Sickness and delirium came mercifully to Edith; for if health had continued, the sanity of the body would have been purchased at the expense of that of the mind. Mrs. Dunbar nursed her most tenderly and assiduously. A doctor attended her. For long weeks she lay in a brain-fever, between life and death. In the delirium that disturbed her brain, her mind wandered back to the happy days at Plympton Terrace. Once more she played about the beautiful shores of Derwentwater; once more she rambled with her school-mates under the lofty trees, or rode along through winding avenues. At time, however, her thoughts reverted to the later events of her life; and once or twice to that time of horror in the chapel.
The doctor came and went, and satisfied himself with seeing after the things that conduced to the recovery of his patient. He was from London, and had been sent for by Wiggins, who had no confidence in the local physicians. At length the disease was quelled, and after nearly two months Edith began to be conscious of her situation. She came back to sensibility with feelings of despair, and her deep agitation of soul retarded her recovery very greatly; for her thoughts were fierce and indignant, and she occupied herself, as soon as she could think, with incessant plans for escape. At last she resolved to tell the doctor all. One day when he came she began, but, unfortunately for her, before she had spoken a dozen words she became so excited she almost fainted. Thereupon the doctor very properly forbade her talking about any of her affairs whatever until she was better. “Your friends,” said he, “have cautioned me against this, and I have two things to regard—their wishes and your recovery.” Once or twice after this Edith tried to speak about her situation, but the doctor promptly checked her. Soon after he ceased his visits.
In spite of all drawbacks, however, she gradually recovered, and at last became able to move about the room. She might even have gone out if she had wished, but she did not feel inclined.
One day, while looking over some of her books which were lying on her table, she found a newspaper folded inside one of them. She took it and opened it carelessly, wondering what might be going on in that outside world of which she had known so little for so long a time. A mark along the margin attracted her attention. It was near the marriage notices. She looked there, and saw the following:
“On the 12th instant, at the Dalton family chapel, by the Rev. John Mann, of Dalton, Captain Leon Dudleigh, to Edith, only daughter of the late Frederick Dalton, Enquire, of Dalton Hall.”
This paper was dated November 20, 1840. This was, as she knew, February 26, 1841.
The horror that passed through her at the sight of this was only inferior to that which she had felt on the eventful evening itself. Hitherto in all her gloom and grief she had regarded it as a mere mockery—a brutal kind of practical joke, devised out of pure malignity, and perhaps instigated or connived at by Wiggins. She had never cared to think much about it. But now, on being thus confronted with a formal notice in a public newspaper, the whole affair suddenly assumed a new character—a character which was at once terrible in itself, and menacing to her whole future. This formal notice seemed to her like the seal of the law on that most miserable affair; and she asked herself in dismay if such a ceremony could be held as binding.
She had thought much already over one thing which had been revealed on that eventful evening. The name Mowbray was an assumed one. The villain who had taken it now called himself Leon Dudleigh. Under that name he married her, and under that name his marriage was published. His friend and her betrayer—that most miserable scoundrel who had called himself Lieutenant Dudleigh—had gained her consent to this marriage for the express purpose of betraying her into the hands of her worst enemy. His name might or might not be Dudleigh, but she now saw that the true name of the other must be Dudleigh, and that Mowbray had been assumed for some other purpose. But how he came by such a name she could not tell. She had no knowledge whatever of Sir Lionel; and whether Leon was any relation to him or not she was totally ignorant.
This gave a new and most painful turn to all her thoughts, and she began to feel anxious to know what had occurred since that evening. Accordingly, on Mrs. Dunbar's return to her room, she began to question her. Thus far she had said but little to this woman, whom for so long a time she had regarded with suspicion and aversion. Mrs. Dunbar's long and anxious care of her, her constant watchfulness, her eager inquiries after her health—all availed nothing, since all seemed to be nothing more than the selfish anxiety of a jailer about the health of a prisoner whose life it may be his interest to guard.
“Who sent this?” asked Edith, sternly, pointing to the paper.
Mrs. Dunbar hesitated, and after one hasty glance at Edith her eyes sought the floor.
“The captain,” said she at length.
“The captain?—what captain?” asked Edith.
“Captain—Dudleigh,” said Mrs. Dunbar, with the same hesitation.
Edith paused. This confirmed her suspicions as to his true name. “Where is he now?” she asked at length.
“I do not know,” said Mrs. Dunbar, “where he is—just now.”
“Has he ever been here?” asked Edith, after another pause.
“Ever been here!” repeated Mrs. Dunbar, looking again at Edith with something like surprise. “Why, he lives here—now. I thought you knew that.”
