Early on the following day Edith received a request from Leon for another interview. This request was acceptable in every way, for the last interview had been no more satisfactory to her than to him, and she could not help hoping that something more definite might result from a new one. She therefore went down, and found him already in the room.
On this occasion Leon showed nothing of that languor which he had previously affected. He appeared, on the contrary, uneasy, nervous, and impatient. So abstracted was he by his own thoughts that he did not notice her entrance. She sat down and waited for a little while, after which she said, quietly,
“Did you wish to see me, Captain—a—Dudleigh?” Leon started, then frowned; then, after a little silence, he began abruptly:
“You may deny it as much as you choose, but it's no use. You are actually married to me. You are really and truly my wife, both in the eyes of man and in the eyes of the law. From that marriage nothing can ever deliver you but a divorce.”
“You are mistaken,” said Edith, quietly. “Even if that miserable performance should turn out to be a marriage—which is absurd—still there is one other thing that can free me.”
“Ah?—and what may that be?”
“Death!” said Edith, solemnly.
Leon turned pale. “Is that a threat?” he asked at length, in a trembling voice. “Whose death do you mean?”
Edith made no reply.
“Yes,” said Leon, after a pause, going on with his former train of thought, “at any rate you are my wife, and you can not help it. You may deny it as much as you please, but that will not avail. In spite of this, however, I do not molest you, although I might so easily do it. I never trouble you with my presence. I am very forbearing. Few would do as I do. Yet I have rights, and some of them, at least, I am determined to assert. Now, on the whole, it is well for you—and you ought to see it—that you have one here who occupies the peculiar position toward you which I do. If it were not for me you would be altogether in the power of Wiggins. He is your guardian or your jailer, whichever you choose to call him. He could shut you up in the vaults of Dalton Hall if he chose—and he probably will do that very thing before long—for who is there to prevent him? I am the only one who can stand between you and him. I am your only hope. You do not know who and what this man is. You think you know him, but you don't. You think of him as a villain and a tyrant. Let me tell you that in your bitterest hate of that man you have never begun to conceive the fraction of his villainy. Let me tell you that he is one who passes your comprehension. Let me tell you that, however much you may hate me, if I were to tell you what Wiggins is, the feelings that you have toward me would be almost affection, compared to those which you would have toward him.”
Leon paused. He had spoken most earnestly and vehemently; but upon Edith these words produced no effect. She believed that this was a last effort to work upon her feelings by exciting her fears of Wiggins. She did not believe him capable of speaking the truth to her, and thus his words produced no result.
“If you had not been married to me when you were,” continued Leon, “I solemnly assure you that by this time you would have been where hope could never reach you.”
“Well, really,” said Edith, “Captain—a—Dudleigh, all this is excessively childish. By such an absurd preamble as this you, of course, must mean something. All this, however, can have no possible effect on me, for the simple reason that I consider it spoken for effect. I hope, therefore, that you will be kind enough to come at once to business, and say precisely what it is that you want of me.”
“It is no absurd preamble,” said Leon, gloomily. “It is not nonsense, as I could soon show you. There is no human being who has done so much wrong to you and yours as this Wiggins, yet you quietly allow him to be your guardian.”
“I?” said Edith. “I allow him? Let me be free, and then you will see how long I allow him.”
“But I mean here—in Dalton Hall.”
“I do not allow him any thing. I am simply a prisoner. He is my jailer, and keeps me here.”
“You need not be so.”
“Pray how can I escape?”
“By siding with me.”
“With you?” asked Edith—“and what then?”
“Well, if you side with me I will drive him out.”
“You seem incapable of understanding,” said Edith, “that of the two, you yourself, both by nature and by position, are by far the more abhorrent to me. Side with you! And is this the proposal you have to make?”
“I tell you that you are in no danger from me, and that you are from him.”
“Really, as far as danger is concerned, my prospects with Wiggins are far preferable to my prospects with you.”
“But you don't know him. He has done terrible things—deeds of horror.”
“And you—what have you done? But perhaps I have mistaken you. When you ask me to side with you, you may perhaps mean that I shall be at liberty, and that when you expel Wiggins you will allow me to go also.”
At this Leon looked down in evident embarrassment.
“Well—not—yet,” he said, slowly. “In time, of course; but it can not all be done just at once, you know.”
“What can not be done at once?”
“Your—your freedom.”
“Why not?”
“Well, there are—a—certain difficulties in the way.”
“Then what can I gain by siding with you? Why should I cast off Wiggins, and take a new jailer who has done to me a wrong far more foul and far more intolerable than any that Wiggins ever attempted?”
“But you mistake me. I intend to let you go free, of course—that is, in time.”
