“What reason have you for hating him, then?” she cried, passionately.
“I have the very best reason in the world, according to my judgment, for hating not only him, but all that ever belonged to him,” Mr. Dalton answered, with deliberate emphasis.
“Sir,” exclaimed Earle, in startled surprise, “what do you know about me, or those belonging to me? and why do you still persist in saying that Miss Dalton cannot be my wife, when she has distinctly stated that she has decided the matter? What possible barrier can there be to our union save the petty spite you so ignobly manifest toward me?”
Mr. Dalton laughed again at this—a low, mocking laugh—and rubbed his hands in sardonic glee, while Earle regarded him in amazed perplexity, and Editha wondered if her father was not losing his mind that he should act thus.
“Does it surprise you, young man, that I appear to have some knowledge of you? and shall I tell you, Editha Dalton, why you can never become his wife?” he asked, and Editha shivered and grew white at his ominous words. “You know,” he continued, still addressing her, “that I never tolerate or forgive opposition from any one—never forgive either a fancied or a real wrong. Mine is a peculiar temperament, I know, yet I am what I am, and those who foil or oppose me must take the consequences. I have never loved your devoted admirer, and since I have discovered his secret——”
“Secret!” breathed both his listeners, in surprise.
“Yes, secret. Had you no secret when you came to Richard Forrester?” demanded Mr. Dalton of Earle, and gnawing his lip savagely.
“Yes, I own that I had,” Earle answered, with a sigh; “but——”
“But a smooth tongue and lying lips will gloss almost anything over,” his enemy interrupted, sneeringly.
“Papa, you are fearfully unjust. Earle is the soul of truth,” Editha cried, indignantly, adding: “What if he had a secret?—he had a right to it, and no one should seek to pry into it. At any rate, I do not believe it is anything that affected his honor or nobility.”