As Mrs. Dunbar saw all this, she concluded at first that he had gone out for a walk, and would soon be back; but the lateness of the hour made that idea seem absurd, and showed her that there must be some other cause. The flight of Edith thereupon occurred to her, and was very naturally associated in her mind with the departure of Leon. Had he been watching? Had he detected her flight, and gone in pursuit? It seemed so. If so, he was doubtless yet in pursuit of the fugitive, who must have fled fast and far to delay him so long.

Then another thought came—the idea of violence. Perhaps he had caught the fugitive, and in his rage and vindictive fury had harmed her. That he was fierce enough for any atrocity she well knew; and the thought that he had killed her, and had fled, came swift as lightning to her mind.

The idea was terrible. She could not endure it. She left the room and hurried down stairs again.

"Hugo," said she, "go down and ask the porter if he has seen the captain or Miss Dalton."

"Miss Dalton!" exclaimed Hugo.

"Yes; she's gone."

"Gone!" repeated Hugo, in amazement.

He said no more, but hurried down to the gates, while Mrs. Dunbar, who felt restless and ill at ease, walked up the stairs, and feeling fatigued, stopped on the landing, and leaned against the window there, looking out upon the ground in the rear of the Hall.

Standing here, her eyes were attracted by a sight which made her start. It was the Newfoundland dog. He was standing at some distance from the house, looking straight ahead at vacancy, in a rigid attitude. The sight of this animal, who was always the inseparable companion of his master, standing there in so peculiar a fashion by himself, excited Mrs. Dunbar; and forgetful of her weariness, she descended the stairs again, and quitting the Hall, approached the spot where the dog was standing.

As she approached, the dog looked at her and wagged his tail. She called him. He went on wagging his tail, but did not move from the spot. She went up to him and stroked him, and looked all around, hoping to see some signs of his master. She looked in the direction in which the dog had been staring when she first noticed him. The stables seemed to be the place. Toward these she walked, and tried to induce the dog to follow, but he would not. She then walked over to the stables, and looked through them, without seeing any trace of the object of her search. Upon this she returned to the house.

On coming back she found Hugo. He had been to the gates, he said; but the porter had seen nothing whatever either of the captain or Miss Dalton.

This intelligence deepened the anxious expression on Mrs. Dunbar's face.

"His dog is here," said she, in a tremulous voice.

"His dog!" said Hugo. "Oh yes; he's ben out dar all de mornin'. Dunno what de matta wid dat ar animal at all. Stands dar like a gravy statoo."

For the rest of that day Mrs. Dunbar was restless and distressed. She wandered aimlessly about the house. She sent Hugo off to scour the grounds to see if he could find any trace of either of the fugitives. Every moment she would look out from any window or door that happened to be nearest, to see if either of them was returning. But the day passed by, and Hugo came back from his long search, but of neither of the fugitives was a single trace found.

What affected Mrs. Dunbar as much as any thing was the behavior of the dog. Through all that day he remained in the same place, sometimes standing, sometimes lying down, but never going away more than a few feet. That the dog had some meaning in this singular behavior, and that this meaning had reference to the flight of one or the other of the late inmates of the house, was very evident to her. No persuasion, or coaxing, or even threatening could draw the dog away; and even when Hugo fired a gun off close to his lead, he quivered in every nerve, but only moved back a foot or two. Food and drink were brought to him, of which he partook with a most eager appetite, but no temptation could draw him any distance from his post. That night was a sleepless one for Mrs. Dunbar; and it was with a feeling of great relief that she heard the noise of a carriage early on the following day, and knew that Wiggins had returned.

She hurried down at once, and met him in the great hall. In a few words she told him all.

For such intelligence as this Wiggins was evidently unprepared. He staggered back and leaned against the wall, staring at Mrs. Dunbar with a terrible look.

"What! Gone!" he said, slowly. "Edith!"

"Yes; and Leon."

"Edith gone!" gasped Wiggins once more.

"Did you hear nothing in the village?"

"I drove through without stopping. Did you send to the village?"

"I did not think that they could have got out of the grounds."

"They! There's no trouble about Leon?"

"I'm afraid—for him," said Mrs. Dunbar, in a faint voice.

"For him!" exclaimed Wiggins. "What can happen to him? For her, you mean."

"They must have gone off together."

"Together! Do you think Edith would go with him? No; she has fled in her madness and ignorance, turning her back on happiness and love, and he has pursued her. O Heavens!" he continued, with a groan, "to think that it should end in this! And cursed be that scoundrel—"

"Stop!" cried Mrs. Dunbar. "He is not a scoundrel. He would not harm her. You don't know Leon. He has not left the place; his dog is here."

"His dog!"

Mrs. Dunbar explained.

Upon this Wiggins went through the hall to the rear, and there, in the same place as where Mrs. Dunbar last saw him, was the dog. He was lying down now. He wagged his tail in friendly recognition as they came up. Wiggins patted him and stroked him and tried to coax him away. The result was precisely the same as it had been before. The dog received all advances in the most friendly manner possible. He wagged his tail, rolled over on his back, licked their hands, sat up on his hind-quarters, and did every thing which dogs usually do when petted or played with, but nothing would induce him to leave the place. He did not appear to be in any trouble. He seemed simply to have made up his mind to stay there, and this resolution he maintained most obstinately.

Wiggins could make nothing of it; but the sight of the dog renewed the terrors of Mrs. Dunbar.

"I'm afraid," said she—"I'm afraid that something's happened to Leon."

"To Leon!" exclaimed Wiggins, impatiently; "what could happen to him! I told him to quit this place, and he has probably concluded to do so."

"But what do you think of his flight at the same time with Edith?"

"I don't know what to think of it. I only know this, that if he has harmed one hair of her head, I—I'll—kill him! My own injuries I will forgive, but wrongs done to her I will avenge!"

At this Mrs. Dunbar shrank away, and looked at Wiggins in fear.

"But it may be all the other way," said she, in a tremulous voice. "Edith was terrible in her fury. She was no timid, faltering girl; she was resolute and vindictive. If he has followed her, or laid hands on her, she may have—" She hesitated.

"May have what?" asked Wiggins.

"She may have done him some harm."

"She may have done him some harm!" repeated Wiggins, with a sneer. "What! and when he had his big dog to protect him? Pooh!"

And with a scornful laugh he turned away.

Mrs. Dunbar followed him.

"She was so terrible in her despair," said she, as she followed him; "she looked like a fury—beautiful, yet implacable."

"Silence!" cried Wiggins. "Stop all that nonsense, or you'll drive me mad. Are you crazy? When I am almost broken-hearted in my anxiety about her, what do you mean by turning against that wronged and injured girl, who I now see has been driven to despair by my own cursed mistakes, and pretending that she is the aggressor, and your scoundrel Leon the victim?"

In the midst of this Wiggins was interrupted by the approach of Hugo.

"A genl'man, Sah, wants to see you, Sah," said he.

"A gentleman," repeated Wiggins. "Who is he? How did he come here?"

"Dunno, Sah, nuffin 'bout dat, Sah."

"It's about Edith!" exclaimed Wiggins; and he hurried into the house.

* * * * *



CHAPTER XXXVI.

THE VICAR OF DALTON.

Wiggins entered the drawing-room, and found his visitor there. He was a slight man, with light hair, watery gray eyes, and very mild demeanor. The timidity of the man seemed very marked; there was an apologetic air about him; and his very footfall as he advanced to greet Wiggins seemed to deprecate some anticipated rough treatment. He spoke a few words, and at Wiggins's request to be seated he sat down, while his agitation increased; and he had that hesitating, half-abstracted manner which marks the man who is on the point of giving unpleasant information, about the effect of which he is doubtful.

Wiggins, on his part, did not seem to notice this. He sat down, and looked with earnest inquiry at his visitor. He seemed to know what was the object of this visit, and yet to dread to ask it.

The visitor had given his name as the Rev. Mr. Munn, and Wiggins recognized that name as belonging to the parish vicar. That name excited strange emotions within him, for it was the same name that had appeared in the papers in connection with Edith's marriage.

"Well?" said Wiggins at last, in some impatience.

Mr. Munn cleared his throat.

"I have come here," he began, "to tell you very distressing news."

Wiggins was silent.

"I refer to—a—a—Mrs. Dudleigh," said Mr. Munn.

"Well?" said Wiggins, in a scarcely audible voice.

"She is at the village inn."

"At the village inn!" repeated Wiggins, in evident agitation, drawing a long breath.

"She is alive, then?" he added, eagerly.

