During the remainder of that drive nothing was said by either. Sir Lionel had his own thoughts, which, whatever they were, appeared to give him a certain satisfaction, and his brow was more unclouded when they reached the inn than it had been ever since the day of the trial. Evidently the new design which he had conceived, and which remained unuttered in his mind, was very satisfactory to him.
That evening he himself began the conversation with Lady Dudleigh, a thing which he had not before done.
“It's all very well,” said he, “for you to carry on your own plans. You may carry them on and welcome. I won't prevent you; in fact, I can't. It's no use to deny it; I'm in your power. You're determined to crush me, and I must be crushed, I suppose. You are going to show to the world the strange spectacle of a wife and a son rising up against a husband and father, and swearing his life away. You will lead on, and Reginald will follow. This is the education that you have given him—it is to end in parricide. Very well; I must submit. Wife, slay your husband! mother, lead your son to parricide! Of course you comfort your conscience with the plea that you are doing justice. In the French Revolution there were wives who denounced their husbands, and sons who denounced their fathers, in the name of 'humanity,' and for the good of the republic. So go on. See that justice be done. Come on yourself to assassinate your husband, and bring on your parricide! Take sides with those who have murdered your son—the son whom you bore to me, and once loved! Unsex yourself, and become a Fury! It is useless for me to make resistance, I suppose; and yet, woman! wife! mother! let me tell you that on the day when you attempt to do these things, and when your son stands by your side to help you, there will go up a cry of horror against you from outraged humanity!”
At this Lady Dudleigh looked at him, who, as usual, averted his eyes; but she made no reply.
“Bring him on!” said Sir Lionel—“your son—my son—the parricide! Do your worst. But at the same time allow me to inform you, in the mildest manner in the world, that if I am doomed, there is no reason why I should go mad in this infernal hole. What is more, I do not intend to stay here one single day longer. I'm not going to run away. That is impossible; you keep too sharp a look-out altogether. I'm simply going away from this place of horrors, and I rather think I'll go home. I'll go home—yes, home. Home is the place for me—Dudleigh Manor, where I first took you, my true wife—that is the place for me to be in when you come to me, you and your son, to hand me over, Judas-like, to death. Yes, I'm going home, and if you choose to accompany me, why, all that I can say is, I'll have to bear it.”
“I'll go,” said Lady Dudleigh, laconically.
“Oh, of course,” said Sir Lionel, “quite a true wife; like Ruth and Naomi. Whither thou goest, I will go. You see, I'm up in my Bible. Well, as I said, I can not prevent you, and I suppose there is no need for me to tell you to get ready.”
Whether under these bitter taunts Lady Dudleigh writhed or not did not at all appear. She seemed as cool and calm as ever. Perhaps she had so schooled her nature that she was able to repress all outward signs of emotion, or perhaps she had undergone so much that a taunt could have no sting for her, or perhaps she had already contemplated and familiarized herself with all these possible views of her conduct to such an extent that the mention of them created no emotion. At any rate, whatever she felt, Sir Lionel saw nothing.
Having discharged this shot, Sir Lionel went to his desk, and taking out writing materials, began to write a letter. He wrote rapidly, and once or twice glanced furtively at Lady Dudleigh, as though he was fearful that she might overlook his writing. But there was no danger of that. Lady Dudleigh did not move from her place. She did not seem to be aware that he was writing at all.
At length Sir Lionel finished, and then he folded, sealed, and addressed the letter. He finished this task with a face of supreme satisfaction, and stole a look toward Lady Dudleigh, in which there was a certain cunning triumph very visible, though it was not seen by the one at whom it was directed.
“And now,” said he, waving the letter somewhat ostentatiously, and speaking in a formal tone, in which there was an evident sneer—“and now, Lady Dudleigh, I have the honor to inform you that I intend to go out and post this letter. May I have the honor of your company as far as the post-office, and back?”
Lady Dudleigh rose in silence, and hastily throwing on her things, prepared to follow him. Sir Lionel waited with mocking politeness, opened the door, for her to pass out first, and then in company with her went to the post-office, where he mailed the letter, and returned with the smile of satisfaction still upon his face.
