CHAPTER XXXII
THE TABLES TURNED
“Revenge, at first though sweet,
Bitter ere long back on itself recoils.”
Earle suddenly reeled at these astounding words, as if someone had struck him a heavy blow.
“Mr. Dalton! Sir!” he cried, aghast, and regarding him for the moment in helpless amazement.
“Papa!” Editha exclaimed an expression of utter incredulity upon her face.
She really thought that her father was deranged. She believed that he had cherished his bitterness toward Earle until he had become a monomaniac upon that point, and now, under the excitement of the moment, and their defiance of him, he had lost his reason entirely.
“Does all this surprise you, my children?” Mr. Dalton asked, with a gloating grin at Earle. “It is not to be wondered at,” he went on; “but it is true, nevertheless. Earle Wayne, as he calls himself, though he has no more right to the name than I have, is bone of my bone and flesh of my flesh.”
Earle was terribly moved by his speech. His breath came labored and heavily, his teeth were locked together, and his hands were clenched until they were fairly livid.
He took one fierce stride forward, as if he could have felled the man to the floor, then suddenly stopped, and asked, in low, concentrated tones:
“Prove what you have said! Is your real name Dalton?” yet even as he asked the question a cold sweat settled upon his forehead and about his mouth.
“Yes; I have always answered to the name of George Sumner Dalton, though for brevity’s sake, I dropped the first name many years ago.”
“George Sumner Dalton!” repeated Earle, mechanically.
“Yes, you have it correct. Do you recognize any part of it?” was the mocking reply.
“I see, I see,” murmured the young man, pressing his hands upon his temples, and looking as if he was paralyzed with the suddenness of the intelligence.
Then all his mother’s sufferings—all the wrongs and disgraces of his own early life suddenly surged over him with overwhelming force, and he turned fiercely upon the man who dared to stand there and taunt him with those cruel facts.
“Then you are the man whom I have been looking for for seven long years,” he cried. “You are the wretch who plotted to betray my mother, and you dare stand there and own the dastardly act—you dare acknowledge the deed that makes you a man to be shunned and despised by all true, good men, brands you worse than a second Cain, and makes me loathe you until my very soul is sick, notwithstanding that the same blood may flow in our veins?”
“Earle! Earle! what are you saying?” cried Editha, wildly, and springing to his side, as the burning words fell with almost blighting force from his lips. “Spare him, Earle—I do not think he knows what he has been saying; this wild, wild story cannot be true; he must be mad!” And she clung to him, trembling in every limb, her teeth chattering with nervousness.
Earle himself shuddered as her words fell upon his ear, and his very heart seemed dying within him as he bent a look of keenest anguish upon her face.
Sumner Dalton his father and hers!
Could any torture more horrible than the knowledge of that fact be poured out upon him?
Yet he saw that she did not credit the story—ay, it seemed too wild for anyone to credit. But he knew it was true.
He put his arm around her and led her to a seat.
“My darling—my darling!” he cried, in a voice of despair, “can we ever bear it? I thought our sorrows were all at an end; they have but just begun. God give us both strength to bear it.”
“Earle,” she said, with a piteous look into his quivering face, “you do not believe what he has said? Oh!” clasping her hands with a frightened look, “just think what it means, if it should be true. You do not believe it, Earle?”
He bowed his head until his forehead touched her golden hair, and groaned aloud.
“My darling, I believe the knowledge will kill me, but I know that it is true,” he said, in a hoarse and unnatural voice.
She shrank from his sheltering arm with a cry that rang in his ears for years.
Folding his arms tight across his breast, as if to keep his hands from performing a swift and terrible vengeance, Earle instantly turned and faced the man who owned himself his father.
“You know it, do you?” Mr. Dalton said before he could speak. “You own the relationship, then? You know all your mother’s story, and how she cheated me and kept me from the knowledge of who she was, the position she occupied, and the great wealth she was to inherit someday? If she had told me, I should today have been the father of the Marquis of Wycliffe, and occupying one of the proudest positions in England. I would have married her honorably if she had told me, but she cheated me out of a magnificent fortune, and I stand here today a ruined man, a beggar. Do you wonder that I hated you, for her sake, when I found out who you were? Do you wonder that I have always hated Marion Vance for defrauding me thus?”
