CHAPTER XXXIV
“IS THERE NO WAY OF ESCAPE?”
Earle started at that sound. His mind was so intent on dealing with the strange man who claimed to be his father that he had not considered how his words might wound Editha, and he now blamed himself severely for having allowed these disclosures to be made in her presence. What must the poor girl have suffered as she listened and realized her own position, and all the wrong of which her father was guilty?
He had proved that her father had been legally married to his mother, consequently he, who had hitherto been regarded as a child of dishonor, was now without taint, and entitled to one of the proudest positions in the world. But in the heat and excitement of explaining all this, he had not stopped to consider that his own glory must necessarily arise out of the ruins of her life.
After Mr. Dalton had failed in his search for Marion Vance he returned to the United States, where, shortly after, he had met and married the sister of Richard Forrester, who was reputed to be quite wealthy.
Disappointment awaited him in this, however, for Miss Forrester possessed but a small sum in her own right.
But matters could not be helped, and the chagrined husband made the most of it, invested his wife’s small fortune carefully, and, by earnest attention to business, made money steadily for several years.
Report said, also, that Richard Forrester gave him a handsome lift, and it was not long before he was reputed to be the possessor of a large fortune.
But, of course, his marriage with Miss Forrester was not legal, although he had confidently believed it to be so until this very day; and Earle condemned himself for many things that he had said, after being reminded by that low moan of how much Editha had been made to suffer.
Mr. Dalton saw how it wounded him, and laughed maliciously, whereupon Earle turned upon him almost savagely.
“Do you mean me to understand that you will wound me by venting your malice upon her? Let me assure you that if I know of your willfully causing her even one moment’s unhappiness, I will have no mercy on you,” he said.
Mr. Dalton chuckled.
“You are really fond of—ah—your sister; it is really pleasant to see such unity in a family. I trust you will always be as fond of your—sister.”
He seemed to take a satanic delight in repeating the word. He knew that it fell upon both their hearts like the blow from a hammer.
“My sister! God forgive me, she is my sister, but I do not love her as such,” Earle groaned, as he wiped the cold sweat from his forehead.
This was music to Sumner Dalton’s ears, but he knew it would not do to trespass too far; so, rising, he said, with the most consummate coolness:
“Since it would not sound well for a man in your position to allow his father to suffer for the necessaries of life, I will consent to accept your offer of that ten thousand, and you can make it over to me with as little delay as possible. And now I will bid you good morning, leaving you and your sister to talk over your future prospects and comfort one another as best you can.”
With a low, echoing, mocking laugh, he left the room and those two wretched young people were alone.
In the exceeding bitterness of his soul, Earle again dropped his head upon the table, and a long, long silence ensued.
Editha lay perfectly still upon the sofa.
At last, Earle arose and went and knelt down beside her.
“Editha!” he said, and it is not possible to convey any idea of the pain crowded into the one word.
Only a low moan answered him.
“Editha,” he said again, almost wildly, “I would have saved you from this had it been possible.”
She turned her face up to him at this in speechless misery. She had shed no tears over what she had heard; the horror of it had seemed to scorch and burn them up at their very fountain. Her eyes were heavy, her face perfectly hueless, her lips parched and drawn, her hands hot and burning.
That one look of hers, so piteous and full of anguish, unmanned Earle completely, and, dropping his head upon the pillow beside hers, sob after sob broke from him.
At the sight of his suffering, woman-like, she forgot her own in a measure.
She put up her hot hand and laid it caressingly against his cheek, and cried:
“Earle—Earle—don’t! I cannot bear it if you give way so. God will help us; He will send no more upon us than He is willing to give us strength to bear. But, oh!” she added, wildly, “that I should have to call such a man father.”
“My darling, that is a sorrow that we share in common,” Earle answered, with an effort at self-control.
“I am glad Mamma is dead. I am glad Uncle Richard is dead. How could they have borne this?” Editha moaned.
“Your Uncle Richard would have counseled us what to do, dear; he would have been a help to us,” Earle replied, feeling deeply the need of such a friend as Richard Forrester would have been.
“I believe he would have killed Papa if he had lived to know of all this. I have been told that his temper was fearful when once aroused,” Editha said, with a shudder.
