CHAPTER XLV

SUMNER DALTON’S CONFESSION

The telegram was from Paul Tressalia, and extremely startling and

imperative in its nature.

“Mr. Dalton can live but a short time,” it said, “and begs continually

for you. Come at once. Editha also desires it.”

Earle was deeply excited by what he read.

George Sumner Dalton dying!—face to face at last with the terrible

messenger who, sooner or later, comes to summon all!

He was asking for _him_—longing for the son whom he had wronged and

hated all his life-long.

For the moment Earle’s heart rebelled at the thought of going to him;

for if he went, he felt he must be prepared to give him comfort in his

last hours; he must be ready to forgive everything—his own and his

mother’s wrongs, and be at peace with the man who was soon to stand

before the Supreme Judge to answer for his earthly career.

Could he do this in all sincerity?

He stood there in the grand hall of his ancestors, with bent head and

stern, corrugated brow, asking himself these questions over and over

again.

Then the words that he had spoken only a little while before to Tom

Drake came to his mind:

“Forgive, _as_ we are forgiven.”

It was as if Marion’s gentle spirit, hovering over him, had whispered

the words in his ear—as if from the realms of peace, where she dwelt,

she had brought him an olive branch to bear across the waters to the

erring, dying one.

“I will go,” he said, at last, a pitiful expression replacing the stern

look, a grave though kindly light beaming from his eyes. “I will go, and

God help me to go in the right spirit. Editha, too, desires it,” he

repeated, reading from the telegram, “and that of itself should make me

willing.”

And yet, much as he longed to see the beloved one once more, he felt as

if he could never endure a second parting from her. Then graver thoughts

presented themselves.

If Mr. Dalton should die, what would become of Editha?

She had not a friend in the world on whom to depend; would she feel that

she could now return with him and share his home?

The matter troubled him deeply, and yet he clearly felt that it would be

his duty henceforth to protect and care for her.

He went into the library and consulted the papers.

A steamer would sail the next day from London, and he decided that he

would go at once.

He might not be in time to see Mr. Dalton alive, but he would not delay;

he would do his best to grant his request, let the result be what it

might.

He disliked very much leaving Tom just at this time. He knew that he

depended upon him for encouragement, and would doubtless be very much

depressed, if not discouraged, if he went away for any length of time.

But it could not be helped, and the test might be beneficial. It would

at all events teach him self-reliance, and perhaps prove the man’s

sincerity better than in any other way.

He went at once to him, and said:

“Tom, I am very unexpectedly called away. I am sorry that it happened

just at this time, but it cannot be helped. Can you manage with only the

servants for company until your mother arrives?”

“Yes, sir; but will you be gone long?”

“I do not know how long; I cannot fix any definite time for my return,

as it depends upon others rather than on myself. You will be quite

lonely, and I am sorry on your account.”

“Never mind me, sir; but—I hope it’s no trouble on _my_ account,” and he

glanced anxiously at the telegram, which Earle still had in his hand.

“No—oh, no. I may tell you, I suppose—it is more trouble for Miss

Dalton; her father is dying, and they have sent for me,” Earle

explained.

“To the United States, sir!” Tom exclaimed, in dismay, and feeling as if

some strong support was slipping from under him.

“Yes, and I may have to be absent a month or two, perhaps longer but you

must try to make the best of it. Your mother will probably arrive by

to-morrow, and I would be glad if she could remain with you until I

return,” Earle said, thinking his mother’s influence, and love, and care

would be the best guardians he could possibly leave in his absence.

“Thank you, sir,” Tom answered, heartily then, after thinking a moment,

he added, wistfully: “I am getting strong and well so fast that I would

like to begin to do something, sir. If you could leave me some work I

should be glad, and the time would not seem so long.”

Earle thought a moment, and then asked:

“Are you good at accounts?”

“I used to be fair at them. I learned Comer’s method after I went to

America, thinking to make a business man of myself.”

“Then if you would take the trouble to straighten out some accounts that

got badly mixed during the last year of the old marquis’ life, it would

help me wonderfully.”

Tom’s face brightened at once.

“I should like it,” he said, eagerly; and Earle felt better at once

about leaving him, knowing that if he felt he was making himself useful,

he would be more contented.

The next day found him on board the Ethiopia, bound for New York, and

scarcely able to control his impatience, even though the noble steamer,

with favorable wind and weather, was plowing the pathless water with

unusual speed.

At the end of eight days he stood once more upon American soil, and an

hour or two later found him again ascending the steps of Mr. Dalton’s

residence.

His hand trembled as he pulled the bell, and his heart beat with heavy,

painful strokes, so many memories, both sweet and bitter, agitated him.

A servant let him quietly in, and an ominous stillness at once struck a

chill to his heart.

“Is Mr. Dalton living?” he asked.

“Yes, sir, but very low,” was the reply.

He led him to the same little reception-room where he had seen Editha on

that day before Christmas, and where she had given him that little bunch

of holly, and wished him, not the stereotyped “Merry Christmas,” but

“peace, good-will to men,” instead.

It came to him now, that sweet message, with strange vividness, and he

grew suddenly calm and solemn as he realized that he had indeed come

with “peace” in his heart, and “good-will” toward one who had been his

life-long enemy.

He gave his card to the servant, and then sat down to wait. Would Editha

come to greet him? he asked himself, and would he be able to meet her as

a brother should meet a sister?

Fifteen minutes elapsed, and then a door softly opened again. Earle

turned, his heart leaping to his throat, but it was not Editha.

He saw a strange but noble-looking woman coming toward him, and wondered

to see her there.

He bowed courteously, but she cordially extended her hand, as her eyes

sought his card, which the servant had given her, and upon which was

simply engraven the two names he had always borne. He made no display of

his title, nor of his new position.

“Mr. Wayne,” she said, “we hardly expected you to-day; but I am very

glad you have arrived. My name is Sylvester, and I am the only one at

liberty to come to you just now.”

Earle returned her greeting, wondering who Mrs. Sylvester could

be—certainly not the housekeeper, for her manner and bearing forbade him

to believe that she occupied that position; and he had heard Editha say

they had no near relatives living.

She might be some friend or neighbor come in to relieve her and share

her lonely vigils, he thought.

He inquired if Miss Dalton was well, and noticed that a queer little

smile wreathed the lady’s lips, as she replied:

“Editha is quite well, and is sleeping just now. Mr. Dalton had an

extremely distressing night, and she would persist in sitting up with

him until nearly morning. The poor darling has been unremitting in her

care, and is nearly worn out,” Mrs. Sylvester concluded, speaking with

great tenderness.

Earle then inquired concerning Mr. Dalton’s illness and its cause.

“That is a long, long story, and I will leave it for Editha to tell you

when she wakes, and you are rested. I will only say that it was brought

on by excessive excitement, during which he ruptured a blood vessel.”

Earle expressed great surprise at this, and madam continued:

“He recovered somewhat from the first attack of bleeding, and we were

hoping his recovery would be permanent, when he had another, since which

he has been rapidly failing. As soon as he became conscious that he

could not live, he seemed to be exceedingly troubled regarding some

injury which he had done you, and wished you sent for immediately. He

will be much relieved to know of your arrival, for he has been very

restless and anxious ever since Mr. Tressalia sent the telegram.”

“Is there no possible hope of his recovery?”

“No; there is not the slightest hope of that. The physician does not

think he can live many days. Now, if you will excuse me, I will go and

see if he feels able to see you, as he wished to be told the moment you

arrived,” madam concluded, rising, and with a graceful bow, left him

once more alone.

She had not been gone many minutes when a servant entered, bearing a

tray, on which was arranged a most tempting lunch.

“Madam directed this to be served,” explained the servant; and again

Earle wondered who this cultivated woman could be, who was evidently a

power in the house.

He partook of the lunch, however, with evident relish, for he was

hungry, having been too eager and excited to do justice to his breakfast

that morning.

Half an hour later madam returned, saying that Mr. Dalton was ready and

anxious to see him.

He arose and followed her to the sick man’s chamber, and almost

wondering if it could be true that he was about to stand at his own

father’s death-bed, and if ever before a son stood in such strange

relations toward a parent.

He was shocked at the change in Mr. Dalton.

Ghastly, wan, and panting with every breath, he lay bolstered up with

pillows, and Earle knew at a glance that he could not live many days.

An expression of pain convulsed his features as the door opened and his

anxious eyes rested upon the young man’s handsome face and noble form;

and then, with a slight motion of his head, he signified his wish for

him to come and sit beside him.

It was a strange, sad meeting of a father and son.

The one so strong and manly, and in full vigor of life; the other pale,

emaciated, and dying, and neither experiencing nor expressing any

natural regard for the other.

Earle’s humanity was touched as soon as he saw the sufferer. He forgot

all his past bitterness, he forgot that this was one who claimed to be

an implacable foe, who had said he “hated him and all that ever belonged

to him.” He only thought of him now as a sick and dying man who needed

sympathy and care.

“You did not expect when you went away that when next we met you would

find your enemy laid so low, did you?” Mr. Dalton asked, in a hollow

voice, when Earle was seated, and searching his face with a keen glance.

“I have never wished you any ill, sir,” he replied, respectfully.

“I cannot say the same regarding you, for there was nothing I would not

have done, for the sake of the hatred I bore your mother, to have hurled

you from the proud position you occupy.”

“Shall we not drop all this now and forever?” Earle interrupted, gently,

fearing he would become excited if this topic was renewed.

“No; I must have my say out now. I’ve been saving my strength for this,

and I have much to tell you, and the sooner it is over with, the better

for me. One’s sentiments change when a body feels life slipping from his

grasp, and I felt that I would like you to know before I die that I

realize at last, instead of injuring others only, I have been my own

worst enemy. I don’t know _why_ I should always have hated others for

what has really been my own fault; for all through my life my folly has

been the cause of all my disappointments.

“I have seen a child get angry with his toys—his top or his ball, when

it would not spin or bound as he wished it—and vent his anger by

destroying them, when it was only his own lack of judgment and skill

that prevented his enjoying them. I suppose it was that same trait in

me, only in tenfold degree, that has made me wish to destroy every one

who opposed or disappointed me in my schemes or ambition.”

He paused a moment, and Earle watched him curiously. He had never heard

anything so strange before.

“Had I lived for ten, twenty, or even forty years more, I suppose I

should have gone on in the same way,” Mr. Dalton resumed. “I suppose as

long as I knew you were enjoying the position and possessions I had so

coveted, I should have continued to hate you, and striven to do you

injury. But my hatred can do you no further harm now, nor me any good

where I am going; neither money nor position, the two things that I have

most coveted all my life, can benefit me further. I have never believed

in a God, have tried to believe that man was like the brutes, and

consequently must get all the enjoyments possible out of this life; but

now that I have come to this”—lifting his wasted hand and regarding it

with a strange expression of wonder, and perplexity, and regret—“I do

not feel quite so confident that God and eternity are not solemn truths.

That the mind is something greater than the body, and will probably

exist in another state, I am at last convinced; but I have no time to

discuss metaphysics now. My life has been a failure, for I have missed

_everything_ for which I sought most eagerly. I have never known what it

is to be really happy. I have done a great deal of evil, and I do not

know a single human being that is better for my having lived in the

world. The only good thing that I can think of connected with myself is,

that no one will sorrow or be made unhappy by my death;” and the smile

that accompanied these words was intensely bitter.

