AN INTERVIEW INTERRUPTED
One day Earle was looking over his papers and arranging them more
systematically, when he came across a package containing the memoranda
and evidence used during that “knotty case” wherein he was so
successful.
These had been wrapped in a newspaper, and had remained untouched since
that time.
As he was looking them over, and considering whether it would be best to
keep them any longer or destroy them, his eye caught sight of a
paragraph, or name rather, in the paper that instantly riveted his
attention, and, with staring eyes and paling cheek, he read it eagerly
through.
Then he turned to look at the date of the paper.
It was the very same that he had bought that night when he had been so
forlorn and dreary, when for a week no one had come to him to get him to
do even so much as a little copying, when he had counted his money and
discovered all he possessed in the world was a little over two dollars.
Then he remembered how recklessly he had gone to the door to purchase
the paper, and, returning, had turned on the full blaze of gas to read
by, and, before he had read half a dozen lines, his strange client had
appeared, and the paper had been entirely forgotten from that time.
Doubtless it would have been destroyed, and he never would have seen
this, to him, highly important paragraph had it not been used as a
wrapper for the papers which the little, thin-visaged, wiry man had
brought him.
“It is hardly six months now since this paper was printed,” he said,
with a shade of anxiety on his face, as he turned to look at the date
again.
Then he sat down to think, evidently deeply troubled and perplexed about
something.
Meanwhile the boy brought him in his evening paper, for he could afford
to have one regularly now, and mechanically he unfolded it and began to
read. He had nearly looked it through, when, under the heading of
“Gleanings,” he read this:
“It will be remembered by the frequenters of Newport that Mr. Paul
Tressalia was suddenly recalled abroad, at the last of the season, by
the serious illness of his uncle, the Marquis of Wycliffe, who has
since died, and, being childless, Mr. Tressalia thus becomes heir to
his vast possessions in both England and France, and also to his
title.”
Earle’s face was startlingly pale as he read this, while his broad chest
rose and fell heavily, as if he found a difficulty in breathing.
“That must be the Paul Tressalia who was here last winter, and—who was
so attentive to Editha,” he said, with white lips.
For an hour he sat with bent head, deeply-lined brow, and an expression
of deep pain and perplexity on his face.
“I must do it,” he said at last, “and the quicker the better.”
He turned to the shipping list and looked to see what steamers sailed
soon. He found two that were to sail on the morrow.
“That will do,” he said, and laid aside his paper, with an expression of
resolution on his face.
Then he arose, locked his safe, donned his coat and hat, and made his
way directly to Mr. Dalton’s aristocratic mansion on ——th street.
He inquired for Editha of the servant who answered his ring, and was
immediately shown into the drawing-room, where she sat alone. Her face
lighted and flushed with pleasure as she arose to greet him.
“Earle, you are very, _very_ much of a stranger,” she said, half
reproachfully.
“I have been very, _very_ busy,” he answered, smiling.
“I know—I read of your great success, and the papers speak very
creditably of the rising young lawyer, and the friends of that young
lawyer would be glad to see more of him. Just think, you have only
called once since our return from Newport, and then I had other callers,
and only saw you for a few moments, while I have only met you once or
twice since on the street.”
“It would be very pleasant to come oftener, but you know duty before
pleasure and I fear my friends, what few I have, will see even less of
me in the future.”
“How so?”
“I have business that calls me abroad immediately; it is of that I came
to tell you to-night,” he said, with a grave face.
“Abroad! Where?” Editha demanded, breathlessly.
“To Europe.”
“Will—will you be gone long, Earle?” she asked, all the light and
beautiful color fading out of her face at this intelligence.
“I do not know—no longer than I can possibly help, for I have work of
great importance to do here yet,” he said, with a sigh, and a note of
bitterness in his tone.
Editha knew that he referred to the solving of the mystery of the
robbery. She, too, sighed heavily. It was like taking all the joy out of
her existence to know of his going away.
While he was in the same city and near, so that she could see him
occasionally, or hear of him even indirectly, she could be reasonably
content; but, with the ocean dividing them, her heart would be heavy
enough.
Earle marked her emotion, and his heart thrilled.
