“I OWE YOU NOTHING”
“Oh, why did I not know of this?” groaned Sumner Dalton, beating his
brow with his hands. “I was, after all, the legal husband of the heiress
of Wycliffe. All these years I might have occupied that proud position,
and with unlimited wealth at my command. It is too much—too much to
bear. What evil genius has been pursuing me all my life, that I should
have missed it all?”
“That ‘evil genius,’ as you term it, was but your own villainy—the
spirit that rules in your own evil heart. You sought to ruin an innocent
girl, and you overreached yourself. For once justice and punishment has
been meted out where it belongs, and you have no one to blame for it but
yourself,” Earle answered, sternly.
“’Tis _false_! She should have told me. She had no right to hide the
knowledge from me—her husband.”
“You forget that you scorned her, and told her she had no claim upon
you, and also that you refused to give her any right to call you
husband.”
“But she had no business to consent to marry me under such false
pretenses. ’Twas _she_ who has kept me from my rights, when I might have
been master of Wycliffe all these years—twenty-five years of glory and
honor lost. It is _too_ much; and if I could make her feel my vengeance
now I would,” he groaned.
Earle turned from him, almost sick with disgust.
He was like many other people who have sought to do another some
irreparable injury. He hated his blameless victim because, having
overreached himself, the wrong had at last rebounded upon himself, and
he was the chief sufferer from his own folly.
Gentle Marion Vance had done him no conscious wrong. She had loved and
trusted him; she would have devoted her life to him and his interests.
But, although he had not really succeeded in destroying her, and
entailing lasting dishonor upon her name, yet she had suffered for the
time as if he had accomplished his purpose.
But the truth had triumphed at last, as it always does. He stood exposed
in all his baseness; his evil doings were revealed, and the shame and
injury done to himself were far greater than he had ever dreamed of
bringing upon her. Marion at last stood vindicated before the world as
the pure and innocent girl she was, while the whole black catalogue of
Sumner Dalton’s guilt was now sweeping down like an avalanche upon him,
threatening to ruin and crush him utterly.
He might live ten, twenty, even thirty years longer, but his treachery
would follow him forever; it would never be forgotten by any one who had
known of it. Henceforth he would be a marked man, and one never more to
be trusted or honored.
“Stay!” Mr. Dalton suddenly exclaimed, as if a new thought had struck
him. “The legal husband of Marion Vance would have rights there even
now. I will see to this matter. Who has been master at Wycliffe all
these years?”
“Warrenton Fairfield Vance, my mother’s father, has ruled there until
his death, which occurred only a few months ago,” Earle answered,
quietly, but reading at once what was passing in the man’s mind.
“And who came into the property then?” he demanded, eagerly.
“A cousin of my mother’s—Paul Tressalia by name.”
“Zounds! Girl, do you hear that?” exclaimed Mr. Dalton, very much
astonished, and turning to Editha. “But——” he began again, with a
perplexed look.
“But he is not master there now,” Earle interrupted, calmly.
“Ah!” Mr. Dalton uttered, leaning forward with breathless interest, half
expecting what was to follow.
“_I_ am now the acknowledged Marquis of Wycliffe and Viscount Wayne,”
Earle said.
“Have you proved your claim? Was it not contested? How——”
Mr. Dalton was very much excited, so much so that he trembled visibly,
and leaned back, white and weak, in his chair.
“I have proved my claim; it was not contested,” the young man began.
“When I first discovered that my mother’s marriage was valid, and that I
was the rightful heir to Wycliffe, I thought I would go at once and
compel my grandfather to acknowledge me as such. But he had been so
stern and cruel to my mother that I recoiled from him. I was under age,
and I knew he would be apt to deal sternly with me also, and demand
implicit obedience to him. I knew if I went to him he would in all
probability refuse to allow me to follow the course I had marked out for
myself. So I resolved I would never cross the threshold over which my
mother had been so relentlessly driven until I had either discovered the
man who had so wronged her, and could tell the marquis that I had found
him and proved that he had legally bound himself to her, or until his
death, when of course it would become necessary that I should reveal my
identity. So I began my lonely wanderings upon a very uncertain mission.
I discovered upon inquiry that a George Sumner had been studying at a
certain German university. I immediately repaired thither, and found,
upon examining the books, that he was an American from a certain town in
the State of New York. And now allow me to ask why you registered only a
part of your name instead of the whole?” Earle asked, pausing.
“It does not matter,” Mr. Dalton muttered, uneasily, and with a rising
flush.
It might as well be mentioned here what Earle afterward discovered, that
he became implicated in a very shameful affair while studying in a noted
college of his own country, and was expelled in deep disgrace, whereupon
he had immediately gone abroad to finish his course in the German
university referred to.