“In time!”
“Yes; every thing can not be done in a moment.”
“This is mere childishness. You are trifling. I am astonished that you should speak in this way, after what you know of me.”
“But I tell you I will set you free—only I can not do that until I get what I want.”
“And what is it that you want?”
“Why, what I married you for.”
“What is that?”
“Money,” said Leon, abruptly.
“Money,” repeated Edith, in surprise.
“Yes, money,” said Leon, harshly.
“You must really apply to Wiggins, then,” said she, carelessly.
“No; you yourself are the only one to whom I must apply.”
“To me? I have no money whatever. It is of no use for me to inform you that Wiggins is all-powerful here. I thought by your professed knowledge of his wonderful secrets that you had some great power over him, and could get from him whatever you want.”
“Never mind what you thought,” growled Leon. “I come to you, and you only, and I ask you for money.”
“How can I give it?”
“By signing your name to a paper, a simple paper, which I can use. Your signature is necessary to effect what I wish.”
“My signature? Ah! And what possible inducement can you offer me for my signature?”
“Why, what you most desire.”
“What? My freedom?”
“Yes.”
“Very well. Will you drive me to the village at once?”
Leon hesitated.
“Well, not just at once, you know. You must remain here a short time, and go through certain formalities and routine work, and attest certain things before a lawyer.”
Edith smiled.
“What a simpleton you must still think me! How easy you must think it is to impose upon me! Perhaps you think me so credulous, or so much in the habit of confiding in you, that no such thing as doubt ever enters my mind.”
Leon glared angrily at her.
“I tell you I must have it,” he cried, in excited tones. “I must have it—by fair means or foul.”
“But of the two ways I presume you have a preference for the latter,” said Edith.
“I tell you I must and will have it,” reiterated Leon.
“I don't see how you can get my signature very well—unless you forge it; but then I suppose that will not stand in your way.”
“Now by all that is most holy,” cried Leon, vehemently, “you make me hate you even worse than I hate Wiggins.”
“Really, these feelings of yours are a subject in which I do not take the smallest interest.”
“I tell you,” cried Leon, struggling to repress his rage, “if you sign this paper you shall be free.”
“Let me be free first, and then I will think about it.”
“If you get free you'll refuse to sign,” said Leon.
“But if I were to sign first I should never be free.”
“You shall be free. I promise you on the honor of a gentleman,” cried Leon, earnestly.
“I'm afraid,” said Edith, in a tone of quiet contempt, “that the security is of too little value.”
Leon looked at her with fury in his eyes.
“You are driving me to the most desperate measures,” he cried.
“It seems to me that your measures have all along been as desperate as they well can be.”
“I swear by all that's holy,” thundered Leon, “that I'll tame you yet. I'll bring you into subjection.”
“Ah! then in that case,” said Edith, “my comfort will be that the subjection can not last long.”
“Will it not?” asked Leon.
“No, it will not, as you very well know,” said Edith, in cold, measured tones, looking steadfastly at him with what seemed like a certain solemn warning. She rose as she said this, still looking at Leon, while he also rose in a state of vehement excitement.
“What do you meant” he cried. “You look as blood-thirsty as an assassin.”
“I may yet become one,” said Edith, gloomily, “if this lasts much longer. You have eyes, but you will not see. You treat me like some silly, timid child, while I have all the time the spirit of a man. This can only end in one way. Some one must die!”
Leon looked at her in astonishment. Her voice and her look showed that she was in earnest, but the fragile beauty of her slender form seemed to belie the dark meaning of her words.
“I came with a fair offer,” said he, in a voice hoarse with passion.
“You!” said Edith, in cold scorn; “you with a fair offer! Fairness and honor and justice and truth, and all such things, are altogether unknown to such as you.”
At this Leon frowned that peculiar frown of his, and gnawed his mustache in his rage.
“I have spared you thus far,” said he—“I have spared you; but now, by Heaven, you shall feel what it is to have a master!”
“You!” she cried—“you spared me? If I have escaped any injury from you, it has been through my own courage and the cowardice of your own heart. You my master! You will learn a terrible lesson before you become that!”
“I have spared you,” cried Leon, now beside himself with rage—“I have spared you, but I will spare you no longer. After this you shall know that what I have thus far done is as nothing to that which is yet before you.”
“What you have done!” said Edith, fixing her great wrathful eyes more sternly upon Leon, with a look of deadly menace, and with burning intensity of gaze, and speaking in a low tone that was tremulous with repressed indignation—“what you have done! Let me tell you, Captain Dudleigh, your heart's blood could never atone for the wrongs you have done me! Beware, Sir, how you drive me to desperation. You little know what I have in my mind to do. You have made me too familiar with the thought of death!”
