THE STORY OF FREDERICK DALTON.
After Dudleigh's departure Edith was left more exclusively with her
father, and had the satisfaction of seeing that under her tender care he
grew stronger and more happy every day. In the long confidences between
these two, who had once been so separated, all was gradually explained,
and Edith learned not only the whole truth about that calamity which had
befallen him in early life, but also the reason of that once
inexplicable policy which he had chosen with regard to herself.
Lionel Dudleigh and he had been friends from boyhood, though the weak
and lavish character of the former had gradually put them upon divergent
lines of life, which even Lionel's marriage with his sister, Claudine
Dalton, could not bring together again. For Lionel had fallen into evil
courses, and had taken to the common road of ruin--the turf; and though
it had been hoped that his marriage would work a reformation, yet those
hopes had all proved unfounded. Years passed. Two children were born to
Lionel Dudleigh--Reginald and Leon; yet not even the considerations of
their future welfare, which usually have weight with the most corrupt,
were sufficiency powerful to draw back the transgressor from his bad
career.
He became terribly involved in debt. Twice already his debts had been
paid, but this third time his father would assist him no longer. His
elder brother, then heir to the estate, was equally inexorable; and
Frederick Dalton was the one who came forward to save his sister's
husband and his old friend from destruction.
On this occasion, however, Lionel was not frank with Dalton. Perhaps he
was afraid to tell him the whole amount of his debts, for fear that
Dalton would refuse to do any thing. At any rate, whatever the cause
was, after Dalton had, as he supposed, settled every thing, Lionel was
pressed as hard as ever by a crowd of creditors, whom this partial
settlement had only rendered the more ravenous.
Pressed hard by one of these, the wretched man had forged a check on the
Liverpool banker, Mr. Henderson, and this check he had inclosed in a
letter to Frederick Dalton, requesting him to get the money and pay one
or two debts which he specified. This Dalton did at once, without
hesitation or suspicion of any sort.
Then came the discovery, swift and sudden, that it was a forgery. But
one feeling arose in Dalton's mind, and that was a desire to save
Lionel. He hurried off at once to see him. The wretched man confessed
all. Dalton at once went to Liverpool, where he saw Mr. Henderson, and
tried to save his friend. He came away from the interview, however only
to make known to Lionel the banker's obstinacy and resolution to have
vengeance.
Dalton's solicitor in Liverpool was Mr. John Wiggins. Lionel's presence
in Liverpool was not known to any one but Dalton. He had seen Wiggins
once, and persuaded Lionel to see him also, to which the latter
consented only with extreme difficulty. The interview never took place,
however, nor was Wiggins aware of Lionel's presence in Liverpool, or of
his guilt. Then the murder took place, and the paper was found which
criminated Dalton, who was at once arrested.
Dalton was thunder-struck, not so much at his own arrest as at the
desperation of his friend and his utter baseness. He knew perfectly well
who the murderer was. The Maltese cross which had been found was not
necessary to show him this. No other man could have had any motive, and
no other man could have thought of mentioning his name in connection
with the terrible deed. It was thus that Dalton found himself betrayed
in the foulest manner, through no other cause than his own generosity.
The horror of Mrs. Dudleigh on hearing of her brother's arrest was
excessive. She went off at once to see him. Even to her Dalton said
nothing about Lionel's guilt, for he wished to spare her the cruel blow
which such intelligence would give.
The feeling that now animated Dalton can easily be explained. In the
first place, knowing that he was innocent, he had not the faintest doubt
that he would be acquitted. He believed that where there was no guilt,
no such thing as guilt could be proved. He relied also on his
well-known reputation.
Feeling thus confident of his own innocence, and certain of acquittal,
he had only to ask himself what he ought to do with reference to Lionel.
Strict justice demanded that he should tell all that he knew; but there
were other considerations besides strict justice. There was the future
of Lionel himself, whom he wished to spare in spite of his baseness.
More than this, there was his sister and his sister's children. He could
not bring himself to inform against the guilty husband and father, and
thus crush their innocent heads under an overwhelming load of shame. He
never imagined that he himself, and his innocent wife and his innocent
child, would have to bear all that which he shrank from imposing upon
the wife and children of Lionel.
