, and very handsome. He appeared attracted by my
beauty, as my friends were pleased to term my good looks, and paid me
much attention. My family were pleased with him, I liked him, and when
he offered me marriage I accepted him, thinking that perhaps, under new
excitement and change of scene and country, I might find some balm for
my wounded heart. We were married, and spent several months in
traveling, and then contrary to my expectations my husband preferred to
remain indefinitely in Paris, and we set up a home of our own in the
suburbs of the city. Before the end of a year a little child was given
to us—a blue-eyed, golden-haired daughter, whom we both loved with
almost idolatrous affection, and it seemed as if Heaven had at last sent
healing to my sore spirit, for I became calmly and quietly happy; my
acute grief had passed, and, though my deepest affection was in the
ocean grave of my sailor lover, yet I looked forward to a future of
quiet happiness with the new ties that bound me to life.

“My baby—Editha we had named her—was only three months of age, when one
day, as my husband and I were watching her as she lay crowing and
laughing in her cradle, the door behind us opened and some one entered
the room. We both turned, and saw a form gaunt and trembling, a face
pale and wasted, but dearer than life to me. It was Louis Villemain, my
lost lover, whom I believed lying cold in death at the bottom of the
sea.

“I was young, impulsive, and not yet strong after the birth of my child,
and the shock was more than I could bear. With one wild cry of joy, I
sprang forward and threw myself upon his bosom, forgetting that I was
already a wife and a mother, forgetful of my husband’s presence—of
everything save that Louis was alive and had returned. I murmured fond,
wild words of love and delight, words which a wife has no right to speak
save in the ear of her husband, and mine, sitting there, listened
horror-struck, and learned the whole. It was only when, exhausted with
my joy, I lay weeping on Louis’s bosom that I was at last aroused to a
consciousness of what I had done, by my husband’s stern sarcasm.

“‘What may be the meaning of this exceedingly affecting scene, allow me
to ask?’ he said, hissing the words between his teeth; and then with a
shriek I realized our relative positions, and fell fainting to the
floor.

“I need not dwell upon what followed,” madam said, with a sigh, “when I
came to myself, Louis was gone, and my husband, angry and wretched at
discovering how he had been deceived, was very unreasonable, and poured
forth such a storm of jealous wrath upon me that I was nearly crushed. I
confessed everything to him then, I pleaded my sorrow and weakness, and
implored his forgiveness and mercy, but he denounced me as an unfaithful
wife, at least at heart, and vowed that from that day we should live as
strangers, and yet, for our child’s sake, every outward propriety must
be observed. I was more wretched than I can express, and very unwisely
poured forth my troubles into Louis’s ear, when he came the next day and
sought me alone. I could not deny that the old love was stronger than
the new, and the future looked like darkest gloom to me—my husband’s
respect and confidence gone—my lover returned to look reproach upon me
from sad and hollow eyes, and my conscience constantly upbraiding me for
having married a good and noble man when I had no heart to give him. I
felt like a forsaken thing, and, always morbidly sensitive, I was
tenfold more so then in my weakened, nervous state. I do not pretend to
excuse my sin—I can only tell it just as it happened. Louis, as wretched
as myself, comforted me with the old, tender words that he used to
speak, and, bemoaning my sad fate in being linked to such a cruel
husband, urged me to fly with him on a new vessel that he was to
command, and be happy in our own way. The vessel was to sail in a few
days, and with passionate eloquence he pictured the delight of the free,
beautiful, roving life we would lead. I consented, and one day, when my
husband was absent for a few hours, I took my baby and fled. Louis had
gone on before me, and was to meet me at the seaport town from which the
vessel was to sail. Not being able to leave home until afternoon, I was
obliged to stop over night at a small town about half way from the port.
I was more lonely than I can tell you, as alone and unprotected I
retired and lay with my baby in my arms, thinking of what I had done. I
thought of my dead mother and her early teachings—of the words she used
to love and repeat from the sacred book, and the earnestness with which
she used to impress their meaning upon me, and the horror and guilt of
the step I was contemplating overwhelmed me. My baby awoke at midnight,
and would not be coaxed to sleep again; so, lighting the candle, I lay
there and watched her play, and talk, and coo in her charming little
way. Every now and then she would stop, look around the room as if she
knew she was in a strange place, and then glance up at me with great
serious eyes that seemed to question my conduct and reproach my
rashness. I thought of my husband, who, though he had been hasty and
somewhat cruel in his reproaches, was yet a good, true man. I pictured
the despair he would feel when he should return and find his wife and
child gone, his home desolate, his name dishonored, and all the horror
of my rash act rushed with overwhelming force upon me. I threw myself
upon my knees beside my bed and wept out my repentance there, resolving
that early morning should find me returning like the prodigal to my
home. I acted upon that resolve, first dispatching a note to Louis
telling him of my resolution, and entreating him not to come to me
again, nor seek to hold any communication with me.

“I reached home at noon the next day, but my husband had already
discovered my flight. I suppose I might have told him some story—that I
had only been to visit a friend in my loneliness, or something of that
kind, and he might have accepted it; but I did not; I went to him and
confessed the whole, imploring his pardon, and swearing fidelity for the
future. I think if he could have had time to think it over and consider
the matter, he would have acted differently; but his heart was already
too sore to bear more, and his naturally fierce temper swept all reason
before it. He took my baby from my arms and bade me ‘go,’ refusing to
believe I had not flown _with_ Louis instead of to him. I prayed him to
leave my child, my beautiful, blue-eyed, fair-haired Editha, but he told
me I was not a fit mother to rear a child, and he refused me even the
comfort of a parting caress. He said hard, cruel things to me in that
fit of passion—words that broke my heart, seared my brain, and drove me
nearly crazed from the sight of every familiar face. I never saw him
again—I never heard aught of him for long, long years. After I had
recovered somewhat from the first shock of my wild grief I began to
reason with myself. I knew I had sinned deeply—I had committed a great
wrong in marrying one man when my heart was another’s, even though I
believed that other dead, and I had enhanced that wrong a hundred fold
in yielding to Louis’ persuasions and consenting to fly with him. True,
I had repented before it was too late to turn back, but it was a bitter
blow to my husband; it was an act of treachery, and I could not blame
him for his first wild outbreak. But I felt that it was cruel in him to
be so relentless when I had confessed all; if he had but been
merciful—if he could but have consented to give me a place at his
hearth-stone until he had tested my sincerity, I feel that a
comparatively happy life might have eventually been ours. I wrote to him
times without number, begging him to let me come and be the faithful
wife and mother I knew I was capable of being; but he never returned me
one word in reply—never told me aught of my child, over whom my heart
has yearned as only a mother’s heart can yearn for her only darling.