“Hold!” cried Earle, so sternly that he stopped involuntarily. “Do not dare to take my mother’s pure name upon your vile lips, nor vent your petty spite upon her for what you were alone to blame.”
“Pure name!” burst forth the furious man, recklessly. “Doubtless you are very proud of it—the name that you should bear instead of the one you do. But I have had my revenge, or at least a part of it; for, if through her obstinacy I lost the glory which should have been mine, I did not suffer alone—she was driven out, a nameless outcast, from her ancestral home, never to enter there again, while her proud inheritance descended to another branch of the family, though I don’t know who, and made her offspring a beggar. If she had only told me that night in London,” he went on, talking more to himself than to anyone else, “I would gladly have married her on the spot. But she didn’t; when she found I wouldn’t compromise myself, she let her pride ruin both her and me; and how I have hated her ever since. But her suffering was the greater, and I know her sensitive soul must have nearly died within her at the idea of entailing her disgrace upon her offspring. Ah! if I could have found her after that, I’d have made her pay the penalty for cheating me so,” he concluded, with intense bitterness, remembering what he had lost.
“Do not forget that you were the traitor,” Earle said. “You lured her on to destruction with soft words and smiles; you won her pure heart, and tempted her into a secret marriage, professing to love her as simple Marion Vance, and for the innocent love she lavished upon you. You did all this to amuse yourself and pass away an idle summer. She believed you and trusted in your honor, and she gloried in her secret, because of the joyful surprise she would be able to give you when you should go with her to her father to confess that she was your wife. If you had been true to her, if you had not tried to play that dastardly trick upon her, you might have attained to the greatness which your mean and ambitious soul coveted. You cheated yourself, and now the meanest of all traits that weak human nature is heir to is revealed in you—you hate the one you sought to injure, simply because you overreached yourself, and the wrong recoiled in a measure upon you.”
Sumner Dalton glared angrily at him, for Earle read his degraded nature like an open book, and it was by no means pleasant to be compelled to view the picture he had drawn.
“You appear to know all about your mother’s history,” he said at last, with some curiosity.
“Yes,” he answered, with a look of pain; “I know it all—how she suffered when you did not come to her—how anxious she grew when she discovered that her honor must be vindicated, and you did not even write to her in answer to her heart-rending appeals—how she determined that she would be acknowledged as your lawful wife, and sought you in London one dismal night, and begged you, with all the eloquence which she could command, to right the wrong you had done her. Had you consented, she resolved to tell you then and there of the brilliant future awaiting you. But you spurned her from you instead—you turned coldly from her and her almost idolatrous love, mocking her misery, and telling her that the woman you married must be endowed with wealth and position—if she could assure you of these, you would consent to make her an honorable wife; but you would not marry her to save her from the shame that you had brought upon her. Then it was that she learned your utter heartlessness—that you cared for nothing or for no one but yourself and the things that would serve to gratify your selfish ambition. She would not be an unloved wife, and she knew that when you should discover the greatness you had missed you would be rightly punished; and so, in her pride, she turned from you in silence regarding her prospects, vowing that she would not wed you then if it would save both your lives; she resolved to bear her shame alone, knowing that the day was not far distant when you would be willing to sacrifice much to undo that wrong—when you would curse yourself for your folly. I judge from your words today that that time did come—that you suffered keenly when you discovered that the trap you had set for your victim had also sprung on yourself. As I said before, you are the man for whom I have been searching for the last seven years—that was the business upon which I went that night when this house was robbed, and returning became entangled in the affair. I thought I had gained a clue to the whereabouts of a George Sumner, and I meant, if I found you, to brand you the traitor and the coward that you are—”
“Softly—softly, young man,” interrupted Sumner Dalton, a white light gleaming from his eyes. “I suppose you mean by that that you would like to pommel me within an inch of my life, but this is a country which does not permit such things—there are penalties for such indiscretions as those, and as you have already served one term for the benefit of the State, I hardly think you would enjoy another.”
