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.”