THE TABLES TURNED
“Revenge, at first though sweet,
Bitter ere long back on itself recoils.”
Earle suddenly reeled at these astounding words, as if some one 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
any one 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 some day?
If she had told _me_, I should to-day 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 to-day 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 any one 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 to-day 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 clew
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 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 safe keeping 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 matter
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 which 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 any one 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_!”