A STRANGE CONFESSION
The news of Edith's arrest spread like wild-fire, and the event became
soon the subject of universal conversation. Rumors of all sorts arose,
as is natural under such circumstances, most of which were adverse to
the accused. People remembered against the daughter the crimes of the
father. It was _bad blood_, they said, which she had inherited; it
was an evil race to which she belonged, and the murderous tendency was
hereditary.
The examination at the inquest had made known the general facts of her
story, out of which public gossip constructed another story to suit
itself.
Mrs. Dudleigh had been found troublesome and dangerous all along, so
much so that it became necessary to keep her within the grounds. When
Captain Dudleigh was paying attentions to her, she treated him with
perfect brutality. On one occasion she struck him with her whip, and
tried to run away. Captain Dudleigh had sent his friend, or relative,
Lieutenant Dudleigh, to bring about a reconciliation. This was so well
managed that the two resumed their former relations, and she even
consented to make a runaway match with him. This, however, was not out
of love so much as to spite her guardian.
After this marriage she took a violent dislike to her husband, and
pretended to be ill, or perhaps suffered real illness, the natural
result of her fierce, unbridled temper. Her husband found it impossible
to live with her. The few interviews which they had were very stormy.
Over and over again she threatened his life. At length she beguiled him
into the park on some unknown pretext, and there, with that dagger which
she had so often flourished in his face, she shed that very _“heart's
blood”_ which she had threatened to take. The murder was evidently a
preconcerted act. She must have done it deliberately, for she had
prepared the means of secret escape. She deliberately tried to conceal
her act, and after removing his head, and burying it, she had thrown the
body into the old well. But _“murder will out,”_ etc., etc.; and
with this and other similar maxims Edith's condemnation was settled by
the public mind.
Thus Edith was in prison, held there under a terrible charge, for which
there was proof that was appalling in its character. The body found and
identified seemed to plead against her; circumstances inculpated her;
motives were assigned to her sufficiently strong to cause the act; her
own words and acts all tended to confirm her guilt.
After all, however, this last blow was not so crushing a one as some
others which she had received in the course of her life. The most
terrible moment perhaps had been that one when she was taken and
confronted with the horrible remains. After that shock had subsided she
rallied somewhat; and when her arrest took place she was not unprepared.
If the shock of the arrest had thus been less severe than might be
supposed, so also was she less affected by her imprisonment than another
person would have been in such a situation. The reason of this is
evident. She had endured so much that this seemed an inferior
affliction. The anguish which she had known could not be increased by
this. At Dalton Hall she had become habituated to imprisonment, and of a
far more galling kind to her than this. She had been in the power of a
tyrant, at his mercy, and shut out from all means of communicating with
the world at large. Her soul had perpetually fretted and chafed against
the barriers by which she was confined, and the struggle within herself
was incessant. Afterward there had been the worse infliction of that
mock marriage, and the unspeakable dread of a new tyrant who called
himself her husband. No prison could equal the horrors which she had
known at Dalton Hall. Here in the jail her situation was at least known.
From Wiggins she was saved; from her false husband rescued forever. She
was now not in the power of a private tyrant, exercising his usurped
authority over her from his own desire, and with his will as his only
law; but she was in the hands of the nation, and under the power of the
national law. So, after all, she knew less grief in that prison cell
than in the more luxurious abode of Dalton Hall, less sorrow, less
despair. Her mood was a calm and almost apathetic one, for the great
griefs which she had already endured had made her almost indifferent to
anything that life might yet have to offer.
Two days after her arrest word was brought to Edith that a lady wished
to see her. Full of wonder who it could be, and in doubt whether it
could be Miss Plympton, or only Mrs. Dunbar, Edith eagerly directed that
the visitor should be admitted.
Thereupon a lady dressed in black entered the chamber. A heavy black
veil was over her face, which she raised as she entered, and stood
before Edith with downcast eyes.
There was something in that face which seemed strangely familiar to
Edith, and yet she found herself quite unable to think who the lady
could be. She thought over all the faces that she had known in her
school days. She thought over the faces at Dalton Hall. Suddenly, as
the lady raised her eyes, there was an additional revelation in them
which at once told Edith all.
She started back in amazement.
“Lieutenant Dudleigh!” she cried.
