CHAPTER XLV
SUMNER DALTON’S CONFESSION
The telegram was from Paul Tressalia, and extremely startling and imperative in its nature.
“Mr. Dalton can live but a short time,” it said, “and begs continually for you. Come at once. Editha also desires it.”
Earle was deeply excited by what he read.
George Sumner Dalton dying!—face to face at last with the terrible messenger who, sooner or later, comes to summon all!
He was asking for him—longing for the son whom he had wronged and hated all his life-long.
For the moment Earle’s heart rebelled at the thought of going to him; for if he went, he felt he must be prepared to give him comfort in his last hours; he must be ready to forgive everything—his own and his mother’s wrongs, and be at peace with the man who was soon to stand before the Supreme Judge to answer for his earthly career.
Could he do this in all sincerity?
He stood there in the grand hall of his ancestors, with bent head and stern, corrugated brow, asking himself these questions over and over again.
Then the words that he had spoken only a little while before to Tom Drake came to his mind:
“Forgive, as we are forgiven.”
It was as if Marion’s gentle spirit, hovering over him, had whispered the words in his ear—as if from the realms of peace, where she dwelt, she had brought him an olive branch to bear across the waters to the erring, dying one.
“I will go,” he said, at last, a pitiful expression replacing the stern look, a grave though kindly light beaming from his eyes. “I will go, and God help me to go in the right spirit. Editha, too, desires it,” he repeated, reading from the telegram, “and that of itself should make me willing.”
And yet, much as he longed to see the beloved one once more, he felt as if he could never endure a second parting from her. Then graver thoughts presented themselves.
If Mr. Dalton should die, what would become of Editha?
She had not a friend in the world on whom to depend; would she feel that she could now return with him and share his home?
The matter troubled him deeply, and yet he clearly felt that it would be his duty henceforth to protect and care for her.
He went into the library and consulted the papers.
A steamer would sail the next day from London, and he decided that he would go at once.
He might not be in time to see Mr. Dalton alive, but he would not delay; he would do his best to grant his request, and let the result be what it might be.
He disliked very much leaving Tom just at this time. He knew that he depended upon him for encouragement, and would doubtless be very much depressed, if not discouraged, if he went away for any length of time.
But it could not be helped, and the test might be beneficial. It would at all events teach him self-reliance, and perhaps prove the man’s sincerity better than in any other way.
He went at once to him and said:
“Tom, I am very unexpectedly called away. I am sorry that it happened just at this time, but it cannot be helped. Can you manage with only the servants for company until your mother arrives?”
“Yes, sir; but will you be gone long?”
“I do not know how long; I cannot fix any definite time for my return, as it depends upon others rather than on myself. You will be quite lonely, and I am sorry on your account.”
“Never mind me, sir; but—I hope it’s no trouble on my account,” and he glanced anxiously at the telegram, which Earle still had in his hand.
“No—oh, no. I may tell you, I suppose—it is more trouble for Miss Dalton; her father is dying, and they have sent for me,” Earle explained.
“To the United States, sir!” Tom exclaimed, in dismay, and feeling as if some strong support was slipping from under him.
“Yes, and I may have to be absent a month or two, perhaps longer but you must try to make the best of it. Your mother will probably arrive by tomorrow, and I would be glad if she could remain with you until I return,” Earle said, thinking his mother’s influence, and love, and care would be the best guardians he could possibly leave in his absence.
“Thank you, sir,” Tom answered, heartily then, after thinking a moment, he added, wistfully: “I am getting strong and well so fast that I would like to begin to do something, sir. If you could leave me some work I should be glad, and the time would not seem so long.”
Earle thought a moment and then asked:
“Are you good at accounts?”
“I used to be fair at them. I learned Comer’s method after I went to America, thinking to make a businessman of myself.”
“Then if you would take the trouble to straighten out some accounts that got badly mixed during the last year of the old marquis’ life, it would help me wonderfully.”
Tom’s face brightened at once.
“I should like it,” he said, eagerly; and Earle felt better at once about leaving him, knowing that if he felt he was making himself useful, he would be more contented.
