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 Novels are sweets. All people with healthy literary appetites love them- almost all women ; a vast nnmbcr 
 of clever, bord-bcadcd men. Judgus, bishops, chaucellurs, matheiuaticians, are notorious novvl readers, as 
 well as youug boys iiud sweet girls, and their kind, tender mothers.— W. M. Tuaukku^y, in Huut dabvW I'ufer*. 
 
 PI^EPER'S LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 SELECT ISTOVELS. 
 
 Harper's Select Library of Fiction rarely Includes a work which has not a decided charm, either from tho 
 clearneMs of the Htory, the siguilicancc o( tliu themo, or the chariii of the execution ; so that on sotting out 
 upon a journey, or providing for the recreation of u solitary evening, one is wise and sate in procuring the 
 later numbers of this attractive series.— £u<i(un Trantcript. 
 
 1. 
 
 2_ 
 
 3". 
 
 4. 
 
 5. 
 
 6. 
 
 7. 
 
 8. 
 
 9. 
 10. 
 11. 
 12. 
 i:J. 
 14. 
 15. 
 
 IG. 
 17. 
 18. 
 It). 
 20. 
 21. 
 22. 
 
 23. 
 21. 
 25. 
 
 2G. 
 27. 
 28. 
 2i>. 
 :iO. 
 31. 
 32. 
 33. 
 34. 
 
 3G. 
 37. 
 38. 
 3!>. 
 40. 
 41. 
 42. 
 43. 
 44. 
 45. 
 4G. 
 47. 
 48. 
 4".>. 
 .lO. 
 
 r>i. 
 
 62. 
 
 PUIOB 
 
 Pelham. By Buhver t 7.) 
 
 The Disowned. By Jiulwer 7.'> 
 
 Devereiix. By Buhver 'lO 
 
 Piiul Clitlord. ByBnhver M) 
 
 Eugene Aram. By Biilwer .')() 
 
 The Liist Days of Pompeii. Bv Buhver t>i) 
 
 Tiie Czarina. By Mrs. Hofland .'iO 
 
 Hieiizi. By Buhver lii 
 
 Self-Devotion. liy Miss Campbell 5(> 
 
 The Nabob at Home SO 
 
 Ernest Alaltravers. By Buhver 'id 
 
 Alice ; or, The Mysteries. I5y Huhver .^O 
 
 TiiC Last of the Barons. By Buhver. . 1 00 
 
 Forest Days. By James TiO 
 
 Adam Brown, the Merchant. By H. 
 
 .Smith ". i'O 
 
 Pilgrims of tlie lihine. By Buhver. ... 2.") 
 
 The Home. By Miss Bremer 50 
 
 The Lost Ship. By ('ai)tain Neale 7.") 
 
 The False Heir. By James 50 
 
 The Neighbors. By .Miss Bremer 50 
 
 Nina. By Miss Bremer 50 
 
 The President's Daugliters. By Miss 
 
 Bremer 2.-i 
 
 The Banker's Wife. Bv .Mrs. Gore.... .W 
 
 The Birthright. By Mrs. Gore 2.j 
 
 New Sketches of Every-day Life. By 
 
 Miss Bremer 50 
 
 Arabella Stuart. By James .50 
 
 The Grumbler. By Miss Pickering. ... 50 
 
 The Unloved One. Bv Mrs. Holland. .50 
 
 Jack of the Mill. By William Howitt. 25 
 
 The Heretic. By Lnjetchnikott' 50 
 
 The Jew. By Spindler 7."« 
 
 Arthur. BvSue 75 
 
 Chatsworth". By Ward .W 
 
 Tlie Prairie Bird. By C. A. Murray. 1 00 
 
 Amy Herliert. By Miss Sewell 50 
 
 Hose d'Albret. By Jame'* 50 
 
 The Triumphs of Time. By Mrs. Marsh 75 
 
 The H Family. By .Miss Bremer 50 
 
 The Grnndfatiier. Uy Miss Pickering. 50 
 
 Arrah Neil. By Jamds 50 
 
 The Jilt 50 
 
 Tales from the German 50 
 
 Arthur Arundel. By H. Smith 5<t 
 
 Agincourt. By James .50 
 
 'I'iie Kegent's Ihiughter CO 
 
 The Maid of H(mor 50 
 
 Satia. By De Bcauvoir 50 
 
 Look to the End. By Mrs. Ellis 50 
 
 Tho Iinprovisatore. lly Andersen 60 
 
 The tiambler's Wife. By Mrs. Grey.. 50 
 
 ■Veronica. By Zscliokko .50 
 
 Zoe. By Miss Jewsbury 50 
 
 raioR 
 
 .5.3. Wyoming $ 50 
 
 .54. De Kohan. Bv Sue .50 
 
 55. Self. By the Author of " Cecil " 75 
 
 5(!. The Smuggler. By James 75 
 
 57. The Breach of Promise ,'",0 
 
 58. Parsonage of Mora. By Miss Bremer 25 
 5!l. A Chance Medley. By T. C. Grattun .50 
 
 GO. The White Slave 1 00 
 
 Gl. The Bosom Friend. By Mrs. Grey.. 50 
 
 G2. Amiiury. By Dunuis 50 
 
 ((3. The Author's D-inghter. By Mary 
 
 Howitt '. 25 
 
 C4. Onlv a Fiddler ! &c. By Anderfeii.... 50 
 
 G5. The Whiteboy. By Mrs. Hall ."lO 
 
 GG. The Foster-Brother. Edited bv Leigh 
 
 Hunt .' 50 
 
 r>7. Love and Mesmerism. By 11. Smith. 75 
 
 G8. Ascanio. Bv Dumas 75 
 
 GO. Lady of riilan. Edited by Mrs. 
 
 Thomson 75 
 
 70. The Citizen of Prague 1 00 
 
 71. The Uoyal Favorite. By Mrs. Gore. 50 
 
 72. The Queen of Denmark. By Mrs. Gore 50 
 
 73. The Elves, &c. By Tieck 60 
 
 74,75. The Step-Mother. By James I 25 
 
 70. Jessie's Flirtations 50 
 
 77. Chevalier d'llarmental. By Dumas. 50 
 
 78. I'eers and Parvenus. By Mrs. Gore. 50 
 70. The Commander of Malta. By Sue.. 50 
 
 80. The Female Minister '. 50 
 
 81. Emilia Wyiidliam. By Mrs. Marsh. 75 
 
 82. The Bush-Ranger. By Charles Bow- 
 
 croft 50 
 
 83. Tlie Chronicles of Clovernook 25 
 
 81. Genevieve. By Lumartine 25 
 
 85. Livoniun Tales 25 
 
 8G. Lettice Arnold. By .Mrs. Marsh 25 
 
 87. Father Darcy. By Mrs. .Marsh 75 
 
 8.><. Leontiiio. Bv Mrs. Maberlv 50 
 
 80. Heidelberg. By James ." 50 
 
 00. Lucreiia. By Buhver 75 
 
 91. Bcauchamp. Bv James 75 
 
 ».', 04. Fiirtescuo. By Knowles 100 
 
 03. Daniel l)ennison,&c. By Mrs. llotiund 50 
 
 95. Cinq-Mars. Bv De Vigny 50 
 
 9G. Woman's Trials. By Mrs. S. C. Hall 75 
 
 97. The Castle of Ehrcnstein. By .James 50 
 
 9S. Marriage. Bv Miss S. Fcrrier 50 
 
 99. Boland Cashel. By Lever 125 
 
 100. Martins of Cro' Martin. Bv Lever.. .1 25 
 
 101. Uu.ssell. Bv James .'. .50 
 
 102. A Simple Story. By .Mrs. Inchbnid.. 50 
 
 103. Norman's Bridge. By Mrs. Marsh... 5') 
 
 104. Alamance .' 50 
 
 105. Margaret Graham. By James 25 
 
 
Harper's Library of Select No-vels. 
 
 100. The Wayside Cross. By E. II. Mil- 
 
 niiin ! $25 
 
 107. The Convict. Hy James 50 
 
 108. MiiisiiinmerKve." Hv Mrs. S. ('. Hull T.O 
 
 KM). Jane Kyie. Hy Currer Hell 75 
 
 110. The Last of tlie !• allies. Hy James.. :i5 
 
 HI. Sir Theodore Hroiijiliton. Hy James 50 
 
 112. Sell-Control. Hv Murv Hrunton 75 
 
 113, 114. Harold. Hy Hulwer 1 00 
 
 115. Hrotliers and Sisters. By Miss Hremer .1(1 
 
 110. (jiowri" Hy James 50 
 
 117. A Wlntn an-' ' C'onse(iuunces. Hy 
 
 James 50 
 
 118. Three Sisters and Tliree Fortunes. 
 
 BvG. II. Lewes 75 
 
 110. The Discipline of Life .50 
 
 rJO. Thirty Years Since. HyJiimesi 75 
 
 121. Mary Barton. Hy Mrs. Gaskcll 50 
 
 122. The (ireat lloggarty Diamond. Hy 
 
 Thackeray 25 
 
 1 23. The Forgery. By James CO 
 
 124. The Midnight Sun. By Miss Hremer 25 
 125,120. ThoCaxtons. Hv Hnlwer 75 
 
 127. Mordaunt Hall. Bv Mrs. Marsh 50 
 
 128. My Uncle the Curate 50 
 
 129. The Woodman. Hy James 75 
 
 IW. The Green Hand. A " Short Yarn " 75 
 
 131. Sidonia th<? Sorceress. Bv Meinhold I 00 
 
 132. Shirley. B> Currer Hell.". 1 00 
 
 133. Thedgilvies 50 
 
 134. Constance Lyndsay. HyG. C. H .10 
 
 136. Sir Edward Graham. Hy Miss Sin- 
 clair 1 00 
 
 136. Hands not Hearts. Hy Miss Wilkin- 
 
 son 50 
 
 137. The Wilmingtons. Hv Mrs. Marsh.. 50 
 
 138. Ned Allen. Hy 1). Iliinnny .lO 
 
 13!). Night and Moniing. Hy Bulwer 75 
 
 140. The Maid of Orleans 75 
 
 141. Antonina. Hy Wilkie Collins 60 
 
 142. Zanoni. By Bulwer 50 
 
 143. Keginald Hastings. Hy AVarburton.. 50 
 
 144. Pride and Irresolution 50 
 
 145. The Old Oak Chest. Hy James 50 
 
 146. Julia Howard. Hy Mrs. Martin Hell. 50 
 
 147. Adelaide Lindsay. Kdited by Mrs. 
 
 Marsh 50 
 
 148. Petticoat Government. HyMrs. Trol- 
 
 lope 50 
 
 149. The Luttrells. By F. Williams 50 
 
 1.50. Singleton Fontenoy, U. N. By Hannay 50 
 
 151. Olive. Bv the Author of "The Ogil 
 
 vies" ...'. 50 
 
 152. Henry Smeaton. By James 50 
 
 153. Time, the Avenger. By Mrs. Mar.sh. 50 
 
 154. The (Commissioner. Hy. James 1 00 
 
 1 .55. The Wife's Sister. Bv Mrs. Hubback 50 
 
 1.56. The Gold Worshipers! 50 
 
 157. The Daughter of Night. Hy Fullom. 50 
 
 158. Stuart of Dunleath. By 'Ion. Caro- 
 
 line Norton 50 
 
 159. Arthur Conway. By Captain K. II. 
 
 Milman 50 
 
 160. The Fate. By James 50 
 
 161. The Lady and the Priest. Bv Mrs. 
 
 Maberly ' 50 
 
 162. Aims and Obstacles. By James 50 
 
 163. The Tutor's Ward 50 
 
 1 Ii4. Florence Sackville. By Mrs. Burbury 75 
 
 165. HavensclifJ'e. By Mrs. Marsh 50 
 
 166. Maurice Tiernay. By Lever 1 00 
 
 pnioK 
 167. The Head of the Family, By Ml.ss 
 
 Mulock .'. $ 75 
 
 108. Darien. By Warburtun 50 
 
 16!). Falkenliurg 1', 
 
 170. The Daltons. By Lever 1 50 
 
 171. Ivar; or, The Skjuts - Boy. By Miss 
 
 Carlen 50 
 
 172. Pe(iuinillo. By James 50 
 
 173. Anna Hammer. Hy Temmo 50 
 
 174. A Life of Virissifudes. Hy James... 50 
 
 175. Henry Fsniond. By Thackerav 50 
 
 176. 177. My Novel. By Bulwer...' 1 50 
 
 178. Katie Stewart 25 
 
 17!). Castle Avon. Hy Mrs. Marsh 50 
 
 180. Agnes Sorel. By James 50 
 
 181. Agatha's Hnsbanil. By the Author of 
 
 "Olive" CO 
 
 182. Villettc. By Currer Bell 75 
 
 183. Lr-fji's Stratagem. By Miss Carlen. 50 
 
 184. Cldi.ied Hap])iness. By C-ountess 
 
 DOrsay 50 
 
 185. Charles Auchcster. A Memorial 75 
 
 186. Lady Lee's Widowhood .50 
 
 187. Dodd Family Abroad. By Lever... .1 25 
 
 188. ^ir Jasper Carew. Hy Lever 75 
 
 189. Quiet Heart 25 
 
 190. Aubrey. Hy Mrs. Marsh 75 
 
 1!)L Ticonderoga. Hv James 50 
 
 192. Hard Times, hy Dickens 50 
 
 193. The Young Husband. Hy Mrs. Grey CO 
 
 194. The Mother's Hecompense. Hy Grace 
 
 Aguilar " 75 
 
 195. Avillion, &c. By Miss Mulock 1 25 
 
 196. North and South. By Mrs. Gaskell. 50 
 
 197. Coinitry Neighborhood. BviSlissDu- 
 
 puy '. 60 
 
 198. Constance Herbert. By Miss Jews- 
 
 bury 50 
 
 199. The Heiress of Ilaughton. By ]Mrs. 
 
 Marsh 50 
 
 200. The Old Dominion. By James 60 
 
 201. John Halifa.\. By the Author of 
 
 "Olive," &c 7f> 
 
 202. Evelyn Marston. By Mrs. Marsh.... 50 
 
 203. Fortunes of Gleucore. Hy Lever .50 
 
 201. Leonora d'Orco. By James 50 
 
 20.5. Nothing New. By Miss Mulock 50 
 
 20(5. The Hose of Ashurst. By iMrs. Marsh .50 
 
 207. The Atbelings. By Mr.s". Olijjhant.... 75 
 
 208. Scenes of Clerical Life 75 
 
 209. My Ladv Ludlow. Hy Mrs. Gaskell. 25 
 
 210. 21 1. Gerald Fitzgerald. Hv Lever... .50 
 
 212. A Life for a Life. Hy Miss' Mulock.. .50 
 
 213. Sword and Gown. By (ieo. Lawrence 25 
 
 214. Misrepresentation. By Anna II. 
 
 Drury 1 00 
 
 215. The Mill on the Floss. By George 
 
 Kliot 75 
 
 216. One of Them. Bv Lever 75 
 
 217. A Day's Hide. By Lever 50 
 
 218. Notice to Quit. By Wills 50 
 
 21!). A Strange Story....'. 1 00 
 
 220. Brown, Jones, and Hobinson. By 
 
 Trollops 60 
 
 221. Abel Drake's Wife. Hy John Saun- 
 
 ders , 75 
 
 222. Olive Hlakcs Good Work. By J. C. 
 
 Jcalfreson 75 
 
 223. The I'rofessor's Lndy 25 
 
 224. Mistress and Maid. Hv Miss Mulock 50 
 
 225. Aurora Floyd. Hy M.'K. Braddon.. 76 
 
 .J... 
 
Harper's Library of Select Novels. 
 
 PBIOR 
 
 220. Barrington. B_v Lever $ "."• 
 
 'I'll. Sylvian Ldvers. IJy Mis. Guskell.... 7") 
 
 228. A I'iist Fiiendsliip 50 
 
 22l>. A Dark Ni^lit's Work. JJv Mrs. 
 
 Gaskcll .' r.O 
 
 230. Countcs.s (jisclla. By E. Murlitt 2.'! 
 
 t\\\. St. Olave's 75 
 
 2;53. A Point of Honor fiO 
 
 23;). Live it Down. By Jc.\frre.son 1 00 
 
 2;1L Martin I'ole. By Saumleis fiO 
 
 2.'{.'i. Mary Lynilsny. By Lady l'onsonl>y. W 
 
 23(5. Kieanor'sN'ictory. By .^L K. Braiidon 7."> 
 
 2;J7. Kachcl liay. By Tn)ll()|io W) 
 
 238. John Marcliinoiit's Legacy. By AL 
 
 K. Braddon 75 
 
 239. Annie Waileigli's I'ortunes. By 
 
 Ilolmo TiCe 75 
 
 240. The Wife's Kvidence. Hy Wills 50 
 
 21L Bnihara's History. By Amelia B. 
 
 Edwards 75 
 
 242. Cousin I'hillis 25 
 
 243. What Will He Do With It? By Bul- 
 
 wer 1 50 
 
 244. The Ladder of Life. By Amelia B. 
 
 Edwards 50 
 
 245. Denis Duval. By Thackeray 50 
 
 24<>. Maurice Dering. By (ieo. l^awrenco 50 
 
 247. Margaret Denzil's History 75 
 
 248. Quite Alone. By Ucorgo Augustus 
 
 Sala 75 
 
 249. Mattie: a Stray 75 
 
 250. My Brotlicr's Wife. By Amelia B. 
 
 l'!dwards 50 
 
 251. Uncle Silas. BvJ. S. LeFanu 75 
 
 252. Lovel the Widower. By Tiiackeniy.. 25 
 
 253. Miss Mackenzie. By Anthony Trol- 
 
 lope 50 
 
 254. Dn (iiiurd. By Annie Thomas 50 
 
 255. Theo Leigh. By Annie 'I'homas 50 
 
 25fi. Denis Doone. By .\nnie Thomas. ... 50 
 
 257. Belial 50 
 
 258. Carry's Confession 75 
 
 259. Miss' Carew. By Amelia B. Ed- 
 
 wards 50 
 
 2G0. Hand and (ilovc. By Amelia B. Ed- 
 wards 50 
 
 2(n. Guv Di'veiell. Bv J. S. Le Fanu .... 50 
 2«2. Half a Million of .\loney. By Amelia 
 
 B. Edwards 75 
 
 2G3. The Belton Estate. By Anthony 
 
 Trollope .'. 50 
 
 261. Agnes. By Mrs. (>li|)hant 75 
 
 2(i">. Waller (ioring. By Annie Thomas.. 7."> 
 200. Maxwell Drewitt. " By Mrs. J. \\. 
 
 Uiddeli 75 
 
 2(>7. Tlie Toilers of the •ea. By Victor lingo 75 
 268. Miss Marjoriliunks. By Mrs. Olip- 
 
 hant 50 
 
 209. True History of a Little KagninuHin. 
 
 By James (ireenwood 50 
 
 270. Gilficrt Kngge. By the Author of "A 
 
 First Friendship" 1 00 
 
 271. Sans Merci. Bv (ieo. Lawrence 50 
 
 272. riiemie Keller. By ."^''■'«- •'• "• Hi'hlell 50 
 
 273. Land at Last. By F'.dmund Yates. ... 50 
 
 274. Felix Holt, the Uadical. By (ieorge 
 
 Eliot 75 
 
 275. Bound to the Wheel. By John Saun- 
 
 ders 7,"i 
 
 276. All in the Dark. By J. S. Lc Fanu. .50 
 
 277. Kissing the liod. By Edmund Vutcs 75 
 
 niiaa 
 
 278. The Bnce for Wealth, By Mrs. J. H. 
 
 Bidden $ 75 
 
 279. Liz/io Lortoii of Greyrigg. By Mrs. 
 
 Linton 75 
 
 280. The Beaudcrcs, Father and Sou. By 
 
 C. Clarke BO 
 
 281. Sir Brook F'osslirooke. By Charles 
 
 Lever 50 
 
 282. Madonna Marv. Bv Mrs. ()lii>hant . 50 
 
 283. Cradock Nowell. By U. D. Black- 
 
 more 75 
 
 284. Benithal. From the German of L. 
 
 Muhlhach 50 
 
 285. Bachel's .'secret 75 
 
 2SG. The Claveiings. Bv Anthony Trol- 
 
 loje '. 50 
 
 287. The \'illage on the Clitl'. By Miss 
 
 Thackerav 25 
 
 288. riaved Out. Bv .Annie Thomas 75 
 
 289. Bhick Sheep. Hy Kdmund Yates 50 
 
 290. Sowing the Wind. By V.. Lynn 
 
 Linton 50 
 
 201. Nora aiul Archilitdd Lee 50 
 
 292. Uavmond's Heroine 50 
 
 293. Mr. Wyuvards Ward. By Holme 
 
 Lee ' 50 
 
 294. Alec F'oihes. By George Macdonald 75 
 
 295. No Man's Friend. By F. W. liobin- 
 
 soii 75 
 
 296. Called to Account. By Annie Thomiis 50 
 
 297. Caste 60 
 
 298. The (^urate's Discipline, By Mrs. 
 
 Liloait 60 
 
 299. Circe. By Bahinglon White 60 
 
 300. The Tenants of Maloiy. By J. S. Lc 
 
 F'anu 50 
 
 301. Carlyoii's Year. By James I'ayn 25 
 
 302. TheWaierdale Neighbors ". 50 
 
 3(»3. Mid)ers Progress 50 
 
 .'{04. Guild t^onrt. By Geo. Macdonalil... 50 
 
 30.5. 'The Brothers' Bet. By Miss Carlen. 25 
 
 306. riiiying for High Slakes. By Annie 
 
 Thomas. Illustrated 25 
 
 307. Margaret's Engagement , 50 
 
 308. One of the Family. By James I'ayn. 25 
 3()9. Five Hundreil I'otinds Heward. Viy 
 
 a P.airisier 50 
 
 310. Brownlows. By .Mrs. Oliphant 38 
 
 31 L Chill lotte's Inheritatice. Sequel to 
 
 "HiidsofPrey." By Miss Braddon 50 
 
 312. Jennie's Quiet Life. Bv the Author 
 
 of ".St. Ohivcs" '. 50 
 
 313. Boor llnni:inity. By F. W. Robinson 50 
 
 :'>14. Briike-ipciiie By Geo. Lawrence 50 
 
 315. A Lost Name. By J. S. Le Fanu.... 50 
 
 3lt:. Loveor .Mairiage/ By W. lUack.... 50 
 
 317. Dead -.*>ea Fruit. By Miss Braddon. 
 
 Illustrated .". 50 
 
 318. The Dower House. I!y Annie 'Thomas 50 
 
 319. '1 he Biiimleighs of Bisho|i'8 F'olly. By 
 
 Lever 50 
 
 320. .Mildred. By (ieorgiana M. (Jraik.... 60 
 
 321. Natme's Nolileuum. By tne Author 
 
 of '-BacheTs Sceiet"..'. 50 
 
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 '• lf.vn'X>kAM,- ••IJIK AMERICAN 
 
 *« 
 
 , IILV^TKATKD BY »\ L ^HKirAt^'D. 
 
 j^t»r-rv.]-.. . 
 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 JS A ^ y h « & B^R O T H E i; S, P U B L I >^ li E U •^ 
 
ft; 
 
 ^.Vf 
 
 ':<i 
 
 i 
 
ru, ?»=^3^' 
 
 THE LIVING Lm#"' 
 
 2V Noucl. 
 
 By JAMES DE MILLE, 
 
 AUTHOR op 
 
 'THE DODGE CLUB," "COKD AND CKKKSK," "THE CRYPTOGRAM," "THE AMERICAN 
 
 UARON," &c , &c. 
 
 ILLUSTRATED BY IV. L. SHEPPARD. 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 
 HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS, 
 
 FRANKLIN SQUARE. 
 1874. 
 
 \ ■ 
 
By Prof. JAMES DE MILLE. 
 
 THE DODGE CLUB; or, Italy in 1859. Illustrated. 8vo, Paper, 75 cents ; 
 Cloth, %i 25. 
 
 CORD AND CREESE. A Novel. Illustrated. 8vo, Paper, 75 cents; 
 Cloth, $1 25. 
 
 THE CRYPTOGRAM. A Novel. Illustrated. 8vo, Paper, $1 50 ; Cloth, 
 
 $2 00. 
 
 THE AMERICAN BARON. A Novel. Illustrated. Svo, Paper, $1 00 ; 
 Cloth, $1 50. 
 
 THE LIVING LINK. A Novel. Illustrated. Svo, Paper, $1 00; Cloth, $1 50. 
 
 Published nv HARPER & BROTHERS, New York. 
 
 Sent by mail, fostjgc fn'faid, to any pari of the United States, on receipt of the price. 
 
 Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1874, by 
 
 HARPER & BROTHERS, 
 
 In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. 
 
THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 CllAl'TKIi 1. 
 
 A TKKUUILK SKCUKT. 
 
 On a i)l»>a8aiit oveiiiiig in tlio nioiifli of 
 May, 1S4(I, a j^rouj) of yoiinji la<lit'.s iiii;;Iit 
 have ln'cii seen on tlic iiorlico of riyiii|i- 
 ton Ti'i-nicc, a fasliioiialilc li(iar(liiiK->«'li<><il 
 lu-ar lltTWfiit water. Tliry all moved alutnt 
 with tlioso elVusivo. (lenionst rat ions so ehar- 
 actei'istic of yoinifi <;iils; lint on this oeea- 
 Nion there was a jieneial hnsh ainoii^ tiiem, 
 wliieh evidently arose from some nnnsnal 
 cause. As they walked n]» and down ai'm 
 in arm, or with arms entwined, or witii 
 elasped hands, as yomijjf^irls will, they talked 
 ill low earnest tones over some one enj;ross- 
 injj; snlijert, or oecasionally gathered in little 
 knots to deliate some ]ioiiit, in whieli, while 
 each oil. red a dilfereiit o]iiiiion, all were tip- 
 pressed liy one eommon sadness 
 
 ^Vhile they were thus eii^fajjed there arose 
 in the distaneo the sound of a rajiitlly nal- 
 lopin^ horse. At oiico all the murmur of 
 eonversatiou died out, Jind the eompany 
 stood in silence await in^j tlie new -coiner. 
 They did not have to w;iit lonj;. Out from 
 a jdaee where (he avenue wound amidst 
 groves and thickets a y(uiiig girl uiouutcd 
 
 on a si)irited hay came at full .speed toward 
 the portico. Arrivinj; there, she stopjied ali- 
 rnptly ; then leaping lij^litly down, she llnii^ 
 tho reins over ilw liorse's neck, wlio forth- 
 with jjalloped away to his stall. 
 
 Tln^ rider who thus dismounted was a 
 yoniift f;irl of about eijihteeu, and of very 
 striking; appearance. Her complexion wan 
 dark, her hair Idack, with its rich volumi- 
 nous folds feathered in f^reat },;lossy plaits be- 
 hind. Her eyes were of a deep hazel color, 
 radiant, and full of encrj;etic life. In those 
 eyes there was a certain earnestness of cx- 
 ]ircssion, however, deepening down into 
 something that seemed like melancholy, 
 which showed that even in her young lifo 
 she had experienced sorrow. Her liguiv was 
 slender ami graicful, being well «lisidaycd by 
 her dose-titting riding-habit, while a plumed 
 hat completed her (Miuipment, and served to 
 heighten the elVect of her beauty. 
 
 At her apjiroach a sudden silene«^ had fallen 
 over the company, and they all stood motion- 
 less, hxdving at her as she dismounted. 
 
 "Why, what makes you all look at mo so 
 strangely ?" she asked, in a tone of surpriso, 
 throw iiig a hasty glaneo over them. " Has 
 any thing happened ?'' 
 
 To this i|nest ion no answer was given, but 
 each seemed waiting for the other to spi'ak. 
 .At ItMigth a little thing of about twelve 
 came up, and t'licircling tho iiew-c(Uuor'M 
 waist w itli her arm, Itxdied up with a sor- 
 rowful ox])ression, and whis|iered, 
 
 "Kdith dearest, Miss I'lymptoii want.s to 
 see you.'' 
 
 The silence and oniinons looks of tho oth- 
 ers, and the whis]iered words of the little 
 girl, together with her mournful face, in- 
 creased the surprise and anxiety of I-'.dith. 
 She looked with a strange air of apjU'ehen- 
 sion over the company. 
 
 '• What is it .'" she asked, hurriedly. 
 "Something has hap)ieued. Do any <d' you 
 know ? What Is it .'" 
 
 She spoke breathlessly, and her eyes onco 
 moH' wandered with anxious imjiiiry over 
 all of them. Ihit iio one spoke, for, what- 
 ever it was, they I'dt the news to be serious 
 — something, in fact, which could not well 
 be communicated by themselves. Once molts 
 : Edith repeated her question, and tinding that 
 
10 
 
 THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 no answpr was fortli-coining, her impatience 
 allowed her to wait no lonjjer ; and ho, fj[ath- 
 eriiifj nj) her l(iii<i; skirts in one hand and hold- 
 in;; her wlii]* in the other, she hnrried into 
 the house to see Miss I'lyinjiton. 
 
 Miss l*lyni|iton's room was on the second 
 floor, and that lady herself was seated by 
 the window as Kditli entered. In th(! yonn^ 
 girl's face fheri^ was now a deeper anxiety, 
 and seating herself ne.ir f he eenlre-tahle, she 
 looked in(|iiiringly ;it .Miss l'lyni])ton. 
 
 The latter regarded her for some mouu-nts 
 in silence. 
 
 " Did you wish to sco mo, anutio dear?" 
 said Edith. 
 
 Aliss I'lymiiton sighed. 
 
 " Yes," she s.iid, slowly ; " but, my poor 
 darling Kdie, I hardly know how to say to 
 you what I have to siiy. 1 — I — do you think 
 you can bear to hear it, dear ?" 
 
 At this Edith loidted more disturbed than 
 ever; and jdacing her elbow on the centre- 
 table, she leaned her cheek ujion her hand, 
 and fixed her melancholy eyes upon Miss 
 riympton. Her heart throbbed painfully, 
 and the hand against which her head leaned 
 trembled visibly. Hut these signs of agita- 
 tion did not serve to lessen the emotion of 
 tin' other; on the contrary, she seemed mine 
 distressed, and (piitc! at a loss how to ])roceed. 
 
 " Edith," said she at last, " my child, you 
 know Iiow teiulerly I love you. 1 have al- 
 ways tried to be a mother to you, and to save 
 yon from all sorrow ; but now my love and 
 care are all useless, for the sorrow has come, 
 and 1 do not know any way by which I can 
 break bad news to — to — a — a bereaved 
 heart." 
 
 She spoke in a tremulous voice and with 
 fre<iuent pauses. 
 
 " Hereaved !" exclaimed Edith, with white 
 lips. "Oh, auntie! Hereaved! Is it that? 
 Oh, tell me all. Don't keep me iu suspense. 
 Let me know the worst." 
 
 Miss IMympton looked still more troubled. 
 " I — I — don't know w hat to say," she fal- 
 tered. 
 
 " Yoii mean drath .'"' cried Edith, iu an ex- 
 cited vi.ice ; "and oh! I needn't ask who. 
 There's only one — only one. I had only one 
 — only one — and now — he is — gone!" 
 
 "(Joue," repeated Miss IMympton, mechan- 
 ically, and she said no more ; for in the jires- 
 eneeof Edith's grief, and of other facts which 
 had y(^t to be disclosed — facts which would 
 reveal to this innocent girl something woise 
 than even bereavement — words were use- 
 less, and she could lind nothing to say. 
 Her haml wandered through the folds of 
 her dress, and at length she drew forth a 
 black-edged letter, at which she gazed in an 
 abstracteil way. 
 
 " Let me see it," cried Edith, hurriedly and 
 eagerly ; and before Miss l'lyni)»t(m could pre- 
 vent her,oreven imagine what she was about, 
 she darted forward and snatched the letter 
 
 from her hand. Then she tore it open and 
 read it breathlessly. The letter was very 
 short, and was written in a s^.if, constrained 
 hand. It was as follows: 
 
 "DvLTON Il.vi.t., May C, 1840. 
 "Madami;, — It is my jtainful duty to com- 
 municate to you the (h-ath of Erederick Dal- 
 ton, Es(|., of Daltim Hall, who died at Hobart 
 Town, Van Diemen's Land, on the 'id of De- 
 cember, IKW. I beg that you will impart 
 this intelligence to Miss Dalfon, for a she is 
 now of age, she may wish to return to Dalton 
 Hall. 
 
 "I remain, madame, 
 
 " Your most obedient servant, 
 
 "John Wkjuins. 
 "Mi88 P1.VMPT0N, Pli/mpton 7'errace." 
 
 Of this letter Edith took in the meaning 
 of the first three lines only. Then it drojiped 
 from her trembling hands, and sinking into 
 a chair, she burst into a torrent of tears. 
 Miss riymjiton regarded litr with a face 
 full of anxiety, and for sonx; moments Edith 
 wept without restraint ; but at length, when 
 the lirst outburst of grief was jiast, she pick- 
 ed up th«! letter once more and rer ' it over 
 and over. 
 
 Deep as Edith's grief evidently was, this 
 bereavement was not. alter all, so sore a blow 
 as it might have been nndcr other circum- 
 stances. Eor this father whom she had lost, 
 was virtually .-i stranger. Losing her moth- 
 erat the age ol'eiglit.slie had lived eversinec* 
 with Miss I'lvmpton, and during this time 
 her father had never seen her, nor even writ- 
 ten to her. Once or twice she had written 
 to him a pretty childish letter, but he had 
 never deigned any reply. If in that nn- 
 kiuiwn nature there had been any thing 
 of a father's love, no ))ossible hint had ever 
 been given of it. Of her str.'inge isolation 
 she was never forgetful, and she felt it mosti 
 keenly during the summer holidays, when 
 all her companions had g(uie to their homes. 
 At such tim(>s she brooded nuich over her 
 loneliiu'ss, and out of this feeling then; arose 
 a hojt(>, which she never ceased to cherish, 
 that fh<! time would come when sli<\ might 
 join he lather, anil live' with him wherever 
 he might be, and set herself to the task of 
 winning his atVcctions. 
 
 Sh(^ had always understood that her fa- 
 ther had been living in the East since her 
 mother's death. The only connnunieation 
 which she had with him was indirect, and 
 consisted of busini'ss lett<'rs which his En- 
 glish agent wrote to Miss IMympton. These 
 were never any thing more than short, form- 
 al notes. Such neglect was keenly felt, and 
 Edith, unwilling to blame her fath(>r alto- 
 gether, tried to make somi' one else respon- 
 sibhr for it. As she knew of no othei' human 
 being who had any connection with her fa- 
 ther exce])t this agent, she brought herself 
 gradually to look upon him as the cause of 
 
THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 11 
 
 ittt-n 
 liiul 
 un- 
 tiling 
 ('\ei' 
 it ion 
 most 
 when 
 (lines, 
 her 
 iiroso 
 ■risli, 
 nii.u;ht 
 •ri'ver 
 jk of 
 
 her father's coldness, and so at length caino 
 to regard him with a hatred that was uu- 
 reaKfiniiig and intense. She considered him 
 her father's evil genius, and believed him to 
 he somehow at tlie bottom of the troubles 
 of her life. Thus every year this nuin, John 
 Wiggins, grew more hateful, and she aeeus- 
 tomed herself to think of him as an evil 
 tiJ'nd, a Meidiistopheles, by whose crafty 
 wiles her father's l.eart had been estranged 
 from her. 8ueh, then, was the nature of 
 Editli's bereavement ; and as she mourned 
 over it she did not mr>nrn so much over the 
 reality as over her vanishetl hojie. He was 
 gone, and with him was gone the expecta- 
 tion of meeting him and winning his atfee- 
 tion. Hlie would never see him — never be 
 able to tell how slie h)ved him, and hear 
 him say with a fatlier'a voice that he loved 
 his child ! 
 
 Tiicse thoughts and feelings overwhelmed 
 Edith even as she held tli(! letter in her 
 hand for a new jierusal, and she read it over 
 an<l over without attaching any meaning to 
 the words. At Icngtii her attention was ar- 
 resti'd l)y one statement in that short letter 
 which had hitherto cscajicd her notice. 
 This was the name of the place wliere her 
 father's death had occurred— Vau Diemen's 
 Land. 
 
 " I don't understand this," said she. 
 "What is the meaning of this — Van Die- 
 men's Land ? I did not know that poor papa 
 had (^vcr left India."' 
 
 Miss I'iympton ma<le no rejtly to this for 
 some time, but looked more troubled than 
 ever. 
 
 " What does it mean," asked Edith again 
 — " this Ilobart Town, Van Diemen's Land ? 
 What docs it mean ?" 
 
 " Well, dear," said Miss Plymptou, in a 
 strangely gentle an<l mournful voice, ''you 
 have never known much about your i)oor 
 ^■"ther, and you have never known exactly 
 where he has been living. H(^ diil not live 
 in India, dear; he never lived in India. He 
 lived in — in — Van Diemen's Land." 
 
 Miss I'lympton's tone and look alVected 
 Edith very unpleasantly. Tlie mystery 
 about her father seemed to grow darker, and 
 to assume sometliingof an ill-omened charac- 
 ter. The nanu' also— Van Dienirn"s Land — 
 8erv»?d to heighten her dark aiiprclicnsions ; 
 and tiiis discovery that she had known even 
 less than she suitposed about her father 
 made it seem as though the knowledge that 
 had thus been hidden could not but be pain- 
 ful. 
 
 " What do you mean f" she asked again ; 
 and her voice died down to a whisper through 
 till* vague fears that had been awakened. 
 "I tliougiit tiiat i)oor jiajia lived in India — 
 that he held some otlicc under government." 
 "I know that you believed so," said .Miss 
 Plymi>ton, n ganling Edith w ith a look that 
 was full of pity and mournful sympathy. 
 
 "That was what I gave out. None of the 
 girls have ever suspected the truth. No 
 one knows whoso daughter yon really are. 
 They do not suspect that your father was 
 Dalton of Dalton Hall. Tluy think that ho 
 was an Indian resident in the Company's 
 service. Yes, I liavt« kept the secret well, 
 dear — the secret that I jtromised y<> •• dear 
 mother on her death-bed to keep fr ni all 
 the world, and from yon, darling, till the 
 tinu! should come for you to know. And 
 often and often, dear, have I thought of this 
 moment, and tried to jircjiare for it ; but 
 now, since it has come, I am worse than un- 
 prepared. Jbit ]ire[>aralions are of no n.se, 
 for <di, my darling, my own Edith, I nmst 
 speak, if I speak at all, fiom my heart." 
 
 These words were spoken by Miss I'iymp- 
 ton in a broken, disconnected, and almost 
 incoherent manm'r. She sto]i)ied abruptly, 
 an<l seemed overconu^ by strong agitaticm. 
 Edith, on her part, lo<d<e(l at her in cijual ag- 
 itation, womlcring at her disjilay of emotion, 
 anil terrihed at tlit^ dark signilicance of hei' 
 words. For from those- words she learned 
 this mtu'Ii already— that her father ha<l been 
 living in Van Diemen's Lainl, a jicnal colo- 
 ny ; that around him had been a dark secret 
 which had been kept from her most care- 
 fully; that her ])arcntage had been conceal- 
 ed most scrniiulously from the knowledge 
 of her sciiool-n\atcs; and that this secret 
 which had been so guarded was ev<'n now 
 overwhelming Miss I'lyin]iton so that she 
 shrunk from connnunicating it. All this 
 served to till the mind of Edith with terrilde 
 presentitnents, and the mystery which ha<l 
 liithcrto surrounded her fathi'r seemed now 
 aliont to result in a revelation mon; terrible 
 than the mystery itself. 
 
 After some tim(> Miss I'lyni])ton rose, and 
 drawing her chair nearer, sat down in front 
 of Edith, and took both her hands. 
 
 "My jioor darling Edith," said she, in 
 jiitying tones, " I am anxious for you. Yon 
 are not strong enough fortius. Your hands 
 are damp and cold. Yon are trembling. I 
 would not have lironglit np lliissnlijeet now, 
 but 1 I'.avc been thinking that the time has 
 <'onn' for telling you all. Ibit I'm afraid it 
 will be too nwu'h for yon. You have al- 
 ready enough to bear without having this iu 
 addition. You are too weak.'' 
 
 Edith sho(di her head. 
 
 '"Can you bear it .'" asked Miss Plyiniiton, 
 anxiously, "this that I wish to tell you? 
 Pcrhajis I had belter defer it." 
 
 "No," said Edith, in a forced voice. "No 
 — now — now — tell me now. I can bear 
 whatever it is better than any horrible sus- 
 pense." 
 
 Miss riym)>ton sighed, and leaning for- 
 ward, slu' kissed the pale forehead "d" the 
 young gill. Then, after a little further de- 
 lay, during which she seeined to be collect- 
 ing her thoughts, she began : 
 
12 
 
 THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 " I was govorncsH onco, Eu'.cli dearest, in 1 word, however, for her foelinRS were still too 
 your dear iiiainiua's family. She was «iuito strong, nor could slio Jin<l voice for any words, 
 a little tiling then. All the rest were harsh, | She sat, therefore, in silence, and waited for 
 and treated me like a slave ; l)Ut she was like ] Miss Plympton to tell the whole story, 
 an angel, and made mo feel the only real 1 Miss i'lympton surveyed Etlith anxiously 
 liapitiness I kn(!w in all those <lreary days. | for a few moments, and then riciiig, went 
 I loved her dearly for her gentle and nolde over to an escritoire. Tiiis she unlocked, 
 nature. I loved her always, and I still love and taking from it a iiarcel, she returned to 
 her memory ; and I love you as I loved her, her seat. 
 
 and for her sake. And when she gave you | " I am not going to tell yon the story," 
 to me, on her death-bed, I promised her that said she. "I can not bear *u recall it. It 
 I would l)e a mother to you, dear. You have is all here, and you may read it for yourself, 
 never known how much I love you— for I . It was all public ten years ago, and in this 
 am not demonsirative — but I do love you, ' package are the reports of the trial. I have 
 my own Edith, most dearly, and I would read *liem over so often that I almost know 
 spare you this if I could. 15ut, after all, it them l)y hea/t ; and I know, too, the haste of 
 is a tiling which you nnist know sonu* time, that trial, and the looseness of that evidence, 
 and before very long — tbe sooner the biitter." ^ I have marked it in jilaces — for your eyes 
 
 "I wish to know it now," said Edith, as i only.dearest^for I jncpared it for you, to bo 
 Miss riymiiton liesitated,s])(aking in a eon- handed to yon in ca.se of my deiilh. My life, 
 strained voice, the result of the strong jiress- however, has been ineservt'd, and I now give 
 nre wliich she was ]>utting on her feelings ; this into your own hands. You must take 
 — " now," she repc^ated. "I can not wait, it to your own room, an<l read it all over 
 I must know fill to-day. What was itf by yourself. You will learn there all that; 
 
 Was it— crime?" 
 
 " Tlie charge that was against him," said 
 
 the W(uld believes about your father, and 
 will see in his own words what he savs about 
 
 Miss riympton, " involved crime. IJut, my himself. And for my jtart, even if the tes- 
 darling, yon must remember always that an ; tiniony were far stronger, I would still take 
 accusation is not the same as a fact, even ' the word of Frederick Dalton I" 
 tiiough men belitjve it; yes, even though j Miss Plynii>ton held out the ])areel, and 
 the law may condemn the accused, and the Edith took it, though she was scarce con- 
 innocent may siitfer. Edith Dalton," she scions of the act. An awful foreboding of 
 continued, with solemn earnestness, "I bo- j calamity, the mysterious shadow of her fa- 
 lieve that your father was as innocent as thcr's fate, descended over her soul. She 
 you are. Henieiiiber that! ("ling to that ! was nnconscious of the kiss wliich Miss 
 Never give iiji that belief, no matter wliat Plym]>ton gave her; nor was she conscious 
 you may hear. Tliere was too much haste of any thing till she found herself seated at 
 .•ind blind passion and prejudice in that court a table in her own room, with the door 
 where he was tried, and ajipcarances were locked, and the i)ackage lying on the taldo 
 •lark, and then' was foul treachery some- before her. She let it lie there for a lew 
 where; and .so it was that Frederick Dalton moments, for Iier agitation was excessive, 
 was done to ruin and his wife done to death, and she dreaded to oi)en it ; but at length 
 And now, my darling, you have to make she mastered her feelings, and began to undo 
 yourself ac<niainted not with a father's the strings. 
 
 crimes, but with a father's sufferings. You i Tlie t'ontents of the piircel consisted of 
 are old enough now to hear that story, and sheets of ]ta])er, upon wlii<'h were pasted 
 you have sutlicient indejiendenee of <'harac- columns of printed matter cut from some 
 ter to .judg(> for yourself, dear. There is news]>aper. It was the re])ort of the trial 
 no reason why you slionld be overwhelmed of Frederick Dalton, upon charges which ten 
 when yon liear it — unless, indeed, you are years before had tilled the ]iiiblie mind with 
 overconu! by jiity for the innocent and in- horror and curiosity. In those days the 
 dignatiou against his judges. Even if soci- most cursory reader who took nj) the report 
 ety considers your father's name a stained came to the work with a mind full of vivid 
 and dislionored one, there is no reason why interest and breathless susjiense; but that 
 his daughter shouhl feel shame, i\>v you may report now lay before the eyes of a far ditl'er- 
 tak<' your staii<l on his own declaration of ent readier — one who was animated by feel- 
 innocence, and hold up your head proudly , iiigs far more intense, since it was the daugh- 
 before tl'.e world." | ter of the accused herself. That daughter 
 
 Miss riympt(Ui s])oke this with vehement also was one who hitherto had lived in an 
 ennition, and her words brought some con- ' atmosphere of innocenc«>, purity, and love, 
 solatiou to Edith. The horrilde thought one wlio shrank in abhorrence from all that 
 that had at tirst come was that her father was base or vile; and this was tlu! one bi;- 
 liad been a convict in some ])eiial settle- , fore whose eyes was now ]ilaced the horrible 
 nM>nt, but this solemn assurance of liis inno- 1 record that had been made up before the 
 cenee mitigated tlie horror of the thought, [ world against her father's name, 
 and changed it into pity. She said not a 1 The printed columns were pasted in such 
 
THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 13 
 
 a wny that a wido marpin was left, which 
 was coven'il with iiotew in MisH I'lyiiipton'H 
 writiiiK- I" U've any thinp like a (U-taih-d 
 acfonnt of thi.s report, with the annotations, 
 is ont of tilt' (pu'stion, nor will any thinj; he 
 necessary heyond a general suuiiuary of the 
 facts therein stated. 
 
 CHAPTER n. 
 
 TIIE CONTEXTS OK TIIK MANTSCnil'T. 
 
 On tiie date indicated in the rejxtrt, then, 
 tlio city of Liverpool and the whole conn- 
 try were ajjitated hy the nc^ws of a terrihhi 
 murder. On the rojid-.side near Everton 
 tlie dead hody of a Mr. Henderson, an emi- 
 nent hanker, had heen found, not far from 
 his own residence. The discovi^ry had heen 
 made at ahout eleven o'clock in the evening 
 hy somo i>nssers-hy. Upon exaniinati(Ui a 
 w<nnid was found in the hack of the head 
 which had heen caused liy a hullet. His 
 watch and purso were still in their jtlaces, 
 hut his ]>ocket-hook was gone. Clasped in 
 one of the hiinds was a newspaper, on tht^ 
 hlank margin of which wen; some red let- 
 ters, rudely traced, and looking as though 
 they had heen written with hlood. The let- 
 ters wi!re these : 
 
 "DALTON SHOT ME BEG—" 
 
 It was evident that the writer intended to 
 write the word "hecause," and give tlu^ 
 reason why he had heen shot, hut that his 
 strength had failed in the middle of the 
 word. 
 
 A closer search revealed some other i liings. 
 One was a small stick, the point of which 
 was reddtMied with a suhstanci', which mi- 
 croscopic examination afterward showtul to 
 he hlood. The other was a scarf-pin made 
 of gold, the head of which consisted of a Mal- 
 tose cross, of very rich and elegant design. 
 In the middle was hlack enamel inclosed i)y 
 a richly chased gold horder, and iit the inter- 
 section of the hars was a small diamond of 
 great splendor. If this cross helongcd to 
 the murderer it had douhtless heeome loos- 
 ened, and fallen out while he was stoojiing 
 over liif victim, and the lo.s8 had not heen 
 noticed in the excitement of the occasion. 
 
 At the coroner's in([uest various impor- 
 tant circumstances were hrought to light. 
 The fact that his watch and purse remained 
 made it plain that it was not a case of com- 
 mon highway rohhery, and the loss of the 
 pocket -hook showed that the deed was 
 lirompted hy a desire for scmiething more 
 tiian ordinary plunder. Proceeding from 
 this, various circumstances arose which, in 
 addition to the terrihle accusation traced in 
 hlood, tended to throw suspicion upon Fred- 
 erick Dalton. 
 
 It came out that on the morning of that 
 
 very day Mr. Henderson had discovered a 
 check for two thousand jiounds that had 
 heen forged in his name. Heing a very chol- 
 eric man, he felt more than the anger which 
 is natural niuler such circumstances, and 
 vowed vengeance to the uttermost ujion tho 
 forger. That same morning Mr. Frederick 
 Dahon came to see* him, and was shown into 
 his i>rivate ofhee. He ha»l just arrived in 
 the city, and had come on pui p'.)se to ]>ay this 
 visit. The interview wiis a i>rotracted one, 
 and the clerks outside heard the voice of 
 Mr. Henderson in a very high key, and in u 
 strain of what stninded like angry menace 
 and <lenunciationsofvenge;tiice, though they 
 could iu>t nuike ont any words. At last Ww 
 oUiee door opened, and Dalton c;im(f out. 
 He was very jiah', anil much agitated. One 
 of th<! clerks heard him say, in a low voice, 
 " Oiilii oiif d(Uj — ^7/ Om time to-morrow." 
 Whereupon Mr. Henderson roared ont in a 
 loud voice, which all the clerks heanl, 
 
 " Xi>, Sir! yut oni' daij, not one hour, if I 
 die for it!" 
 
 Fpoii .his Paltcm walked away, looking 
 paler and more agitated than ever. 
 
 In the courses of the day Mr. Henderson 
 told hisconti<lential clerk that theeheck had 
 just heen used hy Dalton, who, however, 
 denied that he was tho forger; thiit the vis- 
 it of Dalton professed to he on hehalf of tho 
 guilty party, whom lie wisht'd to screen. 
 Dalton had refused to give the cnli>rit's 
 name, and otl'crcd to jiay the amount of the 
 check, or any additional sum whattner, if 
 no ]>roceediiigs were taken. This, however, 
 Mr. Henderson refused, and in his indigna- 
 i tion charged Dalton himself with the crime. 
 Cnder these circumstances tho interview 
 had terminated. 
 J Thus the evidence against Dalton was the 
 forged check, the "lerks' reports concern- 
 ing the exciting interview with Mr. Hender- 
 son, th(^ awful accusation of tlu; deceased 
 himself, written in his own hlood, together 
 with the Maltese cross, which washelieved to 
 helong to Dalton. The arrest of Dalton had 
 heen made at the earliest possihh^ moment ; 
 and at the trial these were tiit^ things which 
 were made use of against him hy the ]>ros(!- 
 cution. Hy ein'rgetio eflbrts disco\<'rv was 
 made of a jeweler who recognized the Mal- 
 tese cross as his own work, iiiid swore that 
 he had made it for Frederick Dalton, in ac- 
 cordance with a special design furnished him 
 hy that gentleman. The ilesign had heen 
 kei)t in his order-hook ever since, and was 
 produced hy him in court. Thns the tes- 
 timony of the jeweler and the oidcr-hook 
 served to fix the ownership of the Maltese 
 cross upon Dalton in such a way that it cor- 
 rohorated and contirmed all tho other testi- 
 mony. 
 
 On the other hand, tho defense of Diilton 
 took up all these i)oints. In the lirst i)laco, 
 it was shown that in his case there was uo 
 
14 
 
 THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 conceivaWo tomptiifion fliat conld liave led 
 to the coiniiiiNHioii ofNiicli ii criiiu;. lio WiUi 
 a man of mrcut wcaltli, iKiN.scHm'd of u fine 
 «'8tfite, and fret; from all iM't'iu'iary omltar- 
 raHsments. llo was not what \\t\n ciillfd a 
 Hportin^ man, and tliiTcfon; conld not have 
 Hecri'tly accnniuliitfil di'btH wliili^ a]i))cann^ 
 rich. It waM shown, also, that his cliarachT 
 was HtainlcsH ; that he was essentially a ilo- 
 niestic man, livin<r (piitttly at IJalton Hall 
 with his wife and child, and therefore, from 
 his woi'ldly nn'ans as well as from his per- 
 sonal character and surroundings, it was 
 morally impossihlu for him to huvu forged 
 tlie cheek. 
 
 With referenco to the interview with Mr. 
 Henderson, it was maintaineil that it arose, 
 iiH he himself said, frcm a desire to shield 
 the real culprit, whom he knew, ami for 
 whom he felt a strong and unusual regard. 
 Who this culprit was the defense did not as- 
 sert, nor could they imagine, though they tried 
 every jxissilile way of finding him out. Who- 
 ever lie was, he a]>iteared to he the only one 
 who could have had a motive strong enough 
 for the nnirder of Mr. Henderson. The un- 
 known assassin had evi<lently done the deeil 
 soastoohtain possession of the forged check, 
 iiml ]irevent its heing used against him. In 
 this he was unsuccessful, since the check 
 had a]''"ady been intrust<'d to tin; hands of 
 others, hut the aim of the a88a8.sin was suf- 
 (iciently evident. 
 
 Again, as to the writing in Idood, a vigor- 
 cms etfort was made to show that this was a 
 con8i)iraey against an insiocent man. It was 
 argued that Mr. Ilenclerson did not write it 
 at all ; and efforts were made to jjrove that 
 the wound in his hea«l must have caused in- 
 stantaneinis death. He himself, th(>refore, 
 conld not have written it, hnt it must have 
 been the work either of sonu' one who was 
 plotting against Dalton, or who was eager 
 to divert Mnsj)icion from himself. 
 
 The testimony of thi; Maltese cross was 
 met by counter-testimony to the effect that 
 Dalton had never worn smdi an ornament. 
 His servants all sw(n'e that they had never 
 seen it before. Mr. Henderson's clerks also 
 swore that Mr. Dalton wore no pin at all on 
 that nu)rning of the iutervi(^w. 
 
 And, finally, an effort was made to prove 
 an aliln. It was shown that Daltiui's occu- 
 pation of his tinu' during that evening conld 
 be accounted for with the exception of one 
 hour. Witiu'sses were produced from the 
 hotel where he put np who swore that he 
 had been there nntil eight o'clock in the 
 evening, when ho left, returning at nine. 
 An hour, therefore, remained to be account- 
 ed for. As to this hour — on tht; one hand, 
 it seenu'd hardly sutlicient for the deed, but 
 yet it Avas certainly jiossible for him to have 
 done it within that time; and thus it re- 
 mained for the defense to account for that 
 hour. For this purpose a note was produced, 
 
 which was scribbltMl in pencil ami addressed 
 to John Wiggins, Esq. 
 It was as follows • 
 
 " I)i;a« WKioiN.s,— I have been here ever 
 sim-e eight, and am tired of waiting. Come 
 to my room U8 soon as yon get back. I'll bo 
 there. Yours, F. Dai/ion." 
 
 Mr. John Wiggins testified flint ho had 
 made an ai)pointment to meet Dalton at 
 the Inmr menti<uied in the note, but had 
 been detained on business nntil late, lie 
 had found this o!i his return thrust under 
 the ottice door. On going to sei! him the 
 foUowing mornir^ he had learned of his 
 arrest. 
 
 This note and the testimony of Wiggins 
 were felt to bciir strongly in Dalton's favor. 
 If file accused had really been waiting iit 
 the oflice, as the note state<l, then cle.arly he 
 conld not have followed on Mr. Henderson's 
 track to Kverton. 'I'lie force of this weigh- 
 ed iiKtn' than any thing else with tin- court ; 
 the summing n]) of the; Jiidg*; also bore 
 strongly toward an ac(iuittal; anil, coiise- 
 (liieiitly, Dalton was declared not guilty. 
 
 Hut the aeiiuittal on this first charge did 
 not at all secure the escape of Dalton from 
 diinger. Anotlur charge, which had been 
 interwoven with the first, still impended 
 
 , over him, !ind no sooner was he declared free 
 
 I of ninrder than he was arresttMl on the charge 
 of forgery, and remanded to pri.'-on to await 
 his trial <m that accusation. 
 
 Now during the whohi course of the trial 
 the jmblic mind had been intensely excited ; 
 iill men were eager that vengeance should 
 fall on some one. and at the outset had made 
 np their minds that Dalton was guilty. The 
 verilict of ac<niittal eieated deep and wide- 
 8])rcad dissatisfact ion, for it seemed as 'hough 
 
 ■ justice had been cheated of a victim. When, 
 therefore, the trial for forgery came on, there 
 weighed against Dalton all the infamy that 
 had lieen accumulating against him during 
 the trial for murder. Had this trial stood 
 iilone, the prisoner's counsel might have sne- 
 cessfully jileaded his high charac^ter, as Well 
 as his wealth, against this cliarg«', and shown 
 
 I that it was false because it was morally im- 
 possible. Ibit this was no longer of avail, 
 and in the public mind Frederick Dalton was 
 deemed only a d<'S])erate murderer, whose 
 good ri'jiutation was merely the result of 
 
 , life-long hyjioerisy, and whose character was 
 but an empty name. 
 
 And so in this trial it was shown that 
 Dalton had first jmt forth tin; forged check, 
 and afterward lejirniiig that it was discov- 
 ered prcm.'itnrely, had hurried to Liverjiool 
 so as to get it back from Mr. Henderson. His 
 asserted wealth was not btilieved in. Efforts 
 were iiuide to show that he had been con- 
 nected with mi'ii of desjterate fortunes, and 
 
 I had himself been perhaiis betting heavily; 
 
THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 15 
 
 trial 
 itod; 
 loiild 
 inado 
 Tlie 
 widc- 
 n»nji;li 
 When, 
 tlu^re 
 thiit 
 iiinK 
 stood 
 
 ■ NUO- 
 
 liown 
 ini- 
 avail, 
 II was 
 
 iIlOSO 
 
 lit of 
 ■r was 
 
 that 
 it'ck, 
 
 Sl'OV- 
 
 rpool 
 1 1 in 
 ftorts 
 con- 
 , and 
 vily; 
 
 and all tlii« arts wliicli arc nsnally employed 
 by iuiscnii)iilouH or exeittMl advocates to 
 cnisli an acensod man were freely pnt forth. 
 Experts were liroiiKlit from London to exam- 
 ine IJalton's handwritin},', and compare it 
 with tliat of the forced check; and the.w 
 men, yieldiii;^ to theconnnon ])rejndi<e, j^avo 
 it as their opinion that he was, or might have 
 Ixrn (!), the anthi)r of the forgery. 
 
 Hnt all this was as nothiii;^ wlien com- 
 jiared with the injury which Diilton himself 
 dill to his own eanse hy the c'>nrse which he 
 ch()S(! to adopt. Content iiij; himself with 
 th(! simple asserticMi of his innocence, he re- 
 fused to jfive the name of the Kuilty man or 
 to say any thin;; that mi^lit lead to his dis- 
 covery. Actuated by a lofty sense of honor, 
 a chivalrous sentinnsnt of loyalty and friend- 
 ship, he kejtt the secret with obstinate lidel- 
 ily; and tln^ almost frantic a|>pea1s of his 
 counsel, who saw in the discovery of the real 
 oll'cndcr the only chance tor tlu! escape of 
 •lie .'icciised, and who nstul every possible 
 ar;;unient to shake his resolve, availed not 
 in the slightest de;;ree to shake his tirmness. 
 Tlii'y employed detectives, anil instituted 
 imiuiries in all directions in the endeavor 
 to tind out who niijiht be this friend for 
 whom Dalton was willing to risk honor and 
 life ; but their search was comiiletely lialllcd. 
 Dalton's silence was therefore taken as an 
 evidence of ^jiiilt, and his refusal to confess 
 on a friend was re;;arded as a silly attempt 
 to excite public sympathy. When the eoiin- 
 licl ventured to briii;; this forward to the 
 Jury, and tried to portray Dalton as a man 
 who chose rather to sutler than to say that 
 which miyht briii;; a friend to destruction, 
 it was re.tjarded as a wild, (Quixotic, and 
 maudlin iiiece of sentiinentalism on the part 
 of said counsel, !ind was treated by the ))ros- 
 ecutioii with unspeakable scorn and ridi- 
 cule. Under such circumstances the result 
 was inevitable : Erederick Dalton was de- 
 clared guilty, and sentenced to transporta- 
 tion for life. 
 
 Aiuon^ the notes which had been written 
 by Miss I'lymjtton, Edith was very forcibly 
 struck by some which referred to John 
 Wi^^ins. 
 
 "Who is this .1. W. ?" was written in one 
 place. "How did E. D. become aciiuaiuted 
 with him f" 
 
 In another jdace, where Wi^^ins gave 
 his testimony about the note, was written: 
 " Where was J. W. during that hour ? Had 
 he f^one to Evertoii himself?" 
 
 And ayaiii : " .1. W. was the friend of F. D., 
 and wished to save him. Miyht he not have 
 done more ?" 
 
 A^ain : " Mark well ! J. W. is a Liverpool 
 man. 11. was a Liverpool man. Had E. D. 
 ever heard of even the name of H. before the 
 fi>r;;ery f What was the nature of the deal- 
 ings between E. I), and J. W.?" 
 
 Again, when Dalton's silence was so sl.arj- 
 
 ly commented on and nrged as a proof of his 
 guilt, there occurred the following: " If E. D. 
 was silent, why did not J.W. open his month i 
 Must he not have known at least something T 
 Could he not have set the authorities upon 
 the track of the real criminal, and thus huvo 
 waved E. 1). f " 
 
 Again : " The Maltese cross did not belong 
 to Dalton. He had ordered it to be made. 
 Eor whom ? Was it not for this same friend 
 for whom he was now sutferingf Was not 
 this friend the murderer? Has hi- not thrown 
 suspicion upon E. D.liy that writing in blood? 
 The same one who comniitted the ninriKu' 
 wrote the false charge, and left the Maltese 
 cross.'' 
 
 Other notes of a similar character occurred 
 in various ]daces, liiit those which impressed 
 Edith most were the following: 
 
 " E. D. was evidently betrayed by his false 
 friend. Was not that false friend the real 
 murderer? Did lu^ not contrive to throw 
 lui E. I), tli.^ suspicion of the miinler? Might 
 not the forgery itself from the very begin- 
 ning have been part of a i»lan to ruin E. D.? 
 Hut why ruin him ? Evidently to gain some 
 benetit. Now who has been most beiielit- 
 ed by the ruin of E. D.? Wlioi'ver he is, 
 must not he be the murderer and the false 
 friend?" 
 
 Again, a little fiirtln^r on : "Has any one 
 gained any thing from the ruin of E. 1). but 
 ,(. W. ? Has not .1. W. ever since had control 
 of the Dalton property ? Is he not rich now ? 
 Has not the ruin of E. 1). made the fortune 
 of .J.W.?" 
 
 .*<uch was the substance of the papers which 
 Edith perused. They were voluminons, and 
 she continued at her task all through that 
 night, her heart all the time tilled with a 
 thousand contending emotions. 
 
 IJelbre her mind all the time there was 
 the image of her father in the Judgment-hall. 
 There he stood, the innocent man, betraytul 
 by his friend, and yet standing there in his 
 sim)ile faith and truth to save that friend, 
 obstinate in his self-sacrilieing lidelity, true 
 to faith when the other had |>roved himself 
 worthless, snlfeiiiig what can only be suf- 
 fered by a generous nature as the hours and 
 the days jiassed iiiid the end apitroached, 
 and still the traitor allowed him to snft'er. 
 And there was the hate iinil K(M)rn of man, 
 the clamor for vengeance fVoni society, the 
 condemnation of tin? Jury who had prejudged 
 his ease, the sneer of the ])ai(l advocate, the 
 scoff of the gaping crowd, to whom the plea 
 of iiohlcsKC obliijc ;inil stainless honor and per- 
 fect truth seemed only maudlin sentimentid- 
 ity and Quixotic extravaganci!. 
 
 All these thoughts were in Edith's mind 
 as she read, and tliesi; feelings swelled with- 
 in her indignant heart as all the facts in 
 that dread tragedy were slowly revealed one 
 by one. Ciuniug to this task with a mind 
 convinced at the outset of her father's inno- 
 
16 
 
 THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 oencc, shft mot with not ono circumstance 
 that could HJiiiko tliat conviction for a mo- 
 ment. In licr own Htrontj Ccclinj; hIic was 
 incapnMc of MiKlcrstitiulin^f how any ono 
 could lioiK'Htly think othcrwisf. Tlii^ tcHti- 
 mony of ailvrrsc witncHscH h( ciniul to her 
 jxTJiiry. the arjjimu nts of t'lc lawyers tiend- 
 ish malignity, the last sinnniinf^ n]i of the 
 jnd};e hitter prejudiee, and the verdict of 
 the jury a mockery of justice. 
 
 CHAPTER in. 
 
 THK MOMKNTOrS HKSOI.VE. 
 
 Eaui.Y on the folIowin>? morning Miss 
 Plymiiton called on Edith, and was slioeked 
 to see the changes that had heen made in 
 her hy that one night. She did not regard 
 80 much tlie pallor of her face, the languor 
 of her nntnner, and her unelastie ste|>, hut 
 rather the nr-v expression that ajipeared 
 upon her con iiance, tin; thoughtfulness 
 of her hrow, the deep and earnest ahstrac- 
 tiim of her ga/.<'. In that oiu^ inght she 
 seemed to have stepped from girlliood to 
 maturity. It was as though she had lived 
 tlirough the intervening exi>erienee. Years 
 had heeii crowded into hours. She was no 
 longer a school-girl — she was a woman. 
 
 Miss I'lympton soon retired, with the 
 promise to conn? again when Edith should 
 feel stronger. Breakfast was sent up, and 
 taken away untasted, and at noon Miss 
 I'lympton once more made her apjiearatice. 
 
 *' I have heen thinking ahout nuiiiy things," 
 said Edith, after some j)relimiiniry remarks, 
 "and have l)eeu trying to recall what I can 
 of my own rememhrance of papa. I was 
 only eight years old, hut I liave a pretty 
 distinct recollection of him, aiid it has heen 
 strengthened hy his portrait, which I always 
 hiive had. Of my mother I have a most 
 vivid rememhrance, and I have never for- 
 gotten ono single circnmstanco connected 
 with lier last illness. I renu^mher your ar- 
 rival, and my departure from home after all 
 was ov<'r. Ihit there is ono thing which I 
 should like very nnich to ask you ahout. 
 IJid none of my mother's relatives come to 
 see her <luring this timef 
 
 "Your mother's relatives acted very had- 
 ly indeed, dear. From the first they were 
 carried away hy the common helief in your 
 dear fathiT's guilt. Some of them came Hy- 
 ing to your nmther. She was very ill at the 
 time, and these relatives hrought her the 
 first news which she received. It was a 
 severe hlow. They were hard-hearted or 
 thoughtless enough to denounce your father 
 to her, and she in her weak stat(! tried to 
 defend him. All this i)roduced so deplorable 
 an effect that she sank rapidly. Iler rela- 
 tives left her in this condition. She tried to 
 be carried to your dear father iu his prison, 
 
 but could not hear the journey. They took 
 her as far as the gates, hut she fainte<l there, 
 and had to he taken hack to the house. 8<» 
 then she gave u)). She knew that she was 
 going to die, and wrote to me imidoriug mo 
 to como to her. She wished to intrust you 
 to nn*. I took you from her arms — " 
 
 Miss 1 lyiuptiui paused, and Edith was 
 silent for some finite 
 
 " So," said she, in a scarce amlihlo voice, 
 "darling numuna died of a broken heart f" 
 
 Miss l*lym|iton said nothing. A long si- 
 lence followed, 
 
 "Had my father no friends," asked Edith, 
 "or no relatives?" 
 
 "He had no relatives," said Miss Plyinp- 
 ton, " but an only sister. She manii-d a 
 (.'aptain Dudleigh, now !>ir Lionel Diulleigh. 
 Ihit it was a very uidiappy marriage, for 
 they separated. I never knew the cause; 
 an<l Captitin Dudleigh took it so nuu'h to 
 heart thiit he went ahroail. He could not 
 ' havti heard of your father's misfortunes till 
 I all was over and it was too late. Hut in any 
 case I do not see what he could have done, 
 nidess he hiid contrived to "hake yotir fa- 
 ther's resolve. As to his wife, I have never 
 heard of her movements, and I think she 
 I nmst have died long ago. Neither she nor 
 ' her husband is mentioned at the trial. If 
 they had been iu England, it seems to me 
 thiit they woulil have com«! forward as wit- 
 nesses iu sonu! way; so I think they were 
 both out of the country. Sir Lioiu-l is alive? 
 yet, I think, but he has always live<l (uit of 
 the worhl. I believe his family troubles de- 
 stroyed his happiness, and made him some- 
 what misanthropical. 1 have sometimes 
 thought in former years tli.-it he might nnike 
 j in(|uirie8 about y(ui, but ho has never done 
 so to my knowledge, though perhaps he has 
 j tried without being abl;> to hear where you 
 were. After all, lie would scarcely know 
 j where t() look. On the whole, I consider 
 I Sir Lionel the only friend you liave, Edith 
 darling, besides myself, and if any trouble 
 I shouhl ever arise, he would bo tho «)no to 
 ! whom I should apply for assistance, or at 
 I least advice." 
 
 I Edith listened to this, and made no com- 
 ment, but after another thoughtful pause 
 she said, 
 
 "Ahout this Wiggins — have yon ever 
 heard any thing of him since the — tho 
 trial ?" 
 
 Miss Plympton shook lier head. 
 "No," said she, "except ir.)m those form- 
 al business ut)tes. You have seen them all, 
 and know what tln'y are." 
 
 "Have yon ever formed any opinion of 
 him more favorable than what you wrote iu 
 those notes ?" 
 
 "I do not think that I wrote any thing 
 more than suspicions or surmises," said Miss 
 Plympton; "and as fir as sus|)icions are 
 coucerned, I certainly have not changed my 
 
THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 17 
 
 Tlicy took 
 iiiit('«l there, 
 
 ' llOllHl'. So 
 
 hilt hIi)^ wtiH 
 iiploriii^ iiio 
 
 iiititiNt you 
 im— " 
 
 Edith was 
 
 iilililo voice, 
 •Ml lioart f" 
 A long si- 
 
 iskod Edith, 
 
 HiKS riymp- 
 !•• iiiari'it'd a 
 *'I Diidlci^rli. 
 larriaj;!', lor 
 tli(^ caiiNo; 
 
 80 lllllcll to 
 
 [i\ could not 
 
 lortmu's till 
 
 liiit ill any 
 
 1 liavf done, 
 
 iki> your fa- 
 
 [ have never 
 
 I think she 
 
 tlier hIio nor 
 
 U! trial. If 
 
 seeiiiH to nio 
 
 ivard as wit- 
 
 k they were 
 
 onel is alive 
 
 lived out of 
 
 trouMes de- 
 
 hiiii Nomc- 
 
 HonietiineH 
 
 niit;ht make 
 
 nevi'r done 
 
 laps he has 
 
 where you 
 
 cely know 
 
 I consider 
 
 have, Editli 
 
 my trouble 
 
 the Olio to 
 
 tauce, or at 
 
 ide no com- 
 litful pause 
 
 you ever 
 the— the 
 
 il. 
 
 those form- 
 al them all, 
 
 opinion of 
 ou wrote in 
 
 any thing 
 
 "said Miss 
 
 picions are 
 
 changed my 
 
 mind. The p'v.ition wiiich he otcnpied dur- 
 ing the tri;il, and ever since, excites my sim- 
 picions against him. All othcis siitfered ; 
 lie alone was benefited. Anil now, too, 
 when all is over, he Kccms still in his old 
 jiosition— perhaps a better one than ever — 
 the agent of the estates, and assuming to 
 sonic extent a guardianshii> over you. At 
 least he gives directions about yi<u, for he 
 says you are to go back to Dalton Hall. 
 Itiit ill that he shall find himself mistaken, 
 for I will never allow y<m to put yourself in 
 his power." 
 
 " Have you over seen liliu T" asked Edith. 
 
 "No." 
 
 She bent down her head, and leaned her 
 forehead on her hand. 
 
 "Well," said she, in a low voice, half to 
 herself, " it don't matter; I shall see him 
 soon myself." 
 
 " .S'c iiim yourself !" said Miss Plympton, 
 iinxiiiiisly. "What do you mean f" 
 
 "Oh, i shall see him soon — when I g(;t to 
 Dalton Hall." 
 
 "Italtoii Hall!" 
 
 "Yes," said Edith, sinii>ly, raising her 
 liead and looking calmly ;it Miss I'lympton. 
 
 "Hut you are not going to I>altoii Hall." 
 
 "There is no other jilace for me," said 
 Edith, sadly. "I am going — I am going as 
 soon as jiossible." 
 
 "Oh no — oh no, darling; yon are going 
 to do nothing of the kind," said Miss I'lynip- | 
 ton. " I can not let you go. AVe all love [ 
 you too dearly. This is your home, and I 
 now stand in the place of those whom you 
 have lost. You arc never to leave me, Edith 
 dearest." 
 
 Edith sighed heavily, and shook her head. 
 
 "No," she said, sjieaking in a low, melan- 
 choly voice — " no, I can not stay. I can not 
 meet my friends here again. I am not what 
 I was yesterday. I am changed. It seems 
 as though some heavy weight has come upon 
 me. I must go away, and I have only one 
 place to go to, and that is my father's home." 
 
 "My darling," said Miss l'lym]iton, draw- 
 ing her chair close to Editii, and twining 
 her arms about her, "you must not talk so; 
 you can not iniagino how you distress inc. 
 I can not let you go. Do not think of these 
 things. We all love you. Do not imagine 
 that your secret will be discovered. No one 
 shall ever know it. In a few days you your- 
 self will feel dilferent. The consciousness 
 of your father's innocence will make you 
 feel more iiatient, and the love of all your 
 friends will make your life as happy as ever." 
 
 " No," said Edith, " I can not— I can not. 
 Yon can not imagine how I dread to see the 
 face of any one of them. I shall imagine 
 that they know all ; and I can not tell them. 
 They will tease me to tell them my troubles, 
 and it will (uily worry me. No, for me to 
 stay here is impossible. I would go any 
 where tirst.'' 
 
 B 
 
 She spoke ho flmily and decisivi'ly that 
 Miss I'lyinpton forbore to press her further 
 just then. 
 
 "At any rate, my darling," said she, "yon 
 need not think of Dalton Hall. I can tind 
 you otliiT placi's which will be far more suit- 
 able to you i;i every way. If it distresses 
 you to stay here, 1 can lind a hap|>y home 
 for yon, where you can stay ti'l you feel able 
 to return to iis again." 
 
 " Then) is no place," said Edith, " where I 
 can stay. I do not want to go among stran- 
 gers, or to strange ])laees. I have a Ikuiic, 
 and that is the only ]dace that I can go to 
 now. That home is familiar to nie, I re- 
 member it well. It is where I was born. 
 Dear mamma's room is there, where I used 
 to sit with her and hear her voice. My dear 
 ])a]ia ami mamma were ha]i]iy there; and 
 she died there. It has its own associations ; 
 and now siiici' this great sorrow has come, I 
 long to go there. It seems the fittest itlaco 
 for me." 
 
 " Hilt, my child," said Miss riymi)ton, anx- 
 iously, "there is one thing that yon do not 
 consider. Ear be it from uw to stand in the 
 way of any of your wishes, especially at a 
 time like this, but it seems to me that a re- 
 turn to Dalton Hall just now is hardlv safe." 
 
 "Safe!" 
 
 Eilitli spoke in a tone of surprise, ami 
 lo(d{<Ml iiiiiiiiriiigly at Miss I'lympton. 
 
 " 1 don't like this .lohn Wiggins," said 
 Miss I'lvmpton, uneasilv ; "I am afraid of 
 him." 
 
 " Hut what possible cause can there be of 
 fear Tasked Edith. 
 
 "Oh, I don't know," said Miss Plympton, 
 with a sigh ; " no one can tell. If my sus- 
 jiicions are at all correct, he is a man who 
 might be very dangerous. He has control 
 of all the estates, and — " 
 
 " Hut for that very reason I would go 
 home," said Edith, "if there were no stronger 
 inducement, to do what I can to put an end 
 to his iminagement." 
 
 " How could you do any thing with him t" 
 asked Miss I'lympton; "you so young ami 
 inexperienced." 
 
 "I don't know," said Edith, simply ; "but 
 the estates are mine, and not his ; and Dal- 
 ton Hall is mine ; and if I am the owner, 
 surely I ought to have some jiower. There 
 are other agents in the world, and other 
 lawyers. They can help me. if I wish help. 
 We are not living in the Midille Ages, when 
 some one could seize one's property by the 
 strong liand and keep it. There is law in 
 the country, and Wiggins is subject to it." 
 
 " Oh, my child," said Miss Plympton, anx- 
 iously, " I am terrified at the very thought 
 of your being in that man's power. You 
 can not tell what things are possible ; and 
 though there is law, tm you say, yet it does 
 not aMv;!y« bapiien that one can get justice." 
 
 "That I know, or ought to know," said 
 
18 
 
 THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 Edith, in a mnnrnfnl voice ; " I havo learned 
 that tills jiuHt nijjlit cinly too well." 
 
 " It Hccins to tnt',"Maid MJHHPlynipton, witli 
 the smnti anxiety in licr voice, "tlinl to re- 
 turn to Dalton Hall will lie to jnit yonrnelf 
 in Home way int<i IiIh jiower. If lie, is really 
 the unHernpulouH, crafty, and Hclieniln;r man 
 that I have Hnsjiected him to be, lie will not 
 And it ilitlleiilt to weave Home ]ilot aroniul 
 you which may endanm'r your whole life. 
 There is no safety in lieinj; near that man. 
 Be mistrcHM of I)alton Hall, lint do not ^o 
 there till you have di'iven hint away. It 
 seenm by his last letters as though he is liv- 
 ing there now, and if yon pi tln-re y<iu will 
 tind yourself in some sense under his con- 
 trol." 
 
 "Well," Haid Edith, "I do not doubt his 
 willinjjness to injure me if he can, or to weave 
 a i)lot which shall ruin me; lint, after all, 
 such ft thin;; takes time. He can not ruin 
 me in one day, or in one wet^k, an<l so I think 
 I can return to Dalton Hall in safety, and be 
 secure for a few days at least." 
 
 MisH Plympton nuide some further objec;- 
 tions, but the va^ne fears to which she ^ave 
 expression met with no resjionse from Edith, 
 who looked ujion her journey home in a vciry 
 sober anil commonidace lijiht, and refustid 
 to let her imagination t»'rrify her. Hi?r ar- 
 gument that Wi^Kiu" would re(|uire time to 
 injure her was luit «'asy to answer, and grad- 
 ually Miss Plymjitriu fouml herself forced 
 to yitdil to Edith's determination. In fact, 
 then* was nnudi in that resolve which was 
 highly natural. Edith, in the first pla(;o, 
 could not bear to resume her intimacy with 
 her school-nuites, for reasons which she had 
 stated already ; and, in addition to this, she 
 had iv strong and irresistible longing to go 
 to the oidy place that was now ]h'T home. 
 There she hoix'd to find peace, and gain con- 
 solation in tlie midst of the scenes of her 
 childhood and the memories of her parents. 
 These were her chief motives for action now ; 
 lint in addition to these she had others. The 
 chief was a strong desire to dismiss Wiggins 
 from his jiost of agent. 
 
 The detestation which she had already 
 conceived for this man has lieen noticed in a 
 previous chajiter. It had grown during past 
 years out of a habit of her mind to associate 
 with him the ajiparcnt alienation of her fa- 
 ther. But now, since her father's past life was 
 explained, this .John Wiggins ajipeared in a 
 new light. The dark suggestions of Miss 
 Plympton, her 8us)iieiona as to his character 
 and motives, had sunk deep into the soul of 
 Edith, aiul taken root there. She had not 
 yet been able to bring herself to think that 
 this John Wiggins was himself the treacher- 
 ous friend, but she was on the high-road to 
 thiit belief, and already had advanced far 
 enough to feel convinced that Wiggins could 
 have at least saved her father if he liad chosen. 
 Oiie thing, however, was evident to all the 
 
 world, and that was what Miss Plympton 
 laid HO much stress on, the fact that ho had 
 profited by her father's ruin, ami had won 
 gold and intluenci< and poHition <iut of her 
 father's tears and ag<iiues aiul di>ath. And 
 HO, while she loiig*;d to go home for her own 
 (Minsolation, there also arose within her an- 
 other nuitivt* to draw her Ihert^ — the desire 
 to see this Wiggins, to confront him, to talk 
 to him face to face, to drive him out from 
 the I)alt<in estates, and if she could not 
 vindicate her father's memory, fit least jiut 
 an end tu the triumph of one of his false 
 frii^nds. 
 
 The residt of this interview was, then, that 
 Edith should return to Dalton Hall; and as 
 she was unwilling to wait, she decided to 
 leave in two days. Miss Plympton was to 
 go with her. 
 
 "And now," said Miss Plymidon, "we 
 must write at once and give notice of your 
 coming." 
 
 " Write f" said Edith, coldly, " to whom ?" 
 
 "Why, to — to Wiggins, I sujipose," said 
 Miss Plympton, with some hesitation. 
 
 " I refuse to recognize Wiggins," said 
 Edith. " I will not communicate with him 
 in unv wav. AIv first act shall be to dismiss 
 him.'' 
 
 " Hut you must send some notice to some 
 oni'; yon nnisf have some pre]ia rations made." 
 
 " Oh, I shall not need any elaborate jirejia- 
 rations ; a room will be sulllcient. I should 
 not wish to encounter tin,' greetings of this 
 man, or see him comjilacently take crinlit to 
 himself ftir his attentions to me — anil his 
 preparations. No; I shall go and take things 
 as I find them, and I should prefer to go with- 
 out notice." 
 
 At this Miss Plympton seenied a little more 
 uneasy than before, and madi^ further efforts 
 to change Edith's decision, but in vain. She 
 was, in fact, more perplexed at Edith herself 
 than at any other thing; for this one who 
 but a day before had been a gentle, tractable, 
 docile, gay, light-hearted girl had suddeidy 
 started up into u stern, self-willed woman, 
 with a dauntless spirit and inflexible re- 
 solve. 
 
 " There is only one more thing that I have 
 to mention," said Edith, as Miss Plympton 
 rose to go. " It is a favor that I have to ask 
 of you. It is this ;" and she laid her hand 
 on the papers of the report, which were lying 
 rolled up in a parcel on the table. " Have 
 you any further use for this f Will you let 
 me keep it f" 
 
 "The need that I had for it," said Miss 
 Plyini>ton. " was over when I gave it to you. 
 I iirejiarcd it for you, and preserved, it for 
 you, and now that yoti havo it, its work is 
 accomiilished. It is yours, dearest, for you 
 to do as you choosts with it." 
 
 To this Edith murmured some words of 
 thanks, ami taking up the parcel, proceeded 
 to tie it up more carefully. 
 
THE LIVINO LINK. 
 
 19 
 
 « Plyiiiiiton 
 
 thitt ho IiikI 
 
 ,11(1 liiul won 
 
 II out of her 
 
 iloiitli. Ami 
 
 for Ikt own 
 
 thin hiT an- 
 
 ^ — tht' (h'sini 
 
 him, to talk 
 
 lini out from 
 
 w conUl not 
 
 , at h-UHt ]tut 
 
 ' of hiH fiilHu 
 
 as, th(Mi, that 
 Hail ; and as 
 fi (h'l'idiMl to 
 ilttou was to 
 
 •nii)ton, " wo 
 olico of your 
 
 "towliom?" 
 npposf," Haid 
 tation. 
 
 ifl>;ins," said 
 ati< %vith liim 
 
 bo totlismiss 
 
 lotico to somo 
 ationsnnidc." 
 ilioratc i>ri'iia- 
 nt. I should 
 
 tinj;s of this 
 taki- (Todit to 
 
 nu! — ami his 
 idtakothin^js 
 to f;o with- 
 
 i:d 
 
 ti 
 
 ti 
 
 ill 
 
 alittlonioro 
 
 rthorctVorts 
 
 vain. Slio 
 
 ith horsolf 
 
 s o!io who 
 
 , tractable, 
 
 1(1 suddenly 
 
 cd woman, 
 
 lloxible ro- 
 
 that I havo 
 ss I'lympton 
 
 havo to ask 
 id hor hand 
 h wero lying 
 
 1(\ " Havo 
 Will you let 
 
 " said Miss 
 xv(> it to you. 
 served it for 
 ts work is 
 rest, for you 
 
 no -words of 
 b1, proceeded 
 
 CHAITKU IV. 
 
 TIIK WKMll.MK IIOMK. 
 
 I»At.To\ IIai.i. was one of the most ina;;- 
 nilicent conntry-scats in .Somorsclsliire, 'I'ln* 
 village of I tallon, which b(<ars the same nani(> 
 as t\w old family seat, is situated on the 
 lianks of a little river which winds through 
 a pleasant plain on its course to tlu; iSristol 
 Channel, and at this place is crossed by a 
 tine old rustic bridjje with two .'irclies. 'I'he 
 viljjip' church, a heavy edilice, with iin enor- 
 mous ivy-;;rown tower, stands on the fuither 
 HU\i-; and beyond that the gables and chim- 
 neys of Dal t(ni llall may be seen rising, about 
 a mile away, out of the midst- of a sea of fo- 
 liage. The jiorter's hxlgi* is alnuit half a mile 
 distant from the church, and the massive 
 wall which incloses l>alt(ui Park runs ahuig 
 the road for some miles. 
 
 There was a railway station aliout fmir 
 miles away from the village, and it was at 
 this station that Kdilh arrived on her way 
 home. .Miss I'lympton liad conn? with lu'r, 
 with the intention of remaining long enougli 
 to sc(^ iMlith conifiirtably installed in her new 
 abode, and with the hope of persuiiding her 
 to go back if circumstances did not seem fa- 
 vm able. A footman aud a miiid also accom- 
 panied them. 
 
 On roaching the station they found them- 
 selves at first at a loss how to jirocced, for 
 there were no carriages in wailing. Of 
 course, as no notice had been sent of Ikm- 
 Joiiruey, Kdith could not ex]iect to Hud iiuy 
 carriage from Dalton Hall; nordid sht^ think 
 much about this circumstance. Dressed in 
 deep mourning, with her pale face and dark, 
 thoughtful eyes, she seemed to be given nji 
 to her own mournful rellections ; aud on 
 tiuding that they would have to wait, she 
 seated herself on a bench, and looked with 
 an abstracted gaze upon the snrroiimling 
 scene. Miss I'lympton gave some directions 
 to the footmiin,who at once went off to seek 
 a carriage; after which she seated herself 
 near Kdith, whih; the maid sat on a trunk 
 at a little distance. They had tr.iveled all 
 day long, and felt very nmch fatign(Ml; so 
 that nothing was said by any of tlicni as 
 they sat then! waiting for the footnniu's re- 
 turn. At length, after about half an hour, a 
 hackney-coach drove uji, which the footman 
 had i>rocured from an inn not far away, and 
 in this undignified nnuuna' they ]ire]iare(l to 
 complete their journey. A long diivo of 
 four or tiv(( inih^s now remained ; and when 
 at length they niached the ])ark gate mnns 
 of them had much strength left. Hero the 
 coach stopped, and the footnnin rang tho 
 bell loudly and impatietitly. 
 
 Then! was no innnediato answer to thi.s 
 snmnKMis, and tin; footman rang agai.i and \ 
 again ; and finally, as the ch'lay still contin- ! 
 nod, ho gave tho bell a dozen trenuMulous 
 pulls in (luick succession. This brought an 
 
 I answer, at any rate ; for a man fti)peareil, 
 j em(>rgiug from u neighboring grov(<, who 
 walke(l toward the gate with a rapid pace. 
 He was a sluu-t, bidl-necked, thickset, broad- 
 shoul(lere(l man, with coarst! black hair and 
 heavy, nuitted beard. His nose was flat on 
 his face, his chin was s(|uarc, and In* looked 
 exactly lik(! a prize-fighter, lie had a re(l 
 shirt, with a yellow spotted handkerchief 
 flung ab(uit his neck, and his corduroy tniw- 
 seis wen! tucked into a ]iair of nnnldy boots, 
 
 Th(! moment he reached th(! gat(! Ii(! roar- 
 ed out a volli!y of tli(! most fearful oaths: 
 Who wen! they f What did they m(!an, 
 (lauli theniT What tli(! thoili daxh did they 
 mean by nuiking such a <titnli dauli nois(! f 
 
 " V'on'll get y(mr ugly head broken, you 
 scoundrel I" roared the footman, who was 
 beside himself with rage at tlii« insult to 
 his mistress, coming as it did at th(! dose 
 of so long and irritating a di!lay. "Hold 
 your infernal tongue, and o|>en tlu! gate at 
 on(!o. Is this the way you dare to talk be- 
 fore your mistress f" 
 
 "Mistress! Y(mi lUixhrd fool," was the re- 
 s])ouse, "what the dnxh do I know about 
 mistresse.'i ? And if it comes to breaking 
 li(!a(ls, I'll niak(! a beginning with you, you 
 sleek, fat powder-monkey, with your shiny 
 boaver and stuffed calves!" 
 
 Kdith heard all this, ami her amazement 
 was so gn'at thiit it dnive away all fatigiu!. 
 Her heart beat high and her spirit rost! at 
 this insult. Opening th(> carriag*! door, sIk! 
 sprang out, and, walking up to tht! gate, she 
 coll fi'on ted the iiorterasagixldess might con- 
 fnuit a satyr. Tlu! calm, cold gaz(! which slit! 
 gave him was one which the briit(! could not 
 oncoiinter. Ho could face any one of his own 
 order; but tho eyt! that now rested on !tiiii 
 gave him pain, and his glance fell sulkily be- 
 fore that of his mistress. 
 
 " I am your mistress — Miss Dalton," said 
 Edith. "Open that gate immediately." 
 
 "1 don't know siny thing alxuit mistress- 
 es," said the fellow. "My orders an! not to 
 op(!n them gates to nobody." 
 
 At this rebuff Edith was for a inomeut 
 ])erpl(!xe(l, but so(Ui rallied. .Slit! retlccteil 
 that this man was a .stirvant under orders, 
 and that it would be us(!less to talk to him. 
 She must see tht! jirincijial. 
 
 " Who gavi! tliost! orders ?" she asked. 
 
 " Mr. A\'iggiiis," saitl the man, giullly. 
 
 " Is that luaii hi!re ntiw ?" aski!d Edith. 
 
 The man looked nj) suspiciously and in ev- 
 ident surprise, but his eyes fell again. 
 
 "Mr. Wiggins? He is liert!; he lives 
 here." 
 
 " Then do you go at once," sjiid Edith, loft- 
 ily," and say to that man that Miss Dalton is 
 hen!." 
 
 The ft!llow glanced furtively at the car- 
 riage, where he saw tho pale face of Miss 
 Plympton and the jialer face of the maid, 
 and then with a grunt he turned and walk- 
 
THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 ('<l up tlir nvomip. Kilitli went Imck to flm 
 caniiiK'' and riMiiiiiiMl hiiHcat. 
 
 'I'liis Hrt'iii- hail )ii'iiiliiri'il a iiritroiitiil rft'ect 
 11111)11 lirr t wo (■t)iii|iaiiiiiii.s, MisN IM,viii|it<>irN 
 worst a|ii»rcli('iiHii)iiM Hcciiicd JiiNiillcd Ity this 
 rndi' rt'|iiil.si- at the ^att-H, and thi^ iiionicnt 
 that I'.dilli caiiK! back hIic ht'){an to t-iitiitat 
 liiT til I'ftiirii. 
 
 " ('oiiic hack," kIic Haid, " to thi' inn. Do, 
 dariiii;;, at hast tor tiio ni^lit, till \vu ciiii 
 wild word to \V''ininM." 
 
 "No," said Miiiiii, tlrinly ; "I will not rec- 
 <>;;ni/,i' \\'iy;;;iiis at all. I am K"i"W <" ''•'*- 
 miss him tin- moment that I ciilrr tin; Hall. 
 I can wait iialimtly Just now." 
 
 " Ihit at least conii' hack t'vr this ni^^ht. 
 Yon may 1m' suit that they will not he ready 
 fur ytm. You will have to I'onus buck after 
 all." 
 
 "\V.Il,"said i;dith,"I shall at least take 
 formal |iossession of Dalton Hall lirst, and 
 let \\'i;;y:ins see that I am mistresn there." 
 
 .Miss riympton sighed. Kvery hour only 
 showed in a stroii;;er manner how ho]ieless 
 wiis any attempt of hers to move Kdith from 
 any resolve that she mifiht make. Already 
 she reeo}ini/,e(l in that slender yonnj; nirl 
 the stuhiiorn spirit of her father — a spirit 
 which would meet death and destruction 
 rather than swerve from its set purpose. 
 
 Nothiiij; more was said, hnt they all wait- 
 ed patiently for the portci's return. It seem- 
 ed a very Ion;; tinu'. The footman fussed and 
 fumed, and at lenf^th liejiuiled the time by 
 smoking ami chatting; with the coachman, 
 whom he ipu'stioned about Mr. AViji^'us. 
 The coachman, however, eonld j;ive him no 
 information on t)ie snbject. "I on'y know," 
 said he, "as how th.at this yer \VijLjnir.s is 
 a Liverpool fH'ui, an' latterly lie seems in- 
 clined to live here. Hut he don't in-ver see 
 no eninpany, an' kee]is hisself shut n]> close." 
 
 At lenjitli, after waitinj; for more than half 
 .111 hour, the noise of carria^^e wheels was 
 lie.'ird, and a bronKhani appeared driven by 
 the porter. He tnrm'd the bron^ham inside 
 tlie ii:\t(', .and t hen f^ett iny; down, he unlocked 
 the small ^jate and advanced to theearriaj;(\ 
 The fellow seemed now to try to be more re- 
 spectful, for he liad a hat on his head which 
 lie took oif, and made a cliiiiisy attempt at 
 a bow. 
 
 " Hc}^ i>ardon, miss," said lie, " for keepin' 
 you waitin'; but I had to pnt the bosses in. 
 Mr. AVijijfins siiysas how yon're to come nji in 
 the broiij^ham, an' your trunks an' thiiif^s'll 
 be took lip afterward." 
 
 "Hut I want to drive np in this coacli. I 
 can't remove the liifipij^e," said Edith. 
 
 "I don't know about that, miss," .said tlio 
 porter. " I've jjot to do as I'm tcdd." 
 
 At this Kdith was silent ; but her ll.'isliinj; 
 eyes and a Hush that swept over her pale face 
 Hhiiwed her indi;;nation. 
 
 " Ho this is the way he dares to treat me," 
 paid she, after some silence. " Well," she 
 
 continued, " for the present I muHt yield ami 
 Hiibmit to this insolence. Ibit it only shows 
 more clearly the character of the man. I 
 suppose we mast ^o," she continued, lookinj; 
 at .Miss riympton, and once more opciiiii;r 
 the coach door herself. 
 
 Miss riympton had been more a;,'itate<l 
 than ever at this last message, and as Ldilh 
 oiiened the door she asked her. bleat hlessly, 
 
 " What do yon mean f What are you Co- 
 llin to do, dear f" 
 
 " I am Koinn to Dalton Hall," said Kdith, 
 • luietly. " We must j;o in the hn)ii);hani, anil 
 wi' must ipiit this." 
 
 Miss I'lympton liesitated, and the nniid, 
 who was still more terrilled, clasped her 
 hands in silent ilespair. ihil the porti'r, who 
 had heard all, now spoke. 
 
 " Hi'K pardon, miss," said he, "but that 
 lady needn't trouble alioul it. It's .Mr. Wij;- 
 jfins's orders, miss, th.at on'y yaii are to };o to 
 the Hall " 
 
 " WliJit ihsutrer.'ible insolence!" exclaimed 
 Miss I'lympton. " What shockinj; and aliom- 
 inable arro^rjince !'' 
 
 " I ilo not regard it in the Hlijjhtest," said 
 Kdith, serenely. "It is only assumption on 
 his ii.irt. Yon are to come with me. If I 
 jiass throii{j;h that gate you are to come also. 
 Come." 
 
 "Oh, my dearcHt, my own dearest Editli, 
 do not !^ waif !— come back and let ns talk 
 over what weonttht to do. Let us see a law- 
 yer. Let us wait till to-morrow, and see if 
 a straiii^er like Wi^;jiins can refuse admission 
 to the mistress of Dalton Hall." 
 
 " Heg pardon, mum," said the jiorter, " but 
 Mr. Wi;;};iiis ain't refusin' admission to Miss 
 Dalton— it'sothers that he don't want, that's 
 all. The lawyers can't do any thin' agin 
 that." 
 
 "My child," said Miss I'lympton, "do yon 
 hear that f Yon shall not go. Tiiis man 
 knows well what he can do. He nnderstaiids 
 all the worst injustice that can be done in the 
 name of law. His whole life has been lived 
 in the practice of all those iiiiipiities that 
 the law winks at. Yon see now at tin' out- 
 set what his imrpose is. He w ill admit you, 
 but not yonr friends. He wishes to get yon 
 alone in his iiowcr. And why does he not 
 come himself? Why does lie use sucli aii 
 agent as this?" 
 
 Miss I'lymi>ton spoke rapidly, and in ex- 
 cited tones, but her excitement did not ati'ect 
 Edith in the slightest degree. 
 
 " I think yon are altogether too imagin.a- 
 tive," said slie. " His orders are absurd. If 
 I go through that gate, yon shall go too. 
 Come." 
 
 "KdithI Edith! I implore yon, mydarling," 
 cried Miss I'lyiiijiton, "do not go. Comeback. 
 It will not be long to wait. Comt; to the vil- 
 lage till to-morrow. Let us at least get the 
 advice of a lawyer. The law can surely give 
 an entrance to the rightful owner." 
 
THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 fll 
 
 iNt yiflil anil 
 : only nIiowh 
 llii' iiiiiii. I 
 ikmI, liiokiiiK 
 (ire opniiii;; 
 
 DPf ii;;itiil<'(l 
 iimI us Kdith 
 Iciitlili'H.sly, 
 arc yiiii j{i)- 
 
 ' HiiUI Kilitti, 
 (>ii^liaiii,uii<l 
 
 i<l tli<- maid, 
 
 rlas|ii'il Imt 
 
 I- pdi til', who 
 
 ■, "l.iit flint 
 D'sMr. Wi;;- 
 / ari! Ill nt> to 
 
 '!" cxclaitni'tl 
 11^ aiitl aliiiiii- 
 
 ij;l\t('Hl," said 
 
 ssiiiii|iti<iii on 
 
 itli inc. It' I 
 
 to coino also. 
 
 cart'st Edith, 
 lid lit iiH talk 
 
 iiH scr a law- 
 ^w, anil SCI! if 
 
 ISC adniisKidU 
 
 liortiT, " Imt 
 
 ssimi to Miss 
 
 want, tliat'8 
 
 tliin' agin 
 
 on, "do yon 
 This man 
 nndcrstand.s 
 ' done in the 
 as Ik'cii livid 
 iliiitics that 
 at the ont- 
 11 admit yoii, 
 I's to ;jet yon 
 docs he not 
 usu bncli an 
 
 ■V, and in cx- 
 did not utii'ct 
 
 too iiuaginii- 
 ' al>snrd. If 
 shall go too. 
 
 ,mydarlinp," 
 Comeback, 
 inc to tilt) vil- 
 lea.st get tin; 
 11 Hniely give 
 Iff." 
 
 IlK DltKW I'IKIM IlIH intKASr A LAKCiK CI.AHI'-KNIKK. 
 
 " Hnt he doesn't deny an entrance to me," 
 said ICdith, "and it' I go, yon shall uouio u\in), 
 C'lime."' 
 
 Miss IMymptitn hesitated. She saw that 
 IMitli was tnlly ileteriniiied to go to Dalton 
 Hall, and she. could not hear to part with her. 
 Hilt at tiie same time she was so terrilied at 
 the thought of forcing a way in sjiitt^ of ihe 
 opposiiiiin of SI) fonnidahle a villain as Wig- 
 gins that she shrank from it. Love at lenjith 
 triumphed over fear, and she followed Kdith 
 out of the coach, together with the maid. 
 
 Meanwhile the porter had stood in deep 
 jierplcxity watching this scene, lint at length 
 w hen Miss I'lympton had reached the gnimiil 
 and prepared to follow Kdith ho put hiniM'lf 
 in front of them. 
 
 " Hcg iiardon, miss," said he, " lint its jigin 
 orders for them others to go. It's on'y yon 
 that Mr. Wiggins '11 let in." 
 
 " Mr. Wiggins has nothing to say ahoiit 
 the matter," said Kdith, coldly. 
 
 " lint I've got to obey order.s,'' said the 
 ntan. 
 
 "Will yon pleaso ! ♦and aside and let me 
 pass ?" said Kdith. 
 
 "I can't let them otliera in," .said the por- 
 ter, doggedly. " Yon may go.'' 
 
 ".John," said Kdith, (piietly, "I'm sorry to 
 troiihle yon, Imt yon must watch this man ; 
 and, driver, do yon stand at the gate and 
 keep it open." 
 
 At this .lohn llting down his hat upon the 
 road, tore olf his-coat and tossed it after the 
 
 hat, !ind, with a <'hiickle of soinethin;; like 
 exnllation. ]irepared to obey his misln ss by 
 putting himself in ii "scientilic'' atlitnde. 
 He saw well enough that the porter was a 
 formidable foe, and his face was a diplum.'i 
 in itself that fully testillcd to the skill and 
 science of that foe; but .lidiii was plucky, 
 and in his prime, and very conlident in his 
 own poweis. I^o.loliii stood olland piipared 
 for the fray. On the other hand, the porter 
 was by no means at a loss. As John |ire- 
 pared he liackcd slowly toward the gate, 
 glaring like ii wild beast at his assailant. 
 Hilt .lohn was suddenly interrni>ted in his 
 movenieiits by the driver. 
 
 ".•^(•e here, yiniiii; mail," said the latter, 
 who had sprnii;; from the box at I'.ilith's or- 
 der, "do yon stand by thegiite, an' I'll tickle 
 that feller with this whip, an' see how he 
 likes it." 
 
 'flic driver was a stout, solid, muscular 
 fellow, with blii.'id shoulders ;ilid liiili-ilog 
 as|iect. In his hand he llonrished a heavy 
 whip, and as \h; spoke 'li. eyes soiiglit out 
 some part of the iiorter,-, iierson at which he 
 might take aim. As he s]ioketlie porter be- 
 came aware of this second assailant, and a 
 dark and malignant frown lowered over his 
 I evil face. He slowly drew from his breast a 
 ' large clas])-kiiife which was as forniidabh- as 
 a dagger, and openi;ig this, he laid it signili- 
 I cantly before him. 
 
 Hilt now a new turn was given to the iirog- 
 rcss of affairs. Had the porter said nothing. 
 
II /- 
 
 22 
 
 THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 Miss Plympton might have ovcrconio her 
 IVars fiir eiioiij^h to accompany Edith ; but his 
 inenacJiig h)okH and words, and tlies<! prepa- 
 rations for a struggh!, were too much. 
 
 " Editli, my child, my dearest, do not ! do 
 not I I can not go ; I will not. See these 
 men ; they will kill one another. John, come 
 away. Driver, go V)ack to the box. Come 
 away at one(\ IJo yon hear, .John ?" 
 
 .John did hear, and after some hesitation 
 conclndi^d to obey. Ho Htep])ed biiek from 
 the gate, and stood awaiting the progress of 
 events. The driver also stood, waiting fur- 
 ther ordiTH. 
 
 " Edith dearest," said Miss Plynii>ton, 
 "nothing would induce mo to go through 
 thos'' gates. You must not go." 
 
 "I'm sure," said l^ditli, "I sh.all be very 
 sorry if you will not eonu*; but, for my own 
 part, I am (|uite resolved to go. Don't be 
 afraid. Come." 
 
 Miss Plympton shuddered and shook her 
 head. 
 
 "Well," said i:dith, "perhaps it will he 
 as well for you to wait, si-jce you are so agi- 
 tated ; and if you really will not come, you 
 can drive back to the village At any rate, 
 I can set^ you to-morrow, and I will drive 
 down for you the first thing." 
 
 MissIMynipton looked mournfully at Edith. 
 
 "And you, liichards," said Edith, looking 
 at her maid, "I suppost? it is no use for mo 
 to ask you. I see how it is. Well, never 
 mind. 1 dare say she needs you more than 
 I do; ,'ind to-morrow will make all right. I 
 see it only distresses you for mt^ to i>ress you, 
 so I will say no more. Good- by for the 
 l)resent." 
 
 Edith h(dd out her liand. Miss Plympton 
 took it, let it go, iind folding Edith in her 
 arms, she burst into tears. 
 
 " I'm afraid — I'm .'itVaid," said she. 
 
 "What off said Edith. 
 
 "About yon," moaned Miss Plympton. 
 
 "Nonsense," said Edith. " I shall call on 
 yon to-morrow as soon as j'ou are up." 
 
 Miss Plynii)tou sighed. 
 
 Edith held out her hand to her maid. Rich- 
 ards, jind kindly b.ade her good-l!\ . The girl 
 wept bitterly, and could not speak. It was 
 an unusual thing for E<lith to do, anil was 
 j'ather too solemn a proceeding in view of a 
 short se)iaration for one night, and this 
 struck Edith herself. Ihit who knows what 
 one niglit may bring forth? 
 
 Editli now left them, and, passing through 
 the gate, she stood and waved her hand at 
 them. The porter followed and shut the 
 gate. Miss Plym)>ton, the maid, the driver, 
 and .John all stood looking after Edith with 
 un<'asy fiices. Seeing that, she forced a smile, 
 and tinding tnat they would not go till she 
 hiid gone, she waved a last adieu and entered 
 the brougham. As she did so she heard the 
 h(dt turn in the lock as the ]torter fastened 
 the gate, and an ominous dread aro.se within 
 
 her. Was this a presentiment? Did she have 
 a dim foreshadowing of the future ? Did she 
 conjecture how long it would he before she 
 passed through that gate again, and how and 
 wherefore? It matters not. Other thoughts 
 soon came, and the i)orter jumping into the 
 seat, drove rapidly oif. 
 
 Edith found herself carried along through 
 lordly avenues, with giant trees, the growth 
 of centuries, rising grandly on eitht-rsidt! and 
 overarching above, and between which long 
 vistas ojx'ned, where the ey(! could tak(! in 
 wide glades and slo])ing meadows. Some- 
 times she ciiught sight of eminences rising in 
 the distance covered with groves, and along 
 the slopes herds of d(!er sometimes came 
 bounding. Finally there came to view a 
 broad lawn, with a pond in the centre, be- 
 yond which arose a statidy edifice which 
 Edith recognized as the home of her child- 
 hood. 
 
 It needed oidy one glance, however, to 
 show Edith that a great change had taken 
 place since those well-rememltered days of 
 childhood. Every where the old order and 
 neatness had disappeared, .and now in all di- 
 rections there were the signs of carelessness 
 and neghu't. The once smooth lawn was 
 now overgrown with tall grass; the mai;ri." 
 of the pond was filled with rushes, and it?: 
 surface with slime ; some of the windows of 
 the Hall were out, and some of the chimney- 
 jiots were broken ; while over the road grass 
 hail been Jillowed to grow in many places. 
 Edith recognized all this, and an involuntary 
 sigh esca])ed her. The carriage at length 
 sto|)ped, and she got out and ascended the 
 steps to the door of the house. 
 
 The door was open, and an ungainly-look- 
 ing neuro servant was standing in the hall. 
 
 "Who has .'hargi^ of this house?" asked 
 Edith. " Is there a housekeeper?" 
 
 The servant grinned. 
 
 " Housekeepa, miss? Yes, mis.s, dar's Missa 
 Dunbar." 
 
 "Call the liousekei'iier, then," said Edith, 
 " at\d tell her that I am waiting for her in 
 the drawing-i'oom." 
 
 The servant went otf, and Edith then en- 
 tered the drawing-room. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 Tin; STUAXl.I': INMATICS ok DA'-TOX HAM,. 
 
 In that well-remembered drawing-room 
 there was much that renewed the, long ])ast 
 grief of childhood, and nothing whatever to 
 soothe the sorrow of the ]iresent. Looking 
 around, Edith found many things the same 
 as she once remembered them; but still 
 there were great changes — changes, too, 
 which were of the same miture as those 
 which she had noticed outside. Every 
 thing showed traces of carelessness and 
 
THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 23 
 
 )i(l h\w liavo 
 
 f Ditl .-^ho 
 
 iiid liow iiud 
 icrthonf^lits 
 iiig iuto the 
 
 )iig throuj;h 
 , tho fifowth 
 licisidt' antl 
 
 1 which h)ni; 
 >uld tiiki! in 
 i}\V8. Somc- 
 icearisiii« in 
 I's, and ah)ng 
 etinics canio 
 (! to view a 
 le ct'iitn'. he- 
 •diiicc which 
 of hor chihl- 
 
 however, to 
 
 ;;(' had taken 
 icrcd (hiys <>t" 
 .)ld onhT and 
 now in all tU- 
 f carelessness 
 th lawn wart 
 ^; tho niai.ti!' 
 hhIich, and it^ 
 le windows of 
 'the chimney- 
 the road grass 
 
 many i)la<-es. 
 n involuntary 
 ige at length 
 
 ascended tho 
 
 igainly-look- 
 
 in the hall. 
 
 ouse?" asked 
 
 iaSjdar'sMissa 
 
 said Edith, 
 ig for her in 
 
 ,dith then cn- 
 
 .\T,TO\ HALL. 
 
 drawing-room 
 the long Itast 
 r whatever to 
 it. Looking 
 iigs tho same 
 m; hut still 
 changes, too, 
 hin* as those 
 side. Every 
 elessness and 
 
 long neglect. Tho seats of manj- of tho ' so soon," said she at length ; " and I can not 
 handsome, richly carved chairs wen^ ruined, tell yon how I regret what has ha])pened. 
 Costly vases had disai)|>eared. Dnst eov- It was too hard for you. Hut we were tak(!U 
 ered every thing. Books .iiid ornaments hy surprLse. I entreat you not to suppose 
 which lay around wore soiled and spoiled. ; that any thing ^mt kindness was intended." 
 In that ai)p!iri!ntly deserted lionse thens | Edith looked now at Mrs. Dunhar with an 
 seemed to have heen no oiio for years who! earnest scrutiny that was fully equal to the 
 cared to pn-serve the original grace and ele- searching gaze of the former. Mrs. Dunhar's 
 ganco of its decorations. Hut Edith did not tone was cordial and lady-like, hut Edith 
 have a very long time to give to her survey felt re]nignance at her use of the word " we.'' 
 of this room, for in a few minutes she heard Hy that little word she at once identitied 
 tho rustle of a dress, and, turning, she saw ; herself Avith Wiggins, and nuide herself in 
 a woman approaching who was evidently part resi)onsihle for tho scene at the gate, 
 the hou.sekeeper. j "Kindness,' said she, "is a strang(( word 
 
 Edith was ])repared to see .some woman to use in ccumection with that scene, when 
 who might Ix; in keeping with these (h'so- I foniul myself forced to p.'irt with the only 
 late surroundings and with the rufhun porter mother that I have known since my own 
 at the gate — some coarse?, insolent female; mamma *lie<l." 
 
 and she ha<l also prepai ' herself to eneoun- \ Mrs. Dunhar looked at her in silence, and 
 ter any rudeness witii iortitude. Ihit the there came over her face a strange, patient 
 lirst sight of Mrs. Dunhar was enough to expression that at any other time W(mld 
 
 show her that her anticipations wero C(mi- 
 jiletely unfounded, 
 
 have excited Edith's symi)athy and pity. 
 Some rejdy seeme<l to rise to her lips, hut if 
 
 Slu? was a woman who might have heen it was so, it was instantly checked ; and aft- 
 •ahont lifty, and even older. The outline of ! er a moment's hesitation she said, in a low 
 
 hor features showed marks of former heanty, 
 and the general air of In-r face was .alto- 
 gether ahove the rank of a Innisehold do- 
 mestic. The expressioti was one of calm, 
 strong self-control, of dignity, and of ri'S(du- 
 tion; at the same time there was in her 
 dark, earnest eye.s a certain vigilant out- 
 
 voice, 
 
 " It is cheerless in this room. If yon will 
 com<! v, itli mo I will take you where yon 
 can he more comfortahle." 
 
