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Title: The wife's secret
Author: Ann S. Stephens
Release date: August 31, 2026 [eBook #79478]
Language: English
Original publication: Philadelphia: T. B. Peterson & Brothers, 1864
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/79478
Credits: Richard Tonsing and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from images made available by the HathiTrust Digital Library.)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WIFE'S SECRET ***
THE
WIFE’S SECRET.
BY
MRS. ANN S. STEPHENS.
AUTHOR OF “THE REJECTED WIFE,” “FASHION AND FAMINE,” “THE OLD
HOMESTEAD,” “MARY DERWENT,” “THE HEIRESS,” “THE GULF BETWEEN THEM,”
ETC., ETC.
If fame is won by woman, she must yield
The richest glory of her being up,
Drain her full heart, fling off its golden shield,
And give her holiest love to fill the cup,
Which, like a brimming goblet, rich with wine,
She poureth out upon the world’s broad shrine.
In after years, such thoughts as live and burn,
Are sacred ashes in her funeral urn.
PHILADELPHIA:
T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS,
306 CHESTNUT STREET.
Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1864, by
EDWARD STEPHENS.
In the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the United States, in
and for the Eastern District of Pennsylvania.
This Book has been dramatized by the author, and copyright of the drama
secured.
DEDICATION.
TO
JOHN NEAL, OF PORTLAND, MAINE,
ONE OF THE MOST
VALUED FRIENDS THAT I EVER HAD,
OR EXPECT TO HAVE,
THIS
VOLUME IS GRATEFULLY DEDICATED.
ANN S. STEPHENS.
WASHINGTON CITY, FEB. 29TH, 1864.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
CHAPTER I.
UP THE RIVER 25
CHAPTER II.
A COUNTRY RIDE 31
CHAPTER III.
AUNT HETTY 38
CHAPTER IV.
MIDNIGHT IN THE STONE MANSION 46
CHAPTER V.
GILLIAN AND HER UNCLE 49
CHAPTER VI.
OLD TIMES AND THEIR ROMANCE 55
CHAPTER VII.
THE CLOVE ROAD 66
CHAPTER VIII.
DOWN THE PRECIPICE 74
CHAPTER IX.
THE PACKAGE OF LETTERS 81
CHAPTER X.
THE SISTERS AWAY FROM HOME 87
CHAPTER XI.
END OF UNCLE DANIEL’S STORY 93
CHAPTER XII.
THE NIGHT VISIT OF AUNT HETTY 98
CHAPTER XIII.
THE GILDED TEMPTATION 102
CHAPTER XIV.
THE AUTHORESS AT HOME 110
CHAPTER XV.
MRS. RANSOM’S UNEXPECTED VISITORS 122
CHAPTER XVI.
SANCTIMONIOUS RESPECTABILITY 136
CHAPTER XVII.
THAT STRANGE MAN IN THE STREET 145
CHAPTER XVIII.
THE TWO OLD WOMEN 152
CHAPTER XIX.
THE BLOOMINGDALE COTTAGE 163
CHAPTER XX.
AT THE OLD HOMESTEAD IN ROCKLAND COUNTY 171
CHAPTER XXI.
DINAH’S TOILET IN THE GARRET 179
CHAPTER XXII.
MARTHA’S TRIP TO NEW YORK WITH HER MAID DINAH 187
CHAPTER XXIII.
THE DOUBLE PROPOSAL 199
CHAPTER XXIV.
MICHAEL HURST CHANGES HIS LODGINGS 220
CHAPTER XXV.
GILLIAN’S CONFESSION 226
CHAPTER XXVI.
THE SUNSHINE AND SHADOWS OF LOVE 239
CHAPTER XXVII.
THE OLD CHEST OF DRAWERS 251
CHAPTER XXVIII.
THE UNWILLING ACCOMPLICE 260
CHAPTER XXIX.
OPENING OF THE BALL 269
CHAPTER XXX.
THE FIRST WALTZ 279
CHAPTER XXXI.
THE MASTER OF THE FESTIVAL 289
CHAPTER XXXII.
MARTHA HART’S FIRST POLKA 300
CHAPTER XXXIII.
THE MARRIAGE CERTIFICATE 317
CHAPTER XXXIV.
THE UNCERTAIN WITNESS 326
CHAPTER XXXV.
AUNT HETTY’S EVIDENCE 335
CHAPTER XXXVI.
FAMILY CONSULTATIONS 341
CHAPTER XXXVII.
MRS. RANSOM’S RETURN 349
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
THE WESTERN CLEARING 364
CHAPTER XXXIX.
THE BODY IN THE WOODS 383
CHAPTER XL.
THE DESERTED CABIN 407
CHAPTER XLI.
THE TRIAL AND EXECUTION 421
CHAPTER XLII.
THE BLACKSMITH’S SHOP 439
CHAPTER XLIII.
AUTHORSHIP 444
CHAPTER XLIV.
THE REUNION 473
THE WIFE’S SECRET.
CHAPTER I.
UP THE RIVER.
A steamer was making its way very quietly up the Hudson. She was a small
affair, mostly devoted to freight, and ran to one of those river towns
which are of little note in themselves, but form an outlet for the
products of many a rich hill-side and valley lying back of that noble
stream.
It made a pretty object on the river, because the season was autumn,
when every thing that lives and moves through the hazy atmosphere takes
some form of beauty. It was soon after the first frosts; the forests
were heavy with a sumptuous richness of leaves, and their gorgeous tints
were reflected in the water, till the currents that were in shadow
seemed running with liquid jewels.
So the steamer moved on with the breath of that soft Indian summer
sighing across its deck, so quietly, that the shadows through which it
passed deepened without being broken, and the sunshine laughed around it
as it does when the water-birds are frolicking, turning the foam to
pearls and the spray to diamonds.
Two persons sat upon the deck—a man of fifty, wrapped in a
travelling-cloak of foreign make, and a young girl of seventeen, also
muffled in a cloth mantle lined with fur, in which she shivered as you
see a poor Italian grayhound under all its pretty housings when winter
begins to threaten us with cold.
Yet the girl was tall and fair, with that charming type of loveliness
which makes an American woman a model all over the world—so delicate, so
bright, and, alas! so evanescent is her beauty. Her air was foreign. The
wonder with which she gazed abroad upon the hills, clothed in their
autumnal foliage, bespoke her a stranger to the land; but her gray eyes,
the abundance of rich auburn hair that fell in waves from under her hood
of blue silk, and the energy of mind that spoke in every sweet feature
was truly American, as the gorgeous foliage upon the hill-sides.
But there she sat upon the deck shivering in her furs, though the wind
came laden with the breath of dying fern-leaves, and to one accustomed
to our climate would have seemed balmy and fragrant rather than cold.
“Papa, do you hear me?”
The gentleman started and looked around with a nervous sort of terror in
his eyes. Her voice had drawn his thoughts back from the long-ago with a
pang, but he answered gently and smiling—
“Well, Gillian?”
The girl had spoken in Italian, and her voice rendered even that sweet
language more melodious by its rich tones. Her father answered in
English, and in that tongue she spoke the second time—
“Father, why have we come to this country? Is it to live here forever?”
“It is your native land, Gillian. Look abroad and tell me if Italy is
more beautiful?”
“It is strange, gorgeous, oppressively gorgeous, father; but those grand
old trees drink up all the warmth. I am chilled and lonely here.”
“It is my fault, Gillian. A daughter of America should not be chilled by
a wind like this. I have done wrong to keep you away from home till you
have forgotten your native land.”
“Not quite, papa. I remember it a little: the spot which I recollect is
not like these hills, but a broken country, scattered with houses, with
one at the foot of a rugged hill, which seemed to be my home. I only
recollect it at one time, and in one way. The door was open; a glow of
sunset fell upon the sill, crossing softly along the room in which I sat
playing. I remember the very dress I wore. It had a pink tint, and was
protected by a little white apron, rounded at the corners and frilled
all round; in that apron I held some flowers, a handful of green apples,
and a doll’s tea-set, huddled together.”
The girl paused, smiling: then she suddenly added, with a half-forced
laugh, for there was something in her father’s eyes that made her
hesitate—
“These are trivial things to remember so long, but somehow they will
always come up, clear as a picture, when I think of this land. I could
almost promise to recognize the very pattern of my dress on the moment,
if it were before me; as for the toys, nothing has ever seemed so pretty
to me since.”
“And is this all? Have you no remembrance of the house or its inmates?”
asked the father, in a low voice.
“Of the house? Oh, yes! it was of stone; rough, heavy stone, with wings
and a porch, over which some vine crept, and sent its masses down like a
curtain. In front was a great tree, maple I should think——”
“No, walnut!”
“Oh, walnut, was it? Very well, I know that it seemed a tall tree,
through which the sunset shimmered like gold. Beyond that, on the right,
sloping down a hill, lay an orchard, from which I had stolen the green
apples in my apron.”
“And this is all?”
“How can you think so, father? Would that make a complete picture? No!
no! In the centre of the room stood a lady—a tall, beautiful
lady—combing her hair. I think, papa, but am not quite certain, that I
had torn away her comb while she was striving to take the green apples
from my apron; for I have a feeling that she was angry with me, and that
I had conquered in something. Was I a very wilful, naughty child, papa?”
“I am afraid you were not the only wilful one in those days, Gillian,”
said the father, sadly. “But go on; this is a new revelation to me; why,
child, you were but little more than two years old then. But the—the
lady?”
“She stood before the looking-glass, holding her hair up with one hand.
It was bright and heavy, sweeping down over her arm in waves; the
color—yes! father—the color was like mine; and I never thought of it
till now. But the lady herself was tall and, and—indeed she was so like
myself, when I dress my hair before the glass, that it must have been
all a dream. Only, papa, did I ever wear a dress like that pink calico,
with a white vine running over it? And, if you ever knew such a lady,
did she wear a dress of very dark crimson, sprinkled with tiny leaves of
a brighter red?”
“Yes! Gillian, yes! She wore a dress like that—an India silk, rare in
those days.”
“And the lady herself? Was she a real, human being? Did I ever know her?
Could this picture be in reality my old home?”
“You will know in a little time, Gillian.”
“And the lady—shall I see her?”
A cloud came over Mr. Bentley’s face, and he turned away without
answering. But his daughter was not one to be put readily from any
purpose. She drew close to his side, and resting one hand on his arm,
bent lovingly toward him.
“Was this lady my mother?” she said, almost in a whisper.
He answered, in the same low voice, “Yes! Gillian. The lady was your
mother.”
He raised the hand which still lay upon his knee in saying this, wrung
it with a violence she had never witnessed before, and, arising
suddenly, went down to the little cabin, waving her back as she
attempted to follow.
Gillian looked after him, surprised and almost terrified. What had she
said or done, to arouse so much emotion? Was it wrong for a child to
inquire regarding the mother, who had died almost before her
remembrance? These thoughts disturbed her greatly, and, joined to the
loneliness around, left her sad.
After a little, Mr. Bentley returned and resumed the conversation of his
own accord.
“We are going,” he said, “to the house which rests so marvellously in
your memory, Gillian. It is now inhabited by your mother’s brother—a
plain, simple farmer, who has held possession ever since I went abroad.”
“My mother’s brother, papa? Her own brother, and my uncle? I never knew
before that we had relatives in this country. What is he like? Is he
married? Has he any children—daughters? Indeed I hope so. How strange it
will seem to have relatives!”
Mr. Bentley smiled gravely at this ardent outburst, and answered her
questions one after another.
“Your uncle Hart, I have just said, is an honest, hardy, frank farmer,
who has earned his own bread with toil and energy all his life. He has
been married, and is a widower, with one child, who keeps the house.
This is all I can tell you before you have an opportunity of judging for
yourself.”
“And will that be soon, papa? I am getting very tired of this little
craft. It seemed pretty enough at a distance, but really it is not
particularly comfortable.”
“Well, have a little patience, and your pilgrimage is ended. You see
where the hills overtop each other at our left. No, not there, but
farther up stream. Well, between those hills is a valley, through which
a road passes into the country. There our water-travel ends, and
to-night we shall sleep in the old homestead.”
“How mournfully you speak, papa! This visit home seems to give you no
pleasure! And yet you were so determined on it!”
“I am far beyond the age of ardent feelings, Gillian. Few things excite
me to pleasure, now.”
“But pain! Oh, papa, if age takes away all capacities for pleasure, and
leaves the powers of pain untouched, I pray God to take me early from
the earth,” cried the young girl, with tears in her eyes; and taking her
father’s hand, she kissed it tenderly.
Mr. Bentley drew his hand away, not angrily, but as one who shrinks from
any unusual display of sentiment. His action was not that of a cold man,
but of one who shielded deep feelings from a sudden assault.
“I did not say this, Gillian. All seasons of life have their blessings,
if we only learn to use them. But see how quietly we are drawing towards
the hills. In a little time we shall be on shore.”
Gillian started up and went into the cabin, a little excited and eager
to leave the vessel. New scenes were before her, and at her age novelty
had a vivid charm, come in what form it might.
CHAPTER II.
A COUNTRY RIDE.
An hour after Gillian disappeared from the deck, the steamer put in to
her port, a little cove breaking up between the mountains, that had
seemed to overtop each other at a distance, but which now revealed a
narrow valley opening back into the country, with the germ of a village
lying at its mouth and crowding close down to the water.
A wharf, barricaded with piles of split wood ready for shipment,
received the steamer, which took the inhabitants by surprise, and
created no little excitement among the wood-cutters, who hung around a
grocery-store on the wharf. The arrival of a steamer was something, but
the two persons, who stood upon the deck, were so unlike the passengers
usually brought to the little harbor, that they excited a general and
lively curiosity.
Before Mr. Bentley and his daughter could reach the wharf, half a dozen
men had boarded the steamer, while a group of children, who had been
shying oyster-shells into the river and fishing with pin-hooks from the
timbers, crowded close, with open mouths and looks of common wonder.
Mr. Bentley inquired of a man, who approached him first, if any
conveyance could be obtained at the village for the interior; but the
man, true to his Yankee origin, answered by another question:
“Was the gentleman straight from New York?”
Mr. Bentley smiled; for the first time he felt completely at home. This
peculiarity of his countrymen went to his heart like a welcome.
“Yes! he was directly from New York.”
“Come from further along, though, I reckon?” rejoined the countryman.
“Yes!”
“East, mebby?—this town settled by down-easters.”
“No! from Italy.”
“Whar?” cried the man, in open-mouthed perplexity. “Whar?”
“Beyond seas,” answered Mr. Bentley, with great good humor; for the
man’s curiosity awoke a thousand kindly feelings.
“Beyond seas? Oh, yes! Travel all the way by land or water, if I ain’t
too bold?”
Gillian’s face sparkled. The conversation delighted her.
“By water all the way,” answered Mr. Bentley, reproving her with a
glance, and turning to the man again.
“Now pray inform me if there is any chance of obtaining a conveyance,
which will take myself and daughter some twenty miles into the country?”
“Your daughter, ha? It kinder struck me that the gal must be something
to you. Harnsome as a pictur; ain’t she, though?”
Gillian laughed outright, and the countryman drowned her voice in an
answering laugh.
“Knew it the minit I sot eyes on you a standing together,” he said,
addressing her directly. “’Spose you calculate to ketch a beau in these
parts? Well, there ain’t the least mite of danger but you’ll do it,
right off the reel. Now, how old might you be?”
Gillian was half frightened out of her merriment by his ardent
curiosity. But she answered that he had not yet replied to her father
about the “carriage.”
“Carriage?” answered the man, sinking both hands into his pockets and
ejaculating his surprise in a broken whistle. “Why, I reckon the only
carriage you’ll be likely to get in these parts’ll be a Pennsylvania
wagon, with two chairs sot in behind, and a board laid across for the
driver: that’s the kind of carriages our gals ride in.”
“Well, papa, I suppose that will do,” cried Gillian, delighted with the
idea of a ride in the open air, and still more delighted with the
promise of this novel conveyance.
But the countryman was not to be so easily put off.
“Any more family?” he inquired, turning to Mr. Bentley.
“I will tell you that, and give a silver dollar in to the bargain, if
you bring me a respectable conveyance to the wharf, in just twenty
minutes,” said Bentley, looking at his watch.
“But how much’ll you agree to give for the team, with a good-looking
driver that your gal won’t be ashamed to ride behind—throwing in
horse-feed and a bite on the way?”
Mr. Bentley named a sum so liberal that the man forgot even curiosity in
his haste to secure it. In less time than that appointed, he came
dashing down to the wharf in a stout wagon, which contained one
comfortable seat, and a piece of rough board answering for the driver’s
accommodation. A pair of beautiful iron-gray horses, that might have
befitted a queen’s carriage, gave promise of a quick if not comfortable
journey.
Into the wagon the luggage which had been brought from the steamer was
placed, and in a fit of extra politeness the countryman threw a buffalo
robe over the seat, forming a rather imposing affair, of which Mr.
Bentley and his daughter took possession. Then he gave a shout, and a
young man came forth from a neighboring store, ready to act as jehu for
his father.
Away they drove over the hills, and along the beautiful lakes, that
render the basin of Rockland county scarcely less than a wild paradise.
Every thing was strange and new to Gillian. The forest trees, grouped in
masses of red, yellow, maroon, green, and brown, all relieving and
brightening each other; the broken hollows choked up with hemlocks and
pines; the ferns and mosses creeping down to the wayside! each sending
out some new fragrance soothed while it invigorated and filled her with
delight.
As they approached the western hills that bounded the county, Mr.
Bentley grew silent and anxious—so silent and pale that Gillian ceased
to talk, and grew lonely. The driver, who had amused her with his blunt
questions and shrewd remarks, now began to be a little curious about
their destination. Hitherto Mr. Bentley had told him what road to take,
and where to turn. But now the sun was on the verge of the horizon; the
western outline was one glow of gold; and the gorgeous trees swayed to
and fro in its light, blending sky and earth together in rich harmony.
“Well, now, I suppose there would be no harm in asking where we are
driving to?” inquired the man, leaning back, with one hand on his seat,
and checking his horses with the other.
Mr. Bentley, whose eyes had been fixed on one point, with a strained
gaze, directed the man’s attention to a distant dwelling, which stood
upon the slope of the hills, and answered in a husky voice,
“To that house.”
There was something in his voice that impressed the man, who merely
answered, “just so,” and prepared to drive on. But one of the horses had
got a pebble in the hollow of his hoof, and he was obliged to dismount
from his seat and remedy the accident. As he stood in the road, with the
horse’s foot bent back between his knees, striving to beat the pebble
out with a stone, a hearty voice came out of a side road, and directly a
man appeared, riding on a heavy farm-horse, and mounted on two plethoric
flour-bags, which were flung across the saddle.
“Hello, there! What’s the difficulty? Lamed your hoss or broke a
linch-pin?”
“Nothing to speak of,” answered the driver. “One of the horses has got a
stone in his hoof, and limps a trifle. I’m obliged to you all the same.”
The farmer rode up to the wagon, looked down at the horse, who held his
hoof daintily, with the edge to the ground, and then took a friendly
survey of the travellers.
“Strangers, I reckon?” he muttered. Then turning to the driver he
commenced an acquaintance in the usual way.
“Any news stirrin’ from where you come from, neighbor?”
“Nothing to speak of.”
“Just from the river?”
“Started from that point to-day.”
“Crops good in that vicinity?”
“From fair to middling.”
All this time the farmer kept his eyes on Mr. Bentley, who fixed uneasy
glances on his face while he was speaking, but turned away, perplexed
and uncertain in the end.
As the driver mounted to his seat again, the farmer prepared to ride on,
but with evident hesitation, for he laid the bridle down on his horse’s
neck twice, as if about to address the travellers, but took it up again
and urged his horse into a slow jog.
Now Mr. Bentley seemed to shake off his uncertainty. He bent forward in
nervous haste, and bade the driver call that man back. The sound of a
voice made the farmer turn, and he came trotting up to the wagon,
evidently glad to be recalled.
“Tell me,” said Bentley, leaning toward him, “is your name Hart? And do
you live in the stone house on the slope of the hill yonder?”
“My name is Hart, sir; and that stone house is my home, till the owner
claims it,” answered the farmer, promptly.
“Daniel,” said Mr. Bentley, reaching forth his hand, “have you entirely
forgotten me?”
The farmer took the slender hand in his hard palm, grasped it, and was
silent for a moment. But his broad features worked, and at last his eyes
filled, and, while shaking Mr. Bentley’s hand, he turned his head aside,
ashamed of his weakness.
It is strange how little people have to say, who meet for the first
time, after years of separation! The first words that passed between
these two persons, after a mutual recognition, were simple enough:
“This is my daughter,” said Bentley.
“Not now. I’d rather look at her in—in the old house,” almost sobbed the
farmer, keeping his head turned away. “I’ve got a gal too; not like what
she was; but a likely critter enough. I’ll ride forard, if you’d just as
lief, and tell her you’re a-comin’!”
With this the farmer beat his heels against the sides of his horse, and
dashed off, ashamed of the emotion that had heaved his broad chest with
a tempest of old recollections.
Gillian looked after him, her lips parted and her eyes dilating with
wonder. To her there was something ludicrous in the heavy trot which
kept the farmer in constant motion on his meal-bags, and she broke into
a laugh when the horse dashed into a skeltering gallop, that threatened
to dislodge the whole load at every awkward leap. Little did she know of
the genuine feeling which went with that jumbling picture.
Mr. Bentley turned upon her with an angry flash of the eyes, and said,
sternly,
“Gillian Bentley, that man is your mother’s only brother, her
benefactor. Laugh now, if you have the heart.”
Gillian’s mirth broke into a sob. Never in her life had she been
addressed so harshly before. The surprise took away her breath.
“Oh, father!”
“Her brother, girl. A man whom I hold in reverence above all others on
the earth.”
“Father, forgive me!”
Gillian was trembling from head to foot. She could have beaten herself
for that wanton laugh. Mr. Bentley drew her to his side, and strove to
smile upon her. But it was not easy, even for this forgiving caress, to
reconcile the sensitive girl to herself.
Meantime the driver had started his horses, unconscious of the little
domestic drama going on behind his back; and every moment drew the
travellers nearer home.
CHAPTER III.
AUNT HETTY.
When Daniel Hart rode up in front of his house, Martha stood in the
door, waiting his approach with some impatience. It was baking-day, her
flour had given out, the great oven in the back kitchen had burned down,
and was getting cold; in short the family baking for that whole week was
in danger for want of a measure of flour to mould the bread with, and
that lay in the bags swung across her father’s saddle. So out she ran at
once, with her sleeves tucked up, her plump, white arms ready for
instant work, and a tin basin in her hand.
“Come, father, jump down and untie the bags: I am in a desperate hurry.
Another ten minutes and we should have had to heat over again. I’ve got
the most splendid pan of beans, all ready for baking, with such a lump
of pork on the top, all cut in checkers, and dropping open like a rose.
Come, hurry up, do!”
Daniel Hart got down from his horse, and swung one of the bags over his
shoulder, and marched into the porch. Somehow he did not feel able to
speak on commonplace things, but untied the bag in silence, watching
Martha as she took out the flour in handfuls and filled her basin.
“Martha,” he said, at last, “is Aunt Hetty in the kitchen?”
The girl lifted her rosy face, with a look of surprise. There was
something unusual in the father’s voice.
“Aunt Hetty? Yes, father. Where else should she be? I left her raking up
the coals with a long shovel.”
“Martha, wait a moment. There’ll be company here in a little while. I
met your uncle, Joseph Bentley, and his darter on the cross-roads; and
they’ll be here in a few minutes, without fail.”
“Uncle Joseph Bentley and his daughter from foreign parts!” cried
Martha, all in a flutter of excitement. “Goodness me, what shall we get
for supper? The baking won’t be out of the oven this two hours. Oh,
father, do go kill a chicken, and I’ll put down a short-cake—that, with
preserves and honey, will have to answer.”
Away Martha ran, bearing the flour between her plump little hands, while
her apron streamed behind her, and the bright curls danced and twinkled
around her face.
“Aunt Hetty! I say, Aunt Hetty, what do you think? Uncle Joseph Bentley
and Cousin Gillian—what a name—are coming here to-day. You can hear the
wagon tugging up the hill. Hetty! Hetty! where have you hid? Aunt
Hetty!”
“I am here,” answered a faint, struggling voice, from the back porch;
and Mehitable Hart came in, white and still as usual. But a less excited
person would have remarked that her face, always colorless, was now
almost ghostly, and that her small hands shook like leaves when she
attempted to take the basin from her niece.
“Don’t take it all. Leave me enough for a short-cake. No! that’s not it.
Leave enough out for that, and I’ll mould the bread. You look tired out.
Here’s the butter, and there lies the rolling-pin. Goodness gracious!
how fast they come! You can fairly hear the wheels clatter. But there’s
a good deal of work in ten minutes: so now for it!”
Suiting the action to the words, Martha dusted the table with flour,
plunged her arms into the kneading-tray, cut off a mass of dough, and
went to work with wonderful vigor, rolling, pinching, and smoothing the
shapeless substance into as dainty a loaf as ever dexterous hands
moulded.
“There!” she exclaimed, smiling, as she laid the first white globe in
its pan, “if they want a handsomer loaf than that, let them knead it, I
say. Dear me, Aunt Hetty, how your hands shake! Do call old Dinah to
roll out the cake, and go fix up a little. Put on a black silk apron and
a nice cap: that’ll make a lady of you in no time!”
“Yes!” answered Aunt Hetty, in a low, hoarse voice, wringing her hands
together with passionate violence, rather than from an effort to divest
themselves of the clinging flour, “yes! niece, I am almost tired out;”
and with these words trembling on her lips, the little woman opened a
door and glided up a flight of back stairs to her own room.
When once there, she flung up the sash, looked wildly down the road;
then creeping back to a far corner of the room, sat down, moaning
softly, like a wounded kid.
At each new rattle of the wheels, she gave a start, and looked piteously
around, as if seeking some covert; and when Martha came in, dusting her
hands, all rosy and smiling with excitement, the little woman darted to
her bureau, and began a vague search after something, while a timid
apology for not being ready trembled unuttered on her white lips.
“Here, aunt! what on earth possesses you? That’s my bureau, and here’s
your cap. Let me put it on for you. Why, how you shiver, and this poor
little face is as white as curd. Wait a minute: this’ll never do. Let me
hunt up the pink bows, and pin them on: with all this white you look
like a ghost!”
Aunt Hetty sat down, both hands dropping helplessly to her lap, while
she resigned herself to the busy fingers of her niece, with a frightened
look, growing paler and paler, spite of the pink ribbons, as the wagon
drew near the house.
“Here,” said Martha, taking the old lady’s face between her hands, and
kissing her cold lips, “you are neat as a new pin: only do cheer up a
little! What always frightens you so when company comes? Now I’ll fix up
a trifle myself, and go down. Where on earth is my brown dress? Dear me,
this hook never will fasten!”
Uttering these broken ejaculations, Martha Hart arrayed her pretty
figure in a dress of dark merino, put on a neat muslin collar with cuffs
to match, and hurried down to receive the coming guests. She had so long
been the leading spirit of the household, that it seemed the most
natural thing in the world for her to go out on the front porch, where
the flour bags still lay in a heap, and wait for the visitors to descend
from their homely conveyance; for, though a mere girl in all essentials
she was far more mistress of the house than Aunt Hetty, its nominal
head.
Still, with all her brightness and sweet ways, as her father called
them, Martha was a little shy, and really modest. The presence of
strangers made her cheeks glow like a peach, while her large, brown eyes
cast timid glances from under the long fringes that would have provoked
admiration from an artist, and which sent John Downs’s heart into his
mouth the moment he sat his eyes on her.
Daniel Hart went out to the wagon as it drew up, and, before Mr. Bentley
could dismount, took Gillian in his arms, holding her close to his
bosom, while he looked in her face.
Gillian was surprised to feel his great heart swell against her side,
and to see his massive features quivering like those of an infant. When
he set her upon the ground his eyes were full of tears—so full that he
could not see his daughter through the mist. She drew close to her
father, whispering softly,
“Did he love my mother very much, papa?”
But Mr. Bentley did not answer. His feelings were not so warmly
impulsive as those he witnessed: contact with society had driven them
deeper into his nature. While the farmer’s heart heaved, his only stood
still.
“And this,” he said, approaching Martha, “is my niece, no doubt.
Gillian, she should be about your own age.”
The two girls looked at each other shyly at first, but after a moment
Gillian ran up the steps with a bright smile on her face, and one hand
extended, for she saw, by the blushes that came and went on Martha’s
face, a thousand unspoken welcomes that went to her heart at once.
“So you are my cousin; I am very glad!” she exclaimed. “Why, it seems
like home already!”
“This is your home,” said Daniel Hart, coming up the steps, with a
spirit of self-abnegation breaking from every feature. “The house, the
land, from the hill top to the turnpike, is all your father’s: as for
us, we do not own a foot.”
“Indeed! well, that’s of no sort of consequence, I fancy!” cried
Gillian, looking around: “oh! there is the orchard, and here is the
great walnut. I remember it all—all but the—the——”
Gillian broke off suddenly, shocked by her own thoughtlessness. She saw
at once that it was the memory of her mother which had made her father
so pale, and filled that strong man’s eyes with tears.
“It is a beautiful view,” she added, softly; “some day, my cousin, we
will go all over it. Dear me! who is that?”
The two girls had walked into the hall as Gillian was speaking, and
stood in the door of the family sitting-room. Opposite them was a long,
old-fashioned mantle-glass, and in it Gillian saw the figure of a little
woman shrinking away behind the window drapery, so pale and terrified
that it made her start and open her eyes with wonder.
“Oh! it is only Aunt Hetty; you are sure to like Aunt Hetty; come in and
speak to her!” cried Martha, cheerfully; “she’s a little backward with
company, but the dearest, nicest—oh! indeed——”
Martha broke off with a little start, for that instant Aunt Hetty came
forward, with a swift, noiseless movement, and stood close to Gillian,
gazing in her face, with a scared, earnest look.
“Sister! oh, sister!”
The words dropped rapidly from her lips, and she caught hold of
Gillian’s dress, with a tender, pleading motion that perplexed the young
girl exceedingly.
“Why, aunt, what is the matter? You haven’t got a sister in the wide
world that I know of. This is our lady cousin from foreign parts. I told
you all about it up-stairs,” said Martha.
“I know—I know!” said Aunt Hetty, lifting one little hand to her
forehead. “It is Sarah’s child, not—not herself. I know that, but cannot
realize it. Let me look at myself.”
She went up to the mantle-glass, and peered at the pale face that met
her for more than a minute. When she turned away, the most wan smile
that Gillian ever saw gleamed on her lips.
“Can you believe it?” she said, mournfully, pointing to Martha. “I was
like her then!”
“Why, aunt, how strangely you talk!” said Martha, bewildered by this
singular address.
“Do I?” murmured the old lady. “Do I? What was it all about?” She seemed
tempted to address Gillian again, in the same vague way, but with one of
her warm-hearted impulses the young girl threw her arms around the
little woman and kissed her two or three times. “So you were my mother’s
sister. I understand it now—and I look so much like her; of course that
must be it. No wonder it disturbs you, aunt. Dear! how strange it seems
to call any one aunt. Won’t you kiss me, dear lady?”
The old lady began to tremble under the caresses which the bright girl
lavished on her, and Gillian remembered, after, that she did not return
her kiss, but rather struggled in her embrace than responded to it.
“Oh, that’s right,” the farmer called out, entering the hall. “That’s
right, Mehitable: welcome the gal with a whole heart; she must not feel
strange among us.”
“I could not feel strange here, Uncle Daniel,” cried Gillian, smiling
brightly while the tears leaped to her eyes. “See how I have got all the
names! I, who never had a relative before. Uncle, aunt, cousin! Isn’t it
delightful?”
“That’s kind and hearty,” replied the farmer. “Take our cousin
up-stairs, Martha, while this young chap and I bring in the trunks. Aunt
Hetty will see about supper while you get acquainted.”
The two girls went up-stairs, but directly Martha came down again to
hurry the trunks. John Downs had one on his shoulder, mounting the
stairs. Martha stepped aside to let him pass, and then she observed,
with a blush, what remarkably fine eyes the young fellow had. Amid all
her excitement this thought would come back to her mind all the evening;
for, according to the custom of those times, the driver sat down at the
same table with his passengers, and Martha was placed directly opposite
him during supper.
I don’t pretend to know how it happened, but when Martha Hart went to
bed that night she had learned that John Downs owned two-thirds of a
sloop on the river, beside the iron-gray horses, the Pennsylvania wagon,
and some bank-stock in New York—that his father had been one of the
first settlers in the river town where he made his home; and altogether
she gathered a very satisfactory account of his antecedents, though she
certainly had no sort of business with the information; but then Martha
came naturally to her curiosity, for all that part of the country had
been settled from New England.
CHAPTER IV.
MIDNIGHT IN THE STONE MANSION.
That night, when all the family were in bed and the hush of repose lay
on every thing, Mr. Bentley and Daniel Hart sat together over the brands
of a hickory-wood fire that had burned low on the sitting-room hearth.
There was a strong contrast between the two men, both in character and
in person—not the contrast of good and evil qualities, but of
intellectual organization. One was delicate, sensitive, and reflective
by nature; all these qualities had been sharpened and refined by an
education which few Americans could boast. The other was grand in his
honesty, brave as a lion in every sense of the word, large-hearted and
of vigorous mind, well informed, and yet almost entirely without
absolute education. He was progressive in thought, but pronounced his
words exactly as his father had done before him; but his opinion had
power in the neighborhood, even among educated men; and he was one of
those persons of whom it is said, “He is a whole-souled man, whose word
is as good as his bond.”
Such men may become what the world call “well off,” but they seldom get
rich—seldom care for more than an easy competency, which they enjoy with
zest, because earned by labor.
Such was Daniel Hart, as he sat in his oaken easy-chair by the fire-side
that night. His stout form filled it comfortably without crowding, and
his great, hard hand rested on the arm as he leaned towards his
brother-in-law. His air was earnest, and something of curiosity was
expressed in his features, but they were frank and open as the day. You
knew at a glance that whatever he felt would be spoken out honestly.
On the other hand, Mr. Bentley sat in his chair, tall,
well-proportioned, without leaning to excess in any way; quiet and
watchful. High-toned refinement, an excess of cultivation, and those
resources that spring from it, were written in his features. He did not
seem less truthful than the farmer: what you saw was sincere and
honorable; but there existed depths of feeling and hidden thoughts in
that man’s nature, impenetrable to his best friend. His soul was like
the waters of Niagara, just below the Falls—deep and turbulent
underneath, but tranquil on the surface. You knew that storms were in
those depths, but could neither see nor hear them.
But the farmer’s nature was like the waters of Lake Superior, clear and
transparent. There was not a thought of his being that did not shine
through like the pebbles and sand of that pure lake.
“Tell me,” said the strong man, with a quiver of the voice, while he
looked upon the waning fire as through a mist, the tears lay so close to
his eyes; “tell me, brother-in-law, how it was that my sister died in
those foreign parts. We never had the particulars: only read in the
papers that she was gone. You wrote to us, I don’t doubt, but the letter
never came, and to this day Hetty and I are uncertain how it all
happened.”
“And you have never heard?” said the other, in a low voice, leaning back
in his chair, and shrouding his eyes with one hand.
“Not a word since you left here, nearly fifteen years ago, except what
reached us from a New York paper. There we found that poor Sarah had
died, and that was all.”
“And you made no further inquiries?”
“How could I? Who was there for us to ask about her? I went down to New
York to inquire, for Hetty was almost distracted for a good while, and I
was afraid she would pine herself to death; but there was no one to tell
me any thing. It seemed as if Sarah and her child had drifted from our
home and been lost in the fog—she went so far out of our reach before
she died.”
“And you grieved over her loss?”
“Grieved over her loss! Who could help it? Wasn’t she the salt of the
earth, our Sarah? Wasn’t she like an angel of light on her father’s
hearth, before you took her away?”
Mr. Bentley pressed his hand close to his eyes and groaned within
himself.
“I don’t think much of good looks, and I ain’t sure that Sarah was what
folks call a beautiful woman; but I tell you, sir, there was something
about her face when she talked, and in her eyes when she smiled, that no
woman’s face ever had for me before or since. That look would bring me
to her feet like a dog, no matter how much I was sot again what she
wanted.” The stout man paused in his speech and swept one hand across
his face. Then he spoke again with more calmness:
“Mr. Bentley, when you took that gal from under my father’s roof, the
light seemed to go out of the old house with her, and it never came back
again. Hetty, you know, was always nervous and afraid of her own shadow,
still she kept up wonderfully while Sarah was with her; but when she
went away, the poor little thing wilted right down, and she never has
seemed to cheer up since. You wouldn’t a known our Hetty, I dare say;
she’s sort of withered into nothing since that news came. If young Mike
Hurst did not come to see her now and then, she wouldn’t know there was
a world outside of the house. She’s dreadful melancholy; the only time I
ever heard her talk up pert was when he was here last summer’s a year.”
“And who is Mike Hurst?” inquired Bentley, dropping his hand, while a
gloom came to his eyes.
“Well, I don’t rightly know, myself, but I believe he’s an orphan boy
that our gals picked up in New York afore Sarah was married. I don’t
right like the fellow, but Hetty won’t hear a word agin him from
anybody. You can’t wake her up on any thing but that. But this isn’t
what I sot up to talk about. Tell me while we’re alone, how my sister
died.”
“I cannot tell you. I cannot talk of her. It wrings my heart too
bitterly,” answered Bentley, and without another word he left the room.
CHAPTER V.
GILLIAN AND HER UNCLE.
When Daniel Hart was left alone, he sat for a moment troubled by the
outburst of passionate feeling with which Bentley had left the room.
Daniel Hart thought over the old times till the great, brave heart in
his bosom swelled heavily, and he arose from his chair, pacing up and
down the room with his hands locked behind him, and the balls of his two
thumbs pressed against each other, as was his habit when drawn into deep
or disagreeable reflection. He was not aware that the tramp of his heavy
shoes resounded through the house, but kept on step, step, step, like a
sentinel on duty, till at last the door opened, and the bright face of
Gillian Bentley looked in.
“Ah, it is you, Uncle Daniel, and all alone,” she said, closing the door
after her. “I’m so glad. Every thing seems strange and still here. I
cannot sleep, try ever so much. Don’t look at me so. Indeed I tried, but
the moon came blinking in through the hickory branches, and up I sprang,
put on my dressing-gown, huddled myself into a shawl, and sat down by
the open window till I am quite chilled through.”
“It was dangerous business,” said Hart, with a quiver in his voice.
“Like your mother, too—very like your mother, gal.”
“Ah, I was thinking of her, my poor mother, when the moonlight came in:
it seems as if she must be somewhere in this old house waiting for me,
Uncle Hart. You’re not sleepy, I am sure, by the way you walk. Sit here
in this great chair, and let me snuggle down on the footstool by your
knee, while you tell me about my mother—my splendid, beautiful
mother—for I have her features here, deep, deep in my heart. It was the
first memory of my life buried there, Uncle Daniel.”
Gillian threw one arm over the farmer’s shoulder, and with a little
gentle force led him back to the oak chair, while she sunk down to the
stool at his feet with the grace and sweep of a bird of paradise when it
settles to rest.
“There now, Uncle Daniel, just imagine me your daughter ten years old,
determined to be naughty and to keep you up half the night, while I try
to believe that you have given me one good scolding, and made up as a
dutiful papa is bound to do.”
“Wall,” said Uncle Daniel, and a broad smile swept over his face, spite
of the trouble that spoke in his voice, “Wall, now, what shall we talk
about? What can an old chap like me have to say to a fine lady that
comes down at midnight in her silks and satins like a queen, and wants
to make believe sociable? It’s like a game-cock coming in among a lot of
guinea hens and turkey gobblers: they have nothing to do but to give up
the yard and huddle under some old cart out of the way.”
“Am I so very unlike everybody here, then?” said Gillian, in a tone of
childish mortification. “What is it—my poor old dressing-gown and this
shawl? Indeed I’d nothing else. Somebody packed them on the very top of
the trunk.”
With a pretty flush on her face, and a degree of eager haste, which
proved her quite earnest in her shame, she wrapped the blue silk
dressing-gown, with its soft facing of swan’s-down, close about her, and
strove to cover it under the rich folds of a camel’s-hair shawl, with a
delicate azure ground, and overrun with great palm leaves, in which a
thousand gorgeous tints, struggled into contrast, or slept in harmony.
“There now, dear uncle, that I am getting respectable, please tell me if
I look the least bit like my poor mamma?”
The old man gazed down on that bright face till his eyes filled with
tears. He did not speak, but lifted his hand and laid it on her head.
“A little,” said Gillian, smiling through the mist that shone in her
eyes. “Just the least little bit, please: say that much.”
“Yes, gal, you’re like our Sarah—just as a wild rose from the swamp puts
you in mind of a damask rose in a garden. I should a known you was her
darter if I’d met you in Kamtschatka. She hadn’t your fine feathers, but
no one could mistake about your being birds of the old nest.”
“Yes, that’s it,” cried Gillian. “That’s the way I feel here—like a poor
little bird that’s been flying and flying among the myrtles without
settling anywhere; but once under the old hickory tree, that is rattling
its nuts down to the frosty grass this minute, the tired birdie longs to
folds its wings and feel at home. It’s like living a dream over again to
find myself here.”
“And this is the way she used to talk,” said Hart, gazing with looks of
wistful fondness into the beautiful face uplifted to his.
“Who? my mother? Did she feel like a bird glad to rest?”
“No, like a bird forever wanting to try the wing. From the time she was
ten years old she was always talking of the foreign parts she intended
to visit; the people she meant to know; and the things she meant to do.”
“Why, Uncle Daniel, did my mother have such ideas?”
“Yes, yes, she did strange things in her fancy, just as she travelled
over strange countries.”
“But she was very young—not much over my age when she died.”
“When she died?”
“Yes, when she died. Two or three years older, perhaps, but not more
than that.”
“Then you remember the time?”
“Yes, but not the circumstance. We were in Naples. I remember their
coming to the convent where I had been left for some reason, and telling
me I no longer had a mother—that she was gone.”
“And this was all?”
“No. One day when I asked for the place where my mother was laid, the
old nurse took me up to a beautiful spot back of Naples, where you could
hardly see the graves for the roses that blossomed over them—not for a
week or a month, but all the year around—and told me that was the place
where I must seek for her.”
“And did you find the spot?”
“I don’t know. Neither the nurse nor I could read. We could only guess
where she lay by the brightness of the roses; but we found a little
hollow on the hill-side, completely choked up with blossoms. The
loveliest spot you ever set eyes on, so shaded that the softest moss
crept over the little marble slabs all around, except one, and that was
pure and white as snow. We picked that out for the one and came away.”
“And this is all you know of your mother?”
“What more should I know, poor, little child that I was? Papa never
speaks of her; no other human being that I ever saw knew any thing about
her: that was why there was no sleep for me to-night, till I had come
down and had a talk with you.”
“It was the way she used to come when any thing troubled her,” said
Hart, looking thoughtfully into the fire.
“And that proves how much we are alike. I wasn’t so certain about the
nice old lady, or even Cousin Hannah; but the moment I felt your hand on
my head I was sure of you.”
The old farmer shook in his chair; he was almost crying.
“That’s right, gal—that’s right. It’s the way Sarah Hart’s darter should
feel on coming home. It’s the way she would have felt herself if she—but
what has become of her? God help us all—when did she die—where did she
die?”
Gillian turned suddenly pale. Her eyes grew wild and large.
“Oh, uncle, what a strange question!”
“Every thing about her is strange,” muttered Hart, shaking his head
doubtfully. “I don’t know how to talk or what to say; secrets always
trouble me, especially when I don’t understand them. In all these years
never to have heard a word: and now to be, as it was, knocked down with
a single word, and left to brood over it. Young lady, what kind of a man
is your father?”
“My father—my father! Why, Uncle Hart, who ever thought of asking that
question before? What child ever did ask it? Why he is a grand, true
man, gentle as an angel, and proud as—as an emperor. With wise men he is
always the wisest; with good men he seems best of all. I never saw a
human being that dared to take a liberty with papa, and yet he is mild
and kind as a little child.”
“But you haven’t dared to ask him right straight-forward about your own
mother and her folks.”
“That’s true, and yet I could not tell the reason to save my life.”
“It’s because there’s something kept back.”
“No, I hope not—I hope not,” murmured Gillian, thoughtfully.
“You wasn’t afraid to ask me about her?”
“Not in the least. I only hesitated a little about the time of night,
that is all.”
“Now tell me what you want to know.”
“Every thing.”
“Very well: why not? There ain’t nothing to tell that a body need be
ashamed on; and you’ll never see the day, gal, bright and peart as you
be, that Sarah Hart mightn’t have gone ahead of her own child.”
“I’m sure of that. It’s just what I was hoping to hear. It’s so pleasant
to look up to one’s own parents. Well——”
Gillian folded both her white hands over the farmer’s knee, and looked
up to him with her eyes brimfull of tender expectation.
“Well!”
CHAPTER VI.
OLD TIMES AND THEIR ROMANCE.
“How much you are like her, child!” said Hart, stooping over Gillian.
“Wall, I feel like talking about her to-night.
“Sarah was a good deal younger than I or than her sister Hetty; but
neither on us could hold a candle to her. When she sot her mind on a
thing, she would have her own way, and always got it in the end. There
was only three of us, and Sarah, being the youngest, was the pet of the
whole family, till, like pets in general, she took the lead.”
“Of course,” said Gillian, laughing softly. “Why not? I dare say she was
just the sort of person to lead off with a grace. Well, you spoiled her
among you, and of course she paid you for it: nothing can be more
natural.”
“I dare say, gal—I dare say it all came in the nat’ral course of things;
but she was a downright good-natured creature after all, and loved us,
I’m sure of that.”
“Of course she did: who could help it? Why, Uncle Daniel, it isn’t ten
hours since I saw you on that great, fat, roly poly old horse, and I
love you dearly already; certainly she loved you.”
“Yes, yes, I don’t doubt it; though, to own the truth, I never could
quite understand our Sarah. She was like an April day; you couldn’t tell
whether it would be storm, or sunshine, or a dull, heavy rain,
twenty-four hours together! She was a great reader, and took up painting
flowers and all sorts of fol-de-rol accomplishments, naturally as a bird
takes to fruit. I declare it almost took my breath sometimes to find out
all she knew. Your Aunt Hetty was considered a girl of pretty good
larning, but she had to study hard for her knowledge; while Sarah seemed
to pick up her lessons on the wing: but the two gals loved each other
dearly.
“I raly believe Hetty would have died for her sister any day; but as for
Sarah, she was capable of something more than that: she used to pet and
protect Hetty in any little difficulty, as if she had been the oldest.
She had to do this a good deal, one time or another, for your
grandfather was a stern old man, and kept a tight rein on his family,
especially the gals.
“We lived on the old place here, and might have got along in the world,
but the old man indorsed for one of his neighbors, and when called on to
pay up, he was obliged to mortgage the homestead, and that gave us all
the first hard push down-hill.
“Father was a proud man, and looked upon debt as a disgrace. After this
trouble came on, he was more severe and rigid in all his notions than
ever. This made every thing gloomy and uncomfortable for the gals, and
even Sarah began to feel down-hearted at times.
“The old man used to say it wasn’t so much the money that troubled him
as the feeling that his fellow-men was ready to take advantage at every
step on the highway of life. His confidence in mankind was shook, and
that is a terrible misfortune with a man like your grandsire, I can tell
you. Your grandfather raised the money on his place down in York, from a
young fellow that had more than he knew what to do with. That led to the
rich man’s coming up into these parts to look at the property. His name
was Bentley.”
“What? my father?” cried Gillian, deeply interested.
“No, but your father’s cousin—a handsome, genteel young feller as you
ever sot eyes on. He’d just come of age, and felt his oats, I can tell
you. Of course your grandfather invited the young chap to put up at the
homestead, that was now a’most as good as his own property. It was
wintertime when he came up, and such sleighing: you don’t find any thing
like it now-a-days—snow three feet deep on the turnpike, and trod down
as hard as a miser’s feelings.
“We had two spans of horses in the barn that would match any thing this
side of the river; and a great double-seated sleigh, not to mention a
pony and a cutter that skimmed the snow like a bird flying. Besides all
this, it was mighty comfortable in-doors. Grandma was great on
buckwheat-cakes, and we had lots of maple molasses; and as for her
mince-pies, they beat every thing.
“With all this the homestead wasn’t a disagreeable place to stay in. The
gals did their part, too, and kept a bright hickory fire in the out-room
there in the wing, which was enough of itself to light up the red and
green stripes of the home-made carpet, and made the tall, brass andirons
glitter like gold on the hearth.
“It raly was a purty sight in the evening, when the gals came
down-stairs sleeked up like a couple of new pins: Hetty, with her brown
hair twisted up behind, and shining like velvet; and Sarah, with her
hair in soft, thick curls, that seemed to catch the fire-light the
minute she came in. Oh, she was a bright, happy cretur—was sister Sarah
in those days; springy as a willow branch, and rosy as an apple tree in
bloom.
“I remember that winter she wore a blue merino dress that fitted close
up to her neck, with sleeves tight to her arms, which sloped down
beautifully to her wrists. Little ruffles—I’ve seen her crimp ’em a
hundred times with my penknife,—fell over her hands, and stood up like a
pretty border of snow around her neck. I tell you she looked like a
princess by the side of little Hetty, with her shy, brown eyes, and her
dark dress, and her half frightened way.
“I didn’t go a great deal into the out-room while young Bentley was
there. What with feeding cattle, getting out fence-rails, and doing up
the chores, I got purty well tired out afore night, and so sot down in
the kitchen with the old folks; besides I had a little business of my
own to attend to across the hill, that took up my Sunday nights; and
maybe an evening or so in the week time.
“Martha’s mother lived over in that direction; and, when the gals were
in the out-room with young Bentley, I naturally enjoyed myself best
tother side of the hill. I don’t pretend to compare the gal that I
married in the end to our Sarah—that wasn’t to be thought of; but she
had a way about her like my oldest sister, and in all the neighborhood
there wasn’t a better housekeeper, or a kinder wife, than she made me up
to the time of her death.”
Here Uncle Daniel drew one hand across his eyes, and paused a moment to
get his voice. Gillian took the other hand in hers, and laid her cheek
against it in a sweet, caressing way, that made the old man sob out,
“Oh, don’t, don’t, it goes too straight home!”
Then Gillian dropped his hand quite reverently, and bent her eyes on the
fire, afraid of disturbing him again.
“When a young fellow is in love, it’s like a dream, you know, and almost
any thing may happen around him without being noticed. I was too much
taken up with my own feelings for any very distinct idea of what was
going on at home. It sometimes did strike me that Mr. Bentley stayed a
good while at the homestead, and that Sarah seemed to enjoy his society
very much, but it gave me no sort of uneasiness; for, though the young
fellow was a splendid-looking critter, and rich enough to buy out half
of Rockland county, our Sarah was a match for him, or any other man that
ever wore shoe-leather.
“As for Hetty, dear, quiet Hetty, I never thought about her at all; she
wasn’t the sort of gal, you know, to take much to the young fellows. She
was so hard to get acquainted with, always keeping, as it were, behind
her harnsome sister.
“Sometimes I would just go into the out-room in the edge of evening, not
to appear unsociable, and every thing seemed comfortable enough.
Sometimes the girls had their knitting work out, while Bentley read to
them; sometimes I found him holding the skein of yarn on his two hands,
while Sarah stood before him winding it off. She had a dexterous way of
twirling the ball round in the fingers of her left hand, that made it
come out sloped like a lemon with a hole in the centre. Your grandma
taught her the trick, and young Bentley used to torment her to show him
the way it was done; but he was sure to spoil the shape of her ball,
when she was ready to box his ears, and never let him off till he
unwound it again.
“One evening, I remember going in after he had tangled up her yarn so
that it was impossible to unravel it. She was on her knees before the
hearth, blushing and laughing, as she tried to make the thread run
evenly from a heap of yarn he had left on the floor; the fire-light
struck through her curls till they shone like floss gold, and she now
and then lifted her eyes to his in a way that brought my heart into my
mouth. It was frank and open like a child’s; but he was looking down
upon her, and I didn’t like the way her eyes fell, or to see her neck
and face turn scarlet when she saw Hetty and I looking so steadily at
her.
“Hetty seemed to be took back more than I was. To own the truth, mebby I
shouldn’t have noticed it much if she hadn’t looked so white, and if her
eyes hadn’t met mine with a wild sort of glitter in them that I had
never seen before.
“Well, after a little, Sarah, what with breaking and pulling, unsnarled
the yarn, and got up from her knees, laughing in a forced way, and
flinging back her curls with a saucy toss of her head, which made me
a’most want to kiss her without another word; but Hetty looked more
sober than ever, so I put on a serious face, and says I,
“‘Well, gals, what do you and Mr. Bentley say to a sleigh-ride? The
moon’s out, and the sky is chuck full of stars. There’s just frost
enough to give the snow a glitter, and to make the bells heard a mile
off. Supposing we take a drive over the hill, and call on——’
“‘Oh, yes,’ says Sarah, clapping her hands, ‘it’ll be an excuse for Dan
to call at the Deacon’s three times this week: I thought he looked
restless at tea-time. What do you say, Hetty, dear?—as for Mr. Bentley,
of course he goes or stays, as we determine.’
“Mr. Bentley laughed and said, ‘He was ready to follow the ladies
anywhere;’ at which the gals ran up-stairs to get their things, and I
went to the barn to hitch up the team.
“In less than ten minutes I was at the front door, with as harnsome a
span of gray horses as you ever saw, all covered with bells, and crazy
to be off. It was a double-seated sleigh, with plenty of buffalo robes,
and two little foot-stoves in the bottom, that your grandma brought out
to keep the gals’ feet warm.
“Out came the two gals in their long cloaks, trimmed with fur, and black
velvet bonnets with ostrich plumes fluttering at the sides, each with
her purty face buried in a muff.
“Hetty came down to the side of the sleigh first, while Sarah stood
dancing up and down on the steps to keep her feet warm.
“‘Come, Hetty,’ says I, a-holding out one hand, ‘you set with me and
help drive.’ She seemed a little out of sorts, you know, and I saw her
turn away from Mr. Bentley when he came up. This was the reason I asked
her to set in front with me.
“She drew back behind her muff, and I saw her look suddenly up at
Bentley.
“‘Oh, yes! get in, get in!’ he said, smiling. ‘Come, Miss Sarah.’
“Hetty caught hold of my hand and sprang into the sleigh without a word.
I was busy holding in the team with one hand, and pulling up the buffalo
skins around Hetty with the other, and scarcely noticed what the pair
behind were doing till Bentley called out:
“‘Here we are, snug and comfortable. Touch the horses up with a
flourish, Hart: I feel like a bird to-night!’
“‘A bird of passage, or a bird of prey?’ said Sarah, mischievously. ‘One
thing is certain, Dan, he is in the wrong nest. I would much rather have
sister Hetty by me.’
“Hetty did not pretend to hear, but I felt her shiver as if with the
sudden cold, and pulled the robe over her again, saying, softly that
‘Hetty belonged to me.’
“As I tightened the reins and shook out my whip, it seemed to me that I
heard a sob, but that minute the horses started, the bells gave a loud
clash, and away we whirled around the house, and up the turnpike like a
flash of lightning set to music.
“If you want to see rale downright fun, gal, try a genuine sleigh-ride
on a night like that. Horses with their blood on fire—bells running over
with music—roads beat down to marble—snow-balls rattling from the
horses’ hoofs—clouds of steam pouring from their nostrils and freezing
into little icicles on the under jaw—whip cracking on the frosty air,
and all the naked trees, with every twig and bough pictured on the
snow-crust that spreads and glitters miles and miles around you—with the
moon smiling overhead, and lots on lots of stars blinking and sparkling
in its path. I tell you agin, gal, if there is genuine fun in the world,
that’s it.”
“Oh, how I should like to have one good ride like that!” said Gillian,
sparkling all over with excitement.
“You shall, gal: when snow comes you shall, or my name isn’t Daniel
Hart,” said the farmer, heartily.
“With such horses, plenty of bells, and you to drive, uncle?”
“Yes, yes, we’ll have the old times over again. Trust Uncle Dan for the
team: he’s up to a winter campaign yet.”
“And we shall take the same road, and stop at the deacon’s?”
The farmer drew back in his chair.
“The same road? Stop at the deacon’s? God help us, gal, the deacon, his
wife, and that young creature, has been dead these ten years. The old
house is torn down, and the grave-yard crowds close up to the road as
you pass. No, Gillian: you shall have the sleigh-ride, but we must go
round the hill, not over it, as we did that night.”
“Well, you had a pleasant evening, then, uncle; and that is a great
deal, because the memory of one happy evening lives forever, you
know—forever and ever: so tell me of that one happy ride, and we will
trust Heaven for the next, which is sure to come—for I always find my
wishes sooner or later, like fairy gifts, dear uncle.”
The old man looked down upon her with a glance of hearty affection.
“Always chirk and full of hope, just as she was!”
“But I’m afraid—just the least bit afraid, you know, uncle—that my dear
mamma was making a fool of Mr. Bentley; you remember about the back
seat, and all that?”
“It may be, I don’t pretend to understand it up to this day. Your mother
was a young critter that none of us could calculate upon; not even
Hetty, who always says that we had no right to judge her, because she
was so far above us all.”
“Then that pale little lady—Aunt Hetty—how strange it seems that you
should be telling of sleigh-rides which she enjoyed, just as I should
now. That nice little lady remembers and loves my mother yet. I’ll go
and kiss her in the morning, hang back as she will—just see if I don’t.”
“Yes, if ever one human being loved another, Hetty loved your mother: to
this day, she never mentions her name without growing pale and
shivering, as if she was a-cold.”
“Dear lady!”
“That night she seemed troubled about something; but we had not driven a
mile before she took her hand out of its muff, and turning round, held
it out to Sarah, smiling so sweetly in the starlight, and saying, in her
low, mild way:
“‘Is not this a lovely evening, Sarah?’
“Then Sarah stooped forward and pretended to whisper, while she kissed
Hetty on the cheek, and insisted on changing seats, which Hetty would
not think of, till young Bentley leaned forward and whispered something,
which I could not hear in the clash of the bells.
“Hetty got up pleasantly, while Sarah threw back the buffalo robes, and
sprang over into the seat at my side, laughing gleefully all the time,
and flinging her arms around me to steady herself.
“Then we all settled down again, and I started the horses with a crack
of the whip that set them off like lightning; and in less than ten
minutes we were sitting round a great wood-fire in Deacon Warner’s west
room, with a tray of red-cheeked apples glowing on the hearth, and a
great stone pitcher of ginger cider hissing under the red-hot poker that
the deacon was warming it up with.
“Bentley rather hung back when the deacon handed round the cider-mug
covered with yaller froth, but after he fairly took hold there was no
stopping him.
“I dare say you wouldn’t have thought much of that evening; but I
consider it about as near heaven as a feller is likely to reach on this
side the grave. There was my two sisters, looking like angels in the
fire-light; and there was the gal I loved better than my own life,
holding the tray of apples on her knee, while she tried one, and then
another, with her thumb and finger, searching out the mellowest for
them; and there was Mrs. Warner, knitting away for dear life by a little
round candle-stand, and Deacon Warner on both knees in the corner
cracking but-nuts with a big hammer, which he handed round after the
apples and cider.
“Yes, Gillian, that was a pleasant evening, take it all together. We
counted apple-seeds, and swung red parings three times round, dropping
them into letters on the floor. Mine always would turn out an M—our
Martha was named after her mother, you know—and both Sarah’s and Hetty’s
were exact B’s, at which both blushed and looked at each other so shyly.
“It really was a very pleasant evening, especially after I went back the
last time, after settling the rest in the sleigh, and took a last drink
of cider, and a kiss that was worth ten thousand times as much.
Certainly it was one of the pleasantest evenings that I ever spent.”
CHAPTER VII.
THE CLOVE ROAD.
“A little while after this Mr. Bentley went to New York; and, in a week
or two, Hetty started down there on a visit to an aunt of ours in the
city. She only went for two or three weeks, but, somehow, it was spring
before she was ready to come home: I remember very well the
daffadowndillas were out in the garden before she got back. If it hadn’t
been for my wedding I don’t believe that we would have seen her so soon,
for she seemed restless and homesick enough all the spring.
“I forgot to tell you that Sarah went to visit her aunt late in the
winter, and came home with Hetty. She, too, was a good deal sobered
down, and all her sparkling cheerfulness had died out. I couldn’t help
seeing, at times, that she cried a good deal in the night, for her eyes
were red, and she looked worn and tired of a mornin’, as if something
lay heavy on her mind.
“I asked about Mr. Bentley, and if the gals had seen him often; but they
seemed shy of the subject, and I calculated that he hadn’t been sociable
in the city, as they had a right to expect he would be. Altogether every
thing at home seemed to go wrong, and if it hadn’t been a busy time with
me just before my wedding, I should have insisted on knowing the reason
why.
“But I got married, and while my young wife was getting ready for
housekeeping, I spent purty much all the time at Deacon Warner’s, so
happy myself that I near about forgot the gals. Something happened,
though, that troubled me a little.
“The post-office was about half way between our house and Deacon
Warner’s, and one morning, when I was riding home bright and early, who
should I see but our Sarah, with her white sun-bonnet and shawl on,
a-going into the post-office with a letter in her hand. She came out
after a minute, and, before I could ride up, turned into a footpath that
gave her a short cut across the meadows.
“I always stopped at the office for letters and papers as I went along,
so I rode up to the door, calling out to know if there was any thing for
our folks. The post-master came to the door with a paper in his hand and
a letter, which he handed to me, saying,
“‘Mr. Hart, I can’t quite make this direction out: it seems to be for
New York city, but the writing isn’t clear.’
“I took the letter. It was directed to William Bentley, Esq., in Sarah’s
handwriting, but I could hardly make it out; the letters seemed to have
been tumbled down over the paper.
“The whole thing took me by surprise. What on ’arth could Sarah be
writing to that young feller about? And why didn’t she wait and send the
letter to the post-office by me, as everybody else did? While I sat
puzzling over it the post-master stood a-looking at me.
“‘I reckon you can’t make it out more than I can,’ says he, laughing,
and eying me sort of curious, as if he thought there was something
strange about the letter. This brought me to myself.
“‘Oh, yes,’ says I, ‘it’s all plain enough: put it into the York mail
and it’ll go straight. If you’ve sent any before you ought to know
that.’
“It was mean to pry into Sarah’s secrets in that way, but I didn’t think
of it then.
“‘No,’ says he, ‘I never sent any in that handwriting afore, and I
shouldn’t a known it if Miss Sarah hadn’t brought the letter herself.’
“‘Well, she’s saved me the trouble,’ says I. ‘Good-morning,’ and off I
rode.
“Just where the footpath crossed the road below our house I met Sarah,
walking along with her head down, as if she was counting the dandelions
in her path.
“‘Hallo, Sarah,’ says I, a-riding close to the fence just as she came
up, ‘what on earth brought you out so arly in the morning?’
“She looked up with a start, and half a scream; then I saw that she had
been crying, for drops hung on her eyelashes, and though she tried to
laugh, it was more like sobbing.
“‘Oh, Dan, is it you?’ she said, turning round so that I needn’t see her
brush the tears away. ‘It’s a beautiful morning, isn’t it? I’ve found
ever so many violets by the brook up yonder, and as for dandelions, the
whole meadow lot is golden with them; then the peppermint is just
beginning to sprout; capital weather for whitening cloth, isn’t it? has
Martha got her webs on the grass yet?’
“She spoke all in a hurry, huddling her words together, and catching
breath at every stop; her eyes kept turning from one thing to another,
and the color came and went in her face, as if she was half frightened
to death; and so she was, poor thing!
“I felt like choking, it seemed so unnatural for Sarah to act in that
way, and at last I says, ‘Sarah,’ says I, ‘what have you been writing to
Mr. Bentley about? And why didn’t you keep the letter for me to carry?’
“She turned as white as new milk, and her eyes glanced on me with a wild
look, as I’ve seen rabbits do when the trap was opened; but this look
didn’t last long; all at once her eyes brightened up, and she turned on
me in her old, saucy way.
“‘What is it to you how my letters get to the post-office,’ says she,
‘or who I write to either? One woman’s as much as you can manage, and
she lives over the hill. Leave me to take care of my own business!’
“‘But what can you have to write about?’ says I, feeling my face grow
hot, for it was no joke to wrastle with our Sarah when her grit was up.
“‘Well,’ says she, trying to laugh, ‘supposing I wanted him to send me a
book of poems that’s just come out—is there any harm in that?’
“‘No, not if you sent the money to pay for it, and father made no
objections.’
“‘Father!’ says she, and her lips turned cold and white; ‘father! what
is the use in mentioning a trifle like that to him?’
“‘It isn’t a trifle if you make a secret of it, Sarah,’ says I, almost
sternly.
“‘You—you won’t mention it,’ says she, coming close to the fence, and
clasping her hands on the upper rail. ‘That’s a dear, good brother now,
do mind your own business; scold your wife—I dare say it will do her
good; but don’t concern yourself about what you will never understand;
it can only make mischief.’
“‘This is very strange, Sarah,’ I was going to say, but she stopped me
with a wave of her hand.
“‘There—there! I tell you, Daniel Hart, I am doing every thing for the
best. You have no right to think otherwise. Let me alone—oh, let me
alone!’
“She held up her clasped hands when she spoke, as a little child prays,
and the tears rolled down her cheeks as I’ve seen the dew fall from a
rose in the morning. I shook my head; then her face fell forward on her
hands, and she began to sob.
“‘Oh, Dan, brother Dan, you are cruel to me—very, very cruel. This comes
of getting married: you do not care for us now. It would be a nice thing
to get your poor sister into trouble about nothing. You and your wife
would enjoy it, I dare say. She put you up to it, I know that. Well, I
have lost my brother, that’s all—my only brother, that never refused me
any thing till now!’
“‘Sarah,’ says I, after a swaller or two—for somehow I felt the tears
rising—‘Sarah, I dare say it’s all about nothing; only you want to be
romantic, and have secrets, like the heroines in books; but somehow
these things don’t work themselves out clear in real life. You’re young,
and so full of bright whims that I sometimes feel anxious about you. It
would break my heart, dear, if any harm should come to you; so don’t be
mad because I ask questions—it’s all for your own good, Sarah.’
“She began to sob like a baby.
“‘I know—I know it is; but don’t say any thing more about that letter:
it’s given me trouble enough without that, I’m sure.’
“I felt sorry for the poor gal, but yet it did’nt seem right to let her
go on writing to a dashing young feller in secret.
“‘If it goes so agin the grain to talk with me, promise one thing, and
I’ll be content: just tell sister Hetty all about it. She’s a sober,
steady gal, and won’t sanction any thing that has danger in it: tell her
about the letter, and I won’t interfere.’
“She looked up so earnestly into my face; at last her eyes began to
sparkle, and she laughed.
“‘Hetty?’ says she; ‘you will leave it with Hetty?’
“‘Yes, I can trust Hetty; only tell her all about it, fair and
square—promise that.’
“‘Oh, yes, I promise that!’ says she, laughing again, though her eyes
filled with tears; ‘but you must make me a promise also.’
“‘Well, what is it?’ says I, laughing too—for I was relieved at the
thought of trusting the affair with our Hetty.
“‘That you won’t mention the letter to any living soul—not even to your
wife.’
“‘Well, I promise that.’
“‘Nor mother; and above all, not to father,’ she went on, earnestly.
“I thought it over a minute, and made the promise.
“‘Nor—nor to Hetty either,’ says she, looking at me as if afraid that I
would refuse.
“‘Well,’ says I, ‘pledge me your sacred word of honor that you will tell
Hetty every thing, and I will not mention the subject again. She will
keep you straight, I’m sure of that.’
“‘I pledge my sacred word of honor,’ says she, gravely, while the tears
swam in her eyes.
“‘That’s a good gal,’ says I, reaching out one hand. ‘There, now, give
me a kiss, and jump on behind.’
“She sprang to the top of the fence, puckered up her lips till they
glowed like an apple-blossom, and gave me an old-fashioned kiss, that
went straight to the heart.
“‘There, you old darling,’ says she, throwing her shawl across the
horse, springing up behind me as light as a bird, and clasping my waist
with an affectionate hug, ‘there, you blessed old darling, we’re friends
again; so now strike into a trot as quick as you like, but don’t tell
anybody that I’ve been farther than the Spring Meadow, or they’ll
torment me to death with questions.’
“I promised to keep her secret, and put the horse on his metal. He was
used to carrying double, and went off like an arrow.
“Hetty stood on the stoop as we rode up, looking down the road. She
turned and went into the house without speaking a word, and Sarah
followed her, looking down-hearted enough. I suppose she hated to tell
about the letter.
“Well, about a week after this an answer came to the letter in Bentley’s
handwriting. I had told Sarah not to inquire for it, for the manner of
the post-master didn’t quite please me. I was right; for when the letter
came, he made a great mystery about it, and wanted to send a private
message; but I cut the matter short, asked for the letter, and carried
it off.
“Sarah trembled like a leaf when I gave it to her—tore it open, then put
it into her bosom, blushing and turning white every instant, while Hetty
stood looking at her, still as death.
“‘Remember your promise,’ says I to Sarah.
“She took the letter from her bosom, and going up to Hetty, handed it to
her, though she had not read a word herself.
“‘There,’ says she, flushing red, and turning her face full on mine,
‘will that satisfy you?’
“Hetty took the letter without a word, and seemed to read it steadily,
but she did not turn over the page, and after sitting still a while, got
up and went into the house.
“Sarah followed her, and just as I was preparing to go away again, came
to the stoop smiling, quite out of breath.
“‘There, it is all right,’ she whispered. ‘Next week Mr. Bentley will be
here with his cousin—another Mr. Bentley—and then you will know what he
has been writing about.’
“I felt relieved by her words, and rode over to the deacon’s happier
than I had been for a week.
“I saw but little of the gals after that, for they were too busy
preparing the house for visitors; every thing was at sixes and
sevens——carpets taken up—curtains hung—counterpanes whitened—and
ceilings whitewashed for the day that young Bentley and his cousin were
expected; every thing was in order, and the old homestead looked
cheerful as a spring morning. The fire-places were full of hemlock and
pine-tops; and at every corner you found an old mug or pitcher crowded
full of apple-blossoms, lilacs, and snow-balls, till the rooms were
scented like a garden.
“The gals looked as purty as picters that afternoon, in their white
muslin dresses, bowed up in front with blue ribbons; but they seemed
restless and anxious, as if they didn’t know what to do with themselves.
“Toward night we all went out into the stoop—for my wife had come over,
and looked as nice as any of them, if Sarah was the most beautiful—and
they made a purty show, fluttering around in their white dresses, like
so many pigeons waiting to be fed. At last, just as the sun was
beginning to sink behind the hills, we saw a carriage coming round a
curve of the turnpike, that you can see from the stoop away down the
valley. It was moving along what we call the dug road, with a steep hill
on one side, and a precipice below—a dangerous spot always for skittish
horses, and one I never liked to travel in the night.
“Just as we saw Mr. Bentley’s carriage appear on this road, a
stage-coach came over the hill, thundering along as if it had lost time.
That minute the blast of a horn rung through the valley, and while it
filled the air, a sharp cry from one of the gals made us all catch our
breath.
“‘See! see!’ shrieked Sarah, flinging up her arms. ‘Oh, my God, have
mercy!—have mercy!’
“Her wild eyes were bent on the distance: we followed them in terror.
The stage was thundering down the hill; we caught one glimpse of the
carriage, which went over and over down the precipice; the sharp yell of
the horses came to where we stood—and then all was still. I looked
around; Hetty lay cold and stiff as death on the stoop, while Sarah fell
down at her side, holding on to her with both arms, and moaning as if
her heart was broken.”
CHAPTER VIII.
DOWN THE PRECIPICE.
“Your grandfather and I brought out the horses and drove like lightning
to the spot. We turned down a cross-road and so along the foot of the
precipice, knowing well enough that it was of no use looking for them at
the top; for, a long way off, we could see one wheel of the carriage
where it was wedged in between two rocks, and that most awful of all
sounds, the groans of a horse, reached us long before we came in sight
of the poor critter, where it lay among the loose stones at the foot of
the ledge, with a part of the broken carriage across his back. He began
to whinny as pitiful as a hurt baby when we came in sight; and, anxious
as we were about the human souls, I hadn’t the heart to go by without
cutting him loose from his mate, which had broken his neck, and was dead
as a door nail.
“A little higher up the hill, where the earth sloped down from the foot
of the rocks, we saw your father sitting on a piece of rock, and holding
his cousin’s head in his lap. We hollered out to know if all was right;
but he didn’t answer: there wasn’t breath enough in his body to force
out a word, but his look was awful. I never set my eyes on so white a
face in all my life.
“We held on by the brushwood and climbed up to where he sat with the
dead man across his knees. I don’t know which was the palest, his or the
cold face turned upward, as he searched for a breath of life.
“I had never seen your father before, but should have known him by the
look of his cousin; for, one in his cold death, and the other so still
and panic-struck, looked so much alike that I could hardly tell which
was killed or which saved. At first I thought it really was our young
Bentley that asked us, in a faint voice, to try if we could do nothing
toward bringing the form across his knee to life. But a glimpse of the
dead face put me right; so I and the old man knelt down and tried our
best to bring the poor fellow to, but it was of no use: his temple had
struck against a sharp point of rock, and the skull was crushed in, only
in one spot, but it was enough to send him into eternity. God have mercy
upon him, he was gone to his last account.
“We lifted the dead body from your father’s arms and carried it down the
hill. While father and I were weaving some hemlock boughs together for a
kind of bier to carry him on, your father came slowly down, looking pale
as ever, and with one arm hanging loose and limp by his side. It was
easy enough to see that it was broke, though he said nothing, only
pressing his lips hard as they grew white with pain, and giving out a
sharp breath now and then. We helped him to mount father’s horse, and,
laying the dead body carefully on the rough bier, turned toward home.
“We hadn’t but just got to the cross-roads when sister Sarah came up,
without a sign of a bonnet on, and her hair all afloat. There wasn’t a
bit of color in her face, and I hardly knew her at first, for her eyes
seemed as large again as natural, and, though blue enough when she was
cheerful, they shone out deep and black as a thunder-cloud now.
“She gave one sharp look, first at the man on horseback, then at the
poor fellow my father and I carried on our shoulders. Then she flung up
her arms, and sent out a cry so sharp and full of pain, that we stood
stock still, frightened to the heart by it.
“She seemed to be afraid of coming near us, but went close up to the
horse on which your father rode, and, laying her hand on the mane, asked
something in a hoarse whisper.
“He answered her in a low voice, for he was too faint for loud words;
but I knew that he was telling her the man we carried was dead.
“She let her hand fall from the neck of his horse, and stood still, as
if his words had frozen her. I was loaded down with the dead, and could
not go to comfort her: so when we moved on, she followed after, with
great, heavy tears rolling down her face, and raising a sob now and then
that it would have broken your heart to hear.
“As we went on, moving slowly up the road, I saw sister Hetty coming
toward us: she looked like one carrying a heavy load that she couldn’t
keep from staggering under. She saw us winding round a turn of the road,
and her limbs seemed to wilt under her, for she sunk down to the grass
and covered her face with both hands, as if the sight of us had struck
her blind. Sarah ran forward, sending back a cry that almost made us
tremble.
“She came up to Hetty and sunk down by her side, winding both arms
around her neck, and sobbed dreadfully: we could hear her rods off; it
really seemed as if her heart was breaking.
“Hetty did not look up or move; but when she heard our tramp on the
road, she sort of stretched out her limbs with a quivering motion, and
fell sideways on the grass, bringing Sarah, who clung around her, to the
ground, and turning her sobs into screams.
“We stopped a minute, sat the bier down, and tried to comfort the gals;
but they clung together, and I thought Sarah tried to bury Hetty’s face
in her lap till we took up the bier again. I felt very sorry for poor
Sarah, for after that sleigh-ride, the letter and all the rest, it was
easy guessing why her sobs were so quick and deep. As for Hetty, she
always was a timersome, soft-hearted creature, and the sight of a dead
man was enough to make her faint away any time.
“We went home and the gals followed, creeping heavily along after us
with the stillness of two ghosts. We laid young Bentley out in the spare
room yonder; and, after helping the wounded young man up-stairs, I got
him to bed, while your grandfather went after a doctor.
“The poor young fellow was in dreadful pain, but he choked back his
groans and bore up like a hero. I was obliged to call Sarah to help to
take care of him; but Hetty stayed below with the corpse, half scared to
death I could see, for when I went down-stairs, once or twice in the
night, she was sitting by the bed, as pale as the winding-sheet, and as
still as the form it covered. Her eyes fairly frightened me when she
looked toward the door—they darkened like a thunder-cloud before it
bursts. I tried to make her go up-stairs, but she only shook her head,
and so I left her all night alone with the dead man, and a terrible
night it was to us all.
“We buried young Bentley in the grave-yard down yonder. It was a
sorrowful business to us all, for we were uncertain who the heir might
be, and, for anything we knew, he might not prove exactly the person we
should want to have power over the farm. So, with the sick man
up-stairs, and a funeral going from the house, every thing seemed gloomy
enough, especially as the gals went about like ghosts, scarcely speaking
a word, and looking at each other wofully whenever they met.
“After a while we found out that Mr. Bentley, your father, was heir to
his cousin, and in some sort owner of the farm. He was a splendid young
fellow, too: with that face and voice of his he might have made any girl
fall in love with him except our Hetty. I really don’t think she ever
cared for anybody in the world: she always was a quiet, old maidish
thing.
“After the funeral she grew more shy and still than ever.
“But Sarah spent half her time in the sick man’s room, and though she
seemed troubled, yet I could see with half an eye that she was getting
over the shock of her lover’s death. I said lover, for after what I had
seen nothing would have convinced me that our Sarah had not been heart
and soul engaged to the young man who was gone; but if she could forget
him and fancy the other, what business had any of us to interfere? For
my part, I was glad to see her color coming back, and her eyes growing
bright again.
“I don’t know what passed between the young people during the six weeks
that he lay sick at our house. But though she seemed wildly cheerful at
times, the trouble never entirely left her eyes; and more than once I
caught her crying away by herself, which was natural enough under the
circumstances, you know.
“As Mr. Bentley grew better, and was able to carry his arm in a sling,
Sarah’s trouble seemed to increase, and she stayed with Hetty in their
own room a great deal more than I ever remembered to have seen her
before. It seemed as if she wanted to keep out of our visitor’s way
somehow.
“He did not seem to like this, and one morning, when I rode over to the
homestead, and found him sitting lonesomely in the front stoop, he asked
me in a quiet way if I could tell him what particular business his
cousin had come to the country about, and why he himself had been so
urgently invited to share the journey.
“I told him truly enough that I did not know; when he said, with a
strange smile,
“‘I almost supposed it might be a wedding that brought him here, from
some words that he used in pressing the invitation; but as no one of
your family has said any thing about it, the object of his coming
puzzles me exceedingly. Tell me, was our visit expected?’
“I was troubled how to answer this question, and felt the blood grow
warm in my face. I remembered how anxious and restless my sister Sarah
had been; those private letters, and the wild anguish with which she met
us near the precipice, as we were bringing young Bentley away—things
which our guest had doubtless been in too much pain to observe; but in
reality I knew nothing, and what business had I to expose my sister’s
secret, if she had one?
“‘No,’ I said, angry with the redness of my face, ‘I do not think our
folks knew any thing about your coming; and as for a wedding, there has
not been a sign of one, except my own, in the neighborhood this year.’
“Mr. Bentley eyed me keenly, as I said this, but did not seem quite
satisfied.
“‘It is strange,’ he said, at last, ‘but I am quite certain that my
cousin told me his visit would end in a wedding; and he hinted that my
services might be necessary to reconcile some difficulties that might
arise with the family.’
“‘But he mentioned no names?’ I inquired, anxious to learn more.
“‘No; he told me nothing more than I have already related. It is a
singular affair altogether: perhaps my cousin’s papers may give some
clue.’
“I thought of my sister’s letter, and felt myself coloring again, for
any thing like secrecy made me restless. Your father looked at me
suspiciously, so I turned away determined to speak with Sarah, and if
there really was any thing between her and the dead to insist on her
saying so frankly.”
CHAPTER IX.
THE PACKAGE OF LETTERS.
“Sarah was up-stairs in her room, I was told. I went up the back way
which leads to the upper chambers. Sarah’s room was open, but she was
not there; so, hearing a noise in the garret above, I mounted another
flight of stairs which landed me in the open garret, where the trunk
belonging to the dead man had been stored away.
“It was a common travelling-trunk, strong, and of ordinary size; but the
lock had been wrenched in the overthrow, and its hasp was twisted from
its fastening, so that no key was necessary to open it.
“I saw this at a glance, and also saw my sister Sarah kneeling before
the trunk, holding up the lid with one hand while she searched among the
papers it contained with the other. She was trembling from head to foot,
and her face was pale as death.
“I stopped on the upper stair astonished by what I saw. Sarah was so
eager and agitated that she did not hear me, but continued her search. I
heard letters rustle against each other under her hand for a minute
longer; then, with a faint cry, she snatched at something and started up
from the floor, dropping the trunk-lid, and holding two or three letters
tied up by a ribbon in her shaking hand.
“A single movement brought her face to face with me. She gave a sharp
scream, drew back and sat down on the trunk, shaking all over and the
teeth fairly chattering between her lips.
“She saw me looking at the letters, and clutched them tightly between
both hands.
“‘They are mine—my own letters,’ she said, so frightened that her words
came out in gasps. ‘I have not touched a thing that was not my own.’
“‘Sarah, let me read those letters. I ought to know what they are
about,’ I said, resolutely, reaching out my hand.
“She crushed the letters together and held them behind her.
“‘Never! How dare you? What right, I say? No, the letters are
mine—mine—mine, I tell you.’
“She shook from head to foot. Her eyes grew fierce and black. I know
that if I had strangled her, there and then, she would have clutched the
parcel with her last gasp.