“I have told you how I disliked you from the first, simply because

Richard Forrester was interested in you, and I was jealous of any one

who was likely to win anything from him. You know how I scorned you

because Editha took a girlish fancy to you, and you dared to treat her

as if you considered yourself her equal. I was so angry that day in

court that I could have blotted you out of existence had I possessed the

power, and throttled her when she stood up so fearlessly in that crowded

room and asserted your innocence. I was afraid she would learn to love

you, and persist in marrying you. I knew that Richard Forrester was

rich, and that she would have all his money; but I meant she should get

more, by making a wealthy marriage. The more _she_ had, the more I

thought _I_ should have, and stand the higher in the world for it.”

Again he paused to rest, and Earle would have been glad if he would

cease entirely. He knew all this, and he could not see the good of its

all being rehearsed, neither could he understand toward what it was

drifting; but he was soon to know, and a great surprise awaited him.

“When Richard Forrester died,” he began again, “and left you that ten

thousand dollars, I vowed you should not have it, for I felt sure it

would give you a start in life, and you would want to marry Editha. I

was bound she should wed a rich man, and I would not be thwarted. Then I

made the discovery of who you were; and if your sentence had been for

life, I would not have lifted my finger to have had it mitigated in the

slightest degree. I seemed to gloat over the fact that Marion’s son, the

son of the woman whose high spirit had prevented me from reaching the

goal I sought, was thus disgraced, and, not knowing that she was dead, I

thought I could imagine some of her sufferings on account of it.

“I do not wonder that you shudder,” he said, seeing a quiver of pain run

over Earle’s body at this heartless speech; “and I can see now just how

such fiendish malice appears to others. If I had known, however, that

_my_ marriage with Marion had been legal, you may be sure I should have

adopted a very different course. If, when from motives of curiosity I

opened that package belonging to you, I had discovered those papers in

the cardboard pocket, my ambition and selfishness would have prompted me

to court the favor of the heir of Wycliffe. But I did _not_ know, and

when you told me, and refused to let me share your honors, my ire

increased tenfold, and I vowed I would make you suffer for it in some

way.”

Earle’s face was very grave and pale as he listened, and it seemed as if

he was almost living over again the troubles he had been through, to be

reminded of them in this way.

“There was only _one_ way that I could do this,” Mr. Dalton said, with a

troubled glance at the white, set face by his side, “and that was

through Editha. You loved her, and she loved you, and I gloated over the

fact that through her I could make you miserable, though you stood on

the very pinnacle of where I had longed to climb, _and even though I

sacrificed her in so doing_.”

Earle’s lips twitched nervously at this, and, had not the man before him

been helpless and dying, his indignation must have burst forth at this

startling and inhuman statement.

Mr. Dalton noticed his emotion, and his lips curled in a bitter smile.

“One is not often allowed the privilege of reading such a page of

heart-history as I am turning for you to-day; one does not often meet a

_father_ who could cherish such bitterness and antagonism toward his

only son, and so utterly devoid of natural affection also for the child

whom he has reared from infancy; but I will make no half-confession—I

want you to know just how black my record has been, and then I will make

what restitution there is in my power.

“With all my other sins, I had a secret that I had kept for more than

twenty years, and expected it would die with me. I did not believe there

was a soul living who knew aught of it, or who could ever discover it.

“But there was; justice was on my track, and, like an avenging Nemesis,

pursued me with a relentless determination. I fled, I hid, I vowed I

would not be thwarted out of _every_ scheme I had formed, but all to no

purpose, and one day I was brought face to face with a foe, of whose

existence I had not dreamed until only a short time before.

“Foiled at every point, my last weapon wrested from me, I lost all

control of myself, and in my anger and mortification ruptured a blood

vessel in the lungs, and knew that my days were numbered.

“It was not a pleasant thing to know that death had set his mark upon

me, and for awhile I tried to fight the conviction; but it was of no

use, and then I began to think; and one has very different ideas

regarding the end and aim of man, when ‘Death sits grinning his

horrible, ghastly smile upon him,’ than when in the full vigor of life.

“Like two vivid pictures, your life and mine arose up before me—my own,

full of pride, ambition, and selfishness, with no principle of truth or

goodness in it, and ending in utter wreck; yours, in the face of

mountain-like difficulties, filled with the beauty of high resolves,

noble purposes, and unwavering rectitude and nobility, not the least of

which was the fact that even while smarting beneath the fiercest strokes

of your enemy, you did not cease to be generous—that ten thousand

dollars, with all my arrogance and bravado, has lain heavy on my

conscience ever since you made it over to me.

“I am nearly done. I could not rest—I could not die until I had told you

all this. I do not ask you to forgive me; the words would seem but

mockery to you. The purity of your life, standing out in such bold

relief against the blackness of mine, enraged me. If I could have seen

you angry—if I could really have found a flaw in you—perhaps I should

not have always been so bitter. I say it always angered me, until I was

obliged to lie here and think. Now it shames me, and I would be glad if

I could annihilate from _your_ memory the shame of having had such a

father. I cannot make any atonement for the past to either you or

Editha. I can only wish that your future may be as full of happiness as

you both deserve, and perhaps I may be able to contribute a trifle to it

by being the first to tell you that _Editha is not my child at all_!”

CHAPTER XLV

MADAM SYLVESTER’S STORY

Earle nearly bounded from his seat at this startling intelligence, and

then, controlling himself for the sake of the sick man, sank back into

his chair with a low, suppressed cry, his face almost as colorless as

that of the dying man’s upon the pillow.

“Editha not your child!” he said at last, in a strained, unnatural

voice, his heart beating with great heavy throbs.

“No; not a drop of my blood flows in her veins,” Mr. Dalton panted.

His strength was all gone, now that his story was told, and it was with

difficulty that he spoke at all.

“Who’s child is she, then?” Earle asked, trembling with eagerness, a

glad gleam leaping into his eyes in spite of his sad surroundings and

his sympathy for the panting form upon the bed.

Madam Sylvester now came to the bedside.

She had entered so quietly a few moments before that neither Earle nor

Mr. Dalton was aware of her presence until this moment.

“Mr. Dalton must rest now; he is nearly exhausted,” she said, adding: “I

will summon the nurse, and as Editha is still sleeping, and you are

doubtless anxious to have the mystery explained, I will finish the story

of Editha’s parentage.”

Earle instantly arose, and a sudden thought made him glance at her more

keenly than he had yet done; then, with a look of sympathy at the

panting sufferer, he turned to follow her. Mr. Dalton had seen that

look, however, and it stirred his soul to its very depths.

He reached out his wasted hand as if to stay him, and said, weakly,

while his features writhed in pain:

“A good father might have been proud to own you as his son. As it is, I

cannot even ask you to take my hand.”

Earle turned quickly and bent over him, his manly face softened to

almost womanly tenderness and beauty—not from the dawn of any filial

affection! that could not be, after all the bitter past—but from pity

and compassion for a soul standing alone upon the brink of eternity,

with nothing to lean upon as he entered the dark valley of the shadow of

death, and no hope in the mysterious future toward which he was

hastening.

As his humanity would have prompted him to reach out his strong right

hand to save either friend or foe in case of danger, so his grand nature

yearned to lead this darkened mind into the light of hope.

“We will not talk of the past any more,” he said, gently; “It is gone,

and it is vain to dwell upon it. The future is what we must think of

now.”

“The future—my future! What will it be like, I wonder?” Sumner Dalton

asked, helplessly, and searching that noble face with painful

earnestness, as if he could tell him.

“The future means ‘heaven’ to those who are ready for it,” was the

grave, dignified reply.

“Yes, yes; but to those who are _not_ ready for it?” came breathlessly

from the blue lips of the sufferer.

“_All may_ be ready for it if they will,” Earle answered, in low, sweet

tones. Then seeing how excited Mr. Dalton was becoming, he added: “You

must rest now—you have talked long, and are very weary. I will come to

you again when you have slept, and we will talk more of this.”

“You will stay—you will not go away until—after——” the dying man began,

wildly, but finished with a groan.

The thought of death was anguish.

“I shall stay for the present—as long as you need me,” Earle replied,

understanding him, and pitying him deeply.

A sigh of relief followed this assurance.

In the hour of his weakness and need he turned, with a strange feeling

of confidence, to the strong, true nature which he had once so scorned

and despised.

His eyes followed the manly form wistfully as it quietly passed from the

room, then, with a weary sigh, he turned upon his pillow and slept.

Madam Sylvester led Earle back to the room where she had first met him,

and motioning him to a chair, took one herself near him.

“I know you are anxious to see Editha,” she said; “but she is not yet

awake. I peeped into her room on my way to Mr. Dalton’s, and the dear

child has not moved since I looked in before. She was nearly worn out

this morning when she went to rest. Now I will do as you say—leave this

interesting story for her to finish, or relieve your suspense and tell

you myself while she sleeps,” she added, with her charming manner.

“Tell me by all means,” Earle said, earnestly. “I cannot endure the

suspense, and I am utterly amazed by Mr. Dalton’s last statement to me.”

“It is not to be wondered at, and your amazement probably will not end

there. Your query, when he told you Editha was not his child, very

naturally was, ‘Whose is she, then?’ My lord, _I am Editha’s mother_!”

Earle looked the astonishment that he could not express, and yet the

shadow of suspicion of this had crossed his mind just before leaving Mr.

Dalton’s room.

“I never believed anything would ever again give me such joy as this

knowledge does,” Earle said, with a deep-drawn sigh of thankfulness, and

beginning to realize something of the joy that might be in store for

him.

Editha, no longer regarded as a sister, might now be claimed as a wife.

Madam smiled. She greatly admired the handsome young marquis, and her

heart was very light to know of the brilliant future that lay before her

beautiful daughter.

“It gives me pleasure to hear you say that,” she said. “And now, if you

have patience, I will tell you my sad story and all regarding Editha’s

parentage, as I have already related it to her.”

“I have patience,” Earle said, smiling; and madam began:

“Nearly twenty-three years ago I met with the saddest loss that ever

falls to the lot of woman—the loss of a love that would have brightened

all my future life. From my early girlhood I had an affection for my own

cousin, and was beloved in return by him. As we grew older that

affection increased, until at the age of eighteen I was betrothed to

him. Soon after, he went to sea, hoping on his return to be able to make

me his wife. He had a share in a trading-vessel, and, if they made a

successful voyage, he hoped to realize a handsome sum, which, with what

he already had, would enable him to support a wife. Three months later

came the news of the loss of the vessel, and his name was among the list

of those who perished. Our engagement had been a secret, and so it was

only in secret that I could mourn. In the presence of others, of course,

I must appear the same as usual, and so, to hide the grief that was

burning my heart to ashes, I assumed a reckless gayety that deceived

every one. About this time a stranger appeared in our circle. He was

wealthy, fascinating, and very handsome. He appeared attracted by my

beauty, as my friends were pleased to term my good looks, and paid me

much attention. My family were pleased with him, I liked him, and when

he offered me marriage I accepted him, thinking that perhaps, under new

excitement and change of scene and country, I might find some balm for

my wounded heart. We were married, and spent several months in

traveling, and then contrary to my expectations my husband preferred to

remain indefinitely in Paris, and we set up a home of our own in the

suburbs of the city. Before the end of a year a little child was given

to us—a blue-eyed, golden-haired daughter, whom we both loved with

almost idolatrous affection, and it seemed as if Heaven had at last sent

healing to my sore spirit, for I became calmly and quietly happy; my

acute grief had passed, and, though my deepest affection was in the

ocean grave of my sailor lover, yet I looked forward to a future of

quiet happiness with the new ties that bound me to life.

“My baby—Editha we had named her—was only three months of age, when one

day, as my husband and I were watching her as she lay crowing and

laughing in her cradle, the door behind us opened and some one entered

the room. We both turned, and saw a form gaunt and trembling, a face

pale and wasted, but dearer than life to me. It was Louis Villemain, my

lost lover, whom I believed lying cold in death at the bottom of the

sea.

