CHAPTER XXXI
A STORMY INTERVIEW
The consternation that Earle and the officers experienced when they discovered that both Tom Drake and his accomplice had escaped, can be better imagined than described. But there was no help for it; the former had undoubtedly had burglars’ instruments in his possession, and while Editha was being removed and attended to, had picked the lock upon the door where he was confined, and then released his companion in mischief and fled.
The news that Miss Dalton was at last found, with many of the circumstances attending her discovery, spread like wildfire, and soon brought numerous friends and acquaintances to see and congratulate her upon the happy event.
Mr. Felton was among the first, and the old gentleman appeared as rejoiced to see her as if she had been his own child, and was enthusiastic in his praises of her courage and bravery in refusing to give up the precious document that could alone restore Earle his honor.
Mr. Dalton was immediately telegraphed to, and three days later he, also, made his appearance in her room at the hotel.
She had improved very rapidly during those three days, and though she was still exceedingly weak and nervous, starting at the lightest noise, the wild light returning to her eyes, yet the color was beginning to return to her cheeks and lips, the music to her voice, and the old look of brightness to her face.
Mr. Dalton greeted Editha with some show of fondness, but he appeared anything but pleased when he heard of Earle’s return, and that it was through his instrumentality that she obtained her release, and almost immediately his manner began to assume its former coolness toward her. But Miss Dalton was not a daughter to be slighted by any means when she had such a snug fortune of her own, and it now began to be whispered quite generally that Mr. Dalton had been exceedingly unfortunate in some of his speculations, and that it was a very fine thing that he could have her income to fall back upon during this rainy day.
While he was not exactly uncivil or aggressive in his treatment of Earle, yet he testified his displeasure at his presence by sullen looks, sarcasm, and sneers, until Earle more than once lost patience, and would have had it out with him had he not feared that any trouble would be a serious injury to Editha in her weak state.
But although he was very forbearing and always courteous, yet he never seemed to gain any ground with his enemy, and at last resolved to bring matters to a crisis.
He called upon Mr. Dalton one morning in his own room and formally proposed for Editha’s hand in marriage. Of course, he had anticipated a refusal, and of course, he got it.
“I think, Mr. Dalton,” he said, not at all disconcerted, “that if you will listen while I explain to you something of the change that has occurred in my prospects during the last few months, you will not only be willing to waive all your objections but give us both your blessing, instead of so curt a refusal.”
Mr. Dalton sneered visibly at this; indeed his face was gradually acquiring a habitual sneer, as if things generally were disturbing his tranquillity.
“Ahem! Mr. Wayne, permit me to say that no change, of whatever nature, in your prospects would affect my decision. You cannot marry Miss Dalton.”
“But, sir, remember that no stain rests upon my name now. I am free from every taint.”
“Indeed! I am glad that you are so happy as to think so,” he returned, satirically.
Earle flushed, but, controlling his indignation, he returned:
“I not only think so but all the world will be obliged to acknowledge it very soon, as I have already taken measures to have John Loker’s confession made public.”
“What the world may think does not concern me at all; you will please consider my answer as final and unalterable;” and he waived his hand as if to dismiss the subject entirely.
Again the hot blood rushed to Earle’s very forehead, and it was all he could do not to let his temper fly.
“Will you please to give me some reason for what seems to me an unreasonable refusal?” he asked, quietly; then, after an instant’s thought, he added. “I have lately fallen heir to quite a handsome property, and can place Miss Dalton in a position befitting her worth.”
“I regret, for your sake, that I am unable to confer the favor requested upon one so noble and heir to such brilliant prospects; but even were it possible, allow me to ask what name you could bestow upon Miss Dalton?” and the look accompanying this question was so cunning and full of malice that for a moment Earle was startled.
“The woman I wed will never have cause to blush for the name she bears, sir,” he replied, with an indignant flush, and wondering if it was possible that Mr. Dalton could know aught concerning his previous history.
“Ah, indeed!” was the sarcastic reply. “I trust—I hope truly that you may find one worthy to bear it. Miss Dalton cannot. I decline that honor for her.”
“Miss Dalton is of age, I believe, sir,” Earle said, very quietly, but the words were rather ominous.
“Miss Dalton is about twenty-two, Mr.—ah—Wayne.”
Why was it, Earle wondered, that Mr. Dalton almost always addressed him in this peculiar way now, with a pause, an interjection, and that strange emphasis on his last name?
But he replied to his last remark with a dignity that became him well:
“Then, sir, we will leave the question for her to decide, and abide by her verdict. I desired to render you all due courtesy, but, of course, you are as well aware as I that my seeking your approval was a mere matter of form. Good morning, sir.”