The trial went on, and then came forth revelations which showed all to
Mrs. Dudleigh. That Maltese cross was enough. It was the key to the
whole truth. She saw her brother, and asked him. He was silent. Frantic
with grief, she hurried back to her husband. To her fierce reproaches he
answered not a word. She now proceeded to Liverpool. Her brother
entreated her to be calm and silent. He assured her that there was no
possible danger to himself, and implored her, for the sake of her
children, to say nothing. She allowed herself to be convinced by him,
and to yield to entreaties uttered by the very accused himself, and in
the name of her children. She believed in his innocence, and could not
help sharing his confidence in an acquittal.
That acquittal did come--by a narrow chance, yet it did come; but at
once, to the consternation of both brother and sister, the new trial
followed. Here Dalton tried to keep up his confidence as before. His
counsel implored him to help them in making his defense by telling them
what he knew, but Dalton remained fatally obstinate. Proudly confiding
in his innocence, and trusting to his blameless life, he still hesitated
to do what he considered an act of merciless cruelty to his sister, and
he still persuaded her also to silence, and still prophesied his own
acquittal, and the rescue of her husband and children from ruin. Part
of his prophecy was fulfilled. The husband and children of the sister
were indeed saved, but it was at the expense of the innocent and devoted
brother.
The effect was terrible. Dalton heard of his wife's illness. He had
written to her before, full of confidence, and trying to cheer her; but
from the first Mrs. Dalton had looked for the worst; not that she
supposed her husband could possibly be otherwise than innocent, but
simply because she was timid and afraid of the law. She had good reason
to fear. Word was brought to Dalton that she was dying, and then the
news came that she was dead.
Meanwhile Mrs. Dudleigh, more frenzied than ever, flew to see her
husband. She found that he had gone to the Continent. She pursued him,
and reached him in Italy. Here she called upon him to confess his
guilt, and save his innocent friend. He refused. He dared not. She
threatened to denounce him. He fell at her feet and implored her mercy
in the name of their children. He entreated her to wait, to try other
means first, to get a new trial--any thing.
Mrs. Dudleigh's threats to inform against him were easy to make, yet not
so easy to carry out. Turning from her husband in horror, she returned
to England with the fixed intention of telling every thing. His letter
to Dalton could have been shown, and the Maltese cross could have proved
who the murderer was. But Mrs. Dudleigh's courage faltered when she
reached her home and saw her children. Already she had heard of Mrs.
Dalton's death; already she knew well that Edith Dalton was doomed to
inherit a name of shame, a legacy of dishonor, and that she alone could
now avert this. But to avert this she must doom her own children. Had
it been herself only and her guilty husband, it would have been easy to
be just; but here were her children standing in the way and keeping her
back.
Her struggles were agonizing. Time passed on; the delay was fatal.
Time passed, and the distracted mother could not make up her mind to
deal out ruin and shame to her children. Time passed, and Dalton was
taken away to that far-distant country to which he had been
sentenced--transported for life.
Other changes also took place. Lionel's father and elder brother both
died within a short time of one another, leaving him heir to the estate
and the baronetcy. He was now Sir Lionel Dudleigh, and she was Lady
Dudleigh; and her brother--the pure in heart, the noble, the
devoted--what and where was he?
The struggle was terrible, and she could not decide it. It seemed
abhorrent for her to rise up and denounce her husband, even to save her
brother. She could not do it, but she did what she could. She wrote
her husband a letter, bidding him farewell, and imploring him to
confess; took her son Reginald, the eldest, leaving behind the younger,
Leon, and prepared to go to her brother, hoping that if she could not
save him, she might at least alleviate his sorrows. She took with her
Hugo, a faithful old servant of the Dalton family, and with him and
Reginald went to Australia.
Meanwhile Dalton had been in the country for a year. Before leaving he
had not been unmindful of others even in that dire extremity. He had
only one thought, and that was his child. He had learned that Miss
Plympton had taken her, and he wrote to her, urging her never to tell
Edith her father's story, and never to let the world know that she was
his daughter. He appointed Wiggins agent for his estates and guardian
of Edith before he left; and having thus secured her interests for the
present, he went to meet his fate.
In Sydney he was treated very differently from the common convicts.
Criminals of all classes were sent out there, and to the better sort
large privileges were allowed. Dalton was felt by all to be a man of
the latter kind. His dignified bearing, his polish and refinement,
together with the well-known fact that he had so resolutely maintained
his innocence, all excited sympathy and respect.