At these words Leon stared at her in silence. He seemed at last to understand the full possibility of Edith's nature, and to comprehend that this one whom he threatened was capable, in her despair, of making all his threats recoil on his own head: He said nothing, and in a few moments afterward she left the room.
As she went out of the door she encountered Hugo. He started as she came noiselessly upon him. He had evidently been listening to all that had been said. At this specimen of the way in which she was watched, though it really showed her no more than what she had all along known, there arose in Edith's mind a fresh sense of helplessness and of peril.
{Illustration: EDITH SET TO WORK. }
On returning to her own room from that interview with Leon, Edith sat for a long time involved in thought. It was evident to her now that her situation was one full of frightful peril. The departure of Wiggins, of which she was aware, seemed to afford additional danger. Between him and Leon there had been what seemed to her at least the affectation of dislike or disagreement, but now that he was gone there remained no one who would even pretend to interpose between herself and her enemy. Even if Mrs. Dunbar had been capable of assisting her against Leon, Edith knew that no reliance could be placed upon her, for she had openly manifested a strong regard for him.
This departure of Wiggins, which thus seemed to make her present position more perilous, seemed also to Edith to afford her a better opportunity than any she had known since her arrival of putting into execution her long-meditated project of flight. True, there was still the same difficulty which had been suggested once before—the want of money—but Edith was now indifferent to this. The one thing necessary was to escape from her new perils. If she could but get out of the Dalton grounds, she hoped to find some lawyer who might take up her cause, and allow her enough to supply her modest wants until that cause should be decided. But liberty was the one thought that eclipsed all others in her estimation; and if she could but once effect her escape from this horrible place, it seemed to her that all other things would be easy.
The present appeared to be beyond all others the fitting time, for Wiggins was away, and it seemed to her that in his absence the watch over her would probably be relaxed. Her long illness would of itself have thrown them to some extent off their guard, and render her purpose unsuspected. By this time it would doubtless be forgotten that she had once left the Hall by night, and it was not likely that any precaution would be taken against a second flight on the part of one so weak as she was supposed to be. A few days before she had made a stealthy visit to that door, and had found, to her great relief, that no additional fastenings had been put there. Her illness had evidently rendered any such precaution unnecessary for the time; and since her recovery Wiggins had no doubt been too much occupied with other things to think of this.
Now was the time, then, for flight. The danger was greater than ever before, and the opportunity for escape better. Leon was master in the house. The other inmates were simply his creatures. Leon Dudleigh, as he called himself, claimed to be her husband. He asserted that claim insolently and vehemently. She had defied him, but how long would she be able to maintain that defiant attitude? How long could her frail strength sustain her in a life of incessant warfare like this, even if her spirit should continue to be as indomitable as ever? The scene of this day, and her last parting with him, made the danger seem so imminent that it nerved her resolution, and made her determine at all hazards to attempt her escape that night.
But how should she escape?
Not for the first time did this question occur. For a long time she had been brooding over it, and as she had thought it over she had devised a plan which seemed to hold out to her some prospect of success.
In the first place, it was evident that she would have to climb over the wall. To obtain any key by which she could open the gates was impossible. She could find none that were at all likely to do so; besides, she was afraid that even if she had a key, the attempt to unlock the gates might expose her to detection and arrest by the watchful porter. The wall, therefore, was her only hope.
Now that wall could not be climbed by her unassisted strength, but she knew that if she had any sort of a ladder it might easily be done. The question that arose, then, was how to procure this ladder. A wooden one could not be of any service, for she could not carry it so far, and she saw plainly that her attempt must be made by means of some sort of a rope-ladder.
Having reached this conclusion, she began a diligent search among all the articles at her disposal, and finally concluded that the bed-cord would be exactly what she needed. In addition to this, however, something more was required—something of the nature of a grapple or hook to secure her rope-ladder to the top of the wall. This required a further search, but in this also she was successful. An iron rod on the curtain pole along which the curtains ran appeared to her to be well suited to her needs. It was about six feet long and a quarter of an inch thick. The rod rested loosely on the pole, and Edith was able to remove it without difficulty.
All these preliminaries had been arranged or decided upon before this evening, and Edith had now only to take possession of the rod and the rope, and adapt them to her wants. For this purpose she waited till dark, and then began her work.
It was moonlight, and she was able to work without lighting a lamp, thus securing additional secrecy. This moonlight was both an advantage and a disadvantage, and she did not know whether to be glad or sorry about it. It certainly facilitated her escape by showing the way, but then, on the other hand, it rendered discovery easier.
