Although Miss Plympton had indulged the hope that Wiggins might relent, the time passed without bringing 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 best 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 shrank so long as there was any other who had a better right to incur such responsibility. Now Sir Lionel was Edith's uncle by marriage; and though there had been trouble between husband and wife, she yet felt sure that one in Edith's position would excite the sympathy of every generous heart, and rouse Sir Lionel to action. One thing might, indeed, prevent, and that was the disgrace that had fallen upon the Dalton name. This might prevent Sir Lionel from taking any part; but Miss Plympton was sanguine, and hoped that Sir Lionel's opinion of the condemned man might be like her own, in which case he would be willing, nay, eager, to save the daughter.
The first thing for her to do was to find out where Sir Lionel Dudleigh lived. About this there was no difficulty. Burke'sPeerage and Baronetageis 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 without a feeling of self-abasement that she did this, for she prided herself upon her extensive knowledge of the aristocracy, but here she was deplorably ignorant. She comforted herself, however, by 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 but Sir Bernard Burke could be expected to find out his abode. That great authority, of course, gave her all the information that she wanted, and she found that Dudleigh Manor was situated not very far distant from Cheltenham. This would require a detour which would involve time and trouble; but, under the circumstances, 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 something, and the sanguine anticipations in which she indulged with reference to Sir Lionel, did much to lessen her cares. In due time she reached her destination, and after a drive from the station at which she got out, of a mile or two, she found herself within Sir Lionel's grounds. These were extensive and well kept, while the manor-house itself was one of the noblest of its class.
After she had waited for some time in an elegant drawing-room a servant came with Sir Lionel's apologies for not coming to see her, on account of a severe attack of gout, and asking her to come up stairs to the library. Miss Plympton followed the servant to that quarter, 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 upon a stool in front of him, in orthodox gout style. He was a man apparently of about fifty years of age, in a state of excellent preservation. His head was partially bald, his brow smooth, his cheeks rounded and a little florid, 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, together with a general tendency to corpulency, 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 trouble; but gout, you know, my dear madam, is not to be trifled 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. The mountain 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 musical. His courtesy, his pleasant smile, his genial air, and his hearty voice and laugh, all filled Miss Plympton with sincere delight, 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 the object of her visit.
“In the first place, Sir Lionel,” said she, “I take it for granted that you have heard of the death of Frederick Dalton, Esquire, in Van Diemen's Land.”
The 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 he turned his face aside. A table stood on his right, with some wine and glasses within reach.
“Excuse me,” said he; “I beg ten thousand pardons; butwon'tyou take a glass of wine? No!” he continued, as Miss Plympton 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 he, with a sigh. “Yes, of course, I saw it in the papers. A most melancholy affair. Poor Dalton! Let me inform you, madam, that he was more sinned against than sinning.” Sir Lionel sighed.
“Oh, Sir Lionel,” exclaimed Miss Plympton, earnestly, “how it rejoices my heart to hear you say that! For my part, I never, never had one single doubt of his perfect innocence.”
“Nor had I,” said Sir Lionel, firmly, pouring out another glass of wine. “It was excessively unfortunate. Had I not myself been in—in—ah—affliction at the time, I might have done something to help him.”
“Oh, Sir Lionel, I'm sure you would!”
“Yes, madam,” said Sir Lionel; “but domestic 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 late.”
“So I have understood,” said Miss Plympton; “and it is because I have felt so sure of your goodness of heart that I have come now on this visit.”
“I hope that you will give me the 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 sufficient sympathy, she intrusted her child to me when dying. I have had that child ever 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 Lionel,” said Miss Plympton, gravely.
“I don't know about that. I don't—know—about—that,” said Sir Lionel, pursing up his lips and frowning. “Best wait a while; but too late 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 under it. But she could not remain with me any longer, and insisted on going home—as she called it—to Dalton Hall.”
“Dalton Hall! Yes—well? Poor girl! poor little girl!—an orphan. Dalton Hall! Well?”
“And now I come to the real purpose of my visit,” said Miss Plympton; and thereupon she went on to give him a minute and detailed account of their arrival at Dalton and the reception there, together with the subsequent events.
To all this Sir Lionel listened without one word of any kind, and at length Miss Plympton ended.
