C. K. Ober - "Out of the Fog"

Samuel Butler - "Life and Habit"

Upton Sinclair - "The Naturewoman"

Steve Solomon - "Organic Gardener's Composting"

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"I have considered every thing," said Wiggins. Then, after a pause, he
added, "So you love Miss Plympton very dearly?"

"Very, very dearly!"

"And her words would have great weight with you?"

"Very great weight.'

"If, now, she should tell you that you might put confidence in me, you
would feel more inclined to do so?"

Edith hesitated at this; but the thought occurred to her of Miss
Plympton's detestation of Wiggins, and the utter impossibility of a
change of opinion on her part.

"If Miss Plympton should put confidence in you," said she, "I should
indeed feel my own opinions changed."

Upon this Wiggins sat meditating profoundly for a short time.

"Suppose, now," said he at length, "that you should receive a note from
Miss Plympton in which she should give you a more favorable opinion of
me, would you accept it from her?"

"I certainly should be happy to get any thing of that kind from her,"
said Edith.

"Well," said Wiggins, "I had not intended to take any one into my
confidence, certainly not any stranger, and that stranger woman; but I
am so unable to tell you all, and at the same time I long so to have
your confidence, that I may possibly decide to see Miss Plympton myself.
If I do, rest assured her opinion of me will change. This will endanger
the success of my plan; but I must run the risk--yes, whatever it is;
for if this goes on, I must even give up the plan itself, and with it
all my hopes for myself--and for you."

These last words Wiggins spoke in a low voice, half to himself, and with
his eyes turned to the ground. Edith heard the words, but thought
nothing of the meaning of them. To her, every thing was done for effect,
nothing was sincere. If she did not understand the meaning of some of
his words, she did not trouble herself to try to, but dismissed them
from her thoughts as merely affectations. As to his allusion to Miss
Plympton, and his idea of visiting her, Edith did not for a moment
imagine that he meant it. She thought that this was of a piece with the
rest.

With these last words Wiggins arose from his chair, and with a slight
bow to Edith, took his departure. The interview had been a singular one,
and the manner of entreaty which Wiggins had adopted toward her served
to perplex her still more. It was part of the system which he had
originated, by which she was never treated in any other way than with
the utmost apparent respect and consideration, but in reality guarded as
a prisoner with the most sleepless vigilance.

* * * * *




CHAPTER XIII.


A WONDERFUL ACTOR.

A few more days passed, and Edith remained in the same state as before.
Occasionally she would walk up and down the terrace in front of the
house, but her dislike to being tracked and watched and followed
prevented her from going any distance. She saw that she could not hope
to escape by her unassisted efforts, and that her only hope lay in
assistance from the outside world. Miss Plympton, she felt sure, could
never forget her, and would do all that possibly could be done to effect
her release as soon as possible. But day after day passed, and still no
deliverer appeared.

She saw nothing of Wiggins during those days, but Mrs. Dunbar attended
on her as usual. To her, however, Edith now paid no attention whatever.
In her opinion she was the associate of her jailer, and a willing
partner in the wrong that was being done to her. Under these
circumstances she could not show to her any of that gentle courtesy and
kindly consideration which her nature impelled her to exhibit to all
with whom she was brought in contact. On the contrary, she never even
looked at her; but often, when she was conscious that Mrs. Dunbar was
gazing upon her with that strange, wistful look that characterized her,
she refused to respond in any way. And so the time passed on, Edith in
a state of drear solitude, and waiting, and waiting.

At length she received another visit from Wiggins. He came to her room
as before, and knocked in his usual style. He looked at her with his
usual solemn earnestness, and advanced toward her at once.

"You will remember," said he, "that when I was last here, a few days ago,
I said that I might possibly decide to see Miss Plympton myself. It was
solely for your sake; and to do so I have made a great sacrifice of
feeling and of judgment."

"Miss Plympton?" interrupted Edith, eagerly. "Have you seen Miss
Plympton?"

"I have."

"Where? At Dalton? Is she at Dalton still?"

"She is not."

Edith's countenance, which had flushed with hope, now fell at this. It
looked as though Miss Plympton had gone away too hastily.

