AT SARATOGA
Madam Sylvester went to the White Mountains with her party, as she had
planned to do, while Mr. Dalton, congratulating himself upon the success
of his maneuver—the reason for which he supposed no one but himself knew
anything about—was enjoying the brilliant society at Saratoga to the
full.
“I flatter myself that I have played my little game very nicely,” he
said many times to himself, when thinking of their hasty flitting from
Newport; and those soft white hands of his were rubbed together in the
most approving manner, accompanied by a most approving chuckle.
He insisted now that Editha was well enough to join in the gayeties of
the place and accompany him to the different places of amusement and
pleasure.
She would have preferred the solitude of her own room or to be allowed
to roam quietly by herself in the different parks during the morning,
when there were few abroad; but he persisted, and, thinking it could not
matter much what she did, she yielded for the sake of peace, although
she did not really feel able to bear the excitement as yet.
The result was highly gratifying to Mr. Dalton, for Editha at once
became a star of no small magnitude. Her delicate, almost ethereal
beauty instantly attracted a crowd of admirers. She was “new,” and after
an entirely different pattern from most of the fashionable belles who
frequented the place, which, together with the fact of her being an
heiress, was considered sufficient cause for any amount of admiration
and homage being paid her. And so she was whirled into the vortex of
fashionable life. The days were turned into night, night into day, and
all the quiet which she had so enjoyed at Newport into an endless round
of excitement.
One evening there was to be a garden-party—“the most brilliant affair of
the season,” according to the flaming announcement.
Editha did not want to go.
“I am tired out now, papa, besides having no heart for anything of the
kind,” she said, wearily, when Mr. Dalton began to talk of the details
of her dress, about which he was very particular for a man.
“Pshaw!” he returned, impatiently; “you have been moping yourself to
death, and need waking up. This is to be the finest occasion of the
season, I am told, and I shall take no pleasure in it unless I can have
you with me.”
It was not Editha that he particularly wanted for the sake of the
pleasure he would take in her society, but a handsomely dressed lady by
his side, to be admired, and to help him pass the time agreeably.
Of course Editha yielded rather than to have any words about it, and
gave her attention, with what interest she could command, to the
wearisome business of preparation.
When the night arrived, and she appeared before her father in the finest
of black Brussels net, embroidered in rich golden-hearted daisies, and
gracefully looped over rose-colored silk, from which here and there
flashed superb ornaments of diamonds, and above which her delicate face
rose like some pure, clear-cut cameo, Mr. Dalton was for a moment
speechless with admiration, and Editha really felt paid for the effort
she had made.
“Editha,” exclaimed her father, when he at last found his voice, “there
will be no one so beautiful as yourself in the park to-night. I shall
have the honor of escorting the fairest woman in Saratoga.”
“Thank you, papa. I never heard you compliment any one like that
before,” laughed Editha, surprised at his enthusiasm, and never
realizing how exceedingly lovely she was.
“I never had occasion, I can assure you,” he answered, as his eyes
lingered proudly upon her graceful form.
Editha was not one of those variable young ladies who adopt every new
fashion for dressing the hair, whether it is becoming or not.
Her hair to-night, as always, was worn in plaited bands of satin
smoothness, and coiled around her shapely head, its only ornament a
small cluster of daisies fastened on one side with a diamond aigrette.
Tiny daisies, in the center of whose golden heart there glittered a
diamond like a drop of dew, hung in her ears, while on her arms of
Parian whiteness were bracelets to match.
It would indeed be impossible to imagine a fairer vision or a more
unique and attractive costume among the hundreds that would assemble
that evening.
The weather was perfect, and the decorations of the park were very
elaborate and elegant. Flags hung gracefully canopied over the entrance
like curtains, and festooned along the fanciful frame-work.
Light frames of stars, triangles, hearts, shields, and many other
devices, were fastened everywhere among the trees to support the
transparent lanterns of almost magical beauty. The electric light
flooded the whole scene with almost the brightness of day, and made the
place seem as if touched by the wand of an enchanter.
The finest dressing of the season graced this party, and, as some one
has said, “it did not require a great stretch of the imagination to
convert the passing throng into elves and fairies, their raiment
appearing to have been woven with the gossamer threads of the cobwebs,
and out of the butterflies’ wings, as if the dew of the morning, the
mist of the moon, the dew-drops gathered from the calyx of the lily, had
all been collected and laid with homage at the feet of the ethereal
creatures who lead captive the sons of men.”