“Lives here!” exclaimed Edith.
“Yes.”
Edith was silent. This was very unpleasant intelligence. Evidently this Leon Dudleigh and Wiggins were partners in this horrible matter.
“How does he happen to live here?” she asked at length, anxious to discover, if possible, his purpose.
Mrs. Dunbar again hesitated. Edith had to repeat her question, and even then her answer was given with evident reluctance.
“He says that you—I mean that he—is your—that is, that he is—is master,” said Mrs. Dunbar, in a hesitating and confused way.
“Master!” repeated Edith.
“He says that he is your—your—” Mrs. Dunbar hesitated and looked anxiously at Edith.
“Well, what does he say?” asked Edith, impatiently. “He says that he is my—what?”
“Your—your husband,” said Mrs. Dunbar, with a great effort.
At this Edith stared at her for a moment, and then covered her face with her hands, while a shudder passed through her. This plain statement of the case from one of her jailers made her situation seem worse than ever.
“He came here,” continued Mrs. Dunbar, in a low tone, “the day after your illness. He brought his horse and dog, and some—things.”
Edith looked up with a face of agony.
“He said,” continued Mrs. Dunbar, “that you were—married—to—him; that you were now his—his wife, and that he intended to live at the Hall.”
“Is that other one here too?” asked Edith, after a long silence.
“What other one?”
“The smaller villain—the one that used to call himself Lieutenant Dudleigh.”
Mrs. Dunbar shook her head.
“Do you know the real name of that person?”
“No.”
Edith now said nothing for a long time; and as she sat there, buried in her own miserable thoughts, Mrs. Dunbar looked at her with a face full of sad and earnest sympathy—a face which had a certain longing, wistful expression, as though she yearned over this stricken heart, and longed to offer some consolation. But Edith, even if she had been willing to receive any expressions of sympathy from one like Mrs. Dunbar, whom she regarded as a miserable tool of her oppressor, or a base ally, was too far down in the depths of her own profound affliction to be capable of consolation. Bad enough it was already, when she had to look back over so long a course of deceit and betrayal at the hands of one whom she had regarded as her best friend; but now to find that all this treachery had culminated in a horror like this, that she was claimed and proclaimed by an outrageous villain as his wife—this was beyond all endurance. The blackness of that perfidy, and the terror of her memories, which till now had wrung her heart, fled away, and gave place to the most passionate indignation.
And now, at the impulse of these more fervid feelings, her whole outraged nature underwent a change. Till now she had felt most strongly the emotions of grief and melancholy; now, however, these passed away, and were succeeded by an intensity of hate, a vehemence of wrath, and a hot glow of indignant passion that swept away all other feelings. All the pride of her haughty spirit was roused; her soul became instinct with a desperate resolve; and mingling with these feelings there was a scorn for her enemies as beings of a baser nature, and a stubborn determination to fight them all till the bitter end.
All this change was manifest in her look and tone as she again addressed Mrs. Dunbar.
“You have all mistaken me,” said she, with bitter hostility; “you have imagined that you had to deal with some silly child. But this shall do none of you any good. You may kill me among you, but I am not afraid to die. Death itself will be welcome rather than submission to that foul miscreant, that vulgar coward, who takes advantage of a contemptible trick, and pretends that there was a marriage. I say this to you—that I defy him and all of you, and will defy you all—yes, to the bitter end; and you may go and tell this to your wretched confederates.”
As Edith said this, Mrs. Dunbar looked at her; and if there could have appeared upon that face the signs of a wounded heart—a heart cut and stung to its inmost fibre—the face that confronted Edith showed all this at that moment.
“Confederates!” she repeated.
“Yes, you and Wiggins and this villain who, you say, is now living here.”
“What, Leon!”
“Leon! Is that his name! Leon Dudleigh! Well, whatever name he chooses to bear, it is all the same; though it seems strange that he should adopt a stainless name like that of Dudleigh.”
“Yes, that is his name,” said Mrs. Dunbar, wearily.
“Till he assumes some other,” said Edith. “But they are all assumed names,” she continued, bitterly—“Mowbray and Dudleigh and Dunbar also, no doubt. Why you should call yourself Dunbar I can't imagine. You seem to me to be Mrs. Wiggins. Wiggins at least can not be an assumed name.”
At these words, which were spoken on the spur of the moment, out of mere hostility toward Mrs. Dunbar, and the desire to wound her, the latter recoiled as though from some sudden blow, and looked at Edith with awful eyes.
