This man, with his earnest and even melancholy face and lofty bearing, did not seem like one who could have plotted so treacherously against a helpless girl. His aspect filled Edith with something akin to awe, and produced a profound impression upon the spectators. They forgot the hatred which they had begun to feel against Dudleigh in the living presence of the object of their hate, and looked in silence first at Edith, then at the new-comer, wondering why it was that between such as these there could be any thing less than mutual affection. They thought they could understand now why she should choose him as a husband. They could not understand how such a husband could become hateful.
In all the court but one object seemed to attract Dudleigh, and that was Edith. His eyes had wandered about at first, and finally had rested on her. With a glance of profoundest and most gentle sympathy he looked at her, conveying in that one look enough to disarm even her resentment.
She understood that look, and felt it, and as she looked at him in return she was filled with wonder.
Could such things be? she thought. Was this the man who had caused her so much suffering, who bad blasted and blighted the hopes of her life?
or, rather, had the man who had so wronged her been transformed to this?
Impossible! As well might a fiend become changed to an archangel. And yet here he was. Evidently this was Dudleigh. She looked at him in speechless bewilderment.
The proceedings of the court went on, and Dudleigh soon explained his disappearance. As he spoke his voice confirmed the fact that he was Dudleigh; but Edith listened to it with the same feelings which had been excited by his face. It was the same voice, yet not the same; it was the voice of Dudleigh, but the coldness and the mockery of its intonations were not there. Could he have been playing a devil"s part all along, and was he now coming out in his true character, or was this a false part?
No; whatever else was false, this was not--that expression of face, that glance of the eye, those intonations, could never be feigned. So Edith thought as she listened.
Dudleigh"s explanation was a simple one. He had not been very happy at Dalton Hall and had concluded to go away that night for a tour on the Continent. He had left so as to get the early morning train, and had traveled on without stopping until he reached Palermo, from which he had gone to different places in the interior of Sicily, which he mentioned.
He had climbed over the gate, because he was in too much of a hurry to wake the porter. He had left his valise, as he intended to walk. He had, of course, left his dog at Dalton, because he couldn"t take him to the Continent. He had forgotten his watch, for the reason that he had slept longer than he intended, and dressed and went off in a great hurry. The pocket-book which he left was of no importance--contained princ.i.p.ally memoranda, of no use to any but himself. He had no idea there would have been such a row, or he would not have gone in such a hurry. He had heard of this for the first time in Sicily, and would have come at once, but, unfortunately, he had a attack of fever, and could not return before.
Nothing could have been more natural and frank than Dudleigh"s statement. A few questions were asked, merely to satisfy public curiosity. Every one thought that a trip to Sicily was a natural enough thing for one who was on such bad terms with his wife, and the suddenness of his resolution to go there was sufficient to account for the disorder in which he had left his room.
But all this time there was one in that court who looked upon the new-comer with far different feelings that those which any other had.
This was Sir Lionel Dudleigh.
He had heard the remark of the counsel that Dudleigh had returned, and looked toward the door as he entered with a smile on his face. As he saw Dudleigh enter he started. Then his face turned ghastly white, and his jaw fell. He clutched the railing in front of him with both hands, and seemed fascinated by the sight.
Near him stood Mrs. Dunbar, and Dalton leaned on her. Both of these looked fixedly at Sir Lionel, and noticed his emotion.
At the sound of Dudleigh"s voice Sir Lionel"s emotion increased. He breathed heavily. His face turned purple. His knuckles turned white as he grasped the railing. Suddenly, in the midst of Dudleigh"s remarks, he started to his feet, and seemed about to say something. Immediately in front of him were Dalton and Mrs. Dunbar. At that instant, as he rose, Mrs. Dunbar laid her hand on his arm.
He looked at her with astonishment. He had not seen her before. She fixed her solemn eyes on him--those eyes to which had come a gloom more profound, and a sadness deeper than before. But Sir Lionel stared at her without recognition, and impatiently tried to shake off her hand.
"Who are you?" he said, suddenly, in a trembling voice--for there was something in this woman"s face that suggested startling thoughts.
Mrs. Dunbar drew nearer to him, and in a whisper that thrilled through every fibre of Sir Lionel"s frame, hissed in his ear,
"_I am your wife--and here is my brother Frederick!_"
Over Sir Lionel"s face there came a flash of horror, sudden, sharp, and overwhelming. He staggered and shrank back.
"Claudine!" he murmured, in a stifled voice.
"Sit down," whispered Lady Dudleigh--now no longer Mrs. Dunbar--"sit down, or you shall have to change places with Frederick"s daughter."
Sir Lionel swayed backward and forward, and appeared not to hear her.
And now his eyes wandered to Dalton, who stood gazing solemnly at him, and then to Dudleigh, who was still speaking.
"Who is that?" he gasped.
"Your son!" said Lady Dudleigh.
[Ill.u.s.tration: "HE LOOKED AT HER WITH ASTONISHMENT."]
At this instant Dudleigh finished. Sir Lionel gave a terrible groan, and flung up his arms wildly. The next instant he fell heavily forward, and was caught in the arms of his wife. A crowd flew to his a.s.sistance, and he was carried out of court, followed by Lady Dudleigh.