"Where did you see her?" she asked, in a low voice, trying to conceal
her agitation.

"At Plympton Terrace," said Wiggins.

"Plympton Terrace," repeated Edith, in a dull monotone, while her breast
heaved with irrepressible emotion. Her heart within her. This indeed
looked like a desertion of her on the part of her only friend. But
after a moment's despondency she rallied once more, as the thought came
to her that this was all a fiction, and that Wiggins had not seen her at
all.

"Yes," said Wiggins, "I have seen her, and had a long interview, in
which I explained many things, to her. It was all for your sake, for
had you not been concerned, I should never have thought of telling her
what I did. But I was anxious to get you to confide in me, and you said
that if Miss Plympton should put confidence in me, you yourself would
feel inclined to do so. It is because I want your confidence, your
trust--because I can't tell you all yet, and because without your trust
I am weak--that I have done this. Your misery breaks up all my plans,
and I wish to put an end to it. Now I have seen Miss Plympton at
Plympton Terrace, and she has written you a letter, which I have
brought."

With these words he drew from, his pocket a letter, and handed it to
Edith. With a flushed face and a rapidly throbbing heart Edith took the
letter. It seemed like that for which she had been so long waiting, but
at the same time there was a certain ill-defined apprehension on her
mind of disappointment. Had that letter come through any other channel,
it would have excited nothing but unmingled joy; but the channel was
suspicions, and Edith did not yet believe that he had really been to
Plympton Terrace. She suspected some new piece of acting, some new kind
of deceit or attempt to deceive, and the fact that she was still a
prisoner was enough to fortify all her obstinate disbelief in the
protestations of this man.

But on the letter she saw her own name in the well-known and
unmistakable handwriting of Miss Plympton. She was quite familiar with
that writing, so much so that she could not be deceived. This letter,
then, was from her own hand, and as she read it she began to think that
after all Wiggins was true in his statement that he had seen her. Then,
seeing this, with deep agitation, and with a thousand conflicting
emotions, she tore it open. She read the following:

"Plympton Terrace.

"My darling Edith,--I can not tell you, my own sweet love, how I have
suffered from anxiety since I parted from you at the gates of Dalton
Hall. I went back, and received your dear note that night, which
consoled me. On the following day I looked for you, but you did not
come. Full of impatience, I went to the gate, but was not admitted,
though I tried every inducement to make the porter open to me. Turning
away, I determined to go at once in search of some such means by which I
could gain access to you, or free you from your position. After much
thought I went to visit Sir Lionel Dudleigh, who heard my story, and
promised to act at once on your behalf. He advised me to return to
Plympton Terrace, and wait here till he should take the necessary steps,
which I accordingly did. I have been here ever since, and I can truly
say, my darling, that you have not once been out of my thoughts, nor
have I till this day been free from anxiety about you. My worst fear
has been about your own endurance of this restraint; for, knowing your
impatient disposition, I have feared that you might fret yourself into
illness if you were not soon released from your unpleasant situation.

"But, my dearest, this day has brought me a most wonderful and
unexpected deliverance from all my fear. This morning a caller came who
refused to send up his name. On going to the parlor I found a venerable
man, who introduced himself as Mr. Wiggins. I confess when I saw him I
was surprised, as I had imagined a very different kind of man. But you
know what a bitter prejudice I have always had against this man, and so
you may imagine how I received him. In a few words he explained his
errand, and stated that it was exclusively with reference to you.

