THE VICAR OF DALTON.
Wiggins entered the drawing-room, and found his visitor there. He was a
slight man, with light hair, watery gray eyes, and very mild demeanor.
The timidity of the man seemed very marked; there was an apologetic air
about him; and his very footfall as he advanced to greet Wiggins seemed
to deprecate some anticipated rough treatment. He spoke a few words,
and at Wiggins's request to be seated he sat down, while his agitation
increased; and he had that hesitating, half-abstracted manner which
marks the man who is on the point of giving unpleasant information,
about the effect of which he is doubtful.
Wiggins, on his part, did not seem to notice this. He sat down, and
looked with earnest inquiry at his visitor. He seemed to know what was
the object of this visit, and yet to dread to ask it.
The visitor had given his name as the Rev. Mr. Munn, and Wiggins
recognized that name as belonging to the parish vicar. That name
excited strange emotions within him, for it was the same name that had
appeared in the papers in connection with Edith's marriage.
“Well?” said Wiggins at last, in some impatience.
Mr. Munn cleared his throat.
“I have come here,” he began, “to tell you very distressing news.”
Wiggins was silent.
“I refer to--a--a--Mrs. Dudleigh,” said Mr. Munn.
“Well?” said Wiggins, in a scarcely audible voice.
“She is at the village inn.”
“At the village inn!” repeated Wiggins, in evident agitation, drawing a
long breath.
“She is alive, then?” he added, eagerly.
“Oh yes,” said Mr. Munn; “she came there early yesterday morning.” And
then he went on to tell his story, the substance of which was as
follows:
On the previous morning about dawn the people at the Dalton Inn were
aroused by a hurried knock. On going to the door they found Mrs.
Dudleigh. The moment that the door was opened she sprang in and fell
exhausted to the floor. So great was her weakness that she could not
rise again, and had to be carried up to one of the bedrooms. She was so
faint that she could scarcely speak; and in a feeble voice she implored
them to put her to bed, as it was a long time since she had had any
rest, and was almost dead with fatigue.
Her condition was most pitiable. Her clothes were all torn to shreds,
and covered with mud and dust; her hands were torn and bleeding; her
shoes had been worn into rags; and she looked as though she had been
wandering for hours through woods and swamps, and over rocks and sand.
To all their inquiries she answered nothing, but only implored them to
put her to bed and let her rest; above all, she prayed most piteously
that they would tell no one that she was there. This they promised to
do; and, indeed, it would have been difficult for them to have informed
about her, since none at the inn had ever seen her before, or had the
remotest idea who she could be.
Full of pity and sympathy, they put her to bed, and the landlady watched
over her most assiduously. All the morning she slept profoundly; but at
about noon she waked with a scream, like one who has been roused from
some fearful dream.
After that she grew steadily worse. Fever set in, and became more and
more violent every moment. In their anxiety to do what she had
requested, and keep her secret, they did not send immediately for a
doctor. But her condition soon became such that further delay was out of
the question, so they sent for the village physician.
When he arrived she was much worse. She was in a high fever, and
already delirious. He pronounced her situation to be dangerous in the
extreme, urged upon them the greatest care, and advised them to lose no
time in letting her friends know about her condition. Here was a dilemma
for these worthy people. They did not know who her friends were, and
therefore could not send for them, while it became impossible to keep
her presence at the inn a secret Not knowing what else to do, they
concluded to send for the vicar.
When Mr. Munn came he found them in great distress. He soon learned the
facts of the case, and at once decided that it should be made known to
Captain Dudleigh or to Wiggins. For though he did not know Edith's face,
still, from the disconnected words that had dropped from her during her
delirium, reported to him by the inn people, he thought it probable that
she was the very lady whom he had married under such mysterious
circumstances. So he soothed the fears of the landlady as well as he
could, and then left. It was late at night when he went from the inn,
and he had waited till the morning before going to Dalton Hall. He had
some difficulty in getting in at the gate, but when the porter learned
the object of his visit he at once opened to him. From the porter he
learned of the disappearance of Captain Dudleigh also. Nothing was then
left but to see Wiggins. Accordingly he had come to the Hall at once,
so as to tell his message with the shortest possible delay.
To this recital Wiggins listened with gravity. He made no gesture, and
he spoke no word, but sat with folded arms, looking upon the floor. When
Mr. Munn had ended, he, after a long silence, turned toward him and
said, in a severe tone,
“Well, Sir, now I hope you see something of the evil of that course
which you chose to pursue.”