Fearing that there might be other American students there who knew of
the disgraceful affair in which he had been a leader, he resolved not to
give his whole name, and thus escaped being a marked man.
He accordingly gave only his first two names, and though there were, as
he feared, other students there who did know of the escapade connected
with his previous college life, yet they never suspected that George
Sumner and George Dalton, as he had before been known, were the same
person. With a slight curl of his lip at the man’s reply, Earle
continued:
“As soon as I found he was an American, I resolved to come to America
and prosecute my search. But I was a poor boy; I had refused the aid
which my grandfather had hitherto given my mother—I could not use the
money of a man who had so long disowned me, even though it might belong
to me by right—and so I was obliged to do something for my support. That
was how I came to be in Mr. Forrester’s employ; and every holiday, every
spare day that he would grant me, I devoted to my search. I procured the
directories of several cities, and studied up all the Sumners they
contained, but could find none, upon seeking them out, who answered to
the George Sumner that my dying mother had described to me.
“I never thought of such a thing as you being the man I was seeking; had
I even suspected it, I never should have had to serve those three years
in that miserable prison; for, as I told you before, it was while
searching for you that I became entangled in that robbery. You, it
seems, knew, during the greater part of my imprisonment, of the relation
I sustained toward you. It would seem as if common humanity would have
prompted you to make some effort for my release, or, at least, for a
mitigation of my sentence; but instead, you sought to deprive me of the
only comfort I had, for I am convinced that it was you who intercepted
all the flowers and kind messages which I should otherwise have
received.”
Earle fixed his stern glance upon Mr. Dalton as he said this, and knew
by the guilty way his eyes fell that he was correct in his surmise.
“I do not wonder at it, now that I know something of your nature, but it
will only be an added thorn planted in your pillow of remorse, as will
also be the injuries which you sought to do me after my release, and in
the end you will be the worst sufferer. But in spite of your every
effort I conquered. I was beginning to make for myself a name and
reputation, when I read in a paper of the death of the Marquis of
Wycliffe. He had been dead some time, for this notice was only an item
gleaned from European news, and reported in connection with the fact
that Mr. Tressalia, of Newport fame, had succeeded to his vast property.
I knew then that I must attend to my claim at once, and I immediately
left for Europe. I found Mr. Tressalia, as I expected, already
established as the Marquis of Wycliffe; but, like the noble man that he
is, when he found that I was the rightful heir he relinquished
everything and kindly assisted me in establishing my identity. Then,
feeling that the change in my prospects would be sufficient to make you
waive all objections regarding me, I left my affairs in his hands, and
returned for Editha——”
Earle suddenly stopped appalled—he could not go on. All his dreams of
happiness were at an end now; that hour had crushed his every
hope—Editha Dalton was his half-sister, and he must never dare to think
of her again as becoming his wife.
But, God forgive him! he could never love her as a sister.
His great heart swelled within him with agony at the thought; the veins
upon his forehead filled out hard and full, while the perspiration
gathered upon his face, and, rolling off, dropped upon the floor.
Editha Dalton his half-sister!
He could not realize it, and it was the bitterest blow his life had ever
known. How could he live all the long years that were before him, with
the sin of this undying love clinging to him?
Now he knew something of what Paul Tressalia must have suffered from his
unrequited affection.
Paul Tressalia!
The thought of him thrilled him with a sharper, fiercer pain.
Perhaps in time, now that Editha was lost to him, he might succeed in
winning her.
It was too much for him to bear silently, and, bowing his head upon the
table near which he had sat down, he groaned aloud.
Sumner Dalton smiled at the sound, while a cunning, sinister expression
crept into his eyes. It did him good to know that Earle could suffer,
and his strange hatred of him on his mother’s account made him inwardly
exult over the sight.
But he had been revolving matters of importance in his mind while Earle
was talking.
He had been immeasurably startled and mortified to learn how the rector
of St. John’s chapel at Winchelsea had outwitted him, and fearfully
angry and irritated when he realized how he had missed all the luxuries
and magnificence of Wycliffe for so many years.
If he had only known that the marriage had been legal when he had opened
that package and discovered that Earle was his son and heir of all the
Marquis of Wycliffe’s great possessions, how differently he would have
conducted himself.
If he could but have known what that piece of cardboard contained—if he
could have read all this evidence then, and assured himself of its
truth, as he would have taken pains to have done, how eagerly he would
have worked for Earle’s release, and canceled every evidence of the evil
passion within him. He would then have made peace with him, and have
reaped all the advantages which the father of so noted a person as the
future Marquis of Wycliffe would be would naturally enjoy.
But a faint hope animated him that perhaps it might not be too late,
after all.
