The Living Link Part 64

Dudleigh bowed.

"But then I suppose you're settled down in such infernally comfortable quarters," continued the other, "that it's not likely you'll ever trouble us again. Married and done for--that's the word. Plenty of money, and nothing to do."

"If you have anything particular to say," said Dudleigh, coldly, "I should like to hear it; if not, I must excuse myself, as I am particularly engaged."

"Oh, no offense, no offense; I merely came to offer an old friend's congratulations, you know, and--By-the-way," continued Cruikshank, lowering his voice, "there's that little I O U of yours. I thought perhaps you might find it convenient to settle, and if so, it would be a great favor to me."

"What is the amount?" asked Dudleigh, who remembered this particular debt perfectly well, since it had been the subject of more than one letter of a most unpleasant character.

"The amount?" said Cruikshank. "Well, really--let me see--I don't quite remember, but I'll find out in a moment."

With these words he drew forth his pocket-book and fumbled among the papers. At length he produced one, and tried hard to look as if he had not known all along perfectly well what that amount was.

"Well, really--yes, this is it," he remarked, as he looked at a piece of paper. "The amount, did you say? The amount is just two hundred pounds.

It's not much for you, as you are now situated, I should suppose."

"Is that the note?" asked Dudleigh, who was anxious to get rid of this visitor, and suspected all along that he might have a deeper purpose than the mere collection of a debt.

"That is the note," said Cruikshank.

"I will pay it now," said Dudleigh.

He left the room for a short time, and during his absence Cruikshank amused himself with staring at the portrait of "Captain Dudleigh," which hung in a conspicuous position before his eyes. He was not kept long waiting, for Dudleigh soon returned, and handed him the money.

Cruikshank took it with immense satisfaction, and handed the note over in return, which Dudleigh carefully transferred to his own pocket-book, where he kept many other such papers.

Cruikshank now bade him a very effusive adieu. Dudleigh stood at the window watching the retreating figure of his visitor.

"I wonder how long this sort of thing can go on?" he murmured. "I don't like this acting on the defensive. I'll have to make the attack myself soon."

CHAPTER XLIX.

EDITH'S NEW FRIEND.

Every day Edith and Dudleigh saw more and more of one another. Now that the crust of reserve was broken through, and something like intimacy had been 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 each 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 demanded quiet, yet needed but little direct attention. It was only necessary that some one should be in the room with him. He lay, as has been said, in a state of stupor, and knew nothing of what was going on. It was only necessary for those who might be with him to give him, from time to time, the medicines that had been prescribed by the physicians, or the nourishment which nature demanded.

Apart from this there was little now to be done.

While Edith and Dudleigh were thus together, they were naturally dependent exclusively upon one another. This a.s.sociation seemed not unpleasant to either of them; every day it gained a new charm; and at length both came to look forward to this as the chief pleasure of their lives. For Edith there was no other companion than Dudleigh in Dalton Hall with whom she could a.s.sociate on equal terms; he had strong claims now on her confidence, and even on her grat.i.tude; and while he was thus the only one to whom she could look for companionship, she also bore the same relation to him.

There was something in the look and in the manner of Dudleigh in these interviews which might have moved a colder nature than that of Edith.

Whenever he entered and greeted her, his face was overspread by a radiant expression that spoke of joy and delight. Whenever they met, his face told all the feelings of his heart. Yet never in any way, either by word or act, did he venture 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 her presence, and in the peace and calm that came over him while she was near. Elsewhere it was different with him. Whenever she had seen his face outside--and that had been often, for she had often seen him riding or walking in front of the windows--she had marked how care-worn and sad its expression was; she had marked a cloud of melancholy upon his brow, that bore witness to some 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 toward her was overspread with joy. Could it be any other than herself who made this change?