The lady bowed her head, and said, in a low voice,
“Fortescue is my real name.”
[Illustration: “BUT EVEN NOW I WOULD BE WILLING TO DIE FOR HIM.”]
A suspicion of this sort had once flashed across Edith's mind. It was
during the altercation at the Dalton chapel. Still, as this suspicion
was thus confirmed, her surprise was extreme, and she said not a word,
but looked steadily at her. And in the midst of other thoughts and
feelings she could not help seeing that great changes had come over Miss
Fortescue, as she called herself, in addition to those which were
consequent upon her resumption of feminine attire. She was pale and
thin, and looked ten years older than she used to look. Evidently she
had undergone great suffering. There were marks of deep grief on her
face. Much Edith marveled to see that one who had acted so basely was
capable of suffering such grief. She could not help being reminded of
that expression which she had seen on this same face when they were
arranging that false marriage; but now that deep remorse which then had
appeared seemed stamped permanently there, together with a profound
dejection that was like despair. All this was not without its effect on
Edith. It disarmed her natural indignation, and even excited pity.
“Miss Dalton,” said the visitor, in a voice that was quite different
from the one which she remembered--a voice that was evidently her
natural one, while that other must have been assumed--“Miss Dalton, I
have come to try to do something, if possible, toward making amends
for--for a frightful injury. I know well that amends can never be made;
but at least I can do a little. Will you listen to me for a few moments,
not with regard to me, but solely for your own sake?”
Edith said nothing, but bowed her head slightly. She did not yet know
how far this betrayer might be sincere, and wished to hear and judge for
herself.
“Will you let me, first of all, make a confession to you of my great
sin?” she continued, slowly and painfully. “You will understand better
your own present situation. I assure you it will be a help to you
toward freeing yourself. I don't ask you to believe--I only ask you to
listen.”
Edith again bowed.
“I will tell you all, then. I was an actress in London; my name was
Fortescue. I was a celebrity at Covent Garden. It was there that I
first met Captain Dudleigh. I need say no more about him than this: I
loved him passionately, with a frenzy and a devotion that you can not
understand, and my fate is this--that I love him yet. I know that he is
a coward and a villain and a traitor, but even now I would be willing to
die for him.”
The voice was different--how different!--and the tone and manner still
more so. The careless “Little Dudleigh” had changed into a being of
passion and ardor and fire. Edith tried to preserve an incredulous state
of mind, but in vain. She could not help feeling that there was no
acting here. This at least was real. This devoted love could not be
feigned.
“He swore he loved me,” continued Miss Fortescue. “He asked me to be his
wife. We were married.”
“Married!” cried Edith, in a tone of profoundest agitation.
“Yes,” said Miss Fortescue, solemnly, “we were married. But listen. I
believed that the marriage was real. He told some story about his
friends being unwilling--about his father, who, he said, would disown
him if he found it out. He urged a private marriage, without any public
announcement. He knew a young clergyman, he said, who would do him that
favor. For my part I had not the slightest objection. I loved him too
well to care about a formal wedding. So we were married in his rooms,
with a friend of his for witness.
“He set up a modest little house, where we lived for about a year. At
first my life was one of perfect happiness, but gradually I saw a change
coming over him. He was terribly in debt, and was afraid of utter ruin.
From hints that dropped from him, I began to suspect that he meditated
some sort of treachery toward me. Then, for the first time, I was
alarmed at the privacy of our marriage. Still, I was afraid to say any
thing to him, for fear that it might hasten any treachery toward me
which he might meditate. I loved him as dearly as ever, but I found out
that he was base and unprincipled, and felt that he was capable of any
thing. I had to content myself with watching him, and at the same time
tried to be as cheerful as possible.
“At length he heard about you, and came to Dalton. His father sent him,
he said. I followed him here. At first he was angry, but I persuaded him
to take me as an assistant. He did not want to be known at the Hall,
for he wished to see first what could be done with Wiggins. He made me
disguise myself as a man, and so I called myself Lieutenant Dudleigh. He
went to Dalton Hall, and discovered that the porter was some old
criminal who had done his crime on the Dudleigh estates--poaching, I
think, or murder, or both. On seeing Wiggins, he was able to obtain some
control over him--I don't know what. He never would tell me.
