On the day after the departure of Dudleigh, Edith found a letter lying on her table. It was addressed to her in that stiff, constrained hand which she knew so well as belonging to that enemy of her life and of her race—John Wiggins. With some curiosity as to the motive which he might have in thus writing to her, she opened the letter, and read the following:
“DEAR MISS DALTON,—I feel myself incapable of sustaining another interview with you, and I am therefore reduced to the necessity of writing.
“I have been deeply pained for a long time at the recklessness with which you receive total strangers as visitors, and admit them to your confidence. I have already warned you, but my warnings were received by you in such a manner as to prevent my encountering another interview.
“I write now to inform you that for your own sake, your own future, and your own good name, it is my fixed intention to put a stop to these interviews. This must be done, whatever may be the cost. You must understand from this that there is nothing left for you but to obey.
“If after this you allow these adventurers one single interview more, I shall be under the unpleasant necessity of limiting your freedom to an extent that may be painful to you, and even still more so to myself.
“Yours, JOHN WIGGINS.”
Edith read this letter over and over again, with many mingled feelings. Wiggins had left her so much to herself of late that she had begun to count upon his continued inaction, and supposed that he was too much afraid of Dudleigh to interfere, or to make any opposition whatever to his visits. Now, however, she saw that he had made up his mind to action, and she fully believed that he was not the man who would make any idle menace.
The thing that offended Edith most in this letter was what she considered its insolence. Its tone was that of a superior addressing an inferior—a patron speaking to a dependent. At this all the stubborn pride of Edith's nature was outraged, and rose in rebellion; but above all was that pride stimulated by the word “obey.”
She also saw in that letter the indications of an unpleasant development of the policy of Wiggins, which would make her future darker than her present was. Hitherto he had simply surrounded her with a barrier over which she could not pass, admitting to her only those whom he wished, or whom he could not keep away. But now she saw some approach made to a more positive tyranny. There was a threat of limiting her freedom. What that meant she could easily conjecture. Wiggins was evidently dissatisfied with the liberty which she still had of walking over the grounds. He now intended to confine her within the Hall—perhaps in her own room.
This showed her what she had to expect in the future. The steps of her tyrant's progress would be gradual, but terrible. First, perhaps she would be confined to the Hall, then to her own rooms, and finally perhaps to some small chamber—some cell—where she would live a living death as long as her jailer might allow her.
In addition to this open show of tyranny, she also saw what seemed to her the secret craft by which Wiggins had contrived an excuse for further restraint. She considered Mowbray and Mrs. Mowbray as direct agents of his. As for Dudleigh, she now though that Wiggins had not been so much afraid of him as he had appeared to be, but had allowed him to come so as to gain an excuse for further coercion. It was evident to Edith that Dudleigh's transparent integrity of character and his ardent espousal of her cause must be well known to Wiggins, and that he only tolerated this visitor so as to gain a plausible pretext for putting her under restraint.
That letter threw an additional gloom over Edith's life, and lent a fresh misery to her situation. The prospect before her now was dark indeed. She was in a prison-house, where her imprisonment seemed destined to grow closer and closer. There was no reason why Wiggins should spare her at all. Having so successfully shut her within the grounds for so long a time, he would now be able to carry out any mode of confinement which might be desirable to him. She had heard of people being confined in private mad-houses, through the conspiracy of relatives who coveted their property. Thus far she had believed these stories to be wholly imaginary, but now she began to believe them true. Her own case had shown her the possibility of unjust and illegal imprisonment, and she had not yet been able to find out any mode of escape. This place seemed now to be her future prison-house, where her imprisonment would grow from bad to worse, and where she herself, under the terrible struggle of feeling to which she would be subject, might finally sink into a state of madness.
Such a prospect was terrible beyond words. It filled her with horror, and she regarded her future with the most gloomy forebodings. In the face of all this she had a sense of the most utter helplessness, and the disappointments which she had thus far encountered only served to deepen her dejection.
In the midst of all this there was one hope for her, and one only.
That solitary hope rested altogether on her friend Dudleigh. When he last left her he had promised to come to her again in six or eight weeks. This, then, was the only thing left, and to his return she looked forward incessantly, with the most eager and impatient hope.
