"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.

CHAPTER XVI.

ANOTHER VISIT

About two weeks afterward the Mowbrays called again. Edith was a little surprised at this, for she had not expected another visit; but on the whole she felt glad, and could not help indulging in some vague hope that this call would be for her good.

"I am sorry," said she to Mrs. Mowbray, "that I have not been able to return your call. But I have already explained how I am imprisoned here."

[Ill.u.s.tration: "IT WAS A CHILD."]

"Oh, my dear," said Mrs. Mowbray, "pray don't speak of that. We feel for you, I a.s.sure you. Nothing is more unpleasant than a bereavement. It makes such a change in all one's life, you know. And then black does not become some people; they persist in visiting, too; but then, do you know, they really look to me like perfect frights. Not that you look otherwise than well, dear Miss Dalton. In fact, I should think that in any dress you would look perfectly charming; but that is because you are a brunette. Some complexions are positively out of all keeping with black. Have you ever noticed that? Oh yes, dear Miss Dalton," continued Mrs. Mowbray, after a short pause. "Brunettes are best in black--mark my words, now; and blondes are never effective in that color. They do better in bright colors. It is singular, isn't it? You, now, my dear, may wear black with impunity; and since you are called on in the mysterious dispensation of Providence to mourn, you ought at least to be grateful that you are a brunette. If you were a blonde, I really do not know what would ever become of you. Now, I am a blonde--but in spite of that I have been called on to mourn. It--it was a child."

As Mrs. Mowbray said this she applied the handkerchief and smelling-bottle for a few minutes.

"A child!" said Edith, in wonder.

"Yes, dear--a sweet son, aged twelve, leaving me to mourn over him. And as I was saying, my mourning did not become my complexion at all. That was what troubled me so. Really, a blonde ought never to lose friends--it is so unbecoming. Positively, Providence ought to arrange things differently."

"It would be indeed well if blondes or any other people could be saved from sorrow," said Edith.

"It would be charming, would it not?" said Mrs. Mowbray. "Now, when my child died, I mourned for him most deeply--indeed, as deep as that," she said, stretching out her hands so as to measure a s.p.a.ce of about eighteen inches--"most deeply: a border around the skirt of solid c.r.a.pe half a yard wide; bonnet smothered in c.r.a.pe; and really and positively I myself was literally all c.r.a.pe, I do believe; and with my light complexion, what people could have thought, I'm sure I do not know."

"There is not much to choose between mother and son," thought Edith.

"They are capable of any baseness, they are so heartless. There is no hope here." Yet in spite of such thoughts she did not shun them. Why not? How could an honorable nature like hers a.s.sociate with such people? Between them and herself was a deep gulf, and no sympathy between them was possible. The reason why she did not shun them lay solely in her own loneliness. Any thing in the shape of a human being was welcome rather than otherwise, and even people whom she despised served to mitigate the gloom of her situation. They made the time pa.s.s by, and that of itself was something.

"I went into half-mourning as soon as I could," continued Mrs. Mowbray; "but even half-mourning was very disagreeable. You may depend upon it, no shade of black ought ever to be brought near a blonde. Half-mourning is quite as bad as deep mourning."

"You must have had very much to bear," said Edith, absently.

"I should think I had. I really could not go into society, except, of course, to make calls, for that one _must_ do, and even then I felt like a guy--for how absurd I must have looked with such an inharmonious adjustment of colors! But you, my dear Miss Dalton, seem made by nature to go in mourning."

"Yes," said Edith, with a sigh which she could not suppress; "nature has been lavish to me in that way--of late."

"You really ought always to mourn," said Mrs. Mowbray, in a sprightly tone.

"I'm afraid I shall always have to, whether I wish it or not," said Edith, with another sigh.

"You are such a remarkable brunette--quite an Italian; your complexion is almost olive, and your hair is the blackest I ever saw. It is all dark with you."

"Yes, it is indeed all dark with me," said Edith, sadly.

"The child that I lost," said Mrs. Mowbray, after a pause, "was a very nice child, but he was not at all like my son here. You often find great differences in families. I suppose he resembled one side of the family, and the captain the other."

"You have lived here for a good many years?" said Edith, abruptly changing the conversation.

"Oh yes," said Mrs. Mowbray, "It's a very nice county--don't you think so?"

"I really have not had an opportunity of judging."

"No? Of course not; you are mourning. But when you are done mourning, and go into society, you will find many very nice people. There are the Congreves, the Wiltons, the Symbolts, and Lord Connomore, and the Earl of Frontington, and a thousand delightful people whom one likes to know."

"You do not belong to the county, do you?"

"N--no; my family belongs to Berks," said Mrs. Mowbray. "You don't know any thing about Berks, I suppose? I'm a Fydill."

"A fiddle?" said Edith, somewhat bewildered, for Mrs. Mowbray p.r.o.nounced her family name in that way, and appeared to take great pride in it.

"Yes," said she, "a Fydill--one of the oldest families there. Every one has heard of the Fydills of Berks. I suppose you have never been there, and so have not had the opportunity of hearing about them."

"No," said Edith; "I have pa.s.sed most of my life at school."

"Of course. You are so deliciously young. And oh, Miss Dalton, what a delightful thing it is to be young! One is so admired, and has so many advantages! It is a sad, sad thing that one grows old so soon. I'm so gray, I'm sure I look like eighty. But, after all, I'm not so very old.

There's Lady Poyntz, twice my age, who goes into society most energetically; and old Miss De Frissure, who, by-the-way, is enormously rich, actually rides on horseback, and she is old enough to be my mother; and Mrs. Rannig, the rich widow--you must have heard about her--positively does nothing but dance; and old Mrs. Scott, the brewer's, wife, who has recently come here, whenever she gives b.a.l.l.s for her daughters, always dances more than any one. All these people are very much older than I am; and so I say to myself, 'Helen, my dear, you are quite a girl; why shouldn't you enjoy yourself?' And so I do enjoy myself."

"I suppose, then, that you like dancing?" said Edith, who, in spite of her sadness, found a mournful amus.e.m.e.nt in the idea of this woman dancing.

"I'm par-tic-u-lar-ly fond of dancing," said Mrs. Mowbray, with strong emphasis. "Only the young men are so rude! They fly about after young chits of girls, and don't notice me. And so I don't often have an opportunity, you know. But there is a German gentleman here--a baron, my dear--and he is very polite. He sometimes asks me to dance, and I enjoy it very much, only he is so short and fat and bald that I fear he looks very ridiculous. But the young men, Miss Dalton, are very, very neglectful."