The position of Edith and Dudleigh was of such a character that farther inaction was felt to be intolerable, and it was only the hope of hearing from those who were already engaged in the work that made him capable of delaying longer. But several events now occurred which put an end to the present state of things.
The first of these was a marked improvement in the condition of Mr. Dalton. A successful operation performed upon him had the result of restoring him to consciousness, and after this a general increase of strength took place. His intense joy at the sight of Edith, and the delight which he felt at her presence and the reception of her loving and tender care, all acted favorably upon him; and as the sorrow which he had experienced had been the chief cause of his prostration, so the happiness which he now felt became a powerful agent toward restoring him to strength.
The joy of Edith was so great that the terror and perplexity of her position ceased to alarm her. Her greatest grief seemed now removed, for she had feared that her father might die without ever knowing how deeply she repented for the past and how truly she loved him. Now, however, he would live to receive from her those tender cares which, while they could never in her mind atone for the wrongs that she had inflicted upon him, would yet be the means of giving some happiness to him who had suffered go much.
A few days after her father's restoration to consciousness Dudleigh received a letter of a most important character, and as soon as he was able to see Edith during the walks that they still took in the afternoon or evening, he informed her with unusual emotion of the fact.
“She writes,” he concluded, “that she has got at last on the track of Leon.”
“Who? Your mother?”
“No. I have not heard from my mother. I mean Miss Fortescue.”
“Miss Fortescue?” repeated Edith, in some surprise.
“Yes,” said Dudleigh. “I did not mention her before, because I did not know what you might think about it. But the fact is, I saw her after the trial was over. She had come to give important testimony. She came to see me, and told me all about it. The information was of the most extraordinary kind. It appears that in the course of her own inquiries she had heard some gossip about a long box which had been put off at Finsbury from the train. This was called for by a teamster, who was accompanied by a Newfoundland dog, who took the box, and drove away from Finsbury to Dalton. Now, as no such teamster, or box, or dog, had been seen in Dalton, she began to suspect that it had something to do with the remains found in the well, and that this whole matter was a malignant scheme of Leon's to involve you or your father, or both, in some calamity. At any rate, she herself went cautiously about, and tried to investigate for herself. She had all along felt convinced that Leon was alive, and she felt equally convinced that he was capable of any malignant act for the purpose of wreaking his vengeance on you or your father. He had been baffled here, and had sworn vengeance. That much your father told me before the trial.
“So Miss Fortescue searched very carefully, and at length made a very important discovery. A few miles this side of Finsbury there is a grove, through which the Dalton Park wall runs. Here she happened to see the trace of heavy wheels, and the hedge which adjoins the wall, and is rather thin there, seemed to have been broken through, so as to form an opening wide enough to admit a cart. Struck by this, she followed the marks of the wheels into the grove for some distance, until they stopped. Here, to her surprised, she saw close by the Dalton Park wall an oblong box, just like the one which had been described to her. It was empty, and had been left here.
“Now why had it been left here? Miss Fortescue felt certain that Leon had brought a dead body in that box, that he had taken it stealthily into the park, and thrown it down into the well, and then, not wishing to be seen with such a very conspicuous thing as this box, he had left it behind him. She also thought that he had managed in a secret way to start the rumors that had prevailed, and to drop some hints, either by anonymous letters to the sheriff or otherwise, which turned their attention to the well. She saw at once how important this testimony would be in your favor, and therefore saw the Finsbury people who had told her of the teamster, and with these she came to the trial. But when she came she heard that the missing man had returned—and saw me, you know.”
At this extraordinary information Edith was silent for some time.
“I have often tried to account for it,” said she, “but I could hardly bring myself to believe that this was his work. But now when I recalled his last words to me, I can understand it, and I am forced to believe it.”
“His last words to you?” said Dudleigh, in an inquiring tone.
“Yes,” said Edith, with a sigh. “The remembrance of that night is so distressing that I have never felt able to speak of it. Even the thought of what I suffered then almost drives me wild; but now—and toyou, Reginald—it is different, and I have strength to speak of it.”
As she said this she looked at him tenderly, and Reginald folded her in his arms. She then began to give an account of that eventful night, of her long preparations, her suspense, her departure, until that moment when she saw that she was pursued. The remainder only need be given here.
