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EARLE WAYNE’S NOBILITY

By MRS. GEORGIE SHELDON

AUTHOR OF

“Brownie’s Triumph,” “Virgie’s Inheritance,” “Nora,” “Trixy,” “Stella Rosevelt,” “Wedded by Fate,” Etc.

A. L. BURT COMPANY

Publishers New York

Copyright 1880, 1881, 1882, 1903

By STREET & SMITH

Renewal Granted to

Mrs. Georgie Sheldon Downs

1908

Earle Wayne’s Nobility

EARLE WAYNE’S NOBILITY

CHAPTER I
SENTENCE OF THE COURT

“Guilty!”

The deep, sonorous voice of the foreman of the jury sounded out upon the solemn stillness of the crowded court-room like the knell of doom.

And doom it was, and to one who never consciously committed a mean act in all his life.

The effect which that one word produced was marked.

There was a rustle of excitement and disapproval among the crowd, while deep-drawn sighs and expressions of sorrow showed that sympathy was strong for the prisoner at the bar, who for the last hour, while the jury was absent to decide upon the verdict, had sat with bent head and listless attitude, as if wearied out with the bitter trial to which he had been subjected.

Now, however, as he had been commanded “to look upon the jury,” his head was proudly lifted, revealing an exceedingly intelligent and handsome face, and a pair of fine dark eyes met those of the foreman unflinchingly while the least smile of scorn and bitterness disturbed the firm, strong mouth, showing that he had believed he had not much to hope for from him.

As the word was spoken which sealed his fate, a gray pallor settled over his face, and he dropped into his former attitude; otherwise he betrayed no sign of emotion.

Then something occurred which very seldom occurs in a crowded court-room.

A low cry of pain not far from the prisoner made every eye turn that way, and made him shiver as with a sudden chill.

A tender, sorrowful gleam crept into his dark eyes, the proud lips unbent and trembled slightly, and a heavy sigh heaved his broad chest.

The next moment a slender, girlish form started up from her seat, and a fair, flushed face was turned with eloquent pleading toward the grave judge, sitting like a statue in his chair of state, while an earnest, quivering voice rang out:

“Oh, sir, he is not guilty—I know that Earle Wayne never was guilty of such a deed.”

A touching picture, and very sweet and attractive withal, Editha Dalton made, standing there so unconscious of herself, or that she was guilty of any breach of decorum; her fair hair floating like gleams of sunlight upon her graceful shoulders, her sweet face flushed and full of pain, her deep blue eyes filled with tears and raised beseechingly to the judge, her delicate hands clasped imploringly and half-outstretched toward him, as if seeking for mercy in the sentence he was about to pronounce.

The old man’s face lost its habitual sternness for a moment, and his own eyes softened almost to tenderness, as he caught the sweet tones, and turned to look upon her, so beautiful in her appealing attitude.

It was not often that a culprit found one so earnest and beautiful to plead his cause. The able lawyer who had had charge of the case for the young man, with all his eloquence, had not moved him as did this fair maiden, with her flushed, pained face, her pleading eyes, her outstretched hands.

A murmur of sympathy sounded again throughout the room, and a wave of regret swept over the judge’s heart as he turned from the girl to the prisoner, feeling himself more than half convinced of the truth of her words, as he marked again the noble face and the honest expression of the clear, unflinching eyes.

But some one pulled Editha Dalton hastily back into the chair from which she had arisen, and a stern voice uttered in her ear:

“Edie! Edie! sit down, child! What are you thinking of, when your own evidence did more toward convicting him than that of any one else?”

“Oh! I know it! I know it! but he is not guilty all the same. It is only the cruel force of circumstances that makes him appear so!” she sobbed, wildly, burying her face, with a gesture of despair, in her handkerchief.

The judge’s keen ears caught the words, and his sharp eyes wandered again from her to the prisoner, a shade of uneasiness in their glance. He marked the pallor that had overspread his face, making him almost ghastly; the yearning, troubled look in the eyes now fixed so sadly upon the weeping girl; the firmly compressed lips and clenched hands, which told of a mighty effort at self-control and something whispered within him that the jury was at fault—that the evidence, though so clear and conclusive, was at fault and, since there could be no reprieve, to make the sentence as light as possible.

“Prisoner at the bar, stand up,” he said, and Earle Wayne instant arose.

Tall, manly, and with conscious dignity, he confronted the judge to receive his sentence, his eye never faltering, his face calm and proud, though still exceedingly pale.

“You have heard the verdict of the jury—have you anything to say?”

“Nothing, save what I have already said, your honor. I am not guilty of the crime with which I am charged, and if I live I will yet prove it!”

That was all; but the firm, unfaltering words seemed to carry conviction with them, and even the jury began to look grave and troubled, as if they, too, feared they had convicted an innocent man.

But the fiat had gone forth, and the judge, anxious to have the uncomfortable matter disposed of, pronounced the lightest sentence possible—“three years’ hard labor in the State prison at ——.”

A mighty sigh burst from the multitude, as if it had come from a single breast, as he ceased, and then a hush like death pervaded the room. It was the best the judge could do, and the very least they could expect; but it was sad to see a promising young man of twenty condemned to penal servitude for a term of years, be it ever so few.

The prisoner received it with the same calmness that had characterized him throughout the trial, only a slight quivering of the eyelids showing that he had heeded the words at all.

A moment of utter silence pervaded the room after the sentence was pronounced, the court was dismissed, and then the curious but sympathetic rabble went its way.

But, with winged feet, a slight form darted forward from the crowd, and, almost before he was aware of her presence, Editha Dalton was beside the prisoner, her pained, quivering face upraised to his.

