CHAPTER I_Earle Wayne's nobility

EARLE WAYNE’S NOBILITY

_By_ MRS. GEORGIE SHELDON

AUTHOR OF

“Brownie’s Triumph,” “Virgie’s Inheritance,” “Nora,” “Trixy,” “Stella

Rosevelt,” “Wedded by Fate,” Etc.

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A. L. BURT COMPANY

PUBLISHERS NEW YORK

By STREET & SMITH

Renewal Granted to

Mrs. Georgie Sheldon Downs

1908

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.