"Oh yes," said Mr. Munn; "she came there early yesterday morning." And then he went on to tell his story, the substance of which was as follows:

On the previous morning about dawn the people at the Dalton Inn were aroused by a hurried knock. On going to the door they found Mrs. Dudleigh. The moment that the door was opened she sprang in and fell exhausted to the floor. So great was her weakness that she could not rise again, and had to be carried up to one of the bedrooms. She was so faint that she could scarcely speak; and in a feeble voice she implored them to put her to bed, as it was a long time since she had had any rest, and was almost dead with fatigue.

Her condition was most pitiable. Her clothes were all torn to shreds, and covered with mud and dust; her hands were torn and bleeding; her shoes had been worn into rags; and she looked as though she had been wandering for hours through woods and swamps, and over rocks and sand. To all their inquiries she answered nothing, but only implored them to put her to bed and let her rest; above all, she prayed most piteously that they would tell no one that she was there. This they promised to do; and, indeed, it would have been difficult for them to have informed about her, since none at the inn had ever seen her before, or had the remotest idea who she could be.

Full of pity and sympathy, they put her to bed, and the landlady watched over her most assiduously. All the morning she slept profoundly; but at about noon she waked with a scream, like one who has been roused from some fearful dream.

After that she grew steadily worse. Fever set in, and became more and more violent every moment. In their anxiety to do what she had requested, and keep her secret, they did not send immediately for a doctor. But her condition soon became such that further delay was out of the question, so they sent for the village physician.

When he arrived she was much worse. She was in a high fever, and already delirious. He pronounced her situation to be dangerous in the extreme, urged upon them the greatest care, and advised them to lose no time in letting her friends know about her condition. Here was a dilemma for these worthy people. They did not know who her friends were, and therefore could not send for them, while it became impossible to keep her presence at the inn a secret Not knowing what else to do, they concluded to send for the vicar.

When Mr. Munn came he found them in great distress. He soon learned the facts of the case, and at once decided that it should be made known to Captain Dudleigh or to Wiggins. For though he did not know Edith's face, still, from the disconnected words that had dropped from her during her delirium, reported to him by the inn people, he thought it probable that she was the very lady whom he had married under such mysterious circumstances. So he soothed the fears of the landlady as well as he could, and then left. It was late at night when he went from the inn, and he had waited till the morning before going to Dalton Hall. He had some difficulty in getting in at the gate, but when the porter learned the object of his visit he at once opened to him. From the porter he learned of the disappearance of Captain Dudleigh also. Nothing was then left but to see Wiggins. Accordingly he had come to the Hall at once, so as to tell his message with the shortest possible delay.

To this recital Wiggins listened with gravity. He made no gesture, and he spoke no word, but sat with folded arms, looking upon the floor. When Mr. Munn had ended, he, after a long silence, turned toward him and said, in a severe tone,

"Well, Sir, now I hope you see something of the evil of that course which you chose to pursue."

"Evil? course?" stammered Mr. Munn. "I don't understand you."

"Oh, I think you understand me," said Wiggins, gloomily. "Has not your conscience already suggested to you the probable cause of this strange course of her whom you call Mrs. Dudleigh?"

"My conscience!" gasped Mr. Munn; "what has my conscience to do with it?"

"How long is it since that wretched mockery at which you officiated?" asked Wiggins, sternly.

"I really—I think—a few months only."

"A few months," repeated Wiggins. "Well, it has come to this. That is the immediate cause of her flight, and of her present suffering."

"I—I—married them," stammered Mr. Munn; "but what of that? Is her unhappiness my fault? How can I help it? Am I responsible for the future condition of those couples whom I marry? Surely this is a strange thing to say."

"You well know," said Wiggins, "what sort of a marriage this was. It was no common one. It was done in secret. Why did you steal into these grounds like a thief, and do this infamous thing?"

"Why—why," faltered the unhappy vicar, growing more terrified and conscience-stricken every minute—"Captain Dudleigh asked me. I cannot refuse to marry people."

"No, Sir, you can not when they come to you fairly; you can not, I well know, when the conditions of the law are satisfied. But was that so here? Did you not steal into these grounds? Did you not come by night, in secret, conscious that you were doing wrong, and did you not have to steal out in the same way? And your only excuse is that Captain Dudleigh asked you!"

"He—he—showed very strong reasons why I should do so," said Mr. Munn, who by this time was fearfully agitated—"very strong reasons, I do assure you, Sir, and all my humanity was—a—aroused."

"Your humanity?" sneered Wiggins. "Where was your humanity for her?"

"For her!" exclaimed the vicar. "Why, she wanted it. She loved him."

"Loved him! Pooh! She hated him worse than the devil."

"Then what did she marry him for?" cried Mr. Munn, at his wits' end.

"Never mind," said Wiggins; "you went out of your way to do a deed the consequences of which can not yet be seen. I can understand, Sir, how Captain Dudleigh could have planned this thing; but how you, a calm, quiet clergyman, in the full possession of your faculties, could have ever been led to take part in it, is more than I can comprehend. I, Sir, was her guardian, appointed as such by her father, my own intimate friend. Captain Dudleigh was a villain. He sought out this thoughtless child merely for her money. It was not her that he wanted, but her estate. I could easily have saved her from this danger. He had no chance with me. But you come forward—you, Sir—suddenly, without cause, without a word of warning—you sneak here in the dark, you entice her to that lonely place, and there you bind her body and soul to a scoundrel. Now, Sir, what have you got to say for yourself!"

Mr. Munn's teeth chattered, and his hands clutched one another convulsively. "Captain Dudleigh told me that she was under restraint here by—by you—and that she loved him, and that her only refuge was to be married to him. I'm sure I didn't mean to do any harm."

"Rubbish!" said Wiggins, contemptuously. "The law gives a guardian a certain right to parental restraint for the good of the ward. The slight restraint to which she was subjected was accompanied by the deepest love of those who cared for her here. I had hoped, Sir, that you might have something different to tell me. I did not know that you had actually acted so madly. I thought the story which I heard of that marriage was incredible, and I have always spoken of it as a mockery. But from what I now gather from you, it seems to have been a bona fide marriage, true and valid."

"I—I'm afraid it—it was," said Mr. Munn.

Wiggins gave something that was almost like a groan.

"Friends," he cried, passionately, rising from his chair—"friends from the bottomless pit could not have more foully and fatally deceived that poor, thoughtless, trustful child. But all their trickery and treachery could never have succeeded had they not found a paltry tool in a senseless creature like you—you, Sir—who could stand there and go mumbling your marriage service, and never see the infernal jugglery that was going on under your very eyes. Yes, you, Sir, who now come to wring and break my heart by the awful tidings that you now tell me. Away! Begone! I have already borne more than my share of anguish; but this, if it goes on, will kill me or drive me mad!"

He turned away, with his head bent, with an unsteady step, and walked toward the window, where he stood leaning against it heavily, and staring out at vacancy.

As for Mr. Munn, he gave one glance of horror at Wiggins, and then, with a swift, frightened step, he hurried from the Hall.

* * * * *



CHAPTER XXXVII.

THE HOUSE OF REFUGE

The illness of Edith was of no light or common kind. Her old glow of health had not yet returned. The state of affairs at Dalton Hall had retarded any thing like a complete recovery, and when she started off on her desperate flight, she was unfit for such a venture. Through that terrible night she had undergone what might have laid low a strong man, and the strength which had barely carried her to the door of the inn had there left her utterly; and so fierce was the attack that was now made upon her by this new illness that recovery seemed scarce possible.

The doctor was as non-committal as doctors usually are in a really dangerous case. It was evident, however, from the first, that her situation awakened in his mind the very deepest anxiety. He urged the landlady to keep the house in the quietest possible condition, and to see that she was never left without attendants. This the landlady promised to do, and was unremitting in her attentions.

But all the care of the attendants seemed useless. Deeper and deeper Edith descended into the abyss of suffering. Day succeeded to day, and found her worse. Fortunately she was not conscious of what she had to endure; but in that unconsciousness her mind wandered in delirium, and all the sorrows of the past were lived over again.

They knew not, those good kind souls who waited and watched at her bedside, what it was that thus rose before her, and distressed her in the visions of her distempered brain, but they could see that these were the result of deep grief and long sorrow, and therefore they pitied her more than ever. As her mind thus wandered, she talked incessantly, often in broken words, but often also in long connected sentences, and all these were intermingled with moans and sighs.

"This is a heart-rending," said the doctor once. "It is her mind, poor lady, that has brought on this illness. In this case medicine is of no use. You can do more than I can. You must watch over her, and keep her as quiet as she can be kept."