"And now, my own darling Edith, I come to that about which I scarce know
how to speak. Let me hasten to say that both you and I have totally
misunderstood Mr. Wiggins. Oh, Edith, how can I speak of him, or what
can I say? He has told me such a wonderful and such a piteous story!
It can not be told to you, for reasons which I respect, though I do not
approve altogether of them. I think it would be better to tell you all,
for then your situation would be far different, and he would not stand
in so fearfully false a position. But his reasons are all-powerful with
himself, and so I shall say nothing. But oh, my dearest, let me implore
you, let me entreat you, to give to this man your reverence and your
trust! Be patient, and wait. Perhaps he may overcome his high and
delicate scruples, and let you know what his purposes are. For my part,
my only grief now is that I have done something toward giving you that
fear and hate and distrust of him which now animate you. I entreat you
to dismiss all these feelings, and bear with your present lot till
brighter days come. The purpose of Mr. Wiggins is a high and holy one,
and this he will work out successfully, I hope and believe. Do not,
dearest, by your impatience give any additional pang to that noble
heart. Beware of what you say or do now, for fear lest hereafter it may
cause the deepest remorse. Spare him, for he has suffered much. The
name of your family, the memory of your injured father, are all at stake
now; and I pray you, dearest, to restrain yourself, and try to bear with
the present state of things. If you can only believe me or be influenced
by me, you will give him all your trust, and even your affection. But
if you can not do this at once, at least spare him any further pain.
Alas, how that noble heart has suffered! When I think of his mournful
story, I almost lose all faith in humanity, and would lose it altogether
were it not for the spectacle which is afforded by himself--a spectacle
of purest and loftiest virtue, and stainless honor, and endless
self-devotion. But I must say no more, for fear that I may say too
much, so I will stop.

"Mamma unites with me in kindest love, and believe me, my dearest Edith,

"Ever affectionately yours,

"PAMELA PLYMPTON.

"P.S.--I have not referred to that noblest of women, Mrs. Dunbar. Oh,
dearest Edith, I hope that ere this she has won your whole heart, and
that you have already divined something of that exalted spirit and that
meek self-sacrifice which make her life so sublime. I can say no more.
P. P."

Now it will be evident to the reader that if Miss Plympton had really
written the above, and had meant to incite Edith to give her
affectionate reverence to her two jailers, she could not have gone about
it in a worse way. Edith read it through, and at the beginning thought
that it might be authentic, but when she came to the latter half, that
idea began to depart. As she read on further and further, it appeared
more and more unlike Miss Plympton. The sudden transition from hate to
admiration, the extravagant terms that were made use of, the
exhortations to herself to change her feelings toward one like Wiggins,
the stilted phraseology, the incoherences, all seemed so unlike the
manner of Miss Plympton as to be only fit for derision. But the
postscript seemed worst of all. Here the writer had overdone herself,
or himself, and by dragging in the housekeeper, Mrs. Dunbar, and holding
her up for the same extravagant admiration, a climax of utter absurdity
had been attained.

On reading this singular letter Edith's thoughts came quick and vehement
through her mind. If this letter were indeed the work of Miss Plympton,
then all hope for her interference was utterly gone. If Miss Plympton
wrote that, then she was evidently either mad, or else she had undergone
a change of mind so incomprehensible that it was equivalent to madness.
But Miss Plympton could never have written it. Of that she felt as sure
as she was of her own existence.

If she did not, who did write it? The handwriting was exactly like that
of her revered friend. There was not the slightest difference between
this and that with which she was so familiar. It was her handwriting
indeed, but it was not Miss Plympton who spoke there. The hand was the
hand of Miss Plympton, but the voice was the voice of Wiggins.

He had written all this, she felt sure. These allusions to his
sufferings, these hints about a plan, these references to her father,
these entreaties to her to give him her affection and trust--all these
were familiar. Wiggins had already made use of them all. It was, then,
the work of Wiggins beyond a doubt.

And how? Could she doubt for a moment how? By imitating the writing of
Miss Plympton. Perhaps he had sent a messenger there, and obtained a
letter, part of which he had copied. The first half might have been
copied verbatim, while the last must certainly be his own work. As to
his power to imitate her writing, need she hesitate about that? Was not
her father condemned for a forgery which another had done! Had she not
already suspected that this false friend was no other than John Wiggins
himself? Forgery! that was only too easy for a man like him. And she
now saw in that letter an effort to accomplish her ruin by the same
weapon with which her father's had been wrought.

All these thoughts rushed through her mind as she read and as she stood
looking over the pages and thinking about what had been done. All the
hate that she had ever felt for her father's betrayer, which had
increased when he had become her own oppressor, now glowed hot within
her heart and could not be repressed.

[Illustration: "STEADYING HIMSELF, HE STOOD THERE TREMBLING."]

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 attitude 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 attitude 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 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."