Edith set to work, and, first of all, she removed the bed-cord. It was as strong as was desirable, and far longer than was necessary. She doubled part of this, and tied knots at intervals of about a foot, and in this simple way formed what was a very good step-ladder about three yards long, which was sufficient for her purpose. Then she removed the iron curtain rod, and bent this in such a way that it formed a hook or grapple strong enough for her wants. She thus had a rope-ladder, with a grappling-iron attached, of rude construction, it is true, yet perfectly well suited to the task before her, and so light as to be quite portable.
These preparations did not take up much time. After taking what she wanted of the bed-cord, there was enough left to replace in the bedstead so as to hold up the bed. She did not know what might happen, and wished to preserve appearances in the event of Mrs. Dunbar's entrance, or in case of her being compelled to postpone her project. From the same motive she also replaced the curtain so as to look as it did before, securing it in its place by means of pins.
At length all these preparations were completed, and it only remained for Edith to wait for the proper time to start.
The hours passed on.
Midnight came, but even at that hour Edith thought that it was too early. Leon probably kept late hours, and might be wandering about. She determined to wait longer.
The moon was still shining. There were only a few scattered clouds in that clear sky.
Could she find her way to the wall? She felt confident of that. She intended to go down the avenue, keeping close to the trees, so as to fly to their shelter in case of pursuit. When she reached the neighborhood of the porter's lodge, she would go through the trees to the wall, trusting to fortune to find her way for that short distance.
Such were the hopes and plans, made long before, which now occupied her thoughts as she waited.
At last two o'clock came. It seemed now that it would be unwise to wait any longer, since the time that was left between this and daylight was barely sufficient to allow for contingencies. Without any farther delay, therefore, she prepared to depart.
It was with a painful feeling of suspense and agitation that she set forth upon this attempt at flight, which she knew must be a final one. Over her left arm she threw the rope-ladder, while in her left hand she held that ancestral dagger which had already done her such good service in her dealings with Leon. Her right hand was thus free to grope in the dark for her way, to open bolts, or to seize the dagger from her other hand whenever the need for it might arise. For this last dread necessity she had thoroughly prepared herself. By the desperation of her position, and by the dark menaces of Leon, she had been nerved to a courage beyond even that elevated standard which her high spirit ordinarily reached, and she had resolved that if any one interposed between herself and that liberty for which she longed, to use that dagger, and to strike without scruple.
On leaving her room she stood for a moment in the outer hall and listened. All was still. She glided noiselessly along, and reached the stairway. Once more she stood and listened before descending. There was silence yet. She now descended the stairs as noiselessly as before, and reached the lower hall, where she walked quickly toward the east end, and came to the narrow stairway that led down to the door. Here once more she paused. A fearful thought came to her as she looked down. What if some one should be waiting there in the dark! What if Leon should be there! In spite of herself a shudder passed through her at that thought.
Suddenly, as she stood there, she heard a sound—a sound which roused her once more to action, and inspired new fears. It was the sound of a footfall—far away, indeed, inside the house, but still a footfall—a heavy tread, as of some one in pursuit, and its sound was loud and menacing to her excited senses. There was only one to whom she could attribute it—Leon!
He had heard her, then!
She was pursued!
Like lightning this thought came to her, and brought terror with it. She could delay no longer. Down the narrow stairway she hurried through the darkness, and reached the door. In her panic she forgot her usual caution. With a jerk she drew the bolt back, and a harsh grating sound arose. She flung open the door, which also creaked on its unused hinges. Then leaping out, she hastily banged the door after her, and ran straight on.
In front of Dalton Hall there was a wide lawn and a pond. Beyond this arose the trees of the park. Toward the shelter of these shadowy trees Edith hurried, with the dread sense in her soul that she was being pursued by a remorseless enemy. This thought lent additional speed to her footsteps as she flew over the intervening space. The moon was shining brightly, and she knew that she could easily be seen by any watcher; but she sought only the more to reach the trees, and thus escape observation. The time seemed long indeed to her in those moments of dread suspense; but the space was at last traversed, the trees were reached, and plunging into the midst of them, she ran along, occasionally stumbling, until at length, partly from exhaustion and partly from a desire to see where her enemy might be, so as to elude him better, she stopped.
Her course had been a circuitous one, but she had kept along the edge of the wood, so that now, as she stopped, she found herself under the shadow of the trees, and immediately opposite the portico of Dalton Hall, between which and herself lay the pond. Here she stood, and looked over the intervening space.
As she looked, she at first saw no appearance of any human being, and she began to think that her fears all along had been unfounded; but in a little while, as her eyes wandered over the front of the Hall, she saw something which at once renewed all her excitement, and showed her that her fears were true.