“A short time after our separation I received a letter from Louis
telling me of his marriage with an Italian lady, and begging me to
forgive him for the wrong he had done me in tempting me from my duty as
a wife. A year later news of his death reached me, and then I sought my
brother, the only living relative I then had. He received me kindly, and
has devoted himself to my comfort and happiness ever since, and we have
lived for each other and for the good we could do to others who have
suffered and sinned. I have had much of peace—I have even known
something of happiness, since no one can relieve the wants of others and
witness their comfort and gratitude without being blessed for the good
wrought. But I am wearying you with my long story,” madam said,
stopping, with a sad smile.

“No; it is thrillingly interesting, but so sad,” Earle said, longing to
hear the remainder.

“I shall soon finish now. I told you, I believe, that my husband was an
American, did I not?”

“No; is it possible?” Earle exclaimed, greatly surprised.

“Yes; and for years I have longed to come to the United States to visit
his native land, hoping that by some chance I might glean some news of
him and my child. My brother and I visited the place that used to be his
home, but he had been gone from there for many years. After the death of
his parents he had removed to some city, but no one could tell us where,
and no one knew anything of his having a child, and were even surprised
to learn that he had ever been married. We could trace him no farther,
and I gave up all hope, believing that my child must have died before it
reached this country, and so he had never owned the fact of his
marriage.

“We thought we might as well visit some of the points of interest here
before returning home, and it was while at Newport that I found Editha.”

“Surely you could not have recognized her after so many years?” Earle
said, thinking she meant to imply that.

“Oh, no, although we were both strongly attracted to each other at once.
She was ill; she had seen sorrow something akin to mine—that I knew as
soon as I looked into her sad eyes—and just as I had discovered its
nature, and was seeking a better acquaintance with her, she and her
father suddenly disappeared from Newport. I learned through Mr.
Tressalia that they had gone to Saratoga, and, being determined to know
something more of her, and wishing also to visit Saratoga, we followed
them thither. Immediately upon our appearance Mr. Dalton became
strangely excited, and behaved in the most unaccountable manner.

“We arrived at night, while they were at a garden-party. We went to seek
them, and, after a short interview, Editha and Mr. Dalton withdrew.
Early the next morning, before any of us had arisen, they had departed,
leaving no trace behind them as to their destination.”

“Aha! Mr. Dalton must have had some suspicion of who you were, and, for
reasons of his own, desired to keep the knowledge from Editha,”
exclaimed Earle, getting really excited over this strange history.




                              CHAPTER XLVI
                        “WHAT A STRANGE STORY!”


“Did you ever meet Mr. Dalton before?” Earle asked, excusing himself for
his involuntary interruption.

“No, never; but I will soon explain how he recognized me, though I
should never have known anything of him—should never have found my child
even then, had it not been for your cousin, Paul Tressalia,” replied
madam.

“Poor Paul!” Earle sighed, thinking how his hopes were doomed to be
blighted at every turn.

“Mr. Tressalia has suffered deeply,” madam returned, “but he is rising
above it nobly. I really believe if it had not been for his kind and
judicious care of Editha after he returned to Newport, she would have
sunk into a decline. He bravely renounced all his hopes of winning her,
when she told him that she could never love another, and devoted himself
to cheering her, and no one has expressed himself more truly glad over
these recent discoveries than your noble cousin.”

“He is a truly brave man, and deserves a better fate than has overtaken
him just in the prime of his life,” Earle said, regretfully.

“A ‘better fate’ will yet come to him, I feel sure, and his life will
yet be rounded and completed by the hand of One who knows best how to
fashion the lives He has given us,” madam answered, with grave
thoughtfulness.

“As I told you,” she continued, after a moment, “on our arrival at
Saratoga, we repaired immediately to the garden-party, and while there I
managed to draw Editha one side for a little quiet chat, during which
she opened her heart to me. I had heard something of her sad story from
Mr. Tressalia before, but she related it to me more fully. She spoke of
her uncle several times, telling of his deep interest in you, of his
fondness for her, and that he had, in dying, bequeathed all his fortune
to her, save the sum he had wished you to have. I casually inquired his
name, but before she could reply, Mr. Dalton interrupted us and took
Editha away. The next morning I arose quite early, considering the
lateness of the hour that I had retired the night previous, feeling very
restless, and apprehensive of I know not what.

“I met Mr. Tressalia in a small sitting-room as I went below, and
immediately began talking of the conversation I had had with Editha the
night before.

“‘What was Miss Dalton’s uncle’s name—the one who left her his fortune?’
I asked, during the interview.

“‘Richard Forrester,’ he returned; and I sank into a chair, feeling as
if a heavy hand had suddenly been laid upon my heart and stopped its
beating.

“You will not wonder,” madam continued, her face paling with emotion
even then at the remembrance, “when I tell you that _Richard Forrester
was my husband_!”

“Your husband!” repeated Earle, fairly dazed with astonishment.

“Yes, my husband, and Editha’s father. I saw through it all in an
instant. Mr. Dalton’s wife was his sister, and to her he had committed
his child. It was no wonder that I had been attracted toward her from
the very first; it was no wonder that, when I met her for the first time
in Redwood Library at Newport, my heart thrilled with something stronger
than sympathy for her sorrow and pity for her suffering. She was my own,
own child, and it was the instinct of the mother claiming her offspring,
even before she recognized her. She was my baby, my pet, my little bud
of promise, which had been so cruelly wrested from my arms more than
twenty years before.”

And madam’s tears flowed freely even now. Her joy was so new that she
could not speak of it without weeping.

“What a strange, strange story!” Earle exclaimed. “Richard Forrester
Editha’s father! That accounts, then, for the intense love which he
always seemed to bear her.”

“He did love her, then—he did not visit her mother’s sin upon the life
of her child?” madam asked, eagerly.

“No, indeed; he seemed to love her most devotedly. She never came into
his presence but that his eyes followed her every movement with a
strange, intense gaze, at which I often wondered. But I cannot
understand why he should have resigned his claim upon her—why he denied
himself all the comfort of her love, and had her reared as Sumner
Dalton’s child,” Earle said, thoughtfully.

“You will understand it as I go on,” madam returned, wiping her tears.
“Of course, after that discovery, I was nearly wild to claim my child,
and Mr. Tressalia went at once to arouse Mr. Dalton and demand a full
explanation of all the past in my behalf. You can imagine something of
our consternation when he discovered that he had departed on an early
train, taking Editha with him, and no one could tell us whither they had
gone. We returned to Newport, thinking they might have gone back there,
but they were not there. Mr. Tressalia said that Mr. Dalton had visited
Long Branch the previous summer, and possibly we might find them there;
so to Long Branch we repaired, but with the same success. We visited one
or two other watering-places with a like result, and then returned to
New York, thinking we might find them at home; but their house was
closed, and we knew not which way to turn then. But I was desperate. The
fact of Sumner Dalton’s flying from me would have alone convinced me
that Editha was my child if nothing else had, and I was determined I
would never give up the chase until I found her.

“At last we discovered that they were boarding quietly at a hotel, and
one morning while seated in their private parlor, Mr. Dalton reading,
Editha sewing, we walked in upon them unannounced, beyond a light knock
upon their door.

