About two weeks afterward the Mowbrays called again. Edith was a little surprised at this, for she had not expected another visit; but on the whole she felt glad, and could not help indulging in some vague hope that this call would be for her good.
“I am sorry,” said she to Mrs. Mowbray, “that I have not been able to return your call. But I have already explained how I am imprisoned here.”
{Illustration: “IT WAS A CHILD."}
“Oh, my dear,” said Mrs. Mowbray, “pray don't speak of that. We feel for you, I assure you. Nothing is more unpleasant than a bereavement. It makes such a change in all one's life, you know. And then black does not become some people; they persist in visiting, too; but then, do you know, they really look to me like perfect frights. Not that you look otherwise than well, dear Miss Dalton. In fact, I should think that in any dress you would look perfectly charming; but that is because you are a brunette. Some complexions are positively out of all keeping with black. Have you ever noticed that? Oh yes, dear Miss Dalton,” continued Mrs. Mowbray, after a short pause. “Brunettes are best in black—mark my words, now; and blondes are never effective in that color. They do better in bright colors. It is singular, isn't it? You, now, my dear, may wear black with impunity; and since you are called on in the mysterious dispensation of Providence to mourn, you ought at least to be grateful that you are a brunette. If you were a blonde, I really do not know what would ever become of you. Now, I am a blonde—but in spite of that I have been called on to mourn. It—it was a child.”
As Mrs. Mowbray said this she applied the handkerchief and smelling-bottle for a few minutes.
“A child!” said Edith, in wonder.
“Yes, dear—a sweet son, aged twelve, leaving me to mourn over him. And as I was saying, my mourning did not become my complexion at all. That was what troubled me so. Really, a blonde ought never to lose friends—it is so unbecoming. Positively, Providence ought to arrange things differently.”
“It would be indeed well if blondes or any other people could be saved from sorrow,” said Edith.
“It would be charming, would it not?” said Mrs. Mowbray. “Now, when my child died, I mourned for him most deeply—indeed, as deep as that,” she said, stretching out her hands so as to measure a space of about eighteen inches—“most deeply: a border around the skirt of solid crape half a yard wide; bonnet smothered in crape; and really and positively I myself was literally all crape, I do believe; and with my light complexion, what people could have thought, I'm sure I do not know.”
“There is not much to choose between mother and son,” thought Edith. “They are capable of any baseness, they are so heartless. There is no hope here.” Yet in spite of such thoughts she did not shun them. Why not? How could an honorable nature like hers associate with such people? Between them and herself was a deep gulf, and no sympathy between them was possible. The reason why she did not shun them lay solely in her own loneliness. Any thing in the shape of a human being was welcome rather than otherwise, and even people whom she despised served to mitigate the gloom of her situation. They made the time pass by, and that of itself was something.
“I went into half-mourning as soon as I could,” continued Mrs. Mowbray; “but even half-mourning was very disagreeable. You may depend upon it, no shade of black ought ever to be brought near a blonde. Half-mourning is quite as bad as deep mourning.”
“You must have had very much to bear,” said Edith, absently.
“I should think I had. I really could not go into society, except, of course, to make calls, for that onemustdo, and even then I felt like a guy—for how absurd I must have looked with such an inharmonious adjustment of colors! But you, my dear Miss Dalton, seem made by nature to go in mourning.”
“Yes,” said Edith, with a sigh which she could not suppress; “nature has been lavish to me in that way—of late.”
“You really ought always to mourn,” said Mrs. Mowbray, in a sprightly tone.
“I'm afraid I shall always have to, whether I wish it or not,” said Edith, with another sigh.
“You are such a remarkable brunette—quite an Italian; your complexion is almost olive, and your hair is the blackest I ever saw. It is all dark with you.”
“Yes, it is indeed all dark with me,” said Edith, sadly.
“The child that I lost,” said Mrs. Mowbray, after a pause, “was a very nice child, but he was not at all like my son here. You often find great differences in families. I suppose he resembled one side of the family, and the captain the other.”
“You have lived here for a good many years?” said Edith, abruptly changing the conversation.
“Oh yes,” said Mrs. Mowbray, “It's a very nice county—don't you think so?”
“I really have not had an opportunity of judging.”
“No? Of course not; you are mourning. But when you are done mourning, and go into society, you will find many very nice people. There are the Congreves, the Wiltons, the Symbolts, and Lord Connomore, and the Earl of Frontington, and a thousand delightful people whom one likes to know.”
“You do not belong to the county, do you?”
“N—no; my family belongs to Berks,” said Mrs. Mowbray. “You don't know any thing about Berks, I suppose? I'm a Fydill.”
“A fiddle?” said Edith, somewhat bewildered, for Mrs. Mowbray pronounced her family name in that way, and appeared to take great pride in it.
“Yes,” said she, “a Fydill—one of the oldest families there. Every one has heard of the Fydills of Berks. I suppose you have never been there, and so have not had the opportunity of hearing about them.”
