CHAPTER XXXVIII
AT SARATOGA
Madam Sylvester went to the White Mountains with her party, as she had planned to do, while Mr. Dalton, congratulating himself upon the success of his maneuver—the reason for which he supposed no one but himself knew anything about—was enjoying the brilliant society at Saratoga to the full.
“I flatter myself that I have played my little game very nicely,” he said many times to himself when thinking of their hasty flitting from Newport; and those soft white hands of his were rubbed together in the most approving manner, accompanied by a most approving chuckle.
He insisted now that Editha was well enough to join in the gayeties of the place and accompany him to the different places of amusement and pleasure.
She would have preferred the solitude of her own room or to be allowed to roam quietly by herself in the different parks during the morning, when there were few abroad; but he persisted, and, thinking it could not matter much what she did, she yielded for the sake of peace, although she did not really feel able to bear the excitement as yet.
The result was highly gratifying to Mr. Dalton, for Editha at once became a star of no small magnitude. Her delicate, almost ethereal beauty instantly attracted a crowd of admirers. She was “new,” and after an entirely different pattern from most of the fashionable belles who frequented the place, which, together with the fact of her being an heiress, was considered sufficient cause for any amount of admiration and homage being paid her. And so she was whirled into the vortex of fashionable life. The days were turned into night, night into day, and all the quiet that she had so enjoyed at Newport into an endless round of excitement.
One evening there was to be a garden party—“the most brilliant affair of the season,” according to the flaming announcement.
Editha did not want to go.
“I am tired out now, Papa, besides having no heart for anything of the kind,” she said, wearily, when Mr. Dalton began to talk of the details of her dress, about which he was very particular for a man.
“Pshaw!” he returned, impatiently; “you have been moping yourself to death, and need waking up. This is to be the finest occasion of the season, I am told, and I shall take no pleasure in it unless I can have you with me.”
It was not Editha that he particularly wanted for the sake of the pleasure he would take in her society, but a handsomely dressed lady by his side, to be admired, and to help him pass the time agreeably.
Of course, Editha yielded rather than to have any words about it, and gave her attention, with what interest she could command, to the wearisome business of preparation.
When the night arrived, and she appeared before her father in the finest of black Brussels net, embroidered in rich golden-hearted daisies, and gracefully looped over rose-colored silk, from which here and there flashed superb ornaments of diamonds, and above which her delicate face rose like some pure, clear-cut cameo, Mr. Dalton was for a moment speechless with admiration, and Editha really felt paid for the effort she had made.
“Editha,” exclaimed her father, when he at last found his voice, “there will be no one so beautiful as yourself in the park tonight. I shall have the honor of escorting the fairest woman in Saratoga.”
“Thank you, Papa. I never heard you compliment anyone like that before,” laughed Editha, surprised at his enthusiasm, and never realizing how exceedingly lovely she was.
“I never had occasion, I can assure you,” he answered, as his eyes lingered proudly upon her graceful form.
Editha was not one of those variable young ladies who adopt every new fashion for dressing the hair, whether it is becoming or not.
Her hair tonight, as always, was worn in plaited bands of satin smoothness and coiled around her shapely head, its only ornament a small cluster of daisies fastened on one side with a diamond aigrette.
Tiny daisies, in the center of whose golden heart there glittered a diamond like a drop of dew, hung in her ears, while on her arms of Parian whiteness were bracelets to match.
It would indeed be impossible to imagine a fairer vision or a more unique and attractive costume among the hundreds that would assemble that evening.
The weather was perfect, and the decorations of the park were very elaborate and elegant. Flags hung gracefully canopied over the entrance like curtains, and festooned along the fanciful framework.
Light frames of stars, triangles, hearts, shields, and many other devices, were fastened everywhere among the trees to support the transparent lanterns of almost magical beauty. The electric light flooded the whole scene with almost the brightness of day and made the place seem as if touched by the wand of an enchanter.
The finest dressing of the season graced this party, and, as someone has said, “it did not require a great stretch of the imagination to convert the passing throng into elves and fairies, their raiment appearing to have been woven with the gossamer threads of the cobwebs, and out of the butterflies’ wings, as if the dew of the morning, the mist of the moon, the dew-drops gathered from the calyx of the lily, had all been collected and laid with homage at the feet of the ethereal creatures who lead captive the sons of men.”