“You are terrible,” she said, in a low voice—“you are terrible. You can not imagine what horrors you give expression to.”
To this Edith paid no attention. It sounded old. It was like what Wiggins had frequently said to her.
“I can not imagine,” she continued, “any human being so utterly bad-hearted, so altogether vile and corrupt, as this man who now calls himself Leon Dudleigh. In pure fiendish malignity, and in all those qualities which are abhorrent and shameful, he surpasses even, that arch-villain Wiggins himself.”
“Stop, stop!” cried Mrs. Dunbar. “I can not bear this. You must not talk so. How do you know! You know nothing about Leon. Oh, how you wrong him! Leon has had bad associates, but he himself is not bad. After all, Leon has naturally a noble heart. He was a brave, high-minded boy. Oh, if you could but know what he once was. You wrong Leon. You wrong him most deeply. Oh, how deeply you wrong him!”
Mrs. Dunbar had said all this in a kind of feverish agitation, speaking quickly and vehemently. Never before had Edith seen any thing approaching to excitement in this strong-hearted, vigilant-eyed, self-contained woman, and the sight of such emotion amazed her. But for this woman and her feelings she cared nothing whatever; and so in the midst of her words she waved her hand and interrupted her.
“I'm tired,” she said; “I can not stand any more excitement just now. I wish to be alone.”
At this. Mrs. Dunbar arose and walked wearily out of the room.
One thing at least Edith considered as quite evident front Mrs. Dunbar's agitation and eager championship of “Leon,” and that was that this Leon had all along been a confederate of Wiggins and this woman, and that the so-called “Lieutenant Dudleigh” had been one of the same band of conspirators. It seemed evident now to her that the whole plot had been contrived among them. Perhaps Wiggins was to get one half of the estate, and this Leon Dudleigh the other half.
Still she did not feel altogether sure, and in order to ascertain as near as possible the truth as to her present position and prospects, she determined to see Wiggins himself.
On the following day Edith felt stronger, and calling Mrs. Dunbar, she sent her to Wiggins with a request that the latter should meet her in the drawing-room. She then walked through the long hall on her way down stairs. Every thing looked as it did before her illness, except that one change had taken place which arrested her attention the moment she entered the drawing-room.
Over the chimney-piece a portrait had been hung—a portrait in a large gilt frame, which looked as though it had been painted but recently. It was a portrait of Leon Dudleigh. On catching sight of this she felt as if she had been rooted to the spot. She looked at it for a short time with compressed lips, frowning brow, and clinched hands after which she walked away and flung herself into a chair.
Wiggins was evidently in no hurry, for it was more than half an hour before he made his appearance. Edith sat in her chair, waiting for his approach. The traces of her recent illness were very visible in the pallor of her face, and in her thin, transparent hands. Her large eyes seemed larger than ever, as they glowed luminously from their cavernous depths, with a darker hue around each, as is often seen in cases of sickness or debility, while upon her face there was an expression of profound sadness that seemed fixed and unalterable.
But in the tone with which she addressed Wiggins there was nothing like sadness. It was proud, cold, stern, and full of bitterest hostility.
“I have sent for you,” she began, “because you, Wiggins, are concerned as much as I myself am in the issue of this business about which I am going to speak. I have suffered a very gross outrage, but I still have confidence both in a just Heaven and in the laws of the land. This ruffian, who now it seems calls himself Leon Dudleigh—your confederate—has, with your assistance, cheated me into taking part in a ceremony which he calls a marriage. What you propose to gain for yourself by this I can not imagine; for it seems to me that it would have been rather for your advantage to remain the sole master of your ward than to help some one else to share your authority. But for your purposes I care nothing—the evil is done. Yet if this Leon Dudleigh or you think that I will sit tamely down under such an intolerable wrong, you are miserably mistaken. Sooner or later I shall be avenged. Sooner or later I shall gain my freedom, and then my turn shall come. I wish you to see that there is danger before you; and I wish you also to understand that it is for your interest to be my sole master, as you were before. I have sent for you, then, to ask you, Wiggins, to expel this man Leon Dudleigh from the house. Be my guardian again, and I will be your ward. More: I agree to remain here in a state of passive endurance for a reasonable time—one or two years, for instance; and I promise during that time to make no complaint. Do this—drive this man away—and you shall have no reason to regret it. On the other hand; remember there is an alternative. Villain though this man is, I may come to terms with him, and buy my liberty from him by giving him half of the estate, or even the whole of it. In that case it seems to me that you would lose every thing, for Leon Dudleigh is as great a villain as yourself.”
