THE BEDSIDE OF DALTON.
Frederick Dalton remained in his prostrate condition, with no apparent
change either for the better or for the worse, and thus a month passed.
One morning Dudleigh requested an interview with Edith.
On entering the room he greeted her with his usual deep respect.
[Illustration: “THEIR HANDS TOUCHED.”]
“I hope you will excuse me for troubling you, Miss Dalton,” he said,
“but I wish very much to ask your opinion about your father. He
remains, as you know, unchanged, and this inn is not the place for him.
The air is close, the place is noisy, and it is impossible for him to
have that perfect quiet which he so greatly needs. Dudleigh Manor is too
far away, but there is another place close by. I am aware, Miss Dalton,
that Dalton Hall must be odious to you, and therefore I hesitate to ask
you to take your father to that place. Yet he ought to go there, and at
once. As for yourself, I hope that the new circumstances under which you
will live there will make it less unpleasant; and, let me add, for my
own part, it shall be my effort to see that you, who have been so deeply
wronged, shall be righted--with all and before all. As to myself,” he
continued, “I would retire, and relieve you of my presence, which can
not be otherwise than painful, but there are two reasons why I ought to
remain. The first is your father. You yourself are not able to take all
the care of him, and there is no other who can share it except myself.
Next to yourself, no one can be to him what I am, nor is there any one
with whom I would be willing to leave him. He must not be left to a
servant. He must be nursed by those who love him. And so I must stay
with him wherever he is. In addition to this, however, my presence at
Dalton Hall will effectually quell the vulgar clamor, and all the rumors
that have been prevailing for the last few months will be silenced.”
Dudleigh spoke all this calmly and seriously, but beneath his words
there was something in his tone which conveyed a deeper meaning. That
tone was more than respectful--it was almost reverential--as though the
one to whom he spoke required from him more than mere courtesy. In spite
of his outward calm, there was also an emotion in his voice which showed
that the calm was assumed, and that beneath it lay something which could
not be all concealed. In his eyes, as he fixed them on Edith, there was
that same reverential regard, which seemed to speak of devotion and
loyalty; something stronger than admiration, something deeper than
sympathy, was expressed from them. And yet it was this that he himself
tried to conceal. It was as though this feeling of his burst forth
irrepressibly through all concealment, as though the intensity of this
feeling made even his calmest words and commonest formulas fall of a new
and deeper meaning.
In that reverence and profound devotion thus manifest there was nothing
which could be otherwise than grateful to Edith. Certainly she could not
take offense, for his words and his looks afforded nothing which could
by any possibility give rise to that.
For a whole month this man had been before her, a constant attendant on
her father, sleeping his few hours in an adjoining chamber, with scarce
a thought beyond that prostrate friend. All the country had been
searched for the best advice or the best remedies, and nothing had been
omitted which untiring affection could suggest. During all this time
she had scarce seen him. In the delicacy of his regard for her he had
studiously kept out of her way, as though unwilling to allow his
presence to give her pain. A moment might occasionally be taken up with
a few necessary arrangements as she would enter, but that was all. He
patiently waited till she retired before he ventured to come in himself.
No; in that noble face, pale from illness or from sadness, with the
traces of sorrow upon it, and the marks of long vigils by the bedside of
her father--in that refined face, whose expression spoke only of
elevation of soul, and exhibited the perfect type of manly beauty, there
was certainly nothing that could excite repugnance, but every thing that
might inspire confidence.
Edith saw all this, and remarked it while listening to him; and she
thought she had never seen any thing so pure in its loyalty, so profound
in its sympathy, and so sweet in its sad grace as that face which was
now turned toward her with its eloquent eyes.
She did not say much. A few words signified her assent to the proposal.
Dudleigh said that he would make all the necessary arrangements, and
that she should have no trouble whatever. With this he took his
departure.
That same evening another visitor came. It was a pale, slender girl,
who gave her name as Lucy Ford. She said that she had been sent by
Captain Dudleigh. She heard that Edith had no maid, and wished to get
that situation. Edith hesitated for a moment. Could she accept so
direct a favor from Dudleigh, or give him that mark of confidence? Her
hesitation was over at once. She could give him that, and she accepted
the maid. The next day came a housekeeper and two or three others, all
sent by Dudleigh, all of whom were accepted by her. For Dudleigh had
found out somehow the need of servants at Dalton Hall, and had taken
this way of supplying that prime requisite.