The next day found him on board the Ethiopia, bound for New York, and scarcely able to control his impatience, even though the noble steamer, with favorable wind and weather, was plowing the pathless water with unusual speed.
At the end of eight days he stood once more upon American soil, and an hour or two later found him again ascending the steps of Mr. Dalton’s residence.
His hand trembled as he pulled the bell, and his heart beat with heavy, painful strokes, so many memories, both sweet and bitter, agitated him.
A servant let him quietly in, and an ominous stillness at once struck a chill in his heart.
“Is Mr. Dalton living?” he asked.
“Yes, sir, but very low,” was the reply.
He led him to the same little reception room where he had seen Editha on that day before Christmas, and where she had given him that little bunch of holly, and wished him, not the stereotyped “Merry Christmas,” but “peace, good-will to men,” instead.
It came to him now, that sweet message, with strange vividness, and he grew suddenly calm and solemn as he realized that he had indeed come with “peace” in his heart, and “goodwill” toward one who had been his lifelong enemy.
He gave his card to the servant and then sat down to wait. Would Editha come to greet him? he asked himself, and would he be able to meet her as a brother should meet a sister?
Fifteen minutes elapsed, and then a door softly opened again. Earle turned, his heart leaping to his throat, but it was not Editha.
He saw a strange but noble-looking woman coming toward him and wondered to see her there.
He bowed courteously, but she cordially extended her hand, as her eyes sought his card, which the servant had given her, and upon which was simply engraven the two names he had always borne. He made no display of his title, nor of his new position.
“Mr. Wayne,” she said, “we hardly expected you today; but I am very glad you have arrived. My name is Sylvester, and I am the only one at liberty to come to you just now.”
Earle returned her greeting, wondering who Mrs. Sylvester could be—certainly not the housekeeper, for her manner and bearing forbade him to believe that she occupied that position; and he had heard Editha say they had no near relatives living.
She might be some friend or neighbor come in to relieve her and share her lonely vigils, he thought.
He inquired if Miss Dalton was well, and noticed that a queer little smile wreathed the lady’s lips, as she replied:
“Editha is quite well and is sleeping just now. Mr. Dalton had an extremely distressing night, and she would persist in sitting up with him until nearly morning. The poor darling has been unremitting in her care, and is nearly worn out,” Mrs. Sylvester concluded, speaking with great tenderness.
Earle then inquired concerning Mr. Dalton’s illness and its cause.
“That is a long, long story, and I will leave it for Editha to tell you when she wakes, and you are rested. I will only say that it was brought on by excessive excitement, during which he ruptured a blood vessel.”
Earle expressed great surprise at this, and Madam continued:
“He recovered somewhat from the first attack of bleeding, and we were hoping his recovery would be permanent when he had another, since which he has been rapidly failing. As soon as he became conscious that he could not live, he seemed to be exceedingly troubled regarding some injury which he had done you and wished you sent for immediately. He will be much relieved to know of your arrival, for he has been very restless and anxious ever since Mr. Tressalia sent the telegram.”
“Is there no possible hope of his recovery?”
“No; there is not the slightest hope of that. The physician does not think he can live many days. Now, if you will excuse me, I will go and see if he feels able to see you, as he wished to be told the moment you arrived,” Madam concluded, rising, and with a graceful bow, left him once more alone.
She had not been gone many minutes when a servant entered, bearing a tray, on which was arranged a most tempting lunch.
“Madam directed this to be served,” explained the servant; and again Earle wondered who this cultivated woman could be, who was evidently a power in the house.
He partook of the lunch, however, with evident relish, for he was hungry, having been too eager and excited to do justice to his breakfast that morning.
Half an hour later Madam returned, saying that Mr. Dalton was ready and anxious to see him.
He arose and followed her to the sick man’s chamber, and almost wondering if it could be true that he was about to stand at his own father’s deathbed, and if ever before a son stood in such strange relations toward a parent.
He was shocked at the change in Mr. Dalton.
Ghastly, wan, and panting with every breath, he lay bolstered up with pillows, and Earle knew at a glance that he could not live many days.