Upon the portico stood a figure, the general outlines of which were now visible to her, as she looked carefully, and seemed to be the figure of Leon. She could recognize the gray dress which he usually wore, and also understood why she had not noticed him before, for the color of his clothes had made him but faintly visible against the gray stone mass of the background. He was now standing there with his face turned in her direction.
“He has heard me,” she thought. “He has seen me. Instead of chasing me at once, he has stopped to listen, so as to judge of my course. He knows that I am here now in this spot, and is still listening to find out if I go any further.”
In a few moments her attention was attracted by a dark object lying on the portico near Leon.
It was the dog!
She knew it well. Her heart sank within her.
“He is going to track me with the dog!” she thought.
What could she do?
Nothing. Flight was now worse than useless. All seemed lost, and there was nothing now left to her in that moment of despair but the resolve to resist to the end.
After a short time, which to Edith seemed prolonged to a terrible degree, the figure came down the steps, followed by the dog.
Edith watched.
He walked on; he rounded the end of the pond; he came nearer!
She could now recognize his face as the moon shone down.
It was Leon. There was no longer the slightest doubt of that. He was coming toward her, and the huge dog followed.
Edith involuntarily shrank back among the trees, and grasping her dagger with desperate resolve, awaited the approach of her enemy.
On the following morning Mrs. Dunbar waited a long time for Edith's appearance. But she did not make her appearance, and the time passed, until it at length grew so late that she determined to see what was the matter. Full of fear lest some new illness had been the result of the new excitement to which she had been subjected, Mrs. Dunbar passed cautiously through Edith's sitting-room, and knocked at her bedroom door.
There was no answer.
She knocked again and again, and still receiving no answer, she opened the door and looked in.
To her amazement the room was empty. What was more surprising was the fact that the bed did not appear to have been slept in. There was no disorder visible in the room. Every thing was in its usual place, but Edith was not there, and in that one glance which Mrs. Dunbar gave she took in the whole truth.
Edith had fled!
She knew also that she must have fled during the night; that the event against which such precautions had been taken had occurred at last, and that she was responsible. Over that sorrowful anxious face there came now a deeper sorrow and a graver anxiety at that discovery, and sitting down upon a chair, she tried to conjecture Edith's possible course, and wondered how she could get over the wall and out of the grounds.
At length she left this room, and going down stairs, called Hugo.
“Hugo,” said she, “has the captain come down?”
“I habn't seen him, ma'am,” said Hugo, respectfully.
“He always rises early,” said Mrs. Dunbar. “I wonder what's the matter. He certainly must be up.”
Turning away, she ascended the stairs, and went to the room which was occupied by Leon. The door was open. She entered. The room looked as though it had just been left by its occupant. The bed bore signs of having been occupied. The valise was lying there open. Upon the toilet-table was a pocket-book, and hanging from the screw of the looking-glass was his watch. His riding whip and gloves and top-boots were lying in different places.
As Mrs. Dunbar saw all this, she concluded at first that he had gone out for a walk, and would soon be back; but the lateness of the hour made that idea seem absurd, and showed her that there must be some other cause. The flight of Edith thereupon occurred to her, and was very naturally associated in her mind with the departure of Leon. Had he been watching? Had he detected her flight, and gone in pursuit? It seemed so. If so, he was doubtless yet in pursuit of the fugitive, who must have fled fast and far to delay him so long.
Then another thought came—the idea of violence. Perhaps he had caught the fugitive, and in his rage and vindictive fury had harmed her. That he was fierce enough for any atrocity she well knew; and the thought that he had killed her, and had fled, came swift as lightning to her mind.
The idea was terrible. She could not endure it. She left the room and hurried down stairs again.
“Hugo,” said she, “go down and ask the porter if he has seen the captain or Miss Dalton.”
“Miss Dalton!” exclaimed Hugo.
“Yes; she's gone.”
“Gone!” repeated Hugo, in amazement.
He said no more, but hurried down to the gates, while Mrs. Dunbar, who felt restless and ill at ease, walked up the stairs, and feeling fatigued, stopped on the landing, and leaned against the window there, looking out upon the ground in the rear of the Hall.
Standing here, her eyes were attracted by a sight which made her start. It was the Newfoundland dog. He was standing at some distance from the house, looking straight ahead at vacancy, in a rigid attitude. The sight of this animal, who was always the inseparable companion of his master, standing there in so peculiar a fashion by himself, excited Mrs. Dunbar; and forgetful of her weariness, she descended the stairs again, and quitting the Hall, approached the spot where the dog was standing.
