THE BEGINNING OF THE END
Editha Dalton and her father went to Newport—he to get all the pleasure
out of life that he could by mingling in the sports of the gay world and
spending his daughter’s money, she to bear with what submission she
could the weary routine in which she had no heart, and which was but a
mockery to her.
Earle had, faithful to his word, made over the long disputed ten
thousand dollars to Mr. Dalton, and this, together with Editha’s
handsome income which she tacitly yielded up to him, enabled him to live
like a prince.
But people wondered to see how the brightness had faded from the fair
girl’s life.
She took no interest in the pleasure and frivolities of the fashionable
watering-place.
She would not attend their parties and social gatherings, but wandered
alone by the sea, or sat in seclusion of her own room, pale, sad, and
silent, thinking ever of the one so dear, who at her bidding had put the
ocean between them.
Her rebellious heart had refused to banish him from the place so long
his own, or yield up one tithe of the love which she had lavished upon
him.
The very name of brother, applied to him, made her shudder with
repulsion, and the thought of being his sister made her cry out with
despair, and grow sick and faint with horror.
Mr. Dalton, to his credit be it said, after Earle was well out of the
way, changed his course and treated her with great gentleness and
kindness.
Perhaps he felt a thrill of remorse as he saw her day by day growing so
frail and slight, and bearing with such sad patience the sorrow which he
had brought upon her.
Perhaps, since we cannot conscientiously attribute really unselfish
motives to him, he only realized that she was the goose who brought him
the golden eggs, and considered it a matter of policy to conciliate her
favor.
Be this as it may, he improved his advantage to the fullest extent.
Money slipped through his fingers like water; he had never seemed so
gay, reckless, and intent upon his pleasure before, and more than one
old associate remarked that “Mr. Dalton grew fast as he grew old.”
But a Nemesis was on his track.
A relentless fate was pursuing him, crying, “No quarter until the mighty
one is fallen.”
His days of unholy living and revenge, of treachery and wrong, were
numbered, though he knew it not, and no spirit of warning whispered that
for every evil deed he had done he must soon give an account.
It was a matter of some surprise to Paul Tressalia that Earle should
return to England alone.
He had fully expected that he would bring Editha as a bride to Wycliffe,
and he had tried to school his own heart to bear it. He saw at once that
there was some deep trouble on his mind; no one ever had such heavy
hollow eyes, such a worn, haggard face, without some adequate cause.
But, as Earle did not offer any explanation for it, he could not
question him. And so the days went by, while he began to mature his
plans for his own future.
Earle at once entered upon his duties as master of Wycliffe, and was
received most heartily by all the adherents of the former marquis, and
soon gained an influence and footing in the country which ought to have
satisfied the most exacting.
He was _feted_ and flattered, quoted, advised, and sought after; but
never for a moment did he forget that sad white face that for a few
minutes had lain on his breast for the last time, nor the last
heart-broken farewell and the low-murmured “God ever bless and keep
you.”
But the time came when he had to fight another mighty battle with
himself.
His hopes for the future had all been destroyed by a single blow; but
Paul Tressalia still loved Editha, he knew, and there might be a ray of
hope for him.
The question arose within him, “Ought he not to tell him of the change
in the relations which existed between Editha and himself, and if there
was the shadow of a possibility of his winning her love, ought he not to
allow him to put it to the test?”
One day he sought him, with a pale, worn face.
He had conquered a mighty foe—himself.
He remembered that Editha had once told him, when speaking of her
refusal of Mr. Tressalia’s offer of marriage, that “she had never
suffered more at the thought of giving pain than she did in refusing
him.”
Some one has written, “Pity melts the mind to love,” and perchance, out
of her sympathy for him, something of affection might arise, and a life
of quiet happiness be gained for her as well as for his cousin.
“Paul, I have something of importance to communicate to you,” he said,
coming to the point at once.
“Say on, then; are you in trouble? Can I do anything for you?” Mr.
Tressalia asked, with an anxious glance into the worn face.