She seized his hand in both of hers, she laid her hot, flushed cheek upon it, and sobbed:

“Oh, Earle, forgive me! forgive me! but I had to tell the truth, and it has ruined you.”

“Hush, Edie—Miss Dalton. You have done perfectly right, and I have nothing to forgive.”

The young man spoke kindly, soothingly, but a sudden flush mounted to his brow, and the hot cheek against his hand thrilled him with a bitter pain.

“But it was my evidence that told most against you. I tried not to tell it all; but, oh! they made me, with their cruel questions. If I had not had to say that I saw you, and that the bracelet was mine, perhaps, oh! perhaps that dreadful jury would not have said you were——”

She stopped suddenly and shuddered, sobbing bitterly.

She could not speak the obnoxious word.

“Their saying that I am guilty does not make me so, even though I must pay the penalty as if I were. But I have the consciousness within that I am innocent of the crime, and I shall live to prove it yet to you, Editha, and to all the world,” he answered, in clear, confident tones, with a proud uplifting of his head.

“You do not need to prove it to me, Earle; I know it already. I would take your word in the face of the whole world and a thousand juries,” Editha asserted, with unshaken confidence.

A glad light leaped into the young man’s eyes, and illuminated his whole face for the moment, at these words.

“Thank you,” he replied, in low, thrilling tones, and bending toward her: “it will be very pleasant to remember what you have said while I am——”

He stopped short—he could not finish the miserable sentence.

His sudden pause reminded the young girl anew of what was to come.

“Earle! Earle!” she cried, passionately, her face growing white and agonized, “I cannot have it so! Three years! three long, long, wretched years! Oh, if I could only do something! If I could only find those wretches who did the deed for which you must suffer; if—oh, it is too, too cruel!”

“Hush, my little friend!” he said, bending nearer and speaking with deep tenderness; “your sympathy is very sweet and comforting to me, but it will unman me if I see you suffer so on my account.”

“Then I will be calm. I am thoughtless to wound you, when you have so much to bear already,” she interrupted, choking back the sobs that heaved her breast, and making an effort to be calm.

His lip trembled slightly as her blue eyes met his, so full of sympathy and sorrow.

“God knows that this is a fearful trial to me,” he went on, drawing a deep breath, to free himself of the choking sensation in his throat; but, trying to speak more hopefully: “I am young, and three years will soon pass. I shall spend them to some purpose, too; and, Editha, with the knowledge of your trust and faith in me, I shall be able to bear them patiently, and I shall come forth from the strange discipline better prepared, I have no doubt, to battle with life than I am at this moment. Every hour that is my own I shall spend in study; and, if you will continue to have faith in me, I promise you shall never have cause to blush to own me as a friend in the future.”

“Earle,” Editha replied, quietly, yet earnestly, now entirely self-possessed, “you are just as brave and noble as you can be, and I am proud of you as my friend to-day—now—this moment! I shall think of you every day; I shall pray for you every day; and, if they will let me, I will come once in a while to see you.”

“No, no; please do not, Edie. I could not bear that you should see me there,” he cried, sharply, his face almost convulsed with pain at the thought.

“Ah, no—I did not think; but you would not like it; but I want to do something to comfort you and let you know that I do not forget you,” she said, sadly, a troubled look on her fair face. “Will they let me send you things?” she asked, after thinking a moment.

“Yes, that is allowed, I believe.”

“Then I shall send you something as often as I can; and you will be comforted a little, will you not, Earle, if you know you are remembered?” she asked, anxiously.

“Indeed I shall,” he said, deeply touched. “If I receive a flower, a book, a paper, even, I shall be greatly cheered.”

“You shall have them. Every week I will send you something, and you will know that there is one true friend who has faith in you,” she said, eagerly.

“God bless you, Miss Dalton. You are a little comforter, and my heart is lighter already. I have another friend—your uncle; he has been very kind, and has fought hard for me.”

“Dear Uncle Richard! I believe he is one of the best men that ever lived,” Editha said, as her eyes sought a noble-looking man who was talking in an earnest and somewhat excited manner to a group gathered about him, and who had been Earle’s lawyer.

“I shall ever have cause to remember him gratefully. He did not give me much encouragement regarding the issue of the case—the evidence was so strong against me—and as we could get no clew to the real culprit, he feared the worst. But he promised to help me in my studies, should the case go against me, so that I may be ready for the bar when the term expires. So you see that things are not quite so dark as they might be,” Earle said, trying to speak hopefully.

Editha sighed.

The future looked dark enough at the best, she thought.

“If we could but have had more time—if you might only have another trial. Could you not have appealed, Earle?” she asked.

He shook his head sadly.

“It could have done no good. The really guilty ones have covered their tracks, and hidden their booty so effectually, that we could get no clue. But do not grieve for me, my little friend. Other innocent men have suffered for the guilty, and it can be no harder for me than it was for them. And,” lowering his voice, and speaking reverently, “I do not forget that there was once a Man who suffered for the sins of a whole world. For thirty-four years He meekly bore His cross, praying at the end that His enemies might be forgiven; and since He sees fit to send this one upon me, I must not murmur, though I own ’tis hard.”

Editha was weeping quietly now. The tears would come in spite of her, though she marveled at his words.

“Come, Editha, I have an engagement at four, and it lacks only fifteen minutes of that hour now.”

The words were spoken in cold, measured tones at her side.

The fair girl started, flushed, and glanced around at the speaker in surprise, as if unaccustomed to being addressed in that manner.

“Yes, papa, I will come; but I wanted to say good-by to Earle.”

