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.