“No,” said Edith; “I have passed most of my life at school.”
“Of course. You are so deliciously young. And oh, Miss Dalton, what a delightful thing it is to be young! One is so admired, and has so many advantages! It is a sad, sad thing that one grows old so soon. I'm so gray, I'm sure I look like eighty. But, after all, I'm not so very old. There's Lady Poyntz, twice my age, who goes into society most energetically; and old Miss De Frissure, who, by-the-way, is enormously rich, actually rides on horseback, and she is old enough to be my mother; and Mrs. Rannig, the rich widow—you must have heard about her—positively does nothing but dance; and old Mrs. Scott, the brewer's, wife, who has recently come here, whenever she gives balls for her daughters, always dances more than any one. All these people are very much older than I am; and so I say to myself, 'Helen, my dear, you are quite a girl; why shouldn't you enjoy yourself?' And so I do enjoy myself.”
“I suppose, then, that you like dancing?” said Edith, who, in spite of her sadness, found a mournful amusement in the idea of this woman dancing.
“I'm par-tic-u-lar-ly fond of dancing,” said Mrs. Mowbray, with strong emphasis. “Only the young men are so rude! They fly about after young chits of girls, and don't notice me. And so I don't often have an opportunity, you know. But there is a German gentleman here—a baron, my dear—and he is very polite. He sometimes asks me to dance, and I enjoy it very much, only he is so short and fat and bald that I fear he looks very ridiculous. But the young men, Miss Dalton, are very, very neglectful.”
“That is a pity,” said Edith.
“Oh, they are so, I do assure you. Now that is the very thing that I have tried to impress upon the captain. 'My dearest boy,' I have always said, 'mind the ladies. That is the first and highest duty of a true gentleman. Particularly those ladies who are mature. Don't confine your attentions to giddy and thoughtless girls. There are many ladies at every ball of estimable character, and sometimes even of considerable wealth, who deserve your attentions far more than those poor young creatures who have nothing more to recommend them than their childish good looks.' And I trust my son has not failed to profit by my advice. At balls he does not often seek out the young, but rather the old. Indeed, so marked is his preference for married ladies that all the younger ones notice it and resent it, so that they have formed really quite an aversion to him; and now, whether he will or not, he has to dance exclusively with the elder ones. Once he danced with me, and it was a proud moment for me, I assure you.”
“I should think so,” said Edith, with a look at Mowbray. “But still, is it not strange that young ladies should refuse to dance with one who is an officer and a gentleman?”
During the whole of this conversation the captain had said nothing, but had been sitting turning over the leaves of a book, and furtively watching Edith's face and manner. When the conversation turned upon him, however, his face flushed, and he looked angrily at Mrs. Mowbray. At last, as Edith spoke, he started, and said:
“See here, now! I don't think it's altogether the correct thing to make remarks about a gentleman in his presence. I'm aware that ladies are given to gossip, but they generally do it behind a fellow's back. I've done nothing to deserve this just now.”
“There was nothing offensive in my remark,” said Edith, quietly.
“Oh,” said Mrs. Mowbray, “my son is very quick and very sensitive, and very nice on a point of honor. He is the most punc-til-i-ous man you ever saw;” and Mrs. Mowbray held up her hands, lost in amazement at the conception which was in her mind of the punctiliousness of her son. “But, my dear Miss Dalton,” she continued, “he is quick to forgive. He don't bear malice.”
“Haven't I said,” growled Mowbray, “that I don't like this! Talk of me behind my back, if you choose. You can't imagine that it's particularly pleasant for a fellow to sit here and listen to all that rot.”
“But, my son,” said Mrs. Mowbray, fondly, “it's all love.”
“Oh, bother your love!” muttered this affectionate son.
“Well, then, you naughty, sensitive boy,” said Mrs. Mowbray, “I will come here by myself, and tell dear Miss Dalton all about you behind your back. I will tell her about some of your adventures in London, and she will see what a naughty, wicked, rakish fellow you have been. He is sadly like me, dear Miss Dalton—so sensitive, and so fond of society.”
Edith gave a polite smile, but said nothing.
Then the conversation lagged for a little while. At length Edith, full of the idea that Wiggins had sent them for some purpose, and desirous of finding out whether her suspicions were correct or not, said, in a careless tone,
“I suppose you know this Wiggins very well?”
“Mr. Wiggins?” said Mrs. Mowbray, quickly. “Oh yes; my son and he often meet, though for my part I know little or nothing about the man.”
“Pooh!” cried Mowbray, interrupting her. “Miss Dalton, Mrs. Mowbray is so talkative that she often says things that she does not mean, or, at least, things that are liable to mislead others. I have met Wiggins, it is true, but do not imagine that he is a friend of mine. On the contrary, he has reason to hate me quite as much as he hates you. Your idea of any connection between him and me, which I plainly see you hint at, is altogether wrong, and you would not have even suspected this if you knew me better.”