 Sa..ing this, she led the way out, and Edith 
 followed, feeling a little perplexed at Mrs. 
 Dunhar's manner, and trying to understan<l 
 
 look, as of ono who is on ginird at all times; [ how it was that she was so identified with 
 and her gaze .as she (ixed it upon Edith was Wiggins. She tliouglit she could see an ev- 
 o'le of searching, eager, yet most cautions \ ident kindliness toward herscU', liut how 
 and wary examination. On the whole, this that could (^(x'xist with the treatment whicii 
 woman excited some surprise? in Edith; and she had received at the gates was rather a 
 while she was grutitied at fiiuling in her one ' puzzle. 
 
 who was not out of the reach of respect, she j Mrs. Dunhar led the way up to the second 
 yet was i)er]>lexed !it tho calm and searching story, and along a corridor toward the right 
 scrutiny of which she was the ohjeet. Hot ] wing. Mere she came to a room in tlu' front 
 she did not now take any time to think | of the house wliicli looked out njion tlu- i)ark, 
 ahont this. A vague idea occnrri'd to her j and connuanded an extensive view. There 
 
 that Mrs. Dunhar, lik(? many other house- 
 keepers, was OIU1 of that nunu'rous class 
 who "have seen hotter days;" so, .after the 
 first look, she felt snilieiently satistied, and 
 advancing a stej) or two to meet her, she 
 frankly held out Iu>r hand. 
 
 The housekeeper took it. ami said, simply, 
 "W<'leome to Dalton Hall." 
 
 "Thank you," saiil Eilith. " If I had met 
 you hffore, I might have lieeu sjiared some 
 Innniliation. Hut I need not talk of that. 
 I am very tired and very faint. I have trav- 
 eled all day, and have met with gross insult 
 at my own gate. 1 want food and rest. 
 Will yon have tlie kindness, then, to take me 
 to my own room at once, and then get me a 
 cup of tea ?" 
 
 Mrs. Dunhar had not removeil her earnest 
 eyes from Editii; and even after she had 
 ceased s]>eaking she > till look.-d at her for a 
 few moments in tho same way without an- 
 swering. 
 
 " Wo did not know that vou were coming 
 
 was !i well-furnished Jx'droom otf this room, 
 to which Mis. Dunhar at once led her. 
 
 '' If w<' had only received notice that you 
 were coming," said she, " you woid<l have 
 mi't with a hetter reception." 
 
 Edith said nothing, for oiiee more the 
 word " we" jarretl nn]deasaiiily iiixui her. 
 
 "Shall you have any olijection to occupy 
 this room for to-night ?" asked Mrs. Dunhar. 
 
 "Th.'iidc you," said Edith, "noiu; what- 
 ever; hilt I should like very much to have 
 mv luggage. It was taken hack to Dal- 
 
 t(UI." 
 
 "Taken hack?" 
 
 "Yes. Miss Plympton was not admitted, 
 and my luggjige was on the coach." 
 
 Mrs. Dunhar made no reply for some mo- 
 ments. 
 
 "I should feel much ohligeil if yon would 
 sinid one of the servants to fetch it," said 
 Edith. 
 
 " 1 don't se(! why not," sai<l Mrs. Dunhar, 
 in a hesitating voice. 
 
24 
 
 THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 •i! 
 
 "And have you any writing inatcrialH ?" 
 asked Edilli. "I should lilie to wfud a few 
 liiu'H to Miss I'lynipton." 
 
 Mrs. Dunbar loolitul at licr with onc^ of 
 those strauf^o, searcliiufi <;lauc'i's iiceuliar to 
 her, and after souic hesitation said, "I will 
 look." 
 
 "Thank you," said Edith, and turned 
 away. Mrs. Dunhar tin u left her, and did 
 not return for some time. At len;;th she 
 made her aiipearanco, followed by the black 
 servant, who carrie<l a tray. A table was 
 laid in the outer room, and a bountiful re- 
 past spread then!. Edith <lid not eat much, 
 however. SIk? sat siiipiiifr a cu|i of ten, and 
 thinking protoundly, while Mrs. ])un1>ar 
 took a seat a little on one side, so as to be : 
 unobserved, from which jiosition she watch- 
 ed Edith most closely. It was as though she 
 was stuilying the character of this young 
 girl so as to see what its promise might be. 
 And if Jf's. Dunbar had any knowledgt> of 
 the \vorl( , one thing must have be<'ii plainly 
 manifest to her in that examination, and 
 that was that this young girl was not to bo 
 managed or controlled after the fashion of J 
 most of her kind, but wouhi reiiuire very ' 
 dillicnlt and very ])eeuliar treatment if she 
 were to be i)ent to the will of others. Mrs. 
 Dunbar seenu'd to recognize this, ami the 
 discovery seemed to create distress, for a , 
 heavy sigh eseapeil lier. 
 
 Till' sigh roused Edith. She at once rose 
 from her scat and turned round. 
 
 "And now, Mrs. l)nnbar." said she, ''if 
 you will let me have the writing materials 
 I will senil a few lines to poor Miss I'lynip- 
 ton." I 
 
 Mrs. Dunbar at once arose, ;iiid going out 
 of the room, returned in a few niinnlcs with 
 a desk, wliieli she laid upon another tabic. 
 Edith at once seated herself to write, and 
 whil(! the black servant wiis removing the 
 things she hurriedly wrote the following: i 
 
 "Pai.ton IIaix. 
 "My DAiii.iNTr AfNTiK, — I write at once 
 because 1 know you will lie devoured with 
 anxiety, ami will not sleep to-niglit unless 
 you hear from me. You will l)e dilighted to 
 learn, then, that I am safe and unharmed. . 
 The man Wiggins lias not yet made his aji- ' 
 ])carance, but I hoiie to see him this evening. 
 The Hall looks familiar, but tlcsolatc, except 
 in tlie room where I now am writing, where 
 I liiid sul'licient comlbrt to satisfy me. I am 
 too much fatigued to writ<' any more, niu- is 
 
 For some time Edith sat involved in 
 thought. She had written cheerfully enough 
 to Miss Plymptoii, but that was from a kind- 
 ly desire to reassure her. In reality, she was 
 overwhelmed with lomdiness and melan- 
 choly. Tin* asjiect of the grounds below and 
 of tli(> drawing-room had struck a chill to her 
 heart. This great drear house o|)]ue,ssed her, 
 and the melancholy with which she had left 
 I'lynipton Terrace now becanit! intensilied. 
 The gloom that had overwhelmed her fa- 
 ther seemed to rest upon her father's house, 
 and (h'scended thence uiioii her own sjtirit, 
 strong and brave though it was. 
 
 In the midst of her melancholy thoughts 
 she was startled at the sound of a low sigh 
 iinmedi.'itely liehind her. She turned hast- 
 ily, and saw a man standing there, who had 
 entered the room so silently that, in her ab- 
 straction, she had not heard him. He was 
 now standing aliout half-way Ix'tweeii her 
 and the dour, and his eyes were lixeii n])on 
 her with S(miething of that same earnest 
 scrutiny wliicli she had already observed in 
 the gaze of Mrs, Dunbar. One glance at this 
 man was sullieient to show her that it was 
 no servant, and that it could be no other than 
 Wiggins hiiuseU". He was not a man, how- 
 ever, who could be dismissed with a glance. 
 There was something in him which ecunpidled 
 a iurther survey, and Edith found herself 
 tilled with a certain indcliiialde wonder as 
 she look<'d at him. His eyes were lixed on 
 her; her eyes were fixed «.n him; and they 
 both looked upon each other in silence. 
 
 He was a man who might once have been 
 tall, lint now was stooping so that his origi- 
 nal height was ccnicealed. He was plainly 
 dressed, and his coat of some thin black stuff 
 hung loosely about him. He wore slijijiers, 
 which served to account for his noiseless en- 
 trance. Vet it was not things like these that 
 Edith noticed at that time, but rather the 
 face that now apjieared before her. 
 
 It was a face which is <uily met with once 
 in a lifetime — a face which had such an ex- 
 jircssion that the beholder could only feel 
 iiallled. It was the face of one who might 
 lie the oldest of men, so snow-white was the 
 hair, so deej) were the lines that were graven 
 upon it. His clieek-bones were iironiineiit, his 
 mouth was concealed by a huge gray mus- 
 tache, and his cheeks were sunken, while 
 his forehead projected, ami was fringed with 
 heavy eyebrows, from behind which his dark 
 eyesglowed with a scut olgloomy lustre from 
 caxfrnous depths. Over his whole face there 
 it necessary, as I intend to call on you as was one pervading expression that was more 
 early as jiossible to-morrow moi'iiing. I'util than despondency, and near akin to despair, 
 then good-by, and don't be foolishly anxious It was the i'Xi>ression of a man whose life 
 about vour own Edith," had been a series of disheartening failures, 
 
 I or of one who had sinned dei']dy, or of (uio 
 
 This note I'.dith folded .'iiid directed to ! who had sulVcred unusual and protiacteil 
 
 "Miss riymiiloii, Dal I on." After which she anguish of soul, or of one who has lieeii huig 
 
 handed it to Mrs. Dunbar, who toidv it in si- I a jtrcy to th.at form of madness which takes 
 
 leuco and left the room. 
 
 the form of melancholy. So this might mean 
 
THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 a rniiiiMl life, or it nii-^lit mean tikkIih'ss, or' 
 it inij^lit lie tile ,staiii|i ot" sorriiw, or it iiii^jlit 
 1)0 tln' liainlwritiiif? of iciiiorsf. Whatcvi-r 
 it was coiilil not fcrtaiiily lie fiatluTcd from 
 one survey, or from many, nor, imlicd, conld 
 it lie known for certain at all without liiis 
 man's confi'ssioii. i 
 
 For in additioti to this mysterious exiires- ' 
 sioii tliere WHS anotlier, wliieh was comliined 
 with it so I'losely tlnit it seemed to liirow 
 conjecture still further otV tho truck and he- 
 wiMir the ya/cr. Thi.s was a certain air of 
 It.itient and incessant vigilance, a look-out 
 npoM the world as from heliind an outpost 
 of (lanf;er, the hunted look of the criminal 
 who t'ears detecti(m, or the ncvei-endinj^ 
 ■walihfulm ss of the niwasy conscience. 
 
 All this Edith coidd not help weeinfj;, and 
 fihe leathered this j;em'ral result frmn hei' sui'- 
 vey of that face. tin. n;;li at that time she could 
 not put her conclusion in words. It seemed 
 to her to !)(' remorse whi<h she saw tlu're, 
 ftutl the nnmifestations of a stri<'ken con- 
 Hciencp. It was the crindmil who feared 
 ilutectioii, the wrong-doer on the constant 
 
 look-out for discovery — a criminal most 
 veneralde, a wr(Ui;;-doer who must have 
 sntVered; l)nt if a criminal, one of dark ami 
 bitter menutries, ami ono whose th(ui<rhts, 
 reachiiif^ over the years, must have liccn as 
 ^floomy as death. 
 
 And this was WiuoinsI 
 
 Not the Mcphistopiieles which she had im- 
 a;,Mned ; not the evil nioikin;; lieiul ; liiit om' 
 
 rather who orijiinally had not 1 n without 
 
 good instincts, and who might have liecomo 
 n virtuous nnin had fate not ]uevcnted. It 
 w.'is not the leering, sneering templi'r that 
 she saw, liul rather some representation of 
 that archangel ruined, for it was as though 
 "his Imow dee)) scjirs of thunder hatl in- 
 trenched, and care sat on his faded cheek.'' 
 
 At lirst the wonnin's heart of Edith inado 
 itself felt, and she jiitied him; hut (|ni<'kly 
 the daughter's heart spoke, and it denounced 
 him. If this man lelt remorse, it could oidy 
 he for c)ne great crime, !ind what crime was 
 so great as that of the hetrayal of Frederick 
 DaltcmT W;is it this that ii.nl crushed the 
 traitor? Thou";htN like these Hashed throu";h 
 
THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 her mind, and her glance, wliich at first had 
 softened from comniiHeration, now j;re\v Htern 
 and cold and hard ; and the fixed, eajjer look 
 wliich came to her from those gloomy and 
 mournful eyes was returned by one which 
 ■was hard and ])itiles8 and repellent. IJack 
 to her heart came that feeling which for a 
 moment had faltered : the old hate, nourishe<l 
 through her lifetime, and nnignified during 
 the last few days to all-absorliing propor- 
 tions: th(! strongest feeling of her nature, 
 the hate of th(^ c^neniy of herself and the de- 
 stroyer of her father. 
 
 ^Viggins, on his part, with his quick, vigi- 
 lant eyes, did not fail to mark at once tiie 
 change that hatl come over Kditli. He saw 
 the first glance of pity, and then the transi- 
 tion to coldness dee])ening into hate. Until 
 then there had seemed a spell upon him which 
 fixed his gaze on Edith, liut now tliesp»!ll was j 
 suddenly broken. He removed his gaze, and ' 
 then, taking a chair, he sat upo)i it, and for 
 a few moments remained with his eyes lixed 
 on the lloor. 
 
 At last he raised his heail, and, looking 
 fixedly at Kdith, began to speak, and spoke 
 in a strange, low, measured tone, with fre- 
 quent hesitations; in a way also that gave 
 the idea of one who, for some cause or other, 
 was putting a strong constraint upon him- 
 self, and only speaking by an eti'ort. 
 
 '• I regret, very dee])ly," said he, " that you 
 were treated with rudeness. Had I known 
 that yon would come so soon, I should have 
 notified the — the porter. Hut he — he nteant 
 uo harm. H;' is very faithful — to orders." 
 
 " I am sorry to say," said Kdith, " that it 
 was not the rudeness of the porter that was 
 otiensive, but rather the rudeness of your- 
 self." 
 
 Wiggins started. 
 
 " Of myself ?" In^ repeated. | 
 
 "Certainly." said Edith; "in refusing to 
 admit one who is my dearest friend on 
 earth." 
 
 Wiggins drew a long breath, and looked 
 troubled. 
 
 " It was distressing to me," said he at 
 length; "but it could not be." 
 
 At tills, Edith felt inexpressibly galled, 
 but for the time restrained herself. 
 
 " I'erliaps you would have been pleased," 
 said she, " if 1 had gone away with her." 
 
 "Oh no," saitl Wiggins, dreamilv — "oh 
 uo." 
 
 " I thought for a time of doing so," said 
 Edith ; "and in that ease I should have come I 
 to-nuirrow, or as soon as jiossible, with the of- 
 ficers of the law, to re])ly to your orders." 
 
 At this Wiggins looked at her witli a 
 strange and solemn glance, which puzzled 
 Edith. 
 
 " You W(uild have regretted it," said he, 
 " oventually." 
 
 " Few woidd have done as I did," said 
 Edith, " in coming here aU)ne." 
 
 " Yon did right," said Wiggins. 
 
 "At the same time," said Edith, firmly, 
 " if I have forborne once, I assure you I shall 
 not do so again. You are in a wrong course 
 altogether. I shall put an end to this at 
 once. And I tell you now that this \thu:v 
 unist be ma<le ready for Miss I'lympton to- 
 morrow. I will have that brutal porter dis- 
 missed at once. Ak to yourself and the liouse- 
 keei)er, I need say nothing just now." 
 
 If it had been possible for that gray face 
 to have turned giayer or i)aler, it wotdd 
 have done so as Edith utteriMl these words. 
 Wiggins fixed his solenni eyes on her, and 
 their glance had something in it which was 
 almost awful. After a moment li<> slowly 
 passed his thin hand over his brow, frowned, 
 and looked away. Then ho murmured, in a 
 low voice, as if to himself, 
 
 "The girl's mad!" 
 
 Edith heard these words, and for a mo- 
 ment thought that Wiggins himself must Ik* 
 mad ; but his calmness and cold constraint 
 looked too much liktf sober sense. She her- 
 self had her own dark and gloomy feelings, 
 and these glowed in her heart with a fervid 
 fire — too fervid, indeed, to admit of utter- 
 ance. She too had to put upon herself a 
 constraint to kee]) back the words, glowing 
 with hot wrath and fervid indignation, which 
 she could have Hung upon her father's be- 
 trayer. But because words were weak, and 
 beeau.se such deeds as Lis had to be repaid 
 by act and in kind, she forbo;,- 
 
 " It is necessary,'' said Wiggins at length, 
 "to live here in seclusion for a time. You 
 will gradually become accustomed to il.and 
 it will be all for the best. It may not be for 
 so very long, after all -perhaps not more 
 than one year. Perliii])s you nuiy eventual- 
 ly be admitted to — to our i)ur|>oses." 
 
 "This," said Edith, "is childish. What 
 you mean I do not know, nor do I can^ to. 
 You seem to hint at seclusitui. 1 do not feel 
 inclined for society, but a seclusion of your 
 nndiing is not to my taste. Yon nnist your- 
 self go elsewhen' to seek this seclusion. 
 This is mine, and here I intend to bring the 
 friends whom I wish to have with me. I 
 can only regard your present course as the 
 net of a thoroughly infatuated num. You 
 have had things all your own way thus far, 
 and seem to have come to regard this ]ilaee 
 as yours, and never to have counted upon 
 any thing but acquiescence on my part in 
 your ])laiis." 
 
 Wiggins fastened his solemn eyes upon 
 her, and imirmured, 
 
 " True." 
 
 "It is useless, therefore," said Edith, loft- 
 ily, "for you to make any op])osition. It 
 will only be foolisii,and you will ultimately 
 be ruined by it.'' 
 
 Wiggins rose to his feet. 
 
 " It is only a waste of lime," said he. "I 
 confess von are dill'erent from what I antiei- 
 
THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 97 
 
 m eyos iiiioii 
 
 pated. You do not know. You can not nn- 
 (lorstand. You arc too rasli and Hclf-fonti- 
 dont. I can not tell you what my plans 
 are; I can only tell you my wiHlies." 
 
 Edith rose to her feet, au<l stood opposite, 
 with her largo eyes H»niing from her white 
 face. 
 
 "This insolence," said she, " has lasted 
 too long. It is you who nnist obey nu> — not 
 I you. You si)eak ad tho',:.';') there were no 
 such thing MS law." 
 
 "I said nothing ahout obedience," said 
 Wiggins, in a nionniful voice, which, in spite 
 of litTsi'lf. all'ected Edith very strangely. "I 
 spoke of plans which could not be commu- 
 uicated to you yet. and of my wishes." 
 
 " lint I," said Edith, mildfy, " wish you to 
 understand that I have my own wishes. You 
 make use of a tone which I can not tolerate 
 for a moment. I have only one thing more 
 to say, and that is to repeat my fonner di- 
 rection. I mimt have Miss I'lynii)ton here to- 
 morrow, and i)reparations for her must be 
 maile. Once for all, you must understand 
 that Ix^tween you and me there is absolutely 
 nothing in common ; and I tell you now that 
 it is my intention to dispense with your 
 services at the earliest possil)le date. I will 
 not detain you any longer." 
 
 Saying this, she waved her liaiul toward 
 the door, and then resumed her seat. 
 
 As for Wiggins, hi' looked at her with his 
 usual solemn gaze during these remarks. 
 His bowed form seemed to be lieut more as 
 he listened to her words. Wlicn she ceased 
 and sat down ho stood listening still, as 
 though he heard some echo to her words. 
 Edith did not look up, but turned lier eyes 
 in another direction, and so did not see the 
 face that was still turned toward her. Hut 
 if she had looked there she would hav(> seen 
 a lace wliich bore a deeper impress than 
 ever of utter woe. 
 
 In a few moments he turned and left the 
 room, as silently as he canu'. 
 
 l?efon> retiring that night Edith calh'd 
 Mrs. Dnnliar, and gave her sonn- directions 
 aliont jireparing another bedroom and the 
 drawing-room. To her orders, which were 
 somewhat ]M)sitive, Mrs. Dunbar listened in 
 silence, and merely bowed in reply. 
 
 After which Edith retired, weary and 
 worn out, and troubled in many ways. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 WAI.I.ED IN. 
 
 Vf.ky early on the following day Edith 
 arose, and found Mrs. I)iinbar already mov- 
 ing about. She remarked tliat she had 
 heard Edith dressing herself, and had pre- 
 l)ared a l)reakfast for her. This little mark 
 of attenriiui was very grateful to Edith, who 
 thanked Jlrs. Dunbar (piite earnestly, and 
 
 "sue saw thk hlack skuvant, ult.o." 
 
 found the repast a refreshing one. After 
 this, as it was yet too early to think of call- 
 ing on Mi.ss I'lymptou, she wandered about 
 the house. The old nooks and corners dear 
 to nu'inory wens visited once more. Famil- 
 iar sceiu's came back before her. Here was 
 the nursery, there her mother's room, in an- 
 other jdace tilt! library. There, too, was the 
 great hall up stairs, with j)ictures on each 
 sidi! of ancestors who went back to the days 
 of till! I'lantagenets. There wen; etligies in 
 armor of knights who had fought in tho 
 Crusades and in the Wars of the Ho.ses ; of 
 ciivaliers who had fought for King Charles; 
 of gallant gentlemen who had f(dloweil tluur 
 country's tlag under the burning siiu of In- 
 dia, over tho sierras of Spain, and in tho 
 wilderness of America. And of all these 
 she was the last, and all that ancestral glory 
 was bound up in her, a weak and fragile 
 girl. I)ee]dy she regretted at that moment 
 that slu' was not a man, so that she might 
 confer new lustre ui)on so exalted a liiu'age. 
 As she wandered throuy;h the rooms and 
 g.alleries all her childhood came back licfore 
 ' her. iSlie recalled her mother, hci- foiid love, 
 ! and her early death. That mother's jiicture 
 ! hung in the great hall, and she gazed at it 
 long and j)ensively, recalling that nolde face, 
 which in her rememl)rance was always soft- 
 ened by thi> sweet expression of tenderest 
 love. ]{nt it was here that something met 
 her eyes which in a moment <hased a'-ay 
 every regretful thought and sot'ter feeling, 
 and brought back in fresh veh^'inence the 
 strong glow of her grief and indignation. 
 Turning away from \wr mother's portrait by 
 a mitural impulse to look for that of her 
 ^ father, she was at first unable to tiiid it. At 
 length, at the end of the line <d' Dalton ])or- 
 traits, she noticed what at tiist she had sup- 
 posed to be jiart of the wall out of re]iair. 
 Another glance, however, showed that it 
 ' was the ba<'k of a picture. In a moment 
 i she understood it. It was her father's 
 
THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 portrait, and the faco Lad been turned to 
 tht! wall. 
 
 Stinif? by a sonso of intolerable insnlt, her 
 facte IliiHlied erinison, and ulie remained for a 
 few niomeiits rooted to the Hjiot ularinfj at 
 the iiietnre. Who had dared to do this — to 
 heap iiiHiilt ni)on that innocent and Hutfering 
 head, to \vronn ho fonlly the nu-niory of tin- 
 dead ? ] ler (irst iinpnlHe was to tear it down 
 with her own hands, and replace it in its 
 l)roper position ; her next to seek out Wif^- 
 ^ins at onee and denounce him to his fact! 
 for all his perlidy, of which this was the lit- 
 tinj; climax. Hut a more sobta' thou<;ht fol- 
 lowed—the tliouj;ht of her own wcakii(>«s. 
 What coidd her words avail a;;ainst a man 
 lik(! that? Hetter far would it be for her to 
 ■wait until she could expel the usurper, and 
 tak(s her own place as acknowled^red mis- 
 tress in Dalton Hall. This tliou;;lit made 
 her calmer, and she, rellected that she need 
 not wait very lonjj;. This day would de- 
 cide it all, and this very niyht her father's 
 portrait should bo placed in its riyht posi- 
 tion. 
 
 This incident destroyed all relish for fur- 
 ther wanderinj; about the house, and tliouj;h 
 it was yet early, she determined to set out 
 at once for the. villaj^e and find Miss I'lymp- 
 fon. With this desi;;n she descended lo the 
 lower hall, and saw tliere the same black 
 servant whom slut had seen the day before. 
 
 " What is your name V she asked. 
 
 "Hugo," said the black, with his usual 
 grin. 
 
 "Well, Hugo," said she, "I want the 
 brougham. (Jo to the stiibles, have the 
 horses put in, and come back as soon as 
 you can. And here is something for your 
 trouble." 
 
 S;iyiug this, she proffered him a soveniign. 
 
 Ibit the black did not appear to see it. 
 He sim|>ly said, " Yes. ndss," and turned 
 away. Edith was s'.irjjrised ; but thinking 
 that it w;iH merely his stupidity, she went 
 up stairs ami waited patiently tor a long 
 tinm. But, in sjiite of lu-r waiting, there 
 were no signs of any carringe; and at 
 length, growing impatient, she deternuned 
 to go to the stilldes herself. She knew Ihi^ 
 way there perfectly well, ami soon reached 
 the i)laco. To her surjjrise ami vexation, 
 the docu's were locked, and there were no 
 signs whatever of Hugo. 
 
 "The stupid black nnist have misunder- 
 stood me," thought she. 
 
 She now rctuiiie<l to the house, and wan- 
 dfTcd all about in search of some servants. 
 Hut she saw none. She began to think that 
 Hugo was the oidy servant in the jilace ; and 
 if so, as he had disapiiearcd, her chance of 
 getting the brougham was small indeed. As 
 for Wiggins, she did not think of ;isk lug him, 
 ami Mrs. Duiihar was too much under the in- 
 Huence of Wiggins for her to ai»ply there. 
 She was therefore left to herself. 
 
 Time jiassed thus, and Edith's imiiatienro 
 grew intolerable. At length, as she; could 
 not obtain a carriage, she determined to set 
 out on foot and walk to Dalton. She began 
 now to think that Wiggins had seen Hugo, 
 foinid out what she wanted, and had forbid- 
 den the servant to obey. This secnu'd the 
 only way in which she could account for it 
 all. If this w<'re so, it showed that there 
 was some un))leasiint meaning in tlat lan- 
 guage which Wiggins had used to her on 
 the previous evening about a secluded life, 
 and in that case any delay made her situa- 
 tion more nni)le!isant. She had already lost 
 too nnicli time, and therefore could wait no 
 longer. (Jn the instant, tlierefoic, she set 
 out, and walked down the great avenue to- 
 ward the gates. It was a huiger distance 
 than she had suppo.Hcd : so long, indeed, did 
 it seem tlnit once or twice she feared that 
 she had taken the wrong road; but at last 
 her fears were driven away by the sight of 
 (he |)ortel"s lodge. 
 
 On rciuhing tli<' gates kIio found theni 
 locked. For liiis she had not been pre- 
 ]>ared ; but a monuMit's rellection showed 
 lu'r that this need not excite siniuise. .Sho 
 looked up at them witli a faint idea of climb- 
 ing over. < )ne glance, however, showed t hat 
 to be impossible ; they were high, and si)iked 
 at the to]i, and over them was a stone arch 
 which left no room for any one to clind) over. 
 She looked at the wall, but that also was be- 
 yond her powers. t)nly ouv thing now re- 
 nuiineil,and that was to ajijily to the porter. 
 After tliis fellow's rudeness on the i)revious 
 day, she felt an excessive repugnance toward 
 making any a))i)lication to him now; but her 
 necessity was urgent, and time jiressed. So 
 slu' (piieted her scru]des, and going to tho 
 door of the jjortcr's house, knocked impa- 
 tient iy. 
 
 The jiorter came at once to the door, and 
 bowed as respectl'idly as i>ossibl<'. His de- 
 meanor, in fact, was totally ditfer< ' " from 
 what it had been on tins previous (c,.,s, and 
 evinced every desire to show respect, tliouy;h 
 pei'h.'ips he might manifest it rather awk- 
 wardly. Edith noticed this, and was en- 
 com'aged by it. 
 
 "I want you to let mc out," said Edilh. 
 "I'm gi>ing to Dalton." 
 
 The man looked at her, and then at the 
 ground, anil then fumldecl his lingers to- 
 gether; afti'r which he plunged his hands 
 in his pocki ts. 
 
 "Do you hear what I say?'' said Edith, 
 
 shari)ly. "I want you to unlock the gate." 
 
 "Well, miss, as to that — I hinnlily beg 
 
 yo)>r ]>ardon, miss, but I've got my orders 
 
 "not to." 
 
 j "Nons<Mise," said Edith. " Xo one hero 
 
 ' gives orders hut me. I am mistress here." 
 "Iteg jiardon, miss, but I don't know any 
 
 , master Itut Master Wiggins." 
 
 i " Wiggins I" said Edilh. 
 
•urn iii"^\ • 
 
 THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 " said i:.li(b. 
 
 " Yos, miss, nil' linpiii' it's no oft'i'iise. I 
 hav(^ tit (il>f,v oi'dt'i'H." 
 
 " IJiit 111! Cdiildn't liavo given yon ordiTs 
 aliont nil','" said Kditli, liaujiiitily. 
 
 '•Ill- said all itorsons, miss, coniin' or go- 
 in', all tile sanii'. No otl'i'iisc liciii' iiiti-ndt'd, 
 iiiiss, an' lii'jugin' yimr paiilon." 
 
 "Hut this is alisunl," said Edith. "Tie 
 knows tliat I am gi'lng to DaltDii. Yon 
 liavc inisniidcrstoiid liini." 
 
 "I'lii sorry, miss. I'd do any tldn' to 
 oblige, miss ; but I've got to do us I'm bid." 
 
 " Who ein])loys yon ?'' 
 
 "Master, miss — Master Wiggins." 
 
 " Do yon want to keep this situation ?'' 
 
 " Keep this situation f 
 
 " Yes. You don't want to be turned out, 
 do yon f" 
 
 "Oil no, miss." 
 
 "Well, obey mo now, and yon shall re- 
 main. I am the mistress ot" Daltmi Hall, 
 and the owner of these estates. Wiggins is 
 the agent, and seems disinclined to do what 
 I wish. He will have to leave. If yon 
 diin't want to leave also, obey me now." 
 
 All this seemed to pnzzh! the iiorter, but 
 rertainly made no ini|iression n])on his re- 
 solve. He, looked at Kditli, then at the 
 ground, then at the trees, and tinally, as 
 Edith ennclnded, he said : 
 
 " Heg pardon, miss, but orders is orders, 
 an' I've got to obey mine." 
 
 Edith now began to feel discouraged. 
 Yet thi'i'e was one resource left, and this 
 she now tried. Drawing forth her purse, 
 slie took out somt! pieces of gold. 
 
 "Come," said she, "you ilo very well to 
 obey orders in ordinary eases; but in my 
 case you are violating tlie law, and exposing 
 yoursi'lf to punishment. Now I will pay 
 . yiin well if you do me this little service, and , 
 will givi; you this now, and much more aft- 
 erward. Here, take this, and let me out 
 <iuick." 
 
 The porter kept his eyes fixed on the 
 ground, and did not even look at the gold. 
 
 "See!"' said Edith, excitedly and hurried- 
 ly—" ,s,.e !" 
 
 The jiorter would not look. I?ut at last 
 he sjioke, and then camo tlio old monotonous 
 sentence, 
 
 " Beggin' your pardon, miss, an' hopin' 
 there's no otVense, I can't do it. I've got to 
 obey orders, miss." 
 
 At this Edith gave up the efVort, and turn- 
 ing away, walked slowly and sadly from the 
 gates. 
 
 This was certainly more than she Imd an- 
 ticijiated. By this she saw plainly that 
 Wiggins was determined to play a bold 
 game. The jiossibility of such restraint as 
 this had never entt'red into her mind. Now 
 she recalled Miss I'lympton's fears, and re- 
 gretted when too late that she had trusted 
 herself within these gates. And now what 
 the porter had told her showed her in one 
 
 instant tlio full deptli of liis design. TTo 
 evidently intended to keeji her away from 
 all communication with the outside world. 
 And she — what could she do f How could 
 she let Miss I'lytrijiton know f How could 
 she get out f No doubt Wiggins would 
 contrive to kee])all avenues of escape closed 
 to her as this (uie was. Even the walls 
 would be watched, so that she should not 
 clamber over. 
 
 Among the most disheartening of lier dis- 
 coveries was the incorrnptil>le fidelity of tho 
 servants of Wiggins. Twice already had 
 she tried to bribe them, Init on each occa- 
 sion she had failed utterly. The black serv- 
 ant iiiid the jiorter were each alike beyond 
 the reach of her gold. 
 
 Her mind was now agitated and distressed. 
 Ill her excitement she could not yet return 
 to the Hall, but still hoped that she might 
 escape, tlioiigli the ho|ie was growing faint 
 indeed. S!ie felt, humiliated liy the defeat 
 of her attempts upon the ho'iesty of the 
 servants, yiie was tioiililed by the thongiit 
 of her isolation, and did not know what 
 might be best to do. 
 
 I One thing now seemed evident, and this 
 was that she had a better chance of esca])iiig 
 at this time than she would have afterward. 
 
 I If she was to lie watched, the outlook could 
 
 I not yet be as perfect or as well organized as 
 it would afterward be. And among the ways 
 
 I of escape she could think of nothing else 
 than the wall. That wall, she thought, must 
 certainly allbrd some places which she might 
 
 [ scale. She might find some gate in a re- 
 mote placi! which could atford egress. To 
 this she now determined to devote herself. 
 
 With this i»iirposeoii her mind, she sought 
 to find her way through the trees to the 
 wall. This she was able to do without much 
 ditliculty, for though the trees grew thick, 
 there was no underbrush, but she was able 
 to walk along without any very great trou- 
 ble. Penetrating in this way through the 
 trees, she at length came to the wall. But, 
 to her great disai>i)ointment, she fiuind its 
 height here (|uite as great as it had been 
 near the gate, and though in one or two 
 jilaccs trees grew np which threw their 
 branches <nit over it, yet those trees were 
 altogether inaccessible to her. 
 
 .Still she would not give uji too f|nickly, 
 but i'ollowed the wall for a long distance. 
 The further she went, however, the more 
 lio])eless did her search seem to grow. Tho 
 ground was nnei[ual, sometimes rising into 
 hills, and at other times sinking into val- 
 leys; but in all places, whether hill or val- 
 ley, the wall arose high, formidable, not to 
 be scaled by one like her. As she looked at 
 it the thought came to her that it had been 
 arrar.ged fiir that very purjiose, so that it 
 should not b(^ easily climbed, and so it was 
 not surprising that a barrier which might 
 bafile th(^ active poacher or trespasser should 
 
30 
 
 THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 iili 
 
 prove inmiperablo to a slender girl liko 
 bcr. 
 
 She wiuKhTcd on, liowcvcr, in Hi)ito of »liM- 
 conriii^rnicnt, in tin; lio])<> of linilin^ ii ^iito. 
 lint tliiH Kcai'ch \vaM iih vain as t\u' other. 
 After \vall<inf; for lionrs, till Iier feeble linibH 
 conld seareely sui'i>ort iier any lonfjer, hIic 
 Hank down exliaiiHted, and burst into tears. 
 
 For a Ion;; time sbe wepLoverwliebned by 
 aceunndated sorrow and desjiondency and 
 dis:i|i|iointinent. At len^jtb she roused her- 
 self, and drying lior eyes, looked up and be- 
 gan to think of returning to the Hall. 
 
 To her aina/.einent she saw the blaek serv- 
 iint, lingo, standing not far away. As she 
 raised her eyes he took oil' his cap, and 
 grinned as nsuid. The sight of liini gave 
 Edith a great shock, and excited new sus- 
 picions ami fears within her. 
 
 Had she been Ibllowed ? 
 
 She nnist have been. She had been 
 watched and tracked. AlUher desperate et- 
 forls had been noted tlown to be reported to 
 Wiggins -all her long ami fruitless seartdi, 
 her ballled endeavors, her frustrated hopes! 
 
 It was too much. 
 
 CTIAPTKK VII. 
 A paui.i:y with thio .jah.kiw. 
 
 CoMiNC as it di<l elost; upon her l)aflled 
 eftbrts to escape, this discovery of Hugo j)r()- 
 (dainied to Edith at once most unmistakably 
 the t'lH't that slu^ was a prisoner. Slie was 
 walled in. She was uinler guard and under 
 Hurveillance. She could not escajie without 
 the consent r>f Wiggins, nor could she move 
 about without being tracked by the H])y o{ 
 Wiggins. It was evidt^nt also that both the 
 l)orler and the blaek servant Hugo were d«'- 
 voted to their master, and were beyond the 
 reach both of jtersuasion and of bribery. 
 
 The discovery for a moment almost over- 
 whelmed her once niorc^ ; but the ju'csenco 
 of another forced her to put ari'straiut u])on 
 her feelings. She tried to look unconiMirn- 
 ed, and turning away her eyes, she sat in 
 the saiue jiosition for sonic time longer. 
 Hut bcMicath the calm which her i)ri<le forced 
 her to assume her heart throbbed jjainfully, 
 and her thoughts dwelt with something al- 
 most like dcs)>airupon heri)rescnt situation. 
 
 Ibit Edith had a strong and resolute soul 
 in spite of her slender and fragile frame ; 
 she had also an elastic disjiosition, which 
 rose up swiftly from any jirostration, and re- 
 fused to be cast <lown ntterly. So now this 
 strength of her nature asserted itself; and 
 triumphing over her monu'ntary weakness, 
 she resolved to go at once and see Wiggins 
 himself. With these subordinates she had 
 nothing to do. Her business was with 
 Wiggins, and with Wiggins alone. 
 
 Yet the thought of an interview had some- 
 
 thing in it which was Htrangely reimgnant 
 to Edith. The aspe<'t of her two Jailers 
 seemed to her to be reptdlent in the extreme. 
 That whitt! cdd nnm, with the solemn mys- 
 tery of his eyes, that w<'ir<l (dd wonum.with 
 h(M- keen, vigilant outlook — these were the 
 ones who now htdd her in restraint, and 
 with these she ha<l to eonu^ in eontlict. In 
 both of them then' seemed something ini- 
 eaiMiy, and Edith coidd not help feeling that 
 in the lives of both of these there was sour- 
 mystery that ])assed her i'om]irehensi<in. 
 
 Still, uncanny or not, whatever might be 
 the mystery of hi'r jailers, they remained 
 her jailers and nothing less. It wasagiiinst 
 this thought that the proud soul (d' Edith 
 chafed and fretted. It was a thought which 
 was intcderable. It roused her to the in- 
 tensest indignation. She was the lady of 
 Dalton Hall; these who thus dared to re- 
 ] strain her were her subordinates. This 
 Wiggins was not only her inferior, but be 
 ; had been the enemy of her life, (,'oidd she 
 ' siibnnt to fresh indignities or wrongs at the 
 hands of one who had already done so nnicli 
 evil to her and hers ? She could not. 
 
 That white old man with his mystery, his 
 awful ey(!s, his vcnerabh^ face, his unfatli- 
 omabht expression, and the weird old wom- 
 an, his associate, with her indcscribabh^ 
 look and her air of watchfulness, were both 
 partners in this crinm of unlawful im|U-ison- 
 ment. They dared to jnit restrictions upon 
 the nu)vcmt^nts of their nnstress, the lady 
 of Dalton Hall. Such an attempt could only 
 be the sign of a des]>erate mind, and the vil- 
 lainy of their plan was of itself enough to 
 sink them deep in Edith's thoughts down to 
 , an abyss of contempt and indignation. This 
 I indignation roused her, and her eagerness to 
 see Miss Plympton imi)elled her to action; 
 Aninnited by such feelings and motives, she 
 delayed no longer, but at once returned to 
 I the Hall to see Wiggins himself. 
 
 On her way back sln^ was conscious of the 
 ' fact that Hugo was following; but she took 
 I no notice of it, as it was but the sequel to 
 I the jirecedinif events <>f (lie day. SliO en- 
 tered the Hall, and linding Mrs. Dunbar, told 
 her to tell Wiggins that she wished to see 
 him. After this she went down to the 
 dreary drawing-room, where she awaited the 
 eoniliig of her jailer. 
 
 ] The room was unchanged from what it 
 had been on the iirecediiig day. Hy this 
 time also Edith had noticed that there wen- 
 no servants about except Hugo. The drear 
 desolation of the vast H.-ill seemed drearier 
 from the few inmates who dwelt there, and 
 the solitude of the place nnide it still more 
 intolerable. 
 
 After some time Wiggins made his ap- 
 
 jjcarance. He came in slowly, with his eyes 
 
 lixiul upon Edith, and the same expression 
 
 upon his face which she had noticed before. 
 
 ' A most singular man be was, whoever or 
 
 !!■; 
 
THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 31 
 
 y n-piimmnt 
 two JailtTH 
 tlic cxtrciiic. 
 Holfiiin iiiys- 
 kV(>nin(i,'\vitli 
 I'sr were tin- 
 straiiit, anil 
 I'diillii't. In 
 ini'tliin}; un- 
 I t'l'i'liii^ tliiit 
 'H' was Houie 
 ■licnision. 
 krr niinlit 1)0 
 i'\ rt'inaiiicd 
 w MS a^jiiinst 
 )iil <il' Kdilh 
 i(>nf;lit wliich 
 •r to till' in- 
 tlii! laily of 
 ilari'i! to ri'- 
 iialrs. 'I'liis 
 iTior, Imt lie 
 . Could slif 
 .roiij^s at till- 
 lont' so niiu.'h 
 111 not. 
 
 i niyntrry, liis 
 
 ', his nnt'ath- 
 
 ird old woni- 
 
 indi'srrilialdc 
 
 ss, wi'i'i' liolh 
 
 i'ld ini))i'ison- 
 
 ictions njion 
 
 ss, tilt! lady 
 
 l>t could only 
 
 ,anil the vil- 
 
 If rlionjfli to 
 
 ;lits down to 
 
 lation. Tliis 
 
 cajilTlU'HH to 
 
 |i'i' to action; 
 niotivoH, slic 
 returned to 
 
 isciouH of the 
 lilt slit) took 
 
 lie Ni>i|uel to 
 
 Hy. Slic. cii- 
 •iinbar, told 
 islicd to sec 
 
 own to the 
 awaited the 
 
 loni what it 
 ly. }^}■ this 
 It there were 
 The tlreav 
 hied drearier 
 It there, and 
 lit tstill more 
 
 |ade his ap- 
 lith lii.s eyes 
 I expression 
 lieed before. 
 Iwhoever or 
 
 whatever he niinht he. That lioary liead 
 and that vcncrahie face nii;;lit liave awed 
 lier unth'r other circuniMtanccs, and the un- 
 fathoinahh; mystery of its eN|iression mij^Iit 
 liave awakened intense interest and symjia- 
 thy; hut as it was, Kditii had no place for 
 any other feelings than suspicion, indigna- 
 tion, and scoru. 
 
 " What (h) you mean by this treatment ?" 
 said IMilli, iihruptly. '" It seems as though 
 yini are trying to imprison inc. I have told 
 you that I wish to call on Miss lMym))ton. 
 I can not get a carriage, anil I am not allow- 
 ed to leave this pl:ice on foot. You are re- 
 s]>onsilile for this, and I tell you now that I 
 must go, anil at oucc." 
 
 At this peremptory address Wiggins stood 
 looking at her with his usual expression, 
 and for souui moments niailt! no reply. 
 
 " 1 dill not know," said he at length, in a 
 slow and hesitating voice, " that you wished 
 to leave so soon."' 
 
 " Hut I told you so. You drove awny Miss 
 Plymptonyi'sterday from my gates. I prom- 
 ised to c.'iU oil her this morning. She is 
 anxiously exjuicting nit!. I nuist go to lier." 
 
 AViggins again waited for a few moments 
 ln'fore replying, and at length said, in an 
 abstracted tone: 
 
 "No, no; it can not be — it can not be!" 
 
 " fan not be !" rein'ated I'ldith. " It seems 
 to me that yt»u arc trying to carry out a 
 most extraordinary course of action towiird 
 me. Tliis looks like restraint or inii»rison- 
 ment." 
 
 Wiggins looked at her with an expression 
 of earnest entreaty t)n his face, with which 
 there was also mingled au air of indescriba- 
 ble sadness. 
 
 "It is necessary," said he, in a mournful 
 voice. " Can you not bring yourself to l)ear 
 with it ? Y'ou do not know what is at stake. 
 Some day ail will be, ex](lained.'' 
 
 "Tins' is silly," exclaimed Kdith. "No 
 explanation is possible. I insist on leaving 
 this place at once. If you refuse to let me 
 go, it will bo worse for you than for me." 
 
 "Y'ou do not know what you ask," said 
 Wiggins. 
 
 "I ask you," said Edith, sternly and 
 proudly, "to open those gates to your mis- 
 tress." 
 
 Wiggins shook his head. 
 
 "I ask you to open tlio.se gates," eontiniu^d 
 Edith. "If you let me go now, I ]>romise 
 not to prosecute you— at least for this. I 
 will forget to-day and yesterday." 
 
 Saying this, she looked at him imiuiringly. 
 
 But Wiggins shook his head as before. 
 
 " It can not be," said he. 
 
 " You ilecide, then, to refuse my demand ?" 
 said Edith, impatiently. 
 
 " I nnist," said Wiggins, with a heavy 
 sigh. " It is necessary. All is at stake. 
 You do not know what you are doing." 
 
 " It is evident to me," said Edith, niaster- 
 
 ' ing herself by a strong effort, " that you are 
 ]ilaying a desperate game, but at the same 
 time y;iu are trusting much to chance. Why 
 did you wish me to come here ? It was by 
 the merest chance that I decided to come. 
 It was also by another chance that I eutert^d 
 I those giites which you now shut against my 
 departure. Few would havt! done it." 
 
 "Your presence seemed necessary to my 
 jilans," said Wiggins, slowly. " What those 
 plans are I can not yet conlide to you. You 
 are concerned in them as much as I am. Op- 
 position will be of no avail, and will only 
 injure you. Ibit I hope you will not try to 
 oppose me. I entreat yon to bear with me. 
 I entreat you to try to iiut a little conlideiiee 
 in me. I was your father's friend; and I 
 now implore you, that daughter whom he 
 loveil so dearly, for your father's sake— yes, 
 and for the sake of your sainted mother — 
 not to -" 
 
 "This is mere hyi)ocrisy," interruj)ted 
 Edith. "My father was mie with whom 
 one like you can have nothing in common. 
 You add to your crimes by this tri^atmi^nt of 
 his tlaughter. What you have already been 
 guilty of toward him you alone know. If 
 you ho]ie for mercy hereafter, do not atld to 
 your guilt." 
 
 "(iiiilt!" critui Wiggins, in an awful voice. 
 We started back, and regarded her with eyes 
 of utter horror, "(luilt !" he ri'in'ated, in a 
 voice so low that it was scarcely above a 
 wliis])er — "and she says .hat word!" 
 
 Edith looked at him with unchanged se- 
 verity. 
 
 " Y'ou made a great mistake," said she, 
 coldly and sternly, " when you drovi' Jliss 
 I'lympton away. If you hope to kiiep me 
 ini|irisoned hero, you will only destroy your- 
 self. I have a friend who knows yiui, and 
 who will know before evening that I am 
 here under restraint. She will never rest 
 until she ell'ects my deliverance. Have you 
 counted on that ?'' 
 
 Wiggins listened attentively, as usual, to 
 every word. The efVort seemed to give him 
 pain, and the suggestion of her fritiiid was 
 nniloiibtedly most un]ileasant. 
 
 "No, I have not," said he. He s]>i)ke as 
 though to himself. The candor of tliis con- 
 fession stimulated Edith to dwell to a great- 
 er extent upon this subject. 
 
 "She was not willing for nu> to como in," 
 said she. " She wished me not to enter with- 
 out a lawyer or the shcritV. If she, finds that 
 I am tlctaiued, she will enter here in that 
 way herself She will deliver me in spite 
 of you. If she does not ,see nui to-ilay, she 
 will at once u.se every elfort to come to me. 
 Y'our porters and your spi<!8 will be of no 
 u.se, against the otlicers of the law." 
 
 At this Wiggins looked at the iloor, and 
 was evidently in a state of i)erplexity. He 
 stood in silence for some time, and Edith 
 waited impatiently An* his answer, so as to 
 
 --!.ii. 
 
32 
 
 THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 Iciirn wlint, fffcct thvno Inst liintH liml jiro- 
 (liicfd. At length Wij;;;iiiH Idokctl up. Ho 
 Hltokii Hlowly aiid iiKmrnriilly. 
 
 " I am vrry Hiirry," Maid \u'. " I liojii! it 
 will not coinii to tliat. I'm afraid that I 
 Hliall have to takr you cIhcwIktc." 
 
 'riicHd wordH fell upon Kdith'H cars onii- 
 iiou.sly and tlircafciiiii^ly. Tlify conveyed 
 to Iter mind a m(>na<'(> dark and gloomy, and 
 Mliowi'd the. lull determinatioti of Wi^fnins 
 to maintain at all ha/.ardH thi^ control that 
 ho had gained over her. Kdith therefore 
 w»H silent, and apjirehensive of evil. She 
 WHH afraid that hIic htid said too miu-li. It 
 might have been better not to threaten, or 
 to show lii^r hand prematurely. It might 
 ho tlie best plan to wait in Hilenco and in 
 l)atieneo for Minn I'lymiiton. Wiggins was 
 dcKiierate. He might take her away, a.s 
 lie. darkly hinted, from this place to Home 
 other where, Mi.ss I'lymptou could never 
 find her. 
 
 Slu^ Ntood for somo time in silence, with 
 her mind full of such thoughts as these. 
 Wiggins waited for a few monuMits, and then 
 turned and slowly left the. room. Edith said 
 nothing, and made no effort to recall him, 
 for she now felt that her situation was grow- 
 ing serious, and that it would ]n' better for 
 her t(. think it .-ill over seriously, and not 
 spe.'ik to Wiggins again until slu^ had ile- 
 cided upon somt> definite plan of action. 
 She therefor*! allowed him to take liis de- 
 ]>arture, and soon afterward she went to her 
 own room, where she remained for liuurs in 
 deep thought. 
 
 At length Mrs. Dunbar bronglit in dinner. 
 After laying the table she stood for a few 
 moments in silence looking at Eilith ; but 
 at length, yielding to some sudden impulse, 
 sht! cauu» forward, iind as Edith looked up 
 in surprise, she exclaimed, with startling ab- 
 rui)tness, 
 
 "Oh, how unfortunate! and oli, what a 
 ■wretched mistake you are under! If yon 
 had not come home so suddenly, all might 
 have been well. We hoped that you would 
 bo content and patient. Mr. Wiggins has 
 plans of immense imiiortance ; they require 
 great <|uiet and seclusion. Oh, if you could 
 only have some faith in us!" 
 
 She stopped as abruptly as sho had be- 
 gun. This style of address from a house- 
 keeper seem<!(l to Edith to be altogether too 
 familiar, and sho rescMited it deeply. He- 
 sides, the identification of herself with Wig- 
 gins jiut Mrs. Dunbar in au odious position 
 in Edith's eyes. 
 
 " Mr. Wiggins's plans are of no conse- 
 quence to nu) whatever," said sho, coldly. 
 
 " They are ; they arc of immense impor- 
 tance," cried Mrs. Dunbar. 
 
 Edith lot)ked at her for a few momejits 
 with a cold stare of wonder, for this volun- 
 teered advice seemed something like inso- 
 lence, coming thus from a subordinate. Hut 
 
 h1h> contented herself with answering in a 
 <piiet tone : 
 
 " You are mistaken. Nothing is of imi)or- 
 tance to me but my liberty. It will be very 
 dangerous to deprive me of that. My friemls 
 will never allow it. In Wiggins this at- 
 tempt to ]>ut mo under restraint is nothing 
 less than desi)erati<>u. Think yourself how 
 frantic; he nmst be to lio]i(! lO be iible to con- 
 fine mo here, when I have friends outside 
 who will nu)vo heaven and earth to eonu! to 
 nu-." 
 
 At this a look of nneasim>ss came over 
 Mrs. Dunbar's face. It seemed to Edith that 
 this hint at friends without wiis the only 
 thing that in any way affected either of her 
 jailers. 
 
 "The ])unishment for such a criuu- as un- 
 lawful imprisonment,'' c(uitinued Edith, "is 
 a severe oiu*. If Wiggins has ev<'r eonnnit- 
 ted any crimes before, this will only aggra- 
 vatt! his ^iiilt, and nutko his punishment the 
 worse." 
 
 At this Mrs. Dunbar stared at Edith with 
 the same horror in her eyes wnicli Wiggins 
 had l.'itely shown. 
 
 "Criml-?" she repeated. "Guilt? Pun- 
 ishment? Oil, Heaven.i! Has it come to 
 this? This is terrible. (Jirl," she continued, 
 with a frown, "you don't know the dreadful 
 nature of those words. You are a marplot. 
 Y'ou have come home to ruin every thing. 
 Hut I thought HO," she murmured to herself. 
 " I told him so. I said it would be ruin, liut 
 he would have his way. And now — " The 
 remaimhsr of her remarks was imiudible. 
 Sfiddenly her manner changed. Her anger 
 gav(! way once more to entreaty. 
 
 " Oh !" she said, " can nothing ]iersuado 
 you that we aro your friends? Trust us — 
 oh, trust us! You will soon learn how wo 
 love you. Ho only thinks of you. Y'ou aro 
 the final aim of all his plans." 
 
 Edith gave a light laugh. That she was 
 the final aim of Wiggins's plans sht! did not 
 doubt. She saw now that plan clearly, as 
 she thought. It was to gain control of her 
 for i>urpose8 of his own in connection with 
 the estate!. Under such eircuinstances Mrs. 
 Dunbar's entreaties l^eemed silly, and to 
 niak(! any answer was absurd. Sho turned 
 away ami sat down at the table. As for 
 Mrs. Dunbar, she left the room. 
 
 Night came. P^dith did not sleep ; sho 
 could not. The day had been the most 
 eventful one of her life. The thought that 
 sho was a prisoner was terrible. She could 
 only sustain her.s<'lf by the hope that Miss 
 Plympton would save her. But this hojio 
 was confrotited by a dark fear which great- 
 ly distressed her. It mi^ht take time for 
 Miss Plympton to do any thing toward re- 
 leasing her. She knew that the law work- 
 ed slowly : sho did not feel at all certain 
 that it worked surely. Her father's fate 
 rose before her as a warning of the law's 
 
THE LIVINO LI\K. 
 
 8S 
 
 nswiTing 111 a 
 
 ng is of iinpor- 
 It will Itr very 
 lit. M.v frifinls 
 im'u\H this iit- 
 liiit is iiotliiiig 
 I yourscll" iiow 
 1k' iiMi' ti> <'()ii- 
 'ririKlH oiitsido 
 irth to ('oiiii! to 
 
 ICHH CaillO OVfT 
 
 (1 toKilitli liiiit 
 
 was tilt' only 
 
 •d I'itlK r of lier 
 
 I a criiur as nn- 
 nm\ Kditli, "is 
 IS ever coniniit- 
 vill only a^';,'ra- 
 [luniHliiiu'iit the 
 
 1 at Edith with 
 wnich \Vi};K''>» 
 
 "Gnilt? rmi- 
 las it coind to 
 ' slio continued, 
 ow the (hfadful 
 1 arc a inaii)lot. 
 lin every thing, 
 inred to herself, 
 iild lie ruin, hut 
 id now — " The 
 
 was iiiaiidihle. 
 Her anger 
 
 ity. 
 
 thiiiK persuade 
 
 Is? Trust us — 
 
 learn how we 
 
 :' you. You are 
 
 That she was 
 ims she did not 
 Ian clearly, as 
 control of her 
 ■onnectioii with 
 umstances Mrs. 
 silly, and to 
 . She turned 
 table. As for 
 tin. 
 
 not sleep; she 
 been tliti most 
 le thouf^ht that 
 hie. She could 
 hope that Miss 
 But this hoi>o 
 ar wliich {jrcat- 
 tako time for 
 iiig toward re- 
 the law work- 
 1 at all certain 
 er father's fate 
 <r of the law's 
 
 cuime: giilt; 
 
 nncertalnty and injustice. Could she hope 
 to he more fortunate than he had been ? 
 Wi^f^ins hinl passed his life in the study of 
 the law, and knew how to work it for his 
 own private ends. Hii liiid (uiee succeeded 
 in his dark plot afj;ainst her fatlier. Mi;rlit 
 not his jireseut " plan," about which he and 
 his associate tiilked, be e(|iially Hiiccessful f 
 Mrs. Dunbar had called her a " mariilot." 
 To mar the plot of this man, and aveuij;e 
 upon him the wronj;s of her fallier, would 
 l)e sweet indeed ; but could it be possilih^ 
 for her to do it ? That was the (luestion. 
 
 The next morninj; came, and Kdith rose 
 full of a new puriiosts. She thou;^ht of her 
 elVorts on tin- precediu}^ day, and eouclmlcd 
 that she had niad(^ one <;i'eat mistake. Sim 
 saw now that Miss I'lympton had most pi'oli- 
 altly called, and had not been a<lmitted. If 
 she had only remained by tin; j^ate, she could 
 have seen her friend, and told her all. That 
 she had not thoujjht of this before was now 
 ii matter of the dee]>est refj;ret, and she could 
 oidy liope that it miifht not yet bt! too late. 
 Slii^ determined to go to the gates at once 
 :ind watch. 
 
 She therefore hurried down to the gates 
 as soon as she could. No etlbrts were made 
 to ]irevent her. She had feared that she 
 might be locked up in the Hall ; but, to her 
 surprise and relief, she was not. Such for- 
 bearance maile her situation still mons jier- 
 l)lexing. It was evident that AViggins lies- 
 itated about proceeding to extremities with 
 (J 
 
 her, mid did not venture as yet to exercise 
 more than a general restraint. 
 
 Arriving at the gate, Edith sat down close 
 by it on a seat in front of the jiorter's lodge, 
 and waited and watched. The gates were of 
 iron bars. HO that it was easy to see thrcnigh 
 them, and the road ran in front. The road 
 was not much fre(|uented, however. An oc- 
 casional farmer's wagon or solitiiry jiedes- 
 trian formed the only life that was visible 
 outside. The porter watched her for some 
 time in surprise, but said nothing. Hugo 
 came up .after alioiit half an hour an<l talk- 
 ed with the porter, after which he loitered 
 1 about within sight of Edith. Of all thi.s, 
 however, I'".dilh took no notice whatever; 
 it was what she ex]iected. 
 
 'i'he hours of the day |iassed by, but there 
 w'ere no signs of Miss I'lympton. As hour 
 I after hour jiassed, Edith's ho]ies grew faiiit- 
 , er and fainti'i'. She longed to iisk the por- 
 \ ter whether she had called or not, but could 
 j not bring h(>rself todo so — first, because she 
 ! did not like to destroy all hope; iind sec- 
 ondly, because shi' ditl not wish to hold any 
 further commiinieat ion with him. 
 I She sat there all day long. Miss Plymp- 
 ton did not come. The hours jiassed by. 
 Evening came. She had eaten nothing all 
 ■ day. Shi! was faint and w<'ary, and almost 
 ; in despair. Ihit to wait longer was useless 
 ! now ; so she rose from h(!r seat, and with 
 ^ feeble footsteps returned to the house. 
 I Early the next morning she returned to 
 
.14 
 
 THE LIVING LIXK. 
 
 the ){iitcH to take u]> In-r Htution im Ix'fnro 
 and watch. Sin- did nut liopo t<i hvv MInh 
 I'l,viii|iti>ii now; for nhv conrliidcd tliat nIic 
 liad calli'd alrrady, lia<l lircii Inriii'd liack, 
 and wart now pfi'lnt|m i'n^a){('d in arran^in^ 
 tor licr n'Ncuc. Knt Kdilli ciinld not wait 
 lor lliat. Slit> dt'tcrndni'd to do Hdnii'tliiii;; 
 lii'rMflC. Slic rcNolvcd to accoHt all ]iaNHi'rs- 
 liyand t<'ll tlu'iu her Nitinition. In tiiinway 
 HJio tIion;^iit hIic ini^lit excite liic world out- 
 side, and lead to hoiuu intcriioNitiou in lier 
 beliall'. 
 
 Full of this ]inr|)ONe, whc went down to 
 tile j{ateH. Am nhi' drew near, tlie (ir.st si^ht 
 <d' tiieni sent a feeling oI'di.Hniay to lier lieari. 
 A elian;{e liad taken place. Something had 
 been done during tho nlj^ht. 
 
 8iie drew nearer. 
 
 Ill a few nionients she saw It all. 
 
 Tint ii'^U'H had lieen hoarded np dnrin;; 
 the ni^ht ho that it wa.s iniposHihle, to hco 
 the road. 
 
 One look waH enonjih. This las) hope 
 was destroyed. There was nolhin;;' to lie 
 done liere ; and so, Hi<'k at heart, I'dilb turn- 
 ed buck tuwurd tliu Hall. 
 
 CHAPTKIt VIII. 
 
 iMISS I'l.Y.MI'lON HAI'II.KD. 
 
 JIkanwiiii.i: Miss I'lyni|iton h.id been nn- 
 ilerjioin;; varions ]diases of feclini;, alterna- 
 tiny; between anxiety and hope, and termi- 
 nal inif in a icsoliition which Inoiii^lit foilh 
 inii>ortant results. On tht^ ilcpartnii^ of 
 Kdith she had watched her till 'ler cairi;i;;e 
 was out of sij;ht, and then saoly and reluc- 
 tantly had Kiv<'n (trdciH to drivo back to 
 Dalton. On arriving; there she put up at. 
 tlie inn, and thou;;h full of anxiety, she ti'icnl 
 to wait iis patiently as po8,sil)le for the fol- 
 lowing; day. 
 
 Accustomed to move ainonjj the f^reat, and 
 tore)j;ard them with a certain reveieiice that 
 pervades the middle classes in KiiKland, she 
 tried first of all to ])revent any villaf^e }ios- 
 sip about Edith, and so she endeavored, by 
 warninfi;and by bribery, to induce the maid, 
 the footman, and the driver to say nothinji; 
 about the scene at the f^ates. Another day, 
 sht! hoped, would make it all rif^ht, and idle 
 {jossiit should never be allow(!d to meddle 
 with th(! name of Kdith in any way. 
 
 That eveniiiff Edith's note was brought to 
 her. On receiving it she read it hurriedly, 
 and then went down to see who had brought 
 it. She saw th(^ ])orter, who told her that he 
 had como for Miss Dalton's bai;;;!ij;(!. The 
 porter treated her with an etiort to bo re- 
 Hpectful, which appeared to >I'ss l'lym])ton 
 to be a fjood omen. She oH'crt <l him a ]dcce 
 of <;(dd to propitiate him still further, but, to 
 her amazement, it was declined. 
 
 " Thank yu kindly, mum," said he, touch- 
 
 ing his hat, " an' hope it's no ofTeuHe ; but wn 
 beant allowed to take nolhin' savin' an' ex- 
 cept what he ^ives us hisself." 
 
 A iiumicnt's surprise was succeeded by ilie 
 thought that even this was of ^ood omen, 
 since it seemed to indicate a scut of rouj{h, 
 blntr, slerlinjj honesty, which could not co- 
 exist with a nature that was altop'iher bad. 
 
 Keturnin;; to lier room, she once more icad 
 Edith's note. Its tone eiicouratjed her >;reat- 
 ly. It seemed to show that all her fears had 
 been vain, and that, whati^ver the character 
 of WijJi^iiis mi^ht be, there could be no im- 
 mediate dan};er to Edith. So K''''i»t, indeed, 
 was the enconra>;i'ment which she received 
 from this not(> that she be^an to think her 
 fears fooliish, and to believe that in En<;land 
 no possible harm could befall one in ivlith's 
 position. It was with such thoughts, and 
 the hope of secin>; Edith on the foUowinj; 
 day, that she retired for the ni;;ht. 
 
 lier sleep was refreshing;, and she did not 
 awake till it was <inite late. On awakinj; 
 and tindin;; what time it was, she rose and 
 dressed hastily, ifi'cakfast was served, and 
 she bewail to look out for Edith. 
 
 Time i>asse(l, however, and Edith did not 
 make her appearaiu'e. Miss I'lympton tried 
 to acconnl for the <lelay in ev<'ry iiossible 
 way, and consoled herself as loni; as she 
 could by the llion;;ht that she had been very 
 miieh fati;;ne<l, and had not risen until very 
 lali'. lint llit^ hours ])assed, and at len;;tli 
 noon came without brinjiin;; any sijfns of 
 her, and Miss I'lympton was unaliie any 
 lousier to repress her niieasiiiess. This in- 
 action j;rew intolerable, and she determined 
 to set forth anil see for hciselt". Accordiiiffly 
 she had the earriat;e made ready, and in a 
 short time reacheil the ))ark K'lte. 
 
 She had to rin;; for a Ion<; time before any 
 Olio a|ipeared; but at leii;;th, after fully an 
 hour's delay, the jtorter came. lie touched 
 his hat on seciii}; her, but stood on the other 
 tiideof th(( iron >;ati'way without openinj; it. 
 
 " Is Miss Dalton at tlie Hall if" asked Miss 
 I'lympton. 
 
 '' Yes, miim." 
 
 " I wish to see her." 
 
 " He;; yer jiardon, nnim, but there bo no 
 I callers allowed in." 
 
 I "Oh, it's ditferent with me. Jliss Dalton 
 I wrote that she would come to see me this 
 niorninj;, and I'm afraid she's ill, so I luive 
 come to see her." 
 
 " She beant ill, then," said the other. 
 
 Miss riymiiton retlected that if was of no 
 use to talk to this man, and thou;;ht of Wig- 
 gins himself. 
 
 " Is your master in ?'' she a.sked. 
 
 " He is, mum." 
 
 "Tell him I wish to see him." 
 
 " liegjiin' yer pardon, mum, he uever sees 
 nobody." 
 
 " Unt I wish to see him on business of u 
 Very important kind." 
 
TIIK LIVING LINK. 
 
 35 
 
 ■fiiM(» ; Itiit wo 
 Hiiviii' an' fX- 
 
 [■c«'(!im1 l>y iln' 
 
 f ^Ollll OlIU'll, 
 
 oit of i<)iij;li, 
 coiilil not CO- 
 tom'tliiT Itail. 
 HIT nimr read 
 icil litT nicat- 
 lii-r Irars liail 
 the (liaracter 
 iilil lit' III) iiii- 
 frfcal, iiiilrrd, 
 I shr ii'irivcd 
 to tliink hiT 
 it ill Eii};laiiil 
 Mil* in Ivlith's 
 lliiiii|;lils, ami 
 till' t'i(lli)\viii>; 
 
 Ill slic dill not 
 
 On awaking 
 , slir rosr and 
 iiM wrvc'd, and 
 h. 
 
 Edith did nut 
 iyniptnn tried 
 'ViTy iiossildi^ 
 ■\ Ion;; as she 
 had liicn very 
 sen until very 
 iiiid at li-ii;;tli 
 
 any si;;ns of 
 < iinahli' any 
 I'.ss. This iii- 
 
 11' di'liTiiiini'd 
 Ai'('oriliii;;ly 
 
 ady, and in a 
 
 iti'. 
 
 Ill' ln'Coro any 
 
 il'tiT fully an 
 111' toiichi'il 
 
 I oil till! other 
 
 lilt o|ii'niii;; it. 
 
 /" asked MisH 
 
 tlicro ho no 
 
 Miss Dalton 
 ii sei- nil' this 
 ]ill, 8o I have 
 
 ■10 other. 
 
 it was of no 
 |ii;;ht of Wig- 
 
 lhI. 
 
 |io never aces 
 jusiness of a 
 
 " Tnii't helj) it, niinn — Itejijjin' yer imidoii ; 
 hut I've K"' •" "hey orders, iniiiii." 
 
 "My ;{ood fellow, can't you take my mes- 
 l)nf(<'< •>■' h'l >■>•' >■> to Mee him ?" 
 
 ".Sorry, niiiiii, hut I eun't ; I've got my or- 
 dorH." 
 
 " Hilt lio cnn't know. TIiIh lumiiieHN \h ho 
 iniportant that it will he very had for him 
 if lie dues not see lile now. Tell llilll that. 
 (ill, now ; you ean't know what liiH l)iiHiiii<HH 
 is. Tell him that—" 
 
 "^Vell. mum, if you iuMiNt, I don't mind 
 (Toiu'," said the porter. " I'll tell him." 
 
 "Say that I wish to see him at oiiee, and 
 that the husiiiesN I have is of the utmost iiii- 
 portame." 
 
 The porter toneheil his hat, and walked olV. 
 
 Now followed another period of waiting;. 
 It was fully half Jill hour liefoie he returned, 
 Mi-^s riympton s.iw tliiit he was alone, and 
 her heart sank within her. 
 
 " Mr. Wi;,';;iiis presents his respects, mum," 
 said he, "and savs he's sorrv he can't see 
 yon." 
 
 "Did you tell him that my hiisiness was 
 of the most iniportant kind f" 
 
 "Yes. mum." 
 
 " And he refuses to come ?" 
 
 "lie Htiys Le'H sorry he can't see you, 
 mniii." 
 
 At this Mi,ss riympton was silent for a 
 little wliile. 
 
 "Come," said wlie at last, "my good fel- 
 low, if I could only see him, and meiit ion one 
 or two things, he would he very glad. It 
 will he very much to his injury if he does 
 not SCO nie. You jiiijiear ii> he a faithful 
 servant, and to earc for your master's inter- 
 ests, SO do you let me jiass through, and I'll 
 I'ngagc to kei'ityon from all liariii or]innisli- 
 nieiit of any kind." 
 
 " Sony, mniii, to rcfiiRO ; hut orders is or- 
 ders, mum," said the man, stolidly. 
 
 " If I am not allowed to go in," .<aiil Miss 
 riympton, "surely Miss Dtiltoii will eoiiie 
 here to see nie — here .at the gates." 
 
 " I don't know, mum." 
 
 "Well, yon go and tell her that I am 
 here." 
 
 "Sorry to refuse, mum; hut it's agin or- 
 ders. No callers allowed, niiiiii.'' 
 
 "Hut Miss Dalton can come as far as the 
 gates." 
 
 The man looked puzzled, and tlien mut- 
 tered, 
 
 "Mr. Wiggins's ordias, ninm, is to have 
 no communication." 
 
 "Ah!" said Miss Plymiiton ; "so sho is 
 shut lip here." 
 
 " Heggin' your pardon, mum. she heant 
 shut u]i at all nowheres: she goes ahout." 
 
 "Then why can't I see her hero?" 
 
 "Agin orders, niiiiii." 
 
 Hy this Miss riympton understood the 
 worst, and fully helieved that Edith was un- 
 der strict restraint. 
 
 " My good man," naid Mho, Holemnly, " you 
 and your r. aster are committing a great 
 crime ill diring to keep any one here in itii- 
 )irisonmi"it, especially the one who owim 
 these estates. I warn him now to hew are, 
 for MiSs Dalton has powerful fiieiiilN. As to 
 you, yon may not know that you are hreak- 
 ing the law now, and are liahle to transpor- 
 tation for life. Conie, don't hreak the laws 
 and incur such daii;;ei'. If I elmose I can 
 hriiig here to-nioi'ro\\ t he oDicers of (he law, 
 release Miss Dalton, and have you and your 
 master aiiested." 
 
 At this the man looked troiilded. lie 
 scratched his head, drew a long hreatli. and 
 looked at the ground with a frown. 
 
 Miss riympton, seeing that this shot had 
 told, followed it ii|>. 
 
 " Hefiise me adiiiittaiieo," said she, "and I 
 will hi'iiig hack those who will eoine here in 
 the name of the law ; hut if yon let me in, I 
 lii'omise to say nothing ahout this niiilter." 
 
 The )iorter now seemed to have recovi'i'ed 
 himself, lie raised his head, and the idil 
 monotonous reply came : 
 
 " Sorry, mum, hut it's agin orders." 
 
 Miss I'lympton made one further attempt. 
 She drew forth her purse, and displayed its 
 eonteiits. 
 
 " See," said she, " you will ho doing a kind- 
 ness to your master, and yim shall have all 
 this." 
 
 Hut tlu^ man did not look at the ]nirse at 
 all. His eyes were tixed on Miss riympton, 
 and he merely replied .as hefore: 
 
 " Sorry, iiinin, hilt it's agin oiders." 
 
 "Very well," said Miss IMymptoii. "There 
 is only one thing left for me to do. I wish 
 you to lake one linal message from me to 
 your master. Tell him this: It ismy inten- 
 tion to procure help for Miss Dalton at once. 
 Tell him tli.'it her uncle. Sir Lionel Diidleigh, 
 is now in Kngland, and that this very day I 
 shall set out for Diidleigh Manor. I shall 
 tell Sir Lionel how his niece is situated, and 
 hring him here, lie will come with his own 
 claims and the ollieers of the law. Wiggins 
 sh.'ill he arrested, together with all who have 
 aided and ahetted him. If he let'iises to ad- 
 mit me now, 1 sii:ill i|iiit this place and go 
 at (Mice without delay, (io, now, .'iiid make 
 haste, for this matter is of too great iiniior- 
 tance to ho decided hy you." 
 
 The porter seonied to tliink so too, for, 
 touching his hat, he at once withdrew. This 
 time he was gone longer than hefore, .•ind 
 Miss I'lympton waited for his return with 
 great imiiatieiicc. At length he came hack. 
 
 " Mr.Wiggins presents his respects, mum," 
 said the man, "and says ho is not hreakin' 
 any law jit all, !ind that if you choose to go 
 for Sir Lionel, he is willin' to have you do so. 
 He says if you fetch Sir Lionel here he will 
 let hotli of you in. He says he'll ho very 
 haii])y indeed to see Sir Lionel." 
 
 This singular way of taking what was 
 
THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 meant to be a most formidable threat took 
 away Miss Plymptc 's last hope, and reduced 
 her to a state of dejection and bewilderment ; 
 for when she sent that threatening mes- 
 sage, it was not beciuse she had really any 
 fixed design of carrying it into execution, 
 but rather because the name of Sir Lionel 
 Dudleigh seemed to her to bo one which 
 might overawe the mind of Wiggins. She 
 thtiught that by reminding Wiggins of the 
 existence of this powerful relative, and l)y 
 threatening an instant appeal to him, she 
 would b(> able to terrify liini into releasing 
 Editli. IJut his cool answer destroyed this 
 hope. She felt puzzled at his a'ssertion that 
 he was not breaking any law, when ho him- 
 self must know well that such a thing as the 
 imprisonment of a free subject is a crime of 
 the most serious character; but she felt even 
 iiiore puzzled at his reference to Sir Lionel. 
 H(!r own connection and association with 
 the aristocracy had never destroyed that 
 deep unswerving reverence for them with 
 which she had set out in life ; and to lind 
 Wiggins treating the mention of Sir Lionel 
 witli such cool imlifterence v.as to her an in- 
 comprehensible thing. But there was noth- 
 ing more for her to do at this place, and feel- 
 ing the necessity of innnediate action, she at 
 once drove back to the inn. 
 
 Arriving here, she hoped that her prompt 
 departure might frighten Wiggins, and lead 
 to a change in his decision, and she con- 
 cluded to renuiin that evening and that night, 
 so as to give him time for repentance. 
 
 Nothing was left now but to devise some 
 plan of action. First of all, she made inqui- 
 ries of the landlord about Wiggins. Tliat 
 pe'.'sonago could tell her very little about 
 him. According to him, Mr. Wiggins was a 
 lawyer from Liverpool, who had been in- 
 trusted witli the management of the Dalton 
 estate for the past ten years. He was a very 
 quiet man, devoted to his business, and until 
 latterly had never been at Dal ton oftener or 
 longer than was absolutely necessary. Of 
 late, however, ho had been living here for 
 some months, and it was believed that he 
 intended to stay hero the greater part of his 
 time. 
 
 This was all that Miss Plympton was able 
 to learn about Wiggins. 
 
 CHAFfER IX. 
 
 SIR LIONEL DUDLKIGH. 
 
 Althoug!! Miss Plympton had indulged 
 the hope that Wiggins might relent, the 
 time passed without l)ringing any message 
 from him, and every hour as it passed made 
 a more pressing necessity for her to decide 
 on some plan. The more she thought over 
 the matter, the more she thought that her 
 best plan of action lay in that very threat 
 
 which she had made to Wiggins. True, it 
 had been made as a mere threat, but on 
 thinking it over it seemed the b(^st policy. 
 
 The only other course lay in action of 
 her own. She might find some lawyer and 
 get him to interpose. But this involved a 
 responsibility on her part from which she 
 shnyik so long as there was any other who 
 had a better right to incur such responsibil- 
 ity. Now Sir Lionel was Edith's uncle by 
 marriage; and though there had been trou- 
 ble between husbaiul and wife, she yet foit 
 sure that one in Edith's position wor.ld lK- 
 cito tho sympathy of every genenms heart, 
 and rouse Sir Li(mel to action. One thing 
 might, indeed, prevent, and that was the dis- 
 grace that had fallen upon the Dalton nnnie. 
 This might prevent Sir Lionel from taking 
 any part ; but Miss Plympton was sanguine, 
 and lioi)ed that Sir Lionel's opinion of the 
 condenmcd man might be like her own, in 
 which case he would bo willing, nay, eager, 
 to save tho daughter. 
 
 The lirst-thing for her to do was to find 
 out where Sir Lionel Dudleigh lived. About 
 this there was no difiiculty. Burke's Peer- 
 age and Baronetage is a book which in most 
 English homes lies beside the Bible in the 
 most honored place, and this inn, humble 
 though it might be, was not without a copy 
 of this great Bible of society. This Miss 
 Plympton procured, and at once set herself 
 to the study of its pages. It was not with- 
 out a feeling of self-abasement that she did 
 this, for she prided herself upon her exten- 
 sive knowledge of the aristocracy, but here 
 she was deplorably ignorant. She comfort- 
 ed herself, however, Ijy the thought that her 
 ignorance was the fault of Sir Lionel, who 
 had lived a somewhat quiet life, and had 
 never thrust very much of his personality 
 before the world, and no one 1)ut Sir Ber- 
 nard Burke conld be expected to find out his 
 abode. That great authority, of course, gave 
 her all the information tliat she wanted, and 
 she found that Dudleigh Manor was situated 
 not very far distant from Cheltenham. This 
 would reqiiire a detour which Avould involve 
 time and trouble ; but, under the circum- 
 stances, she would have been willing to do 
 far more, even though Plympton Terrace 
 should be without its tutelary genius in the 
 mean time. 
 
 On the next morning Miss Plympton left 
 Dalton on her way to Dudleigh Manor. She 
 was still full of anxiety about Edith, but the 
 thought that she was doing somethin, ; and 
 the sanguine anticipations in wliich she in- 
 dulged with reference to Sir Li(uiel, did much 
 to lessen her cares. In due time she reaci ed 
 her destination, and after a drive from the 
 station at which she got out, of a mile or two, 
 she found herstslf within Sir Lionel's grounds. 
 These were extensive and well kept, wliilo 
 the manor-house itself was one of the noblest 
 of its class. 
 
THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 37 
 
 [gins. True, it 
 threat, but on 
 10 best policy, 
 y ill action of 
 )ino lawyer and 
 tliiH involved a 
 Voni which she 
 
 any other who 
 nch rcHponsibil- 
 Idith's nncle by 
 ! had been trou- 
 nfe, she yet fcit 
 tition wof.ld tX- 
 
 generous heart, 
 ion. One thing 
 that was the dis- 
 he Dalton mnie. 
 mel from taking 
 )n was sangnine, 
 s opinion of tho 
 like her own, in 
 lliug, nay, eager, 
 
 o do was to find 
 igh lived. About 
 f. Burke's I'eer- 
 k which in most 
 tho Biblo in tho 
 this inn, huniblo 
 (t without a copy 
 iiety. This Miss 
 b once 8(!t herself 
 It was not witli- 
 iient that she did 
 upon her exten- 
 tocracy, but here 
 it. Slit! conii'ort- 
 tliought that her 
 Sir Lionel, who 
 et life, and had 
 his personality 
 one but Sir Her- 
 ted to find out his 
 y, of course, gave 
 she wanted, and 
 nor was situated 
 heltenhain. This 
 ch would involve 
 ider the circum- 
 en willing to do 
 lynipton Terrace 
 ary genius in the 
 
 iss Plynipton left 
 
 eigli Manor. She 
 
 lit Edith, but the 
 
 g soniethiii,: nnd 
 
 in which she in- 
 
 Lionel, did much 
 
 time she read cd 
 
 a drive from tho 
 
 :,ofamileortwo, 
 
 Lionel's grounds. 
 
 well kept, while 
 
 one of tho noblest 
 
 After she had waited for some time in an 
 elegant drawing-room a servant camo with 
 Sir Lionel's apologies for not coming to seo 
 her, on account of a severe attack of gout, 
 and asking her to come up staii-s to the li- 
 brary. Miss Plympton followed the servant 
 to that (luarter, and soon found herself in 
 Sir Lionel's presence. 
 
 He was seated in an arm-chair, with his 
 right foot wrapped in flannels and resting 
 up(m a stool in front of him, in orthodox 
 gout style. Ho was a man apparently of 
 about fifty years of age, in a state of excel- 
 lent jireservation. His head was partially 
 bald, his brow smooth, his cheeks rounded 
 and a little fiorid, with whiskers on each 
 side of his face, and smooth -shaven chin. 
 There was a pleasant smile on his face, 
 which seemed natural to that smooth and 
 rosy countenance ; and this, togeth','r with 
 a general tendency to (loriuilency, which 
 was rather becoming to the man, and the 
 gouty foot, all served to suggest high living 
 and self-indulgence. 
 
 " I really feel ashamed of myself, Miss — 
 ah — Plympton," said Sir Lionel, " for giving 
 you so much tnmble ; but gout, you know, 
 my dear madam, is not to bo trilled with ; 
 and I assure you if it had been any one else 
 I should have declined seeing them*. But 
 of course I could not refuse to see you, and 
 the only way I could have that pleasure was 
 by begging you to come here. Tho mount- 
 ain could not come to Mohammed, and so 
 Mohammed, you know — eh ? Ha, ha, ha !" 
 
 The baronet had a cheery voice, rich and 
 mellow, and his laugh was ringing and mu- 
 sical. His courtesy, his pleasant smile, his 
 genial i.ir, iind his hearty voice and laugh, 
 all filled Miss Plympton with sincere do- 
 light, and she felt that this man could do 
 nothing else than take up Edith's cause with 
 the utmost ardor. 
 
 After a few apologies for troubling him, 
 which Sir Lionel turned aside by protesting 
 that apologies were only due from himself 
 to her, Miss Plympton began to state tho ob- 
 ject of her visit. 
 
 "In tho first place. Sir Lionel," said she, 
 "I take it for granted that you have heard 
 of tho death of Frederick Dalton, Esr^uire, 
 in Van Diemen's Land." 
 
 Tho smile on the baronet's face died out 
 at this, and his eyes fixed themselves upon 
 Miss Plympton's face with quick and eager 
 curiosity. Then ho turned his face aside. 
 A table stood on his right, with some wino 
 and glasses within reach. 
 
 "Excuse me," said he; "I beg ten thou- 
 sand pardons ; but tconU you take a glass of 
 wino? No?" he continued, as Miss Plymp- 
 ton politely declined; "really I think you 
 had better." And then, pouring out a glass, 
 he sipped it, and looked at her once more. 
 "Poor Dalton !" said ho, \> itli a sigh. " Yos, 
 of course, I saw it in tho papers. A most 
 
 melancholy affair. Poor Dalton ! Let mo in- 
 form you, madam, that he was more sinned 
 against than sinning." Sir Lionel sighed. 
 
 " Oh, Sir Lionel," exclaimed Miss Plymp- 
 ton, earnestly, " how it rejoices my heart to 
 hear you say that! For my part, I never, 
 never had one single doubt of his perfect in- 
 nocence." 
 
 " Nor had I," said Sir Lionel, firmly, pour- 
 ing out another glass of wine. " It was 
 excessively unfortunate. Had I not myself 
 been in — in — ah — attliction at tho time, I 
 might have done something to help him." 
 
 " Oh, Sir Lionel, I'm sure ycni would !" 
 
 "Yes, madam," said Sir Lionel ; "but do- 
 mestic circumstances to which I am not at 
 liberty to allude, of a painful character, put 
 it out of my power to — to — ah — to interpose. 
 I was away when the arrest took place, and 
 when I returned it was too hife." 
 
 " So I have understood," said Miss Plymp- 
 ton ; "and it is because I have felt so sure 
 of your goodness of heart that I have como 
 now on this visit." 
 
 " I hope that you will give mo tho chance 
 of showing you that your confidence in me 
 is well founded," said Sir Lionel, cordially. 
 
 " You may have heard. Sir Lionel," began 
 Miss Plympton, " that about the time of the 
 trial Mrs. Dalton died. She died of a broken 
 heart. • It was very, very sudden." 
 
 Sir Lionel sighed heavily. 
 
 "She thought enough of me to consider 
 me her friend; and as she did not think her 
 own relatives had shown her sufticient sym- 
 pathy, she intrusted her child to me when 
 dying. I have had that child over since. 
 She is now eighteen, and of age." 
 
 "A girl! God bless my soul!" said Sir 
 Lionel, thoughtfully. " And does she know 
 about this— this — melancholy business?" 
 
 "I deemed it my duty to tell her. Sir Lio- 
 nel," said Jliss Plympton, gravely. 
 
 "I don't know about that. I don't — 
 know — about — that," said Sir Lionel, purs- 
 ing up his lips and frowning. " Best wait a 
 while; but too lat<! now, and the mischief's 
 done. Well, and how did she take it ?" 
 
 " Nobly, Sir Lionel. At first she was quite 
 crushed, but afterward rallied iiiKlcr it. But 
 she could not remain with me any longer, 
 and insisted on going homo — as she called 
 it— to Dalton Hail." 
 
 "Dalton Hall! Y'es— well? Poor girl! 
 poor little girl! — an orphan. Dalton Hall! 
 Well ?" 
 
 " And now I como to tho real purpose of 
 my visit," said Miss Plympton; and there- 
 upon she went on to give him a minute and 
 detailed account of their arrival at Dalton 
 and the reception there, together with tho 
 subsequent events. 
 
 To all this Sir Lionel listened without one 
 word of any kind, and at length Miss Plymp- 
 ton ended. 
 
 " Well, madam," said he, " it may surprise 
 
38 
 
 THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 you that I liiive not made any comments on 
 yonr aHtonisliiiig 8tory. If it bad been less 
 aeriouH I miglit have <h»ne so. I might even 
 have indulged in profaiui hmguage — a Iiabit, 
 madnui, which, I am sorry to say, I have ac- 
 quire<l from not freciuentiug more tlie soci- 
 ety of ladies. Hut this business, madam, is 
 beyond coiinnent, and I can only say that 
 I rejoice and f(;el grateful that you de- 
 cided as you did, and have come at once to 
 me." 
 
 " Oh, I am so glad, and such a load is tak- 
 en olf my mind !" exclaimed Miss Plymptou, 
 fervently. 
 
 " Why, madam, I aTU utterly astoiuuled at 
 this man's au<lacify," cried Sir Lionel — " ut- 
 terly astounded! To think that any man 
 should (!ver venture uixtn sM(th a course! 
 It's positively almost inconceivable. And 
 so y<ui tell mo that she is there now V 
 
 '"' Yes." 
 
 " Under the lock and key, so to speak, of 
 this fellow V 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 "And she isn't allowed even to go to the 
 gate ?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "The man's mad," cried Sir Lionel — 
 "mad, raving mad. Did you see him ?" 
 
 " No. llii wouldn't ciuisent to see me." 
 
 " Why, I tell you, he's a madman," said 
 Sir Lionel. " He must be. No sane man 
 could think of such a thing. Why, this is 
 England, and the ninet<'enth century. The 
 days of ju'i vate imprisonment are over. He's 
 mad ! The man's mad !" 
 
 " Hut what is to bo done. Sir Lionel ?" 
 asked Miss Plymi)ton, impatiently. 
 
 " Done ?" cried Sir Lionel — "' every Ihing! 
 First, we nnist get Miss Dalton out of that 
 rascal's clutches; then wo must hand that 
 fellow and his confederates over to tht) law. 
 And if it dmi't end in Botany Bay aiul hard 
 labor for life, then there's no law in the land. 
 Why, who is he ? A pettifogger — a misera- 
 ble low-born, low-bred, Liverpool i)ettifog- 
 ger!" 
 
 " Do yon know him ?" 
 
 "Know him, madam? I know all about 
 him — that is, as nnich as I want to know." 
 
 "Do you know any thing about the rela- 
 tions that fonnerly existed between him and 
 Mr. Frederick Dalton ?" 
 
 " Relations f" said Sir Lionel, pouring out 
 another glass of wine—" nrlations, madam — 
 that is — ah — to say — if.h — business relations, 
 madam ? Well, they were those of patron 
 and client, I believe — nothing more. I be- 
 lieve that this Wiggins was one to whom 
 poor Dalton behaved very kindly— made him 
 ■what lu) is, in fact — and this is his reward! 
 A pettifogger, by Heaven ! — a pettifogger ! 
 Seizing the Dalton estates, the sc(uindrel, 
 and then putting Miss Dalton under lock and 
 key ! Why, the man's mad — mad ! yes, a 
 taving numiae ! He is, by Heaveu !" 
 
 "And now, Sir Lionel, when shall we be 
 able to eftect her release f ' 
 
 " Leave it all to me. Leave it all to me, 
 madam. This infernal gout of mine ties mo 
 up, but I'll take measures this very day ; I'll 
 send oft" to Dalton an agent that will free 
 Miss Dalton and bring her here. Leave it 
 to mo. If I don't go, I'll send — yes, by Heav- 
 en, I'll send my son. Hut give yourself no 
 trouble, madam. Miss Dalton is as good as 
 free at this moment, and Wiggins is as good 
 as in jail." 
 
 Miss Plymptou now asked Sir Lionel if ho 
 knew what Wiggins meant by his answer to 
 lujr threat, and she repeated the message. 
 Sir Lionel listened with compressed lips and 
 a frowning brow. After Miss Plympton had 
 told it ho sat for some minutes in silent 
 thought. 
 
 " So that is what he said, is it V ex- 
 claimed Sir Lionel at last. " Well, madam, 
 wo shall see about that. Hut don't give 
 yourself a monunit's UTieasiness. I take the 
 matter in hand from this moment. The in- 
 solence of this fellow, Wiggins, is unparal- 
 leled, madam ; but be assured all this shall 
 surely recoil on his own head with terrible 
 eftect." 
 
 Some further conversation followed to tlio 
 same effect, and at length Miss Plympton 
 took her leave, full of hope and without a 
 care. Sir Lionel had hinted that she was 
 not needed any more in the matter ; ami as 
 she felt a n.'itural delicacy about obtruding 
 her services, she decided to go back to Plymp- 
 ton Terrace and wait. 
 
 Accordingly Miss Plympton, on leaving 
 Dudleigh Manor, went back to Plymptou 
 Terrace. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 LEOX. 
 
 For some time after Miss Plympton's 
 departure Sir Lionel renuiined buried in 
 thought. At length ho rang the bell. 
 
 A servant apjieared. 
 
 " Is Captain Dudleigh hero yet ?" asked 
 Sir Lionel. 
 
 "Yes, Sir Lionel." 
 
 " Tell him that I want to sec him." 
 
 The servant departed, and in a short time 
 the door ojtened and a young nuin entered. 
 H(i was tall, nmseular, well-formed, and with 
 suflicient resemblance to Sir Lionel to indi- 
 cate that he was liis son. For some time Sir 
 Lionel took no notice of him, and Captain 
 Dudleigh, throwing himself in a lounging 
 attitmle upon a chair, leaned his head back, 
 anil stared at the ceiling. At length he grew 
 tinnl of this, and sitting erect, he looked at 
 Sir Lionel, who was leaning forward, with 
 his elbow on the arm of his chair, supporting 
 his head in his hand, and evidently quite 
 oblivious of the preseuce of any ouo. 
 
 ■ ■ . -r^j I 
 
THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 39 
 
 shall wo bo 
 
 it all to me, 
 linii ties iiio 
 •ry day ; I'll 
 iit will free 
 I. Leave it 
 3S, hy Heav- 
 yourself uo 
 s im good us 
 18 is as good 
 
 Lionel if ho 
 is answer to 
 lio message, 
 ised lips au<l 
 ympton had 
 es in silent 
 
 is it?" ex- 
 'ell, madam, 
 , don't give 
 I take tlio 
 ut. The in- 
 , is unparal- 
 lU this shall 
 ivith terrible 
 
 lowed to the 
 ss riympton 
 d without a 
 hat she was 
 ittcr; and as 
 it obtruding 
 cktoPlymp- 
 
 on leaving 
 ;o Plymptou 
 
 Plympton's 
 buried in 
 bell. 
 
 yet ?" asked 
 
 him." 
 
 I short time 
 nan entered. 
 ( (1, and with 
 )iifl to indi- 
 onie time Sir 
 and Captain 
 1 a lounging 
 is head bai'k, 
 gthhegrew 
 ho looked at 
 trward, with 
 r, supporting 
 dently (luito 
 y one. 
 
 " Did yon wish to see me, Sir ?" said Cap- 
 tain Dudleigh at length. 
 
 Sir Lionel started and raised his head. 
 
 " By Jove !" lie exclaimed. " Is that yon, 
 Leonf I believe I must have been asleep. 
 Have you been waiting long f Why didn't 
 you wake me? I sent for yon, didn't I f Oh 
 yes. Let me see. It is a business of the 
 greatest importance, and I'm deuced glad 
 that yon are here, for any delay would be 
 bad for all concerned." 
 
 Sir Lionel paused for a few moments, and 
 then began : 
 
 " You know about that — that melancholy 
 story of — of poor Dalton." 
 
 Leon nodded. 
 
 " Did you hear that he is de.ad ?" 
 
 "Well, some paragraphs have been going 
 the rounds of the papers to that eHeet, though 
 wliy they should drag the poor devil from 
 his seclusion, even to aTuionnee his death, is 
 somewhat strange to me." 
 
 "Well, he is dead, poor Dalton!" said Sir 
 Lionel, "and — and so there's an end of him 
 and that melancholy business. l?y-the-way, 
 I supi»ose you haven't heard any particulars 
 as to his death ?" 
 
 "No," said Leon, "nothing beyond the 
 bare fact. Besides, what does it nuitter ? 
 When a man's dead, uiuler such circum- 
 stances, too, no one cares whether ho died of 
 fever or gunshot." 
 
 " Trne," said Sir Lionel, with a sigh. " It 
 isn't likely that anyone would trouble him- 
 self to find out how poor Dalton died. Well, 
 that is the lirst thing that I had to mention. 
 And now there is another thing. You know, 
 of course, that he kft a daughter, who has 
 been growing up all these years, and is now of 
 age. She has been living under the care of 
 a Miss I'lympton, from whom I had the pleas- 
 ure of a call this morning, and who appears 
 to be a remarkably sensible and right-minded 
 person." 
 
 " A daughter ?" said Leon. " Oh yes ! Of 
 course I remember. And of ag(( ! Well, I 
 never thought of that. Why, she must be 
 heiress to the immense! Dalton iiroi)erty. Of 
 age, and still at school ! What's her name ? 
 I really ftnget it, and it's odd too, for, after 
 all, she's my own cousin, in spite of the 
 short-eoinings of her father and — and other 
 people." 
 
 "Yes, Leon," said Sir Lionel, "you're 
 right. She is your own cousin. As to her 
 father, you must remenibei how I have al- 
 ways said that he was innocent, and sinned 
 against rather than sinning. Heaven for- 
 bid that we should visit on this poor child 
 the disgrace of her father, when ho was not 
 guilty at all. I feel confident, Leon, that 
 you will espouse her cause as eagerly as I 
 do; and since I am ])revente(l from <loing 
 any tiling by this infernal gout, I look to 
 you to represent mo in this business, and 
 bring that infernal scoundrel to justice." 
 
 " Infernal scoundrel ! What infernal 
 scoundrel f" 
 
 "Whv, this Wiggins." 
 
 "Wiggins?" 
 
 "Yes. The madman that is trying to 
 shut up Edith, and keep her under lock and 
 key." 
 
 " Edith ! Who's Edith ? What, Dalton's 
 daughter? Oh, is that her name? But 
 what do you mean ? What madman ? what 
 h"' and key?" 
 
 Jou know Wiggins, don't you?" asked 
 Sir Lionel. 
 
 " Which Wiggins ? There are several 
 that I know — Wiggins tlu; sausage man, 
 Wiggins the rat-catcher, Wig^" 
 
 "I mean John Wiggins, of John Wiggins 
 and Company, solicitors, Liverpool. You 
 know them perfectly well. I sent you there 
 once." 
 
 " Yes," said Leon, slowly, " I remember." 
 
 " What s(nt of a man was this John Wig- 
 gins himself when you saw him ?" 
 
 " Oh, an ordinary -looking person — grave, 
 quiot, sensible, cool as a clock, and very ret- 
 iciMit. I told you all about him." 
 
 "Yes, but I didn't know but that you 
 might remember something that would 
 throw light on his present actions. You 
 went there to ask some <iuesti(uis in my 
 naino with reference to jioor Dalton, and the 
 disposal of his property." 
 
 " Yes, and got about as little satisfaction 
 as one could get." 
 
 " He was not communicative." 
 
 "Not at all. Every answer was an eva- 
 sion. What little I did get out of him had 
 to be dragged out. The most iin])(irtant 
 questions he positively refused to answer." 
 
 "Of course. I remember all that, for I 
 was the one who wished to know, and con- 
 se(|uently his n'fusal to answi^r alfected me 
 most of all. I wondered at tin; time, and 
 thought that it might be some quiet plan 
 of his, but I really had uo idea of the au- 
 dacity of his plans." 
 
 "How is that?" 
 
 " Wait a moment. Did you see any thing 
 in this man that could excite tint suspicion 
 that Iks was at all tliglity or insane ?" 
 
 "Insane! Certainly not. He was, on the 
 contrary, the sanest ])erson I ever met with." 
 
 " Well, then, he must have become insane 
 since. I've no doubt that he has for years 
 been planning to get control of the Dalton 
 property; and now, when he has become in- 
 sane, he is still animati^d by tliis ruling pas- 
 sion, and has gone to work to gratify it in 
 this mad way." 
 
 " Mad way ? What mad way ? I don't 
 understand." 
 
 " Well, I'll tell you all about it. I merely 
 wished to get your unbiased opinion of the 
 man first;" and upon this Sir Lionel told 
 him the whole story which Miss Flymi)ton 
 had narrated to him. To all this Loon list- 
 
¥ 
 
 40 
 
 THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 
 ened with the deepest interest and the most 
 profound astonishment, interrupting his fa- 
 ther by frequent questions and exclama- 
 tions. 
 
 " What can bo liis design ?" said Leon. 
 "He must have some iilau in his head." 
 
 "Plan? a mad phiu enough I'' exclaimed 
 Sir Lionel. '• It is clearly notliing else than 
 an attempt to get control of the property by 
 a coup (le main," 
 
 " Well, tlio opinion that I formed of Wig- 
 gins is that he is altogether too sbrewd and 
 <leep a man to undertake anything without 
 seeing his way clear to success." 
 
 " Tlie man's mad!" cried Sir Lionel. " How 
 can any sane nmu hope to succeed in this ? 
 Why, no one can set up a private i)rison- 
 liouse in that style. If the law allowed that, 
 I know of one person who could set nj) a 
 private jail, and keep it pretty well filled, 
 too." 
 
 "An idea strilccs me," said Leon, " wliich 
 may explain this on other grounds than mad- 
 ness, and which is quite in accordance with 
 Wiggins's character. Ho has been the agent 
 of the estates for these ten years, and tliough 
 lie was very close and nncomnuinicative 
 about the extent of his powiirs and the na- 
 ture of his connection with Dalton, yet it is 
 evident that ho has had Dalton's confidence 
 to the highest degree ; and I think that be- 
 fore Dalton's unfortunate business he must 
 Ihavo had some intiuonce over him. Perliiips 
 ho has persuaded Dalton to make him tlio 
 guardian of his daughter." 
 
 " Well, what good would that do ?" asked 
 Sir Lionel. 
 
 " Do you know any thing about the law 
 of guardianship f" 
 
 " Not much." 
 
 " Well, it seems to me, from what I have 
 heard, that a guardian has a great many very 
 peculiar rights. He stands in <a father's place. 
 He can choose snch society for his ward as 
 he likes, and can shut her up, just as a father 
 might. In this instance Wiggins may bo 
 standing on his rights, and the knowledge 
 of this may be the reason why ho defied you 
 80 insolently." 
 
 Sir Lionel looked annoyed, and was silent 
 for a few moments. 
 
 " I don't believe it," said he ; "I don't be- 
 lieve any thing of the kind. I don't beliovo 
 any law will allow a man to exercise such con- 
 trol over another just because he or she is a 
 minor. Besides, even if it were so, Edith is 
 of ago, and this restraint can not be kejit up. 
 What good would it do, then, for him to im- 
 prison her for three or four months ? At the 
 end of that time she must escape from his 
 control. Besides, even on the ground that 
 he is in loco jMrcofis, you must remember 
 that there are limits even to a father's au- 
 thority. I doubt whether even a father 
 wonld bo allowed to imprison a daughter 
 without cause." 
 
 "But this imprisonment may only be a 
 restriction within the grounds. The law can 
 not prevent that. Oh, the fact is, this guard- 
 ianship law is a very (lueer thing, and wo 
 shall find that Wiggins has as much right 
 over her as if he were her father. So wo 
 nnist go to work carefully ; and my idea is 
 that it wonld be best to see him first of all, 
 before we do any thing, so as to see how it is." 
 
 "At any rate," said Sir Lionel, "wo can 
 force him to show by what right he controls 
 her liberty. The law of guardianship can 
 not override the hahcdH corpus act, and the 
 liberty of the snbject is provided for, after 
 all. If wo once get Edith out of his control, 
 it will be difficult for him to get her back 
 again, even if the law did decide in his favor. 
 Still I think there is a good deal in what you 
 soy, and it certainly is best not to be too 
 hasty about it. An irterview with him, 
 first of all, will be decidedly the best thing. 
 I think, before going there, yon had better 
 see my solicitors in London. Yon see I in- 
 trust the management of this affair to you, 
 Leon, for this infernal gout ties nu' up here 
 closer than poor Edith at Dalton Hall. Yon 
 had better set about it at once. Go first to 
 London, see my solicitors, find out about the 
 law of guardianship, and also see what we 
 had better do. Then, if they apjirove of 
 it, go to Dalton Hall and see Wiggins. I 
 don't think that you are the sort of man who 
 can be turned back at the gates by that ruf- 
 fian porter. You must also write me wheat 
 the solicitors say, for I think I had better 
 keep Miss Plympton informed about the 
 progress of affairs, partly to satisfy her anxi- 
 ety, and partly to prevent her from taking 
 any independent action which may embar- 
 rass our course of conduct." 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 LUCY. 
 
 Anorr a week after the conversation de- 
 tailed in the last chapter, the train stopped 
 at tho littlo station near Dalton village, and 
 Leon Dudleigh stepped out. At the same 
 time a woman got out of another carriage 
 in tho train. She was dressed in black, and 
 a crap* veil concealed her face. Leon Dud- 
 leigh stood and looked about for a few mo- 
 ments in search of some vehicle in which to 
 complete his journey, and as the train went 
 on he walked into the littlo statioii-houso 
 to make inquiries. Tiio woman followed 
 slowly. After exchanging a few words with 
 tho ticket clerk, Leon found out that no 
 vehicle was to bo had in the neighborhood, 
 and with an exclamation of impatience ho 
 told tho clerk that ho supposed he? would 
 have to walk, and at tho same time asked 
 him some questions about getting his lug- 
 gage forwarded to tho inn at Dalton. Hav- 
 
THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 41 
 
 ay only he a 
 
 The law can 
 
 IS, this giiard- 
 
 hiiig, and wo 
 
 9 much right 
 ithtT. So wo 
 ul my idea is 
 in first of all, 
 see how it is." 
 nel, " we can 
 lit he controls 
 •dianship can 
 
 act, and tho 
 ded for, after 
 )f his control, 
 
 get her hack 
 e in his favor. 
 1 in what you 
 lot to be too 
 w with him, 
 
 10 best thing. 
 Ill had better 
 You see I in- 
 aftair to you, 
 '8 me up liere 
 m Hall. You 
 ). Go lii'st to 
 out about tho 
 
 800 what we 
 ■f apjuove of 
 
 \Vi^;;ins. I 
 rt of man who 
 '8 by that ruf- 
 rite me what 
 I had better 
 d about tilt! 
 isfy her anxi- 
 
 from taking 
 
 1 may embar- 
 
 versation de- 
 train stopped 
 u village, and 
 
 At the titime 
 ther carriage 
 in black, a lid 
 Leon Dud- 
 for a few mo- 
 c ill which to 
 ho train went 
 station-house 
 nan followed 
 w words with 
 
 out that uo 
 leighborhood, 
 tupatienco ho 
 icd ho would 
 I' time asked 
 ting his lug- 
 >alton. Hav- 
 
 "AT THAT MOMENT THE WOMAN KA18EI) HKK VJilL, 
 
 ing received a satisfactory answer, ho 
 turned to tho door and walked toward tlio 
 "village. 
 
 Tho woman who bad followed him into 
 the station-house had already left it, and was 
 walking along tho road ahead of him. She 
 was walking at a slow pace, and before h-ig 
 Leon camo up with her. Ho had not no- 
 ticed her particularly, and was now about 
 passing her, when at that very moment tho 
 M'oman raised her veil, and turned about so 
 as to face him. 
 
 At tho sight of her face Leon uttered an 
 exclamation of amazement and started back. 
 
 " Lucy !" ho exclaimed, in a tone of deep 
 and bitter vexation. 
 
 "Aha, Leon!" said tho woman, with a 
 smile. "You thought you would give me 
 tho slip. You didn't know what u watch 
 I was keoping over you." 
 
 At this Leon regarded her in gloomy si- 
 lence, while tho expression of deep vexation 
 remained unchanged on his face. 
 
 The wcnnan who had thus followed him 
 was certainly not one who ought to inspire 
 any thing like vexation. Her face was beau- 
 
 tiful in outline and expression. Her eyes 
 were dark and aninuited, her tone and 
 manner indicated good-breeding and refine- 
 ment, though these were sonuiwhat more 
 vivacious than is common with English la- 
 dies. 
 
 "I don't SCO what brought you here," 
 said Leon at last. 
 
 " I might say tho same of yon, «io»i eher," 
 replied the lady; "but I have a faint idea, 
 and I have no desire to give you too much 
 liberty." 
 
 " It's some more of your confounded jeal- 
 ousy," said Leon, angrily. "My business 
 hero is a very delicate one indeed. I may 
 have to do it incognito, and it may ruin all 
 if I have any one hero who knows ini;." 
 
 " Incognito ?" said tho lady. " That will 
 bo charming; and if so, who can help you 
 better than If I can bo your mother, or your 
 grandmother, or your business partner, or 
 any thing. You ought to have insisted on 
 my accompanying you." 
 
 Tho liglit tone of raillery in which this 
 was spoken did not in any way mollify the 
 chagrin of the other, who still looked at hor 
 
42 
 
 THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 
 with a frown, and as she ended, growled 
 out, 
 
 " I don't see how you got on my track, 
 confound it !" 
 
 "Notliiiig easier," said the lady. "You 
 didn't take any ])ains to hide your traeks." 
 
 " But I told you I was going back to Dud- 
 leigh." 
 
 "I know you did, mon chvr; hut do you 
 think I believed you ?" 
 
 " I don't sec how you followed me," said 
 Leon again. 
 
 "Well, I don't intend to let you know all 
 my resources," said the lady, with a smile, 
 " ibr fear you will bailie me some other time. 
 But now come, don't let yourself get into a 
 passion. Look at me, and see how good- 
 natured and 8weet-tenii)ered I am. Your 
 reception of me is really cputo heart-rending, 
 ami I have a great mind to go back again 
 at once and leave you." 
 
 "I wish you would," said Leon, rudely. 
 
 " But I won't," said the lady. " So come, 
 be yourself again, for you can be sweet-tem- 
 pered if you only try hard, you know." 
 
 " Now see hero, Lucy," said Leon, sternly, 
 "yon don't know what you're doing. It's 
 all very well to pass it off as a frolic, but it 
 won't do. This business of mine is too se- 
 rious to admit of trilling. If it were my 
 own aftair, I wouldn't care ; and oven if I 
 didn't want you, I shouhl submit with a 
 good grace. But this is a matter of extreme 
 delicacy, and my father has sent me here be- 
 cause he was unable to come himself. It is 
 a — a law matter. I went to London merely 
 to see the solicitors. I didn't tell a soul 
 about my business, and I thought that no 
 one knew I was coming hero except my fa- 
 ther and the solicitors." 
 
 " Well, but I'm always an exception, you 
 know," said the lady, pleasantly. 
 
 " Oh, see here, now," said the other, " it's 
 all v(Ty well for you to meddle with my own 
 affairs; but you are now fiu'cing yourself 
 into the midst of the concerns of others — 
 the business att'iiirs of two great estates. I 
 must attend to this alone." 
 
 " Mon vher" siiid the lady, with unalter- 
 able placidity, " business is not one of your 
 strong points. You really .'iro not fit to 
 manage .any important matter .alone. At 
 Dudleigh you have your papa to advise 
 with, at London your papa's solicitors, and 
 here at Dalton you need a sound adviser 
 too. Now is there any one in whom you 
 could put greater confidence, or who could 
 give you better advice on innumerable mat- 
 ters, than the unworthy being who now ad- 
 dresses you ? Come, don't keep up the sulks 
 any longer. They are not beconnng to your 
 style of be.auty. For my part, I never sulk. 
 If you will reileet for a moment, you will 
 see that it is really a great advantage for 
 you to have with you oue so sngacious and 
 shrewd as I am ; and now that the lirst mo- 
 
 ment of irritation has passed, I trust you 
 will look upon my humble otler of service 
 with more pro]>itious eyes." 
 
 Something in these words seemed to strike 
 Leon favorably, for the vexation passed away 
 fnun his face, and he stood looking thought- 
 fully at tin? grouiul, which ho was mechan- 
 ically smootliing over with his foot. The 
 lady said no nuire, but watched him attent- 
 ively, in silence, waiting to seo the result 
 of his ])resent meditations. 
 
 "Well," said ho .at last, "I don't know 
 but that something may arise in this busi- 
 ness, Lucy, in which you m.ay be able to do 
 something — though what it nuiy be I can 
 not tell just now." 
 
 " Certainly," said the lady, " if you re.ally 
 .are thinking of an incognito, my services 
 may be of the utnu^st importance." 
 
 "There's something in that," said Leon. 
 
 " But whether the incognito is advis.ablo 
 or not should first bo seen. Now if you 
 would honor mo with your conlidenco to 
 over 80 small an extent, I could otter an opin- 
 ion on that point which might be worth hav- 
 ing. And I will set yon a good example by 
 giving you my coniidence. Frankly, then, 
 the only reason why I followed you was be- 
 cause I found out that there was a lady in 
 the case." 
 
 " So that's it, is it ?" said Leon, looking at 
 her curiously. 
 
 " Yes," said the lady. " And I heard th.at 
 yonr father sent you, and that you had been 
 talking with his s(dicitors. Now as you are 
 not in the habit of doing business with your 
 father, or talking with his solicitors, the 
 thing struck me very forcibly ; and as there 
 was a lady — in fact, a rich heiress — in the 
 case, and as you .are frightfully in debt, I 
 concluded that it would bo well for me to 
 see how the business proceeded ; for I some- 
 times do not have that confidence in you, 
 Leon, which I should like to have." 
 
 This was spoken in a serious and mourn- 
 ful voice which was totally ditt'erent from 
 the tone of raillery in which she had .at first 
 indulged. As she concluded she fixed her 
 eyes sadly on Leon, and he saw that they 
 were suft'used with tears. 
 
 " You preposterous little goose!" said Leon. 
 "There never was a wilder, a sillier, and at 
 the same time a more utterly groundless fan- 
 cy than this. Why, to begin with, the lady is 
 my cousin." 
 
 " I know," said the lady, sadly. 
 
 " It seems to mo you found out every thing, 
 though how the deuce you contrived it is 
 more than I can toll," said Leon. 
 
 " Our fjieulties .aro very much sh.arpened 
 where our interests are concerned," said the 
 lady, sententiously. 
 
 "Now, see here," said Leon. "It is true 
 that this lady is my cousin, and that she is 
 an heiress, and that I am infia-nally hard up, 
 and that my father sent me here, and that I 
 
THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 43 
 
 , I triiHt you 
 er of service 
 
 iiu'd to strike 
 
 1 |t!lH.S('(l iiwiiy 
 
 ;iii{i; thouf^lit- 
 was iiiec'liaii- 
 is foot. The 
 1 him atteiit- 
 !0 the result 
 
 [ don't know 
 
 in this busi- 
 
 be able to do 
 
 nay bo I can 
 
 ' if you really 
 , my servicea 
 iico." 
 
 " said Leon. 
 ) is advisable 
 Now if you 
 eonlideneo to 
 I otVer an opin- 
 be worth hav- 
 )d example by 
 L-'rankly, then, 
 d yon was be- 
 was a lady in 
 
 !on, looking at 
 
 id I heard that 
 you had been 
 ow as you art^ 
 ss with your 
 solicitors, the 
 aid as there 
 tress — in the 
 lly in debt, I 
 ell for me to 
 for I some- 
 denco in you, 
 ive." 
 
 Hid mourn- 
 dirt'erent from 
 le had at first 
 she iixed her 
 aw that they 
 
 lie 
 
 h 
 
 ae!" said Leon, 
 sillier, and at 
 iroundless fan- 
 ith, the lady is 
 
 [lly. 
 
 it every thing, 
 
 ontrived it is 
 
 on. 
 
