The Living Link Part 9

Wiggins shook his head.

"I ask you to open those gates," continued Edith. "If you let me go now, I promise not to prosecute you--at least for this. I will forget to-day and yesterday."

Saying this, she looked at him inquiringly. But Wiggins shook his head as before. "It can not be," said he.

"You decide, then, to refuse my demand?" said Edith, impatiently.

"I must," said Wiggins, with a heavy sigh. "It is necessary. All is at stake. You do not know what you are doing."

"It is evident to me," said Edith, mastering herself by a strong effort, "that you are playing a desperate game, but at the same time you are trusting much to chance. Why did you wish me to come here? It was by the merest chance that I decided to come. It was also by another chance that I entered those gates which you now shut against my departure. Few would have done it."

"Your presence seemed necessary to my plans," said Wiggins, slowly.

"What those plans are I can not yet confide to you. You are concerned in them as much as I am. Opposition will be of no avail, and will only injure you. But I hope you will not try to oppose me. I entreat you to bear with me. I entreat you to try to put a little confidence in me. I was your father's friend; and I now implore you, that daughter whom he loved so dearly, for your father's sake--yes, and for the sake of your sainted mother--not to--"

"This is mere hypocrisy," interrupted Edith. "My father was one with whom one like you can have nothing in common. You add to your crimes by this treatment of his daughter. What you have already been guilty of toward him you alone know. If you hope for mercy hereafter, do not add to your guilt."

"Guilt!" cried Wiggins, in an awful voice. He started back, and regarded her with eyes of utter horror. "Guilt!" he repeated, in a voice so low that it was scarcely above a whisper--"and she says that word!"

Edith looked at him with unchanged severity.

"You made a great mistake," said she, coldly and sternly, "when you drove Miss Plympton away. If you hope to keep me imprisoned here, you will only destroy yourself. I have a friend who knows you, and who will know before evening that I am here under restraint. She will never rest until she effects my deliverance. Have you counted on that?"

Wiggins listened attentively, as usual, to every word. The effort seemed to give him pain, and the suggestion of her friend was undoubtedly most unpleasant.

"No, I have not," said he. He spoke as though to himself. The candor of this confession stimulated Edith to dwell to a greater extent upon this subject.

"She was not willing for me to come in," said she. "She wished me not to enter without a lawyer or the sheriff. If she finds that I am detained, she will enter here in that way herself. She will deliver me in spite of you. If she does not see me to-day, she will at once use every effort to come to me. Your porters and your spies will be of no use against the officers of the law."

At this Wiggins looked at the floor, and was evidently in a state of perplexity. He stood in silence for some time, and Edith waited impatiently for his answer, so as to learn what effect these last hints had produced. At length Wiggins looked up. He spoke slowly and mournfully.

"I am very sorry," said he. "I hope it will not come to that. I'm afraid that I shall have to take you elsewhere."

These words fell upon Edith's ears ominously and threateningly. They conveyed to her mind a menace dark and gloomy, and showed the full determination of Wiggins to maintain at all hazards the control that he had gained over her. Edith therefore was silent, and apprehensive of evil. She was afraid that she had said too much. It might have been better not to threaten, or to show her hand prematurely. It might be the best plan to wait in silence and in patience for Miss Plympton. Wiggins was desperate. He might take her away, as he darkly hinted, from this place to some other where Miss Plympton could never find her.

She stood for some time in silence, with her mind full of such thoughts as these. Wiggins waited for a few moments, and then turned and slowly left the room. Edith said nothing, and made no effort to recall him, for she now felt that her situation was growing serious, and that it would be better for her to think it all over seriously, and not speak to Wiggins again until she had decided upon some definite plan of action.

She therefore allowed him to take his departure, and soon afterward she went to her own room, where she remained for hours in deep thought.

At length Mrs. Dunbar brought in dinner. After laying the table she stood for a few moments in silence looking at Edith; but at length, yielding to some sudden impulse she came forward, and as Edith looked up in surprise, she exclaimed, with startling abruptness,

"Oh, how unfortunate! and oh, what a wretched mistake you are under! If you had not come home so suddenly, all might have been well. We hoped that you would be content and patient. Mr. Wiggins has plans of immense importance; they require great quiet and seclusion. Oh, if you could only have some faith in us!"

She stopped as abruptly as she had begun. This style of address from a housekeeper seemed to Edith to be altogether too familiar, and she resented it deeply. Besides, the identification of herself with Wiggins put Mrs. Dunbar in an odious position in Edith's eyes.

"Mr. Wiggins's plans are of no consequence to me whatever," said she, coldly.

"They are; they are of immense importance," cried Mrs. Dunbar.

Edith looked at her for a few moments with a cold stare of wonder, for this volunteered advice seemed something like insolence, coming thus from a subordinate. But she contented herself with answering in a quiet tone:

"You are mistaken. Nothing is of importance to me but my liberty. It will be very dangerous to deprive me of that. My friends will never allow it. In Wiggins this attempt to put me under restraint is nothing less than desperation. Think yourself how frantic he must be to hope to be able to confine me here, when I have friends outside who will move heaven and earth to come to me."