“You came here so easily,” said Edith, “that I very naturally supposed that you were on friendly terms.”
“I come here easily,” said Mowbray, “not because he is my friend, but because he is so afraid of me that he does not dare to keep me back.”
“You understand, then,” said Edith, “that he keeps others back. If you have such power over him, how is it that you can calmly stand by and see him imprison a free-born and a high-born English lady?”
“Oh,” muttered Mowbray, “I don't know any thing about that. He is your guardian, and you are his ward, and the law is a curious thing that I do not understand.”
“Yet Mrs. Mowbray says that you are distinguished for your knowledge of legal points,” said Edith.
Mowbray made no reply, and in a few moments Mrs. Mowbray rose to go.
“Positively,” said she, “my dear Miss Dalton, we must see more of one another; and since your mourning confines you here, I must come often, and I know very well that we shall all be great friends.”
{Illustration: “BECAUSE I BEAT HIM."}
The Mowbrays came occasionally, but no others ever managed to get through the gates. Edith could not help feeling a sort of resentment against these people, who thus were able to do what no others could do, and came to her so easily whenever they wished. Still she did not think it worth while to refuse to see them. They beguiled the monotony of her life, and she still had a half hope that something might result from their visits. Even if they were in the pay of Wiggins, as she believed, they yet might feel inclined to assist her, from the hope of larger pay, and she hoped that the occasion might arise in which she might be able to hint at such a thing. As yet they met her on an equal footing, and in spite of her contempt for them, she did not quite like the idea of regularly offering them a bribe to assist her. Yet she thought that the time might come when she could do so, and this thought sustained her.
In her visits Mrs. Mowbray still prattled and chattered in her usual manner about her usual themes. Dress, society, and the incivility of young men seemed to be her favorite topics. The captain usually came with her, and seemed desirous to do the agreeable to Edith, but either from a natural lack of gallantry, or from the discouraging treatment which he received from her, he was somewhat unsuccessful.
About two months after his first call the captain came alone. He was on horseback, and was accompanied by a magnificent Newfoundland dog, which Edith had noticed once or twice before. On seeing Edith he showed more animation than was usual with him, and evidently was endeavoring, to the best of his power, to make himself agreeable.
“I have come, Miss Dalton,” said he, after the usual greetings, “to see if you would do me the honor of going out riding with me.”
“Riding?” said Edith; “you are very kind, I am sure; but will you pardon me if I first ask you where you propose to take me?”
“Oh, about the park,” said Mowbray, somewhat meekly.
“The park?” said Edith, in a tone of disappointment. “Is that all? Why, Captain Mowbray, this park is only my jail yard, and to go about it can not be very pleasant, to a prisoner, either on horseback or on foot. But surely I do not understand you. I must be too hasty. Of course you mean to do as every gentleman would do, and let the lady select the place where she wishes to go?”
“I assure you Miss Dalton,” said Mowbray, “I should be most happy to do so if I were able; but you are not allowed to go out of the park, you know.”
“Who prohibits me, pray?”
“Wiggins.”
“Wiggins! And why should you care for any of his regulations? Do you not know who he is, and what he is, and in what position he stands toward me?”
“Oh, well,” said Mowbray, in a hesitating voice, “he is your guardian, you know.”
“But I am of age,” said Edith. “Guardians can not imprison their wards as he imprisons me. I am of age. I own this place. It is mine. He may have some right to attend to its business for the present, but he has no right over me. The law protects me. You know that as well as I do.”
“Yes, true; but—ah—you know—ah—you are really so verypeculiarlysituated, Miss Dalton, that I should not like to do any thing which might compromise your—ah—position.”
“Surely, Captain Mowbray, you must now be speaking without thinking. In what way, pray, can it compromise my position to ride with you through the village streets, rather than over the roads of the park?”
“Well—ah—you are in mourning, you know.”
“Really I do not see what that has to do with it. If I have the sorrow of bereavement, that is no reason why I should have the additional sorrow of imprisonment.”
“Oh, you know, Wiggins would make a fuss about it, and put you to no end of trouble.”
Mowbray's unwillingness to help her, and hesitation, had once before roused Edith's indignation; but now she believed him to be in Wiggins's employ, and therefore felt calm, and talked with him chiefly for the sake of seeing what she could get out of him, either in the way of explanation or concession.
“When you speak of trouble,” said she, “I think it is I who will give trouble to him rather than undergo it from him.”
“Oh, well—either way,” said Mowbray, “there would be trouble, and that is what I wish to avoid.”
“Gentlemen are not usually so timid about encountering trouble on behalf of a lady,” said Edith, coldly.
“Oh, well, you know, if it were ordinary trouble I wouldn't mind it, but this is legal trouble. Why, before I knew where I was I might be imprisoned, and how would I like that?”
