EDITH'S NEW FRIEND.
Every day Edith and Dudleigh saw more and more of one another. Now that
the crust of reserve was broken through, and something like intimacy had
been reached, the sick man's apartment was the most natural place for
each to seek. It came at last that the mornings and afternoons were no
longer allotted to each exclusively, but while one watched, the other
would often be present. In the evenings especially the two were together
there.
The condition in which Dalton was demanded quiet, yet needed but little
direct attention. It was only necessary that some one should be in the
room with him. He lay, as has been said, in a state of stupor, and knew
nothing of what was going on. It was only necessary for those who might
be with him to give him, from time to time, the medicines that had been
prescribed by the physicians, or the nourishment which nature demanded.
Apart from this there was little now to be done.
While Edith and Dudleigh were thus together, they were naturally
dependent exclusively upon one another. This association seemed not
unpleasant to either of them; every day it gained a new charm; and at
length both came to look forward to this as the chief pleasure of their
lives. For Edith there was no other companion than Dudleigh in Dalton
Hall with whom she could associate on equal terms; he had strong claims
now on her confidence, and even on her gratitude; and while he was thus
the only one to whom she could look for companionship, she also bore the
same relation to him.
There was something in the look and in the manner of Dudleigh in these
interviews which might have moved a colder nature than that of Edith.
Whenever he entered and greeted her, his face was overspread by a
radiant expression that spoke of joy and delight. Whenever they met, his
face told all the feelings of his heart. Yet never in any way, either by
word or act, did he venture upon any thing which might not have been
witnessed by all the world. There was something touching in that deep
joy of his which was inspired simply by her presence, and in the peace
and calm that came over him while she was near. Elsewhere it was
different with him. Whenever she had seen his face outside--and that had
been often, for she had often seen him riding or walking in front of the
windows--she had marked how care-worn and sad its expression was; she
had marked a cloud of melancholy upon his brow, that bore witness to
some settled grief unknown to her, and had read in all the lineaments of
his features the record which some mysterious sorrow had traced there.
Yet in her presence all this departed, and the eyes that looked on her
grew bright with happiness, and the face that was turned toward her was
overspread with joy. Could it be any other than herself who made this
change?
There was something in the manner of this man toward her which was
nothing less than adoration. The delicate grace of his address, the deep
reverence of his look, the intonations of his voice, tremulous with an
emotion that arose from the profoundest depths of his nature, all bore
witness to this. For when he spoke to her, even about the most trifling
things, there was that in his tone which showed that the subject upon
which he was speaking was nothing, but the one to whom he was speaking
was all in all. He stood before her like one with a fervid nature,
intense in its passion, and profound in all its emotion, who under a
calm exterior concealed a glow of feeling which burned in his heart like
a consuming fire--a feeling that was kept under restraint by the force
of will, but which, if freed from restraint but for one moment, would
burst forth and bear down all before it.
Weeks passed away, but amidst all the intimacy of their association
there never appeared the slightest attempt on his part to pass beyond
the limits which he had set for himself. Another man under such
circumstances might have ventured upon something like a greater
familiarity, but with this man there was no such attempt. After all
their interviews he still stood in spirit at a distance, with the same
deep reverence in his look, and the same profound adoration in his
manner, regarding her as one might regard a divinity. For Dudleigh stood
afar off, yet like a worshiper--far off, as though he deemed that
divinity of his inaccessible--yet none the less did his devotion make
itself manifest. All this was not to be seen in his words, but rather in
his manner, in the expression of his face, and in the attitude of his
soul, as it became manifest to her whom he adored.
For she could not but see it; in matters of this sort woman's eyes are
keen; but here any one might have perceived the deep devotion of
Dudleigh. The servants saw it, and talked about it. What was plain to
them could not but be visible to her. She saw it--she knew it--and what
then? Certainly it was not displeasing. The homage thus paid was too
delicate to give offense; it was of that kind which is most flattering
to the heart, which never grows familiar, but is insinuated or suggested
rather than expressed.