As Edith spoke, Wiggins listened most attentively. He had seated himself not far from her, and after one look at her had fixed his eyes on the floor. He waited patiently until she had said all she wished to say. Edith herself had not hoped to gain much by this interview, but she hoped at least to be able to discover something concerning the nature of the partnership which she supposed to exist among her enemies, and something perhaps about their plans. The averted face of Wiggins seemed to her the attitude of conscious guilt; but she felt a little puzzled at signs of emotion which he exhibited, and which seemed hardly the result of conscious guilt. Once or twice a perceptible shudder passed through his frame; his bent head bowed lower; he covered his face with his hands; and at her last words there came from him a low moan that seemed to indicate suffering.
“It's his acting,” she thought. “I wonder what his next pretense will be?”
Wiggins sat for some minutes without saying a word. When at length he raised his head he did not look at Edith, but fastened his eyes on vacancy, and went on to speak in a low voice.
“Your remarks,” said he, “are all based on a misconception. This man is no confederate of mine. I have no confederate. I—I work out my purpose—by myself.”
“I'm sure I wish that I could believe this,” said Edith; “but unfortunately Mrs. Dunbar espouses his cause with so much warmth and enthusiasm that I am forced to conclude that this Leon Dudleigh must be a very highly valued or very valuable friend to both of you.”
“In this case,” said Wiggins, “Mrs. Dunbar and I have different feelings.”
Instead of feeling gratified at this disclaimer of any connection with Leon Dudleigh, Edith felt dissatisfied, and somewhat disconcerted. It seemed to her that Wiggins was trying to baffle her and throw her off the right track. She had hoped that by speaking out frankly her whole mind she might induce him to come to some agreement with her; but by his answers she saw that he was not in the least degree affected by her warnings, or her threats, or her offers.
“This Leon Dudleigh,” said she, “has all along acted sufficiently like a confederate of yours to make me think that he is one.”
“How?”
“By coming into these grounds at all times; by having privileges equal in all respects to your own; by handing over those privileges to his spy and emissary—the one who took the name of Lieutenant Dudleigh. Surely all this is enough to make me think that he must be your confederate.”
“You are altogether mistaken,” said Wiggins, quietly.
“He told some idle story once,” said Edith, anxious to draw more out of Wiggins than these short answers, “about some power which he had over you. He asserted that you were afraid of him. He said that you dared not keep him out of the park. He said that his power over you arose from his knowledge of certain past crimes of yours.”
“When he said that,” remarked Wiggins, “he said what was false.”
“Why, then, did you allow him to come here?”
“I did so for reasons that I do not feel at liberty to explain—just now. I will only say that the reasons were altogether different from those which he stated.”
Of this Edith did not believe a word; yet she felt completely baffled, and did not know what to say to this man, who thus met all her assertions with denials, and spoke in the calm, lofty tone of conscious truth. But this, she thought, was only his “acting.”
“I only hope that this is so,” said she; “but supposing that it is so, I should like very much to know what you feel disposed to do. The claim that this man asserts over me is utterly false. It is a mockery. If he is really not your confederate, you will see, I am sure, that it is not for your own interest to sustain him in his attempt to maintain his claim. I wish, therefore, to know exactly what it is that you feel willing to do.”
“Your situation,” said Wiggins, “is a most unhappy one. I will do all that I can to prevent it from becoming more so. If this man annoys you, I will defend you against him, whatever it may cost.”
This sounded well; yet still Edith was not satisfied. It seemed to her too much like an empty promise which he had no idea of fulfilling.
“How will you defend me?” she asked. “This man lives here now. He asserts that he has the right to do so. He has published what he calls my marriage to him in the newspapers. He calls himself my husband. All this is a wrong and an insult to me. His presence here is a perpetual menace. When he is absent he leaves a reminder of himself,” she continued, in a more bitter tone, glancing toward the portrait. “Now I wish to know what you will do. Will you prevent him from coming here? Will you send him away, either in your name or in mine? You are easily able to keep out my friends; will you keep out my enemies?”
“This man,” said Wiggins, “shall soon give you no more trouble.”
“Soon—what do you mean by soon?” asked Edith, impatiently.
“As soon as my plans will allow me to proceed to extremities with him.”
“Your plans!” repeated Edith. “You are always bringing up your plans. Whatever is concerned, you plead your plans. They form a sufficient excuse for you to refuse the commonest justice. And yet what I ask is certainly for your own interests.”
“If you knew me better,” said Wiggins, “you would not appeal to my interests. I have not generally fashioned my life with regard to my own advantage. Some day you will see this. You, at least, should be the last one to complain of my plans, since they refer exclusively to the vindication of your injured father.”