Early on the next morning Lady Dudleigh saw her son. He had watched all that night by Dalton's bedside, and seemed pale and exhausted.
“Reginald,” said Lady Dudleigh, “Sir Lionel is going away.”
“Going away?” repeated Reginald, absently.
“Yes; back to Dudleigh Manor.”
Reginald looked inquiringly at his mother, but said nothing.
“I intend,” said Lady Dudleigh, “to go with him.”
“You?”
“Yes.”
Reginald looked at her mournfully.
“Have you done any thing with him yet?” he asked.
Lady Dudleigh shook her head.
“Do you expect to do any thing?”
“I do.”
“I'm afraid you will be disappointed.”
“I hope not. I have at least gained a hold upon him, and I have certainly worked upon his fears. If I remain with him now I hope in time to extort from him that confession which will save us all from an additional sorrow; one perhaps as terrible as any we have ever known, if not even more so.”
“Confession!” repeated Reginald. “How is that possible? He will never confess—never. If he has remained silent so long, and has not been moved by the thought of all that he has done, what possible thing can move him? Nothing but the actual presence of the law. Nothing but force.”
“Well,” said Lady Dudleigh, “it is worth trying—the other alternative is too terrible just yet. I hope to work upon his fears. I hope to persuade him to confess, and fly from the country to some place of safety. Frederick must be righted at all hazards, and I hope to show this so plainly to Sir Lionel that he will acquiesce inmyproposal, confess all, save Frederick, and then fly to some place where he may be safe. If not, why, then we can try the last resort. But oh, Reginald, do you not see how terrible that last resort is?—I against my husband, you against your father—both of us bringing him to the gallows! It is only the intolerable sense of Frederick's long-sufferings that can make me think of doing so terrible a thing. But Frederick is even now in danger. He must be saved; and the question is between the innocent and the guilty. I am strong enough to decide differently from what I did ten years ago.”
“Oh, I know—I feel it all, mother dear,” said Reginald; “but at the same time I don't like the idea of your going away with him—alone.”
“Why not?”
“I don't like the idea of your putting yourself in his power.”
“His power?”
“Yes, in Dudleigh Manor, or any other place. He is desperate. He will not shrink from any thing that he thinks may save him from this danger. You will be his chief danger; he may think of getting rid of it. He is unscrupulous, and would stop at nothing.”
“Oh, as for that, he may be desperate, but what can he possibly do? Dudleigh Manor is in the world. It is not in some remote place where the master is superior to law. He can do no more harm there than he can here.”
“The man,” said Reginald, “who for all these years has outraged honor and justice and truth, and has stifled his own conscience for the sake of his comfort, must by this time be familiar with desperate deeds, and be capable of any crime. I am afraid, mother dear, for you to trust yourself with him.”
“Reginald,” said Lady Dudleigh, “you speak as though I were a child or a schoolgirl. Does he seem now as though he could harm me, or do I seem to be one who can easily be put down? Would you be afraid to go with him?”
“I—afraid? That is the very thing that I wish to propose.”
“But you could not possibly have that influence over him which I have. You might threaten, easily enough, and come to an open rupture, but that is what I wish to avoid. I wish to bring him to a confession, not so much by direct threats as by various constraining moral influences.”
“Oh, as to that,” said Reginald, “I have no doubt that you will do far better than I can; but at the same time I can not get rid of a fear about your safety.”
“And do you really think, Reginald, that I would be less safe than you? or, from what you know of me, should you suppose that I have much of that woman's weakness about me which might make me an easy prey to one who wished to do me harm?”
“I know well what you are, mother dear,” said Reginald, taking her hand tenderly in both of his. “You have the tenderness of a woman and the courage of a man; but still I feel uneasy. At any rate, promise me one thing. You will let me know what you are doing.”
“I do not promise to write regularly,” said Lady Dudleigh, “but I do promise to write the moment that any thing happens worth writing about.”
“And if you are ill, or in danger?” said Reginald, anxiously.
“Oh, then, of course I shall write at once. But now I must go. I shall not see you again for some time. Good-by.”
Lady Dudleigh kissed her son tenderly as she said this, and left him, and Reginald returned to his place by Fredrick Dalton's bedside.
