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EARLE WAYNE’S NOBILITY

By MRS. GEORGIE SHELDON

AUTHOR OF

“Brownie’s Triumph,” “Virgie’s Inheritance,” “Nora,” “Trixy,” “Stella Rosevelt,” “Wedded by Fate,” Etc.

A. L. BURT COMPANY

Publishers New York

Copyright 1880, 1881, 1882, 1903

By STREET & SMITH

Renewal Granted to

Mrs. Georgie Sheldon Downs

1908

Earle Wayne’s Nobility

EARLE WAYNE’S NOBILITY

CHAPTER I
SENTENCE OF THE COURT

“Guilty!”

The deep, sonorous voice of the foreman of the jury sounded out upon the solemn stillness of the crowded court-room like the knell of doom.

And doom it was, and to one who never consciously committed a mean act in all his life.

The effect which that one word produced was marked.

There was a rustle of excitement and disapproval among the crowd, while deep-drawn sighs and expressions of sorrow showed that sympathy was strong for the prisoner at the bar, who for the last hour, while the jury was absent to decide upon the verdict, had sat with bent head and listless attitude, as if wearied out with the bitter trial to which he had been subjected.

Now, however, as he had been commanded “to look upon the jury,” his head was proudly lifted, revealing an exceedingly intelligent and handsome face, and a pair of fine dark eyes met those of the foreman unflinchingly while the least smile of scorn and bitterness disturbed the firm, strong mouth, showing that he had believed he had not much to hope for from him.

As the word was spoken which sealed his fate, a gray pallor settled over his face, and he dropped into his former attitude; otherwise he betrayed no sign of emotion.

Then something occurred which very seldom occurs in a crowded court-room.

A low cry of pain not far from the prisoner made every eye turn that way, and made him shiver as with a sudden chill.

A tender, sorrowful gleam crept into his dark eyes, the proud lips unbent and trembled slightly, and a heavy sigh heaved his broad chest.

The next moment a slender, girlish form started up from her seat, and a fair, flushed face was turned with eloquent pleading toward the grave judge, sitting like a statue in his chair of state, while an earnest, quivering voice rang out:

“Oh, sir, he is not guilty—I know that Earle Wayne never was guilty of such a deed.”

A touching picture, and very sweet and attractive withal, Editha Dalton made, standing there so unconscious of herself, or that she was guilty of any breach of decorum; her fair hair floating like gleams of sunlight upon her graceful shoulders, her sweet face flushed and full of pain, her deep blue eyes filled with tears and raised beseechingly to the judge, her delicate hands clasped imploringly and half-outstretched toward him, as if seeking for mercy in the sentence he was about to pronounce.

The old man’s face lost its habitual sternness for a moment, and his own eyes softened almost to tenderness, as he caught the sweet tones, and turned to look upon her, so beautiful in her appealing attitude.

It was not often that a culprit found one so earnest and beautiful to plead his cause. The able lawyer who had had charge of the case for the young man, with all his eloquence, had not moved him as did this fair maiden, with her flushed, pained face, her pleading eyes, her outstretched hands.

A murmur of sympathy sounded again throughout the room, and a wave of regret swept over the judge’s heart as he turned from the girl to the prisoner, feeling himself more than half convinced of the truth of her words, as he marked again the noble face and the honest expression of the clear, unflinching eyes.

But some one pulled Editha Dalton hastily back into the chair from which she had arisen, and a stern voice uttered in her ear:

“Edie! Edie! sit down, child! What are you thinking of, when your own evidence did more toward convicting him than that of any one else?”

“Oh! I know it! I know it! but he is not guilty all the same. It is only the cruel force of circumstances that makes him appear so!” she sobbed, wildly, burying her face, with a gesture of despair, in her handkerchief.

The judge’s keen ears caught the words, and his sharp eyes wandered again from her to the prisoner, a shade of uneasiness in their glance. He marked the pallor that had overspread his face, making him almost ghastly; the yearning, troubled look in the eyes now fixed so sadly upon the weeping girl; the firmly compressed lips and clenched hands, which told of a mighty effort at self-control and something whispered within him that the jury was at fault—that the evidence, though so clear and conclusive, was at fault and, since there could be no reprieve, to make the sentence as light as possible.

“Prisoner at the bar, stand up,” he said, and Earle Wayne instant arose.

Tall, manly, and with conscious dignity, he confronted the judge to receive his sentence, his eye never faltering, his face calm and proud, though still exceedingly pale.

“You have heard the verdict of the jury—have you anything to say?”

“Nothing, save what I have already said, your honor. I am not guilty of the crime with which I am charged, and if I live I will yet prove it!”

That was all; but the firm, unfaltering words seemed to carry conviction with them, and even the jury began to look grave and troubled, as if they, too, feared they had convicted an innocent man.

But the fiat had gone forth, and the judge, anxious to have the uncomfortable matter disposed of, pronounced the lightest sentence possible—“three years’ hard labor in the State prison at ——.”

A mighty sigh burst from the multitude, as if it had come from a single breast, as he ceased, and then a hush like death pervaded the room. It was the best the judge could do, and the very least they could expect; but it was sad to see a promising young man of twenty condemned to penal servitude for a term of years, be it ever so few.

The prisoner received it with the same calmness that had characterized him throughout the trial, only a slight quivering of the eyelids showing that he had heeded the words at all.

A moment of utter silence pervaded the room after the sentence was pronounced, the court was dismissed, and then the curious but sympathetic rabble went its way.

But, with winged feet, a slight form darted forward from the crowd, and, almost before he was aware of her presence, Editha Dalton was beside the prisoner, her pained, quivering face upraised to his.

She seized his hand in both of hers, she laid her hot, flushed cheek upon it, and sobbed:

“Oh, Earle, forgive me! forgive me! but I had to tell the truth, and it has ruined you.”

“Hush, Edie—Miss Dalton. You have done perfectly right, and I have nothing to forgive.”

The young man spoke kindly, soothingly, but a sudden flush mounted to his brow, and the hot cheek against his hand thrilled him with a bitter pain.

“But it was my evidence that told most against you. I tried not to tell it all; but, oh! they made me, with their cruel questions. If I had not had to say that I saw you, and that the bracelet was mine, perhaps, oh! perhaps that dreadful jury would not have said you were——”

She stopped suddenly and shuddered, sobbing bitterly.

She could not speak the obnoxious word.

“Their saying that I am guilty does not make me so, even though I must pay the penalty as if I were. But I have the consciousness within that I am innocent of the crime, and I shall live to prove it yet to you, Editha, and to all the world,” he answered, in clear, confident tones, with a proud uplifting of his head.

“You do not need to prove it to me, Earle; I know it already. I would take your word in the face of the whole world and a thousand juries,” Editha asserted, with unshaken confidence.

A glad light leaped into the young man’s eyes, and illuminated his whole face for the moment, at these words.

“Thank you,” he replied, in low, thrilling tones, and bending toward her: “it will be very pleasant to remember what you have said while I am——”

He stopped short—he could not finish the miserable sentence.

His sudden pause reminded the young girl anew of what was to come.

“Earle! Earle!” she cried, passionately, her face growing white and agonized, “I cannot have it so! Three years! three long, long, wretched years! Oh, if I could only do something! If I could only find those wretches who did the deed for which you must suffer; if—oh, it is too, too cruel!”

“Hush, my little friend!” he said, bending nearer and speaking with deep tenderness; “your sympathy is very sweet and comforting to me, but it will unman me if I see you suffer so on my account.”

“Then I will be calm. I am thoughtless to wound you, when you have so much to bear already,” she interrupted, choking back the sobs that heaved her breast, and making an effort to be calm.

His lip trembled slightly as her blue eyes met his, so full of sympathy and sorrow.

“God knows that this is a fearful trial to me,” he went on, drawing a deep breath, to free himself of the choking sensation in his throat; but, trying to speak more hopefully: “I am young, and three years will soon pass. I shall spend them to some purpose, too; and, Editha, with the knowledge of your trust and faith in me, I shall be able to bear them patiently, and I shall come forth from the strange discipline better prepared, I have no doubt, to battle with life than I am at this moment. Every hour that is my own I shall spend in study; and, if you will continue to have faith in me, I promise you shall never have cause to blush to own me as a friend in the future.”

“Earle,” Editha replied, quietly, yet earnestly, now entirely self-possessed, “you are just as brave and noble as you can be, and I am proud of you as my friend to-day—now—this moment! I shall think of you every day; I shall pray for you every day; and, if they will let me, I will come once in a while to see you.”

“No, no; please do not, Edie. I could not bear that you should see me there,” he cried, sharply, his face almost convulsed with pain at the thought.

“Ah, no—I did not think; but you would not like it; but I want to do something to comfort you and let you know that I do not forget you,” she said, sadly, a troubled look on her fair face. “Will they let me send you things?” she asked, after thinking a moment.

“Yes, that is allowed, I believe.”

“Then I shall send you something as often as I can; and you will be comforted a little, will you not, Earle, if you know you are remembered?” she asked, anxiously.

“Indeed I shall,” he said, deeply touched. “If I receive a flower, a book, a paper, even, I shall be greatly cheered.”

“You shall have them. Every week I will send you something, and you will know that there is one true friend who has faith in you,” she said, eagerly.

“God bless you, Miss Dalton. You are a little comforter, and my heart is lighter already. I have another friend—your uncle; he has been very kind, and has fought hard for me.”

“Dear Uncle Richard! I believe he is one of the best men that ever lived,” Editha said, as her eyes sought a noble-looking man who was talking in an earnest and somewhat excited manner to a group gathered about him, and who had been Earle’s lawyer.

“I shall ever have cause to remember him gratefully. He did not give me much encouragement regarding the issue of the case—the evidence was so strong against me—and as we could get no clew to the real culprit, he feared the worst. But he promised to help me in my studies, should the case go against me, so that I may be ready for the bar when the term expires. So you see that things are not quite so dark as they might be,” Earle said, trying to speak hopefully.

Editha sighed.

The future looked dark enough at the best, she thought.

“If we could but have had more time—if you might only have another trial. Could you not have appealed, Earle?” she asked.

He shook his head sadly.

“It could have done no good. The really guilty ones have covered their tracks, and hidden their booty so effectually, that we could get no clue. But do not grieve for me, my little friend. Other innocent men have suffered for the guilty, and it can be no harder for me than it was for them. And,” lowering his voice, and speaking reverently, “I do not forget that there was once a Man who suffered for the sins of a whole world. For thirty-four years He meekly bore His cross, praying at the end that His enemies might be forgiven; and since He sees fit to send this one upon me, I must not murmur, though I own ’tis hard.”

Editha was weeping quietly now. The tears would come in spite of her, though she marveled at his words.

“Come, Editha, I have an engagement at four, and it lacks only fifteen minutes of that hour now.”

The words were spoken in cold, measured tones at her side.

The fair girl started, flushed, and glanced around at the speaker in surprise, as if unaccustomed to being addressed in that manner.

“Yes, papa, I will come; but I wanted to say good-by to Earle.”

“Ah, yes—ahem! I’m truly sorry for poor Earle,” Mr. Dalton said, addressing him with a good deal of coldness and a very poor show of sympathy, while he glanced impatiently at his daughter. “Very unfortunate complication of circumstances,” he went on, his gold repeater in his hand, and his eyes watching attentively the minute hand as it crept toward the hour of his engagement. “The evidence was strangely conclusive, and I wish for your sake it could have been refuted; but really, Editha, we must not delay longer.”

Earle Wayne bowed coldly to the would-be comforter, and stepped back as if to end the interview.

He knew Mr. Dalton was no friend to him, and his words, which contained no sincerity, were intolerable to him.

“Good-by, Miss Dalton,” he said, holding out his hand to Editha, and which she had dropped upon hearing Mr. Dalton’s stern tones.

That gentleman frowned darkly at the act.

What right had a criminal to offer his hand to his daughter?

“Good-bye, Earle,” she answered, clasping it warmly, while a big tear trickled down her cheek and dropped hot and burning upon it.

Then she turned quickly away, drew her vail over her tear-stained face, while Mr. Dalton led her from the room, himself bestowing only an indifferent nod upon the offending culprit.

CHAPTER II
THE ROBBERY

About three months previous to the events related in the preceding chapter, on a dark and stormy night, two men might have been seen prowling around a stately mansion in an aristocratic portion of the city of New York. After carefully reconnoitering the premises, to see that no one was stirring within, one of them cautiously proceeded to cut out a pane of glass in one of the basement windows, while the other kept watch upon the sidewalk.