“So you have said before,” said Edith, coldly. “Those plans must be very convenient, since you use them to excuse every possible act of yours.”
“You will not have to wait long now,” said Wiggins, in a weary voice, as though this interview was too much for his endurance—“not very long. I have heard to-day of something which is very favorable. Since the trial certain documents and other articles have been kept by the authorities, and an application has been made for these, with a view to the establishment of your father's innocence. I have recently heard that the application is about to be granted.”
“You always answer my appeals for common justice,” said Edith, with unchanged coldness, “by some reference to my father. It seems to me that if you had wished to vindicate his innocence, it would have been better to do so while he was alive. If you had done so, it might have been better for yourself in the end. But now these allusions are idle and worse than useless. They have no effect on me whatever. I value them at what they are worth.”
With these words Edith rose and left the room. She returned to her own apartments with a feeling of profound dejection and disappointment. Of Wiggins she could make nothing. He promised, but his promises were too vague to afford satisfaction.
Leon Dudleigh was away now, but would probably be back before long. As she had failed with Wiggins, only one thing remained, and that was to see Leon. She was resolved to meet him at once on his arrival, and fight out once for all that battle which was inevitable between herself and him.
About a month passed away, during which time Edith, in spite of her troubles, grew stronger every day. Youth and a good, constitution were on her side, and enabled her to rally rapidly from the prostration to which she had been subjected.
At length one morning she learned that Leon had arrived at the Hall. This news gave her great satisfaction, for she had been waiting long, and felt anxious to see him face to face, to tell him her own mind, and gather from him, if possible, what his intentions were. An interview with him under such peculiar circumstances might have been painful had she been less courageous or less self-possessed; but to one with such lofty pride as hers, and filled as she was with such scorn of Leon, and convinced as she was that he was at heart an arrant coward, such an interview had nothing in it to deter her. Suspense was worse. She wished to meet that man.
She sent word to him that she wished to see him, after which she went down to the drawing-room and waited. Leon certainly showed no haste, for it was as much as an hour before he made his appearance. On entering he assumed that languid air which he had adopted on some of his former visits. He looked carelessly at her, and then threw himself into a chair.
“Really, Mrs. Dudleigh,” said he, “this is an unexpected pleasure. 'Pon my life, I had no idea that you would volunteer to do me so much honor!”
“I am not Mrs. Dudleigh,” said Edith, “as you very well know. I am Miss Dalton, and if you expect me to have any thing to say to you, you must call me by my proper name. You will suffer dearly enough yet for your crimes, and have no need to add to them.”
“Now, my dear,” said Leon, “that is kind and wife-like, and all that. It reminds me of the way in which wives sometimes speak in the plays.”
“Speak to me as Miss Dalton, or you shall not speak to me at all.”
“It's quite evident,” said Leon, with a sneer, “that you don't know into whose hands you've fallen.”
“On the contrary,” said Edith, contemptuously, “it has been my fortune, or my misfortune, to understand from the first both you and Wiggins.”
Leon gave a light laugh.
“Your temper,” said he, “has not improved much, at any rate. That's quite evident. You have always shown a very peculiar idea of the way in which a lady should speak to a gentleman.”
“One would suppose by that,” said Edith, “that you actually meant to hint that you considered yourself a gentleman.”
“So I am,” said Leon, haughtily.
“As you have no particular birth or family,” said Edith, in her most insolent tone, “I suppose you must rest your claims to be a gentleman altogether on your good manners and high-toned character.”
“Birth and family!” exclaimed Leon, excitedly, “what do you know about them! You don't know what you're talking about.”
“I know nothing about you, certainly,” said Edith. “I suppose you are some mere adventurer.”
Leon looked at her for a moment with a glance of intense rage; and as she calmly returned his gaze, she noticed that peculiarity of his frowning brow a red spot in the middle, with deep lines.
“You surely in your wildest dreams,” said she, “never supposed that I took you for a gentleman.”
“Let me tell you,” cried Leon, stammering in his passion “let me tell you that I associate with the proudest in the land.”
“I know that,” replied Edith, quietly. “Am I not here! But you are only tolerated.”
“Miss Dalton,” cried Leon, “you shall suffer for this.”
“Thank you,” said Edith: “for once in your life you have spoken to me without insulting me. You have called me by my right name. I could smile at your threat under any circumstances, but now I can forgive it.”
“It seems to me,” growled Leon, “that you are riding the high horse somewhat, and that this is a rather queer tone for you to assume toward me.”