“Ah, yes—ahem! I’m truly sorry for poor Earle,” Mr. Dalton said, addressing him with a good deal of coldness and a very poor show of sympathy, while he glanced impatiently at his daughter. “Very unfortunate complication of circumstances,” he went on, his gold repeater in his hand, and his eyes watching attentively the minute hand as it crept toward the hour of his engagement. “The evidence was strangely conclusive, and I wish for your sake it could have been refuted; but really, Editha, we must not delay longer.”

Earle Wayne bowed coldly to the would-be comforter, and stepped back as if to end the interview.

He knew Mr. Dalton was no friend to him, and his words, which contained no sincerity, were intolerable to him.

“Good-by, Miss Dalton,” he said, holding out his hand to Editha, and which she had dropped upon hearing Mr. Dalton’s stern tones.

That gentleman frowned darkly at the act.

What right had a criminal to offer his hand to his daughter?

“Good-bye, Earle,” she answered, clasping it warmly, while a big tear trickled down her cheek and dropped hot and burning upon it.

Then she turned quickly away, drew her vail over her tear-stained face, while Mr. Dalton led her from the room, himself bestowing only an indifferent nod upon the offending culprit.

CHAPTER II
THE ROBBERY

About three months previous to the events related in the preceding chapter, on a dark and stormy night, two men might have been seen prowling around a stately mansion in an aristocratic portion of the city of New York. After carefully reconnoitering the premises, to see that no one was stirring within, one of them cautiously proceeded to cut out a pane of glass in one of the basement windows, while the other kept watch upon the sidewalk.

The glass was removed without the slightest noise, whereupon the burglar unfastened the window and lifted the sash. Then making a little noise like the twittering of a sparrow, he was immediately joined by his companion, and both disappeared within the house.

A few minutes later a third man coming along the street, saw the sudden glimmer of a light in one of the lower rooms of the mansion.

Something about it instantly attracted his attention.

It was a quick, sharp flare, and then seemed to go suddenly out.

He waited a minute or two, and the same thing was repeated.

“Aha! a burglar!” he muttered to himself. “I think I’ll have to look into this thing.”

He stopped, and his first impulse was to turn and go in search of a policeman.

Ah! if he had done so how much of future misery would have been saved him.

But upon second thought he concluded not to do so, and quietly slipped within the shadow of the great porch over the front entrance.

It seemed a long time that he stood waiting there, and he regretted that he had not gone for an officer.

He did not know how long the burglars had been there, and he had feared they would escape before he could return. But finally he heard cautious steps approaching from the rear toward the corner where he was stationed, and now he caught the sound of exultant whispers, that they had been so successful as to get out undiscovered with their rich booty.

The next instant two men emerged into view, bearing their plunder in a bag between them.

With a bound the new-comer darted forward and felled one man to the ground with a blow that sounded like the descent of a sledge-hammer, and then grappled with the other.

The burglar who had been felled had been only momentarily stunned, and, almost instantly recovering himself, he had quietly picked up the bag, which had also fallen to the ground in the melee, and made off with it, leaving his companion to shift for himself as best he could.

The combatants fought bravely and well, but the assailant being lighter than the burglar, and less experienced in pugilistic practice, gradually lost ground, and finally a well-directed blow from his antagonist laid him flat at his feet, when he, also, beat a hasty retreat, having first dropped something on the ground beside his victim.

Steps were now heard approaching upon the pavement; the noise of the scuffle had reached the ears of one of the protectors of the peace, and he was hastening to the rescue.

A light at the same time appeared at a window in one of the lower rooms of the mansion so lately robbed, while above a sash was thrown hastily up, and a slight, white-robed figure leaned forth into the night.

The light in the window below streamed directly out upon the fallen hero—alas! a hero no longer—who now began to gather himself and his scattered senses together once more. As he arose to his feet a cry from above rang out on the stillness of the night.

“Oh, Earle! Earle! how came you here, and what is the matter?”

The voice was that of Editha Dalton, and, springing forward under the window, the young man replied, reassuringly:

“Do not be alarmed, Miss Editha. I have had a fall, but am all right now. I’ll come and tell you to-morrow how I happened to be here to-night.”

“So, so, my fine young gentleman, you’ll come and tell the lady to-morrow, will you? I’m thinking mayhaps you will have a chance to tell some one else by that time, you disturber of the peace;” and, before Earle Wayne could scarcely realize what had happened, a pair of steel bracelets were slipped about his wrists, and he was a prisoner.

“You have made a mistake, sir,” he said civilly, to his captor, yet beginning to feel very uncomfortable in the position wherein he found himself. “I was trying to stop a couple of thieves who had just robbed this house, when one of them knocked me down and cleared.”

“Yes, yes; I find I always get hold of the wrong rogue—some one else does the deed and the one I catch is always so ‘innocent,’” laughed the policeman, with good-natured sarcasm. “Aha! what have we here?” he cried again, as his foot came in contact with some glittering object and sent it spinning on before him.

He stooped to pick it up, and, as the light fell upon it, he saw it was a costly bracelet, set with a solitare diamond surrounded with emeralds.

“That looks ‘innocent,’ don’t it now?” he said, holding it up to the light with a chuckle.

“That is Miss Dalton’s bracelet; I’ve seen her wear it,” the young man thoughtlessly and injudiciously admitted.

“Oh, yes, no doubt; and you thought mayhaps that them glittering stones might bring a pretty little sum. I came just in time to stop this little game. Come, I think I can accommodate you with lodgings to-night, my hearty.”

At this moment a man came out of the house upon the balcony in great excitement.

“Help! help!” he cried. “I’ve been robbed! Stop thief! stop——”

“Ay, I have stopped him, and just in the nick of time, sir,” responded the policeman, leading Earle into view.

“Earle Wayne!” exclaimed Mr. Dalton, in greatest astonishment, as his glance fell upon him.

