On reading this singular letter Edith's thoughts came quick and vehement through her mind. If this letter were indeed the work of Miss Plympton, then all hope for her interference was utterly gone. If Miss Plympton wrote that, then she was evidently either mad, or else she had undergone a change of mind so incomprehensible that it was equivalent to madness. But Miss Plympton could never have written it. Of that she felt as sure as she was of her own existence.

If she did not, who did write it? The handwriting was exactly like that of her revered friend. There was not the slightest difference between this and that with which she was so familiar. It was her handwriting indeed, but it was not Miss Plympton who spoke there. The hand was the hand of Miss Plympton, but the voice was the voice of Wiggins.

He had written all this, she felt sure. These allusions to his sufferings, these hints about a plan, these references to her father, these entreaties to her to give him her affection and trust—all these were familiar. Wiggins had already made use of them all. It was, then, the work of Wiggins beyond a doubt.

And how? Could she doubt for a moment how? By imitating the writing of Miss Plympton. Perhaps he had sent a messenger there, and obtained a letter, part of which he had copied. The first half might have been copied verbatim, while the last must certainly be his own work. As to his power to imitate her writing, need she hesitate about that? Was not her father condemned for a forgery which another had done! Had she not already suspected that this false friend was no other than John Wiggins himself? Forgery! that was only too easy for a man like him. And she now saw in that letter an effort to accomplish her ruin by the same weapon with which her father's had been wrought.

All these thoughts rushed through her mind as she read and as she stood looking over the pages and thinking about what had been done. All the hate that she had ever felt for her father's betrayer, which had increased when he had become her own oppressor, now glowed hot within her heart and could not be repressed.



Meanwhile Wiggins had stood before her on the same spot where he had stopped when he handed her the letter. He had stood there with his eyes fixed upon her, and on his face an expression of solemn suspense—a suspense so anxious that one might have supposed his whole life depended upon Edith's decision. So he stood, rigid, mute, with all his soul centring itself in that gaze which he fixed on her, in an attitude which seemed almost that of a suppliant, for his reverend head was bowed, and his aged form bent, and his thin hands folded over one another before him.

Such were the face and figure and look and attitude that Edith saw as she raised her head. Had her anger been less fervid and her indignation less intense, she would surely have been affected by that venerable suppliant form; but as it was, there was no place for any softer emotion.

She rose from her chair, and as her white face showed itself opposite to his, her eyes looked upon him, as once before, hard, stem, pitiless; but this time their glance was even more cruel and implacable. She held out the letter to him, and said, quietly,

"Take it."

Wiggins looked at her, and spoke in a voice that was scarcely audible.

"What—do—you—mean?"

Carried beyond herself now by this attempt to prolong what seemed so stupid and transparent a deceit, Edith spoke her whole mind plainly:

"This is a close imitation of Miss Plympton's handwriting, but she could never write such words—never! You have not visited her; you have not seen her. This is a forgery. Once you were successful in forging, but now you can not be. By that crime you once destroyed the father, but if you destroy the daughter, you must—"

But what Edith was going to say remained unsaid, for at this point she was interrupted.

Wiggins had listened to her with a stunned expression, as though not able to comprehend her. But as the fullness of the meaning of her words reached his ears he shuddered from head to foot. A low moan escaped him. He started back, and regarded Edith with eyes that stared in utter horror.

"Stop! stop!" he cried, in a low, harsh voice. "No more, no more! This is madness. Girl, you will some day weep tears of blood for this! You will one day repent of this, and every word that you have spoken will pierce your own heart as they now pierce mine. You are mad: you do not know what you are saying. O Heavens! how mad you are in your ignorance! And I need only utter one word to reduce you to despair. If I were dying now I could say that which would give you life-long remorse, and make you carry a broken heart to your grave!"

He stopped abruptly, and staggered back, but caught at a chair, and, steadying himself, stood there trembling, with his head bowed, and heavy sighs escaping him. Soon hasty footsteps were heard, and Mrs. Dunbar hurried into the room, with a frightened face, looking first at Edith and then at Wiggins. She said not a word, however, but approaching Wiggins, drew his arm in hers, and led him out of the room.

Edith stood for some time looking after them.

"What a wonderful actor he is!" she thought; "and Mrs. Dunbar was waiting behind the scenes to appear when her turn should come. They went out just like people on the stage."

* * * * *



CHAPTER XIV.

TWO CALLERS.

Time passed slowly with the prisoner, but the freedom for which she longed seemed as distant as ever. Miss Plympton's apparent desertion of her was the worst blow that she had yet received, and even if the letter that Wiggins had shown her was a forgery, it still remained evident that but little was to be hoped for now in that quarter. It seemed to her now as if she was cut off from all the world. Her relatives were indifferent; Sir Lionel Dudleigh was inaccessible; Miss Plympton appeared to have given her up; the county families who, under ordinary circumstances, might have tried to call on her, would probably view with indifference if not prejudice, the daughter of a convict. All these circumstances, therefore, reduced her to deep dejection, and made her feel as though she was indeed at the mercy of her jailer.