It was consoling to her lonely heart to see one like this, who, whenever
she appeared, would pass from a state of sadness to one of happiness; to
see his eloquent eyes fixed upon her with a devotion beyond words; to
hear his voice, which, while it spoke the commonplaces of welcome, was
yet in its tremulous tones expressive of a meaning very different from
that which lay in the words. Naturally enough, she was touched by this
silent reverence which she thus inspired; and as she had already found
cause to trust him, so she soon came to trust him still more. She
looked up to him as one with whom she might confer, not only with
reference to her father, but also with regard to the conduct of the
estate. Thus many varied subjects grew up for their consideration, and
gradually the things about which they conversed grew more and more
personal. Beginning with Mr. Dalton, they at last ended with themselves,
and Dudleigh on many occasions found opportunity of advising Edith on
matters where her own personal interest or welfare was concerned.
Thus their intimacy deepened constantly from the very necessities of
their position.
Then there was the constant anxiety which each felt and expressed about
the health of the other. Each had urged the other to give up the
allotted portion of attendance. This had ended in both of them keeping
up that attendance together for a great part of the time. Nevertheless,
the subject of one another's health still remained. Dudleigh insisted
that Edith had not yet recovered, that she was nothing better than a
convalescent, and that she ought not to risk such close confinement.
Edith, on the contrary, insisted that she was able to do far more, and
that the confinement was injuring him far more than herself. On one
occasion she asked him what he thought would become of her if he too
became ill, and the care of the two should thus devolve upon her.
At this remark, which escaped Edith in the excitement of an argument
about the interesting subject of one another's health, Dudleigh's face
lighted up. He looked at her with an expression that spoke more than
words could tell. Yet he said nothing. He said nothing in words, but
his eyes spoke an intelligible language, and she could well understand
what was thus expressed.
What was it that they said?
O loved! and O adored beyond weak words! O divinity of mine! they said.
If death should be the end of this, then such death would be sweet, if I
could but die in your presence! O loved and longed for! they said.
Between us there is an impassable barrier. I stand without; I seek not
to break through; but even at a distance I love, and I adore!
And that was what Edith understood. Her eyes sank before his gaze. They
sat in silence for a long time, and neither of them ventured to break
that silence by words.
At length Dudleigh proposed that they should both go out for a short
time each day together. This he had hesitated to do on account of Mr.
Dalton. Yet, after all, there was no necessity for them to be there
always. Mr. Dalton, in his stupor, was unconscious of their presence,
and their absence could therefore make no difference to him, either with
regard to his feelings or the attention which he received. When Dudleigh
made his proposal, he mentioned this also, and Edith saw at once its
truth. She therefore consented quite readily, and with a gratification
that she made no attempt to conceal.
Why should she not? She had known enough of sorrow. Dalton Hall had thus
far been to her nothing else than a prison-house. Why should it not
afford her some pleasure as an offset to former pain? Here was an
opportunity of obtaining at last some compensation. She could go forth
into the bright free open air under the protection of one whose loyalty
and devotion had been sufficiently proved. Could she hope for any
pleasanter companion?
Thus a new turn took place in the lives of these two. The mornings they
passed in Mr. Dalton's room, and in the afternoons, except when there
was unpleasant weather, they went out together. Sometimes they strolled
through the grounds, down the lordly avenues, and over the soft sweet
meadows; at other times they went on horseback. The grounds were
extensive and beautiful, but confinement within the park inclosure was
attended with unpleasant memories, and so, in the ordinary course of
things, they naturally sought the wider, freer world outside.
The country around Dalton Hall was exceedingly beautiful, and rich in
all those peculiar English charms whose quiet grace is so attractive to
the refined taste. Edith had never enjoyed any opportunity of seeing all
this, and now it opened before her like a new world. Formerly, during
her long imprisonment, she had learned to think of that outside world as
one which was full of every thing that was most delightful; there
freedom dwelt; and that thought was enough to make it fair and sweet to
her. So the prisoner always thinks of that which lies beyond his prison
walls, and imagines that if he were once in that outer world he would be
in the possession of perfect happiness.
Horseback riding has advantages which make it superior to every other
kind of exercise. On foot one is limited and restrained, for progress
is slow; and although one can go any where, yet the pedestrian who
wishes for enjoyment must only stroll. Any thing else is too fatiguing.
But a small space can be traversed, and that only with considerable
fatigue. In a carriage there is ease and comfort; but the high-road
forms the limit of one's survey; to that he must keep, and not venture
out of the smooth beaten track. But on horseback all is different.
There one has something of the comfort of the carriage and something of
the freedom of the pedestrian. Added to this, there is an exhilaration
in the motion itself which neither of the others presents. The most
rapid pace can alternate with the slowest; the highway no longer forms
bounds to the journey; distance is no obstacle where enjoyment is
concerned; and few places are inaccessible which it is desirable to see.