At this a look of uneasiness came over Mrs. Dunbar's face. It seemed to Edith that this hint at friends without was the only thing that in any way affected either of her jailers.

"The punishment for such a crime as unlawful imprisonment," continued Edith, "is a severe one. If Wiggins has ever committed any crimes before, this will only aggravate his guilt, and make his punishment the worse."

At this Mrs. Dunbar stared at Edith with the same horror in her eyes which Wiggins had lately shown.

"Crime?" she repeated. "Guilt? Punishment? Oh, Heavens! Has it come to this? This is terrible. Girl," she continued, with a frown, "you don't know the dreadful nature of those words. You are a marplot. You have come home to ruin every thing. But I thought so," she murmured to herself. "I told him so. I said it would be ruin, but he would have his way. And now--" The remainder of her remarks was inaudible. Suddenly her manner changed. Her anger gave way once more to entreaty.

"Oh!" she said, "can nothing persuade you that we are your friends?

Trust us--oh, trust us! You will soon learn how we love you. He only thinks of you. You are the final aim of all his plans."

Edith gave a light laugh. That she was the final aim of Wiggins's plans she did not doubt. She saw now that plan clearly, as she thought. It was to gain control of her for purposes of his own in connection with the estate. Under such circ.u.mstances Mrs. Dunbar's entreaties seemed silly, and to make any answer was absurd. She turned away and sat down at the table. As for Mrs. Dunbar, she left the room.

Night came. Edith did not sleep; she could not. The day had been the most eventful one of her life. The thought that she was a prisoner was terrible. She could only sustain herself by the hope that Miss Plympton would save her. But this hope was confronted by a dark fear which greatly distressed her. It might take time for Miss Plympton to do any thing toward releasing her. She knew that the law worked slowly: she did not feel at all certain that it worked surely. Her father's fate rose before her as a warning of the law's uncertainty and injustice. Could she hope to be more fortunate than he had been? Wiggins had pa.s.sed his life in the study of the law, and knew how to work it for his own private ends. He had once succeeded in his dark plot against her father.

Might not his present "plan," about which he and his a.s.sociate talked, be equally successful? Mrs. Dunbar had called her a "marplot." To mar the plot of this man, and avenge upon him the wrongs of her father, would be sweet indeed; but could it be possible for her to do it? That was the question.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "CRIME! GUILT!"]

The next morning came, and Edith rose full of a new purpose. She thought of her efforts on the preceding day, and concluded that she had made one great mistake. She saw now that Miss Plympton had most probably called, and had not been admitted. If she had only remained by the gate, she could have seen her friend, and told her all. That she had not thought of this before was now a matter of the deepest regret, and she could only hope that it might not yet be too late. She determined to go to the gates at once and watch.

She therefore hurried down to the gates as soon as she could. No efforts were made to prevent her. She had feared that she might be locked up in the Hall; but, to her surprise and relief, she was not. Such forbearance made her situation still more perplexing. It was evident that Wiggins hesitated about proceeding to extremities with her, and did not venture as yet to exercise more than a general restraint.

Arriving at the gate, Edith sat down close by it on a seat in front of the porter's lodge, and waited and watched. The gates were of iron bars, so that it was easy to see through them, and the road ran in front. The road was not much frequented, however. An occasional farmer's wagon or solitary pedestrian formed the only life that was visible outside. The porter watched her for some time in surprise, but said nothing. Hugo came up after about half an hour and talked with the porter, after which he loitered about within sight of Edith. Of all this, however, Edith took no notice whatever; it was what she expected.

The hours of the day pa.s.sed by, but there were no signs of Miss Plympton. As hour after hour pa.s.sed, Edith's hopes grew fainter and fainter. She longed to ask the porter whether she had called or not, but could not bring herself to do so--first, because she did not like to destroy all hope; and secondly, because she did not wish to hold any further communication with him.

She sat there all day long. Miss Plympton did not come. The hours pa.s.sed by. Evening came. She bad eaten nothing all day. She was faint and weary, and almost in despair. But to wait longer was useless now; so she rose from her seat, and with feeble footsteps returned to the house.

Early the next morning she returned to the gates to take up her station as before and watch. She did not hope to see Miss Plympton now; for she concluded that she had called already, had been turned back, and was now perhaps engaged in arranging for her rescue. But Edith could not wait for that. She determined to do something herself. She resolved to accost all pa.s.sers-by and tell them her situation. In this way she thought she might excite the world outside, and lead to some interposition in her behalf.

Full of this purpose, she went down to the gates. As she drew near, the first sight of them sent a feeling of dismay to her heart. A change had taken place. Something had been done during the night.

She drew nearer.

In a few moments she saw it all.

The gates had been boarded up during the night so that it was impossible to see the road.

One look was enough. This last hope was destroyed. There was nothing to be done here; and so, sick at heart, Edith turned back toward the Hall.

CHAPTER VIII.