It seemed now to Edith that her isolation was complete. She found herself in a position which she had thought impossible in free England—a prisoner in the hands of an adventurer, who usurped an authority over her to which he had no right. His claim to exercise this authority in his office of guardian she did not admit for a moment. She, the mistress of Dalton Hall, was nothing more than a captive on her own estates.
She did not know how this could end or when it could end. Her hopes had one by one given way. The greatest blow of all was that which had been administered through the so-called letter of Miss Plympton. That letter she believed to be a forgery, yet the undeniable fact remained that Miss Plympton had done nothing. That Miss Plympton should write that letter, however, and that she should leave her helpless at the mercy of Wiggins, seemed equally improbable, and Edith, in her vain effort to comprehend it, could only conclude that some accident had happened to her dear friend; that she was ill, or worse. And if this was so, it would be to her the worst blow of all.
Other hopes which she had formed had also been doomed to destruction. She had expected something from the spontaneous sympathy of the outside world; who, whatever their opinion about her father, would stir themselves to prevent such an outrage upon justice as that which Wiggins was perpetrating. But these hopes gradually died out. That world, she thought, was perhaps ignorant not only of her situation, but even of her very existence. The last hopes that she had formed had been in the Mowbrays, and these had gone the way of all the others.
Nothing appeared before her in the way of hope, and her despondency was often hard to endure. Still her strong spirit and high-toned nature rendered it impossible for her to be miserable always. Added to this was her perfect health, which, with one interruption, had sustained her amidst the distresses of her situation. By her very disposition she was forced to hope for the best. It must not be supposed that she was at all like “Mariana in the moated grange.” She did not pine away. On the contrary, she often felt a kind of triumph in the thought that she had thus far shown the spirit of a Dalton.
There was an old legend in the Dalton family upon which great stress had been laid for many generations, and this one stood out prominently among all the stories of ancestral exploits which she had heard in her childhood. One of the first Daltons, whose grim figure looked down upon her now in the armor of a Crusader, had taken part in the great expedition under Richard Coeur de Lion. It happened that he had the ill luck to fall into the hands of the infidel, but as there were a number of other prisoners, there was some confusion, and early one morning he managed to seize a horse and escape. Soon he was pursued. He dashed over a wide plain toward some hills that arose in the distance, where he managed to elude his pursuers for a time, until he found refuge upon a cliff, where there was a small place which afforded room for one or two. After some search his pursuers discovered him, and ordered him to come down. He refused. They then began an attack, shooting arrows from a distance, and trying to scale the cliff. But Dalton's defense was so vigorous that by the end of that day's fight he had killed eight of his assailants. Then the contest continued. For two days, under a burning sun, without food or drink, the stern old Crusader defended himself. When summoned to surrender he had only one word, and that was, “Never!” It happened that a band of Crusaders who were scouring the country caught sight of the Saracens, and made an attack upon them, putting them to flight. They then sought for the object of this extraordinary siege, and, climbing up, they saw a sight which thrilled them as they gazed. For there lay stout old Michael Dalton, with many wounds, holding a broken sword, and looking at them with delirious eyes. He recognized no one, but tried to defend himself against his own friends. It was with difficulty that they restrained him. They could not remove him, nor was it necessary, for death was near; but till the last his hand clutched the broken sword, and the only word he said was, “Never!” The Crusaders waited till he was dead, and then took his remains to the camp. The story of his defense, which was gathered from their prisoners, rang through the whole camp, and always afterward the crest of the Daltons was a bloody hand holding a broken sword, with the motto, “Never!”
And so Edith took to her heart this story and this motto, and whenever she looked at the grim old Crusader, she clinched her own little hand and said, “Never!”
She determined to use what liberty she had; and since Wiggins watched all her movements, to show him how unconcerned she was, she began to go about the grounds, to take long walks in all directions, and whenever she returned to the house, to play for hours upon the piano. Her determination to keep up her courage had the effect of keeping down her despondency, and her vigorous exercise was an unmixed benefit, so that there was a radiant beauty in her face, and a haughty dignity that made her look like the absolute mistress of the place.
What Wiggins felt or thought she did not know. He never came across her path by any chance. Occasional glimpses of the ever-watchful Hugo showed her that she was tracked with as jealous a vigilance as ever. She hoped, however, that by her incessant activity something might result to her advantage.
One day while she was strolling down the grand avenue she saw a stranger walking up, and saw, to her surprise, that he was a gentleman. The face was altogether unknown to her, and, full of hope, she waited for him to come up.
