Edith came to herself in the porter's lodge. Her re-awakened eyes, in looking up confusedly, saw the hateful face of Mowbray bending over her. At once she realized the horror of her position, and all the incidents of her late adventure came vividly before her mind. Starting up as quickly as her feeble limbs would allow, she indignantly motioned him away.

Mowbray, without a word, stepped back and looked down.

Edith staggered to her feet.

“Miss Dalton,” said Mowbray, in a low voice, “your carriage has been sent for. It is here, and will take you to the Hall.”

Edith made no reply, but looked absently toward the door.

“Miss Dalton,” said Mowbray, coming a little nearer, “I implore you to hear me. I would kneel at your feet if you would let me. But you are so imbittered against me now that it would be useless. Miss Dalton, it was not hate that made me raise my hand against you. Miss Dalton, I swear that you are more dear to me than life itself. A few moments ago I was mad, and did not know what I was doing. I did not want you to go away from this place, for I saw that you would be lost to me forever. I saw that you hated me, and that if you went away just then I should lose you. And I was almost out of my senses. I had no time to think of any thing but the bitter loss that was before me, and as you fled I seized you, not in anger, but in excitement and fear, just as I would have seized you if you had been drowning.”

“Captain Mowbray,” said Edith, sternly, “the violence you have offered me is enough to satisfy even you, without such insult as this.”

“Will you not even listen to me?”

“Listen!” exclaimed Edith, in an indescribable tone.

“Then I must be heard. I love you. I—”

“Love!” interrupted Edith, in a tone of unutterable contempt.

“Yes, love,” repeated Mowbray, vehemently, “from the first time that I saw you, when you implored my help.”

“And why did you not give me your help?” asked Edith, looking at him in cold and haughty indignation.

“I will tell you,” said Mowbray. “Before I saw you I knew how you were situated. Wiggins would have kept me away, but dared not. I know that about him which makes me his master. When I saw you, I loved you with all my soul. When you appealed to me, I would have responded at once, but could not. The fact is, Mrs. Mowbray was present. Mrs. Mowbray is not what she appears to be. Before her I had to pretend an indifference that I did not feel. In short, I had to make myself appear a base coward. In fact, I had to be on my guard, so as not to excite her suspicions of my feelings. Afterward, when I might have redeemed my character in your eyes, I did not know how to begin. Then, too, I was afraid to help you to escape, for I saw that you hated me, and my only hope was to keep you here till you might know me better.”

“Captain Mowbray,” said Edith, “if you are a captain, which I doubt, such explanations as these are paltry. After what you have done, the only thing left is silence.”

“Oh, Miss Dalton, will nothing lead you to listen to me? I would lay down my life, to serve you.”

“You still wish to serve me; then?” asked Edith.

“Most fervently,” cried Mowbray.

“Then open that gate,” said Edith.

Mowbray hesitated.

“Open that gate,” said Edith, “and prove your sincerity. Open it, and efface these marks,” she cried, as she indignantly held up her right hand, and showed her wrist, all black from the fierce grasp in which Mowbray had seized it. “Open it, and I promise you I will listen patiently to all that you may have to say.”

“Miss Dalton,” said Mowbray, “if I opened that gate I should never see you again.”

“You will never see me again if you do not.”

“At least I shall be near you.”

“Near me? Yes, and hated and despised. I will call on Wiggins himself to help me. He was right; he said the time would come when I would be willing to trust him.”

“Trust him? What, that man? You don't know what he is.”

“And what are you, Captain Mowbray?”

“I? I am a gentleman.”

“Oh no,” said Edith, quietly, “not that—any thing rather than that.”

At this Mowbray's face flushed crimson, but with a violent effort he repressed his passion.

“Miss Dalton,” said he, “it is a thing that you might understand. The fear of losing you made me desperate. I saw in your flight the loss of all my hopes.”

“And where are those hopes now?”

“Well, at any rate, I have not altogether lost you. Let me hope that I may have an opportunity to explain hereafter, and to retrieve my character. Miss Dalton, a woman will sometimes forgive offenses even against herself, when she knows that they are prompted by love.”