“Well, madam,” said he, “it may surprise you that I have not made any comments on your astonishing story. If it had been less serious I might have done so. I might even have indulged in profane language—a habit, madam, which, I am sorry to say, I have acquired from not frequenting more the society of ladies. But this business, madam, is beyond comment, and I can only say that I rejoice and feel grateful that you decided as you did, and have come at once to me.”
“Oh, I am so glad, and such a load is taken off my mind!” exclaimed Miss Plympton, fervently.
“Why, madam, I am utterly astounded at this man's audacity,” cried Sir Lionel—“utterly astounded! To think that any man should ever venture upon such a course! It's positively almost inconceivable. And so you tell me that she is there now?”
“Yes.”
“Under the lock and key, so to speak, of this fellow?”
“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. He wouldn't consent 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 nineteenth century. The days of private imprisonment are over. He's mad! The man's mad!”
“But what is to be done, Sir Lionel?” asked Miss Plympton, impatiently.
“Done!” cried Sir Lionel—“every thing! First, we must get Miss Dalton out of that rascal's clutches; then we, must hand that fellow and his confederates over to the law. And if it don't end in Botany Bay and hard labor for life, then there's no law in the land. Why, who is he? A pettifogger—a miserable low-born, low-bred, Liverpool pettifogger!”
“Do you know him?”
“Know him, madam! I know all about him—that is, as much as I want to know.”
“Do you know anything about the relations that formerly existed between him and Mr. Frederick Dalton?”
“Relations!” said Sir Lionel, pouring out another glass of wine—“relations, madam—that is—ah—to say—ah—business relations, madam? Well, they were those of patron and client, I believe—nothing more. I believe that this Wiggins was one to whom poor Dalton behaved very kindly—made him what he is, in fact—and this is his reward! A pettifogger, by Heaven!—a pettifogger! Seizing the Dalton estates, the scoundrel, and then putting Miss Dalton under lock and key! Why, the man's mad—mad! yes, a raving maniac! He is, by Heaven!”
“And now, Sir Lionel, when shall we be able to effect her release!”
“Leave it all to me. Leave it all to me, madam. This infernal gout of mine ties me up, but I'll take measures this very day; I'll send off to Dalton an agent that will free Miss Dalton and bring her here. Leave it to me. If I don't go, I'll send—yes, by Heaven, I'll send my son. But give yourself no trouble, madam. Miss Dalton is as good as free at this moment, and Wiggins is as good as in jail.”
Miss Plympton now asked Sir Lionel if he knew what Wiggins meant by his answer to her threat, and she repeated the message. Sir Lionel listened with compressed lips and a frowning brow. After Miss Plympton had told it he sat for some minutes in silent thought.
“So that is what he said, is it!” exclaimed Sir Lionel at last. “Well, madam, we shall see about that. But don't give yourself a moment's uneasiness. I take the matter in hand from this moment. The insolence of this fellow, Wiggins, is unparalleled, madam; but be assured all this shall surely recoil on his own head with terrible effect.”
Some further conversation followed to the 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; and as she felt a natural delicacy about obtruding her services, she decided to go back to Plympton Terrace and wait.
Accordingly, Miss Plympton, on leaving Dudleigh Manor, went back to Plympton Terrace.
For some time after Miss Plympton's departure Sir Lionel remained buried in thought. At length he rang the bell.
A servant appeared.
“Is Captain Dudleigh here yet?” asked Sir Lionel.
“Yes, Sir Lionel.”
“Tell him that I want to see him.”
The servant departed, and in a short time the door opened and a young man entered. He was tall, muscular, well-formed, and with sufficient resemblance to Sir Lionel to indicate that he was his son. For some time Sir Lionel took no notice of him, and Captain Dudleigh, throwing himself in a lounging attitude upon a chair, leaned his head back, and stared at the ceiling. At length he grew tired 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 presence of any one.
“Did you wish to see me, Sir?” said Captain Dudleigh at length.
Sir Lionel started and raised his head.
“By Jove!” he exclaimed. “Is that you, Leon? I believe I must have been asleep. Have you been waiting long? Why didn't you wake me? I sent for you, didn't I? Oh yes. Let me see. It is a business of the greatest importance, and I'm deuced glad that you 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 dead?”
“Well, some paragraphs have been going the rounds of the papers to that effect, though why they should drag the poor devil from his seclusion, even to announce 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. By-the-way, I suppose you haven't heard any particulars as to his death?”