The glass was removed without the slightest noise, whereupon the burglar unfastened the window and lifted the sash. Then making a little noise like the twittering of a sparrow, he was immediately joined by his companion, and both disappeared within the house.

A few minutes later a third man coming along the street, saw the sudden glimmer of a light in one of the lower rooms of the mansion.

Something about it instantly attracted his attention.

It was a quick, sharp flare, and then seemed to go suddenly out.

He waited a minute or two, and the same thing was repeated.

“Aha! a burglar!” he muttered to himself. “I think I’ll have to look into this thing.”

He stopped, and his first impulse was to turn and go in search of a policeman.

Ah! if he had done so how much of future misery would have been saved him.

But upon second thought he concluded not to do so, and quietly slipped within the shadow of the great porch over the front entrance.

It seemed a long time that he stood waiting there, and he regretted that he had not gone for an officer.

He did not know how long the burglars had been there, and he had feared they would escape before he could return. But finally he heard cautious steps approaching from the rear toward the corner where he was stationed, and now he caught the sound of exultant whispers, that they had been so successful as to get out undiscovered with their rich booty.

The next instant two men emerged into view, bearing their plunder in a bag between them.

With a bound the new-comer darted forward and felled one man to the ground with a blow that sounded like the descent of a sledge-hammer, and then grappled with the other.

The burglar who had been felled had been only momentarily stunned, and, almost instantly recovering himself, he had quietly picked up the bag, which had also fallen to the ground in the melee, and made off with it, leaving his companion to shift for himself as best he could.

The combatants fought bravely and well, but the assailant being lighter than the burglar, and less experienced in pugilistic practice, gradually lost ground, and finally a well-directed blow from his antagonist laid him flat at his feet, when he, also, beat a hasty retreat, having first dropped something on the ground beside his victim.

Steps were now heard approaching upon the pavement; the noise of the scuffle had reached the ears of one of the protectors of the peace, and he was hastening to the rescue.

A light at the same time appeared at a window in one of the lower rooms of the mansion so lately robbed, while above a sash was thrown hastily up, and a slight, white-robed figure leaned forth into the night.

The light in the window below streamed directly out upon the fallen hero—alas! a hero no longer—who now began to gather himself and his scattered senses together once more. As he arose to his feet a cry from above rang out on the stillness of the night.

“Oh, Earle! Earle! how came you here, and what is the matter?”

The voice was that of Editha Dalton, and, springing forward under the window, the young man replied, reassuringly:

“Do not be alarmed, Miss Editha. I have had a fall, but am all right now. I’ll come and tell you to-morrow how I happened to be here to-night.”

“So, so, my fine young gentleman, you’ll come and tell the lady to-morrow, will you? I’m thinking mayhaps you will have a chance to tell some one else by that time, you disturber of the peace;” and, before Earle Wayne could scarcely realize what had happened, a pair of steel bracelets were slipped about his wrists, and he was a prisoner.

“You have made a mistake, sir,” he said civilly, to his captor, yet beginning to feel very uncomfortable in the position wherein he found himself. “I was trying to stop a couple of thieves who had just robbed this house, when one of them knocked me down and cleared.”

“Yes, yes; I find I always get hold of the wrong rogue—some one else does the deed and the one I catch is always so ‘innocent,’” laughed the policeman, with good-natured sarcasm. “Aha! what have we here?” he cried again, as his foot came in contact with some glittering object and sent it spinning on before him.

He stooped to pick it up, and, as the light fell upon it, he saw it was a costly bracelet, set with a solitare diamond surrounded with emeralds.

“That looks ‘innocent,’ don’t it now?” he said, holding it up to the light with a chuckle.

“That is Miss Dalton’s bracelet; I’ve seen her wear it,” the young man thoughtlessly and injudiciously admitted.

“Oh, yes, no doubt; and you thought mayhaps that them glittering stones might bring a pretty little sum. I came just in time to stop this little game. Come, I think I can accommodate you with lodgings to-night, my hearty.”

At this moment a man came out of the house upon the balcony in great excitement.

“Help! help!” he cried. “I’ve been robbed! Stop thief! stop——”

“Ay, I have stopped him, and just in the nick of time, sir,” responded the policeman, leading Earle into view.

“Earle Wayne!” exclaimed Mr. Dalton, in greatest astonishment, as his glance fell upon him.

“Yes, sir, it is I; but I am no thief, as you very well know.”

“No, this does not look like it!” interrupted the policeman, flourishing the bracelet conspicuously.

“I have committed no robbery,” asserted Earle, with quiet dignity; “and I did not see that bracelet until you picked it up and showed it to me. It must have been dropped by one of the robber, who fled after I was knocked down;” and he went on to explain how he happened to be there, and what he had seen and heard.

“It’s a likely story now, isn’t it, sir,” sneered his captor, who was all too eager for the eclat of having captured the perpetrator of so daring a theft, “when I’ve found him with his booty right here on the spot?”

“Mr. Dalton,” Earle appealed, fearing he had got himself into a bad predicament, “you know well enough that I would do no such a thing, particularly in this house of all others;” and he glanced in a troubled way up at that white-robed figure in the window.

“No, certainly not. Papa, we know Earle would not be guilty of any thing of the kind, and I believe every word he has said about the encounter with those men,” Miss Dalton asserted, confidently.

“Did you see or hear any one else, Editha?” asked her father.

“No; I heard a heavy fall, and after listening a minute I came to the window, where I saw Earle just getting up from the ground; and see! as the light shines upon him he looks as if he had been having an encounter with some one;” and she pointed at the young man’s disarranged and soiled clothing.

But Mr. Dalton shook his head, while the policeman sneered. It looked bad, and the presence of the bracelet seemed to them indisputable proof that he was in some way criminally connected with the affair.

Further investigation proved that a quantity of silver, and all of Mrs. Dalton’s diamonds, together with quite a large sum of money, had been stolen.

Young Wayne was closely questioned as to who his accomplices were, for the policeman insisted that he must have had one or more.

“Make a clean breast of it, young one, and being your first attempt, perhaps they will let you off easy,” he said.

But Earle indignantly refused to answer any more questions, and was at last led away to the station-house and locked up until his case could be officially investigated.

The morning papers were full of the robbery, and the young man’s name figured largely in their columns, while much was said about the “culpable hardihood and stubbornness of one so young in years, but apparently so old in crime.”

A day or two after the case was investigated, and, no further light being gained upon the affair, he was committed for trial.

Richard Forrester, a lawyer of note and a brother of Mrs. Dalton, in whose employ the young man had been for the past three years, immediately gave bonds for him to the amount of ten thousand dollars, and for the next three months devoted himself assiduously to working up the complicated case.

The day for Earle Wayne’s trial came, and only the following facts came to light:

His character, up to the night in question, as far as any one knew, was unimpeachable.

He had been in Mr. Forrester’s employ for three years, and during that time had gained that gentleman’s entire confidence and kind regard, and he had even contemplated making him a partner in his business as soon as he had completed his course of study and been admitted to the bar.

He spoke at some length, and in glowing terms, of his honesty and industry, and said he had deemed him, if anything, too rigid and morbidly conscientious upon what seemed to him points of minor importance.

All this spoke well for the prisoner, but it did not touch upon the matter under consideration, and could not therefore be accepted as evidence.

It seems that on the afternoon before the robbery Earle had asked permission to go out of town on business for himself. He had not stated what that business was, neither had Mr. Forrester inquired.

Now, however, the question came up, but Earle refused to state it, and this of itself turned the tide strong against him.

He had obtained leave to leave the city on a train that left at two in the afternoon, and had gone to the village of ——, only eighteen miles out.

He transacted his business, which concerned only his private interests, he said, and this much he could also say, “was connected with the events of his early life,” and returned to the city by the late train, which arrived about midnight.

On his way from the station to his lodgings he was obliged to pass Mr. Dalton’s house, where he saw, as already described, the light within one of the lower rooms.

He stated that his first impulse was to go for a police officer, but fearing the man—he had not thought there would be more than one—would be off with his booty before he could return, he resolved to remain, encounter the villain single-handed, and bring him to justice.

He then went on to describe his tussle with the two ruffians.

But he had only his own word with which to battle all the evidence against him. His story did not sound reasonable, the jury thought, particularly as he so persistently refused to state the nature of his business to the village of ——; and besides, the fact of the bracelet having been found in his possession, or what amounted to the same thing, was almost sufficient of itself to convict him.

“Earle, if you could only tell this business of yours, perhaps we might be able to do something for you; otherwise I see no chance,” Mr. Forrester had urged, when the opposing counsel had made such a point of his refusal to do so.

“I cannot, sir. It is connected with a great wrong committed years ago, and involves the name of my mother. I cannot unveil the past before the curious rabble gathered here—no, not even if I have to serve out a ten-years’ sentence for keeping silent,” Earle said, firmly, but with deep emotion.

Editha’s evidence—since she was the first to see and recognize him on the night of the robbery—went further than almost anything else toward condemning him, even though it was given with such reluctance, together with her oft-asserted belief that he was innocent.

The tender-hearted, loyal girl would rather have had her tongue paralyzed than to have been obliged to speak the words which so told against him.

Earle was cross-examined and recross-questioned, but he told the same story every time, never swerving in a single particular from his first statements.

Every possible way was tried to make him confess who his accomplices were, the opposing counsel maintaining that he must have had one or more. But he always replied:

“I had no accomplice, for I have neither planned nor executed any robbery.”

“But you assert that two men came out of the house.”

“I encountered two men at the corner of Mr. Dalton’s house; one I surprised and felled to the ground, and then grappled with the other. During the scuffle the first one got up and ran off with the bag which contained their booty. I then received a blow which stunned and felled me, and when I came to myself again both were gone. I know nothing of either them or their plunder, and I am innocent of any complicity in the matter.”

But all was of no avail against the positive evidence which opposed him, and the fatal verdict was spoken, the fearful sentence pronounced.

Popular sympathy inclined strongly toward the unfortunate young man, whom many knew and respected for his hitherto stainless character, while his appearance, so noble and manly, prepossessed almost every one in his favor.

As before stated, he had come to Richard Forrester when a youth of seventeen, asking for work, and the great lawyer had employed him as an office boy, and it was not long before he came to feel a deep interest in the intelligent lad. He saw that he had what lawyers term “a long head,” and could grasp all the details of a case almost as readily as he himself could, and he resolved that he would educate him for the profession.

Mr. Forrester was a bachelor of great wealth, and exceedingly fond of his beautiful and vivacious niece, Editha Dalton, who, report said, was to be his heiress.

She was a slight, sprightly girl of fourteen when Earle Wayne came into her uncle’s employ, and a mutual admiration sprang up between them at once, and steadily increased, until, on the part of the young man, it grew into a deep and abiding love, although he had never presumed to betray it by so much as a look or tone.

Editha, at seventeen, had not as yet analyzed her own feelings toward her uncle’s protege; and thus we find her at the time of the trial pouring out her impulsive regrets and grief in the most unreserved manner, while her tender heart was filled with keenest anguish at the fate of her beau ideal of all manly excellence.

As for Mr. Dalton, he did not share the faith of either his daughter or his brother-in-law; and, notwithstanding he was vastly astonished upon discovering Earle Wayne in the hands of a policeman at his own door on the night of the robbery, yet he was a man who could easily believe almost anything of one whom he disliked.

He did dislike Earle, simply because Editha showed him so much favor; and he was rather glad than otherwise now, if the truth were known, that this very fascinating young hero was to be removed from his path, even though he was to become a prisoner. He began to fear that she had already grown to admire him more than was either wise or proper, considering the vast difference in their relative social positions; and it would never do for the aristocratic Miss Dalton, heiress-expectant, to fall in love with an office boy.

And so Earle Wayne went to prison.

But he went with a stout heart and a manly courage that very few possess who are doomed to drag out a weary term of years behind bolts, and bars, and solid walls.

CHAPTER III
A FRIEND IN NEED

“I did not do it. I have not that on my conscience to weigh me down. I am to suffer for another’s crime, and though it is a bitter trial, yet it is better so than that I was really guilty and could go free. I had rather be in my place, dreadful as it is, than in that of the real thief, and I will make my misfortune serve me a good turn in spite of all. I will fit myself for the very highest position in life, and then, when my three years are ended, I will go out and occupy it. I will not be crushed. I will rise above the disgrace. I will live it down, and men shall yet be proud to call me friend.”

So mused our hero as, for the first day in —— prison, he was doomed, according to the rules of that institution, to solitary confinement.

Earle Wayne’s was no weak nature, to yield himself up to useless repining and vain regrets.

