A TERRIBLE ADVENTURE.
Thus Dudleigh and Edith found a new life opening before them; and though
this life was felt by both to be a temporary one, which must soon come
to an end, yet each seemed resolved upon enjoying it to the utmost while
it lasted.
On one of these rides a remarkable event
occurred.
It chanced that Edith's horse dropped a shoe, and they went slowly to
the nearest village to have him reshod. They came to one before long,
and riding slowly through it, they reached the farthest end of it, and
here they found a smithy.
A small river ran at this end of the village across the road, and over
this there was a narrow bridge. The smithy was built close beside the
bridge on piles half over the edge of the stream. It faced the road,
and, standing in the open doorway, one could see up the entire length of
the village.
Here they dismounted, and found the farrier. Unfortunately the shoe had
been lost and the farrier had none, so that he had to make one for the
occasion. This took much time, and Edith and Dudleigh strolled up and
down the village, stood on the bridge and wandered about, frequently
returning to the smithy to see how the work was progressing.
The last time they came they found that the smith was nearly through his
work. They stood watching him as he was driving in one of the last
nails, feeling a kind of indolent curiosity in the work, when suddenly
there arose in the road behind them a frightful outburst of shrieks and
cries. The smith dropped the horse's foot and the hammer, and started
up. Dudleigh and Edith also turned by a quick movement to see what it
might be.
A terrible sight burst upon them.
As they looked up the village street, they saw coming straight toward
them a huge dog, which was being pursued by a large crowd of men. The
animal's head was bent low, his jaw dropped, and almost before they
fairly understood the meaning of what they saw, he had come close enough
for them to distinguish the foam that dropped from his jaws, and his
wild, staring, blood-shot eyes. In that moment they understood it. In
that animal, which thus rushed straight toward them, and was already so
near, they saw one of the most terrible sights that can appear to the
eye of man--a mad dog!
The smith gave a yell of horror, and sprang to a window that looked out
of the rear of the smithy into the stream. Through this he flung
himself, and disappeared.
On came the dog, his eyes glaring, his mouth foaming, distancing all his
pursuers, none of whom were near enough to deal a blow. They did not
seem particularly anxious to get nearer to him, to tell the truth, but
contented themselves with hurling stones at him, and shrieking and
yelling from a safe distance in his rear.
On came the dog. There was no time for escape. Quick as thought Dudleigh
flung himself before Edith. There was no time to seize any weapon. He
had to face the dog unarmed, in his own unassisted strength. As for
Edith, she stood paralyzed with utter horror.
On came the mad dog, and with a horrible snapping howl, sprang straight
at Dudleigh.
But Dudleigh was prepared. As the dog sprang he hit straight out at him
“from the shoulder,” and dealt him a tremendous blow on the throat with
his clinched fist. The blow hurled the animal over and over till he fell
upon his back, and before he could regain his feet, Dudleigh sprang upon
him and seized him by the throat.
He was a large and powerful animal. He struggled fiercely in the grasp
of Dudleigh, and the struggle was a terrific one. The villagers, who had
now come up, stood off, staring in unspeakable horror, not one of them
daring to interfere.
But the terror which had at first frozen Edith into stone now gave way
to another feeling, a terror quite as strong, but which, instead of
congealing her into inaction, roused her to frenzied exertion.
Dudleigh's life was at stake! Terror for herself was paralysis to her
limbs; terror for him was the madness of desperate exertion and daring.
She sprang toward one of the by-standers, who had a knife in his hand.
This knife she snatched from him, and rushed toward Dudleigh. The dog
was still writhing in his furious straggles. Dudleigh was still holding
him down, and clutching at his throat with, death-like tenacity. For a
moment she paused, and then flinging herself upon her knees at the dog's
head, she plunged the knife with all her strength into the side of his
neck.
It was a mortal wound!
With a last howl, the huge animal relaxed his efforts, and in a few
moments lay dead in the road.