She had been right in her conjectures. Leon had suspected, or at least had watched, and discovered all. The moonlight had revealed her plainly as she stole across the open area, and when she fled into the woods the rustling and crackling had betrayed the direction which she had taken. Thus it was that Leon had been able to pursue her, and his first sneering words as he came up to her made her acquainted with her awkwardness. The trees were not so close but that her figure could be seen; the moonlight streamed down, and disclosed her standing at bay, desperate, defiant, with her dagger uplifted, and her arm nerved to strike. This Leon saw, and being afraid to venture close to her, he held aloof, and tried to conceal his cowardice in taunts and sneers.
Edith said nothing for some time, but at last, seeing that Leon hesitated, she determined to continue her flight in spite of him, and informed him so.
Upon this he threatened to set the dog on her.
“He will tear you to pieces,” cried Leon. “No one will suspect that I had any thing to do with it. Every body will believe that in trying to run away you were caught by the dog.”
This threat, however, did not in the least alarm Edith. She was not afraid of the dog. She had already gained the animal's affections by various little acts of kindness. So now, in response to Leon's threats, she held out her hand toward the dog and called him. The dog wagged his tail and made a few steps forward. At this Leon grew infuriated, and tried to set him at Edith. But the dog would not obey. Leon then held him, pointed his head toward Edith, and doing all in his power to urge him on. The effort, however, was completely useless. Edith, seeing this, hurried away. Leon rushed after her, followed by the dog, and once more she stood at bay, while the same efforts were repeated to set the dog at her. This was done several times over. At last Leon gave the dog a terrible beating. Wild with indignant rage at his cowardice, brutality, and persistent pursuit, full also of pity for the poor animal who was suffering for love of her, Edith sprang forward at Leon as though she would stab him. Whether she would have done so or not, need not be said; at any rate her purpose was gained, for Leon, with a cry of fear, started back.
Then standing at a safe distance, he hurled at her the most terrible threats of vengeance. Among all these she remembered well one expression, which he repeated over and over.
“You've threatened my life!” he cried.
“My life shall lie at your door, if I have to kill myself.”
This he said over and over. But Edith did not wait much longer. Once more she started off, and this time Leon did not follow her. That was the last she saw or heard of him. After this she wandered about through woods and swamps for a long time, and at length, about the dawn of day, when she had almost lost all hope, she came to the wall. This she clambered over by means of her rope and hook, and reached the Dalton Inn in the condition already described.
Afterward, when she heard that Leon was missing, and when she was confronted with the remains, the whole horror of her situation burst upon her mind. Her first thought was that he had in his desperate rage actually killed himself; but the absence of the head showed that this was impossible. There remained after this a deep mystery, the solution of which she could not discover, but in the midst of which she could not fail to see how terribly circumstances bore against her. She was afraid to say any thing. She knew that if she told all she would be believed but in part. If she confessed that she had seen him, and had quarreled with him on that night, then all men would conclude that she had also murdered him so as to escape. She saw also how hopeless it was to look for any testimony in her favor. Every thing was against her. Being in ignorance of her father and Lady Dudleigh, she had supposed that they would be most relentless of all in doing her to death; and the excitement of the latter over the loss of Leon was never suspected by her to be the frenzied grief of a mother's heart over a sudden and most agonizing bereavement.
But now all these things were plain. Another shared her secret—one, too, who would lay down his life for her—and the efforts of Miss Fortescue had resulted in suggesting to her mind a new solution of the mystery.
After the natural comments which were elicited by Edith's strange story, Reginald showed her the letter which he had received from Miss Fortescue. It was not very long, nor was it very definite. It merely informed him that she had reason to believe that she had at last got upon the track of Leon; and requested him to come to her at once, as there was danger of losing this opportunity if there was any delay. She appointed a place at which she would meet him three days from the date of the letter, where she would wait several days to allow for all delay in his reception of the letter. The place which she mentioned was known to Reginald as the nearest station on the railway to Dudleigh Manor.
“This must decide all,” said Reginald. “They are playing a desperate game, and the part which must be done by my mother and myself is a terrible one. If we fail in this, we may have to fly at once. But if I can only see Leon once, so as to drag him before the world, and show that he is alive—if I can only save you, darling, from your terrible position, then I can bear other evils in patience for a time longer.”
“You have heard nothing from your mother, then?” said Edith.
