A FIGHT IN THE ENEMY'S CAMP
It will have been seen already that Leon had taken up his abode at
Dalton Hall immediately after that marriage ceremony as the husband of
Edith. Her illness had hitherto prevented him from having any
understanding with her, and his own affairs called him away before her
recovery. With Wiggins he remained on the same footing as before; nor
did he find himself able to alter that footing in the slightest degree.
Whatever Wiggins may have thought or felt on the subject of the
marriage, he revealed it to no one; and Leon found himself compelled to
wait for Edith's recovery before he could accomplish any thing definite
with regard to his own position. On his return, to Dalton Hall he
learned that she was convalescent, and he was much surprised at her
immediate request for an interview.
With the result of that interview he had but little reason to be
satisfied. He felt disappointed, enraged, and humiliated. Edith had
been perfectly free from all fear of him. The young girl had shown
herself a virago. His insults she had returned with mocking sarcasms,
his threats she had treated with utter contempt, and finally she had
proved him to his own face to be a coward. Over the recollection of
that scene he could only gnash his teeth in fruitless rage. The more he
thought of that interview, the more bitter grew his mortification; and
at length he resolved to force matters to a climax at once by coming to
a distinct and final understanding with Wiggins himself.
Leon had enjoyed the freedom of the house long enough to know where
Wiggins's room was, and into that room he intruded himself abruptly on
the following day. It was in this room that Wiggins spent the greater
part of his time, carrying on a vigorous though not very extensive
correspondence, and moving the wires of those plans at which he had
hinted to Edith. He was here now, and as Leon entered he looked up with
a silent stare.
“I'll not stand this any longer,” burst forth Leon, abruptly and
vehemently. “I'm in terrible difficulties. I've been waiting long
enough. You must side with me actively, for your assistance is
absolutely necessary to bring that mad girl to terms. I'm married to
her. She's my wife. I must have control of this place at once; and I'll
tolerate no farther opposition from her, or humbug from you. I've come
now to tell you this finally and peremptorily.”
“She is not your wife,” said Wiggins, coldly.
“She is.”
“It was a trick. The ceremony was a miserable sham.”
“It was no sham. It was done legally, and can not be undone.”
“Legally! Pooh! The whole thing was a farce. It's no marriage.
Legally! Why, what has that miserable affair to do with the law?”
“What has it to do? It has every thing to do. The whole thing was done
in a perfectly legal manner. The banns were regularly published by the
vicar of Dalton in Dalton Church, and in that chapel Edith Dalton was
regularly and legally married to Leon Dudleigh by the Rev. Mr. Munn.
What more is wanting to make it legal? Go and ask Mr. Munn himself.”
“The banns!” exclaimed Wiggins.
“Yes, the banns,” said Leon. “You never heard of that, perhaps. If you
doubt me, go and ask Munn.”
“It was not you that she married!” cried Wiggins, after a pause, in
which he seemed struck rather painfully by Leon's last information. “It
was not you--it was that other one. He called himself Dudleigh--a
miserable assumed name!”
“You know nothing about it,” said Leon, “whether it was assumed or not.
And as to the marriage, it was to me. I held her hand; I put the ring
on her finger; she married me, and no other. But I'm not going to talk
about that. I've simply come here to insist on your active help. I
won't stand any more of this humbug. I've already told you that I know
you.”
Wiggins remained silent for some time.
“So you did,” said he at last, in a low voice; “but what of that?”
“Why, only this: you had to let me do what I chose. And I intend to
keep a good hold of you yet, my fine fellow.”
Wiggins placed both his elbows on the table in front of him, and looked
fixedly at Leon for some time.
“You did say once,” said he, slowly, “that you knew me, and the
possibility that it might be true induced me to tolerate you here for
some time. I trusted to Miss Dalton's innate good sense to save her from
any danger from one like you; but it appears that I was mistaken. At the
present moment, however, I may as well inform you that you have not the
slightest idea who I am, and more than this, that I have not the
slightest objection to tell you.”
“Pooh!” said Leon, with ill-disguised uneasiness, “it's all very well
for you to take that tone, but it won't do with me. I know who you are.”
“Who am I?”
“Oh, I know.”
“Who? who? Say it! If you did know, you would not imagine that you had
any power over me. Your power is a dream, and your knowledge of me is a
sham. Who am I?”
“Why,” said Leon, with still greater uneasiness and uncertainty in his
face and voice, “you are not John Wiggins.”
“Who do you think I am?” asked Wiggins.
“Who? who? Why, you came from Australia.”
“Well, what of that?”
“Well, you are some convict who got acquainted with Dalton out there,
and have come back here to try to get control of these estates.”
“But how could I do that? If this were so, do you suppose that Wiggins
of Liverpool would allow it?”
“Oh, he has a share in the business. He goes halves with you, perhaps.”
“If he wanted any shares at all in such a transaction, he might have
all, and therefore he would be a fool to take half. Your theory, I
infer, is somewhat lame. And what of Mrs. Dunbar? Is she an Australian
convict too?”
“Mrs. Dunbar?--who is she? What! that crazy housekeeper? She looks as
though she may have just been released from some lunatic asylum.”
Wiggins made no immediate reply, and sat for a few moments in thought.
Then he looked at Leon and said:
“Well, you have got hold of a part of the truth--just enough to mislead
you. It is true that I have been in Australia, though why you should
suppose that I was a convict I do not know. More: I went out there on
account of Dalton, and for no other reason. While there I saw much of
him, and gained his whole confidence. He told me his whole story
unreservedly. He believed me to be his friend. He confided every thing
to me. You must have heard of his trial, and his strange persistence in
refusing to say who the guilty party was.”
