CHAPTER XLVI
“WHAT A STRANGE STORY!”
“Did you ever meet Mr. Dalton before?” Earle asked, excusing himself for his involuntary interruption.
“No, never; but I will soon explain how he recognized me, though I should never have known anything of him—should never have found my child even then, had it not been for your cousin, Paul Tressalia,” replied Madam.
“Poor Paul!” Earle sighed, thinking how his hopes were doomed to be blighted at every turn.
“Mr. Tressalia has suffered deeply,” Madam returned, “but he is rising above it nobly. I really believe if it had not been for his kind and judicious care of Editha after he returned to Newport, she would have sunk into a decline. He bravely renounced all his hopes of winning her, when she told him that she could never love another and devoted himself to cheering her, and no one has expressed himself more truly glad over these recent discoveries than your noble cousin.”
“He is a truly brave man, and deserves a better fate than has overtaken him just in the prime of his life,” Earle said, regretfully.
“A ‘better fate’ will yet come to him, I feel sure, and his life will yet be rounded and completed by the hand of One who knows best how to fashion the lives He has given us,” Madam answered, with grave thoughtfulness.
“As I told you,” she continued, after a moment, “on our arrival at Saratoga, we repaired immediately to the garden party, and while there I managed to draw Editha one side for a little quiet chat, during which she opened her heart to me. I had heard something of her sad story from Mr. Tressalia before, but she related it to me more fully. She spoke of her uncle several times, telling of his deep interest in you, of his fondness for her, and that he had, in dying, bequeathed all his fortune to her, save the sum he had wished you to have. I casually inquired his name, but before she could reply, Mr. Dalton interrupted us and took Editha away. The next morning I arose quite early, considering the lateness of the hour that I had retired the night previous, feeling very restless, and apprehensive of I know not what.
“I met Mr. Tressalia in a small sitting-room as I went below, and immediately began talking of the conversation I had had with Editha the night before.
“‘What was Miss Dalton’s uncle’s name—the one who left her his fortune?’ I asked, during the interview.
“‘Richard Forrester,’ he returned; and I sank into a chair, feeling as if a heavy hand had suddenly been laid upon my heart and stopped its beating.
“You will not wonder,” Madam continued, her face paling with emotion even then at the remembrance, “when I tell you that Richard Forrester was my husband!”
“Your husband!” repeated Earle, fairly dazed with astonishment.
“Yes, my husband, and Editha’s father. I saw through it all in an instant. Mr. Dalton’s wife was his sister, and to her, he had committed his child. It was no wonder that I had been attracted toward her from the very first; it was no wonder that, when I met her for the first time in Redwood Library at Newport, my heart thrilled with something stronger than sympathy for her sorrow and pity for her suffering. She was my own, own child, and it was the instinct of the mother to claim her offspring, even before she recognized her. She was my baby, my pet, my little bud of promise, which had been so cruelly wrested from my arms more than twenty years before.”
And Madam’s tears flowed freely even now. Her joy was so new that she could not speak of it without weeping.
“What a strange, strange story!” Earle exclaimed. “Richard Forrester Editha’s father! That accounts, then, for the intense love which he always seemed to bear her.”
“He did love her, then—he did not visit her mother’s sin upon the life of her child?” Madam asked, eagerly.
“No, indeed; he seemed to love her most devotedly. She never came into his presence but that his eyes followed her every movement with a strange, intense gaze, at which I often wondered. But I cannot understand why he should have resigned his claim upon her—why he denied himself all the comfort of her love and had her reared as Sumner Dalton’s child,” Earle said, thoughtfully.
“You will understand it as I go on,” Madam returned, wiping her tears. “Of course, after that discovery, I was nearly wild to claim my child, and Mr. Tressalia went at once to arouse Mr. Dalton and demand a full explanation of all the past on my behalf. You can imagine something of our consternation when he discovered that he had departed on an early train, taking Editha with him, and no one could tell us whither they had gone. We returned to Newport, thinking they might have gone back there, but they were not there. Mr. Tressalia said that Mr. Dalton had visited Long Branch the previous summer, and possibly we might find them there; so to Long Branch, we repaired, but with the same success. We visited one or two other watering places with a like result, and then returned to New York, thinking we might find them at home; but their house was closed, and we knew not which way to turn then. But I was desperate. The fact of Sumner Dalton’s flying from me would have alone convinced me that Editha was my child if nothing else had, and I was determined I would never give up the chase until I found her.
“At last we discovered that they were boarding quietly at a hotel, and one morning while seated in their private parlor, Mr. Dalton reading, Editha sewing, we walked in upon them unannounced, beyond a light knock upon their door.
“The look upon Mr. Dalton’s face upon beholding us was a strange one—it was amazement, rage, and despair combined, while Editha immediately sprang forward with a cry of joy to welcome us.