“Yes, sir, it is I; but I am no thief, as you very well know.”

“No, this does not look like it!” interrupted the policeman, flourishing the bracelet conspicuously.

“I have committed no robbery,” asserted Earle, with quiet dignity; “and I did not see that bracelet until you picked it up and showed it to me. It must have been dropped by one of the robber, who fled after I was knocked down;” and he went on to explain how he happened to be there, and what he had seen and heard.

“It’s a likely story now, isn’t it, sir,” sneered his captor, who was all too eager for the eclat of having captured the perpetrator of so daring a theft, “when I’ve found him with his booty right here on the spot?”

“Mr. Dalton,” Earle appealed, fearing he had got himself into a bad predicament, “you know well enough that I would do no such a thing, particularly in this house of all others;” and he glanced in a troubled way up at that white-robed figure in the window.

“No, certainly not. Papa, we know Earle would not be guilty of any thing of the kind, and I believe every word he has said about the encounter with those men,” Miss Dalton asserted, confidently.

“Did you see or hear any one else, Editha?” asked her father.

“No; I heard a heavy fall, and after listening a minute I came to the window, where I saw Earle just getting up from the ground; and see! as the light shines upon him he looks as if he had been having an encounter with some one;” and she pointed at the young man’s disarranged and soiled clothing.

But Mr. Dalton shook his head, while the policeman sneered. It looked bad, and the presence of the bracelet seemed to them indisputable proof that he was in some way criminally connected with the affair.

Further investigation proved that a quantity of silver, and all of Mrs. Dalton’s diamonds, together with quite a large sum of money, had been stolen.

Young Wayne was closely questioned as to who his accomplices were, for the policeman insisted that he must have had one or more.

“Make a clean breast of it, young one, and being your first attempt, perhaps they will let you off easy,” he said.

But Earle indignantly refused to answer any more questions, and was at last led away to the station-house and locked up until his case could be officially investigated.

The morning papers were full of the robbery, and the young man’s name figured largely in their columns, while much was said about the “culpable hardihood and stubbornness of one so young in years, but apparently so old in crime.”

A day or two after the case was investigated, and, no further light being gained upon the affair, he was committed for trial.

Richard Forrester, a lawyer of note and a brother of Mrs. Dalton, in whose employ the young man had been for the past three years, immediately gave bonds for him to the amount of ten thousand dollars, and for the next three months devoted himself assiduously to working up the complicated case.

The day for Earle Wayne’s trial came, and only the following facts came to light:

His character, up to the night in question, as far as any one knew, was unimpeachable.

He had been in Mr. Forrester’s employ for three years, and during that time had gained that gentleman’s entire confidence and kind regard, and he had even contemplated making him a partner in his business as soon as he had completed his course of study and been admitted to the bar.

He spoke at some length, and in glowing terms, of his honesty and industry, and said he had deemed him, if anything, too rigid and morbidly conscientious upon what seemed to him points of minor importance.

All this spoke well for the prisoner, but it did not touch upon the matter under consideration, and could not therefore be accepted as evidence.

It seems that on the afternoon before the robbery Earle had asked permission to go out of town on business for himself. He had not stated what that business was, neither had Mr. Forrester inquired.

Now, however, the question came up, but Earle refused to state it, and this of itself turned the tide strong against him.

He had obtained leave to leave the city on a train that left at two in the afternoon, and had gone to the village of ——, only eighteen miles out.

He transacted his business, which concerned only his private interests, he said, and this much he could also say, “was connected with the events of his early life,” and returned to the city by the late train, which arrived about midnight.

On his way from the station to his lodgings he was obliged to pass Mr. Dalton’s house, where he saw, as already described, the light within one of the lower rooms.

He stated that his first impulse was to go for a police officer, but fearing the man—he had not thought there would be more than one—would be off with his booty before he could return, he resolved to remain, encounter the villain single-handed, and bring him to justice.

He then went on to describe his tussle with the two ruffians.

But he had only his own word with which to battle all the evidence against him. His story did not sound reasonable, the jury thought, particularly as he so persistently refused to state the nature of his business to the village of ——; and besides, the fact of the bracelet having been found in his possession, or what amounted to the same thing, was almost sufficient of itself to convict him.

“Earle, if you could only tell this business of yours, perhaps we might be able to do something for you; otherwise I see no chance,” Mr. Forrester had urged, when the opposing counsel had made such a point of his refusal to do so.

“I cannot, sir. It is connected with a great wrong committed years ago, and involves the name of my mother. I cannot unveil the past before the curious rabble gathered here—no, not even if I have to serve out a ten-years’ sentence for keeping silent,” Earle said, firmly, but with deep emotion.

Editha’s evidence—since she was the first to see and recognize him on the night of the robbery—went further than almost anything else toward condemning him, even though it was given with such reluctance, together with her oft-asserted belief that he was innocent.

The tender-hearted, loyal girl would rather have had her tongue paralyzed than to have been obliged to speak the words which so told against him.

Earle was cross-examined and recross-questioned, but he told the same story every time, never swerving in a single particular from his first statements.

Every possible way was tried to make him confess who his accomplices were, the opposing counsel maintaining that he must have had one or more. But he always replied:

“I had no accomplice, for I have neither planned nor executed any robbery.”

“But you assert that two men came out of the house.”

“I encountered two men at the corner of Mr. Dalton’s house; one I surprised and felled to the ground, and then grappled with the other. During the scuffle the first one got up and ran off with the bag which contained their booty. I then received a blow which stunned and felled me, and when I came to myself again both were gone. I know nothing of either them or their plunder, and I am innocent of any complicity in the matter.”

