disjointed way, but that was all.

Then Edith felt her hand taken and a ring put on her finger.

Then the clergyman said the next formula, which the bridegroom repeated
after him in a whisper as before:

"With this ring I thee wed, with my body I thee worship, and with all my
worldly goods I thee endow," etc., etc.

Then followed a prayer, after which the clergy man, joining their right
hands together, said,

"Those whom God hath joined together, let no man put asunder."

Then followed the remainder of the service, and at its conclusion the
clergyman solemnly wished them every happiness.

"I suppose I may go now," said he; and as there was no answer, he groped
his way to the door, flung it open, and took his departure.

During all this service Edith had been in a condition verging upon half
unconsciousness. The low murmur of voices, the hurried words of the
clergyman, the whispers of the bridegroom, were all confused together in
an unintelligible whole, and even her own answers had scarce made any
impression upon her. Her head seemed to spin, her brain to whirl, and
all her frame to sink away. At length the grating of the opening door,
the clergyman's departing footsteps, and the slight increase of light
roused her.

She was married!

Where was her husband?

This thought came to her with a new horror. Deep silence had followed
the clergyman's departure. She in her weakness was not noticed.
Dudleigh, the loving, the devoted, had no love or devotion for her now.
Where was he? The silence was terrible.

But at last that silence was broken--fearfully.

"Come," said a voice which thrilled the inmost soul of Edith with horror
unspeakable: "I'm tired of humbugging. I'm going home. Come along, Mrs.
Dudleigh."

The horror that passed through Edith at the sound of this voice for a
moment seemed to paralyze her. She turned to where the voice sounded. It
was the man beside her who spoke--the bridegroom! He was not
Dudleigh--not Little Dudleigh! He was tall and large. It was the
witness. What frightful mockery was this? But the confusion of thought
that arose was rudely interrupted. A strong hand was laid upon hers,
and again that voice spoke:

"Come along, Mrs. Dudleigh!"

"What is--this?" gasped Edith.

"Why, you're married, that's all. You ought to know that by this time."

"Away!" cried Edith, with a sharp cry. "Who are you? Dudleigh!
Dudleigh! where are you? Will you not help me?"

"That's not very likely," said the same voice, in a mocking tone. "His
business is to help _me_."

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

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

"_Your_ wife! Oh, Dudleigh: oh, my friend! what does all this
mean? Why do you not speak?"

But Dudleigh said nothing.

"I have no objections to explaining," said the voice. "You're actually
married to me. My name is not Mowbray. It's Leon Dudleigh, the
individual that you just plighted your troth to. My small friend here is
not _Leon_ Dudleigh, whatever other Dudleigh he may call himself.
He is the witness."

"It's false!" cried Edith. "Lieutenant Dudleigh would never betray me."

"Well, at any rate," said Leon, "I happen to be the happy man who alone
can claim you as his bride."

"Villain!" shrieked Edith, in utter horror. "Cursed villain! Let go my
hand. This is all mockery. Your wife!--I would die first."

"Indeed you won't," said Leon--"not while you have me to love and to
cherish you, in sickness and in health, till death us do part, and
forsaking all others, keep only unto you, in the beautiful words of that
interesting service."

"It's a lie! it's a lie!" cried Edith. "Oh, Lieutenant Dudleigh, I have
trusted you implicitly, and I trust you yet. Come to me--save me!"

And in her anguish Edith sank down upon her knees, and held out her arms
imploringly.

"Dudleigh!" she moaned. "Oh, my friend! Oh, only come--only save me from
this villain, and I will love--I will love and bless you--I will be your
menial--I will--"

"Pooh!" said Leon, "I'm the only Dudleigh about. If you knew half as
much about my _dear friend_ the lieutenant as I do, you would know
what infernal nonsense you are talking;" and seizing her hand, he tried
to raise her. "Come," said he, "up with you."

Edith tried to loosen her hand, whereupon Leon dashed it away.

"Who wants your hand?" he cried: "I'm your husband, not your lover."

"Lieutenant Dudleigh!" moaned Edith.

"Well, lieutenant," said Leon, "speak up. Come along. Tell her, if you
like."

"Lieutenant Dudleigh, save me."

"Oh, great Heaven!" said a voice like that of the one whom Edith knew as
Lieutenant Dudleigh--"oh, great Heaven! it's too much."

"Oh ho!" cried Leon: "so you're going to blubber too, are you? Mind,
now, it's all right if you are only true."

"Oh, Leon, how you wring my heart!" cried the other, in a low, tremulous
voice.

"Lieutenant Dudleigh!" cried Edith again. "Oh, my friend, answer me!
Tell me that it is all a lie. Tell me--"

But Lieutenant Dudleigh flung himself on the stone pavement, and groaned
and sobbed convulsively.

"Come," said Leon, stooping and lifting him up; "you understand all
this. Don't you go on blubbering in this fashion. I don't mind her and
_you_ mustn't. Come, you tell her, for she'll keep yelling after
you all night till you do."

Lieutenant Dudleigh rose at this, and leaned heavily upon Leon's arm.

"You were not--married--to--to--me," said he at last.

"What! Then you too were false all along!" said Edith, in a voice that
seemed to come from a broken heart.

The false friend made no reply.

"Well, Mrs. Dudleigh," said Leon, coolly, "for your information I will
simply state that the--ahem--lieutenant here is my very particular
friend--in fact, my most intimate and most valued friend--and in his
tender affection for me he undertook this little affair at my
instigation. It's all my act, all through, every bit of it, but the
carrying out of the details was--ahem--his. The marriage, however, is
perfectly valid. The banns were published all right. So you may feel
quite at ease."

"Oh," cried Edith, "how basely, how terribly, I have been deceived! And
it is all lies! It was all lies, lies, lies from the beginning!"

Suddenly a fierce thrill of indignation flashed through her. She started
to her feet.

"It is all a lie from beginning to end!" she exclaimed, in a voice which
was totally changed from that wail of despair which had been heard once
before. It was a firm, proud, stern voice. She had fallen back upon her
own lofty soul, and had sought refuge in that resolute nature of hers
which had sustained her before this in other dire emergencies. "Yes,"
she said, sternly, "a lie; and this mock-marriage is a lie. Villains,
stand off. I am going home."

"Not without me," said Leon, who for a moment stood silent, amazed at
the change in Edith's voice and manner. "You must not leave your
husband."

"You shall not come to Dalton Hall," said Edith.

"I shall not? Who can keep me out?"

"Wiggins," said Edith. "I will ask his protection against you."

"Wiggins!" sneered Leon. "Let him try it if he dares."

"Do not interfere with me," said Edith, "nor touch me."

"You shall not go without me."

"I shall go, and alone."

"You shall not."

Edith at once walked to the door. Just as she reached it Leon seized her
arm. She struggled for a moment to get free, but in vain.

"I know," said she, bitterly, "what a coward you are. This is not the
first time that you have laid hands on me. Let me go now, or you shall
repent."

"Not the first time, and it won't be the last time!" cried Leon, with an
oath.

"Let me go," cried Edith, in a fierce voice, "or I will stab you to the
heart!"

As she said this she raised her right hand swiftly and menacingly, and
by the dim light of the doorway Leon plainly saw a long keen dagger. In
an instant he recoiled from the sight, and dropping her arm, he started
back.

"Curse you!" he cried, in an excited voice; "who wants to touch you! It
isn't you I've married, but the Hall!"

"Leon," cried Lieutenant Dudleigh, "I will allow no violence. If there
is any more, I will betray you."

"You!" cried Leon, with a bitter sneer. "Pooh, you dare not."

"I dare."

"You will betray yourself, then."

"I don't care. After what I've suffered for you these two days past, and
especially this night, I have but little care left about myself."

"But won't you get your reward, curse it
all!"

"There can be no reward for me now, after this," said the other, in a
mournful voice.

"Is that the way you talk to _me_!" said Leon, in a tone of
surprise.

"Miss Dalton has been wronged enough," said the other. "If you dare to
annoy her further, or to harm a hair of her head, I solemnly declare
that I will turn against you."

"You!" exclaimed Leon.

"Yes, I."

"Why, you're as bad as I am--in fact, worse."

"Well, at any rate, it shall go no further. That I am resolved on."

"Look out," cried Leon; "don't tempt me too far. I'll remember this, by
Heaven! I'll not forget that you have threatened to betray me."

"I don't care. You are a coward, Leon, and you know it. You are afraid
of that brave girl. Miss Dalton can take care of herself."

"Miss Dalton! Pooh!--Mrs. Dudleigh, you mean."

"Leon, you drive me to frenzy," cried Lieutenant Dudleigh, in a wild,
impatient voice.

"And you--what are you!" cried Leon, morosely. "Are you not always
tormenting me? Do you think that I'm going to stand you and your whims
forever? Look out! This is more of a marriage than you think."