“I was young, impulsive, and not yet strong after the birth of my child,

and the shock was more than I could bear. With one wild cry of joy, I

sprang forward and threw myself upon his bosom, forgetting that I was

already a wife and a mother, forgetful of my husband’s presence—of

everything save that Louis was alive and had returned. I murmured fond,

wild words of love and delight, words which a wife has no right to speak

save in the ear of her husband, and mine, sitting there, listened

horror-struck, and learned the whole. It was only when, exhausted with

my joy, I lay weeping on Louis’s bosom that I was at last aroused to a

consciousness of what I had done, by my husband’s stern sarcasm.

“‘What may be the meaning of this exceedingly affecting scene, allow me

to ask?’ he said, hissing the words between his teeth; and then with a

shriek I realized our relative positions, and fell fainting to the

floor.

“I need not dwell upon what followed,” madam said, with a sigh, “when I

came to myself, Louis was gone, and my husband, angry and wretched at

discovering how he had been deceived, was very unreasonable, and poured

forth such a storm of jealous wrath upon me that I was nearly crushed. I

confessed everything to him then, I pleaded my sorrow and weakness, and

implored his forgiveness and mercy, but he denounced me as an unfaithful

wife, at least at heart, and vowed that from that day we should live as

strangers, and yet, for our child’s sake, every outward propriety must

be observed. I was more wretched than I can express, and very unwisely

poured forth my troubles into Louis’s ear, when he came the next day and

sought me alone. I could not deny that the old love was stronger than

the new, and the future looked like darkest gloom to me—my husband’s

respect and confidence gone—my lover returned to look reproach upon me

from sad and hollow eyes, and my conscience constantly upbraiding me for

having married a good and noble man when I had no heart to give him. I

felt like a forsaken thing, and, always morbidly sensitive, I was

tenfold more so then in my weakened, nervous state. I do not pretend to

excuse my sin—I can only tell it just as it happened. Louis, as wretched

as myself, comforted me with the old, tender words that he used to

speak, and, bemoaning my sad fate in being linked to such a cruel

husband, urged me to fly with him on a new vessel that he was to

command, and be happy in our own way. The vessel was to sail in a few

days, and with passionate eloquence he pictured the delight of the free,

beautiful, roving life we would lead. I consented, and one day, when my

husband was absent for a few hours, I took my baby and fled. Louis had

gone on before me, and was to meet me at the seaport town from which the

vessel was to sail. Not being able to leave home until afternoon, I was

obliged to stop over night at a small town about half way from the port.

I was more lonely than I can tell you, as alone and unprotected I

retired and lay with my baby in my arms, thinking of what I had done. I

thought of my dead mother and her early teachings—of the words she used

to love and repeat from the sacred book, and the earnestness with which

she used to impress their meaning upon me, and the horror and guilt of

the step I was contemplating overwhelmed me. My baby awoke at midnight,

and would not be coaxed to sleep again; so, lighting the candle, I lay

there and watched her play, and talk, and coo in her charming little

way. Every now and then she would stop, look around the room as if she

knew she was in a strange place, and then glance up at me with great

serious eyes that seemed to question my conduct and reproach my

rashness. I thought of my husband, who, though he had been hasty and

somewhat cruel in his reproaches, was yet a good, true man. I pictured

the despair he would feel when he should return and find his wife and

child gone, his home desolate, his name dishonored, and all the horror

of my rash act rushed with overwhelming force upon me. I threw myself

upon my knees beside my bed and wept out my repentance there, resolving

that early morning should find me returning like the prodigal to my

home. I acted upon that resolve, first dispatching a note to Louis

telling him of my resolution, and entreating him not to come to me

again, nor seek to hold any communication with me.

“I reached home at noon the next day, but my husband had already

discovered my flight. I suppose I might have told him some story—that I

had only been to visit a friend in my loneliness, or something of that

kind, and he might have accepted it; but I did not; I went to him and

confessed the whole, imploring his pardon, and swearing fidelity for the

future. I think if he could have had time to think it over and consider

the matter, he would have acted differently; but his heart was already

too sore to bear more, and his naturally fierce temper swept all reason

before it. He took my baby from my arms and bade me ‘go,’ refusing to

believe I had not flown _with_ Louis instead of to him. I prayed him to

leave my child, my beautiful, blue-eyed, fair-haired Editha, but he told

me I was not a fit mother to rear a child, and he refused me even the

comfort of a parting caress. He said hard, cruel things to me in that

fit of passion—words that broke my heart, seared my brain, and drove me

nearly crazed from the sight of every familiar face. I never saw him

again—I never heard aught of him for long, long years. After I had

recovered somewhat from the first shock of my wild grief I began to

reason with myself. I knew I had sinned deeply—I had committed a great

wrong in marrying one man when my heart was another’s, even though I

believed that other dead, and I had enhanced that wrong a hundred fold

in yielding to Louis’ persuasions and consenting to fly with him. True,

I had repented before it was too late to turn back, but it was a bitter

blow to my husband; it was an act of treachery, and I could not blame

him for his first wild outbreak. But I felt that it was cruel in him to

be so relentless when I had confessed all; if he had but been

merciful—if he could but have consented to give me a place at his

hearth-stone until he had tested my sincerity, I feel that a

comparatively happy life might have eventually been ours. I wrote to him

times without number, begging him to let me come and be the faithful

wife and mother I knew I was capable of being; but he never returned me

one word in reply—never told me aught of my child, over whom my heart

has yearned as only a mother’s heart can yearn for her only darling.

“A short time after our separation I received a letter from Louis

telling me of his marriage with an Italian lady, and begging me to

forgive him for the wrong he had done me in tempting me from my duty as

a wife. A year later news of his death reached me, and then I sought my

brother, the only living relative I then had. He received me kindly, and

has devoted himself to my comfort and happiness ever since, and we have

lived for each other and for the good we could do to others who have

suffered and sinned. I have had much of peace—I have even known

something of happiness, since no one can relieve the wants of others and

witness their comfort and gratitude without being blessed for the good

wrought. But I am wearying you with my long story,” madam said,

stopping, with a sad smile.

“No; it is thrillingly interesting, but so sad,” Earle said, longing to

hear the remainder.

“I shall soon finish now. I told you, I believe, that my husband was an

American, did I not?”

“No; is it possible?” Earle exclaimed, greatly surprised.

“Yes; and for years I have longed to come to the United States to visit

his native land, hoping that by some chance I might glean some news of

him and my child. My brother and I visited the place that used to be his

home, but he had been gone from there for many years. After the death of

his parents he had removed to some city, but no one could tell us where,

and no one knew anything of his having a child, and were even surprised

to learn that he had ever been married. We could trace him no farther,

and I gave up all hope, believing that my child must have died before it

reached this country, and so he had never owned the fact of his

marriage.

“We thought we might as well visit some of the points of interest here

before returning home, and it was while at Newport that I found Editha.”

“Surely you could not have recognized her after so many years?” Earle

said, thinking she meant to imply that.

“Oh, no, although we were both strongly attracted to each other at once.

She was ill; she had seen sorrow something akin to mine—that I knew as

soon as I looked into her sad eyes—and just as I had discovered its

nature, and was seeking a better acquaintance with her, she and her

father suddenly disappeared from Newport. I learned through Mr.

Tressalia that they had gone to Saratoga, and, being determined to know

something more of her, and wishing also to visit Saratoga, we followed

them thither. Immediately upon our appearance Mr. Dalton became

strangely excited, and behaved in the most unaccountable manner.

“We arrived at night, while they were at a garden-party. We went to seek

them, and, after a short interview, Editha and Mr. Dalton withdrew.

Early the next morning, before any of us had arisen, they had departed,

leaving no trace behind them as to their destination.”

“Aha! Mr. Dalton must have had some suspicion of who you were, and, for

reasons of his own, desired to keep the knowledge from Editha,”

exclaimed Earle, getting really excited over this strange history.

CHAPTER XLVI

“WHAT A STRANGE STORY!”

“Did you ever meet Mr. Dalton before?” Earle asked, excusing himself for

his involuntary interruption.

“No, never; but I will soon explain how he recognized me, though I

should never have known anything of him—should never have found my child

even then, had it not been for your cousin, Paul Tressalia,” replied

madam.

“Poor Paul!” Earle sighed, thinking how his hopes were doomed to be

blighted at every turn.

“Mr. Tressalia has suffered deeply,” madam returned, “but he is rising

above it nobly. I really believe if it had not been for his kind and

judicious care of Editha after he returned to Newport, she would have

sunk into a decline. He bravely renounced all his hopes of winning her,

when she told him that she could never love another, and devoted himself

to cheering her, and no one has expressed himself more truly glad over

these recent discoveries than your noble cousin.”

“He is a truly brave man, and deserves a better fate than has overtaken

him just in the prime of his life,” Earle said, regretfully.

“A ‘better fate’ will yet come to him, I feel sure, and his life will

yet be rounded and completed by the hand of One who knows best how to

fashion the lives He has given us,” madam answered, with grave

thoughtfulness.

“As I told you,” she continued, after a moment, “on our arrival at

Saratoga, we repaired immediately to the garden-party, and while there I

managed to draw Editha one side for a little quiet chat, during which

she opened her heart to me. I had heard something of her sad story from

Mr. Tressalia before, but she related it to me more fully. She spoke of

her uncle several times, telling of his deep interest in you, of his

fondness for her, and that he had, in dying, bequeathed all his fortune

to her, save the sum he had wished you to have. I casually inquired his

name, but before she could reply, Mr. Dalton interrupted us and took

Editha away. The next morning I arose quite early, considering the

lateness of the hour that I had retired the night previous, feeling very

restless, and apprehensive of I know not what.

“I met Mr. Tressalia in a small sitting-room as I went below, and

immediately began talking of the conversation I had had with Editha the

night before.

“‘What was Miss Dalton’s uncle’s name—the one who left her his fortune?’

I asked, during the interview.

“‘Richard Forrester,’ he returned; and I sank into a chair, feeling as

if a heavy hand had suddenly been laid upon my heart and stopped its

beating.

“You will not wonder,” madam continued, her face paling with emotion

even then at the remembrance, “when I tell you that _Richard Forrester

was my husband_!”

“Your husband!” repeated Earle, fairly dazed with astonishment.

“Yes, my husband, and Editha’s father. I saw through it all in an

instant. Mr. Dalton’s wife was his sister, and to her he had committed

his child. It was no wonder that I had been attracted toward her from

the very first; it was no wonder that, when I met her for the first time

in Redwood Library at Newport, my heart thrilled with something stronger

than sympathy for her sorrow and pity for her suffering. She was my own,

own child, and it was the instinct of the mother claiming her offspring,

even before she recognized her. She was my baby, my pet, my little bud

of promise, which had been so cruelly wrested from my arms more than

twenty years before.”

And madam’s tears flowed freely even now. Her joy was so new that she

could not speak of it without weeping.

“What a strange, strange story!” Earle exclaimed. “Richard Forrester

Editha’s father! That accounts, then, for the intense love which he

always seemed to bear her.”

“He did love her, then—he did not visit her mother’s sin upon the life

of her child?” madam asked, eagerly.

“No, indeed; he seemed to love her most devotedly. She never came into

his presence but that his eyes followed her every movement with a

strange, intense gaze, at which I often wondered. But I cannot

understand why he should have resigned his claim upon her—why he denied

himself all the comfort of her love, and had her reared as Sumner

Dalton’s child,” Earle said, thoughtfully.

“You will understand it as I go on,” madam returned, wiping her tears.