“Have I the honor of addressing Miss Dalton?” said the stranger, as he reached her. He spoke in a very pleasant but somewhat effeminate voice, lifting his hat, and bowing with profound courtesy.
“I am Miss Dalton,” said Edith, wondering who the stranger might be.
He was quite a small, slight man, evidently young; his cheeks were beardless; he had a thick dark mustache; and his small hands and feet gave to Edith the idea of a delicate, fastidious sort of a man, which was heightened by his very neat and careful dress. On the whole, however, he seemed to be a gentleman, and his deep courtesy was grateful in the extreme to one who had known so much rudeness from others.
His complexion was quite dark, his eyes were very brilliant and expressive, and his appearance was decidedly effeminate. Edith felt a half contempt for him, but in a moment she reflected how appearances may mislead, for was not the magnificent Mowbray a villain and a coward?
“Allow me, Miss Dalton,” said he, “to introduce myself. I am Lieutenant Dudleigh, of —— ——.”
“Dudleigh!” cried Edith, in great excitement. “Are you any relation to Sir Lionel?”
“Well, not very close. I belong to the same family, it is true; but Sir Lionel is more to me than a relation. He is my best friend and benefactor.”
“And do you know any thing about him?” cried Edith, in irrepressible eagerness. “Can you tell me any thing?”
“Oh yes,” said Dudleigh, with a smile. “I certainly ought to be able to do that. I suppose I know as much about him as any one. But what is the meaning of all this that I find here,” he continued, suddenly changing the conversation—“that ruffian of a porter—the gates boarded up and barred so jealously? It seems to me as if your friends should bring pistols whenever they come to make a call.”
Dudleigh had a gay, open, careless tone. His voice was round and full, yet still it was effeminate. In spite of this, however, Edith was, on the whole, pleased with him. The remote relationship which he professed to bear to Sir Lionel, his claim that Sir Lionel was his friend, and the name that he gave himself, all made him seem to Edith like a true friend. Of Sir Lionel and his family she knew nothing whatever; she knew not whether he had ever had any children or not; nor did she ever know his disposition; but she had always accustomed herself to think of him as her only relative, and her last resort, so that this man's acquaintance with him made him doubly welcome.
“What you mention,” said she, in answer to his last remark, “is a thing over which I have not the smallest control. There is a man here who has contrived to place me in so painful a position that I am a prisoner in my own grounds.”
“A prisoner!” said Dudleigh, in a tone of the deepest surprise. “I do not understand you.”
“He keeps the gates locked,” said Edith, “refuses to let me out, and watches every thing that I do.”
“What do you mean? I really can not understand you. No one has any right to do that. How does he dare to do it? He couldn't treat you worse if he were your husband.”
“Well, he pretends that he is my guardian, and declares that he has the same right over me as if he were my father.”
“But, Miss Dalton, what nonsense this is! You can not be in earnest—and yet you must be.”
“In earnest!” repeated Edith, with vehemence. “Oh, Lieutenant Dudleigh, this is the sorrow of my life—so much so that I throw myself upon the sympathy of a perfect stranger. I am desperate, and ready to do any thing to escape—”
“Miss Dalton,” said Dudleigh, solemnly, “your wrongs must be great indeed if this is so. Your guardian! But what then? Does that give him the right to be your jailer?”
“He takes the right.”
“Who is this man?”
“His name is Wiggins.”
“Wiggins? Wiggins? Why, it must be the steward. Wiggins? Why, I saw him yesterday. Wiggins? What! That scoundrel? that blackleg? that villain who was horsewhipped at Epsom? Why, the man is almost an outlaw. It seemed to me incredible when I heard he was steward here; but when you tell me that he is your guardian it really is too much. It must be some scoundrelly trick of his—some forgery of documents.”
“So I believe,” said Edith, “and so I told him to his own face. But how did you get in here? Wiggins never allows any one to come here but his own friends.”
“Well,” said Dudleigh, “I did have a little difficulty, but not much—it was rather of a preliminary character. The fact is, I came here more than a week ago on a kind of tour. I heard of Dalton Hall, and understood enough of Sir Lionel's affairs to know that you were his niece; and as there had been an old difficulty, I thought I couldn't do better than call and see what sort of a person you were, so as to judge whether a reconciliation might not be brought about. I came here three days ago, and that beggar of a porter wouldn't let me in. The next day I came back, and found Wiggins, and had some talk with him. He said something or other about your grief and seclusion and so forth; but I knew the scoundrel was lying, so I just said to him, 'See here now, Wiggins, I know you of old, and there is one little affair of yours that I know all about—you understand what I mean. You think you are all safe here; but there are some people who could put you to no end of trouble if they chose. I'm going in through those gates, and you must open them.' That's what I told him, and when I came to-day the gates were opened for me. But do you really mean to say that this villain prevents your going out?”
