THE HOUSE OF REFUGE
The illness of Edith was of no light or common kind. Her old glow of
health had not yet returned. The state of affairs at Dalton Hall had
retarded any thing like a complete recovery, and when she started off on
her desperate flight, she was unfit for such a venture. Through that
terrible night she had undergone what might have laid low a strong man,
and the strength which had barely carried her to the door of the inn had
there left her utterly; and so fierce was the attack that was now made
upon her by this new illness that recovery seemed scarce possible.
The doctor was as non-committal as doctors usually are in a really
dangerous case. It was evident, however, from the first, that her
situation awakened in his mind the very deepest anxiety. He urged the
landlady to keep the house in the quietest possible condition, and to
see that she was never left without attendants. This the landlady
promised to do, and was unremitting in her attentions.
But all the care of the attendants seemed useless. Deeper and deeper
Edith descended into the abyss of suffering. Day succeeded to day, and
found her worse. Fortunately she was not conscious of what she had to
endure; but in that unconsciousness her mind wandered in delirium, and
all the sorrows of the past were lived over again.
They knew not, those good kind souls who waited and watched at her
bedside, what it was that thus rose before her, and distressed her in
the visions of her distempered brain, but they could see that these were
the result of deep grief and long sorrow, and therefore they pitied her
more than ever. As her mind thus wandered, she talked incessantly, often
in broken words, but often also in long connected sentences, and all
these were intermingled with moans and sighs.
“This is a heart-rending,” said the doctor once. “It is her mind, poor
lady, that has brought on this illness. In this case medicine is of no
use. You can do more than I can. You must watch over her, and keep her
as quiet as she can be kept.”
All of which the landlady promised more fervently than ever, and kept
her promise too.
But in spite of all this care, the fever and the delirium grew worse.
The events of her Dalton life rose before her to the exclusion of all
other memories, and filled all her thoughts. In her fancies she again
lived that life of mingled anxiety and fear, and chafed and raged and
trembled by turns at the restraint which she felt around her. Then she
tried to escape, but escape was impossible. Then she seemed to speak
with some one who promised deliverance. Eagerly and earnestly she
implored this one to assist her, and mentioned plans of escape.
Most of all, however, her thoughts turned to that scene in the Dalton
vaults. The dead seemed all around. Amidst the darkness she saw the
ghost of her ancestors. They frowned menacingly upon her, as on one who
was bringing dishonor upon a noble name. They pointed at her scornfully
with their wan fingers. Deep moans showed the horror of her soul, but
amidst these moans she protested that she was innocent.
Then her flight from the Hall came up before her. She seemed to be
wandering through woods and thickets and swamps, over rocks and fallen
trees.
“Shall I never get out?” she murmured. “Shall I never get to the wall?
I shall perish in this forest. I am sinking in this mire.”
Then she saw some enemy. “It is he!” she murmured, in low thrilling
tones. “He is coming! I will never go back--no, never! I will die
first! I have my dagger--I will kill him! He shall never take me
there--never, never, never! I will kill him--I will kill him!”
After which came a low groan, followed by a long silence.
So she went on in her agony, but her delirious words carried no
connected meaning to her attendants. They could only look at one another
inquiringly, and shake their heads. “She has been unhappy in her married
life, poor dear,” said the landlady once, with a sigh; and this seemed
to be the general impression, and the only one which they gathered from
her words.
Thus a fortnight passed away.
At length the lowest stage of the disease was reached. It was the
turning-point, and beyond that lay either death or recovery. All night
long the landlady watched beside the bed of the poor sufferer, who now
lay in a deep sleep, scarce breathing, while the doctor, who came in at
midnight, remained till morning.
Morning came at length, and Edith awaked. The delirium had passed. She
looked around inquiringly, but could recall nothing.
“Auntie dear,” she said, feebly, “where are you?”
“There isn't no auntie, dear,” said the landlady, gently. “You are at
Dalton Inn But don't speak, dearie--you are too weak.”
“Dalton Inn,” repeated Edith, in a faint voice. She looked puzzled, for
she was as yet too confused to remember. Gradually however, memory
awaked, and though the recollection of her illness was a blank, yet the
awful life that she had lived, and her flight from that life, with all
its accompaniments, came gradually back.
She looked at the landlady with a face of agony.
“Promise,” said she, faintly.
“Promise what, dearie?”
“Promise--that--you will not--send me away.”
“Lord love you! send you away? Not me.”
“Promise,” said Edith, in feverish impatience, “that you will not let
them take me--till I want to go.”
“Never; no one shall touch a hair of your head, dearie--till you wish
it.”
The tone of the landlady gave Edith even more confidence than her words.
“God bless you!” she sighed, and turned her head away.
