THE BATTLE WON
In the great library at Wycliffe three strongly contrasted men had met
to solve one of life’s most complex problems.
Paul Tressalia, the present master of Wycliffe, was face to face with
the grim possibility of being turned out of his estates.
The Hon. Archibald Faxon, a famous London lawyer, had entered the
library a moment before and introduced to the astounded Paul Tressalia a
claimant in the shape of a cousin upon whose name had rested the shadow
of shame.
But it was not simply this that had driven the blood from Paul
Tressalia’s face. It was the fact that the lawyer had introduced his
client as “Earle Wayne.”
“_Earle Wayne!_” repeated Paul Tressalia, in a startled tone, a sharp,
sudden pain running throughout his frame at the name as he remembered an
interview with pretty Editha Dalton, and instantly knew that his rival
for her love, and the claimant for his supposed inheritance, were one
and the same person.
Then quickly recovering himself, he greeted his kinsman with the
courtesy that always characterized him.
“Yes, sir,” explained the lawyer; “every one is aware that the Marquis
of Wycliffe possessed another title—Viscount Wayne. When Miss Vance—or,
I should now more properly say, Mrs. Sumner—left her father’s house,
under the impression that she had been lured into a mock marriage, she
could not endure the thought of retaining the name by which she had
always been known, and, feeling utterly unable to renounce _every_ tie
that bound her to the old life, she adopted the name of Mrs. Wayne as
one little likely to attract attention, and, when her son was born,
bestowed upon him that of Earle Wayne, and which he always believed
belonged to him by right, until his mother lay upon her death-bed.”
For the first time in his life Earle Wayne stood in the home of his
mother—in the halls of his ancestors.
From what he had learned of Paul Tressalia, he admired and honored him
as one of earth’s noblest men.
“My lord,” he said, as he held him by the hand and courteously addressed
him, by the title which more rightly belonged to himself, “I regret more
than I can express the necessity that brings me here to-day. Believe me,
I care little for the advantages I may reap upon the establishment of my
claim compared with the vindication of my innocent mother, who suffered
so long in silence and obscurity.”
It was frankly spoken, and the regret expressed was real, there could be
no doubt of it, while the title he had used did not escape the notice of
either the lawyer or Paul Tressalia.
“I can scarcely realize it,” the latter said, passing his hand wearily
across his brow and speaking with white lips. “Are you the Mr. Wayne
who—who——”
“Who for the last seven years has resided in the city of New York, in
the United States,” Earle hastened to say, to fill up the awkward pause,
and knowing but too well of what he was thinking.
He felt deeply for him, and it was a very trying moment for even the
noblest nature.
“Yes, yes!” Paul Tressalia said, and then bowed his head upon his breast
and sat apparently lost in thought for many minutes.
The Hon. Archibald Faxon regarded them in astonishment. He had not
supposed that either knew anything personally of the other until this
moment, and never dreamed of the romance so closely woven into their
lives.
“Mr. Wayne,” Paul Tressalia said at last, lifting his face, which seemed
to have grown suddenly old, and turning it full upon Earle, “will you
allow me a few hours in which to think this matter over alone before we
talk further upon it?”
He was nearly unmanned and crushed beneath this avalanche of stern facts
and bitter trouble which had come so suddenly upon him, and he must be
alone for awhile, or he knew he should break down utterly.
“Certainly, as long as you like,” Earle said, with hearty kindness,
adding: “I have no desire to inconvenience you in any way. Take a week,
a month, or even longer, if you wish, and I will meet you again at any
place and time you see fit to designate.”
“Thank you; you are very kind; and if you have no other engagement for
to-day, I will give you my decision this afternoon. Meantime, the horses
and carriages in the stables are at your service. You can go over the
estate, or occupy yourselves in any way agreeable to you,” Paul
Tressalia replied, with grave courtesy.
He arose, gathered up the papers the lawyer had brought, then, with a
bow to both gentlemen, withdrew from the room and sought his private
apartments.
Once there, and all doors securely locked, his firmness deserted him
utterly.
“_Can_ I bear it?” he groaned, sinking into a chair and dropping his
head upon the table. “Can I _ever_ bear it, that she should be his wife?
I must, for she loves him, and though to lose her rends my soul, yet _I_
love _her_ so well that to see her happy I would not shrink from any
suffering however great. But can I bear to lose all _this_, and have him
here at Wycliffe, where _I_ had hoped to bring her as its mistress and
_my_ wife? I _cannot_ bear it!” he cried aloud, beating the air wildly
with his hands, his face convulsed with pain. “I was proud of my
inheritance,” he went on; “I was proud of my name and position, and
hoped to rule wisely and well over the trust committed to my care. _Can
I give it up?_ I had hoped to make the proud name I bear even more
honorable and revered; I had hoped to make it, wherever it was uttered,
the synonym for virtue, truth, and probity. Must I surrender all these
aspirations, and calmly lay down every ambitious desire. _If_ I yield,
_he_ will marry _her_ at once, and bring her here. She will indeed be
mistress of Wycliffe; but, oh! how differently from what I wished! I
_cannot_ bear it!”