“Not very well, as I can testify,” said Edith.
“Believe me, Miss Dalton,” said Mowbray, with a desperate effort to appear earnest and devoted, “there is nothing that I would not do for you, and I feel exceedingly pained that you are not content with your present position; but you see I do not want to put myself in the clutches of the law if I can help it. Wiggins is an enemy of mine, as I told you, and only tolerates me here because he dare not prevent me—neither he nor his man; but—ah—you know—that is—I mean—he—ah—he watches me very closely, you know, and if I were to do any thing that he could lay hold of, he would be very glad to do so, and put me to trouble and expense—no end.”
Here Edith understood once more a profession of enmity against Wiggins, but whether it was real or not she could not tell. She believed, rather, that it was pretended.
“Oh, I beg of you to make no more excuses,” said she. “Your explanations are quite satisfactory.”
“I have had trouble enough from lawyers,” continued Mowbray, “and don't want to have any more.”
“That is quite prudent in you, and careful.”
“The first thing that a man of the world learns, Miss Dalton,” said the captain, in a confidential tone, “is to take care of himself. That is a lesson that I have learned by bitter experience, and I have resolved, among other things, and above all, never, under any circumstances, to put myself within the grasp of the lawyers; and if you only knew what bother I've had, you wouldn't blame me.”
“I fear that I must have given you great pain, then,” said Edith, “by even hinting at such a thing as taking my part and helping me. You feel so strongly about your personal safety that you must have been deeply agitated at such a proposal from me.”
“Oh, well,” said the captain, not choosing to notice the sarcasm of Edith's tone, “one grows wiser from experience, you know, and mine has been a bitter one. I would gladly open your gates for you, I assure you, if I could do it without danger, and if Wiggins had no authority; but as it is, I really do not see how I can possibly interfere.”
“Well, for that matter,” said Edith, “if it were not for Wiggins, I suppose I could open the gates for myself, and so I could save you even that trouble.”
Mowbray made no reply to this, but merely stroked his mustache.
“After all,” said he at last, “I don't see why you should be so discontented here. There are many who would be glad to live as you do, in so magnificent a house, with such noble grounds. You have every thing that you want. Why you should be so discontented I can not imagine. If you did get out, and live in the village, you would not like it. It's not a pleasant place. For my part I would much rather live where you do than where I do. If you would confine your attention to this place, and give up all ideas of getting away, you might be as happy as the day is long.”
Saying this, the captain looked at Edith to see the effect of his words. Edith was looking at him with a very strange expression, something like what may appear in the face of the naturalist at discovering an animal of some new species—an expression of interest and surprise and curiosity.
“So those are your sentiments?” she said; and that was all.
“Yes,” said the captain.
“Well,” said Edith, “it may be my misfortune, but I think differently.”
“At any rate,” said the captain, in a more animated tone, “since we can not agree in this discussion, why not drop it? Will you not ride with me about the park? I'm sure I like the park very well. I have not become so tired of it as you have. I have a very nice lady's horse, which is quite at your disposal.”
At this request Edith was silent for a few moments. The man himself grew more abhorrent to her, if possible, every moment; but her desire to find out what his purposes were, and her hope of making use of him still, in spite of present appearances, made her think that it might be best to accept his offer.
“Oh, well,” said she, “I have no objection, since you choose to subject me to such limitations, and I suppose I must add that I thank you.”
“Don't speak of thanks, Miss Dalton,” said Mowbray. “Let me say rather that I thank you from the bottom of my heart.”
Two days after this Mowbray again called on Edith. This time, in addition to his own horse, he brought another with a lady's saddle, and was followed by the Newfoundland dog. Edith was soon dressed for the ride, and joined Mowbray in the drawing-room. As they went out the dog was sitting on the portico, and leaped forward joyfully at the sight of his master, but suddenly retreated in fear.
“It's all very well, Miss Dalton,” said Mowbray, “for them to talk about cruelty to animals, but the only way you can make them fond of you is by fear. See how that dog loves me. And why? Because I beat him.”
There was something in these words, and in the tone in which they were spoken, that afforded Edith a new view of Mowbray's character. There were a ferocity and a cruelty there which were quite in keeping with the paltriness and meanness which he had already evinced. But Edith kept silence. In a few moments they were mounted, and rode away side by side.
As they turned the corner of the Hall Edith saw a face among the trees—white, solemn, watchful, stern—and the sight gave her a strange shock, for it was the face of Wiggins. It seemed to her at that moment that this man must hate Mowbray, for the glance which he gave was by no means that of a friend or confederate. Mowbray might, therefore, have spoken the truth when he said that Wiggins hated him, and if so, he might now be dreading the presence of this unwelcome guest. This thought was not unpleasant, for though Mowbray could not be a friend, she thought it not a bad substitute that he was at least an enemy of Wiggins.