“‘Sarah, I am your brother, and the very best friend you have in the
world,’ I said, for she was so frightened I pitied her from the bottom
of my heart. ‘Tell me what all this means. What is there that you should
be afraid to tell?’
“‘Afraid!’ she said, ‘yes, I am afraid. Let me go, then.’
“‘Are you ashamed as well as frightened?’ said I, almost sternly, for
her terror seemed too great for that of an innocent person.
“‘Ashamed!’ she repeated my question over with her old scornful pride,
‘ashamed! brother; how dare you?’
“Her eyes fairly blazed; her cheeks were like ashes. Then, all at once,
her face changed, and drooping downward as if my question that moment
had reached her in full force, she said, in the most heart-broken voice
I ever heard,
“‘Yes, brother, I am ashamed—God help us all!—and afraid too.’
“‘Sarah, tell me all.’
“‘Brother, I charge you, let me pass; do not make me more unhappy than I
am,’ she cried, passionately. ‘Questions can do no good, for I will not
answer them.’
“I seized her by both hands. She looked me steadily in the eyes, brave
as a she-lion. I knew that it would be easier to rob a wild beast of its
cubs than that girl of her secret. She stood still without a word. What
right had I to use her in that rough way? She was my sister, and I was
treating her like a thief. The letters were her own: I knew it by the
address, part of which lay before my eyes. I dropped her hands.
“‘Sarah,’ I said, ‘Mr. Bentley, the young man below, has some suspicion
of this, and he has questioned me.’
“‘And what did you tell him? What did you know?’
“‘Nothing, sister—nothing.’
“‘But he—he said something. You began to suspect me, and came prying up
here. Brother! brother!’
“There was scorn and grief in her words that would have made me sink
into the earth if I had really done the thing she charged me with. As it
was, my temper rose.
“‘No, Sarah,’ I said, ashamed that my voice would shake so. ‘No, Sarah.
Mr. Bentley, our visitor, said nothing that you have a right to be angry
about.’
“‘But he said something. Tell me what it was.’
“‘He only asked what wedding it was that his poor cousin came to attend,
Sarah.’
“‘What wedding!’ she cried, catching hold of my arm, and almost shaking
me. ‘What wedding! Did he say that? Did he in solemn truth mention a
wedding?’
“‘Yes, Sarah,’ I answered, looking hard at her; ‘and I thought, from his
way of wording it, that he had an idea that the cousin himself was
coming to be married to some one in these parts.’
“I stopped short, for the sight of her face fairly made me hold my
breath. Her cheeks, which had been pale as death before, kindled up; her
lips parted with an eager expression, as if some iron spring had
unlocked in them; and her eyes—Sarah had handsome eyes when she was
pleased or angry—shone like stars.
“‘And you believed this? You thought, perhaps, that it was—was——’
“She stopped short, and the anxious paleness began to creep over her
again.
“I understood her, and answered as if she had spoken out.
“‘Yes, I did think that, Sarah. These letters, your strange ways, all
came back to my mind; and why not? He was a smart young fellow, handsome
and rich. The neighbors might have said it was a good match for you; but
I think you were the mate for his betters any day—for the king on his
throne, if such things could grow in a free country like ours, Sarah;
so, if it was the truth, out with it. The fellow down-stairs seems
mighty anxious to know all about his cousin’s affairs. He spoke about
searching the papers in that trunk.’
“Sarah clutched the letters in her hand, and laughed.
“‘Well, let him search,’ she said. ‘It is an easy matter; the lock is
torn open, and he will find but few papers.’
“‘But those in your hand, Sarah!’
“She took my hand in hers, and with one of the winning gestures which no
one could resist, lifted it to her lips, hard and brown as it was.
“‘Don’t, please don’t ask me any more questions!’ she said. ‘It can do
no earthly good, when a thing is over. Why give me so much pain? Can’t
you see how I suffer?’
“I took her close to my bosom, and kissed her cheek, ready to cry; for
she could make a child of me any time. She kissed me back two or three
times; then, leaning her head on my shoulder, began to sob.
“‘Did you love him so much, darling?’ I whispered, folding her close
again.
“‘Don’t ask; but this other man—do not let him question you more; and,
above all, keep my secret about the letters.’
“I started, and put her away from my bosom. This persistence in keeping
a secret which was really no discredit offended me.
“‘Sarah,’ I said, ‘this is worse than I would have believed of you. Why
are you ashamed of this engagement?’
“‘Think no ill of me, I charge you,’ she said, starting back with a
haughty throw of the head. ‘I have done right—will do right, but must be
left alone!’
“‘Very well,’ I said, hurt by her want of confidence, ‘you throw away my
advice, and do not want my help. Good morning, Sarah. You have given me
the heart-ache, that’s all!’”
“‘No, no!’ she said, drawing close to me again. ‘I want your help just
now. Only give it frankly, and without these terrible questions. I am
not well. You can see that watching and crying has made me nervous and
half sick. I was about to ask you about some way of strengthening myself
up a little. Hetty, too, is worn out. In short, we want to get away from
home: you know father promised us music-lessons in the city. I am sure
the sea-air will be good for us both. What do you think of it, Dan?’
“She spoke rapidly and half out of breath, darting quick glances at me
from under her eyelashes, as if afraid that I would oppose her. In fact,
I did feel like it at first; and was about to say so, but she caught the
words from my lips, and broke out in a wild, pleading way that changed
my feelings at once.
“‘Don’t, oh! don’t say that, Dan! I am sick—suffering. If you won’t send
me away I shall go into a decline and die on your hands. Can’t you see
how I pine—how thin I grow?’
“She pulled up her sleeve and showed me her arm, which was slender
enough to frighten one with the idea that she was really falling into a
consumption. So I asked where she wished to go, and how long she wanted
to be away.
“She thought that the best music-teachers could be found in New York,
and she and Hetty could either put up with our aunt, or find some nice,
quiet place for boarding in a private family, if their stay proved too
long for a visit.
“She had thought the matter over very thoroughly, I could see that, and
seemed to have set her heart on it. So I undertook to persuade the old
people into letting her go, and promised that my wife, so far as
possible, should come over and supply the gals’ place while they were
away.
“Sarah was full of gratitude. She kissed me again and again, and called
me her kind, reasonable brother, and we parted excellent friends; but,
so far as any information was concerned, just where we had met. But so
it always was with your mother. She was sure to end in having her own
way, and in making everybody think it was best too.
“After this conversation, Sarah grew shy of young Mr. Bentley, and left
him so much alone that he seemed to grow homesick, and began to talk
about returning to the city. But the doctor, who did not get a patient
of that stamp every day, would not hear of it, and so he stayed till the
girls were ready for their trip to the sea-shore. I saw them when they
set out—in fact I drove them down to the river, with my own team—and, of
course, sat waiting while they took leave of Mr. Bentley in the front
stoop. He was a good deal flurried and nervous. Sarah took her leave
with a quiet, proud air, that seemed to chill him, for he went into the
house and did not wait to see us drive off. But the old people stood
there so long as we were in sight, following us with old-fashioned
blessings—such blessings, Gillian, as no one has time to give in these
fast days.”
CHAPTER X.
THE SISTERS AWAY FROM HOME.
“It was six months before I saw the gals again. They stayed some time
with Aunt Mary, and, after that, Sarah wrote us word that they had gone
to the shore on Long Island, where board was cheap and sea-bathing
capital. Sarah complained a great deal of her feeble health, but thought
the coast air did her a world of good. She said very little about Hetty,
only that she could not get along without her for a day. Her letters
were short, but punctual. She seemed anxious to keep the old people
satisfied with her long stay from home; and seldom wrote for money, as
she and Hetty supplied themselves, she said, by doing fine needlework
for a store in Broadway, which she went to the city, now and then, to
get and return.
“It was fall before my sisters came home. The sea-air might have done
them good, but they both looked thin and pale, as if overworked; and I
reproached myself for letting them toil so hard for their own board so
long, though, as I have told you, the old folks were in debt, and could
not help it.
“Well, my sisters went to work again in the homestead, and the old place
began to brighten up, for Sarah grew more easy and cheerful, saying that
hard work was just what she wanted; while Hetty took up her old ways,
only it seemed to us that she was more still and sad than ever, spending
a great deal of time in her own room, where I sometimes saw a candle
burning after eleven o’clock at night.
“Not long after they got back, I found out two secrets: one was, that
Mr. Bentley had often visited the gals while with their aunt; and the
other, that they brought needlework from New York, which they sat up
nights to finish.
“Sarah was obliged to make me her confidant in this, for every month she
wanted me to take her down to the river on her road to York, where she
would be gone a day or two on a visit to her aunt. When I wanted to know
why she took this extra work, and what she did with the money, she
reminded me of her music-lessons that were to be paid for, and of a
hundred pretty things which she and Hetty were always wanting, but, to
my knowledge, never got.
“I think Sarah saw Mr. Bentley in some of these visits to the city, for
she came back more and more cheerful each month, but kept on working day
and night all the same.
“On her third trip down the river she came back full of excitement, and
told me, as a great secret, which I was to reveal to no one, that she
had given up needlework now. When I questioned her, she told me with
blushes and half crying, for when a pleasant thing came to Sarah her
eyes always would fill, though she bore trouble like a hero:—well, she
told me that perhaps, if anybody asked her, she might get married some
fine day, and we both laughed at the joke. She was very frank and happy
during our drive home, for I met her at the boat as usual; and at last
told me that she had seen Mr. Bentley in New York, and that he was
coming up to the homestead in a week or two if—if I thought father would
have no objection.
“‘Objection! What objection could my father have to Mr. Bentley, whose
conduct toward him and his had been more than kind? Surely he might
expect to be made welcome in a house that was almost his own.’
“‘Yes,’ said Sarah, turning her face toward the sunset, though I could
see a smile quivering on her lip, ‘but—but Mr. Bentley wants to take me
away with him; he thinks now that he loves me well enough for that!’
“I was rejoiced, and gave my horses a triumphant crack of the whip that
sent them off on a run. I knew well enough that Sarah was no fit wife
for any of the young fellows in our neighborhood. Her high spirits, her
wit, and the bright thoughts that made every one admire her, were not
gifts to be buried on a farm, nor drudged into tameness by hard work. I
had knowledge of the world and sense enough to know that, if I had been
brought up in the country. It would have been like forcing a canary bird
to dive for its food like a fish-hawk. But this was another affair.
“Your father was the man of all I had ever seen for the husband of a gal
like our Sarah. With a college education, an honest, strong mind, as
handsome a figure as you see in a day’s walk, and any amount of
property, where could another man be found like him? Yet I felt that
Sarah was his match every inch of it: her virtues were home-virtues, and
her studies home-studies, but genuine for all that. Even he could talk
on but few subjects that Sarah did not know something about; and as for
manners, if ever there was a born lady it was my sister Sarah, if I do
say it.
“Sarah was delighted to see how I took the news, and told me in her old,
frank way how she had loved Mr. Bentley long before she was quite
certain that he cared for her—how he had almost proposed while she was
with her aunt, but had been checked off when they went to the Long
Island shore, without telling him a word about it, and seemed to have
given her up without a struggle; but in her late visit she had met him
by accident in the street; they had walked a long way together, she
could not tell how or where, for it seemed like heaven to her, for he
was telling her of his love—his disappointment at her sudden departure;
which he looked upon as a rebuff, and of the bright hopes that he could
scarcely believe real, though she had listened to him with so much
patience. ‘It was all like a dream—a sweet, bright dream,’ she said,
‘but real, beautifully real, though she never could believe it, never!’
“It was pleasant to hear her talk so gently of her love, and to see the
color come and go in her face with every look I gave it. I do believe
that day she was the happiest creature on earth. She exclaimed at the
beauty of every thing—the old apple trees with their scraggy branches,
the patches of moss on the wayside, and the sunset. ‘It certainly was,’
she said, ‘the most heavenly sunset that ever she saw in her life.’
“To me now it was a bank of yellow and red clouds piled up and heaped
against each other, with streaks of purple and flame color breaking
through; but she saw a thousand other bright things, as people who love
poetry and dream dreams are sure to do.
“I told the old folks of the news, and Sarah told Hetty, who chirked up
like a bird for two or three days, and hovered around her sister in a
quiet flutter of happiness, like a robin when its mate is on the nest.
“The old gentleman took every thing that came in his way as a matter of
course. Nothing could arouse his pride, for he held things that turn the
heads of most people at their due worth.
“‘Bentley is an honest man,’ he said, ‘and Sarah is a good, bright gal:
they’ll make a couple that we needn’t be ashamed of, Dan—you may be sure
of that.’
“I was satisfied. When my father pronounced any one an honest man,
praise had no higher term for him. His pride of integrity was wonderful:
he acknowledged no superiority but that of goodness and industry. There,
he was unyielding: a want of integrity the old man never could forgive.
I think that an absolutely wrong act in one of his family would have
broken his heart. He was the proudest man I ever saw, and the meekest
too.
“His children all knew this, and respected him accordingly. My sisters,
above all, had great reverence for this trait of character, and dreaded
his disapprobation above all things. Observe me, father was not a cross
nor severe man—only a downright honest one, whose good character was the
life of his life.
“Of course a man like this could rejoice in his daughter’s prosperity in
marrying a man so much above your father, for he knew the full value of
property, and was glad to get it in the family; but it was the
intelligence and sterling goodness of Mr. Bentley that touched the old
man nearest. Had these been wanting, property and position would have
gone for nothing with a man of your grandfather’s stamp.
“Well, the time came. Bentley asked the old man’s consent in person, and
with a few kind, hearty words was taken into the family.
“Sarah was very happy then. For days and days she was beautiful—so
beautiful that I would stop to look at her. With a creature so smart and
full of feeling, happiness was beauty, and it shone through her face
like light through a lamp. In truth, I have seen a great many prettier
women than our Sarah, but never one whose look would bring the heart
into your mouth with such a throb of warm feeling. So she was happy as
the day was long till after the wedding-day was set. Then I saw that she
began to pine a little; once I found her in Hetty’s room, and they were
both crying. But this was natural enough, you know: the two gals had
never been separated in their lives, and it was hard to give each other
up.”
CHAPTER XI.
END OF UNCLE DANIEL’S STORY.
“Well, they were married at last, in the spring time, when the apple
trees were all in bloom, and the young leaves coming out in the woods.
There was no wedding to speak of, for Sarah, who was always so full of
life and loved company more than any thing, insisted on being married
almost alone, with no one but the family by. This surprised us all and
made a good deal of hard talk in the neighborhood, for all her old mates
insisted on it that Sarah was putting on airs, because her lover was a
city gentleman and rich. There was no truth in this, for instead of
putting on airs the dear gal appeared to grow more and more humble as
the day came on, and it seemed as if the saddest part of her life was
just before she married a man that I am sure she loved better than all
the world beside.
“Hetty, too, did nothing but cry—not that this was done before folks,
but you could see it in her heavy eyes and heavy step too. Poor gal, she
really seemed afraid of Mr. Bentley, and would turn away from him
sometimes with a scared look that no one could account for, for he was
gentle and pleasant as could be to us all.
“Well, as I said before, they were married one spring morning, with the
sunshine all around them, and the breath of the apple blossoms coming in
at the window. There was no bridesmaid, for Hetty would not stand up in
spite of all we could say; and, except my little wife, she was the only
young person there.
“That was one of Sarah’s beautiful mornings—I mean as regards herself.
She had thrown off all down-heartedness, and came down-stairs in her
white muslin dress, that floated around her like a cloud, looking more
like the angels we see in pictures than any thing else. She had a little
cluster of crab-apple blossoms in her bosom, and a wreath of elder
flowers and cherry blossoms around her head. She was handsome—yes,
Gillian, I think she was almost as handsome as you are now, on the day
of her wedding.
“It’s one of the pleasantest things in life to see a bright, wholesome
girl like her, brimming over with life, and with a will that no force
could control, tamed down by love, with those soft shadows under her
eyes, and the eyes themselves full of mist. I never loved my sister half
so much as I did on that day. When she turned from the minister, and
looked up to him with those eyes so mournful and tender the bridegroom
kissed her forehead. I did not wonder at it, for it seemed as if she had
just risen from a sacrament-table, with the holy wine on her lips, which
it would be wicked to touch.
“I think Hetty felt like this, for when the bride went up to her and
reached out her arms with a smile, I shall never forget how the poor gal
clung around her with both arms, and kissed her neck, her dress, and her
hands with a deep burst of crying; but when Sarah would have kissed her
sister’s lips she shrunk away trembling all over, and sobbing out
blessings on her dear, dear sister, to which the old man answered amen,
as if he had been in meeting.
“After this, Hetty and the bride went up-stairs together, and stayed a
long time. When Sarah came down in her travelling-dress, ready to leave
us forever, Hetty stayed behind, and we did not see her again that day.
“As Mr. Bentley’s carriage was driving away, Sarah looked back so
longingly to the old house that I beckoned the driver to stop, and went
up to say good-by once more.
“‘Dan,’ says she, as I came up, ‘Dan, that’s a good brother, bring me a
handful of lilacs and some snow-balls, from the old bushes, under
Hetty’s window: they will be something to remind me of home.’
“Mr. Bentley was ready to spring out and gather them for her. But she
said, with one of her smiles that was worth a sermon any day,
“‘No—no, let Dan bring them now; and you shall gather flowers for me all
the rest of our two lives.’
“I brought the lilacs and the snow-balls, and she gathered them up so
lovingly in her hands, it made my heart swell, I can tell you.
“He drove away slowly at first, for Sarah kept looking back toward the
house, and we all stood in the porch sending blessings after
her—old-fashioned, honest blessings that followed her to the grave I am
certain. But as they came near the hill, where the bridegroom had almost
lost his life, and his poor cousin was brought away a corpse, the driver
whipped up his horses, and they swept over the precipice like lightning,
and in that spot we lost sight of them.
“After this we were very lonesome at the homestead. Sarah wrote long
letters to us from her grand house in the city; but we missed her
dreadfully. Sometimes a little private letter to Hetty came in the
larger one, but we never knew what was in it: some secret always rested
between the two.
“Once, in the first year, Hetty went down to York, but she stayed at
Aunt Mary’s, only going now and then to see her sister.
“When we asked the reason of this, Hetty said that Sarah had so much
company, and lived in such a grand way, that she felt out of place
there. Sarah was just the same kind-hearted, noble creature, but Hetty
was more comfortable with Aunt Mary.
“I have little more to tell you, Gillian, about your mother; for, with
the exception of one or two visits to New York, when I put up at her
house, and found myself as welcome as a robin in the spring, we saw
little of each other. The old gentleman went to see her—that was after
you were born—and came home delighted.
“At last, when you were a little more than two years old, Sarah and her
husband came to the homestead again.”
“Yes,” said Gillian, who had listened to this long story with deep
attention, “yes, I remember that, and I remember how she looked. It
seems like a picture—the old place and all. But where did my parents go
after that?”
“They went to Europe not three months from that time. It was a sudden
thing, I am sure, for the mail that brought us this letter brought also
a paper, in which we found that they had sailed. The old man felt a
little hurt at this, I think, for he was getting so infirm and childish
that any thing like neglect from those he loved wounded him. Not long
after this he died, and mother followed him in three days, as old folks
are apt to do. So they never lived to be disappointed by not receiving
but one letter from sister Sarah, after she sailed for foreign parts; or
to grieve over the news of her death, when it came to us, as if we had
been strangers, in an open newspaper.”
“And this is all you know about my poor mother?” said Gillian, painfully
disappointed. “It is a great deal, certainly, but not all I expected.
Papa so seldom speaks of her; and after that one evening, in this same
old homestead, I remember nothing, for it seems they put me in a
convent-school directly after we reached Italy, and when I came out my
mother lay in the Campo Sante at Naples.”
“Have you seen her grave, niece Gillian?” inquired the farmer.
“Yes, my Italian servant—one who had been hired in the family when we
first went to Italy—often took me to one of those heavenly flower-nooks
in which the people of Naples lay their dead to sleep, and told me that
my mother was buried beneath the roses there.”
“And you read the tombstone?”
“A cross of marble—nothing more; but that was so like my father: you
know he never could endure to register his joy or grief before the
world. This is all I know of my mother’s death.”
“It is strange,” said Uncle Daniel, thoughtfully, “but your father will
not talk of her?”
Gillian answered, with tender sadness,
“Oh, that is like him too, dear, sensitive papa! I have often heard him
say that a human soul never dies, and should only be spoken of as
something too sacred for every-day speech.”
Daniel Hart sank down in his chair and heaved a deep sigh. Up to this
time a vague hope that his sister might have left some loving message
for him had unconsciously floated through his mind.
“Still,” said the good man, “still I will ask him more about her in the
morning.”
Gillian shook her head. “I think if there is any thing that will give
you pleasure, he will speak of his own accord,” she said; “if not, the
idea that he has inspired such a hope will give him pain. Let us wait,
dear uncle.”
Uncle Daniel gave up his hope with another profound sigh; and Gillian
arose from her stool at his feet, saddened, as if she too had partaken
of a wish that was destroyed.
CHAPTER XII.
THE NIGHT VISIT OF AUNT HETTY.
Gillian stole softly up to her room, for, in a strange house, and with
darkness all around, she grew timid, and was glad to cover herself up in
bed. But she could not sleep. This conversation about her mother, the
strangeness of every thing around, kept her wakeful and restless.
Her bed stood opposite a window which looked into the orchard where her
mother had played when a child. The mellow autumn-moon had risen, and
she could almost discern the apples as they fell over-ripe from the
boughs, disturbing a stillness otherwise profound.
As she lay thus, dreamy and sad, a noise at the door startled her. At
first she rose from the pillow, and looked keenly that way; but sank
down on the instant, as almost any girl would have done, huddling the
clothes about her head.
The door opened very softly, and a small figure, clad in white, stole
across the floor, with her head bent forward, as if listening at each
step. As the figure came opposite the window, Gillian, who, fascinated
even in her terror, had drawn the sheet from over her eyes, saw the
features of Aunt Hetty, who came toward her like a shadow, evidently
afraid of her own breath.
Curiosity overcame all fear in Gillian, who lay still, with her eyes
half closed, watching her strange visitor. Aunt Hetty came close up to
the bed, sunk on her knees, and seemed to be searching for a clear view
of Gillian’s face, which was a little in shadow even if it had been
uncovered.
At last she put her hand softly down, drew away the counterpane, and a
kiss fell on Gillian’s forehead, so light and tremulous that it seemed
but a shadow passing over her.
Gillian closed her eyes, for there was something in this act that
brought dew into them, and with great difficulty she suppressed an
unequal breath. Then, emboldened by her first effort, Aunt Hetty bent
down and pored over that young face till a heavy tear fell upon it.
Unconsciously Gillian started, and shrinking together as if she had
committed some crime, Aunt Hetty slid down to her knees, and burying her
face in the bed-clothes, waited.
But Gillian controlled herself, and directly sobs came at slow intervals
from the bed; then the whispered words of a prayer; and after that wild,
uncontrolled bursts of anguish, in which Gillian heard her mother’s name
repeated over and over again.
At last this sorrow seemed to wear itself out, and exhausted its force
in faint sobs, ending in profound silence. After a little, Gillian felt
that her aunt was sitting on the bed again, striving to search out the
lineaments of her face in the shadows. The restraint became painful, and
at last the young girl opened her eyes, meeting the mournful gaze of her
aunt, upon which the moon shone brightly.
Aunt Hetty did not move; but her eyes wavered like those of a person
suddenly detected in a crime.
“Aunt Hetty!” said Gillian, very softly, “Aunt Hetty!”
Her little hand stole out of the bed-clothes and touched that which lay
helplessly on her pillow. There was something in that gentle voice, and
the clasp of those fingers, that soothed the timid woman. Her fingers
closed over Gillian’s, and though she trembled, it seemed with kindly
feeling.
“Aunt Hetty,” repeated the young girl, “did not my mother come in this
way to my bed one night, and you with her, when I was a little child?”
“And you remember her? You remember that noble, noble mother, and that
night when we two prayed over you for the last time on earth?” she
answered, in a whisper full of tender regrets.
“As I remember dreams—dreams of angels hovering near me,” said Gillian.
“Your coming to-night made it a reality.”
“And she is dead—gone from us without a word of farewell—a word of—ah!
my child, if you could but remember any word, any little thing by which
I might know she thought of us with the old kindness!”
“How I wish so, too, dear aunt; but it is impossible. They took me from
her so early: and, in the convent, I had so much kindness, that it made
me forget easily. I remember there was one lady there, a boarder, who
came to my cell every night, as you are here now, with a thousand gentle
words and sweet kindnesses, and then the convent was so pleasant; that
was when I was about five years old. She did not stay at the convent
altogether; but came with other sisters of charity; sometimes staying a
few weeks; sometimes three or four months.”
“And this lady was kind to you? God bless her for that!” said Aunt
Hetty, quietly. “If it would benefit her, I would give an hour of my
life for every consoling word she said to you.”
“Oh, yes,” said Gillian, reflectively, “it was a sweet voice, motherly
and soft—sweeter than any I ever heard in the convent. I wonder what
became of her?”
The young girl sighed as she spoke; while Aunt Hetty tightened her clasp
on the little hand.
“I have heard of sisters of charity: they must be happy woman, and good
ones too, let them belong to what church they will,” said Aunt Hetty.
“Perhaps this lady is one of them still: for they travel about, I am
told. I am not sweet-toned, as you say she was; but, if you will not
think it strange for me to come into your room now and then, I should be
very thankful. Your mother and I slept in each other’s arms till she was
more than your age. I have grown old and lonely since then—no one cares
for my love; but, if you would not feel it a burden, there are some
things that I might do in a quiet way. Don’t you think so?”
She looked down into Gillian’s face with wistful earnestness as she
spoke; and the young girl, lonely in her half orphanage, and searching
for affection everywhere, rose up, and threw her arms around that
drooping neck with a fervor that brought fresh tears into Aunt Hetty’s
voice.
“Don’t mind if I seem silent and stiff before folks,” she said, folding
the young girl close in her arms: “it is my way; but if I can save you
one pain by laying down my life, speak, and I’ll do it.”
Before Gillian could answer as her warm heart dictated, the arms that
had so closely embraced her fell away, and her aunt glided from the
chamber, shadow-like, as she had entered.
And this was Gillian’s first night under the maternal roof. Perhaps the
first deep feelings that she had ever experienced sprang into existence
during those few hours. It seemed as if her father, too, was haunted
with unrest; for, all night long, his step was heard by the master of
the house, who slept beneath his room, walking to and fro.
CHAPTER XIII.
THE GILDED TEMPTATION.
A suit of rooms formed a gorgeous vista of subdued carpet, frescoed
walls, ceilings from which the glowing flowers seemed ready to drop in
masses, and tall windows muffled with draperies, upon which floods of
light that fell from brackets and chandeliers turned wine-colored, and
seemed to eddy and flow and ripple downward through the silken folds.
Upon the walls great mirrors gleamed, like lakes margined with gold and
buried in foliage, some in shadow giving out cool reflections, others
throwing back light like a crystal pool in the sunshine.
Those panels which were not occupied by mirrors glowed with pictures,
through which Bacchus reeled under his coronal of grape leaves; and
Venus appeared, over and over again, smiling at his feet, or, with her
white hands, crushing the purple clusters into his reeking wine-cup.
Such gods and goddesses as Rubens loved to humanize into coarse beauty,
laughed and reeled through these pictures; and though women never
entered those apartments day or night, you could not turn without
meeting some bewitching glance, or beckoning attitude, which disturbed
you with an idea of their actual presence. Indeed this luxurious mockery
of life fell upon you like enchantment. It was like living over the most
splendid scenes of a classic romance; but to the true man there was
something repulsive in it all—a feeling that the moral atmosphere was
unwholesome, as if sighs and unheard curses floated still among the rich
draperies and sensuous pictures.
That keen intuition, which is the essence of our natural senses, till
they become demoralized and coarse like an over-ripe flower, was
sufficient to warn any good man that evil associations lurked everywhere
around him. But few good men ever entered that building. The clink of
gold, the rustle of bank notes, and the low hum of conversation which
filled these rooms through the night hours, had little in them
calculated to draw the honorable and true into that haunt.
The rooms were full of company, for play ran high that night. There was
little noise and no appearance of confusion: the excitement was too
intense for that. But the hush of restrained passions is sometimes more
striking than their outbreak. An abrupt exclamation now and then, the
hiss of a breath suddenly drawn in, and the sharp glitter of an eye
fiercely uplifted from the cards, alone gave evidence of the contest in
reality raging through these rooms.
In the most distant apartment from the entrance a table was laid,
glittering with silver engraved with the delicacy of ice jewelry, and
glass that seemed cut from the ice itself.
Forced fruits gleamed richly through this frost-work of silver; and the
glass, amber-hued and ruby-tinted by rare wines that filled it, mingled
in one luxurious picture. But the whole was tamed down by the chandelier
above, whose shades absorbed the light like great pearls and gave it
forth in moonbeams.
It was beyond the usual hour of supper, but those around the card-table
were so intensely occupied, that they forgot the hour, and even persons
who were evidently but lookers-on became so interested in the play that
a furtive glance was all they could bestow on the dimly lighted table
beyond.
Down one side of these rooms ran what appeared to be rows of windows,
all closely curtained with crimson damask which swept the carpet. But
these draperies concealed the entrance to a series of lateral
apartments, where the more respectable frequenters of the house made up
select parties, and trod for themselves a more aristocratic road-to-ruin
than those who appeared openly in the outer room.
Among the group that surrounded the faro-table was a young man who had
been quietly but desperately betting for the last hour. He was a tall,
handsome fellow, whose presence struck you, at first sight, with a
resistless idea not only of great personal beauty but of corresponding
intellect. Dark-brown hair, with a wave running through it; large, gray
eyes, black under excitement; and a fresh, pure complexion, were by no
means the first things that struck you in his appearance, for these are
common advantages that we often meet without notice; but his figure,
tall and lithe, the repose almost sullen of his manner, conspired to
excite nearly as much distrust as admiration. The expression of his
face, and the self-sufficient repose of his bearing, were points that
riveted the attention which his fine person invited.
He had lost heavily, ruinously perhaps, but the wild anguish which might
have been looked for in a face so youthful failed to excite sympathy; a
dead, sullen cloud settled on his face, and, with his eyes bent to the
floor, he turned from the table, moving slowly down the room.
All at once a stinging sense of his position seemed to seize upon him;
for, putting one hand into his bosom where some weapon was evidently
concealed, he turned abruptly aside, lifted one of the crimson curtains,
and stood panting in the recess separated from the large gambling-hall
by the silken drapery and a smaller room, by a door through which faint
sounds reached his ear, though at the moment they did not arrest his
attention. After a moment the young man conquered his agitation, and
drew his hand slowly from his bosom, muttering doggedly,
“What a fool! Kill myself here? Disgrace! Well, what of it? My name
dishonored—who cares? Where did it come from? Who would feel the shame?
Arrest—oh, there lies the danger!”
He lifted a hand distractedly to his forehead, as the last unpleasant
idea forced itself on his conviction, and his limbs began to tremble.
The gloom of a State’s prison hovered over him. As he stood thus, a
voice reached him from the hall; for some of the tables had broken up
and their occupants were passing towards the supper-room. A group of two
or three persons halted near the recess, and, supposing that he had left
the establishment, were discussing his misfortunes.
“The son of a millionaire!” said one. “Nothing of the sort—confidential
clerk in the house of N. L. & Co., with a salary which his losses
to-night will not more than cover, if the money was really his own.”
“A splendid young rascal, any way,” answered another careless voice,
“and sure to come up with a sharp turn if the heads of his firm get hold
of this night’s business.”
“Which they will, sooner or later, even if it is not their cash he has
been hazarding.”
“Then heaven help him, for the old fellows will have no mercy. They
belong to the benevolent evangelical order, and believe in capital
punishment, strict justice and all that—never saw the inside of a place
like this, and would be shocked to look upon the outer walls. But who is
the young fellow? He didn’t plank his money like a novice. His courage
ought to have provoked better luck. What is his name? and who are his
parents?”
“His name is Hurst—John, Richard, or William, I have no idea which it
is; as for his family, if he ever had any I am ignorant of the fact. He
lives with an old lady, some aunt, or cousin, across town, whom his
salary ought to support, for she has been more than a mother to him, and
her means are scanty enough.”
“But he seems well educated.”
“Like a prince. The poor old soul did more than educate him for his
present calling; he graduated with firstclass honors, not a year ago.”
“He does not seem more than one-and-twenty, now.”
“Not so old. Late hours, and this sort of thing has dashed all the
freshness from his youth; but he is only a boy yet.”
The group passed on, and, strange to say, the last words affected the
young man behind the curtains more than any that had gone before.
“Only a boy!” he repeated, bitterly. “I’ll let them see! Fools, is this
night’s work that of a boy?”
After this he listened keenly, hoping to discover that the inmates of
the hall had been tempted off to the supper-room, when he could withdraw
unseen; but, as he bent his head in the stillness, voices reached him,
not from the hall, but through the door opening from the recess.
He started, drew himself up with a quick movement, and, slowly bending
his head again, listened without a gesture or a breath.
No words were discernible through the thick doors, but the tones of a
voice reached him, and the possibility of it belonging to one person
inspired him with a desperate joy. Slowly and softly he unclosed the
door, and left nothing but a frame covered with green baize between him
and the room beyond; a very faint glimmer of light flickered through the
baize, but it was impossible to see more than that, though the voices
were now distinct.
The young man trembled with impatience. Quick as lightning his intellect
grasped the means of safety that lay in that voice, should it prove the
one he hoped. He dared not open the door, but softly drawing a small
poignard from his bosom, he held the sheath in his mouth, as if to
prevent his breath escaping with the slightest sound, and cut a small
slit in the baize, through which it was possible to see all that passed
in the chamber beyond.
An exclamation almost escaped him, for there, at a table, earnestly at
play, sat the respectable head of his firm, the man in whose power his
destiny was placed. For half an hour he crouched in that recess,
watching the gray-haired gamblers at their midnight work; every word
that fell from their lips was treasured—every gesture recorded in his
memory. At last the party broke up, and the four men prepared to depart
after appointing a like meeting two nights from that, in which the
sufferers were to claim revenge for their losses.
The party disappeared through some private door, which did not lead to
the hall, and thus young Hurst obtained a secret of the establishment,
which he felt sure of making available.
Now he was really excited; despair had made him sullen, but the hope
born of this discovery, which promised both safety and revenge, brought
a sparkling light to his eyes and changed his entire face. He waited a
while, resolving this new state of things over in his mind, and at
length, smiling with satisfaction, parted the curtains and stepped into
the hall again.
As he had conjectured, most of the visitors were in the supper-room, and
with his usual sauntering composure he turned that way.
“Give me wine,” he said, reaching forth a glass; “I wish to drink a
toast to a young lady who persecutes me with unpleasant attentions,
especially to-night.”
A gentleman filled his glass, saying carelessly to those around him—
“Be quiet, will you, while Hurst toasts his lady-love?”
“Oh, ha! Hurst back again! pluck in that,” cried half a dozen voices.
“Now for the lady.”
Hurst held up his glass to the light, smiling with supercilious foppery
on the wine, as one might be expected to smile who could utter a lady’s
name in such company.
“Come—come.”
“I drink,” he said, lifting his glass with a mischievous twinkle of the
eye, “to Miss Fortune, the coquette, and shall be very glad to turn her
over to any of you gentlemen at a moment’s warning. One flirtation is
enough for me.”
A laugh went round the table, for there was a raciness and dash about
the young fellow that made even secondhand wit acceptable. Indeed the
whole company were lost in admiration of the wonderful self-possession
that marked his behavior. Among all that company he seemed the most free
from care or self-reproach.
“The boy will shoot himself before morning,” whispered one of the men
who had made his losses a subject of conversation near the recess. “This
is recklessness—not philosophy.”
“I think not,” was the reply. “See how steady his hand is, how
cheerfully his lip curves. I tell you the fellow takes it coolly: an old
stager of sixty could not carry off his misfortunes more bravely. Look
at him now.”
“A splendid animal, isn’t he? By Jove, if I had that figure, it should
command an heiress with any amount of rocks.”
“But that sort of speculation has so many unpleasant incumbrances,” was
the reply, “especially in a State where women hold their own property,
and divorces are next to impossible; the laws have almost ruined that
sort of thing. But if you have finished that bird, let’s follow the
youngster. He interests me.”
The two men arose, and followed Hurst down the room; he knew them
slightly, and paused as they came up. One was an elderly man, bald, and
sleek of face, with a shrewd eye, and gentle manner. The other appeared
somewhat under thirty, and prided himself on being not only a man of the
world, but a man of the peculiar world assembled in those rooms.
“Do you make an effort to retrieve?” said the elder, pointing to the
faro-table.
“Not to-night,” answered Hurst, smiling. “You remember my toast. One
does not get rid of a lady-love so easily; besides, I am sleepy.
Good-evening, gentlemen.”
With a bow and a slight wave of the hand, Hurst passed on down the room
and away, leaving the two gamblers looking at each other, half amused
half disdainful.
“He’s a trump!” said the younger.
“Young America!” sneered the elder, in his silky way. “The boys are
crowding us out everywhere.”
CHAPTER XIV.
THE AUTHORESS AT HOME.
A little out from New York, on that side of the Bloomingdale road which
commands a picturesque view of the Hudson, within sound of the city, and
yet not exactly in it, stood a pretty cottage. It was back from the
road, and so near the river that, in the morning, a portion of its
shadow fell upon the water. It was almost concealed from the road by a
growth of old forest trees. The river bank was broken and rocky,
affording pretty hollows, where the ferns grew thriftily, and flat
ledges, on which the moss lay like a carpet. The cottage had once been a
farm-house, but judicious improvements had recently transfigured it into
a picturesque home, unlike any dwelling within view. A porch thrown out
in one direction, a bay window here, a balcony there, and clinging roses
and vines wreathing all into harmony, made the house neither cottage,
farm-house nor villa, but a most desirable residence, for all that. The
house was a type of nothing but itself; or, it may be, of the person who
inhabited it.
She was a woman of middle-age—an earnest, active woman, full of energy,
rich in feeling, and endowed with a rare intellect, which had, at the
time she presents herself in this narrative, won for her commanding
influence, and a wide reputation. This influence sometimes bore heavily
upon herself, from the duties of charity or social kindness which it
imposed; and the reputation, brilliant as it was, she scarcely felt, so
gradual had been its growth, and so little had she sought for it as a
result of her labors.
This woman was an author. Not a mere literary lady capable of little
snatches of song and pretty trifles, that live and die in the world of
letters like wild flowers in a wood; but a maker of books, a worker-out
of thought in its grandest and most beautiful form. She was, at once, a
poet, a prose writer, an artist in soul, and a woman of society.
The room in which she sat opened upon the river, which flowed pleasantly
on in full view of the broad window before which her writing-table was
placed. Bookcases, crowded with volumes, covered every available part of
the room. A marble head or two looked calmly down upon her as she wrote;
and the picture of an old man, that hung over the mantle-piece, seemed
to watch her with grave interest as if he alone knew the history of her
life and intended to guard the secret.
There was none of the frippery, with which female writers in their
callow days love to surround themselves, in that room. Julia Ransom had
got far beyond all that in her ascent up the hill of life. Two or three
substantial easy-chairs, cushioned with embroidery wrought by the female
friends who loved her, stood about. A footstool to match, from which the
roses were worn out by the constant pressure of her slipper, stood near
a table covered with crimson, and littered with pens, paper, books and
pencils, with a bronze ink-stand after the model which Ariosto left.
These objects, with a crimson couch, on which she sometimes rested after
the excitement of hard writing, were sufficiently feminine in their
appointments, without misleading you as to the character of their owner.
Julia Ransom was alone and writing, for it was the morning hour, and she
usually commenced early and wrote late till her task was done, throwing
her whole being into the event she narrated, or the pictures that she
drew. Had you spoken to her, at such times, she probably would not have
heard you, save to be slightly annoyed by the sound. Had she answered
you, the words would have escaped her lips unconsciously, and she might
have given you all she possessed on earth without knowing it. Once
fastened upon a train of thought, it seemed impossible to wrench her
mind away, and from this arose the vigor and intensity which marked all
that she wrote.
Yet Julia Ransom never seemed alone, for the old man over the
mantle-piece was like a guardian to her always. She would sometimes lift
her face from the half-written sheet, and look upon the old man with
smiling lips and an earnest expression of the eyes, which it seemed as
if the very canvas must recognize and answer back with sympathy. Then
she would dash into her subject again, and sheet after sheet left her
hands, till she grew pale with exhaustion, and drooped forward, with her
arms folded on the table, gazing upon the river, too weary for exertion,
yet unable to withdraw her mind from the drama it was creating.
She was sitting thus, with blank paper under her folded arms, and
scattered manuscript lying at her feet, when the door softly opened, and
a Madras kerchief, crowning a handsome, copper-colored face, was thrust
through the opening.
Mrs. Ransom did not look up; so the handsome mulatto, to whom the
kerchief and face belonged, stole softly across the room, and stood so
as to throw her shadow across the paper on which her mistress was
writing.
Mrs. Ransom looked up, impatiently.
“Well, Ruby, what is it?” she said, beginning to write again.
“A lady—a young lady—came in an open carriage, white horses; boy behind
with a cockade and band; colored driver, looks like a prince right from
Africa.”
“Who is the lady, Ruby?”
“Here’s the card, Miss.”
Mrs. Ransom leaned back in her chair, drew a hand across her forehead,
and languidly received the card.
“Miss Gillian Bentley!”
She read the name over two or three times, drew her hand again and again
across her eyes, then arose and went to the door.
“No,” she said, hesitating, with her hand on the knob. “Let the young
lady come to me here.”
The girl went out, while Mrs. Ransom paced up and down the room two or
three times, apparently annoyed by the intrusion of a stranger upon her
occupation. She was in the middle of the room, and stood, with her eyes
on the door, when it opened to admit Gillian.
The young girl was a good deal embarrassed; for, the reputation of Mrs.
Ransom, with a certain reserved shyness, which was neither pride nor
bashfulness, had its effect on her frank nature: besides this, the lady
did not advance, or smile, but stood, gazing on her with a long, wistful
look, as if she had been the picture of some old friend.
At last Gillian stepped forward, blushing to the temples, and said, in a
frank, childlike way,
“You were busy to-day, and I am intruding: pray let me retire.”
“No! no! Intrusion? no!” was the confused reply. “Be seated, here by the
window. I am not busy—far from it.”
Gillian sat down in a chair near the window. Mrs. Ransom took her old
seat, and, for a little time, there was profound silence between them.
The young girl looked out upon the river; the lady sat gazing on her.
“Indeed, I fear the visit is unpardonable,” she said, at last, glancing
at the lady.
“Did you speak? I beg your pardon; but—but really I am a little
_distraite_ this morning. You wished to see me—to ask some questions,
perhaps. Have no reluctance: it is not an uncommon thing for me to
receive strangers, especially those who have real or fancied sufferings.
You do not seem of that class.”
“No, no,” said Gillian, “I have no sorrows to speak of; and, if I had, I
should not bring them here, or anywhere else. It seems to me that griefs
are sometimes heavenly gifts, and should only be shared with divinity.”
Julia Ransom’s face kindled up, and the color broke into her face, which
had, up to this time, been singularly pale.
“But would you withhold joys as well as griefs from friendly sympathy?”
she said, with a smile that brought a glow into Gillian’s face.
“No, indeed. Joy should be shared with every one like the sunshine and
other bright things. I wish it were in my power to fill your world with
it, lady, for your writings have made half the happiness I ever knew.”
Julia smiled, oh, such a bright, glorious smile! Words like these, full
of sincerity and truth, were a beautiful reward for her toil of thought.
“You like my books, then?” she said, gently.
“Like them? Oh, lady, if I had but words to tell you how much!”
Mrs. Ransom hesitated, smiled, and then, with a slight tremor of the
lip, and some unnatural restraint, inquired if Gillian’s parents also
approved the books she had written.
The face of the young girl clouded painfully, and she answered that she
had but one parent living—her father; and it was from him she had, at
first, learned to love those books.
“He reads them—did you say?” asked Mrs. Ransom, in a low voice.
“Indeed he does. My father is a learned man, you must know, and his mind
is given to research and science rather than what is called light
reading; but he is fond of the classics, and sometimes takes up a modern
novel for an hour. It was in this way he became interested in your
writings. We were in Europe, and a translation fell in his way. The
translation of an American book was a rare thing till lately, you know,
and this fact drew his attention. I think I never saw him so much
interested in any thing as he was in those books. I never saw him cry
but twice in my life, and once was while he was reading them. Indeed his
eyes were dim with tears half the time. It was a strange thing to see
him feel so deeply, especially where the subject was a fiction.”
“The book which makes you feel deeply is never a fiction. It is the
truth which appeals to any heart successfully, no matter in what form
you disguise it,” said Julia Ransom, with emotion.
“I am sure of that,” answered Gillian, who was becoming more and more
interested in the lady. “It seems to me impossible that there should be
no deep emotion in the heart of a writer who can draw tears from the
souls of those who read. I should have no respect for the author who
could excite feelings she did not herself know.”
“No author can excite feelings which she does not herself know, either
through experience or the imagination,” answered Mrs. Ransom, earnestly.
“This was exactly what my father said!”
Mrs. Ransom did not answer, but arose and walked to the window. Then she
turned with one of her bright smiles, and laid her hand on Gillian’s
head. It was a beautiful picture—that noble woman, with her face
eloquent of some grand but unexplained feeling; and the blushing girl,
who lifted her eyes, with an expression so gentle and pleased, to meet
the glance which fell lovingly upon her.
“You do not seem like a stranger to me, dear lady,” said Gillian, as the
hand glided softly adown her tresses; “but then, to whom could you be a
stranger? I was afraid of being disappointed—everybody said it must be
so—but—but——”
She stopped suddenly, and her eyes filled; for the lady stooped down and
kissed her on the forehead, so fervently that it left a crimson flush
behind.
Gillian started up with a quick impulse, attempted to throw her arms
round the lady’s neck, but dropped them again, blushing, and frightened
at her own familiarity. But the lady reached forth her arms and drew the
fair girl to her bosom, murmuring soft words over her, which Gillian
could never remember afterward without a swell of the heart, though
their exact import never reached her.
“I have written to you so often, dreamed of you, thought of you. Oh, I
wonder if every one worships genius as I worship it in you!”
Gillian laid her head tenderly down on the lady’s shoulder as she spoke;
and Mrs. Ransom smoothed her hair while she smiled upon her.
“Then you have written to me?”
“Yes, so often, and you have answered me too. It is now six months since
I first ventured on a letter. I was sad, very sad then; for we had just
come to the country, and some things that were told me about my family
made me thoughtful. Besides, I am full of wild fancies, and so must put
them into poetry. I dared not show them to my father, or any one, but
sent them to you under a feigned name. You liked the poetry and the
letters a little, I suppose, for your answers were very kind, and so I
came.”
“Thank you, love! a thousand times thank you! So it was you sent those
letters, and the poetry. It was a pleasant introduction,” said Mrs.
Ransom. “I have little time for letter-writing, but yours were so
natural, and frank, that I could not help answering them.”
“I was determined to know you in some way,” said Gillian, with a
childlike laugh. “With no mother or sister, I sometimes feel very
lonely. The society here seems strange, and I long for some one to love:
not a young girl like myself, but a woman, older, wiser and more kindly
than girls are to each other. Oh, lady, you would pity me if you knew
how I sometimes want a mother!”
Mrs. Ransom’s face changed. Some gloomy thought seemed to force all the
cheerfulness out of it. She held Gillian close to her bosom, which
scarcely appeared to throb with a breath.
“Oh, if I only had a child like you! but it can never be. I am a lonely
woman, chastened, irritable at times; a daughter’s love would be heaven
to me; but I am used to living without affection.”
“You, lady? oh!”
Mrs. Ransom smiled a sweet, piteous smile, that brought the tears into
Gillian’s eyes.
“Except from the poor that I can serve, and the friends who never
thoroughly know one.”
“But, lady, you have so many friends. It seems as if you must be so
happy. Success, reputation, the greatest of all blessings—a free
expression of thought.”
“You misunderstand,” answered the lady, with a grave smile. “I did not
speak of myself as absolutely unhappy, but childless, without family
ties, and very lonely at times. But even outside the affections life has
a great many pleasures, which no one is warranted in casting away
because he or she cannot grasp every thing. It is something to give
happiness—to have earned the power of conferring it. There is absolute
pleasure in labor, be it of thought or action. Do not think, young lady,
that I complain or imagine misery poetical—far from it: grief is
frequently more selfish than joy. When I say that one blessing is denied
to me, that of kindred and household affections, it is but to share the
fate of hundreds more worthy than myself, who, perhaps, have not so many
resources of happiness as I possess. It must be a gloomy nature, indeed,
which cannot find in this beautiful world more sunshine than storm.”
“But you, so affectionate, so warm-hearted, to exist without a return of
affection, that seems to me impossible; it is starving the heart!”
“No, it is only withholding its most exquisite nutriment. There is
enough that is wholesome and good left, on which an earnest nature can
live, and thrive, too,” said Mrs. Ransom, with one of those noble
expressions that bespoke so much earnestness. “Duties have their value
as well as feelings; thought is rich with pleasure when properly
exercised. Believe me, child, it is far better to be useful and good
than to be happy.”
“But I so hoped and wished to find you happy!”
“And so I am,” answered the lady, with a low sigh. “Remember this is but
the beginning of eternity with us: the first rudiments of any thing are
sure to be acquired with mistakes and difficulties; but time and effort
conquers all things. If our first lessons in life are full of
disappointments, the future is before us in which they can be turned
into blessings, if not in this life, in that to which we go.”
The solemnity and gentleness with which all this was said touched
Gillian profoundly. It reminded her of many conversations she had held
with her father: the same sweet pathos was there, the same proof of deep
thought.
“This is so like my father’s,” she said, lifting her earnest eyes to the
noble face bending over her. “Oh, how I wish you knew my father!”
The features on which she gazed broke into a smile of unspeakable
tenderness: but the lady made no answer. She sat gazing into Gillian’s
face with a look so wistful and sad, that the young girl bowed her head
and began to weep.
“Forgive me,” she said, shaking the tears away, and laughing like an
April morning. “I am always fancying strange things—and that moment it
seemed as if we had been acquainted thousands of years.”
“Be careful how you indulge in wild thoughts like these,” said the lady,
with a gentle shake of the head.
Gillian colored and looked distressed. It was seldom that even the most
gentle rebuke was extended to her, and she scarcely knew how to receive
even this delicate caution. But when Mrs. Ransom smiled again, it was
apology enough.
Gillian arose to go, but, as she stood with her hand in the lady’s
clasp, the door was again opened, and the mulatto glided in.
“Mr. Hurst,” she began to say; but that instant the young man, whom we
saw last in the gambling-saloon, came hurriedly in, pushing the girl
aside as he entered.
“My dear madam, what has come over Ruby? She insists on announcing me as
if I were an ambassador.”
Here he saw Gillian, gave a little start, and bowed profoundly.
“I beg pardon,” he continued. “I see now what my impatience prevented
her telling me. You are engaged.”
“No, no,” said Gillian, in her prompt way, “I was just going. Mrs.
Ransom will forgive me for having stayed too long already.”
The young girl turned her eyes on Mrs. Ransom, as she spoke, and saw
that the lady had become suddenly pale, that her eyes sparkled, and a
strange excitement shook the hand she still clasped in her own.
Hurst smiled and drew near; his audacity was graceful, but not the less
offensive to Mrs. Ransom for that.
“I shall never forgive myself, if I drive so much beauty away by this
rude intrusion,” he said, covering Gillian with his bold glance of
admiration.
Mrs. Ransom started; her eyes flashed, and a frown swept her brows
heavily. Gillian was terrified by the haughty anger of that look, and
Hurst drew a step back, evidently surprised by it.
Still grasping Gillian’s hand, the lady led her from the room, sweeping
by Hurst with the same angry look, and closing the door after them. But
the moment they stood in the tiled pavement of the hall, her face
changed suddenly, as you see a storm go off in summer.
“May I come and see you again?” whispered Gillian, rendered timid by the
anger which had passed away.
“Does—does your father know of this visit?”
“Yes; I told him of my great wish to see you, and he consented.”
“Then come again when you desire it. Often, very often, if you can learn
to love me a little.”
“I love you already,” was the reply.
They parted in the hall, but instead of returning to the room where
young Hurst was waiting, Mrs. Ransom stood by the door motionless as a
statue, and gazed into the distance long after the carriage, which
conveyed Gillian, disappeared in the winding road that led from her
house. At last she was disturbed by a hand laid on her arm. Young Hurst
had come from the study, impatient of her absence, and with his usual
daring broke in upon her reverie.
She drew a deep breath, and turned toward him with a smile of ineffable
happiness. But the moment her eyes met his the smile was gone, and she
returned to the study with evident reluctance.
CHAPTER XV.
MRS. RANSOM’S UNEXPECTED VISITORS.
As Mrs. Ransom entered the room with young Hurst, a faint shudder passed
over her as if it was repulsive to find herself again in his presence.
Then her face softened as she looked toward him; some tender memory was
evidently struggling at her heart, which, for a moment, asserted its
supremacy over the displeasure which his appearance had at first caused
her.
“Michael,” she said, softly.
He turned toward her, and she made a movement to lay her hand
caressingly upon his shoulder; but, looking in his face, she met the
same smile which had so irritated her when she saw the young girl
blushing beneath it.
“Did you speak?” he asked.
“It is nothing,” she replied, abruptly; “I had forgotten that it was
you.”
“What a glorious bird of paradise that was I frightened away!” he said.
“I felt quite guilty at having startled her so.”
Again Mrs. Ransom’s face darkened with stern displeasure, and she
replied coldly:
“I had given strict orders not to be disturbed: the young lady desired
to see me alone.”
“A thousand apologies for the intrusion, dear madam,” he returned, with
easy assurance, “but it never occurred to my mind that such a command
could apply to me.”
“I should prefer to think that some urgent business made you so
unceremonious,” said Mrs. Ransom, with severity. “Certainly the
indulgence and kindness which I have shown you would be a poor reason
for presuming to disobey my wishes.”
Hurst bit his lip to keep back the angry retort which her words
suggested. He knew her varying moods, and saw that she would permit
neither trifling nor impertinence; and, as he had a favor to ask, he
could not venture to irritate her.
“Forgive me, dear lady,” he said, taking her hand respectfully and
pressing it to his lips. “I believe I am a rather spoiled child, but you
know well that for the world I would not offend you.”
Mrs. Ransom quietly withdrew her hand, and the displeasure in her
countenance gave way to an expression of sad thoughtfulness. She
motioned the young man to be seated, and sank back in her own
easy-chair, leaning her head upon her hand, while her eyes fastened
themselves on the picture over the mantle-piece, earnestly as if she
were asking counsel of the face that looked so kindly down upon her. She
seemed to have forgotten the young man’s presence, and, when he ventured
at last to break the silence, looked wonderingly around as if surprised
to find that she was not alone.
“Pray where did that splendid creature spring from, Mrs. Ransom? I do
not remember having seen her here before.”
“It is the first time she has ever visited me.”
“I hope, at least, it will not be the last, for certainly she is one of
the loveliest creatures I ever saw.”
Mrs. Ransom looked annoyed; her foot began to tap the footstool
impatiently, a habit she had when irritated or anxious.
“It is not probable that she will come again,” she said.
“Then you do not know her?”
“I do not. She came, as many young girls do, from a desire to see a
woman who has written books.”
“But at least you know her name?”
“Really, Michael, your curiosity seems wonderfully excited. Might I be
curious in turn, and ask what brings you here, this morning?”
“I had some business, I believe,” he replied, with a gay laugh; “but to
tell you the truth, the sight of so much loveliness has quite driven it
out of my head.”
“Then you will not think me rude if I go on writing, while you try to
recall your errand?”
“I see you are determined not to gratify what you are pleased to style
my curiosity concerning your visitor.”
“I am quite unable to imagine how you can be in the slightest degree
interested in a perfect stranger, Michael.”
“Do you think any man would not be bewildered by the sight of an angel
like that?”
“You are growing poetical, young gentleman—something I never remarked in
you before.”
“Ah, now you are going to be satirical, and you know I never can answer
your sarcasm.”
Mrs. Ransom frowned impatiently and took up her pen.
“As I am somewhat hurried to-day, you must permit me to work. Whenever
you have exhausted your raptures, and can recollect your business, I
will listen to you.”
“I have troubled you so much of late, dear madam, that I am almost
afraid to annoy you again.”
“You know, Michael, that I am always glad to serve you, and I am never
annoyed by listening to any thing in which you have really an interest.”
“Then, perhaps, you will tell me the name of your visitor?” said Hurst,
laughingly, and with one of those quick changes of manner peculiar to
him.
“Your jesting is ill-timed,” Mrs. Ransom replied, almost harshly. “If
you indeed desire my advice, you have only to ask it; but I have no
leisure for such trifling.”
Hurst moved impatiently in his chair, but did not venture a reply. The
least opposition to his wishes was always sure to excite him; and in
this sudden interest for the youthful stranger there was something
beyond the momentary attraction of girlish loveliness. There was a vague
suspicion in his mind, which he was burning to have resolved into
certainty; but he knew Mrs. Ransom too well for any idea of venturing
upon farther importunity for the moment.
She had fallen back in her former attitude of mournful meditation. One
saw at a glance that it was no new grief which moved her, but some great
sorrow which came out of the past, and had been her constant companion
for years.
Hurst looked curiously at her. She was a singular study during such
moments; and he was a man of sufficiently vivid imagination to weave in
his mind innumerable wild fancies while watching her protracted revery.
At length Mrs. Ransom roused herself with an effort and turned toward
him again.
“You must excuse me this morning,” she said, with a troubled smile, “I
really am not quite myself; I have been writing steadily for hours, and
the exertion has left me strangely weary and absorbed.”
“One might think that, after so many years of continued labor, writing
would have become almost a mechanical effort,” Hurst remarked.
“On the contrary, it seems to me that every year I write with more
earnestness of purpose, throwing my whole soul into the task much more
completely than during my youth, when authorship was a passion and not a
power.”
“Something more than mere fatigue seems to trouble you,” he ventured to
say.
“What else should?” she asked.
“Nothing that I know of. I thought possibly your visitor had brought you
some unpleasant news.”
“I have told you that she was an entire stranger to me.”
“She might have resembled some one whom you knew formerly. We can never
account for the fancies and reminiscences a strange face often arouses.”
Mrs. Ransom looked up quickly, but the young man had averted his eyes.
He was toying carelessly with one of the bronze ornaments upon her
table, and seemed to have uttered the words with no thought beyond the
moment.
“Your remark is sufficiently true,” she replied, drawing a deep breath.
“Very often the sight of a picture or a beautiful landscape will arouse
the same feelings; they seem like places which we have seen before, and
remember like objects in a dream, or some memory from a previous life.”
“That young girl was lovely enough to have been the reality of a poet’s
ideal. I have seldom seen such grace and beauty united with so much
childish simplicity of thought and manner.”
“She was indeed very lovely,” Mrs. Ransom murmured, as if thinking
aloud—“very, very lovely.”
Hurst had led the conversation back to the visitor in the hope of
discovering her name; but at that moment his eye fell upon a card which
had fallen near his chair. He allowed his handkerchief to drop, and in
stooping forward to pick it up managed to secrete the card among its
folds. Quick as the action was, he found an opportunity to read the
name,
“Miss Gillian Bentley.”
He felt singularly irritated with Mrs. Ransom and in his excitement all
fear of offending left him.
“I have an engagement in an hour,” he said, “and must soon go.”
“You appear to find a great deal of leisure time. I think your employers
must be very kind to you.”
Hurst’s lip curled with a sneer. Mrs. Ransom’s remark had evidently
called up a new train of thought, but he said only,
“Business men are not given generally to such weakness. I have nothing
to complain of, except the smallness of my means.”
“Certainly, Michael, you have had no lack of money during the past year;
I was quite startled yesterday at recalling the amount of your
expenditures.”
“You do not expect a young man to live like a hermit, I suppose,” Hurst
said, impatiently.
“Perhaps not; but I expect him to be just to himself and to those who
feel an interest in him.”
“I know of no one who has any interest in me.”
“You are angry, Michael, and therefore I excuse your injustice.”
“I am not angry, Mrs. Ransom, but I do not choose to be treated like a
child—to have every wish thwarted—to be told that I have no right to
enjoy life like others of my age.”
“You have no right to be drawn into extravagances, the demands of which
it is out of your power to meet; no man has a right to do that.”
“You have told me all this, madam, many times before.”
“Do not fear, Michael, that I shall repeat it. I have tried to be a good
friend to you; I have had an interest in you for which you should at
least be grateful, and surely when I see you leading a life that I know
to be wrong I have a right to expostulate.”
“I will allow no one to play the tyrant over me: my actions shall be
unquestioned.”
A withering retort trembled on Mrs. Ransom’s lips, but she checked the
impulse: she could not find it in her heart to reproach any one with her
bounty, and she knew well that Hurst’s only hope was in her.
“That is childish,” she said, after a moment’s pause; “a few years since
such language could be tolerated, but you have grown too old now for it
to be excusable.”
Hurst struggled for self-command. At that moment he fairly hated the
woman who had been his benefactress. He had that weak, false pride which
made him rebel against receiving a favor, although he never hesitated to
accept it—nay, even to claim it as his right.
“Tell me what brought you here this morning, Michael?” Mrs. Ransom said,
more kindly; “you came on business: what was its nature?”
“I want money,” he said, sullenly, “and I must have it from some
source.”
“More money? Have you forgotten how few weeks have elapsed since your
debts were paid, and a large amount beyond placed in your hands?”
“Remind me of all I owe you!” he exclaimed, with reckless bitterness;
“make me feel wholly base and degraded: I am at your mercy.”
“Indeed I did not mean that; were you my own son I should say to you
what I am now saying.”
“Can you procure me the money I need?” he asked, bluntly.
“I shall give you none at present. If you have wasted the sum I put in
your hands, not a month since, on condition that you would conduct
yourself very differently, I cannot help it—I am powerless to aid you at
present.”
“That means you will not!” he cried angrily. “This is your boasted
kindness; this is a proof of the interest you profess for me.”
“You are rapidly wearing out all such feelings, Michael. Have a care!
You heed no opposition, will listen to no counsel. Before long I shall
cease to offer any; but when that time comes I shall have lost all
interest in you.”
“Let it come,” he replied, defiantly, lifting his head and looking
boldly in her face, while his eyes grew black and inflamed with anger.
“Let it come! I want to feel that I am entirely alone in the world—no
resource—no friend. Go on, Mrs. Ransom.”
“Oh, boy, boy, how you wrong yourself and me! Have I deserved this?”
“Mrs. Ransom, I have no time to trifle. I must have money. My honor
depends on that.”
“You have been gambling again! No, Michael, I will not aid you. Six
months ago I told you that I would never pay another gaming debt, and I
will not.”
“Then let me go. I must find it elsewhere!”
“Stop! Michael, you shall not leave my house in a mood like that! You
must listen to me—I have a right to demand it.”
“What right, madam? I admit no right that any one has over me.”
“I could reply very bitterly, young man; it is not for your sake that I
refrain! Still I have a right—my affection for you has given it to me;
no parent ever watched over a son more faithfully than I have cared for
you.”
“Who were my parents?” he asked, abruptly; “where are they? why have I
been left all my life to the mercy of strangers?”
Mrs. Ransom made no answer. In her excitement she had risen from her
seat, and was standing directly before him. A strange pallor, which in
moments of intense feeling troubled her face, swept over it then; her
fine gray eyes, not beautiful at ordinary times, grew bright and dark,
while her lips parted in a vain attempt to speak. Hurst was startled by
her appearance; even through his reckless anger he saw that some subtle
chord in her soul had been swept, and that her whole being vibrated to
the rude touch.
“Mrs. Ransom!” he exclaimed.
“Yes, yes,” she repeated, like one who has heard a voice from afar, and
only sighs out a faint response from a vain effort to send an answer in
return; “I hear you—go on.”
“My parents,” he said, “who were they?”
Mrs. Ransom shivered down into her seat—that is the only word which
could express the movement—she seemed literally like one struck by a
mortal chill that had slowly penetrated to her heart, closing its pulses
in an icy grasp.
“Are they alive?” he questioned. “Why have you never spoken of them? Why
am I left in the world friendless, an outcast? If I died to-morrow there
would be no living soul to shed a tear over my grave. I have lived
unloved and alone; I shall die unregretted and forgotten.”
The wily man knew well the nature with which he had to deal; he knew how
every fibre of her being responded to the least call for sympathy: yet
it was not wholly art which caused his agitation; he was impulsive and
excitable like all imaginative persons, and the question which he so
eagerly propounded had often troubled his passionate soul. He felt no
tender regret for those unknown parents, but the doubt and implied
disgrace, which hung over him, had preyed for years upon his proud
spirit; and perhaps a portion of his reckless conduct was to be
attributed to the bitter feeling toward the whole world which had sprung
from that terrible suspicion.
“Answer me, Mrs. Ransom. Do not torture me by this silence. Is my father
living? Where is he? What is his name?”
Mrs. Ransom drew her hand slowly across her eyes, and again that
agonized shudder passed over her frame.
“Your father is dead!” she gasped, “dead!”
“And my mother—is she living? Has she no kindly remembrance of the child
upon whose unconscious lips she pressed a first tender kiss? Will she
allow him to go through life without having once known a mother’s
fondness? Was she not human? Had she no feeling in common with the rest
of her sex?”
“Hush! Michael, hush!” pleaded Mrs. Ransom, in a tone of deep anguish;
“do not torture yourself and me by these wild questions.”
“I have a right to ask them, lady; I will no longer be surrounded by
this impenetrable mystery. Answer me, I beg.”
“Of what avail? Why rouse memories of the past, Michael? You are raking
the ashes from off a tomb. For your own sake leave the dead to rest in
peace.”
“Dead! Are they both dead?”
“Dead to you! demand no more! Learn to live in the present—forget these
haunting doubts which can never be gratified. I warn you, Michael Hurst,
that you are only preparing for yourself misery in the future, by this
reckless determination to penetrate mysteries in which you have no
share.”
“No share, madam? Is it nothing that I have no family—no relatives? Must
I sit quietly down in this disgraceful ignorance, and be patient beneath
the ignominy which the sins of others have forced upon me?”
“Peace, young man!” exclaimed Mrs. Ransom, in a hoarse voice. “Do not
dare to insult the memory of your parents!”
“What have they done for me that I should respect it? I owe them neither
gratitude nor affection, and I will give none! Were I standing by my
father’s grave I would say the same! There must have been guilt
somewhere, and I am left to suffer the consequences of wrongs in which I
had no part.”
“Yes, Michael, there was wrong, deep wrong; but it was not meant—before
heaven I assert that!”
“At least I am forced to endure the consequences of that sin——”
“Who mentioned sin?” broke in Mrs. Ransom, with passionate excitement,
strangely at variance with her usual calm demeanor.
“Is not wrong sin?” cried Hurst, angrily; “is not error sin?”
“No, no, a thousand times no! Stop, boy: you have reached a limit beyond
which you shall not pass.”
“Who shall prevent me? I fear nothing! Perhaps I am bold and
unscrupulous; but with whom rests the fault?—not with me—I refuse to
accept it.”
Mrs. Ransom rose from her seat and paced slowly up and down, her hands
locked together, and her eyes cast upon the floor, striving hard to
regain her self-command. Suddenly she paused before the picture which
hung above the mantle, and raised her eyes to the face that beamed so
benignantly down upon her. She extended her arms in supplication, her
lips moved in inaudible prayer. At length the anguish died out of her
face—her eyes cleared—her lips softened into a faint smile that wandered
over her features like a waning sunbeam. She turned back to the table
and sat down, once more calm and self-possessed.
“We have wandered from our subject, Michael; let us return to your
affairs. Tell me how it happens that you are again in difficulty—I wish
to know all.”
“I do not see why I should account to any human being for my actions.”
“Then why have you come to me for counsel?”
“Because you have told me that you were my friend—because you have
taught me to consider you as one to whom I could come with every
trouble, every pain.”
“Then at least do not insult me!”
“It is I who am insulted by your doubts and suspicions,” he replied, his
passion again mastering his prudence.
“You certainly give me every reason for them by your reckless conduct.
Stop, Michael!” she continued, in a warning voice, as he was about to
answer more insolently than before. “I will not suffer you again to
address me in such language. Remember, if I rebuke you, it is because
these outbursts of anger on the slightest occasion, injure you more
deeply than any effect your words can have upon my feelings.”
“I will leave you, madam, if my presence is so distasteful to you.”
“Do not go away with such feelings, Michael; I have faith enough in your
goodness of heart to believe that you would repent having left me thus.”
“It is useless for me to remain here—you have lost all interest in me.”
“I have not lost it, Michael, but I confess that your conduct is rapidly
wearing away my forbearance. I have borne much from you for reasons of
which you knew nothing; but even that desire to perform faithfully a
duty imposed on me long years since will not induce me to compromise my
own dignity and self-respect.”
“Mine are not to be considered; I am to submit to disgrace, and bear it
with calmness—I tell you I will not do it! I must have a certain sum of
money before night, and by some means have it I will.”
“It is out of my power to assist you to-day, even if I were so inclined;
your needs cannot be so urgent that a few days consideration will be
more than a trifling inconvenience.”
“Surely I must be the best judge of that! Have the money to-day I will.”
“Then you most seek assistance elsewhere, for I have none to give.”
“Good-morning, madam!” he exclaimed, rising and hastening toward the
door. He paused, with his hand upon the knob, thinking that she would
call him back, as she had often done when he left her in moments of
anger; but the lady made no sign. She was leaning back in her chair with
a sort of stony composure, which at times came over her, and did not
even raise her eyes.
Hurst muttered an oath and dashed out of the room, closing the door
violently behind him. When he had gained the street, he drew from his
vest the card which he had secreted, and looked again at the name.
“Gillian Bentley,” he said, almost aloud. “Yes, yes, I know the name; I
see my way clearer now—it is a plot worthy of Machiavelli! Many thanks
for that little scene at the gambling-house last night; the money was
well lost which was the means of making that discovery.”
He sauntered carelessly down the street, greeting any chance
acquaintance with a pleasant smile or word, seemingly unoccupied beyond
the idle thoughts of the moment, so frank and happy-looking that it
appeared impossible it could be the same face which an hour before had
been dark with evil passions.
Mrs. Ransom remained sitting where Hurst had left her. What a world of
unquiet memories surged over her face during that season of
self-communion! One might have half understood her whole life by looking
at her then; she, usually so calm and gentle, full of tender sympathies
for others, searching the bright side of life and turning resolutely
away from the gloom, was now wan and spent beneath the harrowing
reflections which started up before her like mournful shapes, forcing
themselves out of the mist of the past.
Once she raised her eyes to the portrait, murmuring—
“This is hard, hard to bear—give me strength, for I am without power and
without hope.”
So the day wore on in Julia Ransom’s solitude, and amid all the friends
that her genius had raised up for her, there was not one with power to
comfort her during that sad reverie; and she, whose beautiful creations
had brought so much happiness to others, was unable to find in her own
grand soul a single gleam of consolation.
CHAPTER XVI.
SANCTIMONIOUS RESPECTABILITY.
The room seemed to have been fitted up as a library, for the walls were
filled with bookcases and the tables were covered with richly-bound
volumes and the newest pamphlets. Still it was evidently the common
working-room of a business man; for near one of the windows was a long
writing-table surmounted by a cabinet, filled with large packages of
papers and deeds.
Seated by the table was a tall, thin man, in whose features were those
lines and furrows which long years of constant occupation will bring
upon the face, with a serene moral composure which would have deceived
even a keen-eyed man of the world.
But now in that solitude the calmness which a long life of dissimulation
had given the countenance was gone, and the undercurrent of passion
showed through like a turbid bottom seen beneath smooth waters.
That man was Nathan Lawrence, a leading partner in the house where
Michael Hurst found employment, and the person whom the young man had so
unexpectedly seen at the gambling-hall upon the previous night.
He was sitting with paper before him and a pen in his hand, but he had
not yet written a line, although it was full an hour since he had taken
his seat there.
The events of the past evening had evidently left an impression upon
him, which he could not readily shake off, for his losses had been
large, even for one of his great wealth, and he might well pause to
reflect upon the consequences of many nights of misfortune like that.
In the eyes of the world, Nathan Lawrence possessed the reputation of
being a moral man—not religious, perhaps, in the strict sense of the
word, but perfectly upright and conscientious. He was to be seen every
Sunday in his seat in church, uttering the responses with the utmost
fervor, and was always foremost in every public charity or philanthropic
act which was sounded abroad. In short, he was a man who possessed the
esteem of all who knew him; and when once or twice strange reports had
gone abroad concerning him, the source of which no one could explain,
they had been indignantly refuted by his large circle of acquaintance,
and for a time he had risen almost to the dignity of a martyr from that
attempted persecution.
In the business world no man’s credit stood higher. He was the head of
one of the most influential firms in the country, and his slightest word
was considered equal to the bond of any common man.
This was the man whom young Hurst had discovered at the gambling-house.
Had he known that fact, with the desperate condition and daring
character of the youth, Mr. Lawrence would scarcely have sat at that
table with so much composure, dwelling only upon the sums which he had
lost, for the reputation so falsely gained was dearer far to him than
wealth or life itself.
While Mr. Lawrence sat gloomily absorbed in his library, a low knock
sounded at the door, and a domestic entered the room, and paused before
him with grave respect.
“What is it, Peters?” Mr. Lawrence asked, after a second’s silence,
laying down his pen, and seeming to rouse himself from some important
calculation.
“There is a gentleman below who wishes to speak with you, sir.”
“Did he give his name, Peters?”
“Mr. Hurst, sir.”
“Hurst? What can he want? Did you tell him that I was occupied?”
“Yes, sir; but he said that he had just come from the counting-house,
and wished to see you on some business of importance.”
“Show him up, Peters, and remember I am at home to no one else.”
The servant left the room, and Mr. Lawrence again took up his pen, but
his hand shook, and he could not frame a letter, although his face
looked cold and stern as before. The past night had left him strangely
nervous; and simple as was the fact of his clerk calling upon him, he
was startled by the sound of his name.
In a moment the servant again opened the door, and young Hurst entered
with his usual air of careless composure.
Mr. Lawrence turned slowly round with his most dignified manner, and
surveyed his clerk from head to foot.
“Good morning, Mr. Hurst,” he said, with haughty blandness; “my servant
said that you desired particularly to see me. Business from the office,
I suppose?”
Hurst returned his glance without faltering, and replied with the
familiar ease of an equal:
“Partially so, Mr. Lawrence, partially so.”
The rich man looked at him in astonishment. It was the first time that
one of his clerks had ever ventured to address him, save with profound
respect, and he could not comprehend the singular assurance of this
young man.
“I am very much occupied this morning,” he said, with dignity; “let me
hear your message at once.”
“I have none, sir,” replied Hurst, with the same unchanging assurance.
“I always employ my servant in any thing of that sort.”
“Mr. Hurst!” exclaimed the man of respectability, “what is the meaning
of such language? and why have you intruded upon me this morning?”
“Ah, that is the bore of business; one never has a moment for himself or
friends.”
“Sir, I am not in the habit of classing my hired clerks among my friends
exactly. If you have any business, state it at once: if not, I must
request you to withdraw.”
“I met with a little misfortune last night, my dear sir,” said Hurst,
coolly seating himself near the merchant, and leaning his arm upon the
writing-table. “I have come to you for counsel, not only as the head of
the firm, but as a man of the world.”
“Really, sir, this is a strange proceeding. I cannot imagine any thing
in which my advice can be of value to you; I believe you receive your
salary regularly—beyond that I have nothing to do with your affairs.”
“Last night,” continued Hurst, as quietly as if he were a millionaire,
and speaking of some insignificant loss, “I had the ill-luck to lose a
thousand dollars at cards——”
“Enough, sir,” interrupted Mr. Lawrence; “I will not tolerate a gambler
in my establishment for an hour—you are discharged.”
“The most disagreeable thing in the whole affair,” pursued Hurst,
calmly, as if the other had not spoken, “is that the money was not
mine.”
“You have not dared——”
“Yes; it belonged to the firm. It was very careless on my part, but,
after all, the sum is so trifling!”
“I will hear nothing farther; the law will deal with you. I am a just
man—I thank heaven that I can look back on my life without being forced
to blush for a single act—but I never falter where my duty is
concerned.”
“I knew, of course, that we could arrange the little matter at once, and
so I tore myself away from a very charming woman in order to call upon
you.”
“A gambler and a swindler! Young man, what can your associations have
been to leave you at this age so utterly depraved? Had you come to me in
a spirit of repentance, my feelings would all have been in your favor,
but you enter my house with insolent bravado, and acknowledge your theft
without a blush. Do you know what is before you? Do you know the penalty
of an act like this?”
Hurst was leaning back in his chair, toying with his watch-chain, and
wore upon his lips the same smile of conscious superiority.
“Even if I were inclined to aid you, my partners would not permit it.
Young man, you are lost!”
“The money you mean, my dear sir. _Apropos_ of losses, I was sorry to
see last night that you were as unfortunate as myself.”
The merchant dropped his pen, and sat gazing into that insolently
handsome face, pale and aghast.
“I hope it was not enough to inconvenience you! We must try fortune
again to-night; she may be more propitious.”
Mr. Lawrence struggled for composure. Dissimulation came to his aid, and
except that the deathly pallor did not leave his face, he looked calm.
“You must be mad, young man; I can account for your conduct in no other
way.”
Hurst smiled again. He knew well the man with whom he had to deal; that
death itself would be preferable, in his eyes, to the loss of one atom
of the respectability which he had made his bulwark. The youth felt his
advantage, and knew that when the man was convinced that he had learned
all, he would cringe for mercy like the poltroon he was.
“Did you stop for supper?” he asked. “I hurried away, for I had an
engagement of importance.”
“Leave this room!” exclaimed Mr. Lawrence; “I will not be insulted under
my own roof.”
“My dear sir, how you misunderstand me! These little annoyances will
occur to all the votaries of the green table: I have no hesitation in
alluding to them.”
Once more the man endeavored to intimidate him, though his voice shook
as he said,
“If you remain here, you will be arrested. I advise you to leave the
city, or remember the consequences.”
“Nonsense!” returned Hurst, contemptuously. “You forget we are both men
of the world, not gray-bearded Puritans. We must assist each other, Mr.
Lawrence; these are but trifles.”
He laid his hand upon the merchant’s arm and looked full in his face,
smiling still, but with a deadly gleam in his eyes, which seemed to
fascinate the other like the glance of a serpent. An ashen gray settled
over his features; he trembled from head to foot, as if the young man
had dealt him a heavy blow.
“You know—you saw!” he gasped. “Good God, my reputation!”
“My dear Mr. Lawrence,” said Hurst, laughing gayly. “I am sure last
night must have shaken your nerves—let us change the subject.”
“Mr. Hurst, I hope you will forgive my rudeness—I was very much hurried.
Your affair is extremely unpleasant, but I will endeavor to conceal the
loss from my partners, and will help you away. What say you to New
Orleans?—charming place.”
All this was uttered in breathless haste, rendered still more apparent
from the other’s composure.
“Thanks, but I have no desire to leave New York—quite impossible to
exist elsewhere.”
“You cannot remain here! I am very willing to help you; I have always
felt an interest in you; I assure you money will be no object, and I am
certain that my secret——”
“My dear Mr. Lawrence, how little you know me! I have completely
forgotten the events of last night, or shall do so the moment we have
replaced that little check—we will not refer to it again. I am glad to
have met you this morning—in the confusion of business men have no time
to become acquainted. I hope I shall have the pleasure of seeing you
thus again?”
“Nothing would gratify me more,” returned the merchant, with trembling
lips. “Mrs. Lawrence receives every Saturday—I shall be happy to present
you.”
“And I to avail myself of the invitation. You know Mrs. Ransom?”
“The authoress? yes, very delightful woman.”
“A most intimate friend of mine; nothing would gratify her so much as to
know that you considered me your friend.”
“Delighted to hear that; she so seldom goes out—genius has its
peculiarities.”
The wretched man was so ghastly and white that his appearance might have
softened his deadliest enemy; but the youth in whose power he found
himself knew no relenting. He liked to taste his revenge drop by drop,
and would never cease while there was still a chord in his victim’s
heart that could be wrung.
“By-the-way, Mr. Lawrence, do you know Mr. Bentley?”
“Well, very well; an extremely rich man.”
“I know that he has a charming daughter,” replied Hurst, laughing again.
“I met her at Mrs. Ransom’s. Perhaps you would present me there?”
The merchant paused for a moment, writhing under that insolent
assumption of power; but Hurst’s eyes were still fixed upon him, and he
could only falter out,
“With pleasure, of course.”
“Indeed I must say good-morning,” Hurst said, rising. “On Saturday you
say Mrs. Lawrence receives?”
“But this thing—you understand!” exclaimed Lawrence, catching him by the
arm. “Tell me that my secret is safe—money—any thing—name your terms.”
“Do not insult me,” returned Hurst, coolly. “Between equals such offers
are not endurable.”
“Excuse me—I——At least the check shall be sent down.”
“Of course, of course!”
“May I mention one fact?”
“I shall listen with pleasure.”
“I shall be delighted to receive you at my house; but it is quite
possible that you might prefer to give up your situation—travel in
Europe. We have long thought of sending an agent there. I shall always
be willing to assist you in any way.”
“I am infinitely obliged. If I decide to leave your establishment or the
country, I will come and talk the matter over with you. Good-morning,
Mr. Lawrence! On Saturday? Till then, _au revoir_.”
He passed out of the room with the same careless ease and went
down-stairs.
The merchant fell back in his chair completely exhausted by the
excitement of the last hour. He looked like a man just recovering from a
terrible illness. When he strove to rise from his seat he fell back,
covering his face with his hands, and murmuring broken words of despair.