There was something in the manner of this man toward her which was nothing less than adoration. The delicate grace of his address, the deep reverence of his look, the intonations of his voice, tremulous with an emotion that arose from the profoundest depths of his nature, all bore witness to this. For when he spoke to her, even about the most trifling things, there was that in his tone which showed that the subject upon which he was speaking was nothing, but the one to whom he was speaking was all in all. He stood before her like one with a fervid nature, intense in its pa.s.sion, and profound in all its emotion, who under a calm exterior concealed a glow of feeling which burned in his heart like a consuming fire--a feeling that was kept under restraint by the force of will, but which, if freed from restraint but for one moment, would burst forth and bear down all before it.

Weeks pa.s.sed away, but amidst all the intimacy of their a.s.sociation there never appeared the slightest attempt on his part to pa.s.s beyond the limits which he had set for himself. Another man under such circ.u.mstances might have ventured upon something like a greater familiarity, but with this man there was no such attempt. After all their interviews he still stood in spirit at a distance, with the same deep reverence in his look, and the same profound adoration in his manner, regarding her as one might regard a divinity. For Dudleigh stood afar off, yet like a worshiper--far off, as though he deemed that divinity of his inaccessible--yet none the less did his devotion make itself manifest. All this was not to be seen in his words, but rather in his manner, in the expression of his face, and in the att.i.tude of his soul, as it became manifest to her whom he adored.

For she could not but see it; in matters of this sort woman's eyes are keen; but here any one might have perceived the deep devotion of Dudleigh. The servants saw it, and talked about it. What was plain to them could not but be visible to her. She saw it--she knew it--and what then? Certainly it was not displeasing. The homage thus paid was too delicate to give offense; it was of that kind which is most flattering to the heart, which never grows familiar, but is insinuated or suggested rather than expressed.

It was consoling to her lonely heart to see one like this, who, whenever she appeared, would pa.s.s from a state of sadness to one of happiness; to see his eloquent eyes fixed upon her with a devotion beyond words; to hear his voice, which, while it spoke the commonplaces of welcome, was yet in its tremulous tones expressive of a meaning very different from that which lay in the words. Naturally enough, she was touched 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 her father, but also with regard to the conduct of the estate. Thus many varied subjects grew up for their consideration, and gradually the things about which they conversed grew more and more personal. Beginning with Mr. Dalton, they at last ended with themselves, and Dudleigh on many occasions found opportunity of advising Edith on matters where her own personal interest or welfare was concerned.

Thus their intimacy deepened constantly from the very necessities of their position.

Then there was the constant anxiety which each felt and expressed about the health of the other. Each had urged the other 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. Nevertheless, the subject of one another's health still remained. Dudleigh insisted that Edith had not yet recovered, that she was nothing better than a convalescent, and that she ought not to risk such close confinement.

Edith, on the contrary, insisted that she was able to do far more, and that the confinement was injuring him far more than herself. On one occasion she asked him what he thought would become of her if he too became ill, and the care of the two should thus devolve upon her.

At this remark, which escaped Edith in the excitement of an argument about the interesting subject of one another's health, Dudleigh's face lighted up. He looked at her with an expression that spoke more than words could tell. Yet he said nothing. He said nothing in words, but his eyes spoke an intelligible language, and she could well understand what was thus expressed.

What was it that they said?

O loved! and O adored beyond weak words! O divinity of mine! they said.

If death should be the end of this, then such death would be sweet, if I could but die in your presence! O loved and longed for! they said.

Between us there is an impa.s.sable 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 for 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 together. This he had hesitated to do on account of Mr.

Dalton. Yet, after all, there was no necessity for them to be there always. Mr. Dalton, in his stupor, was unconscious of their presence, and their absence could therefore make no difference to him, either with regard to his feelings or the attention which he received. When Dudleigh made his proposal, he mentioned this also, and Edith saw at once its truth. She therefore consented quite readily, and with a gratification that she made no attempt to conceal.

Why should she not? She had known enough of sorrow. Dalton Hall had thus far been to her nothing else than a prison-house. Why should it not afford her some pleasure as an offset to former pain? Here was an opportunity of obtaining at last some compensation. She could go forth into the bright free open air under the protection of one whose loyalty and devotion had been sufficiently proved. Could she hope for any pleasanter companion?