To her it now seemed a matter of secondary importance what might be her own feelings toward Dudleigh. She felt confident of his love toward her, and in the abhorrence with which she recoiled from the terrible future which Wiggins was planning for her she was able to contemplate Dudleigh's passion with complacency. She did not love the little man, but if he could save her from the horror that rose before her, she resolved to shrink from no sacrifice of feeling, but grant him whatever reward he might claim.
Time passed. Six weeks were over, but there were no signs of Dudleigh. The suspense of Edith now became terrible. She began to fear that Wiggins had shut him out, and had refused to allow him to enter again. If this were so, and if Dudleigh had submitted to such exclusion, then all was indeed lost. But Edith would not yet believe it. She clung to hope, and since he had said “six or eight weeks,” she thought that she might wait the extreme limit mentioned by him before yielding to despair.
Eight weeks passed.
On the day when those weeks had expired Edith found herself in a fever of suspense, devoured by the most intolerable impatience, with all her thoughts and feelings now centred upon Dudleigh, and her last hope fixed upon him only.
Edith's impatience was uncontrollable. Thus far she had passed most of the time in her own room; but now the confinement was more than she could endure. She went out into the grounds, where she wandered day after day, watching and listening, restlessly and feverishly, for the approach of her friend. At length one day, as she was walking down the avenue, a well-known figure came up advancing toward her, at sight of which a thrill of joy passed through her. It was he. At last Little Dudleigh!
In her great joy she did not seek to conceal her feelings, or to maintain that reserve which thus far she had manifested in her interviews with him. All this was thrown aside. Here stood at last her one true friend, the one whose loss she had lamented, whose return she had looked for so eagerly; the one friend coming to her through the enemies who intervened. With a rapid step she advanced toward him. She held out her hands, and pressed his warmly. Her lips quivered, tears started to her eyes, but she did not speak.
“I am back again, Miss Dalton,” said Little Dudleigh, joyously. “But how changed you are! You have suffered. I see it in your face. What is the matter? Has any thing new happened? Has that villain dared to offer insult? Ah, why was I not here before? But I could not come. I came as soon as I could.”
Edith murmured a few words in reply, and then they walked together at a slow pace along the avenue. Edith did not care to go back to the Hall, where all was so gloomy, but preferred the fresh pure air, and the cheering face of nature.
As they walked on together Edith recounted the events of her life since she had last seen him. Now all her long pent-up feelings burst forth without restraint. At last she had some one to whom she could confide her sorrows, and she found it sweet to talk to one whom she knew to be so full of sympathy. To all this Dudleigh listened with the profoundest attention, and with visible agitation.
In all that she said and in all her manner Edith freely expressed the joy that she felt at once more meeting with a friend so tried, so true, so valued, in whom she could trust so implicitly, and from whom she could find sympathy. She had struggled so long in silence and in loneliness that Dudleigh's sympathy seemed doubly sweet.
When she ceased a long silence followed. Dudleigh's agitation still continued. Several times he looked at her wistfully, inquiringly, doubtfully, as if about to speak, and each time he hesitated. But at last, with a strong effort, he spoke.
“I must say it, Miss Dalton,” said he. “I am compelled to. I came here this day—for the sole purpose of saying—something which—you—may be unwilling to hear. I have hesitated long, and staid away longer on this account, yet I must say it now. You are in a fearful position, Miss Dalton. You are in the power of an unprincipled and a desperate man. I feel for you most deeply. You are always in my thoughts. In order to assist you I have done all that I could. I do not wish to make any allusions to what I have done, but rather to what I have felt, and shall feel. You have become very dear to me. I know I am not worthy of you. You are above me. I am only a humble lieutenant; you are the lady of Dalton Hall; but I can not bear to—to go away and leave one whom I love in the power of a villain. Dare I offer you my protection? Will it be too much to ask you to be mine? I do not hope that you can look upon me just yet with any such feelings as love, but I see that you treat me as a friend, and you have honored me with your confidence. I have never said any thing about my love to you, but perhaps you have not been altogether without suspicion about it. Had I found Sir Lionel, or had I thought that he was at all accessible, I would never have made my humble confession until you were in a different position. I am ashamed to make it now, for though I know that you would not suspect me of any thing base, yet it looks as if I were taking advantage of your necessities. But I know that to a mind like yours such a suspicion would never come; and I am comforted by the thought that if you do listen to my request it will lead, to your safety. I think, too, that if it were possible for you to consent, even if you felt no very tender sentiment toward me, you would have from me a devotion such as few others are capable of feeling. Under such circumstances you might not be altogether unhappy.”