“Good morning,” Mr. Dalton returned, with a mocking bow, and saw him depart with a sinister smile and an almost fiendish chuckle.
Earle immediately sought Editha and communicated the result of the interview to her.
“I shall not ask you to run away with me, my darling,” he said, with a fond smile, “for I must marry my wife in an honorable way. Neither shall I use any arguments to try to persuade you to defy your father and marry me openly. I shall leave it entirely with you. It must be just as your own heart dictates. Editha, you must decide this matter for yourself and me.”
“Oh, Earle, it is hard,” she said; “my heart tells me that I belong to you, while a feeling of pity and affection prompts me to consider, as far as is right, the feelings and wishes of my father. I cannot understand him; he is so changed since Mamma and Uncle Richard died, I sometimes fear that his mind is affected.”
Earle thought that his mind was affected decidedly, being possessed with an evil spirit of some kind.
“An impassable barrier seems to have arisen between us,” Editha continued, sadly; “and he has taken such an unaccountable dislike to you that it seems very strange to me. Let me think it all over for one night, Earle. Come to me tomorrow at this time and you shall have my answer.”
Earle complied with her request and left her, feeling sad and depressed himself.
He knew that he ought to return immediately to Wycliffe. He had been gone a long time now and was trespassing more than he liked upon Mr. Tressalia’s good nature, but he did not feel as if he could even think of such a thing as returning and leaving Editha behind.
The more he considered the matter the more inexplicable Mr. Dalton’s fierce spite against him appeared. It seemed so almost childishly unreasonable that he would not even listen while he told him of his prospects. He seemed to talk as if he was aware of something very shameful and degrading connected with him, and yet he could not understand how Mr. Dalton, here in America, could possibly know aught of his previous history, or the shadow of shame that had hung over his early life.
Then, too, his declaring that “no change of whatever nature” in his prospects could affect his answer seemed to imply some deep and bitter personal hatred that, not being conscious of ever having done him an injury, he could not fathom.
“It surely could not be,” he thought, “because Richard Forrester had so kindly remembered him at the time of his death, and it was a petty feeling of jealousy.”
He had not touched the money which Editha had so nobly insisted upon investing for him. It still lay accumulating in the bank and would remain there until the end of time for any use that he would make of it.
And so, after perplexing his brain over the matter, only to become more deeply puzzled, he resolved to let it drop, hoping that everything would come out right in the end.
Notwithstanding Mr. Dalton’s sarcastic and almost insulting language and manner to him, Earle did not cherish the least feeling of ill-will toward him.
At the time a feeling of indignation and impatience at his injustice would momentarily arouse his hot blood, but this soon passed, and he sincerely pitied him for being the slave of such unholy passions as he manifested.
The next morning, feeling very uneasy and apprehensive of he knew not what, he called, as Editha had desired.
He could not shake off the feeling that he was about to meet some dreadful impending fate; it seemed almost as if a voiceless, wordless warning was impressing him, and he found himself involuntarily repeating the words of one who said:
“Often do the spirits
Of great events stride on before the events,
And in today already walks tomorrow.”
He found Editha calm, but looking weary and very sad, as if the struggle of deciding had been too much for her strength.
She came and went toward him, looking so pale that she seemed more like some beautiful spirit about to fade from his sight than a woman whom he longed to call “wife.”
“I have decided, Earle,” she said, the tears shining in her eyes as she held out both hands to him in greeting.
He took them and drew her toward him, searching her fair face with his anxious eyes.
“My darling!” he said, in low, intense pleading tones.
“I am going with you,” she whispered; and his arms instantly encircled her, a low-spoken thanksgiving and blessing falling from his lips, the burden rolling from his heart.
“Papa is already so estranged from me,” she continued, “that I know I should be miserable to let you go back alone; you would be very unhappy also.”
The closer clasp of the arms infolding her confirmed the truth of her statements and told her how very dear she was to him.
The golden head drooped and rested trustfully against his shoulder, and she went on:
“Perhaps, when he sees how determined I am, he may relent and consent to go with us. At all events, I feel that I have no right to ruin both our lives, and yield to an unreasonable command of his.”
Before Earle could reply, Mr. Dalton himself entered the room.
“Ah! quite an affecting tableau,” he said, with a disagreeable sneer; “it seems to be my privilege to—to have the benefit of these interesting scenes.”
His eyes glittered with anger as they rested upon Earle, but he continued, speaking to Editha:
“I must beg pardon for the intrusion; I merely came to say that I want you to be ready to go to Newport next week.”
Editha flushed.
He had never spoken quite so peremptorily to her before; he had been more willing to consult her convenience and pleasure, more especially since he had in a measure been dependent upon her income to supply his own wants.