And that the fairest of them all was Editha Dalton seemed to be generally admitted by both old and young.
Strangers, catching sight of that fair face rising above the golden-hearted daisies, pointed her out, and asked who she was. Friends and acquaintances crowded around to catch a word, a smile, a look even, and wondering why they had never before realized how exquisitely lovely she was.
Something of the beauty and excitement of the occasion seemed to animate her. Her burden of sorrow for the time seemed to drop from her heart, and she appeared to become a part of the brightness which surrounded her, while she danced, chatted, and laughed much like the free-hearted, blithesome Editha of old.
Many remarked it afterward and declared that she must have been a fairy, or elf, who, since they never saw her again, must have floated away at some magic hour of the night at the stern decree of some uncanny ogre. Nor were they far out of the way in their surmises.
The small hours were approaching, and the merriment was at its height. Editha had been dancing with a friend of Mr. Dalton’s, and seemed to enjoy it, as much as anyone. She evidently liked her companion, for she made herself very agreeable to him, while he more than once, by his wit and sparkling repartee, had called the familiar silvery laughter from her beautiful lips.
When the dance was through he led her to a quiet place to rest. He did not leave her but remained standing by her side, watching her expressive face, as she, in turn, watched the passing throng, forgetful for the time of all save the life and joy of the occasion.
Suddenly he saw her start. A flush leaped into her cheeks, a brighter light to her eyes, as she arose and extended both hands to a gentleman who was approaching.
“Mr. Tressalia! How glad I am! When did you arrive, and how did you find me?” she asked, all in a breath.
“Thank you. I arrived on the late evening train, and I found you by the power of intuition, I think,” he answered, laughing, as he glanced from her to her companion, and heartily shook both hands.
Editha introduced the two gentlemen, and, after a few moments’ conversation, her former companion excused himself and went away with a clouded brow, muttering something about the unexpected appearance of old lovers.
Editha was really delighted to see her friend. She had missed him sadly, and she was chatting away with him in the most social manner, asking all sorts of questions about Newport and her friends, when Mr. Dalton all at once came upon the scene.
He expressed no surprise at seeing Mr. Tressalia, but the frown upon his brow testified to his displeasure, although he politely inquired regarding his arrival.
“I came on with some old friends who were anxious to visit the place—Madam Sylvester and her brother,” he answered.
Mr. Dalton started violently, and flushed hotly at this information, and appeared all at once so nervous and strangely excited that Mr. Tressalia regarded him with surprise.
“Madam Sylvester!” exclaimed Editha, joyously, and not noticing her father’s agitation. “I am so glad. I liked her so much at Newport. I shall be glad to extend our acquaintance.”
“Your pleasure is reciprocated, I can assure you, for Madam was equally delighted with you,” Paul returned, with his eyes still on Mr. Dalton.
He had withdrawn a trifle within the shadow of a tree, and stood with his head bent, looking down upon the ground, his face dark with anger, while he worked his hands in a nervous way and gnawed his under lip.
“What in thunder ails the man, to make him look and act so strangely?” the young man asked, within himself.
“Are Madam and her brother here at the garden party?” Editha asked.
“Yes; the fame of it reached us before we arrived, and you know the electric light is visible for several miles before we reach Saratoga; so, notwithstanding our weariness, we all thought we must come and take a look at the enchanted place.”
“It is lovely, isn’t it?” she asked, her eyes roving in every direction over the bright scene.
“Yes, indeed; I never saw anything like it before. Madam and her brother went to the dancing pavilion to see if they could find you, but I thought I should discover you in some quiet nook, as I have.”
Editha laughed, and the beautiful color rushed half guiltily to her cheeks.
“You would not have thought so if you had come fifteen minutes earlier. I think the music has bewildered me tonight for I have been dancing with the merriest. But how does it happen that you are a visitor at Saratoga?” she asked, to change the subject.
“Oh, after receiving your note telling me of your destination, Newport lost its charms, and I felt in immediate need of medicinal spring water,” he said, in a playful strain, delighted to find her so improved and animated. “Madam Sylvester was affected in the same way,” he added. “I expect that remarkable woman will be tempted to kidnap you and bear you away to regions unknown before long, she has taken such a fancy to you.”
