CHAPTER VIII
HOPES AND FEARS
“Whew!” he exclaimed, after a moment, “my beloved daughter is developing a surprising spirit. I had no idea there was so much grit bottled up in her little body. I shall have to mind my p’s and q’s, or all my plans will amount to nothing; it will not do to arouse her antagonism like this. I must remember the wisdom of Burke, who sagely remarked: ‘He that wrestles with us strengthens our nerves and sharpens our skill; our antagonist is our helper.’ I have no desire to strengthen her nerves or sharpen her skill—clearly, opposition won’t do for Editha Dalton; we must employ winning smiles, soft speeches, and strategy. I must take heed to my ways, else my independent, fiery little banker will yet be refusing me the handling of her plethoric purse, and that, under the circumstances, is a pleasure I should miss exceedingly. Nevertheless, I intend to have my own way about certain matters and things.”
Such was Sumner Dalton’s muttered colloquy with himself, after having been so abruptly left alone by his indignant daughter.
For some time past he had made large demands upon Editha’s income, giving as a reason for so doing that he had loaned largely to a friend of late, who, having failed to pay as he had promised, he was somewhat crippled in his own money affairs.
Editha, generous and tender-hearted to a fault, of course, credited his statements and immediately surrendered the most of her income into his hands, and it is needless to remark that it slipped through his fingers in the easiest manner imaginable, and he presented himself to her on quarter-day with a punctuality that was surprising, knowing his habits, as it would in a better cause have been commendable.
But for the present, he said no more to her on the subject of either Mr. Tressalia’s attentions or intentions.
His manner was more affectionate and kind, and Editha began to feel that she had perhaps spoken more hastily and severely than she ought to her only parent; consequently, she exerted herself more to please him for the little while they remained at Newport.
Mr. Dalton, watching his opportunity, hinted to Mr. Tressalia that perhaps it would not be well to hurry matters to a crisis, even though they had only a few days longer to remain at Newport; but he gave him a cordial invitation to visit them in their city home, encouraging him to hope that on a more intimate acquaintance he could not fail to win the fair Editha.
That gentleman appeared to see the wisdom of all this, particularly as he had noticed and been somewhat hurt by her avoidance of him, and he did not force his attentions upon her, nor seek to monopolize her society as he had heretofore done.
So the last week of Editha’s stay at the seaside was marked by only pleasant events, and there was nothing to look upon with regret as they returned to their home for the winter.
It was the last of October when they left Newport, and the twenty-third of December was the day set for Earle Wayne’s release from prison.
He had entered the tenth of April, but, according to the State law, a prisoner was allowed two days of mercy in every month for prompt obedience to the rules of the institution and the faithful performance of all duties; consequently, he had gained during the three years, three months and eighteen days.
Editha knew of this through Mr. Forrester, and Earle Wayne himself did not keep a more accurate account of his time than did the fair, brave girl who, despite everything, was so true and firm a friend to him.
The first duty upon returning to her home was to write him a little note.
“Mr. Wayne,” it ran, a little formal, perhaps, on account of Mr. Dalton’s sneers and insinuations, “in about two months I shall expect to shake hands with you once more. Will you come directly to my home at that time, as I have an important message for you, also a package belonging to you and left in my care by Uncle Richard, just before he died?
Ever your friend,
“Editha Dalton.”
When this note was handed to Earle, and he instantly recognized the handwriting, every particle of color forsook his face, his hand trembled, and a mist gathered before his eyes.
He had not seen that writing since his lovely flowers had ceased to come, and its familiar characters aroused so many emotions that for the moment he was nearly unmanned.
He thrust it hastily into his bosom, for he could not open it with so many eyes upon him, and there it lay all day long against his beating heart, waiting to be opened when he could be alone and unobserved.
When at last he did break the seal and read it, it was sadly disappointing.
It seemed cold and distant—a mere formal request to come and get what belonged to him and receive the message (doubtless something regarding his studies) that Richard Forrester had left for him.
His heart was full of bitterness, for since Mr. Forrester’s death he had not seen a single friendly face or received one word of kindly remembrance from anyone.
He could not forget Editha’s long neglect of him—the long, weary months, during which she had promised to send him some token, and none had come.
She had other cares and pleasures; her time was probably occupied by her fashionable friends and acquaintances, and it could not be expected that she would give much thought to a miserable convict; doubtless, she would not have remembered him now had it not been a duty she owed to the wishes of her uncle, he reasoned, with a dreary pain in his heart.
