"I must say it, Miss Dalton," said he. "I am compelled to. I came here this day--for the sole purpose of saying--something which--you--may be unwilling to hear. I have hesitated long, and staid away longer on this account, yet I must say it now. You are in a fearful position, Miss Dalton. You are in the power of an unprincipled and a desperate man. I feel for you most deeply. You are always in my thoughts. In order to a.s.sist you I have done all that I could. I do not wish to make any allusions to what I have done, but rather to what I have felt, and shall feel. You have become very dear to me. I know I am not worthy of you.

You are above me. I am only a humble lieutenant; you are the lady of Dalton Hall; but I can not bear to--to go away and leave one whom I love in the power of a villain. Dare I offer you my protection? Will it be too much to ask you to be mine? I do not hope that you can look upon me just yet with any such feelings as love, but I see that you treat me as a friend, and you have honored me with your confidence. I have never said any thing about my love to you, but perhaps you have not been altogether without suspicion about it. Had I found Sir Lionel, or had I thought that he was at all accessible, I would never have made my humble confession until you were in a different position. I am ashamed to make it now, for though I know that you would not suspect me of any thing base, yet it looks as if I were taking advantage of your necessities.

But I know that to a mind like yours such a suspicion would never come; and I am comforted by the thought that if you do listen to my request it will lead, to your safety. I think, too, that if it were possible for you to consent, even if you felt no very tender sentiment toward me, you would have from me a devotion such as few others are capable of feeling.

Under such circ.u.mstances you might not be altogether unhappy."

All this Dudleigh had spoken with feverish rapidity, and with every sign of the strongest agitation, occasionally stopping, and then resuming his remarks in a headlong way. But if he had felt agitation, Edith had felt at least quite as much. At the first mention of his proposal her head sank forward, and she looked fixedly upon the ground with downcast eyes, while her tears fell abundantly. She said nothing. Dudleigh in his frequent pauses seemed to expect that she would say something, but she did not.

Edith's feelings were of the most distressing kind. She had, of course, antic.i.p.ated something like this, but had never yet been able to decide what she should do in the event of such a confession. She did not love him. Her feelings toward him were of a totally different kind. It seemed to her that such a feeling as love could never by any possibility be felt by her for him. And yet she had a very strong regard for him. His society was very pleasant to her. She would have done much and sacrificed much for his sake. But to be his wife, that was a thing which seemed odious.

Yet what could she do! Her position was intolerable and full of peril.

If she were his wife, in one moment she would be safe, free, and under the protection of one who loved her with utter devotion. True, she had no such sentiment toward him as a wife should have for a husband, but he himself was aware of that, and in spite of that was willing, nay, eager, to take her. She was touched to the heart by his self-depreciation and profound respect.

Then, again, she thought, ought not he himself to be considered? Had he no claims? He had given himself up to her; he had done much for her. He had offered again and again to give up his life for her. Ought not such rare devotion to meet with some reward? And what reward could she ever give? There was only one which he wanted--herself. Could she refuse him that?

Dudleigh said not another word, and in that long and most embarra.s.sing silence he looked away so as not to add to her confusion. Edith did not know what to do or say. Could she refuse him? Then how ungrateful she would be to her best friend! But if he should leave her? What then? A life of despair! The complete triumph of Wiggins. A living death.

Was it at all singular that she recoiled from such an alternative? She could not endure this captivity any longer. And was it, then, so dreadful to give herself to the man who adored her? No. If she did not love him, she at least had a strong friendship, and this in time might change to love. She had a greater regard for him than for any other man. Distasteful? It was. Yes. But it was far better than this imprisonment. She must take him as her husband, or lose him forever. He could do no more for her unless she became his wife. He could only save her by marrying her.

She was touched by his present att.i.tude. He was waiting so patiently, so humbly. She saw his deep agitation.

Suddenly, by a quick movement, she turned toward him and held out her hand. Dudleigh took it, and for a moment each gazed into the other's eyes, regardless of observation. Dudleigh's face was deathly pale, and his hand as cold as ice.

"Oh, 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 feel deep grat.i.tude. I know your worth. You have done so much, and I wish I could feel different. If you take me as I am, I--I--I am--yours. But I am not worthy. No, I am not--not worthy of such devotion. You love me, but I do not love you. What can I do? Yet in spite of this, if you ask me, I am--yours."

