After that several days passed, and she heard nothing. At length another note came informing her that her father had been dangerously ill, but was now convalescent.

Other days passed, and Edith heard regularly. Her father was growing steadily better. On one of these notes he had written his name with a trembling hand.

And so amidst these fresh sorrows, and with her feelings ever alternating between hope and despair, Edith lingered on through the time that intervened until the day of the trial.

* * * * *



CHAPTER XLII.

THE TRIAL.

At length the day for the trial arrived, and the place was crowded. At the appearance of Edith there arose a murmur of universal sympathy and pity. All the impressions which had been formed of her were falsified. Some had expected to see a coarse masculine woman; others a crafty, sinister face; others an awkward, ill-bred rustic, neglected since her father's trial by designing guardians. Instead of this there appeared before them a slender, graceful, youthful form, with high refinement and perfect breeding in every outline and movement. The heavy masses of her dark hair were folded across her brow, and wreathed in voluminous folds behind. Her pallid face bore traces of many griefs through which she had passed, and her large spiritual eyes had a piteous look as they wandered for a moment over the crowd.

No one was prepared to see any thing like this, and all hearts were at once touched. It seemed preposterous to suppose that one like her could be otherwise than innocent.

The usual formulas took place, and the trial began. The witnesses were those who had already been examined. It was rumored that Sir Lionel Dudleigh was to be brought forward, and "Wiggins," and Mrs. Dunbar, but not till the following day.

At the end of that day the opinion of the public was strongly in favor of Edith; but still there was great uncertainty as to her guilt or innocence. It was generally believed that she had been subject to too much restraint, and in a foolish desire to escape had been induced to marry Dudleigh. But she had found him a worse master than the other, and had hated him from the first, so that they had many quarrels, in which she had freely threatened his life. Finally both had disappeared on the same night. He was dead; she survived.

The deceased could not have committed suicide, for the head was missing. Had it not been for that missing head, the theory of suicide would have been plausible.

The second day of the trial came. Edith had seen her father on the previous evening, and had learned something from him which had produced a beneficial effect, for there was less terror and dejection in her face. This was the first time that she had seen him since his illness.

There was one in the hall that day who looked at her with an earnest glance of scrutiny as he took his place among the witnesses.

It was Sir Lionel Dudleigh, who had come here to give what testimony he could about his son. His face was as serene as usual; there was no sadness upon it, such as might have been expected in the aspect of a father so terribly bereaved; but the broad content and placid bonhomie appeared to be invincible.

The proceedings of this day were begun by an announcement on the part of the counsel for the defense, which fell like a thunder-clap upon the court. Sir Lionel started, and all in the court involuntarily stretched forward their heads as though to see better the approach of the astonishing occurrence which had been announced.

The announcement was simply this, that any further proceedings were useless, since the missing man himself had been found, and was to be produced forthwith. There had been no murder, and the body that had been found must be that of some person unknown.

Shortly after a group entered the hall. First came Frederick Dalton, known to the court as "John Wiggins." He still bore traces of his recent illness, and, indeed, was not fit to be out of his bed, but he had dragged himself here to be present at this momentous scene. He was terribly emaciated, and moved with difficulty, supported by Mrs. Dunbar, who herself showed marks of suffering and exhaustion almost equal to his.

But after these came another, upon whom all eyes were fastened, and even Edith's gaze was drawn away from her father, to whom she had longed to fly so as to sustain his dear form, and fixed upon this new-comer.

Dudleigh! The one whom she had known as Mowbray. Dudleigh!

Yes, there he stood.

Edith's eyes were fixed upon him in speechless amazement. It was Dudleigh, and yet it seemed as though it could not be Dudleigh.

There was that form and there was that face which had haunted her for so long a time, and had been associated with so many dark and terrible memories—the form and the face which were so hateful, which never were absent from her thoughts, and intruded even upon her dreams.

Yet upon that face there was now something which was not repulsive even to her. It was a noble, spiritual face. Dudleigh's features were remarkable for their faultless outline and symmetry, and now the expression was in perfect keeping with the beauty of physical form, for the old hardness had departed, and the deep stamp of sensuality and selfishness was gone, and the sinister look which had once marred those features could be traced there no more.

It was thinner than the face which Edith remembered, and it seemed to her as if it had been worn down by some illness. If so, it must have been the same cause which had imparted to those features the refinement and high bearing which were now visible there. There was the same broad brow covered with its clustering locks, the same penetrating eyes, the same square, strong chin, the same firm, resolute month, but here it was as though a finer touch had added a subtle grace to all these; for about that mouth there lingered the traces of gentleness and kindliness, like the remnant of sweet smiles; the glance of the eye was warmer and more human; there was also an air of melancholy, and over all a grandeur of bearing which spoke of high breeding and conscious dignity.

This man, with his earnest and even melancholy face and lofty bearing, did not seem like one who could have plotted so treacherously against a helpless girl. His aspect filled Edith with something akin to awe, and produced a profound impression upon the spectators. They forgot the hatred which they had begun to feel against Dudleigh in the living presence of the object of their hate, and looked in silence first at Edith, then at the new-comer, wondering why it was that between such as these there could be any thing less than mutual affection. They thought they could understand now why she should choose him as a husband. They could not understand how such a husband could become hateful.

In all the court but one object seemed to attract Dudleigh, and that was Edith. His eyes had wandered about at first, and finally had rested on her. With a glance of profoundest and most gentle sympathy he looked at her, conveying in that one look enough to disarm even her resentment. She understood that look, and felt it, and as she looked at him in return she was filled with wonder.

Could such things be? she thought. Was this the man who had caused her so much suffering, who bad blasted and blighted the hopes of her life? or, rather, had the man who had so wronged her been transformed to this? Impossible! As well might a fiend become changed to an archangel. And yet here he was. Evidently this was Dudleigh. She looked at him in speechless bewilderment.

The proceedings of the court went on, and Dudleigh soon explained his disappearance. As he spoke his voice confirmed the fact that he was Dudleigh; but Edith listened to it with the same feelings which had been excited by his face. It was the same voice, yet not the same; it was the voice of Dudleigh, but the coldness and the mockery of its intonations were not there. Could he have been playing a devil's part all along, and was he now coming out in his true character, or was this a false part? No; whatever else was false, this was not—that expression of face, that glance of the eye, those intonations, could never be feigned. So Edith thought as she listened.

Dudleigh's explanation was a simple one. He had not been very happy at Dalton Hall and had concluded to go away that night for a tour on the Continent. He had left so as to get the early morning train, and had traveled on without stopping until he reached Palermo, from which he had gone to different places in the interior of Sicily, which he mentioned. He had climbed over the gate, because he was in too much of a hurry to wake the porter. He had left his valise, as he intended to walk. He had, of course, left his dog at Dalton, because he couldn't take him to the Continent. He had forgotten his watch, for the reason that he had slept longer than he intended, and dressed and went off in a great hurry. The pocket-book which he left was of no importance—contained principally memoranda, of no use to any but himself. He had no idea there would have been such a row, or he would not have gone in such a hurry. He had heard of this for the first time in Sicily, and would have come at once, but, unfortunately, he had a attack of fever, and could not return before.

Nothing could have been more natural and frank than Dudleigh's statement. A few questions were asked, merely to satisfy public curiosity. Every one thought that a trip to Sicily was a natural enough thing for one who was on such bad terms with his wife, and the suddenness of his resolution to go there was sufficient to account for the disorder in which he had left his room.

But all this time there was one in that court who looked upon the new-comer with far different feelings that those which any other had.

This was Sir Lionel Dudleigh.

He had heard the remark of the counsel that Dudleigh had returned, and looked toward the door as he entered with a smile on his face. As he saw Dudleigh enter he started. Then his face turned ghastly white, and his jaw fell. He clutched the railing in front of him with both hands, and seemed fascinated by the sight.

Near him stood Mrs. Dunbar, and Dalton leaned on her. Both of these looked fixedly at Sir Lionel, and noticed his emotion.

At the sound of Dudleigh's voice Sir Lionel's emotion increased. He breathed heavily. His face turned purple. His knuckles turned white as he grasped the railing. Suddenly, in the midst of Dudleigh's remarks, he started to his feet, and seemed about to say something. Immediately in front of him were Dalton and Mrs. Dunbar. At that instant, as he rose, Mrs. Dunbar laid her hand on his arm.

He looked at her with astonishment. He had not seen her before. She fixed her solemn eyes on him—those eyes to which had come a gloom more profound, and a sadness deeper than before. But Sir Lionel stared at her without recognition, and impatiently tried to shake off her hand.

"Who are you?" he said, suddenly, in a trembling voice—for there was something in this woman's face that suggested startling thoughts.

Mrs. Dunbar drew nearer to him, and in a whisper that thrilled through every fibre of Sir Lionel's frame, hissed in his ear,

"I am your wife—and here is my brother Frederick!"

Over Sir Lionel's face there came a flash of horror, sudden, sharp, and overwhelming. He staggered and shrank back.

"Claudine!" he murmured, in a stifled voice.

"Sit down," whispered Lady Dudleigh—now no longer Mrs. Dunbar—"sit down, or you shall have to change places with Frederick's daughter."