“No, there is nothing that you or any one else can do for me; it is to
give you a chance in the race after happiness that I come to you,” Earle
answered, with something of bitterness in his tone.
“I do not understand you,” he returned, a flush rising to his cheek.
“Do you still love Editha Dalton?” Earle asked, setting his teeth to
keep back a rebellious groan.
“Do you need to ask me that question?” Paul Tressalia, returned,
reproachfully, his face suddenly paling now. “I must always love her.”
“Then go and win her if you can; the way is open; there is nothing to
hinder you,” Earle said, wiping the cold sweat from his face.
His cousin looked at him in blank astonishment, wondering if he was
losing his mind that he should make such a statement as that, or if it
was some lover’s quarrel that had driven Earle home in such despair.
Earle, without waiting for a reply, proceeded to relate to him the story
of Editha’s relationship to himself.
“It is killing me,” he said, when he had finished. “I rebel every day
against the cruel fate that has separated us, for I love her only as a
man can love the woman who should be his wife, and shall love her thus
until I die. You love her, also; and perhaps, if you can win her, you
both may yet know much of domestic peace. If I cannot conquer my sinful
heart I may die, and you will then regain what you have lost, while
Editha will, after all, be mistress of Wycliffe.”
“Earle, do not speak thus,” Mr. Tressalia said, with deep emotion, for
the wild bitterness and misery of his cousin grieved him. “I was glad to
relinquish Wycliffe to you when I knew that it rightly belonged to you.
I do not covet it, and I would not have matters in this respect other
than as they are. I hope, too, that you may live to see a lusty heir
growing up to take it after you. But this is a strange story you have
told me—Editha your half-sister! Mr. Dalton your father!”
“Yes, it is even so, though I would gladly give every acre of my
inheritance to have it proved otherwise.”
“You must resemble your mother’s family alone, then, and she her mother,
for there is not a single point of resemblance between you to testify to
any such relationship.”
“I do not know as to that. I only know that the _facts exist_ to prove
it,” Earle said, dejectedly.
“Poor child! she loved you so devotedly, she was so proud of you, and
she must have suffered also. I would that I could give you both back
your lost happiness. Is it not strange that only out of the ruin of
either your hopes or mine happiness can come to either of us?” Mr.
Tressalia said, regretfully.
“It is ruined whether you win or not, and yet I go on sinning day after
day, loving her as madly as ever,” Earle cried, clenching his hands in
his pain. “Go, go,” he added; “when she is once your wife, I may be able
to gain something of peace, or the semblance of it.”
Paul Tressalia needed no second bidding, though it must be confessed he
was not elated by any very strong hope of success.
His heart told him that if Editha loved with the same intensity as
Earle, it would be as enduring as eternity, and he could never hope to
win her as his wife.
Still he could not rest content until he had once more put his fate to
the test, and, with a tender though sad parting from his noble-hearted
kinsman, he once more crossed the broad Atlantic.
He reached Newport in the height of its gayety, and was enthusiastically
welcomed by his old acquaintances.
To his surprise Mr. Dalton received him with great coolness, surmising
at once the errand upon which he had come.
He had discovered, if others had not, that Paul Tressalia was no longer
“heir to great expectations,” and he was not at all anxious now either
that Editha should marry.
She was ill, failing daily and hourly, as every one could see, and many
predicted a rapid decline and an early death unless some change for the
better occurred soon.
Mr. Dalton shook his head sadly and sighed heavily, as a fond and
anxious parent should do, whenever interviewed upon the subject, but
secretly he was calculating his chances of falling heir to her snug
fortune.
“She is my daughter,” he would say to himself, rubbing his hands
together in that peculiar way he had. “If she dies unmarried and without
a will—and I don’t think she has thought of such a thing as that—of
course, being her nearest blood relation, I shall inherit;” and he
always ended these confidential cogitations with a chuckle, accompanied
by a look of infinite cunning.
So it will be readily seen that Mr. Dalton had no idea of encouraging
Mr. Tressalia as a suitor, especially as he could no longer offer her
any peculiar advantages.
