CHAPTER XXXVI
A NEW CHARACTER
From that day Paul Tressalia put every thought of self aside and devoted himself in delicate, tireless efforts to interest and amuse the frail girl who had such entire confidence and faith in him.
His own heart would have prompted him to go away from all sight and sound of her, but he had promised that he would be her “steadfast friend.” There was no particular necessity of his returning to England at present, and, if he could do this unhappy girl any good, he resolved to stay and comfort her until she should need him no longer.
Little by little he drew her away from her own sad thoughts—at least during the day; he could not, of course, know how she spent her nights, whether in refreshing sleep or in sad and morbid brooding.
He took her on long, delightful drives to places where, with a dainty little lunch and a tempting book, they would spend a few quiet hours, and then return, just weary enough to make a rest in a comfortable corner of the broad piazza the most enjoyable thing in the world, while he talked of a hundred entertaining things in the twilight.
By and by he ventured to invite two or three entertaining people to go with them, and such charming little picnics and excursions as they made! They were quiet but cultivated people, and deeply interested in the fading girl, and they exerted themselves in an unobtrusive way to minister to her amusement.
Almost unconsciously Editha was beguiled from her melancholy; little by little the look of tense agony faded from her face; her eyes lost their heavy, despairing look; something of animation and interest replaced her listless, preoccupied manner, and an occasional smile—albeit it was a mournful one—parted her sweet lips, which gradually began to regain something of their original color.
Mr. Tressalia was very wise in all his maneuvers; everything he did was done without any apparent effort, everything moved along smoothly and naturally, and, if anyone joined the party, it was brought about so quietly as to seem almost a matter of course.
Her failing appetite he managed as adroitly as he did her wonderful heart; every day some tempting little bit would find its way to her room—where, owing to her health, she took her meals—just at dinner-time. It was never much at a time, just enough, and served so attractively as to make her taste, and tasting was followed by a desire to eat the whole, and then she involuntarily found herself wishing he had sent a little more.
In this way, she was not surfeited with anything, but a natural craving for food was gradually created until she found herself able to eat quite a respectable meal.
One day they went, as they often did, to Truro Park. Mr. Tressalia had found a cozy, retired rock, where they could sit, talk, and read without fear of being disturbed, and see without being seen.
The day was delightful and had tempted many people abroad, and the park was filled with gay visitors.
Editha, reclining on a soft shawl that Mr. Tressalia had spread over a moss-covered rock, was the picture of comfort as she listened to her companion’s rich voice as he read from a new and interesting book, while her face involuntarily lighted as she caught the sound of merry laughter and children’s happy voices in the distance.
She found herself wondering if she could be the same miserable creature that she had been three weeks before.
A feeling of peace was stealing over her, a sense of care and protection surrounded her, and she knew that health and strength were gradually returning to her.
Her heart was still wounded and sore—it could not be otherwise, but there was not quite the intolerable burden crushing her that there had been before the coming of her kind friend.
Mr. Tressalia closed his book at last, and a look of satisfaction stole into his eye as he marked her look of interest, and the faint tinge of color that for the first time, he saw in her cheek.
He drew from his pocket a silver fruit-knife, and, reaching for a tiny basket that he had brought with him, but had kept tantalizingly covered all the time, he was exposed to view two of the largest and most luscious peaches imaginable.
“Now, when you have eaten one of these as an appetizer, we will return for our dinner,” he said, with a smile, as he deftly extracted the stone from the crimson and yellow fruit, and, placing the two halves on a large grape-leaf, laid it in her lap.
“It is too beautiful to eat,” Editha said, viewing it with admiring eyes; but she disposed of it with evident relish, nevertheless.
The other was prepared in the same way, and ready for her as the last mouthful disappeared, but she demurred.
“You have not had your share,” she said, smiling.
“You are my patient, remember, and I shall prescribe for you as I judge best; but if you feel very sensitive about it, I will share with you this time;” and, while he ate one-half, he watched the other disappear with intense satisfaction.
