Little Dudleigh now came to the Hall nearly every day, and devoted himself to Edith. In spite of his devotion, however, her admiration for him never rose to a very high pitch. There was something about the little man which was too prim and precise—an indescribable something which made her feel a half contempt, against which it was difficult to struggle even by keeping her mind fixed on his valuable services. His little particular ways were more appropriate to a woman than to a man, and excited her impatience. Still she felt that he must have plenty of courage, for had he not offered to risk his life, and had he not come armed and prepared to force a way for her out of the park?
Edith, like all generous natures, was frank and confiding. She was warm-hearted, impulsive, and quick to show gratitude. After the society of the Mowbrays, she found that of Little Dudleigh an inexpressible relief. What struck her most about him was his unvarying calmness. He must have some personal regard for her, she was sure, for on what other grounds would he come to see her so incessantly, and spend so much time with her? Yet he never showed much of this in his manner. He frequently paid compliments, and alluded to his willingness to do any thing to serve her; but he seldom indulged in sentiment. He never showed any approach to the tenderness of love. On the whole Edith was immensely relieved at this, for the little man was one whom she could cordially appreciate as a disinterested friend, but whose approach toward gallantry or sentiment would have been repugnant in the extreme.
Little Dudleigh certainly exerted all his powers to make himself agreeable, and not without success. For Edith, who was naturally of a radiant temper, was now in high spirits at her brightening prospects, and it was easy to amuse her. Dudleigh had innumerable stories to tell of London life, and these stories referred almost exclusively to the theatre. He appeared to be intimately acquainted with all the “professional” world, and more particularly with the actresses. His stories about them were generally of a light, gossiping character, referring to their petty failings, jealousies, and weaknesses, and seemed like the malicious tales which actresses tell about one another. Still none of them were at all unfit for a lady's ear, and in all of them there was some absurdity which compensated for their maliciousness. Little Dudleigh seemed to understand most thoroughly the female nature, its excellences and its defects, its strength and its weaknesses. In his anecdotes about men he was never so successful. His familiarity with women's ways was quite remarkable, and extended even to the smallest details of dress and ornament. His whole manner put Edith singularly at her ease, and she sometimes caught herself speaking to him almost as she used to speak to her fellow school-girls.
Little Dudleigh's society thus became quite agreeable, and Edith looked forward each day to his appearance with something like impatience. There was, after all, every reason why she should enjoy it. She had no other associate, and this one upon whom she was thrown exerted all his powers for the sole purpose of pleasing her.
There was very little of any thing like enthusiasm about Little Dudleigh, and in this respect he differed very widely from Edith. She would go into raptures over every beautiful scene. A brilliant sky, a rich landscape, a quiet woodland view, all served to excite her admiring comments. Little Dudleigh, however, showed no such feeling. He confessed himself indifferent to natural scenery, and partial only to city life; and while he acknowledged the beauty of the place, he yet declared that he found more to admire in a drawing-room or a theatre.
Meanwhile the little man had not been idle. On his first visit after the conversation last detailed he informed Edith that he had written to London, making inquiries about Sir Lionel. A few days afterward he showed Edith a letter which he said he had received from Sir Lionel's London solicitors. The writer stated that he did not know where Sir Lionel was, but that he would write to a firm in Marseilles, who were his bankers and agents. The opinion of the writer was that the baronet was somewhere about the Mediterranean. This intelligence was rather distressing to Edith, but she had been prepared for something of the kind; and as Little Dudleigh encouraged her, and pointed out many reasons for hope, she took heart and hoped for the best.
According to Little Dudleigh, Sir Lionel was always traveling. During ten or twelve years he said that he had not been in England more than three or four times. It was on one of these occasions that he had met with him, and had received from him certain acts of kindness which made him grateful to his benefactor. Sir Lionel, he said, had been a great traveler, having been through every part of Europe and America, and most of Asia. He was constantly roving about to different places, sometimes by land, at other times in his own yacht. This, he thought, must be the reason why Edith had never heard from him. Personally he was most kind-hearted and generous, and if he only knew the situation in which she was, he would fly to her assistance.
Little Dudleigh also alluded in a general way to Sir Lionel's family troubles. The quarrel with his wife, he said, had broken up the baronet's life, and made him a wanderer. He knew nothing about the cause, but had heard that Lady Dudleigh had been very much to blame, and had deserted her husband under very painful circumstances. It was this that had made the unhappy husband a wanderer. Lady Dudleigh, he thought, had died years ago.
