“Yes,” said Edith, mournfully.
“Surely you have not tried. You should assert your rights. But I suppose your timidity would naturally prevent you.”
“It is not timidity that prevents me. I have been desperate enough to do any thing. I have tried. Indeed, I don't know what more I could possibly do than what I have done.” She paused. She was not going to tell every thing to a stranger.
“Miss Dalton,” said Dudleigh, fervently, “I can not express my joy at the happy accident that has brought me here. For it was only by chance that I came to Dalton, though after I came I naturally thought of you, as I said, and came here.”
“I fear,” said Edith, “that it may seem strange to you for me to take you into my confidence, after we have only interchanged a few words. But I must do so. I have no alternative. I am desperate. I am the Dalton of Dalton Hall, and I find myself in the power of a base adventurer. He imprisons me. He sets spies to watch over me. He directs that ruffian at the gates to turn away my friends, and tell them some story about my grief and seclusion. I have not seen any visitors since I came.”
“Is it possible!”
“Well, there was one family—the Mowbrays, of whom I need say nothing.”
“The Mowbrays?” said Dudleigh, with a strange glance.
“Do you know any thing about them?” asked Edith.
“Pardon me, Miss Dalton; I prefer to say nothing about them.”