Books: The Living Link

J >> James De Mille >> The Living Link

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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.

* * * * *

CHAPTER VI.

WALLED IN.

Very early on the following day Edith arose, and found Mrs. Dunbar
already moving about. She remarked that she had heard Edith dressing
herself, and had prepared a breakfast for her. This little mark of
attention was very grateful to Edith, who thanked Mrs. Dunbar quite
earnestly, and found the repast a refreshing one. After this, as it was
yet too early to think of calling on Miss Plympton, she wandered about
the house. The old nooks and corners dear to memory were visited once
more. Familiar scenes came back before her. Here was the nursery, there
her mother's room, in another place the library. There, too, was the
great hall up stairs, with pictures on each side of ancestors who went
back to the days of the Plantagenets. There were effigies in armor of
knights who had fought in the Crusades and in the Wars of the Roses; of
cavaliers who had fought for King Charles; of gallant gentlemen who had
followed their country's flag under the burning sun of India, over the
sierras of Spain, and in the wilderness of America. And of all these she
was the last, and all that ancestral glory was bound up in her, a weak
and fragile girl. Deeply she regretted at that moment that she was not a
man, so that she might confer new lustre upon so exalted a lineage.

[Illustration: "SHE SAW THE BLACK SERVANT, HUGO."]

As she wandered through the rooms and galleries all her childhood came
back before her. She recalled her mother, her fond love, and her early
death. That mother's picture hung in the great hall, and she gazed at it
long and pensively, recalling that noble face, which in her remembrance
was always softened by the sweet expression of tenderest love. But it
was here that something met her eyes which in a moment chased away every
regretful thought and softer feeling, and brought back in fresh
vehemence the strong glow of her grief and indignation. Turning away
from her mother's portrait by a natural impulse to look for that of her
father, she was at first unable to find it. At length, at the end of the
line of Dalton portraits, she noticed what at first she had supposed to
be part of the wall out of repair. Another glance, however, showed that
it was the back of a picture. In a moment she understood it. It was her
father's portrait, and the face had been turned to the wall.

Stung by a sense of intolerable insult, her face flushed crimson, and
she remained for a few moments rooted to the spot glaring at the
picture. Who had dared to do this--to heap insult upon that innocent and
suffering head, to wrong so foully the memory of the dead? Her first
impulse was to tear it down with her own hands, and replace it in its
proper position; her next to seek out Wiggins at once and denounce him
to his face for all his perfidy, of which this was the fitting climax.
But a more sober thought followed--the thought of her own weakness.
What could her words avail against a man like that? Better far would it
be for her to wait until she could expel the usurper, and take her own
place as acknowledged mistress in Dalton Hall. This thought made her
calmer, and she reflected that she need not wait very long. This day
would decide it all, and this very night her father's portrait should be
placed in its right position.

This incident destroyed all relish for further wandering about the
house, and though it was yet early, she determined to set out at once
for the village and find Miss Plympton. With this design she descended
to the lower hall, and saw there the same black servant whom she had
seen the day before.

"What is your name?" she asked.

"Hugo," said the black, with his usual grin.

"Well, Hugo," said she, "I want the brougham. Go to the stables, have
the horses put in, and come back as soon as you can. And here is
something for your trouble."

Saying this, she proffered him a sovereign.

But the black did not appear to see it. He simply said, "Yes, miss,"
and turned away. Edith was surprised; but thinking that it was merely
his stupidity, she went up stairs and waited patiently for a long time.
But, in spite of her waiting, there were no signs of any carriage; and
at length, growing impatient, she determined to go to the stables
herself. She knew the way there perfectly well, and soon reached the
place. To her surprise and vexation the doors were locked, and there
were no signs whatever of Hugo.

"The stupid black must have misunderstood me," thought she.

She now returned to the house, and wandered all about in search of some
servants. But she saw none. She began to think that Hugo was the only
servant in the place; and if so, as he had disappeared, her chance of
getting the brougham was small indeed. As for Wiggins, she did not think
of asking him, and Mrs. Dunbar was too much under the influence of
Wiggins for her to apply there. She was therefore left to herself.

Time passed thus, and Edith's impatience grew intolerable. At length, as
she could not obtain a carriage, she determined to set out on foot and
walk to Dalton. She began now to think that Wiggins had seen Hugo, found
out what she wanted, and had forbidden the servant to obey. This seemed
the only way in which she could account for it all. If this were so, it
showed that there was some unpleasant meaning in the language which
Wiggins had used to her on the previous evening about a secluded life,
and in that case any delay made her situation more unpleasant. She had
already lost too much time, and therefore could wait no longer. On the
instant, therefore, she set out, and walked down the great avenue toward
the gates. It was a longer distance than she had supposed: so long,
indeed, did it seem that once or twice she feared that she had taken the
wrong road; but at last her fears were driven away by the sight of the
porter's lodge.

On reaching the gates she found them locked. For this she had not been
prepared; but a moment's reflection showed her that this need not excite
surprise. She looked up at them with a faint idea of climbing over. One
glance, however, showed that to be impossible; they were high, and
spiked at the top, and over them was a stone arch which left no room for
any one to climb over. She looked at the wall, but that also was beyond
her powers. Only one thing now remained, and that was to apply to the
porter. After this fellow's rudeness on the previous day, she felt an
excessive repugnance toward making any application to him now; but her
necessity was urgent, and time pressed. So she quieted her scruples, and
going to the door of the porter's house, knocked impatiently.

The porter came at once to the door, and bowed as respectfully as
possible. His demeanor, in fact, was totally different from what it had
been on the previous day, and evinced every desire to show respect,
though perhaps he might manifest it rather awkwardly. Edith noticed
this, and was encouraged by it.