“You seem to me,” said Edith, “to seek the affections of women as you do those of dogs—by beating them soundly.”

The sight of Mowbray's dog, who was in the room, reminded Edith of the master's maxim which he had uttered before this memorable ride.

“Miss Dalton, you do me such wrong that you crush me. Can you not have some mercy?”

“Open the gate,” said Edith. “Do that one thing, and then you may make all the explanations you wish. I will listen to anything and everything. Open the gate, and I will promise to forgive, and even to forget, the unparalleled outrage that I have suffered.”

“But you will leave me forever.”

“Open that gate, Captain Mowbray. Prove yourself to be what you say—do something to atone for your base conduct—and then you will have claims on my gratitude which I shall always acknowledge.”

Mowbray shook his head.

“Can I let you go?” he said. “Do you ask it of me?”

“No,” said Edith, impatiently, “I don't ask it. I neither hope nor ask for any thing from you. Wiggins himself is more promising. At any rate, he has not as yet used absolute violence, and, what is better, he does not intrude his society where it is not wanted.”

“Then I have no hope,” said Mowbray, in what was intended to be a plaintive tone.

“I'm sure I don't know,” said Edith, “but I know this—that the time will surely come, after all, when I shall get my freedom, and then, Captain Mowbray, you will rue the day when you dared to lay hands on me. Yes, I could get my freedom now, I suppose, if I were to parley with Wiggins, to bribe him heavily enough; and I assure you I am tempted now to give up the half of my estate, so as to get free and have you punished.”

Mowbray turned pale.

“There were no witnesses,” said he, hastily.

“You forget that the porter saw it all. But this is useless,” she added; and passing by Mowbray, she went to the door. Outside was a carriage, which the porter had brought down from the Hall, into which she got, and then drove away, while Mowbray stood looking at her till she drove out of sight.

The effects of this adventure were felt for some time. Excitement, fatigue, pain, and grief, all affected Edith, so that she could not leave her room for weeks. Mrs. Dunbar was assiduous in her attentions, and Edith supposed that both she and Wiggins knew all about it, as the porter would undoubtedly have informed them; but her communications with her were limited only to a few words, and she regarded her with nothing but distrust. In Mrs. Dunbar's manner, also, she saw something which indicated a fresh trouble, something which had been manifested by her ever since Mowbray's first appearance, and which Edith now suspected to be the result of Mowbray's violence. This led to vain speculations on her part which he had uttered before this memorable as to the mysterious connection that existed between her jailers. Mowbray professed to be the enemy and the master of Wiggins. Her remembrance of Wiggins's look of hate made her think that this was true. But Mrs. Dunbar she did not believe to be an enemy of Mowbray's; and the porter, who was the incorruptible servant of Wiggins, seemed equally devoted to Mowbray.

She recalled also Mowbray's words to herself in explanation of his own course. He had asserted that he had the power over Wiggins from some knowledge which he possessed, and also that Mrs. Mowbray was not what she appeared to be. He had spoken as though he was afraid of Mrs. Mowbray's finding out what he called his love for Edith. Was she his mother, then, at all? What did it all mean? For Edith, at any rate, it was not possible to understand it, and the character, motives, and mutual relationship of all those with whom she had come in contact remained an impenetrable mystery.

To the surprise of Edith, the Mowbrays called several times to make inquiries about her, and after her recovery they still visited her. At first she refused to see them, but one day Mrs. Mowbray came alone, and Edith determined to see her, and get rid of her effectually.

Mrs. Mowbray rose as she entered, and advancing to greet her, held out her hand with a cordial smile. Edith did not take it, yet Mrs. Mowbray took no offense, but, on the contrary, met her in the most effusive manner.

“Oh, my dear Miss Dalton,” said she, “what an age it has been since we met! It seems like years! And when I wanted to see you so par—tic—u—lar-ly! And are you quite well? Have you quite recovered? Are you sure? How glad I am!”