“Of course, after that discovery, I was nearly wild to claim my child,

and Mr. Tressalia went at once to arouse Mr. Dalton and demand a full

explanation of all the past in my behalf. You can imagine something of

our consternation when he discovered that he had departed on an early

train, taking Editha with him, and no one could tell us whither they had

gone. We returned to Newport, thinking they might have gone back there,

but they were not there. Mr. Tressalia said that Mr. Dalton had visited

Long Branch the previous summer, and possibly we might find them there;

so to Long Branch we repaired, but with the same success. We visited one

or two other watering-places with a like result, and then returned to

New York, thinking we might find them at home; but their house was

closed, and we knew not which way to turn then. But I was desperate. The

fact of Sumner Dalton’s flying from me would have alone convinced me

that Editha was my child if nothing else had, and I was determined I

would never give up the chase until I found her.

“At last we discovered that they were boarding quietly at a hotel, and

one morning while seated in their private parlor, Mr. Dalton reading,

Editha sewing, we walked in upon them unannounced, beyond a light knock

upon their door.

“The look upon Mr. Dalton’s face upon beholding us was a strange one—it

was amazement, rage, and despair combined, while Editha immediately

sprang forward with a cry of joy to welcome us.

“‘I am unable to account for this intrusion,’ Mr. Dalton said, loftily,

and instantly recovering his self-possession.

“‘I can explain it in a very few words,’ I returned, calmly. ‘I have

come to claim my child!’

“‘I do not understand you,’ he answered, with well-feigned surprise, but

growing white as a piece of chalk at my words.

“‘You do understand me, Mr. Dalton,’ I said, sternly, ‘and you know that

I speak the truth when I claim this dear girl as my child and Richard

Forrester’s.’

“I turned to clasp her in my arms, but she had sunk, white and

trembling, into a chair.

“‘I should like to see your proofs of that statement,’ Mr. Dalton

sneered.

“I did not reply, but bending down, I took both of Editha’s hands in

mine, and said:

“‘My dear child, tell me the date of your birth.’

“‘Editha, I command you to hold no communication with that woman,’ Mr.

Dalton cried, shaking from head to foot with passion.

“Editha looked from one to the other in helpless amazement for a moment;

then she said:

“‘Surely, papa, it can do no harm for me to give the date of my birth,’

then fixing her eyes wistfully on my face, and with lips that quivered

painfully, she added, ‘I was born October 24th, 1843.’

“My child and Richard Forrester’s—my little blue-eyed, fair-haired girl,

that her father named Editha for the happiness she brought him—was born

October 24th, 1843.

“‘My love, did no one ever tell you that you resembled Richard

Forrester?’ I asked, gathering her close in my arms, for I knew she was

mine, and I would never relinquish her again, unless, after hearing my

story, she should refuse to acknowledge me as her mother.

“‘Yes, it was often remarked,’ she returned; ‘but mamma always said it

was not strange since Uncle Richard was her brother.’

“‘Not “Uncle Richard” any longer, my darling,’ I said, ‘but your own

father.’

“‘My father! and you were his wife—you are my mother?’ she said,

studying my face, and trembling in every nerve.

“‘It is a falsehood! Editha, leave the room instantly, and I will deal

with these people myself. Go, I say; that woman is no fit companion for

my daughter!’ Mr. Dalton shouted, and strode toward me, his hands

clenched and his face blazing with fury.

“Whatever his intentions were, he never reached me, for the blood all at

once gushed from his mouth, and he fell fainting to the floor.

“Of course everything was at once forgotten in the confusion that

followed and the alarm occasioned by his condition. He had a very

violent hemorrhage, and the doctor gave very little hope of his

rallying; but his constitution was strong, and after a couple of weeks

he began to gain strength and flesh, and the physicians then said, with

the exercise of great care he might live for a good while. Meantime,

Editha and I clung to each other with all the fondness and delight it is

possible for a long-parted mother and child to experience. There was no

doubt in our own minds that we belonged to each other, although Mr.

Dalton was still very sullen and morose on the subject, and would

confess nothing. But one day he was attacked with another bleeding turn,

so severe that we all knew he could not live long, and he seemed

conscious himself that he could not rally from it. Then he seemed

willing to talk upon the subject so fraught with interest to us all.

Editha sought him one day, and begged him to tell her all the truth.

Then he confessed that it was all as I had supposed, and that the moment

he saw me at Newport he knew me from a picture that he had once seen in

Mr. Forrester’s possession. He said that when my husband returned from

Europe with his little child he took her directly to his sister, who had

no children, and begged her to adopt it as her own. He told all the

story of his marriage and the sad events which followed it, and said he

never wished his child to know that any sorrow was connected with her

early life; he wished her to grow up happy and free from all care, and

he would gladly forego the comfort of calling her his own, that no

shadow need ever come upon her. In return for the consent of Mr. and

Mrs. Dalton to adopt her, he settled upon them fifty thousand dollars,

and promised them that Editha should have all his fortune if she

outlived him.

“His reason told him that Richard Forrester would gladly have absolved

him from all promise of secrecy regarding her birth, rather than that

her life should be ruined, as it was likely to be upon discovering that

you were his son; but his enmity toward you made him prefer to sacrifice

her happiness rather than forego his revenge.”

“What a disposition for a person to cherish! It is beyond my

comprehensions,” Earle said, gravely, and thinking sorrowfully of the

dying man upstairs, whose whole life had been ruined by giving the rein

to his evil passions.

“It would seem, too, as if there ought to have been some natural

instinct in his heart that would at least have prevented him from doing

you such despite, even if he bore you no love,” madam returned. “But, as

he says,” she added, “he has been his own worst enemy—out of his own

folly alone have sprung all his misfortunes and disappointments.”

“That is true, and is it not often proved that those who seek to wrong

others only injure themselves the most in the end?” Earle asked.

“It is, indeed,” madam returned, sadly; then she said, rising: “I

believe I have told you all now. I think Editha must be awake by this

time. I will go and tell her of your arrival. You will find her a little

worn and pale perhaps, but not a whit less lovely than she was a year

ago.”

Madam’s smile was full of beauty and tenderness whenever she spoke of

her newly-found daughter, and Earle thought she was a very handsome

woman.

She left the room, and he sat thinking over all the strange incidents of

the past six years—yea, all the strange incidents of his whole life.

The story he had just listened to seemed wonderful to him. He could

scarcely credit the good news that was to blot out all the dark past and

make his future so bright and full of joy.

Notwithstanding he had come to a house upon which death had set its

seal, and he could not help a feeling of sorrow for the man so near the

bounds of eternity, yet his heart was bounding with a new and blessed

hope.

He no longer needed to school himself to calmly endure the ordeal of

meeting Editha; there was no need now to force back with an iron will

all the natural impulses of his heart.

She was not his sister, and he knew well now why his whole soul had

revolted against the fiendish lie with which Sumner Dalton had sought to

crush him.

Editha would be his wife now; she would go back with him to Wycliffe

when they should be needed here no longer; she would go there to reign

as his honored and beautiful mistress, and he would have the right to

love her; there was no sin now in loving her as fondly as his great,

true heart prompted him to do.

His face grew luminous as he sat there and waited for her; his eyes lost

their heavy look of forced endurance, and softened into rare, sweet

tenderness.

“After the shower, the tranquil sun—

Silver stars when the day is done.

After the knell, wedding bells,

Joyful greetings from sad farewells.”

Earle hummed this little verse, with a fond smile wreathing his handsome

lips, his glad heart beating time to its hopeful rhythm, as he listened

to catch the first sound of the footfalls he so loved.

Editha Dalton—so called since the first year of her babyhood—was indeed

the child of Richard Forrester and Madam Sylvester, or Mrs. Forrester,

as she must henceforth be called, and only a few words will be needed to

give an outline of his early life.

While he was quite young a maiden aunt had died, leaving him heir to a

handsome fortune. As soon as he had completed his college course he made

the acquaintance of Estelle Sylvester.

He loved her from the very first, and though he thought her a trifle

giddy and wild, he laid it to the fact that French people are naturally

vivacious and freer in their manners than the staid, Puritanic

Americans, and he reasoned that when she should marry and assume the

responsibilities of domestic life, she would sober down into the quiet,

self-possessed matron.

For a year after their marriage, as we have said, all went well—indeed,

the wild and giddy Estelle became too quiet and sedate to suit him; but

that he attributed to the state of her health somewhat. But when, on the

fatal morning of Louis Villemain’s return, he learned the truth that his

wife had never loved him, but that her heart had been wholly another’s

even when she had vowed to love him only until death, he was crushed for

the moment; then his fiery temper gained the ascendency, and, for the

time, made almost a madman of him, and he uttered words which in his

calmer moments he would never have spoken.

Upon his return one evening, after a day of solitude and of brooding

over his injury, finding his wife and child gone, he was for the instant

tempted to put an end to his life, but a wise hand stayed the rash act.

All night long he mourned for the lost ones—for he had loved his wife

tenderly, and his baby had been his idol—with a bitterness which only

strong natures like his can experience; but when morning broke, and he

began to consider the dishonor that would fall upon him, his passion

flamed anew, and when poor, penitent Estelle returned at noon, his heart

was like a wall of brass to her entreaties and prayers for forgiveness.

He was sorry afterward, bitterly sorry, when he came to reflect on his

rashness, and that all her life-long his child must be motherless; but

the deed was done—he had driven his wife away in disgrace, and he would

not relent enough to recall her.

He took his baby and her nurse, and sailed immediately for the United

States. His sister was about changing her home to a distant city, and to

her care he committed his little Editha, to be brought up as her own,

deeming it wiser to renounce all claim to her than that she should grow

up to know of her mother’s folly and sin.

That was what those strange words meant that he uttered upon the night

before he died, when his eyes fondly followed Editha from the room, and

he had said: “God grant that _that_ sin may never shadow _her_ life.”

After the death of his parents he had left his native town and repaired

to the city where his sister, Mrs. Dalton, resided, that he might be

near and watch over his child, whom he loved almost to idolatry.

He never sought to obtain a divorce from Estelle, nor cared to marry

again; his trust in woman was destroyed, and he lived only to make

Editha happy, and amass a fortune to leave her at his death.

How well he succeeded in this we all know; her life up to his death was

like a cloudless summer’s day: she had never known a care or a sorrow

that he had not lightened; she had never shed a tear in his presence

that he had not wiped with the utmost tenderness away.

Aside from what might be considered his unreasonableness and harshness

toward his young and erring wife, he was a noble, tender-hearted,

upright man, beloved and respected to an unusual degree by all who knew

him.

His was a singularly sad and isolated life, brightened only by the

occasional presence of the child he dare not own, lest he bring a blight

on her otherwise sunny life.

While he lived, Sumner Dalton had not dared to treat her in any but the

most gentle and tender manner. She might oppose him in any way that her

imperious little will dictated, but he could only hide his anger and

irritability by laughing at her wilfulness. But once Richard Forrester’s

surveillance removed, his natural tyranny and cruelty came to the

surface, causing her much of sadness and suffering, while he even dared

to risk her life and happiness to gratify his ignoble passion for

revenge upon another.

CHAPTER XLVII

EDITHA’S GREETING

Fifteen minutes after Madam Forrester left Earle a light step sounded

outside the door, a trembling hand turned the silver handle, and Editha

Forrester stood once more in the presence of her lover.

She was somewhat pale and worn, as madam had said; but a lovely flush of

expectation and delight had crept into her cheeks, and a joyous light

gleamed from her beautiful eyes, as Earle leaped to his feet and went

forward to meet her.