When Lady Dudleigh arrived there with Hugo and her son, she soon found
out this, and this fact enabled her to carry into execution a plan which
she had cherished all along during the voyage. She obtained a sheep
farm about a hundred miles away, applied to the authorities, and was
able to hire Dalton as a servant. Taking him in this capacity, she went
with him to the sheep farm, where Hugo and Reginald also accompanied
them. One more was afterward added. This was the man “Wilkins,” who
had been sentenced to transportation for poaching, and had come out in
the same ship with Dalton. Lady Dudleigh obtained this man also, under
Dalton's advice, and he ultimately proved of great assistance to them.
Here in this place years passed away. Dalton's only thought was of his
daughter. The short formal notes which were signed “John Wiggins,” all
came from him. He could not trust himself to do any more. The sweet
childish letters which she wrote once or twice he kept next his heart,
and cherished as more precious than any earthly possession, but dared
not answer for fear lest he might break that profound secret which he
wished to be maintained between her and himself--her, the pure young
girl, himself, the dishonored outcast. So the years passed, and he
watched her from afar in his thoughts, and every year he thought of her
age, and tried to imagine what she looked like.
During these years there was rising among them another spirit--a
character--whose force was destined to change the fortune of all.
This was Reginald.
From the first he had known the whole story--more than Leon had known.
Leon had known his father's guilt and Dalton's innocence, but Reginald
had been the confidant of his mother, the witness of her grief and her
despair. He had lived with Dalton, and year after year had been the
witness of a spectacle which never ceased to excite the deepest emotion,
that of an innocent man, a just man, suffering wrongfully on behalf of
another. His own father he had learned to regard with horror, while all
the enthusiastic love of his warm young heart had fixed itself upon the
man who had done all this for another. He knew for whom Dalton had
suffered. It was for his mother, and for himself, and he knew that he
was every day living on the sufferings and the woe of this
broken-hearted friend. Gradually other motives arose. He was a witness
of Dalton's profound and all-absorbing love for his daughter, and his
passionate desire to save her from all knowledge of his own shame. To
Reginald all this grew more and more intolerable. He now saw the worst
result of all, and he felt that while his own father had thrown upon his
friend his load of infamy, so he himself, the son, was throwing upon
Edith Dalton all that inherited infamy.
At last his resolution was taken. He informed his mother. She had been
aware of his struggles of soul for years, and did not oppose him.
Indeed, she felt some relief. It was for the son's sake that she had
faltered when justice demanded her action. Now that son had grown to be
a calm, strong, resolute man, and he had decided.
Yes, the decision was a final one. Not one objection was disregarded.
Every thing was considered, and the resolution was, at all hazards, and
at every cost, to do right. That resolution involved the accusation, the
trial, the condemnation, the infamy--yes, the death--of a husband and a
father; but even at that cost it was the resolve of Reginald that this
thing should be.
The plan of escape occupied far less time. Dalton objected at first to
the whole thing, but Reginald had only to mention to him his daughter's
name to induce him to concur.
After this it was given out that Frederick Dalton had died. This
statement was received by the authorities without suspicion or
examination, though the conspirators were prepared for both.
Then Frederick Dalton, under an assumed name, accompanied by Hugo, went
to Sydney, where he embarked for England. No one recognized him. He
had changed utterly. Grief, despair, and time had wrought this.
Reginald and his mother went by another ship, a little later, and had no
difficulty in taking Wilkins with them. They all reached England in
safety, and met at a place agreed upon beforehand, where their future
action was arranged.
On the voyage home Dalton had decided upon that policy which he
afterward sought to carry out. It was, first of all, to live in the
utmost seclusion, and conceal himself as far as possible from every eye.
A personal encounter with some old acquaintance, who failed to recognize
him, convinced him that the danger of his secret being discovered was
very small. His faithful solicitor, John Wiggins, of Liverpool, would
not believe that the gray-haired and venerable man who came to him was
the man whom he professed to be, until Dalton and Reginald had proved it
by showing the letters, and by other things. By John Wiggins's
suggestion Dalton assumed the name of Wiggins, and gave himself out to
be a brother of the Liverpool solicitor. No one suspected, and no
questions were asked, and so Dalton went to Dalton Hall under the name
of Wiggins, while Lady Dudleigh went as Mrs. Dunbar, to be housekeeper;
and their domestics were only Hugo and Wilkins, whose fidelity was known
to be incorruptible, and who were, of course, intimately acquainted with
the secret of their master.
