One thing now seemed evident, and this was that she had a better chance of escaping at this time than she would have afterward. If she was to be watched, the outlook could not yet be as perfect or as well organized as it would afterward be. And among the ways of escape she could think of nothing else than the wall. That wall, she thought, must certainly afford some places which she might scale. She might find some gate in a remote place which could afford egress. To this she now determined to devote herself.

With this purpose on her mind, she sought to find her way through the trees to the wall. This she was able to do without much difficulty, for though the trees grew thick, there was no underbrush, but she was able to walk along without any very great trouble. Penetrating in this way through the trees, she at length came to the wall. But, to her great disappointment, she found its height here quite as great as it had been near the gate, and though in one or two places trees grew up which threw their branches out over it, yet those trees were altogether inaccessible to her.

Still she would not give up too quickly, but followed the wall for a long distance. The further she went, however, the more hopeless did her search seem to grow. The ground was unequal, sometimes rising into hills, and at other times sinking into valleys; but in all places, whether hill or valley, the wall arose high, formidable, not to be scaled by one like her. As she looked at it the thought came to her that it had been arranged for that very purpose, so that it should not be easily climbed, and so it was not surprising that a barrier which might baffle the active poacher or trespasser should prove insuperable to a slender girl like her.

She wandered on, however, in spite of discouragement, in the hope of finding a gate. But this search was as vain as the other. After walking for hours, till her feeble limbs could scarcely support her any longer, she sank down exhausted, and burst into tears.

For a long time she wept, overwhelmed by accumulated sorrow and despondency and disappointment. At length she roused herself, and drying her eyes, looked up and began to think of returning to the Hall.

To her amazement she saw the black servant, Hugo, standing not far away. As she raised her eyes he took off his cap, and grinned as usual. The sight of him gave Edith a great shock, and excited new suspicions and fears within her.

Had she been followed?

She must have been. She had been watched and tracked. All her desperate efforts had been noted down to be reported to Wiggins—all her long and fruitless search, her baffled endeavors, her frustrated hopes!

It was too much.

* * * * *



CHAPTER VII.

A PARLEY WITH THE JAILERS.

Coming as it did close upon her baffled efforts to escape, this discovery of Hugo proclaimed to Edith at once most unmistakably the fact that she was a prisoner. She was walled in. She was under guard and under surveillance. She could not escape without the consent of Wiggins, nor could she move about without being tracked by the spy of Wiggins. It was evident also that both the porter and the black servant Hugo were devoted to their master, and were beyond the reach both of persuasion and of bribery.

The discovery for a moment almost overwhelmed her once more; but the presence of another forced her to put a restraint upon her feelings. She tried to look unconcerned, and turning away her eyes, she sat in the same position for some time longer. But beneath the calm which her pride forced her to assume her heart throbbed painfully, and her thoughts dwelt with something almost like despair upon her present situation.

But Edith had a strong and resolute soul in spite of her slender and fragile frame; she had also an elastic disposition, which rose up swiftly from any prostration, and refused to be cast down utterly. So now this strength of her nature asserted itself; and triumphing over her momentary weakness, she resolved to go at once and see Wiggins himself. With these subordinates she had nothing to do. Her business was with Wiggins, and with Wiggins alone.

Yet the thought of an interview had something in it which was strangely repugnant to Edith. The aspect of her two jailers seemed to her to be repellent in the extreme. That white old man, with the solemn mystery of his eyes, that weird old woman, with her keen, vigilant outlook—these were the ones who now held her in restraint, and with these she had to come in conflict. In both of them there seemed something uncanny, and Edith could not help feeling that in the lives of both of these there was some mystery that passed her comprehension.

Still, uncanny or not, whatever might be the mystery of her jailers, they remained her jailers and nothing less. It was against this thought that the proud soul of Edith chafed and fretted. It was a thought which was intolerable. It roused her to the intensest indignation. She was the lady of Dalton Hall; these who thus dared to restrain her were her subordinates. This Wiggins was not only her inferior, but he had been the enemy of her life. Could she submit to fresh indignities or wrongs at the hands of one who had already done so much evil to her and hers? She could not.