Editha was, he knew, nearly or quite twenty now; she had already been in society nearly two years, and, perchance, she had already given her heart to some worthy, fortunate man, who could place her in a position befitting her beauty and culture; and what business had he, who would henceforth be a marked man—a pariah among men—to imagine that she would think of him except, perhaps, with a passing feeling of pity?
But even though he reasoned thus with himself, and tried to school his mind to think that he must never presume to believe that Editha could cherish anything of regard for him, even though she had signed herself “ever your friend,” yet he experienced a dull feeling of despair creeping over him, and even the prospect of his approaching liberation could not cheer him.
He had a little box in which he treasured some dried and faded flowers—the last he had received from her—and he looked at these occasionally with a mournful smile and a swelling tenderness in his heart, and his eyes grew misty with unshed tears as he remembered the sweet-faced, impulsive girl who had so generously stood up and defended him in that crowded courtroom.
He remembered how she had grieved over her own reluctantly given evidence, which had gone so far toward convicting him—how she had laid her hot cheek upon his hand and sobbed out her plea for forgiveness, and her look of firm faith and trust in him when she had told him that he did not need to prove his innocence to her, she would take his word in the face of the whole world.
A strange thrill always went through him as he thought of the burning tears she had shed for him and his sad fate, and which had rained upon the hand which she had held clasped in both of hers.
It was a sort of sad pleasure to look back upon all this and think how kind she had been, and in his own heart he knew that he loved her as he could never love another, but he had no right to think of her in that way. If she had only remembered him occasionally, it would not be quite so hard to bear; but she had not kept her promise—she had forgotten him in spite of her eager protestations that she would not.
He would gladly have gone away from the city as soon as he should be liberated, and thus avoid the pain of meeting and parting with her, but she had written and requested it, and he must have his package again, while he would treasure any message which his kind friend, Richard Forrester, had left for him.
His eyes dwelt fondly over those three last words, “ever your friend,” even though he sighed as he read them.
They were stereotyped, what she might kindly have written to any unfortunate person; yet his face did brighten, and they were like precious ointment to his bruised spirit, and cheered the few remaining weeks of his stay, not a little.
“Yes, I will obey her summons,” he said, with a sigh, as he folded the tiny sheet, carefully replaced it in its envelope, and then returned it to that inner pocket near his heart. “I will go to her; I will look into her deep, clear eyes and fair, beautiful face once more; I will touch her soft hand once again, even if it be in a long farewell. I shall hear her speak my name, and then I will go away from her forever. To stay where I should be sure to meet her, even once in a while, and perhaps to see her happy in the love of another, would be more pain than I could bear.
“But, oh, my darling!” he cried, in a voice of anguish, “if only this terrible blight need not have come upon me—if I might but have won you, there would have come a day when I could have given you such a position as—but, ah! why do I indulge in such vain dreamings?—it can never be, and God alone can help me to bear the dread future.”
Yet notwithstanding his despair of never being anything but an object of pity to the woman whom he idolized, those last two months of his stay were the brighter for the coming of that little white-winged messenger which Editha had sent him, and which day and night lay above his heart.
“Earle will be free the twenty-third—Christmas comes two days later. I will have the papers conveying Uncle Richard’s bequest made out and all ready, and he shall have it for a Christmas gift if I can get Papa’s consent.”
Thus Editha planned as the month of December came in cold and wintry, and growing more and more impatient with every succeeding day.
“Papa has been more kind to me of late—I do not believe but that I can persuade him to sign the papers, and then I will ask Earle to eat the Christmas goose with us. I will make everything so lovely and cheerful that he will forget those dreary walls and the long, long months he has been so cruelly detailed there.”
But she realized, even as she mused and planned thus, that she would doubtless have trouble regarding these matters; and yet she hoped against hope.
“Papa cannot be so cruel. I shall get Mr. Felton to intercede for me—it is such a little sum compared with the whole, and the money would do Earle so much good; it will help him to hold up his head until he gets nicely started in business for himself. I wonder if he is changed much?” she went on, with heightened color and a quickly beating heart, as she remembered the strong, proud face, with its dark, handsome eyes, the tender yet manly mouth, which used to part into such a luminous smile whenever he looked up to her. “I wonder if he has liked my flowers?—how fond of them he always was! I will have them everywhere about the house on Christmas Day. There shall be no other guests except Mr. Felton; I will coax Papa to let me have it all my own way for once, and I will try and make Earle forget.”
