Victor's Triumph Part 21

"Our ways separate here, I am sorry to say. I have to walk a mile out to the University. Your hotel is about twenty paces up the next street, on your right. You will be sure to find it."

And Alden lifted his hat and was about to stride rapidly away when Mr.

Lyle laid his hand on his arm and said:

"One moment. I did not know our paths parted so soon or I might have spoken as we left the house. The fact is, I have a very large sum of money--ten thousand dollars--sent me to be paid to you as soon as you shall have taken your degree. It is to be employed in the purchase of a law library and in the renting and furnis.h.i.+ng of a law office in the best obtainable location. I wish to turn this money over to you as soon as possible."

"It is from my unknown guardian, I presume," said Alden, gravely.

"Yes, it is from your unknown guardian."

"Then we will talk of this after the Commencement. I hardly know, Mr.

Lyle, whether I ought to accept anything more from this lavish benefactor of ours. I may never be able to repay what we already owe him."

"You need have no hesitation in accepting a.s.sistance from this man, as I have often a.s.sured you. But, as you say, we will talk of this some other time, when we have more leisure. Good-night!"

And the gentlemen separated: Alden Lytton striding westward toward the University, and Mr. Lyle walking thoughtfully toward his hotel.

His room had been secured and his key was in his pocket, so that he possessed quite an enviable advantage over the crowd of improvident travelers who thronged the office clamoring for quarters, and not half of whom could by any possibility be accommodated.

As it was long after the minister's usual hour for retiring, he walked through the crowded office into the hall and up the stairs to his room--a very small chamber, with one window and a single bed, both window and bed neatly draped with white.

Mr. Lyle sat down in a chair by the one little table, on which stood a bright bra.s.s candlestick with a lighted spermaceti candle, and took from his pocket a small Bible, which he opened with the intention of reading his customary chapter before going to bed, when a rap at his door surprised him.

"Come in," he said, supposing that only a country waiter had come with towels or water, or some other convenience.

The door opened and a waiter indeed made his appearance. But he only said:

"A gemman for to see yer, sah!" and ushered in a stranger and closed the door behind him.

Mr. Lyle, much astonished, stared at the visitor, whom he thought he had never seen before.

The stranger was a tall, finely-formed, dark-complexioned and very handsome man, notwithstanding that his raven hair was streaked with silver, his brow lined with thought, and his fine black eyes rather hollow. A full black beard nearly covered the lower part of his face.

"Mr. Lyle," said the visitor, holding out his hand.

"That is my name, sir; but you have the advantage of me," said the minister.

"You do not know me?" inquired the stranger in sad surprise.

"I do not, indeed."

"I am Victor Hartman!"

CHAPTER XVI.

THE RETURNED EXILE.

Danger, long travel, want, or woe, Soon change the form that best we know; For deadly fear can time outgo, And blanch at once the hair; Hard time can roughen form and face, And grief can quench the eyes' bright grace; Nor does old age a wrinkle trace More deeply than despair.

--SCOTT.

"Victor Hartman!" exclaimed Mr. Lyle, in a tone of astonishment and joy, as he sprang from his chair and grasped both the hands of the traveler and shook them heartily--"Victor Hartman! My dear friend, I am so delighted--and so surprised--to see you! Sit down--sit down!" he continued, dragging forward a chair and forcing his visitor into it.

"But I never should have known you again," he concluded, gazing intently upon the bronzed, gray, tall, broad-shouldered man before him.

"I am much changed," answered the stranger, in a deep, mellifluous voice, that reminded the hearer of sweet, solemn church music.

"Changed! Why, you left us a mere stripling! You return to us a mature man. To all appearance, you might be the father of the boy who went away," said the minister, still gazing upon the stranger.

"And yet the time has not been long; though indeed I have lived much in that period," said the traveler, in the same rich, deep tone, and with a smile that rendered his worn face bright and handsome for the moment.

"Well, I am delighted to see you. But how is it that I have this joyful surprise?" inquired the minister.

"What brings me here, you would ask; and why did I not write and tell you that I was coming?" said Hartman, with an odd smile. "Well, I will explain. When I got your letter acknowledging the receipt of the last remittance I sent to you for my children, I learned for the first time by that same letter that my boy would graduate at this Commencement, and hoped to take the highest honors of his college. Well, a steamer was to sail at noon that very day. I thought I would like to be present at the Commencement and see my boy take his degree. I packed my trunk in an hour, embarked in the 'Porte d'Or' in another hour, and here I am."

"That was prompt. When did you arrive?"

"Our steamer reached New York on Thursday noon. I took the night train for Was.h.i.+ngton, where I arrived at five on Friday morning. I took the morning boat for Aquia Creek, and the train for Richmond and Charlottesville. I got here about noon."

"And you have not seen your _proteges_?"

"Yes, I have seen my boy pa.s.s the hotel twice to-day. I knew him by his likeness to his unfortunate father. But I did not make myself known to him. I do not intend to do so--at least not at present."

"Why not?"

"Why not?" echoed Hartman, sorrowfully. "Ah, would he not shrink from me in disgust and abhorrence?"

"No; not if he were told the awful injustice that has been done you."

"But if he were told, would he believe it? We have no proof that any injustice has been done me, except those anonymous letters and the word of that strange horseman who waylaid me on my tramp and thrust a bag of gold in my hands, with the words, 'You never intended to kill Henry Lytton, and you never killed him. Some one else intended to kill him, and some one else killed him.'"

"Have you ever heard anything more of that mysterious horseman?"

"Not one word."

"Have you no suspicion of his ident.i.ty?"

"None, beyond the strong conviction that I feel that he himself was the homicide and the writer of the anonymous letters."

"Well, I can not tell you why, but I always felt persuaded of your innocence, even before the coming of those anonymous letters, and even while _you_ were bitterly accusing yourself."

"You knew it from intuition--inward teaching."

"May I ask you, Hartman, _why_ after you discovered that you had nothing to do with the death of Henry Lytton, you still determined to burden yourself with the support and education of his children--a duty that was first a.s.sumed by you as an atonement for an irreparable injury you supposed you had done them?"

"Why I still resolved to care for them after I learned that I had nothing to do with their great loss? Indeed I can not tell you.

Perhaps--partly because I sympathized with them in a sorrow that was common to us all, in so far as we all suffered from the same cause; partly, I also think, because it was pleasant to have _some one_ to live for and work for; partly because I was so grateful to find myself free from blood guiltiness that I wished to educate those children as a thank-offering to Heaven! It was also very pleasant to me to think of this boy at college and this girl at school, and to hope that some day they might come to look upon me with affection instead of with horror.