The die was cast, and for the next three years he was to be like any other criminal, and dead to all the world, except that portion of it contained within those four dreary walls, and the one or two outside who should continue faithful to him. Nothing could help it now, unless the real thieves should confess their crime, which they were not at all likely to do, and he bravely resolved to make the best of his situation, hard though it was.

He went cheerfully to his work; he uttered no complaint, he sought no sympathy, and improved every hour that he could call to his own to the utmost.

Richard Forrester proved himself “a friend in need” at this dark time. Obtaining permission of the authorities, he stocked a bookcase for Earle with everything needful to complete a thorough course of study, and drafted a plan for him to follow.

Once in three months he visited him, and between each visit he received from him a synopsis of what knowledge he had acquired during that time, which he criticised and returned with many useful hints, and then, when he came, talked it all over with him.

He was surprised during his visits to see how thorough and clear he was upon all points which he had been over.

“Earle, my boy,” he said, at one time, “you will make a better lawyer than I, and I do not see where you find time for all that you have learned.”

“I have nothing to distract my mind here, you know, and I will not brood over my fate,” he replied, with a sad smile, “so it is easy to concentrate my thoughts, and I learn rapidly.”

“How much better it would be for all these poor fellows here if they could do the same, and be prepared for a better life when their time is out,” said Mr. Forrester, reflectively.

“Most of them, instead, are only laying plans for more desperate deeds than they have ever yet been guilty of; and I begin to think that these severe measures of the law, instead of reforming men, only tend to arouse their antagonism and make them worse,” Earle answered.

“But what would you do with them? They have violated the laws and must be made to suffer for it in some way.”

“That is true; if they do mischief they must be put where they will be restrained; but in order to reform them, and create a desire within them for higher and better things, I think only such men as are actuated by the highest principles—men who are honest, brave, and true—should be allowed as officers within the walls of a prison. No man can accomplish any real good where he is not respected, and there is no one in the world so quick and keen to detect a fraud as these criminals. There are a few men here who are just in the right place—men who would not be guilty of a mean or dishonorable act, and who, while they treat every one with kindness, and even courtesy, yet demand exact and unhesitating obedience. It is astonishing, and sometimes amusing, to observe how differently they are respected and treated from the others.”

“You believe, then, that these men might be reformed by kindness and judicious treatment?”

“I do,” Earle replied, gravely; “of course there are exceptions, but I really would like to see the power of true, disinterested kindness tried upon some of these reckless fellows.”

In after years he did see it tried, and of the result we have yet to tell.

Upon leaving the court-room with her father, after bidding Earle good-by, Editha appeared very much disturbed and kept shooting indignant glances from beneath her vail at her unconscious companion.

At last, when they were seated in their carriage, and rolling smoothly toward home, her wrath broke forth.

“Papa, I think it was real shabby of you not to shake hands with Earle, and express a little genuine sympathy for him.”

“I do not know as I particularly desire to shake hands with, or that I experience any great amount of ‘genuine’ sympathy for, the man who is supposed to have robbed me,” returned Mr. Dalton, with exasperating indifference.

“Papa Dalton! you know Earle Wayne did not rob you as well as I do,” Editha said, her eyes sparkling angrily; for the sweet little maiden could show anger upon occasion. “And as for myself,” she continued, spiritedly, “I am proud of him; I was proud to shake hands with him before the multitude, and I shall be proud to greet him as my friend when his term expires and he comes among us again.”

“Very likely,” Mr. Dalton answered sarcastically, his thin lips curling with scorn; “and after the very marked exhibition to-day, I should be prepared to know of your being ‘proud’ of him in almost any capacity. But pray, Editha, do not gush any more about it; it’s all very well for a young lady to express her sympathy and proper feeling in a proper way and at a proper time; but it was exceedingly mortifying to me to-day to see you carry quite so much sail.”

Miss Editha tossed her pretty head somewhat defiantly and impatiently at this curtain lecture, but a vivid scarlet burned upon her cheeks, showing that she felt its stinging force, notwithstanding.

Mr. Dalton continued, with increasing sarcasm:

“You and the young culprit formed the center of attraction during your tender little episode, and I doubt not, almost everybody thought you were taking a heart-broken leave of your lover, instead of a poor protege—a mere nobody—whom your philanthropic uncle had picked up.”

Editha had started violently as Mr. Dalton spoke of Earle as her “lover,” and the burning blood rushed in a flood to her brow, over her neck, arms, and hands, and tingled to the very tips of her toes.

Could it be possible that she had behaved in so unmaidenly a manner, and given the gaping multitude such an impression?

Earle Wayne her lover!

She had never had such a thought before; but a strange thrill shot through her heart now, bowing the defiant, sunny-haired head, and making the sweet blue eyes droop half guiltily.

But she quickly rallied, and, tossing back the waves of hair from her flushed face, she bravely returned to the combat.

“Well, and if he were—if—he were—what you have said of him, papa, I should still be proud of him, and—I’d be true to him, too. I’d marry him—yes, I would—just as soon as ever he got through with those hateful three years;” and she enforced her words with an emphatic tap of her small boot.

Mr. Dalton leaned back in the carriage and laughed heartily at this spirited outburst.

On the whole, he rather enjoyed seeing his charming daughter in a passion.

It was not often that he had the opportunity, for she was generally the happiest and gayest of maidens, and, being an only child, no cloud had ever been allowed to overshadow her.

But Mr. Dalton had been extremely annoyed at the scene in the court-room, deeming it vulgar in the extreme to be made so conspicuous before the rabble, and he had uttered words sharper than had ever been addressed to the petted child before during all her life.

But Editha was true and loyal to the core, and, when once she had made a friend, no adversity could turn her from that friend; and her whole nature had arisen to arms against the cruel injustice and wretched fate which had condemned one so noble and good as Earle to durance vile.

Her father’s laugh capped the climax; the excitement, the pain in her heart, and, above all, his last insinuation, had been almost more than she could bear; but when his hearty laugh rang out so full of mocking amusement, she could endure no more, and, girl fashion, she burst into tears, believing herself the most deeply injured and abused maiden in existence.

“Come, come, pet, don’t take it so much to heart; but in the future try and be a little less demonstrative,” Mr. Dalton said, somewhat moved by her tears.

But Edith was deeply wounded; her tears must have their way now, and not another word was spoken during their drive.

Once at home, she darted into the house and up to her own room, where, after she had wept her weep out alone, and something of the burden from her heart, she sat down to think.

Her cheeks burned hotly every time she recalled her father’s light words.

“Earle Wayne my lover!” she murmured, with tremulous lips, and burying her face in her hands, with a feeling of shame that she should dare to think of it, when Earle, doubtless, had never dreamed of such a thing himself.

Nevertheless, the words possessed a strange fascination for her.

When she knelt in prayer and spoke his name, claiming Heaven’s tenderest care for the smitten one, the burning flush returned to her cheek, the thrill to her heart.

“Earle Wayne my lover!” she repeated, softly, as she laid her head upon her pillow, and her dreams were full of a manly face, with deep, dark eyes, in which shone a light tender and true, with lips that wore a smile as sweet and gentle as a woman’s, but such as no woman’s ever wore for her.

She still seemed to feel the clasp of his hand, the charm of his low spoken words, and the music of his voice and, when at length she awoke with the break of day, she was gay, careless Editha Dalton no longer.

A graver, quieter light looked out of her sunny eyes as she arose and dressed; lines of firmness and decision had settled about the smiling, happy mouth, and all the world had a deeper meaning for her than ever before.

“Standing, with reluctant feet,

Where the brook and river meet,

Womanhood and childhood fleet.”

It was as if she had suddenly turned a new page within her heart, and read thereon something which was to make her life in the future more beautiful and sacred, and yet which brought with the knowledge something of regret for the bright and careless days now gone forever.

She remembered that this was Earle’s first day in prison—the first of those long, long three years—and the tears sprang to her eyes, a sob trembled on her lips.

It was only a few hours since she had seen him, but it seemed as if weeks had passed; and, if they had been so long to her, what must they have been to him?

Could he ever endure it? Could she ever wait with patience so long?

She could not go to him—he had said he could not bear to have her see him there—and so she had nothing to do but wait.

“But I will not forget him,” she murmured; “let papa say what he may, I have promised to be a friend to him, and I shall keep my promise. He has no one in all the world, or seems to have no one, save Uncle Richard and me. Every week I will send him something, just to let him know that there is one, at least, who cares a little and is sorry for him.”

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 any one 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 of all this?

Had Editha forgotten?

Had she, amid the busy cares which 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 inclosed 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 confident, 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 thing 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 any one 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 any more. 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 to-day, 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 any one 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 doing 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 grevious 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 offering 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.

CHAPTER V
“I SHALL KEEP MY PLEDGE”

Richard Forrester’s affairs were duly settled, and his property—an exceedingly handsome property, too—passed into the hands of Editha Dalton.

The young girl had grown wonderfully womanly and dignified during the last two years.

She was not like the careless, sparkling, impulsive Editha who had so dauntlessly stood up in the crowded court-room and defended the hero of our story on that sad day when he received a felon’s doom.

She was more grave and self-contained, more thoughtful and dignified, but not a whit less sweet and attractive.

If anything, the gentle gravity of the deep blue eyes, with their steady, searching glance, possessed a greater charm than when they had been so full of mirth and laughter; the calm, self-possessed manner was more fascinating than the careless gayety of the light-hearted school-girl.

She persisted—much to her father’s inward vexation and disgust, for he had fondly hoped to have the handling of her money matters—in going over all her uncle’s papers, and becoming thoroughly acquainted with all the points of business pertaining to them.

He had said he felt sure she would make good use of the fortune which he had left her, and she knew that, in order to do so, she must understand in the beginning everything concerning it.

So she listened with the strictest attention while the prosy lawyer whom Richard Forrester had appointed to settle his affairs explained, now and then putting an intelligent question, which showed that her mind was strong and clear to grasp every detail.

She would allow no one save herself to examine the private drawer of Richard Forrester’s safe, although Mr. Dalton stood by chafing at her obstinacy, and longing to see for himself what it contained.

She found, as she expected, the package belonging to Earle, of which her uncle had spoken.

“What have you there, Editha?” her father asked, as, after examining its address and seal, she was about to return it to the drawer.

“It is something—some papers, I think, that belonged to Earle,” Editha answered, and he noticed the flush that sprang to her cheek as she pronounced his name.

“Let me see it,” he said, holding out his hand for it.

“You can examine the outside, papa, if you like; but the package is not to be opened,” she said, as she reluctantly handed it to him.

“Indeed! and by whose authority do you speak so emphatically?” Mr. Dalton demanded, with a sneer, as he curiously examined the bold, clear writing upon the wrapper, and wondered what secrets it contained.

“By Uncle Richard’s, papa,” Editha replied, firmly, the flush growing deeper on her cheek at his sneer.

He spoke oftener now to her in that way than he had ever done before, and not a day passed that he did not wound her deeply, and make her feel as if her only remaining friend was becoming alienated from her.

Mr. Dalton, on his part, was very much chagrined that she should presume to act so independently.

It was a great disappointment to him that he could not control her large income, which he had intended should contribute as much to his own enjoyment as to hers.

Money was his god; not to hoard and keep, but for the pleasure he could get from it; and he knew how to live for that end as well as any one in the world.

But Editha, after acquainting herself thoroughly with the details of her position as her uncle’s heiress, had again committed everything into the hands of Mr. Forrester’s lawyer, Mr. Felton saying he was to manage for her just as he had done for him, and it was better he should do so, since he understood everything, than to make any change.

“By your Uncle Richard’s, eh?” repeated Mr. Dalton, as he still regarded the package belonging to Earle Wayne.

“Yes, sir; the last day of his life he gave me some directions, and among other things committed these papers to my keeping until Earle’s time should expire, and charged me under no circumstances to allow the seal to be broken.”

“Pshaw! what a fuss over a little mess of papers; and what can it matter to any one if we look inside? It is sealed with a regular seal, too. I have considerable curiosity to know what silly secret the young convict regards so sacredly.”

“I do not think it is very kind, sir, to speak of Earle in that way; and, whether it is silly or not, it is his secret, and no one has any right to it but himself,” Editha answered with dignity and some show of spirit.

“It seems to me you are unaccountably interested, and very valiant in your defense of a convicted criminal,” retorted Mr. Dalton, considerably irritated by his daughter’s independence.

“I am deeply interested in Earle Wayne, papa; he was my friend before he was so unfortunate; he is my friend still,” she bravely returned.

“I suppose you even intend to take him under the shadow of your sheltering wing when he comes out of prison?” he sneered.

