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.”