Oh, how the heart of Earle Wayne rebelled against this insult! But he knew that retribution did not always fall upon the offender in the form of blows, and he answered, with quiet scorn:
“You mistake, sir. I would not degrade myself enough to lay even a finger upon you.”
This shot told; Earle could see by the twitching of the muscles about his mouth and the sudden clenching of his hands, and he replied, with malevolent spite:
“Yes; what you say is true—I am the George Sumner who enticed Marion Vance into a secret marriage. I got Austin Osgood to perform the ceremony—a clever fellow, and always up to all sorts of mischief; but the scamp has never shown his face to me since, for some unaccountable reason. I must confess I did feel a little squeamish and sorry for the girl when she took on so; but when I found how she had deceived me, I had not a regret—I gloried in her shame, and the shame she must entail upon her offspring. I gloried in the suffering I knew she would experience, as day after day she looked upon her child and thought of the noble inheritance she had deprived it of by her folly. A week after she came to me one of my friends told me the story of Marion Vance’s dishonor—how that all the world knew then that she had been driven from her father’s house in disgrace. It was then that I learned who she was and what I had lost. I left everything and began to search for her, resolved I would make her marry me so that our child might be born in wedlock and inherit the estates of Wycliffe. But she had hidden herself so securely that she could not be found, and, when the time had passed that must elapse before her child was born, I gave up the search and returned to America. But I had learned to hate her with all the strength of my nature, and if by any means I had ever encountered her, I would have crushed her as relentlessly as I would crush a reptile. When I discovered that you were her son, I knew that through you I could doubtless make her suffer, and I meant to crush you, too. Now you know why I have been your bitter foe for all these years,” he concluded, with a look so baleful that Earle turned away in disgust.
“My mother is forever beyond your reach—she died more than seven years ago,” he said, solemnly. A slight shiver disturbed Sumner Dalton’s frame, but he made no reply.
“How did you discover that I was Marion Vance’s child?” Earle asked, after a few moments of silence.
Mr. Dalton laughed, but a feeling of shame made him color, notwithstanding.
“Perhaps you remember leaving a package of papers with Richard Forrester for safekeeping while you were absent for three years,” he said, recklessly. “He left them with Editha when he died, and, I being somewhat curious to know what was so carefully guarded by so large a seal, I took the liberty to inspect them, little thinking that I should discover so near and dear a relative by so doing.”
Editha here started up, and, lifting her white face from her trembling hands, cried out:
“Shame!”
“Thank you; a very respectful way of addressing a parent,” Mr. Dalton sneered, while Earle’s lip curled disdainfully, and a hot flush again mounted to his brow. “I must say, however,” Mr. Dalton continued, “that the package was not worthy of the effort it cost me to open it, and contained nothing of interest to me beyond the pictures and writing that proved to me you were Marion Vance’s child, unless, I except some hieroglyphics on a piece of cardboard that I could not read.”
Earle’s expression was a peculiar one, as he asked:
“Did you examine that piece of cardboard critically?”
“No; I tossed it one side when I found I could not read it.”
“I have it with me now—I always carry it with me, for it contains matters of the most vital importance to me, and might possibly interest you considerably.”
He drew it from his pocket as he spoke, and held it so that Mr. Dalton could see the writing in cipher.
He recognized it instantly.
“These hieroglyphics, as you call them, merely tell what the cardboard contains.”
“What it contains!” repeated Mr. Dalton, his curiosity now fully aroused.
To him, it appeared only a single piece of rather heavy cardboard.
“Yes; if you had examined it carefully you would have noticed that it is apparently composed of three layers, but the middle one is cut out very near the edge, so as to allow of some closely written sheets of thin paper to be inserted. I remove one end of what appears the middle layer—thus, and you perceive that the papers easily slide out of their pocket.”
He held it upside down, gave it a little shake, and some very thin sheets of paper, upon which there was writing, with another long, narrow slip which was not so thin, fell upon the table.