“I shall certainly not withhold my friendship from him while he is in every way worthy to retain it; and besides——”

“Besides what?” Sumner Dalton asked, with blazing eyes, as she hesitated.

He had no idea that there was so much fire and spirit bottled up in the little lady, who until quite recently had appeared to him only a light-hearted, sweet-tempered child.

True, she had been willful at times, but he had not minded it when it was confined to the little things of childhood, and never having had any other children, it had been a pleasure to pet her and indulge her in everything.

He had hitherto always laughed when she opposed him, and often teased her for the sake of arousing her antagonism, which made her appear so pretty and brilliant.

Now, however, it was another matter.

She was setting up her will in stubborn opposition to his, and upon matters of vital importance to him, too.

He had no notion of allowing her to compromise herself by befriending a miserable criminal, and he was bound to put a stop to it in some way.

“Besides what?” he repeated, as she did not immediately reply.

She looked at him askance, as if she was somewhat doubtful of the propriety of telling him anything more.

But at length she said:

“You know that Uncle Richard was also deeply interested in, and entertained a high regard for Earle——”

“Please adopt a different way of speaking of him; I do not like you to use his name so familiarly,” interrupted Mr. Dalton, with an angry tap of his foot.

“Very well; for Mr. Wayne, then,” she said, flushing; “and, during my last interview with him, he said he regarded him as a young man of great ability and promise, and that he had intended, as soon as he was fitted for the bar, to make him a partner in his business. All this he was going to do for one whom you appear to hold in such contempt, and as soon as his time should expire, if he would accept it.”

“I do believe that Richard Forrester was born with a soft spot somewhere, after all,” began her father, impatiently.

“Yes, sir, and it was in his heart,” Edith interrupted, quietly, but with an ominous sparkle in her blue eyes.

She could not tamely listen even to her father if anything disparaging was said of her beloved Uncle Richard.

Mr. Dalton glanced at her as if resenting the interruption, and then continued:

“He was keen enough in business and in making money, but he has shown himself almost an imbecile about some other things during the forty years that he had lived.”

“Papa, do you forget that you are speaking of the dead?” Editha asked, in a low, constrained tone.

“No; but I have no patience with such foolishness as he has more than once been guilty of,” was the impatient reply.

“What has Uncle Richard done that is so very foolish? He told me on that last day that his life had not been all smooth. What has he done?” Editha asked, with evident anxiety.

“No matter—no matter,” Mr. Dalton said, hastily; then, as if anxious to change the subject, asked: “Is that all you were going to tell me?”

“No; but I’m afraid you will be even more displeased with the rest of it than with what I have already told you,” the young girl said, doubtfully.

“At all events, let me hear it.”

“He said if he had not been so helpless he would have added a codicil to his will, and given Ear—Mr. Wayne something handsome to start in life with, when his three years should expire——”

“Aha!”

“And he made me promise that I would settle ten thousand dollars upon him just as soon as he should be free, and at the same time return his package to him.”

“Ten thousand dollars!” exclaimed Sumner Dalton aghast.

“Yes, sir.”

“I don’t believe it, Editha Dalton. It is more like a sickly, sentimental fancy of your own,” was the excited retort. Mr. Dalton was furious at the thought. Ten thousand dollars of Editha’s fortune to be given away to a beggar and a criminal!

“Papa!”

“I do not believe it, I say! Such a monstrous proceeding could never have originated in the brain of a sane man.”

“Papa, was I ever guilty of telling you a falsehood?” the young girl demanded, turning upon him, all the pride of her nature aroused by his words.

“Not that I know of; but——”

“Then do not dare to accuse me of it now. I am telling you only truth, and the wishes of a dying man. Uncle Richard’s wishes in this respect are sacred to me, even if my own heart and my friendship for Mr. Wayne did not prompt me to do him this little kindness out of my abundance.”

“Little kindness! It would not take very many such little kindnesses to make a beggar of yourself,” sneered Mr. Dalton, wrathfully.

“I pledged myself to execute this wish just as soon as Earle’s time expires, and I shall fulfill my pledge to the letter,” Editha returned, somewhat proudly.

“Not if I know it, Miss Dalton. Such folly—such rashness, I could never allow you to be guilty of.”

“Papa,” she began, pleadingly, her face full of pain, her eyes full of tears, “why are you so changed toward me lately? You and I are all that are left of our family. We have no near relatives; we are almost alone in the world. Do not, please do not, let there be any estrangement, any disagreement between us.”

Mr. Dalton’s face softened for the moment.

“Certainly not, my dear,” he replied, adopting his usual fond tone and manner, “there need be no estrangement, no disagreement, if you will be reasonable; but, of course, I cannot allow you to squander your money in the way you propose doing.”

“My money! How came it mine? Whose was it before it became mine?”

“Richard Forrester’s, of course,” he said, with some uneasiness.

“Yes; and before it became mine he reserved this ten thousand to be given to Earle. Surely he had a right to do with his own as he would.”

“Very true; but you forget—his will was made years ago, giving you everything.”

“He did not know Earle then; but he said if he could only have the use of his hands, he would have added a codicil to his will in his favor.”

“But he did not do it. The will stands just as it always has, and he can claim nothing. No part of your fortune is legally his.”

“He told me it was his wish, and I shall give Earle the money,” Editha answered, firmly.

“You will not,” asserted Mr. Dalton, positively.

“Papa, do you know how much I am worth in all?”

“A hundred and seventy-five thousand strong—a handsome fortune, a very handsome fortune for a young girl like you to possess,” he said, rubbing his hands together with an air of satisfaction, as if he expected to reap no little benefit from the said fortune himself.

“That is more than Uncle Richard thought, owing, no doubt, to the successful sale of that block I did not wish to keep and Mr. Felton advised me to sell. Uncle Richard told me there would be more than a hundred and fifty thousand; but you see I have nearly twenty-five thousand more than he expected; and, even after giving Earle what he wished, I shall have more than he thought.”

“What nonsense, child!”

“It is not nonsense. The money was set apart for him, and I should be a thief and a robber not to do with it as I was bidden. I have promised, and I shall fulfill,” Editha returned, steadfastly.

“Not with my consent, miss,” Mr. Dalton cried, hotly.

“Then it will have to be done without it,” she answered, sadly.

“That cannot be; you are under age; you are only nineteen, and it will be more than a year before you are free to act upon your own authority. Meantime, I am your legal guardian, and you can transfer no property without my consent,” her father replied, triumphantly.

“Is that so?” Editha asked, with a startled look.

“That is so, according to the law of this State.”

“Papa, you cannot mean what you say. You must allow me to do this thing; you would not be so dishonorable as to withhold this money from Earle when it is really his. He has only about nine months longer to stay——”

“A year, you mean,” Mr. Dalton interrupted.

“No; his ‘days of grace’ amount to three months, and so he will be free in about nine; and he will be absolutely penniless—he will have nothing upon which to begin life. It would be cruel to keep this money from him when it is rightfully his, and he will need it so much. Pray, papa, be kind and reasonable, and let me do as Uncle Richard wished,” pleaded the fair girl, earnestly.

“Richard Forrester didn’t know what he wished himself, or he would never have been guilty of such folly.”

“Papa, you know that his mind was as clear as either yours or mine is at this moment,” Editha exclaimed, nearly ready to weep at this cruel opposition.

“It does not matter; I shall never consent to your fooling away ten thousand dollars in any such manner; so let this end the controversy at once,” he returned, doggedly.

“Poor Earle!” sighed Editha, regretfully; “then he’ll have to wait a whole year for it. It is too bad.”

“Wait a year for it—what do you mean?” demanded Mr. Dalton sharply.

“I mean, papa, that if I cannot give it to him without your consent, that he will have to wait for it until I am twenty-one. But the very day that I attain my majority I shall go to Mr. Felton and have him make over ten thousand dollars to Earle Wayne,” and the gentle blue eyes met his with a look that told him she would do just as she had said.

“Do you defy me, then? You will not dare!” he cried, actually quivering with anger at her words.

“I have promised, and—I shall keep my pledge.”

Editha had grown very pale, but she spoke very firmly and steadily.

Sumner Dalton shot a dark look at the defiant little figure standing so quietly opposite him, and muttered an oath under his breath.

Then, apparently thinking it unwise to say more upon the subject just then, he turned his attention again to the package which he still held in his hands.

Editha’s eyes followed his, and she held out her hand, saying:

“I will replace that in the safe now, if you please.”

“I wonder what there is in it?” he said, curiously.

Her lip curled a little, but she made no reply, still standing with outstretched hand, waiting for him to give it to her.

“I’ve half a mind to open it,” he muttered.

“No, indeed!” she cried, in alarm, and taking a step forward.

“Pshaw! it can do no harm—it cannot contain anything so very remarkable.”

“Sir, pray do not allow me to lose all the respect I have for my own father,” Editha cried, sternly, her eyes ablaze, her face flushing a painful crimson, her form dilating with surprise, indignation, and grief.

A peculiar, mocking laugh was all the reply he made to this, but he handed back the package; not, however, without inwardly resolving to ascertain, before very long, what it contained.

Editha hastily returned it to the private drawer, locked it and the safe securely, and then, without a word, left the room.

CHAPTER VI
WHAT WAS IT?

Sumner Dalton was a supremely selfish man.

From his earliest boyhood his chief aim had been to get gold, no matter how, that he might fill his life to the brim with pleasure, and his highest ambition was to walk among the proudest of the land, and mingle in their enjoyments as an equal.

Naught but a golden key would unlock the door leading into these charmed regions, therefore gold became his idol. When everything went smoothly, he was easy and tolerably good-natured; but when opposed or disappointed by any one in his plans or schemes, it was anything but pleasant for those about him, and he did not allow an opportunity to pass to revenge himself of the offense.

He did not believe in grieving his life away for the dead; people must die and be buried; the world was made for the enjoyment of the living, and it was his maxim to improve those pleasures to the utmost while he lived.

His wife died the last of October, Richard Forrester the following April; and in June, when the hot weather came on, he told Editha to prepare for the season at Newport as he intended spending the summer there as usual, with, perhaps, a trip to Saratoga and Long Branch, by way of variety.

Editha, with her heart saddened from her recent bereavement, would have much preferred remaining quietly at home; feeling, too, that there was more of comfort there in its large, airy, and beautiful rooms than in a crowded, fashionable hotel, where, at the most, she could have but two or three apartments, and those comparatively small and close.

Then she had no heart for the glitter and confusion of society; those two dead faces, so cold and fixed, were too fresh in her memory for her to take any pleasure in the gayeties of the world.

She ventured a protest when Mr. Dalton spoke of his intentions, but he peremptorily silenced her by asking her if she supposed she was going to have everything her own way since she had go to be an heiress.

He had treated her very coolly, and they had seemed to be growing farther and farther apart ever since that spirited interview regarding Richard Forrester’s bequest to Earle Wayne.

Edith was deeply hurt that he should consider her so selfish and willful, and finally said she would go to Newport if he wished.

“I do wish it; and, Editha, I want you to leave all that somber black trumpery at home, and put on something gay and pretty,” he added, with a disappointing glance at her mourning robes.

“Papa! surely you do not mean me to take off my mourning!” she exclaimed, in blank astonishment.

“Yes, I do; there can be no possible good in wearing such gloomy-looking things; they are perfectly hateful.”

“But mamma has only been gone about nine months, and Uncle Richard not quite three, and——”

A quick rush of tears into the sad blue eyes and a great choking lump in her throat suddenly stopped her.

“Your mother would not wish to see you in such dismal garments; she could never endure black anyway; and your Uncle Richard would much prefer to see you looking bright and cheerful,” replied Mr. Dalton.

Editha knew this was true, but it seemed almost like treason to her beloved ones to lay aside all evidence of her sorrow and go back to the gay habiliments of the world. But she submitted to this edict of Dalton also for the sake of peace; and though she could not bring her mind to assume gay colors, yet she bought charming suits of finest white cambric and lawn, and muslins delicately sprigged with lavender, with richer and more elegant damasse, silk and lace, all white, for evening wear.

It was an exceedingly simple wardrobe, yet rich and charming withal, and even her fastidious father could find no fault when he saw her arrayed in it.

The night before they were to leave, at midnight, Sumner Dalton might have been seen creeping steadily downstairs and into Editha’s private library.

It was a room that had once been her mother’s morning sitting-room, and where she had had all her uncle’s books, pictures, and safe removed after his death, and here she spent much of her time, reading the books he had loved, sewing a little, painting a little, and thinking a great deal of the friend who had been so very dear to her.

