A TERRIBLE SECRET.
On a pleasant evening in the month of May, 1840, a group of young ladies
might have been seen on the portico of Plympton Terrace, a fashionable
boarding-school near Derwentwater. They all moved about with those
effusive demonstrations so characteristic of young girls; but on this
occasion there was a general hush among them, which evidently arose from
some unusual cause. As they walked up and down arm in arm, or with arms
entwined, or with clasped hands, as young girls will, they talked in low
earnest tones over some one engrossing subject, or occasionally gathered
in little knots to debate some point, in which, while each offered a
differing opinion, all were oppressed by one common sadness.
While they were thus engaged there arose in the distance the sound of a
rapidly galloping horse. At once all the murmur of conversation died
out, and the company stood in silence awaiting the new-comer. They did
not have to wait long. Out from a place where the avenue wound amidst
groves and thickets a young girl mounted on a spirited bay came at full
speed toward the portico. Arriving there, she stopped abruptly; then
leaping lightly down, she flung the reins over the horse's neck, who
forthwith galloped away to his stall.
The rider who thus dismounted was young girl of about eighteen, and of
very striking appearance. Her complexion was dark, her hair black, with
its rich voluminous folds gathered in great glossy plaits behind. Her
eyes were of a deep hazel color, radiant, and full of energetic life. In
those eyes there was a certain earnestness of expression, however,
deepening down into something that seemed like melancholy, which showed
that even in her young life she had experienced sorrow. Her figure was
slender and graceful, being well displayed by her close-fitting
riding-habit, while a plumed hat completed her equipment, and served to
heighten the effect of her beauty.
At her approach a sudden silence had fallen over the company, and they
all stood motionless, looking at her as she dismounted.
“Why, what makes you all look at me so strangely?” she asked, in a tone
of surprise, throwing a hasty glance over them. “Has any thing
happened?”
To this question no answer was given, but each seemed waiting for the
other to speak. At length a little thing of about twelve came up, and
encircling the new-comer's waist with her arm, looked up with a
sorrowful expression, and whispered,
“Edith dearest, Miss Plympton wants to see you.”
The silence and ominous looks of the others, and the whispered words of
the little girl, together with her mournful face, increased the surprise
and anxiety of Edith. She looked with a strange air of apprehension
over the company.
“What is it?” she asked, hurriedly. “Something has happened. Do any of
you know? What is it?”
She spoke breathlessly, and her eyes once more wandered with anxious
inquiry over all of them. But no one spoke, for, whatever it was, they
felt the news to be serious--something, in fact, which could not well be
communicated by themselves. Once more Edith repeated her question, and
finding that no answer was forth-coming, her impatience allowed her to
wait no longer; and so, gathering up her long skirts in one hand and
holding her whip in the other, she hurried into the house to see Miss
Plympton.
Miss Plympton's room was on the second floor, and that lady herself was
seated by the window as Edith entered. In the young girl's face there
was now a deeper anxiety, and seating herself near the centre-table, she
looked inquiringly at Miss Plympton.
The latter regarded her for some moments in silence.
“Did you wish to see me, auntie dear?” said Edith.
Miss Plympton sighed.
“Yes,” she said, slowly; “but, my poor darling Edie, I hardly know how
to say to you what I have to say. I--I--do you think you can bear to
hear it, dear?”
At this Edith looked more disturbed than ever; and placing her elbow on
the centre-table, she leaned her cheek upon her hand, and fixed her
melancholy eyes upon Miss Plympton. Her heart throbbed painfully, and
the hand against which her head leaned trembled visibly. But these signs
of agitation did not serve to lessen the emotion of the other; on the
contrary, she seemed more distressed, and quite at a loss how to
proceed.
“Edith,” said she at last, “my child, you know how tenderly I love you.
I have always tried to be a mother to you, and to save you from all
sorrow; but now my love and care are all useless, for the sorrow has
come, and I do not know any way by which I can break bad news
to--to--a--a bereaved heart.”
She spoke in a tremulous voice and with frequent pauses.
