CHAPTER VII
EDITHA’S RESOLUTION
Everybody who knows anything about Newport—the Brighton of America—knows that the season there is one long scene of gayety, pleasure, and splendor.
And this year bade fair to eclipse all previous years owing to the unusual brilliancy and elegance of its entertainments, its incessant round of pleasure, the presence of numberless beautiful women, with their magnificent toilets, and the great number of distinguished guests from abroad.
Among these latter one, in particular, seemed to attract great attention, on account of his noble personal attractions, the report of his great wealth, and, more than all, because of his being unmarried, handsome, and—thirty.
He was an F. R. C. S., had graduated with high honors, and the reputation of his skill was in everybody’s mouth, while it was stated upon the best authority that he was heir prospective to large estates in both England and France, though where they were situated, and of their extent, no one seemed to know.
“Mr. Tressalia, allow me to present to you my daughter, Miss Dalton.”
Such was the introduction of Paul Tressalia, the distinguished stranger, to Edith Dalton, as performed by Mr. Dalton, one golden summer evening, as Editha sat by herself upon the broad piazza of their hotel, musing rather pensively upon the events of the past two years.
Editha lifted her large blue eyes, which filled with instant admiration as they rested upon the handsome stranger, and she gracefully saluted him, realizing at once that she was in the presence of a man of power—one of superior intellect, and yet with a velvet hand withal, as the mild dark eyes and the gentle expression of his mouth asserted.
Mr. Tressalia, on his part, was evidently powerfully attracted by those same large and expressive eyes, which were reading his face with such a comprehensive glance.
His gaze rested admiringly on the slender figure, with its mien of blended grace, reserve, and dignity, attired, so simply yet artistically, in its force of spotless embroidered muslin; on the small head, with its silken aureate crown; on the sweet face, so full of expression and the impress of latent character.
Her small hands seemed to him like “symmetrical snowflakes,” her feet like little mice peeping from beneath the flowing robe, and all her movements full of “sweet, attractive grace.”
Mr. Tressalia noted all this during the ceremony of introduction and realized at once that he had “met his fate” in this being “fair as Venus,” whose
“Face and figure wove a spell
While her bright eyes were beaming.”
Editha had not mingled very much in the gayeties of Newport as yet—she could not enjoy them; her heart was sore and sad; she could not forget the two dear ones so recently gone, nor the young promising life confined by prison walls.
Not a day passed that Earle Wayne’s noble face did not rise up before her, and she seemed to hear his rich, clear voice asserting constantly, “Their saying that I am guilty does not make me so. I have the consciousness within me that I am innocent of a crime, and I will live to prove it yet to you and the world,” and the knowledge of his cruel fate was a constant pain. But now she was almost insensibly drawn out of herself and her sad musings.
Mr. Tressalia possessed a peculiar charm in his gentle manner, and in his brilliant and intelligent conversation; and, almost before she was aware of it, Editha found herself joining and enjoying the party of choice spirits who seemed to own him as their center.
The ice once broken, who shall tell of the bright, delightful days that followed?
And yet in the midst of all this she did not forget Earle; every morning on rising, and at evening on retiring, her thoughts fled to that gloomy cell, with its innocent inmate suffering for another’s crime.
Every week she faithfully dispatched her floral remembrance; but Mr. Dalton’s servant having received permanent instructions upon that subject, they never left the hotel and were ruthlessly destroyed and their beauty lost.
People were not long in discovering that the beautiful heiress, Miss Dalton, was the charm that bound the distinguished Mr. Tressalia to Newport, and the desirableness and suitableness of an alliance between them began to be freely discussed and commented upon; while, as if by common consent, all other suitors dropped out of the field, as if convinced of the hopelessness of their cause, and she thereby fell to the charge of the young Englishman upon all occasions.
But Editha began to feel somewhat uneasy at the way matters were settling themselves.
She liked her new friend extremely; he was a man who could not fail to command everywhere respect and admiration, and she could not help enjoying his cultivated society; but she did not enjoy being paired off with him, to the exclusion of everybody else, upon every occasion; for her woman’s instinct told her whither all this was tending, and she knew it ought not to be.
Mr. Dalton, however, was exceedingly elated over the prospect, and took no pains to conceal his satisfaction, nor to contradict the gossip regarding an approaching engagement, while, at the same time, he was never weary of recounting Mr. Tressalia’s merits to his daughter.
When at length Editha began to excuse herself from accompanying him upon excursions of pleasure and to retire to her own rooms upon some slight pretext when he joined them at evening on the piazza, her father became highly incensed and fumed and fretted himself almost into a fever on account of it.
“Editha, you will oblige me by not being quite so indifferent to Mr. Tressalia’s attentions,” Mr. Dalton said one day, upon their return from a brilliant reception given on board a French man-of-war lying at anchor in the harbor.
The commander was a friend of Mr. Tressalia’s and had given an elaborate breakfast and reception to him and his friends, together with some distinguished people sojourning at Newport.