Earle was his son—that fact was established beyond a doubt—and he had
said he would never stoop to anything like revenge; he had once said
that he would not avail himself of the slightest advantage to do him an
injury; he had also said that he desired to put in practice the mandate,
“Love your enemies, do good to those who despitefully injure you.” If
that was the case he would doubtless be ready to forgive him for all the
wrong he had done him in the past, and if he expressed sorrow in a
proper manner he would doubtless receive him into favor, and he could
after all be able to worm himself into Wycliffe and be looked up to and
honored as the father of the young marquis. It was strange that no
feelings of guilt or shame restrained him. He did not hate Marion one
whit the less, nor Earle either, because he henceforth might be able to
enjoy what had so long been denied him.
But he was resolved to make the fact of their relationship serve him a
good turn; he would get all he could out of him, gratify every selfish
desire, accept every good thing that he could possibly worm out of him,
and let all the former wrong he had done him go for naught.
He still hated him, I say, as such natures always hate those who have
risen triumphant above them, and he would have gloried in it if he could
have hurled him from his proud position and made the whole world despise
and hate him likewise; but, as long as there was any prospect of
advantage to be gained for himself, he must hide it and put on the
semblance of regret and future good-will.
“You say that your claim is indisputably established at Wycliffe?” he
asked, after he had thought these things well over.
“Yes,” Earle answered, lifting his haggard face, with a heavy sigh;
“everything was so clearly proved that no one could gainsay it.”
“That is exceedingly fortunate. When shall you return?”
“Immediately,” Earle said, with white lips.
“How did you find the estates and rent-roll?” Mr. Dalton asked, with
another cunning gleam in his eyes.
“In a very flourishing condition,” Earle answered briefly.
He was beginning to mistrust toward what these inquiries were tending.
“But what will you do? You have never had any experience in managing so
large a property.”
“I can learn, sir.”
“I know; but that would be so tedious, and you are liable to make many
mistakes. You need some one older and wiser than yourself to advise
you.”
Mr. Dalton hesitates a moment and leans nearer Earle, eagerly searching
his handsome face. But Earle sits pale and quiet, knowing, nevertheless,
what is to follow, and conscious also of what the result will be.
“If—if,” began Mr. Dalton, with some hesitation, “you could
be—ahem!—persuaded to—to overlook the past—if we could make a treaty to
bury the hatchet, and be at peace. I—I really regret, you know, all that
has gone by—and if we could come to some sort of terms, I—would consent
to return to Wycliffe with you, and give you the benefit of my superior
judgment and advice.”
Such amazing disinterestedness, such unblushing assurance was absolutely
startling.
A quick, hot flush mounted to Earle’s brow, and for a moment his lips
trembled as if scathing and terrible words rushed unbidden there for
utterance.
Then he lifted his dark eyes and fixed them in a quiet, steady gaze upon
the man opposite him.
Sumner Dalton could not meet that gaze unmoved. In spite of his
hardihood, a blush of confusion mantled his face, and his guilty look
told that all sense of shame was not yet quite dead within him.
“When I was simply Earle Wayne,” he began, without removing his glance,
“a poor boy working for his daily bread, I was considered unworthy of
your notice. When misfortune overtook me and I became a criminal in the
sight of the law, even after you knew that it was your son who had been
sentenced to hard labor for three years, you made no effort to help
me—you did not come near me to offer me one kind and sympathizing word
even. When your daughter was kind to me, and I dared to feel a tender
regard for her, you resolved to crush me. When a kind friend remembered
me on his death-bed, you would have wrested from me the comparatively
small sum that he had bequeathed to me out of his abundance. You have
scorned, insulted, and wronged me in every possible way. You have even
owned to an implacable enmity toward me. For all this I could forgive
you, if convinced that you were truly repentant, since it was against me
alone that all your malice and hatred were turned; but for the slight,
the scorn, and the misery which you plotted, and, to all intents and
purposes, executed against my gentle and innocent mother, I cannot. I
have no right to forgive you. By your own wickedness and folly you have
forfeited all right to be acknowledged as either her husband or my
father. Mr. Dalton, _you_ can never cross the threshold of Wycliffe.”
He had listened to Earle with a sinking heart, and when he concluded he
fairly gnashed his teeth from anger and disappointment.
Earle had spoken very quietly. There was not the slightest excitement
visible in his manner, but every word had in it the ring of an
unalterable purpose.
“Do you mean it?” Mr. Dalton asked, in low, repressed tones.
“Most emphatically, sir; _you_ can never enter the home from which my
mother was driven in disgrace on account of your baseness and
treachery.”
Mr. Dalton sat in sullen thought for awhile. How he hated this calm,
proud young man, from whom, even though he was his own son, he knew he
had no right to expect anything of respect or consideration.