Thus day by day she thought of him and planned for his comfort and happiness. The days grew longer and longer to her as the time drew nearer, until she became so restless, nervous, and impatient, that her appetite failed, and all her interest in other things waned.
The week before Christmas she sought her lawyer and had a long talk with him regarding her uncle’s strange bequest.
It was the first he had heard of it, for she had been loth to say much about it, knowing her father’s bitter opposition. But it could be put off no longer, and she hoped Mr. Dalton would be ashamed to refuse his signature when the paper should be presented by the lawyer, and though Mr. Felton was somewhat surprised at the information, yet his admiration for the fair girl increased fourfold as he observed how heartily she appeared to second Mr. Forrester’s wishes.
“I will make out the papers with pleasure, Miss Editha,” he said; “you want them for Christmas Day—they shall be ready, and a fine gift it will be for the young man. Poor fellow! I always felt sorry for him, he was such a promising chap, and I’m glad he’s going to have something to start with—he’ll need it bad enough with every man’s hand against him.”
“Yes, sir; but I believe Mr. Wayne will live down his misfortune and command the respect of everyone who ever knew him,” said Editha flushing.
She did not like to hear Earle pitied in that way, as if he had fallen into sudden temptation and was guilty; she knew he was innocent, and she wanted everybody else to think so, too.
“You will come and dine with us that day, will you not, Mr. Felton? I shall invite Earle to dinner. I want to make the day pleasant for him if I can—he is so alone in the world, you know,” she added.
Mr. Felton searched the flushed face keenly a moment, then said:
“Thank you, Miss Editha; I shall be happy to do so, as I am also somewhat alone in the world—that is if it will be agreeable to all parties. Have you talked this matter over with Mr. Dalton? Does he approve of the measures you are taking?”
Editha’s face clouded.
“No,” she answered, reluctantly; “Papa does not approve of my giving Mr. Wayne the money; but, of course, it must be done. It was Uncle Richard’s wish.”
“Ahem! Excuse me, Miss Editha, but how old are you?” Mr. Felton asked, reflectively.
“I was twenty on the twentieth of November, but—”
“Then you will not be of age until the twentieth of next November. I am sorry to disappoint you; but since this bequest was not included in the will of Mr. Forrester, and you are underage, you can convey no property to anyone without Mr. Dalton’s sanction.”
Editha’s face was very sad and perplexed.
“So Papa told me himself,” she sighed. “Is there no way, Mr. Felton, that I can give Earle this money without his signing the papers?”
“I am afraid not. He is your natural guardian, and everything will have to be submitted to his approval, at least until the twentieth of next November, nearly a year.”
“But Uncle Richard made me promise that I would give it to Mr. Wayne just as soon as his time expired, and I must do it,” Editha said, almost in tears.
She had hoped that Mr. Felton could find a way to help her out of this trouble.
“The law is a hard master sometimes,” he said, sympathizing with her evident distress; “but I will make out the papers as you desire, and perhaps we can advise and prevail upon your father to do what is right on Christmas Day.”
“Then you do think it is right Earle should have this money?” she asked, eagerly.
“Certainly, if it was Mr. Forrester’s wish, since the money was his own to do with as he chose; but I am sorry he was not able to add a codicil to his will. It would have saved all this trouble, for no one could have gainsaid that. Do not be discouraged, however; we may be able to persuade Mr. Dalton to see things as we do. You shall have the papers by the twenty-fifth.”
“I have been thinking,” Editha said, musingly, “that if you could have it before, and we could get Papa to sign it, it might save some unpleasant feelings. If we should wait until Christmas Day, and he should refuse before Earle, it might make him very uncomfortable.”
“Perhaps that would be the better way, and I will attend to it for you as soon as possible,” Mr. Felton assented.
Editha went home in rather a doubtful frame of mind.
“What will Earle do if Papa will not consent?” she murmured, the tears chasing each other down her cheeks. “He will not have any money, and, with no one to hold out a helping hand, he will become disheartened.”
“A clear case of love!” Mr. Felton said, thoughtfully, upon Edith’s departure. “It’s too bad, too, for, of course, it would never do for her to marry him, with the stigma upon his character. Poor fellow! he’ll have a hard time of it if Dalton won’t give in, for people are mighty shy of jail-birds, be they ever so promising; and her father, according to my way of thinking, loves money too well to give up a pretty sum like ten thousand.”
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