THE RIGHTFUL HEIR
He did not realize how long he had been sitting there musing over these
things until a slight movement of Miss Grafton’s aroused him.
“Thank you, and pardon me for my absent-mindedness,” he said, starting.
“I shall not soon forget your kindness; and may I trespass upon it still
further? Will you allow me to make a copy of what I have read?”
“Certainly, if it will be of any benefit to you,” Miss Grafton answered,
the look of kindly sympathy still on her face.
He noticed it, and, after a moment’s thoughtful hesitation, said, with a
rising flush:
“This young bride of whom the rector has written was my mother.”
“_Was?_” she repeated in a sad tone.
“Yes, was,” he said, with a trembling lip. “She died only a week ago,
and I feel that it is due to you, for your kindness to me, that I should
tell you this. She believed, and has believed all these long years, that
she was most cruelly wronged. She was driven from her beautiful home on
account of it, and has suffered in silence ever since. I knew nothing of
her sad history, believing my father had died before my birth, until a
very short time before her own death. It was true that she had the
certificate of which the rector speaks, but that man told her, and she
believed, it was a sham and a forgery. Whether he was ever told or
discovered that his accomplice was foiled and driven from the field, and
a _bona fide_ marriage performed, is a mystery; but I am rather inclined
to think he did not, since, if he ever discovered my mother’s position
in life, he would undoubtedly have been anxious to claim her as his
wife. She was a lady, and occupied a station in every way honorable
before this sad trouble overtook her; and I to-day, with this to prove
it, can claim a name as proud as any in England. She was the daughter of
the Marquis of Wycliffe, of whom you have doubtless heard.”
“Is it possible?” Miss Grafton exclaimed, greatly surprised; “and you
are therefore the heir of Wycliffe.”
“Yes; but before I present my claim I have a work to do. I must find him
who wronged and ruined my mother’s life,” he returned, with firmly
compressed lips and lowering brow.
“Thank you for telling me this,” Miss Grafton said, wiping the tears
from her eyes. “I have often thought of the young girl, of whom my
father used frequently to speak, and wonder if all was well with her. I
congratulate you. I am glad that the wrong-doer was outwitted, and that
the innocent will be righted at last.”
“My poor, innocent mother can never be righted; those years of suffering
and humiliation can never be atoned for,” the young man said, in
trembling tones.
“My friend,” Miss Isabel Grafton said, meeting his eyes with a sweet
gravity that was all her own, “can you not _trust_ that where she has
gone all sorrow has ceased, all tears are wiped, and that pain is
remembered no more? _She_ can see now, if _you_ cannot, why all this was
permitted.”
“Miss Grafton, you remind me of my mother, only you are younger—she used
to talk that way to me, and she said almost the same thing to me just
before she died,” he said, with a touch of reverence in his tones.
Miss Grafton sighed, yet at the same time her lips parted in a little
tremulous smile.
The sigh bespoke the memory of some bitter struggle of the past—the
smile of the trust and hope of which she had just spoken.
She set before him a pen, ink, and paper, and then quietly left the room
while he copied those blessed words from the rector’s diary, which in
one hour had changed all his life.
Just as he had finished Miss Grafton returned to the parlor, bringing a
tempting little lunch for him, and chatted socially with him while he
ate it.
When at last he arose to go, bade her farewell, and thanked her again
for her kindness, and then went away, she for the first time losing all
self-control, threw herself prone upon the floor and cried aloud:
“Another, O Lord! Why in Thy mercy dost Thou permit the brightest hopes
to be destroyed, the happiest and most innocent to suffer such cruel
blight?”
Thus the story of another sweet woman’s life was told.
Isabel Grafton’s own youth had been blasted, her own heart crushed and
broken by the treachery of one whom she had trusted. She had loved and
plighted herself to one who, all unworthy, had deserted her for the
brighter smiles of another but the day before he was to have led her to
the altar.
* * * * *
The son of Marion Vance went forth upon his self-imposed mission—to find
the man who had plotted to betray his mother, prove to him the validity
of his marriage, and then, leaving him forever, return to Wycliffe and
claim his inheritance there.