He sprang to his feet and paced back and forth, fighting his agony and
rebellious heart as only men of his character can fight and suffer.
For more than two hours he argued the case with himself in every
possible light, and then, with an expression strong as iron upon his
marble face, and eyes that glowed with a relentless purpose, he drew his
chair again to the table, sat down, unfolded the papers he had brought
with him, and for another hour studied them intently.
Earle’s lawyer—though himself a successful lawyer, he yet deemed that he
needed maturer judgment than his own upon this case, and in a strange
country, and so had sought one of the best—had prepared a clear and
succinct account of Marion Vance’s whole history, as related to him by
his client, from the time of her leaving her home to visit her friends
at Rye, until her death. This, with the certificate of marriage, and the
extracts from the old rector’s journal, and the sexton’s tale, made
everything so plain that Paul Tressalia could not doubt the truth of
what he read.
He did not for a moment question Earle Wayne’s identity, as many might
have done, and seize this as a weapon with which to fight him.
That he was the son of Marion Vance seemed to him a self-evident fact.
He resembled the former marquis in form, in his proud bearing, his
clear-cut, Roman features, his grand and noble head.
Marion had resembled her mother, but the blood of the Vance race showed
itself clearly enough in Earle, and Paul had recognized it at once upon
beholding him.
The only point he had been at all inclined to doubt was the validity of
the marriage.
But this point was established now, if the lawyer’s statement was
correct, and the extracts _bona fide_; and that could be easily
ascertained by comparing the signatures upon the certificate with the
writing in the rector’s diary.
“I shall go and read that account for myself, and if all this is true,
what shall I do?” the sorely-tried man asked himself for the hundredth
time.
And then, as his mind leaped forward into the future again, and he saw
Earle established in the halls of his ancestors, proud, prosperous, and
happy, with Editha Dalton as his wife, and sunny-haired, merry-hearted
children playing about them, he covered his face, and writhing with
pain, groaned again. Then a miserable temptation beset him; his
rebellious heart refusing to bear patiently the crushing burdens imposed
upon it.
“Possession is nine points in law—hold on to the Wycliffe estates with a
grasp of iron as long as your strength holds out—defy this new and
hitherto unknown claimant until the very last,” whispered the evil
spirit within him.
“What good would it do? He must win in the end,” he opposed.
“But you can keep him out of it for years, perhaps, and all the while
enjoy the luxuries you have so fondly believed your own. He has won
_her_ love away from you; it is not fair that he should have everything
and you nothing.”
“There is no true love without sacrifice,” came to him as if softly
wafted upon the breath of some good angel. “If you truly love Editha
Dalton—if it is a pure and unselfish love, you will do _right_ and let
her be happy, no matter what the cost is to yourself. Would she respect
you? Would she honor you? Would she be proud to call you friend, as she
once said, if, convinced of the right, you wilfully do wrong?”
“No,” he said, with uplifted head, and speaking aloud, as if some one
had spoken directly to him; “_I’ll keep my manhood pure, even though I
am beggared by the result._”
A noble spirit of self-abnegation and sacrifice arose within him; the
battle was won, but his heart was broken.
Editha Dalton should spend her life without a shadow to mar its
brightness, as far as it lay within his power to contribute to that
result; and Earle Wayne—a true and noble man he believed him to be, and
every way worthy of her priceless love—should have his own without
contention.
“Wycliffe will have a noble master,” he murmured; “he will add
brightness and honor to the name—perhaps more than I could have done. I
will try to bear it patiently; I will give her my blessing with my
inheritance, and then, when I come to the crossing ’twixt earth and the
great beyond, I can pass over without a regret. I shall have done right
and what was my duty.”
He sighed heavily and threw himself upon a couch, as if exhausted with
the struggle; and the good angels watching him must have come to comfort
him, for almost unconsciously his eyes closed, and sleep wrapped him for
the time in the mantle of forgetfulness.
Did they whisper to him that almost divine message from some sweet,
mystic pen:
“Oh, fear not in a world like this,
And thou shalt know ere long—
Know how sublime a thing it is
To suffer and be strong?”
He had ordered dinner to be served at three o’clock. A little before
that time he awoke, and went down to his guests the calm,
self-contained, courteous host.
The dinner-hour passed pleasantly and socially, the three gentlemen
conversing unreservedly upon the topics of the day.
