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.”
[Illustration: IN HER FRENZY EDITH STRUCK THAT HAND AGAIN AND AGAIN.]
“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.
* * * * *