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.