All this Dudleigh had spoken with feverish rapidity, and with every sign of the strongest agitation, occasionally stopping, and then resuming his remarks in a headlong way. But if he had felt agitation, Edith had felt at least quite as much. At the first mention of his proposal her head sank forward, and she looked fixedly upon the ground with downcast eyes, while her tears fell abundantly. She said nothing. Dudleigh in his frequent pauses seemed to expect that she would say something, but she did not.
Edith's feelings were of the most distressing kind. She had, of course, anticipated something like this, but had never yet been able to decide what she should do in the event of such a confession. She did not love him. Her feelings toward him were of a totally different kind. It seemed to her that such a feeling as love could never by any possibility be felt by her for him. And yet she had a very strong regard for him. His society was very pleasant to her. She would have done much and sacrificed much for his sake. But to be his wife, that was a thing which seemed odious.
Yet what could she do! Her position was intolerable and full of peril. If she were his wife, in one moment she would be safe, free, and under the protection of one who loved her with utter devotion. True, she had no such sentiment toward him as a wife should have for a husband, but he himself was aware of that, and in spite of that was willing, nay, eager, to take her. She was touched to the heart by his self-depreciation and profound respect.
Then, again, she thought, ought not he himself to be considered? Had he no claims? He had given himself up to her; he had done much for her. He had offered again and again to give up his life for her. Ought not such rare devotion to meet with some reward? And what reward could she ever give? There was only one which he wanted—herself. Could she refuse him that?
Dudleigh said not another word, and in that long and most embarrassing silence he looked away so as not to add to her confusion. Edith did not know what to do or say. Could she refuse him? Then how ungrateful she would be to her best friend! But if he should leave her? What then? A life of despair! The complete triumph of Wiggins. A living death.
Was it at all singular that she recoiled from such an alternative? She could not endure this captivity any longer. And was it, then, so dreadful to give herself to the man who adored her? No. If she did not love him, she at least had a strong friendship, and this in time might change to love. She had a greater regard for him than for any other man. Distasteful? It was. Yes. But it was far better than this imprisonment. She must take him as her husband, or lose him forever. He could do no more for her unless she became his wife. He could only save her by marrying her.
She was touched by his present attitude. He was waiting so patiently, so humbly. She saw his deep agitation.
Suddenly, by a quick movement, she turned toward him and held out her hand. Dudleigh took it, and for a moment each gazed into the other's eyes, regardless of observation. Dudleigh's face was deathly pale, and his hand as cold as ice.
“Oh, my friend,” said Edith, in a low, hesitating voice, “what can I say to you? I can not give you love. I have no such feeling, but I feel deep gratitude. I know your worth. You have done so much, and I wish I could feel different. If you take me as I am, I—I—I am—yours. But I am not worthy. No, I am not—not worthy of such devotion. You love me, but I do not love you. What can I do? Yet in spite of this, if you ask me, I am—yours.”
Edith spoke with downcast eyes and deep embarrassment and frequent hesitation. Her last words died away almost into a whisper. But the agitation of Dudleigh was now even greater than her own. A change came over him that was terrible to witness. As he took her hand he trembled, almost convulsively, from head to foot. His face became ghastly white, he pressed his hand against his heart, his breathing was thick and oppressed, big drops of perspiration started forth upon his brow, and at last, to Edith's amazement, he burst into tears, and sobbed aloud. Then he dropped her hand, and turned away, murmuring some inarticulate words.
At this Edith's confusion passed away, and changed to wonder. What was the meaning of this? Tears and sobs—and from a man! But the thought at once occurred that this was his sensitiveness, and that it arose from her telling him so plainly that she did not love him. “I can not love him, and he knows it,” she thought, “and it breaks his heart, poor fellow! How I wish I could console him!”
