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.