"Marriage!" cried the other, in a voice of scorn.

"Never mind. I'll go with my wife," said Leon.

Edith had waited a few moments as this altercation arose, half hoping
that in the quarrel between these two something might escape them which
could give her some ray of hope, but she heard nothing of that kind.
Yet as she listened to the voices of the two, contrasting so strangely
in their tones, and to their language, which was so very peculiar, a
strange suspicion came to her mind.

Then she hurried away back to the Hall.

"I'll go with my wife," said Leon.

"Coward and villain!" cried his companion. "Miss Dalton has a dagger.
You're afraid of her. I'll go too, so that you may not annoy her."

Edith hurried away, and the others followed for a short distance, but
she soon left them behind. She reached the little door at the east end.
She passed through, and bolted it on the inner side. She hurried up to
her rooms, and on reaching them fell fainting to the floor.

       *       *       *      *       *

CHAPTER XXIX.

THE WIFE OF LEON DUDLEIGH.

Sickness and delirium came mercifully to Edith; for if health had
continued, the sanity of the body would have been purchased at the
expense of that of the mind. Mrs. Dunbar nursed her most tenderly and
assiduously. A doctor attended her. For long weeks she lay in a
brain-fever, between life and death. In the delirium that disturbed her
brain, her mind wandered back to the happy days at Plympton Terrace.
Once more she played about the beautiful shores of Derwentwater; once
more she rambled with her school-mates under the lofty trees, or rode
along through winding avenues. At time, however, her thoughts reverted
to the later events of her life; and once or twice to that time of
horror in the chapel.

The doctor came and went, and satisfied himself with seeing after the
things that conduced to the recovery of his patient. He was from London,
and had been sent for by Wiggins, who had no confidence in the local
physicians. At length the disease was quelled, and after nearly two
months Edith began to be conscious of her situation. She came back to
sensibility with feelings of despair, and her deep agitation of soul
retarded her recovery very greatly; for her thoughts were fierce and
indignant, and she occupied herself, as soon as she could think, with
incessant plans for escape. At last she resolved to tell the doctor all.
One day when he came she began, but, unfortunately for her, before she
had spoken a dozen words she became so excited she almost fainted.
Thereupon the doctor very properly forbade her talking about any of her
affairs whatever until she was better. "Your friends," said he, "have
cautioned me against this, and I have two things to regard--their wishes
and your recovery." Once or twice after this Edith tried to speak about
her situation, but the doctor promptly checked her. Soon after he ceased
his visits.

In spite of all drawbacks, however, she gradually recovered, and at last
became able to move about the room. She might even have gone out if she
had wished, but she did not feel inclined.

One day, while looking over some of her books which were lying on her
table, she found a newspaper folded inside one of them. She took it and
opened it carelessly, wondering what might be going on in that outside
world of which she had known so little for so long a time. A mark along
the margin attracted her attention. It was near the marriage notices.
She looked there, and saw the following:

"On the 12th instant, at the Dalton family chapel, by the Rev. John
Mann, of Dalton, Captain Leon Dudleigh, to Edith, only daughter of the
late Frederick Dalton, Enquire, of Dalton Hall."

This paper was dated November 20, 1840. This was, as she knew, February
26, 1841.

The horror that passed through her at the sight of this was only
inferior to that which she had felt on the eventful evening itself.
Hitherto in all her gloom and grief she had regarded it as a mere
mockery--a brutal kind of practical joke, devised out of pure malignity,
and perhaps instigated or connived at by Wiggins. She had never cared to
think much about it. But now, on being thus confronted with a formal
notice in a public newspaper, the whole affair suddenly assumed a new
character--a character which was at once terrible in itself, and
menacing to her whole future. This formal notice seemed to her like the
seal of the law on that most miserable affair; and she asked herself in
dismay if such a ceremony could be held as binding.

She had thought much already over one thing which had been revealed on
that eventful evening. The name Mowbray was an assumed one. The villain
who had taken it now called himself Leon Dudleigh. Under that name he
married her, and under that name his marriage was published. His friend
and her betrayer--that most miserable scoundrel who had called himself
Lieutenant Dudleigh--had gained her consent to this marriage for the
express purpose of betraying her into the hands of her worst enemy. His
name might or might not be Dudleigh, but she now saw that the true name
of the other must be Dudleigh, and that Mowbray had been assumed for
some other purpose. But how he came by such a name she could not tell.
She had no knowledge whatever of Sir Lionel; and whether Leon was any
relation to him or not she was totally ignorant.

This gave a new and most painful turn to all her thoughts, and she began
to feel anxious to know what had occurred since that evening.
Accordingly, on Mrs. Dunbar's return to her room, she began to question
her. Thus far she had said but little to this woman, whom for so long a
time she had regarded with suspicion and aversion. Mrs. Dunbar's long
and anxious care of her, her constant watchfulness, her eager inquiries
after her health--all availed nothing, since all seemed to be nothing
more than the selfish anxiety of a jailer about the health of a prisoner
whose life it may be his interest to guard.

"Who sent this?" asked Edith, sternly, pointing to the paper.

Mrs. Dunbar hesitated, and after one hasty glance at Edith her eyes
sought the floor.

"The captain," said she at length.

"The captain?--what captain?" asked Edith.

"Captain--Dudleigh," said Mrs. Dunbar, with the same hesitation.

Edith paused. This confirmed her suspicions as to his true name. "Where
is he now?" she asked at length.

"I do not know," said Mrs. Dunbar, "where he is--just now."

"Has he ever been here?" asked Edith, after another pause.

"Ever been here!" repeated Mrs. Dunbar, looking again at Edith with
something like surprise. "Why, he lives here--now. I thought you knew
that."

"Lives here!" exclaimed Edith.

"Yes."

Edith was silent. This was very unpleasant intelligence. Evidently this
Leon Dudleigh and Wiggins were partners in this horrible matter.

"How does he happen to live here?" she asked at length, anxious to
discover, if possible, his purpose.

Mrs. Dunbar again hesitated. Edith had to repeat her question, and even
then her answer was given with evident reluctance.

"He says that you--I mean that he--is your--that is, that he is--is
master," said Mrs. Dunbar, in a hesitating and confused way.

"Master!" repeated Edith.

"He says that he is your--your--" Mrs. Dunbar hesitated and looked
anxiously at Edith.

"Well, what does he say?" asked Edith, impatiently. "He says that he is
my--what?"

"Your--your husband," said Mrs. Dunbar, with a great effort.

At this Edith stared at her for a moment, and then covered her face with
her hands, while a shudder passed through her. This plain statement of
the case from one of her jailers made her situation seem worse than
ever.

"He came here," continued Mrs. Dunbar, in a low tone, "the day after
your illness. He brought his horse and dog, and some--things."

Edith looked up with a face of agony.

"He said," continued Mrs. Dunbar, "that you were--married--to--him; that
you were now his--his wife, and that he intended to live at the Hall."

"Is that other one here too?" asked Edith, after a long silence.

"What other one?"

"The smaller villain--the one that used to call himself Lieutenant
Dudleigh."

Mrs. Dunbar shook her head.

"Do you know the real name of that person?"

"No."

Edith now said nothing for a long time; and as she sat there, buried in
her own miserable thoughts, Mrs. Dunbar looked at her with a face full
of sad and earnest sympathy--a face which had a certain longing, wistful
expression, as though she yearned over this stricken heart, and longed
to offer some consolation. But Edith, even if she had been willing to
receive any expressions of sympathy from one like Mrs. Dunbar, whom she
regarded as a miserable tool of her oppressor, or a base ally, was too
far down in the depths of her own profound affliction to be capable of
consolation. Bad enough it was already, when she had to look back over
so long a course of deceit and betrayal at the hands of one whom she had
regarded as her best friend; but now to find that all this treachery had
culminated in a horror like this, that she was claimed and proclaimed by
an outrageous villain as his wife--this was beyond all endurance. The
blackness of that perfidy, and the terror of her memories, which till
now had wrung her heart, fled away, and gave place to the most
passionate indignation.

And now, at the impulse of these more fervid feelings, her whole
outraged nature underwent a change. Till now she had felt most strongly
the emotions of grief and melancholy; now, however, these passed away,
and were succeeded by an intensity of hate, a vehemence of wrath, and a
hot glow of indignant passion that swept away all other feelings. All
the pride of her haughty spirit was roused; her soul became instinct
with a desperate resolve; and mingling with these feelings there was a
scorn for her enemies as beings of a baser nature, and a stubborn
determination to fight them all till the bitter end.

All this change was manifest in her look and tone as she again addressed
Mrs. Dunbar.