“The look upon Mr. Dalton’s face upon beholding us was a strange one—it
was amazement, rage, and despair combined, while Editha immediately
sprang forward with a cry of joy to welcome us.

“‘I am unable to account for this intrusion,’ Mr. Dalton said, loftily,
and instantly recovering his self-possession.

“‘I can explain it in a very few words,’ I returned, calmly. ‘I have
come to claim my child!’

“‘I do not understand you,’ he answered, with well-feigned surprise, but
growing white as a piece of chalk at my words.

“‘You do understand me, Mr. Dalton,’ I said, sternly, ‘and you know that
I speak the truth when I claim this dear girl as my child and Richard
Forrester’s.’

“I turned to clasp her in my arms, but she had sunk, white and
trembling, into a chair.

“‘I should like to see your proofs of that statement,’ Mr. Dalton
sneered.

“I did not reply, but bending down, I took both of Editha’s hands in
mine, and said:

“‘My dear child, tell me the date of your birth.’

“‘Editha, I command you to hold no communication with that woman,’ Mr.
Dalton cried, shaking from head to foot with passion.

“Editha looked from one to the other in helpless amazement for a moment;
then she said:

“‘Surely, papa, it can do no harm for me to give the date of my birth,’
then fixing her eyes wistfully on my face, and with lips that quivered
painfully, she added, ‘I was born October 24th, 1843.’

“My child and Richard Forrester’s—my little blue-eyed, fair-haired girl,
that her father named Editha for the happiness she brought him—was born
October 24th, 1843.

“‘My love, did no one ever tell you that you resembled Richard
Forrester?’ I asked, gathering her close in my arms, for I knew she was
mine, and I would never relinquish her again, unless, after hearing my
story, she should refuse to acknowledge me as her mother.

“‘Yes, it was often remarked,’ she returned; ‘but mamma always said it
was not strange since Uncle Richard was her brother.’

“‘Not “Uncle Richard” any longer, my darling,’ I said, ‘but your own
father.’

“‘My father! and you were his wife—you are my mother?’ she said,
studying my face, and trembling in every nerve.

“‘It is a falsehood! Editha, leave the room instantly, and I will deal
with these people myself. Go, I say; that woman is no fit companion for
my daughter!’ Mr. Dalton shouted, and strode toward me, his hands
clenched and his face blazing with fury.

“Whatever his intentions were, he never reached me, for the blood all at
once gushed from his mouth, and he fell fainting to the floor.

“Of course everything was at once forgotten in the confusion that
followed and the alarm occasioned by his condition. He had a very
violent hemorrhage, and the doctor gave very little hope of his
rallying; but his constitution was strong, and after a couple of weeks
he began to gain strength and flesh, and the physicians then said, with
the exercise of great care he might live for a good while. Meantime,
Editha and I clung to each other with all the fondness and delight it is
possible for a long-parted mother and child to experience. There was no
doubt in our own minds that we belonged to each other, although Mr.
Dalton was still very sullen and morose on the subject, and would
confess nothing. But one day he was attacked with another bleeding turn,
so severe that we all knew he could not live long, and he seemed
conscious himself that he could not rally from it. Then he seemed
willing to talk upon the subject so fraught with interest to us all.
Editha sought him one day, and begged him to tell her all the truth.
Then he confessed that it was all as I had supposed, and that the moment
he saw me at Newport he knew me from a picture that he had once seen in
Mr. Forrester’s possession. He said that when my husband returned from
Europe with his little child he took her directly to his sister, who had
no children, and begged her to adopt it as her own. He told all the
story of his marriage and the sad events which followed it, and said he
never wished his child to know that any sorrow was connected with her
early life; he wished her to grow up happy and free from all care, and
he would gladly forego the comfort of calling her his own, that no
shadow need ever come upon her. In return for the consent of Mr. and
Mrs. Dalton to adopt her, he settled upon them fifty thousand dollars,
and promised them that Editha should have all his fortune if she
outlived him.

“His reason told him that Richard Forrester would gladly have absolved
him from all promise of secrecy regarding her birth, rather than that
her life should be ruined, as it was likely to be upon discovering that
you were his son; but his enmity toward you made him prefer to sacrifice
her happiness rather than forego his revenge.”

“What a disposition for a person to cherish! It is beyond my
comprehensions,” Earle said, gravely, and thinking sorrowfully of the
dying man upstairs, whose whole life had been ruined by giving the rein
to his evil passions.

“It would seem, too, as if there ought to have been some natural
instinct in his heart that would at least have prevented him from doing
you such despite, even if he bore you no love,” madam returned. “But, as
he says,” she added, “he has been his own worst enemy—out of his own
folly alone have sprung all his misfortunes and disappointments.”

“That is true, and is it not often proved that those who seek to wrong
others only injure themselves the most in the end?” Earle asked.

“It is, indeed,” madam returned, sadly; then she said, rising: “I
believe I have told you all now. I think Editha must be awake by this
time. I will go and tell her of your arrival. You will find her a little
worn and pale perhaps, but not a whit less lovely than she was a year
ago.”

Madam’s smile was full of beauty and tenderness whenever she spoke of
her newly-found daughter, and Earle thought she was a very handsome
woman.

She left the room, and he sat thinking over all the strange incidents of
the past six years—yea, all the strange incidents of his whole life.

The story he had just listened to seemed wonderful to him. He could
scarcely credit the good news that was to blot out all the dark past and
make his future so bright and full of joy.

Notwithstanding he had come to a house upon which death had set its
seal, and he could not help a feeling of sorrow for the man so near the
bounds of eternity, yet his heart was bounding with a new and blessed
hope.

He no longer needed to school himself to calmly endure the ordeal of
meeting Editha; there was no need now to force back with an iron will
all the natural impulses of his heart.

She was not his sister, and he knew well now why his whole soul had
revolted against the fiendish lie with which Sumner Dalton had sought to
crush him.

Editha would be his wife now; she would go back with him to Wycliffe
when they should be needed here no longer; she would go there to reign
as his honored and beautiful mistress, and he would have the right to
love her; there was no sin now in loving her as fondly as his great,
true heart prompted him to do.

His face grew luminous as he sat there and waited for her; his eyes lost
their heavy look of forced endurance, and softened into rare, sweet
tenderness.

                 “After the shower, the tranquil sun—
                 Silver stars when the day is done.
                 After the knell, wedding bells,
                 Joyful greetings from sad farewells.”

Earle hummed this little verse, with a fond smile wreathing his handsome
lips, his glad heart beating time to its hopeful rhythm, as he listened
to catch the first sound of the footfalls he so loved.

Editha Dalton—so called since the first year of her babyhood—was indeed
the child of Richard Forrester and Madam Sylvester, or Mrs. Forrester,
as she must henceforth be called, and only a few words will be needed to
give an outline of his early life.