As she approached, the dog looked at her and wagged his tail. She called him. He went on wagging his tail, but did not move from the spot. She went up to him and stroked him, and looked all around, hoping to see some signs of his master. She looked in the direction in which the dog had been staring when she first noticed him. The stables seemed to be the place. Toward these she walked, and tried to induce the dog to follow, but he would not. She then walked over to the stables, and looked through them, without seeing any trace of the object of her search. Upon this she returned to the house.
On coming back she found Hugo. He had been to the gates, he said; but the porter had seen nothing whatever either of the captain or Miss Dalton.
This intelligence deepened the anxious expression on Mrs. Dunbar's face.
“His dog is here,” said she, in a tremulous voice.
“His dog!” said Hugo. “Oh yes; he's ben out dar all de mornin'. Dunno what de matta wid dat ar animal at all. Stands dar like a gravy statoo.”
For the rest of that day Mrs. Dunbar was restless and distressed. She wandered aimlessly about the house. She sent Hugo off to scour the grounds to see if he could find any trace of either of the fugitives. Every moment she would look out from any window or door that happened to be nearest, to see if either of them was returning. But the day passed by, and Hugo came back from his long search, but of neither of the fugitives was a single trace found.
What affected Mrs. Dunbar as much as any thing was the behavior of the dog. Through all that day he remained in the same place, sometimes standing, sometimes lying down, but never going away more than a few feet. That the dog had some meaning in this singular behavior, and that this meaning had reference to the flight of one or the other of the late inmates of the house, was very evident to her. No persuasion, or coaxing, or even threatening could draw the dog away; and even when Hugo fired a gun off close to his lead, he quivered in every nerve, but only moved back a foot or two. Food and drink were brought to him, of which he partook with a most eager appetite, but no temptation could draw him any distance from his post. That night was a sleepless one for Mrs. Dunbar; and it was with a feeling of great relief that she heard the noise of a carriage early on the following day, and knew that Wiggins had returned.
She hurried down at once, and met him in the great hall. In a few words she told him all.
For such intelligence as this Wiggins was evidently unprepared. He staggered back and leaned against the wall, staring at Mrs. Dunbar with a terrible look.
“What! Gone!” he said, slowly. “Edith!”
“Yes; and Leon.”
“Edith gone!” gasped Wiggins once more.
“Did you hear nothing in the village?”
“I drove through without stopping. Did you send to the village?”
“I did not think that they could have got out of the grounds.”
“They! There's no trouble about Leon?”
“I'm afraid—for him,” said Mrs. Dunbar, in a faint voice.
“For him!” exclaimed Wiggins. “What can happen to him? For her, you mean.”
“They must have gone off together.”
“Together! Do you think Edith would go with him? No; she has fled in her madness and ignorance, turning her back on happiness and love, and he has pursued her. O Heavens!” he continued, with a groan, “to think that it should end in this! And cursed be that scoundrel—”
“Stop!” cried Mrs. Dunbar. “He is not a scoundrel. He would not harm her. You don't know Leon. He has not left the place; his dog is here.”
“His dog!”
Mrs. Dunbar explained.
Upon this Wiggins went through the hall to the rear, and there, in the same place as where Mrs. Dunbar last saw him, was the dog. He was lying down now. He wagged his tail in friendly recognition as they came up. Wiggins patted him and stroked him and tried to coax him away. The result was precisely the same as it had been before. The dog received all advances in the most friendly manner possible. He wagged his tail, rolled over on his back, licked their hands, sat up on his hind-quarters, and did every thing which dogs usually do when petted or played with, but nothing would induce him to leave the place. He did not appear to be in any trouble. He seemed simply to have made up his mind to stay there, and this resolution he maintained most obstinately.
Wiggins could make nothing of it; but the sight of the dog renewed the terrors of Mrs. Dunbar.
“I'm afraid,” said she—“I'm afraid that something's happened to Leon.”
“To Leon!” exclaimed Wiggins, impatiently; “what could happen to him! I told him to quit this place, and he has probably concluded to do so.”
“But what do you think of his flight at the same time with Edith?”
“I don't know what to think of it. I only know this, that if he has harmed one hair of her head, I—I'll—kill him! My own injuries I will forgive, but wrongs done to her I will avenge!”
At this Mrs. Dunbar shrank away, and looked at Wiggins in fear.
“But it may be all the other way,” said she, in a tremulous voice. “Edith was terrible in her fury. She was no timid, faltering girl; she was resolute and vindictive. If he has followed her, or laid hands on her, she may have—” She hesitated.
“May have what?” asked Wiggins.
“She may have done him some harm.”
“She may have done him some harm!” repeated Wiggins, with a sneer. “What! and when he had his big dog to protect him? Pooh!”
And with a scornful laugh he turned away.
Mrs. Dunbar followed him.
