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Updated: June 27, 2025
Little Dudleigh now came to the Hall nearly every day, and devoted himself to Edith. In spite of his devotion, however, her admiration for him never rose to a very high pitch.
I must go and explain the thing personally." "Lieutenant Dudleigh," said Edith, in deep emotion, "I do not know what to say. You really overwhelm me with kindnesses. I can only say that you have earned my life-long gratitude." Little Dudleigh shook his head deprecatingly. "Miss Dalton," said he, in a tone of respectful devotion, "the favor is all yours, and the pleasure is all mine.
In connection with these affairs an event occurred which at the time caused uneasiness, and gave the prospect of future trouble. One day a gentleman called and sent up his card. It was Captain Cruikshank. The name Dudleigh recognized as one which had been appended to several dunning letters of the most importunate kind, and the individual himself was apparently some sporting friend.
Dudleigh was silent, and Edith looked at him in deep suspense. "You say you never see Wiggins now?" "No." "You are not subject to insults?" "No to none." "Have you the Hall to yourself?" "Oh yes; I am not interfered with. As long as I stay inside the Hall I am left to myself only I am watched, of course, as I told you." "Of course; but, at any rate, it seems a sort of honorable captivity.
As he rolled along in his carriage, the Black Care of the poet seemed seated beside him in the person of Lady Dudleigh.
She was touched by his present attitude. He was waiting so patiently, so humbly. She saw his deep agitation. Suddenly, by a quick movement, she turned toward him and held out her hand. Dudleigh took it, and for a moment each gazed into the other's eyes, regardless of observation. Dudleigh's face was deathly pale, and his hand as cold as ice.
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.
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.
The dull creaking of the hinges grated harshly on Edith's ears, and struck fresh horror to her heart. She faltered and trembled. She sank back. "Oh, I can not, I can not!" she moaned. "Courage, dear one; it will soon be over," whispered Dudleigh, in an agitated voice. Edith made a violent effort to regain her composure. But she felt helpless.
The gray-headed man wore spectacles, was clean shaven, with a double chin, and a somewhat sleek and oily exterior. "Lady Dudleigh," said Sir Lionel, leading the gray-headed man forward by the arm, "allow me to make you acquainted with my particular friend, Dr. Leonard Morton." Lady Dudleigh bowed slightly, and Dr. Morton made a profound obeisance that seemed like a caricature of politeness.
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