Books: The Living Link

J >> James De Mille >> The Living Link

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Now that she had gone thus far, the act seemed too terrible to be
endured, and she would have give any thing to go back. There came over
her a frightful feeling of apprehension--a deep, dark horror,
unutterable, intolerable. But it was now too late--she had to go on. And
on she went, clinging to Dudleigh, who himself showed an agitation equal
to hers. Thus they walked on in silence. Each might have heard the
strong throbbing of the other's heart, had not the excitement of each
been so overwhelming. In this way they went on, trembling,
horror-stricken, till at length they reached the chapel.

It was a dark and sombre edifice, in the Egyptian style, now darker and
more sombre in the gloom of evening and the shadows of surrounding
trees. The door was open. As they entered, two figures advanced from the
shadows of the trees. One of these wore a white surplice; the other was
undistinguishable in the gloom, save that his stature was that of a
tall, large man.

"The clergyman and the--witness," said Dudleigh, in a tremulous whisper.

As these two entered, one of them closed the door. The dull creaking of
the hinges grated harshly on Edith's ears, and struck fresh horror to
her heart. She faltered and trembled. She sank back.

"Oh, I can not, I can not!" she moaned.

"Courage, dear one; it will soon be over," whispered Dudleigh, in an
agitated voice.

Edith made a violent effort to regain her composure. But she felt
helpless. Her senses seemed leaving her; her heart throbbed still more
painfully; her brain whirled. She clung to Dudleigh. But as she clung to
him she felt that he trembled as violently as she herself did. This made
her feel calmer. She pitied him. Poor fellow, she thought, he sees my
agitation. He thinks I hate him. He is broken-hearted. I must be calmer
for his sake.

"Where are the lights?" asked the clergyman.

"Lights?" repeated Dudleigh.

"Yes."

"Well, it won't do to have lights," said he, in the same agitated voice.
"I--I explained all that. The light will show through the window. We
must go down into the vaults."

Outside, it was very obscure; inside, it was quite dark. Edit could see
the outline of a large window and the white sheen of the clergyman's
surplice; nothing more was visible.

The clergyman stood waiting. Dudleigh went to the witness and conversed
with him in a low whisper.

"The witness," said Dudleigh, as he came back, "forgot to bring lights.
I have none. Have you any?"

"Lights?--no," said the clergyman.

"What shall we do?"

"I don't know."

"We can't go down into the vaults."

"I should say," remarked the clergyman, "that since we have no lights,
it is far better for us to remain where we are."

"But we may be overheard."

"I shall speak low."

"Isn't it a little too dark here?" asked Dudleigh, tremulously.

"It certainly is rather dark," said the clergyman, "but I suppose it
can't be helped, and it need not make any difference. There is a witness
who has seen the parties, and as you say secrecy is needed, why, this
darkness may be all the more favorable. But it is no concern of mine.
Only I should think it equally safe, and a great deal pleasanter, to
have the ceremony here than down in the vaults."

All this had been spoken in a quick low tone, so as to guard against
being overheard. During this scene Edith had stood trembling, half
fainting, with a kind of blank despair in her soul, and scarcely any
consciousness of what was going on.

The witness, who had entered last, moved slowly and carefully about, and
walked up to where he could see the figure of Edith faintly defined
against the white sheen of the clergyman's surplice. He stood at her
right hand.

"Begin," said Dudleigh; and then he said, "Miss Dalton, where are you?"

She said nothing. She could not speak.

"Miss Dalton," said he again.

She tried to speak, but it ended in a moan.

Dudleigh seemed to distinguish her now, for he went toward her, and the
next moment she felt the bridegroom at her side.

A shudder passed through Edith. She could think of nothing but the
horror of her situation. And yet she did not think of retreating. No.
Her plighted word had been given, and the dark terror of Wiggins made it
still more impossible. Yet so deep was her agitation that there was
scarce any thought on her mind at all.

And now the clergyman began the marriage service. He could not use his
book, of course, but he knew the service by heart, and went on fluently
enough, omitting here and there an unimportant part, and speaking in a
low voice, but very rapidly. Edith scarcely understood a word.

Then the clergyman said:

"Leon, wilt thou have this woman to thy wedded wife, to live together
after God's ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony? Wilt thou love
her, comfort her, honor, and keep her in sickness and in health; and
forsaking all other, keep thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall
live?"

The bridegroom answered, in a whisper,

"I will."

"Edith, wilt thou have this man to thy wedded husband, to live together
after God's ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony? Wilt thou obey
him and serve him, love, honor, and keep him in sickness and in health;
and forsaking all other, keep thee only unto him, so long as ye both
shall live?"

Edith tried to say "I will," but only an unintelligible sound escaped
her.

Then the clergyman went on, while the bridegroom repeated in a whisper
these words:

"I, Leon, take thee, Edith, to my wedded wife, to have and to hold, from
this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in
sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part,
according to God's holy ordinance; and thereto I plight thee my troth."

The clergyman then said the words for Edith, but she could not repeat
the formula after him. Here and there she uttered a word or two in a
disjointed way, but that was all.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She was married!

Where was her husband?

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

But at last that silence was broken--fearfully.

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

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

"Come along, Mrs. Dudleigh!"

"What is--this?" gasped Edith.

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

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

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

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

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

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

But Dudleigh said nothing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Lieutenant Dudleigh!" moaned Edith.

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

"Lieutenant Dudleigh, save me."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The false friend made no reply.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You shall not go without me."

"I shall go, and alone."

"You shall not."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I dare."

"You will betray yourself, then."

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

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

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

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

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

"You!" exclaimed Leon.

"Yes, I."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then she hurried away back to the Hall.

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

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

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

* * * * *

CHAPTER XXIX.

THE WIFE OF LEON DUDLEIGH.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"The captain," said she at length.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Lives here!" exclaimed Edith.

"Yes."

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

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

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

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

"Master!" repeated Edith.

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

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

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

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

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

Edith looked up with a face of agony.

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

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

"What other one?"

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

Mrs. Dunbar shook her head.

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

"No."

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

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

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