Leaving him thus engaged, we must for a time turn our thoughts in
another direction—to Paul Tressalia, who was called from Newport so
suddenly, as already mentioned in our story.
It will be remembered that on the same night of his final rejection by
Editha Dalton, he had received important letters which demanded his
immediate presence abroad, and that summons, with his heart so sore from
his disappointment, he was only too glad to obey.
We have already explained how Paul Tressalia was related to the Marquis
of Wycliffe, his grandmother being the marquis’ only sister, and, should
he die without issue, her heirs would inherit the proud name and wealth
belonging to him.
When the blow came that destroyed all the marquis’ fond hopes, and
Marion Vance was driven forth from her home to hide her disgrace, and
bring up her illegitimate child far from the immaculate precincts of
Wycliffe, little Paul Tressalia, then about six years of age, was at
once acknowledged the heir, and from that time educated accordingly.
It was the news of the sudden death of the marquis and of his own
succession to his vast property, both in France and England, that had
hastened his departure from Newport.
This letter, by some unaccountable means, had been missent, and did not
reach him until more than a month after his kinsman’s death, and so,
without any delay, he hastened to present himself at Wycliffe.
He had never mentioned his prospects to any one during his sojourn in
America, where he had tarried longer by a year than he at first
intended, on account of his love for Editha. So, although he was
reported to be the heir to vast wealth, no one really seemed to know
just in what that wealth consisted, or what his future prospects were.
He was very modest and unassuming regarding them, preferring to be
accepted solely upon his own merits wherever he went, rather than upon
the dignity of his prospective grandeur.
He took possession of Wycliffe immediately upon his return to England,
and also of all the property belonging to the previous marquis. And yet,
in the midst of all his prosperity, he was sad and depressed.
The one woman whom he loved could not share it with him, and all his
bright prospects, like the apples of Sodom, turned to ashes in his
grasp.
“Oh, my bright Editha!” he moaned, “why could you not have loved me,
when I could have given you everything that would make life beautiful to
you, when you are so well fitted to grace the position you would have
filled as my wife? The beautiful things around me are but mockery—they
are nothing to me compared with the boon I crave.”
This was his continual cry, and he would shut himself away from every
human eye for days, and battle with himself, striving to conquer his
hopeless love.
Then it began to be whispered and suggested to him that Wycliffe must
have a mistress—he was over thirty, and it was high time that some good,
true woman came there to reign, where for so many years there had been
no mistress.
“Oh, God!” he cried, after some one had spoken to him of this; “I love
but one—I cannot, I _will_ not yield her place to another! Must it be—is
there no escape?” and his sense of what was right and proper told him
that it _ought_ to be.
And so several months went by, while all the county yielded him homage,
and every matron with a marriageable damsel upon her hands showered upon
him every attention that her fertile brains could suggest.
One day he was sitting alone in his library thinking of this—and a
magnificent room, be it known, was this library at Wycliffe, furnished
with ebony, upholstered in olive, green, and gold. The rich ebony
bookcase, inlaid with pearl and precious woods, reached from ceiling to
floor, and were filled with countless volumes, each collection bound in
uniform covers. It had been the pride of the previous marquis’ heart,
his one solace and comfort, after his bitter trouble came upon him, and
he had spent the greater part of his life there among his choice books.
And it seemed likely also to be the resort of Paul Tressalia, for here
he brought himself and his troubles, and, locked within his fort, no one
dared to intrude; and, as he sat there one morning thinking bitterly of
what might have been, a servant came to the door and knocked for
admittance. With a shrug and frown of impatience, he arose and went to
the door, where he was handed a card.
It bore the name of a noted lawyer from London—“Archibald Faxon.”
“Show him in,” the young marquis said, with a weary sigh at being
obliged to see any one, and wondering what this noted stranger could
want of him.
The Hon. Archibald Faxon soon made his appearance—a wiry, sharp-featured
man, with a keen, restless eye that was capable of reading a man through
almost instantly—any one would have known he was a lawyer, and a
successful one, too, merely to look at him.
The young marquis greeted him with a show of cordiality, and then
politely waited for him to state his business.
He was not long in coming to the point.
“I fear I have come to you upon a very unpleasant errand,” he said,
suavely, and yet with an appearance of regret in his manner.
