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 which 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 to prepare 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 to-night, 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
any more.”
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 so near to justice and Earle
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, wan’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.