Such was the state of things, according to Little Dudleigh, and Edith had only to make up her mind to wait until something more definite was known. In the mean time, however, Little Dudleigh had not been unmindful of Miss Plympton, but wrote a letter to her, which he showed to Edith. Edith also wrote one, which was inclosed in his. Several weeks passed away, but no reply was received, and this silence distressed Edith greatly. At length, when she had lost all hope of hearing from her dear friend, a reply came. It was written from Italy, and Edith read it with feelings of mingled amazement and anxiety.
It was written in a strange hand, and informed Lieutenant Dudleigh that his letter and inclosure had been forwarded from Plympton Terrace, where it had been first sent, to Miss Plympton's present abode at Nice; and went on to say that Miss Plympton had come back from Dalton care-worn by anxiety and fatigue, that a severe illness had been the result, and that she had been sent to the south of France. The writer stated that she was still too feeble to undergo any excitement, and therefore that Lieutenant Dudleigh's letter and inclosure had not been shown her. As soon as Miss Plympton's health would admit of it the letters would be given to her. It was uncertain how long she would remain at Nice. They were thinking now of taking her to Germany or Switzerland. The school had been broken up for the present. This letter was signed by “Adèle Swinburne,” who said that she was Miss Plympton's “attendant.” It was a name that Edith had never heard of before.
It never occurred to Edith to question for one moment the authenticity of this letter. She accepted it all as truth, and was filled with grief. Miss Plympton, then, had not been forgetful. She had done what she could, and this illness was the result. It seemed now to Edith that the climax of her sorrows had been reached in the sufferings and exile of her only friend.
“And now, Miss Dalton,” said Little Dudleigh, after a long silence, in which he had watched her with respectful sympathy, “what do you wish to do?”
“I'm afraid that I shall have to rely upon you altogether,” said Edith.
“You want something to be done as soon as possible, of course.”
“Of course—most earnestly.”
“You see, then, that both Sir Lionel and Miss Plympton are quite out of our reach. If you wish for deliverance you must try something else.”
“What else can I try?”
“Well, the law.”
“The law? Of course, that is just what I wish.”
“It is tedious, remember.”
“Oh, if I can only make a beginning, I can wait. It isn't my life here, or even my imprisonment, that is intolerable so much as my helplessness, and the thought that I am doing nothing, and the impunity with which this wretched Wiggins carries out his purposes. If I could only know that the affair was in the hands of a lawyer, I should feel content.”
“Yes, women have a great faith in lawyers.”
“At any rate, there most be something in the law, although it is often baffled.”
“There ought to be, certainly; but of course you must be prepared to have your suit resisted. Wiggins will also have lawyers, and the ablest ones that he can find.”
“Then I must get better ones.”
“Of course.”
“And immediately, too, without waiting any longer,” said Edith, impatiently.
“Well, I will get you one as soon as possible, if you say so.”
“Lieutenant Dudleigh,” said Edith, with deep emotion, “you have claims on my gratitude which I can never repay.”
“It is the happiest moment of my life,” said Little Dudleigh, with greater animation than usual, “since I have heard you say that. But don't speak of gratitude. Say, at the most, friendship. If you will only accept my humble services, they are all yours, and my life too, if necessary.”
“Oh,” said Edith, with a smile, “there will be no danger to your life now, you know, if I put my case in the hands of lawyers.”
“Well, now, talking of lawyers,” said Little Dudleigh, “since you have made up your mind to this, it will be necessary to be very cautious in choosing one.”
“I must have the best counsel in England.”
“Certainly, for Wiggins will be on the alert. With him every thing is at stake. If he loses, it will be absolute ruin. In the course of the trial his whole past life must come up.”
“And it ought to come up,” said Edith, indignantly.
“We must, as you say, have the best counsel in England. An ordinary man might ruin all. You must get the best lawyer in London. And now I would not advise you to choose the most eminent one there, for fear lest the multitude of his engagements might prevent him from giving to your case the attention which it requires. You want some one who will give his whole soul to the case—some shrewd, deep, wily, crafty man, who understands thoroughly all the ins and outs of law, and can circumvent Wiggins in every way.”
“But I don't like these wily lawyers,” said Edith, doubtfully. “I prefer honorable men.”
“Yes, certainly, as friends, no doubt you do; but you are not now seeking for a friend. You are on the look-out for a servant, or, rather, for one who can fight your battle best, and deal the best and surest blows upon Wiggins.”
“Well, I'm sure I don't know,” said Edith, doubtfully.
“Now I'll tell you what I'll do, if you'll consent,” said Little Dudleigh. “I'll go to London and seek out the right man myself. There is no use in writing letters. I must go and explain the thing personally.”
“Lieutenant Dudleigh,” said Edith, in deep emotion, “I do not know what to say. You really overwhelm me with kindnesses. I can only say that you have earned my life-long gratitude.”
