“IS THERE NO WAY OF ESCAPE?”
Earle started at that sound. His mind was so intent upon dealing with
the strange man who claimed to be his father that he had not considered
how his words might wound Editha, and he now blamed himself severely for
having allowed these disclosures to be made in her presence. What must
the poor girl have suffered as she listened and realized her own
position, and all the wrong of which her father was guilty?
He had proved that her father had been legally married to his mother,
consequently he, who had hitherto been regarded as a child of dishonor,
was now without taint, and entitled to one of the proudest positions in
the world. But in the heat and excitement of explaining all this, he had
not stopped to consider that his own glory must necessarily arise out of
the ruins of her life.
After Mr. Dalton had failed in his search for Marion Vance he returned
to the United States, where, shortly after, he had met and married the
sister of Richard Forrester, who was reputed to be quite wealthy.
Disappointment awaited him in this, however, for Miss Forrester
possessed but a small sum in her own right.
But matters could not be helped, and the chagrined husband made the most
of it, invested his wife’s small fortune carefully, and, by earnest
attention to business, made money steadily for several years.
Report said, also, that Richard Forrester gave him a handsome lift, and
it was not long before he was reputed to be the possessor of a large
fortune.
But, of course, his marriage with Miss Forrester was not legal, although
he had confidently believed it to be so until this very day; and Earle
condemned himself for many things that he had said, after being reminded
by that low moan of how much Editha had been made to suffer.
Mr. Dalton saw how it wounded him, and laughed maliciously, whereupon
Earle turned upon him almost savagely.
“Do you mean me to understand that you will wound me by venting your
malice upon her? Let me assure you that if I know of your willfully
causing her even one moment’s unhappiness, I will have no mercy on you,”
he said.
Mr. Dalton chuckled.
“You are really fond of—ah—your _sister_; it is really pleasant to see
such unity in a family. I trust you will always be as fond of
your—_sister_.”
He seemed to take a satanic delight in repeating the word. He knew that
it fell upon both their hearts like the blow from a hammer.
“My sister! God forgive me, she _is_ my sister; but I do not love her
_as such_,” Earle groaned, as he wiped the cold sweat from his forehead.
This was music to Sumner Dalton’s ears, but he knew it would not do to
trespass too far; so, rising, he said, with the most consummate
coolness:
“Since it would not sound well for a man in your position to allow his
father to suffer for the necessaries of life, I will consent to accept
your offer of that ten thousand, and you can make it over to me with as
little delay as possible. And now I will bid you good-morning, leaving
you and your _sister_ to talk over your future prospects and comfort one
another as best you can.”
With a low, echoing, mocking laugh, he left the room and those two
wretched young people were alone.
In the exceeding bitterness of his soul Earle again dropped his head
upon the table, and a long, long silence ensued.
Editha lay perfectly still upon the sofa.
At last Earle arose and went and knelt down beside her.
“Editha!” he said; and it is not possible to convey any idea of the pain
crowded into the one word.
Only a low moan answered him.
“Editha,” he said again, almost wildly, “I would have saved you from
this had it been possible.”
She turned her face up to him at this in speechless misery. She had shed
no tears over what she had heard; the horror of it had seemed to scorch
and burn them up at their very fountain. Her eyes were heavy, her face
perfectly hueless, her lips parched and drawn, her hands hot and
burning.
That one look of hers, so piteous and full of anguish, unmanned Earle
completely, and, dropping his head upon the pillow beside hers, sob
after sob broke from him.
At the sight of his suffering, woman-like, she forgot her own in a
measure.
She put up her hot hand and laid it caressingly against his cheek, and
cried:
“Earle—Earle—don’t! _I_ cannot bear it if _you_ give way so. God will
help us; He will send no more upon us than He is willing to give us
strength to bear. But, oh!” she added, wildly, “that I should have to
call _such_ a man _father_.”
“My darling, that is a sorrow that we share in common,” Earle answered,
with an effort at self-control.
“I am glad mamma is dead. I am glad Uncle Richard is dead. How could
they have borne this?” Editha moaned.
“Your Uncle Richard would have counseled us what to do, dear; he would
have been a help to us,” Earle replied, feeling deeply the need of such
a friend as Richard Forrester would have been.
“I believe he would have killed papa if he had lived to know of all
this. I have been told that his temper was fearful when once aroused,”
Editha said, with a shudder.
“He is not here, and we must take counsel of each other. My darling we
have some stern facts to look in the face. All——”
His courage failed him for the moment, and it seemed as if his reason
was forsaking him.