Sir Lionel swayed backward and forward, and appeared not to hear her. And now his eyes wandered to Dalton, who stood gazing solemnly at him, and then to Dudleigh, who was still speaking.

"Who is that?" he gasped.

"Your son!" said Lady Dudleigh.



At this instant Dudleigh finished. Sir Lionel gave a terrible groan, and flung up his arms wildly. The next instant he fell heavily forward, and was caught in the arms of his wife. A crowd flew to his assistance, and he was carried out of court, followed by Lady Dudleigh.

There was a murmur of universal sympathy.

"Poor Sir Lionel! He has been heartbroken, and the joy of his son's safety is too much."

After this the proceedings soon came to an end.

Edith was free!

Dalton tried to get to her, but in his weakness sank upon a seat, and looked imploringly at his daughter. Seeing this, Dudleigh sprang to his assistance, and gave his arm. Leaning heavily upon this, Dalton walked toward Edith, who was already striving to reach him, and, with a low cry, caught her in his arms.

Sir Lionel had been taken to the inn, where Lady Dudleigh waited on him. After some time he recovered his senses, and began to rally rapidly. It had been feared that it was apoplexy, but, fortunately for the sufferer, it turned out to be nothing so serious as that. After this Lady Dudleigh was left alone with her husband.

Ten years of separation lay between these two—a separation undertaken from causes that still existed to alienate them beyond the hope of reconciliation. Yet there was much to be said; and Lady Dudleigh had before her a dark and solemn purpose.

On the next day Sir Lionel was able to drive out. Lady Dudleigh seemed to have constituted herself his guardian. Sir Lionel's face and expression had changed. The easy, careless bonhomie, the placid content, the serene joyousness, that had once characterized him, were gone. In the place of these there came an anxious, watchful, troubled look—the look of a mind ill at ease—the furtive glance, the clouded brow. It was as though in this meeting Lady Dudleigh had communicated to her husband a part of that expression which prevailed in her own face.

Sir Lionel seemed like a prisoner who is attended by an ever-vigilant guard—one who watches all his movements, and from whom he can not escape. As he rolled along in his carriage, the Black Care of the poet seemed seated beside him in the person of Lady Dudleigh.

While Sir Lionel thus recovered from the sudden shock which he had felt, there was another who had endured a longer and severer course of suffering, and who had rallied for a moment when his presence was required, but only to sink back into a relapse worse than the illness from which he had begun to recover. This was Frederick Dalton, who had crawled from his bed twice—once to his daughter's prison, and once to the scene of her trial. But the exertion was too much, and the agitation of feeling to which he had been subject had overwhelmed him. Leaning heavily on Dudleigh, and also on Edith, he was taken by these two to his carriage, and thence to the inn; but here he could walk no further. It was Dudleigh who had to carry him to his room and lay him on his bed—and Dudleigh, too, who would intrust to no other person the task of putting his prostrate form in that bed. Dudleigh's own father was lying in the same house, but at that moment, whatever were his motives, Dalton seemed to have stronger claims on his filial duty, and Edith had to wait till this unlooked-for nurse had tenderly placed her father in his bed.

The doctor, who had found Sir Lionel's case so trifling, shook his head seriously over Frederick Dalton. Dudleigh took up his station in that room, and cared for the patient like a son. The day passed, and the night, and the next morning, but Dalton grew no better. It was a strange stupor which affected him, not like paralysis, but arising rather from exhaustion, or some affection of the brain. The doctor called it congestion. He lay in a kind of doze, without sense and without suffering, swallowing any food or medicine that might be offered, but never noticing any thing, and never answering any questions. His eyes were closed at all times, and in that stupor he seemed to be in a state of living death.

Edith's grief was profound; but in the midst of it she could not help feeling wonder at the unexpected part which Dudleigh was performing. Who was he that he should take so large a part in the care of her father? Yet so it was; and Dudleigh seemed to think of nothing and see nothing but that old man's wasted and prostrate form.

For the present, at least, departure from the inn was of course out of the question. Edith's position was a very distressing one. Every feeling of her heart impelled her to be present at her father's bedside, but Dudleigh was present at that same bedside; and how could she associate herself with him even there? At first she would enter the room, and sit quietly by her father's bedside, and on such occasions Dudleigh would respectfully withdraw; but this was unpleasant, and she hardly knew what to do.

Two or three days thus passed, and on the third Dudleigh requested an interview, to ask her, as he said, something about "Mr. Wiggins"—for this was the name by which Mr. Dalton still was called. This request Edith could not refuse.

Dudleigh entered with an air of profound respect.

"Miss Dalton," said he, laying emphasis on that name, "nothing would induce me to intrude upon you but my anxiety about your father. Deep as your affection for him may be, it can hardly be greater than mine. I would gladly lay down my life for him. At the same time, I understand your feelings, and this is what I wish to speak about. I would give up my place at his bedside altogether if you wished it, and you should not be troubled by my presence; but I see that you are not strong enough to be sole nurse, or to undertake the work that would be required of you, and that your own affection for him would impose upon you. You yourself are not strong, and you must take care of yourself for his sake. I will not, therefore, give up to you all the care of your father, but I will absent myself during the afternoon, and you will then have exclusive care of him."

Edith bowed without a word, and Dudleigh withdrew.

This arrangement was kept up, and Edith scarcely saw Dudleigh at all. She knew, however, that his care for her father was incessant and uninterrupted. Every thing that could possibly be needed was supplied; every luxury or delicacy that could be thought of was obtained; and not only were London physicians constantly coming up, but from the notes which lay around, she judged that Dudleigh kept up a constant correspondence with them about this case.

* * * * *



CHAPTER XLIII.

SIR LIONEL AND HIS "KEEPER"

Sir Lionel, who had come to this place with the face that indicated a mind at peace, thus found himself suddenly confronted by a grim phantom, the aspect of which struck terror to his heart. That phantom was drawn up from a past which he usually did not care to remember. Now, however, he could not forget it. There was one by his side to remind him of it always—one who had become his guard, his jailer—in fact, his keeper—a word which signifies better than any other the attitude which was assumed by Lady Dudleigh. For the feeling which Sir Lionel had toward her was precisely like that which the lunatic has toward his keeper, the feeling that this one is watching night and day, and never relaxes the terrible stare of those vigilant eyes. There are those who on being thus watched would grow mad; and Sir Lionel had this in addition to his other terrors—this climax of them all, that upon him there was always the maddening glare of his "keeper's" eyes. Terrible eyes were they to him, most terrible—eyes which he dared not encounter. They were the eyes of his wife—a woman most injured; and her gaze reminded him always of a past full of horror. That gaze he could not encounter. He knew without looking at it what it meant. He felt it on him. There were times when it made his flesh crawl, nor could he venture to face it.

A few days of this reduced him to a state of abject misery. He began to fear that he was really growing mad. In that case he would be a fit subject for a "keeper." He longed with unutterable longing to throw off this terrible restraint; but he could not and dared not. That woman, that "keeper," wielded over him a power which he knew and felt, and dared not defy. It was the power that arises from the knowledge of secrets of life and death, and her knowledge placed his life in her hands.

This woman was inflexible and inexorable. She had suffered so much that she had no pity for his present sufferings. These seemed trivial to her. She showed a grand, strong, self-sufficient nature, which made her his superior, and put her above the reach of any influences that he might bring. He could remember the time when she was a fair and gentle young girl, with her will all subject to his; then a loving bride with no thought apart from him; but now years of suffering and self-discipline had transformed her to this, and she came back to him an inexorable Fate, an avenging Nemesis.

Yet Sir Lionel did not give up all hope. He could not drive her away. He could not fly away from her, for her watch was too vigilant; but he hoped for some chance of secret flight in which, if he once escaped, he might find his way to the Continent. With something of that cunning which characterizes the insane, and which, perhaps, is born of the presence of a "keeper," Sir Lionel watched his opportunity, and one day nearly succeeded in effecting his desire.

That day Lady Dudleigh was in her brother's room. Sir Lionel had waited for this, and had made his preparations. When she had been gone for a few minutes, he stole softly out of his room, passed stealthily down the back stairs of the inn, and going out of the back-door, reached the rear of the house. Here there was a yard, and a gate that led out to a road at the end of the house. A carriage had been in waiting here for about an hour. Sir Lionel hurried across the yard, passed through the gate, and looked for the carriage.

He took one glance, and then a deep oath escaped him.

In the carriage was Lady Dudleigh.

How she could have detected his flight he could not imagine, nor did he now care. She had detected it, and had followed at once to circumvent him. She must have gone down the front stairs, out of the front-door, and reached the carriage before him. And there she was! Those hateful eyes were fixed on him—he felt the horrid stare—he cowered beneath it. He walked toward her.

"I thought I would go out too," said she.

Sir Lionel said not a word. He felt too much ashamed to turn back now, and was too politic to allow her to see any open signs that he was in full flight; so he quietly got into the carriage, and took his seat by her side.

Whipping up the horses, he drove them at a headlong rate of speed out through the streets into the country. His whole soul was full of mad fury. Rage and disappointment together excited his brain to madness; and the fierce rush of the impetuous steeds was in accordance with the excitement of his mind. At length the horses themselves grew fatigued, and slackened their pace. Sir Lionel still tried to urge them forward, but in vain, and at last he flung down the whip with a curse.

