At this question Mrs. Dunbar looked with a fixed, rigid stare at Wiggins. Her lips quivered. For a moment she could not speak.
“He—he looked at me,” said she, in a faltering voice—“he looked at me, but I was so overcome at the sight of him that my brain whirled. I was scarcely conscious of any thing. I heard him ask for Edith, and I hurried away. But oh, how hard—how hard it is! Oh, was ever any one in such a situation? To see him here—to see that face and hear that voice! Oh, what can I do—what can I do?”
And with these words Mrs. Dunbar broke down. Once more her head sank, and burying her face in her hands, she wept and sobbed convulsively. Wiggins looked at her, and as he looked there came over his face an expression of unutterable pity and sympathy, but he said not a word. As he looked at her he leaned his head on his hand, and a low, deep, prolonged sigh escaped him, that seemed to come from the depths of his being.
They sat in silence for a long time. Mrs. Dunbar was the first to break that silence. She roused herself by a great effort, and said,
“Have you any idea what his object may be in coming here, or what Lionel's object may be in sending him?”
“Well,” said Wiggins, “I don't know. I thought at first when I saw him that Lionel had some idea of looking after the estate, to see if he could get control of it in any way; but this call seems to show that Edith enters into their design in some way. Perhaps he thinks of paying attentions to her,” he added, in a tone of bitterness.
“And would that be a thing to be dreaded?” asked Mrs. Dunbar, anxiously.
“Most certainly,” said Wiggins.
“Would you blame the son for the misdeeds of the father?” she asked, in the same tone.
“No,” said Wiggins; “but when the son is so evidently a counterpart of the father, I should say that Edith ought to be preserved from him.”