“Just hear that, Papa—fancy anyone taking such a liking to me that they would want to kidnap me. Why, what is the matter? Are you ill?” Editha cried, as she turned toward her father, and was transfixed by one glance into his face.
It was white as alabaster, and his eyes glowed like two coals of fire with some violent inward emotion.
“No, no; not ill, but very tired. I think we ought to return at once to our hotel, Editha,” he answered, with an evident effort to regain his composure.
“I am sorry if you are tired, Papa; I thought you were enjoying yourself immensely. Sit down and rest in some quiet place, please. I really do not like to return just yet.”
“But you are not strong; I fear the dampness will do you injury,” Mr. Dalton said, anxious to get her away at once, and never having given a thought to the dampness until that moment.
“I am very warm and comfortable; indeed I thought the air remarkably clear and dry tonight,” Editha said, without moving.
“Really, Editha, I think I must insist—”
“Please don’t insist upon anything, Papa,” returned the girl, wilfully; “if you are so weary, go you back to the Grand Union, and Mr. Tressalia will bring me by and by.”
She was determined that she would not be walked off thus summarily like a little girl in petticoats, and Mr. Dalton had to beat a retreat.
“I think I will go for a smoke, then,” he said, as he turned and walked abruptly away.
Paul Tressalia wondered what it all meant.
The man had betrayed his great agitation only upon the mention of Madam Sylvester’s name.
Did he know her, and if so was there enmity between them? Was that the reason for his sudden flight from Newport?
His manner was certainly very strange, and he had evidently intended to get Editha away before any meeting occurred between her and Madam, but he could not very well urge the matter any further without betraying himself, and so he had walked away in no enviable frame of mind.
Editha watched him curiously until he passed from sight, then turning to her companion, she said:
“I do not believe Papa is feeling very well; perhaps I ought to have gone.”
“Shall I take you to him?” Paul asked, considerately.
“Not just yet. I would like to see Madam Sylvester a moment, if we can find her; but first tell me”—and the beautiful face instantly lost all its lovely color—“have you heard again from—from—Earle?”
“Yes; I had a letter the day before yesterday, and he is not very well, he writes; the doctor does not think the climate exactly agrees with him,” Mr. Tressalia answered, his own face growing grave as he saw the brightness die out of hers.
Editha sighed, and the old grieved look returned to her lips.
“Would you like to read his letter? I have it with me,” he asked, considerately.
“No, no; I could not do that. Tell me, please, what you like about him; but I cannot quite bear to read his own words just yet,” she said, with unutterable sadness.
“My poor little friend, your lot is a hard one,” he said, softly.
“Don’t pity me, please—life is hard enough for us all, I think,” she returned, quickly and bitterly.
“Earle thinks he will have to have a change as soon as he can get away,” Mr. Tressalia continued, “and asks if I will resume the charge of Wycliffe for him. Shall I tell you all that he says about it?”
“Yes, yes; go on,” the poor girl said, eagerly, though every word was fresh torture to her.
“He says he cannot live longer away from you, Editha; it is killing him, and he must come where he can see you once in a while. He writes, ‘Ask her if I may. I will say nothing that shall wound her. I will be firm and strong; but, oh! I am so homesick for a look into her eyes, for a clasp of her hand. Ask her, Paul, if I may come.’”
“No, no, NO!” burst in a low, frightened tone from the girl’s lips. “He must not come. Write to him instantly and tell him so. Mr. Tressalia, I could not bear that of all things in the world. I will not see him. He must not come. I will hide from him. Oh! why must I suffer so?”
The words ended in a low, heartbroken sob. She had clasped both hands convulsively around her companion’s arm in her excitement and was now shivering and trembling so that he was greatly alarmed.
The brightness and exceeding beauty that had been hers when he first saw her had only been the result of a momentary excitement after all.
He had flattered himself that she was really better and stronger, both in body and spirit, but now he saw that her poor heart was just as sore and wounded as ever and that her fatal love was still eating at her vitals.
Earle, he knew from the letter he had so lately received, was suffering in the same way, and what these poor tried ones were to do all their future was a sore trouble to him.
“Be calm, dear child,” he said, in low, quiet tones. “Earle shall do just as you wish. Come and walk with me until your nerves are a little more steady.”
