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 anyone 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 for all this?
Had Editha forgotten?
Had she, amid the busy cares that 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 enclosed 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 confidant, 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 things 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 anyone 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 anymore. 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 today, 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 anyone 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 to do 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 grievous 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 to offer 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.
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