Hurst left the house and returned to his home. His face was lit up with
fierce exultation, and his eyes fairly blazed with light.
“This is the beginning,” he muttered, “and it promises well! The fair
Gillian is almost reached—patience, patience, the end is not far off.”
CHAPTER XVII.
THAT STRANGE MAN IN THE STREET.
Mr. Bentley had established himself permanently in town. His house stood
upon a corner of an airy cross street and one of our principal avenues.
The dwelling was of stone, broad, high and spacious, with grounds
attached that gave it a dignity almost palatial; for the noble structure
had been erected when some considerable space was possible to a private
dwelling, and Mr. Bentley was rich enough to throw any number of vacant
lots into a garden without fear of ruin.
The façade of this building was enriched with some exquisite sculpture,
though the general effect was chastely simple. The broad,
crescent-shaped steps swept up to the heavy door of carved walnut-wood
with a grand disregard of space that was imposing in itself.
When that massive door was open, you saw through plates of limpid
crystal, draped with a frost-work of lace, a broad, deep, entrance hall,
paved with tesselated marble, and caught a glimpse of marble busts,
bronze statues, and rare vases that reminded you at once of an Italian
palace. This resemblance was carried out by grounds on which some of
those fine old trees under which the Indians once built their wigwams,
were still rooted. Huge elms, with their branches sweeping earthward;
maples, whose blossoms blushed to the early spring, and whose leaves
grew golden or crimson when kissed by the autumn frosts, sheltered the
grass as they had half a century before.
These primeval trees threw their shadows over a little paradise of
flowers, and a stretch of the richest grass that the sun ever shone
upon. Laburnums and lilacs grouped together, mingled the violet and gold
of their blossoms. Wisterias fell in heavy luxuriance around the bay
window and the back porticoes, garlanding them with great masses of
azure. The turf was broken up with beds of glowing flowers; and the very
stables, massive stone buildings as they were, took an aspect of
picturesque beauty from the heavy trumpet flower, and Virginia creepers
which draped them.
This house, half palace, half villa, had lately become the residence of
Mr. Bentley; and Gillian, the bright, beautiful Gillian, was its
mistress. It is true Aunt Hetty had come down from the country, for a
brief time, as a sort of companion to the heiress; but so far as social
life was concerned, she proved as helpless as a human being could well
be. She was so timid, so nervously sensitive under the eye of a
stranger, that it was painful to meet her out of the immediate domestic
circle.
Mr. Bentley, always thoughtful for those he loved, had adorned his
residence with an especial regard to his daughter’s tastes; and every
feature that could remind her of the bright land of song which had
become almost native to her had been harmoniously blended with our
superior home comforts for her especial gratification. All this was
necessary to Gillian. She was a creature so used to the pure and
beautiful, that mere comfort to her would have been poverty. So she took
possession of the Eden her father had created, and graced it like a bird
of paradise. The music of her harp rang from hall to hall; her laughter
sounded merrily among the flowers; and her sweet, clear voice bespoke
the wealth of pure happiness with which she entered the great world,
ready and eager to bear her part therein.
Gillian stood by a front window looking into the street. All at once she
broke out eagerly, and called to her aunt—
“Aunt Hetty, dear Aunt Hetty, do come here and look at this man. I’m
sure he’s the person I met when I made a call on a lady last week. He
has passed up and down two or three times, and looks so earnestly at
this window. Every day, just at this time, he has taken this same
promenade. Who can it be?”
Aunt Hetty came slowly toward the window and looked out. Something
between a sigh and an exclamation broke from her lips, and she retreated
into the room pale and agitated.
“Who is it, aunt? Do you know him?”
“No—no. I have seen that face before—that very face—perhaps he
knows—perhaps it is me that he is in search of.”
Gillian laughed merrily. The idea that a handsome young gentleman like
that had been drawn beneath her window in hopes of seeing little Aunt
Hetty, struck her as comical in the extreme.
Aunt Hetty colored to the temples beneath this sweet laugh, and
attempted to creep from the room; but Gillian ran after her, threw both
arms around her waist, and dancing backward toward the window, dragged
the shrinking woman with her.
“There, you dear, blessed little flirt—you precious, darling old
aunt—just let him see your face, while I hide behind the curtain which
has always kept me from his sight. Now see if he does not take a guitar
from under that Spanish cloak—I wonder what he wears it for this bright
day?—and strike up a serenade.”
Thus gayly dragging her aunt forward, and keeping, as she thought, her
own face concealed, Gillian darted behind the curtains, leaving Aunt
Hetty standing before the plate-glass, which, clear as crystal, revealed
her distinctly to the young person, who still lingered on the opposite
pavement.
The young man cast a long gaze into the window, flung a fold of the
Spanish cloak across his shoulder, and deliberately crossed the street.
“Why, aunt—Aunt Hetty! I say, he is coming over—he is mounting the
steps. What can it mean? Surely, surely he did not discover me peeping
through the curtains? Hark, the bell rings, Aunt Hetty. What can we do?
I had no idea he really was drawn here by your face. What will you say
to him?”
“Oh! Gillian,” almost sobbed Aunt Hetty, shrinking back into the room,
“how could you be so cruel?”
She was pale as snow, and seemed almost as cold, for her very lips
trembled in the chill of her feelings.
“Oh, aunt, I did not mean it. Who would have thought this impudence
possible? I only wish father were here to chastise the adventurer as he
deserves,” cried Gillian, all in a glow of indignation.
“Your father chastise him? No—no, girl, it has not come to that. Your
mother, had she been living, might rebuke him, but no one else; most of
all, your father.”
The little woman grew almost handsome as she spoke. Her lips turned red,
and her cheeks burned. She looked spirited and haughty almost as Gillian
herself.
Gillian gazed upon her with open lip and quick astonishment in her eyes.
“Why, aunt!”
“Hush, the servant!”
The footman entered. “A gentleman was below who wished to speak with the
ladies.”
Before Hetty could speak, Gillian answered him.
“Tell the young gentleman that the ladies of this house never receive
strangers in the absence of its master.”
Hetty seized her arm with both those little, shivering hands.
“Not that message—not that—say we are not at home—that some other
time—only reflect, he may be a gentleman, and have real business.”
“Not with you or with me,” answered Gillian, kindling more and more
brightly in her pride. “He asked for the ladies; I alone am responsible
for the answer.”
Then turning to the footman, she repeated still more haughtily:
“Miss Bentley’s compliments to the strange gentleman who forgets to send
up his name, and say that she cannot receive him.”
“But for me—you understand—please say that I am not well—not at all
well—but some other time——”
Aunt Hetty broke off, for her voice quivered out of speech, and her poor
white face looked the plea for forbearance that she could not utter.
The servant went out, greatly bewildered. Aunt Hetty followed him slowly
to the door, and, leaning over the threshold, listened keenly with both
hands pressed to her heart.
Gillian stood in the midst of the room flushing red to the fair temples,
amazed and angry. But when Aunt Hetty heard the outer door close, and
fell into a chair wavering to and fro, while faint moans broke through
the two hands locked over her face, this excitement faded away, and with
that graceful humility which sprung from a warm heart, she drew close to
her aunt and stole an arm around her neck.
But poor, meek, Aunt Hetty rose up like a princess, and cast that white
arm aside.
“You have driven him from your door—you a Bentley, and her child, have
done this thing. May God forgive you—may the saint who is in heaven
forgive you! I fear—I fear I never can.”
Gillian turned white, and for a moment stood motionless; but there was
something in Aunt Hetty’s air that awoke both sympathy and admiration.
She would not be repulsed.
“Why, what is this? How can the dismissal of this intrusive person
affect you so, dear aunt? Surely he had no right to hang about the house
for days, and insult us by this attempt to force his way at last. In
what have I done wrong, Aunt Hetty?”
The poor lady looked up and tried to smile, but it was a woful attempt,
and only ended in a quiver of the lips.
“He should not have been driven forth like a dog for your mother’s
sake—for——”
“Why, Aunt Hetty, are you crazy? What has my mother in common with this
person?”
“Your mother, our Sarah! Nothing, of course! How could she, and in her
grave so many years? How came your mother to be mentioned? I did not do
it!”
“I do not know—it was I perhaps who named her,” said Gillian, subdued at
once almost to tears by this mention of her mother. “But what has she in
common with this stranger? Who is he, aunt? Tell me, and then let me go
away and cry alone: this mention of my mother, and both of us in a
passion, wounds me to the heart.”
Aunt Hetty arose and put her away with a wave of her little hand.
“Not now, Sarah: we will talk of it another time,” she said, looking
away into the distance.
Gillian was deeply touched by that look, it was so full of yearning
tenderness, and the unconscious application of her mother’s name added
to the sad impression.
“Aunt,” she said, quietly, and with tears in her eyes, “aunt, your mind
is away—you are thinking of something afar off.”
“Yes,” said the aunt, in a whisper, “far off as heaven and earth,
Sarah.”
“Indeed you are ill, dear aunt!”
Hetty turned her face a little to avoid the gentle eyes that were bent
upon her, and with the motion her look fell through the opposite window.
The young man was standing upon the side-walk as he had first been
discovered. A gleam came over her face, and without a word she left the
room.
Gillian was bewildered by the scene that had just passed, and sat down
to recover her thoughts; but her eyes were fixed on the window, and her
hearing grew keen. The outer door closed softly, and after a moment she
saw Aunt Hetty cross the street without bonnet or shawl, and speak to
the strange man. A single word, it scarcely seemed more, and then he
walked rapidly down the block, while Hetty returned to the house.
CHAPTER XVIII.
THE TWO OLD WOMEN.
In one of those narrow streets that open from the vicinity of Chatham
Square, stood a small, two-story house built of brick, but with wooden
steps that descended on the side-walk, and gable windows looking down
from the roof. Two old women occupied this house; beside them and a
large, gray cat, there was not a living creature beneath its roof; for
the old ladies performed their own household duties, and lived out their
isolated lives in silent companionship. The elder of the two, a little,
withered-up creature approaching ninety, possessed some means of support
beside the house she lived in; and the other was her dependent in all
things.
This dependent old woman had turned seventy, and, on account of her
comparative youth, was looked upon by her associate as a sprightly young
thing, whose movements required especial vigilance, and whose limbs were
capable of any amount of household exercise.
It is difficult for two women to be real heart companions, if cast on
the same hearth-stone when the gray shadows are creeping over them.
While old Mrs. Frost felt that she was doing wonders of charity in
giving Mrs. Nicholson a home, she—poor, old gentlewoman—felt this
dependence to the core of her weary heart, and took on herself the toil
of a servant without in the slightest degree softening the impressions
of benevolence with which the elder female solaced her self-love.
These old women were sitting over their unsocial dinner, composed of a
little hashed fish, the section of a mince-pie, and a scant portion of
green tea, from which Mrs. Frost drained off one good, strong cup, and
diluted the rest with warm water, observing, as she lifted the lid of
the tea-pot for this purpose, that, for young persons like Mrs.
Nicholson, strong tea was very unwholesome and apt to render them
nervous, if not hysterical. This speech had been so often repeated that
Mrs. Nicholson took it as a matter of course, while she meekly
invigorated the weak tea with a little bluish milk, and helped herself
sparingly to a spoonful of the fish, very much as the gray cat would
have done had she found a chance to steal her portion of food from the
table.
The old women sipped their tea in silence, tasting lightly of the fish;
while now and then a kindly murmur and a fragment of food went down to
the cat, who rubbed herself against one old woman’s ankle, then marched
off to beg of the other with a mute appeal of the eyes.
“I wonder,” said old Mrs. Frost, “what has become of Michael Hurst. It
is a long time since he was here; Jube has grown from a fair-sized
kitten since then. The boy seems to forget his old friends: or maybe
he’s gone out of town on business.”
“I think not. Yesterday he passed me in the street, when I was going to
the grocery after those watercresses,” said Mrs. Nicholson. “He didn’t
speak, but I’m sure it was him.”
“Met him on your way to the grocery,” cried Mrs. Frost, and her head
began to vibrate like a pendulum; “so near my house, and not call? Why,
Mary Nicholson, this comes of something you have done to offend him;
your thoughtless, flighty ways will be the ruin of you yet. What have
you been saying to the boy?”
“I haven’t spoken to him in more than two months,” said Mrs. Nicholson,
coloring through her wrinkles at this charge of youthful indiscretion;
“indeed I never do speak with him—he don’t care to talk with me, I’m
sure.”
“But then what keeps him away?”
“I don’t know. Wasn’t it then he asked for something, that you didn’t
want to give him? I thought so.”
“Mrs. Nicholson, you must have been listening. I’m astonished.”
“But I was in the room and could not help it. If people will talk before
me what can I do?”
The old woman of ninety shook her head in a dissatisfied way, and
muttered, “Poor thing! poor, weak thing! She hasn’t got the experience
which brings discretion. It’s no use scolding her.”
So, with a philosophic wave of the little, withered hand, she proceeded
to cut the section of pie in two equal parts, measuring each to a
fraction with the flat of her knife; then she scraped the fragments of
fish together for Jube, and, leaning back in her Boston rocking-chair,
left Mrs. Nicholson to wash the dishes, while she prepared herself for a
long nap.
But just as her eyes began to dose, and her little hands were falling
apart from their clasp on her chest, a knock at the street door carried
Mrs. Nicholson into the hall. She turned the latch, and found upon the
door-step the very young man whom they had been talking about.
“Mr. Hurst, is it you?” she said, happy to see any human being in that
unsocial house. “Step light, please; Mrs. Frost is in her first sleep.”
“But I came to see Mrs. Frost, aunty, and can’t possibly wait till she
drones herself awake again, so just give her a nudge—tell her I’m here,
and—ha! you look frightened, and shake that poor, little cap dismally.
Daren’t do it, ha! Well, I’ll rouse her myself.”
That instant an old, withered head appeared through the sitting-room
door, shaking like a cluster of dry leaves, but with an attempt at
welcome, which, though grim enough, was all the cordiality that infirm
woman could muster out of her worn old age.
“Michael, is it you?”
“Grandmother! Well, you are awake, and glad to have me back again a
little while, I hope.”
“Glad?” said the old lady, and a smile displaced the wrinkles about her
mouth; “you’ve been a long time waiting to see if I would be glad or
not. But come in, Mike. Dear me what a dashing young fellow you’ve
grown! Mary Nicholson! Mary Nicholson! just pour some boiling water into
the tea-pot, and put in an even spoonful of Young Hyson. I dare say
Michael would like a good, old-fashioned cup of tea. We’d just done
dinner, but that’s of no consequence. Mary Nicholson! run around the
corner for another pie.”
Young Michael laughed.
“No, no, grandmother; I’m not hungry, and never drink tea now.”
“Never drink tea? Why, Mike, what has come over you? Never drink tea?”
“Not at this time of day. But never mind, I’ll take a cup now, and a
piece of pie too, if aunty will bring it for me.”
Mrs. Frost nodded her head half a dozen times, for when she once began
it was difficult to stop, and Mrs. Nicholson went patiently out in
search of a pie at the next bakery. When she was gone, Hurst took the
old lady’s hand and kissed it with some show of real affection.
“I am glad she is gone,” he said, “for I want a little private talk with
you, grandmother.”
“Grandmother!” muttered the old woman. “Why, Mike, you are getting too
old for that I never had a child in my life, as Mary Nicholson, the
giddy thing, says: and to have a tall, handsome young fellow calling me
grandmother is enough to take away one’s reputation. I really thought
that was very sensible, very sensible indeed, for Mary Nicholson,
considering her want of experience. Still it does sound pleasant when
you call me grandmother, so I’ll run the risk.”
Here the old lady sat down in her rocking-chair, with an increased
vibration of the head, and a sparkle of pleasure in her dim eyes. Hurst
knelt down by her side, as he had done a thousand times when a boy, with
a glow of real affection, which rendered his manner irresistible to the
lonely soul he addressed.
“But grandmother, tell me, and oh! tell me truly, have I no right to
claim some relationship to you? I cannot remember when you first took an
interest in my life—when you first gave me a home. If I am related to
you, legally or illegally, nearly or remotely, oh! tell me now. I shall
not love you more or less for the knowledge: but it is very important
that I know all about myself. Grandmother, dear grandmother, tell me
every thing!”
The old lady began to vibrate in her chair—body, head and all. She tried
to lift her hand in deprecation of farther questions, but it fell gently
on the young man’s shoulder, and a tear trembled into her dim eyes.
“Michael, I can tell you nothing, because, of a certainty, I know
nothing myself; what I suspect is not evidence, and may mislead.”
“But you know how I came under your care.”
“Yes, so far as that, I can tell you all I know myself.”
“Do, oh, do tell me all you know!”
“That is little—nothing in fact.”
“Still, let me have it, dear grandmother.”
“My husband, you can just remember him, Michael, and know that he was
minister of a little Baptist society, which was not rich enough in those
days to have a meeting-house to itself, but worshipped in a room around
the corner, and was built up gradually, by the goodness of God and my
husband’s labor, into a powerful church. He did not live to see it, but
his teachings have brought forth fruit a thousand fold.”
“I know, I know; you have told me this again and again, dear
grandmother; but what of myself?”
The young egotist had no sympathy with the dear memories which made the
old lady dwell so lovingly on her husband’s good works, and cut them
short with this burst of selfish impatience.
She drew back, nervous and bewildered; then answered, with touching
meekness:
“Yes, I dare say that I have told you about him a great many times, till
you are tired of it; but about yourself—well, that, too, was one of his
good works, for he was not among the servants of God that confine their
labors to one society, or to a single line of duty. He went forth into
the highways and the hedges and forced sinners to come in. He was so
charitable, too, without a sin of his own, that I could ever discover;
he had no end of patience and forbearance for the sins of others.”
“Yes, yes; I know all this!” cried the young man, impatiently; “but of
myself?”
“Well, this is a part of what I was saying: so be more patient, or I
will not speak another word!” cried the old lady, with the stubbornness
of extreme years. “To speak of you, a poor, helpless orphan baby, is to
exalt his goodness. My husband not only cared for the souls of his
parishioners in the next world, but he helped them forward in this. The
poor were his children.”
“Well, and I was one of those poor orphan babies?” cried the youth,
impatiently.
“You might have been two or three years old when he brought you home.
Yes, it was just two years after my nieces, Sarah and Hetty Hart, come
to visit me, and a few months after Sarah got married to that rich Mr.
Bentley.”
“Mr. Bentley—did a niece of yours marry a man by that name?”
“And didn’t you know that? Why, yes, our Sarah married one of the most
splendid and wealthy men in New York. His cousin, who was killed, used
to be here a good deal, when the girls stayed with us, and the two young
fellows often came together. The rich man was poor then; but after his
cousin died the property all came to him, and he married Sarah.”
“And what became of her? Is she living now? Has she any children?”
“She died years ago, beyond sea, and left a little girl, her very
picture.”
“What was her name?”
“A curious name for a girl—‘Gillian.’ I never knew where they picked it
up. It has a heathenish sound to me.”
“Gillian, ah, and Miss Hetty Hart your niece, Daniel Hart and his
daughter: are these the connections of Mrs. Bentley?”
“Yes, that is the family. You were up in Rockland once—did they never
tell you about the Bentleys?”
“Never a word.”
“Well, it was no secret. I wonder Hetty never told you about them, for
it was considered a great match for our Sarah. Hetty was here, I
remember, just after Mr. Frost brought you home; and now I remember
Sarah came too every day till she went beyond seas: they took a good
deal of interest in you, and cried over you more than once. I caught
them at it—but then they were tender-hearted girls always: the sight of
a bird astray from its nest would set them a-crying always, especially
Sarah.”
“But this is no intelligence, grandmother—it does not inform me who I
am, or who my parents were,” cried the youth. “Did your husband never
tell you where I came from, or to whom I belonged?”
“No, he never did. His good acts were done in secret, and though he
called me his right hand, I never knew what the left hand did,
especially in his charities. If the sinful gave him their confidence, it
was sacred between himself and the throne of God. Many a miserable girl
has he snatched from under the cruel feet of the multitude, and saved
from deeper sin. Many a child——”
“Don’t speak of that—do not couple me with such Christian charities,”
cried the young man, wildly, while his face flushed scarlet, and his
eyes filled with smouldering flame. “The mother who can leave this
shameful orphanage on her child deserves to be trodden to the
earth—crushed out of existence——”
He broke off suddenly, and stood still with his hand clutched in a firm
grip, his features gradually becoming pale, and his eyes fixed on the
door; for during his vehement speech it had opened, and Aunt Hetty Hart
stood mute and still on the threshold.
She met that look of inflamed passion with a wild gaze and a lip of
marble. His impetuosity seemed to terrify her into stone: she was so
unused to violent feelings, poor thing, that their utterance abashed her
to death. After a little while, she glided into the room and sat down,
shivering and drawing her mantle tightly as if she were cold.
“Oh!” said the young man, with a forced and bitter laugh, “you have just
come in time, Miss Hart. I am trying to persuade my old grandmother here
to tell me who I really am; and she was kindly insinuating that I was
little less than a pauper child, raked up from the gutter where a
shameless mother had left me. You cannot wonder that intelligence like
this sheds something besides rose-leaves on my temper, and that I was
very near cursing myself and those to whom I owe life.”
Hetty looked at him steadily. Her large, sorrowful eyes dilated; her
lips grew cold.
“Do not curse either your father or your mother, Michael. Leave them
with God—leave them both to the great, just God, who allows no sin, open
or hidden, to go unpunished.”
The words dropped solemnly and slowly from her lips; but even the
touching sadness of that voice failed to influence the intemperate
youth.
“No, it is useless cursing them; they cannot feel or know it,” he said,
bitterly; “one might as well denounce the wind. But you had some
knowledge of me when a child: Grandmother Frost has just told me so—you
and your sister, the wife of that rich Mr. Bentley, whose house I saw
you at a little while back. If you are human, tell me something by which
I may guess who I am.”
Aunt Hetty shrunk away from him.
“I have no power. I cannot, if I would, give up a mother to the curses
of her child.”
“And so all ends in this. With every effort to know something of my own
history, I am thrown back to fight with shadows again.”
The young man flung himself away from Aunt Hetty as he spoke, and
prepared to go; but some new thought struck him, and he turned back.
“One thing I wish to ask. There is a lady living on the Bloomingdale
road, who has been a very kind and good friend to me for some years. Is
she known to any of you? Her name is Ransom, and she is an author of
high standing.”
The old ladies looked at each other, pondered a while; then each shook
her head—they knew no such woman. Aunt Hetty had heard the name, and
remembered that Gillian Bentley had brought one of Mrs. Ransom’s books
into Rockland county; but of the author herself she knew nothing.
The timid woman said this in a frightened way, and seemed to shrink into
herself when another sharp exclamation broke from the young man.
“Another mystery,” he said; “but I was a fool to inquire about her
here,” and with angry clouds on his brow he started off, almost knocking
the old woman down who was coming in with the pie she had been ordered
to bring.
“I beg your pardon—I am really sorry,” he said, as the old creature
reeled back against the wall. “I did not mean to hurt you; but that
stubborn old thing will tell me nothing, and it drives me mad.”
The old woman, instead of being angry at his carelessness, was grateful
for this half apology; and softly closing the door, said to him, in a
hurried whisper—
“I only wish I could help you out of all this trouble. Tell me what it
is about.”
He laughed a low and bitter laugh.
“I am a poor orphan in search of my father and mother,” he said, “and no
one will tell me where to find them. I believe Mrs. Frost could help me
if she pleased.”
“Did she know any thing?”
“Her husband did; but he is dead.”
The old woman pondered a moment, with a lean finger pressed to her lip.
“I don’t think she knows any thing about it; but if she does I’ll find
it out for you. Come again before long. It’s pleasant to have company
drop in now and then.”
“Find out what I want to know, and I’ll come to see you every day of my
life,” he whispered, earnestly. “Miss Hart is in the sitting-room: take
notice of what they talk about after I am gone.”
“I will—as sure as you live I will, and trust me for more than that.
It’ll be something to think about, and that is a great deal to a woman
who does not get a chance to speak sometimes for twenty-four hours
together.”
“Well, well,” said the young man, “be my friend, as you always have
been, and if I ever win good fortune, you shall share it. So, now,
good-day, aunty; I hear a movement as if some one were coming.”
With these words he disappeared, just as the pale face of Aunt Hetty
looked through the door.
She saw his shadow as he went, and called out faintly, but there was no
strength in her feeble voice to summon him back or lead him from his
desperate course.
CHAPTER XIX.
THE BLOOMINGDALE COTTAGE.
Youth is very sad at times: to it the future appears vague and unreal as
eternity is to old age. A longing desire to know what lies beyond the
present—a dreamy melancholy—timid fears of what may be, is sure to
settle upon the young, susceptible mind, like morning fog over a garden
of roses, making the sunshine more vivid when it comes. To the sensitive
and most highly endowed this is certain to be true; and for such real
happiness seldom exists, save in snatches and bright gleams, till
imagination becomes a power, and then the blossom-season of life is
gone.
Gillian Bentley was like an April day, now bright and richly happy, now
saddened almost to tears. Neither of these moods, perhaps, had a
definite cause, but they were a part of her nature. The shadows which
the moonlight casts to the earth, the perishing of a rose she had loved,
a gloomy look from her father—each or any of these were enough to cloud
her pure forehead, and make her step languid for hours together. Yet
when she was cheerful, nothing could be more charming than the exuberant
flow of her spirits. She was like the mockingbird of Alabama, when it
begins to sing among the great magnolia blossoms as the dawn flushes
over them.
Indeed Gillian was a splendid creature in all her moods, and you always
associated her with something rich and precious; the glow of life in her
was so bright, that it was impossible to class her among those who are
born for toil or common suffering. I cannot describe this girl exactly
as she appears to me, for her character seemed to vary every moment; and
her face—one might as well attempt to make the perfume of a flower
visible, as convey an idea of its beautiful changes.
It was only in her sad moods that Gillian visited Mrs. Ransom. When she
had been thoughtful an hour or two from any cause, the result was
certain to be a visit to her friend, for such that singular woman became
from the first.
These calls to the Bloomingdale cottage usually took place in the
morning, when Mrs. Ransom was almost sure to be in her library, and
equally sure to refuse herself to all other visitors.
On the day after Hurst had made an unsuccessful effort to visit her
father’s house, Gillian drove to the Bloomingdale road. She had not
recognized the face of the young man, and the conduct of her aunt gave
her some little anxious surprise. The old lady had been absent two or
three hours after his disappearance, and the usual nervousness of her
demeanor increased painfully on her return, until she glided off like a
ghost to her own room and had not since appeared.
Gillian felt that she had offended her aunt. She could not even
conjecture the nature of her fault; but her quick sensitiveness was
aroused, and she fled to Mrs. Ransom for consolation.
Ruby had been taught to admit Gillian at all hours, without question of
time or convenience: so the young girl passed her with a light step, and
entered the library. It was empty: the writing-table stood in the
centre, littered with papers, and the easy-chair she knew so well stood
beside it; but the lady herself was nowhere visible.
This was a disappointment. Gillian hesitated a moment, and sat down in
Mrs. Ransom’s chair with a feeling almost of reverence. Her eyes fell
upon the bronze ink-stand, and instantly her thoughts flew back to Italy
and the spot where her mother slept beneath a perpetual bloom of roses.
The chair she occupied commanded a fine view of the river. It was
spring-time, and early morning; the soft green of the trees, rendered
brighter from the dew that was but partially exhaled, framed in glimpses
of the river which sparkled in the early sunshine like veins of
diamonds. Along the broken slopes of the bank a few old apple trees,
heavy with blossoms, drooped to the soft, fresh turf; and, from the
crevice of a rock, near the water, a young cherry tree, the growth of
some stray seed, was just shedding its delicate flowers like a snow
storm over a carpet of wood-moss that crept on to its roots; groups of
lilacs and snow-balls broke on the wildness of the scene, and, without
knowing it, Gillian began to smile, the stillness was so beautiful.
As she sat gazing through the window, Mrs. Ransom came slowly up from
the river with a branch of wild honeysuckle in her hand. Her
morning-dress, of a delicate blue, brightened the scene as she passed
along. The ribbons of her pretty morning-cap fluttered in the wind,
while her animated face and elastic tread gave queenliness to her whole
appearance.
The lady was not alone: by her side walked a tall man, not very young in
appearance, but with a quiet and calm stateliness which rendered his
presence imposing as that of the lady. Sometimes Mrs. Ransom took the
gentleman’s arm, and rested on it a moment, as she conversed.
Then she would stoop to pick a fern leaf, or a violet, from the grass,
and move on again, with her head bent, as if listening to some subject
that interested her greatly. Thus the two came toward the house, mounted
the balcony to which the bay window opened, and sauntered through into
the library.
Gillian stood up, blushing and confused. She felt like an intruder; and
the shy grace which this sensation gave to her appearance was in itself
a charm.
Mrs. Ransom started, and almost stepped back, when she saw this queenly
girl standing there, with a smile on her lip, and a flush stealing over
her whole face; but she recovered herself at once.
“My child—my dear Miss Bentley!” she said, with a confused attempt at
welcome, “you here and waiting. Oh! I forgot—Mr. Woodworth, Miss
Bentley.”
Mrs. Ransom sat down, panting for breath. It was her habit, when
excited, to tear apart any thing that chanced to be in her hand. Thus
she began to strip the honeysuckle branch of its blossoms, and scatter
them on the carpet, while she watched the two persons she had introduced
as they recognized the courtesy.
The gentleman was evidently struck by the glow of Gillian’s face, and by
her subdued graciousness. He made some observation about the beauty of
the morning, and looked about for a seat, while Gillian glided away from
the easy-chair she had occupied, and drew gently up to Mrs. Ransom.
“You are not angry! Tell me, dear lady, have I intruded?” she said,
bending gently toward her friend.
Her sweet, deprecating way touched Mrs. Ransom to the heart. Her face
brightened with one of those grand, soul-lit smiles that made it
resplendent at times.
“No, not angry, child; and you never can intrude—remember that!” she
answered, casting the torn branch away, as if it were some painful
thought which she flung off with an effort. “I was a little jealous that
another should see you, that is all: so just scatter those roses back
from your face—you have nothing to blush at.”
Mrs. Ransom spoke in a subdued tone, and Gillian imitated her as she
answered:
“I have been sitting in your chair, dear lady, with the old gentleman
looking down upon me so earnestly. It almost made my heart stand still
when I first met his glance. It seemed as if he wanted to tell me
something. Is it the likeness of some one you have loved?”
The gentleman had taken up a book, and was glancing over its pages, as
this low-toned conversation commenced. Thus the two ladies were left, in
a measure, to themselves. Mrs. Ransom’s face changed again, and, with a
saddened look, she lifted her eyes to the portrait.
“Yes!” she said, almost in a whisper, “I loved him, heaven only knows
how much! Loved him almost better than myself—than—than— He was a good
man, Gillian—a rare man. I think that shame, or a knowledge of sin in
those he loved, would have broken his heart. But nothing of this kind
ever reached him. He died calmly, happily, I think.”
Her eyes, did not fill with tears as she spoke, but a flush rose about
them, and her voice was low and hoarse.
“It is a calm, stern face,” whispered Gillian, drawing closer and closer
to her friend; “I cannot tell why, but his look almost brings the tears
to my eyes. He is not at all like papa, but there is something that
reminds me of him about the picture.”
“Indeed, is your father like that? But it is not likely that a
resemblance could exist between the two. It is because you like the
picture.”
“Like it? Yes, but that would not account for this feeling. His eyes
make me sad.”
Mrs. Ransom pressed the hand which Gillian had unconsciously laid in her
clasp, but she did not speak; for that moment Mr. Woodworth closed his
book and laid it on the table, conscious that the conversation was
becoming oppressive to Mrs. Ransom, but apparently only weary of turning
over the leaves.
With a quiet, almost indifferent manner, he began to converse about a
poem that he had read. Mrs. Ransom replied in her usual earnest, frank
way. Gillian did not speak, but her eyes began to kindle, and her cheeks
grew red. In her whole life she had never heard a voice like that, so
deep-toned, so clearly musical. The objection that Mrs. Ransom made to
some sentiment that escaped him brought the fire to his soul. He began
to talk earnestly, eloquently—so eloquently that Mrs. Ransom became
interested—her thoughts flashed back to his own—her laugh rang out, full
and clear. Spite of her age—spite of a certain troubled expression that
habitually lay upon her—she grew brilliant beyond any thing that Gillian
had believed her capable of.
The conversation was of a kind the young girl had never listened to
before, running from subject to subject: poetry, prose, wild fancies
that possessed all the elements of poesy without its rhythm, flashed
before her. She was a being to feel all that was beautiful in the
meeting of two minds so richly gifted, and her sympathies went with them
to the full. Hitherto she had almost reverenced Mrs. Ransom as an
author; now her whole soul went forth in homage to her womanliness and
the truth of her character.
Woodworth read all that was passing in that fresh, young heart, with a
glance. The admiration, and even homage, he saw there, inspired him with
feelings more worthy than those of gratified vanity, but he scarcely
addressed her in words, and he was entirely free from any of those
pretty arts with which smaller men attempt to ingratiate themselves into
favor with a young and beautiful woman. Indeed he was a man far above
the usual level of society.
Perhaps the presence of Mrs. Ransom might have rendered his conduct, so
far as she was concerned, more reserved than was usual to him; for he
could not but remark how vigilantly her eyes followed his glances
whenever they wandered toward the bright creature by her side. There was
something anxious and almost stern in her manner, once or twice when she
thus intercepted his admiration, which he could not understand.
At last Gillian arose to go; for, from the first, she had felt almost
like an intruder. Mrs. Ransom did not urge her to stay, but arose and
walked with her toward the door.
Woodworth smiled. He was too thorough a man of society to be baffled in
this way; and, seeing some wild flowers on the table where Mrs. Ransom
had cast them down, he took up a few of the violets and handed them to
Gillian, smiling half-maliciously in Mrs. Ransom’s face, as he lifted
his head from the profound inclination that had accompanied the gift.
Mrs. Ransom frowned, but instantly a smile crossed her lip at being thus
outgeneraled; for she was a woman to forgive, nay, admire the quickness
of wit that overmastered her own, even when it baffled her wishes.
As for Gillian, she blushed like a sudden dawn, and, with unconscious
grace, lifted the violets to her lips, casting a purple shadow over the
smiles that hovered there. In her whole life she had never received a
gift which stirred her heart so pleasantly. She forgot Aunt Hetty—the
young man of the side-walk—every thing, in the happy bewilderment that
fell upon her.
Mrs. Ransom went forth with her to the outer door, kissed her with sweet
tenderness of manner, and stood, with the young man at her side, while
the carriage rolled away. As it swept round a curve of the road, they
caught a last glimpse of her, leaning back in the carriage and holding
the violets to her lips—the violets over which a soft, low sigh
passed—giving and taking perfume as the horses swept her away from the
spot that had been to her the paradise of an hour.
“And who is she?” inquired Woodworth, as his eyes met those of Mrs.
Ransom, which were all at once clouded with sadness.
“She is—she is an angel—a good, bright angel, that keeps me from wishing
to die,” said Mrs. Ransom; and her sad eyes swam in tears.
“She is a happy one to excite such emotions in a heart like yours,”
answered the young man; and, with the tact born of perfect refinement,
he left the lady to her solitude.
CHAPTER XX.
AT THE OLD HOMESTEAD IN ROCKLAND COUNTY.
The apple trees were in blossom on the old Rockland farm—fragrant,
bright and rich in beauty as they had given their breath to the air on
that spring morning when Daniel Hart met his sister on her way to the
post-office, when that as yet unexplained letter was sent to the man who
had now been in his grave so many years. There was no change in the
landscape, except that more perfect cultivation had enriched the basin
of Rockland county, thinning the wilderness of its trees and leaving
pleasant homesteads in their places.
Daniel was walking along the footpath across the very meadow-path Sarah
had met him. The wild meadow-flowers starred the grass on either side as
they brightened it then, but the path had been trod, year after year,
till plantain leaves and burdock, the wild growth that marks the steady
footprints of man, had sprung up and become thrifty along the way.
But Daniel Hart, the cheerful young fellow, proud of his newly-formed
marriage-ties, honest, earnest and generous, where was he? That heavy,
calm man with his eyes kind and serene like those of a Newfoundland dog,
but full of human intelligence—that stalwart form stooping at the
shoulders, more from the weariness of a hard day’s toil than from age;
the firmly planted foot, slow but sure in its tread the toil-hardened
hand swinging gently as he walked—did these belong to the youth of
twenty years ago? Had the smart youngster grown into that strong, steady
man?
A yoke of oxen, just unhitched from a plow that stood in the furrow of a
distant corn-field, pursued their swinging walk homeward a little in
advance of their owner, bending their necks low and patiently to the
yoke, as a married couple, with the light of a honeymoon lying twenty
years off, stoops kindly under the mutual burdens of life.
Once in a while the farmer spoke a word to his oxen, for they were old
friends, and he loved to reward their toil with a cheerful sound;
sometimes he stooped to pick a blue flag or violet from the grass; and
again he would lash the dark leaves with his cart-whip, smiling as he
cut them up at the roots, and sending a golden drift of dandelions after
them with a second whirl of the lash.
At last he came to the bars where Sarah had waited for him, twenty years
before, after putting her letter in the post-office: and there, just at
the same spot, stood a neighbor with a letter in his hand bearing the
New York post-mark, and with the name of his daughter daintly traced on
the snow of its envelope.
“Here’s a letter for some of your women folks,” said the man, as he
placed it in his hand. “I was over to the corner and the post-master
asked me to bring it along.”
“Much obliged. Won’t you come up to the house and have some supper?”
“Not to-night; the old woman will be waiting for me. Good-day.”
Daniel Hart returned his salutation with a request to be remembered to
the women folks, and, as the man walked on, glanced again at the
superscription.
“It’s from Gillian,” he said, half aloud. “I expect she wants to steal
Martha as well as her old aunt—bless her sweet eyes!”
He passed on toward the house, and, when his daughter heard his step on
the porch, she ran out to meet him.
“How late you are, father!” she exclaimed; “tea has been ready this
half-hour; I’m afraid the biscuits are cold.”
“Just let me wash up and have a wipe at the roller towel and I’m ready,”
he replied, patting her head with his broad hand. “Here is something to
take up your time while I do it.”
“It’s from Cousin Gillian,” Martha cried; joyfully, as he placed the
letter in her hands.
“I reckoned as much. I thought Aunt Hetty’s stiff fingers couldn’t make
such finified lines as them.”
Martha had broken the seal and was too deeply absorbed in the contents
of her epistle to heed his words. A letter was an unusual visitor to the
girl, and the arrival of Gillian’s was looked upon as an important
event.
A joyful expression escaped her as she read; but her father was rubbing
his forehead vigorously with the coarse towel and did not look around.
“Oh, what do you think, father!” she exclaimed. “So kind of her, dear,
good Gillian. Isn’t she a cousin worth having?”
“Well, what’s the matter?” asked Daniel Hart, turning down his shirt
sleeves.
“She wants me to come to New York and make her a visit; only think, she
is going to give a grand party in honor of her new house. Won’t it be a
house-warming worth while?”
“And your silly little head is turned with the idea. Well, well, it’s
nat’ral enough, I suppose. Young folks will be young folks.”
“Can I go, father? Do say yes. Oh! I am so crazy to be off.”
“I ain’t much given to saying no to you, am I?” he asked, smiling kindly
down upon her.
“Then I can go. I am so happy—how nice it will be! And Aunt Hetty, too—I
do want to see her so much. Oh! dear, won’t I have fun?”
She was interrupted in her exclamations by the appearance of an ebony
face at the door, crowned with a roll of black, woolly-hair that circled
the corresponding head like a turban.
“’Spect the tea’ll be cold if the men folks don’t come,” said a
discontented voice. “It’s be’n a drawin’ next door to an hour.”
“Coming, Dinah—all on hand,” said Daniel Hart, pleasantly.
“And oh! Dinah,” exclaimed Martha, “I am going to New York. My Cousin
Gillian has sent for me. Isn’t it splendid?”
The old negress drew up her gaunt form, and looked as if she thought her
young mistress was not sufficiently alive to a sense of her own dignity.
“’Spected she would, young Misses. Who would she a-sent for but her own
nat’ral born cousin?”
“But it is so kind of her, Dinah—so very kind!”
“Seem in a great pucker to go away from hum,” grumbled Dinah; “I never
seed no good of gallivanting all over the world. I knows what York is,
’cause I’ve travelled; I’ve be’n thar with Miss Sarah, and it’s my
’pinion you’ll get lost.”
“Not if you go with her, Dinah,” said the farmer.
“Me go travelling ag’in?” said the old woman, brightening up at once.
“Gillian wants me to bring you,” added Martha; “she speaks about it
particularly, and says you must save her some of those old-fashioned
cakes nobody can make but you.”
“Oh! de Lord,” said Dinah, with a chuckle that twisted her features into
something like an oak-knot. “Massy sakes alive! Wal, de young lady
allers was as sweet spoken as if she had sugar-plums in her mout. Hi!
hi! hi!” and she went off into another and more prolonged chuckle. “How
she did use tu walk into dem doughnuts; ’spect she’d never git nothin’
like dem with her fangled city niggers, nohow.”
“And now let’s have supper,” said Mr. Hart; “you and Martha can talk all
this over when we’re done.”
“I never ’trudes myself into no discuss,” said Dinah, drawing herself up
with immense dignity and sailing into the house. But all the while she
was giving the finishing touches to the tea-table her mouth was puckered
into a grim smile; and once or twice she was obliged, in order to quiet
her excessive delight, to give a punch in the side to her little sable
handmaiden, who dodged vigorously every time she become unfortunate
enough to get in her way.
Martha sat down at the table radiant with pleasant anticipation. Her
brown eyes shone like twin-stars, and her cheeks wore a richer bloom
than the cinnamon-roses that looked in at her through the kitchen
window.
Daniel Hart finished his meal almost in silence, scarcely heeding the
broken sentences which passed between Dinah and her young mistress. He
could not tell why, but, apart from the pain of losing Martha, he felt a
vague fear of the idea of this visit. Back into the past went his
thoughts again. Sarah’s image rose before him bright with youthful hope
and anticipation. What a gulf of bitter memories rolled between the
present and that spring time of life!
He pushed back his plate with a sigh, and seated himself by the window.
Martha ran to get his pipe, and, having carefully filled it, brought it
to him, holding a live coal between the tongs that he might light it.
“You look tired, father,” she said, when the preparations were
completed, and he was puffing out a white column of smoke from his lips.
“Likely as not; but it’ll all be gone in the morning.”
Dinah summoned her mistress away nominally for a discussion about a
pickle-crock, but in reality to whisper in her ear:
“’Spose we’ll start right off, young Misses?”
“At once, my cousin says; I’ll ask father.” She ran out of the pantry
again, calling:
“Father, father!”
“Well?” he asked, with a subdued sadness in peculiar contrast to her
unrestrained joy.
“Shall we go soon? Gillian wants me at once, you know——”
“As soon as you can get ready, darter.”
“Next week, then—do you hear, Dinah? We are going next week.”
“Dat’s no lifetime,” replied the stately dame, in a tone which vainly
attempted to express indifference. “Get out of my way, you Liz!” she
added, to her unfortunate assistant, but the girl was accustomed to the
mode of enforcing obedience which this tone threatened, and prudently
ducked her woolly head to escape the threatened blow. “Jest you wash the
dishes, you lazy nigger!” muttered Dinah, in a tone her master could not
hear, “and keep your fingers out o’ de pie.”
“Hain’t touched ’em,” retorted Liz, wiping her mouth with her fingers in
direct contradiction to her bold assertion.
Martha was accustomed to these altercations, and, while listening to her
father, paid no attention to this scene.
“And you are glad to go?” Mr. Hart said, striving to be cheerful.
She slipped her little hand into his, and the browned fingers closed
over it with a gentle pressure; while the kindly smile which always
softened his features, when he met the clear glance of her brown eyes,
passed over his whole face.
“Would you rather I stayed at home?” she whispered, struggling between
an ardent desire to go out into the world so natural to the young, and
reluctance to leave the fond parent, from whom she had been scarcely
separated since her earliest remembrance.
“No, darter,” he replied; “you are young, and it is natural you should
want to enjoy yourself a little. I ain’t going to hinder you. Mebby I
shall be a little lonesome at first; but, but——”
“But I don’t want to leave you all alone, father dear; you will miss me,
I know. I cannot go, that’s all!”
“Of course you shall! You have been a good darter, Martha, and never
given your old father a moment’s pain.”
Martha bowed her head, her excitement for an instant subdued by the
earnestness of his voice.
“I couldn’t be any thing else,” she whispered; “few girls have a father
like mine. Uncle Bentley is a good man, but I wouldn’t swap my father
for him,” and she threw her arms caressingly about the strong man’s
neck.
“Misses!” called Dinah, from the pantry.
“Well, what is it?”
“Won’t I give the house a clearin’ up to-morrow?”
“I guess so, Dinah; we will talk about it in the morning.”
Dinah muttered something about putting off things which ought to be
attended to at once, and went on with her work in indignant silence.
All that evening, Martha was in a state of pleasurable unrest, which
kept her eyes sparkling, and her cheeks a-glow with the thousand happy
thoughts to which her quick imagination gave rise.
When she had kissed her father good-night and stolen up to her room,
Dinah went creeping after, and, seating herself on the floor by her
young mistress’ bed, indulged freely in the numerous projects which were
flitting through her mind. Dinah was quite as much excited with the
thought of the coming visit as Martha herself, although she did her best
to hide it, ascribing her anxiety only to a fear of leaving her dear
child to undertake the journey alone.
Daniel Hart sat for a long time in his easy-chair, forgetful of fatigue,
and indulging in mournful memories of the past and present, until he
grew heavy-hearted with thoughts of his coming loneliness. But when he
rose in the morning, all trace of the sorrowful revery had disappeared,
and he went about his labors cheerful and kindly as was his wont.
CHAPTER XXI.
DINAH’S TOILET IN THE GARRET.
But Dinah was quite unable to sleep until she had looked somewhat to the
preparations necessary for her journey. So when she left Martha’s room,
armed with a flaring candle, she betook herself to the garret, where
stood the chest in which the treasured odds and ends of her life had
been heaped together. A huge padlock secured this miscellaneous wealth
from Lizzy’s prying eyes; and when Dinah unlocked it she looked sharply
round in fear that the girl might have been dodging her footsteps.
Very incongruous were the articles displayed by the opening of the
chest. Old dresses and cloaks, garments which Martha had worn when a
baby, a black tea-pot without a nose, and a Britannia cream-jug that had
lost its handle, masses of artificial flowers, and a collection of old
shoes, for Dinah was a perfect martyr to her feet and a monomaniac on
the subject of saving worn-out slippers. All these things were carefully
taken out and held to the light for closer inspection. Dinah’s heart
sunk within her when she reflected that, probably, she might not be
allowed to take the chest on her intended advent into the fashionable
world, and the very idea of leaving it behind gave her a cramp at the
heart.
“Now,” says Dinah, dropping into a gentle train of calculation, “s’posin
Mister Hart, or the young un, turn up their noses at dis ’spectable
chist, what is I to ’pend on—a band-box, a bundle, or one ob dem kivered
baskets? Not none of dem, nohow. If Miss wants a waitin’ maid, as she
can ’pend one in all ’spects for her manners and ’spectability, dis
chist es got to go long jes as sartin as I stan’ here. But s’posing she
sots her foot down and says, ‘Dinah, I’s willin’ to take you wid a
band-box or bundle, but not the chist.’ Then what’ll yer do, Dinah? Will
yer stay hum and make Liz pay for it all, or guv in an’ go anyhow? Make
up your mind in dis ’spect, Dinah, ’cause there’s gwine to be a tussel,
and yer’d as well be ready, Dinah, yer had.”
After this soliloquy, Dinah rested her head on one hand and an elbow on
her knee, evidently making up her mind.
“Well,” she said, at last, “if I mus’ guv up, I mus’—no ’stake about
dat; for I’se bound to make dem York niggers stan’ ’bout afore I’se done
wid ’em. Jest tink how arkard that poor chil’d be widout a ’sperienced
person to ’tend to her manners. So s’posin’ dey stands out, what is de
least as I can get long wid?”
Here Dinah plunged her hand into the open chest, and drew forth a quilt
of marvellous pattern, which she partially unfolded on her lap.
“Dis is a gwoin’ anyhow,” she muttered; “I’se ’quainted wid der stuck-up
houses in York, partly by ’sperience, an’ partly ’cause I’se be’n told.
Dey is whitened sepulchurs in de parlor; but when yer gits up-stairs
toward the roof, look out! Ain’t a gwine to catch the rhumetes for none
of ’em—that kiver’s boun’ to go!”
Here Dinah laid the quilt down and drew forth a small cotton shawl, so
gay in its original red, green and yellow, that time had left it a gaudy
article still. The chief desire of Dinah’s heart had always been a
turban, such as she had heard of among the better class of Southern
negresses—heard of, but never seen—for, with all her self-consequence,
Dinah had no knowledge of any town larger than the little port at which
Mr. Bentley and Gillian had landed; but imagination ran so far ahead of
her memory, that she really began to believe that all the books she had
heard her young ladies read, and all the places she had heard described
by the females of the household, were absolutely a part of her own
experience.
“Now,” said Dinah, eying the shawl, “if I only knew how dem niggers
twisted ’em up, it’d be ebery ting. I’se got dem ear-rings Miss Sarah
guv me when she was married; but how to pucker dis consarn into a turban
beats me.”
While she was speaking, Dinah began to fold the shawl diagonally and lay
it in broad plaits, which she prepared to bind over her silvered wool.
“Now,” she said, laying the folds across her lap, and fishing up a
little cracked looking-glass from the depths of her chest, which she
fastened between the rafters that sloped over her—“now if I kin only get
the kink on it, the chil’ ’ill have a waitin’-maid such as ain’t found
every day. Golly, them’s um! them’s um!”
Here Dinah gave the shawl a twist, gathered the end in a knot over her
left temple, and really stumbled upon the very method of folding a
Madras kerchief into a turban, except that she left the corner behind
flying loose; and the shawl, being too voluminous, gave an enormous size
to her head, while the ends swept over her shoulders like a pair of
wings.
But this exaggeration only increased Dinah’s triumph. She gave a
satisfied glance into the glass, and drawing forth a gorgeous calico
dress from the chest, proceeded to array herself, as she muttered—“Like
de lilies ob de field dat Nebuchadnezzer talked ’bout.”
But just as Dinah had clasped the gown at her throat with a huge red
glass brooch that had all the brilliancy of twenty carbuncles to her,
and was fluttering around the broken glass, with her head on one side
and her hands expanded in solemn admiration, a suppressed giggle broke
from the stairs, followed by Lizzie’s voice, exclaiming— “Oh, golly! oh,
golly! ain’t we fine! Lor! lor! hi! hi!”
Whereupon old Dinah seized the flaring candle, stick and all, with both
hands, and would have sent it after the sound. But, recollecting the
open chest, she concluded to disrobe and lock up her treasures,
philosophically muttering that “she could lick that imp ob Satan any
time; but to leave that chist unlocked was a tempter to providence that
she couldn’t think on.”
The next morning, as soon as Martha’s various duties were performed to
her own satisfaction—by no means an easy task, for she was an orderly
little body—she took refuge in her chamber for the purpose of searching
her bureau-drawers and bringing to light any treasures they might
contain.
The strongest desire of her heart was to find something which might be
converted into a garment fit for Gillian’s grand party—it never
occurring to the innocent soul that she would be guilty of the
extravagance of purchasing a dress for that special purpose. She pulled
out a variety, of dresses which had belonged to her mother and her aunt,
originally of pretty material, but so faded from long years of
unfolding, and so old-fashioned in form, that there was little hope to
be found in them.
As she surveyed the scant skirts and contracted sleeves, Martha’s heart
rather sank within her, but still she did not quite despair. Laying the
incongruous pile aside for some farther consideration, she took out of
their hiding-places various little articles of jewellery which she
possessed, turning them over somewhat hopelessly when she remembered
Gillian’s wealth in that line.
A fashionable lady would have smiled at the care with which Martha
treasured her few valuables. But the old-fashioned brooch and quaint
necklace were almost sacred in her eyes, for they had belonged to her
aunt of whom she had heard so much, but who had died far away from that
quiet old homestead long before the young girl’s remembrance.
While she was thus engaged, she heard Dinah’s slipshod patter upon the
stairs, and hastened to call her in that she might consult with her upon
that all-important subject to every feminine heart.
The jewellery in Dinah’s eyes was every thing that could be desired; but
about the party dress she was not quite certain, and stood with her head
on one side doubtfully.
“As for the jew’lry, there isn’t no dubitation: but I isn’t quite so
sartin ’bout the dress. There’s that ar pink gown, I ’member Miss Sarah
brung that from York, but that’s sich a heap o’ years ago—least ways you
mought try it on.”
Martha acted upon the suggestion; she had gone through the operation a
hundred times in her childish days, but now the scant skirt and short
waist made her laugh till the tears came into her merry eyes.
“Why, Dinah, I look like an umbrella half-shut up,” she exclaimed,
ruefully; and for once Dinah had no answer to make.
Luckily for her feelings, she perceived at this instant that Liz had
crept into the room and was watching the operation with eyes and mouth
wide open. The unfortunate damsel betrayed her presence by an
involuntary exclamation which escaped her at the sight of her young
mistress’ grandeur.
“Oh, ki! Missy, ain’t you splenderiferous! Oh, you is—ki!”
Dinah made a dart at her grand daughter, but her stiff limbs were no
match for Lizzy’s powers of locomotion, and the “little limb” was safe
down-stairs by the time the irate Dinah reached the door.
“No, you don’t,” she shouted, snapping her fingers, bold from a sense of
security. “Mean old nigger, anyhow, if you is my granny. Ki!”
“You Liz,” shouted Dinah, “ef them dishes ain’t washed when I git
down-stairs, I’ll straighten your wool as if it’d been hackled a week,
mind dat now.”
“Woolly yourself,” retorted Liz; “old nigger!” but hearing Dinah on the
stairs, she took refuge in the pantry and began a great clatter among
the dishes, spattering the clean floor without the slightest remorse,
and pretending to sing, though there was a quiver in her voice and
desperation in her industry.
“Never seed such a limb of Satan,” ejaculated Dinah, as she returned to
the chamber; but Martha took the contest as a thing of course,
especially as she was quite certain that Liz could defend herself
without help; and that the old woman loved her grand child far too well
for fear of any real cruelty.
“I’se like to ask a question, young Misses,” said Dinah, solemnly.
“What do you call me that for?” Martha asked.
“I knows our sitistation better than you does, Miss Martha,” replied
Dinah, with dignity; “’tain’t likely a pusson like me is gwine to be
obstrusive down in York. But I wants to know what complacity I’m a gwine
in?”
“What capacity?” Martha asked, doubtfully.
“In course, Misses! Miss Gillian hab a lady’s maid, and I spect you ort
to be as good as she.”
Now the idea of Dinah’s setting up for a lady’s maid struck Martha as
very ludicrous, although her little feminine vanity contemplated the
idea with sufficient complacency.
“It would be more dignified,” she said, struggling between a smile and a
consciousness of her own importance. “Would you like to be my maid,
Dinah? Is that what you are aiming at?”
“Seems to me it would be more proper, Misses; I’se had a husband, in
course; he want much ’count, nohow, and ’tain’t no use letting our
little secrets out o’ de family; and widders make de best ladies’ maids
I ’spect on account of der ’sperience.”
“Of course,” Martha said, smiling, for Dinah’s husband had always been
regarded by her as a somewhat mythical personage.
Now the chest came into Dinah’s mind again, and she deemed it a proper
moment to drag that portion of her desires into the conversation.
“There ain’t nothin’ like havin’ ebery ting ready,” she remarked. “I’se
powerfully glad ’bout havin’ that chist of mine.”
“Oh, Dinah, you can’t take that horrid old thing!” exclaimed Martha,
aghast.
“I’se travelled, young Misses,” replied Dinah, sententiously, perceiving
her advantage, and determined to follow it up; “and I knows de
world—ain’t gwine to hav’ no stuck-up city niggers laffin’ cause we
hain’t got ’coutrements enough.”
Martha deemed it prudent to say no more, being well acquainted with the
old woman’s obstinacy, and trusting that her father’s influence would
dissuade her; while Dinah chuckled inwardly at the success of her
scheme, and rose to such a state of self-complacency that she
straightway seized the opportunity of giving her young mistress a short
lecture.
“Law, I knows dem fine folks! their airs’ll profound you, honey; but
I’ve seen Miss Sarah do it, and I can construct you. Now thar’s the
curchey—kind o’ this way.”
She pulled up her dress, revealing her trim ankles, and made a bobbing
salutation, which set Martha off into a fit of laughter that was loudly
echoed from the stairs—Miss Liz had gained courage enough to steal again
upon the scene of action.
“Dat cuss—darned free nigger!” cried the irate Dinah, not daring to vent
her wrath upon her mistress; and away she ran with astonishing agility
down-stairs and out of the house, just in time to see Miss Lizzy fly
across the cabbage-patch, and take refuge on the top of a wood-shed
where she could not reach her.
“I’ll fix you, sis, wait and see,” she gasped, while Liz, between fear
and exultation, was chattering like a monkey on her perch, “I’ll larn ye
de ’spects due yer olders!”
Lizzy turned one hand into a tube, and, putting it to her lips, shouted,
“Ki—ki!” at which Dinah seized a bean-pole and made various unsuccessful
pokes at her, but the damsel evaded them, and seemed to enjoy the sport
so much that the old woman was forced to give it up and retire in grim
ferocity.
CHAPTER XXII.
MARTHA’S TRIP TO NEW YORK WITH HER MAID DINAH.
At length the day arrived on which Martha Hart was to make her entry
into the great world. The hour was so early that you could scarcely see
a streak of rose in the east; nothing but a pale flush, which shone like
a smile across the apple trees dripping with dew, and the purple lilac
plumes that crowned the bushes in front of the house.
They had taken breakfast by candle-light—a usual custom in that thrifty
household; so there was sadness, but none of that dreary look of
discomfort which usually accompanies a departure at early dawn.
Every thing was ready: Martha’s compact trunk and band-box, in its
calico case, with a basket filled with cakes, a wedge of cheese, and
some dried beef, stood together, ready for the wagon, to which the hired
man was “hitching up his horses” back of the house.
Dinah, that subtle politician and strong-minded woman, had prevailed on
the chest question, and sat upon her property, grim and triumphant, like
a general in the midst of a victorious encampment. By her side stood
Lizzy, rubbing both sets of knuckles into her eyes, and only taking them
away, when Dinah became unbearably pathetic, to shake off the drops and
plant them on duty again.
There was a certain tenderness in Dinah’s injunctions that made all
Lizzy’s better nature overflow, like a pool in which a stone has been
cast, but which Dinah held in check, ashamed of such ignoble weakness.
Daniel Hart stood by the window, with his daughter clinging to his arm.
He was very grave, even sad, at the thought of her departure. Never yet
had it been well with those of his family who went forth from that quiet
homestead into the bustling world. He could date poor Hetty’s pale
cheeks, and Sarah’s uneven spirit, from the time of their return from
the city where his only child was so eager to hasten.
“You will write to me very soon, child?”
“Yes, father. Oh, I am almost sorry to go! Only say one word, and I will
stay at home and send for Gillian to visit us this summer instead.”
“No, no: your mind is set on going, and it will not be kind to
disappoint your cousin. Come back with the same honest, light heart you
take away, and I don’t care.”
“Why, what do you mean, father? of course I shall, and lighter too, for
I shall have seen the world.”
Daniel Hart shook his head. The past, which was ever uppermost in his
mind, brought before his sight two girlish faces, both handsome, yet
totally unlike in their loveliness. He recollected those two faces, so
changed by sickness, toil, or sorrow, he never knew which, that those
who loved them best would scarce have recognized his sisters again.
“Well, well, we shall see,” he said, half-aloud. “Only come back as
wholesome and happy as you are now, and I shall be satisfied.”
Martha’s head drooped upon his arm, and for a few moments they stood in
silence, each occupied with thoughts different as though an ocean had
rolled between them.
Meanwhile Dinah was busy giving her last directions to the youthful Liz,
who stood, with her hair in wild commotion and her eyes rolling
incessantly, confused by the varied orders which the old woman poured
volubly forth.
“Ye sees, Liz, dis is de most ’portant ’vent ob yer resistance; you’s
gwine to hab de control ob dis ’stablishment; for any pusson dat comes
to help wash and sich like, ’ill only be supernumerums. Now, Liz, mind
what I tells you; get de dinners good, don’t nibble at de doughnuts, and
don’t stick your fingers in de cream and ’suade ’em it’s de cat.”
“Oh, I didn’t, never!” ejaculated Liz, with her most innocent face.
“That ain’t neither here nor thar,” replied Dinah, waving her hand
majestically; “I isn’t retruding de past: I’se counselin’ for de futur’.
Be a good gal, and de Lord ’ill bless you! Ef any o’ them ornary niggers
at de corner ’quires about me, jest say I hab gone to visit Miss
Bentley, down in York—dat’s all.”
“Yes, Dinah,” faltered Liz, quite awed by the grandeur of this last
announcement.
“And now, Liz, I’se goin’ to trust a solumcholy duty to you.”
“Oh, my!” groaned Lizzie. “Don’t!”
“Yes, I is, chil’; and I hopes you’ll be wordy on it, little as you is,”
repeated Dinah, rising majestically from her chest, and fitting the
heavy key into the padlock, which opened with a clang.
“Yes, I’se gwine to trust to your ’scretion, Liz, and gib into yer own
hans de ’heritance ob yer forefaders, though what der was on ’em ’sides
de indervideral afore yer wasn’t of no ’count, any how!”
Here Dinah lifted the lid of her chest and drew forth the black tea-pot,
the pewter cream-cup, and an old white satin slipper, which she sat
reverently down while securing the clamps of her chest again.
“Now, Lizzie,” she said, remounting her throne, and wielding the slipper
as if it had been a symbol of authority, while the cream-cup and its
companion lay in her lap—“now, Lizzie, ye sees dose tings: dey ’longed
to yer grandad when he was a likely young nigger, an’ had de honor ob
marryin’ de indervideral as is afore yer. Dat is, dey was de settin’ out
she brought to him wid her fair self, as he wud say when he had drunk up
the valley of a day’s washin’ in strong whiskey afore we detired to our
connuberal couch. Liz, yer grandad wud drink, but he alers did it like a
gemman, and dat’s why I rev’rentializes his mem’ry as I dus. Now, Liz, I
prizes dese sacrum tings for de sake ob de dead and berried; for when he
lay in dem delirum trumphants dat tuk him off, I ’ministered his last
drink out of dis ’dentical cup. Oh, Lizzie! it was a solumneous moment
when he guv up de ghost!”
“Oh, don’t—don’t!” cried Liz, screwing the two little black fists into
her eyes, and writhing to and fro. “It scares me to hear about dead
folks and their ghosts!”
“Be imposed, Lizzie—be imposed; it is sich tings as makes de soul de
more fit for de glory ob hebben. Dere he lay on his pillar, wid both
eyes wide open; an’ ses he, ‘Dinah;’ an’ I said—
“‘My lub.’
“Den he say agin, ‘Dinah;’ and I say, ‘What is ’em, honey?’ Den he says
agin, ‘Dinah, do yer lub me?’ and ses I, ‘Yes, Jube, I lubs yer yet, if
yer does drink ter much; for I ’members ole times, Jube;’ and den, Liz,
de tears choke me, an’ I coul’n’t say de rest as I wanted ter.
“When yer grandad sees dat, he ris up on his elber, and ses he—
“‘Dinah, kiss me!’ an’ I kiss ’em. Den he ses, ‘Dinah, kiss me ’gin,’
an’ I kiss ’em ’gin. Den, Liz, he fell back and die wid a smile on him
count’nance.”
“Oh! oh!” sobbed Lizzie; “poor grandad—poor, ole grandad!”
“Ole!” exclaimed Dinah, indignantly. “Ole! Jube wasn’t but just a grown
man when he died, an’ never would a been of no ’count, no how; so hush
up an’ ’tend to what I’se a sayin’ ’bout dis ’portant trust. Dis cup an’
de tea-pot, ’memorations of my connuberal ferlicity, I’se gwine ter guv
you to keep, an’ I want you to be faithless.”
“Oh, I will—I will,” sobbed Lizzie. “I hope ole Scratch ’ll get me by
the wool if I don’t.”
Here Lizzie held out her reverential hands, and Dinah placed the
precious relics therein, keeping the slipper for another lecture.
“Now, Liz, you see dis shoe: it ’longed ter Miss Sarah arter she was
married. I ’spect she’d took ’em inter de house ob Satan, an’ danced in
’em by de mark on de side; but dey was left ahind when she went ’broad,
an’ I tuk ’session. Now, Liz, when we gits inter de wag—de carriage I
means—yer take dis white shoe and shie it arter us jes as far as yer kin
fling. Does yer comprehension, Liz?”
“Yes, yes—I know it’s luck; I’ll do it, golly! Won’t I guv it a shie!
Never ye fear, granny!”
“I’se ’joiced to see yer can comprehensionate ’structions,” said Dinah,
adding the satin slipper to the relics which Lizzie huddled together in
her arms. “Now, Liz——”
But that moment the rattle of wheels came round the house, and Martha
ran to the door, crying out nervously,
“Oh, Dinah, the wagon is ready,” and turning to her father, she flung
both arms around his neck and wept aloud.
“Hollo, hurry up!” shouted the hired man, driving the wagon round with a
dash, and cracking his whip at Liz.
Liz gave a leap and a cry, stumbled, tried to recover herself, and fell
crash upon the relics of her grandmother’s domestic felicity. There she
lay flat upon the stoop, with those treasures crushed under her, and her
great, wild eyes turned imploringly on Dinah, who stood above her in
speechless wrath. Liz made an effort to get up and scamper away, but she
only whirled over and gathered herself into a dusky ball, from which a
pair of scared eyes rolled in every direction.
While Dinah’s eyes were turned away for an instant, the frightened
creature began to feel for the broken pieces. First she fished out a
fragment of the tea-pot, with the handle broken in two, which she tucked
under herself again instantaneously. Then she drew forth the milk-cup,
and her poor features began to tremble like a jelly between fear and
fun, for it was crushed into a pewter cocked-hat, and the sight brought
a giggle into her groans. But Dinah, instead of flying into a rage, as
Martha had expected, stood perfectly silent, looking down upon the
culprit with a solemn gravity that made Liz creep backward till the
walls of the house stopped her progress; then starting wildly up, she
gave one leap round the corner and disappeared, like a frightened hound,
bearing the pewter relic with her, but leaving the crushed tea-pot
behind.
“I didn’t go to do it. It dropped,” she shouted back.
Dinah looked after her without a movement of the face.
“Why, Dinah,” said the young mistress, suppressing a laugh, while the
tears still trembled in her eyes, “you take it like a Christian. I
thought you would have been furious.”
Dinah turned solemnly toward her, and, giving both hands a gentle
spread, replied:
“’Tain’t no use—I can’t find no words to ’spress my feelin’s. Preachin’
couldn’t do ’em justice,” and, folding her arms, Dinah sat quietly down
on her chest, and even moved aside meekly when the man came to lift it
into the wagon. She really had no language in which to express her
indignation.
Daniel Hart lifted his daughter’s trunk into the wagon, settled the
basket of eatables under the seat, and came back to the porch again.
“Come, darter, every thing is ready,” he said, looking sorrowfully into
his child’s face.
She would have thrown her arms around him again, but he lifted her
gently into the wagon, put a little black wallet into her hands with a
whisper to make herself fine as the best of ’em, and turned away.
Dinah clambered up the hind-wheel rather indignant that she also was not
lifted to her place, and, seating herself grimly on the chest, was ready
at any moment to enter upon the fashionable career which she felt to be
her destiny.
Just as they were driving off, a white satin slipper came flying after
them, and the face of naughty Liz was thrust round the corner.
After the slipper came a half-scared shout of,
“Good-by, granny—good-by, and luck,” finished off by,
“Oh! golly, golly, now won’t I have my own way?—oh! won’t I?”
Dinah only heard the good-by, and her old heart melted when she saw the
shoe flying toward her like a bird of promise, so she deigned to wave
her hand.
Martha looked sadly back so long as her father could be seen in the
porch; then she had another good cry, and was inconsolable so long as
any familiar object remained in sight.
After a time Martha’s spirits rose almost as buoyant as before. She
chatted gayly with the farmer, and laughed heartily at Dinah’s words of
wisdom, for the old woman was in one of her most oracular moods, and
delivered her opinions freely upon every possible subject.
It was afternoon when they reached the river, where they found the small
steamer lying.
As Martha was passing along the dock, she found herself face to face
with John Downs, the young man who had driven her uncle and cousin to
her father’s house, and who, in truth, had chanced that way more than
once since. The young girl blushed like a rose at this encounter.
“Well, if it ain’t Miss Hart!” he exclaimed, flushing up to the temples
with a bashful joy, which made his brown face really handsome. “Won’t
you shake hands with a fellow? How’s your father and that handsome
cousin of yours?”
“All well,” Martha said, extending her hand, which he grasped with
unconscious force in his strong fingers. “Are you going down the river?”
“Well, yes,” he said, hesitatingly; “I don’t exactly——”
“I am going to New York to visit my cousin.”
“And I am going to York, too,” he replied, brightening up wonderfully.
“I say, Downs,” said one of the men, approaching at that moment, “you’re
a-goin’ to Sing Sing, ain’t you?”
“No, I’m going to York.”
“Why you said yesterday——”
“’Tisn’t of the least consequence what I said yesterday. I say now I’m
going to the city.”
Before an hour was over, they were comfortably established on the deck
of the steamer, and gliding smoothly out into the river.
Martha and John Downs stood by the cabin door in pleasant conversation;
while Dinah had established herself on her chest, spreading her skirt
carefully over the huge padlock, and looking grimly at every one who
happened to approach her. It was some time before she could feel really
at ease concerning the safety of her possessions; and it was not until
the captain assured her that he would himself keep his eye upon them,
that she could be induced to stir from her perch long enough to see the
cabin.
It was well for Martha’s peace of mind that she knew little of the
world, and that no other passengers were on board, or Dinah’s attire
might have caused her some uneasiness. The old woman had arrayed herself
in a skirt of pressed flannel, below which peeped out a quilted
petticoat; above all was a gown of red merino, fastened by a broad,
green ribbon; and on her head she wore a huge coal-scuttle bonnet,
miraculously trimmed and decorated with a long, green vail that was
drawn on one side, and flaunted like a streamer in the wind.
She carried a huge bag of eatables—her own private stock—which might
have served for a sea-voyage, but nothing could induce her to believe
there was more than enough—indeed she had great fears that they might
fall short, and suffer shipwreck and famine on that perilous voyage.
“Besides,” she reflected, “if there’s any left, Miss Gillian ’ll be
mighty glad to eat a hum-made pie. ’Tain’t likely them fangled city
niggers feed her with sich like dainties as her mother was brought up
on.”
After these arguments had been repeated once or twice, Martha gave up
the contest; and Dinah, triumphant as usual, took full charge of the
commissary department, only disturbing the young people now and then
with offers of sandwiches and drop-cakes, which they invariably refused.
In fact, it breaks my heart to record it, but young Downs and Martha,
much to Dinah’s disgust, always selected those corners of the deck most
remote from her chest and the best sheltered angles and bulwarks. Once
that very correct woman was scandalized by the momentary glimpse of a
plump, brown hand clasped in that of the young farmer—a hand so
marvellously like that of her young mistress that, in her position as
chaperone, she felt it her duty to step down and see what it was all
about. But, when she reached that quarter of the deck where the young
people had been, Martha was leaning demurely over the bulwarks, looking
for the rose-tints that always settled on the river at sunset, she had
been told. As for young Downs, he stood a couple of yards off, with both
arms folded behind him, examining the make of the steamer, as if he had
been a ship-builder, and intended to carry off her model in his mind.
Dinah was not quite satisfied with this state of things, and sniffed the
air in a disaffected way, resolved to be more vigilant in her watch.
Firm in this virtuous resolve, she was looking for a seat, when one of
the sailors mounted on her chest, and began sacrilegiously to beat his
heels against its front till the padlock rattled again.
Dinah could not stand this, but darted off on a short run to dislodge
the enemy.
Directly after Dinah had retreated, Downs also became curious to watch
imaginary rose-tints settle on the river, and drew close to Martha’s
side, searching for them in her downcast eyes. The young fellow was
somewhat troubled in his mind about several matters, and, being a frank,
generous soul, spoke out like a man as he was.
“You have got a rich uncle down in York, Miss Martha?”
How did the fellow find out her name was Martha? Had she told him
because Miss Hart sounded so formal?
“Yes,” she answered, with a little sparkle of pride, “I believe uncle is
very rich indeed. They tell me he lives in splendid style. Gillian has a
carriage and footman, and every thing all to herself; the house is large
enough for a hotel, and only two of them; besides——”
“And plenty of beaux visit there, I suppose—handsome young fellows, who
dress like lords, and talk like books?” questioned the young man, in a
dissatisfied way.
“Oh, I think it very likely. Gillian is beautiful, and loves company.”
“And you—do you love that kind of company, Miss Martha?”
“Me? Oh, indeed! how can I tell? I, who never in my life saw a man that
looked like a lord and talked like a book, except it may be my Uncle
Bentley.”
“But you will meet those men at your uncle’s; nothing is more likely.”
“Well, what then? I only hope they will be half as nice as Uncle
Bentley, and it will be pleasant enough.”
Downs took off his hat and began to wave it to and fro before his face,
which was hot with uneasy, jealous thoughts. What chance had he—a rough,
homespun farmer—against the people this young girl would soon be thrown
among? It seemed a desperate venture; but he was brave as well as
honest. The love which filled his heart left its fire on his cheek, and
its tenderness in his voice, but it was prompt as truth.
“One word, Miss Martha, before we part; for the smoke which rises yonder
comes from New York, and that which seems a forest of dead trees, away
off, is the shipping you have heard of. One word, and then, come what
will, I have acted like an honest man, and said my say. I love you with
my whole heart. Have I any chance against those men who will swarm
around you like humming-birds about a wild honeysuckle?”
Martha was silent. She had given one little start and drawn a quick
breath at his first words, and now stood, in a tumult of mute bliss,
gazing on the water. It was not sunset; but rose-tints, brighter than
the sky ever sent, danced over the waves, and all the depths were rich
with the purple glow which first-love casts over every thing.
“Will you not speak to me?” whispered the young man, touching her
hand—“will you not speak to me?”
“I cannot,” she answered, in a deeper and sweeter whisper—“I cannot. My
heart is too full. The very air makes me giddy.”
He stooped down and looked into her eyes. Her face was close to his, and
he saw her lips tremble, like the leaves of a red rose when the dew
drops away from its heart.
But, for the universe he could not have kissed those lips, or gazed long
into those troubled eyes. He would as soon have shot a dove on its nest.
No; a coarser man might have been tempted to these things by her fresh
youth; but he only took her hand softly in his, and they stood trembling
together, while the sunset stole pleasantly over them, brightening the
distance with gold.
CHAPTER XXIII.
THE DOUBLE PROPOSAL.
Some weeks had passed since Gillian’s visit to Mrs. Ransom when she had
first met Woodworth. In those weeks she had become more restless than
ever. Her seasons of fitful sadness came on more frequently. Her
cheerfulness sometimes rose to excitement; then for days together she
would float away into a state of dreamy happiness that had no visible
cause, but which brought all the rich poetry of her nature to the
surface.
Love is the mission of womanhood; and when it finds a first expression,
either in feeling or in sound, that seems originality which almost every
true heart has tasted from the time of Eve down to the nineteenth
century.
I do not say that Gillian knew that the sweet thoughts and yearning wish
for sympathy which possessed her sprang from the quick unsealing of her
heart; but Mrs. Ransom was more keen of sight, and these mutations in
the character of her protégé gave her great anxiety. Why she should
regret this evident growth of love in the heart of that young girl it
seemed impossible to determine. It may be that she felt some
responsibility flow back to herself from the fact that Gillian had met
Woodworth for the first time under her roof, and that more than once
during the last month they had, by a sort of intuition, encountered each
other in their morning visits to her. These visits were sure to end in a
ramble through the grounds, during which it always fell out that the
elder lady was, for a few moments at least, left to solitary meditation;
while Woodworth lured Gillian off to search for sweetbriar among the
thickets, or found some object of interest on the shore.
One day the two stood together on the ledge of rocks which lay within
sight of the library window, to which Mrs. Ransom had retired with an
uncomfortable consciousness that she was one too many in that morning
ramble. Evidently her retreat had not been noticed, or her absence
regretted; for her visitors stood together on the shelf of rock,
surrounded by the dew and freshness of morning, with one of the
loveliest prospects in the world before them, yet so evidently
unconscious of every thing but their two selves, that the smiling scene
might have turned to a desert and they would not have regarded the
change.
Mrs. Ransom sighed heavily as she looked upon them—sighed till her
breath seemed a moan; then, wearily turning away, she lifted one hand to
her forehead, drew it over her eyes, and, lo! the tears flowed against
it in great, heavy drops.
Why did Julia Ransom cry so bitterly? That stately man was her friend—a
dear old friend with whom common pursuits and many a bright tie of
thought had bound her; and Gillian, ah! there was no doubt in it—she
loved the bright girl as only a woman so lonely and so endowed can love
the beautiful and wayward of her sex. Why was she sad, while, standing
there in her proud loneliness, she gazed out upon that picture of
growing affection? Was it possible that she loved Woodworth herself?
There would seem to be nothing so very unreasonable in the idea; for
Julia was a fine woman still, gifted with the best elements of beauty,
of mobile features and an expression on which the thought beamed before
it was uttered. The disparity in their ages, too, was not so very great;
and in character those two persons were so much alike that the only
wonder was they had not long since been declared lovers.
Yet her look did not bespeak this state of things. There was neither
anger nor jealousy in the tearful glances she cast upon the lovers; but
the pathos of a deep, deep regret filled her eyes and trembled around
her mouth while she walked to and fro, moaning with unconscious pain,
but still keeping that group upon the rocks in sight.
And a beautiful picture it was! Woodworth was speaking: sweet and
proudly humble were his words. You could tell that by the stoop of his
head and the position of his stately person as he bent toward Gillian,
who lifted her eyes to his with the earnestness of a child, while her
hands clasped themselves in a mass of scarlet roses which he had just
gathered for her from a flower-bed that sloped toward the river.
Julia was not near enough to see the color of that fair, oval cheek, to
which the red flowers seemed to have lent their richness; nor could she
discern the expression which came to those eyes——the terror and
delicious wonder that looked for an instant into his face and then
vailed itself beneath those soft, golden-brown lashes. No, no; to have
witnessed that would have been to reveal all the force and earnestness
of a love that few human beings are ever privileged to know, at least on
this side the grave.
It was, perhaps, because Julia felt how all-prevailing the love of two
such persons must prove that she looked upon it with those evidences of
anxiety. Perhaps she thought of her own isolation; and that true heart,
warm and romantic as ever beat in a human bosom, cast back upon itself
during the best part of a life, was thrilled with self-pity by all the
waste she found there.
I cannot tell what were the feelings which gave rise to those tears, but
surely no unworthy or selfish grief had place there; for after a little
she wiped the drops from her eyes, and a heavenly smile swept the clouds
from her face. She sat down upon the little veranda, to which her
library opened, and watched the picture on the ledge with a new and more
gentle interest.
With what sweet humility the proud girl bowed her head and listened! How
earnest, how bright with tenderness, his face shone out as it bent
toward her! All her limbs must have trembled, for, one by one, she
dropped the roses around her feet, leaving her white hands clasped and
her eyes downcast, as if some sweet thanksgiving were singing at her
heart, and she was afraid he might guess at the hidden joy.
Gillian scarcely seemed tall then; her figure drooped like a flower on
its stalk when the dew is heavy: at last she looked around as if her
strength were giving way. Just below them, along the shelf of the rock,
fleeces of moss had been transplanted from the woods, and lay in
cushions, soft and rich as those in an oriental seraglio; aye, richer,
for the morning sunshine embroidered their delicate green with gold, and
the night dew trembled over them like diamonds. Over this moss some of
Gillian’s roses had fallen, and when she sat down their fragrance was
all around her. So it should have been for an hour like that—the one
brief hour of perfect bliss which a poor mortal knows sometimes in a
lifetime, and learns to look forward to the heaven that must be so much
like it ever after.
Was Julia Ransom thinking of the one hour in her own life so much like
that; or, had all such joy been a stranger to her? I cannot tell, for
she never spoke of herself. You only knew that she had felt and suffered
by the words that thrilled you with pain or tenderness when she wrote. A
woman endowed like her was not likely to unvail her heart. If you saw it
through the mists of a high thought, it was all you could hope to learn
of the life which lay enshrined within the glory of her frame. I do not
know of what she was thinking; but, as Woodworth threw himself along the
moss, at Gillian’s feet, and gathering up one of the roses, carried it,
blushing with kisses, from his lips to hers, Julia arose, with a faint
shadow still around her eyes, and walked toward them.
She saw the color rush up to Gillian’s neck as her footsteps sounded on
the rock. As for Woodworth, he half rose, and held out his hand,
challenging her congratulations with a triumphant smile. Julia shook her
head with a touch of sadness; her fingers were cold as he clasped them,
but she bent lovingly over Gillian and kissed her on the forehead.
Then the warm scarlet rushed over the young girl in a torrent of
blushes, and tears of beautiful joy sparkled in her eyes.
“Now,” said Woodworth, pressing his lips on Mrs. Ransom’s hand, “now my
happiness is rounded: without you, our best friend, nothing is complete.
Do not look sad; we have learned to love each other in both loving you.”
“Oh, flatterer,” said Mrs. Ransom, gently; “in a little while you will
say it was because Gillian here was like me that you sought her.”
“And so she is. The same warm heart—the same generous charity—the same
great faults; for you have no little ones, upon my life, Mrs. Ransom: it
is because she is like you in these things that I love her.”