“No,” said he, with a sigh. “And I feel anxious—terribly anxious. I was very unwilling for her to go, and warned her against it; but she was determined, and her reasons for doing so were unanswerable; still I feel terribly alarmed, for Sir Lionel is a man who would stop at nothing to get rid of one whom he thinks is the only witness against him.”
{Illustration: “THEY WERE STARTLED BY THE APPROACH OF SEVERAL MEN."}
After Dudleigh's departure Edith was left more exclusively with her father, and had the satisfaction of seeing that under her tender care he grew stronger and more happy every day. In the long confidences between these two, who had once been so separated, all was gradually explained, and Edith learned not only the whole truth about that calamity which had befallen him in early life, but also the reason of that once inexplicable policy which he had chosen with regard to herself.
Lionel Dudleigh and he had been friends from boyhood, though the weak and lavish character of the former had gradually put them upon divergent lines of life, which even Lionel's marriage with his sister, Claudine Dalton, could not bring together again. For Lionel had fallen into evil courses, and had taken to the common road of ruin—the turf; and though it had been hoped that his marriage would work a reformation, yet those hopes had all proved unfounded. Years passed. Two children were born to Lionel Dudleigh—Reginald and Leon; yet not even the considerations of their future welfare, which usually have weight with the most corrupt, were sufficiency powerful to draw back the transgressor from his bad career.
He became terribly involved in debt. Twice already his debts had been paid, but this third time his father would assist him no longer. His elder brother, then heir to the estate, was equally inexorable; and Frederick Dalton was the one who came forward to save his sister's husband and his old friend from destruction.
On this occasion, however, Lionel was not frank with Dalton. Perhaps he was afraid to tell him the whole amount of his debts, for fear that Dalton would refuse to do any thing. At any rate, whatever the cause was, after Dalton had, as he supposed, settled every thing, Lionel was pressed as hard as ever by a crowd of creditors, whom this partial settlement had only rendered the more ravenous.
Pressed hard by one of these, the wretched man had forged a check on the Liverpool banker, Mr. Henderson, and this check he had inclosed in a letter to Frederick Dalton, requesting him to get the money and pay one or two debts which he specified. This Dalton did at once, without hesitation or suspicion of any sort.
Then came the discovery, swift and sudden, that it was a forgery. But one feeling arose in Dalton's mind, and that was a desire to save Lionel. He hurried off at once to see him. The wretched man confessed all. Dalton at once went to Liverpool, where he saw Mr. Henderson, and tried to save his friend. He came away from the interview, however only to make known to Lionel the banker's obstinacy and resolution to have vengeance.
Dalton's solicitor in Liverpool was Mr. John Wiggins. Lionel's presence in Liverpool was not known to any one but Dalton. He had seen Wiggins once, and persuaded Lionel to see him also, to which the latter consented only with extreme difficulty. The interview never took place, however, nor was Wiggins aware of Lionel's presence in Liverpool, or of his guilt. Then the murder took place, and the paper was found which criminated Dalton, who was at once arrested.
Dalton was thunder-struck, not so much at his own arrest as at the desperation of his friend and his utter baseness. He knew perfectly well who the murderer was. The Maltese cross which had been found was not necessary to show him this. No other man could have had any motive, and no other man could have thought of mentioning his name in connection with the terrible deed. It was thus that Dalton found himself betrayed in the foulest manner, through no other cause than his own generosity.
The horror of Mrs. Dudleigh on hearing of her brother's arrest was excessive. She went off at once to see him. Even to her Dalton said nothing about Lionel's guilt, for he wished to spare her the cruel blow which such intelligence would give.
The feeling that now animated Dalton can easily be explained. In the first place, knowing that he was innocent, he had not the faintest doubt that he would be acquitted. He believed that where there was no guilt, no such thing as guilt could be proved. He relied also on his well-known reputation.
Feeling thus confident of his own innocence, and certain of acquittal, he had only to ask himself what he ought to do with reference to Lionel. Strict justice demanded that he should tell all that he knew; but there were other considerations besides strict justice. There was the future of Lionel himself, whom he wished to spare in spite of his baseness. More than this, there was his sister and his sister's children. He could not bring himself to inform against the guilty husband and father, and thus crush their innocent heads under an overwhelming load of shame. He never imagined that he himself, and his innocent wife and his innocent child, would have to bear all that which he shrank from imposing upon the wife and children of Lionel.