The consequence was that she really enjoyed the ride; and Mowbray, seeing her in good spirits, thought that it arose from more favorable inclinations toward himself, and exerted himself to please. They rode at a rapid pace through the long avenues, under magnificent overarching trees, and over fields and meadows. Mowbray was a fine horseman, and Edith had been accustomed to riding from childhood, and liked nothing better than to rush along at headlong speed. She felt exhilaration and enthusiasm such as she had not known for a long time. As she looked at Mowbray's splendid figure she could not help regretting that a man with such rare physical advantages should have, after all, but a craven spirit. Was it, then, she thought, altogether fear that prevented him from assisting her to escape? The idea seemed absurd. There must be some reason of a different kind. She felt certain that he was an unprincipled villain, and that he had some designs of his own upon her. What they were she could not imagine. If he wished to gain her hand, he had certainly taken a singular way to make himself agreeable. He was cruel, cynical, mean, and sordid, and took no pains to conceal this. He had advised her to submit to imprisonment, and had refused to help her in any way. What his designs could possibly be she could not conjecture.
During the ride but little was said. Mowbray was not talkative at any time, and on the present occasion he confined himself to remarks which he intended to be amiable and agreeable. To these Edith made civil replies. At last they rode back to the Hall, and Mowbray prepared to dismount.
“Are you going?” said Edith. “For my part I should rather not dismount just yet. It is too dull in the house. I would rather ride a little distance with you, and walk back.”
At this Mowbray looked at her in silence, and with a perplexed expression on his countenance.
Edith calmly waited for him to start.
“Miss Dalton,” said he at length, “I really do not know—” And then he paused.
“I beg your pardon,” said Edith.
“You see,” said Mowbray, “I don't know about your riding any more.”
“Why, surely,” said Edith, “you are not going to refuse your horse for a few minutes longer?”
Mowbray looked gloomily at her, and then started off. Edith rode by his side, and they both kept silence until they reached the park gate.
The porter came out, but on seeing Edith he stopped.
“It's all right,” said Edith. “You see I am with Captain Mowbray.”
Mowbray looked deeply perplexed, and as he said nothing, the porter began to open the gate.
“Stop,” said Mowbray.
“What!” cried Edith. “Captain Mowbray, what do you mean?”
“You must not go out,” said Mowbray.
“I thought you were only going as far as the gate, and would walk back. You must not try to follow me.”
“Must not?” cried Edith, whom the hope of escape had roused to intense excitement. “Do you say that to me?”
“Yes,” said Mowbray.
“What right have you?” said Edith, haughtily. And then turning to the porter, she said, imperatively, “Open that gate at once.”
But the obdurate porter did not obey her now any more than before.
“Captain Mowbray,” said she, “order that man to open the gate.”
“I will not,” said Mowbray, rudely.
“Then I shall ride by your side till you go out.”
“You shall not.”
“Is that the way that a gentleman speaks to a lady?”
“You won't get me into trouble, anyway.”
“I don't intend to,” said Edith, scornfully. “It is my own act. You will not take me out, but I go out of my own accord.”
The porter meanwhile stood bewildered, with the gate only partly open, holding it in this way, and waiting for the end of this singular scene.
“Miss Dalton,” cried Mowbray, fiercely, “you will make me resort to extreme measures.”
“You dare not!” cried Edith, who by this time was fearfully excited. She had a horse beneath her now. That horse seemed part of herself. In that horse's strength and speed she lost her own weakness, and so she was now resolved to stake every thing on one effort for liberty.
“Don't force me to it,” said Mowbray, “or you will make me do something that I shall be sorry for.”
“You dare not!” cried Edith again. “Do you dare to threaten me—me, the mistress of Dalton Hall?”
“Catch hold of her reins, captain,” cried the porter, “and make her go back.”
“Hold your bloody tongue!” roared Mowbray.—“Miss Dalton, you must go back.”
“Never!” said Edith. “I will go out when you do.”
“Then I will not go out at all. I will go back to the Hall.”
“You shall not enter it,” said Edith, as firmly as though she possessed the keys of Dalton Hall.
“Miss Dalton, you force me to use violence.”
{Illustration: IN HER FRENZY EDITH STRUCK THAT HAND AGAIN AND AGAIN.}
“You dare not use violence,” said Edith, with a look that overawed the craven soul of Mowbray. For Edith now was resolved to do any thing, however desperate, and even the threat of violence, though she felt that he was capable of it, did not deter her. The two faced one another in silence for a few moments, the one strong, muscular, masculine, the other slight, fragile, delicate; yet in that girlish form there was an intrepid spirit which Mowbray recognized, defiant, haughty, tameless, the spirit of all her fathers, strengthened and intensified by a vehement desire for that liberty that lay outside the gates.
“Well,” said the porter, “I'd better be a-shuttin' the gates till you two settle yer business. She'll dash through if I don't. I see it in her eye.”