“Do not flatter,” said Mrs. Ransom, looking wistfully at the young face
before her. “If there is any resemblance, it lies in the affection we
feel for each other.”
“And in a general cast of thought which struck me from the first. I
really should think Miss Bentley had lived with you all her life.”
“And so she has, the best portion of it,” said Gillian, gratefully, “for
if life is measured by thoughts and feelings, I have only learned how to
exist here: all other places seem distasteful to me now.”
“But your father?” said Julia, a little reproachfully. “Surely life is
sweet with him.”
Gillian felt the gentle rebuke, and her eyes fell.
“Oh, I had forgotten my father—you know how I love him. Indeed, who
could help it? But I do not know how it is—he sometimes seems to bear my
presence with pain; and when I speak out the thought that comes
uppermost, or feel more than usually happy, he shrinks away from me and
goes off alone, as if there existed something in my words or manner that
he could not reconcile himself to. What is it, dear Mrs. Ransom, that
lies between my father and his child?”
“I should say,” answered Woodworth, thoughtfully, “that it was a memory
of something he has loved and lost. Was your father very much attached
to your mother, Gillian? I mean, did he regard her with more than
ordinary love?”
“Indeed I think so, and the more because he seldom mentions her. But how
could he help it? You should only hear Uncle Daniel when he talks of
her. Oh, if she had only lived, I should have loved her entirely with my
whole heart, as I love you, Mrs. Ransom. I know that she was a woman to
worship—to be proud of—for once my father told me so.”
Mrs. Ransom sat perfectly still, looking into the distance. When Gillian
uttered the last words, she rose and walked toward the river, as if some
thing on the shore had caught her attention; but half-way down she
paused and gathered some sweetbriar, which she brought back with her and
quietly divided between the lovers.
“You were speaking of your father,” she said. “What will he think of the
pledge you have just given, Gillian? Remember you are an only child, and
the heiress of great wealth.”
“My father loves me, and he does not care for any thing else,” said
Gillian, crimson with dread that there was something in Mrs. Ransom’s
words which might wound the sensitive pride of her lover. “There are
things that he respects more than wealth, and that is not wanting where
genius exists. You do not know my father, Mrs. Ransom, if you think that
the ability to earn fame, the energy which _has_ earned it, will not
meet even his ambition.”
Woodworth sat watching her embarrassment, and smiled when it broke into
enthusiasm. He was really too proud at heart to think of Mr. Bentley’s
wealth, either as an incentive or impediment to his suit with the
heiress. So long as she possessed refinement, education, and those
qualities that could awake a heart not easily touched like his, he had
thought of nothing else. With a just appreciation of the position which
his own self-directed genius had already won, it never struck him to
feel any inequality which property could produce. Feeling himself a fair
match for Mr. Bentley’s daughter, he had frankly offered himself, and as
frankly been accepted. He had visited at Mr. Bentley’s house, and knew
himself to be a favorite with its master, who, unlike the lower class of
millionaires, was a man of fine taste and unusual erudition. That a
character like Mrs. Ransom’s would object to him as a son-in-law had
never for a moment entered into his calculations.
With Gillian herself, he had been humble as true affection can make a
proud man. Her youth and her singular attractiveness, compared to his
riper years and those harsher traits that fasten on a man who works his
way to position, impressed him almost with hopelessness. Had any one
told him that there was a woman in the land whose position entitled her
to look down upon him, he would have laughed in derision. But he gave to
Gillian’s bright character what a queen would have failed to win from
him—the homage of a profound respect for her womanliness, and of a great
love that would have left him bankrupt had she proved unworthy.
“And have you no fear that Mr. Bentley may refuse you his daughter?”
said Mrs. Ransom, pressing the subject home with remarkable pertinacity,
as if she had resolved to punish them for a moment’s forgetfulness of a
father’s right. “Men like him do not give up their daughters to the
first person who asks. He will be taken by surprise.”
“Now you are getting unamiable,” said Woodworth, smiling a little
constrainedly. “It is the first time that I ever knew Mrs. Ransom fling
shadows on a bright hour.”
“And have I been so cruel?” said Julia, with a quiver of the lip. “Well,
well, I was but thinking how little a parent has of power or control
over the destiny of a grownup child.”
“But have you any reason to think that Mr. Bentley will disapprove of
the feelings to which you are the sole confidante?” inquired Woodworth,
now really anxious. “Have you seen him? Are there any grounds for
supposing that he has other plans?”
“Do not be so impetuous, my friend,” she replied, smiling. “I have no
reason on earth for what I have said. Nothing but over-anxiety, and a
little unaccountable nervousness, which makes me seem cross when I
really am quite the contrary. As for Mr. Bentley, I have not yet had the
honor of an introduction to him, as this dear girl can tell you.”
“But it is not his fault,” said Gillian, promptly. “I am sure he has
been anxious enough to know you, Mrs. Ransom; only it has happened that
when he called you have been absent or indisposed. But now I am
determined to bring the two people together I love best.” Here she
caught Woodworth’s glance, and shook her head lightly as if to scatter
the flood of crimson that rushed over her face. “You see—you see. Well,
really this was my entire business here. My father has decided that we
are to give a great party, something very superb, which is to honor the
introduction of his graceless child into your metropolitan society. You
have no idea how many really nice persons have called upon us, and
offered all sorts of civilities, since we opened the house; so we are
sure to have a crush of people. A dozen ladies of the first position
have offered to keep me in countenance, so I have no lack of chaperones,
but I want something more than that: my heart wants a true friend to
lean on. So the moment this idea of a chaperone was mentioned, I thought
of you and drove over at once.”
“And your father?” said Mrs. Ransom.
“Oh, he was delighted; offered to come with me and press the matter, but
somehow the fates are against me when he attempts to gain admission to
your paradise, and I ventured alone.”
“Thank you for it,” whispered Woodworth, softly. “I had a feeling that
you would be here at this hour, and alone.”
Gillian answered something in a low voice; but her eyes followed Mrs.
Ransom, who had moved away, apparently attracted by the manœuvring of a
sloop that was tacking up the river.
Gillian and Woodworth walked toward her, for the generous girl had her
heart in the subject under discussion, and was eager for a reply.
“Oh, my dear madam, do not turn away, for that looks like a refusal to
help me preside over this formidable party, and I shall never get along
without you,” she said, caressingly, “Surely I have asked nothing that
should make you so grave.”
“Nothing, dear child, that is not both kind and flattering; but I seldom
go into fashionable society, or indeed anywhere outside of my own little
knot of friends.”
“But you will not really refuse me?” cried Gillian, distressed. “Oh, Mr.
Woodworth, help me to persuade her; tell her that I am, at any rate,
half an orphan, and have no mother to stand by me on this occasion,
which will be a very trying one; for though I seem so reckless and
self-sustained, it isn’t real courage, I assure you—only a trembling
sort of bravado. Persuade her; do, for her forehead is cloudy yet.”
Mrs. Ransom turned suddenly with one of those luminous smiles on her
face, which always won smiles in return.
“No, Gillian,” she said, “you must not ask that; no person living can
interpose between us. We are friends, sworn friends remember; and even
Woodworth, highly as I prize him, would wrong that friendship in urging
a thing which I had forced myself to deny you.”
“But you will not deny me?”
“Dear, dear child, give me a little time: remember this is a severe
ordeal you propose for a woman who has kept out of the world so long,
and I too am a sort of coward in social gatherings of this kind where so
many will be strangers.”
“‘Strangers!’ No, indeed, our guests are not so ignorant as that; you
are one, dear lady, whose name tells a history. It will be a proud day
for my father when he presents you as the dearest and most honored
friend of his child; as for me, I shall only feel indignant if they do
not all worship you for yourself as well as your books.”
“My dear, dear child!” Julia broke off and choked back a sob. “There,
there, give me a little time, if it is only to think about the dress;
one must be very magnificent, you know.”
“Yes, yes, I have thought that all over; of course, you must be superb,
something grand and queenly; black velvet or crimson.”
“What, and the roses in bloom?”
“Oh, I had forgotten: you see how little I am to be trusted. Well, black
lace then, with some of these same roses in your hair and on your
bosom.”
The young girl was so animated, the color came and went so brightly on
her face, that Julia became interested in spite of herself; to own the
truth, a strong desire sprang up in her heart to attend this party.
According to her old habit she turned away and walked alone, evidently
under considerable excitement. Directly she came back more quietly.
“But you have an aunt: how will she like this intrusion of a stranger
into your household?”
“What, Aunt Hetty? Why she would drop down at the very thought of
standing by my side on an occasion like that. You have no idea what a
timid, nervous little thing she is. The very sight of a stranger sets
her to trembling: it is quite painful to see how she suffers.”
“And this is all the companion you have?”
“Not quite; but then my cousin is scarcely a year older than myself, and
has been brought up in the country, so that you would be doing her a
charity also, for her only female protector just now is an old colored
woman, who insists on teaching the proprieties of fashionable life to us
both. I wish you could see Dinah in her glory, she is such a character!”
“Well, well! Let us hold a consultation. Suppose you turn this affair
into a fancy ball. What say you, Mr. Woodworth?”
“Just the thing. I thought you would suggest something of this kind; a
mere party filled up with dancing, flirting, eating and drinking, is at
all times a bore.”
“A fancy ball!” cried Gillian, sparkling with delight. “And you really
will take a part? and you, Mr. Woodworth?”
“Now that I am invited—yes.”
“And you, Mrs Ransom?”
“I think—yes, I _will_ go.”
“Oh, you are so good; and I can tell papa that it is all settled. And
now about the characters.”
“For me,” said Mrs. Ransom, “let it be something grave and quiet, say a
nun or sister of charity.”
“No, no,” cried Gillian, “that will never do. Let it be something
stately.”
“Well, be it so. A lady of Louis the Fifteenth’s court, with powder,
patches and brocade. Will that do?”
Mrs. Ransom spoke thoughtfully, and with but little of the animation
which the subject might be expected to produce. She gave so much
importance to the character she was to assume that both Gillian and
Woodworth were surprised.
“And you,” said Woodworth, addressing Gillian, “what is your character
to be?”
He spoke in a low voice, and Gillian answered him under her breath.
“Any thing that you choose!”
His face flushed with pleasure.
“Let it be Aurora, then, for without you my days would be all darkness.”
The eyes which she lifted to his beamed with an expression so beautiful
that his heart swelled, and the very breath he drew came laden with
exquisite joy.
They stood together silent and happy. Mrs. Ransom had left them suddenly
and was walking toward the house. In her presence they could talk on
general subjects, but now excess of feeling struck them mute; but it was
a silence so delicious that neither had a wish to break it. At last
Gillian drew a deep breath, and reaching forth her hand lifted her
heavenly face to his.
“Follow her,” she said. “Have I been selfish in urging her to join us?”
“Selfish—no. It is better that she should appear in society: no woman
living can grace it so well.”
“Persuade her of this: and now go.”
“Do you weary of me?”
“Weary! how can you think it? But all this makes me dizzy. I will return
home without entering the house again.”
“And to-morrow?”
“To-morrow, come to my father.”
“And after that? Ah, Gillian, this happiness terrifies me; my life seems
too full of wealth. God bless you forever and ever, for giving me this
one hour.”
She drew toward him as a bird of paradise moves in the sunshine. Her
eyes shone with love; her mouth trembled like a cherry when the bird
that seeks it is near. A goddess smitten with human affections might
have looked like Gillian, and been regal still. It is only when love
imbues a proud nature like hers with tenderness, that we know how grand
a passion it is. Woodworth folded his arm around her waist and drew her
to his side.
“Gillian, are you happy?”
“Very happy!”
The words died like fragrance on her lips. He stooped down and gathered
them in kisses.
“To-morrow I will ask you of your father, Gillian. Till then I shall
doubt the reality of this happiness; I begin to tremble now with a fear
of losing you. Promise, Gillian—promise to love me forever.”
“Forever and ever!” she murmured.
“Now let me go with you to the carriage.”
“No, no, leave me a little time alone!”
He saw that she was faint with emotion, and taking compassion on her
went away; not into the house, for he too wished for solitude, but
through the grounds into the high road, down which he walked toward the
city.
Scarcely an hour had passed since Gillian entered the house, whose
balconies were visible from where she sat—one little hour and her whole
life had changed. She had for the first time in her existence listened
willingly to the passionate love of a strong man—she had stepped upon
that ledge of rocks a free woman, and now she was bound in every fibre
of her heart, in every wish of her being. The seal of a holy compact
burned on her lips, the passionate consciousness of it thrilled her
through and through. She sat down and wept like a little child, when his
last footstep died on the turf. But the tears she shed were like April
rain, and a blossom sprung up in her heart with every drop.
Mrs. Ransom saw her from the window, but forbore to disturb the dreamy
quiet into which she had fallen. Indeed she had no wish to move—hardly
the power, for the deep feelings of her own nature were in a tumult. She
was greatly disturbed by the events of that morning, and while Gillian
wept tears of happiness, hard, painful drops gathered in Julia’s eyes.
Thus smitten by a cold feeling of desolation, she went into her chamber
and shut the door.
A few minutes after she disappeared, Michael Hurst came, unannounced,
through the front door, which had been left ajar, and entering the
library looked around for its usual occupant.
“Not here,” he muttered; “I dare say she saw me coming and took herself
out of the way. Your poetess hates a drain on the purse as much as
common mortals, and I suppose she fancies I’m on that tack again. By
Jove, she’ll soon find out that I’m striking for higher stakes than
that. She must help me, too, or the game will be a difficult one to
play, for the girl is as proud as Lucifer, and unmanageable as a wild
bird; but with madam’s help all will be easy enough. After all she is a
wonderful woman, so earnest and prompt, her thoughts all poetry, her
judgment clear and practical. But then such women will think their own
thoughts and act their own acts, there is the mischief of it; I hardly
dare confide in her yet, not till I have seen this proud girl and tried
her temper on the subject. But then how can I see this Gillian alone?
She is so hedged in with her pride of station that, with the poor old
maid ready to help me in any thing, with free access to the house,
backed by Lawrence with the father, I have not in two months been able
to get one moment of private conversation with her. By Jove, there she
is now, and alone!”
The young man sprang from his seat as he uttered these last words, and
clearing the veranda with a bound made his way toward the ledge where
Gillian was sitting.
She was too busy with her own pleasant thoughts to remark his approach;
and he, with that instinctive respect which forces itself on the most
depraved when in the presence of a noble woman, curbed his headlong
progress, and almost held his breath when he drew near her.
She was stooping to pick up the roses that had fallen upon the moss,
when her heart first leaped to the offered love of Woodworth. Every bud
and leaf was precious to her now; and she gathered them up reverently,
as if they had been severed on a sacred altar. For all her wealth she
would not have parted with the smallest spray clasped in those trembling
hands.
“Miss Bentley!”
Gillian started——clasped her fingers tighter about the roses, and
turning her face over one shoulder, saw with impatience that young Hurst
stood upon the very moss which was still imprinted by the feet of her
accepted lover.
Now this man had rendered himself odious to the young girl: first, by
connecting himself with the only misunderstanding that she had ever
experienced with her aunt; and again, from the manner in which he had
presumed on the partiality of that lady to force himself into familiar
relations with the family. True, the introduction and indorsement of Mr.
Lawrence, a man of high standing both in the commercial and social
world, had reconciled Mr. Bentley to the acquaintance. But Gillian
shrunk from it with the quick intuition of a delicate nature. In his
manner, and in the words which he sometimes found an opportunity of
forcing upon her, there was an attempt at gallantry which irritated her
pride. She could understand the petty manœuvres by which he had sought
to ingratiate himself into her favor, and held them in gentle contempt.
It was with a sort of terror that, seeing him so near, she arose
quickly, and looked around for a path by which she might descend the
ledge of rocks.
“Miss Bentley, do not seek to avoid me so pointedly. The happiness of
finding you alone for one moment has, perhaps, made me over-bold; but,
when the heart is full of one great wish it forgets ceremony. Don’t go!
Don’t turn that sweet face away! Are you afraid of me?”
The quick pride sparkled up from Gillian’s heart to her eyes.
“Afraid! No, indeed. What is there for me to fear from your presence,
Mr. Hurst? You came abruptly, and I was startled a little—that is all.”
“Oh, if you did but know how I have watched and prayed for this hour!”
“And why, Mr. Hurst? I have seen you almost every day for a month;
certainly every day since my cousin, Miss Hart, came to the city.”
He looked at her keenly. Had he, indeed, succeeded in making her jealous
by his flirtation with the pretty country-girl? Surely that brilliant
eye and the curve of her haughty lip was a proof of feminine pique that
could spring from no other cause.
He drew close to Gillian, but she stepped haughtily back and shielded
her roses from his outstretched hand as if it had been a serpent
attempting to creep over them.
“And did you really think my attention to the pretty rustic sprang from
any thing but a wish to be near you?” he said, with infinite humility
and tenderness in his voice. “You must have seen how entirely my whole
heart has been yours since the first time that I saw you in that library
yonder, Miss Bentley. Oh, Gillian, no man ever adored a woman as I
worship you. Have compassion on me, and listen kindly for this once: I
know that I am not your equal, as far as appearances are concerned; but
circumstances may bring us nearer to a level——nay, by heavens! they
shall!”
“Mr. Hurst, this is wild—worse, it is almost insulting! What, in my
whole conduct, has warranted this address?”
She turned, and attempted to pass him; but he stood firm, blocking her
progress.
“There is no insult in an honest expression of love,” he said, looking
almost as haughty as herself. “I have a right to be heard, and to demand
a civil answer, at least. Nay, do not rain down so much scorn from those
beautiful eyes! In this country there exist no social distinctions which
energy and a strong will cannot overcome. You have money, intellect,
beauty. I am neither hideous nor a fool. As for wealth, that is easily
earned, and I am as likely to obtain it as another. Why, then, should
you look as if a serf were addressing you?”
There was truth in his words, and Gillian felt that her impulsive pride
had given him an excuse for prolonging the conversation. She simply
moved away from the spot which his presence seemed to desecrate, and,
signifying by a bend of her head that he might follow, walked toward the
river. There she found an iron garden-chair, and sat down, while he
stood before her, pale with internal rage at her coolness, and with
drops of perspiration starting to his forehead.
She looked up, quietly, and said, in her usual clear voice,
“Now, Mr. Hurst, I will listen. You say justly the offer of an honest
heart can never be considered as an insult. You took me by surprise. I
beg your pardon!”
The color came up to his face; he was almost in tears, for he had told
the truth. With all the force of his good and evil passions he loved the
young girl before him. He loved her, and knew that from her composure
and humility there was less to hope than from the angry pride with which
she at first received him. His voice was broken, and there was genuine
feeling in his words as he spoke again.
“I thank you, Miss Bentley, for this kindness; yet it only gives me an
opportunity of repeating more respectfully what I have already said. I
love you—with all my soul and strength I love you! Have you nothing to
give in return to a poor fellow who lays all that he has, or hopes for,
at your feet?”
Gillian was troubled. Her pure forehead gathered together in a cloud.
She thought, how terrible a thing it must be to love without return, and
her heart thrilled with compassion for a man she could not even like.
“No,” she said, with sweet humility, “it would be cruel and wrong to
mislead you. I have no feelings that could answer to those you offer. In
my whole life I have never regarded you with a thought of love. At this
moment you stand higher in my esteem than ever, but it is sorrow,
regret, I will not say compassion, that I feel——not love! Forgive me——do
forgive me, if what I say is painful; but I can only ask you to forget
all this, and let us never meet again.”
He stood for a moment, gazing upon her face; his own was pale as
death—pale and stormy with a strife of passions.
“No!” he said, at last, “we shall meet again, and often. The stake
between us two is heavy, and we must not play out our game at a sitting;
one thing is certain: you and I must be lovers, or enemies; married, or
one of us ruined. But your rejection need not be final. I will not take
it as such for your own sake—for your father’s sake!”
“Stay!” cried Gillian, lifting her head, and sweeping by him like a
goddess, “I have no patience to listen farther; yonder is Mrs. Ransom on
the veranda.”
“Beware, Miss Bentley, how you make that woman your confidante!” he
persisted, following her.
She turned upon him with all the pride of her superb nature.
“Have no fear, sir, that I shall not conceal the degradation of this
interview.”
The young man fairly ground his teeth in the deadly rage that seized
upon him; but she swept forward toward the verandah, where Mrs. Ransom
was waiting for her, and, after a few words, went hurriedly to her
carriage.
Those few words were very simple and unimportant, but they had a
terrible influence on the future; not in themselves, but from the
honorable secrecy which Gillian felt bound to maintain regarding the
proposal which had been forced upon her.
When Mrs. Ransom inquired, with evident anxiety, what young Hurst had
been talking of so earnestly, Gillian answered, vaguely:
“Oh, it was a private affair of his own, in which he wanted my
co-operation.”
“Which you refused?”
“Of course, dear lady. What can that man and I have in common?—nothing,
I am quite sure. But, yourself, what has happened to distress you?”
“Nothing; but, Gillian, the glow of happiness has all fled from your
face.”
Gillian laid one hand on her heart, and answered, with a beautiful
smile,
“But it is here yet. He frighted away my dreams, but not this holy
reality.”
The carriage drove away. Mrs. Ransom followed it with a long, wistful
look, and entered her library again. Here she had expected to find
Michael, but the room was empty, and there was no trace of him in the
grounds.
CHAPTER XXIV.
MICHAEL HURST CHANGES HIS LODGINGS.
Not three hours after the interview we have described at the
Bloomingdale Cottage, Michael Hurst presented himself at the little
house in the vicinity of Chatham Square, a place he had visited
frequently of late, much to the satisfaction of the two old ladies, who
were always charmed into especial good nature by his presence. Indeed,
there was a little jealousy between the ancient dames on his account;
and Mrs. Nicholson was constantly making little devices to meet him in
the hall and hold a few words with him in private before he entered to
the presence of the elder lady. Mrs. Frost was greatly scandalized by
these flirty proceedings, and frequently took her dependent to task on
the subject. Mrs. Nicholson felt this rather as a compliment than
otherwise. It was not every old lady of seventy odd who could boast of
reprimands for receiving too much attention from a handsome young fellow
like Hurst.
Then there was Hetty Hart, Mrs. Frost’s niece, who always happened to
time her visits with that of the young man, which Mrs. Frost considered
very indecorous indeed.
Once, and this Mrs. Nicholson told to Mrs. Frost, as a great secret, she
had opened the parlor door suddenly, just to see if Miss Hetty Hart had
gone, when she detected that lady at the end of the hall, putting some
bank-bills into Michael’s hand. It had troubled her greatly to make out
where the money came from; but afterward she learned, from Martha Hart,
that Aunt Hetty had sold a meadow lot, inherited from her own mother,
and no doubt she was instructing Hurst to put the money out at interest.
In fact Hetty had hinted as much, when the subject was touched upon by
Mrs. Frost, who felt it to be her duty to regulate these matters among
the young people, and see that the reputation of her house did not
suffer by Hurst’s frequent visits there.
On the day in question the two old ladies had dined, and Mrs. Nicholson
was busy putting away the dinner-dishes in a small corner cupboard.
First she washed two cups and saucers in an old-fashioned pewter basin,
which had belonged to Mrs. Frost’s mother before the Revolution; then
followed a couple of china pie-plates, with two knives and forks. At
last she disposed of a vegetable dish in which Mrs. Frost had covered up
four cold potatoes, which she gave Mary Nicholson especial directions to
slice up and fry for dinner the next day. With the exception of this
household order, Mrs. Nicholson had not heard the sound of Mrs. Frost’s
voice that day; for, having nothing on earth to talk about, the old
lady—unlike some others we could mention—kept silence severely.
Thus Mrs. Nicholson, who was naturally a social old lady, felt even the
clatter of the saucers and plates as some sort of company, and continued
her occupation as long as possible. But work tardily as she would, the
clearing of that small dinner-table must terminate.
At last, Mrs. Nicholson seated herself at the window, and, putting on
her spectacles, prepared to mend a stocking which she had taken up
earlier in the day. In and out went that bright darning-needle stitch,
stitch, up and down, forming a basket-work of threads, till at last one
vigorous pull settled a row of stitches in its place, and she commenced
over again.
The monotony made her stolid, and she was on the verge of a nap, when
Mrs. Frost rose up in her chair and asked “if she had been dreaming
through her after-dinner sleep, or if somebody had really said that Mr.
Bentley was going to give a great party, and that Daniel Hart’s only
daughter had been sent for?”
Mrs. Nicholson brightened up at this opening for a little gossip, and
replied, “That it was no dream, but the living truth. Hetty Hart had
told them all about it the last time she was at the house; and more than
that, Michael Hurst had been invited—indeed Mr. Bentley, who thought the
world and all of Michael, had given the invitation with his own lips.
Mr. Hurst was going beyond a doubt; for he had asked her to do up a fine
shirt and some collars for him, the very last time he was at the house.”
Mrs. Frost sat upright in her chair while all this information was
innocently imparted by Mary Nicholson, a sure sign that she was
interested and not well pleased. She remained quiet till the collars
were mentioned, and then her virtuous reprehension broke loose.
“Mary Nicholson, Mary Nicholson, will you never arrive at years of
discretion, or are you immoral at heart? I want to know that! Here we
are, two lone women, with our yards overlooked by ever so many windows,
and you talk of hanging up fine shirts and collars with my wash: what
will the world think of proceedings like that? I shouldn’t wonder if we
have the police magistrates inquiring after our goings-on next. Mary
Nicholson—Mary Nicholson, if you have no respect for your own
reputation, remember that I have a character to lose, and ain’t going to
have it ruined by men’s garments flaunting in my yard. Why, the very
clothes-pins would be scared off the lines. I blush for you, Mary
Nicholson.”
If Mrs. Frost spoke the truth, two old women were blushing at once, for
Mary Nicholson became red through all her wrinkles, and a tear stole
softly down from under her spectacles.
“I’m sure I didn’t mean any harm,” she said, quite meekly; “and I know
that Mr. Hurst didn’t.”
“Mr. Hurst—of course he didn’t! Such things never enter a young man’s
head till some forward young creature brings up the idea. Mary
Nicholson, I’ll be bound you offered to wash out those things first; now
own up and shame the Evil One that tempted you.”
“I—I don’t just remember how it came about, Mrs. Frost, but I’m sure it
wasn’t him,” murmured Mrs. Nicholson, wiping her eyes with the stocking
she was darning. “If there is any blame, of course it belongs to me.”
“And that was what you were slipping the square of yellow soap into your
pocket for when I sent you to the closet yesterday. I declare, Mary
Nicholson, if it wasn’t for leaving you alone in the world with no one
to look after your ways, I wouldn’t keep you in this house another
night. Yellow soap and collars indeed!”
Mrs. Nicholson looked a good deal startled, and her hand shook till the
darning-needle went quite astray, but she maintained an humble silence;
and Mrs. Frost, having relieved her mind, subsided into her chair and
fell asleep with a scowl on her face.
Half an hour went by. The old woman of ninety hung her head in sullen
sleep; and the old woman of seventy odd wept over her indiscretions, and
wondered meekly if she ever would learn how to behave; while her needle
went in and out monotonously as before.
A blow on the street-knocker started the one from her doze, and the
other from her work.
“It is his knock, I’m sure,” faltered Mrs. Nicholson, looking timidly at
her mentor.
“Then I will myself open the door; keep your seat, Mary Nicholson, and
don’t look so fluttered. The young gentleman’s visit is doubtless to me;
there is no danger of his making improper suggestions regarding clothes
when I am the person to be consulted.”
“Ah, Mrs. Frost, you have grown quite young again, and come down-stairs
like a girl,” cried young Hurst, with forced gayety. “My dear madam,
take my arm: you will not find it quite so easy to mount alone. There,
now, fancy me your son and lean heavily.”
Mrs. Frost did lean heavily, and her old face looked the younger by ten
years from a consciousness of his care about her. So, having triumphed
over Mary Nicholson by presenting herself leaning on the arm of her
protégé, the virtuous indignation that had burned within her died out.
She forbore to continue her lecture in the presence of the young man,
who was rather surprised by the subdued reception which Mrs. Nicholson
gave him.
“And you have not been ill, did you say that, my dear grandmother, nor
frightened at any thing, and they have distressed me for nothing? Indeed
I never should have forgiven myself. In fact, the pain and self-reproach
has been so great that I will not run the chance of suffering it again.
Grandmother—Mrs. Nicholson, you must find me a bed somewhere, or I shall
never be content about you.”
Mrs. Nicholson gave a little start of horror; and Mrs. Frost’s head
began to vibrate like a pendulum.
“A bed!” ejaculated Mrs. Frost. “A bed!” echoed Mrs. Nicholson.
“Yes; why not? To own the truth, for it is useless attempting to deceive
you even for your own good, there has been a murder and robbery within
the week, close in this neighborhood. They have quite terrified me; two
elderly ladies living together both murdered in their beds as you might
have been. Indeed, my dear grandmother, I cannot leave you unprotected
at night after that. Don’t put yourself out; any thing will do for me.”
“There is the little bedroom off the hall,” suggested Mrs. Nicholson,
timidly; but she was silenced by the indignant voice of Mrs. Frost.
“Mary Nicholson! The hall bedroom, and on this story! Will you never
arrive at years of discretion?”
“No, no. Let it be my old room in the attic; nothing else would seem
like home. I will be no trouble, but take my meals out.”
“And your washing?” said Mrs. Frost, anxiously.
“Oh, that of course. I only came for protection, not to encumber you
with any thing. If Mrs. Nicholson can manage to make my bed and bring up
a little water once a day, it will be all I desire.”
Mrs. Nicholson looked up well pleased with the idea of being made
useful; but Mrs. Frost tore her satisfaction up at the roots.
“No, Mr. Hurst, you must allow me to judge of what is proper in my own
house. Mary Nicholson is too young.”
“You, my dear grandmother! indeed you shall do no such thing.”
Mrs. Frost arose in her seat, looked steadily first at Hurst, then at
the drooping face of her companion.
“Michael Hurst, has there been a private understanding between you and
Mary Nicholson about your coming here? Answer me that.”
“A private understanding! No, upon my honor. What an idea!”
“Then you can come, Michael.”
Michael cast a side glance at Mrs. Nicholson. Was it possible that there
really was some understanding between them?
CHAPTER XXV.
GILLIAN’S CONFESSION.
Gillian and her father sat together in the library, a large room opening
from the front vestibule, and forming one of a suit of apartments that
might have befitted a palace, the ceilings were so high, and the fresco
pictures upon them so exquisite as works of art.
Bookcases of dark wood, heavily carved, occupied all those spaces of the
wall not broken by the windows on one side, and a broad bay which
occupied a large portion of the front. These bookcases were surmounted
by bronze busts of the great poets and statesmen that had left the best
part of their lives, the thought which never perishes, in the richly
bound volumes that gleamed through those crystal doors. The tall windows
between were draped to the floor with curtains of heavy crimson silk,
which, drawn back or closed by thick cords and tassels, excluded, or let
in the light, as the inmates of that room might desire cheerfulness or
solitude. In the recess of the broad bay-window stood an elaborately
carved, black marble table, polished like a mirror; an easy-chair and a
richly cushioned bench, which swept round the lower woodwork of the
window, offering a luxurious seat to any one who loved the gorgeous
twilight of the place. Though the window itself was of pure plate-glass,
the inner sashes, gorgeously stained with amber, crimson and purple,
gave an air of indescribable magnificence to the whole room whenever
they were closed over the pure light which shone through the outer
glass. This happened very frequently, for at times Mr. Bentley seemed to
shrink from the broad day, and seek the gloom of that sumptuous library,
as a wounded stag loves the deep hemlock shade.
Sometimes, too, Gillian, the bright, happy Gillian, came like a tropical
bird, and indulged her sweet reveries in this rich twilight. Now that
her soul was brimful of love—when she knew that answering love flowed
back upon her as honey-dew falls upon the leaves—she would gather
herself into this silken nest and think over and over again the sweet
words he had uttered—the glances that had made every nerve in her frame
thrill, and wonder, with pleasant egotism, if any human being were ever
so happy before.
It was broad day out of doors, but a luxurious twilight reigned within.
Gillian sat upon the silken cushions, dreaming over her sweet fancies;
and Mr. Bentley leaned back in the easy-chair close by, reading, or
seeming to read, for a leaf of the stained blind was folded back, and a
stream of pure light fell over him and made a path far out on the carpet
beyond.
He had forgotten that Gillian was in the room, his reverie was so
deep—forgotten every thing in the intense interest excited by the book,
which began to tremble in his hand, while a haze crept over his eyes,
and he found himself, all at once, unable to distinguish the print,
which floated before him like the network of a cobweb.
The slow motion of one hand drawn across his eyes, and a heavy sigh
aroused Gillian.
“What is it, father?” she said, sitting upright, and smiling upon him as
an infant awakes in the morning. “What is it that makes you sigh so
heavily, as if it were sorrow, not joy, which holds your breath?”
Bentley answered her look and her smile, but it was winter meeting
spring. In Mr. Bentley’s smile there was a quivering sadness that made
the heart stand still; in hers, a joy that made it leap.
“Is it the book?” she said, rising and casting a glance over his
shoulder. “Ah, I see—one of Mrs. Ransom’s novels. No wonder you are sad,
papa. I have cried myself ill over those very pages. What power, what
passion she throws into every thing, and yet her pathos is so tender,
like her voice when she pleads for something! Oh, papa, I wish you could
hear her talk!”
“Like this? Does she talk like this?” said Bentley, laying his slender
hand on the open page of the book.
“At times, when she is excited or sad; for I do believe this lady
writes, as she talks, from unstudied impulse; but usually she is gay,
almost joyful; I think she talks nonsense best of all. I never saw
exactly such a woman.”
“But you like her?”
“Oh, yes! so much! It seems to me as if I never really loved till she
taught me how.”
“Ah!” said Bentley, closing the book and looking searchingly into the
glowing face that bent over him, “this acquaintance has sprung into
friendship very suddenly. It is not often that a girl of little more
than seventeen seeks a companion so much her elder; for the author of
this cannot be young: such power and finish renders the idea
impossible.”
“Yes, papa, but you know I have been always with persons older than
myself, and like them best. Young girls are so—so——”
“Well?”
“So full of themselves they will not take time to think of others. I
never saw a person—a lady I mean—young or old, who comprehended all I
wished or felt till Mrs. Ransom permitted me to visit her.”
“Permitted! Why, Gillian, you are growing humble. It was but yesterday
you spoke of visiting Mrs. Lawrence, one of the most distinguished
ladies of the fashionable world, with something almost like contempt.”
“Oh, papa, not that. I was only careless, impatient at the worst; but
Mrs. Lawrence is only a rich, fashionable woman, who thinks herself good
judge of style, and talks eternally about her carriage-horses, is
delighted when she is mistaken for a Frenchwoman, and wonders why any
country can be so vulgar as to have ‘Yankee Doodle’ for a national air.
Indeed, papa, I don’t like that kind of person at all.”
“Well, well, I am not asking you to like her. She is rather too advanced
for a companion to my Gillian. But is there no young lady?”
“None but Cousin Martha Hart that I care a rose-leaf for; she is honest
as steel, and fresh as a violet. Indeed I do love Cousin Matty dearly. I
intend she shall make a dozen conquests at our party.”
“But to go back where we began, Gillian; this lady author, have you
invited her?”
“Yes, papa.”
“And she comes, of course. I believe your first party is to be the rage,
daughter, so we may depend on this lady.”
“I don’t know,” answered Gillian, thoughtfully: “she promised at one
time, but now rather shrinks from the throng that will be here.”
A cloud came over the young girl’s face—a look of hesitation and
distress, which her father observed.
“Well, what is it, child? Is there any thing more about this lady? She
seems to have taken a strange hold on you.”
Still Gillian blushed and trembled. Her eyes were downcast; her lips
began to quiver.
Mr. Bentley grew anxious. Why should his child be so agitated? Had this
author really obtained some subtle power over that high nature? Was
there a secret which he did not know?
“Look at me, Gillian.”
“Well, father, I do.”
“With your eyes—not with your soul.”
“With all my soul!” she answered, smiling bravely. “I was a coward, but
it was only for a minute.” She did not think how difficult it would
prove. “Oh, father! the heart should have a language for itself, to be
used only once or twice in a lifetime.”
“And if you had this language at command, what would it reveal,
Gillian?”
Gillian sunk slowly to her knees, took her father’s hand and pressed her
lips to the palm. The hand shook; a cloud of anxiety darkened Bentley’s
face.
“Gillian—Gillian, what have you done? What does this mean?”
She lifted her face, radiant and glistening with tears; her eyes were
like wet periwinkles; her mouth a rose-bud shaken by rain-drops.
“Father, as my mother loved you, I—I——”
He snatched his hand away, and shook her off as if she had been a viper.
His face was ashen white, and he shrunk together chilly and hoarse.
“Love as your mother loved me! Girl—girl, what demon put those words
into your mouth?”
She staggered back, clasping her hands.
“Father!”
He struggled with himself stoutly. You could see the veins swell on his
forehead, and the great drops gather there.
“Speak on, Gillian, my child; I frightened you. Something you were ready
to tell me.”
“Father!” said Gillian, gently, and in a low voice; for she was still
pale and frightened. “It is at Mrs. Ransom’s request—indeed at her
command—that I tell you this with my own lips, rather than wait for a
stranger to startle, perhaps offend you with the knowledge that she says
you should have had long ago. The gentleman is a friend of hers.”
“What gentleman, my child?”
His accents were mournful, his lips white.
“Mr. Woodworth.”
For a moment there was silence; then Mr. Bentley spoke.
“And you love this man?”
“He is a good man, father.”
“And you love him?”
“Forgive me, father—but I do.”
“Entirely, to the exclusion of every other love, of every other thought,
with the whole might of your being? Is this the love you mean?”
She was on her knees before him. He took her clasped hands between his
and lifted them upward, as if enforcing an oath.
“Father, I do love him even as you say—to the exclusion of every other
love, of any other thought.”
“Better than your father—your lonely, lonely father?”
“Differently; but not better.”
“That is wrong, Gillian, very wrong. When a woman loves, it should be
with all her soul; no affection must stand before that love. No man
should be content without the whole being of his wife—or is content
without it.”
“Oh, father! I dare not tell you how much I do love him; my heart is
breaking to speak, but cannot.”
How beautiful she was! how proudly modest there on her knees speaking of
her love!
“But will it last? I do not ask what the man is—that for another
time—but will this love hold out to the end? Is it pure gold ingrained
into the soul, or snow ready to melt under a new smile?”
“Oh, father! remember I am your daughter!”
“And hers!”
No words can describe the passionate bitterness of these two syllables:
they fell like heated shot from his lips—a fierce wrath broke over his
face. Gillian stood up cold and white.
“You speak of my mother!”
He did not answer her, but dropping his face on the two hands which he
had clasped on the table, shook like a leaf.
All the pride went out from Gillian’s heart. She drew close to her
father, and bending down kissed his hot forehead again and again,
murmuring—
“Father, forgive me—oh! forgive me, whatever my sin may be! It kills me
to feel you tremble so: I never saw you weep before, father. What have I
done?—what have I done?”
Bentley looked up and tried to smile, but with the heavy drops trembling
on his face, the smile was like pale lightning after rain.
“Father!”
He looked at her, but did not speak.
“Father, does it pain you that I love this gentleman? He is noble—an
honorable man; but I will die rather than see you unhappy.”
Mr. Bentley drew her toward him, kissed her forehead, and said very
tenderly, but with a sadness that went to her heart,
“Pain! No, Gillian, you never gave me pain in your life. I know
something of this man: he is both honorable and of great ability. Why
should I grieve that you love him? It is such qualities that should win
a Bentley.”
“Oh, my father!”
She could say no more. Grateful joy broke her voice. That moment she
would have worshipped her father.
“Go, my child, go now. This is one of the moments that sweep over one
like a hurricane. Half an hour ago you were my daughter—all mine. Now
you belong to another—a stranger whom I have not seen half a dozen times
in my life. You cannot pull up a wild flower by the roots without
disturbing the ground; do not think thus to dislodge a child from her
father’s heart and leave no anguish behind.”
Gillian did not speak, but obeying the motion of his hand went out
weeping bitterly.
Mr. Bentley walked the library, up and down, at first wildly, and by
degrees with steadiness, till his usual calm demeanor came back. He was
neither a weak nor selfish man, but this declaration had come upon him
so suddenly that the shock was overpowering.
He had scarcely seated himself in the chair again when a servant
announced Mr. Woodworth, and directly that gentleman entered the
library. Actuated by an honorable wish to deal frankly with the father
of Gillian, he had come at once to declare all that had passed between
them, and henceforth retire from his suit, or urge it under the parental
sanction.
No one, to have seen Mr. Bentley when he arose with grave courtesy to
receive his visitor, would have believed in the storm of passion that
had just swept over him. True, he was pale, and his eyes were heavy, but
he had moved out of the clear light, and Woodworth saw nothing but a man
of remarkable refinement, waiting to see his guest seated before he
resumed his own position by the table.
Woodworth was a proud man—too proud for that undue estimate of Mr.
Bentley’s wealth which might have embarrassed an ordinary suitor.
Possessed of great talent, and a high position won by that talent, it
never entered his mind to feel that any inequality existed between him
and the millionaire. On the contrary, had he found Mr. Bentley of the
ordinary stamp of rich men, insolent or purse-proud, it is just possible
that the pride of genius might have recoiled from the connection. For
genius can ill brook the presumption of wealth, and Woodworth knew his
own powers well enough to be sure that they could win gold in the end,
as they had already secured political position and literary fame.
But there was no reason for distrust here. Mr. Bentley was not a man to
think of wealth when a separation from his child was the question. It
was to him a matter of no consequence whatever that Woodworth lacked the
means of adding to his own broad possessions. Being neither mercenary
nor capable of suspecting others of so mean a feeling without just
cause, he waived the question of property altogether, just as his
high-souled daughter had done. He did not make it important enough to
feel self-complacency that he was able to endow the man of genius with
the wealth he neither despised nor coveted. In this respect the two men
were alike. It was the fair girl who sat in a tremor of expectation
up-stairs of whom both thought, and for whom both acted.
Gillian had heard the footsteps of her lover in the vestibule, and
listened breathlessly till the library door closed upon him. She had no
apprehension of the result of this visit to her father, but still her
heart beat loudly, and her cheek flushed. They were talking of her: for
the first time her noble father and lover were standing face to face in
their new relations. How would they like each other? How would the
sensitive and retiring nature of her father meet the frank energy of the
young man?
The interview was not long. She heard the library door open and close—a
footstep, not his, for her heart did not leap to the sound, but stood
still, expectant, sounded on the marble floor. It was her father who
mounted the grand staircase and approached her own room. The same sad
smile was on his lip—the same look of pain on his forehead. Gillian’s
heart began to ache as she saw him; for she was not one of those who
could be happy while any thing she loved was in sorrow. The smile with
which he addressed her was indescribably sweet.
“Gillian, go down: some one is waiting for you in the library.”
She arose and went up to him with that exquisite grace which springs
from deep feeling.
“Father,” she pleaded, bowing her stately head like a white lily when it
thirsts for night-dew—“father, bless me before I go.”
He laid one hand on her head and blessed her with tears in his eyes.
Gillian felt her own eyes fill. Seldom, in her life, had she seen her
father weep before that day. It was thus with a swell of holy tenderness
at her heart that she went down to meet her betrothed.
Woodworth stood within the dim room, waiting. All his pride was gone:
the tenderness of a great love reigned in its place. For the first time
his soul gave away to the ardor of its new passion; his eyes flashed;
his lip curved with joyous smiles. She lost all other thoughts as her
eyes met his and became radiant as the morning.
They could not speak, for such love has no adequate language, but her
hand was in his, a strong arm glided around her, and she felt the
beating of his heart; his lips fell like a honey-bee to the bloom of
hers: and then they sat down together on the silken cushions of the
great window, happy as the angels when they have secured a soul for
heaven.
As they sat thus in the sumptuous twilight the library door opened, and
Michael Hurst stood in the gloom closely regarding them. The pliant
hinges in that house seldom made a noise, and it was some minutes before
either Woodworth or Gillian saw the intruder. When they did look up, the
cold surprise on Hurst’s face made the young girl recoil. The serpent
had entered their paradise.
“I beg pardon; but the servant informed me that I should find Miss Hart
in the library,” said Hurst, advancing to the window, and searching the
two with his eyes.
Gillian only bowed, while Woodworth remained silent, annoyed by the
intrusion, but unconscious that it had any importance.
“Shall I find her in the drawing-room?” persisted the insolent young
man, still fixing his eyes on Gillian; “or may I expect her here?”
“I do not know where my aunt is,” said Gillian, with a proud lift of the
head; “but she seldom visits this room: it is my father’s.”
“The servant will be able to tell me, perhaps,” said Hurst, bowing
profoundly, and moving toward the door; “do not let me disturb you.”
There was a sneer in his voice which Gillian felt keenly. Why was she
compelled to see that man beneath her father’s roof? What infatuation
was it which gave him so much power over Aunt Hetty? That sad, nervous
woman, usually so still and yielding, had proved obstinate in receiving
him at all hours, seasonable and unseasonable. Martha Hart, too, had
brought the force of her innocent will into the contest—for there had
been one—and could not understand what Gillian could find against a
young man so handsome, and who always had some charming thing to say,
which was enough to make any woman like him. As for old Dinah, she was
infatuated with the young man. He had given her a real Madras
handkerchief, which she wore triumphantly as a turban, and always
designated her as Miss Hart’s maid, a distinction she was resolute in
maintaining with a high hand if that proved necessary.
Hurst found the elder and younger Miss Hart in a cosy little
sitting-room up-stairs, where he had known them to be all along; but the
servant had told him that Miss Bentley was in the library with a
gentleman, and he had gratified an audacious curiosity as we have
related.
Martha—really it is quite impossible to tell the changes that had come
over pretty Martha Hart since her retreat from the country. She was so
pretty in her white muslin dress and cherry-colored ribbons, her round
arms had grown so white, and her plump hands so daintily soft and
dimpled, that she seemed more like a good-natured, happy child than a
full-grown girl, as she really was. Fresh from her farm-life, she
enjoyed the luxury of her new existence like a bird when he finds the
cherry trees laden with fruit, and received all the flattery bestowed on
her with an appetite as keen as the little songster’s.
Aunt Hetty and Dinah had been called to a consultation with regard to
the costume in which Martha was to appear at the great party now close
at hand. A curious council it was. Aunt Hetty, of course, had no opinion
to give: she never had, poor thing! Martha herself was very much in
favor of appearing as a flower girl, with a basket of roses on her head;
while Dinah impetuously expressed her preference for an oriental
costume, glittering with gold-lace, and gorgeous with contrasting
colors.
“Now, young Misses, what’s the use of dem daisies and cowslops down here
in York?—got nuff and plenty ob dem tings on de farm; jes yer put on
dese garmins as some Queen ob Sheba hab worn afore yer, and stand up wid
de best on ’em. What if Miss Gillian is a head taller than you is, an’
walks proud as de peacock afore him fedders drop, hain’t yer got de same
blood in yer veins, wid eyes like black huckleberries, and a skin like
curd now you’ve got de tan off? Jes yer let ’em see as der is more en
one queen under dis horspertal roof. Miss Gillian is a smart gal, but
she ain’t all cr’ation no more den udder folks. Golly no!”
“Hush!” said Aunt Hetty, nervously, “some one is coming!” and the old
lady held her breath as the footsteps approached.
“Oh, golly, I’se satisfied. It’s only Mister Hurst, and he’s sartin ter
gree to my ’pinion. We has de same taste: jes look at dis handkercher
and see.”
CHAPTER XXVI.
THE SUNSHINE AND SHADOWS OF LOVE.
“Who is speaking of Mr. Hurst?” exclaimed the young man, entering the
room; “not the lovely Martha? I fear with so many admirers she can
hardly find a word to throw away on a poor fellow like me.”
“Because you throw away so many on yourself,” said Martha, laughing as
she arranged the artificial flowers in a little basket on her lap. “Wait
till I put these red roses in against the white, so. There, ain’t I a
pretty flower-girl? and isn’t this just the character for me?”
“It is perfection,” cried the young man, as she coquettishly balanced
the basket on her head, “one almost smells the new-mown hay from which
the flowers were gathered.”
Martha laughed till the basket trembled on her head.
“That’s all you know of real flowers,” she cried. “Why these are made of
muslin, and moss, and ever so many things. Real flowers would wilt under
the first chandelier that shone on them. No, no, real roses for the
country, and artificial ones here. Don’t laugh, I’m a great deal wiser
than you think.”
“Wiser? why there never was such a little philosopher. I am really half
in love with your wisdom, and quite with yourself. What say you, Miss
Hart, shall I propose at once to this pretty flower-girl?”
“Propose! propose! what! you?” faltered the old lady, terrified as she
always was by any thing that led her thoughts into a new channel. “I
never thought of the thing. Our Martha and you! Is this in earnest? You
should not say these dreadful things in joke, Michael. Mr. Hurst, it
shocks one so.”
“Well, then, suppose we change the lady, and say Miss Bentley instead of
Miss Hart?” persisted the young man, with a glance in his eyes that sent
the blood from Aunt Hetty’s face. “That would be one way of making
restitution, don’t you think so, madam?”
The blood that had retreated from Aunt Hetty’s face now left her lips
also, and, with a faint moan, she fell back in her chair, quite
insensible.
Hurst regarded her with a triumphant look, while Martha flung the basket
to the floor, crushing the flowers as she knelt before her aunt, and
Dinah ran up to her chest for a camphor-bottle, with which she soon
appeared, pouring its contents into the palm of her hand as she hurried
along.
“There, them’s um. Dat camphor’ll bring her too if any thing on yearth
will! ’Tain’t none of yer York trash, but the ginuine article ’solved in
rum as id make yer mouth water, temp’rance or no temp’rance! Dar now,
don’t yer see her eyelids are beginning ter flutter? Mighty powerful
stuff dis ’ere camphor! Most raise de dead if ’em hadn’t laid too long.
Dar now, how is yer, Miss Hetty? Lor, when a person is prepared
aforehand wid means ob resurrection, dese fits ’mount to nothin’ nohow.”
“Are you better, dear lady?” said Hurst, bending over the helpless
woman, as she shrunk together in her easy-chair.
She looked at him wistfully, almost in terror.
“What—what did you mean? Restitution! who talks of that?”
“No one talked of any thing that should give you pain. It was a
joke—what else should it be? Are you better? Why, how you tremble!”
“She always trembles when these fits come on,” said Martha, chafing the
cold hands in hers. “The other day, when Cousin Gillian spoke about you,
she didn’t get over shivering all night.”
“Spoke about me? What did the young lady say, pretty Martha?”
Dinah set her broad foot down on Martha’s little slipper with a force
that made the unconscious girl cry out. When she looked up to
expostulate, the old woman’s face was gathered into a thousand warning
wrinkles till it looked like a dried prune.
“What did she say? I was present on dat ’casion, Mas Hurst, and a more
beautifuler complaisance never fell from lubly lips den she ’spressed
’garding yer. Ob course der wasn’t no ’casion for Miss Hetty here ter go
an’ faint like a consarned ole fool, and she didn’t do it nohow.”
Hurst said nothing, but he reasoned with himself.
“So I have been under discussion, and unpleasantly! Well, the sooner we
open the war now the better. If I do not mistake the signs, it is full
time for action.”
“There, now that Aunt Hetty is better,” said Martha, rising from her
knee, scarlet from Dinah’s rebuke, “will you help me pick up my poor
flowers? I have made up my mind, Dinah. The Queen of Sheba may go to
Amsterdam; I’ll be a flower girl and nothing else. With a basket on my
head, wreaths over my shoulder, and a muslin apron running over with
roses, red roses. Let them wilt—who cares? they are sweeter, a thousand
times, when the bloom is gone, than these pretty shams.”
Dinah tossed her head and sniffed the air grandly.
“Der am pussons as kin ’commodate demselves ter any sitewation; and dem
as can’t do it nohow. I don’t want to make collusions, but every one
understands her own compassity best. Now if yer was to say, ‘Dinah, am
you compacitated to be a Queen of Sheba, or any udder ’public?’ I should
say to once, ‘Yes, I is—don’t look furder—Dinah’s here.’ But der am a
difference ’tween folks and folks, no doubt ’bout dat. Dere was our
Sarah, Miss Gillian’s mudder, she was a born queen, dyed in de wool:
couldn’t a-made her carry a basket ob roses nohow. Wid one toss ob her
head she’d a-sent ’em flyin’; but den she was white folks.”
“You remember Mrs. Bentley, then?” inquired Hurst, with sudden interest.
“Well, I ’spect likely. Why not?” answered the old woman, with a shrewd
gleam in her eyes.
“Did you live at Mr. Hart’s at the time of her marriage?”
“’Spect likely,” replied Dinah, suddenly becoming shy and laconic.
“And before—when the first Mr. Bentley was killed?”
“Ask agin. I ’spect it was afore dat, I fust went to live at de stun
house, ’cause my nancestors was born slaves in dat ’dentical family, and
none of their ’scendants would be born anywhere else on no ’count. Liz
am de last sprout on de ancestrous tree, and her cradle stands in a
garret, circumstantious ebidence ob her bein’ born in de hum ob dem
honorous colored pusons as descended afore her.”
“Then you have always lived with the Harts?”
“Them’s um,” answered Dinah, with a nod of the head. “Come wid em from
down-east.”
“And you know the entire history of the family?”
“Mr. Hurst—Mr. Hurst—how can you?” cried Martha, pointing to Aunt Hetty,
who had risen, and stood gazing on the young man, white as snow, with
her pale lips parted, as if she wished to speak but could not.
Hurst turned suddenly and stood mute, while Aunt Hetty moved toward him
like a ghost, and, touching his arm with her finger, said hoarsely,
“Young man, desist. In the name of the dead, desist!”
He stooped his head and whispered,
“I will, dear lady, when you tell me the whole truth.”
She looked wildly around the room, as if searching for some means of
escape; then her eyes turned to his with a fascinated stare, and she
said, in the same hoarse voice,
“Come with me then.”
He followed her out of the room toward her own chamber, and they
disappeared through the door.
“Now dat consarned ole fool has gone full jump down de young sarpent’s
throat, jus’ as I’ve seen a robin fly inter de mout’ ob a black snake,
singin’ all de time. Dinah! Dinah! if it wasn’t for your ’scretion what
would dey all come to?—corn shucks and rye straw, nothing more
’stantial. Marcy Lord! hasn’t I a time on it?”
Away Dinah went, leaving Martha bewildered among her flowers; but she
was just in time to see Miss Hart’s door shut and the key turned in her
face.
“Well,” said she, with enforced philosophy, “when de debil gets de start
ob Dinah, look out for cinders! If dat darned ole maid wants to turn up
Jack, she’ll do it now. Dat young feller has a good idea about de
handkerchers as is becoming to de fair sex, but de ole sarpent is in
him, or I don’t know de horns ob de debil when de poke out ’daciously.
Now, ole nigger, be on yer guard, for der am troubles brewin’, no
mistake ’bout dat.”
The old woman went to her own room, for she was handsomely accommodated
in the upper story, where her chest formed a conspicuous ornament to the
room; but she was really too anxious for rest anywhere, and hovered for
an hour about the door of Hetty Hart’s chamber, really alarmed, and
wondering what could be the subject of this long conference.
At last the door opened, and young Hurst came out. His face was flushed,
and his eyes were dusky with passion—burning, fierce passion—that made
you recoil, like the poisonous gases in a well. He swept by the old
negress without appearing to see her, but still possessed presence of
mind enough to step softly and leave the house without observation.
Dinah went into Aunt Hetty’s room, and found the poor lady prostrate on
a couch, trembling so violently that every thing around her shook. She
must have wept passionately—an unusual thing with her, for a cushion
that had been thrust under her head was wet, and the tears were still
streaming down her face, which was white and contracted, as if an attack
of cholera had left her prostrate.
“Miss Hetty, what hab you been and done? I ’plore ye tell yer ole
servant all ’bout it! If trouble of all kind falls on de Hart family,
who kin bear it better den de old nigger woman as watched ye from yer
cradle, and knows more ’en she’ll eber talk ’bout?”
Hetty lifted one hand, with which she swept the tears from her eyes. The
look which she cast on Dinah was heart-rending.
“What did you tell him? Tell de old woman or yer heart ’ill bust for
sart’in, and de Lord on’y kin help yer if she can’t! Speak out! what did
ye say ter him?”
“I don’t know, Dinah.”
“And he stayed here a hull hour?”
“He was pleading—threatening—wounding me to death all the time. Oh,
Dinah, my good Dinah, pity me, pity me; for I have no friend on
earth—nothing but you; for you lived with us then, and for that, if
nothing else, I love you, Dinah.”
“Poor chile! poor chile! Jes as she was when I held her in dese arms a
baby. She hain’t been so nat’ral since that day. Look up, chile; Dinah
’ill take care of yer. Now jis try and ’member ’bout what ye told dat
feller, for ’fore de Lord I ’spects him.”
“Don’t! oh! don’t, Dinah! my heart is so sore from his cruelty! He would
not believe me! He frightened the words out of my bosom, and then raved
that they did not please him! What shall I do, Dinah? tell me what I can
do?”
“What can you do! Why, jes dis: Till dat young rapscallion begs
pardon—for dat ’ere is de word as come uppermost to my mout’—tell him to
keep ’bout his business, and not come near yer ag’in. You’ve acted like
a bird twitterin’ to get out ob de way ob a snake ever since he came
here so much. Miss Gillian loves him like p’ison, and my own young
Misses will soon be getting skeery when he comes in. If it wasn’t for
you, Miss Hetty, ’fore de Lord I don’t believe he’d come at all!”
“I know, I know!” moaned Hetty, writhing on the bed. “I wish they
wouldn’t feel so toward him; it only makes bitterness and works danger.
Tell Martha not to turn against him, for my sake—for Gillian’s sake.”
“Look a-here!” exclaimed Dinah, sniffing the air after her old fashion
when an unpleasant idea presented itself, “if yer means ter ’siniwate
dat dis feller is wantin’ to spark Miss Mattie, an’ I’se to look on
widout ’spressin’ my ’pinion on de suggect, ’tain’t of no use. He’s a
mean specimin, and I’ll tell her so.”
“Oh! it isn’t that. He doesn’t want Martha. It isn’t for her sake he
comes here. I wish it was.”
“P’raps yer does; but I dusent. If yer wants to let a fox enter a brood
ob young chickens, or hatch a rattlesnake in a hen’s nest, try it, but
Dinah won’t help. He give me a handke’cher, and I’se grateful; but de
young Misses is under my ’tection, and he shan’t took at her over a pair
of six rail-bars, if I can ’fend her from it.”
Hetty was not listening; her eyes were fixed on the wall, and her hands
clasped hard, as if she were trying to pray and could not.
Dinah began to speak again; but the poor woman motioned her off with a
despairing movement, and closed her eyes wearily, as if they ached.
“So yer bound not ter tell what’s on yer heart?” said the old negress,
wiping her eyes. “Well, de Lord be wid yer; per’aps yer’ll tell Him what
’tis dat ’stresses yer so. Nobody else can’t do nothin’ ’cause dere’s no
comprehensionizing de fust princ’pals ob de suggect.”
So Dinah went forth, angry that all her eloquence had obtained no
knowledge of a subject that had interested her so deeply, and grieved to
the depths of her really kind heart to see her mistress so unhappy.
Dinah had scarcely left the chamber when Aunt Hetty, pale as death, and
with a strange look on her face, as if tears had washed all the light
and color away, arose and tottered around her chamber, with one hand
lifted to her forehead. She was searching for a bonnet and shawl, which
she put on with dreary slowness. Then she sat down on a bed, and fell to
thinking, hour after hour, till the light faded, leaving her almost in
darkness. At last she looked suddenly toward the window, gathered the
shawl around her, and stole out by a back staircase seldom used by any
one except the servants.
Gillian had parted from her lover and gone to her own room—that
sanctuary of a maiden’s thoughts which should be, like the owner, pure
as snow. This feeling had possessed Mr. Bentley when he took so much
pains to combine simplicity with luxury in the arrangements of the suit
of rooms appropriated exclusively to his daughter. Bright and fragrant
was Gillian’s chamber as she entered it; more fragrant than usual, for a
basket of moss roses and heliotrope had reached her in the morning, so
arranged that she had no doubt of the giver; and clusters of these
lovely flowers were scattered about the room: you could see them through
the delicate curtains of the bed, resting upon the pure linen pillows,
and sending a pink glow up to the soft masses of embroidery which clung
to the lace like snowflakes. They were grouped in the tall vermilion
glasses that stood upon the sculptured whiteness of the mantle-piece,
just in quantities to send a faint fragrance through the room and no
more.
The window draperies were of lace, like those of the bed, and floated
over blinds of a blue so delicate that they seemed patches of a warm sky
breaking the edge of a summer cloud. A faint tinge of blue damask, with
which the couch and easy-chairs were cushioned, stole out from the fine
linen covers; and clusters of white roses, tied by blue ribbons, formed
a beautiful pattern to the blue and drab ground of the carpet.
Two doors opened from this chamber, opposite the entrance: one led to
her dressing-room, which, with all its luxurious paraphernalia, was
closed; and the other to her bath-room, which was cool and pure as a
white marble floor and slabs advancing a yard up the polished walls
could render it.
A marble bath, in the form of a huge conch shell, occupied one end of
the room, the lip of the shell curving downward, and an inner lining of
pale amber, flushing off to pink as it retreated to the heart of the
shell, melted softly into its edges.
Above the bath, and forming a sort of cornice to the marble behind, was
a lovely statuette, one of those generous purchases with which Mr.
Bentley loved to encourage struggling genius. It was a female, softly
falling to sleep, with her head resting on one arm, and her figure
reclining on a bank. At her feet, the lotus, with its broad leaves,
suggested the neighborhood of water, which was artfully carried out by
the liquid drops that gushed through them and fell raining into the
bath.
The bell-like tinkle of these water drops was in harmony with Gillian’s
thoughts. She lay down on a couch which commanded a view of the
statuette, gazing dreamily on the sweet face, where a perpetual smile
was frozen, which, after all, was but a shadow of her own warm, living
joy.
There the young girl lay, with her head uplifted by the pillows of the
couch, her hands softly folded over her heart, and her lips parted as
sweet, unuttered words died away upon them in smiles.
You could have counted the beatings of her heart through the muslin
folds of her dress; the rise and fall of the white hands clasped over
it, and crushing out perfume from the spray of moss rose-buds which
trembled to each thrill of happiness that stirred her bosom.
Then she turned her head upon the pillow, giving her glowing cheeks to
the air. She gathered the roses from her bosom and pressed them to her
lips with both hands, murmuring softly, as the water drops fell, “He
loves me! He loves me!”
Deep feeling is poverty-stricken when it seeks for adequate expression.
It was the gush and warmth of this tender whisper which would have told
you how happy the young girl was.
Love is childlike in its simplicity—inexplicable to those who have never
felt the joy of knowing it, and of that number are, perhaps, ninety-five
people out of a hundred. Gillian was one of the happy few. Heart, mind,
and taste went with her affections. The pure romance of her nature was
satisfied entirely with the man who had won her. Pride, high, womanly
pride, which was her fault and her glory, crested itself on the choice
she had made. She could look up to him for strength, and yet feel that
she was his mate—that he had a right to be proud of her, as she was of
him.
Then she thought of her father with a feeling that she had never loved
him so thoroughly as then. In the breaking up of her heart a thousand
precious feelings were found which she had not dreamed of before. In the
glow of a great happiness, all her old affections took new vigor. To
love and be loved is to man or woman the crowning joy of existence, and
such it was to Gillian.
Gillian felt this beautiful truth to the depths of her being, and it
made a child of her. She kissed the roses he had given till their
perfume glowed on her mouth. She kissed her own white hands because his
lips had touched them last. She got up and surveyed herself in the tall
mirror of her dressing-room, jealous that she was not beautiful enough,
and greedy of more loveliness for his sake.
She let down her heavy, auburn hair, that it might ripple through her
hands and over her arm while she exulted in its lustre. The glow and
bloom of her beauty became precious to her for the first time, and all
for his sake.
All at once she became more simple in her tastes: diamond and emerald
rings were taken from her fingers and thrown into the pretty caskets.
Such gauds should not come in contact with the little circlet of gold
which Woodworth had, that morning, placed upon her hand. Henceforth his
taste should adorn her. She would value no ornament which he did not
choose. He should be all the world to her—more than the world; for
Gillian could have no idea of a happy eternity which he did not share.
When Gillian made this little sacrifice—for she longed to give up
something for her lover—she went back to the couch again. Her hands
stole up and clasped themselves over her heart—which beat more softly
now—and, closing her eyes, she fell into a sweet dream.
All this time Aunt Hetty lay in the agony of some great sorrow, moaning
on her bed in the chamber above—perfect happiness and deep suffering
within twenty feet of each other, without jarring or sympathy.
When Gillian fell to dreaming on her couch, Aunt Hetty stole out from
her chamber, and crept like a ghost by the door which shut in so much
joy. She did not feel it, but went on her own icy way, doubting if the
world held any thing but pain and sorrow.
Dinah sat in the upper hall, folding for herself a turban of colored
gauze, which was intended for the great party. She saw the quiet lady
stealing down the back staircase, and, hurriedly laying down her finery,
snatched up a shawl and followed, muttering to herself, “I wonder what
secret she kin have dat ole Dinah hain’t got a right ter know.”
CHAPTER XXVII.
THE OLD CHEST OF DRAWERS.
“Mary Nicholson!”
Mrs. Nicholson came out of her little bedroom, looking very much
frightened. “Did you speak to me, Mrs. Frost?”
The old lady did not answer promptly, for she was busy counting some
change in the palm of her hand with great eagerness, as the increased
vibrations of her head testified.
“Ten, eleven, twelve—one shilling—three cents. Why, Mary Nicholson! Mary
Nicholson! what does this mean! You’ve tampered with the change. I’ve
suspected it for some time, now it’s clear. Mary Nicholson, what have
you done with three cents that ought to be here and isn’t?”
“Three cents!” faltered Mrs. Nicholson. “It’s there, I—I’m sure. It’s
all right, ma’am.”
Again the old woman counted the money in her hand, nodding, nodding,
nodding over it with terrible eagerness.
“No, Mary Nicholson, it isn’t right. I sent you to market, believing
that you could be trusted with untold gold. I gave you twenty-five cents
to buy marketing with: according to orders you bring half a pound of
liver, with a trifle thrown in for the cat, which I’m sure the man ought
to give, considering he has all our custom; now the liver cost just five
cents; there was a cent’s worth of parsley, and—and——”
“Horseradish, ma’am; you forgot the horseradish!”
“Horseradish, one cent.”
“Two!” said Mrs. Nicholson, desperately, “two!”
“No, one. I say one cent for horseradish; one for parsley; five for
liver—seven in all. Now, Mary Nicholson, don’t be afraid; I don’t mean
to go to the extremity of the law with you; I’m willing to consider your
youth and inexperience, but where are those three cents?”
Mrs. Nicholson was about to speak, and, we grieve to say, about to
insist on the horseradish, but Mrs. Frost went off like a pendulum, and
began nodding so vehemently that the culprit broke down, and penitently
confessed that she had spent three cents for a little bunch of garden
flowers to put in Mr. Hurst’s room: she thought perhaps they might
entice him to come home earlier.
Mrs. Frost reached forth her hand and took her staff from the corner. It
was impossible to support the weight of her indignation without help.
“And you have done this—you spend my money to entice young men into
noticing you! Mary Nicholson! Mary Nicholson! flighty as you are, I
wouldn’t have believed this of you. It goes beyond any thing. But this
isn’t the first time: it’s three weeks since I saw you take that
wineglass with the gold-sprig on it out of the cupboard. I suppose
you’ve been robbing me and buying flowers ever since.”
“No, ma’am, no. I changed the water twice a day and cut off the stems to
freshen ’em: one little bunch lasted two days, sometimes three.”
“Three times seven are twenty-one—say once in three days: I don’t want
to be too severe on you, Mary Nicholson; but I say once in three days;
the third of three weeks is seven, and three times seven are twenty-one.
Look, Mary Nicholson, if your flighty young mind can be brought to
reflect—see of how much you have robbed me in three weeks; twenty-one
cents. Why, that ought to buy our marketing three days. What can I do
about it? if you had any wages I’d stop it out of them.”
“But I haven’t, or you might and welcome,” said Mrs. Nicholson,
despondingly.
“No, there’s the trouble. What am I to demand, then? You haven’t got but
that one dress that I know of.”
“No, I haven’t had a change this ten months. Don’t you remember scolding
about the noise I made washing it out after you went to bed?”
“Remember! I should think so: always at some flighty thing or another.
But there’s your shawl—but I haven’t seen it this ever so long—that is,
perhaps, worth the money you have stolen.”
“Stolen! I didn’t think of stealing. It’s a hard word to give to a women
of my age, and I won’t bear it from you or anybody else.”
“Hoity, toity! so the young blood’s up when one mentions a bit of
finery; rather go to prison than part with that, I suppose. Very well.”
“I—I haven’t got the shawl, or you might take it and welcome,” said the
poor old lady, trembling at the name of a prison.
“Haven’t got the shawl?” cried Mrs. Frost, and her head took a new leave
of motion. “Not got your shawl?”
“No, it was getting warm weather, so I put it in pawn.”
“Put it in pawn! What, a respectable member of my family running about
and pawning things! But what did you do with the money?”
“You can have the ticket if you like,” cried the poor creature, making a
desperate effort to evade the question, “it’s good security.”
“But what did you do with the money? I want to know that, Mary
Nicholson!”
“I—I bought a—a strip of carpeting.”
“Carpeting for what?”
“To put down before Mr. Hurst’s bed. He’s so delicate, you know, and I
was sure the floor would be cold for his bare feet when he got up in the
morning.”
Mrs. Frost sat down, bowed both hands on the top of her cane, and
laughed till you could see the single tooth in her under-jaw, like a
stump in a ploughed field.
“Mary Nicholson, I believe you’re nothing worse than a fool all the
time. Now just bring that strip of carpeting down and put it before my
bed, and I’ll overlook this.”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Mary Nicholson, meekly, “I’ll go at once.”
She came down directly with a strip of bright new carpeting in her hand,
submissive, but with tears in her eyes.
Mrs. Frost carried the fragment into her own bedroom, and spread it upon
the faded carpet there, chuckling over her triumph. Then she came back
to the sitting-room, planted the staff before her, and gave the poor
culprit, who sat crying in a corner, the sediments of her wrath.
“Now, Mary Nicholson, I’ve got one thing to tell you. If I catch you
setting your cap for Michael again in this scandalous way, trying to
delude him with flower traps and carpet traps, I won’t answer for what I
will do. I’d send you adrift this minute, but that I’m sure you’d get
into mischief without me to take care of you. But, remember, if I
forgive this, it’s out of pure kindness.”
“I know it is, and I’m grateful—only somehow my wicked heart won’t feel
kindness as it ought to. But one thing is certain, Mrs. Frost, if I did
get these things for Mr. Hurst, it wasn’t with any idea but of making
him a little comfortable—I’m an old woman, you know, upward of seventy.”
Here Mrs. Frost broke into a fit of sudden indignation, which set her
head off in an effort at perpetual motion again with a vengeance.
“An old woman, and only seventy! What do you mean by that, you affected
thing? I’m above ninety and not old yet, and shan’t be these fifteen
years to come. Do you mean to insult me by calling yourself old?”
“No, I didn’t think of you—only of myself. It seems to me as if I wasn’t
so young as I was, especially on washing-days, and when there is a good
deal of going up and down stairs to do. But maybe it’s only a fancy. I
won’t mention the thing again if you don’t like it.”
“Well, I don’t, so there’s an end on’t. Now go down and cook the liver,
and don’t forget the cat; you’ve neglected her since Michael came home.
There he is now, going up-stairs: run and see what he wants.”
Mrs. Nicholson went up-stairs with a sinking heart. She dreaded that
Hurst would miss the carpet and question her about it; almost hoped that
he might see her flowers and forget the rest.
But Hurst passed by the glass full of humble blossoms without a glance,
and tramped over the naked floor with equal indifference. His face was
white with internal rage, his eyes smouldering over some evil purpose.
They flashed eagerly when Mrs. Nicholson came in. He turned from an old
“chest of drawers,” before which he was standing, and demanded of her,
in a hoarse whisper, if she had any knowledge where the keys of that old
rattle-trap were kept.
Yes, Mrs. Nicholson knew where the keys were kept, for they had grown
rusty since she came to the house in an old-fashioned jar which stood on
the sitting-room mantle-piece, but for the world she would not touch
them. Besides, there was nothing in the “chest of drawers” but the
minister’s old papers—she had heard Mrs. Frost say so a thousand times.
“Oh, is that all?” said Hurst, turning away; “not worth thinking about.
I thought all the old papers were kept in the open garret. What is the
use of lumbering up this room with them?”
“Oh, don’t speak a word about it to Mrs. Frost, I beg of you; she’s like
a child when any one mentions the minister. I don’t suppose she ever
really loved any thing else in her life. It is quite heart-breaking to
hear her talk of him sometimes. If he’d lived, maybe her old age would
have been pleasanter to herself and everybody else.”
“Heaven knows it’s crabbed enough now!” said Hurst, rudely. “I wonder
she has not starved you into the grave long ago; but you are a fool to
let her: she’s got hoards of money somewhere, I’m sure of it.”
“No, no. I don’t believe it, for she told me once that if it hadn’t been
for a sum of money placed out at interest by some one who had been under
great obligations to her husband, she would have been left with nothing
but the house to support herself with. I don’t think she really can
afford to live better than we do.”
Here a quivering scream from the stairs made the gossiping old woman
start for the door.
“Mary Nicholson! I say, Mary Nicholson, what keeps you talking so long?
Don’t you know it’s almost dinner time?”
“Yes, ma’am, I’m coming right off,” and away she hurried, while Mrs.
Frost again called out,
“Michael! was it you that came in, Michael?”
“Yes, grandmother,” said the young man, appearing at the top of the
stairs. “I thought you did not look quite well this morning, and so came
in to inquire about you. Mrs. Nicholson says you are better, so I will
come down and have a little chat with you before dinner.”
The old woman smiled grimly and turned into her little parlor, looking
back to see if Hurst was following.
He came down directly, with a smile on his mouth, but the same
smouldering look about the eyes. The old lady was in her easy-chair near
the fire-place; and he stood by her, leaning one elbow on the
mantle-piece, on which stood the old china jar mentioned by Mrs.
Nicholson. A slight noise disturbed the old lady.
“Take care, you will knock off my china jar with your arm,” she said. “I
heard the buttons on your sleeves jingle against it. Do come away. That
jar was his first present. I can’t bear any one to touch it.”
“It’s nothing,” he answered, promptly, dropping one hand softly to his
pocket, as he sauntered round her chair to the other side of the hearth.
“I only like to get near you, grandmother, especially when anxious about
your health.”
“My health! why I’m well enough,” cried the old woman, testily. “What on
earth has set you thinking about my health, Michael?”
“Oh, you are getting ill-tempered with me now, and all because love
makes me over anxious. I will go away.”
“No, no, Michael.”
“Yes, if my over-anxiety offends you, it is better that I should go.”
“But you will be home this evening?”
“Of course, but not to intrude on you. Unless you come to my room I
shall not think myself wanted.”
“Why, Michael, you know well enough I cannot go up and down stairs like
a girl. It’s five years since I’ve been up those stairs.”
“Indeed, I did not know that. Well, I will come back early and read to
you a while.”
When the old woman turned her head to express the pleasure she felt,
Hurst was gone.
The young man kept his word. Early in the evening he came in and read to
the old woman till she grew sleepy and went to her room. It was yet very
early in the evening, and Mrs. Nicholson seemed disposed to have a
little social chat, but a peremptory voice from within ordered her to
bed, and she went off reluctantly; while Hurst went to the outer door
and placed it ajar, in case he should wish to go out again in the night,
no unusual thing with him.
Then he mounted the stairs and went to his own chamber, secure of being
uninterrupted.
With a light in his hand, he tried the keys which he took from his
pocket in the locks of the old chest of drawers, and with difficulty
shot the rusty bolts. A mass of papers met his search, nicely arranged
and most of them labelled. These he turned over eagerly till he came to
a parcel of letters folded up more carefully than the others, which he
sat down to read.
It was impossible to guess what those letters contained by the man’s
face, which was clouded when he sat down, fierce when he got up. He
twisted the black ribbon which had bound the package around it again,
and thrust the letters in his bosom. Then he hurriedly tossed over the
contents of one of the drawers, as if searching for something which he
had cast aside; and after a little, he found a parcel of printed blanks
yellow from age, which he secured together with a package of letters
which the good clergyman had written to his wife.
With these he sat down at a table, studied the letters and blanks
closely, and began to write.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
THE UNWILLING ACCOMPLICE.
Woodworth was now Gillian’s accepted lover. After a generous struggle
with himself, Mr. Bentley had given a cordial consent to this
engagement, and to the tumult of doubt came the heaven of a confirmed
and perfect love. No bird ever seemed more quiet brooding in its nest,
than Gillian appeared as she moved about that spacious house, or sat in
her luxurious boudoir, wondering how any one could think this world a
place of trouble. To her it was bright as paradise. If the sight of
Michael Hurst gliding toward her aunt’s room with a soft step and a
strange look in the face disturbed her repose for a single moment, it
was followed by a proud curve of the lip, and a feeling of disdain that
any thing so insignificant could intrude on her great happiness. How
dared this man lift his eyes to the woman whom Woodworth had exalted by
his love?
These thoughts were arrogant, perhaps, but Gillian was not only proud in
her own spirit but imperial in her pride where her love was concerned.
There is no equal on earth to the man a woman loves with her whole
heart, and thus Gillian, our bright, beautiful Gillian, loved the man to
whom her faith was pledged. It was the homage of pure appreciation to
genius—the romance and passion of youth crowned this devotion with a
glory.
Thus Gillian felt as if some ill-omened bird was flitting through her
paradise, when Hurst passed her with his half-sarcastic face and mocking
indifference. But what had she to fear from him? Her position was
assured. Young, beautiful, and beloved, what had she to dread from
Michael Hurst’s presence in her aunt’s room? Surely nothing! Yet
Gillian’s heart would recoil at the sound of his footstep, and a thrill
of disgust would pass through her frame if his voice reached her. This
made her angry; a creature so insignificant had no right to disturb her
thus.
On the night of her party, Gillian’s engagement to Woodworth was to be
admitted, if not proclaimed; and directly after that it was settled that
her marriage should take place.
There was to be no change in the household. Bentley would not give up
his daughter, but welcomed a son into his own dwelling—a son that might,
in some degree, enliven the solitude which surrounded him; for though in
the world, Bentley lived a man apart, and was in reality as little
acquainted with the gossip, scandal, and trifles of social life as a
hermit. The dignity of character which kept him aloof from these things
imposed solitude upon him, for, after all, the interests of social life
are made up of trifles which sensitive men like him reject.
Bentley had seen young Hurst more than once, but he was not aware how
frequently he visited the house, or that he had presumed to lift his
eyes to Gillian. Looking upon him as an acquaintance of Miss Hart’s, he
scarcely gave his presence or absence from the house a moment’s thought.
Something about the young gentleman he did not like, but the feeling was
so vague that he was hardly conscious of it.
After Hurst’s presumption in Mrs. Ransom’s grounds that day, Gillian had
made a faint effort to persuade her aunt to exclude him from the house;
but Aunt Hetty, usually so shrinking and mild, fired up on the instant,
offered to leave the house herself, but absolutely refused to be
restricted in her own movements, or the company she might receive.
Gillian was far too proud for explanations which compromised her
delicacy, and forbore to press the matter; so Hurst came as usual, but
the air which he had assumed then grew haughtier every day, and there
was a look of subtle triumph in his eyes which became annoying as it was
inexplicable.
On the morning before the great party, Hurst was in Aunt Hetty’s room.
The door was closed, and the two sat far apart, looking away from each
other like persons who had been talking on a subject which was annoying
to one and painful to the other.
Aunt Hetty had not been crying, but there was a white stillness in her
face which gave it a deathly look, and through her frame came short,
nervous spasms, which, at Hurst’s angry command, she was striving in
vain to suppress.
“You are sure that he has consented?”
Aunt Hetty bowed, and from her white lips came a faint, “Yes.”
“And that the engagement will be known to every one to-morrow night?”
“She told me so herself.”
“And the marriage? How soon is that to come off?”
Hurst spoke bitterly and with a sneer.
“I don’t know,” said the old lady; “very soon, I think. Martha can tell:
I heard her talking yesterday about being bridesmaid.”
“No matter what their plans are,” said Hurst, fiercely, “I will thwart
them long before they are settled.”
The old lady started up and clasped her little hands, that shook and
trembled like dead leaves before him.
“Oh, Michael, Michael, give that up—in the name of God give it up. I
cannot stand by you—the bare thought is killing me. It is fraud, infamy,
wicked, wicked infamy; the judgment of heaven would fall on us both.”
Hurst arose and bent his fierce white face over the trembling creature.
“Woman, would you have me curse you?”
“You! you! No, father of mercies, no—that would be more terrible yet.”
“Hate you?” persisted the fiend, growing hoarse with rage.
“Hate me! you! you! Oh, my God, my God, hear what he says!”
“Abandon you forever?”
The poor woman writhed in her chair, moaning with impotent pain.
“For her sake—oh, Sarah, my sister, that it should have come to this!
Can you hear?—do you know——”
Now two great tears came swelling up to her wild eyes, and dropped
heavily, as if turned to lead by the pain that sent them forth.
“Once for all,” said the young man, grasping both her hands, and
crushing them together till the pain flickered up to her face. “Once for
all, let us understand each other. I will go on steadily, resolutely,
unrelenting, and you shall help me.”
“I cannot! I cannot!” she cried.
He took no notice of that plaintive wail, but went on.
“Be firm, and I cannot fail—be firm, and I am more than a thousand
nephews, more than a thousand sons to you. No angel was ever loved as I
will love you. No queen was ever obeyed as I will obey you.”