 K'h sharpened 
 
 ned," said the 
 
 " It is true 
 nd that she is 
 nally hard up, 
 ire, and that I 
 
 have been talking with the solicitors; but I 
 swear to you the subject of marriage has not 
 once been mentioned." 
 
 " Hut only thought of," suggested the 
 other. 
 
 " Well, I don't know any thing about i)ei)- 
 ple's thoughts," said Leon. "If you go into 
 that styhi of thing, I give up. IJy-the-way, 
 you know so nuieh, that I suppose you know 
 the lady's name." 
 
 "Ohyes: Miss Dalton— Edith Dalton." 
 
 "The devil!" exclaimed Leon. " Well, I 
 confess I'm mystified. How yon could have 
 found out all this is utterly beyond me." 
 
 " So you have no idea of matrimony, moii 
 cherf said the lady, attempting to use ii 
 sprightly tone, but looking at him with a 
 glance so earnest that it showed what im- 
 portaiK'O she attached to his reply. 
 
 Leon was silent for a moment, and looked 
 at the ground. At last he burst forth iin- 
 patieiifly : 
 
 "Oh, confound it all! what's the use of 
 harping forevc^r on oni! string, and putting a 
 fellow in a corner all the time ? You insist 
 on holding an iiuiuisition about thoughts 
 and intfiitioiis. How do I know any thing 
 about tliat ? You may examine me about 
 facts if you choose, but you haven't any busi- 
 ness to ask any thing more." 
 
 "Well, I suppose it is rather unfair," said 
 the lady in a sweet voice, "to force one to 
 explain all one's thoughts and intentions; 
 so, mon chcr, let's cry (piits. At any rate, 
 you receive me for your ally, your advis- 
 er, y(nir guide, pliilosoi>her, and friend. If 
 von want incognitos or disguises, come to 
 me." 
 
 " Well, I suppose I must," said Leon, "since 
 you are here, and won't go ; and perhaps you 
 may yet be really useful, but — " 
 
 " Ibit at first I ought to know what the 
 present condition is of this ' business' of 
 yours." 
 
 "Oh, I've no objection to tell you now, 
 since you know so much ; in fact, I believe 
 you know all, as it is." 
 
 "Well, not ((uite all." 
 
 " It seems to me," said Leon, " if we're 
 going to talk over this matter any further, 
 wo might find some better place than the 
 middle of a public road. Let me see," he 
 continued, looking all around — " where shall 
 we go ?" 
 
 As li(^ looked around his eyes caught sight 
 of the little river that How<>d near, on its 
 course through Dalton to tht! Bristol Chan- 
 nel. iSoine trees grew on the margin, and 
 beneatli them was some grass. It was not 
 more than twenty yards away. 
 
 "Suppose we sit there by the river," said 
 Leon, "and we can talk it over." 
 
 The lady nodded, and the two walked to 
 the river margin. 
 
 SUE WAS SKATED NEAK THE WINDOW. 
 
 CHAPTKR XII. 
 
 A SOL K MX API'KAL. 
 
 A FEW days passed away in Dalton Hall, 
 and Edith l)egan to niKhrstand perfectly 
 the nature of tlie restraint to which she was 
 subjected. That restraint involved noth- 
 ing of the nature of violence. No rudo 
 or uncivil word was spoken to her. Wig- 
 gins and Mrs. Diinltar hail proft^ssed even 
 allectiou for her, and the two servants n(ner 
 failed to be as respectful as tli(\y could. Her 
 restraint was a certain environment, so as to 
 l)r(!vent her from leaving tlu^ park grounds. 
 She felt walled in by a liarricr whidi she 
 could not pass, but within this barrier lib- 
 erty of movement was allowed. At the sanm 
 time, she knew tliat she was watciied ; and 
 since her first discovery of Hugo on her track, 
 she felt surt! that if she ever went any where 
 he would stealthily follow, and not allow 
 her to go out of sight. Wliefher lie would 
 lift his hand to i)revent actual esca])e, if the 
 chance should present itself, was a thing 
 which she could not answer, nor did she feel 
 inclined to try it as yet. 
 
 During tin* few days that followed her 
 first menioralile experience she made no fiir- 
 tlier attempt to escape, or even to si'arch 
 out a way of escape. What liad become of 
 Miss l'lyin[)ton she did not know, and could 
 only imagine. Slie still indulged the hope, 
 however, that Miss I'lympton was at Dalton, 
 and looked forward with confidence to s(!0 
 her coming to Dalton Hall, acconi]ianied by 
 the otlicers of tlie law, to effect her deliver- 
 ance. It was this hope that now sustained 
 her, and prevented her from sinking into 
 despair. 
 
 Of Wiggins during these few days she saw 
 nothing more than a distant glimpse. She 
 
44 
 
 THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 roninined in tlie room which she first oncii- 
 ])i(ul (luriiifj the j^rciitcr part of this time. 
 Nor <1i<l nIk) Net- iinich of Mrs. Dunbar. From 
 an occnHJonul roniaric h\ui (gathered that hIio 
 waH cli'aninK the drawing-room or (hiHting 
 it; l)nt in tiiiH Edith now took no intcn-Ht 
 whatever. The Hall was now n prison- 
 houHe, and tlie few planH which hIiu had 
 b(!en making at lirHt w«'re now tlirown aside 
 and forgotten, Mrn. Dunbar brought her 
 lier meals at regular intervalH, but Edith 
 never took tlie slighteHt notice of her. She 
 could not help observing at times in Mrs. 
 Dinibar's manner, and especially in her look, 
 u whole world of sorrowful symi»athy, but 
 after her unmistakuble championship of 
 Wiggins, she could not feel tb« slightest 
 confidence in her. 
 
 At length one morning Wiggins once more 
 called upon her. She was seated near the 
 window when she heard a knock. The door 
 was already open, and turning, she saw Wig- 
 gins. She bowed slightly, but said nothing, 
 and Wiggins bowed in return, after which 
 he entered an'^ o^uted himself, fixing his sol- 
 emn eyes upon her in his ns\ial way. 
 
 " It is 11 matter of great regret," said he, 
 "that I am forced to give pain to one for 
 whom I entertain so much kindness, and 
 even, let me add, affection. Had you made 
 ycmr return to this place a little less abrupt- 
 ly, you would have found, I am sure, a dif- 
 ferent reception, and your position would 
 have been leas unpleasant." 
 
 "Would yon have allowed mo my lib- 
 erty," asked Edith, " and the society of my 
 friends, if I had delayed longer before my 
 return ? If so, let mo go back now, and I 
 will give you notice before coming hero 
 again." 
 
 Wiggins shook his head mournfully. 
 
 " I am one," said he, " who has had deeper 
 sorrows than usually fall to the lot of man ; 
 yet none, I assure you — no, not one — has ever 
 causetl mo more pain than my iirosont false 
 position toward you. Can you not place 
 some confidence in mo, and think that this 
 is all for — for your good ?" 
 
 " You speak so plaintively," said Edith, 
 "that I should be touched, if your words 
 were not belied by your acts. What do you 
 think can compensate for the loss of liberty ? 
 Were you ever imprisoned ? Did you ever 
 have a jailer over you I Did you ever know 
 what it was to be shut in with wjiUs over 
 which yon could not i)as8, and to know that 
 the jail, .'s eyes were always upon you f 
 W^ait till yon have felt all this, and then 
 you will understand how empty and idle all 
 your present words must be." 
 
 While she said these words Wiggins sat 
 as if he had been turned to stone. His eyes 
 were fixed on her with a look of utter hor- 
 ror. His hands trembled. As she stopped 
 he shuddered, and hastily looked behind 
 Lim. Then another shudder passed through 
 
 him. At last, with a violent effort, he recov- 
 ered something of his f(n'mer calm. 
 
 "God grant," said he, "that yon may 
 never know what I have known of all that 
 which you now mention!" 
 
 His voice trembled as he spoke these 
 words, and when he had said them he re- 
 lapsed into silence. 
 
 "Since yon have invcdied the name of the 
 Deity," said Edith, solenndy, "if yon have 
 any reverence for your Maker, I ask yon 
 now, in His name, by what right yon keep 
 me here." 
 
 "I am your — guardian," said Wiggins, 
 8h)wly ; "your — guardian; yes," he added, 
 thoughtfully, " that is the word." 
 
 " My guardian ! Who made you my guard- 
 ian T Who had the right to put you over 
 me T" 
 
 Wiggins paused, and raised his head, 
 
 j which had been bent forward for a few mo- 
 
 I nieiits past, looked at Edith with a softer 
 
 ; light in his solenni eyes, and said, in a low 
 
 voice, which had a wonderful sweetness in 
 
 its intonation, 
 
 " Your father." 
 
 Edith looked at him earnestly for a mo- 
 ment, affected in spite of hersidf by his look 
 and by his voice ; but suddenly the remem- 
 brance of her wn.ngs drove oil' completely 
 her momentary emotion. 
 
 "Do you think my father would have 
 made you my guardian," said she, " if he had 
 8usj)ected what you were going to do with 
 me f ' 
 
 " I solemnly assure you that ho did know, 
 and that he did approve." 
 
 At this Edith smiled. Wiggins now 
 seemed too methodical for a madman, and 
 sho began to understand that he was assum- 
 ing these solemn airs, so as to make au im- 
 pression upon her. Having made up her 
 mind to this, she determined to question 
 him further, so as to see what more he pro- 
 posed to do. 
 
 "Your father," said Wiggins, "was my 
 friend ; and I will do for you whatever I 
 would have done for him." 
 
 " I have no doubt of that," said Edith. 
 " Indeed, you are doing for me now precise- 
 ly what I have reason to understand you 
 did for him." 
 
 " I do not comprehend you," said Wiggins. 
 
 "It is of no consequence," said Edith. 
 " Wo will lot it pass. Lot us return to the 
 subject. You assert that you are my guard- 
 ian. Does that give you the right to bo my 
 jailer — to confine mo here, to cut me off 
 from all my friends V 
 
 "You use harsh words," said Wiggins; 
 " but nevertheless it is a fact that the law 
 does allow the guardian this power. It re- 
 gards him in the place of a parent. All that 
 a father can do, a gu.ardian can do. As a 
 father can restrain a child, so can a guard- 
 ian, if bo deems such restraint necessary. 
 
THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 45 
 
 t bo (lid kuow, 
 
 said Wisgiiis- 
 
 " said Edith. 
 
 return to tlie 
 
 are my guard- 
 
 riglit to bo my 
 
 to cut mo off 
 
 Moreover, if tbo ward should escape, the law 
 will baud him back to bis guardian, just as 
 it would hand back a child to its t'atlier." 
 
 Not one word of this did Edith btlicve, 
 and HO it made no impression. Having al- 
 ready got tbo idea in her mind that Wij^jjins 
 was niehxlramatic, ami playing a part, she 
 bad no doubt that his words would be reg- 
 uhited by the same desire that /governed bis 
 acts, and would be spoken exclusively witli 
 the view of producing an impression upon 
 herself. She therefore looked at him fith 
 unchanged feelinjjfs, and instantly replied: 
 
 "It would bo very fortunate for you if it 
 were so, but for my part I think better of 
 the law. At the same tin\e, Hinc«? you claim 
 all this authority over nm, I should like to 
 know how long you think this power will 
 last. You do not seem to think that I am 
 of age." 
 
 " That matters not," said Wiggins. " My 
 control over the estates and my guardian- 
 ship over you are of such a nature that they 
 can not cease till your marriage." 
 
 "Oh, then," said Edith, "according to 
 that, I ought to try to get married as soon 
 as possible. And this, I suppose, is your 
 sole reason for shutting mo up ?" 
 
 Wiggins said nothing, but sat looking 
 gloomily at her. 
 
 By his last words Edith now found what 
 appeared to her a clow to his whole plan. 
 He was, or pretended to be, her guardian ; 
 he had been appointed, or pretended to have 
 been appointed, by her father. It might 
 have been so. Edith could well iniagino 
 bow in previous years ho had made this false 
 friend his executor and the guardian of his 
 child; and then, in the anguish of the trial 
 and of the punishment, forgotten to annul 
 the deed ; or Wiggins may have forged the 
 document himself. If he really was tlio 
 false friend who had betrayed her father, 
 and who had committed that forgery for 
 which her father innocently suflered, then 
 he might easily forgo such a document as 
 this in her father's name. 
 
 Such was her conclusion from his words, 
 though she did not think lit to say as much 
 to him. What she did say, however, seemed 
 to have aft'ected him, for ho did not speak 
 for some time. 
 
 " You have no conception," said ho at 
 length, " of the tonnent that some of yo)ir 
 careless words cause. You do iu)t know 
 what you do, or what you say. There is 
 sometliing that I can not tell, whatevor bo 
 the price of silence — something that con- 
 cerns you and mo, aud your father, and two 
 great houses — and it is this that makes mo 
 dnmb, and forces mo to stand in this false 
 position. You look upon mo as the crafty, 
 scheming steward — one who is your pitiless 
 jailer — and I have to bear it. Hut there is 
 something which I can say — and I warn 
 you, or rather I implore you, not to disbo- 
 
 lievo me ; I entreat you to let my words 
 have some weight. I declare to you, then, 
 by all tliat is most sacred among men, that 
 this restraint whi(!h I ask you tr) undergo is 
 out of no selfish di^sire, no avarice, no lack 
 of honor for you, aud — aiVectiou, but be- 
 cause of a plan which I have, the success 
 of which concerns all of us, and yon not the 
 least." 
 
 Edith listened to this witliout emotion, 
 though at another time the solenmity of such 
 an ajipeal could not have failed to enforce 
 belief. Hut now Wiggins seemed only mel- 
 odramatic, and every word seemed false. 
 
 " What plan ?" she asked. 
 
 "It is this," said Wiggins, looking all 
 around with his usual cautions vigihuu;e, 
 and drawing nearer to her. " Your father's 
 name is a dishonored oiui — the name you 
 bear is covered with the stain of infamy. 
 What would you not give if his mi'mory 
 could be redeemed from wrong ; if even at 
 this late hour his cliara(!ter could be vindi- 
 cated f You have, I am sure, a noble and 
 a devoted heart. You wouhl be willing to 
 do nnicli for this. Hut what I ask of you is 
 very little. I ask only silenct! and s<;clusion. 
 If you should consent to this, my work may 
 be done before very long ; and then, whi.t- 
 ever may be your feelings toward nu», I shall 
 feel that I h.avo done my work, and nothing 
 ftirther that this world may (h), whether of 
 good or evil, shall bo able to att'ect me. I 
 ask this — more, I entreat it of you, I im- 
 l)loro you, in the sacred imme of an injured 
 father, by all his unnu-rited wrongs and suf- 
 ferings, to unite with me in this holy pur- 
 pose, and help me to accomplish it. Do not 
 be deceived by appearances. Heiievo me, I 
 entreat you, for your father's 8ak(^" 
 
 Never were words spoken with greater 
 apparent earnestness than these ; and never 
 was any voice or manner more soh-nui and 
 impressive. Yet upon Edith no more efleet 
 was produced than before. When she had 
 asked him what his plan was, she had been 
 prepared for this, or souu'tliing like it. She 
 saw now that the mode by which he tried 
 t'> work upon her was by adopting the sol- 
 0. u and the pathetic style. The conse- 
 quoi.oo was that every gesture, every into- 
 nation, every look, seemed artificial, hollow, 
 and insincere. For never could she-forget 
 the one fatal fact that this was her jailer, 
 and that she was a helph'ss prisoner. More 
 than this, he h.ad as good as asserted his in- 
 tention of keeping her a prisoner till her 
 marriage, which, umler such circumstances, 
 meant simply till her death. Not for one 
 instant could he bo brought to consent to 
 relax the strictness of his control over her. 
 For such a man to nuike such an appeal as 
 this was idle ; and she found herself won- 
 dering, before lio had got half through, why 
 he should take the trouble to try to deceive 
 her. When ho had finished she did not caro 
 
4G 
 
 THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 to answer liiin, or to tc^ll him wlint wuh on her 
 mind. Slie was rvpi-ho to ((iiarrclH, HccncH, or 
 any tliiiij; ii|i|>roa('hin;r to Hcoldiiif^ ort^nipty 
 tlm-atH. What Mho did Hay, then foro, wafl 
 IMTt'cclly coninioniilac'c, hut for that reaNon 
 I)erha]>H all tint nioro diHa]i]i()inting to tho 
 man win. had iiiadf hucIi an a]i])('al to hfr. 
 
 "What yon May,"' Haid hIic, "docs not ro- 
 qnirc any anHWor. It is hh thon;;ii I Hlionld 
 awk yon t(j Hnhinit to inii)riN()iinu'nt tor an 
 indefinite period, or for life, for inHtance, for 
 tlmsakeofa friend. And yon would not 
 think Hneli a reijiU'Ht very reawonahle. What 
 I niqniro of you is, not idle words, hnt lih- 
 erty. When you ask nu! to helieve you, you 
 must first Rain my eonfideneo hy treating 
 me with common justice. Or if you will not 
 release mc, let mo at least ' my friends. 
 That is not nnicli. I have only one friend — 
 Miss I'lymjiton." 
 
 "You appear to think more of this Miss 
 Plymi)ton than you do of your own father," 
 said Wiggins, )j;l(ioinily. 
 
 " What I think of my father is of no con- 
 Becinence to you," said Edith ; " hnt as to 
 Miss riympton, she took mo as a dying pift 
 f"-om my dear manuna, and has loved mo with 
 a mother's lovo ever since, and is the only 
 mother I have known since childhood. When 
 you turned her away from my gates you did 
 an injury to hoth of us which makes all your 
 protestations of honesty useless. Ihit she is 
 not under your control, and you may he sure 
 that 8ho will exert herself on my hehalf. It 
 seems to mo th.at you have iu)t considered 
 what tho result will ho if she comes hack iu 
 tho name of tho law." 
 
 " I have considered every thing," said Wig- 
 gins. Then, after a pause, ho added, " So 
 you love Miss Plympton very dearly V 
 " Very, very dt^arly !" 
 " And her words would have great weight 
 ■with you ?" 
 
 " Very groat weight." 
 "If, now, she should toll yon that you 
 might put confidence in me, you would feel 
 more inclined to do so ?" 
 
 Edith hesitated at this ; hut tho thought 
 occurred to her of Miss Plymiiton's detesta- 
 tion of Wiggins, and tho utter impossihility 
 of a change of opinion on her part. 
 
 "If Miss Plympton should put confidence 
 in you," said she, " I should indeed feel my 
 own opinions changed." 
 
 Upon this Wiggins sat meditating pro- 
 foundly for a short time. 
 
 " Suppose, now," said ho at length, " that 
 you should receive a note from Miss Plymp- 
 ton in which she slionld give you a more 
 favorahle opinion of me, would you accept it 
 from her?" 
 
 " I certainly should ho happy to get any 
 thing of that kind from her." said Edith. 
 
 " Well," said Wiggins, " I had not intend- 
 ed to take any one into my confiderice, cer- 
 tainly not any stranger, and that stranger a 
 
 woman ; hut I am so nnahle to tell you all, 
 and at tho same time I long so to have your 
 eonfideneo, that I may possihly deeidt* to see 
 Miss Plympton myself. If I do, rest assured 
 her opinion of mo will change. This will 
 endanger the success of my jilan ; hut I must 
 run the risk— yes, whatever it is ; for if this 
 goes (m, I must even give uj) the jdan itself, 
 and with it all my hopes for uPiolf — and for 
 you." 
 
 These last words Wiggins spoke in a low 
 voice, half to himself, and Avith his eyes 
 turned to the ground. Edith Inward tho 
 words, hut thought nothing of the meaning 
 of them. To her, every thing was done for 
 efl'ect, nothing was sincere. If she did not 
 understand the meaning of some of his 
 words, she did not tronhle herself to try to, 
 hut dismissed them from her thoughts as 
 merely affectations. As to his allusion to 
 Miss Plymiiton, and his idea of visiting her, 
 Edith did not for a moment imagine that ho 
 meant it. She thought that this was of a 
 piece with tho rest. 
 
 With these last words Wiggins aros(t from 
 his chair, and with a slight how to Edith, 
 took his departure. The interview had hcen 
 a singular one, and tho manner of entreaty 
 whicii Wiggins had adoi)ted toward her 
 served to perplex her still more. It was 
 ])art of tho system which ho had originated, 
 hy which she was never treated in any other 
 way than with tho utmost apparent resjiect 
 and consideration, hut in reality guarded as 
 a prisoner with the most sleepless vij; .uce. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 A WONDKKFl'L ACTOR. 
 
 A FEW more days passed, and Edith re- 
 mained in tho same state as hefore. Occa- 
 sioiuilly she would walk up and down tho 
 terrace in front of tho house, hut her dislike 
 to heing tracked and watched and followed 
 prevented her from going any distance. She 
 saw that she could not hope to escape hy her 
 unassisted eflbrts, and that her only hope lay 
 in assist.ance from tho outside world. Miss 
 Plympton, she felt sure, could never forget 
 her, and would do all that possihly could he 
 done to effect her release as soon as i)08sihle. 
 Ihit day after day passed, and still no deliv- 
 erer appeared. 
 
 She saw nothing of Wiggins during those 
 days, hut Mrs. Dunhar attended on her as 
 usual. To her, however, Edith now paid no 
 attention whatever. In her opinion she was 
 the associate of her jailer, and a willing part- 
 ner in the wrong that was heing done to her. 
 Under those circumstances she could not 
 show to her any of that gentle courtesy and 
 kindly consideration which her nature im- 
 pelled her to exhihit to all with whom she 
 was hrought iu contact. On the contrary, 
 
THE LIVINQ LINK. 
 
 47 
 
 ) tell jMUi all, 
 to liiivo yovir 
 decide to see 
 I, rest nsHured 
 e. Tliis will 
 I ; but I must 
 is; for it this 
 lu! itliin itself, 
 "jclf — uud for 
 
 [)oko iu a low 
 vhh liiH eyes 
 th heard the 
 r the unfailing 
 
 was done for 
 T she did not 
 
 some of his 
 self to try to, 
 : thoughts as 
 is allusion to 
 if visitiiijj; her, 
 lagine that ho 
 this was of a 
 
 :in8 arose from 
 bow to Eilith, 
 view had been 
 er of entreaty 
 il toward her 
 more. It was 
 lad originated, 
 id in any other 
 parent resjject 
 ity guarded as 
 )less vi{; .uce. 
 
 :oR. 
 
 and Edith re- 
 fore. Occa- 
 
 and down the 
 
 jut her dislike 
 and fidlowed 
 
 distance. She 
 escape by her 
 (uily hope lay 
 world. Miss 
 never forget 
 sibly could be 
 
 ion as possible, 
 still no deliv- 
 
 [l 
 
 s during those 
 ded on her as 
 h now paid no 
 pinion she was 
 a willing part- 
 ig done to her. 
 lie could not 
 courtesy and 
 er nature im- 
 ith whom she 
 the contrary, 
 
 she never even looked at her ; but often, 
 when she was conscious that Mrs. Dunbar 
 was gazing u|ion her with that str.inge, wist- 
 ful look that characterized her, she refused 
 to respond in any way. And so the time 
 passed on, Edith in a state uf drear solitude, 
 and waiting, and waiting. 
 
 At lengtii she received another visit from 
 Wiggins. He came to her nxmi as before, 
 and knocked in his usual style. He looked 
 at her with his usual soh-nui earnestness, and 
 advanced toward her at once. 
 
 "You will remember," said he, "that when 
 I was last here, a few days ago, I said that I 
 might possibly decide to see Miss Plynipton 
 myself. It was solely for your sake ; and tf) 
 do so I have made a great sacrifice of feeling 
 and of Judgment." 
 
 "Miss l'lymi)tonT" intcrruj)t<'d Edith, ea- 
 gerlv. " Have you seeu Miss Plymptou V 
 
 "i have." 
 
 " Where ? At Daltou ? Is she at Dalton 
 still ?" 
 
 " She is not." 
 
 Editli's countenance, which had flushed 
 with hoi)e, now fell at this. It looked as 
 though Miss Plymptou had gone away too 
 hastily. 
 
 "Wliere did you see her?" she asked, in a 
 low voice, trying to couce.il her agitation. 
 
 "At Plymptou jTerrace," said Wiggins. 
 
 " Plymptou Terrace," repeated Edith, iu 
 a dull monotone, while her breast heaved 
 with irrepressible euu)tion. Her heart sank 
 within her. This indeed looked like a de- 
 sertion of her on the part of her only friend. 
 Hut after a moment's despondency she ral- 
 lied once more, as the thought came to her 
 tliat this was all a fiction, and that Wiggins 
 Lad not seeu her ut all. 
 
 "Yes," said Wiggins, "I have seen her, 
 and had a long interview, in which I ex- 
 plained many things to her. It was all for 
 your sake, for had you not been concerned, 
 I should never have thought of telling her 
 what I did. But I was anxious to get you 
 to confide in me, and you said that if Miss 
 Plymiitou should put confidence iu mo, you 
 yourself would feel inclined to do so. It is 
 because I want your confidence, your trust 
 — because I can't tell you all yet, and be- 
 cause without your trust I am weak — that I 
 have doue this. Your misery breaks up all 
 my jdans, and I wish to put an end to it. 
 Now I have seen Miss Plymptou at Plymp- 
 tou Terrace, and she has written you a let- 
 ter, which I have brought." 
 
 With these words he drew from hia pock- 
 et a letter, and handed it to Edith. With 
 a flushed face and a rapidly throbbing heart 
 Edith took the letter. It seemed like that 
 for which she had been so long waiting, but 
 at the same time there was a certaiu ill-de- 
 fined apprehension on her mind of disap- 
 pointment. Had that letter come through 
 any other channel, it would have excited 
 
 nothing but tmmingled joy; but the chan- 
 nel was suspicious, and Edith did not yet 
 believe that he had really been to Plymptou 
 Terrace. She suspected siuuc new jiiece of 
 acting, Hcmie new kind of deceit or attempt 
 to deceive, and the fact that she was still a 
 prisoner was enough to fortify all her obsti- 
 nate disbelief iu the protestations uf this 
 num. 
 
 Hut on the letter she saw her own imme 
 in the well-known and unmistakable hand- 
 writing of Miss Plymptou. .She was ((uite 
 familiar with that writing, so nnu'h so that 
 she could not be deceived. Tiiis letter, then, 
 was from her own hand, and as she read it 
 she began to think that after all Wiggins 
 was true iu his statement that he had seeu 
 her. Then, seeing this, with deep agitation, 
 and with a thousand conflicting emotions, 
 she tore it open. She read the fuUowing: 
 
 " Pt.VMITON TeBU.VOE. 
 
 "My darung Eihtii, — I can iu)t tell ytui, 
 my own sweet love, how I have suffered from 
 anxiety since I parted from ycni at the gates 
 of Dalton Hall. I went back, ami received 
 your dear note that night, which consoled 
 me. On the following day I looked for you, 
 but you did not come. Full of impatience, 
 I went to the gate, but was not admitted, 
 though I tried every iiulucemeut to uuike 
 the porter open to me. Turning away, I de- 
 termined to go at once in search of some 
 means by which 1 could gain access to you, 
 or free you from your position. After much 
 thought I went to visit Sir Lionel Dndlcigh, 
 who heard my story, and i)romised to act at 
 once on your behalf. Ho advised me to re- 
 turn to Plymptou Terrace, and w ait here till 
 ho should take the lU'cessary steps, which I 
 accordingly did. I have been here ever 
 since, and I can truly say, my darling, that 
 you have not once been out of my thoughts, 
 nor have I till this day been free from anx- 
 iety about you. My worst fear has been 
 about your own endurance of this restraint ; 
 for, knowing your impatient disposition, I 
 have feared that you might fret yourself 
 into illness if you were not soon released 
 from your un])leasant situation. 
 
 "Hut, my dearest, this day h.is brought 
 me a most wonderful and unexpected dtdiv- 
 eranco from all my fear. This morning a 
 caller canu) who refused to send up his name. 
 On going to the parlor I found a veneralde 
 man, who introduced himself as Mr. Wiggins. 
 I confess when I saw him I was surprised, as 
 I had imagined a very different kind of mau. 
 But you know what'a bitter jirejudice I have 
 always bau against this man, and so you may 
 imagine how I received him. In a few words 
 he explained his errand, and stated that it 
 was exclusively with reference to you. 
 
 "And now, my own darling Edith, I come 
 to th.at about which I scarce know how to 
 speak. Let me hasten to say that both you 
 
THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 and I hnvo totally niistindtTHtodd Mr. VVij;- 
 giim. Oil, Kdith, Ikiw can I h\h'hU. of him, 
 or wliat can I Hay t Ilti Inm told nut Hiich a 
 wonderful and Hncli a )iit(^oim ntory ! It can 
 not lio told to yon, for rcimonM which I rc- 
 Hjx'ct, tlioiinh I do not ai)i>rov(> altoj;i'tih!r ' 
 of tlicin. 1 think it would lie liettrr to tell ' 
 yon all, for then yonr Hitnation woidd lie far ' 
 dilferent, and he would not Htaiid in ho fear- j 
 fully falne a ]ioHition. lint hin reanouH are 
 all-powerful with hiiuHelf, and ho I nhall Hay 
 nothing. Hut oh, my dearent, let me imjilore 
 yon, let me entreat you, to K've to thin man 
 your reverence and yonr trnnt! Ite jiatient, 
 and wait. reriiajiH In* may overcome hin 
 high and delicate tterupleH, and let you know 
 what hin purpoHCH are. For my jiart, my 
 oidy f^rief now in that I have done nomething 
 towai'd givin<; you that fear an<l hate and 
 distruHt of him which n<iw animate you. I 
 entreaty u to dismisH all thene feelin^H, ami 
 hear with yonr jirenent lot till lirighter dayn 
 come. The imrpone of Mr. Wi^K'"** '•'* n Idnh 
 and holy one, and this he will work out huc- 
 coHHfidly, I hojie and helitn'o. Do not, dear- 
 est, by your im/atience jjive any additional 
 punj; to that nolilo heart. IJcare of what 
 yon nay or do now, for fear lest hereafter it 
 nuiy cauHC the deopent reinorHC. Spare him, 
 for he haw Hurt'ered nuich. The name of your 
 fannly, the memory of your injure<l father, 
 are all at stake now ; and I pray you, dear- 
 est, to restrain yourself, and try to hear with 
 the present state of thinjfs. If you can only 
 believe me or be intluenced by me, you will 
 give him all yonr trust, and even yonr aflec- 
 tion. Hut if you can not do this at once, at 
 least spare him any furtlusr pain. Alas, how 
 that nolihs heart has sutt'enul ! When I think 
 of liis monrid'nl story, I almost lose all faith 
 in hunumity, and would lose it altojjether 
 were it not for the spectacle wJuch is afford- 
 ed by himself — a spectacle of jiurest and loft- 
 iest virtue, and Htaiidess honor, and endless 
 self-devotion. But I must say no more, for 
 fear that I nniy say too nnich, so I will stop. 
 " Mannua unites with me in kindest love, 
 and believe nus my dearest Edith, 
 " Ever aliection.itely yours, 
 
 " Pamela Pli'mpton. 
 
 " P.S. — I have not referred to that noblest 
 of women, Mrs. Dunbar. Oh, dearest Edith, 
 I hojie that ere this she has won your wlude 
 heart, and that you have already divined 
 something of that exalted sjiirit and that 
 meek self-sacrifice which make her life so 
 sublime. I can say no more. P. P." 
 
 Now it will be evident to the reader that 
 if Miss Plympton had really written the 
 above, and had meant to incite Edith to 
 give her alfectionate reverence to her two 
 jailers, she could not have gone about it in 
 a worse way. Edith read it through, and at 
 the bi'ginning thought that it might be au- 
 
 thentic, but when she canu» to the latter luilf, 
 that ideabej'an todepart. As she read on fur- 
 ther and further, it appeared more and more 
 unlike .Misn I'lympton. The Hudchui tranni- 
 tion froui hate to admiration, the extrava- 
 gant terniH that were made use of, tln^ ex- 
 hortatiouH to licrHcIf to change her feelings 
 toward one lik(^ Wiggins, the stilled phra- 
 Hcology, the incohereucies, all Hi-emed so un- 
 like the maimer of Mins I'lympton as to bo 
 only (it for derisiou. Mut the postscript 
 Hcemed wiUHt of all. Here the writer had 
 overdone hernelf, or himnelf, and by drag- 
 ging in the hoUHckeepcr, Mrn, Dunbar, and 
 holding her n]t for tlie name extravagant 
 admiration, a climax of utter absurdity had 
 been attained. 
 
 On reading this singular letter Edith's 
 thoughts came<|uick and vi'hement through 
 her mind. If thin letter were indeed the 
 work of MisH I'lymiiton, then all hojie for 
 her interference was utterly gon(\ If Jliss 
 I'lympton wrot(^ that, then she was evident- 
 ly either mad, or else Hhe had undergone a 
 change of mind so incomprehensible that 
 it was ('(luivaleiit to madnesn. Itiit Jlisn 
 Plympton coidd never have wiittcn it. Of 
 that she felt as sure as she was of her own 
 existene«. 
 
 If she did not, who did write it! The 
 hanilwriting was exactly like that other re- 
 vered friend. There wan not the slightest 
 ditl'erenc<^ bc-tween this an*l that witii which 
 she was so familiar. It was her handwrit- 
 ing indeed, but it was not Misn I'lymiiton 
 who spokt! there. The hand was the hand 
 of Miss Plympton, but the voice was the 
 voice of Wiggins. 
 
 He had written all this, she felt sure. 
 Tlies<! allusions to his sutl'eriugs, these hints 
 about a plan, these references to her fatlua', 
 these entreaties to her to give him her af- 
 fe(rtion and trust — all these were familiar. 
 W'iggins had idready made use of them all. 
 It was, then, the work of Wiggins beyond a 
 doubt. 
 
 And how ? Could she doubt for a mo- 
 ment )iow ? By imitating the writing of 
 Miss Plympton. Perhajis he had se.it a mes- 
 senger there, and obtained a letter, jiart of 
 which he had copied. The tirst half might 
 have been copied verbatim, while the last 
 must certainly be his own work. As to his 
 pow(!r to imitate her writing, need she hes- 
 itate about that? W^as mit her father con- 
 demned for a forgery which another had 
 done ? Had she not already suspected that 
 this false friend was no other than John 
 W'iggins himself? Forgery! that was only 
 too easy for a man like him. And she now 
 saw in that letter an etfort to accomplish 
 her ruin by tin; sauu! weapon with which 
 her father's had Insen wrought. 
 
 All these thoughts rushed through her 
 niind as she read and as she stood looking 
 over the pajies and thinking about what 
 
THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 49 
 
 thu liittur half, 
 lie n'iul im tiir- 
 iioi'c iiiiil iiioro 
 siiililt'u traimi- 
 , till) cxtravii- 
 iHf, 4)f, tlm «'X- 
 
 rtl \U'V IVflill^H 
 
 ,! still<<l I'liia- 
 Hi'fiiit'tl mi nu- 
 ii)it()ii as to 111) 
 
 liiti JlOHtSClillt 
 
 tlic, writer liad 
 , and 1>y draj;- 
 ■s. Diiiiliar, and 
 10 extravagant 
 r absiirdity had 
 
 ■ letter Edith's 
 lenient throiiKh 
 ■ero indeed tho 
 en all hoiie for 
 
 f;one. If Miss 
 he was evident- 
 ad iinderf^one a 
 nehensildt) that 
 lu'ss. lint Miss 
 
 written it. Of 
 was of her own 
 
 write it! Tho 
 
 io thatof her re- 
 
 lot the slightest 
 
 that with which 
 
 s her handwrit- 
 
 Miss riyiiil)ton 
 
 1 was tlui hand 
 
 voice was tho 
 
 11 
 
 sho felt sure. 
 w'^a, these hints 
 
 s to her father, 
 ive hiin her af- 
 . were familiar, 
 use of them all. 
 
 ggins heyond a 
 
 > I 
 
 donht for a nio- 
 
 the writing <>f 
 
 1 had seat a mcs- 
 
 a letter, part of 
 
 iirst half might 
 
 u, while the last 
 
 work. As to his 
 
 iig, need slie hes- 
 
 (t her father con- 
 
 lich another had 
 
 ily suspected that 
 
 other than Johu 
 
 ■y! that was only 
 
 in. And she now 
 lit to accomplish 
 upon with which 
 ight. 
 ihed through her 
 ^he stood h)oking 
 ing about what 
 
 ^■mmry 
 
 'STKADVINU HIMSELF, UH 8TUUI) TIIKKK TKKMIII.IN'U. 
 
 had hpon done. All tho hate that she liad 
 ever felt for her father's betrayer, which had 
 iiicrea.sed when he had become lier own ojt- 
 pressor, now glowed hot within her heart, 
 and could not be repressed. 
 
 Meanwhile Wiggins had stood before her 
 on the same spot where he had stojiped when 
 he haiMlcd her the letter, lie had stood 
 there with his eyes lixed upon her, and on 
 his face an expression of solemn suspense — a 
 suspense so anxious that one might have suj)- 
 ]iosed his Avhole life depended upon Editii's 
 decision. So he stood, rigid, mute, with all 
 his soul centring itself in that gaze which 
 lie fixed on lier, iu an attitude which seemed 
 almost tliat of a suppliant, for liis rev(;rend 
 head was liowed, and his aged form bent, and 
 his thin hands folded over one another be- 
 fore him. 
 
 Such were the face and figure and look and 
 attitude that Edith saw as she raised her 
 head. Had her anger been less fervid and 
 her indignation less intense, she would sure- 
 ly have Iteeu ati'ected by- that venerable sup- 
 l)liant form; but as it was, there was no place 
 for .any softer emotion. 
 D 
 
 She rose from her chair, and as her white 
 face showed i<self opposite to his, her eyes 
 looked upon him, as once before, hard, steni, 
 pitiless; Imt this time their glaiuu; was even 
 more cruel and imi>Iacable. She held out 
 the letter to him, aud said, (juietly, 
 
 " Take it." 
 
 Wiggins looked at her, and spoke in a 
 voice that was scarcely auditdc. 
 
 " What — do — you — mean ?"' 
 
 Carried beyond herself now by this at- 
 temi>t to j)roloiig what seemed so stupid and 
 1 transparent a deceit, Edith spoke lier whole 
 mind ]ilainly : 
 
 " This is a close imitation of Miss Plymp- 
 ton's liandwriting, but she could never writ.) 
 such words — never! You have iu)t visited 
 her; you have not seen her. Tliis is a for- 
 gery. Once you were successful in forging, 
 but now you can not be. Hy that criint! you 
 once destroyed the father, but if you destroy 
 the daughter, you must — " 
 
 Hut what Edith was going to say remain- 
 ed unsaid, for at this point sho was inter- 
 mitted. 
 
 Wiggins had listened to her with a stunned 
 
&0 
 
 THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 <^xpre8Hi(>n, as tboiiKli not alilo to conipn'hi'titl 
 hiT. But as the fiillness of tho iiieuiiiiiK of 
 her wctnls r<ach(Ml hiHoars he Hhtiihlcrt'd from 
 head t<» foot. A U)\v moan cHca]i*Ml liiin. He 
 Htarted back, and r('ji;ar<led Edith with eyes 
 that Htarcd in utter horror. 
 
 "Stoiil stop!" ho cried, in a h)\v, harsh 
 voice. "No more, no more! This is ma^l- 
 ncss. (jirl, yon will some day weep tears 
 of Idood for tliis! Y'on will on*' day rei>ent 
 of this, and (n'ery word that y<Mi have spok- 
 en will j)ierce your own heart as they now 
 pierce mine. Yon are mad: you do not know 
 what yoii are sayinjj. () Heavens! how mad 
 you are in your ifjnoranci^ ! And I need only 
 utter oui' word to reduce you to desiwir. If 
 1 w«'ro dying now I could say that whicli 
 would give you life-long remorse, and make 
 you carry a lirokeu heart to your grave!" 
 
 He stop])ed abruptly, and staggered back, 
 but caught at a <'liair, and, steadying him- 
 self, stood there tivnibling, with his head 
 iiowed, and heavy sighs escajting him. Soon 
 hasty footsteps were heard, and Mrs. Dunbar 
 hnrrie<l into the ro(un, with a frighlened face, 
 looking lirst at Edith and then at Wiggins. 
 ■She said not a word, however, but apjiroach- 
 ing Wiggins, drew his arm iu hers, and led 
 him out of the room. 
 
 Edith stood for some time looking after 
 them. 
 
 "WImt a wonderful actor ho is!" she 
 thought; "and Mrs. Dunbar was waiting 
 beliiud the scenes to appear when her turn 
 should coiue. They went out just like peo- 
 ple ou the stage." 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 TWO (•am.i:k8. , 
 
 TiMK passed slowly with the prisoner, but 
 the freetloni for which sbi: bulged seemed as 
 distant as over. Miss I'lympton's ai>pareut 
 desertion of her was the worst blow that she 
 bad yet received, and even if tli<' letter that 
 Wiggins had shown her was a forgery, it 
 still reinniucd evident tliat but little was to 
 lie hoiied for now in that (luarter. it seem- 
 ed to her now as if she was cut off from all 
 the world. Her relatives were inditferent ; 
 Sir lii(uiel Dudleigh was inaccessilile ; Miss 
 IMyiuptou aiijieared to have given her up; 
 the county f'cinilies who, under ordinary 
 I'ircunistances, might have tried to call on 
 her, would ])robal(ly view with inditl'erence, 
 if not prejudice, t\w daughter of a. ccuivict. 
 All these circumstances, therefore, reduced 
 her to deep dejection, and made her feel as 
 though she was indeed at the mercy of her 
 jailer. 
 
 While thus couscions of her lieljdessness, 
 however, she did not fear any thing wiu'se 
 tiiau im])ris(uiiuent. Tiie idea had occurred 
 to her of further injury, but had been at tuice 
 
 dismissed. She did not tliiuk it possible 
 that her life could be in daugei'. It secuued 
 to her that Wiggins owed all his jiower to 
 the very fiwt of her life. Ho was her guard- 
 ian, us ho had said, and if she were to dit;, be 
 woiiki b(i no more than any one else. The 
 m'arest heirs would then come forward, ami 
 ho W4)uld have to retire. 'J'hose nearest heirs 
 would undoubtedly be tho.so relatives of 
 whom Miss Plympton had told her. or per- 
 liaps Sir Lionel Dudleigh, of whom sla^ now 
 thought freiiueutly, and who began to be 
 her last hoite. 
 
 The fact that Wiggins was her guardian 
 till her marriage showed her plainly that 
 lie would endeavor to iiostjione any sin;h a 
 thing as marriage for an indeliiiit(< jieriod. 
 In order to do this he would, no doubt, keep 
 hor pocluded as long as lu^ conld. Hi^ wiuild 
 feel it to bo for his interest that her health 
 should be taken care of, for any sickness 
 of hers would necessarily alarm him. The 
 thought of this made her wish for illness, so 
 that she might have a doctor, and thus tinil 
 some one who was not iu his employ. Ibit 
 then, on th.^ otluu' hand, sin; feared that the 
 doctor whom ho might send would be some 
 one in his j)ay, or in his c(ni(idence, like all 
 the rest, aud so her desire for illness faded 
 out. 
 
 At last a day camo when tho monotony 
 of her life was iiit«>rrnpted. She was look- 
 ing out of her window when she was startled 
 by thi^ sound of a carriage coming up ilio 
 main avenue. Tln^ s(iund iilled lu'r with 
 excitement. It could not l)o Wiggins. It- 
 nnist be some one for her, some frieinl — 
 Jli.ss Plympton herself. Her heart beat fast. 
 at tho thought. Yes, it unist lie Jliss Plymp- 
 ton. Site had not given her up. She had 
 been laboring for her deliverance, and now 
 she was coming, armed witti ific authority 
 of tho law, to eliect her release. Edith's 
 lirst impulse was to hurry down and nu'ot 
 the carriage, but long and fre(|uent disap- 
 pointment had tanght her the need of re- 
 str.'iint, ;ind so she remained at tho window 
 till tlie carriagt^ canu; into view. 
 
 Well was it for her that she had tried to 
 repress her hopes, and had forborne to rush 
 down at her lirst impulse. ()ne glance show- 
 ed li(<r that the new-comers were strangers. 
 It was a haiulsonm barouche that she saw, 
 and in it weri! a lady and a gentleman, 
 neither of whom she had seen before. But 
 even in the midst of her disappointment 
 hop(^ still found a ])lace, and the thought 
 occur' ed to her that though theses might not 
 be fan.ll'ar to her, they yet might !»' friends, 
 and might even have been sent by Miss 
 Plympton. Hut, if so, how came they lu^re ? 
 Did they have any tnuible at tlm gate'? 
 How was it that Wiggins relaxed his regula- 
 tions in their favor? {'(uild they ht' friends 
 of his own, after all ? Yes, it nnist bt< so. 
 
 Filled with thoughts like these, which 
 
THE LIVING LIKK. 
 
 51 
 
 H'iut Ix'at fast. 
 
 Miss riynip- 
 
 iip. Slit! liiul 
 
 liiicc, and iittw 
 
 iwn and iiu'i't 
 
 lit the window 
 
 lirtd tiiod to 
 Jhorno to rush 
 irlancf sliow- 
 ri' stiaiiflt'i's. 
 Itliat sill' saw, 
 
 tiif tlionn'*^ 
 I'sc iniiilit not 
 tilt 1«' t'licnds, 
 
 llius altciiialt'.l iM'twt'cn liope and fear, 1 those two which oxritcd a fetling akin to 
 Kdith watcliid thti ncw-coincrs, as the car- aversion in her mind; and this \\nn more 
 riaj;c rolled up to the Hall, with somethinjjj jiarticularly the case witli regard to Captain 
 (if the same emotions that fill the shipwreck- ; Mowliray. As lie looked at her tliero was 
 ed sailor as he watches the itidgressof a life- I a cold, liard lij;ht in his eyes whicli gave 
 boat that comes to save Iiini. Even now it . her the idea of a cruel and ]iitilesM nature; 
 was with dillicnlty that she jireveiited hei- | and there was a kind of cynicism in liis 
 self from rushing down and met'ting them, • tone when he spoke, which repelled her at 
 and imiiloring their help at once. 15ut she once. He had all the air of a ron<^, yet even 
 restrained her imiiatieiice with a great cf- roues have often a savor of Jolly reeklcss- 
 fort, and suniuiiug up all her sell'-coiitrol, ness ahont them which conciliates. Alioiit 
 she waited. i this man, however, there was nothing of 
 
 She heardthegreathell resoundingthrougli this; there was nothing hut cold, cynical 
 thi'loiighalls; she heard the f()otste])sof Mrs. self-regard, and Edith saw in him one who 
 Dunliar as she went down. Then tlieri! was might tu^ as hateful as even Wiggiiia, and 
 a long delay, al'ter which Mrs. Diinhai; re- far more to he dreaded. 
 
 luriied and entered the room. She aiipeared , "I'm afraid,"' said Mrs. ilowhray, " that 
 trouldcd, and there was on her faci! a larger we are intruders on your seclusion ; hut we 
 .share than nsiial of that anxious, fearful , waited .some time, and at last concluded to 
 watclifiilness which made its wonted expres- ' hrcak in njioii yon in spite of your rigid re- 
 sioii. Tliere was also something niore^ ] strictions. IJiit others have anticipated us, 
 j-omethiiig tiiat seemed like utter consteriia- I presume, and so perhaps you will pardon 
 tiou and hewildenncnt ; she was as whit(! , us." 
 
 .-.s ashes; her hands clutched one another I " My seclusion is not my own choice." said 
 convulsively; her eyes were lixed in an ah- Edith, niouriifully. " You arc the lirst whom 
 rtractcd gaze on vacancy ; and wln^n she ! I have seen." 
 
 t-))oke it was in a low voice like a whisper, | "Then, my dear Miss Daltoii, sinet! we ar^^ 
 ;;iid in scarcely articulate words. ; not unwelcome, I feel very glad that we Iiave 
 
 "Someone — to see you." 1 ventured. May I hope that we will se(( a. 
 
 That was all that Mrs. Dunhar said. ' great deal of one another?" 
 
 "To see nu^I" repeated Edith, starting Mrs. Mowbray's manner of speaking was 
 from her chair, and too cxcitrd to notice essi'utially in keeping with her aiipearancc. 
 Mrs. Dnnhar's manner. Hope arose once It may he called a fashion-plate style. It. 
 more, eager and unrestrained, and without Was holli llneit and insincere. Slies[)okeiii 
 f.topitiug a moment to ask anything ahont what is .sonictiuies called a "made voice;"- — 
 llieni, or to make any preparations to see that is to say, a voit.'c nut lier own, made up 
 lliem, slu; hurried down, fearing lest tl ■ lor company — a llorid falsetto : a tone that 
 smallest tlelay might he dangerous. Edith detested. 
 
 On entering the room the visitors iutro- ; Could she throw herself upon the sympa- 
 
 dnced themselves as Captain and Mrs. Mow 
 hray ; hut as tin; cajitain was young, and 
 .Mrs. Mowhray ajipareutly about fifty, they 
 apiieared to Edith to he mother and sou. 
 
 Mrs. Mowbray's features showed that in 
 lier youth she might ha'-- been heantifnl; 
 
 tides of these? Who were flieyf Alight 
 tlu'y notbe in league with Wiggins for soul(^ 
 purpose nnknov.n to her? It was curious 
 that these strangers Avere able to jiass the 
 gates which were shut to all the rest of 
 the wmhl. 'J'hese wnv her thoughts, and 
 
 yet then^ was an exjiressiou on them wliiith she determiiied to find out from these Mow- 
 was not attractive to Edith, being a com- brays, if possible, how it was that they got. 
 Iiound of |irininess iiiid inanity, which mad<' in. 
 
 iter look like a superannuated fashion plate. \ "Had you any difficulty at the gates with 
 She was elaborately dressed : a rich robe of the iKUter?" asked l-^dith. 
 very thick silk, a frisette witli showy ciuls, '■ t)li no," said Captain Mowbray, " not tho 
 a Ixiuuet with many oiiiameuts of ribbons least."' 
 
 and flowers, and a heavy Cashmere shawl — i " Diil he ofl'er no resistance ?" 
 sucli was her cosfuiue. Her eycH were un- | "Cerlainlv not. Why should he?'' 
 
 ilcnialily fine, and a white veil covered her 
 face, which to l^dith looked as though it 
 was painti d or ]iowdercd. 
 
 " Hecaiise he has been ill the haltil of turn- 
 ing back all visitors." 
 
 " .Ml,'' said Mowbray, listlessly, "that is a 
 
 The gentleman at first siglit seemed like ' thing you ought not to allow." 
 a icm.aikably li.indsome man. He was tall i " 1 was afraid," said Editli, "that ho had 
 and well t"oniied ; chest nut hair ciuled short trieil to keep yon back." 
 liver his wide brow; sriu.'ire cliin, whiskers, "Me?" said Mowbray, with strong em- 
 «:f the intensely fashionable sort, and heavy ])liasis. "He knows better than thai, I 
 mustache. His eyes were gray, and his feat- fancy." 
 ures were regular and finely chiseled. I "And yet he is capahle of any amount of 
 
 In spit(< of Edilli's longing for friends, insolence, 
 there was something in the api>curauco of 1 "Indeed?'' said Mowhray, languidly. 
 
52 
 
 THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 W 
 
 " Then why don't you turn bim off, and get 
 a civil man T" 
 
 " Because — l)ecau8e," said Edith, in a trom- 
 uloua voice, "there is one here who — who 
 counterinandH all my orders." 
 
 " Ah f ' said Mowbray, in a listless tone, 
 which seemed to say that he took no inter- 
 est whatever in these matters. 
 
 " Dear me !" said Mrs. Mowbray, in a quer- 
 ulous voice. "Servants are such dreadful 
 plaguoH. Worry? why, it's nothing tilse 
 but worry! And they're so shockingly im- 
 pertinent. They really have no sense of re- 
 spect. I don't know for my part what the 
 world's coming to. I suppose it's all these 
 dreadful radicals and newsjjapers and work- 
 ing-men's clubs and things. When I was 
 young it was not so." 
 
 "You have not been in Dalton Hall since 
 you were a young girl. Miss Dalton f" said 
 Mowbray, in(iuiriugly. 
 
 " No ; not for ten years." 
 
 "Do ycm tind it nnich changed?" 
 
 '' Very nundi — and for the worse. I have 
 had great diHiculties to contend with." 
 
 "Indeed?" said Mowbray, inditferently. 
 " Well, at any rate, you have a n<)l)le old 
 place, with every thing around you to make 
 you enjoy life." 
 
 " Yes — all but one thing." 
 
 "Ah?" 
 
 " I am a prisoner here, Captfiin Mowbray," 
 said Judith, with an appealing glance and a 
 mournful tone. 
 
 "Ah, really?" said Mowbray; and taking 
 up a book he began to turn over the leaves 
 in a careless way. 
 
 " A ]»ris(tnerf" ])ut in Mrs.Mowbray. "Yes, 
 and so you are. It's like imprisonment, tliis 
 dreadful mourning Hut one has to act in 
 accordance with pxiblic sentiment. And I 
 sujjposo you grieve very r.uch, my dear, for 
 your poor dear pai)a. Poor man! I renu-m- 
 ber seeing him once in London. It was my 
 first season. Tliere were Lcu'd Rutland and 
 the Manjuis of Abcrcorn and t he young Duke 
 of Sev»!ru — all the rage. Do you know, my 
 dear, I was (juite a belle then." 
 
 From this beginning Mrs. Mowbray went 
 on to chatter ab')ut the gayeties of her 
 youth — and Lord A, how haiulsouu; he was ; 
 and Sir John 1?, ho\i rich he was; and Col- 
 onel V, how extravagant he was. Then she 
 wandered oft' to the subject of state balls, de- 
 scribed the dress she wore at her tirst jires- 
 entation at court, and the appearance of his 
 Gracious Majesty King George, and how he 
 wiis dressed, and who were with him, and 
 wliat he said — while all the time poor Edith, 
 wlio was bulging for an opportunity to tcdl 
 them about herself, sat (juivering with im- 
 patience and agitation. 
 
 During all this time Captain Mowbray 
 looked liored, and sat examining th(> furni- 
 ture and Edith alternately. lie made no 
 effort to take part in the conversation, but 
 
 seemed anxious to bring the visit to a close. 
 This Edith saw with a sinking heart. These, 
 then, were the ones from whom she had 
 hoped assistance. But unjiromising as these 
 were, they formed just now her only ho]>e, 
 and so, as they at length rose to go, Edith 
 grew desperate, and burst forth in a low but 
 quick ami excited tone. 
 
 " Wait one nuinuuit," said she, " and ex- 
 cuse me if I give you trouble; but the posi- 
 tion I am in forciis me to a])peal to you for 
 help, though you are only strangers. I am 
 actually imprisoned in this i)lace. A num 
 here — Wiggins, the late steward — contines 
 nu! within these grounds, aiul will not let me 
 go out, nor will he allow any of my IViends 
 to come and see iiw. Ih; keeps nw a ])rison- 
 er under strict wat(di. Wherever I go about 
 the grounds I am followed. He will not even 
 allow my friends to write to me. I am the 
 owner, but he is the master. Captain Mow- 
 bray, I ap])eal to you. You are an ofticer 
 and a gentleman. .S.ive me from this cruel 
 imprisonment! I want nothing but liber- 
 ty. I want to join my friends, and gain my 
 rights. I entreat you to help me, or if you 
 can iu)t help me yourself, let others know, or 
 send me a lawyer, or take a letter for me to 
 some friends." 
 
 And with these words poor Edith sank 
 back into the chair from wliich slie had 
 risen, and sobbed aloiul. Slie had spoken in 
 feverish, eager tones, and her whole frame 
 quivered with agitation. 
 
 Mrs. Mowbray list(?ntMl to her with a com- 
 placent smile, and when Edith sank back in 
 her chair she sat down too, and taking out 
 her handkerchief and a bottle of salts, began 
 to apjily the one to her eyes and tlu- other to 
 her nose alternately. As for Cai»tain Mow- 
 bray, he coolly resumed his seat, yawned, 
 and then sat (juietly locdiing first at Edith 
 and then at M>-s. Mowbray. At length Edith 
 by a violent effort regaineil her .self-control, 
 and looking at the captain, she said, indig- 
 nantly, 
 
 "You say nothing. Sir. Am I to think 
 that you refu.so this reijnest ?" 
 
 " By no nu'ans," said Cajttain Mowbray, 
 dryly. " Silence is said usually to signify 
 con.sent." 
 
 " You will help me, then, after all?" cried 
 Edith, earnestly. 
 
 " Wait a moment," said Captain Mowbray, 
 a little abruptly. "Who is this man, Miss 
 Dalton, of whom you complain ?" 
 
 "Wiggins." 
 
 "Wiggins?'' said Mowbray. "Ah! was 
 ho not the steward of your late father ?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " I have heard somewhere that lie was ap- 
 pointed your guardi.in. Is that so ?" 
 
 " I don't know," said Edith. " He claims 
 to be my guarilian ; but 1 am of age, and I 
 don't see how he can be." 
 
 "The law of guardianship is very pecul- 
 
 .L 
 
lit to a close, 
 eart. These, 
 oiu she luul 
 winj; as these 
 r only hope, 
 to jjo, Edith 
 ill a low but 
 
 he, " and ex- 
 hut the posi- 
 al to you for 
 I) gets. I am 
 ace. A man 
 ird — (Mintiiies 
 ill not let me 
 )f my friends 
 
 me a juison- 
 er I f;o ahout 
 
 will not even 
 le. I am tlie 
 .'aptaiii Mow- 
 irti an olHeer 
 iim this cruel 
 Mjf hut liher- 
 
 and <;ain my 
 
 me, or if you 
 hers know, or 
 tter for me to 
 
 r Edith sank 
 
 lich she had 
 
 )ad spoken in 
 
 whole frame 
 
 r w ith a corn- 
 sank l)aek in 
 id takinfi; out 
 salts, l)e<;au 
 the other to 
 t]»tain Mow- 
 at, yawned, 
 r.st at Edith 
 enjith Editli 
 •self-eontrol, 
 said, indig- 
 
 II I to thinli 
 
 in Jlowhray, 
 ly to signify 
 
 er all f ' cried 
 
 liu Mowhray, 
 lis man, Miss 
 
 ?" 
 
 "Ah! was 
 father?" 
 
 at he was np- 
 
 ,t so ?" 
 
 " He claims 
 i)f age, and I 
 
 s very pecul- 
 
 THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 53 
 
 iar," said Mowbray. " Perhaps he has right 
 on his side." 
 
 "Right!" cried Edith, warmly. "How 
 can he have the right to restrict my liberty, 
 and make me a prisoner on my own estate ? 
 I am of age. The estate is absolutely mine. 
 He is oidy a servant. Have I no rights 
 whatever ?" 
 
 " I should say you had," said Mowbray, 
 languidly stroking his mustache. " I should 
 say you had, of course. Hut this guardian 
 business is a troublesome thing, and Wig- 
 gins, as your guardian, may have a certain 
 amount of power." 
 
 Edith turned away impatiently. 
 
 "I hoped," said she, "that the mere men- 
 tion of my situation would be enough to ex- 
 cite your sympathy. I see that I was mis- 
 taken, and am sorry that I have troubled 
 you." 
 
 " YoTi arc too hasty," said Mowbray. " You 
 see, I look at your position merely from a 
 legal point of view." 
 
 " A legal point !" exclaimed Mrs. Mow- 
 bray, who had now dried her eyes and re- 
 stored the handkerchief and the salts bottle 
 to their proper places. "A legal point! 
 Ah, Miss Dalton, my son is great on legal 
 points. He is quite a lawyer. If ho had 
 embraced the law as a profession, which I 
 once thought of getting him to do, though 
 that was when he was ([uite a child, and 
 something or other put it quite out of my 
 head — if he had embraced the law as a pro- 
 fession, my dear, he might have aspired to 
 the bench." 
 
 Edith rested her brow on her hand and 
 bit her lips, reproaching herself for having 
 coiilided her troubles to these people. Wig- 
 gins himself was more endurable. 
 
 " Yotir case," said Captain Mowbray, tap- 
 ping his boot with his cane in a careless 
 manner, " is one which re(|uires a very great 
 amount of careful consideration." 
 
 Edith said nothing. She had become 
 hopeless. 
 
 "If there is r^ will, and Wiggins has 
 jiowers given him in that instrument, he 
 can give you a great deal of trouble with- 
 out your being able to prevent it." 
 
 This scene was liecoming intolerable, and 
 Eiiitli could bear it no longer. 
 
 "I want to nuike one final request," said 
 she, with dillieulty controlling the scorn and 
 indignation which she felt. "It is this — 
 will you give me a seat in your carriage as 
 far as tlie village inn?" 
 
 "The village inn?" repeated Mowbray, 
 and then he wiis silent for some time. His 
 mother looked at him in<[uiriugly and curi- 
 ously. 
 
 "i have friends," said Edith, "and I will 
 go to them. All that I ask of you is the 
 ilrive of a few rods to the village inn. You 
 can leave me there, and 1 will never trouble 
 you again." 
 
 "Well, really. Miss Dalton," said Mow- 
 bray, after an(»tlier jiause, in which Edith 
 sutt'ered frightful suspense — "really, youi- 
 retpiest is a singular one. I would do any 
 thing for you — hut this is different. You 
 see, you aro a sort of ward, and to carry 
 you away from the control of your guardian 
 might bo a very dangerous offense." 
 
 " In fact, you are afraid, I see," said Edith, 
 bitterly. "Well, you need say uo more. I 
 will trouble you no further." 
 
 Saying this, she rose and stood in all hor 
 stately beauty before them — cold, haughty, 
 and without a trace of emotion left. They 
 were struck by the change. Thus far she 
 had appeared a timid, agitated, frightened 
 girl ; they now saw in lier something of that 
 indomitable spirit which had already baf- 
 fled iiiul perplexed her jailers. 
 
 "We hope to see more of yon," said Mrs. 
 Mowbray. " We shall call again soon." 
 
 To this Edith made no reply, but saw 
 them to the drawing-room door. Then they 
 descended the stairs and entered the car- 
 riage, and she heard them drive otf. Then 
 she went up to her room, and sat looking 
 out of the window. 
 
 " He is worse than Wiggins," she mut- 
 tered. " He is a gentleman, but a villain — 
 and a mined one too — perhaps in the pay of 
 Wiggins. Wiggins sent him her'- " 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 A PANIC AMONG THE JAILER.S. 
 
 The arrival of these visitors had produced 
 an extraordinary eft'ect upon Mrs. Dunbar. 
 So great was her agitation that slit; could 
 scarcely announce theiM to Edith. So great 
 was it that, though she \'as Edith's jailer, 
 she did not dream of denying them the priv- 
 ilege of seeing her, but snunm)ned Edith at 
 once, as though she was free mistress of the 
 house. 
 
 After Edith had gone down the agitation 
 of Mrs. Dunbar continued, and grew even 
 greater. She sank into a chair, and buried 
 ner fac(* in her hands. In that position she 
 remained motionless for a long time, and 
 was at length aroused by the return of Edith 
 iVom her intca'view with her visitors. Upon 
 her entrance Mrs. Dunbar started np sud- 
 denly, and with downcast face left the room, 
 without exciting any attcnition from Edith, 
 who was too nnich taken up with her own 
 thoughts about her visitors to notice any 
 thing unusual about the appearance of her 
 housekeeper. 
 
 Leaving Edith's room, Mrs. Dunbar walk- 
 ed along the hall with a slow and uncertain 
 step, and at length reached a rooiu at the 
 west end. The door was closed. She ku( ek- 
 ed. A voice cried, " Come in," and she ^.m- 
 tered. 
 
54 
 
 THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 It vras a largo room, and it looked out 
 upon till) grouiidH in iroiit of the liouHO. A 
 (liisk WHS ill tlio middle, wliich was coverod 
 witii ])ai>(;rH. All around wtsro .shelves tilled 
 with l>ookH. It seemed to be a mixture of 
 library and ofliico. At the denk satWif^gins, 
 who looked iij), aH Mrs. Dunbar entered, with 
 his UHual solemn faee. 
 
 iMto this room Mrs. Dunbar entered with- 
 out further ceremony, and after walking a 
 few jia(;e.s fouml a ehair, into which she sank 
 with sonu'thing like a groan. Wiggins look- 
 ed at her in silence?, and regarding her with 
 that earnest glance which was usual with 
 him. Mrs. Dunbar sat for a few moments 
 without saying a word, with her face buried 
 in her hands, as it had btien in Kdith's room ; 
 but at length she raised Iw.r \wiu\, and looked 
 at Wiggins. Her face was .still deathly palc!, 
 her hands twitched the folds of her dr«!ss 
 convulsively, and her eyes had a glassy sta:e 
 that was almost terrible. It could be no 
 common thing that had caiisi'd such dec^i) 
 emotion in one who was usually so self-con- 
 tained. 
 
 At last alio spoke. 
 
 " I have seen him !" said she, in a low tone, 
 which was hardly raised al)ov<^ a whisper. 
 
 Wiggins looked at her in sileniu! for some 
 time, and at length .said, in a low voice, 
 
 "He is here, then ?" 
 
 "Ho is here," said Mrs. Dunbar. "But 
 have you seen him ? Why did you not t<'ll 
 mo that he was here 1 The shock was terri- 
 ble. You ought to have told mi\" 
 
 Wiggins sighed. 
 
 " 1 intended to do so," said he ; " but I did 
 not know that he would come so soon." 
 
 " When did you see him V asked Mrs. 
 Dunbar, abruptly. 
 
 " Yesterday — only yesterday." 
 
 " You knew him at oiu'e, of course, from 
 his extraordinary likeness to — to tht! other 
 one. 1 wish yon had told nu!. Oh, how I 
 wish you had told me ! The shock was ter- 
 rible." 
 
 And saying this, Mrs. Dunbar gave a deep 
 nigh that was like? a groan. 
 
 "The fact is," said Wiggins, " I have been 
 trying to conjecture how he came lu're, and 
 as I did not think he would come to tlu^ 
 Hall — at least, not just yet — I thought I 
 would si)are you. Forgive me if I luive 
 made a mistake. I had no idea that he was 
 coming to tin; Hall." 
 
 "How could he have come hero?" said 
 Mrs. Dunbar. " What possible thing could 
 have sent him?" 
 
 " Well," said Wiggins, " I can understand 
 that easily enough. This Miss Plympton, 
 you know, as I told ytui, thri'atened thiitslie 
 would go to see Lionel. I forgot to ask her 
 al)()ut that when I saw her, but it seems now 
 that she must have carried out her threat. 
 She has nmloubtedly goiui to see Lionel, and 
 Lionel has sent his boy instead of coming 
 
 himself. Had he only come himself, all 
 would have been well. 'J'hat is the chief 
 thing that I hoped tor. Hut ho has imt cho- 
 sen to come, and so here is the son instead 
 of the father. It is unfortuTuite; it delays 
 nuitters most painfully ; but wo must bear 
 it." 
 
 " Do you think Lionel can suspect f" ask- 
 ed Mrs. Dunbar, anxiously. 
 
 " .Suspect ? Not he. I think tluit ho ob- 
 jected to come himself for a very good rea- 
 son. He has good grounds for declining to 
 r<;visit Dalton Hall. H(! has sent his stui to 
 investigate, and how this enterprise will end 
 remains to be seen." 
 
 "I don't see how ho managed to get into 
 the place at all," .said Mrs. Dunbar. " Wil- 
 kins is usually very jiarticular." 
 
 "Well," said Wiggins, "I can understand 
 that only too well. I'nfortunatcly he n^cog- 
 nized Wilkinn. My porter is unknown here, 
 but any one from Lionel's place whose mem- 
 ory reaches back ten years will easily know 
 him — the desperate poacher and almost mur- 
 derer, whoso all'air with the ganiekeei)er of 
 Dudleigh Manor cost him a sentence of trans- 
 portation for twenty years. His face is oik? 
 that <h)es not change much, and so he was 
 recognized at once. He came to mo in a 
 terrible way, frightened to death for fear of 
 a fresh arrest; but I calmed him. I went to 
 the lodge myself, and yesterday I saw him. 
 I kiu^w him at once, of course." 
 
 " Hut did he recognize you ?" cried Mrs. 
 Dunbar, in a voice full of fresh agitation. 
 
 " I fear so," said Wiggins. 
 
 At this Mrs. Dunbar starttul to her feet, 
 and stared at Wiggins with a face full of 
 terror. Then gradually her strength failed, 
 and she sank back again, but her face still 
 retained the saint! look. 
 
 " He did not recognize me at first," said 
 WMggins. "He seemed puzzhMl ; but as 1 
 talked with him, and heard his thrciits about 
 W' ilkins, and about what he called Edith's 
 imprisonment, he seeuuul gradually to find 
 out all, or to surmise it. It could not have? 
 been my face; it must have been my voict;. 
 for that unfortunately has not changed, and 
 he once kinnv that well, in the old days 
 when he was visiting hero. At any rate, 1' 
 made it out, and fnun that moment tried in 
 iiu))ress ujion me that I was in his power." 
 
 " And did you tell him— all ?" 
 
 "I — I told him nothing. I let him think 
 what he cbo.se. 1 was not going to break 
 tbrongli my plans for his sake, nor for the 
 sak(! of his foolish tlireats. Hut in thus for- 
 bearing I had to tolerate him, and hence 
 this visit. He thinks that I am in his 
 jiower. He does not underst.'iiid. Hut I 
 shall have to let him come here, or else 
 make every thing known, and for that I am 
 not at all prepareil as yet. Hut oh, if it 
 hiid oiilv been Lionel! — if it had only been 
 Lionel!'' 
 
 . 
 
THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 linisclf, all 
 s t\w cliit'f 
 Ills not ebo- 
 son iimtt'iKl 
 s; it (U'laj'H 
 must bear 
 
 pect f" ask- 
 that he ol)- 
 y {jDDil rea- 
 icclinin;; to 
 it his son to 
 :isu will end 
 
 to get into 
 )ar. " Wil- 
 
 undorstand 
 ly he recog- 
 iiiown here, 
 ivhose nieni- 
 casily know 
 almost mur- 
 iit'ket>i)er oi' 
 nee of trans- 
 s faee is one 
 I so he was 
 to me ill a 
 li I'or tear of 
 I. I went to 
 ,' I saw him. 
 
 ' cried Mrs. 
 igitation. 
 
 to her feet, 
 faee fnll <tf 
 ngtli failed, 
 er face .still 
 
 first," said 
 hilt as 1 
 atsahoiit 
 .(l Edith's 
 y to iind 
 I not hav(^ 
 my voice, 
 mged, and 
 old days 
 my rate, li- 
 nt tried l(< 
 IS jiower." 
 
 him think 
 r to break 
 lor for the 
 11 thus for- 
 aiul lieiiee 
 am in his 
 i<l. Ihit I 
 re. or else 
 ■ that I am 
 it oh, if it 
 only beeu 
 
 "And HO," said Mrs. Dunbar, aff.er a long 
 silence, " lie knows all." 
 
 " He knows nothing," said Wiggins. " It 
 is his ignorance and my own patient waiting 
 fliat make him bold. But tell me this — did 
 he recognize you ?" 
 
 At this question Mrs. Dunbar looked with 
 a fixed, rigid stare at Wiggins. Her lii>s quiv- 
 ered. For a moment she could not speak. 
 
 " He — he looked at me," said she, in a 
 faltering voice — " he looked at me, but I was 
 so overcome at the sight of him that my 
 brain whirled. I was scarcely conscious of 
 any thing. I heard him ask for Edith, and 
 I hurried away. But oh, liow har<l— liow 
 hard it is! Oh, was ever any oii<: in such a 
 situation ? To see him here — to see that face 
 and hear that vttice! Oh, what can 1 do — 
 what can I do f 
 
 And with these words Mrs. Dunbar broie 
 down. Once more her head sank, and bury- 
 ing lier faee in her hands, she wept and 
 sobbed convulsively. Wiggins looked at 
 lier, and as he looked there came over his 
 face an expression of unutterable pity and 
 sympathy, but he said not a word. As he 
 l(H>ked at her ho leaned his head on liis 
 hand, and a low, deep, prolonged sigh es- 
 caped him, that seemed to come from the 
 depths of his being. 
 
 They sat in silence for a long time. Mrs. 
 Dunbar was tlu; (irst to break that BJlcnce. 
 .She roused herself by a great ett'ort, and 
 said, 
 
 " Have you any idea what his object may 
 l)e in coming here, or what Lionel's object 
 may be in sending him?'' 
 
 "Well," said Wiggins, " I d(m't know. I 
 thought at first when I saw him that Lionel 
 had some idea of looking after the estate, to 
 see if he could get control of it in any way; 
 but this call seems to show that Edith en- 
 ters into their design in some way. J'erhaps 
 he thinks of paying attentions to lier," he 
 added, in a tone of liitteriiess. 
 
 "And would that bo a thing to he dread- 
 ed?" asked Mrs. Dunbar, anxiously. 
 
 " Most certainly," said Wiggins. 
 
 "Would you blame the sou for the mis- 
 deeds of the father?" she asked, in the sanu^ 
 tone. 
 
 "No," said Wiggins; "but when the sou 
 is so evidently a counterpart of the father, I 
 should say that Edith ought to be preserved 
 from him." 
 
 " I don't know," said Mrs. Dunbar. " I'm 
 afraid you judge too hastily. It may be for 
 the best. Who knows?" 
 
 " It can only be for the worst," said Wig- 
 gins, with Holeinn emphasis. 
 
 "There is a woman with him," said Mrs. 
 Dunbar, siuldenly ch:inging the eouversa- 
 tioii. " Who can she be ?" 
 
 " A woman ? What kind of a woman ?" 
 
 "Elderly. I never saw her before. He 
 calls himself Mowbrav, and she is Mrs. Mow- 
 
 bray. What can be the meaning of thatf 
 Tho woman seems old enough to be hi.H 
 mother." 
 
 " Old ?" said Wiggins. " Ah — Mowbray — 
 li'in! It must bo some design of his on Edith. 
 He brings this woman, so as to make a formal 
 call. He will not tell her who he is. I don't 
 like the look of this, and, what is worse, I 
 don't know what to do. I could i>roliibil 
 his visits, but that would \w to give ui> my 
 plans, and I can not do that yet. I must 
 run the risk. As for Edith, shti is mad. .She 
 is beyond my control. She drives me to de- 
 spair." 
 
 '• I do not see what danger there is for 
 Edith ill his visits," said Mrs. Dunbar, in a 
 uiournfiil voi(;e. 
 
 "Danger!" said Wiggins. "A man like 
 that !" 
 
 "You are judging liim too hastily," said 
 Mrs. Dunbar. 
 
 Wiggins looked at her in silence for sv mo- 
 ment, and then said, 
 
 " 1 lio))e I am, I'm sure, for your sake; but 
 I'm afraid that I am right and that you are 
 wrong." 
 
 After some further conversation Mrs. Dun- 
 bar retired, carrying with her in her face 
 and in her heart that deep concern and that 
 strong agitation which had been excited by 
 the visit of Mowliray. Edith, when she next 
 saw her, noticed this, and for a long time 
 afterward wondcrecl to her.siilf why it was 
 that such a change had come over the house- 
 keeper. 
 
 CHAPTER XVL 
 
 ANOTHKU VI.SIT. 
 
 Anot'T two weeks iifterward the Mew- 
 brays called again. Edith was a little sur- 
 lirised at this, for she had not expected an- 
 other visit ; hut on the whole she' felt glad, 
 and could not help indulging in some vague 
 hope that this call would be for her good. 
 
 " I am sorry," said she to Mrs. Mowbray, 
 that I hav(^ not been able to return your 
 ' call. But I liiivi^ already explained how I 
 am imiuisoned here." 
 i " Oh, my dear." said Jlrs. Mowbray, " pray 
 ' don't speak of that. We feel for you, I as- 
 sure you. Nothing is more unpleasant than 
 a bereavement. It makes such a change in 
 j all one's life, you know. And then black 
 I does not become sonic^ jieojde ; they p(>rsist 
 in visiting, too; but then, do you know, 
 I they really look to mt! like jierfect frights. 
 j Not that you look otherwise than well, dear 
 I Miss Daltoii. In fact, I shoiihl think that 
 in any dress yon would look perftu;tly charm- 
 ing; hut that is because you are a brunette. 
 : Stuiie complexions ar«! positividy out of all 
 keeping w itli black. Have you ever noticed 
 that f Oh yes, dear Miss Daltoii," continued 
 Mrs. Mowbray, after a short pause. " Bni- 
 
56 
 
 THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 ! '^ 
 
 1;' I 
 I ■ 1 
 
 ''I i 
 
 i.r I 
 
 "IT WAS A CHII.U.' 
 
 iiottes arc hest in black — mark my words, 
 now ; and blondoH arc, never elfeetive in that 
 eolor. They <h> better in brijj;ht colors. It 
 is singular, isn't it ? Yon,now,n»y dear, may 
 wear black Avitli inipnnity; and since, you 
 are called on in the mysterious dispensation 
 of Providence to mourn, you oUfj;ht at least 
 to be f^rateful that you are a brunette. If 
 you were, a blonde, I really do not know 
 what would ever become of you. Now, I am 
 a blonde — l)ut in sj)ite of tliat I have been 
 calle<l on to mourn. It — it was a child." 
 
 As Mrs. Mowbray said this she api)lied the 
 handkerchief and smelling-bottle for a few 
 minutes. 
 
 " A child!" said Edith, in wonder. 
 
 "Yes, dear — a sweet son, aged twelve, 
 leaving nio to mourn over him. And as I 
 was saying, my mourning did not become my 
 ccnnplcxiou at all. That was what tr(nil)led 
 me so. Keally, a blonde ought never to lose 
 friends — it is so unbecoming. Positively, 
 Providence ought to arrange things differ- 
 ently." 
 
 "It would be indeed well if blondes or 
 any other i)eoi)le could be saved from sor- 
 row," said Eilitli. 
 
 "It would be charming, Avonld it not?" 
 said Mrs. Mowbray. " Now, when my child 
 died, I mourned for him most deei)ly — in- 
 deed, as deej) as that," she said, stretching 
 out her hands so as to nwasure a space of 
 about eighteen inches — " most dceitly : a bor- 
 der around the skirt of solid crape half a 
 
 yard wide; bonnet smothered in crape; and 
 really and positively I myself was literally 
 all cra]»e, I do believe; and with my light 
 complexion, what pcojde could have thought, 
 I'm sure I do not know." 
 
 "There is not much to choose between 
 mother aiul son," thought E<lith. " They are 
 ca])able of any baseness, they are so licart- 
 less. There is no Iiojm! here." Yet in spite 
 of such thoughts she. did not shun them. 
 Why not ? How could an honorable nature 
 like hers associate with siudi people? He- 
 twe(in them and herself was a deep gulf, 
 and no sympathy between them was possi- 
 ble. The reason why she did not shun them 
 lay solely in her own loneliness. Any thing 
 in the shape; of a human being was wel- 
 come rather than otherwise, aiuleven j)coi)le 
 whom she despised served to mitigate the 
 gloom of her situation. They nuule the time 
 piiss by, and that of itself was something. 
 
 "I went into half-mourning as soon as I 
 could," continued Mrs. Mowbray ; " but even 
 half-mourning was very disagreeable. You 
 may depend upon it, no shade of black ought 
 ever to be brought near a blond(*. Half- 
 mourning is quite as bad as deep mourning." 
 
 " You nu'st have had very nuich to bear," 
 said Edith, absently. 
 
 " I should think I had. I really could not 
 go into society, except, of course, to m.ake 
 calls, for that one munt do, and even then ' 
 felt like a guy — for how absurd I nmst lia.e 
 looked with such ai; iidiarmonious adjust- 
 
THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 57 
 
 mpiit of colors ! But yon, my dciir MIhh Dal- 
 toii.Hceni niiule hy iiiitiire to go in nionrniiifj;." 
 
 " Y«'H," Miiid Editli, with a sigli which Hhe 
 conld not Hnj^jrcss ; " iiatnrc has been laviwh 
 to nio in that way — ^of hitc." 
 
 " Yon really onght always to mourn," said 
 Mrs. Mowbray, in a sprightly tone. 
 
 " I'm afraid I shall always have to, wheth- 
 er I wish it or not," said Edith, with another 
 sigh. 
 
 " Yon are such a remarkable brunette — 
 qnit(^ an Italian ; your complexion is almost 
 olive, and yonr hair is th(! blackest I ever 
 saw. It is all dark with you." 
 
 "Yes, it is indeed all dark with me," said 
 Edith, sadly. 
 
 " The child that I lost," said Mrs. Mow- 
 bray, after a pause, " was a very nice child, 
 but \w, was not at all like my s(tn here. Yon 
 often find great ditterences in families. I 
 sup]iose he resembhsd one side of the family, 
 and the captain the other." 
 
 " You have lived hero for a good many 
 years?" said Edith, abruptly changing the 
 conversation. 
 
 " Oh yes," said Mrs. Mowbray. " It's a very 
 nice county — don't you think so ?" 
 
 " I really have not had an oi>portnnity of 
 judging." 
 
 " No ? Of course not ; you are mourning. 
 But when you are done mourning, and go 
 into society, you will Hiul many very nice 
 ]ieo|)l(!. There are the Congreves, the Wil- 
 tons, the Symbolta, and Lord Connomor«', 
 and the Earl of Frontington, and a thousand 
 delightful people whom one likes to know." 
 
 " You do not belong to the county, do 
 you ?" 
 
 "N — no; myft milybelongs to Berks,"said 
 Mrs. Mowbray. " Yon don't know any thing 
 about Berks, I suppose ? I'm a Fydill." 
 
 "A fiddle?" said Edith, somewhat bewil- 
 dered, for Mrs. Mowbray j>ronounced her 
 family name in that way, and appeared to 
 take great pride in it. 
 
 "Yes," said she, "a Fydill — one of the 
 oldest families thi^re. Every one has heard 
 of the Fydills of Berks. I su])poHe you havts 
 never been there, and so have not had the 
 op])(trtunity of hearing about them." 
 
 " No," said Edith ; " I have passed most 
 of my life at school." 
 
 " Of course. Yon are so deliciously young. 
 And oh, Miss Dalton, what adeligiitfnl thing 
 it is to be young! One is so admired, and 
 has so many advantages! It is a satl, sad 
 thing tliat one grows old so soon. I'm so 
 gray, I'm sims I look like «iighty. But, aft- 
 er all, I'm not so very (dd. There's Lady 
 Poyntz, twice my age, who goes into society 
 most energetically; and old Miss I)e Fris- 
 sure, who, by-the-way, is enornKuisly rich, 
 actually rides (ui hoi'seback, and she is old 
 enough to be my mother; ami Mrs. Hanni^, 
 the rich widow — you nnist have heard about 
 her — positively does nothing but dance ; and 
 
 old Mrs. Scott, the brewer's wife, who has 
 recently come here, whenever she gives balls 
 for her daughters, always dances more than 
 any one. All these jjcople are very nnich 
 o]«ler than I am ; and so I say to myself, 
 ' Helen, my dear, yon are (piite a girl ; why 
 shonhln't yon enjoy yourself?' And so I do 
 enjoy myself." 
 
 " I sujipose, then, that yon like dancing!" 
 said Edith, who, in si)ite of her sadness, 
 found a mournful amusement in the idea of 
 this wonum dancing. 
 
 "I'm )iar-tic-n-lar-ly fond of dancing," 
 said Jlrs. Mowbray, with strong emphasis. 
 '■Only the young men are so rude! They 
 lly about after young chits of girls, and 
 don't notice nie. And so I don't ofttMi have 
 an oi>portunity, yon know. But then! is a 
 (iernian gentleman here— a baron, my dear 
 — and he is veiy polite. He sometinu's asks 
 me to dance, and I enjoy it very ninih, only 
 he is so short anil fat and bald that I fear he 
 looks very ridiculous. But the yoinig men. 
 Miss Ualton, are very, very neglectful." 
 
 "That is a pity," said Edith. 
 
 " Oh, they are so, I <lo assure yon. Now 
 that is the v<>ry thing that I have tried to 
 impress upon the captain. ' My dearest 
 boy,' I have always said, 'mind the ladies. 
 That is the first and highest duty of a true 
 gentleman. I'articidarly those ladies who 
 are mature. Don't contine your attentions 
 to giddy ami thoughtless girls. There are 
 nuiiiy ladies at every ball of estimable char- 
 acter, and sometimes even of considerable 
 wealth, who deserve your attentions far 
 nntre than thosc^ ])oor young creatures who 
 have nothing more to recommend them than 
 their childish good looks.' And I trust my 
 son has not failed to jirofit by my advice. 
 At balls he does not ofien seek out the young, 
 but rather the old. Indei'd, so marked is his 
 preference for married ladies that all the 
 younger ones notice it and resent it, sr) 
 that they have formed really (luite an aver- 
 sion to liini ; ami now, whether he will or 
 not, h(! has to dance exclusively with the 
 elder ones. Once, he danced with me, and 
 it was a i)roud nunnent for me, I assure you." 
 
 "I should think so," said Edith, with a 
 look at Jlowbray. "But still, is it not 
 strange that young ladies should refuse to 
 dance with one who is an otlicer and a gen- 
 tlennm?" 
 
 During the whole of this conversation the 
 eajttain had saiil nothing, l)nt had be<'u sit- 
 ting turning over the leaves of a book, and 
 furtively watching Edith's face and manner. 
 Wlien the conversation turned upon him. 
 however, his face Hushed, and Ins looked 
 angrily at Mrs. Mowbray. At last, as Edith 
 sjAoke, he startetl, and said : 
 
 " Se(! here, now! I don't think it's alto- 
 gether the correct thing to nuikt? rcnnu'ks 
 about a gentleman in his jireseuct;. I'm 
 aware that ladies are given to gossip, but 
 
Ill 
 
 IB 'i 
 
 r,8 
 
 THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 IW. 
 
 11, 1 
 
 «.■■. 
 
 tliny Rpnornlly do it holiind a ffllow'H bank. 
 I've (loim nothing; to (Ichctvii this JuHt now." 
 
 "Tlieri! wan iiotliiiijr oll't'iiaive in my re- 
 mark," Haid Eflitli, iiuictly. 
 
 " Oh," Huid Mi'H. Mowliray, " my son is very 
 f|iii(',k and very HeuHitivc, and very nict on 
 a jioint of lionor. lie is tlie mont piiiKstil- 
 i-oii8 man yon ever saw ;" and Mi'm. Mow- 
 l)ray held np Inii- hands, lost in annizement 
 at t!ie conception which was in her mind of 
 the pnnetilionHness of lier son. " IJnt, my 
 dear Miss Dalton," she contiiined, "he is 
 (|Mick to for^jive. He don't hear malicc!." 
 
 " Haven't I said," jfrowltMl Mowbray, "that 
 I don't like this? Talk of me bt^biiid my 
 back, if you choose. Yon can't imaj^ine that 
 it's particularly pleasant for a fellow to sit 
 here jind listen to all tiiat rot." 
 
 " Ibit, mv son," said Mrs. Mowbray, fond- 
 ly, "it'sali love." 
 
 "Oh, Itother your love!" nnittered this 
 affectionate son. 
 
 " Well, then, yon naiiKbty, sensitive boy," 
 said Mrs. Mowbray, "I will come here l)y 
 myself, and tell dear Miss Dalton all about 
 you behind your liack. I will tell her about 
 some of your adventures in London, and she 
 will SCO what a nanj^hty, wicked, rakish fel- 
 low you have been. He is sadly like mi,', 
 dear Miss Dalton — so sensitive, and so fond 
 of society." 
 
 Edith gave a polite smile, but said noth- 
 ing. 
 
 Then the conversation lagged for a little 
 while. At length Edith, full of the idea 
 that Wiggins bad sent them for some pur- 
 pose, and desiri>ns of finding out ■whether 
 her suspicions were correct or not, said, in a 
 (■areless tone, 
 
 " I suppose you know this Wiggins very 
 well r 
 
 "Mr.Wiggina?"said .Mrs. Mowbray, quick- 
 ly. "Oh yes; my son and he often meet, 
 though for my part I know little or nothing 
 about the man." 
 
 " Pooh I" cried Mowbr.ay, interrupting her. 
 "Miss Dalton, Mrs. Mowltray is so talkative 
 that she often says things that she docs not 
 mean, or, at least, things that are liable to 
 mislead others. I have met AViggins, it is 
 true, l)ut do not imagine that he is a friend 
 of mine. On the contrary, he has reason to 
 hate mo (juite as nnich as he bates yon. 
 Your idea of any connection between him 
 and me, which I jilainly .see you hint at, is 
 altogether wrong, and yon would not havt^ 
 even suspected tliis if you knew me better." 
 
 " You came liere so easily," said Edith, 
 "that I very naturally supposed that you 
 were on fri<>ndly terms." 
 
 " I come hero easily," said Mowbi'ay, " not 
 Ix'canse be is my friend, but becanst! he is»8o 
 afraid of me that he does not dare to kec]) 
 me back." 
 
 "Yon understand, then," said Edith, "tbat 
 he keeps others back. If you have such 
 
 jiower over him, how is it that yon can 
 calmly stand by and see him imprison u free- 
 born and a higii-boru English lady F" 
 
 "Oh," nnittered Mowbray, " I don't know 
 any thing about that. He is your guardian, 
 and yon an* his ward, and the law is u curi- 
 ous thing that I do imt understand." 
 
 "Yet Mrs. Mowbray says that you are 
 distinguished for your knowledge of legal 
 points," said Edith. 
 
 Mowbray madti no reply, and in a few mo- 
 ments Mrs. Mowbray rose to go. 
 
 " Positively," said she, " my dear Miss 
 Dalton, we nuist see more of one another ; 
 and since your mourning contines you here, 
 I nnist come often, and I know very well 
 that we shall all be great friends." 
 
 lUiCAL'SK I ni;AT niM. 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 A STROKE VOU LinKRTY. 
 
 Trn^- Mowbrays came occn.sionally, l)nt 
 no others ever managed to get through th(^ 
 gates. Edith conld not help feeling a .sort 
 of resentment against these ]>cople, who 
 thus were altle to do what no others could 
 do, and came to her so easily when(!ver they 
 wished. Still she did not think it worth 
 whih^ to refuse to see them. They b(^guiled 
 the monotony of her life, and she still had a 
 half hope that something might result from 
 their visits. Even if they W(;re in the pay 
 of Wiggins, as she believed, they yet might 
 fed inclined to assist her, from the hope of 
 larger pay, and she hoped that the occasion 
 flight arise in which she might be able to 
 hint at stich a thing. As yet they met her 
 on an eqiml footing, and in spite of her 
 
 I 
 
THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 68 
 
 A^J 
 
 lally, ^mt 
 liDugh the 
 )in<; ii sort 
 iiplo, who 
 kicrs could 
 cvor tlicy 
 it worth 
 • bcgwikMl 
 ill had a 
 bsitlt from 
 |ii tho pay 
 yet iniyht 
 |o hope of 
 occasion 
 Ijo able to 
 met her 
 of her 
 
 
 contempt for them, she <liil not (piite like 
 the idea of regularly oft'erinj; them a hrihe 
 to a.s.siHt her. Yet she tlM)ii<;lit that the 
 time niijrht come wlu-n slii; could do so, and 
 this thoufj(ht sustained Iier. 
 
 In her visits Mrs. M(»\vl)ray still prattled 
 and chattered in her usual manner ahout 
 her usinil themes. Dress, society, and the 
 incivility of ycuinjj men seeujcd to be her 
 favorite topics, Tbe cajitain usually camti 
 witli her, and seemed desirous to do tlie 
 a;ireeal>lo to Edith, but fitiier from a natural 
 lack of gallantry, or from tlie dis('()nra;;ing 
 treatment wliich he received from her, ht; 
 was somewhat unsuccessful. 
 
 About two months after his first call the 
 cai>taiu came alone. H(! was on jiorse- 
 back, and was accompanied liy a majinilicent 
 Newfoundland dog, which Edith had no- 
 ticed ()uc(! or twice belore. On seeing Edith 
 lie showed nn)re animation than was usual 
 with him, and evidently was endeavoring, 
 to the liest of his power, to nnike liimself 
 agreeable. 
 
 "I liav(! come, Miss Dalton," said he, aft- 
 er till! usual greetings, "to see if you would 
 do mc the honor of going out ritliiig with 
 me." 
 
 '•Riding?" said Edith; "yon are very 
 kind, I am sure; but \\ill yon ]iardon me if 
 I lirst ask you where you projiose t(j take 
 me ?" 
 
 "Oh, about the park," said Mowbray, 
 somewhat meekly. 
 
 "Tlie jtark?" said Edith, in a tone of dis- 
 a]>pointun'nt. " Is that all ? Why, (.'aittain 
 .Nlowbray, tliis park is only my jail yard, 
 and to go about it can not be very pleasant 
 to .1 prisoner, either on horseback or on 
 foot. Ibit surely I do not understand you. 
 I must be too hasty. Of course yon mean to 
 do as every gentleman would do, and let 
 the lady stdect the place where she wishes 
 to go ?" 
 
 "I assure yon, ^lisa Dalton," said Mow- 
 bray, " I should be most liajipy to do so if I 
 w(!re .able ; but you are not allowed to go out 
 of the park, yon know." 
 
 "Who iirohibits nie, pray?" 
 
 "Wiggins." 
 
 " Wiggins ! And why should you care for 
 !iny of his regulations ? Do you not know 
 who lit! is, and what ho is, and in what posi- 
 ti(Hi he stands toward me ?" 
 
 " Oh, well," saiilMowl)r;iy. in a hesitating 
 voice, " he is your guardian, you know." 
 
 " Hut I am of age," said Edith. " Guard- 
 ians can not imprison their wards as lu! 
 imprisons me. I am of age. I own this 
 l>lace. It is mine. He may have somt! right 
 to attend to its business for the present, but 
 be has no right over me. The law protects 
 me. You know that as well as I do." 
 
 " Y(!8, true ; but — ah — you know — ah — 
 you are really so very pecnUarly situated, 
 Miss Dalton, that I should not like to do any 
 
 thing which might compromise your — ah — 
 position." 
 
 " Surely, Captain Mowbray, yon nnistnow 
 b(! speaking without thinking. In what 
 way, pray, can it compromise my position 
 to ride witli you through the village streets, 
 rather than over the roads of the jiarkf" 
 
 " Wi^U — ah — you are iu mourning, yoti 
 know." 
 
 " Ueally I do not see what that has to do 
 witli it. If I have tlit! sorrow of Itereave- 
 meiit, that is no reason why I sjiouid have 
 tbe additional sorrow of im]nisoiinie!it." 
 
 " Oh, you know, Wiggins would make a 
 fuss about it, and put you to no end of 
 trouble." 
 
 Mowbray's unwillingness to help her, and 
 hesitation, had onc(! befort! roused Edith's 
 indignation ; but now she believed him to 
 b(! in Wiggins's emi)]oy, and therefore felt 
 calm, and talke<l witli him chielly for tlu! 
 sake of seeing ^^hat she could get out of 
 him, either in the way of explanation or 
 concession. 
 
 " When you s])eak of trouble," .said she, 
 "I think it is I who will give troubh! to 
 him rather than undergo it from him." 
 
 "Oh, well — either way." said Mowbray, 
 " there would be trouble, and that is whatl 
 wish to .avoid." 
 
 "(ienllemen are not usually so timid 
 about encountering trou))le on behalf of a 
 lady," said Edith, coldly. 
 
 "Oh, well, \t)n know, if it were ordiuitry 
 trouble I wouldn't mind it, but this is legal 
 trouble. Why, before I knew where I was 
 I might be imprisoned, and how would I 
 like that?" 
 
 "Not very well, as I can testifv," said 
 Edith. 
 
 " Helieve me. Miss Dalton," said Mowbray, 
 with a desperate effort to appear earnest and 
 devoted, " there is nothiiig that I would not 
 do for you, and I feel exceedingly jiained 
 that you are not (tontent with your jiie.scnt 
 ])ositioi ; but you see I do not want to put 
 myself >: the clutches of the law if I can 
 help it. Wiggins is an en(!my of mine, as I 
 told you, and only tolerates me here beciinso 
 he dare not prevent me — lU'ither he nor his 
 nnin ; but — ah — you know — that is — I mean 
 — he — ah — he watches me very closely, you 
 know, and if I were to do any thing that 
 he could lay hold of, he would b(! very glad 
 to tlo so, and put me to trouble and expeusu 
 — no end." 
 
 Here Edith understood once more a pro- 
 fession of enmity against Wiggins, but 
 whether it was real or not she could not t(!ll. 
 .Sli(! b(>lieved, rather, that it was ])retended. 
 
 " Oh, I beg of you to make no more ex- 
 cuses," said she. " Y'our explanations are 
 quite satisfactory." 
 
 " I have had trouble enough from law- 
 yers," continued Mowbray, " and don't want 
 to have any more." 
 
60' 
 
 THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 
 " That is quite prudent in v(ni, and care- 
 ful." 
 
 " The fiFHt thi?ig th > a man of the worhl 
 learnH, MInh Daltoii," said tlie ciiptain, in a 
 confidential tone, " is to tal<e care of hiin- 
 Holf. That in a leHson that I liave learned 
 hy hitter experience, and I liave rcKolved, 
 ainon^ otlua- thin<j;s, and ahove, all, nev<-r, 
 under any eireunistaneeH, to i>ut myself 
 within the grasp of the lawyers; and if you 
 only kiu'w what hother I've had, you 
 wouldn't lil!iin(^ ni<!." 
 
 " I fear that I must have f;iven you great 
 l)ain, then," said Kdith, " Ity ev<'n hinting 
 at such a tiling as talking my ]iart and help- 
 ing niP. You feel so strongly ahout your 
 personal safety tluit you must have l)eeu 
 deeply agitated at such a proposal from me." 
 
 " Oh, well," said the captain, not choosing 
 to notice the* sarcasm of Kdith's tone, "one 
 grows wiser from ex[)erienco, you know, and 
 mine has heen a bitter one. I would gladly 
 open your gates for you, I assure yon, if I 
 could do it without danger, and if Wiggins 
 had no authority ; hut as it is. I really do not 
 see how I can i)ossil)ly interferi'." 
 
 " Well, for that miitt.'r," said Edith, " if 
 it were not for Wiggins, I suppose I could 
 open the gates for myself, and so I could 
 save you even that trouble." 
 
 Mowhray made no reply to this, hut mere- 
 ly stroked his nnistache. 
 
 "After all," said he at last, " I don't see 
 why you should he so <liscout(Mited here. 
 There are many who would he glad to live 
 as you do, in so magnilieent a house, with 
 such nohle grounds. You have every thing 
 that yini want. W'hy you should ht! so dis- 
 contented I can not imagine. If you did get 
 out, and live in the village, you would not 
 like it. It's not a pleasant place. For my 
 l)art I would much rather liv(! where you do 
 than where I do. If you would confine your 
 attention to this jdace, and give up all ideas 
 of getting away, you might he- as happy as 
 the day is long." 
 
 Saying this, the captain looked at Edith 
 to see the. effect of his words. Edith was 
 looking at him with a very strange expres- 
 sion, something like what may apjiear in the 
 face of the naturalist at discovering an ani- 
 mal of some new species — an expression of 
 interest and 8ur|)rise and eiiriosity. 
 
 " So those are your sentinieiits f" she said ; 
 and that was all. 
 
 " Y(!s," said the captain. 
 
 " Well," said Edith, "it may ho my mis- 
 fortune, but I think differently." 
 
 " At any rate," said the cai)taiu, in a more 
 animated tone, " since we can not agree in 
 this discussion, why not drop it? Will you 
 not ride with nic about the i)ark ? I'm sure 
 I like the park very well. I have not be- 
 come so tired of it as you have. I have a 
 very nice lady's horte, which is (luite at your 
 disjiosal." 
 
 At this request Edith was silent for a few 
 m(Miients. Tins man himself grew more ab- 
 horrent to her, if jtossible, every moment; 
 I but her desire to find out what his ]iiirposes 
 were, and her iKqie of making use of him 
 j still, in sjiite of jircsent ajipearances, made 
 her think that it might be best to acce[»t his 
 i offer. 
 
 I " Oh, well," said she, " I have no objec- 
 j tion, since you choose to subject me to such 
 ' limitations, and I suppose I must add that I 
 thank you." 
 
 "Don't speak of thanks. Miss Dalton," said 
 Mowbray. " Let me say rather that I thank 
 you from the liottoiu of my heart.'' 
 
 Two days after thisMowbrav again called 
 on Edith. This time, iu addition to his own 
 horse, he brought another with a lady's sad- 
 dle, and was followed by the Newfound- 
 land (big. Edith w.'is »0(ui dressed for the 
 ride;, and Joined Mowbray in the drawing- 
 room. As they went out the dog was sitting 
 on the portico, and leaped forward joyfully 
 iit the sight of his master, but suddenly re- 
 treated in fear. 
 
 " It's all very well, Miss Dalton," said 
 Mowbray, " for them to talk about cruelty 
 to animals, but the only way you can makt! 
 them fond of yon is hy fear. See how that 
 dog loves mo. And why ? Because I beat 
 him." 
 
 There was somevhiug in these words, and 
 in the tone in whicfi they were spoken, that 
 afforded Edith a new view of Mowbray's 
 character. There were a ferocity and a cru- 
 elty there which were quite in keeping with 
 the iialtriness ami meauucBS whi(di ]w had 
 already (evinced. But Edith kept silence. 
 In a few moments they were mounted, and 
 rode away side; by side. 
 
 As they turned the corner of the Hall 
 Edith saw a face among the trees — white, 
 solemn, watchful, stern — and the sight gave 
 her a strange sliock, for it was th<* face of 
 Wigg';is. It seemed to her at that moment 
 that this man must hato Mowbray, for the 
 glance which he gave was hy no means that 
 of a friend or confederate. Mowbray might, 
 thert>fore, have sjtoken the truth when he 
 said that Wiggins hated him, and if so, lie 
 might now be dreading the presencti of this 
 unwelc(uuo guest. This tlmiight was not 
 unpleasant, for though Mowbray could not 
 he a friend, she thought it uot a bad substi- 
 tute that he was at least an enemy of Wig- 
 gins. 
 
 The consequence was that .she really en- 
 joyed the ride ; and Mowhray, seeing her in 
 good spirits, thought that it arose from more 
 favorable inclinations toward himself, and 
 exerted himself to please. They rode at a 
 rapid p.aco through the long avenues, under 
 magnificent overarching trees, and over 
 fiehls and meadows. Mowhray was a fine 
 horseman, and Edith had been accustomed 
 to riding from childhood, and liked nothing 
 
THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 61 
 
 t for a tew 
 ,• more iil)- 
 iiioiiifnt ; 
 s imri)t)S0H 
 me (if liiiii 
 
 ICJ'H, IlliKlt! 
 
 iicct'itt liis 
 
 I no oltjec- 
 
 ino to HIIC}| 
 
 add that I 
 
 ilton,"Haid 
 
 lat I thank 
 
 'J 
 
 ;fain calh'd 
 to his own 
 hidy's Had- 
 Newfonnd- 
 <i'd for the 
 (1 drawiii}?- 
 was sittiiij; 
 ird joyfully 
 luldenly rc- 
 
 dton," said 
 out enndty 
 
 II can niakt: 
 '0 how that 
 au.se I beat 
 
 words, and 
 ipokcn, that 
 Mowliray's 
 md a cru- 
 i'l)iii<; witli 
 i('h h<( had 
 pt silcnco. 
 unti'd, and 
 
 If tho Hall 
 'C'S — white, 
 sif^ht }j;ave 
 he face of 
 at moment 
 ay, for the 
 means thiit 
 •ray might, 
 li when he 
 id if so, he 
 nee of this 
 [t was not 
 could not 
 bad substi- 
 |iy of Wig- 
 
 really en- 
 ['infi; her in 
 Ifronunore 
 Inself, and 
 rode at a 
 |ues, under 
 
 and over 
 Ivas a fine 
 
 fcenstomed 
 
 Id nothing 
 
 better than to rush along nt headlong speed. 
 ,Siu! felt exhilaration and enthusiasm such 
 as she luid not known for a long time. As 
 she looked at Mowbray's s]dendid figure she 
 could not hel|i regretting that a man with 
 such rare ]>hysieal advantages should have, 
 after all, but a craven spirit. Was it, then, 
 she thouglit, altogether fear that jirevent- 
 ed him from assisting her to escajie ? The 
 idea sc^enu'd absurd. Thcrt* nnist be some 
 reason of a ditferent kind. She felt certain 
 that h(^ was an unprinci]i]ed villain, an*l that 
 lu'' had some designs of his own upon her. 
 AVhat they were slie could not imagine. If 
 he wished to gain her hand, he had certain- 
 ly taken a singular way to make himself 
 agreeable. H(! v.'as cruel, cynical, mean, and 
 sordid, and took no pains to uonceal this. 
 He ha<l advised htT to sul>mit to imiirismi- 
 mcnt, and had refused to help her in any 
 way. What his designs could i)ossibly be 
 she could not conjecture. 
 
 During the ride but little was said. Mow- 
 bray was not talkative at any time, and on 
 the jiresent occasion ho conllned himself to 
 remarks which In; intended to be amiable 
 and agreeable. To these Edith nuide civil 
 replies. At last they rode back to the Hall, 
 and Mowbray prejiared to dismount. 
 
 " Are you going?" said Edith. "For my 
 part 1 should rather not disnniunt just yet. It 
 is too dull in the hou.se. I would rather ride 
 a lilth^ distance with you, and walk back." 
 
 At this Mowliray looked at her in silence, 
 and with a perplexed expression on his coun- 
 tenan(H'. 
 
 Edith calmly waited for him to start. 
 
 " Miss DaltcHi," said he at length, " I real- 
 ly do not know — " And then he jiaused. 
 
 " I beg your jiardon," said Edith. 
 
 " You see," said Mowbray, " I don't know 
 about your riding any more." 
 
 " Why, surely," said Edith, " yon are not 
 going to refuse your horso for a few minutes 
 longer?" 
 
 Mowbray looked gloomily at ht>r, and then 
 started otf. Edith rode by his side, and they 
 both kept silence until they reached the park 
 gate. 
 
 The porter came out, bnt on seeing Edith 
 he stopped. 
 
 "It's all right," said Edith. "You see 
 I am with Captain Mowbray." 
 
 ftb)wbray looked deeply per|)lexed. and as 
 ho said nothing, the porter began to open 
 the gate. 
 
 "Stop," said Mowbray. 
 
 "What!" cried Edith. "Captain Mow- 
 bray, what do yon mean ?" 
 
 "You nuist iu)t go out," said Mowbray. 
 "I thought you were only going as far .as 
 the gate, and would walk back. You must 
 not try to follow nie." 
 
 "Must not!" cried Edith, whom the hope 
 of escape had roused to intense excitement. 
 " Do you say that to me ?" 
 
 "Yes," said Mowbray. 
 
 "What right have you T" said Edith, 
 haughtily. And then turning to the ]iorter, 
 sjie said, imperatively, "Open that gate at 
 once." 
 
 Hut the <didurate jiorter did not obey her 
 now any more than before. 
 
 "Cajitain Mowbray," said she, "order 
 that man toojien the gate." 
 
 "I will not," said Mowbray, rinhly. 
 
 "Tlieu 1 shall ride by your side till you 
 go out." 
 
 " You shall not." 
 
 " Is that the way that a gentleman speaks 
 to a lady ?" 
 
 " Y'Ui won't get nui into trouble, anyway." 
 
 "1 don't intend to," said Kditli, scorn- 
 fuUy. "It is my own act. You will not 
 take mo out, bnt 1 go out of my own ac- 
 cord." 
 
 The i)orter meanwhile stood bewildered, 
 with the gate only jiartly open, holding it 
 in this way, and waiting for the end of tliis 
 singular scene. 
 
 "Miss Dalton," cried Jlowbray, fiercely, 
 "you will luako me resort to extreme mcas- 
 nres." 
 
 " You dare not!" cried Edith, who by this 
 time was fearfully excitt'd. She had a horse 
 beneath her now. That horse seemed jiart 
 of herself. In that hoi'se's strength and speed 
 she lost her own weakness, and so she was 
 now resolved to stake every thing ou one 
 etl'ort for liberty. 
 
 "Don't force me to it," said Mowbray, 
 "or you will make me do something that I 
 shall be soiry for." 
 
 " You dare not !" cried Edith again. "Do 
 you dare to threaten me — me, thi! mistress 
 ofDalt«m Hall?" 
 
 "Catch hold of her reins, captain," cried 
 th(^ pcn-ter, "and make her go back." 
 
 " Hold yoin- bhiody tongue!" roared Mow- 
 bray. — "Miss Dalton, you mtist go 1)aek." 
 
 " Never!" said Edith. " I will go out when 
 you do." 
 
 " Then I will not go out at all. I will go 
 back to the Hall." 
 
 "Y(ui shall not enter it," said Edith, as 
 firmly as though she jiossesscd the keys of 
 Dalton Hall. 
 
 " Miss Dalton, you forc'ii me to use vio- 
 lence." 
 
 " Yon dare not use violence," said Edith, 
 with a look that overawed the craven Boul 
 of Mowbray. For Edith now was resolved 
 to do any thing, howevj'rdesjierate, and even 
 the threat of violence, though sin; felt that 
 he was cajiable of it, did not deter her. The 
 two faced one anotlier in silence for a few 
 moments, the one strong, nniseular, mascu- 
 line, the other slight, fragile, delicate; yet 
 ! in that girlish form there was an intrepid 
 spirit which Mowbray recognized, tlefiant, 
 haughty, tameless, the spirit of all her fa- 
 1 thers, strengthened and intensified by a ve- 
 
THE LIVING LINK 
 
 I 
 
 1:1 
 'f 1 
 
 I \ 
 
 " IN inCK IKICNZY KDITH STUUCK THAT HAND AGAIN ANl> AdAlN." 
 
 
 I 
 
 liomont (It'sirc. foi- that liberty that lay oiit- 
 Hidc tlu'. fi'atcs. 
 
 "Well," Hiiid the porter, "I'd better be 
 a-.slinttiii' tlie jj;ates till yon two Hettlc yer 
 biisiiicHS. Siie'll (lash through if 1 don't. 1 
 see it in her eye." 
 
 "No, who won't," said Mowl)ray. "Don't 
 Hhnt the jjates ; wait a uioiiieut." Then 
 turnin<t to Kdith, ht^ said, 
 
 "Miss Dalton, Cor (he last time, I say go 
 baek, or you'll \h\ sorry.'' 
 
 Editli loolvcd steadfastly and sternly at the 
 ea|itain, but said not one word, 'i'he cap- 
 tain looked away. 
 
 " Porter," said he. 
 
 " Sir " 
 
 " Hold her horse." 
 
 " But she'll rush through the gates. Shall 
 I fasten them ?" 
 
 "No; I'll hold the reins till yon get them. 
 And, porter, I leave; this horse with Miss Dal- 
 ton, sinee sh<> won't dismount. You see that 
 he's well taken eare of." 
 
 " Yes, Sir." 
 
 Tho cai)tain, while speaking, had reached 
 
 ont his arm to take Edith's reins, but .slie 
 turned her horse's head, and he missed them. 
 Tin; porlei- saw tiiis nu>ven\ent, and sprang 
 forward. Edith imlled the reins. Herhor.sc 
 reared. Wild with excitement, and seeing 
 the gates open before her, and the road be- 
 yontl, Edith stru(-'k at the- jiorter with her 
 whip over his face, and then drove her 
 horse at the open gates. Tlie horse si)rang 
 through like tlii^ wind. The jjorter shrieked 
 after her. She was on the road. She was 
 free ! 
 
 No — not free! 
 
 Not free, for after her there came the thun- 
 dering tramp of another horse. It was Mow- 
 bray in ])nrsnit. 
 
 His horse was far better than hers. He 
 gained on her stej) by ste]). Nearer and 
 nearer he came. He was lieliind her; h<^ 
 was al)reiist of lier be'fore she had ridden a 
 (jiiarter of a mili;. The tower of the village 
 church was already in sight, wlu!n suddenly 
 a strong hand was laid on lier nuns. 
 
 In her frenzy Edith struck thiit hand 
 again and again with the heavy butt of her 
 
Tin: LIVING LINK. 
 
 nil 
 
 .,.;;, ijiii!''*! Ill' ' 
 
 
 iiiH, but sli<> 
 lissftl tlit'iii. 
 iiiid sjiriin;; 
 Her lioisc 
 
 1111(1 HCfiUfJ 
 
 flic, road bi'- 
 ■r with licr 
 drove liiT 
 |orse sj)raiiK 
 :er Hlirii'kctl 
 She was 
 
 lio the thnn- 
 |t was Mow- 
 
 hers. Hi* 
 Nearer aiid 
 lid licr; he 
 kd ridden a 
 jthe village 
 111 suddenly 
 Ins. 
 
 [that hand 
 llmtt of her 
 
 ridin^-whiii, but it did not loosen itH grasit. 
 Ilcr horse stopped. 
 