The generous animal which carries his rider is himself an additional
element of pleasure; for he himself seems to sympathize with all his
rider's feelings, and to such an extent that even the solitary horseman
is not altogether alone.
This was the pleasure which Edith was now able to enjoy with Dudleigh as
her companion, and the country was one which afforded the best
opportunity for such exercise. Dudleigh was, as has been said, a
first-rate horseman, and managed his steed like one who had been brought
up from childhood to that accomplishment. Edith also had always been
fond of riding; at school she had been distinguished above all the
others for her skill and dash in this respect; and there were few places
where, if Dudleigh led, she would not follow.
All the pleasure of this noble exercise was thus enjoyed by both of them
to the fullest extent. There was an exhilaration in it which each felt
equally. The excitement of the rapid gallop or the full run, the quiet
sociability of the slow walk, the perfect freedom of movement in almost
any direction, were all appreciated by one as much as by the other.
Then, too, the country itself was of that character which was best
adapted to give pleasure. There were broad public roads, hard, smooth,
and shadowed by overarching trees--roads such as are the glory of
England, and with which no other country has any that can compare. Then
there were by-roads leading from one public road to another, as smooth
and as shadowy as the others, but far more inviting, since they
presented greater seclusion and scenes of more quiet picturesque beauty.
Here they encountered pleasant lanes leading through peaceful
sequestered valleys, beside gently flowing streams and babbling brooks,
where the trees overarched most grandly and the shade was most
refreshing. Here they loved best to turn, and move slowly onward at a
pace best suited to quiet observation and agreeable conversation.
Such a change from the confinement of Dalton Hall and Dalton Park was
unspeakably delightful to Edith. She had no anxiety about leaving her
father, nor had Dudleigh; for in his condition the quiet housekeeper
could do all that he would require in their absence. To Edith this
change was more delightful than to Dudleigh, since she had Felt those
horrors of imprisonment which he had not. These rides through the wide
country, so free, so unrestrained, brought to her a delicious sense of
liberty. For the first time in many weary months she felt that she was
her own mistress. She was free, and she could enjoy with the most
intense delight all the new pleasures of this free and unrestrained
existence. So in these rides she was always joyous, always gay, and even
enthusiastic. It was to her like the dawn of a new life, and into that
life she threw herself with an abandonment of feeling that evinced
itself in unrestrained enjoyment of every thing that presented itself to
her view.
Dudleigh, however, was very different. In him there had always appeared
a certain restraint. His manner toward Edith had that devotion and
respect which have already been described; he was as profound and
sincere in his homage and as tender in his loyalty as ever; but even
now, under these far more favorable circumstances, he did not venture
beyond the limits of courtesy--those limits which society has
established and always recognizes. From the glance of his eyes, however,
from the tone of his voice, and from his whole mien, there could be seen
the deep fervor of his feelings toward Edith; but though the tones were
often tremulous with deep feeling, the words that he spoke seldom
expressed more than the formulas of politeness. His true meaning lay
behind or beneath his words. His quiet manner was therefore not the sign
of an unemotional nature, but rather of strong passion reined in and
kept in check by a powerful will, the sign and token of a nature which
had complete mastery over itself, so that never on any occasion could a
lawless impulse burst forth.
These two were therefore not uncongenial--the one with her enthusiasm,
her perfect abandon of feeling, the other with his self-command, his
profound devotion. Their tastes were alike. By a common impulse they
sought the same woodland paths, or directed their course to the same
picturesque scenes; they admired the same beauties, or turned away with
equal indifference from the commonplace, the tame, or the prosaic. The
books which they liked were generally the same. No wonder that the
change was a pleasant one to Edith. These rides began to bring back to
her the fresh feeling of her buoyant school-girl days, and restore to
her that joyous spirit and that radiant fancy which had distinguished
her at Plympton Terrace.
Riding about thus every where, these two became conspicuous. The public
mind was more puzzled than ever. Those who maintained that Dudleigh was
an impostor felt their confidence greatly shaken, and could only murmur
something about its being done “for effect,” and “to throw dust into the
eyes of people;” while those who believed in him asserted their belief
more strongly than ever, and declared that the unhappy differences which
had existed between husband and wife had passed away, and terminated in
a perfect reconciliation.
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