A look of troubled affection came into that pale face—a wretched,
yearning fondness, that would have touched a wild animal.
He saw it, and, dropping to one knee, threw his arms around her neck,
and laid his cheek against her shoulder.
“I will be obedient like a little boy—kind, oh, so kind!—there, there,
don’t sob, but listen. Remember this is my right—ask yourself if it is
not—I but claim what is before God my own. He has had it now almost a
quarter of a century—has lived in luxury—pampered that proud girl till
she thinks herself a goddess. Besides, I do not mean to dispossess him,
nor to force the question into court. Be firm as I will, and all is
arranged without trouble. Promise me—promise me!”
He looked at her amid his pleading with a tenderness so real that her
tears fell like dew.
“I think if you asked me to kill myself I should do it,” she said,
timidly returning his caress.
“But I do not ask that—heaven forbid. I only wish you to remember the
years in which I have planned, and worked, and suffered, to earn a
decent living, while these persons have been feasting and pampering
themselves on the property to which I have a right. Who, except yourself
and the Bloomingdale woman over yonder, has ever thought or cared for
me?”
“But old Mrs. Frost was good to you. I am sure she ought to have been,
for Sarah did every thing for her.”
“Oh, yes! I do not complain. But what was an old woman like that to a
child that pined as I did for a father to guide, and a mother to love
me? I have suffered enough—more than enough—for any thing they cared I
might have been in State’s prison now. But their time is coming. Let
them stand cringing on the steps of this great house as I have done; let
them meet cold looks as I did not an hour ago, and feel the Bentley
blood boiling in their veins as it burns in mine: you know how they have
insulted me.”
“Yes, I know that; it was only this week Gillian came with that queenly
air of hers, and asked me to forbid your coming here. As if I would.”
“And for these people, who treat you, at best, like an upper servant,
you would keep me a beggar.”
“No, no, not a beggar, Michael. You don’t know how poor Sarah saved and
pinched for the money Mrs. Frost had for bringing you up. I never could
have done it like her. Oh, Michael! if she were only here now with her
quick way of seeing things—but—but I should not dare look her in the
face. Is not Gillian her daughter?”
“But she is not daughter to the man who owned all this wealth, nor shall
she keep it! It never was hers by right. Why can’t you see this as I
do?”
“But the law gave it to him!”
“The law is a tyrant. Besides, the question was never contested. How do
we know what the courts would have decided, had all the knowledge we
possess been laid before them?”
The poor, nervous woman was yielding thought by thought to the strong
will that oppressed her. Her heart was always in the right place, but
the intellect which should have supported it wavered under the
pleadings, and the sophistry which was so much like truth. Her own
heart, too, spoke loud in the young man’s behalf; all her ambition—a
childish feeling at best—rose up to second his arguments. Sure enough,
why should Gillian Bentley have the right to sweep Michael Hurst so
disdainfully from her path, as if he were a beggar and she an empress?
With these thoughts undermining the sense of right which was growing
weaker and weaker each moment, with his pleading voice in her ears, the
lone woman sunk quietly away from her integrity, and promised all that
the young man asked of her.
Then he arose to go, like a child who, having taken the first step,
fears to walk alone; she followed him, holding out her hands.
“Michael!”
He paused and came back, questioning her with his eyes; for he had no
heart to understand the yearning tenderness that spoke in the word.
“Michael!”
His intellect was quick, and he comprehended that there was some
weakness which he was expected to humor.
“Well,” he said, smiling, “you see I have come back like a good boy:
what is it?”
“Michael, kiss me for the first time on earth before you go.”
The young man was visibly touched. He bent down, and as he kissed her he
murmured a single word that sent a bloom into her face, and made every
nerve in her frame vibrate. Truly she had bought that one moment of
happiness with a great price.
She did not kiss him back, but received the touch of his lips with timid
humility, sighing under the full contentment of her wishes.
“You will never speak of cursing me again?” she said wistfully, “the
word hurts me like a knife.”
“Never! Only be faithful to your promise, and we have neither of us any
thing to fear.”
He went away after this. Aunt Hetty locked the door and drew down the
curtain with eager haste. When quite alone, and safe from observation,
she sat down and pressed the two hands, which he had clasped, to her
lips with fervor, as a devotee kisses the feet of his idol. She took up
the cushion he had leaned against and smoothed it with caressing
softness, laid her cheek against it, and muttered soft, sweet words over
it, as if the embroidered silk knew all that she felt, and would grow
brighter from sharing her joy.
Then she heard a step at the door, and a clear, young voice called out:
“Aunt Hetty, are you here? May I come in?”
It was Gillian’s voice. The cushion dropped from Aunt Hetty’s clasp,
and, holding her breath with sudden terror, the poor creature sunk with
it to the floor, afraid to speak.
Then came a repetition of the words, which broke into snatches of music
at the end, and Gillian’s light footstep died away in the hall; but the
sound of her voice came back like the song of a nightingale when the
rose season is at its full.
The young girl was very, very happy that day; Woodworth had just left
her, and, like the bird we speak of, she carried her joy and her song
everywhere she went. With her all was sunshine; but darkness had fallen
upon the poor woman who sat upon the floor of that closed room,
trembling under the light vibrations of her song.
“It is Sarah’s child—it is Sarah’s child,” she muttered, rocking to and
fro, with both hands clasped over her knees, “and I have promised to
destroy her: better as it was, oh, how much better as it was!”
Thus all that day she sat upon the floor bewailing herself, without the
courage to do right or wrong.
The next day Aunt Hetty was ill—so ill that she refused to leave her
room; though the house was all in a tumult of preparation, and the gay
world in a storm of excitement. This would undoubtedly prove the grand
ball of the season: persons would be present who seldom appeared on such
occasions; and to the usual crowd which composes a fashionable
assemblage, the Bentleys would add many celebrities which no one else
could command. In-doors the commotion was intense. Gillian, with her
fine artistic taste, was busy as a bee turning the stately mansion into
a bower of Eden for that one night.
Clothed in her morning-wrapper, which floated around her like a cloud,
Gillian was in fifty places at once, smiling and radiant, giving gleams
of new beauty to every thing she touched. While Martha tried on her
dress at least half a dozen times; and Dinah, to use her own words, made
dem city niggers from de confectionariums stand ’bout, while she gave an
opinion of every thing which was brought into the supper rooms.
Now and then Mr. Bentley was called from his books to give an opinion
where some statue was to be moved, or a picture lighted up; but of all
the household Aunt Hetty never appeared.
CHAPTER XXIX.
OPENING OF THE BALL.
The house was lighted up from roof to basement. The windows were one
blaze of gold, ruby, or azure, as the silken draperies through which the
rays passed chanced to be tinted. A fine, weeping elm that drooped its
branches at one end of the house seemed bathed in sunshine, so rich was
the flood of light that poured through the painted glass of the bay
windows. The marble vases that lined the broad steps to the front
entrance gleamed out like snow beneath the contrast of the trailing
leaves and gorgeous blossoms that crowded them. The folding-doors were
constantly open, and a broad pavement of light fell to the street, where
a curious crowd was gathered to watch the guests as they descended from
their carriages.
Within all was equally brilliant. The library and Gillian’s boudoir,
which opened from it, were thrown together in rich contrast, like two
grand pictures of the ancient school, a Rembrandt and a Guido. The one,
so deep in shadows, that a world of light seemed absorbed in revealing
it; the other, so fresh and fairy-like, that it seemed as if Aurora
herself must have prepared it for her train.
In the library, bronzes and dark carvings gave depth and richness to
harmonize with its crimson draperies. In the boudoir, statues and
statuettes of pure white marble grouped their snowy limbs under clouds
of azure and lace drapery, looped back from the windows by garlands of
natural roses, that sent their breath in among the heavy books, and
played with the golden light of the chandeliers in the library. In one
window a Hebe vase of alabaster, classic and stately, was tinted red by
the blossoms of a fuchsia that drooped over it. The curtains of another
were held away from the windows by a laughing Bacchante, who seemed to
have forgotten the grapes which he grasped triumphantly in his uplifted
hands. In a little recess, which opened upon a balcony, a marble Cupid
lay asleep literally on a bed of roses, for fresh blossoms breathed all
around him, on his snowy couch and over his delicate limbs, blending
their pink light with his smiles, till he seemed to laugh in his dreams.
The carpet was soft and fleecy, like a bed of soft snow, over which the
Cupids, on the exquisitely frescoed ceiling overhead, had been pelting
fresh flowers all the day long.
Every thing in this room was cloud-like and vapory. The floating lace,
the sleeping statues, and the roguish Cupids overhead seemed pervaded by
a silvery mist, for the light came moonlike through a partition of
plate-glass, that alone shut out a conservatory beyond.
Through this translucent partition glowed sheets of azaleas,
rhododendrons, and golden-leaved acacias, with other rare tropical
plants all in full flower, over which globes of ground glass shed their
soft moonlight, which penetrated to the boudoir, revealing it like a
dream.
Into this room Gillian came alone to meet her lover, one happy moment
before the company poured in. Down she glided along the broad staircase,
pure as snow and bright as a sunbeam. Fold upon fold—fold upon fold of
delicate lace enveloped her. Silvery tulle over net, and above that the
gossamer richness of Brussels point, with traceries that seemed like
frost-work forming as she moved, gleamed and floated around her. From
the coronet of hair that circled her queenly head fell a triple vail of
tulle, like mist tinted through and through by the prism; azure, white,
rose-color, and pale violet fell over her dress as the morning tints a
cloud, and through this her face shone out resplendent in its
loveliness, for the thought of meeting him had scattered rose-leaves on
her cheek, and filled her eyes with love-light. She was indeed what her
dress proclaimed her, “Queen of the Morning!”
Woodworth was in the boudoir waiting. He saw her enter the library and
glide through. She approached the boudoir, not with her usual
self-possession, but like a child who longs to be admired, and is yet
ashamed of the desire. That night Gillian panted to be beautiful, but
love made her diffident, so she came in blushing and half-abashed.
Woodworth held his breath; she seemed so much like one of those
creations of Guido which never seem quite of earth, that he stood lost
in pleasant surprise. She came close to him, wondering why he did not
speak.
One little hand stole out from under the cloud of her vail and touched
his arm. He prisoned the white hand in his, and thus they stood together
in the moonlight that beamed from the conservatory, smiling on each
other, but silent. Perfect love has no language, and requires none. With
those eyes upon her face, Gillian knew that she was becoming more and
more beautiful every moment. She felt like an angel; he thought that she
looked like one.
A few words were murmured after this, fragmentary nothings, I dare say,
but very sweet and musical to them. Before it could become conversation,
the unwelcome sound of footsteps in the vestibule made them draw apart,
and directly a lady, who seemed to have glided out of Louis the
Fifteenth’s court, came into the library and moved slowly toward them.
Gillian looked upon the intruder with surprise, for she seemed a perfect
stranger. In all her list of friends she remembered no one so queenly in
her presence, so impressed with an air of command.
The dress, an old-fashioned brocade of apple-green and silvery white,
looped up with ribbons from an under skirt of rose-colored silk, was of
regal richness. The tall head-dress, powdered, puffed, and woven in with
jewels; the plume of snowy feathers on one side, and the fall of a
glowing rose back from the left temple, were gorgeous, but subdued by
powder; while the neck and arms gleamed whitely through a profusion of
yellow old lace, and the stomacher blazed with jewels.
“Who can it be?” whispered Gillian, gazing upon the lady, whose face
seemed to possess scarcely a familiar line.
“One would think she had stepped out of a picture but for these bright
eyes. Who can she be?”
“Hush! she is in search of us. I know her, and yet cannot imagine who
she is,” whispered Woodworth, drawing Gillian back to his side. “She is
evidently looking for some one.”
The lady entered, saw Gillian, and came forward.
“My dear Miss Bentley, and you also my friend,” she said, with
cheerfulness, evidently forced, for her voice was husky.
Gillian gave a little start, and then broke into a birdlike laugh.
“Mrs. Ransom—oh, my dear Mrs. Ransom! I am so glad you have come! I
waited and waited up-stairs, thinking that you might want help about
your dress; but it is perfect: I never saw such a change: who on earth
would recognise you? I shall have to introduce you twice over to papa;
he will never get the least idea of you in this splendid costume.”
“So you would not have known me?” said Mrs. Ransom. “Well, I am glad of
it—one does not bring every-day life into a scene like this. If I do no
discredit to ‘this fair morning,’ it is enough.”
“But your dress is so brilliant, and your face so pale,” cried Gillian.
“Is it these pretty patches, or are you nervous? I never saw you so
white before.”
Mrs. Ransom laughed rather hoarsely.
“Oh, that is a trick of the toilet which Ruby will explain when you ask
her; but let me look at you both. Indeed, is it so? Can such happiness
exist and endure? God bless you both!”
“Why, how you tremble! how cold your hand is!” cried Gillian, warming
the chilled hand with her kisses.
“It is the new sensation of coming into a crowd: don’t mind it; but tell
me if Mr. Bentley has consented.”
“Generously, nobly,” said Woodworth. “Oh, Mrs. Ransom, he is a prince
among men.”
“He is—he is——”
Mrs. Ransom uttered these words so impressively that Gillian and
Woodworth looked at each other. Mrs. Ransom saw the glance, and went on,
catching her breath as she spoke.
“Every one says that. It is a beautiful thing to be so respected, so
thoroughly beloved. Your father should be a very happy man, Gillian.”
She spoke feverishly, and her eyes kindled.
“My father is too sensitive, too solitary in his habits for happiness,
but he is good, wise, and generous, and these things are great
blessings. To-night he has promised to be very, very happy—but I
saddened him only a few minutes since. It seemed as if I never wanted a
mother so much in my whole life as I do this evening. I told him so, and
it brought tears into his eyes. I tried to caress him into cheerfulness
again, but he shrunk away from me; so I was a little mournful for the
time. But he is here, and you have come: what more can I want? There,
there is papa now looking for us. One moment, Mrs. Ransom!”
Gillian hurried forward into the library and met her father half-way.
Mrs. Ransom took Woodworth’s arm, leaning heavily upon it. She saw
Gillian coming forward dimly like a cloud followed by a dark shadow.
“Mrs. Ransom—my father, Mr. Bentley.”
Julia heard the words, and moved forward under a chandelier in the
library. Bentley saw a fine woman glittering with jewels. Her eyes shone
upon him like stars reflected deep in a lake; but she seemed too pale
for a woman of robust health, which was evident from the round fullness
of her person. The unnatural contrast of her face and her person struck
him with a sort of chill. But he could not remove his eyes from her
gaze. She had fascinated him by a look, as she had thousands and
thousands by her genius. Though a recluse, in many respects, Mr. Bentley
bad seen too much of society not to feel that some words of hospitality
were expected from him; but he could not speak them: the very presence
of this woman enthralled his senses.
She did not seem embarrassed, but excited and eager; her lips parted,
her hands trembled visibly. She looked down at them and seemed terrified
by her own agitation.
“You see how society affects me,” she said, turning desperately to
Woodworth. “Bring me a glass of water—I pray you bring me a glass of
water.”
She was evidently faint; her parted lips were white as snow; the lids
trembled over her eyes. She staggered; Bentley threw his arms around her
or she would have fallen. As it was, a shudder passed through her frame,
and she was sinking from his arm to the floor.
Gillian caught her with both arms, for her father seemed paralyzed.
“Help me lift her, papa; she is quite gone; her cheek is cold as death.”
This plea aroused Bentley—his eyes kindled—he grew strong.
“Give her to me entirely,” he said, bearing her to a sofa. “She is
evidently, like me, oppressed by the idea of this crowd.”
He laid her softly on the sofa, while Gillian arranged the cushions, and
knelt down, listening for a breath from those cold lips.
“Oh, father, is she dead?” cried Gillian, startled by the strangeness of
his face.
“I do not know,” he said, vaguely; “but it seemed just now as if some
one had died a second time. Have you any strange feeling of bereavement,
Gillian?”
“I had, an hour ago, while thinking of my mother; but now I tremble with
anxiety to see this dear lady look up.”
“Your mother!” cried Bentley, starting up with a gesture of sudden pain.
“Gillian, a moment since this woman lay upon my bosom. It was your
mother’s place till—till—girl, how dare you ask me to lift that form in
these arms!”
“I thought she was dying, papa.”
“And so she is, perhaps,” answered Bentley, with sudden gentleness. “We
are cruel to bring old regrets here. Why does not Woodworth come with
the water?”
“He is here! he is here!” cried Gillian, meeting Woodworth and taking
the goblet from his hand. “Now, papa, if you would leave the room and
get a little more calm.”
“Calm, child! I am calm!”
“It is terrible to see any one so close to death,” said Woodworth,
lifting Julia’s head, and attempting to force the water through her
lips, “and she the most noble of human beings; this paleness frightens
me.”
Bentley took one of the hands that fell downward toward the carpet; a
pulse leaped into the wrist as he touched it, and the palm grew warm
against his.
“She is better,” he said, unconsciously clasping the hand—“much better.
Speak, dear lady, and tell me if I am right.”
She did not answer; but he felt her fingers tighten around his, while a
tremor passed over her mouth.
“Yes, I am better. Oh, if this were death now!” She whispered this,
faintly struggling, as it were, not to grow strong or entirely
conscious.
That instant the voice of Aunt Dinah penetrated to the library, and the
sound of her feet, patting across the floor of the vestibule, gave a
promise of vigorous help.
“Where am she, I says? What am all dis touse ’bout, takin’ off der
glasses from der tables afore meal-time, and raisin’ ole Scratch
gin’rally? What lady am it as guvs up afore der fun begins? I’m a’most
out o’ breath climbing to dat chist. Den der lock got obstrop’rous and
wouldn’t work, and I got mad—bang! open it flew, and here’s a bottle ob
der best camfire dat ebber cum under dis ruff; I certifies to dat,
anyhow, I does. Miss Gillian, where am der indervideral? jist p’int her
out.”
Before any one could speak, Dinah saw Mrs. Ransom lying on the sofa, and
darted toward her the more vigorously as a carriage that moment rolled
up to the door. Without pause or caution she gathered the palm of her
withered hand into a hollow, filled it from the flask, and dashed it
into Mrs. Ransom’s face with a suddenness that made the poor lady gasp
painfully.
“Bring her to in no time!” cried Dinah, triumphantly, filling her palm
again. “Jes see der color come ter ’er mout’; but den dis yer camfire is
strong ’nough to stand ’lone. None ob yer city potticary stuff dat yer.
Hab ter cork up tight ter keep alive, but sharp as horseradish an’
stingin’ as mustard. Am yer ’viving, marm? Der yer feel dis yer camfire
burnin’ from der crown ob yer head ter de soles ob yer feet? ’cause if
yer don’t I’se on hand for t’odder dose.”
“Foolish old woman, I am better,” murmured Mrs. Ransom, dreamily. “Don’t
disturb me again; I want to sleep.”
“What? how? Foolish ole woman! foolish ole woman! Now dis indervederal
hasn’t had der honor of a ’duction, an’ she calls me ole woman: dat’s
manners ’mung white folks, I ’spose.”
Dinah was so exasperated that she gave her head a vigorous toss, and
handed her camphor bottle to Woodworth, with the air of a marshal of
France resigning his baton in disgust.
“I ’spect when Miss Gillian twisted dis turben round my head, and
’vested me with dis silk gown, she wasn’t ’specting ter see de owner
’sulted; but I’ll detire till dis yer lady comes ter a sense ob her
sitivation an’ mine. Ole woman! wonder what she calls ole—ugh!”
Mrs. Ransom smiled as one laughs in a dream; but when Mr. Bentley
quietly rebuked Dinah and sent her from the room, she seemed to recover
her faculties with a start, and sat up, looking earnestly around.
“Have I been ill?” she said, turning her eyes on Gillian—“ill and
troublesome?”
“Ill, dear lady, but not troublesome.”
She looked eagerly around.
“There was some one else here—or am I mistaken?”
“An old colored woman, whom we all spoil terribly, went out a moment
since, after half-smothering you with camphor, that is all!”
“An old colored woman? I wish she had stayed a moment longer.”
“Shall we call her?” said Woodworth.
“No, no; hark! carriages—another, and I detaining you all here. It is
unpardonable!”
She started up, and arranged her dress with haste, keeping her eyes
averted from the little group of friends.
“Now,” she said, smoothing the lace over her elbows and arranging the
folds of her dress, “shall we go back to the pretty room yonder? I shall
not faint again, depend on it. Hark, the first group is coming. Let us
go!”
Mr. Bentley offered his arm. Mrs. Ransom scarcely touched it as she
appeared to lean upon him. She was self-sustained now, either by fever
or excitement, for her cheeks were red as tea-roses, and her eyes took
the glance of an eagle. She looked younger by ten years than when she
entered the room.
And now the crowd came pouring in through the brilliant library into the
moonlight of the boudoir, chatting, laughing, and treading time to
imaginary music; charmed by the beauty of the young hostess, wondering
that a woman who wrote such books could live, talk, and move like other
people, they passed on through the blooming labyrinths of the
conservatory, and into the great drawing-room. Here the floors were
elaborately ornamented for dancing; and temporary gallery was occupied
by the band, whose music soon rang through the building.
CHAPTER XXX.
THE FIRST WALTZ.
And now the house was filled. Brilliant groups passed every moment from
their silken-lined carriages to the dressing-rooms overhead, and down
the noble staircase again, chatting, gliding, and full of sweet noises,
like tropical birds when the forests are in flower. The murmur and hum
of enjoyment ran from room to room, for groups of the gay revellers
might be found among the shadows of the conservatory, in the moonlight
of the boudoir, or the stronger brilliancy of the library. Everywhere
that night pleasure reigned triumphant; but happiest of all was the fair
mistress of the revel, and most brilliant of all was her friend, Mrs.
Ransom. She had shaken off her temporary indisposition, and gave out the
brightness of her genius like a star, scattering wit and courteous
sayings around her, as the German prince cast jewels from his vestments,
reckless where the bright things fell. Wherever she was, a cloud of
rustling silks, vapory laces, and waving feathers was certain to
collect, for Gillian was sure to be near, and like two genii they
reigned together, the one by her brightness and her beauty, the other by
a power of genius that was irresistible.
Martha Hart, too, flitted through the rooms like a bird. With a dainty
basket of flowers poised on her head, and a muslin apron gathered up in
one hand, through which came the red glow of roses, she went from group
to group bargaining for her flowers, full of wholesome glee and wit, not
the less pleasant that it was a little saucy. In the distance, always in
the distance, and fluttering on the outskirts of the crowd, was a
little, pale woman, looking wildly from face to face as if in search, of
some one. Sometimes she spoke furtively to the flower girl, who always
answered with a careless laugh.
“Has he come, aunt? Indeed I do not know. Why should you or I trouble
ourselves about him?” Then she would begin to hum,
“I’ve been roaming, I’ve been roaming,
Where the summer dews are sweet,”
and take wing again.
“Will you dance with me?” said a soft voice at her elbow.
“Will I dance with you, Mr. Hurst? Of course; but it is a waltz, or
something that I never danced except alone with Gillian; but she is
standing up too. Yes, yes, I’ll be ready in a moment.”
She darted off in search of Aunt Hetty, and found her on an iron seat in
the conservatory, at an angle that commanded a view of the boudoir and
drawing-room. She looked wild and anxious as Martha came up.
“Have you found him?” she asked.
“Yes, yes, and we are going to dance.”
“Dance! What, he dance to-night?”
“Yes, yes, do make haste and unfasten the basket from my head; there,
undo the ribbons; all right; now hold it till I come back, or, if you
get tired, put it on the seat; I can find it again. Now give me a pin: I
want to fasten up my apron so that the roses cannot spill out. Now, I’m
off.”
“Stop, stop. Are you going to dance with him—with Michael Hurst?”
“Dance! that isn’t the word, aunt. I’m going to waltz, to whirl around
in this fashion, do you see?” She bent her left arm, pressed the hand to
her side, and gave a whirl that sent her muslin robe dashing against the
glowing shrubs that rained a storm of petals over her. As the bright
leaves fluttered in the folds of her dress, she darted away, calling
out,
“Take care of my basket, Aunt Hetty, or leave it, if you like, and come
see us dance.”
Yes, Aunt Hetty had no reason for sitting there behind the plants any
longer. Hurst was in the crowd: she would search for him there—she would
do any thing to shake off the harassing anxiety that was almost killing
her. In her dark dress she might pass for a nun or sister of charity,
and so speak with him and no one observe it.
She left Matty’s pretty basket on the chair, and wandered off lonely as
if she had been in a wilderness.
The waltz was at its height, and the crowd in a whirl of excitement.
Here a Cleopatra swam by in the arms of a Roman senator; fair Greeks
whirled past supported by Turkish pashas; and sons of the war-path
flirted with novices of the white vail.
Aunt Hetty was bewildered and shocked. To her the people seemed going
mad: she was crowded to the wall, and leaned against it out of breath
and frightened. Among the whirl of dancers she could distinguish no one;
and her heart was bent on speaking to Hurst; she could endure that
torture of apprehension no longer.
A lady came and stood beside her—a tall, stately woman in the prime of
mid-age, but who looked grand and youthful compared to her. The flash of
jewels on her bosom, as the light struck aslant on them, made Aunt Hetty
shut her eyes. The gorgeous brightness pained them. The lady, as if
unconsciously, rested one hand on Aunt Hetty’s shoulder; she seemed
weary and heavy-hearted. Notwithstanding all her splendor, there was
something to pity in that sad face.
“Are you tired?—would you like a seat, madam?” said the little woman,
shrinking beneath the touch of that strange hand as if it pained her.
The lady dropped her hand slowly, and looked down at the speaker. What a
wild, troubled face it was that she gazed upon! The hair, parted so
smoothly beneath her cap, seemed scattered with ashes. Alas! when gray
hairs appear before their time, they usually spring from the ashes of
dead hopes, the bitterest kind known to humanity.
Mrs. Ransom could not turn her eyes from Aunt Hetty’s face; something in
the expression smote her to the heart. She noticed the little feet
moving restlessly on the floor—the hands clasping and unclasping
themselves under the black lace scarf—the arm, with its hair bracelet,
from which a locket fell, containing the mingled tresses of two females,
fair and dark, curling together. At last the lady spoke, but there was
anguish in her voice.
“Yes, I am tired—ill I fear. Is there no place in which I can rest a
moment? No private room where I should not be an intruder?”
“I—I will go up with you to my own chamber—that is always quiet; but
excuse me if I do not stay: I must be here; oh, they are coming now! Mr.
Hurst—Mr. Hurst, one moment!”
She darted forward as Hurst and Martha Hart went circling by among the
dancers, and made a grasp at the young girl’s dress. The apron gave way;
all the roses it contained fell to the floor, and were scattered abroad
by a sweeping whirl of the next couple.
“Oh, aunt! how could you?” cried Martha, panting for breath, as she
retreated from the circle. “See my poor roses, and my torn apron! It’s
too bad.”
Aunt Hetty did not heed her—did not even know the mischief she had done.
“Hurst—Hurst, I must speak to you,” she said, with desperate resolution.
“Well, be quick then, or we lose our place in the ring. Oh, Mrs. Ransom!
more beautiful than ever! This is a splendid affair. I enjoy myself with
a zest; how is it with you?”
“I am beyond the age when gayety enchants,” she said, gravely; “but this
lady desires to speak with you: she has been very anxious. Go with her.”
The words were softly spoken, but they seemed like a command.
Hurst whispered a few words to Martha, and followed Aunt Hetty to the
conservatory. Gillian and Woodworth whirled by him as he went down the
room. He started back as a rattlesnake coils for a spring, and the hate
that shot from his eyes was venomous.
Mrs. Ransom was watching him. She saw the look, but thought the dancers
had, perhaps, trod on him as they whirled by; and knowing his evil
temper, this was enough to explain his evident wrath.
After a little time, the two came back. Hurst was excited; his cheek
burned like fire, and he cast stern glances at the little woman, which
made her shrink like a threatened child.
“Come,” he said, seizing Martha almost rudely by the waist, “let us see
who will be crowded from the track.”
He gave the young creature a fierce whirl, and dashed in among the
dancers like a storm.
An humble, heart-broken look had settled on Aunt Hetty; she was nervous
no longer, but all the strength had left her limbs. Mrs. Ransom put one
arm around her, and all the beauty of her countenance shone forth.
“Has he been unkind?” she whispered.
“He!—who?” said Aunt Hetty, with a wild look.
“Oh, I had forgotten that we are strangers,” said Mrs. Ransom with a
sigh; “but you seemed troubled, and one sometimes forgets proprieties
where sympathy is strong.”
“Troubled—I? Who said that? I am naturally a still person—a poor,
nervous creature, they call me; but as for trouble, what trouble can a
woman have who is so much alone?”
Mrs. Ransom felt the frail form shrink and tremble against her arm. She
tightened its clasp a little and whispered,
“But I am both weary and ill; where is the room you promised?”
Aunt Hetty aroused herself.
“Yes, I can stay with you now: it is all over; when one is too weak for
a struggle rest ought to come. Follow me through the supper-room: it is
the shortest way.”
She seemed glad to cast the protecting arm away, and moved through the
crowd to a side door, which she opened cautiously. Mrs. Ransom glided
after her, and in a moment they stood in the supper-room, over, which
Dinah was presiding in her gorgeous turban and flaming gown; oriental in
her despotism as in her dress.
“So yer hab come ter take a look afore dey tousle ebbery ting up,” she
said, marching toward them with patronage in every gesture. “Jes ’serve
dat pyramid all ob sugar candy, an’ dat heap ob cake white as a tub of
curd—an’ der glass, twinkling like ice, and de silver baskets a-running
over wid strawberries, an’ grapes, an’ tings dat de Lord never ’tended
to grow tergether, an’ dat never would if it hadn’t been for dem
hot-houses. ’Serve dem wines in de ’canters, an’ de regiment ob glasses,
red, yaller, green. Golly, ain’t it a show? I wonders what dem ornary
folks at de corner ’ill say when I tells ’em ’bout it?”
But Dinah’s eloquence was exhausted in vain. Mrs. Ransom scarcely gave a
glance at the tables, glittering with cut-glass, silver, and china, all
laden, and tinted with fruits, wines, and rich masses of flowers,
glowing out from a groundwork of snow. She was too deeply occupied by
her own thoughts to heed the picture, beautiful as it was.
“Humph!” muttered Dinah, as the two women glided through her domain,
“der am something in dat ar passage of Scripter as tells ’bout feeding
pigs wid pearls, and t’ings ob dat sort.”
And she consoled herself with a glass of wine, which she called three
waiters to pour out for her, taking plenty of time, as they stood in
obsequious attendance, to decide on the color of glass which should be
honored by an approach to her lips.
Mrs. Ransom followed Hetty Hart into her room. She looked around, with
interest, as if searching among the objects the chamber contained for
some idea of its inmate. Nothing was there which bespoke individuality.
Furniture, rich in itself, but evidently uncared for, occupied such
places as the chambermaid appropriated to it. There was no home-look,
and seemed to be no home-feeling in the room. It was a place in which
Hetty Hart sometimes shut herself up, and that was all.
“There is a bed,” said Aunt Hetty, wearily, “if you wish to lie down;
and easy-chairs, if you like them better. Excuse me, but I am unable to
talk. This night has almost killed me.”
Aunt Hetty sunk to a couch, as she spoke, and held her head between both
hands. Mrs. Ransom looked at her a moment with strange interest, and at
last sat down on the couch.
“It is no common distress that makes you so weak,” she said, very
compassionately. “I have experience, and some power; if any one on earth
can help you, confide in me. I am to be trusted, believe me.”
Aunt Hetty dropped her hands, and looked around eagerly, as if about to
open her heart; but her countenance contracted again, and she turned
moodily away without speaking.
“And you will not trust me! According to your own account, this
nervousness—this vague terror which comes and goes on your face—unfits
you for a struggle with real difficulties. Why not take counsel then?
Why not take help? Both are offered in good faith.”
Mrs. Ransom paused; but Aunt Hetty only made a faint negative movement
of the head.
“If money is wanting,” she went on to say. But Aunt Hetty gave that same
mournful wave of the head. Like all weak persons she was obstinate in a
negative, and in refusing to do any thing could be firm enough.
Mrs. Ransom was greatly troubled. She saw that some positive anxiety
preyed upon the helpless creature at her side; and, full of kindness,
ardent in her benevolence, she felt certain of the power to sweep this
evil aside, could she but learn its nature.
“Then you will not speak?” she said.
Aunt Hetty became impatient. Of late fits of fretful irritability would
seize upon her, and she, the quietest of human beings, would repulse
kindness almost with insult.
“I have nothing to tell—nothing to say. Cannot a poor woman have a
headache, or be a little vexed, without the whole world forcing itself
upon her? I don’t know you, ma’am. God help me! I scarcely know any one.
In the whole world there never was such a lorn creature. They call me an
‘old maid,’” she added, with a weak laugh, “and you know what fretful
creatures they always are.”
Mrs. Ransom arose and walked the floor. What could she effect with a
character like that! With all her genius she had no power to overcome
that inert obstinacy which fear makes strong. Still she could not
abandon the poor creature, whose sole wish was to conceal that she
suffered. She sat down again, but Aunt Hetty moved on the couch to avoid
her.
“Who are you?” she said, impatiently. “I ask you here, because you look
tired, but you will neither lie down yourself nor let me rest.”
“I am a lone woman, like yourself.”
“Like me! Like me!”
“Worse! for I cannot be resigned. I struggle and suffer: you bow to the
storm; I brave it.”
“That is the way Sarah used to talk.”
“And who was Sarah?”
“My sister. Oh, my God! my God! why did I mention her? What if she were
here now! Tell me—for they pretend that you know every thing—tell me if
spirits do come back? If they ever know what we are doing here? Oh,
don’t look at me with those great eyes. I have no secret for you to
search out. Only tell me this one thing.”
“I have no knowledge beyond this life—no means of knowledge which the
Bible does not give to you as well.”
“The Bible! I will not search that. I have not touched the Bible
since—almost since I came here.”
“Read it then.”
“No! no!”
“Let me read it for you: it will tranquillize us both.”
“While the house is shaken with dancers, and wine is running like water
in the rooms below! This is no place or time for the Bible. Hark! they
are laughing loud now!”
Mrs. Ransom started up.
“No! that was a shriek—a cry of anguish! Great heavens! it comes again!
Something has happened!”
She opened the door and fled down the long passages; but Hetty Hart fell
upon the couch and began to moan.
CHAPTER XXXI.
THE MASTER OF THE FESTIVAL.
From the moment his guests began to assemble, Mr. Bentley, whose
delicate organism was but little in keeping with such scenes, felt
himself giving way to a strange, nervous depression. The brilliant
assembly laughing, dancing and chattering around him, seemed like
persons in a dream, surrounding him with splendid gayety that made his
heart ache.
Of all the persons in those rooms but two stood out distinct and real
before him. Those two were Gillian, his beautiful, beautiful daughter,
and Mrs. Ransom, the author, whose presence became so fascinating, and
yet so painfully irksome, that every sense and faculty of his being was
aroused in strange antagonism. Her voice smote his ear as something
unnatural which he had buried among other pains long ago. Her bearing,
so proud and imperial, seemed to drive back a thousand tender memories
that disturbed him without taking definite form. But he stood in the
centre of those princely rooms, apparently calm and gracious as became
the host of a fashionable assembly. Many a gentle hand-clasp, many a
smiling welcome passed his lips of which he was but vaguely conscious.
Though delicate and sensitive beyond ordinary men, he had a power of
habit—the strong will which conceals what the world cannot
understand—and these gave to his demeanor all that the occasion
required—life, politeness, and calm elegance.
But when the guests were all assembled—when the music rang out loud, and
the floor trembled beneath the whirling dancers—when figures flitted two
by two in and out of the conservatory, coquetting, as it seemed, with
the flowers, and merriment reigned supreme everywhere—he stole away up
the grand staircase, and into a little room in which he kept a desk and
some papers, with a few choice books of devotion. This little room was
to him an oratory of the heart; the plain table that stood within it, an
altar; and the Bible which lay upon that was a guide to that peace he
never hoped for on earth.
Every thing was plain and simple in this room. The shutters were closed,
and a lamp burned on the table. A faint hum of the revelry below reached
it; but the music was so distant that it sounded mournful to him: and
the pale light seemed quiet and serene after the floods of brilliancy he
had just left. He sat down in a chair near the table, and dropping his
forehead into the hollow of one hand sighed heavily.
“What is this?” he murmured, audibly. “Has time, which works wonders to
other men, no power with me? Years piled on years are insufficient to
build a wall between me and that miserable time. What has chanced
to-night? Who has crossed me in any thing, that I feel this dreary old
pain come back so sharply? I did think—God help me!—I did think that
this fête would do something for me, that in the triumph and beauty of
my child some little ray of joy or ambition might come back; but it is a
failure. God help me! my whole life has been a failure.”
The hand which supported his forehead slid down to his eyes; the
quivering fingers pressed themselves together an instant, and then were
quickly withdrawn; while two or three bright drops flashed by the lamp
and settled darkly on the table, the rain of a heavy heart.
While his eyes were yet misty with tears, a footstep approached the door
of his retreat—a heavy footstep that had no business there, for in that
room Mr. Bentley never received message or visitor. There was not a
servant in the family who would have dared to approach him while in that
part of the house. With the quick impatience which follows hidden grief
of any kind, he turned upon his chair and looked almost fiercely at the
door. It opened, and young Hurst came in, smiling blandly, as if certain
of a pleasant welcome.
“I saw you retire from the drawing-room,” he said, “and made an attempt
to follow you earlier; and but for a little scene in the hall between
your pretty niece and some person in the costume of a rustic, who saw
fit to question my right to waltz with her cheek so close to mine, I
should have accomplished it.”
Mr. Bentley arose from his chair, resting one hand upon the back. There
was no other seat in the room, and he made no gesture to offer that. On
the contrary, a look of repelling surprise met the flippancy of this
speech.
“Sit down,” said Hurst, blandly. “I did not expect a very cordial
reception, but this is unpleasantly chilling. Sit down, sir. I will
occupy a corner of the table while we converse, for I really have a
little business which you must listen to.”
While Mr. Bentley stood looking sternly upon him, Hurst pushed the Bible
aside and seated himself upon the table, where he locked his hands over
one knee, resting his heel on the edge.
“Yes,” he said, pleasantly, “I have business important to me, for it is
a question of some millions of dollars—how many you will tell me
by-and-by. Sit down, sir, I entreat: this conversation will be long
enough to tire you out, unless you set a lighter value on my father’s
fortune than I can reasonably expect.”
Mr. Bentley stood confounded by the young man’s insolence. He was no
pugilist to turn him out by force, and it was easy to see that the man
before him was inaccessible to moral influences. He turned quietly, and
was about to leave the room; but Hurst sprang up and dashed between him
and the door, which he locked.
Retreating toward the table, with the key grasped tight in one hand, his
whole countenance changed. The flippant air with which he had entered
fled, and he confronted Mr. Bentley with a face as pale and stern as his
own.
“I come on a serious business, sir, and will be heard!”
Mr. Bentley sat down. “If you have any business that can possibly excuse
this intrusion, I am ready to listen.”
Hurst did not sit on the table now, but leaned upon it with one hand,
which brought his face more nearly on a level with Mr. Bentley’s: for a
moment he did not speak.
“I am waiting,” said Mr. Bentley, with grave courtesy.
Hurst hesitated, and the hand upon which he leaned seemed to give way,
for his whole body wavered; and his voice was so husky that he made one
or two efforts to speak before he could utter a word.
“You—you had a cousin, sir, I believe—a cousin from whom you inherited
all the fortune you possess?”
Mr. Bentley made a faint inclination of the head.
“But for this property you would have been, like myself, a poor young
fellow living on his wits.”
Mr. Bentley smiled. “But for that property I might have been a poor
young fellow; but not, according to your meaning, living on my wits.
While there was honest labor to perform I should have lived by that!”
“Every one to his taste. Let us keep close to the real subject. The
wealth you inherited from your cousin is all you now own.”
“So far as property can be unchangeable, yes. But unless these questions
have a grave object, they are more than impertinent.”
“Your Cousin Bentley was killed, I believe, on his way to the old
homestead in Rockland county—a farm at that time mortgaged to him—killed
by the upsetting of his carriage!”
Mr. Bentley grew ashen with the terrible recollection. He could not
speak, the picture of that death had been so rudely placed before him;
his head fell forward, and Hurst seized upon that as a confirmation of
what he had asserted. He went on, harshly dragging the sensitive nature
before him over the thorny past.
“When the elder Bentley left New York for Rockland county, did he tell
you why he visited the old farm-house?”
Bentley arose from his chair pale as death.
“Young man, how dare you question me of these matters? By what right———”
He paused and drew back, trembling from head to foot. Something in the
face of the young man struck him to the heart. It might have been in the
expression—it might have been in the features; but something there was
which held his breath and left him weak as a child.
Hurst smiled; he saw the paleness of that face, and understood the
sodden suspicion that had seized upon the proud man, and felt it as a
triumph.
“I question you of my father’s death. Who will dispute the privilege of
a son to seek knowledge?”
“Your father!”
The words came from his lips like fiery coals; the white face blazed
out, and Bentley sprang upon the young man strong and fierce as a tiger.
“Your father!—her child! Great God! save me from myself—save me—save me
from murdering this thing!”
He fell back in his chair, with great beads of sweat trembling on his
forehead; something of the gladiator broke from his eyes; and over his
whole countenance came a look of unutterable loathing.
“What do you ask? Tell me what I can do or give to save my eyes from
that face again?”
“You have nothing to give, sir. It is I who can play the benefactor—I,
whom you have wronged out of name, property, every thing—I, the son of
your Cousin Bentley, the just owner of his property, the master of this
house.”
“Property, name—take every thing, more than every thing; but if you
would not make me a murderer, out of this room! out of my sight
forever!” cried Bentley, shaking with terrible passion. “I cannot
restrain myself: the sight of you makes a demon of me.”
“If the very dread of poverty makes a fiend of you, its reality has not
left me quite an angel, so beware how you carry insult too far!” said
Hurst, in a voice made low and hoarse with rage.
Bentley sprang forward again with his arm outstretched and flecks of
foam on his white lips. Hurst stepped aside, and the pale hand clenched
in rage fell upon the Bible. Instantly the passion left that face, the
drops again started on the white forehead, and lowering his bead Bentley
cried out, “God forgive me!—oh! my God, forgive me!”
Then all was calm again. He sat down feebly, pressed one hand over his
eyes, and looked up without shrinking.
“I can listen now,” he said. “Be more explicit. You claim to be the son
of William Bentley, if I heard you right?”
“His son and heir, his only son, his legal heir.”
A look of something more than astonishment shot over Bentley’s face—a
gleam that seemed almost like joy. Hurst looked upon him amazed by the
impression made by words with which he had expected to crush the proud
man.
“Was he married to her?”
“Do you require proof?”
“Proof! yes, positive, incontestible proof—nothing less should convict
me as the cold-blooded tyrant I have been.”
“They will be forthcoming,” said Hurst, surprised and hesitating.
“Now—now, sir—if such proof exists—if you are his child—his legal
son—give me a certainty of it.”
“And will you then yield up my rights?”
This question was put in a low voice, and with a quailing of the eye of
which Bentley, in his excitement, was unmindful.
“Your rights! Oh, you mean this property—William’s property,” answered
Bentley, in a vague way, as if that branch of the subject had but just
presented itself. “Who can doubt it? Her child—her lawful son—who can
doubt it? But the proof—the proof!”
Hurst turned pallid—his hand shook perceptibly as it approached an inner
pocket of his vest. Bentley’s eyes followed the hand so keenly; that it
seemed to wither beneath his glance, and fell down powerless. Bentley
was white as snow; eyes, lips, and forehead—all were full of intense
anxiety. When Hurst’s hand fell he uttered a faint groan, as if
disappointed.
“It is false then—all false—you have no such proof,” he said, in a
trembling voice. “It is cruel, sir, more than cruel, to raise such hopes
wantonly.”
“Hopes! Mr. Bentley?”
“Peace, sir! Do not dare to mock me again with romances, I have had
enough of them. If it’s not all a lie, say it at once; but remember I
want facts, proofs—such facts, such proofs as a judge upon the bench
decides from.”
“They are here!” said Hurst, huskily, and drawing some papers from his
pocket he laid them on the table.
Mr. Bentley looked on the papers a whole minute, without moving or
seeming to breathe; then he slowly reached forth his hand, drawing one
of the papers toward him. He held it between both hands, and slowly
lowered it to the light. The paper dropped from his grasp, both hands
were pressed to his heart, and falling back, Bentley uttered the cry
which had startled Mrs. Ransom in Aunt Hetty’s room.
Hurst stood a moment, gazing vaguely on the stricken man, who neither
moved nor breathed. The sight of that paper seemed to be his death-blow.
He lay prone in the chair, with one hand on his heart, the other falling
heavily down. His lips were white, his eyes closed—nothing could have
been more deathly.
Hurst was too much excited for judicious action. He really believed the
man dead, and, selfish always, bethought himself first of his own
safety. It would lead to awkward questions if he were found alone with
the master of that house either insensible or dead. He must get away and
mingle with the crowd. Life would return to the helpless form before
him, if it still existed; if not, there could be no use in his
remaining.
With these thoughts chasing each other through his selfish brain, Hurst
gave one frightened glance at that pale face, and left the room; for he
heard footsteps approaching, and fled like a coward.
Yes, he heard footsteps approaching. Down through the dim corridor,
breathless and eager, came a woman following the sound of that one cry,
with a flight as sure as that of a mother bird when its young chirps for
help. The pale, wild face shone out in contrast with the gorgeous
antiquity of the dress, and the ghostly wave of white feathers kept the
shadows in motion around her head. With an intuition keen as knowledge,
Julia Ransom turned to the study door, opened it, and found Bentley
apparently dead in his chair.
With a cry of terrible anguish, she bent over him and lifted his pale
head to her bosom. She had no restorative—nothing but the touch of her
trembling hands, and the breath of her lips. But she held him close,
close to her bosom with both arms; and down upon his cold mouth she
pressed her own, concentrating all the strength and warmth of her life
to restore his.
Then she would draw back and look down upon the face, with such wild,
wild terror in her glances, that they might have aroused a dead heart to
beating. For the first time since we have known, this woman the whole
force of her nature broke forth, transfiguring her utterly.
Again she pressed her lips to the cold mouth, and laid her hand on the
still heart. It beat very, very faintly; but life was there. She was
seized with terror at this, and grew still, holding her breath with a
fear that he would come to and find his head on her bosom. She had no
courage to remove it—no power to hush the swell of her own heart. All
that she asked was that he should remain a little longer in that deathly
state—a little longer resting there against her heart. So she held her
breath, and grudgingly loosened her clasped arms, looking down upon him
with such yearning—such intense, passionate tenderness.
What spirit of love and mercy was it that held those numb senses back
according to her wish? Once the breath swelled softly in his chest, and
the flutter of a pulse stirred his wrist, but Bentley neither opened his
eyes nor attempted to move. Nay, as she gazed upon his face,
illuminating it with her glances, it seemed as if a smile stole over the
features. It might have been the lamp-light flickering over them, but
certainly the coldness was gone.
Yes, the color came back—the smile parted his lips.
He began to struggle faintly, and opened his eyes. He was alone in the
room. The lamp shone and fluttered, as if a draught of air had swept it,
but there was no visible presence.
Bentley stood up and looked around. Was it in truth a dream? Had he
slept in his chair and been haunted with old memories? That scene with
Hurst—was it a cheat of uneasy slumber? The circling arms, the heave of
that full heart, the kisses which still seemed glowing on his mouth—had
his youth come back in the mockery of a vision?
Certainly, it must be so! What man or woman would dare to enter that
room? Yes, it was all a dream—the offshoot of excitement and exhaustion.
Strange, though, that young Hurst, a man in whom he had taken no
interest, should have so wildly figured there; as for the rest, God help
the unhappy man! it was only in sleep that his head could ever rest as
it had done that night. All the joy he had gathered for years had been
such husks stolen from delusions. No, no, it was all of a piece. He had
been asleep and dreaming.
But, the sound of distant music—the tread of light feet vibrating
through the entire building—the hum as of swarming bees—his own dress so
elaborately rich—the white gloves which he had drawn off and laid on the
table: these were realities. Then came the opening of that door—the
young man sitting insolently on the table—the papers: no dream was ever
so vivid as that. The rest was indistinct—a cheat of the heart; but this
portion— why did it stand out so vividly?
While he pondered thus his eyes fell on the floor, and there lay a paper
exactly like those he had been thinking of. He stooped, and held it to
the light. It was a letter, old and yellow, directed to the Rev. J.
Frost in her handwriting.
He looked wildly around. Some one had been there in his room. The papers
were real. That letter—he had seen such before—one in the same
handwriting, but with the name of a dead man, for the address had
crushed all the joy from his life. He could not read this yellow old
letter fluttering in his hand. What had he to learn? Why torture himself
by duplicatory proofs against the dead?
But then came another memory—another paper—something that had stricken
the very life from his system. Was that a reality?
At first he was seized with an impulse to rush down and find this man
Hurst, who undoubtedly held some power that was terrible over the past
and the future; but dread of finding the vague idea that had seized upon
him a delusion, kept him back. Besides, a sense of exhaustion still lay
heavily upon him. He had neither the power to think nor act. So there he
sat, with the paper in his hand, conscious that it was real, but
unbelieving. It seemed impossible to separate what was true from that
which must have been a delusion.
CHAPTER XXXII.
MARTHA HART’S FIRST POLKA.
In the meantime the rooms below had been the scene of some little
revolt. Late in the evening a young man, in the holiday costume of a
country farmer, had presented himself in the hall. Old Dinah, who was
ubiquitous that evening, saw the young man, and gave him a welcome that
quite astonished the other servants, who had remarked, hitherto, that
her approbation was graduated by the splendor of costume which each
visitor presented. But here was an exception; and Dinah not only
condescended to receive the farmer guest, but preceded him, with her
flowing dress and turban, through the suit of rooms, watching his
amazement triumphantly, as if the whole establishment had been her own
individual property.
As they passed into the drawing-room, Dinah halted.
“Dar!” she said, pointing to a couple that flitted in and out among the
dancers, “there’s her whizzin’ ’bout like a top. Wait jes one minute,
and I’ll cotch her.”
“What, that!—that girl with the bare arms and white shoulders! That
girl, my—my—look here, old snow-ball, none of that, for I won’t stand
it!”
Dinah drew up, and her nose curled, in a small way, like the trunk of an
elephant.
“Ole snow-ball! Well, dar, if dem isn’t words to come out ob a gemman’s
mout’ in de presence ob de fair sect, an’ in scenes ob festialities like
dis. If ’twasn’t for despairing de blum ob my ’plexion, I’d blush for
yer; as de ’casion is, I dus dat inside, hi!”
The young man did not heed her, but pushed forward into the crowd, where
he could gain a better view of the dancers. A scene like that had never
presented itself to the young countryman before. He had seen dancing, in
a pleasant way, at a Fourth of July ball, and sometimes at an apple cut
or husking, where tidy young girls, in white dresses and colored
ribbons, went through a French four, or opera reel, with a certain
rustic grace; but the scene before him was new even to his imagination:
the whirl, the music, the euphonious tread of the dancers, the floating
plumes, and cloud-like dresses bewildered, while the dance itself
repulsed him. In all this crowd his eyes followed one couple only; and
as they grew familiar to the scene, the color deepened on his ruddy
cheek, and his eyes glittered with rage.
The polka, that most frivolous of all dances, had been introduced into
society that season, making the old-fashioned waltz a puritanical affair
in comparison. Into this last French inspiration the more reckless of
the company had plunged, rushing up and down the room in pairs, stifling
the first idea of an old-fashioned shuffle in its premonitory symptoms,
and giving every indication of beginning some rather elaborate dance
which failed utterly in the completion. Tall men bent themselves into
the form of an ancient bow, in order to clasp short ladies by the waist;
and diminutive youngsters looked pert as quails, while aspiring to lift
their shoulders to a convenient level for the queenly race of dancers.
Altogether the exhibition was a graceless affair in every way; and men
of less inherent delicacy than John Downs might well have changed color
on seeing it for the first time. The poor fellow grew red and white
every instant, for there was pretty Martha Hart—the plump, wholesome,
little Hebe—circled by the arm of a handsome young fellow, with her arm
half round his neck, her cheek warm and red, leaning to his stooping
face, her eyes sparkling, her heart panting beneath the pressure of his
hand. Breaking up her steps and giving her pretty foot a stamp now and
then, she whirled off like a rocket or went rushing like mad toward the
conservatory, and back again into the crowd, all in a frenzy of motion,
which ended in nothing but a repetition of the same silly manœuvre.
No wonder John Downs could not bear the sight—no wonder he thought of
the time when, standing on the deck of that steamer, he had trembled
while pressing the hand to his lips, which now lay so lovingly on a
stranger’s shoulder. His breath came heavily, his eyes gleamed, and he
stood with his hand clenched hard, panting to knock the man down on the
instant, and only withheld by the fact that half a score of other men
were giving countenance to this impudent fellow’s audacity.
Gillian was not dancing; she had practised the polka with Martha many a
time, but that exquisite delicacy which springs from new-born love made
her shrink from it now. So leaning upon Woodworth’s arm, she moved away
among her guests, diffusing some of the bright happiness which glowed in
her own heart all around.
She saw John Downs standing alone watching the dancers. It had been a
kind thought with her when she sent a card for her ball to Martha’s
lover, hoping to surprise the dear girl into happiness like her own. But
a glance from that wrathful face to the young girl and Michael Hurst,
her partner, betrayed the mistake she had innocently made. With an
anxious flush on her face, she went up to the young countryman, holding
out her hand.
“Ah, Mr. Downs, how glad I am that you accepted my invitation!”
Downs started and took her hand softly, as if it had been a white rose,
from which he feared the leaves would fall away.
“Ah, Miss, I—I didn’t know what it was—I didn’t expect———”
He broke off abruptly, and dropping her hand, turned his face away.
“Have you seen my father?”
“No, Miss, I haven’t seen anybody, that is to speak of, except old
Dinah, and she went off in a huff.”
Gillian laughed sweetly, and quitting Woodworth’s arm with a little
imperative nod, took possession of the stranger.
“Come now, we will find him somewhere; by that time Cousin Matty will be
through with her first polka.”
“Her what?”
“Why, the dance you were looking at—we have practised it together so
often. She never danced it with any one but me before; but ladies cannot
dance together here, you know, and I was watching to see how she got on
with Aunt Hetty’s young friend—almost a relation, I might say, for Aunt
Hetty has known him since he was a boy, I believe—I am quite sure the
dear old lady would not have been satisfied if Martha hadn’t danced with
him.”
“Then it is to please Miss Hetty Hart that she dances this new
fandangle?”
“I’m sure of it!” said Gillian, leading him away.
Downs turned his head over one shoulder and cast a lingering glance at
the dancers.
“She—she don’t seem in great trouble about it—she’s willing enough, I’ll
be bound!” he said, with a gust of jealousy. “But I might have known how
it would end.”
Gillian felt a throb of compassion for the poor fellow. “What a terrible
thing it must be to doubt any one!” she thought. “Besides, Martha does
plunge into gayety this evening like a child. What shall I do?”
She was quietly forcing her companion away from the room, but he checked
her near the conservatory, and wheeling round looked back upon the
dancers. The music changed, Martha left the floor, it seemed a little
reluctantly, for she shook her head and pouted, while Hurst searched for
a seat and left her.
“One minute—please excuse me one minute, Miss Bentley; but I must speak
with that chap before he gets away!”
Before Gillian could speak, Downs had dropped her hand from his arm, and
hurried away through the crowd, following Hurst, who was softly stealing
towards the vestibule, intent on the interview with Mr. Bentley which we
have just described. Downs overtook him just as he was about to mount
the stairs, and laid a heavy hand on his arm.
“I say, you sir, just one word. I’ve been watching your way of dancing
with a respectable man’s daughter, and I don’t like it. Do you
understand?”
Hurst looked back at his questioner, laughed a little quiet laugh, and
said:
“What the deuce do I care whether you like it or not?”
“But I will make you care, Mr. Jackanapes. The young lady is a—a friend
of mine—or at any rate, her father is—and I won’t see her innocent
nature imposed on by any of you city gentlemen.”
“Oh! I see you are a real countryman—no fancy character—an admirer of
Miss Martha’s, perhaps—no one could act the part so well. With all my
heart: I have no wish to interfere with you.”
The young man spoke contemptuously, but with an evident wish to get rid
of the whole thing.
“Then you have no interest? You don’t care for the young lady?”
“Not a particle. Shouldn’t care if she disappeared from the face of the
earth in half an hour; so don’t bore me about her, my good fellow.”
Downs clenched his hand, while his face burned like fire.
“And it is with a fellow like you she—she—I tell you what, this air
don’t suit me. I never was so tempted to lock horns with an animal in my
whole life!”
“Why, my dear sir, what have I done? Danced the polka—a confounded
insipid affair, by-the-way—with a pretty girl who would never have
forgiven me if I had not asked her. Go quarrel with her if you are in a
particularly belligerent humor, for the fact is, she tired me out; I
cannot boast of your athletic strength!”
“That’s true,” said Downs, unclasping his hand, and looking very much
like a great Newfoundland dog pitted against a terrier. “You arn’t worth
whipping, and wouldn’t a-been worth minding but for the wrong you’ve
done.”
“Wrong! Now, my good fellow, do be reasonable. What harm is there in
dancing the polka with a pretty girl?”
“What is the harm in brushing all the down from a ripe peach just as it
takes its last red from the sun? What’s the harm in dashing the purple
dew from a plum? What’s the harm of setting a coarse foot into
new-fallen snow, that other coarse feet may tread after you? I’m a plain
man, a farmer, and in driving cattle I get a rough way of speaking; but
I’d as soon steal the blue eggs from a robin’s nest, as lead any girl
into exhibiting herself, as you have tempted the sweetest, the most
innocent—Oh Jupiter! if you only had the muscle of a man, I’d break
every bone in your body!”
“But only having a slight frame, and no inclination for battle, you will
be good enough to let me pass on; especially as the servants are amusing
themselves with your gestures and rather loud conversation.”
Downs looked around, and saw that a group of idle waiters had gathered
near them; and in their midst stood Aunt Dinah grimly regarding him.
With a lofty shake of the turban she came forward.
“Now I isn’t gwine ter see yer maken an obstreperous fool ob yerself and
not ’pose my ’thority, if yer did call me olprobationary names,” she
said, with an accession of dignity, that, in spite of his annoyance,
made Downs laugh. “Ain’t yer ’shamed ob yerself, a-bringin’ up der
apperlations ob ’spectable young ladies to raise a muss ’bout? I’m
’shamed an’ ’stonished, I is, John Downs; whar’s yer ’scretion? whar’s
yer broughten up—whar?”
Under cover of this authoritative remonstrance, which edified the
waiters immensely, Hurst made his escape, and from that scene went into
the private room of Mr. Bentley, whose very existence seemed shaken by
that visit.
Downs returned to the festal rooms ashamed of his recent outbreak, and
anxious to apologize for the rudeness of his departure from Miss
Bentley: perhaps, too, he hoped that some excuse or explanation of
Martha’s offence might meet him. So, in a state of contrition, and but
half-subdued excitement, he went into the library and was swept on by
the living current that crowded through the rooms. All at once he came
upon Gillian. She was standing with one arm around the naughty
flower-girl, who looked very subdued and depressed, like a child that
bad been unexpectedly called up for punishment in the midst of play.
John took a little circuit in the crowd, and came close up to the young
girls as they stood together. All his anger had left him at the sight of
that pretty, clouded face, and compunction for his violence rendered him
diffident as if he had been the culprit. He dared not speak, nor touch
her, but stood holding his breath, afraid to move.
“What did you let him go for? How could he act so unfeelingly? It’s too
bad!” There was a sob in Martha’s voice, and she began biting the corner
of her embroidered handkerchief in sorrowful anger, repeating again and
again, “It’s too bad—it’s too bad!”
John’s heart rushed to his mouth, and he was about to speak, when Martha
broke forth again:
“I wish you hadn’t invited him.”
“Who?” said Gillian, “Michael Hurst?”
“Michael Hurst! No, but John Downs.”
Here John shrank back with a heart like lead.
“But I thought it would give you pleasure—that you liked him.”
John did not breathe.
“What is the good of liking him?” cried Martha, with tears in her eyes.
“He hates, he despises me, and all because of that hateful Hurst, just
as if I cared for him or thought of him; a post would have been just the
same if it kept step, I’m sure.”
Again Downs felt his heart rising.
“I never thought of him once while we were rushing about there. It
seemed nice enough when you and I practised: didn’t you think so,
Gillian? and now I can’t bear the idea of it. Oh, how I hate that Mike
Hurst!”
John Downs was trembling all over now. His quick breath caught Gillian’s
attention: a glance and she stole away.
“Martha.”
Martha Hart gave a dainty shriek, and struggled a little to get her hand
away from the strong fingers that grasped it.
“I—I wonder how you dare, Mr. Downs. I thought you had gone for
good—indeed I hoped so.”
“It is not too late, Martha,” said the young man, forgetting, in the
pain of her present coquetry, the words she had uttered a moment before,
“Good-night!”
Martha looked frightened; her fingers clung around his; and she gave him
a glance from her fine eyes that would have brought an eagle to her
feet.
“Yes, go. Good-night!” cried the little rogue, tightening her clasp,
“go.”
John struggled a little, as you have seen a fly with all his feet
tangled in a spider’s web.
“Perhaps you wish to dance again?”
“Yes,” said Martha, demurely, “I’m so very, very fond of dancing.”
“Very well!”
Here Downs made a great struggle, tore his hand from her clasp, and
smitten with instantaneous repentance, gave it back again.
“Yes,” she said, taking the truant hand, as if she did not know what to
do with it, “I’m very fond of dancing; if one could only get a partner
worth while; you never dance, I suppose?”
“Who told you so, Martha? Yes, I do.”
“Yes, French fours, the Virginia reel, and all that,” cried the little
vixen, with a lift of her white shoulders, “skim milk!”
“I rather think I could go a notch higher than that,” said Downs,
proudly.
“Ha! what, you?” cried Martha, brightening, but instantly her
countenance fell.
“Quadrilles, perhaps.”
Downs nodded.
“But they are so stiff after——”
“After waltzing?”
“Yes, after waltzing!”
“But I know the step. I—I’ve been to dancing-school, and used to waltz
with, with——”
“A pretty girl, I dare say—some lady that I’ve never heard of,” cried
Martha, pouting.
“No, never—I waltzed with the other boys—only with boys, I promise you.”
“And you wouldn’t like it,” said Martha, glancing down to her waist;
“you prefer great awkward boys, I dare say.”
Downs blushed to the temples, as his eyes followed her suggestive
glance.
“Will you?” he said, trembling all over, and stealing one arm round her
waist.
Martha’s eyes flashed under the long lashes like diamonds.
“There, put out your foot this way; that’s right now.”
Away the pair whirled through the boudoir, and into the library, which
was almost empty, but they had scarcely gone a round when the music
changed. Martha kept close to her partner. “There, break step this way;
try again; how awkward you are! Now, now, that’s splendid; through this
door into the drawing-room; one has more confidence in a crowd. Now for
it.”
“Dear—what’s that?” cried Gillian, as a couple came sweeping by the
place where she was standing with a velocity that stirred the air, and
sent her vail flashing around her like a cloud. “What on earth does that
mean?”
“Oh,” said Woodworth, laughing, “it’s only Miss Hart with another
captive in full training; see, isn’t the little rogue brilliantly
happy?”
That moment Martha, who had stopped for breath, gave Gillian a pretty,
triumphant nod, while she dropped a hand on her partner’s shoulder.
“Captive!” said Gillian, laughing brightly, as the pair rushed by again;
“he seems resigned, at any rate. Oh, there comes young Hurst; I thought
he had gone; it is full half an hour since I saw him go up-stairs; I
hope there will be no trouble about Cousin Martha. See how disturbed he
looks.”
“Yes,” said Woodworth, “but it is not on her account. There, he has just
caught sight of her among the dancers; upon my word, he is smiling; the
whole thing amuses him evidently. So, my queen, you need have no
apprehension from that quarter, Hurst loves himself too much for
unnecessary quarrels. Look, he is going to speak with them; how pale the
fellow is, though.”
“With jealous rage, perhaps,” said Gillian, struck with the strange look
of Hurst’s face.
“Nothing of the kind, fair lady! I fancy that feeling would be aroused
in this direction; I’m not quite blind if you are silent! That young man
cares no more for Miss Hart than you do about the rose-leaves dropping
from your bouquet; watch how quietly he addresses them!”
Hurst had in reality sauntered up to the dancers as they stood still for
a moment.
“Oh, Miss Martha! you must be spending a heavenly evening; it quite
wakes one up to see you dance: what power you ladies have! Now, I dare
say this young gentleman, to whom I haven’t been introduced, by-the-way,
has forgotten all about the bloom from ripe peaches, the purple dew from
plums, and the tread of coarse feet in newly-fallen snow, ha!”
Hurst had mistaken his man. Downs was not to be quietly brow-beaten
after that fashion, though the crimson did flash over his face.
“It makes a difference,” he said, looking at Martha; “my hand is not
that of a stranger. Come, Miss Hart, shall we join in the march?”
“It is for the supper-room. Where is Gillian? Where can Uncle Bentley
have hid himself this long time?”
Gillian was asking the same question. Where was her father? Where had
Mrs. Ransom and Aunt Hetty Hart gone? No one could tell; but Dinah
volunteered to make inquiries while her young mistress represented the
family in the supper-room. Directly she came back with word that Mr.
Bentley was asleep in his little study—sound asleep, she was sure, for
his arms were folded on the table, and his face buried in them; besides,
he neither spoke nor moved when she asked him to come down—a piece of
impoliteness which Dinah knew to be impossible had he been awake.
“Poor, dear papa!” sighed Gillian, “this confusion has been too much for
him; let him rest: we must find some excuse for his absence.” Thus, with
a little tender regret, Gillian entered the supper-room, leaning on the
arm of her betrothed.
There is something really beautiful in an artistically-arranged table,
which admits of an endless variety of form and tints; the glitter of
crystal, the frosted gleam of plate, the glow of purple, amber, and
ruby-hued fruits, snow-white pyramids of cake, pagodas of golden-hued
candy, and a thousand luscious trifles imbedded in flowers and sharing
their perfume, take all the combinations of a vast picture gorgeously
lighted up.
In this house the supper-room, in all its prodigal magnificence, was
duplicated by tall mirrors, each fitting the arch of a diminutive
colonnade, separated from the room itself by a line of light Corinthian
pillars, around which blossoming vines from the green-house had been
trained for the occasion. These vines, multiplied by the mirrors behind,
and emitting a delicate perfume, formed a succession of living garlands
that trembled in the clear, soft light, while a bay window at the upper
end of the room was a perfect bower of tropical leaves and blossoms.
Into this room the company flowed from the drawing-room and vestibule.
Behind the graceful shelter of the pillars the ladies retreated,
gathering into close groups, which the tall mirrors answered back, till
the gay multitude seemed twice its real size, and the scene resembled
the gathering of a court in some royal palace, more closely than any
thing ever attempted on this side the Atlantic.
For a little time the picture was sumptuously grand: even the waiters
hesitated to break up the gorgeous richness of the tables; but appetite
in a crowd will always drive taste to the wall. The first bunch of
hot-house grapes lifted from its silver dish was the signal for a score
of descending hands; towers of ice-cream began to tremble; jellies that
lay like masses of amber in beds of cut crystal, were cleft in a dozen
pieces, and sent off to all parts of the room; fruits that science alone
could have forced into ripeness at the same time, loaded the plates of
delicate Sevres china, which passed from the tables back to the fair
hands beyond. But there is no pleasure in describing the scene now—the
flash of crystal goblets, the explosions of champagne, the broken
pyramids and ruined towers. Every thing was broken up, fruit blossoms
and ices fell into interminable confusion; that which intellect and
taste had been weeks in creating, appetite seized upon, rent in pieces
and swept away in a single hour.
In the midst of the scene, while the scent of flowers was overborne by
the breath of a crowd of revellers, and the flash of champagne broke the
hum and laughter around, Gillian was startled by a whisper close to her
ear.
“The moment these people depart, go to your father; he is in the little
study!”
Gillian turned quickly, but no one whom she knew intimately enough for a
confidential whisper like that stood near. Still the whisper troubled
her. She must run away for a moment; no one would miss her in that
confusion: perhaps her father was ill.
Gillian had not entered her father’s private study half a dozen times in
her whole life. It was considered sacred to her father, who was always
remarked to retire into its seclusion whenever those deep fits of
sadness came upon him to which he had been subject ever since her
remembrance. A feeling of tender sorrow always came upon her when she
thought of her father in that place, and she approached it with a
sinking heart.
A light knock at the door brought no answer. She turned the latch softly
and looked in. Her father sat by the table with an old letter in his
hand, which he was pondering over in deep thought.
“Papa!”
Bentley started, and looked round.
“Gillian!” His voice was troubled.
“Papa! come down, if you are not quite tired out; the company will soon
be going away.”
“Not yet, my child; it is not time!”
“Indeed, father, it is very late. I have taken leave of some already;
and it is very awkward, you know, to be so entirely by myself: even Mrs.
Ransom, whom I depended on, forsakes me. I haven’t seen her these two
hours. Do come, papa, and show yourself, if it is only for ten minutes.”
“Hush! Gillian. Ask nothing of me yet. I must have one other interview
with this young man. If this proves true, why then, Gillian—then—but I
am talking vaguely,” Bentley continued, lifting a hand to his forehead,
“do not mind me, child, but go down.”
“And you will not come, dear father?”
“Not to-night; I am very busy. Don’t you see how busy I am?”
Gillian went into the room, and leaned over her father. She had never
seen that expression in his face before. It took her by surprise. A
fountain unlocked from ice could not have sent forth water more
brightly. Long hidden feelings had gushed up and illuminated his
features.
“Why, father, what is this?” she said, kissing his forehead; “you look
strangely.”
“I feel strange, very strangely.”
“But it is not trouble—surely it is not trouble?”
“It is almost happiness, Gillian!”
“Then I will leave you a little while. If you had been ill I could not
do it, company or not.”
“Yes, go; it is very pleasant here.”
“But kiss me, dear father, before I go,” she said, tenderly.
Bentley put her away, very gently, but with firmness.
“No, Gillian; another’s kiss was on my lips a little while ago. It was
only a dream, but let it rest there to-night.”
“Another’s?” cried the startled girl; “a kiss dearer than mine? Oh,
papa!”
“It was your mother’s, Gillian, given in my dreams. Now leave me, and
good-night.”
Gillian went away perplexed, and conscious that her father did not seem
like the same man.
An hour after, and those vast rooms were empty—a dark, confused ruin of
the beauty that had been. Gillian retired to her room, and slept, but
there were watchful eyes in that mansion all night.
And what had become of Mrs. Ransom? One or two persons remembered seeing
her, about the supper hour, leaving by one of the doors near which
Gillian was standing; then a servant in the hall remembered that she had
hurried past him, not far from the same time, without cloak or hood, and
entered her carriage, which had remained near the entrance, in great
haste.
The man was correct. Julia Ransom sprang into her carriage, and fell
upon the back seat, pressing both hands upon her heart. The coachman
held the door, waiting for orders.
“Home—home; drive fast, home!” she gasped, and, falling back to the
seat, muttered, “Oh, if I could but die at will!”
The horses dashed off, and she sat moaning within. “Years, time,
philosophy, religion, are they nothing? Can a moment sweep them off like
straws? Am I so weak? God help me! God help me!”
The carriage stopped. She sprang out, entered her house, and awoke Ruby
from a sound sleep.
“Ruby, my friend! Ruby, I say! get up and help me pack. I am going away.
Be quick, Ruby!”
The mulatto sat up in bed, rubbing her eyes.
“What is it, Missus?”
“We are going away, Ruby, to Europe. A steamer sails in the morning—we
must reach it by daylight. Do you understand me, Ruby?”
“Yes, Missus, we am going to sea right off. I’m ready. I’ll pack up
every thing in less than no time. Go, lay down, Missus, for you look
tired out.”
“No, no! I will help. For my life I could not rest. That is a good
girl—now let’s begin.”
That woman seemed to have the strength of a giant that night. She flung
off her ball costume, and worked hand in hand with Ruby; only pausing
now and then to say, “Make haste, girl, make haste!”
At daylight, that morning, she stood on the deck of an ocean steamer,
outward bound.
CHAPTER XXXIII.
THE MARRIAGE CERTIFICATE.
The Bentley ball would have supplied gossip and comment for the
fashionable world at least three days, but for the more interesting
romance that followed and sprung out of it. What was the good of
discussing dresses and flirtations when a real domestic drama gave a
zest to all these things which approached to scandal? Miss Gillian
Bentley was engaged to Woodworth, that was undoubted—Woodworth, the
rising man, the statesman just entering upon his career. But how would
it turn out now? There were doubts abroad that Bentley was no longer a
millionaire, that the queenly Gillian, with all her sumptuous pride,
might yet be compelled to get her living with the needle, or by giving
music-lessons. What would Woodworth think of this? Such men usually held
their fame and prospects at a high value; they were things which, well
managed, usually won gold in plenty. Ambitious papas, who had daughters
to dispose of in a country lacking all hereditary aristocracy, were
willing to unite their golden fortunes with mind, and so mount in the
social scale.
Had Woodworth brought his intellect and his fame to a market like this?
If so, what would be the result of a contest about Bentley’s property?
Would the scarcely-declared engagement be broken off? Would Gillian
release her lover? Would the property, in fact, be swept into the hands
of that handsome young clerk? What a catch he would be!
These were the questions that convulsed society for days after Gillian’s
first ball. The splendor and eclat of that occasion was swallowed up by
eager curiosity and wild conjecture. Young ladies, who had repulsed the
handsome clerk, now ruminated on the best way of retracing their
unfortunate arrogance. In short, society was all in a ferment of
conjecture. How it got abroad no one could tell; but the Bentley romance
and the Bentley ball drove every other topic out of society, before the
parties in the great question were themselves fully informed of the
position in which they were placed.
Would the young statesman ask for his freedom? Look at him as he stands
before Bentley, who sits so brave and strong in his library, telling the
young pair of the fate that threatened them. Does that white forehead,
those brightened eyes, look like those of a heart-traitor? You can see
his broad chest heave with a noble purpose—his mouth curve into a
pleasant smile. What does he care for the loss of wealth which he never
realized or brought into question when that true heart sought its mate?
Was Gillian less beautiful, less worthy, less loveable, because millions
of dollars might pass from her father’s possession? Was she a creature
made up of silks, velvet and Brussels paint, or a woman, young, earnest,
wealthy, in her own nature?
Woodworth never asked these questions. The idea of any thing separating
him from Gillian, which did not spring out of her own soul or his, had
not once presented itself.
And Gillian—of course some of my readers fancy that she must now set her
lover free, make a fine speech, and proudly stand aloof while her heart
breaks under its shield of magnanimous pride. No, no; Gillian was obtuse
like her lover. She could not force that pure, good heart into a
calculation like that. She could not so insult her lover.
They stood together there—two matchless specimens of the Almighty’s own
nobility—heart and mind, both were brave and loyal. Somehow their hands
crept into a mutual clasp, and, looking into each other’s eyes, they
smiled, as if some great good had befallen them.
Bentley looked upon them in surprise. He, too, seemed unusually brave;
his features were unlocked, his eyes full of animation. Had the weight
of gold taken from his shoulders left the heart more buoyant? It seemed
so.
“And this news does not depress you, my children?”
“Depress us, father!” cried Gillian. “Why should it? He is strong, and I
am to be his wife. He loves me, not your property; and I—this news
inspires me. I feel as if life were just beginning for us all.”
Woodworth drew her close to his side, his face was all a-glow with
tender admiration.
“You see, Mr. Bentley, I circle all that is grand, all that is immortal
of your wealth with my arm. In a country like this we need not fear to
look any future in the face. Your news must take another form before it
even scatters the roses from Gillian’s face. As for me, having made my
plans without reference to your property, I shall pursue them exactly as
if nothing had happened.”
“This is well,” said Bentley, drawing a deep breath. “Now the worst is
over. Gillian has been so tenderly, so luxuriously cared for, I
feared——”
“Feared that I could not live out of this perfumed atmosphere? Oh, try
me, father!” cried the young girl, eagerly. “You see I do not care. To
be his mate I should know how to live usefully. Oh, how I long to
begin!”
She laid her hand on Woodworth’s shoulder, and rested her warm cheek
upon it, while her father looked on, smiling.
“You see how far this goes toward breaking our hearts,” said Woodworth,
lifting a hand to her other cheek, and pressing the beautiful head to
his bosom. “So long as you, our father, do not grieve, we are happy.”
“Yes, very, very happy,” murmured Gillian.
Mr. Bentley arose, took Gillian in his arm, and kissed her tenderly.
“Now go, my child. This young man will be here directly, and I must see
him alone. Your fortitude has made me strong. She is a brave girl,
Woodworth.”
“She is mine!” cried the happy man, exultingly, “mine forever and ever.”
They went out, and in less than half an hour after young Hurst entered
the library. He seemed astonished to see Mr. Bentley walking up and down
the room with a glow upon his pale face, which made it look almost
youthful.
“Be seated,” said Bentley, taking a chair himself. “You made a strange
claim on me last night, sir. I was tired, and taken unawares. We will
now discuss the matter quietly.”
“It is what I wish, sir. The chain of evidence is complete, so my lawyer
tells me.”
“If your evidence is complete, there was no need of a lawyer.”
“Why—why, surely you will not yield this vast property without a
contest?”
“Without a murmur, if you can prove that Mehitable Hart was my cousin’s
wife, and you her legal son,” answered Bentley, with a calm smile.
Hurst stood gazing upon the upright man with his lips apart. This was a
phase of human nature which he could not understand.
“But this is quite necessary,” he said, at last. “I have no wish to
drive you from your possessions, far from it. There is a way by which
every thing can be arranged. Oh, teach your daughter to look upon me
with a little kindness, and all may be well.”
“My daughter, sir!”
“Yes, the beautiful Gillian. The clergyman who makes her my wife is all
the judge we require; never was a question of such moment so easily
settled.”
“And you wish to—to marry my daughter?”
“Yes, sir, you see all the advantages at a glance: even the name will
seem an arranged thing: nothing more easy. The husband takes the lady’s
name frequently when it chances to have advantages superior to his own.
I—I am ready to make even that sacrifice.”
“But my daughter is engaged!”
Hurst smiled.
“But what will that engagement amount to after this is made known? Your
man of genius, sir, is the most rabid of gold hunters; tell your
daughter’s betrothed that she is penniless, and you will soon make her a
free woman.”
“But I have told him of the chances that she is penniless.”
“And the result?”
“He asks for an earlier day, that is all.”
Hurst pressed his lips hard.
“And the lady?” he said, at last.
“And the lady seems disposed to oblige him.”
“But you, sir?”
“I, Mr. Hurst, am not a man to bring a child like Gillian into a bargain
like this; have the goodness to drop her name at once, and think of her
only as the bride of a good man.”
Hurst turned white.
“Then you reject all compromise?”
“I reject any thing which involves my daughter. She is mated, and I
approve of her choice entirely.”
“Then it is war between us.”
“Where two parties resolve to be just, war seldom arises.”
“Sir, I love your daughter!”
“Not another word of her! But to the proofs: I wish to look over the
papers you brought me last night—I wish to see and question Miss Hetty
Hart.”
“Mrs. William Bentley—that is my mother’s name.”
“God grant that it may prove so,” cried Bentley, lifting a hand to his
forehead. “Sir, you cannot understand—you never will understand.”
The hand sunk over his eyes, and Hurst could see the features begin to
quiver—he misunderstood the sources of this emotion.
“Oh, sir! if you would but reconsider—if your daughter does not partake
of this wealth it is nothing to me.”
Bentley lifted his head.
“No more of her!” he said, sternly. “Let me look at the certificate and
the letters.”
Hurst took a slip of yellow paper from his pocket-book and laid it on
the table; his face took an ashen tinge, and his eyes gleamed like those
of a rattlesnake while Bentley examined the document; you could see his
fingers quiver as if with eagerness to snatch the paper away. Was he
afraid that Bentley would tear it up, and thus destroy the evidence that
threatened to render him a poor man? Or was there a deeper meaning for
that tremor and the gray paleness that crept over his face?
Bentley’s hand was steady, and he scrutinized the paper earnestly, but
with the look of a man searching for evidence which he wishes, rather
than dreads to find.
“The ink has not changed quite as much as the paper,” he said,
thoughtfully.
Hurst’s face grew livid. Bentley saw nothing of him, but muttered to
himself—
“One of these persons is dead, you say; but who is the other witness and
the clergyman—this Richard Frost? Is he alive?”
“He—he died years ago,” said Hurst, huskily; “as to the other witness,
she is or was a very old woman.”
“And living? Is this old woman to be spoken with?”
“I cannot tell: every search shall be made; but her signature is easily
proved,” answered Hurst, eagerly.
Bentley laid the certificate on the table before him.
“Take it,” he said, gently; “it is a precious paper; God forever bless
the man who left it.”
“Sir!”
Bentley smiled at his astonishment.
“Ah! you cannot understand; but I would know more—of course I must know
all. How came this certificate in your possession now and not before?”
“Mr. Frost was my guardian, selected by my mother and your wife. Of
course the papers connected with my rights were left with him.”
“But you did not know the minister: he died while you were a child.”
“His wife is living.”
“And did she give you the paper?”
Hurst had been growing more and more pallid; these were questions he had
not anticipated. At first he was about to answer that it was old Mrs.
Frost who had given him the papers; but remembering how clear and sharp
the old woman’s memory was, he changed the words on his lips.
“No, he left them with another person.”
“Who?”
Bentley was looking at him as he put the question. It would not answer
to falter under that searching look.
“Mrs. Nicholson.”
“Mrs. Mary Nicholson?”
“Yes.”
“Why that is the name I just read here—the other witness!”