All of which the landlady promised more fervently than ever, and kept her promise too.

But in spite of all this care, the fever and the delirium grew worse. The events of her Dalton life rose before her to the exclusion of all other memories, and filled all her thoughts. In her fancies she again lived that life of mingled anxiety and fear, and chafed and raged and trembled by turns at the restraint which she felt around her. Then she tried to escape, but escape was impossible. Then she seemed to speak with some one who promised deliverance. Eagerly and earnestly she implored this one to assist her, and mentioned plans of escape.

Most of all, however, her thoughts turned to that scene in the Dalton vaults. The dead seemed all around. Amidst the darkness she saw the ghost of her ancestors. They frowned menacingly upon her, as on one who was bringing dishonor upon a noble name. They pointed at her scornfully with their wan fingers. Deep moans showed the horror of her soul, but amidst these moans she protested that she was innocent.

Then her flight from the Hall came up before her. She seemed to be wandering through woods and thickets and swamps, over rocks and fallen trees.

"Shall I never get out?" she murmured. "Shall I never get to the wall? I shall perish in this forest. I am sinking in this mire."

Then she saw some enemy. "It is he!" she murmured, in low thrilling tones. "He is coming! I will never go back—no, never! I will die first! I have my dagger—I will kill him! He shall never take me there—never, never, never! I will kill him—I will kill him!"

After which came a low groan, followed by a long silence.

So she went on in her agony, but her delirious words carried no connected meaning to her attendants. They could only look at one another inquiringly, and shake their heads. "She has been unhappy in her married life, poor dear," said the landlady once, with a sigh; and this seemed to be the general impression, and the only one which they gathered from her words.

Thus a fortnight passed away.

At length the lowest stage of the disease was reached. It was the turning-point, and beyond that lay either death or recovery. All night long the landlady watched beside the bed of the poor sufferer, who now lay in a deep sleep, scarce breathing, while the doctor, who came in at midnight, remained till morning.

Morning came at length, and Edith awaked. The delirium had passed. She looked around inquiringly, but could recall nothing.

"Auntie dear," she said, feebly, "where are you?"

"There isn't no auntie, dear," said the landlady, gently. "You are at Dalton Inn But don't speak, dearie—you are too weak."

"Dalton Inn," repeated Edith, in a faint voice. She looked puzzled, for she was as yet too confused to remember. Gradually however, memory awaked, and though the recollection of her illness was a blank, yet the awful life that she had lived, and her flight from that life, with all its accompaniments, came gradually back.

She looked at the landlady with a face of agony.

"Promise," said she, faintly.

"Promise what, dearie?"

"Promise—that—you will not—send me away."

"Lord love you! send you away? Not me."

"Promise," said Edith, in feverish impatience, "that you will not let them take me—till I want to go."

"Never; no one shall touch a hair of your head, dearie—till you wish it."

The tone of the landlady gave Edith even more confidence than her words. "God bless you!" she sighed, and turned her head away.

A week passed, and Edith continued to get better every day. Although her remembrances were bitter and her thoughts most distressing, yet there was something in her present situation which was, on the whole, conducive to health. For the first time in many months she felt herself free from that irksome and galling control which had been so maddening to her proud nature. Her life in Dalton Hall had been one long struggle, in which her spirit had chafed incessantly at the barriers around it, and had well-nigh worn itself out in maintaining its unconquerable attitude. Now all this was over. She trusted this honest and tender-hearted landlady. It was the first frank and open face which she had seen since she left school. She knew that here at last she would have rest, at least until her recovery. What she might do then was another question, but the answer to this she chose to put off.

But all this time, while Edith had been lying prostrate and senseless at the inn, a great and mighty excitement had arisen and spread throughout the country, and all men were discussing one common subject—the mysterious disappearance of Captain Dudleigh.

He had become well known in the village, where he had resided for some time. His rank, his reputed wealth, and his personal appearance had all made him a man of mark. His marriage with Miss Dalton, who was known to be his cousin, had been publicly announced, and had excited very general surprise, chiefly because it was not known that Miss Dalton had returned. The gentry had not called on the bride, however, partly on account of the cloud that hung over the Dalton name, but more especially on account of the air of mystery that hung about the marriage, and the impression that was prevalent that calls were not expected.

The marriage had been largely commented upon, but had been generally approved. It had taken place within the family, and the stain on the Dalton name could thus be obliterated by merging it with that of Dudleigh. It seemed, therefore, wise and appropriate and politic, and the reserve of the married couple was generally considered as a mark of delicacy, good taste, and graceful respect for public opinion.

Captain Dudleigh had at first been associated with a friend and relative of his, Lieutenant Dudleigh, who had made himself quite popular in the outside world. Neither of them, however, had gone into society. It was understood that Lieutenant Dudleigh had come simply for the purpose of being the captain's groomsman, and when, after the marriage, he disappeared, nothing more was thought about him.

Occupying as he did this place in the attention of the county people, Captain Dudleigh's disappearance created an excitement which can easily he imagined. Who first started the report could not be found out, but no sooner had it been started than it spread like wild-fire.

Moreover, in spite of the landlady's care, they had heard of Edith's flight and illness, and naturally associated these two startling facts together. The Dalton name was already covered with deep disgrace, and that another tragedy should take place in connection with it was felt to be very natural. Week after week passed on, and still there were no tidings of the missing man. With the lapse of each week the excitement only increased. Throughout the whole county this was the common topic of conversation. It was matter for far more than the ordinary nine days' wonder, for about this there was the fascination and the horror of an impenetrable mystery.

For it was universally felt that in some way or other this mystery was connected with Edith, and that its solution lay with her. It was universally known that she had fled from Dalton Hall in a most suspicious and unaccountable manner, and that Captain Dudleigh had disappeared on that very night. It was natural, therefore, that every body should think of her as being, to some extent at least, aware of the fate of Dudleigh, and that she alone could account for it.

And so the excitement grew stronger and stronger every day. Gradually the whole public came to know something about the circumstances of the ill-fated marriage. There seemed to be some power at work which sent forth fresh intelligence at various intervals to excite the public mind. It was not Wiggins, for he kept himself in strict seclusion; and people who went to stare at the gates of Dalton Park found nothing for their pains. It could not have been the vicar, for his terror had reduced him to a state of simple imbecility. There was some other cause, and that cause seemed always at work.

From this mysterious cause, then, the public gained a version of the story of that marriage, which was circulated every where. Miss Dalton, it was said, had fallen in love with Captain Dudleigh, but her guardian, Wiggins, had resisted her inclinations. She determined to get married in spite of him, and Captain Dudleigh had a clergyman brought into the park, who performed the ceremony secretly. After the marriage, however, it was said, Captain Dudleigh treated his wife badly, and clamored for money to pay his debts. His wife suspected that he bad married her for this sole purpose. They quarreled incessantly. Her health broke down through grief and disappointment, and she was ill for a long time. After her recovery they had several stormy interviews, in which she had threatened his life. It was said that she always carried a dagger, with which she had sworn to kill him. She had told him to his face that she would have "his heart's blood."

Such was the story that circulated far and wide among all classes. None had seen Edith personally except the doctor and those at the inn; and the general impression about her was that she was a fierce, bold, impetuous woman, with iron resolution and masculine temper. So, on the whole, public opinion ran high against her, and profound sympathy was felt for the injured husband.

All this was not confined to the county. The metropolitan papers had mentioned it and discussed it, and the "Continued Disappearance of Captain Dudleigh" was for a long time the standing heading of many paragraphs.

But during all this time Edith remained at the inn in complete seclusion, recovering slowly hut surely. In that seclusion she was utterly ignorant of the excitement which she had caused, and, indeed, was not aware that she was talked of at all. The papers were all kindly kept out of her sight, and as she had never been accustomed to read them, she never thought of asking for them.

But the public feeling had at last reached that point at which it demanded, with resistless voice, an inquiry after the missing man.

* * * * *



CHAPTER XXXVIII.

THE OLD WELL.

Public feeling had grown so strong that it could no longer be disregarded, and the authorities had to take up the case. It was enforced upon their attention in many ways. The whole county urged it upon them, and journals of note in different parts of the kingdom denounced their lethargy. Under these circumstances they were compelled to take some action.