Dudleigh rose to his feet. There was in his face an expression of pain
and apprehension. The villagers stood aloof, staring at him with awful
eyes. No word of congratulation was spoken. The silence was ominous;
it was terrible. Edith was struck most of all by the expression of
Dudleigh's face, and read there what she dared not think of. For a
moment the old horror which had first seized upon her came upon her once
more, paralyzing her limbs. She looked at him with staring eyes as she
knelt, and the bloody knife dropped from her nerveless hands. But the
horror passed, and once more, as before, was succeeded by vehement
action. She sprang to her feet, and caught at his coat as he walked
away.
He turned, with downcast eyes.
“O my God!” she exclaimed, in anguish, “you are wounded--you are
bitten--and by that--” She could not finish her sentence.
Dudleigh gave her an awful look.
“You will die! you will die!” she almost screamed. “Oh, cannot
something be done? Let me look at your arm. Oh, let me examine it--let
me see where it is! Show me--tell me what I can do.”
Dudleigh had turned to enter the smithy as Edith had arrested him, and
now, standing there in the doorway, he gently disengaged himself from
her grasp. Then he took off his coat and rolled up his sleeve.
Edith had already noticed that his coat sleeve was torn, and now, as he
took off his coat, she saw, with unutterable horror, his white shirt
sleeves red with spots of blood. As he rolled up that sleeve she saw
the marks of bruises on his arm; but it was on one place in particular
that her eyes were fastened--a place where a red wound, freshly made,
showed the source of the blood stains, and told at what a terrible price
he had rescued her from the fierce beast. He had conquered, but not
easily, for he had carried off this wound, and the wound was, as he
knew, and as she knew, the bite of a mad dog!
Edith gave a low moan of anguish and despair. She took his arm in her
hands. Dudleigh did not withdraw it. Even at that moment of horror it
seemed sweet to him to see these signs of feeling on her part; and
though he did not know what it was that she had in her mind, he waited,
to feel for a moment longer the clasp of those hands.
Edith held his arm in her hands, and the terrible wound fascinated her
eyes with horror. It seemed to her at that moment that this was the doom
of Dudleigh, the stamp of his sure and certain death. It seemed to her
that this mark was the announcement to her that henceforth Dudleigh was
lost to her; that he must die--die by a death so horrible that its
horrors surpassed language and even imagination, and that this
unutterable doom had been drawn down upon him for her.
It had been terrible. Out of pleasant thoughts and genial conversation
and genie smiles and happy interchange of sentiment, out of the joy of a
glad day, out of the delight of golden hours and sunlight and beauty and
peace--to be plunged suddenly into a woe like this!
There came to her a wild and desperate thought. Only one idea was in her
mind--to save Dudleigh, to snatch this dear friend from the death to
which he had flung himself for her sake. Inspired by this sole idea,
there had come a sudden thought. It was the thought of that royal wife's
devotion who, when her young husband lay dying from the poisoned dagger
of an assassin, drew the poison from the wound, and thus snatched him
from the very grasp of death. This it was, then, that was in the mind
of Edith, and it was in her agonized heart at that moment to save
Dudleigh even as Eleanor had saved Edward.
She bent down her head, till her face was close to his arm.
Dudleigh looked on as in a dream. He did not know, he could not even
conceive, what she had in her heart to do for his sake. It would have
seemed incredible, had he not seen it; nor could he have imagined it,
had he not been convinced.
The discovery flashed suddenly, vividly across his mind. He recognized
in that one instant the love, the devotion, stronger than death, which
was thus manifesting itself in that slight movement of that adored one
by his side. It was a thought of sweetness unutterable, which amidst his
agony sent a thrill of rapture through every nerve.
It was but for a moment.
He gently withdrew his arm. She looked at him reproachfully and
imploringly. He turned away his face firmly.
“Will you leave me for a moment, Miss Dalton?” said he, in a choking
voice.
He pointed to the doorway.
She did not appear to understand him. She stood, with her face white as
ashes, and looked at him with the same expression.
“Leave me--oh, leave me,” he said, “for one moment! It is not fit for
you.”
She did not move.
[Illustration: “THERE WAS THE HISS OF SOMETHING SCORCHING.”]
Dudleigh could wait no longer. His soul was roused up to a desperate
purpose, but the execution of that purpose could not be delayed. He
sprang to the fire. One of the irons had been imbedded there in the
glowing coals. He had seen this in his despair, and had started toward
it, when Edith detained him. This iron he snatched out. It was at a
white heat, dazzling in its glow.
