The Living Link | Page 2

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