No word was spoken for the first few moments—their feelings were too

deep, too sacred, for any outward expression; but Earle drew her to his

breast and held her there with a strong, tender clasp that claimed her

his own forever—that told her they would nevermore be parted while both

should live.

Editha was the first to break the significant silence.

“Earle, I am _glad_ you have come,” she said, as she raised her eyes

shining with happy tears to read the face she loved so well.

It was the same simple yet hearty greeting that she had given him so

long ago on that day before Christmas, when he had come to her. Earle

remembered it, and drew her still closer as he thought of her constancy

to him through all the various changes of the last four years.

“The wings of the wind were not rapid enough to bear me to you, my own,

when I knew that you wanted me; and yet I did not dream of the joy that

was awaiting me,” he said, with tremulous gladness.

“Joy and sorrow too, Earle, for papa cannot remain with us long,” she

answered, with a sigh.

She still called Mr. Dalton by the old familiar name, for not only would

it have been awkward to change, but it would have seemed cruel to the

invalid, who in all the world had alone this fair girl to cling to.

But in her heart she thanked God every day that Richard Forrester had

been her father instead of Sumner Dalton, while no words could express

her joy for the loving mother she had found.

“Yes, it pains me to find him as he is,” Earle returned, in answer to

her remark; but he was thinking more of his spiritual condition than of

his physical suffering.

“He is very sorry for the past,” Editha said, with a wistful look; “he

talks of it almost constantly in his sleep in a wild, sad way, although

he speaks bitterly when he is awake. He begs Marion—that was your

mother, Earle—to forgive him, and tells her that he did not see things

then as he does now. I think she would forgive him now if she could see

him; and, Earle, I wish you could forgive him, too. Oh, if you could

part at peace with each other!”

“We can, my darling. I have never wished him any ill, and freely forgive

him every wrong; though, of course, it cannot be expected that I could

feel any affection for him,” Earle replied, gravely.

“No—oh, no.”

“And my mother’s wrongs were very grievous.”

“I know,” Editha said, with a deep sigh of regret, as she thought of

that delicate, lovely girl, and what torture she must have endured when

she believed herself betrayed and scorned.

“Editha, can _you_ forgive Mr. Dalton for all he has wilfully made you

suffer—for trying to part us when there was no need, and for seeking to

hide you from your mother?” Earle asked, regarding her curiously.

The tears sprang to her eyes as she answered:

“Oh, yes; he is dying, you know, and I could not let him leave me

feeling that I cherished any bitterness toward him. His path to the

grave is very dark, and I would not add to its gloom. It has been very

hard to bear all those things,” she added, sighing; “but I think papa

has been the worst sufferer, after all. He never was unkind to me until

after my dear father died. Oh, Earle,” she cried, her lovely face

lighting up with tenderness, “you don’t know how I love to think that he

was my father—I loved him so dearly. I used to think sometimes that I

was really ungrateful to love him so very much when he was only my

uncle; but now I know why it was—it was the natural impulse of my heart

going out to him, where it belonged.”

“How like a romance the story of your life is, my darling,” Earle said,

thoughtfully.

“Not more so than your own, I am quite sure, Earle. But do you not think

mother is very lovely?” she asked.

“She is, truly. How very happy you are in the knowledge of your

parentage.”

“Yes; and for more reasons than one,” she answered, with a shy smile at

him, accompanied with a rosy blush; then she added, more gravely: “But I

wish my mother need not have suffered quite so deeply. If my father

could but have known how sorry and repentant she was, and how truly good

she was at heart, they might have grown to be very happy after awhile;

he need not have lived such a lonely, sorrowful life, and all this sin

and trouble need never have been. But”—with a sigh of regret—“we have no

right to question the dealings of One who is wiser than we. There is

some good reason for all the suffering there is in the world, and some

one has somewhere said that ‘human lives are like some sweet plants,

which must be crushed ere they give forth their sweetest fragrance.’”

“And we are told somewhere else that gold seven times tried is pure. How

very free from dross, then, you must be, my darling,” Earle said, with

playful tenderness.

“No, indeed, Earle; my trials and sorrows have been nothing compared to

yours,” Editha said, earnestly.

“The bitterness of the past disappears in the brightness of the present,

and what the future promises to be; and I do not forget, my darling,

that but for your fortitude a dark shadow would still rest upon my

life—you endured a great deal for my sake, Editha,” and his lips touched

her forehead almost reverently.

“And I would have resisted until I died rather than have given up my

treasure into the hands of that wicked man,” she cried, with something

of the old wilful gleam in her eyes. “Do you know,” she added, eagerly,

in the same breath, “that I have found the Lokers, and they are now just

as comfortable as they can be.”

“And all owing to your own kindness of heart and liberal hand, no

doubt,” Earle responded, with a smile.

“How could I help expressing my gratitude in some way for having that

dark mystery solved and every stigma removed from your character? I did

help them to begin with, but they are going to help themselves now. I

stocked a cunning little store with fancy and useful articles, furnished

two rooms in the rear for their private use, and they are really very

successful in their little business.”

“With you for their chief patron, I presume,” was Earle’s laughing

reply, as he gazed admiringly into her animated face.

“Well, of course, I go there,” she admitted, flushing, “to get all my

needles, pins, thread, etc., and so do a great many of my friends. But

Mrs. Loker is really a very worthy woman, and her daughter is bright and

keen as a brier at a trade; it is a real pleasure to encourage such

people. But I have talked enough about myself—tell me something about

your adventure with that wicked creature who has brought so much trouble

upon us.”

Earle complied, relating all that had occurred from the night of the

attempted robbery until the time of his departure, while Editha listened

intensely interested.

“Do you know I stand almost in awe of you to know that you have

accomplished such a change in that vile nature? It seems almost like a

miracle,” she said, when he had finished.

“Do not think of it, then, for I have no wish, I assure you, to inspire

you with any such sentiment toward me. But I do not think this looks as

if you were _very_ much afraid of me,” he laughed, as he gathered her

closer in his arms and kissed the fair face upon his breast again and

again.

“I shall be obliged to impose a duty upon all such operations in the

future if you carry them to such an extent,” she said, trying to hide

her blushing face with a very insufficient hand.

“Then never tell me again that you stand in awe of me, or I shall feel

it _my_ duty to take even more effective measures to eradicate the

feeling,” Earle said, with mock gravity.

“But about this man”—Editha thought it best to change the subject—“don’t

you think you’re carrying your kindness a little too far? He may betray

your trust; besides, he has violated the laws of the land, and have you

any right to shield him?”

“I suppose I am not obliged to give any evidence against him, since he

was not arrested by a commissioned officer; the offense was against

myself alone, and if I see fit to take no action in the matter, I do not

see how I am violating any right, either civil or moral—particularly as

I am conscientiously convinced that the man’s salvation depends upon

kindness rather than upon punishment.”

Earle had argued this matter many times with himself, and he felt that

he was doing perfectly right.

“If suffering is any penalty for sin,” he continued, “he has paid it,

for he was fearfully wounded. I fully believe, if he had escaped

unharmed from the bullet, and been arrested, convicted and sentenced, he

would have grown more hardened and desperate, and been prepared for

almost any evil upon the expiration of his term. But laid upon a bed of

sickness, with some one to care for him and treat him as if he was a

human being, he has had opportunity to think as he has never thought

before. As Mr. Dalton said to-day, ‘things look very different to a man

when he fears that life is slipping from his grasp than they do when he

is in the full vigor of life,’ and I think Tom Drake realized that, if

ever a man did. He was not easily won—he was suspicious of me and my

motives for a long time, but when he found that I would take no measures

against him he was completely staggered; and the shock which his

hitherto benumbed conscience thus received restored it to something like

its normal condition. I believe he will do well, and, as long as he

does, I shall give him my support and confidence.”

“But didn’t you feel the least bit triumphant when he lay there

powerless before you?” Editha asked.

“I cannot say that I did not experience a sense of satisfaction in

knowing that at last one so deserving of justice and so steeped in crime

had been arrested in his career. But my first thought was, ‘Are my hands

stained with the life-blood of a fellow-being?’ It was a great relief

when I discovered that he was not mortally wounded, but my anxiety

returned when he was so sick and we thought he would die.”

“It was a great care for you, Earle, and a noble thing for you to do

after suffering all you have on his account,” Editha said, her heart

swelling with pride of her noble lover.

“You know the more care any one occasions us the more interest we

naturally feel in that one,” he answered, smiling at her praise; “and so

it was in this case. I saw the man was capable of better things; he is

naturally smart, and I longed to save him despite the injury he had done

me and others. If there was one thing harder than all the rest for me to

forgive, it was his treatment of you. Will it be agreeable to you,

dearest, to see him about the place when we go home?” he asked, seeing

the shiver which crept involuntarily over her at the mention of the

past.

Editha flushed involuntarily at the mention of going “home,” but she

said, with gentle gravity:

“No, Earle; if we can save him, I can conquer the repugnance that I have

hitherto felt for him; but, as I remember him, he seems perfectly

hideous to me.”

“He does not look nearly so repulsive since his sickness; he is, of

course, much thinner and more refined in appearance, while his

expression is wholly changed.”

“Whether he is changed or not, I will join you heart and hand in any

good thing you may wish to do for him,” she said, heartily.

“What a gentle mistress Wycliffe will have,” Earle said, fondly; “and

you will not refuse to go back with me this time?”

“No, Earle; only it must not be at present, you know,” she returned,

with some sadness.

“I do know, dear, and of course shall remain as long as Mr. Dalton may

need either you or me; but, oh! my darling, you cannot tell how thankful

I am that I am not doomed to spend my life in gloom and alone;

everything has looked so dreary and desolate to me until to-day.”

Editha did not reply, but she laid her cheek against his in mute

sympathy, and with a sigh that told him she had also experienced

something of the desolateness of which he spoke.

“You have not seen Mr. Tressalia yet, I suppose?” she said, after a few

minutes of silence.

“No, dear, I have not seen him since the day I had such a struggle with

my selfishness, and sent him hither to win you and be happy if he

could.”

His arm tightened around the slight form at his side as he said this,

and Editha knew how he must have suffered in that struggle to renounce

her so utterly.

“Did _you_ send him to me, Earle?” she asked, with a startled look.

“Yes, dear; Paul Tressalia is one of earth’s noblest men. I believed you

lost to me forever. You once told me if there had been no Earle Wayne in

the world, you might have loved him. I wanted you to be happy—I wanted

him to know something of the comfort of life, and I knew of no one whom

I would rather have win a sister of mine than him. It was a miserable

kind of an arrangement all round, but I knew of nothing better.”

Earle spoke with a tinge of the bitterness he had experienced at the

time, as if even the memory of it was exceedingly painful.

“Dear Earle, you might have known it could not be,” she whispered,

sliding one hand into his and dropping her flushed face upon his

shoulder.

“Never—not even if our relations had remained as we have believed them

to be?”

“Never,” she replied, decidedly. “I _could_ not change, even though I

believed I was sinning every day of my life, and I would not wrong him

by accepting his love when I had none to give him in return.”

“Editha, my beloved, I should crown you with passionflowers and

snow-drops for your devotion and faithfulness,” Earle breathed, in low,

intense tones, and deeply moved by her confession.

“Hush!” she said, releasing herself from his encircling arms, her face

like a carnation; “there is the bell—that is Mr. Tressalia; he has heard

of the arrival of a steamer, and has come to see if you are here;” and

she arose to go, feeling that she could not be present while they met.

Earle arose, too, surmising her thought, but gently detained her a

moment longer.

“My love—my Editha—my ‘_happiness_,’ you have not yet told me that you

are glad to be my wife, and go home with me to Wycliffe; let me hear you

say it once,” he pleaded, with grave earnestness, as he studied the

beautiful face intently.

