THE STRANGE INMATES OF DALTON HALL.
In that well-remembered drawing-room there was much that renewed the
long past grief of childhood, and nothing whatever to soothe the sorrow
of the present. Looking around, Edith found many things the same as she
once remembered them; but still there were great changes--changes, too,
which were of the same nature as those which she had noticed outside.
Every thing showed traces of carelessness and long neglect. The seats of
many of the handsome, richly carved chairs were ruined. Costly vases
had disappeared. Dust covered every thing. Books and ornaments which lay
around were soiled and spoiled. In that apparently deserted house there
seemed to have been no one for years who cared to preserve the original
grace and elegance of its decorations. But Edith did not have a very
long time to give to her survey of this room, for in a few minutes she
heard the rustle of a dress, and, turning, she saw a woman approaching
who was evidently the housekeeper.
Edith was prepared to see some woman who might be in keeping with these
desolate surroundings and with the ruffian porter at the gate--some
coarse, insolent female; and she had also prepared herself to encounter
any rudeness with fortitude. But the first sight of Mrs. Dunbar was
enough to show her that her anticipations were completely unfounded.
She was a woman might have been about fifty, and even older. The outline
of her features showed marks of former beauty and the general air of her
face was altogether above the rank of a household domestic. The
expression was one of calm, strong self-control, of dignity, and of
resolution; at the same time there was in her dark, earnest eyes a
certain vigilant outlook, as of one who is on guard at all times; and
her gaze as she fixed it upon Edith was one of searching, eager, yet
most cautious and wary examination. On the whole, this woman excited
some surprise in Edith; and while she was gratified at finding in her
one who was not out of the reach of respect, she yet was perplexed at
the calm and searching scrutiny of which she was the object. But she did
not now take any time to think about this. A vague idea occurred to her
that Mrs. Dunbar, like many other housekeepers, was one of that numerous
class who “have seen better days;” so, after the first look, she felt
sufficiently satisfied, and advancing a step or two to meet her, she
frankly held out her hand.
The housekeeper took it, and said, simply, “Welcome to Dalton Hall.”
“Thank you,” said Edith. “If I had met you before, I might have been
spared some humiliation. But I need not talk of that. I am very tired
and very faint. I have traveled all day and have met with gross insult
at my own gate. I want food and rest. Will you have the kindness, then,
to take me to my own room at once, and then, get me a cup of tea?”
Mrs. Dunbar had not removed her earnest eyes from Edith; and even after
she had ceased speaking she still looked at her for a few moments in the
same way without answering.
“We did not know that you were coming so soon,” said she at length; “and
I can not tell you how I regret what has happened. It was too hard for
you. But we were taken by surprise. I entreat you not to suppose that
any thing but kindness was intended.”
Edith looked now at Mrs. Dunbar with an earnest scrutiny that was fully
equal to the searching gaze of the former. Mrs. Dunbar's tone was
cordial and lady-like, but Edith felt repugnance at her use of the word
“we.” By that little word she at once identified herself with Wiggins,
and made herself in part responsible for the scene at the gate.
“Kindness,” said she, “is a strange word to use in connection with that
scene, when I found myself forced to part with the only mother that I
have known since my own mamma died.”
Mrs. Dunbar looked at her in silence, and there came over her face a
strange, patient expression that at any other time would have excited
Edith's sympathy and pity. Some reply seemed to rise to her lips, but
if it was so, it was instantly checked; and after a moment's hesitation
she said, in a low voice.
“It is cheerless in this room. If you will come with me I will take you
where you can be more comfortable.”
Saying this, she led the way out, and Edith followed, feeling a little
perplexed at Mrs. Dunbar's manner, and trying to understand how it was
that she was so identified with Wiggins. She thought she could see an
evident kindliness toward herself, but how that could coexist with the
treatment which she had received at the gates was rather a puzzle.
Mrs. Dunbar led the way up to the second story, and along a corridor
toward the right wing. Here she came to a room in the front of the house
which looked out upon the park, and commanded an extensive view. There
was a well-furnished bedroom off this room, to which Mrs. Dunbar at once
led her.
“If we had only received notice that you were coming,” said she, “you
would have met with a better reception.”
Edith said nothing, for once more the word “we” jarred unpleasantly upon
her.
“Shall you have any objection to occupy this room for to-night?” asked
Mrs. Dunbar.