Editha and Mr. Dalton had been among the guests, and the former had been perfectly charming, in her dainty lawn, embroidered with rich purple pansies, and her jaunty hat, surrounded with a wreath of the same flowers.
She had attracted marked attention from commander and officers, and also from many of the guests, and in this way had succeeded in saving herself from the usual “pairing off.”
She had been somewhat reserved, too, in her manner toward Mr. Tressalia, and her father swore more than once to himself at her evident avoidance of him.
She blushed at his remark, but said, very quietly:
“I am not aware that I treat Mr. Tressalia indifferently, Papa. He is a very pleasant gentleman, and I enjoy his society exceedingly.”
“Then why did you avoid him so persistently today?” he demanded.
“I would not appear to avoid any of our friends,” Editha said, with a deepening flush; “but really I do not enjoy being monopolized by one person so entirely as I have been the past two or three weeks.”
“What particular objection have you to Mr. Tressalia?”
“None whatever. I repeat, he is a very cultivated and agreeable gentleman, and I enjoy his society.”
“Then I desire that you may show a little more pleasure in it,” Mr. Dalton returned, impatiently.
“In what way, Papa? How shall I show my pleasure in Mr. Tressalia’s society?” Editha asked, looking up at him with a droll expression of innocence.
Mr. Dalton flushed hotly himself now. It was not an easy question to answer, for, of course, he could not say that he would like her to become unmaidenly conspicuous in her pleasure, and it was rather a difficult and perplexing matter to make a rule for her to follow, and one, too, that would bring about the end he so much desired.
“What a question, Editha!” he exclaimed, after a moment’s thought; “when you are pleased with anything, it is not difficult to show it, is it?”
“Oh, no; but then there are different degrees of pleasure, you know; and, from the way you spoke, I thought perhaps you desired me to adopt the superlative, and that, I fear, would be ‘mortifying’ to you,” she said, with a sparkle of mischief in her tones.
She was laughing at him now, and Mr. Dalton did not find himself in a very agreeable position.
He remembered that he had once chided her very severely for being so demonstrative, and cautioned her not to “gush,” saying it was all “very well for a young lady to express her feelings in a proper way, and at a proper time, but it was mortifying to him to have her carry quite so much sail.”
Editha doubtless remembered it also, and referred to this very lecture, judging from her words and manner, and for a moment he hardly knew what reply to make.
“I think your sarcasm is a little ill-timed,” he at length said, stiffly. “Mr. Tressalia has hitherto paid you marked attention, and you have not demurred, but your avoidance of him today could not fail to occasion him surprise and pain, and also remark on the part of others. As for your being monopolized by one person, as you express it, there are very few young ladies in Newport who would not be very glad to be chosen from among the many by a man like Paul Tressalia.”
“It is not Mr. Tressalia that I object to at all; it is the idea of always being paired off with him as if no other gentleman had any right to approach me,” Editha said, with heightening color.
“You object to him, then, as a permanent escort?”
“Yes, sir, I do,” she answered, decidedly.
“And why, if I may ask?”
“Because I do not wish to accept attentions that might lead Mr. Tressalia to imagine that I possess a deeper regard for him than I really have,” Editha said, candidly, yet with some confusion.
“Then you mean me to understand you regard Paul Tressalia only in the light of a friend, and you are unwilling that friendship should develop into any warmer sentiment?” Mr. Dalton asked, with a lowering brow.
“Yes, sir,” was the firm though low reply.
“That places me in a very fine position; for—for—I may as well out with it first as last—that gentleman has asked my permission to address you with a view to marriage, and I have given it;” and Mr. Dalton looked very much disturbed and angry.
“Oh, Papa!” Editha exclaimed, in pained surprise, and flushing deepest crimson.
“Well?” he demanded, almost fiercely, while he eyed her keenly.
“I am very sorry you have done so, for it cannot be;” and her voice trembled slightly as she said it.
“Why?”
“Because—I can never care for him in any such way as that.”
“In any such way as what?” he asked, with a sneer.
“You know what I mean well enough—the warmer sentiment of which I have already spoken,” she answered, with a rush of tears to her eyes at his unkind tone. She struggled a moment for self-control, and then continued:
“I admire Mr. Tressalia exceedingly; he is a man who must command any woman’s respect and esteem; he is cultivated and refined, and possesses one of the kindest, most generous natures, but—”
“But you don’t want to marry him, is that it?” he interrupted.
“No, sir, I do not,” she said, very firmly, but with another rush of color to the beautiful face.
Mr. Dalton’s face grew dark, and he twitched nervously in his chair.
“I am sure I cannot conceive what possible objection you can have to him as a husband; he is handsome as a king, polished, distinguished in his profession, and rich enough to surround you with every elegance the world can afford.”
“I have already told you my sole objection—I do not love him,” the fair girl said, wearily.
“Pshaw! I am sure he is fitted to command the love of any woman.”
“Yes, sir; he is very noble, very good, very attractive; and I cannot tell you why I do not, but simply that I do not.”