"You have all mistaken me," said she, with bitter hostility; "you have
imagined that you had to deal with some silly child. But this shall do
none of you any good. You may kill me among you, but I am not afraid to
die. Death itself will be welcome rather than submission to that foul
miscreant, that vulgar coward, who takes advantage of a contemptible
trick, and pretends that there was a marriage. I say this to you--that I
defy him and all of you, and will defy you all--yes, to the bitter end;
and you may go and tell this to your wretched confederates."

As Edith said this, Mrs. Dunbar looked at her; and if there could have
appeared upon that face the signs of a wounded heart--a heart cut and
stung to its inmost fibre--the face that confronted Edith showed all
this at that moment.

"Confederates!" she repeated.

"Yes, you and Wiggins and this villain who, you say, is now living
here."

"What, Leon!"

"Leon! Is that his name! Leon Dudleigh! Well, whatever name he chooses
to bear, it is all the same; though it seems strange that he should
adopt a stainless name like that of Dudleigh."

"Yes, that is his name," said Mrs. Dunbar, wearily.

"Till he assumes some other," said Edith. "But they are all assumed
names," she continued, bitterly--"Mowbray and Dudleigh and Dunbar also,
no doubt. Why you should call yourself Dunbar I can't imagine. You seem
to me to be Mrs. Wiggins. Wiggins at least can not be an assumed name."

At these words, which were spoken on the spur of the moment, out of mere
hostility toward Mrs. Dunbar, and the desire to wound her, the latter
recoiled as though from some sudden blow, and looked at Edith with awful
eyes.

"You are terrible," she said, in a low voice--"you are terrible. You can
not imagine what horrors you give expression to."

To this Edith paid no attention. It sounded old. It was like what
Wiggins had frequently said to her.

"I can not imagine," she continued, "any human being so utterly
bad-hearted, so altogether vile and corrupt, as this man who now calls
himself Leon Dudleigh. In pure fiendish malignity, and in all those
qualities which are abhorrent and shameful, he surpasses even, that
arch-villain Wiggins himself."

"Stop, stop!" cried Mrs. Dunbar. "I can not bear this. You must not talk
so. How do you know! You know nothing about Leon. Oh, how you wrong him!
Leon has had bad associates, but he himself is not bad. After all, Leon
has naturally a noble heart. He was a brave, high-minded boy. Oh, if
you could but know what he once was. You wrong Leon. You wrong him most
deeply. Oh, how deeply you wrong him!"

Mrs. Dunbar had said all this in a kind of feverish agitation, speaking
quickly and vehemently. Never before had Edith seen any thing
approaching to excitement in this strong-hearted, vigilant-eyed,
self-contained woman, and the sight of such emotion amazed her. But for
this woman and her feelings she cared nothing whatever; and so in the
midst of her words she waved her hand and interrupted her.

"I'm tired," she said; "I can not stand any more excitement just now. I
wish to be alone."

At this. Mrs. Dunbar arose and walked wearily out of the room.

One thing at least Edith considered as quite evident front Mrs. Dunbar's
agitation and eager championship of "Leon," and that was that this Leon
had all along been a confederate of Wiggins and this woman, and that the
so-called "Lieutenant Dudleigh" had been one of the same band of
conspirators. It seemed evident now to her that the whole plot had been
contrived among them. Perhaps Wiggins was to get one half of the estate,
and this Leon Dudleigh the other half.

Still she did not feel altogether sure, and in order to ascertain as
near as possible the truth as to her present position and prospects, she
determined to see Wiggins himself.

       *       *       *      *       *

CHAPTER XXX.

JAILER AND CAPTIVE.

On the following day Edith felt stronger, and calling Mrs. Dunbar, she
sent her to Wiggins with a request that the latter should meet her in
the drawing-room. She then walked through the long hall on her way down
stairs. Every thing looked as it did before her illness, except that one
change had taken place which arrested her attention the moment she
entered the drawing-room.

Over the chimney-piece a portrait had been hung--a portrait in a large
gilt frame, which looked as though it had been painted but recently. It
was a portrait of Leon Dudleigh. On catching sight of this she felt as
if she had been rooted to the spot. She looked at it for a short time
with compressed lips, frowning brow, and clinched hands after which she
walked away and flung herself into a chair.

Wiggins was evidently in no hurry, for it was more than half an hour
before he made his appearance. Edith sat in her chair, waiting for his
approach. The traces of her recent illness were very visible in the
pallor of her face, and in her thin, transparent hands. Her large eyes
seemed larger than ever, as they glowed luminously from their cavernous
depths, with a darker hue around each, as is often seen in cases of
sickness or debility, while upon her face there was an expression of
profound sadness that seemed fixed and unalterable.

But in the tone with which she addressed Wiggins there was nothing like
sadness. It was proud, cold, stern, and full of bitterest hostility.

"I have sent for you," she began, "because you, Wiggins, are concerned
as much as I myself am in the issue of this business about which I am
going to speak. I have suffered a very gross outrage, but I still have
confidence both in a just Heaven and in the laws of the land. This
ruffian, who now it seems calls himself Leon Dudleigh--your
confederate--has, with your assistance, cheated me into taking part in a
ceremony which he calls a marriage. What you propose to gain for
yourself by this I can not imagine; for it seems to me that it would
have been rather for your advantage to remain the sole master of your
ward than to help some one else to share your authority. But for your
purposes I care nothing--the evil is done. Yet if this Leon Dudleigh or
you think that I will sit tamely down under such an intolerable wrong,
you are miserably mistaken. Sooner or later I shall be avenged. Sooner
or later I shall gain my freedom, and then my turn shall come. I wish
you to see that there is danger before you; and I wish you also to
understand that it is for your interest to be my sole master, as you
were before. I have sent for you, then, to ask you, Wiggins, to expel
this man Leon Dudleigh from the house. Be my guardian again, and I will
be your ward. More: I agree to remain here in a state of passive
endurance for a reasonable time--one or two years, for instance; and I
promise during that time to make no complaint. Do this--drive this man
away--and you shall have no reason to regret it. On the other hand;
remember there is an alternative. Villain though this man is, I may come
to terms with him, and buy my liberty from him by giving him half of the
estate, or even the whole of it. In that case it seems to me that you
would lose every thing, for Leon Dudleigh is as great a villain as
yourself."

As Edith spoke, Wiggins listened most attentively. He had seated
himself not far from her, and after one look at her had fixed his eyes
on the floor. He waited patiently until she had said all she wished to
say. Edith herself had not hoped to gain much by this interview, but
she hoped at least to be able to discover something concerning the
nature of the partnership which she supposed to exist among her enemies,
and something perhaps about their plans. The averted face of Wiggins
seemed to her the attitude of conscious guilt; but she felt a little
puzzled at signs of emotion which he exhibited, and which seemed hardly
the result of conscious guilt. Once or twice a perceptible shudder
passed through his frame; his bent head bowed lower; he covered his face
with his hands; and at her last words there came from him a low moan
that seemed to indicate suffering.

"It's his acting," she thought. "I wonder what his next pretense will
be?"

Wiggins sat for some minutes without saying a word. When at length he
raised his head he did not look at Edith, but fastened his eyes on
vacancy, and went on to speak in a low voice.

"Your remarks," said he, "are all based on a misconception. This man is
no confederate of mine. I have no confederate. I--I work out my
purpose--by myself."

"I'm sure I wish that I could believe this," said Edith; "but
unfortunately Mrs. Dunbar espouses his cause with so much warmth and
enthusiasm that I am forced to conclude that this Leon Dudleigh must be
a very highly valued or very valuable friend to both of you."

"In this case," said Wiggins, "Mrs. Dunbar and I have different
feelings."

Instead of feeling gratified at this disclaimer of any connection with
Leon Dudleigh, Edith felt dissatisfied, and somewhat disconcerted. It
seemed to her that Wiggins was trying to baffle her and throw her off
the right track. She had hoped that by speaking out frankly her whole
mind she might induce him to come to some agreement with her; but by his
answers she saw that he was not in the least degree affected by her
warnings, or her threats, or her offers.

"This Leon Dudleigh," said she, "has all along acted sufficiently like a
confederate of yours to make me think that he is one."

"How?"

"By coming into these grounds at all times; by having privileges equal
in all respects to your own; by handing over those privileges to his spy
and emissary--the one who took the name of Lieutenant Dudleigh. Surely
all this is enough to make me think that he must be your confederate."

"You are altogether mistaken," said Wiggins, quietly.

"He told some idle story once," said Edith, anxious to draw more out of
Wiggins than these short answers, "about some power which he had over
you. He asserted that you were afraid of him. He said that you dared not
keep him out of the park. He said that his power over you arose from his
knowledge of certain past crimes of yours."

"When he said that," remarked Wiggins, "he said what was false."

"Why, then, did you allow him to come here?"

"I did so for reasons that I do not feel at liberty to explain--just
now. I will only say that the reasons were altogether different from
those which he stated."