“Thank you,” said Edith, “none whatever; but I should like very much to
have my luggage. It was taken back to Dalton.”
“Taken back?”
“Yes. Miss Plympton was not admitted, and my luggage was on the coach.”
Mrs. Dunbar made no reply for some moments.
“I should feel much obliged if you would send one of the servants to
fetch it,” said Edith.
“I don't see why not,” said Mrs. Dunbar, in a hesitating voice.
“And have you any writing materials?” asked Edith. “I should like to
send a few lines to Miss Plympton.”
Mrs. Dunbar looked at her with one of those strange, searching glances
peculiar to her, and after some hesitation said, “I will look.”
“Thank you,” said Edith, and turned away. Mrs. Dunbar then left her, and
did not return for some time. At length she made her appearance,
followed by the black servant, who carried a tray. A table was laid in
the outer room, and a bountiful repast spread there. Edith did not eat
much, however. She sat sipping a cup of tea, and thinking profoundly,
while Mrs. Dunbar took a seat a little on one side, so as to be
unobserved, from which position she watched Edith most closely. It was
as though she was studying the character of this young girl so as to see
what its promise might be. And if Mrs. Dunbar had any knowledge of the
world, one thing must have been plainly manifest to her in that
examination, and that was that this young girl was not to be managed or
controlled after the fashion of most of her kind, but would require very
difficult and very peculiar treatment if she were to be bent to the will
of others. Mrs. Dunbar seemed to recognize this, and the discovery
seemed to create distress, for a heavy sigh escaped her.
The sigh roused Edith. She at once rose from her seat and turned round.
“And now, Mrs. Dunbar,” said she, “if you will let me have the writing
materials I will send a few lines to poor Miss Plympton.”
Mrs. Dunbar at once arose, and going out of the room, returned in a few
minutes with a desk, which she laid upon another table. Edith at once
seated herself to write, and while the black servant was removing the
things she hurriedly wrote the following:
“DALTON HALL.
“My darling Auntie,--I write at once because I know you will be devoured
with anxiety, and will not sleep to-night unless you hear from me. You
will be delighted to learn, then, that I am safe and unharmed. The man
Wiggins has not yet made his appearance, but I hope to see him this
evening. The Hall looks familiar, but desolate, except in the room where
I now am writing, where I find sufficient comfort to satisfy me. I am
too much fatigued to write any more, nor is it necessary, as I intend to
call on you as early as possible to-morrow morning. Until then good-by,
and don't be foolishly anxious about your own.
“EDITH.”
This note Edith folded and directed to “Miss Plympton, Dalton.” After
which she handed it to Mrs. Dunbar, who took it in silence and left the
room.
For some time Edith sat involved in thought. She had written cheerfully
enough to Miss Plympton, but that was from a kindly desire to reassure
her. In reality, she was overwhelmed with loneliness and melancholy.
The aspect of the grounds below and of the drawing-room had struck a
chill to her heart. This great drear house oppressed her, and the
melancholy with which she had left Plympton Terrace now became
intensified. The gloom that had overwhelmed her father seemed to rest
upon her father's house, and descended thence upon her own spirit,
strong and brave though it was.
In the midst of her melancholy thoughts she was startled at the sound of
a low sigh immediately behind her. She turned hastily, and saw a man
standing there, who had entered the room so silently that, in her
abstraction, she had not heard him. He was now standing about half-way
between her and the door, and his eyes were fixed upon her with
something of that same earnest scrutiny which she had already observed
in the gaze of Mrs. Dunbar. One glance at this man was sufficient to
show her that it was no servant, and that it could be no other than
Wiggins himself. He was not a man, however, who could be dismissed with
a glance. There was something in him which compelled a further survey,
and Edith found herself filled with a certain indefinable wonder as she
looked at him. His eyes were fixed on her; her eyes were fixed on him;
and they both looked upon each other in silence.
He was a man who might once have been tall, but now was stooping so that
his original height was concealed. He was plainly dressed, and his coat
of some thin black stuff hung loosely about him. He wore slippers, which
served to account for his noiseless entrance. Yet it was not things
like these that Edith noticed at that time, but rather the face that now
appeared before her.
