Ñ ïåðâîé ïî 20

                EARLE WAYNE’S NOBILITY


                _By_ MRS. GEORGIE SHELDON

                AUTHOR OF

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

[Illustration: logo]

                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
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.