"But you will let me stay here more than I do," said Edith, earnestly.
"I may as well be here as in my own room. Will you not let me have half the care, and occasionally allow you to take rest?"
She spoke timidly and anxiously, as though she was asking some favor.
And this was the feeling that she had, for it seemed to her that this man, who had been a son to her father, had more claims on his love, and a truer right here, than she, the unworthy daughter.
Dudleigh smiled upon her with infinite tenderness as he replied:
"Half the care! How could you endure it? You are too delicate for so much. You do too much already, and I am only anxious to relieve you of that. I was going to urge you to give up half of the afternoon, and take it myself."
"Give up half the afternoon!" cried Edith. "Why, I want to do more."
"But that is impossible. You are not strong enough," said Dudleigh. "I fear all the time that you are now overworking yourself. I would never forgive myself if you received any harm from this."
"Oh, I am very much stronger than you suppose. Besides, nursing is woman"s work, and would fatigue me far less than you."
"I can not bear to have you fatigue yourself in any way. You must not--and I would do far more rather than allow you to have any trouble."
"But even if my health should suffer, it would not be of much consequence. So at least let me relieve you of something."
"Your health?" said Dudleigh, looking at her with an earnest glance; "your health? Why, that is every thing. Mine is nothing. Can you suggest such a thing to me as that I should allow any trouble to come to you? Besides, your delicate health already alarms me. You have not yet recovered from your illness. You are not capable of enduring fatigue, and I am always reproaching myself for allowing you to stay here as much as you do. The Dudleighs have done enough. They have brought the father to this;" and he pointed mournfully to the bed. "But," he added, in a tremulous voice, "the daughter should at least be saved, and to have harm come to her would be worse than death itself--to me."
Edith was silent for a few moments. Her heart was beating fast. When she spoke, it was with an effort, and in as calm a voice as possible.
"Oh," she said, "I am quite recovered. Indeed, I am as well as ever, and I wish to spend more time here. Will you not let me stay here longer?"
"How can I? The confinement would wear you out."
"It would not be more fatiguing than staying in my own room," persisted Edith.
"I"m afraid there would be very much difference," said Dudleigh. "In your own room you have no particular anxiety, but here you would have the incessant responsibility of a nurse. You would have to watch your father, and every movement would give you concern."
"And this hara.s.sing care is what I wish to save you from, and share with you," said Edith, earnestly. "Will you not consent to this?"
"To share it with you?" said Dudleigh looking at her with unutterable tenderness. "To share it with you?" he repeated. "It would be only too much happiness for me to do so, but not if you are going to overwork yourself."
"But I will not," said Edith. "If I do, I can stop. I only ask to be allowed to come in during the morning, so as to relieve you of some of your work. You will consent, will you not?"
Edith asked him this as though Dudleigh had exclusive right here, and she had none. She could not help feeling as if this was so, and this feeling arose from those memories which she had of that terrible past, when she ignorantly hurled at that father"s heart words that stung like the stings of scorpions. Never could she forgive herself for that, and for this she now humbled herself in this way. Her tone was so pleading that Dudleigh could refuse no longer. With many deprecatory expressions, and many warnings and charges, he at last consented to let her divide the morning attendance with him. She was to come in at eleven o"clock.
This arrangement was at once acted upon. On the following day Edith came to her father"s room at eleven. Dudleigh had much to ask her, and much to say to her, about her father"s condition. He was afraid that she was not strong enough. He seemed to half repent his agreement. On the other hand, Edith a.s.sured him most earnestly that she was strong enough, that she would come here for the future regularly at eleven o"clock, and urged him to take care of his own health, and seek some recreation by riding about the grounds. This Dudleigh promised to do in the afternoon, but just then he seemed in no hurry to go. He lingered on. They talked in low whispers, with their heads close together. They had much to talk about; her health, his health, her father"s condition--all these had to be discussed. Thus it was that the last vestiges of mutual reserve began to be broken down.
Day succeeded to day, and Edith always came to her father"s room in the morning. At first she always urged Dudleigh to go off and take exercise, but at length she ceased to urge him. For two or three hours every day they saw much of one another, and thus a.s.sociated under circ.u.mstances which enforced the closest intimacy and the strongest mutual sympathy.
CHAPTER XLVIII.
CAPTAIN CRUIKSHANK.
While these things were going on, the world outside was not altogether indifferent to affairs in Dalton Hall. In the village and in the immediate neighborhood rumor had been busy, and at length the vague statements of the public voice began to take shape.
This is what rumor said: Dudleigh is an impostor!
An impostor, it said. For the true Dudleigh, it a.s.serted, was still missing. This was not the real man. The remains found in the well had never been accounted for. Justice had foregone its claims too readily.