“You know that I am glad, Earle;” and the clear, truthful eyes were

raised to his with a look that satisfied him, though the conscious

crimson dyed all her fair face.

“And there will be no regret at leaving your native land?” he persisted,

his whole being thrilling with the consciousness of her pure love.

“Not one, save the lonely graves I shall leave behind and would like to

visit occasionally,” she murmured, with a starting tear, as she thought

of Richard Forrester and his sister sleeping so quietly side by side in

Greenwood, and of that other grave that must soon be made beside them.

Earle lifted the sweet face and kissed the tremulous lips with infinite

tenderness, then releasing her, she slipped from the room by one door as

Paul Tressalia entered by another.

The greeting of the two young men was cordial and friendly, although

each felt a thrill of pain as they clasped hands and realized all that

that meeting meant to them.

Each knew that as soon as Mr. Dalton should be laid away Earle would

claim Editha as his wife, and take her back to reign in the home of his

ancestors, where, doubtless, a life of joy, such as falls to the lot of

few, would be spent.

But Paul Tressalia was not a man to sit weakly down and pine for what he

could not have.

Since that day when he had pleaded his suit for the last time with

Editha, and she had in her despair cried out for a friend, strong and

true, he had bravely set himself to work to conquer the hopeless passion

in his heart, and he had already learned to look upon his future with a

calmness at which he himself at times was surprised.

He came to-day as both Earle’s and Editha’s tried and trusted friend,

and the congratulations which he tendered the former had a ring of

heartiness in them not to be questioned for a moment.

CHAPTER XLVIII

EARLE’S BEAUTIFUL THEORY

Sumner Dalton lingered only a little more than a week after Earle’s

arrival.

But with his mind relieved of the burden of revenge so long cherished,

and of the secret which had threatened to ruin Editha’s life—with his

hate confessed, and his evil passions burned out—he grew quieter and

more at ease, even though he knew that he must enter the dark valley

very soon.

He had talked with Earle once again regarding the past, seeming anxious

to know something of Marion’s last days, and appeared much agitated

when, with as little reflection upon him as possible, he gave a short

account of her sorrowful, secluded life, and her calm resignation in the

hour of death.

Earle knew that he longed to be assured of his forgiveness for the

bitter wrongs of which he had been guilty, and yet deemed it a mockery

to crave it; but he knew that it would comfort him inexpressibly, and he

told him one day that he accorded it fully and freely, and begged him to

seek pardon also from a higher source.

Whether he did or not they never knew, for he avoided referring to

anything that bore upon the past from that time; but he grew

comparatively peaceful, and they hoped that he had obtained mercy from

the divine Healer of souls.

He seemed more content when Earle was in his room, and lay and watched

him by the hour, a wistful look in his sunken eyes, as if all too late

he realized what a crown to his life such a son would have been.

Together Earle and Editha watched beside him, until the flame of life

burned down to its socket and then went out, and with it every spark of

feeling (save that of regret for a life that seemed to have been so

spent in vain) expired from their hearts also.

They laid him beside his wife, and placed above him a costly marble

shaft, simply inscribed with his name, age, and the date of his death.

What more could they do?

Unloving and unloved he had lived, unlamented he had died, without one

grand or noble act to crown his life or to be remembered when he was

gone.

What a record! and sad enough for tears “such as angels weep.”

Editha and her mother went together to Richard Forrester’s grave—Editha

with a strange, sad yearning for the father she had never known as such

while he lived, and madam with a heart filled with deep regret for the

past, and for the noble life she had so saddened by one rash act.

But each felt, as they turned away from the sacred spot, that could he

have spoken, he would have blessed them both, and rejoiced with them in

their new-found joy and reunion.

* * * * *

Three weeks later there was a quiet wedding one morning in the fine old

church where Editha had been wont to attend since her earliest

remembrance.

Notwithstanding that Editha had desired everything done with as little

ostentation as possible, on account of their recent bereavement, yet the

church had been elegantly decorated by her numerous friends, many of

whom were present, with no small degree of curiosity, to witness the

ceremony that made her the Marchioness of Wycliffe.

The wedding breakfast was a very informal affair, to which only her most

intimate friends had been bidden.

Of course Mr. Felton, the trusty lawyer, was among these, and with him a

quiet, matronly woman, whom he had found thus late in life to share the

remainder of his journey; and into his hands Editha’s beautiful home was

to pass upon her departure for England.

John Loker’s wife and daughter, both neatly and tastefully clad, were

also among the favored guests; and, looking into their cheerful

countenances, one would scarce have recognized the wretched beings whom

Editha had visited on that memorable night two years previous.

The fair bride’s wedding robes were of heavy white crape, with satin

facings, while the mist-like vail which floated from her golden hair was

fastened with fragrant lilies of the valley and delicate, feathery

cypress vine.

“So appropriate under the circumstances,” murmured the admiring friends

who had gathered to do honor to the occasion; and indeed the

fair-haired, blue-eyed girl had never looked more lovely than when she

stood at the altar in her pure white raiment, and plighted her vows to

the one to whom she had been so true through the dark hours of adversity

as well as in prosperity.

She had loved him while yet a poor boy serving in her father’s office;

she had loved and bravely defended him when he stood before the judge

and was unjustly condemned, and during the three weary years that

followed; and the depth of that love she testified when she almost

sacrificed her life to preserve his character from dishonor. Not less

did she love him now, as he stood by her side, grand noble, and honored

by all, as the Marquis of Wycliffe and Viscount Wayne, and possessor of

a proud inheritance—an old and honored name.

But she would have loved him just as fondly, she would have wedded him

just as proudly, had he been simple Earle Wayne, without a dollar in his

pocket or a foot of land, save what his own strong right arm had won for

himself.

It was the noble spirit, the stainless character, the firm, unwavering

rectitude and honor that had won her heart’s devotion; and yet his

position and wealth were not valueless in her sight; they were

accessories by which they would be enabled to make more perfect and

useful the life which God had given them.

“If I live I mean to make my life foursquare,” he had said, with quiet

determination, when he had come to her from his weary prison life; and

she had never forgotten the resolute words—they had rung in her ears

ever since like a watch-word. And to-day, as she stood at his side and

spoke those solemn vows, she thought of them again, and she prayed that

together they might live a life so perfect and complete that it should

be like that “golden city whose length, and breath, and height were

equal.”

“So exceedingly romantic. Who would have thought it?” was the comment of

not a few who had been rehearsing the incidents of the past six or seven

years, but were interrupted as the distinguished bridal party passed up

the broad aisle to the altar.

Gustave Sylvester was to give away the bride, while Madam Forrester,

very handsome, in mauve-colored moire, Spanish lace, and diamonds, came

in on the arm of Paul Tressalia, who was by no means the least

distinguished-looking one of the party, though his face might have been

thought much too pale and stern for a wedding.

Earle met them at the altar, very quiet and self-possessed, but with a

luminous light in his eyes that told of the depth of the joy in his

heart.

After the wedding breakfast this party of five bade a long farewell to

their guests and friends, and departed for the steamer that was to bear

them to their beautiful home on England’s shores.

* * * * *

Three years have passed, and we will take just one peep at the domestic

life at Wycliffe before we, too, part with them for all time.

The great mansion, the pride of all the country around, with its wide

wings on either side, stands on a slight eminence, and is grand and

imposing in appearance.

It was built in the Tudor style of architecture, with massive carvings

and ornamentations, and was a home of which any man, however great,

might have been proud.

An extensive lawn spread out in front, and was decorated here and there

with patches and borders of landscape gardening, beautiful shrubbery,

fountains, and statuary, while beyond and to the right of this was the

park, with its noble trees, its deer and game.

Magnificent beeches, elms, and maples spread their lofty, protecting

arms above and around the mansion, lending a delightful shade, and

making a pleasing contrast with the brown-stone of the dwelling.

Beneath one of these trees there might have been seen, on a certain

summer’s day, an exceedingly attractive group, and, to all appearances,

a very happy one also.

Upon a graceful rustic seat there are sitting two beautiful women.

Editha, fair and lovely as of old, no cloud to dim the blue of her sunny

eyes, no care or trouble having left a line on her white brow. She is a

trifle more matronly in her appearance, has a bit more of dignity,

perhaps, but is otherwise unchanged. Her companion is a lady of perhaps

thirty-two or three years, whose face impresses one at once with its

expression of sweetness and gentleness. It is a face that we have seen

before, and that once seen could never be forgotten.

The lady is none other than the one we have known as Miss Isabelle

Grafton, the daughter of Bishop Grafton, that good old man who married

Earle’s mother.

Standing behind her, his eyes resting with peculiar fondness upon her

face, is a noble-appearing man. It is Paul Tressalia, her husband of a

few months.

Madam’s prophecy had come true, and he had at last found the “woman whom

he should marry,” and they are as quietly, calmly happy as they could

ever hope to be in this world, neither feeling, perhaps, the fervor of a

first passion, but loving earnestly and with an enduring affection that

would grow riper with every year.

It was this gentle woman’s face that had come, unbidden, to Paul

Tressalia’s mind on that day when madam had told him that he would yet

find one good and true who would fill the wants of his nature better

than Editha could ever do.

A year after his return to England they had met again; each had

attracted the other, and out of it had grown the union, which bade fair

to be a most happy one.

At Editha’s feet there is playing a dark-eyed, noble-looking boy of two

years—little Paul, the future Marquis of Wycliffe; while an old lady, of

perhaps sixty, sits at a respectful distance and watches with her heart

in her eyes his every movement, lest he should annoy “my lady” with his

play and his constant prattle. This latter is Tom Drake’s mother. A

short distance away there paces back and forth under the trees a

white-aproned, white-capped nurse, with a fair-haired, blue-eyed little

girl in her arms—the “small Lady Isabelle” she is called, being as yet

only three months old, and of very tiny though perfect proportions.

The only remaining one of this group—Madam Forrester—reclines in a chair

a little in the background. She is as handsome and attractive as ever,

with a tranquil joy in her face that bespeaks very little to wish for

even in this world. Her white shapely hands are busied with some dainty

piece of work destined to grace the “small ladyship,” who is her

particular pride and comfort, while every now and then she joins in the

conversation carried on chiefly by Editha and Paul Tressalia and his

wife.

Down the broad drive-way at some distance, and approaching slowly, are

two men.

One glance is sufficient to tell us which is Earle—there is no mistaking

his grand proportions, his upright form, with its noble head setting

square and firm and with manly dignity upon his broad shoulders.

He is evidently giving some directions to his companion, for they stop

every now and then while Earle points here and there, and then resumes

his way.

As they draw nearer the group under the beech, it is noticeable that his

companion is slightly lame, and as they reach the spot he lifts his hat

respectfully to Editha, smiles fondly into the eyes of the old lady who

is watching Earle’s boy, and then passes on.

It is none other than Tom Drake, once the midnight robber and abductor.

Before Earle’s return he was able to be about once more, and had made

himself acquainted with much pertaining to the estate.

He had worked diligently and with great interest over the accounts Earle

had left him, and unheeding the admonitions of his mother, who had

arrived a few days after his departure, he refused to leave them until

every figure was straightened.

He had taken it upon himself to superintend the decorations of the

mansion and grounds, when Earle had telegraphed on what day he should

arrive at Wycliffe with his bride, and a scene of almost bewildering

beauty greeted their home-coming.

It was made a day of general rejoicing, the tenantry, servants, and

laborers all turning out in gala attire to give them a glorious

reception and welcome to Wycliffe.