“No,” said Leon, “nothing beyond the bare fact. Besides, what does it matter? When a man's dead, under such circumstances, too, no one cares whether he died of fever or gunshot.”
“True,” said Sir Lionel, with a sigh. “It isn't likely that any one would trouble himself to find out how poor Dalton died. Well, that is the first thing that I had to mention. And now there is another thing. You know, of course, that he left 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 Plympton, from whom I had the pleasure 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 age! Well, I never thought of that. Why, she must be heiress to the immense Dalton property. Of age, and still at school! What's her name? I really forget it, and it's odd too, for, after all, she's my own cousin, in spite of the short-comings 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 remember how I have always said that he was innocent, and sinned against rather than sinning. Heaven forbid that we should visit on this poor child the disgrace of her father, when he was not guilty at all. I feel confident, Leon, that you will espouse her cause as eagerly as I do; and since I am prevented from doing any thing by this infernal gout, I look to you to represent me in this business, and bring that infernal scoundrel to justice.”
“Infernal scoundrel! What infernal scoundrel?”
“Why, 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 lock and key?”
“You know Wiggins, don't you?” asked Sir Lionel.
“Which Wiggins? There are several that I know—Wiggins the 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 sort of a man was this John Wiggins himself when you saw him?”
“Oh, an ordinary-looking person—grave, quiet, sensible, cool as a clock, and very reticent. 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 questions in my name with reference to poor 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 evasion. What little I did get out of him had to be dragged out. The most important questions he positively refused to answer.”
“Of course. I remember all that, for I was the one who wished to know, and consequently his refusal to answer affected me most of all. I wondered at the time, and thought that it might be some quiet plan of his, but I really had no idea of the audacity of his plans.”
“How is that?”
“Wait a moment. Did you see anything in this man that could excite the suspicion that he was at all flighty or insane?”
“Insane! Certainly not. He was, on the contrary, the sanest person 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 insane, he is still animated by this ruling passion, 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 Plympton had narrated to him. To all this Leon listened with the deepest interest and the most profound astonishment, interrupting his father by frequent questions and exclamations.
“What can be his design?” said Leon. “He must have some plan in his head.”
“Plan? a mad plan enough!” exclaimed Sir Lionel. “It is clearly nothing else than an attempt to get control of the property by acoup de main.”
“Well, the opinion that I formed of Wiggins is that he is altogether too shrewd and deep a man to undertake any thing without seeing his way clear to success!”
“The man's mad!” cried Sir Lionel. “How can any sane man hope to succeed in this? Why, no one can set up a private prison-house in that style. If the law allowed that, I know of one person who could set up a private jail, and keep it pretty well filled, too.”
“An idea strikes me,” said Leon, “which may explain this on other grounds than madness, and which is quite in accordance with Wiggins's character. He has been the agent of the estates for these ten years, and though he was very close and uncommunicative about the extent of his powers and the nature of his connection with Dalton, yet it is evident that he has had Dalton's confidence to the highest degree; and I think that before Dalton's unfortunate business, he must have had some influence over him. Perhaps he has persuaded Dalton to make him the guardian of his daughter.”
“Well, what good would that do?” asked Sir Lionel.
“Do you know any thing about the law of guardianship?”
“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 such society for his ward as he likes, and can shut her up, just as a father might. In this instance Wiggins may be standing on his rights, and the knowledge of this may be the reason why he defied you so insolently.”
Sir Lionel looked annoyed, and was silent for a few moments.
“I don't believe it,” said he; “I don't believe any thing of the kind. I don't believe any law will allow a man to exercise such control over another just because he or she is a minor. Besides, even if it were so, Edith is of age, and this restraint can not be kept up. What good would it do, then, for him to imprison 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 isin loco parentis, you must remember that there are limits even to a father's authority. I doubt whether even a father would be 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 guardianship law is a very queer thing, and we shall find that Wiggins has as much right over her as if he were her father. So we must go to work carefully; and my idea is that it would 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, “we can force him to show by what right he controls her liberty. The law of guardianship can not override thehabeas corpusact, and the liberty of the subject is provided for, after all. If we 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 say, and it certainly is best not to be too hasty about it. An interview with him, first of all, will be decidedly the best thing. I think, before going there, you had better see my solicitors in London. You see I intrust the management of this affair to you, Leon, for this infernal gout ties me up here closer than poor Edith at Dalton Hall. You 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 approve 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 ruffian porter. You must also write me what the solicitors say, for I think I had better keep Miss Plympton informed about the progress of affairs, partly to satisfy her anxiety, and partly to present her from taking any independent action which may embarrass our course of conduct.”
