CHAPTER XL
ADIEU TO SARATOGA
Editha had told her maid that she need not sit up for her, as it would doubtless be very late when she returned from the park; but she almost regretted that she had done so, for, on reaching her room, and with the false strength which excitement gives gone, she found herself very weak and weary.
She sank listlessly into a chair and began removing her ornaments, and while thus engaged there came a knock upon her door.
Almost simultaneously it was opened, for she had not locked it, and Mr. Dalton thrust in his head.
“Where is Annie?” he asked.
“In bed, Papa. I told her she need not wait for me. Do you want anything very particularly?”
“I want to see you,” he replied, coming in and shutting the door. “I am sorry it is so late. I wish we had come home earlier. I have had bad news. I have important business, that calls me home immediately,” he concluded, speaking disconnectedly and excitedly.
“Home?” exclaimed Editha, greatly surprised, and feeling deeply disappointed, for, of course, she knew he would expect her to go with him. Besides, she could not bear the thought of leaving so soon after Madam Sylvester’s arrival.
“Yes; we must start by six tomorrow morning. Can you be ready?”
“So soon?” she said, with a weary sigh.
“Yes; I must go immediately. If there was a train in an hour, and we could get ready, I would take it,” he answered, excitedly.
“Why, Papa, what can possibly have happened to recall you so suddenly?”
“You would not understand if I should tell you,” he said, uneasily; “it is private business of my own. Will you be ready?”
“It is very little time,” Editha replied, wearily. “Would it not do to wait a day or two longer?”
“No, not an hour longer than it will take to pack our trunks and catch a train,” Mr. Dalton said, with a frown.
He was beginning to be very angry to be thus opposed.
“I wish this had not happened just now, and they have only arrived tonight,” Editha murmured, reflectively.
Mr. Dalton scowled angrily and muttered something about the selfishness of women generally.
Editha sat thinking for a few moments and then asked:
“Could you not go home without me, Papa, if this business is so very urgent? I would really like to remain at the Springs a little longer, and I know that Madam Sylvester would gladly act as my chaperon until you can return.”
It was all that Mr. Dalton could do to suppress an oath at this request.
“No, no,” he said, quickly. “I am nearly sick with all this worry and fuss, and I cannot spare you.”
He did indeed look worried over something, and his face was pale, his eyes very bright and restless; but Editha could not think it necessary that she should be hurried off in such an unheard-of manner, just for a matter of business.
“If you must go, and think you cannot get along without me, suppose you go on an early train, and I will follow with Annie later?” she said. “A few hours cannot make much difference to you, and I really think it would be uncivil to hurry away so, and without even a word of farewell to our friends. Besides, I promised I would see Madam Sylvester in the morning.”
“I should think you were fairly bewitched with this French madam. I will not have it. You must return with me; and, if report speaks the truth, your wonderful friend is no fit companion for my daughter,” Mr. Dalton cried, with angry hauteur.
“Then you knew her before tonight. I thought so from your manner. What do you know about her?” Editha asked, greatly surprised.
“I cannot say that I had that honor,” her father returned, sarcastically. “I never spoke with her until tonight, and I cannot say that I wish to extend the acquaintance.”
“She is a very lovely, as well as a good, pure woman,” Editha asserted, with flushing cheeks, and indignant with him for speaking so slightingly of her new friend. “Mr. Tressalia,” she added, “knows all about her, and he says that excepting for a mistake or two during the early part of her life, her character is above suspicion.”
“A mistake or two in one’s early life, as you express it, often ruins one for all time,” remarked Mr. Dalton, dryly.
Having proved the truth of that axiom to a certain extent, he knew whereof he spoke.
“Then you would not be willing for me to remain with her under any circumstances?” Editha asked, with a searching look into his face.
“Certainly not; and I desire you to hold no further communication with her.”
“You will have to give me some good and sufficient reason for your wish before I shall feel called upon to comply with it,” she returned, firmly, and calmly meeting his eye.
“I should think that by this time you had seen the folly of defying me,” he said, with a fierceness that was startling. “But enough of this. I suppose you consent to return with me?”
“Yes, rather than have any more words about it; but I am very much disappointed,” she returned, with a sigh, and beginning to think that Mr. Dalton was jealous of her sudden liking for Madam Sylvester, and that was why he was hurrying her away so.
“And please do not trouble yourself to inform Mr. Tressalia or anyone else concerning our plans. I do not care to have my steps dogged again as they have been hither, and for which it seems I have you to thank,” her father said, fretfully.
Editha glanced at him in a puzzled way; she could not understand him tonight.
That he was strangely excited over something she could see, for he was very pale, his eyes glowed fiercely, and he was very nervous and irritable, and she did not really believe his story regarding urgent business calling him home.
Somehow she became possessed with the idea that Madam was in some way connected with this inexplicable move, but how or why she could not imagine.
“You had better call Annie, and I will help you pack your trunks so that there will be nothing to do in the morning,” Mr. Dalton said, rising and beginning to gather up some articles that lay on the table.
He was an expert at packing, and Editha, too utterly wearied out to feel equal to any effort, was glad to avail herself of this offer.
She went to call Annie, wondering if all her life-long she would have to be subject to his caprices in this way, and feeling more sad than she could express.
In less than an hour, under the nimble and experienced fingers of Mr. Dalton and Annie, every article was packed, the trunks strapped and labeled, and ready for the porter to take down in the morning.
Then the weary girl crept into bed, feeling more friendless and alone than ever before, and wept herself to sleep.