But that young man was shocked at the change in the fair girl. The
laughing eyes were sad and lusterless now; the rounded cheeks had fallen
away, leaving great hollows where before had been a delicate sea-shell
bloom; the scarlet lips, which had ever been wreathed in sunniest
smiles, wore a mournful droop, and were sad, blue, and drawn with pain.
She greeted him, however, with more than her accustomed cordiality, and
listened eagerly while he told her all about Earle and the magnificent
inheritance that had fallen to him. Any one who could tell her aught
concerning her dear one was doubly welcome.
She was never weary of hearing about Wycliffe, and all the noble
ancestors of the noble house of Vance. She took a strange, sad pleasure
in the mournful history of the unfortunate Marion, and Paul Tressalia,
seeing it, gratified her as far as he was able, though he could but
realize that he was making no progress in her affections.
“I am afraid Newport does not agree with you, Miss Dalton,” he remarked
one day, as he came upon her sitting listless and dejected under a tree
near the sea-shore, her eyes fixed dreamily upon the restless waves, a
look of pain contracting her fair forehead.
“I do not enjoy Newport,” she said, with a sigh; “at least the gay hurry
and bustle that we are constantly in.”
“Then why not go to some more quiet place? Why not go to some farm among
the mountains, where the air is drier and purer? I do not like to see
you looking so ill,” he returned, with visible anxiety.
“Papa is not content unless he can be where there is considerable
excitement,” she answered, wearily; “and I don’t know as it matters
much,” she added, with a far-away look.
“It does matter,” Paul Tressalia burst forth, indignantly; “if this air
is too heavy and bracing for you, you should not be allowed to remain
here another day. Do you not see that your health is failing? You are
weaker and thinner even than when I came, a week ago.”
She smiled faintly, and, lifting her thin hand, held it up between her
eyes and the sun.
It shone almost transparent, while every bone, vein, and cord could be
distinctly traced.
With a little sign she let it drop again into her lap, and, turning to
her companion, said, with a grave, thoughtful look on her face:
“I wonder what the spiritual body will be like?”
“Miss Dalton—Editha, what made you think of that?” he asked, startled by
her words, yet knowing very well what had made her think of it—that
little hand had more of a spiritual than a material look about it.
“One cannot help thinking of it when the physical body is so frail and
so easily destroyed. When one is putting off the mortal, one naturally
is curious to know what the immortal is like;” and she spoke as calmly
as if she were merely talking of changing a dress.
“Editha, you are not—you do not think you are so ill as that?” he cried,
almost awe-stricken.
“Yes, I hope so; what have I to live for now?” she asked, turning her
sad eyes upon him, and his heart sank in despair within him. “You know
all my trouble,” she added, a moment after; “you know how all my hopes
were crushed. I am, as I might say, entirely alone in the world; I have
hardly a friend on whom to depend, no one to comfort and cheer me, and I
have no right even to the name I bear. Do you think that life holds out
very much that is pleasant to me? I am young to die, and I cannot say
that I do not dread the thought of being laid away and forgotten, and
yet I know it would cure my pain—there _is_ no pain beyond, you know. If
I had anything to do, if I might be of any comfort or use to _any_ one,
if I had even _one_ friend who needed me, I should feel differently.”
The sadness and hopelessness of her tone and words almost made him weep
in spite of his manhood.
He threw himself down upon the grass beside her, with a low cry.
“Editha, there _is_; _I_ need you; my heart has never ceased to cry out
for you; my life is miserable and aimless without you. Come to me and
comfort me, and let me try to win back the light in your eyes, the color
to your cheeks and lips, and nurse you back to health. I do not ask, I
do not _expect_, that you can learn to love me at once as you _have_
loved, but if you will only let me take care of you, give _me_ the right
to love _you_ all I wish, I do believe there may be something of peace
for you yet even in this world. But I _cannot_ see you die while you are
so young and bright. Be my wife, Editha, and let me take you away from
this noise and tumult where you can regain your health, and the world
will not seem so dark to you then.”
