WILL HE BEAR THE TEST
Editha knew something of all this, for she read the papers, and at the
termination of the trial enough could not be said of the brilliant
victory which the young lawyer had achieved.
She was at Newport, but she would gladly have returned to the city with
her father to attend the trial had she known of it in season.
But he had merely said he was obliged to go home upon business, which
she judged upon his return must have been of an unpleasant nature, since
for several days afterward he was morose and in every way disagreeable.
Every one remarked how much more beautiful Miss Dalton was this summer
than the preceding one.
Many attributed it to the change in her dress, as she no longer refused
to wear colors, and her wardrobe was remarkable for its taste and
elegance, while others said her sorrow was wearing away and her spirits
were returning.
No one but Editha herself, however, knew the secret of her own
beauty—she had loved and was beloved; and, though her hopes might not be
crowned for a long while, yet she waited in patience for Earle to speak,
having full faith that he would eventually rise superior to every trial,
and trample every obstacle beneath his feet.
She and her father were less in sympathy than ever before.
She had dared to displease him again by rejecting Mr. Tressalia’s
proposals of marriage.
The day following Earle’s call upon her—on that very Christmas Day when
she had contemplated asking him to dinner, and making the day so
pleasant to him—Mr. Dalton had brought Mr. Tressalia home with him to be
their guest, and he had sat in the seat she had destined for Earle, and
she had been obliged to exert herself to entertain him instead.
He had also attended a grand reception with them in the evening, and
altogether that Christmas was so entirely different from what she had
planned it should be, that she was a little inclined to feel almost as
much out of patience with the innocent cause of it as with her father.
A few days later Paul Tressalia had asked her to be his wife, and she
had been obliged to tell him “No, it could not be.”
Mr. Dalton was very angry, but secretly bade the rejected lover hope,
assuring him that Editha’s affections were not engaged, and he, three
months later, taking courage, renewed his proposal, to receive the same
answered as before.
A stormy interview between father and daughter had followed, Mr. Dalton
declaring that she _should_ marry the rich Englishman, and Editha as
firmly asserting that she should not do so.
The disappointed lover, however, followed them to Newport, where he
continually haunted every scene of pleasure where the fair girl was to
be found; and, to Editha’s shame, she was at last forced to believe that
her father was still bidding him hope against hope.
It might be thought that Paul Tressalia was lacking in either pride for
himself or proper respect for the woman he professed to love, by being
so persistent but it was the one passion of his life, although he was
thirty years of age, and he could not easily yield to her gentle though
firm refusal, particularly when Mr. Dalton told him he must eventually
overcome her objections if he was patient.
He was not presuming in his attentions; he never forced his society upon
her; yet, with a patience and faithfulness that deserved a better
return, he waited and hoped.
“If you would but give me the least ray of hope that I may eventually
win your love, Miss Editha; my life will be _ruined_ without the crown
of your love,” he had ventured to urge once more, in a sorrowful kind of
way, on the last evening of her stay at Newport.
He had heard she was going on the morrow and he could not bear it; he
_must_ put his fate to the test once more and for the last time.
“Mr. Tressalia,” she entreated, in a pained voice, “what _shall_ I tell
you to make you understand that it cannot be?”
“There could be only _one_ thing that you could tell me that would
destroy every gleam of hope.”
“And that?” she interrupted, with a quick breath and a fluttering of her
white lids.
“That your love is given to another,” he said, passionately, and
searching, with sudden foreboding, the beautiful face he loved so well.
The rich blood surged instantly over cheek brow, and neck.
Could she confess that she loved another, when that love was as yet
unspoken even to its object?
And yet she must not go away and leave him to feed on a hopeless
passion.
Would it be maidenly? Would it be proper?
“Editha, have I been deceived all this while? Have I been persecuting
you with my attentions, while you loved another?” he cried, in
consternation, as he marked that startled flush, and intuitively knew
its cause.
She looked up into his white, pained face, and pitied him from the
depths of her tender heart.
“Mr. Tressalia,” she said, with sudden resolution, “it is cruel to allow
you to hope when there is no hope. I will make you my confidant. You are
noble and good, and you will not betray my trust. What you have said—is
true.”
Her voice was low, and sweet, and tremulous, as she confessed it, but
her face was dyed with hottest blushes.
“You _do_ love some one else?” he cried, in a hollow voice, his noble
face growing gray and sharp with agony.
“Yes,” she whispered, “but only the exigency of the case would force me
to confess it.”