Here Dalton took up his abode, while John Wiggins, of Liverpool, began
to set in motion the train of events which should end in the
accomplishment of justice. First, it was necessary to procure from the
authorities all the documentary and other evidence which had been
acquired ten years before. Several things were essential, and above all
the Maltese cross. But English law is slow, and these things required
time.
It was the intention of Dalton to have every thing in readiness first,
and then send Reginald and Lady Dudleigh to Sir Lionel to try the force
of a personal appeal. If by threats or any other means they could
persuade him to confess, he was to be allowed time to fly to some safe
place, or take any other course which he deemed most consistent with his
safety. Dalton himself was not to appear, but to preserve his secret
inviolable. If Sir Lionel should prove impracticable, then the charge
and arrest should take place at once; whether for forgery or murder was
not decided. That should be left to Reginald's own choice. They leaned
to mercy, however, and preferred the charge of forgery. Sir Lionel was
mistaken in supposing Lady Dudleigh to be the only witness against him,
for Reginald had been present at more than one interview between the
frenzied wife and the guilty husband, and had heard his father confess
the whole.
But the regular progress of affairs had been altogether interrupted by
the sudden appearance of Edith. On reaching Dalton Hall Mr. Dalton had
felt an uncontrollable eagerness to see her, and had written to Miss
Plympton the letter already reported. He did not expect that she would
come so soon. He thought that she would wait for a time; that he would
get an answer, and arrange every thing for her reception. As it was,
she came at once, without any announcement, accompanied by Miss Plympton
and her maid.
For years Dalton had been kept alive by the force of one feeling
alone--his love for his daughter. Out of the very intensity of his love
for her arose also another feeling, equally intense, and that was the
desire to clear his name from all stain before meeting with her. At
first he had intended to refrain from seeing her, but, being in England,
and so near, his desire for her was uncontrollable. Reginald had gone
for a tour on the Continent. The Hall was lonely; every room brought
back the memory of his lost wife, and of that little Edith who, years
before, used to wander about these halls and amidst these scenes with
him. He could not endure this enforced separation, and so he wrote as
he did. He expected he scarcely new what. He had a vague idea that
though he refused to make himself known, that she nevertheless might
divine it, or else, out of some mysterious filial instinct, might love
him under his assumed name as fervently as though there was no
concealment.
When she came so suddenly, he was taken by surprise. He longed to see
her, but was afraid to admit her companions; and so it was that his
daughter, in whom his life was now bound up, was almost turned away from
her father's gates.
Then followed her life at Dalton Hall. Dalton, afraid of the outside
world, afraid to be discovered, after having done so much for safety, at
the very time when deliverance seemed near, looked with terror upon
Edith's impatience. He risked an interview. He came full of a father's
holiest love, yet full of the purpose of his life to redeem the Dalton
name for her sake. He met with scorn and hate. From those interviews
he retired with his heart wrung by an anguish greater than any that he
had ever known before.
And so it went on. It was for her own sake that he restrained her; yet
he could not tell her, for he had set his heart on not revealing himself
till he could do so with an unstained name. But he had made a mistake
at the very outset from his impatient desire to see her, and he was
doomed to see the results of that mistake. Miss Plympton was turned
away, and forthwith appealed to Sir Lionel. The result of this was that
Leon came. Leon recognized Wilkins, and could not be kept out. He did
not know Dalton, but knew that he was not the man whom he professed to
be, and his suspicions were aroused. On seeing Dalton he assumed a high
tone toward him, which he maintained till the last. Lady Dudleigh's
emotion at the sight of Leon was a sore embarrassment, and all Dalton's
plans seemed about to fall into confusion. The visits of the disguised
Miss Fortescue were a puzzle; and as both Dalton and Lady Dudleigh
looked upon this new visitor as an emissary of Leon's, they viewed these
visits as they did those of Leon. For the first time Lady Dudleigh and
Dalton were of opposite views. Dalton dreaded these visits, but his
sister favored them. Her mother's heart yearned over Leon; and even if
he did seek Edith's affections, it did not seem an undesirable thing.
That, however, was a thing from which Dalton recoiled in horror.
At that time Reginald's strong will and clear intellect were sorely
needed, but he was away on his Continental tour, and knew nothing of all
these occurrences till it was too late.
Thus nothing was left to Dalton but idle warnings, which Edith treated
as we have seen. True, there was one other resource, and that was to
tell her all; but this he hesitated to do. For years he had hoped to
redeem himself. He had looked forward to the day when his name should
be freed from stain, and he still looked forward to that day when he
might be able to say, “Here, my beloved daughter, my name is free from
stain; you can acknowledge me without shame.”