“Bereaved!” exclaimed Edith, with white lips. “Oh, auntie! Bereaved! Is
it that? Oh, tell me all. Don't keep me in suspense. Let me know the
worst.”
Miss Plympton looked still more troubled. “I--I--don't know what to
say,” she faltered.
“You mean _death_!” cried Edith, in an excited voice; “and oh! I
needn't ask who. There's only one--only one. I had only one--only
one--and now--he is--gone!”
“Gone,” repeated Miss Plympton, mechanically, and she said no more; for
in the presence of Edith's grief, and of other facts which had yet to be
disclosed--facts which would reveal to this innocent girl something
worse than even bereavement--words were useless, and she could find
nothing to say. Her hand wandered through the folds of her dress, and
at length she drew forth a black-edged letter, at which she gazed in an
abstracted way.
“Let me see it,” cried Edith, hurriedly and eagerly; and before Miss
Plympton could prevent her, or even imagine what she was about, she
darted forward and snatched the letter from her hand. Then she tore it
open and read it breathlessly. The letter was very short, and was
written in a stiff, constrained hand. It was as follows:
“DALTON HALL, _May_ 6, 1840.
“Madame,--It is my painful duty to communicate to you the death of
Frederick Dalton, Esq., of Dalton Hall, who died at Hobart Town, Van
Diemen's Land, on the 2d of December, 1839. I beg that you will impart
this intelligence to Miss Dalton, for as she is now of age, she may wish
to return to Dalton Hall.
“I remain, madame,
“Your most obedient servant,
“JOHN WIGGINS.
“MISS PLYMPTON, _Plympton Terrace_.”
Of this letter Edith took in the meaning of the first three lines only.
Then it dropped from her trembling hands, and sinking into a chair, she
burst into a torrent of tears. Miss Plympton regarded her with a face
full of anxiety, and for some moments Edith wept without restraint; but
at length, when the first outburst of grief was past, she picked up the
letter once more and read it over and over.
Deep as Edith's grief evidently was, this bereavement was not, after
all, so sore a blow as it might have been under other circumstances.
For this father whom she had lost was virtually a stranger. Losing her
mother at the age of eight, she had lived ever since with Miss Plympton,
and during this time her father had never seen her, nor even written to
her. Once or twice she had written to him a pretty childish letter, but
he had never deigned any reply. If in that unknown nature there had been
any thing of a father's love, no possible hint had ever been given of
it. Of her strange isolation she was never forgetful, and she felt it
most keenly during the summer holidays, when all her companions had gone
to their homes. At such times she brooded much over her loneliness, and
out of this feeling there arose a hope, which she never ceased to
cherish, that the time would come when she might join her father, and
live with him wherever he might be, and set herself to the task of
winning his affections.
She had always understood that her father had been living in the East
since her mother's death. The only communication which she had with him
was indirect, and consisted of business letters which his English agent
wrote to Miss Plympton. These were never any thing more than short,
formal notes. Such neglect was keenly felt, and Edith, unwilling to
blame her father altogether, tried to make some one else responsible for
it. As she knew of no other human being who had any connection with her
father except this agent, she brought herself gradually to look upon him
as the cause of her father's coldness, and so at length came to regard
him with a hatred that was unreasoning and intense. She considered him
her father's evil genius, and believed him to be somehow at the bottom
of the troubles of her life. Thus every year this man, John Wiggins,
grew more hateful, and she accustomed herself to think of him as an evil
fiend, a Mephistopheles, by whose crafty wiles her father's heart had
been estranged from her. Such, then, was the nature of Edith's
bereavement; and as she mourned over it she did not mourn so much over
the reality as over her vanished hope. He was gone, and with him was
gone the expectation of meeting him and winning his affection. She
would never see him--never be able to tell how she loved him, and hear
him say with a father's voice that he loved his child!
These thoughts and feelings overwhelmed Edith even as she held the
letter in her hand for a new perusal, and she read it over and over
without attaching any meaning to the words. At length her attention was
arrested by one statement in that short letter which had hitherto
escaped her notice. This was the name of the place where her father's
death had occurred--Van Diemen's Land.