“No, she won't,” said Mowbray. “Don't shut the gates; wait a moment.” Then turning to Edith, he said,
“Miss Dalton, for the last time, I say go back, or you'll be sorry.” Edith looked steadfastly and sternly at the captain, but said not one word. The captain looked away.
“Porter,” said he.
“Sir.”
“Hold her horse.”
“But she'll rush through the gates. Shall I fasten them?”
“No; I'll hold the reins till you get them. And, porter, I leave this horse with Miss Dalton, since she won't dismount. You see that he's well taken care of.”
“Yes, Sir.”
The captain, while speaking, had reached out his arm to take Edith's reins, but she turned her horse's head, and he missed them. The porter saw this movement, and sprang forward. Edith pulled the reins. Her horse reared. Wild with excitement, and seeing the gates open before her, and the road beyond, Edith struck at the porter with her whip over his face, and then drove her horse at the open gates. The horse sprang through like the wind. The porter shrieked after her. She was on the road. She was free!
No—not free!
Not free, for after her there came the thundering tramp of another horse. It was Mowbray in pursuit.
His horse was far better than hers. He gained on her step by step. Nearer and nearer he came. He was behind her; he was abreast of her before she had ridden a quartet of a mile. The tower of the village church was already in sight, when suddenly a strong hand was laid on her reins.
In her frenzy Edith struck that hand again and again with the heavy butt of her riding-whip, but it did not loosen its grasp. Her horse stopped.
“Curse you!” roared Mowbray to Edith, while his face was livid with passion and pain, “I'll kill you!” and seizing her whip hand, he wrenched the whip out of it.
Edith was silent.
Mowbray said no more. He turned her horse and led it back. Edith looked around wildly. Suddenly, as they came near the gates, the intolerable thought of her renewed imprisonment maddened her, and the liberty which she had so nearly gained roused her to one more effort; and so, with a start, she disengaged herself and leaped to the ground. Mowbray saw it, and, with a terrible oath, in an instant leaped down and gave chase. The horses ran forward and entered the gates.
Edith held up her long skirts and ran toward the village. But again Mowbray was too much for her. He overtook her, and seizing her by the wrist, dragged her back.
Edith shrieked for help at the top of her voice. Mowbray looked fiercely around, and seeing no one, he took his handkerchief and bound it tightly around her month. Then, overcome by despair, Edith's strength gave way. She sank down. She made no more resistance. She fainted.
Mowbray raised her in his arms, and carried her into the porter's lodge. The gates were then locked.
Edith came to herself in the porter's lodge. Her re-awakened eyes, in looking up confusedly, saw the hateful face of Mowbray bending over her. At once she realized the horror of her position, and all the incidents of her late adventure came vividly before her mind. Starting up as quickly as her feeble limbs would allow, she indignantly motioned him away.
Mowbray, without a word, stepped back and looked down.
Edith staggered to her feet.
“Miss Dalton,” said Mowbray, in a low voice, “your carriage has been sent for. It is here, and will take you to the Hall.”
Edith made no reply, but looked absently toward the door.
“Miss Dalton,” said Mowbray, coming a little nearer, “I implore you to hear me. I would kneel at your feet if you would let me. But you are so imbittered against me now that it would be useless. Miss Dalton, it was not hate that made me raise my hand against you. Miss Dalton, I swear that you are more dear to me than life itself. A few moments ago I was mad, and did not know what I was doing. I did not want you to go away from this place, for I saw that you would be lost to me forever. I saw that you hated me, and that if you went away just then I should lose you. And I was almost out of my senses. I had no time to think of any thing but the bitter loss that was before me, and as you fled I seized you, not in anger, but in excitement and fear, just as I would have seized you if you had been drowning.”
“Captain Mowbray,” said Edith, sternly, “the violence you have offered me is enough to satisfy even you, without such insult as this.”
“Will you not even listen to me?”
“Listen!” exclaimed Edith, in an indescribable tone.
“Then I must be heard. I love you. I—”
“Love!” interrupted Edith, in a tone of unutterable contempt.
“Yes, love,” repeated Mowbray, vehemently, “from the first time that I saw you, when you implored my help.”
“And why did you not give me your help?” asked Edith, looking at him in cold and haughty indignation.
“I will tell you,” said Mowbray. “Before I saw you I knew how you were situated. Wiggins would have kept me away, but dared not. I know that about him which makes me his master. When I saw you, I loved you with all my soul. When you appealed to me, I would have responded at once, but could not. The fact is, Mrs. Mowbray was present. Mrs. Mowbray is not what she appears to be. Before her I had to pretend an indifference that I did not feel. In short, I had to make myself appear a base coward. In fact, I had to be on my guard, so as not to excite her suspicions of my feelings. Afterward, when I might have redeemed my character in your eyes, I did not know how to begin. Then, too, I was afraid to help you to escape, for I saw that you hated me, and my only hope was to keep you here till you might know me better.”