That white old man with his mystery, his awful eyes, his venerable face, his unfathomable expression, and the weird old woman, his associate, with her indescribable look and her air of watchfulness, were both partners in this crime of unlawful imprisonment. They dared to put restrictions upon the movements of their mistress, the lady of Dalton Hall. Such an attempt could only be the sign of a desperate mind, and the villainy of their plan was of itself enough to sink them deep in Edith's thoughts down to an abyss of contempt and indignation. This indignation roused her, and her eagerness to see Miss Plympton impelled her to action. Animated by such feelings and motives, she delayed no longer, but at once returned to the Hall to see Wiggins himself.

On her way back she was conscious of the fact that Hugo was following; but she took no notice of it, as it was but the sequel to the preceding events of the day. She entered the Hall, and finding Mrs. Dunbar, told her to tell Wiggins that she wished to see him. After this she went down to the dreary drawing-room, where she awaited the coming of her jailer.

The room was unchanged from what it had been on the preceding day. By this time also Edith had noticed that there were no servants about except Hugo. The drear desolation of the vast Hall seemed drearier from the few inmates who dwelt there, and the solitude of the place made it still more intolerable.

After some time Wiggins made his appearance. He came in slowly, with his eyes fixed upon Edith, and the same expression upon his face which she had noticed before. A most singular man he was, whoever or whatever he might be. That hoary head and that venerable face might have awed her under other circumstances, and the unfathomable mystery of its expression might have awakened intense interest and sympathy; but as it was, Edith had no place for any other feelings than suspicion, indignation, and scorn.

"What do you mean by this treatment?" said Edith, abruptly. "It seems as though you are trying to imprison me. I have told you that I wish to call on Miss Plympton. I can not get a carriage, and I am not allowed to leave this place on foot. You are responsible for this, and I tell you now that I must go, and at once."

At this peremptory address Wiggins stood looking at her with his usual expression, and for some moments made no reply.

"I did not know," said he at length, in a slow and hesitating voice, "that you wished to leave so soon."

"But I told you so. You drove away Miss Plympton yesterday from my gates. I promised to call on her this morning. She is anxiously expecting me. I must go to her." Wiggins again waited for a few moments before replying, and at length said, in an abstracted tone:

"No, no; it can not be—it can not be!"

"Can not be!" repeated Edith. "It seems to me that you are trying to carry out a most extraordinary course of action toward me. This looks like restraint or imprisonment."

Wiggins looked at her with an expression of earnest entreaty on his face, with which there was also mingled an air of indescribable sadness.

"It is necessary," said he, in a mournful voice. "Can you not bring yourself to bear with it? You do not know what is at stake. Some day all will be explained."

"This is silly," exclaimed Edith. "No explanation is possible. I insist on leaving this place at once. If you refuse to let me go, it will he worse for you than for me."

"You do not know what you ask," said Wiggins.

"I ask you," said Edith, sternly and proudly, "to open those gates to your mistress."

Wiggins shook his head.

"I ask you to open those gates," continued Edith. "If you let me go now, I promise not to prosecute you—at least for this. I will forget to-day and yesterday."

Saying this, she looked at him inquiringly. But Wiggins shook his head as before. "It can not be," said he.

"You decide, then, to refuse my demand?" said Edith, impatiently.

"I must," said Wiggins, with a heavy sigh. "It is necessary. All is at stake. You do not know what you are doing."

"It is evident to me," said Edith, mastering herself by a strong effort, "that you are playing a desperate game, but at the same time you are trusting much to chance. Why did you wish me to come here? It was by the merest chance that I decided to come. It was also by another chance that I entered those gates which you now shut against my departure. Few would have done it."

"Your presence seemed necessary to my plans," said Wiggins, slowly. "What those plans are I can not yet confide to you. You are concerned in them as much as I am. Opposition will be of no avail, and will only injure you. But I hope you will not try to oppose me. I entreat you to bear with me. I entreat you to try to put a little confidence in me. I was your father's friend; and I now implore you, that daughter whom he loved so dearly, for your father's sake—yes, and for the sake of your sainted mother—not to—"

"This is mere hypocrisy," interrupted Edith. "My father was one with whom one like you can have nothing in common. You add to your crimes by this treatment of his daughter. What you have already been guilty of toward him you alone know. If you hope for mercy hereafter, do not add to your guilt."

"Guilt!" cried Wiggins, in an awful voice. He started back, and regarded her with eyes of utter horror. "Guilt!" he repeated, in a voice so low that it was scarcely above a whisper—"and she says that word!"

