THE PROPOSAL.
Eight weeks passed.
Edith's impatience was uncontrollable. Thus far she had passed most of
the time in her own room; but now the confinement was more than she
could endure. She went out into the grounds, where she wandered day
after day, watching and listening, restlessly and feverishly, for the
approach of her friend. At length one day, as she was walking down the
avenue, a well-known figure came up advancing toward her, at sight of
which a thrill of joy passed through her. It was he. At last Little
Dudleigh!
In her great joy she did not seek to conceal her feelings, or to
maintain that reserve which thus far she had manifested in her
interviews with him. All this was thrown aside. Here stood at last her
one true friend, the one whose loss she had lamented, whose return she
had looked for so eagerly; the one friend coming to her through the
enemies who intervened. With a rapid step she advanced toward him. She
held out her hands, and pressed his warmly. Her lips quivered, tears
started to her eyes, but she did not speak.
“I am back again, Miss Dalton,” said Little Dudleigh, joyously. “But how
changed you are! You have suffered. I see it in your face. What is the
matter? Has any thing new happened? Has that villain dared to offer
insult? Ah, why was I not here before? But I could not come. I came as
soon as I could.”
Edith murmured a few words in reply, and then they walked together at a
slow pace along the avenue. Edith did not care to go back to the Hall,
where all was so gloomy, but preferred the fresh pure air, and the
cheering face of nature.
As they walked on together Edith recounted the events of her life since
she had last seen him. Now all her long pent-up feelings burst forth
without restraint. At last she had some one to whom she could confide
her sorrows, and she found it sweet to talk to one whom she knew to be
so full of sympathy. To all this Dudleigh listened with the profoundest
attention, and with visible agitation.
In all that she said and in all her manner Edith freely expressed the
joy that she felt at once more meeting with a friend so tried, so true,
so valued, in whom she could trust so implicitly, and from whom she
could find sympathy. She had struggled so long in silence and in
loneliness that Dudleigh's sympathy seemed doubly sweet.
When she ceased a long silence followed. Dudleigh's agitation still
continued. Several times he looked at her wistfully, inquiringly,
doubtfully, as if about to speak, and each time he hesitated. But at
last, with a strong effort, he spoke.
“I must say it, Miss Dalton,” said he. “I am compelled to. I came here
this day--for the sole purpose of saying--something which--you--may be
unwilling to hear. I have hesitated long, and staid away longer on this
account, yet I must say it now. You are in a fearful position, Miss
Dalton. You are in the power of an unprincipled and a desperate man. I
feel for you most deeply. You are always in my thoughts. In order to
assist you I have done all that I could. I do not wish to make any
allusions to what I have done, but rather to what I have felt, and shall
feel. You have become very dear to me. I know I am not worthy of you.
You are above me. I am only a humble lieutenant; you are the lady of
Dalton Hall; but I can not bear to--to go away and leave one whom I love
in the power of a villain. Dare I offer you my protection? Will it be
too much to ask you to be mine? I do not hope that you can look upon me
just yet with any such feelings as love, but I see that you treat me as
a friend, and you have honored me with your confidence. I have never
said any thing about my love to you, but perhaps you have not been
altogether without suspicion about it. Had I found Sir Lionel, or had I
thought that he was at all accessible, I would never have made my humble
confession until you were in a different position. I am ashamed to make
it now, for though I know that you would not suspect me of any thing
base, yet it looks as if I were taking advantage of your necessities.
But I know that to a mind like yours such a suspicion would never come;
and I am comforted by the thought that if you do listen to my request it
will lead, to your safety. I think, too, that if it were possible for
you to consent, even if you felt no very tender sentiment toward me, you
would have from me a devotion such as few others are capable of feeling.
Under such circumstances you might not be altogether unhappy.”
All this Dudleigh had spoken with feverish rapidity, and with every sign
of the strongest agitation, occasionally stopping, and then resuming his
remarks in a headlong way. But if he had felt agitation, Edith had felt
at least quite as much. At the first mention of his proposal her head
sank forward, and she looked fixedly upon the ground with downcast eyes,
while her tears fell abundantly. She said nothing. Dudleigh in his
frequent pauses seemed to expect that she would say something, but she
did not.
Edith's feelings were of the most distressing kind. She had, of course,
anticipated something like this, but had never yet been able to decide
what she should do in the event of such a confession. She did not love
him. Her feelings toward him were of a totally different kind. It seemed
to her that such a feeling as love could never by any possibility be
felt by her for him. And yet she had a very strong regard for him. His
society was very pleasant to her. She would have done much and
sacrificed much for his sake. But to be his wife, that was a thing which
seemed odious.
Yet what could she do! Her position was intolerable and full of peril.
If she were his wife, in one moment she would be safe, free, and under
the protection of one who loved her with utter devotion. True, she had
no such sentiment toward him as a wife should have for a husband, but he
himself was aware of that, and in spite of that was willing, nay, eager,
to take her. She was touched to the heart by his self-depreciation and
profound respect.
Then, again, she thought, ought not he himself to be considered? Had he
no claims? He had given himself up to her; he had done much for her. He
had offered again and again to give up his life for her. Ought not such
rare devotion to meet with some reward? And what reward could she ever
give? There was only one which he wanted--herself. Could she refuse him
that?
Dudleigh said not another word, and in that long and most embarrassing
silence he looked away so as not to add to her confusion. Edith did not
know what to do or say. Could she refuse him? Then how ungrateful she
would be to her best friend! But if he should leave her? What then? A
life of despair! The complete triumph of Wiggins. A living death.