Mr. Dalton acted as if he felt very much like an intruder or a thief as he glided noiselessly into this room, closing and locking the door after him.

He went directly to the safe; taking a bunch of keys from his pocket, he selected one and proceeded to unlock it.

“Did the foolish little chit think to keep her secrets from me?” he sneered, as he easily turned the lock and the door swung noiselessly back. “She’ll find she will be obliged to use more stratagem than she possesses in her small head before she can outwit an old one like mine,” he continued, as he proceeded to search every drawer the safe contained.

None was locked save the private drawer in which he had seen Editha place Earle’s package, and he found nothing of any interest in any of them.

Selecting another key from his bunch, he quickly opened the private drawer, and a grunt of satisfaction immediately escaped him, showing that now he had found what he wanted.

He took it out, and the light revealed the package which Edith had sought to treasure so sacredly.

“There was always something mysterious about that proud scamp,” he muttered, eyeing the package curiously; “and now, if there is anything here to tell me who and what he is, I’m going to know it. He said his business that night,” he continued, reflectively, “concerned only his own private interests, and was connected with his early life; perhaps I shall learn something more about those ‘private interests’ and ‘early life.’”

He removed the light from the floor where he had put it to see to unlock the safe, to the table, seated himself comfortably in a revolving chair, took out a handsome pocket-knife, and, in the most careful and delicate manner imaginable, removed entire the heavy seal of wax from the package.

Putting this in a place of safety that no harm might come to it, he removed the wrapping of heavy paper and began to inspect the contents.

They consisted chiefly of letters addressed to Earle, in a delicate, feminine hand, the sight of which made Sumner Dalton start violently and grow a sudden crimson.

“Pshaw!” he said, impatiently, and drawing a deep breath, “there are hundreds of women who write a similar hand.”

He opened one or two of the letters and read them.

They were all dated from a little town in England, and were addressed to “My dear son,” and simply signed “Your loving mother.”

There was not much of interest in them to him, only now and then there was an expression which seemed to touch some long dormant chord of memory, and made him shiver as he read.

He soon grew weary of this occupation, however, and laid the letters aside to examine further.

There were several pretty drawings wrapped in tissue paper, a sketch, in water-colors, of a charming little cottage, half hidden by vines and climbing roses, and in one corner of this there were three tiny initials.

Sumner Dalton nearly bounded from his chair as he read them, repeating them aloud as he did so.

The color forsook his face, his lips twitched nervously, and a startled, anxious expression sprang to his eyes.

He hastily thrust the drawing one side and went on now more eagerly with his quest.

The only remaining things in the package were a large envelope, containing a few photographs, and a very heavy piece of parchment—more like cardboard—about five inches wide and eight long, and upon which there was some writing in cipher that he could not read.

It seemed to be there more as a foundation to build the package than anything else, and Mr. Dalton, attaching no importance whatever to it, pushed it one side and turned his attention to the pictures.

One by one he took them up and looked at them, but there was no familiar face, and they were mostly pictures of young boys and girls, evidently schoolmates of Earle’s.

At last he came to what seemed to be one carefully inclosed in a separate envelope.

He opened this, and found that its contents were wrapped about with tissue paper.

“Some pretty girl who has captivated his boyish fancy. Who knows but it may be a picture of Editha herself?” he muttered, with a scornful smile.

He removed the wrapper, and two pictures dropped upon the table, and also a lock of auburn hair, tied with a blue ribbon.

He took up one of the pictures with a yawn.

Surely this was not worth the loss of so much sleep and the treachery he had employed to gain his object.

But—what is this?

Something that makes the blood rush back upon his heart with suffocating force, his eyes to start with horror, and a clammy moisture to ooze from every pore.

It is the face of a beautiful woman of perhaps thirty-five years.

Dark, abundant hair crowned the small, shapely head set most gracefully upon a pair of sloping shoulders.

Grave, sad eyes looked up at the horror-stricken face with an expression which strangely moved the strong man.

A straight, delicate nose and a mouth sweet and gentle in expression, but deeply lined with suffering, completed the picture. Underneath, and traced in the same delicate chirography which the letters bore, were the words:

“Mother, to her dear boy.”

With trembling hands Sumner Dalton laid it down and took up the other picture, and gazed as if fascinated upon it. It was the same face, only evidently taken fifteen or twenty years previous.

It was a magic face, one of bewildering, entrancing beauty, and full of mirth and careless glee.

Rippling curls that caught the sunlight with every breath; dancing eyes of loveliest expression; the same straight, delicate nose as seen in the other likeness, and a sweet mouth, whose bright and careless smile told of not a care in all the world. This was the picture that held Sumner Dalton spellbound with a strange horror.

Underneath, in the same delicate hand, were the three tiny initials that he had seen upon the sketch in water-colors.

The strong man groaned aloud as he looked; the photograph dropped from his nervous fingers, and he shook like one with the ague. He wiped the sweat from his brow; he rubbed his eyes as if to clear his vision, and looked again, comparing the two faces.

But only to groan again more bitterly than before.

There could be no doubt that both pictures were of the same person, only taken at different times; one during happy girlhood days, the other at a maturer age, and to gratify the wishes of her son.

“Earle Wayne her son! Earle Wayne, the prisoner, the—criminal! Great heaven!” he cried, with ashen lips, and in tones expressive of intense horror and fear.

Then, with a round oath, he threw both pictures from him as if they burned him, and, leaping to his feet, began pacing excitedly back and forth upon the floor.

“What shade of evil has sent this thing to confront me at this late hour of my life?” he cried, with exceeding bitterness. “Did I not have enough of disappointment and regret to bear at that time without being reminded of it in this way now? I was cheated, foiled out of what I would almost have given half a life-time to have attained. Oh! if I had only known—why was there no one to tell me? Why——”

He stopped in the midst of his walk, and clenched his hands and ground his teeth in fiercest wrath.

“I was a fool!—an idiot! I hate myself, I hate her—I hate all the world, who knew and did not tell me. And he is her son, he is——

“Ah! I have never loved him any too well—I love him far less now, for—he is a living monument of my defeat. No wonder he is proud; no wonder he bore his trial with such fortitude, if he possesses a tithe of the spirit and resolution that she possessed and displayed more than twenty years ago. I wish he had five times three years to serve; but I’ll crush him when he comes out, as I would like to crush every one who knew at that time, and did not tell me. He may go to the ——. It is nothing to me if he is innocent, and yet a prisoner. It shall not disturb me, and I will not have my enjoyment destroyed by this grim phantom of the past. I’ll cast care and worry to the winds, be merry, and go my own way; but—let him look out that he does not cross my path again,” he concluded, with a fierceness that was terrible to observe.

He lifted his head defiantly as he uttered those words, but continued pacing back and forth for another half-hour, muttering constantly, but indistinctly, to himself.

“Ugh! but it gives me a sickly feeling in spite of myself,” he said at length, as he went back to the table and began to gather up the papers scattered there.

He folded the pictures in their wrappers as he had found them, putting the auburn lock of hair between them, though the touch of it sent the cold chills down his back and another fierce oath to his lips.

He gazed curiously again at the piece of parchment with the peculiar writing upon it, and wondered if it contained any meaning of importance but he at last arranged everything just as he had found it, folding the outside wrapper carefully over all.

He then melted a little wax from Editha’s stand, and dropped upon it to fasten it, after which he carefully pressed the original seal into its proper place.

It was all very neatly and nicely done, and no one save an expert would ever have imagined that the package had been tampered with at all.

He replaced it just as he had found it in the private drawer of the safe, locked it, closed and locked the safe, and then stole noiselessly away to his own chamber, and to bed.

But no sleep came to him that night, “to weigh his eyelids down, or steep his senses in forgetfulness.” Visions of the past seemed to haunt him with a vividness which appeared to arouse every evil passion in his nature.

He tossed incessantly on his pillow, and groaned, and raged, and swore, first at himself and then at all the world, for some wrong, real or imaginary, which he had suffered during the earlier years of his life.

Some secret he evidently had on his mind, which filled him first with remorse and then with anger; and so the night wore out and morning broke, and found him haggard, hollow-eyed, and exhausted from the storm of fury which had raged so long in his soul.

What was it?

What was this strange secret connected with his previous history with Earle Wayne, and with the beautiful woman whose pictures he had found in the package which had been given into Richard Forrester’s hands for safe keeping?

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 that 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 to-day?” 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 to-day 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 which 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 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 some one else?” her father said, half eagerly, half sneeringly.

“I have never been asked to marry any one; 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 any one for you, but of yours for some one 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 any one, 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 any one else has a right to speak to me in the way you have done to-day 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 to-day, and I must speak freely, once for all. I cannot allow any one—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 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 amaze, and ground his teeth in baffled rage.

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 a 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 sea-side 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) which 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 any one.

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 court-room.

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 every one 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 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 under age, you can convey no property to any one 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.”

CHAPTER IX
“THAT IS MY ULTIMATUM”

The twenty-third of December arrived, and Earle Wayne was a free man once more.

Who can portray his feelings as, once more clad in the habiliments of a citizen—his prison garb, like the chrysalis of the grub, having dropped from him forever—he came forth into the world and sought the haunts of men? No one can do justice to them; such feelings are indescribable.

Earle Wayne was not twenty-three years old.

He was tall, broad-shouldered, and stalwart of form.

His face was the face of nature’s nobleman; a clear, dark skin, eyes of deep hazel, with hair of just a darker shade crowning a forehead broad, full, and at every point well developed.

His nose was somewhat large, and of the Roman type; his mouth sweet and gentle in expression, but full of manly strength and firmness; it had also now something of sadness in its lines, from the long term of cruel endurance and restraint which he had undergone.

But his step was as free and proud, his head as erect, his gaze as clear and unflinching as before any one had dared to accuse him of having robbed his fellow-man, or he had served a criminal’s sentence.

And why not?

He had not sinned; he had done no wrong; he had never wilfully harmed a human being in all his life. His own conscience told him he was as true and noble a man at heart as any that walked the earth; and he would not sacrifice his self-respect because, upon circumstantial evidence, he had been obliged to serve out a sentence in a State prison for another man’s crime.

He returned to the city that had been his home before his imprisonment, and where he had served three pleasant years with Richard Forrester, and where now, since he was dead and gone, he had no hope of having a friendly hand extended to him. His first night he spent in a quiet, but respectable hotel, and slept restfully and well.

The next morning Mr. Felton wended his way, with the all-important document which Editha desired in his pocket, to Mr. Dalton’s residence on ——th street.

He meant to have attended to it before, but had been unexpectedly called from town on business the morning after Editha’s visit to him, and had had no time until then to go to her.

Editha was in a fever of anxiety and impatience on account of it, and for two whole days had watched for his coming from her window almost incessantly.

When at last she saw him ascending the steps, she sped to the door and answered his ring, whereupon she led him directly to the library, where her father was sitting.

“Papa,” she said, speaking as indifferently as she could, after the two men had exchanged greetings, “Mr. Felton has called to-day to settle that business of Uncle Richard’s bequest to Mr. Wayne.”

Mr. Dalton started and flushed angrily, frowning darkly upon her; then by an effort curbing his anger, he turned to the lawyer with a light laugh.

“Has this young lady been importuning you also upon her sentimental whims?” he asked.

“Miss Editha called several days ago and told me of her uncle’s request, and asked me to prepare the necessary documents,” Mr. Felton replied, quietly, and with a sympathetic glance at Editha’s hot cheeks.

“Well, what do you think of it? Did you ever hear of such a piece of foolishness as she contemplates?”

“It is a question with me whether it is a piece of foolishness to desire to fulfill the request of a dying man,” returned the lawyer, gravely.

Editha gave him a grateful look.

“Pshaw! Richard Forrester did not know what he was about. He was a feeble paralytic, and not accountable for what he said at that time,” said Mr. Dalton, impatiently.

“Oh, papa! how can you say that, when you know that his mind was perfectly clear?” Editha exclaimed, reproachfully.

“Did you invite Mr. Felton here to-day to argue this point with me?” he demanded sharply of her.

“I asked him, as he has stated, to prepare the necessary papers to settle this money upon Mr. Wayne, hoping that he might convince you that it is best to allow me to do so.”

“Indeed!”

“You know Earle’s time expired yesterday, and I am expecting him every moment,” Editha said, with some agitation.

“You are expecting him every moment!” repeated Mr. Dalton, growing excited also, though in a different way, and from a different cause.

He had not forgotten the night that he had stolen into her library and tampered with the package committed to her care, nor what secrets that package contained.

“Yes, sir; I wrote to him to come directly here as soon as he was free.”