“He is not here, and we must take counsel of each other. My darling we have some stern facts to look in the face. All—”
His courage failed him for the moment, and it seemed as if his reason was forsaking him.
After a while, he went on:
“All our former hopes are crushed and destroyed. Oh, why were we ever permitted to love each other as we have done, only to suffer thus? But, Editha, I cannot—I do not feel that I ought to go back and leave you here with him. Will you come with me to Wycliffe and share my home—your brother’s home?”
She put him away from her with a gesture of despair.
A cry of bitterness rang through the room, and then, as if all power of self-control had deserted her, she cried out:
“No, no, NO! Earle, how can you torture me with such a proposal? Go away—hide from me—put the sea between us, until—until I can learn to love you less.”
And the poor, tired, almost bursting heart found relief in a flood of scalding tears.
Earle was glad to see her weep, though every word had been fresh torture to him. He did not check her, but only knelt by her, gently smoothing her shining hair, and wishing he could have borne all this great grief alone.
How could he bear to leave her? How could he put the ocean between them! How could he bear to let long years go by and not look upon her face, perhaps never see her again? She would not be happy with her father, he knew, after what she had learned today. She had no other friends to whom to go, and what would become of her?
She repelled the idea of making Wycliffe her home, where she would be obliged to see him every day, and strive to conquer the love which now she had no right to give him. And his own heart told him that it would be a burden too heavy for either of them to bear.
Something told him that he could never love her after the quiet fashion of a brother. His heart had gone out to her in the first strong, deep passion of his manhood, and he could no more control it than he could control the wind that blew.
All this he thought over as she lay there in the abandonment of her grief, and he knew that she had judged rightly; they must be separated, or their sorrow would wear them both out in a little while. He must go back to Wycliffe and take up his duties there, and she must choose for herself what she would do here.
Her sobs grew less violent after a while, and at last, he said, with an effort to speak calmly:
“Editha, I will do whatever you say; but it seems to me as if all the world from this hour will be palled in deepest gloom—as if nothing could ever look bright or beautiful again. I came back to you so joyous—so proud of the position that was mine to offer you; and now every hope is crushed. Oh, what shall we do? How are we to bear it?” he groaned.
“You must go away—back to England,” she said, in a shaking, weakened voice. “I cannot bear it if you stay here; neither can I go to Wycliffe. Don’t you see we could not bear that? We must live apart, and strive to forget if we can. Perhaps when long years have passed, if we live, and we have not seen each other, we may be able to love each other less.”
“God forbid! And yet the sin of it will crush me,” he cried, despairingly. “I cannot forget—I do not want to forget—I will not. Oh, Editha, why are we permitted to be tortured thus?”
“To teach us, perhaps, that earthly idols are but dust and God is supreme. He has said we must put no other in His place,” she whispered, with a solemnity that awed him.
“Have you loved me like that?” he asked.
“Hush!” she answered, with a shiver, and laying her fingers gently on his lips. “I must not tell you how much. We have no right to talk about that anymore. I want you to bid me goodbye now, Earle, and let it be a long, long goodbye, too.”
“My darling, I cannot; it is too, too cruel,” he moaned; and, forgetting everything but his deep and mighty love for her, he gathered her into his arms and clasped her with such rebellious strength that she was powerless in his embrace.
“Earle,” she said, with a calmness born of despair, yet speaking authoritatively, “you must let me go.”
He instantly released her—he could not disobey her when she spoke in that tone, but the look on his face made her cry out with pain.
“Forgive me,” she almost sobbed. “I would not wound you, but we must end this for the sake of both. Will you do as I wish? Will you go back to Wycliffe at once?”
“I will do anything that you bid me, Editha,” he answered, in a hollow tone, but with a look such as she hoped never to see again on any mortal face.
“Thank you, Earle—I do bid you go—it is right—it will be best, and—and—”
She had risen and was standing before him, looking almost as wan and ghastly as she had looked on that night when he had found her in the power of Tom Drake.
She had stopped suddenly, catching her breath, and she reeled like a person drunken with wine; but, pressing her hand to her side, as if to still her fierce heart-throbs she strove to go on, though every word came with a pant:
“And, Earle, do not mourn—do not grieve any more than you can help; it would not be right—you have a noble career before you, and you must do honor to the name you bear—”
“What are honors to me? What is anything in the world worth to me now?” he interrupted, hoarsely.
