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 help me."

"Oh, my God! what is the meaning of this?"

"Oh, it's simple enough. It means that you're my wife."

"Your wife! 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 not Leon Dudleigh, 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 my dear friend the 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 and you mustn'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 to me!" 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.

* * * * *



CHAPTER XXIX.

THE WIFE OF LEON DUDLEIGH.

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.

* * * * *



CHAPTER XXX.

JAILER AND CAPTIVE.

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.

* * * * *



CHAPTER XXXI.

THE IRREPRESSIBLE STRUGGLE.

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."



"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.

* * * * *



CHAPTER XXXII.

A FIGHT IN THE ENEMY'S CAMP

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."



"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.

* * * * *



CHAPTER XXXIII.

THE HUSBAND'S LAST APPEAL.

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.

* * * * *



CHAPTER XXXIV.

THE FUGITIVE AND THE PURSUER.

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.

* * * * *



CHAPTER XXXV.

THE EMPTY ROOMS.

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.