“And, pray, did you tell him what he was to come for?” thundered Mr. Dalton, in a rage.

“I told him I had a message for him, and also a package belonging to him,” Editha said, quietly.

She was growing more calm as he became excited.

“Did you ever hear of such folly?” he asked of Mr. Felton.

“I think Miss Dalton is perfectly right in wishing to carry out her uncle’s desires. She will have a large fortune left, even after giving up the ten thousand, and my advice to you would be to put no obstacle in her path. Of course, I know she cannot do this without your consent—at least, not at present.”

“Of course not; and I shall not allow it. I am surprised that a man of your prudence and judgment should advise such a thing,” Mr. Dalton answered with some heat.

“I simply believe in doing as we would be done by. Put yourself in young Wayne’s place Mr. Dalton and consider whether a little friendly help from the dead friend who was always so kind to him would not be very acceptable just at this time,” Mr. Felton answered earnestly.

A dark flush mounted to Mr. Dalton’s brow at these words. Put himself in Earle Wayne’s—her son’s—place! Imagine him to be in the position of the man he had such cause to hate! The thought stirred all the bad blood in his nature.

“He shall never have one penny of my daughter’s fortune. I will never put my name to any paper like what you have brought here to-day!” he cried angrily and smiting the table near which he sat heavily.

“Papa let me plead with you,” Editha said gently beseechingly. “I promised to do this thing at this time. Please do not make me break my word; for my sake let me do as Uncle Richard wished; do not force me to do a worse thing than that for which Earle was so cruelly sentenced!”

“I force you to commit no robbery! Girl, what do you mean? I am preventing you from robbing yourself!” he cried, angrily.

“Not so, Mr. Dalton,” Mr. Felton said, with dignity; for he longed to pommel the man for speaking so to the beautiful girl before him. “I can appreciate Miss Editha’s feelings; she not only wishes to befriend this unfortunate young man on her own account, but she believes that after to-day the ten thousand dollars are no longer hers. Richard Forrester gave the sum from his own property before it became hers, to young Wayne, and, if you refuse to allow her to settle it upon him, you are not only committing a wrong, but forcing her to commit one also.”

“Do I understand that you two are trying to make me out a thief?” demanded Mr. Dalton, hoarsely.

“It is an ugly word; but, morally speaking, I should say it was the right one to use in this case; legally, however, since there was no codicil to the will, I suppose Miss Dalton is entitled to everything,” Mr. Felton observed, dryly, with a scornful curve of his lip.

Mr. Dalton for a moment was too enraged to reply; then he burst forth:

“I will see him in —— before he shall ever touch a penny of her money! That is my ultimatum.”

Mr. Felton, upon this, turned to Editha, who was standing, very pale, by the table.

Her father’s anger and words had shocked her beyond expression; but they had also aroused some of the reserve force of her character.

“In that case, Miss Editha, my services are not needed here to-day. I suppose I shall destroy the document I have prepared?”

“No, sir! Keep it if you please.”

“Keep it! What for, pray?” demanded her father, with a sneer.

She turned to him very quietly, but with a mien which he was learning to dread, and said, in low, firm tones:

“I shall be twenty-one, sir, in a little less than a year, and, according to the law of the land, my own mistress. I shall not then need to obtain the consent of any one in order to do as I like with my money. On the twentieth of November next Earle Wayne will receive his ten thousand dollars, with a year’s interest added. That is the best I can do.”

Then, without waiting for Mr. Dalton to reply, and wholly ignoring his dark looks, she turned to Mr. Felton, with one of her charming smiles, and said:

“We will drop our business for to-day; and, as there is the lunch-bell, won’t you come out and try the merits of a cup of coffee and a plate of chicken salad?”

The lawyer regarded her with a gleam of admiration in his fine old eyes; he had not thought she possessed so much character.

“No, I thank you,” he replied, thinking it best to get out of the tempest as soon as practicable. “You know it is the day before Christmas, and that is usually a busy time; besides, I have another engagement in half an hour, and there is barely time to reach my office. You will also excuse me for to-morrow,” he added, in a lower tone; and Editha knew that, after what had occurred to-day, it would be no pleasure to him to dine with them, as she had asked him to do. She knew, too, that her little plan regarding making a pleasant day for Earle was blighted.

He bowed coldly to Mr. Dalton, and Editha followed him to the door.

“Do not worry over what you cannot help, Miss Editha; eleven months won’t be so very long to wait, and, meanwhile, if you will send young Wayne to me, I think I can put him in a way to keep his head above water until that time,” he said, kindly, as he shook her hand in farewell at the door.

Editha thanked him, with tears in her eyes, and then would have sought her own rooms, but she heard her father calling her, and so she returned to the library, though she dreaded another scene.

“A fine spectacle you have made of yourself to-day,” were the sneering, angry words which greeted her entrance.

She walked quietly to where he sat, and stood before him; but two very bright spots now relieved her unusual paleness.

“Did you wish anything particular of me, papa? If not, I think it would be better not to keep lunch waiting any longer,” she said gently, though with an evident effort at self-control.

“Do I want anything of you? I would like to give you a wholesome shaking for what you have done to-day.”

She lifted her head, and encountered his two blazing, angry eyes, her own glance clear, steadfast, and unflinching.

“You are a wilful little—fool!” he said, nettled by her calm demeanor, and almost beside himself with rage.

Still she said nothing, and he instantly grew ashamed of those last words.

“You have no idea how angry you have made me to-day,” he said, half apologetically.

“I have no desire to make you angry, sir. I only desire and intend to do right,” she answered, quietly.

“Intend! Is that a threat?”

“No, sir—merely a statement of a fact.”

“And refers to what you said just before Mr. Felton went out?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Edith Dalton, if you dare to defy me in this thing, I’ll make your life so miserable that you will wish you were dead,” he said, in concentrated tones of passion.

She paled again at the fearful words, and a keen pain smote her heart that her own father should speak thus to her; then she replied, steadily:

“I have no wish to defy you, sir, but——”

“But you will not obey me—you would set my authority aside if you could,” he interrupted.

“I acknowledge your authority as the highest of any on earth, and I will yield you cheerful obedience in all that is right—beyond that I cannot go, I will not go. I have reached an age where I am capable of judging for myself upon all moral questions, and I must exercise that judgment.”

“This is a point of business, upon which you set aside my wishes and my authority,” he said, moodily, and his eyes wavering uneasily beneath her steady gaze.

“It involves the principles of right and wrong also. I promised that Earle Wayne should have this money, and if you will not let me give it to him now, I shall pay it to him, as I said, a year from now, with interest.”

He knew she meant it, and, in his passion, he half raised his clenched hand as if to strike her.

But the soft blue eyes, with the keen pain in them, disarmed him, and it dropped heavily back upon the arm of his chair.

“Oh, papa,” she said, her voice full of unshed tears, “why need we disagree upon so slight a thing?”

“Do you call a matter involving ten thousand dollars a slight thing?” he asked, with a sneer.

“Yes, in comparison with what will remain, my father,” laying her hand softly on his shoulder and pleading in tones that ought to have melted a harder heart. “Let us do what is right; let us be friends and united in heart, instead of growing so widely apart as we have been during the past year or two.”

“You will not yield to me.”

“In all that is right, I shall be only too glad to,” she answered, with a heavy sigh.

“But you persist in giving this money to that——”

“I must. That is settled,” she interrupted, firmly, and to prevent the utterance of some obnoxious word, she knew not what.

“Never—never! Do you think I would let you give it to him—him of all others in the world?”

Edith regarded him in surprise at these excited words. They seemed to imply a deadly hatred for which she could not account, knowing that Earle had never done her father any injury.

“A thief—a robber—a criminal!” he added, noticing her look, and having no desire to have her inquire into the real nature of his hatred.

“Earle never was either of those,” she said, proudly.

“No matter; he has suffered the disgrace of them all, and there can be no peace between you and me until you promise to yield to me.”

“I cannot in this instance.”

“Then the consequences be upon your own head. I’ll try and have patience with you until the year is out; then, if you defy me, I’ll make you rue it. Go!” and he pointed impatiently toward the door.

Without a word, Editha glided from the room, her heart heavy and sore.

Soon after she heard him leave the house, and ten minutes later there came a ring at the door that, spite of her pain, sent the rosy blood leaping to her very brow, in a burning tide, and made her heart leap like a frightened bird in her bosom.

“Earle has come,” she murmured, as she sat listening for the servant to come to summon her, and trying to still her throbbing nerves.

CHAPTER X
“MY LIFE SHALL BE FOURSQUARE”

The servant who answered the ring at Mr. Dalton’s door found standing there a tall, dignified young man, with the unmistakable stamp of the gentleman upon him.

To his inquiry if Miss Dalton was at home, he replied that she was, and ushered him into a small reception-room opposite the drawing-room.

“Take this, if you please, to her,” Earle Wayne said, handing the man a blank, unsealed envelope.

The servant took it with a bow and withdrew, wondering what that spotless envelope contained, and who the gentleman was who sent no card—unless, perhaps, it might be in the envelope, and was intended for Edith’s eyes alone.

The fair girl arose with apparent calmness at his rap, and, taking the missive from his hand, opened it, and found within her own note, that she had written bidding Earle come to her as soon as he should be free.

At that moment she realized how very short and formal it was, and a feeling of remorse stole into her heart that she had not written more freely and kindly, in spite of her sensitiveness at her father’s sneers and insinuations.

Waiting a moment or two to cool the hot color in her cheeks, and to still the fierce beating of her heart, she then went slowly and trembling down to meet the brave hero, whom she had not seen for nearly three years.

Would he be much changed? Would he be pale, haggard, and miserable in appearance? Would he look the same, and speak the same, as he had done on that sad day when she had bidden him farewell and left him to go to his dreary fate within those four gloomy walls, or would he be broken and disheartened, and feel that the future held nothing but scorn and contempt for him?

She had read of men, noble, spirited, and energetic, who, having been imprisoned for a term of years, were ruined by it, and who had settled down into an existence of profound melancholy and inaction upon regaining their freedom.

Would Earle be like this?

These were some of the anxious questions which flitted through her mind on the way from her chamber to the reception-room, where Earle, with equal agitation, was awaiting her coming.

She opened the door softly and went in.

He did not hear her—he was standing at a window, his back toward her, and absorbed in thought.

As if shod with velvet, Editha crossed the room and stood at his side.

Her eyes had lighted wondrously as they rested upon the proud, handsome figure before her, and the rich color coming and going in her cheeks made her marvelously beautiful.

“Earle, I am so glad you have come,” she said, simply, yet with tremulous tones that betrayed her gladness was almost unto tears, while with something of her old impulse she held out both fair hands to him.

He started and turned quickly at the sweet tones, and searched the glowing face with eager scrutiny.

Could this tall, beautiful woman, with the shining, silken crown about her shapely head, with her deep, glowing eyes, her rich, varying color, her cordial, tremulous greeting, be the same Editha of three years ago?

She had been a fair, plump, and laughing girl, her sunny hair falling in graceful waves over her rounded shoulders, her eyes dancing with fun and merriment, her moods never twice the same, a creature of heart and impulse.

Now her form was grown; she was more fully developed, with a stately poise which she was not wont to have; her features were more deeply lined with character, and glorified with a richer, more mature beauty, and the waving, sunny hair had been gathered up and wreathed her head in a plaited golden coronet.

But these eyes—those clear, truthful, heaven-blue eyes were the same; the smile was the same upon the scarlet lips, and the sweet, tender tremulous tones were the same; he had never forgotten their music, and his heart bounded with a joy that was almost pain as they again fell upon his ear.

“Earle, I am so glad you have come.”

Words so simple, yet full of heartfelt gladness, never greeted mortal ears before.

He grasped both her outstretched hands, forgetting all her supposed neglect of him, and without the least hesitation as to his own worthiness to do so.

He knew he was worthy—his hands, morally speaking, were as fair and free from stain as her own.

Yet he had not expected to find her so cordial and glad to see him, and her manner filled him with deepest gratitude and admiration.

“Editha—Miss Dalton,” he said, his whole face glowing, “I thank you for your words of welcome—I cannot doubt their heartiness.”

“Of course not; why should you, Earle?” she asked, with some surprise, as she searched his face.

“I told you that I should not forget you—that I should always be your friend; what reason could you have to think I would not greet you heartily?” she urged, a little look of grieved surprise in her eyes.

“I should not if—if—pardon me, I ought not to speak thus. Have you been well?” and he tried to change the subject.

“Quite well; and you?”

“Do not my looks speak for me?” he asked, smiling, yet with the shadow deepening in his eyes.