Edith spoke with downcast eyes and deep embarra.s.sment and frequent hesitation. Her last words died away almost into a whisper. But the agitation of Dudleigh was now even greater than her own. A change came over him that was terrible to witness. As he took her hand he trembled, almost convulsively, from head to foot. His face became ghastly white, he pressed his hand against his heart, his breathing was thick and oppressed, big drops of perspiration started forth upon his brow, and at last, to Edith's amazement, he burst into tears, and sobbed aloud. Then he dropped her hand, and turned away, murmuring some inarticulate words.

At this Edith's confusion pa.s.sed away, and changed to wonder. What was the meaning of this? Tears and sobs--and from a man! But the thought at once occurred that this was his sensitiveness, and that it arose from her telling him so plainly that she did not love him. "I can not love him, and he knows it," she thought, "and it breaks his heart, poor fellow! How I wish I could console him!"

Suddenly Dudleigh dashed his hand across his eyes, and walked swiftly onward. Edith followed as fast as she could, keeping him in sight, but falling farther and farther behind. At length he turned and came back to meet her. His eyes were downcast, and there was misery unspeakable on his white face. As he came up to her he held out his hand, and looked at her with a strange, woful gaze.

Edith took the hand which he held out.

"Miss Dalton," said he, "you said you would be mine."

[Ill.u.s.tration: "THEN HE DROPPED HER HAND, AND TURNED AWAY."]

Edith's lips moved, but no sound escaped them.

"All that you have said, Miss Dalton," he continued, "I feel most deeply, most keenly; but how else could it have been? Yet if you will indeed be mine, I will give you my love and grat.i.tude. I will save you from--from danger; I will--will--bless you." He stopped, and looked at her with quivering lips, while an expression of agony came across his face.

But Edith's eyes were downcast now, and she did not see this new anguish of his; her own distress was too great.

Dudleigh dropped her hand again.

"Where shall it be?" said he, hurriedly and nervously. "It can not be in the Hall. Will you venture to pa.s.s the gates with me?--I will force my way through--or are you afraid?"

"I can not consent to bloodshed," said Edith.

"I thought of that," said Dudleigh, "and I have one more plan--if you will only consent. It is not much to you who have suffered so much. It will make your way to freedom easy. Can we not meet in the park somewhere--in some secluded place?"

"In the park?" repeated Edith, abstractedly.

"I can bring a clergyman inside," said Dudleigh, in a low voice.

Edith shuddered. The idea was not yet less repugnant than it had been.

But she had consented, and here was this man--her only friend, her adorer--with all his love and devotion. If she did not love him, she must pity him. She had also given her word. As to the way in which this promise might be carried out, it was a matter of indifference. At any rate, she would escape from her hateful prison. And what mattered it how, or where, or when the ceremony might be performed?

"Oh, Miss Dalton," said Dudleigh, "forgive me! forgive me! I must go away in two days. Could you consent to let this be--tomorrow?"

Edith made no reply. She trembled. Her head sank down lower.

"There is one place," said Dudleigh, and then hesitated. Edith said nothing. There was anguish in her face and in her heart.

"The chapel--"

"The chapel," she repeated, dreamily.

"It is hidden among the trees. Do you know it? It is away from all observation."

Edith bowed her head. She knew it well. It was off the main avenue--not far away from the Hall.

"Can you get out of the house after dark?" said Dudleigh, in a feverish whisper. "It must be after dark, and we must be un.o.bserved. For if Wiggins were to see us he would come as your guardian, and take you back, and shut you up--perhaps for life."

This suggestion about Wiggins chimed in with Edith's own fears. It made her desperate. The marriage seemed less abhorrent; it was eclipsed by the horrors of imprisonment for life. Discovery now--after that last threat of his--would bring a closer restraint, stricter imprisonment, the loss of all hope.

"I can get out," she said, hurriedly.

"Where shall I find you?"

"There is a private door at the east end--"

"I know the door."

"I can get out through that. No one will think of my leaving the Hall after dark."

"I will meet you there."

Edith sighed heavily.

"To-morrow evening," said Dudleigh, "at ten o'clock. It will be dark then. Will you meet me?"

"I will," said Edith, calmly.

"I shall only hope, then," said he, "that no new restraint may be imposed upon you to prevent your coming. And now I will go--to meet you to-morrow."

He seized her hand in his icy grasp, wrung it convulsively, and bowing with his pallid face, walked quickly away.

There was a weight on Edith's heart; but in spite of this, Dudleigh's last look, his agitated manner, and his deep love filled her with pity, and made her anxious to carry out her act of self-sacrifice for so dear and so true a friend.