That same day, shortly after this interview, Sir Lionel and Lady Dudleigh drove away from the inn,en routefor Dudleigh Manor.
After driving for about a mile Sir Lionel and Lady Dudleigh took the train, securing a compartment to themselves.
During this part of the journey Sir Lionel's face lost much of that gloom which of late had pervaded it, and assumed an expression which was less dismal, though not quite like the old one. The old look was one of serene and placid content, an air of animal comfort, and of easy-going self-indulgence; but now the expression was more restless and excited. There was a certain knowing look—a leer of triumphant cunning—combined with a tendency to chuckle over some secret purpose which no one else knew. Together with this there was incessant restlessness; he appeared perpetually on the look-out, as though dreading discovery; and he alternated between exultant nods of his head, with knowing winks at vacancy, and sudden sharp furtive glances at his companion. Changed as Sir Lionel's mood was, it can hardly be said that the change was for the better. It would have been obvious even to a more superficial observer than that vigilant “keeper” who accompanied him that Sir Lionel had lost his self-poise, and was in rather a dangerous way. Lady Dudleigh must have noticed this; but it made no difference to her, save that there was perhaps a stonier lustre in her eyes as she turned them upon him, and a sharper vigilance in her attitude.
In this way they rode on for several hours; and whatever Sir Lionel's plans might have been, they certainly did not involve any action during the journey. Had he been sufficiently violent he might have made an assault upon his companion in the seclusion of that compartment, and effectually prevented any trouble ever arising to him from her. He might have done this, and made good his escape in the confusion of some station. But no such attempt was made; and so in due time they reached the place where they were to get out.
“This is the nearest station to Dudleigh Manor,” said Sir Lionel, gayly. “This road has been made since your time.”
Lady Dudleigh said nothing, but looked around. She saw nothing that was familiar. A neat wayside station, with the usual platform, was nearest; and beyond this arose trees which concealed the view on one side, while on the other there were fields and hedges, and one or two houses in the distance. It was a commonplace scene, in a level sort of country, and Lady Dudleigh, after one short survey, thought no more about it. It was just like any other wayside station.
A common-looking hack, with a rather ill-dressed driver, was waiting, and toward this Sir Lionel walked.
“This,” said he, “is the Dudleigh coach. It isn't so grand an affair as it used to be; but my means have dwindled a good deal since your day, you know, and I have to economize—yes—ha, ha, ha!—economize—queer thing too, isn't it? Economizing—ha, ha, ha!”
Sir Lionel's somewhat flighty manner was not at all congenial to Lady Dudleigh, and she treated him as the vigilant “keeper” always treats his flighty prisoner—that is, with silent patience and persistent watchfulness.
In a few minutes they were both seated inside the coach, and were driving away. The coach was a gloomy one, with windows only in the doors. The rest was solid woodwork. These windows in the doors were small, and when let down were scarcely large enough for one to put his head through. When sitting down it was impossible for Lady Dudleigh to see the road. She could see nothing but the tops of the trees, between which the sky appeared occasionally. She saw that she was driving along a road which was shaded with trees on both sides; but more than this she could not see.
They drove for about an hour at a moderate pace, and during this time Sir Lionel preserved that same peculiar demeanor which has already been described, while Lady Dudleigh maintained her usual silent watchfulness.
At length they stopped for a moment. Voices sounded outside, and then Lady Dudleigh saw that she was passing through a gateway. Thinking that this was Dudleigh Manor, she made no remark, but calmly awaited the time when she should reach the house. She did not have to wait long. Sooner than she expected the coach stopped. The driver got down and opened the door. Sir Lionel sprang out with surprising agility, and held out his hand politely to assist his companion. She did not accept his offer, but stepped out without assistance, and looked around.
To her surprise, the place was not Dudleigh Manor at all, but one which was entirely different, and quite unfamiliar. It was a brick house of no very great size, though larger than most private houses, of plain exterior, and with the air of a public building of some sort. The grounds about were stiff and formal and forbidding. The door was open, and one or two men were standing there. It did not look like an inn, and yet it certainly was not a private residence.
