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.”