“Yes,” said Edith, mournfully.
“Surely you have not tried. You should assert your rights. But I suppose your timidity would naturally prevent you.”
“It is not timidity that prevents me. I have been desperate enough to do any thing. I have tried. Indeed, I don't know what more I could possibly do than what I have done.” She paused. She was not going to tell every thing to a stranger.
“Miss Dalton,” said Dudleigh, fervently, “I can not express my joy at the happy accident that has brought me here. For it was only by chance that I came to Dalton, though after I came I naturally thought of you, as I said, and came here.”
“I fear,” said Edith, “that it may seem strange to you for me to take you into my confidence, after we have only interchanged a few words. But I must do so. I have no alternative. I am desperate. I am the Dalton of Dalton Hall, and I find myself in the power of a base adventurer. He imprisons me. He sets spies to watch over me. He directs that ruffian at the gates to turn away my friends, and tell them some story about my grief and seclusion. I have not seen any visitors since I came.”
“Is it possible!”
“Well, there was one family—the Mowbrays, of whom I need say nothing.”
“The Mowbrays?” said Dudleigh, with a strange glance.
“Do you know any thing about them?” asked Edith.
“Pardon me, Miss Dalton; I prefer to say nothing about them.”
“By all means, I prefer to say nothing about them myself.”
“But, Miss Dalton, I feel confounded and bewildered. I can not understand you even yet. Do you really mean to say that you, the mistress of these estates, the heiress, the lady of Dalton Hall—thatyouare restricted in this way and byhim?”
“It is all most painfully true,” said Edith. “It almost breaks my heart to think of such a humiliation, but it is true. I have been here for months, literally a prisoner. I have absolutely no communication with my friends, or with the outside world. This man Wiggins declares that he is my guardian, and can do as he chooses. He says that a guardian has as much authority over his ward as a father over his child.”
“Oh! I think I understand. He may be partly right, after all. You are young yet, you know. You are not of age.”
“I am of age,” said Edith, mournfully, “and that is what makes it so intolerable. If I were under age I might bear it for a time. There might then appear to be, at least, the show of right on his side. But as it is, there is nothing but might. He has imprisoned me. He has put me under surveillance. I am watched at this moment.”
“Who? where?” exclaimed Dudleigh, looking hastily around.
“Oh, in the woods—a black named Hugo. He tracks me like a blood-hound, and never loses sight of me when I am out. He may not hear what we are saying, but he will tell his master that I have spoken with you.”
“Are there spies in the Hall?”
“Oh yes; his housekeeper watches me always.”
“Is there no place where we can talk without being seen or heard? Believe me, Miss Dalton, your situation fills me with grief and pity. All this is so unexpected, so strange, so incredible!”
“We may, perhaps, be more free from observation in the Hall—at least I think so. The drawing-room is better than this. Will you allow me to do the honors of Dalton Hall?”
Dudleigh bowed, and the two walked toward the Hall, and entering, proceeded to the drawing-room.
“We are undoubtedly watched, even here,” said Edith, with a melancholy smile, “but the watcher can not observe us very well, and has to stand too far off to hear us easily, so that this room is perhaps better than out-of-doors; at any rate, it is more convenient.”
“Miss Dalton,” said Dudleigh, “I am glad beyond all that words can say that I managed to get through your gates. My vague threats terrified Wiggins, though in reality I have no knowledge about him sufficiently definite to give me any actual power over him. I have only heard general scandal, in which he was mixed up. But he has given me credit for knowing something important. At any rate, now that I am here, let me do something for you at once. Command me, and I will obey.”
“I want but one thing,” said Edith, “and that is to get out.”
“Well?”
“Will you lead the way and let me follow? That is all I ask of you.”
“Certainly, and if you could only go out over my dead body, that price should be paid, and you should go.”
Dudleigh spoke quickly, but with no particular earnestness. Indeed, in all his tones there was a lack of earnestness. The words were excellent, but they lacked depth and warmth. Edith, however, was too much excited by the prospect of help to notice this.
“There is no need of that,” said she; “there is no real danger.”
“I rather think from the look of that ruffian at the gate that there will be some such price,” said Dudleigh, carelessly. “If I had only brought my pistols, all would be easy. Can it be managed? How shall we do it? Do you think that you have nerve enough, Miss Dalton, to witness a fight?”
“Yes,” said Edith, calmly.
“If I had my pistols,” said Dudleigh, thoughtfully, “I might—But as it is, if they, see you accompanying me, they will assemble in force.”