How sweet it was to know that she loved him and would miss him.
He arose from his chair, and going to her, sat down by her side.
“Editha,” he said, in low, eager tones, “you will be glad to learn that
I think I have at last a clew to that wretched business.”
“Earle, is it possible? And is that why you are going away?” she asked,
eagerly. “Have you found out who did the deed?”
“No, not quite that; but I have a clew, and I wish I need not go just
now; but other business of the most important nature demands it. I had
fondly hoped that before many weeks should elapse I should be able to
come to you and tell you that no stain rests on my name.”
Editha’s eyes fell beneath his earnest glance. Well she knew what would
follow if he could once tell her that.
“But, of course,” he went on, “all my work in that direction will now
have to be suspended for awhile. But, Editha,” leaning toward her and
scanning her drooping face with great earnestness, “is your faith in me
as strong as ever?”
“Yes, Earle.”
Very sweet and low but firm came the reply.
“And you will still trust me, even though I may be away a long time?”
“_Always_, Earle.”
But this with a quick, deep sigh.
He looked at her still, his lips trembling as if he longed to say
something, yet hesitated. Then he sat suddenly erect and folded his arms
tight across his chest, as if to still the heavy beating of his heart.
“Editha,” he began, trying to steady his shaking voice, “you have told
me that you have read of my success, and know that I am winning the
esteem and respect of men in spite of the past. I am rising higher on
the ladder of prosperity every day, and money flows in rapidly upon me
from every side. If my business abroad proves as successful as it has
here, I have reason to hope that great good in a worldly point of view
is coming to me—just what that is I cannot explain to you now—but under
the circumstances I feel that I cannot be silent any longer. I _cannot_
go away from you without speaking the words I have so longed to utter—to
tell you of the deep and mighty love I have had to chain as with iron
bands for a long time. Editha, I have loved you for more than half a
dozen years. When I came to you last Christmas, alone and friendless,
believing that you also had ceased to remember me, I can never tell you
the revulsion of feeling I experienced when you gave me your simple but
heartfelt greeting, while there was that in your eyes and manner which
told me I might hope that you could love me in return. Your kindness and
trust in me were almost more than I could bear at that time. I could
have fallen down before you and kissed the hem of your garments, for
your divine charity toward one upon whom all others looked with scorn or
pity, as if I was afflicted with some deadly and incurable plague. My
darling, did I read aright? Did not your yes tell me that day that you
could love me if I could come to you with stainless name? Will you give
me that assurance now, before I go away? Will you tell me that when I
have cleared away that blight from my life—_as I shall clear it yet_—you
will be my wife?”
The last word was spoken in an intense whisper, as if it was too sacred
to be uttered aloud, while he paused and scarcely breathed as he awaited
her reply, his noble face illuminated with an earnest pleading more
eloquent than his burning words had been.
We have seen all along that Editha Dalton was possessed of a character
remarkable for its veracity and straightforward feeling. She realized
now that this was the most serious and sacred moment of her whole
life—that upon her reply hung the happiness of her own and Earle’s
future.
There was no coyness, no hesitation in her answer, though no lack of
maidenly delicacy and dignity in her words and manner, as she lifted her
flushed face, glorified with the light of her noble, steadfast love for
him, and said:
“Earle, if you had told me all this last Christmas-time you need not
have lived quite such a lonely, loveless life ever since. I believe I
have loved you from the time when you first came to Uncle Richard’s,
only I never found it out until the day of your trial.”
“Editha, can it be possible?” Earle exclaimed, his face almost
transfigured by her words.
“Yes, Earle, I used to wish that you were my _brother_ in those days;
but when I bade you good-by that afternoon after your trial, it came to
me that it was no sisterly feeling that I entertained for you, but
something deeper, stronger, and more sacred.”
“My darling,” he cried, fairly trembling beneath the weight of his great
happiness, and yet scarcely able to credit what he heard, “you _would_
not say this if you did not _mean_ it—you would not allow me to grasp
this hope and then let it _fail_ me?”
She lifted her clear eyes to his.
“Earle, do you think I could love you all these years and then trifle
with the affection which is the most precious gift Heaven ever sent to
me?” she asked, with grave sweetness.