Of this Edith did not believe a word; yet she felt completely baffled,
and did not know what to say to this man, who thus met all her
assertions with denials, and spoke in the calm, lofty tone of conscious
truth. But this, she thought, was only his "acting."

"I only hope that this is so," said she; "but supposing that it is so, I
should like very much to know what you feel disposed to do. The claim
that this man asserts over me is utterly false. It is a mockery. If he
is really not your confederate, you will see, I am sure, that it is not
for your own interest to sustain him in his attempt to maintain his
claim. I wish, therefore, to know exactly what it is that you feel
willing to do."

"Your situation," said Wiggins, "is a most unhappy one. I will do all
that I can to prevent it from becoming more so. If this man annoys you,
I will defend you against him, whatever it may cost."

This sounded well; yet still Edith was not satisfied. It seemed to her
too much like an empty promise which he had no idea of fulfilling.

"How will you defend me?" she asked. "This man lives here now. He
asserts that he has the right to do so. He has published what he calls
my marriage to him in the newspapers. He calls himself my husband. All
this is a wrong and an insult to me. His presence here is a perpetual
menace. When he is absent he leaves a reminder of himself," she
continued, in a more bitter tone, glancing toward the portrait. "Now I
wish to know what you will do. Will you prevent him from coming here?
Will you send him away, either in your name or in mine? You are easily
able to keep out my friends; will you keep out my enemies?"

"This man," said Wiggins, "shall soon give you no more trouble."

"Soon--what do you mean by soon?" asked Edith, impatiently.

"As soon as my plans will allow me to proceed to extremities with him."

"Your plans!" repeated Edith. "You are always bringing up your plans.
Whatever is concerned, you plead your plans. They form a sufficient
excuse for you to refuse the commonest justice. And yet what I ask is
certainly for your own interests."

"If you knew me better," said Wiggins, "you would not appeal to my
interests. I have not generally fashioned my life with regard to my own
advantage. Some day you will see this. You, at least, should be the last
one to complain of my plans, since they refer exclusively to the
vindication of your injured father."

"So you have said before," said Edith, coldly. "Those plans must be very
convenient, since you use them to excuse every possible act of yours."

"You will not have to wait long now," said Wiggins, in a weary voice, as
though this interview was too much for his endurance--"not very long. I
have heard to-day of something which is very favorable. Since the trial
certain documents and other articles have been kept by the authorities,
and an application has been made for these, with a view to the
establishment of your father's innocence. I have recently heard that the
application is about to be granted."

"You always answer my appeals for common justice," said Edith, with
unchanged coldness, "by some reference to my father. It seems to me
that if you had wished to vindicate his innocence, it would have been
better to do so while he was alive. If you had done so, it might have
been better for yourself in the end. But now these allusions are idle
and worse than useless. They have no effect on me whatever. I value them
at what they are worth."

With these words Edith rose and left the room. She returned to her own
apartments with a feeling of profound dejection and disappointment. Of
Wiggins she could make nothing. He promised, but his promises were too
vague to afford satisfaction.

Leon Dudleigh was away now, but would probably be back before long. As
she had failed with Wiggins, only one thing remained, and that was to
see Leon. She was resolved to meet him at once on his arrival, and
fight out once for all that battle which was inevitable between herself
and him.

CHAPTER XXXI.

THE IRREPRESSIBLE STRUGGLE.

About a month passed away, during which time Edith, in spite of her
troubles, grew stronger every day. Youth and a good, constitution were
on her side, and enabled her to rally rapidly from the prostration to
which she had been subjected.

At length one morning she learned that Leon had arrived at the Hall.
This news gave her great satisfaction, for she had been waiting long,
and felt anxious to see him face to face, to tell him her own mind, and
gather from him, if possible, what his intentions were. An interview
with him under such peculiar circumstances might have been painful had
she been less courageous or less self-possessed; but to one with such
lofty pride as hers, and filled as she was with such scorn of Leon, and
convinced as she was that he was at heart an arrant coward, such an
interview had nothing in it to deter her. Suspense was worse. She
wished to meet that man.

She sent word to him that she wished to see him, after which she went
down to the drawing-room and waited. Leon certainly showed no haste, for
it was as much as an hour before he made his appearance. On entering he
assumed that languid air which he had adopted on some of his former
visits. He looked carelessly at her, and then threw himself into a
chair.

"Really, Mrs. Dudleigh," said he, "this is an unexpected pleasure. 'Pon
my life, I had no idea that you would volunteer to do me so much honor!"

"I am not Mrs. Dudleigh," said Edith, "as you very well know. I am Miss
Dalton, and if you expect me to have any thing to say to you, you must
call me by my proper name. You will suffer dearly enough yet for your
crimes, and have no need to add to them."

"Now, my dear," said Leon, "that is kind and wife-like, and all that. It
reminds me of the way in which wives sometimes speak in the plays."

"Speak to me as Miss Dalton, or you shall not speak to me at all."

"It's quite evident," said Leon, with a sneer, "that you don't know into
whose hands you've fallen."

"On the contrary," said Edith, contemptuously, "it has been my fortune,
or my misfortune, to understand from the first both you and Wiggins."

Leon gave a light laugh.

"Your temper," said he, "has not improved much, at any rate. That's
quite evident. You have always shown a very peculiar idea of the way in
which a lady should speak to a gentleman."

"One would suppose by that," said Edith, "that you actually meant to
hint that you considered yourself a gentleman."

"So I am," said Leon, haughtily.

"As you have no particular birth or family," said Edith, in her most
insolent tone, "I suppose you must rest your claims to be a gentleman
altogether on your good manners and high-toned character."

"Birth and family!" exclaimed Leon, excitedly, "what do you know about
them! You don't know what you're talking about."

"I know nothing about you, certainly," said Edith. "I suppose you are
some mere adventurer."

Leon looked at her for a moment with a glance of intense rage; and as
she calmly returned his gaze, she noticed that peculiarity of his
frowning brow a red spot in the middle, with deep lines.

"You surely in your wildest dreams," said she, "never supposed that I
took you for a gentleman."

"Let me tell you," cried Leon, stammering in his passion "let me tell
you that I associate with the proudest in the land."

"I know that," replied Edith, quietly. "Am _I_ not here! But you
are only tolerated."

"Miss Dalton," cried Leon, "you shall suffer for this."

"Thank you," said Edith: "for once in your life you have spoken to me
without insulting me. You have called me by my right name. I could
smile at your threat under any circumstances, but now I can forgive it."

"It seems to me," growled Leon, "that you are riding the high horse
somewhat, and that this is a rather queer tone for you to assume toward
me."

"I always assume a high tone toward low people."

"Low people! What do you mean!" cried Leon, his face purple with rage.

"I really don't know any name better than that for you and your
friends."

"The name of Dudleigh," said Leon, "is one of the proudest in the land."

[Illustration: SHE CONFRONTED HIM WITH A COLD, STONY GLARE.]

"I swear by all that's holy that you are really my wife. The marriage
was a valid one. No law can break it. The banns were published in the
village church. All the villagers heard them. Wiggins kept himself shut
up so that he knew nothing about it. The clergyman is the vicar of
Dalton--the Rev. Mr. Munn. It has been, published in the papers. In the
eye of the law you are no longer Miss Dalton, you are Mrs. Leon
Dudleigh. You are my wife!"

At these words, in spite of Edith's pride and courage, there came over
her a dark fear that all this might indeed be as he said. The mention
of the published banns disturbed her, and shook that proud and obstinate
conviction which she had thus far entertained that the scene in the
chapel was only a brutal practical joke. It might be far more. It might
not be a mockery after all. It might be good in the eye of the
law--that law whose injustice had been shown to her in the terrible
experience of her father; and if this were so, what then?

A pang of anguish shot through her heart as this terrific thought
occurred. But the pang passed away, and with it the terror passed also.
Once more she called to her aid that stubborn Dalton fortitude and
Dalton pride which had thus far so well sustained her.

"_Your_ wife!" she exclaimed, with a loathing and a scorn in her
face and in her voice that words could not express, at the sight of
which even Leon, with all his insolence, was cowed--"_your_ wife!
Do you think you can affect me by lies like these?"

"Lies!" repeated Leon--"it's the truth. You are my wife, and you must
sign these papers."

"I don't think so," said Edith, resuming her former coolness.

"Do you dare to refuse me this?"

"I don't see any daring about it. Of course I refuse."

"Sign them!" roared Leon, with an oath.

Edith smiled lightly and turned away.

Leon rushed toward her with a menacing gesture. But Edith was aware of
this. In an instant she turned, snatched a dagger from her breast which
had been concealed there, and confronted him with a cold, stony glare.