“I always assume a high tone toward low people.”
“Low people! What do you mean!” cried Leon, his face purple with rage.
“I really don't know any name better than that for you and your friends.”
“The name of Dudleigh,” said Leon, “is one of the proudest in the land.”
{Illustration: SHE CONFRONTED HIM WITH A COLD, STONY GLARE.}
“I swear by all that's holy that you are really my wife. The marriage was a valid one. No law can break it. The banns were published in the village church. All the villagers heard them. Wiggins kept himself shut up so that he knew nothing about it. The clergyman is the vicar of Dalton—the Rev. Mr. Munn. It has been, published in the papers. In the eye of the law you are no longer Miss Dalton, you are Mrs. Leon Dudleigh. You are my wife!”
At these words, in spite of Edith's pride and courage, there came over her a dark fear that all this might indeed be as he said. The mention of the published banns disturbed her, and shook that proud and obstinate conviction which she had thus far entertained that the scene in the chapel was only a brutal practical joke. It might be far more. It might not be a mockery after all. It might be good in the eye of the law—that law whose injustice had been shown to her in the terrible experience of her father; and if this were so, what then?
A pang of anguish shot through her heart as this terrific thought occurred. But the pang passed away, and with it the terror passed also. Once more she called to her aid that stubborn Dalton fortitude and Dalton pride which had thus far so well sustained her.
“Your wife!” she exclaimed, with a loathing and a scorn in her face and in her voice that words could not express, at the sight of which even Leon, with all his insolence, was cowed—“your wife! Do you think you can affect me by lies like these?”
“Lies!” repeated Leon—“it's the truth. You are my wife, and you must sign these papers.”
“I don't think so,” said Edith, resuming her former coolness.
“Do you dare to refuse me this?”
“I don't see any daring about it. Of course I refuse.”
“Sign them!” roared Leon, with an oath.
Edith smiled lightly and turned away.
Leon rushed toward her with a menacing gesture. But Edith was aware of this. In an instant she turned, snatched a dagger from her breast which had been concealed there, and confronted him with a cold, stony glare.
“I well know,” said she, “what an utter coward you are. While I have this you will not dare to touch me. It is better for you, on the whole, just now, that you are a coward, for this dagger—which, by-the-way, I always carry—is poisoned. It is an old family affair—and that shows you one of the advantages of having a family—and so deadly is the poison that a scratch would kill you. Yes, there is some advantage in being a coward, for if you dared to touch me, I should strike you with this as I would strike a mad dog!”
Leon stood before her, a coward, as she knew and as she said, not daring to come within reach of her terrible weapon, which she upheld with a deadly purpose plainly visible in her eye. Yet it seemed as though, with his great muscular power, he might easily have grasped that slender arm and wrenched the dagger away. But this was a thing which he did not dare to attempt; the risk was too great. He might have received a scratch in the struggle with that young girl who confronted him so steadily, and who, with all her fragile beauty, was so calm, so proud, and so resolute.
Edith waited for a few moments, and then walked quietly away, trusting implicitly to Leon's cowardice, and without another word, or even another look, she left the room and returned to her own apartments.
It will have been seen already that Leon had taken up his abode at Dalton Hall immediately after that marriage ceremony as the husband of Edith. Her illness had hitherto prevented him from having any understanding with her, and his own affairs called him away before her recovery. With Wiggins he remained on the same footing as before; nor did he find himself able to alter that footing in the slightest degree. Whatever Wiggins may have thought or felt on the subject of the marriage, he revealed it to no one; and Leon found himself compelled to wait for Edith's recovery before he could accomplish any thing definite with regard to his own position. On his return, to Dalton Hall he learned that she was convalescent, and he was much surprised at her immediate request for an interview.
With the result of that interview he had but little reason to be satisfied. He felt disappointed, enraged, and humiliated. Edith had been perfectly free from all fear of him. The young girl had shown herself a virago. His insults she had returned with mocking sarcasms, his threats she had treated with utter contempt, and finally she had proved him to his own face to be a coward. Over the recollection of that scene he could only gnash his teeth in fruitless rage. The more he thought of that interview, the more bitter grew his mortification; and at length he resolved to force matters to a climax at once by coming to a distinct and final understanding with Wiggins himself.
Leon had enjoyed the freedom of the house long enough to know where Wiggins's room was, and into that room he intruded himself abruptly on the following day. It was in this room that Wiggins spent the greater part of his time, carrying on a vigorous though not very extensive correspondence, and moving the wires of those plans at which he had hinted to Edith. He was here now, and as Leon entered he looked up with a silent stare.
