Victor's Triumph Part 75

Later that evening the six friends were all a.s.sembled together in the drawing-room.

John Lytton and Charley, who were the guests of the house for the night, had just bid them good-night and retired to their room.

And then and there two little confessions were made.

Alden Lytton related the whole history of his foolish boyish love for the fascinating and unprincipled widow who had so nearly effected his destruction.

Emma listened in full sympathy, with his hand clasped in hers; and no retrospective jealousy disturbed the serenity of her loving and trusting spirit.

And at the close of the story she silently raised his hand and pressed it to her heart. That was her only comment. And the subject was never afterward mentioned between the two.

Then it was that Joseph Brent made his ident.i.ty known to Alden Lytton, Emma and Laura, as it had long been known to Mr. Lyle, his friend, and to Electra, his wife. And Emma and Laura wept anew over the long past sorrows of poor Victor Hartman.

Alden grasped his hand in earnest grat.i.tude and friendship.

"And it is to _you_," he said, "that my sister and myself owe all our present happiness. You thought for us, planned for us, toiled for us, made us even as your own children, simply because you were falsely accused of having made us fatherless!" he said, as the generous tears filled his eyes.

"I did all this because, but for the mercy of Heaven, a mad blow of mine _might_ have made you fatherless, as it nearly did," answered Victor Hartman.

"Do you know who really struck the fatal blow and why it was struck?"

"No; I know neither one nor the other."

"Then you shall learn, for now is the time to speak," said Alden Lytton.

CHAPTER LI.

WHO KILLED HENRY LYTTON--FATE OF MARY GREY.

In pursuance of his promise to tell who killed his father, Alden Lytton said:

"One hardly knows how to begin so painful a story. But here it is. You may have heard of a wild, handsome ne'er-do-weel who kept the White Perch Point hotel and married a relative of the Cavendish family?"

"Oh, yes, of course! He was the husband of this widow lady who lives here."

"The same. They had one child, a daughter, said to have been as beautiful as the mother, and as wild and reckless as the father. Out of pure deviltry, as it would seem, this girl ran away from her boarding-school in company with an unprincipled young play-actor, who afterward abandoned her. Soon after this my dear father, who had known her parents and herself, too, met and recognized her under the most painful circ.u.mstances. He was deeply shocked, and almost with a father's authority he insisted on taking her home to his own house and sending for her friends. She was but a child. She knew, also, that, being a minor, she was liable to be taken in custody, upon complaint made, and forcibly restored to her family. But she was full of duplicity. She affected to consent to return to her parents, and allowed my father to bring her back as far as his own house, whence he wrote a letter to her father telling him of the whereabouts of his daughter, and asking him to come and receive her at his hands. But the very day upon which this letter was mailed two events occurred to frustrate the good intentions of the writer. Ivy Fanning ran away from Fairview, my father's villa.

And Mr. Fanning, having heard from the princ.i.p.al of the school from which his daughter had eloped, came furiously to town in search of the fugitive. Most unfortunately, he ascertained beyond a doubt that his daughter was living at Fairview, whither she had been taken by the master of the house, Mr. Henry Lytton. Mistaking altogether the situation, believing my dear father to have been the first abductor of the girl, he waylaid him and struck that fatal blow which caused his death, and which had so nearly cost you, also, your life.

"After committing this dreadful deed, the guilty man fled to his own home, where he found awaiting him the letter from Mr. Lytton explaining everything.

"After this his remorse knew no bounds. But ah, he was a coward! He dared not meet the penalty of his crime. He saw another man condemned to die for his offense, yet he dared not confess and save the guiltless. He tried indirect ways. He wrote anonymous letters to the governor. And when at last he found that these had no effect, and the day of execution drew very near, he came by night to this house, and in a private interview with Governor Cavendish, after binding him to a temporary secrecy, he confessed himself the murderer of Henry Lytton and related all the circ.u.mstances that led to the tragedy.

"This confession, made as it was under the seal of temporary secrecy, placed the late Governor Cavendish in a false position.