“Yes,” said Edith, sadly, for she began to see difficulties.
“Now do you think that if you are with me the porter will open the gates?”
“He will not.”
“Well, we must get out in some other way. Can you climb the wall? I might climb and help you over.”
“Yes, but they would follow and prevent us.”
Dudleigh looked at the floor. Then he put his small gloved hand on his forehead, and appeared for a few moments to be lost in thought.
“Miss Dalton,” said he at last, “I am at your service. Can you tell me what I can do?—for to save my life I can think of nothing just now. Give me my orders.”
Edith looked perplexed. She knew that this man could not force his way unarmed through the gates. She did not feel inclined just yet to tell him to arm himself and shoot any one dead who opposed him. She could not bear to think of that. But here was Dudleigh, ready.
“Have you any fire-arms in the house?” he asked.
“No,” said Edith, “and, besides, I can not bear just yet to cause any thing like bloodshed.”
“If not, then you can not get free at once. Can you wait one day, or two days?”
“One or two days!” said Edith. “Oh yes; one or two weeks, or even months. Only let me hope, and I can wait.”
“You have this to comfort you, at any rate,” said Dudleigh, “that outside the gates you have a friend. And now I will not intrude any longer. I must go. But if you will allow me I will come back to-morrow. Meanwhile I will try to think over what is best to be done.”
“You will promise,” said Edith, imploringly, “not to desert me?”
“Desert you? Never! On the honor of a gentleman!” cried Dudleigh; and as he bowed his head there came over his face a very singular smile, which Edith, however, did not see.
He then took his leave.
Edith slept but little that night. The prospect of escape agitated her whole being, and the new friend who had so unexpectedly appeared took up all her thoughts.
He was a little man most certainly, and Edith already caught herself thinking of him as “Little Dudleigh.” He had nothing whatever of the hero about him. Mowbray, as far as appearances went, far surpassed her new acquaintance in that respect. Still Edith felt bound to overlook or to excuse his slight frame, and in the effort to do this she recalled all the little men of history. She thought of a saying which she had once heard, that “all great men are small men.” This sentiment included under the head of little men Alexander the Great, Julius Caesar, Napoleon, with others of the same class, for the list had evidently been made up by one who was himself a little man, and was anxious to enter a forcible protest against the scorn of his bigger brethren. On the present occasion the list of little heroes was so formidable that Edith was prepared to find in “Little Dudleigh” all she wished. Still, in spite of his generous offers, and his chivalrous proposal to put down his dead body for her to march over, she did not feel for him that admiration which such heroism deserved; and she even reproached herself for her lack of common gratitude, for in her high spirits at the prospect of escape, she caught herself more than once smiling at the recollection of “Little Dudleigh's” little ways, his primness, and effeminacy.
At about ten o'clock on the following day “Little Dudleigh” came back.
“That beggar at the gate,” said he, after the usual greetings, “looks very hard at me, but he doesn't pretend to hinder me from coming or going just yet, though what he may do in time remains to be seen.”
“Oh,” said Edith, “you must manage to get me out before Wiggins has a chance to prevent you from coming in.”
{Illustration: “I MUST USE THESE, THEN."}
“I hope so,” said Dudleigh. “Of course, Miss Dalton, as you may suppose, I have been thinking of you ever since I left you, and planning a thousand schemes. But I have made up my mind to this, and you must make up yours to the same. I am sorry, but it can not be avoided. I meanbloodshed.”
“Bloodshed!” said Edith, sadly.
“Of course it is terrible to a lady to be the cause of bloodshed,” said Dudleigh, quietly, “and if there were any other way I would find it out, or you would know about it. But from what I have seen and heard, and from what I know of Wiggins, I see that there is nothing left but to force our way out, for the place is thoroughly guarded day and night.”
“So it is,” said Edith, mournfully.
“If I take you out, I must—Are we overheard?” he asked, looking cautiously around.
“I think not; at least not if you speak low.”
“I must use these, then,” said he, drawing a brace of pistols in a careless way from his coat pocket, and showing them to Edith.
Edith recoiled involuntarily. Bloodshed, and perhaps death, the scandal that would arise, arrest perhaps, or examination before magistrates—all these thoughts came before her. She was brave, but things like these could not be lightly faced. She was brave, but she could not decide just yet that any man's life should be taken for the sake of her liberty.
“I can not bear that,” said she.
“You will get used to them,” said Dudleigh, cheerfully. “They are easy to handle.”
“Put them back.”
“But what else is there to do?”
“I'm sure I don't know,” said Edith, in a dejected tone.