The trial went on, and then came forth revelations which showed all to Mrs. Dudleigh. That Maltese cross was enough. It was the key to the whole truth. She saw her brother, and asked him. He was silent. Frantic with grief, she hurried back to her husband. To her fierce reproaches he answered not a word. She now proceeded to Liverpool. Her brother entreated her to be calm and silent. He assured her that there was no possible danger to himself, and implored her, for the sake of her children, to say nothing. She allowed herself to be convinced by him, and to yield to entreaties uttered by the very accused himself, and in the name of her children. She believed in his innocence, and could not help sharing his confidence in an acquittal.
That acquittal did come—by a narrow chance, yet it did come; but at once, to the consternation of both brother and sister, the new trial followed. Here Dalton tried to keep up his confidence as before. His counsel implored him to help them in making his defense by telling them what he knew, but Dalton remained fatally obstinate. Proudly confiding in his innocence, and trusting to his blameless life, he still hesitated to do what he considered an act of merciless cruelty to his sister, and he still persuaded her also to silence, and still prophesied his own acquittal, and the rescue of her husband and children from ruin. Part of his prophecy was fulfilled. The husband and children of the sister were indeed saved, but it was at the expense of the innocent and devoted brother.
The effect was terrible. Dalton heard of his wife's illness. He had written to her before, full of confidence, and trying to cheer her; but from the first Mrs. Dalton had looked for the worst; not that she supposed her husband could possibly be otherwise than innocent, but simply because she was timid and afraid of the law. She had good reason to fear. Word was brought to Dalton that she was dying, and then the news came that she was dead.
Meanwhile Mrs. Dudleigh, more frenzied than ever, flew to see her husband. She found that he had gone to the Continent. She pursued him, and reached him in Italy. Here she called upon him to confess his guilt, and save his innocent friend. He refused. He dared not. She threatened to denounce him. He fell at her feet and implored her mercy in the name of their children. He entreated her to wait, to try other means first, to get a new trial—any thing.
Mrs. Dudleigh's threats to inform against him were easy to make, yet not so easy to carry out. Turning from her husband in horror, she returned to England with the fixed intention of telling every thing. His letter to Dalton could have been shown, and the Maltese cross could have proved who the murderer was. But Mrs. Dudleigh's courage faltered when she reached her home and saw her children. Already she had heard of Mrs. Dalton's death; already she knew well that Edith Dalton was doomed to inherit a name of shame, a legacy of dishonor, and that she alone could now avert this. But to avert this she must doom her own children. Had it been herself only and her guilty husband, it would have been easy to be just; but here were her children standing in the way and keeping her back.
Her struggles were agonizing. Time passed on; the delay was fatal. Time passed, and the distracted mother could not make up her mind to deal out ruin and shame to her children. Time passed, and Dalton was taken away to that far-distant country to which he had been sentenced—transported for life.
Other changes also took place. Lionel's father and elder brother both died within a short time of one another, leaving him heir to the estate and the baronetcy. He was now Sir Lionel Dudleigh, and she was Lady Dudleigh; and her brother—the pure in heart, the noble, the devoted—what and where was he?
The struggle was terrible, and she could not decide it. It seemed abhorrent for her to rise up and denounce her husband, even to save her brother. She could not do it, but she did what she could. She wrote her husband a letter, bidding him farewell, and imploring him to confess; took her son Reginald, the eldest, leaving behind the younger, Leon, and prepared to go to her brother, hoping that if she could not save him, she might at least alleviate his sorrows. She took with her Hugo, a faithful old servant of the Dalton family, and with him and Reginald went to Australia.
Meanwhile Dalton had been in the country for a year. Before leaving he had not been unmindful of others even in that dire extremity. He had only one thought, and that was his child. He had learned that Miss Plympton had taken her, and he wrote to her, urging her never to tell Edith her father's story, and never to let the world know that she was his daughter. He appointed Wiggins agent for his estates and guardian of Edith before he left; and having thus secured her interests for the present, he went to meet his fate.
In Sydney he was treated very differently from the common convicts. Criminals of all classes were sent out there, and to the better sort large privileges were allowed. Dalton was felt by all to be a man of the latter kind. His dignified bearing, his polish and refinement, together with the well-known fact that he had so resolutely maintained his innocence, all excited sympathy and respect.
