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.