Wiggins had foreseen this, and to guard against this necessity he had himself done all in his power to search after the missing man. He had put the case in the hands of detectives, who had carried on an investigation in all quarters, and in every possible way; but to no purpose, and with no result. When at length the authorities came, he informed them of his search and its failure, but assured them that he still believed that Captain Dudleigh was alive. His theory was that, being heavily in debt, he had taken this mode of eluding his creditors, and after causing it to be believed that he was dead, he had quietly disappeared, and was now enjoying himself somewhere on the Continent. No one else, however, shared this opinion, and those who came to the search had no doubt that the missing man had been murdered. So they instituted a regular search over the whole estate. They began with the Hall, and went through every part of it. Then they turned their attention to the grounds These were extensive, and it seemed probable that somewhere among the groves or swamps the remains might be found. They searched the chapel and the vaults. They dragged the pond in front of the house. In all this Wiggins lent his active assistance toward furthering the ends of justice, but at the same time retained the firmest conviction that it was a trick of Dudleigh's, and that he was now in foreign parts.

At length some of those who had been going the rounds of the wall returned to the house, carrying something, the sight of which produced a profound excitement. It was the hook and rope by which Edith, had sought to escape. They found it hanging upon the wall, and every one recognized at a glance the intention of this rope-ladder. But the thing that produced the strongest excitement was something else. They had found it lying among the grass at the foot of the ladder, having evidently been dropped by some fugitive as an impediment, or thrown away as useless. It was a dagger, which, from being so long exposed to the weather, was covered with rust, but was still sharp and deadly.

This dagger seemed at once to confirm the general impression. It showed that one of the fugitives of that night—the one who had escaped—had been armed with a deadly weapon. Every one knew who the one was who had escaped. Every one had already suspected her. Her wild flight, her terrible agitation, her long illness—all had been known. What else could cause such a state of things but the dread remembrance of some dark crime? And now this dagger lay before them, the silent proof of the guilt of her who had left it there.

Upon Wiggins the effect was crushing. His tongue was paralyzed. He kept aloof after that, with despair on his face, and surveyed the proceedings at a distance. Not so Mrs. Dunbar. All this time she had been feverish and agitated, sometimes following the officers, at other times retiring. Upon her the sight of that dagger acted like something that confirmed the worst of her fears, and she burst forth into wild wails and lamentations. She then urged the officers to renewed search, and finally told them all about her own discovery of the empty rooms on that eventful morning, and the singular behavior of the dog.

The mention of this created new excitement, and they at once asked where the dog now was.

Mrs. Dunbar did not know. The dog had disappeared most mysteriously, and they had seen nothing of him for a long time.

They then asked to be taken to the place where the dog had stationed himself. Mrs. Dunbar, still wild with excitement, led the way there. Arriving at the spot, they examined it narrowly, but found nothing. It was grass, which had not been touched for years. No body lay buried beneath that old turf, as was plainly evident. They then went to the out-houses, toward which Mrs. Dunbar told them the dog had kept his face, turned for some time when she had first seen him; but here they found nothing whatever.

It was now late, and they began to think of retiring, when suddenly one of the party, who had been walking in the rear of the stables, gave a call which drew them all in that direction. Upon reaching him they found him standing at the edge of a pit, which looked like an old well. Over this there was still the frame of what had been the well-house, and the well itself was very deep. Kneeling, they all peered into the black depths beneath them, but discovered nothing. One of them dropped a stone, and the sound far below showed that the bottom lay at least sixty or eighty feet from the surface.

"How long since this well has been used?" asked the sheriff.

"Many years," said Mrs. Dunbar.

"Did you examine it?"

"We never thought of doing so."

"Well, we may as well try it. Can we have a rope?"

"Certainly," said Mrs. Dunbar, who at once went to the house, and soon returned with Hugo, who carried a long stout rope.

Now it remained to explore the well, and to do this it would be necessary for some one to descend. But no difficulty was found in this. By this time all had been stimulated to the highest degree by the excitement of the search, and there was something in the look of the well which made it seem like the very place for the hurried disposal of a body. Here, then, they were all convinced, if any where, they would be sure to come upon that which they sought. Accordingly several volunteered to go down; but the sheriff chose from among them the one who seemed fittest for that purpose, and to the others was allotted the task of lowering him. Some further time was taken up in making the necessary preparations for this; but at length these were all completed, and the man who was to go down, after binding one end of the rope about his chest and giving the other end to his companions, prepared to descend.

The well was not very wide, and was lined around its sides with rough stones. In the interstices between these he inserted his feet and hands, and thus he let himself down, descending gradually.

The others knelt around the mouth of the well, holding the rope, and letting it pass through their hands as their companion descended, peering silently into the dark with eager eyes, and listening breathlessly to the dull sounds made by the man below as he descended further and further.

At last all was still. From below there came no sound. He had reached the bottom. More anxiously than ever they tried to pierce through the gloom, but that gloom was impenetrable. Their companion delayed long. They began to feel uneasy.

At length they heard sounds, and knew that he was ascending. With what intelligence? What had he found in that awful abyss? This was the question which was suggested to every heart, but a question which no one could answer They lent their assistance, and pulled at the rope to help their companion. Nearer and nearer he came, and still nearer, until at last he was within reach. A few moments more and he emerged from the mouth of the well, and falling forward, he lay for a moment motionless.

They all rushed to his assistance, but he shook them off and rose to his feet.

"Did you find any thing?"

"Yes," said the man, in a hollow voice.

"What?" cried all, in breathless suspense.

"You shall see. Bring lights here, somebody. It's getting too dark for this business."

Hugo was at once dispatched to the Hall by Mrs. Dunbar for lights. There was by this time every necessity for them. Much time had been taken up with their preparations, and the shadows of evening had already gathered about them. While Hugo was gone they all questioned their companion, but he refused to say any thing.

"Don't ask me," he replied. "Wait and see for yourselves."

At this answer there was but one conviction in the minds of all, which was that the object of their search had been found. But there was now no further delay. Hugo soon returned with a lantern, and the man prepared to descend once more. The lantern he hung about his neck, and taking another piece of rope with him, the end of which was left with those above, he again went down. This time he was gone longer than before. Those above peering through the gloom could see a faint light far below, and the shadowy outline of their companion.

At length he began to ascent, and in due time reached the top.

"There," said he; "you may pull on that line. I have fastened it so that it'll hold."

Saying this, he flung himself exhausted on the grass, and unslung the lantern and unbound the rope.

The others pulled. There was a heavy weight at the end of the rope. They could all conjecture well what that dead-weight might be. But the fierce curiosity that now animated them stimulated them to put forth all their strength in a series of vigorous pulls. Nearer and nearer came that weight to the top. At last it hung just beneath them. Half a dozen hands were stretched out, and in an instant it was jerked out and lay upon the grass.

The sheriff seized the lantern and held it up. The scene was one of horror. All around was the gloom of night, the shadowy outline of trees and of the out-houses. A flickering light revealed a group of men surrounding some object on the grass, upon which they gazed in silent awe.

It was a shapeless, sodden mass, but the human outline was preserved, and the clothes were there, recognizable. It was a grisly, a hideous sight, and it held them all spellbound.

But suddenly the silence was broken. A wild shriek burst forth from Mrs. Dunbar, who the next instant fell forward upon the hideous object. Hugo seized her and raised her up. She was senseless.

"What is this?" cried the stern voice of Wiggins, who at that moment had come to the place.

"Mrs. Dunbar has fainted," said the sheriff; and then he pointed silently to the Thing that lay in the midst of the circle of spectators.

Wiggins looked at it, and seemed turned to stone. Then a shudder passed through him. Then he turned away.

As he walked he staggered like one who has received some terrible blow, and staggering on in his way, he passed out of sight into the gloom. After this Mrs. Dunbar was carried into the house by Hugo.

There was silence for a long time.

"The head is gone!" said the sheriff at length, in a low voice.

"Yes," said another; "it's been long in the water."

"Water couldn't do it," said the sheriff; "it was gone before it went into the water."

"What was that for?"

"To prevent identification," said the sheriff, in a significant tone.

The remains were in due time conveyed to an appropriate place, together with the rope and the dagger. On the following day a search was made for the missing head. The well was pumped dry, a task in which there was little difficulty, as there was little more than two feet of water in it, but nothing of the kind was found. Then they dragged the pond, but without result. The search was also continued elsewhere, but it was equally unsuccessful.

It was then concluded that the murderer had removed the head of his victim to prevent identification, and had buried it somewhere, but that the traces of burial had been obliterated by the lapse of time. The only wonder was that the clothes should have been allowed to remain by one who had been so much on his guard as to decapitate his victim.

* * * * *



CHAPTER XXXIX.

THE CORONER'S INQUEST.

