A MARRIAGE IN THE DARK.
The chapel referred to was a sombre edifice over the graves of the
Daltons. Beneath it were the vaults where reposed the remains of Edith's
ancestors. The chapel was used for the celebration of burial rites. It
was in this place that the marriage was to take place. Edith, in her
gloom, thought the place an appropriate one. Let the marriage be there,
she thought--in that place where never anything but burials has been
known before. Could she have changed the one service into the other, she
would have done so.
And yet she would not go back, for it was the least of two evils. The
other alternative was captivity under the iron hand of Wiggins--Wiggins
the adventurer, the forger, the betrayer of her father, whose power over
herself was a perpetual insult to that father's memory--a thing
intolerable, a thing of horror. Why should she not give herself to the
man who loved her, even if her own love was wanting, when such an act
would free her from so accursed a tyranny?
[Illustration: “SHE SAW THROUGH THE GLOOM A FIGURE”]
Agitated and excited, she lingered through the hours of the day after
parting with Dudleigh. Night came, but brought no rest; and the
following day dawned, and the irrevocable hour drew nigh. That day was
one filled with strange fears, chief among which was the thought that
Wiggins might discover all, or suspect it, and arrest her flight. But
time passed, and evening came, and Wiggins had done nothing.
All was still. The house was always still, and surrounded her--a vast
solitude. Mrs. Dunbar was in her own room: it was always her habit to
retire early. Wiggins was far away, at the west end of the Hall. Hugo
was in his remote quarters in the attic. The vigilance which her keepers
maintained by day was relaxed at night, for they never suspected her of
any design of leaving the house after dark. Her interview with Dudleigh
must have been seen and reported, but no action that she was aware of
had been taken. Perhaps Wiggins was waiting for him to make another
call, when he would step forth and formally lock her up in her room.
And now, as Edith prepared to carry her plan into execution, there was
nothing all around but the most profound stillness. Underneath the
story on which her room was there extended a hall, at the east end of
which there was a private stairway leading down to a small door which
opened out into the park. Leaving her room noiselessly, she descended to
the lower hall, traversed it, and descended the stairway to the door. It
was secured by a bolt only. This she drew back as noiselessly as
possible--not, however, without an unpleasantly loud grating sound. The
door opened without much difficulty. She passed through it. She shut it
after her. Then she turned to step down upon the grass. She saw through
the gloom a figure. She recognized it. It was Dudleigh.
He held out his hand and took hers. As before, his hand was icy cold,
and he trembled violently, but Edith also was trembling with excitement
and agitation, and was therefore too much taken up with her own feelings
to notice those of others. Dudleigh did not say a word, but started off
at once, leading her by the hand.
Now that she had gone thus far, the act seemed too terrible to be
endured, and she would have give any thing to go back. There came over
her a frightful feeling of apprehension--a deep, dark horror,
unutterable, intolerable. But it was now too late--she had to go on. And
on she went, clinging to Dudleigh, who himself showed an agitation equal
to hers. Thus they walked on in silence. Each might have heard the
strong throbbing of the other's heart, had not the excitement of each
been so overwhelming. In this way they went on, trembling,
horror-stricken, till at length they reached the chapel.
It was a dark and sombre edifice, in the Egyptian style, now darker and
more sombre in the gloom of evening and the shadows of surrounding
trees. The door was open. As they entered, two figures advanced from the
shadows of the trees. One of these wore a white surplice; the other was
undistinguishable in the gloom, save that his stature was that of a
tall, large man.
“The clergyman and the--witness,” said Dudleigh, in a tremulous whisper.
As these two entered, one of them closed the door. The dull creaking of
the hinges grated harshly on Edith's ears, and struck fresh horror to
her heart. She faltered and trembled. She sank back.
“Oh, I can not, I can not!” she moaned.
“Courage, dear one; it will soon be over,” whispered Dudleigh, in an
agitated voice.
Edith made a violent effort to regain her composure. But she felt
helpless. Her senses seemed leaving her; her heart throbbed still more
painfully; her brain whirled. She clung to Dudleigh. But as she clung to
him she felt that he trembled as violently as she herself did. This made
her feel calmer. She pitied him. Poor fellow, she thought, he sees my
agitation. He thinks I hate him. He is broken-hearted. I must be calmer
for his sake.
“Where are the lights?” asked the clergyman.
“Lights?” repeated Dudleigh.
“Yes.”
“Well, it won't do to have lights,” said he, in the same agitated voice.