“Well,” said Dudleigh, after a pause, “I thought of this. It is natural. I anticipated some such objection as this on your part. I know very well what it is that you fear, and I don't know but that you are right. Still, I have other plans, which may not appear so objectionable. But in the first place, let me know finally, do you positively and absolutely reject this?” and he tapped the pistols significantly.
“I can not yet consent to risk any life,” said Edith.
“Very well; this may remain over until every thing else fails.”
“But couldn't you use these pistols to terrify them? The sight might make them open the gates.”
“But it might not, and what then? Are you prepared to answer that?” And “Little Dudleigh,” who had been speaking about these things as lightly and as carelessly as a lady would speak about a dress or the trimmings of a bonnet, paused, and looked at her inquiringly. “The fact is,” he continued, as Edith did not answer, “you must be willing to run the risk ofkilling a man. Your liberty is worth this price. If you say to me, 'Open those gates,' that is what you must encounter. Will you face it? Say the word, and now,now, at this very moment, I will lead you there.”
The offer of immediate escape was thus presented, and for a moment Edith hesitated, but the cost was too great.
“Oh,” she cried, “this is terrible! But I will not consent. No, I will suffer longer rather than pay so frightful a price as human life.”
“Well,” said Dudleigh, “after all, since you have decided this way, I think you are about right. After all, there is really no necessity for so desperate a course. But I have a high idea of what a lady has a right to demand of a gentleman, and I am ready to do what you say.”
“But you have other plans, have you not?”
“Yes, but slow ones—safe but slow. The question is, can you wait? Can you endure your present life? and how long?”
“Rather than cause the loss of life,” said Edith, “I would endure this very much longer.”
“Oh, you will not have to endure it so very long. If you are not too impatient, the time may pass quickly too. But before I make any further proposals, will you allow me to ask you one question? It is this: Suppose you were to escape to-day, where would you go?”
“I have thought about that,” said Edith. “My dearest friend is Miss Plympton. She is the head of the school where I have spent the greater part of my life. She is the one to whom I should naturally go, but she keeps a boarding-school, and I do not wish to go there and meet my old school-mates and see so many. I wish to be secluded. I have sometimes thought of going to that neighborhood, and finding a home where I could occasionally see Miss Plympton, and at other times I have thought of going to my uncle, Sir Lionel Dudleigh.”
At this last remark Dudleigh opened his eyes.
“Who?” he asked. “I don't understand.”
“He is my uncle, you know,” said Edith—“that is, by marriage—and therefore he is naturally the one to whom I should look for defense against Wiggins. In that case Sir Lionel will be far better than poor dear Auntie Plympton. I'm afraid that Wiggins has already frightened her away from me.”
“But how would you get to Sir Lionel?” asked Dudleigh, with a puzzled expression.
“Well, that is what I want to find out. I have no idea where he lives. But you can tell me all about him. I should have asked before, but other things interfered. I will go to him. I feel confident that he will not cast me off.”
“Cast you off! I should think not,” said Dudleigh; “but the difficulty is how to find him. You can get to Dudleigh Manor easily enough—every body knows where that is. But what then? Nobody is there.”
“What! Is not Sir Lionel there?”
“Sir Lionel there! I only wish he was. Why, is it possible that you do not know that Sir Lionel is positively not in England? He travels all the time, and only comes home occasionally. Perhaps you know the cause—his family troubles ten years ago. He had a row with his wife then, and it has blighted his life. Sir Lionel? Why, at this moment I dare say he is somewhere among the Ural Mountains, or Patagonia, or some other equally remote country. But who told you that he was in England?”
Edith was silent. She had taken it for granted that Sir Lionel lived in his own home.
“Can I not write to him?” she asked.
“Of course, if you can only secure his address; and that I will do my utmost to find out for you. But to do this will be a work of time.”
“Yes,” sighed Edith.
“And what can you do in the mean time? Where can you go?”
“There is Miss Plympton.”
“Yes, your teacher. And you don't wish to go to the school, but to some private place near it. Now what sort of a woman is Miss Plympton? Bold and courageous?”
“I'm afraid not,” said Edith, after a thoughtful pause. “I know that she loves me like a mother, and when I first came here I should have relied on her to the utmost. But now I don't know. At any rate, I think she can be easily terrified.” And Edith went on to tell about Miss Plympton's letter to her, and subsequent silence.
“I think with you,” said Dudleigh, after Edith had ended, “that the letter is a forgery. But what is difficult to understand is this apparent desertion of you. This may be accounted for, however, in one of two ways. First, Wiggins may actually have seen her, and frightened her in some way. You say she is timid. The other explanation of her silence is that she may be ill.”
