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.
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