“I--I explained all that. The light will show through the window. We
must go down into the vaults.”
Outside, it was very obscure; inside, it was quite dark. Edit could see
the outline of a large window and the white sheen of the clergyman's
surplice; nothing more was visible.
The clergyman stood waiting. Dudleigh went to the witness and conversed
with him in a low whisper.
“The witness,” said Dudleigh, as he came back, “forgot to bring lights.
I have none. Have you any?”
“Lights?--no,” said the clergyman.
“What shall we do?”
“I don't know.”
“We can't go down into the vaults.”
“I should say,” remarked the clergyman, “that since we have no lights,
it is far better for us to remain where we are.”
“But we may be overheard.”
“I shall speak low.”
“Isn't it a little too dark here?” asked Dudleigh, tremulously.
“It certainly is rather dark,” said the clergyman, “but I suppose it
can't be helped, and it need not make any difference. There is a witness
who has seen the parties, and as you say secrecy is needed, why, this
darkness may be all the more favorable. But it is no concern of mine.
Only I should think it equally safe, and a great deal pleasanter, to
have the ceremony here than down in the vaults.”
All this had been spoken in a quick low tone, so as to guard against
being overheard. During this scene Edith had stood trembling, half
fainting, with a kind of blank despair in her soul, and scarcely any
consciousness of what was going on.
The witness, who had entered last, moved slowly and carefully about, and
walked up to where he could see the figure of Edith faintly defined
against the white sheen of the clergyman's surplice. He stood at her
right hand.
“Begin,” said Dudleigh; and then he said, “Miss Dalton, where are you?”
She said nothing. She could not speak.
“Miss Dalton,” said he again.
She tried to speak, but it ended in a moan.
Dudleigh seemed to distinguish her now, for he went toward her, and the
next moment she felt the bridegroom at her side.
A shudder passed through Edith. She could think of nothing but the
horror of her situation. And yet she did not think of retreating. No.
Her plighted word had been given, and the dark terror of Wiggins made it
still more impossible. Yet so deep was her agitation that there was
scarce any thought on her mind at all.
And now the clergyman began the marriage service. He could not use his
book, of course, but he knew the service by heart, and went on fluently
enough, omitting here and there an unimportant part, and speaking in a
low voice, but very rapidly. Edith scarcely understood a word.
Then the clergyman said:
“Leon, wilt thou have this woman to thy wedded wife, to live together
after God's ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony? Wilt thou love
her, comfort her, honor, and keep her in sickness and in health; and
forsaking all other, keep thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall
live?”
The bridegroom answered, in a whisper,
“I will.”
“Edith, wilt thou have this man to thy wedded husband, to live together
after God's ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony? Wilt thou obey
him and serve him, love, honor, and keep him in sickness and in health;
and forsaking all other, keep thee only unto him, so long as ye both
shall live?”
Edith tried to say “I will,” but only an unintelligible sound escaped
her.
Then the clergyman went on, while the bridegroom repeated in a whisper
these words:
“I, Leon, take thee, Edith, to my wedded wife, to have and to hold, from
this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in
sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part,
according to God's holy ordinance; and thereto I plight thee my troth.”
The clergyman then said the words for Edith, but she could not repeat
the formula after him. Here and there she uttered a word or two in a
disjointed way, but that was all.
Then Edith felt her hand taken and a ring put on her finger.
Then the clergyman said the next formula, which the bridegroom repeated
after him in a whisper as before:
“With this ring I thee wed, with my body I thee worship, and with all my
worldly goods I thee endow,” etc., etc.
Then followed a prayer, after which the clergy man, joining their right
hands together, said,
“Those whom God hath joined together, let no man put asunder.”
Then followed the remainder of the service, and at its conclusion the
clergyman solemnly wished them every happiness.
“I suppose I may go now,” said he; and as there was no answer, he groped
his way to the door, flung it open, and took his departure.
During all this service Edith had been in a condition verging upon half
unconsciousness. The low murmur of voices, the hurried words of the
clergyman, the whispers of the bridegroom, were all confused together in
an unintelligible whole, and even her own answers had scarce made any
impression upon her. Her head seemed to spin, her brain to whirl, and
all her frame to sink away. At length the grating of the opening door,
the clergyman's departing footsteps, and the slight increase of light
roused her.
She was married!
Where was her husband?
This thought came to her with a new horror. Deep silence had followed
the clergyman's departure. She in her weakness was not noticed.