“Ill!” exclaimed Edith, mournfully.
“It may be so.”
“May she not all this time have been trying to rescue me, and been baffled?”
Dudleigh smiled.
“Oh no. If she had tried at all you would have heard something about it before this; something would certainly have been done. The claim of Wiggins would have been contested in a court of law. Oh no; she has evidently done nothing. In fact, I think that, sad as it may seem to you, there can be no doubt about her illness. You say she left you here. No doubt she felt terrible anxiety. The next day she could not see you. Her love for you, and her anxiety, would, perhaps, be too much for her. She may have been taken home ill.”
Edith sighed. The picture of Miss Plympton's grief was too much for her.
“At any rate,” said she, “if I can't find any friends—if Sir Lionel is gone, and poor dear auntie is ill, I can be free. I can help nurse her. Any life is better than this; and I can put my case in the hands of the lawyers.”
“You are, of course, well supplied with money,” said Dudleigh, carelessly.
“Money?”
“Yes; so as to travel, you know, and live, and pay your lawyers.”
“I have no money,” said Edith, helplessly; “that is, not more than a few sovereigns. I did not think of that.”
“No money?”
“No—only a little.”
“No money! Why, how is that? No money? Why, what can you do?”
“Wiggins manages every thing, and has all the money.”
“You have never obtained any from him as yet, then?”
“I have never needed any.”
“He spends your own money in paying these spies and jailers. But if you have no money, how can you manage to live, even if you do escape?”
Edith looked down in despair. The idea of money had never entered her mind. Yet now, since it was mentioned, she felt its importance. Yes, money was the chief thing; without that flight was useless, and liberty impossible. But how could she get it? Wiggins would not give her any. And where could she go? Could she go to Miss Plympton's, to be a dependent upon her at the school? That thought was intolerable. Much as she loved Miss Plympton, she could not descend to that.
“You are certainly not very practical,” said Dudleigh, “or your first thought would have been about this. But you have none, you say, and so it can not be remedied. Is there any thing else? You see you can escape; but what then?”
Dudleigh was silent, and Edith looked at him in deep suspense.
“You say you never see Wiggins now?”
“No.”
“You are not subject to insults?”
“No—to none.”
“Have you the Hall to yourself?”
“Oh yes; I am not interfered with. As long as I stay inside the Hall I am left to myself—only I am watched, of course, as I told you.”
“Of course; but, at any rate, it seems a sort of honorable captivity. You are not like a captive in a dungeon, for instance.”
“Oh no.”
“Would you rather be here, as you are, or at Miss Plympton's school as a sort of dependent?”
“Here, of course. I could not go back there, and face them all.”
“Would you rather live here or in some mean lodging, without money to pay your board?”
“Here,” said Edith, after a pause.
“There are worse situations in the world than this, then?”
“It seems so,” said Edith, slowly.
“By leaving this just now you would be doing worse, then?”
“It looks like it.”
“Well, then, may it not be better for you to remain here, for the present at least, until you hear something from Sir Lionel Dudleigh?”
“But how long will that be?”
“I can not tell.”
“Is there nothing else?”
“Certainly the first thing for you to do is to see a lawyer.”
“But how can I?”
“I can find one.”
“But will you?”
“Of course. I shall be most happy. Only answer me this: If a lawyer takes up your case, shall you be willing to live here, or shall you insist on leaving?”
“I should prefer leaving,” said Edith; “but at the same time, if a lawyer has my case, and I can feel that something is being done, I can be content here, at least for a time, until I hear from Sir Lionel—or Miss Plympton.”
“Well, then, for the present at least, you give up the idea of fighting your way out?”
“Yes—I suppose so.”
“Then all that I have to do is to get a lawyer for you, and write to Sir Lionel, wherever he is.”
“You will not let Wiggins keep my lawyer away?” said Edith, in an imploring voice.
“Oh, I fancy he has such a wholesome dread of lawyers that he won't try to keep one out. At any rate, these lawyers have all kinds of ways, you know, of getting places.”
“And of getting people out of places, too, I hope.”
“I should be sorry not to hope that.”
So Edith found herself compelled to face the difficulties of her present situation a little longer, and endure as best she could the restraint of her imprisonment.
The barriers which Wiggins had raised between Edith and the outer world had thus been surmounted by two persons—first, Mowbray, and second, Little Dudleigh. Mowbray had come and gone without any sign of objection or remonstrance from her jailer; and now Edith could not help wondering at the facility with which the new-comer, Dudleigh, passed and repassed those jealously guarded limits. Dudleigh's power arose from some knowledge of the past history of Wiggins, but the knowledge did not seem very definite, and she could not help wondering how long his visits would be tolerated.