He unclasped those locked fingers from his arm, and drawing one hand within it, led her away into a retired path, and talked gravely of other things, until he saw the wild look fade from her eyes, the hand on his arm grow quiet, and knew that her intense excitement was gradually subsiding.
But it hurt him deeply to hear every few minutes a deep, shuddering, sobbing sigh come from her pale lips—something as a child breathes after it has exhausted itself with weeping and fallen asleep.
He would gladly have restored happiness both to Earle and her if he could have done so, even to the sacrificing of his own life, but he could not—each must bear his own burden. It seemed as if they had been beset on every hand with troubles during the past few years, fulfilling those words of Shakespeare’s:
“When sorrows come, they come not single spies,
But in battalions.”
“Earle has had an adventure. Shall I tell you about it?” he asked, when at length she had apparently grown quite calm, and intuitively knowing that she would like to hear more.
“If you please.”
“There has been an attempt made to rob Wycliffe, and but for his calmness and bravery great mischief would have been done.”
“Ah! he was always brave; but—but I hope he was not injured,” Editha cried, a feeling of faintness stealing over her.
“Bless you, no; else he would not now be talking of a change. He not only prevented a robbery and protected himself, but he has captured the robber.”
“I am sure that is good news,” she said, now deeply interested.
“And, Editha, who do you suppose the robber proved to be?”
“I am sure I cannot imagine, and yet you—you cannot mean—”
“Yes, I do mean it,” he answered, reading her thoughts. “It was no other than that wretch who robbed your father’s house several years ago, and for whom Earle suffered the penalty. It was Tom Drake, that man whom you met after your visit to John Loker’s, and who afterward entered your house the second time and compelled you by his mesmeric power to go away with him.”
Editha shuddered, and yet she could hardly believe her ears. She had always been afraid of meeting that dreadful man again, and now to know that he was away in England and a captive, was a great relief to her.
“It does not seem possible,” she said.
“It is righteous judgment that he should at last be taken by the very one who unjustly served out the sentence that ought to have been pronounced upon him threefold,” was the stern reply.
“Tell me how it happened, please—that is if you know?”
“Yes; Earle wrote me a good deal about it. It seems that the fellow did not deem the United States a safe place for him after John Loker’s confession was made public—the description of himself was too accurate for that—so he fled to England, and has undoubtedly been carrying on his nefarious operations there ever since. About a month after I left Wycliffe, Earle was awakened one night by the sound as of someone stepping cautiously around in his dressing room. His revolver was within reach, and he instantly secured it. The next moment a man passed into his room. It was not a very dark night, and as the robber glided between the bed and the window his figure was clearly outlined, and Earle, aiming low, fired at him. He fell with a groan. It was but the work of a minute to strike a light and go to the prostrate man, who was too badly wounded to make any resistance, and he found that his fallen foe was none other than his and your enemy Tom Drake.
“What a strange adventure; and—Earle was in great danger,” Editha whispered, with a deep-drawn breath.
“Yes; but the strangest of all is yet to come,” pursued Mr. Tressalia. “Instead of giving the wretch up to the authorities, as anyone else would have done in spite of his fearful sufferings, he enjoined strictest silence upon the servants, called in the old family physician and swore him to secrecy, and is now nursing the wretch back to health as tenderly as if he was his own brother.”
“This is just like Earle’s nobility—he is ‘a noble of nature’s own creating!’” said Editha, admiringly; and her face glowed with pride for this grand act of one whom she so fondly loved.
“Was the man very severely injured?” she asked, after a moment of silence.
“Yes, in the thigh; he will probably be a cripple for life, Earle says.”
“How sad! What will be done with him when he recovers?”
“Earle did not write what his intentions were, but he will probably be transported for life, where, with a ball and chain attached to him, you will never need to fear him anymore.”
“Poor fellow! The English laws are more severe than our own, then,” she said, with a sigh.
“If the laws of the United States were more stringent, and the penalties for extreme cases more severe, your prisons would not be so full, and, in my opinion, there would be less mischief done,” Mr. Tressalia replied, thoughtfully.
At this moment someone spoke his name, and, turning, they saw Madam Sylvester and her brother approaching.
Pleasant greetings were exchanged, and then they all sought seats at a little distance near a fountain for a few moments of conversation before returning to their hotel.
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