Hurst stood mute; a shiver ran through him; he had entangled himself in
the first steps of his case.
“Yes, it is the same,” he said, at last, but with a great effort.
“Then she is alive; I must see her.”
“She was alive; of course she will be hunted out in time. It is some
months—almost a year since I came in possession of the papers.”
“And you have kept them all this time? Why?”
Hurst smiled sadly.
“Can you ask the question? You were of my father’s blood; Gillian was
nearer yet, and I loved her. How could I find the heart to claim what
she considered as her birthright?”
Bentley was touched; this magnanimity appealed to his fine nature. He
began to pity the young man, who, after all, had been greatly sinned
against somewhere.
“But you make the claim now?”
“Not till I hear her name coupled openly with another—not till she has
met my advances with cutting scorn: I should have been more than human
to abstain after that. Now, even now, there is no influence that can
force me into open hostilities so long as there is a hope of gaining
her. But I will not lose every thing; I will not enrich that man with my
own birthright: that would be madness, not generosity.”
“You are right, young man. If this document is genuine there is no
middle course. The estates I inherited from William Bentley are yours; I
shall not withhold them.”
“I knew this would be your magnanimous course, and so shrunk from the
step I have taken.”
Bentley bowed, and answered, rather hurriedly,
“But I must see these people face to face. Your mother—I thank God she
is your mother—this Mrs. Nicholson, and any person capable of proving
the marriage. It is just, it is important from deeper, far deeper
reasons than this property. I tell you, young man, there shall be no
doubt left. I will search for the truth in that old minister’s grave
rather than not find it, now that there is a doubt.”
Hurst was disturbed. He had expected a fierce contest. Now it seemed as
if the man he sought to despoil was more eager to get proofs of his
claim than he himself had ever been. The whole thing perplexed him
greatly. There was a moment’s silence: then Mr. Bentley spoke.
“Those letters, you will leave them with me for a few hours; not the
certificate—I do not ask for that—but the letters. I wish to read them
now when I am alone.”
“They are my proof!”
“I know it, but you will trust me.”
Hurst could not help it; precious as the letters were, he laid them on
the table. The integrity of that man could not be doubted.
“Thank you,” said Bentley, laying his slender hand on the package, and
lifting his face with a sad, grateful smile. “Come to me in the morning,
and we will search this matter more thoroughly.”
Hurst went out, bowing low, and with some pure human feelings clamoring
at his heart.
CHAPTER XXXIV.
THE UNCERTAIN WITNESS.
“Mary Nicholson!”
“Well, Mrs. Frost?”
“Mary Nicholson, where have you flirted off to, I should like to know?
Oh, Michael, you can’t tell what a trial that flighty creature is. If
ever I take another young person to bring up and be responsible for
during my whole life, you set me down as a born idiot, nothing less.
Mary Nicholson, I say, what are you doing?”
“Only putting—oh, dear, only—why nothing at all, Mrs. Frost,” cried Mrs.
Nicholson, appearing in the door of her bedroom with her foxy little
front all awry on her forehead, and a cap half on, the faded pink
ribbons of which she was tying.
“There it is,” said Mrs. Frost, with an indulgent smile, “always the
pink ribbons when a gentleman knocks. Now I tell you, Michael, this
giddy creature is setting her cap for you—her cap pink with bows and
streamers. Did you ever see anything so giddy? Well, Mary Nicholson, for
once Mr. Hurst really wants to see you. Sit down, and do, for mercy’s
sake, stop fidgeting with them cap strings—it’s enough to make one
sick.”
“Don’t be too severe on the lady,” said Michael, blandly; “for my part,
I think the pink ribbons charming: they give a delicate flush to the
complexion.”
“Mr. Hurst!” exclaimed Mrs. Frost, austerely.
“Oh, Mr. Hurst!” murmured Mrs. Nicholson, gratefully.
Michael smiled deprecatingly on Mrs. Frost, and ardently on Mrs.
Nicholson.
“Then you really cannot remember any thing about this ceremony, Mrs.
Frost?” he said, anxiously. “Still it must have taken place in your
house, and Mrs. Nicholson was undoubtedly present, for her name is on
the certificate.”
“I—I—did you mean me?” gasped Mrs. Nicholson. “Of course I had a
certificate; who doubts it?—who dares attempt to take away my character?
Mrs. Frost, you may call me young and giddy, and a flirt, but don’t
insinuate to Mr. Hurst that I never had a certificate, because I had.”
“You don’t understand,” said Hurst, soothingly, “it is not of your
marriage certificate we speak; but of one to which you were a witness,
years ago, when you first came to visit Mrs. Frost. Try and think: it
seems almost hopeless to ask one so blooming to remember back more than
twenty years; but every thing depends on it, Mrs. Nicholson—every thing
that I can have or hope for on earth. If you can only remember the
circumstances under which you wrote this name, it will put a million of
dollars in my pocket.”
“A million of dollars! Oh, Mr. Hurst!”
“A million of dollars! Besides giving you and Mrs. Frost a house of your
own, with an income that will make you the envy of half New York. A
thousand dollars a year—two, three thousand, if you want it!”
Mrs. Frost’s eyes began to glitter, and her head went off again,
nod—nod—nod, till Hurst really longed to take hold of her and set it
straight. But Mrs. Nicholson looked rather bewildered and very blank:
she did not seem to relish the idea of living forever with Mrs. Frost,
even in a grand house, and with an abundant income. But she sat looking
at the marriage certificate, wondering vaguely how her name got on the
paper, and feeling a little frightened, as if she suspected some ghost
work.
“Surely you can remember?” whispered Hurst, pale with expectation.
Mrs. Nicholson shook her head. The elder woman’s eyes glowed brighter
and brighter, like fire through frosted glass: he was enraged at Mary
Nicholson’s hesitation.
“Can’t you remember, Mary Nicholson?”
“I am trying my best,” answered the old lady, “my very best. William
Bentley, and Mehitable Hart, Mary Nicholson. Well, it’s strange!”
“What is strange?” cried Mrs. Frost.
“Why, that this should be my writing, and I not remember it.”
“Think—think, it is so many years ago, Mrs. Nicholson,” cried Hurst,
breathless with anxiety.
“Does she remember it?” inquired the bewildered woman, looking at Mrs.
Frost, who tried to shake her head, but only introduced a few more
energetic spasms in the wrong direction.
“No, I don’t remember; how should I? My name isn’t on the paper,” cried
Mrs. Frost, sharply. “My husband was a strange man in some things, and
kept his own secrets close as a vice. He was always marrying people
behind my back; I believe if he could a-done it, he’d have married me
without letting me know it, and claimed me afterward: that was Mr. Frost
all over.”
“But you remember Mr. William Bentley coming here, one night, with one
of the Hart girls and going into his study?” said Hurst.
“I remember them coming; and yes, yes, I dare say they did go into the
study. Mary Nicholson, you were here that night: I remember your saying
something about Mehitable Hart. What was it now?”
“I can’t recollect, Mrs. Frost.”
“But you must recollect, Mary Nicholson.”
“Dear me, how can I?”
Hurst began to despair. His witness only became more and more confused.
“Mrs. Frost, if you would be so kind, just step into the next room, and
leave me alone with Mrs. Nicholson a few minutes.”
“Alone with Mrs. Nicholson!”
“You understand, she has not exactly your clear memory; age tells on her
a little.”
“Age! Mr. Hurst, age!” wailed Mrs. Nicholson, “why, why, indeed, I don’t
think you can honestly call it that. My memory, sir, is clear as a
bell—clear as spring-water, Mr. Hurst. Indeed, it’s very cruel to take
me by surprise, and, because I can’t think all at once, call it age.”
Hurst smiled gently, and looked at Mrs. Frost, who had arisen, and stood
nodding her head at them over one shoulder.
“No, Mr. Hurst, it ain’t proper, and I won’t,” cried the old lady,
subsiding into her chair, and beginning to rock with spasmodic jerks.
“Perhaps you are right,” said Hurst. “Mrs. Nicholson is a little
nervous, though; allow us to sit by the window. Her memory will come
back. It’s only because the whole thing seemed so unimportant at the
time. But you will understand, Mrs. Nicholson,” he continued, leading
the old lady to a chair by the window, and pressing her hand softly as
he went, “you will understand that it was the marriage of my father and
mother you witnessed that night. If I can prove that marriage—and you
are the only witness living—it makes me the richest man in New York. It
gives me the power to help my friends to any extent; and who among all
those friends will have the claim on me that you will possess—you to
whom I shall owe all my wealth and good fortune?”
“But you will not make me live with her?” said the poor woman, in a
whisper, and casting frightened looks at the rocking-chair.
“With her! No, no. You have seen Mr. Bentley’s house? been in it, I dare
say?”
“Yes, once; Miss Hetty asked me, and I went. What a grand house it is!”
“When I am its master—and that your evidence will make me—what think you
of being housekeeper there, mistress of every one?”
“Me? Oh, Mr. Hurst! you take away my breath. But her—what will she do?”
“She shall have a house by herself, with a good, strong person to wait
on her.”
“Strong! Yes, she will need to be that.”
“I know—I know, but you shall be that person no longer—you who are a
friend of my mother’s!”
“Your mother—your mother, who was she?”
“Miss Hetty Hart, the woman whom you saw married in Mr. Frost’s study,
more than twenty years ago, when your name was put to this certificate.”
“Yes, yes, that is my name and my writing; but as for the ceremony,
somehow my mind is a little confused yet.”
“Very natural. It was a long time ago, but I remember it all.”
“You!”
“Yes, distinctly; you have told me the story a hundred times, when I was
a little boy: how Mr. William Bentley—a handsome fellow, wasn’t he?—came
to Mr. Frost’s house, one evening, with Miss Hart and another young
person—her name is on the certificate, you see—all dressed in white, but
without any thing else particular about them.”
“Yes, yes, I think I do remember about the dresses—muslin, with tucks
and worked edging. I had a dress like that once,” cried the old lady,
eagerly.
“Oh, yes, I knew the whole thing would come to your recollection; such
scenes sometimes sleep in the mind for years, and then come out clear
when some object brings them forcibly to the thought. Now it is a long
time since you told me about this wedding, but I remember it all—you
give a story so vividly, my dear Mrs. Nicholson.”
“Do I? Well, I didn’t know that; but of course I shouldn’t have told it
if it hadn’t been so.”
“That was what I was saying to Mrs. Frost, when she hinted that you were
a little in years and might have forgotten. ‘No, my dear Mrs. Frost,’
said I, ‘there exist people who never grow old, and of such is Mrs. Mary
Nicholson—her memory may sleep, nothing more.’ Mrs. Frost will see that
I am right. How quickly your mind seizes on facts! You even remember the
dress.”
“Oh, yes, I am almost—quite sure of the dress!”
“And the way in which they entered the study. There was a little
confusion, you remember, owing to the minister not being prepared.”
“Yes, yes, how kind you are! I never should have recalled all these
things but for you. Now they stand out quite clear. I never saw any
thing like it; and these people were really your father and mother?”
“They were, indeed. But till this time I have been kept an orphan—worse
than an orphan. But for this certificate I should now be ashamed to
speak of a father or mother.”
“Poor fellow! I understand. But the certificate——”
“Makes a man of me—an honorable, rich, powerful man.”
“Oh, I’m so glad! But how did you find the paper?”
This question was put in a raised voice, and old Mrs. Frost caught it.
“Yes, how on earth came you to find the paper, Michael? I want to know
that!”
“I found it, with a bundle of letters which my aunt and mother wrote to
Mr. Frost, in the old chest of drawers, in my room up-stairs.”
“The old chest of drawers—my husband’s chest—why, Michael, how did you
get in there? It hasn’t been unlocked these fifteen years.”
“True, Mrs. Frost; but in that time locks rust out. I had but to give a
stout pull, and found my fortune in the old papers.”
“Then Mary Nicholson didn’t give you my keys? It wasn’t her?” cried the
old woman, going up to the china vase, and nodding vehemently over it,
as she thrust her old, withered hands into the rubbish it contained. “I
can’t find them. Mary Nicholson! Mary Nicholson!”
“Let me search!” cried Hurst, drawing a clenched hand from his pocket,
as he started up. “The jar is deep. Yes, yes, something jingles—this
must be your keys, grandmother!”
“Yes, so it is. Well, well, it’s all right; but Mary Nicholson might
have done it, you know.”
“Don’t say a word against her, grandmother; her memory is bright as a
school girl’s. I never saw any thing like it. Now if Mr. Bentley, or his
lawyers, were to question you, my dear Mrs. Nicholson, you could
describe the whole wedding, I dare say—how the minister looked, and
all.”
“Why, of course! Didn’t I remember about the tucked dress?” cried the
old lady, exultingly.
“But you won’t let those lawyers browbeat you out of it? they always
fancy an elderly woman must forget, and so presume upon it.”
“Elderly! Well, well, let them question me; I shall stick to the truth.
How could I have told you all about it, if I hadn’t been there?”
“But you had, perhaps, better not mention me; they would fancy you could
not trust your own memory.”
“They’ll see, they’ll see,” responded the old lady, lifting her head,
and giving it a gentle toss that set the faded ribbons fluttering around
her face. “If I didn’t witness that marriage, who did, I’d like to
know?”
“Your memory has made me worth a million. Grandmother here could not
quite make it out; but she is so much older.”
“Wasn’t there—sure of it,” said the old lady, who was becoming slightly
irritated by all this flattery of Mary Nicholson.
“I dare say, dear grandmother; besides, your signature is not here to
prove it; but you can do me a great kindness, a very great one.”
“Well, what is it? Something Mary Nicholson can’t do, or you never would
have thought of asking me.”
“It is about my mother.”
“What, Hetty Hart? Poor thing! what about her?”
“Mrs. Bentley—Bentley is her name, and mine. She is a widow, remember,
with a dower claim on one-third of the Bentley property; but at this
moment without a home.”
“Why, isn’t she at Mr. Bentley’s?”
“No, I brought her away quietly, this morning. She is not well, and I
did not like to leave her among our enemies.”
“Poor, nervous creature!” muttered Mrs. Frost “Well, where is she? and
what do you want?”
“She is up-stairs in my room—I took the liberty. She will not prove
troublesome. She only wants to be alone. If Mrs. Nicholson will take her
a bit of toast and a cup of tea, now and then, I shall not forget it.
You are not angry, dear grandmother?”
Here Michael would have kissed the old woman, but that the vibrations of
her head rendered the salute impossible.
“There, there, remember Mary Nicholson is by, and don’t be foolish—of
course I ain’t angry. Mary Nicholson, go round to the corner and get a
mince-pie, and send a piece up with the toast; then cut the rest into
three parts. Michael has found out who he is, and what belongs to him,
so we’ll have a celebration for once. Get a pound of crackers and four
ounces of smoked beef, and—and—that’ll do, Mary Nicholson!”
CHAPTER XXXV.
AUNT HETTY’S EVIDENCE.
A few days after the ball, Mr. Bentley presented himself at the
residence of Mrs. Frost, anxious to search the evidence of Hurst’s claim
to the bottom. The old lady had but little information to give. She only
knew that the Hart girls had been frequent visitors to Mrs. Frost a year
or two before his death. That once Mr. William Bentley came with one of
them—it might be both—and she believed, but was not certain, the time
was so distant, spent a portion of the time in his study. The girls
seemed very happy then; but afterward, when they came and asked for
private interviews with her husband, a great change was upon them: they
both seemed sad and harassed. Her husband, too, was anxious and
irritable after these visits, as if some secret lay at the bottom of it
all. Mrs. Frost was very frank, and willing to talk, but this proved to
be all that she had to say.
Mary Nicholson was less composed, but more communicative. Her memory had
settled itself since Mr. Hurst’s first visit. She had no doubt regarding
the white dresses with tucks; no doubt that the whole party went into
the study, but the exact form of the marriage ceremony escaped her.
Still her signature was there, and it must have been; she would soon
remember it all, only not just that moment. So far, the evidence was
undoubtedly in Hurst’s favor; but another and more important witness
remained.
Bentley left Mrs. Frost’s room, and, ascending a flight of stairs,
entered an attic-chamber. Aunt Hetty lay upon the bed, with her face to
the wall. She started, as the door opened, and turned upon her elbow.
When she saw Bentley, her arm gave way, and she fell back upon the
pillow, uttering a faint groan.
Bentley seated himself on the bed beside her, and took her quivering
little hand between both his. She tried to pull it away, and even used a
little feeble force; but he held it kindly, and said, in a voice full of
tender gentleness:
“Hetty, my sister, talk freely with me. If I have been the means of
withholding any right from you, or the young man who claims to be your
son, convince me of it. I will be just to the uttermost farthing; only
tell me how it all happened.”
Hetty did not sob, but her slight form seemed to wither up, as the
mimosa plant curls its leaves to a touch.
“Don’t! don’t!” she moaned.
“Tell me one thing: is this young man your son?”
She looked up. Her eyes flashed through the mist of her sorrow.
“My son—yes, he is my son!”
Bentley sunk upon his knees, covered his face with both hands, and
thanked God in his heart of hearts.
She regarded him with wonder, certain that it was not sorrow which shook
his frame so violently. At last he arose, and held her hand again.
“And you assure me, before God, that he is your son?”
“Before God he is my son!”
“And you were legally married to William Bentley? Say this solemnly, as
you have just spoken, and, from this hour, I am a penniless man.”
She shrunk back, pressing herself down upon the pillows, and wrenched
her hand from his clasp.
“Not here, not now; if they force me before a court I must, but do not
ask me to take oath after oath before high God in this way!”
“But why? You cannot expect me to relinquish all I possess without full
proof that this—that your son has a legal right to it. Sooner or later
this oath must be taken.”
“No, no, he doesn’t want to quarrel!” she cried, wildly. “Do, do consent
to his marrying Gillian! I shall die if he dispossesses Sarah’s child!
Oh, if he would but give it up! Ask him—I have begged so humbly on my
very knees, but he will not listen. What can I do? He is my son, and I
have lived childless all my life. Don’t ask me to go on suffering as I
have! Let him marry Gillian—the child of my angel sister; that noble,
noble sister—there is only this way: think of it. He is handsome—you
cannot say that he is not handsome—and we educated him well, Sarah and
I, with our savings and our hard, hard work. He is a gentleman, every
inch of him. Why not let him marry Gillian?”
That wild, pleading look; those clasped hands, with the slender fingers
twining convulsively around each other; the eager, open eyes imploring
him, were enough to touch the heart of any man. Bentley was deeply
moved; but there was something in this terrible agitation that aroused
his suspicion. Why was she so willing to swear that Michael was her son,
and yet become frantic at the mention of her marriage?
The first question, so readily and so truthfully answered, had set his
heart at rest on a point which had haunted him all through his manhood;
thus, with his pride and affections all quieted, his intellect became
clear. By what right could he despoil Gillian of her inheritance, unless
the legal claims of her cousin were made positive? So long as the mother
shrunk from a clear statement of all the facts connected with her
marriage, he must still be in doubt.
“One word, Hetty, one word more for her sake.”
“_Her_ sake! Whose?” cried Hetty, with a wild start.
“Sarah—your sister, and my wife. Did she know of this marriage?”
“Marriage! Sarah! no, no! She had nothing to do with it.”
“And was ignorant of it entirely?”
“Yes, yes.”
“And you allowed that noble creature to sacrifice herself forever and
ever to a caprice of silence; to work for you; plan for you; sacrifice
husband and child, rather than cast shame on you, while a word would
have saved all!”
Bentley arose to his feet, pale and stern. His pity was all gone. He
fairly loathed the poor, weak thing that lay writhing like a worm on
that low bed.
She did not look up; but buried her face down, down in the pillow,
uttering broken sounds, that had no meaning save that of intense pain.
“I tell you, woman,” cried Bentley, in a voice so stern with indignant
anguish that it rang through the room, “I tell you it was this lie, told
now or acted then, which separated me from your sister: a separation
which drove her into the grave, and made me a cold, useless, miserable
man.”
“Oh! oh! my God! my God! Sarah! Sarah! don’t haunt me! Don’t curse me! I
can’t help it! You suffered all this to save me—now, now you are dead,
and nothing can help that. I must save him, safe myself!” moaned the
unhappy woman.
“Once again,” said Bentley, “will you swear to me here, before the Most
High, that William Bentley was your lawful husband at the time of his
death?”
She did not speak, but kept on writhing out broken moans.
“Speak, woman, for I will be answered!”
She lifted her white, pinched face, imploring him. “Don’t ask me now! I
must do it, you know, by-and-by; but once is enough. Oh, why not let
Gillian marry him? _She_ would have done it; she never shrunk from any
thing! She would stand up before me with her grand courage, and say,
‘Let the whole fall on me. Little Hetty can’t bear it, but I can!’”
“Don’t speak of her, woman!”
“I will! I will! She was my sister. If she could stand here now, she
would find some way for me out of this. Everybody obeyed her; no one
cares for me—no one, but Michael, my son.”
She lifted her head erectly, like a wren ready to fly at any thing that
disputed a right to its young.
“He will take care of me; he loves me dearly. It is for my sake he
wishes to be rich and great. I don’t care for it, only the love; but he
cannot see everybody lording it over his own mother without wanting to
defend her. Oh, he’s proud as the best of you, if Gillian did want to
turn him out of doors.”
Her air of petty defiance almost brought a smile to Bentley’s face. She
was like a desperate little bird picking at granite.
Bentley found, as most persons will who try it, that weakness is far
more difficult to deal with than strength. It has its own little
cunning, its petty deceptions, and negative stubbornness—small traits
which a great mind is sure to undervalue and forget to guard against.
Thus it happens, so often, that those who appear to be really
insignificant persons, sometimes influence events with unexpected force.
Weary of her evasions—and convinced that she had, of herself, neither
the courage to do right, honestly; or to act wrong, boldly—he went away,
leaving her writhing in hysterics on the bed.
Scarcely had the street-door closed, when Hurst came out from a dark
nook in the garret, where he had listened to all that passed, through a
crevice in the wooden ceiling, and entered his mother’s room.
She rose up in bed and reached forth her arms. With a weak burst of
triumph,
“I did it!” she said. “He was very cross and stern, but I stuck to the
fact, and said nothing more. Now will you believe I have some firmness,
Michael? No—William. I won’t call you Michael any more. Sarah would have
it so; she was afraid to name you after your father. But now I have
nothing to be frightened about. Father, my dear old father, is dead and
gone; he cannot make me tremble with his eyes; and as for Daniel, why
the way you have settled it, no disgrace can come on him, or me, or any
one, especially if you marry Gillian.”
Hurst had seated himself, and drew her into his arms while she was
talking; so her speech ended in little hysterical caresses, which he
returned sparingly; while, with the craft of a bad heart, and the energy
of a strong one, he encouraged her—praised the firmness which she had
displayed; and, with sophistry which might have blinded a more vigorous
intellect, convinced her that what he sought was but the just and
natural right which every son had to inherit from his father.
CHAPTER XXXVI.
FAMILY CONSULTATIONS.
Bentley sought his daughter, for she alone had a right to share his
doubts and help in his decision. He found her, just after Woodworth had
departed, happy, but a little serious; for she had begun to reflect upon
the fate that lay before her father, should Hurst maintain his
pretensions to the estate. Proud, sensitive, and blessed with a
refinement of taste which renders the coarse things and harsh passages
of life almost unendurable, what would he do with poverty? It was a
phase of life he had outrun years ago; and now, with all his habits
fixed, and his tastes refined into sources of exquisite enjoyment, must
he give up every thing, and become a recluse, or a dependent?
These thoughts had saddened Gillian a little amid her happiness. It
seemed as if, in marrying Woodworth, she abandoned her father to
loneliness, or secured for him only the humiliation of dependence. Then
a thousand questions arose that she wished to ask. That conversation
with her Uncle Daniel, in the old stone-house, in which her mother’s
history had been so entangled with that of Aunt Hetty, rose freshly to
her mind. She longed to know more of all this, and felt free to question
her father as she had never done before.
Bentley sat down by Gillian, and told her of his interview with the old
women, and of that which followed with Aunt Hetty, who had secretly left
the house on the morning after the party. Word for word he repeated the
conversation, and described the scene.
Gillian listened gravely; her quick intellect seized upon the facts, and
came to conclusions almost before they were uttered.
“Father,” she said, “there is something wrong in this! If the marriage
was ever solemnized, why was it kept secret? Why did she falter when
that question came up, and yet claim her son so boldly? Besides, was my
mother a woman to leave this property in your hands, and share it with
you, if she had suspected this?”
Bentley started: he had never thought of this. It was implicating the
integrity of his dead wife if he yielded to this demand, blackening the
fame which had just been rescued from suspicion. His brow became dark at
this, and his heart grew anxious again. Gillian watched the changes of
his countenance with tender anxiety.
“Papa, tell me of my mother. Did you love her?”
The blood, always so cool, flashed up like fire, reddening that pale
forehead, and burning in his eyes.
“Love her, Gillian? Yes, better than my own soul.”
“And you were happy together?”
“For a time, Gillian, happy beyond any thing I can describe. Your mother
was a woman to make a heaven of life: she brightened every thing around
her!”
“And died so early?” said Gillian, drooping her eyes, and sighing
heavily. “Oh, father, tell me of her death. I never heard you speak of
it!”
“First,” said Bentley, and his sharp, quick breathing betrayed the
suppressed agitation which only made him a little pale—“first let me
tell you of her life—how I found her.”
“Uncle Daniel told me of that, papa; all about your cousin being killed,
and the trouble it caused; about Aunt Hetty’s coming to town. I thought
at first it was my mother who felt the loss most; but now——”
“Now,” said Bentley, “she is proved by her unhappy sister’s confession
to have been a creature so noble that a husband should have gloried in
her. She was endowed with every thing grand and good. She was a martyr
to her family, an angel to me, and yet I destroyed her.”
“Father!”
“Yes, look surprised! Let my words drain the color from your cheek. It
is a truth, I destroyed her, stung her pride to the quick, wounded her
delicacy, trampled on all that was sensitive or grand in her nature.
Blows would have been far more kind. Gillian, I suspected your mother!”
“Suspected my mother?”
“Yes, the world would say I had cause. It sprang out of this mystery, or
this sin, which is developing itself now. Your mother was frank to a
fault, generous beyond any person I ever heard of. It was not the
generosity which gives alone, but a spirit of self-sacrifice, a
disposition to take up the burdens of those who were weaker than
herself, and carry them forward. It did not require that the person
helped should be her friend or agreeable to her taste. Humanity was
enough to claim a sacrifice of her. She loved to do good for the sweet
reward which sprang up in her own heart. Yet she had a thousand
disguises for this weakness, as she called it; and, to hear her talk,
you would have fancied her a reckless, bright creature, capable of
impulsive kindness, but little more. She was like you, Gillian, not so
beautiful in one way, perhaps, but with a world of fresh vigor, of
reckless joyousness, and with a susceptibility of sadness that you have
never dreamed of.”
“Oh, if I had but known her!” sighed Gillian.
“She was a woman to worship, Gillian; fresh as the flowers of an
untrodden wilderness, quick to think, earnest to act. Her impetuosity
sometimes troubled me a little, for I had been educated with more social
restraints, and was over-sensitive to appearances; but after living so
long in the dead level of conventionalisms, her very faults appear to me
as virtues now.”
“No wonder you loved her—no wonder!”
Bentley bowed his head; a feeling of heavy self-abasement crept over
him. He could not look Gillian in the face. At last he spoke with hoarse
slowness.
“I am naturally suspicious!”
“You, papa?”
“Distrustful, rather. I loved my wife, God only knows how well; but from
the first there was something about her acquaintance with my cousin that
troubled me. Frank in all things else, she was silent if his name was
mentioned; even before I married her the idea of an attachment between
them had disturbed me. Her grief at his death was terrible. It seemed
like despair.”
“It was strange. I thought so when Uncle Daniel told me about it. Now it
is clear. She was grieving for her sister, striving to shield her
sister,” said Gillian.
“I knew that she had a secret,” continued Bentley, wrapped in his own
thoughts; “that she had some object of interest in the city which was
never mentioned in her home. There was a clergyman by the name of Frost
whom she visited often, and with some appearance of mystery. At times
she came to me for money, and no purchase followed, a thing that struck
me as strange; for she had a sumptuous love of the beautiful, and a
fabric or gem that gratified this passion made her happy as a child.
Indeed, in many things, she was like a child, always in trifles, though,
in important things, she added almost masculine strength to more womanly
tenderness than I ever saw in a human heart. These little things made me
distrustful. I wondered why this woman; to whose nature a secret was
repulsive, had one from her own husband.
“One day, it was when you were a little thing, Gillian, a trunk was sent
down from your Uncle Daniel’s, which had belonged to William Bentley. In
it had been placed the coat which my cousin wore the day he was killed.
Scrupulously honest in all things, Daniel had found the trunk in his
garret, and so forwarded it to the city.
“Sarah was out when the trunk arrived. I opened it, took up the coat
carelessly, and a pocket-book fell out of a side pocket. In that book I
found a letter from my wife to William Bentley——”
“Well, father!” said Gillian, holding her breath.
“It was a passionate appeal to his honor—a wild, urgent request that he
should save her and her family from disgrace. It was a letter written in
distraction, eloquent beyond any thing I ever read; such as Sarah would
write if driven wild by danger, or threatened with disgrace.”
Gillian listened, turning pale and cold, till she remembered all that
had transpired regarding her aunt. Then her breath came out in quick
gushes, and she burst into a passion of tears.
“My mother, my great-hearted mother, it was for her only sister she was
pleading; it was to save my grandfather’s gray hairs from dishonor!”
“I read the letter, and it maddened me. But my temperament is firm; I
knew how to wait. After that I traced your mother to a house in the
city; I saw her with my own eyes caressing a child—a bright, handsome
boy, whose very look was death to me. At night I gave your mother the
letter, and told her that she had been traced in her visits to the
living guilt, which would forever be an evidence against her. She was at
first dumb and cold as marble. Then with a look that made my blood burn,
she turned from me.
“I had some wild hope that she might explain; but she attempted nothing
of the kind, though her air had more than the grandeur of innocence: all
that she said was—
“‘For my father’s sake, give me silence! I ask nothing, deny nothing.
But my father is an old man, and the thought of disgrace would kill
him.’
“‘We must part,’ I said, driven to madness by her acquiescence in the
charge I had made.
“‘I know that,’ she said, with terrible sadness. ‘If you could think
this of me, it is enough. But in silence, let it be in silence, if not
for my sake, think of our child.’
“It was settled. From that time she grew to be a stranger. We suffered
the agony of each other’s presence, and that was all. Either in time or
eternity I shall never know agony like that.
“It was arranged that our shame should be locked up forever. We went to
Europe directly, up the Mediterranean, on to Naples. There I left your
mother—first separating her from her child, whom I placed in a convent.
For myself, I went on to Turkey, Egypt, and the Holy Land, a weary,
heavy-hearted man; God help me, for I loved the woman I had left!
“She would take no money from me; but I was not to be repulsed, and
forced a sum upon her before leaving her a stranger in a strange land.
“Two years after, I came back to Naples and inquired after my wife. They
told me that the fair woman from America had remained some months in the
city, growing paler and paler each day till she died. You have seen the
place in the _Campo Sante_ where she sleeps, Gillian!”
“And now she is dead, and you know how innocent she was!” cried Gillian,
weaving her hands together. “Oh, my mother—my mother!”
“It was I that killed—I, her husband! If her child hates me, it is but
just.”
“Father, the wrong was not yours—not hers. It was the sin of that
miserable, miserable woman—she whose son would now cast us into poverty.
Never, while I live, shall this thing be. Tell him that you contest this
claim—that his father’s sin has done its last work with us.”
“But my wife died to save this woman from disgrace. We can only contest
her son’s claim by proving that which she suffered martyrdom to
conceal.”
“True, true!” said Gillian; “and must the innocent always suffer for the
guilty? Must this weak, miserable woman darken our lives forever?”
“She is your mother’s sister—your grandfather’s child!”
“Alas! yes!”
“Shall we, in order to save Bentley’s property, heap disgrace on her
family?”
“No, no, papa—better any thing than that. Poor Uncle Daniel—it would
kill him.”
“To be dragged through a court of law, hear her name bandied by counsel,
printed in a hundred journals—what would poverty be compared to that?”
said Bentley.
Gillian shuddered.
“Father,” she said, “we have gone too far. This is a terrible epoch in
our lives; I cannot leave you yet. Mr. Woodworth must wait till we
become a little used to poverty.”
“Well, my child, we will consider that; but these two people shall not
shipwreck your happiness.”
“Let us go to Uncle Daniel,” said Gillian. “He is honest and
true-hearted. Let us all go at once.”
They went.
CHAPTER XXXVII.
MRS. RANSOM’S RETURN.
Bentley took his daughter and went into Rockland county, to the old
homestead, which no longer belonged to him or to Daniel Hart; but, right
or wrong, was henceforth the property of Michael Hurst, or, if we must
call him so, William Bentley. The mortgage, though considered a dead
letter among themselves, still existed; and the farm like all the other
property, was swept out of their possession when Mr. Bentley resolved to
abdicate. Thus, wherever they went, the father and daughter carried
misfortune with them.
It was night again in the stone farm-house. Dinah was glorifying herself
in the kitchen, and began at once to institute a new system of behavior
in her department. She was horrified by the two-pronged forks, and went
off in spasms of eloquent distress when the farm-hands insisted upon
eating with their knives. Liz was deeply impressed by all this, and
watched her grandmother with open-mouthed admiration, taken completely
off her feet by the gorgeous turban with which Dinah had condescended to
astonish the natives.
In the sitting-room, gathered around the hickory-wood fire, were
Bentley, Gillian, Daniel Hart and his daughter, in serious consultation.
“This is my opinion,” said Daniel Hart: “as we have all made up our
minds to give up, and let the young fellow take possession, we have but
one thing to consider—how are we to live, and where, from this time out?
If the farm was ours that would be easily settled. But it is not, and we
must look up new homes somewhere. How much capital have we got among
us?”
Mr. Bentley shook his head.
“Very little, I fancy: we left every thing but bare personal necessaries
behind,” he said.
“I have a few jewels, which he could not claim,” said Gillian, eagerly:
“they were gifts from dear friends.”
“That is something worth while. Why, a single diamond will build us a
log cabin!” said Uncle Daniel, cheerfully.
“A log cabin!” exclaimed Gillian.
“Yes, that’s my idea, niece. Supposing we turn your diamonds into public
lands, build a new home away out in the wilderness, and begin life again
fair and square?”
“In the wilderness! What could my father do there?” cried Gillian, with
a half-frightened look.
“Do! why rest, hunt, read and be an independent man, to be sure. I’ve
got a couple of thousand dollars or so, laid up. That, with your pretty
gimcracks, Gillian, will buy us a tract of land worth having. Then the
log houses are some of ’em pretty as pictures. That sort of life would
make a woman of you, right off the reel, niece. Oh, how your mother
would have liked it!”
Gillian looked at her father anxiously. He seemed interested in the
idea. It had struck him for the first time.
“Oh, Gillian, you would like it, I’m sure!” said Martha. “I’ve heard all
about it.”
“You, Matty! why how?” exclaimed Daniel Hart, in surprise. “What can you
know about the woods?”
“I! oh, ever so much, father! the wild strawberries—the grape vines
tangled from tree to tree, all bending with purple clusters—the deer
leaping twenty feet at one bound—ponds full of water-lilies, and _such_
fish—_he_ told me all about them.”
“He! who, darter?”
“Oh, my—nobody in particular: I only heard some of the young people
talking about going West for a start in life.”
Matty’s face was crimson. When Gillian smiled, she got back of her
father’s chair, and shook her clenched hand with mock ferocity, fearing
that the name of John Downs would come out.
But Gillian only laughed, a little roguish laugh, and the conversation
went on.
“But what can I do out there?” said Gillian.
“You, niece! why, pick wild fruit, and search in the prairies for
flowers,” said Daniel Hart.
“But there will be hard work for us all.”
“Well, then, you must teach school.”
“In a log school-house—well, I can do that; and father?”
“He must shoot our game, catch our fish, and see to the garden, while I
chop trees, make stone walls, and get the crops in.”
“Isn’t that splendid?” said Matty.
“We’ll have a double cabin—something grand, with an outhouse for Dinah
and Liz,” continued Hart, warming with his subject. “The girls shall
take their books.”
“And a guitar; I can take that, papa?” said Gillian.
“We will have fine horses,” continued Hart.
“And such cows!” said Matty.
“With pretty hens and chickens and dove-cotes,” said Gillian. “Papa, I’m
sure we shall like it. Then perhaps—perhaps some one else will come out
and be charmed with our lodge in the wilderness, and settle down close
by, and go back to Washington a Senator or something of that kind.”
Mr. Bentley smiled.
“The West is sometimes a short cut to greatness,” he said, “who knows?”
“Then it is all settled?” said Daniel Hart, rubbing his hard hands with
honest satisfaction. “We are to go West?”
“Yes, yes,” answered the other voices, and the little party that had
assembled, so downcast and sad in the sitting-room, broke up, quite in a
glow of hopefulness.
“Well, now, that we are all agreed, when shall we start?” said Daniel.
“The earlier the better,” answered Bentley. “Let it be next week.”
That night Martha Hart wrote a letter to John Downs, which she put into
the post-office with her own hands, while the dew lay thick upon the
meadows, exactly as her Aunt Sarah had sent off her heart-breaking
missives years since.
Ten days from that family-council in the sitting-room, the homestead was
empty. As his father had left old associations in New England long ago,
when York State was “out-west,” and helped to plant a Yankee colony in
Rockland county, so Daniel Hart set forth to build a new home for his
family and that of his benefactor and brother-in-law. Of all that once
happy household Aunt Hetty alone remained behind, and she would as soon
have made her bed in a sepulchre as cross that sacred threshold again.
Never in the history of litigation, perhaps, had a vast property been so
quietly transferred. In less than a month after his first demand, Hurst
found himself in possession of that noble mansion in town, with all its
costly appurtenances, and an income that one year before would have
seemed to him something fabulous. He would gladly have shared this
wealth with its real owners, and made more than one desperate effort to
win Gillian after his advances had been peremptorily rejected. But that
young lady positively refused to see him, and sent back his letters
unopened, while Mr. Bentley rejected every overture for a compromise.
“No,” he said, “the estate is yours, or it is mine. I accept nothing
which the law does not give, and that I will not evoke. Let God judge
between us.”
Aunt Hetty, after her fashion, strove to make some restitution. She had
not the courage to seek an interview with her family, but sent anonymous
letters containing large sums of money, and when they were returned,
wrote a most touching letter in her own name, beseeching her brother not
to break her heart, but stay on the homestead and share some of the
wealth that was killing her.
Daniel Hart answered this letter only to say that the homestead was now
empty, and his family were going with him into the wilderness. He made
no reproaches, and said nothing of Mr. Bentley or Gillian. In giving up
their place in fashionable life both these persons wished to be
forgotten. Gillian was yet very young, and after two years of solitude
might return to that same life with the husband of her choice, but those
two years she would devote to her father exclusively. The host of
butterfly friends she had made might claim her then or not, according to
their fancy. She left them almost without regret—all except Mrs. Ransom,
and she had gone away without a word of farewell or without leaving a
message by which she might hereafter be found.
In his letter to Hetty Hart, Daniel had promised to communicate with her
once more; and after a month or two came a letter saying that he and his
daughter, with Bentley and Gillian, had settled on a tract of land far
west, and were living comfortably together. They had built a double
cabin, with out-houses, one of which Dinah and Liz occupied as a
kitchen. Every thing was comfortable and neat as wax. Mr. Bentley was
growing strong and cheerful. The girls were happy as birds, and as for
himself, never in all his life had he been able to put in such a day’s
chopping as he could do now.
This letter comforted Hetty in the grand solitude of her new home. It
soothed her conscience, and left her, to a certain extent, free to enjoy
the society of her son and the wealth which she had secured to him. She
gave the letter to Hurst—we cannot change the name—and he treasured it
in silence, for it contained Gillian’s address, and hereafter, perhaps,
he might make use of it.
Now, young, handsome, wealthy, Hurst flung himself into life with a cool
resolve to enjoy it to the utmost. Out of all his resources he was
determined to attain the utmost possible gratification. If he squandered
money, it was for this purpose only. He bought horses, gave parties,
lavished vast sums on the mansion which Bentley had already made
perfect. He was the rage at Saratoga, and the fashion at Newport. In
fact this young Bentley, with his immense wealth and romantic
antecedents, was the great catch of the season. But, with all his
splendor, a cold, aching anxiety was at his heart. The foundations of
his greatness were unreal. Men like him are seldom troubled with much
conscience, till they reach some lonely death-bed; and Hurst was far too
prosperous for over-sensitiveness. But he felt unsafe. Once married to
Gillian, and he could defy fate. But she had chosen poverty and years of
solitude in the western forests, rather than endure his society. The
engagement with Woodworth was certain to end in marriage—and then? What
if the new husband should determine to investigate his wife’s claims?
Woodworth was a sharp, clear-headed lawyer, a man of the world, and
understood well all the advantages of wealth.
These fears lay like serpents in the path of the rich man; but the
intellect that had accomplished so much must face these dangers and
overcome them. With time and resolution much could be done. Half his
task was completed. Gillian must yet be his wife. He knew where to find
her, and that was a great point gained.
With all his audacity, Hurst had not the courage to seek the persons he
had so deeply wronged. His resolve did not fail, but he put off the
time, and so more than a year went by and with it a sense of security
crept over him. One thing was strange. He heard nothing from Mrs.
Ransom. The Bloomingdale cottage was still closed and no letters came.
He heard of her once through some European travellers, who had seen her
in Greece, and afterwards learned that she had crossed the desert with a
party on its way to the Holy Land. There was a mystery about this which
he could not fathom; up to that time her protecting arm had always been
over him: no matter bow far off caprice or destiny might carry her, he
was sure to feel the benefit of her regard in some form; now she was
silent as the grave.
This silence could not have arisen from any knowledge of his good
fortune, for she had left the country more than a week before that was
known of a certainty, even to himself. These conjectures gave him
considerable uneasiness at times, for this woman was perhaps the only
person on earth whom he thoroughly respected and feared. Could he have
been certain that she was dead, he might not have regretted it; but,
with all his courage, he shrunk from the thought of encountering her
searching questions and clear judgment.
But he was deep into the second year of his possession, and no word or
message ever came from her. Mrs. William Bentley, as he called his
mother, had presided over his house from the beginning, but she withered
in the stately solitude to which he after a while consigned her. As a
single man he received but little company at home, and spent his life at
hotels, clubs, and watering-places, leaving her with old Mary Nicholson
for an humble companion, and a household of servants to control. Such
was his method of repaying the wicked sacrifice she had made for him.
This sad state of things withered up the little gleam of hope that had
dawned upon her when he first claimed her as a parent, and the poor
woman was slowly and quietly dying, exactly as some poor little
transplanted evergreen perishes for want of native soil. She had been
growing ill for some weeks: now an obstinate cough set in, and, in her
anxiety, the old housekeeper sent for the son, who was in the full glory
of a Newport season. He came at once, filled with anxious solicitude,
which gave the poor mother a fresh hold on life. That day she insisted
upon getting up and coming down to breakfast with him, in the little
morning-room that opened upon the garden. He always insisted upon her
being richly dressed: so she put on a pretty cap fluttering with
rose-colored ribbons, and a robe of some rich oriental pattern, hoping
to conceal her paleness. But Hurst saw how shadowy she had become at a
glance, and his heart smote him. He drew an easy-chair, soft with velvet
cushions, to the table, and seated her tenderly in it. The servants were
all sent away, and he insisted on pouring out the coffee, for her poor
little trembling hands had attempted the task in vain.
The poor mother watched him with looks of yearning fondness, and her
eyes filled with tears. When her son was by she could not be very sorry
for the falsehood that had gained her the great happiness of these
attentions.
“There, mother,” he said, stooping down to kiss her forehead, “I have
put in just the right quantity of cream, and here is a delicious French
roll; take a mouthful for my sake: they tell me you eat nothing!”
She took the roll and broke off a fragment, forcing herself to eat it
with apparent relish.
“That is right,” he said, seating himself; “we will soon have you well
now.”
She smiled and said: “Oh, yes, I am well; you see what an appetite I
have.”
Just then Mrs. Nicholson came in, looking greatly flurried.
“What is it?” said Hurst; for the serpent which lay coiled under his
good fortune was always on the alert.
“A lady,” said Mrs. Nicholson, “who insists on coming in; she wants to
see you both!”
Hetty looked wildly around, and began to tremble among her cushions.
Hurst, too, was nervous, but he gave no sign.
“Well, let her come in here,” he said; “sit still, mother. If the lady
wishes to see us both, this is the best place.”
The door opened, and the lady came in.
“Mrs. Ransom!” cried Hurst, starting up and reaching out his hand.
The lady put his hand gently aside without clasping it. She had
evidently come off a journey from foreign parts, for her dress seemed
strange and old-fashioned. The soft hair floated down her cheeks in
waves, and she wore a large merino shawl, with a deep palm-leaf border,
such as had been in fashion when Hetty Hart was a girl.
“Is this lady your mother?” she said, rejecting the hand.
When Hetty heard the voice, she started up from her easy-chair and
confronted the stranger. She saw the face, the waving hair, the shawl
with its familiar pattern—one just like it lay in her bureau up-stairs.
Her eyes widened, the white lips grew cold, she grasped at the
table-cloth for support—dragging a cup and saucer of delicate china to
the ground.
Hurst went up to his mother, supporting her with his arm.
“Mrs. Ransom, this is unexpected—it is a strange return! You refuse my
hand—wherefore?”
Hetty Hart clung to the young man; her eyes distended wildly, her lips
apart—she seemed turning into stone.
“Hush!” she said, in a hoarse whisper, “it is my sister Sarah!”
“Michael,” said Mrs. Ransom, quietly, “give me the marriage certificate
which you have forged, and the letters you have stolen.”
“Madam!”
“Your mother says the truth. I am her sister Sarah—the wife of that
Bentley you have defrauded—the mother of Gillian! Your crime has
rendered secrecy of no farther avail. I made a vow to save that poor
soul from disgrace, and kept the vow, through what humiliation and pain
you will never know. By her own act she has unsealed my lips, and I have
come to claim my husband, my child and all that is theirs.”
Hurst had not lost all his courage. He was white as death, and shivered
like a dead cedar in the wind, but some portion of his iron nature
remained firm.
“Madam, this is a flimsy imposition! You are not my mother’s sister!”
“Ask her!” she answered, pointing to the wretched little woman who had
sunk all in a heap among the crimson cushions. “Mehitable Hart, look up
and say if I am not your sister!”
“Mother, you know this is an imposition! Don’t look at her; see, I am
ready to help you!”
It was in vain. Perhaps if Hurst could have fastened her eyes first, his
terrible power over her might have prevailed, but the magnetism of
another presence enthralled her, and those wild eyes turned on her
sister, fascinated.
“Hetty, my poor Hetty! why are you terrified? Did I ever harm you?” said
Mrs. Ransom, in a voice broken with tender emotion.
Hetty Hart began to shiver, and clung close to her son.
“Hetty!”
“Oh, Sarah, don’t—don’t look at me so! He never would have owned me, if
I hadn’t taken the shame off. What could I do?”
“I know, Hetty, I know how you must have loved this young man. I, too,
loved him for your sake.”
“Oh, he is all the world to me!”
“Poor, poor mother!—be good to her, Michael; treat her tenderly, as if
she were a child. She is not one of those who can suffer and be strong;
but she is a loving creature. Deal kindly by her, and you shall never
want for wealth or any thing else that I can give.”
“It was for her sake—she was pining to death, my poor mother!” said
Hurst, with some feeling. “I could not bear it.”
“Well, well, it is over now. Trust me—can you trust me yet, sister
Hetty?”
“Trust you! oh, Sarah!”
“Can you be content to live with your son?”
“With my son!—with him!”
The little woman crept close to Hurst, and clung around him, weeping
softly, and thanking her sister, in broken sentences, for having saved
her and her son from the deep trouble that had already nearly broken her
heart.
“We will obey her. Sarah is always right—always kind, Michael. I knew if
she could rise from the dead—and it seems as if she had, don’t it?—all
would turn out well. When shall we go, sister? I am ready.”
“In a few days—in a few hours, if possible. Find out a quiet home in
England or France, and some day I will come and see how you get along.”
“That will be pleasant, son,” said Hetty, with a fond smile; “you and I
all alone in the world. Oh, how I have longed for this! and it is Sarah
that does it for us—my sister, Sarah, whom we all thought dead years
ago. Tell her that we will be ready, son.”
“I have no choice,” answered Hurst, sullenly.
“Oh, Michael!”
“Well, then, Mrs. Ransom, I am willing—I am grateful. Is that enough,
mad—mother?”
Hetty kissed his hands, and laid her little, withered cheek softly
against his bosom.
Mrs. Ransom took her from his arms, kissed her upon the forehead, as she
had done a thousand times in youth, and turned with tears in her eyes.
“Michael, give me that certificate and the letters. I heard all far away
in the Holy Land, and came at once, resolved to right the wrong you have
done without farther exposure if I could; at all events to perform my
duty. Give me the papers, that I may destroy them before they work evil
to you.”
Hurst put one hand into his bosom and drew forth a slip of yellow paper
and some letters; they rattled in his hands like dead leaves, and his
face was ghastly.
“It is well,” she said, tearing the paper into fragments. “Now take my
sister—my poor, feeble sister, Hetty—and go away. There is a ship lying
now in the stream, ready to sail for England. Here is money. I will send
you more. Be kind to her, and you shall have plenty for both, I promise
it.”
Hurst took the money, dumbly, as if some statue had been moved by inward
mechanism.
“But my husband, my child—first tell me where I can find them,” said
Mrs. Ransom.
Hurst shook his head in silence. Mrs. Ransom turned to her sister.
“I don’t know; we had one letter,” cried the little woman. “It was
mailed away out-west, but I cannot remember where, and I don’t in the
least know what became of the letter.”
Mrs. Ransom looked distressed.
“But Woodworth—the engagement is not broken off; he can tell me,” she
said, brightening with fresh hope.
“Woodworth is not in the city,” answered Hurst. “He has gone South.”
“Then what can I do?” she cried, wringing her hands in keen
disappointment. “I have spent so much of life away from them; every
moment I lose is a pang. Oh Hurst! if I have ever been kind or
forbearing to you, help me now!”
“How can I, when you banish me from the country?”
“But you shall not go till they are found. I will stand between you and
all harm. This wicked secret is ours yet.”
Hurst walked across the room; his face was white as ever when he came
back, but the gleam of a quick idea brightened it with keen
intelligence.
“Madam, if any effort of mine to find those you love can atone for the
pain I have given, tell me what to do, and I will not fail you.”
“Find my husband and my child,” she cried, passionately. “I will travel
to the ends of the earth for them, but every lost moment is a sacrifice,
and I do not know what course to take.”
“Trust me; I will find them.”
“You, Michael, and they your enemies!” moaned his mother.
“She demands it, and I will not shrink,” answered the young man. “Be
content, mother; I leave you in her care.”
The poor mother drew a deep breath, and turned her eyes in wild pleading
on her sister.
“It will be like old times for you and I to be together,” said Mrs.
Ransom, kneeling before the frail woman and drawing the pale face
caressingly to her shoulder.
“Yes, yes, it will be like old times, when we made dandelion chains in
the back meadow,” answered the little woman, with a hysterical laugh.
“Madam, I will start at once; it may be a month or two before I send you
intelligence, but it shall come!”
“Ah, Michael, that will redeem every thing. Have no fear of them: they
are generous and noble!”
“I am sure of it,” he answered. “Now, mother, farewell! in a few weeks
we shall meet again: till then, stay here with your sister.”
The little woman stood up, tottering from weakness. She clung around her
son, moaning over him like a wounded dove.
“Good-by, darling! Be good, and come back free of all blame; then, as
Sarah says, we will go off and live by ourselves—no club-houses—no
watering-places—nothing but a nice, quiet home!”
Hurst smiled a cruel, cold smile, that bespoke some desperate idea; but
his mother was raining kisses on his face, and no one saw it.
Then they parted. Hurst left the house in less than one hour after Sarah
Bentley entered it, and she bade God bless him as he went. Her faith in
human goodness was wonderful, and she did not once doubt that the young
man would redeem his faults. So she stood at the window and saw him pass
away very hopefully. Hetty had crept to her side and was watching him
also; but tears swelled in her eyes, and there was a struggle for breath
in her chest—a struggle that left ridges of red foam on her pale lips,
which she strove to wipe away unseen.
But Sarah Bentley saw the stain on her delicate handkerchief with a
thrill of apprehension.
“Why, Hetty, what is that?”
“Nothing; it’s of no consequence—I’m used to it!”
“Since when, Hetty?”
“Oh, ever since that day when I told him!”
“But you will be better now. Remember what a famous nurse I was!”
“Oh, yes, I shall be better with you! But tell me, Sarah, is he quite
gone? I—I cannot see very far, the air is so foggy!”
Poor soul, it was the mist of a broken heart going off in tears!
This was the idea that had started up from the first sense of ruin that
fell on Michael Hurst when Sarah Bentley asked after her husband.
“I will find them,” he said—Uncle Daniel’s letter was in his pocket
then—“I will find them, and marry the girl with her will or against it,
and her father shall not stand in the way! If he hunts in the
wilderness, so do I. Men are often taken for deer and shot by accident.
If he opposes me, I shall be ready, at any rate. That proud girl shall
come back to her mother my wife; and if Julia Ransom finds herself a
widow, it will teach her to be less officious. Does she think that,
after tasting the pleasures and powers of wealth for one little year, it
can be easily wrested from me? Not while I have brains to think, and the
courage to strike! No, I will have the girl and keep her money! They
have made a desperate man of me! Now, Westward, ho! and every one for
himself!”
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
THE WESTERN CLEARING.
It was a wild clearing in the heart of a Western forest. A stout,
athletic man was at work in one corner, and each lusty stroke of his
axe, as it was swung into the heart of a giant chestnut, reverberated
cheerfully through the woods. The morning was bright, and the air rich
with the commingled perfume of mosses, flowers and foliage gathered up
from the wilderness. The early sunshine danced among the boughs over our
woodman’s head, and every blow of his axe brought a storm of dew down to
the daisies and strawberry vines which he was treading to death beneath
his heavy shoes.
Though the morning was deliciously cool and breezy, the workman stopped
now and then to inhale a deep breath and wipe the perspiration from his
forehead, and at each time he cast a glance of good-natured anxiety over
the logs rolled together in heaps, and the forest of newly-made stumps
that stood glistening in the sunshine, yet full of sap and with tufts of
green still clinging to their broken bark. But though his eye took in
every object which lay between him and the double log-cabin that stood
on the opposite verge of the clearing, it invariably lingered last and
longest on the thong of newly-cut leather which, from the distance, he
could just see dangling through a gimlet-hole in the door from the
wooden latch which secured it within.
There was hunger and some little desire for rest in those frequent
glances toward the slender cloud of smoke that went curling up from the
stick-chimney of his dwelling. At last he planted his axe against the
massive trunk which it had half-cut away, and was rolling down his shirt
sleeves, when the latch-string began to vibrate before his eye. After a
moment the cabin door opened, and a young man came out with a rifle in
his hand, and dressed in a green hunting-shirt.
“Halloa!” exclaimed Daniel Hart, with a sort of half whistle, as he
buttoned his wristband; “arly and late that chap is always a-hanging
round our premises. I calculate that it ain’t very difficult to guess
why the gal was so long a-getting breakfast.”
Daniel had scarcely buttoned his second wristband when a young girl in a
plain calico-dress appeared in the cabin door with a napkin in her hand,
which she flung up as a signal for breakfast.
“Oh, yes, she can call me now,” said Daniel, taking up his old straw-hat
from the grass, “but before I eat or drink I must know what brings that
John Downs into these diggins so often: when foxes begin to prowl round
a hen-coop in the daytime, it looks dangerous.”
“I say, John Downs, halloa, this way a minute!” and as Daniel Hart
uttered this shout he swung his hat in the air—an unnecessary signal,
for his voice might have been heard far into the woods.
The young hunter turned and came across the clearing, and though he
swung his rifle about with a dashing air, Daniel could see that his face
was crimson as he drew near; but a fine, handsome face it was, Daniel
could not deny that, though he did exert himself to look ferocious, and
got up a frown, as he approached, that seemed much out of place on that
broad, frank forehead.
“Well, John, what brings you in these parts so soon again?” inquired
Daniel Hart, putting on his old straw hat and folding his arms over his
broad chest. “Don’t think of settling out-west, nor any thing, do you?”
“Well,” said John Downs, blushing still more deeply, “I don’t know how
it will be. A chap can’t always make his home in the woods, you’ll agree
to that, I suppose?”
Daniel nodded his head, and replied,
“Just so, John.”
“Well,” continued John, gathering courage from his companion’s assent,
“I have a sort of fancy to settle down before long, and clear up a farm
for myself. Game is getting scarce, and I begin to feel rather lonesome
camping out at nights so much.”
“And how are you a-going to pay for the land?” inquired Daniel, folding
his arms more tightly over his chest; “wild lands are cheap out here,
true enough; but yet government won’t be satisfied with any thing less
than cash on the nail.”
“I know that,” replied the young man with a brightening eye; “but I’ve
got three hundred dollars let out to Judge Church, down on The Bend.”
“Well, but you haven’t taken a notion to my property here, have you?”
inquired Daniel, with a shrewd smile. “You don’t want me to sell out,
nor nothing?”
“No,” stammered the young hunter, crushing a tuft of wild pinks beneath
the butt of his rifle to hide his embarrassment, “but I’ve been
thinking——”
“Well, there isn’t nothing very uncommon in that, is there?” said
Daniel, laughing as the young man hesitated and blushed like a girl.
“No, Mr. Hart, no, I may as well out with it,” cried Downs, setting down
his rifle hard, and speaking with desperate rapidity; “I meant to talk
with you about it in a day or two, any way: but as we are on the
subject, supposing we finish it at once. There is Martha, your daughter:
we have been acquainted three years come fall, in Rockland county and
out here, and if you ain’t willing to let her keep house for me, it
don’t make much odds whether I have a farm or take to the woods again.
One thing is certain—I shan’t be very contented anywhere.”
“There, now, you’ve spoken up like a man!” replied Daniel, frankly
extending his hand; “I _cannot_ spare the gal, for she’s all I have to
depend on; but don’t look so down in the mouth about it. I’ll tell you
what we can do: take up your three hundred dollars and buy the lot that
lies next ag’in mine and her Uncle Bentley’s farm. There is our cabin
already built, and a housekeeper in it. Martha won’t make a worse
daughter for me because she is your wife,” and Daniel Hart pointed to
his dwelling with a smile on his face, yet a single tear brightened in
his eye; for the love which he bore his daughter was the most holy
feeling of his life.
“I never _was_ so happy!” exclaimed Downs, grasping the rough hand of
his father-in-law and giving it a vigorous shake. “And Martha, dear
girl—she thought you must miss her help, and would not consent to go
away. I left her with tears in her eyes.”
“She is a nice gal,” replied Daniel, drawing the back of his rough hand
across his eyes. “I only hope she will make you as good a wife as her
mother was to me.”
“I know that Martha loves me; she told me as much this morning, and I’m
not afraid of the rest,” said Downs.
“Of course,” said Hart; “what is there to fear? But see, Martha is at
the door; the breakfast will get cold; come in and we will talk it all
over.”
Downs took up his rifle, and the two went toward the house together.
Scarcely had Daniel Hart and his companion closed the cabin-door after
them, when a horseman came from a cart path leading through the woods,
and dismounted near the chestnut. He looked cautiously around, saw the
great gap cut in the trunk of the tree, and driving his horse back into
the woods again, tied it to a sapling down in an abrupt hollow which
concealed them from the clearing.
When the man appeared once more in the open space, he took up Daniel’s
axe, examined it closely while he dislodged the tiny chips that clung to
its edge, and tried its sharpness with the ball of his thumb.
“The chips are moist and green yet; the helve is warm with the old man’s
handling. I may as well make myself scarce at once, for the crusty
fellow will be hanging round home till night: I am certain of that from
the way he has begun his day’s work.”
As the young man muttered these discontented words to himself, he set
down the axe and moved away as if to seek the woods again; but as he
turned his head and cast a look toward the cabin, he gave a start; his
eyebrows worked and knit themselves over his flashing eyes, and with a
half-suppressed oath he looked around as if to ascertain some means of
reaching the cabin which might not expose his person to the inmates.
“There were two. I saw them through the window. Who is he? Let me make
him out—let me but fasten an eye on him and he is done for. Woodworth,
nor any other man, shall cross my path now and live!”
Once more he sent an oath through his grinding teeth, and plunged into
the hollow where his horse was tied. The fine animal turned his head and
greeted his coming with a low neigh; but his master lifted his heavy
boot and gave the poor creature a kick that made him wheel and run back
with a violence that almost tore the sapling up by the roots.
“By Jove, you had better stop that!” exclaimed the man, infuriated by
the noise, and giving the bridle a savage jerk.
“Stand still, stand still, or I’ll bleed you with a new-fashioned
lancet!” he exclaimed, through his shut teeth, and drawing a bowie-knife
from beneath his hunting-shirt, he plunged his arm back to drive it into
the heart of the rearing animal. But, as if comprehending his danger,
the beast leaped back with a fierce impetuosity that broke the sapling
sheer in twain, and plunged down the hollow just time enough to escape
the fearful blow launched at his chest. So fierce had been his attempt
upon the horse that Hurst lost his balance and fell forward to the
ground, ploughing the rich earth up with his knife for half a yard
before he could recover himself. The furious man started up, gazed after
the horse an instant, then shaking the soil from his knife, he thrust it
back to his bosom with a low, savage laugh.
“You have saved me a hundred dollars by that plunge, old fellow,” he
said, still gasping with passion. “I was a double fool to let you break
loose, though. Mike, Mike, easy, boy, easy! Come back, so-ho—so-so!”
It was surprising that a voice so fearfully savage the moment before
could have been modulated on the instant to the low, silky, and
wheedling tones which this man adopted in persuading the horse back to
his keeping again. It sounded through the woods like the mellow tone of
a bird calling for his mate. But the horse plunged on till the call
terminated in a low, sweet whistle. He had leaped across a rivulet which
ran gurgling along the depths of the hollow, and his front hoofs were
buried deep in the opposite ascent when that whistle came sighing
through the bushes. He stopped suddenly, with his ears still laid back
and his hoofs on high. A shiver ran through his limbs. His ears began to
tremble as they arose to their natural position—his forefeet sunk slowly
down, and, wheeling gently round, he crossed the brook and crept up the
hill, like a hound called back from the chase.
“So, old fellow, you have come back, have you?” muttered Hurst, tying
the broken bridle and tightening the knot across his knee with both
hands; “it’s well for you that I have no other horse to carry me to The
Bend—now see if you can stand quiet, will you?”
This speech terminated with another oath, while Hurst knotted the bridle
to the splintered trunk of the sapling and moved away. He crept
stealthily around the edge of the clearing, taking care to conceal his
progress by the underbrush that grew thickly in that portion of the
wood. At length he reached the little patch of vegetables which lay
between the forest and the back windows of the cabin; here he paused a
moment, peered anxiously through the thick foliage to the right and the
left, then parting the branches with his hands, he stole softly forth,
and, darting across the garden, crouched down beneath one of the
windows, where he lay for two or three minutes holding his breath and
afraid to stir a limb, lest he should agitate the creeping plants that
clung around the window, and thus give notice of his presence.
At length he arose cautiously, first to one knee, then to a stooping,
and, at last, to an upright, position, which brought his face to a level
with the window. He lifted his hands, and parted the network of
convolvules and flowering beans that draped the sash, with a cat-like
caution that scarcely shook a drop of dew from the host of purple-bells
that clustered around him. Having thus made an opening which commanded
the interior of the cabin, he remained motionless, except that now and
then his fingers clutched themselves together, and once he unconsciously
crushed a cluster of the scarlet beanflowers which fell against his palm
with a violence that shook the whole vine.
What a tranquil and happy scene it was that the bad man gazed upon! In
the centre of the cabin stood a small table, covered with a coarse cloth
of snow-white linen, a plate of savory ham—the ruddy color of each slice
relieved by the pearly and golden circle of an egg, which formed a
tempting mound upon it—stood in the centre, warm corn-bread, a plate of
potatoes, with their dark coats torn just enough to reveal a tempting
and mealy richness at heart, a saucer of wild honey, and another of
golden butter, composed the wholesome repast, of which Daniel Hart and
his guest were partaking.
The farmer had filled his plate a second time. Hard labor and the
morning air had given him a keen appetite, and his thirst seemed in
proportion, for Martha was holding forth, but without lifting her eyes
to his face, his third cup of rye coffee, on which the heavy cream was
mounting like a foam, when Hurst looked in upon the peaceful group.
Downs ate but little, and Martha—pretty, warm-hearted Martha Hart——did
nothing but blush every time she lifted her eyes from the bright tin
coffee-pot, and deluge every cup she filled with a double quantity of
cream, that little brown hand of hers was so very unsteady. It seemed so
strange for her to sit there, with her father directly opposite, and
John Downs lifting those bright, saucy eyes to her face every other
minute, and then dropping them as if he knew perfectly well that he
ought to be ashamed of himself there before her father. It was as much
as Martha could manage to sit still and wait on the table. It seemed a
marvel that her dear old father could eat so heartily. Every thing
seemed looking at her with peculiar meaning. The old house-dog there on
the hearth, the cat, as she moved demurely across the room, the purple
morning-glories trembling around the windows, all appeared perfectly
aware that every thing was settled between her and John Downs, but
rather astonished that the old man should take it all so quietly, when
they had every one of them heard him protest a thousand times that it
would be the death of him if she were ever to think of getting married.
Martha tried to act as if nothing particular had happened. She was
frightened to death at the idea of meeting her father’s eyes, and as for
John Downs, it really was too bad! Why on earth did he keep looking at
her from under those long eyelashes! She was perfectly certain in her
own heart that she had never once looked at him since they sat down to
breakfast: nothing in the world would tempt her to do any thing so
forward! Dear, pretty Matty Hart! how did she know that the young man at
her left, in the green hunting-shirt, was looking at her, if she never
turned her eyes that way? The conical-shaped coffee-pot, with its
streaming contents shut in by a lid marvellously like an overgown
extinguisher, was bright as hands could make it, but not quite brilliant
enough to reject the motions of her lover. Still Martha Hart was very
positive that she had given Downs no sort of encouragement to look at
her in that way, and, of course, she knew best, for the flowers that
trembled and shook off their dew, and seemed laughing at her through the
window, were not more modest or innocent than Martha Hart with all her
coquettish ways.
At length, when Daniel Hart had transferred the last morsel of ham from
the plate to his lips, and drained his coffee-cup for the third time, he
drew back his chair and looked at Downs.
“Well, now, John, I am ready to talk over the business as soon as you’ve
a mind to——”
Daniel Hart was here interrupted in his speech, for Martha recollected
that moment that she had no spring-water in the house, and the haste
which she made to get her sun-bonnet and lift the pail to her arm quite
disconcerted the whole party, but it was only for a moment. Daniel
settled back in his chair again, after giving a glance at her burning
face as she lifted the wooden door-latch, and muttering to himself,
“Well, well, it’s only human nature: I was young once myself,” he
addressed Downs again.
And there was that vile man listening to every word which passed between
the honest farmer and his son-in-law—he heard it all—how John Downs had
taken a fancy to Martha long ago in Rockland county—how he had sold out
all his possessions, consisting of a span of horses, a yoke of oxen, and
some young cattle, and started off West, in less than a month after the
Hart family left the county. He had deposited his money with Judge
Church, and was determined to buy land, and settle down in the
neighborhood; but Martha had put him off and off, till he was almost
discouraged—or had been till half an hour ago: now he was just the
happiest fellow on earth. Just as if it made any difference about the
Bentleys: he was as ready to work for that noble man and handsome girl,
as if they were his own blood relations—only give him a chance, that was
all.
Hurst saw the brown hands of these honest men grasp over the table, and
knew that he had another strong spirit to contend against.
Hurst was crouching amid the vines as Martha passed him, with the water
pail on her arm, and the love-light brightening her eyes and sending its
red to her cheeks. Her garments almost touched him as she turned a
corner of the cabin, but he held his breath and shrunk close to the
logs, listening to the conversation within, even while his kindling eyes
followed the young and happy creature as she passed with a light step
into the woods. When she had entirely disappeared he turned his eyes
inward again, bent his ear, like a hound, and pressed his face close to
the matted foliage, that no word passing between the two men at the
table might escape him. He learned from their conversation that Gillian
and her father had ridden forth at daylight to explore a tract of land,
which they all thought of adding to the farm, and that Mr. Woodworth was
expected soon, when he might carry Gillian away, and all must be settled
before then. If they liked the land, it would be paid for to-morrow; the
money lay ready at the Bend. As for Gillian, she was expecting her lover
every moment. Then there would be a wedding in the settlement, and one
bright face less in the cabin. After some ten minutes, Hurst drew
stealthily back, darted into a patch of early corn that came up almost
to one end of the cabin, and winding noiselessly through it, cautious as
a serpent, not to shake a single silken tuft that streamed from the
half-ripened ears, he entered the woods again.
“So soon! so soon! quick work, but I am ready—the job pleases me—it
pleases me—so—so, fool—stand still. What, afraid of the knife yet? It
has better fare on hand—so—so!”
These words were uttered after Hurst entered the hollow where his horse
was tied. He had been fingering the haft of his knife while muttering to
himself, and partly drew it from his bosom as he came up. The still
restive animal started at the gleam of the blade, which gave rise to the
half-savage, half-soothing words which his master uttered as he
unknotted the bridle. After looking cautiously over his shoulder, Hurst
mounted to his saddle, and crossing the cart-path rode leisurely toward
the spring where Martha Hart had gone a few minutes before.
A happy girl was Martha, as she passed through those thick woods down to
the little spring which supplied the household with water! Every object
around her bore a thrice pleasant look. When she turned down the little
footpath and came in sight of the fountain, it was gushing up quick and
bright, with a sweet impetuosity, like the sensations of her own pure
heart. It seemed rejoicing with her, smiling on her. How sweetly it
flashed up from its mossy basin, dimpling and laughing as the arrowy
sunshine darted through the heavy mass of foliage overhead and broke in
a golden shower on the rivulet that danced down through the rich turf
carpeting the earth all around. It fell athwart the roots of that
gnarled old oak that twisted in and out among the rocks just above, like
a knot of huge serpents charmed to sleep by the soft lullaby of the
waters—and on the little hollow, choked up with fern-leaves, where the
pretty stream lost itself and plunged into the earth again.
Martha came along the path, smiling unconsciously. She sat down beneath
the shadow of the rock, with the water almost kissing her feet. A bird
was overhead, and it began to sing till the leaves around its
hiding-place shivered again, but she did not listen to the bird. Why
should she? There was music enough in her own heart! She had trodden
upon a tuft of wild blossoms, and the air was perfumed with their dying
breath, but she only knew that every thing was very lovely and tranquil
around her. The very foliage and the glimpses of sky shining through,
seemed rejoicing over her head like old friends, longing to come nearer
and bless her. Her heart was brimming with joy; tears, the highest and
most blissful drops that ever fell from the blossoms of a young heart,
sparkled in those soft eyes; and there she sat, so quiet and motionless,
bending a little forward like a wood-lily on its stalk, and none but the
Almighty, who loves the joy of an innocent heart, knew how pure and
entire that happiness was.
All at once a shadow fell on the spirit of that young girl. One of those
strange, intuitive feelings, which seem like spirit-tones in the heart,
came over her. There was no unusual noise in the forest, and yet she
bent her ear to listen; still no sound, save the soft hum of summer
insects, and such beautiful things as love the solitude, arose to
startle her; but the feeling of dread was in her heart, she put back the
mass of curls that had fallen over her shoulder, and listened still more
intently. It _was_ a sound, the tramp of a horse mellowed and broken by
the forest turf. Certain that it was the approach of an enemy, Martha
snatched her sun-bonnet from the ground, and, hastily filling her pail
from the spring, turned breathlessly into the path. It was too late for
escape! scarcely had she advanced half a dozen paces, when Hurst
appeared in a curve of the path. She turned into the wood, though the
undergrowth was so thickly tangled there that it seemed almost
impossible to force a passage through. Hurst sprang from his horse and
left it standing across the path, as he came quickly towards the
breathless and startled girl.
“What, Martha, you are determined to fight shy yet?” exclaimed the vile
man, pressing close to the struggling girl, and attempting to take the
pail from her hand. “Come, come, give it up; it’s too heavy; you bend
under it like a sugar-cane in the wind. Let me carry it, I say.”
He took the pail forcibly from her hand as he spoke, and dashed half the
water to the ground.
“Never mind,” he said, with a disagreeable laugh; “we can go down to the
spring and fill it again. I want to talk with you. Where is Gillian?”
“Gone out to ride. What do you wish to say?” faltered the terrified
girl. “I thought you would not come again. I must go home—my father is
waiting.”
“Thought I should not come again? A pretty fellow I should be to take
that proud girl at her first word. No, no, Miss Martha, I do not so
easily give up an idea when it once gets into my head. Such girls as
Gillian are scarce here in the bush.”
While he spoke, Hurst swung the half-empty pail on one arm, and forcing
Martha’s hand through the other, dragged her toward the path.
“I do not wish to go down there—I _will_ not, unless you drag me from
the spot by force,” said Martha, wringing her hand suddenly from the
hold he had fixed upon it, and darting up the hill with the speed of a
deer. She rushed through the cabin-door and pulled the latch-string in.
Hurst made one bound after her, then paused and listened. He saw Daniel
Hart and Downs going toward the clearing, and heard the sound of hoofs
coming softly over the forest sward close by. There was but one horse,
and he trod daintily as if guided by a lady.
It is Gillian, and she has left her father behind, was Hurst’s thought.
What did he care for Martha Hart then? His sole object in detaining her
had been to gain some intelligence of Gillian—and there she was alone in
the woods. His heart stood still; thoughts flashed through his brain
like lightning; there was his opportunity. Gillian once in his power,
what force could ever rescue her? One bold dash, and the fortune for
which he had dared perdition, and the woman whom he adored and hated in
the same breath would be his. Woodworth might come to find his promised
bride another man’s wife.
Hurst turned sharply, and went down to the woods. Gillian was riding
quietly under the trees, enjoying the grateful shade. A crimson scarf,
which was twisted round her neck, seemed to light up the path her horse
was taking. She had left her father a mile back. There was a fresh
clearing to be made, and he had turned aside to examine the timber,
leaving Gillian to loiter on her way home and enjoy the shadowy repose
of the woods. She had paused a dozen times within the last half mile—now
to gather a handful of berries from the smaller growth of trees, and
again to trace the delicate green vines as they trailed their scarlet
berries along the forest moss and embroidered it with an exquisite woof
of tiny leaves and fruit-drops. Then she came to a half-decayed stump,
frosted all over with pale apple-gum moss, woven in thickly, as it were,
with coral. Gillian’s love of the beautiful in nature was intense. She
could not traverse a path in the woods without stopping every ten
minutes to examine some object of interest. When she saw this stump
frosted with a rich overgrowth she sprang from her horse and began to
gather some of the finest tufts in her hand. The horse, accustomed to
these delays, turned aside, browsing lazily on a young birch thicket
that grew near.
“Beautiful! oh, how very beautiful it is!” she said, holding up her
red-beaded moss in a beam of sunshine that slanted through the trees.
“What a world of lovely things I shall have to show him when he comes!”
“Miss Bentley!”
Gillian started, and dropped the moss from her hand; for there, on the
other side of the stump, stood Michael Hurst.
“Miss Bentley, fortune has for once been in my favor. I have another
opportunity to urge my suit,” he said, holding out his hand.
Gillian turned away in haughty silence. Twice before, within a
fortnight, this man had persecuted her with his unwelcome importunities,
and she was weary of repulsing him. Besides, she was alone in the woods,
and his presence always struck her with a sort of terror.
He saw this, and a smile crept over his white lips.
“Lady, this is hard,” he said.
She turned upon him like a young eagle.
“Sir, three times I have given you an answer to proposals which offend
me! The property that I solemnly think belongs to my father, you have
got; we gave it up without contest. Be content with that, and spare me
farther importunity.”
“Gillian, you will not understand me. The property which you surrender
is nothing unless you share it. The very possession drives me mad. I
have followed you here into the wilderness, praying, beseeching you to
share this wealth. I love you, Gillian. God only knows how wildly I love
you.”
Gillian would not listen, but turned away in proud silence, looking
anxiously toward her horse.
Hurst followed close.
“You will not listen—you will not answer?” he said, fiercely.
“No, I will not listen—I will not answer!” she replied. “How often shall
I tell you that my hand is pledged—my faith given? Step aside, sir, and
let me pass!”
Hurst got between her and the horse. She turned desperately and ran
along the path.
Hurst sprang after her. A hound in full cry could not have leaped more
fiercely forward. He grasped her arm, turned her round with a jerk, and
when her pale face was close to his he laughed; not, as might have been
expected, a coarse, ruffianly laugh; but low and sweet, with a tone that
frightened the heart it thrilled.
“Come, girl, come! I do not want to frighten you. Go down to the
spring—I have a great many things to talk over. How can you tremble so,
close by the man that loves you better than any thing on earth?”
And, with a reed-like bend of his fine form, Hurst threw his arm around
Gillian’s waist, and attempted rather to persuade than force her toward
the spring.
“I will not move a step. I cannot. Oh, Mr. Hurst, pray let me go! you
frighten me almost to death!” cried the poor girl, trembling in every
limb, while her ashy lips quivered with terror.
“How foolish you are, Gillian, to fear from one man—an old lover and
true friend—that which pleases you in a fellow like one I could
mention,” said Hurst, girding her waist more firmly with his arm,
speaking in a mellow and persuasive voice—a voice which sounded so like
that of Woodworth that Gillian raised her large eyes to his face in
wonder and new dread, but they sunk to the earth again, shocked by the
conflicting passions which met their gaze in that handsome but evil
face.
“Come, have done with all this childish nonsense,” continued Hurst, “I
only want a fair hearing. You were too hasty the other day, when I came
like an honest man and asked you to marry me, and I, like a fool, went
off with my cause half argued. Stop, stop, there is no getting off now:
I must be heard.”
But Gillian writhed in the clasp of his strong arm, and looked wildly
over his shoulder in hopes of aid from the house.
“Say what you wish, here, then,” she said, wild with terror; “I will
listen—take your arm away, and let me sit down—I will hear all that you
have to say, if you do this.”
“What, you would get a little nearer the house, and scream if I only
lifted my eyes to that pretty white face of yours? No, no, Miss Gillian,
I am not to be cheated in this way;” and, flinging his disengaged arm
also around her person, Hurst lifted her from the ground and moved
rapidly toward his horse. The poor girl struggled, her head fell back on
his shoulder, and her terror found voice in a single sharp cry.
“Hush!” said Hurst, turning his face till she could feel the warm breath
as it poured from his clenched teeth. “Hush, I say, or I shall be forced
to quiet you with my handkerchief.”
He moved toward his horse as he spoke, set her on the ground, still
grasping her arm with one iron hand, as he sprang to his saddle and
attempted to drag her up after him.
Another cry, sharp with terrible agony, broke from the lips of that poor
girl. It was followed by a rushing sound in the path above—the crash of
branches, the leap of a strong man, and the shout of a fierce voice in
its rage.
“Villain!—Villain!” With this fierce cry Daniel Hart plunged like a lion
down to the spot where his niece was lying, pale and senseless on the
earth. He sprang over her body with his arms outstretched and his eyes
on fire—for one instant his iron hand clutched the folds of Hurst’s
hunting-shirt, but it was wrested from him by the violent leap taken
that instant by the goaded horse, as he wheeled and darted up the path
and out of sight, it seemed, with a single bound.
“Oh, if I had my rifle!” exclaimed Daniel Hart, in a hoarse whisper, as
he lifted Gillian from the earth and laid her down again, for the stout
man shook with rage, and that moment he was weak as an infant—“if I but
had my rifle!”
CHAPTER XXXIX.
THE BODY IN THE WOODS.
About ten miles from the residence of Daniel Hart, one of the largest
tributary streams of the Mississippi made a sudden sweep inward, like a
bent bow, embracing a rich tract of alluvial or bottom land in its
curve, and forcing its outer banks back into the shelter of a range of
hills, more broken and picturesque than is usually found in scenery
composed almost equally of wood and prairie land.
Just within the curve of this bow, or directly on “The Bend,” as the
inhabitants called the plain which swept out from the embrace of the
river, stood the county-seat. The entire district was but sparsely
inhabited, and, as yet, the county town consisted only of a few
log-cabins, half-buried in luxurious corn-fields, two or three young
orchards filled with trees, that had only decked themselves in the
blossoms of a single spring, and one great frame dwelling, with verandas
running across the front, and two chimneys of new bricks standing on the
expanse of glistening shingles, like members of a volunteer militia
company in flowing regimentals, whose pride it was to keep guard over
the humble log-cabins and stick-chimneys which lay below.
A blacksmith’s shop, so open in front that you could see the glowing
iron even in winter as it poured a torrent of sparks from the huge
hammer which ground it to the anvil, stood opposite the tavern; and
this, with the noise of carpenters still at work in the interior of the
building, lent a sort of bustle and business aspect to “The Bend,” which
those who visited it found rather cheerful and exciting after the dim
solitude of their forest-homes.
A flour-mill, too, clattered cheerfully night and day in a hollow close
by the river, and there was scarcely a day in the week when a group of
men might not have been observed loitering around Judge Church’s tavern.
It was Saturday, about five days after the visit of Michael Hurst to the
Hart clearing, and the strangers gathered around the blacksmith’s shop
and tavern toward sunset were more than usually numerous. Three or four
farmers had come from a remote part of the county with wagon-loads of
grain, which could scarcely be converted into flour before the next day.
Others had brought their horses to be shod, and, meeting with cheerful
company at the tavern, were in no haste to return home.