About a week after the conversation detailed in the last chapter, the train stopped at the little station near Dalton village, and Leon Dudleigh stepped out. At the same time a woman got out of another carriage in the train. She was dressed in black, and a crape veil concealed her face. Leon Dudleigh stood and looked about for a few moments in search of some vehicle in which to complete his journey, and as the train went on he walked into the little station-house to make inquiries. The woman followed slowly. After exchanging a few words with the ticket clerk, Leon found out that no vehicle was to be had in the neighborhood, and with an exclamation of impatience he told the clerk that he supposed he would have to walk, and at the same time asked him some questions about getting his luggage forwarded to the inn at Dalton. Having received a satisfactory answer, he turned to the door and walked toward the village.
{Illustration: “AT THAT MOMENT THE WOMAN RAISED HER VEIL."}
The woman who had followed him into the station-house had already left it, and was walking along the road ahead of him. She was walking at a slow pace, and before long Leon came up with her. He had not noticed her particularly, and was now about passing her, when at that very moment the woman raised her veil, and turned about so as to face him.
At the sight of her face Leon uttered an exclamation of amazement and started back.
“Lucy!” he exclaimed, in a tone of deep and bitter vexation.
“Aha, Leon!” said the woman, with a smile. “You thought you would give me the slip. You didn't know what a watch I was keeping over you.”
At this Leon regarded her in gloomy silence, while the expression of deep vexation remained unchanged on his face.
The woman who had thus followed him was certainly not one who ought to inspire any thing like vexation. Her face was beautiful in outline and expression. Her eyes were dark and animated, her tone and manner indicated good-breeding and refinement, though these were somewhat more vivacious than is common with English ladies.
“I don't see what broughtyouhere,” said Leon at last.
“I might say the same of you,mon cher,” 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 jealousy,” said Leon, angrily. “My business here is a very delicate one indeed. I may have to do it incognito, and it may ruin all if I have any one here who knows me.”
“Incognito?” said the lady. “That will be charming; and if so, who can help you better than I? I can be your mother, or your grandmother, or your business partner, or any thing. You ought to have insisted on my accompanying you.”
The light tone of raillery in which this was spoken did not in any way mollify the chagrin of the other, who still looked at her with a frown, and as she ended, growled out,
“I don't see how you got on my track, confound it!”
“Nothing easier,” said the lady. “You didn't take any pains to hide your tracks.”
“But I told you I was going back to Dudleigh.”
“I know you did,mon cher; but do you think I believed you?”
“I don't see 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, “for fear you will baffle me some other time. But now come, don't let yourself get into a passion. Look at me, and see how good-natured and sweet-tempered I am. Your reception of me is really quite heart-rending, and 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-tempered if you only try hard, you know.”
“Now see here, Lucy,” said Leon, sternly, “you 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 serious to admit of trifling. If it were my own affair, I wouldn't care; and even if I didn't want you, I should submit with a good grace. But this is a matter of extreme delicacy, and my father has sent me here because 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 here except my father 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 very well for you to meddle with my own affairs; but you are now forcing yourself into the midst of the concerns of others—the business affairs of two great estates. I must attend to this alone.”
“Mon cher,” said the lady, with unalterable placidity, “business is not one of your strong points. You really are 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 matters, than the unworthy being who now addresses you? Come, don't keep up the sulks any longer. They are not becoming to your style of beauty. For my part, I never sulk. If you will reflect for a moment, you will see that it is really a great advantage for you to have with you one so sagacious and shrewd as I am; and now that the first moment of irritation has passed, I trust you will look upon my humble offer of service with more propitious eyes.”
Something in these words seemed to strike Leon favorably, for the vexation passed away from his face, and he stood looking thoughtfully at the ground, which he was mechanically smoothing over with his foot. The lady said no more, but watched him attentively, in silence, waiting to see the result of his present meditations.
“Well,” said he at last, “I don't know but that something may arise in this business, Lucy, in which you may be able to do something—though what it may be I can not tell just now.”
“Certainly,” said the lady, “if you really are thinking of an incognito, my services may be of the utmost importance.”
