“Believe me, Miss Dalton,” said Mowbray, with a desperate effort to appear earnest and devoted, “there is nothing that I would not do for you, and I feel exceedingly pained that you are not content with your present position; but you see I do not want to put myself in the clutches of the law if I can help it. Wiggins is an enemy of mine, as I told you, and only tolerates me here because he dare not prevent me--neither he nor his man; but--ah--you know--that is--I mean--he--ah--he watches me very closely, you know, and if I were to do any thing that he could lay hold of, he would be very glad to do so, and put me to trouble and expense--no end.” Here Edith understood once more a profession of enmity against Wiggins, but whether it was real or not she could not tell. She believed, rather, that it was pretended. “Oh, I beg of you to make no more excuses,” said she. “Your explanations are quite satisfactory.” “I have had trouble enough from lawyers,” continued Mowbray, “and don't want to have any more.” “That is quite prudent in you, and careful.” “The first thing that a man of the world learns, Miss Dalton,” said the captain, in a confidential tone, “is to take care of himself. That is a lesson that I have learned by bitter experience, and I have resolved, among other things, and above all, never, under any circumstances, to put myself within the grasp of the lawyers; and if you only knew what bother I've had, you wouldn't blame me.” “I fear that I must have given you great pain, then,” said Edith, “by even hinting at such a thing as taking my part and helping me. You feel so strongly about your personal safety that you must have been deeply agitated at such a proposal from me.” “Oh, well,” said the captain, not choosing to notice the sarcasm of Edith's tone, “one grows wiser from experience, you know, and mine has been a bitter one. I would gladly open your gates for you, I assure you, if I could do it without danger, and if Wiggins had no authority; but as it is, I really do not see how I can possibly interfere.” “Well, for that matter,” said Edith, “if it were not for Wiggins, I suppose I could open the gates for myself, and so I could save you even that trouble.” Mowbray made no reply to this, but merely stroked his mustache. “After all,” said he at last, “I don't see why you should be so discontented here. There are many who would be glad to live as you do, in so magnificent a house, with such noble grounds. You have every thing that you want. Why you should be so discontented I can not imagine. If you did get out, and live in the village, you would not like it. It's not a pleasant place. For my part I would much rather live where you do than where I do. If you would confine your attention to this place, and give up all ideas of getting away, you might be as happy as the day is long.”