Dudleigh, the loving, the devoted, had no love or devotion for her now.
Where was he? The silence was terrible.
But at last that silence was broken--fearfully.
“Come,” said a voice which thrilled the inmost soul of Edith with horror
unspeakable: “I'm tired of humbugging. I'm going home. Come along, Mrs.
Dudleigh.”
The horror that passed through Edith at the sound of this voice for a
moment seemed to paralyze her. She turned to where the voice sounded. It
was the man beside her who spoke--the bridegroom! He was not
Dudleigh--not Little Dudleigh! He was tall and large. It was the
witness. What frightful mockery was this? But the confusion of thought
that arose was rudely interrupted. A strong hand was laid upon hers,
and again that voice spoke:
“Come along, Mrs. Dudleigh!”
“What is--this?” gasped Edith.
“Why, you're married, that's all. You ought to know that by this time.”
“Away!” cried Edith, with a sharp cry. “Who are you? Dudleigh!
Dudleigh! where are you? Will you not help me?”
“That's not very likely,” said the same voice, in a mocking tone. “His
business is to help _me_.”
“Oh, my God! what is the meaning of this?”
“Oh, it's simple enough. It means that you're my wife.”
“_Your_ wife! Oh, Dudleigh: oh, my friend! what does all this
mean? Why do you not speak?”
But Dudleigh said nothing.
“I have no objections to explaining,” said the voice. “You're actually
married to me. My name is not Mowbray. It's Leon Dudleigh, the
individual that you just plighted your troth to. My small friend here is
not _Leon_ Dudleigh, whatever other Dudleigh he may call himself.
He is the witness.”
“It's false!” cried Edith. “Lieutenant Dudleigh would never betray me.”
“Well, at any rate,” said Leon, “I happen to be the happy man who alone
can claim you as his bride.”
“Villain!” shrieked Edith, in utter horror. “Cursed villain! Let go my
hand. This is all mockery. Your wife!--I would die first.”
“Indeed you won't,” said Leon--“not while you have me to love and to
cherish you, in sickness and in health, till death us do part, and
forsaking all others, keep only unto you, in the beautiful words of that
interesting service.”
“It's a lie! it's a lie!” cried Edith. “Oh, Lieutenant Dudleigh, I have
trusted you implicitly, and I trust you yet. Come to me--save me!”
And in her anguish Edith sank down upon her knees, and held out her arms
imploringly.
“Dudleigh!” she moaned. “Oh, my friend! Oh, only come--only save me from
this villain, and I will love--I will love and bless you--I will be your
menial--I will--”
“Pooh!” said Leon, “I'm the only Dudleigh about. If you knew half as
much about my _dear friend_ the lieutenant as I do, you would know
what infernal nonsense you are talking;” and seizing her hand, he tried
to raise her. “Come,” said he, “up with you.”
Edith tried to loosen her hand, whereupon Leon dashed it away.
“Who wants your hand?” he cried: “I'm your husband, not your lover.”
“Lieutenant Dudleigh!” moaned Edith.
“Well, lieutenant,” said Leon, “speak up. Come along. Tell her, if you
like.”
“Lieutenant Dudleigh, save me.”
“Oh, great Heaven!” said a voice like that of the one whom Edith knew as
Lieutenant Dudleigh--“oh, great Heaven! it's too much.”
“Oh ho!” cried Leon: “so you're going to blubber too, are you? Mind,
now, it's all right if you are only true.”
“Oh, Leon, how you wring my heart!” cried the other, in a low, tremulous
voice.
“Lieutenant Dudleigh!” cried Edith again. “Oh, my friend, answer me!
Tell me that it is all a lie. Tell me--”
But Lieutenant Dudleigh flung himself on the stone pavement, and groaned
and sobbed convulsively.
“Come,” said Leon, stooping and lifting him up; “you understand all
this. Don't you go on blubbering in this fashion. I don't mind her and
_you_ mustn't. Come, you tell her, for she'll keep yelling after
you all night till you do.”
Lieutenant Dudleigh rose at this, and leaned heavily upon Leon's arm.
“You were not--married--to--to--me,” said he at last.
“What! Then you too were false all along!” said Edith, in a voice that
seemed to come from a broken heart.
The false friend made no reply.
“Well, Mrs. Dudleigh,” said Leon, coolly, “for your information I will
simply state that the--ahem--lieutenant here is my very particular
friend--in fact, my most intimate and most valued friend--and in his
tender affection for me he undertook this little affair at my
instigation. It's all my act, all through, every bit of it, but the
carrying out of the details was--ahem--his. The marriage, however, is
perfectly valid. The banns were published all right. So you may feel
quite at ease.”