“She was so terrible in her despair,” said she, as she followed him; “she looked like a fury—beautiful, yet implacable.”
“Silence!” cried Wiggins. “Stop all that nonsense, or you'll drive me mad. Are you crazy? When I am almost broken-hearted in my anxiety about her, what do you mean by turning against that wronged and injured girl, who I now see has been driven to despair by my own cursed mistakes, and pretending that she is the aggressor, and your scoundrel Leon the victim?”
In the midst of this Wiggins was interrupted by the approach of Hugo.
“A genl'man, Sah, wants to see you, Sah,” said he.
“A gentleman,” repeated Wiggins. “Who is he? How did he come here?”
“Dunno, Sah, nuffin 'bout dat, Sah.”
“It's about Edith!” exclaimed Wiggins; and he hurried into the house.
Wiggins entered the drawing-room, and found his visitor there. He was a slight man, with light hair, watery gray eyes, and very mild demeanor. The timidity of the man seemed very marked; there was an apologetic air about him; and his very footfall as he advanced to greet Wiggins seemed to deprecate some anticipated rough treatment. He spoke a few words, and at Wiggins's request to be seated he sat down, while his agitation increased; and he had that hesitating, half-abstracted manner which marks the man who is on the point of giving unpleasant information, about the effect of which he is doubtful.
Wiggins, on his part, did not seem to notice this. He sat down, and looked with earnest inquiry at his visitor. He seemed to know what was the object of this visit, and yet to dread to ask it.
The visitor had given his name as the Rev. Mr. Munn, and Wiggins recognized that name as belonging to the parish vicar. That name excited strange emotions within him, for it was the same name that had appeared in the papers in connection with Edith's marriage.
“Well?” said Wiggins at last, in some impatience.
Mr. Munn cleared his throat.
“I have come here,” he began, “to tell you very distressing news.”
Wiggins was silent.
“I refer to—a—a—Mrs. Dudleigh,” said Mr. Munn.
“Well?” said Wiggins, in a scarcely audible voice.
“She is at the village inn.”
“At the village inn!” repeated Wiggins, in evident agitation, drawing a long breath.
“She is alive, then?” he added, eagerly.
“Oh yes,” said Mr. Munn; “she came there early yesterday morning.” And then he went on to tell his story, the substance of which was as follows:
On the previous morning about dawn the people at the Dalton Inn were aroused by a hurried knock. On going to the door they found Mrs. Dudleigh. The moment that the door was opened she sprang in and fell exhausted to the floor. So great was her weakness that she could not rise again, and had to be carried up to one of the bedrooms. She was so faint that she could scarcely speak; and in a feeble voice she implored them to put her to bed, as it was a long time since she had had any rest, and was almost dead with fatigue.
Her condition was most pitiable. Her clothes were all torn to shreds, and covered with mud and dust; her hands were torn and bleeding; her shoes had been worn into rags; and she looked as though she had been wandering for hours through woods and swamps, and over rocks and sand. To all their inquiries she answered nothing, but only implored them to put her to bed and let her rest; above all, she prayed most piteously that they would tell no one that she was there. This they promised to do; and, indeed, it would have been difficult for them to have informed about her, since none at the inn had ever seen her before, or had the remotest idea who she could be.
Full of pity and sympathy, they put her to bed, and the landlady watched over her most assiduously. All the morning she slept profoundly; but at about noon she waked with a scream, like one who has been roused from some fearful dream.
After that she grew steadily worse. Fever set in, and became more and more violent every moment. In their anxiety to do what she had requested, and keep her secret, they did not send immediately for a doctor. But her condition soon became such that further delay was out of the question, so they sent for the village physician.
When he arrived she was much worse. She was in a high fever, and already delirious. He pronounced her situation to be dangerous in the extreme, urged upon them the greatest care, and advised them to lose no time in letting her friends know about her condition. Here was a dilemma for these worthy people. They did not know who her friends were, and therefore could not send for them, while it became impossible to keep her presence at the inn a secret Not knowing what else to do, they concluded to send for the vicar.
When Mr. Munn came he found them in great distress. He soon learned the facts of the case, and at once decided that it should be made known to Captain Dudleigh or to Wiggins. For though he did not know Edith's face, still, from the disconnected words that had dropped from her during her delirium, reported to him by the inn people, he thought it probable that she was the very lady whom he had married under such mysterious circumstances. So he soothed the fears of the landlady as well as he could, and then left. It was late at night when he went from the inn, and he had waited till the morning before going to Dalton Hall. He had some difficulty in getting in at the gate, but when the porter learned the object of his visit he at once opened to him. From the porter he learned of the disappearance of Captain Dudleigh also. Nothing was then left but to see Wiggins. Accordingly he had come to the Hall at once, so as to tell his message with the shortest possible delay.