It was a face which is only met with once in a lifetime?--a face which
had such an expression that the beholder could only feel baffled. It was
the face of one who might be the oldest of men, so snow-white was the
hair, so deep were the lines that were graven upon it. His cheek-bones
were prominent, his mouth was concealed by a huge gray mustache, and his
cheeks were sunken, while his forehead projected, and was fringed with
heavy eyebrows, from behind which his dark eyes glowed with a sort of
gloomy lustre from cavernous depths. Over his whole face there was one
pervading expression that was more than despondency, and near akin to
despair. It was the expression of a man whose life had been a series of
disheartening failures, or of one who had sinned deeply, or of one who
had suffered unusual and protracted anguish of soul, or of one who has
been long a prey to that form of madness which takes the form of
melancholy. So this might mean a ruined life, or it might mean madness,
or it might be the stamp of sorrow, or it might be the handwriting of
remorse. Whatever it was could certainly not be gathered from one
survey, or from many, nor, indeed, could it be known for certain at all
without this man's confession.
[Illustration: “AND THIS WAS WIGGINS!”]
For in addition to this mysterious expression there was another, which
was combined with it so closely that it seemed to throw conjecture still
further off the track and bewilder the gazer. This was a certain air of
patient and incessant vigilance, a look-out upon the world as from
behind an outpost of danger, the hunted look of the criminal who fears
detection, or the never-ending watchfulness of the uneasy conscience.
All this Edith could not help seeing, and she gathered this general
result from her survey of that face, though at that time she could not
put her conclusion in words. It seemed to her to be remorse which she
saw there, and the manifestations of a stricken conscience. It was the
criminal who feared detection, the wrong-doer on the constant look-out
for discovery--a criminal most venerable, a wrong-doer who must have
suffered; but if a criminal, one of dark and bitter memories, and one
whose thoughts, reaching over the years, must have been as gloomy as
death.
And this was Wiggins!
Not the Mephistopheles which she had imagined; not the evil mocking
fiend; but one rather who originally had not been without good
instincts, and who might have become a virtuous man had fate not
prevented. It was not the leering, sneering tempter that she saw, but
rather some representation of that archangel ruined, for it was as
though “his brow deep scars of thunder had intrenched, and care sat on
his faded cheek.”
At first the woman's heart of Edith made itself felt, and she pitied
him; but quickly the daughter's heart spoke, and it denounced him. If
this man felt remorse, it could only be for one great crime, and what
crime was so great as that of the betrayal of Frederick Dalton? Was it
this that had crushed the traitor? Thoughts like these flashed through
her mind, and her glance, which at first had softened from
commiseration, now grew stern and cold and hard; and the fixed, eager
look which came to her from those gloomy and mournful eyes was returned
by one which was hard and pitiless and repellent. Back to her heart came
that feeling which for a moment had faltered: the old hate, nourished
through her lifetime, and magnified during the last few days to
all-absorbing proportions: the strongest feeling of her nature, the hate
of the enemy of herself and the destroyer of her father.
Wiggins, on his part, with his quick, vigilant eyes, did not fail to
mark at once the change that had come over Edith. He saw the first
glance of pity, and then the transition to coldness deepening into hate.
Until then there had seemed a spell upon him which fixed his gaze on
Edith, but now the spell was suddenly broken. He removed his gaze, and
then, taking a chair, he sat upon it, and for a few moments remained
with his eyes fixed on the floor.
At last he raised his head, and, looking fixedly at Edith, began to
speak, and spoke in a strange, low, measured tone, with frequent
hesitations; in a way also that gave the idea of one who, for some cause
or other, was putting a strong constraint upon himself, and only
speaking by an effort.
“I regret, very deeply,” said he, “that you were treated with rudeness.
Had I known that you would come so soon, I should have notified the--the
porter. But he--he meant no harm. He is very faithful--to orders.”
“I am sorry to say,” said Edith, “that it was not the rudeness of the
porter that was offensive, but rather the rudeness of yourself.”
Wiggins started.
“Of myself?” he repeated.
“Certainly,” said Edith; “in refusing to admit one who is my dearest
friend on earth.”
Wiggins drew a long breath, and looked troubled.
“It was distressing to me,” said he at length; “but it could not be.”
At this, Edith felt inexpressibly galled, but for the time restrained
herself.
“Perhaps you would have been pleased,” said she, “if I had gone away
with her.”
“Oh no,” said Wiggins, dreamily--“oh no.”
“I thought for a time of doing so,” said Edith; “and in that case I
should have come to-morrow, or as soon as possible, with the officers of
the law, to reply to your orders.”
