A PARLEY WITH THE JAILERS.
Coming as it did close upon her baffled efforts to escape, this
discovery of Hugo proclaimed to Edith at once most unmistakably the fact
that she was a prisoner. She was walled in. She was under guard and
under surveillance. She could not escape without the consent of Wiggins,
nor could she move about without being tracked by the spy of Wiggins. It
was evident also that both the porter and the black servant Hugo were
devoted to their master, and were beyond the reach both of persuasion
and of bribery.
The discovery for a moment almost overwhelmed her once more; but the
presence of another forced her to put a restraint upon her feelings. She
tried to look unconcerned, and turning away her eyes, she sat in the
same position for some time longer. But beneath the calm which her
pride forced her to assume her heart throbbed painfully, and her
thoughts dwelt with something almost like despair upon her present
situation.
But Edith had a strong and resolute soul in spite of her slender and
fragile frame; she had also an elastic disposition, which rose up
swiftly from any prostration, and refused to be cast down utterly. So
now this strength of her nature asserted itself; and triumphing over her
momentary weakness, she resolved to go at once and see Wiggins himself.
With these subordinates she had nothing to do. Her business was with
Wiggins, and with Wiggins alone.
Yet the thought of an interview had something in it which was strangely
repugnant to Edith. The aspect of her two jailers seemed to her to be
repellent in the extreme. That white old man, with the solemn mystery
of his eyes, that weird old woman, with her keen, vigilant
outlook--these were the ones who now held her in restraint, and with
these she had to come in conflict. In both of them there seemed
something uncanny, and Edith could not help feeling that in the lives of
both of these there was some mystery that passed her comprehension.
Still, uncanny or not, whatever might be the mystery of her jailers,
they remained her jailers and nothing less. It was against this thought
that the proud soul of Edith chafed and fretted. It was a thought which
was intolerable. It roused her to the intensest indignation. She was the
lady of Dalton Hall; these who thus dared to restrain her were her
subordinates. This Wiggins was not only her inferior, but he had been
the enemy of her life. Could she submit to fresh indignities or wrongs
at the hands of one who had already done so much evil to her and hers?
She could not.
That white old man with his mystery, his awful eyes, his venerable face,
his unfathomable expression, and the weird old woman, his associate,
with her indescribable look and her air of watchfulness, were both
partners in this crime of unlawful imprisonment. They dared to put
restrictions upon the movements of their mistress, the lady of Dalton
Hall. Such an attempt could only be the sign of a desperate mind, and
the villainy of their plan was of itself enough to sink them deep in
Edith's thoughts down to an abyss of contempt and indignation. This
indignation roused her, and her eagerness to see Miss Plympton impelled
her to action. Animated by such feelings and motives, she delayed no
longer, but at once returned to the Hall to see Wiggins himself.
On her way back she was conscious of the fact that Hugo was following;
but she took no notice of it, as it was but the sequel to the preceding
events of the day. She entered the Hall, and finding Mrs. Dunbar, told
her to tell Wiggins that she wished to see him. After this she went down
to the dreary drawing-room, where she awaited the coming of her jailer.
The room was unchanged from what it had been on the preceding day. By
this time also Edith had noticed that there were no servants about
except Hugo. The drear desolation of the vast Hall seemed drearier from
the few inmates who dwelt there, and the solitude of the place made
it still more intolerable.
After some time Wiggins made his appearance. He came in slowly, with
his eyes fixed upon Edith, and the same expression upon his face which
she had noticed before. A most singular man he was, whoever or whatever
he might be. That hoary head and that venerable face might have awed her
under other circumstances, and the unfathomable mystery of its
expression might have awakened intense interest and sympathy; but as it
was, Edith had no place for any other feelings than suspicion,
indignation, and scorn.
“What do you mean by this treatment?” said Edith, abruptly. “It seems as
though you are trying to imprison me. I have told you that I wish to
call on Miss Plympton. I can not get a carriage, and I am not allowed
to leave this place on foot. You are responsible for this, and I tell
you now that I must go, and at once.”