While thus conscious of her helplessness however, she did not fear any thing worse than imprisonment. The idea had occurred to her of further injury, but had been at once dismissed. She did not think it possible that her life could be in danger. It seemed to her that Wiggins owed all his power to the very fact of her life. He was her guardian, as he had said, and if she were to die, he would be no more than any one else. The nearest heirs would then come forward, and he would have to retire. Those nearest heirs would undoubtedly be those relatives of whom Miss Plympton had told her, or perhaps Sir Lionel Dudleigh, of whom she now thought frequently, and who began to be her last hope.

The fact that Wiggins was her guardian till her marriage showed her plainly that he would endeavor to postpone any such a thing as marriage for an indefinite period. In order to do this he would, no doubt, keep her secluded as long as he could. He would feel it to be for his interest that her health should be taken care of, for any sickness of hers would necessarily alarm him. The thought of this made her wish for illness, so that she might have a doctor, and thus find some one who was not in his employ. But then, on the other hand, she feared that the doctor whom he might send would be some one in his pay, or in his confidence, like all the rest, and so her desire for illness faded out.

At last a day came when the monotony of her life was interrupted. She was looking out of her window when she was startled by the sound of a carriage coming up the main avenue. The sound filled her with excitement. It could not be Wiggins. It must be some one for her, some friend—Miss Plympton herself. Her heart beat fast at the thought. Yes, it must be Miss Plympton. She had not given her up. She had been laboring for her deliverance, and now she was coming, armed with the authority of the law, to effect her release. Edith's first impulse was to hurry down and meet the carriage, but long and frequent disappointment had taught her the need of restraint, and so she remained at the window till the carriage came into view.

Well was it for her that she had tried to repress her hopes, and had forborne to rush down at her first impulse. One glance showed her that the new-comers were strangers. It was a handsome barouche that she saw, and in it were a lady and a gentleman, neither of whom she had seen before. But even in the midst of her disappointment hope still found a place, and the thought occurred to her that though these might not be familiar to her, they yet might be friends, and might even have been sent by Miss Plympton. But, if so, how came they here? Did they have any trouble at the gate? How was it that Wiggins relaxed his regulations in their favor? Could they be friends of his own, after all? Yes, it must be so.

Filled with thoughts like these, which thus alternated between hope and fear, Edith watched the new-comers, as the carriage rolled up to the Hall, with something of the same emotions that fill the shipwrecked sailor as he watches the progress of a lifeboat that comes to save him. Even now it was with difficulty that she prevented herself from rushing down and meeting them, and imploring their help at once. But she restrained her impatience with a great effort, and summing up all her self-control, she waited.

She heard the great bell resounding through the long halls; she heard the footsteps of Mrs. Dunbar as she went down. Then there was a long delay, after which Mrs. Dunbar returned and entered the room. She appeared troubled, and there was on her face a larger share than usual of that anxious, fearful watchfulness which made its wonted expression. There was also something more—something that seemed like utter consternation and bewilderment; she was as white as ashes; her hands clutched one another convulsively; her eyes were fixed in an abstracted gaze on vacancy; and when she spoke it was in a low voice like a whisper, and in scarcely articulate words.

"Some one—to see you."

That was all that Mrs. Dunbar said.

"To see me!" repeated Edith, starting from her chair, and too excited to notice Mrs. Dunbar's manner. Hope arose once more, eager and unrestrained, and without stopping a moment to ask any thing about them, or to make any preparations to see them, she hurried down, fearing lest the smallest delay might be dangerous.

On entering the room the visitors introduced themselves as Captain and Mrs. Mowbray; but as the captain was young, and Mrs. Mowbray apparently about fifty, they appeared to Edith to be mother and son.

Mrs. Mowbray's features showed that in her youth she might have been beautiful; yet there was an expression on them which was not attractive to Edith, being a compound of primness and inanity, which made her look like a superannuated fashion plate. She was elaborately dressed: a rich robe of very thick silk, a frisette with showy curls, a bonnet with many ornaments of ribbons and flowers, and a heavy Cashmere shawl—such was her costume. Her eyes were undeniably fine, and a white veil covered her face, which to Edith looked as though it was painted or powdered.

The gentleman at first sight seemed like a remarkably handsome man. He was tall and well formed; chestnut hair curled short over his wide brow; square chin, whiskers of the intensely fashionable sort, and heavy mustache. His eyes were gray, and his features were regular and finely chiseled.

In spite of Edith's longing for friends, there was something in the appearance of these two which excited a feeling akin to aversion in her mind; and this was more particularly the case with regard to Captain Mowbray. As he looked at her there was a cold, hard light in his eyes which gave her the idea of a cruel and pitiless nature; and there was a kind of cynicism in his tone when he spoke which repelled her at once. He had all the air of a rou, yet even rous have often a savor of jolly recklessness about them, which conciliates. About this man, however, there was nothing of this; there was nothing but cold, cynical self-regard, and Edith saw in him one who might be as hateful as even Wiggins, and far more to be dreaded.

"I'm afraid," said Mrs. Mowbray, "that we are intruders on your seclusion; but we waited some time, and at last concluded to break in upon you in spite of your rigid restrictions. But others have anticipated us, I presume, and so perhaps you will pardon us."

"My seclusion is not my own choice," said Edith, mournfully. "You are the first whom I have seen."

"Then, my dear Miss Dalton, since we are not unwelcome, I feel very glad that we have ventured. May I hope that we will see a great deal of one another?"