“Captain Mowbray,” said Edith, “if you are a captain, which I doubt, such explanations as these are paltry. After what you have done, the only thing left is silence.”
“Oh, Miss Dalton, will nothing lead you to listen to me? I would lay down my life, to serve you.”
“You still wish to serve me; then?” asked Edith.
“Most fervently,” cried Mowbray.
“Then open that gate,” said Edith.
Mowbray hesitated.
“Open that gate,” said Edith, “and prove your sincerity. Open it, and efface these marks,” she cried, as she indignantly held up her right hand, and showed her wrist, all black from the fierce grasp in which Mowbray had seized it. “Open it, and I promise you I will listen patiently to all that you may have to say.”
“Miss Dalton,” said Mowbray, “if I opened that gate I should never see you again.”
“You will never see me again if you do not.”
“At least I shall be near you.”
“Near me? Yes, and hated and despised. I will call on Wiggins himself to help me. He was right; he said the time would come when I would be willing to trust him.”
“Trust him? What, that man? You don't know what he is.”
“And what are you, Captain Mowbray?”
“I? I am a gentleman.”
“Oh no,” said Edith, quietly, “not that—any thing rather than that.”
At this Mowbray's face flushed crimson, but with a violent effort he repressed his passion.
“Miss Dalton,” said he, “it is a thing that you might understand. The fear of losing you made me desperate. I saw in your flight the loss of all my hopes.”
“And where are those hopes now?”
“Well, at any rate, I have not altogether lost you. Let me hope that I may have an opportunity to explain hereafter, and to retrieve my character. Miss Dalton, a woman will sometimes forgive offenses even against herself, when she knows that they are prompted by love.”
“You seem to me,” said Edith, “to seek the affections of women as you do those of dogs—by beating them soundly.”
The sight of Mowbray's dog, who was in the room, reminded Edith of the master's maxim which he had uttered before this memorable ride.
“Miss Dalton, you do me such wrong that you crush me. Can you not have some mercy?”
“Open the gate,” said Edith. “Do that one thing, and then you may make all the explanations you wish. I will listen to anything and everything. Open the gate, and I will promise to forgive, and even to forget, the unparalleled outrage that I have suffered.”
“But you will leave me forever.”
“Open that gate, Captain Mowbray. Prove yourself to be what you say—do something to atone for your base conduct—and then you will have claims on my gratitude which I shall always acknowledge.”
Mowbray shook his head.
“Can I let you go?” he said. “Do you ask it of me?”
“No,” said Edith, impatiently, “I don't ask it. I neither hope nor ask for any thing from you. Wiggins himself is more promising. At any rate, he has not as yet used absolute violence, and, what is better, he does not intrude his society where it is not wanted.”
“Then I have no hope,” said Mowbray, in what was intended to be a plaintive tone.
“I'm sure I don't know,” said Edith, “but I know this—that the time will surely come, after all, when I shall get my freedom, and then, Captain Mowbray, you will rue the day when you dared to lay hands on me. Yes, I could get my freedom now, I suppose, if I were to parley with Wiggins, to bribe him heavily enough; and I assure you I am tempted now to give up the half of my estate, so as to get free and have you punished.”
Mowbray turned pale.
“There were no witnesses,” said he, hastily.
“You forget that the porter saw it all. But this is useless,” she added; and passing by Mowbray, she went to the door. Outside was a carriage, which the porter had brought down from the Hall, into which she got, and then drove away, while Mowbray stood looking at her till she drove out of sight.
The effects of this adventure were felt for some time. Excitement, fatigue, pain, and grief, all affected Edith, so that she could not leave her room for weeks. Mrs. Dunbar was assiduous in her attentions, and Edith supposed that both she and Wiggins knew all about it, as the porter would undoubtedly have informed them; but her communications with her were limited only to a few words, and she regarded her with nothing but distrust. In Mrs. Dunbar's manner, also, she saw something which indicated a fresh trouble, something which had been manifested by her ever since Mowbray's first appearance, and which Edith now suspected to be the result of Mowbray's violence. This led to vain speculations on her part which he had uttered before this memorable as to the mysterious connection that existed between her jailers. Mowbray professed to be the enemy and the master of Wiggins. Her remembrance of Wiggins's look of hate made her think that this was true. But Mrs. Dunbar she did not believe to be an enemy of Mowbray's; and the porter, who was the incorruptible servant of Wiggins, seemed equally devoted to Mowbray.
She recalled also Mowbray's words to herself in explanation of his own course. He had asserted that he had the power over Wiggins from some knowledge which he possessed, and also that Mrs. Mowbray was not what she appeared to be. He had spoken as though he was afraid of Mrs. Mowbray's finding out what he called his love for Edith. Was she his mother, then, at all? What did it all mean? For Edith, at any rate, it was not possible to understand it, and the character, motives, and mutual relationship of all those with whom she had come in contact remained an impenetrable mystery.