"I'll not stand this any longer!" he cried, vehemently, addressing his "keeper," but not looking at her.

"What?" said she.

"This style of being dogged and tracked and watched."

"You allude to me, I suppose," said Lady Dudleigh. "At any rate, you must allow that it is better to be tracked, as you call it, by me, than by the officers of the law."

"I don't care," growled Sir Lionel, gathering courage. "I'll not stand this style of thing any longer. I'll not let them have it all their own way."

"I don't see what you can do," said Lady Dudleigh, quietly.

"Do!" cried Sir Lionel, in a still more violent tone—"do! I'll tell you what I'll do: I'll fight it out."

"Fight!"

"Yes," cried Sir Lionel, with an oath. "Every one of you—every one. Every one without a single exception. Oh, you needn't think that I'm afraid. I've thought it all over. You're all under my power. Yes—ha, ha, ha! that's it. I've said it, and I say what I mean. You thought that I was under your power. Your power! Ha, ha, ha! That's good. Why, you're all under mine—every one of you."

Sir Lionel spoke wildly and vehemently, in that tone of feverish excitement which marks a madman. It may have been the influence of his "keeper," or it may have been the dawnings of actual insanity.

As for Lady Dudleigh, she did not lose one particle of her cold-bloodedness. She simply said, in the same tone,

"How?"

"How? Ha, ha! Do you think I'm going to tell you? That's my secret. But stop. Yes; I don't care. I'd just as soon tell as not. You can't escape, not one of you, unless you all fly at once to the Continent, or to America, or, better yet, back to Botany Bay. There you'll be safe. Fly! fly! fly! or else," he suddenly added, in a gloomy tone, "you'll all die on the gallows! every one of you, on the gallows! Ha, ha, ha! swinging on the gallows! the beautiful gallows!"

Lady Dudleigh disregarded the wildness of his tone, or perhaps she chose to take advantage of it, thinking that in his excitement he might disclose his thoughts the more unguardedly.

"You can do nothing," she said.

"Can't I, though?" retorted Sir Lionel.

"You wait. First, there's Dalton."

"What can you do with him?"

"Arrest him," said Sir Lionel. "What is he? An outlaw! An escaped convict! He lives under an assumed name. He must go back to Botany Bay—that is, if he isn't hanged. And then there's that pale-faced devil of a daughter with her terrible eyes." He paused.

"What can you do to her?"

"Her! Arrest her too," cried Sir Lionel. "She murdered my boy—my son—my Leon. She must be hanged. You shall not save her by this trick. No! she must be hanged, like her cursed father."

A shudder passed through Lady Dudleigh.

Sir Lionel did not notice it. He was too much taken up with his own vengeful thoughts.

"Yes," said he, "and there's that scoundrel Reginald."

"Reginald!" cried Lady Dudleigh, in a stern voice. "Why do you mention him?"

"Oh, he's one of the same gang," cried Sir Lionel. "He's playing their game. He is siding against his father, as he always did, and with his brother's murderers. He shall not escape. I will avenge Leon's death on all of you; and as for him, he shall suffer!"

It was with a strong effort that Lady Dudleigh restrained herself. But she succeeded in doing so, and said, simply, as before,

"How?"

"Arrest him!" cried Sir Lionel. "Arrest him too. He is guilty of perjury; and if he doesn't hang for it, he'll go back again to Botany Bay with that scoundrel with whom he sides against me—his own father—and against his brother."

"Are there any more?" asked Lady Dudleigh, as Sir Lionel ended.

"More! Yes," he said.

"Who?"

"You!" shouted Sir Lionel, with a voice of indescribable hate and ferocity. He turned as he spoke, and stared at her. His wild eyes, however, met the calm, cold, steady glance of those of his "keeper," and they fell before it. He seized the whip and began to lash the horses, crying as he did so, "You! yes, you! you! most of all!"

"What can you do to me?" asked Lady Dudleigh.

"You? Arrest you."

"What have I done?"

"You? You have done every thing. You have aided and abetted the escape of an outlaw. You have assisted him in his nefarious occupation of Dalton Hall. You have aided and abetted him in the imprisonment of Dalton's brat. You have aided and abetted him in the murder of my boy Leon. You have—"

"Stop!" cried Lady Dudleigh, in a stern, commanding voice. "You have been a villain always, but you have never been so outspoken. Who are you? Do you know what happened ten years ago?"

"What?" asked Sir Lionel. "Do you mean Dalton's forgery, and his assassination of that—that banker fellow?"

Lady Dudleigh smiled grimly.

"I am glad that you said that," said she. "You remove my last scruple. My brother's wrongs have well-nigh maddened me; but I have hesitated to bear witness against my husband, and the father of my children. I shall remember this, and it will sustain me when I bear my witness against you in a court of law."

"Me?" said Sir Lionel. "Me? Witness against me? You can not. No one will believe you."

"It will not be only your wife," said she, "though that will be something, but your own self, with your own hand."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean what you know very well—your letter which you wrote to Frederick, inclosing your forged check."

"I never forged a check, and I never wrote a letter inclosing one!" cried Sir Lionel. "Dalton forged that letter himself, if there is such a letter. He was an accomplished forger, and has suffered for it."

"The letter is your own," said Lady Dudleigh, "and I can swear to it."

"No one will believe you," cried Sir Lionel. "You shall be arrested for perjury."

Lady Dudleigh gave another grim smile, and then she added, "There is that Maltese cross. You forget that."

"What Maltese cross?" said Sir Lionel. "I never had one. That wasn't mine; it was Dalton's."

"But I can swear in a court of law," said Lady Dudleigh, "that this Maltese cross was yours, and that it was given to you by me as a birthday gift."

"No one will believe you!" cried Sir Lionel; "no one will believe you!"

"Why not? Will they refuse the oath of Lady Dudleigh?"

"I can show them that you are insane," said Sir Lionel, with a chuckle at the idea, which seemed to him like a sudden inspiration.

"You will not be able to show that Reginald is insane," said she.

"Reginald?"

"Yes, Reginald," repeated Lady Dudleigh. "Reginald knows that Maltese cross, and knows when I gave it to you. He too will be ready to swear to that in a court of law whenever I tell him that he may do so.

"Reginald?" said Sir Lionel, in a gloomy voice. "Why, he was—a child then."

"He was sixteen years old," said Lady Dudleigh.

This mention of Reginald seemed to crush Sir Lionel. He was silent for a long time. Evidently he had not been prepared for this in his plans for what he called a "fight." He sat in moody silence therefore. Once or twice he stole a furtive glance at her, and threw upon her a look which she did not see. It was a look full of hate and malignancy, while at the same time there was an expression of satisfaction in his face, as though he had conceived some new plan, which he intended to keep a secret all to himself.

* * * * *



CHAPTER XLIV.

LADY DUDLEIGH'S DECISION.

During the remainder of that drive nothing was said by either. Sir Lionel had his own thoughts, which, whatever they were, appeared to give him a certain satisfaction, and his brow was more unclouded when they reached the inn than it had been ever since the day of the trial. Evidently the new design which he had conceived, and which remained unuttered in his mind, was very satisfactory to him.

That evening he himself began the conversation with Lady Dudleigh, a thing which he had not before done.

"It's all very well," said he, "for you to carry on your own plans. You may carry them on and welcome. I won't prevent you; in fact, I can't. It's no use to deny it; I'm in your power. You're determined to crush me, and I must be crushed, I suppose. You are going to show to the world the strange spectacle of a wife and a son rising up against a husband and father, and swearing his life away. You will lead on, and Reginald will follow. This is the education that you have given him—it is to end in parricide. Very well; I must submit. Wife, slay your husband! mother, lead your son to parricide! Of course you comfort your conscience with the plea that you are doing justice. In the French Revolution there were wives who denounced their husbands, and sons who denounced their fathers, in the name of 'humanity,' and for the good of the republic. So go on. See that justice be done. Come on yourself to assassinate your husband, and bring on your parricide! Take sides with those who have murdered your son—the son whom you bore to me, and once loved! Unsex yourself, and become a Fury! It is useless for me to make resistance, I suppose; and yet, woman! wife! mother! let me tell you that on the day when you attempt to do these things, and when your son stands by your side to help you, there will go up a cry of horror against you from outraged humanity!"

At this Lady Dudleigh looked at him, who, as usual, averted his eyes; but she made no reply.

"Bring him on!" said Sir Lionel—"your son—my son—the parricide! Do your worst. But at the same time allow me to inform you, in the mildest manner in the world, that if I am doomed, there is no reason why I should go mad in this infernal hole. What is more, I do not intend to stay here one single day longer. I'm not going to run away. That is impossible; you keep too sharp a look-out altogether. I'm simply going away from this place of horrors, and I rather think I'll go home. I'll go home—yes, home. Home is the place for me—Dudleigh Manor, where I first took you, my true wife—that is the place for me to be in when you come to me, you and your son, to hand me over, Judas-like, to death. Yes, I'm going home, and if you choose to accompany me, why, all that I can say is, I'll have to bear it."

"I'll go," said Lady Dudleigh, laconically.