The act remained, and the blood of the slain called aloud for vengeance.
How such a strange report was first started no one knew; but there it was, and the Dalton mystery remained as obscure as ever.
Various circ.u.mstances contributed to increase the public suspicion. All men saw that Dudleigh was different from this man, or else he had greatly changed. For the former was always outside, in the world, while this man remained secluded and shut up in the Hall. Why did he never show himself? Why did he surround himself with all this secrecy? This was the question.
The servants were eagerly questioned whenever any of them made their appearance in the village, but as they were all new in the place, their testimony was of little value. They could only say that he was devoted to the invalid, and that he called Miss Dalton by that name, and had called her by that name when he engaged them for her service.
Soon public opinion took two different forms, and two parties arose. One of these believed the present Dudleigh to be an impostor; the other, however, maintained that he was the real man, and that the change in his character was to be accounted for on the grounds of the terrible calamities that had resulted from his thoughtlessness, together with his own repentance for the suffering which he had inflicted.
Meanwhile the subject of all this excitement and gossip was living in his own seclusion, quite apart from the outside world. One change, however, had taken place in his life which required immediate action on his part.
A great number of letters had come for "Captain Dudleigh." The receipt of these gave him trouble. They were reminders of various pecuniary obligations which had been contracted some time previously. They were, in short--duns. He had been at Dalton Hall some six weeks before these interesting letters began to arrive. After that time they came in cl.u.s.ters, fast and frequent. The examination of these formed no small part of his occupation when he was alone.
Some of these letters were jocular in their tone, reminding him of his chronic impecuniosity, and his well-known impracticability in every thing relating to money. These jocular letters, however, never failed to remind him that, as he had made a rich match, there was no reason why he should not pay his debts, especially as the writers were hard up, and had waited so long without troubling him. These jocular letters, in fact, informed him that if a settlement was not made at once, it would be very much the worse for Dudleigh.
Others were from old sporting companions, reminding him of bets which had not been paid, expressing astonishment which was child-like in its simplicity, and requesting an immediate settlement. These were generally short, curt, and altogether unpleasant.
Others were business letters, containing the announcement of notes falling due. Others were from lawyers, stating the fact that certain specified claims had been put in their hands for collection, and requesting early attention.
All these seemed to come together. Misfortunes, says the proverb, never come singly, and duns may fairly be reckoned among misfortunes. These duns, however, troublesome though they were, were one by one got rid of by the simple and effectual process of payment; for Dudleigh considered it on the whole safer and better, under these peculiar circ.u.mstances, to pay the money which was demanded than to expose himself to arrest or lawsuits.
In connection with these affairs an event occurred which at the time caused uneasiness, and gave the prospect of future trouble. One day a gentleman called and sent up his card. It was Captain Cruikshank. The name Dudleigh recognized as one which had been appended to several dunning letters of the most importunate kind, and the individual himself was apparently some sporting friend.
On going down Dudleigh saw a portly, bald-headed man, with large whiskers, standing in front of one of the drawing-room windows, looking out. He seemed midway between a gentleman and a blackleg, being neither altogether one nor the other. At the noise of Dudleigh"s entrance he turned quickly around, and with a hearty, bluff manner walked up to him and held out his hand.
Dudleigh fixed his eyes steadily upon those of the other man, and bowed, without accepting the proffered hand, appearing not to see it. His whole mien was full of aristocratic reserve, and cold, repellent distance of manner, which checked the other in the midst of a full tide of voluble congratulations into which he had flung himself. Thus interrupted, he looked confused, stammered, and finally said,
""Pon my honor, Dudleigh, you don"t appear to be overcordial with an old friend, that"s seen you through so many sc.r.a.pes as I have."
"Circ.u.mstances," said Dudleigh, "of a very painful character have forced me to sever myself completely from all my former a.s.sociates--all, without exception."
"Well, of course--as to that, it"s all right, I dare say," remarked the other, from whom Dudleigh never removed his eyes; "but then, you know, it seems to me that some friends ought to be--a--retained, you know, and you and I, you know, were always of that sort that we were useful to one another."
This was thrown out as a very strong hint on the part of Captain Cruikshank, and he watched Dudleigh earnestly to see its effect.
"I make no exceptions whatever," said Dudleigh. "What has occurred to me is the same as death. I am dead virtually to the world in which I once lived. My former friends and acquaintances are the same as though I had never known them."
[Ill.u.s.tration: "WELL, REALLY--YES, THIS IS IT."]
"Gad! something has come over you, that"s a fact," said Captain Cruikshank. "You"re a changed man, whatever the reason is. Well, you have a right to choose for yourself, and I can"t be offended. At the same time, if you ever want to join the old set again, let me know, and I promise you there"ll be no difficulty."