“Oh,” cried Edith, “how basely, how terribly, I have been deceived! And
it is all lies! It was all lies, lies, lies from the beginning!”
Suddenly a fierce thrill of indignation flashed through her. She started
to her feet.
“It is all a lie from beginning to end!” she exclaimed, in a voice which
was totally changed from that wail of despair which had been heard once
before. It was a firm, proud, stern voice. She had fallen back upon her
own lofty soul, and had sought refuge in that resolute nature of hers
which had sustained her before this in other dire emergencies. “Yes,”
she said, sternly, “a lie; and this mock-marriage is a lie. Villains,
stand off. I am going home.”
“Not without me,” said Leon, who for a moment stood silent, amazed at
the change in Edith's voice and manner. “You must not leave your
husband.”
“You shall not come to Dalton Hall,” said Edith.
“I shall not? Who can keep me out?”
“Wiggins,” said Edith. “I will ask his protection against you.”
“Wiggins!” sneered Leon. “Let him try it if he dares.”
“Do not interfere with me,” said Edith, “nor touch me.”
“You shall not go without me.”
“I shall go, and alone.”
“You shall not.”
Edith at once walked to the door. Just as she reached it Leon seized her
arm. She struggled for a moment to get free, but in vain.
“I know,” said she, bitterly, “what a coward you are. This is not the
first time that you have laid hands on me. Let me go now, or you shall
repent.”
“Not the first time, and it won't be the last time!” cried Leon, with an
oath.
“Let me go,” cried Edith, in a fierce voice, “or I will stab you to the
heart!”
As she said this she raised her right hand swiftly and menacingly, and
by the dim light of the doorway Leon plainly saw a long keen dagger. In
an instant he recoiled from the sight, and dropping her arm, he started
back.
“Curse you!” he cried, in an excited voice; “who wants to touch you! It
isn't you I've married, but the Hall!”
“Leon,” cried Lieutenant Dudleigh, “I will allow no violence. If there
is any more, I will betray you.”
“You!” cried Leon, with a bitter sneer. “Pooh, you dare not.”
“I dare.”
“You will betray yourself, then.”
“I don't care. After what I've suffered for you these two days past, and
especially this night, I have but little care left about myself.”
“But won't you get your reward, curse it
all!”
“There can be no reward for me now, after this,” said the other, in a
mournful voice.
“Is that the way you talk to _me_!” said Leon, in a tone of
surprise.
“Miss Dalton has been wronged enough,” said the other. “If you dare to
annoy her further, or to harm a hair of her head, I solemnly declare
that I will turn against you.”
“You!” exclaimed Leon.
“Yes, I.”
“Why, you're as bad as I am--in fact, worse.”
“Well, at any rate, it shall go no further. That I am resolved on.”
“Look out,” cried Leon; “don't tempt me too far. I'll remember this, by
Heaven! I'll not forget that you have threatened to betray me.”
“I don't care. You are a coward, Leon, and you know it. You are afraid
of that brave girl. Miss Dalton can take care of herself.”
“Miss Dalton! Pooh!--Mrs. Dudleigh, you mean.”
“Leon, you drive me to frenzy,” cried Lieutenant Dudleigh, in a wild,
impatient voice.
“And you--what are you!” cried Leon, morosely. “Are you not always
tormenting me? Do you think that I'm going to stand you and your whims
forever? Look out! This is more of a marriage than you think.”
“Marriage!” cried the other, in a voice of scorn.
“Never mind. I'll go with my wife,” said Leon.
Edith had waited a few moments as this altercation arose, half hoping
that in the quarrel between these two something might escape them which
could give her some ray of hope, but she heard nothing of that kind.
Yet as she listened to the voices of the two, contrasting so strangely
in their tones, and to their language, which was so very peculiar, a
strange suspicion came to her mind.
Then she hurried away back to the Hall.
“I'll go with my wife,” said Leon.
“Coward and villain!” cried his companion. “Miss Dalton has a dagger.
You're afraid of her. I'll go too, so that you may not annoy her.”
Edith hurried away, and the others followed for a short distance, but
she soon left them behind. She reached the little door at the east end.
She passed through, and bolted it on the inner side. She hurried up to
her rooms, and on reaching them fell fainting to the floor.
* * * * *