“‘I am unable to account for this intrusion,’ Mr. Dalton said, loftily, and instantly recovering his self-possession.
“‘I can explain it in a very few words,’ I returned, calmly. ‘I have come to claim my child!’
“‘I do not understand you,’ he answered, with well-feigned surprise, but growing white as a piece of chalk at my words.
“‘You do understand me, Mr. Dalton,’ I said, sternly, ‘and you know that I speak the truth when I claim this dear girl as my child and Richard Forrester’s.’
“I turned to clasp her in my arms, but she had sunk, white and trembling, into a chair.
“‘I should like to see your proofs of that statement,’ Mr. Dalton sneered.
“I did not reply, but bending down, I took both of Editha’s hands in mine, and said:
“‘My dear child, tell me the date of your birth.’
“‘Editha, I command you to hold no communication with that woman,’ Mr. Dalton cried, shaking from head to foot with passion.
“Editha looked from one to the other in helpless amazement for a moment; then she said:
“‘Surely, Papa, it can do no harm for me to give the date of my birth,’ then fixing her eyes wistfully on my face, and with lips that quivered painfully, she added, ‘I was born October 24th, 1843.’
“My child and Richard Forrester’s—my little blue-eyed, fair-haired girl, that her father named Editha for the happiness she brought him—was born October 24th, 1843.
“‘My love, did no one ever tell you that you resembled Richard Forrester?’ I asked, gathering her close in my arms, for I knew she was mine, and I would never relinquish her again, unless, after hearing my story, she should refuse to acknowledge me as her mother.
“‘Yes, it was often remarked,’ she returned; ‘but Mamma always said it was not strange since Uncle Richard was her brother.’
“‘Not “Uncle Richard” any longer, my darling,’ I said, ‘but your own father.’
“‘My father! and you were his wife—you are my mother?’ she said, studying my face, and trembling in every nerve.
“‘It is a falsehood! Editha, leave the room instantly, and I will deal with these people myself. Go, I say; that woman is no fit companion for my daughter!’ Mr. Dalton shouted and strode toward me, his hands clenched and his face blazing with fury.
“Whatever his intentions were, he never reached me, for the blood all at once gushed from his mouth, and he fell fainting to the floor.
“Of course, everything was at once forgotten in the confusion that followed and the alarm occasioned by his condition. He had a very violent hemorrhage, and the doctor gave very little hope of his rallying, but his constitution was strong, and after a couple of weeks he began to gain strength and flesh, and the physicians then said, that with the exercise of great care he might live for a good while. Meantime, Editha and I clung to each other with all the fondness and delight it is possible for a long-parted mother and child to experience. There was no doubt in our own minds that we belonged to each other, although Mr. Dalton was still very sullen and morose on the subject, and would confess nothing. But one day he was attacked with another bleeding turn, so severe that we all knew he could not live long, and he seemed conscious himself that he could not rally from it. Then he seemed willing to talk upon the subject so fraught with interest to us all. Editha sought him one day and begged him to tell her all the truth. Then he confessed that it was all as I had supposed and that the moment he saw me at Newport he knew me from a picture that he had once seen in Mr. Forrester’s possession. He said that when my husband returned from Europe with his little child he took her directly to his sister, who had no children, and begged her to adopt it as her own. He told all the story of his marriage and the sad events that followed it, and said he never wished his child to know that any sorrow was connected with her early life; he wished her to grow up happy and free from all care, and he would gladly forego the comfort of calling her his own, that no shadow need ever come upon her. In return for the consent of Mr. and Mrs. Dalton to adopt her, he settled upon them fifty thousand dollars and promised them that Editha should have all his fortune if she outlived him.
“His reason told him that Richard Forrester would gladly have absolved him from all promise of secrecy regarding her birth, rather than that her life should be ruined, as it was likely to be upon discovering that you were his son; but his enmity toward you made him prefer to sacrifice her happiness rather than forego his revenge.”
“What a disposition for a person to cherish! It is beyond my comprehension,” Earle said, gravely, and thinking sorrowfully of the dying man upstairs, whose whole life had been ruined by giving the rein to his evil passions.
“It would seem, too, as if there ought to have been some natural instinct in his heart that would at least have prevented him from doing you such despite, even if he bore you no love,” Madam returned. “But, as he says,” she added, “he has been his own worst enemy—out of his own folly alone have sprung all his misfortunes and disappointments.”
“That is true, and is it not often proved that those who seek to wrong others only injure themselves the most in the end?” Earle asked.
“It is, indeed,” Madam returned, sadly; then she said, rising: “I believe I have told you all now. I think Editha must be awake by this time. I will go and tell her of your arrival. You will find her a little worn and pale perhaps, but not a whit less lovely than she was a year ago.”
Madam’s smile was full of beauty and tenderness whenever she spoke of her newly-found daughter, and Earle thought she was a very handsome woman.