 "Cuiso yon!"' roared Mowbray to Kdith, 
 while his lace was livid with passion and 
 pain, "I'll kill yon I" and sei/.iiin her whip 
 hand, ho wrenelii'd the whip out of it. 
 
 Kilith was silent. 
 
 .Mowliray said no more. He turned her 
 horse and led it baek. Kdith looked around 
 wildly. .*>uddeiily, as they eanie near the 
 Uates, the intoleialde th()ii};lit of her renewed 
 iin)M'isoiiiiieiit maddened her, aiitl the lilieity 
 which she had so nearly gained roused her 
 to one more ell'iut ; and so, with a start, she 
 diseiij^aned herself and leaped to the around. 
 Mowliray saw it, and, with a terrihle oath, in 
 an instant lea|ied down ami j;ave ehase. The 
 horses ran forw.ard and entered the nates. 
 
 Kdith held u]> her loii^ skirts and ran to- 
 ward the villa;;e. Ihit anain Mowbray was 
 too (iiiieh tor her. He overtook Inr. and 
 Mei/.iiiM^her by the wrist, dr.iji^ed her hack. 
 
 Kdith shrieked for help at the lop of her 
 voice. Mowliray lookeil liereely iironnd. and 
 secinir no one, he look his haiidkercliief and 
 lionnd it ti;;litly around her mouth. Tlieii, 
 overcome liy des]iair, Kditli's strcni^tli j;av(f 
 way. She sank down. Shi* made no more 
 resislaiice. 8lie fainted. 
 
 Mowbray raised her in his ar'ms, and car- 
 ried her into the porter's lodyc;. The gates 
 were then locked. 
 
 CH.M'TKK XVHL 
 
 A .sritAXCiK CONI'KSSION. 
 
 Kdith canui to herself in the porter's 
 ]o(lj;e. Her re-awakened eyes, in lookin;^ up 
 confusedly, saw the hateful face of Mowbray 
 lieiidinj:; over her. At once she reali/i'd f he 
 horror of her posit ion, and all the incidents 
 fif her lato adveutnn! caino vividly before 
 her mind. Stiirtiufj up as (piickly as her 
 fcehle limbs would allow, she indignantly 
 motioned him away. 
 
 Mowbray, without a word, stepped back 
 and looked down. 
 
 Kdith staggen-d to her foct. 
 
 "Miss Dalton," said Mowliray, in a low- 
 voice, " your carriage has been sent for. It 
 is hero, and will take you to the Mall." 
 
 Kdith made no reply, but looked absently 
 toward the door. 
 
 '"Miss Dalton," said Mowbray, coining a 
 little nearer, "1 im|iloro you to hear me. 1 
 would kneel at your fcn-t if yon would let 
 me. Ibit you are so imbittered against me 
 now that it would he useless. Miss Dalton, 
 it was not hate that made me raise my hand 
 against you. Miss Dalton, I swear that you 
 are more dear to nw than life itself. A few 
 momi^its ago I was mad, ami did not know 
 what 1 was doing. I did not want you to 
 go away from this place, for I saw that you 
 
 would be Inst to me forovor. I saw that you 
 haled me, and that if you went away just 
 then I should lose you. And I was almost 
 out of my senses. Iliad no time *o think of 
 any thing but the bitter loss that was be- 
 fore me, and as you lied I sei/i-d you not in 
 :inger, but in exiilemeiit and tear, jus; as I 
 would have seized you if you had been 
 drowning.'' 
 
 "Captain Mowbray," said Kdith, sternly, 
 " the violence ym have olfcied me is enoni;h 
 to satisfy even you, without such insult as 
 this." 
 
 " Will yon not even listen to me V 
 
 " liisteii !" exclaimed Kdith, in an inde- 
 scriliable tone. 
 
 "Then I must be heard. I lovo von, 
 1— " 
 
 "liovi'!"' interrupted I'.dilh, in a tone of 
 unutterable contempt. 
 
 " Yes, love," repeated Mow lifay. Vehe- 
 mently, "from the tiist time that 1 saw you, 
 when yon iin|ilored my help." 
 
 "And why did you not give me ymir 
 help?" asked l'',ditli, looking at him in (aild 
 and hani;lity indigiiaiion. 
 
 "I will tell you," said Mowbray. "He- 
 fore I saw you I knew luiw yon were' situ- 
 ated. Wiggins Wdiild have kept me away, 
 but dared not. I know that about him 
 which makes me his master. Wln^ii I saw 
 you, I loved you with all my soul. Wiieii 
 yon appealed to me, I would have responded 
 at once, but could not. The fact is, Mrs. 
 Mowbray was present. Mrs. Mowbr.iy is 
 not what she ajipears to be. Hefore her I 
 had to pretend an indilfereiice that I did not 
 fi'cl. In short, 1 had to make myself appear 
 a base coward. In fa<'t, 1 had to be on my 
 guard, so as not to excite her siisiiieions of 
 my feelings. Afterward, when I might have 
 redeemed my character in your eyes, I did 
 not know how to begin. Then, too, I was 
 afi'iiid (o help you to eseai)(% for I saw that 
 you hated me, jind my only lio]ie \tos to keeji 
 you here till you might know me better." 
 
 "t'aiitaiii Mowbray," said Kdith, " if you 
 are a captain, which I doiilit, such explana- 
 tions as these arc paltry. After what y<in 
 have done, the only thing lett is silcm'c." 
 
 "Oh, Miss Dalton, will nothing lead you 
 to listen to me? I would lay down my life 
 to serve you." 
 
 " You still wish to serve me, then ?" asked 
 Kdith. 
 
 ".Most fervently,'' cried Mowbray. 
 
 "Then (111(11 that gate," said Kdith. 
 
 ^Mowbray liesitate(l. 
 
 "Open that gate," said Kdith, "and jirove 
 your sincerity. Open it, and etfac(^ these 
 marks," sIk! cried, as she indignantly held 
 up her right hand, and show(!d her wrist, all 
 black from the tierce grasp in which Mow- 
 bray had seized it. " Open it, and I promise 
 you I will listen patiently to all that you 
 may have to say." 
 
C4 
 
 THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 it 
 
 1 > 
 
 f' • 
 
 " Miss Dalt.on," said Mowbray, " if I opon- 
 ed that gat») I should never see you again." 
 
 " You will never see me again if you do 
 not." 
 
 " At least I shall be near you." 
 
 " Near nie 1 Yes, and hated and despised. 
 I will eall on Wiggins hinuself to help me. 
 He was right ; he said the time would eome 
 when I would be willing to trust him." 
 
 "Trust him? What, that man f You 
 don't know what he is." 
 
 " And what are you. Captain Mowbray f" 
 
 " I ! I am a gentleman." 
 
 "Oh no," said Edith, (piietly, "not that— 
 any thing rather than that." 
 
 At this MowI»ray\i faee Hushed erimson, 
 but with a violent eft'ort he repressed his 
 passion. 
 
 " Miss Dalton," .said he, " it is a thing 
 that you might understand. The fear of 
 losing you made me desperate. I saw in 
 your flight the loss of all my hopes." 
 
 " And where are those hoiies now ?" 
 
 "Weil, at any rate, I have not altogether 
 lost you. Let me hope that I may have an 
 opportunity to explain her'.;;.'ter, and to re- 
 trieve my charaet(a\ M;ss Dalton, a woman 
 will sometimes forgive oti'enses even against 
 herself, when she knows that they are 
 prompted by love." 
 
 "\ou seem to me," said Edith, "to seek 
 the aifeetions of women as you do those of 
 dogs — by beating them soundly." The 
 .sight of Mow)»ray's dog, who was in the 
 room, reminded Edith of the master's maxim 
 which he had uttered before this memorable 
 rid(!. 
 
 " Miss Dalton, you do me sueh wrong that 
 you crush mo. Can you not have some 
 mercy ?" 
 
 "Open the gate," said Edith. "Do that 
 one thing, and then you may make all the 
 explanations that you wish. I will listen 
 to any thing and every thing. Open the 
 gate, and I will promise to forgive, and oven 
 to forget, the unparalleled outrage that I 
 have suffered." 
 
 " But you will leave me forever." 
 
 " Open that gate, Captain Mowbray. 
 Prove .yourself to be what you say — (lo 
 Hometl'.ing to atone for your base conduct— 
 and then you will have claims on my grati- 
 tude which I shall always acknowledge." 
 
 Mowbray shook his head. 
 
 " Can I let you go V he said. " Do you 
 ask it of me f ' 
 
 "No," said Edith, impatiently, "I don't 
 ask it. I neither hope nor ask for any thing 
 from you. Wiggins himself is more prom- 
 ising. At any rate, he has not as yet used 
 absolute violence, and, what is better, he 
 does not intrude his society where it is not 
 wanted." 
 
 "Then I have no hope," said JTowbray, in 
 what was intended to be a i)laintive tone. 
 
 " I'm sure I don't know," said Edith ; " but 
 
 I know this — that the time will surely come, 
 after all, when I shall get mv freedom, and 
 then. Captain Mowbray, you wiii rue the 
 day when you dared to lay hands on me. 
 Yes, I could get my freedom now, I suppose, 
 if I were to parley with Wiggins, to biibo 
 him heavily enough; and I assuri; you 1 am 
 j tempted now to give up the half of my es- 
 tate, so as to get free and have you punished." 
 
 Mowbray turned pale. 
 
 " There were no witnesses," said he, hast- 
 ily. 
 
 "You forget that the porter saw it all. 
 But this is useless," she added ; and jjassing 
 by Mowbray, she went to the door. Outside 
 was a carnage, which the porter had brought 
 down from the Hall, into which she got, and 
 then drove away, while Mowbray stood 
 looking at her till she drove out of sight. 
 
 The eft'ects of this adventure were felt for 
 some time. Excitement, fatigue, pain, and 
 grief, all aflfeetcd Edith, so that she could 
 not leave her room for weeks. Mrs. Dnnl)ar 
 was assiduous in her attentions, and Edith 
 j supposed that both she and Wiggins knew 
 all about it, as the porter would undoubtedly 
 'have informed them; but her communica- 
 tions with her were limited only to a t'cw 
 j words, and she regarded her with nothing 
 but distrust. In Mrs. Dunbar's manner, also, 
 she saw something which indicated a fresh 
 I trouble, something which had been manifest- 
 1 ed by her ever since Mowbray's tir.-st ajiijear- 
 ' ance, and which Edith now suspected to bo 
 the result of Mowbray's violence. This led 
 I to vain speculations on her part as to the 
 ' mysterious connection that existed between 
 her jailers. Mowbray i)rofesscd to be tlio 
 enemy and the master of Wiggins. Her re- 
 membrance of Wiggii!s's look of hate nuide 
 her think that this was true. But Mrs. Dim- 
 bar she did not belitjve to be an enemy of 
 Mowbray's; and the porter, who was the 
 incorruptible servant of Wiggins, seemed 
 equally devoted to Mowbray. 
 
 iSlie recalled also Mowbray's words to her- 
 self in <!X|ilanation of his own course. Ho 
 had asserted that he had the power over 
 Wiggins from sonu, knowledge Avhich ho 
 jmssessed, and also that Mrs. Mowbray Avas 
 not what sht; appeared to be. He had si)oken 
 as though he was afraid of Mrs. Mowbray's 
 finding out what he called his love for Etlith. 
 Was sIh! his mother, then, at all f What <lid 
 it all mean ? For Edith, at any rate, it was 
 j not po.ssible to tinderstand it, and the char- 
 acter, motives, and mutual rtslationship of 
 all those with whom she had come in con- 
 tact remained an impenetrable mystery. 
 
 To the surprise of Edith, the Mowbrays 
 called s(!veral times to make ini|uiries about 
 her, and after her recovery they still visited 
 her. At first she refused to see them, but 
 one day Mrs. Mowbray came* alone, and Edith 
 determined to see lier, and get rid of her ef- 
 fectually. 
 
THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 65 
 
 lier- 
 Ho 
 
 over 
 I Im 
 •\viis 
 
 lokt'U 
 rav's 
 
 Mitli. 
 
 tdid 
 
 was 
 
 liar- 
 
 l> of 
 coii- 
 
 Mrs. Mowbray rose as she ciitfietl, and 
 advaueiug to j^n :it licr, held out her hand 
 with a cordial smile. Edith did not take it, 
 yet Mrs. Mowbray ♦;ook no otVentsc, but, on 
 tlie contrary, net her iu the most eft'usive 
 manner. 
 
 ••Oh, my dear Miss Dalton," said she, 
 " wliat an aj^e it lias been since we mi^t ! 
 It seems like years! And when I wanted to 
 see you BO par-tic-n-lar-ly I And are yon 
 (luite well ? Have you quite recovered f Are 
 you sure? How Rlad I am !" 
 
 "Mrs. Mowbray," said Edith, as soon as 
 she could make herself heard, " I have sent 
 word to you several times that I do not wisli 
 to see you a<;ain. You know the reason 
 why as well as I do. I can only say that I 
 am surprised at this jiersisteuce, and shall 
 in future be under the necessity of shutting 
 my doors against you." 
 
 Thus Edith, in spite of her severe afflic- 
 tions, could still speak of the place as hers, 
 and under her orders. 
 
 "Oh, my dear Miss Dalton," burst fortli 
 Mrs. Mowbray, " tint is the very reason wliy 
 I have so in-sist-ed on seeing you. To ex- 
 l)lc'in, you know — for there is nothing like 
 an e:cpl.iuation." 
 
 " You may spare yourself the trouble," 
 said Edith. " I do not want any more ex- 
 planations." 
 
 "Oh, but you jtositively nmst, you know," 
 said Mrs. Mowbray, in her most airy man- 
 ner. 
 
 "Pardon me. I wish to hear nothing'; 
 whatever about it." 
 
 " It's that sad, sad boy," said Mrs. Mow- 
 bray, coolly ignoring Edith's words, "and 
 deeiily has he rei)ented. IJiit do you know, 
 <leiir, it was only his fondness for you. I'os- 
 i-tive-ly nothing else, dear, )iut his fondness 
 for you. Oh, how he has talked about it! 
 He says ho is willing to give up his right 
 eye, or hand — I really forget which — to re- 
 call the ])ast. My poor dear boy is very im- 
 petuous." 
 
 " Mrs. Mowbray, I do not wish to bo un- 
 kind or rude, but you really foice nie to it." 
 
 "He's impetuous," said Mrs. Mowbray, 
 without noticing Edith, "but lie's warm- 
 hearted. He's a most atfectionato son, and 
 lii^ is so aftectionate toward you. It's all 
 his foiidness for you."' 
 
 "Mrs. Alowbray, this is intolerable." 
 
 "Oh, Aliss DaltoTi, you don't know — you 
 really don't know. He has loved you ever 
 since ho first saw you — and so true ! Why, 
 li<^ dotes on you. He was afraiil that he 
 would lose you. You know, that was the 
 reason why lie iiit<'rfered. But he says now 
 most distinctly that he thinks his interfi'r- 
 enco was (iiiite nn-war-rant-a-ble — quite, I 
 assure you, my dear Miss Dalton." 
 
 Editii sat looking at this insolent woman 
 with a clouded brow, not knowing whether 
 to order her out of the house or not. Hut 
 
 Mrs, Mowbray seemed beautifully uncon- 
 scious of any offense. 
 
 "The only thing that he has been talking 
 about ever since it hajipened," she continued, 
 " is his sorrow. Oh, his sorrow! And it is 
 deep. Miss Dalton. I never saw such deep 
 sorrow. He really swears about it in a 
 shocking manner ; and that with him is a 
 sign that his feelings are concerned very 
 strongly. He; always swears whenever he 
 is deeply moved." 
 
 Edith at this started to her feet with a 
 look ill her eyes which showed Mrs. Mow- 
 bray that she would not be trided with any 
 longer. 
 
 " Mrs. Mowbray," said she, " I came down 
 for the sole purpose of telling you th.at in 
 future I shall dispense with tlie pleasure of 
 your calls." 
 
 Jlrs. Mowbray rose from her chair. 
 
 "What!" she exclaimed, with a gesture 
 of consternation ; "and live iu complete so- 
 dusioii ? Not riHieive calls? No, no; you 
 really must not think of such a thing. W<' 
 ar(! your friends, you know, and you must 
 not deny us an occasional sight of you. My 
 poor boy will jiositively die if ho doesn't see 
 V(m. He's pining now. And it's all for you. 
 All." 
 
 "Mrs. Mowbray," said Edith, iu a severe 
 tone, "I do not know whether you give of- 
 fiMise intentionally or not. You seem unable 
 to take a hint, however strongly expressed, 
 and you force me to speak plainly, although 
 I dislike to do so. You must not, and you 
 shall not, come here any more." 
 
 " Oh, my (h'ar Miss Dalton, you rciilly arc 
 ipiitc! excited," said Sirs. Mowbray, with i! 
 lileasant smile. 
 
 "I mean what I say," said Edith, coldly. 
 " You are not to coiiit! here again." 
 
 Mrs. Mowbray laughed lightly. 
 
 " Oh, yon really can't keep ns away. We 
 positively must come. My son insists. 
 These lovers, you know, dear, are no jier- 
 tiiiai'ious. W(.'ll," she iidded, looking hastily 
 at l](litli, "I suppose I must say good-morn- 
 ing; but. Miss Dalton, think of my boy. 
 Gooil-nioriiing. my dear Miss Dalton." 
 
 And so ^Irs. Mowbray ri'tired. 
 
 She called again four times, twice .nlone, 
 and twice in company with tins captain, 
 but Editli refused to see her. 
 
 Yet, after all, in spite of her scorn for 
 these ])eoi)le, and lu'r conviction that they 
 were in Iciigue with Wiggins — in s)iit(\ of 
 the eaiitain's l)rutality— -it was not without 
 sorrow that Edith dismissed Mrs. Mowbray; 
 for she looked upon her as a kind of tie that 
 bound her to the outer world, and until the 
 last she had ho[)ed that some means might 
 arise through these, if not of escape, at least 
 of communication with friends. 
 
 IJtit she was cut olV from these now more 
 than ever; and what rcmainedf 
 
 What? A prison-house! 
 
THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 if 
 
 [ ! 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 A NEW-COMER. 
 
 It seemed now to Edith that her isolation 
 was complete. She fotind herself in a posi- 
 tion which she had thought impossible in 
 fn e England — a prisoner in tlie hands o^^'ui 
 adventurer, who usurped an authority over 
 her to whicli he had no right. His claim 
 to exercise this authority in his oilico of 
 guardian she did not admit for a moment. 
 She, the mistress of Dalton Hall, was noth- 
 ing more than a captive on her own estates. 
 
 She did not know liow this could end or 
 when it could end. Her hopes had one by 
 one given way. The greatest blow of all was 
 that whicli had been administered througli 
 the so-called letter of Miss Plymptou. That 
 letter she believed to bo a forgery, yet the 
 undeniable fact remained that Miss Plymp- 
 ton had done nothing. That Miss Plympton 
 should write that letter, however, and that 
 she should leave her helpless at the mercy 
 of Wiggins, seemed ecpially improbable, and 
 Edith, in her vain effort to comprehend it, 
 could only conclude that some accident had 
 happened to her dear friend ; that she was 
 ill, or worse. And if this was so, it would 
 be to her the worst blow of all. 
 
 Other hopes which she had formed had 
 also been doomed to destruction. She had 
 expected something from tlie spontaneous 
 sympathy of the outside world, who, what- 
 ever their opinion .about her father, would 
 stir themselves to prevent such an outrage 
 upon justice as that which Wiggins was 
 perpetrating. Hut tliese hopes gradually 
 died out. That world, she thought, was 
 perhaps ignorant not only of her situation, 
 but even of her very existence. The last 
 hopes that she had formed had been in the 
 Mowbrays, and these had gone the way of 
 all the others. 
 
 Nothing appeared before her in the way 
 of hope, and her despondency was often hard 
 to endure. Still her strong spirit and higli- 
 toncd nature rendered it imixissibb' for her 
 to be miserable always. Added to this was 
 her perfect health, which, witli o le inter- 
 ruption, had sustained her amidst *ho dis- 
 tresses of her situation. IJy her very dis- 
 position she was forced to hope for the best. 
 It must not be sujiposed that she was .it all 
 like "Mariana in the moated grange." She 
 did not pine away. On tlui contrary, slie 
 often felt a kind of triinnph in tlie tlii>uglit 
 that she had thus far shown the spirit of a 
 Dalton. 
 
 There was an old legend in the Dalton 
 family upon which great stress had been 
 laid for many generations, and tliis one stood 
 out prominently among all flie stories of an- 
 cestral exploits which she Iiad heard in her 
 cliildliood. One of tlie tirst Daltons, whose 
 grim figure looked down ujion lier now in 
 the armor of a Crusader, had taken part in 
 
 the great expedition under Richard Cccnr 
 do Lion. It happened that he had the ill 
 luck to fall into tlio hands of the infid(?l, lint 
 as there were a number of other prisoners, 
 there was some confusion, and eaily onii 
 morning he managed to seize a horse and 
 escape. Soon he was pursued. He dashed 
 over a wide plain toward some hills that 
 arose in the distance, where he managed to 
 elude his pursuers for a time, until he found 
 refuge upon a cliff, where there was a small 
 place which aftbrded room for one or two. 
 After some search his pursuers discovered 
 him, and ordered him to come down. He 
 refused. They then began an attack, shoot- 
 ing arrows from a distance, and trying to 
 scale the clifl". But Dalton's defense was so 
 vigorous that by the end of that day's fight 
 he had killed eight of his assailants. Tlien 
 the contest continued. For two days, under 
 a burning sun, without food or drink, the 
 stern old Crusader defended himself. When 
 summoned to surrender he had only one 
 word, and that was, " Never!" It haitpcned 
 that a band of Crusaders who w(!re scouring 
 the country caught sight of the Saracens, 
 and made an attack upon them, putting 
 them to flight. They then sought for the ob- 
 ject of this extraordinary siege, and, climb- 
 ing up, they saw a sight which thrilled them 
 as they gazed. For there lay stout old Mi- 
 chael Dalton, with many wounds, holding a 
 broken sword, and looking at them with de- 
 lirious eyes. He recognized no one, but tried 
 to defend hiniscdf against his own friemls. 
 It was witli difficulty that they restrained 
 him. They could not remove him, nor was 
 it necessars', for death was near; but till the 
 last his hand clutched tlie broken sword, 
 and the only word he said was, "Never!"' 
 Tlie Crusaders waited till he was dead, and 
 then took his remains to the camp. The 
 story of his defense, which was gathered 
 from their jjrisoners, rang through the whoUi 
 camp, and always afterward tlie crest of the 
 Daltons was a bloody hand holding a broken 
 sword, witli the motto, " Never!" 
 
 And so Edith took to her heart this story 
 and tliis motto, and whenever slie looked at 
 the grim old Crusader, sIk* clinched iter own 
 little hand and said, " Never!" 
 
 She determinetl to use what liberty she 
 had; and since Wiggins watched all her 
 niovenu^nts, to show him liow unconcerned 
 she was, she began to go about the giounds. 
 to take long walks in all ilirections, and 
 wlienever she returned to tiie lioiise, to i>lay 
 for hours upon tlie \>iano. Her determina- 
 tion to keep up her courage had the elfecl 
 of keeping down lier desjuindency, and \wt 
 vigorous exercise was an unmixed benefit, 
 so that there was a radiant l)eanty in lier 
 face, and a hauglity dignity that made her 
 look like tlie absolute mistress of tlie place. 
 
 What Wiggins felt or thought she did 
 not know. He never came across her path 
 
THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 
 ird Cocur 
 1(1 the ill 
 ili(l((l. but 
 [)risoiiers, 
 •av\y ou(! 
 lorsc and 
 le dashed 
 hillH that, 
 ^iiaged to 
 I he found 
 IB a .small 
 10 or two. 
 liscovered 
 own. Ho 
 ick, shoot- 
 trying to 
 use was so 
 lay's tight 
 its. Then 
 ays, under 
 drink, the 
 3lf. When 
 only one 
 ; haiipened 
 •e .scouring 
 I Saracens, 
 n, putting 
 for the ob- 
 md, climb- 
 rilled them 
 )ut old Mi- 
 , holding a 
 ni with dc- 
 e, i)nt tried 
 vn friends, 
 restrained 
 in, nor was 
 but till the 
 ieu sword. 
 , "Never!" 
 ; dead, and 
 imp. The 
 gathereil 
 the whole 
 irest of the 
 g a broken 
 
 this story 
 looked at 
 d Jier own 
 
 iberty slie 
 ;d ail her 
 U'oncerned 
 grounds, 
 ■tions, and 
 ise, to play 
 l('t<'rniina- 
 
 tlio (>lVecl 
 y, and her 
 •d benetit, 
 uty in her 
 
 nnule her 
 the place, 
 it she did 
 s her path 
 
 by any chance. Occasional glimpses of tho 
 ever-watcliful Hugo showed her that she 
 was tracked with as jealous a vigihinco as 
 ever. She hoped, however, that by lier in- 
 ce.ssant activity something might result to 
 her advantage. 
 
 One day while she was strolling down the 
 grand avenue she saw a stranger walking 
 up, and saw, to her suri)rise, tliat lie was a 
 gentleman. Tho face was altogether un- 
 known to lipr, and, full of hope, she waited 
 for him to come up. 
 
 " Have I tlio honor of addressing Miss 
 Dalton?" said the stranger, as lie reached 
 her. He .spoke in a very jilea.sant but some- 
 what etl'eminato voice, lifting his hat, and 
 bowing with profound courtesy. 
 
 "I am Miss Dalton," said Edith, wonder- 
 ing who the stranger might be. 
 
 He was (luite a small, slight man, evident- 
 ly young; Ids cheeks were bciirdless; ho had 
 a thick dark mustaclu!; and his small hands 
 and feet gavi; to Edith tlu! idea of a delicate, 
 fa.stidions sort of a man, which was height- 
 ened by liis very neat and careful dress. On 
 the whole, however, lie seemed to be a gen- 
 tleman, ami his deej) courtesy was grateful 
 in tho extreme to out* who had known so 
 much rudeness from others. 
 
 His comjtlexioii was (jiiite dark, his eyes 
 were very brilliant and exjjressive, and his 
 ai)pearance was flecidedly etfeniinate. Edith 
 felt a half contempt for him, but in a mo- 
 ment she retlected how appeiirances may 
 mislead, for was not the magiiiticent Mow- 
 bray a villain and a cowanl t 
 
 •'Allow me. Miss Dalton," said he, " to in- 
 troduce my.self. I am Lieutenant Ditdleigh, 
 of ." 
 
 " Dudleigh!" cried Edith, in great excite- 
 ment. " Are yon any relation to Sir Lionel ?" 
 
 " Well, not very close. I belong to tlie, 
 same family, it is true; but Sir Lioiud is 
 more to nn* than a relation. Ho is my best 
 friend and benefactor." 
 
 '■ And do you know any thing about him V 
 cried Edith, in irrei)ressible eagerness. " Can 
 you tell ni(! a7iy thing?" 
 
 "Oh yes," said DiidliMgh, witli n smile. 
 "I certainly ought to be able to do tiiat. I 
 sujiposo I know as much alioiit him as any 
 Olio. But what is the meaning of all this 
 that I liiid here," he continued, suddenly 
 changing the conversation — "that rufliaii 
 of a jiorter — the gates boarded uj) and barred 
 NO jealously ? It seems to nie as if your fiieiids 
 should bring ]ii8tols whenever they come to 
 lu.'ike a <!all." 
 
 Dudleigh had a gay, open, careless tone. 
 Ills voice was round and full, yet still it was 
 elVeininate. In spites of this, however, Edith 
 was, on the whole, pleased with him. The 
 remote relationship which he ]>rofessed to 
 bear to Sir Lionel, Ids claim that Sir Lionel 
 was his friend, and the name tliat he gave 
 himself, all made him seem to Edith like u 
 
 true friend. Of Sir Lionel and his family 
 she knew nothing whattiver; she knew not 
 whether he had ever had any children or 
 not; nor did she ever know his disposition; 
 but she had always accustomed herself to 
 think of him as her (uily relative, and her 
 last r(;8ort, so that this man's acipiaiiitanc<; 
 with him made him doubly welcoimn 
 
 "What you meniion," said she, in answer 
 to his last remark, " is a thing over which 
 I hav(! not the smallest control. There is a 
 man here who has contrived to place me in 
 so ])ainful a position that I am a prisoner in 
 my own grounds." 
 
 "A prisoiitir!" said Dudleigh, in a tone of 
 the deepest surprise. " 1 do not understand 
 you." 
 
 " He keeps the gates locked," said Edith, 
 " refuses to let mo out, and watches every 
 thing that I do." 
 
 " What do you mean ? I really can not 
 nnderstand you. No one has any right to 
 do that. How does he dare to do it? He 
 couldn't treat you worse if ho were your hus- 
 band." 
 
 " Well, ho protends that ho is my guard- 
 ian, and declares that he has the same right 
 over me as if he were my father." 
 
 "But, Miss Dalton, what nonsense this is! 
 You can not be in earnest — and yet you 
 must be." 
 
 "In earnest!" repeated Edith, with vehe- 
 mence. "Oh, Lieutenant Dudleigh, this is 
 the sorrow of my lite — so niuch so tliat I 
 throw myself upon tlu! .syin])at!iy of a per- 
 fect stranger. I am desjierate, and ready to 
 do any thing to escajic! — " 
 
 "Miss Dalton," said Dudleigh, solemnly, 
 "your wrongs must l)e, great indeed if this 
 is so. Your guardian! But what then? 
 Does that give him the right to bo your 
 jailer?" 
 
 " He takes the right." 
 
 "Who is this man?" 
 
 " His name is Wiggins." 
 
 " Wiggins f Wiggins ? Why, it must be 
 the steward. Wiggins? Why, I saw him 
 yesterday. Wiggins? What! That,scoun- 
 (Irel? that blackleg? that villain who wiis 
 horsewhipped at l'',psom ? A\hy, the man is 
 almost an outlaw. It seemed to me incredi- 
 ble when I heard he was steward here ; but 
 when you tell ni(^ that Ik^ is your guardian it 
 really is too much. It must i)e some scoun- 
 drelly trick of his — some forgeiy of docu- 
 ments." 
 
 "So I believe," said Edith, "and so I tcdd 
 him to his own face. But how did you get 
 in hero? Wiggins never allows any ono to 
 come here but his own friends." 
 
 "Well," said Duilleigh, " I did have a lit- 
 tle dilliculty, but not niuch^it was rather 
 of a jirelimiiiary character. The fact is, 1 
 came here more tli;iii a week ago on a kind 
 of tour, I heard of Dalton Hall, and under- 
 stood enough of Sir Lionel's ulfairs to know 
 
08 
 
 THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 
 that you wore his niooc; and as thore had 
 beeu an old dilTiculty, I tliouf^ht I cduldn't do 
 better than call and Koe what sort of a per- 
 son you wen;, so as to jnd^e wlictlHa- a rec- 
 onciliation niiKht not be l)roufrht about. I 
 came here three days afjo, and that beggar j 
 of a porler woiildn't let me in. Vlie next ' 
 day I earner back, and found Wiggins, and 
 had some talk with him. lie said something 
 or other about your grief and seclusion and 
 so forth ; but I knew the scoundrel was ly- 
 ing, so I just Hai<l to him, 'See hero now, 
 Wiggins, I know you of old, and there is 
 one litth; affair of yoiu's that I know all ' 
 about — you luiderstand what I mean. You 
 thiidc you are all saf(! here ; but there are 
 some pei>iile who could put you to uotnid of \ 
 trouble if they chose. I'm going in tiii'ongh ' 
 those gates, and you must oi)('n tiiem.' That's 
 what I told him, and wlu'U I eamt! to-day the 
 gates were opened for me. Hut do you real- 
 ly mean to say that this villain prevents 
 your going out f" 
 
 "Yes," said Edith, mournfully. 
 
 " Surely you have not tried. You should 
 assert your rights. Hut I suppose your ti- i 
 midity would naturally prevent you." | 
 
 " It is not timidity that prevents me. I 
 have been desperate enough to do any thing. I 
 I have tried. IndcH'd, I don't know what 
 more I could possibly do than ■what I have 
 done." She, jtaused. She was not going to 
 tell every thing to a stranger. 
 
 "Jliss Dalton," sai<l Dudleigh, fervently, 
 "I can not exi)ress my Joy at the happy ac- 
 cident that has brought me here. For it 
 was only by chance that I canu; to Dalton, 
 though after I came I nainrally thought of 
 you, as 1 sai<l, and canus here." 
 
 "I fear," said Edith, "that it may seem 
 strange to you for x\w to take you into my 
 confidence, after wo have only interchanged 
 Ji few words. Hut I nuist do so. I hav(! no 
 alternative. I am desi)erate. I am tlie Dal- 
 ton of Dalton Hall, and I tiiul myself in the 
 power of a base adventurer. He imprisons 
 me. He sets s])ies to watch over nie. He 
 directs that rullian at the gates to turn away 
 my friends, and tell them sonui story al)out 
 my grief and seclusion. I have not seen any 
 visitors since 1 came." 
 
 "Is it possible!" 
 
 " Well, there was one family — the Mow- 
 brays, of whom I need S!iy nothing." 
 
 "Tiie Mowbrays?" said Dudleigh, with a 
 strange glance. 
 
 "Do you know any thing about thera?" 
 asked EditJi. 
 
 " Pardon me. Miss Dalton ; I prefer to say 
 nothing about them." 
 
 " IJy all means, I prefer to say nothing 
 about them myself.'' 
 
 " Hut, Miss Dalton, I feel confounded and 
 
 bewildered. I can not uuderstaiul you even 
 
 • yet. Do you really mean to say that yon, 
 
 the mistress of these estates, the heiress, the 
 
 lady of Dalton Hall — that you are restricted 
 in this way and by him ?" 
 
 " It is all most piiinfully true,"' said Edith. 
 " It almost breaks my heart to think of such 
 a humiliation, tint it is true. I have; been 
 here for months, literally a prisoner. I 
 have absolutely no comnmnicafion with my 
 friends, or with the outside world. Tliis 
 man Wiggins declares tliat ht; is my guard- 
 ian, and can do as he chooses. He says 
 that a guardian has as much authority over 
 his ward as a father over his child." 
 
 "Oil! I think I understaiul. He may be 
 partly right, after all. You are young yet, 
 you know. You are not of age." 
 
 "I am of age," said I'^dith, mournfully, 
 " and that is what makes it so intolerable. 
 If I were uiuler age I fnight bear it for a 
 time. There might tlun appear to be, at 
 least, the show of right on his si(i(^ Hut as 
 it is, ther(>, is nothing but might. He has 
 imprisoned nu;. He has put mo under 
 surveillance. I am watched at this mo- 
 ment." 
 
 " Who ? where ?" exclaimed Dudleigh, 
 looking hastily around. 
 
 "01), in the woods — a black named Hugo. 
 He tracks me like a blood-hound, and never 
 loses sight of me when I am out. He may 
 not hear what we are saying, but he will tell 
 his master that I have spoken with you." 
 
 "Are tlu.-re spies in the Hall?" 
 
 "Oh yes; his housekeeper watches me 
 always." 
 
 " Is there no place where we can talk with- 
 out being seen or heard? Heli(!V(> me. Miss 
 Dalton, your situation fills me with grief 
 and pity. All this is so unexpected, so 
 strange, so incredilde !" 
 
 " AVe may, ])erhaps, bo more free from ob- 
 servation in the Hall — at least I think so. 
 The drawing-ro(uu is bettiu- than this. Will 
 you allow mo to do tlie honors of Dalton 
 Hall ?" 
 
 Dudleigh bowed, and the two walked 
 toward the Hall, and entering, proceeded to 
 the drawing-room. 
 
 " Wo ar(> nndoubti'dly watched, even 
 here," said Edith, with a nudaneholy smile, 
 "but the watcher can not ol)serv(> us very 
 well, and has to stand too far oii' to hear us 
 easily, so that this room is perhaps better 
 than out-of-doors; at any rate, it is more 
 convenient." 
 
 "Miss Dalton," SP' , 'Udleigh, "I am 
 glad beyond all that w</i(ls can say that 1 
 managed to get through your gat(>s. My 
 vague threats terrified Wiggins, though in 
 reality I have no kiu)wledgt^ about him suffi- 
 ciently delinife to give me any !ictnal power 
 over him. 1 have only heard general scandal, 
 in which he was nnxed up. Hut \w has 
 given me credit for km)wing sotnefhing im- 
 ])ortant. At any rate, now that I am hei'e, 
 let me do sonn-thing for you at once. Com- 
 mand me, and I will obey." 
 
THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 6» 
 
 talk with- 
 in', Miss 
 til >;rict' 
 ctL'd, so 
 
 •d, evon 
 oly sinilt', 
 us very 
 1) licar us 
 ps better 
 is more 
 
 "I am 
 ay that I 
 ites. My 
 houf^h in 
 hiniKulli- 
 lal i)owor 
 1 seaudal, 
 it he has 
 thinj^ ini- 
 lam here, 
 to. Com- 
 
 " I want but ono thing," said Edith, " and 
 that is to fi;et out." 
 
 •' Well ?" 
 
 " Will you lead the way and let mo fol- 
 low f That is all I ask of you." 
 
 "Certainly, and if you eould only po out 
 over my dead body, tliat i)rice should ho 
 paid, and you should go." 
 
 Dudleigh spoko (juickly, hut with no i)ar- 
 ticular earnestness. Indeed, in all his tones 
 there was a laclt of earnestness. Tht! words 
 were excellent, but they lacki^d depth and 
 warmth. Edith, however, was too much 
 excited by tho prospect of help to notice 
 tliis. 
 
 "Tlu:.e is no need of that," said sho ; 
 " :here is no real danger." 
 
 " I ratlier think from the look of that ruf- 
 lian at th(! gate that tliere will be some such 
 price," said Dudleigh, carelessly. " If I had 
 o)ily brought my i)istols, all would ho easy. 
 Can it be managed? How shall we do it? 
 l)n you think that you have nerve enough, 
 Miss Dalton, to witness a tight V 
 
 "Yes," said Edith, calmly. 
 
 " If I had my pistols," said Dudleigh, 
 thoughtfully, "I might— I3ut as it is, if they 
 see you accompanying me, they will assem- 
 ble in force." 
 
 " Yes," said Edith, sadly, for sho began to 
 s(m; dilhculties. 
 
 "Now do you think that if you aro with 
 nie the jjorter will open tho gates ?" 
 
 "He will not." 
 
 "Well, wo nnist get out in some other 
 way. Can you climb the wall ? I might 
 climb and help you over." 
 
 " Yes, but they would ftdlow and prevent 
 us." 
 
 Dudleigh looked at tho lloor. Then lu; 
 put his small gloved hand on his forehead, 
 and appeared for a few moments to ho lost 
 in thought. 
 
 "Miss Dalton," said ho at last, "I am at 
 your service. Can you tell me what I can 
 do? — for to save my life I can think of noth- 
 ing, just now. Giv(^ me my orders." 
 
 Edith looked perplexed. IShe knew that 
 tliis man could not forc(! his way unarmed 
 through the gates. She did not feel inclined 
 just yet to tell him to arm himself and shoot 
 
 any one dead who opjiosed him. Sh( uld 
 
 not bear to think of that. Ihit here was 
 biuUeigh, ready. 
 
 " Have you any fire-arras in tho house ?" 
 bo asked. 
 
 " No," said Edith, "and, besides, I can not 
 l)ear just yet to cause any thing like blood- 
 (ihe.l." 
 
 " If not, then you can not get free at 
 oiiee. Can you wait one day, or two days ?" 
 
 "Oiui or two days!" said Edith. "Oh 
 yes; one or two weeks, or even months. 
 Oidy let nu» hoi)e, and I can wait." 
 
 "You have tills to comfort yi>u, at any 
 rate,"' said Dudleigh, " that outside the 
 
 j gates you have a friend. And now I will 
 1 not intrude aiiy longer. I nnist go. Ihit if 
 ! you will allow nie I will como back to-mor- 
 row. Meanwhile I will try to think over 
 I what is best to be done." 
 
 " You will promise," said Edith, implor- 
 ingly, " not to desert me V 
 \ " Desert you ? Never ! On tho honor of 
 a gentleman !" cried Dudleigh ; and as ho 
 bowed his head there cime over his face a 
 very singular smile, which Edith, however, 
 did not see. 
 
 lie then took his leave. 
 
 CIIArTEU XX. 
 
 FAITHFUL rXTO DKATII. 
 
 EniTii slept but little that night. The 
 
 prospect of escape agitated her wh(d(! being, 
 
 and the new friend who had so unexpoctod- 
 
 ly appeared took up all her thoughts. 
 
 1 Ho was a little nuni most certainly, and 
 
 ! Edith already caught herself thinking of 
 
 him nn " Littlv Diidleiyh." lit! had nothing 
 
 whatf^ver of the hero about him. Mowbray, 
 
 as far as ai)i)earances went, far snrpas.sed 
 
 ! her new aci|uainfance in that respect. Still 
 
 Edith felt bound to overlook or to (!xcu.se 
 
 > his slight frame, and in the effort to do this 
 
 sho recalled all tho little men of history. 
 
 Sho thought of a saying which she had once 
 
 heard, that "all great men are small men." 
 
 This sentiment iucliuled under the head of 
 
 1 littli! men Alexander the Croat, .Iiilius Ca;- 
 
 I sar. Napoleon, with others of the sanui class, 
 
 ' for the list had evidently been nuuh; u]) by 
 
 One who was him.self a little man, and was 
 
 anxious to enter a forcible jirotest against 
 
 tht! sct)rn of his bigger brethren. On the 
 
 jirescnt ticeasiou the list t>f little hert)es was 
 
 ' St) ftirmitlablo that Edith was )>repared to 
 
 find in "Little DuiUeigh" all she wisht-d. 
 
 Still, in spitt! tif his generous oilers, and his 
 
 chiv,ilrt)us ju'oposal to put ihiwn his ilead 
 
 btitly tor her tt) march over, sfie ilitl nt)t feel 
 
 for bini (bat adniirat i()n which sutli heroism 
 
 tleservcil ; anil slit! even reiiroached herself 
 
 for iier lack of ctimmtin gratitutle, for in her 
 
 high s])irits at Iht: pri>spect of escape, she 
 
 eaiight herself more than tinco smiling at 
 
 the recollection tif "Little DntUeighV little 
 
 ways, his luimiicss, antl eli'cminafy. 
 
 At abtmt ten ti'cliick on the following day 
 "Little Dudleigh" came back. 
 
 "That beggar at the gate," saiil he, after 
 tht! usual greetings, " looks very liaril at me, 
 but hi! ilt)csn't i>retcntl to hiiuler me fro!u 
 coming t)r gt>ing just yet, thtiugh what ho 
 may tit) in timt! ifiiiains to be seen." 
 
 "01i,"saitl Ivlitli, "you must manage to 
 get me out betbrt! Wiggins has a chance to 
 prevent yt)n from coming in." 
 
 " I ht)pi! st)," saiil DutUeigh. "Of course, 
 Miss Dalton, as you may suppt).se, I have been 
 
■ ! 
 
 70 
 
 THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 R 
 
 I MUST L'Sli TUKSli, TIIKN. 
 
 thinking of yon cvor since I left yon, and 
 pliinnin^ a thousand Hch(>nie,s. But I liavi; 
 niudo np my mind to tliis, and yon mnst 
 make np yonrs to the satiu^ I am sorry, 
 bnt it can aot be avoided. I mean blood- 
 shed." 
 
 " Bloodslied !" said Edith, sadly. 
 
 "Of coni'so it is teiTiljlo to a lady to he 
 the canse of bloodshed," said Dndleii;;h, qni- 
 etly, "and if there were any otlu'v way I 
 wonld find it out, or yon wonld know abont 
 it. Bnt iVoni what I liave seen and heard, 
 and from wliat I know of WiKKi"'^i I •'**''' 1^1'"f 
 there is noihinj; leff bnt to force onr way 
 ont, for the place is thorougldy jjnarded day 
 and nijjht." 
 
 "So it is,'' said Edith, monrnfnlly. 
 
 "If I talvo yon ont, I must — ■ Are we 
 overheard?"' ho asked, looking cantionsly 
 aronnd. 
 
 " I think not ; at least not if yon speak 
 low." 
 
 " I mnst nso these, then," said he, drawin;]; 
 a brace of pistols in a careless way from liis 
 coat ]>ocket, and showinji tliem to Editli. 
 
 Editli recoiled involnntarily. Bloodsjied, 
 and perhaps deatli, the scandal Unit wonld 
 arise, arrest iJcrliajts, or examination before 
 magistrates— all these thonglits came before 
 Iwv. SJK^ was l)ravl^, bnt tilings like tlii>se 
 conld not be iigiitly faced. ,Slie was bi'ave, 
 but slie could not decide Just yet tliat any 
 man's life shonld be taken for the sake of 
 her liberty. 
 
 " I can not bear that," said she. 
 
 "Yon will get nsed to them," said Dnd- 
 hugh, cheerfully. "They arc easy to handle." 
 
 " But tliem back." 
 
 " Bnt what else is there to do?" 
 
 "I'm sure I don't know," said Edith, in a 
 dejected tone. 
 
 "Well," said Dndleigh, after a panse, "I 
 thonght of this. It is natural. I anticipated 
 some snch objection as this on yonr part. 
 I know very well what it is that yon fear, 
 and I don't know but that you are right. 
 Still, I have otlwr idans. which may not ap- 
 pear so objectionable. Bnt in the tirst ])lace, 
 let me know linally, do yon jiositively and 
 absolutely rejiM't this f and he tapjied the 
 pistols signilicMiitly. 
 
 "I can not yet consent to ri.sk any life," 
 said Edith. 
 
 " Very w<'ll ; this may remain over nntil 
 every thing else fails." 
 
 " Bnt couldn't yon nse these pistols to 
 terrify them ? The sight miglit make tliem 
 open the gates." 
 
 " Bnt it might not, and what then? Are 
 you ])repiired to answer that ?" An "Little 
 Dudh'igh,'' who had been speaking abont 
 thes(! things as lightly and as carelessly as 
 a lady wonld speak abont a dress or the 
 trimmings of a lionnet, ]iansed, jiiid looked 
 at her iiKiuiriiigly. " Th(^ fact is,"' he con- 
 tinned, as Ivlitli did not answer, "yon mnst 
 l)e willing to run this r. 'c of kUUnij a man. 
 Your liberty is worth this price. If you say 
 
THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 71 
 
 to mc, ' Open thoHf* gates,' that is what yon 
 iniiHt cucountiT. Will yon face it T Say the 
 word, and now, now, at this very moment, I 
 will lead yon thciT." 
 
 Tlio oft'tT of iiniiiodiato cscapo was thns 
 ])r<'si'nt('d, and for a moment lidith hesita- 
 ted, Init the cost was too fjreat. 
 
 " Oh," she cried, " this is teiiihle ! Bnt I 
 will not consent. No, I will snffcr lon^^ci" 
 rather than pay so frightful a price as hu- 
 man life." 
 
 "Well," said Dndloigh, "after all, since 
 yon have dt.'cided this way, I think you are 
 al)ont right. After all, there is really no 
 necessity for so des])erat<^ a course. Hut I 
 have a high idea of what a lady has a right 
 to demand of a gentleman, and 1 am ready 
 to do what you say." 
 
 " Hut you have otlier plans, have yon 
 not V 
 
 " Yes, bnt slow ones — safe hut slow. The 
 question is, can you wait? Can you endure 
 your present life ? and how long?" 
 
 "Kather than eaus(! the loss of life," said 
 lldith, " I would endure this A'ery much 
 longer." 
 
 "Oh, you will not liave to endure it so 
 very long. If you are not too impatient, the 
 timi! may pass quickly too. lint before I 
 make any further jiroposals, will y()u allow 
 mc! to ask you one ((uestion ? It is this: 
 Sup))((se you were to escape to-day, where 
 would you go ?" 
 
 "I have thought about that," said Edith. 
 "My dearest friend is Miss Plympton. She 
 is the head of the .school where I hav(! spent 
 th(5 greater part of my life. She is tli(! one 
 to whom 1 should naturally go, but she keeps 
 a boarding-seliool, and I do not wish to go 
 there and meet my old school-mates and sec 
 so many. I wish to be secluded. I have 
 sometimes thought of going to that neigh- 
 borhood, and linding a home where 1 could 
 occasionally sec^ Miss Plympton, and at other 
 times 1 have thought of going to my uncle. 
 Sir Lionel Dudleigli." 
 
 At this last remark Dudleigli opened his 
 eyes. , 
 
 " Who ?" he asked. " I don't understand." 
 
 "lie is my uncle, you know," said Edith 
 — " that is, by marriagt; — and therefon; he 
 is naturally the on(! to whom I should look 
 for defense against Wiggiii'.. In that case 
 Sir Lionel will Ix! far better than poor dear 
 Auntie Plympton. I'm af aid that Wig- 
 juus has already frightened her away from 
 nw.r 
 
 '• Hut how would you get to Sir Lionel ?" 
 asked Dndleigh, with a ]iuzzled exjjression. 
 
 "Well, that is what I want to lind out. 
 I liav(^ no idea where he lives. Hut you can 
 tell me all about him. I should have asked 
 b(!f(Me, btit other things interfered. I will 
 go to him. I feel contidont that he will not 
 cast nu< off." 
 
 " Cast you off! I should think not," said 
 
 Dndleigh ; "bnt the difficulty is how to find 
 him. Yon can get to Dudleigli Manor easily 
 enough — every body knows wliere that is. 
 Hut what then ? Nobody is there." 
 
 " What ! Is not Sir Lionel there T" 
 
 "Sir Lionel there! I only wish he was. 
 Why, is it possible that yon do not know 
 that Sir Lionel is positively not in En- 
 gland? He travels all the time, and only 
 comes home occasionally. P'Mha[)syou know 
 the cause— his family troubles ten years ago. 
 He had a row with his wife then, and it has 
 l)lighted his life. Sir Lionel? Why, at this 
 moment 1 dare say he is somewhere among 
 the I'ral Mountains, or Patagonia, or some 
 other ei|ually remote! country. Hut who told 
 you that lui was in England ?" 
 
 Edith was silent. She had taken it for 
 gr.'inted that Sir Lionel lived in his own 
 home. 
 
 " Can I not write to him V she asked. 
 
 "Of course, if you can only secure his ad- 
 dress; an:! that I will do my ntiixist to tiiid 
 out for you. But to do this will be a work 
 of time." 
 
 "Yes," sighed Edith. 
 
 "And what can you do in the mean time ? 
 W'hen^ can you go ?" 
 
 "There is Miss Plympton." 
 
 "Yes, your teacher. And yon dcjn't wish 
 to go to the school, but to some private place 
 near it. Now what sort of a woman is Miss 
 Plym]iton t Hold and courageous 1" 
 
 "I'm afraid not," said Edith, after a 
 tlioughtful pause. "I know that she loves 
 me like a mother, and when I tirst came here 
 I should have relied on her to the utmost. 
 Hut now I don't know. At any rate, I think 
 she can be easily terrifiecl." And Edith went 
 on to tell about Miss Plympton's letter to 
 her, and subsecinent silence. 
 
 "I think with you," .said Dudleigli, after 
 Edith had ended," ''that the letter is a for- 
 gery. Hut what is dillicnlt to understand is 
 this app.'irent <leseition of you. This may b<! 
 ace(>unted for, however, in one of two ways. 
 First, Wiggins may actually havt; seen lier, 
 and frightened her in some way. You say 
 shi- is timid. The other explanation of her 
 silenc(! is that she may be ill." 
 
 " ill !" exclaimed Edith, mournfully. 
 
 " It may be so." 
 
 " Jlay she :)ot all this time have been try- 
 ing to rescue .lie, and been batlled ?" 
 
 Dudleigli smiled. 
 
 " Oh no. If she had tried at all you would 
 have heard something about it before this: 
 something would certainly have; been done. 
 The claim of Wiggins would liavt^ been con- 
 tested in a court of law. Oh no ; she has ev- 
 idently done nothing. In fact, 1 think that, 
 sad as it may seem to you, there can be no 
 doubt about her illness. You say she left 
 you here. No doubt she felt terrible anxi- 
 ety. The next <lay she could not see yt)u. 
 H'v love for you, and her anxiety, would, per- 
 
79 
 
 THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 f!' 
 
 lm])s, b(! ton much for Iut. Slio may have 
 
 IXHMI tilkt'll llOIIIO ill." 
 
 Edith Hi^Iicd. Tiio i)i('tiir(^ of Mi.s.s Plyinp- 
 ton's yricf was t(K) iinicli for litT. [ 
 
 "At any rat«," said hIw, "if I raii't find 
 any frieiidH — if Sir Lionel is >;ont', and poor! 
 doar aiiutiu is ill, I ciiii lio fn^e. I can help ! 
 nurso her. Any life is licttfir thim this ; and I 
 can i)nt my case in tho hands of tho lawyi-rs." | 
 
 "Yon are, of conrse, well supplied with I 
 money/' said Dudleigh, carelessly. 
 
 " iioncy f" 
 
 " Y('s ; so as to travel, yon know, and live, 
 and i>ay your lawyers." 
 
 "1 have no money," said Edilli, helpless- 
 ly; "that is, not moie than a few sover- 
 oigns. I did not think of that." 
 
 " No money ?" 
 
 "Xo— only ii little." 
 
 "No money If Why, how is that? No 
 money ? Why, what can yon do ?" 
 
 " WifiK'"** managoa every thing, and has 
 all tho money." 
 
 " Yon have never obtained any from him 
 as yet, tlienf" 
 
 "I have never needed any " 
 
 " He Hpen<ls your own i ney in paying 
 these spies and jailers. I^ T you have no 
 money, how can you maua^ii to live, even if 
 you do escape V 
 
 Etlith looked down in despair. The idea 
 of money had ni^ver entered her mind. Yet 
 now, since it was mentioned, she felt its im- 
 portance. Yes, nuuiey was the eliief thing; , 
 without that flight was iiseless, and liherly I 
 inii)ossil»l«!. But, how could she get it 1 Wig- 
 gins would not give her any. And where , 
 could she go? Could she go to Hiss l'lynii»- ) 
 ton's, to be a dependent upon her at the 
 .school? That thought was intolerable. 
 Much as she loved Miss Plyinpton, she could 1 
 not (lescend to that. i 
 
 "You are certainly not very practical," I 
 said Dudleigh, " or your first thought would ; 
 have been ab(uit this. Hut you have none, 
 you say, iuid so it can not be remedied. Is 
 there any thing else? You see you can cs- 
 cajie; but what then?" 
 
 Dudleigh was silent, and Edith looked at 
 Lim in deej) suspense. 
 
 " You say you never see Wiggins now ?" 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Y(m are not subject to insults?" 
 
 " No— to none." 
 
 " Have you the Hall to yoursi-lf ?" ' 
 
 "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 ca])tivity. You are not 
 like a cajitive in a dungeon, for instance." 
 "Oh no." 
 
 " Would you rather be here, as you are, or j 
 at Miss Plymptoii's school as a sort of Ue- 
 peudeut ?" I 
 
 " Here, of course. I could not go back 
 there, and face theuj all." 
 
 "Would you rather live luire or in some 
 mean lodging, without money to pay your 
 board ?" 
 
 " Here," said Edith, after a pauso. 
 
 " Thert! an! worse situations in tho world 
 than thi.s, then?" 
 
 " It seems so," said Edith, slowly. 
 
 " Hy leaving this just now you would be 
 doing worse, then?" 
 
 " It looks like it." 
 
 " Well, then, may it not be better for you 
 to renniin here, for the present at least, un- 
 til you hear something from Sir Lionel Dud- 
 leigh ?" 
 
 " But how long will that bo ?" 
 
 "lea-', not tell." 
 
 "Is ihere nothing else?" 
 
 "Certainly the fir^t thing for you to do is 
 to se(! a lawyer." 
 
 " But how can I ?" 
 
 "I can fiiul one." 
 
 "But will you?" 
 
 "Of course. I shall be most happy. Only 
 answer me tliis: If a lawyer takes up your 
 case, shall you be willing to live hen;, or 
 shall you insist on leaving ?" 
 
 "I should jirefer leaving," said Edith; 
 "but at the same time, if a lawyer has my 
 case, and I can feel that something is l)eing 
 done, I can be content here, at least for a 
 time, until I hear from Sir Lionel — or Miss 
 I'lympton." 
 
 " W(!ll, then, for the jjresent at least, you 
 give up the idea of fighting your way out?'' 
 
 " Yes — I suppose so." 
 
 "Then all that I have to do is to get a 
 lawyer for you, and write to Sir Lionel, 
 wheiever he is." 
 
 " You will not let Wiggins keep my law- 
 yer away?" said Edith, in an imploring voice. 
 
 "Oh, I fancy ho has such a wholesome 
 dread of lawyers that he won't try to keeji 
 one out. At any rate, these lawyers have 
 all kinds of ways, you know, of getting iuto 
 places." 
 
 " And of getting people out of places, too, 
 I hope." 
 
 " I should bo sorry not to hope that." 
 
 So Edith found herself compelled to faco 
 th(! dilliculties of her i)resent situation a lit- 
 tle longer, and endure as best she could the 
 restraint of her imprisonmeut. 
 
 CHAPTER XXL 
 
 A WARNING. 
 
 Tiir barriers which Wiggins had raised 
 between Edith and the outer world had thus 
 been surmounted by two persons — first, 
 Mowbray, aiul second, Little I)ndlt;igh. Mow- 
 bray bad come and gone without any sign 
 of objection or rcuioustrauce from her jail- 
 
THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 73 
 
 er; and now Eilitli rnnld not help woiHlfriiif; 
 ut thd facility with wiiich tlm lu'w-comcr, 
 UudlciKh, iiasscil and n'lia.sscd thosf jealous- 
 ly K"i"''l''d limits. l)udU'i;;irs ixtwcr aroso 
 I'loiii sonic i;no\vli'djf() of I lie past history of 
 Wijfj;ins, hut the knowlcdy;*) did not seem 
 very dctinitt'. and she coidd not liidp wou- 
 drrinj; how long his visits would bo tolev- 
 ati'd. 
 
 .Sho was not left to wonder lonfi;. On tlu; 
 (iveniii}; of the day on wiiieli Diidleigh had 
 niad(? his last visit Wiggins eanio to see her. 
 She had not seen him since that time when 
 he hail hrongiit her the so-calh'd letter of 
 Miss l'lymi)ton, except oneo wht^n she had 
 caught a glimpse of him when riding with 
 Mowl)ray. Ih^ now ent<'red in his usual 
 niauner, with his solemn face, his fiu'niul 
 bow, his abstracted gaze. I^t^ sat down, 
 ami for a few moments said nothing. 
 
 "I do not often inllict my presenco on 
 you, Miss Dalton," said he iit length. "I 
 have too nnu'h regard for you to iutrudi; 
 upon yon. Home day yon will understand 
 me, and ■will a])pre('iate my present course. 
 It is oidy for your own sako that I now 
 come, because I see that you are thought- 
 less and reckless, and are living under a 
 delusion. You an; almost ))cyond my con- 
 trol, yet I still hoi)o that I may have sonu) 
 faint iullueneo over you — or at least I can 
 try." 
 
 His tone wa.s gentle and affectionato. It 
 was, in fact, i)aternal in its character ; but 
 this tone, instead of softening Edith, only 
 seemed to her a fresii instance of his arrogant 
 assumption, and, as such, excited her cou- 
 temi)t and indignation. These feelings, 
 however, she repressed for the moment, and 
 looked at him with a cold and austere face. 
 
 " You have l)een receiving visitors," Im 
 continued, " visitors whom I could have kept 
 away if I had — chosen. But to th) so would 
 have interfered with my plans, and so I h;ive 
 tolerated them. You, however, have been 
 all aloug under such a- — mistake — about me 
 — and my intentions— that you have thrown 
 yourself upon these strangers, and have, 
 I grieve to say, eu(hingered yonr own fu- 
 ture, and mine, more than you can jiossi- 
 bly imagine. Your tirst visitor was olijec- 
 tionabU', iiut I tolerated him for reasons that 
 I need not explain ; but tiiis last visitor is 
 one who ought not to be tolerated either by 
 you or by me. And now I come to you to 
 give you — ca — -an att'ectionatc! warning — to 
 ask of you not to bo so reckless, so care- 
 less of your best interests, so l)lind to the 
 great issues that are at stake in — a — my — 
 present plans." 
 
 " You appear to me," said Edith, coldly, 
 '' to have somi; reference to Lieutenant Dud- 
 Icigl;." 
 
 '• Tiiat is what ho calls himself." 
 
 "Calls himself r' 
 
 " Yes. This name Dudleigh is an assumed 
 
 one. IIo took that so as to gain your confi- 
 dence." 
 
 " You api>ear to km)W Lini very well." 
 
 "I do not." 
 
 " How do yoii know, thou, that thisnamo 
 is assumed V 
 
 " Hccause I lia]>|ien to know the Dud- 
 l(!igh family, an<l this man docH not belong 
 to it. I never saw him before." 
 
 " There nw more Diidleigiis in the world 
 th.MU tile family you speak of." 
 
 "He is an adventurer," said Wiggins. 
 "You know nothing about him. I believe 
 his name is false, as he himself is false. 
 Does h(^ not i)retend to be the son of Sir 
 Lionel r 
 
 " No ; he says that bo is only a distant 
 relation to Sir Lionel." 
 
 "He is no relation whatever," said Wig- 
 gins. "You are allowing yourself to bo 
 led astray by a nnin of whom you know 
 nothing — a designing villain, an adven- 
 turer." 
 
 " It is strange that you should ajiply sindi 
 terms to a man of whom you yourself ac- 
 knowledge that you know notiiing. Hut, 
 at any rate," contiinied Edith, with strong 
 emi)hasis, "lie k'ltoicn you. It is this knowi- 
 I'dge that gives him the power of ])assiiig 
 through those gates which you shut against 
 me ; what that knowledge may be you your- 
 self know best." 
 
 " He does not know nn?," said Wiggins. 
 
 "He nnist," said Edith, "for the simple 
 reason that you dan; not kecj) hhu out." 
 
 Wiggins looked at her in sileuce for some 
 time. 
 
 "It is a terrilde ordeal for me," said he at 
 last, in a slow, measnn'd tone, " to talk with 
 you. Y'ou seem to nus lik<! one who is m.id; 
 but it is the madness of utter ignorance. 
 You do not know. Oh, how you tempt me, 
 to tell you all! But I can not, I can not. 
 My lips are scaled as yet. But I will say no 
 more on that. I will ask yon one ciuestiou 
 only. It is this: Can you in)t see with your 
 own eyes that this man is nothing more than 
 a iiu'ri! adventurer?" 
 
 "An adventurer!" repeated Edith, iudig- 
 Uiuitly. " It ill l)eeonies one like you to use 
 such a word as that. For what are you 
 yourself? Lieutenant ]")udleigli is a gentle- 
 man ; ami though I have only known him 
 for a short time, I am happy in calling him 
 my friend. I will tolerate no abuse of him. 
 Why do you not say this to his lace ? If he 
 is what you say, why do yon allow him to 
 come hen: ? An adventurer ? Why, that is 
 the very name I apply in all my thoughts to 
 you!" 
 
 A look of anguish came over the face of 
 Wiggins. IT() trembled violently, but with 
 an efiort nnistered his feelings. Evidently 
 what he said was true, and to him it was a 
 severe ordeal to carry on a conversation with 
 Edith. Her scorn, her anger, and her hato 
 
u 
 
 THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 sii 
 
 ■ ' ■ 
 
 :l 
 
 .all flainod forth ho vohcmoiitly thiit it was 
 liiii'il to cnduir. 
 
 " If yi>ii could only rofraiii from tlicso hit- 
 tor iiiHiilts!" Miiid li(>, ii) a iiH.iiinfiil voice. 
 "If yon conld only jnit !i clicck npon yonr- 
 Kclf wiicn yon luik witii nic! I wisli to 
 i^jx-ak calmly, i)nt yon linrl tannt.s at mo 
 that inflict i'X(|uisit(^ ])ain. Tiic rcincm- 
 i)ranc(! of Ihcm will one day fjivo no less an- 
 UniMli to yon, lielieve ine — oh, believe nic ! 
 Si)are me these tannt.s ."ind insnlts, I entn'at 
 yon. for the sake ofliotli of ns!" 
 
 "Hoth of ns^' reiieated Edith, withont 
 lieinj; in the slij^litesl dey,ree alleeted hy the 
 words of Wi;jj;inK. "r.(tth of ns ? Yon 
 seem to me to lie inclndin;; yonrself and \\w 
 in the name class, as thon;{li then; conld he 
 any thinj^ in common hetween me and one 
 like yon. That is imjiossihle. Onr inter- 
 ests are forever sejiarale." 
 
 " Y(ni do not know," said WijiKins, with 
 ii preat etVort to l)e calm. " Tills man — this 
 Licntenaid I)ndlei^,di, as he calls himself — 
 is an enemy to hi>th of ns." 
 
 " Yon ns(' that exiiression with strange 
 l)ertinaeity. 1 mnst tell yon a<?ain that 
 there can not ])ossiMy he any thin;^ in com- 
 mon hetween yon and me. For my part, I 
 consider yon as my natnral enemy. Yon 
 arc! my Jailer. I am yonr prisoner. That 
 is all. I am at war with yon. I wonld 
 ffive half of my ]iossessions to escape from 
 yonr hands, and the other half to i)nnish 
 yon for what yon have <lom'. I live in the; 
 lio]ie of some day metinj;' ont to yon the 
 jinnishment which y(»nr crimi's deserve. If 
 any one is an enemy of yonrs, that one thinf>; 
 is ii sntticient reconunendatiou to make him 
 a frieml of mine." 
 
 At these words Wijjgin.s seemed to endure 
 .1 keener anii;nish, and his face hore npon it 
 th(^ same jiallid horror which she had seen 
 there Ix'fore npon a similar ))rovoeiiti()n. He 
 stared at Iier for a few moments, and then 
 bowing down, he leaned his head npon his 
 hand and looked at the tloor in silence. At 
 last he raised his head and looked at her 
 with !i calm face. 
 
 "Is there no itossihle way," said he, "in 
 which I can sjjcak to yon without reciMvinj; 
 wounds that stinjj liki^ the fanjjs of a ser- 
 pent? Bo i)atient with me. If I oli'en<l, 
 try to he a little forhearinn' Just now, for the 
 sake of yourself, if for notiiinji; else. Se(!, 1 
 am huniblinjj; myself, 1 ask your forhear- 
 ,ance. 1 wish to sjx'ak for yonr own good. 
 For, as it is, you are doing you know not 
 what. You an; ruining yourself; ytui are 
 blighting ami blasting yonr own future ; 
 you art! risking your reiuitation; yon are 
 exposing the family name to the sneers of 
 the woild, once again. Think of yonr fran- 
 tic adveniare at the gates with that — that 
 Mowbray I" 
 
 Now if AViggiuH had wished to mollify 
 Edith, or to persuade her to full iu with his 
 
 own wishes, lif» was certainly most iinfortn- 
 nate iu his way of going about it ; and es- 
 pecially in such an allnsion as this. For no 
 
 ' sooner did he nu'iition tin; name of Mow- 
 bray than Edith wiis roused to a fresh ox- 
 citciiu'iit. 
 
 [ " What !" she oxclaimod. " Do yon throw 
 that up to me — you of all men ? \Vho, I ask 
 you, was the cause of all the shame and nds- 
 cry and violence that I snlfercd there ? Who 
 
 I was the one that nnnli! it ni'cessaryf Who 
 
 I was the one that bi'onght mi' to such a i)itch 
 of dcsiH'ration that I was rea<ly to do any 
 thing, however wild or frantic y Who? 
 Why, yon ytuirsidf— yon, who como to nio 
 m)w, and with a soh^mn voice; ask mo to 
 calm myself. Is it not possible for you to 
 see what a horribh; mockery all this must 
 \w to me? Ihit I will do what yon ask. I 
 
 I will be calm in spite of all. t'oiiu', now, I 
 
 I will meet yon on yonr own ground. I will 
 ask you one thing. How much money will 
 you take to lot i\w go free V" 
 
 At this request Wiggins stared at her with 
 the expression of one who, while already 
 reeling under a stroke, has received some 
 new blow. \U' started fnun his chair to his 
 feet, ami stood for a nn)ment n'gjirdiiig her 
 witli an in(lescril)able look. Ibit again ho 
 mastered his emotions, aiul linally resumed 
 
 I his scat. 
 
 I " I don't know what to say to yon !" ho ex- 
 claimed. " I came to advise yon, and to warn 
 you. I have done every thing. There is 
 one thing which would imt an en<l to all this 
 misery which yon intliet on me, Init that ono 
 thing I wish on no account to say just now. 
 I can not just yet give up the hope that has 
 cheered mo for so long a time ; still, I nnist 
 warn yon, Kasli girl, you have already suf- 
 fered from this Mowbray, as he calls him- 
 self. Do yon not see that this new visitor, 
 this so-called Diulleigh, is nothing else than 
 the ally, the associate, the partner, the emis- 
 sary of Mowbray ?" 
 
 "The associate of Mowbray," said Edith, 
 quietly, "is yourself. Yon sent him to 
 nu\ I hav(! no doubt. Yon have your own 
 schemes, AVhat they are I do not know, nor 
 do I care to know. As for IJentenant Dml- 
 leigh, hi; is, I feel sure, an honorable gentle- 
 nuin, ami his associates are far, very far dif- 
 ferent from such as yon and Mowbray, Ho 
 is the friend of one whom I also regard now 
 as my oidy friend— ono whom I never ceaso 
 to jiray to reach — ono whom I hoi)e yet to 
 liml, ami by his help escape from yonr infa- 
 mons control, and punish you for all your 
 villainy toward me and mine." 
 
 "What is this? \Vhat do von mean? 
 A friend ?'' 
 
 Wiggins uttered these words in a bewil- 
 dered way. 
 
 "The frieml whom I hope to reach," said 
 Edith, " the one to whom I look for veuge- 
 
 j auco ou you, is Sir Lionel Dudleigh." 
 
ill tills 
 
 lill Olio 
 
 now. 
 hat has 
 I imist 
 (ly siif- 
 
 hiiii- 
 
 visitor, 
 
 Isf than 
 
 ic cniis- 
 
 Kdith, 
 liiiii to 
 tir own 
 ow, nor 
 It Dml- 
 fffiitle- 
 lar dif- 
 y. He 
 rd now 
 ■r cease 
 
 yet to 
 ir ill fa- 
 ll your 
 
 "mean ? 
 
 bewil- 
 
 ,'• said 
 IvenKe- 
 
 THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 75 
 
 " Sir Lionel Diidleinh !'' ropcatod WijifginH, 
 with a groan. " You!" 
 
 "Yes, Sir Lionel l)udlei«li!" said Kdilli. 
 "I see that jou are aj^itated at tlie mention 
 of that naiiii; — the name of an lionoi'al)le 
 man — a man of stainless name, who has 
 nothing in eomnion with sueh as you. Let 
 1110 ti'll you that the time will yet I'ome 
 wlieii you shall have to meet Sir Lionel Diid- 
 leifjh fae(( to face, and thou you will buvo 
 reason to tremlihi!" 
 
 At this \Vi<iKins ro.so. Ho did not look at 
 Edith. He (lid not say a word. He seemed 
 <iverwhelmed. His head was liowed down 
 on his lireast ; his eyes were lixed on thi^ 
 lloor; and he, walked with a slow and weary 
 pace out of the room. 
 
 " It was the threat of Sir Lioiwd Dud- 
 loi{{h," thought Edith, "that terrilied him. 
 He knows that the time is eomiiif; when he 
 will have to j^ivti an account : and he fears 
 Sir Lionel Dudleij^h more than any other 
 
 CHAI'TEU XXIL 
 
 LITTI.r, DlDLlCIGir. 
 
 LiTTi.E T)udleigh now came to the Hall 
 nearly every day, and devoted himself to 
 Eilitli. In spite of his devotion, however, 
 her admiration for him nc. er rose to a very 
 hijlh jiitch. There was soniethiiifi ahout the 
 little man which was too ])rim and precise 
 — an indescribahle somethiiijj; which made 
 her feel a half contemiit, ajjaiiist which it 
 was ditliciilt to strujf^Ie oven by keepiiifj her 
 mind iixed on his valuable services. His lit- 
 
 tle particular ■wnvH worn more approprjnto 
 to a woman than to a man, and excited her 
 impatience. Still she fell that he must liave 
 plenty of c()ura;;e, for had he not oll'ered to 
 risk his life, and had he not come armed and 
 l)re])ared to force a way for her out of the 
 park 1 
 
 I'jlith, like all f;eiierous natures, was frank 
 and conlidiii;;. She was warm-hearted, im- 
 pulsive, and i|uick to show ;;ratitnde. After 
 the f ociety of t he .Mowbrays, she found that of 
 LittCHiidleighan im-xprcssiblt^ relief. What 
 struck her most about him was his unvary- 
 ing calmness. He must have some jiersonal 
 regard for lu'r, shewas sure, for on what oth- 
 er grounds would In; come to see her so in- 
 cessantly, and spend so much time with herf 
 Y'et he never showed much ol' this in his 
 manner. He fre(|ucntly jiaid compliments, 
 and alluded to his willingness to do any 
 thing to serve hci'; but he stddoin indulged 
 in sentiment. He never showed any ap- 
 proach to the tenderness of love. On the 
 wholt! Edith was immensely reli(!ved at this, 
 for the little man was one whiuii she could 
 cordially apiireciate as a disinterested friend, 
 but whose a]>pro,acli toward gallantry or 
 sentiment would have been repugnant in 
 the extreme. 
 
 Little Dndleigh certainly exerted all his 
 ]iowers to make himself agreeable, and not 
 without success. For Edith, who was nat- 
 urally of a radiant tenii»er, w.is now in high 
 spirits at her brightening inospects, and it 
 was easy to amuse her, Dndleigh had in- 
 iiuinerable stories to tell of London life, and 
 tlies(! stories referred almost exclusively to 
 the theatre. He ajipeared to be intimate- 
 y acquainted with all thi^ "professional" 
 world, and more particularly with the act- 
 resses. His stories about them were gener- 
 ally of a light, gossiping character, referring 
 to their petty failings, jealousies, and weak- 
 nesses, and ,seeme<l like tht» malicious talcs 
 which actresses tell about one jinothcr. 
 Still nont! of them were at all unlit for a 
 ady's car, and in all of them there was .some 
 absurdity which comiiensated for their ma- 
 liciousness. Little Dndleigh seemed to un- 
 derstand most thoroughly the female nature, 
 its excellences and its delects, its strellgill 
 and its weaknesses. In his anecdotes abuut 
 men he was never .so successful. His I'amil- 
 iarity with women's ways was (|uite remark- 
 able, and extended even to the smallest do- 
 tails of dress •■ind ornament. His whole 
 manner jint Edith singularly at her ease, and 
 she sometimes c!iught herself siieaking to 
 i him almost as she used to speak to her fel- 
 ; low school-girls. 
 
 Little Dudleigh's society thusbecamequito 
 I agreeable, and Edith looked forward each 
 ! day to his apjiearaiice with something like 
 i impatience. There was, after all. every hmi- 
 j son why she should enjoy it. She had no 
 I other associate, and this oue upou whom she 
 
 , 
 
76 
 
 THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 was tlirown oxortrd nil his powers for tlio | 
 Holi^ |iin']i()Ni' of i>lciiHiii;; Ikt. 
 
 'MiiTf. wiiH very lit lie (diiiiy (liiiifl liUo cii- 
 tliUNJiisiii iilioiit Liltl)' I)iiilli'i;;li, ami in this 
 rcHiicct lit' ('itl'iTcd very widely from Kilith. 
 Hhii would p) info raplnrcH over I'vcry hfau- 
 tifnl Hct'Oi-. A 111 illiant nKv, arich landNcap)', 
 a ([uict woodland view, all served to excite 
 her adniii'in;^ eoninieiits. Litile Diidlei^li, 
 however, showed no siieli feelinij;. He eon- 
 fessed himself indilferent to natural scenery, 
 and partial only to city life; and while lie 
 aekiiowledj{ed the lieanty of the place, he 
 yet declai'cti that lie found naire to admire 
 ill a (lrawin<;-room or a theatre. | 
 
 Meanwhile the little )iian had not honn 
 Idlo. On his lirst visit after the <'oiiversa- 
 tioii last detailed hi; informed Kdith that he 
 hud written to London, niakin<; ini|niries 
 uhiiid Sir Lionel. A few days afterward he 
 showed Kditli a letter which he saitl he had 
 i'eceive<l from Sir l^ionel's London solicitors. 
 The writer slateil that he did not know 
 whtiio Sir Lionel was, lint that he woidd 
 write to a iirm in Marseilles, who were his 
 hankers and a^^ents. The opinion of the 
 writer was that tin; liaronet was .somt'where 
 aliont I he Mediterranean. This intelli<;ence 
 was rather distressin;; to JCditli, hnt sIk' had 
 tieeii prepared for something; of the kind; ' 
 and as Little Dudleif^h eiicoiirajjed her, and 
 {lointed <int many reasons for hojie, she took 
 heart and hoped for the liest. j 
 
 Accor<linj; to Little Diidleij^h, Sir Jjionel 
 was always traveliiij^. Diirinjf ten or twelve 
 years he said that he had not liecii in En- 
 <;land more than three, or four times. It 
 was on on(! of the.so occasions that he had 
 met with him, anil had received from him 
 certain acts of kindnesH which made him 
 jfratefnl to his lienefactor. Sir Lionel, he ^ 
 said, had been a jjreat traveler, having been 
 fhrouijli every jiart of l^iirope and America, 
 and most of Asia. He was constantly rov- 
 ing aliont to dill'erent iilaees, sometimes liy 
 laud, at other times in his own yacht. This, 
 he thonght, must be the reason why Edith 
 had never heard from him. Personally he 
 was most kind-hearted and generous, and if 
 ho only knew the sitnation in which she was, 
 he would tly to her assistance. 
 
 Little Undleigh also alluded in a general 
 way to Sir Lionel's family troubles. The 
 quarrel with his wih , lie said, hud broken 
 up the baronet's lite, and made him a wan- 
 derer. }le knew nothing about the cause, 
 but had heard that J^ady Dudleigh had been 
 very nuu'h to blame, and had deserted her 
 husband under very painful eircum.stanccs. 
 It was this that liad made the unhappy 
 husband a Avanderer. Lady Dudleigh, ho 
 thought, had died years ago. 
 
 Such was the state of things, according to 
 Little Dudleigh, and Ivlith had only to imiko 
 up her mind to wait until something more 
 deliuitc was kuowu. lu tho mean time, 
 
 however, Little Dmlleigh had not been un- 
 mindful of Miss l'lymplon,liiit wrote a letter 
 to her, which h<t showed to Edith. Kdilh 
 also wrote one, which was inclosed in his. 
 Several wet'ks passed away, but no n^ply 
 was received, and this silence distressed 
 Edith greatly. At length, when she had 
 lost all hope of hearing from her dear friend, 
 a reply came. It was wiilten from Italy, 
 and ICditli read it with feelings of mingled 
 ama;tement and anxiety. 
 
 It was written in a strange hand, and in- 
 formed Lieutenant Diiillcigh that his lettei' 
 and incliisiire had been foiwarded from 
 riympton Terrace, where it had been lirst 
 sent, to Miss riympton's picsent abode at 
 Nice; and went on to say that Miss I'lymi)- 
 ton had come back from Dalton care-worn 
 by anxiety and fatigue, that a severe illness 
 had been the result, and that she had been 
 sent to the south of Krance. The writer 
 stated that shi^ was still too feelile to under- 
 go any excitement, and therefore that Lieu- 
 tenant Dudleigh's letter and ini'losure had 
 not been shown her. As soon as Miss I'lymp- 
 ton's health would admit of it the letters 
 would be given to her. It was uncertain 
 how long she would remain at Nice. They 
 were thinking now of taking her to (icrniany 
 or Switzerland. The school had been broken 
 up for tht^ jircsent. This letter was signetl 
 by ''Allele Swinburne," who said that she 
 was Miss I'lynijiton's " attendant." It was u 
 name that Edith had never heard of liefore. 
 It never occurred to lulith to (ineslion for 
 one moment the authenticity of this letter. 
 She acceiitcd it all as truth, and was tilled 
 with grief. Miss I'lympton, then, had not 
 been forgetful. She had done Avhat she 
 could, and this illness was the residt. It 
 seemed now to Ivlith that the climax of her 
 soirows had been rciched in the sullerings 
 and exiles of her only friend. 
 
 " And now, Mi.ss Dalton," said Little Dud- 
 leigh, after a long silence, in which ho 
 had watched her with resiiectful sympathy, 
 " Avhat do you wish to do f 
 
 " I'm afraid that I shall have to rely upon 
 you altogether," said Edith. 
 I " Yon want something to be done as soon 
 as possible, of course." 
 
 " Of course — nmst earnestly." 
 "You see, then, that both Sir Lionel and 
 Miss Plymiiton are quite out of our reach. 
 If you wish for deliverance you must try 
 something else." 
 
 "What else can I try ?" 
 " Well, the law." 
 
 " The law f Of course, that is just what 
 I wish." 
 
 " It is tedious, remember." 
 "Oh, if I can only make a beginning, I 
 can wait. It isn't my life here, or even my 
 imprisonment, that is intolerable so much 
 as my helplessness, and the thought that I 
 am doing nothing, and the impunity with 
 
THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 77 
 
 which tliis wTftrhnrl Wi^jKiim rarricH out his 
 
 ])III'|H)SI>H. It' I ('(lllltl l>lll\ ktlOW tllllt till* 
 
 iilViiir wiiH in tin; haii*U of li lawyer, I Hiiould 
 r.'cl coiilciit." 
 
 " Yt's, women have a groat faith in law- 
 ycrn." 
 
 "At any rato, tlioro inuNt ho Koiiirthing in 
 tho hiw, altlioiigli it is often liatllcd." 
 
 "Tlicn* oiij^lit to lie, cerlaiiily ; lint of 
 conrHO you iniist lie |ii'i'iiariMl to iiavc your 
 Huit ri'sisfcd. \Vi;j^iiis will also have law- 
 yers, and the aliltst ones that he can lind." 
 
 "Tlieii I must get better tines." 
 
 "Of eonrse." 
 
 "And immediately, too, witliont waiting 
 any longer," saiil Ivlitli, im|iatieiitly. 
 
 "Well, I will get yon oiici as soon as pos- 
 silile, if yon say so." 
 
 "Lieutenant Dndleigh," said Ivlitli, with 
 dee]i emol ion, " yon have claims on my grat- 
 itmle which I can never repay." 
 
 "It is tlit^ haiipiest monient of my life," 
 said Little Dinlleigh, with greater anima- 
 tiim than usual, "since I liav(! heard you 
 say that. Hut don't sjieak of giatiliide. 
 Say, at the most, IViemlsliip. If yon will 
 only accept my humlihs services, they are 
 all yours, and my life too, if necessary." 
 
 "Oh," said Edith, with a smile, "there 
 will he no danger to your life now, you 
 know, if I put my case in the hands of law- 
 yers." 
 
 " Well, now. talking of lawyers," said Lit- 
 tle Dndleigh, " since yon have made up your 
 mind to this, it will lie necessary to bo very 
 cautious in choosing one." 
 
 " I must have the lii'st counsel in England." 
 
 "Certainly, tor Wiggins will lie on the 
 alert. With him (,'very thing is at stake. 
 If he loses, it will he ahsolute ruin. In the 
 coiu'se of the trial his whole past lifo nnist 
 como up." 
 
 "And it ought to como iip," said Edith, 
 indignantly. 
 
 " We must, as yon say, have the best coun- 
 sel in England. An ordinai'y man might 
 ruin all. You must get the best lawyer in 
 London. And now I would not adviso you 
 to choo.so the most eminent one there, f<ir 
 fear lest the ninltitiub* of his engagements 
 might prevent him from giving to your case 
 tho attention wliiidi it re<|nircs. Yon want 
 some one who will give his whole soul to 
 tho case — some shrewd, deeji, wily, crafty 
 man, who uiiderstamls thoroughly all the 
 ins and outs of law, and can circumvent 
 Wiggins in every way." 
 
 " Hut I don't like these wily lawyons," 
 said Edith, doubtfidly. " I prefer honorable 
 men." 
 
 " Yes, certainly, as friends, no doulit you 
 do ; but yon aro not now seeking for a fricmd. 
 You aro on tho look-out for a servant, or, 
 rather, for one who can tight your battle 
 best, and deal tho best and surest blows 
 upon Wiggins." 
 
 " Well, I'm sure I don't know," said Edith, 
 doubtfully. 
 
 "Now I'll tell yon what I'll do, if you'll 
 conseiit," said Little Dndleigh. "I'll go to 
 London and ..eek out th-' ri^lit man myself. 
 There is m use in writing letters. I must 
 go ami explain the thing personally." 
 
 "Lieutenant Dndleigh." said Edith, in 
 deep emotion, " I do not know what to say. 
 Yon really overwhelm me with kindnesses, 
 I can oidy say that you have earned my lift'- 
 loiig gratitude." 
 
 Little Dndleigh shook his head dciirecu- 
 tingly. 
 
 "Miss Dalton," said he, in a tone of ro- 
 sjieetful devotion, "thi^ favor is all yours, 
 and the pleasun- is all mine. Itelieve me, I 
 feel happy beyond exjircssion at being able 
 to do any thing for yon.'' 
 
 And aftersiuiic further conversati<in, Little 
 Dndleigh took his leave. 
 
 "Mow noble and generous he is!" thought 
 Edith, as she watched him walk down the 
 avenue. " Dear Littlt^ Dndleigh, what a 
 pity it is that he is not a few inches taller!" 
 
 CIIAl'TEIJ XXIIL 
 
 Tilt: .MAN ^>V LAW. 
 
 Tin: dejiarture of Dndleigh left Edith to 
 the monotony of her solitary life. If Dinl- 
 leigh had desired to win her alfections, he 
 could certainly have chosen no better way 
 <if doing so, for by this course he made him- 
 self greatly missed, and caused I'.dith to 
 count the days in her impatience for his re- 
 turn. In her loneliness she coidd not help 
 recalling the limirs sh(> had passed with hei' 
 agreeable visitor, and thus was fon^'d to 
 give him a large jiortion of her thoughts. 
 His connection with Sir Lionel scciikmI of 
 itself a recommendatimi of the strongest 
 kiixl, and all that he had <lom' for her, and 
 was still doing, tilled her generous sold with 
 gratitude. 
 
 Thinking thus about him, she recalK'-d his 
 whole manner and a]i]iearance The worst 
 that could lie said against him was that he 
 was eU'eminate. Ibit at any rati^ that was 
 better than being liriital. Otherwise he was 
 fiank and engaging and clever antl gontle- 
 nianly. He had evidently a high sense of 
 honor. He was devoted to her. From the 
 tirst time when he had heard her story down 
 to tho jircsent moment lit! had mit ceased to 
 think for her and to work for her. Even 
 now ho had gone to London to obtain foi' 
 her what ,slio most wanted — tho assistanci; 
 of the law. 
 
 All these things made him ajipoar in a 
 more favorable light than ever. She recalled 
 his heroism and devotion. She considered 
 that he had done as nuich as if he had laid 
 down his lifo for her, siuco ho had oll'cred to 
 
78 
 
 THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 ti 
 
 «lo so, and had only horn prevented hy 
 ln;r prohibition. Littli' Diidlcif^li, then, hIio 
 thonj^ht, with his Klijjlit frame and Hniall 
 hundN, had more real manhood tlian a hun- 
 dred sneli l)ij; hrnte.s an Mowhray. If he 
 is not a true man, who is 1 Conid she ever 
 hope attain to lind so devoted a friend ? Im- 
 j>ossil)le. lie had eonie to her in her very 
 darkest hour ; he hail i-aLfcrly esiKiused her 
 cause, and had devoted Iiiinself with all liis 
 soul to her interests. What more could she 
 wish than this? 
 
 For several wcM'lis Dndleij^h remained 
 away, and Kdith jjjcw excessively im])a- 
 tient. She lieujan to fear foi- his sjifety. In 
 li(>r anxiety she sometimes imaj;ined that 
 Wi<;K'"*< niij;ht liave caused somt^ harm to 
 fall on him in London. Klie recalled all the 
 danfiers of the London streets, of which she 
 liad :-ead in various woi'ks of tietion, and 
 imagined Wi^fijins hirinji; some cut-throat to 
 follow him, .assassinate him at the first o])- 
 portunity, and throw his body into the riv- 
 er. Slie ima<;im'd tliat some rnftian. hired 
 of course by Wiji^ins, mijj;ht tempt him to 
 take a friendly f^lass, dru<; his licjinjr, and 
 tlien dispose of his victim in the same con- 
 venient river. Tlien her mood chanjicd, ami 
 she laufihed at the al)snr<lity of sucii fears, 
 for she w'll knew tiiat he must be jierfectly 
 familiar .tith London lift; and the London 
 streets, so that any thin>f of this kind was 
 nonsensical. Tlien she thonjfht that peiha])s 
 no lawyer would undertake her case w ithoiit 
 money lieinjj; ])aid at once. In fact, all the 
 fears tliat could \w su^^jit'sted by an uneasy 
 mind am! a very vivid imauination came 
 crowdinji before her as the time passed by 
 and I)udleij;h did not return. 
 
 Ihi*^ at last .all her fears came to an end. 
 One morniujr, at the usual hour, she saw his 
 well-known tiirure aiiiiioachinj; the house. 
 In her e.airer joy she hurried at once down 
 stairs, and could scarcely ])reveut herself 
 from rnnninjf down the avenue to meet him. 
 It was with dillieulty that sin; controlled 
 herself, a il waited for him in the drawing- 
 room. 
 
 Li'tle Dudleiuh entered with liis usual 
 calmness and self-^iossession. Kdith greeted 
 him with the warmest welcome. 
 
 " ]}ut you come alone." said she. in a tone 
 of disa]ii)ointment. " You have not been 
 successful."' 
 
 " In one; sense," said he, " I have l)een 
 most success("ui. for I ''ave found the ver> 
 man I wanted. I had to wait for Iiim. tliongli. 
 He was in Lyons when I reached l/ondoii, and 
 I went over for him and brought him here."' 
 
 " Lyons!" exclaimed Kdith. '• Why, that's 
 in France. Did von really go over to 
 France f ' 
 
 " Why not ?" said Dudleigh, calmly. " I 
 HCt forih on a eertair ])nrpose, and I iii ".'ot 
 in the habit of giving up what 1 undertake 
 to ilo. Besides, you forget for whom that 
 
 I ImsincsH was nndertaken, and the impulse 
 that drovt! me forward." 
 
 Edith looked at the floor and said nothing. 
 She felt under such obligations to him that 
 sh(» hardly knew what to say. 
 
 " I should like to have lironght the; lawyer 
 
 liere at once," he continued, "but ilid not. 
 
 He is now in this neighborhood, however. 
 
 The reason why I did not bring him now 
 
 was ])ecans(! I wished lirst to set; AN'iggins 
 
 myself. Ho must l)e prejjared, or lus may 
 
 I make trouble. I wish to frighten him into 
 
 ; allowing him to ))ass. I shall have to make 
 
 up some jdausible story, however, to account 
 
 f(U' his visiting you. I have not yet decided 
 
 <1n what it shall be. I think, however, that 
 
 the lawyer had better come here aloiu'. You 
 
 will, of course, know that li(^ is to be trusted. 
 
 I You may say to him, in fact, whatever you 
 
 like." 
 
 i " Hut wouldn't it be better for you to be 
 : ]>resent also?" said Edith. " I may reipiire 
 your advice." 
 
 "Thank you, Hiss Dalton. I .assure you 
 I value most highly every exi)ression of your 
 eonfidcniee. Ihit I tliink it will be better 
 I for you to see him alone. He will give you 
 his card. His nanu! is J5arbei\ If I were to 
 I come w ifh him, Wiggins might suspect. At 
 the sauK^ time, I don't know, after all, but 
 I that I may change my mind anil come with 
 him. lint in any eas(^ yini may talk to him 
 freely. He has not beim idle, for he has al- 
 ready mastered your whoh; situation. Yon 
 may trust him Just as much as yon trust me. 
 ' You may, in fact, regiird him the same as 
 me." 
 
 " And he will be hero to-morrow ?" said 
 Edith. 
 " Yes." 
 
 " I know you hate ex]>ressions of gr.ati- 
 
 tude," said l",ditli, after a ])ause ; " but I can 
 
 only say that my ow" <'ratitn(lt! -s beyond 
 
 expression. You ha\ en me hope — " 
 
 I "Say nothing about it," said DiuUeigh, 
 
 'interrupting her. "That will bo the best 
 
 i thaidis, though really I have done nothing 
 
 I to merit thanks. Duty and honor both im- 
 
 ])elled me to serve you, without mentioning 
 
 — any — a — deeper and stronger feeling." 
 
 Edith again looked at the floor. She sus- 
 pected the exif-tence of this stronger feeling, 
 and did not altogether like to thiidc of il. 
 H(!r own feelings toward him were singularly 
 coed, and she did not wish him to be other- 
 wise. His general cahuuess of denieanof 
 was very pleasant to her. and his occasional 
 allusions to any deejx'r sentiment than com- 
 mon, few though they Avere, troubled lior 
 greatly. What if he should seek as his re- 
 ward that which he; surely had a right to 
 hope for — her ' ind ? Coidd she give it.' 
 i On the other hand, could slie have the heart 
 I to refuse it f The ulternative was not pleas- 
 ; ant. 
 I On the following day, while Edith was 
 
 J^^ 
 
THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 79 
 
 was 
 
 waitiii}; in f^n^iii impatience, a stranger came 
 to tlio Hall to call upon her. 
 
 Till! Htrun^cr was a sniall-sizcd niaii, with 
 round fshould'T.s, j;ray liair, buMliy eyebrows, 
 and sallow skin. JIo wore sjteei.iv'los, his 
 clothes were of f;oo(l material, hut rather 
 loose lit, betokenin;; one who was indili'erent 
 to dress. His hoots wen; loose, his j^loves 
 also, and an unil)r<'lla which ho carried, Ix;- 
 inj; without a hand, had a ba<;,u;y a))i>ear- 
 ance, which was (piito in keci)iiij; with the 
 y;(!neral stylt! of this man's costtiuic. He 
 looked to Edith so much likts a lawyer that 
 she could not help wonderin<^ at the com- 
 jileteness with which one's prol'essiou stamps 
 itself U])on the exterior. 
 
 "I am sent," said the stran<j;er, after a 
 In-ief, stilf salutation, "by Lieutenant Dud- 
 leij:;h, to comnumicate with you about your 
 present jjosition. I take it for jfranted that 
 wo shall not bo overheard, and jiniposo to 
 carry on this conversation in as low a tone 
 as ])ossiljle." 
 
 Sayini^ this, the stranjfcr to(dc a (piiek, 
 sharp {^lanco throuj;li his spectacles around 
 the room. 
 
 His voice was dry and thin, his manner 
 abrupt and stilf and business-like. Kvi- 
 dently ho was a dried-ii)) lawyer, wliosti 
 whole life had iiceu itassed anionjj; parch- 
 miMits. 
 
 Edith assured him that from wliere they 
 were sittinjj; they could not bo overheard if 
 they spoke in a moderutely low voice. This 
 a))peared to satisfy the stranj^er, and after 
 another survey of the room, lie dniw forth 
 from his breast pocket a wallet tilled with 
 pajiers — a well-worn, fat, business-like, 
 wallet — and takiufi from this a card, he 
 rose stilily and held this toward Edith. 8he 
 toidv it, and glancing over it read the ad- 
 dress : 
 
 II E \ 11 Y B A U li E R, 
 
 soi.iorroii, 
 
 Inner Tcnipk', London. 
 
 EtUth bowed. " Lieutenant Hudleigh told 
 :iie your name," said slu!. 
 
 "And now," said ht>, "let us jiroceed to 
 business, for my time is limited. 
 
 " ]>ieiitenaiit Dudlcigh," \\t\ benan, "has 
 already explained to me, in a general way, 
 the state of your alfairs. He t'oiuid me at 
 Lyons, where I was engaged in some iniiior- 
 tant business, and ina.de me come to ]>ngland 
 at once. He directe(l tw verbally, though 
 not formally or in jiroper order, to investigate 
 as nimdi as 1 could aliout your allairs liet'ore 
 coming here, and reipiested me to ' insider 
 myselt as your solicitor. That, I suppose, is 
 ipiite correct, is it not?" 
 
 "It is," said Edith. 
 
 "Under these circunistiinces," continued 
 ISarber, " I at once went to tin; proper (piai- 
 ter, and investigated the will of your late 
 father; for yoiu' wliolt! position, as yon mast 
 bo uware, depends upou that. Of course no 
 
 will cjvn deprive you of your lawful iulierit- 
 anco in real estate, which the law of the 
 country sc(;ures to you and yours fon^ver ; 
 but yet it may surround you with certain 
 restrictions more or less liinding. Now it 
 was my object to see about the nature of 
 these restrictions, and so uudcrstai: 1 your 
 peculiar position." 
 
 Here 15arber jiaiised, and taking out his 
 wallet, drew from it a slij) of jiajier on which 
 he had ])encile(l some memoranda. 
 
 "In the multiplicity of my legal cares, 
 Miss Halton," \n: continued, "I lind it nec- 
 essary to jot down notes with reference to 
 each individual ease. It pn^vents confu- 
 sion and saves time, both of which an,-, to 
 a lawyer, cousideratious of the utmost mo- 
 ment. 
 
 "And now, with reference to your case, 
 first of all, the will and the business of the 
 guardianship — let us see about that. Ac- 
 cording to this will, you, the heir, are left 
 under the care of two guardians for a cer- 
 tain time. Oneof these guanlians is on tin; 
 spot. The other is not. Each of these men 
 hi'.s equal powers. Each one of these is 
 trustee for yon, and guardian of you. But 
 one has no )iower superior to the other. 
 'I'liis is what the wili distinctly lays down. 
 Of course. Miss Dalton, you will perceive 
 that the first necessary tiling is to know 
 this. What are the powers of a gnardian 1 
 Is it notf" 
 
 Edith bowed. Thi; mention of two guard- 
 ians had tilled her with eager cMiiosity, 
 but she repressed this feeling for the ]ires- 
 ent, so as not to interrujit tin; lawyer in his 
 speech. 
 
 j "What, then, are the powers of a giiard- 
 ! iau? To express this in the simplest way, 
 j so that you can understand those powers 
 I jierfcctly, a guardi;in stands, as the law liJi.-i 
 it, (»i Inn) pdniilix — which me;ins that he is 
 the s.'ime ;is a father. TIk^ fatliiT dies; he 
 per]petuates his authority by handing it 
 over to another. He is not dead, then. The 
 mtiii dies, Imt the father lives in tlu^ person 
 of the guardian wliiun he may have aiijioiut- 
 ed. Such," said Mr. Barber, with indescrib- 
 able enqiliasis -"such, Miss Dallon, i, the 
 LAW. You must know," he continued, " that 
 the law is vtU'y explicit on the sul)ject of 
 guardianshi]). Once make a man a guard- 
 ian and, as I have remarked, he forthwith 
 stands in loco imrrnli-i, ;ind the ward is his 
 <hild in the ej-e of the LAW. Do you under- 
 stand?" 
 
 I " Yes," said Edith, in a desjio dent tone. 
 
 She felt disapiiointment ■•ind discimiageuieMl 
 
 I at hearing all this, and could ,/nly lio[)(^ tliai^ 
 
 there would lie something yet which would 
 
 open better ]iros])ects, 
 
 "Such, then, are tlie powers of a gnard- 
 ian," continued IJaiber. "They are ver>' 
 strong, and that will, l>y giving yi guard- 
 ians, has tied you np." 
 
80 
 
 THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 'I' 
 
 "But I am of aso," fi!ii<l Edith, meekly. 
 
 Barber waved lii.s hand sli^^htly. " Tliat," 
 said lie, " is a jjoiiit which I HJiall eousid- 
 cr prcHently. JiiKt now I will say this — 
 that the fraiiier of that will considered all 
 these ])oints, and arran<;ed that the j;nard- 
 ianslii]) should continue until such tiini^ as 
 you inifilit olitiiin anotiicr f^uardian of an- 
 other kind, liefore whom all others uie i)ow- 
 ••rless." 
 
 "But who arc my <j;uardians?" asked 
 lOditli, in {^reat excitement, unable any lon- 
 <;cr to repress her curiosity. "One is Wig- 
 f;ins, I know. Who is the other?"' 
 
 " One," said ]{arber, " is, as yon s;iy, John 
 Wiji'Kins; the other is Sir Lioiud J>iulleijj;li." 
 
 "(-■;r J.ioncl l)iidlciy;li!" exelaimeil Editli, 
 while a feeling' ol i)rol'ound satisfaction came 
 to her. " Oil, how }j;lad I am !" 
 
 " It is indeed a f^ood thiiij; that it is so," 
 said Barlter; '' but, unfortunalt'ly, he can not 
 at jiresent be of service. For wliere is he? 
 He is in jiarts unknown. He is out of the 
 • •ounliy. He is, for the present, the same as 
 1houj;h he were dead. It is not jiroliable 
 that he has hc^ard of your father's death, or 
 of the existence of this will, unless, indeed, 
 Mr. \\'i<j;f;inH has taken the troubles lo find 
 out whi're he is, an<l send him th(> informa- 
 tion. That, howi!ver, is not likely. How, 
 then, is it with you? You have, in ])oint 
 of fact, at th(' Jiresent tinu; virtiuiUy but one 
 tiiKifdidii. He is hero on the spot. Ho is 
 exert iiij; liis authority, and you assert, I 
 think, that he sulijects yoa to a sort of ini- 
 juisonnient. Miss Dalton, he has a right to 
 do this." 
 
 Saving this, Barber was silent for a mo- 
 ment, and lo(dved at J'.dith, and then at the 
 lloor. On the other hand, she looked stead- 
 fastly at him; but her hand trembled, and 
 an exiiicssion of utter hopelessness came 
 over her face. 
 
 "Is that all that you have to ti'll mo?" 
 tihe said at last, in a des]iairing voice. 
 
 " Certainly not. Miss l)alt(Ui," said Barber 
 — " certainly not. I have much more to say. 
 But iirst it was necessary to exjilain y(Mir 
 ])osition, and lay down the i.avv. There is 
 only one reason why you sent for me. and 
 why I came. You wish, by some means or 
 other, to get free from the control of this 
 guardian, .John ^Viggins." 
 
 "Yes," sai<l Kdii h. earnestly. 
 
 "Very well," said Barber. "I know .all 
 about that. I have l)een iuformeil by Lieu- 
 tenant l)udh>igh. You wish in some way or 
 odier to gitin yoiu" freedom. Now in ordi>r 
 to do this tin re ar(> two ditl'erent ways. Miss 
 Dalton, and only two. The first is to find 
 your otlier guardian, ami obtain his assist- 
 iinee. AVho is he? Sir Lionel Dudleigh. 
 Where is he ? No one knows. What tlien ? 
 He nuist be foniul. You nuist semi out emis- 
 saries, messengers, detectives, in sluirl ; you 
 must semi off some one who will find Jiim 
 
 Avherever lie, is, and make him acquainted 
 with your position. But sujipose that yon 
 can not find him, or that he is indifferent to 
 your intenists — a thing which is certainly 
 l)ossible— what then ? What are you to do ? 
 You are then under the control of John Wig- 
 gins, your renniining guardian ; and it re- 
 mains to be seen whether, ])y tin; jirovisions 
 of tli(,' will, there is any other way in which 
 you may eseajie from that control. Now tli<^ 
 will has madi! provisi<nis, and liore is the 
 other of those two ways of escape of vvhieh 
 I spoke. This is nuirriage. If you were, to 
 marry, that moment ycni would lie fre(! from 
 the control of John Wiggins; and not only 
 so, but he would at once be eomptdled to «iuit 
 tin; ])remises, and hand in his accounts. Of 
 eonise his objvct is to ]irevent any thing of 
 that kind, which would be so ruinous to Iiim, 
 and therefore he will keep yon shut nj), if 
 jiossilile, as long as hi; lives; but if you 
 should adopt this way of escape. Miss Dal- 
 ton, yon would turn the tables at once; and 
 if, as I have understood is the case, he has 
 made any misapiiropriatioiis of money, or 
 defalcations of any kind, lie will be bound to 
 make tlieni good, to the uttermost farthing. 
 Such, Miss Dalton, is the i.AW." 
 
 "And I have no lietlei' ]irospect than 
 this?" exclaimed Edith, in deei) dejection. 
 
 "Those, Miss Dalton, arc the only two 
 conrs(>s jiossilde." 
 
 "And if Sir Lionel can not be found ?" 
 
 "Tlien you will have to fall back on the 
 other alternative." 
 
 "But that is out of the (lucstion." 
 
 "Such, imfortunately, are the only pro- 
 \ jsicuis of the will." 
 
 "Then there is no hope," sighed Edith. 
 
 "Ho])e? Oh yes! There is plenty of 
 hojie. In the first place, I would urge you 
 to lose no time in searching after vour un- 
 cle." 
 
 " I shall do so. AVill yon see to it ?" 
 
 "I will do all that I cii i. You wish me. 
 of coiu'se, to act in connection with Lieuteu- 
 ant Dudleigh." 
 
 " Of course." 
 
 "I will begin at once. And now I must 
 go." 
 
 The lawyer put his memoranda back in 
 the wall(>t, restoring the latter to his pocket, 
 and fook his hat. 
 
 "But nmst I remain a prisoner here?" 
 cried I'.dith. " Is thei'c no law to free me — 
 none whatevei'? After all, I am a, British 
 subject, and I have always understood that 
 in l-jigland no cme can be imprisoned with- 
 o;t a trial." 
 
 " You are a w.ard. Miss Dalton. and guard- 
 ians can control t4n'ir wards, as parents con 
 trol chil.lreii." 
 
 " But i>a rents can not control children who 
 are of age." 
 
 "A ward is under age till the tinn^ speci- 
 lii'd in the legal instrument that appoints 
 
THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 81 
 
 iMi who 
 
 lo s])Ot'i- 
 lliptiiutfi 
 
 "SL'CH, MISS DAI.TON, IS THK 1-AW!' 
 
 the {;tiiir(li,an. You, uiit il marriage, arc what 
 the, law calls an 'infant.' Hut <lo not bo 
 (lisconraj^ed, Miss Dalton. We will hunt up 
 Sir Lionel, and if he can he found wo will 
 l)rin<,' liini hack to England." 
 
 Saying this, in the same dry, I)usiness-liko 
 tone t hat he, had used all along, Barber bow- 
 ed himself out. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 NKW OHLIOATIONS. 
 
 That interview with the lawyer left Edith 
 in a state of the deepest dejection. She had 
 certainly not anticipated any thing likt^ this, 
 ."^lie (expected that measures would ;it once 
 lie taken to carry on a contest with Wiggins, 
 and give her her lawful rights, and aliove all 
 li?r freedom. It nevt'r for a moment entered 
 her mind to (piestion the truth of a siijgle 
 statement that liarber had made. His wlu)l(! 
 comnmnicatiou with her was of the mo."t 
 liusincss-like character, as it .seemed to her, 
 and she thought he must be eminent in his 
 jirofessiou, (U- else Dudlcigh woiihl not have 
 employed him. And this was th(! end of all 
 that hope in which slie had been indulging! 
 Her freedom now seemed farth(>r removed 
 ihan (^ver. How could Sir Lionel ever be 
 found? According to Undlcigli, he lived 
 the lile of a wanderer, and left no trace 
 behind him. Il was haril for her to tliink 
 that her only hope deiiendcd upon timling 
 liiin. 
 
 V 
 
 On tlio following day Dudlcigh came, 
 looking as ealm and as unrullled as usual. 
 
 "Harber has gone back," said he. "I 
 k/i(>w before what he was going to tell von. 
 I had not the lieart to tell you myself, or 
 ev(!n to 1)0 here when he was telling you." 
 
 " It might have saved mo sonio disappoint- 
 ment il'i/«M had told iiu\" 
 
 " Ihit the(lisap]iointment would have been 
 as great, ami I had not the heart to inillct 
 sorrow myself ujion you ! I luiow, after IJar- 
 ber had explained it to me, how 1 felt ; and I 
 can t'orm some idea of tho nature of your 
 feelings." 
 
 "So tliere is nothing to be done," said 
 Edith, with a sigh. 
 
 " I'ardon me, there is very much inileed to 
 lie done, though whether it will result in 
 anv thing remains to be seen." 
 
 "What can J do?" 
 
 " Do? Whv, as Barber said, hunt up Sir 
 Lionel." 
 ! " I'll never find him." 
 j " Yes, vou can," 
 i "How"?" 
 
 i "By searching, of course. And that is 
 wliat I have come about now." 
 
 " Have you thought of any thing new ?" 
 
 "Xo, nothing. I merely came to make a 
 proposal." 
 
 " What is it ?" asked Edith, languidly ; for 
 now Ihi're seemed no chance for any t liing. 
 
 "It is this," said Dniileigii. "I pioposu, 
 if you will allow me, to go myself." 
 
 " You I"exebuuiod Edith, in great surprise. 
 
 '.i 
 
82 
 
 THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 " Yoa." 
 
 " Hut can you obtain loavo to go f You 
 will have to g" aliioad, won't you !" 
 
 " Y»'s, of course." 
 
 " Hut can j-ou leave your re<i;iment ?" 
 
 "Oh yes. I can fj;(>t leave of ali.seuee for 
 as loufx a time as will l)e nee(le<l for that, I 
 think, without difficulty. In fa(-t, before 
 leaviuf? London, as soon as I heard Barlmr's 
 opinion, I put in my recjuest at once for two 
 months' leave, and I have every reason to be- 
 lieve that they will allow it. I have one 
 or tw(' influential friends, you know." 
 
 "And will you really K"^' asked Edith, in 
 toiu\s of dee|) feeliuff, with all her gratitude 
 evident in her tcnie and expression. 
 
 " Y(f8, if you will allow inc." 
 
 "I? — allow you? I am only too glad to 
 have a friend who is willing to und(;rtake 
 such a thing for me in my distress." 
 
 "There is nothing. Miss Dalton, which I 
 would not undertake for yon." 
 
 "Von are overwhelming nu) with obliga- 
 tions," said Edith. " What you have already 
 done is more than I can ever repay." 
 
 " Do not Hi)eak of obligations," said Dnd- 
 leigh, earnestly. "My best reward is the 
 thought tiiat I may have given you even a 
 temporary relic^f." 
 
 "Von have given me much happiness," 
 said Edith, earnestly; "and if it i)r()ves to 
 be only temporary it will not he your fault. 
 You overwhelm me with a sense of obliga- 
 tion." 
 
 "Now really, Miss Dalton, if yon talk in 
 that way, you will mak(! me feel ashamed. 
 .\fter all, what have 1 (bine 1 Nothing more 
 than any gentleman would do. Hut do not 
 say a word about it again. Let it be taken 
 for granted that I do this from a selfish mo- 
 live— simply to i)l<!ase mysc^lf, you kiiow ; 
 simply because I love — to do it." 
 
 Dudleigh spoke in his usual quiet way, 
 without any jiarticular ardor, although once 
 or twice his voice grew uu)re earnest than 
 usual. Edith said nothing. She fidt a lit- 
 tle emljarrassed, but the self-possession of 
 Dudley was ])erfeet; he hinted strongly at 
 l(»ve, \jiit seemed not at all like an anient 
 lover. He hxdied and acted simi)ly like a 
 friend; and as Edith needed a iVii^nd above 
 all things, she was glad to accept his serv- 
 ices. 
 
 "My present plan," said he, "can bo easi- 
 ly explained. Sir Lionel seems to be some- 
 where about the Mediterranean. Any letters 
 that are sent to him have to be din>eted to 
 Messrs. Chatellon, Comeanx, and Co., Mar- 
 seilles, who forward them to him. I have 
 already written to these gentlemen, asking 
 where he is; but when they sent their reply 
 they did not know. They stated, however, 
 that on hearing from him they would let me 
 know. Hut to wait i'or an answer fnun these 
 gentlemen would be too great a trial for your 
 patience. You can not be satisfied, nor co'>ld 
 
 I, unless something is being done. It would 
 simply kill you to wait here, day afler day, 
 week after week, month after month, for let- 
 ters that would iu;ver come. Nothing is so 
 terrible. You must send sonui one. Now I 
 think that the best one you can send is my- 
 self, and I hope I speak without vanity. No 
 mere hiri'ling can go on this service. The 
 one who gol^s should have different motives, 
 and for my i)art I should fetd thi". search to 
 have a personal interest, and should work 
 for yini as I would for myself." 
 
 "Oh, Lieutenant Dudleigh," said Edith. 
 " there is no need for nu) to say how I should 
 feel about a search made by yon. I refrain 
 from expr(!ssions of gratitude, since you for- 
 bid them ; and so I do not know what to 
 say." 
 