“Evil? course?” stammered Mr. Munn. “I don't understand you.”
“Oh, I think you understand me,” said Wiggins, gloomily. “Has not your
conscience already suggested to you the probable cause of this strange
course of her whom you call Mrs. Dudleigh?”
“My conscience!” gasped Mr. Munn; “what has my conscience to do with
it?”
“How long is it since that wretched mockery at which you officiated?”
asked Wiggins, sternly.
“I really--I think--a few months only.”
“A few months,” repeated Wiggins. “Well, it has come to this. That is
the immediate cause of her flight, and of her present suffering.”
“I--I--married them,” stammered Mr. Munn; “but what of that? Is her
unhappiness my fault? How can I help it? Am I responsible for the future
condition of those couples whom I marry? Surely this is a strange thing
to say.”
“You well know,” said Wiggins, “what sort of a marriage this was. It was
no common one. It was done in secret. Why did you steal into these
grounds like a thief, and do this infamous thing?”
“Why--why,” faltered the unhappy vicar, growing more terrified and
conscience-stricken every minute--“Captain Dudleigh asked me. I cannot
refuse to marry people.”
“No, Sir, you can not when they come to you fairly; you can not, I well
know, when the conditions of the law are satisfied. But was that so
here? Did you not steal into these grounds? Did you not come by night,
in secret, conscious that you were doing wrong, and did you not have to
steal out in the same way? And your only excuse is that Captain Dudleigh
asked you!”
“He--he--showed very strong reasons why I should do so,” said Mr. Munn,
who by this time was fearfully agitated--“very strong reasons, I do
assure you, Sir, and all my humanity was--a--aroused.”
“Your humanity?” sneered Wiggins. “Where was your humanity for her?”
“For her!” exclaimed the vicar. “Why, she wanted it. She loved him.”
“Loved him! Pooh! She hated him worse than the devil.”
“Then what did she marry him for?” cried Mr. Munn, at his wits' end.
“Never mind,” said Wiggins; “you went out of your way to do a deed the
consequences of which can not yet be seen. I can understand, Sir, how
Captain Dudleigh could have planned this thing; but how you, a calm,
quiet clergyman, in the full possession of your faculties, could have
ever been led to take part in it, is more than I can comprehend. I, Sir,
was her guardian, appointed as such by her father, my own intimate
friend. Captain Dudleigh was a villain. He sought out this thoughtless
child merely for her money. It was not her that he wanted, but her
estate. I could easily have saved her from this danger. He had no chance
with me. But you come forward--you, Sir--suddenly, without cause,
without a word of warning--you sneak here in the dark, you entice her to
that lonely place, and there you bind her body and soul to a scoundrel.
Now, Sir, what have you got to say for yourself!”
Mr. Munn's teeth chattered, and his hands clutched one another
convulsively. “Captain Dudleigh told me that she was under restraint
here by--by you--and that she loved him, and that her only refuge was to
be married to him. I'm sure I didn't mean to do any harm.”
“Rubbish!” said Wiggins, contemptuously. “The law gives a guardian a
certain right to parental restraint for the good of the ward. The slight
restraint to which she was subjected was accompanied by the deepest love
of those who cared for her here. I had hoped, Sir, that you might have
something different to tell me. I did not know that you had actually
acted so madly. I thought the story which I heard of that marriage was
incredible, and I have always spoken of it as a mockery. But from what I
now gather from you, it seems to have been a _bona fide_ marriage,
true and valid.”
“I--I'm afraid it--it was,” said Mr. Munn.
Wiggins gave something that was almost like a groan.
“Friends,” he cried, passionately, rising from his chair--“friends from
the bottomless pit could not have more foully and fatally deceived that
poor, thoughtless, trustful child. But all their trickery and treachery
could never have succeeded had they not found a paltry tool in a
senseless creature like you--you, Sir--who could stand there and go
mumbling your marriage service, and never see the infernal jugglery that
was going on under your very eyes. Yes, you, Sir, who now come to wring
and break my heart by the awful tidings that you now tell me. Away!
Begone! I have already borne more than my share of anguish; but this, if
it goes on, will kill me or drive me mad!”
He turned away, with his head bent, with an unsteady step, and walked
toward the window, where he stood leaning against it heavily, and
staring out at vacancy.
As for Mr. Munn, he gave one glance of horror at Wiggins, and then, with
a swift, frightened step, he hurried from the Hall.
* * * * *