When Lady Dudleigh arrived there with Hugo and her son, she soon found out this, and this fact enabled her to carry into execution a plan which she had cherished all along during the voyage. She obtained a sheep farm about a hundred miles away, applied to the authorities, and was able to hire Dalton as a servant. Taking him in this capacity, she went with him to the sheep farm, where Hugo and Reginald also accompanied them. One more was afterward added. This was the man “Wilkins,” who had been sentenced to transportation for poaching, and had come out in the same ship with Dalton. Lady Dudleigh obtained this man also, under Dalton's advice, and he ultimately proved of great assistance to them.
Here in this place years passed away. Dalton's only thought was of his daughter. The short formal notes which were signed “John Wiggins,” all came from him. He could not trust himself to do any more. The sweet childish letters which she wrote once or twice he kept next his heart, and cherished as more precious than any earthly possession, but dared not answer for fear lest he might break that profound secret which he wished to be maintained between her and himself—her, the pure young girl, himself, the dishonored outcast. So the years passed, and he watched her from afar in his thoughts, and every year he thought of her age, and tried to imagine what she looked like.
During these years there was rising among them another spirit—a character—whose force was destined to change the fortune of all.
This was Reginald.
From the first he had known the whole story—more than Leon had known. Leon had known his father's guilt and Dalton's innocence, but Reginald had been the confidant of his mother, the witness of her grief and her despair. He had lived with Dalton, and year after year had been the witness of a spectacle which never ceased to excite the deepest emotion, that of an innocent man, a just man, suffering wrongfully on behalf of another. His own father he had learned to regard with horror, while all the enthusiastic love of his warm young heart had fixed itself upon the man who had done all this for another. He knew for whom Dalton had suffered. It was for his mother, and for himself, and he knew that he was every day living on the sufferings and the woe of this broken-hearted friend. Gradually other motives arose. He was a witness of Dalton's profound and all-absorbing love for his daughter, and his passionate desire to save her from all knowledge of his own shame. To Reginald all this grew more and more intolerable. He now saw the worst result of all, and he felt that while his own father had thrown upon his friend his load of infamy, so he himself, the son, was throwing upon Edith Dalton all that inherited infamy.
At last his resolution was taken. He informed his mother. She had been aware of his struggles of soul for years, and did not oppose him. Indeed, she felt some relief. It was for the son's sake that she had faltered when justice demanded her action. Now that son had grown to be a calm, strong, resolute man, and he had decided.
Yes, the decision was a final one. Not one objection was disregarded. Every thing was considered, and the resolution was, at all hazards, and at every cost, to do right. That resolution involved the accusation, the trial, the condemnation, the infamy—yes, the death—of a husband and a father; but even at that cost it was the resolve of Reginald that this thing should be.
The plan of escape occupied far less time. Dalton objected at first to the whole thing, but Reginald had only to mention to him his daughter's name to induce him to concur.
After this it was given out that Frederick Dalton had died. This statement was received by the authorities without suspicion or examination, though the conspirators were prepared for both.
Then Frederick Dalton, under an assumed name, accompanied by Hugo, went to Sydney, where he embarked for England. No one recognized him. He had changed utterly. Grief, despair, and time had wrought this. Reginald and his mother went by another ship, a little later, and had no difficulty in taking Wilkins with them. They all reached England in safety, and met at a place agreed upon beforehand, where their future action was arranged.
On the voyage home Dalton had decided upon that policy which he afterward sought to carry out. It was, first of all, to live in the utmost seclusion, and conceal himself as far as possible from every eye. A personal encounter with some old acquaintance, who failed to recognize him, convinced him that the danger of his secret being discovered was very small. His faithful solicitor, John Wiggins, of Liverpool, would not believe that the gray-haired and venerable man who came to him was the man whom he professed to be, until Dalton and Reginald had proved it by showing the letters, and by other things. By John Wiggins's suggestion Dalton assumed the name of Wiggins, and gave himself out to be a brother of the Liverpool solicitor. No one suspected, and no questions were asked, and so Dalton went to Dalton Hall under the name of Wiggins, while Lady Dudleigh went as Mrs. Dunbar, to be housekeeper; and their domestics were only Hugo and Wilkins, whose fidelity was known to be incorruptible, and who were, of course, intimately acquainted with the secret of their master.