And that the fairest of them all was Editha Dalton seemed to be
generally admitted by both old and young.
Strangers, catching sight of that fair face rising above the
golden-hearted daisies, pointed her out, and asked who she was. Friends
and acquaintances crowded around to catch a word, a smile, a look even,
and wondering why they had never before realized how exquisitely lovely
she was.
Something of the beauty and excitement of the occasion seemed to animate
her. Her burden of sorrow for the time seemed to drop from her heart,
and she appeared to become a part of the brightness which surrounded
her, while she danced, chatted, and laughed much like the free-hearted,
blithesome Editha of old.
Many remarked it afterward, and declared that she must have been a
fairy, or elf, who, since they never saw her again, must have floated
away at some magic hour of the night at the stern decree of some uncanny
ogre. Nor were they far out of the way in their surmises.
The small hours were approaching, and the merriment was at its height.
Editha had been dancing with a friend of Mr. Dalton’s, and seemed to
enjoy it, as much as any one. She evidently liked her companion, for she
made herself very agreeable to him, while he more than once, by his wit
and sparkling repartee, had called the familiar silvery laughter from
her beautiful lips.
When the dance was through he led her to a quiet place to rest. He did
not leave her, but remained standing by her side, watching her
expressive face, as she in turn watched the passing throng, forgetful
for the time of all save the life and joy of the occasion.
Suddenly he saw her start. A flush leaped into her cheeks, a brighter
light to her eyes, as she arose and extended both hands to a gentleman
who was approaching.
“Mr. Tressalia! How glad I am! When did you arrive, and how did you find
me?” she asked, all in a breath.
“Thank you. I arrived on the late evening train, and I found you by the
power of intuition, I think,” he answered, laughing, as he glanced from
her to her companion, and heartily shook both hands.
Editha introduced the two gentlemen, and, after a few moments’
conversation, her former companion excused himself and went away with a
clouded brow, muttering something about the unexpected appearance of old
lovers.
Editha was really delighted to see her friend. She had missed him sadly,
and she was chatting away with him in the most social manner, asking all
sorts of questions about Newport and her friends, when Mr. Dalton all at
once came upon the scene.
He expressed no surprise at seeing Mr. Tressalia, but the frown upon his
brow testified to his displeasure, although he politely inquired
regarding his arrival.
“I came on with some old friends who were anxious to visit the
place—Madam Sylvester and her brother,” he answered.
Mr. Dalton started violently, and flushed hotly at this information, and
appeared all at once so nervous and strangely excited that Mr. Tressalia
regarded him with surprise.
“Madam Sylvester!” exclaimed Editha, joyously, and not noticing her
father’s agitation. “I am so glad. I liked her so much at Newport. I
shall be glad to extend our acquaintance.”
“Your pleasure is reciprocated, I can assure you, for madam was equally
delighted with you,” Paul returned, with his eyes still on Mr. Dalton.
He had withdrawn a trifle within the shadow of a tree, and stood with
his head bent, looking down upon the ground, his face dark with anger,
while he worked his hands in a nervous way and gnawed his under lip.
“What in thunder ails the man, to make him look and act so strangely?”
the young man asked, within himself.
“Are madam and her brother here at the garden-party?” Editha asked.
“Yes; the fame of it reached us before we arrived, and you know the
electric light is visible for several miles before we reach Saratoga;
so, notwithstanding our weariness, we all thought we must come and take
a look at the enchanted place.”
“It is lovely, isn’t it?” she asked, her eyes roving in every direction
over the bright scene.
“Yes, indeed; I never saw anything like it before. Madam and her brother
went to the dancing pavilion to see if they could find you, but I
thought I should discover you in some quiet nook, as I have.”
Editha laughed, and the beautiful color rushed half guiltily to her
cheeks.
“You would not have thought so if you had come fifteen minutes earlier.
I think the music has bewildered me to-night for I have been dancing
with the merriest. But how does it happen that you are a visitor at
Saratoga?” she asked, to change the subject.
“Oh, after receiving your note telling me of your destination, Newport
lost its charms, and I felt in immediate need of medicinal spring
water,” he said, in a playful strain, delighted to find her so improved
and animated. “Madam Sylvester was affected in the same way,” he added.
“I expect that remarkable woman will be tempted to kidnap you and bear
you away to regions unknown before long, she has taken such a fancy to
you.”