Suddenly Dudleigh dashed his hand across his eyes, and walked swiftly onward. Edith followed as fast as she could, keeping him in sight, but falling farther and farther behind. At length he turned and came back to meet her. His eyes were downcast, and there was misery unspeakable on his white face. As he came up to her he held out his hand, and looked at her with a strange, woful gaze.
Edith took the hand which he held out.
“Miss Dalton,” said he, “you said you would be mine.”
{Illustration: “THEN HE DROPPED HER HAND, AND TURNED AWAY."}
Edith's lips moved, but no sound escaped them.
“All that you have said, Miss Dalton,” he continued, “I feel most deeply, most keenly; but how else could it have been? Yet if you will indeed be mine, I will give you my love and gratitude. I will save you from—from danger; I will—will—bless you.” He stopped, and looked at her with quivering lips, while an expression of agony came across his face.
But Edith's eyes were downcast now, and she did not see this new anguish of his; her own distress was too great.
Dudleigh dropped her hand again.
“Where shall it be?” said he, hurriedly and nervously. “It can not be in the Hall. Will you venture to pass the gates with me?—I will force my way through—or are you afraid?”
“I can not consent to bloodshed,” said Edith.
“I thought of that,” said Dudleigh, “and I have one more plan—if you will only consent. It is not much to you who have suffered so much. It will make your way to freedom easy. Can we not meet in the park somewhere—in some secluded place?”
“In the park?” repeated Edith, abstractedly.
“I can bring a clergyman inside,” said Dudleigh, in a low voice.
Edith shuddered. The idea was not yet less repugnant than it had been. But she had consented, and here was this man—her only friend, her adorer—with all his love and devotion. If she did not love him, she must pity him. She had also given her word. As to the way in which this promise might be carried out, it was a matter of indifference. At any rate, she would escape from her hateful prison. And what mattered it how, or where, or when the ceremony might be performed?
“Oh, Miss Dalton,” said Dudleigh, “forgive me! forgive me! I must go away in two days. Could you consent to let this be—tomorrow?”
Edith made no reply. She trembled. Her head sank down lower.
“There is one place,” said Dudleigh, and then hesitated. Edith said nothing. There was anguish in her face and in her heart.
“The chapel—”
“The chapel,” she repeated, dreamily.
“It is hidden among the trees. Do you know it? It is away from all observation.”
Edith bowed her head. She knew it well. It was off the main avenue—not far away from the Hall.
“Can you get out of the house after dark?” said Dudleigh, in a feverish whisper. “It must be after dark, and we must be unobserved. For if Wiggins were to see us he would come as your guardian, and take you back, and shut you up—perhaps for life.”
This suggestion about Wiggins chimed in with Edith's own fears. It made her desperate. The marriage seemed less abhorrent; it was eclipsed by the horrors of imprisonment for life. Discovery now—after that last threat of his—would bring a closer restraint, stricter imprisonment, the loss of all hope.
“I can get out,” she said, hurriedly.
“Where shall I find you?”
“There is a private door at the east end—”
“I know the door.”
“I can get out through that. No one will think of my leaving the Hall after dark.”
“I will meet you there.”
Edith sighed heavily.
“To-morrow evening,” said Dudleigh, “at ten o'clock. It will be dark then. Will you meet me?”
“I will,” said Edith, calmly.
“I shall only hope, then,” said he, “that no new restraint may be imposed upon you to prevent your coming. And now I will go—to meet you to-morrow.”
He seized her hand in his icy grasp, wrung it convulsively, and bowing with his pallid face, walked quickly away.
There was a weight on Edith's heart; but in spite of this, Dudleigh's last look, his agitated manner, and his deep love filled her with pity, and made her anxious to carry out her act of self-sacrifice for so dear and so true a friend.
The chapel referred to was a sombre edifice over the graves of the Daltons. Beneath it were the vaults where reposed the remains of Edith's ancestors. The chapel was used for the celebration of burial rites. It was in this place that the marriage was to take place. Edith, in her gloom, thought the place an appropriate one. Let the marriage be there, she thought—in that place where never anything but burials has been known before. Could she have changed the one service into the other, she would have done so.