While he was quite young a maiden aunt had died, leaving him heir to a
handsome fortune. As soon as he had completed his college course he made
the acquaintance of Estelle Sylvester.

He loved her from the very first, and though he thought her a trifle
giddy and wild, he laid it to the fact that French people are naturally
vivacious and freer in their manners than the staid, Puritanic
Americans, and he reasoned that when she should marry and assume the
responsibilities of domestic life, she would sober down into the quiet,
self-possessed matron.

For a year after their marriage, as we have said, all went well—indeed,
the wild and giddy Estelle became too quiet and sedate to suit him; but
that he attributed to the state of her health somewhat. But when, on the
fatal morning of Louis Villemain’s return, he learned the truth that his
wife had never loved him, but that her heart had been wholly another’s
even when she had vowed to love him only until death, he was crushed for
the moment; then his fiery temper gained the ascendency, and, for the
time, made almost a madman of him, and he uttered words which in his
calmer moments he would never have spoken.

Upon his return one evening, after a day of solitude and of brooding
over his injury, finding his wife and child gone, he was for the instant
tempted to put an end to his life, but a wise hand stayed the rash act.

All night long he mourned for the lost ones—for he had loved his wife
tenderly, and his baby had been his idol—with a bitterness which only
strong natures like his can experience; but when morning broke, and he
began to consider the dishonor that would fall upon him, his passion
flamed anew, and when poor, penitent Estelle returned at noon, his heart
was like a wall of brass to her entreaties and prayers for forgiveness.

He was sorry afterward, bitterly sorry, when he came to reflect on his
rashness, and that all her life-long his child must be motherless; but
the deed was done—he had driven his wife away in disgrace, and he would
not relent enough to recall her.

He took his baby and her nurse, and sailed immediately for the United
States. His sister was about changing her home to a distant city, and to
her care he committed his little Editha, to be brought up as her own,
deeming it wiser to renounce all claim to her than that she should grow
up to know of her mother’s folly and sin.

That was what those strange words meant that he uttered upon the night
before he died, when his eyes fondly followed Editha from the room, and
he had said: “God grant that _that_ sin may never shadow _her_ life.”

After the death of his parents he had left his native town and repaired
to the city where his sister, Mrs. Dalton, resided, that he might be
near and watch over his child, whom he loved almost to idolatry.

He never sought to obtain a divorce from Estelle, nor cared to marry
again; his trust in woman was destroyed, and he lived only to make
Editha happy, and amass a fortune to leave her at his death.

How well he succeeded in this we all know; her life up to his death was
like a cloudless summer’s day: she had never known a care or a sorrow
that he had not lightened; she had never shed a tear in his presence
that he had not wiped with the utmost tenderness away.

Aside from what might be considered his unreasonableness and harshness
toward his young and erring wife, he was a noble, tender-hearted,
upright man, beloved and respected to an unusual degree by all who knew
him.

His was a singularly sad and isolated life, brightened only by the
occasional presence of the child he dare not own, lest he bring a blight
on her otherwise sunny life.

While he lived, Sumner Dalton had not dared to treat her in any but the
most gentle and tender manner. She might oppose him in any way that her
imperious little will dictated, but he could only hide his anger and
irritability by laughing at her wilfulness. But once Richard Forrester’s
surveillance removed, his natural tyranny and cruelty came to the
surface, causing her much of sadness and suffering, while he even dared
to risk her life and happiness to gratify his ignoble passion for
revenge upon another.




                             CHAPTER XLVII
                           EDITHA’S GREETING


Fifteen minutes after Madam Forrester left Earle a light step sounded
outside the door, a trembling hand turned the silver handle, and Editha
Forrester stood once more in the presence of her lover.

She was somewhat pale and worn, as madam had said; but a lovely flush of
expectation and delight had crept into her cheeks, and a joyous light
gleamed from her beautiful eyes, as Earle leaped to his feet and went
forward to meet her.

No word was spoken for the first few moments—their feelings were too
deep, too sacred, for any outward expression; but Earle drew her to his
breast and held her there with a strong, tender clasp that claimed her
his own forever—that told her they would nevermore be parted while both
should live.

Editha was the first to break the significant silence.

“Earle, I am _glad_ you have come,” she said, as she raised her eyes
shining with happy tears to read the face she loved so well.

It was the same simple yet hearty greeting that she had given him so
long ago on that day before Christmas, when he had come to her. Earle
remembered it, and drew her still closer as he thought of her constancy
to him through all the various changes of the last four years.

“The wings of the wind were not rapid enough to bear me to you, my own,
when I knew that you wanted me; and yet I did not dream of the joy that
was awaiting me,” he said, with tremulous gladness.

“Joy and sorrow too, Earle, for papa cannot remain with us long,” she
answered, with a sigh.

She still called Mr. Dalton by the old familiar name, for not only would
it have been awkward to change, but it would have seemed cruel to the
invalid, who in all the world had alone this fair girl to cling to.

But in her heart she thanked God every day that Richard Forrester had
been her father instead of Sumner Dalton, while no words could express
her joy for the loving mother she had found.

“Yes, it pains me to find him as he is,” Earle returned, in answer to
her remark; but he was thinking more of his spiritual condition than of
his physical suffering.

“He is very sorry for the past,” Editha said, with a wistful look; “he
talks of it almost constantly in his sleep in a wild, sad way, although
he speaks bitterly when he is awake. He begs Marion—that was your
mother, Earle—to forgive him, and tells her that he did not see things
then as he does now. I think she would forgive him now if she could see
him; and, Earle, I wish you could forgive him, too. Oh, if you could
part at peace with each other!”

“We can, my darling. I have never wished him any ill, and freely forgive
him every wrong; though, of course, it cannot be expected that I could
feel any affection for him,” Earle replied, gravely.

“No—oh, no.”

“And my mother’s wrongs were very grievous.”

“I know,” Editha said, with a deep sigh of regret, as she thought of
that delicate, lovely girl, and what torture she must have endured when
she believed herself betrayed and scorned.

“Editha, can _you_ forgive Mr. Dalton for all he has wilfully made you
suffer—for trying to part us when there was no need, and for seeking to
hide you from your mother?” Earle asked, regarding her curiously.

The tears sprang to her eyes as she answered:

“Oh, yes; he is dying, you know, and I could not let him leave me
feeling that I cherished any bitterness toward him. His path to the
grave is very dark, and I would not add to its gloom. It has been very
hard to bear all those things,” she added, sighing; “but I think papa
has been the worst sufferer, after all. He never was unkind to me until
after my dear father died. Oh, Earle,” she cried, her lovely face
lighting up with tenderness, “you don’t know how I love to think that he
was my father—I loved him so dearly. I used to think sometimes that I
was really ungrateful to love him so very much when he was only my
uncle; but now I know why it was—it was the natural impulse of my heart
going out to him, where it belonged.”

“How like a romance the story of your life is, my darling,” Earle said,
thoughtfully.