She was not left to wonder long. On the evening of the day on which Dudleigh had made his last visit Wiggins came to see her. She had not seen him since that time when he had brought her the so-called letter of Miss Plympton, except once when she had caught a glimpse of him when riding with Mowbray. He now entered in his usual manner, with his solemn face, his formal bow, his abstracted gaze. He sat down, and for a few moments said nothing.
“I do not often inflict my presence on you, Miss Dalton,” said he at length. “I have too much regard for you to intrude upon you. Some day you will understand me, and will appreciate my present course. It is only for your own sake that I now come, because I see that you are thoughtless and reckless, and are living under a delusion. You are almost beyond my control, yet I still hope that I may have some faint influence over you—or at least I can try.”
His tone was gentle and affectionate. It was, in fact, paternal in its character; but this tone, instead of softening Edith, only seemed to her a fresh instance of his arrogant assumption, and, as such, excited her contempt and indignation. These feelings, however, she repressed for the moment, and looked at him with a cold and austere face.
“You have been receiving visitors,” he continued, “visitors whom I could have kept away if I had—chosen. But to do so would have interfered with my plans, and so I have tolerated them. You, however, have been all along under such a—mistake—about me—and my intentions—that you have thrown yourself upon these strangers, and have, I grieve to say, endangered your own future, and mine, more than you can possibly imagine. Your first visitor was objectionable, but I tolerated him for reasons that I need not explain; but this last visitor is one who ought not to be tolerated either by you or by me. And now I come to you to give you—a—an affectionate warning—to ask of you not to be so reckless, so careless of your best interests, so blind to the great issues that are at stake in—a—my—present plans.”
“You appear to me,” said Edith, coldly “to have some reference to Lieutenant Dudleigh.”
“That is what he calls himself.”
“Calls himself?”
“Yes. This name Dudleigh is an assumed one. He took that so as to gain your confidence.”
“You appear to know him very well.”
“I do not.”
“How do you know, then, that this name is assumed?”
“Because I happen to know the Dudleigh family, and this man does not belong to it. I never saw him before.”
“There are more Dudleighs in the world than the family you speak of.”
“He is an adventurer,” said Wiggins. “You know nothing about him. I believe his name is false, as he himself is false. Does he not pretend to be the son of Sir Lionel?”
“No; he says that he is only a distant relation to Sir Lionel.”
“He is no relation whatever,” said Wiggins. “You are allowing yourself to be led astray by a man of whom you know nothing—a designing villain, an adventurer.”
“It is strange that you should apply such terms to a man of whom you yourself acknowledge that you know nothing. But, at any rate,” continued Edith, with strong emphasis, “he knows you. It is this knowledge that gives him the power of passing through those gates which you shut against me; what that knowledge may be you yourself know best.”
“He does not know me,” said Wiggins.
“He must,” said Edith, “for the simple reason that you dare not keep him out.”
Wiggins looked at her in silence for some time.
“It is a terrible ordeal for me,” said he at last, in a slow, measured tone, “to talk with you. You seem to me like one who is mad; but it is the madness of utter ignorance. You do not know. Oh, how you tempt me to tell you all! But I can not, I can not. My lips are sealed as yet. But I will say no more on that. I will ask you one question only. It is this: Can you not see with your own eyes that this man is nothing more than a mere adventurer?”
“An adventurer!” repeated Edith, indignantly. “It ill becomes one like you to use such a word as that. For what are you yourself? Lieutenant Dudleigh is a gentleman; and though I have only known him for a short time, I am happy in calling him my friend. I will tolerate no abuse of him. Why do you not say this to his face? If he is what you say, why do you allow him to come here? An adventurer? Why, that is the very name I apply in all my thoughts to you!”
A look of anguish came over the face of Wiggins. He trembled violently, but with an effort mastered his feelings. Evidently what he said was true, and to him it was a severe ordeal to carry on a conversation with Edith. Her scorn, her anger, and her hate all flamed forth so vehemently that it was hard to endure.
“If you could only refrain from these bitter insults!” said he, in a mournful voice. “If you could only put a check upon yourself when you talk with me! I wish to speak calmly, but you hurl taunts at me that inflict exquisite pain. The remembrance of them will one day give no less anguish to you, believe me—oh, believe me! Spare me these taunts and insults, I entreat you, for the sake of both of us!”
“Both of us?” repeated Edith, without being in the slightest degree affected by the words of Wiggins. “Both of us? You seem to me to be including yourself and me in the same class, as though there could be any thing in common between me and one like you. That is impossible. Our interests are forever separate.”
