“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.