“Not more so than your own, I am quite sure, Earle. But do you not think
mother is very lovely?” she asked.

“She is, truly. How very happy you are in the knowledge of your
parentage.”

“Yes; and for more reasons than one,” she answered, with a shy smile at
him, accompanied with a rosy blush; then she added, more gravely: “But I
wish my mother need not have suffered quite so deeply. If my father
could but have known how sorry and repentant she was, and how truly good
she was at heart, they might have grown to be very happy after awhile;
he need not have lived such a lonely, sorrowful life, and all this sin
and trouble need never have been. But”—with a sigh of regret—“we have no
right to question the dealings of One who is wiser than we. There is
some good reason for all the suffering there is in the world, and some
one has somewhere said that ‘human lives are like some sweet plants,
which must be crushed ere they give forth their sweetest fragrance.’”

“And we are told somewhere else that gold seven times tried is pure. How
very free from dross, then, you must be, my darling,” Earle said, with
playful tenderness.

“No, indeed, Earle; my trials and sorrows have been nothing compared to
yours,” Editha said, earnestly.

“The bitterness of the past disappears in the brightness of the present,
and what the future promises to be; and I do not forget, my darling,
that but for your fortitude a dark shadow would still rest upon my
life—you endured a great deal for my sake, Editha,” and his lips touched
her forehead almost reverently.

“And I would have resisted until I died rather than have given up my
treasure into the hands of that wicked man,” she cried, with something
of the old wilful gleam in her eyes. “Do you know,” she added, eagerly,
in the same breath, “that I have found the Lokers, and they are now just
as comfortable as they can be.”

“And all owing to your own kindness of heart and liberal hand, no
doubt,” Earle responded, with a smile.

“How could I help expressing my gratitude in some way for having that
dark mystery solved and every stigma removed from your character? I did
help them to begin with, but they are going to help themselves now. I
stocked a cunning little store with fancy and useful articles, furnished
two rooms in the rear for their private use, and they are really very
successful in their little business.”

“With you for their chief patron, I presume,” was Earle’s laughing
reply, as he gazed admiringly into her animated face.

“Well, of course, I go there,” she admitted, flushing, “to get all my
needles, pins, thread, etc., and so do a great many of my friends. But
Mrs. Loker is really a very worthy woman, and her daughter is bright and
keen as a brier at a trade; it is a real pleasure to encourage such
people. But I have talked enough about myself—tell me something about
your adventure with that wicked creature who has brought so much trouble
upon us.”

Earle complied, relating all that had occurred from the night of the
attempted robbery until the time of his departure, while Editha listened
intensely interested.

“Do you know I stand almost in awe of you to know that you have
accomplished such a change in that vile nature? It seems almost like a
miracle,” she said, when he had finished.

“Do not think of it, then, for I have no wish, I assure you, to inspire
you with any such sentiment toward me. But I do not think this looks as
if you were _very_ much afraid of me,” he laughed, as he gathered her
closer in his arms and kissed the fair face upon his breast again and
again.

“I shall be obliged to impose a duty upon all such operations in the
future if you carry them to such an extent,” she said, trying to hide
her blushing face with a very insufficient hand.

“Then never tell me again that you stand in awe of me, or I shall feel
it _my_ duty to take even more effective measures to eradicate the
feeling,” Earle said, with mock gravity.

“But about this man”—Editha thought it best to change the subject—“don’t
you think you’re carrying your kindness a little too far? He may betray
your trust; besides, he has violated the laws of the land, and have you
any right to shield him?”

“I suppose I am not obliged to give any evidence against him, since he
was not arrested by a commissioned officer; the offense was against
myself alone, and if I see fit to take no action in the matter, I do not
see how I am violating any right, either civil or moral—particularly as
I am conscientiously convinced that the man’s salvation depends upon
kindness rather than upon punishment.”

Earle had argued this matter many times with himself, and he felt that
he was doing perfectly right.

“If suffering is any penalty for sin,” he continued, “he has paid it,
for he was fearfully wounded. I fully believe, if he had escaped
unharmed from the bullet, and been arrested, convicted and sentenced, he
would have grown more hardened and desperate, and been prepared for
almost any evil upon the expiration of his term. But laid upon a bed of
sickness, with some one to care for him and treat him as if he was a
human being, he has had opportunity to think as he has never thought
before. As Mr. Dalton said to-day, ‘things look very different to a man
when he fears that life is slipping from his grasp than they do when he
is in the full vigor of life,’ and I think Tom Drake realized that, if
ever a man did. He was not easily won—he was suspicious of me and my
motives for a long time, but when he found that I would take no measures
against him he was completely staggered; and the shock which his
hitherto benumbed conscience thus received restored it to something like
its normal condition. I believe he will do well, and, as long as he
does, I shall give him my support and confidence.”

“But didn’t you feel the least bit triumphant when he lay there
powerless before you?” Editha asked.

“I cannot say that I did not experience a sense of satisfaction in
knowing that at last one so deserving of justice and so steeped in crime
had been arrested in his career. But my first thought was, ‘Are my hands
stained with the life-blood of a fellow-being?’ It was a great relief
when I discovered that he was not mortally wounded, but my anxiety
returned when he was so sick and we thought he would die.”

“It was a great care for you, Earle, and a noble thing for you to do
after suffering all you have on his account,” Editha said, her heart
swelling with pride of her noble lover.

“You know the more care any one occasions us the more interest we
naturally feel in that one,” he answered, smiling at her praise; “and so
it was in this case. I saw the man was capable of better things; he is
naturally smart, and I longed to save him despite the injury he had done
me and others. If there was one thing harder than all the rest for me to
forgive, it was his treatment of you. Will it be agreeable to you,
dearest, to see him about the place when we go home?” he asked, seeing
the shiver which crept involuntarily over her at the mention of the
past.

Editha flushed involuntarily at the mention of going “home,” but she
said, with gentle gravity:

“No, Earle; if we can save him, I can conquer the repugnance that I have
hitherto felt for him; but, as I remember him, he seems perfectly
hideous to me.”

“He does not look nearly so repulsive since his sickness; he is, of
course, much thinner and more refined in appearance, while his
expression is wholly changed.”

“Whether he is changed or not, I will join you heart and hand in any
good thing you may wish to do for him,” she said, heartily.

“What a gentle mistress Wycliffe will have,” Earle said, fondly; “and
you will not refuse to go back with me this time?”

“No, Earle; only it must not be at present, you know,” she returned,
with some sadness.

“I do know, dear, and of course shall remain as long as Mr. Dalton may
need either you or me; but, oh! my darling, you cannot tell how thankful
I am that I am not doomed to spend my life in gloom and alone;
everything has looked so dreary and desolate to me until to-day.”

Editha did not reply, but she laid her cheek against his in mute
sympathy, and with a sigh that told him she had also experienced
something of the desolateness of which he spoke.

“You have not seen Mr. Tressalia yet, I suppose?” she said, after a few
minutes of silence.