“Just hear that, papa—fancy any one taking such a liking to me that they
would want to kidnap me. Why, what is the matter? Are you ill?” Editha
cried, as she turned toward her father, and was transfixed by one glance
into his face.
It was white as alabaster, and his eyes glowed like two coals of fire
with some violent inward emotion.
“No, no; not ill, but very tired. I think we ought to return at once to
our hotel, Editha,” he answered, with an evident effort to regain his
composure.
“I am sorry if you are tired, papa; I thought you were enjoying yourself
immensely. Sit down and rest in some quiet place, please. I really do
not like to return just yet.”
“But you are not strong; I fear the dampness will do you injury,” Mr.
Dalton said, anxious to get her away at once, and never having given a
thought to the dampness until that moment.
“I am very warm and comfortable; indeed I thought the air remarkably
clear and dry to-night,” Editha said, without moving.
“Really, Editha, I think I must insist——”
“Please don’t insist upon anything, papa,” returned the girl, wilfully;
“if you are so weary, go _you_ back to the Grand Union, and Mr.
Tressalia will bring me by and by.”
She was determined that she would not be walked off thus summarily like
a little girl in petticoats, and Mr. Dalton had to beat a retreat.
“I think I will go for a smoke, then,” he said, as he turned and walked
abruptly away.
Paul Tressalia wondered what it all meant.
The man had betrayed his great agitation only upon the mention of Madam
Sylvester’s name.
Did he know her, and if so was there enmity between them? Was that the
reason of his sudden flight from Newport?
His manner was certainly very strange, and he had evidently intended to
get Editha away before any meeting occurred between her and madam, but
he could not very well urge the matter any further without betraying
himself, and so he had walked away in no enviable frame of mind.
Editha watched him curiously until he passed from sight, then turning to
her companion, she said:
“I do not believe papa is feeling very well; perhaps I ought to have
gone.”
“Shall I take you to him?” Paul asked, considerately.
“Not just yet. I would like to see Madam Sylvester a moment, if we can
find her; but first tell me”—and the beautiful face instantly lost all
its lovely color—“have you heard again from—from—Earle?”
“Yes; I had a letter day before yesterday, and he is not very well, he
writes; the doctor does not think the climate exactly agrees with him,”
Mr. Tressalia answered, his own face growing grave as he saw the
brightness die out of hers.
Editha sighed, and the old grieved look returned to her lips.
“Would you like to read his letter? I have it with me,” he asked,
considerately.
“No, no; I could not do that. Tell me, please, what you like about him;
but I cannot quite bear to read his own words just yet,” she said, with
unutterable sadness.
“My poor little friend, your lot is a hard one,” he said, softly.
“Don’t pity me, please—life is hard enough for us all, I think,” she
returned, quickly and bitterly.
“Earle thinks he will have to have a change as soon as he can get away,”
Mr. Tressalia continued, “and asks if I will resume the charge of
Wycliffe for him. Shall I tell you all that he says about it?”
“Yes, yes; go on,” the poor girl said, eagerly, though every word was
fresh torture to her.
“He says he cannot live longer away from you, Editha; it is killing him,
and he _must_ come where he can see you once in awhile. He writes, ‘Ask
her if I may. I will say nothing that shall wound her. I will be firm
and strong; but, oh! I am so homesick for a look into her eyes, for a
clasp of her hand. Ask her, Paul, if I may come.’”
“No, _no_, NO!” burst in a low, frightened tone from the girl’s lips.
“He must not come. Write to him instantly and tell him so. Mr.
Tressalia, I could not bear that of all things in the world. I will not
see him. He must not come. I will hide from him. Oh! why must I suffer
so?”
The words ended in a low, heart-broken sob. She had clasped both hands
convulsively around her companion’s arm in her excitement, and was now
shivering and trembling so that he was greatly alarmed.
The brightness and exceeding beauty that had been hers when he first saw
her had only been the result of a momentary excitement after all.
He had flattered himself that she was really better and stronger, both
in body and spirit, but now he saw that her poor heart was just as sore
and wounded as ever, and that her fatal love was still eating at her
vitals.
Earle, he knew from the letter he had so lately received, was suffering
in the same way, and what these poor tried ones were to do all their
future was a sore trouble to him.
“Be calm, dear child,” he said, in low, quiet tones. “Earle shall do
just as you wish. Come and walk with me until your nerves are a little
more steady.”