Mrs. Mowbray's manner of speaking was essentially in keeping with her appearance. It may be called a fashion-plate style. It was both fluent and insincere. She spoke in what is sometimes called a "made voice"—that is to say, a voice not her own, made up for company—a florid falsetto: a tone that Edith detested.

Could she throw herself upon the sympathies of these? Who were they? Might they not be in league with Wiggins for some purpose unknown to her? It was curious that these strangers were able to pass the gates which were shut to all the rest of the world. These were her thoughts, and she determined to find out from these Mowbrays, if possible, how it was that they got in.

"Had you any difficulty at the gates with the porter?" asked Edith.

"Oh no," said Captain Mowbray, "not the least."

"Did he offer no resistance?"

"Certainly not. Why should he?"

"Because he has been in the habit of turning back all visitors."

"Ah," said Mowbray, listlessly, "that is a thing you ought not to allow."

"I was afraid," said Edith, "that he had tried to keep you back."

"Me?" said Mowbray, with strong emphasis. "He knows better than that, I fancy."

"And yet he is capable of any amount of insolence."

"Indeed?" said Mowbray, languidly. "Then why don't you turn him off, and get a civil man?"

"Because—because," said Edith, in a tremulous voice, "there is one here who—who countermands all my orders."

"Ah!" said Mowbray, in a listless tone, which seemed to say that he took no interest whatever in these matters.

"Dear me!" said Mrs. Mowbray, in a querulous voice. "Servants are such dreadful plagues. Worry! why, it's nothing else but worry! And they're so shockingly impertinent. They really have no sense of respect. I don't know for my part what the world's coming to. I suppose it's all these dreadful radicals and newspapers and working-men's clubs and things. When I was young it was not so."

"You have not been in Dalton Hall since you were a young girl, Miss Dalton?" said Mowbray, inquiringly.

"No; not for ten years."

"Do you find it much changed?"

"Very much—and for the worse. I have had great difficulties to contend with."

"Indeed?" said Mowbray, indifferently.

"Well, at any rate, you have a noble old place, with every thing around you to make you enjoy life."

"Yes—all but one thing."

"Ah?"

"I am a prisoner here, Captain Mowbray," said Edith, with an appealing glance and a mournful tone.

"Ah, really?" said Mowbray; and taking up a book he began to turn over the leaves in a careless way.

"A prisoner?" put in Mrs. Mowbray. "Yes, and so you are. It's like imprisonment, this dreadful mourning. But one has to act in accordance with public sentiment. And I suppose you grieve very much, my dear, for your poor dear papa. Poor man! I remember seeing him once in London. It was my first season. There were Lord Rutland and the Marquis of Abercorn and the young Duke of Severn—all the rage. Do you know, my dear, I was quite a belle then."

From this beginning Mrs. Mowbray went on to chatter about the gayeties of her youth—and Lord A, how handsome he was; and Sir John B, how rich he was; and Colonel C, how extravagant he was. Then she wandered off to the subject of state balls, described the dress she wore at her first presentation at court, and the appearance of his Gracious Majesty King George, and how he was dressed, and who were with him, and what he said—while all the time poor Edith, who was longing for an opportunity to tell them about herself, sat quivering with impatience and agitation.

During all this time Captain Mowbray looked bored, and sat examining the furniture and Edith alternately. He made no effort to take part in the conversation, but seemed anxious to bring the visit to a close. This Edith saw with a sinking heart. These, then, were the ones from whom she had hoped assistance. But unpromising as these were, they formed just now her only hope, and so, as they at length rose to go, Edith grew desperate, and burst forth in a low but quick and excited tone.

"Wait one moment," said she, "and excuse me if I give you trouble; but the position I am in forces me to appeal to you for help, though you are only strangers. I am actually imprisoned in this place. A man here—Wiggins, the late steward—confines me within these grounds, and will not let me go out, nor will he allow any of my friends to come and see me. He keeps me a prisoner under strict watch. Wherever I go about the grounds I am followed. He will not even allow my friends to write to me. I am the owner, but he is the master. Captain Mowbray, I appeal to you. You are an officer and a gentleman. Save me from this cruel imprisonment! I want nothing but liberty. I want to join my friends, and gain my rights. I entreat you to help me, or if you can not help me yourself, let others know, or send me a lawyer, or take a letter for me to some friends."

And with these words poor Edith sank back into the chair from which she had risen, and sobbed aloud. She had spoken in feverish, eager tones, and her whole frame quivered with agitation.

Mrs. Mowbray listened to her with a complacent smile, and when Edith sank back in her chair she sat down too, and taking out her handkerchief and a bottle of salts, began to apply the one to her eyes and the other to her nose alternately. As for Captain Mowbray, he coolly resumed his seat, yawned, and then sat quietly looking first at Edith and then at Mrs. Mowbray. At length Edith by a violent effort regained her self-control, and looking at the captain, she said, indignantly,

"You say nothing, Sir. Am I to think that you refuse this request?"

"By no means," said Captain Mowbray, dryly. "Silence is said usually to signify consent."

"You will help me, then, after all?" cried Edith, earnestly.

"Wait a moment," said Captain Mowbray, a little abruptly. "Who is this man, Miss Dalton, of whom you complain?"