“By this time I found out what I had all along suspected--that he came
here for your sake. He was terribly in debt. A dark abyss lay before
him. He began to feel me to be an incumbrance. He began to wish that he
was a free man, so that he might marry you. I saw all this with a grief
that I can not tell.
“We made several calls on you. I went as his mother, Mrs. Mowbray.”
“Mrs. Mowbray! You!” exclaimed Edith, in wonder.
“Did I act my part well?” said Miss Fortescue, mournfully. “It was an
easy enough part. I believe I succeeded in making myself utterly
detestable. Captain Dudleigh was bitterly vexed at my manner. He wanted
me to gain your confidence. That, however, I could not yet bring myself
to do. His own intercourse with you was even worse. Your attempt to
escape was a terrible blow to his hopes. Yet he dared not let you
escape. That would have destroyed his plans utterly. You would have
gone to your friends--to Miss Plympton--and you would have found out
things about him which would have made his projects with reference to
you out of the question.”
“Miss Plympton!” cried Edith. “How could I have gone to her? She is
away.”
“That was one of my lies,” said Miss Fortescue. “Unfortunately, she is
really ill, but she is still in the country, at her school. I myself
went there to tell her about you only two days ago, but found that she
had been ill for some time, and could not see any one.”
Edith sighed heavily. For an instant hope had come, and then it had died
out.
“He made me go again to see you, but with what result you know. I was
fairly driven away at last. This made him terribly enraged against you
and against me, but I quieted him by reminding him that it was only his
own fault. It brought about a change in his plans, however, and forced
him to put me more prominently forward. Then it was that he devised
that plan by which I was to go and win your confidence. I can not speak
of it; you know it all. I wish merely to show you what the pressure was
that he put on me.
“'Dear wife,' said he to me one day, in his most affectionate tone--'my
own Lucy, you know all about my affairs, and you know that I am utterly
ruined. If I can not do something to save myself, I see no other
resource but to blow my brains out. I will do it, I swear I will, if I
can not get out of these scrapes. My father will not help me. He has
paid all my debts twice, and won't do it again. Now I have a proposal to
make. It's my only hope. You can help me. If you love me, you will do
so. Help me in this, and then you will bind your husband to you by a tie
that will be stronger than life. If you will not do this simple thing,
you will doom me to death, for I swear I will kill myself, or at least,
if not that, I will leave you forever, and go to some place where I can
escape my creditors.'
“This was the way that he forced his plan upon me. You know what it was.
I was to see you, and do--what was done.
“'You are my wife,' said he, earnestly. 'I can not marry her--I don't
want to--but I do want to get money. Let me have the control of the
Dalton estates long enough to get out of my scrapes. You can't be
jealous of her. She hates me. I hate her, and love you--yes, better than
life. When she finds out that I am married to her she will hate me still
more. The marriage is only a form, only a means of getting money, so
that I may live with my own true wife, my darling Lucy, in peace, and
free from this intolerable despair.'
“By such assurances as these--by dwelling incessantly upon the fact that
I was his wife, and that this proposed marriage to you was an empty
form--upon your hate for him, and the certainty of your still greater
hate, he gradually worked upon me. He appealed to my love for him, my
pity for his situation, and to every feeling that could move me in his
favor. Then it was that he told me frankly the name of the clergyman
who had married us, and the witness. The clergyman's name was Porter,
and the witness was a Captain Reeves. So, in spite of my abhorrence of
the act, I was led at last, out of my very love to him, and regard for
his future, to acquiesce in his plan. Above all, I was moved by one
thing upon which he laid great stress.
“'It will really be for her benefit,' he would say. 'She will not be
married at all. I shall take some of her money, certainly; but she is so
enormously rich that she will never feel it; besides, if I didn't get
it, Wiggins would. Better for her cousin to have it. It will be all in
the family. Above all, this will be the means, and the only means, of
freeing her from that imprisonment in which Wiggins keeps her. That is
her chief desire. She will gain it. After I pay my debts I will explain
all to her; and what is more, when I succeed to my own inheritance, as I
must do in time, I shall pay her every penny.'
“By such plausible reasoning as this he drove away my last objection,
and so, with out any further hesitation, I went about that task.
“But oh, how hard it was! Over and over again I felt like giving up. But
always he was ready to urge me on, until at last it was accomplished,
and ended as you remember.”