“I have to stop here for a little while,” said Sir Lionel, “to see a friend on business. We are not half-way to Dudleigh Manor yet; it's further than you think.”
He turned and went up the steps. Lady Dudleigh looked around once more, and then followed him. The men at the head of the steps looked at her curiously as she went in. She took no notice of them, however, but walked past them, looking calmly beyond them.
On entering the house she saw a bare hall covered with slate-colored oil-cloth, and with a table against the wall. A gray-headed man came out of one of the rooms, and advanced to meet Sir Lionel, who shook hands with him very cordially, and whispered to him a few words. The gray-headed man wore spectacles, was clean shaven, with a double chin, and a somewhat sleek and oily exterior.
“Lady Dudleigh,” said Sir Lionel, leading the gray-headed man forward by the arm, “allow me to make you acquainted with my particular friend, Dr. Leonard Morton.”
Lady Dudleigh bowed slightly, and Dr. Morton made a profound obeisance that seemed like a caricature of politeness.
“Will you have the kindness to walk up stairs?” said he, and led the way, while the others followed him. Ascending the stairs, they reached a large room at the back of the house, which was furnished in the same stiff and formal way as the hall below. Over the mantel-piece hung an engraving, somewhat faded out, and on the table were a Bible and a pitcher of water.
The doctor politely handed Lady Dudleigh a chair, and made one or two remarks about the weather.
“Sir Lionel,” said he, “if Lady Dudleigh will excuse us for a few moments, I should like to speak with you in private.”
“Will you have the kindness, Lady Dudleigh,” asked Sir Lionel, “to excuse us for a few moments? We shall not leave you long alone. And here is a book—an invaluable book—with which you may occupy your time.”
He said this with such exaggerated politeness, and with such a cunning leer in his eyes, that his tone and manner were most grotesque; and as he concluded he took up the large Bible with ridiculous solemnity.
Lady Dudleigh merely bowed in silence.
“A thousand thanks,” said Sir Lionel, turning away; and thereupon he left the room, followed by the doctor. Lady Dudleigh heard their footsteps descending the stairs, and then they seemed to go into some room.
For some time she forgot all about him. The place had at first surprised her, but she gave it little thought. She had too much to think of. She had before her a task which seemed almost impossible; and if she failed in this, there was before her that dread alternative which Sir Lionel had presented to her so plainly. Other things too there were besides her husband—connected with all who were dearest to her—her brother, perhaps, dying before he had accomplished his work; her son so mysteriously murdered; her other son awaiting her command to assist in bringing his father to death. Besides, there was the danger that even now might be impending over these—the danger of discovery. Sir Lionel's desperate threats might have some meaning, and who could tell how it might result if he sought to carry out those threats?
Brooding over such thoughts as these, she forgot about the lapse of time, and at last was roused to herself by the entrance of a woman. She was large and coarse and fat.
At the door stood another woman.
“Your room's ready, missus,” said the woman, bluntly.
Lady Dudleigh rose.
“I don't want a room,” said she. “I intend to go in a few minutes.”
“Anyway, ye'd better come to your room now, and not keep us waitin',” said the woman.
“You needn't wait,” said Lady Dudleigh.
“Come along,” said the woman, impatiently. “It's no use stayin' here all day.”
Lady Dudleigh felt annoyed at this insolence, and began to think that Sir Lionel had run away while she had forgotten about him. She said nothing to the women, but walked toward the door. The two stood there in the way.
“I will go down,” said she, haughtily, “and wait below. Go and tell Sir Lionel.”
The women stared at one another.
{Illustration: “SHE WAS DRAGGED ALONG HELPLESSLY."}
“Sir Lionel Dudleigh,” said Lady Dudleigh, “is with Dr. Morton on business. Tell him that I am tired of waiting, or take me to the room where he is.”
“Oh yes, 'm,” said one of the women; and saying this, she went down stairs.
In a few moments Dr. Morton came up, followed by the women. The two men who had been standing at the door came into the hall, and stood there at the foot of the stairs.
“Where is Sir Lionel?” was Lady Dudleigh's first words.
The doctor smiled blandly.