And yet she would not go back, for it was the least of two evils. The other alternative was captivity under the iron hand of Wiggins—Wiggins the adventurer, the forger, the betrayer of her father, whose power over herself was a perpetual insult to that father's memory—a thing intolerable, a thing of horror. Why should she not give herself to the man who loved her, even if her own love was wanting, when such an act would free her from so accursed a tyranny?
{Illustration: “SHE SAW THROUGH THE GLOOM A FIGURE"}
Agitated and excited, she lingered through the hours of the day after parting with Dudleigh. Night came, but brought no rest; and the following day dawned, and the irrevocable hour drew nigh. That day was one filled with strange fears, chief among which was the thought that Wiggins might discover all, or suspect it, and arrest her flight. But time passed, and evening came, and Wiggins had done nothing.
All was still. The house was always still, and surrounded her—a vast solitude. Mrs. Dunbar was in her own room: it was always her habit to retire early. Wiggins was far away, at the west end of the Hall. Hugo was in his remote quarters in the attic. The vigilance which her keepers maintained by day was relaxed at night, for they never suspected her of any design of leaving the house after dark. Her interview with Dudleigh must have been seen and reported, but no action that she was aware of had been taken. Perhaps Wiggins was waiting for him to make another call, when he would step forth and formally lock her up in her room.
And now, as Edith prepared to carry her plan into execution, there was nothing all around but the most profound stillness. Underneath the story on which her room was there extended a hall, at the east end of which there was a private stairway leading down to a small door which opened out into the park. Leaving her room noiselessly, she descended to the lower hall, traversed it, and descended the stairway to the door. It was secured by a bolt only. This she drew back as noiselessly as possible—not, however, without an unpleasantly loud grating sound. The door opened without much difficulty. She passed through it. She shut it after her. Then she turned to step down upon the grass. She saw through the gloom a figure. She recognized it. It was Dudleigh.
He held out his hand and took hers. As before, his hand was icy cold, and he trembled violently, but Edith also was trembling with excitement and agitation, and was therefore too much taken up with her own feelings to notice those of others. Dudleigh did not say a word, but started off at once, leading her by the hand.
Now that she had gone thus far, the act seemed too terrible to be endured, and she would have give any thing to go back. There came over her a frightful feeling of apprehension—a deep, dark horror, unutterable, intolerable. But it was now too late—she had to go on. And on she went, clinging to Dudleigh, who himself showed an agitation equal to hers. Thus they walked on in silence. Each might have heard the strong throbbing of the other's heart, had not the excitement of each been so overwhelming. In this way they went on, trembling, horror-stricken, till at length they reached the chapel.
It was a dark and sombre edifice, in the Egyptian style, now darker and more sombre in the gloom of evening and the shadows of surrounding trees. The door was open. As they entered, two figures advanced from the shadows of the trees. One of these wore a white surplice; the other was undistinguishable in the gloom, save that his stature was that of a tall, large man.
“The clergyman and the—witness,” said Dudleigh, in a tremulous whisper.
As these two entered, one of them closed the door. The dull creaking of the hinges grated harshly on Edith's ears, and struck fresh horror to her heart. She faltered and trembled. She sank back.
“Oh, I can not, I can not!” she moaned.
“Courage, dear one; it will soon be over,” whispered Dudleigh, in an agitated voice.
Edith made a violent effort to regain her composure. But she felt helpless. Her senses seemed leaving her; her heart throbbed still more painfully; her brain whirled. She clung to Dudleigh. But as she clung to him she felt that he trembled as violently as she herself did. This made her feel calmer. She pitied him. Poor fellow, she thought, he sees my agitation. He thinks I hate him. He is broken-hearted. I must be calmer for his sake.
“Where are the lights?” asked the clergyman.
“Lights?” repeated Dudleigh.
“Yes.”
“Well, it won't do to have lights,” said he, in the same agitated voice. “I—I explained all that. The light will show through the window. We must go down into the vaults.”
Outside, it was very obscure; inside, it was quite dark. Edit could see the outline of a large window and the white sheen of the clergyman's surplice; nothing more was visible.
The clergyman stood waiting. Dudleigh went to the witness and conversed with him in a low whisper.