But Edith's opposition, and the plans of Leon, and the absorption of
Lady Dudleigh's sympathies in the interests of her son, all destroyed
Dalton's chances. He could only watch, and hear from his faithful Hugo
accounts of what was going on. Thus he was led into worse and worse
acts, and by misunderstanding Edith at the outset, opened the way for
both himself and her to many sorrows.
After the terrible events connected with the mysterious departure of
Leon and the arrest of Edith, Dalton had at once written to Reginald.
He had been ill in the interior of Sicily--for his testimony at the
trial had been in part correct. Dalton's letter was delayed in reaching
him, but he hurried back as soon as possible. Relying on his
extraordinary resemblance to Leon, Dalton had urged him to personify the
missing man, and this he had consented to do, with the success which has
been described. His chief motive in doing this was his profound
sympathy for Dalton, and for Edith also, whom he believed to have been
subjected to unfair treatment. That sympathy which he had already felt
for Edith was increased when he saw her face to face.
All this was not told to Edith at once, but rather in the course of
several conversations. Already in that interview in the prison her
father had explained to her his motives in acting as he had, and this
fuller confession only made those motives more apparent. In Edith this
story served only to excite fresh grief and remorse. But Dalton showed
so much grief himself that Edith was forced to restrain such feelings as
these in his presence. He took all the blame to himself. He would not
allow her to reproach herself. He it was, he insisted, who had been
alone to blame in subjecting a generous, high-spirited girl to such
terrible treatment--to imprisonment and spying and coercion. So great
was his own grief that Edith found herself forced from the position of
penitent into that of comforter, and often had to lose sight of her own
offenses in the endeavor to explain away her own sufferings.
And thus, where there was so much need of mutual forgiveness and mutual
consolation, each one became less a prey to remorse.
In the joy which he felt at thus gaining at last all his daughter's
love, especially after the terrible misunderstanding that had divided
her from him, Dalton had no thought for those grave dangers which
surrounded both her and him. But to Edith these dangers still appeared,
and they were most formidable. She could not forget that she was still
liable to arrest on the most appalling of accusations, and that her
father also was liable to discovery and re-arrest. Reginald had tried
to banish her fears and inspire her with hope; but now that he was no
longer near, her position was revealed, and the full possibility of her
danger could no longer be concealed.
Danger there indeed was, danger most formidable, not to her only, but to
all of them. Coward Sir Lionel might be, but a coward when at bay is
dangerous, since he is desperate. Sir Lionel also was powerful, since
he was armed with all the force that may be given by wealth and
position, and in his despair his utmost resources would undoubtedly be
put forth. Those despairing efforts would be aimed at all of them--all
were alike threatened: herself on the old charge, her father as an
escaped convict, and Reginald as a perjurer and a conspirator against
the ends of justice. As to Lady Dudleigh, she knew not what to think,
but she was aware of Reginald's fears about her and she shared them to
the fullest extent.
In the midst of all this Edith received letter from Miss Plympton. She
was just recovering, she said, from a severe illness, consequent on
anxiety about her. She had heard the terrible tidings of her arrest,
but of late had been cheered by the news of her release. The letter was
most loving, and revealed all the affection of her “second mother.” Yet
so true was Miss Plympton to the promise which she had made to Mr.
Dalton, that she did not allude to the great secret which had once been
disclosed to her.
Edith read the letter with varied feelings, and thought with an aching
heart of her reception of that other letter. This letter, however, met
with a different fate. She answered it at once, and told all about her
father, concluding with the promise to go and visit her as soon as she
could.
And now all her thoughts and hopes were centred upon Reginald. Where
was he? Where was Lady Dudleigh? Had he found Leon? What would Sir
Lionel do? Such were the thoughts that never ceased to agitate her
mind.
He had been gone a whole week. She had heard nothing from him.
Accustomed as she had been to see him every day for so long a time, this
week seemed prolonged to the extent of a month; and as he had promised
to write her under any circumstances, she could not account for his
failure to keep that promise. His silence alarmed her. As day
succeeded to day, and still no letter came, she became a prey to all
those fearful fancies which may be raised by a vivid imagination, when
one is in suspense about the fate of some dearly loved friend.