Little Dudleigh shook his head deprecatingly.
“Miss Dalton,” said he, in a tone of respectful devotion, “the favor is all yours, and the pleasure is all mine. Believe me, I feel happy beyond expression at being able to do any thing for you.”
And after some further conversation, Little Dudleigh took his leave.
“How noble and generous he is!” thought Edith, as she watched him walk down the avenue. “Dear Little Dudleigh, what a pity it is that he is not a few inches taller!”
The departure of Dudleigh left Edith to the monotony of her solitary life. If Dudleigh had desired to win her affections, he could certainly have chosen no better way of doing so, for by this course he made himself greatly missed, and caused Edith to count the days in her impatience for his return. In her loneliness she could not help recalling the hours she had passed with her agreeable visitor, and thus was forced to give him a large portion of her thoughts. His connection with Sir Lionel seemed of itself a recommendation of the strongest kind, and all that he had done for her, and was still doing, filled her generous soul with gratitude.
Thinking thus about him, she recalled his whole manner and appearance. The worst that could be said against him was that he was effeminate. But at any rate that was better than being brutal. Otherwise he was frank and engaging and clever and gentlemanly. He had evidently a high sense of honor. He was devoted to her. From the first time when he had heard her story down to the present moment he had not ceased to think for her and to work for her. Even now he had gone to London to obtain for her what she most wanted—the assistance of the law.
All these things made him appear in a more favorable light than ever. She recalled his heroism and devotion. She considered that he had done as much as if he had laid down his life for her, since he had offered to do so, and had only been prevented by her prohibition. Little Dudleigh, then, she thought, with his slight frame and small hands, had more real manhood than a hundred such big brutes as Mowbray. If he is not a true man, who is? Could she ever hope again to find so devoted a friend? Impossible. He had come to her in her very darkest hour; he eagerly espoused her cause, and had devoted himself with all his soul to her interests. What more could she wish than this?
For several weeks Dudleigh remained away, and Edith grew excessively impatient. She began to fear for his safety. In her anxiety she sometimes imagined that Wiggins might have caused some harm to fall on him in London. She recalled all the dangers of the London streets, of which she had read in various works of fiction, and imagined Wiggins hiring some cut-throat to follow him, assassinate him at the first opportunity, and throw his body into the river. She imagined that some ruffian, hired of course by Wiggins, might tempt him to take a friendly glass, drug his liquor, and then dispose of his victim in the same convenient river. Then her mood changed, and she laughed at the absurdity of such fears, for she well knew that he must be perfectly familiar with London life and the London streets, so that any thing of this kind was nonsensical. Then she thought that perhaps no lawyer would undertake her case without money being paid at once. In fact, all the fears that could be suggested by an uneasy mind and a very vivid imagination came crowding before here as the time passed by and Dudleigh did not return.
But at last all her fears came to an end. One morning, at the usual hour, she saw his well-known figure approaching the house. In her eager joy she hurried at once down stairs, and could scarcely prevent herself from running down the avenue to meet him. It was with difficulty that she controlled herself, and waited for him in the drawing-room.
Little Dudleigh entered with his usual calmness and self-possession. Edith greeted him with the warmest welcome.
“But you come alone,” she said, in a tone of disappointment. “You have not been successful.”
“In one sense,” said he, “I have been most successful, for I have found the very man I wanted. I had to wait for him, though. He was in Lyons when I reached London, and I went over for him and brought him here.”
“Lyons!” exclaimed Edith. “Why, that's in France. Did you really go over to France?”
“Why not?” said Dudleigh, calmly. “I set forth on a certain purpose, and I am not in the habit of giving up what I undertake to do. Besides, you forget for whom that business was undertaken and the impulse that drove me forward.”
Edith looked at the floor and said nothing. She felt under such obligations to him that she hardly knew what to say.
“I should like to have brought the lawyer here at once,” he continued, “but did not. He is now in this neighborhood, however. The reason why I did not bring him now was because I wished first to see Wiggins myself. He must be prepared, or he may make trouble. I wish to frighten him into allowing him to pass. I shall have to make up some plausible story, however, to account for his visiting you. I have not yet decided on what it shall be. I think, however, that the lawyer had better come here alone. You will, of course, know that he is to be trusted. You may say to him, in fact, whatever you like.”
“But wouldn't it be better for you to be present also?” said Edith. “I may require your advice.”
“Thank you, Miss Dalton. I assure you I value most highly every expression of your confidence. But I think it will be better for you to see him alone. He will give you his card. His name is Barber. If I were to come with him, Wiggins might suspect. At the same time, I don't know, after all, but that I may change my mind and come with him. But in any case you may talk to him freely. He has not been idle, for he has already mastered your whole situation. You may trust him just as much as you trust me. You may, in fact, regard him the same as me.”