She had been forbidden to communicate with Mr. Tressalia regarding their departure, and she did not know whether she should ever meet him again, and it seemed such a shabby and unkind way to treat a friend who had sacrificed so much for her. She had been forbidden to hold any further communication with Madam Sylvester, for whom she was beginning to feel a strong affection, and all this by a man selfish and domineering, and determined to bend her to his lightest will.
She knew that she could refuse point-blank to obey him if she chose—she could go her own way and he his; but if she did this she would cut herself loose from every hold upon the old life, and from every natural tie—she would not have a friend left in the world, while Mr. Dalton would also be left alone.
Every day she was conscious that her affection for him waned more and more, but for her mother’s sake she could not quite bear the thought of leaving him without any restraining influences; besides, if she should pursue any such course, she would take away all his means of support, for his ten thousand was slipping through his fingers like water.
She never stopped to reason that this might be the very best thing she could do—that if he stood in a little wholesome fear of losing his present share of her handsome income, he would not be likely to domineer over her quite to such an extent. But the future looked darker than ever to her, and her heart was very sad and depressed.
At five o’clock the next morning, Mr. Dalton came to arouse her and her maid, and as soon as she was dressed he sent her up a tempting little breakfast, with a word to take plenty of time and eat all she could.
This he had accomplished by heavily feeding one of the waiters the night before, and the steaming cup of rich chocolate, the broiled chicken done to a turn, the eggs, and the delicate toast, really formed an appetizing meal.
With all his selfishness and the determination to bend Editha to his own will, Mr. Dalton always liked to have her fare well, as well as dress richly and becomingly.
At six o’clock the early train steamed out of the Saratoga depot, and Editha could not refrain from dropping a few more tears behind her veil as a sad farewell to the friends whom she feared she should never meet again.
Mr. Dalton eyed her closely but was too well pleased to have got her away so successfully to trouble her with any more words about the matter.
When they arrived in their own city, sometime during the afternoon, Mr. Dalton proposed that they go directly to some hotel since their own house was shut up, and no word had been sent to the servants to prepare for their coming.
Editha assented, and he engaged some cheerful, handsome rooms in a first-class house for them both.
A week went by, and she thought it strange he should say no more about going home, and one day she ventured to suggest their return.
“I believe I like it here better,” he said, glancing around the beautiful room.
“Better than our own spacious home?” Editha cried, astonished.
She knew that their elegant house on —th street had always been the pride of his heart, and the one thing he mourned about at Newport or anywhere else was the want of the comforts and conveniences of their elegantly appointed residence.
After his confession to Earle that he was a ruined man, his house and furniture mortgaged, and the mortgage liable to be foreclosed any day, she had generously proposed clearing it off, and it was now free from debt.
“Yes,” he replied to her surprised remark; “the house seems so large and lonely with only two people in it besides the servants, and really I have never been so comfortable at any hotel before.”
“I know, but one has so much more freedom in one’s own home,” Editha said, disappointed.
Hotel life was always obnoxious to her, and her father knew it, too. But her preferences were of minor importance to him.
“Yes,” he said; “but there is a great deal of care in providing for a family, and I shall get rid of all that if we board. I propose that we rent the house for a while; it will give us a snug little sum, and it will be more economical to live this way.”
Editha opened her eyes wide at this new departure. She had never heard her father preach economy before, but she saw at once where the advantage was coming, and in her heart, she grew very indignant toward him.
If he rented the house it would indeed bring him a handsome sum, which he would pocket, while the hotel bill would doubtless come out of her income; but though she read him correctly, in a measure, she did not give him credit for the deep scheme he had in mind.
He thought that Mr. Tressalia, on finding that they had again taken French leave, would try to find them, and follow them as he had done before; and if he, with Madam and her brother, should take a notion to seek them there in the city, and should find their house either closed or rented, they would come to the conclusion that they were still absent at some summer resort, and go away again. Thus he would escape them entirely.
But the matter ended, as all such matters ended, in Editha’s yielding assent.
Some things in Editha’s story had moved Madam Sylvester deeply, and she passed a sleepless night after her return to the hotel on the night of the garden party.
She lay reviewing all the ground, recalling little items which at the time possessed no significance to her, but which now impressed her powerfully; she thought of the strange attraction she felt toward the young girl and revolved many other things of which only she and her brother knew anything about, until it seemed as if she could not wait for morning to come.
As soon as Mr. Tressalia made his appearance she sought him and asked him a few questions that she had intended asking Editha the night before, but had not had an opportunity, and the effect which his answers produced upon her startled him not a little.
She lost her self-possession entirely, trembled, and grew frightfully pale, while the tears fairly rained over her fine face as, grasping both his hands in hers, she exclaimed:
“My friend Paul, you have proved yourself a good genie more than once; and now shall I tell you something you will like to know?”
Of course, he was very curious about the matter; but the nature of the secret cannot be disclosed just here, although he deemed it of so much importance that he felt justified in seeking Mr. Dalton at once, to demand an explanation regarding some things that had occurred during his early life.
He came back to Madam with the startling intelligence that Mr. Dalton and his party had left on the early train.
“Gone?” almost shrieked Madam Sylvester. “He knew it—he knew what I have told you. I remember how he appeared last night when he met me, and now he has fled to escape me.”
Both Paul and Mr. Gustave Sylvester were on their mettle now, and proceeded to ascertain whither Mr. Dalton had gone.
The waiter who had served them, and the porter who had assisted in removing their trunks, were interviewed and fed, but neither had noticed the labels on the departing visitors’ baggage, and so their destination was a matter of doubt.
But that afternoon Madam’s party also bade adieu to Saratoga, their object being to ferret out the hiding place of Sumner Dalton and compel him to do an act of justice long delayed.
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