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.