"Oh, of course," said Sir Lionel, "quite a true wife; like Ruth and Naomi. Whither thou goest, I will go. You see, I'm up in my Bible. Well, as I said, I can not prevent you, and I suppose there is no need for me to tell you to get ready."

Whether under these bitter taunts Lady Dudleigh writhed or not did not at all appear. She seemed as cool and calm as ever. Perhaps she had so schooled her nature that she was able to repress all outward signs of emotion, or perhaps she had undergone so much that a taunt could have no sting for her, or perhaps she had already contemplated and familiarized herself with all these possible views of her conduct to such an extent that the mention of them created no emotion. At any rate, whatever she felt, Sir Lionel saw nothing.

Having discharged this shot, Sir Lionel went to his desk, and taking out writing materials, began to write a letter. He wrote rapidly, and once or twice glanced furtively at Lady Dudleigh, as though he was fearful that she might overlook his writing. But there was no danger of that. Lady Dudleigh did not move from her place. She did not seem to be aware that he was writing at all.

At length Sir Lionel finished, and then he folded, sealed, and addressed the letter. He finished this task with a face of supreme satisfaction, and stole a look toward Lady Dudleigh, in which there was a certain cunning triumph very visible, though it was not seen by the one at whom it was directed.

"And now," said he, waving the letter somewhat ostentatiously, and speaking in a formal tone, in which there was an evident sneer—"and now, Lady Dudleigh, I have the honor to inform you that I intend to go out and post this letter. May I have the honor of your company as far as the post-office, and back?"

Lady Dudleigh rose in silence, and hastily throwing on her things, prepared to follow him. Sir Lionel waited with mocking politeness, opened the door, for her to pass out first, and then in company with her went to the post-office, where he mailed the letter, and returned with the smile of satisfaction still upon his face.

Early on the next morning Lady Dudleigh saw her son. He had watched all that night by Dalton's bedside, and seemed pale and exhausted.

"Reginald," said Lady Dudleigh, "Sir Lionel is going away."

"Going away?" repeated Reginald, absently.

"Yes; back to Dudleigh Manor."

Reginald looked inquiringly at his mother, but said nothing.

"I intend," said Lady Dudleigh, "to go with him."

"You?"

"Yes."

Reginald looked at her mournfully.

"Have you done any thing with him yet?" he asked.

Lady Dudleigh shook her head.

"Do you expect to do any thing?"

"I do."

"I'm afraid you will be disappointed."

"I hope not. I have at least gained a hold upon him, and I have certainly worked upon his fears. If I remain with him now I hope in time to extort from him that confession which will save us all from an additional sorrow; one perhaps as terrible as any we have ever known, if not even more so."

"Confession!" repeated Reginald. "How is that possible? He will never confess—never. If he has remained silent so long, and has not been moved by the thought of all that he has done, what possible thing can move him? Nothing but the actual presence of the law. Nothing but force."

"Well," said Lady Dudleigh, "it is worth trying—the other alternative is too terrible just yet. I hope to work upon his fears. I hope to persuade him to confess, and fly from the country to some place of safety. Frederick must be righted at all hazards, and I hope to show this so plainly to Sir Lionel that he will acquiesce in my proposal, confess all, save Frederick, and then fly to some place where he may be safe. If not, why, then we can try the last resort. But oh, Reginald, do you not see how terrible that last resort is?—I against my husband, you against your father—both of us bringing him to the gallows! It is only the intolerable sense of Frederick's long-sufferings that can make me think of doing so terrible a thing. But Frederick is even now in danger. He must be saved; and the question is between the innocent and the guilty. I am strong enough to decide differently from what I did ten years ago."

"Oh, I know—I feel it all, mother dear," said Reginald; "but at the same time I don't like the idea of your going away with him—alone."

"Why not?"

"I don't like the idea of your putting yourself in his power."

"His power?"

"Yes, in Dudleigh Manor, or any other place. He is desperate. He will not shrink from any thing that he thinks may save him from this danger. You will be his chief danger; he may think of getting rid of it. He is unscrupulous, and would stop at nothing."

"Oh, as for that, he may be desperate, but what can he possibly do? Dudleigh Manor is in the world. It is not in some remote place where the master is superior to law. He can do no more harm there than he can here."

"The man," said Reginald, "who for all these years has outraged honor and justice and truth, and has stifled his own conscience for the sake of his comfort, must by this time be familiar with desperate deeds, and be capable of any crime. I am afraid, mother dear, for you to trust yourself with him."

"Reginald," said Lady Dudleigh, "you speak as though I were a child or a schoolgirl. Does he seem now as though he could harm me, or do I seem to be one who can easily be put down? Would you be afraid to go with him?"

"I—afraid? That is the very thing that I wish to propose."

"But you could not possibly have that influence over him which I have. You might threaten, easily enough, and come to an open rupture, but that is what I wish to avoid. I wish to bring him to a confession, not so much by direct threats as by various constraining moral influences."

"Oh, as to that," said Reginald, "I have no doubt that you will do far better than I can; but at the same time I can not get rid of a fear about your safety."

"And do you really think, Reginald, that I would be less safe than you? or, from what you know of me, should you suppose that I have much of that woman's weakness about me which might make me an easy prey to one who wished to do me harm?"

"I know well what you are, mother dear," said Reginald, taking her hand tenderly in both of his. "You have the tenderness of a woman and the courage of a man; but still I feel uneasy. At any rate, promise me one thing. You will let me know what you are doing."

"I do not promise to write regularly," said Lady Dudleigh, "but I do promise to write the moment that any thing happens worth writing about."

"And if you are ill, or in danger?" said Reginald, anxiously.

"Oh, then, of course I shall write at once. But now I must go. I shall not see you again for some time. Good-by."

Lady Dudleigh kissed her son tenderly as she said this, and left him, and Reginald returned to his place by Fredrick Dalton's bedside.

That same day, shortly after this interview, Sir Lionel and Lady Dudleigh drove away from the inn, en route for Dudleigh Manor.

* * * * *



CHAPTER XLV.

LADY DUDLEIGH IS SHOWN TO HER ROOM.

After driving for about a mile Sir Lionel and Lady Dudleigh took the train, securing a compartment to themselves.

During this part of the journey Sir Lionel's face lost much of that gloom which of late had pervaded it, and assumed an expression which was less dismal, though not quite like the old one. The old look was one of serene and placid content, an air of animal comfort, and of easy-going self-indulgence; but now the expression was more restless and excited. There was a certain knowing look—a leer of triumphant cunning—combined with a tendency to chuckle over some secret purpose which no one else knew. Together with this there was incessant restlessness; he appeared perpetually on the look-out, as though dreading discovery; and he alternated between exultant nods of his head, with knowing winks at vacancy, and sudden sharp furtive glances at his companion. Changed as Sir Lionel's mood was, it can hardly be said that the change was for the better. It would have been obvious even to a more superficial observer than that vigilant "keeper" who accompanied him that Sir Lionel had lost his self-poise, and was in rather a dangerous way. Lady Dudleigh must have noticed this; but it made no difference to her, save that there was perhaps a stonier lustre in her eyes as she turned them upon him, and a sharper vigilance in her attitude.

In this way they rode on for several hours; and whatever Sir Lionel's plans might have been, they certainly did not involve any action during the journey. Had he been sufficiently violent he might have made an assault upon his companion in the seclusion of that compartment, and effectually prevented any trouble ever arising to him from her. He might have done this, and made good his escape in the confusion of some station. But no such attempt was made; and so in due time they reached the place where they were to get out.

"This is the nearest station to Dudleigh Manor," said Sir Lionel, gayly. "This road has been made since your time."

Lady Dudleigh said nothing, but looked around. She saw nothing that was familiar. A neat wayside station, with the usual platform, was nearest; and beyond this arose trees which concealed the view on one side, while on the other there were fields and hedges, and one or two houses in the distance. It was a commonplace scene, in a level sort of country, and Lady Dudleigh, after one short survey, thought no more about it. It was just like any other wayside station.

A common-looking hack, with a rather ill-dressed driver, was waiting, and toward this Sir Lionel walked.

"This," said he, "is the Dudleigh coach. It isn't so grand an affair as it used to be; but my means have dwindled a good deal since your day, you know, and I have to economize—yes—ha, ha, ha!—economize—queer thing too, isn't it? Economizing—ha, ha, ha!"

Sir Lionel's somewhat flighty manner was not at all congenial to Lady Dudleigh, and she treated him as the vigilant "keeper" always treats his flighty prisoner—that is, with silent patience and persistent watchfulness.

In a few minutes they were both seated inside the coach, and were driving away. The coach was a gloomy one, with windows only in the doors. The rest was solid woodwork. These windows in the doors were small, and when let down were scarcely large enough for one to put his head through. When sitting down it was impossible for Lady Dudleigh to see the road. She could see nothing but the tops of the trees, between which the sky appeared occasionally. She saw that she was driving along a road which was shaded with trees on both sides; but more than this she could not see.

They drove for about an hour at a moderate pace, and during this time Sir Lionel preserved that same peculiar demeanor which has already been described, while Lady Dudleigh maintained her usual silent watchfulness.