The evening came on warm and sultry, but the blacksmith was hard at
work; the sound of his anvil rang over the village, and the glare of his
forge reddened around him as the beautiful sunset fell through a bank of
hazy clouds on the landscape without. A horse of light bay color, finely
limbed, and with the look of a high-blooded racer, was tied with a stout
bridle to an iron ring at the door-post, but though the hot sparks
sometimes flashed close by his eyes, they only kindled up a little, as
if some of the fire had shot beneath the lids; and though his nostrils
dilated, he neither pulled at the halter nor seemed restive, for once
when he had run back a little, a voice from the opposite tavern checked
the fretful impulse, and left him standing with his eye to the flame,
but with a slack halter and shrinking limbs. To the poor animal there
was something in that voice more terrible than the shower of hot sparks
that rained over him.
The voice came from a young man seated in the lower veranda of the
tavern. His chair was tilted back, and his right foot rested upon his
left knee, and though the fringe of his hunting-frock swept over a
portion of the boot, its small size and unusually neat workmanship could
not be entirely concealed. The man wore a fine otter-skin cap, which,
being drawn over his face, left the upper part in shadow, but waves of
thick hair curled up among the rich fur about his temples, and his
somewhat prominent chin, upon which the light lay strong, was so
delicately moulded that in repose his features seemed almost effeminate.
This man sat with half-closed eyes, smoking. Now and then, as he bent
slightly forward to knock the ashes from his cigar against the sole of
his boot, he glanced his eye through the bar-room window, which was open
a little to his right, and seemed to listen. At such times the shadow
which fell over his eyes was thrown on the temple, and the whole
character of his face changed. It was a restless, wicked eye, which
lighted up every feature with evil fire. This must have been a natural
expression, for there was nothing calculated to excite or annoy him in
the bar-room. Two or three persons only were gathered about the bar,
joking each other, while the judge himself was busy crushing lumps of
sugar in one of the small tumblers of greenish glass, which gave a dingy
hue to the brandy he had just poured out for one of his customers.
Michael Hurst, for it was he, had just drawn back to his old position,
when two men on horseback came round a corner, and, as if rejoiced by
the sight of company, urged their horses to a trot, and drawing up in a
cheerful, dashing style, dismounted before the tavern.
Hurst started, and dashed down his foot with a violence that drew the
chair forward till the front feet rang against the floor. The light
struck full upon his face; it had all at once become white as a corpse,
and his eyes glistened like those of a roused serpent.
The two travellers had been busy tying their horses to the posts of the
veranda, and before they were at leisure to notice any thing Hurst had
fallen back to his old position.
“Does not that look like Hurst?” said one of the men, as they came up
the wooden steps together.
Daniel Hart cast a quick glance toward the seemingly half-sleeping man,
knotted his huge fingers tightly together, and moved a step forward, but
Mr. Bentley caught his arm.
“Remember your promise to Gillian!” he said, in a low voice, but his own
limbs trembled with rage as he restrained the vengeance of the stronger
man. “Remember, we have both promised,” he added, drawing Hart toward
the door, “but for that I have the best right.”
“I have never broken my word!” muttered Daniel Hart, moving reluctantly
on. “I never will, but it’s tough work to keep my hands off him.”
And with these words Daniel Hart and his brother-in-law entered the
public house, but the cheerfulness with which they had dismounted at the
door was entirely dispersed; not even the hearty welcome which they
received from the persons at the bar had power to restore them to
moderate composure.
“Why, who on earth is this, Daniel Hart?” said the Judge laying down the
sugar-stick and holding out his right hand, with which he shook his
neighbor’s vigorously, while he passed the tumbler of brandy to a
customer with the other.
“It seems an age since we’ve seen you at The Bend—and you too, Mr.
Bentley. I was just calculating that your money would be so much clear
gain in my hands, and had half dunned myself for the interest, when I
get word that you are coming down to scrape it up, interest and all, for
the land-office.”
Bentley was about to reply, but the words died on his lips. In turning
his eyes he had seen the white face of Michael Hurst peering in at the
window; the face disappeared instantaneously, but Bentley felt as if
those glittering eyes were still fixed upon his burning forehead. It was
rage rather than terror that arose in his heart at the sight of those
eyes, but to a less brave man there would have been something startling
in their sharp and fiendish glare. The evidences of emotion visible in
Bentley’s face were mistaken for embarrassment by the good-natured
Judge.
“Well, well,” he said, “if you want the money, that’s enough; put up
with me to-night, and I’ll try to make it out in the morning.”
“Not here—I will not sleep under the same roof with that man,” said
Daniel Hart, drawing Bentley aside, and speaking with great earnestness.
“I would rather go myself,” said Bentley, also in a low voice, “but it
looks like a storm. If a hurricane comes up, we could never get through
the woods alive.”
“No matter, alive or dead, I _will not_ stay at The Bend to-night,”
replied Hart, with suppressed energy, but his words reached the persons
around the bar, and they looked at each other, a little surprised at his
obstinacy, and the stern, wilful tone in which his determination was
expressed. It seemed to them as if harsh feeling existed between the two
men.
“Very well, I’m ready to start the moment our horses have been fed,”
replied Bentley, moving toward the bar. “I suppose an hour or two won’t
make much difference with the Judge?”
“None at all,” replied the Judge, pointing to an old-fashioned chest of
drawers in the corner; “the money is all ready in the old desk there. Go
in and take a bite of supper while the horses are feeding. Come along,
all of you.”
The whole group put itself in motion and followed the Judge out into a
back kitchen, where supper was laid in no very delicate style, but in
rough and hospitable profusion.
Michael Hurst had been standing with his back to the railing of the
veranda, his arms folded tightly over his chest, and watching with
cat-like eagerness every thing that passed in the bar-room. The moment
Judge Church went out, followed by the company, he glided softly down
the steps, and across to the blacksmith’s shop. The smith was busy at
his bellows, and the roar of the air escaping into the bed of glowing
coals forced Hurst to draw close to the forge before he could make
himself heard. When he felt the red light of the fire upon his face, he
turned it away instinctively, or the honest smith might have been
startled by its pallor and the fiendish expression lurking over it. A
hostler coming round from the barn, with a measure of oats in his hand,
saw him standing there enveloped, as it might seem, in a crimson mantle
by the flames, and wondered what traveller had entered the town without
his knowledge; for though Hurst had been for more than a fortnight
boarding in the tavern, and was well known to the man, his face was so
changed with the working of evil passions that it seemed like that of a
stranger.
“Have you fastened the shoe?” said Hurst, hoarsely, touching the
blackened arm of the smith with his finger, for he had spoken twice, yet
could not hear the sound of his own voice. “Have you fastened the shoe?”
“No,” said the blacksmith, leaning upon the pole of his bellows, and
wiping the perspiration from his forehead with the coarse sleeve that
was rolled above his elbow.
Hurst uttered an imprecation.
“I haven’t fastened that shoe,” continued the smith, quite unmoved by
the fierce words that had reached his ear, and resuming his hold on the
bellows with one hand, while he raked the hot coals over a half-formed
circle of iron glowing in the forge; “but I have put on a new one that
fits like a lady’s slipper. That horse of yours has got a neat hoof,
rather too delicate for common workmen; I had to make undersized nails
for fear of breaking it.”
“Is he shod? Have you done with him?” exclaimed Hurst, sharply.
“Half an hour ago!” Taking up a huge pair of pincers with which he
dragged forth a mass of iron from its bed of fire, and seizing his
hammer, the smith gave it one swing with his right arm, and it came
crashing down upon the anvil with a force that sent a storm of
fire-sparks over the young man, as he passed and untied his horse from
the iron-ring at the door.
Hurst led his horse across the street, and flung the bridle toward the
man who was removing the bits from the tired animal from which Hart had
just dismounted, while Mr. Bentley’s horse was quietly munching the oats
which had been set before him.
“Here, take care of the creature, will you?” he said, testily. “You need
not stay to rub him down—he is half-starved.”
The hostler caught the bridle with a dexterous movement of one arm, and
quietly drawing the head-stall back to the neck of Hart’s horse, pushed
the measure of oats toward him with his foot, and then moved away.
“Halloa, blockhead! where are you going?” cried Hurst, with an oath. “I
don’t want him taken to the barn; turn him into the white-clover lot,
and see you put up the bars.”
The man wheeled round sulkily, and grumbled below his breath. After
crossing the road, he took down a set of bars, slipped off the bridle,
and gave the spirited animal a light blow with it. This sent the horse
bounding into a field, which was hedged in from the highway by a heavy
rail-fence, and swept back from the tavern, some ten or twelve acres of
short but fragrant sward, where it was lost in a forest of heavy timber.
The tavern itself stood in one corner of this field, and a cross-road
bounded the opposite end, which ran up from the forest and intersected
the turnpike some thirty rods below the house.
Hurst stepped within the hall, but stood watching the man till he put up
the bars and flung the bridle down in a corner of the veranda; then he
turned away and went into the supper-room.
He took his seat at the lower end of the table, so noiselessly that his
entrance was unobserved, till Judge Church happened to look that way,
and uttered an exclamation at his paleness. The rest of the company
fastened their eyes, as with one accord, upon his face, the moment this
exclamation escaped the host. A spot of living fire flashed into either
cheek, and he clutched his knife and fork hard, as if angered by this
general observation.
“I have the toothache—have been racked to death with it all day,” he
said, in a clear and low voice, strongly at variance with the expression
of his face.
“I will not sit at the same table with him,” muttered Daniel Hart,
grasping Bentley by the arm. “Come, let us go!”
They both arose; but, as if overcome with pain, Hurst left his seat and
went out. Obeying the impulse given by his companion, Hart sat down
again, and no one observed that they had intended to leave the table.
When they went into the bar-room, after supper, Hurst was walking up and
down the room. He seemed to be agitated, or in great pain, but there was
only one small candle in the bar, and he kept in the shadow.
Meantime, the Judge was busy counting out the money which Mr. Bentley
had come to take up. It was much of it in pieces of gold, with several
bank notes of small amount. After it had been counted over two or three
times, the Judge emptied it into an old shot-bag—where it had been
previously stored—tied it up with a piece of twine, and handed it to
Bentley, taking his promissory note from that gentleman as he delivered
the money.
“Come, now, we have nothing to keep as here!” exclaimed Hart, drawing a
deep breath, for the presence of Hurst seemed to oppress him. “Where are
the horses?”
“They ought to be in the stable,” said the Judge, turning a key in the
sloping lid which closed a desk in his chest of drawers; “there is a
storm coming up, or I am no judge of signs.”
Hart had only heard the first part of this speech; he was eager to leave
the room, and hurrying out to the horses, forced the bits into their
mouths, though scarcely half the oats had been consumed.
“Come, come, brother Bentley, come—we _shall_ have to ride fast, or the
storm may break on us in the woods!” he called out from the veranda.
Mr. Bentley went out, followed by all the persons in the room, except
Hurst. He stood motionless, near the window, listening to every word
that passed, till the two men mounted and rode away. Then he stepped
hastily to the bar, seized a decanter, and pouring out a tumbler half
full of clear brandy, drank it off.
“Is your tooth no easier?” said the good-hearted Judge, returning to the
room just as the young man was taking his hand from the tumbler.
“No, it keeps getting worse; I will go to bed and sleep it off—that is,
if I can,” he replied, turning his face from the light, and pouring out
a spoonful of brandy, which he held in his mouth as he went up-stairs.
“That’s a strange sort of a fellow,” said one of the guests, who had
been a boatman on the Mississippi. “How long has he been in these
parts?”
“Only a few weeks,” replied the Judge, to whom the question was
addressed.
“What does he follow for a living?” persisted the guest.
“He’s got some business with the land office, I believe,” said the
Judge, “and wanders off with the hunters sometimes when they take to the
woods.”
“Just so,” said the guest.
Hurst was not mentioned again that night; but as if some association had
been aroused, unconsciously, in the mind of the boatman, he began to
talk about his wild life on the great river, and late in the evening was
describing the fearful scenes which attended the hanging of the
Vicksburg gamblers.
It was a terrible subject, and told at a fearful hour; for the hurricane
had burst upon them—strong, loud, and terrible. It came blowing up from
the forest, and swept by, in its wrath, till the great half-empty house
rocked like a cradle. The chimneys toppled over, and crashed upon the
roof overhead. The verandas were torn away like a handful of rushes, and
yet that little group men sat awe-stricken and fascinated, listening to
the rough eloquence of the boatman, as he described the storm of human
passions which he had witnessed, amid the terrible, but still less awful
storm of the elements that raged around them.
Hurst went to his room and set down the light, reaching it far away with
his hand, that it should not shine upon his face. He felt as if his
thoughts were branded in crimson-writing on his forehead, and that some
eye might read his purpose there. His conscience whispered falsely. That
forehead was white as marble, but shrunk and knitted together with dark
passions. Foolish man! Why did he thrust away that candle so fiercely?
The Almighty required no human light—no letters of blood upon the
brow—to read that which was passing in his heart.
He took a bowie-knife from his bosom, and felt the point—tried it
against the seat of a chair till it seemed as if the well-tempered steel
must have broken off in the wood. Then he drew a portmanteau from under
the bed, and took out a hunting-frock, darker than the one he usually
wore, and without the yellow fringe. Having put this on, and supplied
its place in the portmanteau with that which he had flung off, he drew
the otter-skin cap over his forehead, and blowing out the light, crept
from the room. He had nearly reached the stairs, when a thought seemed
to strike him; for he stole back, and, after searching in the dark,
found the leather string suspended from the wooden latch in the door of
his room. He tied a knot in the end, which he tightened with his teeth,
and drew it back so far into the gimlet hole which perforated the door,
that any one anxious to enter would have supposed the thong drawn
through by some person within. He listened a moment by the door, and
then glided, with quick and noiseless steps, down the stairs.
There was no light in the hall; but the ceilings were yet unplastered,
and a network of faint rays fell through a thousand crevices of the new
lath, which was the only partition between him and the bar-room. The
bar-room door was partly open, and directly before it sat a group of
travellers, listening to the exploits of the boatman. This man checked
his speech an instant, and looked up as Hurst darted by, but the
movement was quick as the flight of an arrow, and, satisfied that it was
but a shadow made by the flaring candle, the man went on, warming in his
description as the storm rose.
Once out of the house, Hurst crept in a stooping posture around the
veranda, thrust his arm through the railing, and softly drawing forth
the bridle that had been cast there, followed the windings of the fence
till he came to the cross-road. He turned the corner with a bound, and,
drawing one sharp breath, ran swiftly down towards the wood. Here he
turned again, followed the line of brush fence that separated the forest
from the clover-fields, and, keeping himself in the wood, looked around
for his horse. The animal was grazing near the centre of the field. A
low, sweet whistle made him pause just as a tuft of fragrant and dewy
clover was folded in his lip——again that whistle came from the wood,
still faintly, but a little sharper than before. Without staying to crop
the handful of blossoms which were even then filling his mouth with
fragrance, the animal gave a start, flung up his head, and sprang away.
With a single bound he cleared the fence, and stood by the side of his
master.
Hurst took a heavy silk handkerchief from his pocket, tied two of the
corners together with a piece of cord, and slipped it over the horse’s
head, where he arranged it with the cord knotted across the chest, and
the square of crimson silk spread out upon the animal’s back like a
saddlecloth.
“No saddle, no blanket to-night, old boy,” he muttered, hoarsely, while
the horse bent his head for the bit. He put on the bridle, drawing the
throat-latch so fiercely that the tormented creature shook his head and
ran back. Hurst clenched his hand, opened it again as suddenly and
patted the restive creature on the arching neck.
“So—so,” he muttered, loosening the strap, which cut cruelly against the
poor animal’s throat. “No noise—no prancing here. So—so, be quiet, boy,
take care of the brush, and you shall be coaxed like a girl, for
once—so—so.”
With these words, uttered scarcely above his breath, though the
mustering storm would have drowned his loudest tones, Hurst sprang upon
his horse, and, guiding him cautiously through a corner of the wood,
came out into the cross-road, about half a mile from the town.
“Now for it!” burst from his lips in a whisper, which seemed like a
shout suppressed with difficulty. “Now for it!”
There had been a moon that evening, but the coming storm overwhelmed and
shrouded it from sight. Still, a pearly glow now and then shot along the
small and gloomy clouds that came surging up from the north, and spread
themselves over the sky like a lead-colored pavement, torn and agitated
by unseen hands. But soon even the pearly gleam disappeared. It had
lingered among the clouds, the last smile on the face of heaven; now it
was swept away, and left nothing but blackness and gloom behind. The air
seemed pressing down to the earth, thick, stagnant and sultry. A dismal
sound came up from the forest, as if the elements were chained among
those giant trees, moaning at their captivity and wrathful with each
other. Still, amid darkness and gloom, that horseman sped on. The road
was narrow, and full of ruts. Stumps, in some places, stood half
crumbling away in the very wagon-track; but, with a loosened rein and
knees pressed hard to his fleet animal, that doomed man plunged onward
to his fate. The thunder, which had been all the time muttering on high,
now pealed and crashed above him—the lightning came down in sheets of
lurid fire, shedding a bluish tinge over the corpse-like hue of his
face. Still his horse plunged on amid sheets of flame or black darkness,
never checking his speed for an instant.
All at once that desperate rider drew the curb with a sharp pull, which
brought the horse’s foaming mouth down upon his chest. He staggered,
fell back upon his haunches, and recovered himself with a snort of pain.
All the time, the rider was bending forward till his face almost touched
the arched neck of his beast, his knees were pressed convulsively to the
drooping sides of the stumbling animal, and he strove again to catch the
sound of hoofs which had for an instant reached him through the storm.
“On, on!” The words came hissing through his shut teeth, but scarcely
had the gallant horse made a bound forward when the curb was fiercely
drawn again.
“It is somewhere close by. Oh, if the lightning would but strike again!”
It did strike, with a crash that made the brave horse leap in the air,
though he had never shrunk from the lightning before. Not three rods
before them a dry tree was shivered in ten thousand pieces, and every
splinter shot forth a stream of fire. For one moment the horseman
recoiled, the next he recognized the spot.
“Thank God, there it is!” he exclaimed aloud, and with this blasphemous
thanksgiving on his parted lips, he struck the horse and dashed into a
cart-path, revealed by the stricken tree. On, without swerving from the
path an instant, he passed directly under the burning tree, and was
engulfed in the dark woods beyond.
Daniel Hart and his companion had ridden hard, in hopes of making their
way through the woods before the storm came on, but there was full six
miles of forest, cut only by the narrow and broken road, through which
night travellers passed with some danger even in the best weather. But
they had scarcely cleared a third of their way when the rain began to
fall in great heavy drops, and the storm mustered around them with
terrible force. The heavy farm-horses which they rode stumbled in the
deep ruts, and became almost unmanageable as the thunder came crashing
peal after peal overhead, and the woods around seemed a-fire with
lightning. Still the riders urged them forward, for the peril seemed
equal if they returned or pursued their way home.
“Great heavens! did you see that?” exclaimed Bentley, reining in his
horse with a firm hand, and pointing in the direction whence they had
come.
“I thought it had struck somewhere,” replied Hart, checking his horse
for a moment and looking back. “Ha! it is the old tree at the
cross-roads. How the flames shoot up! it was dry as tinder. Thank
Heaven, while it burns we shall have light enough to keep our horses
from breaking their knees in the confounded mud-holes.”
“Hear that!” exclaimed Bentley, and his face changed in the red light.
“Heavens and earth! it is upon us—what shall we do?” cried Hart,
wheeling his horse suddenly, and the light from the burning tree
revealed his face also white with terror as he rode back a few paces,
and drew up again, agitated and irresolute.
“We may as well go forward; there is nothing to choose. It will be upon
us long before we can clear the wood either way,” shouted Bentley,
looking back.
“Lord preserve us! it will be an awful gust, and the girls alone!”
Hart spoke loud and joined Bentley as he uttered these words, but the
noise of the elements would have overwhelmed a band of trumpets, and no
one heard him. Terrified into almost supernatural exertion, the two
horses plunged on, stumbling, leaping, and sometimes staggering through
the storm like drunken creatures. The riders spoke to each other again
and again, shouted even, but the rushing wind swept away their voices,
and but for the quick flashes of lightning which every instant revealed
their pallid faces each to the other, they could not have kept together.
Still the terrific storm was not upon them in its full might. The
thunder boomed and crashed overhead, the giant trees were laced together
through and through with fiery lightning, the wind was strong and high;
but far down in the forest came a still more terrible sound. The
whirlwind was coming up from the dark north, heaving onward with a
fierce, rushing roar, and crashing down the majestic forest in its
path—on and on it came, like a mighty ocean heaving loose from its
foundations. Now it was upon them! The two horses stood still, quaking
with terror, their riders cast themselves forward upon the shivering
beasts, clung to their dripping necks, and they too were motionless.
On it came, gathering new strength and terror. The hoarse winds, the
thunder, and the noise of giant trees uprooted like reeds and dashed to
the earth, mingled together and deafened the very heavens.
The air was black with clouds of mangled foliage—great limbs of trees,
masses of loose leaves, vines twisted asunder and saplings torn up by
the roots, went rushing by. The wind now scattered them abroad—now drove
them together in masses. The lightning shot its fiery tongues through
and through them, and the rain mingled with it all, not with the soft
lulling sweetness of water-drops that descend gently from the clouds,
but blent with all the turbulent elements that made the night horrible.
Still the horses crouched their limbs together and buried their hoofs
deep in the earth, and the riders clung to them awe-stricken and
breathless—all at once the ground began to heave under them. The earth
was torn up all around—a great oak, whose roots were tangled under the
soil far across the road, fell crashing close behind them. The maddened
horses leaped forward—the outer branches of the fallen tree almost
brushed the riders from their seats, and the huge trunk fell across the
road just where they had been an instant before. The horse which Daniel
Hart rode cleared the tree first, and was plunging on in the darkness,
when a sharp cry reached his ear, even through the storm. Hart grasped
the bridle with both his strong hands, and, putting forth all his
strength, wheeled his horse round, for Bentley was still behind. A flash
of lightning revealed the horse without a rider; Bentley was upon the
ground—a black mass, that might be a heavy limb of the fallen tree, or a
human being stooping over it, was betrayed for an instant, and all was
dark again.
“Bentley, are you hurt?—answer me, answer if you are not killed,”
shouted the farmer, hoarse with terror.
He listened—no sound—nothing but the fierce storm.
“Speak! do speak! I dare not ride on, the horse might tread you to death
in the dark. Are you calling out?—the storm is so loud I might not hear
if you did—try, try, the least shout will tell me where you are!”
Another flash of lightning revealed Bentley’s horse, and, with a shout
of joy, Hart saw the figure of a man rise from the earth and spring upon
his back. The next instant all was darkness again; but Hart felt the
horse of his companion pressing close to his, and the two animals urged
their way, breast to breast, through the abating storm.
“Were you hurt?” shouted Hart, anxiously, feeling in the dark for his
companion’s hand, which hung motionless and dripping wet by his side.
“No, no, a limb swept me from the saddle, that is all!”
“Thank God it was no worse!” exclaimed Hart, in a voice which bespoke
the hearty gratitude which he felt, and, wringing the damp hand which he
had seized, the good man uttered another fervent “thank God!”
That instant a glare of lightning passed over them. Hart saw the face of
his companion, and his warm fingers tightened on the hand they had
unlocked.
“How white—how strange you look!” he said, powerfully agitated.
“Brother, own it, you are hurt. I hardly know you with that face!”
The hand which Daniel held was wrung harshly from his grasp, and the
reply which reached him, like all that had gone before, was broken and
half-drowned by the storm.
“No, no, it is only the lightning. My horse is lamed, though. You must
break the way for us.”
As these words were uttered, the speaker fell back and rode behind Hart
till a light gleamed from a little window in the distance, like a star
braving the storm to guide the wanderers home.
“There, there the girls are up and waiting for us,” cried the glad
father; and urging their horses on, the travellers dismounted at the
cabin-door.
“The horses have had a tough time of it,” said Hart, shaking the water
from his garments; “they must be fed first.”
“I will take care of them—go in, go in,” exclaimed his companion,
holding forth the bag of money; “put this away—I will come back in a
minute.”
Daniel took the money in one hand and pulled the latch-string with the
other; his companion turned abruptly when the light fell on him through
the door, and led the horses away without answering Hart, who shouted
after him to hurry back, for the girls were waiting with supper on the
table.
Sure enough, supper was on the table: a cake of rich corn-bread warm
from the fire, a young chicken nicely broiled, and a saucer of golden
butter just from the churn, stood temptingly ready on the snow-white
table-cloth. There was pretty Martha—her cheeks all rosy with the
heat—pouring a stream of sparkling hot water from the clumsy kettle into
a little britannia tea-pot, bright as silver, which had been standing on
the hearth at least two hours, with the lid temptingly thrown back, and
ready at any moment to receive the water, that kept singing away in the
kettle. Gillian was sitting by Matty, rather anxious, for the storm had
terrified her; and crouching in a corner were black Dinah and Liz, each
with an apron flung over her face, frightened half to death by the
thunder-bursts that had shaken the cabin to its foundations.
“So you _have_ come—I thought it was you,” exclaimed Martha, closing the
lid of the tea-pot, and going up to her father, her sweet face sparkling
with gratified joy. She flung her arms around the old man’s neck and
kissed his wet cheek.
“Have you been much frightened, darling?” said the old man, tenderly
taking her hand in his.
“Oh, yes, very much, till I heard you coming. We were so afraid that you
would get hurt in the woods. I have been crying here half the evening,
yet it seemed as if all would turn out well, and so it has: here you
are, but Uncle Bentley, he did not let you come back alone?”
“Oh, no—he is turning out the horses; but a tree was struck close by us,
and he got a fall—nothing to speak of, though,” added the kind man,
observing that the cheek of his niece turned pale.
“You are sure no one is hurt?” said Gillian, coming up and winding her
fingers around the huge hand, which clasped them kindly.
“Yes, yes, but what is the matter—what ails your hand? You are not
afraid of a little water, are you?”
Gillian turned to the light and looked earnestly at the fingers her
uncle, had been clasping; they were crimson with blood.
“Father, father, you are hurt, and will not tell me,” Martha exclaimed,
pointing to Gillian’s hand. “Oh, father, how could you deny it? See,
your sleeve is spotted—your hand is wet with it; tell me, tell me, where
are you hurt?”
“Hurt!” exclaimed Hart, going close to the light, where he examined the
sleeve of his linen coat and his crimson hand in a state of painful
bewilderment; “hurt! no, I am not hurt; but where did this come from?”
His ruddy cheek became a shade paler, as he shook the drops from his
fingers—for there was water as well as blood upon his hand—and an
expression of doubt and anxiety stole over his face.
“It must be your father’s, Gillian,” he muttered at length, stealing a
glance through the door, as if anxious for the appearance of his friend.
“His arm may be cut; ah, I remember, that made him fling off my hand so
savagely; well, it may not be much after all!”
Gillian stood watching her uncle, as he muttered these words in a voice
so subdued that it scarcely reached her ear.
“Uncle,” she said at length, laying her hand on his arm, “tell me, tell
me all! where is my father?”
“Out there with the horses, I tell you,” replied Hart, shaking off the
strange feelings produced by the blood upon his hand, and speaking out
with his usual frankness. “There, put away the money in my chest—I had
forgotten it.”
Setting the bag of money on a corner of the table, Hart began to examine
his garments over again, muttering to himself with seeming wonder at the
state they were in.
Martha took up the bag with a shudder, for the canvas had a red stain
upon it; she placed it in the chest pointed out by her father, and gave
him the key with a forced smile, which looked ghastly on lips so pallid
as hers had become.
“Come now, bustle about and get some dry clothes ready against your
uncle comes in; he is dripping wet, I can tell you,” said Hart, with
renewed cheerfulness; “but first bring me a basin of water to wash my
hands. Where on earth can this have come from?” he muttered, while
laving his hands in the basin, and once more his face took an anxious
expression.
Martha had already prepared dry garments both for her father and uncle.
Hart went into his own little bedroom and came out dry and comfortable.
Still Mr. Bentley did not appear. Martha seated herself at the table,
broke the corn-bread, and poured out a cup of tea. Her father took the
cup, set it down untasted, and, leaning his elbows on the table, waited
for his companion to come in. At last he started up and went to the
door; a horse was standing near, with a saddle on and his bridle
dragging along the wet grass. It was his own horse. The old man started
out into the rain, caught the horse and led him toward the stable, where
he expected to find Bentley. All was still in the log-stable—the door
was open, but no living thing stirred within. Hart shouted aloud, again
and again; he went into the house for a lantern, and searched everywhere
for his friend; Gillian and Martha followed him in silence, the tears
rolling down their pale faces, oppressed with anxiety such as had never
filled their hearts before. It was all in vain; no voice answered the
anxious shout of Daniel Hart. Once he heard something like the quick
tramp of a horse down in the woods; the sound lasted but an instant, and
he, followed by the young girls, went into the house, filled with
trouble and consternation.
The whirlwind went by; the rain ceased, and the wind died moaning among
the torn foliage; the moon came out in the firmament once more, smiling,
like the eye of an unconscious infant, over the wild scene below. It
looked calmly upon the earth, torn and ragged, and harrowed up as it had
been with the storm—on the shattered trees—the herbage broken and
soiled, and heaped together in ridges on the places it had beautified
when the sun went down. Like a Christian soul, eager to fling a mantle
of charity over the ruin which sin had made, that peaceful moon wove a
vail of misty silver amid the devastation which, but for it, would have
been dreary indeed.
But there was one object lying in the cart-road deep in the forest,
which the pure moonbeams but rendered more horrible. It was a human
form, flung like a slaughtered animal across the trunk of the oak which
Hart had seen uprooted but an hour before. The lax limbs were entangled
in a bough which was broken, bent and crushed by their weight; the face
was turned upward, white, cold and ghastly, among a mass of leaves,
matted together by the dark stream which trickled heavily down from the
body upon them.
There were none of those pleasant sounds of dropping water which would
have followed a common storm in the forest, for the winds had swept the
rain away as it fell, and a hush like that of death was all around. But
that small current of blood, welling slowly down over the drenched
garments, which hung around the body, through the crushed leaves to the
earth, drop by drop, fell upon the sweet air with sluggish and horrid
monotony. Still the moonbeams smiled upon the scene as they had smiled
upon the blossoming turf the night before.
The smothered hoof-fall of a horse, smiting his way through the mud,
gave another sluggish sound to the still night. It grew slower and more
laborious as the jaded horse drew near, and stopped altogether some
paces from the uprooted oak. A man, whose thin face looked sharp and
haggard in the moonbeams, dismounted and struck a fierce, unsteady blow,
with a stick he gathered up from the wayside, which sent the poor animal
tearing down the road. The branches of that fallen oak crashed under him
as he rushed through it. The body slid downward a little, and the horse
plunged, with clinking stirrups and loose bridle, deep into the forest.
When this sound had entirely died away, the horseman crept toward the
oak softly, as if afraid of arousing the body to life. He looked neither
to the right nor left, but moved on, with his face toward the body,
though his glittering eyes were fixed on the dark trees beyond, not on
the gloomy object itself.
The man stooped down as he drew near the tree, crouched lower and lower
till his knees sunk in the ground, and groped about in the mud and
herbage, as if in search of something. His hand touched the blade of a
knife, half-buried in the earth; he grasped it by the point, sprung to
his feet with a sharp breath, and holding it before him, clenched
eagerly with both hands, laughed a horrible choking laugh as the blade
shook in the moonlight.
“You will bear no evidence against me now, old friend,” he said, in a
voice that fell upon the air so strange and hoarse that he started and
looked over his shoulder, as if another man had spoken his thoughts. All
was still, but the murderer had been frightened by his own voice, and
slunk away with his face still turned back toward the body, though he
had never once looked upon it.
Another horse was tied in a hollow, scarcely twenty paces down from the
road. Through all the hurricane, and with the lightning firing his eyes,
he stood without wincing; but now that he saw his master coming heavily
toward him, he began to paw the mud with his hoof, and gave a faint
neigh. The man parted his lips, and tried to check this manifestation of
joy, but his words died in his husky throat, and mounting with
difficulty, he rode away, faint and wavering to and fro on his seat.
CHAPTER XL.
THE DESERTED CABIN.
Three weeks after the events related in our last chapter, a horseman
rode slowly through the clearing before Daniel Hart’s cabin and
dismounted beneath the huge chestnut, which was yet standing with its
trunk cut through to the heart, and all the foliage on the upper
branches hanging withered and drooping in the morning sunshine. As the
man passed from under the tree his foot struck something upon the
ground. It was Daniel Hart’s axe, rusted and wet with dew, which had
been lying upon the same spot till the grass and strawberry vines had
crept over and tangled themselves around it so completely, that, but for
his accidental stumble, it might not have been discovered. The man
lifted the axe, examined it closely, and muttering—
“There is nothing here but rust—downright honest rust”—rested the
implement against the tree, and moved across the clearing.
Daniel Hart’s cabin stood desolate and uninhabited, like a forsaken
bird’s-nest, in the midst of its little vegetable garden—no wreath of
smoke went curling up from the stick-chimney in the quiet morning air,
and, though it was near the breakfast hour, no snowy napkin streaming
from the window proclaimed the waiting meal. The door was unlocked, and
our horseman had but to touch it with his foot to gain entrance into the
dwelling.
How lonesome and neglected it was! A few ashes lay upon the hearth,
caked together with the water that had rained down the open-mouthed
chimney. A bed stood in one corner, made up neatly, and covered with a
pretty patch-work quilt; but the pillows were spotted with mildew, and
the same damp mould had eaten its way in many a broad patch over the
glowing colors of the quilt. The back window, close by, was open, and a
mass of morning-glory vines, entangled with scarlet runners in full
flower, had forced their way through and crept along the wall. They had
twisted themselves around one of the bed-posts, and were creeping over
the head-board, where they hung in a light and graceful wreath,
rendering the decay and stillness around yet more melancholy by
contrast.
The man who gazed upon this scene was a backwoods constable, rough and
uncultivated; but even he was affected by this picture of home-comforts
so completely abandoned. He had come to search the house, but moved
about with a soft tread, and unlocked the cupboards and that large chest
with a bunch of keys which he took from his pocket stealthily, as if his
heart would not permit him to handle with a rude hand the household gods
of another man. He started up from his knees by the chest, and dropped
the garment he was examining, like a guilty one, when a noise at the
window disturbed him. It was only the house cat, gaunt and thin with
hunger, which had just come in from the woods, and stood staring at him
from the window-sill, with a flying-squirrel in her jaws. The poor
animal had attained a fierce and savage look, from solitude and the wild
raids she had been compelled to make for food; but she dropped her prey
and crept toward the man, purring mournfully, and rubbing herself
against his thick boots.
“Poor puss, poor puss,” murmured the man, stooping down to smooth her
rough coat with his hand.
But, as if she had not seen that he was a stranger before, the cat
snapped angrily at his hand, and darted away to the squirrel, which she
seized in her mouth and carried under the bed, where she remained,
growling fiercely, and peering at the stranger, from under the valance,
with her round, savage eyes, as she devoured her victim.
After he had examined every thing in the rooms below, the man went up a
ladder which led to the garret, where he continued his search among the
barrels and bunches of dried herbs which it contained, but evidently to
no effect, for he came down the ladder, muttering,
“There’s nothing here—nothing on ’arth that can tell ag’in him, and I’m
as glad of it as if I’d caught a bear in a coon-trap. Consarn me if can
believe the old chap’s guilty arter all.”
With these words the constable went out, closing the door carefully
after him, and mounting his horse, made the best of his way to The Bend.
Judge Church was walking up and down the veranda, in front of his
tavern, when the constable rode up.
“Well, neighbor, well!” exclaimed the kind-hearted man, “what news?—how
have you made out?”
“Just as I expected. There’s nothing in the cabin but the fixin’s that
belong there, and they’re nigh upon sp’iled; for my part, I never could
see the use of going out there ag’in.”
“Never mind, Johnson, never mind; that flinty lawyer would insist on it,
and you know it won’t do for me to interfere. They mistrust me, I can
see that; but they needn’t—they needn’t! I always liked Hart. It goes
ag’in my feelings to believe him guilty; but if they prove it—if he has
killed that noble fellow and then robbed him, I shall do my duty,
Johnson. I must do my duty!”
“And I must do mine, too,” replied the constable; and he added, bending
down nearer to the Judge: “but it will be a tough job to tie the halter
round that old man’s neck; between you and I, Judge, when you have done
your part of the business, and my turn comes, there may be a log missing
from the old jail there!”
A bright gleam shot to the Judge’s eye, but he shook his head
reprovingly.
“No, no Johnson that will never do; law is law; but hush, hush—don’t
think of any thing of the kind yet. We must do our duty—the laws must be
maintained, Mr. Johnson!”
The Judge spoke these last words in a raised voice, and accompanied with
a warning look, which the constable understood; for just then Michael
Hurst came sauntering round a corner of the house, and slowly approached
them. The appearance of this man had been much changed since the night
of the storm; his features had become sharp and thin; a restless,
anxious expression would constantly break over them, notwithstanding the
listless air which he always assumed. His figure had shrunk away till
the hunting-frock, which he always wore, hung loosely over it. All this
gave a neglected look to his whole person, combined, as it was, with
unusual disorder in the remainder of his dress.
“Halloa, Hurst!” said the constable, glancing at the young man’s dress,
which was even more roughly put on than it had been the day before, and
resting his eyes at last on the clumsy boots, which gave a still more
slovenly air to his person, “you are so much like one of us that I did
not know you at first. Glad to see you taking to the brush like a man,
at last. There was no living sociable with a chap who carried a white
handkerchief week-days, and had his calf-skin boots blacked every
morning. I tell you what, it makes us plain homespun fellows
mistrustful.”
Hurst approached them with the heavy, restless air of a man who had
known but little sleep for many nights; but when Johnson uttered the
last word he lifted his eyes, which seemed almost black from the dark
shadows around them, and cast a keen glance from the constable to the
Judge.
“Mistrustful,” he said, with a forced smile, “mistrustful of me?”
“Not now, that you dress like a man, and have given up pinching your
feet out of all shape,” replied the constable. “But what have you done
with the rights-and-lefts? Give them to old Brown; let him hang them up
at his door for a sign. Come, bring the things out, and I’ll leave them
as I go along!”
“You would only get one of them, at best,” said Hurst, with an unnatural
laugh. “The hostler got tired of blacking them, I suppose, though I paid
him well enough for the trouble.”
“So he rubbed them with tallow, and spoiled the polish,” cried the
constable, laughing.
“No; worse than that. He lost one boot altogether. So I was obliged to
patronize old Brown,” replied Hurst, with affected carelessness.
“A cunning fellow, that hostler of yours,” said Johnson, nodding to the
Judge, and taking up his bridle.
“I say, Hurst,” he added, turning again to the young man, “you wanted an
order to see Daniel Hart, one day last week; I am going down to the jail
now, you can walk along, and I will let you in.”
Hurst hesitated a moment. “Are his daughter and niece there now?” he
inquired.
“Oh yes, poor gals, they never leave the old man.”
“Well, wait a moment, and I will go with you,” replied Hurst, turning to
mount the tavern steps.
“Is he acquainted with Hart?” inquired the Judge, addressing Johnson the
moment Hurst was out of hearing.
“Not that I know of,” was the reply, “but he is hand-and-glove with the
prosecuting attorney, and it would not answer to refuse him.”
“Just so,” said the Judge, rather anxiously, “but give the prisoner a
hint before he goes in; the fellow is silky as an ear of green corn, but
I don’t like him. He may be put up to this by the attorney, and so take
advantage of any thing he can get out of poor Hart. Put the old man on
his guard—you understand!”
“Yes, yes; I will see to it,” replied Johnson hastily. “Come to think
now, I may as well ride on and leave orders for the jailer to let him
in. If we go together there will be no chance to caution the old man.”
“Ride on, then,” replied the Judge, “I will tell him how it is!” and,
with a friendly shake of the hand, the Judge and the constable
separated.
After a little time Hurst descended from the room, where he had been
arranging his dress, and walked hurriedly down the road toward the
county jail, which stood on the outskirts of the town.
The county jail was built of logs, and erected after the usual fashion
of such buildings, but the windows were heavily grated, and the huge
logs were bolted together with iron bars, which formed a massive wall
scarcely less vulnerable than granite itself. The doors, too, were
knobbed with great spike nails, and bolted with massive bars, just as
they came from the forge. Altogether, though rudely built, the jail was
not only strong but well guarded, and it must have been a desperate man
indeed who could hope for escape when once immured within its rugged
walls.
But the stout farmer, who was the only important prisoner in the
building, had little thought of escape. If the massive logs could have
crumbled to dust at his feet, Daniel Hart would not have fled one step
from the captivity in which his friends and neighbors had placed him.
Still imprisonment was a weary trial to an old man who had been all his
life an active tiller of the soil—a healthy, enterprising, cheerful
farmer. He felt restive, and sometimes almost sullen, cooped up—as he
expressed it—like a barn-door fowl, with its wings clipped; sometimes he
gave way to fits of childlike melancholy, for—innocent or guilty of his
brother-in-law’s death—the old man could not but feel the event deeply;
the more so as Bentley’s noble and suffering daughter was always near,
to remind him, by her sad and mournful attempts at cheerfulness, how
terribly she felt the event which had rendered her young heart desolate.
Sometimes Daniel Hart would give way to fits of sturdy indignation
against those who had placed him in confinement. Again he would admit,
with simple-hearted candor, that appearances were strong against him,
and he could not blame those who, on evidence so conclusive, had dragged
him from his quiet home, and shut him up, to undergo a disgraceful trial
for the murder of a man whom he had loved as a brother.
“I would not have cared,” said Daniel to his daughter, on the morning
after Constable Johnson had been at the jail to warn him of Hurst’s
visit, “I would not have cared a bean-stalk about being shut up here, if
I didn’t have to see every scoundrel that chooses to come in and ask me
impudent questions. It’s bad enough to know that your poor uncle is
gone—don’t turn pale, don’t cry so, Gillian—you did not think it was me,
if I did bring home the money with red hands! I know my own daughter
will never believe it!”
“No, no, my father! my dear, good father! never think it again,”
exclaimed Martha, winding her arms around the stout old man and kissing
his brown cheek, while she trembled and wept with agitation. “But he is
dead—dead and gone—and, oh father, how she did love him!”
“I know it, gal, I know it well enough,” said the prisoner, taking the
pale head of his niece between both his great hands and kissing her
forehead, while his stout form trembled, and tears ran down his cheeks.
“I know you loved him; he was as good a father as ever lived; but if he
is in heaven, Gillian—and why not? he was good enough to go there,
though he wasn’t a member in any church—if he can only look down from
heaven now, he knows that I didn’t do it. I! Gillian, I loved him a’most
as well as you did!”
Daniel Hart sunk down on a bench, that ran across his prison-room, and
covering his face with both hands, sobbed aloud, though he was ashamed
of his tears, and struggled hard against them. Gillian crept to his
side, and bending her fair head upon his breast, tried to comfort him.
“I didn’t do it, Gillian—the God of heaven knows I didn’t. I’m growing
thin. I look down-hearted sometimes, I know that; but it isn’t a guilty
conscience. They may hang me to-morrow, if they like, but I’ll cry out
‘not guilty’ with my last breath. They shan’t point you out, Martha,
arter I’m gone, and say, ‘There goes the gal whose father owned that he
had killed his own brother, just as they swung him off.’ They shan’t, I
say—they never shall do that, Martha!”
And pressing the poor weeping girls to his broad bosom with both his
arms, Daniel Hart swayed to and fro on his seat, protesting that he was
innocent, and striving to soothe their grief. But when Martha, who
lingered there last, moved on his bosom, and tried to murmur words of
confidence and hope through her tears, he burst forth again.
“Never mind, gal, never mind. They may do it if they like—my own
neighbors, too—let them hang me, let them! I will take you with me. We
will go together; for it would kill you to see them strangling your
father like a dog—wouldn’t it, child? That will be best; and we can be
buried all in one spot, down in the woods. Don’t take on so—don’t take
on, Martha—we shall find them in another world! Poor Bentley, Sarah and
your mother too. But you must go with me, Martha, for the first thing
that she will ask for will be the little gal she left behind for me to
take care of, and I shan’t dare to tell her that I’ve left you all alone
in a world where an honest fellow can be hung for nothing, by his own
neighbors!”
“Yes, father, we will go together. Neither of us have any thing to live
for, now,” said Martha Hart, rising from her father’s arms far enough to
wind her own around his neck, and laying her pale, wet cheek feebly down
on his shoulder. “I am glad, father, that you want me to go with you.
The world would be so lonesome—after that.”
Daniel Hart laid his cheek down to the pale face upon his shoulder, and
began rocking her in his arms again, without any other reply; for this
rush of passionate feeling had exhausted even his great strength. By
degrees they all became more calm, but Daniel was still holding the
strengthless girl in his arms, and Gillian sat with dreary face in a
corner of the room, when the prison-door opened, and Michael Hurst
entered.
Daniel Hart sprung to his feet, set Martha down, and dashing the tears
from his face with an impetuous motion of the hand, walked quickly to
the further end of his dungeon, where he turned, like a stag at bay, and
waited in stern silence for his visitor to speak.
Almost for the first time in his life Hurst was at a loss for words; he
turned pale, and then the color burned hotly up to his forehead, but
shaking off the fascination which the prisoner’s eye seemed to fix upon
him, he moved gently to the bench where Gillian was sitting, and placed
himself near her. Hart took a step forward, but before he could do more,
his niece had left her seat and stood by his side, pale and still
trembling, but with the tears quenched in her eyes.
“Well, sir, what do you want here? This roof belongs to the State. If I
were a free man, it could not cover us both half a minute longer.”
“I have come as a friend; pray hear me with patience,” said Hurst,
rising and moving toward the prisoner.
Hart flung one powerful arm around his niece, and motioned Hurst back
with the other.
“Stay where you are, Mike Hurst; I care nothing about what place you
stand in, but my niece, here, trembles as if a rattlesnake were crawling
this way; keep where you stand, I can hear you well enough.”
“Why do you treat me in this way?” said Hurst, soothingly. “You may
believe it or not, but I only came to see if I could help you. The trial
comes on to-morrow.”
“To-morrow!” exclaimed Martha, faintly, and drawing closer to the old
man.
“The evidence against you is enough to convict any man,” continued
Hurst, still drawing toward the unfortunate prisoner. “The people are
excited against you! There is but one way to save your life—for the
trial once over, they will hang you at once!”
“But how—how can he be saved?” cried Martha, in a voice of eager hope,
which overwhelmed ever other sound.
“By escape, Martha, by escape,” replied Hurst, drawing close to the
excited girl. “It will be easy to break jail if he has a friend on the
outside. I will be that friend—by to-morrow morning we can be safe in
spite of all the constables in the country. I have money enough for us
all—trust every thing to me!”
A flash of joy shot over the broad face of Daniel Hart as this prospect
of liberty was presented to him, but it passed away, and grasping his
niece’s hand very hard, as if to prevent her speaking, he gazed on
Hurst’s face earnestly a moment, then said, with cool composure,
“And what do you expect to gain by it, if I should break jail?”
“Nothing, nothing, but your own good will, the kind feelings of your
daughter, and some favor with this proud lady here,” replied Hurst,
stammering with embarrassment.
“And this is all you would be at?” continued Hart, still with great
coolness.
“Why, Gillian knows how well I love her. I will marry her the minute we
get to one of the river towns, in spite of all this odium.”
“Just so,” muttered Hart, grasping Gillian’s hand still more firmly, as
he felt her start and tremble. “But would you be kind to her?”
“She shall sleep on gold, if she wishes it,” replied the young man, with
flashing eyes, and, emboldened by the quiet way in which Hart seemed to
be dropping into his plans, he attempted to withdraw her from the
protecting arm of her uncle, but Hart put a hand against his breast and
pushed him back.
“Not yet—she is not yours just yet. Look here, do you think that I
murdered her father in cold blood?”
“What else can any one think? He has disappeared. His money was found in
your chest. What else can be thought?”
“You believe this, and yet will help the old murderer to break jail!”
“I would do a great deal more than that for her sake,” replied Hurst,
casting a look of revolting tenderness on the helpless girl.
“Well, then, let me tell you, Michael Hurst, if I were the cold-blooded
murderer that you think I am, I should consider my niece here disgraced
by marrying a man who would help me to escape; but I am no murderer nor
robber, either. I wouldn’t run away if these jail-doors were flung wide
open, and a troop of horses on the outside! If they want to try me for
my life, let the neighbors do it. If they want to hang me, let them do
that too. We are ready, Martha, we are ready,” and, wringing his
daughter’s hand with a sort of mournful exultation, the old man looked
firmly in the face of his anxious visitor. “My niece would sooner be
with her old uncle on the gallows than your wife. Wouldn’t you,
Gillian?” continued the firm old man, folding the poor girl to his side
with his disengaged arm.
Hurst began to expostulate again, but the prisoner cut him short.
“It’s of no use, I tell you, I am determined to stand trial. I’m not
guilty, and I won’t sneak away as if I was.”
“But they will hang you. Even Judge Church is turning against you now,”
persisted the young man, becoming more and more anxious.
“Well, let him,” cried Hart, in a broken voice and dashing a tear from
his rough cheek; “I shouldn’t have believed it of him, though!”
Hurst was about to urge his purpose still further, but that moment the
jail-door was swung open, and our old friend, the blacksmith, came in.
He cast a sharp glance at Hurst as he entered, and shook Hart warmly by
the hand.
“Well, I have just seen the Judge, and he says your trial will sartinly
come on to-morrow!” exclaimed the good man, with a degree of
cheerfulness which seemed remarkable under the circumstances. “They are
all ready. The attorney has got evidence enough to hang fifty men; the
whole would be complete as a nailed horse-shoe if they could only find
the body. It’s a pity they can’t find the body, though, isn’t it?”
Hart shook his head and muttered, “It is strange.”
“Got any lawyer feed yet?” inquired the smith.
“No,” replied Hart. “What could a lawyer do for me?”
“True enough, true enough,” rejoined the smith, folding his dusty arms
and laughing. “I will be your lawyer. What do you say, gals, shall I be
his lawyer?”
“You have always been a good friend,” said Martha, smiling faintly
through her tears; “you have brought us our meals, and tried to cheer
him up every day. No one has ever given us any hope but you.”
“Yes, yes, depend on it, the truth will come out at last—such things
always do one time or another.”
The blacksmith turned half-round as he uttered these words, and cast a
keen glance from under his heavy eyebrows at Hurst, who still lingered
in the room.
The young man turned a little pale, but he tried to smile, and muttered,
in the low, silky voice which he could so well assume,
“Certainly, the truth always makes itself known at last.”
“Well,” continued the smith, wiping his hand on the leather apron which
he always wore, and patting Gillian kindly on the head before he took
leave of Hart, “keep up your spirits, all of you: that is half the
battle. I have left some provisions with the jailer; don’t let the
thoughts of to-morrow spoil your appetite. Come, Mr. Hurst, are you
going my way?”
Hurst hesitated and looked anxiously from the prisoner to Gillian, but
meeting no encouragement to remain, he followed the smith out with
evident reluctance.
CHAPTER XLI.
THE TRIAL AND EXECUTION.
On the following day The Bend was a scene of great bustle and
excitement. News of the murder had spread all over the country, and
every man or woman who could make business at the county-seat went there
to witness the trial of Daniel Hart. Long before noon the main street
was alive with people; wagons stood by the wayside, and a line of
saddle-horses extended far down the fence which separated the tavern lot
from the highway.
There was no court-house at the county-seat, and Judge Church had made
arrangements for the trial to take place in the bar-room of his tavern,
which was the most capacious apartment at The Bend. Benches were placed
in the body of the room, and, in order to give an air of magisterial
dignity to the whole proceedings, a huge arm-chair was raised on a
platform within the little enclosure which usually served as a bar. A
host of decanters and glasses were removed from the little shelf which
ran along the front, and two or three portentous-looking law-books, in
new sheep-skin covers, occupied their place. As yet, the Judge had not
taken his seat, and a dense crowd was gathered before the tavern, which
filled the street almost across to the blacksmith-shop, where our
friend, the smith, was hard at work preparing shoes for one of the
half-dozen horses that had been brought to his door. Never had the good
man worked with so much vigor as on that morning, when all else seemed
to have taken a holiday. His face glowed in the fire-light; great drops
of perspiration rained from his brow, and he swung the heavy
sledge-hammer over his head with an impetuosity that made the anvil ring
with deafening noise over the crowd of persons jostling each other and
talking warmly about the trial, with their faces turned in eager
curiosity towards the county jail.
The murder of Mr. Bentley had caused great excitement in the country,
not only because the man himself was a general favorite, but from the
fact that Daniel Hart, the person about to be arraigned for the trial,
had been held among the most peaceable and honest farmers in the county.
Notwithstanding the evidence, there might have been many found in that
crowd who openly expressed a firm conviction of his innocence, while
others seemed willing to pursue him with that reckless and wild spirit
of persecution which is apt to follow the man accused of a capital crime
all over the world, and which has but little restraint in many of our
frontier States, where the will of the people, even now, often usurps
the place of law and justice.
At length there was a slight confusion manifest near the jail, and,
while the crowd swayed round that way, Daniel Hart appeared, walking
firmly up the street between two constables. His port became more erect
as he drew near the crowd; and though somewhat pale, his countenance was
both firm and mild in its expression. Once or twice a look of sorrowful
reproach came to his eyes, as they happened to fall upon the form of
some old friend shrinking back into the crowd, as if afraid that an
accused man might address him. Again those deep-set eyes flashed
gratefully when a hand was thrust toward him and a friendly voice called
out—
“Keep up your courage, neighbor; the darkest hour is always just before
day.”
As he approached the tavern, the crowd in the hall and veranda made a
rush for the bar-room, while the remainder fell back and formed a lane
for the prisoner to pass. He was followed close by three
females—Gillian, the blacksmith’s wife, and poor Martha. A rough,
hard-featured, but good-hearted woman was the blacksmith’s wife. She was
proud of her courage in thus standing by the unfortunate, as she
expressed it, and walked through the throng, supporting Martha’s feeble
steps, with the mien of a newly-enlisted grenadier. Her navarino bonnet,
which had been fashionable some years before, was set back on her head,
and its immense sugar-scoop front, flaring up from her honest face, gave
a still more decidedly military dash to her appearance. She waved a
plump hand, encased in its yarn glove, to her husband, who stood at his
shop door nodding his round head in approbation of her proceedings, as
she mounted the tavern steps and followed the prisoner, almost carrying
her companions, into the temporary court-room.
The Judge had taken his seat in the bar when they brought the prisoner
in. On his right hand, but outside the railing, stood the prosecuting
attorney, turning over one of the new law-books with intense interest;
on the left side was Constable Johnson, with a large sugar-crusher in
his hand, which he now and then struck down upon the railing with great
emphasis, as he called the court to order.
Hart was brought in and placed on a bench opposite the Judge, who
scrupulously averted his eyes from the prisoner’s face, while the jury
was impanelled and the whole preliminaries entered upon. Never before
had a court been conducted with so much of imposing form at The Bend.
Every one looked grave, some even solemn, as the prisoner was arraigned.
Hart stood up; his lips turned white, and the hands, which he clasped
over his breast, shook a little, but his eyes were bent full on the
Judge, and he answered, “Not guilty, not guilty, so help me God!” in a
voice that swelled clear and full through the listening crowd.
As the prisoner sat down again, Martha cast a look over the crowd, rose
to her feet, and, supporting her faltering steps by pressing her hand to
the wall, went round to the bench he occupied and crept timidly to his
side. Gillian followed her, pale as death, but with a firm step, and sat
down by her cousin. He did not turn his head or seem to be conscious of
the action, but the lines about his mouth began to quiver, and he shut
his heavy eyelids hard together once or twice, as if determined to force
back the gathering moisture before it had time to form into tears.
This stern effort to subdue the feelings tugging at his heart, joined to
the feeble and desolate air with which his daughter had performed her
simple act of devotion, had its effect upon the impulsive and ardent
beings who surrounded them. That pretty creature, so young, so pure and
helpless, as she crept through the outskirts of the crowd, like a weary
fawn following the hunted stag even among the hounds, and crouched down
by the only being left to her on earth, touched their sympathies more
than a thousand orations would have done. Then the proud beauty of
Gillian, the solemn dignity with which she attested her faith in the old
man’s innocence, had its effect. Though rude backwoodsmen, feeling, good
and generous feeling, was vital in the tough hearts which composed the
crowd. A whisper ran through the throng, many an unequal breath was
drawn, and more than one heavy lip trembled without speaking. The
foreman of the jury—a bluff, hale old fellow—drew his coat-sleeve across
his eyes two or three times. The Judge turned uneasily in his chair, and
seemed to be diligently counting the glasses crowded on a shelf behind
him; while the blacksmith’s wife lifted a flaring cotton handkerchief to
her face, shook her huge navarino bonnet mournfully, and sobbed aloud.
“This will never do,” whispered the prosecuting attorney leaning toward
Michael Hurst, who stood close behind him; “who put the girls up to this
stage effect?”
Hurst only replied by a sarcastic and yet ghastly smile. The pompous
young lawyer then turned to the judge.
“May it please your honor, I desire that the young women there may be
removed from the court until they are called up as witnesses,” he said,
pointing toward poor Gillian and Martha.
The blacksmith’s wife flung back her navarino, grasped the handkerchief
in her hand and gave the lawyer a look that would have demolished a man
of common nerve. The judge turned hastily on his seat, “I’ll see you—”
He checked himself just in time, took up one of the law-books, as if to
seek for some authority, and then replied with solemn dignity—
“The court has decided that it is no business of yours where the girls
sit.”
Daniel Hart, who had grasped his daughter’s hand and half risen, sunk
back to his seat again, as these words fell on his ear, and a murmur of
approbation passed through the crowd.
The attorney turned very red, muttered something to Hurst in an
under-tone, and, after a good deal of ostentatious preparation, arose to
open his case. The chain of evidence which he proposed to lay before the
court was indeed such as left but little doubt of the prisoner’s guilt.
He was ready to prove that Hart and the deceased had come to The Bend
together on the night of the murder, the one with no ostensible
business, the other to receive a large sum of money. Eager words and
gestures had passed between them at the tavern. Hart had insisted on
riding home through the storm, though the deceased more than once
exhibited great reluctance to go. After the two disappeared in the woods
together, Bentley had never been seen again, but two days after his
horse was found wandering along the highway, with his saddle torn and
soiled with blood, one of the stirrups gone, and the bridle hanging in
tatters about his head.
Michael Hurst and two other men from The Bend had gone to the forest in
search of the body, but nothing was to be found except the marks of some
violent struggle near the cross-roads. Footprints, both of man and
horse, sunk deep in the mud, were trampled all over the road, just where
a huge oak had been flung across it by the storm. Two or three small
branches of the oak, which seemed to have been crushed by some heavy
weight falling upon them, were broken, and some of their leaves matted
together with blood, while a black stream had flowed over the trunk and
stained the earth half a yard round. Most of the blood must have flowed
after the rain had ceased, or it would otherwise have been washed away.
But further than this, no trace of the body could be found, which would
not have been the case had the death been accidental. The same company
had proceeded to the double log-cabin which had been the mutual
residence of Hart and his victim. There they had found the prisoner, his
daughter and Gillian Bentley, the murdered gentleman’s only child, with
a couple of black people who lived with them as help. Hart would give no
account of Mr. Bentley’s disappearance, but persisted that they had
ridden home together the night before, safe and well. A bag of money was
found, locked in Hart’s chest; a linen coat with blood-stains on the
sleeve was discovered beneath the bed, and Hart’s daughter had
acknowledged that the stains were fresh and wet upon it when her father
returned home on the night of the storm.
When the attorney had prepared the court for this evidence, he sat down,
and the examination of witnesses commenced. Several persons who had been
at The Bend that night were called up, and among them the Mississippi
boatman. Michael Hurst was among the last. He gave in his evidence in a
clear, straight-forward manner, as if every word had been studied by
heart; but his face was ashy-pale, and he never once fixed his eyes on
any man, but kept them bent upon the floor, or turning restlessly from
one thing to another all the time he was speaking. When he sat down,
Martha Hart was called. She arose very feebly, but did not move from her
father’s side. When the attorney began to question her, she made an
effort to speak, and thought that she did, poor thing, but the whisper
that escaped her lips was so faint that no one heard it.
“Tell the truth, gal, tell the truth,” murmured the prisoner from
beneath the hand which shaded the agony working in his face. “Tell the
whole truth.”
The girl cast one look of anguish on the old man, and, summoning all her
energies, found voice to speak. She admitted that her father had reached
home late at night; that he came alone, with blood upon his hand, and
gave her some money, tied up in a shot-bag, which she had locked up in
his chest. But she said also, that her father had insisted that Mr.
Bentley had ridden home with him to the door, had watched and waited for
him all night, and that he was about setting forth for The Bend in
search of his friend when persons came to arrest him.
She sat down, trembling and faint, amid the sobs and murmurs of an
excited audience. Gillian was called next. She only confirmed what
Martha had said, but ended with an expression of solemn trust in her
uncle’s innocence.
The Judge asked Hart if he had any witnesses to produce, and if he had
no counsel.
“No,” said the old man, lifting a face on which the agony of a strong
spirit was written. “No, Squire Church, you won’t believe me, and I have
no other witnesses. I don’t want any counsel.”
The good Judge sank back in his chair with a disappointed look. The
attorney arose, wiped his mouth, swallowed a drop or two of water, and
commenced a bitter and cruel attack upon the prisoner; but neither the
judge nor jury were accustomed to the restraints imposed on their
comfort by this protracted flood of eloquence. They sat restlessly in
their seats; one tilted his chair back against the wall, another
stretched his feet out to the nearest bench, and, at last, the Judge,
after trying various changes of posture, turned, with an air of
desperation, toward the shelves behind him, and, taking down a box
half-full of cigars, selected one for himself and passed the box over to
the jury. Two or three of the bystanders helped themselves as the box
passed them, at which the Judge nodded a good-humored welcome. Then he
kindled a match, and, deliberately igniting his own cigar, leaned back
and smoked away with grave composure, only stopping now and then, as
some more lofty flight of eloquence broke from the lawyer’s lips, to
knock the ashes away from his Havana against the railing of the bar.
“Pass it to him, pass it to him—have you no manners?” whispered the
Judge to Constable Johnson, who was leaning forward over the bar, in
order to place the box upon its shelf again.
The constable started back and went eagerly up to the prisoner, but Hart
refused the kind offer, at which the Judge shook his head two or three
times, for he took the refusal of a prime cigar as an evidence of
down-heartedness which nothing could overcome.
As the lawyer drew toward a close, the Judge became much agitated; the
cigar went out between his lips, and his face looked pale amid the smoky
atmosphere that hung around him. When the man sat down, there was
silence for more than a minute, profound, death-like silence, and then
the Judge arose.
“Daniel Hart—neighbor, neighbor!—have you nothing to say for yourself?”
he exclaimed, with a burst of feeling that made the jury start.
Daniel Hart rose to his feet; a clear, strong light was in his eyes,
and, though somewhat pale, he stood firm and collected among his old
friends.
“Yes, I have something to say. You will not believe me, but I will speak
for myself. All that they have sworn against me is true, and yet all
that I have said is the truth also. I did come to The Bend with poor
Bentley. I loved the man like a brother, for he was my sister Sarah’s
husband, and a prince on earth. We came to get the money which Judge
Church owed him. I found that man in the tavern.” Here the old man
lifted his hand and pointed to Michael Hurst. “He had insulted my
daughter—he had outraged my niece and tried to carry her off by force.
My blood boiled when I saw him. I had promised the poor gal not to touch
him, and yet I found it hard work to keep my fingers from his throat.
This was the reason I wanted to get home—this was what I was saying to
brother Bentley.
“We started home. The storm was awful—trees fell around us like grass
before a scythe. It was terrible dark, but we kept together till a great
oak was torn up and fell crash almost over us. Then I thought Bentley
was knocked from his horse. I saw him on the ground, and—so help me God,
I speak the truth!—for one moment it seemed to me as if another man was
bending over him. I rode toward him, but the lightning went out, and,
while I was calling to him, he rode up to my side. I had his hand in
mine once. The lightning struck again and I saw his face: it was white
as a corpse, and did not look natural, but the voice sounded like his,
though it was smothered by the noisy wind. I left him at the door to put
out the horses, and went into the cabin with the bag of money, for he
put it in my hand as I gave up my bridle. The gal was right: my hand was
wet with blood when I went in. I was not hurt—the blood was not mine. It
might have been his. The God of heaven knows I did not shed it!”
The prisoner sat down, but rose again in an instant.
“Neighbors!” he said, stretching forth his hand to the jury, while his
eye flashed and his stout form dilated with intense feeling; “neighbors,
I have told you the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth,
so help me God!”
He sat down amid the breathless crowd; no one spoke, no one moved, but a
sound rung over them from the blacksmith’s anvil, clear and full, like
the quick toll of a bell. All at once that ceased, and the silence was
profound. It was broken at length by the blacksmith’s wife, who started
up, forcing her way to the door and went out. When she came back her
husband was with her. He made way for himself and wife up to the bar,
and addressed the judge, who had just arisen to commence his charge to
the jury.
“I say, squire, supposing you give me a chance first,” said the smith,
rolling down his sleeves; “I reckon as likely as not that I shall have a
considerable finger in this pie before it’s cooked.”
“Do you wish to give evidence? Do you know any thing about it?” inquired
the Judge, eagerly.
“Well, I should think it likely that I did, squire, so just give me the
oath. But first bend down your head here.”
The Judge bent his head while the smith whispered something in his ear.
He then gave some directions to the constable in a low voice, and that
dignitary moved round to the other side, and took his station by the
door.
The oath was administered, and then the blacksmith unrolled a dirty
handkerchief which he carried under his arm, and took out a muddy boot,
a horse-shoe, and a scrap of red silk. He had scarcely laid these things
down before the Judge, when some confusion arose at the door. Michael
Hurst had attempted to pass out, and the constable was forcing him back
again. In the struggle Hurst’s face was turned to the crowd; it was
ghastly white, and when he raised his voice to expostulate, it was
choked, and so husky that very few heard him.
“Order, order—keep still,” resounded through the crowd, and Hurst,
restored to some presence of mind, drew back to his old station.
“Well,” said the blacksmith, “I want to tell you how I came by these
things, and get back to my work again. Well, neighbors, you remember the
night of the storm, some of you were in town, I shod your horses and
worked late to get through. Well, among the rest, Michael Hurst, there,
came, in a terrible hurry, and wanted a shoe put on that handsome bay
critter that he rides. The animal has a delicate hoof, so I was obliged
to make nails on purpose for it—small nails, such as I never made for
any other horse on earth.
“Hurst took the horse away just before the storm came on; he never took
that trouble before, but yet I thought nothing about it till a good
while after. I saw Hart there and Mr. Bentley ride away from the tavern:
just after that a man came prowling round the stoop and along the fence.
Still, I didn’t think much about it, but after I’d done work went home,
feeling rather uneasy about a coal-pit that I had set to burning on some
land of mine, down below the cross-roads.
“I got up in the morning, before daylight, and rode down to the
coal-pit, expecting to find it blown into ten thousand flinders by the
hurricane. The road was blocked up with trees and brush, but I got along
tolerably well till I came to the cross-roads, where I meant to cut
through the woods. I found a tree choking it up, and was walking my
horse round it, when what should I see but the body of a man lying among
the branches. It was Mr. Bentley, as dead as a door-nail—at any rate I
thought so then.”
“Was he alive? Was he murdered? What did you do with him?” exclaimed
several voices from the crowd.
“Keep cool, neighbors, keep cool,” cried the smith; “there, you have
nigh about set that poor gal into fits,” he continued, pointing to
Gillian, who was bending toward him with clasped hands and a look of
wild anxiety in her face. “I shouldn’t wonder now if she faints clear
away when I tell you that her poor father was cold and stiff, with a
knife-hole in his side, but yet there was a breath of life in him.”
His predictions were right. With a single gasp, Gillian fell across her
uncle’s lap quite senseless, but every one present was so occupied with
the witness that she remained unnoticed.
“I have powerful strong arms,” continued the blacksmith, extending his
great hands, “so I took the poor fellow up and carried him down to the
coal cabin. There was a bunk full of straw in one end, and a spring of
water close by. After I had worked over him a while, he came to a
little, and asked where I had found him. Of course, I was rather curious
to know how he came to be bleeding in the brush. He seemed loth to tell,
but at last owned that when he was riding with Daniel Hart through the
storm, some one fell upon him in the dark, flung him from the horse,
plunged a knife in his side, and left him senseless on the ground. He
suffered terribly, poor fellow, and the thought that Hart had attempted
his life seemed to hurt him worse than his wound. He begged me not to
mention the matter, as he was determined not to prosecute the old man,
and he feared that the affair could not be hushed up if people knew that
he was wounded. It came hard for me to believe that Hart was a murderer
and robber. I was in hopes that something would turn up to clear him, so
I made up my mind to keep quiet. I doctored the poor gentleman up as
well as I could, and went home, promising to come back after dark with a
wagon, and take him home with me.
“When I came to the cross-roads again, on my way home, I searched about
among the brush to see if I could find any thing. There was a little
hollow close by the road, and up one side I saw that the sods were torn,
as if a horse had lost his foothold and slipped down; a sassafras bush,
close by, was broken, and one of its roots torn up, and right there,
tangled with the root, I picked up a horse-shoe. I knew it in a minute,
for the small nails had been torn from the hoof, and stuck in the shoe
yet, and I declare for the first minute my heart flew into my mouth.
Well, I searched round in hopes of finding something more, but this
scrap of silk, with a bit of twine tied to it, was all that I could
find. It did not seem of much consequence, but I brought it home with
the horse-shoe.
“As I came into town, Hurst’s horse stood in a crook of the fence down
in the judge’s house-lot, so I just climbed the bars and examined his
hoofs. The one that I had shod, the night before, was bare as my hand.
By this time I was pretty well satisfied who was the murderer, but yet
any other man might not have been as certain as I was. I went over to
the tavern, and asked about Hurst of the folks in the kitchen. They told
me that he was sick in bed, and had been all night dying with the
toothache. Just then the hostler came down with my gentleman’s dandy
boots in his hand; he had brushed one, when I happened to see something
that made me anxious to get the dirty boot. The hostler went out a
minute. I snatched up the boot and made for home.
“Well, squire, I took the horse and wagon, and went after Mr. Bentley
that night. My old woman, here, is a first-rate nurse, and he began to
get better after a while, but this minute he’s as weak as a baby, trying
to sit up a little for the first time this very day. I never told him a
word about Hurst, nor any thing concerning the trial of Hart, for he was
so weak that it might have killed him. Besides that, I wanted to see
what kind of a lawyer I should make. Now, squire,” continued the
blacksmith, “I’ve taken oath that this shoe is the one which I put on
Michael Hurst’s horse at eight o’clock the night of the storm, and that
I found it just after daylight on the very spot where Mr. Bentley was
stabbed. Now look at this boot; the clay upon it is red, such as can be
found at no spot hereabouts, except just at the cross-roads. I took the
boot with my own hands, and measured it by half a dozen of the tracks
left on the spot. They fitted it like a glove. Now, squire, here is the
piece of silk; it seems, to me that if you’ll just examine the pattern
closely, it looks very much like the silk handkerchief that Hurst,
there, has got around his neck. He had on the same concern the night I
shod his horse.”
Every eye in the room was turned upon Hurst, who cast a sharp glance
behind him, and made another desperate effort to force his way through
the door. By this time the crowd was in a state of wild commotion; those
outside pressed up against the windows, eager to learn what was passing
in the court-room, where the excitement was increasing every moment.
“Off with his handkerchief! off with it!” thundered from various parts
of the room. But Hurst flung the officer back, and struggled desperately
against their attempts to untie the square of crimson silk twisted
carelessly around his neck, but it was secured at last and, handed to
the Judge. The jury crowded around the bar, eagerly watching the Judge
as he unfolded the handkerchief. A corner was torn away, and the
fragment produced by the blacksmith perfectly fitted the rent. Besides
this, a pattern of black ran over the crimson groundwork, which rendered
the handkerchief somewhat peculiar, and this pattern was also in the
fragment. The jury had scarcely satisfied itself of the fact when a
portmanteau was brought into court, which an officer, who had been sent
to search Hurst’s room, had found under the bed. It was unstrapped, and
a hunting-frock drawn forth, torn and mouldy, but, notwithstanding this,
traces of blood were, found upon the skirt. When this object was held up
before the jury, the excitement became intense. Three or four men leaped
through the window into the bar-room, packing the crowd still more
closely together. The hall was filled with stern, eager faces, pressing
forward to the door, and men stood so thickly together that lights had
to be passed from hand to hand overhead, as those who carried them found
it impossible to force a passage into the court-room.
“Make room, make room, I tell you!” cried a female voice from the crowd;
“she will be stifled here,” and, with her arm flung round the drooping
form of Gillian Bentley, the blacksmith’s wife forced a passage for the
poor girl where half a dozen men would have failed. Wherever her immense
navarino rose upon the crowd, men fell back, and made way for her where
no room seemed to exist. As she passed through the door, Hurst darted
forward, and in a moment would have been safe in the dense mass of human
beings that filled the darkened hall. But Johnson saw the movement just
in time, and flung him back against the bar.
“He is trying to escape—he will get clear,” cried a voice from the
window. The cry was followed by a moment of comparative silence; men
bent their faces together and whispered in groups, while the crowd
outside uttered words that made the Judge turn pale. The accused man
heard them also, and, springing over the bar, drew his knife and called
upon the Judge to protect him, in a voice sharp with agony, that rang
over the multitude like the cry of a hunted animal. His cap was off, his
throat was bare, and the breath, as it panted through, seemed choking
him. His face and hands were deathly-white, but a spot of scarlet
burned, like a live coal, in either cheek, and specks of foam flew from
his mouth. The sight of a knife, drawn in their midst, exasperated the
crowd, and when the desperate man leaped over the bar, with the weapon
gleaming in his hand, many thought that he was about to attack the
Judge. Those in front were pushed up against the bar till the railing
cracked beneath the sudden pressure. Half a dozen hands were
outstretched to pull the man away, but he drew back of the Judge, and
made an insane effort to intimidate them with his knife.
The object which possessed the crowd, up to this moment, had only been a
vague determination to secure the accused man and lodge him in some
place of confinement. The people were greatly excited; their sense of
justice had been outraged, an honest and innocent neighbor had been
hunted within a step of the gallows, before their eyes, by the wicked
man who stood armed and menacing them in the very bar of justice. All
the elements which lead to violence were aroused in their hearts; still
the wretched man might have been safe but for this display of his knife,
which concentrated the wild passions already fermented into a stern
resolve. There was no shout; the tumult grew less than it had been; men
turned their fierce eyes on each other, and a hoarse whisper ran through
the crowd—
“He will escape—he will escape the law.”
These were the words that went hissing from lip to lip through the room,
out from the open windows, and along the street. Still there was no
tumult, but the crowd closed slowly up—up till the bar gave way. A sea
of eyes—dark, fierce, terrible eyes—met the wretched man everywhere;
they glared on him from beneath the light, they glared on him through
the dark windows, and far down a vista in the hall. He dropped his
knife, his limbs gave way, and, like a branch lopped suddenly from an
oak, he sunk down behind the Judge, who spread forth his arms and strove
to protect him. It was in vain—all in vain! The good Judge pushed some
of the foremost back, he besought them to respect the laws, he shouted
to those in the street, entreating them to come up and save their
neighbors from a great crime. But still they closed around him, stern,
silent and fierce, with a thirst for blood which no heart present had
ever felt till then. They tore the miserable wretch out from behind his
protector. They passed him, on a bridge of uplifted hands, to the
window, and so out into the open street.
The blacksmith had returned to his work, and the blaze of his forge
reddened over the fierce crowd, as it fell in toward his shop, and
formed a wall of human beings before it.
“The handkerchief! the handkerchief!” passed from mouth to mouth.
Instantly a mass of crimson silk was disentangled from some fragments of
the bar, and tossed over the crowd. The red light shone through it as it
rose and fell, and a hoarse cry followed its progress.
Oh, the next scene was horrible—I cannot describe it!
CHAPTER XLII.
THE BLACKSMITH’S SHOP.
When Daniel Hart recovered from the stupor which had fallen upon him,
with a conviction that his innocence could no longer be doubted, he was
sitting in the midst of the court-room perfectly alone. A noise—a
strange, murmuring noise—came surging in through the windows. He arose
and staggered a few paces forward, wondering what had become of his
children. A crowd of human beings blocked up the street, dark as death,
close to him, but lighted up, on the opposite side, by a fierce ruddy
glare. It fell on a platform of stern faces, uplifted, with a sort of
savage awe, toward a human form swinging from a post directly before the
huge opening cut through the blacksmith-shop instead of a window. Hart
cast one look toward the form, framed as it was in the rude opening on a
back-ground of fire. He recognized his enemy, shrunk back with a groan,
and, covering his face with both hands, shuddered from head to foot.
As Daniel Hart lifted his face again, the stupor that had chained down
his faculties gave way, and, for the first time, he comprehended, in its
entire force, his deliverance from danger, and the fearful retribution
that had overtaken his adversary.
“Stop, neighbors! in the name of God, do not murder him!” he shouted,
weaving his great hands convulsively together, and casting another wild
look through the window.
There was a hush in the crowd—the terrible reaction of fiercely excited
passions. The powerful voice of Daniel Hart, as it shouted the word
_murder_, fell like a bolt of cold iron on many a living heart.
Murderers! were they murderers?—those stout men, whose lives had
hitherto been spent in honest toil! They looked in each other’s faces,
and each saw the fearful pallor that had fallen on the features of his
companion.
Murderers they were—murderers! A moment of passion had made them such. A
single act, a single half-hour, and the black blood-stain had fallen
upon many a heart which had never known the thought of violence before.
Alas! how short a time it takes to fling the one gall-drop of crime into
a human soul!
While this appalling silence reigned over the throng, Daniel Hart rushed
down the veranda and through the crowd, dashing those who opposed his
progress to the right and the left, like a lion in his wrath. He caught
hold of an iron in the post where the wretched victim was suspended,
sprang up with almost superhuman force, and made a grasp at the
handkerchief, in a wild attempt to wrest it from its fastening. He
failed, and fell back gasping for breath. He took a knife from his
pocket, opened it with his teeth, and, while the glittering blade was
still clenched in their fierce hold, sprang into the blacksmith’s shop.
In an instant he stood in the red light of the window, flung one arm
around the body, and cut the handkerchief. The body fell heavily across
his shoulder; he dropped the knife, and, springing back, laid it upon
the ground.
“Bring brandy—bring brandy!” he exclaimed, tearing the wisp of red silk
from the purple and swollen throat.
“If you raly have an idea of bringing the scoundrel to,” said the
blacksmith, quite coolly, rolling up his sleeve, as he spoke, “a good
ducking will do him more good than all the brandy on arth; but the
fellow has got over the worst of it, and, to my notion, is about as well
off as he ever will be!”
While making this philosophical observation, the smith took a sooty pail
from one corner of the shop, and dipping it full of water from a great
wooden trough in which he cooled his iron, dashed it over the body.
There was no effect; not a quivering muscle, not a single motion, gave
the slightest hope of life.
“You may as well give up; he’s dead as a door-nail,” said the smith,
coolly setting down his pail. “You’d better not waste good coneac on the
critter, but hand it round to the chaps outside; they look as if they
needed it bad enough, gracious knows.”
But all unmindful of his friend’s advice, Hart took the measure of
brandy which some one had brought from the tavern, placed it by his side
on the ground, and laving both hands in it, bathed the livid face, the
throat and chest of the wretched being, who had so lately been his
bitter enemy. When he saw that it was of no avail, he laid the corpse
reverently back on the cinders scattered deep over the earth which
formed a floor to the blacksmith’s shop, and, covering his face with
both hands, groaned aloud.
“Come, there is no use in staying here,” said the smith, shaking his
friend by the shoulder. “Them poor gals will be rather anxious to see
you by this time, I calculate; then there is your brother-in-law a-lying
in my spare-room, as weak as a baby. Come along now, do!”
Hart arose, drew a deep breath, and went forth with his friend. The
street was yet filled with scattering groups, but they stood away from
the sight, and conversed together in low, hoarse whispers. Two by two,
and in larger groups, many of them had left the town, while those who
had no companions went over to the tavern, and, when the beds were full,
stretched themselves on the floor, for no man of all that multitude had
courage to pass through the woods alone, after the fearful scene which
he had witnessed.
There was that evening a faint star-like glimmer, breaking through the
creepers that covered a gable-window of four panes in the blacksmith’s
dwelling. As Daniel Hart drew near the house, his eyes fell on the
light; a glow came stealing to his heart—thoughts of his daughter, her
devotion, and the returning happiness ensured to her, were breaking up
the horrid sensations that had almost suffocated him. He ascended the
rude stairs which led to a chamber in the house, and passing his head up
through a trap cut in the floor, stood, with tearful eyes and trembling
limbs, gazing on the scene which presented itself in that humble
garret-room. Directly opposite lay the languid form of Mr. Bentley; his
head was supported by pillows, and the blacksmith’s wife was standing
over him, with her navarino thrust clear to the back of her head, and
armed with a huge camphor-bottle, with which she deluged the moist hair
of the invalid, now and then pausing to press her wet hand on the
temples of Gillian, who half knelt, half lay upon the bed, with her eyes
fixed on those of the wounded man, trembling and crying all the time.
Her fingers were twined in the hand of the invalid, and every other
moment she lifted her head and closed the fond eyes which gazed so
tenderly upon her with kisses, that wandered thence over cheek,
forehead, and back to the eyes again, breaking each caress with words of
passionate thanksgiving.
When she saw her father, Martha shook the tears from her eyes, and,
reaching forth her hand, drew him close up to the bed, pressed his broad
palm down on the hand of the invalid, and kissed them both together,
murmuring—
“Oh, father! oh, uncle! did you think we should ever be so happy again?”