The remains were deposited in a proper place, and a coroner's inquest was held at once, at which the usual examination of witnesses was conducted.

Wiggins was examined first. He showed great constraint. He had not much to say, however, about the disappearance of Captain Dudleigh, for he had been absent at that time, and he could only state what took place after his return. But in the course of these inquiries much was extorted from him relative to Edith's position at Dalton Hall, her marriage, and the terms on which she had been living with her husband. His answers were given with extreme hesitation and marked reluctance, and it was only by the utmost persistence that they were wrung from him.

The porter was examined, and in the course of the inquiry that scene at the gates when Edith tried to escape was revealed.

Hugo was examined. It was found out that he had overheard the conversation between Edith and Captain Dudleigh at their last interview. Hugo's answers were given with as much reluctance as those of Wiggins, but he was not able to evade the questions, and all that he knew was drawn from him. But Hugo's remembrance of words was not very accurate, and he could not give any detailed report of the conversation which he had overheard. Several things, however, had been impressed upon his memory. One was the occasion when Edith drew a dagger upon Captain Dudleigh, and left the room with it in her hand; another was when, in her last interview with him, she menaced his life, and threatened to have his "heart's blood." So it was that Hugo had understood Edith's words.

Mrs. Dunbar was examined, and gave her testimony with less hesitation. She was deathly pale, and weak and miserable. She spoke with difficulty, but was eager to bear witness to the noble character of Captain Dudleigh. She certainly showed nothing like hate toward Edith, but at the same time showed no hesitation to tell all about her. She told about Captain Dudleigh's first visits, and about the visits of his friend, who had assumed his name, or had the same name. She told how Edith had been warned, and how she scorned the warning. From her was elicited the story of Edith's return after her marriage, her illness, recovery, and desperate moods, in which she seemed transformed, as Mrs. Dunbar expressed it, to a "fury." The account of her discovery of the flight of Edith and the captain was given with much emotion, but with simple truth.

Mr. Munn was also examined about the marriage. He had not yet recovered from the agitation into which he had been thrown during his interview with Wiggins, but seemed in a state of chronic fright.

After these witnesses one other yet remained. It was one whose connection with these events was the closest of all—one upon whom that jury already looked as guilty of a terrible crime—as the one who had inflicted with her own hand that death whose cause they were investigating.

There was no doubt now in any mind. The remains had been identified by all the witnesses. The head had been removed, and had not been found, but the clothes were known to all. By these they judged the remains to be the body of Captain Dudleigh. Wiggins alone hesitated—but it was only hesitation; it was not denial.

When Edith was summoned before the coroner's jury, it was the very first intelligence that she had received of an event in which she was so deeply concerned. The landlady had heard all about the search and its results; but true to her determination to spare Edith all trouble, she had not allowed any news of these proceedings to be communicated to her. When the official appeared with his abrupt summons to attend, the shock was terrible, but there was nothing left except submission. A few brief answers to her hurried and agitated questions put her in possession of the chief facts of the case. On her way to the place she said not a word. The landlady went with her to take care of her, but Edith did not take any notice of her.

As she entered the room where the examination was going on, the scene that presented itself was one which might well have appalled a stouter heart than that of Edith, and which, coming as it did after the shock of this sudden surprise, and in the train of all that she had already suffered, gave to her a sharp pang of intolerable anguish, and filled her soul with horror unspeakable.



The rope-ladder lay there with its hook, with which she had effected her escape, and beside these was the dagger which more than once she had interposed between herself and her fierce aggressor; but it was not these that she saw; something else was there which fixed and enchained her gaze, which held her with a terrible fascination. A sheet was thrown over it, but the outlines of that which lay beneath indicated a human form, and the information which Edith had already received made her well aware whose that form was supposed to be. But she said nothing; she stood rigid, horror-stricken, overwhelmed, and looked at it with staring eyes and white lips.

The coroner made some remarks, consisting of the usual formulas, something like an apology for the examination, a hint that it might possibly affect herself, and a warning that she should be very careful not to say any thing that might inculpate herself.

To all this Edith paid no attention. She did not appear to have heard it. She stood, as the coroner spoke, in the same attitude as before, with her eyes set in the same rigid stare. As the coroner ceased, he stepped forward and drew away the sheet.

There it lay at last—unveiled, revealed to her eyes—the abhorrent Thing, whose faint outline had chilled her very soul, its aspect hideous, frightful, unendurable! As the sheet fell away, and all was revealed before her, she could restrain herself no longer; the strain was too great; with a loud cry, she half turned and tried to run. The next instant the landlady caught her as she was falling senseless to the floor.

The examination of Mrs. Dudleigh was postponed. On the whole, however, it was afterward considered unnecessary. Enough had been gathered from the other witnesses to enable the jury to come to a conclusion. It was felt, also, that Mrs. Dudleigh ought to have a chance; though they believed her guilty, they felt sorry for her, and did not wish her to criminate herself by any rash words. The result was that they brought in a verdict of murder against Mrs. Leon Dudleigh.

* * * * *



CHAPTER XL.

A STRANGE CONFESSION

The news of Edith's arrest spread like wild-fire, and the event became soon the subject of universal conversation. Rumors of all sorts arose, as is natural under such circumstances, most of which were adverse to the accused. People remembered against the daughter the crimes of the father. It was bad blood, they said, which she had inherited; it was an evil race to which she belonged, and the murderous tendency was hereditary.

The examination at the inquest had made known the general facts of her story, out of which public gossip constructed another story to suit itself.

Mrs. Dudleigh had been found troublesome and dangerous all along, so much so that it became necessary to keep her within the grounds. When Captain Dudleigh was paying attentions to her, she treated him with perfect brutality. On one occasion she struck him with her whip, and tried to run away. Captain Dudleigh had sent his friend, or relative, Lieutenant Dudleigh, to bring about a reconciliation. This was so well managed that the two resumed their former relations, and she even consented to make a runaway match with him. This, however, was not out of love so much as to spite her guardian.

After this marriage she took a violent dislike to her husband, and pretended to be ill, or perhaps suffered real illness, the natural result of her fierce, unbridled temper. Her husband found it impossible to live with her. The few interviews which they had were very stormy. Over and over again she threatened his life. At length she beguiled him into the park on some unknown pretext, and there, with that dagger which she had so often flourished in his face, she shed that very "heart's blood" which she had threatened to take. The murder was evidently a preconcerted act. She must have done it deliberately, for she had prepared the means of secret escape. She deliberately tried to conceal her act, and after removing his head, and burying it, she had thrown the body into the old well. But "murder will out," etc., etc.; and with this and other similar maxims Edith's condemnation was settled by the public mind.

Thus Edith was in prison, held there under a terrible charge, for which there was proof that was appalling in its character. The body found and identified seemed to plead against her; circumstances inculpated her; motives were assigned to her sufficiently strong to cause the act; her own words and acts all tended to confirm her guilt.

After all, however, this last blow was not so crushing a one as some others which she had received in the course of her life. The most terrible moment perhaps had been that one when she was taken and confronted with the horrible remains. After that shock had subsided she rallied somewhat; and when her arrest took place she was not unprepared.

If the shock of the arrest had thus been less severe than might be supposed, so also was she less affected by her imprisonment than another person would have been in such a situation. The reason of this is evident. She had endured so much that this seemed an inferior affliction. The anguish which she had known could not be increased by this. At Dalton Hall she had become habituated to imprisonment, and of a far more galling kind to her than this. She had been in the power of a tyrant, at his mercy, and shut out from all means of communicating with the world at large. Her soul had perpetually fretted and chafed against the barriers by which she was confined, and the struggle within herself was incessant. Afterward there had been the worse infliction of that mock marriage, and the unspeakable dread of a new tyrant who called himself her husband. No prison could equal the horrors which she had known at Dalton Hall. Here in the jail her situation was at least known. From Wiggins she was saved; from her false husband rescued forever. She was now not in the power of a private tyrant, exercising his usurped authority over her from his own desire, and with his will as his only law; but she was in the hands of the nation, and under the power of the national law. So, after all, she knew less grief in that prison cell than in the more luxurious abode of Dalton Hall, less sorrow, less despair. Her mood was a calm and almost apathetic one, for the great griefs which she had already endured had made her almost indifferent to anything that life might yet have to offer.

Two days after her arrest word was brought to Edith that a lady wished to see her. Full of wonder who it could be, and in doubt whether it could be Miss Plympton, or only Mrs. Dunbar, Edith eagerly directed that the visitor should be admitted.