Edith looked at him with unchanged severity.

"You made a great mistake," said she, coldly and sternly, "when you drove Miss Plympton away. If you hope to keep me imprisoned here, you will only destroy yourself. I have a friend who knows you, and who will know before evening that I am here under restraint. She will never rest until she effects my deliverance. Have you counted on that?"

Wiggins listened attentively, as usual, to every word. The effort seemed to give him pain, and the suggestion of her friend was undoubtedly most unpleasant.

"No, I have not," said he. He spoke as though to himself. The candor of this confession stimulated Edith to dwell to a greater extent upon this subject.

"She was not willing for me to come in," said she. "She wished me not to enter without a lawyer or the sheriff. If she finds that I am detained, she will enter here in that way herself. She will deliver me in spite of you. If she does not see me to-day, she will at once use every effort to come to me. Your porters and your spies will be of no use against the officers of the law."

At this Wiggins looked at the floor, and was evidently in a state of perplexity. He stood in silence for some time, and Edith waited impatiently for his answer, so as to learn what effect these last hints had produced. At length Wiggins looked up. He spoke slowly and mournfully.

"I am very sorry," said he. "I hope it will not come to that. I'm afraid that I shall have to take you elsewhere."

These words fell upon Edith's ears ominously and threateningly. They conveyed to her mind a menace dark and gloomy, and showed the full determination of Wiggins to maintain at all hazards the control that he had gained over her. Edith therefore was silent, and apprehensive of evil. She was afraid that she had said too much. It might have been better not to threaten, or to show her hand prematurely. It might be the best plan to wait in silence and in patience for Miss Plympton. Wiggins was desperate. He might take her away, as he darkly hinted, from this place to some other where Miss Plympton could never find her.

She stood for some time in silence, with her mind full of such thoughts as these. Wiggins waited for a few moments, and then turned and slowly left the room. Edith said nothing, and made no effort to recall him, for she now felt that her situation was growing serious, and that it would be better for her to think it all over seriously, and not speak to Wiggins again until she had decided upon some definite plan of action. She therefore allowed him to take his departure, and soon afterward she went to her own room, where she remained for hours in deep thought.

At length Mrs. Dunbar brought in dinner. After laying the table she stood for a few moments in silence looking at Edith; but at length, yielding to some sudden impulse she came forward, and as Edith looked up in surprise, she exclaimed, with startling abruptness,

"Oh, how unfortunate! and oh, what a wretched mistake you are under! If you had not come home so suddenly, all might have been well. We hoped that you would be content and patient. Mr. Wiggins has plans of immense importance; they require great quiet and seclusion. Oh, if you could only have some faith in us!"

She stopped as abruptly as she had begun. This style of address from a housekeeper seemed to Edith to be altogether too familiar, and she resented it deeply. Besides, the identification of herself with Wiggins put Mrs. Dunbar in an odious position in Edith's eyes.

"Mr. Wiggins's plans are of no consequence to me whatever," said she, coldly.

"They are; they are of immense importance," cried Mrs. Dunbar.

Edith looked at her for a few moments with a cold stare of wonder, for this volunteered advice seemed something like insolence, coming thus from a subordinate. But she contented herself with answering in a quiet tone:

"You are mistaken. Nothing is of importance to me but my liberty. It will be very dangerous to deprive me of that. My friends will never allow it. In Wiggins this attempt to put me under restraint is nothing less than desperation. Think yourself how frantic he must be to hope to be able to confine me here, when I have friends outside who will move heaven and earth to come to me."

At this a look of uneasiness came over Mrs. Dunbar's face. It seemed to Edith that this hint at friends without was the only thing that in any way affected either of her jailers.

"The punishment for such a crime as unlawful imprisonment," continued Edith, "is a severe one. If Wiggins has ever committed any crimes before, this will only aggravate his guilt, and make his punishment the worse."

At this Mrs. Dunbar stared at Edith with the same horror in her eyes which Wiggins had lately shown.

"Crime?" she repeated. "Guilt? Punishment? Oh, Heavens! Has it come to this? This is terrible. Girl," she continued, with a frown, "you don't know the dreadful nature of those words. You are a marplot. You have come home to ruin every thing. But I thought so," she murmured to herself. "I told him so. I said it would be ruin, but he would have his way. And now—" The remainder of her remarks was inaudible. Suddenly her manner changed. Her anger gave way once more to entreaty.