Editha could not fail to improve if her appetite could be coaxed back in this way.
They arose to return to their hotel, and, as they left their cozy retreat, they saw approaching them a lady leaning upon the arm of a gentleman.
They were both distinguished-looking and instantly attracted the attention of Editha and her attendant.
As they drew nearer, Mr. Tressalia started and uttered a low exclamation; the next instant he smiled, lifted his hat with a low bow, and, returning his salutation, they passed on.
Mr. Tressalia would have stopped and greeted them, but he knew how shy Editha was of strangers in her weak state, and he did not deem it best.
Editha, in her one passing glance, had instantly been attracted by the tall, queenly woman, who might perhaps have been about forty-two or three years of age.
Her face was fair, sweet, and beautiful as a picture, and was surrounded by soft, waving chestnut hair.
Her eyes were large and blue, but rather mournful in expression, while there was a grieved droop about the full, handsome mouth.
Her companion was a middle-aged gentleman, though somewhat older than the lady, and, from their resemblance to each other, Editha judged them to be brother and sister.
“There goes a woman with a history, and a sad one, too,” Mr. Tressalia remarked when they were beyond hearing.
Editha sighed and wondered how many women there were in the world who had sad histories, but she only said:
“They are acquaintances of yours, then?”
“Yes; the lady is called Madam Sylvester, though I have been told that it is not her real name, being her maiden name, resumed after some unpleasantness connected with an unfortunate marriage. I met her in Paris two winters ago, and I think I never saw a more charming woman of her age in my life.”
“She is certainly very pleasant to look at, though she shows that she has known sorrow of some kind,” Editha said, thoughtfully.
“Would you like to know her history—at least as much of it as I am able to tell you? It is quite interesting.”
“Yes, if you please.”
“Report says that when quite young she fell in love with her own cousin and became engaged to him. This was a secret between them since the lover was not in a position to marry. He went to sea to seek his fortune, as the story goes, and not long after was reported lost. Miss Sylvester, to hide her grief, immediately plunged into all sorts of gayety and dissipation, and only a few months after her lover’s death met a young American, who was instantly attracted by her great beauty. He soon made her an offer of marriage, and, after a very short courtship, they were married. A year later the former lover suddenly turned up—he was not lost, though had been nearly drowned, and afterward lay a long time in a fever. The young wife, in her joy at seeing him once more, thoughtlessly betrayed her love for him, which even then was not dead. The husband grew furious and unreasonably jealous and charged her with wilfully deceiving him, and a hot and angry scene followed. The next day the wife was missing—‘she had fled,’ those who knew anything of the circumstances said, ‘with her early lover.’ She returned almost immediately, however, humbled and repentant; but her husband denounced her, although she swore that she had committed no wrong. He returned to America; she hid herself broken-hearted for a while, but finally sought her brother, whom she convinced of her chastity, since which time, having no other friends, they have seemed to live for each other. She would never consent to be called by her husband’s name after that—though I never heard what that was—but took her maiden name. She is a wonderful woman, however; her life has been devoted to doing good; she is chastity itself, and is beloved by everybody who knows her, while her sympathy for the erring is boundless. That is an outline of her history, or as much as I know of it, but I believe there are some self-righteous people who shun her on account of what they term her ‘early sin,’ but the majority revere her, while I must confess to a feeling of great admiration for her.”
“What became of the young lover with whom it was supposed she fled?” Editha asked, deeply interested in the sad tale.
“I do not know—I never heard. Madam never speaks of her past, and that is a mystery to the curious.”
“I should like to know her,” Editha said, feeling strangely drawn toward one who, like herself, had suffered so much.
“Would you? That is easily managed. I will ascertain where she is stopping, call upon her, and, as her heart is always touched for the sick, I know she will gladly come and see you,” Mr. Tressalia said, eagerly, exceedingly pleased to have Editha manifest so much interest in his friend.
“Thank you. I should like it if she would; her history is very sad, and her face attracts me strangely,” she replied.