“Oh yes,” said Leon, with a laugh. “A good idea that, when the guilty
party was himself.”
“It was not himself,” said Wiggins, “and before long the world shall
know who it was, for that is the one business of my life since my
return, to which I have sacrificed all other concerns. In my attention
to this I have even neglected Miss Dalton.”
“She does not appear to think that you have neglected her,” said Leon,
with a sneer.
To this Wiggins paid no attention.
“Dalton,” said he, “told me all before he died. He thought of his
daughter, and though he had suffered himself, yet he thought on his
death-bed that it would be a sin to leave to her such a legacy of shame.
It was this that broke his obstinate silence, and made him tell his
secret to me. And here, Leon Dudleigh, is a thing in which you are
concerned.
“I!” exclaimed Leon, in astonishment, not unmingled with alarm.
“I will tell you presently. I will simply remark now that I am
following out his wishes, and am working for Miss Dalton, as he himself
would have worked, to redeem her name.”
“The name is hers no longer,” said Leon.
“She seems to give you a precious hard time of it too, I should say, and
does not altogether appreciate your self-denying and wonderfully
disinterested efforts.”
“I have not treated her with sufficient consideration,” said Wiggins. “I
misunderstood her character. I began altogether wrong. I see now that
I ought to have given her more of my confidence, or, better yet, that I
ought not to have brought her here till the work was done. Well,” he
added, with a sigh, “my chief consolation is that it will be all right
in the end.”
“This is all rubbish,” said Leon. “You are not what you pretend to be.
You are not her guardian. You are an interloper and a swindler. You
shall remain here no longer. I am her husband, and I order you off the
premises at once.”
“You are not her husband, and I am her guardian,” said Wiggins, calmly.
“I was appointed by her father on his death-bed.”
“I don't believe it. Besides, your name is not Wiggins at all.”
“How do you know? You know nothing.”
[Illustration: DOTARD! DO YOU TALK OF VENGEANCE?]
“I know Wiggins.”
“Wiggins of Liverpool, perhaps, but there are more Wigginses in the
world than that.”
“A court of law will show that--”
“You will not go to a court of law. That is my task. And mark me,”
continued Wiggins, with thrilling emphasis, “when a court of law takes
up the subject of the Dalton estates or the Dalton name, then it will be
the turn for you and yours to tremble.”
“Tremble!” exclaimed Leon, scornfully.
“Yes,” repeated Wiggins. “Your father--”
“Pooh!” said Leon.
“When Dalton died,” continued Wiggins, “he left his papers. Among them
was a letter of which he himself told me. If he had produced that
letter on his trial, he would have escaped, and the guilty man would
have been punished. The letter was written by the real forger. It
inclosed the forged check to Dalton, asking him to draw the money and
pay certain pressing debts. The writer of that letter was your own
father--Lionel Dudleigh!”
“It's a lie!” cried Leon, starting up, with terrible excitement in his
face--an excitement, too, which was mingled with unspeakable dread.
“It's true,” said Wiggins, calmly, “and the letter can be proved.”
“It can not.”
“It can, and by the best of testimony.”
“I don't believe it.”
“Perhaps not; but there is something more. With the murder trial you
are no doubt familiar. In fact, I take it for granted that you are
familiar with Dalton's case _in all its bearings_,” added Wiggins,
in a tone of deep meaning. “In that murder trial, then, you are aware
that a Maltese cross was found on the scene of murder, and created much
excitement. You know what part it had in the trial. I now inform you
that I have proof which can show beyond a doubt that this Maltese cross
was the property of your father--Lionel Dudleigh.”
“It's a lie--an infernal lie!” said Leon, in a hoarse voice. His
excitement had now become terrible.
“It's true--all true,” continued Wiggins. “It can all be proved by a
witness that can not be impeached. Yes, Leon Dudleigh, you yourself
would be forced to accept the testimony of that witness.”
“What witness?” said Leon, in a voice that was scarcely audible from
conflicting emotions.
Wiggins looked at him earnestly, and then said, in a low, deep, solemn
voice,
“Leon Dudleigh, that witness is _your mother!_”
The other started as though he had been shot.
“My mother!” he almost screamed--“my mother! why, she--she is
dead--dead long ago.”
“When did you find that out?” said Wiggins.
“She's dead! she's dead!” repeated Leon, as though by assertion he could
make it true.
“She is not dead,” said Wiggins, in an awful voice, “though all these
years she has lived a living death. She is not dead. She is alive, and
she now stands ready, when the hour comes, though with an agonized
heart, to give that testimony which, years ago, she dared not and could
not give. She has allowed the innocent to suffer, and the guilty to go
free, but now she will do so no longer. The work upon which I have been
engaged is almost complete. The preparations are made, and this very day
I am going to Liverpool to perform the last acts that are necessary
toward vindicating the memory of Dalton, establishing his innocence, and
punishing the guilty. As for you, you can do nothing here, and I have
resolved to punish you for what you have done. I shall show you no
mercy. If you want to save yourself, leave the country, for otherwise I
swear you will never be safe from my vengeance.”
“Vengeance!” said Leon, in low, menacing tones. “Dotard! do _you_
talk of vengeance? You do not understand the meaning of that word. Wait
till you see what I can do.”
And with these words he left the room.
That evening Wiggins left for Liverpool.
* * * * *