"Wiggins."

"Wiggins?" said Mowbray. "Ah! was he not the steward of your late father?"

"Yes."

"I have heard somewhere that he was appointed your guardian. Is that so?"

"I don't know," said Edith. "He claims to be my guardian; but I am of age, and I don't see how he can be."

"The law of guardianship is very peculiar," said Mowbray. "Perhaps he has right on his side."

"Right!" cried Edith, warmly. "How can he have the right to restrict my liberty, and make me a prisoner on my own estate. I am of age. The estate is absolutely mine. He is only a servant. Have I no rights whatever?"

"I should say you had," said Mowbray, languidly stroking his mustache. "I should say you had, of course. But this guardian business is a troublesome thing, and Wiggins, as your guardian, may have a certain amount of power."

Edith turned away impatiently.

"I hoped," said she, "that the mere mention of my situation would be enough to excite your sympathy. I see that I was mistaken, and am sorry that I have troubled you."

"You are too hasty," said Mowbray. "You see, I look at your position merely from a legal point of view."

"A legal point!" exclaimed Mrs. Mowbray, who had now dried her eyes and restored the handkerchief and the salts bottle to their proper places. "A legal point! Ah, Miss Dalton, my son is great on legal points. He is quite a lawyer. If he had embraced the law as a profession, which I once thought of getting him to do, though that was when he was quite a child, and something or other put it quite out of my head—if he had embraced the law as a profession, my dear, he might have aspired to the bench."

Edith rested her brow on her hand and bit her lips, reproaching herself for having confided her troubles to these people. Wiggins himself was more endurable.

"Your case," said Captain Mowbray, tapping his boot with his cane in a careless manner, "is one which requires a very great amount of careful consideration."

Edith said nothing. She had become hopeless.

"If there is a will, and Wiggins has powers given him in the instrument, he can give you a great deal of trouble without your being able to prevent it."

This scene was becoming intolerable, and Edith could bear it no longer.

"I want to make one final request," said she, with difficulty controlling the scorn and indignation which she felt. "It is this—will you give me a seat in your carriage as far as the village inn?"

"The village inn?" repeated Mowbray, and the he was silent for some time. His mother looked at him inquiringly and curiously.

"I have friends," said Edith, "and I will go to them. All that I ask of you is the drive of a few rods to the village inn. You can leave me there, and I will never trouble you again."

"Well, really, Miss Dalton," said Mowbray, after another pause, in which Edith suffered frightful suspense—"really, your request is a singular one. I would do any thing for you—but this is different. You see, you are a sort of ward, and to carry you away from the control of your guardian might be a very dangerous offense."

"In fact, you are afraid, I see," said Edith, bitterly. "Well, you need say no more. I will trouble you no further."

Saying this, she rose and stood in all her stately beauty before them—cold, haughty, and without a trace of emotion left. They were struck by the change. Thus far she had appeared a timid, agitated, frightened girl; they now saw in her something of that indomitable spirit which had already baffled and perplexed her jailers.

"We hope to see more of you," said Mrs. Mowbray. "We shall call again soon."

To this Edith made no reply, but saw them to the drawing-room door. Then they descended the stairs and entered the carriage, and she heard them drive off. Then she went up to her room, and sat looking out of the window.

"He is worse than Wiggins," she muttered. "He is a gentleman, but a villain—and a ruined one too—perhaps in the pay of Wiggins. Wiggins sent him here."

* * * * *



CHAPTER XV.

A PANIC AMONG THE JAILERS.

The arrival of these visitors had produced an extraordinary effect upon Mrs. Dunbar. So great was her agitation that she could scarcely announce them to Edith. So great was it that, though she was Edith's jailer, she did not dream of denying them the privilege of seeing her, but summoned Edith at once, as though she was free mistress of the house.

After Edith had gone down the agitation of Mrs. Dunbar continued, and grew even greater. She sank into a chair, and buried her face in her hands. In that position she remained motionless for a long time, and was at length aroused by the return of Edith from her interview with her visitors. Upon her entrance Mrs. Dunbar started up suddenly, and with downcast face left the room, without exciting any attention from Edith, who was too much taken up with her own thoughts about her visitors to notice any thing unusual about the appearance of her housekeeper.

Leaving Edith's room, Mrs. Dunbar walked along the hall with slow and uncertain step, and at length reached a room at the west end. The door was closed. She knocked. A voice cried, "Come in," and she entered. It was a large room, and it looked out upon the grounds in front of the house. A desk was in the middle, which was covered with papers. All around were shelves filled with books. It seemed to be a mixture of library and office. At the desk sat Wiggins, who looked up, as Mrs. Dunbar entered, with his usual solemn face.

Into this room Mrs. Dunbar entered without further ceremony, and after walking a few paces found a chair, into which she sank with something like a groan. Wiggins looked at her in silence, and regarding her with that earnest glance which was usual with him. Mrs. Dunbar sat for a few moments without saying a word, with her face buried in her hands, as it had been in Edith's room; but at length she raised her head, and looked at Wiggins. Her face was still deathly pale, her hands twitched the folds of her dress convulsively, and her eyes had a glassy stare that was almost terrible. It could be no common thing that had caused such deep emotion in one who was usually so self-contained.