"He could not permit an innocent man to be executed for the crime of a guilty one. Nor could he, being bound to secrecy, expose the guilty. He was, therefore, compelled to pardon the supposed murderer, without giving any explanation to outraged public sentiment for the strangeness of his action. Such was the explanation made to me by the late Governor Cavendish, with the stipulation that I should keep the secret during the natural life of Frederick Fanning--which he felt sure could not be of long duration--and also that afterward I should reveal it to you, if ever I should happen to meet you. That is all, my dear friend and benefactor. And some day, when the poor old lady upstairs shall have pa.s.sed away to her heavenly home, this story, which is your vindication, shall be published to the world. And the name of Victor Hartman, which you have renounced and declared to be dead and buried, shall be rescued from unmerited reproach and crowned with merited honor."

While yet they spoke together, there was heard a loud knocking at the hall door. And the next moment Jerome, the hall footman, who had immediately opened the door, entered the drawing-room, saying that there was a messenger from the Reindeer with a note for Mrs. Fanning on a matter of life and death.

Mr. Lytton immediately went out to see the messenger, who proved to be no other than Mithridates, or Taters, once the slave of Frederick Fanning, some time the hired servant of John Lytton, and now the hostler at the Reindeer.

"Well, Taters, what is it? Mrs. Fanning has gone to bed, and we don't like to disturb her at this hour of the night," said Mr. Lytton.

"Oh, marster, you'll have to 'sturb her nebbertheless and notwivstandin'," said the weeping boy, "because my young missis, which wasn't a ghost after all, but was a libbin' 'oman when I see her here, is a-dyin' now, at the Reindeer, and wants to see her mudder."

"What on earth are you talking about, boy?" inquired the bewildered man.

"Miss Iby Fannin', sir! My young mist'ess as used to was! She be a-dyin'

at de Reindeer and wants to see her mudder, Missis Fannin', my ole missis, wot libs here," explained the boy, bursting into fresh sobs and tears.

"Ivy Fanning, the long missing girl, supposed to be dead--dying now at the Reindeer?"

"Yes, sir--yes, sir! And if you don't make haste and tell my ole missis she'll be dead before her mudder can get to her," sobbed the faithful boy.

"Sit down here and wait," said Mr. Lytton, who now understood the emergency.

And, leaving the boy seated in the hall, he went into the drawing-room and told Emma the surprising news that Ivy Fanning, the long-lost, erring daughter of Frederick and Katharine Fanning, and the unworthy cousin of Emma Cavendish--Ivy Fanning, whose faults had caused so much misery to all connected with her--Ivy Fanning, supposed to be dead long ago, was now lying at the point of death at the Reindeer Hotel, and begging to see her poor, wronged mother!

"What a terrible thing to tell Aunt Katharine, when we rouse her up at the dead of night!" exclaimed Emma, with a shudder.

"And yet, my dear one, it is your duty to do that very terrible thing.

Go bravely and do it, my love, while I go and order the most comfortable carriage in the stable to convey the poor lady to Wendover," said Alden Lytton, encouragingly.

Emma went to Mrs. Fanning's room and waked her up, telling her at first, very gently, that she was wanted.

The poor woman, jumping to the conclusion that some one of the household servants was ill and in need of her ministrations, got up at once and inquired who it was.

"It is a friend of yours who is ill at the Reindeer Hotel at Wendover, and desires to see you," said Emma, beginning gently to break to the poor mother the news that it was her dying daughter who had sent for her.

"Friend? I am sure I have no friend who is near enough to send for me, at dead of night, to come sixteen miles to see him, or her, as the case may be," said the widow, looking very much perplexed, as she hastened to put on her clothes.

"I should have said a relative--a very near relative--a long-lost--"

began Emma, but her voice broke down in sobs.

"It is Ivy!" exclaimed Mrs. Fanning, as a swift intuition revealed to her the truth.

"Yes, it is Ivy," wept Emma, throwing her arms around the afflicted woman. "And oh, is it not better so--better at once to know her fate, even to know her safe in the peace of death, than to go on enduring this dreadful uncertainty about her?"

"Oh, my child, my child! Oh, my child, my child!" wept the poor mother, scarcely able, through sobs and tears, and failings of heart and frame, to complete her simple toilet.

Emma, with great sympathy and tenderness, a.s.sisted her to dress, pinned the shawl around her shoulders, tied the bonnet strings under her chin, and brought her her gloves and pocket-handkerchief.

"I will now run and get my hat and sack, Aunt Katharine. I will go with you to Wendover," she said.

"You go with me? My dear child, you have been so long parted from your husband, and only received him back to-night, and leave him to go with me? No, no! I can not permit you to do so, Emma," said the weeping lady.