“You do not know,” said Wiggins, with a great effort to be calm. “This man—this Lieutenant Dudleigh, as he calls himself—is an enemy to both of us.”
“You use that expression with strange pertinacity. I must tell you again that there can not possibly be any thing in common between you and me. For my part, I consider you as my natural enemy. You are my jailer. I am your prisoner. That is all. I am at war with you. I would give half of my possessions to escape from your hands, and the other half to punish you for what you have done. I live in the hope of some day meting out to you the punishment which your crimes deserve. If any one is an enemy of yours, that one thing is a sufficient recommendation to make him a friend of mine.”
At these words Wiggins seemed to endure a keener anguish, and his face bore upon it the same pallid horror which she had seen there before upon a similar provocation. He stared at her for a few moments, and then bowing down, he leaned his head upon his hand and looked at the floor in silence. At last, he raised his head and looked at her with a calm face.
“Is there no possible way,” said he, “in which I can speak to you without receiving wounds that sting like the fangs of a serpent? Be patient with me. If I offend, try to be a little forbearing just now, for the sake of yourself, if for nothing else. See, I am humbling myself. I ask your forbearance. I wish to speak for your own good. For, as it is, you are doing you know not what. You are ruining yourself; you are blighting and blasting your own future; you are risking your reputation; you are exposing the family name to the sneers of the world, once again. Think of your frantic adventure at the gates with that—that Mowbray!”
Now if Wiggins had wished to mollify Edith, or to persuade her to fall in with his own wishes, he was certainly most unfortunate in his way of going about it; and especially in such an allusion as this. For no sooner did he mention the name of Mowbray than Edith was roused to a fresh excitement.
“What!” she exclaimed. “Doyouthrow that up tome—you of all men? Who, I ask you, was the cause of all the shame and misery and violence that I suffered there? Who was the one that made it necessary? Who was the one that brought me to such a pitch of desperation that I was ready to do any thing, however wild or frantic? Who? Why, you yourself—you, who come to me now, and with a solemn voice ask me to calm myself. Is it not possible for you to see what a horrible mockery all this must be to me? But I will do what you ask. I will be calm in spite of all. Come, now, I will meet you on your own ground. I will ask you one thing. How much money will you take to let me go free?”
At this request Wiggins stared at her with the expression of one who, while already reeling under a stroke, has received some new blow. He started from his chair to his feet, and stood for a moment regarding her with an indescribable look. But again he mastered his emotions, and finally resumed his seat.
“I don't know what to say to you!” he exclaimed. “I came to advise you, and to warn you. I have done every thing. There is one thing which would put an end to all this misery which you inflict on me, but that one thing I wish on no account to say just now. I can not just yet give up the hope that has cheered me for so long a time; still, I must warn you. Rash girl, you have already suffered from this Mowbray, as he calls himself. Do you not see that this new visitor, this so-called Dudleigh, is nothing else than the ally, the associate, the partner, the emissary of Mowbray?”
“The associate of Mowbray,” said Edith, quietly, “is yourself. You sent him to me, I have no doubt. You have your own schemes. What they are I do not know, nor do I care to know. As for Lieutenant Dudleigh, he is, I feel sure, an honorable gentleman, and his associates are far, very far different from such as you and Mowbray. He is the friend of one whom I also regard now as my only friend—one whom I never cease to pray to reach—one whom I hope yet to find, and by his help escape from your infamous control, and punish you for all your villainy toward me and mine.”
“What is this? What do you mean? A friend?”
Wiggins uttered these words in a bewildered way.
“The friend whom I hope to reach,” said Edith, “the one to whom I look for vengeance on you, is Sir Lionel Dudleigh.”
“Sir Lionel Dudleigh!” repeated Wiggins, with a groan.
“You!”
“Yes, Sir Lionel Dudleigh!” said Edith. “I see that you are agitated at the mention of that name—the name of an honorable man—a man of stainless name, who has nothing in common with such as you. Let me tell you that the time will yet come when you shall have to meet Sir Lionel Dudleigh face to face, and then you will have reason to tremble!”
At this Wiggins rose. He did not look at Edith. He did not say a word. He seemed overwhelmed. His head was bowed down on his breast; his eyes were fixed on the floor; and he walked with a slow and weary pace out of the room.
“It was the threat of Sir Lionel Dudleigh,” thought Edith, “that terrified him. He knows that the time is coming when he will have to give an account; and he fears Sir Lionel Dudleigh more than any other living man.”
{Illustration: DEAR LITTLE DUDLEIGH}