“And he will be here to-morrow?” said Edith.
“Yes.”
“I know you hate expressions of gratitude,” said Edith, after a pause; “but I can only say that my own gratitude is beyond expression. You have given me hope—”
“Say nothing about it,” said Dudleigh, interrupting her. “That will be the best thanks, though really I have done nothing to merit thanks. Duty and honor both impelled me to serve you, without mentioning—any—a—deeper and stronger feeling.”
Edith again looked at the floor. She suspected the existence of this stronger feeling and did not altogether like to think of it. Her own feelings toward him were singularly cool, and she did not wish him to be otherwise. His general calmness of demeanor was very pleasant to her, and his occasional allusions to any deeper sentiment than common, few though they were, troubled her greatly. What if he should seek as his reward that which he surely had a right to hope for—her hand? Could she give it? On the other hand, could she have the heart to refuse it? The alternative was not pleasant.
On the following day, while Edith was waiting in great impatience, a stranger came to the Hall to call upon her.
The stranger was a small-sized man, with round shoulders, gray hair, bushy eyebrows, and sallow skin. He wore spectacles, his clothes were of good material, but rather loose fit, betokening one who was indifferent to dress. His boots were loose, his gloves also, and an umbrella which he carried, being without a band, had a baggy appearance, which was quite in keeping with the general style of this man's costume. He looked to Edith so much like a lawyer that she could not help wondering at the completeness with which one's profession stamps itself upon the exterior.
“I am sent,” said the stranger, after a brief, stiff salutation, “by Lieutenant Dudleigh, to communicate with you about your present position. I take it for granted that we shall not be overheard, and propose to carry on this conversation in as low a tone as possible.”
Saying this, the stranger took a quick, sharp glance through his spectacles around the room.
His voice was dry and thin, his manner abrupt and stiff and business-like. Evidently he was a dried-up lawyer, whose whole life had been passed among parchments.
Edith assured him that from where they were sitting they could not be overheard if they spoke in a moderately low voice. This appeared to satisfy the stranger, and after another survey of the room, he drew forth from his breast pocket a wallet filled with papers—a well-worn, fat, business-like wallet—and taking from this a card, he rose stiffly and held this toward Edith. She took it, and glancing over it read the address:
HENRY BARBER,SOLICITOR,Inner Temple, London.
Edith bowed. “Lieutenant Dudleigh told me your name,” said she.
“And now,” said he, “let us proceed to business, for my time is limited.
“Lieutenant Dudleigh,” he began, “has already explained to me, in a general way, the state of your affairs. He found me at Lyons, where I was engaged in some important business, and made me come to England at once. He directed me verbally, though not formally or in proper order, to investigate as much as I could about your affairs before coming here, and requested me to consider myself as your solicitor. That, I suppose, is quite correct, is it not?”
“It is,” said Edith.
“Under these circumstances,” continued Barber, “I at once went to the proper quarter, and investigated the will of your late father; for your whole position, as you must be aware, depends upon that. Of course no will can deprive you of your lawful inheritance in real estate, which the law of the country secures to you and yours forever; but yet it may surround you with certain restrictions more or less binding. Now it was my object to see about the nature of these restrictions, and so understand your peculiar position.”
Here Barber paused, and taking out his wallet, drew from it a slip of paper on which he had penciled some memoranda.
“In the multiplicity of my legal cares, Miss Dalton,” he continued, “I find it necessary to jot down notes with reference to each individual case. It prevents confusion and saves time, both of which are, to a lawyer, considerations of the utmost moment.
“And now, with reference to your case, first of all, the will and the business of the guardianship—let us see about that. According to this will, you, the heir, are left under the care of two guardians for a certain time. One of these guardians is on the spot. The other is not. Each of these men has equal powers. Each one of these is trustee for you, and guardian of you. But one has no power superior to the other. This is what the will distinctly lays down. Of course, Miss Dalton, you will perceive that the first necessary thing is to know this, What are the powers of a guardian? Is it not?”
Edith bowed. The mention of two guardians had filled her with eager curiosity, but she repressed this feeling for the present, so as not to interrupt the lawyer in his speech.