“Mrs. Mowbray,” said Edith, as soon as she could make herself heard, “I have sent word to you several times that I do not wish to see you again. You know the reason why as well as I do. I can only say that I am surprised at this persistence, and shall in future be under the necessity of shutting my doors against you.”

Thus Edith, in spite of her severe afflictions, could still speak of the place as hers, and under her orders.

“Oh, my dear Miss Dalton,” burst forth Mrs. Mowbray, “that is the very reason why I have so in—sist—ed on seeing you. To explain, you know—for there is nothing like an explanation.”

“You may spare yourself the trouble,” said Edith. “I do not want any more explanations.”

“Oh, but you positively must, you know,” said Mrs. Mowbray, in her most airy manner.

“Pardon me. I wish to hear nothing whatever about it.”

“It's that sad, sad boy,” said Mrs. Mowbray, coolly ignoring Edith's words, “and deeply has he repented. But do you know, dear, it was only his fondness for you. Pos—i—tive—ly nothing else, dear, but his fondness for you. Oh, how he has talked about it! He says he is willing to give up his right eye, or hand—I really forget which—to recall the past. My poor dear boy is very impetuous.”

“Mrs. Mowbray, I do not wish to be unkind or rude, but you really force me to it.”

“He's impetuous,” said Mrs. Mowbray, without noticing Edith, “but he's warm-hearted. He's a most affectionate son, and he is so affectionate toward you. It's all his fondness for you.”

“Mrs. Mowbray, this is intolerable.”

“Oh, Miss Dalton, you don't know—you really don't know. He has loved you ever since he first saw you—and so true! Why, he dotes on you. He was afraid that he would lose you. You know, that was the reason, why he interfered. But he says now most distinctly that he thinks his interference was quite un—war—rant—a—ble—quite, I assure you; my dear Miss Dalton.”

Edith sat looking at this insolent woman with a clouded brow, not knowing whether to order her out of the house or not. But Mrs. Mowbray seemed beautifully unconscious of any offense.

“The only thing that he has been talking about ever since it happened,” she continued, “is his sorrow. Oh, his sorrow! And it is deep, Miss Dalton. I never saw such deep sorrow. He really swears about it in a shocking manner; and that with him is a sign that his feelings are concerned very strongly. He always swears whenever he is deeply moved.”

Edith at this started to her feet with a look in her eyes which showed Mrs. Mowbray that she would not be trifled with any longer.

“Mrs. Mowbray,” said she, “I came down for the sole purpose of telling you that in future I shall dispense with the pleasure of your calls.”

Mrs. Mowbray rose from her chair.

“What!” she exclaimed, with a gesture of consternation; “and live in complete seclusion? Not receive calls? No, no; you really must not think of such a thing. We are your friends, you know, and you must not deny us an occasional sight of you. My poor boy will positively die if he doesn't see you. He's pining now. And it's all for you. All.”

“Mrs. Mowbray,” said Edith, in a severe tone, “I do not know whether you give offense intentionally or not. You seem unable to take a hint, however strongly expressed, and you force me to speak plainly, although I dislike to do so. You must not, and you shall not, come here any more.”

“Oh, my dear Miss Dalton, you really are quite excited,” said Mrs. Mowbray, with a pleasant smile.

“I mean what I say,” said Edith, coldly. “You are not—to come here again.”

Mrs. Mowbray laughed lightly.

“Oh, you really can't keep us away. We positively must come. My son insists. These lovers, you know, dear, are so pertinacious. Well,” she added, looking hastily at Edith, “I suppose I must say good—morning; but, Miss Dalton, think of my boy. Good—morning, my dear Miss Dalton.”

And so Mrs. Mowbray retired.

She called again four times, twice alone, and twice in company with the captain, but Edith refused to see her. Yet, after all, in spite of her scorn for these people, and her conviction that they were in league with Wiggins—in spite of the captain's brutality—it was not without sorrow that Edith dismissed Mrs. Mowbray; for she looked upon her as a kind of tie that bound her to the outer world, and until the last she had hoped that some means might arise through these, if not of escape, at least of communication with friends.

But she was cut off from these now more than ever; and what remained?

What? A prison-house!