At length they stopped for a moment. Voices sounded outside, and then Lady Dudleigh saw that she was passing through a gateway. Thinking that this was Dudleigh Manor, she made no remark, but calmly awaited the time when she should reach the house. She did not have to wait long. Sooner than she expected the coach stopped. The driver got down and opened the door. Sir Lionel sprang out with surprising agility, and held out his hand politely to assist his companion. She did not accept his offer, but stepped out without assistance, and looked around.

To her surprise, the place was not Dudleigh Manor at all, but one which was entirely different, and quite unfamiliar. It was a brick house of no very great size, though larger than most private houses, of plain exterior, and with the air of a public building of some sort. The grounds about were stiff and formal and forbidding. The door was open, and one or two men were standing there. It did not look like an inn, and yet it certainly was not a private residence.

"I have to stop here for a little while," said Sir Lionel, "to see a friend on business. We are not half-way to Dudleigh Manor yet; it's further than you think."

He turned and went up the steps. Lady Dudleigh looked around once more, and then followed him. The men at the head of the steps looked at her curiously as she went in. She took no notice of them, however, but walked past them, looking calmly beyond them.

On entering the house she saw a bare hall covered with slate-colored oil-cloth, and with a table against the wall. A gray-headed man came out of one of the rooms, and advanced to meet Sir Lionel, who shook hands with him very cordially, and whispered to him a few words. The gray-headed man wore spectacles, was clean shaven, with a double chin, and a somewhat sleek and oily exterior.

"Lady Dudleigh," said Sir Lionel, leading the gray-headed man forward by the arm, "allow me to make you acquainted with my particular friend, Dr. Leonard Morton."

Lady Dudleigh bowed slightly, and Dr. Morton made a profound obeisance that seemed like a caricature of politeness.

"Will you have the kindness to walk up stairs?" said he, and led the way, while the others followed him. Ascending the stairs, they reached a large room at the back of the house, which was furnished in the same stiff and formal way as the hall below. Over the mantel-piece hung an engraving, somewhat faded out, and on the table were a Bible and a pitcher of water.

The doctor politely handed Lady Dudleigh a chair, and made one or two remarks about the weather.

"Sir Lionel," said he, "if Lady Dudleigh will excuse us for a few moments, I should like to speak with you in private."

"Will you have the kindness, Lady Dudleigh," asked Sir Lionel, "to excuse us for a few moments? We shall not leave you long alone. And here is a book—an invaluable book—with which you may occupy your time."

He said this with such exaggerated politeness, and with such a cunning leer in his eyes, that his tone and manner were most grotesque; and as he concluded he took up the large Bible with ridiculous solemnity.

Lady Dudleigh merely bowed in silence.

"A thousand thanks," said Sir Lionel, turning away; and thereupon he left the room, followed by the doctor. Lady Dudleigh heard their footsteps descending the stairs, and then they seemed to go into some room.

For some time she forgot all about him. The place had at first surprised her, but she gave it little thought. She had too much to think of. She had before her a task which seemed almost impossible; and if she failed in this, there was before her that dread alternative which Sir Lionel had presented to her so plainly. Other things too there were besides her husband—connected with all who were dearest to her—her brother, perhaps, dying before he had accomplished his work; her son so mysteriously murdered; her other son awaiting her command to assist in bringing his father to death. Besides, there was the danger that even now might be impending over these—the danger of discovery. Sir Lionel's desperate threats might have some meaning, and who could tell how it might result if he sought to carry out those threats?

Brooding over such thoughts as these, she forgot about the lapse of time, and at last was roused to herself by the entrance of a woman. She was large and coarse and fat.

At the door stood another woman.

"Your room's ready, missus," said the woman, bluntly.

Lady Dudleigh rose.

"I don't want a room," said she. "I intend to go in a few minutes."

"Anyway, ye'd better come to your room now, and not keep us waitin'," said the woman.

"You needn't wait," said Lady Dudleigh.

"Come along," said the woman, impatiently. "It's no use stayin' here all day."

Lady Dudleigh felt annoyed at this insolence, and began to think that Sir Lionel had run away while she had forgotten about him. She said nothing to the women, but walked toward the door. The two stood there in the way.

"I will go down," said she, haughtily, "and wait below. Go and tell Sir Lionel."

The women stared at one another.



"Sir Lionel Dudleigh," said Lady Dudleigh, "is with Dr. Morton on business. Tell him that I am tired of waiting, or take me to the room where he is."

"Oh yes, 'm," said one of the women; and saying this, she went down stairs.

In a few moments Dr. Morton came up, followed by the women. The two men who had been standing at the door came into the hall, and stood there at the foot of the stairs.

"Where is Sir Lionel?" was Lady Dudleigh's first words.

The doctor smiled blandly.

"Well, he has just gone, you know; but he'll soon be back—oh yes, quite soon. You wait here, and you may go to your room."

He spoke in an odd, coaxing tone, as though he were addressing some fretful child whom it was desirable to humor.

"Gone!" exclaimed Lady Dudleigh.

"Yes, but he'll soon be back. You needn't wait long. And these women will take you to your own room. You'll find it very pleasant."

"I have no room here," said Lady Dudleigh, haughtily. "If Sir Lionel has gone, I shall go too;" and with these words she tried to move past the woman who was in front of her. But the woman would not move, and the other woman and the doctor stood there looking at her. All at once the truth dawned upon her, or a part of the truth. She had been brought here, and they would keep her here. Who they were she could not imagine, but their faces were not at all prepossessing.

"Oh, it's all right," said the doctor, in a smooth voice. "You shall go to-morrow. We'll send for Sir Lionel."

"Dr. Morton," said Lady Dudleigh, solemnly, "beware how you detain me. Let me go, or you shall repent it. I don't know what your motive is, but it will be a dangerous thing for you. I am Lady Dudleigh, and if you dare to interfere with my movements you shall suffer."

"Oh yes, oh yes," said the doctor. "You are Lady Dudleigh. Oh, of course. And now come, Lady Dudleigh; you shall be treated just like a lady, and have a nice room, and—"

"What do you mean?" cried Lady Dudleigh, indignantly. "This insolence is insufferable."

"Oh yes," said the doctor; "it'll be all right, you know. Come, now; go like a good lady to your room."

"Are you mad?" exclaimed Lady Dudleigh, in amazement.

The doctor smiled and nodded.

"What do you intend to do?" asked Lady Dudleigh, restraining herself with a strong effort.

"Oh, nothing; we shall put you in a nice room, you know—all so pleasant—for you are not very well; and so. Susan, you just take the lady's hand, and, Martha, you take the other, and we'll show her the way to her room."

At this each of the women seized one of Lady Dudleigh's hands quickly and dextrously, the result of long practice, and then they drew her out of the room. Lady Dudleigh resisted, but her strength was useless. She was dragged along helplessly, while all the time the doctor walked after her, prattling in his usual way about "the nice room," and how "comfortable" she would find it. At length they reached a room, and she was taken in. One of the women entered with her. Lady Dudleigh looked around, and saw that the walls were bare and whitewashed; the floor was uncarpeted; an iron bedstead and some simple furniture were around her, and a small grated window gave light.

It looked dreary enough, and sufficiently prison-like to appall any one who might be thus suddenly thrust in there. Lady Dudleigh sank into a chair exhausted, and the woman began to make her bed.

"My good woman," said Lady Dudleigh, anxious to get some clue to her position, "can you tell me what all this means?"

"Sure it's all for the good of your health," said the woman.

"But I'm not ill."

"No, not to say ill; but the body's often all right when the mind's all wrong."

"The mind? There's nothing the matter with my mind. Dr. Morton has been deceived. He would not dare to do this if he knew it."

"Sure, now, it's nothing at all, and you'll be well soon."

At these simple words of the woman Lady Dudleigh began to understand the situation. This must be a lunatic asylum, a private one. Sir Lionel had brought her here, and told the doctor that she was insane. The doctor had accepted his statement, and had received her as such. This at once accounted for his peculiar mode of addressing her.

"There's a mistake," said Lady Dudleigh, quietly. "Dr. Morton has been deceived. Let me see him at once, please, and I will explain. He does not know what a wrong he is doing. My good woman, I am no more mad than you are."

"Dear, dear!" said the woman, going on placidly with her work; "that's the way they all talk. There's not one of them that believes they're mad."

"But I'm not mad at all," said Lady Dudleigh, indignant at the woman's obtuseness.

"There, there; don't you go for to excite yourself," said the woman, soothingly. "But I s'pose you can't help it."

"So this is a mad-house, is it?" said Lady Dudleigh, gloomily, after a pause.

"Well, 'm, we don't call it that; we call it a 'sylum. It's Dr. Morton's 'sylum."

"Now see here," said Lady Dudleigh, making a fresh effort, and trying to be as cool as possible, "I am Lady Dudleigh. I have been brought here by a trick. Dr. Morton is deceived. He is committing a crime in detaining me. I am not mad. Look at me. Judge for yourself. Look at me, and say, do I look like a madwoman?"

The woman, thus appealed to, good-naturedly acquiesced, and looked at Lady Dudleigh.

"'Deed," she remarked, "ye look as though ye've had a deal of sufferin' afore ye came here, an' I don't wonder yer mind give way."

"Do I look like a madwoman?" repeated Lady Dudleigh, with a sense of intolerable irritation at this woman's stupidity.