“Well, he has just gone, you know; but he'll soon be back—oh yes, quite soon. You wait here, and you may go to your room.”
He spoke in an odd, coaxing tone, as though he were addressing some fretful child whom it was desirable to humor.
“Gone!” exclaimed Lady Dudleigh.
“Yes, but he'll soon be back. You needn't wait long. And these women will take you to your own room. You'll find it very pleasant.”
“I have no room here,” said Lady Dudleigh, haughtily. “If Sir Lionel has gone, I shall go too;” and with these words she tried to move past the woman who was in front of her. But the woman would not move, and the other woman and the doctor stood there looking at her. All at once the truth dawned upon her, or a part of the truth. She had been brought here, and they would keep her here. Who they were she could not imagine, but their faces were not at all prepossessing.
“Oh, it's all right,” said the doctor, in a smooth voice. “You shall go to-morrow. We'll send for Sir Lionel.”
“Dr. Morton,” said Lady Dudleigh, solemnly, “beware how you detain me. Let me go, or you shall repent it. I don't know what your motive is, but it will be a dangerous thing for you. I am Lady Dudleigh, and if you dare to interfere with my movements you shall suffer.”
“Oh yes, oh yes,” said the doctor. “You are Lady Dudleigh. Oh, of course. And now come, Lady Dudleigh; you shall be treated just like a lady, and have a nice room, and—”
“What do you mean?” cried Lady Dudleigh, indignantly. “This insolence is insufferable.”
“Oh yes,” said the doctor; “it'll be all right, you know. Come, now; go like a good lady to your room.”
“Are you mad?” exclaimed Lady Dudleigh, in amazement.
The doctor smiled and nodded.
“What do you intend to do?” asked Lady Dudleigh, restraining herself with a strong effort.
“Oh, nothing; we shall put you in a nice room, you know—all so pleasant—for you are not very well; and so. Susan, you just take the lady's hand, and, Martha, you take the other, and we'll show her the way to her room.”
At this each of the women seized one of Lady Dudleigh's hands quickly and dextrously, the result of long practice, and then they drew her out of the room. Lady Dudleigh resisted, but her strength was useless. She was dragged along helplessly, while all the time the doctor walked after her, prattling in his usual way about “the nice room,” and how “comfortable” she would find it. At length they reached a room, and she was taken in. One of the women entered with her. Lady Dudleigh looked around, and saw that the walls were bare and whitewashed; the floor was uncarpeted; an iron bedstead and some simple furniture were around her, and a small grated window gave light.
It looked dreary enough, and sufficiently prison-like to appall any one who might be thus suddenly thrust in there. Lady Dudleigh sank into a chair exhausted, and the woman began to make her bed.
“My good woman,” said Lady Dudleigh, anxious to get some clue to her position, “can you tell me what all this means?”
“Sure it's all for the good of your health,” said the woman.
“But I'm not ill.”
“No, not to say ill; but the body's often all right when the mind's all wrong.”
“The mind? There's nothing the matter with my mind. Dr. Morton has been deceived. He would not dare to do this if he knew it.”
“Sure, now, it's nothing at all, and you'll be well soon.”
At these simple words of the woman Lady Dudleigh began to understand the situation. This must be a lunatic asylum, a private one. Sir Lionel had brought her here, and told the doctor that she was insane. The doctor had accepted his statement, and had received her as such. This at once accounted for his peculiar mode of addressing her.
“There's a mistake,” said Lady Dudleigh, quietly. “Dr. Morton has been deceived. Let me see him at once, please, and I will explain. He does not know what a wrong he is doing. My good woman, I am no more mad than you are.”
“Dear, dear!” said the woman, going on placidly with her work; “that's the way they all talk. There's not one of them that believes they're mad.”
“But I'm not mad at all,” said Lady Dudleigh, indignant at the woman's obtuseness.
“There, there; don't you go for to excite yourself,” said the woman, soothingly. “But I s'pose you can't help it.”
“So this is a mad-house, is it?” said Lady Dudleigh, gloomily, after a pause.
“Well, 'm, we don't call it that; we call it a 'sylum. It's Dr. Morton's 'sylum.”