"I well know," said she, "what an utter coward you are. While I have
this you will not dare to touch me. It is better for you, on the whole,
just now, that you are a coward, for this dagger--which, by-the-way, I
always carry--is poisoned. It is an old family affair--and that shows
you one of the advantages of having a family--and so deadly is the
poison that a scratch would kill you. Yes, there is some advantage in
being a coward, for if you dared to touch me, I should strike you with
this as I would strike a mad dog!"

Leon stood before her, a coward, as she knew and as she said, not daring
to come within reach of her terrible weapon, which she upheld with a
deadly purpose plainly visible in her eye. Yet it seemed as though,
with his great muscular power, he might easily have grasped that slender
arm and wrenched the dagger away. But this was a thing which he did not
dare to attempt; the risk was too great. He might have received a
scratch in the struggle with that young girl who confronted him so
steadily, and who, with all her fragile beauty, was so calm, so proud,
and so resolute.

Edith waited for a few moments, and then walked quietly away, trusting
implicitly to Leon's cowardice, and without another word, or even
another look, she left the room and returned to her own apartments.

CHAPTER XXXII.

A FIGHT IN THE ENEMY'S CAMP

It will have been seen already that Leon had taken up his abode at
Dalton Hall immediately after that marriage ceremony as the husband of
Edith. Her illness had hitherto prevented him from having any
understanding with her, and his own affairs called him away before her
recovery. With Wiggins he remained on the same footing as before; nor
did he find himself able to alter that footing in the slightest degree.
Whatever Wiggins may have thought or felt on the subject of the
marriage, he revealed it to no one; and Leon found himself compelled to
wait for Edith's recovery before he could accomplish any thing definite
with regard to his own position. On his return, to Dalton Hall he
learned that she was convalescent, and he was much surprised at her
immediate request for an interview.

With the result of that interview he had but little reason to be
satisfied. He felt disappointed, enraged, and humiliated. Edith had
been perfectly free from all fear of him. The young girl had shown
herself a virago. His insults she had returned with mocking sarcasms,
his threats she had treated with utter contempt, and finally she had
proved him to his own face to be a coward. Over the recollection of
that scene he could only gnash his teeth in fruitless rage. The more he
thought of that interview, the more bitter grew his mortification; and
at length he resolved to force matters to a climax at once by coming to
a distinct and final understanding with Wiggins himself.

Leon had enjoyed the freedom of the house long enough to know where
Wiggins's room was, and into that room he intruded himself abruptly on
the following day. It was in this room that Wiggins spent the greater
part of his time, carrying on a vigorous though not very extensive
correspondence, and moving the wires of those plans at which he had
hinted to Edith. He was here now, and as Leon entered he looked up with
a silent stare.

"I'll not stand this any longer," burst forth Leon, abruptly and
vehemently. "I'm in terrible difficulties. I've been waiting long
enough. You must side with me actively, for your assistance is
absolutely necessary to bring that mad girl to terms. I'm married to
her. She's my wife. I must have control of this place at once; and I'll
tolerate no farther opposition from her, or humbug from you. I've come
now to tell you this finally and peremptorily."

"She is not your wife," said Wiggins, coldly.

"She is."

"It was a trick. The ceremony was a miserable sham."

"It was no sham. It was done legally, and can not be undone."

"Legally! Pooh! The whole thing was a farce. It's no marriage.
Legally! Why, what has that miserable affair to do with the law?"

"What has it to do? It has every thing to do. The whole thing was done
in a perfectly legal manner. The banns were regularly published by the
vicar of Dalton in Dalton Church, and in that chapel Edith Dalton was
regularly and legally married to Leon Dudleigh by the Rev. Mr. Munn.
What more is wanting to make it legal? Go and ask Mr. Munn himself."

"The banns!" exclaimed Wiggins.

"Yes, the banns," said Leon. "You never heard of that, perhaps. If you
doubt me, go and ask Munn."

"It was not you that she married!" cried Wiggins, after a pause, in
which he seemed struck rather painfully by Leon's last information. "It
was not you--it was that other one. He called himself Dudleigh--a
miserable assumed name!"

"You know nothing about it," said Leon, "whether it was assumed or not.
And as to the marriage, it was to me. I held her hand; I put the ring
on her finger; she married me, and no other. But I'm not going to talk
about that. I've simply come here to insist on your active help. I
won't stand any more of this humbug. I've already told you that I know
you."

Wiggins remained silent for some time.

"So you did," said he at last, in a low voice; "but what of that?"

"Why, only this: you had to let me do what I chose. And I intend to
keep a good hold of you yet, my fine fellow."

Wiggins placed both his elbows on the table in front of him, and looked
fixedly at Leon for some time.

"You did say once," said he, slowly, "that you knew me, and the
possibility that it might be true induced me to tolerate you here for
some time. I trusted to Miss Dalton's innate good sense to save her from
any danger from one like you; but it appears that I was mistaken. At the
present moment, however, I may as well inform you that you have not the
slightest idea who I am, and more than this, that I have not the
slightest objection to tell you."

"Pooh!" said Leon, with ill-disguised uneasiness, "it's all very well
for you to take that tone, but it won't do with me. I know who you are."

"Who am I?"

"Oh, I know."

"Who? who? Say it! If you did know, you would not imagine that you had
any power over me. Your power is a dream, and your knowledge of me is a
sham. Who am I?"

"Why," said Leon, with still greater uneasiness and uncertainty in his
face and voice, "you are not John Wiggins."

"Who do you think I am?" asked Wiggins.

"Who? who? Why, you came from Australia."

"Well, what of that?"

"Well, you are some convict who got acquainted with Dalton out there,
and have come back here to try to get control of these estates."

"But how could I do that? If this were so, do you suppose that Wiggins
of Liverpool would allow it?"

"Oh, he has a share in the business. He goes halves with you, perhaps."

"If he wanted any shares at all in such a transaction, he might have
all, and therefore he would be a fool to take half. Your theory, I
infer, is somewhat lame. And what of Mrs. Dunbar? Is she an Australian
convict too?"

"Mrs. Dunbar?--who is she? What! that crazy housekeeper? She looks as
though she may have just been released from some lunatic asylum."

Wiggins made no immediate reply, and sat for a few moments in thought.
Then he looked at Leon and said:

"Well, you have got hold of a part of the truth--just enough to mislead
you. It is true that I have been in Australia, though why you should
suppose that I was a convict I do not know. More: I went out there on
account of Dalton, and for no other reason. While there I saw much of
him, and gained his whole confidence. He told me his whole story
unreservedly. He believed me to be his friend. He confided every thing
to me. You must have heard of his trial, and his strange persistence in
refusing to say who the guilty party was."

"Oh yes," said Leon, with a laugh. "A good idea that, when the guilty
party was himself."

"It was not himself," said Wiggins, "and before long the world shall
know who it was, for that is the one business of my life since my
return, to which I have sacrificed all other concerns. In my attention
to this I have even neglected Miss Dalton."

"She does not appear to think that you have neglected her," said Leon,
with a sneer.

To this Wiggins paid no attention.

"Dalton," said he, "told me all before he died. He thought of his
daughter, and though he had suffered himself, yet he thought on his
death-bed that it would be a sin to leave to her such a legacy of shame.
It was this that broke his obstinate silence, and made him tell his
secret to me. And here, Leon Dudleigh, is a thing in which you are
concerned.

"I!" exclaimed Leon, in astonishment, not unmingled with alarm.

"I will tell you presently. I will simply remark now that I am
following out his wishes, and am working for Miss Dalton, as he himself
would have worked, to redeem her name."

"The name is hers no longer," said Leon.

"She seems to give you a precious hard time of it too, I should say, and
does not altogether appreciate your self-denying and wonderfully
disinterested efforts."

"I have not treated her with sufficient consideration," said Wiggins. "I
misunderstood her character. I began altogether wrong. I see now that
I ought to have given her more of my confidence, or, better yet, that I
ought not to have brought her here till the work was done. Well," he
added, with a sigh, "my chief consolation is that it will be all right
in the end."

"This is all rubbish," said Leon. "You are not what you pretend to be.
You are not her guardian. You are an interloper and a swindler. You
shall remain here no longer. I am her husband, and I order you off the
premises at once."

"You are not her husband, and I am her guardian," said Wiggins, calmly.
"I was appointed by her father on his death-bed."

"I don't believe it. Besides, your name is not Wiggins at all."

"How do you know? You know nothing."

[Illustration: DOTARD! DO YOU TALK OF VENGEANCE?]

"I know Wiggins."

"Wiggins of Liverpool, perhaps, but there are more Wigginses in the
world than that."

"A court of law will show that--"

"You will not go to a court of law. That is my task. And mark me,"
continued Wiggins, with thrilling emphasis, "when a court of law takes
up the subject of the Dalton estates or the Dalton name, then it will be
the turn for you and yours to tremble."

"Tremble!" exclaimed Leon, scornfully.