At this peremptory address Wiggins stood looking at her with his usual
expression, and for some moments made no reply.
“I did not know,” said he at length, in a slow and hesitating voice,
“that you wished to leave so soon.”
“But I told you so. You drove away Miss Plympton yesterday from my
gates. I promised to call on her this morning. She is anxiously
expecting me. I must go to her.” Wiggins again waited for a few moments
before replying, and at length said, in an abstracted tone:
“No, no; it can not be--it can not be!”
“Can not be!” repeated Edith. “It seems to me that you are trying to
carry out a most extraordinary course of action toward me. This looks
like restraint or imprisonment.”
Wiggins looked at her with an expression of earnest entreaty on his
face, with which there was also mingled an air of indescribable sadness.
“It is necessary,” said he, in a mournful voice. “Can you not bring
yourself to bear with it? You do not know what is at stake. Some day
all will be explained.”
“This is silly,” exclaimed Edith. “No explanation is possible. I insist
on leaving this place at once. If you refuse to let me go, it will be
worse for you than for me.”
“You do not know what you ask,” said Wiggins.
“I ask you,” said Edith, sternly and proudly, “to open those gates to
your mistress.”
Wiggins shook his head.
“I ask you to open those gates,” continued Edith. “If you let me go now,
I promise not to prosecute you--at least for this. I will forget to-day
and yesterday.”
Saying this, she looked at him inquiringly. But Wiggins shook his head
as before. “It can not be,” said he.
“You decide, then, to refuse my demand?” said Edith, impatiently.
“I must,” said Wiggins, with a heavy sigh. “It is necessary. All is at
stake. You do not know what you are doing.”
“It is evident to me,” said Edith, mastering herself by a strong effort,
“that you are playing a desperate game, but at the same time you are
trusting much to chance. Why did you wish me to come here? It was by the
merest chance that I decided to come. It was also by another chance
that I entered those gates which you now shut against my departure. Few
would have done it.”
“Your presence seemed necessary to my plans,” said Wiggins, slowly.
“What those plans are I can not yet confide to you. You are concerned in
them as much as I am. Opposition will be of no avail, and will only
injure you. But I hope you will not try to oppose me. I entreat you to
bear with me. I entreat you to try to put a little confidence in me. I
was your father's friend; and I now implore you, that daughter whom he
loved so dearly, for your father's sake--yes, and for the sake of your
sainted mother--not to--”
“This is mere hypocrisy,” interrupted Edith. “My father was one with
whom one like you can have nothing in common. You add to your crimes by
this treatment of his daughter. What you have already been guilty of
toward him you alone know. If you hope for mercy hereafter, do not add
to your guilt.”
“Guilt!” cried Wiggins, in an awful voice. He started back, and
regarded her with eyes of utter horror. “Guilt!” he repeated, in a voice
so low that it was scarcely above a whisper--“and she says that word!”
Edith looked at him with unchanged severity.
“You made a great mistake,” said she, coldly and sternly, “when you
drove Miss Plympton away. If you hope to keep me imprisoned here, you
will only destroy yourself. I have a friend who knows you, and who will
know before evening that I am here under restraint. She will never rest
until she effects my deliverance. Have you counted on that?”
Wiggins listened attentively, as usual, to every word. The effort seemed
to give him pain, and the suggestion of her friend was undoubtedly most
unpleasant.
“No, I have not,” said he. He spoke as though to himself. The candor of
this confession stimulated Edith to dwell to a greater extent upon this
subject.
“She was not willing for me to come in,” said she. “She wished me not to
enter without a lawyer or the sheriff. If she finds that I am detained,
she will enter here in that way herself. She will deliver me in spite of
you. If she does not see me to-day, she will at once use every effort to
come to me. Your porters and your spies will be of no use against the
officers of the law.”
