CHAPTER XVIII
JOHN LOKER’S CONFESSION
The man had risen on his elbow and was staring with the most abject fear at Editha, trembling and shivering until his teeth chattered in his head.
His mind evidently was very weak—so weak that, under the influence of the sudden shock caused by seeing the young girl, he was babbling of secrets that otherwise he would never have dared to betray.
His first words had caused Editha only surprise, but as he went on her heart gave a sudden, wild bound that for the moment turned her giddy and faint.
She comprehended at once, when he spoke of having “cracked” her father’s house and of taking her “trinkets,” that she was in the presence of one who knew something about, and doubtless had participated in, that robbery so long ago, and for which crime Earle had so unjustly suffered. A cry of thankfulness nearly escaped her lips at this almost overwhelming knowledge.
Earle would be free at last—every taint would be obliterated, and he could henceforth walk the earth as proudly as the proudest.
This was the one thought that was uppermost in her mind as she waited almost breathlessly for him to say more.
“You see, miss,” his wife here interfered, turning a white, anxious face to her, “he does not know what he is saying, and he is getting very much excited. If—if—I thank you—I bless you for your kindness and the comfort you have brought us; but if you will please go away now while I quiet him—”
“No, no, Maria, you shall not send her away!” exclaimed the sick man, growing more excited. “She shall stay now, and I’ll tell her all about it if she’ll only promise not to send me to prison.”
“No one shall send you there, John,” Mrs. Loker tried to say quietly, though Editha could see that she was very much disturbed also.
The opportunity was one that must not be lost, however.
She felt that the man was dying—he could not live many days; and if he knew anything that would clear Earle from dishonor, she must discover it now.
She walked quickly and softly to his bedside, and, speaking very kindly, said:
“Mr. Loker, do not be disturbed. I promise you that no harm shall come to you, and you shall have every comfort as long as you live if you can prove to me that what you have just stated is true.”
Her tones were so gentle, and her eyes so mild and kind, that he was instantly reassured.
He fell back upon his pillow, panting for breath.
“Do you hear, Maria? She says—no harm shall—come. I’ve dreamed—of her for weeks—as she lay there sleeping—so innocent—and—beautiful—while—we stole her treasures.”
“Hush, John, please,” whispered his wife, greatly distressed.
“No, Maria; I want to tell her all about it now. It is Miss Dalton, isn’t it?” and he scanned her face eagerly as if he feared he might possibly have made a mistake.
“Yes, I am Miss Dalton; and, if you are able, I want you to tell me all about the night of which you speak,” Editha answered.
“I’d have been glad to confess it then, rather than let that fine young fellow go to prison,” he continued, with a deep sigh; “but Tom declared he’d kill me if I peached, and so I—had to hold my tongue.”
He paused for breath, and Mr. Loker, turning beseechingly to Editha, said:
“Miss, I cannot bear him to run on so. Won’t you please go?”
But Editha was determined she would not. Here she had, in the strangest manner imaginable, stumbled across one of the burglars who had so successfully committed a great robbery and then escaped punishment, while another had paid the penalty; and she was resolved to learn the whole story now, if such a thing was possible.
If the man should die without confessing the guilt that seemed to lie so heavy on his conscience, all possibility of clearing Earle from suspicion and restoring his fair fame would be forever lost.
She disliked to give the suffering woman pain, but Earle’s character was dearer to her than aught else, and it would be a cruel wrong to him to heed her request and go.
The man was evidently anxious to confess his guilt; it lay heavy on his heart. He doubtless knew he could not live long, and he desired to make a clean breast of everything before he should die.
No, she must stay and learn what she could; but first, she felt that the sufferer ought to have some nourishment; he was already much exhausted from his recent excitement, and his strength would not hold out unless he could first have something to eat.
Editha went to Milly and assisted her in preparing the broth, which was already warm, and the child then, with grateful thanks, took it to him and fed him with her own hands.
He eagerly took all she gave him as if he also was nearly famished, and then seized the soft roll which she had in her hand, eating it with evident relish.
His hunger satisfied, he beckoned Editha again to his side.
“How came you here tonight, Miss Dalton?” he asked.
She explained how it had happened, and he muttered, half to himself:
“Yes, yes, I see; you were sent here that justice might at last be done.”
“John,” pleaded his wife anxiously, “you are not strong enough to talk anymore.”
She shrank from the disgraceful confession she saw he had determined to make.
“Maria, you keep still,” he returned, with some show of impatience; “you know how heavy this thing has lain on my conscience ever since that youngster went to prison in my stead; and now that fate has opened a way, I am going to make it right, or as right as I can, if I die the next minute. Miss Dalton cannot stand,” he added, with considerable thoughtfulness; “let her have your chair, and you sit on the bed.”
In obedience to his request, Mrs. Loker arose from the chair, but, instead of sitting upon the bed, she sank down upon the floor beside it and buried her face in the clothes with a groan.
Editha gladly took the seat thus vacated for her, for she, too, was weak and trembling with excitement.