“The witness,” said Dudleigh, as he came back, “forgot to bring lights. I have none. Have you any?”
“Lights?—no,” said the clergyman.
“What shall we do?”
“I don't know.”
“We can't go down into the vaults.”
“I should say,” remarked the clergyman, “that since we have no lights, it is far better for us to remain where we are.”
“But we may be overheard.”
“I shall speak low.”
“Isn't it a little too dark here?” asked Dudleigh, tremulously.
“It certainly is rather dark,” said the clergyman, “but I suppose it can't be helped, and it need not make any difference. There is a witness who has seen the parties, and as you say secrecy is needed, why, this darkness may be all the more favorable. But it is no concern of mine. Only I should think it equally safe, and a great deal pleasanter, to have the ceremony here than down in the vaults.”
All this had been spoken in a quick low tone, so as to guard against being overheard. During this scene Edith had stood trembling, half fainting, with a kind of blank despair in her soul, and scarcely any consciousness of what was going on.
The witness, who had entered last, moved slowly and carefully about, and walked up to where he could see the figure of Edith faintly defined against the white sheen of the clergyman's surplice. He stood at her right hand.
“Begin,” said Dudleigh; and then he said, “Miss Dalton, where are you?”
She said nothing. She could not speak.
“Miss Dalton,” said he again.
She tried to speak, but it ended in a moan.
Dudleigh seemed to distinguish her now, for he went toward her, and the next moment she felt the bridegroom at her side.
A shudder passed through Edith. She could think of nothing but the horror of her situation. And yet she did not think of retreating. No. Her plighted word had been given, and the dark terror of Wiggins made it still more impossible. Yet so deep was her agitation that there was scarce any thought on her mind at all.
And now the clergyman began the marriage service. He could not use his book, of course, but he knew the service by heart, and went on fluently enough, omitting here and there an unimportant part, and speaking in a low voice, but very rapidly. Edith scarcely understood a word.
Then the clergyman said:
“Leon, wilt thou have this woman to thy wedded wife, to live together after God's ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony? Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honor, and keep her in sickness and in health; and forsaking all other, keep thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall live?”
The bridegroom answered, in a whisper,
“I will.”
“Edith, wilt thou have this man to thy wedded husband, to live together after God's ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony? Wilt thou obey him and serve him, love, honor, and keep him in sickness and in health; and forsaking all other, keep thee only unto him, so long as ye both shall live?”
Edith tried to say “I will,” but only an unintelligible sound escaped her.
Then the clergyman went on, while the bridegroom repeated in a whisper these words:
“I, Leon, take thee, Edith, to my wedded wife, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part, according to God's holy ordinance; and thereto I plight thee my troth.”
The clergyman then said the words for Edith, but she could not repeat the formula after him. Here and there she uttered a word or two in a disjointed way, but that was all.
Then Edith felt her hand taken and a ring put on her finger.
Then the clergyman said the next formula, which the bridegroom repeated after him in a whisper as before:
“With this ring I thee wed, with my body I thee worship, and with all my worldly goods I thee endow,” etc., etc.
Then followed a prayer, after which the clergy man, joining their right hands together, said,
“Those whom God hath joined together, let no man put asunder.”
Then followed the remainder of the service, and at its conclusion the clergyman solemnly wished them every happiness.
“I suppose I may go now,” said he; and as there was no answer, he groped his way to the door, flung it open, and took his departure.
During all this service Edith had been in a condition verging upon half unconsciousness. The low murmur of voices, the hurried words of the clergyman, the whispers of the bridegroom, were all confused together in an unintelligible whole, and even her own answers had scarce made any impression upon her. Her head seemed to spin, her brain to whirl, and all her frame to sink away. At length the grating of the opening door, the clergyman's departing footsteps, and the slight increase of light roused her.
She was married!
Where was her husband?
This thought came to her with a new horror. Deep silence had followed the clergyman's departure. She in her weakness was not noticed. Dudleigh, the loving, the devoted, had no love or devotion for her now. Where was he? The silence was terrible.
But at last that silence was broken—fearfully.
“Come,” said a voice which thrilled the inmost soul of Edith with horror unspeakable: “I'm tired of humbugging. I'm going home. Come along, Mrs. Dudleigh.”