“I don't understand this,” said she. “What is the meaning of this--Van
Diemen's Land? I did not know that poor papa had ever left India.”
Miss Plympton made no reply to this for some time, but looked more
troubled than ever.
“What does it mean,” asked Edith again--“this Hobart Town, Van Diemen's
Land? What does it mean?”
“Well, dear,” said Miss Plympton, in strangely gentle and mournful
voice, “you have never known much about your poor father, and you have
never known exactly where he has been living. He did not live in India,
dear; he never lived in India. He lived in--in--Van Diemen's Land.”
Miss Plympton's tone and look affected Edith very unpleasantly. The
mystery about her father seemed to grow darker, and to assume something
of an ill-omened character. The name also--Van Diemen's Land--served to
heighten her dark apprehensions; and this discovery that she had known
even less than she supposed about her father made it seem as though the
knowledge that had thus been hidden could not but be painful.
“What do you mean?” she asked again; and her voice died down to a
whisper through the vague fears that had been awakened. “I thought that
poor papa lived in India--that he held some office under government.”
“I know that you believed so,” said Miss Plympton, regarding Edith with
a look that was full of pity and mournful sympathy. “That was what I
gave out. None of the girls have ever suspected the truth. No one knows
whose daughter you really are. They do not suspect that your father was
Dalton of Dalton Hall. They think that he was an Indian resident in the
Company's service. Yes, I have kept the secret well, dear--the secret
that I promised your dear mother on her death-bed to keep from all the
world, and from you, darling, till the time should come for you to know.
And often and often, dear, have I thought of this moment, and tried to
prepare for it; but now, since it has come, I am worse than unprepared.
But preparations are of no use, for oh, my darling, my own Edith, I must
speak, if I speak at all, from my heart.”
These words were spoken by Miss Plympton in a broken, disconnected, and
almost incoherent manner. She stopped abruptly, and seemed overcome by
strong agitation. Edith, on her part, looked at her in equal agitation,
wondering at her display of emotion, and terrified at the dark
significance of her words. For from those words she learned this much
already--that her father had been living in Van Diemen's Land, a penal
colony; that around him had been a dark secret which had been kept from
her most carefully; that her parentage had been concealed most
scrupulously from the knowledge of her school-mates; and that this
secret which had been so guarded was even now overwhelming Miss Plympton
so that she shrunk from communicating it. All this served to fill the
mind of Edith with terrible presentiments, and the mystery which had
hitherto surrounded her father seemed now about to result in a
revelation more terrible than the mystery itself.
After some time Miss Plympton rose, and drawing her chair nearer, sat
down in front of Edith, and took both her hands.
“My poor darling Edith,” said she, in pitying tones, “I am anxious for
you. You are not strong enough for this. Your hands are damp and cold.
You are trembling. I would not have brought up this subject now, but I
have been thinking that the time has come for telling you all. But I'm
afraid it will be too much for you. You have already enough to bear
without having this in addition. You are too weak.”
Edith shook her head.
“Can you bear it?” asked Miss Plympton, anxiously, “this that I wish to
tell you? Perhaps I had better defer it.”
“No,” said Edith, in a forced voice. “No--now--now--tell me now. I can
bear whatever it is better than any horrible suspense.”
Miss Plympton sighed, and leaning forward, she kissed the pale forehead
of the young girl. Then, after a little further delay, during which she
seemed to be collecting her thoughts, she began:
“I was governess once, Edith dearest, in your dear mamma's family. She
was quite a little thing then. All the rest were harsh, and treated me
like a slave; but she was like an angel, and made me feel the only real
happiness I knew in all those dreary days. I loved her dearly for her
gentle and noble nature. I loved her always, and I still love her
memory; and I love you as I loved her, and for her sake. And when she
gave you to me, on her death-bed, I promised her that I would be a
mother to you, dear. You have never known how much I love you--for I am
not demonstrative--but I do love you, my own Edith, most dearly, and I
would spare you this if I could. But, after all, it is a thing which you
must know some time, and before very long--the sooner the better.”