Here Dalton took up his abode, while John Wiggins, of Liverpool, began to set in motion the train of events which should end in the accomplishment of justice. First, it was necessary to procure from the authorities all the documentary and other evidence which had been acquired ten years before. Several things were essential, and above all the Maltese cross. But English law is slow, and these things required time.
It was the intention of Dalton to have every thing in readiness first, and then send Reginald and Lady Dudleigh to Sir Lionel to try the force of a personal appeal. If by threats or any other means they could persuade him to confess, he was to be allowed time to fly to some safe place, or take any other course which he deemed most consistent with his safety. Dalton himself was not to appear, but to preserve his secret inviolable. If Sir Lionel should prove impracticable, then the charge and arrest should take place at once; whether for forgery or murder was not decided. That should be left to Reginald's own choice. They leaned to mercy, however, and preferred the charge of forgery. Sir Lionel was mistaken in supposing Lady Dudleigh to be the only witness against him, for Reginald had been present at more than one interview between the frenzied wife and the guilty husband, and had heard his father confess the whole.
But the regular progress of affairs had been altogether interrupted by the sudden appearance of Edith. On reaching Dalton Hall Mr. Dalton had felt an uncontrollable eagerness to see her, and had written to Miss Plympton the letter already reported. He did not expect that she would come so soon. He thought that she would wait for a time; that he would get an answer, and arrange every thing for her reception. As it was, she came at once, without any announcement, accompanied by Miss Plympton and her maid.
For years Dalton had been kept alive by the force of one feeling alone—his love for his daughter. Out of the very intensity of his love for her arose also another feeling, equally intense, and that was the desire to clear his name from all stain before meeting with her. At first he had intended to refrain from seeing her, but, being in England, and so near, his desire for her was uncontrollable. Reginald had gone for a tour on the Continent. The Hall was lonely; every room brought back the memory of his lost wife, and of that little Edith who, years before, used to wander about these halls and amidst these scenes with him. He could not endure this enforced separation, and so he wrote as he did. He expected he scarcely new what. He had a vague idea that though he refused to make himself known, that she nevertheless might divine it, or else, out of some mysterious filial instinct, might love him under his assumed name as fervently as though there was no concealment.
When she came so suddenly, he was taken by surprise. He longed to see her, but was afraid to admit her companions; and so it was that his daughter, in whom his life was now bound up, was almost turned away from her father's gates.
Then followed her life at Dalton Hall. Dalton, afraid of the outside world, afraid to be discovered, after having done so much for safety, at the very time when deliverance seemed near, looked with terror upon Edith's impatience. He risked an interview. He came full of a father's holiest love, yet full of the purpose of his life to redeem the Dalton name for her sake. He met with scorn and hate. From those interviews he retired with his heart wrung by an anguish greater than any that he had ever known before.
And so it went on. It was for her own sake that he restrained her; yet he could not tell her, for he had set his heart on not revealing himself till he could do so with an unstained name. But he had made a mistake at the very outset from his impatient desire to see her, and he was doomed to see the results of that mistake. Miss Plympton was turned away, and forthwith appealed to Sir Lionel. The result of this was that Leon came. Leon recognized Wilkins, and could not be kept out. He did not know Dalton, but knew that he was not the man whom he professed to be, and his suspicions were aroused. On seeing Dalton he assumed a high tone toward him, which he maintained till the last. Lady Dudleigh's emotion at the sight of Leon was a sore embarrassment, and all Dalton's plans seemed about to fall into confusion. The visits of the disguised Miss Fortescue were a puzzle; and as both Dalton and Lady Dudleigh looked upon this new visitor as an emissary of Leon's, they viewed these visits as they did those of Leon. For the first time Lady Dudleigh and Dalton were of opposite views. Dalton dreaded these visits, but his sister favored them. Her mother's heart yearned over Leon; and even if he did seek Edith's affections, it did not seem an undesirable thing. That, however, was a thing from which Dalton recoiled in horror.
At that time Reginald's strong will and clear intellect were sorely needed, but he was away on his Continental tour, and knew nothing of all these occurrences till it was too late.
Thus nothing was left to Dalton but idle warnings, which Edith treated as we have seen. True, there was one other resource, and that was to tell her all; but this he hesitated to do. For years he had hoped to redeem himself. He had looked forward to the day when his name should be freed from stain, and he still looked forward to that day when he might be able to say, “Here, my beloved daughter, my name is free from stain; you can acknowledge me without shame.”