“What, then, are the powers of a guardian? To express this in the simplest way, so that you can understand those powers perfectly, a guardian stands, as the law has it,in loco parentis—which means that he is the same as a father. The father dies; he perpetuates his authority by handing it over to another. He is not dead, then. Themandies, but thefatherlives in the person of the guardian whom he may have appointed. Such,” said Mr. Barber, with indescribable emphasis—“such, Miss Dalton, is the LAW. You must know,” he continued, “that the law is very explicit on the subject of guardianship. Once make a man a guardian and, as I have remarked, he forthwith standsin loco parentis, and the ward is his child in the eye of the LAW. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” said Edith, in a despondent tone. She felt disappointment and discouragement at hearing all this, and could only hope that there would be something yet which would open better prospects.
“Such, then, are the powers of a guardian,” continued Barber. “They are very strong, and that will, by giving you guardians, has tied you up.”
“But I am of age,” said Edith, meekly.
Barber waved his hand slightly. “That,” said he, “is a point which I shall consider presently. Just now I will say this—that the framer of that will considered all these points, and arranged that the guardianship should continue until such time as you might obtain another guardian of another kind, before whom all others are powerless.”
“But who are my guardians?” asked Edith, in great excitement, unable any longer to repress her curiosity. “One is Wiggins, I know. Who is the other?”
“One,” said Barber, “is, as you say, John Wiggins; the other is Sir Lionel Dudleigh.”
“Sir Lionel Dudleigh!” exclaimed Edith, while a feeling of profound satisfaction came to her. “Oh, how glad I am!”
“It is indeed a good thing that it is so,” said Barber; “but, unfortunately, he can not at present be of service. For where is he? He is in parts unknown. He is out of the country. He is, for the present, the same as though he were dead. It is not probable that he has heard of your father's death, or of the existence of this will, unless, indeed, Mr. Wiggins has taken the trouble to find out where he is, and send him the information. That, however, is not likely. How, then, is it with you? You have, in point of fact, at the present time virtually butone guardian. He is here on the spot. He is exerting his authority, and you assert, I think, that he subjects you to a sort of imprisonment. Miss Dalton, he has a right to do this.”
Saying this, Barber was silent for a moment, and looked at Edith, and then at the floor. On the other hand she looked steadfastly at him; but her hand trembled, and an expression of utter hopelessness came over her face.
“Is that all that you have to tell me?” she said at last, in a despairing voice.
“Certainly not, Miss Dalton,” said Barber—“certainly not. I have much more to say. But first it was necessary to explain your position, and lay down the LAW. There is only one reason why you sent for me, and why I came. You wish, by some means or other, to get free from the control of this guardian, John Wiggins.”
“Yes,” said Edith, earnestly.
“Very well,” said Barber. “I know all about that. I have been informed by Lieutenant Dudleigh. You wish in some way or other to gain your freedom. Now in order to do this there are two different ways, Miss Dalton, and only two. The first is to find your other guardian, and obtain his assistance. Who is he? Sir Lionel Dudleigh. Where is he? No one knows. What then? He must be found. You must send out emissaries, messengers, detectives, in short; you must send off some one who will find him wherever he is, and make him acquainted with your position. But suppose that you can not find him, or that he is indifferent to your interests—a thing which is certainly possible—what then? What are you to do? You are then under the control of John Wiggins, your remaining guardian; and it remains to be seen whether, by the provisions of the will, there is any other way in which you may escape from that control. Now the will has made provisions, and here is the other of those two ways of escape of which I spoke. This is marriage. If you were to marry, that moment you would be free from the control of John Wiggins; and not only so, but he would at once be compelled to quit the premises, and hand in his accounts. Of course his object is to prevent any thing of that kind, which would be so ruinous to him, and therefore he will keep you shut up, if possible, as long as he lives; but if you should adopt this way of escape, Miss Dalton, you would turn the tables at once; and if, as I have understood is the case, he has made any misappropriations of money, or defalcations of any kind, he will be bound to make them good, to the uttermost farthing. Such, Miss Dalton, is the LAW.”
“And I have no better prospect than this?” exclaimed Edith, in deep dejection.
“Those, Miss Dalton, are the only two courses possible.”
“And if Sir Lionel can not be found?”
“Then you will have to fall back on the other alternative.”
“But that is out of the question.”
“Such, unfortunately are the only provisions of the will.”
“Then there is no hope,” sighed Edith.
“Hope? Oh yes! There is plenty of hope. In the first place I would urge you to lose no time in searching after your uncle.”
“I shall do so. Will you see to it?”
“I will do all that I can. You wish me, of course, to act in connection with Lieutenant Dudleigh.”
“Of course.”
“I will begin at once. And now I must go.”
The lawyer put his memoranda back in the wallet, restoring the latter to his pocket, and took his hat.
“But must I remain a prisoner here?” cried Edith. “Is there no law to free me—none whatever? After all, I am a British subject, and I have always understood that in England no one can be imprisoned without a trial.”
