“I have friends,” said Edith, “and I will go to them. All that I ask of you is the drive of a few rods to the village inn. You can leave me there, and I will never trouble you again.”
“Well, really, Miss Dalton,” said Mowbray, after another pause, in which Edith suffered frightful suspense—“really, your request is a singular one. I would do any thing for you—but this is different. You see, you are a sort of ward, and to carry you away from the control of your guardian might be a very dangerous offense.”
“In fact, you are afraid, I see,” said Edith, bitterly. “Well, you need say no more. I will trouble you no further.”
Saying this, she rose and stood in all her stately beauty before them—cold, haughty, and without a trace of emotion left. They were struck by the change. Thus far she had appeared a timid, agitated, frightened girl; they now saw in her something of that indomitable spirit which had already baffled and perplexed her jailers.
“We hope to see more of you,” said Mrs. Mowbray. “We shall call again soon.”
To this Edith made no reply, but saw them to the drawing-room door. Then they descended the stairs and entered the carriage, and she heard them drive off. Then she went up to her room, and sat looking out of the window.
“He is worse than Wiggins,” she muttered. “He is a gentleman, but a villain—and a ruined one too—perhaps in the pay of Wiggins. Wiggins sent him here.”