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."

[Illustration: "BUT EVEN NOW I WOULD BE WILLING TO DIE FOR HIM."]

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."

[Illustration: "HE SAW HER HEAD FALL"]

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 you 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 you 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.

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.

[Illustration: "HE LOOKED AT HER WITH ASTONISHMENT."]

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.

[Illustration: "SHE WAS DRAGGED ALONG HELPLESSLY."]

"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 employé 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.

[Illustration: "THEIR HANDS TOUCHED."]

"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."

[Illustration: "WELL, REALLY--YES, THIS IS IT."]

"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."

CHAPTER XLIX.

EDITH'S NEW FRIEND.

Every day Edith and Dudleigh saw more and more of one another. Now that
the crust of reserve was broken through, and something like intimacy had
been reached, the sick man's apartment was the most natural place for
each to seek. It came at last that the mornings and afternoons were no
longer allotted to each exclusively, but while one watched, the other
would often be present. In the evenings especially the two were together
there.

The condition in which Dalton was demanded quiet, yet needed but little
direct attention. It was only necessary that some one should be in the
room with him. He lay, as has been said, in a state of stupor, and knew
nothing of what was going on. It was only necessary for those who might
be with him to give him, from time to time, the medicines that had been
prescribed by the physicians, or the nourishment which nature demanded.
Apart from this there was little now to be done.