Chapter IV: 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.