"Oh!" she said, "can nothing persuade you that we are your friends? Trust us—oh, trust us! You will soon learn how we love you. He only thinks of you. You are the final aim of all his plans."

Edith gave a light laugh. That she was the final aim of Wiggins's plans she did not doubt. She saw now that plan clearly, as she thought. It was to gain control of her for purposes of his own in connection with the estate. Under such circumstances Mrs. Dunbar's entreaties seemed silly, and to make any answer was absurd. She turned away and sat down at the table. As for Mrs. Dunbar, she left the room.

Night came. Edith did not sleep; she could not. The day had been the most eventful one of her life. The thought that she was a prisoner was terrible. She could only sustain herself by the hope that Miss Plympton would save her. But this hope was confronted by a dark fear which greatly distressed her. It might take time for Miss Plympton to do any thing toward releasing her. She knew that the law worked slowly: she did not feel at all certain that it worked surely. Her father's fate rose before her as a warning of the law's uncertainty and injustice. Could she hope to be more fortunate than he had been? Wiggins had passed his life in the study of the law, and knew how to work it for his own private ends. He had once succeeded in his dark plot against her father. Might not his present "plan," about which he and his associate talked, be equally successful? Mrs. Dunbar had called her a "marplot." To mar the plot of this man, and avenge upon him the wrongs of her father, would be sweet indeed; but could it be possible for her to do it? That was the question.



The next morning came, and Edith rose full of a new purpose. She thought of her efforts on the preceding day, and concluded that she had made one great mistake. She saw now that Miss Plympton had most probably called, and had not been admitted. If she had only remained by the gate, she could have seen her friend, and told her all. That she had not thought of this before was now a matter of the deepest regret, and she could only hope that it might not yet be too late. She determined to go to the gates at once and watch.

She therefore hurried down to the gates as soon as she could. No efforts were made to prevent her. She had feared that she might be locked up in the Hall; but, to her surprise and relief, she was not. Such forbearance made her situation still more perplexing. It was evident that Wiggins hesitated about proceeding to extremities with her, and did not venture as yet to exercise more than a general restraint.

Arriving at the gate, Edith sat down close by it on a seat in front of the porter's lodge, and waited and watched. The gates were of iron bars, so that it was easy to see through them, and the road ran in front. The road was not much frequented, however. An occasional farmer's wagon or solitary pedestrian formed the only life that was visible outside. The porter watched her for some time in surprise, but said nothing. Hugo came up after about half an hour and talked with the porter, after which he loitered about within sight of Edith. Of all this, however, Edith took no notice whatever; it was what she expected.

The hours of the day passed by, but there were no signs of Miss Plympton. As hour after hour passed, Edith's hopes grew fainter and fainter. She longed to ask the porter whether she had called or not, but could not bring herself to do so—first, because she did not like to destroy all hope; and secondly, because she did not wish to hold any further communication with him.

She sat there all day long. Miss Plympton did not come. The hours passed by. Evening came. She bad eaten nothing all day. She was faint and weary, and almost in despair. But to wait longer was useless now; so she rose from her seat, and with feeble footsteps returned to the house.

Early the next morning she returned to the gates to take up her station as before and watch. She did not hope to see Miss Plympton now; for she concluded that she had called already, had been turned back, and was now perhaps engaged in arranging for her rescue. But Edith could not wait for that. She determined to do something herself. She resolved to accost all passers-by and tell them her situation. In this way she thought she might excite the world outside, and lead to some interposition in her behalf.

Full of this purpose, she went down to the gates. As she drew near, the first sight of them sent a feeling of dismay to her heart. A change had taken place. Something had been done during the night.

She drew nearer.

In a few moments she saw it all.

The gates had been boarded up during the night so that it was impossible to see the road.

One look was enough. This last hope was destroyed. There was nothing to be done here; and so, sick at heart, Edith turned back toward the Hall.

* * * * *



CHAPTER VIII.

MISS PLYMPTON BAFFLED.

Meanwhile Miss Plympton had been undergoing various phases of feeling, alternating between anxiety and hope, and terminating in a resolution which brought forth important results. On the departure of Edith she had watched her till her carriage was out of sight, and then sadly and reluctantly had given orders to drive back to Dalton. On arriving there she put up at the inn, and though full of anxiety, she tried to wait as patiently as possible for the following day.

