Dalton Hall was one of the most magnificent country-seats in Somersetshire. The village of Dalton, which bears the same name as the old family seat, is situated on the banks of a little river which winds through a pleasant plain on its course to the Bristol Channel, and at this place is crossed by a fine old rustic bridge with two arches. The village church, a heavy edifice, with an enormous ivy-grown tower, stands on the further side; and beyond that the gables and chimneys of Dalton Hall may be seen rising, about a mile away, out of the midst of a sea of foliage. The porter's lodge is about half a mile distant from the church, and the massive wall which incloses Dalton Park runs along the road for some miles.

There was a railway station about four miles away from the village, and it was at this station that Edith arrived on her way home. Miss Plympton had come with her, with the intention of remaining long enough to see Edith comfortably installed in her new abode, and with the hope of persuading her to go back if circumstances did not seem favorable. A footman and a maid also accompanied them.

On reaching the station they found themselves at first at a loss how to proceed, for there were no carriages in waiting. Of course, as no notice had been sent of her journey, Edith could not expect to find any carriage from Dalton Hall; nor did she think much about this circumstance. Dressed in deep mourning, with her pale face and dark, thoughtful eyes, she seemed to be given up to her own mournful reflections; and on finding that they would have to wait, she seated herself on a bench, and looked with an abstracted gaze upon the surrounding scene. Miss Plympton gave some directions to the footman, who at once went off to seek a carriage; after which she seated herself near Edith, while the maid sat on a trunk at a little distance. They had traveled all day long, and felt very much fatigued; so that nothing was said by any of them as they sat there waiting for the footman's return. At length, after about half an hour, a hackney-coach drove up, which the footman had procured from an inn not far away, and in this undignified manner they prepared to complete their journey. A long drive of four or five miles now remained; and when at length they reached the park gate none of them had much strength left. Here the coach stopped, and the footman rang the bell loudly and impatiently.

There was no immediate answer to this summons, and the footman rang again and again; and finally, as the delay still continued, he gave the bell a dozen tremendous pulls in quick succession. This brought an answer, at any rate; for a man appeared, emerging from a neighboring grove, who walked toward the gate with a rapid pace. He was a short, bull-necked, thickset, broad-shouldered man, with coarse black hair and heavy, matted beard. His nose was flat on his face, his chin was square, and he looked exactly like a prize-fighter. He had a red shirt, with a yellow spotted handkerchief flung about his neck, and his corduroy trowsers were tucked into a pair of muddy boots.

The moment he reached the gate he roared out a volley of the most fearful oaths: Who were they? What did they mean, dash them? What the dash dash did they mean by making such a dash dash noise?

“You'll get your ugly head broken, you scoundrel!” roared the footman, who was beside himself with rage at this insult to his mistress, coming as it did at the close of so long and irritating a delay. “Hold your infernal tongue, and open the gate at once. Is this the way you dare to talk before your mistress?”

“Mistress! You dashed fool,” was the response, “what the dash do I know about mistresses? I'll make a beginning with you, you sleek, fat powder-monkey, with your shiny beaver and stuffed calves!”

Edith heard all this, and her amazement was so great that it drove away all fatigue. Her heart beat high and her spirit rose at this insult. Opening the carriage door, she sprang out, and, walking up to the gate, she confronted the porter as a goddess might confront a satyr. The calm, cold gaze which she gave his was one which the brute could not encounter. He could face any one of his own order; but the eye that now rested on him gave him pain, and his glance fell sulkily before that of his mistress.

“I am your mistress—Miss Dalton,” said Edith. “Open that gate immediately.”

“I don't know any thing about mistresses,” said the fellow. “My orders are not to open them gates to nobody.”

At this rebuff Edith was for a moment perplexed, but soon rallied. She reflected that this man was a servant under orders, and that it would be useless to talk to him. She must see the principal.

“Who gave those orders?” she asked.

“Mr. Wiggins,” said the man, gruffly.

“Is that man here now?” asked Edith.

The man looked up suspiciously and in evident surprise, but his eyes fell again.

“Mr. Wiggins? He is here; he lives here.”

“Then do you go at once,” said Edith, loftily, “and say to that man that Miss Dalton is here.”

The fellow glanced furtively at the carriage, where he saw the pale face of Miss Plympton and the paler face of the maid, and then with a grunt he turned and walked up the avenue. Edith went back to the carriage and resumed her seat.

This scene had produced a profound effect upon her two companions. Miss Plympton's worst apprehensions seemed justified by this rude repulse at the gates, and the moment that Edith came back she began to entreat her to return.

“Come back,” she said, “to the inn. Do, darling, at least for the night, till we can send word to Wiggins.”

“No,” said Edith, firmly; “I will not recognize Wiggins at all. I am going to dismiss him the moment that I enter the Hall. I can wait patiently just now.”

“But at least come back for this night. You may be sure that they will not be ready for you. You will have to come back after all.”

“Well,” said Edith, “I shall at least take formal possession of Dalton Hall first, and let Wiggins see that I am mistress there.”

Miss Plympton sighed. Every hour only showed in a stronger manner how hopeless was any attempt of hers to move Edith from any resolve that she might make. Already she recognized in that slender young girl the stubborn spirit of her father—a spirit which would meet death and destruction rather than swerve from its set purpose.

Nothing more was said, but they all waited patiently for the porter's return. It seemed a very long time. The footman fussed and fumed, and at length beguiled the time by smoking and chatting with the coachman, whom he questioned about Mr. Wiggins. The coachman, however, could give him no information on the subject. “I only know,” said he, “as how that this yer Wiggins is a Liverpool gent, an' latterly he seems inclined to live here. But he don't never see no company, an' keeps hisself shut up close.”