“I'll not stand this any longer,” burst forth Leon, abruptly and vehemently. “I'm in terrible difficulties. I've been waiting long enough. You must side with me actively, for your assistance is absolutely necessary to bring that mad girl to terms. I'm married to her. She's my wife. I must have control of this place at once; and I'll tolerate no farther opposition from her, or humbug from you. I've come now to tell you this finally and peremptorily.”
“She is not your wife,” said Wiggins, coldly.
“She is.”
“It was a trick. The ceremony was a miserable sham.”
“It was no sham. It was done legally, and can not be undone.”
“Legally! Pooh! The whole thing was a farce. It's no marriage. Legally! Why, what has that miserable affair to do with the law?”
“What has it to do? It has every thing to do. The whole thing was done in a perfectly legal manner. The banns were regularly published by the vicar of Dalton in Dalton Church, and in that chapel Edith Dalton was regularly and legally married to Leon Dudleigh by the Rev. Mr. Munn. What more is wanting to make it legal? Go and ask Mr. Munn himself.”
“The banns!” exclaimed Wiggins.
“Yes, the banns,” said Leon. “You never heard of that, perhaps. If you doubt me, go and ask Munn.”
“It was not you that she married!” cried Wiggins, after a pause, in which he seemed struck rather painfully by Leon's last information. “It was not you—it was that other one. He called himself Dudleigh—a miserable assumed name!”
“You know nothing about it,” said Leon, “whether it was assumed or not. And as to the marriage, it was to me. I held her hand; I put the ring on her finger; she married me, and no other. But I'm not going to talk about that. I've simply come here to insist on your active help. I won't stand any more of this humbug. I've already told you that I know you.”
Wiggins remained silent for some time.
“So you did,” said he at last, in a low voice; “but what of that?”
“Why, only this: you had to let me do what I chose. And I intend to keep a good hold of you yet, my fine fellow.”
Wiggins placed both his elbows on the table in front of him, and looked fixedly at Leon for some time.
“You did say once,” said he, slowly, “that you knew me, and the possibility that it might be true induced me to tolerate you here for some time. I trusted to Miss Dalton's innate good sense to save her from any danger from one like you; but it appears that I was mistaken. At the present moment, however, I may as well inform you that you have not the slightest idea who I am, and more than this, that I have not the slightest objection to tell you.”
“Pooh!” said Leon, with ill-disguised uneasiness, “it's all very well for you to take that tone, but it won't do with me. I know who you are.”
“Who am I?”
“Oh, I know.”
“Who? who? Say it! If you did know, you would not imagine that you had any power over me. Your power is a dream, and your knowledge of me is a sham. Who am I?”
“Why,” said Leon, with still greater uneasiness and uncertainty in his face and voice, “you are not John Wiggins.”
“Who do you think I am?” asked Wiggins.
“Who? who? Why, you came from Australia.”
“Well, what of that?”
“Well, you are some convict who got acquainted with Dalton out there, and have come back here to try to get control of these estates.”
“But how could I do that? If this were so, do you suppose that Wiggins of Liverpool would allow it?”
“Oh, he has a share in the business. He goes halves with you, perhaps.”
“If he wanted any shares at all in such a transaction, he might have all, and therefore he would be a fool to take half. Your theory, I infer, is somewhat lame. And what of Mrs. Dunbar? Is she an Australian convict too?”
“Mrs. Dunbar?—who is she? What! that crazy housekeeper? She looks as though she may have just been released from some lunatic asylum.”
Wiggins made no immediate reply, and sat for a few moments in thought. Then he looked at Leon and said:
“Well, you have got hold of a part of the truth—just enough to mislead you. It is true that I have been in Australia, though why you should suppose that I was a convict I do not know. More: I went out there on account of Dalton, and for no other reason. While there I saw much of him, and gained his whole confidence. He told me his whole story unreservedly. He believed me to be his friend. He confided every thing to me. You must have heard of his trial, and his strange persistence in refusing to say who the guilty party was.”
“Oh yes,” said Leon, with a laugh. “A good idea that, when the guilty party was himself.”
“It was not himself,” said Wiggins, “and before long the world shall know who it was, for that is the one business of my life since my return, to which I have sacrificed all other concerns. In my attention to this I have even neglected Miss Dalton.”
“She does not appear to think that you have neglected her,” said Leon, with a sneer.
To this Wiggins paid no attention.
“Dalton,” said he, “told me all before he died. He thought of his daughter, and though he had suffered himself, yet he thought on his death-bed that it would be a sin to leave to her such a legacy of shame. It was this that broke his obstinate silence, and made him tell his secret to me. And here, Leon Dudleigh, is a thing in which you are concerned.