She left the room, and he sat thinking over all the strange incidents of the past six years—yea, all the strange incidents of his whole life.
The story he had just listened to seemed wonderful to him. He could scarcely credit the good news that was to blot out all the dark past and make his future so bright and full of joy.
Notwithstanding he had come to a house upon which death had set its seal, and he could not help a feeling of sorrow for the man so near the bounds of eternity, yet his heart was bounding with a new and blessed hope.
He no longer needed to school himself to calmly endure the ordeal of meeting Editha; there was no need now to force back with an iron will all the natural impulses of his heart.
She was not his sister, and he knew well now why his whole soul had revolted against the fiendish lie with which Sumner Dalton had sought to crush him.
Editha would be his wife now; she would go back with him to Wycliffe when they should be needed here no longer; she would go there to reign as his honored and beautiful mistress, and he would have the right to love her; there was no sin now in loving her as fondly as his great, true heart prompted him to do.
His face grew luminous as he sat there and waited for her; his eyes lost their heavy look of forced endurance and softened into rare, sweet tenderness.
“After the shower, the tranquil sun—
Silver stars when the day is done.
After the knell, wedding bells,
Joyful greetings from sad farewells.”
Earle hummed this little verse, with a fond smile wreathing his handsome lips, his glad heart beating time to its hopeful rhythm, as he listened to catch the first sound of the footfalls he so loved.
Editha Dalton—so called since the first year of her babyhood—was indeed the child of Richard Forrester and Madam Sylvester, or Mrs. Forrester, as she must henceforth be called, and only a few words will be needed to give an outline of his early life.
While he was quite young a maiden aunt had died, leaving him heir to a handsome fortune. As soon as he had completed his college course he made the acquaintance of Estelle Sylvester.
He loved her from the very first, and though he thought her a trifle giddy and wild, he laid it to the fact that French people are naturally vivacious and freer in their manners than the staid, Puritanic Americans, and he reasoned that when she should marry and assume the responsibilities of domestic life, she would sober down into the quiet, self-possessed matron.
For a year after their marriage, as we have said, all went well—indeed, the wild and giddy Estelle became too quiet and sedate to suit him; but that he attributed to the state of her health somewhat. But when, on the fatal morning of Louis Villemain’s return, he learned the truth that his wife had never loved him, but that her heart had been wholly another’s even when she had vowed to love him only until death, he was crushed for the moment; then his fiery temper gained the ascendency, and, for the time, made almost a madman of him, and he uttered words which in his calmer moments he would never have spoken.
Upon his return one evening, after a day of solitude and of brooding over his injury, finding his wife and child gone, he was for the instant tempted to put an end to his life, but a wise hand stayed the rash act.
All night long he mourned for the lost ones—for he had loved his wife tenderly, and his baby had been his idol—with a bitterness which only strong natures like his can experience; but when morning broke, and he began to consider the dishonor that would fall upon him, his passion flamed anew, and when poor, penitent Estelle returned at noon, his heart was like a wall of brass to her entreaties and prayers for forgiveness.
He was sorry afterward, bitterly sorry, when he came to reflect on his rashness, and that all her life-long his child must be motherless; but the deed was done—he had driven his wife away in disgrace, and he would not relent enough to recall her.
He took his baby and her nurse and sailed immediately for the United States. His sister was about changing her home to a distant city, and to her care he committed his little Editha, to be brought up as her own, deeming it wiser to renounce all claim to her than that she should grow up to know of her mother’s folly and sin.
That was what those strange words meant that he uttered upon the night before he died, when his eyes fondly followed Editha from the room, and he had said: “God grant that that sin may never shadow her life.”
After the death of his parents, he had left his native town and repaired to the city where his sister, Mrs. Dalton, resided, that he might be near and watch over his child, whom he loved almost to idolatry.
He never sought to obtain a divorce from Estelle, nor cared to marry again; his trust in woman was destroyed, and he lived only to make Editha happy, and amass a fortune to leave her at his death.
How well he succeeded in this we all know; her life up to his death was like a cloudless summer’s day: she had never known a care or a sorrow that he had not lightened; she had never shed a tear in his presence that he had not wiped with the utmost tenderness away.
Aside from what might be considered his unreasonableness and harshness toward his young and erring wife, he was a noble, tender-hearted, upright man, beloved and respected to an unusual degree by all who knew him.
His was a singularly sad and isolated life, brightened only by the occasional presence of the child he dare not own, lest he bring a blight on her otherwise sunny life.
While he lived, Sumner Dalton had not dared to treat her in any but the most gentle and tender manner. She might oppose him in any way that her imperious little will dictated, but he could only hide his anger and irritability by laughing at her wilfulness. But once Richard Forrester’s surveillance was removed, his natural tyranny and cruelty came to the surface, causing her much of sadness and suffering, while he even dared to risk her life and happiness to gratify his ignoble passion for revenge upon another.
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