"Yes," repeated Wiggins. "Your father--"

"Pooh!" said Leon.

"When Dalton died," continued Wiggins, "he left his papers. Among them
was a letter of which he himself told me. If he had produced that
letter on his trial, he would have escaped, and the guilty man would
have been punished. The letter was written by the real forger. It
inclosed the forged check to Dalton, asking him to draw the money and
pay certain pressing debts. The writer of that letter was your own
father--Lionel Dudleigh!"

"It's a lie!" cried Leon, starting up, with terrible excitement in his
face--an excitement, too, which was mingled with unspeakable dread.

"It's true," said Wiggins, calmly, "and the letter can be proved."

"It can not."

"It can, and by the best of testimony."

"I don't believe it."

"Perhaps not; but there is something more. With the murder trial you
are no doubt familiar. In fact, I take it for granted that you are
familiar with Dalton's case _in all its bearings_," added Wiggins,
in a tone of deep meaning. "In that murder trial, then, you are aware
that a Maltese cross was found on the scene of murder, and created much
excitement. You know what part it had in the trial. I now inform you
that I have proof which can show beyond a doubt that this Maltese cross
was the property of your father--Lionel Dudleigh."

"It's a lie--an infernal lie!" said Leon, in a hoarse voice. His
excitement had now become terrible.

"It's true--all true," continued Wiggins. "It can all be proved by a
witness that can not be impeached. Yes, Leon Dudleigh, you yourself
would be forced to accept the testimony of that witness."

"What witness?" said Leon, in a voice that was scarcely audible from
conflicting emotions.

Wiggins looked at him earnestly, and then said, in a low, deep, solemn
voice,

"Leon Dudleigh, that witness is _your mother!_"

The other started as though he had been shot.

"My mother!" he almost screamed--"my mother! why, she--she is
dead--dead long ago."

"When did you find that out?" said Wiggins.

"She's dead! she's dead!" repeated Leon, as though by assertion he could
make it true.

"She is not dead," said Wiggins, in an awful voice, "though all these
years she has lived a living death. She is not dead. She is alive, and
she now stands ready, when the hour comes, though with an agonized
heart, to give that testimony which, years ago, she dared not and could
not give. She has allowed the innocent to suffer, and the guilty to go
free, but now she will do so no longer. The work upon which I have been
engaged is almost complete. The preparations are made, and this very day
I am going to Liverpool to perform the last acts that are necessary
toward vindicating the memory of Dalton, establishing his innocence, and
punishing the guilty. As for you, you can do nothing here, and I have
resolved to punish you for what you have done. I shall show you no
mercy. If you want to save yourself, leave the country, for otherwise I
swear you will never be safe from my vengeance."

"Vengeance!" said Leon, in low, menacing tones. "Dotard! do _you_
talk of vengeance? You do not understand the meaning of that word. Wait
till you see what I can do."

And with these words he left the room.

That evening Wiggins left for Liverpool.

CHAPTER XXXIII.

THE HUSBAND'S LAST APPEAL.

Early on the following day Edith received a request from Leon for
another interview. This request was acceptable in every way, for the
last interview had been no more satisfactory to her than to him, and she
could not help hoping that something more definite might result from a
new one. She therefore went down, and found him already in the room.

On this occasion Leon showed nothing of that languor which he had
previously affected. He appeared, on the contrary, uneasy, nervous, and
impatient. So abstracted was he by his own thoughts that he did not
notice her entrance. She sat down and waited for a little while, after
which she said, quietly,

"Did you wish to see me, Captain--a--Dudleigh?" Leon started, then
frowned; then, after a little silence, he began abruptly:

"You may deny it as much as you choose, but it's no use. You are
actually married to me. You are really and truly my wife, both in the
eyes of man and in the eyes of the law. From that marriage nothing can
ever deliver you but a divorce."

"You are mistaken," said Edith, quietly. "Even if that miserable
performance should turn out to be a marriage--which is absurd--still
there is one other thing that can free me."

"Ah?--and what may that be?"

"Death!" said Edith, solemnly.

Leon turned pale. "Is that a threat?" he asked at length, in a trembling
voice. "Whose death do you mean?"

Edith made no reply.

"Yes," said Leon, after a pause, going on with his former train of
thought, "at any rate you are my wife, and you can not help it. You may
deny it as much as you please, but that will not avail. In spite of
this, however, I do not molest you, although I might so easily do it. I
never trouble you with my presence. I am very forbearing. Few would do
as I do. Yet I have rights, and some of them, at least, I am determined
to assert. Now, on the whole, it is well for you--and you ought to see
it--that you have one here who occupies the peculiar position toward you
which I do. If it were not for me you would be altogether in the power
of Wiggins. He is your guardian or your jailer, whichever you choose to
call him. He could shut you up in the vaults of Dalton Hall if he
chose--and he probably will do that very thing before long--for who is
there to prevent him? I am the only one who can stand between you and
him. I am your only hope. You do not know who and what this man is. You
think you know him, but you don't. You think of him as a villain and a
tyrant. Let me tell you that in your bitterest hate of that man you have
never begun to conceive the fraction of his villainy. Let me tell you
that he is one who passes your comprehension. Let me tell you that,
however much you may hate me, if I were to tell you what Wiggins is, the
feelings that you have toward me would be almost affection, compared to
those which you would have toward him."

Leon paused. He had spoken most earnestly and vehemently; but upon Edith
these words produced no effect. She believed that this was a last effort
to work upon her feelings by exciting her fears of Wiggins. She did not
believe him capable of speaking the truth to her, and thus his words
produced no result.

"If you had not been married to me when you were," continued Leon, "I
solemnly assure you that by this time you would have been where hope
could never reach you."

"Well, really," said Edith, "Captain--a--Dudleigh, all this is
excessively childish. By such an absurd preamble as this you, of
course, must mean something. All this, however, can have no possible
effect on me, for the simple reason that I consider it spoken for
effect. I hope, therefore, that you will be kind enough to come at once
to business, and say precisely what it is that you want of me."

"It is no absurd preamble," said Leon, gloomily. "It is not nonsense, as
I could soon show you. There is no human being who has done so much
wrong to you and yours as this Wiggins, yet you quietly allow him to be
your guardian."

"I?" said Edith. "I allow him? Let me be free, and then you will see
how long I allow him."

"But I mean here--in Dalton Hall."

"I do not allow him any thing. I am simply a prisoner. He is my jailer,
and keeps me here."

"You need not be so."

"Pray how can I escape?"

"By siding with me."

"With you?" asked Edith--"and what then?"

"Well, if you side with me I will drive him out."

"You seem incapable of understanding," said Edith, "that of the two, you
yourself, both by nature and by position, are by far the more abhorrent
to me. Side with you! And is this the proposal you have to make?"

"I tell you that you are in no danger from me, and that you are from
him."

"Really, as far as danger is concerned, my prospects with Wiggins are
far preferable to my prospects with you."

"But you don't know him. He has done terrible things--deeds of horror."

"And you--what have you done? But perhaps I have mistaken you. When you
ask me to side with you, you may perhaps mean that I shall be at
liberty, and that when you expel Wiggins you will allow me to go also."

At this Leon looked down in evident embarrassment.

"Well--not--yet," he said, slowly. "In time, of course; but it can not
all be done just at once, you know."

"What can not be done at once?"

"Your--your freedom."

"Why not?"

"Well, there are--a--certain difficulties in the way."

"Then what can I gain by siding with you? Why should I cast off Wiggins,
and take a new jailer who has done to me a wrong far more foul and far
more intolerable than any that Wiggins ever attempted?"

"But you mistake me. I intend to let you go free, of course--that is, in
time."

"In time!"

"Yes; every thing can not be done in a moment."

"This is mere childishness. You are trifling. I am astonished that you
should speak in this way, after what you know of me."

"But I tell you I will set you free--only I can not do that until I get
what I want."

"And what is it that you want?"

"Why, what I married you for."

"What is that?"

"Money," said Leon, abruptly.

"Money," repeated Edith, in surprise.

"Yes, money," said Leon, harshly.

"You must really apply to Wiggins, then," said she, carelessly.

"No; you yourself are the only one to whom I must apply."

"To me? I have no money whatever. It is of no use for me to inform you
that Wiggins is all-powerful here. I thought by your professed knowledge
of his wonderful secrets that you had some great power over him, and
could get from him whatever you want."

"Never mind what you thought," growled Leon. "I come to you, and you
only, and I ask you for money."

"How can _I_ give it?"

"By signing your name to a paper, a simple paper, which I can use. Your
signature is necessary to effect what I wish."

"My signature? Ah! And what possible inducement can you offer me for my
signature?"

"Why, what you most desire."

"What? My freedom?"

"Yes."

"Very well. Will you drive me to the village at once?"

Leon hesitated.