At last she spoke.

"I have seen him!" said she, in a low tone, which was hardly raised above a whisper.

Wiggins looked at her in silence for some time, and at length said, in a low voice,

"He is here, then?"

"He is here," said Mrs. Dunbar. "But have you seen him? Why did you not tell me that he was here? The shock was terrible. You ought to have told me."

Wiggins sighed.

"I intended to do so," said he; "but I did not know that he would come so soon."

"When did you see him?" asked Mrs. Dunbar, abruptly.

"Yesterday—only yesterday."

"You knew him at once, of course, from his extraordinary likeness to—to the other one. I wish you had told me. Oh, how I wish you had told me! The shock was terrible."

And saying this, Mrs. Dunbar gave a deep sigh that was like a groan.

"The fact is," said Wiggins, "I have been trying to conjecture how he came here, and as I did not think he would come to the Hall—at least, not just yet—I thought I would spare you. Forgive me if I have made a mistake. I had no idea that he was coming to the Hall."

"How could he have come here?" said Mrs. Dunbar. "What possible thing could have sent him?"

"Well," said Wiggins, "I can understand that easily enough. This Miss Plympton you know, as I told you, threatened that she would go to see Lionel. I forgot to ask her about that when I saw her, but it seems now that she must have carried out her threat. She has undoubtedly gone to see Lionel, and Lionel has sent his boy instead of coming himself. Had he only come himself, all would have been well. That is the chief thing that I hoped for. But he has not chosen to come, and so here is the son instead of the father. It is unfortunate; it delays matters most painfully; but we must bear it."

"Do you think Lionel can suspect?" asked Mrs. Dunbar, anxiously.

"Suspect? Not he. I think that he objected to come himself for a very good reason. He has good grounds for declining to revisit Dalton Hall. He has sent his son to investigate, and how this enterprise will end remains to be seen."

"I don't see how he managed to get into the place at all," said Mrs. Dunbar. "Wilkins is usually very particular."

"Well," said Wiggins, "I can understand that only too well. Unfortunately he recognized Wilkins. My porter is unknown here, but any one from Lionel's place whose memory reaches back ten years will easily know him—the desperate poacher and almost murderer, whose affair with the gamekeeper of Dudleigh Manor cost him a sentence of transportation for twenty years. His face is one that does not change much, and so he was recognized at once. He came to me in a terrible way, frightened to death for fear of a fresh arrest; but I calmed him. I went to the lodge myself, and yesterday I saw him. I knew him at once, of course."

"But did he recognize you?" cried Mrs. Dunbar, in a voice full of fresh agitation.

"I fear so," said Wiggins.

At this Mrs. Dunbar started to her feet, and stared at Wiggins with a face full of terror. Then gradually her strength failed, and she sank back again, but her face still retained the same look.

"He did not recognize me at first," said Wiggins. "He seemed puzzled; but as I talked with him, and heard his threats about Wilkins, and about what he called Edith's imprisonment, he seemed gradually to find out all, or to surmise it. It could not have been my face; it must have been my voice, for that unfortunately has not changed, and he once knew that well, in the old days when he was visiting here. At any rate, he made it out, and from that moment tried to impress upon me that I was in his power."

"And did you tell him—all?"

"I—I told him nothing. I let him think what he chose. I was not going, to break through my plans for his sake, nor for the sake of his foolish threats. But in thus forbearing I had to tolerate him, and hence this visit. He thinks that I am in his power. He does, not understand. But I shall have to let him come here, or else make every thing known, and for that I am not at all prepared as yet. But oh, if it had only been Lionel!—if it had only been Lionel!"

"And so," said Mrs. Dunbar, after a long silence, "he knows all."

"He knows nothing," said Wiggins. "It is his ignorance and my own patient waiting that make him bold. But tell me this—did he recognize you?"

At this question Mrs. Dunbar looked with a fixed, rigid stare at Wiggins. Her lips quivered. For a moment she could not speak.

"He—he looked at me," said she, in a faltering voice—"he looked at me, but I was so overcome at the sight of him that my brain whirled. I was scarcely conscious of any thing. I heard him ask for Edith, and I hurried away. But oh, how hard—how hard it is! Oh, was ever any one in such a situation? To see him here—to see that face and hear that voice! Oh, what can I do—what can I do?"

And with these words Mrs. Dunbar broke down. Once more her head sank, and burying her face in her hands, she wept and sobbed convulsively. Wiggins looked at her, and as he looked there came over his face an expression of unutterable pity and sympathy, but he said not a word. As he looked at her he leaned his head on his hand, and a low, deep, prolonged sigh escaped him, that seemed to come from the depths of his being.

They sat in silence for a long time. Mrs. Dunbar was the first to break that silence. She roused herself by a great effort, and said,

"Have you any idea what his object may be in coming here, or what Lionel's object may be in sending him?"

"Well," said Wiggins, "I don't know. I thought at first when I saw him that Lionel had some idea of looking after the estate, to see if he could get control of it in any way; but this call seems to show that Edith enters into their design in some way. Perhaps he thinks of paying attentions to her," he added, in a tone of bitterness.

"And would that be a thing to be dreaded?" asked Mrs. Dunbar, anxiously.

"Most certainly," said Wiggins.