“I!” exclaimed Leon, in astonishment, not unmingled with alarm.
“I will tell you presently. I will simply remark now that I am following out his wishes, and am working for Miss Dalton, as he himself would have worked, to redeem her name.”
“The name is hers no longer,” said Leon.
“She seems to give you a precious hard time of it too, I should say, and does not altogether appreciate your self-denying and wonderfully disinterested efforts.”
“I have not treated her with sufficient consideration,” said Wiggins. “I misunderstood her character. I began altogether wrong. I see now that I ought to have given her more of my confidence, or, better yet, that I ought not to have brought her here till the work was done. Well,” he added, with a sigh, “my chief consolation is that it will be all right in the end.”
“This is all rubbish,” said Leon. “You are not what you pretend to be. You are not her guardian. You are an interloper and a swindler. You shall remain here no longer. I am her husband, and I order you off the premises at once.”
“You are not her husband, and I am her guardian,” said Wiggins, calmly. “I was appointed by her father on his death-bed.”
“I don't believe it. Besides, your name is not Wiggins at all.”
“How do you know? You know nothing.”
{Illustration: DOTARD! DO YOU TALK OF VENGEANCE?}
“I know Wiggins.”
“Wiggins of Liverpool, perhaps, but there are more Wigginses in the world than that.”
“A court of law will show that—”
“You will not go to a court of law. That is my task. And mark me,” continued Wiggins, with thrilling emphasis, “when a court of law takes up the subject of the Dalton estates or the Dalton name, then it will be the turn for you and yours to tremble.”
“Tremble!” exclaimed Leon, scornfully.
“Yes,” repeated Wiggins. “Your father—”
“Pooh!” said Leon.
“When Dalton died,” continued Wiggins, “he left his papers. Among them was a letter of which he himself told me. If he had produced that letter on his trial, he would have escaped, and the guilty man would have been punished. The letter was written by the real forger. It inclosed the forged check to Dalton, asking him to draw the money and pay certain pressing debts. The writer of that letter was your own father—Lionel Dudleigh!”
“It's a lie!” cried Leon, starting up, with terrible excitement in his face—an excitement, too, which was mingled with unspeakable dread.
“It's true,” said Wiggins, calmly, “and the letter can be proved.”
“It can not.”
“It can, and by the best of testimony.”
“I don't believe it.”
“Perhaps not; but there is something more. With the murder trial you are no doubt familiar. In fact, I take it for granted that you are familiar with Dalton's case in all its bearings,” added Wiggins, in a tone of deep meaning. “In that murder trial, then, you are aware that a Maltese cross was found on the scene of murder, and created much excitement. You know what part it had in the trial. I now inform you that I have proof which can show beyond a doubt that this Maltese cross was the property of your father—Lionel Dudleigh.”
“It's a lie—an infernal lie!” said Leon, in a hoarse voice. His excitement had now become terrible.
“It's true—all true,” continued Wiggins. “It can all be proved by a witness that can not be impeached. Yes, Leon Dudleigh, you yourself would be forced to accept the testimony of that witness.”
“What witness?” said Leon, in a voice that was scarcely audible from conflicting emotions.
Wiggins looked at him earnestly, and then said, in a low, deep, solemn voice,
“Leon Dudleigh, that witness is your mother!”
The other started as though he had been shot.
“My mother!” he almost screamed—“my mother! why, she—she is dead—dead long ago.”
“When did you find that out?” said Wiggins.
“She's dead! she's dead!” repeated Leon, as though by assertion he could make it true.
“She is not dead,” said Wiggins, in an awful voice, “though all these years she has lived a living death. She is not dead. She is alive, and she now stands ready, when the hour comes, though with an agonized heart, to give that testimony which, years ago, she dared not and could not give. She has allowed the innocent to suffer, and the guilty to go free, but now she will do so no longer. The work upon which I have been engaged is almost complete. The preparations are made, and this very day I am going to Liverpool to perform the last acts that are necessary toward vindicating the memory of Dalton, establishing his innocence, and punishing the guilty. As for you, you can do nothing here, and I have resolved to punish you for what you have done. I shall show you no mercy. If you want to save yourself, leave the country, for otherwise I swear you will never be safe from my vengeance.”
“Vengeance!” said Leon, in low, menacing tones. “Dotard! do you talk of vengeance? You do not understand the meaning of that word. Wait till you see what I can do.”
And with these words he left the room.
That evening Wiggins left for Liverpool.