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.”