"Would you blame the son for the misdeeds of the father?" she asked, in the same tone.

"No," said Wiggins; "but when the son is so evidently a counterpart of the father, I should say that Edith ought to be preserved from him."

"I don't know," said Mrs. Dunbar. "I'm afraid you judge too hastily. It may be for the best. Who knows?"

"It can only be for the worst," said Wiggins, with solemn emphasis.

"There is a woman with him," said Mrs. Dunbar, suddenly changing the conversation. "Who can she be?"

"A woman? What kind of a woman?"

"Elderly. I never saw her before. He calls himself Mowbray, and she is Mrs. Mowbray. What can be the meaning of that? The woman seems old enough to be his mother."

"Old?" said Wiggins. "Ah—Mowbray—h'm! It must be some design of his on Edith. He brings this woman, so as to make a formal call. He will not tell her who he is. I don't like the look of this, and, what is worse, I don't know what to do. I could prohibit his visits, but that would be to give up my plans, and I can not do that yet. I must run the risk. As for Edith, she is mad. She is beyond my control. She drives me to despair."

"I do not see what danger there is for Edith in his visits," said Mrs. Dunbar, in a mournful voice.

"Danger!" said Wiggins. "A man like that!"

"You are judging him too hastily," said Mrs. Dunbar.

Wiggins looked at her in silence for a moment, and then said,

"I hope I am, I'm sure, for your sake; but I'm afraid that I am right and that you are wrong."

After some further conversation Mrs. Dunbar retired, carrying with her in her face and in her heart that deep concern and that strong agitation which had been excited by the visit of Mowbray. Edith, when she next saw her, noticed this, and for a long time afterward wondered to herself why it was that such a change had come over the housekeeper.

* * * * *



CHAPTER XVI.

ANOTHER VISIT

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."



"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 one must do, 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."

* * * * *



CHAPTER XVII.

A STROKE FOR LIBERTY.

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 very peculiarly situated, 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."



"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.

* * * * *



CHAPTER XVIII.

A STRANGE CONFESSION.

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!

* * * * *



CHAPTER XIX.

A NEW-COMER.

It seemed now to Edith that her isolation was complete. She found herself in a position which she had thought impossible in free England—a prisoner in the hands of an adventurer, who usurped an authority over her to which he had no right. His claim to exercise this authority in his office of guardian she did not admit for a moment. She, the mistress of Dalton Hall, was nothing more than a captive on her own estates.

She did not know how this could end or when it could end. Her hopes had one by one given way. The greatest blow of all was that which had been administered through the so-called letter of Miss Plympton. That letter she believed to be a forgery, yet the undeniable fact remained that Miss Plympton had done nothing. That Miss Plympton should write that letter, however, and that she should leave her helpless at the mercy of Wiggins, seemed equally improbable, and Edith, in her vain effort to comprehend it, could only conclude that some accident had happened to her dear friend; that she was ill, or worse. And if this was so, it would be to her the worst blow of all.

Other hopes which she had formed had also been doomed to destruction. She had expected something from the spontaneous sympathy of the outside world; who, whatever their opinion about her father, would stir themselves to prevent such an outrage upon justice as that which Wiggins was perpetrating. But these hopes gradually died out. That world, she thought, was perhaps ignorant not only of her situation, but even of her very existence. The last hopes that she had formed had been in the Mowbrays, and these had gone the way of all the others.

Nothing appeared before her in the way of hope, and her despondency was often hard to endure. Still her strong spirit and high-toned nature rendered it impossible for her to be miserable always. Added to this was her perfect health, which, with one interruption, had sustained her amidst the distresses of her situation. By her very disposition she was forced to hope for the best. It must not be supposed that she was at all like "Mariana in the moated grange." She did not pine away. On the contrary, she often felt a kind of triumph in the thought that she had thus far shown the spirit of a Dalton.

There was an old legend in the Dalton family upon which great stress had been laid for many generations, and this one stood out prominently among all the stories of ancestral exploits which she had heard in her childhood. One of the first Daltons, whose grim figure looked down upon her now in the armor of a Crusader, had taken part in the great expedition under Richard Coeur de Lion. It happened that he had the ill luck to fall into the hands of the infidel, but as there were a number of other prisoners, there was some confusion, and early one morning he managed to seize a horse and escape. Soon he was pursued. He dashed over a wide plain toward some hills that arose in the distance, where he managed to elude his pursuers for a time, until he found refuge upon a cliff, where there was a small place which afforded room for one or two. After some search his pursuers discovered him, and ordered him to come down. He refused. They then began an attack, shooting arrows from a distance, and trying to scale the cliff. But Dalton's defense was so vigorous that by the end of that day's fight he had killed eight of his assailants. Then the contest continued. For two days, under a burning sun, without food or drink, the stern old Crusader defended himself. When summoned to surrender he had only one word, and that was, "Never!" It happened that a band of Crusaders who were scouring the country caught sight of the Saracens, and made an attack upon them, putting them to flight. They then sought for the object of this extraordinary siege, and, climbing up, they saw a sight which thrilled them as they gazed. For there lay stout old Michael Dalton, with many wounds, holding a broken sword, and looking at them with delirious eyes. He recognized no one, but tried to defend himself against his own friends. It was with difficulty that they restrained him. They could not remove him, nor was it necessary, for death was near; but till the last his hand clutched the broken sword, and the only word he said was, "Never!" The Crusaders waited till he was dead, and then took his remains to the camp. The story of his defense, which was gathered from their prisoners, rang through the whole camp, and always afterward the crest of the Daltons was a bloody hand holding a broken sword, with the motto, "Never!"

