Money slipped through his fingers like water; he had never seemed so gay, reckless, and intent upon his pleasure before, and more than one old associate remarked that “Mr. Dalton grew fast as he grew old.”
But a Nemesis was on his track.
A relentless fate was pursuing him, crying, “No quarter until the mighty one is fallen.”
His days of unholy living and revenge, of treachery and wrong, were numbered, though he knew it not, and no spirit of warning whispered that for every evil deed he had done he must soon give an account.
It was a matter of some surprise to Paul Tressalia that Earle should return to England alone.
He had fully expected that he would bring Editha as a bride to Wycliffe, and he had tried to school his own heart to bear it. He saw at once that there was some deep trouble on his mind; no one ever had such heavy hollow eyes, such a worn, haggard face, without some adequate cause. But, as Earle did not offer any explanation for it, he could not question him. And so the days went by, while he began to mature his plans for his own future.
Earle at once entered upon his duties as master of Wycliffe, and was received most heartily by all the adherents of the former marquis, and soon gained an influence and footing in the country which ought to have satisfied the most exacting.
He was feted and flattered, quoted, advised, and sought after; but never for a moment did he forget that sad white face that for a few minutes had lain on his breast for the last time, nor the last heart-broken farewell and the low-murmured “God ever bless and keep you.”
But the time came when he had to fight another mighty battle with himself.
His hopes for the future had all been destroyed by a single blow; but Paul Tressalia still loved Editha, he knew, and there might be a ray of hope for him.