About a month passed 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 had been subjected.

At length one morning she learned that Leon had arrived at the Hall. This news gave her 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, what his intentions were. An interview with him under such peculiar circumstances might have been painful had she been less courageous or less self-possessed; but to one with such lofty pride as hers, and filled as she was with such scorn of Leon, and convinced as she was that he was at heart an arrant coward, such an interview had nothing in it to deter her. Suspense was worse. She wished 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 he 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 pleasure. 'Pon my life, I had no idea that you would volunteer to do me so much honor!”

“I am not Mrs. Dudleigh,” said Edith, “as you very well know. I am Miss Dalton, and if you expect me to have any thing to say to you, you must call me by my proper name. You will suffer dearly enough yet for your crimes, and have no need to add to them.”

“Now, my dear,” said Leon, “that is kind and wife-like, and all that. It reminds me of the way in which wives sometimes speak in the plays.”

“Speak to me as Miss Dalton, or you shall not speak to me at all.”

“It's quite evident,” said Leon, with a sneer, “that you don't know into whose hands you've fallen.”

“On the contrary,” said Edith, contemptuously, “it has been my fortune, or my misfortune, 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 quite evident. You have always shown a very peculiar idea of the way in which a lady should speak to a 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 you have no particular birth or family,” said Edith, in her most insolent tone, “I suppose you must rest your claims to be a gentleman altogether on your good manners and high-toned character.”

“Birth and family!” exclaimed Leon, excitedly, “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.”

Leon looked at her for a moment with a glance of intense rage; and as she calmly returned his gaze, she noticed that peculiarity 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, stammering in his passion “let me tell you that I associate with the proudest in the land.”

“I know that,” replied Edith, quietly. “Am I not here! But you are only tolerated.”

“Miss Dalton,” cried Leon, “you shall suffer for this.”

“Thank you,” said Edith: “for once in your life you have spoken to me without insulting me. You have called me by my right name. I could smile at your 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 you mean!” cried Leon, his face purple with rage.

“I really don't know any name better than that for you and your friends.”

“The name of Dudleigh,” said Leon, “is one of the proudest in the land.”

{Illustration: SHE CONFRONTED HIM WITH A COLD, STONY GLARE.}

“I swear by all that's holy that you are really my wife. The marriage was a valid one. No law can break it. The banns were published in the village church. All the villagers heard them. Wiggins kept himself shut up so that he knew nothing about it. The clergyman is the vicar of Dalton—the Rev. Mr. Munn. It has been, published in the papers. In the eye of the law you are no longer Miss Dalton, you are Mrs. Leon Dudleigh. You are my wife!”

At these words, in spite of Edith's pride and courage, there came over her a dark fear that all this might indeed be as he said. The mention of the published banns disturbed her, and shook that proud and obstinate 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; and if this were so, what then?

A pang of anguish shot through her heart as this terrific thought occurred. But the pang passed away, and with it the terror passed also. Once more she called to her aid that stubborn Dalton fortitude and Dalton pride which had thus far so well sustained her.

“Your wife!” she exclaimed, with a loathing and 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?”

“Lies!” repeated Leon—“it's the truth. You are my wife, and you must sign these papers.”

“I don't think so,” said Edith, resuming her former coolness.

“Do you dare to refuse me this?”

“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 her breast which had been concealed there, and confronted him with a cold, stony glare.

“I well know,” said she, “what an utter coward you are. While I have this you will not dare to touch me. It is better for you, on the whole, just now, that you are a coward, for this dagger—which, by-the-way, I always carry—is poisoned. It is an old family affair—and that shows you one of the advantages of having a family—and so deadly is the poison that a scratch would kill you. Yes, there is some advantage in being a coward, for if you dared to touch me, I should strike you with this as I would strike a mad dog!”

Leon stood before her, a coward, as she knew and as she said, not daring to come within reach of her terrible weapon, which she upheld with a deadly purpose plainly visible in her eye. Yet it seemed as though, with his great muscular power, he might easily have grasped that slender arm and wrenched the dagger away. But this was a thing which he did not dare to attempt; the risk was too great. He might have received 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 implicitly to Leon's cowardice, and without another word, or even another look, she left the room and returned to her own apartments.