Thereupon a lady dressed in black entered the chamber. A heavy black veil was over her face, which she raised as she entered, and stood before Edith with downcast eyes.

There was something in that face which seemed strangely familiar to Edith, and yet she found herself quite unable to think who the lady could be. She thought over all the faces that she had known in her school days. She thought over the faces at Dalton Hall. Suddenly, as the lady raised her eyes, there was an additional revelation in them which at once told Edith all.

She started back in amazement.

"Lieutenant Dudleigh!" she cried.

The lady bowed her head, and said, in a low voice,

"Fortescue is my real name."



A suspicion of this sort had once flashed across Edith's mind. It was during the altercation at the Dalton chapel. Still, as this suspicion was thus confirmed, her surprise was extreme, and she said not a word, but looked steadily at her. And in the midst of other thoughts and feelings she could not help seeing that great changes had come over Miss Fortescue, as she called herself, in addition to those which were consequent upon her resumption of feminine attire. She was pale and thin, and looked ten years older than she used to look. Evidently she had undergone great suffering. There were marks of deep grief on her face. Much Edith marveled to see that one who had acted so basely was capable of suffering such grief. She could not help being reminded of that expression which she had seen on this same face when they were arranging that false marriage; but now that deep remorse which then had appeared seemed stamped permanently there, together with a profound dejection that was like despair. All this was not without its effect on Edith. It disarmed her natural indignation, and even excited pity.

"Miss Dalton," said the visitor, in a voice that was quite different from the one which she remembered—a voice that was evidently her natural one, while that other must have been assumed—"Miss Dalton, I have come to try to do something, if possible, toward making amends for—for a frightful injury. I know well that amends can never be made; but at least I can do a little. Will you listen to me for a few moments, not with regard to me, but solely for your own sake?"

Edith said nothing, but bowed her head slightly. She did not yet know how far this betrayer might be sincere, and wished to hear and judge for herself.

"Will you let me, first of all, make a confession to you of my great sin?" she continued, slowly and painfully. "You will understand better your own present situation. I assure you it will be a help to you toward freeing yourself. I don't ask you to believe—I only ask you to listen."

Edith again bowed.

"I will tell you all, then. I was an actress in London; my name was Fortescue. I was a celebrity at Covent Garden. It was there that I first met Captain Dudleigh. I need say no more about him than this: I loved him passionately, with a frenzy and a devotion that you can not understand, and my fate is this—that I love him yet. I know that he is a coward and a villain and a traitor, but even now I would be willing to die for him."

The voice was different—how different!—and the tone and manner still more so. The careless "Little Dudleigh" had changed into a being of passion and ardor and fire. Edith tried to preserve an incredulous state of mind, but in vain. She could not help feeling that there was no acting here. This at least was real. This devoted love could not be feigned.

"He swore he loved me," continued Miss Fortescue. "He asked me to be his wife. We were married."

"Married!" cried Edith, in a tone of profoundest agitation.

"Yes," said Miss Fortescue, solemnly, "we were married. But listen. I believed that the marriage was real. He told some story about his friends being unwilling—about his father, who, he said, would disown him if he found it out. He urged a private marriage, without any public announcement. He knew a young clergyman, he said, who would do him that favor. For my part I had not the slightest objection. I loved him too well to care about a formal wedding. So we were married in his rooms, with a friend of his for witness.

"He set up a modest little house, where we lived for about a year. At first my life was one of perfect happiness, but gradually I saw a change coming over him. He was terribly in debt, and was afraid of utter ruin. From hints that dropped from him, I began to suspect that he meditated some sort of treachery toward me. Then, for the first time, I was alarmed at the privacy of our marriage. Still, I was afraid to say any thing to him, for fear that it might hasten any treachery toward me which he might meditate. I loved him as dearly as ever, but I found out that he was base and unprincipled, and felt that he was capable of any thing. I had to content myself with watching him, and at the same time tried to be as cheerful as possible.

"At length he heard about you, and came to Dalton. His father sent him, he said. I followed him here. At first he was angry, but I persuaded him to take me as an assistant. He did not want to be known at the Hall, for he wished to see first what could be done with Wiggins. He made me disguise myself as a man, and so I called myself Lieutenant Dudleigh. He went to Dalton Hall, and discovered that the porter was some old criminal who had done his crime on the Dudleigh estates—poaching, I think, or murder, or both. On seeing Wiggins, he was able to obtain some control over him—I don't know what. He never would tell me.

"By this time I found out what I had all along suspected—that he came here for your sake. He was terribly in debt. A dark abyss lay before him. He began to feel me to be an incumbrance. He began to wish that he was a free man, so that he might marry you. I saw all this with a grief that I can not tell.

"We made several calls on you. I went as his mother, Mrs. Mowbray."

"Mrs. Mowbray! You!" exclaimed Edith, in wonder.

"Did I act my part well?" said Miss Fortescue, mournfully. "It was an easy enough part. I believe I succeeded in making myself utterly detestable. Captain Dudleigh was bitterly vexed at my manner. He wanted me to gain your confidence. That, however, I could not yet bring myself to do. His own intercourse with you was even worse. Your attempt to escape was a terrible blow to his hopes. Yet he dared not let you escape. That would have destroyed his plans utterly. You would have gone to your friends—to Miss Plympton—and you would have found out things about him which would have made his projects with reference to you out of the question."

"Miss Plympton!" cried Edith. "How could I have gone to her? She is away."

"That was one of my lies," said Miss Fortescue. "Unfortunately, she is really ill, but she is still in the country, at her school. I myself went there to tell her about you only two days ago, but found that she had been ill for some time, and could not see any one."

Edith sighed heavily. For an instant hope had come, and then it had died out.

"He made me go again to see you, but with what result you know. I was fairly driven away at last. This made him terribly enraged against you and against me, but I quieted him by reminding him that it was only his own fault. It brought about a change in his plans, however, and forced him to put me more prominently forward. Then it was that he devised that plan by which I was to go and win your confidence. I can not speak of it; you know it all. I wish merely to show you what the pressure was that he put on me.

"'Dear wife,' said he to me one day, in his most affectionate tone—'my own Lucy, you know all about my affairs, and you know that I am utterly ruined. If I can not do something to save myself, I see no other resource but to blow my brains out. I will do it, I swear I will, if I can not get out of these scrapes. My father will not help me. He has paid all my debts twice, and won't do it again. Now I have a proposal to make. It's my only hope. You can help me. If you love me, you will do so. Help me in this, and then you will bind your husband to you by a tie that will be stronger than life. If you will not do this simple thing, you will doom me to death, for I swear I will kill myself, or at least, if not that, I will leave you forever, and go to some place where I can escape my creditors.'

"This was the way that he forced his plan upon me. You know what it was. I was to see you, and do—what was done.

"'You are my wife,' said he, earnestly. 'I can not marry her—I don't want to—but I do want to get money. Let me have the control of the Dalton estates long enough to get out of my scrapes. You can't be jealous of her. She hates me. I hate her, and love you—yes, better than life. When she finds out that I am married to her she will hate me still more. The marriage is only a form, only a means of getting money, so that I may live with my own true wife, my darling Lucy, in peace, and free from this intolerable despair.'

"By such assurances as these—by dwelling incessantly upon the fact that I was his wife, and that this proposed marriage to you was an empty form—upon your hate for him, and the certainty of your still greater hate, he gradually worked upon me. He appealed to my love for him, my pity for his situation, and to every feeling that could move me in his favor. Then it was that he told me frankly the name of the clergyman who had married us, and the witness. The clergyman's name was Porter, and the witness was a Captain Reeves. So, in spite of my abhorrence of the act, I was led at last, out of my very love to him, and regard for his future, to acquiesce in his plan. Above all, I was moved by one thing upon which he laid great stress.

"'It will really be for her benefit,' he would say. 'She will not be married at all. I shall take some of her money, certainly; but she is so enormously rich that she will never feel it; besides, if I didn't get it, Wiggins would. Better for her cousin to have it. It will be all in the family. Above all, this will be the means, and the only means, of freeing her from that imprisonment in which Wiggins keeps her. That is her chief desire. She will gain it. After I pay my debts I will explain all to her; and what is more, when I succeed to my own inheritance, as I must do in time, I shall pay her every penny.'

"By such plausible reasoning as this he drove away my last objection, and so, with out any further hesitation, I went about that task.

"But oh, how hard it was! Over and over again I felt like giving up. But always he was ready to urge me on, until at last it was accomplished, and ended as you remember."

Miss Fortescue paused here, and made no reply. Edith said not a word. Why should she? What availed this woman's repentance now?