Her father, whose watchful love made him observant of every one of her
varying moods, could not avoid noticing the sadness and agitation of her
face and manner, and was eager to know the cause. This, however,
Edith's modesty would not allow her to explain, but she frankly
confessed that she was anxious. Her anxiety she attributed to her fears
about their situation, and her dread lest something might be found out
about the imposture of Reginald, or about her father's real character
and personality. The fear was not an idle one, and Dalton, though he
tried to soothe her, was himself too well aware of the danger that
surrounded both of them to be very successful in his efforts.
All this time a steady improvement had been taking place in Dalton's
health, and his recovery from his illness was rapid and continuous. It
was Edith's love and care and sympathy which thus gave strength to him,
and the joy which he felt in her presence was the best medicine for his
afflictions.
Thus one day he was at last able to venture outside. It was something
more than a week since Reginald had left. Edith was more anxious than
ever, but strove to conceal her anxiety and to drown her own selfish
cares under more assiduous attentions to that father whose whole being
now seemed so to centre upon her. For this purpose she had persuaded
him to leave the Hall, and come forth into the grounds; and the two were
now walking in front of the Hall, around the pond, Edith supporting her
father's feeble footsteps, and trying to cheer him by pointing out some
improvements which ought to be made, while the old man, with his mind
full of sweet peace, thought it happiness enough for him to lean on her
loving arm and hear her sweet voice as she spoke those words of love
which for so many years he had longed to hear.
In the midst of this they were startled by the approach of several men.
Visitors were rare at Dalton Hall. Before the recent troubles they had
been prohibited, and though during Dalton's illness the prohibition had
been taken off, yet there were few who cared to pass those gates. Upon
this occasion the approach of visitors gave a sudden shock to Edith and
her father, and when they saw that the chief one among those visitors
was the sheriff, that shock was intensified.
Yes, the moment had come which they both had dreaded. All was known.
The danger which they had feared was at hand, and each one trembled for
the other. Edith thought that it was her father who was sought after.
Dalton shuddered as he thought that his innocent daughter was once more
in the grasp of the law.
The sheriff approached, followed by three others, who were evidently
officers of the law. Dalton and Edith stood awaiting them, and Edith
felt her father's hands clasp her arm in a closer and more tremulous
embrace.
The sheriff greeted them with a mournful face and evident embarrassment.
His errand was a painful one, and it was rendered doubly so by the
piteous sight before him--the feeble old man thus clinging to that
sad-faced young girl, the woe-worn father thus supported by the daughter
whose own experience of life had been so bitter.
“My business,” said the sheriff, “is a most painful one. Forgive me,
Mrs. Dudleigh. Forgive me, Mr. Dalton. I did not know till now how
painful it would be.”
He had greeted them in silence, removing his hat respectfully, and
bowing before this venerable old age and this sad-faced beauty, and then
had said these words with some abruptness. And as soon as he named that
name “Dalton,” they both understood that he knew all.
“You have come for me?” said Dalton. “Very well.”
A shudder passed through Edith. She flung her arms about her father,
and placed herself before him, as if to interpose between him and that
terrible fate which still pursued its innocent victim. She turned her
large mournful eyes upon the sheriff with a look of silent horror, but
said not a word.
“I can not help it,” said the sheriff, in still deeper embarrassment.
“I feel for you, for both of you, but you must come with me.”
“Oh, spare him!” cried Edith. “He is ill. He has just risen from his
bed. Leave him here. He is not fit to go. Let me nurse him.”
The sheriff looked at her in increasing embarrassment, with a face full
of pity.
“I am deeply grieved,” he said, in a low voice, “but I can not do
otherwise. I must do my duty. You, Mrs. Dudleigh, must come also. I
have a warrant for you too.”
“What!” groaned Dalton; “for her?”
The sheriff said nothing. The old man's face had such an expression of
anguish that words were useless.
“Again!” murmured Dalton. “Again! and on that false charge! She will
die! she will die!”
“Oh, papa!” exclaimed Edith. “Do not think of me. I can bear it.
There is no danger for me. It is for you only that I am anxious.”
“My child! my darling Edith!” groaned the unhappy father, “this is my
work--this is what I have wrought for you.”
Edith pressed her father to her heart. She raised her pale face, and,
looking upward, sighed out in her agony of soul,
“O God! Is there any justice in heaven, when this is the justice of
earth!”
Nothing more was said. No one had any thing to say. This double arrest
was something too terrible for words, and the darkest forebodings came
to the mind of each one of these unhappy victims of the law. And thus,
in silence and in fear, they were led away--to prison and to judgment.
* * * * *