“No, dear, I have not seen him since the day I had such a struggle with
my selfishness, and sent him hither to win you and be happy if he
could.”

His arm tightened around the slight form at his side as he said this,
and Editha knew how he must have suffered in that struggle to renounce
her so utterly.

“Did _you_ send him to me, Earle?” she asked, with a startled look.

“Yes, dear; Paul Tressalia is one of earth’s noblest men. I believed you
lost to me forever. You once told me if there had been no Earle Wayne in
the world, you might have loved him. I wanted you to be happy—I wanted
him to know something of the comfort of life, and I knew of no one whom
I would rather have win a sister of mine than him. It was a miserable
kind of an arrangement all round, but I knew of nothing better.”

Earle spoke with a tinge of the bitterness he had experienced at the
time, as if even the memory of it was exceedingly painful.

“Dear Earle, you might have known it could not be,” she whispered,
sliding one hand into his and dropping her flushed face upon his
shoulder.

“Never—not even if our relations had remained as we have believed them
to be?”

“Never,” she replied, decidedly. “I _could_ not change, even though I
believed I was sinning every day of my life, and I would not wrong him
by accepting his love when I had none to give him in return.”

“Editha, my beloved, I should crown you with passionflowers and
snow-drops for your devotion and faithfulness,” Earle breathed, in low,
intense tones, and deeply moved by her confession.

“Hush!” she said, releasing herself from his encircling arms, her face
like a carnation; “there is the bell—that is Mr. Tressalia; he has heard
of the arrival of a steamer, and has come to see if you are here;” and
she arose to go, feeling that she could not be present while they met.

Earle arose, too, surmising her thought, but gently detained her a
moment longer.

“My love—my Editha—my ‘_happiness_,’ you have not yet told me that you
are glad to be my wife, and go home with me to Wycliffe; let me hear you
say it once,” he pleaded, with grave earnestness, as he studied the
beautiful face intently.

“You know that I am glad, Earle;” and the clear, truthful eyes were
raised to his with a look that satisfied him, though the conscious
crimson dyed all her fair face.

“And there will be no regret at leaving your native land?” he persisted,
his whole being thrilling with the consciousness of her pure love.

“Not one, save the lonely graves I shall leave behind and would like to
visit occasionally,” she murmured, with a starting tear, as she thought
of Richard Forrester and his sister sleeping so quietly side by side in
Greenwood, and of that other grave that must soon be made beside them.

Earle lifted the sweet face and kissed the tremulous lips with infinite
tenderness, then releasing her, she slipped from the room by one door as
Paul Tressalia entered by another.

The greeting of the two young men was cordial and friendly, although
each felt a thrill of pain as they clasped hands and realized all that
that meeting meant to them.

Each knew that as soon as Mr. Dalton should be laid away Earle would
claim Editha as his wife, and take her back to reign in the home of his
ancestors, where, doubtless, a life of joy, such as falls to the lot of
few, would be spent.

But Paul Tressalia was not a man to sit weakly down and pine for what he
could not have.

Since that day when he had pleaded his suit for the last time with
Editha, and she had in her despair cried out for a friend, strong and
true, he had bravely set himself to work to conquer the hopeless passion
in his heart, and he had already learned to look upon his future with a
calmness at which he himself at times was surprised.

He came to-day as both Earle’s and Editha’s tried and trusted friend,
and the congratulations which he tendered the former had a ring of
heartiness in them not to be questioned for a moment.




                             CHAPTER XLVIII
                        EARLE’S BEAUTIFUL THEORY


Sumner Dalton lingered only a little more than a week after Earle’s
arrival.

But with his mind relieved of the burden of revenge so long cherished,
and of the secret which had threatened to ruin Editha’s life—with his
hate confessed, and his evil passions burned out—he grew quieter and
more at ease, even though he knew that he must enter the dark valley
very soon.

He had talked with Earle once again regarding the past, seeming anxious
to know something of Marion’s last days, and appeared much agitated
when, with as little reflection upon him as possible, he gave a short
account of her sorrowful, secluded life, and her calm resignation in the
hour of death.

Earle knew that he longed to be assured of his forgiveness for the
bitter wrongs of which he had been guilty, and yet deemed it a mockery
to crave it; but he knew that it would comfort him inexpressibly, and he
told him one day that he accorded it fully and freely, and begged him to
seek pardon also from a higher source.

Whether he did or not they never knew, for he avoided referring to
anything that bore upon the past from that time; but he grew
comparatively peaceful, and they hoped that he had obtained mercy from
the divine Healer of souls.

He seemed more content when Earle was in his room, and lay and watched
him by the hour, a wistful look in his sunken eyes, as if all too late
he realized what a crown to his life such a son would have been.

Together Earle and Editha watched beside him, until the flame of life
burned down to its socket and then went out, and with it every spark of
feeling (save that of regret for a life that seemed to have been so
spent in vain) expired from their hearts also.

They laid him beside his wife, and placed above him a costly marble
shaft, simply inscribed with his name, age, and the date of his death.
What more could they do?

Unloving and unloved he had lived, unlamented he had died, without one
grand or noble act to crown his life or to be remembered when he was
gone.

What a record! and sad enough for tears “such as angels weep.”

Editha and her mother went together to Richard Forrester’s grave—Editha
with a strange, sad yearning for the father she had never known as such
while he lived, and madam with a heart filled with deep regret for the
past, and for the noble life she had so saddened by one rash act.

But each felt, as they turned away from the sacred spot, that could he
have spoken, he would have blessed them both, and rejoiced with them in
their new-found joy and reunion.

                  *       *       *       *       *

Three weeks later there was a quiet wedding one morning in the fine old
church where Editha had been wont to attend since her earliest
remembrance.

Notwithstanding that Editha had desired everything done with as little
ostentation as possible, on account of their recent bereavement, yet the
church had been elegantly decorated by her numerous friends, many of
whom were present, with no small degree of curiosity, to witness the
ceremony that made her the Marchioness of Wycliffe.

The wedding breakfast was a very informal affair, to which only her most
intimate friends had been bidden.

Of course Mr. Felton, the trusty lawyer, was among these, and with him a
quiet, matronly woman, whom he had found thus late in life to share the
remainder of his journey; and into his hands Editha’s beautiful home was
to pass upon her departure for England.

John Loker’s wife and daughter, both neatly and tastefully clad, were
also among the favored guests; and, looking into their cheerful
countenances, one would scarce have recognized the wretched beings whom
Editha had visited on that memorable night two years previous.

The fair bride’s wedding robes were of heavy white crape, with satin
facings, while the mist-like vail which floated from her golden hair was
fastened with fragrant lilies of the valley and delicate, feathery
cypress vine.

“So appropriate under the circumstances,” murmured the admiring friends
who had gathered to do honor to the occasion; and indeed the
fair-haired, blue-eyed girl had never looked more lovely than when she
stood at the altar in her pure white raiment, and plighted her vows to
the one to whom she had been so true through the dark hours of adversity
as well as in prosperity.