There was a murmur of universal sympathy.
"Poor Sir Lionel! He has been heartbroken, and the joy of his son"s safety is too much."
After this the proceedings soon came to an end.
Edith was free!
Dalton tried to get to her, but in his weakness sank upon a seat, and looked imploringly at his daughter. Seeing this, Dudleigh sprang to his a.s.sistance, and gave his arm. Leaning heavily upon this, Dalton walked toward Edith, who was already striving to reach him, and, with a low cry, caught her in his arms.
Sir Lionel had been taken to the inn, where Lady Dudleigh waited on him.
After some time he recovered his senses, and began to rally rapidly. It had been feared that it was apoplexy, but, fortunately for the sufferer, it turned out to be nothing so serious as that. After this Lady Dudleigh was left alone with her husband.
Ten years of separation lay between these two--a separation undertaken from causes that still existed to alienate them beyond the hope of reconciliation. Yet there was much to be said; and Lady Dudleigh had before her a dark and solemn purpose.
On the next day Sir Lionel was able to drive out. Lady Dudleigh seemed to have const.i.tuted herself his guardian. Sir Lionel"s face and expression had changed. The easy, careless bonhomie, the placid content, the serene joyousness, that had once characterized him, were gone. In the place of these there came an anxious, watchful, troubled look--the look of a mind ill at ease--the furtive glance, the clouded brow. It was as though in this meeting Lady Dudleigh had communicated to her husband a part of that expression which prevailed in her own face.
Sir Lionel seemed like a prisoner who is attended by an ever-vigilant guard--one who watches all his movements, and from whom he can not escape. As he rolled along in his carriage, the Black Care of the poet seemed seated beside him in the person of Lady Dudleigh.
While Sir Lionel thus recovered from the sudden shock which he had felt, there was another who had endured a longer and severer course of suffering, and who had rallied for a moment when his presence was required, but only to sink back into a relapse worse than the illness from which he had begun to recover. This was Frederick Dalton, who had crawled from his bed twice--once to his daughter"s prison, and once to the scene of her trial. But the exertion was too much, and the agitation of feeling to which he had been subject had overwhelmed him. Leaning heavily on Dudleigh, and also on Edith, he was taken by these two to his carriage, and thence to the inn; but here he could walk no further. It was Dudleigh who had to carry him to his room and lay him on his bed--and Dudleigh, too, who would intrust to no other person the task of putting his prostrate form in that bed. Dudleigh"s own father was lying in the same house, but at that moment, whatever were his motives, Dalton seemed to have stronger claims on his filial duty, and Edith had to wait till this unlooked-for nurse had tenderly placed her father in his bed.
The doctor, who had found Sir Lionel"s case so trifling, shook his head seriously over Frederick Dalton. Dudleigh took up his station in that room, and cared for the patient like a son. The day pa.s.sed, and the night, and the next morning, but Dalton grew no better. It was a strange stupor which affected him, not like paralysis, but arising rather from exhaustion, or some affection of the brain. The doctor called it congestion. He lay in a kind of doze, without sense and without suffering, swallowing any food or medicine that might be offered, but never noticing any thing, and never answering any questions. His eyes were closed at all times, and in that stupor he seemed to be in a state of living death.
Edith"s grief was profound; but in the midst of it she could not help feeling wonder at the unexpected part which Dudleigh was performing. Who was he that he should take so large a part in the care of her father?
Yet so it was; and Dudleigh seemed to think of nothing and see nothing but that old man"s wasted and prostrate form.
For the present, at least, departure from the inn was of course out of the question. Edith"s position was a very distressing one. Every feeling of her heart impelled her to be present at her father"s bedside, but Dudleigh was present at that same bedside; and how could she a.s.sociate herself with him even there? At first she would enter the room, and sit quietly by her father"s bedside, and on such occasions Dudleigh would respectfully withdraw; but this was unpleasant, and she hardly knew what to do.
Two or three days thus pa.s.sed, and on the third Dudleigh requested an interview, to ask her, as he said, something about "Mr. Wiggins"--for this was the name by which Mr. Dalton still was called. This request Edith could not refuse.
Dudleigh entered with an air of profound respect.
"Miss Dalton," said he, laying emphasis on that name, "nothing would induce me to intrude upon you but my anxiety about your father. Deep as your affection for him may be, it can hardly be greater than mine. I would gladly lay down my life for him. At the same time, I understand your feelings, and this is what I wish to speak about. I would give up my place at his bedside altogether if you wished it, and you should not be troubled by my presence; but I see that you are not strong enough to be sole nurse, or to undertake the work that would be required of you, and that your own affection for him would impose upon you. You yourself are not strong, and you must take care of yourself for his sake. I will not, therefore, give up to you all the care of your father, but I will absent myself during the afternoon, and you will then have exclusive care of him."
Edith bowed without a word, and Dudleigh withdrew.
This arrangement was kept up, and Edith scarcely saw Dudleigh at all.
She knew, however, that his care for her father was incessant and uninterrupted. Every thing that could possibly be needed was supplied; every luxury or delicacy that could be thought of was obtained; and not only were London physicians constantly coming up, but from the notes which lay around, she judged that Dudleigh kept up a constant correspondence with them about this case.
CHAPTER XLIII.