THE EMPTY ROOMS.
On the following morning Mrs. Dunbar waited a long time for Edith's
appearance. But she did not make her appearance, and the time passed,
until it at length grew so late that she determined to see what was the
matter. Full of fear lest some new illness had been the result of the
new excitement to which she had been subjected, Mrs. Dunbar passed
cautiously through Edith's sitting-room, and knocked at her bedroom
door.
There was no answer.
She knocked again and again, and still receiving no answer, she opened
the door and looked in.
To her amazement the room was empty. What was more surprising was the
fact that the bed did not appear to have been slept in. There was no
disorder visible in the room. Every thing was in its usual place, but
Edith was not there, and in that one glance which Mrs. Dunbar gave she
took in the whole truth.
Edith had fled!
She knew also that she must have fled during the night; that the event
against which such precautions had been taken had occurred at last, and
that she was responsible. Over that sorrowful anxious face there came
now a deeper sorrow and a graver anxiety at that discovery, and sitting
down upon a chair, she tried to conjecture Edith's possible course, and
wondered how she could get over the wall and out of the grounds.
At length she left this room, and going down stairs, called Hugo.
“Hugo,” said she, “has the captain come down?”
“I habn't seen him, ma'am,” said Hugo, respectfully.
“He always rises early,” said Mrs. Dunbar. “I wonder what's the matter.
He certainly must be up.”
Turning away, she ascended the stairs, and went to the room which was
occupied by Leon. The door was open. She entered. The room looked as
though it had just been left by its occupant. The bed bore signs of
having been occupied. The valise was lying there open. Upon the
toilet-table was a pocket-book, and hanging from the screw of the
looking-glass was his watch. His riding whip and gloves and top-boots
were lying in different places.
As Mrs. Dunbar saw all this, she concluded at first that he had gone out
for a walk, and would soon be back; but the lateness of the hour made
that idea seem absurd, and showed her that there must be some other
cause. The flight of Edith thereupon occurred to her, and was very
naturally associated in her mind with the departure of Leon. Had he been
watching? Had he detected her flight, and gone in pursuit? It seemed
so. If so, he was doubtless yet in pursuit of the fugitive, who must
have fled fast and far to delay him so long.
Then another thought came--the idea of violence. Perhaps he had caught
the fugitive, and in his rage and vindictive fury had harmed her. That
he was fierce enough for any atrocity she well knew; and the thought
that he had killed her, and had fled, came swift as lightning to her
mind.
The idea was terrible. She could not endure it. She left the room and
hurried down stairs again.
“Hugo,” said she, “go down and ask the porter if he has seen the captain
or Miss Dalton.”
“Miss Dalton!” exclaimed Hugo.
“Yes; she's gone.”
“Gone!” repeated Hugo, in amazement.
He said no more, but hurried down to the gates, while Mrs. Dunbar, who
felt restless and ill at ease, walked up the stairs, and feeling
fatigued, stopped on the landing, and leaned against the window there,
looking out upon the ground in the rear of the Hall.
Standing here, her eyes were attracted by a sight which made her start.
It was the Newfoundland dog. He was standing at some distance from the
house, looking straight ahead at vacancy, in a rigid attitude. The sight
of this animal, who was always the inseparable companion of his master,
standing there in so peculiar a fashion by himself, excited Mrs. Dunbar;
and forgetful of her weariness, she descended the stairs again, and
quitting the Hall, approached the spot where the dog was standing.
As she approached, the dog looked at her and wagged his tail. She called
him. He went on wagging his tail, but did not move from the spot. She
went up to him and stroked him, and looked all around, hoping to see
some signs of his master. She looked in the direction in which the dog
had been staring when she first noticed him. The stables seemed to be
the place. Toward these she walked, and tried to induce the dog to
follow, but he would not. She then walked over to the stables, and
looked through them, without seeing any trace of the object of her
search. Upon this she returned to the house.
On coming back she found Hugo. He had been to the gates, he said; but
the porter had seen nothing whatever either of the captain or Miss
Dalton.
This intelligence deepened the anxious expression on Mrs. Dunbar's face.
“His dog is here,” said she, in a tremulous voice.
“His dog!” said Hugo. “Oh yes; he's ben out dar all de mornin'. Dunno
what de matta wid dat ar animal at all. Stands dar like a gravy statoo.”
For the rest of that day Mrs. Dunbar was restless and distressed. She
wandered aimlessly about the house. She sent Hugo off to scour the
grounds to see if he could find any trace of either of the fugitives.
Every moment she would look out from any window or door that happened to
be nearest, to see if either of them was returning. But the day passed
by, and Hugo came back from his long search, but of neither of the
fugitives was a single trace found.
