A NEW CHARACTER
From that day Paul Tressalia put every thought of self aside, and
devoted himself in delicate, tireless efforts to interest and amuse the
frail girl who had such entire confidence and faith in him.
His own heart would have prompted him to go away from all sight and
sound of her, but he had promised that he would be her “steadfast
friend.” There was no particular necessity of his returning to England
at present, and, if he could do this unhappy girl any good, he resolved
to stay and comfort her until she should need him no longer.
Little by little he drew her away from her own sad thoughts—at least
during the day; he could not, of course, know how she spent her nights,
whether in refreshing sleep or in sad and morbid brooding.
He took her on long, delightful drives to places where, with a dainty
little lunch and a tempting book, they would spend a few quiet hours,
and then return, just weary enough to make a rest in a comfortable
corner of the broad piazza the most enjoyable thing in the world, while
he talked of a hundred entertaining things in the twilight.
By and by he ventured to invite two or three entertaining people to go
with them, and such charming little picnics and excursions as they made!
They were quiet but cultivated people, and deeply interested in the
fading girl, and they exerted themselves in an unobtrusive way to
minister to her amusement.
Almost unconsciously Editha was beguiled from her melancholy; little by
little the look of tense agony faded from her face; her eyes lost their
heavy, despairing look; something of animation and interest replaced her
listless, preoccupied manner, and an occasional smile—albeit it was a
mournful one—parted her sweet lips, which gradually began to regain
something of their original color.
Mr. Tressalia was very wise in all his maneuvers; everything he did was
done without any apparent effort, everything moved along smoothly and
naturally, and, if any one joined the party, it was brought about so
quietly as to seem almost a matter of course.
Her failing appetite he managed as adroitly as he did her wonderful
heart; every day some tempting little bit would find its way to her
room—where, owing to her health, she took her meals—just at dinner-time.
It was never much at a time, just enough, and served so attractively as
to make her taste, and tasting was followed by a desire to eat the
whole, and then she involuntarily found herself wishing he had sent a
little more.
In this way she was not surfeited with anything, but a natural craving
for food was gradually created, until she found herself able to eat
quite a respectable meal.
One day they went, as they often did, to Truro Park. Mr. Tressalia had
found a cozy, retired rock, where they could sit, and talk, and read
without fear of being disturbed, and see without being seen.
The day was delightful, and had tempted many people abroad, and the park
was filled with gay visitors.
Editha, reclining on a soft shawl which Mr. Tressalia had spread over a
moss-covered rock, was the picture of comfort as she listened to her
companion’s rich voice as he read from a new and interesting book, while
her face involuntarily lighted as she caught the sound of merry laughter
and children’s happy voices in the distance.
She found herself wondering if she could be the same miserable creature
that she had been three weeks before.
A feeling of peace was stealing over her, a sense of care and protection
surrounded her, and she knew that health and strength were gradually
returning to her.
Her heart was still wounded and sore—it could not be otherwise; but
there was not quite the intolerable burden crushing her that there had
been before the coming of her kind friend.
Mr. Tressalia closed his book at last, and a look of satisfaction stole
into his eye as he marked her look of interest, and the faint tinge of
color that for the first time he saw in her cheek.
He drew from his pocket a silver fruit-knife, and, reaching for a tiny
basket that he had brought with him, but had kept tantalizingly covered
all the time, he exposed to view two of the largest and most luscious
peaches imaginable.
“Now, when you have eaten one of these as an appetizer, we will return
for our dinner,” he said, with a smile, as he deftly extracted the stone
from the crimson and yellow fruit, and, placing the two halves on a
large grape-leaf, laid it in her lap.
“It is too beautiful to eat,” Editha said, viewing it with admiring
eyes; but she disposed of it with evident relish, nevertheless.
The other was prepared in the same way, and ready for her as the last
mouthful disappeared, but she demurred.
“You have not had your share,” she said, smiling.
“You are my patient, remember, and I shall prescribe for you as I judge
best; but if you feel very sensitive about it, I will share with you
this time;” and, while he ate one-half, he watched the other disappear
with intense satisfaction.