"Well, not just at once, you know. You must remain here a short time,
and go through certain formalities and routine work, and attest certain
things before a lawyer."

Edith smiled.

"What a simpleton you must still think me! How easy you must think it is
to impose upon me! Perhaps you think me so credulous, or so much in the
habit of confiding in you, that no such thing as doubt ever enters my
mind."

Leon glared angrily at her.

"I tell you I must have it," he cried, in excited tones. "I must have
it--by fair means or foul."

"But of the two ways I _presume_ you have a preference for the
latter," said Edith.

"I tell you I must and will have it," reiterated Leon.

"I don't see how you can get my signature very well--unless you forge
it; but then I suppose that will not stand in your way."

"Now by all that is most holy," cried Leon, vehemently, "you make me
hate you even worse than I hate Wiggins."

"Really, these feelings of yours are a subject in which I do not take
the smallest interest."

"I tell you," cried Leon, struggling to repress his rage, "if you sign
this paper you shall be free."

"Let me be free first, and then I will think about it."

"If you get free you'll refuse to sign," said Leon.

"But if I were to sign first I should never be free."

"You shall be free. I promise you on the honor of a gentleman," cried
Leon, earnestly.

"I'm afraid," said Edith, in a tone of quiet contempt, "that the
security is of too little value."

Leon looked at her with fury in his eyes.

"You are driving me to the most desperate measures," he cried.

"It seems to me that your measures have all along been as desperate as
they well can be."

"I swear by all that's holy," thundered Leon, "that I'll tame you yet.
I'll bring you into subjection."

"Ah! then in that case," said Edith, "my comfort will be that the
subjection can not last long."

"Will it not?" asked Leon.

"No, it will not, as you very well know," said Edith, in cold, measured
tones, looking steadfastly at him with what seemed like a certain solemn
warning. She rose as she said this, still looking at Leon, while he
also rose in a state of vehement excitement.

"What do you meant" he cried. "You look as blood-thirsty as an
assassin."

"I may yet become one," said Edith, gloomily, "if this lasts much
longer. You have eyes, but you will not see. You treat me like some
silly, timid child, while I have all the time the spirit of a man. This
can only end in one way. Some one must die!"

Leon looked at her in astonishment. Her voice and her look showed that
she was in earnest, but the fragile beauty of her slender form seemed to
belie the dark meaning of her words.

"I came with a fair offer," said he, in a voice hoarse with passion.

"You!" said Edith, in cold scorn; "you with a fair offer! Fairness and
honor and justice and truth, and all such things, are altogether unknown
to such as you."

At this Leon frowned that peculiar frown of his, and gnawed his mustache
in his rage.

"I have spared you thus far," said he--"I have spared you; but now, by
Heaven, you shall feel what it is to have a master!"

"You!" she cried--"you spared me? If I have escaped any injury from you,
it has been through my own courage and the cowardice of your own heart.
You my master! You will learn a terrible lesson before you become
that!"

"I have spared you," cried Leon, now beside himself with rage--"I have
spared you, but I will spare you no longer. After this you shall know
that what I have thus far done is as nothing to that which is yet before
you."

"What you have done!" said Edith, fixing her great wrathful eyes more
sternly upon Leon, with a look of deadly menace, and with burning
intensity of gaze, and speaking in a low tone that was tremulous with
repressed indignation--"what you have done! Let me tell you, Captain
Dudleigh, your heart's blood could never atone for the wrongs you have
done me! Beware, Sir, how you drive me to desperation. You little know
what I have in my mind to do. You have made me too familiar with the
thought of death!"

At these words Leon stared at her in silence. He seemed at last to
understand the full possibility of Edith's nature, and to comprehend
that this one whom he threatened was capable, in her despair, of making
all his threats recoil on his own head: He said nothing, and in a few
moments afterward she left the room.

As she went out of the door she encountered Hugo. He started as she
came noiselessly upon him. He had evidently been listening to all that
had been said. At this specimen of the way in which she was watched,
though it really showed her no more than what she had all along known,
there arose in Edith's mind a fresh sense of helplessness and of peril.

[Illustration: EDITH SET TO WORK. ]

CHAPTER XXXIV.

THE FUGITIVE AND THE PURSUER.

On returning to her own room from that interview with Leon, Edith sat
for a long time involved in thought. It was evident to her now that her
situation was one full of frightful peril. The departure of Wiggins, of
which she was aware, seemed to afford additional danger. Between him
and Leon there had been what seemed to her at least the affectation of
dislike or disagreement, but now that he was gone there remained no one
who would even pretend to interpose between herself and her enemy. Even
if Mrs. Dunbar had been capable of assisting her against Leon, Edith
knew that no reliance could be placed upon her, for she had openly
manifested a strong regard for him.

This departure of Wiggins, which thus seemed to make her present
position more perilous, seemed also to Edith to afford her a better
opportunity than any she had known since her arrival of putting into
execution her long-meditated project of flight. True, there was still
the same difficulty which had been suggested once before--the want of
money--but Edith was now indifferent to this. The one thing necessary
was to escape from her new perils. If she could but get out of the
Dalton grounds, she hoped to find some lawyer who might take up her
cause, and allow her enough to supply her modest wants until that cause
should be decided. But liberty was the one thought that eclipsed all
others in her estimation; and if she could but once effect her escape
from this horrible place, it seemed to her that all other things would
be easy.

The present appeared to be beyond all others the fitting time, for
Wiggins was away, and it seemed to her that in his absence the watch
over her would probably be relaxed. Her long illness would of itself
have thrown them to some extent off their guard, and render her purpose
unsuspected. By this time it would doubtless be forgotten that she had
once left the Hall by night, and it was not likely that any precaution
would be taken against a second flight on the part of one so weak as she
was supposed to be. A few days before she had made a stealthy visit to
that door, and had found, to her great relief, that no additional
fastenings had been put there. Her illness had evidently rendered any
such precaution unnecessary for the time; and since her recovery Wiggins
had no doubt been too much occupied with other things to think of this.

Now was the time, then, for flight. The danger was greater than ever
before, and the opportunity for escape better. Leon was master in the
house. The other inmates were simply his creatures. Leon Dudleigh, as he
called himself, claimed to be her husband. He asserted that claim
insolently and vehemently. She had defied him, but how long would she be
able to maintain that defiant attitude? How long could her frail
strength sustain her in a life of incessant warfare like this, even if
her spirit should continue to be as indomitable as ever? The scene of
this day, and her last parting with him, made the danger seem so
imminent that it nerved her resolution, and made her determine at all
hazards to attempt her escape that night.

But how should she escape?

Not for the first time did this question occur. For a long time she had
been brooding over it, and as she had thought it over she had devised a
plan which seemed to hold out to her some prospect of success.

In the first place, it was evident that she would have to climb over the
wall. To obtain any key by which she could open the gates was
impossible. She could find none that were at all likely to do so;
besides, she was afraid that even if she had a key, the attempt to
unlock the gates might expose her to detection and arrest by the
watchful porter. The wall, therefore, was her only hope.

Now that wall could not be climbed by her unassisted strength, but she
knew that if she had any sort of a ladder it might easily be done. The
question that arose, then, was how to procure this ladder. A wooden one
could not be of any service, for she could not carry it so far, and she
saw plainly that her attempt must be made by means of some sort of a
rope-ladder.

Having reached this conclusion, she began a diligent search among all
the articles at her disposal, and finally concluded that the bed-cord
would be exactly what she needed. In addition to this, however,
something more was required--something of the nature of a grapple or
hook to secure her rope-ladder to the top of the wall. This required a
further search, but in this also she was successful. An iron rod on the
curtain pole along which the curtains ran appeared to her to be well
suited to her needs. It was about six feet long and a quarter of an inch
thick. The rod rested loosely on the pole, and Edith was able to remove
it without difficulty.

All these preliminaries had been arranged or decided upon before this
evening, and Edith had now only to take possession of the rod and the
rope, and adapt them to her wants. For this purpose she waited till
dark, and then began her work.

It was moonlight, and she was able to work without lighting a lamp, thus
securing additional secrecy. This moonlight was both an advantage and a
disadvantage, and she did not know whether to be glad or sorry about it.
It certainly facilitated her escape by showing the way, but then, on the
other hand, it rendered discovery easier.

Edith set to work, and, first of all, she removed the bed-cord. It was
as strong as was desirable, and far longer than was necessary. She
doubled part of this, and tied knots at intervals of about a foot, and
in this simple way formed what was a very good step-ladder about three
yards long, which was sufficient for her purpose. Then she removed the
iron curtain rod, and bent this in such a way that it formed a hook or
grapple strong enough for her wants. She thus had a rope-ladder, with a
grappling-iron attached, of rude construction, it is true, yet perfectly
well suited to the task before her, and so light as to be quite
portable.