And then she told him frankly all the story of her early regard for
Earle Wayne—his misfortune and patient endurance for another’s crime—of
his return, and of their mutual though unspoken affection for each
other.
“Earle Wayne!” he repeated with a start. “Who is he? Where did he come
from?” he demanded, with eager interest, as she spoke his name.
“I do not know. He came to my uncle when seventeen years of age. He was
fatherless, motherless, and friendless; but he has proved himself, if
not honored among men, to be stamped with Heaven’s nobility.”
Would that Earle Wayne could have heard this tribute from the woman he
so loved!
“Wayne—is it spelled with a y?” Mr. Tressalia asked.
“Yes.”
“Of what nationality is he?”
“American, I judge, though I never heard him say aught upon the
subject.”
“Strange! strange!” Mr. Tressalia muttered, with thoughtful brow.
But after a few minutes of musing, he reached out and clasped her hand.
The confession she had made, and he had listened to, was a strange one
for a delicate and sensitive woman to make, and his great heart was
touched with sympathy for the gallant lover, and with admiration for the
woman who could be so true and loyal to him.
“Miss Dalton,” he said, in earnest though slightly tremulous tones, “I
realize that all my hope must die; but what you have told me only makes
my loss so much greater and harder to bear, for I honor you above women
for the courage you have manifested in telling me this. You are a noble
daughter of a noble country, and he who has won your love will have
cause to adore you all his life. That he is worthy of you,
notwithstanding his misfortune, I cannot doubt, after what you have told
me, and I do not believe _you_ could love _unworthily_. God bless him
for his nobility, and _you_ for your constancy!”
Editha looked up astonished at this heartfelt benediction. She had begun
to regard him as lacking somewhat in character and pride, when he had
returned to plead his cause after her repeated refusal, but now she saw
that she had underrated him. She saw that his love was deep and true for
her, and that he suffered as great men alone can suffer when he found
that he could never win her love; but a mind that was capable of such
generosity as to rise above self—to admire and sympathize with a
rival—was worthy of the highest regard.
“I am proud,” he went on, not noticing her look, “that you have
considered me worthy of this confidence; and, if anything could assuage
the pain I experience, the trust that you repose in me would do it. Your
confidence shall be inviolable, and if there is anything that I can do
at any time to promote your happiness and Mr. Wayne’s interests, I pray
you will not hesitate to let me know it, and I will gladly serve you
both.”
Paul Tressalia did not realize what he was promising when he said that,
but there came a time when he was tried as few men are ever tried;
and—did he bear the test? We shall see.
Never in all her life had Editha regretted anything as she did at this
moment that she had been obliged to blight the hopes of this noble,
whole-souled man.
The bright drops chased each other over her cheeks as she thanked him
for his kindness, and expressed her regret that she had been obliged to
cause him pain.
“Do not grieve for me,” he said, gently, as almost involuntarily he
wiped her tears away with his own handkerchief. “I know I must suffer as
few suffer; but, Editha, believe me, I would rather you would be happy
in _another’s_ care and love than _unhappy_ in _mine_. God bless you, my
love—by one only love, and perhaps He will yet comfort me.”
Editha arose and gave him her hand. She could not speak; she could not
bear anything more.
It was her “good-night” and “good-by,” for the early morning would find
her on her way home.
He watched her until the last flutter of her light robe disappeared from
view, and then, springing to his feet as if a hot iron were burning his
soul, he went out into the night to battle alone with his rebellious
heart.
The late mail that evening brought him letters containing important news
from and requiring his immediate presence abroad. He left the next day
for England, firmly believing, that he never should look upon the face
of Editha Dalton in this world again.
Mr. Dalton and his daughter returned to their home in the city, and
settled down for the winter—Editha cheered and happy to see Earle
occasionally and to know of his increasing success.
Without saying anything to any one, on the morning of her twenty-first
birthday she repaired to Mr. Felton’s office, and with a resolute face
and steady hand, signed the papers that gave to Earle Wayne ten thousand
dollars, together with a year’s interest, even as she had said she would
do.
These papers she desired should be taken to him at once, and in case he
refused to accept the bequest, Mr. Felton was authorized to safely
invest the money and retain the papers in his own possession until they
should be called for.
Earle firmly refused to touch a cent of it, saying his business was fast
increasing, and he did not need it.
It was therefore taken by Mr. Felton to the First National Bank,
deposited in his name, and left to accumulate.