“Indeed!” was Paul Tressalia’s indifferent reply.
It did not appear to him that anything could move him after what he had
already suffered.
“Yes, your lordship; I have to present to you the claims of another to
this property of Wycliffe, and all other properties connected with it.”
Paul Tressalia regarded the man with almost stupid wonder for a moment.
A more ridiculous assertion, it struck him, could not have been made by
the most witless fool in the kingdom.
“Sir, I do not understand you,” he managed to say, at last.
The noted Mr. Faxon very deliberately and distinctly repeated his
statement.
“Are you aware how very absurd such an assertion sounds, Mr. Faxon?”
Paul Tressalia asked, with curling lips. “Why, I am the only living
representative of the whole family, and what you assert is simply
preposterous.”
“Not so much so as you may suppose,” returned the lawyer, calmly.
Mr. Tressalia began to grow rather red in the face at this; he could not
exactly make out whether the lawyer meant to insult him or not; his
manner was courteous, but what he said was such an unheard of
proposition that he was at a loss to comprehend it.
“If that is the nature of your business with me to-day, you will excuse
me if I say I cannot listen to you any further,” he said, rather coldly.
“Bear with me, if you please, my lord, for a few moments,” returned the
imperturbable lawyer, with a wave of his shapely hand, “and allow me to
ask you a few questions. Did not the former marquis have an only child?”
“Yes; but she forfeited all claim to the property according to the
conditions of the entail, and was disowned by her father more than
twenty years ago.”
“That child gave birth to a son, I’ve been told?” remarked Mr. Faxon,
not heeding Mr. Tressalia’s last statement.
“I really cannot say whether it was a son or daughter,” he answered, his
lips curling again just a trifle. “Whichever it was, it was
illegitimate, and could inherit nothing.”
“If it had been born in wedlock it would have inherited the property
which you now hold, would it not?”
“Yes; but it was _not_ born in wedlock, consequently all this argument
is utterly useless,” the young marquis said, impatiently.
“Are you _quite sure_, my lord, of the truth of what you assert?” was
the next unruffled query.
“Certainly; it is according to Miss Vance’s own confession to her
father; she owned she had been deceived, and that only a mock marriage
had been consummated.”
“Is it not barely possible that Miss Vance herself may have been
mistaken in the matter?”
“I should think _not_, when interests of so vital importance were at
stake,” Paul Tressalia answered, with something very like a sneer upon
his fine face.
The question was so utterly devoid of sense and reason, at least to him,
that he could not control it.
“But it is my duty to prove to you that such _was_ the case,
notwithstanding. May I ask your attention to some documents which I have
in my possession?” and the lawyer, with great deference, drew forth a
package from his pocket.
With an expression of incredulity upon his handsome face, Paul Tressalia
drew up his chair to the table, to comply with his request.
He spread them before him, and immediately entered upon an explanation
of their contents, going over them step by step until, in spite of his
unbelief, the young marquis’ face grew grave, anxious, and perplexed,
and he began to fear that his fair inheritance, his proud name and
title, were in danger of being wrested from him after all.
He read the certificate signed so boldly by Joshua Grafton, bishop, and
rector of St. John’s parish, and which had been given to Marion upon the
completion of the marriage ceremony, and which also she had regarded
only as so much worthless paper; yet some unaccountable instinct had
always prevented her destroying it whenever she had been tempted to do
so.
He carefully read those extracts which Marion’s son had made from the
rector’s diary, and with which we are so familiar. He listened with
painful interest to the repetition of the sexton’s story of his
confession, and how he became a witness to the marriage ceremony, and he
could scarcely credit his own sense of hearing as he heard the marvelous
tale, and his better judgment told him that every word was true.
But when one is already suffering, as he was suffering, with his heart
so sore and bitter, one’s natural antagonism and rebellion against the
iron hand of fate is more easily aroused.
So it was now with Paul Tressalia; he had been obliged to relinquish his
dearest hopes—to give up the woman he loved; and now, with this almost
incontestable evidence before him, it seemed as if every hope of his
manhood was destined to be crushed; and, with a strange perversity, even
in the face of such stern facts as had just been presented to him, he
said within himself that he _would not yield_ his inheritance to this
unknown child of Marion Vance—he _would not_ give up his position, his
wealth, his proud and honored name.