When at length they arose from the table, Paul Tressalia requested a few
minutes’ private conversation with Earle.
It was cordially granted, and they repaired to the library again, while
the Hon. Archibald Faxon lingered upon the dining-room balcony smoking
his fragrant Havana.
There was a moment’s awkward silence as those two claimants of the
Wycliffe property stood facing each other; then Paul Tressalia frankly
extended his hand, which Earle cordially grasped.
“It is not often that rivals, such as you and I are _in every sense of
the word_, can shake hands thus,” said the former, with a smile. “I will
confess to you that I have had a bitter struggle with my own heart
during the last few hours, but I have conquered myself. I am obliged to
be convinced of the truth of the evidence you have brought me to-day,
and, looking in your face, which unmistakably proclaims your
relationship to the late marquis, I know that you are nearer of kin to
him than I. Of course, I shall take pains to ascertain everything
regarding the rector’s story for myself, and that the signatures are all
right, and so forth. If there is nothing there to contradict your
statements, I shall at once yield my position here, and you will
henceforth be recognized as the Marquis of Wycliffe and Viscount Wayne.”
Earle could scarcely credit his sense of hearing as he listened to this
noble renunciation of all the brightest prospects of his life.
He had believed that he should be obliged to have recourse to the extent
of the law in order to establish his claim, and now its possessor was
giving up everything without a demur. He could only look the
astonishment that he could not speak. Again Paul Tressalia smiled—a
smile that was sadder than tears.
“You look surprised at my decision,” he said; “you expected I would
resist your claim. I suppose I might, if I were so disposed, and thus
make you much trouble; but that would not be right, convinced as I am
that you are what you say—the legitimate son of Marion Vance and George
Sumner; and for the sake of one whom we both love—you fortunately, I
most unfortunately—I will not place one obstacle in your path.”
Earle was deeply moved by his kinsman’s manliness, and touched by his
confession of his hopeless love for Editha. Still clasping the hand that
had been extended so frankly to him, he said, in a voice that was not
quite steady:
“With such a spirit as that, _you_ should be master here at Wycliffe,
and not I. It seems to me unjust that your whole life should be
destroyed thus, and mine built up out of its ruins. If it were possible
for me to share my inheritance with you equally, I would gladly do it;
but I suppose the entail forbids that.”
“Yes, it could not be, even if I were willing to accept such an
obligation,” Paul Tressalia said, not unkindly, yet with a little show
of spirit.
Earle regarded him with admiration.
“I have heard of you before—how true and good you are, and I am proud to
know that I have _one_ such relative in the world. If you cannot accept
any aid from me, will you not stay with me as my adviser, my elder
brother, my friend?” he said, in low, earnest tones.
But Tressalia shook his head, a look of pain leaping to his eyes.
“I fear that would not be possible,” he said; “your own heart will tell
you that I could not remain here after—after you come here permanently.”
Earle saw that it could not be, and sighed. He longed to comfort him,
but what could he say?
Delicacy forbade his expressing any pity for his suffering and loss, for
that would be but vaunting his own happiness and prosperity.
“We can be friends, can we not?” he asked wistfully.
“Most assuredly. I shall be glad to claim your friendship, and will aid
you in everything as far as I am able; believe me, I bear you no
ill-will because brighter stars beam upon your way than upon mine just
now. You have suffered in the past and borne it like a hero, and I am
truly glad that your future is so promising.”
Tears stood in Earle’s eyes as he said, with a burst of enthusiasm:
“Paul Tressalia, _you_ are a hero! You make me think of those lines by
Joseph Addison:
‘Unbounded courage and compassion joined,
Tempering each other in the victor’s mind,
Alternately proclaim him good and great,
And make the hero and the man complete.’”
“You make me out greater than I am,” was the sad reply, as he remembered
the terrible thoughts and temptations that had come to him a few hours
before. “I cannot deny,” he continued, after a slight pause, “that I am
bitterly disappointed—that it is a trial almost greater than I can bear
to lose all I had so firmly believed to be mine—that I had grown up from
youth believing _would_ be mine! and had I the least idea now that your
claim was invalid, I should do battle valiantly before I would yield up
one foot of my possessions to you. Human nature will assert itself, you
know, and I am conscious that I am not above its weaknesses. But, Earle,
I mean to fight them down until, with the last one under my heel, I
shall be able at length to cheerfully contemplate God’s richest
blessings abiding on you and—yours.”
The last word was spoken in a hoarse whisper, and his companion realized
that all the force of a mighty will had been employed to let him know
how entirely he relinquished everything and acknowledged his superior
claim, even to Editha Dalton’s love.
Paul Tressalia could bear no more, and, wringing Earle’s hand, he went
quickly away, leaving him alone and deeply moved.