And so Edith took to her heart this story and this motto, and whenever she looked at the grim old Crusader, she clinched her own little hand and said, "Never!"

She determined to use what liberty she had; and since Wiggins watched all her movements, to show him how unconcerned she was, she began to go about the grounds, to take long walks in all directions, and whenever she returned to the house, to play for hours upon the piano. Her determination to keep up her courage had the effect of keeping down her despondency, and her vigorous exercise was an unmixed benefit, so that there was a radiant beauty in her face, and a haughty dignity that made her look like the absolute mistress of the place.

What Wiggins felt or thought she did not know. He never came across her path by any chance. Occasional glimpses of the ever-watchful Hugo showed her that she was tracked with as jealous a vigilance as ever. She hoped, however, that by her incessant activity something might result to her advantage.

One day while she was strolling down the grand avenue she saw a stranger walking up, and saw, to her surprise, that he was a gentleman. The face was altogether unknown to her, and, full of hope, she waited for him to come up.

"Have I the honor of addressing Miss Dalton?" said the stranger, as he reached her. He spoke in a very pleasant but somewhat effeminate voice, lifting his hat, and bowing with profound courtesy.

"I am Miss Dalton," said Edith, wondering who the stranger might be.

He was quite a small, slight man, evidently young; his cheeks were beardless; he had a thick dark mustache; and his small hands and feet gave to Edith the idea of a delicate, fastidious sort of a man, which was heightened by his very neat and careful dress. On the whole, however, he seemed to be a gentleman, and his deep courtesy was grateful in the extreme to one who had known so much rudeness from others.

His complexion was quite dark, his eyes were very brilliant and expressive, and his appearance was decidedly effeminate. Edith felt a half contempt for him, but in a moment she reflected how appearances may mislead, for was not the magnificent Mowbray a villain and a coward?

"Allow me, Miss Dalton," said he, "to introduce myself. I am Lieutenant Dudleigh, of —— ——."

"Dudleigh!" cried Edith, in great excitement. "Are you any relation to Sir Lionel?"

"Well, not very close. I belong to the same family, it is true; but Sir Lionel is more to me than a relation. He is my best friend and benefactor."

"And do you know any thing about him?" cried Edith, in irrepressible eagerness. "Can you tell me any thing?"

"Oh yes," said Dudleigh, with a smile. "I certainly ought to be able to do that. I suppose I know as much about him as any one. But what is the meaning of all this that I find here," he continued, suddenly changing the conversation—"that ruffian of a porter—the gates boarded up and barred so jealously? It seems to me as if your friends should bring pistols whenever they come to make a call."

Dudleigh had a gay, open, careless tone. His voice was round and full, yet still it was effeminate. In spite of this, however, Edith was, on the whole, pleased with him. The remote relationship which he professed to bear to Sir Lionel, his claim that Sir Lionel was his friend, and the name that he gave himself, all made him seem to Edith like a true friend. Of Sir Lionel and his family she knew nothing whatever; she knew not whether he had ever had any children or not; nor did she ever know his disposition; but she had always accustomed herself to think of him as her only relative, and her last resort, so that this man's acquaintance with him made him doubly welcome.

"What you mention," said she, in answer to his last remark, "is a thing over which I have not the smallest control. There is a man here who has contrived to place me in so painful a position that I am a prisoner in my own grounds."

"A prisoner!" said Dudleigh, in a tone of the deepest surprise. "I do not understand you."

"He keeps the gates locked," said Edith, "refuses to let me out, and watches every thing that I do."

"What do you mean? I really can not understand you. No one has any right to do that. How does he dare to do it? He couldn't treat you worse if he were your husband."

"Well, he pretends that he is my guardian, and declares that he has the same right over me as if he were my father."

"But, Miss Dalton, what nonsense this is! You can not be in earnest—and yet you must be."

"In earnest!" repeated Edith, with vehemence. "Oh, Lieutenant Dudleigh, this is the sorrow of my life—so much so that I throw myself upon the sympathy of a perfect stranger. I am desperate, and ready to do any thing to escape—"

"Miss Dalton," said Dudleigh, solemnly, "your wrongs must be great indeed if this is so. Your guardian! But what then? Does that give him the right to be your jailer?"

"He takes the right."

"Who is this man?"

"His name is Wiggins."

"Wiggins? Wiggins? Why, it must be the steward. Wiggins? Why, I saw him yesterday. Wiggins? What! That scoundrel? that blackleg? that villain who was horsewhipped at Epsom? Why, the man is almost an outlaw. It seemed to me incredible when I heard he was steward here; but when you tell me that he is your guardian it really is too much. It must be some scoundrelly trick of his—some forgery of documents."

"So I believe," said Edith, "and so I told him to his own face. But how did you get in here? Wiggins never allows any one to come here but his own friends."