“You are a ward, Miss Dalton, and guardians can control their wards, as parents control children.”
“But parents can not control children who are of age.”
{Illustration: “SUCH MISS DALTON, IS THE LAW!”}
“A ward is under age till the time specified in the legal instrument that appoints the guardian. You, until marriage, are what the law calls an 'infant.' But do not be discouraged, Miss Dalton. We will hunt up Sir Lionel, and if he can be found we will bring him back to England.”
Saying this, in the same dry, business-like tone that he had used all along, Barber bowed himself out.
That interview with the lawyer left Edith in a state of the deepest dejection. She had certainly not anticipated any thing like this. She expected that measures would at once be taken to carry on a contest with Wiggins, and give her her lawful rights, and above all her freedom. It never for a moment entered her mind to question the truth of a single statement that Barber had made. His whole communication with her was of the most business-like character, as it seemed to her, and she thought he must be eminent in his profession, or else Dudleigh would not have employed him. And this was the end of all that hope in which she had been indulging! Her freedom now seemed farther removed than ever. How could Sir Lionel ever be found? According to Dudleigh, he lived the life of a wanderer, and left no trace behind him. It was hard for her to think that her only hope depended upon finding him.
On the following day Dudleigh came, looking as calm and as unruffled as usual.
“Barber has gone back,” said he. “I knew before what he was going to tell you. I had not the heart to tell you myself, or even to be here when he was telling you.”
“It might have saved me some disappointment ifyouhad told me.”
“But the disappointment would have been as great, and I had not the heart to inflict sorrow myself uponyou! I know, after Barber had explained it to me, how I felt; and I can form some idea of the nature of your feelings.”
“So there is nothing to be done,” said Edith, with a sigh.
“Pardon me, there is very much indeed to be done, though whether it will result in any thing remains to be seen.”
“What can I do?”
“Do? Why, as Barber said, hunt up Sir Lionel.”
“I'll never find him.”
“Yes, you can.”
“How?”
“By searching, of course. And that is what I have come about now.”
“Have you thought of any thing new?”
“No, nothing. I merely came to make a proposal.”
“What is it?” asked Edith, languidly; for now there seemed no chance for any thing.
“It is this,” said Dudleigh. “I propose, if you will allow me, to go myself.”
“You!” exclaimed Edith, in great surprise.
“Yes.”
“But can you obtain leave to go? You have to go abroad, won't you?”
“Yes, of course.”
“But can you leave your regiment?”
“Oh yes. I can get leave of absence for as long a time as will be needed for that, I think, without difficulty. In fact, before leaving London, as soon as I heard Barber's opinion, I put in my request at once for two months' leave, and I have every reason to believe that they will allow it. I have one or two influential friends, you know.”
“And will you really go? asked Edith, in tones of deep feeling, with all her gratitude evident in her tone and expression.
“Yes, if you will allow me.”
“I?—allow you? I am only too glad to have a friend who is willing to undertake such a thing for me in my distress.”
“There is nothing, Miss Dalton, which I would not undertake for you.”
“You are overwhelming me with obligations,” said Edith. “What you have already done is more than I can ever repay.”
“Do not speak of obligations,” said Dudleigh, earnestly. “My best reward is the thought that I may have given you even a temporary relief.”
“You have given me much happiness,” said Edith, earnestly; “and if it proves to be only temporary it will not be your fault. You overwhelm me with a sense of obligation.”
“Now really, Miss Dalton, if you talk in that way, you will make me feel ashamed. After all, what have I done? Nothing more than any gentleman would do. But do not say a word about it again. Let it be taken for granted that I do this from a selfish motive—simply to please myself, you know; simply because I love—to do it.”
Dudleigh spoke in his usual quiet way, without any particular ardor, although once or twice his voice grew more earnest than usual. Edith said nothing. She felt a little embarrassed, but the self-possession of Dudley was perfect; he hinted strongly at love, but seemed not at all like an ardent lover. He looked and acted simply like a friend; and as Edith needed a friend above all things, she was glad to accept his services.
“My present plan,” said he, “can be easily explained. Sir Lionel seems to be somewhere about the Mediterranean. Any letters that are sent to him have to be directed to Messrs. Chatellon, Comeaux, and Co., Marseilles, who forward them to him. I have already written to these gentlemen, asking where he is; but when they sent their reply they did not know. They stated, however, that on hearing from him they would let me know. But to wait for an answer from these gentlemen would be too great a trial for your patience. You cannot be satisfied, nor could I unless something is being done. It would simply kill you to wait here, day after day, week after week, month after month, for letters that would never come. Nothing is so terrible. You must send some one. Now I think that the best one you can send is myself, and I hope I speak without vanity. No mere hireling can go on this service. The one who goes should have different motives, and for my part I should feel the search to have a personal interest, and should work for you as I would for myself.”