Three days afterward they were in the Redwood Library, examining some of the valuable manuscripts on exhibition there, when Madam Sylvester and her brother entered.
Mr. Tressalia had tried to ascertain where they were stopping, but, to his great disappointment, he had failed to do so.
He now went forward at once to greet them, and they seemed very much pleased to renew their acquaintance with him.
After chatting for a few moments, he brought Editha to Madam and introduced her.
She studied the sweet face for a moment, then her faultlessly gloved hand closed over Editha’s fingers in a strong yet tender clasp of sympathy and friendliness.
She had read in the pale, sorrow-lined face a grief kindred to what she, too, had suffered in the past.
“You are not well, my dear,” she said, with a wistful look into the sad blue eyes, still keeping her hand closely clasped in hers.
“Miss Dalton has not been well, but we hope she is on the gain a little now. Have you seen the new piece of statuary that was brought in yesterday?” Mr. Tressalia asked, to draw her attention from Editha.
She was quite sensitive about having her illness remarked on by strangers, and the color was now creeping with painful heat into her cheeks.
Madam took the hint at once and turned to look at the new statue, and for a while kept up a spirited conversation with Mr. Tressalia about the objects of general interest in Newport.
But ever and anon her eyes sought the fair face bending with curious interest over the manuscripts with a look of pity and tenderness that told she was deeply interested in the frail-looking stranger.
“Who is she? Someone in whom you are particularly interested?” she asked, with the privilege of an old friend, as she drew Paul still farther away, ostensibly to look at some pictures.
He started, and his noble face was clouded with pain as he answered:
“Yes, I am particularly interested in her, but not in the way you mean, for her heart belongs to another.”
“Ah! I thought from appearances that she belonged, or would someday, belong to you,” returned madam, with a keen look into his handsome face.
“No,” he said, gravely; “I am simply her friend. She has recently met with a great sorrow.”
“I knew it,” madam replied, with a soft glance at Editha, and a slight trembling of her lips. “Has the dear child a mother?”
“No; her mother died some years ago. She has no relatives living except her father, and he is not in sympathy with her.”
“Ah! how I would like to comfort her. Come and see me this evening, and tell me more about her. I am strangely attracted toward her.”
Paul Tressalia promised, and then they went back to Editha. Madam monopolized her, while he entertained her brother, and it was not long before the fair girl’s heart was completely won by the beautiful and tender-hearted woman.
Madam Sylvester was remarkable for her tact and great versatility of talents, not the least of which was her charming manner in conversation.
She could be grave or gay, witty or learned, and fascinating in any role.
Paul Tressalia regarded her in surprise while she talked with Editha, drawing her from one subject to another, until she made her forget that there was such a person in the world as poor, heartbroken Editha Dalton.
She won the smiles back to her lips, drove the lines of care and trouble from her brow, and once, as she related some droll incident that had occurred on the steamer in which she came over, made her laugh aloud—the old-timed, clear, sweet laugh, that made Paul’s heart thrill with delight.
“Miss Dalton, I am coming to see you. I am a dear lover of young people,” she said, as they began to talk of going.
“Do; I shall be delighted,” Editha said, with a sudden lighting of her sad eyes.
“I am a stranger here in Newport, never having been in this country before,” Madam continued. “I wish you and Mr. Tressalia would take pity upon me, and give me the benefit of your familiarity with the objects of interest here.”
Editha unhesitatingly promised, not even suspecting that this request was made more for her own sake than for the beautiful stranger’s; and then they all left the library together.
As they were about to enter their carriage, Mr. Dalton drove by in his sporting sulky.
He bowed to Editha and then bestowed a passing glance upon her new acquaintances.
That glance made him start and bestow a more searching look upon Madam Sylvester; then he grew a sudden and deep crimson, while a look of great anxiety settled on his face.
He turned and looked back again after he had driven by.
“There can be but one face like that in the world. I must look into this,” he muttered, uneasily.
