In another place, where Wiggins gave his testimony about the note, was written: "Where was J.W. during that hour? Had he gone to Everton himself?"

And again: "J.W. was the friend of F.D., and wished to save him. Might he not have done more?"

Again: "Mark well! J.W. is a Liverpool man. H. was a Liverpool man. Had F.D. ever heard of even the name of H. before the forgery? What was the nature of the dealings between F.D. and J.W.?"

Again, when Dalton's silence was so sharply commented on and urged as proof of his guilt, there occurred the following: "If F.D. was silent, why did not J.W. open his mouth? Must he not have known at least something? Could he not have set the authorities upon the track of the real criminal, and thus have saved F.D.?"

Again: "The Maltese cross did not belong to Dalton. He had ordered it to be made. For whom? Was it not for this same friend for whom he was now suffering? Was not this friend the murderer? Has he not thrown suspicion upon F.D. by that writing in blood? The same one who committed the murder wrote the false charge, and left the Maltese cross."

Other notes of similar character occurred in various places, but those which impressed Edith most were the following:

"F.D. was evidently betrayed by his false friend. Was not that false friend the real murderer? Did he not contrive to throw on F.D. the suspicion of the murder? Might not the forgery itself from the very beginning have been part of a plan to ruin F.D.? But why ruin him?

Evidently to gain some benefit. Now who has been more benefited by the ruin of F.D.? Whoever he is, must he not he be the murderer and the false friend?"

Again, a little further on: "Has any one gained any thing from the ruin of F.D. but J.W.? Has not J.W. ever since had control of Dalton property? Is he not rich now? Has not the ruin of F.D. made the fortune of J.W.?"

Such was the substance of the papers which Edith perused. They were voluminous, and she continued at her task all through that night, her heart all the time filled with a thousand contending emotions.

Before her mind all the time there was the image of her father in the judgment-hall. There he stood, the innocent man, betrayed by his friend, and yet standing there in his simple faith and truth to save that friend, obstinate in his self-sacrificing fidelity, true to faith when the other had proved himself worthless, suffering what can only be suffered by a generous nature as the hours and the days pa.s.sed and the end approached, and still the traitor allowed him to suffer. And there was the hate and scorn of man, the clamor for vengeance from society, the condemnation of the jury who had prejudged his case, the sneer of the paid advocate, the scoff of the gaping crowd, to whom the plea of _n.o.blesse oblige_ and stainless honor and perfect truth seemed only maudlin sentimentality and Quixotic extravagance.

All these thoughts were in Edith's mind as she read, and these feelings swelled within her indignant heart as all the facts in that dread tragedy were slowly revealed one by one. Coming to this task with a mind convinced at the outset of her father's innocence, she met with not one circ.u.mstance that could shake that conviction for a moment. In her own strong feeling she was incapable of understanding how any one could honestly think otherwise. The testimony of adverse witnesses seemed to her perjury, the arguments of the lawyers fiendish malignity, the last summing up of the judge bitter prejudice, and the verdict of the jury a mockery of justice.

CHAPTER III.

THE MOMENTOUS RESOLVE.

Early on the following morning Miss Plympton called on Edith, and was shocked to see the changes that had been made in her by that one night.

She did not regard so much the pallor of her face, the languor of her manner, and her unelastic step, but rather the new expression that appeared upon her countenance, the thoughtfulness of her brow, the deep and earnest abstraction of her gaze. In that one night she seemed to have stepped from girlhood to maturity. It was as though she had lived through the intervening experience. Years had been crowded into hours.

She was no longer a school-girl--she was a woman.

Miss Plympton soon retired, with the promise to come again when Edith should feel stronger. Breakfast was sent up, and taken away untasted, and at noon Miss Plympton once more made her appearance.

"I have been thinking about many things," said Edith, after some preliminary remarks, "and have been trying to recall what I can of my own remembrance of papa. I was only eight years old, but I have a pretty distinct recollection of him, and it has been strengthened by his portrait, which I always have had. Of my mother I have a most vivid remembrance, and I have never forgotten one single circ.u.mstance connected with her last illness. I remember your arrival, and my departure from home after all was over. But there is one thing which I should like very much to ask you about. Did none of my mother's relatives come to see her during this time?"