 "Say nothing, then, and — I do not like 
 to say it, but I must — hope for nothing. If 
 you hope, you nuiy b(^ disappointeel. If you 
 do Tiot ho])e, you can not be. Hut in any 
 ease, whether you ai'e disai>pointed or not, 
 renuMubcr this — that in si)ite of these musty 
 lawyers, if the worst comes to the worst you 
 have one steadfast friiMid, and that if you 
 say the word I will force a way for you 
 through those gates. If yon ever fticl dis- 
 couraged, renujmber that. It is a great pre- 
 ventive against despair to know that you 
 have an alternative of soiiu; kind. And now 
 I will take my d<!partnre, for the train will 
 leave soon, and I must go at once." 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 THE SOURCES OF THE NILE. 
 
 At length, after an absence, of four or five 
 weeks, Dudleigh returned. Edith had tried 
 hard not to hojje, so as to bo i)rei)ared for a 
 disappointnuMit ; but after all, in spite of lu'r 
 effoits, she could not ludp hoping. Slit; ]iut 
 gre.at confidence in Dudleigh's energy and 
 perseverance, and thought that he would be 
 able not only to find out when; Sir Lionel 
 might be, but even to see him. and make 
 him acquainted with her situation. He had 
 already done so much for her that it seemed 
 quite possibhs for him to do this. As the 
 days ])ass(;d by she found herself looking 
 forward to his return a:, the time of h 'V cer- 
 tain deliverance, until id length hope grew 
 into confidence, and the idea of (iisapi)oint- 
 ment was completely driven away. 
 
 At last he came, and his first ajjiiearance 
 put to flight all her ho])es, and filled hei' 
 with a nameless terror. lie looked dejected 
 and weary. He asked after her health, and 
 whether she h.-id been in any way molested : 
 after which Edith entreated him to tell her 
 the worst. 
 
 " For you bring bad innvs," said she— -"I 
 se(' it in your face. Tell me the worst." 
 
 Dudleigh mournfully shook hi'i head. 
 
THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 83 
 
 " Yon bave not found bini, tlioii f" I 
 
 " No." I 
 
 " Hilt yon niiiHt have lioanl sonictliinj; 
 iiboiit him. He is ut louHt ulive, is he , 
 
 not r j 
 
 " I don't know even that." ! 
 
 " What ! has any tliinj; hapjtened to him ?" 
 
 "Not that I know of. IJiit lie has wtarted 
 (inahmgand iierihjusexeursion ; and wlietli- 
 < r he will ever return or not is more than I 
 can .s:iy." i 
 
 "Then there is no hope," said Edith, in a | 
 voice of despair. j 
 
 Dndlei>;h was silent for a time. j 
 
 " I will tell yon all," he replied at length. 
 "When I left you I went at onct! to Mar-' 
 sfilles. I called on Sir Lionel's afjents there, 
 hut found that they had heard no1hin<;- from 
 him whatever. They said that when he last 
 left tliat city he had gone to Turkey. I then 
 set off for Constantinople, and spent a week 
 there, tryinji; to find some traces of him. At 
 the- 15ritish Embassy they said that he had 
 only rtMnained uiw day in the city, anil had 
 theuf^oneiu his yacht, which he had bron;;ht 
 with him, on a cruise in the IMaek Sea. lint 
 whether he had returned or not ikj one knew, j 
 At last I met with a merchant who knew 
 him, and he told me that h(^ had returned 
 aiul fjone to Athens. I went to Athens, and 
 found that he had Ixh'u there at one of the 
 hotels, the landlord of which informed me 
 that he had spent three days there and had 
 left for parts unknown. I left letters at each 
 of these places, and sent others to Smyrna, i 
 IJeyrout, Jaffa, and Ah'xandria. Then I re- 
 turned to Marseilh^s. There, to my surprise, ' 
 1 learned that, a few days after 1 left, they ■ 
 had heard from Sir Lionel, who was in Alex- 
 andria, and about to start on the maddest 
 expedition that was ever 'leard of — a jour- 
 ney up the Nile, into tl" maccessilile re- 
 ffions of Ci'Utral Africa — to try to discover 
 the Kotu'ces of that river. He simply an- 
 nounced to bis ajjents that all his ])r('para- 
 tions Avere completed, and tliat be would 
 leave immediately. What could I do then ? 
 I did the only thing there was to be done, and 
 hnrri<\l to Alexandria. Of course he had left 
 the i)laee befor(i my letter reached it; .and I 
 learned that from the rai)id way in which he 
 net out he must already be far out of reach. 
 Even then I would have gone after him. and 
 tracked him to the sources of the Nile thi>m- 
 selves, if 1 had been altle. Hut I had no ex- 
 perience in travel of that kind. I couldn't 
 nuuiage a band of Arabs, for I didn't know 
 a word of their la:ij;uage, and of C(uirse i 
 could iu)t stojt to study it. That idea wouhl 
 have been al)surd. liesiiles, other reasons 
 had weight with me, and so I came rebic- 
 tantly back." 
 
 "Africa! the sources of the Nile!" ex- 
 claimed Edit!), dolefully. " I can't tinder- 
 stand why be should liave chosen those 
 places." 
 
 "Well, it is no new idea. It is a tiling 
 that \w has had in his mind for years. I 
 have heard him talk of it long ago. I re- 
 nu'inber hearing him once say that the only 
 chancer now remaining by which a man could 
 gain brilliant distiiustion was the discovery 
 of the sources of the Nile. Every otlier part 
 of the world, be said, is known." 
 
 "How long should you think be might 
 be absent on such a journey t" iwked Edith, 
 anxiously. 
 
 "How long? Ah! Miss Dalton, so long 
 that it slmuld not be thought of. Years 
 must (dapse before he returns." 
 
 "Years!" 
 
 "Yes — if he ever does return,"' said l">ud- 
 leigh, in a mournful voice. "With him now 
 the (inestion is not, When will he return? 
 but rather. Will he ever return? It is, as 
 yon nmst know, ii most desperate and hope- 
 less undertaking. For thousands of years 
 men have tried that journey, and failed." 
 
 " Ibit may he not be batllcd and turn liack ? 
 There is some hoi)e in tluit. He Avill find 
 out that it is imjiossible.'' And Edith for a 
 mcunent gras])ed at that thought. 
 
 " You will think nu^ one of .Fob's comfort- 
 ers," said Dndleigh, with a mel;incholy smile. 
 " Hut I think it is a jxtor nnirlv of friendshiji 
 to hide till! truth. It is better for you to 
 know all now. The fact is, there would be 
 some bojie of his return if he were, any other 
 than Sir Lionel Dndleigh. But being what 
 he is, he will follow his ])urpose to flit; end. 
 Ho is a num of untlinching courage and in- 
 flexible determination. More than this, he 
 announced to his friends before he left that 
 lie would either tiring back the truth about 
 the sources of the Nile, or else he would not 
 come back at all. So now he has not only 
 bis resolution to impel him, but bis pride 
 also." 
 
 "This hope, then, fails me utterly," said 
 Edith, after a long pausi'. 
 
 " I fear so." 
 
 " He is, in fact, the same as dead." 
 
 "Y'es, as far as you are concerned, and 
 your present needs." 
 
 "This is terrible!" 
 
 " Miss Dalton, I do not know what to say. 
 I can only say that my heart aches for you. 
 I didayed on the road, because I could not 
 bear to bring this news to you. Then I 
 wrote a lettor, and thought of sending that, 
 but I feared yon might not get it. 1 > oiild 
 not bear to see you in sorrow." 
 
 " Yon, at least, l^ienteiiant Dndleigh,'' said 
 Edith, earnestly, "bave acted toward me 
 like a true friend and a true gentleman. No 
 one (;oul<l have done more. It is some con- 
 soli'tion to know that every thing which was 
 possible; has been done." 
 
 Tlwre was now a long pause. Eacli one 
 was lost in thought. Edith's sad face wa« 
 turne(l lowanl Dndleigh. lint she did not 
 notice him. She was wrajnicd in her own 
 
84 
 
 THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 < 
 
 : 
 
 I it 
 
 i' 
 
 
 thoiightfl, and wondering how long who could 
 endiiro the: liCo tliiit now lay lu'foro her. 
 
 "Miss Dalton," Hiiid Diidlrif^h at length, 
 in a mournful voice, "I have to leave at 
 ouco to join my rei^iincnt, for my h;avo is 
 up, and it may be some time before I boo you 
 again." 
 
 ]!(» paused. 
 
 EdiMi looked at him earnestly, fearful of 
 what she thought might bo coming. Would 
 it bo a confcHsion of lovt- ? How strong that 
 lovo must ho which had proui))t('d him to 
 such devotion! And yet slii! could not re- 
 turn it? Yet if he said any tiling about it, 
 what could she say ? Could she refuse, one 
 who had done so much, one who loved her 
 so deeply, ono who was the only friend now 
 loft her ? 
 
 "It is lieart-1)real<ing to leave you here. 
 Miss Dalton," he continniid, " among unscru- 
 pulous (MKiUiies. When I am away 1 shall be 
 distracted by a thousand fears about you. 
 How can you endure this life? And yet I 
 might do something to save yon from it. 
 My own life is at your disposal. Do you 
 wish to bo free now ? Will you have that 
 gate opened, and lly V 
 
 Edith said not a word. Sho was filled 
 with extreme agitation. Fly! J)id that 
 mean to lly with him ? to escape with a 
 lover? and then — what? 
 
 "If you wish to escape now, at this mo- 
 ment, Miss Dalton, all that you have to do 
 is to go ont with me. I am armed. If there 
 is any resistance, I can force a way through. 
 The first man that dares to bar the way 
 dies. As for me, if I fall, 1 shall ask nothing 
 more." 
 
 And saying this, Dudleigh looked at Edith 
 inquiringly. 
 
 But Edith faltered. Her horror of Idood- 
 shed was great. Was her situation so des- 
 perate that she could sacrifice a human life 
 to gain her freedom? P(!rhaj)s that life 
 might be Dudleigh's. Could she risk the 
 life of the man who had done so nnnli for 
 her ? She could not. No, after all, she 
 shrank from gaining her freedom at such 
 a risk. 
 
 Then, again, if she were free, where conld 
 sho go ? 8he knew now how utterly forlorn 
 sho was. Miss Plymi)ton was gone, and Sir 
 Lionel was gone. There were none left. She 
 <!Ould not live without money, and all her 
 vast propc-'rty was under the control of an- 
 other. Dudb'igh had said nothing about 
 this. He had said nothing about love ei- 
 ther ; and slits was grateful for his (hdicacy. 
 Did he intend in his deep devotion to sup- 
 port her himself, or what did he intend ? 
 
 "You hesitate. Miss Dalton," said he at 
 last. " Have you your old fear about blood- 
 sheil?" 
 
 " 1 can not bear to risk such a s.icrifico," 
 said Edith. 
 
 " Hut ono has a right to Hy from slavery, 
 
 and to destroy any one who tries to prevent 
 his escape." 
 
 " I can not," said Edith. " The blood that 
 might be shed would stain all my life. Bet- 
 ter to (Miduro my mis(!ry as best I can. It 
 must become far worse before I can consent 
 to any thing so terril)lo as the death of a fel- 
 low-being." 
 
 " You may yet con.sont oven to that, may 
 you not?" 
 
 " I don't know." 
 
 " Wfdl, if you do, you have ono on whom 
 
 you can rely. At any rati", I do not think 
 
 there is any reason for you to fear downright 
 
 cruelty here. Tin; law protects yon from 
 
 i that. Just as it ])rot<!cts a child. You an; 
 
 j not a caplivi! in tlie hands of one of those 
 
 I old feudal barons whom we read about. 
 
 I You are simply a ward iiiuhu- the control of 
 
 I a guardian — a thing most odious to oiks like 
 
 ; yon, yet one whicli does not make you liablt; 
 
 i to any jjliysical (svil. JSut this is ])oor com- 
 
 j fort. I know that your position will be- 
 
 i coiiK! more intolerable as time goes on ; and, 
 
 Miss Dalton, whenever you can bear it no 
 
 I longer, remenilier that I am ready. Your 
 
 only danger would be if I should haiipen to 
 
 ] be ordered out of England. But even tiieu 
 
 I would (U'der Barber to watch over you." 
 
 Edith sighed. Her future seemed dark 
 indeed. Tlie eliaiico that Dudleigh might 
 bo ordered to America or India tilled her 
 with new alarm. 
 Dudleigh rose to go. 
 
 " In six or eight weeks," said he, " I hope 
 to come again. I shall never forget you, but 
 day and night I shall be planning for your 
 happiness." 
 
 ile took her hand as ho said this. Edith 
 noticed that the hand wliitdi held hers was 
 as cold as ice. He raised her hand and 
 pressed it to his lips. 
 Soon after he left. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVL 
 
 A TirnEATKMNG LKTTER. 
 
 Ox the day after this departure of Dud- 
 leigli, Edith found .'i hitter lying on her ta- 
 ble. It was address(;d to her in that stitV, 
 constrained hand which she knew so well as 
 belonging to that oiteniy of her life and of 
 her race — John Wiggins. With some curi- 
 osity as to this motive which he might have 
 in thus writing to her, sho opened the letter, 
 and read Uw Ibllowing: 
 
 "Dkau Miss Daltov, — I feel myself in- 
 capable of susrainiiig another interview with 
 you, and I am therefore reduced to tin; neces- 
 sity of writing. 
 
 " I have been deeply pained for a long 
 time at t\w recklessness with which you re- 
 cei\e total strangers as visitors, and admit 
 
if Dud- 
 hor tii- 
 it stitV, 
 well as 
 and of 
 ^o curi- 
 \i biivo 
 i letter, 
 
 Iclf iii- 
 
 [x with 
 
 neces- 
 
 ■i lon^ 
 roil rc- 
 ladiuit 
 
 THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 85 
 
 thom to your confidcnro. I have already 
 warned you, hut my warniiij^s were reeeiv(Hl 
 l>y you in Hiieh a manner as to prevent uiy 
 enconnteriiif; another interview. 
 
 "I write now to inform you that for your 
 own Hake, your own future, and your own 
 <;ood name, it i.s my tixed iiilention to ]>ut a 
 Htop to these interviewH. 'J'liis must he done, 
 whatever may hc! tin? eost. You nuist un- 
 derstand from this tliat there is nothing left 
 for you l)ut to oliey. 
 
 " If after this you allow these adventurers 
 one Min)j;le interview more, I shall ho. under 
 llie unpleasant necessity of limitinjj; your 
 freedom to an extent that may be painful to 
 you, and even still more so to niysclf. 
 
 "Yours, .John Wkkiins."' 
 
 Edith read this letter over and over aj^aiu, 
 with many minf;led fi'elinns. Wijrjfiiis had 
 left her so mtieli to herself of late that she 
 liad hey,iin (o count n\nm his continued in- 
 action, and supjiosed that he was too nnieh 
 afraid of l)ndleijj;h to interfere, or to make 
 any oi)position whatever to iiis visits. Now, 
 however, she saw that hi; had made u]) his 
 mind to .action, and she fully lielieved that 
 he was not Hkj man who would make any 
 idle menace. 
 
 The tliini>- that olfended Edith most in 
 this letter was what sin; emisidercMl its inso- 
 leufU!. Its ton(! w.as that of a superior ad- 
 dressinj; an inferior — a jjatron speakiiifj; to a 
 dependtMit. At this all the stuhhorn pride 
 of Edith's nature was outraged, and rose in 
 reliellion ; hut above, all was that i>ride stim- 
 ulated by the woni "obey." 
 
 She also saw in tl at letter the indications 
 of an unpleasant de\"lopnient of .he i)olicy 
 of AVifinins, which would make her luture 
 ilarker than her present was. Hitherto he 
 had siinjily surrounded her with a barrier 
 over which she could not jiass, admit tinjj 
 to her only those whom he wished, or wluun 
 he could not keep away. IJut now she saw 
 some approach made toil more positive tyran- 
 ny. There was a threat of limiting; her free- 
 dom. What tiiat !iu\int she could easily 
 conjecture. Wijjfjins was evidently dissat- 
 i.^tied with the liberty which sh(i still had of 
 walkinj; over thcs grounds. He now intend- 
 ed to eon hue her within the Hall— perhaps 
 in her own room. 
 
 This showed her what she had to expect 
 in the future. The steps other tyrant's prog- 
 ress would be gradual, but terril)le. First, 
 ]ierha])s she would hi! conlined to the Hall, 
 then to lier own rooms, and tinally perhaps 
 to some small chamber — some cell — where 
 she woidd live a living death as long as her 
 jailer might allow her. 
 
 In addition to this open show of tyr.anny. 
 she also saw what seemed to her the secret 
 craft Ity wliich Wiggins hiul contrived an 
 excuse for further restraint. Slu^ consider- 
 ed Mowbray and Mrs. Mowbray as direct 
 
 agents of his. As for Dudleigh, she now 
 thought tli.'it Wiggins ha<l not been so much 
 afraid of him as lui had ai)peared to be, but 
 had allowed him to come, so as to gain an 
 excuse for further coercion. It was evident 
 to Edith that Dudleigh's transjiarent integ- 
 rity of chiiracter and his ardent esi)ousal of 
 her cause must 1m^ well known to Wiggins, 
 and that he only tolerated this visitor so as 
 to gain a |)lausible pretext for putting her 
 under restraint. 
 
 That letter threw an additional gloom 
 over Edith's life, and lent a fresh misery to 
 her situation. The prosjicet before her now 
 was dark iiuleed. Slu; was in a prison- 
 lions<', where hei' imprisonment seenu'd des- 
 tined to grow closer .and closer. There was 
 no reason why Wiggins should sjiare her at 
 all. Having so successfully shut lier within 
 the grounds for so long a time, he would 
 MOW be able to carry out any mode of eou- 
 finenu'ut which might be desirable to him. 
 She liiid hi'ard of people being conlined in 
 private nuid-houses, through the conspiracy 
 of relatives who coveted their proi)erty. 
 Thus far she had believed these stories to 
 be wholly imaginary, but now she began to 
 beli(^ve them true. Her own case had shown 
 her the I'ossibility of unjust anil illegal ini- 
 prisonnu'ut, iinil she had not yc't been able 
 to lind out any mode of escape. This ))lacc 
 seemed now to be her future prison-house, 
 where her imprisonment would grow from 
 bad to Wiirse. and where she herself, under 
 the terrible struggh; of feeling to which she 
 would be subject, might tinally sink into a 
 state of madiu'ss. 
 
 iSucli a ])rosi)ect was terrible beyoiul words. 
 It fdl(Ml her with liorror, iind she regarded 
 her future with the most gloomy forebodings. 
 In llie face of all this she had a sense of the 
 most utter helplessness, and the disaiii)oint- 
 ments which slu^ had thus far encountered 
 only served to deei)en her dejection. 
 
 In the midst of all this there was one hope 
 for her, and one only. 
 
 That solitary hope rested altogether on 
 her fiicnd Dudleigh. When he last left her 
 he had promised to come to her again in six 
 or eight weeks. This, then, was tin; only 
 thing left, !I1m1 to his return she looked for- 
 ward incessantly, with the most eager and 
 imjiatient ho]ic. 
 
 To her it now seemed .a matter of second- 
 ary importance what might be luu' own feel- 
 ings toward Dudleigh. Slui felt conlident 
 of his love toward her, and in the abhorrenec 
 with which she recoiled from the terrible 
 future which Wiggins was i)lanniug for her 
 slu! was able to contemplate Diulleigh's ]ias- 
 sion with complacency. She did not love 
 the little man, but if he could save her from 
 the horror that rose before her, she resolved 
 to shrink fr(un no sacritiee of feeling, but 
 grant him what(,'ver reward he might claim. 
 
 Time passed. Six weeks were over, but 
 
 
' 
 
 86 
 
 THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 ii 
 
 tluTo wpro no Hij^ns of Dudlcinh. Tlio hus- 
 peiiso of Etlilli in>w Ik'cuiihi tt-rriltle. 81u) 
 began to fear that \V'igj;iiis had .shut him 
 out, and had refused to alhiw him to entiT 
 again. If this were so, and if Dudhigh Jiad 
 siihmitted to Hueh exclusion, then all wa.s 
 indeed lo.st. Hut Edith would not yi^t bo 
 liovo it. Sho clung to hop*!, and Hineo he 
 had .said "nix or eight we(d4s," tthe I bought 
 tlnit sho might wait the extreme limit men- 
 tioned by him before Yielding to despair. 
 
 Eight wcek.s jjasHed. 
 
 On the day when those* weeks had expired 
 Edith found lierself in n f(^ver of suspense, 
 devoured by the most intolerable impatience, 
 with all lior tliought.s and feelings now (cen- 
 tred upon Dudleigh, and her last hope lixcd 
 npon him only. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIL 
 
 TIIK I'KOI'OSAL. 
 
 Ekjiit weeks |)assed. 
 
 Edith's inipatieneo was uncontrollable. 
 Tims far she had passed most of tin? time in 
 \n'T own room; but now the continement 
 was more* than she could endure. She went 
 out into the grounds, wlitjre she wandenMl 
 day after day, watching and listening, rest- 
 l(!.ssly and feverishly, for the approach of her 
 friend. At length one day, as she was walk- 
 ing down the avenue, a well-known (igure 
 came up advancing toward her, at sight of 
 which a thrill of joy pa.ssed through her. 
 It was he. At bust Little Dudli;igh ! 
 
 In her great joy she did Tiot seek to con- 
 ceal her feedings, or to maintain that reserve 
 wliicli thus far she liad manifested in her in- 
 terviews with him. All this was thrown 
 aside. Here stood at last her one true 
 friend, the one whose loss she had lamented, 
 wbose return slm had looked for so eageily ; 
 the one friend coming to her through the 
 enemies who intervened. With a rapid stc^p 
 sho advanced toward him. She held out 
 her liands, and pressed liis warmly. Her 
 lips (luivered, tears started to her eyes, but 
 she did not speak. 
 
 " I am back again, Miss Dalton," said Lit- 
 tle Dudleigh, joyously. " Hut how changed 
 you are! You have suffered. I see it in 
 your face. What is the matter ? Has any 
 thing new lmi)pened? Has that villain 
 dared to offer insult? Ah, why Avas I not 
 here beifore ? Hut I could not come. I 
 came as soon as I could." 
 
 Edith murmured a ft^w words in reply, 
 and then they walked together at a slow- 
 pace along the avenue. Edith did not caro 
 to go back to the Hall, where all was so 
 gh)omy, but i)referred the fresh pure air, and 
 the cheering face of nature. 
 
 As they walked on together Edith re- 
 counted the events of her life since she had 
 
 last seen him. Now all her long pent-np 
 feelings burst forth without restraint. At 
 last she had some one to whom she could 
 confide her sorrows, and she found it sweet 
 to talk to one whom she knc^w to be so full 
 of sympathy. To all this Dudleigh listened 
 with the profoundest attention, and with 
 visible agitation. 
 
 In all that she said and in all her maimer 
 Edith freely expressed the joy that she felt 
 at once more meeting with a friend so tried, 
 so true, so valued, in whom she ccnild trust 
 so implicitly, and from whom slu; could tind 
 sympathy. She had struggled so long in si- 
 lence and in lonelinc'ss that Dudleigh's sym- 
 pathy seemed doubly sweet. 
 
 When she cea.sed a long silence followed. 
 Dudleigh's agitation still continued. Sev- 
 eral times he looked at her wistfully, incpiir- 
 ingly, d(Mibtfully, as if alxtut to s})eak, aiul 
 each time he hesitated. Hut at last, with a 
 strong effort, he spoke. 
 
 " I must say it, Miss Dalton," said be. 
 " I am comjKdled to. I came here this day 
 — for the sole purpo.so of saying — something 
 which — you — may bo unwilliiig to Iniar. I 
 have hesitated long, and staid away lon- 
 ger on this account, yet I must say it now. 
 You are in a fearful position. Miss Dalton. 
 You are in the j)ower of an un])rinci]iled 
 anil a desi)erate num. I feel for you most 
 deeply. You arealways in my thoughts. In 
 order to assist yon I have done all that I 
 could. I do not wish to mak(> any allusions 
 to w hat I have done, l)ut rather to what I 
 have felt, and shall feel. You have btnioine 
 very dear to me. I know I am not worthy 
 of yon. You are abovi! me. I am only a 
 humble lieutenant; you are the lady of Dal- 
 ton Hall ; but I can not bear to — to go away 
 and leave one whom I love in the powcsr of 
 a villain. Dare I offer you my protection? 
 Will it be too much to ask you to be mine ? 
 I do not liope that you can look ujjon me 
 just yet with any such fcM'lings as love, but 
 I see tliat you treat me as a friend, and yon 
 have honored me with your confidence. I 
 have never said any thing about my lovo to 
 you, but perhaps you have not been alto- 
 gether without suspicion about it. Had I 
 found Sir Lionel, or liad I thought that he 
 was at all accessible, I would never have 
 made my humblo confession until you were 
 in a differtiut position. I am ashamed to 
 make it now, for thougli I know that you 
 would not suspect me of any thing base, 
 yet it looks as if I were taking ailvantage 
 of your necessities. Hut I km.w that to 
 a mind like yours such a susjiicKUi would 
 nov(!r eonu ; and I am cmnforted by the 
 thought that if you do listini to my recjuest 
 it will lead to your safety. I think, too, 
 that if it were ])ossil)le for you to consent, 
 even if yon felt no vt>ry tender sentiment 
 toward nie, you would have from me n de- 
 votion such as few others are capable of 
 
THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 87 
 
 feeling. Under RUeli cireiinistaiicps you 
 niij^lit not he iiltogetlier unliiipiiy." 
 
 All this Dii(ll('i<{li hail spoken witli fever- 
 ish raiiidity, and with every si^^ii of the 
 stron;;est a<;itation, occasionally siopijinf;, 
 and then resiiniin|j; his remarks in a iiead- 
 lonj; way. Hut if ho Inid felt agitation, 
 Edith liad felt at least (piite as nmeh. At 
 the first mention of his ]iro|iosal lier liead 
 sank forward, iind shi^ looked tixedly upon 
 the gronnd with downeast eyes, while her 
 lears fell ahnndantly, .She said nothing. 
 Uiidleigli in his freqiieiit (lanses seemed to 
 expect that she would 8uy something, but 
 she did not. ^ 
 
 Edith's feelings were of the most distrt-HS- 
 ing kind. iSlie had, of course, anticipated 
 something like this, lint had never yet been 
 alilu to dec'ide what she should do in the 
 event of such a confession. Sin; did not 
 love him. Her feelings toward him were of 
 a totally dill'erent kind. It seemed to her 
 that such a feeling as love could never liy 
 any possiliility he felt hy lier for him. And 
 yet she had a very strong regard for liim. 
 His society was very (deasant to her. !she 
 woiild have done nmch and sacrificed much 
 for his sake. IJut to be hi.s wife, that was a 
 thing which seemed odious. 
 
 Yi^t what could she (h)? ITer position was 
 intolerable and full of peril. If she wen; 
 his wife, in oiu; monu'ut slu^ would be safe, 
 tV' e, and uiulcr the. protection of oik^ who 
 loved her with utter (h>voti(ni. True, she. 
 had no siu'h sentiment toward him as a wife 
 should have for a husband, but he himself 
 was aware of that, and in spite of tlnit was 
 willing, nay, eager, to take her. .She was 
 toiuhed to tlu^ heart by his self-dcpret ia- 
 tion and jirofouiul respect. 
 
 Then, again, she thought, ought not he 
 liimself to be considered? Had he no 
 I'liiims? He had given himself up to her; 
 he had d(UU' uiiich for her. He liad ot ered 
 ;igain and aj;ain to give, up his life !\.r her. 
 Ought not siudi rare devotion to uu'ct with 
 some rewiutl? And what ri'ward could she 
 ever giv<'? There was only one which he 
 wanted — herself. Could she refuse bim 
 that ? 
 
 Diidleigh said not another word, and in 
 thiitlong and iiu)st embarrassing silence lu^ 
 looked away so as not to add to her confu- 
 sion. Edith did not know what to do or 
 say. Could slu! refuse him 1 Then how ui»- 
 grateful she would bo to her best frieml ! 
 Hut if he should leave her? What tluui ? 
 A life of despair! The complete triumph 
 of Wiggins. A living death. 
 
 Was it at all singular that she recoiled 
 fn^m siudi an alternativi^? She could not 
 endure this captivity any longer. And was 
 it, then, 80 dreadful to give herself to the 
 man who adored herf No. If she did not 
 love hiiii, s\u', at least had a strong frieml- 
 ship, and this in time might change to love. 
 
 She ha<l a greater regard for hini than for 
 any other man. Distasteful? It was. Y<'s. 
 Kut it was far better than this imprison- 
 ment. .She nmst tak*' him as her husband, 
 or lose him forever. IIi^ could do no more 
 for her unless she becauu' his wife. Ho 
 could only sav(i her by nuirrying her. 
 
 She was touched by his present uttitiule. 
 He was waiting so jialiently, so humbly. 
 She saw his deep agitation. 
 
 Suddenly, by a (piick movement, she turn- 
 ed toward him anil held out her hantl. Dud- 
 leigli took it, ami for u moment eiicli gazed 
 into thi! other's eyes, regardless of observa- 
 tion. Dudleigh's face was deathly pale, and 
 his hand as cold as ice. 
 
 "Oil, my friend," said Edith, in a low, 
 hesitating voice, "what can I say to you? 
 I can not give you love. I have no such 
 feeling, but I fi'cl deep gratitiuh^. I km)W 
 your worth. You have done so nuich, and 
 I wish I could feel different. If you take 
 nu! as I am, I — I — I am — yours. Hut I am 
 not worthy. No. I am not — not woithy of 
 such (ievolion. Von love me, Imt I do not 
 love you. What can I do f Yet in spite of 
 this, if you ask me, I am — yours." 
 
 Edith spoke witli downcast eyes and doe]> 
 embarrassment and fre(|iu'nt hesitation. Her 
 last words died away almost into a whisper. 
 Hut tlu! agitation of Dmlleigh was now even 
 greater than her own. A changi^ came over 
 him that was terrilile to witiu'ss. As he 
 took her hand he trembled, almiist convul- 
 sively, from head to foot. His face beeanm 
 ghastly white, he jiressed his hand against 
 his heart, his breathing was thick and op- 
 ])ressed, liig drops of ))ers|iiration started 
 forth upon his lirow, aiid at last, to Edith's 
 ama/.enu'Ut, be liurst into tears, and sobbed 
 aloud. Then he dro|>ped her hand, and 
 turiu'd away, murmuring some inarticulate 
 words. 
 
 At t his Edith's eonfusi(m passed away, and 
 changed to wonder, What was the meaning 
 of this? Tears and sobs — ami from a nuiul 
 Hut the thought at oiu'e occurred that this 
 was his sensitiveness, and that it arose from 
 her telling him so plaiidy that she did not 
 love him. " I cm not love bim, and hf! knpws 
 it," she thought, "ami it breaks his heart, 
 ])o(U' fellow! How I wish I coidd console 
 him!" 
 
 Suddenly Dmlleigh dashed his hand across 
 his eyes, and walked swiftly onward. Edith 
 followed as fast as she coidd, kcejiing him in 
 sight, but falling farther and farther beliiml. 
 At length he turned ami canu* back t(» meet 
 her. His eyes were downcast, and then; was 
 misery uns)M'ak;ibl(! on his white face;. As 
 he canu^ up to her he held out his hand, 
 and looked at her with a strange, woful 
 gaze. 
 
 Edith took the hand wliioh he held ont. 
 
 "Mi.s.s Dalton," said he, "you said you 
 woidd be i.'iiue." 
 
86 
 
 Tin: LIVING LINK. 
 
 It 
 
 ! • 
 
 )|i 
 
 •TIIKN UK liUOl'l'EI) IlKK HAND, AM) TUKNIOI) AWAY. 
 
 
 Edith's lips moved, but no sound escupcd 
 them. 
 
 "All that yon havo said, Miss Dalton," he 
 ('ontii\iipd, " 1 1'ccl most dccjily, most kcoiily ; 
 lint how else conhl it havo been ? Yet if you 
 will indeed be mine, I will ^ivo you my love 
 and gratitude. I will save you from — from 
 danger; I will — will — bless yon." He 
 stopped, and looked at her with (jnivering 
 lips, while an expression of agonj' camo across 
 his faee. 
 
 But Edith's eyes were downeast now, and 
 she did not see this new anguish of his; her 
 own distress was too great. 
 
 Dudleigh droin)ed lier Iiand again. 
 
 "Where shall it be?" said lie, hurriedly 
 and nervoi'sly. "It (!an not bo in the Hall. 
 Will yon v(^nturo to jtass tlie gates with me ? 
 — I will force my way throngli — or are yon 
 afraid?" 
 
 " I can not consent to blood'shed," said 
 Editli, 
 
 " I thought of that," .said Dudleigh, "and 
 I havo one more ))lan — if you will only 
 consent. It is not nnndi to you wlio have 
 snfll'ered so much. It will make your way 
 to freedom easy. Can we not meet in 
 
 ihe -jjark somewhere — in some secluded 
 placet'' 
 
 "In the park?" repeated Edith, abstract- 
 edly. 
 
 " I can bring a clergyman inside," said 
 Dudleigh, in a low voic(\ 
 
 Edith shmldered. TJio idea was not yet 
 U'Hti reinignant than it had btien. Hut she 
 had consented, and hero was this man— her 
 only friend, her adorer — with all his lov(! 
 and devotion. If she did not love hin), she 
 nnist pity him. She had also giv(!n her 
 word. As to tJie way in which this ])romise 
 might 1)0 carried out, it was a matter of in- 
 ditVerenco. At any rate, she would escal)t^ 
 from her hateful ])rison. And wjiat matter- 
 ed it how, or where, or when the ceremony 
 might be jierformed ? 
 
 " Oil, Miss Dalton," said Dudleigh, " forgive 
 me! forgive nns ! I nuist go a v. ay in two 
 days. Could you constnit to 'et this bo — to- 
 morrow ?" 
 
 Edit h made no reply. She trembled. Iltsr 
 head sank down lower. 
 
 " Tliere is one i)lace," said Dudleigh, and 
 then liesitated. Edith said nothing. Th; re 
 was anguish in her face and in her heart. 
 

 THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 P9 
 
 •Kivo 
 
 1 WD 
 
 -to- 
 ller 
 
 " Tho cliapol— " 
 
 " Tim cliiiinl," hIio roptatol, (Ircainily. 
 
 "It is liitldt'ii iiinoiif^ Mic lr<rs. I to you 
 know it 1 It \h away I'roiii all obscrvalioii." 
 
 IMitli Imwcd her litjul. Slit' knew it well. 
 It was oil' till! main iiveiinc — not far away 
 IVoiii liii^ Hail. 
 
 "Can you ;;('t out of the house after dark ?" 
 Haid l)udleii;li, in a feverisli wliisper. "It 
 must l>t^ after dark, and we nnist lie inioli- 
 servcd. For if Wi);j{ins wero to wee lis he 
 would (!om(« as your ;;uardian and take you 
 hack, and shut yon u]) -perhaps t'or life."' 
 
 Tills sut;K''slion ahout \Vi;;j;iiis eliinied iu 
 with EilitlTs own tears. It made her des- 
 perate. 'i"h(^ marriafi(! seemed less iihhor- 
 rent ; it was eelijised liy the horrors of im- 
 prisonment for life. Discovery now — after 
 that last threatofliis— would lu'inK n fhtser 
 restraint, stricter im})risonment, the loss of 
 all hop(\ 
 
 " I <'an fjet out,"Hh(' said, hurriedly. 
 
 "Where shall I find you /" 
 
 "There is a private door at the east end—" 
 
 " I know the (Uior." 
 
 " I can f^et out throujih that. No oiio will 
 think of my leavinj; tlit! Hall after dark." 
 
 " I will meet yon there." 
 
 Edith sijjhed heavily. 
 
 " To-morrow eveninf,^," said Dudieiiih, " at 
 ton o'clock. It will lie dark then. Will you 
 meet me ?" 
 
 "I will," said Editli, calmly. 
 
 "I shall only hojie, then," s.iid he, " that 
 no new reslraiiu may his imjiosed upon yon 
 to jireveut your cominj^. And now I will 
 go — to meet you to-morrow." 
 
 He seized her hand iu his icy grasj), wrunj; 
 it convulsively, and bowinir with his pallid 
 face, walked (piickly away. 
 
 There was a weight on Edith's heiirt ; Init 
 in s])it(^ of this, Dndleij^h's last look, his aj;i- 
 tated manner, and his deep love tilled her 
 with ]iity, and made her anxious to carry 
 out her act of self-sacritico for so dear and 
 bo true a friend. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 A MAKIUA(iK IN TIIK PAHIC. 
 
 TllK chapel referred to was ji sombre edi- 
 fice over the p;'""^''^^ "f t^"' Daltous. Ue- 
 neath it were tin! vaults where reposed tin; re- 
 mains of Edit ii's ancestors. The chapel was 
 nsed lor the celebration of burial rites. It 
 was in this jilaco that the marriage was to 
 take place. Edith, in her f^looni. thought the 
 place an ajiproiiriate one. Let th(^ marriage 
 be there, she thought — iu that (ilace whertj 
 never any thing but burials hits lieen ktiown 
 bef(ue. Could she have changed the one serv- 
 ice into the other, she would have dom^ so. 
 
 And yet she would not go back, for it- was 
 the least of two evils. The other aUerna- 
 
 "Sllli SAW TUUDUOII TllK UI-UO.M A l-IGUUK.' 
 
 tiv(^ was captivity under the iron hand of 
 Wiggins — Wiggins tln^ adveiiluicr, liie for- 
 ger, th(^ lietrayer of her father, whose power 
 over hei'self was a peipetu.al insult to that 
 father's memory — a thing intolerable, a 
 tiling of horror. Why slimild she not give 
 herself to the man who love<l her, even if 
 her own love was wanting, when siK^h an 
 act would free her from so accursed a tyr- 
 anny 1 
 
 Agitated and excited, she lingen'd through 
 tlur honi's of the day after jiarting with I)ud- 
 leigli. Night cami', but brought no rest; 
 and the following day dawneil, iind the ir- 
 revocable hour drew nigh. That day was 
 one tilled with strange fears, chief among 
 which was the thought that Wiggins might 
 discover all. or suspect it, and arrest her 
 llight. Hut time jiassed, and evening cauie, 
 anil Wiggins had done nothing. 
 
 All was still. The house was alw.ays still, 
 and sunoiiiided her — !i vast solitude. Mrs 
 ])unliar was in her own room : it w;is always 
 her habit to retire early. Wiggins was far 
 jiway, at the west enil of the Hall. Hugo 
 was in his remote (iuart<'rs in the .at tie. The 
 vigilance! which hca- kei^iiers maintainiMl by 
 day was relaxed at night, for they novor 
 siis]ieeted hel of any design of leaving the 
 
 i house after dark. Her interview with Dnd- 
 leigli must have been seen and re])orte(l, but 
 
 ] no acti(ui that she was awan^ of lii'.d be(Mi 
 taken. I'lrliajis Wiggins was waiting for 
 
 ' him to niak(! another call, when Ik; would 
 
 i step forth and formally lock her np in her 
 room. 
 
 And now, as Edith prep.ared to carry her 
 jilan into execution, there was nothing all 
 aroiiml but the most profound stillness, ITn- 
 derneath the story on which her room was 
 
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 THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 there extended a liall, at the east end of 
 which there wa8 a private Htairway lead- 
 ing down to a Bniall door which opened out 
 into the i)ark. Leavin<r her room noiselosH- 
 ly, she descended to the lower hall, trav- 
 ersed it, and descended the stairway to the 
 door. It was secured hy a bolt only. This 
 she drew back as noiselessly as possible — 
 jiot, however, without an unpleasantly loud 
 grating sound. The door opened without 
 nuich dirticulty. She passed through it. 
 .She shut it after her. Then she turned to 
 step down upon the grass. She saw through 
 the gloom a tigure. She recognized it. It 
 was Dudlcigh. 
 
 He held out his hand and took h«'rs. As 
 before, his hand was icy cold, and he trem- 
 bled violently. But Edith also was trem- 
 bling with excitement and agitation, and 
 was then fore too much taken uji w;th her 
 own feelings to notice those of others. Dud- 
 leigh did not say a word, but started ott' at 
 once, leading her by the hand. 
 
 Now that she had gone thus far, the act 
 seemed too terrible to be endured, and she 
 wouhl hiwi' given any thing to go l»ack. 
 There came over her a frightful feeling ()f 
 apprehension — a deep, dark horror, unutter- 
 alile, intolerable. But it was now too late 
 — she had to go on. And on she went, cling- 
 ing to Dudleigh, who himself showed an agi- 
 tati<in Cijual to hers. Tiiiis they walked on 
 in silence. Each might havt^ heard the 
 strong throbbing of the other's heart, had 
 not the excitement of each been so over- 
 whelming. In this way they went on, trem- 
 bling, horror-stricken, till at length they 
 reached the chapel. 
 
 It was a dark and sonibn; edifice, in the 
 ICgyptiim style, now darker and more som- 
 bre in the gloom of evening and tlie shad- 
 ows of surrounding trees. Tiie door was 
 open. As they entered, two figures ad- 
 vanced from tht! sliadows of the trees. One 
 of these wore a white surplice; the other 
 was undistinguishable in tiie gloom, save 
 that his stature was that of a tall, large 
 nnin. 
 
 "Tli(( clergynuni and the — witness," said 
 Duilleigh, in a tremulous whisper. 
 
 As these two entered, one of them closed 
 the door. The dull creaking of tlie liingeii 
 grated harshly on Edith's ears, and struck 
 fresii horror to her heart. She faltered and 
 trembled. She sank ba<'k. 
 
 " Oh, I can not, I can not !" she moaned. 
 " CouRige, dear one ; it will soon be over," 
 whispered I)u(lleigh, in an agitated voicu'. 
 
 Edith nuule a violent etVort to regain her 
 composure. Hut she felt helpless. Her senses 
 seemed leaving her; her heart throlibed still 
 niort> painfully ; her brain whirled. She 
 clung to Dudleigh. But as she clung to him 
 she felt that he trembled as violiMitly as she 
 herself did. This nuule her feel calmer. 
 ■She pitied him. Pour fellow, she thought, 
 
 ho sees my agitation. He thinks I hato 
 him. He is broken-hearted. I must bu 
 calmer for his sake. 
 
 " Where are the lights f" asked the cler- 
 gynuni. 
 
 " Lights f" repeated Dudleigh. 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Well, it won't do to have lights," said 
 he, ill the same agitated voice. " I — T ex- 
 plained all that. The light will show through 
 the window. We must go down into the 
 j vaults." 
 
 i Outsidc!, it was veryob.scure; inside, it was 
 
 (|uite dark. Edith could see the luitline of 
 
 1 a large window and the white sheen of the 
 
 clergyman's surplice ; nothing more was vis- 
 
 , ible. 
 
 The clergyman stood waiting. Dudleigh 
 went to the witness and conversed with him 
 in a low whisper. 
 
 I " Tlui witness," said Dudleigh, as he came 
 back, '' forgot to bring lights. I have noue. 
 Have you any V 
 
 "Lights? — no," said the clergyman. 
 " What shall we do i" 
 " I don't know." 
 
 " We can't go down into the vaults." 
 "I should say," remarked the clergyman, 
 " that since we have no lights, it is far bet- 
 ter for us to remain where W(^ are." 
 " But we may be overheard." 
 " I shall sp('i*ik low." 
 
 "Isn't it a little too dark here?" asked 
 Dudleigh, tremulously. 
 
 " It certainly is rather dark," said the 
 
 clergyman, "but I sui>iioseit can't be helped, 
 
 and it iiccmI not make any ditVfrenee. The re 
 
 ! is a witness who has seen the ))iirties. and as 
 
 you say secrecy is needed, why, this dark- 
 
 } ness may be all the nion" favorable. But it. 
 
 , is no concern of mine. Only I should think 
 
 it eijually .safe, and a great deal )ileasanter, 
 
 to havt^ the ceremony here tliau down in 
 
 the vaults." 
 
 All this had been spoken in a quick low 
 tone, so as to guard against being overheanl. 
 During thisscene Edith had stood trembling, 
 half fainting, with a kind of blank despair 
 in her soul, and scarcely any consciousuess 
 of what was going on. 
 
 The witness, who had entered last, moved 
 slowly and carefully al)out, and walked \\\> 
 to where he could see the tigure of Edith 
 faintly defined agiiinsl, the white sheen of 
 tiu^ clergy man's surplice. Ho stood tit her 
 right hand. 
 
 " Begin," said Dudleigh ; and then he said, 
 "Miss Daltoii, when^ are you?'' 
 
 She said nothing. She could not speak. 
 "Miss Dalton," said he again. 
 She tried to speak, but it ended in a 
 moan. 
 
 Dudleigh seemed to distinguish her now, 
 for he went towiird her, antl the next mo- 
 ment she felt the bridegroom at her side. 
 A shudder passed througli Edith. She 
 
THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 91 
 
 sitid, 
 
 ilk. 
 
 in ii 
 
 now, 
 mo- 
 
 Slio 
 
 could think of nothing hnt the horror of her 
 situation. And yet slio did not think of re- 
 treating. No. Her plighted word had been 
 given, and the dark terror of Wiggins made 
 it still more impossible. Yet so deep was her 
 agitation that there was scarce any thought 
 on her mind at all. 
 
 And now the clergyman began the mar- 
 riage service. Ho could not use his book, 
 of course, but ho knew the* services by heart, 
 and went on HiuMitly enough, omitting here 
 and there an unimportant part, and speaking 
 in a low voice, but very rapidly. Edith 
 scarcely understood a word. 
 
 Then the clergyman saiil : 
 
 " Leon, wilt thou have this woman to thy 
 wedded wife, to live together after ({otl's or- 
 dinance in the ludy estate of matrinujuyf 
 Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honor, and 
 keo)) iier in sickness and in heulth ; and for- 
 saking all otlusr, keep thee only unto her, so 
 long aU ye both shall live ?" 
 
 The bridegroom answered, in a whisper, 
 
 " I xs-ill." 
 
 "Edith, wilt thou have this man to thy 
 wedded husband, to live together after 
 (jod's ordinance in the holy estate of nnitri- 
 niony f Wilt thou obey him and serve him, 
 love, honor, and keep him in sickness an<l 
 in health; and forsaking all other, kec]) 
 thee only unto him, so long as ye both shall 
 live ?" 
 
 Edith tried to say " I will," but only an 
 unintelligible sound escajied her. 
 
 Then the clergyman went on, while the 
 bridegroom repeated in a whisper these 
 words : 
 
 " I, Leon, take thee, Edith, to my wedded 
 wife, to have and to hold, from this day for- 
 ward, for better for worse, for richer for 
 poorer, in sickness and in lieallh, to love 
 and to cherish, till <leath us do part, acconl- 
 ing t(» God's holy ordinance; and thereto I 
 plight thee my troth." 
 
 'I'lie clergynuin then said the words for 
 Edith, but slie could not repeat the formula 
 alter him. Ileri! and there she uttered a 
 word or two in a disjointed way, but that 
 was all. 
 
 Then Edith felt her hand taken and a 
 ring jint on her linger. 
 
 Then the clergyman said the next fonnula, 
 which the bridegroom repeated after him in 
 a whisper as before: 
 
 " With this ring I thee wed, with my body 
 I thee worshi|), aiid with all my worhlly 
 goods I thee enilow,'' etc., etc. 
 
 Then followed a prayer, after which the 
 elergynnm, joining their right hands togeth- 
 er, said, 
 
 "Those whom God hath joined together, 
 let no man ]>ut asunder." 
 
 Then followed the renii inder of the serv- 
 ice, and at its conclusion tins clergyman 
 solemnly wished them every ha)ipiness. 
 
 " I suppose I may go now," suid he; and 
 
 as there was no answer, he groped his way 
 to the do«)r, Hung it open, and took his de- 
 parture. 
 
 During all this service Edith liad been in 
 a condition verging upon half unconscious- 
 uess. The low murmur of voices, the hur- 
 ried words of the clergyman, the whispers 
 of the bridegroom, were all confused togeth- 
 er in an unintelli;;ible whole, and even her 
 own answers had scarce matle any impres- 
 sion up<ui her. Her head seemed to spin, 
 her brain to whirl, and all her frame t<» 
 sink away. At length the grating of thti 
 opening door, the clergynum's dejiii .'ng 
 footsteps, and the slight increase of light 
 roused her. 
 
 .She was married ! 
 
 Where was her husband T 
 
 This thought <ame to her with a new hor- 
 ror. Deep silence had followed the clergy- 
 man's dejiarture. She in her weakness was 
 not nolice<l. Dudleigh, tins loving, the de- 
 voted, had no love or ilevotion fin- her now. 
 Wliere was he T The silence was ti-rrible. 
 
 Ihit at last that silence was broken — fear- 
 fully. 
 
 "Come," said a voice which thrilled the 
 inmost soul of Edith with horror nnsjieaka- 
 ble; " I'm tired of humbugging. I'm going 
 home. Come along, Mrs. Dudleigh." 
 
 The horror that ]iassed through Edith at 
 the sound of this voice for a moment seemed 
 to i)aralyze her. Siie turned to where th<» 
 voice sountled. It was the man Ix'side her 
 who sjKdit? — the bi-idegnxun ! He was not 
 Dndliigh— not Little Dudleigh! He was tall 
 and large. It was the witness. What fright- 
 ful ino«'kery was Ihist Hut the confusion 
 of thought that arose was rudely inter- 
 ru|)ted. A strong hanil was laid upon hers, 
 and again that voice spoke: 
 
 "Come along. Mrs. Dudleigh!" 
 
 "What is- this?" gasped Edith. 
 
 "Why. you're nntrried, that's all. You 
 ought to know that by this time." 
 
 "Away!" cried Edith, with a sli'wp cry. 
 " Who are you ? Dudleigh ! Dudleigh I 
 where are yiui f Will you not help me f" 
 
 "Th;it's not very likely," siiid the same 
 voice, in a mocking tone. " His business is 
 to hel)i Hie." 
 
 "Oil, my God! what is the nu'aning of 
 this r 
 
 "Dh, it's simple iMiongh. It means that 
 you're my wife." 
 
 " lowrwife! Oh. Dudleigh! oh. my frienil! 
 what does all this mean f Why do you uut 
 speak f" 
 
 Itnt Dudleigh said nothing. 
 
 " I have no objections to explaining," said 
 the voice. " You're actually married to me. 
 My mime is not Mowitray. It's Leon Dud- 
 leigh, the individual that you just plighted 
 your troth to. My small friend hei't< is not 
 l.fon Dutlleigh, whatever other Dudleigh ho 
 may call himself He is the witness." 
 
92 
 
 THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 "It's false!" cried Edith. "Lieutenant 
 Dudleigh would never betray me." 
 
 " Well, at any rate," said Leon, " I happen 
 to be tiie happy man who alone can claim 
 you an his bride." 
 
 " Villain !" shrieked Edith, in utter horror. 
 " Cursed villain I Let go my hand. This 
 is all mockery. Your wife! — I would die 
 first." 
 
 " Indeed you won't," said Leon — " not 
 while you have me to love and to cherish 
 yon, in sickness and in health, till death us 
 do iiart, and forsaking all others, keep only 
 unto you, in the beautiful words of that in- 
 teresting service." 
 
 " It's a lie ! it's a lie !" cried Edith. " Oh, 
 Lieut^niant Dudleigh, I have trusted you ini- 
 jdicitly, and I trust you yet. Come to me — 
 save me !" 
 
 And in her anguish Edith sank down upon 
 her knees, and held out her arms implor- 
 ingly. 
 
 " Dudleigh !" she moaned. " Oh, my 
 friend ! Oli, only ccmie — only save me from 
 this villain, and I will love — I will love aTid 
 bless you — I will be your menial— I will — " 
 
 " Pooh !" said Leon, " I'm the only Dud- 
 leigh about. If you know half as much 
 about my dcarfriind the lieutenant as I do, 
 you would know what infernal nonsense you 
 are talking ;" and seizing her hand, he ti icil 
 to raise her. " Come," said he, " up with 
 you." 
 
 Edith tried to loosen her hand, whereupon 
 Leon dashed it away. 
 
 " Wiu) wants your hand T" he cried : " I'm 
 your husbaml, not your lover." 
 
 " Lieutenant Dudleigh !" moaned Edith. 
 
 " Well, lieutenant," said Leon, " speak 
 up. Come along. Tell her, if you like." 
 
 " Lienteimnt Dndleigli, save me." 
 
 "Oh, great Heaven!" said a voice like 
 that of the one whom Edith knew as Lieu- 
 tenant Dudleigh — " oh, gri^at Heaven ! its 
 too mneh." 
 
 " Oh ho !" cried Leon : " so you're going to 
 blubber too, are you T Mind, now, it's all 
 right if you are only tnu'." 
 
 "Oh, L(^on, how yon wring my heart!" 
 cried the other, in a low, tremulous voice. 
 
 " Lieutenant Dndloigh !" erii-d Edith 
 again. "Oh, my friend, answer mo! Tell 
 mo that it is all a lie. Tell nie — " 
 
 But Lieutenant Dudleigh flung himself on 
 the stone pavement, and groaned and sobbed 
 convulsively. 
 
 "Conn," said Leon, stooping and lifting 
 him up; "you understand all this. Don't 
 you go on blubbering in this fashion. I 
 don't mind her, and you nnistn't. tJonie, you 
 tell her, for she'll keep yelling after you all 
 night till you do." 
 
 Iii(>iitenant Dudleigh rose at this, and 
 lean<>d heavily u' n Leon's arm. 
 
 " Yo)i were :jot — married — to — to — me," 
 said he at last. 
 
 "What! Tlien you too were false all 
 along f" said Edith, in a voice that seemed 
 to come from a broken heart. 
 
 Tlie false fiiond made no reply. 
 
 "Well, Mrs. Dudleigh," said Leon, coolly, 
 "for your information I will simply state 
 that the — ahem — lieutenant here is my very 
 ] particular friend — in fact, my most intimat<^ 
 j and most valued friend — and in his tender 
 aflfeetiou for me he undertook this little af- 
 fair at my instigation. It's all my act, all 
 through, every bit of it, but the carrying 
 (lut of the dotal" 1 was — ahem — his. The 
 marriage, however, is perfectly valid. The 
 j banns were published all right. So you 
 may feel quite at ease." 
 I " Oh," cried Edith, " how basely, how ter- 
 ; ribly, I have been deceived ! And it is all 
 ^ lies ! It was all lies, lies, lies from the be- 
 ginning!" 
 
 Suddenly a fierce thrill of indignation 
 flashed through her. She started to her 
 feet. 
 
 "It is all a lie fr<mi beginning to end!" 
 she exclaimed, in a voice which was totally 
 changed from that wail of despair wliieli 
 had been heard once before. It was a firm, 
 l)roHd, stern voice. She had fallen back 
 upon her t)wn lofty soul, and had songht 
 refuge in that res<dute nature of hers which 
 had sustained her befcne this in other dire 
 eniergi^ncies. "Yes," she said, sternly, "a 
 lie; and this mock-marriage is a lie. Vil- 
 lains, stand off. I am going home." 
 
 " Not without me," said Leon, who for a 
 moment stood silent, amazed at the change 
 in Edith's voice and manner. " You nuist 
 not leave your husband." 
 
 " You shall not come to Dalton Hall," said 
 Edith. • 
 
 " I shall not T Who can keep me out T" 
 
 "Wiggins," said Edith. "I will ask his 
 protection against you." 
 
 "Wiggins!" sneered Jjcon. "Let him try 
 it if he dares." 
 
 "Do not interfere with nie," said Edith, 
 " nor touch me." 
 
 " Yon shall not go without me." 
 
 " I shall go, and alone." 
 
 "You shall not." 
 
 Eilith at once walked to the door. Just 
 as 8ho reached it Leon seized her arm. She 
 sirnggh'd for a moment to get free, but in 
 vain. 
 
 " I know," said she, bitterly, " what a 
 coward yon are. This is not the first time 
 that you have laid hands on me. Let me 
 go now, or yon shall rej)ent." 
 
 "Not the first tinu\ and it won't bo the 
 last tinu' !" cried Leon, with an oath. 
 
 " Let me go," cried Kditli, in a tierce voice, 
 " or I will stab yon to tlu! heart !" 
 
 As sh(^ said this she raised her right hand 
 swiftly and menacingly, and by the dim 
 liglit of the doorway IjCou plainly saw a 
 long keen dagger. In an instant he recoiled 
 
THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 98 
 
 try 
 itli, 
 
 III 
 
 it a 
 iiiic 
 UH' 
 
 tlie 
 
 I ice, 
 111(1 
 liin 
 iled 
 
 from the sight, and dropping her arm, he 
 started back. 
 
 " Curse you !" he cried, in an excited 
 voice ; " who wants to tout '.i you T It isn't 
 you I've married, but the liall !" 
 
 "Leon," cried Lieute ant Dudleigh, "I 
 will allow no violence. If there is any more, 
 I will betray you." 
 
 " You !" cried Leon, with a bitter sneer. 
 " Pooh, you dare not." 
 
 " I dare." 
 
 '• You will betray yourself, then." 
 
 "I don't care. After what I've suffered 
 for you these two days past, and especially 
 tills night, I have but little care left about 
 myself." 
 
 " But won't you get your reward, curse it 
 all?" 
 
 " There can bo no reward for me now, aft- 
 er this," said the other, in a mournful voice. 
 
 "Is that the way you talk to met" said 
 Leon, in a tone of surprise. 
 
 " Miss Dalton has been wronged enough," 
 said the other. " If you dare to annoy her 
 furtlicr, or to liarm a hair f)f her head, I sol- 
 emnly declare that I will turn against you." 
 
 " You !" exclaimed Leon. 
 
 " Yes, I." 
 
 " Wliy, you're as bad as I am — in fact, 
 worse." 
 
 " Well, at any rate, it shall go no further. 
 Tliat I am resolved on." 
 
 " Look out," cried Leon ; " don't tempt me 
 too far. I'll remember this, liy Heaven ' 
 I'll not forget that you liave threatened io 
 betray me." 
 
 " I don't care. You are a coward, Leon, 
 and you know it. You are afraid of that 
 brave girl. Miss Dalton can take care of 
 lierself." 
 
 "Miss Dalton! Pooh !— Mrs. Dudli,igh, 
 you mean." 
 
 "Leon, you drive me to frenzy," cried 
 Lieutenant Dudleigh, in a wild, impatient 
 voice. 
 
 " And you — what are you T" cried Leon, 
 morosely. " Are you not always tormenting 
 me T Do you think that I'm going to stand 
 you and your whims forever f Look out ! 
 This is more of a marriage than you tliiiik." 
 
 " Marriage !" cried the other, in a voice of 
 scorn. 
 
 " Never mind. I'll go with my wife," 
 suid Leon. 
 
 Ed th had waited a few moments as this 
 aite'catioii arose, half hoping that in tlui 
 'iaarrel lietweeu these twosomi'thing might 
 escape them which could give her some ray 
 of hope, but she heard nothing of tliat kiiul. 
 Yet as she listened to the voices of the two, 
 contrasting so strangely in their tones, and 
 to their language, which was so very pe- 
 culiar, a strange suspicion came to her mind. 
 
 Then she hurried away back to the Hall. 
 
 "I'll go with my wife," said Leon. 
 
 "Coward aiul villain!" oiied his compan- 
 
 ion, " Miss Dalton hna a dagger. You're 
 afraid of her. I'll go too, so that you may 
 not annoy her." 
 
 Ec^ith hurried away, and the others fol- 
 lowed for a short distance, but she soon 
 left them behind. She reached the little 
 door at the cast end. She passed through, 
 and bolted it on the inner side. She hurried 
 up to her rooms, and ou reaching them fell 
 fainting to the floor. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 THE WIFE OF LEON DVDLEIOn. 
 
 Sickness and delirium came mercifully to 
 Edith ; for if health had continued, the 
 sanity of the body would liavo been pur- 
 chased at the expense of that of the mind. 
 Mrs. Dunbar nursed her most tenderly and 
 assiduously. A doctor attended her. For 
 long weeks she lay in a brain-fever, between 
 life and death. In the delirium that dis- 
 I turbed her brain, her mind wandered back 
 to the happy days at Plympton Terrace. 
 Onc:> more she played about the beautiful 
 shores of Derwentwater ; once more she 
 rambled with her school-mates under the 
 lofty trees, or rode along through winding 
 avenues. At times, however, her thoughts 
 reverted to the later events of her life ; and 
 once or twice to that time of horror in tho 
 chapel. 
 
 The doctor came and went, and satisfied 
 himself with seeing after tho things that 
 conduced to the recovery of his patient. He 
 was from London, and had been sent for 
 by Wiggins, who had in» confidence in tho 
 local physicians. At length thi; disease was 
 quelled, and after nearly two months Edith 
 began to be conscious of her situation. She 
 came back to sensibility with feelings of 
 despair, and her deep agitation of soul re- 
 tarded her recovery very greatly; for her 
 thoughts were fierce and indignant, anil she 
 occu]>ied lierself", as soon as she could think, 
 with incessant idaiis for escape. At last she 
 resolved to tell the doctor all. One day 
 when he came she began, but, unfortunately 
 for her, before she had sjioken a dozen worils 
 she became so excited that she almost faint- 
 ed. Tiiereiijion the doctor very jiroperly 
 forbade her talking about any of her af- 
 fairs whatever until she was better. " Your 
 friends," said he. "havecautioned me against 
 this, and I have two things to regard — their 
 wishes and your recovery." Once or twice 
 after this Edith tried to speak about her 
 situation, but the doctor |)rom]itly checked 
 her. Soon after he ceased his visits. 
 
 In s]iite of nil drawbacks, liowever, sho 
 gradually recoveretl, and at last became ablt^ 
 to move about the room. She might even 
 have gone out if she had wished, but sho 
 did not feel inclined. 
 
94 
 
 THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 Olio (lay, while looking over Bome of her 
 bookM wliich were lying on her table, she 
 fonnd a newspaper folded inside one of 
 them. She took it and opened it curelcBsly, 
 wondering what might be going on in that 
 outHide world of wliich she had known bo 
 little for BO long a time. A mark along the 
 margin attracted her attention. It waB near 
 the marriage notices. She looked there, and 
 saw the following: 
 
 "On the 12th instant, at the Daltun family chapel, by 
 the V'- John Munn, of Dalton, Captuin L«:on Diid- 
 leig l^dith, only daughter of the late Frederick 
 
 Dalt^.i, ^.Miuire, of Dalton Ilall." 
 
 This paper was dated November 20, 1840. 
 This wa«, ob she knew, February 26, 1841. 
 
 The horror that passed through her at the 
 sight of this was only inferior to that which 
 she ha«l felt on the eventful evening ' elf. 
 Hitherto in all her gloom and grief she nad 
 regarded it as a mere mockery — a brutal 
 kind of practical joke, devised out of pure 
 malignity, and perhaps instigated or con- 
 nived at by Wiggins. She had never cared 
 to think much about it. But now, on being 
 Mins confronted with a formal notice in a 
 public newspaper, the whole affair Buddenly 
 a«dumed a new character — a character wliich 
 was at once terrible in itself, and menacing 
 to her whole future. Tliis formal notice 
 seemed to her like the scial of the law on 
 that most miserable affair; and she a«ked 
 herself in dismay if such a ceremony could 
 be lield as binding. 
 
 She had thought much already over one 
 thing which had been revealed on that 
 eventful evening. The name Mowbray was 
 an OBSunied tme. The villain who had taken 
 it now called himself Leon Dudleigh. Un- 
 der that name he married her, and under 
 that name his marriage was published. His 
 friend and her Iw^trayer — that most misera- 
 ble scoundrel who had called himself Lieu- 
 t«nant Dudleigh — had gained her consent to 
 this marriage for the exjiress purpose of be- 
 traying her into the hands of her worst en- 
 emy. His name might or might not be Dud- 
 leigh, but she now saw that the true name 
 of the other must be Dudleigh, and that 
 Mowbray liad been assumed for some other 
 purpose. But how he came by such a name 
 she could not tell. She hud no knowledge 
 whatever of Sir Lionel ; and whether Leon 
 was any relation to him or not she was to- 
 tally ignorant. 
 
 Til is gave a rew and most painful turn to 
 all her thoughts, and she bega.i to feel anx- 
 ious to know what had occurred since that 
 evening. Accordingly, on Mrs. Dunbar's re- 
 turn to her room, she began to question her. 
 Tlius far slie had said but little to this wom- 
 an, wlioin for so long a time she had regarded 
 with suspicion and aversion. Mrs. Dnnbar's 
 long and anxious care of her, her constant 
 watelifuliums, her eager in(iuiries after her 
 health — all availed nothing, since all seemed 
 
 to be nothing more than the selfish anxiety 
 of a jailer about the health of a prisoner 
 whose life it may be his interest to guard. 
 
 ' Who sent this T" asked Edith, sternly, 
 pointing to the paper. 
 
 Mrs. Dunbar hesitated, and after one hasty 
 glance at Edith her eyes sought the floor. 
 
 " The captain," said she at length. 
 
 " The captain T — what captain T" asked 
 Edith. 
 
 " Captain — Dudleigh," said Mrs. Dunbar, 
 with the same hesitation. 
 
 Edith paused. Tliis confirmed her suspi- 
 cions a« to his true name. " Where is he 
 now t" she asked at length. 
 
 " I do not know," said Mrs. Dunbar, 
 " where he is — just now." 
 
 " Has he ever been hero T" asked Edith, 
 after another pause. 
 
 " Ever been here !" repeated Mrs. Dunbar, 
 looking again at Editli with something 
 like surjirise. "Why, he lives here — now. 
 I thoiigiit you knew tliat." 
 
 " Lives here !" exclaimed Edith. 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 Edith was silent. This was very nn- 
 pleasan'. intelligence. Evidently this Leon 
 lludleigh and Wiggins were partners in this 
 horrible matter. 
 
 " How does he happen to live here V she 
 ajked at length, anxious to discover, if pos- 
 sible, his purpose. 
 
 Mrs. Dunbar again hesitated. Edith had 
 to repeat her ciuestion, and even tli» n her 
 answer was given with evident reluctance. 
 
 "He says that you — I mean that he — is 
 your— that is, that he is— is master," said 
 Mrs. Dunbar, in a hesitating and confused 
 way. 
 
 " Master !" repeated Edith. 
 
 " He says that he is your — your — " Mrs. 
 Dunbar hesitated and looked anxiously at 
 Editli. 
 
 " Well, what does he say T" asked Edith, 
 impatiently. "He says that he is inv — 
 what f" 
 
 " Your — your husband," said Mrs. Dun- 
 bar, with a great effort. 
 
 At this Edith stared at her for a moment, 
 and then covered her face with her hands, 
 while a shudder passed t'lJ-ough her. This 
 plain statement of the case fnun (me of her 
 Jailers made her situation seem worse than 
 ever. 
 
 " He came here," continued Mrs. Dunbar, 
 in a low tone, " the day after your illness. 
 He brought his horse and dog, and some 
 things." 
 
 Edith looked np with a face of agony. 
 
 "He said," continued Mrs. Dunbar, "that 
 you were — married — to — him; that you 
 were now his —his wife, and that he intend- 
 ed to live at the Hall." 
 
 " Is that otlierone here too t" asked Edith, 
 after a long silence. 
 
 " What other one f" 
 
 . 
 
THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 95 
 
 Irs. 
 at 
 
 itb, 
 
 'liis 
 her 
 
 |)nr, 
 
 BBS. 
 
 Hint 
 
 LOU 
 
 Itb. 
 
 " The smaller villain — the one that used 
 to call himself Lieutenant Dudleigh." 
 
 Mrs. Dunbar shook her head. 
 
 " Do you kuow the real name of that per- 
 son t" 
 
 " No." 
 
 Edith now said nothing for a long time ; 
 and as she sat there, buried in her own mis- 
 erable thoughts, Mrs. Dunbar looked- at her 
 with a face uU of sml and earnest sympa- 
 thy — a face which had a certain longing, 
 wistful expression, as though she yearned 
 over this stricken heart, and longed to otter 
 some consolation. But Edith, even if she 
 had been willing to receive any expressions 
 of sympathy from one like Mrs. Dunbar, I 
 whom she regarded as a miserable tool of | 
 her oppressor, or a base ally, was too far 
 down in the depths of her own profimnd af- ! 
 jtliction to be capable of consolation. Bad | 
 enough it was alrea<ly, wbeti she had to look ! 
 back over so long a course of deceit and be- ' 
 trayal at the hands of one whom she had re- 
 garded as her best friend ; but now to find 
 that all this treachery had culminated in a 
 horror like this, that she was claimed and 
 proclaimed by an outrageous villain as his j 
 wife — this was beyond all endurance. The 
 blackness of that perfidy, and the terror of 
 her memories, which till now had wrung her 
 heart, fled away, and gave place to the most 
 passionate indignation. 
 
 And now, at the impulse of these more 
 fervid feelings, her whole outraged nature 
 underwent a change. Till now she ha<l felt 
 most strongly the emotions of grief and mel- 
 ancholy ; now, however, these passed away, 
 and were succeeded by an intensity of hate, 
 a vehemence of wrath, and a hot glow of in- 
 dignant passion that swept away all other 
 feelings. All the pride of her hatighty spir- 1 
 it was roused ; her soul became instinct with 
 a desperate resolve ; and mingling with 
 these feelings there was a scorn for her ene- 
 mies as beings of a baser nature, and a sttib- 
 born determination to fight them all till the 
 bitter end. 
 
 All this change was manifest in her look 
 and tone as she again addressed Mrs.Dunbnr. 
 
 " You have all mistaken me," said she, 
 with bitter hostility; "you have imagined 
 that you had to deal with some silly child. 
 But this shall do none of you any good. You 
 may kill me among you, but I am not afraid 
 to die. Death itself will be welcome rather 
 than submission to that foul miscreant, that 
 vulgar coward, who takes advantage of a 
 contemptible trick, and pretends that there 
 was a marriage. I say this to you — that I 
 defy him and all of you, and will defy you 
 all — yes, to the bitter end ; and you may go 
 and tell this to your wretched confederates." 
 
 As Edith said this, Mrs. Dunbar looked at 
 her ; and if there could have ajiijcared upon 
 that face the signs of a wounded heart — a 
 heart cut and stung to its inmost tibre — the 
 
 face that confronted Edith showed all this 
 at that moment. 
 
 " Confederates !" she repeated. 
 
 " Yes, you and Wiggins and this villain 
 who, you say, is now living here." 
 
 " What, Leon 1" 
 
 " Leon t Is that his name t Leon Dud- 
 leigh t Well, whatever name he choosi s to 
 bear, it is all the sumo ; though it seems 
 strange that he should adopt a stainless 
 name like that of Dudleigh." 
 
 " Yes, that is his name," said Mrs. Dunbar, 
 wearily. 
 
 " Till he assumes some other," said Edith. 
 " But they aro all assumed names," she con- 
 tinued, bitterly — " Mowbray and Dudleigh 
 and Dunbar also, no doubt. Why you 
 should call yourself Dunbar I can't imagine. 
 You seem to nie to be Mrs. Wiggins. Wig- 
 gins at least can not be an assumed name." 
 
 At these words, which were spoken on the 
 spur f the moment, out of mere hostility to- 
 wanl Mrs. Dunbar, and the desire to wound 
 her, the latter recoiled as though from some 
 sudden blow, and looked at Edith with aw- 
 ful eyes. 
 
 " You are terrible," she said, in a low voice 
 — " you are terrible. You can not imagine 
 what horrors yon give expression to." 
 
 To this Edith paid no attention. It 
 sounded old. It was like what Wiggins had 
 frequently said to her. 
 
 "I can not imagine," she continiUMl, "any 
 human being so utterly bad-hearted, so alto- 
 gether vile and corrupt, as this man who 
 now culls himself Leon Dudleigh. In pure 
 fiendish nudignity, and in all those ipialities 
 which are abliorrent and shameful, lie sur- 
 passes even that arch-villain Wiggins him- 
 self." 
 
 " Stop, stop !" cried Mrs. Dunbar. " I can 
 not bear this. You must not talk so. How 
 do you know? You know nothing about 
 Leon. Oh, how yon wrong him! Leon has 
 liatl bad associates, but he himself is not ba»l. 
 After all, Leon has naturally a noble heart. 
 He was a brave, high-minded boy. Oh, if 
 you could but know what he once was. You 
 wrong I^on. You wrong him most deeply. 
 Ob, how deeply you wrong him!" 
 
 Mrs. Dunbar had said all this in a kiiul 
 of feverish agitation, s]>eaking (luickly and 
 vehemently. Never before hud Edith seen 
 any thing approaching to excitenuuit in this 
 strong-hearted, vigilant-eyed, self-contained 
 woman, aiul the sight of such emotion 
 amazed her. But for this woman and her 
 feelings she cared nothing whatever; and 
 so in the midst of her wonls she waved her 
 hand and interrupted her. 
 
 " I'm tired," she said ; *' I can not stand 
 any mora excitement just now. I wish to 
 be alone." 
 
 At this Mrs. Dunbar arose and walked 
 wearily out of the room. 
 
 One thing at least Edith considciod as 
 
 
06 
 
 THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 quite evident from Mrs. DTUibar's agitation 
 and eager cliiiiMpioiiHhip of " Leon," and that 
 wat« that tliiH Leon had all along been aeon- 
 federate of WigginH and thitt wonmn, and 
 that the so-called "Lieutenant DiuUeigh" 
 liad been one of the Hanie band of couMpirn- 
 tors. It seemed evident now to her that 
 the whole ])l()t had been contrived among 
 them. PerliapH Wiggins was to get one 
 half of the estate, and this Leou Dudleigh 
 th«i other half. 
 
 Still she did not feel altogether sure, and 
 in onl«!r to ascertain as near as possible the 
 truth iw to her present position and pros- 
 pects, she dcteiiuined to see Wiggins himself. 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 JAILER AND CAPTIVE. 
 
 On the following day Edith felt stronger, 
 and calling Mrs. Dunbar, she sent her to Wig- 
 gins with a request that the latter should 
 inettt her in the drawing-room. She then 
 walked through the long hall on her way 
 down stairs. Every thing looked as it did 
 before her illness, except that one change had 
 taken place which arrested her attention the 
 moment she entered the drawing-room. 
 
 Over the chimney-piece a portrait had 
 hcMX hung — a portrait in a large gilt frame, 
 which looked as though it had been painted 
 but recently. It was a portrait of Leon Dud- 
 leigh. On catching sight of this she felt as 
 if she had been rooted to the spot. She 
 looked at it for a short time with compressed 
 lijis, frowning brow, and clinched hands, 
 after which she walked away and flung her- 
 self into a chair. 
 
 Wiggins w.as evidently in no hurry, for it 
 was more than half an hour before he nuide 
 his ai)pearancc. Edith sat in her chair, wait- 
 ing for his approach. The traces of her re- 
 cent illness were very visible in the pallor 
 of her face, aiul in her thin, transparent 
 hands. H<!r large eyes seemed larger than 
 over, as they glowed luminously fnmi their 
 cavernous dej)ths, with a darker hue arouiul 
 each, as is ofttMi seen in cases of sickness or 
 debility, while upon her face there was an 
 expression of i)rofound sadness that seemed 
 fixed and unalterable. 
 
 Hut in the tone with which she addressed 
 Wiggins there was nothing like sadness. It 
 was i)roud, cold, stern, and full of bitterest 
 hostility. 
 
 " I have sent for you," she began," becauso 
 yon, Wiggins, are concerned as mtich a» I '.iiy- 
 solf am in the issue of this business about 
 which I am going to speak. T I.avo sulVered 
 n very gross outrage, but I still have confi- 
 dence both in a just Heaven ami in the laws 
 of the land. This rutlian, who now it seems 
 calls himself Leon Dudleigh— your conf«'d- 
 orate — has, with your assistance, clieated 
 
 me into taking part in a ceremony which he 
 calls a marriage. What you propose to gain 
 for yourself by this I can not inmgine , for 
 it seems to me that it would have been rath- 
 er for your a<lvautage to remain the solo 
 master of your ward than to help some one 
 else to share your authority. But for your 
 purposes I care nothing — the evil is done. 
 Yet if this Leon Dudleigh or you think that 
 I will sit tamely down under such an int^il- 
 erable wrong, you are miserably mistaken. 
 Sooner or later I shall be avenged. SiMiner 
 or later I shall gain my freedom, aud then 
 my turn shall come. I wish you to see that 
 there is danger before you ; and I wish you 
 also^to understand that it is for your inter- 
 est to be my sole master, as you were before. 
 I have sent for you, then, to ask yon, Wig- 
 gins, to expel this man Leon Dudleigh from 
 the house. Be my guardian again, and I 
 will be your ward. More : I agree to remain 
 here in a state of passive endurance for a 
 reasonable time — one or two years, for in- 
 stan<;e; ami I promise during that time to 
 make no complaint. Do this — drive this 
 man away — and you shall have no reason 
 to regret it. On the other hand, remember 
 there is an alternative. Villain though this 
 man is, I may come to terms with him, and 
 buy my liberty from him by giving him half 
 of the estate, or oven the whole of it. In 
 that ca.se it seems to me that you would lose 
 every thing, for Leon Dudleigh is as great a 
 villain as yourself." 
 
 As Edith spoke, Wiggins listened most at- 
 tentively. He had seated himself not far 
 from her, and after one look at her hud fixed 
 his eyes on the floor. He waited patiently 
 until she had said all she wished to say. 
 Edith herself had not hoped to gain much 
 by this interview, but she hoped at least to 
 be aide to discover something concerning the 
 nature of the partnership which she sup- 
 posed to exist among her enemies, and some- 
 thing perhaps about their plans. The avert- 
 ed face of Wiggins seemed to her the atti- 
 tude of conscious guilt ; but she felt a little 
 puzzled at signs of emotion which he exhib- 
 ited, aud v.'liich seemed hardly the result of 
 conscious guilt. Once or twice a percepti- 
 ble shudder passed through his frame ; his 
 bent head bowed lower; he covered his face 
 with 'lis hands ; and at her last words there 
 <'amr from him a low moan that seemed to 
 indicate sufi'ering. 
 
 '■ It's his acting," she tlionght. " I won- 
 'ler what his next pretense will be?" 
 
 Wiggins sat for some minutes without 
 saying a word. When at length he raised 
 his head he did not look at Edith, but fast- 
 ened his eyes on vacancy, and went on to 
 speak in a low voice. 
 
 "Your remarks," said he, "are all based 
 on a inisconcepti<m. This man is no con- 
 federate of mine. I have no c<nifederate. 
 I —I work out my purpose — by myself." 
 
THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 97 
 
 " I'm sure I wish that I could heliove this," 
 said Edith ; " but uufortuiiatcly Mrs. Dun- 
 bar espouses his cause with so much warmth 
 and enthusiasm that I am forced to conclude 
 that this Leon Dudlei(;h must be a very high- 
 ly valued or very valuable friend to both of 
 you." 
 
 " In this case," said Wiggins, " Mrs. Dun- 
 bar and I have diiferent feelings." 
 
 Instead of feeling gratified at this dis- 
 claimer of any connection with Leon Dud- 
 leigh, Edith felt dissatisfied, and somewhat 
 disconcerted. It seemed to her that Wig- 
 gins was trying to baffle her and throw her 
 oif the right truck. She had hoped that by 
 speaking out frankly her whole mind she 
 might induce him to come to some agreement 
 with her ; but by his answers she saw that 
 he was not in the least degree aflfected by 
 her warnings, or her threats, or her offers. 
 
 "This Leon Dudleigh," said she, "has all 
 along acted sufliciently like a confederate 
 of yours to make mo think that he is one." 
 
 " How t" 
 
 "By coming into these grounds at all 
 times ; by having privileges equal in all re- 
 spects to your own ; by handing over those 
 privileges to his spy and emissary — the one 
 who took the name of Lieutenant Dudleigh. 
 Surely uU this is enough to make me think 
 that he must bo your confederate." 
 
 " You are altogether mistaken," said Wig- 
 gins, quietly. 
 
 " He told some idle story once," said Edith, 
 anxious to draw more out of Wiggins than 
 these short answers, "about some power 
 which he had over you. He asserted that 
 you were afraid of him. He said that you 
 dared not keep him out of the ])ark. He 
 said that his power over you arose from his 
 knowledge of certain past crimes of yours." 
 
 " When he said that," remarked Wiggins, 
 "he said what was false." 
 
 "Why, then, did you allow him to come 
 heref" 
 
 " I did so for reasons that I do not feel at 
 liberty to explain — ^.just now. I will only 
 say that the reasons were altogether differ- 
 ent from those which he stated." 
 
 Of this Editli did not believe a word ; yet 
 she felt completely baffled, and did not know 
 what to say to this man, who thus met all 
 her assertions with denials, and spoke in the 
 calm, lofty tone of conscious truth. But this, 
 she thought, was only his " acting." 
 
 "I only hope that this is so," said she; 
 "but supposing that it is so, I should like 
 very much to know what you feel disposed 
 to <lo. The claim that this ni.an asserts over 
 mo is utterly false. It is a mockerj*. If ho 
 is really not your confederate, you will see, 
 I am sure, that it is not for your own inter- 
 *'Mt to sustain him in his attempt to maintain 
 his claim. I wish, therefore, to know exact- 
 ly what it is that you feel willing to do." 
 
 " Your situation," said Wiggins, " is a 
 G 
 
 most unhappy one. I will do all that I can 
 to prevent it from becoming more so. If 
 this man annoys you, I will 'defend yea 
 against him, whatever it may cost." 
 
 This sounded well ; yet still Edith was not 
 satisfied. It seemed to her too much like an 
 empty promise which he had no idea of ful- 
 filling. 
 
 " How will you defend me T" she asked. 
 " This man lives here now. He asserts that 
 he has the right to do so. He has published 
 what he calls my marriage to him in the 
 newspapers. Ho culls himself my husband. 
 All this is a wrong and an insult to me. His 
 presence here ii a perpetual menace. When 
 he is absent he leaves a reminder of himself," 
 she continued, in a more bitter tone, glancing 
 toward the portrait. " Now I wish to know 
 what you will do. Will you prevent him 
 from coming here T Will you s«M»d him 
 away, either in your nanui or in minef 
 You are easily able to keep out my friends ; 
 will you keep out my enemi»'s?" 
 
 "This man," said Wiggins, "shall soon 
 give you no more trouble." 
 
 "Soon — what do you mean by soon T" 
 asked Edith, impatiently. 
 
 "As soon as my plans will allow mo to 
 proceed to extremities with him." 
 
 " Your plans !" repeated Edith. " You are 
 always bringing up your plans. Whatever 
 is concerned, you plead your plans. They 
 form a sufficient excuse for you to refuse 
 tlie commonest justice. And yet what I 
 ask is certainly for your own interests." 
 
 " If you knew me better," said Wiggins, 
 " you would not appeal to my interests. I 
 have not generally fashioned n\y life with 
 regard to my own advantage. Some day 
 you will see this. You, at least, should be 
 the last one to complain of my jtlans, since 
 they refer exclusively to the vindication of 
 your injured father." 
 
 "So you have said before," said Edith, 
 coldly. "Those plans must be very con- 
 venient, since you use them to excuse every 
 possible act of yours." 
 
 "You will not have to wait long now," 
 said Wiggins, in a weary voice, as though 
 this interview was too nnich for his endur- 
 ance — " not very long. I have heard to-<lay 
 of something whic-b is vc-ry favorable. Since 
 the trial certain doennicnts and other arti- 
 cles have been kept by the authorities, and 
 an application has been made for these, with 
 a view to the establishment of your father's 
 innocence. I have recently heard that the 
 ap])lication is about to bo granted." 
 
 " You always answer my appeals for com- 
 mon justice," said Edith, with nnehangitd 
 coldness, " by 8«)me reference to my father. 
 It seems to me that if you hsul wished to 
 vindicate his innocence, it would have been 
 better to do so while he was alive. If you 
 had done so, it might have been better for 
 yourself iu the end. But now these ullu- 
 
96 
 
 THE LIVraG LINK. 
 
 HioDS are idle and worse than ubcIcbs. They 
 have no effect on me whatever. I value them 
 at what they are worth." 
 
 With these wonls Edith rose and left the 
 room. She returned to her own apartments 
 with a feeling of profound dejection and dis- 
 appointment. Of Wi^Kins slie could make 
 nothing. Ho promised, but his promises 
 were t(M) vague to afford satisfaction. 
 
 Leon Dudleigh was away now, but would 
 probably be back before long. As she had 
 failed with Wiggins, only one thing re- 
 mained, and that was to see Leon. She 
 was resolved to meet him at once on his ar- 
 rival, and light out once for all that battle 
 which was inevitable between herself and 
 him. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXL 
 
 THE IllUKPKESSini.K STIIUGOLE. 
 
 Auoi'T a month passeil away, during 
 which time Edith, in spite of her troubles, 
 grew stronger every day. Youth and a good 
 constitution were on her side, and enabled 
 her to rally rapidly from the prostration to 
 which she hud been subjected. 
 
 At length one morning she learned that 
 Leon had arrived at the Hall. This news 
 gave ho' great satisfaction, for she had been 
 waiting long, and felt anxious to see him 
 face to face, to tell him her own mind, and 
 gather from him, if possible, Mhut his inten- 
 tions were. An interview with him under 
 such peculiar circumstances might have been 
 ])aiuful had she been less courageous or less 
 self-possessed ; but to one with such lofty 
 pride as hers, and filled us she was with such 
 scorn of Leon, and convinced as she was 
 that he was at heart an airant coward, such 
 an interview had nothinjj; in it to deter her. 
 Suspense was worse. She wishe<l to meet 
 that man. 
 
 She sent word to him that she wished to 
 see him, after which she went down to the 
 drawing-room and waited. Leon certainly 
 showed no haste, for it was as much as an 
 hour before he made his appearance. On 
 entering ho assumed that languid air which 
 he had adopted on some of his former visits. 
 He looked carelessly at her, and then threw 
 himself into a chair. 
 
 " Really, Mrs. Dudleigh," said he, " this is 
 an unexpected jilcasure. 'Pon my life, I hud 
 no idea that yon would volunteer to do me 
 80 nnieh honor !" 
 
 " I am not Mrs. Dudleigh," said Edith, 
 " as you very well know. I am Miss Dal- 
 ton, and if you expect me to have any thing 
 to say to you, you must call me by my pro))- 
 or name. You will suffer dearly enough yet 
 for your crimes, and have no need to a<ld to 
 them." 
 
 " Now, my dear," said Leon, " th.at is kind 
 and wife-like, and all that. It reminds me 
 
 of the way in which wives Rometimos speak 
 in the plays." 
 
 " Speak to me as Miss Dalton, or you shall 
 not sjteak to me at all." 
 
 " It's quite evident," said Leon, with a 
 sneer, "that you don't know Into whoee 
 hands you've fallen." 
 
 " On the contrary," said Edith, cnntemptu- 
 OHsly, " it has been my fortune, or my misfor- 
 tune, to understand from the first both you 
 and Wiggins." 
 
 Leon gave a light laugh. 
 
 " Your temper," said he, " has not improved 
 much, at any rate. That's «iuite evident. 
 You have always shown a very peculiar idea 
 of the way in which a lady should speak to 
 n gentleman." 
 
 " One would suppose by that," said Edith, 
 "that you actually meant to hint that you 
 considered yourself a gentleman." 
 
 "So I am," said Leon, haughtily. 
 
 " As yon have no particular birth or fami- 
 ly," said Edith, in her most insolent tone, " I 
 suppose yon must rest your claims to be a 
 gentleman altogether on your good manners 
 and high-toned character." 
 
 "Birth and family!" exclaimed Leon, ex- 
 citedly — " what do you know about them ? 
 You don't know what you're talking about." 
 
 " I know nothing about you, certainly," 
 said Edith. " I suppose you are some mere 
 adventurer." 
 
 Le(m looked at her for a moment with a 
 glance of intense rage; and as she calndy 
 returned his gaze, she noticed that iieculiur- 
 ity of his frowning brow — a red spot in the 
 middle, with deep lines. 
 
 " You surely in your wildest dreams," said 
 she, " never supposed that I took you for a 
 gentleman." 
 
 " Let me tell you," cried Leon, stammer- 
 ing in liis ])aNsiou — " let nu) tell you that I 
 associate with the proudest in the land." 
 
 " I know that," rejilied Edith, quietly. 
 "Am I not hereT But you are only toler- 
 ated." 
 
 " Miss Dalton," cried Leon, " you shall suf- 
 fer for this." 
 
 " Thank you," said Edith : " for once in 
 your life you have spoken to me without in- 
 sulting me. You have called nie by my right 
 name. I could smile ut y(mr threat under 
 any circumstances, but now I can forgive 
 it." 
 
 " It seems to me," growled Leon, " that 
 you are riding the high horse somewhat, 
 and that this is a rather queer tone for 
 you to assume toward me." 
 
 " I always assume a high tone toward low 
 people." 
 
 " Low people ! What do yon mean t" cried 
 Leon, his face purple with rage. 
 
 "I really don't know any name better 
 than that for you and your friends." 
 
 "Tlie name of Dudleigh," said Leon, "la 
 one of the proudest in the laud." 
 
THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 99 
 
 Uu suf- 
 
 l>nce in 
 liont in- 
 
 uiulur 
 |f()igivo 
 
 ' that 
 Lewliitt, 
 1)110 for 
 
 Lrd low 
 
 I" cried 
 
 bettor 
 
 an, " is 
 
 "Certainly it is — but how did you come 
 by it T" 
 
 " What do you mean !" cried Leon, with 
 an oath. 
 
 " Well, captain," said Edith, " or whatev- 
 er elHu you call yonrHclf, are you quite Hure 
 that you know yourself whether your name 
 ia Mowbray or DudleighT How am I to 
 know any thing about a peruou who haa ho 
 many aliases f" 
 
 At thiH Leon started from his scat with a 
 menacing gesture. 
 
 "This seems like real excitement,"' said 
 Kditli, coolly. "Yoi. are usually so languid, 
 you know. But how strange it is that you 
 ■should become excited about such things as 
 these — mere nanu^s, which you amuse your- 
 Hclf by adopting and changing ti'om time to 
 time." 
 
 " You don't api)ear to have found out who 
 I am," said Leon. '• You'll know soon enough, 
 liowever, and so there's no need for me to 
 take the trouble to tell you. Meanwhile 
 Nome one appears to have stuti'od you with 
 .some infernal lies about me." 
 
 " What I have Ixeard about you may pos- 
 sibly have been of that character ; for it cer- 
 tainly belonged to every thing 1 have over 
 heard from you." 
 
 " Do you dare to hint that I am a liar T" 
 
 " The hint was rather a strong one," said 
 Edith, quietly. 
 
 " You shall suffer for this !" 
 
 " There will be suffering somewhere, be- 
 yond a doubt, befon* this is over." 
 
 " Ycni don't know me yet, my lady," said 
 Leon, fiercely. 
 
 " Tiuit's the Hopond time you've taken the 
 trouble to say that. Pray what poNsibh) 
 difterence can it make to me whether 1 do 
 or not T" 
 
 " You'll see," muttered Leon, savagely. 
 '* What others have felt, you shall fei;!." 
 
 "You are really (juite tragic," said Edith, 
 who was dt^liberatt^iy bent on taunting him 
 to the ntinost, in the hope that in his anger 
 she might make him disclose stunething that 
 would be of use to her. "You are quite 
 tragic. Have you over been on the stage, 
 pi'ay T It looks a little like it." 
 
 " You shall suffer for all this !" growled 
 Leon again. 
 
 " I liave no doubt that you will do your 
 host to make, me suffer, under any circum- 
 stances," said Edith. 
 
 " Yes," said Leon, with a sneer, " I think 
 I can Hatter myself that I have already done 
 something in that way. For instance, how 
 do you like it, Mrs. Dudleigh, to see nu) as 
 your husband f How do you like that, 
 eh f 
 
 " I imagine," said Edith, with unalterable 
 placidity, " that you have as nuu-h right to 
 the title of husband as you have to any one 
 of your other pretended names, such ivs 
 Mowbray or Dudleigh. As to what you 
 
 have done, that will be accounted for when 
 the time comes." 
 
 " Oh yes — ha, ha — when the time comes. 
 Well, if you can wait, I can." 
 
 Edith rose. 
 
 " Wiggins and you," said she, contemptu- 
 ously, " have some sort of partnershi|> or un- 
 derstanding just now, but you don't seem to 
 agree very well together; you will have 
 trouble before long. If I chose to rely upon 
 that, I might feel quite secure; but fortu- 
 nately there are other resources left me ; 
 ami so I will recommend you to be a little 
 more careful alumt your proceedings in this 
 house, from which, I assure you, you will 
 soon be ejected." 
 
 After saying this Edith was about to go, 
 but Leon jumped up and jiut himself before 
 her. 
 
 " Wait a minute, Mrs. Dinlleigli," said he 
 — " wait a minut<!, if you please. If you can 
 only hold that devilish tongue of yours for 
 one moment, so as to give me tinu; to speak, 
 I shall feel obliged — yes, infinitely «)bliged." 
 
 Edith waited in some curiosity, and Leon 
 drew forth from his pocket a parcel of pa- 
 pers. 
 
 "Here," said he, flinging them on the ta- 
 ble. " No nonsense now ! sign these." 
 
 He spoke in a <iuick, sharp, peremptory 
 tone, but Edith only smiled. 
 
 "And pray what are these T" she asked. 
 
 " Oh — some i)ap»^rs." 
 
 " Is it possible ! Well, I can see that nnich 
 for myself." 
 
 "Oh, well, if yoii'ro so infernally i)artieu- 
 lar, they're i)aj>ers of a — a liUNine.ss charac- 
 ter — that require your signature." 
 
 "Do tlu\v, really! And who sent you to 
 me with theniT Was it Wiggins!" 
 
 "I brought them myst^lf," said Leon, 
 haughtily. "Wiggins has nothing to do 
 with them." 
 
 " So you did, I saw you bring them into 
 the room. Hut who sent you f" 
 
 " 1 tell you no one sent me. They are my 
 own concern." 
 
 "And jiray why should I take any inter- 
 est in these more than in the papers of Wig- 
 gins, or tin* jtorter, or Mack Hugo f" 
 
 "I U'.U you," cried Leon, inqtatiently, 
 " I'm your husband ; and I am now the — 
 the manager of this t'state. These papers 
 refer to estate business." 
 
 " I dare say they Ixdong to your busiin>ss, 
 but of what (Hincern is that to me f You do 
 not appear to know that you are talking 
 nonsens(!." 
 
 " Nonsense T" 
 
 " Certainly. I have no husband. I am 
 Miss Daltoii." 
 
 " You are not Miss Dalton. You are Mrs. 
 Dudleigh." 
 
 Edith looked at him with a smile of scorn. 
 
 Leon fixed his gray eyes upon her with u 
 fierce glance, and said, in vehement tunes, 
 
100 
 
 THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 y 
 
 t'A 
 I 
 
 Htr 
 
 "SHB CONFRONTED UIM WITH A COLD, STONY 01,AltE," 
 
 " I swear by all that's holy that you are 
 really my wife. The iiiarriajjo was a valid 
 one. No law can break it. The banns were 
 published in the village church. All the vil- 
 lagers heard them. Wiggins kept himself 
 shut up so that ho knew nothing about it. 
 The clergyman is the vicar of Dalton — the 
 Rev. Mr. Mann. It has been published in 
 the papers. In the eye of the law you are 
 no longer Miss Dalton. You are Mrs. Leon 
 Dndleigh. You are my wife!" 
 
 At these words, in spite of Edith's pride 
 aiul courage, there came over her a dark 
 fear that all this might indeed be as he said. 
 The mention of the published banns dis- 
 turbed her, and shook that proud and ob- 
 stinate conviction which she had thus far 
 entertained that the scene in the chapel was 
 only a brutal practical joke. It might be far 
 more. It might not be a mockery after all. 
 It might be good in the eye of the law — 
 that law whose injustice had been shown to 
 her in the terrible experience of her father ; 
 »ud if this were so, what then T 
 
 A pang of anguish shot through her heart 
 
 as this terrific thought occurred, lut the 
 pang passed away, and with it tb terror 
 passed also. Once more she oalle<l to her 
 aid that stubborn Dalton fortitude and Dal- 
 ton pride which had thus far so well sus- 
 tained her. 
 
 " Your wife !" she exclaimed, with a loath- 
 ing ami a scorn in her face and in her voice 
 that words could not express, at the sight of 
 which even Leon, with all his insolence, was 
 cowed — ''your wife ! Do you think you can 
 affect me by lies like these f" 
 
 "Lies!" repeated Loon — "it's the truth. 
 You are my wife, aud you must sigu these 
 papers." 
 
 "I don't think so," said Edith, resuming 
 her former coolness. 
 
 " Do you dare to refuse mo this T" 
 
 "I don't see any daring about it. Of 
 course I refuse." 
 
 "Sign them!" roared Leon, with an oath. 
 
 Edith smiled lightly and turned away. 
 
 Leon rushed toward her with a menacing 
 gesture. But Edith was aware of this. In 
 an instant she turned, snatched a dagger from 
 
THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 101 
 
 th- 
 
 icc 
 
 ol" 
 
 as 
 
 ail 
 
 th. 
 
 her breast which had been concealed there, 
 and confronted him with a cold, Htony glare. 
 
 " I well know," said she, " what an utter 
 coward you are. While I havo this you 
 will not dare to touch mo. It in bettor for 
 you, on the whole, just now, that you are a 
 coward, for this dagger — which, by-tho-way, 
 I always carry — is jioisoned. It is an old 
 family affair — and tliat shows yoii one of 
 the advantages of having a family — and s<» 
 deadly is the poison that a scratch would 
 kill you. Yes, there is some advantage in 
 being a coward, for if you dared to toucii 
 me I should strike you with this as I would 
 strike a mad dog !" 
 
 Leon stood before her, a cowanl, as she 
 knew and as she said, not daring to come 
 within reach of her terrible weapon, which 
 she upheld with a deadly purpose jdainly 
 visible in her eye. Yet it seemed as though, 
 with his great muscular power, he might 
 easily have grasped that slender ann and 
 wrenched the dagger away. Hut this was 
 a thing which he did not dare to attempt ; 
 the risk was too great. He might have re- 
 ceived a scratch in the struggle with that 
 young girl who confronted him so steadily, 
 and who, with all her fragile beauty, was so 
 calm, so proud, and so resolute. 
 
 Edith waited for a few moments, and then 
 walked quietly away, trusting imidicitly to 
 Leon's cowardice, and without another word, 
 or even another look, she loft the room and 
 returned to her own apartments. 
 
 r' 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIL 
 
 A FIGHT IN THE ENEMY'S CAMP. 
 
 It will have been seen already that Leon 
 had taken up his abode at Dalton Hall im- 
 mediately after that marriage ceremony as 
 the husband of Edith. Her illness had 
 hitherto prevejited him from having any un- 
 derstanding with her, and his own affairs 
 called him away before her recovery. With 
 Wiggins he remained on the same footing as 
 before ; nor did he find himself able to alter 
 that footing in the slightest degree. What- 
 ever Wiggins may have thought or felt on 
 the subject of the marriage, he revealed it 
 to no one; and Leon found himself com- 
 pelled to wait for Edith's recovery before he 
 could accomplish any thing definite with re- 
 gard to his own position. On his return to 
 Dalton Hall he learned that she was conva- 
 lescent, and he was much surprised at her 
 immediate request for an interview. 
 
 With the result of that interview ho 
 had but little reason to be satisfied. He 
 felt disappointed, enraged, and humiliated. 
 Edith had been perfectly free from all fear 
 of him. The young girl had shown herself 
 a virago. His insults she had returned with 
 mocking sarcasms, his threats she had treat- 
 
 ed with utter contempt, and finally she had 
 proved him to his own face to be a coward. 
 Over the recollection of that scene he could 
 only gnash his teeth in fruitless rage. The 
 more lie thought of that interview, the more 
 bitter grew his mortification ; and at length 
 he resolved to force matters to a climax at 
 once by coming to a distinct and final un- 
 derstanding with Wiggins himself. 
 
 Leon had enjoyed the freetlomof thehous<> 
 long enough to know where Wiggins's room 
 was, and into that room he intruded himself 
 abruptly on the following day. It was in 
 this room that Wiggins spent the greater 
 part of his time, carrying on a vigorous 
 though not .'cry ext«'nsive correspondence, 
 and moving the wires of those plans at 
 which he liad hinted to Edith. He was 
 here now, and as Leon entered ho looked np 
 with a silent stare. 
 
 " I'll not stand this any longer," burst 
 forth Leon, abruptly and veliemently. " I'm 
 in terrible difflculties. I've been waiting 
 long enough. You must side with me act- 
 ively, for your assistance is absolutely nec- 
 essary to bring that mad girl to terms. I'm 
 married to her. She's my wife. I must 
 have contnd of this )»lace at once; and I'll 
 tolerate no further opposition from her, or 
 humbug from you. I've come now to tell 
 you this finally and peremi>torily." 
 
 " She is not your wife," said Wiggins, 
 coldly. 
 
 " She is." 
 
 "It was a trick. The coreniony was a 
 miserable sham." 
 
 " It was no sham. It was done legally, 
 and ea > not bo undone." 
 
 "Legally! Pooh! The whole thing was 
 a farce. It's no marriage. Leg.illy ! Why, 
 what has that miserable afi'air to do with 
 the law f" 
 
 " What has it to do T It has every thing 
 to do. The whole thing was <Vuie in a per- 
 fectly legal manner. The banns were reg- 
 ularly published by the vicar of Dalton in 
 Dalton Church, and in that chaitel Edith 
 Dalton was regularly and legally married 
 to Leon Dudleigh by the Hev. Mr. Munn. 
 What more is wanting to make it legal? 
 Go and ask Mr. Munn himself." 
 
 "The banns!" exclaimed Wiggins. 
 
 " Yes, the banns," saiil Leon. " You never 
 heard of that, i>erhaps. If you doubt me, 
 go and ask Munn." 
 
 " It was not you that she married !" cried 
 Wiggins, after a pause, in which he set^med 
 struck rather painfully by Leon's last infor- 
 mation. " It was not you — it was that other 
 one. He called himself Dudleigh — a miser- 
 able assumed name !" 
 
 " You know nothing about it," said Leon, 
 " whether it was assumed or not. And as to 
 the marriage, it was to me. I held her 
 hand ; I |)ut the ring on her finger ; she 
 married me, and no other. But I'm not go- 
 
102 
 
 THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 ing to talk nlmnt that. I'vo simply come | 
 here to insist on your active help. I won't 
 stand any nior« of this humbug. I've al- 
 ready told you that I know you." 
 
 Wiggins n-maincd silent for some time. 
 
 " So you did," said he at last, iu a low 
 voice ; " but what of that f" 
 
 "Why, only this: you h.id to let mo do 
 what I chose. And I intend to keep a good 
 holil of you yet, my fine fellow." 
 
 Wiggins placed both his (dbows on the 
 table in front of him, and looked fixedly at 
 Leon for some time. 
 
 " You did say once," said he, slowly, " that 
 you knew me, and the possibility that it 
 might ' true induced me to tolerate you 
 liere ti line time. I trusted to Miss Dal- 
 toii's iniiite good sense to save her from any 
 danger from one like you ; but it appears 
 that I was mlKtaken. At the ]>resi!nt mo- 
 ment, however, I may iw well inform you 
 that you have not thi^ slightest idea who I 
 am, and more than this, that I have not the 
 slightest ol»Jection to tell you." 
 
 " I'ooh!" said Leon, witli ill-disguised un- 
 easiness, " it's all very well for you to take 
 that tone, but it wou't do with me. I know 
 who you are." 
 
 " Who am I f" 
 
 "Oh, Ikiu)W." 
 
 " Who ? who T Say it ! If you did know, 
 you would not imagine that you had any 
 power over me. Your jiower is a dream, 
 and vour knowledge of mo is a sham. Who 
 amir 
 
 "Why," said Leon, with still greater un- 
 easiness aud uncertainty in his face and 
 voice, " you are not John Wiggins." 
 
 "Who do you think I am?" ivnked Wig- 
 gins. 
 
 " Who T who T WHiy, vou camo from Aus- 
 tralia." 
 
 " Well, what of that T" 
 
 " Well, you .'ire sonui convict who got ac- 
 quainted with Dalton out there, and have 
 come l)ack hero to try to get control of these 
 estates.'' 
 
 " Hut how could I do that T If this were 
 so, do you sujipose that Wiggins of Liver- 
 pool would allow it !" 
 
 " Oh, he has a share in the busiiu'ss. He 
 goes halves with you, perhajis." 
 
 " If he wanted any share at all in such a 
 transaction, he might have all, and there- 
 fore he would b(> a fool to take half. Your 
 theory, I infer, is somewhat lame. And what 
 of Mrs. Dunbar f Is she an Australian con- 
 vict too T" 
 
 "Mrs. Dunbar? — who is she? What! 
 that cra/y housekeeiier? Shi' looks as though 
 she may have just been release<l from some 
 lunatic asylum." 
 
 Wiggins made no immediate rejily, and 
 sat for a few moments in thought. Tlieii he 
 looked at Leon and said : 
 
 "Well, you have got hold of part .f the 
 
 truth — ^just enough to mislead yon. It is 
 true that I have been in Australia, though 
 why you should suppose that I was a con- 
 vict I d<» not know. More : I went out 
 ther^) on account of Dalton, and for no other 
 reason. While there I saw nnicli of him, an<l 
 gained his whole confidence. He told nie 
 his whole story unreservedly. Ho Ijelieved 
 nui to be his friend. He confided every thing 
 to nu). You must have heard of his trial, 
 and his strange persistence in refusing to 
 say who the guilty i)arty was." 
 
 "Oh yes," said Leon, wiirli a laugh. "A 
 good idea that, when the guilty party was 
 himself." 
 
 " It was not himself," said W^iggins, "and 
 before long the worhl shall know who it was, 
 for that is the one busiiu'ss of my life since 
 my return, to which I have sacrilictul all oth- 
 er concerns. In my attention to this I have 
 even negleeted Miss Dalton" 
 
 "She does not appear to think that you 
 have neglecti'd her," said Leon, with a sneer. 
 
 To this Wiggins jtaid no attention. 
 
 "Dailon," said he, "told uw all before he 
 died. He thought of his daughter, iind t hough 
 he had suffered himself, yet he thought (tn 
 his death-bed that it would l)e a sin to leave 
 to her such a legacy of shami'. It was this 
 that broke his obstinate silence, and made 
 him tell his secret to me. Ami here, Leon 
 Dudleigh, is a thing in which you aro con- 
 cerned." 
 
 " I !" exclaimed Leon, in astonishment, not 
 unmingled with alarm. 
 
 "I will tell you i)resently. I will simply 
 remark now that I am following out his 
 wishes, and an> working for Miss Dalton, as 
 he himself would have worked, to redeem 
 her name." 
 
 "The name is hers no longer," said Leon, 
 " She seems to give you a ])recions hard time 
 of it too, I should say, and does not altogeth- 
 er appreciate your self-denying and woiuh-r- 
 fuUy disinterested efforts." 
 
 "I h.'ive nt)t treated her Avith snflicient 
 consideration," said Wiggins. "I misunder- 
 stood her character. I began altogether 
 wrong. I see now that I ou);ht to hav<' 
 given her more of my ('onliileiiee, or, better 
 y<'t, that I ought not to ha\e brought her 
 here till the work was doni . Well," he add- 
 ed, with a sigh, "my chief consolation is 
 that it will be all right in the end." 
 
 "This is all rubbish," said Leon. "You 
 are not what you jiretend to be. You are 
 not her guardian. You are an inferlojter 
 and a swiiidliT. You shall remain here no 
 longer. I am her husbitnd, and I order you 
 off the ])reniises at once." 
 
 " You are not her husband, ami I am her 
 guardian," saitl Wiggins, calmly. " I was 
 ap|iointed by her fatht^r on his death-bed." 
 
 " I don't believe it. Hesides, your mime 
 is not Wiggins at .'ill." 
 
 " How do you know ? You know nothing." 
 
 I 
 
THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 103 
 
 UUTAUU: UO YOU TALK OK VENUKANCKr' 
 
 "I know Wijjgins." 
 
 " \Vi<;;;iiin of LivtTpool, perlmps, but tlioro 
 are inori! \Vi{^K'"'*cH in tlio world flian that." 
 
 "A court of law will show that — " 
 
 " You will not go to a court of law. That 
 is nij' tank. And mark nie," continued Wij^- 
 ;^ins, with thrilling cniphasiH, " when a cr)urt 
 of law takes up t\ui Hubject of the Dalt"" 
 estates or the Dalton name, then it will bo 
 the turn for you and yours to tremble." 
 
 "Tremble!" exclaimed Ler)n, scornfully. 
 
 " Yes," rejieated WiKK''"*- " Your father — " 
 
 " I'ooh !" said Loon. 
 
 " When Dalton died," continued Wifj^ins, 
 "ho left his palters. Anion}; them was a let- 
 ter of whieli he liimself tohl me. If he had 
 produced that li'ttiT on his trial, ho would 
 liave escaped, and the nuilty man would 
 have been punished. Tiie letter was written 
 by tlm real forifer. It inclosed the f(Uj;ed 
 check to Dalton, asking him to dr.-iw the 
 money and jiay certain pressing (.ebts. The 
 writer of that letter was your ov n father — 
 Lionel Dmlleigh !" 
 
 " It's a lie !" cried Leon, starting up, with 
 terrible ex(Utemeut in his face — an excite- 
 ment, too, which was mingled with unspeak- 
 able dread. 
 
 "It's true," saiil Wiggins, calmly, "and 
 tbo hotter can be ]»roved." 
 
 "It can not." 
 
 "It can, and by the best of testimony." 
 
 "I don't believe it." 
 
 " Perhajis not; but thi-ro is something 
 
 more. With the murder trial you are no 
 doubt familiar. In fact, I take it for granted 
 that you are familiar with Dalton's case in 
 all i/« bearhH/n," added Wiggins, in a t<uie of 
 deej> meaning. " In that murder trial, then, 
 you are aware that a Maltese cro.ss was found 
 on the scene of nnirder, and created much ex- 
 citement. Y<m know what part it had in 
 the trial. I now inform you that I have 
 proof which can show Ix-yond a doubt that 
 this Maltese cross was the property of your 
 father— Lionel Dudleigh." 
 
 " It's a lie — an infernal lie!" said Leon, in 
 a hojirse voice. His excitement had now 
 become ti'rrible. 
 
 " It's true — all true," continued Wiggins, 
 "It <'an all be jM'oved by a witness that can 
 not be impeachrd. Yes, Leon Dnilleigh, you 
 yourself WduM be forced to accept the testi- 
 mony of that witness." 
 
 "What witness F" siiid Leon, in a voice 
 that was scarcely audible from conllicting 
 emotions. 
 
 Wiggins looked at him earnestly, and then 
 said, in a low, deep, solemn voi<'e, 
 
 " Leon Dudleigh, that witness is i/o«r 
 molhrr .'" 
 
 The other started as though ho had been 
 shot. 
 
 "My mother!" ho almost screamed -" my 
 mother! why, she — she is dead — dead lo!ig 
 ago." 
 
 " When did you find that out t" said Wig- 
 gins, 
 
104 
 
 THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 "She's dead! sLo's dead!" repeated Leon, 
 as though by aasertiou ho could make it 
 true. 
 
 "She is not dead," said Wiggins, in an 
 awful voice, " though all these years she has 
 lived a living death. She is not dead. She 
 is alive, and she now stands ready, when the 
 hour comes, though with an agonized heart, 
 to give that testimony which, years ago, she 
 dared not and could not give. She has al- 
 lowed the innocent to suffer, and the guilty 
 to go free, but now she will do so no longer. 
 Tile work upon which I have been engaged 
 is almost complete. The preparations are 
 made, and this very day I am going to Liv- 
 erpool to perform the last aj ts that are nec- 
 essary toward vindicating the memory of 
 Dalton, establishing his innocence, and pun- 
 ishing the guilty. As for you, you can do 
 nothing here, and I have resolved to punish 
 you for what you have done. I shall show 
 j'ou no mercy. If you want to save yourself, 
 leave the country, for otherwise I swear you 
 will never be safe from my vengeance." 
 
 " Vengeance !" said Leon, in low, menacing 
 tones. " Dotard ! do you talk of vengeance t 
 You do not understand the meaning of that 
 word. Wait till you see what I can do." 
 
 And with these words he left the room. 
 
 That evening Wiggins left for Liverpool. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXin. 
 
 THE HUSUAND'S last APPEAL. 
 
 Early on the following day Edith re- 
 ceived a request from Leon for another in- 
 terview. This request was acceptable in 
 every way, for the last intorvio"' bail been 
 no more satisfactory to her than to him, and 
 she could not help hoping that scnnething 
 more definite might result from a now one. 
 She therefore went down, and found him al- 
 ready in the room. 
 
 On this occasion Leon showed nothing of 
 that languor which he bad previously affect- 
 ed. He appeared, on the contrary, uneasy, 
 nervous, and imi)ivtient. So abstracted was 
 he by his own thouglits that he did not no- 
 tice her entrance. She sat down and wai - 
 ed for a little while, after which she said, 
 quietly, 
 
 " Did you wish to see mo, Captain — a — 
 Dudleight" 
 
 Leon started, then frowned ; then, after a 
 little silence, he began abruptly : 
 
 " You may deny it as much as you choose, 
 but it's no use. You are actually married to 
 me. You are really and truly my wife, both 
 in the eyes of man and in the eyes of the 
 law. From that ni.arringe nothing can ever 
 deliver yim but a divorce." 
 