But Edith's opposition, and the plans of Leon, and the absorption of Lady Dudleigh's sympathies in the interests of her son, all destroyed Dalton's chances. He could only watch, and hear from his faithful Hugo accounts of what was going on. Thus he was led into worse and worse acts, and by misunderstanding Edith at the outset, opened the way for both himself and her to many sorrows.
After the terrible events connected with the mysterious departure of Leon and the arrest of Edith, Dalton had at once written to Reginald. He had been ill in the interior of Sicily—for his testimony at the trial had been in part correct. Dalton's letter was delayed in reaching him, but he hurried back as soon as possible. Relying on his extraordinary resemblance to Leon, Dalton had urged him to personify the missing man, and this he had consented to do, with the success which has been described. His chief motive in doing this was his profound sympathy for Dalton, and for Edith also, whom he believed to have been subjected to unfair treatment. That sympathy which he had already felt for Edith was increased when he saw her face to face.
All this was not told to Edith at once, but rather in the course of several conversations. Already in that interview in the prison her father had explained to her his motives in acting as he had, and this fuller confession only made those motives more apparent. In Edith this story served only to excite fresh grief and remorse. But Dalton showed so much grief himself that Edith was forced to restrain such feelings as these in his presence. He took all the blame to himself. He would not allow her to reproach herself. He it was, he insisted, who had been alone to blame in subjecting a generous, high-spirited girl to such terrible treatment—to imprisonment and spying and coercion. So great was his own grief that Edith found herself forced from the position of penitent into that of comforter, and often had to lose sight of her own offenses in the endeavor to explain away her own sufferings.
And thus, where there was so much need of mutual forgiveness and mutual consolation, each one became less a prey to remorse.
In the joy which he felt at thus gaining at last all his daughter's love, especially after the terrible misunderstanding that had divided her from him, Dalton had no thought for those grave dangers which surrounded both her and him. But to Edith these dangers still appeared, and they were most formidable. She could not forget that she was still liable to arrest on the most appalling of accusations, and that her father also was liable to discovery and re-arrest. Reginald had tried to banish her fears and inspire her with hope; but now that he was no longer near, her position was revealed, and the full possibility of her danger could no longer be concealed.
Danger there indeed was, danger most formidable, not to her only, but to all of them. Coward Sir Lionel might be, but a coward when at bay is dangerous, since he is desperate. Sir Lionel also was powerful, since he was armed with all the force that may be given by wealth and position, and in his despair his utmost resources would undoubtedly be put forth. Those despairing efforts would be aimed at all of them—all were alike threatened: herself on the old charge, her father as an escaped convict, and Reginald as a perjurer and a conspirator against the ends of justice. As to Lady Dudleigh, she knew not what to think, but she was aware of Reginald's fears about her and she shared them to the fullest extent.
In the midst of all this Edith received letter from Miss Plympton. She was just recovering, she said, from a severe illness, consequent on anxiety about her. She had heard the terrible tidings of her arrest, but of late had been cheered by the news of her release. The letter was most loving, and revealed all the affection of her “second mother.” Yet so true was Miss Plympton to the promise which she had made to Mr. Dalton, that she did not allude to the great secret which had once been disclosed to her.
Edith read the letter with varied feelings, and thought with an aching heart of her reception of that other letter. This letter, however, met with a different fate. She answered it at once, and told all about her father, concluding with the promise to go and visit her as soon as she could.
And now all her thoughts and hopes were centred upon Reginald. Where was he? Where was Lady Dudleigh? Had he found Leon? What would Sir Lionel do? Such were the thoughts that never ceased to agitate her mind.
He had been gone a whole week. She had heard nothing from him. Accustomed as she had been to see him every day for so long a time, this week seemed prolonged to the extent of a month; and as he had promised to write her under any circumstances, she could not account for his failure to keep that promise. His silence alarmed her. As day succeeded to day, and still no letter came, she became a prey to all those fearful fancies which may be raised by a vivid imagination, when one is in suspense about the fate of some dearly loved friend.