"Your mother's relatives acted very badly indeed, dear. From the first they were carried away by the common belief in your dear father's guilt.

Some of them came flying to your mother. She was very ill at the time, and these relatives brought her the first news which she received. It was a severe blow. They were hard-hearted or thoughtless enough to denounce your father to her, and she in her weak state tried to defend him. All this produced so deplorable an effect that she sank rapidly.

Her relatives left her in this condition. She tried to be carried to your dear father in his prison, but could not bear the journey. They took her as far as the gates, but she fainted there, and had to be taken back to the house. So then she gave up. She knew that she was going to die, and wrote to me imploring me to come to her. She wished to intrust you to me. I took you from her arms--"

Miss Plympton paused, and Edith was silent for some time.

"So," said she, in a scarce audible voice, "darling mamma died of a broken heart?"

Miss Plympton, said nothing. A long silence followed.

"Had my father no friends," asked Edith, "or no relatives?"

"He had no relatives," said Miss Plympton, "but an only sister. She married a Captain Dudleigh, now Sir Lionel Dudleigh. But it was a very unhappy marriage, for they separated. I never knew the cause; and Captain Dudleigh took it so much to heart that he went abroad. He could not have heard of your father's misfortunes till all was over and it was too late. But in any case I do not see what he could have done, unless he had contrived to shake your father's resolve. As to his wife, I have never heard of her movements, and I think she must have died long ago.

Neither she nor her husband is mentioned at the trial. If they had been in England, it seems to me that they would have come forward as witnesses in some way; so I think they were both out of the country. Sir Lionel is alive yet, I think, but he has always lived out of the world.

I believe his family troubles destroyed his happiness, and made him somewhat misanthropical. I have sometimes thought in former years that he might make inquiries about you, but he has never done so to my knowledge, though perhaps he has tried without being able to hear where you were. After all, he would scarcely know where to look. On the whole, I consider Sir Lionel the only friend you have, Edith darling, besides myself, and if any trouble should ever arise, he would be the one to whom I should apply for a.s.sistance, or at least advice."

Edith listened to this, and made no comment, but after another thoughtful pause she said,

"About this Wiggins--have you ever heard any thing of him since the--the trial?"

Miss Plympton shook her head.

"No," said she, "except from those formal business notes. You have seen them all, and know what they are."

"Have you ever formed any opinion of him more favorable than what you wrote in those notes?"

"I do not think that I wrote any thing more than suspicions or surmises," said Miss Plympton; "and as far as suspicions are concerned, I certainly have not changed my mind. The position which he occupied during the trial, and ever since, excites my suspicions against him. All others suffered; he alone was benefited. And now, too, when all is over, he seems still in his old position--perhaps a better one than ever--the agent of the estates, and a.s.suming to some extent a guardianship over you. At least he gives directions about you, for he says you are to go back to Dalton Hall. But in that he shall find himself mistaken, for I will never allow you to put yourself in his power."

"Have you ever seen him?" 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."

"See him yourself!" said Miss Plympton, anxiously. "What do you mean?"

"Oh, I shall see him soon--when I get to Dalton Hall."

"Dalton Hall?"

"Yes," said Edith, simply, raising her head and looking calmly at Miss Plympton.

"But you are not going to Dalton Hall."

"There is no other place for me," said Edith, sadly. "I am going--I am going as soon as possible."

"Oh no--oh no, darling; you are going to do nothing of the kind," said Miss Plympton. "I can not let you go. We all love you too dearly. This is your home, and I now stand in the place of those whom you have lost.

You are never to leave me, Edith dearest."

Edith sighed heavily, and shook her head.

"No," she said, speaking in a low, melancholy 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 Plympton, drawing her chair close to Edith, and twining her arms about her, "you must not talk so; you can not imagine how you distress me. 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 yourself will feel different. The consciousness of your father's innocence will make you feel more patient, and the love of all your friends will make your life as happy as ever."

"No," said Edith, "I can not--I can not. You 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 only worry me. No, for me to stay here is impossible. I would go any where first."