“I suppose you see that I cannot live long,” John Loker said to her; and holding up his thin hand between his eyes and the light, it looked almost transparent.
“You look very ill, sir,” she answered, gently.
“What’s become of that young chap who was sentenced for that robbery?” he demanded, abruptly, after a moment.
“He is in Europe now.”
“He had true grit in him; he never winced nor showed the white feather once during the trial,” he said, in an admiring tone.
“How do you know?” Editha asked, in surprise.
“Tom Drake and I sat by and heard the whole thing through.”
“You did?” she cried out in pain. “How could you?”
Only to think of it—the real criminals were so near to justice and Earle was convicted instead! It was horrible!
“Yes, we heard the case clear through; we heard the sentence passed upon him; and he stood up so proud, and calm, and handsome, and bore it without a whimper.”
“How could you?” Editha again asked, reproachfully.
“I don’t know, Miss Dalton, but folks get hardened to almost anything nowadays,” he replied, sighing. “It was cheeky, risky business for us to sit there, with some of those very diamonds and trinkets hidden away on our persons, and let another man be tried for what we had done.”
Editha shuddered.
“I must confess,” he went on, “that I never felt so mean in all my life as when I saw him turn white about the mouth when the jury brought in their verdict; and then, when you jumped up so brave and eager, and declared he was not guilty, I was so near confessing the whole thing that Tom laid a heavy hand on me and told me, with a look in his eye that meant business, that he’d kill me on the spot if I made so much as a sign. Of course, I did not dare to move after that,” he went on, with a deprecating look into the fair girl’s reproachful eyes.
“But there is such a thing as turning State’s evidence. Couldn’t you have done that, and then, if this other one was more guilty than you, he would have suffered the penalty, and you would have gone free?” Editha asked eagerly.
“I thought of that, miss, and I know Tom suspected me, too, for he dogged me all the time; and then, I’d been entangled in so many other things, I should probably have got deeper into the mire. We reasoned that they would be easy with the young chap—he’d only have a short sentence—when, if they’d caught us, we’d have had ten or fifteen years for being old hands at the business.”
“It was a wicked, cruel thing to do, to let an innocent man suffer as he suffered!” Editha exclaimed, forgetting for a moment, in her indignation, that she was speaking to a dying man.
“I know it—I see it now, miss, and I’ve been afraid to die with that on my mind; perhaps, if I confess the whole, I shall feel easier. I’ll tell you the whole story if you like,” he returned, humbly.
“Yes, do,” she cried, eagerly. “It can do no harm to confess it now, and will be an act of justice to the innocent—it will clear Mr. Wayne from the disgrace that otherwise must always rest upon him.”
“Wayne! Yes, that was his name. What was the other? It was a sort of high-sounding one if I remember right,” he asked.
“Earle Wayne was the name,” Editha replied, with a rising flush as she pronounced it.
Whether it was “high-sounding” or not, it was the dearest name in all the world to her, and she could not speak it without a thrill.
“He was a particular friend o’ yours, wasn’t he?” he inquired, with, a quick, searching look into the glowing face.
“Yes; but I’m ready to hear your story now.”
She did not deem it at all necessary to enter into the particulars of her relationship with Earle for his benefit.
“Well, as you say, it can do no harm to confess it now, and Tom Drake can’t hurt me, either—nobody will dare touch a dying man, though he did swear he’d kill me if I ever lisped a word of it. I know he meant what he said; and, miss, though I’ve been driven to stealing for a living, yet I’ve always loved my wife and child.”
He paused abruptly and glanced at those two faithful ones—the only ones in all the world who cared that he was dying, and who would miss him when he was dead.
“It’s been torture to me lately,” he went on, with emotion, “to see them going cold and hungry, taking the bread from their own mouths to keep life a little longer in my worthless body; but, miss, folks that are down in the world and driven into a corner can love just as strong as those who never knew a want.”
“Indeed, I do not doubt it,” Editha said, feeling a deep pity for him, notwithstanding he had so deeply injured one whom she so fondly loved.
“I know it is but adding insult to injury; but, miss, if you—if I could only be assured they need not want for bread when I am gone, it would be a great comfort,” he added, with a wistfulness that brought the tears to her eyes.
“They shall not—I promise you that I will see that they do not suffer,” she said, heartily.
“I do not deserve it from you, Miss Dalton, after using him so,” she said.
He seemed to have an intuitive idea of how matters stood between her and Earle, and her kindness moved him deeply, and Editha just then heard a smothered sob from the woman kneeling beside the bed.
“Have you a pencil and a piece of paper about you?” John Loker asked, after resting a few moments. “I want you to write down what I am going to tell you, and then I will sign it. It will be a strange ‘last will and testament,’” he added, with a bitter smile; “but perhaps it will do as much good as if I left a large fortune.”
Editha thought it would, too.
Yes, she had a pencil, and there was some paper in her French book that she had taken to write an exercise on and had not used. She produced these, and, using her books for a table, she was ready to write down the confession that would secure to her betrothed an unspotted name and place him where no man’s scorn would dare assail him.
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