"Well," said Dudleigh, "I did have a little difficulty, but not much—it was rather of a preliminary character. The fact is, I came here more than a week ago on a kind of tour. I heard of Dalton Hall, and understood enough of Sir Lionel's affairs to know that you were his niece; and as there had been an old difficulty, I thought I couldn't do better than call and see what sort of a person you were, so as to judge whether a reconciliation might not be brought about. I came here three days ago, and that beggar of a porter wouldn't let me in. The next day I came back, and found Wiggins, and had some talk with him. He said something or other about your grief and seclusion and so forth; but I knew the scoundrel was lying, so I just said to him, 'See here now, Wiggins, I know you of old, and there is one little affair of yours that I know all about—you understand what I mean. You think you are all safe here; but there are some people who could put you to no end of trouble if they chose. I'm going in through those gates, and you must open them.' That's what I told him, and when I came to-day the gates were opened for me. But do you really mean to say that this villain prevents your going out?"

"Yes," said Edith, mournfully.

"Surely you have not tried. You should assert your rights. But I suppose your timidity would naturally prevent you."

"It is not timidity that prevents me. I have been desperate enough to do any thing. I have tried. Indeed, I don't know what more I could possibly do than what I have done." She paused. She was not going to tell every thing to a stranger.

"Miss Dalton," said Dudleigh, fervently, "I can not express my joy at the happy accident that has brought me here. For it was only by chance that I came to Dalton, though after I came I naturally thought of you, as I said, and came here."

"I fear," said Edith, "that it may seem strange to you for me to take you into my confidence, after we have only interchanged a few words. But I must do so. I have no alternative. I am desperate. I am the Dalton of Dalton Hall, and I find myself in the power of a base adventurer. He imprisons me. He sets spies to watch over me. He directs that ruffian at the gates to turn away my friends, and tell them some story about my grief and seclusion. I have not seen any visitors since I came."

"Is it possible!"

"Well, there was one family—the Mowbrays, of whom I need say nothing."

"The Mowbrays?" said Dudleigh, with a strange glance.

"Do you know any thing about them?" asked Edith.

"Pardon me, Miss Dalton; I prefer to say nothing about them."

"By all means, I prefer to say nothing about them myself."

"But, Miss Dalton, I feel confounded and bewildered. I can not understand you even yet. Do you really mean to say that you, the mistress of these estates, the heiress, the lady of Dalton Hall—that you are restricted in this way and by him?"

"It is all most painfully true," said Edith. "It almost breaks my heart to think of such a humiliation, but it is true. I have been here for months, literally a prisoner. I have absolutely no communication with my friends, or with the outside world. This man Wiggins declares that he is my guardian, and can do as he chooses. He says that a guardian has as much authority over his ward as a father over his child."

"Oh! I think I understand. He may be partly right, after all. You are young yet, you know. You are not of age."

"I am of age," said Edith, mournfully, "and that is what makes it so intolerable. If I were under age I might bear it for a time. There might then appear to be, at least, the show of right on his side. But as it is, there is nothing but might. He has imprisoned me. He has put me under surveillance. I am watched at this moment."

"Who? where?" exclaimed Dudleigh, looking hastily around.

"Oh, in the woods—a black named Hugo. He tracks me like a blood-hound, and never loses sight of me when I am out. He may not hear what we are saying, but he will tell his master that I have spoken with you."

"Are there spies in the Hall?"

"Oh yes; his housekeeper watches me always."

"Is there no place where we can talk without being seen or heard? Believe me, Miss Dalton, your situation fills me with grief and pity. All this is so unexpected, so strange, so incredible!"

"We may, perhaps, be more free from observation in the Hall—at least I think so. The drawing-room is better than this. Will you allow me to do the honors of Dalton Hall?"

Dudleigh bowed, and the two walked toward the Hall, and entering, proceeded to the drawing-room.

"We are undoubtedly watched, even here," said Edith, with a melancholy smile, "but the watcher can not observe us very well, and has to stand too far off to hear us easily, so that this room is perhaps better than out-of-doors; at any rate, it is more convenient."

"Miss Dalton," said Dudleigh, "I am glad beyond all that words can say that I managed to get through your gates. My vague threats terrified Wiggins, though in reality I have no knowledge about him sufficiently definite to give me any actual power over him. I have only heard general scandal, in which he was mixed up. But he has given me credit for knowing something important. At any rate, now that I am here, let me do something for you at once. Command me, and I will obey." "I want but one thing," said Edith, "and that is to get out."

"Well?"

"Will you lead the way and let me follow? That is all I ask of you."

"Certainly, and if you could only go out over my dead body, that price should be paid, and you should go."

Dudleigh spoke quickly, but with no particular earnestness. Indeed, in all his tones there was a lack of earnestness. The words were excellent, but they lacked depth and warmth. Edith, however, was too much excited by the prospect of help to notice this.

"There is no need of that," said she; "there is no real danger."

"I rather think from the look of that ruffian at the gate that there will be some such price," said Dudleigh, carelessly. "If I had only brought my pistols, all would be easy. Can it be managed? How shall we do it? Do you think that you have nerve enough, Miss Dalton, to witness a fight?"

"Yes," said Edith, calmly.

"If I had my pistols," said Dudleigh, thoughtfully, "I might—But as it is, if they, see you accompanying me, they will assemble in force."