Was it at all singular that she recoiled from such an alternative? She
could not endure this captivity any longer. And was it, then, so
dreadful to give herself to the man who adored her? No. If she did not
love him, she at least had a strong friendship, and this in time might
change to love. She had a greater regard for him than for any other
man. Distasteful? It was. Yes. But it was far better than this
imprisonment. She must take him as her husband, or lose him forever. He
could do no more for her unless she became his wife. He could only save
her by marrying her.
She was touched by his present attitude. He was waiting so patiently,
so humbly. She saw his deep agitation.
Suddenly, by a quick movement, she turned toward him and held out her
hand. Dudleigh took it, and for a moment each gazed into the other's
eyes, regardless of observation. Dudleigh's face was deathly pale, and
his hand as cold as ice.
“Oh, my friend,” said Edith, in a low, hesitating voice, “what can I say
to you? I can not give you love. I have no such feeling, but I feel
deep gratitude. I know your worth. You have done so much, and I wish I
could feel different. If you take me as I am, I--I--I am--yours. But I
am not worthy. No, I am not--not worthy of such devotion. You love me,
but I do not love you. What can I do? Yet in spite of this, if you ask
me, I am--yours.”
Edith spoke with downcast eyes and deep embarrassment and frequent
hesitation. Her last words died away almost into a whisper. But the
agitation of Dudleigh was now even greater than her own. A change came
over him that was terrible to witness. As he took her hand he trembled,
almost convulsively, from head to foot. His face became ghastly white,
he pressed his hand against his heart, his breathing was thick and
oppressed, big drops of perspiration started forth upon his brow, and at
last, to Edith's amazement, he burst into tears, and sobbed aloud. Then
he dropped her hand, and turned away, murmuring some inarticulate words.
At this Edith's confusion passed away, and changed to wonder. What was
the meaning of this? Tears and sobs--and from a man! But the thought at
once occurred that this was his sensitiveness, and that it arose from
her telling him so plainly that she did not love him. “I can not love
him, and he knows it,” she thought, “and it breaks his heart, poor
fellow! How I wish I could console him!”
Suddenly Dudleigh dashed his hand across his eyes, and walked swiftly
onward. Edith followed as fast as she could, keeping him in sight, but
falling farther and farther behind. At length he turned and came back
to meet her. His eyes were downcast, and there was misery unspeakable on
his white face. As he came up to her he held out his hand, and looked at
her with a strange, woful gaze.
Edith took the hand which he held out.
“Miss Dalton,” said he, “you said you would be mine.”
[Illustration: “THEN HE DROPPED HER HAND, AND TURNED AWAY.”]
Edith's lips moved, but no sound escaped them.
“All that you have said, Miss Dalton,” he continued, “I feel most
deeply, most keenly; but how else could it have been? Yet if you will
indeed be mine, I will give you my love and gratitude. I will save you
from--from danger; I will--will--bless you.” He stopped, and looked at
her with quivering lips, while an expression of agony came across his
face.
But Edith's eyes were downcast now, and she did not see this new anguish
of his; her own distress was too great.
Dudleigh dropped her hand again.
“Where shall it be?” said he, hurriedly and nervously. “It can not be in
the Hall. Will you venture to pass the gates with me?--I will force my
way through--or are you afraid?”
“I can not consent to bloodshed,” said Edith.
“I thought of that,” said Dudleigh, “and I have one more plan--if you
will only consent. It is not much to you who have suffered so much. It
will make your way to freedom easy. Can we not meet in the park
somewhere--in some secluded place?”
“In the park?” repeated Edith, abstractedly.
“I can bring a clergyman inside,” said Dudleigh, in a low voice.
Edith shuddered. The idea was not yet less repugnant than it had been.
But she had consented, and here was this man--her only friend, her
adorer--with all his love and devotion. If she did not love him, she
must pity him. She had also given her word. As to the way in which this
promise might be carried out, it was a matter of indifference. At any
rate, she would escape from her hateful prison. And what mattered it
how, or where, or when the ceremony might be performed?
“Oh, Miss Dalton,” said Dudleigh, “forgive me! forgive me! I must go
away in two days. Could you consent to let this be--tomorrow?”
Edith made no reply. She trembled. Her head sank down lower.
“There is one place,” said Dudleigh, and then hesitated. Edith said
nothing. There was anguish in her face and in her heart.
“The chapel--”
“The chapel,” she repeated, dreamily.
“It is hidden among the trees. Do you know it? It is away from all
observation.”
Edith bowed her head. She knew it well. It was off the main avenue--not
far away from the Hall.
“Can you get out of the house after dark?” said Dudleigh, in a feverish
whisper. “It must be after dark, and we must be unobserved. For if
Wiggins were to see us he would come as your guardian, and take you
back, and shut you up--perhaps for life.”
This suggestion about Wiggins chimed in with Edith's own fears. It made
her desperate. The marriage seemed less abhorrent; it was eclipsed by
the horrors of imprisonment for life. Discovery now--after that last
threat of his--would bring a closer restraint, stricter imprisonment,
the loss of all hope.
“I can get out,” she said, hurriedly.
“Where shall I find you?”
“There is a private door at the east end--”
“I know the door.”
“I can get out through that. No one will think of my leaving the Hall
after dark.”
“I will meet you there.”
Edith sighed heavily.
“To-morrow evening,” said Dudleigh, “at ten o'clock. It will be dark
then. Will you meet me?”
“I will,” said Edith, calmly.
“I shall only hope, then,” said he, “that no new restraint may be
imposed upon you to prevent your coming. And now I will go--to meet you
to-morrow.”
He seized her hand in his icy grasp, wrung it convulsively, and bowing
with his pallid face, walked quickly away.
There was a weight on Edith's heart; but in spite of this, Dudleigh's
last look, his agitated manner, and his deep love filled her with pity,
and made her anxious to carry out her act of self-sacrifice for so dear
and so true a friend.
* * * * *