He might be well physically, but it would take a long while to heal the wound in his soul.

“Earle,” Editha said, gravely, meeting his eyes with a steady, earnest look, “what made you speak as you did about doubting the heartiness of my welcome? I can see that you have some reason for it; please tell me—surely you did not think I would have broken my promise—my flowers must have proven that I did not forget.”

Earle gave her a quick, surprised glance.

“That was just why I was in doubt,” he said, flushing slightly. “I have not received a single token of remembrance from you for nearly two years.”

“Earle!”

Editha instantly grew crimson to the line of gold above her forehead, then white as the delicate lace at her throat at this startling intelligence.

What could this strange thing mean? Who could have appropriated her flowers and kept them from him?

Then, with a feeling of shame, not unmixed with indignation, her heart told her that her father, in his prejudice against Earle, must have intercepted them.

“How cruel!” she murmured. “I do not wonder that you doubted my friendship; but, to exonerate myself, I must tell you that every week I have sent you flowers, or fruit, or something, to show you that you were remembered—not once have I failed.”

“Then forgive me for all the hard things I have thought,” he said, in tones of self-reproach. “I can never tell you how those sweet little messages cheered me during my first year in—that place, nor how dreary and lonely I was when they came no longer to brighten my gloomy cell. After Mr. Forrester died,” he continued, with emotion, “I felt as if my only friend had been taken from me. I had not one to whom to turn for a ray of comfort.”

“I know,” Editha said, with starting tears, then, with rising color, “if you had only dropped me a line, I would have taken care that my offerings reached you safely after that.”

“You know the old saying, ‘one may as well be neglected as forgotten;’ I never mistrusted that they had been sent and failed to reach their destination, and so imagined a good many things I had no right to, and——”

“And were too proud to remind me of my negligence,” Editha interrupted, with a smile.

“Doubtless some enemy has done this, or they could not all have missed coming to me. Am I forgiven for doubting my stanch little friend?” he asked, gently.

“Freely; I could not blame you under the circumstances.”

“Then let us talk of something else,” Earle said for he began to mistrust from Editha’s manner who had been the guilty one. “Tell me of Mr. Forrester and of yourself during these years.”

And thus their conversation drifted to other subjects, and, as they conversed, their old freedom of manner returned in a measure—in a measure, I repeat, for there could not be quite the former carelessness and sparkle, while each was trying to conceal the secret which their hearts held, and which, for the time, at least, they felt they must not reveal.

Earle told her of his life in prison—of how he had spent his time—of the knowledge he had acquired, and something of his plans for the future.

“Earle,” she said, glancing up at him through the tears she could not restrain, when he had completed his account, “you have borne it so nobly, this suffering for another, that I want to tell you how proud I am of you; and Uncle Richard would say the same thing if he were living.”

“Thank you,” he said, with emotion; “it is almost worth having been a prisoner for three years to hear you say that. If only the world might feel as assured of my innocence as you do, and hold out the same friendly hand of welcome,” he concluded, with a sigh.

“It will in time, Earle—I feel sure that some day your innocence will be established.”

“I shall devote my energies to that purpose, and if the guilty ones are never brought to justice, I will live my innocence. I will prove it by my life—my life shall be foursquare, and I will yet command the faith and respect of all who know me. It will be hard, but I shall strive to fight my battle bravely, and I feel that I shall conquer in the end. You know Pope tells us that ‘He’s armed without that’s innocent within.’”

“You will succeed—you cannot fail with such an earnest purpose in your heart,” Editha said, eagerly; then she added, musingly: “You said you would make your life ‘foursquare.’ I do not think I quite understand that.”

Earle Wayne smiled a rare, sweet smile, as, leaning nearer his fair companion, he said, in a low, reverent tone:

“You have read of the ‘city that lieth foursquare,’ whose length is as large as it breadth, whose ‘walls are of jasper,’ and whose ‘gates are of pearl.’ That city, Editha, a perfect square, and embellished with the most precious stones, is, I believe, the emblem or symbol of a pure and perfect life, and so, with the help of God, I mean that mine shall be ‘foursquare.’”

Editha gave him a look as if she thought it could not be far from that even now.

After a moment of silence he continued:

“From my early boyhood I have always had a desire to become a thoroughly good man—a man honored and respected by my fellow-men. My mother ever tried to impress me never to be guilty of a mean or ignoble action. I thought her the perfection of womanhood while she lived, and have tried to treasure her precepts since she died; so you can judge something of what I have endured in the disgrace of serving out a criminal’s sentence. I could not speak of this to any one else,” he added, with some excitement; “but you have been so kind and sympathizing that it relieves my burden somewhat to speak of it to you.”

Editha did not reply—she had no words with which to answer him; but she lifted her blue eyes to his face, and he saw that they were full of tears.

“I am glad,” Earle went on, a slight tremulousness in his tones, “that my mother did not live to know of my deep trouble—much as I have needed her sympathy, love, and counsel—for she must have suffered torture on account of it. If she knows anything about it now, she knows that I am innocent, and also just why this sad experience was permitted to come to me.”

“Earle, how deeply you have suffered from it,” Editha said, almost awed by the intensity of his feeling, and wondering, too, at his way of looking at the past, as if in some way his trial was meant for his ultimate good.

“But I will rise above it yet; it may be hard for me to battle against the frowns and distrust of the world for awhile, but I sail not allow them to dishearten me—if only I had a few more friends,” he added, wistfully.

“You cannot long be without them, with such nobility and resolution in your soul,” Editha answered, her face glowing with admiration for him, “and you may count me the warmest of them all until you find a better.”

She involuntarily held out her hand as if to seal the compact as she spoke.

He grasped it eagerly, his whole face luminous with sudden joy; his breath came quickly, his broad breast rose and fell, his eyes sought hers with an intensity of expression that made her vail them with her white lids.

She did not know how she was tempting him—she could not know how he had grown to love her during the past six years, and how sweet and cheering her sympathy was to him just now, when he felt himself so friendless and alone in the great cold world.

“God bless you, Editha! If—I——”

He had begun to speak in low, concentrated tones, but now he stopped short, as if some great inward shock had suddenly cut off his power of speech.

He shut his teeth tightly together and drew in his breath with a quick gasp; the great veins in his forehead filled and stood out full and purple, and his hands locked themselves together with the intensity of some deep, inward emotion.

One quick, searching look Edith flashed up at him, and then her eyes fell again, a rosy flush rising to her very brow at what she had seen on his face.

“I beg your pardon,” he said at length, nervously pushing back the hair from his brow; “I fear you will think me very thoughtless and selfish to weary you thus with my troubles.”

“No, Earle, I—am glad that you think me worthy of your confidence,” she answered, softly.

He looked at her in surprise.

How exceedingly beautiful she was, sitting there with her downcast eyes, the lovely color in her face, and the womanly sympathy beaming in every feature.

“Worthy!” he repeated.

“Yes, worthy,” she said, her lips relaxing just a trifle into a tremulous smile. “I would like to be your friend in all your troubles—maybe I could help you if you would trust me enough to tell me of them. I used to think there was no one like you when I was a wild and impulsive girl, and you were with Uncle Richard—you were always so upright so strong, and self-reliant.”

“You used to think that of me, Editha?” he said, flushing again and trembling.

If she had known how her words moved him—but she did not dream of his love for her.

He began to grow dizzy with the new, delicious hope that seized him as she spoke.

Could it be that this fair girl had learned to love him?

He had thought of her night and day, at his work and in his lonely cell, and her image would be stamped indelibly on his heart as long as he should live.

But he had no right to speak one word of it to her now—his disgrace clung to him, and would clog him, perhaps, for long years.

Oh! if he could but break the cruel fetters that bound him—if he could but discover the real criminal, and clear his own name, then he might hope to win the respect of the world once more, fame and position, and the right to tell this gentle girl how dear she was to him.

“Yes,” she returned, noticing his emphasis, and fearing she might have wounded him by wording her sentence thus; “and, Earle. I think you are very—very noble now, to bear your trouble so patiently and uncomplainingly, and something tells me that it will not be so very long before all the world will be proud to call you friend.”

She spoke softly, but in a tone that thrilled him through and through.

“And then——”

The words came breathlessly, and before he could stop them. They would not be stayed.

He bent eagerly toward her, his heart in his eyes, his face full of passion which so nearly mastered him.

But he checked them, biting them off short as he had done before, but growing white even to his lips with the effort it cost him.

Something in his tones made her start and look up, and she read it all as in an open book—all his love for her, all the blighted hopes of the past, the longing and bitterness of the present, wherein he writhed beneath the stigma resting upon him, and the mighty self-control which would not presume upon her sympathy.

A flood of crimson suddenly dyed her face and throat, and even the soft, white hands which lay in her lap, and which were now seized with nervous trembling.

Then a look of resolution gleamed in her eyes, the red lips settled into an expression of firmness, and, though her heart beat like the frightened thing it was, her sweet tones did not falter as she replied:

“And then—Editha Dalton will be very proud also.”

Was ever heaven’s music sweeter than those few low-spoken, unfaltering words?

There was no mistaking them—they had been uttered with a purpose, and he knew that his love was returned.

Eager brown eyes looked into tender blue for one long, delicious minute. No word was spoken, but both knew that for all time they belonged to each other.

Then Earle Wayne, with a glad, though solemn light illumining his face, lifted the white hand that lay nearest him, touched it reverently with his lips, and then gently laid it back in its place.

It was as though he blessed her for the hope thus delicately held out to him, but his innate nobility and self-respect would not allow him to bind her to him by so much as a word until he could stand proudly before her and offer her a name that should not have so much as the shadow of a stain upon it.

CHAPTER XI
THE BUNCH OF HOLLY

“Silence is the perfect herald of joy;

I were but little happy it I could say how much.”

Words were never more applicable than these to those undeclared lovers, sitting in such a mute happiness side by side, in the little reception-room, on that bright morning so near Christmastide.

Editha was the first to break the spell.

“I have not told you Uncle Richard’s message yet,” she said, and an expression of anxiety for the moment chased the radiant look from her face.

“True—it was like his kindness to remember me,” Earle returned, a shadow stealing over his fine face.

“He thought a great deal of you, and had great hopes for your future——”

“Which, if it amounts to anything, will be in a great measure owing to his goodness,” he interrupted, with emotion.

“Yes, Uncle Richard was a true, good man; but, Earle, now I have something unpleasant to tell you. I—he left you a token of his remembrance.”

She hesitated, and he said, with a smile:

“I’m sure there is nothing unpleasant about that.”

“No; but wait,” she began, in some confusion and hardly knowing how to go on with her disagreeable task; “he left you a little money, ten thousand dollars, to give you a start in life, he said.”

Earle Wayne startled and flushed deeply.

“Did Mr. Forrester do that?” he asked, greatly moved.

“Yes; and now comes the disagreeable part of it all. I do not like to tell you, but I must,” she said, lifting her crimson, troubled face to him, and he wondered what there was about it that should make her appear so. “Papa did not like it very well,” she went on, dropping her eyes with a feeling of shame. “He thought that it was not right the money should go to a stranger, and—and—oh! Earle, I know it seems selfish and cruel, but he says you cannot have it.”

Editha nearly broke down here; it had required all her courage to tell him this; and now she sat still, covered with shame and confusion. A shade of bitterness passed over the young man’s face at her last words, and then the least smile of scorn curled his fine lips.

He had never experienced very much respect for Sumner Dalton; he knew him to be a man devoid of principle, of small mind, and smaller soul; but he was Editha’s father, and he could speak no word against him. He saw how ashamed and uncomfortable she felt to be obliged to make this humiliating confession regarding her only parent, while he admired the fine sense of honor that would not allow her to shrink from her duty in telling him.

“I am going to tell you just how the matter stands,” she resumed presently: “and then you must excuse papa as best you can. You doubtless have heard that Uncle Richard was paralyzed—he had no use of either his hands or his feet, and was entirely helpless, although his mind was clear until just before his second shock, which came suddenly in the night. He told me the day before that he knew he could not live, and gave me directions just what to do. He said if he could only use his hands, he would have added a codicil to his will in your favor, but as it was, I must attend to his wishes. He said it—the will—had been made many years ago, giving everything to me; but ever since he became interested in you he had intended doing something handsome for you; if he had lived and you wished it, he would have wanted you to go back to him as a partner in his business, as soon as you should be free to do so. But he charged me—made me promise—to make over to you ten thousand dollars as soon as your time expired.