 "You are mistaken," said Edith, quiet\v. 
 "Even if that miserable performance should 
 turn out to be a marriage — which is absurd 
 
 — still there is one other thing that can free 
 mo." 
 
 " Ah f — and what may that be T" 
 
 " Death !" sai(. i^litb, solemnly. 
 
 Lbon turned pale. "Is that a threat T" 
 he asked at length, in a trembling voice. 
 " Whose death do you mean T" 
 
 Edith made no reply. 
 
 " Yes," said Leon, after a pause, going on 
 with his former train of thought, " at any 
 rate you are my wife, and you can not help 
 it. if on may deny it as much as you please, 
 but that will not avail. In spite of this, 
 however, I do not molest you, although I 
 might so easily do it. I never trouble you 
 with my presence. I am very forbeaiing. 
 Few would do as I do. Yet I have rights, 
 and some of them, at least, I am determined 
 to assert. Now, on the whole, it is well for 
 you — and you ought to see it — that you have 
 one here who occupies the peculiar position 
 toward you which I do. If it were not for 
 me you would be altogether in the power of 
 Wiggins. He is your guardian or your jail- 
 er, whichever you choose to call him. He 
 could shut you up in the vaults of Dalton 
 Hall if he chose — and he probably will do 
 that very thing before long — for who is there 
 to prevent him f I am tue only one who can 
 stand between you and him. I am your only 
 hope. You do not know who and what this 
 man is. Ycm think you know him, but you 
 don't. You think of him as a villain and a 
 tyrant. Let mo tell you that in your bitter- 
 est hate of that man you have never begun 
 to conceive the fraction of his villainy. Let 
 me tell you that he is one who passes your 
 comprehension. Let me tell you that, how- 
 ever much you may hate me, if I were to tell 
 you what Wiggins is, tho. feelings tliat you 
 have toward me would be almost affection. 
 compar»i(l to those wliich you would have 
 toward him." 
 
 I^eon jiaused. Ho had spoken most ear- 
 nestly and vehemently ; but upon Edith these 
 words produced no effect. She believed that 
 this was a last effort to work upon her feel- 
 ings by exciting her fears of Wiggir.3. She 
 did not believe him capable of s])eaking the 
 truth to her, and thus his words produced 
 no result. 
 
 " If you had not been married to mo when 
 you Avere," continued Leon, "I solemnly as- 
 sure you that by this tinui you would have 
 been where hoj)e could never reach you." 
 
 "Well, really," said Edith, "Captain— a 
 — Dudleigli, all this is excessively childish. 
 Hy such ail absurd preamble as this you. 
 of course, must mean sometliing. All this, 
 however, can have no possible effect on me, 
 for the simple reason that I consider it 
 sjiek'n fur effect. I hojie, therefore, that 
 you will be kind enoiigli to come at onct! to 
 business, and say precisely what it is that 
 you want of iiie." 
 
 " It is no absurd preamble," said Leon, 
 
THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 105 
 
 giooDiily. "It is not noiispiise, as I cotild 
 soon show you. There is no human being 
 who has done so miich wrong to you and 
 yours as this Wiggins, yet you quietly allow 
 him to be your guardian." 
 
 "IT" said i:dith. "I allow himt Let 
 me be free, and then you will see how long 
 I allow him." 
 
 " But I mean here — in Dalton H.all." 
 
 "I do not allow him any thing. I am 
 simply a prisoner. He is uiy jailer, and 
 keeps me here." 
 
 " You need not be so." 
 
 "Pray how can I escape?" 
 
 " Hy siding with me." 
 
 "With youf" asked Edith— "and what 
 then T" 
 
 " Well, if yon side with mo I will drive 
 him out." 
 
 " You seem incapable of understanding," 
 said Edith, "that of tlie two, you yourself, 
 both by nature and by position, are by 
 far the more abhorrent to me. Side with 
 you ! And is this the proposal you have to 
 make t" 
 
 " I tell you that you are in no danger from 
 me, and that you are from him." 
 
 "Keally, as far as danger is concerned, 
 my prospects with Wiggins are far prefer- 
 able to my prospects with you." 
 
 " But you don't know him. Ho has done 
 terrible things — deeds of horror." 
 
 " And you — what have you done T But 
 lierhaps I have mistaken you. When you 
 iusk me to side with you, you may perhaps 
 mean that I shall bo at liberty, and that 
 when you expel Wiggins you will allow me 
 to go also." 
 
 At this Leon looked down in evident em- 
 baiTassment. 
 
 " Well — not — yet," ho said, slowly. " In 
 time, of course ; but it can not all be done 
 just at once, you know." 
 
 " Whiit can not be done at once t" 
 
 " Your — your freedom." 
 
 " Why not t" 
 
 "Well, there are — a — certain difflcuUies 
 in the way." 
 
 "Then what can I gain by siding with 
 you 1 Why should I east oil' Wiggins, and 
 take a new jailer who has done to nic a 
 wrong far nu>ro foul and far more intoler- 
 able than any that Wiggins ever atteniiit- 
 ed T" 
 
 " But you mistake me. I intend to let you 
 go free, of course — that is, in time." 
 
 "In time!" 
 
 " Yes ; every thing can not be done in a 
 monuMit." 
 
 "This is mere childishness. You are tri- 
 lling. I am astoninhed that you should 
 speak in this way, after what you know of 
 uie." 
 
 "But I tell ynw I will set you free — only 
 I can not do that until I get what I waut." 
 
 "And what is it that you want T" 
 
 " Why, what I married you for." 
 
 " What is that f" 
 
 " Money," said Leon, abruptly. 
 
 "Money?" repeated Edith, in surprise. 
 
 " Yes, money," said Leon, harshly. 
 
 " You nnist really apply to Wiggins, then," 
 said she, carelessly. 
 
 "No; you yourself are f'e only one to 
 whom I nnist apply." 
 
 " To mo T I have no money whatever. It 
 is of no use for me to infor.n you that Wig- 
 gins is all-powerful here. I thought by 
 your professed knowledge (if his wonderful 
 secrets that you had some {i;reat power over 
 him, and could get from him whatever you 
 want." 
 
 " Never mind what you thought," growled 
 Leon. " I come to you, and you only, aud I 
 ask you for money." 
 
 "How can /give it?" 
 
 " By signing your name to a paper, a sim- 
 ple paper, which I can use. Your signature 
 is necessary to elYect what I wish." 
 
 " My signature f Ah ! And what possible 
 inducement can j'ou otter me for my signa- 
 ture f " 
 
 " Whv, what von most desire." 
 
 "WhlitF Mv freedom!" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 "Very well. Will you drive rae to the 
 village at once!" 
 
 Leon hesitated. 
 
 " Well, not just at once, you know. You 
 must remain here a short time, and go 
 through certain formalities aiul routine 
 work, and attest certain things before a 
 lawyer." 
 
 Edith smiled. 
 
 "What a simpleton you must still think 
 me! How easy you nuist think it is to im- 
 l)ose upon me! Perlia[ts you think nie 8(» 
 credulous, or so much in the habit of con- 
 tiiling in you, that no such thing as doubt 
 ever enters my mind." 
 
 Leon glared angrily at her. 
 
 "I tell you I must have it," ho cried, in 
 excited tones, "I must have it — by fair 
 means or foul." 
 
 '• Ibit of the two ways I prei^ume you have 
 a iireference fur the latter," said Kdith. 
 
 "I tell you I must and will have it," re- 
 iterated Leon. 
 
 " I don't see how you can get my signature 
 very well — unless you forge it ; but then I 
 sup]iose that will not stand in your way." 
 
 "Now by all that is most holy," cried 
 Leon, vehemently, "you make me hate you 
 even worse than I hate Wiggins." 
 
 " Keally, tliese feelings of yours are a s-;b- 
 ject in whieh I do not take the smallest iii 
 tercNt." 
 
 "I tell you," cried Leon, struggling to 
 repress his rage, "if you sign this paper 
 you shall be free." 
 
 "Let me be free first, and then I will 
 think about it." 
 
106 
 
 THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 " If yon get free yon'll refuse to sign," 
 said Leon. 
 
 " But if I were to sign first I should nev- 
 er be free." 
 
 " You shall be free. I promise you on the 
 honor of a gentleman," cried Leon, earnestly. 
 
 " Vm afraid," said Edith, in a tone of 
 quiet contempt, " that the security is of too 
 little value." 
 
 Leon looked at her with fury in his eyes. 
 
 " You are driving me to the most desper- 
 ate measures," ho crU'd. 
 
 " It seems to mo that your measures have 
 all along been as desperate a« they well can 
 be." 
 
 " I swear by all that's holy," tlnindered 
 Leon, "that I'll tamo you yet. I'll bring 
 you into subjection." 
 
 " Ah ! then in that case," said Edith, " ray 
 comfort will be that the subjection can not 
 last long." 
 
 "Will it not!" asked Leon. 
 
 " No, it will not, a,s you very well know," 
 said Edith, in cold, measured tones, looking 
 steadfastly at him with what seemed like a 
 certain s<demn warniiig. Slie rose aa she 
 said this, still looking at Leon, wliilo he also 
 rose in a state of vehement excitement. 
 
 " What do you mean T" he cried. " You 
 look as blood-thirsty as an assassin." 
 
 " I may yet become one," said Edith, gloom- 
 ily, "if this lasts much longer. You have 
 eyes, but you will not see. You treat me 
 like some silly, timid child, while I havfs all 
 the time the spirit of a man. This can only 
 end in one way. Simie one niu.st die!" 
 
 Leon looked at her in astonishment. Her 
 voice and her look showed that she was in 
 earnest, but the fragile beauty of her shMi- 
 der form seemed to belie the dark meaning 
 of her words. 
 
 " I came with a fair offer," said he, in a 
 voice hoarse witli ])assion. 
 
 "You!" said Edith, in ccdd scorn; " i/ou 
 with a fair ofl'er! Fairness and honor and 
 jtistice and truth, anil all sucdi things, are 
 altogether unknown to such as you." 
 
 At tills Leon frowned that i)eculiar frown 
 of his, ami gnawed his mustache in his rage. 
 
 " 1 liave spared you thus far," said he — 
 "I have spared you; but now, by Heaven, 
 you shall feed what it is to have a master!" 
 
 " You !" she cri<>d — ■" you spared me f If 
 I have escaped any injury from vou, it has 
 been tlirougli my own courage and tlie cow- 
 ardice of your own heart. You my niast<T! 
 You will learn a terrible lesson before you 
 become tliat !" 
 
 " I have spared you," cried Leon, now be- 
 side himself with rage—" I have sjiiired you, 
 l)nt I will spare you no longer. After this 
 you sliiill know that whiit I have thus far 
 done is as nothing to tliat whidi is yet be- 
 fori> you." 
 
 " Whnt you have done!" said Edith, fix- 
 ing her great wratliful eyes more sternly 
 
 upon Leon, with a look of deadly menace, 
 and with burning intensity of gaze, and 
 speaking in a low tone that was triMuulous 
 with repressed indignation — "what yon 
 have done ! Let me tell you. Captain Dud- 
 leigb, your heart's blood could never atone 
 for the wrongs you have done me ! Beware, 
 Sir, how you drive me to desperation. You 
 little know what I have in iny mind to do. 
 You have made me too fffuiiliar with the 
 thought of death!" 
 
 At these words Leon stared at her in si- 
 lence. He seemed at last to understand the 
 full possibility of Edith's nature, and to com- 
 prehend that this one whom he threatened 
 was capable, in her despair, of making all 
 Ins threats recoil on his own head. He said 
 nothing, and in a few moments afterward she 
 left the room. 
 
 As she went out of the door she encoun- 
 tered Hugo. He started as she came noise- 
 lessly upoji him. He luul evidently been 
 listening to all that had been said. At this 
 specimen of the way in which she was 
 watched, though it really showed her no 
 more than what she had all along known, 
 there arose in Edith's mind a fresh sense of 
 helplessness and of peril. 
 
 Ev 
 ass 
 no 
 bat 
 hill 
 1 
 
 EDITH 8KT TO WOUK. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV. 
 
 TIIK FUGITIVE AND TIIK PURSUER. 
 
 Ox returning to her own room from 
 that interview with Leon, Edith sat for a 
 long time involved in thought. It was evi- 
 dent to her now that her situation was one 
 full of frightful peril. The departure of 
 Wiggins, of whicli she was aware, seemed 
 to afford additional danger. Between him 
 and Leon there had been what seemed to 
 her at least the affectation of dislike or dis- 
 agreement, liut now tliat he was gone there 
 remained no one who would even i)retend to 
 interpose between herself and her enemy. 
 
THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 107 
 
 lie 
 
 111' 
 
 ■il 
 
 ill 
 
 lo 
 
 wo 
 
 Even if Mrs. Dunbar liad been capable of 
 aHHiHtin^ her agiiiuHt Leon, Edith Icnew that 
 no reliance could be placed upon her, for she 
 had openly manifested a strong regard for 
 him. 
 
 This departure of Wiggins, •which thus 
 seemed to m.ike her present position more 
 perilous, seemed also to Edith to afi'ord her 
 a better opj)ortunity than any she had 
 known since her arrival of putting into ex- 
 ecution her long-meditated project of tlight. 
 True, there was still the same difficulty 
 which had been suggested once before — the 
 want of money — but Edith was now indif- 
 ferent to this. The one thing necessary was 
 to escape from her new i)eril8. If she could 
 but get out of the Dal ton grounds, slie 
 hoped to hud some lawyer who might take 
 up her cause, and allow her enough to sup- 
 ply her modest wants until that cause should 
 be decided. IJut liberty was the one thought 
 that ecliimed all others in her estimation ; 
 and if she could but once effect her escape 
 from this horrible place, it seemed to her 
 that all other things would be easy. 
 
 The i)re8ent appeared to be beycmd all 
 others the fitting time, for Wiggins was 
 away, and it seemed to her that in his ab- 
 sence the watch over her would jjrobably be 
 relaxed. Her long illness would of itself 
 have thrown them to some extent off their 
 guard, and render her purpose unsuspected. 
 By this time it would doubtless be forgotten 
 that she had once left the Hall liy night, and 
 it was not likely that any precaution would 
 be taken against a second flight on the part 
 of one so weak as she was supposed to be. 
 A few days before she had made a stealthy 
 visit to that door, and had found, to her 
 great relief, that no additional fastenings 
 had been put there. Her illness had evi- 
 dently rendered any such precaution unnec- 
 essiiry for the time; and since her recovery 
 Wiggins had no doubt been too nnicli occu- 
 pied with other things to think of this. 
 
 Now was the time, then, for flight. The 
 danger was greater than ever before, and 
 the opportunity for escape better. Leon 
 was master in the house. The other in- 
 mates were simply his creatines. Leon 
 Diidleigh, as ho called himself", claimeil to 
 be her husband. Ho assented that claim iii- 
 "'■Kiiiiy and vehemently. She had <lefit'<l 
 Mm, but how long would she be able to 
 maintain that defiant attitude? How long 
 (Miild her frail strength sustain her in a life 
 'tf incessant warfare like this, even if her 
 sjiirit should continue to be as indomitable 
 as ever T The scene of this day, and her last 
 parting with him, made the danger seem so 
 ininrmeiit tliat it nerved her resolution, and 
 made her determine at all hazards to attempt 
 her escape that night. 
 
 lint how should she esca]>e t 
 
 Not for the first time did this question oc- 
 cur. For a huig time she had been brooding 
 
 over it, and as she had thonght it over she 
 had devised a plan which seemed to hold 
 out to her some j)rospect of success. 
 
 In the first place, it was evident that she 
 would have to climb over the wall. To ob- 
 tain any key by which she could ojten the 
 gates was impossible. She could find none 
 that were at all likely to do so ; besides, she 
 was afraid that even if she had a key, the 
 attempt to tinloek the gates might expose 
 her to dete(!tion and arn'st by the watchful 
 jiorter. The wall, therefore, was her only 
 hope. 
 
 is'ow that wall could not bo climbed by 
 her unassisted strength, l)ut she knew that 
 if she had any sort of a ladd<'r it might eas- 
 ily be done. The question that arose, then, 
 was how to procure this ladder. A wooden 
 one could not be of any service, for she could 
 not carry it so far, and she saw plainly that 
 her attempt must be made by means of some 
 sort of a rope-ladder. 
 
 Having reached this conclusion, she began 
 a diligent search among all the articles at 
 her disposal, and finally concluded that the 
 bod-cord would be exactly what she needed. 
 In addition to this, h<i\vever, something niori? 
 was required — s;)mething of the nature of a 
 gra])]tle or hook to secure her rope-ladder to 
 the top of the wall. This reciuired <a fur- 
 ther search, but in this also she was suc- 
 cessful. An iron rod on the eiu'taiii pole 
 along which the curtains ran ai>peare(l to 
 her to be well suited to her neeils. It was 
 about six feet long and a quarter of an inch 
 thick. Tlu! rod rested loosely on tlie pole, 
 and Edith was able to remove it without 
 difficulty. 
 
 All these preliminaries had been arranged 
 or decided ujion before this evening, and 
 Edith had now only to take ])OHst'Hsion of 
 the rod and the rope, and adajtt them to her 
 wants. For this piirjiose she waited till 
 dark, and then hegaii lier work. 
 
 It was nioonllglit, and she was able to 
 work without lighting a liim]), thus secur- 
 iiig additional secriicy. This moonlight was 
 both an advantage and a disadvantage, and 
 she did not know whetlitT to be glad or 
 sorry altont it. It eeitaiiily facilitated her 
 eseajio by showing the way, but llieii. on 
 the othi>r hand, it rendered <liscovery e;i.sler. 
 
 Edith set to work, and, first of all, she 
 removed tlie Ited-eord. It was as strong as 
 was desirable, and far longer than was nec- 
 essary. She doiihltMl jiart of tills, and tied 
 knots at intervals of about .1 foot, and in 
 this simple way formed what was a very 
 good step-ladder about three yards long, 
 which was siifllcient for her purpose. Tlie-n 
 she removed the Iron curtain rod, and bent 
 this in such a way that it fornu'd a hook or 
 grajtple strong enough for her wanls. She 
 lliiis had a nqie-laddrT, with a graiiplliig- 
 iron attached, of rude eonstruetlon, it is 
 true, yet perfectly well suited to the tusk 
 
108 
 
 THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 bpfore her, and so light as to bo quite port- 
 able. 
 
 These preparations did not take up much 
 time. After taking what she wanted of the 
 bed-cord, there wan enougii left to replace in 
 the bedstead so afj to hold up the bed. She 
 did not know what might happen, and wish- 
 ed to preserve nppearanccn in th« event of 
 Mrs. Dunbar's entrance, or in coho of her 
 being compelled to postpo^ie her piv.jeet. 
 From the same motive she also replaced the 
 curtain so as to look as it did before, secur- 
 ing it in its place by means of pins. 
 
 At length all these preparations were 
 completed, and it only remained for Edith 
 to wait for the proper time to start. 
 
 The hours passed on. 
 
 Midnight came, but even at that hour 
 Edith thought that it was too early. Leon 
 probably kept late himrs, and might be 
 wandering about. She determined to wait 
 longer. 
 
 The moon waa still shii ing. There were 
 imly a few scattered clouds in that clear 
 sky. 
 
 Could she find her way to the wall T She 
 felt confident of that. She intended to go 
 down the avenue, keeping close to the trees, 
 so as to fly to their shelter in case of pursuit. 
 When she reached the neighViorhood of the 
 porter's lodge, she would go through the 
 trees to the wall, trusting to fortune to find 
 her way for that short distance. 
 
 Such were the hopes and plans, made long 
 before, which now occupied her thoughts as 
 she waited. 
 
 At Ia«t two o'clock came. It seemed now 
 that it would be unwise to wait any longer, 
 since the time that was left between this 
 and daylight was barely sufHcient to allow 
 for contingencies. Without any further de- 
 lay, therefore, she prepared to depart. 
 
 It was with a painful feeling of suspense 
 and agitation tliat she set forth upon this 
 attempt at flight, which she knew nuist be 
 a final one. Over her left arm she threw 
 the rope-ladder, while in her left hand she 
 held that ancestral dagger which had al- 
 ready done her such good service in her 
 dealings with Leon. Her right hand was 
 thus free to grope in the dark for her way, 
 to open ludts, or to seize the dagger from 
 her other hand whenever the need for it 
 might arise. For this last dread necessity 
 she had thoroughly prepared herself. By 
 the desperaticm of her position, and by the 
 dark menaces of Leon, she had been nerved 
 to a courage beyond even that elevated 
 standard which her high spirit ordinarily 
 reached, and she had resolved that if any 
 one interposed between herself and that 
 liberty for which she longed, to use that 
 dagger, and to strike without scrui>Io. 
 
 On leaving her room she stood for a mo- 
 ment in the outer hall and listened. All 
 was still. She glided noiselessly along, and 
 
 reached the stairway. Once more she stood 
 aiid listened before descending. There was 
 silence yet. She now descended the stairs 
 as noiselessly as before, and reached the 
 lowci hall, where she walked quickly to- 
 ward the east end, and came to the narrow 
 stairway that led down to the door. Here 
 once more she paused. A fearful thought 
 came to her as she looked down. What if 
 some one should be waiting there in the 
 dark! What i'" Leon should be there! In 
 spite of herself a shudder passed through 
 her -".t that thought. 
 
 Su<ldenly, as she stood there, she heard a 
 sound — a sound which roused her once more 
 to action, and iiispired now fears. It was 
 the sound of a footfall— far away, inde(Ml, in- 
 side die house, but still a footfall — a heavy 
 tread, as of some one in pursuit, and its sound 
 was loud and menacing to her excited senses. 
 There was only one to whom she could at- 
 tribute it — Leon ! 
 
 He had heard her, then ! 
 
 She was i»ursued ! 
 
 Like lightning this thought came to her, 
 and brought terror with it. She could de- 
 lay no longer. Down the narrow stairway 
 she hurried through the darkness, and reach- 
 ed the door. In her panic she forgot her 
 usual caution. With a jerk she drew the 
 bolt back, and a harsh grating sound arose. 
 She flung opt>n the door, which also creaked 
 on its nnnsed hinges. Then leaping out, 
 she hastily banged the door after her, and 
 ran straight on. 
 
 In front of Dalton Hall there was a wide 
 lawn and a pond. Heyond this arose the 
 trees of the park. Toward the shelter of 
 those shadowy trees Edith hurried, with 
 the dread sense in her soul th.at shci was be- 
 ing pursued by a remorseless enemy. This 
 thought lent additional speed to her foot- 
 stejts as she flew over the intervening space. 
 The moon was shiniu;. brightly, and she 
 knew that she could easily be seen by any 
 watcher; but she sought only the more to 
 reach the trees, and thus escape observa- 
 tion. The time seemed hmg indeed to her 
 in those moments of dread suspense; but 
 the space was at last traversed, the trees 
 were n^ached, and ])lunging into the midst 
 of them, she ran along, occasionally stum- 
 bling, until at length, partly from exhaust- 
 ion and i>artly from a desire to see where 
 her eiuMuy might be, so as to elude him bet- 
 ter, she stopped. 
 
 Her course had been a circuitous one, but 
 she had kept along the edge of the wood, so 
 that now, as she stoi>ped, she found hersi^lf 
 nnch'r the shadow of the trees, and imme- 
 diately opposite the portico of Dalton Hall, 
 between which and herself lay the pond. 
 Here she stood, and looked over the inter- 
 vening siiace. 
 
 As she looked, she at first saw no appear- 
 ance of any human being, and she began to 
 
THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 109 
 
 think that her fears all along had been un- 1 There was no answer, 
 founded; but in a little while, hh her eyes | She knocked uf^ain and again, and still re- 
 wandered over the front of the Hall, she saw ceivinfj no answer, she opened the door and 
 something which at once renewed all her looked in. 
 
 excitement, and showed her that her fears 
 were true. 
 
 Upon the portico stood a figure, the gen- 
 eral outlines of which were now visible to 
 her as she looked carefully, and seemed to 
 
 To her amazement the room w;is empty. 
 What wuH more surprising was ;lie fact that 
 the bed did not appear to have been slept 
 in. There was no diso'der visible in the 
 room. Every thing was in its usual place, 
 
 be the figure of Leon. She could recognize but Edith was not there, and in that one 
 the gray dress which he iisually wore, and glance which Mrs. Dunbar gave she took in 
 also understood why she had not noticeil the whole truth. 
 
 him before, for the color of his clothes had 
 nnule him but faintly visible against the 
 
 Edith had tied! 
 
 She knew also that she must have fled 
 
 gray stone mass of the background. Ho was during the night; that the event against 
 
 now standing there with his 'ace turned in which such precautions had been taken had 
 
 her direction. occurred at hist, and that she was res])onsi- 
 
 "He has heard me," she thought. "He ble. Over that sorrowful anxious face there 
 
 has seen me. Insteiul of chawing nie at once, came now a <leeper sorrow and a graver 
 
 he has stopped to listen, so as to judge of anxiety at that discovery, and sitting down 
 
 my course. He knows that I am hero now upon a chair, she tried to conjecture Edith's 
 
 in this spot, and is still listening to tiud out possible jourso, and wondered liow she <u)uld 
 
 if I go any further." get over the wall and out of the grounds. 
 
 In a few mouients her .attention was at- At length she left this room, and going 
 
 tracted by a dark object lying on the portico down stairs, called Hugo. 
 
 near Leon. 
 
 It was the dog! 
 
 She knew i:t well. Her heart sank within 
 her. 
 
 " He is going to track me with the dog!" 
 she tiiouglit. 
 
 What could she do? 
 
 Nothing. Flight was now worse than use- 
 
 " Hugo," said she, " has the captain come 
 down !" 
 
 "I hahn't seen him, ma'am," said Hugo, 
 respectfully. 
 
 " He always rises early," said Mrs. Dun- 
 bar. " I wonder what's the matter. He cer- 
 tainly nnist be up." 
 
 Turning away, she ascended the stairs, 
 
 less. All seemed lost, and then! was nothing and went to the room which was occupietl 
 now left to her in that moment of despair by Leon. The ihior was open. She entered. 
 
 but the resolve to resist to the end. 
 
 The room looked as though it had just been 
 
 After a slioi't time, which to Edith seem- left by its occupant. The bed Imre signs of 
 
 ed prolonged to a terrible degree, the tigure 
 came down the steps, followed by the dog. 
 
 Edith watched. 
 
 He walked on ; he rounded the end of the 
 pond ; he came nearer! 
 
 having been occupied. The valise was lying 
 there open. Upon tlu» toilet -table was a 
 pocket-book, and hanging from the sert-w 
 of the looking-glass was his waicli. His 
 riding wiiip and gloves and top-boots were 
 Sli(! could now recognize his face as the j lying in ditlerent jilaces. 
 moon shone down. | As Mrs. Dunliar saw all this, she con- 
 
 It was Leon. There was no longer the eluded at first tliat he had gone out tor a 
 slightest doubt of that. He was coming walk, and would soon be back ; but the late- 
 toward her, and the huge dog f(dlowed. iiess of tlie hour made that idea seem ab- 
 
 Editli involuntarily shrank back among surd, and showed her that there must be 
 the trees, and grasping her tlagger with des- some othcrcanse. Tiie lliglil of I'.dith there- 
 l>erate resolve, awaited the approach of her ujion otein-rfd to her, and was very natu- 
 euemy. rally associated in her mind with the depart- 
 
 ure of Leon. Had he been watciiiiig ? Had 
 he iletected her tlight, and gi>ne in pnrsnitf 
 It Si'emed so. H'so, he was doubtless yet in 
 ]Mirsnit of the fngitive, who must have lied 
 fast and far to delay him so long. 
 
 Then another tiiought came — the idea of 
 
 viidence. I'erhajis he had caught the fugi- 
 
 nd vindictive fury 
 
 enongli 
 
 CHAPTER XXXV. 
 
 THE KMPTY HOOM9. 
 
 On the following morning Mrs. Dnnl)ar 
 waite<l a long time for Edith's it]))ieai'ance. 
 
 Hut she did not nnike her ap|)earance, aiul tive, and in his rage 
 the time jtassed, until it at lengtii grew so had harmed her. Tliat he was tier 
 
 late that she determined to see what was the 
 matter. Full of fear lest some new illness 
 had been the result of the new excitement 
 to which she had been subjected, Mrs. Dun- 
 bar passed cautiously through Editii's sit- 
 
 for any atrocity she well knew; and the 
 thouglit tliat he had killed her, and had tied, 
 came swift as lightning to her miinl. 
 
 The idea was terrible. She could not en- 
 dure it. .She left the room and hurried dowu 
 
 ting-room, and knocked at her bedroom door, i stairs again. 
 
110 
 
 THE LIVIN6 LINK. 
 
 " Hugo," said she, " go down and ask the 
 porter if lie has seen the captain or Miss 
 Dalton." 
 
 "Miss Dalton!" exclaimed Hugo. 
 
 " Yes ; she's gone." 
 
 " Gone !" repeated Hugo, in ai lazcment. 
 
 He said no more, but hurried down to the 
 gates, while Mrs. iJunbar, who felt restless 
 and ill at ease, walked up the stairs, and feel- 
 ing fatigued, stopped on the landing, and 
 leaned against the window there, looking out 
 upon the ground in the rear of the Hall. 
 
 Standing here, her eyes were attracted by a 
 sight which made her start. It was the New- 
 foundland dog. He was standing at some 
 tlistanco from the house, looking straight 
 ahead at vacancy, in a rigid attitude. The 
 sight of this animal, who was always the in- 
 separable companion of his master, standing 
 there in so peculiar a fashion by himself, 
 excited Mrs. Dunbar; and forgetful of her 
 weariness, she descended the stairs again, 
 and quitting the Hall, approached the spot 
 whe; 'l>e dog was standing. 
 
 As .5iie approached, the dog looked at her 
 and wagged his tail. She called him. He 
 went on wagging his tail, but did not move 
 from the spot. She went up to him and 
 stroked him. and looked all around, hoping 
 to see some signs of his master. She looked 
 in the direction in which the dog had been 
 staring wIkmi she first noticed him. Tlie 
 stables seemed to be the place. Toward 
 these she walked, and tried to induce the 
 dog to follow, but he wcnild not. She then 
 walked over to the stables, and looked 
 through them, without seeing any trace of 
 the object of her search. Upon this she re- 
 tnrnecl to the house. 
 
 On coming back she found Hugo. He had 
 been to the gates, ho said ; but the ])ort<!r 
 had seen nothing whatever either of the 
 ca])taiu or Miss Dalton. 
 
 This intelligence deepened the anxious 
 expression on Mrs. Dunbar's face. 
 
 " His dog is here," said she, in a trenuilous 
 voice. 
 
 " His dog !" said Hugo. " Oli yes ; he's ben 
 out dar all <le mornin'. Duniio what de 
 matta wid dat ar animal at all. Stands 
 dar like a gravy statoo." 
 
 For the rest of that day Mrs. Dunbar was 
 restless aud distressed. She waud»'red aim- 
 lessly about the house. She sent Hugo off 
 to scour the grounds to see if he could liiid 
 any trace of either of the fugitives. Every 
 moment she would look out from any win- 
 dow or door that happened to be nearest, to 
 see if either of them was returning, liut the 
 day passed by, and Hugo came back from 
 his long search, but of neither of the fugi- 
 tives was a single trace found. 
 
 What atVected Mrs. Dunbar as much as any 
 thing was the behaviorof thedog. Throiigli 
 all that day he remained in the sanitt place, 
 sometimes standing, sometimes lying down, 
 
 but never going away more than a few feet. 
 That the dog had some meaning in this singu- 
 lar behavior, and that this moaning had ref- 
 erence to the flight of one or the other of the 
 late inunites of the house, was very evident 
 to her. No persuasion, or coaxing, or even 
 threatening coidd draw tho dog away ; and 
 even when Hugo fired a gun ott' close to his 
 head, he quivered in every nerve, but only 
 moved back a foot or two. Food and drink 
 were brought to him, of which he partook 
 with a most eager appetite, but no temjttation 
 coidd draw him any distance fronr his ])ost. 
 
 That night was a sleepless one for Mrs. 
 Dunbar ; and it was with a feeliiig of great 
 relief that she heard the noise of a carriage 
 early on the following day, and knew that 
 Wiggins had returned. 
 
 She hurried down at once, and met him 
 in the great hall. In a few words she told 
 him all. 
 
 For such intelligence as this Wiggins was 
 evidently uni)repared. He staggered back 
 and leaned against the wall, staring at Mrs. 
 Dunbar with a terrible look. 
 
 "What! Gone!" he said, slowly. "Edith!" 
 
 " Yes ; and Leon." 
 
 " Edith gone!" gasjied Wiggins once more. 
 
 " Did you hear nothing in the village V 
 
 " I drove through without stopping. Did 
 you send to the village?" 
 
 " I did not think that they could have got 
 out of the grounds." 
 
 " They ! There's no trouble about Leon ?" 
 
 " I'm afraid — for him," said Mrs. Dunbar, 
 in a faint voice. 
 
 " For him !" exclaimed Wiggins. " What 
 can happen to ' 'm? For her, you mean." 
 
 " They must nave gone off together." 
 
 "Togt^ther! Do you think Edith would 
 go with him f No ; she has Hed in her mad- 
 ness and ignorance, turning her back on 
 hai»i)ines8 and love, and he has pursued her. 
 O Heavens!" he continued, with a groan, 
 "to think that it should end in this! And 
 cursed l»e that scoundrel — " 
 
 " Stop !" cried Mrs. Dunbar. " He is not 
 a scoundrel. He would not harm her. You 
 don't know Leon. He has not left the place; 
 his dog is here." 
 
 "His dog!" 
 
 Mrs. Dunbar explained. 
 
 Upon this Wiggins went tlnough the hall 
 to tiie rear, and theie, in tho same place 
 as where Mrs. Dunbar last saw him, was tho 
 dog. He was lying down now. H<i wagged 
 his tail in frientlly recognition as they came 
 np. Wiggins patted him and stroked him 
 and tried to coax him away. The result was 
 jirecisely the same as it had been before. 
 The dog received all advances in the most 
 friendly manner possible. He wagged his 
 tail, rolled over on his back, licked their 
 hands, sat <i|) on his hind-quarters, and did 
 every thing which dogs usually ilo when pet- 
 ted or played with, but nothing would in- 
 
THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 Ill 
 
 diicc him to leave the placo. He did not 
 ajjliinr to be in nny trouble. H'l seemed 
 Hiniply to have made up hia mind to stay 
 there, and thin resolution he maintained 
 most ohstinately. 
 
 Wi>?K'"8 could make nothing of it ; but 
 the sight of the dog renewed the terrors of 
 Mrs. Dunbar. 
 
 "I'm afraid," said she— "I'm afraid that 
 something's happened to Leon." 
 
 "To Leon!" exclaimed Wiggins, impa- 
 tiently ; " what could happen to him f I told 
 him to quit this place, and he has probably 
 concluded to do so." 
 
 " But what do you think of his flight at 
 the same time with Kdith f" 
 
 " I don't know what to think of it. I only 
 know this, that if he has harmed one hair of 
 her head, I — I'll — kill him! My own inju- 
 ries I will forgive, but wrongs done to her I 
 will avenge !" 
 
 At this Mrs. Dunbpr shrank away, and 
 looked at Wiggins in fear. 
 
 " But it may be all the other w.ay," said 
 she, in a tremulous voice. " Edith was ter- 
 rible in her fury. She was no timid, falter- 
 ing girl; she was resolute and vindictive. 
 If he has followed her, or laid hands on .' er, 
 she may have — " She hesitated. 
 
 " May have what ?" asked Wiggins. 
 
 " She m.ay have done him some harm." 
 
 "She may have done him some harm!" re- 
 peated Wiggins, with a sneer. " What ! and 
 when ho had his big dog to protect liimf 
 Pooh !" 
 
 And with a scornful laugh he turned away. 
 
 Mrs. Dunbar followed him. 
 
 " She was so terrible in her despair," said 
 she, as she followed him ; " she looked like 
 a fury — beatitiful, yet implacable." 
 
 " Sihniee!" cried Wiggins. " Stop all that 
 nonsense, or you'll drive me mad. Are you 
 crazy? When I am almost broken-hearted 
 in my anxiety about her, what do yon mc^an 
 by turning against that wronged and injured 
 girl, who I now see has been driven to de- 
 spair by my own cursed mistakes, and pre- 
 tending that she is the aggressor, and your 
 scoiuidrel Leon the victim f ' 
 
 In the midst of this Wiggins was inter- 
 rupted by the approach of Hugo. 
 
 " A geu'l'mau, Sah, wants to see you, Sah," 
 said he. 
 
 " A gentleman," repeated Wiggins. " Who 
 is he T How did ho come here ?" 
 
 " Dunno, Sah, nuffin 'bout dat, Sah." 
 
 " li's about Edith !" exclaimed Wiggins ; 
 and he hurried into the house. 
 
 »et- 
 iu- 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVL 
 
 THE VICAR OF DALTOX. 
 
 Wiggins entered the drawing-room, and 
 found his visitor there. He was a slight 
 man, with light hair, watery gray eyes, and 
 
 very mild demeanor. The timidity of the 
 man seemed very marked; there was an 
 ap(dogetic air about him ; and his very ftmt- 
 fall as he advanced to greet Wiggins seemed 
 to deprecate some anticipated rough treat- 
 ment. Ho spoke a few words, and at Wig- 
 gins's request to be seated he sa* down, while 
 his agitation increased ; and he had that 
 hesitating, half-abstracted manner whicli 
 marks the man who is on the point of giv- 
 ing unpleasiint infonnation, about the ef- 
 fect of which he is doubtful. 
 
 W'iggins, on his part, did not seem to no- 
 tice this. He sat down, and looked with 
 earnest in(]uiry at his visitor. He seemed 
 to know what was the object of this visit, 
 and yet to dread to ask it. 
 
 The visitor had given his name as the 
 Rev. Mr. Munn, and Wiggins recognized 
 that name as belonging to the parish vicar. 
 That name excited strange emotions within 
 him, for it was the same name that had a])- 
 peared in the jiapers in connection with 
 Edith's marriage. 
 
 "Well!" said Wiggins at last, in some 
 impatience. 
 
 Mr. Munn cleared his tliroat. 
 
 " I have come here," he began, " to tell 
 you very distressing news." 
 
 Wiggins was silent. 
 
 " I refer to — a — a — Mrs. Dudleigh," said 
 Mr. Munn. 
 
 " W^ell V said Wiggins, in a scarcely audi- 
 ble voice. 
 
 " She is at the village iini." 
 
 "At the village inn!" repeated Wiggins, 
 in evident agitation, drawing a long breath. 
 " She is alive, then ?" he added, eagerly. 
 
 "Oh yes," said Mr. Munn; "she came 
 there early yesterday morning." And then 
 he went on to tell his story, the substance 
 of which was as follows: 
 
 On the previous niorniug about dawn the 
 l)eoplo at the Dalton Inn were aroused by a 
 liurried knock. On going to the d(«)r they 
 found Mrs. Dudleigh. The moment that the 
 door was opened she sprang in and fell ex- 
 hausted to the floor. So gn'at was her 
 weakness that she couhl not rise again, and 
 had to be carried uj) to one of the bedrooms. 
 She was so faint that she could scarcely 
 speak ; and in a feeble voice she implored 
 them to put her to bed, as it was a long time 
 since she had had any rest, and was almost 
 dead with fatigue. 
 
 Her condition was most pitiable. Her 
 clothes were all torn to shreds, and covered 
 with mud and dust ; her hands were torn 
 and bleeding ; her shoes had been worn into 
 rags; and she looked as thinigh she had 
 been wandering for hours through woods 
 and swami)s, and over rocks and sand. To 
 all their iniiuiries she answered nothing, 
 but only implored them to put lu'r to l^jd 
 and let her rest ; above all, she prayed most 
 piteously that they would tell no one that 
 
118 
 
 THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 she was tlioro. This they promiMcd to do; 
 and, indeed, it would have been ditHcult 
 for them to have informed about h*^, since 
 none at tlie inn had over seen Iier before, ur 
 had the remotest idea who she eonld bo. 
 
 Full of pity and sympathy, they juit her 
 to b(;d, and the landlady wutehod over her 
 most assidnonsly. All the morning she slept 
 profoundly ; but at about noon she waked 
 with a scream, like one who has been routed 
 from some fearful dream. 
 
 After that she grew steadily worse. Fe- 
 ver set in, and became more and more vio- 
 lent every moment. In their anxiety to do 
 what she had requested, and keep her se- 
 cret, they did not send innnediately for a 
 doctor. Hut her condition soon became 
 such that further delay was out of tlio 
 ((uestion, so they sent for the village phy- 
 sician. 
 
 When ho orrived she was much worse. 
 She was in a high fever, and already deliri- 
 ous. He pronounced her situation to lie 
 dangerous in the extreme, urged upon tlmni 
 the greatest care, and advised them to lose 
 no time in letting her friends know about 
 her c(Uulition. Here was a dileninia for 
 these worthy people. They did not know 
 who her friends were, and thentfore could 
 not send for them, while it became impos- 
 sible to keep her presence at the inn a si;- 
 eret. Not knowing what else to do, they 
 concluded to send for the vicar. 
 
 When Mr. Munn came he found them in 
 great distress. Ho soon learned Hie facts 
 of the case, and at t>nco decided that it 
 should be made known to (Captain Dndleigh 
 or to Wiggins. For though he did not know 
 Edith's face, still, from the disconnected 
 words that had dropped from lu-r during 
 her delirium, reported to him by the inn 
 people, he thought it probalde that she was 
 the very lady whom he had married un- 
 der such mysterious circumstances. So ho 
 soothed the fears of the landlady as well as 
 he could, and then left. It was laf»i at 
 night when ho went from the inn, and ho 
 had waited till the nuirning before going to 
 Dalton Hall. Ho had some ditliculty in 
 getting in at the gate, but when the porter 
 learned the object of his visit ho at once 
 opened to him. From the porter he learned 
 of tho disappearance of Captain Dndleigh 
 also. Nothing was then left but to see Wig- 
 gins. Accordingly he had conn* to the Hall 
 at once, so as to tell his message with tho 
 shortest possible (h'lay. 
 
 To this recital Wiggins listened with grav- 
 ity. Ho made no gesture, and be spoke no 
 word, but sat with folded arms, looking 
 upon t\ui floor. When Mr. Munn had end- 
 ed, he, after a long silence, turned toward 
 him and said, in a severe tone, 
 
 '* Well, Sir, now I hope you see something 
 of the evil of that course which you chose to 
 pursue." 
 
 "Evil? course?" stammered Mr. Munn. 
 " I don't un«ler8tand you." 
 
 "Oh, I think you understand me," said 
 Wiggins, gloomily. "Has not your con- 
 science already suggested to you tho proba- 
 ble cause of this strangtt course of her whom 
 you call Mrs. Dndleigh t" 
 
 " My conscience !" gasped Mr. Munn ; 
 " what has my conscience to «lo with it f" 
 
 " How long is it since that wretched 
 mockery at which you oflSciatedT" asked 
 Wiggins, sternly. 
 
 "I really — I think — a few months only." 
 
 "A few months," repeated Wiggins. 
 " Well, it has come to this. That is the im- 
 mediate cause of her flight, and of her pres- 
 ent sufteriug." 
 
 "I — I — married them," stannnered Mr. 
 Munn ; " but what of that f Is her nnhap- 
 piness my fault T How can I help it T Am 
 I responsible for tho future condition of 
 those couples whom I nuirry t Surely this 
 is a strange thing to say." 
 
 " You well know," said Wiggins, " what 
 sort of a marriage this was. It was no com- 
 mon one. It was done in secret. Why did 
 you steal into these grounds like a thief, and 
 do this infamous thing t" 
 
 " Why — why," faltered the nnhapi)y vicar, 
 growing more territied and conscience-strick- 
 en every minute — " Captain DiuUeigh asked 
 me. I can not refuse to marry people." 
 
 " No, Sir, you can not when they como to 
 you fairly ; you can not, I well know, when 
 the conditions of the law are satisfied. IJut 
 was that so here f Did yon not steal into 
 these grounds f Did you not como by night, 
 in secret, conscious that yon were doing 
 wrong, and did you not have to steal out in 
 tho same way? And yonr only excuse is 
 that Captain Dndleigh asked you !" 
 
 " He — he — showed very strong reasons 
 why I should do so," said Mr. Munn, who 
 by this time was fearfully agitated — " very 
 strong reasons, I do assure you. Sir, and all 
 my hunKiuity was — a — aroused." 
 
 " Yonr humanity !" sneered Wiggins. 
 " Where was your humanity for her 1" 
 
 " For her !" exclaimed the vicar. " Why, 
 she wanted it. She loved him." 
 
 "Loved him! Pooh! She hated him worse 
 than the devil." 
 
 " Then what did she many him for?" cried 
 Mr. Munn, .at his wits' end. 
 
 " Never mind," said Wiggins; "you went 
 out of your way to do a deed the conse- 
 quences of which can not yet bo seen. I 
 can understand, Sir, how Captain I)u<lleigh 
 could have planned this thing ; but how 
 you, a calm, (piiet clergyman, in the full 
 possession of your faculties, could have ever 
 Iteen led to take jtart in it, is more than I 
 can coin])relien(l. I, Sir, was her guardian, 
 appointed as such by her father, my own 
 intimate friend, ('aptain Dmlleigh was a 
 villain. He sought out this thoughtless 
 
THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 118 
 
 child mprely for lior money. It was not her 
 thut ho wanttMl, )mt her eHtate. I could 
 enHJly have Haved lier from thin dai)ji;er. He 
 had no cliance witli nio. lint you cuine for- 
 ward — you, Sir — Muddenly, without cauHe, 
 without a word of warniuf; — you Hiieak here 
 in tlio dark, you entice lier to that lonely 
 place, and there you bind her body and soul 
 to a scoundrel. Now, Sir, what have you 
 got to say for yourself f" 
 
 Mr. Muini's teeth chattered, and his hands 
 clutched one another convulsively. " Cap- 
 tain Diidleigh told me that she was under 
 restraint here by — V»y yon— and that she 
 loved him, and that her only refujje was to 
 be married to him. I'm sure I didn't meau 
 to do any harm." 
 
 " Knbbish !" said Wiggins, contemptuous- 
 ly. " The law gives a guardian a certain 
 right to parental restraint for the good of 
 the ward. The slight restraint to which 
 she was subjected was accompanied by the 
 deepest love of those who cared for her here. 
 I had hoped. Sir, that you might have some- 
 thing ditterent to tell me. I did not know 
 that you had actually acted so madly. I 
 thought the story which I heard of that 
 marriage was incredible, and I have always 
 spoken of it as a mockery. But from what 
 I now gather from you, it seems to have 
 been a bona fide m.irriage, true and valid." 
 
 " I — I'm afraid it — it was," said Mr. Munn. 
 
 Wiggins gave something that was almost 
 like a groan. 
 
 " Fiends," he cried, passionately, rising 
 from his chair — "fiends from the bottomless 
 pit could not have more foully and fatal- 
 ly deceived that poor, thoughtless, trustful 
 child. But all their trickery and treachery 
 could never have succeeded had they not 
 found a piiltry tool in a senseless creature 
 like you — you, >Sir — who could stand there 
 and go mumbling yonr marriage service, and 
 never see the infernal jugglery that was 
 going on under your very eyes. Yes, you, 
 Sir, who now come to wring and break my 
 heart by the awful tidings that you now tell 
 me. Aw.ay ! Begone ! I have already borne 
 more than my share of anguish ; but this, if 
 it goes on, will kill me or drive me mad !" 
 
 He turned away, with his head bent, with 
 an unsteady step, and walked toward the 
 window, where he stood leaning against it 
 heavily, and staring out at vacancy. 
 
 As for Mr. Munn, he gave one glance of 
 horror at Wiggins, and then, with a swift, 
 frightened step, he hurried from the Hall. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVIL 
 
 THE HOUSK OF REFUGE. 
 
 The illness of Edith was of no light or 
 common kind. Her old glow of health hiid 
 not yet returned. The state of affairs at 
 H 
 
 Dalton Hall had retarded any thiiig like a 
 complete recovery, and wlien she started otf 
 on her desperate llight, she was untit for such 
 a venture. Through that terrilde night she 
 had undergone \>hat might have laid low 
 a strong num, and the strengtii which had 
 barely carried her to the door of the inn had 
 there left her utterly ; and so tierce was the 
 attack that was now made u])on her by this 
 new illness that recovery seemed scarce pos- 
 sible. 
 
 The doctor was as non-committal as doc- 
 tors usually are in a really dangerous case. 
 It was evident, however, from tlie tirst, that 
 her situation awakened in his mind tlie very 
 deepest anxiety. He urged tlie landlady to 
 keep the house in the (juietest jtossilile c(m- 
 <lition, and to see that slm was never left 
 without attendants. This the landlady 
 promised to do, and was unremitting in her 
 attentions. 
 
 But all the care of the attendants seemed 
 useless. Deeper and <leeper Etlitli descended 
 into the abyss of suftering. Day succeeded 
 to day, and found her worse. Fortunately 
 she was not conscious of what she had to en- 
 dure; but in that iniconsciousness her mind 
 wandered in delirium, and all the sorrows 
 of the past were lived over again. 
 
 They knew not, those good kind souls 
 who waited and watdujd at her bedside, 
 what it was that thus rose before her, and 
 distressed her in the visions of her distem- 
 pered brain, but they could see that these 
 were the result of deep grief and long s(»r- 
 row, and therefore they pitied her more than 
 ever. As her mind thus wandered, she talk- 
 ed incessantly, often in broken words, but 
 often also in long connected sentences, and 
 all these were intermingled with moans and 
 sighs. 
 
 "This is heart-rending," said the doctor 
 once. " It is her mind, poor lady, that has 
 brought on this illness. In this case medi- 
 cine is of no use. You can do mtn-e than I 
 can. You must watch over her, and keep 
 her as quiet as she can be kept." 
 
 All of which the landlady promised more 
 fervently than ever, and kept hcrijromist! too. 
 
 But in spite of all this care, the fever and 
 the delirium grew worse. T'le events of her 
 Dalton life rose before her to the exclusiou 
 of all other memories, an<'. tilled all her 
 thoughts. In her fancies Khe again lived 
 that lift) of mingled anxiety and fear, and 
 chafed and raged and trembled by turns at 
 the restraint which she felt around her. 
 Then she tried to escape, but escai)e was 
 impossible. Then she seemed to speak with 
 some one who promised deliverance. Eager- 
 ly and earnestly she implored this one to as- 
 sist her, and mentioned plans of escape. 
 
 Most of all, however, lier thoughts turned 
 to that scene in the Dalton vaults. The dead 
 seemed all around. Amidst the darkness 
 she saw the ghosts of her ancestors. They 
 
 ^ 
 
114 
 
 THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 frowned monacin^ly upon hpr, an on one who 
 wiiH bringinK diHhonor upon a noblo name. 
 Tlify pointwi at lier scornfully with th<!ir 
 wan fingorH. Doop nioauH Nhowntl the hor- 
 ror of her Hoiii, lint aniiilHt thtmo nioauH bIio 
 ]irot(>Htc(l that Hho wan innocent. 
 
 Tiicn her tli^ht from thu Hall canio up 
 hi'foro her. Slie Hccniud to bo wandering 
 through woodH and tliickcts and swanipH, 
 over rockn and fallen treeH. 
 
 "Shall I never get out!" she murmured. 
 " Hhall I never get to the wall f I Nhall periHh 
 in thi forcHt. I am Hinking in tlilH mire." 
 
 Then Hhe Haw houio enemy. "It is he!" 
 Hhe murmured, in low thrilling tones. " He 
 is coming! I will never go back — no, nev- 
 er! I will die first! I have my dagger — I 
 will kill him! Ho shall mtver tiiko nui there 
 — never, never, never! I will kill him — I 
 will kill him!" 
 
 Alter which oamo a low groan, followed 
 by a long silence. 
 
 So she went on in her agony, but her de- 
 liricuis words carried no conn<!cted meaning 
 to her attendants. They could oidy look 
 at one another inquiringly, and shake their 
 heads. "She has been unhap])y in her mar- 
 ried life, poor dear," said the landlady once, 
 with a sigh ; and this seemed to bo the gen- 
 eral imi)reHsion, and the only one which they 
 gathered froni her words. 
 
 Thus a fortnight passed away. 
 
 At length tlie lowest stage of the disease 
 was reached. It was the turning-point, and 
 beyond that lay either death or recovery. 
 All night long the landlady watched besid<! 
 the bed of the poor sufferer, who now lay in 
 a deep sleep, scarce breathing, while the doc- 
 tor, who came in at midnight, remained till 
 morning. 
 
 Morning came at length, and Edith 
 awaked. The delirium had passed. She 
 looked around inquiringly, but could recall 
 nothing. 
 
 "Auntie dear," she said, feebly, "where 
 are you T" 
 
 " There isn't no auntie, dear," said the 
 landlady, gently. " You are at Dalton Inn. 
 But don't speak, dearie — you are too weak." 
 
 " Dalton Inn," repeated Edith, in a faint 
 voice. She looked puzzled, for she was as 
 yet too confused to remember. Gradually, 
 however, memory awaked, and though the 
 recollection of her illness was a blank, yet 
 the awful life that she had lived, and her 
 flight from that life, with all its accompani- 
 ments, came gradually b.ack. 
 
 She looked at the landlady with a face of 
 agony. 
 
 " Promise," said she, faintly. 
 
 " Promise what, dearie T" 
 
 " Proujise — that — you will not — send nie 
 away." 
 
 "Lord love you! send you away! Not 
 me." 
 
 " Promise," said Edith, in feverish impa- 
 
 tience, " that yon will not let them take me 
 — till I want to go." 
 
 "Never; no one shall touch a hair of your 
 head, dearie — till you wish it." 
 
 The tone of the landlady gave Etlith even 
 more conlldence than her words. "Oo<l 
 bless you!" she sighed, and turned her head 
 away. 
 
 A week passed, atid Edith continued to 
 get bt.'tter every day. Although her re- 
 membrances were bitter and her thoughts 
 most distressing, yet there was something in 
 her present situation which was, on the 
 whole, conducive to health. For the first 
 time in many months she felt herself free 
 from that irksome and galling control which 
 had been so maddening to her proud nature. 
 Her life in Dalton Hall had been one long 
 struggle, in which her spirit had chafed in- 
 cessantly at the barriers around it, and had 
 well-nigh worn itself out in maintaining its 
 unconquerable attitude. Now all this was 
 over. She trusted this honest and tender- 
 hearted landlady. It was the first frank 
 and o]ien face wliicli she had seen since she 
 left scho(d. She knew that here at last she 
 would have rest, at least until her recov- 
 ery. What she might do then was another 
 (luestion, but the answer to this she chose 
 to put off. 
 
 But all this time, while Edith had been 
 lying prostrate and senseless at the inn, a 
 great and mighty excitement had arisen and 
 spn-ad throughout the country, and all men 
 were discussing one conunon subject — the 
 mysterious disappearance of Captain Dud- 
 leigh. 
 
 Ho had become well known in the village, 
 where ho had resided for some time. His 
 rank, his reputed wealth, and his personal 
 appearance had all m.ade him a man of 
 mark. His marriage with Miss Dalton, who 
 was known to be his cousin, had been pub- 
 licly announced, and had excited very gen- 
 eral surjirise, chiefly because it was not 
 known that Miss Dalton had returned. The 
 gentry had not called on the bride, however, 
 partly on account of the cloud that hung 
 over the Dalton name, but more especially 
 on account of the air of mystery that hung 
 about the marriage, and the impression that 
 was prevalent that calls were not expected. 
 
 The marriage had been largely commented 
 upon, but had been generally apprqved. It 
 had taken place within the family, aiul the 
 stain on the Dalton name could tlius be ob- 
 literated by merging it with that of Dud- 
 leigh. It seemed, therefore, wise and ap- 
 propriate and politic, and the reserve of ^no 
 married couple was generally considered as 
 a mark of delicacy, good taste, and graceful 
 respect for public opinicm. 
 
 Captain Dudleigh had at first been asso- 
 ciiited with a friend and relative of his, 
 Lieutenant Dudleigh, who had made him- 
 self quite popular in the outside world. 
 
THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 115 
 
 Neither of them, however, had gnnei into 
 soriety. It v/an utKliTstood that LitMitenunt 
 Diidlt'ijjh lind come HJinply for the iJiirpoHe 
 uf lieiii;{ tlie captain'H f^rooiiiHinati, and 
 when, after tlie marriage, lie diHai)i)eared, 
 nothinjf nion^ wan tlionglit about him. 
 
 Occupying aH lie did tliJH place in the at- 
 tention of the county people, Captain Dud- 
 Icijth'n diHappearancu <;reated an excitement 
 which can eauily bo imaKiued. Who lirMt 
 Ntarted the re|)ort could not be found out, 
 but no HoiiiuT had it been Htarted than it 
 spread like wild-lire. 
 
 Moreover, in Hjtite of the landlady's care, 
 they had heard of Edith's llight and .ilness, 
 and naturally associated these two startling 
 facts t(»gether. Tiic Dalton name was al- 
 ready covered with deep disgrace, and that 
 another tragedy should take place in con- 
 nection with it was felt to bo very natural. 
 Week after week jtassed on, and still there 
 were no tidings of the missing man. With 
 the la])so of each week the excitement onl> 
 increased. Throughout the wludo count 
 this was the conunou topic of conversation. 
 It was matter for far more than the ordinary 
 nine days' wonder, for about this there was 
 the fascination and the horror of an impen- 
 etrable mystery. 
 
 For it was universally felt that in some 
 way or other this mystery was connected 
 with Edith, and that its solution lay with 
 her. It was universally known that she 
 liad fled from Dalton Hall in a most suspi- 
 cious ami unaccountable manner, and that 
 Captain DiuUeigh had disapjteared on that 
 very night. It was natural, therefore, that 
 every body should think of her as being, to 
 some extent at least, aware of the fate of 
 Dudleigh, and that she alone could account 
 for it. 
 
 And so the excitement grew stronger and 
 stronger every day. Gradually the whole 
 public came to know something about the cir- 
 cumstances of the ill-fated marriage. There 
 seemed to be some power at work which 
 sent forth fresh intelligence at various in- 
 tervals to excite '' i ptiblic mind. It was 
 not Wiggins, fr fept himself in strict se- 
 
 clusion ; and peo ,\ ho went to stare at the 
 gates of Dalton 1 found nothing for their 
 pains. It could not have been the vicar, for 
 his terror had reduced him to a state of sim- 
 ple imbecility. There was some other cause, 
 and that cause seemed always at work. 
 
 From this mysterious cause, then, the pub- 
 lic gained a version of the story of thiit mar- 
 riage, which was circulated every where. 
 Miss Dalton, it was said, had fallen in love 
 with Captain Dudleigh, but her guardian, 
 Wiggins, had resisted her inclinations. She 
 determined to get married in spite of him, 
 and Captain Dudleigh had a clergynuiu 
 brought into the park, who performed the 
 ceremony secretly. After the marriage, how- 
 over, it was said, Captain Dudleigh treated 
 
 his wife badly, and clamored for money to 
 pay his debts. His wife Mus]iccted that ho 
 Inul married her fur this sole )iur])ose. They 
 qmirnded incessantly. Her health broke 
 (lown through grief and disappointment, 
 and she was ill for a long time. After her 
 Hfcoviry they had several stonny interviews, 
 in which she had threatened his life. It 
 was said that she always carrieil a dagger, 
 with which she had sworn to kill him. 8I10 
 had tohl him to his face that she would have 
 " hin heard blood." 
 
 Such was the story thatcircidated far and 
 wide among all classes. None had seen 
 Edith persoiudly exeejtt the doctor and those 
 at the inn ; and the general impression about 
 her was that she was a tierce, bold, impnt- 
 nous woman, with iron resolution and nuis- 
 culine temper. So, on tlu) whole, jniblic 
 opinion ran high against her, and prolbund 
 synijiathy was felt for the injured husband. 
 
 All this was not conlined to the ctmnty. 
 fhe metropolitan ))apers had mentioned it 
 and discussed it, ai.il the '^ Coiitiniiid IHmp- 
 penrance of Captain Diidleiyh" was for a long 
 time the standing heading of many para- 
 gra])hs. 
 
 Hut during all this time Edith remained 
 at the inn in comphito seclusion, recovering 
 slowly but surely. In that seclusion she was 
 utterly ignorant of the excitement which 
 she had caused, and, iiuleed, was not aware 
 that she was talked of at all. The papers 
 were all kindly kept out of her sight, and 
 as she had never been accustomed to read 
 them, she never thought of asking for them. 
 
 But the public fueling had at last reached 
 tli.at point at which it demaiuled, with re- 
 sistless voice, an inquiry after the missing 
 mau. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVIII. 
 
 THE OLD WKLL. 
 
 PlTULlC feeling had grown so strong that 
 it could no longer be disregarded, anil the 
 authririties had to take up the case. It was 
 enforced upon their attention in many ways. 
 The whole cotnity urged it upon tlicin, and 
 journals of nott! in <litferent i)arts of the 
 kingdom denounced their lethargy. Under 
 tlicrtc einumstauces they were compelled to 
 take some action. 
 
 Wiggins had foreseen this, and to guard 
 against this necefsity he had himself doiu) 
 all in his pow to search after the missing 
 man. He had put the case in the hands of 
 detectives, who had carried on an investi- 
 gation in all quarters, and in every possible 
 way; but to no purpose, and with no result. 
 When at length the authorities came, he in- 
 formed them of his search ami its failure, 
 but fissured them that he still belitned that 
 Captain Dudleigh was alive. His theory 
 was that, being heavily in debt, he had taken 
 
116 
 
 THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 tbis mode of eluding his creditors, and after 
 causing it to be believed that ho was dead, 
 he had ([uietlj' disappeared, and was now en- 
 joying himself somewhere on the Continent. 
 No one else, however, shared this opinion, 
 and those who came to the search had no 
 doubt tliat the missing man liad been mur- 
 dered. So they instituted a regular search 
 over the whole estate. They began with the 
 Hall, and went throughevery partof it. Then 
 they turned their attention to the grounds. 
 These were extensive, and it seemed prob- 
 able that son>ewhero among the groves or 
 swamps the remains might be found. They 
 searched the chapel and the vaults. They 
 dragged the pond in front of the house. In 
 all this Wiggins lent his active assistance 
 toward furthering the ends of justice, but 
 at the same time retained the lirmest convic- 
 tion that it was a trick of Dudleigh's, and 
 that he was now in foreign parts. 
 
 At length some of those who had been 
 going the rounds of the wall returned to 
 the house, carrying something, the sight of 
 which produced a profound excitement. It 
 was tlie hook f>ud rope by which Edith had 
 sought to escape. They found it haugniff 
 upon the wall, and every one recognized at 
 a glance the intention of this rope-ladder. 
 But the thing that produced the strongest 
 exciten\ent was something else. They had 
 fouiul it lying among the grass at the foot of 
 the ladder, having evidently been dropped by 
 some fugitive as an inipediment, or thrown 
 away as useless. It was a dagger, which, 
 from being so long exposed to the weather, 
 was covered with rust, but was still sharp 
 and deadly. 
 
 This dagger secerned at once to confirm the 
 general impression. It showed that one of 
 the fugitives of tliat night — the one who had 
 escaped — hud been armed with a deadly 
 wea[>on. Every one knew who the one was 
 who had escaped. Every one had already 
 suspected her. Her wild Uiglit, her terrible 
 agitation, her long illness — all had been 
 known. What else could cause such a state 
 of tilings but the dread reiuembraiice of 
 some dark crime f And now this daggf^r lay 
 before tliem, the silent proof of tho guilt of 
 her who liad lt!ft it there. 
 
 Upon Wiggins the ettect was erushing. 
 His tongue was jiaralyzed. He kept aloof 
 after that, with despair on his face, and sur- 
 veyed tlie proceedings at a distaiuie. Not 
 so Jlrs. Dunbar. All this time she had been 
 feverish and agitated, sometimes fidlowiiig 
 tlm ollieers, at other times retiring. Upon 
 lierthe sight of tiiat dagger acted like »(une- 
 thing that coiiflrme<l the worst of her fears, 
 and she burst forth into wild wails and lam- 
 entations. She then urged the otHcers to 
 rene\ eil search, and finally told them all 
 about her own discovery of the empty rooms 
 on that ev(>ntfiil morning, and the singular 
 behavior of the dog. 
 
 The mention of this created new excite- 
 ment, and they at once asked where the dog 
 now was. 
 
 Mrs. Dunbar did not know. The dog had 
 disappeared most mysteriously, and they had 
 seen nothing of him for a long time. 
 
 They then asked to be taken to the jdaco 
 where the dog Lad stationed himself. Mrs. 
 Dunbar, still wild with excitement, led tho 
 way there. Arriving at the spot, they exam- 
 ined it narrowly, but found nothing. It was 
 grass, which had not been touched for yciirs. 
 No body lay buried beneath that old turf, as 
 was plainly evident. They then went to the 
 out-houses, toward which Mrs. Dunbar told 
 them the dog had kept his face turned for 
 some time when she had first seen him; but 
 here they found nothing whatever. 
 
 It was now late, and they began to thhik 
 of retiring, when suddenly one of the party, 
 who had been walking in the rear of the sta- 
 bles, gave a call which drew them all in that 
 direction. Upon reaching him they found 
 him standing at tho edge of a nit, which 
 looked like an old well. Over this there 
 was still tho frame of what had been tho 
 well-house, and the well itself was very deep. 
 Kneeling, they all peered into the b'ack dejiths 
 beneath them, but discovered nothing, One 
 of them dropped a stone, and the so'.ind far 
 below showed that the bottom lay at leasL 
 sixty or eighty feet from the surface. 
 
 " How long since this well has been used !" 
 asked the sheriff. 
 
 " Many years," said Mrs. Dunbar. 
 
 " Did you examine it ?" 
 
 " We never thought of doing so." 
 
 "Well, we may as well try it. Can wo 
 have a rope ?" 
 
 "Certainly," said Mrs. Dunbar, who at 
 once went to the house, and soon returned 
 with Hugo, who carried a long stout rope. 
 
 Now it remained to explore the well, and 
 to do this it would bo necessary for some 
 one to descend. But no ditliculty was found 
 in this. By this time all had been stimu- 
 lated to the highest degree by the excite- 
 ment of the search, and there was something 
 in the loolc of the well which made it seem 
 like tho very place for tlit! hurried disposal 
 of a body. Here, then, they were all con- 
 vinced, if any where, they would be sure to 
 come upon that which tliey sought. Ac- 
 cordingly several volunte(U'ed to go down; 
 but the sheriff chose fnmi among them the 
 one who seemed fittest for tliat purpose, and 
 to t\w others was allotted the task of low- 
 ering him. Some furtlier time was taken 
 up in making the neci;ssary preparations for 
 this; but at length these were all completed, 
 and the man who was to go down, after bind- 
 ing one end of the rope about liis cliest and 
 giving the otluT end to his companions, 
 prepared to descend. 
 
 The well was not very wide, and was lined 
 around its sides with rough stones. In the 
 
THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 117 
 
 interstices between these he inserted his 
 leet and hands, and thus ho let himself down, 
 descendiny gradually. 
 
 The otliers knelt around the montli of the 
 well, holding the rope, and letting it pass 
 througli tlieir hands as tlieir conipaniou de- 
 scended, peering silently into tlie dark with 
 eager eyes, and listening breathlessly to tlie 
 dull sounds made by the man below as he 
 descended further and furtlier. 
 
 At last all was still. Frcmi below there 
 came no sound. Ho had reached the bot- 
 tom. More anxiously than ever they tried 
 to pierce through tlu! gloom, but that gloom 
 was imj)enetrable. Their comi)auion delayed 
 long. They began to feel uneasy. 
 
 At length they heard sounds, and knew 
 that he was iiscending. Witli what intel- 
 ligence f What had he found in that awful 
 abyss? T"'s was the (luestion which was 
 suggested lo every heart, but a ([ucstion 
 which no one could answer. They lent 
 th(!ir assistance, and pulled at the rope to 
 help their comitaniou. Nearer and nearer 
 he came, and still nearer, until at last be 
 was within reai'li. A few moments more and 
 he emerged from the mouth of the well, and 
 falling forward, he lay for a moment mo- 
 tionless. 
 
 They all rushed to his .assistance, but he 
 shook them off and rose to liis feet. 
 
 " Did you liud any thing ?" 
 
 " Yes," sai<l the man, in a liollnw voice. 
 
 "What ?" cried all, in breathless susi)ense. 
 
 "Y(Mi sliall see. Hring lights here, some- 
 body. It's getting too dark for this busi- 
 ness." 
 
 Hugo was at once dispatched to the Hall 
 by Mrs. Dunbar for lights. There was by 
 this time every necessity fi>r them. Much 
 time had heeu taken up with their ]irei)aia- 
 tions, and the shadows of evening had al- 
 ready gathered about them. While Hugo 
 was gone they all (luestioned their compan- 
 ion, but he refused (o say any thing. 
 
 •'Don't ask nu'." he rejilied. " Wait and 
 Bee for yourselves." 
 
 At this answer there was but one convic- 
 tion in the minds of all, which was that the 
 object of tlieir search had been I'ound. Ibit 
 there was now no further delay. Hugo so(Ui 
 returned with a lantern, and the man pie- 
 pared to descend once more. 'I'lic lantiTU 
 lie hung alioiit his nt'ck, and taking another 
 piece of rope with him, the end of which 
 was left with those above, he again went 
 down. This time he was gone longer than 
 bcfort'. 'J'liose al>ove ])eciiug thlough the 
 gloom cimld see a faint light tar below, 
 and the shixlowv outline of their conipaiii(ui. 
 
 At length he liegitn to ascend, and in due 
 time reached the lop. 
 
 "There," said he; "you may ])nll on 
 that line. I have fastened it so that if "11 
 hohl." 
 
 t?aying this.he flung liimself exhausted on 
 
 the grass, and nnsliiag tho lantern and un- 
 bound the rope. 
 
 The others pulled. There was a heavy 
 weight at the end of the rope. They could 
 all conjecture well what that dead-weight 
 might be. But the fierce curiosity that now 
 animated them stimulatc'd them to put forth 
 all their strength in a series of vigorous imlls. 
 Nearer and nearer came that weight to tho 
 top. At last it luiiig Just beneath them. 
 Haifa dozen hands were stretched out, and 
 in an instant it was jerked out and lay upon 
 th(^ grass. 
 
 The sheriff seized the lantern and held it 
 up. The scene was one of horror. All around 
 was tilt! gloom of night, the shadowy outline 
 of trees and of the out-houses. A flickering 
 light revealed a grtui]) of men surrounding 
 some object on the grass, upon which they 
 gazed in silent awe. 
 
 It was a shapeless, sodden mass, but tho 
 human outline waspreserved,andthe clothes 
 were there. re(!ognizable. It was a grisly, a 
 ]ii(l(M)Us sight, and it lield them all spell- 
 bound. 
 
 Hut suddenly the silence was broken. A 
 wild shriek burst forth from Mrs. Dunbar, 
 who the next instant fell forward ujion the 
 hideous oliject. Hugo seized her and raised 
 Iier up. She was S(;nseless. 
 
 "What is this?'' cried the stern voice of 
 Wiggins, who at that moment had come to 
 the place. 
 
 " Mrs. Dunbar has fainted," said the sher- 
 \ff; and then he pointed silently to the Thing 
 that lay in the midst of the circle of sjiee- 
 tators. 
 
 Wiggins looked at it, and seemed turned 
 to stone. Then a shudder passed through 
 him. Then he fuiiied away. 
 
 As 111' walked he staggered like one who 
 has received some terrible blow, and stagger- 
 ing on in this way, he passed out of sight 
 into the gloom. After this Mrs. Dunbar was 
 carried into the house by Hugo. 
 
 There was silence for a long time. 
 
 "The head is gone!" said the sherifl' at 
 length, in a low voice. 
 
 "Yes," said another; "it's been long iu 
 the water." 
 
 " Water couldn't do it," said the sheritT; 
 " it was gone before it wiiut into the wattu'." 
 
 •What was that for?" 
 
 " To ))revciit ideiililication," said the sher- 
 ifl", ill a signilicaiit t(uie. 
 
 'i'lie remains were in due time conveyed 
 to an ait)U'opriate jilace, together with the 
 rope and the dagger. On the foihtwing day 
 a search was made for the missing head, 
 'I'lie v.ell was pumped dry. a task in which 
 there was little dilliciilty, as there was little 
 more than two feet of wafer in if, but noth- 
 ing of the kind was found. Then they 
 dragged the )iond, but without result. The 
 sciirch was also continued elsewhere, but it 
 wa« equally unHiiccessful, 
 
118 
 
 THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 It was theu concluded that tlio murderer 
 bad removed the head of his victim to pre- 
 vent idciitificatiou, aud had huried it some- 
 where, but that the traces of burial had 
 been o))literated by the lapse of tinu). The 
 only wonder was tliat the clothes shouhl 
 have beeu allowed to remain by (me who 
 had )>eeu so much on his guard as to do- 
 capitato his victim. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX. 
 
 THK COUONKK'S INtJUEST. 
 
 TnK remains were deposited in a proper 
 place, aiul a coroner's inquest was held at 
 once, at whicli the usual examination of 
 witnesses was conducttMl. 
 
 Wiggins was examined first. Ho showed 
 great constraint. He had not much to say, 
 however, about tlio disappearance of Captain 
 Drdleigh, for ho had been absent at tliat 
 t'me, and lie could only state what took 
 l.lace after his return. Hut in the course of 
 these inciuiries much was extorted from liim 
 relative to Editli's position at Dalton Hall, 
 her marriage, and the terms on which she 
 had bet^n living with her husband. His 
 answers wen^ given with extreme hesitation 
 and marked reluctance, and it was only by 
 the utmost persistence that they were wrr.ug 
 from hiu). 
 
 The porter was examined, and hi the 
 course of the in{|uiry tliat scene at thii gates 
 when Edith tried to escape was rev.'aled. 
 
 Hugo was examined. It wr.s foinid out 
 that he had overheard the conversation be- 
 tween Edith and Captain Diidleigh at their 
 hwt interview. Hugo's answers were given 
 with as nnich reluctance as those of Wig- 
 gins, but lit* was not able to evade the (pu's- 
 tions, and all that lie knew was drawn from 
 him. Ihit Hugo's reineiubraiK'o of words 
 was not very accurate, and he could not give 
 any detailed report of the conversation whicli 
 he had overheard. Several things, how- 
 ever, hail beeu impressed njion his memory. 
 One was the occasion when Edith drew a 
 dagger upon Captain Dudleigh. and left the 
 room with it in her hand ; another was when, 
 in her last interview with him, she menaced 
 his life, and threatened to have his " Iteuii's 
 blood." So it was that Hugo had understood 
 Edith's words. 
 
 Mrs. Dunbar was examined, and gave her 
 testimony with less hesitation. She was 
 deathly jiale, and wciik and miserable. She 
 sjiokc with dirticnlty, but was eager to bear 
 witness to the noble <'liaraeter of Captain 
 Dudleigh. She certainly showed nothing 
 like hate toward Edith, but at the same lime 
 showed no hesitation to tell all about her. 
 She told about ('aplain Dudleigh's first visits, 
 and about the visits of his friend, who Inul 
 nssumed his nani(>, or had the sanio name. 
 
 She told how Edith had been warned, and 
 how she scorned the warning. From her 
 was elicited the story of Edith's return after 
 her marriage, her illness, recovery, and des- 
 perate moods, in which she seemed frans- 
 forined, as Mrs. Dunbar expressed it, to a 
 "fury." The account of her disovery of 
 the Hight of Edith and the captain was 
 given with much emotion, but with simple 
 truth. 
 
 Mr. Muun was also examined about the 
 marriage. He had not yet recovered from 
 the agitation into which he had been thrown 
 during his interview with Wiggins, but 
 seemed in a state of chronic fright. 
 
 After thest? witnesses one other yet renmin- 
 ed. It was one whose coiniection with these 
 events was the closest of all — one upon 
 wliom that Jury already looked as guilty of 
 a terrible crime — as the one who had indict- 
 ed with her own hand that death whose 
 cause they were investigating. 
 
 There was no doubt now in v ny mind. Tlie 
 remains had beeu identified by all the wit- 
 nesses. The liead had been removed, and 
 had not been found, but the clothes Mere 
 known to all. Uy these they judged the re- 
 mains to be the body of Captain Dudlcijr'i. 
 Wiggins alone hesitated — but it was only 
 hesitation ; it was not denial. 
 
 When Edith was snunnoned before the 
 coroner's jury, it was the v<'ry first intclli- 
 ' gence that shi* had received of an event in 
 I which slie was so deeply concerned. The 
 ' landlady had heard all about the search and 
 its results ; but true to her determination to 
 span! Edith all trouble, she had not allowed 
 any news of these proceedings to be com- 
 municated to her. When the ofticial ap- 
 ])eared with his abrupt summons to attend, 
 the shock was terrible, but there was noth- 
 ing left except submission. A few brief 
 answers to her hurried and agitated (ines- 
 tions put her in possession of the chief facts 
 of the case. On her way to the place she 
 said not a word. The landlady went with 
 her to take care of her, but Edith did not 
 take any notice of her. 
 
 As she entered the room where the exam- 
 ination was going on, the scene that pre- 
 sented itself was one which might well have 
 appalled a stouter heart than that of Edith, 
 and which, coming as it di<l after the shock 
 of this sudden surprise, and in the train of 
 all that she Iiad already sutt'ered, gave to 
 her a sharp pang of intoleialde anguish, 
 and filled her soul with horror unspeak- 
 able. 
 
 The rope-ladder lay there with its hocdi, 
 with which she had etfc<'ted her escape, and 
 besid(< these was the dagger which more 
 than once she had interposed between her- 
 self aud her tierce aggressor; but il was not 
 these that she saw ; something else was 
 then* which ti\ed and enchaiiuMl her gaze, 
 which held her with u terrible faseiuutiou. 
 
: 
 
 THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 119 
 
 'WITH A LOUD CRY, SHK HALF TUKNKI). 
 
 A slieot was thrown over it, but tlio outlines 
 of tliiit which hiy binoiith indicattMl a hu- 
 man form, and tho iutorniation wliich Etlith 
 had ah-cady recoived nuide her wi-11 aware 
 whose that form was supposed to be. Hut she 
 said nothiu>; ; she stood ri<;id, horror-strick- 
 en, overwhi'hiu'd, and hjokcd at it witii star- 
 ing eyes and white lips. 
 
 The coroner made some remarks, consist- 
 ing of the usual formulas, siimctliinj; like 
 an apology for tlit; examination, a iiiiit that 
 it might possibly atVcct herself, and a warn- 
 ing that she should be very careful not to 
 way any thing that might inculpate herself. 
 
 To all this ImUiIi ))aid no attention. .Sin- 
 did not appear to have heard it. .She stood, 
 ns th«« coroutT spoke, in the sauu* attitude as 
 before, with her «'ycs set in the sanu' rigid 
 Stare. As the coroiu-r ceased, he stepped 
 forward and drew away the sheet. 
 
 There it lay at last —unveiled, revealed to 
 her eyes -the abhorrent Thing, whose faint 
 (Mitliut* had chilled her very soul, its aspect 
 liideous, frightful, unendurable! As the 
 sheet fell away, anil all was revealed before 
 her, she could restrain herself no hmger ; the 
 
 strain was too great ; with a loud cry, she half 
 turned and tried to rini. The next instant 
 the landlady caught her as sho was fulling 
 senseless to the floor. 
 
 Tho examination of Mrs. Dmlleigh was 
 postponed. On the whole, however, it was 
 afterward <'tinsidered unuccessai'y. Enough 
 had been gathered from the other witnesses to 
 enablt^ the jury to come to a conclusion. It 
 was felt, also, that Mis. Diidlcigli ouylit to 
 have a chance; though they believed her 
 guilty, they f<'lt sorry tor her, autl diil m)t 
 wish her to criminally herself by any ranli 
 words. The result was that they broiiglit 
 in a verdict of murder against Mrs. l^con 
 IJudlei^h. 
 
 CILMTER XL. 
 
 A 8TKANUE t'ONFK.SSION'. 
 
 Till': news of Edith's arrest spread like 
 wild-fire, and the event becann> soon the sub- 
 ject of universal conversation. liiimors of 
 all sorts arose, ii>4 is mitural under such cir- 
 enmstuuces, most of which were udver.so to 
 
120 
 
 THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 the accused. People remembered against 
 the daughter the crimes of the father. It 
 was bad Mood, they said, wliich she had in- 
 herited ; it was au evil race to which she 
 heloiigcd, and the murderous tendency was 
 hereditary. 
 
 The examination at the inquest had made 
 known the general facts of her story, out 
 of wliich i>ul»lic gossip constructed another 
 story to suit itself. 
 
 Mrs. Dudleigb had been found trouble- 
 some and dangerous all along, so much so 
 that it became necessary to keep her within 
 llic grounds. When Captain Dudleigb was 
 paying attentions to her, she treated him 
 with perfect brutalitj^. On one occasion she 
 struck him with her whij), and tried to run 
 away. Ca]>taiii Dudleigb had sent his friend, 
 or relative. Lieutenant Dudleigb, to bring 
 about .a reconciliation. This was so well 
 nuiuaged that the two resumed their fornu'r 
 relations, and she even cousent(Hl to make a 
 runaway niateb with him. This, however, 
 was not out of love so much as to spite her 
 guardian. 
 
 After this marriage she took a violent dis- 
 like to her husband, and pretended to be ill, 
 or ])erha]is suflercMl real illness, the natural 
 result of Ji(!r fierce, unbridled temjier. Her 
 husband found it impossible to live with 
 her. The few interviews which they had 
 were very stormy. Over and over again she 
 threatened his life. At length she beguiled 
 him into the park on some unknown pretext, 
 and there, with that dagger which she had 
 so often llourished in his face, she shi'd that 
 very "licuii'n hUiinV whii'h she had threaten- 
 ed to take. Tlio murder was evidently a 
 preconcerted act. She must have done it 
 deliberately, for she had preiJared \\w means 
 of secret escape. .She deiilterately tried to 
 conceal her act, and after removing his head, 
 and burying it, she had thrown the body 
 into th(! old well. Ibit ^'mitrdir uill ok/,"' 
 etc., etc. ; and with this and other Hiniilar 
 maxims Kdith's eoudenmatiou was settled 
 by the ]>ulilic mind. 
 
 Thus Edith was in ju'ison, held there un- 
 der a terri)»le charge, for which there was 
 proof that was a]>palliiig in its character. 
 The body found and iilentitied seemed to 
 plead against her; eirciniistanees inculpated 
 her; motives were assigned to her sullieient- 
 ly strong to cause the act ; her own words 
 and acts all tended to confirm her guilt. 
 
 After all, however, this last blow was not 
 so crushing a one as som(> others which she 
 had received in tlie course of hei' life. 'i'lie 
 most ferribli^ moment perhaps had lieen that 
 one when she wasfaken and <'onl'n)nted with 
 till' horril)lt> remains. After that shock had 
 subsided she rallied somewhat ; and when 
 her arrest took jdace she. was not unprepared. 
 
 If flii^ shock of the ani'st had thus lieen 
 less severe than migiit be supi)oscd, so also 
 was she less att'ected by her imprisonment 
 
 than another person wonld have been in snch 
 a situation. The reason of this is evident. 
 She had endured so much that this seemed 
 an inferior aflliction. The .anguish which 
 she had known could not be increased by 
 this. At Dalton Hall she had become habit- 
 uated to imprisonment, and of a far more 
 galling kind to her than this. She had been 
 in th(! power of a tyrant, at his mercy, and 
 shut out from all means of communicating 
 with the world at large. Her soul had per- 
 petually fretted and cliafcd against the bar- 
 riers by which she was confined, and the 
 struggle within herself was incessant. Aft- 
 erward there had been the worse infliction 
 of that mock marriage, and the unspeakable 
 dread of a new tyrant who called himself 
 her husband. No prison could equal the 
 horrors which she had known at Dalton 
 Hall. Hero in the jail her situation was at 
 least known. From Wiggins she was saved ; 
 from her false husband rescued forever. She 
 was now not in the power of a private ty- 
 rant, exercising his usurped authority over 
 her from his own desire, and with his will 
 as his only law; but she was in the hands 
 of the nation, and under the power of the 
 national law. So, after all, she knew less 
 grief in that prison cell than in the more 
 luxurious abode of Dalton Hall, less sorrow, 
 less desiiair. Her mood was a calm and al- 
 most apathetic one, for the great griefs whi'"]i 
 she had already endured had made her al- 
 most indifl'erent to any thing that life might 
 yet have to ofl'er. 
 
 Two days after her arrest word was 
 brought to Edith that a lady wished to see 
 her. Full of wonder who it could be, and 
 in <loubt whether it could be Miss I'lymp- 
 ton, or only Mrs. Dnnb.ar, Edith eagerly di- 
 rected that the visitor should be admitted, 
 
 Tlii'reniion a lady dressed in black entered 
 till! chamlier. A heavy black veil was over 
 her face, which she raised as she entered, 
 and stood liefore Edith with downcast eyes. 
 
 There was somethiiig in that face which 
 seemed strangely familiar to Edith, and yet 
 she found herself (|uitt^ unable to think who 
 the lady could be. Sht^ thought over all the 
 faces that she had known in her school days. 
 Slic thought over the faces at Dalton Hall. 
 .Suddenly, as the lady raised her eyes, there 
 was an additional revelation in them which 
 at (Mice told Edith all. 
 
 Sh(> started back in amazement. 
 
 " Lieutenant Dudleigb !'' she eried. 
 
 The lady bowed her head, and said, in a 
 low voice, 
 
 " Fortesciie is my real nanit>." 
 
 A snsiiieion of this sort iiad once flashed 
 across Eililh's mind. It was during tlit^ al- 
 tercation at the Dalton chapel. Still, as this 
 suspicion was thus conllrmed, her surprise 
 was extreme, anil she naid not a word, but 
 looked steadily at her. And in the midst 
 of other thoughts and feelings she could not 
 
THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 121 
 
 ' liLT KVKN NOW I WOULD 111-; WILLINCi TO DIE FOK HIM. 
 
 help seoinp that great changes had come 
 over Miss Fortescne, as Hhe culled herself, 
 in addition to those which were consequent 
 upon her resunijition of feminine attiro. She 
 was pale and tliin, and looked ten years 
 older than she used to look. Evidently 
 she liad nn<lergone great suffering. Then^ 
 were marks of deep grii^f on her face. Much 
 Edith marveled to see that one who had 
 acted so basely was capable of suffering such 
 grief. Siie could not help being reminded 
 of that ex]iression which she iiad se<ui on 
 this same face when they were arranging 
 that false marriage; but now that deep re- 
 morse which then had ajipi-ared seemed 
 stamped permanently there, together witli 
 a profound dejection that was like desjiair. 
 All this was not without its etfect on Kdith. 
 It disarmed her natural indignation, and 
 oven excited pity. 
 
 "Miss Dalt-iu," said the visitor, in a voice 
 that was (piite different from the one which 
 she renuMul>ered — a voie«^ tliat was evidently 
 her natural one, while that otlier must have 
 been assumed — " Miss Dalton. I have come to 
 try to <h> something, if ])ossil>Ie, toward mak- 
 ing amends for — for a frightful injury. I 
 know well that amends can never be nuide ; 
 but at least I can do a little. Will you listen 
 to me for a fi'w moments, not with regard 
 to me, but solely for your own sake ?'' 
 
 Edith said nothing, but bowed her head 
 slightly. She did not yet know how far 
 this betrayer might be sincere, and wished 
 to hear anil judges for herself. 
 
 " Will yon let me, first of all, make a ron- 
 fession to you of my great sin ?" she con- 
 tinued, slowly and painfully. " Von will nn- 
 derstaiul better your own present situation. 
 I assure you it will be a help to you toward 
 frcfMug ycMirself. I don't ask you to believe 
 — 1 oidy ask yon to listen." 
 
 Edith again bowed. 
 
 "I will tell you all, then. I was an act- 
 ress in Lcmdon ; my imnw was Forteseuo. 
 I was a celebrity .at Coveut Garden. It was 
 there that I first met Ca))fain Diidleigh. 
 I need say no more about him than this : I 
 loved him passionately, with a frenzy and a 
 devotion that yon can not nnilerstaiul, ami 
 my fate is this — that I love him yet. I 
 know that he is a coward and a villain and 
 a traitor, but even now I would be willing 
 to die for him." 
 
 The voice was different — how different ! — 
 and the tone and manner still more so. The 
 careless '• Little Dudleigh" ha<l cbanged into 
 a being of )iassiou and ardor and tiri'. F.dith 
 tried to preserve an iuercdui. us sljite of 
 iniiul, but in vain. Slie could not help liTl- 
 ing that there was no a-'tiug here. This at 
 least was real. This devoted love could not 
 be feigiu'd. 
 
 " Hi- swore he loved nie," cnntimn-d Mis.s 
 Fortescu(>. " He asked nu« to be his wife. 
 We were married." 
 
 " Married !" cried Edith, in a tone of pro- 
 foundest agitation. 
 
 '• Yes," said Miss Fm-teseue, solemnly, "wo 
 were inurried. Hut listen. I believed f hut 
 
 'li' 
 
132 
 
 THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 the marriage was real. He told some story 
 about his friends being unwilling — about his 
 father, who, lie said, would disown him if ho 
 found it out. He urged a private marriage, 
 without any public announcement. Ho knew 
 a young clergyman, ho said, who wcmld do 
 him that favor. For my part I had not the 
 slightest objection. I loved him too well to 
 care about a formal wedding. So we were 
 married in his rooms, with a friend of his for 
 witness. 
 
 " Ho set np a modest little house, where 
 we lived for about a year. At first my life 
 was one of perfect happiness, but gradually 
 I saw ill change coming over him. He was 
 terribly in debt, and was afraid of utter 
 ruin. From hints tiiat dropped from him, I 
 began to suspect that he meditated some 
 sort of treachery toward me. Tlien, for the 
 first time, I was alarmed at the privacy of 
 our marriage. Still, I was afraid to say any 
 thing to him, for fear that it might hasten any 
 treacliery toward me which he might med- 
 itate. I loved him as dearly as ever, but I 
 found ont that he was base and unprin- 
 cipled, and felt that he was capable of any 
 thing. I had to content myself with watch- 
 ing him, and at the same time tried to bo as 
 cheerful as possible. 
 
 "At length lie heard about you, and came 
 to Dalton. His father sent him, he said. I 
 followed him here. At first he was angry, 
 but I persuaded him to take me as an as- 
 sistant. He <lid not want to be known at 
 the Hall, for lie wished to see first what 
 could be done with Wiggins. He made me 
 diflgnise myself as a man, and so I called 
 myself Lieutenant Dudleigh. He went to 
 Dalton Hall, and discovenMl that tlie porter 
 was some old criminal wlio had done his 
 crime on the Dudleigli estates — poaching, I 
 think, or murder, or botli. On seeing Wig- 
 gins, lie was able to obtain some control 
 over liim — I don't know what. He never 
 w^ould tell me. 
 
 "By tliis time I found ont what I had all 
 along suspected — that he came liere for your 
 sake. He was terribly in del)t. A dark 
 abyss lay before liim. He began to feel me 
 to be an incuiiilirance. He liegan to wisli 
 that lie wiis a free man, so that he might 
 many you. I saw all this with a grief that 
 I can not tell. 
 
 " We made several calls on you. I went 
 as liis motlier, Mrs. Mowbray." 
 
 * Mrs. Mowbray ! You ?" exclaimed Edith, 
 in wonder. 
 
 '• Did I act my part well T" said Miss For- 
 teseue, mournfully. " It was an easy enough 
 jiart. I lielieve I succeeded in making my- 
 self utterly detestable. Captain Dudleigli 
 was l>itterly vexed at my manner. He want- 
 ed nie to gain your conlidenee. That, how- 
 ever, I eoiiUl not yi't bring myself to do. His 
 own intercourse witli you was even worse. 
 Your attempt to escape was a terrible blow 
 
 to his hopes. Yet ho dared not let yon es- 
 cape. That would have destroyed his plans 
 utterly. You would have gone to your 
 friends — to Miss Plynipton — and you would 
 have found out things about him which 
 would have made his projects with refer- 
 ence to you out of the question." 
 
 "Miss Plynipton!" cried Edith. "How 
 could I have gone to herf Slie is away." 
 
 " That was one of my lies," said Miss For- 
 tescue. " Unfortunately, she is really ill, but 
 she is still in the country, at her school. I 
 myself went there to tell ht^r about you only 
 two days ago, but found that she had been 
 ill for some time, and could not see any 
 one." 
 
 Edith sighed heavily. For an instant 
 hope had come, and then it had died out. 
 
 " He made me go again to see you, but 
 with what result you know. I was fairly 
 driven away at last. This made him terri- 
 bly enrfiged against you and against me, 
 but I quieted him by reminding him that it 
 was only his own fault. It brought about 
 a change in his plans, however, and forced 
 him to put me more prominently forward. 
 I Then it was that ho devised that i)lan ly 
 which I was to go and win your contiden'. i. 
 I can not speak of it; you know it all. I 
 wish merely to show you what the pressure 
 was that he put on mo. 
 
 "'Dear wife,' said ho to me one day, in 
 his most atlectionate tone — 'my own Lucy, 
 you know all about my aft'airs, and yon know 
 that I am utterly ruined. If I can not do 
 sometliing to save myself, I see no otlier re- 
 source but to blow my biaiiis out. I will 
 do it, I swear I will, if I can not get out of 
 tliese scrapes. My fatlier will not lit^lp me. 
 He has paid all my debts twice, and won't 
 do it again. Now I have a proposal to make. 
 It's my only hope. You can help me. If 
 you love me, you will do so. Help nie in 
 this, and then you will bind your husliand 
 to you by a tie that will lie stronger than 
 life. If you will not d^ ' is simple thing, 
 you will doom me to death, for I swear I 
 will kill myself, or at least, if not that, I 
 will leave you forever, and go to some place 
 where I can escape my creditors.' 
 
 " This was the way that lie fenced his plan 
 upon me. You know what it was. I was 
 to see you, and do — what was done. 
 
 '"You are my wife,' said he, earnestly. 
 ' I can not marry lier — I don't want to — but 
 I do want to get money. Let iiie have the 
 contnd of the Dalton estates long eiioiigli to 
 get out of my scrapes. You can't be jealous 
 of her. Slie hates nie. I liate lier, and love 
 you— yes, better than life. WluMi sin; finds 
 out that I am married to lier slie will hate 
 me still more. The marriage is only a I'orin, 
 only a means of getting money, so tliat I 
 may live with my own true wife, my darling 
 Lucy, in peace, and free from this iutolerublo 
 despair.' 
 
THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 123 
 
 " By such assurances as these — by dwelling 
 incessantly upon the fact that I was his wife, 
 and that this iiroposed marriage to you was 
 an empty form — upon yoiir hate for him, and 
 the certainty of your still greater hate, he 
 gradually worked upon me. He appealed 
 to my love for him, my pity for his situation, 
 and to every feeling that could move me in 
 his favor. Then it was that he told me 
 frankly the name of the clergyman who had 
 married us, and the witness. The clergy- 
 man's name was Porter, and the witness was 
 a Captain Reeves. So, in spite of my abhor- 
 rence of the act, I was led at last, out of niy 
 very love to him, and regard for his future, 
 to acquiesce in his plan. Above all, I was 
 moved by one thing upon which he laid 
 great stress. 
 
 " ' It will really he for her benefit,' he 
 would say. 'She will not be married at 
 all. I shall take some of her money, cer- 
 tainly ; but she is so enormously rich that 
 she will never ftel it ; besides, if I didn't get 
 it, Wiggins would. Better for her cousin to 
 have it. It will be all in the family. Above 
 all, this will be the means, and the only 
 means, of freeing her from that iiyiuison- 
 ment in which Wiggins keeps her. That is 
 her chief desire. She will gain it. After I 
 pay my debts I will explain all to her ; and 
 what is more, when I succeed to my own in- 
 heritance, as I must do in time, I shall pay 
 her every penny.' 
 
 " By such plausible reasoning as this he 
 drove away my last objection, and so, with- 
 out any further hesitation, I went about that 
 task. 
 
 " But oh, how hard it was ! Over and over 
 again I f(!lt like giving up. But always he 
 was ready to urge me on, until at last it was 
 accomplished, an<l ended »'s you remember." 
 
 Miss Fortescue paused here, and made 
 no reply. Edith said not a word. Wliy 
 should she ? What availed this woman's 
 repentance now f 
 
 "I came here," continued Miss Fortescue 
 at huigtli, " first of all to explain this, but to 
 tell you other things also. I nnist now till 
 you sonietiiing which makes your position 
 more painful than I thought it would be. 
 I soon found out the full <lepth of ("ajitain 
 Dndleigh's villainy. While I thought that 
 you only were <leceived, I found that I was 
 the one who was most deceived. 
 
 " Afttir that marrijige in the chajiel we 
 went back to Dalton, and tlien< he abused 
 me in tlie most frightful manner. He jire- 
 tended to l»e enraged because I rebuked liiin 
 in the cha|iel. His rage was only a |)retense. 
 Then it all came out. He told mi^ ))lainly 
 that my marriage with him was a mockery ; 
 that the man Porter who had nuirried us 
 was not a clergyman at all, but a crt ature 
 of liis whom he had brilted to otticiate ; that 
 Reeves was not a captain, ami tlmt his tes- 
 timony in any case would be useless. All 
 
 this was crnshing. It was something that 
 was so entirely in accordance with my own 
 fears that I had not a word to say. He rail- 
 ed at me like a madman, and informed me 
 that he had only tolerated me here at Dal- 
 ton so as to use me as his tool. And this 
 was our last interview. He left me there, 
 and I have never seen him since. He said 
 ho was your husband, and was going to live 
 at Dalton. I could do nothing. I went, 
 however, to the gates, got sight of Wiggins, 
 and for your sake I told him all. I tiiought 
 it was better for you to remain under the 
 authority of Wiggins than to be in the pow- 
 er of such a villain as Captain Dudleigli. I 
 told Wiggins also that I still had a hope 
 that my nnirriage was valid. I went back 
 at once to London, and tried to find out 
 clergymen named Porter. I have seen sev- 
 eral, and written to many others whoso 
 names I have seen on the church list, but 
 none of them know any thing about such a 
 marriage as mine. I began, therefore, to 
 fear that he was r'ght, and if so — I was not 
 his wife." 
 
 Silence followed now for some time. Miss 
 Fortescue was waiting to see tlie effect of 
 her story, and Edith was nie<litating upon 
 the facts with which this strange? revelation 
 dealt. Although she had been so great a 
 sufferer, still slie did not feid resentment 
 now against this betrayer. For fiiis one was 
 uo longer the miserable, |ierfidious go-be- 
 tween, l)ut rather an injured wile led to do 
 wrong by the pressure put upon her, and by 
 her <iwn lovt>. 
 
 "Then that was not a mock nuirriagef" 
 said h]h\ at last. 
 
 " By justice ami right it was no niiirriiige," 
 said Miss Fortescue ; " but how tlic law may 
 regard it I ilo not know." 
 
 " Has Sir Lionel been heard of yet !" asked 
 Edith, after another i)ause. 
 
 "Sir Lionel!" said Miss Fortescue, in sur- 
 prise. "Oh, I had forgotten. Miss Dalton, 
 that, I grieve to say, was all a fiction. Ho 
 was never out of the country." 
 
 "Did yon ever speak a word of truth to 
 mef" asked Edith, indignantly. 
 
 Miss Fortescue was silent. 
 
 " At any rate, it is of no conseiiueiu'e now," 
 said Edith. "Sir Lionel is nothing to me; 
 for he must look with hori'or on one whom 
 he believes to i)e the slayer of his son." 
 
 "Oh, Miss Dalton!" luu'st forth Miss For- 
 tescue, "do not despair; he will lie I'onnd 
 yet." 
 
 "Found! He has been found. Did you 
 not hear f" 
 
 "Oh, I don't mean that. I do not believe 
 that it was him. I believi? that he is alive. 
 This is all a mistake. I will search fur him. 
 I do not believe that this is him. 1 Itelieve 
 ho is alive. Oh, Miss Dalton, if 1 could only 
 do this for you, I should be willing to die. 
 i But 1 will try ; I know how to get on hit) 
 
124 
 
 THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 '•HE SAW IIKK HEAD lAI.L." 
 
 track ; I know where to go ; I must bear of 
 him, if ho in alive. Try to have hope ; do 
 uot dt'Hpair." 
 
 Edith Hhook her head mournfully. 
 
 MiHHFortt'Hcuo tried Htill further to lessen 
 Edith's df.spair, and assured her that she 
 had hopes hcirself of finding him hefore it was 
 too late, hut her words produced no effect. 
 
 " 1 do not ask you to forgive me," said 
 Miss Fortcscuti; "that would he almost in- 
 solence ; hut I entreat you to helieve that I 
 will devote myself to you, and that you have 
 one whose only pur))ose in life now is to 
 save you from this fearful fate. Thus far 
 you have known me only as a speaker of lies; 
 hut renicniher, I pray you, what my position 
 was. I was jdaying a part — as Mrs. Mow- 
 hray — as Lieutenant Dudleigh — as Barber 
 the lawyer — " 
 
 "Bar'her!" exclaimed Edith. "What! 
 Biirher too ?" 
 
 "Yes," said Miss Fortescue, sadly; "all 
 those parts were niin<^ It was easy to play 
 them })ef'ore ont^ so lioncst and so unsuspect- 
 ing ; hut oh, Miss Diilton, believe me, it is 
 in playing a part only that I have deceived 
 you. Now, when I no longer ])lay a part, 
 hut come to you in my own person, I will be festation of her feelings, for she had taken 
 true. I will devote myself to the work of up the cause of the murdered man willi a 
 saving you from this terrible position in warmth and vindictive zeal that showed 
 which I have done so much to place you." j Edith jilainly what she might expect from 
 
 Edith made no reply, and soon after Miss i her. Her only friend, Miss Plympton, was 
 Fortescue departed, leaving her to her own | still lost to her ; and her illness seemed jtrob- 
 rellections. able, since, if it were uot so, she would not 
 
 keep aloof from her at such a moment as 
 this. Hoi)eless as she had been of late, she 
 now found that tliere were depths of despair 
 below those in which she had thus far been 
 — " in the lowest de(!p, a lower «leep." 
 
 It" any thing could have added to the Such were her thoughts and feelings 
 misery of Editli and her general desponden- through the remainder of that day and 
 ey, it would have been the revelations of through the following night. But little 
 Miss Fortescue. It had certainly been bad sleep came to her. The future stood before 
 enough to recall the treachery of a false her witliout one ray of light to shini? through 
 friend; but the facts as .just revealed went its appalling gloom. On the next day her 
 far beyond what slie had innigined. They despair seemed even greater; her faculties 
 revealed sucili a long course of persistent seenunl benumbed, and a dull apathy be- 
 deceit. and showed tiiat she had l)een sub- gan to settle down over her soul, 
 ject to such manifold, long-sustained, and < From this state of mind she was 'oused 
 compreliensive lying, that she began to lose by the oi)ening of the door and the enrrance 
 faith in human nature. AVhom now could of a visitor. Turning round, she saw Wig- 
 she believe If Could she ventun; to put con- gins. 
 
 tidence in this confession of Miss Fortescue t This was the first time that she had seen 
 Was that her real name, and was this her him since she left Dalton Hall, and in spite 
 real story, or was it all scnue mnv ])iece of of that stolid and apathetic inditlcrence 
 acting, contrived by this all-accomplished which had come to her, she could not lielp 
 actor for the sake of dragging her down to being struck by the change which liad come 
 deeper abysses of woeT iShe felt herself to over iiim. His face seemed whiter, his hair 
 be surrounded by remorseless enemies, all grayer, his form more bent; his footsteps 
 of whom were i)lotting against her, aiul in were feeble and uncertain ; he leaned heav- 
 Avhose hearts then^ was no possil)ility of ily upon his walking-stick; and in the 
 pity or remorse. Wiggins, the archenemy, glance that he turned toward her there was 
 was acting a part which was mysterious untold sympathy and compassion, together 
 just now, but which nevertheless, she felt with a timid supplication that was unlike 
 sure, was aimed at her very life. Mrs. Dun- any thing which she had seen in him before, 
 bar, she knew, was more open in the maui- 1 Edith neither said any thing nor did any 
 
 CHAPTER XLI. 
 
 A REVKLATION. 
 
 he had 
 
THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 125 
 
 thing. Sho looked at him with dull indif- 
 ference. She did not move. The thought 
 came to her that this was merely another 
 move in that great game of treachery and 
 fraud to which she had been a viiitim ; that 
 here was tlie archtraitor, the instigator of 
 all the lesser movements, who was coming 
 to her in order to cany out some necessary 
 part. 
 
 Wiggins sat down wearily upon one of 
 th(! rude chairs of the scantily furnishtid 
 room, and after a brief silence, looking at 
 her sadly, began. 
 
 " 1 know," said he, " how you misunder- 
 stand me, and how unwelcome 1 must be ; 
 but I had to come, so as to assure you that 
 I hope to find this man who is missing. I — 
 I hope to do so before the — the trial. I 
 have been searching all along, but without 
 success — thus far. I wish to assure you 
 that I h.ave found out a way by which you 
 — will be saved. And if you believe me, I 
 trust that you will — try — to — cherish more 
 hope than you appear to be doing." 
 
 He paused, 
 
 Edith said nothing at all. She was silent 
 partly out of apathy, and i)artly from a de- 
 termination to give him no satisfaction, for 
 she felt that any wonls of ht^rs, no matter 
 how simple, might be distorted and used 
 against her. 
 
 Wiggins looked at her with imploring 
 earnestness, and seemed to wait for her to 
 say something. But finding her silent, he 
 went on : 
 
 " Will you let me a.sk you one question ? 
 and forgive me for asking it; but it is of 
 some importiince to — to me — and to you. 
 It is this: Did — did you see him at all — that 
 night ?" 
 
 " I have been warned," replied Edith, in a 
 dull, cold tone, " to say nothing, and I intend 
 to say nothing." 
 
 Wiggins sighed. 
 
 " To say nothing," said he, "is not always 
 wise. I once knew a man who was charg<'d 
 with terrible crimes — crimes of which he was 
 incapable. Ho was innocent, utterly. Not 
 only innocent, indeed, but h<» bad fallen un- 
 der this suspicion, and had become the object 
 of tiiis charge, simply on account of his act- 
 ive efforts to save a guilty friend from ruin. 
 His frieiul was the guilty one, and his fri;'nd 
 was also his sister's husband ; and this man 
 had gone to try and save his friend, when lit! 
 himself was arrested for that friend's crimes." 
 
 Wiggins did not look at Edith ; his eyes 
 were downcast. He spoke in a tone that 
 seemed more like a solilotpiy than any thing 
 else. It was a tone, however, which, though 
 low, was yet tremulous with ill-suppressed 
 agitation. 
 
 " He was accused," continued Wiggins, 
 "and if he had spoken and told what he 
 knew, he might have saved his life. Hut if 
 he had done this he would have had to be- 
 
 ! come a witness, and stand up in court and 
 ' say that which would ruin his friend. And 
 , so he could not speak. His lips were sealed. 
 To s])eak would have been to inform against 
 his friend. How could ho do that f It was 
 ini]>ossib1e. Yet some may think — you may 
 think — tliat this man did wrong in allowing 
 himself to be put in this false ])ositi<)n. You 
 may say that he liad more than himstdf to 
 consider— he had his family, his name, his 
 — his wife, his child ! 
 
 "Yes," resumed Wiggins, after a long 
 pause, "this is all true, and he did consider 
 them, all — all — all! He did not tritle with 
 his family name and honor, but it was rath- 
 er on account of the pride which lie took in 
 these that he kept his silence. He was con- 
 scious of hi,< perfect innocence. He could 
 not think it possible that such charges could 
 be carried out against one lik(! himself. Ho 
 believed implicitly in the Justice of the 
 courts of his country. He tiioiight that in 
 a fair trial the innocent could not possi- 
 bly be proclaimed guilty. More than all, 
 he thought that his proud name, his stain- 
 less character, and even his wealtli and posi- 
 tion, would have shown the world that the 
 charges were simply impossible. He thought 
 tlhat all men would have seen that for him 
 to have done such things would involve in- 
 sanity." 
 
 As Wiggins said this his voice grew more 
 earnest and animated. He looked at Edith 
 with his soli ■nn eyes, and seemed as though 
 he was jileading with her the caiists of his 
 friend — as though ho was trying to show 
 her how it had luqijiened that the father 
 had dishonored the name which the child 
 must bear — as though he was justifying to 
 tlie daughter, Edith Daltou, the acts of the 
 father, Frederick Dalton. 
 
 "Sf> he bore it all with perfect calmness," 
 continued Wiggins, " and had no doubt that 
 he would be actpiitted, and thought that 
 thus he W(uild at least be able, without 
 much suffering, to save his friend from ruin 
 most teriitic — from the condemnation of the 
 courts and the fate of a felon." 
 
 Wiggins paused once more for some time. 
 Jlo was looking at P^ditli. He liad expected 
 some remark, but she had made none. In 
 fact, she had regarded all this as a new trick 
 of Wiggins — a transparent one too — the aim 
 of wliich was to win lua" ciuitidence liy thus 
 pretending to vindicate her father. He had 
 already tried to work on her in that way, 
 and had faihid ; and on this occasion he met 
 with t\tp sanit! failure. 
 
 "There is no occasion for you to bo silent, 
 I think," said Wiggins, turning from the sub- 
 ject to the situation of Edith. " Von have 
 no friend at stake; you will endanger no 
 one, and save yourself, by telling whether 
 you are innocent or not." 
 
 Tln>se last words roused Edith. It was 
 an allusion to her x>ui^Hible guilt. She do- 
 
186 
 
 THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 tormincd to bring tho interview to a close. 
 She WHH tired of this inun and liis attempts 
 to deceive her. It was painful to see through 
 all this hypocrisy and perfidy at tho very 
 moment when they were being used against 
 horsijlf. 
 
 She looked at him with a stony gaze, and 
 spoke in low, cold tones as she addressed 
 him. "This is all useless. I am on uiy 
 guard. Why you come here I do not know. 
 Of course you wish to entrap me into saying 
 something, so that you may «ise my words 
 against nie at the trial. You ask me if I 
 SUV/ this man on that night. You usk mo if 
 I am innocent. You well know that I am in- 
 nocent. You, and you only, know who saw 
 him last on that night; for as I believe in 
 my own existence, so I believe, aiul affirm to 
 your face, that this Leon Dudleigb was mur- 
 dered by you, and yon only !" 
 
 He looked at her fixedly as she said this, 
 returning her stony gaze with a mournful 
 look — a pitying look, full of infinite sadness 
 and tenderness. He raised his hand dc^pre- 
 catingly, but said nothing until she had ut- 
 tered those last words. 
 
 " Stop !" he said, in a low voice — " stay ! I 
 can not bear it." 
 
 He rose from his seat and came close to 
 her. He leaned upon his stick heavily, and 
 'ooked at her with eyes full of that same 
 Btrtinge, inexplicable tenderness and com- 
 ]>a88ion. Her eyes seemed fascinated by 
 his, and in her mind there arose a strange 
 bewilderment, an expectation of something 
 she knew not what. 
 
 "Edith," said he, in a sweet and gentle 
 voice, full of tender melancholy — " Edith, it 
 would be sin in me to let you any longer 
 heap up matter for future remorse; and 
 even though I go against the bright hope 
 of my life in saying this now, yet I must. 
 Edith—" 
 
 He paused, looking at her, while she re- 
 garded him with awful eyes. 
 
 "Edith!" ho said again — "my — my — 
 child !" 
 
 There were tears in his eyes now, and 
 there was on his face a look of unutterable 
 love and unspeakable pity and forgiveness. 
 He reached out his baud and placed it ten- 
 derly upon her head. 
 
 "Edith," he said again, "my child, yon 
 will never say these things again. I — I do 
 not deserve them. I — am your — your fa- 
 ther, Edith!" 
 
 At these words a convulsive shudder 
 passed through Edith. He felt her frail 
 form tremble, ho saw her head fall, and 
 heard a low sob that seemed torn from her. 
 
 She needed no more words than these. In 
 an instant she saw it all ; and though be- 
 wildered, she did not for a moment doubt 
 his words. But her whole being was over- 
 whelmed by a sudden and a sharp agony of 
 .remorse ; for she bod accustomed herself to 
 
 hat« this man, and the irrepressible tokens 
 of a father's love she had regarded as hy- 
 pocrisy. She had never failed to heap upon 
 that reverend head the deepest scorn, con- 
 tumely, and insult. Hut a moment before 
 she had hurled at him a terrible accusation. 
 At him ! At whom f At the man whoso 
 mournful destiny it had been all along to 
 suffer for the sins of others ; and she it was 
 who had fiung upon him an additional bur- 
 den of grief. 
 