The horror that passed through Edith at the sound of this voice for a moment seemed to paralyze her. She turned to where the voice sounded. It was the man beside her who spoke—the bridegroom! He was not Dudleigh—not Little Dudleigh! He was tall and large. It was the witness. What frightful mockery was this? But the confusion of thought that arose was rudely interrupted. A strong hand was laid upon hers, and again that voice spoke:
“Come along, Mrs. Dudleigh!”
“What is—this?” gasped Edith.
“Why, you're married, that's all. You ought to know that by this time.”
“Away!” cried Edith, with a sharp cry. “Who are you? Dudleigh! Dudleigh! where are you? Will you not help me?”
“That's not very likely,” said the same voice, in a mocking tone. “His business is to helpme.”
“Oh, my God! what is the meaning of this?”
“Oh, it's simple enough. It means that you're my wife.”
“Yourwife! Oh, Dudleigh: oh, my friend! what does all this mean? Why do you not speak?”
But Dudleigh said nothing.
“I have no objections to explaining,” said the voice. “You're actually married to me. My name is not Mowbray. It's Leon Dudleigh, the individual that you just plighted your troth to. My small friend here is notLeonDudleigh, whatever other Dudleigh he may call himself. He is the witness.”
“It's false!” cried Edith. “Lieutenant Dudleigh would never betray me.”
“Well, at any rate,” said Leon, “I happen to be the happy man who alone can claim you as his bride.”
“Villain!” shrieked Edith, in utter horror. “Cursed villain! Let go my hand. This is all mockery. Your wife!—I would die first.”
“Indeed you won't,” said Leon—“not while you have me to love and to cherish you, in sickness and in health, till death us do part, and forsaking all others, keep only unto you, in the beautiful words of that interesting service.”
“It's a lie! it's a lie!” cried Edith. “Oh, Lieutenant Dudleigh, I have trusted you implicitly, and I trust you yet. Come to me—save me!”
And in her anguish Edith sank down upon her knees, and held out her arms imploringly.
“Dudleigh!” she moaned. “Oh, my friend! Oh, only come—only save me from this villain, and I will love—I will love and bless you—I will be your menial—I will—”
“Pooh!” said Leon, “I'm the only Dudleigh about. If you knew half as much about mydear friendthe lieutenant as I do, you would know what infernal nonsense you are talking;” and seizing her hand, he tried to raise her. “Come,” said he, “up with you.”
Edith tried to loosen her hand, whereupon Leon dashed it away.
“Who wants your hand?” he cried: “I'm your husband, not your lover.”
“Lieutenant Dudleigh!” moaned Edith.
“Well, lieutenant,” said Leon, “speak up. Come along. Tell her, if you like.”
“Lieutenant Dudleigh, save me.”
“Oh, great Heaven!” said a voice like that of the one whom Edith knew as Lieutenant Dudleigh—“oh, great Heaven! it's too much.”
“Oh ho!” cried Leon: “so you're going to blubber too, are you? Mind, now, it's all right if you are only true.”
“Oh, Leon, how you wring my heart!” cried the other, in a low, tremulous voice.
“Lieutenant Dudleigh!” cried Edith again. “Oh, my friend, answer me! Tell me that it is all a lie. Tell me—”
But Lieutenant Dudleigh flung himself on the stone pavement, and groaned and sobbed convulsively.
“Come,” said Leon, stooping and lifting him up; “you understand all this. Don't you go on blubbering in this fashion. I don't mind her andyoumustn't. Come, you tell her, for she'll keep yelling after you all night till you do.”
Lieutenant Dudleigh rose at this, and leaned heavily upon Leon's arm.
“You were not—married—to—to—me,” said he at last.
“What! Then you too were false all along!” said Edith, in a voice that seemed to come from a broken heart.
The false friend made no reply.
“Well, Mrs. Dudleigh,” said Leon, coolly, “for your information I will simply state that the—ahem—lieutenant here is my very particular friend—in fact, my most intimate and most valued friend—and in his tender affection for me he undertook this little affair at my instigation. It's all my act, all through, every bit of it, but the carrying out of the details was—ahem—his. The marriage, however, is perfectly valid. The banns were published all right. So you may feel quite at ease.”