After a while he went on:
“All our former hopes are crushed and destroyed. Oh, why were we ever
permitted to love each other as we have done, only to suffer thus? But,
Editha, I cannot—I do not feel that I ought to go back and leave you
here with _him_. Will you come with me to Wycliffe and share my
home—your _brother’s_ home?”
She put him away from her with a gesture of despair.
A cry of bitterness rang through the room, and then, as if all power of
self-control had deserted her, she cried out:
“No, _no_, NO! Earle, how can you torture me with such a proposal? Go
away—hide from me—put the sea between us, until—_until I can learn to
love you less_.”
And the poor, tired, almost bursting heart found relief in a flood of
scalding tears.
Earle was glad to see her weep, though every word had been fresh torture
to him. He did not check her, but only knelt by her, gently smoothing
her shining hair, and wishing he could have borne all this great grief
alone.
How could he bear to leave her? How could he put the ocean between them!
How could he bear to let long years go by and not look upon her face,
perhaps _never_ see her again? She would not be happy with her father,
he knew, after what she had learned to-day. She had no other friends to
whom to go, and what would become of her?
She repelled the idea of making Wycliffe her home, where she would be
obliged to see him every day, and strive to conquer the love which now
she had no right to give him. And his own heart told him that it would
be a burden too heavy for either of them to bear.
Something told him that he could never love her after the quiet fashion
of a brother. His heart had gone out to her in the first strong, deep
passion of his manhood, and he could no more control it than he could
control the wind that blew.
All this he thought over as she lay there in the abandonment of her
grief, and he knew that she had judged rightly; they must be separated,
or their sorrow would wear them both out in a little while. He must go
back to Wycliffe and take up his duties there, and she must choose for
herself what she would do here.
Her sobs grew less violent after awhile, and at last he said, with an
effort to speak calmly:
“Editha, I will do whatever you say; but it seems to me as if all the
world from this hour will be palled in deepest gloom—as if nothing could
ever look bright or beautiful again. I came back to you so joyous—so
proud of the position that was mine to offer you; and now every hope is
crushed. Oh, what shall we do? How are we to bear it?” he groaned.
“You must go away—back to England,” she said, in a shaking, weakened
voice. “I cannot bear it if you stay here; neither can I go to Wycliffe.
Don’t you see we could not bear _that_? We must live apart, and strive
to forget if we can. Perhaps when long years have passed, if we live,
and we have not seen each other, we may be able to love each other
less.”
“God forbid! And yet the sin of it will crush me,” he cried,
despairingly. “I cannot forget—I do not want to forget—I will _not_. Oh,
Editha, why are we permitted to be tortured thus?”
“To teach us, perhaps, that earthly idols are but dust, and God is
supreme. He has said we must put no other in _His_ place,” she
whispered, with a solemnity that awed him.
“Have _you_ loved _me_ like that?” he asked.
“Hush!” she answered, with a shiver, and laying her fingers gently on
his lips. “I must not tell you _how much_. We have no right to talk of
that any more. I want you to bid me good-by now, Earle, and let it be a
long, long good-by, too.”
“My darling, I _cannot_; it is too, too cruel,” he moaned; and,
forgetting everything but his deep and mighty love for her, he gathered
her into his arms and clasped her with such rebellious strength that she
was powerless in his embrace.
“Earle,” she said, with a calmness born of despair, yet speaking
authoritatively, “you must let me go.”
He instantly released her—he could not disobey her when she spoke in
that tone, but the look on his face made her cry out with pain.
“Forgive me,” she almost sobbed. “I would not wound you, but we must end
this for the sake of both. Will you do as I wish? Will you go back to
Wycliffe at once?”
“I will do anything that you bid me, Editha,” he answered, in a hollow
tone, but with a look such as she hoped never to see again on any mortal
face.
“Thank you, Earle—I do bid you go—it is right—it will be best,
and—and——”
She had risen, and was standing before him, looking almost as wan and
ghastly as she had looked on that night when he had found her in the
power of Tom Drake.
She had stopped suddenly, catching her breath, and she reeled like a
person drunken with wine; but, pressing her hand to her side, as if to
still her fierce heart-throbs she strove to go on, though every word
came with a pant:
“And, Earle, do not mourn—do not grieve any more than you can help; it
would not be right—you have a noble career before you, and you must do
honor to the name you bear——”
“What are honors to me? What is anything in the world worth to me
_now_?” he interrupted, hoarsely.