 But with all her remorse there were other 
 feelings — a shrinking sense of terror, a re- 
 coil from this sudden discovery as from some- 
 thing abhorrent. This her father! That 
 father's face and form had been stamped in 
 her memory. For years, as she had lived in 
 the hope of seeing him, she had quickened 
 her love for him and fed her hopes from his 
 portrait. But how different was this one ! 
 What a frightful change from tho father 
 that lived in her memory ! Tho one was a 
 young man in the flush and pride of life and 
 strength — the other a woe-worn , grief-strick- 
 en sufferer, with reverend head, bowed form, 
 and trembling limbs. Besides, she had long 
 regarded him as dead ; and to see this man 
 was like looking on one who had risen from 
 the dead. 
 
 In an instant, however, all was plain, and 
 together with tho discovery there came tho 
 pangs of remorse and tenor and anguish. 
 She could understand all. He, the escaped 
 convict, had come to England, and was sup- 
 posed to bo dead. He had lived, under a 
 false name, a life of constant and vigilant 
 terror. He kept his secret from all the 
 world. Oh, if he had only told her ! Now 
 the letter of Miss Plympton was all plain, 
 and she wondered how she had been so 
 blind. 
 
 " Oh !" she moaned, in a scarce audible 
 voice, " why did you not tell mo f" 
 
 " Oh, Edith darling ! my child ! my only 
 love !" murmured Frederick Dalton, bending 
 low over her, and infolding her tremlding 
 frame in his own trembling arms ; " my sweet 
 daughter, if you could only have known how 
 I yearned over yon ! But I delayed to tell 
 you. It was the one sweet hope of my life 
 to redeem my name from its foul stain, and 
 then declare myself. I Avanted you to get 
 your father back as he had left you, without 
 this abhorrent crime laid to his charge. I 
 did wrong not to trust you. It was a bitter, 
 bitter error. But I had so set my heart on 
 it. It was all for your sake, Edith — all, 
 darling, for your sake !" 
 
 Edith could bear no more. Every one of 
 these words was a fresh stab to her remorse- 
 ful heart— every tone showed to her tho 
 depth of love that lay in that father's heart, 
 and revealed to her the suffering that she 
 must have caused. It was too much ; and 
 with a deep groan she sank away from his 
 arms upon the floor. She clasped his knees 
 
 ed 
 ha 
 so 
 on 
 be 
 
THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 127 
 
 bio 
 
 ■o 
 Is 
 
 — she (lid not dare to look up. She wish- 
 ed only to he a supjjliant. He liimHelf 
 had prophcHit'd tliis. HIh terrihle wnmings 
 sounded even now in her ears. Slie had only 
 one thought — to humble herself in the dust 
 before that injured fatlier. 
 
 Dalton tried to raise her up. 
 
 "My darlinj^!" he cried, "my child! you 
 must not — you will break my lienrt!" 
 
 " Oil," moaned Edith, " if it is not already 
 broken, how can yon ever forgive mef — 
 how can you >.'all me your child f" 
 
 " My ciiild ! my child !" said Dalton. " It 
 was for you that I lived. If it had not been 
 for the thought of yoti, I should have died 
 long since. It was for your sake that I came 
 home. It is for you only that I live now. 
 There is nothing for me to forgive. Look 
 up at me. Let me see your darling face. Let 
 me hear you say one word — only one word — 
 the word that I have hungered and thirsted 
 to hear. Call me father." 
 
 "Father! oh, father! dear father!" burst 
 forth Edith, clinging to him with convulsive 
 energy, and weeping bitterly. 
 
 " Oil, my darling !" said Dalton, " I was to 
 blame. How could you have borne what I 
 expected you to bear, when I would not give 
 you my confidence ? Do not let us speak of 
 forgiveness. You loved your fatlier all the 
 time, and you thought that I was his enemy 
 and yours." 
 
 Gradually Edith became calmer, and her 
 calmness was increased by the discovery 
 that her father was painfully weak and ex- 
 hausted. He had been overwhelmed by the 
 emotions which this interview had called 
 forth. He now sat gazing at her with speech- 
 less love, holding her hands in his, but his 
 breath came and went rapidly, and there 
 was a feverish tremulousness in his voice 
 and a flush on his pale cheeks which alarmed 
 her. She tried to lessen his agitation by 
 talking about her own prospects, but Dalton 
 did not wish to. 
 
 " Not now, daughter," he said. " I will 
 hear it all some other time. I am too weary. 
 Let mo only look at your dear face, and hear 
 you call me by tliat sweet name, and feel 
 my child's hands in mine. That will be 
 bliss enough for this day. Another time 
 we will speak about the — the situation that 
 you are in." 
 
 As ho was thus agitated, Edith was forced 
 to refrain from asking him a thousand things 
 which she was longing to know. She wished 
 to learn how l:o had escaped, how he had 
 made it to bo believed that he was dead, and 
 whether he was in any present danger. But 
 all this she had to postpone. She had also 
 to postpone her knowledge of that great se- 
 cret — the secret that had baffled her, and 
 which he had preserved inviolable through 
 all these years. She now saw that her sus- 
 picions of the man "John Wiggins" mui^t 
 have been unfounded, and indeed the per- 
 
 I Bonality of "Wiggins" became a complete 
 puzzle to her. 
 
 I He bade her a tender adieu, promising to 
 
 I come early on the following day. 
 
 Hut on the following day there were no 
 signs of him. Edith waited in terribln im- 
 patience, which finally deejMMied into alarm 
 as his coming was still delayed. She had 
 known so nnuh of sorrow that sln^ had h-arn- 
 ed to look for it, and began to exi)ect some 
 new calamity. Here, wliere she had fouud 
 her father, where she had received his for- 
 
 ] giveness for that wliich would never ceasn 
 
 , to cause remorse to herself, luae, in this mo- 
 ment of respite from despair, she saw the 
 black prospect of renewed misery. It was 
 
 I as though she had found him for a moment, 
 
 I only to lose him forever. 
 
 I Toward evening a note was sent to her. 
 She tore it open. It was from Mi.). Dunbar, 
 and informed her that her father was cpiite 
 ill, and was unable to visit her, but hoped 
 that he might recover. 
 
 After that several days passed, and she 
 heard nothing. At length another note 
 came informing her that her father liad 
 been dangerously iil, but was now conva- 
 lescent. 
 
 Other days passed, and Edith heard regu- 
 larly. Her father was growing steadily bet- 
 ter. On one of these notes he had written 
 his name with a trembling hand. 
 
 And so amidst these fresh sorrows, and 
 with her feelings ever alternating biitwoen 
 hojje and despair, Edith lingered on through 
 the time that intervened until the day of 
 the trial. 
 
 CHAPTER XLII. 
 
 THK THIAL. 
 
 At length the day for the trial arrived, 
 and the i>lace was crowded. At the appear- 
 
 I anco of Edith there arose a murmur of uni- 
 versal symjiathy and pity. All the impres- 
 
 1 sions which had been formed of her were 
 falsified. Some had expected to see a coarse 
 masculine woman ; others a crafty, sinister 
 face ; oth(!r8 an awkward, ill-bred rustic, neg- 
 lected since her father's trial by designing 
 guardians. Instead of this there apjtear- 
 
 j ed before them a slender, graceful, youth- 
 ful form, with high retinemeiit and jierfect 
 breeding in every oiitliiKs and movement. 
 The heavy masses of her dark hair were 
 folded across her brow, and wreathed in vo- 
 luminous folds behind. Her jiallid face bore 
 traces of many griefs through which she had 
 
 ' passed, and her large sjiiritnal eyes had a 
 piteous look as they wandered for a moment 
 over the crowd. 
 
 ; No one was prepared to see any thing like 
 this, and all hearts were at once touched. 
 It seemed preposterous to suppose tliat one 
 like her could be otherwise than innocent. 
 
128 
 
 THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 Tho nsnnl formulas took place, and the 
 trial b('f{un. The witiicMt«in were tliosc who 
 had already been examined. It was ru- 
 mored that Sir Lionel Diidleigh was to bo 
 brou^rht forward, and " Wijjjjins," and Mrs. 
 Dunbar, but not till the follow in>? day. 
 
 At the end of that day the oi)inion of the 
 public was 8tronj?ly in favor of Kdith; but 
 still there was great uncertainty as to her 
 guilt or innocence. It was generally be- 
 lieved that she had been subject to too much 
 restriiint, and in a foolish d(!8iro to escape 
 had b(!en induced to marry Dudleigh. But 
 she had found him a wor.to master than the 
 other, and had bated him from the tirst, so 
 that they had many quarrels, in which she 
 had fre(!ly threatened his life. Finally both 
 had diHa|>peared on tho same uight. He was 
 dead ; she survived. 
 
 The diuicased could not have committed 
 suicide, for the head was missing. Had it 
 not been for that missing head, the theory 
 of suicide would have been ])lausible. 
 
 The second day of the trial came. Edith 
 had seen her father on tho previous evening, 
 and had learned something from him which 
 had juoduced a bene(i<iial efi'ect, for there 
 was less terror and dejection in her face. 
 This was the tirst time that she had seen him 
 since his illness. 
 
 There was one in tho hall that day who 
 looked at her with an earnest glanco of 
 scrutiny as ho took his place among the wit- 
 nesses. 
 
 It was Sir Lionel Dudleigh, who had come 
 hero to giv(^ what testimony he could about j 
 his son. His face v ^s as serene as usual; : 
 there was no sadness upon it, such as might ; 
 have been expected in the aspect of a father 
 so terril)ly bereaved; but the broad content 
 and placid bonhomie appeared to be invin- 
 cible. 
 
 The proceedings of this day were begun 
 by an announcement on the part of the 
 counsel for the defense, which fell like a 
 thunder- clap upon the court. Sir Lionel 
 started, and all in the court involuntarily 
 stretched forward their heads as though to 
 SCO better the approach of the astonishing 
 occurrence which had been announced. 
 
 Tho announcement was simply this, that 
 any further proceedings were useless, since 
 the missing man himself had been found, 
 and was to be produced forthwith. There 
 had been no murder, and the body that had 
 been found must bo that of some person un- 
 known. 
 
 Shortly after a group entered the hall. 
 
 First came Frederick Dalton, known to 
 the court as " John Wiggins." He still bore 
 traces of his recen' illness, and, indeed, was 
 not lit to be out of his bed, but he had 
 dragged himself here to be present at this 
 momentous scene. Ho wjvs terribly emaci- 
 ated, and moved with difl9culty, supported 
 by Mrs. Dunbar, who herself showed marks 
 
 of suifering and exhaustion almost cqnal to 
 his. 
 
 But after these came another, upon whom 
 all eyes were fastened, and even Edith's gaze 
 was drawn away from her father, to whom 
 she had longed to lly so as to sustain his 
 dear form, and tixed upon this new-comer. 
 
 Dudleigh ! Ti») one whom she had known 
 as Mowbray. Dudleigh! 
 
 Yes, there he stood. 
 
 Edith's eyes were fixed upon him in speech- 
 less unui/.enuuit. 
 
 It was Dudleigh, and yet it seemed as 
 though it could not be Dudleigh. 
 
 Thern was that form and there was that 
 face which had haunted her tor so long a 
 time, and had been associated with so many 
 dark and teiTible memories — the form and 
 the face which were so hateful, w liich never 
 were absent from her thoughts, and intruded 
 oven upon her dreams. 
 
 Yet upon that face there was now some- 
 thing which was not repulsive even to hor. 
 It was a noble, spiritual face. Dudleigh's 
 features were renuirkablo for their faultless 
 outline and synmietry, and now the expres- 
 sion was in perfect keeping with the beauty 
 of physical form, for tho old hardness had 
 departed, and the deep stamp of sensuality 
 and selfishness was gone, and the sinister 
 look which had once marred those features 
 could be traced there no more. 
 
 It was thinner than the face which Edith 
 remembered, and it seemed to her as if it 
 had been worn down by some illness. If 
 so, it must have been the same cause which 
 had imparted to those features the refine- 
 ment and high bearing which were now vis- 
 ible there. There was tho same broad brow 
 covered with its clustering locks, the same 
 penetrating eyes, the same square, strong 
 chin, the same firm, resolute mouth, but here 
 it was as though a finer touch had added 
 a subtle grace to all these; for about that 
 mouth there lingered the traces of gentleness 
 and kindliness, like tho remnant of sweet 
 smiles; tho glanco of tho eyo was warmer 
 and more human ; there was also an air of 
 melancholy, and over all a grandeur of bear- 
 ing which spoke of high breeding and con- 
 scious dignity. 
 
 This nnvn, with his earnest and even mel- 
 tancholy face and lofty bearing, did not seem 
 like one who could have plotted so treach- 
 erously against a helpless girl. His aspect 
 filled Edith with something akin to awe, and 
 produced a profound impression upon the 
 spectators. They forgot the hatred which 
 they had begun to feel against Dudleigh in 
 the living i)resence of the object of their 
 h.ate, and looked in silence first at Edith, 
 then at the new-comer, wondering why it 
 was that between such as these there could 
 be any thing less than mutual aSection. 
 yiiey thought they could understand now 
 why she should choose him as a husband. 
 
 MM.Miium'i 111 r ititirii **fc'iMrii 
 
THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 129 
 
 They could not nndcrstand liow such a hus- 
 band Cduld become llilteflll. 
 
 lu all the cmirt but ono object seemed tr 
 attract Du<lk'inli, and that was Edith. H!m 
 eyes had wandered about at first, and finaUy 
 had rested on her. With a glance oi j ro- 
 foundest and most jjentle H.vnii>athy hiihuk- 
 ed at her, convttyin^ in that one look enough 
 to tlisann even her reHeutinent. .She under- 
 stood that look, and felt it, and as she look- 
 ed at him in return she was tilled with won- 
 der. 
 
 Could such thiufjs bo T she thonj^ht. Was 
 this the man who had caused her so much 
 surt'ering, who had lilasted and blighted the 
 holies of her lifef or, rather, had the man 
 who had so wronged her been transformed 
 to this T Impossible! As well might a tiend 
 become changed to an archangel. And yet 
 here ho was. Evidently this was Dudleigh. 
 Slui looked at him in speechless bewilder- 
 ment. 
 
 The proceedings of the court went on, and 
 Dudleigh soon explained his disappearance. 
 As he spoke his voice confirnuid the fact that 
 he was Dudleigh; but Edith listened to it 
 with the same feelings whi(di had been ex- 
 cited by Ids face. It was the same voice, 
 yet not the same ; it was the voice of Dud- 
 leigh, but the ciddness and the mockery of 
 its intonations were not there. Could he 
 have been playing a dovilV part all along, 
 and was he now coming out in his true char- 
 acter, or was this a false part ? No ; what- 
 ever else was false, this was not — that ex- 
 pression of face, that glance of the eye, tho.se 
 intonations, could never be feigned. So Edith 
 thought as she listened. 
 
 Dudleigh's explanation was a simple one. 
 He had not been very happy at Dalton Hsill, 
 and had concluded to go away that night 
 for a tour on the Continent. He had left so 
 .'18 to get the early morning train, and had 
 traveled on without stopping until he reach- 
 «'d Palermo, from which he had gone to dif- 
 ferent places in the interior of Sicily, which 
 he mentioned. Ho had climbed over the 
 gate, because he was in too nnich of a hurry 
 to wfike the porter. He had left his valise, 
 as he intended to walk. He had, of course, 
 left his dog at Dalton, because lie couldn't 
 take him to the Continent. He had forgot- 
 ten Ills watch, for the reason that he had slept 
 longer than he intended, and dressed and 
 went ofi' in a great hurry. The pocket-book 
 Avhich he left was of no importance — con- 
 tained principally memoranda, of no use to 
 any but him.self. He had no idea there would 
 have been such a row, or he would not have 
 gone in such a hurry. He had heard of this 
 for the first time in Sicily, and would have 
 come at once, but, unfortunately, he had an 
 attack of fever, and could not return before. 
 
 Nothing could have been more natural 
 and frank than Dudleigh's statement. A 
 few (juestious were asked, merely to satisfy 
 
 public curiosity. Every ono thought that a 
 trip to Hi(;ily was a natural enough thing for 
 one who was on such bad terms with his 
 wife, ami the suddenness of his resolution 
 to go there was sutlicient to account for the 
 disordt'r in which he had left his room. 
 
 Itut all this tinu; there was ono in that 
 court who looked upon the new-conu^r with 
 far diilerent feelings than thueo which any 
 other had. 
 
 This was Sir Lionel Dudleigh. 
 
 He had heard the remark of the counsel 
 that Dudleigh had returned, and looked to- 
 ward the door as he entered with a smile on 
 his face. As ho saw Dudleigh enter ho start- 
 ed. Then his face tinned ghastly white, and 
 his jaw fell. He clntcheil the railing in front 
 of him with both hands, and seemed fasci- 
 nated by the sight. 
 
 Near him stood Mrs. Dnnbar, and Dalton 
 leaned on her. Hoth of these looked fixedly 
 at Sir Lionel, and noticed his emotion. 
 
 At the sound of Dudleigh's voice Sir Lio- 
 nel's emotion increased. He breathed heav- 
 ily. His face turned purple. His knuekles 
 turned white as he grasped the railing. Sud- 
 denly, in the midst of Dudleigh's remarks, he 
 started to liis feet, an«l seemed about to say 
 something. Innuediately in front of him 
 were Dalton and Mrs. Dunbar. At that in- 
 stant, as he rose, Mrs. Dunbar laid her hand 
 on his arm. 
 
 He looked at her with astonishment. He 
 had not seen her before. She fixed her sol- 
 enni eyes on him — those eyes to which had 
 come a gloom more profound, and a sadness 
 deeper than before. Hut Sir Lionel stared 
 at her without recognition, and impatiently 
 tried to shake off her hand. 
 
 " Who are you ?" he said, suddenly, in a 
 trend)liiig voice — for there was something 
 in this woman's face that suggested startling 
 thoughts. 
 
 Mrs. Dunbar drew nearer to him, and in a 
 whisjier that thriih'd through every fibre of 
 Sir Lionel's frinue, hissed in his ear, 
 
 "/ am yuitr wife — and here ii my bivtlur 
 Fmhrickr 
 
 Over Sir Lionel's face there came a flash 
 of horror, sudden, sharp, and overwhelming. 
 He staggered and shrank back. 
 
 *' Claudino!" he murmured, in a stilled 
 voice. 
 
 " Sit down," whispered Lady Dudleigh — 
 now no longer Mrs. Dunbar — ''sit down, or 
 you shall have to change places with Fred- 
 erick's daughter." 
 
 Sir Lionel swayed backward and forward, 
 and apjieared not to hear her. And now his 
 eyes wandered to Dalton, who stood gazing 
 scdemnly at him, and then to Dudleigh, who 
 was still speaking. 
 
 " Who is that ?" ho ga.sped. 
 
 " Your son !'' said Lady Dudleigh. 
 
 At this instant Dudleigh finished. Sir 
 Lionel gave a terrible groan, and flung uji 
 
 ' 
 
 1 
 
 
 
130 
 
 THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 
 '•UK I.UUKED AT HEK WITH AS10M8IIMENT." 
 
 I'is arms wildly. Tlio next instant ho foil 
 litavily fiirwanl, and was caii<;lit in tlio arms 
 of Ills wife. A crowd (low to his assistanco, 
 and lie was < arriod out of court, followed by 
 Lady IJudloij^li. 
 
 Thcro was a uninnur of uuivorsul sympa- 
 thy. 
 
 '' Poor Sir Lionel ! Ho has boon heart- 
 Itrokoii, and the joy of his sou's safety is too 
 much." 
 
 After this the proceedings soon camo to 
 an end. 
 
 Edith was free! 
 
 Dalton tried to got to her, but in his woak- 
 lU'sa sank u]>on a seat, and looked imploring- 
 ly at his daughter. Seeing this, Dudleigli 
 sjirang to his assistaneo, and gave his arm. 
 Loaning hiiavily ui)on this, Dalton walked 
 toward Edith, who was already striving to 
 roi'ch him, and, with a low cry, caught her 
 in his arms. 
 
 Sir Lionel had boon taken to the inn, 
 whoro Lady Dudloigh waited on him. Aft- 
 er some tinui ho recovered his senses, and 
 began to rally raiiitlly. It had been feared 
 that it was apoplexy, but, fortunately for the 
 
 sutrerer, it tui'ued out to bo nothing so seri- 
 ous as that. After this Lady Dudloigh was 
 left alone with her hnsban<l. 
 
 Ton years of separation lay betwoeu those 
 two — a separation nndcrtakon from causes 
 that still existed to iilionato them bi-yond 
 the hope of reconciliation. Yot tliero w.as 
 nuu'h to be said; and Lady Dndlcigh had 
 before her a dark and solemn jtnrposo. 
 
 (In the next day Sir Lioiud was able to 
 drive out. Lady Dudloigh soeujed to hav(( 
 oonstitutod herself his guardian. Sir Lionel's 
 face aiul expression had changed. The easy, 
 careless boidiomio, tho placid content, the 
 soroiu' joyousiu'ss, that had once character- 
 ized him, wore goiu'. In tho i))u:o of these 
 there camo an anxious, watchful, troubled 
 look -tho look of a mind ill at e.a.se— tho 
 furtive glaiu'o, tho doiulcd brow, 't was as 
 though in tiiis uu'oting Latly Dudloigh had 
 comminiicated to her husband a ]>art of that 
 ''Xi>ression which prevailed in her own fact\ 
 
 Sir Lionel seonu>d like a prison(>r who is 
 attended by an over-vigilant guard — one 
 who watches all his movements, and fnuu 
 whom ho can not escape. As ho rolled along 
 
THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 131 
 
 in his carriage, the Black Caro of the poet 
 Reeuii'd seated beside him iu the persou of 
 Lady Dudk'if!;h. 
 
 Wliile Sir Lionel thus recovered from tlie 
 sudden shock which he hud felt, there was 
 another who had endured a loufjer and se- 
 verer course of suft'eriug, and wlio had ral- 
 lied for a moment when his presence wiis re- 
 (|uired, but only to sink back into a relapse 
 •worse than the illness from which he had 
 begun to recover. Tliis was Frederick Ual- 
 tou, who had crawled from his bed twice — - 
 once to his daughter's prison, and once to 
 the scene of her trial. But the exertion 
 \/a8 too much, and the agitation of feel- 
 ing to which he had been subject had over- 
 whelmed him. Leaning heavily on Dud- 
 leigh, and also on P^dith, he was taken by 
 these two to his carriage, ami thence to the 
 inn; but here he could walk no further. It 
 was Dudleigh who had to carry him to his 
 room and lay him on his bed — and Dudleigli, 
 too, who would intrust to no other person 
 the task of putting his i)rostrate form in 
 thiit bed. Dudleigli's own father was lying 
 in the same house, but at that moment, 
 whatever were his motives, Dalton seemed 
 to have stronger claims on his lilial duty, 
 and Edith had to wait till this unlooktHl-for 
 uurso had tenderly placed her falhta- in his 
 bed. 
 
 The doctor, who had found Sir Lionel's 
 ease so trilling, shook his head seriously over 
 Frederick Dultoii. Dudleigh took np his 
 station in that room, and cared for the pa- 
 tient like a son. The day i)assed, and the 
 niglit, and tlie next morning, luit Dalton 
 grew no better. It was a strange stu])or 
 which aifected liim, not like paralysis, but 
 arising rather lVon> exhaustion, or some af- 
 fection of the brain. The doctor called it 
 e(uigestion. He lay iu a kind of doze, with- 
 out sense and without sutfering, swallowing 
 any food or medicine that miglit l)e olb-red, 
 but never noticing any tiling, and never an- 
 swering any ([uestions. His eyes were elost'd 
 at all times, aiul in that stupor he seemed to 
 be ill a state of living death. 
 
 Etlith's grief was )n'ot'oiind ; but in the 
 mitlst of it she could not helji feeling won- 
 der at tlie unexpected jiart which Dudleigh 
 was perl'oMuing. Who was he tluit he should 
 lake so large a part in the care of her fathcrf 
 Yet so it was ; and Dudleigh Ht^iined to think 
 of iiothingand sei^ nothing but thatold man's 
 wasted and ju'ostrate form. 
 
 F(U- the pres(Mit, at least, de])arture frmii 
 the iiiii was of course out of the (juestiiui. 
 Fdith's position was a very ilistressing one. 
 livery feeling (d' her heart impelled lier to | 
 be present at her father's bedsidis but Dud- 
 leigh was present at that same bedside ; and 
 bow e(uil(l she aNsociatu herself with him 
 even thi>reT At lirst she would enter the 
 room, and sit (|uietly by Ihm' father's bedside, 
 and on such oceasious DuiUeigli would re- 
 
 spectfully withdraw; but this was unpleas- 
 ant, and she hardly knew what to do. 
 
 Two or three days thus passed, and on the 
 third Dudleigh requested an interview, to 
 iusk her, as he said, something about "Mr. 
 Wiggins" — for this was the name by which 
 Mr. Dalton still was called. This request 
 Edith could not refuse. 
 
 Dudleigh entered with an air of profound 
 resjiect. 
 
 " Miss Dalton," said he, laying emi)hasis 
 on that name, " nothing would induce me to 
 intrude upon yon but my anxiety about your 
 father. Deep as your atl'ection for him may 
 be, it can hardly bo greater than mine. I 
 would gladly lay down my life for him. At 
 the same time, I understand your feelings, 
 and this is what I wish to speak about. I 
 would give up my place at his bedside al- 
 together if you wished it, and you should 
 not be troubled by my presenct^; but I see 
 that you are not strong enough to be sole 
 nurse, or to undertake the work that would 
 be re(|uired of you, ami that your own atl'ee- 
 tiou for him would impose upon you. You 
 yourself are not strong, and you must take 
 care of yourself for his sake. I will not, 
 therefore, give np to yon all the care (d'yoiir 
 father, but I will absent myself during the 
 afternoon, and you will then have exclusive 
 care of him." 
 
 Edith bowed without a word, and Dud- 
 leigh withdrew. 
 
 This arraiig.'ment was kejit up, and Edith 
 scarcely saw Dudleigh at all. She knew, 
 however, that his care for her father was 
 incessant and uninterrupted. Every thing 
 that could possibly be nee<led was supplied ; 
 every luxury or delicacy that could be 
 thought of was ol)taine(l ; and not (uily wt-rti 
 Lomhui ])hysicians constantly coming uj), 
 but from the notes whi< h lay around, she 
 judged that Duilleigh kept up a constant 
 correspoudence with them about this case. 
 
 CHAPTER XLIII. 
 
 SIU UONKI, A.M> HIS " KKKI'EU." 
 
 SiK liioNi:!,. who hatl come to this jilace 
 with the face that indieiited a iiiind at peace, 
 thus found himself suildenly coiilVoiited by 
 a grim phanttuii, the aspect of which strucU 
 terror to his heiirt. That phantom was 
 drawn up from a past which he usually did 
 not care to remember. Now, however, Iw 
 could not forget It. There was one by his 
 side to remind him of it always — one who 
 had become his guard, his Jailer- in fact, his 
 keeper -a word which signilies better than 
 any other the attitude which was assiiined 
 by Lady Dudleigh. For the feeling which 
 Sir Lionel had toward her was precisely like 
 that which the lunatic has toward his keep- 
 er, the feeling that this one is watching 
 
132 
 
 THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 night and clay, and never relaxes the terri- 
 ble stare of those vigilant eyes. There are 
 those who on being thus watched would 
 grow mad ; and Sir Lionel had this in addi- 
 tion to his other terrors — this climax of them 
 
 He took one glance, and then a deep oath 
 escaped him. 
 
 In the carriage was Lady Dudleigh. 
 
 How she could have detected his flight ho 
 could not imagine, nor did he now care. She 
 
 all, that upon him there was always the mad- had detected it, and had followed at once to 
 dening glare of his " keeper's" eyes. Terri- [ circumvent him. She must have gone down 
 ble eyes were they to him, most terrible — 1 the front stairs, out of the iVont-door, and 
 eyes which he dared not encounter. They \ reached the carriage before him. And there 
 were the eyes of his wife — a woman most in- | she was ! Those hateful eyes were fixed on 
 jured ; and her gaze reminded him always him — he felt the horrid stan — ho cowered 
 of a past full of horror. That gaze he could beneath it. He walked tow.nrd her. 
 
 " I thought I would go oul too," said she. 
 
 Sir Lionel said not a word. Ho felt too 
 
 not encounter. He knew without looking 
 at it what it meant. He felt it on him. 
 There were times when it made his flesh ! much ashamed to turn back now, and was 
 crawl, nor could he venture to face it. \ too politic to allow her to see any open signs 
 
 A few days of this reduced him to a state ' that he was in full tlight; so he quietly got 
 
 of abject misery. He began to fear that ho 
 was really growing mad. In that case ho 
 would bo a fit subject for a " keeper." He 
 longed with unutterable longing to throw 
 oft' this terrible restraint; but he could not 
 and dared not. That woman, that " keep- 
 er," wielded over him a power which he 
 knew and felt, and dared not defy. It was 
 the power that arises from the knowledge 
 of secrets of life and death, and her knowl- 
 edge placed his life in her hands. 
 
 This woman was inflexible and inoxora- 
 
 into the carriage, and took his seat by her 
 side. 
 
 Whipping up the horses, he drove thoni 
 at a headlong rate of speed out through the 
 streets into the country. His whole soul 
 was full of mad fury. Kage and disappoint- 
 ment together excited his brain to madness; 
 and the fierce rush of the impetuous sti^eds 
 was in accordance with the excitement of 
 his mind. At length the horses themselves 
 grew fatigued, and slackened their pace. 
 Sir Lionel still tried to iirge them forward, 
 
 ble. She had suflered so much that she had but in vain, and at last he flung down the 
 no pity for his present suft'erings. These whip with a curse. 
 
 "I'll not stand this any longer!" ]w cried, 
 vehemently, addressing his " keeper," but 
 not looking at her. 
 "Whatr said she. 
 could remember the time when she was ai "Tiiis stylo of being dogged and tracked 
 fair and gentle young girl, with her will all ' and watched." 
 subject to his ; then a loving bride with no j " You allude to me, I suppose," said Lady 
 
 seemed trivial to her. She showed a grand, 
 strong, self-sufticieut nature, which nuade 
 her his superior, and put her above the reach 
 of any influences that he might bring. He j 
 
 thought apart from him ; b it now years of 
 suft'ering and self-disciplimj had transform- 
 ed her to this, and she came back to him an 
 inexorable Fate, an avenging Nemesis. 
 
 Yet Sir Lionel did not give up all hope. 
 He could not drive her away. He could not 
 
 Dudleigh. "At any rate, you must allow 
 that it is better to lie tracked, as you call it, 
 by me, than by the ofticers of the law." 
 
 " I don't car(>," growled Sir Lionel, gath- 
 ering courage. " I'll not stand this style of 
 thing any longer. I'll not let them have it 
 
 fly away from her, for her watch was too ' all their own wiiy." 
 
 vigilant; but he hoped for some elianre of "1 don't see what you can do," said Lady 
 
 secret flight in whicli, if he oiue escajied, he Dudleigh, (juietly. 
 
 might Hud his way to the Continent. With | "Do!" cried Sir Lionel, in a still more 
 
 Honuifhing of that cunning which character- ' violent tone — "do! I'll tell you what I'll 
 
 izes the insane, and which, jierhajis, is born ' do. I'll tight it out." 
 
 of the presence of a "keeper," Sir Li(uiel 
 watched his ojiportunity, and one day near- 
 ly succeeded in etVecting his desire. 
 
 That day Lady Dudleigh was in her broth- 
 er's room. Sir Lionel had waited for tills, 
 and had made his iirejiarations. When she 
 
 "Fight!" 
 
 " Yes," cried Sir Lionel, with an oath. 
 " Every one of you — every one. Every one 
 without a single exception. Oil, you needn't 
 think tiiiit I'm afraid. I've thought it all 
 over. You're all under my power. Yes — 
 
 had been gone for a few minutes, he stole ha, ha, ha! that's it. I'vt* said if, and I 
 softly out of his room, jiassed stealthily , say what I mean. Y(ui thought that I was 
 down the back stairs of the iuu, and going under .voiir power. Your power! Ha, Ini, 
 out of the back-door, reached the rear of the I ha! That's goo<l. Why, you're all under 
 house. Here there wjis a yard, and a gate [ mine — every one of you." 
 that led out to a road at the end of the I Sir Lionel spoke wihlly and vehemently, 
 liousc. A carriage had been in waiting here 1 in that tone of fevtMish excitement which 
 for about an hour. Sir Lionel hurrit'd across I nuirks a madman. It may have been the 
 the yard, passed through the gate, and looked ' inlluenc(> of his " keeper," or it may have 
 for the carriage, 1 been the dawniugs of actual iusunity. 
 
THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 133 
 
 As for Lady Dndleigli, slio did not lose 
 oue particle of her cold - bloodcduess. She 
 siuiplv said, iu the same toue, 
 
 " How f" 
 
 "Howt Ha, ha! Do you think I'm go- 
 ing to tell you T That's my secret. But stop. 
 Yes; I don't care. I'd just as soon tell as 
 not. You can't escape, not one of you, un- 
 less yon all fly at once to the Continent, or 
 to America, or, better yet, back to Botanv 
 Bay. There ym'll bo safe. F' flyllly! 
 or else," he suddenly added, iu .«, gloomy 
 tone, "you'll all die on the gallows! every 
 one of yon, on the gallows! Ha, lia, ha! 
 swinging on the gallows! the beautiful gal- 
 lows!" 
 
 Lady Dudleigh disregarded the wildness 
 of his tone, or perhaps she cnose to take 
 advantage of it, thinking that in his excite- 
 ment he might disclose his thoughts the 
 more unguardedly. 
 
 "You can do nothing," she said. 
 
 "Can't I, though?" retorted Sir Lionel. 
 " You wait. First, there's Dalton." 
 
 "What can you do with him ?" 
 
 " Arrest him," said Sir Lionel. " What is 
 hoT An outlaw ! An escaped convict! He 
 lives under an assumed name. He must go 
 back to Botany Bay — that is, if he isn't 
 lianged. And then there's that pale-fa«'ed 
 devil of a daughter with her terrible eyes." 
 He paused. 
 
 " What can you do to hcrf" 
 
 "Her! Arrest her too," cried Sir Lionel. 
 " She nnirdered my boy — my son — my Leon. 
 She must be hanged. You shall not save 
 lier by this trick. Xo! she must be hanged, 
 like her cursed father." 
 
 A shudder passed tiirough Lady Dudleigh. 
 
 Sir Lionel did not notice it. He was too 
 nuich taken up with his own vengeful 
 thoughts. 
 
 " Yes," said he, " and tliere's that scoun- 
 drel Reginald." 
 
 "Keginald!"' cried Lady Dudleigh, in a 
 stern voice. "Why do you mention himf 
 
 "Oh, In^'s one of tile same gang," cried Sir 
 Lionel. " He's jdaying their giinie. He is 
 siding against his father, as he always did, 
 and with his brother's nninlerers. He shall 
 not escai>e. ] will avenge Leon's di'ath on 
 all of you ; and as l\>r him. he shall sutler!" 
 
 It was with a strong etVort that Lady Dud- 
 leigh reslraine<l herself. But she succeeded 
 in doing so, ami said, simplv, as before, 
 
 " How r 
 
 "Arrest him!" cried Sir Lionel. " Arrest 
 him too. He is guilty of ])eriury ; and if 
 ht« doesn't hang for it, he'll go back again to 
 Botany Hay with that scoundrel with whom 
 lie si<les against nu'— his own father— and 
 against his brother." 
 
 "Are there any more?" oskod Ludy Dud- 
 leigh, as Sir Lionel ended, 
 
 "MoH' ! Vcs," he said. 
 
 " Who r" 
 
 " You !" shouted Sir Lionel, with a voice 
 of indescribable hate and ferocity. He turn- 
 ed as he spoke, aud stared at her. His wild 
 eyes, however, met the calm, cold, steady 
 glance of those of his " keeper," and they fell 
 before it. He seized the whii> and began to 
 lash the horses, crying as he did so, " You ! 
 yes, you ! you ! most of all !" 
 
 " What can you do to mo ?" asked Lady 
 Dudleigh. 
 
 I " You T Arrest you." 
 " What have I done !" 
 I " You ! You have done every thing. You 
 have aided and abetted the escape of an out- 
 law. You have assisted him in his nefari- 
 ous occupation of Dalton Hall. You have 
 aided and abetted him in the imprisonment 
 of Dalton's brat. You have aided and abetted 
 him in the murder of my boy Leon. You 
 have—" 
 
 "Stop!" cried Lady Dudleigh, in a stern, 
 commanding voice. " You have been a vil- 
 lain always, but you have never been sti 
 outspoken. Who are yon ? Do you know 
 what liapi)ened ten years ago ?" 
 
 "What?" asked Sir Lionel. "Do you 
 mean Dalton's forgery, aud hisjussassinatiou 
 of that— that banker fellow ?" 
 j Liuly Dudleigh smiled grimly. 
 I "I am glad that you sai<l that," said she. 
 j " You remove n»y last scruple. My brother's 
 wrongs have well-nigh maddened me ; but 
 I have hesitated to bear witness against my 
 I husband, aud the father of my children. I 
 I shall remember this, and it will sustain me 
 when I bear my witness against you in a 
 court of law." 
 
 I "Mef" said Sir Lionel. "Me? Wit- 
 ness against me? You can not. No oue will 
 believe you." 
 
 " It will not bo only your wift>," said she, 
 "though that will Ix; something, but your 
 own self, with your own hand." 
 " What do you mean ?" 
 " I mean what you know very well — your 
 letter which you wrote to Frederick, inclos- 
 ing your forged check." 
 
 1 "1 never forged a check, and I never 
 ' wrote a letter inclosing one!" cried Sir Li- 
 onel. "Dalton forged that letter himself, 
 I if there is such a letter. He was an jiccmhu- 
 I ])lished forger, and has sulVered for it." 
 
 " The letter is your own," said La<ly Dud- 
 leigh, "aud I can swear to it.'' 
 
 "No one will believe you," cried Sir Li- 
 onel. "You shall be arrested for perjury." 
 Lady Dudleigh gave another grim smile, 
 and then she added, "There is that Multtiie 
 croKs. Yon forget that." 
 
 "What Maltese cross?" said Sir Liiuiel. 
 "I never had one. That wasn't mine; it 
 was Dalton's." 
 
 " Hut 1 can swear in a court of law," said 
 La<ly Dudleigh, "th.it this Maltese cross was 
 yoiiiH, and that it was given to you by me as 
 a birthday gift." 
 
 Hi 
 
134 
 
 THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 " No one will believe you !" cried Sir Li- 
 onel ; " no one will believe yon!" 
 
 "Why not? Will they refuse the oath 
 of Lady Dudleigh f" 
 
 " I can show them that you are insane," 
 said Sir Lionel, with a chuckle at the idea, 
 which seemed to him like a sudden inspira- 
 tion. 
 
 " You will not bo able to show that Regi- 
 nald is insane," said she. 
 
 "Kfginaldr 
 
 " Yes, Koginald," repeated Lady Dudleigh. 
 " Reginald knows that Maltese cross, and 
 knows when I gave it to you. H(! too will 
 be ready to swear to that in a court of law 
 whenever I tell liim that he may do so." 
 
 " Reginald ?" said Sir Lionel, in a gloomy 
 A'oice. " Why, he was — a child then." 
 
 " He was sixteen years old," said Lady 
 Dudleigh. 
 
 This mention of Reginald seemed to crush 
 Sir Lionel. He was silent for a long time. 
 Evidently he had not been prej)ared for this 
 in his plans for what he called a " light." 
 He sat in moody silence therefore. Once or 
 twice he stole a furtive glance at her, and 
 threw upon her a look which she did not 
 see. It was a look full of hate and malig- 
 nancy, while at the same time there was 
 an expression of satisfaction in his face, as 
 thongh he had conceived some new plan, 
 which he intended to keep a secret all to 
 himself. 
 
 CHAPTER XLIV. 
 
 LADY DUDLEIUH'S DKCISION. 
 
 During the remainder of that drive noth- 
 ing was said by either. Sir Lionel ha<l his 
 own thoughts, which, whatever they were, 
 appeared to give him a certain satisfaction, 
 and his brow was more unclouded when they 
 reached the inn than it had been ever since 
 tlui day of the trial. Evidently the new de- 
 sign which he had conceived, and which re- 
 nuiined unuttered in his mind, was very sat- 
 isfactory to him. 
 
 That evening lie himself began the con- 
 versation with Lady Dudl(?igh,a tiling wlii<di 
 he had not before done. 
 
 "It's all very well," said he, "for you to 
 carry on your own ]ilans. You may carrj' 
 them on and welcome. I won't prevent 
 yon ; in fact, I can't. It's no usti to deny it ; 
 I'm in your power. You're determined to 
 crush nie, and I must be crushed, I suppose. 
 You are going to show to the world the 
 Ktrange spectacle of a wii'e and a son rising 
 up against a husband ami fatlier, and sw(>ar- 
 ing his life away. You will lead on, and 
 Reginald will follow. This is the educa- 
 tion that you have given him — it is to end 
 ill ]>arricide. Very well; I must submit. 
 Wife, slay your husband! mother, lead your 
 son to piuricide! Of course you comfort 
 
 your conscience with the plea that yon are 
 doing justice. In the French Revolution 
 there were wives who denounced their hus- 
 bands, and sons who denounced their fathers, 
 in the name of ' humanity,' and for the good 
 of the republic. So go on. See that justice 
 be done. Come on yourself to assassinate 
 your husband, and bring on your jiarricido! 
 Take sides with those Avho have murdered 
 your son — the son whom you bore to me, 
 and once loved! Unsex yourself, and be- 
 come a Fury ! It is useless for me to make 
 resistance, I suppose; and yet, woman! wife! 
 mother! let me tell you that on the day 
 when you attempt to do these things, and 
 when your son stands by your side to help 
 you, there will go up a cry of horror against 
 you from outraged linmanity !" 
 
 At this Lady Dndl(;igh looked at him, 
 who, as usual, averted his eyes; but siie 
 made no reply. 
 
 "Ibing him on!" said Sir Lionel — "your 
 son — my son — the iiarricide ! Do your 
 worst. But at the same time allow me to 
 infoi-m yon, in the mildest manner in the 
 Avorld, that if I am doomed, there is no rea- 
 son why I should go mad in this infernal 
 hole. What is more, I do not intend to 
 stay here one single day longer. I'm not 
 going to run away. That is imiio-ssible ; 
 yon keep too sharp a look-out altogether. 
 I'm simply going away from this place of 
 horrors, and I rather think I'll go home. I'll 
 go home — yes, home. Home is the place for 
 me — Dudleigh Manor, where I first took you, 
 my tnie wift; — that is the place for me to be 
 in when you come to nw, you and your son, 
 to hand me ovt^r, .Jndas-like, to death. Yes, 
 I'm going home, and if you choose to accom- 
 pany me, w by, all that I can say is, I'll have 
 to bear it." 
 
 "I'll go," said Lady Dudleigh, laconically. 
 "Oh, of course," said Sir Lionel, "quite a 
 true wife ; like Ruth and Naomi. Whither 
 thou goest, I will go. Ycni see, I'm up in 
 my Bible. Well, as I said, I can not ])re- 
 vent yon, and I siippitse there is no need for 
 me to tell you to get ready." 
 
 Whetlier under thes(\ bitter taunts Lady 
 DiiiUeigh writhed or not did not at all ap- 
 I pear. She seemed as <!ool and calm as ever. 
 ' Perhaps she li;id so schooled her nature that 
 she was able to repress all outward signs of 
 emotion, or perhaps she had undergone so 
 much that a taunt could h.nve no sting for 
 I her, or jierhaps slit^ had already contemidated 
 I and familiarized herself with all Ihese jjossi- 
 ! ble views of her conduct to such an extent 
 that the mention of tiiem created no emo- 
 tion. At any rate, whatever she felt, Sir 
 ' Lionel saw notliing. 
 
 I Having discharged this shot, Sir Lionel 
 1 went to his desk, and taking <Mit writing 
 , materials, began to write a letter. He wrote 
 I rajtidly, and once or twice glanced furtively 
 i at Lady Dudleigii, as though he wivs fearful 
 
 tbJ 
 thJ 
 lei] 
 no] 
 at 
 
 fo1(k 
 
 iinil 
 
 isfiil 
 
 lei<. 
 
 trii4 
 
 by 
 
THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 135 
 
 tliat she might overlook his writiiig. But 
 there was no danger of that. Lady Diid- 
 Iiiigli did not move from her place. She did 
 not seem to he aware that he was writing 
 at all. 
 
 At length Sir Lionel finished, and then he 
 folded, sealed, and addressed the letter. He 
 finished this task with a face of supreme sat- 
 isfaction, and stole a look toward Lady Dud- 
 leigh, in which there was a certain cnnning 
 triumph very visible, though it was not seen 
 by the one at whom it was directed. 
 
 "And now," said he, waving the letter 
 somewhat ostentationsly, and speaking in a 
 formal tone, in which tliero was an evident 
 sneer — '• and now. Lady Dudleigh, I have 
 the honor to inform yon that I intend to go 
 out and post this letter. May I have the 
 honor of your company as far as the post- 
 office, and back ?" 
 
 Lady Dudleigh rose in silence, and hastily 
 throwing on her things, prepared to follow 
 him. Sir Lionel waited with mocking po- 
 liteness, opened the door for her to pass out 
 first, and then in company with her went to 
 the jmst-offlce, where he mailed the letter, 
 and returned with the smile of satisfacti(m 
 still upon his face. 
 
 Early on the next morning Lady Dudleigh 
 saw her son. He had watched all tliat niglit 
 by Dalton's bedside, and seemed pale and 
 exhausted, 
 
 "Keginald," said Lady Dudleigh, "Sir 
 Lionel is going away." 
 
 " Going away ?" repeated Reginald, ab- 
 sently. 
 
 "Yes; back to Dudleigh Manor." 
 
 Reginald looked in([niringly at his moth- 
 er, but said nothing. 
 
 "I intend," said Lady Dudleigh, "to go 
 with him." 
 
 "Yonf 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 Reginald looked at her mournfully. 
 
 " Have you done any thing with him yet V 
 lie asked. 
 
 Lady DufUeigh shook her head. 
 
 " Do you expect to do any thing ?" 
 
 " I do." 
 
 " I'm afraid yon will be disai)i)ointed." 
 
 "I hope not. I have at least gained a 
 bold upon )iiin,an(l I have certainly worked 
 upon his fears. If I remain willi liiin now I 
 hope in time to extort from him that <dnfes- 
 sion which will save us all from an addition- 
 al sorrow ; one perhaps as terrible as any we 
 Inive ever known, if not tn'cn more so." 
 
 "Confession!" repeat«'d Reginald. "How 
 is that possible if He will never confess — 
 inner. If he has remained silent so long, 
 and has not been moved by the thought of 
 all tliat he has done, what possible tiling can 
 move him ? Notliing but the actual jtresence 
 of the law. Nothing but force." 
 
 "Well," said Lady Dudleigh, " it ia worth 
 trying — the other alternative is too terrible 
 
 jnst yet. I hope to work upon his fears. I 
 hope to persnade him to confess, and fly from 
 the country to some place of safety. Fred- 
 erick must be righted at all Intzards, and I 
 hope to show this so i)lainly to .Sir Lionel 
 thiit he will acquiesce in my projMisal, con- 
 fess all, save Frederick, and then fly to some 
 place where he may be safe. If not, why, 
 then we can try the last resort. But oh, 
 Reginald, do yon not see how terrible that 
 last resort is T — I against my husband, you 
 against your father — both of us bringing 
 him to the gallows! It is only the intolera- 
 ble sense of Frederick's long-sufferings that 
 can make me think of doing so terribh? a 
 thing. But Frederick is even now in dan- 
 ger. He must be saved; and the question 
 is between the innocent and the guilty. I 
 am strong enough to decide ditterently from 
 what I did ten years ago." 
 
 "Oil, I know — I feel it all, mother dear," 
 said Regiiiiild ; " but at the same time I 
 don't like the idea of your going away with 
 him— alone." 
 
 " Why not ?" 
 
 " I don't like the idea of your putting your- 
 self in his power." 
 
 " His power V 
 
 " Yes, in Dudleigh Manor, or any other 
 place. He is desperate. H«* will not shrink 
 from any thing that he thinks may save liim 
 from this danger. You will be his chief dan- 
 ger : he may think of getting rid of it. He is 
 unscrupulous, and would stop at nothing." 
 
 " Oh, as for that, he may be dt>sperate, but 
 what can he possibly do ? Dudleigh Manor 
 is in the world. It is not in soiim remote 
 idace where the master is superior to law. 
 lie can do no more harm there than he can 
 here." 
 
 "The man," said Reginald, "who for all 
 these years has outraged honor and Justice 
 and truth, and lias stifled his own conscience 
 for tlie sake of liis comfort, must by tliis 
 time be familiar with desperate det^ls, and 
 be callable of any criiin\ I am afraid, moth- 
 er dear, for you to trust yourst^lf with him," 
 
 "Reginald," said Lady Dudleigh, "you 
 speak as tjioiigh 1 weni a child or a schoid- 
 girj. Does he s""iii now as though he could 
 harm me, or do I seem to be out! who can 
 easily be jtiit down ? Would you bo afraid 
 to go with him F" 
 
 " I — afraid ' Tliat is the very thing that 
 I wish to pro])ose." 
 
 "But you could not possibly have that 
 influence over him which I have. You might 
 threaten, easily enongli, and<'oine to an open 
 rupture, but that is what I wish to avoid, I 
 wish to firing him to a confession, not so 
 much by <lirect threats as liy various coii- 
 ; straining moral infiiienees," 
 i "Oh, as to that." said Reginald, "I have 
 no doubt that you will do far better than I 
 can; but at the same time I can not get rid 
 of a fear about your safety." 
 
 .1 
 
136 
 
 THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 " And do you really tbiiik, Reginald, that I 
 I would bo less safe than you ! or, from what : 
 you know of me, should you HUjipose that 1 1 
 liave much of thiit woman's weakness about ' 
 lue which might make mo an easy prey to i 
 one who wished to do me harmf ! 
 
 " I know well what you are, mother dear," 
 said Reginald, taking her hand tenderly in i 
 both of his. " You have the tenderness of a 
 woman and the courage of a man ; but still 
 I feel uneasy. At any rate, promise mo one 
 thing. You will let me know what you aro 
 doing." 
 
 " 1 do not promise to write regularly," said 
 Lady Dudleigh, " but I do promise to write 
 the moment that any thing happens worth 
 writing aV)out." 
 
 "And if you aro ill, or in danger?" said 
 Reginald, anxiously. 
 
 " Oh, then, of course I shall write at once. 
 Hut now I nuist go. I shall not see you agaiu 
 for some time. Good-by." 
 
 Lady Dudleigh kissed her son tenderly as 
 she said this, and left him, and Reginald re- 
 turned to his place by Frederick Dalton's 
 bedside. I 
 
 That same day, shortly after this inter- 1 
 view. Sir Lionel and Lady Dudleigh drove 
 away from the inn, en route for Dudleigh | 
 Manor. 
 
 CHAPTER XLV. 
 
 LADY DUDLEIGH IS SHOWN TO HER ROOM. 
 
 After driving for about a mile Sir Lionel 
 and Lady Dndleigh took the train, securing 
 a compartment to thenrselves. 
 
 During this part of the journey Sir Lionel's 
 face lost much of that gloom which of late 
 had pervaded it, and assinned an expres- 
 sion which was less dismal, thongh not 
 ipiite like the old one. The old look was 
 one of serene and i)lacid content, an air of 
 animal comfort, and of easy-going self-in- 
 dulgence ; but now the exju'cssion was more 
 restless and excited. There was a certain 
 knowing look — a leer of triumi)hant <Mni- 
 ning — combined with a tendency to chuckle 
 over some secret purpose which no on*' else 
 knew. Together with this there was inces- 
 sant restlessness ; ho apjieared perpetually 
 on the look-out, as though dreading discov- 
 ery ; and he alternated between «'xultant 
 nods of his head, with knowing winks at 
 vacancy, and sudden sharj) furtive glances 
 at his companion. Changed as Sir Lionel's 
 mood was, it can hardly be said that tht; 
 change was for the better. It would have 
 been obvious even to a more superficial ob- 
 server than that vigilant "keeper" who ac- 
 companied him that Sir Lioiu'l had lost his 
 self-poisi^, aiul was in rather a dangerous 
 way. Lady Du«lleigh must have noticed 
 this; but it made no ditl'erence in her, save 
 that there was perhaps a stonier lustre in 
 
 her eyes as she turned them upon him, and 
 a sliarper vigilance in her attitude. 
 
 In this way they rode on for several 
 hours ; and whatever Sir Lionel's j)lans 
 might have been, they certainly did not in- 
 volve any action during tho journey. Had 
 he been sufficiently violent he might have 
 made an assault upon his companion in tho 
 seclusion of that compartment, and eftectu- 
 ally prevented any trouble ever arising to 
 him from her. He might have done this, 
 and made good his escape in tho confusion 
 of S(mie station. But no such attempt was 
 made ; and so in duo time they reached the 
 place where they were to get out. 
 
 "This is the nearest station to Dudleigh 
 Manor," said Sir Lionel, gayly. " This road 
 has been made since your time." 
 
 Lady Dndleigh said nothing, but looked 
 around. She saw nothing thiit was familiar. 
 A neat wayside station, with the usual plat- 
 form, was nearest ; and beyond this arose 
 trees which concealed the view on one side, 
 while ou the other there were fields and 
 hedges, and ono or two houses in the dis- 
 tance. It was a conunonplace scene, in a 
 level sort of country, and Lady Dudleigh, 
 after ono short survey, thought no more 
 about it. It was just like any other way- 
 sido station. 
 
 A conuuon - looking hack, with a rather 
 ill-dressed driver, was waiting, and toward 
 this Sir Licuiel walked. 
 
 " This," said he, " is tho Dudleigh coach. 
 It isn't so grand an affair as it used to be ; 
 but my nutans have dwindled a good deal 
 since your day, you know, and I have to 
 economize — yes — ha, ha, ha! — economize — 
 queer thing too, isn't it ? Economizing — 
 ha, ha, ha!" 
 
 Sir Lionel's somewhat flighty manner was 
 not at all congenial to Lady Dudleigh, and 
 she treated him as the vigilant " keejier" al- 
 ways treats his flighty prisoner — that is, 
 with silent patience and persistent watch- 
 fulness. 
 
 In a few minutes they were both seated 
 inside the coach, and were driving away. 
 The coach was a gloomy one, with windows 
 only in the doors. The rest was solid wood- 
 work. These windows in the doors were 
 snuill, and when let down were scarcely large 
 enough for one to put his head through. 
 When sifting down it was impossible for 
 Lady Dndleigh to see the road. She could 
 ' see nothing but the tops of the trees, be- 
 tween which tho sky apjteared occasionally. 
 , She saw that she was driving along a road 
 ' which was shaded with trees on both sides; 
 j but more than this she could not see. 
 
 They drove for abiuit an hour at a moder- 
 ate i)ace, and during this time Sir Liomd jtre- 
 served fliat same peculiar demeanor which 
 ' has already been described, while Lady Dud- 
 j leigh maiutained her usual silent watchful- 
 ness. 
 
 V(l 
 leil 
 
 leil 
 
 iy| 
 
 the 
 So(| 
 ThI 
 Sir! 
 
 ty, 
 
 his I 
 
 buti 
 
 cd 
 
 11 
 
 leigj 
 
 tire I 
 
 was I 
 
 thoiJ 
 
 l)laii| 
 
 l>uih 
 
 wen 
 
 door 
 
 Htan( 
 
 and 
 
 dene 
 
THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 137 
 
 At length thoy stopped for a moment. 
 Voices sonnded outHide, and tlu-n Lady Dud- 
 ]{'\'^h saw that she was passing tlirough a 
 gateway. Thiuliiiig that this was Dud- 
 leigh Manor, she made no remark, but calm- 
 ly awaited the time when she should reach 
 the house, Siie did not have to wait long. 
 Sooner than she expected the coach stopped. 
 The driver got down and opened the door. 
 Hir Lionel sprang out with surprising agili- 
 ty, and held out his hand politely to assist 
 his companion. She did not accept his offer, 
 but stepped out without assistance, and look- 
 ed arouiul. 
 
 To her surprise, the place was not Dud- 
 leigh Manor at all, but one which was en- 
 tirely different, and quite unfamiliar. It 
 was a brick house of no very great size, 
 though larger than most jjrivate houses, of 
 plain exterior, and with the air of a public 
 l)uilding of some sort. The grounds about 
 were stiff and formal and forbidding. The 
 door was open, and one or two men were 
 standing there. It did not look like an inn, 
 and yet it certainly was not a private resi- 
 dence. 
 
 " I have to stop here for a little while," 
 said Sir Lionel, " to see a friend on l)usiuess. 
 Wc are not half-way to Dndleigh Manor yet ; 
 it's furtlier than you think." 
 
 He turned and went up the steps. Lady 
 Dudleigh looked around once more, and then 
 followed him. The men at the head of the 
 steps looked at her curiously as she went 
 in. She took no notice of them, however, 
 but walked past them, looking cahuly be- 
 yond them. 
 
 On entering the house she saw a bare 
 luill covered with slate-colored oil-cloth, and 
 with a table against the wall. A gray-head- 
 ed man came out of one of the rooms, and 
 advanced to meet Sir Lionel, who shook 
 hands witli him very cordially, and whisper- 
 ed to him a few words. The gray-headed 
 man wore spectacles, was clean sliaveu, with 
 a double chin, and a somewhat sleek and oily 
 exterior. 
 
 "Lady Dudleigh," said Sir Lionel, leading 
 the gray-lieaded man forward by the arm, 
 "allow uie to make yon aeciuaintcd with my 
 particular frieiul, Dr. Leonard Morton." 
 
 Lady Dudleigh bowed sliglitly, and Dr. 
 Morton made a profound obeisance that 
 seemed like a caricature of politeness. 
 
 "Will you liave the kindness to walk up 
 stairs!" siiid he, and led tbt> way, while the 
 otliers followed him. Ascending the stairs, 
 (iiey reached a large room at tlie back of" the 
 iiouse, wiiich was furnislied in the sanu< stitf 
 and fornuil way as tlu) hall below. Over the 
 uiantel-pieco hung an engraving, somewliat 
 laded out, and on the table were a Hil)le and 
 a pitcher of water. 
 
 The doctor politely handed Lady Dudleigh 
 a ciiair, ami made cue or two remarks about 
 the weather. 
 
 "Sir Lionel," said he, "if Lady Dudleigh 
 will excuse us for a few moments, I should 
 like to speak with you in private." 
 
 "Will you have the kindness, Lady Dud- 
 leigh," asked Sir Lionel, " to excuse us for a 
 few moments T We shall not leave you long 
 alone. And iiere is a book — an invaluable 
 book — with which you may occupy your 
 time." 
 
 Ho said this with such exaggerated polite- 
 ness, and with such a cuiniing leer in his 
 eyes, that his tone and manner were most 
 grotesque ; and as he concluded he took up 
 the large Bible with ridiculous solemnity. 
 
 Lady Dudleigh merely bowed in silence. 
 
 "A thousand thanks," said Sir Lionel, 
 turning away ; and thereupon he left the 
 ' room, l't)llowed by the doctor. Lady Dud- 
 I leigli heard their footsteps descending the 
 I stairs, and then they seemed to go into some 
 ! room. 
 
 I For some time she forgot all about him. 
 The place had at first surprised her, but she 
 I gave it little thought. She luul too nmch 
 j to think of. She had before her a task which 
 ] seemed almost impossible ; and if she failed 
 ! in this, there was before her that dread al- 
 ; ternative which Sir Lioiud had jjresented to 
 her so plainly. Otht^r things too there were 
 besides her husband — connected with all 
 who were (h^arest to her— her brother, per- 
 haps, dying before he had accomi>lislied his 
 work ; her sou so mysteriously murdered ; 
 her other son awaiting her eonnnand to as- 
 sist in bringing his fatlier to death. IJesides, 
 there was the danger that even tiow might 
 be impending over these — the danger of dis- 
 covery. Sir Lionel's desperate threats might 
 have some meaning, and who could tell how 
 it might result if he sought to carry out those 
 threats ? 
 
 llrooding over such thoughts nn these, she 
 forgot about the lapse of time, and at last 
 was roused to herself by the entrance of a 
 woman. She was largt^ and coarse and fat. 
 At the door stood another woman. 
 
 "Your room's ready, missus," said the 
 woiniin, bluntly. 
 
 Lady Dudleigh rose. 
 
 "I don't want a rocim," said she. "I in- 
 tend to go in a few miinites." 
 
 "Anyway, ye'd better eoiuo to your room 
 now, and not keep us wait in'," said the 
 wcmiau. 
 
 " You needn't wail," said Lady Dudleigh. 
 
 "Come along,'' said the woman, iiiipatieut- 
 ly. " It's no use stayin' here all day." 
 
 Lady Dudleigh felt annoyed at this inso- 
 leiu'e, and began to think that Sir Lionel 
 had run away while sins had forgotten about 
 him. Sh(' said nothing to the women, but 
 walked toward the door. The two stood 
 there in the way. 
 
 " I will go down," said she, haughtily, 
 "and wait below. (Jo and tell Sir Lionel." 
 
 The women stared at one another. 
 
THE LIVING LINK 
 
 SIIK WAS DKAGOEn ALONG HELI'LUSSLY. 
 
 "Sir Lionel Diulleijjtli," said Lady Diid- 
 leigli, " is with Dr. Morton on hnsincss. Tell 
 him that I am tired of waiting, or take me 
 to the room where he is." 
 
 " Oh yes, 'm," said one of tlio women ; and 
 saying this, slie went down stairs. 
 
 In a few moments Dr. Morton eanie tip, 
 followed by the women. The two men wlio 
 had been standing at the door eame into 
 the hall, and stood there at the foot of the 
 stairs. 
 
 " Where is Sir Lionel 1" was Lady Dud- 
 leigh's tirst words. 
 
 The doctor smiled blandly. 
 
 "Well, ho has just gone, yon know; but 
 he'll soon be back — oh yes, ipiite soon. You 
 wait here, and you may go to your room." 
 
 He spoke in an od.t, eoaxing tout!, as 
 tliongli lu» were addressing some fretful 
 child whom it was desiral)le to iinmor. 
 
 "Gone!" exclaimed Lady Diidleigh. 
 
 " Yes, but he'll soon be back. You needn't 
 wait loiig. And these woukmi will take you 
 to your own room. You'll 11 nd it very 
 l>leasant." 
 
 " I have no room here," said Lady Dud- 
 leigh, haughtily. " If Sir Lionel lias gone, I 
 shall go too ;" and with these words she tried 
 to move past the woman who was in front 
 of h(M'. Ibit the woman would not move, 
 and the other woman and the doctor stood 
 there looking at her. All at once the truth 
 dawned upon her, or a part of the truth. 
 She had been brought here, and they would 
 koei» her here. Who they were she could 
 
 not imagine, but their faces were not at all 
 prepossessing. 
 
 '' Oh, it's all light," said the doctor, in a 
 smooth voice. " Yon shall go to-morrow. 
 We'll send for Sir Lionel." 
 
 "Dr. Morton," said Lady Dudleigh, sol- 
 emnly, "beware how yon detain me. Let 
 me go, or you shall rejient it. I don't know 
 what your motive is, but it will be a danger- 
 ous thing for you. I am Lady Dudleigh, 
 and if you dare to interfere wi;h my niove- 
 ments you shall softer." 
 
 " Oh yes, oh yes," said the doctor. " Yon 
 arc Lady Dudleigh. Oh, of course. And 
 now come. Lady Dudleigh; you shall bo 
 treated just like a lady, and have a nice 
 room, and — " 
 
 " What do yon mean f cried Lady Dud- 
 leigh, indignantly. "This insolence is in- 
 sutl'erable." 
 
 "Oh yes," said the doctor; "it '11 be all 
 right, yon know. Come, now ; go like a good 
 lady to your room." 
 
 "Are you mad ?" exclaimed Lady Dud- 
 leigh, in amazement. 
 
 The doctor smiled and nodded. 
 
 "What do you intend to do 1" asked Lady 
 Dudleigh, restraining herself with a strong 
 efl'ort. 
 
 "Oh, nothing ; we shall put you in a nice 
 room, you know — all so i)leasant — for you 
 are not very well; and so. Susan, you just 
 take the lady's hand, and, >.Iartha, you take 
 the other, and we'll show her the way to her 
 room." 
 
 one. 
 
THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 139 
 
 At tills fiarh of the •womnn seized one of 
 Lady Dudlcij^h's hands quickly an<l dex- 
 trously, the result of long practice, and then 
 tho3' drew her out of the room. Lady Uud- 
 leiyh resisted, but her strength was useless. 
 She was dragged along helplessly, while all 
 the time the doctor walked after her, prat- 
 tling in his usual way about "the nice room," 
 and how "comfortable" .she would find it. 
 At length they reached a room, and she was 
 taken in. One of the women entered with 
 her. Lady Dudleigh looked around, and 
 saw that the walls were bare and white- 
 washed; the floor was nncarpeted; an iron 
 bedstead and some simple furniture were 
 around her, and a small grated window gave 
 light. 
 
 It looked dreary enough, and suflBciently 
 prison-like to appall any one who might bo 
 ilins suddenly thrust in there. Lady Dud- 
 leigh sank into a chair exhauated, and the 
 woman began to make her bed. 
 
 " My good woman," said Lady Dndleigh, 
 anxious to get some clew to her position, 
 " can you tell me what all this means ?" 
 
 " Sure it's all for the good of your health," 
 Haid the woman. 
 
 " But I'm not ill." : 
 
 " No, not to say ill ; but the body's often 
 all right when the mind's all wrong." 
 
 " The mind T There's nothing the matter 
 with my mind. Dr. Morton has been de- 
 ceived. He would not dare to do this if ne 
 knew it." ■. 
 
 " Sure, now, it's nothing at all," and yo'll 
 be well soon." 
 
 At these simple words of the woman Lady 
 Dndleigh began to understand the situation. 
 This must be a lunatic asylum, a private 
 one. Sir Lionel had brought her here, and 
 Told the doctor that she was insane. The 
 doctor had accepted his statement, and had 
 received her as such. This at once account- 
 ed for his peculiar mode of addressing her. 
 
 " There's a mistake," said Lady Dudleigh, 
 quietly. " Dr. Morton has been deceived. 
 Let me see him at once, please, and I will 
 explain. He does not know what a wrong 
 he is doing. My good woman, I am no more 
 mad than you are." 
 
 " Di'ar, dear!" said the womai. going on 
 placidly with her work ; " tiiat's ihe way 
 they all talk. There's not one of them that 
 believes they're mad." 
 
 " Hut I'm not mad at all," said Lady 
 Dudleigh, indignant at the woman's obtu.se- 
 nesH. 
 
 "There, there; don't you go for to excite 
 yourself," said the woman, soothingly. " Hut 
 I s'pose you can't help it." 
 
 " So tills is a mad-house, is it ?" said Lady 
 Dudleigh, gloomily, after a ])au8e. 
 
 " Well, 'm, we don't call it that ; we call 
 it a 'sylum. It's Dr. Morton's 'syiiini." 
 
 "Now see here," said Lady Dudleigh, 
 making a fresh ettbrt, and trying to bo as 
 
 cool as possible, " I am Lady Dudleigh. I 
 have been brought here by a trick. Dr. 
 Morton is deceived. He is committing a 
 crime in detaining me. I am not mad. Look 
 at me. Judge fur yourself. Look at me, 
 and say, do I look like a madwoman ?" 
 
 The woman, thus appealed to, good-na- 
 turedly acquiesced, and looked at Lady 
 Dudleigh. 
 
 " 'Deed," she remarked, "ye look as though 
 ye've had a deal of sutferin' aforo ye came 
 here, an' I don't wonder yer mind give 
 way." 
 
 " Do I look like a madwoman ?" repeated 
 Lady Dudleigh, with a sense of intolerable 
 irritation at this woman's stupidity. 
 
 "'Deed, then, an' I'm no judge. It's the 
 doctor that decides." 
 
 " But what do you say ? Come, now." 
 "Well, Ihen, ye don't look very bad, px- 
 ceptin' th'! glr.ie an' glitter of the eyes of 
 ye, an' yer fancies." 
 
 " Fancies ? What fancies ?" 
 " Why, yer fancies that ye're Lady Dud- 
 leigh, an' all that about Sir Lionel." 
 Lady Dudleigh started to her feet. 
 "Wiiat!" she exclaimed. "WI13-, I am 
 Lady Dudleigh.'! 
 
 "There, there!" said the woman, sooth- 
 ingly; "sure I forgot myself. Sure ye are 
 Lady Dudleigh, or any liody else ye like. 
 
 ' It's a dreadful inveigliii' way ye liave to 
 
 , trap a body the way ye do." 
 
 I At this Lady Dudleigh Avas in despair. 
 No further words were of any avail. The 
 
 I woman was determined to humor her, and 
 assented to every thing she said. This 
 
 ' treatment was so int(derable that Lady Dud- 
 leigh was afraid to say any thing for fear 
 that she would show the excitement of her 
 feelings, and such an exhibition would of 
 cour.sc hav»! been considered as a fresh proof 
 of her madness. 
 
 j The woman at length comiileted her task, 
 and retired. 
 
 Lady Dndleigh was left alone. She knew 
 it all now. She reiiu^mbered the hitter 
 which Sir TJoiiel lia<l written. In that he 
 had no doubt arranged this plan with Dr. 
 Morton, and the coach bad been ready at 
 the station. But in what part of the coun- 
 try this place was she had no idea, nor could 
 she know whether Dr. Morton was d<>ceived 
 by Sir Lionel, or was bis jtaid eiiii)loy6 in 
 this work of villainy. His face did not 
 give her any eneoiiragenient to lio[»e for 
 either honesty or mercy from him. 
 
 It was an appalling situation, and she 
 
 , knew it. All the horrors that she had cv<fr 
 heard of in connection with private asylums 
 occurred to her mind, and ileepened the ter- 
 ror that surrounded her. All the other cares 
 of her life — the sorrow of bereavement, the 
 anxiety for the sick, the jilans for Frederick 
 Dalton — all these and many others now o])- 
 
 , pressed her till her brain sank under the 
 
 'ti 
 
 I 
 
140 
 
 THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 crusbing weight. A groan of anguish hurst 
 from lier. 
 
 " Sir Lionel's mockery will hecnmo a re- 
 ality," siio thought. " I whiill go mad !" 
 
 Meanwhile Sir Lionel had gone away. 
 Leaving Lady Dudleigh in tlie room, ho had 
 gone down stairs, and after a few hurried 
 words with the doctor, he left the house and 
 entered the coach, which drove back to the 
 station. 
 
 All the way ho was in the utmost glee, rub- 
 bing his hands, slai>i>ing his thighs, chuck- 
 ling to himself, laughing and cjeering. 
 
 "Ha, ha, ha! ha, ha, ha!" ho laughed. 
 "Outwitted! Tho keejier — the keeper 
 caught! Ha, ha, ha! Wliy, she'll never 
 get out — never! In for life, Lionel, my 
 boy! Mad T Why, by this time she's a rav- 
 ing maniac! Ha, ha, ha! She swear against 
 me ! Who'd beli a madwoman, an idiot, 
 a lunatic, a bedlamite, a maniac — a howling, 
 frenzied, gibbering, ranting, raving, drivel- 
 ing, maundering, mooning maniac? And 
 now for tho boy next — tho parricide! Ha, 
 ha, ha! AiTest him t No. Shut him up 
 hero — both — with my friend Morton — both 
 of them, mother and son, tho two — ha, ha, 
 ha! — witnesses! One maniac! two maniacs! 
 and then I shall go mad with joy, and come 
 here to live, and there shall be three maniacs ! 
 Ha, ha, ha ! ha, ha, ha-a-a-a-a-a-a !" 
 
 Sir Lionel himself seemed mad now. 
 
 On leaving the coach, however, he became 
 calmer, and taking the first train that camo 
 up, resumed his journey. 
 
 CHAPTER XLVI. 
 
 TUK UK.DSIDK OF DALTON. 
 
 FREDEnicK Daltox remained in his pros- 
 trate condition, with no apitarent change 
 cither for the better or for tlie worse, and 
 thus a month passed. 
 
 One morning Uudleigh requested an in- 
 terview witli Edith. 
 
 On entering tho room he greeted her with 
 his usual disep respect. 
 
 "I hope, you will exc\ise me for troubling 
 you, Miss Dalton," he said, " but I wish very ■ 
 much to ask your opinion about your father. 
 Ho renuiins, as you know, unchanged, and 
 this inn is not tho place for him. The air ! 
 is close, the place is noisy, and it is inipossi- j 
 bio for him to have that perfect (^uie^ which 
 ho so greatly needs. Dudleigh Manor is too | 
 far away, but there is anothta- place close ■ 
 l)y. I am .aware, Miss Dalton, tliat Dalton j 
 Hall must bo odious to you, and therefore I ' 
 hesitate to ask you to take your father to 
 that place. Yet ho ought to go there, and 
 at onco. As for yourself, I hope that the i 
 new circumstances under which you will live ] 
 there will nuike it less unpleasant ; and, let i 
 mo add, for my own part, it shall bo my I 
 
 'lULlK HA.NUS TOUCUIiU. 
 
 eflbrt to see that you, who have been so 
 deeply wronged, shall bo righted — with all 
 and before all. As to myself," he continued, 
 " I would retire, and relieve you of my pres- 
 ence, which can not be otherwise than pain- 
 ful, but there are two reasons why I ought to 
 reuuiin. The first is your father. You your- 
 self are not able to take all tho care of him, 
 and there is no other wno can share it ex- 
 cept myself. Next to yourself, no one can be 
 to him what I am, nor is tl- j any one with 
 whom I would be willing to leave him. He 
 nnist not be left to a servant. He unist be 
 nursed by those who lovo him. And so I 
 nnist stay with him wherever he is. In ad- 
 dition to this, Iiowever, my presence at Dal- 
 ton Hall will effectually quell the vulgar 
 clamor, and all the rumors that have been 
 pr<^vailing for tho last few mouths will bo 
 silenced." 
 
 Dudleigh spoke all this calmly and seri- 
 ously, but beneath his words there was some- 
 thing in his tone which conveyed a deeper 
 meaning. That tone was more than respect- 
 ful — it was almost reverential — as though 
 tho one to whom he spoke required from 
 him more than mere courtesy. In spite of 
 his outward calm, there was also an emotion 
 in his voice which showed that tho calm 
 was assumed, and tliat beneath it lay some- 
 thing which could not bo all concealed. 
 In his eyes, as he tixed them on Edith, there 
 was that same reverential regard, which 
 seemed to sjjcak of devotion and loyalty ; 
 something stronger than admiration, sonu^- 
 thing deeper than sympathy, was exi)ressed 
 from them. And yet it was this that he 
 himself tried to conceal. It was as though 
 this feeling of his burst forth irropressibly 
 through all concealment, as though the iu- 
 
 ten 
 wo 
 an( 
 
 thu 
 
 be 
 
 tail 
 
 woi 
 
 con 
 
 .ji^x 
 
THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 141 
 
 tensity of this feeling made even his calmest 
 words iind eomnionest formulas full of a now 
 and deeper meaning. 
 
 In tliat roverenco and profound devotion 
 thus manifest there was nothing which could 
 he otherwise than grateful to Edith. Cer- 
 tainly Bhe could not t.-vko oflfenso, for his 
 words .and his looks afforded nothing which 
 could by any possibility give rise to that. 
 
 For a whole month this man had been be- 
 fore her, a constant attendant on her father, 
 sleeping his few hours in an adjoining cham- 
 ber, with scarce a thought beyond that pros- 
 trate friend. All the country had been 
 searched for the best advice or the best 
 remedies, and nothing had been omitted 
 which untiring affection could suggest. 
 During all this time she had scarce seen 
 him. In the delicacy of his regard for her 
 ho had studiously kept out of her way, as 
 1 hough unwilling to allow his presence to 
 give her pain. A moment might occasion- 
 ally be taken up with .a few necessary ar- 
 rangements as she would enter, but that 
 was all. He patiently waited till she re- 
 tired before he ventured to come in himself. 
 
 No ; in that noble face, pale from illness 
 or from sadness, with the traces of sonow 
 upon it, and the m.arks of long vigils by the 
 bedside of her father — in that relined face, 
 whose expression spoke only of elevation of 
 soul, and exhibited the perfect type of man- 
 ly beauty, there was certainly nothing that 
 could excite repugnance, but every thing 
 that might inspire confidence. 
 
 Edith saw all this, and remarked it while 
 listening to him; and she thought she hatl 
 never seen any thing so pure in its loyalty, 
 so profound in its sympathy, and so sweet in 
 its sad grace as that face which was now 
 turned toward her with its eloquent eyes. 
 
 She did not say much. A few words sig- 
 nified her assent to the proposal. Dudleigli 
 said that he would make all the necessary 
 arrangements, and that she should have no 
 trouble whatever. With this be took his 
 dep.arturo. 
 
 That same evening another visitor came. 
 It was a pale, slender girl, who gave her 
 name as Lucy Ford. She said that she had 
 been sent l)y Captain Dudleigli. She heard 
 that Edith htid no maid, and wished to get 
 that situ.ation. Edith hesitated for a mo- 
 ment. Could she accept so direct a favor 
 from Dudleigli, or give him that mark of 
 confidence f Her hesitation was over at 
 once. She could give him that, and she 
 accepted the maid. The next djiy came a 
 housekeeper and two or three others, all 
 sent by Dudleigh, all of whom were accepted 
 by her. For Dudleigh had found out some- 
 how the need of servants at Dalton Hall, and 
 had taken this way of supplying that prime 
 requisite. 
 
 It then remained to move Dalton. Ho still 
 continued in the same condition, not much 
 
 changed physically, but in a state of mental 
 torpor, the duration of which no one was 
 able to foretell. Two short stages were ro- 
 ([uired to take him to Dalton Hall. For this 
 a litter was procured, and ho was carried all 
 the way. Edith went, with her ni;iid and 
 housekeeper, in acarriage, Dudleigh on horse- 
 back, ami the other servants, with the lug- 
 gage, in various conveyances. 
 
 Dalton received no benefit from his jour- 
 ney, but his friends were happy enough that 
 he had received no injury. The medical at- 
 tendance at Dalton Hall was, as before, the 
 best that could bo obtained, and all the care 
 that affection could suggest was lavished 
 upon him. 
 
 From what has already been said, it will 
 be seen that in making this migration to 
 Dalton Hall, Dudleigh was regardful of many 
 things besides the ])atieiit. He had made 
 every arrangement for the comfort of the oc- 
 cupants. He had sought out all the domes- 
 tics that Avere necessary to diffuse an air of 
 home over such a large establishment, and 
 had been careful to submit them to Edith 
 for her approval. Ho had also procured 
 horses and gnxmis and carriages, and every 
 thing that might conduce to the comfort of 
 life. The old solitude and loneliness were 
 thus terminated. The new housekeeper 
 prevented Edith from feeling any anxiety 
 about domestic concerns, and the servants 
 all showed themselves well trained and jier- 
 fectly subordinate. 
 
 Daltou's room was at the west end of the 
 building. Edith occupied her old apart- 
 ments. Dudleigh took that which had be- 
 longed to his " double." The housekeeper 
 took the room that had been occupied by 
 Lady Dudleigh. 
 
 Dudleigli was as devoted as ever to the 
 sick man. He remained at his bedside 
 through the greater part of the nights and 
 through the mornings. In the afternoons 
 ho retired as befort>, and gave ]ilace to Edith. 
 When he was there he sometimes had a serv- 
 ant u})on whom he could rely, and then, if 
 ho felt unusual fatigue, and circumstances 
 were favorable, he was able to snatch a lit- 
 tle sleep. Ho usually went to bed at two in 
 the afternocui, rose at seven, and in tluit 
 brief sleep, with occasional naps during the 
 morning, obtained enough to last him for 
 the day. With tliis rest he was satisfied, 
 and needed, or at least sought for, no recre- 
 ation. During the hours of tlu^ morning he 
 was able to attend to tliose outside duties 
 that required overseeing or direction. 
 
 But while he watched in this way over 
 the invalid, he was not a more watcher. 
 That invalid re(iuired, after all, but little at 
 the hands of his nurses, and Dudleigh had 
 much to do. 
 
 On his arrival at Dalton Hall he had pos- 
 sessed himself of all the papers that his 
 "double" had left behind him, and those ho 
 
142 
 
 THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 diligently Hiudicd, ho iis to Ito aUlo to carry I 
 out with tlut utiiioHt etlicii^iicy the piirpime | 
 tbut ho had in IiIh mind. It wuh during the I 
 long watchuH of tlut night that ho Htudied ; 
 thfso paperH, trying to make ont from tht'ni ■ 
 tho manner of lifo and tho aHMociatcs of tho , 
 ono who had left them, trying uIho to arrivo ! 
 at Hoino clew to his mysterious disappear- 1 
 anco. This study he (tonld keep up witiiout ' 
 detriraoii', to his ollieo of attendant, and 
 wliilo watching over tho invalid ho could 
 carry out his investigations. Sometimes, in 
 tlni afternoons, after indulging in moro fre- 
 (pKtnt na])s than usual during the mornings, 
 ho was ahle to go out for a ride about the 
 grounds. lie was a first-rate horseman, and 
 Edith noticed his iidniiralih; seat as she 
 looked from tho windows of her father's 
 room. 
 
 Thus time went on. 
 
 Gradually Dudleigh and Edith began to ! 
 occupy a ditferent position toward ono an- ; 
 other. At tho inn their relations wen^ as 
 lias been shown. Hut after their arrival at 
 Dalton Hall there occurred a gradual change. 
 
 As Edith eanio to the room on the tirst 
 day, Dudleigh waited. On entering she saw 
 bis c.-es lixed on hi'r with an expression of ; 
 ]iainful suspense, of earnest, eagi.T inijuiry. 
 In that elocjucnt appealing glance all his j 
 soul seemed to beam from his eyes. It was 
 reverent, it was ahnost humble, yet it looked 
 for some small concession. May I hopet it 
 said. Will yon give a thought to nm ? See, 
 I stainl here, and I hang u])on your look. 
 Will y<Mi turn away from me ? 
 
 Edith did not rt!pel that nnito appeal. 
 There was that in her face which broke 
 down Dudleigh's reserve. Ho advanced to- 
 ward her and held out his hand. She did 
 not reject it. 
 
 It was but a commonplace thing to do — it 
 was whiit might have lieen done before — yet 
 between these two it was far from common- 
 jilacc. Th(!ir bands touched, their eyes met, 
 but neither spoko a word. It was but a 
 light grasp that Dudleigh gave. Koveren- 
 tially, yet tenderly, be took that band, not 
 venturing to go beyond what might Ix; ac- 
 corded to the merest stranger, but content- 
 ing himself with that one concicssioii. With 
 that he retired, carrying with him tho re- 
 membrance of that neanu- approach, and tho 
 hope of what yet might be. 
 
 After that tlio extrenui reserve was broken 
 down. Each liay, on meeting, a shako of the 
 hands was accompanied by something more. 
 JJetweon any others these greetings wonld 
 liave been the most natural thing in tho 
 world ; but hero it was different. There was 
 one subject in which each took the deepest 
 interest, and about which each had some- 
 thing to say. Frederick Dalton's health was 
 precious to each, and each felt anxiety about 
 bis condition. This formed a theme about 
 which they might speak. 
 
 As Dudleigh waited for Edith, so Edith 
 waited for Dudleigh; and still there were 
 the samti (|iiestions to bo asketl and answer- 
 ed. Standing thus together in that sick- 
 room, with one life forming a common bond 
 between them, conversing in low whispers 
 uiKUi ont( so dear to both, it woidd have been 
 strange indeed if any thing like wantof cou- 
 lidenco bud remained on either side. 
 
 CHAPTER XLVII. 
 
 A HKTTKK INDKIJSTANDINO. 
 
 Drni.KUill lived on as before, assiduous 
 in bis attendance, dividing his lime cbieliy 
 between nursing ami study of tho pajicrs 
 already mentioned. He never went out of 
 tint grounds on those occasional ridcii, and 
 if anyone in the neighborhood noticed this, 
 tho recent sad (ivents might have been con- 
 sidered an excuse. Thus these two were 
 thrown upon ono another exclusivelj'. F(U' 
 each tht;re was no other society. As for 
 Edith, Dudleigh bad done so much that slu; 
 ftdt a natural gratitudes ; and more than this, 
 there was in her mind u sense of security 
 and of dependeiu'o. 
 
 Meanwhile, Dudleigh's pale face grew piiler. 
 His sleep had all abuig been utterly inade- 
 (luate, and tins incessant eontinement had 
 begun to show its elVects. Ho had been ac- 
 customed to an open-air life and vigorous ex- 
 ercise. This <iui(!t wattbing at the btMlsidc 
 of Dalton was more trying to bis strengtii 
 than severe labor could have been. 
 
 The change in him was not lost on Edith, 
 and even if gratitiulo toward him bad been 
 wanting, common humanity would have im- 
 pelled her to speak about it. 
 
 Ono day, as she came in, sho was struck by 
 his apjiearance. His face was ghastly white, 
 and be bad been sitting with his Insad in bis 
 bands as sho softly entered. In an instant, 
 as be beard her step, ho st.arted nj), and ad- 
 vanced with a radiant smile, a smile ca\ised 
 by her apjiroacb. 
 
 " I'm afraid that yon are overtasking your- 
 self," said Edi.b, gently, aftci" the usual gn^'t- 
 ing. " You are here too nuicb. The eontine- 
 ment is too trying. You must take more rest 
 and exercise." 
 
 Dudleigh's face was suffused with a sud- 
 den glow of delight. 
 
 " It is kind of you to notice it," said be, 
 earnestly, "but I'm sure you arc mistaken. 
 I could do far more if necessary. This is 
 my i)lace, and this is my true.st oecui)alion '' 
 
 "For that very reason," said Edith, in 
 tones that showed more concern than she 
 would have cared to acknowledge — ^"for 
 that very reason you ought to preserve 
 yourself — for his sake. You confine your- 
 self hero too ranch, and take too little rest. 
 I SCO that you feel it already." 
 
THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 143 
 
 "If" Hiiitl Diidleijih, with a li^lit liui>{Ii, | 
 •wliiiHo niiiHiciil (ladfiico Hoiiiidcd very NWci't 
 to Ktlitli, and rovfalcil to licr aiiotlit'i' Hi<l(^ 
 of IiIh charui'tcr vi-ry difl'croiit from that Had 
 and nii'hincholy oiiu which \w had thiiH far 
 Hliown — " 1 1 Why, you liavc no iih'a of my i 
 capacity for this Hoit i>f tiling. 1'>-cuhc inc, ' 
 MiHH Dalton, hut it KcctuN abNiird <> tall^ of 
 iny Itrcaking (h)wn under micli worii a8 thit*." , 
 
 Kditli h1ioo1< licr licad. 
 
 "You mIiow traces of it," Haid Hhc, in a 
 RCMitlc voice, looliing away from him, " wliich j 
 common inimanity would comjiel mii to no- 
 tice. You must not do all tho work ; I must I 
 havo jiart of it." 
 
 " } oMf" exclaimed Dudleicrh, with infinite 
 toiideriiess in his tone. " Do you tiiink tliat 
 I woiihl allow »/0H to Hjieiid any more lime: 
 liere than you now do, or that I would spare 
 myself at tho exjuMiso of yoiir health T Nt^v- 
 er! Aside from the fact that your father is 
 80 dear to me, there are considerations for 
 y.»a which would lead me to die at my jiost 
 rather than allow you to have any more 
 troiihle." 
 
 There was a fervor in I)ndlei;;h's tones 
 which penetrated to Edith's heart. There 
 was a deep glow in his eyes as he looked at 
 her which Edith did not care to encounter. 
 
 "You are of far more im]iortanc(; to Sir 
 Lionel than I am," said she, after a pause 
 which liej^an to hv emharrassinj;. "Hut 
 whiit will become of him if — if you are pros- 
 trated ?" 
 
 "I shall not be prostrated," said Dudleiffh. 
 
 "I think you will if this state of things 
 continues." 
 
 "Oh, I j'on't think tliere is any prospect 
 of my giving up just yet." 
 
 " No. I know your alfection for him, an.l 
 that it would keep you here until — until 
 you could not slay any longer; and it is this 
 which I wish to avoi(i. ' 
 
 " It is my duty," said Dndleigh. " lie is 
 one whom I revere more than any oilier man, 
 and love as a father. Hesi.lrs, there are 
 other things that bind me to him — his im- 
 measurable wrongs, his matchless jiatience 
 — wrongs intlict(!d by one who is my father ; 
 and I, as the son, fetd it a holy duty, the ho- 
 liest of all dutii.'s, to stand by that bedside 
 aiul devote myscdf to him. He is your fa- 
 tlier,Miss Dalton, but you havo never known 
 him as I have known him — the soul of hon- 
 or, tho stainless gentleman, the ideal of chiv- 
 alry aiul loyalty and truth. This he is, and 
 lor this he lies there, and my wretched fa- 
 tlu-r it is who has done this ilced. Hut that 
 father is a father only in name, and I have 
 long ago transferred a sou's love and a son's 
 duty to that gentle and noble and injured 
 friend." 
 
 This outburst of feeling came forth from 
 Dudleigh's inmost heart, and was spoken 
 with a passionate fervor which showed how 
 Uoojdy he felt what he said. Every word 
 
 thrilled through Edith. Bitter self-n'proacli 
 at that moment came to her, as site thought 
 of her own relations to her father. What 
 Dudh'igh's liad been she did not know, but 
 she saw that in him her father had found a 
 son. And what had his daughter been to 
 him T Of that shi^ dared not think. Her 
 heart was wrung with sharp anguish at the 
 memories of the past, while at the same 
 time she felt drawn more closely to Dnd- 
 leigh, who had thus been to him all that she 
 had failed to be. Had she spoken what she 
 thought, s'le would have thanked antl bless- 
 ed him foi those words. Hut she did not 
 dare to trust herself to speak of that ; rath- 
 er she trie<l to restrain lu-rself ; and when slui 
 spoke, it was with a strong ell'ort at thisself- 
 contnd. 
 
 " Well," slio said, in a voice which was 
 tremulous in spile of all her elTorts, " this 
 shows how dear you nnist lie to him, since 
 he has found such love in you, and so for Iuh 
 sake you must sjiare yourself. You nmst 
 not stay here so constantly.'' 
 
 "Who is there to take my place?" asked 
 Dndleigh, (piietly. 
 "I," said Edith. 
 Dndleigh smiled. 
 
 "Do you think," said hr., "that I would 
 allow Ihatf Even if I needed more, rest, 
 which I do not, do you think that I would 
 take it at your expense — that I would go 
 away, enjoy myself, and leave you to bear 
 the fatigue? No, Miss Dalton; Iamnot(iuito 
 so seltish as that." 
 
 " Hut you will let me stay hero more than 
 I do," said Edith, earnestly. " I may as well 
 bo here as in my own room. Will you not 
 let me have half the care, and occasionally 
 allow you to take n^st?" 
 
 81)0 s)ioke timidly and anxiously, as 
 though she was asking some favor. And 
 (his was the feeling that she had, for it 
 seemed to her that this man, who had been 
 a son to her father, had mon; claims on his 
 love, and a truer right here, than she, the 
 unworthy daughter. 
 
 Dndleigh smiled u[)on her with infinite 
 tenderness as he replied: 
 
 "Half the care! How could yon endure 
 it ? You are too delicate for so nnich. You 
 do too nnich already, an<l I am only anxious 
 to relieve you of that. I was going to urge 
 you to give up half of the afternoon, and 
 take it myself.'' 
 
 " Give up half the afternoon !" cried Edith. 
 " Why, I want to do more." 
 
 " Hut that is impossible. You are not 
 strong enough," said Dndleigh. " I fear all 
 the time that you are now overworking your- 
 self. I would never forgive myself if you re- 
 ceived any harm from this." 
 
 "Oh, I am very much stronger than you 
 sujipose. Uesides, nursing is woman's work, 
 and would fatigue me far less than you." 
 " I can not bear to have you fatigue your- 
 
 Si 
 
144 
 
 THE LIVfNG LINK. 
 
 Belf in any way. You must not — and I 
 would do far more rather than allow you 
 to liavo any trouble." 
 
 "But even if my health should suffer, it 
 would not be of much consequence. So at 
 least let mo relieve you of something." 
 
 " Your health f" said Dudleigh, looking at 
 lier with an eiinicst glance ; " your lutaltb T 
 Why, that i.s every thing. Mine is nothing. 
 Can you suggest such a thing to mo as that 
 I should allow airy trouble to come to youf 
 Hesides, your delicate health already alarms 
 me. You have not yet recovered from your 
 illness. You are not capable of enduring 
 fatigue, and I am always reproaching my- 
 self for allowing you to stay here as nnicli as 
 you do. The Dudleighs have done eiu)ugh. 
 They have brought the father to this;" and 
 'lo pointed mourufully to the bed. ' JJiit," ho 
 added, in a tremulous voice, " the daughter 
 should ut least be saved, and to have harm 
 come to her would bo worse than death it- 
 self — to me." 
 
 Edith was silent for a few moments. Her 
 lu'.art was beating fast. When she spoke, it 
 was with an eflbrt, and in as calm a voice as 
 possible. 
 
 " Oh," she said, " I am quite recovered. 
 Indeed, I am as well as ever, and I wish to 
 spend itKue time here. Will you not let me 
 stay here longer T" 
 
 *' How can I ? The conrtncment would 
 wear you out." 
 
 "It would not bo more fatiguing than 
 staying in my own room," persisted Edith. 
 
 " I'm afraid there would lu\ very much 
 difl'erence," said Dudleigh. " In your own 
 room you have no particular anxiety, but 
 here you would have the incessant responsi- 
 bility of a nurse. You wotild have to watch 
 your father, and every movement would give 
 you concern." 
 
 "And this harnssing care is what I wish 
 to save you from, and share with you," said 
 Edith, earnestly. "Will you not consent to 
 thisT" 
 
 "To share it with you?" said Dudleigh, 
 looking at her with unutterable t(Mideriu'ss. 
 "To share it with you?" he rei)eated. "It 
 would be only too mneh hii|)piness for n\e to 
 do so, but not if you are going to overwork 
 yourself." 
 
 " But I will not," said Edith. " If I do, I 
 can stop. I only ask to be allowed to come 
 ill during the morning, so as to relieve you 
 of some of your work. You will consent, 
 will yon not?" 
 
 Edith asked him this as though Diiu'-igh 
 bad exclusive right h(>re, and sbt liiid none. 
 She could not lielj) feeling as if this was so, 
 iind this feeling arose from those memories 
 which she had of that terrible jiast. when 
 she ignorantly hurled at that father's heart 
 words that stung 'ikt^ the stings of scorpi- 
 ons. Never eoii'.d she forgive herself for 
 that, and fur this she now humbled herself 
 
 in this way. Her tone was so pleading that 
 Dudleigh could refuse no longer. With 
 many deprecatory expressions, and many 
 warnings and charges, he at last consented 
 to let her divide the morning attfiudance 
 with him. She was to come in at eleven 
 o'clock. 
 
 This arrangement was at once acted upon. 
 On the following day Edith came to her fa- 
 ther's room at eleven. Dudleigh had much 
 to ask her, and much to say to her, about her 
 father's condition. He was afraid that she 
 was not strong enough. He seemed to half 
 repent his agreement. On the other hand, 
 Edith a.ssured him most earnestly that she 
 was strong enough, that she would come 
 here for the future regularly at eleven 
 o'clock, and urged him to take care of his 
 own health, anil seek some recreation by 
 riding about the grounds. This Dudleigh 
 promised to do in the afternoon, but just 
 then he seemed in no hurry to go. He lin- 
 gered on. They talked in low whispers, with 
 their heads close together. They had much 
 to talk about ; her health, his health, her fa- 
 ther's condition — all these had to be di.scuss- 
 ed. Thus it was that the last vestiges of 
 mutual reserve began to bo broken down. 
 
 Day succeeded to day, and Edith always 
 came to her father's room in the morning. 
 At first she always urged Dudleigh to go oft' 
 and take exercise, but at length she ceased 
 to urge him. For two or three hours every 
 day they saw much of one another, and thus 
 associated under circumstances which en- 
 forced the closest intimacy and the stron- 
 gest mutual sympathy. 
 
 CHAi iLR XLVni. 
 
 CAPTAIN CKl'IK.SHANK. 
 
 Wiiii.K these things were going on, the 
 world outside was not altogether indifter- 
 ent to affairs in Dalton Hall. In the village 
 and in the immediate neighborhood rumor 
 had been busy, and at length the vague 
 statements of the public voice began to take 
 shape. 
 
 This is what rumor said: Dudleigh is an 
 impostor! 
 
 An impostor, it said. For the true Dud- 
 leigh, it asserted, was still missing. This 
 was not the real man. The remains fouml 
 in the well had never been accounted for. 
 .Justice had foregone its claims too r(>adily. 
 Tiie act remained, and the blood of the slain 
 called aloud for vengeance. 
 
 How such a strange rejiort was first start- 
 ed no one knew; but there it was, and the 
 Dalton mystery remained as obscure as ever. 
 
 Various eirciimstances contributed to in- 
 crease the public suspicion. All men saw 
 that Dudleigh was dili'erent from this man, 
 or else he hud greatly changed. For tbo 
 
THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 145 
 
 former was always oiitsiflt*, in the world, 
 wliile f Lis man remained secluded and sliut 
 up in the Hull. Why did lie never show him- 
 self f Why did he surround himself with all 
 this secrec'v f This was the question. 
 
 The servants were eagerly questioned 
 whenever any of them made their appear- 
 ance in the village, but as they were all 
 new in the place, their testimony was of 
 little value. They could only say that he 
 was devoted to the invalid, and that he call- 
 ed Miss Ualton by that name, and had call- 
 ed her by that name when he engaged them 
 fur her service. 
 
 Soon p"'I>1ic opinion took two different 
 forms, and two parties arose. One of these 
 believed the present Dudlcigh to be an im- 
 postor; the other, however, maintained that 
 he was the real man, and that the cliunge 
 in his character was to be accounted for on 
 the grounds of the terrible calamities that 
 had resulted from his thoughtlessness, to- 
 gether with his own repentance for the suf- 
 fering which he had indicted. 
 
 Meanwhile the subject of all this excite- 
 ment and gossip was living in his own se- 
 clusion, quite ai)art from the outside world. 
 One change, however, had taken jjlaco in 
 his life which recjuired immediate action on 
 bis i)art. 
 
 A great number of letters had como for 
 "Ciiplain Dudlcigh." The receipt of these 
 gave him tronlde. They were reminders of 
 various pecuniary obligations which hal 
 been contracted some time i)revionsly. They 
 were, in short — duns. He bad been at Dal 
 ton Hall some six weeks b.^fore these inter- 
 esting letters began to arrive. After that 
 time they came in clusters, fast and frequent. 
 The examination of these formed no small 
 part of his occupation when he was alone. 
 
 Some of these letters were joi'i.lar in their 
 tone, reminding him of his chronic imi)ei'u- 
 niosity, and his well-known im])racticability 
 in every thing relating to money. These 
 jocular letters, however, never failed to re- 
 mind him tliat. as he had made a rich malch, 
 there was no reason why he should not pay 
 liis debts, especially as the writers were hard 
 u]), and had waiteil so long witiiont trou- 
 bling him. These jocular letters, in fa(!t, 
 informed him that if a seltleini'iit was not 
 made at once, it would be very mucii tlie 
 worse for Dudlcigh. 
 
 Others were from old H])orting comi>anions, 
 reminding him of bets which had not been 
 paid, (^xjiressing astonishment which was 
 child-like in its simplicity, and reciuesting 
 an immediate HCttlement. Tliesti were gen- 
 erally short, curt, and altogether unpleasant. 
 
 Otlii-rs were business letters, containing 
 the announcement of notes falling due. (Oth- 
 ers were from lawyers, stating the fact that 
 certain specilied claims hail l)een put in their 
 liaiids for collection. an<l rei|uestiiig early at- 
 teuliou. 
 
 K 
 
 All these seemed to como together. Mis- 
 fortunes, says the ])roverb, never come sin- 
 gly, and duns may fairly be reckoned among 
 misfortunes. These duns, however, trouble- 
 some though they were, were one by one got 
 rid of by tlie simi)le and eftectual process of 
 payment; for Dudlcigh considered it on the 
 whole safer and better, under these peculiar 
 circumstances, to pay the money which was 
 demanded than to expose himself to arrest 
 or lawsuits. 
 
 In connection with these affairs an event 
 occurred which at the time caused tnieasi- 
 ness, and gave the prospect of future trouble. 
 One day a gentleman called and sent up his 
 card. It was Captain Cruikshank. The 
 name Dudlcigh recognized as one which had 
 been ap])ended to several dunning letters of 
 the most imi)ortunate kind, and the individ- 
 ual himself was apparently some sporting 
 friend. 
 
 On going down Dudlcigh saw a portly, 
 bald-headed man, with large whiskers, stainl- 
 ing in front of one of tlie drawing-room win- 
 dows, looking out. He seemed midway be- 
 tween a gentleman and a blackleg, being 
 neither altogether one nor the other. At the 
 noise of Dudleigh's entrance he turned (piick- 
 ly arounil, and with a hearty, blutV manner 
 walked up to him and held out his hand. 
 
 Dudlcigh fixed his eyes steadily upon those 
 of the other man, and bowed, without ac- 
 cepting the iirotl'crcd hand, apjiearing not to 
 see it. His whole inien was full of aristo- 
 cratic reserve, ;ind c(tld, repellent distance 
 of manner, which checked the other in the 
 midst of a full fide of voluble congratula- 
 tions into which lu^ had thing himself. Tims 
 interrupted, he looked confused, stammered, 
 and finally said, 
 
 '"Poll my honor, Dudleigl), yon don't ap- 
 jiear to bo overcordial with an old friend, 
 that's seen you through so many scrapes as 
 1 have." 
 
 "Circumstances," said Dudlcigh, "of a very 
 ]iainful character have forceil me to sever 
 myself completely from all my former asso- 
 ciates — .ill, without exception." 
 
 "Well, of course — as to that, it's all right, 
 I dare say," remarked the otiier, from whom 
 Duilleigb never removed his ryes; '•Imt then, 
 you know, it seems to me that some friends 
 ought to be — a — retained, you know, and you 
 and I, you know, were? always of that sort 
 that we weni useful to one another." 
 
 This was thrown out as a very strong liinf 
 on tiie )iart of Captain Cruikshank, and he 
 wal<'hed Duilleigh earnestly to see its elfect. 
 
 "1 make no exceptions whatever," said 
 Dudleigh. " What has occurred to me is the 
 same as death. 1 am dead virtually to the 
 world in which I once lived. My former 
 friends and aci|uaintances ari^ the same as 
 thou;;li I had never known them." 
 
 "(Jadl something has come over you, that's 
 a fact," said Captain Cruikshank. " You'iv 
 
THE LIVING LINK 
 
 
 \}i'-^ '''it' l'l''l V,\\\,\;v; 
 
 
 ' WELL, KKAI.I.Y — YES, THIS IS IT. 
 
 a cliangou man, wliatovcr tlio reason is. 
 Well, von luive 1 rijflit to clioos(! for yonr- 
 seir, and I can't be ottended. At the* same 
 time, if yon e\-er want to Join the old set 
 Ufitain, let me know, and I promise you there'll 
 bo no dittienlty." 
 
 Dndleifjli bowed. 
 
 " But then I snppose yoii'ro sottk'd down 
 in sneh infernally eomfortalile (inarters," 
 continued tlm other, "that it's not likely 
 you'll ever tronlile us ajjain. Married aiul 
 done for— that's the word. Plenty of money, 
 and nothing to do." 
 
 " If you liave any thing particular to say," 
 said Uudleigh, coldly, " 1 Nhonld like to he;ir 
 it ; if not, I must excuse myself, as I aui par- 
 ticularly euH'ajJted." 
 
 " ( Hi, no olfens(>. no otiense ; I meri'ly came 
 to offer an old frientl's eonnratidations, yon 
 know, and — Hy-the-way,"e(uitinued(!ruik- 
 sliank, lowering his voice, " there's that- lit- 
 tle I C) IT of yours. 1 thought perliajis you 
 might lind it convenient to settle, and if so, 
 it would be a great favor to me." 
 
 "What is the amount f a.sked Dudleigh, 
 who n'membered this particular debt per- 
 
 fectly well, since it had been the subject of 
 more than one letter of a most niipleasunt 
 character. 
 
 " The amount ?" said ( 'rnikshank. " Well, 
 really — let me see — 1 don't (luite remember, 
 but I'll lind out in a monu'ut." 
 
 With these words he drew fortli Iiis jiock- 
 et-book and fumbled among the jiapers. At 
 length he produced one, and tried hard to 
 look as if he had not known all along per- 
 fectly well what that amount was. 
 
 " Wt 11. really —yes, this is it," he reuuirk- 
 ed, as he lo(died at a piece of paper. "The 
 amount, did you say f The amount is Just 
 t wo bundled ]iounds. It's not mneli tor yon, 
 as yon are now situated, I should suppose." 
 
 "Is that the note ?" asked Dudleigh, who 
 was anxious to get rid of this visitor, and sus- 
 l)e<-ted all ahuig that he might have a deeper 
 purpose than the mere collection of a debt. 
 
 "Tliat is the iiote,"s!iid ('rnikshank. 
 
 "1 will pay it now," said Iiudleigh. 
 
 He left the room for a short lime, and dur- 
 ing liis absence ('rnikshank amused liimself 
 with Hliiring at the portrait of "Captain 
 Duilleigh," which hung in a conspicuous po- 
 
THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 14» 
 
 sition before liis eyes. Ho w.as not kept long 
 waiting, for Dndleigh soon retnnied, and 
 lianded liim the money. Cruiksliank took 
 it with immense satisfaction, and handed the 
 note over in retnrn, which Dndleigh carefnl- 
 ly transferred to his own pocket-book, where 
 he kept many other sncli papers. 
 
 Crnikshank now bade him a very effnsive 
 adien. Dndleigh stood at the window watch- 
 ing the retreating fignre of his visitor. 
 
 " I wonder how long this sort of thing can 
 go on?" he murnuired. "I don't like this 
 acting on the defensive. I'll have to make 
 the attack myself soon." 
 
 CHAPTER XLIX. 
 
 EDITH'S NKW FHIICND. 
 
 Every day Edith and Dndleigh saw more 
 and more of one another. Now that the 
 crust of reserve was broken through, and 
 something like intimacy had bei'U 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 e.-ich 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 de- 
 mnndcd (piiet, yet needed but litth* direct 
 attention. It was only necessary tliat some 
 one should be in the room with him. He 
 lay, as has bc^en said, in a state of stupor, 
 and knew nothing of what was going on. Il 
 was only necessary for those who might be 
 with him to give him, fnim time to time, the 
 medicines that had been prescribed by the 
 ])liysieians, or tilt! nourishment which nature 
 demanded. Apart from this there was little 
 now to be done. 
 
 While Edith and Dndleigh were thus to- 
 gether, they weni natni'ally dependent ex<'iii- 
 sively upon one anotlier. 'I'liis association 
 seemed not unpitMsant to cither of them; 
 ev(!ry day it gained a new eliMrm; and at 
 length both runw to look forward to this as 
 the chief pleasuni of their lives, lor Edith 
 there was no other com))anion than Dinlleigh 
 in Dalton Mali with whimi she could asso- 
 ciate on c(|u;il terms; he bad strong claims 
 now on her ('(Hitidence, and even on iier grat- 
 itude; and while he was tiius the only one 
 to whom she emild look for companionship, 
 she also bore the same relation to him. 
 
 There' was something in the look and in 
 the manner of Dndleigh in these interviews 
 whi<'h might have moved a colder nature 
 than that of Edith. Wiienevcr he entered 
 and greeted her, his face was overs]>read by 
 a radiant ex)U'ession (hat sjioke of Joy ami 
 delight. Whenever tlicy met, his face told 
 all (he feelings <d" his heart. Yet never in 
 any way, either by word or act, did he ven- 
 
 ture 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 lier pres- 
 ence, and in the peace and calm that came 
 over him while she was near. Elsewhere it 
 wasditferent with him. Whenever she hart 
 seen his face outside — ami that had been oft- 
 en, for she had often seen him riding or walk- 
 ing in front of the windows — she had nuirked 
 how care-worn and sad its expression was ; 
 she had marked a cloud of melancholy upon 
 his brow, that bore witness to sonui 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 to- 
 ward her was overspread with joy. Could 
 it be any other than herself who made this 
 change? 
 
 There was something in tlie manner of this 
 man toward her which was nothing less than 
 adoration. Th(! delicate grace of his address, 
 the deep reverence of his look, the intona- 
 tions of his voice, tremulous with an emo- 
 tion that arose fnun the profoundest depths 
 of his nature, all bore witness to this. For 
 w h(Mi he spoke to her, even abotit the most 
 trilling things, there »va8 that in his t(Uio 
 w hich showed that the subject upon which 
 he was s]»eaking was nothing, but t]u\ one 
 to whom he was sjieaking was all in all. Ib^ 
 stood before her like one with a fervid na- 
 ture, intense in its passion, and i)rofouml in 
 all its emotion, who uiuler a calm exterior 
 concealed a glow of feeling which burned in 
 his heart like a consuming (ire — a feeling 
 that was kept under resti-:iint by the force 
 of will, but .. !<ich, if freed from restraint but 
 for one monieiu, would burst forth and liear 
 down all before it. 
 
 Weeks i)assed away, but amidst all the in- 
 tinuicy of their association there nevi-r aji- 
 jieared the slightest ;ittempt on his p;irt to 
 pass beyond the limits wliieh he had set for 
 iiinisell'. Another man undei' such circum- 
 stances might have venfm'ed upon some- 
 thing like a greater familiarity, hut with 
 this niiin there was no such attempt. After 
 nil their interviews he still stood in s)iirit 
 at a distance, with the same deep reverence 
 in his look, and the siime prol'ound adoration 
 in his manner, regarding her as one might 
 H'gard a divinity. For Dndleigh stood afar 
 otV, yet like a worship<'r — far otV, as thonj;!. 
 he deemed that divinity (d" his inaet'cssible — 
 yet none the less did his devotion make it- 
 self uninifest. All this wiis not to lie seen 
 in his words, but rather in his miinner, ii>. 
 the exiwessiou of his fac(>, and ii, iin ;stii- 
 tude of his smil, as it became nninifest to her 
 whom he adored. 
 
 I'or she ecudd not but see it; in mntters 
 of this sort woman's eyes are keen ; but here 
 
148 
 
 THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 any one might have perceived the deep de- 
 votion of Dudleigh. The servants saw it, 
 and talked about it. What was plain to 
 them cotdd not but be visible to her. She 
 saw it — she knew it — and what then ? Cer- 
 tainly it Avas not displeasing. The homage 
 thus paid was too delicate to give oft'onsc ; it 
 was of that kind which is most tiattcring to 
 the heart, which never grows familiar, but 
 is insinuated or suggested rather than ex- 
 pressed. 
 
 It was consoling to her lonely heart to see 
 one like this, who, whenever sjie appeared, 
 would i)as8 from a state of sadness to one of I 
 happiness ; to see his eloquent eyes fixed 
 upon her with a devotion beyond wonls ; to 
 hear his voice, whicli, while it spoke the \ 
 commonplaces of welcome, was yet in its 
 tremulous tones expressive of a meaning very 
 difterent from that which lay in the words. 
 Naturally enough, she was toijhi'd 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 h(^r 
 father, but also with regard to the conduct 
 of the estate. Thus many varicul subjects 
 grew up for their consideration, and gradu- 
 ally the things about which they conversed 
 grew more and more personal. Beginning 
 with Mr. Ualton, they at last ended with 
 themselves, and Dudleigh on many occa- 
 sions found opportunity of advising Edith 
 on matters where her owu personal interest 
 or welfare was concerned. 
 
 Thus their intinuicy deepened constantly 
 from the very necessities of their ])osition. 
 
 Then there was the constant anxiety which 
 each felt and cxprcs.sed about the health of 
 the other. Each had urgi-d the otlur 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. Nevertlieless, the subji^ct of one an- 
 other's health still remained. Dudleigh in- 
 sisted that Edith had not yet recovered, 
 that she was nothing better than a conva- 
 lescent, and tliat she ought not to risk such 
 close confinement. Edith, on the contrary, 
 insisted that she was able to do far more, 
 and that tlie confinement was injuring him 
 far nuu'e than herself. On one occasion she 
 asked him what he thought would beeonie 
 of her if he too became ill, and the care of 
 the two should thus (h^volve upon her. 
 
 At this remark, which escaped Edith in 
 tlio excitement of an argument about the 
 interesting subject of one another's Iwalth, 
 Dudh'igh's face lighted ujt. He looked at 
 her with an exi)ression (hat H)tok(> more 
 than words could tell. Yet he said nothing. 
 He said nothing in words, but his ey<>s spokt* 
 an intelligible language, and she could well 
 understand what was thus expressed. 
 