An expression of pain convulsed his features as the door opened and his anxious eyes rested upon the young man’s handsome face and noble form; and then, with a slight motion of his head, he signified his wish for him to come and sit beside him.
It was a strange, sad meeting of a father and son.
The one so strong and manly, and in full vigor of life; the other pale, emaciated, and dying, and neither experiencing nor expressing any natural regard for the other.
Earle’s humanity was touched as soon as he saw the sufferer. He forgot all his past bitterness, he forgot that this was one who claimed to be an implacable foe, who had said he “hated him and all that ever belonged to him.” He only thought of him now as a sick and dying man who needed sympathy and care.
“You did not expect when you went away that when next we met you would find your enemy laid so low, did you?” Mr. Dalton asked, in a hollow voice, when Earle was seated, and searching his face with a keen glance.
“I have never wished you any ill, sir,” he replied, respectfully.
“I cannot say the same regarding you, for there was nothing I would not have done, for the sake of the hatred I bore your mother, to have hurled you from the proud position you occupy.”
“Shall we not drop all this now and forever?” Earle interrupted, gently, fearing he would become excited if this topic was renewed.
“No; I must have my say out now. I’ve been saving my strength for this, and I have much to tell you, and the sooner it is over with, the better for me. One’s sentiments change when a body feels life slipping from his grasp, and I felt that I would like you to know before I die that I realize at last, instead of injuring others only, I have been my own worst enemy. I don’t know why I should always have hated others for what has really been my own fault; for all through my life, my folly has been the cause of all my disappointments.
“I have seen a child get angry with his toys—his top or his ball, when it would not spin or bound as he wished it—and vent his anger by destroying them when it was only his own lack of judgment and skill that prevented his enjoying them. I suppose it was that same trait in me, only to a tenfold degree, that has made me wish to destroy everyone who opposed or disappointed me in my schemes or ambition.”
He paused a moment, and Earle watched him curiously. He had never heard anything so strange before.
“Had I lived for ten, twenty, or even forty years more, I suppose I should have gone on in the same way,” Mr. Dalton resumed. “I suppose as long as I knew you were enjoying the position and possessions I had so coveted, I should have continued to hate you, and striven to do you injury. But my hatred can do you no further harm now, nor me any good where I am going; neither money nor position, the two things that I have most coveted all my life, can benefit me further. I have never believed in a God, have tried to believe that man was like the brutes, and consequently must get all the enjoyments possible out of this life; but now that I have come to this”—lifting his wasted hand and regarding it with a strange expression of wonder, and perplexity, and regret—“I do not feel quite so confident that God and eternity are not solemn truths. That the mind is something greater than the body, and will probably exist in another state, I am at last convinced, but I have no time to discuss metaphysics now. My life has been a failure, for I have missed everything for which I sought most eagerly. I have never known what it is to be really happy. I have done a great deal of evil, and I do not know a single human being that is better for my having lived in the world. The only good thing that I can think of connected with myself is, that no one will sorrow or be made unhappy by my death;” and the smile that accompanied these words was intensely bitter.
“I have told you how I disliked you from the first, simply because Richard Forrester was interested in you, and I was jealous of anyone who was likely to win anything from him. You know how I scorned you because Editha took a girlish fancy to you, and you dared to treat her as if you considered yourself her equal. I was so angry that day in court that I could have blotted you out of existence had I possessed the power and throttled her when she stood up so fearlessly in that crowded room and asserted your innocence. I was afraid she would learn to love you, and persist in marrying you. I knew that Richard Forrester was rich and that she would have all his money; but I meant she should get more, by making a wealthy marriage. The more she had, the more I thought I should have, and stand the higher in the world for it.”
Again he paused to rest, and Earle would have been glad if he would cease entirely. He knew all this, and he could not see the good of its all being rehearsed, neither could he understand toward what it was drifting; but he was soon to know, and a great surprise awaited him.