She had seen, too, the look of malignant hatred that he had cast upon Earle, and her spirit arose in rebellion against it.
She had quietly withdrawn from her lover’s embrace when the door opened but remained standing by his side.
“Papa, I—I am not going to Newport this summer,” she said, with outward calmness; but Earle could almost feel her tremble, and his heart ached for her, in the prospect of the conflict that he knew must come.
“Not going to Newport!” Mr. Dalton said, with raised eyebrows and well-feigned surprise. “Who ever heard of such a thing as our not going to Newport during the summer? Of course you are going to Newport, Editha; I could not think of leaving you at home alone, and—I should be so exceedingly lonesome;” and he shot a cunning glance at the young couple, that disagreeable sneer still upon his lips.
“Papa, I am really sorry if you will be lonely—” began Editha, a tremble in her voice, when Earle quietly laid his hand upon hers and stopped her.
“Mr. Dalton,” he said, in a cold, business-like tone, “we may as well come to the point and have this matter settled once and for all. Editha has already decided to return with me to Europe as my wife.”
Instead of a blaze of anger, as he had expected, Mr. Dalton chuckled audibly, and gleefully rubbed his hands together, as if this were really a delightful piece of news to him.
But he took no more notice of Earle than if he had not been there. Instead, he again addressed himself to Editha:
“My dear, did I understand that last statement of Mr.—ah—Wayne’s correctly?”
“You did, Papa,” she answered, but it was a great effort for her to utter the three short words.
“You have decided to spend your future in Europe?”
“Yes, sir.”
She ventured to glance at him. She could understand neither his tone nor his mood.
“You will leave your native land and go with a stranger to a foreign country?”
“Earle is no stranger, Papa,” she said, quickly; “we have known him for years, and surely you ought to be willing to trust me with one so good and true as he is.”
“So good and true!” he repeated, mockingly. “You are exceedingly fond of Mr. Wayne?”
“Yes, sir, I am,” Editha now said, boldly, and turning her flashing eyes full upon him.
Her indignation was rising—her patience giving out under his scathing sarcasm.
“Mr. Wayne ought to be a happy man—he doubtless is a happy man in having so brave and fair a champion. It is so beautiful to witness such entire trust and confidence—such fervent affection. My dear, you can go to Europe with Mr. Wayne if you choose, I suppose, seeing that you have attained your majority, as he has once hinted to me, but—you cannot as his wife!”
The whole sentence was spoken with great apparent calmness and deliberation, but his eyes glowed like a burning flame upon the lovers standing so proudly side by side.
“If my majority gives me the right to choose upon one point, it does upon the other also, I suppose,” she returned, coldly.
“Oh, no, my dear, you are entirely mistaken there,” returned Mr. Dalton, with aggravating affability, and darting a fiery glance at Earle.
“Papa, I do not understand you in this mood at all,” Editha said, with some hauteur; “but I will say, once and for all, that I think you are exceedingly unkind, as well as unreasonable. What possible objection can you have to Earle from a moral point of view?”
A gleam of malicious amusement flashed over his face as he answered:
“You must excuse me, Editha, but—really—I should not presume to set myself up as a judge upon Mr.—ah—Wayne’s morals—nor indeed upon the morals of anyone.”
“Then I do not consider that you have any right, for a mere prejudice, to ruin both his life and mine—our united happiness depends upon this union; and, Papa, I shall marry Mr. Wayne—if not with your consent, then without it,” she concluded, firmly.
“My dear, allow me to repeat, you cannot marry Mr. Wayne.”
“And I repeat that I shall do so.”
Mr. Dalton chuckled again.
“Mr. Wayne will, I suppose, be very proud to bestow his name upon you,” he said, significantly.
“Allow me to ask what you mean to insinuate by that assertion?” Earle here interposed, flushing deeply.
“Wayne is a name that one might well be proud of if one had a right to it,” he answered, maliciously.
“And you mean me to understand that you think I have no right to it?”
“I have my doubts upon the matter.”
“You think I am an impostor—that I have been seeking Miss Dalton’s affections under false pretensions—under an assumed name?” Earle demanded, with dignity.
“I have had some such idea; yes,” Mr. Dalton answered, with a strange smile.
“Mr. Dalton, what do you mean? What do you really know about me?”
Mr. Dalton replied only by a low laugh, and Earle continued, with some excitement:
“My name is Earle Wayne—it is the name that my mother gave to me upon my birth, and I will now say—”
“Your mother!” he interrupted, and a scornful, bitter laugh rang out, making both his listeners shudder, it was so fiendishly unnatural.
“Papa, why do you talk like this? Why are you so prejudiced against Earle?” Editha burst forth, unable to bear any more.