“Oh, Lieutenant Dudleigh,” said Edith, “there is no need for me to say how I should feel about a search made by you. I refrain from expressions of gratitude, since you forbid them; and so I do not know what to say.”
“Say nothing, then, and—I do not like to say it, but I must—hope for nothing. If you hope, you may be disappointed. If you do not hope, you can not be. But in any case, whether you are disappointed or not, remember this—that in spite of these musty lawyers, if the worst comes to the worst you have one steadfast friend, and that if you say the word I will force a way for you through those gates. If you ever feel discouraged, remember that. It is a great preventive against despair to know that you have an alternative of some kind. And now I will take my departure, for the train will leave soon, and I must go at once.”
At length, after an absence of four or five weeks, Dudleigh returned. Edith had tried hard not to hope, so as to be prepared for a disappointment; but after all, in spite of her efforts, she could not help hoping. She put great confidence in Dudleigh's energy and perseverance, and thought that he would be able not only to find out where Sir Lionel might be, but even to see him, and make him acquainted with her situation. He had already done so much for her that it seemed quite possible for him to do this. As the days passed by she found herself looking forward to his return as the time of her certain deliverance, until at length hope grew into confidence, and the idea of disappointment was completely driven away.
At last he came, and his first appearance put to flight all her hopes, and filled her with a nameless terror. He looked dejected and weary. He asked after her health, and whether she had been in any way molested; after which Edith entreated him to tell her the worst.
“For you bring bad news,” said she—“I see it in your face. Tell me the worst.”
Dudleigh mournfully shook his head.
“You have not found him, then?”
“No.”
“But you must have heard something about him. He is at least alive, is he not?”
“I don't know even that.”
“What! has any thing happened to him?”
“Not that I know of. But he has started on a long and perilous excursion; and whether he will ever return or not is more than I can say.”
“Then there is no hope,” said Edith, in a voice of despair.
Dudleigh was silent for a time.
“I will tell you all,” he replied at length. “When I left you I went at once to Marseilles. I called on Sir Lionel's agents there, but found that they had heard nothing from him whatever. They said that when he last left that city he had gone to Turkey. I then set off for Constantinople, and spent a week there, trying to find some traces of him. At the British Embassy they said that he had only remained one day in the city, and had then gone in his yacht, which he had brought with him, on a cruise in the Black Sea. But whether he had returned or not no one knew. At last I met with a merchant who knew him, and he told me that he had returned and gone to Athens. I went to Athens, and found that he had been there at one of the hotels, the landlord of which informed me that he had spent three days there and had left for parts unknown. I left letters at each of these places, and sent others to Smyrna, Beyrout, Jaffa, and Alexandria. Then I returned to Marseilles. There, to my surprise, I learned that, a few days after I left, they had heard from Sir Lionel, who was in Alexandria, and about to start on the maddest expedition that was ever heard of—a journey up the Nile, into the inaccessible regions of Central Africa—to try to discover the sources of that river. He simply announced to his agents that all his preparations were completed, and that he would leave immediately. What could I do then? I did the only thing there was to be done, and hurried to Alexandria. Of course he had left the place before my letter reached it; and I learned that from the rapid way in which he set out he must already be far out of reach. Even then I would have gone after him, and tracked him to the sources of the Nile themselves, if I had been able. But I had no experience in travel of that kind. I couldn't manage a band of Arabs, for I didn't know a word of their language, and of course I could not stop to study it. That idea would have been absurd. Besides, other reasons had weight with me, and so I came reluctantly back.”
“Africa! the sources of the Nile!” exclaimed Edith, dolefully. “I can't understand why he should have chosen those places.”
“Well, it is no new idea. It is a thing that he has had in his mind for years. I have heard him talk of it long ago. I remember hearing him, once say that the only chance now remaining by which a man could gain brilliant distinction was the discovery of the sources of the Nile. Every other part of the world, he said, is known.”
“How long should you think he might be absent on such a journey?” asked Edith, anxiously.
“How long? Ah! Miss Dalton, so long that it should not be thought of. Years must elapse before he returns.”
“Years!”
“Yes—if he ever does return,” said Dudleigh, in a mournful voice. “With him now the question is not, When will he return? but rather, Will he ever return? It is, as you must know, a most desperate and hopeless undertaking. For thousands of years men have tried that journey, and failed.”
“But may he not be baffled and turn back? There is some hope in that. He will find out that it is impossible.” And Edith for a moment grasped at that thought.