"'Deed, then, an' I'm no judge. It's the doctor that decides."

"But what do you say? Come, now."

"Well, then, ye don't look very bad, exceptin' the glare an' glitter of the eyes of ye, an' yer fancies."

"Fanciest? What fancies?"

"Why, yer fancies that ye're Lady Dudleigh, an' all that about Sir Lionel."

Lady Dudleigh started to her feet.

"What!" she exclaimed. "Why, I am Lady Dudleigh."

"There, there!" said the woman, soothingly; "sure I forgot myself. Sure ye are Lady Dudleigh, or any body else ye like. It's a dreadful inveiglin' way ye have to trap a body the way ye do."

At this Lady Dudleigh was in despair. No further words were of any avail. The woman was determined to humor her, and assented to every thing she said. This treatment was so intolerable that Lady Dudleigh was afraid to say any thing for fear that she would show the excitement of her feelings, and such an exhibition would of course have been considered as a fresh proof of her madness.

The woman at length completed her task, and retired.

Lady Dudleigh was left alone. She knew it all now. She remembered the letter which Sir Lionel had written. In that he had no doubt arranged this plan with Dr. Morton, and the coach had been ready at the station. But in what part of the country this place was she had no idea, nor could she know whether Dr. Morton was deceived by Sir Lionel, or was his paid employ in this work of villainy. His face did not give her any encouragement to hope for either honesty or mercy from him.

It was an appalling situation, and she knew it. All the horrors that she had ever heard of in connection with private asylums occurred to her mind, and deepened the terror that surrounded her. All the other cares of her life—the sorrow of bereavement, the anxiety for the sick, the plans for Frederick Dalton—all these and many others now oppressed her till her brain sank under the crushing weight. A groan of anguish burst from her.

"Sir Lionel's mockery will become a reality," she thought. "I shall go mad!"

Meanwhile Sir Lionel had gone away. Leaving Lady Dudleigh in the room, he had gone down stairs, and after a few hurried words with the doctor, he left the house and entered the coach, which drove back to the station.

All the way he was in the utmost glee, rubbing his hands, slapping his thighs, chuckling to himself, laughing and cheering.

"Ha, ha, ha! ha, ha, ha!" he laughed. "Outwitted! The keeper—the keeper caught! Ha, ha, ha! Why, she'll never get out—never! In for life, Lionel, my boy! Mad! Why, by this time she's a raving maniac! Ha, ha, ha! She swear against me! Who'd believe a madwoman, an idiot, a lunatic, a bedlamite, a maniac—a howling, frenzied, gibbering, ranting, raving, driveling, maundering, mooning maniac! And now for the boy next—the parricide! Ha, ha, ha! Arrest him! No. Shut him up here—both—with my friend Morton—both of them, mother and son, the two—ha, ha, ha!—witnesses! One maniac! two maniacs! and then I shall go mad with joy, and come here to live, and there shall be three maniacs! Ha, ha, ha! ha, ha, ha-a-a-a-a-a-a!"

Sir Lionel himself seemed mad now.

On leaving the coach, however, he became calmer, and taking the first train that came up, resumed his journey.

* * * * *



CHAPTER XLVI.

THE BEDSIDE OF DALTON.

Frederick Dalton remained in his prostrate condition, with no apparent change either for the better or for the worse, and thus a month passed.

One morning Dudleigh requested an interview with Edith.

On entering the room he greeted her with his usual deep respect.



"I hope you will excuse me for troubling you, Miss Dalton," he said, "but I wish very much to ask your opinion about your father. He remains, as you know, unchanged, and this inn is not the place for him. The air is close, the place is noisy, and it is impossible for him to have that perfect quiet which he so greatly needs. Dudleigh Manor is too far away, but there is another place close by. I am aware, Miss Dalton, that Dalton Hall must be odious to you, and therefore I hesitate to ask you to take your father to that place. Yet he ought to go there, and at once. As for yourself, I hope that the new circumstances under which you will live there will make it less unpleasant; and, let me add, for my own part, it shall be my effort to see that you, who have been so deeply wronged, shall be righted—with all and before all. As to myself," he continued, "I would retire, and relieve you of my presence, which can not be otherwise than painful, but there are two reasons why I ought to remain. The first is your father. You yourself are not able to take all the care of him, and there is no other who can share it except myself. Next to yourself, no one can be to him what I am, nor is there any one with whom I would be willing to leave him. He must not be left to a servant. He must be nursed by those who love him. And so I must stay with him wherever he is. In addition to this, however, my presence at Dalton Hall will effectually quell the vulgar clamor, and all the rumors that have been prevailing for the last few months will be silenced."

Dudleigh spoke all this calmly and seriously, but beneath his words there was something in his tone which conveyed a deeper meaning. That tone was more than respectful—it was almost reverential—as though the one to whom he spoke required from him more than mere courtesy. In spite of his outward calm, there was also an emotion in his voice which showed that the calm was assumed, and that beneath it lay something which could not be all concealed. In his eyes, as he fixed them on Edith, there was that same reverential regard, which seemed to speak of devotion and loyalty; something stronger than admiration, something deeper than sympathy, was expressed from them. And yet it was this that he himself tried to conceal. It was as though this feeling of his burst forth irrepressibly through all concealment, as though the intensity of this feeling made even his calmest words and commonest formulas fall of a new and deeper meaning.

In that reverence and profound devotion thus manifest there was nothing which could be otherwise than grateful to Edith. Certainly she could not take offense, for his words and his looks afforded nothing which could by any possibility give rise to that.

For a whole month this man had been before her, a constant attendant on her father, sleeping his few hours in an adjoining chamber, with scarce a thought beyond that prostrate friend. All the country had been searched for the best advice or the best remedies, and nothing had been omitted which untiring affection could suggest. During all this time she had scarce seen him. In the delicacy of his regard for her he had studiously kept out of her way, as though unwilling to allow his presence to give her pain. A moment might occasionally be taken up with a few necessary arrangements as she would enter, but that was all. He patiently waited till she retired before he ventured to come in himself.

No; in that noble face, pale from illness or from sadness, with the traces of sorrow upon it, and the marks of long vigils by the bedside of her father—in that refined face, whose expression spoke only of elevation of soul, and exhibited the perfect type of manly beauty, there was certainly nothing that could excite repugnance, but every thing that might inspire confidence.

Edith saw all this, and remarked it while listening to him; and she thought she had never seen any thing so pure in its loyalty, so profound in its sympathy, and so sweet in its sad grace as that face which was now turned toward her with its eloquent eyes.

She did not say much. A few words signified her assent to the proposal. Dudleigh said that he would make all the necessary arrangements, and that she should have no trouble whatever. With this he took his departure.

That same evening another visitor came. It was a pale, slender girl, who gave her name as Lucy Ford. She said that she had been sent by Captain Dudleigh. She heard that Edith had no maid, and wished to get that situation. Edith hesitated for a moment. Could she accept so direct a favor from Dudleigh, or give him that mark of confidence? Her hesitation was over at once. She could give him that, and she accepted the maid. The next day came a housekeeper and two or three others, all sent by Dudleigh, all of whom were accepted by her. For Dudleigh had found out somehow the need of servants at Dalton Hall, and had taken this way of supplying that prime requisite.

It then remained to move Dalton. He still continued in the same condition, not much changed physically, but in a state of mental torpor, the duration of which no one was able to foretell. Two short stages were required to take him to Dalton Hall. For this a litter was procured, and he was carried all the way. Edith went, with her maid and housekeeper, in a carriage, Dudleigh on horseback, and the other servants, with the luggage, in various conveyances.

Dalton received no benefit from his journey, but his friends were happy enough that he had received no injury. The medical attendance at Dalton Hall was, as before, the best that could be obtained, and all the care that affection could suggest was lavished upon him.

From what has already been said, it will be seen that in making this migration to Dalton Hall, Dudleigh was regardful of many things besides the patient. He had made every arrangement for the comfort of the occupants. He had sought out all the domestics that were necessary to diffuse an air of home over such a large establishment, and had been careful to submit them to Edith for her approval. He had also procured horses and grooms and carriages, and every thing that might conduce to the comfort of life. The old solitude and loneliness were thus terminated. The new housekeeper prevented Edith from feeling any anxiety about domestic concerns, and the servants all showed themselves well trained and perfectly subordinate.

Dalton's room was at the west end of the building. Edith occupied her old apartments. Dudleigh took that which had belonged to his "double." The housekeeper took the room that had been occupied by Lady Dudleigh.

Dudleigh was as devoted as ever to the sick man. He remained at his bedside through the greater part of the nights and through the mornings. In the afternoons he retired as before, and gave place to Edith. When he was there he sometimes had a servant upon whom he could rely, and then, if he felt unusual fatigue, and circumstances were favorable, he was able to snatch a little sleep. He usually went to bed at two in the afternoon, rose at seven, and in that brief sleep, with occasional naps during the morning, obtained enough to last him for the day. With this rest he was satisfied, and needed, or at least sought for, no recreation. During the hours of the morning he was able to attend to those outside duties that required overseeing or direction.

But while he watched in this way over the invalid, he was not a mere watcher. That invalid required, after all, but little at the hands of his nurses, and Dudleigh had much to do.