“Oh,” cried Edith, “how basely, how terribly, I have been deceived! And it is all lies! It was all lies, lies, lies from the beginning!”
Suddenly a fierce thrill of indignation flashed through her. She started to her feet.
“It is all a lie from beginning to end!” she exclaimed, in a voice which was totally changed from that wail of despair which had been heard once before. It was a firm, proud, stern voice. She had fallen back upon her own lofty soul, and had sought refuge in that resolute nature of hers which had sustained her before this in other dire emergencies. “Yes,” she said, sternly, “a lie; and this mock-marriage is a lie. Villains, stand off. I am going home.”
“Not without me,” said Leon, who for a moment stood silent, amazed at the change in Edith's voice and manner. “You must not leave your husband.”
“You shall not come to Dalton Hall,” said Edith.
“I shall not? Who can keep me out?”
“Wiggins,” said Edith. “I will ask his protection against you.”
“Wiggins!” sneered Leon. “Let him try it if he dares.”
“Do not interfere with me,” said Edith, “nor touch me.”
“You shall not go without me.”
“I shall go, and alone.”
“You shall not.”
Edith at once walked to the door. Just as she reached it Leon seized her arm. She struggled for a moment to get free, but in vain.
“I know,” said she, bitterly, “what a coward you are. This is not the first time that you have laid hands on me. Let me go now, or you shall repent.”
“Not the first time, and it won't be the last time!” cried Leon, with an oath.
“Let me go,” cried Edith, in a fierce voice, “or I will stab you to the heart!”
As she said this she raised her right hand swiftly and menacingly, and by the dim light of the doorway Leon plainly saw a long keen dagger. In an instant he recoiled from the sight, and dropping her arm, he started back.
“Curse you!” he cried, in an excited voice; “who wants to touch you! It isn't you I've married, but the Hall!”
“Leon,” cried Lieutenant Dudleigh, “I will allow no violence. If there is any more, I will betray you.”
“You!” cried Leon, with a bitter sneer. “Pooh, you dare not.”
“I dare.”
“You will betray yourself, then.”
“I don't care. After what I've suffered for you these two days past, and especially this night, I have but little care left about myself.”
“But won't you get your reward, curse it all!”
“There can be no reward for me now, after this,” said the other, in a mournful voice.
“Is that the way you talk tome!” said Leon, in a tone of surprise.
“Miss Dalton has been wronged enough,” said the other. “If you dare to annoy her further, or to harm a hair of her head, I solemnly declare that I will turn against you.”
“You!” exclaimed Leon.
“Yes, I.”
“Why, you're as bad as I am—in fact, worse.”
“Well, at any rate, it shall go no further. That I am resolved on.”
“Look out,” cried Leon; “don't tempt me too far. I'll remember this, by Heaven! I'll not forget that you have threatened to betray me.”
“I don't care. You are a coward, Leon, and you know it. You are afraid of that brave girl. Miss Dalton can take care of herself.”
“Miss Dalton! Pooh!—Mrs. Dudleigh, you mean.”
“Leon, you drive me to frenzy,” cried Lieutenant Dudleigh, in a wild, impatient voice.
“And you—what are you!” cried Leon, morosely. “Are you not always tormenting me? Do you think that I'm going to stand you and your whims forever? Look out! This is more of a marriage than you think.”
“Marriage!” cried the other, in a voice of scorn.
“Never mind. I'll go with my wife,” said Leon.
Edith had waited a few moments as this altercation arose, half hoping that in the quarrel between these two something might escape them which could give her some ray of hope, but she heard nothing of that kind. Yet as she listened to the voices of the two, contrasting so strangely in their tones, and to their language, which was so very peculiar, a strange suspicion came to her mind.
Then she hurried away back to the Hall.
“I'll go with my wife,” said Leon.
“Coward and villain!” cried his companion. “Miss Dalton has a dagger. You're afraid of her. I'll go too, so that you may not annoy her.”
Edith hurried away, and the others followed for a short distance, but she soon left them behind. She reached the little door at the east end. She passed through, and bolted it on the inner side. She hurried up to her rooms, and on reaching them fell fainting to the floor.