IMPORTANT NEWS.
The position of Edith and Dudleigh was of such a character that farther
inaction was felt to be intolerable, and it was only the hope of hearing
from those who were already engaged in the work that made him capable of
delaying longer. But several events now occurred which put an end to the
present state of things.
The first of these was a marked improvement in the condition of Mr.
Dalton. A successful operation performed upon him had the result of
restoring him to consciousness, and after this a general increase of
strength took place. His intense joy at the sight of Edith, and the
delight which he felt at her presence and the reception of her loving
and tender care, all acted favorably upon him; and as the sorrow which
he had experienced had been the chief cause of his prostration, so the
happiness which he now felt became a powerful agent toward restoring him
to strength.
The joy of Edith was so great that the terror and perplexity of her
position ceased to alarm her. Her greatest grief seemed now removed, for
she had feared that her father might die without ever knowing how deeply
she repented for the past and how truly she loved him. Now, however, he
would live to receive from her those tender cares which, while they
could never in her mind atone for the wrongs that she had inflicted upon
him, would yet be the means of giving some happiness to him who had
suffered go much.
A few days after her father's restoration to consciousness Dudleigh
received a letter of a most important character, and as soon as he was
able to see Edith during the walks that they still took in the afternoon
or evening, he informed her with unusual emotion of the fact.
“She writes,” he concluded, “that she has got at last on the track of
Leon.”
“Who? Your mother?”
“No. I have not heard from my mother. I mean Miss Fortescue.”
“Miss Fortescue?” repeated Edith, in some surprise.
“Yes,” said Dudleigh. “I did not mention her before, because I did not
know what you might think about it. But the fact is, I saw her after the
trial was over. She had come to give important testimony. She came to
see me, and told me all about it. The information was of the most
extraordinary kind. It appears that in the course of her own inquiries
she had heard some gossip about a long box which had been put off at
Finsbury from the train. This was called for by a teamster, who was
accompanied by a Newfoundland dog, who took the box, and drove away from
Finsbury to Dalton. Now, as no such teamster, or box, or dog, had been
seen in Dalton, she began to suspect that it had something to do with
the remains found in the well, and that this whole matter was a
malignant scheme of Leon's to involve you or your father, or both, in
some calamity. At any rate, she herself went cautiously about, and
tried to investigate for herself. She had all along felt convinced that
Leon was alive, and she felt equally convinced that he was capable of
any malignant act for the purpose of wreaking his vengeance on you or
your father. He had been baffled here, and had sworn vengeance. That
much your father told me before the trial.
“So Miss Fortescue searched very carefully, and at length made a very
important discovery. A few miles this side of Finsbury there is a
grove, through which the Dalton Park wall runs. Here she happened to see
the trace of heavy wheels, and the hedge which adjoins the wall, and is
rather thin there, seemed to have been broken through, so as to form an
opening wide enough to admit a cart. Struck by this, she followed the
marks of the wheels into the grove for some distance, until they
stopped. Here, to her surprised, she saw close by the Dalton Park wall
an oblong box, just like the one which had been described to her. It was
empty, and had been left here.
“Now why had it been left here? Miss Fortescue felt certain that Leon
had brought a dead body in that box, that he had taken it stealthily
into the park, and thrown it down into the well, and then, not wishing
to be seen with such a very conspicuous thing as this box, he had left
it behind him. She also thought that he had managed in a secret way to
start the rumors that had prevailed, and to drop some hints, either by
anonymous letters to the sheriff or otherwise, which turned their
attention to the well. She saw at once how important this testimony
would be in your favor, and therefore saw the Finsbury people who had
told her of the teamster, and with these she came to the trial. But when
she came she heard that the missing man had returned--and saw me, you
know.”
At this extraordinary information Edith was silent for some time.
“I have often tried to account for it,” said she, “but I could hardly
bring myself to believe that this was his work. But now when I recalled
his last words to me, I can understand it, and I am forced to believe
it.”
“His last words to you?” said Dudleigh, in an inquiring tone.
“Yes,” said Edith, with a sigh. “The remembrance of that night is so
distressing that I have never felt able to speak of it. Even the
thought of what I suffered then almost drives me wild; but now--and to
_you_, Reginald--it is different, and I have strength to speak of
it.”
As she said this she looked at him tenderly, and Reginald folded her in
his arms. She then began to give an account of that eventful night, of
her long preparations, her suspense, her departure, until that moment
when she saw that she was pursued. The remainder only need be given
here.
She had been right in her conjectures. Leon had suspected, or at least
had watched, and discovered all. The moonlight had revealed her plainly
as she stole across the open area, and when she fled into the woods the
rustling and crackling had betrayed the direction which she had taken.