To this recital Wiggins listened with gravity. He made no gesture, and he spoke no word, but sat with folded arms, looking upon the floor. When Mr. Munn had ended, he, after a long silence, turned toward him and said, in a severe tone,
“Well, Sir, now I hope you see something of the evil of that course which you chose to pursue.”
“Evil? course?” stammered Mr. Munn. “I don't understand you.”
“Oh, I think you understand me,” said Wiggins, gloomily. “Has not your conscience already suggested to you the probable cause of this strange course of her whom you call Mrs. Dudleigh?”
“My conscience!” gasped Mr. Munn; “what has my conscience to do with it?”
“How long is it since that wretched mockery at which you officiated?” asked Wiggins, sternly.
“I really—I think—a few months only.”
“A few months,” repeated Wiggins. “Well, it has come to this. That is the immediate cause of her flight, and of her present suffering.”
“I—I—married them,” stammered Mr. Munn; “but what of that? Is her unhappiness my fault? How can I help it? Am I responsible for the future condition of those couples whom I marry? Surely this is a strange thing to say.”
“You well know,” said Wiggins, “what sort of a marriage this was. It was no common one. It was done in secret. Why did you steal into these grounds like a thief, and do this infamous thing?”
“Why—why,” faltered the unhappy vicar, growing more terrified and conscience-stricken every minute—“Captain Dudleigh asked me. I cannot refuse to marry people.”
“No, Sir, you can not when they come to you fairly; you can not, I well know, when the conditions of the law are satisfied. But was that so here? Did you not steal into these grounds? Did you not come by night, in secret, conscious that you were doing wrong, and did you not have to steal out in the same way? And your only excuse is that Captain Dudleigh asked you!”
“He—he—showed very strong reasons why I should do so,” said Mr. Munn, who by this time was fearfully agitated—“very strong reasons, I do assure you, Sir, and all my humanity was—a—aroused.”
“Your humanity?” sneered Wiggins. “Where was your humanity for her?”
“For her!” exclaimed the vicar. “Why, she wanted it. She loved him.”
“Loved him! Pooh! She hated him worse than the devil.”
“Then what did she marry him for?” cried Mr. Munn, at his wits' end.
“Never mind,” said Wiggins; “you went out of your way to do a deed the consequences of which can not yet be seen. I can understand, Sir, how Captain Dudleigh could have planned this thing; but how you, a calm, quiet clergyman, in the full possession of your faculties, could have ever been led to take part in it, is more than I can comprehend. I, Sir, was her guardian, appointed as such by her father, my own intimate friend. Captain Dudleigh was a villain. He sought out this thoughtless child merely for her money. It was not her that he wanted, but her estate. I could easily have saved her from this danger. He had no chance with me. But you come forward—you, Sir—suddenly, without cause, without a word of warning—you sneak here in the dark, you entice her to that lonely place, and there you bind her body and soul to a scoundrel. Now, Sir, what have you got to say for yourself!”
Mr. Munn's teeth chattered, and his hands clutched one another convulsively. “Captain Dudleigh told me that she was under restraint here by—by you—and that she loved him, and that her only refuge was to be married to him. I'm sure I didn't mean to do any harm.”
“Rubbish!” said Wiggins, contemptuously. “The law gives a guardian a certain right to parental restraint for the good of the ward. The slight restraint to which she was subjected was accompanied by the deepest love of those who cared for her here. I had hoped, Sir, that you might have something different to tell me. I did not know that you had actually acted so madly. I thought the story which I heard of that marriage was incredible, and I have always spoken of it as a mockery. But from what I now gather from you, it seems to have been a bona fide marriage, true and valid.”
“I—I'm afraid it—it was,” said Mr. Munn.
Wiggins gave something that was almost like a groan.
“Friends,” he cried, passionately, rising from his chair—“friends from the bottomless pit could not have more foully and fatally deceived that poor, thoughtless, trustful child. But all their trickery and treachery could never have succeeded had they not found a paltry tool in a senseless creature like you—you, Sir—who could stand there and go mumbling your marriage service, and never see the infernal jugglery that was going on under your very eyes. Yes, you, Sir, who now come to wring and break my heart by the awful tidings that you now tell me. Away! Begone! I have already borne more than my share of anguish; but this, if it goes on, will kill me or drive me mad!”
He turned away, with his head bent, with an unsteady step, and walked toward the window, where he stood leaning against it heavily, and staring out at vacancy.
As for Mr. Munn, he gave one glance of horror at Wiggins, and then, with a swift, frightened step, he hurried from the Hall.