But Tom Drake had remained in the background while all others went

forward to tender their good wishes and congratulations, and it was not

until Earle asked particularly for him that he ventured to present

himself before those two, whose lives he had done so much to render

miserable. Then he came modestly forward, bearing a magnificent bouquet

and wreath in his hand.

The former composed entirely of box, white bell-flowers, and blue

violets, and embodying the sentiments, constancy, gratitude, and

faithfulness, he placed in Earle’s hand, wishing him “long life and

happiness.” The wreath, a marvel of delicate beauty, was made of the

finest leaves of yew tree and graceful clusters of pure white wisteria,

the leaves signifying sorrow for the past, the flowers “Welcome, fair

stranger.”

This Tom Drake laid at the feet of Editha, with a few murmured words of

greeting, made a low obeisance, and then went away.

Both Earle and his wife were surprised at this manifestation of feeling,

and the delicate manner in which it was expressed; and they prized these

simple offerings as highly as any of the rich gifts that they had

received from their numerous wealthy friends, on account of the emotions

which had prompted them and which they had been quick to read and

appreciate.

Earle was so pleased with his work upon the tangled accounts, and the

interest he manifested in things generally, that he allowed him in the

future to assist the steward, who was quite old, and, upon the death of

that individual, which occurred about two years after their return, Tom

was so well versed in all his duties, and had proved himself so faithful

and trustworthy, that he elected him as his successor. He had lost very

much of the ruffian-like appearance that had made him so repulsive to

Editha, and was now very quiet and unostentatious in his manner.

The unsightly scar, of course, still remained upon his face, but his

expression told of a firm resolve to conquer himself and become the man

that Earle desired.

He was lame in the limb that had been wounded, and probably always would

be, but Earle never looks at him without a thrill of thankfulness that

he was impressed to pursue the course that he has with him, and believes

him to be a lasting monument to the power of kindness.

Tom and his mother live in a pretty cottage, covered with climbing

woodbine and clematis, and situated only a short distance from the

mansion.

Both mother and son idolize my lady, who is kind and gracious to them,

and old Mrs. Drake is often seen, as to-day, caring for Earle’s noble

boy, “the like of which,” she fondly declares, “was never born before.”

Editha arose as Earle approached, the smile upon her lips and the tender

light in her eyes bespeaking the glad welcome in her heart.

“You are late, dear,” she said, slipping her white hand within his arm.

“A little; but you have plenty of pleasant company,” Earle replied, with

a smile, as his eyes wandered over the group.

The look that the fair wife flashed up at him from her lovely eyes

plainly told him that no company, however pleasant, was quite like

his—no group complete to her without him.

Earle stooped and picked up his boy, which had toddled to his side, and

gave him a toss on high that made the little fellow clap his hands with

delight, and the air rang with his happy, childish laughter.

“Earle, I have been trying to explain to Isabelle your theory of the

golden city,” said Editha, when Master Paul had become quiet once more;

“but I’ve only made a bungle of it, and you will have to interpret

yourself.”

“I presume Mrs. Tressalia would not agree with me in my ideas regarding

the revelation,” Earle said, with a smile, as he turned to that lady.

“There is so much that seems visionary and mystical in it, that none of

us can fully understand or explain it, but _whatever_ lessons we may

draw from it can do us no harm. As for the ‘city which lieth foursquare,

whose length, breadth, and height are equal,’ it seems to _me_ more like

the symbol of a perfected life than like the description of a literal

city.”

“I had never thought of it in that light before,” Mrs. Tressalia said,

thoughtfully.

“If we make the height and breath of our life equal with its length, it

cannot fail to be perfect and of faultless symmetry, can it?” asked the

young marquis.

“What constitutes the height and breadth of a life as you express it?”

Mrs. Tressalia queried.

“The height,” Earle replied, his eyes resting earnestly on the far-off

purple and crimson clouds of the western sky, as if beyond them he could

almost distinguish that golden symbol of which he was speaking—“the

height is attained only by a continued reaching upward of the finite for

the infinite; the breadth, by the constant practice of that divine

charity or love and self-denial as taught by the Man of Sorrows while He

dwelt on earth—at least, this is my idea of it. This aspiration after

holiness, this daily practice of the divine commands, if followed as

long as one lives, cannot fail to make his being one of faultless

symmetry in the end, and fit to be measured by the ‘golden reed of the

angel.’”

“Yours is a beautiful theory,” Mrs. Tressalia said, a mist gathering in

her soft eyes; “and yet, after all, I do not feel that I can quite agree

with you. I have always believed that chapter of revelation describes

the heavenly city in which we are to dwell when we leave this earth. It

is a more tangible idea to me, and I think I like it better than your

theory on that account.”

“You believe in the literal city, pure and holy; I in a state or

existence of a like nature. Whichever is the correct belief, it cannot

fail of attaining one and the same result—eternal happiness,” Earle

said, with his rare smile.

“That is true; but if you do not believe in the literal city, what do

you make the foundations, ‘garnished with precious stones,’ to mean?”

Mrs. Tressalia was deeply interested in his ideas, even if she did not

fully agree with them.

“I fear if I should try to explain all my theory regarding it, it would

involve us in an endless discussion,” Earle said. “The garnishing of

precious stones _may_ mean the cultivation of those many virtues spoken

of by the apostle Paul—such as love, peace, long suffering, gentleness,

etc. Surely those are precious jewels that every one would like to

possess.”

“Sonny boy, if _you_ square _your_ life by your father’s rule, you’ll

not lack for symmetry in the sight of God when you come into the ‘golden

city,’” muttered Tom Drake’s mother, with fast-dropping tears, as she

bent fondly over little Paul, whom she had taken from his father’s arms.

Earle smiled good-naturedly as he caught the low-spoken words, for he

knew that in the grateful old creature’s eyes he lacked no good thing in

all the catalogue of virtues.

“That is so,” said Paul Tressalia, who had also heard her; “and whether

Earle’s theory is the correct one or not, it can never harm one to put

it in practice, particularly if it attains to that nobility which has

become so rooted and grounded in his character,” and the look of

affectionate admiration which he bestowed upon his kinsman testified to

the heartiness of his words.

We cannot follow them further, but we have learned enough to tell us

something of the principles of goodness and purity which dwelt in that

charming household, and which could not fail to ennoble and elevate all

by whom they were surrounded.

Who, like Earle Wayne, would not like to make his life foursquare? Who,

although he may never attain to the worldly greatness which fell to his

life, would not seek to attain that better nobility of character, which,

when measured by the “golden reed of the angel,” will be found of

faultless symmetry, like the city whose “length, and breadth, and height

are equal?”

What wouldst thou of life?

Love, purity, freedom from strife;

Bless’d virtues, in which heaven is rife;

“The victor’s crown, the conqueror’s meed,”

The perfect measure of the Golden Reed.

THE END.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

POPULAR LITERATURE FOR THE MASSES, COMPRISING CHOICE SELECTIONS FROM THE

TREASURES OF THE WORLD’S KNOWLEDGE, ISSUED IN A SUBSTANTIAL AND

ATTRACTIVE CLOTH BINDING, AT A POPULAR PRICE

[Illustration: book]

BURT’S HOME LIBRARY is a series which includes the standard works of the

world’s best literature, bound in uniform cloth binding, gilt tops,

embracing chiefly selections from writers of the most notable English,

American and Foreign Fiction, together with many important works in the

domains of History, Biography, Philosophy, Travel, Poetry and the

Essays.

A glance at the following annexed list of titles and authors will

endorse the claim that the publishers make for it—that it is the most

comprehensive, choice, interesting, and by far the most carefully

selected series of standard authors for world-wide reading that has been

produced by any publishing house in any country, and that at prices so

cheap, and in a style so substantial and pleasing, as to win for it

millions of readers and the approval and commendation, not only of the

book trade throughout the American continent, but of hundreds of

thousands of librarians, clergymen, educators and men of letters

interested in the dissemination of instructive, entertaining and

thoroughly wholesome reading matter for the masses.

BURT’S HOME LIBRARY. Cloth. Gilt Tops. Price, $1.00

Abbe Constantin. BY LUDOVIC HALEVY.

Abbott. BY SIR WALTER SCOTT.

Adam Bede. BY GEORGE ELIOT.

Addison’s Essays. EDITED BY JOHN RICHARD GREEN.

Aeneid of Virgil. TRANSLATED BY JOHN CONNINGTON.

Aesop’s Fables.

Alexander, the Great, Life of. BY JOHN WILLIAMS.

Alfred, the Great, Life of. BY THOMAS HUGHES.

Alhambra. BY WASHINGTON IRVING.

Alice in Wonderland, and Through the Looking-Glass. BY LEWIS CARROLL.

Alice Lorraine. BY R. D. BLACKMORE.

All Sorts and Conditions of Men. BY WALTER BESANT.

Alton Locke. BY CHARLES KINGSLEY.

Amiel’s Journal. TRANSLATED BY MRS. HUMPHREY WARD.

Andersen’s Fairy Tales.

Anne of Geirstein. BY SIR WALTER SCOTT.

Antiquary. BY SIR WALTER SCOTT.

Arabian Nights’ Entertainments.

Ardath. BY MARIE CORELLI.

Arnold, Benedict, Life of. BY GEORGE CANNING HILL.

Arnold’s Poems. BY MATTHEW ARNOLD.

Around the World in the Yacht Sunbeam. BY MRS. BRASSEY.

Arundel Motto. BY MARY CECIL HAY.

At the Back of the North Wind. BY GEORGE MACDONALD.

Attic Philosopher. BY EMILE SOUVESTRE.

Auld Licht Idylls. BY JAMES M. BARRIE.

Aunt Diana. BY ROSA N. CAREY.

Autobiography of Benjamin Franklin.

Autocrat of the Breakfast Table. BY O. W. HOLMES.

Averil. BY ROSA N. CAREY.

Bacon’s Essays. BY FRANCIS BACON.

Barbara Heathcote’s Trial. BY ROSA N. CAREY.

Barnaby Rudge. BY CHARLES DICKENS.

Barrack Room Ballads. BY RUDYARD KIPLING.

Betrothed. BY SIR WALTER SCOTT.

Beulah. BY AUGUSTA J. EVANS.

Black Beauty. BY ANNA SEWALL.

Black Dwarf. BY SIR WALTER SCOTT.

Black Rock. BY RALPH CONNOR.

Black Tulip. BY ALEXANDRE DUMAS.

Bleak House. BY CHARLES DICKENS.

Blithedale Romance. BY NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE.

Bondman. BY HALL CAINE.

Book of Golden Deeds. BY CHARLOTTE M. YONGE.

Boone, Daniel, Life of. BY CECIL B. HARTLEY.

Bride of Lammermoor. BY SIR WALTER SCOTT.

Bride of the Nile. BY GEORGE EBERS.

Browning’s Poems. BY ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.

Browning’s Poems. (SELECTIONS.) BY ROBERT BROWNING.

Bryant’s Poems. (EARLY.) BY WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

Burgomaster’s Wife. BY GEORGE EBERS.

Burn’s Poems. BY ROBERT BURNS.

By Order of the King. BY VICTOR HUGO.

Byron’s Poems. BY LORD BYRON.

Caesar, Julius, Life of. BY JAMES ANTHONY FROUDE.

Carson, Kit, Life of. BY CHARLES BURDETT.

Cary’s Poems. BY ALICE AND PHOEBE CARY.

Cast Up by the Sea. BY SIR SAMUEL BAKER.

Charlemagne (Charles the Great), Life of. BY THOMAS HODGKIN, D. C. L.

Charles Auchester. BY E. BERGER.

Character. BY SAMUEL SMILES.

Charles O’Malley. BY CHARLES LEVER.

Chesterfield’s Letters. BY LORD CHESTERFIELD.