But all was of no avail against the positive evidence which opposed him, and the fatal verdict was spoken, the fearful sentence pronounced.

Popular sympathy inclined strongly toward the unfortunate young man, whom many knew and respected for his hitherto stainless character, while his appearance, so noble and manly, prepossessed almost every one in his favor.

As before stated, he had come to Richard Forrester when a youth of seventeen, asking for work, and the great lawyer had employed him as an office boy, and it was not long before he came to feel a deep interest in the intelligent lad. He saw that he had what lawyers term “a long head,” and could grasp all the details of a case almost as readily as he himself could, and he resolved that he would educate him for the profession.

Mr. Forrester was a bachelor of great wealth, and exceedingly fond of his beautiful and vivacious niece, Editha Dalton, who, report said, was to be his heiress.

She was a slight, sprightly girl of fourteen when Earle Wayne came into her uncle’s employ, and a mutual admiration sprang up between them at once, and steadily increased, until, on the part of the young man, it grew into a deep and abiding love, although he had never presumed to betray it by so much as a look or tone.

Editha, at seventeen, had not as yet analyzed her own feelings toward her uncle’s protege; and thus we find her at the time of the trial pouring out her impulsive regrets and grief in the most unreserved manner, while her tender heart was filled with keenest anguish at the fate of her beau ideal of all manly excellence.

As for Mr. Dalton, he did not share the faith of either his daughter or his brother-in-law; and, notwithstanding he was vastly astonished upon discovering Earle Wayne in the hands of a policeman at his own door on the night of the robbery, yet he was a man who could easily believe almost anything of one whom he disliked.

He did dislike Earle, simply because Editha showed him so much favor; and he was rather glad than otherwise now, if the truth were known, that this very fascinating young hero was to be removed from his path, even though he was to become a prisoner. He began to fear that she had already grown to admire him more than was either wise or proper, considering the vast difference in their relative social positions; and it would never do for the aristocratic Miss Dalton, heiress-expectant, to fall in love with an office boy.

And so Earle Wayne went to prison.

But he went with a stout heart and a manly courage that very few possess who are doomed to drag out a weary term of years behind bolts, and bars, and solid walls.

CHAPTER III
A FRIEND IN NEED

“I did not do it. I have not that on my conscience to weigh me down. I am to suffer for another’s crime, and though it is a bitter trial, yet it is better so than that I was really guilty and could go free. I had rather be in my place, dreadful as it is, than in that of the real thief, and I will make my misfortune serve me a good turn in spite of all. I will fit myself for the very highest position in life, and then, when my three years are ended, I will go out and occupy it. I will not be crushed. I will rise above the disgrace. I will live it down, and men shall yet be proud to call me friend.”

So mused our hero as, for the first day in —— prison, he was doomed, according to the rules of that institution, to solitary confinement.

Earle Wayne’s was no weak nature, to yield himself up to useless repining and vain regrets.

The die was cast, and for the next three years he was to be like any other criminal, and dead to all the world, except that portion of it contained within those four dreary walls, and the one or two outside who should continue faithful to him. Nothing could help it now, unless the real thieves should confess their crime, which they were not at all likely to do, and he bravely resolved to make the best of his situation, hard though it was.

He went cheerfully to his work; he uttered no complaint, he sought no sympathy, and improved every hour that he could call to his own to the utmost.

Richard Forrester proved himself “a friend in need” at this dark time. Obtaining permission of the authorities, he stocked a bookcase for Earle with everything needful to complete a thorough course of study, and drafted a plan for him to follow.

Once in three months he visited him, and between each visit he received from him a synopsis of what knowledge he had acquired during that time, which he criticised and returned with many useful hints, and then, when he came, talked it all over with him.

He was surprised during his visits to see how thorough and clear he was upon all points which he had been over.

“Earle, my boy,” he said, at one time, “you will make a better lawyer than I, and I do not see where you find time for all that you have learned.”

“I have nothing to distract my mind here, you know, and I will not brood over my fate,” he replied, with a sad smile, “so it is easy to concentrate my thoughts, and I learn rapidly.”

“How much better it would be for all these poor fellows here if they could do the same, and be prepared for a better life when their time is out,” said Mr. Forrester, reflectively.

“Most of them, instead, are only laying plans for more desperate deeds than they have ever yet been guilty of; and I begin to think that these severe measures of the law, instead of reforming men, only tend to arouse their antagonism and make them worse,” Earle answered.

“But what would you do with them? They have violated the laws and must be made to suffer for it in some way.”

“That is true; if they do mischief they must be put where they will be restrained; but in order to reform them, and create a desire within them for higher and better things, I think only such men as are actuated by the highest principles—men who are honest, brave, and true—should be allowed as officers within the walls of a prison. No man can accomplish any real good where he is not respected, and there is no one in the world so quick and keen to detect a fraud as these criminals. There are a few men here who are just in the right place—men who would not be guilty of a mean or dishonorable act, and who, while they treat every one with kindness, and even courtesy, yet demand exact and unhesitating obedience. It is astonishing, and sometimes amusing, to observe how differently they are respected and treated from the others.”

“You believe, then, that these men might be reformed by kindness and judicious treatment?”

“I do,” Earle replied, gravely; “of course there are exceptions, but I really would like to see the power of true, disinterested kindness tried upon some of these reckless fellows.”

In after years he did see it tried, and of the result we have yet to tell.

Upon leaving the court-room with her father, after bidding Earle good-by, Editha appeared very much disturbed and kept shooting indignant glances from beneath her vail at her unconscious companion.

At last, when they were seated in their carriage, and rolling smoothly toward home, her wrath broke forth.

“Papa, I think it was real shabby of you not to shake hands with Earle, and express a little genuine sympathy for him.”