A week passed, and Edith continued to get better every day. Although her
remembrances were bitter and her thoughts most distressing, yet there
was something in her present situation which was, on the whole,
conducive to health. For the first time in many months she felt herself
free from that irksome and galling control which had been so maddening
to her proud nature. Her life in Dalton Hall had been one long
struggle, in which her spirit had chafed incessantly at the barriers
around it, and had well-nigh worn itself out in maintaining its
unconquerable attitude. Now all this was over. She trusted this honest
and tender-hearted landlady. It was the first frank and open face which
she had seen since she left school. She knew that here at last she would
have rest, at least until her recovery. What she might do then was
another question, but the answer to this she chose to put off.
But all this time, while Edith had been lying prostrate and senseless at
the inn, a great and mighty excitement had arisen and spread throughout
the country, and all men were discussing one common subject--the
mysterious disappearance of Captain Dudleigh.
He had become well known in the village, where he had resided for some
time. His rank, his reputed wealth, and his personal appearance had all
made him a man of mark. His marriage with Miss Dalton, who was known to
be his cousin, had been publicly announced, and had excited very general
surprise, chiefly because it was not known that Miss Dalton had
returned. The gentry had not called on the bride, however, partly on
account of the cloud that hung over the Dalton name, but more especially
on account of the air of mystery that hung about the marriage, and the
impression that was prevalent that calls were not expected.
The marriage had been largely commented upon, but had been generally
approved. It had taken place within the family, and the stain on the
Dalton name could thus be obliterated by merging it with that of
Dudleigh. It seemed, therefore, wise and appropriate and politic, and
the reserve of the married couple was generally considered as a mark of
delicacy, good taste, and graceful respect for public opinion.
Captain Dudleigh had at first been associated with a friend and relative
of his, Lieutenant Dudleigh, who had made himself quite popular in the
outside world. Neither of them, however, had gone into society. It was
understood that Lieutenant Dudleigh had come simply for the purpose of
being the captain's groomsman, and when, after the marriage, he
disappeared, nothing more was thought about him.
Occupying as he did this place in the attention of the county people,
Captain Dudleigh's disappearance created an excitement which can easily
he imagined. Who first started the report could not be found out, but no
sooner had it been started than it spread like wild-fire.
Moreover, in spite of the landlady's care, they had heard of Edith's
flight and illness, and naturally associated these two startling facts
together. The Dalton name was already covered with deep disgrace, and
that another tragedy should take place in connection with it was felt to
be very natural. Week after week passed on, and still there were no
tidings of the missing man. With the lapse of each week the excitement
only increased. Throughout the whole county this was the common topic
of conversation. It was matter for far more than the ordinary nine
days' wonder, for about this there was the fascination and the horror of
an impenetrable mystery.
For it was universally felt that in some way or other this mystery was
connected with Edith, and that its solution lay with her. It was
universally known that she had fled from Dalton Hall in a most
suspicious and unaccountable manner, and that Captain Dudleigh had
disappeared on that very night. It was natural, therefore, that every
body should think of her as being, to some extent at least, aware of the
fate of Dudleigh, and that she alone could account for it.
And so the excitement grew stronger and stronger every day. Gradually
the whole public came to know something about the circumstances of the
ill-fated marriage. There seemed to be some power at work which sent
forth fresh intelligence at various intervals to excite the public mind.
It was not Wiggins, for he kept himself in strict seclusion; and people
who went to stare at the gates of Dalton Park found nothing for their
pains. It could not have been the vicar, for his terror had reduced him
to a state of simple imbecility. There was some other cause, and that
cause seemed always at work.
From this mysterious cause, then, the public gained a version of the
story of that marriage, which was circulated every where. Miss Dalton,
it was said, had fallen in love with Captain Dudleigh, but her guardian,
Wiggins, had resisted her inclinations. She determined to get married in
spite of him, and Captain Dudleigh had a clergyman brought into the
park, who performed the ceremony secretly. After the marriage, however,
it was said, Captain Dudleigh treated his wife badly, and clamored for
money to pay his debts. His wife suspected that he had married her for
this sole purpose. They quarreled incessantly. Her health broke down
through grief and disappointment, and she was ill for a long time. After
her recovery they had several stormy interviews, in which she had
threatened his life. It was said that she always carried a dagger, with
which she had sworn to kill him. She had told him to his face that she
would have “_his heart's blood_.”
Such was the story that circulated far and wide among all classes. None
had seen Edith personally except the doctor and those at the inn; and
the general impression about her was that she was a fierce, bold,
impetuous woman, with iron resolution and masculine temper. So, on the
whole, public opinion ran high against her, and profound sympathy was
felt for the injured husband.
All this was not confined to the county. The metropolitan papers had
mentioned it and discussed it, and the “_Continued Disappearance of
Captain Dudleigh_” was for a long time the standing heading of many
paragraphs.
But during all this time Edith remained at the inn in complete
seclusion, recovering slowly hut surely. In that seclusion she was
utterly ignorant of the excitement which she had caused, and, indeed,
was not aware that she was talked of at all. The papers were all kindly
kept out of her sight, and as she had never been accustomed to read
them, she never thought of asking for them.
But the public feeling had at last reached that point at which it
demanded, with resistless voice, an inquiry after the missing man.
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