These preparations did not take up much time. After taking what she
wanted of the bed-cord, there was enough left to replace in the bedstead
so as to hold up the bed. She did not know what might happen, and wished
to preserve appearances in the event of Mrs. Dunbar's entrance, or in
case of her being compelled to postpone her project. From the same
motive she also replaced the curtain so as to look as it did before,
securing it in its place by means of pins.

At length all these preparations were completed, and it only remained
for Edith to wait for the proper time to start.

The hours passed on.

Midnight came, but even at that hour Edith thought that it was too
early. Leon probably kept late hours, and might be wandering about. She
determined to wait longer.

The moon was still shining. There were only a few scattered clouds in
that clear sky.

Could she find her way to the wall? She felt confident of that. She
intended to go down the avenue, keeping close to the trees, so as to fly
to their shelter in case of pursuit. When she reached the neighborhood
of the porter's lodge, she would go through the trees to the wall,
trusting to fortune to find her way for that short distance.

Such were the hopes and plans, made long before, which now occupied her
thoughts as she waited.

At last two o'clock came. It seemed now that it would be unwise to wait
any longer, since the time that was left between this and daylight was
barely sufficient to allow for contingencies. Without any farther delay,
therefore, she prepared to depart.

It was with a painful feeling of suspense and agitation that she set
forth upon this attempt at flight, which she knew must be a final one.
Over her left arm she threw the rope-ladder, while in her left hand she
held that ancestral dagger which had already done her such good service
in her dealings with Leon. Her right hand was thus free to grope in the
dark for her way, to open bolts, or to seize the dagger from her other
hand whenever the need for it might arise. For this last dread necessity
she had thoroughly prepared herself. By the desperation of her position,
and by the dark menaces of Leon, she had been nerved to a courage beyond
even that elevated standard which her high spirit ordinarily reached,
and she had resolved that if any one interposed between herself and that
liberty for which she longed, to use that dagger, and to strike without
scruple.

On leaving her room she stood for a moment in the outer hall and
listened. All was still. She glided noiselessly along, and reached the
stairway. Once more she stood and listened before descending. There was
silence yet. She now descended the stairs as noiselessly as before, and
reached the lower hall, where she walked quickly toward the east end,
and came to the narrow stairway that led down to the door. Here once
more she paused. A fearful thought came to her as she looked down. What
if some one should be waiting there in the dark! What if Leon should be
there! In spite of herself a shudder passed through her at that thought.

Suddenly, as she stood there, she heard a sound--a sound which roused
her once more to action, and inspired new fears. It was the sound of a
footfall--far away, indeed, inside the house, but still a footfall--a
heavy tread, as of some one in pursuit, and its sound was loud and
menacing to her excited senses. There was only one to whom she could
attribute it--Leon!

He had heard her, then!

She was pursued!

Like lightning this thought came to her, and brought terror with it. She
could delay no longer. Down the narrow stairway she hurried through the
darkness, and reached the door. In her panic she forgot her usual
caution. With a jerk she drew the bolt back, and a harsh grating sound
arose. She flung open the door, which also creaked on its unused
hinges. Then leaping out, she hastily banged the door after her, and ran
straight on.

In front of Dalton Hall there was a wide lawn and a pond. Beyond this
arose the trees of the park. Toward the shelter of these shadowy trees
Edith hurried, with the dread sense in her soul that she was being
pursued by a remorseless enemy. This thought lent additional speed to
her footsteps as she flew over the intervening space. The moon was
shining brightly, and she knew that she could easily be seen by any
watcher; but she sought only the more to reach the trees, and thus
escape observation. The time seemed long indeed to her in those moments
of dread suspense; but the space was at last traversed, the trees were
reached, and plunging into the midst of them, she ran along,
occasionally stumbling, until at length, partly from exhaustion and
partly from a desire to see where her enemy might be, so as to elude him
better, she stopped.

Her course had been a circuitous one, but she had kept along the edge of
the wood, so that now, as she stopped, she found herself under the
shadow of the trees, and immediately opposite the portico of Dalton
Hall, between which and herself lay the pond. Here she stood, and
looked over the intervening space.

As she looked, she at first saw no appearance of any human being, and
she began to think that her fears all along had been unfounded; but in a
little while, as her eyes wandered over the front of the Hall, she saw
something which at once renewed all her excitement, and showed her that
her fears were true.

Upon the portico stood a figure, the general outlines of which were now
visible to her, as she looked carefully, and seemed to be the figure of
Leon. She could recognize the gray dress which he usually wore, and also
understood why she had not noticed him before, for the color of his
clothes had made him but faintly visible against the gray stone mass of
the background. He was now standing there with his face turned in her
direction.

"He has heard me," she thought. "He has seen me. Instead of chasing me
at once, he has stopped to listen, so as to judge of my course. He knows
that I am here now in this spot, and is still listening to find out if I
go any further."

In a few moments her attention was attracted by a dark object lying on
the portico near Leon.

It was the dog!

She knew it well. Her heart sank within her.

"He is going to track me with the dog!" she thought.

What could she do?

Nothing. Flight was now worse than useless. All seemed lost, and there
was nothing now left to her in that moment of despair but the resolve to
resist to the end.

After a short time, which to Edith seemed prolonged to a terrible
degree, the figure came down the steps, followed by the dog.

Edith watched.

He walked on; he rounded the end of the pond; he came nearer!

She could now recognize his face as the moon shone down.

It was Leon. There was no longer the slightest doubt of that. He was
coming toward her, and the huge dog followed.

Edith involuntarily shrank back among the trees, and grasping her dagger
with desperate resolve, awaited the approach of her enemy.

CHAPTER XXXV.

THE EMPTY ROOMS.

On the following morning Mrs. Dunbar waited a long time for Edith's
appearance. But she did not make her appearance, and the time passed,
until it at length grew so late that she determined to see what was the
matter. Full of fear lest some new illness had been the result of the
new excitement to which she had been subjected, Mrs. Dunbar passed
cautiously through Edith's sitting-room, and knocked at her bedroom
door.

There was no answer.

She knocked again and again, and still receiving no answer, she opened
the door and looked in.

To her amazement the room was empty. What was more surprising was the
fact that the bed did not appear to have been slept in. There was no
disorder visible in the room. Every thing was in its usual place, but
Edith was not there, and in that one glance which Mrs. Dunbar gave she
took in the whole truth.

Edith had fled!

She knew also that she must have fled during the night; that the event
against which such precautions had been taken had occurred at last, and
that she was responsible. Over that sorrowful anxious face there came
now a deeper sorrow and a graver anxiety at that discovery, and sitting
down upon a chair, she tried to conjecture Edith's possible course, and
wondered how she could get over the wall and out of the grounds.

At length she left this room, and going down stairs, called Hugo.

"Hugo," said she, "has the captain come down?"

"I habn't seen him, ma'am," said Hugo, respectfully.

"He always rises early," said Mrs. Dunbar. "I wonder what's the matter.
He certainly must be up."

Turning away, she ascended the stairs, and went to the room which was
occupied by Leon. The door was open. She entered. The room looked as
though it had just been left by its occupant. The bed bore signs of
having been occupied. The valise was lying there open. Upon the
toilet-table was a pocket-book, and hanging from the screw of the
looking-glass was his watch. His riding whip and gloves and top-boots
were lying in different places.

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

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

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

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

"Miss Dalton!" exclaimed Hugo.

"Yes; she's gone."

"Gone!" repeated Hugo, in amazement.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes; and Leon."

"Edith gone!" gasped Wiggins once more.

"Did you hear nothing in the village?"

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

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

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

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

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

"They must have gone off together."

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

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

"His dog!"

Mrs. Dunbar explained.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"May have what?" asked Wiggins.

"She may have done him some harm."

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

And with a scornful laugh he turned away.

Mrs. Dunbar followed him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER XXXVI.

THE VICAR OF DALTON.

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

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

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

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

Mr. Munn cleared his throat.

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

Wiggins was silent.

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

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

"She is at the village inn."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I really--I think--a few months only."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wiggins gave something that was almost like a groan.

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

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

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

CHAPTER XXXVII.

THE HOUSE OF REFUGE

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thus a fortnight passed away.

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

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

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

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

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

She looked at the landlady with a face of agony.

"Promise," said she, faintly.

"Promise what, dearie?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER XXXVIII.

THE OLD WELL.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Many years," said Mrs. Dunbar.

"Did you examine it?"

"We never thought of doing so."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Did you find any thing?"

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

"What?" cried all, in breathless suspense.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There was silence for a long time.

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

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

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

"What was that for?"

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

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

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

CHAPTER XXXIX.

THE CORONER'S INQUEST.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Illustration: "WITH A LOUD CRY, SHE HALF TURNED."]

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

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

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

There it lay at last--unveiled, revealed to her eyes--the abhorrent