At this Wiggins looked at the floor, and was evidently in a state of
perplexity. He stood in silence for some time, and Edith waited
impatiently for his answer, so as to learn what effect these last hints
had produced. At length Wiggins looked up. He spoke slowly and
mournfully.
“I am very sorry,” said he. “I hope it will not come to that. I'm afraid
that I shall have to take you elsewhere.”
These words fell upon Edith's ears ominously and threateningly. They
conveyed to her mind a menace dark and gloomy, and showed the full
determination of Wiggins to maintain at all hazards the control that he
had gained over her. Edith therefore was silent, and apprehensive of
evil. She was afraid that she had said too much. It might have been
better not to threaten, or to show her hand prematurely. It might be the
best plan to wait in silence and in patience for Miss Plympton. Wiggins
was desperate. He might take her away, as he darkly hinted, from this
place to some other where Miss Plympton could never find her.
She stood for some time in silence, with her mind full of such thoughts
as these. Wiggins waited for a few moments, and then turned and slowly
left the room. Edith said nothing, and made no effort to recall him, for
she now felt that her situation was growing serious, and that it would
be better for her to think it all over seriously, and not speak to
Wiggins again until she had decided upon some definite plan of action.
She therefore allowed him to take his departure, and soon afterward she
went to her own room, where she remained for hours in deep thought.
At length Mrs. Dunbar brought in dinner. After laying the table she
stood for a few moments in silence looking at Edith; but at length,
yielding to some sudden impulse she came forward, and as Edith looked up
in surprise, she exclaimed, with startling abruptness,
“Oh, how unfortunate! and oh, what a wretched mistake you are under! If
you had not come home so suddenly, all might have been well. We hoped
that you would be content and patient. Mr. Wiggins has plans of immense
importance; they require great quiet and seclusion. Oh, if you could
only have some faith in us!”
She stopped as abruptly as she had begun. This style of address from a
housekeeper seemed to Edith to be altogether too familiar, and she
resented it deeply. Besides, the identification of herself with Wiggins
put Mrs. Dunbar in an odious position in Edith's eyes.
“Mr. Wiggins's plans are of no consequence to me whatever,” said she,
coldly.
“They are; they are of immense importance,” cried Mrs. Dunbar.
Edith looked at her for a few moments with a cold stare of wonder, for
this volunteered advice seemed something like insolence, coming thus
from a subordinate. But she contented herself with answering in a quiet
tone:
“You are mistaken. Nothing is of importance to me but my liberty. It
will be very dangerous to deprive me of that. My friends will never
allow it. In Wiggins this attempt to put me under restraint is nothing
less than desperation. Think yourself how frantic he must be to hope to
be able to confine me here, when I have friends outside who will move
heaven and earth to come to me.”
At this a look of uneasiness came over Mrs. Dunbar's face. It seemed to
Edith that this hint at friends without was the only thing that in any
way affected either of her jailers.
“The punishment for such a crime as unlawful imprisonment,” continued
Edith, “is a severe one. If Wiggins has ever committed any crimes
before, this will only aggravate his guilt, and make his punishment the
worse.”
At this Mrs. Dunbar stared at Edith with the same horror in her eyes
which Wiggins had lately shown.
“Crime?” she repeated. “Guilt? Punishment? Oh, Heavens! Has it come to
this? This is terrible. Girl,” she continued, with a frown, “you don't
know the dreadful nature of those words. You are a marplot. You have
come home to ruin every thing. But I thought so,” she murmured to
herself. “I told him so. I said it would be ruin, but he would have his
way. And now--” The remainder of her remarks was inaudible. Suddenly
her manner changed. Her anger gave way once more to entreaty.
“Oh!” she said, “can nothing persuade you that we are your friends?
Trust us--oh, trust us! You will soon learn how we love you. He only
thinks of you. You are the final aim of all his plans.”
