Books: The Living Link

J >> James De Mille >> The Living Link

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wiggins gave something that was almost like a groan.

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

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

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

* * * * *

CHAPTER XXXVII.

THE HOUSE OF REFUGE

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thus a fortnight passed away.

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

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

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

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

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

She looked at the landlady with a face of agony.

"Promise," said she, faintly.

"Promise what, dearie?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

CHAPTER XXXVIII.

THE OLD WELL.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Many years," said Mrs. Dunbar.

"Did you examine it?"

"We never thought of doing so."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Did you find any thing?"

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

"What?" cried all, in breathless suspense.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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