Miss Fortescue paused here, and made no reply. Edith said not a word.
Why should she? What availed this woman's repentance now?
“I came here,” continued Miss Fortescue at length, “first of all to
explain this, but to tell you other things also. I must now tell you
something which makes your position more painful than I thought it would
be. I soon found out the full depth of Captain Dudleigh's villainy.
While I thought that you only were deceived, I found that I the one who
was most deceived.
“After that marriage in the chapel we went back to Dalton, and there he
abused me in the most frightful manner. He pretended to be enraged
because I rebuked him in the chapel. His rage was only a pretense. Then
it all came out. He told me plainly that my marriage with him was a
mockery; that the man Porter who had married was not a clergyman at all,
but a creature of his whom he had bribed to officiate; that Reeves was
not a captain, and that his testimony in any case would be useless. All
this was crushing. It was something that was so entirely in accordance
with my own fears that I had not a word to say. He railed at me like a
madman, and informed me that he had only tolerated me here at Dalton so
as to use me as his tool. And this was our last interview. He left me
there, and I have never seen him since. He said he was your husband, and
was going to live at Dalton. I could do nothing. I went, however, to the
gates, got sight of Wiggins, and for your sake I told him all. I thought
it was better for you to remain under the authority of Wiggins than to
be in the power of such a villain as Captain Dudleigh. I told Wiggins
also that I still had a hope that my marriage was valid. I went back at
once to London, and tried to find out clergymen named Porter. I have
seen several, and written to many others whose names I have seen on the
church list, but none of them know any thing about such a marriage as
mine. I began, therefore, to fear that he was right, and if so--I was
not his wife.”
Silence followed now for some time. Miss Fortescue was waiting to see
the effect of her story, and Edith was meditating upon the facts with
which this strange revelation dealt. Although she had been so great a
sufferer, still she did not feel resentment now against this betrayer.
For this one was no longer the miserable, perfidious go-between, but
rather an injured wife led to do wrong by the pressure put upon her, and
by her own love.
“Then that was not a mock marriage?” said she at last.
“By justice and right it was no marriage,” said Miss Fortescue; “but how
the law may regard it I do not know.”
“Has Sir Lionel been heard of yet?” asked Edith, after another pause.
“Sir Lionel!” said Miss Fortescue, in surprise. “Oh, I had forgotten.
Miss Dalton, that, I grieve to say, was all a fiction. He was never out
of the country.”
“Did you ever speak a word of truth to me?” asked Edith, indignantly.
Miss Fortescue was silent.
“At any rate, it is of no consequence now,” said Edith. “Sir Lionel is
nothing to me; for he must look with horror on one whom he believes to
be the slayer of his son.”
“Oh, Miss Dalton!” burst forth Miss Fortescue, “do not despair; he will
be found yet.”
“Found! He has been found. Did you
not hear?”
“Oh, I don't mean that. I do not believe that it was him. I believe that
he is alive. This is all a mistake. I will search for him. I do not
believe that this is him. I believe he is alive. Oh, Miss Dalton, if I
could only do this for you, I should be willing to die. But I will try;
I know how to get on his track; I know where to go; I must hear of him,
if he is alive. Try to have hope; do not despair.”
Edith shook her head mournfully.
Miss Fortescue tried still further to lessen Edith's despair, and
assured her that she had hopes herself of finding him before it was too
late, but her words produced no effect.
“I do not ask you to forgive me,” said Miss Fortescue; “that would be
almost insolence; but I entreat you to believe that I will devote myself
to you, and that you have one whose only purpose in life now is to save
you from this fearful fate. Thus far you have known me only as a speaker
of lies; but remember, I pray you, what my position was. I was playing a
part--as Mrs. Mowbray--as Lieutenant Dudleigh--as Barber the lawyer--”
“Barber!” exclaimed Edith. “What! Barber too?”
“Yes,” said Miss Fortescue, sadly; “all those parts were mine. It was
easy to play them before one so honest and so unsuspecting; but oh, Miss
Dalton, believe me, it is in playing a part only that I have deceived
you. Now, when I no longer play a part, but come to you in my own
person, I will be true. I will devote myself to the work of saving you
from this terrible position in which I have done so much to place you.”
Edith made no reply, and soon after Miss Fortescue departed, leaving her
to her own reflections.
* * * * *