“‘Prejudice’ is a very mild term, Editha,” he replied with glittering eyes.
“What reason have you for hating him, then?” she cried, passionately.
“I have the very best reason in the world, according to my judgment, for hating not only him, but all that ever belonged to him,” Mr. Dalton answered, with deliberate emphasis.
“Sir,” exclaimed Earle, in startled surprise, “what do you know about me, or those belonging to me? and why do you still persist in saying that Miss Dalton cannot be my wife when she has distinctly stated that she has decided the matter? What possible barrier can there be to our union save the petty spite you so ignobly manifest toward me?”
Mr. Dalton laughed again at this—a low, mocking laugh—and rubbed his hands in sardonic glee, while Earle regarded him in amazed perplexity, and Editha wondered if her father was not losing his mind that he should act thus.
“Does it surprise you, young man, that I appear to have some knowledge of you? and shall I tell you, Editha Dalton, why you can never become his wife?” he asked, and Editha shivered and grew white at his ominous words. “You know,” he continued, still addressing her, “that I never tolerate or forgive opposition from anyone—never forgive either a fancied or a real wrong. Mine is a peculiar temperament, I know, yet I am what I am, and those who foil or oppose me must take the consequences. I have never loved your devoted admirer, and since I have discovered his secret—”
“Secret!” breathed both his listeners, in surprise.
“Yes, secret. Had you no secret when you came to Richard Forrester?” demanded Mr. Dalton of Earle, and gnawing his lip savagely.
“Yes, I own that I had,” Earle answered, with a sigh; “but—”
“But a smooth tongue and lying lips will gloss almost anything over,” his enemy interrupted, sneeringly.
“Papa, you are fearfully unjust. Earle is the soul of truth,” Editha cried, indignantly, adding: “What if he had a secret?—he had a right to it, and no one should seek to pry into it. At any rate, I do not believe it is anything that affected his honor or nobility.”
“Thank you, Editha,” Earle said, gracefully. “I had a secret, but, thank Heaven, it need be a secret no longer; and if you will both listen calmly, I will explain its nature to you; I have only been waiting for a favorable opportunity to do so.”
“You hear, Editha?—he has a secret and such a secret! Shall I tell it? I think I can do so much more effectively than he. He is a —”
We will not write the horrible word that sent every bit of blood back upon Editha’s heart and made Earle speechless from astonishment and indignation.
It was uttered with a venomous hatred such as few are capable of either feeling or showing; and then, without waiting to note the effect of his words, he went on, in wild and excited tones:
“Now, my fair champion of high-toned morality, is not that a piece of news to make your ears tingle? You have dared to oppose me time and again,” he continued, with a scowl at her; “you have set aside my wishes and authority to favor him until I am determined that you shall suffer for it; and your punishment, as well as his, will be no light one. Now, what have you to say? Have I not advanced a good and sufficient reason for your not marrying him, or shall I be obliged to add another and stronger one?”
He glared at the fair girl, his whole face working with the passion that raged within him.
For a moment she could not speak.
She glanced from him to Earle, who stood very pale but calm, and with a slight curl upon his handsome lips.
For an instant he had been tempted to cast the lie in the teeth of his foe, then he decided to await Editha’s reply.
She had not been whiter on that night when he had found her in the power of Tom Drake than she was at this moment, and a weary, hunted look shone in her blue eyes.
“I do not believe it,” she said, drawing herself to her full height; “but even if it were true, it is not a sufficient reason, for the sin and shame are not his—they belong to a previous generation.”
A wild, mocking laugh burst from Mr. Dalton’s lips at this.
“Such disinterested devotion it has never been my pleasure to witness before,” he cried.
Earle’s deep-drawn sigh of gratitude and thankfulness at Editha’s reply had not been lost upon him, and it had seemed to work him up to the highest pitch of excitement.
“Mr. Dalton—” the young man began.
“Hush! will you? I’ll attend to you when I get through with her,” he said, with a gesture of authority; “this girl has got to learn that she cannot defy me with impunity. Now, miss, as I’ve driven that nail home, hadn’t I better clinch it? Shall I tell you yet more to convince you that you can never marry this nameless vagabond?” and he bent toward her until his evil face almost touched hers.
She drew back from him with an involuntary expression of disgust.
Then she said, with a strangely sinking heart and shaking voice:
“If you have anything more to tell me, please tell it quick!”
“A ‘good, and sufficient reason’ I told you I had,” he returned, very slowly and deliberately, and glancing from one to the other to mark the effect of his words. “Yes, it is; and I think you will both be obliged to acknowledge it when I tell you that Earle Wayne, as he calls himself, IS MY OWN SON!”
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