Accustomed to move among the great, and to regard them with a certain reverence that pervades the middle classes in England, she tried first of all to prevent any village gossip about Edith, and so she endeavored, by warning and by bribery, to induce the maid, the footman, and the driver to say nothing about the scene at the gates. Another day, she hoped, would make it all right, and idle gossip should, never be allowed to meddle with the name of Edith in any way.

That evening Edith's note was brought to her. On receiving it she read it hurriedly, and then went down to see who had brought it. She saw the porter, who told her that he had come for Miss Dalton's baggage. The porter treated her with an effort to be respectful, which appeared to Miss Plympton to be a good omen. She offered him a piece of gold to propitiate him still further, but, to her amazement, it was declined.

"Thank ye kindly, mum," said he, touching his hat, "an' hope it's no offense; but we beant allowed to take nothin' savin' an' except what he gives us hisself."

A moment's surprise was succeeded by the thought that even this was of good omen, since it seemed to indicate a sort of rough, bluff, sterling honesty, which could not co-exist with a nature that was altogether bad.

Returning to her room, she once more read Edith's note. Its tone encouraged her greatly. It seemed to show that all her fears had been vain, and that, whatever the character of Wiggins might be, there could be no immediate danger to Edith. So great, indeed, was the encouragement which she received from this note that she began to think her fears foolish, and to believe that in England no possible harm could befall one in Edith's position. It was with such thoughts, and the hope of seeing Edith on the following day, that she retired for the night.

Her sleep was refreshing, and she did not awake till it was quite late. On awaking and finding what time it was, she rose and dressed hastily. Breakfast was served, and she began to look out for Edith.

Time passed, however, and Edith did not make her appearance. Miss Plympton tried to account for the delay in every possible way, and consoled herself as long as she could by the thought that she had been very much fatigued; and had not risen until very late. But the hours passed, and at length noon came without bringing any signs of her, and Miss Plympton was unable any longer to repress her uneasiness. This inaction grew intolerable, and she determined to set forth and see for herself. Accordingly she had the carriage made ready, and in a short time reached the park gate.

She had to ring for a long time before any one appeared; but at length, after fully an hour's delay, the porter came. He touched his hat on seeing her, but stood on the other side of the iron gateway without opening it.

"Is Miss Dalton at the Hall?" asked Miss Plympton.

"Yes, mum."

"I wish to see her."

"Beg yer pardon, mum, but there be no callers allowed in."

"Oh, it's different with me. Miss Dalton wrote that she would come to see me this morning, and I'm afraid she's ill, so I have come to see her."

"She beant ill, then," said the other.

Miss Plympton reflected that it was of no use to talk to this man, and thought of Wiggins himself.

"Is your master in?" she asked.

"He is, mum."

"Tell him I wish to see him."

"Beggin' yer pardon, mum, he never sees nobody."

"But I wish to see him on business of a very important kind."

"Can't help it, mum—beggin' yer pardon; but I've got to obey orders, mum."

"My good fellow, can't you take my message, or let me in to see him?"

"Sorry, mum, but I can't; I've got my orders."

"But he can't know. This business is so important that it will be very bad for him if he does not see me now. Tell him that. Go, now; you can't know what his business is. Tell him that—"

"Well, mum, if you insist, I don't mind goin'," said the porter. "I'll tell him."

"Say that I wish to see him at once, and that the business I have is of the utmost importance."

The porter touched his hat, and walked off.

Now followed another period of waiting. It was fully half an hour before he returned. Miss Plympton saw that he was alone, and her heart sank within her.

"Mr. Wiggins presents his respects, mum," said he, "and says he's sorry he can't see you."

"Did you tell him that my business was of the most important kind?"

"Yes, mum."

"And he refuses to come?"

"He says he's sorry he can't see you, mum."

At this Miss Plympton was silent for a little while.

"Come," said she at last, "my good fellow, if I could only see him, and mention one or two things, he would be very glad. It will be very much to his injury if he does not see me. You appear to be a faithful servant, and to care for your master's interests, so do you let me pass through, and I'll engage to keep you from all harm or punishment of any kind."

"Sorry, mum, to refuse; but orders is orders, mum," said the man, stolidly.