“I do not know as I particularly desire to shake hands with, or that I experience any great amount of ‘genuine’ sympathy for, the man who is supposed to have robbed me,” returned Mr. Dalton, with exasperating indifference.

“Papa Dalton! you know Earle Wayne did not rob you as well as I do,” Editha said, her eyes sparkling angrily; for the sweet little maiden could show anger upon occasion. “And as for myself,” she continued, spiritedly, “I am proud of him; I was proud to shake hands with him before the multitude, and I shall be proud to greet him as my friend when his term expires and he comes among us again.”

“Very likely,” Mr. Dalton answered sarcastically, his thin lips curling with scorn; “and after the very marked exhibition to-day, I should be prepared to know of your being ‘proud’ of him in almost any capacity. But pray, Editha, do not gush any more about it; it’s all very well for a young lady to express her sympathy and proper feeling in a proper way and at a proper time; but it was exceedingly mortifying to me to-day to see you carry quite so much sail.”

Miss Editha tossed her pretty head somewhat defiantly and impatiently at this curtain lecture, but a vivid scarlet burned upon her cheeks, showing that she felt its stinging force, notwithstanding.

Mr. Dalton continued, with increasing sarcasm:

“You and the young culprit formed the center of attraction during your tender little episode, and I doubt not, almost everybody thought you were taking a heart-broken leave of your lover, instead of a poor protege—a mere nobody—whom your philanthropic uncle had picked up.”

Editha had started violently as Mr. Dalton spoke of Earle as her “lover,” and the burning blood rushed in a flood to her brow, over her neck, arms, and hands, and tingled to the very tips of her toes.

Could it be possible that she had behaved in so unmaidenly a manner, and given the gaping multitude such an impression?

Earle Wayne her lover!

She had never had such a thought before; but a strange thrill shot through her heart now, bowing the defiant, sunny-haired head, and making the sweet blue eyes droop half guiltily.

But she quickly rallied, and, tossing back the waves of hair from her flushed face, she bravely returned to the combat.

“Well, and if he were—if—he were—what you have said of him, papa, I should still be proud of him, and—I’d be true to him, too. I’d marry him—yes, I would—just as soon as ever he got through with those hateful three years;” and she enforced her words with an emphatic tap of her small boot.

Mr. Dalton leaned back in the carriage and laughed heartily at this spirited outburst.

On the whole, he rather enjoyed seeing his charming daughter in a passion.

It was not often that he had the opportunity, for she was generally the happiest and gayest of maidens, and, being an only child, no cloud had ever been allowed to overshadow her.

But Mr. Dalton had been extremely annoyed at the scene in the court-room, deeming it vulgar in the extreme to be made so conspicuous before the rabble, and he had uttered words sharper than had ever been addressed to the petted child before during all her life.

But Editha was true and loyal to the core, and, when once she had made a friend, no adversity could turn her from that friend; and her whole nature had arisen to arms against the cruel injustice and wretched fate which had condemned one so noble and good as Earle to durance vile.

Her father’s laugh capped the climax; the excitement, the pain in her heart, and, above all, his last insinuation, had been almost more than she could bear; but when his hearty laugh rang out so full of mocking amusement, she could endure no more, and, girl fashion, she burst into tears, believing herself the most deeply injured and abused maiden in existence.

“Come, come, pet, don’t take it so much to heart; but in the future try and be a little less demonstrative,” Mr. Dalton said, somewhat moved by her tears.

But Edith was deeply wounded; her tears must have their way now, and not another word was spoken during their drive.

Once at home, she darted into the house and up to her own room, where, after she had wept her weep out alone, and something of the burden from her heart, she sat down to think.

Her cheeks burned hotly every time she recalled her father’s light words.

“Earle Wayne my lover!” she murmured, with tremulous lips, and burying her face in her hands, with a feeling of shame that she should dare to think of it, when Earle, doubtless, had never dreamed of such a thing himself.

Nevertheless, the words possessed a strange fascination for her.

When she knelt in prayer and spoke his name, claiming Heaven’s tenderest care for the smitten one, the burning flush returned to her cheek, the thrill to her heart.

“Earle Wayne my lover!” she repeated, softly, as she laid her head upon her pillow, and her dreams were full of a manly face, with deep, dark eyes, in which shone a light tender and true, with lips that wore a smile as sweet and gentle as a woman’s, but such as no woman’s ever wore for her.

She still seemed to feel the clasp of his hand, the charm of his low spoken words, and the music of his voice and, when at length she awoke with the break of day, she was gay, careless Editha Dalton no longer.

A graver, quieter light looked out of her sunny eyes as she arose and dressed; lines of firmness and decision had settled about the smiling, happy mouth, and all the world had a deeper meaning for her than ever before.

“Standing, with reluctant feet,

Where the brook and river meet,

Womanhood and childhood fleet.”

It was as if she had suddenly turned a new page within her heart, and read thereon something which was to make her life in the future more beautiful and sacred, and yet which brought with the knowledge something of regret for the bright and careless days now gone forever.

She remembered that this was Earle’s first day in prison—the first of those long, long three years—and the tears sprang to her eyes, a sob trembled on her lips.

It was only a few hours since she had seen him, but it seemed as if weeks had passed; and, if they had been so long to her, what must they have been to him?

Could he ever endure it? Could she ever wait with patience so long?

She could not go to him—he had said he could not bear to have her see him there—and so she had nothing to do but wait.

“But I will not forget him,” she murmured; “let papa say what he may, I have promised to be a friend to him, and I shall keep my promise. He has no one in all the world, or seems to have no one, save Uncle Richard and me. Every week I will send him something, just to let him know that there is one, at least, who cares a little and is sorry for him.”

