Earle Wayne's nobility

by Mrs. Georgie Sheldon

Earle’s every interest and thought for himself was now also swallowed up in this great and unexpected trouble.

He no longer thought of seeking those unpunished criminals, or of clearing his own name from dishonor.

What cared he for any disgrace that might cling to him, so long as her fate remained such a dark mystery, and she, perhaps, sick and suffering, or—dead, for all any one would ever know?

For a week he was nearly mad, neither eating nor sleeping, but wandering aimlessly about the streets, peering into every face he met, as if he hoped that by some chance he might meet her. At night he was like some restless, caged lion, helplessly shut in by the darkness, as it were, behind its bars, against which he constantly fretted and fumed, until, with the first sign of dawn, he could return to his vain search.

But at the end of a week he began to realize the uselessness of his present course and then determined to settle down to some methodical plan upon which to work.

He resolved that he would visit very town, village and hamlet in the State, and that failing, he would search every other State in the Union in the same way.

Of course, this would entail upon him a life-long search, and the detectives told him he would only have his labor for his pains—that he would never find her in that way. They held to the belief that she was either in that city, or else in one of the adjoining cities, and within easy reach of the great metropolis, and they declared that they should confine their efforts to those places.

Earle wrote something of all this to Paul Tressalia, begging him to remain and rule at Wycliffe until his return, even though it should not be for a long time, and then he began his weary search.

It would be wearisome in the extreme to follow him, step by step, through the long weeks that followed, and during which he spared neither himself nor his money. He grew pale, thin and nervous, and disheartened, too, as the time went by, and he seemed no nearer the accomplishment of his object than at the very first.

“What shall I do?” he wrote, almost in despair, to Mr. Felton from a distant town. “I am nearly distracted, for all my efforts are vain. I have interviewed a number of detectives in different cities, and no two advise the same mode of procedure, and have advanced so many plans and theories that I am like a ship far out at sea, without either rudder or sail. I suffer continually the tortures of the rack. There is no rest for me, and there will be no charm in life for me until I find my lost one. Can you give me any hope? Has any clew been discovered? Telegraph me instantly if there is a single ray of hope.”