Editha could not fail to improve if her appetite could be coaxed back in
this way.
They arose to return to their hotel, and, as they left their cozy
retreat, they saw approaching them a lady leaning upon the arm of a
gentleman.
They were both distinguished looking, and instantly attracted the
attention of Editha and her attendant.
As they drew nearer, Mr. Tressalia started and uttered a low
exclamation; the next instant he smiled, lifted his hat with a low bow,
and, returning his salutation, they passed on.
Mr. Tressalia would have stopped and greeted them, but he knew how shy
Editha was of strangers in her weak state, and he did not deem it best.
Editha, in her one passing glance, had instantly been attracted by the
tall, queenly woman, who might perhaps have been about forty-two or
three years of age.
Her face was fair, and sweet, and beautiful as a picture, and was
surrounded by soft, waving chestnut hair.
Her eyes were large and blue, but rather mournful in expression, while
there was a grieved droop about the full, handsome mouth.
Her companion was a middle-aged gentleman, though somewhat older than
the lady, and, from their resemblance to each other, Editha judged them
to be brother and sister.
“There goes a woman with a history, and a sad one, too,” Mr. Tressalia
remarked, when they were beyond hearing.
Editha sighed and wondered how many women there were in the world who
had sad histories, but she only said:
“They are acquaintances of yours, then?”
“Yes; the lady is called Madam Sylvester, though I have been told that
it is not her real name, being her maiden name, resumed after some
unpleasantness connected with an unfortunate marriage. I met her in
Paris two winters ago, and I think I never saw a more charming woman of
her age in my life.”
“She is certainly very pleasant to look at, though she shows that she
has known sorrow of some kind,” Editha said, thoughtfully.
“Would you like to know her history—at least as much of it as I am able
to tell you? It is quite interesting.”
“Yes, if you please.”
“Report says that when quite young she fell in love with her own cousin
and became engaged to him. This was a secret between them, since the
lover was not in a position to marry. He went to sea to seek his
fortune, as the story goes, and not long after was reported lost. Miss
Sylvester, to hide her grief, immediately plunged into all sorts of
gayety and dissipation, and only a few months after her lover’s death
met a young American, who was instantly attracted by her great beauty.
He soon made her an offer of marriage, and, after a very short
courtship, they were married. A year later the former lover suddenly
turned up—he was not lost, though had been nearly drowned, and afterward
lay a long time in a fever. The young wife, in her joy at seeing him
once more, thoughtlessly betrayed her love for him, which even then was
not dead. The husband grew furious and unreasonably jealous, charged her
with wilfully deceiving him, and a hot and angry scene followed. The
next day the wife was missing—‘she had fled,’ those who knew anything of
the circumstances said, ‘with her early lover.’ She returned almost
immediately, however, humbled and repentant; but her husband denounced
her, although she swore that she had committed no wrong. He returned to
America; she hid herself broken-hearted for awhile, but finally sought
her brother, whom she convinced of her chastity, since which time,
having no other friends, they have seemed to live for each other. She
would never consent to be called by her husband’s name after that—though
I never heard what that was—but took her maiden name. She is a wonderful
woman, however; her life has been devoted to doing good; she is chastity
itself, and is beloved by everybody who knows her, while her sympathy
for the erring is boundless. That is an outline of her history, or as
much as I know of it; but I believe there are some self-righteous people
who shun her on account of what they term her ‘early sin,’ but the
majority revere her, while I must confess to a feeling of great
admiration for her.”
“What became of the young lover with whom it was supposed she fled?”
Editha asked, deeply interested in the sad tale.
“I do not know—I never heard. Madam never speaks of her past, and that
is a mystery to the curious.”
“I should like to know her,” Editha said, feeling strangely drawn toward
one who, like herself, had suffered so much.
“Would you? That is easily managed. I will ascertain where she is
stopping, call upon her, and, as her heart is always touched for the
sick, I know she will gladly come and see you,” Mr. Tressalia said,
eagerly, exceedingly pleased to have Editha manifest so much interest in
his friend.
“Thank you. I should like it if she would; her history is very sad, and
her face attracts me strangely,” she replied.
