THE SEARCH FOR EDITHA
Three months later saw Earle Wayne firmly established as the master of
Wycliffe, and over all other property belonging to the former Marquis of
Wycliffe and Viscount Wayne. His mother’s character was cleared of every
imputation of evil, her body removed to the vaults of her ancestors,
where it rested as peacefully and quietly as the noblest of all the race
of Vance, and the friends of her youth now looked back with sadness and
regret upon the sufferings of the beautiful injured girl, which their
own sneers and coldness had helped to aggravate.
All this change made no small stir in the social world.
Paul Tressalia first of all went down to Winchelsea, where he
interviewed the old sexton of St. John’s Chapel, who told him exactly
the same story that he had told Earle seven years before. He next sought
Miss Isabel Grafton, and craved permission to peruse her father’s diary.
She received him with the same graciousness that she had accorded Earle,
and talked long and freely with him upon the strange, sad events of
Marion Vance’s history, while he in return related much regarding
Earle’s manly battling with the cold world, omitting, of course, that
sad epoch wherein he, too, had suffered so much for another’s wrong.
In a simple, manly fashion he mentioned the fact that the establishment
of his young kinsman’s identity dethroned him from Wycliffe and one of
the proudest positions in England, and Miss Grafton’s expressions of
sincere regret and sympathy were the sweetest and most comforting sounds
that had fallen on his ear since that night when Editha Dalton had
crushed his last hope of ever winning her love.
He was convinced beyond the shadow of a doubt that Earle was the
rightful heir, and he gave up everything to his possession without a
demur; and then, out of the nobility of his nature, took upon himself
the defense of Marion Vance’s character.
He caused a notice of the marriage to be inserted in all the leading
papers, with the date of the event, wrote a brief and simple account of
the manner in which it had occurred, the wrong that had been attempted
but fortunately outwitted, and how at last the real heir, her son, had
been restored to his rights.
It was not long after this before the whole world—Marion’s world—knew of
her innocence, and immediately recognized and cordially received Earle
as Marquis of Wycliffe and Viscount Wayne.
This accomplished, Earle’s impatient heart told him he now might return
to Editha and claim the reward of all his patient waiting, and to make
one last effort to discover the criminals for whom he had so unjustly
suffered.
He did not dream that when he should inform Mr. Dalton of the great
change in his prospects, and the position to which he had attained, he
would longer withhold his consent to his marriage with his daughter; and
so it was with a light heart that he left Paul Tressalia to rule at
Wycliffe until his return, and set sail for the United States.
The “wings of the wind” were not half rapid enough to bear him thither,
for, for several weeks past, his heart had been filled with great
anxiety.
Editha’s letters had suddenly ceased, and though he wrote again and
again, it was ever with the same result—not one came in reply.
He did not for a moment doubt her constancy; he knew she simply _could
not_ be untrue to him, and he was forced to believe that Mr. Dalton had
discovered the fact of their correspondence, and had taken measures to
stop it, in perhaps the same way that he had before intercepted her
flowers.
The passage across the Atlantic was an unusually long one, owing to
unfavorable winds and storms, and he was nearly sick with the delay and
his patience exhausted, when at last the vessel touched her pier, and he
sprang ashore like a restless bird escaped from its cage.
Two hours later he stood on the steps of Mr. Dalton’s residence, his
heart beating with a strange, unaccountable fear of something wrong,
though he knew not what.
A servant answered his impatient ring, and to his eager inquiry, “Is
Miss Dalton at home?” returned a surprised “No, sir.”
He then inquired for Mr. Dalton, and the reply suddenly stilled his
rapid heart-beats and drove every shade of color from his face and lips.
“No, sir, Mr. Dalton is not at home; he has been searching for Miss
Dalton ever since her strange disappearance,” the man said.
“_Strange disappearance!_ Man! what do you mean?” gasped Earle, actually
staggering beneath the unexpected blow.