“And you would not accept him if he should propose for your hand?”
“No, sir,” was the low but very steady reply.
Mr. Dalton’s eyes flashed ominously; he was growing furious at her obstinacy.
He had decreed that she should marry the distinguished young surgeon, and who was reported heir to such large possessions.
It will be remembered that we have stated gold was Mr. Dalton’s idol, consequently, he was anxious to secure so valuable a prize so that in case his own supply of this world’s goods should fail him, he would have an exhaustless reservoir to which he could go and replenish.
“I desire that you consent to marry Paul Tressalia whenever he sees fit to ask you to become his wife,” he said, in tones of command.
“I regret that I cannot gratify that desire, sir.”
“You will not?”
“I cannot.”
“Do you utterly refuse to do so?”
“I do most emphatically,” Editha answered, coldly and decidedly.
“Perhaps your affections are already engaged—perhaps you have already experienced that passion you term ‘love’ for someone else?” her father said, half eagerly, half sneeringly.
“I have never been asked to marry anyone; no one has ever spoken of love to me,” she replied, with drooping lids and very crimson cheeks.
“That was very cleverly evaded, Miss Dalton,” he returned, with a mocking laugh. “I was not speaking of the love of anyone for you, but of yours for someone else.”
“I decline to discuss the subject further with you, sir, but refuse to accept Mr. Tressalia’s attentions any longer with a view to an alliance with him.”
Miss Dalton was beginning to show her independent spirit.
“Perhaps,” sneered Mr. Dalton, now thoroughly aroused, and made reckless by her opposition, “your tastes would lead you to prefer to marry that handsome young convict whom you professed to admire so much once upon a time.”
Mr. Dalton had had his fears upon this subject for some time, owing to the constancy with which she sent him the tokens of her remembrance; but he had never hinted at such a thing until now.
Editha’s proud little head was lifted suddenly erect at his words; her eyes, blue and gentle as they were usually, had grown dark, and flashed dangerously; her nostrils dilated, and her breath came quickly from her red, parted lips.
He had touched upon a tender point.
“Papa,” she cried, in proud, ringing tones, “if I loved anyone, and he was worthy, I should never be ashamed of that love.”
“Nor to marry its object, even though he had served a sentence in a State prison,” he jeered.
“Nor to marry its object, even though he had served a matter what misfortunes had overtaken him, nor what position in life he occupied.”
If Earle Wayne could have heard those words how he would have blessed their author!
“Aha!” her father cried, bitterly; “perhaps you do even love this—this—”
“Father!” Miss Dalton had risen now from her chair and stood calmly confronting the enraged man, but she was very pale. “Father,” she repeated, “I cannot understand why you should be so exceedingly bitter toward me whenever I happen to differ from you upon any point; neither can I understand the change in your general treatment of me during the last two years. You used to be gentle and indulgent with me until after Mamma and Uncle Richard died, and it is very hard for me to bear your scorn and anger. But—please do not think I intend to be disrespectful or willful—but I consider that neither you nor anyone else has a right to speak to me in the way you have done today regarding a subject so sacred as the disposal of my affections. They are my own, to be bestowed whenever and upon whoever my heart shall dictate. Hear me out, please,” she said, as he was about to angrily interrupt her. “I claim that I have a perfect and indisputable right to judge for myself in a matter so vital to my own interests and happiness, and when the proper time comes—I shall exercise that right. Do not misunderstand me. I have no desire to displease you, nor to go contrary to your wishes. I would not seem to threaten, either; but you have wounded me more deeply than you imagine today, and I must speak freely, once and for all. I cannot allow anyone—not even my own father—to dispose of my future for me.”
“Do I understand you to mean that you would marry a man whom everybody looked down upon and despised if you happened to take a fancy to him?” Mr. Dalton demanded, in a voice of thunder, and utterly confounded by the girl’s independence.
“It would make no difference to me whether others despised him or not if he was mentally my equal, and I considered him worthy of my affection,” was the brave, proud reply.
“Even if disgraced as a felon, as Earle Wayne has been disgraced?”
“Even if he had innocently suffered disgrace, and expiated another’s crime, as Earle Wayne has done, and is doing,” she answered quietly; but the deep blue eyes were hidden beneath the white lids; two very bright spots had settled on her cheeks and her hands trembled nervously.
It was cruel to wring her secret from her thus, but he was her father and she must bear it as patiently as she could.
His next words, however, acted like an electric battery upon her.
They were spoken hoarsely and menacingly:
“Editha Dalton, you are a fool and I would see your whole life a wreck before I would see you wedded to him!”
“Thank you, Papa, for your flattering estimate of my mental faculties, and also for the tender, fraternal interest which you manifest in my future happiness; but if you please we will close the discussion here.”
With an uplifted hand, flashing eyes, and a haughty little bend of her slender body, she glided quietly from the room.
“Pride in her port, defiance in her eye.”
Sumner Dalton looked after her in amazement and ground his teeth in baffled rage.
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