“Who was that lady and gentleman with whom I saw you today at the Redwood Library?” he asked of Editha that evening.
“A Mrs. Sylvester and her brother,” she replied.
“Mrs. Sylvester!” repeated Mr. Dalton, with a slight emphasis on the title.
“Mr. Tressalia introduced her as Madam Sylvester. Do you know anything about her?” she asked, looking up in surprise.
“Ah! Mr. Tressalia knows her, then? Where is she from?” he returned, thoughtfully, and not heeding her question.
“From Paris, France; they are French people, and extremely agreeable.”
Mr. Dalton’s face lost something of its habitual glow at this information, and he appeared ill at ease.
“Um! strangers, then, here. Does Tressalia know them intimately?” and he shot a searching, anxious glance at his daughter.
“Yes; he was telling me something of madam’s history a day or two ago.”
“What! have they been here any length of time?” interrupted Mr. Dalton, with a frown.
“Less than a week, I believe.”
“Yes, yes; go on with what you were going to tell me,” he again interrupted, impatiently.
“He said madam had seen a great deal of trouble—there was some misunderstanding between herself and husband, who, by the way, was an American, which resulted in their separation after they had been married only a year. But she appears like a very lovely woman to me,” Editha replied, with a dreary look, as she remembered how she had been drawn toward the beautiful stranger.
Mr. Dalton watched her keenly out of the corners of his eyes; he was exceedingly moved and nervous about something; the corners of his mouth twitched convulsively, while he kept clasping and unclasping his hands in an excited way.
He paced the floor in silence for a few moments, then abruptly left the room.
Half an hour after he returned, and, while pretending to look over the newspaper, said:
“Editha, I’ve about concluded that I’d like a look at Saratoga; it is just the height of the season now; everything will be lovely, and Newport is getting a little tame.”
“Tame, Papa! Why, I thought there was no place like Newport to you!” she exclaimed, in surprise.
“I know; Newport is a sort of summer home to me, and, of course, there is no place like home; but, if you do not mind, I’d like a change for a little while.”
“Cannot you go without me? I am very comfortable here,” Editha asked, with a sigh.
She had no heart for gayety, and she was really happier just now there at Newport—notwithstanding her assertion to Mr. Tressalia that she did not enjoy Newport—than she had ever hoped to be again.
“No, indeed,” he returned, quickly and decidedly. “I could not think of leaving you alone while you are so delicate; and besides, I cannot spare you, Editha—you and I are rather alone in this busy world.”
She looked up in surprise at him at this unusual remark. It was a very rare occurrence for him to address her in such an affectionate manner.
It almost seemed to her, with the distrust she had lately had of him, that there was some sinister motive prompting this sudden change; but she stifled the feeling, and answered:
“Very well, I will go to Saratoga if you like. When do you wish to start?”
“Tomorrow, if you can arrange it,” Mr. Dalton replied, the cloud lifting from his face.
“Yes, I can arrange it;” but she sighed as she said it, for she was really beginning to wake up to a little life, and she dreaded any change.
She had been so calmly content since she had come to a definite understanding with Mr. Tressalia, and she wondered, with a feeling of sadness stealing over her, what she should do without her tireless friend.
She had grown to depend upon him for amusement; besides, he heard regularly from Earle, and though she did not dare acknowledge it even to her own heart, yet those letters from over the sea were the great events of the week to her.
She was sorry to go away without becoming more intimately acquainted with Madam Sylvester, for she had been strangely drawn toward her, thinking almost constantly of her and her charming ways ever since her introduction to her. All during the evening she kept hoping that Mr. Tressalia would drop in, that she might tell him of the change in their plans, half wishing that he would join himself to their party and accompany them.
But he was spending the evening with Madam Sylvester and meant to see Editha as early as possible the next morning.
But in this, he was disappointed, for a gentleman friend sought him to give his advice upon the merits of a horse that he was contemplating buying, and before the bargain was completed Editha was gone, without even a word of goodbye.
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