It then remained to move Dalton. He still continued in the same
condition, not much changed physically, but in a state of mental torpor,
the duration of which no one was able to foretell. Two short stages were
required to take him to Dalton Hall. For this a litter was procured, and
he was carried all the way. Edith went, with her maid and housekeeper,
in a carriage, Dudleigh on horseback, and the other servants, with the
luggage, in various conveyances.
Dalton received no benefit from his journey, but his friends were happy
enough that he had received no injury. The medical attendance at Dalton
Hall was, as before, the best that could be obtained, and all the care
that affection could suggest was lavished upon him.
From what has already been said, it will be seen that in making this
migration to Dalton Hall, Dudleigh was regardful of many things besides
the patient. He had made every arrangement for the comfort of the
occupants. He had sought out all the domestics that were necessary to
diffuse an air of home over such a large establishment, and had been
careful to submit them to Edith for her approval. He had also procured
horses and grooms and carriages, and every thing that might conduce to
the comfort of life. The old solitude and loneliness were thus
terminated. The new housekeeper prevented Edith from feeling any anxiety
about domestic concerns, and the servants all showed themselves well
trained and perfectly subordinate.
Dalton's room was at the west end of the building. Edith occupied her
old apartments. Dudleigh took that which had belonged to his “double.”
The housekeeper took the room that had been occupied by Lady Dudleigh.
Dudleigh was as devoted as ever to the sick man. He remained at his
bedside through the greater part of the nights and through the mornings.
In the afternoons he retired as before, and gave place to Edith. When
he was there he sometimes had a servant upon whom he could rely, and
then, if he felt unusual fatigue, and circumstances were favorable, he
was able to snatch a little sleep. He usually went to bed at two in the
afternoon, rose at seven, and in that brief sleep, with occasional naps
during the morning, obtained enough to last him for the day. With this
rest he was satisfied, and needed, or at least sought for, no
recreation. During the hours of the morning he was able to attend to
those outside duties that required overseeing or direction.
But while he watched in this way over the invalid, he was not a mere
watcher. That invalid required, after all, but little at the hands of
his nurses, and Dudleigh had much to do.
On his arrival at Dalton Hall he had possessed himself of all the papers
that his “double” had left behind him, and these he diligently studied,
so as to be able to carry out with the utmost efficiency the purpose
that he had in his mind. It was during the long watches of the night
that he studied these papers, trying to make out from them the manner of
life and the associates of the one who had left them, trying also to
arrive at some clew to his mysterious disappearance. This study he
could keep up without detriment to his office of attendant, and while
watching over the invalid he could carry out his investigations.
Sometimes, in the afternoons, after indulging in more frequent naps than
usual during the mornings, he was able to go out for a ride about the
grounds. He was a first-rate horseman, and Edith noticed his admirable
seat as she looked from the windows of her father's room.
Thus time went on.
Gradually Dudleigh and Edith began to occupy a different position toward
one another. At the inn their relations were as has been shown. But
after their arrival at Dalton Hall there occurred a gradual change.
As Edith came to the room on the first day, Dudleigh waited. On entering
she saw his eyes fixed on her with an expression of painful suspense, of
earnest, eager inquiry. In that eloquent appealing glance all his soul
seemed to beam from his eyes. It was reverent, it was almost humble, yet
it looked for some small concession. May I hope? it said. Will you give
a thought to me? See, I stand here, and I hang upon your look. Will you
turn away from me?
Edith did not repel that mute appeal. There was that in her face which
broke down Dudleigh's reserve. He advanced toward her and held out his
hand. She did not reject it.
It was but a commonplace thing to do--it was what might have been done
before--yet between these two it was far from common-place. Their hands
touched, their eyes met, but neither spoke a word. It was but a light
grasp that Dudleigh gave. Reverentially, yet tenderly, he took that
hand, not venturing to go beyond what might be accorded to the merest
stranger, but contenting himself with that one concession. With that he
retired, carrying with him the remembrance of that nearer approach, and
the hope of what yet might be.
After that the extreme reserve was broken down. Each day, on meeting, a
shake of the hands was accompanied by something more. Between any
others these greetings would have been the most natural thing in the
world; but here it was different. There was one subject in which each
took the deepest interest, and about which each had something to say.
Frederick Dalton's health was precious to each, and each felt anxiety
about his condition. This formed a theme about which they might speak.
As Dudleigh waited for Edith, so Edith waited for Dudleigh; and still
there were the same questions to be asked and answered. Standing thus
together in that sick-room, with one life forming a common bond between
them, conversing in low whispers upon one so dear to both, it would have
been strange indeed if any thing like want of confidence had remained on
either side.
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