“He left a large fortune, more than I shall ever know what to do with, and I was so glad of this bequest to you,” Editha went on, heartily. “I asked Mr. Felton to see that everything was done properly, so that you could have the money at once. He did so, and I wanted you to have it as a sort of Christmas gift; but, Earle, I am not twenty-one yet; papa is still my natural guardian.”

“Well?” Earle said, encouragingly, as she stopped in distress, and he pitied her for having to make this confession to him, while a tender smile wreathed his lips at her truthfulness and her sorrow on his account.

“So there is no way—you will have to wait a little while for your money. I shall be twenty-one the twentieth of next November, and my own mistress; and, Earle, you shall have it then, with the year’s interest added.”

He nearly laughed to see how eager she was for him to have exactly his due; then he grew suddenly grave, and said, gently but firmly:

“No, Editha, I do not wish, I cannot take one dollar of this money.”

“But it was Uncle Richard’s dying wish and bequest to you—it belongs to you by right,” she pleaded, bitterly disappointed by his refusal to take it.

“No, by your uncle’s will, which he did not any way change, it all belongs to you.”

“But he would have changed the will if he could have held a pen; he said so; and the money is not mine,” she cried, almost in tears.

“The law would judge differently—your father is right. It should not come to me”—this was said with a touch of bitterness, however—“and I will not have one dollar of it.”

“Supposing that you were in my place just now, and I in yours, would you claim that it all belonged to you?” she asked, lifting her searching glance to his face.

“No,” he said; “but the difference in our positions, because I am not in your place and you in mine, alters the case altogether.”

“I cannot agree with you; and you would have considered me mean and dishonorable if I had taken advantage of the will and claimed the whole, would you not?”

“But you did not; you have done your duty, and consequently have nothing to regret,” Earle replied, evasively.

“But you did not answer my question,” Editha persisted; “would you think that I had done right if I had not wished to give you this money and withheld it from you?”

“N-o,” he admitted, reluctantly.

“And, morally speaking, it does not belong to me.”

“The will gave you everything——”

“That is not the question,” she interrupted. “If you were pleading the case for some one else, you would claim that the money did not belong to me, and that, morally speaking, I had no right whatever to it?”

“Editha, you should be a lawyer yourself.”

“That is a side issue; as they say in court, stick to the point, if you please,” she again interrupted; “have I not stated the truth?”

“I am obliged to confess that you have; but, Editha, I do not want the money, though I am very grateful to Mr. Forrester for his kindness in remembering me, and to you for wishing to carry out his wishes so faithfully.”

“Please, Earle, take it; I want you to have it, and I wish to do just as he told me to do; you will wound me deeply if you refuse it,” she urged.

It was a very sweet, earnest face that looked up into his, and, had she pleaded for almost anything else, Earle would have found it impossible to resist her. His own face grew grave, almost sorrowful, as he returned:

“I would not cause you a moment’s unnecessary pain, Editha, but I must be firm in this decision. Forgive me if I wound you; but, on the whole, I am glad that Mr. Dalton win a name and position entirely by my own merits. By my own strong arm will I carve out my future and win my way in the world; by my own indomitable will and energy, with the help of a greater than I, I will rise to honor, and not upon the foundation that another has built,” he concluded, with an earnestness and solemnity that made Editha’s heart thrill with pride and the conviction of his ultimate success.

“You are very brave,” she said, with admiring but still wistful eyes. “But suppose Uncle Richard had added a codicil to his will in your favor, what then?”

A smile of amusement curled his lips.

“Then I suppose the wheels of my car of ambition would have been unavoidably clogged with this fortune. It would not then have been optional with me whether I would have it or not.”

“It shall not be now; the money is not mine—I will not keep it. I should be as bad as those wretches who robbed us, and then left you to suffer for their crime,” Editha exclaimed, passionately, and almost in despair at his obstinacy.

“I do not see how you can do otherwise than keep it; every one will tell you that it is legally yours.”

“There is many a moral wrong perpetuated under the cloak of ‘legality,’” she began, somewhat sarcastically, then continued, more earnestly: “My proud, self-willed knight, whose watchwords are truth and honor, whose life is to be ‘foursquare,’ do you think there are no others whose natures are reaching out after the same heights? There are others, Earle,” she said, more softly, with glowing cheeks and drooping lids, “who look with longing eyes toward the ‘jasper walls,’ and ‘gates of pearl;’ and can one be ‘true and honorable’ and keep what does not belong to one?”

“How can I convince you, Editha, that I cannot take this money?”

“But what will you do, Earle? How will you begin life again?” she asked, anxiously.

“I have a little, enough for that, laid by; and now, with three years’ interest added, it will be sufficient to give me a start, and I shall do very well. Do not allow my refusal to comply with your wishes to disturb you. Try to imagine that if Mr. Forrester had never known me he would never have thought of making a change in the disposition of his property,” Earle concluded, lightly.

“But the if exists, nevertheless. He did make the change; and, once for all, I will not have my conscience burdened with what is not my own. Earle, on the twentieth of next November I shall deposit in the First National Bank of this city ten thousand dollars, with a year’s interest, to your credit,” she asserted, resolutely. “Meanwhile,” she added, “Mr. Felton told me to say to you that he thought he could arrange some way for you to keep your head above board, if you will go to him.”

“I thank Mr. Felton, but I think the term ‘self-willed’ may be applied to some one else besides myself,” Earle answered, smilingly.

“Earle,” cried the lovely girl, turning suddenly upon him, and, with something of her old girlish impulse, laying one white hand on his, “if you won’t do as I wish for your own sake, won’t you for mine? and”—the color mounting to her forehead as she made the delicate offer—“until the year expires, won’t you please go to Mr. Felton and get whatever you need?”

If Earle was ever impatient and rebellious in his life he was at that moment at the cruel fate that kept him from reaching out and clasping his beautiful beloved in his arms, and telling her all the love of his great heart.

How delicately she had worded her proposition! She had not coarsely offered to give him money from her own income, feeling that his proud spirit would recoil from coming to her, a woman, for help; but she had made Mr. Felton the medium through which all his needs might be supplied until he could establish himself in business.

He ventured to take that small hand and press it gratefully.

“Editha,” he said, striving to control the quiver in his tones, “to both of your requests I must repeat the inevitable ‘No;’ and for the first, I entreat you not to tempt me, for I cannot tell you how hard it is to refuse anything you ask me, and particularly in that way. As for the other there will be no need, I trust, for I have enough for all my present wants, and before that is gone I hope to be in a way to supply all future needs.”

Editha sighed, but saw that his decision was unalterable, and so let the matter drop for the time.

They chatted for an hour on various topics, and then Earle rose to take his leave.

She longed to ask him to come again on the morrow to dine, as she had planned, knowing how lonely he would be when everybody else was so gay; but she knew that it would be no pleasure for him to meet Mr. Dalton in his present mood; but she did ask him to call whenever he was at liberty, and she added, with one of her charming smiles:

“Uncle Richard’s books are all here; won’t you come and avail yourself of them whenever you like?”

He thanked her with a look that made her cheeks hot again; and then she asked him to wait a moment and she would bring him his package. She was gone scarcely three minutes, and then came back with it in one hand, and the loveliest little bouquet imaginable in the other.

It was composed of stiff holly leaves, with their glossy sheen and bright winter berries, clear and red, and vivid in their contrast. It was as lovely a bit of floral handicraft as Earle had ever seen, and his eyes lighted admiringly as they rested on it.

“It is for you, Earle,” Editha said, simply, seeing his look, and handing it to him. “I made it for you this morning, hoping you would come to-day. You will not expect me to wish you a ‘merry Christmas;’ but,” in low, sweet tones, “I will say instead, ‘Peace, good-will toward men.’”

Earle was too deeply moved to reply.

He stood looking down upon the glossy red and green, a mist gathering over his eyes in spite of his manhood, and blessing her in his heart for those precious words which told him he had been remembered before he was seen.

She had “made it for him that morning, hoping he would come to-day!”

Her white fingers had put every shining spray in its place, and she had thought of him the while!

Oh, why must he stand there with sealed lips, when he longed to say so much?

She would not mock him with the usual Christmas formula; but what could have been sweeter or more appropriate than the gentle, low-spoken “Peace, good-will toward men?”

He slipped the package into an inside pocket, never mistrusting that it had been tampered with, nor that its contents had unlocked for Sumner Dalton the door to a mystery which he had long sought to penetrate in vain.

“Thank you,” he said, as he buttoned his coat, “for caring for this; it is very precious to me; and some day I will tell you why and show you its contents. This much I will tell you now—had it been lost or destroyed, my identity would also have been destroyed.”

Editha looked up in surprise, but she asked no question.

His identity destroyed! Was it possible that Sumner Dalton’s keen eyes could have missed anything of importance within that package?

Editha accompanied him to the door, and parted from him with a simple “good-night,” and then went quietly and gravely to her own room. But she had sent him forth full of courage and hope in spite of his present loneliness and unpromising future; and that bunch of holly was the most precious thing that the world held for him that day, the fair giver excepted.

CHAPTER XII
THE ECCENTRIC CLIENT

Several months passed, and bravely did Earle Wayne battle with the world and fate.

Cheerfully, too; for, although he did not permit himself to see much of Editha, lest his purpose not to speak of love should fail him, yet in his heart he knew that she loved him, and would wait patiently until his conscience would allow him to utter the words that should bind her to him.

This he felt he had no right to do until his name could be cleared from the stain resting upon it, and he had also gained a footing and practice in the world which would warrant his asking the aristocratic Miss Dalton to be his wife. It was hard, up-hill work, however, for Notwithstanding he had passed a brilliant examination and been admitted to the bar, yet it seemed as if some unseen force or enemy was at work to press him down and keep him from climbing the ladder of either fame or wealth.

And there was such an enemy!

Sumner Dalton hated him. He hated him for what he had so dishonorably learned regarding him—who and what he was—and for the relationship which he bore to that face which he had seen in his mysterious package.

He hated him for the interest which Editha manifested in him, and also because Richard Forrester had desired him to have a portion of his vast fortune, and the former had dared to oppose and defy him regarding the matter.

He could never brook opposition from any one, and he had always possessed a strange desire to be revenged upon anybody who stood in his way in any form whatever.

It would not do for him to revenge himself directly upon Editha, for she, with all her money, was altogether too important a personage to him; but he knew he could do so indirectly through Earle, and so set himself to work to crush him.

Thus, through his efforts, many a client, who would have gladly availed themselves of the brilliant young lawyer’s services, were influenced to go elsewhere, and their fees, which would have been such a help to Earle in these first dark days went to enrich the already overflowing coffers of some more noted and “respectable” practitioner of Blackstone.

But, for all this, he won for himself some practice, in which he proved himself very successful, and not unfrequently gained the admiration of judge, jury, and spectators by his intelligence, shrewdness, and eloquence.

But a covert sneer always followed every effort.

Brother lawyers shrugged their shoulders and remarked, “what a pity it was that so much talent was not better appreciated, and that the taint upon his name must always mar his life,” it was a “pity, too, that so fine a young man otherwise, to all outward appearance, could not make a better living; but then people were apt to be shy of employing ‘prison-birds,’ the old proverb ‘set a thief to catch a thief’ to the contrary notwithstanding.”

It was Sumner Dalton who had set this ball a-rolling, and had kept it in motion until the day came when Earle was obliged to sit from morning till night in his office, and no one came to him for advice or counsel.

He remembered what Editha had told him to do if he had need—go to Mr. Felton and get enough for his wants; but he was too proud to do this—he would be dependent upon no one but himself.

He could have gone and asked that lawyer to give him work, as he had said he would do; but if he had recourse to his offer, Editha would doubtless hear of it, and, thinking him to be in need, would be made unhappy thereby.

Many a time the tempter whispered, when there was scarcely a dollar left in his purse:

“Never mind, in a few months you will have but to reach forth your hand and pluck the golden harvest which Richard Forrester has set apart for you, and all your trials will be at an end.”

It needed but Editha’s majority and her signature to insure him independence. But he would not yield.

“I will build up my own foundation, or I will not build at all,” he would say at such times, with gloomy brow and firmly compressed lips, but with undaunted resolution.

One evening he sat in his office more than usually depressed.

He had not had a single call during the week, and now, as it was beginning to grow dusk, he yielded himself up to the sad thoughts that oppressed him.

It was beginning to storm outside, and as he looked forth into the dismal street, a feeling of desperation and dreariness came over him, such as he had not experienced before.

His office was excessively gloomy, for he did not indulge much in the luxury of gas nowadays, since he had not the wherewith to pay for it. His purse lay upon the table before him—he had been inspecting its contents and counting his money.

All that remained to him in the world was a two-dollar bill and some small pieces of silver.