"I came here," continued Miss Fortescue at length, "first of all to explain this, but to tell you other things also. I must now tell you something which makes your position more painful than I thought it would be. I soon found out the full depth of Captain Dudleigh's villainy. While I thought that you only were deceived, I found that I the one who was most deceived.

"After that marriage in the chapel we went back to Dalton, and there he abused me in the most frightful manner. He pretended to be enraged because I rebuked him in the chapel. His rage was only a pretense. Then it all came out. He told me plainly that my marriage with him was a mockery; that the man Porter who had married was not a clergyman at all, but a creature of his whom he had bribed to officiate; that Reeves was not a captain, and that his testimony in any case would be useless. All this was crushing. It was something that was so entirely in accordance with my own fears that I had not a word to say. He railed at me like a madman, and informed me that he had only tolerated me here at Dalton so as to use me as his tool. And this was our last interview. He left me there, and I have never seen him since. He said he was your husband, and was going to live at Dalton. I could do nothing. I went, however, to the gates, got sight of Wiggins, and for your sake I told him all. I thought it was better for you to remain under the authority of Wiggins than to be in the power of such a villain as Captain Dudleigh. I told Wiggins also that I still had a hope that my marriage was valid. I went back at once to London, and tried to find out clergymen named Porter. I have seen several, and written to many others whose names I have seen on the church list, but none of them know any thing about such a marriage as mine. I began, therefore, to fear that he was right, and if so—I was not his wife."

Silence followed now for some time. Miss Fortescue was waiting to see the effect of her story, and Edith was meditating upon the facts with which this strange revelation dealt. Although she had been so great a sufferer, still she did not feel resentment now against this betrayer. For this one was no longer the miserable, perfidious go-between, but rather an injured wife led to do wrong by the pressure put upon her, and by her own love.

"Then that was not a mock marriage?" said she at last.

"By justice and right it was no marriage," said Miss Fortescue; "but how the law may regard it I do not know."

"Has Sir Lionel been heard of yet?" asked Edith, after another pause.

"Sir Lionel!" said Miss Fortescue, in surprise. "Oh, I had forgotten. Miss Dalton, that, I grieve to say, was all a fiction. He was never out of the country."

"Did you ever speak a word of truth to me?" asked Edith, indignantly.

Miss Fortescue was silent.

"At any rate, it is of no consequence now," said Edith. "Sir Lionel is nothing to me; for he must look with horror on one whom he believes to be the slayer of his son."

"Oh, Miss Dalton!" burst forth Miss Fortescue, "do not despair; he will be found yet."

"Found! He has been found. Did you not hear?"

"Oh, I don't mean that. I do not believe that it was him. I believe that he is alive. This is all a mistake. I will search for him. I do not believe that this is him. I believe he is alive. Oh, Miss Dalton, if I could only do this for you, I should be willing to die. But I will try; I know how to get on his track; I know where to go; I must hear of him, if he is alive. Try to have hope; do not despair."

Edith shook her head mournfully.

Miss Fortescue tried still further to lessen Edith's despair, and assured her that she had hopes herself of finding him before it was too late, but her words produced no effect.

"I do not ask you to forgive me," said Miss Fortescue; "that would be almost insolence; but I entreat you to believe that I will devote myself to you, and that you have one whose only purpose in life now is to save you from this fearful fate. Thus far you have known me only as a speaker of lies; but remember, I pray you, what my position was. I was playing a part—as Mrs. Mowbray—as Lieutenant Dudleigh—as Barber the lawyer—"

"Barber!" exclaimed Edith. "What! Barber too?"

"Yes," said Miss Fortescue, sadly; "all those parts were mine. It was easy to play them before one so honest and so unsuspecting; but oh, Miss Dalton, believe me, it is in playing a part only that I have deceived you. Now, when I no longer play a part, but come to you in my own person, I will be true. I will devote myself to the work of saving you from this terrible position in which I have done so much to place you."

Edith made no reply, and soon after Miss Fortescue departed, leaving her to her own reflections.

* * * * *



CHAPTER XLI.

A REVELATION.

If any thing could have added to the misery of Edith and her general despondency, it would have been the revelations of Miss Fortescue. It had certainly been bad enough to recall the treachery of a false friend; but the facts as just revealed went far beyond what she had imagined. They revealed such a long course of persistent deceit, and showed that she had been subject to such manifold, long-sustained, and comprehensive lying, that she began to lose faith in human nature. Whom now could she believe? Could she venture to put confidence in this confession of Miss Fortescue? Was that her real name, and was this her real story, or was it all some new piece of acting, contrived by this all-accomplished actor for the sake of dragging her down to deeper abysses of woe? She felt herself to be surrounded by remorseless enemies, all of whom were plotting against her, and in whose hearts there was no possibility of pity or remorse. Wiggins, the archenemy, was acting a part which was mysterious just now, but which nevertheless, she felt sure, was aimed at her very life. Mrs. Dunbar, she knew, was more open in the manifestation of her feelings, for she had taken up the cause of the murdered man with a warmth and vindictive zeal that showed Edith plainly what she might expect from her. Her only friend, Miss Plympton, was still lost to her; and her illness seemed probable, since, if it were not so, she would not keep aloof from her at such a moment as this. Hopeless as she had been of late, she now found that there were depths of despair below those in which she had thus far been—"in the lowest deep, a lower deep."



Such were her thoughts and feelings through the remainder of that day and through the following night. But little sleep came to her. The future stood before her without one ray of light to shine through its appalling gloom. On the next day her despair seemed even greater; her faculties seemed benumbed, and a dull apathy began to settle down over her soul.

From this state of mind she was roused by the opening of the door and the entrance of a visitor. Turning round, she saw Wiggins.

This was the first time that she had seen him since she left Dalton Hall, and in spite of that stolid and apathetic indifference which had come to her, she could not help being struck by the change which had come over him. His face seemed whiter, his hair grayer, his form more bent; his footsteps were feeble and uncertain; he leaned heavily upon his walking-stick; and in the glance that he turned toward her there was untold sympathy and compassion, together with a timid supplication that was unlike any thing which she had seen in him before.

Edith neither said any thing nor did any thing. She looked at him with dull indifference. She did not move. The thought came to her that this was merely another move in that great game of treachery and fraud to which she had been a victim; that here was the archtraitor, the instigator of all the lesser movements, who was coming to her in order to carry out some necessary part.

Wiggins sat down wearily upon one of the rude chairs of the scantily furnished room, and after a brief silence, looking at her sadly, began.

"I know," said he, "how yon misunderstand me, and how unwelcome I must be; but I had to come, so as to assure you that I hope to find this man who is missing. I—I hope to do so before the—the trial. I have been searching all along, but without success—thus far. I wish to assure you that I have found out a way by which you—will be saved. And if you believe me, I trust that you will—try—to—cherish more hope than you appear to be doing."

He paused.

Edith said nothing at all. She was silent partly out of apathy, and partly from a determination to give him no satisfaction, for she felt that any words of hers, no matter how simple, might be distorted and used against her.

Wiggins looked at her with imploring earnestness, and seemed to wait for her to say something. But finding her silent, he went on:

"Will yon let me ask you one question? and forgive me for asking it; but it is of some importance to—to me—and to you. It is this: Did—did you see him at all—that night?"

"I have been warned," replied Edith, in a dull, cold tone, "to say nothing, and I intend to say nothing."

Wiggins sighed.

"To say nothing," said he, "is not always wise. I once knew a man who was charged with terrible crimes—crimes of which he was incapable. He was innocent, utterly. Not only innocent, indeed, but he had fallen under this suspicion, and had become the object of this charge, simply on account of his active efforts to save a guilty friend from ruin. His friend was the guilty one, and his friend was also his sister's husband; and this man had gone to try and save his friend, when he himself was arrested for that friend's crimes."

Wiggins did not look at Edith; his eyes were downcast. He spoke in a tone that seemed more like a soliloquy than any thing else. It was a tone, however, which, though low, was yet tremulous with ill-suppressed agitation.

"He was accused," continued Wiggins, "and if he had spoken and told what he knew, he might have saved his life. But if he had done this he would have had to become a witness, and stood up in court and say that which would ruin his friend. And so he could not speak. His lips were sealed. To speak would have been to inform against his friend. How could he do that? It was impossible. Yet some may think—you may think—that this man did wrong in allowing himself to be put in this false position. You may say that he had more than himself to consider—he had his family, his name, his—his wife, his child!

