See these men; they will kill one another. John, come away. Driver, go back to the box. Come away at once. Do you hear, John?"
John did hear, and after some hesitation concluded to obey. He stepped back from the gate, and stood awaiting the progress of events. The driver also stood, waiting further orders.
"Edith dearest," said Miss Plympton, "nothing would induce me to go through those gates. You must not go."
"I"m sure," said Edith, "I shall be very sorry if you will not come; but, for my own part, I am quite resolved to go. Don"t be afraid. Come."
Miss Plympton shuddered and shook her head.
"Well," said Edith, "perhaps it will be as well for you to wait, since you are so agitated; and if you really will not come, you can drive back to the village. At any rate, I can see you to-morrow, and I will drive down for you the first thing."
Miss Plympton looked mournfully at Edith.
"And you, Richards," said Edith, looking at her maid, "I suppose it is no use for me to ask you. I see how it is. Well, never mind. I dare say she needs you more than I do; and to-morrow will make all right. I see it only distresses you for me to press you so I will say no more.
Good-by for the present."
Edith held out her hand. Miss Plympton took it, let it go, and folding Edith in her arms, she burst into tears.
"I"m afraid--I"m afraid," said she.
"What of?" said Edith.
"About you," moaned Miss Plympton.
"Nonsense," said Edith. "I shall call on you to-morrow as soon as you are up."
Miss Plympton sighed.
Edith held out her hand to her maid, Richards, and kindly bade her good-by. The girl wept bitterly, and could not speak. It was an unusual thing for Edith to do, and was rather too solemn a proceeding in view of a short separation for one night, and this struck Edith herself. But who knows what one night may bring forth?
Edith now left them, and, pa.s.sing through the gate, she stood and waved her hand at them. The porter followed and shut the gate. Miss Plympton, the maid, the driver, and John all stood looking after Edith with uneasy faces. Seeing that, she forced a smile, and finding that they would not go till she had gone, she waved a last adieu and entered the brougham.
As she did so she heard the bolt turn in the lock as the porter fastened the gate, and an ominous dread arose within her. Was this a presentiment? Did she have a dim foreshadowing of the future? Did she conjecture how long it would be before she pa.s.sed through that gate again, and how and wherefore? It matters not. Other thoughts soon came, and the porter jumping into the seat, drove rapidly off.
Edith found herself carried along through lordly avenues, with giant trees, the growth of centuries; rising grandly on either side and overarching above, and between which long vistas opened, where the eye could take in wide glades and sloping meadows. Sometimes she caught sight of eminences rising in the distance covered with groves, and along the slopes herds of deer sometimes came bounding. Finally there came to view a broad lawn, with a pond in the centre, beyond which arose a stately edifice which Edith recognized as the home of her childhood.
It needed only one glance, however, to show Edith that a great change had taken place since those well-remembered days of childhood. Every where the old order and neatness had disappeared, and now in all directions there were the signs of carelessness and neglect. The once smooth lawn was now overgrown with tall gra.s.s; the margin of the pond was filled with rushes, and its surface with slime; some of the windows of the Hall were out, and some of the chimney-pots were broken; while over the road gra.s.s had been allowed to grow in many places. Edith recognized all this, and an involuntary sigh escaped her. The carriage at length stopped, and she got out and ascended the steps to the door of the house.
The door was open, and an ungainly-looking negro servant was standing in the hall.
"Who has charge of this house?" asked Edith. "Is there a housekeeper?"
The servant grinned.
"Housekeepa, miss? Yes, miss, dar"s Missa Dunbar."
"Call the housekeeper, then," said Edith, "and tell her that I am waiting for her in the drawing-room."
The servant went off, and Edith then entered the drawing-room.
CHAPTER V.
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 coa.r.s.e, insolent female; and she had also prepared herself to encounter any rudeness with fort.i.tude. But the first sight of Mrs. Dunbar was enough to show her that her antic.i.p.ations 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 cla.s.s 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 he 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.