“There's something in that,” said Leon.
“But whether the incognito is advisable or not should first be seen. Now if you would honor me with your confidence to ever so small an extent, I could offer an opinion on that point which might be worth having. And I will set you a good example by giving you my confidence. Frankly, then, the only reason why I followed you was because 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 that your father sent you, and that you had been talking with his solicitors. 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 be well for me to see how the business proceeded; for I sometimes do not have that confidence in you, Leon, which I should like to have.”
This was spoken in a serious and mournful voice which was totally different 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 suffused with tears.
“You preposterous little goose!” said Leon. “There never was a wilder, a sillier, and at the same time a more utterly groundless fancy than this. Why, to begin with, the lady is my cousin.”
“I know,” said the lady, sadly.
“It seems to me you found out every thing, though how the deuce you contrived it is more than I can tell,” said Leon.
“Our faculties are very much sharpened 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 infernally hard up, and that my father sent me here, and that I have been talking with the solicitors; but I swear to you the subject of marriage has not once been mentioned.”
“But only thought of,” suggested the other.
“Well, I don't know any thing about people's thoughts,” said Leon. “If you go into that style of thing, I give up. By-the-way, you know so much, that I suppose you know the lady's name.”
“Oh yes: Miss Dalton—Edith Dalton.”
“The devil!” exclaimed Leon. “Well, I confess I'm mystified. How you could have found out all this is utterly beyond me.”
“So you have no idea of matrimony,mon cher?” said the lady, attempting to use a sprightly tone, but looking at him with a glance so earnest that it showed what importance she attached to his reply.
Leon was silent for a moment, and looked at the ground. At last he burst forth impatiently:
“Oh, confound it all! what's the use of harping forever on one string, and putting a fellow in a corner all the time? You insist on holding an inquisition about thoughts and intentions. How do I know any thing about that? You may examine me about facts if you choose, but you haven't any business to ask any thing more.”
“Well, I suppose itisrather unfair,” said the lady in a sweet voice, “to force one to explain all one's thoughts and intentions; so,mon cher, let's cry quits. At any rate, you receive me for your ally, your adviser, your guide, philosopher, and friend. If you 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—”
“But 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 quite all.”
“It seems to me,” said Leon, “if we're going to talk over this matter any further, we 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 he looked around his eyes caught sight of the little river that flowed near, on its course through Dalton to the Bristol Channel. Some trees grew on the margin, and beneath 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.
{Illustration: “SHE WAS SEATED NEAR THE WINDOW."}
A few days passed away in Dalton Hall, and Edith began to understand perfectly the nature of the restraint to which she was subjected. That restraint involved nothing of the nature of violence. No rude or uncivil word was spoken to her. Wiggins and Mrs. Dunbar had professed even affection for her, and the two servants never failed to be as respectful as they could. Her restraint was a certain environment, so as to prevent her from leaving the park grounds. She felt walled in by a barrier which she could not pass, but within this barrier liberty of movement was allowed. At the same time, she knew that she was watched; and since her first discovery of Hugo on her track, she felt sure that if she ever went any where he would stealthily follow, and not allow her to go out of sight. Whether he would lift his hand to prevent actual escape, 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 the few days that followed her first memorable experience she made no further attempt to escape, or even to search out a way of escape. What had become of Miss Plympton she did not know, and could only imagine. She still indulged the hope, however, that Miss Plympton was at Dalton, and looked forward with confidence to see her coming to Dalton Hall, accompanied by the officers of the law, to effect her deliverance. 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 remained in the room which she first occupied during the greater part of the time. Nor did she see much of Mrs. Dunbar. From an occasional remark she gathered that she was cleaning the drawing-room or dusting it; but in this Edith now took no interest whatever. The Hall was now a prison-house, and the few plans which she had been making at first were now thrown aside and forgotten. Mrs. Dunbar brought her her meals at regular intervals, but Edith never took the slightest notice of her. She could not help observing at times in Mrs. Dunbar's manner, and especially in her look, a whole world of sorrowful sympathy, but after her unmistakable championship of Wiggins, she could not feel the 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 Wiggins. She bowed slightly, but said nothing, and Wiggins bowed in return, after which he entered and seated himself, fixing his solemn eyes upon her in his usual way.
“It is a 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 your return to this place a little less abruptly, you would have found, I am sure, a different reception, and your position would have been less unpleasant.”
