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 att.i.tude 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 att.i.tude 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 pa.s.sed 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 circ.u.mstances, might have tried to call on her, would probably view with indifference if not prejudice, the daughter of a convict. All these circ.u.mstances, 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 roue, yet even roues 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 antic.i.p.ated 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 pa.s.s 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."