“Thank God!—oh, thank God, my brother, it was not you that struck me!”
said Bentley, feebly grasping the hand which lay against his; “but where
is he? what will they do with him?”
“Oh, he is settled for, I reckon,” said the smith. “They hung him up,
like a dog, before my shop.”
“What—what”—the invalid could say no more; his eyes closed, and a
shudder ran through his frame.
“Let me—let me!” said Gillian, taking the camphor bottle from the
smith’s wife, and pressing her cool damp hand tremulously down on the
pale forehead of the invalid.
“Well, take it; he seems to like the feel of your hand best, so I may as
well go down and take my old man with me—he don’t know how to tend on
sick folks no more than a wild Injun; yet he’s a good-hearted cretur as
ever lived, though I do say it that ought not to say it.”
The next moment nothing was seen of the blacksmith’s wife except her
navarino, as it sunk slowly through the trap door, while she cautiously
followed her husband down-stairs.
And now they were alone—that united family. Bentley was no longer
insensible, for even in his fainting fit there was a happy thrill
warming his heart to life again. Notwithstanding all the horrors of the
night, that was a blissful meeting; but there was little talking done.
What of that? love may be expressed by silence.
CHAPTER XLIII.
AUTHORSHIP.
When people tell us that the chain of human sympathies is limited to
propinquity, it is a proof that they have studied little and felt less
of those mental phenomena that are fast resolving themselves into a
science. There have been hearts so linked together that intense
affection annihilated space, and one suffering soul has imparted its
anguish to the twin soul thousands and thousands of miles away. On the
morning when Daniel Hart’s trial took place in the far West, Hetty Hart
awoke with a terrible foreboding of evil which no argument of her
sister’s could conquer and calm. She lay under her canopy of delicate
lace with burning eyes and scarlet cheeks when Mrs. Ransom entered to
inquire after her rest.
“I have not slept, Sarah, not one moment, I do believe, through the
whole night. If I did seem to be dropping into a doze, something would
make me start up and scream for help till my own voice was frightful.”
Sarah went up to the bed and laid her hand on the poor woman’s forehead,
where pain was beating like a pulse.
“But you will sleep now,” she said, gently soothing the anguish with her
soft palm. “Let me kiss the place and make it well; our mother used to
say that, you know, Hetty.”
“Our mother, Sarah! ah, me, I have almost forgotten her! Love for him—my
own darling son—has driven every thing else out of my life. Our mother
was good; but she never dreamed of such mad, aching love as I feel for
my child.”
“My poor sister,” answered Sarah, stooping down and repeating the kiss
she had given so kindly, “yours has been a hard life.”
“Oh, bitter, bitter as gall and wormwood, Sarah! Think what it was to
chain down and hide this great love in my heart, year after year, year
after year, when it was draining my life out. I could only see him once
in a long, long while, and then he seemed to think it so strange that I
took an interest in him; and when I sat with my poor hands clasped and
my lips pressed together, trying so hard to conquer the hungry yearning
for one kiss—one little kiss from my own child—he would look at me so
indifferently, and once I heard him say, as I went out, ‘I wonder what
the old maid came for?’ It nearly broke my heart, Sarah!”
“But he knows you now, and loves you dearly, I am sure,” said Mrs.
Ransom, greatly affected; “how could he help it, my poor sister?—for no
mother ever suffered as you have.”
“Yes, yes, I think he loves me; yet he went away, and I had been ill,
worse than you know of—a great deal worse.”
“I know that you are ill, Hetty,” said Sarah, tenderly.
“Sometimes,” added Hetty, and her burning eyes filled with tears,
“sometimes it seems to smother me to live in this house. Last night the
wind came in through an open window. The curtains fluttered over me like
wings, and it seemed as if they wanted to carry me off to him. I got out
of bed and tried to come to you, but I am not so very strong, and
somehow my limbs gave way, so I crept back again. Then a voice seemed to
cry out, warning me of something. Don’t smile, Sarah: I know it was the
wind moaning through the trees back of the house; but it was so like a
human voice, that I answered, ‘Yes, son, I would follow you, but God has
taken away my strength.’”
“What a terrible night you have spent!” said Mrs. Ransom, suppressing
her tears with difficulty. “I hope Michael will yet reward all this
love.”
“Not Michael, Sarah, but William; the name was his father’s, and you
shall give him that—nobody shall call him Hurst after this. Our secret
has tortured me so long, that I have no shame left—nothing but love for
him and for you, Sarah. I always loved you—always—always.”
“Indeed, you did, my poor sister? but try to sleep now. Every thing will
seem brighter when you have had a good, long nap,” said Mrs. Ransom.
But Hetty only started up in bed and began beating her laced pillows.
“They are hard as rocks,” she moaned; “I would rather attempt to sleep
on red-hot stones. It’s of no use trying to make them easy—nothing can
do that; won’t you let a little air into the room? but, no, that will
set the curtains to fluttering again, and it seems so ghostly.”
“Dear Hetty, you are very nervous this morning.”
“Am I? Yes, I dare say; but the trouble seems too real for that. I have
been nervous all my life, you know; but it did not hold my heart like
this. It seems as if something dreadful would happen before to-morrow.”
Hetty shuddered among her pillows and clasped her hands in a sort of
agony.
“What is it, dear?” said Mrs. Ransom. “There is nothing that should
distress you so!”
“There is—there is,” she whispered.
Sarah saw how deeply the poor thing was affected, and began to soothe
her, as she would have hushed a child out of its nameless grief. She
took off the pretty cap and smoothed out the gray hair gathered
underneath. Two years before those tresses were only threaded here and
there with silver; now they fell upon the pillows white as snow. Sarah
sighed heavily as she remarked the mournful change. Hetty lifted her
large eyes to her sister’s face.
“It was the second sin that did it,” she said.
“Forget that, dear; no one else will remember any thing, except that you
have loved and suffered.”
“You were always kind to me, Sarah, very kind. I thought you dead so
long, and then I felt like the morning-glory vines that you and I used
to tend when the wind broke down their support; but nothing ever could
make me forget you. It is very strange—isn’t it? but I was hardly
surprised when you came back and took the second load from my
conscience. I was so glad to tell the truth. It was like rolling a great
stone from my heart. He thought all these silk curtains and lace and
soft carpets would make me happy, but I longed—oh, with what aching
desire!—for our old chamber overlooking the orchard. It was cruel of
Daniel to leave the old house, when I begged and prayed so hard that he
would stay. The homestead is empty now, Sarah. The home that you and I
loved is desolate as the grave. Neither I nor my boy have a right to any
thing. It does seem hard, when his father owned all, and one hour more
of life would have made him the heir.”
“Hetty,” said Sarah, still smoothing the white hair with her hands, “are
you sure that William Bentley started for the homestead in order to be
married?”
“Am I sure?” cried Hetty, starting up; “am I sure of my life? I tell
you, sister, had he lived twenty-four hours I should have been his
wedded wife. That very morning I got a letter from him saying so.”
“Yes,” said Sarah, thoughtfully, “it is hard, but I can answer for Mr.
Bentley. He will not only forgive your son, but provide for him as if he
were his own.”
“Oh, Sarah! why couldn’t you have let him marry Gillian? It might be
yet, if you would only insist—no one could ever oppose you.”
“Hush! do not speak of that again; it is impossible,” replied Sarah, in
a cold voice that silenced Hetty, but set her to trembling violently.
After a while Sarah spoke on another subject, striving to draw the
invalid’s mind from her one idea.
“Hetty, you have never told me about our father: how he lived after I
came away, and how he died. Was it calmly, as a noble Christian should
pass from one world to another?”
“Don’t ask me about him, Sarah, please; I was so afraid of my father
after that. He was very good, but I crept out of his way till the very
sight of him made me tremble, for it seemed to me that sooner or later
he must know. But he never did.”
“Was he long ill, Hetty?”
“Not a single hour. He had been out in the wood-shed for an armful of
kindling pine, and was bringing it in when he stumbled at the threshold.
Daniel ran forward and caught him in his arms, but he never breathed
again.”
“Then there was no farewell—no explanation—no blessings?” said Sarah,
mournfully.
“Not a word, and I was coward enough to be glad. Had he looked into my
face with his dying eyes I should have told every thing.”
“Would to heaven you had! How much misery might have been spared us
all!”
“Are you blaming me?” said Hetty, in a tone of fretful pain.
“Blaming you, Hetty—did I ever do that?”
“But you think that I ought to have confessed. You are dwelling on the
sacrifices you have made. I don’t wonder. Still it wasn’t like being
separated from one’s own child.”
Sarah smiled a little bitterly but said nothing. In her egotism Hetty
had forgotten that the blameless sister had been separated entirely from
her only child and the husband she adored, all for her sin.
“That will do,” said the sick woman at last, withdrawing her head from
that sisterly hand. “Just go out now, please, and perhaps I shall get a
little sleep.”
Sarah went out, hoping that the suffering woman would indeed sleep. But
all that morning Hetty continued to sit up in bed and moan out the
unaccountable distress that had seized upon her.
“I know that he is sick, suffering, struggling with his enemies,” she
would moan. “They are hunting him down, wounding him. Wolves, gaunt,
horrible wolves lie in wait for him; still, but ah, how hungry! I can
feel them creeping along the earth, dragging themselves on the ground,
whimpering with impatience. I will go to him. He is my son, mine, mine!
I am not ashamed to own it. The secret was rolled from my heart long
ago.”
These strange fancies would seize upon her at times with more or less
violence, but she slept a little during the day, and once or twice Sarah
found her resting in comparative quiet when she stole softly into the
sick chamber.
Toward evening she grew worse. The fever raged hot and high in her
veins; her wild eyes grew dazzling, her burning hands were forever
clutching each other and tearing themselves apart with restless action.
Darkness crept over the city, black darkness in which the sultry air
seemed stagnant. Then the fever burning in that frail form flamed up,
leaving her thin cheeks scarlet, and her lips dry as dead flowers.
An hour after dark the anguish that seized upon her was terrible. She
sat up in bed doing fierce battle with the pillows and tearing at the
curtains. Low cries issued from her lips. She made wild efforts to leave
her bed and flee away, crying out that she was pursued—that thousands of
wolves lay crouching in the bushes ready to seize upon her. Then she
uttered a succession of terrible shrieks, which ended in choking groans;
her hands flew upward to her throat, tearing some imaginary thing away.
The groans grew fainter and fainter, and with them came gushes of warm,
red blood. It was this that strangled her. She could not breathe through
the scarlet torrent.
At eight o’clock Mehitable Hart died. That very night and hour her son
was hanging in the red illumination of the blacksmith’s window, hundreds
of miles away.
Sarah Bentley went with her sister’s remains into Rockland county, and
laid them to rest in the same ground with her father, praying that she
might have found the good old man in the presence of that Divine Being
who forgives so much to his feeble creatures. Out of the desolate old
homestead they carried that erring one: through the orchard where she
had gathered early summer-apples, and across the meadow where the
sisters had made dandelion chains when little children, along the path
which Sarah had trod so often in a brave effort to save that silent one,
they bare the coffin along. There was no mourner but Sarah—not even a
farm servant, to honor his old mistress; all had been scattered by her
secret sin, yet old neighbors bore her to the grave with solemn respect,
and lifted their hats reverently when the coffin passed. A little way
from the family burying-spot was a solitary grave. The grass had grown
rank over it, and a ponderous monument of marble marked it as the
resting-place of some wealthy man. Not by her father, but here, close by
the grave of William Bentley, they laid his frail love down to sleep,
and on the pure marble of his monument a record was cut which the angels
must have forgiven that noble sister for placing there—a record which
told the world that Mehitable, relict of William Bentley, lay by his
side.
As Sarah returned to the homestead where some of the old furniture
remained, a man came forth to meet her. He had been walking up and down
the porch, waiting anxiously for her return. Sarah held forth her hand,
smiling a sad welcome.
“Woodworth,” she said, “my dear, dear friend, God has sent you to me in
my utter loneliness!”
“I have been away in the South, hoping by travel to wear out the time
which lies between me and my bride,” he said, speaking low in respect to
her sad mood. “They told me at the house that you had come up here on a
mournful errand, and I followed you.”
“Yes,” said Sarah, with quivering lips, and eyes full of tears, “this is
a sad day for me.”
Woodworth looked upon her in astonishment. He knew her character well,
and was not surprised that she should feel the death of any human being
keenly; but there was a depth and poignancy of sorrow here that troubled
him.
“Why do you mourn this lady so deeply?” he said. “She did not strike me
as a person calculated to draw forth such regret. Ah, my friend, will
you never learn to suffer less for others?”
“Hush,” answered Sarah, gently; “Mehitable Hart was my sister, my only
and dear sister.”
“Mrs. Ransom!”
“That is not my name, Woodworth, though one that I hope has not been
dishonored in my keeping. I am Sarah Bentley, the mother of Gillian.”
He grasped both her hands in his, speechless with the joy of this
surprise.
“What! you—you—her mother and mine!”
“Her mother, certainly, and yours if you care to call me so,” was the
gentle answer.
“I always felt that you were destined to be something to me,” he cried;
“but this is beyond belief—and Gillian knows it?”
“Not yet. They had left New York before I arrived, but I have sent a
messenger to tell them.”
“A messenger: what messenger?”
“Young Bentley, the person we knew as Michael Hurst.”
“Oh, Mrs. Ransom—I beg your pardon—Mrs. Bentley, will you never learn
prudence? Why did you send this false man on an errand so delicate?”
Sarah shook her head in mild disapproval. “Suspicious as ever,” she
said, “always seeing the dark side of a character, like a true lawyer.”
“But I tell you this young man is treacherous; I very much doubt if he
had any claim whatever to your husband’s estate.”
“I know that he had none,” answered Sarah, tranquilly, “but the
temptation was great, and the laws harsh in visiting a parent’s sin on
his offspring.”
“But you admit that this young man perpetrated a great fraud against
your husband: how then can you trust him? He will surely betray you.”
“I do not think so badly of human nature,” answered Sarah, with a grave
smile. “I have been his best friend.”
“So much the more reason why a man like that will turn upon you.”
“Oh, cynic and unbeliever.”
“I wish it were possible to instil some of my distrust into your nature,
my sweet friend,” said Woodworth, smiling in spite of himself; “but come
in, if this empty old house affords a spot where we can converse
comfortably. I am all curiosity to hear the particulars of this
life-romance.”
Sarah opened the front door and entered the sitting-room. Some kind
neighbor had built a fire on the hearth and dusted the old-fashioned
couch and chairs. The two friends sat down on the couch, and, with her
hands in Woodworth’s, Sarah told him all. “He is my daughter’s
betrothed,” she said inly, “and in our household we will hereafter have
no secrets.”
“And so this is the way in which your author’s life commenced?” said
Woodworth, reverently pressing the hands in his.
Sarah smiled through her tears, for a sort of self-pity had seized upon
her while telling of her early trials, and she wept more than once like
a child.
“Yes, we tried to earn something by needlework—sister Hetty and I—but
what can a poor woman do with her needle? I had always been writing
little sketches and scraps of poetry, only to hide them away under the
shingles of the garret. It was a thing I could not help and was afraid
to speak of; for my father was a very religious man, and looked upon the
parables almost as an unauthorized interpolation of the Scriptures. I
had many bright, high thoughts in those days, which would not die out
unexpressed. I did not know what all this meant at the time, for these
thoughts came before I had a full knowledge of the method whereby books
were created. But I never heard a hymn out of measure in church without
an impulse to supply the missing cadence, and would wander off from the
dry books in my father’s little stock to think how much more beautiful
they might be made.
“When my sister’s troubles came, and the need of money for the support
of her child pressed upon us, it broke on me like an inspiration, one
night, that God had given me some gifts by which my sister’s child might
be kept from perishing, and her good name saved. I got up in the night.
We were on Long Island, and poor Hetty had her baby with her for a day
or two: he was ill and troublesome, but we thought it a great blessing
even to hear him cry. I took the boy from his sleeping mother’s bosom,
and carried him up and down the room, framing my first real poem as I
walked, and kissing his warm cheek between the pauses. It was an
exciting subject. There had been a revolution beyond sea, and tyranny
had crushed it down. I imagined the condition of a mother and her son,
when the husband and father was brought home dead—no matter about the
rest. I had a great object, and a theme which made every pulse in my
heart thrill with patriotism. I wonder the loud beating of my heart did
not frighten the babe: on the contrary, the heave and fall of my bosom
seemed to rock him into a sweet slumber. Hetty slept on, with her hands
clasped and a smile on her lips, evidently dreaming that the boy was in
her arms yet.
“When the poem was finished—for I did not write a line till the next
day—I lifted the boy up and gave him a thrilling kiss of joy. ‘It is
good,’ I said. ‘It is poetry, I know—such poetry as thrills the public
heart, or it could not have left so much fire in mine.’
“I spoke aloud in my exultation. The boy awoke, and smiled upon me. I
clasped him close, raining kisses on his face; I must have kissed
something, then, or burst into tears.
“‘We will find a way of earning bread for you yet, my little fellow,’ I
said; ‘wait a while, and, God willing, we will give you an education
that shall be better than gold.’
“The boy smiled and beat the air with his tiny hands, as if to say,
‘Only give me the means, and I’ll show you how a youngster can cut his
own path through the world.’
“It was a singular confidence—that which I bestowed on the baby that
night; but his bright eyes gave me inspiration, and I whispered a
thousand silly hopes to him, as I walked the chamber, clasping him close
to my bosom. After a while I took him to bed, and then a reaction came
over me, as I reviewed the poem I had written only in my mind; it grew
tame and commonplace: my brains went vigorously to work making changes,
and the daylight found me worn out and disappointed with the whole.
“The next day I went to the city. Up to this time I had never mentioned
the idea of my life to any human being. I neither knew an author or
publisher in the world; but I had read good books, and knew that the men
and women who wrote many of them must be living. One man, the author of
some novels of great power and originality, which had made themselves
known abroad, as well as at home, I had seen. His brilliant lecture
before some literary society had thrilled my whole being in the
listening. I had never spoken to this man in my life; but he was the
first author I had ever seen face to face, and he seemed like an old
acquaintance, long before the lecture closed. I knew where this man
lived, and went to his house with my manuscript poem written out. ‘He is
a poet and a great man,’ I said, ‘and such people must love to aid those
who cannot help following after them.’ So I went to his house less
timidly than you may suppose. He sat in his study writing, when I
entered; he was engaged on some law paper, I think, for he was a
hardworking man, and tamed his genius down to many a severe, dry study.
“This man scarcely seemed surprised at seeing me, but rose from his seat
and came forward with a bright, cordial smile on one of the finest faces
I ever saw.
“I scarcely remember what I said, or how that poem got into his hand;
but we sat down by his desk together, and he read it carefully. A smile
beamed all over his face more than once. Then he would shake his head,
and two lines which ran down between his brows drew close together, and
I felt that there was some fault of sentiment or rhythm which jarred on
his fine senses. But the predominating expression, and I read every
change keenly, was one of surprise and pleasure.
“‘Well,’ he said, laying down the paper, ‘how many of these things have
you written?’
“‘Only this,’ I answered.
“‘And what can I do for you, my child?’ he resumed, with a smile that
made my heart leap.
“‘Tell me if it is good for any thing.’
“‘Good for anything! Yes, child, it is good for a great deal.’
“‘And I need not be ashamed to offer it to some paper or magazine?’
“‘With half an hour’s polishing, I should not be ashamed to offer it as
my own.’
“I burst into tears. Till that moment I had not understood how intense
was the anxiety that brought me there.
“‘But how can I make it more worthy?’ I inquired, ashamed of this
outburst, and trying to laugh. ‘It seemed easy enough in the night, when
the whole thing first came to me; but this morning I felt that it was
very imperfect, but could not tell where or why.’
“‘I dare say,’ he answered, laughing. ‘Poets do not leap into perfection
at a single bound. Genius is but a species of madness, without study,
perseverance, industry, and a great deal of common-sense.’
“‘I am industrious,’ was my answer; ‘and if you say that there is hope
for me I will persevere; for I have a great object to attain.’
“‘Indeed? And so young!’
“He uttered these words half as an exclamation and half as a question. I
felt the color flash into my face, but said nothing in reply. He had
compassion on my embarrassment; and, taking up a pencil, began to mark
the faults in my poem. I watched him with hushed breath, and with every
dash of the pencil my heart went down heavily. He looked up from the
paper and saw that I was growing pale.
“‘It is a beautiful poem, a noble poem,’ he said, ‘and should have no
imperfections.’
“Again my eyes filled with tears. I could have knelt down and worshipped
that man for his kindness; yet he was a severe critic, and dealt with me
as a father teaches the child he desires to improve.
“‘There,’ he said, giving the paper into my hands again, ‘I have marked
the faults—you must remedy them; but let me explain.’
“He went over the poem line by line, told me where I was wrong—that this
word jarred with another far away, making discord to a sensitive ear.
But the subject, the soul and spirit, he did not attempt to disturb.
‘That was the rich, rough gold,’ he said, ‘which industry and taste
formed into shapes of beauty.’
“This liberal praise neutralized the humiliation of those pencil-marks.
He was so genial, so earnest in his attempts to lead me safely into the
path of letters, that I was constantly forgetting that an hour before we
had been strangers.
“When the poem had been sufficiently scrutinized, he pleasantly turned
the conversation on myself. In my earnestness of purpose I had forgotten
even to give him my name. Now, I told him frankly all about my life in
the country, the scraps of verse that lay hidden under the old rafters
of the homestead, and of my grand old father, with his stern sense of
right, his clear judgment and indomitable pride.
“My author was a New England man, and he understood this character well.
He seemed to be delighted with the fresh feelings that I had brought in
from my country-life, and we became fast friends from that pleasant
hour. When I left him, there was not a passage in my life that he did
not know, except the painful secret which lay between me and my sister.
That was not mine to reveal, and in my innermost soul I had sworn to
keep it from all mortal knowledge.
“As I was going out, my new friend said to me, in his prompt, impetuous
way, ‘Wait a moment; I had forgotten; you will want to publish that.’
“‘Yes,’ I faltered; ‘it is important.’
“‘Do you know any publisher?’
“‘No, I am a stranger here.’
“‘Stop, I will give you a letter to one who has some faith in my
judgment. Take the poem to him—that is when you have completed it; but
be careful about the proofs.’
“‘The proofs!’ I repeated, in utter bewilderment, for I knew no more
about the process of printing than a child.
“He laughed again, and commenced walking up and down the room, jingling
a bunch of keys in his hands, delighted as a child at having found any
thing so ridiculously unsophisticated.
“‘Well, well, child, when they send you some long strips of thin paper
with your poem printed on it, come to me and I will teach you to correct
it. The whole thing is simple enough when you know how. But send the
proof to me—send it to me!’
“I was distressed by the thought of claiming such help from a man of his
position, and said so.
“‘My child,’ he answered, with gentle seriousness, ‘God’s creatures are
intended to help each other. Some of these days you will be doing the
same thing.’
“I laughed at the absurd idea. The greatest wish I had at the moment was
to win a support for my sister’s child. Thoughts of fame or greatness
had never yet entered my mind; and I doubt very much if lasting power
ever came out of efforts which find their root in mere selfish ambition.
“I went home with a sweet hope at my heart, and spent that day in
finishing up my poem. It was wonderful how that one lesson had enkindled
my mind. It seized upon the suggestions in those pencil-marks, and
turned them into ideas that made my soul glow. When it was finished, the
poem seemed like a new creation to me. I began to love it again.
“The next day, early, I went to the publisher of a magazine with my note
of introduction. Fortunately he happened to be disengaged, and seeing,
perhaps, the keen anxiety in my face, read the manuscript at once. Oh,
how my heart beat as he unfolded the paper! I watched his eyes as they
fell from line to line, but could read nothing there. He folded the
paper, seemed to think a moment, then thrust it into a pigeon-hole in
his desk, took a key from his pocket, and opened a drawer.
“‘If this will be satisfactory,’ he said, without a word of comment, ‘I
shall be pleased to hear from you again.’
“I took the bank notes that he held toward me with strange feelings of
mingled exultation and humility—exultation that one effort of my pen had
achieved so much; shame that I could take money for a God-gifted talent.
But the publisher neither saw the trembling of my limbs or the burning
of my cheek. To him our interview was ended, and he began to search
among his papers with the constraint of a person who wished to be alone.
I wanted to thank him for the great joy he had given me, but he grew
more and more intent on his papers, and nodded at them rather than me
when I left the room.
“When I reached home and found myself quite alone in my chamber, I
glanced at the money; then unfolded it, and was frightened at the
amount. It was not much, as we value these things now, but I must have
worked a month at my needle—nay, two months—for the notes that fluttered
in my hand. Still I looked at them shyly, and hid them away about my
person like a thief. It was impossible to convince myself that they were
honestly mine, that I had not been receiving an abject charity, or,
worse yet, practising some fraud on the deluded publisher. But the money
was there, and for some weeks, at least, that unfortunate child, thrice
loved because of the pity which came with him had been provided for.
That relief was a blessing which made itself felt through my whole
being.
“I did not tell Hetty how the money had been earned; but she knew that I
possessed it; and we went for help and counsel to Mr. Frost, a blessed
old minister of the gospel, whose life was spent in such deeds as make
angels brighten with beautiful hopes of humanity. He gave both. A good
nurse was found for the child, and we went home to Rockland county,
carrying our secret burden into the old homestead. I had made
arrangements with the publisher, through my noble friend, and
contributed little sketches and poems for his magazine every month. But
Hetty worked on with her needle industriously as ever, and with every
package of manuscript we sent down parcels of fine needlework, which the
poor soul spent half her nights in getting ready for the fancy-stores. I
would have prevented this, but she took pathetic pleasure in her toil,
and grew almost jealous that I should have the power of contributing
more money toward her child’s support than she was capable of earning.
This was the beginning of my real life. I was not content with
scribbling light things now and then, but studied hard and toiled over
my productions when the passion of composition was over; copying,
recopying, condensing, and elaborating them, till they soon won a place
among the favored contributions of the magazine I wrote for. My noble
friend had taught me that authorship was no holiday work, and that pink
and blue ribbons did not often tie up the best manuscript. I felt then,
and I feel more intensely now, that a profession which has its
groundwork in immortal thought should not be undertaken lightly; that
fame, when it ennobles womanhood, should, like sacred incense, float
only over the pure of purpose and the strong of soul. To create is to be
grand. The priest who proves false to his religion is less unworthy than
the woman who, being an author, degrades the dignity of her sex, or the
glory of pure thought.”
Sarah Ransom spoke rapidly and with the force of deep feeling, for she
knew well that her auditor gave a noble sympathy to every word she
uttered, and put no restraint upon the enthusiasm that kindled her face
and lighted her eyes like an outburst of sunshine. It was not often that
this woman gave out so much of the life which was within her; she was in
many respects a woman of the world, and understood the public level too
well for much exhibition of feeling except with her most intimate
friends. As the true Christian feels reluctant to drag that which is
most sacred to him into public comment, she seldom unvailed the thoughts
that broke from her now. But as the memories of her life rose more and
more vividly before her, she spoke without hesitation, feeling how
completely the man who listened understood her. Woodworth said little;
her narrative interested him deeply, and he was reluctant to turn its
course even by a word.
She looked at him with her kindling eyes, that had grown almost black
within the hour.
“Have I been talking too ardently, my friend? Is this egotism?”
“It is the truth, and I love to hear it. Go on.”
“Where was I?” she said. “Oh, I remember.”
The light went slowly out from her face, a tearful sound stole up
through her voice.
“Then my husband came. We loved each other. I can say no more than
that—we loved each other and were married. He was a noble man,
Woodworth, proud, sensitive, exacting sometimes, but still truly noble.
I married him with that burden on my soul. But for that—oh, but for that
cruel, cruel secret our happiness would have been perfect. It was almost
so for a while, for the power of my love was so great that it
overwhelmed every thing. I could look up to this man with proud
reverence. I was neither ashamed nor afraid when my love grew into
worship. I was sometimes haughty with other men, and liked to feel my
own superiority; but with him, the best gifts I possessed seemed too
commonplace for attention. I was ambitious for him, never for myself. I
wanted the whole world to acknowledge his perfections as I did. Such
love is only felt once in a lifetime; it can neither change nor die, but
must live forever, a joy or a pain. When it turned to pain with us the
agony was worse than death.”
Here the noble woman paused: her face had became white as snow; there
was a shiver of pain in her voice. The hand that she laid on Woodworth’s
was cold.
“I cannot dwell on this. In the very midst of our happiness, when I was
a mother, and we both worshipped the new soul born to us, he discovered
the existence of _that_ child, and traced out the chain of events which
seemed to fasten the disgrace of its life on me. My heart had never
dreamed how proud it was till this charge was made by _his_ lips. It
swallowed up every other feeling and refused even an attempt at
explanation. I was mad with the anguish of this undeserved shame. ‘He
should have known me better,’ I cried, in the stillness of my solitary
room. I would have blinded my own eyes rather than believe them, if they
saw evil in him. Yet he condemns me even at the first word. What if he
did see that wretched child in my arms—on my bosom—with its lips to
mine, and its hands in my hair, crowing and laughing at the sight of me?
What if I had, long ago, in my girlhood, sold needlework at the shops to
support it, and had, since our marriage, used some of the money he
lavished on me so lovingly when I was too happy for writing? Was that a
reason why he should fix these loathsome suspicions on his wife?
“These were the thoughts that wounded me for many a long, dreary night.
But no explanation was made. I could give none without casting the
burden, that I was strong enough to bear, on my poor sister, who would
have been crushed into the grave by it. I had promised, and I kept my
promise the more resolutely because I would have trusted him, or, if not
that, forgiven him without explanation.
“Sometimes the anguish of our nearness, and yet complete sunderance, was
so terrible that I faltered; but one thought of my old father, with his
puritanical pride, gave back my firmness, and I learned ‘to suffer and
grow strong.’
“The torture of this life lasted till we had dragged our misery beyond
seas, out of the reach of scandal. At Naples we separated finally. Our
child was placed in a convent. He went eastward to the Holy Land. I was
left alone.”
Mrs. Ransom struggled with the tears that had completely stopped her
voice, and spoke again.
“Forgive me, but sometimes I cannot help giving way to this self-pity,”
she said, attempting to smile, but failing mournfully. “I was very ill
then for a long time. Oh, my friend, my friend, it is not the hearts
that break which suffer most! I got better at last, and began to creep
out into the open air on cloudy days—the sunshine seemed to wound me.
One day, a woman who seemed above the common beggars, came up to me and
in her sympathetic language entreated a little money to buy food with. I
took a piece of silver from my purse and gave it to her. She looked at
the coin and at me; her fine eyes shone with sudden tears; she pressed
kisses on my hand. In my whole life I had never witnessed so sudden an
exhibition of joy.
“The coin I had given this woman only possessed the value of five
shillings, but it had made her happy. I stood watching her, as she
disappeared down a side-street, with envy. What on earth would ever make
me happy again?
“As I walked on, a thought came to me, born of this incident. It said:
‘While you have the power to make others happy with so little effort,
what right have you to give up all as lost?’
“I went home to my apartments filled with new vigor. Hitherto my life in
Naples had been isolated. I had been too selfishly wretched for any
thought of doing good to others. As I went up-stairs, a woman, that I
had often seen about the house, met me. Her eyes were flushed; she had
been weeping, and looked at me wistfully, as if afraid to speak out
something that troubled her mind.
“I stopped at once, and inquired what I could do for her.
“‘Oh, Signora!’ she said, ‘it is not for myself that I grieve, but the
poor lady overhead; she is dying—ah, so miserably!’
“‘Show me where to find her,’ I said; ‘I, too, have been ill, but God
will give me strength to reach this sister sorrow.’
“She led me into a small chamber in the top of the house, and there I
found a young woman, about my own age, in the last stages of a rapid
consumption. She had been very beautiful; but now the mere wreck of her
loveliness filled me with painful sympathy.
“This woman told me her history, but it would only revive an old
distress to repeat it. She was an American—the wife of an artist who had
fallen in love with her beauty, taken her from her country-home directly
abroad, and, burying himself in his studies, left her in the most
dangerous society on earth to make her way as she pleased. It ended, as
such neglect of the young and thoughtless sometimes will, in utter ruin.
After a year or two she wandered off to Naples and lay dying there.
“This wretched woman was young and in distress, therefore worthy of
compassion. She had been very sinful, and for this reason was in greater
need of compassion. How much more terrible her suffering than mine, I
thought. Blessed with a consciousness of innocence, what right have I to
droop, while she is dying with the vulture of guilt gnawing at her
heart? Pity for this poor soul reconciled me to life. I grew strong in
supporting her weakness—hopeful, while showing her how beautiful
eternity might be. She died, and we buried her in the _Campo Sante_.
They asked for her name, and I gave them mine.
“From that day I took the name of Julia Ransom, left Naples, and went
into one of those small inland towns that seem to have crept out of the
middle ages, merely, to make a lovely landscape picturesque.
“In this town I remained a year, and then, for the first time since my
unhappy marriage, I began to feel a strong desire to write, not the
imperfect sketches that had been my best efforts hitherto, but something
in which a soul grown strong in suffering might pour itself out with the
power and force of experience. There arose also a necessity that I
should make some effort for my own support. There was still a little
fund in America for the child, but that would be exhausted in time, and
I must think of providing more. Just at this period I received a letter
from Mr. Frost. His health was failing, it said, and he had found
another person to look after the interests of my little charge when he
was gone. The good man spoke of death as if it had been some pleasant
journey which he intended to take. It was the last letter I ever
received from him.
“Well, I commenced the book. At first, when my efforts sprang entirely
from the imagination, writing had been a passion with me; but now habits
of thought and bitter experience were converting them into a power. By
this time I understood the Italian language well. I found a
resting-place in one of those pretty hamlets which lay in the hills,
near the convent where my daughter lived. My heart so yearned for a look
at her now and then that I disguised myself as a sister of charity, and,
during the months that I stayed in the neighborhood, saw her at least
every week. But this indulgence broke up my life with such feverish
tenderness, and became so painful in its restraints, that I felt myself
growing feeble and weak under it. One day I went to the convent, took
the little one in my arms, kissed her with silent blessings, and went
away, resolved to give her up rather than feed my soul on the husks of
concealed affection. In my whole life I had never parted with her more
quietly; but the aching heaviness of my heart has not passed away from
that hour to this.
“I went to England and made double negotiations for publication of my
book in that country and in my own. How successful it was in both
nations, I need not say. But it was the work, the absorbing occupation
that lifted me out of my own unhappy life, which I cared for most. If
some little fame was the result I scarcely knew it, or desired that
others should know it.
“At last I came back to America, a lonely woman, but not altogether
unhappy; for out of my life came many sweet duties, and exertion brought
its own reward. My father was dead—a stranger told me this, when I asked
if he knew the old man. Daniel had lost the young wife he had married in
our happier days, and my sister kept house for him in the old homestead.
They had no need of me—I was dead to them and all the world—dead and
buried in that blooming hill-side back of Naples.
“It was at this period that I became acquainted with you, my friend.
Time and sorrow had changed me so much that I was safe from discovery,
even in the city where I had formerly lived. I bought the little
cottage, and settled down into the quiet life you know of. My sister’s
child had become a bright, intelligent youth. I was his only friend, and
he seemed to give back something like regard for the benefits I had
conferred upon him. His life in college was marked with singular
devotion to his studies, and a reckless expenditure of money which
alarmed me; but his explanations, if not satisfactory, were always so
plausible that, knowing his unhappy position, I had no heart to inquire
too closely into the truth of his statements.
“But the quiet of my life was broken up suddenly and forever. Scarcely
had I got Michael established in a mercantile house, and seen him
honorably started in his career, when I was surprised by the news that
my husband and daughter had arrived in America. My first impulse was to
break up the little home, which had been my safe resting-place for so
many years, and flee into foreign parts again; but a wild desire to know
something of these beloved ones—to look on his face once more, and hear
the voice of my child—was too urgent; at any risk, I determined to wait,
for a strong conviction seized upon me that our separation would not
prove forever. Perhaps, now that our father was gone, Hetty might, of
her own free will, take the secret burden from my life.
“I waited, and the good God sent Gillian, our bright, glorious child,
into my very arms. She loved me at first sight, and I—great heavens! it
seemed as if this heart would break under the swell of its joy, when she
lay for the first time on my bosom: all the hushed love of many years
rose up and surrounded her with its richness. I was jealous of every
look she cast on another. The very tones of her voice seemed too
precious for any ear but mine. I was greedy of every word she spoke, of
her very glances, as they fell through the window; it seemed as if
nature itself were robbing me.
“She told me of her father—my husband, remember—how he had mourned and
how he had suffered. I recognized it all, and the great love that had
lain buried under my dreary life so long broke forth with a vividness
that no will could resist. All that was strong or grand in my nature
swelled up with it, leaving the paltry pride, which had perhaps
separated us more than any thing else, like drift-wood hurled away by
the torrent.
“You remember the ball which marked Gillian’s coming out; how I
hesitated, evaded, relented, and at last appeared there. Woodworth, when
I met my husband in the library of that house it was the first time in
almost fifteen years. Is it a wonder that I fainted? Is it strange that
I was beside myself that night—that I followed him into his private
study, and finding him struck senseless there, held him for one moment
against a heart that had never ceased to worship him?
“But I had seen my sister. At first it was with a vague hope of pleading
with her, but she was so frail, so weak in every way that I gave the
thought up in despair. So that one embrace was only a farewell. I could
not live in the same city, nay, on the same continent with him and keep
silence. The agony of that one night warned me of this, and once more I
fled.”
Mrs. Ransom ceased speaking; there was nothing more to tell of which
Woodworth was not already informed. She did not give her reasons for
returning so unexpectedly, for, even then, tender forbearance for her
sister’s child kept all expressions of blame from her lips. She wished
to see right done, but not in vengeance.
“And you have suffered so much, my friend,” said Woodworth, filled with
wondering sympathy; “so much, and even I never guessed it.”
“Why should you?” she said, smiling sadly. “Prayers and sorrow lie
between the heart and its God.”
“But you seemed cheerful,” said Woodworth.
“And I was so. Why not? My life was full of blessings. God withheld
nothing from me but human love.”
“True; but that is like withdrawing sunshine from the earth.”
She smiled radiantly in answering, “But I have the sunshine now; a few
weeks and all the bloom of my life will come back. It is here now, for I
know in my soul that he loves me yet.”
Sarah grew beautiful as she spoke; the fire-light flamed up and revealed
the brooding joy in her eyes—deeper and holier joy than ever shone up
from the soul of a young girl.
“Gillian, my child, loves you,” she said, folding two white hands over
her knee and falling into a dreamy posture. “Such love is fresh and
beautiful. It reminds me of apple-blossoms when they first give their
perfume out. Some men fear that this bright dawn of the heart will fade
away, leaving only the commonplace behind. But I tell you, Woodworth,
that after-love, the fruit which swells out from the blossom, still
keeping its shadow at the core, is worth a thousand worlds of this
evanescent freshness. Love has its phases like all human passions; the
sacred richness of its repose is enough for me.”
“And shall be enough for your friend, when the time comes; but I should
not care to leap over the blossom season,” said Woodworth, coloring
pleasantly in the fire-light.
“Now,” answered Sarah, rising out of her dreamy state, “let us talk of
the future. What are your plans?”
“The first,” replied Woodworth, cheerfully, “is to find my lost
lady-love, and ask that as little time as possible shall separate us
from the parson’s blessing. The time of my probation is up, thank
heaven!”
“I will go with you,” said Sarah, gently; “now that she is asleep down
yonder, there is nothing to delay us.”
“It will be a hard journey, dear lady, and you are worn out with
watching.”
“I am used to hard journeys,” she said; “and as for weariness, there
will be no rest for me till I have seen them.”
“Then let us start in the morning.”
“I will be ready,” she answered. “Now, farewell, till then.”
CHAPTER XLIV.
THE REUNION.
Once more that double log-cabin gave signs of active life. Dinah and
Liz—now a pretty colored girl—had left The Bend, where they had followed
those two seemingly orphaned girls, and in a marvellously short time
placed the old home in a comfortable state of preparation.
John Downs had been miserable during the trial, but now he came out in
great spirits, and the wild turkies, prairie chickens, quails, and
delicate little birds that he brought into Dinah’s kitchen were enough
to feast a whole township. The happiness of that young man was something
beautiful to behold, when he lifted Mr. Bentley out of the wagon which
had brought him from The Bend, and half carried him into the best
sleeping-room, which the girls had arranged for his reception.
John knew that his wedding-day was near at hand. No horrible murder or
heart-rending trial could come again between him and his happiness, for
the cruel power which had worked so much evil in that family was swept
away as it were by a whirlwind.
With deep and solemn thanksgiving the family once more returned to the
shelter of that humble roof, scarcely thinking as yet that the wild
impulse of a mob had restored them to wealth and position again. The
good God had been directly merciful in saving Daniel Hart’s life. By his
own crime young Hurst had fallen. The shock of his horrible death was
still too great for actual rejoicing among the persons he had so deeply
wronged. So with quiet thoughtfulness they settled down into their
humble life again.
Daniel Hart seemed to have grown stronger and more genial from his
trial. He went back on the very first day to the clearing, and after
grinding his axe, levelled the dying chestnut to the earth, with blows
that made the forest reverberate once more.
Gillian, too, restored to her father, and saved from the terrible
anguish that had almost killed her, became hopeful again, as youth will,
and began to wonder in her heart why Woodworth had kept so long silent.
It was now time that he should come West and claim her for his wife—full
time. In her trouble she had scarcely thought of this, but now that the
great sorrow was lifted from her life she grew anxious. As for Martha,
what with visits from her lover in the morning, excuses for coming with
game at night, and chance interviews every hour or two, she managed to
take life with considerable cheerfulness.
But Dinah! her works in the kitchen were something wonderful. She wasn’t
going to have a dispensation of providence, that seemed more than a
miracle, passed over without becoming festivities. The day that Mr.
Bentley returned home—a little weak, but looking well and happier than
he had been for years—Dinah burst forth into a storm of preparation.
Pine knots and kindling wood were collected in armsful. From morning
till night great sheets of flame roared up the chimney and flashed into
the cool October air, melting away in clouds of curling smoke. Kettles
of scalding water covered the windows with drops of steam; a basket of
moist feathers stood by the door; and in front of the huge fire two fine
turkeys and a regiment of smaller birds whirled and browned on the twine
strings which suspended them from a beam in the ceiling, dropping
streams of luscious gravy into an encampment of dripping pans and tin
basins that formed a half moon on the hearth.
“Now mind you tend ’em faithful,” said Dinah to Liz; “keep the big spoon
a-goin’ on them turkeys; dip up the gravy and give ’em back as good as
dey send—’tend to yer duty, and they’ll be scrumptuous eatin’, now I
tells yer; and mind keep der door shut close. I don’t want de folks ter
know what’s goin on till de ’past am spread, and thanksgivin’ on de
table.”
Liz promised, and went down on her knees behind the largest turkey,
bathing him with his own gravy till the scent was carried off in
luscious gushes up the chimney.
“Them ’um!” cried Dinah, in great glee, “nebber mind de fire, Lib; here
am a turkey’s wing to hold ’tween yer and it—’sides, heat don’t tan a
nigger, nohow. Jes keep it a gwoin while I run in and set de table.
Bless de Lord, what am dat?”
Liz sprang from her hot place by the fire and ran to the door, fanning
herself with the turkey’s wing.
“Oh, ki! ki! if it isn’t a city gemman in a buggy, and Squire Church’s
hoss with a lady, and—golly, but I’ll run tell Miss Gillian!”
“No, yer wont!” cried Dinah, seizing the girl in her first leap. “Dem am
sacrum t’ings, Liz, sich as young niggers mustn’t hab nothin’ to do wid.
It’s her beau. I’ll compare Miss Gillian for de ferlicitation as am
before her; ’tend ter yer turkeys, chile—’tend ter yer turkeys!”
Dinah was too late. Gillian and Martha were just coming in from the
clearing with a quantity of golden rod and wild asters, which they had
been gathering for Mr. Bentley’s room. The woods were now all a-blaze
with gorgeous October foliage: so they had added some of the most
richly-tinted leaves to the late blossoms, and Martha held a quantity of
wild grapes gathered up in her apron.
Gillian dropped the flowers and uttered a cry of delight as she saw
Woodworth spring from the buggy, lift the lady out and resign her to the
care of Daniel Hart—all as it seemed in an instant. The next, he was
coming toward her, so bright, so joyous in his eager haste, that she
almost ran to meet him. As their hands clasped and their happy smiles
mingled, Martha stole away and entered the cabin. There she found Daniel
Hart on his knees, trembling from head to foot with a great burst of
emotion. His face was buried in his broad hands, and a prayer which was
almost a shout of joy broke from him—
“Oh, my God, how can I be thankful enough? It is her, it is her!”
“Father, father, what is the matter? What has happened?” said Martha,
bending over the old man.
Daniel Hart lifted his head. His face quivered under a rain of tears.
The voice burst almost in a shout from his lips.
“Oh, girl, it is my sister Sarah! it is my sister Sarah! She was lost
and is found; she was dead and is alive again.”
It was true. Julia Ransom—never to be called by that name again—had
entered the room where her husband was sitting alone. His journey from
The Bend had wearied him a little, and he lay back in his chair with
closed eyes. She stole toward him with the breath checked on her
lips—her face bright and glorified with joy, her step noiseless. He
heard the flutter of her garments, but the window was open, and he
thought, in his half-sleep, that it was a gush of air stirring the ripe
autumnal foliage of a tree that sheltered the house. She was close by
him; her head drooped like a flower weighed down by its own perfume. Her
lips fell to his, mingling sighs with his breath. The touch was light as
the flutter of a rose-leaf; but it sent a thrill through his dreams, and
he started up, looking eagerly around.
She was before him, her eyes full of tears, looking into his—her hands
clasped as if to beg pardon for the breath she had left on his lips. The
light was dim, thus mellowing the traces of age. It was the Sarah Hart
he had loved—the wife he had abandoned—the mother of Gillian.
He opened his arms, and held them forth.
“Sarah! my wife!”
His voice thrilled the very air of the room; it brought her within the
clasp of his arms, close, close to his heart. Twenty years of
sorrow—what was it, balanced by a moment like that?
They sat together in the little room, almost silent; but now and then a
broken word explained a little of the past.
“And you can forgive my suspicion—my stubborn cruelty?” he said.
“No, no. The evidence was so strong—my pride so uncontrollable: the
fault rested there, my husband. But I had taken an oath, before my God,
never to betray Hetty’s secret—to guard the good name of our family with
my life. But for this compact I should have told you all.”
“Oh, Sarah, the truth was late in coming!”
She took his hand between both hers, and kissed it, half timidly; for a
touch of her old pride made her expect, rather than offer demonstrations
of the deep, deep love that rose in her heart.
That moment the door opened, and Gillian appeared, searching for her
father. She saw the lady by his side, and came eagerly forward.
Woodworth had told her nothing—deeming the secret too sacred for any but
a parent’s lips.
“Oh, Mrs. Ransom!”
“Gillian, it is your mother.”
The young girl stood for a moment, mute as stone; then her color came,
her heart heaved, and the joyful weeping of those noble women filled the
room.
“My mother—how sweetly the word sounds!” said Gillian. “Oh, how long we
have thought you dead, my mother!”
“It was another’s death of which I took advantage. An American woman
died at Naples just before I left that city. She was an unfortunate
creature who had strayed away from her position in life and died of a
broken heart. By design my name got mingled with hers. They laid her in
the _Campo Sante_, and there my old life closed. I made for myself a new
destiny and a new name.”
“An honored name,” said Bentley, smiling; “it is almost a sacrifice to
give it up. I never dreamed that you possessed such talent, Sarah.”
“Oh, I began to write when the trouble came on my sister. It was by that
means I supported her unhappy child; but it was in a small way, through
papers and magazines. It was not till I was left alone that the blessing
of hard work came upon me; but for that I must have died. In becoming an
author I grew strong to suffer, and patient to wait.”
“But your sister, poor thing! her’s is a hard destiny; how will she hear
of her son’s death?” said Bentley.
A shade of sadness came over them all. Sarah Bentley’s eyes filled with
tears.
“It will not wound her,” she said, in a voice low with gentle sadness;
“my sister Hetty is dead.”
* * * * *
Before the October foliage lost any of its gorgeous richness, two
weddings were celebrated in that double log cabin, and a right pleasant
time the neighbors had on the occasion. Those who had seen Gillian doing
the honors of her father’s house in New York might have been a little
surprised at the fashion of her marriage, and the guests that honored
it. There was Judge Church, from The Bend, the blacksmith and his wife,
Johnson, the constable, and many another great-hearted western man and
woman, who had stood by Daniel Hart in his trouble, and believed in him
thoroughly, spite of the falsehood that surrounded him. No man, woman,
or child, who had given the good man a kind word in that time of trial
was forgotten. For many a year after, those people told with pride of
the splendid wedding they had attended in that double cabin, where the
brides were dressed in white muslin like any of their daughters, though
Mr. Bentley was worth his millions on millions, and might have paved the
cabin floor with gold, if he had cared to do it.
This double marriage took place in the morning, and before noon all the
inmates of the cabin were on their route to New York and Rockland
county. Just as the party were about to leave the house, Mr. Bentley and
Daniel Hart took the blacksmith on one side, and when they came among
the guests again the good man held a broad sheet of paper, with several
seals attached, against the signatures of Daniel Hart and Mr. Bentley.
It was a deed of the log cabin, and all the land that surrounded it.
* * * * *
Again the fashionable world was in commotion. Such windfalls of gossip
seldom are provided by one family in so short a time. Young Hurst, the
claimant of Mr. Bentley’s property, had died suddenly, and Mr. Bentley
had come into possession again. His daughter Gillian was married to Mr.
Woodworth, and cards of invitation were out for a grand wedding
reception. More than all this, Mr. Bentley had been for some time
privately married to his daughter’s friend, Mrs. Ransom, the great
authoress, who was now the acknowledged wife and mistress of his home.
Then it was rumored that Martha Hart, the pretty cousin who had waltzed
with such spirit on the night of the ball, was married to a young farmer
in Rockland county, and had settled down on her father’s old homestead.
All these rumors must be true; for, the world said, they came from a
good source—an old colored woman who had been in the family for
years—the woman with that gorgeous turban, who had insisted upon
regulating the whole household on the night of the ball. Surely no one
could forget her, or doubt that she knew all about it.
THE END.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
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=Pickwick Papers=, Cloth, $1.75
=Nicholas Nickleby=, Cloth, 1.75
=Great Expectations=, Cloth, 1.75
=Lamplighter’s Story=, Cloth, 1.75
=David Copperfield=, Cloth, 1.75
=Oliver Twist=, Cloth, 1.75
=Bleak House=, Cloth, 1.75
=A Tale of Two Cities=, 1.75
=Dickens’ New Stories=, 1.50
=Little Dorrit=, Cloth, 1.75
=Dombey and Son=, Cloth, 1.75
=Christmas Stories=, Cloth, 1.75
=Sketches by “Boz,”= Cloth, 1.75
=Barnaby Rudge=, Cloth, 1.75
=Martin Chuzzlewit=, Cloth, 1.75
=Old Curiosity Shop=, Cloth, 1.75
=Dickens’ Short Stories=, 1.50
=Message from the Sea=, 1.50
Price of a set, in Black cloth, in 17 volumes $29.00
„ „ Full Law Library style 35.00
„ „ Half calf, sprinkled edges 42.00
„ „ Half calf, marbled edges 44.00
„ „ Half calf, antique 50.00
„ „ Half calf, full gilt backs, etc. 50.00
„ „ Full calf, antique 60.00
„ „ Full calf, gilt edges, backs, etc. 60.00
ILLUSTRATED DUODECIMO EDITION.
=Pickwick Papers=, Cloth, $3.00
=Tale of Two Cities=, Cloth, 3.00
=Nicholas Nickleby=, Cloth, 3.00
=David Copperfield=, Cloth, 3.00
=Oliver Twist=, Cloth, 3.00
=Christmas Stories=, Cloth, 3.00
=Bleak House=, Cloth, 3.00
=Sketches by “Boz,”= Cloth, 3.00
=Barnaby Rudge=, Cloth, 3.00
=Martin Chuzzlewit=, Cloth, 3.00
=Old Curiosity Shop=, Cloth, 3.00
=Little Dorrit=, Cloth, 3.00
=Dombey and Son=, Cloth, 3.00
_Each of the above are complete in two volumes, illustrated._
=Great Expectations=, Cloth, 1.75
=Lamplighter’s Story=, 1.75
=Dickens’ New Stories=, 1.75
=Message from the Sea=, 1.75
Price of a set, in Thirty volumes, bound in Black cloth, gilt
backs $45.00
„ „ Full Law Library style 55.00
„ „ Half calf, antique 90.00
„ „ Half calf, full gilt back 90.00
„ „ Full calf, antique 100.00
„ „ Full calf, gilt edges, backs, etc. 100.00
CHEAP EDITION, PAPER COVER.
This edition is published complete in Twenty-two large octavo volumes,
in paper cover, as follows. Price Fifty cents a volume.
=Pickwick Papers.=
=Great Expectations.=
=A Tale of Two Cities.=
=New Years’ Stories.=
=Barnaby Rudge.=
=Old Curiosity Shop.=
=Little Dorrit.=
=David Copperfield.=
=Sketches by “Boz.”=
=Dickens’ New Stories.=
=American Notes.=
=Oliver Twist.=
=Lamplighter’s Story.=
=Dombey and Son.=
=Nicholas Nickleby.=
=Holiday Stories.=
=Martin Chuzzlewit.=
=Bleak House.=
=Dickens’ Short Stories.=
=Message from the Sea.=
=Christmas Stories.=
=Pic-Nic Papers.=
LIBRARY OCTAVO EDITION. IN SEVEN VOLUMES.
This edition is in SEVEN very large octavo volumes, with a Portrait on
steel of Charles Dickens, and bound in the following various styles.
Price of a set, in Black Cloth, in seven volumes, $14.00
„ „ Scarlet cloth, extra, 15.00
„ „ Law Library style, 17.50
„ „ Half calf, sprinkled edges, 20.00
„ „ Half calf, marbled edges, 21.00
„ „ Half calf, antique, 25.00
„ „ Half calf, full gilt backs, etc., 25.00
CHARLES LEVER’S WORKS.
_Fine Edition, bound separately._
=Charles O’Malley=, cloth, $1.50
=Harry Lorrequer=, cloth, 1.50
=Jack Hinton=, cloth, 1.50
=Davenport Dunn=, cloth, 1.50
=Tom Burke of Ours=, cloth, 1.50
=Arthur O’Leary=, cloth, 1.50
=Con Cregan=, cloth, 1.50
=Knight of Gwynne=, cloth, 1.50
=Valentine Vox=, cloth, 1.50
=Ten Thousand a Year=, 1.50
CHARLES LEVER’S NOVELS.
_All neatly done up in paper covers._
=Charles O’Malley=, _Price_ 50
cts.
=Harry Lorrequer=, 50 „
=Horace Templeton=, 50 „
=Tom Burke of Ours=, 50 „
=Jack Hinton, the Guardsman=, 50 „
=Davenport Dunn=, 50 „
=Arthur O’Leary=, 50 „
=The Knight of Gwynne=, 50 „
=Kate O’Donoghue=, 50 „
=Con Cregan, the Irish Gil Blas=, 50 „
=Davenport Dunn=, 50 „
LIBRARY EDITION.
THIS EDITION is complete in FIVE large octavo volumes, containing
Charles O’Malley, Harry Lorrequer, Horace Templeton, Tom Burke of Ours,
Arthur O’Leary, Jack Hinton the Guardsman, The Knight of Gwynne, Kate
O’Donoghue, etc., handsomely printed, and bound in various styles, as
follows:
Price of a set in Black cloth, $7.50
„ „ Scarlet cloth, 8.00
„ „ Law Library sheep, 8.75
„ „ Half Calf, sprinkled edges, 12.00
„ „ Half Calf, marbled edges, 12.50
„ „ Half Calf, antique, 15.00
WILKIE COLLINS’ GREAT WORKS.
=The Dead Secret.= One volume, octavo, paper cover. Price fifty cents;
or bound in one vol., cloth, for 75 cts.; or a fine 12mo. edition, in
two vols., paper cover, in large type, for One Dollar, or in one
vol., cloth, for $1.50.
=The Crossed Path; or, Basil.= Complete in two volumes, paper cover.
Price One Dollar; or bound in one volume, cloth, for $1.50.
=The Stolen Mask.= Price 25 cents.
=Hide and Seek.= One vol., octavo, paper cover. Price fifty cents; or
bound in one vol., cloth, for 75 cents.
=After Dark.= One vol., octavo, paper cover. Price fifty cents; or
bound in one vol., cloth, for 75 cents.
=Sights A-foot=; or Travels Beyond Railways. One volume, octavo, paper
cover. Price 50 cents.
=The Yellow Mask.= Price 25 cts.
=Sister Rose.= Price 25 cents.
COOK BOOKS.
=Petersons’ New Cook Book=; or Useful Receipts for the Housewife and
the Uninitiated. Full of valuable receipts, all original and never
before published, all of which will be found to be very valuable and
of daily use. One vol., bound. Price $1.50.
=Miss Leslie’s New Cookery Book.= Being her last new book. One volume,
bound. Price $1.50.
=Widdifield’s New Cook Book=; or, Practical Receipts for the Housewife.
Cloth. Price $1.25.
=Mrs. Hale’s New Cook Book.= By Mrs. Sarah J. Hale. One volume, bound.
Price $1.25.
=Miss Leslie’s New Receipts for Cooking.= Complete in one volume,
bound. Price $1.25.
MRS. HALE’S RECEIPTS.
=Mrs. Hale’s Receipts for the Million.= Containing 4545 Receipts. By
Mrs. Sarah J. Hale. One vol., 800 pages, strongly bound. Price,
$1.50.
MISS LESLIE’S BEHAVIOUR BOOK.
=Miss Leslie’s Behaviour Book.= A complete Guide and Manual for Ladies.
Price $1.50.
FRANCATELLI’S FRENCH COOK.
=Francatelli’s Celebrated French Cook Book. The Modern Cook.= A
Practical Guide to the Culinary Art, in all its branches; comprising,
in addition to English Cookery, the most approved and recherché
systems of French, Italian, and German Cookery: adapted as well for
the largest establishments, as for the use of private families. By
CHARLES ELME FRANCATELLI, pupil to the celebrated CARRME, and late
Maitre-d’Hotel and Chief Cook to her Majesty, the Queen of England.
With Sixty-Two Illustrations of various dishes. Reprinted from the
last London Edition, carefully revised and considerably enlarged.
Complete in one large octavo volume of Six Hundred pages, strongly
bound, and printed on the finest double super-calendered paper. Price
Three Dollars a copy.
J. A. MAITLAND’S GREAT WORKS.
=The Three Cousins.= By J. A. Maitland. Two vols., paper. Price. $1.00;
or in one vol., cloth, $1.50.
=The Watchman.= Complete in two large vols., paper cover. Price $1.00;
or in one vol., cloth, $1.50.
=The Wanderer.= Complete in two volumes, paper cover. Price $1.00; or
in one vol., cloth, for $1.50.
=The Diary of an Old Doctor.= Two vols., paper cover. Price $1.00; or
bound in cloth for $1.50.
=The Lawyer’s Story.= Two volumes, paper cover. Price $1.00; or bound
in cloth for $1.50.
=Sartaroe. A Tale of Norway.= Two vols., paper cover. Price $1.00; or
in cloth for $1.50.
MRS. DANIELS’ GREAT WORKS.
=Marrying for Money.= One vol., octavo, paper cover Price fifty cents;
or one vol., cloth, 75 cents.
=The Poor Cousin.= Price 50 cents.
=Kate Walsingham.= Price 50 cents.
ALEXANDER DUMAS’ WORKS.
=Count of Monte-Cristo.= By Alexander Dumas. Beautifully illustrated.
One volume, cloth, $1.50; or in two volumes, paper cover, for $1.00.
=The Conscript.= Two vols., paper cover. Price One Dollar; or in one
volume, cloth, for $1.50.
=Camille; or the Fate of a Coquette.= Only correct Translation from the
Original French. Two volumes, paper, price $1.00; cloth, $1.50.
=The Three Guardsmen.= Price 75 cents, in paper cover, or a finer
edition in cloth, for $1.50.
=Twenty Years After.= A Sequel to the “Three Guardsmen.” Price 75
cents, in paper cover, or a finer edition, in one volume, cloth, for
$1.50.
=Bragelonne; the Son of Athos=: being the continuation of “Twenty Years
After.” Price 75 cents, in paper, or a finer edition, in cloth, for
$1.50.
=The Iron Mask.= Being the continuation of the “Three Guardsmen.” Two
vols., paper cover. Price One Dollar; or in one vol., cloth, $1.50.
=Louise La Valliere=; or, The Second Series and end of the “Iron Mask.”
Two volumes, paper cover. Price $1.00, or in one vol., cloth, $1.50.
=The Memoirs of a Physician.= Beautifully Illustrated. Two vols., paper
cover. Price One Dollar; or bound in one volume, cloth, for $1.50.
=The Queen’s Necklace.= A sequel to the “Memoirs of a Physician.” Two
vols., paper cover. Price $1.00; or in one vol., cloth, for $1.50.
=Six Years Later=; or, Taking of the Bastile. A Continuation of “The
Queen’s Necklace.” Two vols., paper cover. Price One Dollar; or in
one vol., cloth, for $1.50.
=Countess of Charny=; or, The Fall of the French Monarchy. Sequel to
Six Years Later. Two vols., paper cover. Price One Dollar; or in one
volume, cloth, for $1.50.
=Andree de Taverney.= A sequel to and continuation of the Countess of
Charny. Two volumes, paper. Price $1.00; or in one vol., cloth, for
$1.50.
=The Chevalier.= A Sequel to, and final end of “Andree De Taverney.”
One vol. Price 75 cents.
=The Adventures of a Marquis.= Two vols., paper cover. Price 1.00; or
in one vol., cloth, for $1.50.
=The Forty-Five Guardsmen.= Price 75 cents, or a finer edition in one
volume, cloth. Price $1.50.
=The Iron Hand.= Price 75 cents, in paper cover, or a finer edition in
one volume, cloth, for $1.50.
=Diana of Meridor.= Two volumes, paper cover. Price One Dollar; or in
one vol., cloth, for $1.50.
=Edmond Dantes.= Being a Sequel to Dumas’ celebrated novel of the
“Count of Monte-Cristo.” Price 50 cts.
=Annette; or, The Lady of the Pearls.= A Companion to “Camille.” Price
50 cents.
=The Fallen Angel.= A Story of Love and Life in Paris. One volume.
Price 50 cents.
=The Man with Five Wives.= Complete in one volume. Price 50 cts.
=George; or, the Planter of the Isle of France.= One volume. Price
Fifty cents.
=Genevieve=; or, The Chevalier of Maison Rouge. One volume.
Illustrated. Price 50 cents.
=The Mohicans of Paris.= 50 cts.
=Sketches in France.= 50 cents.
=Isabel of Bavaria.= Price 50 cts.
=Felina de Chambure=; or, The Female Fiend. Price 50 cents.
=The Horrors of Paris.= 50 cents.
=The Twin Lieutenants.= One vol. Price 50 cts.
=The Corsican Brothers.= 25 cts.
FRANK E. SMEDLEY’S WORKS.
=Harry Coverdale’s Courtship and Marriage.= Two vols., paper. Price
$1.00; or cloth, $1.50.
=Lorrimer Littlegood.= By author of “Frank Fairleigh.” Two vols.,
paper. Price $1.00; or cloth, $1.50.
=Frank Fairleigh.= One volume, cloth. $1.50; or cheap edition in paper
cover, for 75 cents.
=Lewis Arundel.= One vol., cloth. Price $1.50; or cheap edition in
paper cover, for 75 cents.
=Fortunes and Misfortunes of Harry Racket Scapegrace.= Cloth. Price
$1.50; or cheap edition in paper cover, for 50 cents.
=Tom Racquet=; and His Three Maiden Aunts. Illustrated. 50 cents.
MISS BREMER’S NEW WORKS.
=The Father and Daughter.= By Fredrika Bremer. Two vols., paper. Price
$1.00; or cloth, $1.50.
=The Four Sisters.= Two vols., paper cover. Price One Dollar; or in one
volume, cloth, for $1.50.
=The Neighbors.= Two vols., paper cover. Price One Dollar; or in one
volume, cloth, for $1.50.
=The Home.= Two volumes, paper cover. Price One Dollar; or in one
volume, cloth, for $1.50.
=Life in the Old World=; or, Two Years in Switzerland and Italy.
Complete in two large duodecimo volumes, of near 1000 pages. Price
$3.00.
GREEN’S WORKS ON GAMBLING.
=Gambling Exposed.= By J. H. Green, the Reformed Gambler. Two vols.,
paper cover. Price $1.00; or in one volume, cloth, gilt, for $1.50.
=The Gambler’s Life.= Two vols., paper cover. Price One Dollar; or in
one vol., cloth, gilt, for $1.50.
=The Secret Band of Brothers.= Two volumes, paper cover. Price One
Dollar; or bound in one volume, cloth, for $1.50.
=The Reformed Gambler.= Two vols., paper. Price One Dollar; or in one
vol., cloth, for $1.50.
MRS. GREY’S NEW BOOKS.
=Little Beauty.= Two vols., paper cover. Price One Dollar; or in one
volume; cloth, for $1.50.
=Cousin Harry.= Two vols., paper cover. Price One Dollar; or in one
volume, cloth, for $1.50.
=The Flirt.= One vol. octavo, paper cover, 50 cents; or in cloth, for
75 cents.
MRS. GREY’S POPULAR NOVELS.
_Price Twenty-Five Cents each._
=Gipsy’s Daughter.=
=Lena Cameron.=
=Belle of the Family.=
=Sybil Lennard.=
=Duke and Cousin.=
=The Little Wife.=
=The Manœuvring Mother.=
=The Young Prima Donna.=
=Alice Seymour.=
=Baronet’s Daughters.=
=Old Dower House.=
=Hyacinthe.=
=Passion & Principle.= 50 cents.
=Mary Seaham.= Price 50 cents.
G. P. R. JAMES’S NEW BOOKS.
=The Cavalier.= An Historical Romance. With a steel portrait of the
author. Two vols., paper cover. Price $1.00; or in one vol., cloth,
for $1.50.
=The Man in Black.= Price 50 cts.
=Arrah Neil.= Price 50 cents.
=Lord Montagu’s Page.= Two volumes, paper cover. Price One Dollar; or
in one vol., cloth, $1.50.
=Mary of Burgundy.= Price 50 cts.
=Eva St. Clair=; and other Tales. Price 25 cents.
MISS ELLEN PICKERING’S WORKS.
_Price Thirty-Eight Cents each._
=Who Shall be Heir?=
=Merchant’s Daughter.=
=The Secret Foe.=
=The Expectant.=
=The Fright.=
=Quiet Husband.=
=Ellen Wareham.=
=Nan Darrel.=
=Prince and Pedlar.=
=The Squire.=
=The Grumbler.= 50 cents.
=Orphan Niece.= 50 cents.
COINS OF THE WORLD.
=Petersons’ Complete Coin Book=, containing Perfect Fac-Similes of all
the various Gold, Silver, and other Metallic Coins, throughout the
World, near Two Thousand in all, being the most complete Coin Book in
the World, with the United States Mint Value of each Coin under it.
Price $1.00.
MISS PARDOE’S WORKS.
=The Jealous Wife.= By Miss Pardoe. Complete in one large octavo
volume. Price Fifty cents.
=The Wife’s Trials.= By Miss Pardoe Complete in one large octavo
volume. Price Fifty cents.
=The Rival Beauties.= By Miss Pardoe. Complete in one large octavo
volume. Price Fifty cents.
=Romance of the Harem.= By Miss Pardoe. Complete in one large octavo
volume. Price Fifty cents.
=Confessions of a Pretty Woman.= By Miss Pardoe. Complete in one large
octavo volume. Price Fifty cents.
=Miss Pardoe’s Complete Works.= _This comprises the whole of the above
Five works, and are bound in cloth, gilt, in one large octavo volume.
Price $2.50._
=The Adopted Heir.= By Miss Pardoe. Two vols., paper. Price $1.00; or
in one vol., cloth, for $1.50.
W. H. MAXWELL’S WORKS.
=Stories of Waterloo.= One of the best books in the English language.
One vol. Price Fifty cents.
=Brian O’Lynn=; or, Luck is Everything. Price 50 cents.
=Wild Sports in West.= 50 cents.
SAMUEL C. WARREN’S BOOKS.
=Ten Thousand a Year.= Complete in two volumes, paper cover. Price One
Dollar; or a finer edition, in one volume, cloth, for $1.50.
=Diary of a Medical Student.= By author of “Ten Thousand a Year.”
Complete in one octavo volume, paper cover. Price 50 cents.
EMERSON BENNETT’S WORKS.
=The Border Rover.= Fine edition bound in cloth, for $1.50; or Railroad
Edition for One Dollar.
=Clara Moreland.= Fine edition bound in cloth, for $1.50; or Railroad
Edition for One Dollar.
=The Forged Will.= Fine edition bound in cloth, for $1.50; or Railroad
Edition for One Dollar.
=Ellen Norbury.= Fine edition bound in cloth, for $1.50; or Railroad
Edition for One Dollar.
=Bride of the Wilderness.= Fine edition bound in cloth, for $1.50; or
Railroad Edition for One Dollar.
=Kate Clarendon.= Fine edition bound in cloth, for $1.50; or Railroad
Edition for One Dollar.
=Viola.= Fine edition, cloth, for $1.50; or Railroad Edition for One
Dollar.
=Heiress of Bellefonte and Walde-Warren.= Price 50 cents.
=Pioneer’s Daughter; and the Unknown Countess.= 50 cents.
DOESTICKS’ BOOKS.
=Doesticks’ Letters.= Complete in two vols., paper cover. Price One
Dollar; or in one vol., cloth $1.50.
=Plu-ri-bus-tah.= Complete in two vols., paper cover. Price One Dollar;
or in one vol., cloth, $1.50.
=The Elephant Club.= Complete in two vols., paper cover. Price $1.00;
or in one vol., cloth, $1.50.
=Witches of New York.= Complete in two vols., paper cover. Price $1.00;
or in one vol., cloth, $1.50.
=Nothing to Say.= Illustrated. Price 50 cents.
DR. HOLLICK’S WORKS.
=Dr. Hollick’s Anatomy and Physiology=; with a large Dissected Plate of
the Human Figure. Price $1.25, bound.
=Dr. Hollick’s Family Physician.= A Pocket-Guide for Everybody.
Complete in one volume, paper cover. Price 25 cents.
SMOLLETT’S AND FIELDING’S GREAT WORKS.
=Peregrine Pickle=; and His Adventures. Two vols., octavo. $1.00.
=Humphrey Clinker.= 50 cents.
=Tom Jones.= Two volumes. $1.00.
=Amelia.= One volume. Fifty cents.
=Joseph Andrews.= Fifty cents.
MILITARY NOVELS.
By Lever, Dumas, and other Authors.
With Illuminated Military Covers, in Colors.
Published and for sale at wholesale, by the single copy, or by the
dozen, hundred, or thousand, at very low rates.
_Their Names are as Follows_:
=Charles O’Malley= _Price_ 50
=Jack Hinton, the Guardsman= 50
=The Knight of Gwynne= 50
=Harry Lorrequer= 50
=Tom Burke of Ours= 50
=Arthur O’Leary= 50
=Con Cregan’s Adventures= 50
=Kate O’Donoghue= 50
=Horace Templeton= 50
=Davenport Dunn= 50
=Following the Drum= 50
=The Conscript=, 2 vols., each 50
=Valentine Vox= 50
=Twin Lieutenants= 50
=Stories of Waterloo= 50
=The Soldier’s Wife= 50
=Guerilla Chief= 50
=The Three Guardsmen= 75
=Twenty Years After= 75
=Bragelonne=, the Son of Athos 75
=Wallace, Hero of Scotland= 75
=Forty-five Guardsmen= 75
=The Quaker Soldier=, Two volumes, each 50
Sutlers in the Army, Booksellers, Pedlars and Canvassers, can sell
thousands of the above works, all of which are published with
Illuminated Military covers in colors, making them the most attractive
and saleable books ever printed.
REYNOLDS’ GREAT WORKS.
=Mysteries of the Court of London.= Complete in one large volume, bound
in cloth for $1.50; or in two volumes, paper cover, price One Dollar.
=Rose Foster=; or, “The Second Series of the Mysteries of the Court of
London.” 1 vol., cloth. $2.00; or in three volumes, paper cover,
price $1.50.
=Caroline of Brunswick=; or, the “Third Series of the Mysteries of the
Court of London.” Complete in one large vol., bound in cloth, for
$1.50; or in two vols., paper cover, for $1.00.
=Venetia Trelawney=; being the “Fourth Series, or final conclusion of
the Mysteries of the Court of London.” Complete in one volume, in
cloth, for $1.50; or in two volumes, paper cover. Price One Dollar.
=Lord Saxondale=; or, The Court of Queen Victoria. Complete in one
large vol., cloth, for $1.50; or in two vols., paper cover, price One
Dollar.
=Count Cristoval.= The “Sequel to Lord Saxondale.” Complete in one
vol., bound in cloth for $1.50; or in two vols., paper cover, price
$1.00.
=The Necromancer.= A Romance of the Times of Henry the Eighth. One
vol., bound in cloth, for $1.50; or in two vols., paper cover, price
$1.00.
=Rosa Lambert=; or, The Memoirs of an Unfortunate Woman. One vol.,
bound in cloth for $1.50; or in two volumes, paper cover, price
$1.00.
=Mary Price=; or The Adventures of a Servant-Maid. Complete in one
vol., bound in cloth, for $1.50; or in two vols., paper cover, price
$1.00.
=Eustace Quentin.= A “Sequel to Mary Price.” Complete in one large
vol., bound in cloth for $1.50; or in two volumes, paper cover, price
$1.00.
=Joseph Wilmot=; or The Memoirs of a Man-Servant. Complete in one vol.,
bound in cloth, for $1.50; or in two volumes, paper cover, price
$1.00.
=The Banker’s Daughter.= A Sequel to “Joseph Wilmot.” Complete in one
vol., cloth, for $1.50; or in two volumes, paper cover, price $1.00.
=Kenneth.= A Romance of the Highlands. Complete in one large volume,
bound in cloth, for $1.50; or in two volumes, paper cover, price
$1.00.
=The Rye-House Plot=; or Ruth, the Conspirator’s Daughter. One vol.,
bound in cloth, for $1.50; or in two vols., paper cover, price One
Dollar.
=Mary Stuart, Queen of Scots.= Complete in one large 8vo. vol 50 cts.
=May Middleton=; or, the History of a Fortune. Price 50 cents.
=The Opera Dancer=; or, The Mysteries of London Life. Complete in one
vol. Price 50 cents.
=The Ruined Gamester=. With Illustrations. Complete in one large octavo
vol. Price Fifty cents.
=Wallace: the Hero of Scotland.= Illustrated with Thirty-eight plates.
Price 75 cents.
=The Child of Waterloo=; or, The Horrors of the Battle Field. Complete
in one vol. Price 50 cents.
=The Countess and the Page.= Complete in one large vol. Price 50 cts.
=Ciprina; or, The Secrets of a Picture Gallery.= Complete in one vol.
Price 50 cents.
=Robert Bruce: the Hero King of Scotland=, with his Portrait. One vol.
Price 50 cents.
=Isabella Vincent=; or, The Two Orphans. One vol., paper cover. 50 cts.
=Vivian Bertram=; or, A Wife’s Honor. A Sequel to “Isabella Vincent.”
One vol. Price 50 cents.
=The Countess of Lascelles.= The Continuation to “Vivian Bertram.” One
vol. Price 50 cents.
=Duke of Marchmont.= Being the Conclusion of “The Countess of
Lascelles.” Price Fifty cents.
=Gipsy Chief.= Beautifully Illustrated. Complete in one large 8vo. vol.
75 cts.
=Pickwick Abroad.= A Companion to the “Pickwick Papers,” by “Boz.” One
vol. Price 50 cents.
=Queen Joanna; or, the Mysteries of the Court of Naples.= Price 50
cents.
=The Loves of the Harem.= 50 cts.
=The Discarded Queen.= One vol. 50 cents.
=Ellen Percy=; or, Memoirs of an Actress. Price 50 cts.
=Massacre of Glencoe.= 50 cents.
=Agnes Evelyn=; or, Beauty and Pleasure. 50 cents.
=The Parricide.= Beautifully Illustrated. 50 cents.
=Life in Paris.= Handsomely Illustrated. 50 cents.
=The Soldier’s Wife.= Illustrated. 50 cents.
=Clifford and the Actress.= 50 cts.
=Edgar Montrose.= One vol. 25 cts.
T. S. ARTHUR’S BEST WORKS.
_Price Twenty-Five Cents each._
=The Lady at Home.=
=Year after Marriage.=
=Cecilia Howard.=
=Orphan Children.=
=Love in High Life.=
=Debtor’s Daughter.=
=Agnes; or, The Possessed.=
=Love in a Cottage.=
=Mary Moreton.=
=The Divorced Wife.=
=The Two Brides.=
=Lucy Sandford.=
=The Banker’s Wife.=
=The Two Merchants.=
=Insubordination.=
=Trial and Triumph.=
=The Iron Rule.=
=Pride and Prudence.=
=Lizzie Glenn; or, The Trials of a Seamstress.= By T. S. Arthur. One
vol., cloth, gilt. Price $1.50, or in two vols., paper cover, for
$1.00.
CHARLES J. PETERSON’S WORKS.
=Kate Aylesford.= A Love Story. Two vols., paper. Price $1.00; or in
one vol., cloth, for $1.50.
=The Old Stone Mansion.= By Charles J. Peterson. Two vols., paper.
Price $1.00; or in cloth, for $1.50.
=Cruising in the Last War.= By Charles J. Peterson. Complete in one
volume. Price 50 cents.
=The Valley Farm=; or, The Autobiography of an Orphan. A Companion to
Jane Eyre. Price 25 cents.
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J. F. SMITH’S WORKS.
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Price $1.50.
=Major Thorpe’s Scenes in Arkansaw=: containing the whole of the
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$1.50.
=Humors of Falconbridge.= Two vols., paper cover. Price One Dollar; or
in one vol., cloth, for $1.50.
=Piney Woods Tavern; or, Sam Slick in Texas.= Cloth, $1.50; or 2 vols.,
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=Yankee Stories.= By Judge Haliburton. Two vols., paper cover. Price
$1.00; or bound in cloth, for $1.50.
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Cloth. Price $1.50.
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CAPTAIN MARRYATT’S WORKS.
_Price Twenty-Five Cents each._
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GEORGE LIPPARD’S WORKS.
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Price 75 cents.
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DOW’S PATENT SERMONS.
☞ Each volume, or series, is complete in itself, and either of the
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=Dow’s Short Patent Sermons. First Series.= By =Dow, Jr.= Containing
128 Sermons. Complete in one vol., bound in cloth, for $1.00; or in
one vol., paper, for 75 cents.
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144 Sermons. Complete in one vol., bound in cloth, for $1.00; or in
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116 Sermons. Complete in one vol., bound in cloth, for $1.00; or in
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ADVENTURES AND TRAVELS.
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in cloth, for One Dollar.
=Life & Adventures of Paul Periwinkle.= Price 50 cents.
=Adventures in Africa.= By Major Cornwallis Harris. This book is a rich
treat. Two vols., paper, $1.00; or in cloth, $1.50.
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MILITARY WORKS.
=The Soldier’s Guide.= A Complete Manual and Drill Book, for the use of
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=Ellsworth’s “Zouave Drill” and Biography.= Price 25 cents in paper, or
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=The Volunteers’ Text Book.= This Work contains the whole of “The
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Price 50 cents in paper, or 75 cents in cloth.
=The United States’ Light Infantry Drill.= Price 25 cents in paper
cover, or forty cents in cloth.
=United States’ Government Infantry and Rifle Tactics=, full of
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☞ GET UP YOUR CLUBS FOR 1864!
NEW AND SPLENDID PREMIUMS!
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THE BEST AND CHEAPEST IN THE WORLD!
This popular Monthly contains more for the money than any Magazine in
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only TWO DOLLARS A YEAR, or a dollar less than magazines of its class.
Every lady ought to take “Peterson.” In the general advance of prices,
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The stories in “Peterson” are conceded to be _the best published
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Augusta, and the author of “The Second Life,” besides all the most
popular female writers of America are regular contributors. In addition
to the usual number of shorter stories, there will be given in 1864,
=Four Original Copy-righted Novelets=, viz:
=THE MAID OF HONOR—a Story of Queen Bess=,
By ANN S. STEPHENS.
=THE LOST ESTATE—a Story of To-Day=
By the author of “The
Second Life.”
=MAUD’S SUMMER AT SARATOGA=,
By FRANK LEE BENEDICT.
=FANNY’S FLIRTATION=,
By ELLA RODMAN.
In its Illustrations also, “Peterson” is unrivaled. The publisher
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COLORED FASHION PLATES IN ADVANCE,
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COLORED PATTERNS IN EMBROIDERY, CROCHET, &C.
The Work-Table Department of this Magazine IS WHOLLY UNRIVALED. Every
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“OUR NEW COOK-BOOK.”
The Original Household Receipts of “Peterson” are quite famous. For 1864
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NEW AND FASHIONABLE MUSIC in every number. Also, Hints on Horticulture,
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☞ All Postmasters constituted Agents; but any person may get up a club.
Specimens sent gratuitously, if written for.
CHEAPEST BOOK HOUSE IN THE WORLD.
To Sutlers! Pedlars! Booksellers! News Agents! etc.
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The cheapest place in the world to buy or send for a stock of all kinds
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Address all orders for any books you may want at all, no matter by whom
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------------------------------------------------------------------------
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES
● Fixed typos; non-standard spelling and dialect retained.
● Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.
● Enclosed bold font in =equals=.
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