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.