She had loved him while yet a poor boy serving in her father’s office;
she had loved and bravely defended him when he stood before the judge
and was unjustly condemned, and during the three weary years that
followed; and the depth of that love she testified when she almost
sacrificed her life to preserve his character from dishonor. Not less
did she love him now, as he stood by her side, grand noble, and honored
by all, as the Marquis of Wycliffe and Viscount Wayne, and possessor of
a proud inheritance—an old and honored name.

But she would have loved him just as fondly, she would have wedded him
just as proudly, had he been simple Earle Wayne, without a dollar in his
pocket or a foot of land, save what his own strong right arm had won for
himself.

It was the noble spirit, the stainless character, the firm, unwavering
rectitude and honor that had won her heart’s devotion; and yet his
position and wealth were not valueless in her sight; they were
accessories by which they would be enabled to make more perfect and
useful the life which God had given them.

“If I live I mean to make my life foursquare,” he had said, with quiet
determination, when he had come to her from his weary prison life; and
she had never forgotten the resolute words—they had rung in her ears
ever since like a watch-word. And to-day, as she stood at his side and
spoke those solemn vows, she thought of them again, and she prayed that
together they might live a life so perfect and complete that it should
be like that “golden city whose length, and breath, and height were
equal.”

“So exceedingly romantic. Who would have thought it?” was the comment of
not a few who had been rehearsing the incidents of the past six or seven
years, but were interrupted as the distinguished bridal party passed up
the broad aisle to the altar.

Gustave Sylvester was to give away the bride, while Madam Forrester,
very handsome, in mauve-colored moire, Spanish lace, and diamonds, came
in on the arm of Paul Tressalia, who was by no means the least
distinguished-looking one of the party, though his face might have been
thought much too pale and stern for a wedding.

Earle met them at the altar, very quiet and self-possessed, but with a
luminous light in his eyes that told of the depth of the joy in his
heart.

After the wedding breakfast this party of five bade a long farewell to
their guests and friends, and departed for the steamer that was to bear
them to their beautiful home on England’s shores.

                  *       *       *       *       *

Three years have passed, and we will take just one peep at the domestic
life at Wycliffe before we, too, part with them for all time.

The great mansion, the pride of all the country around, with its wide
wings on either side, stands on a slight eminence, and is grand and
imposing in appearance.

It was built in the Tudor style of architecture, with massive carvings
and ornamentations, and was a home of which any man, however great,
might have been proud.

An extensive lawn spread out in front, and was decorated here and there
with patches and borders of landscape gardening, beautiful shrubbery,
fountains, and statuary, while beyond and to the right of this was the
park, with its noble trees, its deer and game.

Magnificent beeches, elms, and maples spread their lofty, protecting
arms above and around the mansion, lending a delightful shade, and
making a pleasing contrast with the brown-stone of the dwelling.

Beneath one of these trees there might have been seen, on a certain
summer’s day, an exceedingly attractive group, and, to all appearances,
a very happy one also.

Upon a graceful rustic seat there are sitting two beautiful women.

Editha, fair and lovely as of old, no cloud to dim the blue of her sunny
eyes, no care or trouble having left a line on her white brow. She is a
trifle more matronly in her appearance, has a bit more of dignity,
perhaps, but is otherwise unchanged. Her companion is a lady of perhaps
thirty-two or three years, whose face impresses one at once with its
expression of sweetness and gentleness. It is a face that we have seen
before, and that once seen could never be forgotten.

The lady is none other than the one we have known as Miss Isabelle
Grafton, the daughter of Bishop Grafton, that good old man who married
Earle’s mother.

Standing behind her, his eyes resting with peculiar fondness upon her
face, is a noble-appearing man. It is Paul Tressalia, her husband of a
few months.

Madam’s prophecy had come true, and he had at last found the “woman whom
he should marry,” and they are as quietly, calmly happy as they could
ever hope to be in this world, neither feeling, perhaps, the fervor of a
first passion, but loving earnestly and with an enduring affection that
would grow riper with every year.

It was this gentle woman’s face that had come, unbidden, to Paul
Tressalia’s mind on that day when madam had told him that he would yet
find one good and true who would fill the wants of his nature better
than Editha could ever do.

A year after his return to England they had met again; each had
attracted the other, and out of it had grown the union, which bade fair
to be a most happy one.

At Editha’s feet there is playing a dark-eyed, noble-looking boy of two
years—little Paul, the future Marquis of Wycliffe; while an old lady, of
perhaps sixty, sits at a respectful distance and watches with her heart
in her eyes his every movement, lest he should annoy “my lady” with his
play and his constant prattle. This latter is Tom Drake’s mother. A
short distance away there paces back and forth under the trees a
white-aproned, white-capped nurse, with a fair-haired, blue-eyed little
girl in her arms—the “small Lady Isabelle” she is called, being as yet
only three months old, and of very tiny though perfect proportions.

The only remaining one of this group—Madam Forrester—reclines in a chair
a little in the background. She is as handsome and attractive as ever,
with a tranquil joy in her face that bespeaks very little to wish for
even in this world. Her white shapely hands are busied with some dainty
piece of work destined to grace the “small ladyship,” who is her
particular pride and comfort, while every now and then she joins in the
conversation carried on chiefly by Editha and Paul Tressalia and his
wife.

Down the broad drive-way at some distance, and approaching slowly, are
two men.

One glance is sufficient to tell us which is Earle—there is no mistaking
his grand proportions, his upright form, with its noble head setting
square and firm and with manly dignity upon his broad shoulders.

He is evidently giving some directions to his companion, for they stop
every now and then while Earle points here and there, and then resumes
his way.

As they draw nearer the group under the beech, it is noticeable that his
companion is slightly lame, and as they reach the spot he lifts his hat
respectfully to Editha, smiles fondly into the eyes of the old lady who
is watching Earle’s boy, and then passes on.

It is none other than Tom Drake, once the midnight robber and abductor.

Before Earle’s return he was able to be about once more, and had made
himself acquainted with much pertaining to the estate.

He had worked diligently and with great interest over the accounts Earle
had left him, and unheeding the admonitions of his mother, who had
arrived a few days after his departure, he refused to leave them until
every figure was straightened.

He had taken it upon himself to superintend the decorations of the
mansion and grounds, when Earle had telegraphed on what day he should
arrive at Wycliffe with his bride, and a scene of almost bewildering
beauty greeted their home-coming.

It was made a day of general rejoicing, the tenantry, servants, and
laborers all turning out in gala attire to give them a glorious
reception and welcome to Wycliffe.

But Tom Drake had remained in the background while all others went
forward to tender their good wishes and congratulations, and it was not
until Earle asked particularly for him that he ventured to present
himself before those two, whose lives he had done so much to render
miserable. Then he came modestly forward, bearing a magnificent bouquet
and wreath in his hand.

