"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 a.s.sure 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, pa.s.sionately, 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 x.x.xVII.
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 r.e.t.a.r.ded 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 a.s.sist 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 n.o.ble 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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sed. 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.
"G.o.d bless you!" she sighed, and turned her head away.
A week pa.s.sed, 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 att.i.tude. 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.