"Yes," resumed Wiggins, after a long pause, "this is all true, and he did consider them, all—all—all! He did not trifle with his family name and honor, but it was rather on account of the pride which he took in these that he kept his silence. He was conscious of his perfect innocence. He could not think it possible that such charges could be carried out against one like himself. He believed implicitly in the justice of the courts of his country. He thought that in a fair trial the innocent could not possibly be proclaimed guilty. More than all, he thought that his proud name, his stainless character, and even his wealth and position, would have shown the world that the charges were simply impossible. He thought that all men would have seen that for him to have done such things would involve insanity."

As Wiggins said this his voice grew more earnest and animated. He looked at Edith with his solemn eyes, and seemed as though he was pleading with her the cause of his friend—as though he was trying to show her how it had happened that the father had dishonored the name which the child must bear—as though he was justifying to the daughter, Edith Dalton, the acts of the father, Frederick Dalton.

"So he bore it all with perfect calmness," continued Wiggins, "and had no doubt that he would be acquitted, and thought that thus he would at least be able, without much suffering, to save his friend from ruin most terrific—from the condemnation of the courts and the fate of a felon."

Wiggins paused once more for some time. He was looking at Edith. He had expected some remark, but she had made none. In fact, she had regarded all this as a new trick of Wiggins—a transparent one too—the aim of which was to win her confidence by thus pretending to vindicate her father. He had already tried to work on her in that way, and had failed; and on this occasion he met with the same failure.

"There is no occasion for you to be silent, I think," said Wiggins, turning from the subject to the situation of Edith. "You have no friend at stake; you will endanger no one, and save yourself, by telling whether you are innocent or not."

These last words roused Edith. It was an allusion to her possible guilt. She determined to bring the interview to a close. She was tired of this man and his attempts to deceive her. It was painful to see through all this hypocrisy and perfidy at the very moment when they were being used against herself.

She looked at him with a stony gaze, and spoke in low, cold tones as she addressed him. "This is all useless. I am on my guard. Why you come here I do not know. Of course you wish to entrap me into saying something, so that you may use my words against me at the trial. You ask me if I saw this man on that night. You ask me if I am innocent. You well know that I am innocent. You, and you only, know who saw him last on that night; for as I believe in my own existence, so I believe, and affirm to your face, that this Leon Dudleigh was murdered by you, and you only!"

He looked at her fixedly as she said this, returning her stony gaze with a mournful look—a pitying look, full of infinite sadness and tenderness. He raised his hand deprecatingly, but said nothing until she had uttered those last words.

"Stop!" he said, in a low voice—"stay! I can not bear it."

He rose from his seat and came close to her. He leaned upon his stick heavily, and looked at her with eyes full of that same strange, inexplicable tenderness and compassion. Her eyes seemed fascinated by his, and in her mind there arose a strange bewilderment, an expectation of something she knew not what.

"Edith," said he, in a sweet and gentle voice, full of tender melancholy—"Edith, it would be sin in me to let you any longer heap up matter for future remorse; and even though I go against the bright hope of my life in saying this now, yet I must. Edith—"

He paused, looking at her, while she regarded him with awful eyes.

"Edith!" he said again—"my—my—child!"

There were tears in his eyes now, and there was on his face a look of unutterable love and unspeakable pity and forgiveness. He reached out his hand and placed it tenderly upon her head.

"Edith," he said again, "my child, you will never say these things again. I—I do not deserve them. I—am your—your father, Edith!"

At these words a convulsive shudder passed through Edith. He felt her frail form tremble, he saw her head fall, and heard a low sob that seemed torn from her.

She needed no more words than these. In an instant she saw it all; and though bewildered, she did not for a moment doubt his words. But her whole being was overwhelmed by a sudden and a sharp agony of remorse; for she had accustomed herself to hate this man, and the irrepressible tokens of a father's love she had regarded as hypocrisy. She had never failed to heap upon that reverend head the deepest scorn, contumely, and insult. But a moment before she had hurled at him a terrible accusation. At him! At whom? At the man whose mournful destiny it had been all along to suffer for the sins of others; and she it was who had flung upon him an additional burden of grief.

But with all her remorse there were other feelings—a shrinking sense of terror, a recoil from this sudden discovery as from something abhorrent. This her father! That father's face and form had been stamped in her memory. For years, as she had lived in the hope of seeing him, she had quickened her love for him and fed her hopes from his portrait. But how different was this one! What a frightful change from the father that lived in her memory! The one was a young man in the flush and pride of life and strength—the other a woe-worn, grief-stricken sufferer, with reverend head, bowed form, and trembling limbs. Besides, she had long regarded him as dead; and to see this man was like looking on one who had risen from the dead.

In an instant, however, all was plain, and together with the discovery there came the pangs of remorse and terror and anguish. She could understand all. He, the escaped convict, had come to England, and was supposed to be dead. He had lived, under a false name, a life of constant and vigilant terror. He kept his secret from all the world. Oh, if he had only told her! Now the letter of Miss Plympton was all plain, and she wondered how she had been so blind.

"Oh!" she moaned, in a scarce audible voice, "why did you not tell me?"

"Oh, Edith darling! my child! my only love!" murmured Frederick Dalton, bending low over her, and infolding her trembling frame in his own trembling arms; "my sweet daughter, if you could only have known how I yearned over you! But I delayed to tell you. It was the one sweet hope of my life to redeem my name from its foul stain, and then declare myself. I wanted you to get your father back as he had left you, without this abhorrent crime laid to his charge. I did wrong not to trust you. It was a bitter, bitter error. But I had so set my heart on it. It was all for your sake, Edith—all, darling, for your sake!"

Edith could bear no more. Every one of these words was a fresh stab to her remorseful heart—every tone showed to her the depth of love that lay in that father's heart, and revealed to her the suffering that she must have caused. It was too much; and with a deep groan she sank away from his arms upon the floor. She clasped his knees—she did not dare to look up. She wished only to be a suppliant. He himself had prophesied this. His terrible warnings sounded even now in her ears. She had only one thought—to humble herself in the dust before that injured father.

Dalton tried to raise her up.

"My darling!" he cried, "my child! you must not—you will break my heart!" "Oh," moaned Edith, "if it is not already broken, how can you ever forgive me?—how can you call me your child?"

"My child! my child!" said Dalton. "It was for you that I lived. If it had not been for the thought of you, I should have died long since. It was for your sake that I came home. It is for you only that I live now. There is nothing for me to forgive. Look up at me. Let me see your darling face. Let me hear you say one word—only one word—the word that I have hungered and thirsted to hear. Call me father."

"Father! oh, father! dear father!" burst forth Edith, clinging to him with convulsive energy, and weeping bitterly.

"Oh, my darling!" said Dalton, "I was to blame. How could you have borne what I expected you to bear, when I would not give you my confidence? Do not let us speak of forgiveness. You loved your father all the time, and you thought that I was his enemy and yours."

Gradually Edith became calmer, and her calmness was increased by the discovery that her father was painfully weak and exhausted. He had been overwhelmed by the emotions which this interview had called forth. He now sat gazing at her with speechless love, holding her hands in his, but his breath came and went rapidly, and there was a feverish tremulousness in his voice and a flush on his pale cheeks which alarmed her. She tried to lessen his agitation by talking about her own prospects, but Dalton did not wish to.

"Not now, daughter," he said. "I will hear it all some other time. I am too weary, Let me only look at your dear face, and hear you call me by that sweet name, and feel my child's hands in mine. That will be bliss enough for this day. Another time we will speak about the—the situation that you are in."

As he was thus agitated, Edith was forced to refrain from asking him a thousand things which she was longing to know. She wished to learn how he had escaped, how he had made it to be believed that he was dead, and whether he was in any present danger. But all this she had to postpone. She had also to postpone her knowledge of that great secret—the secret that had baffled her, and which he had preserved inviolable through all these years. She now saw that her suspicions of the man "John Wiggins" must have been unfounded, and indeed the personality of "Wiggins" became a complete puzzle to her.

He bade her a tender adieu, promising to come early on the following day.

But on the following day there were no signs of him. Edith waited in terrible impatience, which finally deepened into alarm as his coming was still delayed. She had known so much of sorrow that she had learned to look for it, and began to expect some new calamity. Here, where she had found her father, where she had received his forgiveness for that which would never cease to cause remorse to herself, here, in this moment of respite from despair, she saw the black prospect of renewed misery. It was as though she had found him for a moment, only to lose him forever.

Toward evening a note was sent to her. She tore it open. It was from Mrs. Dunbar, and informed her that her father was quite ill, and was unable to visit her, but hoped that he might recover.