“When Richard Forrester died,” he began again, “and left you that ten thousand dollars, I vowed you should not have it, for I felt sure it would give you a start in life, and you would want to marry Editha. I was bound she should wed a rich man, and I would not be thwarted. Then I made the discovery of who you were; and if your sentence had been for life, I would not have lifted my finger to have had it mitigated in the slightest degree. I seemed to gloat over the fact that Marion’s son, the son of the woman whose high spirit had prevented me from reaching the goal I sought, was thus disgraced, and, not knowing that she was dead, I thought I could imagine some of her sufferings on account of it.
“I do not wonder that you shudder,” he said, seeing a quiver of pain run over Earle’s body at this heartless speech; “and I can see now just how such fiendish malice appears to others. If I had known, however, that my marriage with Marion had been legal, you may be sure I should have adopted a very different course. If, when from motives of curiosity I opened that package belonging to you, I had discovered those papers in the cardboard pocket, my ambition and selfishness would have prompted me to court the favor of the heir of Wycliffe. But I did not know, and when you told me and refused to let me share your honors, my ire increased tenfold, and I vowed I would make you suffer for it in some way.”
Earle’s face was very grave and pale as he listened, and it seemed as if he was almost living over again the troubles he had been through, to be reminded of them in this way.
“There was only one way that I could do this,” Mr. Dalton said, with a troubled glance at the white, set face by his side, “and that was through Editha. You loved her, and she loved you, and I gloated over the fact that through her I could make you miserable, though you stood on the very pinnacle of where I had longed to climb, and even though I sacrificed her in so doing.”
Earle’s lips twitched nervously at this, and, had not the man before him been helpless and dying, his indignation must have burst forth at this startling and inhuman statement.
Mr. Dalton noticed his emotion, and his lips curled in a bitter smile.
“One is not often allowed the privilege of reading such a page of heart history as I am turning for you today; one does not often meet a father who could cherish such bitterness and antagonism toward his only son, and so utterly devoid of natural affection also for the child whom he has reared from infancy; but I will make no half-confession—I want you to know just how black my record has been, and then I will make what restitution there is in my power.
“With all my other sins, I had a secret that I had kept for more than twenty years and expected it would die with me. I did not believe there was a soul living who knew aught of it, or who could ever discover it.
“But there was; justice was on my track, and, like an avenging Nemesis, pursued me with a relentless determination. I fled, I hid, I vowed I would not be thwarted out of every scheme I had formed, but all to no purpose, and one day I was brought face to face with a foe, of whose existence I had not dreamed until only a short time before.
“Foiled at every point, my last weapon wrested from me, I lost all control of myself, and in my anger and mortification ruptured a blood vessel in the lungs, and knew that my days were numbered.
“It was not a pleasant thing to know that death had set his mark upon me, and for a while, I tried to fight the conviction, but it was of no use, and then I began to think; and one has very different ideas regarding the end and aim of man, when ‘Death sits grinning his horrible, ghastly smile upon him,’ than when in the full vigor of life.
“Like two vivid pictures, your life and mine arose up before me—my own, full of pride, ambition, and selfishness, with no principle of truth or goodness in it, and ending in utter wreck; yours, in the face of mountain-like difficulties, filled with the beauty of high resolves, noble purposes, and unwavering rectitude and nobility, not the least of which was the fact that even while smarting beneath the fiercest strokes of your enemy, you did not cease to be generous—that ten thousand dollars, with all my arrogance and bravado, has lain heavy on my conscience ever since you made it over to me.
“I am nearly done. I could not rest—I could not die until I had told you all this. I do not ask you to forgive me; the words would seem but mockery to you. The purity of your life, standing out in such bold relief against the blackness of mine, enraged me. If I could have seen you angry—if I could really have found a flaw in you—perhaps I should not have always been so bitter. I say it always angered me until I was obliged to lie here and think. Now it shames me, and I would be glad if I could annihilate from your memory the shame of having had such a father. I cannot make any atonement for the past to either you or Editha. I can only wish that your future may be as full of happiness as you both deserve and perhaps I may be able to contribute a trifle to it by being the first to tell you that Editha is not my child at all!”
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