On his arrival at Dalton Hall he had possessed himself of all the papers that his "double" had left behind him, and these he diligently studied, so as to be able to carry out with the utmost efficiency the purpose that he had in his mind. It was during the long watches of the night that he studied these papers, trying to make out from them the manner of life and the associates of the one who had left them, trying also to arrive at some clew to his mysterious disappearance. This study he could keep up without detriment to his office of attendant, and while watching over the invalid he could carry out his investigations. Sometimes, in the afternoons, after indulging in more frequent naps than usual during the mornings, he was able to go out for a ride about the grounds. He was a first-rate horseman, and Edith noticed his admirable seat as she looked from the windows of her father's room.

Thus time went on.

Gradually Dudleigh and Edith began to occupy a different position toward one another. At the inn their relations were as has been shown. But after their arrival at Dalton Hall there occurred a gradual change.

As Edith came to the room on the first day, Dudleigh waited. On entering she saw his eyes fixed on her with an expression of painful suspense, of earnest, eager inquiry. In that eloquent appealing glance all his soul seemed to beam from his eyes. It was reverent, it was almost humble, yet it looked for some small concession. May I hope? it said. Will you give a thought to me? See, I stand here, and I hang upon your look. Will you turn away from me?

Edith did not repel that mute appeal. There was that in her face which broke down Dudleigh's reserve. He advanced toward her and held out his hand. She did not reject it.

It was but a commonplace thing to do—it was what might have been done before—yet between these two it was far from common-place. Their hands touched, their eyes met, but neither spoke a word. It was but a light grasp that Dudleigh gave. Reverentially, yet tenderly, he took that hand, not venturing to go beyond what might be accorded to the merest stranger, but contenting himself with that one concession. With that he retired, carrying with him the remembrance of that nearer approach, and the hope of what yet might be.

After that the extreme reserve was broken down. Each day, on meeting, a shake of the hands was accompanied by something more. Between any others these greetings would have been the most natural thing in the world; but here it was different. There was one subject in which each took the deepest interest, and about which each had something to say. Frederick Dalton's health was precious to each, and each felt anxiety about his condition. This formed a theme about which they might speak.

As Dudleigh waited for Edith, so Edith waited for Dudleigh; and still there were the same questions to be asked and answered. Standing thus together in that sick-room, with one life forming a common bond between them, conversing in low whispers upon one so dear to both, it would have been strange indeed if any thing like want of confidence had remained on either side.

* * * * *



CHAPTER XLVII.

A BETTER UNDERSTANDING.

Dudleigh lived on as before, assiduous in his attendance, dividing his time chiefly between nursing and study of the papers already mentioned. He never went out of the grounds on those occasional rides, and if any one in the neighborhood noticed this, the recent sad events might have been considered an excuse. Thus these two were thrown upon one another exclusively. For each there was no other society. As for Edith, Dudleigh had done so much that she felt a natural gratitude; and more than this, there was in her mind a sense of security and of dependence.

Meanwhile Dudleigh's pale face grew paler. His sleep had all along been utterly inadequate, and the incessant confinement had begun to show its effects. He had been accustomed to an open-air life and vigorous exercise. This quiet watching at the bedside of Dalton was more trying to his strength than severe labor could have been.

The change in him was not lost on Edith, and even if gratitude toward him had been wanting, common humanity would have impelled her to speak about it.

One day, as she came in, she was struck by his appearance. His face was ghastly white, and he had been sitting with his head in his hands as she softly entered. In an instant, as he heard her step, he started up, and advanced with a radiant smile, a smile caused by her approach.

"I'm afraid that you are overtasking yourself," said Edith, gently, after the usual greeting. "You are here too much. The confinement is too trying. You must take more rest and exercise."

Dudleigh's face was suffused with a sudden glow of delight.

"It is kind of you to notice it," said he, earnestly, "but I'm sure you are mistaken. I could do far more if necessary. This is my place, and this is my truest occupation."

"For that very reason," said Edith, in tones that showed more concern than she would have cared to acknowledge—"for that very reason you ought to preserve yourself—for his sake. You confine yourself here too much, and take too little rest. I see that you feel it already."

"I?" said Dudleigh, with a light laugh, whose musical cadence sounded very sweet to Edith, and revealed to her another side of his character very different from that sad and melancholy one which he had thus far shown—"I? Why, you have no idea of my capacity for this sort of thing. Excuse me, Miss Dalton, but it seems absurd to talk of my breaking down under such work as this."

Edith shook her head.

"You show traces of it," said she, in a gentle voice, looking away from him, "which common humanity would compel me to notice. You must not do all the work; I must have part of it."

"You?" exclaimed Dudleigh, with infinite tenderness in his tone. "Do you think that I would allow you to spend any more time here than you now do, or that I would spare myself at the expense of your health? Never! Aside from the fact that your father is so dear to me, there are considerations for you which would lead me to die at my post rather than allow you to have any more trouble."

There was a fervor in Dudleigh's tones which penetrated to Edith's heart. There was a deep glow in his eyes as he looked at her which Edith did not care to encounter.

"You are of far more importance to Sir Lionel than I am," said she, after a pause which began to be embarrassing. "But what will become of him if—if you are prostrated?"

"I shall not be prostrated," said Dudleigh.

"I think you will if this state of things continues."

"Oh, I don't think there is any prospect of my giving up just yet."

"No. I know your affection for him, and that it would keep you here until—until you could not stay any longer; and it is this which I wish to avoid."

"It is my duty," said Dudleigh. "He is one whom I revere more than any other man, and love as a father. Besides, there are other things that bind me to him—his immeasurable wrongs, his matchless patience—wrongs inflicted by one who is my father; and I, as the son, feel it a holy duty, the holiest of all duties, to stand by that bedside and devote myself to him. He is your father, Miss Dalton, but you have never known him as I have known him—the soul of honor, the stainless gentleman, the ideal of chivalry and loyalty and truth. This he is, and for this he lies there, and my wretched father it is who has done this deed. But that father is a father only in name, and I have long ago transferred a son's love and a son's duty to that gentle and noble and injured friend."

This outburst of feeling came forth from Dudleigh's inmost heart, and was spoken with a passionate fervor which showed how deeply he felt what he said. Every word thrilled through Edith. Bitter self-reproach at that moment came to her, as she thought of her own relations to her father. What Dudleigh's had been she did not know, but she saw that in him her father had found a son. And what had his daughter been to him? Of that she dared not think. Her heart was wrung with sharp anguish at the memories of the past, while at the same time she felt drawn more closely to Dudleigh, who had thus been to him all that she had failed to be. Had she spoken what she thought, she would have thanked and blessed him for those words. But she did not dare to trust herself to speak of that; rather she tried to restrain herself; and when she spoke, it was with a strong effort at this self-control.

"Well," she said, in a voice which was tremulous in spite of all her efforts, "this shows how dear you must be to him, since he has found such love in you, and so for his sake you must spare yourself. You must not stay here so constantly."

"Who is there to take my place?" asked Dudleigh, quietly.

"I," said Edith.

Dudleigh smiled.

"Do you think," said he, "that I would allow that? Even if I needed more rest, which I do not, do you think that I would take it at your expense—that I would go away, enjoy myself, and leave you to bear the fatigue? No, Miss Dalton; I am not quite so selfish as that."

"But you will let me stay here more than I do," said Edith, earnestly. "I may as well be here as in my own room. Will you not let me have half the care, and occasionally allow you to take rest?"

She spoke timidly and anxiously, as though she was asking some favor. And this was the feeling that she had, for it seemed to her that this man, who had been a son to her father, had more claims on his love, and a truer right here, than she, the unworthy daughter.

Dudleigh smiled upon her with infinite tenderness as he replied:

"Half the care! How could you endure it? You are too delicate for so much. You do too much already, and I am only anxious to relieve you of that. I was going to urge you to give up half of the afternoon, and take it myself."

"Give up half the afternoon!" cried Edith. "Why, I want to do more."

"But that is impossible. You are not strong enough," said Dudleigh. "I fear all the time that you are now overworking yourself. I would never forgive myself if you received any harm from this."

"Oh, I am very much stronger than you suppose. Besides, nursing is woman's work, and would fatigue me far less than you."

"I can not bear to have you fatigue yourself in any way. You must not—and I would do far more rather than allow you to have any trouble."

"But even if my health should suffer, it would not be of much consequence. So at least let me relieve you of something."

"Your health?" said Dudleigh, looking at her with an earnest glance; "your health? Why, that is every thing. Mine is nothing. Can you suggest such a thing to me as that I should allow any trouble to come to you? Besides, your delicate health already alarms me. You have not yet recovered from your illness. You are not capable of enduring fatigue, and I am always reproaching myself for allowing you to stay here as much as you do. The Dudleighs have done enough. They have brought the father to this;" and he pointed mournfully to the bed. "But," he added, in a tremulous voice, "the daughter should at least be saved, and to have harm come to her would be worse than death itself—to me."

Edith was silent for a few moments. Her heart was beating fast. When she spoke, it was with an effort, and in as calm a voice as possible.

"Oh," she said, "I am quite recovered. Indeed, I am as well as ever, and I wish to spend more time here. Will you not let me stay here longer?"