“It is a cunningly devised fable,” he said, with a stern, white face,
“and I defy the claim.”
“I am sorry, my lord; for, with all my experience in the law, I must say
I never undertook a clearer case,” the Hon. Mr. Faxon replied, with the
same unvarying politeness that he had displayed all through the
interview.
“Nevertheless, I shall resist to the uttermost of my ability. Tell your
client so. He will have to fight a mighty hard battle before he will win
one foot of Wycliffe,” the young marquis returned, moodily.
“He is prepared to do so, if necessary, your lordship, for his mother’s
sake alone. He has expressed deep regret at your disappointment, but
_her_ honor and purity must be established at all events, whether he
wins anything else or not. He will at once take measures to establish
the validity of her marriage, that all who formerly knew her may know
that no shadow of stain rests upon her character.”
“Who is he? Where has he been all these years? Where is he now?”
demanded the marquis, with clouded brow.
He saw the reasonableness of what the young man contemplated, and knew
that if those facts were once established there would be no hope left
for him.
“Until about seven years ago he resided with his mother in ——, a little
town in the southwest of England. After her death, prompted by
curiosity, he visited the place where she believed she had been so
grossly deceived, and accidentally stumbled upon the evidence with which
I have presented you to-day.”
“Then his mother knew nothing of all this?—she believed up to the time
of her death that she had forfeited all claim to this property?” Mr.
Tressalia inquired, gravely.
“Most assuredly, or she would have returned immediately to her father
and vindicated herself, for the sake of her child’s future.”
“Why did he not present himself to his grandfather, then, as soon as he
made this discovery?” the marquis inquired, thinking it very strange
that he had not done so.
“His first impulse was to do so. But he is very proud—he inherits all
the fire and spirit of his race—and, feeling very sore and indignant at
the treatment which his mother received from his grandfather, he
naturally shrank from him. Moreover, he concluded that his first duty
was to find the man who had so wronged him and her, and notify him of
the validity of the marriage which he had supposed to be but a sham.”
“Did he succeed?”
“He did not, although he has used every means in his power to discover
the man’s place of residence, and whether he was living or dead. He
would not now present his claim to this property, but recently learning
of the death of his grandfather, he deemed it best to establish his
identity and continue his search afterward.”
“He is rather late in the day; he should have come immediately upon the
marquis’ death, and before I had taken possession,” Paul Tressalia said,
with some excitement.
“He would have done so had it been possible; but it is only a fortnight
since he learned that fact.”
“On your honor as a gentleman, do you believe the statements you have
made to me to-day?” the marquis asked, after considering the matter in a
long and thoughtful pause, and fixing his eyes keenly upon the lawyer.
“On my honor as a gentleman, and _as a friend_ of the previous Marquis
of Wycliffe, I have not a single doubt upon the subject.”
“These are only copies,” Mr. Tressalia said, laying his hand upon the
papers before him. “Have you seen the original, written in the hand of
Bishop Grafton?”
“I have, and examined them carefully.”
“Does his signature there correspond with this upon the certificate of
marriage?”
“Exactly; except that this is written in rather a bolder hand. I have
also seen the sexton and questioned him closely,” Mr. Faxon returned,
feeling deeply for the young man, who was to lose so much upon the proof
of these facts.
“Where did you say the claimant is at this time?” Paul Tressalia asked.
“Here at Wycliffe, awaiting an interview with yourself. I think you will
find him disposed to be very considerate and generous with you in his
dealings; and you will acknowledge that, despite the obscurity in which
he has been reared, he is an honor to your race. Shall I bring him to
you now?” Mr. Faxon asked.
“If you please; I am ready to meet him now,” Paul Tressalia said, with a
weary sigh.
The lawyer immediately arose and left the room, but returned again
almost instantly, accompanied by a tall, handsome stranger, whose
peculiarly noble and attractive face at once riveted Paul Tressalia’s
eye.
“My lord,” the Hon Archibald Faxon said, in his most gracious manner,
“allow me to present to you my client, who is also your relative, and by
the name his mother gave him—_Earle Wayne_!”