Three days afterwards they were in the Redwood Library, examining some
of the valuable manuscripts on exhibition there, when Madam Sylvester
and her brother entered.
Mr. Tressalia had tried to ascertain where they were stopping, but, to
his great disappointment, he had failed to do so.
He now went forward at once to greet them, and they seemed very much
pleased to renew their acquaintance with him.
After chatting a few moments, he brought Editha to madam and introduced
her.
She studied the sweet face for a moment, then her faultlessly gloved
hand closed over Editha’s fingers in a strong yet tender clasp of
sympathy and friendliness.
She had read in the pale, sorrow-lined face a grief kindred to what she,
too, had suffered in the past.
“You are not well, my dear,” she said, with a wistful look into the sad
blue eyes, still keeping her hand closely clasped in hers.
“Miss Dalton has not been well, but we hope she is on the gain a little
now. Have you seen the new piece of statuary that was brought in
yesterday?” Mr. Tressalia asked, to draw her attention from Editha.
She was quite sensitive about having her illness remarked by strangers,
and the color was now creeping with painful heat into her cheeks.
Madam took the hint at once, and turned to look at the new statue, and
for a while kept up a spirited conversation with Mr. Tressalia about the
objects of general interest in Newport.
But ever and anon her eyes sought the fair face bending with curious
interest over the manuscripts with a look of pity and tenderness that
told she was deeply interested in the frail-looking stranger.
“Who is she? Some one in whom you are _particularly_ interested?” she
asked, with the privilege of an old friend, as she drew Paul still
farther away, ostensibly to look at some pictures.
He started, and his noble face was clouded with pain as he answered:
“Yes, I am particularly interested in her, but not in the way you mean,
for her heart belongs to another.”
“Ah! I thought from appearances that she belonged, or would some day,
belong to you,” returned madam, with a keen look into his handsome face.
“No,” he said, gravely; “I am simply her friend. She has recently met
with a great sorrow.”
“I knew it,” madam replied, with a soft glance at Editha, and a slight
trembling of her lips. “Has the dear child a mother?”
“No; her mother died some years ago. She has no relatives living
excepting her father, and he is not in sympathy with her.”
“Ah! how I would like to comfort her. Come and see me this evening, and
tell me more about her. I am strangely attracted toward her.”
Paul Tressalia promised, and then they went back to Editha. Madam
monopolized her, while he entertained her brother, and it was not long
before the fair girl’s heart was completely won by the beautiful and
tender-hearted woman.
Madam Sylvester was remarkable for her tact and great versatility of
talents, not the least of which was her charming manner in conversation.
She could be grave or gay, witty or learned, and fascinating in any
role.
Paul Tressalia regarded her in surprise while she talked with Editha,
drawing her from one subject to another, until she made her forget that
there was such a person in the world as poor, heart-broken Editha
Dalton.
She won the smiles back to her lips, drove the lines of care and trouble
from her brow, and once, as she related some droll incident that had
occurred on the steamer in which she came over, made her laugh aloud—the
old-timed, clear, sweet laugh, that made Paul’s heart thrill with
delight.
“Miss Dalton, I am coming to see you. I am a dear lover of young
people,” she said, as they began to talk of going.
“Do; I shall be delighted,” Editha said, with a sudden lighting of her
sad eyes.
“I am a stranger here in Newport, never having been in this country
before,” madam continued. “I wish you and Mr. Tressalia would take pity
upon me, and give me the benefit of your familiarity with the objects of
interest here.”
Editha unhesitatingly promised, not even suspecting that this request
was made more for her own sake than for the beautiful stranger’s; and
then they all left the library together.
As they were about entering their carriage, Mr. Dalton drove by in his
sporting sulky.
He bowed to Editha, and then bestowed a passing glance upon her new
acquaintances.
That glance made him start and bestow a more searching look upon Madam
Sylvester; then he grew a sudden and deep crimson, while a look of great
anxiety settled on his face.
He turned and looked back again after he had driven by.
“There can be but one face like that in the world. I must look into
this,” he muttered, uneasily.