“Now see here,” said Lady Dudleigh, making a fresh effort, and trying to be as cool as possible, “I am Lady Dudleigh. I have been brought here by a trick. Dr. Morton is deceived. He is committing a crime in detaining me. I am not mad. Look at me. Judge for yourself. Look at me, and say, do I look like a madwoman?”
The woman, thus appealed to, good-naturedly acquiesced, and looked at Lady Dudleigh.
“'Deed,” she remarked, “ye look as though ye've had a deal of sufferin' afore ye came here, an' I don't wonder yer mind give way.”
“Do I look like a madwoman?” repeated Lady Dudleigh, with a sense of intolerable irritation at this woman's stupidity.
“'Deed, then, an' I'm no judge. It's the doctor that decides.”
“But what do you say? Come, now.”
“Well, then, ye don't look very bad, exceptin' the glare an' glitter of the eyes of ye, an' yer fancies.”
“Fanciest? What fancies?”
“Why, yer fancies that ye're Lady Dudleigh, an' all that about Sir Lionel.”
Lady Dudleigh started to her feet.
“What!” she exclaimed. “Why, I am Lady Dudleigh.”
“There, there!” said the woman, soothingly; “sure I forgot myself. Sure ye are Lady Dudleigh, or any body else ye like. It's a dreadful inveiglin' way ye have to trap a body the way ye do.”
At this Lady Dudleigh was in despair. No further words were of any avail. The woman was determined to humor her, and assented to every thing she said. This treatment was so intolerable that Lady Dudleigh was afraid to say any thing for fear that she would show the excitement of her feelings, and such an exhibition would of course have been considered as a fresh proof of her madness.
The woman at length completed her task, and retired.
Lady Dudleigh was left alone. She knew it all now. She remembered the letter which Sir Lionel had written. In that he had no doubt arranged this plan with Dr. Morton, and the coach had been ready at the station. But in what part of the country this place was she had no idea, nor could she know whether Dr. Morton was deceived by Sir Lionel, or was his paid employé in this work of villainy. His face did not give her any encouragement to hope for either honesty or mercy from him.
It was an appalling situation, and she knew it. All the horrors that she had ever heard of in connection with private asylums occurred to her mind, and deepened the terror that surrounded her. All the other cares of her life—the sorrow of bereavement, the anxiety for the sick, the plans for Frederick Dalton—all these and many others now oppressed her till her brain sank under the crushing weight. A groan of anguish burst from her.
“Sir Lionel's mockery will become a reality,” she thought. “I shall go mad!”
Meanwhile Sir Lionel had gone away. Leaving Lady Dudleigh in the room, he had gone down stairs, and after a few hurried words with the doctor, he left the house and entered the coach, which drove back to the station.
All the way he was in the utmost glee, rubbing his hands, slapping his thighs, chuckling to himself, laughing and cheering.
“Ha, ha, ha! ha, ha, ha!” he laughed. “Outwitted! The keeper—the keeper caught! Ha, ha, ha! Why, she'll never get out—never! In for life, Lionel, my boy! Mad! Why, by this time she's a raving maniac! Ha, ha, ha! She swear against me! Who'd believe a madwoman, an idiot, a lunatic, a bedlamite, a maniac—a howling, frenzied, gibbering, ranting, raving, driveling, maundering, mooning maniac! And now for the boy next—the parricide! Ha, ha, ha! Arrest him! No. Shut him up here—both—with my friend Morton—both of them, mother and son, the two—ha, ha, ha!—witnesses! One maniac! two maniacs! and then I shall go mad with joy, and come here to live, and there shall bethree maniacs! Ha, ha, ha! ha, ha, ha-a-a-a-a-a-a!”
Sir Lionel himself seemed mad now.
On leaving the coach, however, he became calmer, and taking the first train that came up, resumed his journey.
Frederick Dalton remained in his prostrate condition, with no apparent change either for the better or for the worse, and thus a month passed.
One morning Dudleigh requested an interview with Edith.
On entering the room he greeted her with his usual deep respect.