The servant, pitying his distress, asked him to come in, saying he would
tell him all about the affair.
He mechanically obeyed, and his heart nearly died within him as he
listened to the strange account of her sudden disappearance and
protracted absence.
Nothing had been heard of her during all that time beyond what has
already been related in a previous chapter, although every one reasoned,
from the account which the policeman gave of her encounter with the
ruffian on her return from John Loker’s house, that _he_ must have had
something to do with it, since she seemed to possess something that he
was bound to have, and she as determined not to relinquish.
The detectives employed to unravel the mystery could learn nothing; they
were baffled at every point. They would seem to gain a clew to her
whereabouts, and then would suddenly lose it again.
Her fate remained a dark and perplexing mystery, and seemed likely to
remain so indefinitely, and it had created a great deal of excitement,
not only in her own city but all over the State.
At first Earle inclined to think that Mr. Dalton himself was criminally
concerned in the affair, remembering as he did his excessive anger upon
discovering that Editha had promised to be his wife, and also his
insulting language, sneers, and sarcasm both to her and him the day
before his departure for Europe.
But after he had seen and conversed with Mr. Felton, Editha’s lawyer, he
changed his mind upon this point.
Mr. Felton asserted that Mr. Dalton was now traveling in search of her,
and had been unwearied in his efforts to find her ever since her
disappearance.
He privately informed him also that his business affairs were
inextricably involved, and that for a long time he had been dependent
upon Editha’s income, which she had freely and generously shared with
him.
Now, however, since she was of age and controlled her property, he would
be cut off from that source of supply until she was found, as Mr. Felton
had no right to pay over anything to him without her sanction; so it was
for his interest that he exert every effort in his power to find her.
Earle’s every interest and thought for himself was now also swallowed up
in this great and unexpected trouble.
He no longer thought of seeking those unpunished criminals, or of
clearing his own name from dishonor.
What cared he for any disgrace that might cling to _him_, so long as
_her_ fate remained such a dark mystery, and she, perhaps, sick and
suffering, or—dead, for all any one would ever know?
For a week he was nearly mad, neither eating nor sleeping, but wandering
aimlessly about the streets, peering into every face he met, as if he
hoped that by some chance he might meet her. At night he was like some
restless, caged lion, helplessly shut in by the darkness, as it were,
behind its bars, against which he constantly fretted and fumed, until,
with the first sign of dawn, he could return to his vain search.
But at the end of a week he began to realize the uselessness of his
present course and then determined to settle down to some methodical
plan upon which to work.
He resolved that he would visit very town, village and hamlet in the
State, and that failing, he would search every other State in the Union
in the same way.
Of course, this would entail upon him a life-long search, and the
detectives told him he would only have his labor for his pains—that he
would never find her in that way. They held to the belief that she was
either in that city, or else in one of the adjoining cities, and within
easy reach of the great metropolis, and they declared that they should
confine their efforts to those places.
Earle wrote something of all this to Paul Tressalia, begging him to
remain and rule at Wycliffe until his return, even though it should not
be for a long time, and then he began his weary search.
It would be wearisome in the extreme to follow him, step by step,
through the long weeks that followed, and during which he spared neither
himself nor his money. He grew pale, thin and nervous, and disheartened,
too, as the time went by, and he seemed no nearer the accomplishment of
his object than at the very first.
“What shall I do?” he wrote, almost in despair, to Mr. Felton from a
distant town. “I am nearly distracted, for all my efforts are vain. I
have interviewed a number of detectives in different cities, and no two
advise the same mode of procedure, and have advanced so many plans and
theories that I am like a ship far out at sea, without either rudder or
sail. I suffer continually the tortures of the rack. There is no rest
for me, and there will be no charm in life for me until I find my lost
one. Can you give me any hope? Has any clew been discovered? Telegraph
me instantly if there is a single ray of hope.”