“Who was that lady and gentleman with whom I saw you to-day at the
Redwood Library?” he asked of Editha that evening.
“A Mrs. Sylvester and her brother,” she replied.
“_Mrs. Sylvester!_” repeated Mr. Dalton, with a slight emphasis on the
title.
“Mr. Tressalia introduced her as Madam Sylvester. Do you know anything
about her?” she asked, looking up in surprise.
“Ah! Mr. Tressalia knows her, then? Where is she from?” he returned,
thoughtfully, and not heeding her question.
“From Paris, France; they are French people, and extremely agreeable.”
Mr. Dalton’s face lost something of its habitual glow at this
information, and he appeared ill at ease.
“Um! strangers, then, here. Does Tressalia know them intimately?” and he
shot a searching, anxious glance at his daughter.
“Yes; he was telling me something of madam’s history a day or two ago.”
“What! have they been here any length of time?” interrupted Mr. Dalton,
with a frown.
“Less than a week, I believe.”
“Yes, yes; go on with what you were going to tell me,” he again
interrupted, impatiently.
“He said madam had seen a great deal of trouble—there was some
misunderstanding between herself and husband, who, by the way, was an
American, which resulted in their separation after they had been married
only a year. But she appears like a very lovely woman to me,” Editha
replied, with a dreary look, as she remembered how she had been drawn
toward the beautiful stranger.
Mr. Dalton watched her keenly out of the corners of his eyes; he was
exceedingly moved and nervous about something; the corners of his mouth
twitched convulsively, while he kept clasping and unclasping his hands
in an excited way.
He paced the floor in silence for a few moments, then abruptly left the
room.
Half an hour after he returned, and, while pretending to look over the
newspaper, said:
“Editha, I’ve about concluded that I’d like a look at Saratoga; it is
just the height of the season now; everything will be lovely, and
Newport is getting a little tame.”
“Tame, papa! Why, I thought there was no place like Newport to you!” she
exclaimed, in surprise.
“I know; Newport is a sort of summer home to me, and, of course, there
is no place like home; but, if you do not mind, I’d like a change for a
little while.”
“Cannot you go without me? I am very comfortable here,” Editha asked,
with a sigh.
She had no heart for gayety, and she was really happier just now there
at Newport—notwithstanding her assertion to Mr. Tressalia that she did
not enjoy Newport—than she had ever hoped to be again.
“No, indeed,” he returned, quickly and decidedly. “I could not think of
leaving you alone while you are so delicate; and besides, I cannot spare
you, Editha—you and I are rather alone in this busy world.”
She looked up in surprise at him at this unusual remark. It was a very
rare occurrence for him to address her in such an affectionate manner.
It almost seemed to her, with the distrust she had lately had of him,
that there was some sinister motive prompting this sudden change; but
she stifled the feeling, and answered:
“Very well, I will go to Saratoga if you like. When do you wish to
start?”
“To-morrow, if you can arrange it,” Mr. Dalton replied, the cloud
lifting from his face.
“Yes, I can arrange it;” but she sighed as she said it, for she was
really beginning to wake up to a little life, and she dreaded any
change.
She had been so calmly content since she had come to a definite
understanding with Mr. Tressalia, and she wondered, with a feeling of
sadness stealing over her, what she should do without her tireless
friend.
She had grown to depend upon him for amusement; besides, he heard
regularly from Earle, and though she did not dare acknowledge it even to
her own heart, yet those letters from over the sea were the great events
of the week to her.
She was sorry to go away without becoming more intimately acquainted
with Madam Sylvester, for she had been strangely drawn toward her,
thinking almost constantly of her and her charming ways ever since her
introduction to her. All during the evening she kept hoping that Mr.
Tressalia would drop in, that she might tell him of the change in their
plans, half wishing that he would join himself to their party and
accompany them.
But he was spending the evening with Madam Sylvester, and meant to see
Editha as early as possible the next morning.
But in this he was disappointed, for a gentleman friend sought him to
give his advice upon the merits of a horse that he was contemplating
buying, and before the bargain was completed Editha was gone, without
even a word of good-by.