"If I am not allowed to go in," said Miss Plympton, "surely Miss Dalton will come here to see me—here at the gates."

"I don't know, mum."

"Well, you go and tell her that I am here."

"Sorry to refuse, mum; but it's agin orders. No callers allowed, mum."

"But Miss Dalton can come as far as the gates."

The man looked puzzled, and then muttered,

"Mr. Wiggins's orders, mum, is to have no communication."

"Ah!" said Miss Plympton; "so she is shut up here."

"Beggin' your pardon, mum, she beant shut up at all nowheres: she goes about."

"Then why can't I see her here?"

"Agin orders, mum."

By this Miss Plympton understood the worst, and fully believed that Edith was under strict restraint.

"My good man," said she, solemnly, "you and your master are committing a great crime in daring to keep any one here in imprisonment, especially the one who owns these estates. I warn him now to beware, for Miss Dalton has powerful friends. As to you, you may not know that you are breaking the law now, and are liable to transportation for life. Come, don't break the laws and incur such danger. If I choose I can bring here to-morrow the officers of the law, release Miss Dalton, and have you and your master arrested."

At this the man looked troubled. He scratched his head, drew a long breath, and looked at the ground with a frown.

Miss Plympton, seeing that this shot had told, followed it up.

"Refuse me admittance," said she, "and I will bring back those who will come here in the name of the law; but if you let me in, I promise to say nothing about this matter."

The porter now seemed to have recovered himself. He raised his head, and the old monotonous reply came:

"Sorry, mum, but it's agin orders."

Miss Plympton made one further attempt. She drew forth her purse, and displayed its contents.

"See," said she, "you will be doing a kindness to your master, and you shall have all this."

But the man did not look at the purse at all. His eyes were fixed on Miss Plympton, and he merely replied as before:

"Sorry, mum, but it's agin orders."

"Very well," said Miss Plympton. "There is only one thing left for me to do. I wish you to take one final message from me to your master. Tell him this: It is my intention to procure help for Miss Dalton at once. Tell him that her uncle, Sir Lionel Dudleigh, is now in England, and that this very day I shall set out for Dudleigh Manor, I shall tell Sir Lionel how his niece is situated, and bring him here. He will come with his own claims and the officers of the law. Wiggins shall be arrested, together with all who have aided and abetted him. If he refuses to admit me now, I shall quit this place and go at once without delay. Go, now, and make haste, for this matter is of too great importance to be decided by you."

The porter seemed to think so too, for, touching his hat, he at once withdrew. This time he was gone longer than before, and Miss Plympton waited for his return with great impatience. At length he came back.

"Mr. Wiggins presents his respects, mum," said the man, "and says he is not breakin' any law at all, and that if you choose to go for Sir Lionel, he is willin' to have you do so. He says if you fetch Sir Lionel here he will let both of you in. He says he'll be very happy indeed to see Sir Lionel."

This singular way of taking what was meant to be a most formidable threat took away Miss Plympton's last hope, and reduced her to a state of dejection and bewilderment; for when, she sent that threatening message, it was not because she had really any fixed design of carrying it into execution, but rather because the name of Sir Lionel Dudleigh seemed to her to be one which might overawe the mind of Wiggins. She thought that by reminding Wiggins of the existence of this powerful relative, and by threatening an instant appeal to him, she would be able to terrify him into releasing Edith. But his cool answer destroyed this hope. She felt puzzled at his assertion that he was not breaking any law, when he himself must know well that such a thing as the imprisonment of a free subject is a crime of the most serious character; but she felt even more puzzled at his reference to Sir Lionel. Her own connection and association with the aristocracy had never destroyed that deep unswerving reverence for them with which she had set out in life; and to find Wiggins treating the mention of Sir Lionel with such cool indifference was to her an incomprehensible thing. But there was nothing more for her to do at this place, and feeling the necessity of immediate action, she at once drove back to the inn.

Arriving here, she hoped that her prompt departure might frighten Wiggins, and lead to a change in his decision, and she concluded to remain that evening and that night, so as to give him time for repentance.

Nothing was left now but to devise some plan of action. First of all, she made inquiries of the landlord about Wiggins. That personage could tell her very little about him. According to him, Mr. Wiggins was a lawyer from Liverpool, who had been intrusted with the management of the Dalton estate for the past ten years. He was a very quiet man, devoted to his business, and until latterly had never been at Dalton oftener or longer than was absolutely necessary. Of late, however, he had been living here for some months, and it was believed that he intended to stay here the greater part of his time.