Edith gave a light laugh. That she was the final aim of Wiggins's plans
she did not doubt. She saw now that plan clearly, as she thought. It was
to gain control of her for purposes of his own in connection with the
estate. Under such circumstances Mrs. Dunbar's entreaties seemed silly,
and to make any answer was absurd. She turned away and sat down at the
table. As for Mrs. Dunbar, she left the room.
Night came. Edith did not sleep; she could not. The day had been the
most eventful one of her life. The thought that she was a prisoner was
terrible. She could only sustain herself by the hope that Miss Plympton
would save her. But this hope was confronted by a dark fear which
greatly distressed her. It might take time for Miss Plympton to do any
thing toward releasing her. She knew that the law worked slowly: she did
not feel at all certain that it worked surely. Her father's fate rose
before her as a warning of the law's uncertainty and injustice. Could
she hope to be more fortunate than he had been? Wiggins had passed his
life in the study of the law, and knew how to work it for his own
private ends. He had once succeeded in his dark plot against her father.
Might not his present “plan,” about which he and his associate talked,
be equally successful? Mrs. Dunbar had called her a “marplot.” To mar
the plot of this man, and avenge upon him the wrongs of her father,
would be sweet indeed; but could it be possible for her to do it? That
was the question.
[Illustration: “CRIME! GUILT!”]
The next morning came, and Edith rose full of a new purpose. She thought
of her efforts on the preceding day, and concluded that she had made one
great mistake. She saw now that Miss Plympton had most probably called,
and had not been admitted. If she had only remained by the gate, she
could have seen her friend, and told her all. That she had not thought
of this before was now a matter of the deepest regret, and she could
only hope that it might not yet be too late. She determined to go to
the gates at once and watch.
She therefore hurried down to the gates as soon as she could. No efforts
were made to prevent her. She had feared that she might be locked up in
the Hall; but, to her surprise and relief, she was not. Such forbearance
made her situation still more perplexing. It was evident that Wiggins
hesitated about proceeding to extremities with her, and did not venture
as yet to exercise more than a general restraint.
Arriving at the gate, Edith sat down close by it on a seat in front of
the porter's lodge, and waited and watched. The gates were of iron bars,
so that it was easy to see through them, and the road ran in front. The
road was not much frequented, however. An occasional farmer's wagon or
solitary pedestrian formed the only life that was visible outside. The
porter watched her for some time in surprise, but said nothing. Hugo
came up after about half an hour and talked with the porter, after which
he loitered about within sight of Edith. Of all this, however, Edith
took no notice whatever; it was what she expected.
The hours of the day passed by, but there were no signs of Miss
Plympton. As hour after hour passed, Edith's hopes grew fainter and
fainter. She longed to ask the porter whether she had called or not, but
could not bring herself to do so--first, because she did not like to
destroy all hope; and secondly, because she did not wish to hold any
further communication with him.
She sat there all day long. Miss Plympton did not come. The hours passed
by. Evening came. She bad eaten nothing all day. She was faint and
weary, and almost in despair. But to wait longer was useless now; so she
rose from her seat, and with feeble footsteps returned to the house.
Early the next morning she returned to the gates to take up her station
as before and watch. She did not hope to see Miss Plympton now; for she
concluded that she had called already, had been turned back, and was now
perhaps engaged in arranging for her rescue. But Edith could not wait
for that. She determined to do something herself. She resolved to accost
all passers-by and tell them her situation. In this way she thought she
might excite the world outside, and lead to some interposition in her
behalf.
Full of this purpose, she went down to the gates. As she drew near, the
first sight of them sent a feeling of dismay to her heart. A change had
taken place. Something had been done during the night.
She drew nearer.
In a few moments she saw it all.
The gates had been boarded up during the night so that it was impossible
to see the road.
One look was enough. This last hope was destroyed. There was nothing to
be done here; and so, sick at heart, Edith turned back toward the Hall.
* * * * *