CHAPTER IV
THE GREAT UNKNOWN

A year went by.

To Editha Dalton it seemed to fly as if with magic wings, for she was yet a school-girl, and this last year was filled with study and practice, and with all the bustle and excitement attendant upon preparing for graduating.

To Earle Wayne it passed in a slow, tedious, monotonous manner, with its changeless daily routine to and from the workshops and simple meals; its never-varying sights and sounds, bolts and bars. But notwithstanding he grew intensely wearied with all this, and oftentimes even heart-sick, yet his courage and his purpose never wavered. Every day was filled to the last moment with usefulness. Every day, when his task was completed, he drew forth his book and spent the remaining hours in study, storing his mind, increasing his knowledge of his chosen profession and preparing to carve out for himself a future which, in spite of his present misfortune, he fondly hoped would command the respect of all who knew or should ever know him.

He was cheerful and patient, performed his tasks with alacrity, and without the grumbling so usual among convicts; and, by his never-varying courtesy and good behavior, he won for himself the commendation of the officers, the good-will of his companions, and, better than all, the days of grace allotted to those who are not reprimanded.

Every week on Saturday—the day on which any one may receive remembrances from their friends in the way of fruit, flowers, and other delicacies—there came to him some little token, that made his heart beat and thrill with pleasure.

Sometimes it was a simple bunch of rosebuds, which, expanding day by day, blossomed at length into full glory, cheering and filling his gloomy cell with their beauty and fragrance.

Sometimes it was a box of lilies of the valley, or violets, or heliotrope and myrtle blossoms; at others, a tempting basket of fruit, with a book or periodical of some kind; and Earle knew that his little friend had not forgotten him.

Faithfully, never missing a single day, they came for a year, when they suddenly ceased, and he received them no more.

No one can realize how the poor prisoner missed these bright evidences of remembrance, nor how eagerly he still looked for them every Saturday for a long time, thinking that perhaps Editha was away or sick, and could not send them for him.

“She has forgotten me, after all,” he sighed, sadly, after several months had passed and he had not received a single flower; and it seemed almost as if death had bereaved him—of some dear one as he returned to his lonely cell at night, after his daily task was ended, and there was no sweet perfume to greet him, no bright blossoms to cheer him.

All that remained to comfort him was a little box filled with dried and faded flowers that he had not had the heart to throw away, and the memory of the brightness that had been.

And what was the reason of all this?

Had Editha forgotten?

Had she, amid the busy cares which occupied her time and attention at this time, grown careless and neglectful?

No. It happened in this way:

At the end of a year she graduated, doing honor to both her instructors and herself.

There was a day apart for public exercises, when the graduating class appeared before their many friends to show what they were capable of in the way of essays, poems, and other accomplishments, and to receive their diplomas.

Editha’s poem was greeted with enthusiasm, a perfect storm of applause testifying to the appreciation of the public; whole floral offerings were showered at her feet, until there were enough to have stocked a florist in a small way.

Selecting the choicest of them all, she inclosed both bouquet and poem, together with a little explanatory note, in a box, and dispatched it to Earle.

Unfortunately, Mr. Dalton encountered the servant who was bearing this box to the express office, confiscated it, and enjoined silence upon the bearer regarding its untimely fate. The poem he preserved, but the flowers were ruthlessly cast into the flames.

“We’ll put a stop to all this nonsense,” he muttered, as he watched their beauty blacken and shrivel upon the glowing coals; and from that day he took care that the lonely prisoner should receive no more flowers or tokens of remembrance from his little friend, who, though she never once failed to keep her promise, was yet destined, through the enmity of another, to appear unfaithful to her promises.

The second year passed, and it was a year fraught with events of pain and sorrow for our beautiful Editha.

Mrs. Dalton died—a woman of fashion and folly, but always kind, in her way, to Editha; and though there had never been as much of sympathy and harmony between them as there should be between mother and daughter, yet it left her very lonely, and occasioned her the deepest grief that the one whom she had always called by that sacred name should be taken from her.

Six months later Richard Forrester suddenly sickened, and from the first they knew that it was unto death.

This blow appeared likely to crush Editha, for “Uncle Richard” had always been her friend and sympathizer.

To him she had always carried all her griefs, her hopes and fears (for which no one else appeared to have neither time nor interest); and she ever found him a ready listener, and came away comforted and lightened of her burden, whatever it was.

If she wanted a particular favor, it was to Uncle Richard she applied. He gratified every childish whim or wish, no matter what it was or what expense, time, or trouble it involved.

He was her confident, too; all her little school-girl secrets were whispered unreservedly in his ear, and, as she grew older, all her plans were submitted to his judgment rather than to that of either father or mother.

He always discussed them with her as with an equal, and as if they were as interesting to him as to herself, while her parents were liable to say, indulgently, yet with evident annoyance:

“Do as you like, child, but I am too busy to attend to anything of the kind.”

From the moment of his attack, Mr. Forrester had insisted upon the presence of Editha at his bedside; and there he lay and watched her, with his heart in his eyes, as if he knew he was looking his last upon the fair face and sunny-haired head that had been so dear to him for so many years.

He had been stricken with paralysis while pleading a case in the court-room, and was brought to his home never to leave it again until he was borne forth by other feet, and laid away from the sight of men forever.

His body was almost paralyzed, but, strange to say, his brain was clear, and he arranged regarding the disposal of many thing which were not mentioned in his will, and concerning the last services that were to be observed over his own body.

“My little girlie,” he said, tenderly, to Editha one day, as she sat beside him, holding one of his numb and withered hands, and longing to do something to relieve his helplessness, “you have always loved Uncle Richard a little, haven’t you?”