But the things of the world were desperate with him just at present, and
he controlled his fierce passion to make one last appeal.
It was true that Editha still had her fortune, and while she still
remained single he knew he need not want for anything within reason;
still he could not in any way control her property, and all he received
had to come through her hands, which, to a man so proud and spirited as
himself, was, to say the least, humiliating.
But if he could but once lay hand upon the overflowing coffers of
Wycliffe his future would be one long day of luxury and pleasure, and,
having been wronged out of his share for so many years, he would feel no
compunctions about scattering with lavish hand the shining treasure of
the house of Vance.
“I will be frank with you,” he said, trying to speak in a conciliatory
tone. “I am a ruined man. I have been speculating, and every dollar of
my handsome property is gone. Even my house and furniture are mortgaged,
and liable to be taken from me any day. I say again I regret the past
sincerely;” and so he did, so much of it as had served to keep him out
of Wycliffe, though no part of his sin. “I wish to be at peace with you,
but if you turn against me now, I must come down to the level of the
common herd.”
To the level of the common herd! How the words galled Earle. He would
sink to the level of the common herd, of which he had once believed his
mother was one, and so it had not mattered if he had ruined her.
Bitter words arose to his lips; his heart was full of scorn and
indignation, but he controlled it, and answered, as calmly as before,
but with an unmoved face:
“I regret that you have been so unfortunate—speculating is very
precarious business, but I can never consent to your becoming an inmate
of Wycliffe, or of the home where I reside. It would not be right that I
should overlook the past and treat you as if you had been guilty of no
wrong; you have no right to expect me to entertain anything of either
respect or affection for you, even though the same blood may flow in our
veins—you have forfeited all right and title to any such feelings. I
must, on the other hand, frankly confess to an aversion for you, but I
would harbor no ill-will, I would do you no injury even though I cannot
tolerate your presence.”
“Is this your creed?” burst forth Mr. Dalton, unable to control himself
any longer. “Is this your boasted forgiveness of your enemies—your
‘good-will toward men?’”
“You do not _wish_ to be forgiven—you have no _real sorrow_ for your
sin. If any effort of mine could serve to make you truly repentant
before God, I would not spare it. If you were sick and needy, I would
minister to you, for my Master’s sake, as I would to any other stranger.
But your feelings toward me are unchanged—were it not for what I
_possess_, you would not even now make these overtures to me, and all
idea of our residing under the same roof, or of sharing anything in
common, is entirely out of the question. Still, I repeat, I bear you no
malice, or cherish no spirit of revenge toward you, and to prove it,
since you have been so unfortunate, I will make over to you, if Editha
does not object, the ten thousand dollars which Mr. Forrester bequeathed
to me, and which has remained untouched since she invested it for me.
The interest of that will give you a comfortable living during the
remainder of your life, if you do not touch the principal.”
A perfect tornado of wrath raged in Sumner Dalton’s breast at this
calmly spoken but unalterable decision.
“So you will deign to give me, _your father_, a paltry ten thousand out
of your exhaustless revenue!” he sneered, with exceeding bitterness.
“I owe you _nothing_ on the score of relationship,” Earle answered,
coldly; “and as for the ‘paltry ten thousand,’ allow me to remind you
that you did not consider it in that light when Mr. Forrester bequeathed
it to me.”
Again Mr. Dalton flushed.
How all his sins, one after another, were being visited upon himself.
With a fearful look of rage and hate convulsing his features, he leaned
toward Earle and hissed:
“I would crush you this instant if I could; there is nothing of all the
world’s ills too horrible for me to wish upon you, and I will yet be
revenged upon you for what I have suffered this day. I will yet make you
feel the power of my hate!” and he glanced darkly toward Editha as he
said this.
Earle’s eyes involuntarily followed his look, and the bitterness of
death seemed upon him as he realized that they two would have a
life-long sorrow to bear.
A sudden fear startled him, as Mr. Dalton spoke, that he contemplated
injury to her in order to carry out the revenge he meant to wreak upon
him.
“You will be very careful _what_ you do,” he said, with a sternness that
cowed the man in spite of his bravado; “you will not forget that you
occupy a very delicate position even now, and that I have it in my power
to make your own future very uncomfortable.”
“What do you mean?” demanded Mr. Dalton, with glittering eyes.
“I mean that if I choose I can make you answerable to the law; for,
while one wife was living, you married another, and are liable at any
time to be prosecuted for bigamy.”
Sumner Dalton swore a fearful oath, his white face testifying to the
dreadful punishment which anything of such a nature would be to him,
while a low, heart-rending moan burst at the same moment from Editha.