“You must conquer that reckless spirit, Earle—try not to think of me any more than it is possible to help; I shall do very well, I hope. I shall stay with Papa, and strive to win him to better things.”
Her pale lips quivered as she thought how dreary the world would be when he was gone, and how thankless the task she had set herself to accomplish.
After a moment she quietly drew off the beautiful ring he had placed upon her finger and held it out to him.
“I must not wear this anymore,” she said, brokenly; “it means too much to me, and I have loved it so dearly for the sake of what it meant, and I do not wish to even see anything that can remind me of the—the happiness I have lost. Take it and put it away, Earle; but if—if—”
She caught her breath quickly, while he felt as if he were turning to stone.
“If ever,” she began again, with a great effort, but looking so white and deathly that Earle feared she would drop dead at his feet—“if ever in the future you meet anyone whom you think will make you happy, tell her all about our sorrow, Earle, and give her this with—my blessing.”
“Oh, Heaven! Editha, do you wish to drive me mad?” he groaned.
“Dear Earle, it is hard—I cannot tell you how hard it is for me to say this, but I know that what I tell you will be right for you to do, and—I do want you to be happy.”
“Happy! Do you not know that that word will mock me all the remainder of my life?” he cried, with exceeding bitterness.
“I hope not, Earle;” and her sweet lips quivered like a grieved child’s.
“Do you think you will ever know happiness again, Editha?” Earle asked, almost fiercely, and yet her sad face smote him for the question.
“If it is God’s will,” she answered, with a weariness that pierced him to his heart’s core; but in her soul, she knew that apart from him the world would never hold any charm for her again.
“There are some things in life,” she went on, with mournful sweetness, after a moment, “that we cannot understand—this trial of ours is one of them. I remember reading somewhere that
‘Never morning wore
To evening, but some heart did break,’
and if that is so, we are not alone in our sorrow; perhaps all will be well in the end, and we shall live to realize it—let us trust that it may be so. But, Earle, you have a beautiful home, and probably there are long years of useful life before you, but there can be no comfort in a household without a skillful hand to beautify and direct. Do not forget what I say—remember that I even wish it, should the time ever come when you can realize it; and now, Earle,” reaching out her hands with a sob that seemed wrung from her against her will, “goodbye—God ever bless and keep you.”
His hands dropped suddenly, and the ring rolled to his feet; he had not taken it—he had seemed to have no power; and she, feeling that she could bear no more, turned as if to leave him.
He had stood like one stunned while she was speaking. He could not seem to realize that she really meant this for her last, long farewell; but, as she turned from him, he cried out suddenly, in a voice of agony:
“Editha! oh, my lost love, do not leave me thus!”
She stopped, her head drooping upon her bosom, her hands hanging listlessly by her side.
He sprang to her, and, forgetting everything but the pain of the moment, he drew her passionately to his breast.
“Editha—my happiness—my love—all that is dearest and best in the world, how can you go away from me so? I cannot bear it. I will not believe this fearful thing that is to rob us of all our bright future.”
She lay resistless in his embrace now; it was for the last time, she thought, even if she had not been too weak to move.
“Tell me, Editha, is there no way of escape? Must we live out our dreary future, this poisoned arrow corroding in our hearts? Ah! if this terrible tale could be refuted.”
“But it cannot, Earle; there is no way but to bear it patiently,” she breathed.
“No, there is no other way, for I know that that man is my father, and that fact destroys our every hope. It is hard, my beloved; let me call you so once more; let me hold you close for the last time; let me kiss these dear lips, and touch this shining hair, and then I will go away as you wish. I will not add one pang to what I know you already suffer. Heaven bless you, my weary, stricken one—my lost love.”
With one strong arm, he held her close against his almost bursting heart, while with his other hand, he drew back the shining head until he could look down into the beautiful face that he felt might perhaps be looking his very last upon.
His lips lingered upon her hair, touched her forehead with tremulous tenderness, and then, with a sob wrung from the depths of his soul, he pressed one long, passionate kiss upon her lips, gently released her, stooped to pick up the ring she had wished him to have, and then strode from the room.
A fortnight later Earle Wayne had returned to Wycliffe sad, almost broken-hearted, and, at twenty-five, deeming life a burden too heavy to be borne.
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