“Would you have allowed me my liberty,” asked Edith, “and the society of my friends, if I had delayed longer before my return? If so, let me go back now, and I will give you notice before coming here 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 caused me more pain than my present false position toward you. Can you not place some confidence in me, 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? Did you ever know what it was to be shut in with walls over which you could not pass, and to know that the jailer's eyes were always upon you? Wait till you 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 horror. His hands trembled. As she stopped he shuddered, and hastily looked behind him. Then another shudder passed through him. At last with a violent effort, he recovered something of his former calm.
“God grant,” said he, “that you 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 relapsed into silence.
“Since you have invoked the name of the Deity,” said Edith, solemnly, “if you have any reverence for your Maker, I ask you now, in His name, by what right you keep me here.”
“I am your—guardian,” said Wiggins, slowly; “your—guardian; yes,” he added, thoughtfully, “that is the word.”
“My guardian! Who made you my guardian? Who had the right to put you over me?”
Wiggins paused, and raised his head, which had been bent forward for a few moments past, looked at Edith with a softer light in his solemn eyes, and said, in a low voice, which had a wonderful sweetness in its intonation,
“Your father.”
Edith looked at him earnestly for a moment, affected in spite of herself by his look and by his voice; but suddenly the remembrance of her wrongs drove off completely her momentary emotion.
“Do you think my father would have made you my guardian,” said she, “if he had suspected what you were going to do with me?”
“I solemnly assure you that he did know, and that he did approve.”
At this Edith smiled. Wiggins now seemed too methodical for a madman, and she began to understand that he was assuming these solemn airs, so as to make an impression upon her. Having made up her mind to this, she determined to question him further, so as to see what more he proposed 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 precisely what I have reason to understand you did for him.”
“I do not comprehend you,” said Wiggins.
“It is of no consequence,” said Edith. “We will let it pass. Let us return to the subject. You assert that you are my guardian. Does that give you the right to be my jailer—to confine me here, to cut me off from all my friends?”
“You use harsh words,” said Wiggins; “but nevertheless it is a fact that the law does allow the guardian this power. It regards him in the place of a parent. All that a father can do, a guardian can do. As a father can restrain a child, so can a guardian, if he deems such restraint necessary. Moreover, if the ward should escape, the law will hand him back to his guardian, just as it would hand, back a child to its father.”
Not one word of this did Edith believe, and so it made no impression. Having already got the idea in her mind that Wiggins was melodramatic, and playing a part, she had no doubt that his words would be regulated by the same desire that governed his acts, and would be spoken exclusively with the view of producing an impression upon herself. She therefore looked at him with unchanged feelings, and instantly replied:
“It would be very fortunate for you if it were so, but for my part I think better of the law. At the same time, since you claim all this authority over me, 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 guardianship 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 me up?”
Wiggins said nothing, but sat looking gloomily at her.
By his last words Edith now found what appeared to her a clew 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 imagine how in previous years he 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 the false friend who had betrayed her father, and who had committed that forgery for which her father innocently suffered, then he might easily forge such a document as this in her father's name.
Such was her conclusion from his words though she did not think fit to say as much to him. What she did say, however, seemed to have affected him, for he did not speak for some time.
“You have no conception,” said he at length, “of the torment that some of your careless words cause. You do not know what you do, or what you say. There is something that I can not tell, whatever be the price of silence—something that concerns you and me, and your father, and two great houses—and it is this that makes me dumb, and forces me to stand in this false position. You look upon me as the crafty, scheming steward—one who is your pitiless jailer—and I have to bear it. But there is something which I can say—and I warn you, or rather I implore you, not to disbelieve me; I entreat you to let my words have some weight. I declare to you, then, by all that is most sacred among men, that this restraint which I ask you to undergo is out of no selfish desire, no avarice, no lack of honor for you, and—affection, but because of a plan which I have, the success of which concerns all of us, and you not the least.”
Edith listened to this without emotion, though at another time the solemnity of such an appeal could not have failed to enforce belief. But now Wiggins seemed only melodramatic, and every word seemed false.
“What plan?” she asked.
