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 circumstances. 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 principal 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 circumstances 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 passed 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, assisted 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.
"But you need me, Aunt Katharine, and I should be utterly unworthy of my dear Alden's love if I could fail you in your time of trouble. Besides, I think Alden, also, will go back with you to Wendover."
"Heaven bless you both! You are the solace of my sad old age," said the widow, earnestly.
Emma ran out, and soon returned prepared for her sudden night ride.
Then she took her poor aunt's arm within her own and supported her as they walked down-stairs together.
In the hall below they met Alden Lytton, also prepared for the journey.
He did not seem at all surprised to see Emma in her hat and paletot. He understood her too well for that. He merely inquired if the ladies were both quite ready. And being answered in the [affirmative], he took them out and put them into the carriage, that was immediately started at a rate that astonished the usually steady-going horses.
The journey was made almost in silence. Mrs. Fanning wept quietly behind her pocket-handkerchief, and Alden and Emma sat with their hands clasped in each other's in mute sympathy.
It was some time after midnight when the carriage entered Wendover and drew up before the old Reindeer Hotel.
Lights about the house at that hour showed that something very unusual was transpiring within.
Hezekiah Greenfield himself came out to meet the party from Blue Cliffs.
With much gravity he greeted them, and to Mrs. Fanning's agonized inquiries about her daughter, he answered:
"I can't well tell you how she is, ma'am. But I will call Sukey, and she will take you to her."
He then conducted them into the parlor and went out in search of his wife.
Very soon good Mrs. Greenfield came waddling in.
Mrs. Fanning arose and hurried to meet her, eagerly inquiring:
"How is my child? How is she now? Does she still live?"
"Yes, ma'am, she is alive, and when she sent for you she was still in her right senses; but now she is wandering, poor girl, and imagines herself still to be living at Peerch P'int," answered the weeping woman, as she took the poor mother's hand to lead her to her daughter.
She led her to a spacious upper chamber, dimly lighted by a single taper, where on a white bed lay extended the form of the dying girl.
"Ivy, my darling! My darling Ivy, do you know me?" tenderly whispered the poor mother, taking her erring daughter's wasted hand and gazing into the fading face, nothing but love and sorrow and forgiveness in her heart.
"Is that you, mamma? Is it near morning? I'm so glad!" said the dying girl, panting as she spoke. "Oh, I've had such a dreadful dream, mamma—such a long, dreadful dream! I dreamed of doing such horrible and wicked things—that I never could have done in my waking hours. I have lived long years in last night's dreadful dream. I am glad it is morning. Kiss me, mamma."
These were her last words, panted forth with her last breath. The mother's kiss fell upon "unanswering clay."
Katharine Fanning was borne in a fainting condition from the death-bed of her daughter and conveyed to another chamber, where she received the most sympathetic and affectionate ministrations from Emma and Alden Lytton.
But it was not until Alden and Emma saw the face of that sinful child of passion in her coffin that they knew Ivy Fanning and Mary Grey to be one and the same person.
Her remains were laid in the family vault at Blue Cliffs, where, before many weeks had passed, the body of her brokenhearted mother was laid beside them.
Craven Kyte was never clearly certain whether he was himself a widower or a bachelor. But in either character he was free. And the first use he made of his freedom was to go to White Perch Point and propose to the brave little maiden of the light-house, who was his last love, as she had been his first.
And soon he made her his wife, and brought her and her aged relative away from their bleak home and dangerous duties and settled them in a pretty rural cottage within easy walking distance of his own thriving place of business—the fashionable bazaar of "Bastiennello & Kyte."
The two young brides, Laura and Electra, were taken to Europe by their husbands, and reached Paris in time to be present at the great World's Fair. And before they returned Victor Hartman's story was published to the world, and his fame was fully vindicated.
THE END.
Every effort has been made to replicate this text as faithfully as possible, including obsolete and variant spellings. Obvious typographical errors in punctuation (misplaced quotes and the like) have been fixed. Corrections [in brackets] in the text are noted below:
throughout:
Katherine/Katharine Fanning spelled with an "e" at the beginning of the novel and with an "a" at the end; it is the same person.
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"Oh, the same sin of [helplessnss[helplessness] and cowardice; the same fear of discovery and exposure; the same horror of being cast
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too. For see how easily she falls into error. She ought to marry some good, wise, elderly man, who could be her guide, philosopher and friend as well as husband.[">
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in hand, stood with Emma Cavendish in the hall waiting for Mrs. [Gray[Grey], to whom they had sent a message inviting her to come down and see the traveler off.
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"Yes; but, my dear, she must have this change now, immediately.[">
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[">I would restore to her all that she has lost, if I could. I would give her back husband, daughter, home and competence," said Emma.
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Jerome, if that's his name, very gravely, with a silent bow, put up the steps and closed the door and mounted his box and drove off.[">
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She proposed this plan to her hostess, who at first opposed the self-sacrifice, as she called it. But finally, being [pursuaded[persuaded] by Mary Grey, she yielded the point, and fervently
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"Yes, it is from your unknown guardian.[">
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The pastor expressed himself highly gratified, and added[.[:]
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"Maria Wheatfield[,[.">
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M. Grey.['[">
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"Hush—hush!" she murmured. [">Be quiet! There are people in the next room. They may hear you. And I am sure they should do so they would take you for a lunatic."
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"Yes; but don't cry out so loud—that's a dear! I repeat, there are people in the next room[.] But you have not yet answered my question."
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"I am tired of walking. And here is a vacant house placarded 'To Let,' with a nice long porch in front. Come, let [us] go in and sit down on one of the benches and rest."
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as I always get frightened and lose my presence of mind in the terrible uproar of a steamboat landing or a railway station.[">
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Her devoted slave was waiting for [here[her] there. And on the table, in addition to the other comforts, there was a little silver
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his companion, and the lovely youthful widow, who was [lis-[tening] [Page 163 in TIA copy of a different publisher/edition (www.archive.org/details/victorstriumphse00soutrich) shows only "-ening" is missing here.] to him with such rapt attention, were a pair of happy and devoted lovers.
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telegram from the agent, which he supposed to be a magical answer to your message.[">
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"I said that you were my prisoner, Mr. Alden Lytton," answered the deputy-sheriff, gravely. "I repeat that you are my prisoner.[">
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"[Gn[On] my sacred oath I most solemnly declare that you are the man and she is the woman I then and there united together," unflinchingly replied the minister.
with fierce indignation, "all I have further to say is this—that you have basely [purjured[perjured] yourself to assist and support an infamous conspiracy!"
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Church of St. ——, in the city of Philadelphia, on the fifteenth day of September last, between the hours of twelve and one p. m[.]," said the counsel.
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her father telling him of the whereabouts of his daughter, and asking him to come and receive her [at [at] his hands. But the very day upon which this letter was mailed two events occurred
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a coward! He dared not meet the penalty of his crime. He saw another man [condemed[condemned] to die for his offense, yet he dared not confess and save the guiltless. He tried indirect ways.
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secrecy, he confessed himself the murderer [of [of] Henry Lytton and related all the circumstances that led to the tragedy.
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inquired if the ladies were both quite ready. And being answered in the [affimative[affirmative], he took them out and put them into the carriage, that was immediately started at a rate that astonished