{Illustration: “THEIR HANDS TOUCHED."}
“I hope you will excuse me for troubling you, Miss Dalton,” he said, “but I wish very much to ask your opinion about your father. He remains, as you know, unchanged, and this inn is not the place for him. The air is close, the place is noisy, and it is impossible for him to have that perfect quiet which he so greatly needs. Dudleigh Manor is too far away, but there is another place close by. I am aware, Miss Dalton, that Dalton Hall must be odious to you, and therefore I hesitate to ask you to take your father to that place. Yet he ought to go there, and at once. As for yourself, I hope that the new circumstances under which you will live there will make it less unpleasant; and, let me add, for my own part, it shall be my effort to see that you, who have been so deeply wronged, shall be righted—with all and before all. As to myself,” he continued, “I would retire, and relieve you of my presence, which can not be otherwise than painful, but there are two reasons why I ought to remain. The first is your father. You yourself are not able to take all the care of him, and there is no other who can share it except myself. Next to yourself, no one can be to him what I am, nor is there any one with whom I would be willing to leave him. He must not be left to a servant. He must be nursed by those who love him. And so I must stay with him wherever he is. In addition to this, however, my presence at Dalton Hall will effectually quell the vulgar clamor, and all the rumors that have been prevailing for the last few months will be silenced.”
Dudleigh spoke all this calmly and seriously, but beneath his words there was something in his tone which conveyed a deeper meaning. That tone was more than respectful—it was almost reverential—as though the one to whom he spoke required from him more than mere courtesy. In spite of his outward calm, there was also an emotion in his voice which showed that the calm was assumed, and that beneath it lay something which could not be all concealed. In his eyes, as he fixed them on Edith, there was that same reverential regard, which seemed to speak of devotion and loyalty; something stronger than admiration, something deeper than sympathy, was expressed from them. And yet it was this that he himself tried to conceal. It was as though this feeling of his burst forth irrepressibly through all concealment, as though the intensity of this feeling made even his calmest words and commonest formulas fall of a new and deeper meaning.
In that reverence and profound devotion thus manifest there was nothing which could be otherwise than grateful to Edith. Certainly she could not take offense, for his words and his looks afforded nothing which could by any possibility give rise to that.
For a whole month this man had been before her, a constant attendant on her father, sleeping his few hours in an adjoining chamber, with scarce a thought beyond that prostrate friend. All the country had been searched for the best advice or the best remedies, and nothing had been omitted which untiring affection could suggest. During all this time she had scarce seen him. In the delicacy of his regard for her he had studiously kept out of her way, as though unwilling to allow his presence to give her pain. A moment might occasionally be taken up with a few necessary arrangements as she would enter, but that was all. He patiently waited till she retired before he ventured to come in himself.
No; in that noble face, pale from illness or from sadness, with the traces of sorrow upon it, and the marks of long vigils by the bedside of her father—in that refined face, whose expression spoke only of elevation of soul, and exhibited the perfect type of manly beauty, there was certainly nothing that could excite repugnance, but every thing that might inspire confidence.
Edith saw all this, and remarked it while listening to him; and she thought she had never seen any thing so pure in its loyalty, so profound in its sympathy, and so sweet in its sad grace as that face which was now turned toward her with its eloquent eyes.
She did not say much. A few words signified her assent to the proposal. Dudleigh said that he would make all the necessary arrangements, and that she should have no trouble whatever. With this he took his departure.
That same evening another visitor came. It was a pale, slender girl, who gave her name as Lucy Ford. She said that she had been sent by Captain Dudleigh. She heard that Edith had no maid, and wished to get that situation. Edith hesitated for a moment. Could she accept so direct a favor from Dudleigh, or give him that mark of confidence? Her hesitation was over at once. She could give him that, and she accepted the maid. The next day came a housekeeper and two or three others, all sent by Dudleigh, all of whom were accepted by her. For Dudleigh had found out somehow the need of servants at Dalton Hall, and had taken this way of supplying that prime requisite.
It then remained to move Dalton. He still continued in the same condition, not much changed physically, but in a state of mental torpor, the duration of which no one was able to foretell. Two short stages were required to take him to Dalton Hall. For this a litter was procured, and he was carried all the way. Edith went, with her maid and housekeeper, in a carriage, Dudleigh on horseback, and the other servants, with the luggage, in various conveyances.