At this Wiggins looked at her with a strange and solemn glance, which
puzzled Edith.
“You would have regretted it,” said he, “eventually.”
“Few would have done as I did,” said Edith, “in coming here alone.”
“You did right,” said Wiggins.
“At the same time,” said Edith, firmly, “if I have forborne once, I
assure you I shall not do so again. You are in a wrong course
altogether. I shall put an end to this at once. And I tell you now that
this place must be made ready for Miss Plympton tomorrow. I will have
that brutal porter dismissed at once. As to yourself and the
housekeeper, I need say nothing just now.”
If it had been possible for that gray face to have turned grayer or
paler, it would have done so as Edith uttered these words. Wiggins
fixed his solemn eyes on her, and their glance had something in it which
was almost awful. After a moment he slowly passed his thin hand over his
brow, frowned, and looked away. Then he murmured, in a low voice, as if
to himself,
“The girl's mad!”
Edith heard these words, and for a moment thought Wiggins himself must
be mad; but his calmness and cold constraint looked too much like sober
sense. She herself had her own dark and gloomy feelings, and these
glowed in her heart with a fervid fire--too fervid, indeed, to admit of
utterance. She too had to put upon herself a constraint to keep back
the words, glowing with hot wrath and fervid indignation, which she
could have flung upon her father's betrayer. But because words were
weak, and because such deeds as his had to be repaid by act and in kind,
she forbore.
“It is necessary,” said Wiggins at length, “to live here in seclusion
for a time. You will gradually become accustomed to it, and it will be
all for the best. It may not be for so very long, after all--perhaps not
more than one year. Perhaps you may eventually be admitted to--to our
purposes.”
“This,” said Edith, “is childish. What you mean I do not know, nor do I
care to. You seem to hint at seclusion. I do not feel inclined for
society, but a seclusion of your making is not to my taste. You must
yourself go elsewhere to seek this seclusion. This is mine, and here I
intend to bring the friends whom I wish to have with me. I can only
regard your present course as the act of a thoroughly infatuated man.
You have had things all your own way thus far, and seem to have come to
regard this place as yours, and never to have counted upon any thing but
acquiescence on my part in your plans.”
Wiggins fastened his solemn eyes upon her, and murmured,
“True.”
“It is useless, therefore,” said Edith, loftily, “for you to make any
opposition. It will only be foolish, and you will ultimately be ruined
by it.”
Wiggins rose to his feet.
“It is only a waste of time,” said he. “I confess you are different from
what I anticipated. You do not know. You can not understand. You are
too rash and self-confident. I can not tell you what my plans are; I
can only tell you my wishes.”
Edith rose to her feet, and stood opposite, with her large eyes flaming
from her white face.
“This insolence,” said she, “has lasted too long. It is you who must
obey me--not I you. You speak as though there were no such thing as
law.”
“I said nothing about obedience,” said Wiggins, in a mournful voice,
which, in spite of herself, affected Edith very strangely. “I spoke of
plans which could not be communicated to you yet, and of my wishes.”
“But I,” said Edith, mildly, “wish you to understand that I have my own
wishes. You make use of a tone which I can not tolerate for a moment. I
have only one thing more to say, and that is to repeat my former
direction. I _must_ have Miss Plympton here tomorrow, and
preparations for her _must_ be made. Once for all, you must
understand that between you and me there is absolutely nothing in
common; and I tell you now that it is my intention to dispense with your
services at the earliest possible date. I will not detain you any
longer.”
Saying this, she waved her hand toward the door, and then resumed her
seat.
As for Wiggins, he looked at her with his usual solemn gaze during these
remarks. His bowed form seemed to be bent more as he listened to her
words. When she ceased and sat down he stood listening still, as though
he heard some echo to her words. Edith did not look up, but turned her
eyes in another direction, and so did not see the face that was still
turned toward her. But if she had looked there she would have seen a
face which bore a deeper impress than ever of utter woe.
In a few moments he turned and left the room, as silently as he came.
Before retiring that night Edith called Mrs. Dunbar, and gave her some
directions about preparing another bedroom and the drawing-room. To her
orders, which were somewhat positive, Mrs. Dunbar listened in silence,
and merely bowed in reply.
After which Edith retired, weary and worn out, and troubled in many
ways.
* * * * *