“No, no; and yet for the moment my brain almost reeled—it did not seem
possible that such joy could be really meant for me, after what I have
suffered,” he returned, with a deep breath of thankfulness that was
almost a sob, as he drew her tenderly into his arms and laid the golden
head upon his breast.
“It was cruel, _so_ cruel,” she murmured, with trembling lips; “I know I
shall never be able to realize all you have suffered, Earle, but not a
day passed that my heart did not cry out in rebellion against your
fate.”
“It is all past now, my own; let us not live it over again; and the joy
you have given me to-day will brighten all the future,” he said, laying
his lips reverently against the shining hair that crowned the head upon
his breast. “Can it be possible,” he added, after a few moments of
silence, “that you would have pledged yourself to me last Christmas—to
_me_ only a few hours out of prison, after serving a _convict’s
sentence_?”
She laid her hand upon his lips as if to stay the hateful words.
“The fact of your having suffered unjustly for the crime of another only
made me love you the more tenderly—I regarded you just as worthy of my
affection then as you will ever be,” Editha returned, gravely.
“God ever bless you for those words, my darling! And you will be my
wife, Editha, some time when——”
“I _will_ be your wife, Earle,” she interrupted, not allowing him to
finish his sentence, for she knew what he was about to add.
“But suppose I should never succeed in finding those rascals who
committed the robbery—suppose the doubt must ever rest upon me?” he
persisted.
“It will make no difference, Earle. _You_ know you are innocent; _I_
know it! why then need we make ourselves miserable over what the world
may say or think?”
“And you do not care—you will never be troubled or ashamed if others
scorn me and give me the cold shoulder?” he asked, astonished.
“Nay, dear,” she said, with a smile that had something of sadness in it;
“I cannot say that I do not care, for I would like every one to honor
you, even as I honor you, and I feel assured that they will yet do so;
meanwhile we will be as happy as we can be. _Ashamed_ of you I can
_never_ be—please do not allow such a thought to enter your mind again.”
“Editha, you were rightly named. Do you know what it means?”
“No; I never even thought to ask if it had a meaning.”
“It means happiness. Who gave it to you?”
“Uncle Richard said that he named me.” Editha answered, with a
thoughtful, far-away look in her eyes.
“It must have been an inspiration, for I believe you bring happiness to
every one with whom you come in contact,” Earle said, in tones of
intense feeling.
“Then you _are_ happy, Earle, in spite of all?” Editha asked, lifting
her head and regarding him wistfully.
“My darling—my darling, I cannot tell you how happy; the very best of
earth’s treasures should be laid at your feet, if I had them, to testify
to it, and I trust the day is not far distant when I shall be able to
bring you a goodly measure of them,” he returned, folding her closer.
“You have brought me the most precious one in all the world to-day,
Earle—your dear love,” the fair girl answered, softly, and almost awed
by the strength and depth of his affection for her.
“Ah! if I did not need to go away!” Earle said, with a sigh.
“I, too, wish that you did not—the time will seem long until you
return,” Editha returned, regretfully; then she added, suddenly: “Is it
absolutely necessary that you should go?”
“Yes; it cannot be avoided. If I were sure of success I would tell you
the nature of the business which calls me abroad; but you can trust me a
little longer?”
“Always.”
“And would you, some time in the future, be willing to go abroad to live
if it was necessary?” Earle asked, with a peculiar expression on his
face.
“Anywhere in the world with you, Earle, if need be;” and, with a tender
smile, Editha laid both her hands on his.
It was as if she was willing to renounce everything in the world for him
and his precious love, and the act touched him as nothing ever had done
before.
He bowed his manly head until his lips rested upon them in a fervent,
reverent caress.
At that instant the door near which they were sitting swung softly open,
and before they were aware of his presence, Mr. Dalton had entered, and
was standing before them.
He had come in a few minutes previous, and the waiter had told him that
Earle Wayne was there, which intelligence so enraged him that he
determined at once to put a stop to all further visits from him.
Whether he had been guilty of listening before entering the room they
could not tell, but certain it is that he presented himself before them
with a most disagreeable smile upon his face and a glitter in his
steel-gray eyes that boded them no good.