The former composed entirely of box, white bell-flowers, and blue
violets, and embodying the sentiments, constancy, gratitude, and
faithfulness, he placed in Earle’s hand, wishing him “long life and
happiness.” The wreath, a marvel of delicate beauty, was made of the
finest leaves of yew tree and graceful clusters of pure white wisteria,
the leaves signifying sorrow for the past, the flowers “Welcome, fair
stranger.”

This Tom Drake laid at the feet of Editha, with a few murmured words of
greeting, made a low obeisance, and then went away.

Both Earle and his wife were surprised at this manifestation of feeling,
and the delicate manner in which it was expressed; and they prized these
simple offerings as highly as any of the rich gifts that they had
received from their numerous wealthy friends, on account of the emotions
which had prompted them and which they had been quick to read and
appreciate.

Earle was so pleased with his work upon the tangled accounts, and the
interest he manifested in things generally, that he allowed him in the
future to assist the steward, who was quite old, and, upon the death of
that individual, which occurred about two years after their return, Tom
was so well versed in all his duties, and had proved himself so faithful
and trustworthy, that he elected him as his successor. He had lost very
much of the ruffian-like appearance that had made him so repulsive to
Editha, and was now very quiet and unostentatious in his manner.

The unsightly scar, of course, still remained upon his face, but his
expression told of a firm resolve to conquer himself and become the man
that Earle desired.

He was lame in the limb that had been wounded, and probably always would
be, but Earle never looks at him without a thrill of thankfulness that
he was impressed to pursue the course that he has with him, and believes
him to be a lasting monument to the power of kindness.

Tom and his mother live in a pretty cottage, covered with climbing
woodbine and clematis, and situated only a short distance from the
mansion.

Both mother and son idolize my lady, who is kind and gracious to them,
and old Mrs. Drake is often seen, as to-day, caring for Earle’s noble
boy, “the like of which,” she fondly declares, “was never born before.”

Editha arose as Earle approached, the smile upon her lips and the tender
light in her eyes bespeaking the glad welcome in her heart.

“You are late, dear,” she said, slipping her white hand within his arm.

“A little; but you have plenty of pleasant company,” Earle replied, with
a smile, as his eyes wandered over the group.

The look that the fair wife flashed up at him from her lovely eyes
plainly told him that no company, however pleasant, was quite like
his—no group complete to her without him.

Earle stooped and picked up his boy, which had toddled to his side, and
gave him a toss on high that made the little fellow clap his hands with
delight, and the air rang with his happy, childish laughter.

“Earle, I have been trying to explain to Isabelle your theory of the
golden city,” said Editha, when Master Paul had become quiet once more;
“but I’ve only made a bungle of it, and you will have to interpret
yourself.”

“I presume Mrs. Tressalia would not agree with me in my ideas regarding
the revelation,” Earle said, with a smile, as he turned to that lady.
“There is so much that seems visionary and mystical in it, that none of
us can fully understand or explain it, but _whatever_ lessons we may
draw from it can do us no harm. As for the ‘city which lieth foursquare,
whose length, breadth, and height are equal,’ it seems to _me_ more like
the symbol of a perfected life than like the description of a literal
city.”

“I had never thought of it in that light before,” Mrs. Tressalia said,
thoughtfully.

“If we make the height and breath of our life equal with its length, it
cannot fail to be perfect and of faultless symmetry, can it?” asked the
young marquis.

“What constitutes the height and breadth of a life as you express it?”
Mrs. Tressalia queried.

“The height,” Earle replied, his eyes resting earnestly on the far-off
purple and crimson clouds of the western sky, as if beyond them he could
almost distinguish that golden symbol of which he was speaking—“the
height is attained only by a continued reaching upward of the finite for
the infinite; the breadth, by the constant practice of that divine
charity or love and self-denial as taught by the Man of Sorrows while He
dwelt on earth—at least, this is my idea of it. This aspiration after
holiness, this daily practice of the divine commands, if followed as
long as one lives, cannot fail to make his being one of faultless
symmetry in the end, and fit to be measured by the ‘golden reed of the
angel.’”

“Yours is a beautiful theory,” Mrs. Tressalia said, a mist gathering in
her soft eyes; “and yet, after all, I do not feel that I can quite agree
with you. I have always believed that chapter of revelation describes
the heavenly city in which we are to dwell when we leave this earth. It
is a more tangible idea to me, and I think I like it better than your
theory on that account.”

“You believe in the literal city, pure and holy; I in a state or
existence of a like nature. Whichever is the correct belief, it cannot
fail of attaining one and the same result—eternal happiness,” Earle
said, with his rare smile.

“That is true; but if you do not believe in the literal city, what do
you make the foundations, ‘garnished with precious stones,’ to mean?”

Mrs. Tressalia was deeply interested in his ideas, even if she did not
fully agree with them.

“I fear if I should try to explain all my theory regarding it, it would
involve us in an endless discussion,” Earle said. “The garnishing of
precious stones _may_ mean the cultivation of those many virtues spoken
of by the apostle Paul—such as love, peace, long suffering, gentleness,
etc. Surely those are precious jewels that every one would like to
possess.”

“Sonny boy, if _you_ square _your_ life by your father’s rule, you’ll
not lack for symmetry in the sight of God when you come into the ‘golden
city,’” muttered Tom Drake’s mother, with fast-dropping tears, as she
bent fondly over little Paul, whom she had taken from his father’s arms.
Earle smiled good-naturedly as he caught the low-spoken words, for he
knew that in the grateful old creature’s eyes he lacked no good thing in
all the catalogue of virtues.

“That is so,” said Paul Tressalia, who had also heard her; “and whether
Earle’s theory is the correct one or not, it can never harm one to put
it in practice, particularly if it attains to that nobility which has
become so rooted and grounded in his character,” and the look of
affectionate admiration which he bestowed upon his kinsman testified to
the heartiness of his words.

We cannot follow them further, but we have learned enough to tell us
something of the principles of goodness and purity which dwelt in that
charming household, and which could not fail to ennoble and elevate all
by whom they were surrounded.

Who, like Earle Wayne, would not like to make his life foursquare? Who,
although he may never attain to the worldly greatness which fell to his
life, would not seek to attain that better nobility of character, which,
when measured by the “golden reed of the angel,” will be found of
faultless symmetry, like the city whose “length, and breadth, and height
are equal?”

              What wouldst thou of life?
              Love, purity, freedom from strife;
              Bless’d virtues, in which heaven is rife;
              “The victor’s crown, the conqueror’s meed,”
              The perfect measure of the Golden Reed.


                                THE END.

------------------------------------------------------------------------




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------------------------------------------------------------------------




                          TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES


 1. P. 45, changed “he was a man that could fail to command everywhere
      respect and admiration” to “he was a man that could not fail to
      command everywhere respect and admiration”.
 2. Silently corrected obvious typographical errors and variations in
      spelling.
 3. Retained archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings as printed.
 4. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.