“You will think me one of Job's comforters,” said Dudleigh, with a melancholy smile. “But I think it is a poor mark of friendship to hide the truth. It is better for you to know all now. The fact is, there would be some hope of his return if he were any other than Sir Lionel Dudleigh. But being what he is, he will follow his purpose to the end. He is a man of unflinching courage and inflexible determination. More than this, he announced to his friends before he left that he would either bring back the truth about the sources of the Nile, or else he would not come back at all. So now he has not only his resolution to impel him, but his pride also.”
“This hope, then, fails me utterly,” said Edith, after a long pause.
“I fear so.”
“He is, in fact, the same as dead.”
“Yes, as far as you are concerned, and your present needs.”
“This is terrible!”
“Miss Dalton, I do not know what to say. I can only say that my heart aches for you. I delayed on the road, because I could not bear to bring this news to you. Then I wrote a letter, and thought of sending that, but I feared you might not get it. I could not bear to see you in sorrow.”
“You, at least, Lieutenant Dudleigh,” said Edith, earnestly, “have acted toward me like a true friend and a true gentleman. No one could have done more. It is some consolation to know that every thing which was possible has been done.”
There was now a long pause. Each one was lost in thought. Edith's sad face was turned toward Dudleigh, but she did not notice him. She was wrapped in her own thoughts, and wondering how long she could endure the life that now lay before her.
“Miss Dalton,” said Dudleigh at length, in a mournful voice, “I have to leave at once to join my regiment, for my leave is up, and it may be some time before I see you again.”
He paused.
Edith looked at him earnestly, fearful of what she thought might be coming. Would it be a confession of love? How strong that love must be which had prompted him to such devotion! And yet she could not return it? Yet if he said any thing about it, what could she say? Could she refuse one who had done so much, one who loved her so deeply, one who was the only friend now left her?
“It is heart-breaking to leave you here, Miss Dalton,” he continued, “among unscrupulous enemies. When I am away I shall be distracted by a thousand fears about you. How can you endure this life? And yet I might do something to save you from it. My own life is at your disposal. Do you wish to be free now? Will you have that gate opened, and fly?”
Edith said not a word. She was filled with extreme agitation. Fly! Did that mean to fly with him? to escape with a lover? and then—what?
“If you wish to escape now, at this moment, Miss Dalton, all that you have to do is to go out with me. I am armed. If there is any resistance, I can force a way through. The first man that dares to bar the way dies. As for me, if I fall, I shall ask nothing more.”
And saying this, Dudleigh looked at Edith inquiringly.
But Edith faltered. Her horror of bloodshed was great. Was her situation so desperate that she could sacrifice a human life to gain her freedom? Perhaps that life might be Dudleigh's. Could she risk the life of the man who had done so much for her? She could not. No, after all, she shrank from gaining her freedom at such a risk.
Then, again, if she were free, where could she go? She knew now how utterly forlorn she was. Miss Plympton was gone, and Sir Lionel was gone. There were none left. She could not live without money, and all her vast property was under the control of another. Dudleigh had said nothing about love either: and she was grateful for his delicacy. Did he intend in his deep devotion to support her himself, or what did he intend?
“You hesitate, Miss Dalton,” said he at last. “Have you your old fear about bloodshed?”
“I can not bear to risk such a sacrifice,” said Edith.
“But one has a right to fly from slavery, and to destroy any one who tries to prevent his escape.”
“I can not,” said Edith. “The blood that might be shed would stain all my life. Better to endure my misery as best I can. It must become far worse before I can consent to any thing so terrible as the death of a fellow-being.”
“You may yet consent even to that, may you not?”
“I don't know.”
“Well, if you do, you have one on whom you can rely. At any rate, I do not think there is any reason for you to fear downright cruelty here. The law protects you from that, just as it protects a child. You are not a captive in the hands of one of those old feudal barons whom we read about. You are simply a ward under the control of a guardian—a thing most odious to one like you, yet one which does not make you liable to any physical evil. But this is poor comfort. I know that your position will become more intolerable as time goes on; and, Miss Dalton, whenever you can bear it no longer, remember that I am ready. Your only danger would be if I should happen to be ordered out of England. But even then I would order Barber to watch over you.”
Edith sighed. Her future seemed dark indeed. The chance that Dudleigh might be ordered to America or India filled her with new alarm.
Dudleigh rose to go.
“In six or eight weeks,” said he, “I hope to come again. I shall never forget you, but day and night I shall be planning for your happiness.”
He took her hand as he said this. Edith noticed that the hand which held hers was as cold as ice. He raised her hand and pressed it to his lips.
Soon after he left.