“This, perhaps, may contain something of interest to you,” Earle said, taking the latter up and holding it before Mr. Dalton.
It was the marriage certificate that the old rector had given Marion on the evening of her marriage.
He laughed long, loud, and scornfully as he saw it.
“I always thought Austin Osgood carried matters a little too far when he dared to sign the old rector’s name to a real marriage certificate and give it to Marion. But I suppose it made it seem more real to the girl, only I wonder at her keeping the useless paper after she discovered the fraud. As for Austin, I told you before, I never saw him again. Perhaps he, also, thought he had gone too far in the matter, and was afraid he might be overhauled for forgery.”
Earle did not make any reply to these remarks; he merely returned the certificate to the cardboard pocket and took up another paper.
“Here is some information that I stumbled upon purely by accident—no, I should not say that,” he added, in a reverent tone; “I ought to say, a Divine Providence led me to it. Shall I read it to you, or will you read it for yourself? It is very closely connected with that little drama in St. John’s Chapel at Winchelsea.”
Mr. Dalton moved uneasily in his chair. Somehow the words of this grave, calm young man, with his self-contained bearing, and a suspicion of great reserve force about him, made him feel as if he might have the advantage in his hands.
He began to fear that those papers might contain something very disagreeable, and something that had been reserved especially for him.
What could Earle Wayne have been searching for him for during all these years?
Surely not merely to acquaint him with the fact that he knew he was the illegitimate son of himself and Marion Vance.
But he held out his hand for the paper, preferring to read it for himself.
Earle gave it to him, saying:
“This is simply a copy of something in Bishop Grafton’s diary. I made it myself from the original.”
Sumner Dalton unfolded that paper with a feeling of great uneasiness and began to read how the sexton had confessed the trouble on his mind to the rector—how the old man had himself gone to the chapel, and, concealing himself, had seen a young man come into the robing-room, disguise himself, and then proceed to assume the sacred vestures.
He read how the rector had interposed, ascertained the names of the young couple, driven the accomplice ignominiously from the field, filled out and signed the marriage certificate, and then himself proceeded to the chapel and married the unsuspecting pair.
A terrible oath leaped from Sumner Dalton’s lips, and the paper dropped from his nerveless hand, as he finished reading this startling revelation.
“It is a lie!” he cried, his face ashen, and a great fear in his eyes.
“It is no lie,” Earle returned, sternly. “I went myself to see the place where I supposed my gentle mother had been so cruelly deceived. I sought the sexton, and he told me concerning his part in the transaction, and then directed me to Bishop Grafton’s daughter for further information, he being dead. She was only too glad to aid me—told me of her father’s diary, and what she had read of this there. She then brought it to me, and kindly allowed me to make this copy. The signature upon the marriage certificate corresponds exactly with his own in the journal, and Miss Grafton is perfectly willing that anyone interested or concerned in this matter should see the original. There is a little more,” Earle added, taking up another paper, “which I think will convince you beyond a doubt of the truth of what you have already read.”
He then read himself aloud how the good man’s heart had been troubled on account of the young and tender maiden, and, fearing that some great trouble might come to her, he had resolved to make that last entry in his diary;
“Married—In St. John’s Chapel, Winchelsea, August 11th, 18—, by the Reverend Joshua Grafton, bishop, and rector of St. John’s parish, George Sumner, of Rye, to Miss Marion Vance, also of Rye. I take my oath that this is a true statement.
“September 10th, 18—. Joshua Grafton, Rector.”
For what seemed a long time after the reading of this, Sumner Dalton sat as if turned to stone, his face white as his shirt bosom, his eyes wild and staring, and his hands locked together in a painful clasp.
Then starting up with an exclamation of horror, he cried:
“Then I have been doubly cheated and duped. No wonder that Austin Osgood never dared to come near me again.”
“And,” Earle said, quietly and impressively, “Marion Vance’s honor was never marred by the shadow of a stain, though she suffered the same as if it had been, and—her son was not born illegitimate!”
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