He unclasped those locked fingers from his arm, and drawing one hand
within it, led her away into a retired path, and talked gravely of other
things, until he saw the wild look fade from her eyes, the hand on his
arm grow quiet, and knew that her intense excitement was gradually
subsiding.
But it hurt him deeply to hear every few minutes a deep, shuddering,
sobbing sigh come from her pale lips—something as a child breathes after
it has exhausted itself with weeping and fallen asleep.
He would gladly have restored happiness both to Earle and her if he
could have done so, even to the sacrificing of his own life, but he
could not—each must bear his own burden. It seemed as if they had been
beset on every hand with troubles during the past few years, fulfilling
those words of Shakespeare’s:
“When sorrows come, they come not single spies,
But in battalions.”
“Earle has had an adventure. Shall I tell you about it?” he asked, when
at length she had apparently grown quite calm, and intuitively knowing
that she would like to hear more.
“If you please.”
“There has been an attempt made to rob Wycliffe, and but for his
calmness and bravery great mischief would have been done.”
“Ah! he was always brave; but—but I hope he was not injured,” Editha
cried, a feeling of faintness stealing over her.
“Bless you, no; else he would not now be talking of a change. He not
only prevented a robbery and protected himself, but he has captured the
robber.”
“I am sure that is good news,” she said, now deeply interested.
“And, Editha, who do you suppose the robber proved to be?”
“I am sure I cannot imagine; and yet you—you cannot mean——”
“Yes, I do mean it,” he answered, reading her thought. “It was no other
than that wretch who robbed your father’s house several years ago, and
for whom Earle suffered the penalty. It was _Tom Drake_, that man whom
you met after your visit to John Loker’s, and who afterwards entered
your house the second time and compelled you by his mesmeric power to go
away with him.”
Editha shuddered, and yet she could hardly believe her ears. She had
always been afraid of meeting that dreadful man again, and now to know
that he was away in England and a captive, was a great relief to her.
“It does not seem possible,” she said.
“It is righteous judgment that he should at last be taken by the very
one who unjustly served out the sentence that ought to have been
pronounced upon him threefold,” was the stern reply.
“Tell me how it happened, please—that is, if you know?”
“Yes; Earle wrote me a good deal about it. It seems that the fellow did
not deem the United States a safe place for him after John Loker’s
confession was made public—the description of himself was too accurate
for that—so he fled to England, and has undoubtedly been carrying on his
nefarious operations there ever since. About a month after I left
Wycliffe, Earle was awakened one night by the sound as of some one
stepping cautiously around in his dressing-room. His revolver was in
reach, and he instantly secured it. The next moment a man passed into
his room. It was not a very dark night, and as the robber glided between
the bed and the window his figure was clearly outlined, and Earle,
aiming low, fired at him. He fell with a groan. It was but the work of a
minute to strike a light and go to the prostrate man, who was too badly
wounded to make any resistance, and he found that his fallen foe was
none other than his and your enemy Tom Drake.
“What a strange adventure; and—Earle was in great danger,” Editha
whispered, with a deep-drawn breath.
“Yes; but the strangest of all is yet to come,” pursued Mr. Tressalia.
“Instead of giving the wretch up to the authorities, as any one else
would have done in spite of his fearful sufferings, he enjoined
strictest silence upon the servants, called in the old family physician
and swore him to secrecy, and is now nursing the wretch back to health
as tenderly as if he was his own brother.”
“This is just like Earle’s nobility—he is ‘a noble of nature’s own
creating!’” said Editha, admiringly; and her face glowed with pride for
this grand act of one whom she so fondly loved.
“Was the man very severely injured?” she asked, after a moment of
silence.
“Yes, in the thigh; he will probably be a cripple for life, Earle says.”
“How sad! What will be done with him when he recovers?”
“Earle did not write what his intentions were, but he will probably be
transported for life, where, with a ball and chain attached to him, you
will never need fear him any more.”
“Poor fellow! The English laws are more severe than our own, then,” she
said, with a sigh.
“If the laws of the United States were more stringent, and the penalties
for extreme cases more severe, your prisons would not be so full, and,
in my opinion, there would be less mischief done,” Mr. Tressalia
replied, thoughtfully.
At this moment some one spoke his name, and, turning, they saw Madam
Sylvester and her brother approaching.
Pleasant greetings were exchanged, and then they all sought seats at a
little distance near a fountain for a few moments’ conversation before
returning to their hotel.