"I want you to let me out," said Edith. "I'm going to Dalton."

The man looked at her, and then at the ground, and then fumbled his
fingers together; after which he plunged his hands in his pockets.

"Do you hear what I say?" said Edith, sharply. "I want you to unlock the
gate."

"Well, miss, as to that--I humbly beg your pardon, miss, but I've got my
orders not to."

"Nonsense," said Edith. "No one here gives orders but me. I am mistress
here."

"Beg pardon, miss, but I don't know any master but Master Wiggins."

"Wiggins!" said Edith.

"Yes, miss, an' hopin' it's no offense. I have to obey orders."

"But he couldn't have given you orders about me," said Edith, haughtily.

"He said all persons, miss, comin' or goin', all the same. No offense
bein' intended, miss, an' beggin' your pardon."

"But this is absurd," said Edith. "He knows that I am going to Dalton.
You have misunderstood him."

"I'm sorry, miss. I'd do any thin' to oblige, miss; but I've got to do
as I'm bid."

"Who employs you?"

"Master, miss--Master Wiggins."

"Do you want to keep this situation?"

"Keep this situation?"

"Yes. You don't want to be turned out, do you?"

"Oh, no miss."

"Well, obey me now, and you shall remain. I am the mistress of Dalton
Hall, and the owner of these estates. Wiggins is the agent, and seems
disinclined to do what I wish. He will have to leave. If you don't want
to leave also, obey me now."

All this seemed to puzzle the porter, but certainly made no impression
upon his resolve. He looked at Edith, then at the ground, then at the
trees, and finally, as Edith concluded, he said:

"Beg pardon, miss, but orders is orders, an' I've got to obey mine."

Edith now began to feel discouraged. Yet there was one resource left,
and this she now tried. Drawing forth her purse, she took out some
pieces of gold.

"Come," said she, "you do very well to obey orders in ordinary cases;
but in my case you are violating the law, and exposing yourself to
punishment. Now I will pay you well if you do me this little service,
and will give you this now, and much more afterward. Here, take this,
and let me out quick."

The porter kept his eyes fixed on the ground, and did not even look at
the gold. "See!" said Edith, excitedly and hurriedly--"see!"

The porter would not look. But at last he spoke, and then came the old
monotonous sentence,

"Beggin' your pardon, miss, an' hopin' there's no offense, I can't do
it. I've got to obey orders, miss."

At this Edith gave up the effort, and turning away, walked slowly and
sadly from the gates.

This was certainly more than she had anticipated. By this she saw
plainly that Wiggins was determined to play a bold game. The possibility
of such restraint as this had never entered into her mind. Now she
recalled Miss Plympton's fears, and regretted when too late that she had
trusted herself within these gates. And now what the porter had told her
showed her in one instant the full depth of his design. He evidently
intended to keep her away from all communication with the outside world.
And she--what could she do? How could she let Miss Plympton know? How
could she get out? No doubt Wiggins would contrive to keep all avenues
of escape closed to her as this one was. Even the walls would be
watched, so that she should not clamber over.

Among the most disheartening of her discoveries was the incorruptible
fidelity of the servants of Wiggins. Twice already had she tried to
bribe them, but on each occasion she had failed utterly. The black
servant and the porter were each alike beyond the reach of her gold.

Her mind was now agitated and distressed. In her excitement she could
not yet return to the Hall, but still hoped that she might escape,
though the hope was growing faint indeed. She felt humiliated by the
defeat of her attempts upon the honesty of the servants. She was
troubled by the thought of her isolation, and did not know what might be
best to do.

One thing now seemed evident, and this was that she had a better chance
of escaping at this time than she would have afterward. If she was to
be watched, the outlook could not yet be as perfect or as well organized
as it would afterward be. And among the ways of escape she could think
of nothing else than the wall. That wall, she thought, must certainly
afford some places which she might scale. She might find some gate in a
remote place which could afford egress. To this she now determined to
devote herself.

With this purpose on her mind, she sought to find her way through the
trees to the wall. This she was able to do without much difficulty, for
though the trees grew thick, there was no underbrush, but she was able
to walk along without any very great trouble. Penetrating in this way
through the trees, she at length came to the wall. But, to her great
disappointment, she found its height here quite as great as it had been
near the gate, and though in one or two places trees grew up which threw
their branches out over it, yet those trees were altogether inaccessible
to her.

Still she would not give up too quickly, but followed the wall for a
long distance. The further she went, however, the more hopeless did her
search seem to grow. The ground was unequal, sometimes rising into
hills, and at other times sinking into valleys; but in all places,
whether hill or valley, the wall arose high, formidable, not to be
scaled by one like her. As she looked at it the thought came to her that
it had been arranged for that very purpose, so that it should not be
easily climbed, and so it was not surprising that a barrier which might
baffle the active poacher or trespasser should prove insuperable to a
slender girl like her.

She wandered on, however, in spite of discouragement, in the hope of
finding a gate. But this search was as vain as the other. After
walking for hours, till her feeble limbs could scarcely support her any
longer, she sank down exhausted, and burst into tears.

For a long time she wept, overwhelmed by accumulated sorrow and
despondency and disappointment. At length she roused herself, and drying
her eyes, looked up and began to think of returning to the Hall.

To her amazement she saw the black servant, Hugo, standing not far away.
As she raised her eyes he took off his cap, and grinned as usual. The
sight of him gave Edith a great shock, and excited new suspicions and
fears within her.

Had she been followed?

She must have been. She had been watched and tracked. All her desperate
efforts had been noted down to be reported to Wiggins--all her long and
fruitless search, her baffled endeavors, her frustrated hopes!

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