“Poor fellow!” the lawyer sighed, as he folded the letter after reading
it; “it is a hard case. It is a most _trying_ case, and no one can tell
how it will end,” he mused, “else, with her resolution and natural
keenness, it seems as if she must have found some way of giving us a
hint of her whereabouts if she is detained anywhere against her will.”
But he could only telegraph to Earle: “No clew has yet been discovered.”
And the weary lover resumed his sad quest by himself.
But poor, frail humanity cannot endure everything; there is a point
beyond which tired nature refuses to go, and at last, worn almost to a
shadow, Earle felt that he must do something to recruit his strength, or
he would give out entirely. A fever seemed to be burning in his veins,
drying his blood and parching his skin; his appetite failed him, his
strength was leaving him, and he grew so nervous and irritable that the
slightest noise startled him painfully, the least opposition or
disappointment tried him almost beyond endurance.
“I am going to be sick,” he said one day, when he was nearly prostrated,
and looking at his thin, trembling hands. “This anxiety and ceaseless
search are fast wearing me out. I must rest, or I shall die, and who
then will find my Editha?”
Longing for the sight of some familiar face, and hoping that Mr. Felton
might by this time be able to give him a “drop of comfort,” he returned
with all speed to the city whence he had started.
Arriving in the evening, some unaccountable repugnance to repairing to
the hotel where he usually stopped, and where he had before spent so
many restless, miserable nights, seized him, and calling a coach, he
gave the name of a smaller, but no less respectable house, located in a
quiet street, and was driven thither.
He sought the clerk and asked for a room.
As it happened, the hotel that week was overflowing with transient
visitors, and at first the clerk told him that there was not a room to
be had in the house.
“You must manage some way to accommodate me, for I am too weary and ill
to move another step,” Earle said; and indeed his looks did not belie
his words.
The clerk went to consult with one of the proprietors, and then
returned, saying they would give him a room in which to sleep that
night, if he did not mind a little noise now and then, and by another
day there would probably be better accommodations for him.
“I shall mind nothing, so that I can have a bed on which to rest,” the
tired traveler said, much relieved by the intelligence.
“I shall have to give you one of a suite of rooms hired by a lady and
her daughter. It is reserved for her son, who occasionally visits her
and remains over night. He went away this morning, and, as he probably
will not be here to-night, you can have that room,” explained the clerk.
“Will not the madam object?” Earle asked, instinctively recoiling from
the idea of in any way incommoding a lady.
“Oh, no; we have done the same thing, with her consent, once or twice
before, when the house has been full,” was the confident and reassuring
reply.
“All right; I am ready to occupy it at once,” Earle said, rising, and
anxious to be at rest.
The clerk hesitated before leading the way.
“I ought perhaps to tell you, sir,” he began, “that madam’s daughter is
an invalid—she is a little cracked,” he added, touching his forehead
significantly, “and sometimes takes on a little during the night. I
thought you ought to be told this, so that if you were disturbed you
might know the cause and not be alarmed.”
“The door between the rooms can be locked, of course?” Earle asked.
“Oh, yes; madam keeps it locked on her side, and there is also a bolt
upon the other side. The young lady is perfectly harmless, only her
brother informed me that when the spells come upon her she moans
constantly, as if in distress, and they come on mostly in the night. She
may not disturb you at all, however.”
“I shall not mind it, now that you have told me this; it might have
disturbed me otherwise,” Earle answered, as he wearily turned to follow
his guide.
Taking the elevator, they were borne into the fourth story, and he was
shown into a room at the top of the house.
It was a long, rather narrow room, comfortably furnished, and having two
doors to it, one leading into the hall, the other into the room
adjoining. There was a transom over both doors, and through the one
leading into the others of the suite Earle could see a dim light, but
all was perfectly quiet within.
He looked to see that the bolt was perfectly fast in its socket, and
then, giving his neighbors no further thought, he hastily disrobed, and,
wearied out, crept into bed.