This was all that Miss Plympton was able to learn about Wiggins.

* * * * *



CHAPTER IX.

SIR LIONEL DUDLEIGH.

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's Peerage and Baronetage is 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; but won't you 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.

* * * * *



CHAPTER X.

LEON

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 a coup 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 is in 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 the habeas corpus act, 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."

* * * * *



CHAPTER XI.

LUCY.

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.



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 brought you here," 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 it is rather 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.

* * * * *



CHAPTER XII.

A SOLEMN APPEAL.

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, be 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.

* * * * *



CHAPTER XIII.

A WONDERFUL ACTOR.

A few more days passed, and Edith remained in the same state as before. Occasionally she would walk up and down the terrace in front of the house, but her dislike to being tracked and watched and followed prevented her from going any distance. She saw that she could not hope to escape by her unassisted efforts, and that her only hope lay in assistance from the outside world. Miss Plympton, she felt sure, could never forget her, and would do all that possibly could be done to effect her release as soon as possible. But day after day passed, and still no deliverer appeared.

She saw nothing of Wiggins during those days, but Mrs. Dunbar attended on her as usual. To her, however, Edith now paid no attention whatever. In her opinion she was the associate of her jailer, and a willing partner in the wrong that was being done to her. Under these circumstances she could not show to her any of that gentle courtesy and kindly consideration which her nature impelled her to exhibit to all with whom she was brought in contact. On the contrary, she never even looked at her; but often, when she was conscious that Mrs. Dunbar was gazing upon her with that strange, wistful look that characterized her, she refused to respond in any way. And so the time passed on, Edith in a state of drear solitude, and waiting, and waiting.

At length she received another visit from Wiggins. He came to her room as before, and knocked in his usual style. He looked at her with his usual solemn earnestness, and advanced toward her at once.

"You will remember," said he, "that when I was last here, a few days ago, I said that I might possibly decide to see Miss Plympton myself. It was solely for your sake; and to do so I have made a great sacrifice of feeling and of judgment."

"Miss Plympton?" interrupted Edith, eagerly. "Have you seen Miss Plympton?"

"I have."

"Where? At Dalton? Is she at Dalton still?"

"She is not."

Edith's countenance, which had flushed with hope, now fell at this. It looked as though Miss Plympton had gone away too hastily.

"Where did you see her?" she asked, in a low voice, trying to conceal her agitation.

"At Plympton Terrace," said Wiggins.

"Plympton Terrace," repeated Edith, in a dull monotone, while her breast heaved with irrepressible emotion. Her heart within her. This indeed looked like a desertion of her on the part of her only friend. But after a moment's despondency she rallied once more, as the thought came to her that this was all a fiction, and that Wiggins had not seen her at all.

"Yes," said Wiggins, "I have seen her, and had a long interview, in which I explained many things, to her. It was all for your sake, for had you not been concerned, I should never have thought of telling her what I did. But I was anxious to get you to confide in me, and you said that if Miss Plympton should put confidence in me, you yourself would feel inclined to do so. It is because I want your confidence, your trust—because I can't tell you all yet, and because without your trust I am weak—that I have done this. Your misery breaks up all my plans, and I wish to put an end to it. Now I have seen Miss Plympton at Plympton Terrace, and she has written you a letter, which I have brought."

With these words he drew from, his pocket a letter, and handed it to Edith. With a flushed face and a rapidly throbbing heart Edith took the letter. It seemed like that for which she had been so long waiting, but at the same time there was a certain ill-defined apprehension on her mind of disappointment. Had that letter come through any other channel, it would have excited nothing but unmingled joy; but the channel was suspicions, and Edith did not yet believe that he had really been to Plympton Terrace. She suspected some new piece of acting, some new kind of deceit or attempt to deceive, and the fact that she was still a prisoner was enough to fortify all her obstinate disbelief in the protestations of this man.

But on the letter she saw her own name in the well-known and unmistakable handwriting of Miss Plympton. She was quite familiar with that writing, so much so that she could not be deceived. This letter, then, was from her own hand, and as she read it she began to think that after all Wiggins was true in his statement that he had seen her. Then, seeing this, with deep agitation, and with a thousand conflicting emotions, she tore it open. She read the following:

"Plympton Terrace.