“A little!” she said, choking back a sob. “No one in all the world has ever been to me what you have been. You have been my confidant—my most intimate friend. I have never been able to go to papa, nor to poor mamma while she lived, and tell them my troubles as I have to you. I don’t know why it was, but papa always laughed at and teased me, and mamma was too busy to attend to me. But you always put by everything and listened to me. Uncle Richard, I believe—I ought not to say it, perhaps, but I can just whisper it to you now—I believe I love you best of any one in all the world;” and Editha laid her cheek against his in a fond way that told how very dear he was to her.

“My dear child,” the dying man said, with starting tears and trembling lip, “your words are very precious. I have been a very lonesome man for—for many years, but you have been a great comfort to me. Now, I want to talk very seriously to you for a little while. Do you think you can bear it?”

“Yes, but—but I am afraid it will not do for you to talk; the doctor said you must not have any excitement,” Editha said knowing full well what subject was uppermost in his mind and shrinking from talking about it.

“It will not make any difference now, Edie, dear—a few hours or less will not matter to me——”

“Uncle Richard!” gasped the girl, as if she could not bear it.

“My dear, we both know that death must come to me soon,” he said, gently, but with a sad smile; “the parting must come. If I do not get excited, I suppose I may live a few hours longer; but I have some things that must be said, whether they excite me or not, and which I can say only to you; and, as I said before, a few hours will not matter. Do not weep thus, my darling; I cannot bear that,” he added, as the golden head dropped upon his breast and Editha wept rebelliously.

“Uncle Richard, you are my only real friend; I cannot, cannot let you go. What shall I do without you?”

“Edie, dear, you must not give way thus—you must be brave and calm; it excites me more than anything else to see you grieve so,” he said, huskily, as his lips pressed her shining hair, and his eyes were filled with tears.

She raised her head instantly and made an effort at self-control.

“Then I will not trouble you any more. Forgive me;” and her red lips sought his, so pale and drawn.

“That is right, dear do not let this, our last hour, perhaps, be wasted in tears and vain regrets. You know, Edie,” he continued, after a few minutes’ thought, “or, at least, I suppose you know, that I am considered to be very rich.”

“Yes; but oh! if we could only give it all and have you well again,” she mourned.

“Yes; gold is valueless when one comes to lie where I am to-day, and there is nothing a man would not give in exchange for his life; but that is something over which we can have no control, and so it is well at all times to be ready to go when we are called. But I want to tell you that several years ago I made a will, and made you my heiress; I have never had any one to love as I have loved you, and all that I accumulated was laid by for you. But now——”

He stopped, and a look of trouble and anxiety swept over his features.

“But what?” Editha asked; “have you any other wish now? I shall not care and everything shall be just as you would like it to be.”

“Thank you, dear; and that is just the unselfish spirit that I like to see in you, and I know that you will make a good use of your fortune. But I have another wish; it is something that I intended doing myself, but have unwisely kept putting it off, and now I must leave it for you to carry out.”

“Thank you for trusting me to do so, whatever it may be,” Editha said, feeling deeply touched and grateful that he should deem her worthy to carry out any plan of his.

“From the first,” he said, “I have been deeply interested in Earle——”

Editha started at the name, and the rosy tide swept over her fair face, while her eyes drooped half guiltily, as if she feared he suspected something of what her father had hinted so long ago regarding Earle.

The sick man observed it, and he regarded her keenly for a moment, then heaved a deep sigh.

“He came to me, you know, dear,” he went on, “a poor, friendless boy of seventeen, and I, attracted by his honest face and engaging manner, gave him a place in my office. I was not long in discovering that I had found no ordinary character, and I resolved I would cultivate his talents, make a lawyer of him, and, when he should attain a proper age, make him an equal partner in my business. But you know the unfortunate circumstances which have blighted his career, and will mar it all his life——”

“No, Uncle Richard, I do not believe that,” Editha interrupted, firmly. “I know well enough that Earle is innocent of any crime, and I believe he will rise above all his trouble.”

“Yes, I, too, believe him innocent, and suffering a grevious wrong; but, unless his innocence is proven to the world, the disgrace of his imprisonment will cripple him all his life—the world will always sneer at and scorn him.”

“I shall not, Uncle Richard; when he comes back to us, I shall be his friend just as I always have been, and I shall defend him wherever I go.”

Richard Forrester’s fading eyes lighted with admiration as they rested upon the spirited face beside him, and he listened to these brave and fearless words.

“I am proud of you, Editha, for standing up so bravely for the right, even though others may curl the lip at you for doing it. It is no wonder that I love you, dear,” he added, with wistful tenderness; “if—if I only might have had—ah! what was I saying?”

He stopped suddenly, while a shudder shook him, and Editha, not understanding his last words, feared his mind was wandering.

Presently, however, he resumed:

“But what I wanted to tell you was this: Since Earle’s misfortune I have planned to do something for him as soon as his time expires. He will be fitted for the bar by that time if he follows the course I have marked out for him, and I intended offering him a partnership with me; or, in case he did not feel like remaining here, giving him something handsome with which to start life somewhere else. But I can do neither now—I cannot even add a codicil to my will, as I would like to do, in his favor, I am so helpless;” and he glanced down at his palsied hands with a heavy sigh.

“That is just like you, Uncle Richard; but he can have the money even if you are not able to change your will,” Editha said, in a glad tone.

“Yes, that is what I want; when he comes out from that dismal place he will feel as if every man’s hand is against him, and I want him to be independent until he can win his way and establish himself somewhere. I want you, Editha, to give him ten thousand dollars; I shall leave you a very handsome fortune, dear—more than a hundred and fifty thousand, and you will not miss that sum.”