“I wish to know it now,” said Edith, as Miss Plympton hesitated,
speaking in a constrained voice, the result of the strong pressure which
she was putting on her feelings--“now,” she repeated. “I can not wait.
I must know all to-day. What was it? Was it--crime?”
“The charge that was against him,” said Miss Plympton, “involved crime.
But, my darling, you must remember always that an accusation is not the
same as a fact, even though men believe it; yes, even though the law may
condemn the accused, and the innocent may suffer. Edith Dalton,” she
continued, with solemn earnestness, “I believe that your father was as
innocent as you are. Remember that! Cling to that! Never give up that
belief, no matter what you may hear. There was too much haste and blind
passion and prejudice in that court where he was tried, and appearances
were dark, and there was foul treachery somewhere; and so it was that
Frederick Dalton was done to ruin and his wife done to death. And now,
my darling, you have to make yourself acquainted not with a father's
crimes, but with a father's sufferings. You are old enough now to hear
that story, and you have sufficient independence of character to judge
for yourself, dear. There is no reason why you should be overwhelmed
when you hear it--unless, indeed, you are overcome by pity for the
innocent and indignation against his judges. Even if society considers
your father's name a stained and dishonored one, there is no reason why
his daughter should feel shame, for you may take your stand on his own
declaration of innocence, and hold up your head proudly before the
world.”
Miss Plympton spoke this with vehement emotion, and her words brought
some consolation to Edith. The horrible thought that had at first come
was that her father had been a convict in some penal settlement, but
this solemn assurance of his innocence mitigated the horror of the
thought, and changed it into pity. She said not a word, however, for her
feelings were still too strong, nor could she find voice for any words.
She sat, therefore, in silence, and waited for Miss Plympton to tell the
whole story.
Miss Plympton surveyed Edith anxiously for a few moments, and then
rising, went over to an escritoire. This she unlocked, and taking from
it a parcel, she returned to her seat.
“I am not going to tell you the story,” said she. “I can not bear to
recall it. It is all here, and you may read it for yourself. It was all
public ten years ago, and in this package are the reports of the trial.
I have read them over so often that I almost know them by heart; and I
know, too, the haste of that trial, and the looseness of that evidence.
I have marked it in places--for your eyes only, dearest--for I prepared
it for you, to be handed to you in case of my death. My life, however,
has been preserved, and I now give this into your own hands. You must
take it to your own room, and read it all over by yourself. You will
learn there all that the world believes about your father, and will see
in his own words what he says about himself. And for my part, even if
the testimony were far stronger, I would still take the word of
Frederick Dalton!”
Miss Plympton held out the parcel, and Edith took it, though she was
scarce conscious of the act. An awful foreboding of calamity, the
mysterious shadow of her father's fate, descended over her soul. She was
unconscious of the kiss which Miss Plympton gave her; nor was she
conscious of any thing till she found herself seated at a table in her
own room, with the door locked, and the package lying on the table
before her. She let it lie there for a few moments, for her agitation
was excessive, and she dreaded to open it; but at length she mastered
her feelings, and began to undo the strings.
The contents of the parcel consisted of sheets of paper, upon which were
pasted columns of printed matter cut from some newspaper. It was the
report of the trial of Frederick Dalton, upon charges which ten years
before had filled the public mind with horror and curiosity. In these
days the most cursory reader who took up the report came to the work
with a mind full of vivid interest and breathless suspense; but that
report now lay before the eyes of a far different reader--one who was
animated by feelings far more intense, since it was the daughter of the
accused herself. That daughter also was one who hitherto had lived in an
atmosphere of innocence, purity, and love, one who shrank in abhorrence
from all that was base or vile; and this was the one before whose eyes
was now placed the horrible record that had been made up before the
world against her father's name.
The printed columns were pasted in such a way that a wide margin was
left, which was covered with notes in Miss Plympton's writing. To give
any thing like a detailed account of this report, with the annotations,
is out of the question, nor will any thing be necessary beyond a general
summary of the facts therein stated.
* * * * *