Dalton received no benefit from his journey, but his friends were happy enough that he had received no injury. The medical attendance at Dalton Hall was, as before, the best that could be obtained, and all the care that affection could suggest was lavished upon him.
From what has already been said, it will be seen that in making this migration to Dalton Hall, Dudleigh was regardful of many things besides the patient. He had made every arrangement for the comfort of the occupants. He had sought out all the domestics that were necessary to diffuse an air of home over such a large establishment, and had been careful to submit them to Edith for her approval. He had also procured horses and grooms and carriages, and every thing that might conduce to the comfort of life. The old solitude and loneliness were thus terminated. The new housekeeper prevented Edith from feeling any anxiety about domestic concerns, and the servants all showed themselves well trained and perfectly subordinate.
Dalton's room was at the west end of the building. Edith occupied her old apartments. Dudleigh took that which had belonged to his “double.” The housekeeper took the room that had been occupied by Lady Dudleigh.
Dudleigh was as devoted as ever to the sick man. He remained at his bedside through the greater part of the nights and through the mornings. In the afternoons he retired as before, and gave place to Edith. When he was there he sometimes had a servant upon whom he could rely, and then, if he felt unusual fatigue, and circumstances were favorable, he was able to snatch a little sleep. He usually went to bed at two in the afternoon, rose at seven, and in that brief sleep, with occasional naps during the morning, obtained enough to last him for the day. With this rest he was satisfied, and needed, or at least sought for, no recreation. During the hours of the morning he was able to attend to those outside duties that required overseeing or direction.
But while he watched in this way over the invalid, he was not a mere watcher. That invalid required, after all, but little at the hands of his nurses, and Dudleigh had much to do.
On his arrival at Dalton Hall he had possessed himself of all the papers that his “double” had left behind him, and these he diligently studied, so as to be able to carry out with the utmost efficiency the purpose that he had in his mind. It was during the long watches of the night that he studied these papers, trying to make out from them the manner of life and the associates of the one who had left them, trying also to arrive at some clew to his mysterious disappearance. This study he could keep up without detriment to his office of attendant, and while watching over the invalid he could carry out his investigations. Sometimes, in the afternoons, after indulging in more frequent naps than usual during the mornings, he was able to go out for a ride about the grounds. He was a first-rate horseman, and Edith noticed his admirable seat as she looked from the windows of her father's room.
Thus time went on.
Gradually Dudleigh and Edith began to occupy a different position toward one another. At the inn their relations were as has been shown. But after their arrival at Dalton Hall there occurred a gradual change.
As Edith came to the room on the first day, Dudleigh waited. On entering she saw his eyes fixed on her with an expression of painful suspense, of earnest, eager inquiry. In that eloquent appealing glance all his soul seemed to beam from his eyes. It was reverent, it was almost humble, yet it looked for some small concession. May I hope? it said. Will you give a thought to me? See, I stand here, and I hang upon your look. Will you turn away from me?
Edith did not repel that mute appeal. There was that in her face which broke down Dudleigh's reserve. He advanced toward her and held out his hand. She did not reject it.
It was but a commonplace thing to do—it was what might have been done before—yet between these two it was far from common-place. Their hands touched, their eyes met, but neither spoke a word. It was but a light grasp that Dudleigh gave. Reverentially, yet tenderly, he took that hand, not venturing to go beyond what might be accorded to the merest stranger, but contenting himself with that one concession. With that he retired, carrying with him the remembrance of that nearer approach, and the hope of what yet might be.
After that the extreme reserve was broken down. Each day, on meeting, a shake of the hands was accompanied by something more. Between any others these greetings would have been the most natural thing in the world; but here it was different. There was one subject in which each took the deepest interest, and about which each had something to say. Frederick Dalton's health was precious to each, and each felt anxiety about his condition. This formed a theme about which they might speak.
As Dudleigh waited for Edith, so Edith waited for Dudleigh; and still there were the same questions to be asked and answered. Standing thus together in that sick-room, with one life forming a common bond between them, conversing in low whispers upon one so dear to both, it would have been strange indeed if any thing like want of confidence had remained on either side.