"My darling Edith,—I can not tell you, my own sweet love, how I have suffered from anxiety since I parted from you at the gates of Dalton Hall. I went back, and received your dear note that night, which consoled me. On the following day I looked for you, but you did not come. Full of impatience, I went to the gate, but was not admitted, though I tried every inducement to make the porter open to me. Turning away, I determined to go at once in search of some such means by which I could gain access to you, or free you from your position. After much thought I went to visit Sir Lionel Dudleigh, who heard my story, and promised to act at once on your behalf. He advised me to return to Plympton Terrace, and wait here till he should take the necessary steps, which I accordingly did. I have been here ever since, and I can truly say, my darling, that you have not once been out of my thoughts, nor have I till this day been free from anxiety about you. My worst fear has been about your own endurance of this restraint; for, knowing your impatient disposition, I have feared that you might fret yourself into illness if you were not soon released from your unpleasant situation.

"But, my dearest, this day has brought me a most wonderful and unexpected deliverance from all my fear. This morning a caller came who refused to send up his name. On going to the parlor I found a venerable man, who introduced himself as Mr. Wiggins. I confess when I saw him I was surprised, as I had imagined a very different kind of man. But you know what a bitter prejudice I have always had against this man, and so you may imagine how I received him. In a few words he explained his errand, and stated that it was exclusively with reference to you.

"And now, my own darling Edith, I come to that about which I scarce know how to speak. Let me hasten to say that both you and I have totally misunderstood Mr. Wiggins. Oh, Edith, how can I speak of him, or what can I say? He has told me such a wonderful and such a piteous story! It can not be told to you, for reasons which I respect, though I do not approve altogether of them. I think it would be better to tell you all, for then your situation would be far different, and he would not stand in so fearfully false a position. But his reasons are all-powerful with himself, and so I shall say nothing. But oh, my dearest, let me implore you, let me entreat you, to give to this man your reverence and your trust! Be patient, and wait. Perhaps he may overcome his high and delicate scruples, and let you know what his purposes are. For my part, my only grief now is that I have done something toward giving you that fear and hate and distrust of him which now animate you. I entreat you to dismiss all these feelings, and bear with your present lot till brighter days come. The purpose of Mr. Wiggins is a high and holy one, and this he will work out successfully, I hope and believe. Do not, dearest, by your impatience give any additional pang to that noble heart. Beware of what you say or do now, for fear lest hereafter it may cause the deepest remorse. Spare him, for he has suffered much. The name of your family, the memory of your injured father, are all at stake now; and I pray you, dearest, to restrain yourself, and try to bear with the present state of things. If you can only believe me or be influenced by me, you will give him all your trust, and even your affection. But if you can not do this at once, at least spare him any further pain. Alas, how that noble heart has suffered! When I think of his mournful story, I almost lose all faith in humanity, and would lose it altogether were it not for the spectacle which is afforded by himself—a spectacle of purest and loftiest virtue, and stainless honor, and endless self-devotion. But I must say no more, for fear that I may say too much, so I will stop.

"Mamma unites with me in kindest love, and believe me, my dearest Edith,

"Ever affectionately yours,

"PAMELA PLYMPTON.

"P.S.—I have not referred to that noblest of women, Mrs. Dunbar. Oh, dearest Edith, I hope that ere this she has won your whole heart, and that you have already divined something of that exalted spirit and that meek self-sacrifice which make her life so sublime. I can say no more. P. P."

Now it will be evident to the reader that if Miss Plympton had really written the above, and had meant to incite Edith to give her affectionate reverence to her two jailers, she could not have gone about it in a worse way. Edith read it through, and at the beginning thought that it might be authentic, but when she came to the latter half, that idea began to depart. As she read on further and further, it appeared more and more unlike Miss Plympton. The sudden transition from hate to admiration, the extravagant terms that were made use of, the exhortations to herself to change her feelings toward one like Wiggins, the stilted phraseology, the incoherences, all seemed so unlike the manner of Miss Plympton as to be only fit for derision. But the postscript seemed worst of all. Here the writer had overdone herself, or himself, and by dragging in the housekeeper, Mrs. Dunbar, and holding her up for the same extravagant admiration, a climax of utter absurdity had been attained.