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 roué, yet even roués 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.”
* * * * *