“You must conquer that reckless spirit, Earle—try not to think of me any
more than it is possible to help; I shall do very well, I hope. I shall
stay with papa, and strive to win him to better things.”
Her pale lips quivered as she thought how dreary the world would be when
he was gone, and how thankless the task she had set herself to
accomplish.
After a moment she quietly drew off the beautiful ring he had placed
upon her finger and held it out to him.
“I must not wear this any more,” she said, brokenly; “it means too much
to me, and I have loved it so dearly for the sake of what it meant, and
I do not wish to even see anything that can remind me of the—the
happiness I have lost. Take it and put it away, Earle; but if—if——”
She caught her breath quickly, while he felt as if he were turning to
stone.
“If ever,” she began again, with a great effort, but looking so white
and deathly that Earle feared she would drop dead at his feet—“if ever
in the future you meet any one whom you think will make you happy, tell
her all about our sorrow, Earle, and give her this with—my blessing.”
“Oh, Heaven! Editha, do you wish to drive me mad?” he groaned.
“Dear Earle, it is hard—I cannot tell you _how_ hard it is for me to say
this, but I know that what I tell you will be right for you to do, and—I
do want you to be happy.”
“Happy! Do you not know that that word will mock me all the remainder of
my life?” he cried, with exceeding bitterness.
“I hope not, Earle;” and her sweet lips quivered like a grieved child’s.
“Do you think you will ever know happiness again, Editha?” Earle asked,
almost fiercely, and yet her sad face smote him for the question.
“If it is God’s will,” she answered, with a weariness that pierced him
to his heart’s core; but in her soul she knew that apart from him the
world would never hold any charm for her again.
“There are some things in life,” she went on, with mournful sweetness,
after a moment, “that we cannot understand—this trial of ours is one of
them. I remember reading somewhere that
‘Never morning wore
To evening, but some heart did break,’
and if that is so, we are not alone in our sorrow; perhaps all will be
well in the end, and we shall live to realize it—let us trust that it
may be so. But, Earle, you have a beautiful home, and probably there are
long years of useful life before you, but there can be no comfort in a
household without a skilful hand to beautify and direct. Do not forget
what I say—remember that I even wish it, should the time ever come when
you can realize it; and now, Earle,” reaching out her hands with a sob
that seemed wrung from her against her will, “good-by—God ever bless and
keep you.”
His hands dropped suddenly, and the ring rolled to his feet; he had not
taken it—he had seemed to have no power; and she, feeling that she could
bear no more, turned as if to leave him.
He had stood like one stunned while she was speaking. He could not seem
to realize that she really meant this for her last, long farewell; but,
as she turned from him, he cried out suddenly, in a voice of agony:
“Editha! oh, my lost love, do not leave me thus!”
She stopped, her head drooping upon her bosom, her hands hanging
listlessly by her side.
He sprang to her, and, forgetting everything but the pain of the moment,
he drew her passionately to his breast.
“Editha—my happiness—my love—all that is dearest and best in the world,
how can you go away from me so? I cannot bear it. I will not believe
this fearful thing that is to rob us of all our bright future.”
She lay resistless in his embrace now; it was for the last time, she
thought, even if she had not been too weak to move.
“Tell me, Editha, is there no way of escape? _Must_ we live out our
dreary future, this poisoned arrow corroding in our hearts? Ah! if this
terrible tale could be refuted.”
“But it cannot, Earle; there is no way but to bear it patiently,” she
breathed.
“No, there is no other way, for I _know_ that that man is my father, and
that fact destroys our every hope. It is hard, my beloved; let me call
you so once more; let me hold you close for the last time; let me kiss
these dear lips, and touch this shining hair, and then I will go away as
you wish. I will not add one pang to what I know you already suffer.
Heaven bless you, my weary, stricken one—my lost love.”
With one strong arm he held her close against his almost bursting heart,
while with his other hand he drew back the shining head until he could
look down into the beautiful face that he felt might perhaps be looking
his very last upon.
His lips lingered upon her hair, touched her forehead with tremulous
tenderness, and then, with a sob wrung from the depths of his soul, he
pressed one long, passionate kiss upon her lips, gently released her,
stooped to pick up the ring she had wished him to have, and then strode
from the room.
A fortnight later Earle Wayne had returned to Wycliffe sad, almost
broken-hearted, and, at twenty-five, deeming life a burden too heavy to
be borne.