What affected Mrs. Dunbar as much as any thing was the behavior of the
dog. Through all that day he remained in the same place, sometimes
standing, sometimes lying down, but never going away more than a few
feet. That the dog had some meaning in this singular behavior, and that
this meaning had reference to the flight of one or the other of the late
inmates of the house, was very evident to her. No persuasion, or
coaxing, or even threatening could draw the dog away; and even when Hugo
fired a gun off close to his lead, he quivered in every nerve, but only
moved back a foot or two. Food and drink were brought to him, of which
he partook with a most eager appetite, but no temptation could draw him
any distance from his post. That night was a sleepless one for Mrs.
Dunbar; and it was with a feeling of great relief that she heard the
noise of a carriage early on the following day, and knew that Wiggins
had returned.
She hurried down at once, and met him in the great hall. In a few words
she told him all.
For such intelligence as this Wiggins was evidently unprepared. He
staggered back and leaned against the wall, staring at Mrs. Dunbar with
a terrible look.
“What! Gone!” he said, slowly. “Edith!”
“Yes; and Leon.”
“Edith gone!” gasped Wiggins once more.
“Did you hear nothing in the village?”
“I drove through without stopping. Did you send to the village?”
“I did not think that they could have got out of the grounds.”
“They! There's no trouble about Leon?”
“I'm afraid--for him,” said Mrs. Dunbar, in a faint voice.
“For him!” exclaimed Wiggins. “What can happen to him? For her, you
mean.”
“They must have gone off together.”
“Together! Do you think Edith would go with _him_? No; she has fled
in her madness and ignorance, turning her back on happiness and love,
and he has pursued her. O Heavens!” he continued, with a groan, “to
think that it should end in this! And cursed be that scoundrel--”
“Stop!” cried Mrs. Dunbar. “He is not a scoundrel. He would not harm
her. You don't know Leon. He has not left the place; his dog is here.”
“His dog!”
Mrs. Dunbar explained.
Upon this Wiggins went through the hall to the rear, and there, in the
same place as where Mrs. Dunbar last saw him, was the dog. He was lying
down now. He wagged his tail in friendly recognition as they came up.
Wiggins patted him and stroked him and tried to coax him away. The
result was precisely the same as it had been before. The dog received
all advances in the most friendly manner possible. He wagged his tail,
rolled over on his back, licked their hands, sat up on his
hind-quarters, and did every thing which dogs usually do when petted or
played with, but nothing would induce him to leave the place. He did not
appear to be in any trouble. He seemed simply to have made up his mind
to stay there, and this resolution he maintained most obstinately.
Wiggins could make nothing of it; but the sight of the dog renewed the
terrors of Mrs. Dunbar.
“I'm afraid,” said she--“I'm afraid that something's happened to Leon.”
“To Leon!” exclaimed Wiggins, impatiently; “what could happen to him! I
told him to quit this place, and he has probably concluded to do so.”
“But what do you think of his flight at the same time with Edith?”
“I don't know what to think of it. I only know this, that if he has
harmed one hair of her head, I--I'll--kill him! My own injuries I will
forgive, but wrongs done to her I will avenge!”
At this Mrs. Dunbar shrank away, and looked at Wiggins in fear.
“But it may be all the other way,” said she, in a tremulous voice.
“Edith was terrible in her fury. She was no timid, faltering girl; she
was resolute and vindictive. If he has followed her, or laid hands on
her, she may have--” She hesitated.
“May have what?” asked Wiggins.
“She may have done him some harm.”
“_She_ may have done _him_ some harm!” repeated Wiggins, with
a sneer. “What! and when he had his big dog to protect him? Pooh!”
And with a scornful laugh he turned away.
Mrs. Dunbar followed him.
“She was so terrible in her despair,” said she, as she followed him;
“she looked like a fury--beautiful, yet implacable.”
“Silence!” cried Wiggins. “Stop all that nonsense, or you'll drive me
mad. Are you crazy? When I am almost broken-hearted in my anxiety about
her, what do you mean by turning against that wronged and injured girl,
who I now see has been driven to despair by my own cursed mistakes, and
pretending that she is the aggressor, and your scoundrel Leon the
victim?”
In the midst of this Wiggins was interrupted by the approach of Hugo.
“A genl'man, Sah, wants to see you, Sah,” said he.
“A gentleman,” repeated Wiggins. “Who is he? How did he come here?”
“Dunno, Sah, nuffin 'bout dat, Sah.”
“It's about Edith!” exclaimed Wiggins; and he hurried into the house.
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