“It is this,” said, Wiggins, looking all around with his usual cautions vigilance, and drawing nearer to her. “Your father's name is a dishonored one—the name you bear is covered with the stain of infamy. What would you not give if his memory could be redeemed from wrong; if even at this late hour his character could be vindicated? You have, I am sure, a noble and a devoted heart. You would be willing to do much for this. But what I ask of you is very little. I ask only silence and seclusion. If you should consent to this, my work may be done before very long; and then, whatever may be your feelings toward me, I shall feel that I have done my work, and nothing further that this world may do, whether of good or evil, shall be able to affect me. I ask this—more, I entreat it of you, I implore you, in the sacred name of an injured father, by all his unmerited wrongs and sufferings, to unite with me in this holy purpose, and help me to accomplish it. Do not be deceived by appearances. Believe me, I entreat you, for your father's sake.”
Never were words spoken with greater apparent earnestness than these; and never was any voice or manner more solemn and impressive. Yet upon Edith no more effect was produced than before. When she had asked him what his plan was, she had been prepared for this, or something like it. She saw now that the mode by which he tried to work upon her was by adopting the solemn and the pathetic style. The consequence was that every gesture, every intonation, 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 helpless prisoner. More than this, he had as good as asserted his intention of keeping her a prisoner till her marriage, which, under such circumstances, meant simply till her death. Not for one instant could he be brought to consent to relax the strictness of his control over her. For such a man to make such an appeal as this was idle; and she found herself wondering, before he had got half through, why he should take the trouble to try to deceive her. When he had finished she did not care to answer him, or to tell him what was on her, mind. She was averse to quarrels, scenes, or anything approaching to scolding or empty threats. What she did say, therefore, was; perfectly commonplace, but for that reason perhaps all the more disappointing to the man who had made such an appeal to her.
“What you say,” said she, “does not require any answer. It is as though I should ask you to submit to imprisonment for an indefinite period, or for life, for instance, for the sake of a friend. And you would not think such a request very reasonable. What I require of you is, not idle words, but liberty. When you ask me to believe you, you must first gain my confidence by treating me with common justice. Or if you will not release me, let me at least see my friends. That is not much. I have only one friend—Miss Plympton.”
“You appear to think more of this Miss Plympton than you do of your own father,” said Wiggins, gloomily.
“What I think of my father is of no consequence to you,” said Edith; “but as to Miss Plympton, she took me as a dying gift from my dear mamma, and has loved me with a mother's love 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 both of us which makes all your protestations of honesty useless. But she is not under your control, and you may be sure that she will exert herself on my behalf. It seems to me that you have not considered what the result will be if she comes back in the name of the law.”
“I have considered every thing,” said Wiggins. Then, after a pause, he added, “So you love Miss Plympton very dearly?”
“Very, very dearly!”
“And her words would have great weight with you?”
“Very great weight.'
“If, now, she should tell you that you might put confidence in me, you would feel more inclined to do so?”
Edith hesitated at this; but the thought occurred to her of Miss Plympton's detestation of Wiggins, and the utter impossibility 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 profoundly for a short time.
“Suppose, now,” said he at length, “that you should receive a note from Miss Plympton in which she should give you a more favorable opinion of me, would you accept it from her?”
“I certainly should be happy to get any thing of that kind from her,” said Edith.
“Well,” said Wiggins, “I had not intended to take any one into my confidence, certainly not any stranger, and that stranger woman; but I am so unable to tell you all, and at the same time I long so to have your confidence, that I may possibly decide to see Miss Plympton myself. If I do, rest assured her opinion of me will change. This will endanger the success of my plan; but I must run the risk—yes, whatever it is; for if this goes on, I must even give up the plan itself, and with it all my hopes for myself—and for you.”
These last words Wiggins spoke in a low voice, half to himself, and with his eyes turned to the ground. Edith heard the words, but thought nothing of the meaning of them. To her, every thing was done for effect, nothing was sincere. If she did not understand the meaning of some of his words, she did not trouble herself to try to, but dismissed them from her thoughts as merely affectations. As to his allusion to Miss Plympton, and his idea of visiting her, Edith did not for a moment imagine that he meant it. She thought that this was of a piece with the rest.
With these last words Wiggins arose from his chair, and with a slight bow to Edith, took his departure. The interview had been a singular one, and the manner of entreaty which Wiggins had adopted toward her served to perplex her still more. It was part of the system which he had originated, by which she was never treated in any other way than with the utmost apparent respect and consideration, but in reality guarded as a prisoner with the most sleepless vigilance.