Chevalier de Maison Rouge. BY ALEXANDRE DUMAS.

Chicot the Jester. BY ALEXANDRE DUMAS.

Children of the Abbey. BY REGINA MARIA ROCHE.

Child’s History of England. BY CHARLES DICKENS.

Christmas Stories. BY CHARLES DICKENS.

Cloister and the Hearth. BY CHARLES READE.

Coleridge’s Poems. BY SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.

Columbus, Christopher, Life of. BY WASHINGTON IRVING.

Companions of Jehu. BY ALEXANDRE DUMAS.

Complete Angler. BY WALTON AND COTTON.

Conduct of Life. BY RALPH WALDO EMERSON.

Confessions of an Opium Eater. BY THOMAS DE QUINCEY.

Conquest of Granada. BY WASHINGTON IRVING.

Conscript. BY ERCKMANN-CHATRIAN.

Conspiracy of Pontiac. BY FRANCIS PARKMAN, JR.

Conspirators. BY ALEXANDRE DUMAS.

Consuelo. BY GEORGE SAND.

Cook’s Voyages. BY CAPTAIN JAMES COOK.

Corinne. BY MADAME DE STAEL.

Countess de Charney. BY ALEXANDRE DUMAS.

Countess Gisela. BY E. MARLITT.

Countess of Rudolstadt. BY GEORGE SAND.

Count Robert of Paris. BY SIR WALTER SCOTT.

Country Doctor. BY HONORE DE BALZAC.

Courtship of Miles Standish. BY H. W. LONGFELLOW.

Cousin Maude. BY MARY J. HOLMES.

Cranford. BY MRS. GASKELL.

Crockett, David, Life of. AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY.

Cromwell, Oliver, Life of. BY EDWIN PAXTON HOOD.

Crown of Wild Olive. BY JOHN RUSKIN’.

Crusades. BY GEO. W. COX, M. A.

Daniel Deronda. BY GEORGE ELIOT.

Darkness and Daylight. BY MARY J. HOLMES.

Data of Ethics. BY HERBERT SPENCER.

Daughter of an Empress, The. BY LOUISA MUHLBACH.

David Copperfield. BY CHARLES DICKENS.

Days of Bruce. BY GRACE AGUILAR.

Deemster, The. BY HALL CAINE.

Deerslayer, The. BY JAMES FENIMORE COOPER.

Descent of Man. BY CHARLES DARWIN.

Discourses of Epictetus. TRANSLATED BY GEORGE LONG.

Divine Comedy. (DANTE.) TRANSLATED BY REV. H. F. CAREY.

Dombey & Son. BY CHARLES DICKENS.

Donal Grant. BY GEORGE MACDONALD.

Donovan. BY EDNA LYALL.

Dora Deane. BY MARY J. HOLMES.

Dove in the Eagle’s Nest. BY CHARLOTTE M. YONGE.

Dream Life. BY IK MARVEL.

Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. BY R. L. STEVENSON.

Duty. BY SAMUEL SMILES.

Early Days of Christianity. BY F. W. FARRAR.

East Lynne. BY MRS. HENRY WOOD.

Edith Lyle’s Secret. BY MARY J. HOLMES.

Education. BY HERBERT SPENCER.

Egoist. BY GEORGE MEREDITH.

Egyptian Princess. BY GEORGE EBERS.

Eight Hundred Leagues on the Amazon. BY JULES VERNE.

Eliot’s Poems. BY GEORGE ELIOT.

Elizabeth and her German Garden.

Elizabeth (Queen of England), Life of. BY EDWARD SPENCER BEESLY, M.A.

Elsie Venner. BY OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

Emerson’s Essays. (COMPLETE.) BY RALPH WALDO EMERSON.

Emerson’s Poems. BY RALPH WALDO EMERSON.

English Orphans. BY MARY J. HOLMES.

English Traits. BY R. W. EMERSON.

Essays in Criticism. (FIRST AND SECOND SERIES.) BY MATTHEW ARNOLD.

Essays of Elia. BY CHARLES LAMB.

Esther. BY ROSA N. CAREY.

Ethelyn’s Mistake. BY MARY J. HOLMES.

Evangeline. (WITH NOTES.) BY H. W. LONGFELLOW.

Evelina. BY FRANCES BURNEY.

Fair Maid of Perth. BY SIR WALTER SCOTT.

Fairy Land of Science. BY ARABELLA B. BUCKLEY.

Faust. (GOETHE.) TRANSLATED BY ANNA SWANWICK.

Felix Holt. BY GEORGE ELIOT.

Fifteen Decisive Battles of the World. BY E. S. CREASY.

File No. 113. BY EMILE GABORIAU.

Firm of Girdlestone. BY A. CONAN DOYLE.

First Principles. BY HERBERT SPENCER.

First Violin. BY JESSIE FOTHERGILL.

For Lilias. BY ROSA N. CAREY.

Fortunes of Nigel. BY SIR WALTER SCOTT.

Forty-Five Guardsmen. BY ALEXANDRE DUMAS.

Foul Play. BY CHARLES READE.

Fragments of Science. BY JOHN TYNDALL.

Frederick, the Great, Life of. BY FRANCIS KUGLER.

Frederick the Great and His Court. BY LOUISA MUHLBACH.

French Revolution. BY THOMAS CARLYLE.

From the Earth to the Moon. BY JULES VERNE.

Garibaldi, General, Life of. BY THEODORE DWIGHT.

Gil Blas, Adventures of. BY A. R. LE SAGE.

Gold Bug and Other Tales. BY EDGAR A. POE.

Gold Elsie. BY E. MARLITT.

Golden Treasury. BY FRANCIS T. PALGRAVE.

Goldsmith’s Poems. BY OLIVER GOLDSMITH.

Grandfather’s Chair. BY NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE.

Grant, Ulysses S., Life of. BY J. T. HEADLEY.

Gray’s Poems. BY THOMAS GRAY.

Great Expectations. BY CHARLES DICKENS.

Greek Heroes. Fairy Tales for My Children. BY CHARLES KINGSLEY.

Green Mountain Boys, The. BY D. P. THOMPSON.

Grimm’s Household Tales. BY THE BROTHERS GRIMM.

Grimm’s Popular Tales. BY THE BROTHERS GRIMM.

Gulliver’s Travels. BY DEAN SWIFT.

Guy Mannering. BY SIR WALTER SCOTT.

Hale, Nathan, the Martyr Spy. BY CHARLOTTE MOLYNEUX HOLLOWAY.

Handy Andy. BY SAMUEL LOVER.

Hans of Iceland. BY VICTOR HUGO.

Hannibal, the Carthaginian, Life of. BY THOMAS ARNOLD, M. A.

Hardy Norseman, A. BY EDNA LYALL.

Harold. BY BULWER-LYTTON.

Harry Lorrequer. BY CHARLES LEVER.

Heart of Midlothian. BY SIR WALTER SCOTT.

Heir of Redclyffe. BY CHARLETTE M. YONGE.

Hemans’ Poems. BY MRS. FELICIA HEMANS.

Henry Esmond. BY WM. M. THACKERAY.

Henry, Patrick, Life of. BY WILLIAM WIRT.

Her Dearest Foe. BY MRS. ALEXANDER.

Hereward. BY CHARLES KINGSLEY.

Heriot’s Choice. BY ROSA N. CAREY.

Heroes and Hero-Worship. BY THOMAS CARLYLE.

Hiawatha. (WITH NOTES.) BY H. W. LONGFELLOW.

Hidden Hand, The. (COMPLETE.) BY MRS. E. D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH.

History of a Crime. BY VICTOR HUGO.

History of Civilization in Europe. BY M. GUIZOT.

Holmes’ Poems. (EARLY) BY OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

Holy Roman Empire. BY JAMES BRYCE.

Homestead on the Hillside. BY MARY J. HOLMES.

Hood’s Poems. BY THOMAS HOOD.

House of the Seven Gables. BY NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE.

Hunchback of Notre Dame. BY VICTOR HUGO.

Hypatia. BY CHARLES KINGSLEY.

Hyperion. BY HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

Iceland Fisherman. BY PIERRE LOTI.

Idle Thoughts of an Idle Fellow. BY JEROME K. JEROME.

Iliad. POPE’S TRANSLATION.

Inez. BY AUGUSTA J. EVANS.

Ingelow’s Poems. BY JEAN INGELOW.

Initials. BY THE BARONESS TAUTPHOEUS.

Intellectual Life. BY PHILIP G. HAMERTON.

In the Counsellor’s House. BY E. MARLITT.

In the Golden Days. BY EDNA LYALL.

In the Heart of the Storm. BY MAXWELL GRAY.

In the Schillingscourt. BY E. MARLITT.

Ishmael. (COMPLETE.) BY MRS. E. D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH.

It Is Never Too Late to Mend. BY CHARLES READE.

Ivanhoe. BY SIR WALTER SCOTT.

Jane Eyre. BY CHARLOTTE BRONTE.

Jefferson, Thomas, Life of. BY SAMUEL M. SCHMUCKER, LL.D.

Joan of Arc, Life of. BY JULES MICHELET.

John Halifax, Gentleman. BY MISS MULOCK.

Jones, John Paul, Life of. BY JAMES OTIS.

Joseph Balsamo. BY ALEXANDRE DUMAS.

Josephine, Empress of France, Life of. BY FREDERICK A. OBER.

Keats’ Poems. BY JOHN KEATS.

Kenilworth. BY SIR WALTER SCOTT.

Kidnapped. BY R. L. STEVENSON.

King Arthur and His Noble Knights. BY MARY MACLEOD.

Knickerbocker’s History of New York. BY WASHINGTON IRVING.

Knight Errant. BY EDNA LYALL.

Koran. TRANSLATED BY GEORGE SALE.

Lady of the Lake. (WITH NOTES.) BY SIR WALTER SCOTT.

Lady with the Rubies. BY E. MARLITT.

Lafayette, Marquis de, Life of. BY P. C. HEADLEY.

Lalla Rookh. (WITH NOTES.) BY THOMAS MOORE.

Lamplighter. BY MARIA S. CUMMINS.

Last Days of Pompeii. BY BULWER-LYTTON.

Last of the Barons. BY BULWER-LYTTON.

Last of the Mohicans. BY JAMES FENIMORE COOPER.

Lay of the Last Minstrel. (WITH NOTES.) BY SIR WALTER SCOTT.

Lee, General Robert E., Life of. BY G. MERCER ADAM.

Lena Rivers. BY MARY J. HOLMES.

Life of Christ. BY FREDERICK W. FARRAR.

Life of Jesus. BY ERNEST RENAN.

Light of Asia. BY SIR EDWIN ARNOLD.

Light That Failed. BY RUDYARD KIPLING.

Lincoln, Abraham, Life of. BY HENRY KETCHAM.

Lincoln’s Speeches. SELECTED AND EDITED BY G. MERCER ADAM.

Literature and Dogma. BY MATTHEW ARNOLD.

Little Dorrit. BY CHARLES DICKENS.

Little Minister. BY JAMES M. BARRIE.

Livingstone, David, Life of. BY THOMAS HUGHES.

Longfellow’s Poems. (EARLY.) BY HENRY W. LONGFELLOW.

Lorna Doone. BY R. D. BLACKMORE.

Louise de la Valliere. BY ALEXANDRE DUMAS.

Love Me Little, Love Me Long. BY CHARLES READE.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES

1. P. 45, changed “he was a man that could fail to command everywhere

respect and admiration” to “he was a man that could not fail to

command everywhere respect and admiration”.

2. Silently corrected obvious typographical errors and variations in

spelling.

3. Retained archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings as printed.

4. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.