Thus a new turn took place in the lives of these two. The mornings they pa.s.sed in Mr. Dalton's room, and in the afternoons, except when there was unpleasant weather, they went out together. Sometimes they strolled through the grounds, down the lordly avenues, and over the soft sweet meadows; at other times they went on horseback. The grounds were extensive and beautiful, but confinement within the park inclosure was attended with unpleasant memories, and so, in the ordinary course of things, they naturally sought the wider, freer world outside.

The country around Dalton Hall was exceedingly beautiful, and rich in all those peculiar English charms whose quiet grace is so attractive to the refined taste. Edith had never enjoyed any opportunity of seeing all this, and now it opened before her like a new world. Formerly, during her long imprisonment, she had learned to think of that outside world as one which was full of every thing that was most delightful; there freedom dwelt; and that thought was enough to make it fair and sweet to her. So the prisoner always thinks of that which lies beyond his prison walls, and imagines that if he were once in that outer world he would be in the possession of perfect happiness.

Horseback riding has advantages which make it superior to every other kind of exercise. On foot one is limited and restrained, 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 s.p.a.ce 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 track. But on horseback all is different.

There one has something of the comfort of the carriage and something 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 rapid pace can alternate with the slowest; the highway no longer forms bounds to the journey; distance is no obstacle 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 pleasure; for he himself seems to sympathize 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 companion, and the country was one which afforded the best opportunity for such exercise. Dudleigh was, as has been said, a first-rate horseman, and managed his steed like one who had been brought up from childhood to that accomplishment. Edith also had always been fond of riding; at school she had been distinguished above all the others for her skill and dash in this respect; and there were few places where, if Dudleigh led, she would not follow.

All the pleasure of this n.o.ble exercise was thus enjoyed by both of them to the fullest extent. There was an exhilaration in it which each felt equally. The excitement of the rapid gallop or the full run, the quiet sociability of the slow walk, the perfect freedom of movement in almost any direction, were all appreciated by one as much as by the other.

Then, too, the country itself was of that character which was best adapted to give pleasure. There were broad public roads, hard, smooth, and shadowed by overarching trees--roads such as are the glory of England, and with which no other country has any that can compare. Then there were by-roads leading from one public road to another, as smooth and as shadowy as the others, but far more inviting, since they presented greater seclusion and scenes of more quiet picturesque beauty.

Here they encountered pleasant lanes leading through peaceful sequestered valleys, beside gently flowing streams and babbling brooks, where the trees overarched most grandly and the shade was most refreshing. Here they loved best to turn, and move slowly onward at a pace best suited to quiet observation and agreeable conversation.

Such a change from the confinement of Dalton Hall and Dalton Park was unspeakably 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 Dudleigh, since she had Felt those horrors of imprisonment which he had not. These rides through the wide country, 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 pleasures of this free and unrestrained existence. So in these rides she was always joyous, always gay, and even enthusiastic. It was to her like the dawn of a new life, and into that life she threw herself with an abandonment of feeling that evinced itself in unrestrained enjoyment of every thing that presented itself to her view.

Dudleigh, however, was very different. In him there had always appeared a certain restraint. His manner toward Edith had that devotion and respect which have already been described; he was as profound and sincere in his homage and as tender in his loyalty as ever; but even now, under these far more favorable circ.u.mstances, he did not venture beyond the limits of courtesy--those limits which society has established and always 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 formulas of politeness. His true meaning lay behind or beneath his words. His quiet manner was therefore not the sign of an unemotional nature, but rather of strong pa.s.sion reined in and kept in check by a powerful will, the sign and token of a nature which had complete 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 feeling, the other with his self-command, his profound devotion. Their tastes were alike. By a common impulse they sought the same woodland paths, or directed their course to the same picturesque scenes; they admired the same beauties, or turned away with equal indifference from the 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 Plympton Terrace.