The Living Link | Page 4

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