The young girl was seized with a violent trembling while he was
speaking; she shook and shivered with nervousness and excitement, as if
some icy blast from a snow-clad mountain had swept down upon her,
chilling her through.
A bright hectic flush tinged either cheek, and her eyes, no longer
listless, glowed with a brilliancy that was almost dazzling. Never while
in perfect health had Paul Tressalia seen her so strangely beautiful as
she was at this moment, and yet it was with a beauty that made his heart
tremble with a terrible fear. With almost the impulse of a child, she
reached out both her hands to him as he ceased speaking.
But he knew instinctively that it was not a gesture of assent, though he
clasped them involuntarily, and started, to find how hot and feverish
they were.
“Mr. Tressalia,” she said, excitedly, “I know how true and noble you
are, and I know, too, that you love me with a deep, pure love. I know
that you would be very tender and indulgent to me, and never allow me to
know a sorrow that you could shield me from. But I cannot be your wife—I
cannot be anybody’s wife—and I should only add sin to sin if I should
grant your request, for I can never for a moment cease to love Earle in
a way that I should not. It is that that is eating my life away—let me
confess it to you, and perhaps it will help me to bear it better. I know
that I ought to trample upon every tendril of affection that is reaching
out after him, but I cannot; my love is stronger than I, and this
constant inward warfare is fast wearing me out. Oh, if you would simply
be my friend, and let me talk to you freely like this, and never speak
to me of love again, it would be such a comfort to me.”
She paused a moment for breath, and then continued:
“I can trust you; I have confidence in you as I have in no other in this
land. Mr. Tressalia, _will_ you be my friend, strong and true, and _only
that_, for the time that I, may need you?”
There was intense yearning in her look and tone. She did need just such
a friend, strong and protecting, as he would be, if he could have the
strength to endure it.
She could not trust her father; her heart had recoiled from him ever
since that day when so much of his evil nature had been revealed to her,
and she had no one in whom to confide.
Day and night her busy, excited brain went over all the horror of that
last interview with Earle, and day and night she constantly fought the
obstinate love in her heart.
It was, as she had said, wearing her life away, and if she could but
have some one in whom she could confide, it would be a comfort to her.
But could he stay in her presence, receive her confidences, hear her
daily talk of Earle and her blighted hopes, and make no sign of his own
sorrow and bitter disappointment?
“Be her friend, strong and true, and _only that_!”
The words were like the knell of doom to him; but she needed him. If she
could relieve her heart of something of its burden, health might return
and her life be saved. Was not his duty clear?
“And _never_ anything more?” was his last appeal, as he held her hot,
trembling hands and looked into her glittering eyes.
“And never anything more,” she repeated, after him. “It _cannot_
be—_will_ you not believe it?” and he knew that so it _must_ be.
Back, back into his aching, almost bursting heart he crushed his great
love, with every rebellious thought, and all the hopes that had begun to
bud anew.
He would do _anything_ so that she need not die; he would “trample upon
every tendril of affection reaching out after her,” as she had said
regarding her love for Earle, and become only the true and faithful
friend, if by so doing he could comfort and perchance save her.
Something of the struggle that this resolve cost him could be traced in
the pale but resolute face, and in his quivering lips.
“Editha,” he said, solemnly, as if recording a vow, and still clasping
those small hands, “it shall be as you wish; I will never utter another
word of love to you; I will be your steadfast friend.”
“Oh, thank you!” and, like a weary, grieved child who has restrained its
sobs until it could reach the safe and tender shelter of its mother’s
arms, she dropped her head upon his shoulder and burst into nervous
weeping.
He did not move, he did not speak one word to stay her tears, for he
knew that they were like the refreshing rain upon the parched and
sun-baked earth, and she would be lighter of heart and freer from pain
for their flow.
But who shall describe the feelings of his own tried heart as he knelt
there with that golden head resting so near it, and from which, for her
sake, he had resolved to crush relentlessly every hope for the future?