To the surprise of Edith, the Mowbrays called several times to make inquiries about her, and after her recovery they still visited her. At first she refused to see them, but one day Mrs. Mowbray came alone, and Edith determined to see her, and get rid of her effectually.
Mrs. Mowbray rose as she entered, and advancing to greet her, held out her hand with a cordial smile. Edith did not take it, yet Mrs. Mowbray took no offense, but, on the contrary, met her in the most effusive manner.
“Oh, my dear Miss Dalton,” said she, “what an age it has been since we met! It seems like years! And when I wanted to see you so par—tic—u—lar-ly! And are you quite well? Have you quite recovered? Are you sure? How glad I am!”
“Mrs. Mowbray,” said Edith, as soon as she could make herself heard, “I have sent word to you several times that I do not wish to see you again. You know the reason why as well as I do. I can only say that I am surprised at this persistence, and shall in future be under the necessity of shutting my doors against you.”
Thus Edith, in spite of her severe afflictions, could still speak of the place as hers, and under her orders.
“Oh, my dear Miss Dalton,” burst forth Mrs. Mowbray, “that is the very reason why I have so in—sist—ed on seeing you. To explain, you know—for there is nothing like an explanation.”
“You may spare yourself the trouble,” said Edith. “I do not want any more explanations.”
“Oh, but you positively must, you know,” said Mrs. Mowbray, in her most airy manner.
“Pardon me. I wish to hear nothing whatever about it.”
“It's that sad, sad boy,” said Mrs. Mowbray, coolly ignoring Edith's words, “and deeply has he repented. But do you know, dear, it was only his fondness for you. Pos—i—tive—ly nothing else, dear, but his fondness for you. Oh, how he has talked about it! He says he is willing to give up his right eye, or hand—I really forget which—to recall the past. My poor dear boy is very impetuous.”
“Mrs. Mowbray, I do not wish to be unkind or rude, but you really force me to it.”
“He's impetuous,” said Mrs. Mowbray, without noticing Edith, “but he's warm-hearted. He's a most affectionate son, and he is so affectionate toward you. It's all his fondness for you.”
“Mrs. Mowbray, this is intolerable.”
“Oh, Miss Dalton, you don't know—you really don't know. He has loved you ever since he first saw you—and so true! Why, he dotes on you. He was afraid that he would lose you. You know, that was the reason, why he interfered. But he says now most distinctly that he thinks his interference was quite un—war—rant—a—ble—quite, I assure you; my dear Miss Dalton.”
Edith sat looking at this insolent woman with a clouded brow, not knowing whether to order her out of the house or not. But Mrs. Mowbray seemed beautifully unconscious of any offense.
“The only thing that he has been talking about ever since it happened,” she continued, “is his sorrow. Oh, his sorrow! And it is deep, Miss Dalton. I never saw such deep sorrow. He really swears about it in a shocking manner; and that with him is a sign that his feelings are concerned very strongly. He always swears whenever he is deeply moved.”
Edith at this started to her feet with a look in her eyes which showed Mrs. Mowbray that she would not be trifled with any longer.
“Mrs. Mowbray,” said she, “I came down for the sole purpose of telling you that in future I shall dispense with the pleasure of your calls.”
Mrs. Mowbray rose from her chair.
“What!” she exclaimed, with a gesture of consternation; “and live in complete seclusion? Not receive calls? No, no; you really must not think of such a thing. We are your friends, you know, and you must not deny us an occasional sight of you. My poor boy will positively die if he doesn't see you. He's pining now. And it's all for you. All.”
“Mrs. Mowbray,” said Edith, in a severe tone, “I do not know whether you give offense intentionally or not. You seem unable to take a hint, however strongly expressed, and you force me to speak plainly, although I dislike to do so. You must not, and you shall not, come here any more.”
“Oh, my dear Miss Dalton, you really are quite excited,” said Mrs. Mowbray, with a pleasant smile.
“I mean what I say,” said Edith, coldly. “You are not—to come here again.”
Mrs. Mowbray laughed lightly.
“Oh, you really can't keep us away. We positively must come. My son insists. These lovers, you know, dear, are so pertinacious. Well,” she added, looking hastily at Edith, “I suppose I must say good—morning; but, Miss Dalton, think of my boy. Good—morning, my dear Miss Dalton.”
And so Mrs. Mowbray retired.
She called again four times, twice alone, and twice in company with the captain, but Edith refused to see her. Yet, after all, in spite of her scorn for these people, and her conviction that they were in league with Wiggins—in spite of the captain's brutality—it was not without sorrow that Edith dismissed Mrs. Mowbray; for she looked upon her as a kind of tie that bound her to the outer world, and until the last she had hoped that some means might arise through these, if not of escape, at least of communication with friends.
But she was cut off from these now more than ever; and what remained?
What? A prison-house!