Thus it was that Leon had been able to pursue her, and his first
sneering words as he came up to her made her acquainted with her
awkwardness. The trees were not so close but that her figure could be
seen; the moonlight streamed down, and disclosed her standing at bay,
desperate, defiant, with her dagger uplifted, and her arm nerved to
strike. This Leon saw, and being afraid to venture close to her, he held
aloof, and tried to conceal his cowardice in taunts and sneers.
Edith said nothing for some time, but at last, seeing that Leon
hesitated, she determined to continue her flight in spite of him, and
informed him so.
Upon this he threatened to set the dog on her.
“He will tear you to pieces,” cried Leon. “No one will suspect that I
had any thing to do with it. Every body will believe that in trying to
run away you were caught by the dog.”
This threat, however, did not in the least alarm Edith. She was not
afraid of the dog. She had already gained the animal's affections by
various little acts of kindness. So now, in response to Leon's threats,
she held out her hand toward the dog and called him. The dog wagged his
tail and made a few steps forward. At this Leon grew infuriated, and
tried to set him at Edith. But the dog would not obey. Leon then held
him, pointed his head toward Edith, and doing all in his power to urge
him on. The effort, however, was completely useless. Edith, seeing
this, hurried away. Leon rushed after her, followed by the dog, and once
more she stood at bay, while the same efforts were repeated to set the
dog at her. This was done several times over. At last Leon gave the dog
a terrible beating. Wild with indignant rage at his cowardice,
brutality, and persistent pursuit, full also of pity for the poor animal
who was suffering for love of her, Edith sprang forward at Leon as
though she would stab him. Whether she would have done so or not, need
not be said; at any rate her purpose was gained, for Leon, with a cry of
fear, started back.
Then standing at a safe distance, he hurled at her the most terrible
threats of vengeance. Among all these she remembered well one
expression, which he repeated over and over.
“You've threatened my life!” he cried.
“My life shall lie at your door, if I have to kill myself.”
This he said over and over. But Edith did not wait much longer. Once
more she started off, and this time Leon did not follow her. That was
the last she saw or heard of him. After this she wandered about through
woods and swamps for a long time, and at length, about the dawn of day,
when she had almost lost all hope, she came to the wall. This she
clambered over by means of her rope and hook, and reached the Dalton Inn
in the condition already described.
Afterward, when she heard that Leon was missing, and when she was
confronted with the remains, the whole horror of her situation burst
upon her mind. Her first thought was that he had in his desperate rage
actually killed himself; but the absence of the head showed that this
was impossible. There remained after this a deep mystery, the solution
of which she could not discover, but in the midst of which she could not
fail to see how terribly circumstances bore against her. She was afraid
to say any thing. She knew that if she told all she would be believed
but in part. If she confessed that she had seen him, and had quarreled
with him on that night, then all men would conclude that she had also
murdered him so as to escape. She saw also how hopeless it was to look
for any testimony in her favor. Every thing was against her. Being in
ignorance of her father and Lady Dudleigh, she had supposed that they
would be most relentless of all in doing her to death; and the
excitement of the latter over the loss of Leon was never suspected by
her to be the frenzied grief of a mother's heart over a sudden and most
agonizing bereavement.
But now all these things were plain. Another shared her secret--one,
too, who would lay down his life for her--and the efforts of Miss
Fortescue had resulted in suggesting to her mind a new solution of the
mystery.
After the natural comments which were elicited by Edith's strange story,
Reginald showed her the letter which he had received from Miss
Fortescue. It was not very long, nor was it very definite. It merely
informed him that she had reason to believe that she had at last got
upon the track of Leon; and requested him to come to her at once, as
there was danger of losing this opportunity if there was any delay. She
appointed a place at which she would meet him three days from the date
of the letter, where she would wait several days to allow for all delay
in his reception of the letter. The place which she mentioned was known
to Reginald as the nearest station on the railway to Dudleigh Manor.
“This must decide all,” said Reginald. “They are playing a desperate
game, and the part which must be done by my mother and myself is a
terrible one. If we fail in this, we may have to fly at once. But if I
can only see Leon once, so as to drag him before the world, and show
that he is alive--if I can only save you, darling, from your terrible
position, then I can bear other evils in patience for a time longer.”
“You have heard nothing from your mother, then?” said Edith.
“No,” said he, with a sigh. “And I feel anxious--terribly anxious. I was
very unwilling for her to go, and warned her against it; but she was
determined, and her reasons for doing so were unanswerable; still I feel
terribly alarmed, for Sir Lionel is a man who would stop at nothing to
get rid of one whom he thinks is the only witness against him.”
* * * * *
[Illustration: “THEY WERE STARTLED BY THE APPROACH OF SEVERAL MEN.”]