At length, after waiting for more than half an hour, the noise of carriage wheels was heard, and a brougham appeared driven by the porter. He turned the brougham inside the gate, and then getting down, he unlocked the small gate and advanced to the carriage. The fellow seemed now to try to be more respectful, for he had a hat on his head which he took off, and made a clumsy attempt at a bow.

“Beg pardon, miss,” said he, “for keepin' you waitin'; but I had to put the hosses in. Mr. Wiggins says as how you're to come up in the brougham, an' your trunks an' things 'll be took up afterward.

“But I want to drive up in this coach. I can't remove the luggage,” said Edith.

“I don't know about that, miss,” said the porter. “I've got to do as I'm told.”

At this Edith was silent; but her flashing eyes and a flush that swept over her pale face showed her indignation.

“So this is the way he dares to treat me,” said she, after some silence. “Well,” she continued, “for the present I must yield and submit to this insolence. But it only shows more clearly the character of the man. I suppose we must go,” she continued, looking at Miss Plympton, and once more opening the coach door herself.

Miss Plympton had been more agitated than ever at this last message, and as Edith opened the door she asked her, breathlessly,

“What do you mean? What are you going to do, dear?

“I am going to Dalton Hall,” said Edith, quietly. “We must go in the brougham, and we must quit this.”

Miss Plympton hesitated, and the maid, who was still more terrified, clasped her hands in silent despair. But the porter, who had heard all, now spoke.

“Beg pardon, miss,” said he, “but that lady needn't trouble about it. It's Mr. Wiggins's orders, miss, that on'y you are to go to the Hall.”

“What insufferable insolence!” exclaimed Miss Plympton. “What shocking and abominable arrogance!”

“I do not regard it in the slightest,” said Edith, serenely. “It is only assumption on his part. You are to come with me. If I pass through that gate you are to come also. Come.”

“Oh, my dearest, my own dearest Edith, do not!—wait!—come back and let us talk over what we ought to do. Let us see a lawyer. Let us wait till to-morrow, and see if a stranger like Wiggins can refuse admission to the mistress of Dalton Hall.”

“Beg pardon, mum,” said the porter, “but Mr. Wiggins ain't refusin' admission to Miss Dalton—it's others that he don't want, that's all. The lawyers can't do any thin' agin that.”

“My child,” said Miss Plympton, “do you hear that? You shall not go. This man knows well what he can do. He understands all the worst injustice that can be done in the name of law. His whole life has been lived in the practice of all those iniquities that the law winks at. You see now at the outset what his purpose is. He will admit you, but not your friends. He wishes to get you alone in his power. And why does he not come himself? Why does he use such an agent as this?”

Miss Plympton spoke rapidly, and in excited tones, but her excitement did not affect Edith in the slightest degree.

“I think you are altogether too imaginative,” said she. “His orders are absurd. If I go through that gate, you shall go too. Come.”

“Edith! Edith! I implore you, my darling,” cried Miss Plympton, “do not go. Come back. It will not be long to wait. Come to the village till to-morrow. Let us at least get the advice of a lawyer. The law can surely give an entrance to the rightful owner.”

{Illustration: “HE DREW FROM HIS BREAST A LARGE CLASP-KNIFE."}

“But he doesn't deny an entrance to me,” said Edith, “and if I go, you shall come also. Come.”

Miss Plympton hesitated. She saw that Edith was fully determined to go to Dalton Hall, and she could not bear to part with her. But at the same time she was so terrified at the thought of forcing a way in spite of the opposition of so formidable a villain as Wiggins that she shrank from it. Love at length triumphed over fear, and she followed Edith out of the coach, together with the maid.

Meanwhile the porter had stood in deep perplexity watching this scene, but at length when Miss Plympton had reached the ground and prepared to follow Edith he put himself in front of them.

“Beg pardon, miss,” said he, “but its agin orders for them others to go. It's on'y you that Mr. Wiggins 'll let in.”

“Mr. Wiggins has nothing to say about the matter,” said Edith, coldly.

“But I've got to obey orders,” said the man.

“Will you please stand aside and let me pass?” said Edith.

“I can't let them others in,” said the porter, doggedly. “You may go.”

“John,” said Edith, quietly, “I'm sorry to trouble you, but you must watch this man; and, driver, do you stand at the gate and keep it open.”

At this John flung down his hat upon the road, tore off his coat and tossed it after the hat, and, with a chuckle of something like exultation, prepared to obey his mistress by putting himself in a “scientific” attitude. He saw well enough that the porter was a formidable foe, and his face was a diploma in itself that fully testified to the skill and science of that foe; but John was plucky, and in his prime, and very confident in his own powers. So John stood off and prepared for the fray. On the other hand, the porter was by no means at a loss. As John prepared he backed slowly toward the gate, glaring like a wild beast at his assailant. But John was suddenly interrupted in his movements by the driver.

“See here, young man,” said the latter, who had sprung from the box at Edith's order, “do you stand by the gate, an' I'll tickle that feller with this whip, an' see how he likes it.”

The driver was a stout, solid, muscular fellow, with broad shoulders and bull-dog aspect. In his hand he flourished a heavy whip, and as he spoke his eyes sought out some part of the porter's person at which he might take aim. As he spoke the porter became aware of this second assailant, and a dark and malignant frown lowered over his evil face. He slowly drew from his breast a large clasp-knife which was as formidable as a dagger, and opening this, he held it significantly before him.

But now a new turn was given to the progress of affairs. Had the porter said nothing, Miss Plympton might have overcome her fears far enough to accompany Edith; but his menacing looks and words, and these preparations for a struggle, were too much.

“Edith, my child, my dearest, do not! do not! I can not go; I will not. 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, passing 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 passed 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 grass; 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 grass 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.