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.