 What was it that they said f 
 
 O loved! and O adored beyond weak 
 words! O divinity of mine! th(^y said. If 
 death should bo the end of this, then such 
 death would be sweet, if I could but die in 
 your presence! O loved and longed for! 
 thoy said. Between us there is an impass- 
 able 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 ftir 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 
 tog(!ther. This he had hesitat»!d to do on 
 account of Mr. Daltcm. Yet, after all, there 
 was no necessity for them to be there .al- 
 ways. Mr. Dalton, in his stupor, was uncon- 
 scious of their presence, and their abs(?nce 
 could therefore make no difterence to him, 
 either with regard to his feelings or the at- 
 tention which he rec(dvcd. When Dudleigh 
 made his proposal, he mentioned this also, 
 and Edith saw at once its truth. She there- 
 fore consented quite readily, and with a 
 gratification that she made no attempt to 
 coui'cal. 
 
 Why should she not? She had known 
 enough of sorrow. Dalton Hall had thus 
 far been to her nothing else than a jirison- 
 house. Why should it not atl'ord her sonu; 
 jdeasure as an offset to former pain? Here 
 was an opjxjrtunity of obtaining at last some 
 conii)ensati()n. She could go forth into the 
 bright free open air undt^r the protection 
 of one whose loyalty and disvotion had l)een 
 sutliciently proved. Could she hope for any 
 plcasant'cr coni])anion ? 
 
 Thus a new turn took place in the lives 
 of these two. The mornings they passed in 
 Mr. Dalton's room, an<l in the afternoons, ex- 
 cept when therti was unpleasant weather, 
 they went out together. Sometimes the,v 
 strolled through the grouiuls, down the lord- 
 ly avenues, and dyvt the soft swetit mead- 
 ows ; at other times they went on horseback. 
 The grouiuls wer<^ extensive and beautiful, 
 but confinement within the park indosure 
 was attended with uni>leasant memories, 
 and so, in the ordinary com things, 
 
 they naturally sought the wider, iiocr world 
 outside. 
 
 Tlu> country around Dalton Hall was ex- 
 ceedingly beautiful, and rich in all those 
 peculiar English charms whosts (luiet grace 
 is so attractivt! to the refined taste. Edith 
 had never enjoyed any oi)portiiiiity of see- 
 ing all this, and now it opened before her 
 lik<' a new world. Formerly, during her long 
 im]>risoiiinent, she had learniMl to think of 
 that outside world as one which was full 
 of (>very thing that was most delightful; 
 tluue freedom dwelt ; and that thought was 
 (>noiigh to niak<! it fair and sweet to her. So 
 the prisoner always thinks of that which 
 
THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 149 
 
 lies beyond his prison walls, and imagines 
 that if he were once in that outer worUl he 
 ■would be in the possession of perfect hap- 
 pin(;ss. 
 
 Horseback riding has advantages which 
 make it superior to every other kind of ex- 
 ercise. On foot one is limited and restrain- 
 ed, 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 tiack. But on horseback all is dif- 
 ferent. There one has something of the 
 comfort of the carriage ard loaiething 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 r.apid pace can alternate with 
 the slowest ; the highway no longer forms 
 bounds to the journey ; distance is no obsta- 
 cle 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 
 ])lea8nre; for he himself seems to sympa- 
 thize 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 com- 
 panion, and the country was oue which af- 
 forded the best opportunity for such exer- 
 cise. Dudleigh was, as has been said, a first- 
 rate horseman, and managed his steed like 
 one who had been brought up from child- 
 hood to that accomplishment. Editli also 
 had always been fond of riding; at school 
 she had been distinguished above all the 
 others for her skill and dash in tills respect; 
 and there were few i)laces where, if Dudleigh 
 led, she would not follow. 
 
 All the jdeasure of this noble exercise was 
 thus enjoyed by both of them to the fullest 
 extent. There was an exhilaration in it 
 which ea('h felt eciually. The excitement 
 of the ra])id gallop or the full run, the (|uiet 
 sociability of the slow walk, the peifect 
 freedom of movement in almost any direc- 
 tion, Wisre all appreciated by one as much 
 !i.s by the other. Then, too, the country it- 
 self was of that character which was best 
 :idai>ted to give pleasure. There were broad 
 public, roads, hard, smooth, and shadowed 
 by ()V('rarcliing trees — roads such as are the 
 glory of England, and with which no other 
 country has any that can compare. Thtdi 
 there were by-roads leading from one pub- 
 li(^ road to another, as smooth and as shad- 
 owy as the: others, but far more inviting, 
 since tliey presented greater seclusion aiul 
 scenes of more quiet picturesque beauty. 
 
 Here they encountered pleasant lanes lead- 
 ing through peaceful sequestered valleys, 
 beside gently flowing streams and babbling 
 brooks, where the trees overarched most 
 grandly and the shade was most refresh- 
 ing. Here they loved best to turn, ami move 
 slowly onward at a pace best suited to quiet 
 observation and agreeable conversatiou. 
 
 Such a change from the confinement of 
 Dalton Hall and Dalton Park was unspeaka- 
 bly 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 Diulleigh, since she had 
 felt those horrors of imprisonment which he 
 had not. These rides through the wide coun- 
 try, 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 jdeasures of this free and unre- 
 strained existence. So in these rides she 
 was always joyous, always gsiy, and even en- 
 thusiastic. It was to her like the dawn of 
 a new life, and into that life she threw her- 
 self with an abandonment of feeling that 
 evinced itself in unrestrained enjoyment of 
 every thing that presented itself to her view. 
 
 Dudleigh, lio wever, was very dift'erent. lu 
 him there had always appeared a certain re- 
 s<^:aint. His manner toward Edith had that 
 devotion and respect which have already 
 Ken described ; he was as profound and sin- 
 cere in his homage and as tender in his loy- 
 alty 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 al- 
 ways 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 fonnulas of polite- 
 ness. His tru(! meaning lay behind or be- 
 neath his words. His (|uiet manner was 
 tlien^fore not the sign of an unemotional na- 
 ture, lint rather of strong passion reined in 
 and kei)t in check by a jtowerful will, the 
 sign and token of a nature which had com- 
 jdete 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 finding, the other with his solf- 
 conunand, his profouiul devotion. Their 
 tastes were alike. By a conmion impulse 
 they sought the same woodland paths, or di- 
 rected their course to Iho same i)i('turesque 
 scenes; they admired the same beautitis, or 
 turned away with equal indifi'crence from 
 
 I 
 
 
150 
 
 THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 t-he 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 Plyraptou 
 Terrace. 
 
 Riding about thus every where, these two 
 became conspicuous. The ])ublic mind was 
 more puzzled than ever. Those who main- 
 tained that Dudleigh was an impostor felt 
 their confidence greatly shaken, and could 
 only murmur something about its being 
 done " for effect," aud " to throw dust into 
 the eyes of people;" while those who be- 
 lieved in him asserted their belief more 
 strongly than ever, and declared that the 
 unhappy differences which had existed be- 
 tween husband and wife had passed away, 
 uud terminated in a perfect recouciliatiou. 
 
 CHAPTER L. 
 
 A TEUUIBLE ADVENTUUK. 
 
 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 eaeli 
 seemed resolved upon enjoying it to the ut- 
 most 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 neart^st 
 village to have him reshod. Tliey 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, stand- 
 ing in the open doorway, one could see up 
 the eutire length of the village. 
 
 Here they dismounted, and found the far- 
 rier. Unforttmately the shoe had been lost, 
 and the farrier had none, so that ho had to 
 make one for the occasion. This took up 
 much time, and Edith and Dudleigh strolled 
 up and down the village, stood on the bridge, 
 aud wandered about, frequently returning to 
 the smithy to see how the work was pro- 
 gressing. 
 
 The last time they came they found that 
 the smith was nearly through his work. 
 They 8too<l watchiug him as he was driving 
 in one of the lost nails, feeling a kind of in- 
 dolent curiosity in the work, when suddenly 
 there arose in the road behind them a fright- 
 ful 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 teniblo sight burst <ipon them. 
 
 As they lookcid 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 ruost terrible sights that can appear 
 to the eye of man — a mad dog ! 
 
 The smith gave a yell of IxMTor, and sprang 
 to a window that looked out of the rear of 
 the smithy into the stream. Through this 
 he tlung 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 anx- 
 ious 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 Hung 
 himself before Edith. There was no time 
 to seize any weapon. He had to face the 
 dog unarmed, in his own unassisted strengtii. 
 As for Edith, she stood paralyzed with uit'T 
 horror. 
 
 On came the mad dog, and with a horrible 
 snajjpinu- howl, sprang straight at Dudleigh. 
 
 But Dudleigh was prepared. As the dog 
 sjjrang he hit straight out at him " from the 
 shoulder," aud dealt him a tremendous blow 
 on the throat with his clinched fist. The 
 blow hurled the animal over aiul 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 ott", 
 staring in unspeakable horror, not one of 
 them daring to interfere. 
 
 But the terror which had at first frozen 
 Edith into stone now gave waj' to another 
 feeling, a terror quite as strong, but which, 
 instead of congealing her into iimction, 
 roused her to frenzied exertion. Dudleigh's 
 life was at stake! Terror for herself was 
 lianUysis to her limbs ; terror for him was 
 tlie nuulness of desperate exertion and 
 daring. 
 
 She sprang toward one of the by-standers, 
 who had a knife in his hand. his knife 
 she snatched from him, and rushed toward 
 Dudleigh. The dog was still writhing in 
 
 his 
 in 
 
THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 151 
 
 his furious strujjRles. Dudleigh was still 
 holding; hini dowu, and clutching at bis 
 throat with death-like tenacity. For a nio- 
 inont she paused, and tluMi 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 
 Ids eiforts, and iu a few moments lay dead 
 iu the road. 
 
 Dudleigh rose to his feet. There was in 
 his face an expression of pain and appre- 
 liension. The villagers stood aloof, staring 
 at him with awful eyes. No word of cou- 
 gratulatiou was spoken. The silence was 
 <miinous; it was terrible. Edith was struck 
 most of all by the expression of Dudleigh's 
 face, aud 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, 
 aud the bloody knife dropped from her 
 nerveless hands. But the horror passed, 
 and (Mice more, as before, was succeeded by 
 vehement action. She sprang to her feet, 
 and caught at his coat as he walked away. 
 
 He turned, witli downcast eyes. 
 
 "O my God!" she exclaimed, in anguish, 
 " you are wounded — you are bitten — aiul by 
 that — " She ccmld not finish her sentence. 
 
 Dudleigh gave her an awful look. 
 
 "You will die! you Avill die!" she almost 
 screamed. "Oh, can not something be done? 
 Let mo look at your arm. Oh, let mo exam- 
 ine it — let mo see where it is! Show me — 
 tel' me what I can do." 
 
 LMidleigh had turned to enter the smithy 
 as Edith had arrested him, and now, stand- 
 ing tliere in the doorway, he gently disen- 
 gaged 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 ndled 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 wouiul, fresh- 
 ly made, showed the source of the blood 
 stains, and told at what a terrible price he 
 had rescued her from the fierce boast. Ho 
 had coiujnered, but not easily, for lie 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 de- 
 spair. Slie took his arm in her hands. Dud- 
 loigli did not withdraw it. Even at that mo- 
 ment of horror it seemed sweet to him to 
 see these signs of feeling (m 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 iu her bands, and the 
 terrible wound fascinated her eyes with 
 hoiTor. 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 an- 
 nouncement to her that henceforth Dud- 
 leigh was lost to her; that ho must die — 
 die by a death so horrible that its horrors 
 surpassed language and even imagination, 
 and that this unutterable doom had beeu 
 drawn down uiion him for her. 
 
 It had been terrible. Out of pleasant 
 thoughts aud genial conversation and gen- 
 tle smiles and hap))y interchange of senti- 
 ment, out of the joy of a glad day, out of 
 the delight of golden hours and sunlight 
 aiul beauty and peace — to be plunged sud- 
 denly into a woe like this I 
 
 There came to her a Mild and desperate 
 thought. Only one idea was in her mind — 
 to save Dudleigh, to snatch this dear friend 
 from tlie death to which he had flung him- 
 self 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 iu the mind of 
 Edith, and it was in her agonized heart at 
 that moment to save Dudleigh even as El- 
 eanor 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, ho 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 i)eeu convinced. 
 
 The discovery flashed suddenly, vividly 
 across his mind. He recognized in chat 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 
 unuttera))le, which amidst liis agony sent a 
 thrill of rapture through every nerve. 
 
 It was but for a moment. 
 
 He gently withdrew his arm. She looked 
 at him rejjroachfully aud imploringly. He 
 turned away his face firmly. 
 
 "Will you leave me for a moment. Miss 
 Dalton f" 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, aud 
 looked at him with the same expression. 
 
 " Leave me — (di, leave me," he said, " for 
 one moment I It is not fit for you." 
 
 She did not move. 
 
 Dudleigh could wait no longer. His soul 
 was roused up to a desperate purpose, but 
 the execution of that purpose could not be 
 
152 
 
 THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 nn| 
 pec 
 onti 
 
 noti 
 eye| 
 wif 
 
 He I 
 
 knc 
 
 She 
 
 life I 
 
 Shel 
 
 was 
 
 ble 
 anyl 
 thisl 
 rest I 
 
 XIIGim WAS TUB HISS OF SOMKTIIINU SCUUCIIIKC. 
 
 delayed. He sprang to the fire. One of 
 the irons had been imbedded there in the 
 glowing coals. He had seen this in his de- 
 spair, and h.ad started toward it, wlien Edith 
 detained him. This iron be snatched out. 
 It was at a white heat, dazzUufg in its 
 glow. 
 
 ..In an instant he plunged this at the 
 woiind. A low cry like a nmflHed gi'oan 
 was wnmfi (Vom the spectators, who watch- 
 ed the act with eyes of utter horror. 
 
 There was the liiss 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 
 Mucins Scmvola 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 liad been a statue fash- 
 ioned in that attitude. Thus he fiuished his 
 work. 
 
 It was all over in a few seconds. Then 
 Dudleigh turned, with his face ghastly white, 
 and big drops of i)er8piration, wrung out by 
 that agony, standing over his brow. He 
 flung down the iron. 
 
 At the same moment Edith, yielding alto- 
 gether to the horror tliat had hitherto over- 
 whelmed her, fell senseless to the floor. 
 
 By this time some among the crowd had 
 regained the use of their faculties, and these 
 advanced to off"er their services. Dudleigh 
 was able to direct them to take Edith to 
 some shelter, and while thoy di<l so he fol- 
 
 lowed. Edith after some time revived. A 
 doctor was sent for, who examined Dud- 
 leigh's arm, and praised him for his prompt 
 action, while wondering at his daring. Ho 
 bound it up, and gave some general direc- 
 tions. 
 
 Meanwhile a messenger had been sent to 
 Dalton Hull for the carriage. Edith, though 
 she had revived, hardly felt strong enough 
 for horseback, and Dudleigh's ami was suffi- 
 ciently painful to make him prefer as great 
 a degree of quiet as possible. When the 
 carriage came, therefore, it was witli feel- 
 ings 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 had 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, remem- 
 bered that movement of hers, by which she 
 was about to take the poison from his wound 
 unto herself. The ai)palliug 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 
 
THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 183 
 
 Hnpnralleled 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 Dndleigh. 
 He was an impostor. Edith did not oven 
 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 lia- 
 ble to discovery, arrest, and punishment at 
 any time. She knew that the discovery of 
 this man would endanger herself. His ar- 
 rest would involve hers, and she would once 
 more be tried for her life, as the murderer 
 of the missing man, with the additional dis- 
 advantage of having already eluded justice 
 by a trick. She was liable at any moment 
 to this, for the missing man was still miss- 
 ing, 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-devotiou. 
 From the very first his face had revealed to 
 her that ho had ent(*ed upon this conspiracy 
 for her sake. And ■bice then, for her sake, 
 what had he not do™? 
 
 Thns, then, they wore both in a position 
 of peril. They loved one another passion- 
 ately. But they could not possess one an- 
 other. The world supposed them man and 
 wife, but the law made her the wife of an- 
 other, 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 (!al- 
 ed, Dudleigh had spoken in words what ho 
 had repressed so long, and Edith had con- 
 fessed 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 difliculties 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 bo 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 wo have most to dread. One has tried 
 to find some trace of L( on ; 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." 
 
 CHAPTER LL 
 
 IMPOKTANT NEWS. 
 
 TirR position of Edith and Dudleigh was 
 of such a character that further inaction was 
 felt to be intolerable, and it was only the 
 hope of hearing from those who were already 
 engaged in the work tiiat 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 improve- 
 ment in the condition of Mr. Dulton. A suc- 
 cessful operation perlbrmed upon him had 
 the result of restoring him to con.sciousnoss, 
 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 i)rostration, 
 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 in- 
 flicted upon him, would yet bo the means 
 of giving some happiness to him who had 
 suflered so 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 even- 
 ing, 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 men- 
 tion 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 se*^ me, and told me all about it. 
 The iuforniatiou was of the most extraordi- 
 nary kind. It appears that in the course of 
 her own iiuiuiries she h.ad 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, 
 
154 
 
 THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 as no sticli teamster, or box, or dopj, lia<l been 1 
 Keen in Dalton, hIio be^an to siisiicet that it 
 liad Horr -tbinj^ to do with the reuuiiiis found 
 in the well, and that this wludo matter was 
 a malignant scheme of Leon's to involve 
 you or your father, or both, in some calami- 
 ty. At any rate, she lierNtlf went cautiously 
 about, and tried to investigate for lu'rself. 
 8ho had all along felt convin('(!d that Leon 
 Avas alive, aiul she felt eqmilly convinced 
 that lie was capable of any malignant act 
 for the purpose of wreaking his vengeance 
 on you or your father. He had been battled 
 here, and had sworn vengeance. That 
 luucli your father t(dd me before the trial. 
 
 " So Miss Fortescuo searched very careful- 
 ly, and at length made a very important dis- 
 covery. A few miles this side of Finsbury 
 there is a grove, through which the Ualton 
 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 ad- 
 mit a cart. Struck by this, she followed the 
 marks of the wheels into the grove for some 
 distance, until they stopped. Here, to her 
 surprise, she saw close by the Dalton Park 
 wall an oblong box, jtist like the one which 
 bad been described to her. It was empty, 
 aud had beeu left here. 
 
 " Now why had it been loft hero ? Miss 
 Fortescuo 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 
 seci-et way to start the rumors that had pre- 
 vailed, and to drop some hints, either by 
 anonymous letters to the sheriti' or oth(!r- 
 wise, which turned their attention to the 
 well. She saw at once how important this 
 testimony would be in your favor, and , here- 
 fore saw the Finsbury people who had told 
 her of the teamster, and with these she came 
 to the trial. But when she came she hoard 
 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 be- 
 lieve that this was his w<»rk. But now when 
 I recall his last words to me, I can ruider- 
 stand it, and I am forced to believe it." 
 
 " His last words to you V said Dudleigh, 
 iu an inquiring tone. 
 
 " Yes," said Edith, with a sigh. " The re- 
 membrance of that night is so distressing 
 that I have never felt able to speak of it. 
 Even the thought of what I suttered then 
 almost drives mo wild ; but now— and to 
 you, Reginald — it is different, aud I have 
 strengtli to speak of it."* 
 
 As she said this she looked at him ten- 
 derly, and Reginald folded her in his arms. 
 She then began to give an account of tliat 
 eventful night, of her long preparations, her 
 suspense, her (h^i)arttire, until that moment 
 when she saw that she was pursued. The 
 remainder only need bo given here. 
 
 She had been right ii> her conjectures. 
 Leon had suspected, or at least had watch- 
 ed, and discovered all. Tlie moonlight had 
 reveahsd her plainly as she stole acioss the 
 open area, and when shti lied into the woods 
 the rustling and crackling had betrayed the 
 direction which she had taken. Thus it 
 was that Leon had been able to pursnts her, 
 and his fust snnring words as he came up 
 to her made her acquainted with her awk- 
 wardness. The trees were not so close but 
 that her figiue could be seen ; the moon- 
 light 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, aiul 
 tried to conceal his cowardice in taunts aud 
 sneers. 
 
 Edith said nothing for some time, but at 
 last, seeing that Leon hesitated, sh(! d(^ter- 
 mined to continue her flight iu spite of him, 
 and informed him so. 
 
 Upon this he threatened to set the dog on 
 her. 
 
 " lie will tear ycm to pieces," cried Leon. 
 "No one will suspect that I had any thing 
 to do with it. Every body will believe that 
 iu 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 aft'ec- 
 tions by various little acts of kindness. So 
 now, in response to Leon's threats, sh(! 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 infuri- 
 ated, and tried to set him at Edith. But 
 the dog would not obey. Leon then held 
 him, pointing his head toward Edith, and 
 doing all in his power to urge him on. The 
 eftbrt, however, was completely useless. 
 Edith, seeing this, hurried away. Leon rush- 
 ed 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 terril)le beating. Wild Avith 
 indignant rage at his cowardice, brutality, 
 and persistent pursuit, full also of i)ity for 
 the poor animal Avho was suffering for love 
 of her, Edith sprang forward at Leon as 
 though she wouhl 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 teixible threats of 
 
 veul 
 
 btrJ 
 
 peal 
 
 "I 
 
 "mJ 
 
 kill] 
 T 
 did I 
 starl 
 her. 
 himJ 
 Avooq 
 lengl 
 alnnf 
 This! 
 
THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 ir)5 
 
 vengeance. Among all tlirse she remem- 
 bered well one exi)i-e8»ion, wLieh ho re- 
 peated over and over. 
 
 "Yon'vo threatened my life!" ho cried. 
 " My life Hhall lie at your door, if I have to 
 kill myself." 
 
 ThiH ho said over and over. Hut Edith 
 did not wait nineh longtir. 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 wandtjnid about through 
 woods and swamps for a long time, and at 
 length, alxnit the dawn of day, when she had 
 almost lost all hope, sho came to the wall. 
 This she clambered over by means of her 
 rope and hook, and reaclH^d the D iltou luu 
 in the condition already described. 
 
 Afterward, when sho heard that Leon was 
 missing, and when she was confronted with 
 the remains, tho Avholo horror of her situa- 
 tion burst upon her mind. Her first thought 
 was that ho had in his desperate rage actu- 
 ally killed Iiimself ; but tho absence of the 
 head showed that this was impossible. There 
 remained after tliis a deep mystery, tho solu- 
 tion of which sho could not discover, but in 
 tho mi<lst of which she could not fail to see 
 how terribly circumstances bore against her. 
 8he wiis afraid to say any thing. Sho knew 
 tliat if she told all she would bo believed 
 but in part. If she confessed that sho had 
 seen him, and had quarreled with him on 
 that night, then all men would conclude that 
 she had also mur<lered 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. 13eing in ignorance of her 
 father and Lady Dudleigli, she had supposed 
 that they would bo most rehsntless of all in 
 doing her to death ; and tho excitement of 
 tho latter over the loss of Leon was never 
 suspected by her to bo tho frenzied grief of 
 a mother's heart over a sudden and most 
 agoui/.ing bereavement. 
 
 But now .all these things wore plain. An- 
 other 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 tho mystery. 
 
 After the natural comments which were 
 elicited by Edith's strange story, Regiuiild 
 showed her the letter which he had received 
 from Miss Fortescue. It was not very long, 
 nor was it very delinite. It mcirely iufonucd 
 him that sho had reason to believi; that sho 
 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 sho would meet him three 
 days from tho date of tho letter, whore she 
 would wait several days to allow for all do- 
 lay in his recei)tion of the letter. The place 
 which she mentioned was known to Regi- 
 nald as the nearest station ou the railway 
 to Dudleigh Manor. 
 
 "This must decide all," said Reginald. 
 " They an< ]ilaying a desperate ganu), and the 
 part which nuist be done by my mother and 
 myself is a terrible one. If we fail in this, 
 we may have to fly at once. Hut if I can 
 oidy see Leon once, so as to drag him before 
 the world, and show that he is alive — if I 
 I can only save yon, darling, from your terri- 
 ble position, then I can bear otlier evils in 
 patience for a time longer." 
 
 " Yon have heard nothing from your moth- 
 er, then ?" said Edith. 
 
 "No," said he, with a sigh. "And I feel 
 anxious— terribly anxicuis. I was very un- 
 willing for her to go, and warned her against 
 it; but she was determined, and her reasons 
 fordoing so were unanswerabh;; 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." 
 
 XIIEY WERi; STARXr.KD IIY THE AI'l'JiUACH 
 OF SEVERAL MEN." 
 
 CHAPTER LII. 
 
 TIIK STOUV OF FHKDKIiICK DAMON. 
 
 Aftkk Dudh'igli's dei)arture 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 conlidences 
 between these two, who had once been so 
 separated, all was gr.idually 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 Lerself. 
 
166 
 
 THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 Lionel Dndleigh and ho ha<l been fticnds 
 from boyhood, tlionjjh the weak and lavish 
 character of the former liad gradnaliy pnt 
 them upon divergent lines of life, wliich 
 even Lionel's marriage with hia sister, Clau- 
 dine Dalton, could not bring together again. 
 For Lionel liad fallen into evil ccnirscs, and 
 had taken to the coiunion 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 
 Dndleigh — Reginald and Leon ; yet not even 
 the cousiderations of their future welfare, 
 which usually have weight with the most 
 corrui>t, were sufiiciently powerful to draw 
 back the transgressor from his bad career. 
 
 Ho 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 Freder- 
 ick Dalton was the one who came forward to 
 save his sister's husbaud and his old friend 
 from destruction. 
 
 On this occasion, however, Lionel was not 
 frank with Dalton. Perhaps ho 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, set- 
 tled every thing, Lionel was jjressed 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 wretch- 
 ed 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 specilied. This 
 Dalton did at once, withoiit hesitation or 
 suspicion of any sort. 
 
 Then came the discovery, swift and sud- 
 den, that it was a forgery. But one feel- 
 ing arose in Dalton's mind, and that was a 
 desire to save Lionel. He hurried oflf at 
 once to see him. The wretched man con- 
 fessed all. Dalton at once went to Liver- 
 pool, where he saw Mr. Henderson, and tried 
 to save his friend. He came away from that 
 interview, however,only to make known to 
 Lionel the banker^Wwtiuacy and resolution 
 to have vengeance. 
 
 Dalton's solicitor in Liverpool was Mr. 
 John Wiggins. Lionel's presence in Liver- 
 pool 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 difHculty. The 
 interview never took place, however, nor was 
 Wiggins aware of Lionel's presence in Liver- 
 pool, or of his guilt. Then the murder took 
 place, and the paper was found which crim- 
 inated 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. Hi; knew 
 perfectly well who the nnirderer was. The 
 Maltese cross which had been fonnil was 
 not necessary to show him this. No other 
 man could have had any motive, and no 
 other man could have thought of mention- 
 ing his name in connection with the ter- 
 rible deed. It was thus that Dalton found 
 himself betrayed in the foulest manner, 
 through no other cause than his own gener- 
 osity. 
 
 The horror of Mrs. Dndleigh on hearing 
 of her brother's arrest was excessive. She 
 went off at once to see hinj. Ev(!n to her 
 Dalton said nothing about Lionel's guilt, 
 for he wished to spare her the cruel bio;? 
 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 acquit- 
 ted. Ho believed that where there was no 
 guilt, no such thing as guilt could bo proved. 
 He relied also on his well-known reputation. 
 
 Feeling thus confident of his own inno- 
 cence, and certain of acquittal, ho had only 
 to ask himself what he ought to do with ref- 
 erence to liionel. Strict justice demanded 
 that he should tell all that ho 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 wa« 
 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 overwhelm- 
 ing 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. Dnd- 
 leigh. That Maltese cross w.is 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 an- 
 swered not a word. Slie 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 chil- 
 dren, to say nothing. She allowed herself 
 to be convinced by him, and to yield to en- 
 treaties uttered by the very accused himself, 
 and in the name of her children. She be- 
 lieved 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, th«! 
 new trial followed. Here Dalton tried to 
 keep np his confidence as before. His coun- 
 
THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 187 
 
 H(!l implored liini to help tlicm in nialfin^ 
 liiH dcftiiiHo by ttilliuK tlicm wliat ln> liimw, 
 but Dulton remained fatally obtttinutu. 
 Priuidly eontidin^ in hi.s innoceneo, nnd 
 trnstinj^ to liiH blamelesH life, he still hesi- 
 tated to do what he considered an uet of 
 mereiicHs erntdty to his sister, and ho still 
 persuaded her also to silence, and still proph- 
 esied his own aciiuittal, and the rescue of 
 her husband and children from ruin. Part 
 of his ))rophecy was fullilled. The husband 
 and children of the sister were indettd saved, 
 but it was at the expense of the iuuoceut 
 and devoted brother. 
 
 The eflect was terrible. Dalton heard of 
 his wife's illin^ss. He liad writt(!n to her 
 before, full of eonlidenee, and tryinju; to cheer 
 her ; but from the lirst Mrs. IJalton had look- 
 ed for the worst ; not that she supposed her 
 husband could possibly be otherwise than 
 innocent, but sim]>ly because she was timid 
 and afraid of the; law. She had f^ood reason 
 to fear. Word was brought to Dalton that 
 she was dying, and then the uowa came that 
 she was dead. 
 
 Meanwliile Mrs. Dndleigh, more frenzied 
 than ever. Hew to see her husband. She 
 found that he had gone to the Continent. 
 She pirsued him, and reached him in Italy. 
 Here she called upon him to confess his 
 guilt, and save his innocent friend. He re- 
 fused. He dared not. She threatened to 
 denounce him. He fell at her feet and im- 
 plored her mercy in the name of their chil- 
 dren. 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 husbaiul in 
 horror, she returned to England with the 
 fixed intention of telling every thing. His 
 letter to Ualton could have been shown, and 
 the Maltese cross could have proved who 
 the murderer was. IJut Mrs. Dudleigh's 
 courag<! faltered when she reached lier home 
 and saw her children. Already she had 
 heard of Mrs. Daltou's death ; already she 
 knew well that Edith Dalton was doomed 
 to inherit a name of shame, a legacy of dis- 
 honor, and that she alone could now avert 
 this. But to avert tliis 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 stand- 
 ing in the way and keeping her back. 
 
 Her struggles were agou' "ing. Time passed 
 on ; the delay was fatal. Time i)a8sed, and 
 the distracted' mother conld not make up her 
 miud to deal out ruin and shame to her chil- 
 dren. Time passed, and Dalton was taken 
 away to that far-distant country to which 
 he had been sentenctnl — transported fi)r 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. Ho was 
 
 now Sir Lionel Dndleigh, and she was Lady 
 Dndleigh; and her bn)ther — the pure in 
 heart, the noble, the devoted — what and 
 where was ho f 
 
 The struggle was ter.-ihle, and she conld 
 not deciide it. It seeme<l abhorrent for her 
 to rise up and tlenounce her husband, even 
 to save her brother. She could not do it, 
 Itut sli(( did what she (Mtuld. She wrote her 
 husband a letter, bidding him farewell, and 
 imploring him to confess ; took her son Reg- 
 inald, the eldest, leaving behind the youn- 
 ger, Leon, nnd pn-pared 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 faiiuly, and with him and 
 Kegimild went to Australia. 
 
 Mt-anwhile Dalt(ui had been in the conn- 
 try for a year. Kcdore leaving he had not 
 been unnundfiil of others v\v\i in that diro 
 extremity. He had only one thought, and 
 that was his chihl. He had learned that 
 Miss Plympton had takiMi her, and ho 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 ap- 
 pointed Wiggins agcuit for his estates and 
 guardian of Edith before he left ; and having 
 thus secured her interests for the present, ho 
 went to meet his fate. 
 
 In Sydney he was treated very dift'erently 
 from the common convicts. Criminals of 
 all classes were sent out there, and to the 
 better sort largo privileges were allowed. 
 Dalton was felt by all to ho a man of the 
 I latter kind. His dignitied bearing, his pol- 
 ish and retinement, together with the well- 
 known fact that ho had so resolutely main- 
 tained his innocence, all excited sympathy 
 and respect. 
 
 When Lady Dndleigh arrived there with 
 Hugo and her son, she soon found out this, 
 and this fact enabled her to carry into exe- 
 cution a plan which she had cherished all 
 along during the voyage. Sho obtained a 
 sheep farm about a huiulred miles away, ap- 
 plie(l to the autlKU'ities, and was al)le to hire 
 Dalton as a servant. Taking him in this 
 caj)acity, she went with him to the sheep 
 farm, where Hugo and Reginald also accom- 
 panied them. One more was afterward add- 
 ed. This was the man " Wilkins," who had 
 been sentenced to transportation for poach- 
 ing, and had come out in the same ship with 
 Dalton. Lady Dndleigh obtained this man 
 also, under Daltou's advice, and he ultimate- 
 ly proved of great assistance to them. 
 
 Here in this place years passed away. 
 Daltou's only thought was of his daughter. 
 The short formal notes which wore signed 
 "John Wiggins," all came from him. Ho 
 could not trust himself to do any more. The 
 sweet childish letters which she wrote onco 
 or twice he kept next his heart, and cher- 
 ished as more precious tivMi any earthly 
 
158 
 
 THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 possession, l)ri «lare(l not answer for fear 
 lest he mif^lit break that profound secret 
 which ho wished to be maintained between 
 her and himself — her, the i)ure young girl, 
 himself, the dishonored outcast. So the 
 years passed, and he watche<l her from afar 
 in his tluinghts, 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 w.as Reginald. 
 
 From the lirst he had known the whcde 
 story — more than Leon had known. Lc(m 
 had known his father's guilt and Dalton's 
 innocence, but Reginald had been the eon- 
 lidaut of his mother, the witness of her grief 
 and her despair. He had lived with Dal- 
 ton, and y(!ar after year had been the wit- 
 ness of a Hpectaclo which never ceased to 
 excite the deepest emotion, that of an inno- 
 cent man, a just man, surtering wrongfully 
 on behalf of another. His own father he 
 had leari'c;! to regard with horror, while all 
 the en hnsiastic h)vo of his warm young 
 heart had fixed itself upon the man who 
 had doiu! all this for anothiir. He knew for 
 whom Daltou had suffered. It was for his 
 mother, and for himself, and he knew that 
 ho 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 profoup'l and all-absorl)- 
 ing love for his daughter, and his passionate 
 desire to save her from all knowledge of his 
 own shann?. 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 Daltou all that in- 
 herited infamy. 
 
 At last his resolution was taken. Ho in- 
 formed his mother. Slie had been aware of 
 his struggles of soul for years, and did not 
 oppose him. Indeed, she felr some relief. 
 It was for the sou's sake that she had falter- 
 ed when Justice demanded her action. Now 
 that sou had grown to be a calm, strong, res- 
 olute man, and he had decided. 
 
 Yes, the decisiou was a final one. Not 
 one objection was disri'garded. Every thing 
 was considered, and the resolution was, at all 
 hazards, and at every cost, to do right. That 
 resolution involved the accusation, the tri- 
 al, the eondi'uniation, the infamy — yes, fjie 
 death — of a hiisbiind anda father; but even 
 at that cost it was the resolve of Reginald 
 that this filing sliould lie. 
 
 The jtlan of escajie occupied far less time. 
 Daltou ol)j('cted at first to the wiiole thing, 
 but Reginald had oidy to ment ion to him his 
 daughter's niimii to induce him to concur. 
 
 After this it was given out that Freder- 
 
 ick Dalton had died. This statement was 
 received i»y *be authorities without suspi- 
 cion or examination, thcigh the conspira- 
 tors were prepared for both. 
 
 Then Frederick Dalton, under an assumed 
 name, accompanied by Hugo, went to Sy<!- 
 ney, where ho end)arked for England. No 
 one recognized him. He had changed utter- 
 ly. Grief, despair, and time had wrought 
 this. Reginald and his mother went by an- 
 ! other ship, a little later, and had no diflicul- 
 I ty in taking Wilkins with them. They all 
 reached England in safety, and met at a place 
 j agreed upon beforehand, where their future 
 action was arranged. 
 
 I On the voyage home Dalton had decided 
 I upon that policy which he afterward sought 
 I to carry out. It was, first of all, to live in 
 j the utmost seclusion, and conceal himself 
 j as far as possible from every eye. A person- 
 I al encoiniter with some old ac(iuaintance, 
 I wlio failed to recognize him, convinced him 
 that the danger of his secret being discov- 
 j ered was very small. His faithful solicitor, 
 John Wiggins, of Liverpool, would not be- 
 j lieve that the gray-haired and venerable 
 I nnin who caun; to him was fla* ntan whom 
 he professed to be, until Dalton and Regi- 
 nald had proved it by showing the letters. 
 , and by other things. Uy John Wiggins's sug- 
 i gestion Dalton assumed the name of Wig- 
 ] gins, and gave himsc^lf out to l>e a brother of 
 [ the Liverpool solicitor. No one suspected, 
 ' and no fiucstions were asked, and so D.tlton 
 I went to Daltou Hall under t\u' mime of Wig- 
 ' gins, while Lady Dudleigh went as Mrs. Dun- 
 I bar, to be housekeei)er ; and their domestics 
 were only Hugo and Wilkins, wlio.e fidelity 
 i was known to be incorruptible, and who 
 , were, of course, intimately accpuiinted with 
 the secret of their master. 
 
 Here Dalton took up his abode, whilt^ .John 
 Wiggins, of Liverpool. ))egan to set in nu)tion 
 the train of events wiiicli should end in the 
 accomplishment of justice. First, it was nec- 
 essary fo procure from the authorities all 
 the documentary and other evidence which 
 j h-'l been ac(|uired ten years before. S -v- 
 I erai things were essential, and above all the 
 j Maltese cross. But English law is slow, 
 and these things re(|uire(l time. 
 
 It was the intention of Dalton to hav(> 
 every thing in icadiness tiist.antl then send 
 Keginalil and Lady Dudleigh to Sir Lionel 
 to try the force of a personal ap|»eal. If by 
 j threats or any other means they could per- 
 , suade him to confess, he was to be allowed 
 time to lly to some safe i)lac(>, or fake any 
 oilier conrs(i which he deeincd nioHt consist- 
 ent with his safety. Dalton liiinsc. ' was 
 , not to aiiiieiir, Init to iireserve his tiiH'r<'t in- 
 violable. If Sir Lionel should )U'ove ini|)rac- 
 ! ti<'able, then the charge and ani'st sluuild 
 take place at once; whrther for forgery or 
 , innrder was not decided. That should be 
 ; left to Reginald's owu choice. They leaned 
 
THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 159 
 
 to mercy, however, and preferred the charge 
 of forgery. Sir Lionel was mistaken in snp- 
 posing Lady Dudh-igh to be the only wit- 
 ness against him, for Reginald had been pres- 
 ent at more than one interview between the 
 frenzied wife and the guilty hnsbancl. and 
 had heard his father confess the whole. 
 
 Bnt the regnlar progre.ss of atl'airs had 
 been altogether interrupted 'ly the sndden 
 ajipearanee of Edith. On reaching Dalton 
 Hall Mr. Dalton had felt an uncontrollable 
 eagerness to see her, and had written to Miss 
 Plynipton the letter already reported. He 
 did not expect that she would come so soon. 
 He tliought 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, witliout any a!inounccment, 
 accomi)aniedby Mi8sPlym]>ton andhermai<l. 
 
 For years Dalton had been kei)t alive by 
 tlu! force of out feeling alone — his love for 
 his daughter. Out of tin; very intensity of 
 his love for her arose also anotlnir feeling, 
 equally intense, and that was the desire to 
 clear his name from all stain before Tueeting 
 with her. At first lie had intended to re- 
 frain from seeing her, but, being in England, 
 and so near, his desire for her was nncon- 
 trollalde. Keginald had gone for a tonr on 
 the Continent. Tlie Hall was lonely; e\('ry 
 room brought back the memory of his lost 
 wife, and of that little Edith wiio, years be- 
 fore, used to wander about these lialls and 
 amidst these scenes with him. He eonld 
 not endure this (Miforced separation, and so 
 he wrote as ho did. He expecteil he scarce- 
 ly new what. He had a vague idea that 
 though he refused to nnike himself known, 
 that she nevertheless might divine it, or 
 else, out of sonu-. mysterious (ilijil instinct, 
 might love liim under liis assumed name as 
 fervently as though there was no conceal- 
 ment. 
 
 When slie came so suddenly, he was taken 
 by surprise. He longed to see her, bnt was 
 afraid to admit her companions; and so it 
 was that his daughter, in whom his life was 
 now liouHfl up, was almost turned away from 
 her father's gates. 
 
 Then followed h<T life at l)alt(m Hall. 
 Dalton, afraid of the outside world, afrai(l 
 to be discovered, after having done so nnnli 
 for safety, at the veiy time when deliver- 
 ance 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 iMUpose of his life to redeem tlie 
 Dalt(ui nauK^ for her sake. He met with 
 scorn and hate. From those interviews he 
 retircil with his heart wrung by an anguish 
 greater than any that he liad cmt known 
 befoi'e. 
 
 And so if went on. It was forherown sake 
 thai he lestraiued her; yet he cmdd not tell 
 her, for he had set his heart on not reveal- 
 ing himself till he coidd do so with an un- 
 
 stained name. Bnt he had made a mistake 
 at the very outset from his iuipatieut desire 
 to see her, and he was doomed to see the 
 results of that mistake. Miss Plymptoii was 
 turned away, and forthwith .appealed to Sir 
 Lionel. The result of this was that Leou 
 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 u 
 high tone toward him, which he maintained 
 till the last. Lady Dudleigh's emotion at 
 the sight of Leon was a sore embarra.ssmc'it, 
 and all Dalton's ))lans seemed about to fall 
 into confusion. The visits of tlie disguised 
 Miss Fortescne wens a puzzle; and as both 
 Dalton and Lady Dudleigh looked ujton this 
 new visitor as an emisibary of Leon's, they 
 viewed these visits as they did those of 
 Leon. For the first time Lady Dudleigh 
 and Dalton wen; of opposite views. Dalton 
 dreaded these visits, but his sister favored 
 them. Her mother's heart yi^arned over 
 Leon ; and even if he did seek Edith's atfec- 
 tions, it did not seem an undesirable thing. 
 That, howev-r, was a thing from which Dal- 
 ton recoiled in horror. 
 
 At that time Kegiuald's strong will ,'md 
 clear intellect were sorely needed, liiit he 
 was away on his Contim^ntal tour, and knew 
 nothing of all these occurrences till it was 
 too late. 
 
 Thus notliing was left to Dalton but idle 
 warnings, which Edith treated as we have 
 seen. True, there was one other resource, 
 and tliat was to tell her all ; bnt this he hes- 
 itated to do. For years he bail hoped to re- 
 deem hiufself He, had looked forward to 
 the day wlien his name should be treed from 
 stain, and he still looked forward to that- 
 day when he might be able to say, "Here, 
 my beloved daughtei', my name is free from 
 stain; voii can acknowledge me without 
 shame."' 
 
 Ibil Edith's opiiosition. and the plans of 
 I, con, and the absorption of Lady DiHlleigh'n 
 sympathies in the interests of ber son, all 
 destroyed Dalton's chances. He eoulil only 
 watch, and hear from bis faithliil Hugo ac- 
 counts of what was going on. Thus he was 
 led into worse and wm'se acts, ami l)y mis- 
 understanding Edilll at the ontsel. opelU'<l 
 the way for Ifotli himself and her to m.my 
 sorrows. 
 
 Alter the terrilile events eonnecled with 
 the mysterious departure of Leon and the 
 arrest of Edilli. Dalton had at oni'e wiitten 
 to l{eginahl. lie had been ill in the interi- 
 or of .Sicily - for his testimony at the tria! 
 had been in jtart correct. Dalton's letter 
 was delayed in rcachiiiir hini, but he hur- 
 ried back !is soon as ]K)ssible. K'elying on 
 his extraordimiry resemblance lo Leon, Dal- 
 ton had urged him to jiersonify the missing 
 nntn, and this he hatl consented to do, with 
 
 :i i 
 
160 
 
 THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 tbe HuccesH which has hcon described. His 
 chief motive in doing this was liis ])rofound 
 Hynipatliy for Dalton, and for Editli also, 
 wliom lie he!i(!ved to have been sulijected 
 to unfair treatment. Tliat sympathy wliicli 
 he bad ahvaily felt for Edith Avas increased 
 when be saw her face to face. 
 
 All this was not told to hnuh at once, but 
 rather in the conrse of s(!veral conversations. 
 Already in that interview in the ]>rison her 
 father bad explain(!d to her bis motives in 
 aetinji; as be bad, and this fnller confession 
 only made those motives more apjiarent. In 
 Edith this story served only to excsito fresh 
 grief and remorse. Ihit Dalton showed so 
 much grief himself that Edith was forccid 
 to restrain such feelings as these in iiin jires- 
 ence. He took all tbe blame to himself. 
 He would not allow her to reimiach herself. 
 He it was, be insisted, who bad been alone 
 to blame in subjecting a generous, high- 
 spirited girl to sucli terrible treatment— to 
 imprisonment and spying and coercion. So 
 great W!is bis own grit^f that Editli found 
 herself forced from tbe position of penitent 
 into that of comforter, and often bad to lose 
 sight of her own otVeiises in tbe endeavor to 
 explain away her own suH'erings. 
 
 And thus, where there was so mncb need 
 of mutual forgiviness and unitnal consola- 
 tion, each one became less a ju'ey to n^niorse. 
 
 Ill tbe joy which he felt at thus gaining 
 at last all bis daughter's love, esi)eciany aft- 
 er tbe terrildo misunderstanding that had 
 divided her from him, Dalton bad no thought 
 for those grav(i dangers which surrounded 
 both lier and bini. Hut to Edith these dan- 
 gers still ajuieared, and they were most for- 
 inidaide. Slie could not forget that she was 
 still liable to arrest on the most a])palling 
 of accusations, and that b<'r father also was 
 liable to discovery and re-arrest. Reginald 
 Iiad tried to banish her fears and inspire 
 her with bojie ; but now that he was no 
 longer near, her ])osition was revealed, and 
 the full i)ossiliility of her ilanger could no 
 longer be concealed. 
 
 Danger there indeed was, danger most 
 formidable, not to btr uily, but to all of 
 tbiMn. Coward Sir Liond might be, but a 
 coward when at bay is di.Mgcrous, since be 
 is des))erate. Sir Lionel also was iiowerful, 
 since he was armed with all the force that 
 may be given by wealth and |)osition, and 
 in his (les)iair his utmost resources would 
 undoubtedly be ])ut forib. 'riiost! despaii- 
 iiig etl'orts would be aimed at all of them — 
 all were alike threatened: herself on the 
 old charge, her father as an eseajied convict, 
 and Reginald as a perjurer and a eonsi)irator 
 against the ends of justice. As to Lady 
 Dudl(!igb, she knew not what to think, lint 
 she was awar;'of Reginald's fears about her, 
 and she shared them to the fullest extent. 
 
 In the miilst of all this Edith receive<I ii 
 letter from Miss riymj>ton. She was Just 
 
 recovering, she said, from a severe illness, 
 consequent on anxiety about her. She had 
 heard tbe terrible tidings of her arrest, but 
 of late had been cheered by the news of her 
 release. Tbe letter was most loving, and 
 revealed all tbe affection of her "second 
 mother." Yet so true was Miss Plymjitou 
 to the promise which she iiad nnide to Mr. 
 Dalton, that she did not allude to the great 
 secret which had once been disclosed to her. 
 Edith read tbe letter with varied feelings, 
 and thought with an aching heart of her 
 recepti(ui of that other letter. This letter, 
 however, met with a difterent fate. She 
 answertKl it at once, and told all about her 
 father, concluding with tbe promise to go 
 and visit her as soon as she could. 
 
 And now all her thoughts and hopes were 
 centred ujiou Reginald. Where was he ? 
 Where was Lady Dudleigb ? Had h<! found 
 Leon f What would Sir Licuiel dof Such 
 were tbe thoughts that never ceased to agi- 
 tate her mind. 
 
 He had been gone a whole week. She had 
 beard nothing from him. Accustomed as 
 sh(! had been to see him every day for so 
 long a time, this week sei'ined ]irolonge(l to 
 tbe extent of a month ; and as he bad prom- 
 ised to write her under any cir(!umstances, 
 she could not account for his failure to keej) 
 that lU'oniise. His silence alarmed her. As 
 day succeeded to day, and still no letter 
 came, she became a i>rey to all those fearful 
 fancies which may be raised by a vivid imag- 
 iiii'tiou, when one is in 8Us])ense about the 
 ♦ ate of some dearly loved friend. 
 
 Her father, whose watchful love made him 
 observant of »! very out; of her varying moods, 
 could not avoid noticing tb(» 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 ex- 
 plain, but she fianklv cont't'ssed that she was 
 anxious. Her anxiety she attributed to her 
 fears aliout their situation, and her dread 
 lest something might be found out about the 
 imposture of Reginald, or aliout hei' father's 
 real character and personality. The fear 
 was not an idle one, ami Dalton, though he 
 tried to soothe her, was himself too well 
 aware of the danger that suriounded both 
 of them to be very succt>ssful in his etl'orts. 
 
 All this tinu^ a steady improvement had 
 been taking ])lace in Dallon's luialtb. and 
 bis recovery fiom bis illness was rapid and 
 continuous. It was Edith's love and care 
 and sympathy which thus gave strength to 
 him. and tbe joy whieb be felt in her pres- 
 ence was the best medicine for bis alllictions. 
 
 Thus 
 ture outside, 
 
 dav h(^ was .at last able to vi'ii- 
 
 It 
 
 was somethini' more 
 
 than 
 
 a week since Ifegiiiald had left. Edith was 
 more anxious than ever, but strove to con- 
 ceal her anxiety and to drown her own self- 
 ish cares iind( r more assiduous attentions 
 to that father whose whole being now seem- 
 
 shf 
 an| 
 tv 
 ar(| 
 thJ 
 hi( 
 wlj 
 wi 
 it 
 
 lovl 
 spol 
 yciiT 
 l| 
 the I 
 
THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 161 
 
 C(l 80 to centre npon her. For tliis purjjose 
 she hud permiiuhxl him to leave the Hall, 
 and come forth into the groundH ; and the 
 two were now walking in front of the Hall, 
 aronnd the pond, Edith supporting her fa- 
 ther's feeble footsteps, and trying to cheer 
 him by pointing out some improvements 
 which ought to be nuide, 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 prohibit- 
 e<l, and though during Dalton's illness the 
 prohibition had been taken oft", 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 
 thasc visitors was the sherift", that shock was 
 intensified. 
 
 Yes, the moment had come which they 
 both liad 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 sherift' approaehtd, followed by three 
 others, who were evidently otlicers of the 
 law. Dalton and Edith stooil awaiting 
 them, and Edith felt her father's hands 
 clasp her arm in a closer and more tremu- 
 lous embrace. 
 
 The sherift" greeted tliem with a monrnfid 
 face and evident embarrassment. His er- 
 rand was a painful one, and it was rendered 
 doubly so by the piteous sight before him — 
 the feeble old nnin thus eliitging to that sad- 
 faeeil young girl, tint woe-worn father thus 
 supported by the daughter whose own expe- 
 rieiiee of lift! had been so bitter. 
 
 '• My liusiness," said the sheritl", " is a nuist 
 painful one. F(U'giv(^ 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 
 liis hat resi)e<'.t fully, and bowing licfore this 
 vencraliie old age and this sad-faced beauty, 
 and then had said these words with some 
 al)i'U|ilness. 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 
 lluiig her arms about her father, and ])laecd 
 herself liefore him, as if to interpose be- 
 tween hiu> and that terribhs fate which still 
 pursued its iiuioeeut vietini. Slie turned 
 her large mournful eyes upon the shoritf 
 
 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 lit to go. Lot me nurse 
 him." 
 
 The sheriff" looked at her in increasing em- 
 barrofisment, with a face full of pity. 
 
 " I am deeply grieved," ho said, in a low 
 voice, " but I can not do otherwise. I must 
 do my duty. You, Mrs. Dndleigh, must como 
 also. I have a warrant for you too." 
 
 " What !" groaned Dalton ; " for her?" 
 
 The sherift" said nothing. The old man's 
 face had such nn expression of anguish that 
 words were useless. 
 
 " Again !" nuirmurod Dalton. " Again ! 
 and on that false charge ! She will die ! she 
 will die!" 
 
 "Oh, i)apa!" exclaimed Edith. " Do not 
 think of mo. 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 p.alo face, and, looking upward, 
 sighed out in her agony of soul, 
 
 "O Ciod! 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 some- 
 thing too terrible for words, and the darkest 
 forebmlings came to the mind of each one 
 of these unhappy victims of tin* law. And 
 thus, in silence and in f(!;ir, they were led 
 away — to prison and to judgment. 
 
 CHAPTER LHI. 
 Tin; ni{»)Tm:i{s. 
 
 Ok leaving Dalton Hall Regimild went to 
 the place mentionetl by Miss Fortesciie. It 
 was on tiie railway, ami w.-is about four miles 
 from Dudleigh Manor, Here ho found Miss 
 Fortesc'Ue. 
 
 •She told him that she had tried to find 
 Leon by making in(iuiries every where 
 auKuig his old haunts, but without any suc- 
 cess whiltevei'. At last she coneluded that, 
 since he M-as in such strict hiding, Dudh-igh 
 Manor itself ivould not be an unlikely ])lace 
 in which to find him. She had come here, 
 and, after disguising herself with her usual 
 skill, had made iui|uirii>s of the ])orler with 
 ■•IS nnieh adroitness as poHsil)Ie. All her ef- 
 forts, however, were «iuit(> ill vain. The por- 
 ter could not be caught committing himself 
 in any way, but profes.sed to have seen noth- 
 
162 
 
 THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 ing of the missing man for months. She 
 would lieivo come away from this oxporiment 
 in despair had it not been for one circum- 
 stance, whicli, though small in itself, seemed 
 to her to have very deep meaning. It was 
 this. While she was talking with the porter 
 a dog came up, wliich at once began to fawn 
 on her. This amazed the porter, who did 
 not like the appearance of things, and tried 
 to drive the dog away. But Miss Fortescue 
 had in an instant recognized the dog of 
 Leon, well known to herself, and ouce a 
 great pet. 
 
 This casual appearance of the dog seemed 
 to her the strongest possible proof that Leon 
 was now in that very place. Hp nnist have 
 been left purposely in Dalton Park for a few 
 days, probably having been stationed at that 
 very spot which he kept so persistently. If 
 so, the same one who left him there must 
 have brought him here. It was iuconceivii- 
 blo that the dog couhl have found his, way 
 here alone from Dalton Park. In addition to 
 this, the porter's uneasiness at the dog's rec- 
 ognition of her was of itself full of meaning. 
 
 This w.as all that she had been able to fuid 
 out, but this was enough. Fearful that Leon 
 might 8U8j)ect who she was, she had written 
 to Reginald at once ; and now that he had 
 come, she urged liim to go to Dndleigh Man- 
 or himself and flud out the truth. 
 
 There was no need to urge Reginald. His 
 anxiety about his mother was eiu)ugh to 
 niiike him anxious to lose no tinu>, but the 
 prospect of finding Leon made him now 
 doubly anxious. It was already evening, 
 however, an«l ho would have to defer his 
 visit until the following day. 
 
 At about nine o'clock the next morning 
 Reginald Dndleigh stood at his father's gate 
 — the gate of that home from which he had 
 been so limg an exile. The porter came out 
 to open it, and stared at him in surprise. 
 
 " I didn't know you was out, Sir," he said. 
 
 Evidently the porter had mistaken him 
 for Leon. This address assured him of the 
 fact of Leon's presence. The jMirtcr was a 
 lU'w hand, and Reginald did not tliink it 
 worth while to explain. He entered silent- 
 ly while the porter held the gate open, and 
 tiien walked up the long avenue toward the 
 manor-house. 
 
 The door was open. He walked in. Some 
 servants were moving about, who se('ine<l to 
 think his jiresence a matter of course. Tliese 
 also evidently mistook him for Leon; and 
 thtise things, sliglit as they were, assured 
 him that his lirother must be here. Yet in 
 spite of tlie great purpose for which he had 
 come — ai)urpose, as he felt, of life anddeatli, 
 and even more — in spile of this, he eonld 
 not help ])ansing f(U' a moment as hi^ I'onnd 
 hiniKclf within these Ciiniiliar i>n'eiiicts, in 
 the home of his eliildliood, witliin sight of 
 objects so well remenibi^'ed, so long lost to 
 view. 
 
 But it was only for a few moments. The 
 first rush of feeling j)as8ed, and then there 
 came back the recollection of all that lay 
 before him, of all that depended u|)ou this 
 visit. He walked on. He reached the great 
 stairway. He ascended it. Ke came to the 
 great hall up stairs. On one side was the 
 drawing-room, on the other the library. The 
 former was empty, but in the latter there 
 was a solitary occupant. He was seated at 
 a table, writing. So intent was this man 
 on his occupaticm that ho did not hear the 
 sound of approaching footsteps, or at least 
 did not regard them ; for even as Rtsginald 
 stood looking at him, ho went on with his 
 writing. His back was turned toward the 
 door, 80 that Reginald could not see his fact^, 
 but the outline of the figure was sutlicient. 
 Reginald stood for a moment looking at him. 
 Then ho advanced toward tho writer, and 
 laid his hand upon his shoulder. 
 
 Tho writer gave a sudden start, leaped 
 from his chair, and turned round. There 
 was fear on his face — the fear of one who is 
 on the look-out for sudden danger — a fear 
 without a particle of recognition. But grad- 
 ually the blankness of his terrified face de- 
 parted, and there came a new expression — 
 an expression in which there was enual ter- 
 ror, yet at the same time a full lecognitiou 
 of tho danger before him. 
 
 It was L(!on Diulleigh. 
 
 Reginald said not one word, but looked 
 at him with a stern, relentless face. 
 
 As these two thus stood looking at one 
 another, each saw in tho other's face the 
 marvelous resemblance to himself, whi<'Ii 
 had been already .so striking to others, and 
 so bewildering. But tho exju-ession was to- 
 tally dilfert^nt. Aside from the general air 
 characteristic of each, there was the look 
 that had been called up by tho present 
 nuM'ting. Reginald confronted his brother 
 with a stern, meiuicing gaze, and a look of 
 authority th.it Avas more than tho ordinary 
 look which might belong to an elder brother. 
 Leon's face still kejjt its look of fear, and 
 there seemed to be struggling with this fear 
 an impulse to fly, which he was unable to 
 obey. Reginald looked like the master, 
 Leon like the culprit and the slave. 
 
 Leon was the first to speak. 
 
 "Yon — ">ere!" he faltered. 
 
 " When lid 1 be V said Reginald, 
 
 in Ji stern ' 
 
 " What do you want!" asked Leon, rally- 
 ing tVoin his fear, and apparently encour- 
 aged Ity the sound of his own voice. 
 
 "What do I want?" repeated Reginald. 
 "Many things. First, I want you; second- 
 ly, my mother." 
 
 " You won't get any thing out of me," said 
 Leon, fiercely. 
 
 " In tli<^ first )ihice. the sight of you is one 
 of the chief things," said Reginald, with a 
 sneer. " After having heard yiuir sad fate, 
 
THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 163 
 
 it is something to sec you here ia the 
 llesh." 
 
 "It's that infernal porter!" cried Leon, 
 half to himself. 
 
 "What do you meanf Do you hlamo 
 hin> for letting me in — me — Reginald Dud- 
 leigh — your elder brother V 
 
 " You're disinherited," growh'd Loon. 
 
 "Pooh!" said Reginald. "How can the 
 eldest sou be disinherited ? But I'm not go- 
 ing to waste time. I have come to call you 
 to account for what you have done, and I 
 have tliat to say to you wliich you must 
 hear, and, what is more, you must obey." 
 
 If Leon's face coukl liave grown whiter 
 than it already >va8, it would have become 
 so at these words. His fear seemed swal- 
 h)wed up in a wild overmastering rush of 
 fnry and indignation. He started back and 
 seized the bell-rope. 
 
 " I don't know yon !" he almost yelled. 
 " Who are you ?" Saying this he pulled the 
 bell-rope again and again. " Who are you ?" 
 he repeated over and over again, pulling the 
 bell-rope as he spoke. " I'll have you turn- 
 ed out. You're an infernal impostor! Who 
 are you ? I can prove that Reginald Dnd- 
 leigh ia dead. I'll have you turned out. I'll 
 have you turned out." 
 
 While he was speaking, his frantic ,ind re- 
 peated tugs at the bell had roused the house. 
 Oiitsiile the rush of footsteps was heard, and 
 soon a crowd of servants poured iuto the 
 room. 
 
 " You scoundi'cls !" roared Loon. " W^hat 
 do you mean by letting strangers in here in 
 this way? Put this fellow out! Put him 
 out! Curse yon! why don't you collar him 
 and put him out V 
 
 As the servants entered, Reginald turned 
 half round and faced tluMU. Lt'on shouted 
 out these words, and shook his list toward 
 Ins l)rotlier, while the servants stared in 
 amazement at the astonishing spectacle. 
 The two brothers stooil there befon^ them, 
 the one calm and welf-pos.sessed, the other 
 infuriated with excitement; but the won- 
 derful resemblance between them held the 
 servants spell-bound. 
 
 As soon as he could make himself heard, 
 Reginald spoke. 
 
 " Yon will do nothing of the kind. Most 
 of you are new faces, l»nt some of you n\- 
 member me. Holiler," said he, as his eyes, 
 wandt-ring over the faces before him, rested 
 upon oiu', " don't you know your young mas- 
 ter? Have you forgotten Regiiuild Dud- 
 leighf" 
 
 As ho said this an old man came forth 
 from the rear and looked at him, with his 
 liauds claspetl together and his eyes full of 
 tears. 
 
 "Lord be merciful to us all," he cried, 
 with a trembling voice, " if it Iteant Master 
 Reginald hisself come back t(» life again, 
 and nie moiunin' over liini as dead! Oh, 
 
 Master Reginald, but it's glad I am this day. 
 And where have ye been T" 
 
 "Never mind, old man," said Reginald, 
 kindly ; " you'll know so(m enough." Say- 
 ing this, he shook the old man's hand, and 
 then turned with lowering brow once more 
 upon Leon. 
 
 "Leon," said he, "none of this foolery. 
 You found out what I am when you were a 
 boy. None of this hysterical excitement. 
 / am master here." 
 
 But Leon made no reply. With his face 
 now on fire with rage, he retreated a few 
 steps and looked under the table. He called 
 (luickly to something that was there, and as 
 he called, a huge dog came forth and stood 
 by his side. Tliis dog he led forward, and 
 pointed at Reginald. 
 
 The servants looked on with pale faces at 
 this scene, overcome with horror as they saw 
 Leon's purpose. 
 
 "Go," said Leon, fiercely, to Reginald, 
 " or you'll be sorry." 
 
 Reginald said nothing, but put his hand 
 into his Ineast pocket and drew forth a re- 
 \'olver. It was not a very common weapon 
 in England in those days, but Reginald had 
 picked one up in his waiulerings, and had 
 brought it with Iiim on the present occasion, 
 Leon, however, did not seem to notice it. 
 He was intent on one purpose, and that was 
 to drive Reginald away. 
 
 Ho therefore put his hand on the dog's 
 liead, and, pointing toward his brother, 
 shouted, " At him. Sir !" The dog hesitatotl 
 for a moment. His master called again. 
 The huge ]>ruto gathered himself up. One 
 more cry from the now frenzied Leon, and 
 the dog gave a tremendous leap forward full 
 at Reginald's throat. 
 
 A cry of horror burst from the servants. 
 They were by no means overseusitive, but 
 this Hcene was too terrible. 
 
 Tlui dog sprang. 
 
 But at that instant the loud report of 
 Reginald's rev«dver rang through the house, 
 and the fierce l)east, with a sharj) howl, fell 
 back, and lay on the Hoor writhing in his 
 death agony. The wound was a mortal 
 one. 
 
 Reginald replaced his pisttd in his pocket. 
 
 " I'm sorry for the poor b(!ast," said ho, as 
 he looked at the dog lor a moment, "but I 
 could not help it. And you," he continued, 
 turning to the servants, "go down stairs. 
 When I want you I will call for you. Hol- 
 der will tell you who I am." 
 
 At this the servants all retreated, over- 
 awed by the look and manner of this new 
 master. 
 
 The shot of the pistol seemed to have 
 overwhelmed Leon. He shrank back, and 
 stared by turns at Reginald and the dog, 
 with a white face and a scowling brow. 
 
 After the servants had gone, Reginald 
 walkeil up to him. 
 
164 
 
 THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 THE FIKRCE UEA8T, WITH A SHARP HOWL, FELL HACK. 
 
 "I will have no moro words," said he, 
 fiercely. "I'm your niastor now, Leon, as I 
 always have been. Yon are in my power 
 now. You nnist either do a« I hid you, or 
 else go to Jail. I have t.iken np all your 
 notes ', I have paid more than forty thou- 
 sand pounds, and I now hold those notes 
 of yours. I do not intend to let you go till 
 you do what I wish. If you don't, I will 
 take you from this place and put you in 
 jail. I have warrants all re.'idy, and in tin* 
 jjroper hands. The ofticers are waiting in 
 the neighborhood. IJesides these claims, I 
 shall have charges against you of a griivcr 
 kind ; you know what, so that you can not 
 escape. Now listen. I am your only cred- 
 itor now, and your only accusei". You need 
 not hide any longer, or Hy frinn the country. 
 Confess; come to terms witii me, and you 
 shall be a free man ; refuse, and you shall 
 Huft'»<r the very worst that the law inllicts. 
 If you do not come to terms with me, you 
 are lost. I give you only this chanc(<. You 
 can do nothing. You can not harm Miss 
 Daltou now, for I have found you out, and 
 your miserable trick is of no use any ]ong(>r. 
 Come, now ; decide ut ouoo. I will give you 
 
 just ten minutes. If you come to terms, you 
 art' safe ; if not, you go to jail." 
 
 " Who'll take me ?" said Leon, in a surly 
 voice. 
 
 " /," said Reginald — " I, with my own 
 hands. / will take you out of this place, 
 and hand you over to th(! officers who are 
 waiting not very far awiiy." 
 
 Saying this, Reginald looked at his watch, 
 and then rei)lacing it, turned once moro to 
 Leon. 
 
 " Your tricks haA^e failed. I will produce 
 you as you are, and Miss Dalton will be safe. 
 Y(m'll hiivo to exi)lain it all in court, so you 
 may as well exitlain it to me. I don't want 
 to be hard with you. I know you of old, 
 and have forgiven other villainies of yours. 
 You can't take vengeai. je on any one. Even 
 your silence will be of no us(s You nnist 
 choose between a <;onf('ssion to me now, or a 
 general confession in court. Resides, even 
 if you could have vengeance, it wouldn't be 
 worth so nnicli to a man like yon as what I 
 offer ycni. ' offer yon freed(mi. I will give 
 you back al. your notes and bonds. You 
 will be no longer in any diinger. More, I 
 will help you. I don't want to use harsh 
 
THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 165 
 
 measures if I can help it. Don't be a fool. 
 Do as I say, and accept my otter. If you 
 don't, I swear, after what you've done I'll 
 sliow you no more mercy than I showed your 
 dog." 
 
 Leon Avas silent. His face grow more 
 tranquil. He was evidently afl'ected by his 
 brother's words. He stood, in thought, with 
 his eyes fixed on the floor. Debt was a great 
 evil. Danger was around him. Freedom 
 was a great blessing. Thus far he had been 
 safe only because he had been in hiding. 
 Besides, he was powerless now, and his 
 knowledge of Reginald, as he had been in 
 early life, and as ho saw him now, showed 
 him that his brother always meant what he 
 said. 
 
 " I don't believe you have those notes and 
 bonds." 
 
 " How CO, lid I know unless I paid them T 
 I will tell you the names concerned in most 
 of them, and the amounts." 
 
 And Reginald thereupon enumerated sev- 
 eral creditors, with the amounts due to each. 
 By this Leon was evidently convinced. 
 
 " And you've paid them ?" said he. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " And you'll give them to me ?" 
 
 "I will. I am your only creditor now. 
 I have found out and paid every debt of 
 yours. I did this to force you to come to 
 t«'rms. That is all I want. You see that 
 this is for your interest. More, I will give 
 you enough to begin life on. Do you atik 
 more than this V 
 
 Leon hesitated for a short time longer. 
 
 "Well," said he at last, "what is it that 
 you want nie to do ?" 
 
 " First of all I want you to tell me" about 
 that infernal trick of yours with — the body. 
 Whose is it f Jliiid you, it's of no conse- 
 (iueiu!e now, so long as yoti an; alive, and 
 can be produced ; but I wish to know." 
 
 With some hesitation Leon informed his 
 brotlier. The information which he gave 
 coulinned tlu^ suspicions of Miss Fortescue. 
 He liad determined to be avenged on Kdith 
 and her father, and after that night on 
 ■which Kdith had t'scaped lut had managed 
 to jirocure a body in liOndon from some of 
 the b()(ly-suatch(!rs who ,suppll(!d t\w med- 
 ical schools there. Ho lia<t nMuoved the 
 head, aiul d-esscd it in the clotlies which .le 
 ha<l liist w rn. Ho had taken it to Dulto.t 
 Park and put it in the well about a week 
 after Ktlith'H tliglit. He had never gone 
 back to his room, but had iiurposely left it 
 nn it was, so as to make Iiis diNiippearauce 
 the more suspicions. He himself luid con- 
 trived to raise those frecpient rumors which 
 had ariHcn and grown to su<h an extent that 
 they liiid terniitiated in tlu; senrcli at Daltou 
 Park. AnonymouH letters to various per- 
 sons had suggested to tliem the sup|iosed 
 gnl't of Kilitli, and the ]>r<>biil>ility of the re- 
 mains being found in tiie weL 
 
 The horror which Reginald felt at this 
 disclosure w.as largely mitigated by the fact 
 that ho had already inuiginod some such 
 proceeding as this, for he luid felt sure that 
 it was a trick, and thereftu-o it had only 
 been left to account for the trick. 
 
 The next thing which Reginald had to 
 investigate was the nu>ck marriage. But 
 here he did not choose to cinestion Leon di- 
 rectly about Edith. He rather chose to in- 
 vestigate that earlier marriage with Miss 
 Fortescue. 
 
 By this time Leon's objections to confess 
 had vanished. The inducements which Reg- 
 inald held out were of themselves attractive 
 enough to one in his desperate position, and, 
 what was more, ho felt that there was no al- 
 ternative. Having once begun, he seemed 
 to grow accustomed to it, aud spoke with 
 greater freedom. 
 
 To Reginald's immense surprise and relief, 
 Leon informed him that the marriage with 
 Miss Fortescue was not a mock marriage at 
 all. For once in his life he had been lumest. 
 The nnirriage had been a real one. It was 
 only after the aft'air in the Daltou vaults 
 that he had pretended that it was false. He 
 did so in order to free himself from his real 
 wife, and g.ain some control over the D.alton 
 estate. The Rev. Mr. Porter was a bona fide 
 clergyman, aud the marriage had been con- 
 ducted in a l<!gal manner. He had found 
 out that the Kev. Mr. Porter had gone to 
 Scotland, and saw that he could easily de- 
 ceive his wife. 
 
 " But," said Reginald, " what is the reason 
 that your wife could never find him out ? 
 She looked over all the lists of clergynxsn, 
 aud wrote to all of the name of Porter. She 
 could not find him." 
 
 "Naturally enough," said Lcoti, indiffer- 
 ently. "She supposed that he belonged to 
 the Church, because he used the Church 
 service ; but he was a Presbyterian." 
 
 " Where is he now ?" 
 
 " When last I heard about him ho was at 
 Falkirk." 
 
 " Then Miss Fortescue was regularly mar- 
 ried, iiiul is now yoi;r wifef 
 
 "Sh(! is my wife," said Leon. 
 
 At this Reginald was silent for some time. 
 The joy that lilled his heart at this discovery 
 was so great that for a time it drove aw.iy 
 those other thoughts, deep aud dread, that 
 had taken possession of him. But these 
 thoughts soon returned. 
 
 "One thing more," said he, in an anxious 
 voice. " Leon, where is my mother ?" 
 
 I' 
 
 J 
 
 CHAPTER LIV. 
 
 THE SONS AND TIIKIll FATHER. 
 
 " WnF.UE is my mother?" 
 Such was Reginald's last question. He 
 asked it aa though Lady Dudleigh was only 
 
166 
 
 THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 his mother, and not the mother of Leon also. 
 Hut the circumstances of his past life had 
 made his father and his hrother seem like 
 Btruugoi's, and his mother seemed all his 
 own. 
 
 At this question Leon stared at him with 
 n look of surprise that was evidently un- 
 feigned. 
 
 " Your mother V ho rejteated. 
 
 " I do not say our motlier," said Reginald. 
 " I say my mother. Where is she ?" 
 
 " I swear I kuow notliing about her," said 
 Leon, earnestly. " 1 have never seen her." 
 
 " You have never seen her?" repeatetl Reg- 
 inald, in a tremulous voice. 
 
 " Never," said Leon ; " that is, not since 
 she left tliis place ton years ago." 
 
 " You saw her at Dalton Hall !" cried Reg- 
 inald. 
 
 " At Dalton Hidl ? I did not," said Leon. 
 
 "Mrs. Dunbar, she called herself. You 
 saw her often." 
 
 "Mrs. Dunbar! Good Heavens!" cried 
 Leon, in unaflectod surprise. "How was I 
 to know that f ' 
 
 Reginald loo I at bim gloomily and men- 
 acingly. 
 
 " Leon," said he, in a stem voice, " if you 
 dare to deceive me about this, I will show no 
 mofcy. You must tell all — yes, all .'" 
 
 " But I tell you I don't know any thing 
 about her," said Leon ; " I swear I don't. 
 I'll tell every thing that I kuow. No such 
 X)er8on has over been here." 
 
 Reginald looked at his brother with a 
 gloomy frown ; but Leon's tone seemed sin- 
 cere, and the thought canio to him that his 
 brother could have no reason for conceal- 
 ment. If Leon did not know, ho would have 
 to seek what he wished from another — his 
 father. His father and his mother had gone 
 off together ; that father alone could tell. 
 
 " Where is Sir Lionel ?" asked Reginald, 
 as these thoughts came to him. He called 
 him " Sir Lionel." Ho could not call him 
 " father." 
 
 Leon looked iit him with a strange ex- 
 pression. 
 
 " Ho is here," said ho. 
 
 " Where shall I find him ? I want to see 
 him at once. Is he in his room?" 
 
 Leon hesitated. 
 
 " Quick !" said Reginald, impatiently. 
 " Why don't you answer V 
 
 " You won't get much satisfaction out of 
 him," said Leon, in a peculiar voice. 
 
 "I'll iind out what he knows. I'll tear 
 the secret out of him," cried Reginald, fierce- 
 ly. " Where is ho ? Come with me. Take 
 mo to him." 
 
 " You'll find it rather hard to get any thing 
 out of hitn," said Leon, with a short laugh. 
 "He's beyond even your reach, and your 
 courts of law too." 
 
 " What do you mean ?" cried Reginald. 
 
 "Well, you may see for yourself," said 
 
 Leon. " You won't be satisfied, I suppose, 
 unless you do. Come along. You needn't l)e 
 alaruKHl. I won't run. I'll stick to my part 
 of our agreement, if you stick to yours." 
 
 With these words licon led the wiiy out of 
 the library, and Reginald followed. Tiiey 
 went up a fiight of stairs and along a hall 
 to the extrenui end. Here Leon stojjpcd at. 
 a door, and proceeded to take a key from his 
 pocket. This .action surpristid R(!ginald. Ho 
 rcimembered the room well. In liis day it 
 had not been used at all, except on rare oc- 
 casions, and had been thus neglected on ac- 
 count of its gloom and dampness. 
 
 " What's the meaning of this ?" he asked, 
 gloomily, looking suspiciously at the key. 
 
 " Oh, you'll see soon enougli," said Leon. 
 
 With these words ho inserted the key in 
 the lock as noiselessly as possible, and then 
 gently turned the bolt. Having done this, 
 he opened the door a little, and looked in 
 with a cautious movement. These i)roceed- 
 inj;s puzzled Reginald still mon^, and ho 
 tried in vain to conjecture what their object 
 might be. 
 
 One cautious look satisfied Leon. He 
 opened the door wider, and said, in a low 
 voice, to his brother, 
 
 " Come along ; he's quiet just now." 
 
 With these words he entered, and held the 
 door for Reginald to pass through. With- 
 out a moment's hesitation Reginald went 
 into the room. He took but one step, and 
 then stopped, rooted to the floor by the sight 
 that met his eyes. 
 
 The room was low, and had no furniture 
 but an iron bed. There were two small, 
 deep windows, over which the ivy had 
 grown so closely that it diuuned the light, 
 and throw an air of gloom over the scene. 
 
 Upon the iron bed was seated a strange 
 figure, the sight of which sent a thrill of 
 horror through Reginald's frame. It was a 
 thin, emaciated figure, worn and bent. His 
 hair was as white as snow ; his beai-d and 
 mustache were short and stubbly, as though 
 they were the growth of but a few weeks ; 
 while his whiskers were bushy and matted 
 tog«ither. 
 
 Over this figure a quilt was thrown in a 
 fantastic manner, under which api)eared a 
 long night-gown, from which thin bare legs 
 ])rotruded, with bare, gaunt, skeleton-like 
 feet. 
 
 As he eat there his eyes wandered about 
 on vacancy; a silly smile was on his white, 
 worn face; ho kept nuittering to himself 
 continually some incoherent and almost in- 
 audible sentences; and at the same time his 
 long bony lingers kept clawing and picking 
 at the quilt which covered him. 
 
 At first Rfginald could scarce believe 
 
 what ho saw ; l)Ut there was the fact before 
 
 his eyes, and the terrible truth could imt be 
 
 denied that in this wretched cn^ature be- 
 
 , fore him was the wreck of that one who but 
 
THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 167 
 
 'Ul'ON THE IRON BUD WAS SEATICI) 
 
 STKANOli FlOUUli. 
 
 a short time before li.arl smMiied to bini to 
 lie a powerful .iiid uiiHcriipulous villain, full 
 of the most formidable plans for inflieting 
 fresh wrongs upon those whom lio had al- 
 ready so foully injured. Reginald had seen 
 him for a few moments at the trial, and had 
 noticed that the ten eventful years for whieh 
 they had been parted had made but little 
 dirtcrenco in his appearance. The casual 
 glimpses of him which he afterward had 
 caught showed some change, but nothing 
 very striking ; but now the change was ter- 
 rible, the transformation was hideous; the 
 strong man had btjcome a shattered wreck ; 
 the once vigorous miud had sunk into a state 
 of helpless imbecility and driveling idiocy. 
 
 Leou shut the door, and turning the key, 
 stood looking on. Tiie slight noise which 
 he made attracted the wandering gaze of 
 the madman. He started slightly, and stood 
 uj), wraiijiing the quilt carefully arouiul him. 
 Then, with a silly smile, he advanced a few 
 l)aces. 
 
 " Well, Dr. Morton," he said, in a weak, 
 quavering voice, " you have received my let- 
 ter, I hope. Hero is this person that I wrote 
 about. Her name is Mrs. Dunbar. She is an 
 old depoiulent. She is mad — ha, ha! — mad. 
 Yes, mad, doctor. She thinks she is my 
 wife. She calls herself Lady Dudlt>igh. 
 Hut, doctor, her real name is Mrs. Dunbar. 
 She is mad, doctor — mad — mad — mad. Ha, 
 ha, ha!" 
 
 At these words u terriblt! suspicion came 
 
 to Reginald's mind. Tiie madman had stiil 
 prominent in his thoughts the idea which 
 he had lately been carrying out. Could 
 there bo any truth in these words, or were 
 they mere fancies ? He said not a word, but 
 looked and listened in anxious silence. He 
 had felt a moment's pity for this man, who, 
 wretch though he luid been, was still his fa- 
 ther ; but now his mothei-'s image rose be- 
 fore him — his mother, pale, suflering, and 
 perhajts desi)airing — and in his eager desire 
 to learn her fate, all softer feelings for his 
 father died out. 
 
 " You nmst keep her. Dr. Morton," said 
 Sir Lionel, in the same toiie. " You know 
 whiit she wants. I will pay you well. Mon- 
 ey is no object. You must keeji her close — 
 close — yes, close as the grave. She is in- 
 curable, doctor. She nnist never come out 
 of this j)lace with her mad fancies. For she 
 I is mad — mad — mad — mad^mad. Oh yes. 
 Ha, ha, ha!" 
 
 Sir Lioncd then smiled as before, and 
 chuckled to himself, while a leer of cunning 
 triumidi flashed for a moment from his wan- 
 dering eyes. "Trapped!" lit; ejaculated, 
 softly. "Trapped! The keeper! The keep- 
 er trapped ! She thought she was my keep- 
 er! And so she was. Ihit she was trapped 
 — yes, trai>i)ed. Tlie keeper trapped ! Ha, 
 ha, ha! She thought it was an inn," ho 
 continued, after a brief silence, in which he 
 chuckled to himsidf over the remembrance 
 of his scheme ; " and so she was trapped. 
 
 i 
 
168 
 
 THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 Tbo keeper was caught herself, and found 
 herself in a mad-hoiwel And she'll never 
 get out — never ! She's mad. They'll all be- 
 lieve it. Mad! Yes, mud — and in a mad- 
 house! Ha, ha, ha! There's Lady Dnd- 
 leigh fur you ! But she's Mrs. Dunbar now. 
 Ha, ha, ha!" 
 
 Kegiuald's eagerness to learn more ^vas 
 uncontrollable. In his impatience to find 
 out, he could no longer wait for his father's 
 stray confessions. 
 
 " What mad-honsc t Where?" ho asked, 
 eagerly and abruptly. 
 
 Sir Lionel did not look at him. But the 
 question came to him none the less. It 
 eanie to him as if it hiul been prompted by 
 his own thoughts, and he went on upon the 
 new idea which this question started. 
 
 "Sbe saw mo write it, too — the letter — 
 and she saw me write the address. There 
 it was as plain as diiy — the address. Dr. 
 Morton, I wrote, Lichfield Asylum, Lich- 
 field, Berks. But she didn't look at it. She 
 helped nie put it in the post-ofHco. Trai)ped ! 
 trapped ! Oh yes — the keeper trapped !" 
 ho continued. " She thought we were going 
 to Dudleigh Manor, but we were going tQ 
 Lichfield Asylum. And we stopped there. 
 And she stopped there. And she is tiiere 
 now. Trapped! Ha, ha, ha! And, my 
 good doctor, keep her close, for slie's mad. 
 Oh yes — mad — mad — mad— and very dan- 
 geroiis !" 
 
 The wretched man now began to totter 
 from weakness, and finally sat down upon 
 the floor. Here he gathered his quilt about 
 him, and began to smile and chuckle and 
 wag his head and pick at his fantastic dress 
 iis before. Tlio words which ho nnittered 
 were inaudible, and those which could bo 
 heard were utterly incoherent. The subject 
 that had been presented to his mind by the 
 entrance of Reginald was now forgotten, and 
 his thoughts wandered at random, like the 
 thoughts of a feverish dream, without con- 
 nection and without meaning. 
 
 Reginald turned away. He could no lon- 
 ger endure so painful a spectacle. He had 
 been long estranged from his father, and he 
 had come home for the sake of obtaining 
 justice from that father, for the sake of the 
 innocent man who had sufiered so unjustly 
 and so terribly, and whom ho loved as a sec- 
 ond father. Yet here there was a spectacle 
 which, if he had been a vengeful enemy, 
 would have (illed him with horror. One only 
 feeling was present in his mind now to alle- 
 viate that horror, and this was a sense of 
 profouiul relief that this terrible atlliction 
 had not been wrought by any act of his. He 
 had no hand in it. It had come ui)on his 
 father either as the gradual result of years 
 of anxiety, or as the innnediate efi'ect of the 
 suilden appearance of Dalton and his wife. 
 
 But for these thoughts there was no lei- 
 sure. His whole mind was filled with but 
 
 one idea — his mother. In a few momentB 
 they were outside the room. The madnnin 
 was left to himself, and Reginald questioned 
 Leon about him. 
 
 " I have heard all this before," said Leon. 
 "He came home very queer, and before a 
 week was this way. I put him in there to 
 keep him out of mischief. I feed him myself. 
 No one else goes near him. I've hod a doc- 
 tor up, but ho could do nothing. He has 
 often talked in this way about trapping some 
 one, but ho never mentioned any name till 
 to-day. He never did — I swoar he never 
 did. I swear I had no idea that he had ref- 
 erence to my — to Lady Dudleigh. I thought 
 it wiis some crazy fancy about Mr. Dalton — 
 some scheme of his for • trapping' him. I 
 did — I swear." 
 
 Such was Leon's statement, extorted from 
 him by the fiercest of cross-questionings on 
 the part of Reginald, accompanied by most 
 savage threats. 
 
 Leon, however, swore that he thought it 
 referred to a scheme of his father's to " traji' 
 Dalton, and shut him up in a mad-house. If 
 it was true that no names had been men- 
 tioned, Reginald saw that it was (luite pos- 
 sible that Leon might have supposed what 
 he said, though his knowledge of his brother 
 did not lead him to place any particular con- 
 fideiu-e in his statement, even when accom- 
 panied by an oath. 
 
 It now remained to find out, without 
 delay, the place which the madman had re- 
 vealed. Reginald reinenibei'ed it well : Dr. 
 Morton, Lichfield Asylum, Lichfield, Berks. 
 Leon also said that the same name had been 
 always mentioned. There could not, there- 
 fore, be any mistake about this, and it only 
 remained to find out where it was. 
 
 Leon knew both the man and the pl.ace, 
 aiul told all thiit he knew, not because ho 
 had a particle of aftection for his mother, but 
 because he wished to satisfy Reginald, so as 
 to gain that freedom which his brother only 
 could give him. He had been the intimate 
 confidant of his father, and this Dr. Morton 
 had been connected with them provionsly in 
 another affair. Ho was therefore able U» 
 give explicit iuforniatiou about the place, 
 and the quickest manner of reaching it. 
 
 Reginald set off that very day. 
 
 " It will be better for you to st.ay here," 
 said he to Leon, as he was leaving, in a sig- 
 nificant tone. 
 
 " Oh, I'll stay," said Leon. " If you act 
 square, that's all I want. Give me those 
 notes and bonds, and I'll never trouble you 
 or yours again." 
 
 Before leaving he obtained from Leon fur- 
 ther information about his first marriage 
 with Miss Fortesene. This ho communi- 
 cated to Leon's wife, whom ho found wait- 
 ing for him in great suspense. As soon as 
 she heard it she set out for London to find 
 the witness mentioned by Leon ; after which 
 
 all 
 
 tl 
 
 lei 
 t<{ 
 
 H 
 
 lol 
 
 ce 
 
 arl 
 
 acl 
 
 till 
 
 viJ 
 
 thl 
 
 prl 
 
 Stil 
 
 ;usU 
 
THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 Xtt 
 
 she intcndod to go to Falkirk iu search of 
 tliu ck-rgyiiiaii. 
 
 After parting with Leon's wife, Reginuld 
 loft by the lirHt truin, en route for Dr. Mor- 
 ton's asylum atLichtiuld, in acconlance with 
 Loon's diroetious. On the middle of the fol- 
 lowing day ho reuehed the place. 
 
 Ho cume there accompanied by two offi- 
 cers of tlio law, who had a waiTant for the 
 arrest of Dr. Morton on a charge of consjtir • 
 acy and illegal imprisoument. Th ,t dis- 
 tingnislied pliysician came down to see his 
 visitors, nnder the impression that one of 
 them was a patient, and was very much sur- 
 prised when lie found himself under arrest. 
 Still more 8ur[»rised was ho wlien Reginald 
 jusked him, fiercely, after Lady Dudleigh. 
 
 In a few momttnts the door of Lady Diid- 
 leigh's room was flung open, and the almost 
 despairing inmate found herself in the arms 
 of lier son. She looked feeble and emacia- 
 ted, though not so much so as Reginald had 
 feared. Slie had known too much of the 
 sorrows of life to yield altogether to this 
 new calauiity. Her chief grief had been 
 about others, the fear that they might have 
 become the prey of the villain who had shut 
 her in here; but in spite of her terrible sus- 
 l)ense, she struggled against the gloom of her 
 situation, and tried to hope for release. It 
 had come at last, and with it came also the 
 news that there was no longer any need for 
 her or for Reginald to take any proceedings 
 against the guilty husband and father, since 
 he liad been struck down by a more power- 
 ful arm. 
 
 Wlien they went away, Dr. Morton was 
 taken away also. In due time he was tried 
 on the charge above mentioned. He show- 
 ed, however, that Lady Dudleigh had been 
 l)ut under his care by Sir Lionel himself, and 
 in the usual way ; that Sir Lionel had speoi- 
 iied the nature of her insanity to consist in 
 the belief that she was his wife, and that so 
 long as she maintained that belief he thought 
 her actually insane. He showed that, apart 
 from tliat confinement which he had deemed 
 requisite, she had been treated with no un- 
 necessary cruelty. Many other things he 
 also showed, by means of which he contrived 
 to o))tain an acquittal. Still, so much came 
 out in the course of the trial, and so very 
 narrow was his escape, and so strong wiis his 
 fear of being re-arrested on other chi'.rges, 
 that ho concluded to emigrate to another 
 country, and this ho did without delay. 
 
 Hut Reginald returned at once with his 
 mother to Dudleigh Manoi*. Here Lady 
 Diulleigh for a few days sank under the ef- 
 fe(its of the accumulated troubles through 
 whicli she had passed, and when at lengtli 
 she was able to nu)ve about. Sir Lionel was 
 the first one of whom she thouglit, and she 
 at once devoted herself to him. Hut tlui 
 wretched mau was already beyond the reach 
 of her care. His strength w^is failing rapid- 
 
 ly ; he refused all nourishment ; hia mind 
 was a hoiieless wreck; ho n^eognized no 
 one; and all that was now loft to the wife 
 to do was to watch over him and nurse him 
 as patiently as possible until the end, which 
 she knew must bo near. 
 
 In the excitement consequent upon his 
 first return, his interviews with Leon an<l 
 Sir Lionel, his rescue of Lady Dudleigli, and 
 his deep anxiety about her after her release, 
 Reginald had sent no word to Edith of any 
 kind. This arose neither from neglect nor 
 forgetfulness, but because his surroundings 
 were too sad, and he liad not the heart to 
 write to her until some brighter prospect 
 should appear. His mother's short illness 
 at first alarmed him ; but this jjasstnl away, 
 and on her recovery he felt sufficiently cheer- 
 ful to send to Edith an account of all that 
 had occurred. 
 
 Ten days had passed since he parted with 
 her. On the day after ho wrote to her ho 
 received a letter from her. It was tlie first 
 connnunication fliathe had received. 
 
 Tiiat letter conveyed to him awfid intelli- 
 gence. It informed him of the arrest of 
 Edith and Frederick Daltou. 
 
 CHAPTER LV. 
 
 CONX'LUSION. 
 
 Tins intelligence was so terrible and so 
 nnexpected that for some time he felt over- 
 whelmed with utter horror. Tlien a dark 
 suspicion camo to him that this was tho 
 work of Leon, who, enraged at his baffled 
 schemes, had dealt tliis last blow upon those 
 whom he had already so deeply wronged. 
 Tliis suspicion roused the utmost fury of 
 RegiuiiJd's nature, and ho hurried forth at 
 once to seek his brother. 
 
 He found him sauntering up and down in 
 fi'ont of the liouse. Leon had renuiiued hero 
 ever since his interview with Reginald, in 
 accordance with his promise. As lie now 
 saw his brother aiqiroacli, ho started, and 
 looked at him with an expression of aston- 
 ishment not unuiingled with terror. 
 
 Witliout any preliminaries, Reginald at 
 once assailed him with tho nu)st vi^heiiu'Ut 
 denunciations, and in a few burning words, 
 full of abhorrence aiul wrath, he accused 
 him of this new piece of villainy. 
 
 " You're wrong — you're wrong — you're al- 
 together wrong!" cried Leon, eagerly. "I 
 have done nothing — I swear Tve done noth- 
 ing ! I've never left tho place." 
 
 "You've sent word!" cried Reginald, fu- 
 riously. 
 
 "I have not — I swear I haven't!'' said 
 Leon. " I haven't written a line to any 
 one. I've had no communication whatever 
 with a single soul." 
 
 " It's your work, and yours only !" cried 
 
170 
 
 THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 Itofifinaltl; "and, by Ilnavon, you hIiivH siif- 
 i'or Ibr it ! You'vo lirokcii tlio ajirniemoiit 
 liotwecii UH, and now I'll mIiow you no 
 intjrcy !" 
 
 "I haven't brokon it! I swear by all 
 tliat'H nioHt holy!" crird Leon, earneHtly. 
 " I see liow it is. TIhh is nuTely tho resiilt 
 of the old runioi'H — the old work going on. 
 I Hwcar it is! Hesides, what danger ean 
 hajiiK^n to Miss Daltoii T 1 need only show 
 myself. I'll go there with you at once. Can 
 1 do more than that f When I am seen alive, 
 there is no more danger for her. Do you 
 think I'd he siudi an infernal fo(d as to work 
 out siu'h a piece of spite, wliicli I would 
 know to bo utterly useless? No. I only 
 want to wind up the whole afl'air, aiul get 
 my freedom. I'll go there with you or with- 
 out you, and make it all right so far as she 
 is concerned. There. Cuu I do any thing 
 more V 
 
 These words mollified Reginald in some 
 degree, since they showed that, after all, 
 this uew trouble might, as Leon said, have 
 arisen from old machinations, as their nat- 
 ural result, and di<l not necessarily involve 
 any new action on Leon's part. 
 
 " I'll go," said Reginald, " and yon shall 
 go with me; but if I lind that you have 
 l)layed me false this time, by Heaven, I'll 
 crush you !" 
 
 Reginald, accompanied by Leon, hurried 
 oft" at once to the succor of Edith, and ar- 
 rived there on the following day. It was 
 the fifth day of their imprisonment, but, lo 
 Reginald's immense relief, this new misfor- 
 tune did not seem to have afftscted either of 
 them HO jiainfuUy as he had feared. For to 
 Edith imprisonment was familiar now, and 
 this time she had tho discovery of Miss For- 
 toscuo to console her. Besides, sho had her 
 father to think of and to care for. The 
 kindness of the authorities had allowed the 
 two to be together a« much as possible ; and 
 Edith, in the endeavor to console her father, 
 had forced herself to look on the brighter 
 side of things, and to hope for the best. 
 
 Dalton, too, had borne this arrest with 
 equanimity. After the first shock w.as past 
 he thought over all th.at was most favorable 
 to escape rather than the gloomier surround- 
 ings of a ituation like his. For himself ho 
 cared nothing. To be brought once more 
 before a court of law was desir.able rather 
 than otherwise. His arrangeuients for his 
 own vindication were all coini)lete, and he 
 knew that tho court could only accpnt him 
 with honor. But about Edith he felt an 
 anxiety which was deeper than he cared to 
 show, for ho did not know how tho evidence 
 against her would be received. 
 
 Tiie arrival of Reginald, however, drove 
 away every fear. He brought tho missing 
 man himself. All was now explained. The 
 news ran through the connnunity like wild- 
 fire, and public opinion, which had so se- 
 
 verely prejudged Edith, now turned around 
 with a Hood of universal sympathy in her 
 favor. Some formalities had to bo under- 
 gone, and then she was free. 
 
 The circumstances that had brought to 
 light Edith's iiwiocenee served also to make 
 knr)wn the innocence, the wrongs, and tho 
 suflVa'ings of the father. Tho whole story 
 of J>alton was made ]iublic through the ex- 
 ertions of Reginald, aiul society, which had 
 once condennied him, now souglit to vindi- 
 cate him. But tho work of vindication had 
 to be done elsewhere, and in a morit fornutl 
 manner. Until then Dalton had to wait ; 
 yet tliis nnieh of IxMU'lit ho rt'(!eived fnuu 
 public sympathy, that he was allowed to go 
 free and live at Dalton Hall until the law 
 shoiihl finally decide his fate. 
 
 Long before that decision Sir Lionel passed 
 away from tho judgment of man to answer 
 for his crimes at a higher tribunal. He 
 passed away in his madness, unconsiMous of 
 tho presence of that wife whom he had 
 doomed to exile, and Avho now, his only at- 
 tendant, sought to soothe tho nuidniau's last 
 moments. But the measures that were taken 
 to vindicate Daltcm were suceessful. Lady 
 Dudleigh and Reginald could give their evi- 
 dence in his favor without the fear of deal- 
 ing out death to ono so near as Sir Lionel. 
 Death had already come to him, sent by a 
 mightier power, and Dalton's vindication 
 involved no new anguish. So it was that 
 Frederick Dalton was at length cleared of 
 that guilt that iiad so long clung to him ; 
 and if any thing could atono for his past 
 suRorings, it was the restoration of his name 
 to its ancient honor, the public expression 
 of sympathy from the court and from the 
 world, and the deeji joy of Edith over such 
 a termination to his s(nrows. 
 
 But this was a work of time. Before this 
 Reginald and Edith were married. Tlujy 
 lived at Dudleigh Manor, for the associa- 
 tions of Dalton Hall were too painful, and 
 Edith did not care to make a homo in her 
 old prison-house. To her father, too, the 
 Hall was distasteful as a residence, and ho 
 made his abode with his daughter, who 
 was now the only one on earth in whom 
 he took any interest. But Dalton Hall was 
 not initenanted. Lady Dudleigh lived there 
 in the old home of her childhood, and passed 
 her time in works of charity. She made an 
 (iftbrt to reclaim Leon, and succeeded in 
 keeping him with her for a few weeks ; but 
 tho quiet life soon proved intolerable, and ho 
 wandered away at length to other scenes. 
 
 Reginald had dealt faithfully and even 
 generously by him. After all his crimes aiul 
 villainies, he could not forget that ho was 
 his brother, atul ho had done all in his 
 power to renew his life for him. He had 
 given him all the claims which he had col- 
 lected, and thus had freed him from debt. 
 He had also given him money enough to en- 
 
THE LIVING LINK. 
 
 in 
 
 ahlo liitn to start afrosli in life. But tho 
 niuiicy wuH hood guiic, and tho habitn wliich 
 Leon had foruKid niadu any chaiigo for tho 
 bottor iniiiosHible. Ho waiidorod away int'' 
 liiii furnior aHHOciatioiiH and Iioeanio u uiin- 
 craltle vagabond, constantly Hinkin;; (h)\vn 
 (loop into Hiisory, to bo Havod for a tinio by 
 liJM njotlioi*'a aHuiHtauco, but only to sink 
 onco uioro. 
 
 Montiou must bo made of two others be- 
 fore this Htory closes. 
 
 One of those is Leon's wife. Slio wont 
 away from Dudlcigli Manor to Scotland in 
 search of the clorf^ynian who had nuirricd 
 lier. She succeeded in linding him, and in 
 t>btaining from him a formal certificate of 
 lior marriage. This, however, was not for 
 the pnipose of acquiring any h(dd whatever 
 njion Leon, but rather for the sake of her 
 uwu honor, and also out of regard for Edith, 
 
 whom she wished to free from the last shad- 
 ow of that evil which her own deceit had 
 thrown U]ion tho innocent girl. After this 
 she was sr'islied. She did in)t seek Leon 
 again, nor did she evi<r again see him. She 
 retired from the world altogether, and join- 
 ing a si.Hterhood of mercy, devoted the re- 
 mainder of her life tu acts of charity and 
 humanity. 
 
 Last of all remains Miss Plym]iton, with 
 whom this story began, ami with whom it 
 nniy end. That good lady recovered from 
 the illness into which she had fallen on ac- 
 (M)Unt of lH!r anxiety about Edith, ami was 
 able to visit her not long after her release 
 from her last imiuisoiuuent. She had given 
 ni> her school ; and as she had no home, she 
 yielded to Edith's atiectioiiato entreaties, 
 and found a new homo with her, where she 
 passed the reuiuiuder of her days. 
 
 TUE END, 
 
 
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 "Th 
 world 
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 fill. H 
 ed is tl 
 erally I 
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 prepare 
 I'Plves t 
 
 flltlKIIIS 
 
 they an 
 
 Harp 
 
 Be 
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 anc 
 Rii 
 Th 
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 NordI 
 
 Nor 
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 8vo. 
 
 "Mr. N 
 f>f our Pii 
 California 
 The new 
 its predec 
 n..;unil PI 
 the rei,'i(>ii 
 Kiiidiinoe c 
 Mr. Non 
 voliiriins, n 
 >norc than 
 la.ist carol 
 

 JUN E BOOK- LIST. 
 
 jy Harper & Brothess «//// j««i/ a>y ef the following books by mail, postage pref^id, to any fart if the 
 
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 Life and Dea*h of John of Harneveld, Advocate of Holland. With a View of the Primary 
 Causes and Movements of " The Thirty Years' War." ]!y John L^jthrop Mcjtley, D.C.L., 
 Author of " The Rise of the Dutch Republic," " History of the United Netherlands," &c. 
 With Illustrations. In Two Volumes. 8vo, Cloth, $7 00. (Uniform with Motley's " Dutch 
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 secrets, the stnlesmnu who forwards, ns he fancies, lii^i 
 royal intentions. These are the real rulers of manliinii, 
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 prepared by unknown brains. Kings Hatter them- , England its Cecil and Walslngliam, and the Nether 
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 The new book has the d.me features wlitrli miide 
 its predecessor so successful— lively descriptions of 
 n.itural scenery, full accounts of the resources of 
 the region visited, and caref.il details for the use and 
 guidance of travelers nnd settlers. 
 
 Mr. NordhofT has aimed to prepare, in these two 
 voliuMCs, a gnidc-hook which should give somcllilng 
 more than a mere list of names. He t'ON, with the 
 i;M*t careful detail, wiial the traveler ou^'ht 10 see. 
 
 how to see it, nnd tlie time as well as the money he 
 will need to spend in his siglit-seeing. For the nx t 
 practical settler or en '.grant, this volume lias 1. t 
 
 variety of useful Information a" to the climate, ,. ic- 
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 Mr. NordholTs flrft volume otitained an immediate 
 and extraordinary success ; and the present, w lilch is 
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 the tour of the Pacific coa«t, lncludiii„' the Saiidwicli 
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Harper ^5^• Brothers' List of New Books. 
 
 Schweinfurth's Heart of Africa. 
 
 The Heart of Africa ; or, Three Years' Travels and Adventures in the Unexplored Regions 
 of the Centre of Africa. From 1868 to 1871. By Dr. Georg Schweinfurth. Trans- 
 lated by Ellen E. Frewer. With an Introduction by WinwooI) Reade. Illustrated by 
 about 130 Woodcuts from Drawings made by the Author, and with Two Maps. 2 vols., 
 8vo, Cloth, U8 00. 
 
 The thvee great fea'iires of Schweinfurth's book are, I 
 first, his great coiitributiaiis to the hydrography of 1 
 Central Africa ; next, his rediscovery of the Pygmies | 
 — always thought fabulous when mentioued in the | 
 pages of Herodotus and the old poets ; and thirdly, 
 the dreadful 'jut useful light which he throws on the ! 
 slave-hunting system and the work begun for the 
 Egyptian government by Sir Samuel Baker. In re- 
 gard to the question of the Nile, it may be briefly 
 stated that Schweinfurth crossed the western water- 
 shed of that river, and having arrived where the 
 Lualaba must come — if it come northward at all, 
 and not into the Nyanza — he found the Welle, the 
 Keebaly, the Gadda, and all the streams of the land 
 flowing westward, and |)rol)iibly to the Shary. This 
 does not "settle the Lualaba," but it proves the exist- 
 ence of a separate river system where Livingstone 
 and Stanley thought there might be fouud the cou- 
 tinuous channel of the Bahr-el-Ghazal. As to the 
 Pygmies, the German discovered them in a little peo- 
 I)lc, averaging four feet seven inches in height, living 
 south of King Muuza's territory. They are called the 
 Akka. Besides seeing a great company of the dimin- 
 utive savages, the traveler actually obtained one, call- 
 ed Tikkitikki, and brought him iu good health as 
 far as Egypt, where he sickened and died from over- 
 sumptuous food. The Akka are a separate nation 
 — great hunters and fighters, like the Bushmen of 
 South Africa, whom they greatly resemble; and 
 there is little doubt that they represent the nborig- 
 iniil human race of the continent, while they seem in 
 feature and habit to carry humanity some degrees 
 closer to the " missing link." The Moubuttos and the 
 Niam-niams, among whom the doctor lived for a long 
 time, are confirmed canaibals ; and one of the most 
 curious points of the description is i ■> how that this 
 unpleasant foible iis uot incompatible with marked 
 advance in social arts and manners. For instance, 
 these man-caters, the Niam-niams, are affectionate 
 husbands and wives, and will surrender the most 
 cherished possession to buy back one of their house- 
 hold, if captured by the slave-hunters or by a hostile 
 tribe. The Pygmies, therefore, exist, as Herodotus 
 said, i\ jugh they arc rather too large for the cranes to 
 engage, i.aslly, the drfadful pictures of war, rapine, 
 famine, and speechless misery, the horrible conse- 
 quences of the slave-trade, must awaken the con- 
 Bcience of Euro|)e, which can not rest until measures 
 are taken to restrain these wicked men-hunters. Al- 
 together, the journey which we have cited is a most 
 memorable contribiuion to the work of African dis- 
 covery, and proves more than ever what a rich and 
 splendid land it is which awaits the life and liglit of 
 knowledge around those niagniflrent sweet-'vaterseas 
 of th>! " Heart of Afrlciu"— /ximion rilciraph. 
 
 All persons who are really interested in Africa— 
 and in the present day their name is legion— should 
 contrive to devote themselves to an attjntivc perusal 
 of " The Heart of Africa."— i.i<<Tor(/ World, Loudon. 
 
 One of the remarkable features of this interesting 
 book is the immense patience and pluck displayed by 
 its author. * • * But in the book itself we find indirect 
 evidence of a multifarious Industry and energy such as 
 few travelers have before exhibited. * * * It may bo 
 imagined from the multifarious interests of Dr. 
 Schweinfurth himself how much interesting matter he 
 has collected, and to how many different tastes his 
 book will appeal.— Pa(J Hall Gazette, London. 
 
 Dr. Schweinfurth's work is a most valuable con- 
 tribution to our knowledge of Inner Africa. We have 
 here the matured results of an accomplished mau of 
 I science, who combines all the qualities of a good trav- 
 eler with the power of conveying to others the rich 
 stores of information he has collected and classified iu 
 I a very agreeable form. — Ocean Highwatis, London. 
 I Dr. Schweinfurth has unquestionably taken rank 
 as a leading African explorer, and the pre.-ent work 
 more than justifies the position assigned him by sci- 
 j entific men. Few greater books of travel have been 
 written in our day. • • » Dr. Schweinfurth has also 
 ! much to say on the flora, fauna, and physical aspects of 
 I the countries through which he passed ; and enlivens 
 his tale by scores of drawings, Bor>e of which are re- 
 markably lifelike and artistic. We may add tliat, al- 
 j though he never obtrudes himself, wo come to know 
 I him by a thousand unconscious touches ; and we do 
 j not envy those who, when they close the book, have 
 I not learned to admire his bright, genial nature, min- 
 I gled firmness and courtesy, and noble devotion to 
 ' great aims. — OMie, London. 
 
 j Dr. Schweinfurth has arrived fresh from the can- 
 nibals of Monbuttoo with human skulls and bones al- 
 most warm from the saucepans of the • iges. lie 
 can even describe the sauces which these gourmands 
 I use iu their dainty dishes. Such men as Dr. Schwein- 
 furth will always have the regard and esteem of all 
 true friends of science ; he belongs to the same metal 
 I that has already f rmed a wedge which will force ojieu 
 the secrets of Inner .\frica. — Xatiire, London. 
 I Dr. Schweinfurth adds to the accuracy and perspicac- 
 ' ity of the trained ^cientillc mind a charming style, 
 admirably rendcreii by the translator, which carries 
 one along through the record of his observations and 
 of the main \ nrpoee of his expedition— animated by 
 niany-sidcd intelligence, and information by who^e 
 , extent he only is unimpressed, and guided by true 
 German thoroughness. The mau interests us as much 
 as the facts, by his self-abnegation, his quiet taking 
 for granted of feats upon which most travelers would 
 have 'dasonably dilated, his deliberate manner of do- 
 ing extraordinary things, his calmness iu danger, I- is 
 patience in suffering, and tlie stores of laboriously ac- 
 quired information on all sorts of collateral subjects 
 on which he draws when difllcultles arise and (jpiii- 
 ions differ. No impatience, no anxiety to push on 
 and get over intervening space disturbs this equani- 
 mons traveler, who is perpetually obecrvlug every 
 Mixii.—Upcctatur, Londou. 
 
 A Fast Life on the Modern Iliijliway. 
 
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 ably knows more about life on the rail tliuu any other ilhietrated with many humorous cngravingn," 
 
Harper or* Brothers^ List of New Books. 
 
 The Christian Pastor. By Dr. Tyng. 
 
 The Office and Duty of a Christian Pastor. By Stephen II. TvNG, D.D., Rector of St. 
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 tliri)ii>;h by tlie wealtli of experience and wisdom 
 gained in a busy pabtorate extending over fifty years. 
 — Boston Daily Advertixer. 
 
 Mi)re than flfly years of active ministry have given 
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 observation and experience in his calling, and what he 
 eayg here must necessarily be valual)le. The volume 
 would be an acceptable addition to every minister's 
 library. It treats of pastoral duty rather than pastor- 
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 dividing his subject into the heads of a pastor's 
 objects, qualifications, instrumejits, agencies, power, 
 and attainments Itrookhjn I'lunn. 
 
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 — Broukhjn Eagle. 
 
 It embodies the results of his observation and ex- 
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 Trollopc's Lady Anna. 
 
 riod of more tlian half a century, and deals with the 
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 truths exhibited. The words of direction, wurninj;, 
 and encouragement are charged with eloquence, and 
 with an earnestness and fervor born of a high and 
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 Karely have they been discussed so lucidly and prac- 
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 Ninety-Three. A Novel. By Victor Hug 
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 original of all the famous writers of Europe since 
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 than history. The reader will rise from its i)crusal 
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 ofl'aiim-e terrible of the French Revolution, than if he 
 had given years of study to the chrouicles of lb it pe- 
 Tim\.—lii>it<in Journal. 
 
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 o. Author of " Toilers of the Sea," " Les Mise'ra- 
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 The grandeur of the description, the skillful inven- 
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 " Ninety-Three " will have a hundred thonsaad read- 
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 The storming of the castle is a grand piece of de- 
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 and almost overwhelming in its vividness. The sub- 
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 after the capture of the Marcpiis, are full of pathos and 
 dignity. The final interview between him and Cimour- 
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 A COMPLETE LIST OF NOVELS 
 
 PUBLISHED BY 
 
 HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK. 
 
 For full titles and description, see Harper's Catalogue, which tcill be sent by mail 
 
 on receipt of ten cents. 
 
 The Novels in this List, except where otherwise designated, are in Octavo, pamphlet form. The 
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 Inside: a Chronicle of Secession. Illus- 
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 Liivo or Marriage ? 5o 
 
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 A I'rinc'ss of Thnle 75 
 
 BLACK MOHI.'S Cradock Nowell 75 
 
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 Taken at the Flood 75 
 
 The Lovels of Ardin. Illustrated 75 
 
 To the Bitter End. Illustrated 75 
 
 BREACH of Promi.se 60 
 
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 Nina 60 
 
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 The President's Daughters 25 
 
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 Illustrated. 12mo 1 50 
 
 Shirley 1 00 
 
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 Villett" 75 
 
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 lllustrateil. ll'mo 1 50 
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 l-.'mo 1 .50 
 
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A Complete List of Novels published by Harper &• Brothers. 
 
 rBIGB 
 
 BROUGHAM'S Albert Luncl $ 75 
 
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 12nio 1 23 
 
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 Ernest Maltravers 50 
 
 Eugene Arum 50 
 
 Godolphin 50 
 
 50 
 00 
 75 
 th 
 50 
 CO 
 75 
 50 
 
 12mo 
 
 Harold, the Last of the Saxon Kings 1 
 
 Kenelin Chillingly 
 
 12nio 1 
 
 Leila 
 
 12mo 1 
 
 Lucretia 
 
 My Novel 1 
 
 2 vols. 12ino 2 50 
 
 Night and Morning 75 
 
 Paul Clifford 
 
 Pelham 
 
 Kicnzi 
 
 The Caxtons 
 
 12ino 1 
 
 The Disowned 
 
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 12mo 1 
 
 Wliatwill lie do with it? 1 
 
 Cloth 2 
 
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 CHARLES Auchester 
 
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 The Prey of the Cot's 
 
 CITIZEN of' Prague 
 
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 Antoiiiua 
 
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 50 
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 50 
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 Hide-and-Srok. 
 Man and Wife. 
 No Name. 
 After Dark, and 
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 Poor Miss Finch. 
 The Drad Secret. 
 The Moonstfine. 
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 The Woman in White. 
 My Misc llanles. 
 Queen of Hearts. 
 
 50 
 60 
 50 
 
 50 
 75 
 25 
 00 
 
 1 
 1 
 
 1 50 
 
 The Dodge Club. Illustrated. 
 
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 76 
 
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 12mo 1 26 
 
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