Her father, whose watchful love made him observant of every one of her varying moods, could not avoid noticing the sadness and agitation of her face and manner, and was eager to know the cause. This, however, Edith's modesty would not allow her to explain, but she frankly confessed that she was anxious. Her anxiety she attributed to her fears about their situation, and her dread lest something might be found out about the imposture of Reginald, or about her father's real character and personality. The fear was not an idle one, and Dalton, though he tried to soothe her, was himself too well aware of the danger that surrounded both of them to be very successful in his efforts.
All this time a steady improvement had been taking place in Dalton's health, and his recovery from his illness was rapid and continuous. It was Edith's love and care and sympathy which thus gave strength to him, and the joy which he felt in her presence was the best medicine for his afflictions.
Thus one day he was at last able to venture outside. It was something more than a week since Reginald had left. Edith was more anxious than ever, but strove to conceal her anxiety and to drown her own selfish cares under more assiduous attentions to that father whose whole being now seemed so to centre upon her. For this purpose she had persuaded him to leave the Hall, and come forth into the grounds; and the two were now walking in front of the Hall, around the pond, Edith supporting her father's feeble footsteps, and trying to cheer him by pointing out some improvements which ought to be made, while the old man, with his mind full of sweet peace, thought it happiness enough for him to lean on her loving arm and hear her sweet voice as she spoke those words of love which for so many years he had longed to hear.
In the midst of this they were startled by the approach of several men.
Visitors were rare at Dalton Hall. Before the recent troubles they had been prohibited, and though during Dalton's illness the prohibition had been taken off, yet there were few who cared to pass those gates. Upon this occasion the approach of visitors gave a sudden shock to Edith and her father, and when they saw that the chief one among those visitors was the sheriff, that shock was intensified.
Yes, the moment had come which they both had dreaded. All was known. The danger which they had feared was at hand, and each one trembled for the other. Edith thought that it was her father who was sought after. Dalton shuddered as he thought that his innocent daughter was once more in the grasp of the law.
The sheriff approached, followed by three others, who were evidently officers of the law. Dalton and Edith stood awaiting them, and Edith felt her father's hands clasp her arm in a closer and more tremulous embrace.
The sheriff greeted them with a mournful face and evident embarrassment. His errand was a painful one, and it was rendered doubly so by the piteous sight before him—the feeble old man thus clinging to that sad-faced young girl, the woe-worn father thus supported by the daughter whose own experience of life had been so bitter.
“My business,” said the sheriff, “is a most painful one. Forgive me, Mrs. Dudleigh. Forgive me, Mr. Dalton. I did not know till now how painful it would be.”
He had greeted them in silence, removing his hat respectfully, and bowing before this venerable old age and this sad-faced beauty, and then had said these words with some abruptness. And as soon as he named that name “Dalton,” they both understood that he knew all.
“You have come for me?” said Dalton. “Very well.”
A shudder passed through Edith. She flung her arms about her father, and placed herself before him, as if to interpose between him and that terrible fate which still pursued its innocent victim. She turned her large mournful eyes upon the sheriff with a look of silent horror, but said not a word.
“I can not help it,” said the sheriff, in still deeper embarrassment. “I feel for you, for both of you, but you must come with me.”
“Oh, spare him!” cried Edith. “He is ill. He has just risen from his bed. Leave him here. He is not fit to go. Let me nurse him.”
The sheriff looked at her in increasing embarrassment, with a face full of pity.
“I am deeply grieved,” he said, in a low voice, “but I can not do otherwise. I must do my duty. You, Mrs. Dudleigh, must come also. I have a warrant for you too.”
“What!” groaned Dalton; “for her?”
The sheriff said nothing. The old man's face had such an expression of anguish that words were useless.
“Again!” murmured Dalton. “Again! and on that false charge! She will die! she will die!”
“Oh, papa!” exclaimed Edith. “Do not think of me. I can bear it. There is no danger for me. It is for you only that I am anxious.”
“My child! my darling Edith!” groaned the unhappy father, “this is my work—this is what I have wrought for you.”
Edith pressed her father to her heart. She raised her pale face, and, looking upward, sighed out in her agony of soul,
“O God! Is there any justice in heaven, when this is the justice of earth!”
Nothing more was said. No one had any thing to say. This double arrest was something too terrible for words, and the darkest forebodings came to the mind of each one of these unhappy victims of the law. And thus, in silence and in fear, they were led away—to prison and to judgment.