In an instant he plunged this at the wound. A low cry like a muffled
groan was wrung from the spectators, who watched the act with eyes of
utter horror.
There was the hiss of something scorching; a sickening smoke arose and
curled up about his head, and ascended to the roof. But in the midst of
this Dudleigh stood as rigid as Mucius Scaevola under another fiery
trial, with the hand that held the glowing iron and the arm that felt
the awful torment as steady as though he had been a statue fashioned in
that attitude. Thus he finished his work.
It was all over in a few seconds. Then Dudleigh turned, with his face
ghastly white, and big drops of perspiration, wrung out by that agony,
standing over his brow. He flung down the iron.
At the same moment Edith, yielding altogether to the horror that had
hitherto overwhelmed her, fell senseless to the floor.
By this time some among the crowd had regained the use of their
faculties, and these advanced to offer their services. Dudleigh was able
to direct them to take Edith to some shelter, and while they did so he
followed. Edith after some time revived. A doctor was sent for, who
examined Dudleigh's arm, and praised him for his prompt action, while
wondering at his daring. He bound it up, and gave some general
directions.
Meanwhile a messenger had been sent to Dalton Hall for the carriage.
Edith, though she had revived, hardly felt strong enough for horseback,
and Dudleigh's arm was sufficiently painful to make him prefer as great
a degree of quiet as possible. When the carriage came, therefore, it was
with feelings of great relief that they took their seats and prepared to
go back. Nor was their journey any the less pleasant from the fact that
they had to sit close together, side by side--a closer union than any
they had thus far known. It was an eventful day; nor was its conclusion
the least so. But little was said during the drive home. Each felt what
bad been done by the other. Edith remembered how Dudleigh had risked the
most terrible, the most agonizing of deaths to save her. Dudleigh, on
his part, remembered that movement of hers, by which she was about to
take the poison from his wound unto herself. The appalling event which
had occurred had broken down all reserve. All was known. Each knew that
the other was dearer than all the world. Each knew that the other loved
and was loved; but yet in the midst of this knowledge there was a
feeling of utter helplessness arising from the unparalleled position of
Edith. It was a peculiar and at the same time a perilous one.
In the eyes of the world these two were nothing less than man and wife.
In the eyes of the law, as Edith feared, she was the wife of Leon
Dudleigh.
Now this man was not Leon Dudleigh. He was an impostor. Edith did not
even know that his name was Dudleigh at all. She had never asked him
the secret of his life; he had never volunteered to tell it. She did
not know what his name really was.
As an impostor, she knew that he was liable to discovery, arrest, and
punishment at any time. She knew that the discovery of this man would
endanger herself. His arrest would involve hers, and she would once more
be tried for her life, as the murderer of the missing man, with the
additional disadvantage of having already eluded justice by a trick. She
was liable at any moment to this, for the missing man was still missing,
and it would go doubly hard for her, since she had aided and abetted for
so long a time the conspiracy of an impostor.
Yet this impostor was beyond all doubt a man of the loftiest character,
most perfect breeding, and profoundest self-devotion. From the very
first his face had revealed to her that he had entered upon this
conspiracy for her sake. And since then, for her sake, what had he not
done?
Thus, then, they were both in a position of peril. They loved one
another passionately. But they could not possess one another. The
world supposed them man and wife, but the law made her the wife of
another, of whom it also charged her with being the murderer. Around
these two there were clouds of darkness, deep and dense, and their
future was utterly obscure.
These things were in the minds of both of them through that drive, and
that evening as they walked about the grounds. For since their mutual
love had all been revealed, Dudleigh had spoken in words what he had
repressed so long, and Edith had confessed what had already been
extorted from her. Yet this mutual confession of love with all its
attendant endearments, had not blinded them to the dangers of their
position and the difficulties that lay in their way.
“I can not endure this state of things,” said Dudleigh. “For your sake,
as well as my own, Edith darling, it must be brought to an end. I have
not been idle, but I have waited to hear from those who have put
themselves on the track of the man from whom we have most to dread. One
has tried to find some trace of Leon; the other is my mother. Now I have
not heard from either of them, and I am beginning to feel not only
impatient, but uneasy.”
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