"How can I? The confinement would wear you out."

"It would not be more fatiguing than staying in my own room," persisted Edith.

"I'm afraid there would be very much difference," said Dudleigh. "In your own room you have no particular anxiety, but here you would have the incessant responsibility of a nurse. You would have to watch your father, and every movement would give you concern."

"And this harassing care is what I wish to save you from, and share with you," said Edith, earnestly. "Will you not consent to this?"

"To share it with you?" said Dudleigh looking at her with unutterable tenderness. "To share it with you?" he repeated. "It would be only too much happiness for me to do so, but not if you are going to overwork yourself."

"But I will not," said Edith. "If I do, I can stop. I only ask to be allowed to come in during the morning, so as to relieve you of some of your work. You will consent, will you not?"

Edith asked him this as though Dudleigh had exclusive right here, and she had none. She could not help feeling as if this was so, and this feeling arose from those memories which she had of that terrible past, when she ignorantly hurled at that father's heart words that stung like the stings of scorpions. Never could she forgive herself for that, and for this she now humbled herself in this way. Her tone was so pleading that Dudleigh could refuse no longer. With many deprecatory expressions, and many warnings and charges, he at last consented to let her divide the morning attendance with him. She was to come in at eleven o'clock.

This arrangement was at once acted upon. On the following day Edith came to her father's room at eleven. Dudleigh had much to ask her, and much to say to her, about her father's condition. He was afraid that she was not strong enough. He seemed to half repent his agreement. On the other hand, Edith assured him most earnestly that she was strong enough, that she would come here for the future regularly at eleven o'clock, and urged him to take care of his own health, and seek some recreation by riding about the grounds. This Dudleigh promised to do in the afternoon, but just then he seemed in no hurry to go. He lingered on. They talked in low whispers, with their heads close together. They had much to talk about; her health, his health, her father's condition—all these had to be discussed. Thus it was that the last vestiges of mutual reserve began to be broken down.

Day succeeded to day, and Edith always came to her father's room in the morning. At first she always urged Dudleigh to go off and take exercise, but at length she ceased to urge him. For two or three hours every day they saw much of one another, and thus associated under circumstances which enforced the closest intimacy and the strongest mutual sympathy.

* * * * *



CHAPTER XLVIII.

CAPTAIN CRUIKSHANK.

While these things were going on, the world outside was not altogether indifferent to affairs in Dalton Hall. In the village and in the immediate neighborhood rumor had been busy, and at length the vague statements of the public voice began to take shape.

This is what rumor said: Dudleigh is an impostor!

An impostor, it said. For the true Dudleigh, it asserted, was still missing. This was not the real man. The remains found in the well had never been accounted for. Justice had foregone its claims too readily. The act remained, and the blood of the slain called aloud for vengeance.

How such a strange report was first started no one knew; but there it was, and the Dalton mystery remained as obscure as ever.

Various circumstances contributed to increase the public suspicion. All men saw that Dudleigh was different from this man, or else he had greatly changed. For the former was always outside, in the world, while this man remained secluded and shut up in the Hall. Why did he never show himself? Why did he surround himself with all this secrecy? This was the question.

The servants were eagerly questioned whenever any of them made their appearance in the village, but as they were all new in the place, their testimony was of little value. They could only say that he was devoted to the invalid, and that he called Miss Dalton by that name, and had called her by that name when he engaged them for her service.

Soon public opinion took two different forms, and two parties arose. One of these believed the present Dudleigh to be an impostor; the other, however, maintained that he was the real man, and that the change in his character was to be accounted for on the grounds of the terrible calamities that had resulted from his thoughtlessness, together with his own repentance for the suffering which he had inflicted.

Meanwhile the subject of all this excitement and gossip was living in his own seclusion, quite apart from the outside world. One change, however, had taken place in his life which required immediate action on his part.

A great number of letters had come for "Captain Dudleigh." The receipt of these gave him trouble. They were reminders of various pecuniary obligations which had been contracted some time previously. They were, in short—duns. He had been at Dalton Hall some six weeks before these interesting letters began to arrive. After that time they came in clusters, fast and frequent. The examination of these formed no small part of his occupation when he was alone.

Some of these letters were jocular in their tone, reminding him of his chronic impecuniosity, and his well-known impracticability in every thing relating to money. These jocular letters, however, never failed to remind him that, as he had made a rich match, there was no reason why he should not pay his debts, especially as the writers were hard up, and had waited so long without troubling him. These jocular letters, in fact, informed him that if a settlement was not made at once, it would be very much the worse for Dudleigh.

Others were from old sporting companions, reminding him of bets which had not been paid, expressing astonishment which was child-like in its simplicity, and requesting an immediate settlement. These were generally short, curt, and altogether unpleasant.

Others were business letters, containing the announcement of notes falling due. Others were from lawyers, stating the fact that certain specified claims had been put in their hands for collection, and requesting early attention.

All these seemed to come together. Misfortunes, says the proverb, never come singly, and duns may fairly be reckoned among misfortunes. These duns, however, troublesome though they were, were one by one got rid of by the simple and effectual process of payment; for Dudleigh considered it on the whole safer and better, under these peculiar circumstances, to pay the money which was demanded than to expose himself to arrest or lawsuits.

In connection with these affairs an event occurred which at the time caused uneasiness, and gave the prospect of future trouble. One day a gentleman called and sent up his card. It was Captain Cruikshank. The name Dudleigh recognized as one which had been appended to several dunning letters of the most importunate kind, and the individual himself was apparently some sporting friend.

On going down Dudleigh saw a portly, bald-headed man, with large whiskers, standing in front of one of the drawing-room windows, looking out. He seemed midway between a gentleman and a blackleg, being neither altogether one nor the other. At the noise of Dudleigh's entrance he turned quickly around, and with a hearty, bluff manner walked up to him and held out his hand.

Dudleigh fixed his eyes steadily upon those of the other man, and bowed, without accepting the proffered hand, appearing not to see it. His whole mien was full of aristocratic reserve, and cold, repellent distance of manner, which checked the other in the midst of a full tide of voluble congratulations into which he had flung himself. Thus interrupted, he looked confused, stammered, and finally said,

"'Pon my honor, Dudleigh, you don't appear to be overcordial with an old friend, that's seen you through so many scrapes as I have."

"Circumstances," said Dudleigh, "of a very painful character have forced me to sever myself completely from all my former associates—all, without exception."

"Well, of course—as to that, it's all right, I dare say," remarked the other, from whom Dudleigh never removed his eyes; "but then, you know, it seems to me that some friends ought to be—a—retained, you know, and you and I, you know, were always of that sort that we were useful to one another."

This was thrown out as a very strong hint on the part of Captain Cruikshank, and he watched Dudleigh earnestly to see its effect.

"I make no exceptions whatever," said Dudleigh. "What has occurred to me is the same as death. I am dead virtually to the world in which I once lived. My former friends and acquaintances are the same as though I had never known them."



"Gad! something has come over you, that's a fact," said Captain Cruikshank. "You're a changed man, whatever the reason is. Well, you have a right to choose for yourself, and I can't be offended. At the same time, if you ever want to join the old set again, let me know, and I promise you there'll be no difficulty."

Dudleigh bowed.

"But then I suppose you're settled down in such infernally comfortable quarters," continued the other, "that it's not likely you'll ever trouble us again. Married and done for—that's the word. Plenty of money, and nothing to do."

"If you have anything particular to say," said Dudleigh, coldly, "I should like to hear it; if not, I must excuse myself, as I am particularly engaged."

"Oh, no offense, no offense; I merely came to offer an old friend's congratulations, you know, and—By-the-way," continued Cruikshank, lowering his voice, "there's that little I O U of yours. I thought perhaps you might find it convenient to settle, and if so, it would be a great favor to me."

"What is the amount?" asked Dudleigh, who remembered this particular debt perfectly well, since it had been the subject of more than one letter of a most unpleasant character.

"The amount?" said Cruikshank. "Well, really—let me see—I don't quite remember, but I'll find out in a moment."

With these words he drew forth his pocket-book and fumbled among the papers. At length he produced one, and tried hard to look as if he had not known all along perfectly well what that amount was.

"Well, really—yes, this is it," he remarked, as he looked at a piece of paper. "The amount, did you say? The amount is just two hundred pounds. It's not much for you, as you are now situated, I should suppose."

"Is that the note?" asked Dudleigh, who was anxious to get rid of this visitor, and suspected all along that he might have a deeper purpose than the mere collection of a debt.

"That is the note," said Cruikshank.

"I will pay it now," said Dudleigh.

He left the room for a short time, and during his absence Cruikshank amused himself with staring at the portrait of "Captain Dudleigh," which hung in a conspicuous position before his eyes. He was not kept long waiting, for Dudleigh soon returned, and handed him the money. Cruikshank took it with immense satisfaction, and handed the note over in return, which Dudleigh carefully transferred to his own pocket-book, where he kept many other such papers.

Cruikshank now bade him a very effusive adieu. Dudleigh stood at the window watching the retreating figure of his visitor.

"I wonder how long this sort of thing can go on?" he murmured. "I don't like this acting on the defensive. I'll have to make the attack myself soon."