University of Virginia Library

18. CHAPTER XVIII.
HENRY BECOMES A GUEST AT THE MANSION BY FORCE OF
CIRCUMSTANCES.

It was natural that the first business which presented itself
to be done after the departure of Mrs. Sanderson, should be
the reinstatement of my social relations with the Bradfords, yet
how it could be effected without an invitation from them I
could not imagine. I knew that they were all at home, and
that Henry and Claire had called upon them. Day after day
passed, however, and I heard nothing from them. The time
began to drag heavily on my idle hands, when, one pleasant
evening, Mr. Bradford made his appearance at The Mansion.
I had determined upon the course to be pursued whenever I
should meet him, and after some common-place conversation,
I said to him, with all my old frankness, that I wished to open
my heart to him.

“I cannot hide from myself the fact,” I said, “that I am in
disgrace with you and your family. Please tell me what I can
do to atone for a past for which I can make no apology. Do
you wish to see me at your house again? Am I to be shut
out from your family, and shut up here in a palace which your
proscription will make a prison? If I cannot have the respect
of those whom I love best, I may as well die.”

The tears filled my eyes, and he could have had no doubt as
to the genuineness of my emotion, though he made no immediate
reply. He looked at me gravely, and hesitated as if he
were puzzled as to the best way to treat me.

At length he said: “Well, Arthur, I am glad you have got
as far as this—that you have discovered that money cannot buy
everything, and that there are things in the world so much more

precious than money, that money itself is good for nothing
without them. It is well, at least, to have learned so much,
but the question with me is: how far will this conviction be permitted
to take practical hold of your life? What are your plans?
What do you propose to do to redeem yourself?”

“I will do anything,” I answered warmly and impulsively.

“That is very indefinite,” he responded, “and if you have
no plans there is no use in our talking further upon the subject.”

“What would you have me do?” I inquired, with a feeling
that he was wronging me.

“Nothing—certainly nothing that is not born of a principle.
If there is no higher purpose in you than that of regaining the
good opinion of your friends and neighbors, you will do nothing.
When you wish to become a man for manhood's sake, your
purpose of life and work will come, and it will be a worthy one.
When your life proceeds from a right principle, you will secure
the respect of everybody, though you will care very little about
it—certainly much less than you care now. My approval will
avail little; you have always had my love and my faith in your
ability to redeem yourself. As for my home it is always open
to you, and there is no event that would make it brighter for
me than to see you making a man's use of your splendid
opportunities.”

We had further talk, but it was not of a character to reassure
me, for I was conscious that I lacked the one thing which he
deemed essential to my improvement. Wealth, with its immunities
and delights, had debauched me, and though I craved the
good opinion of the Bradfords, it was largely because I had
associated Millie with my future. It was my selfishness and
my natural love of approbation that lay at the bottom of it all;
and as soon as I comprehended myself I saw that Mr. Bradford
understood me. He had studied me through and through,
and had ceased to entertain any hope of improvement except
through a change of circumstances.

As I went to the door with him, and looked out into the

night, two dark figures were visible in the middle of the road.
They were standing entirely still when the door was opened,
for the light from the hall revealed them. They immediately
moved on, but the sight of them arrested Mr. Bradford on the
step. When they had passed beyond hearing, he turned to me
and, in a low voice, said: “Look to all your fastenings to-night.
There is a gang of suspicious fellows about town, and
already two or three burglaries have been committed. There
may be no danger, but it is well to be on your guard.”

Though I was naturally nervous and easily excited in my imagination,
I was by no means deficient in physical courage,
and no child in physical prowess. I was not afraid of anything
I could see; but the thought of a night-visitation from ruffians
was quite enough to keep me awake, particularly as I could
not but be aware that The Mansion held much that was valuable
and portable, and that I was practically alone. Mr. Bradford's
caution was quite enough to put all my senses on tension
and destroy my power to sleep. That there were men about
the house in the night I had evidence enough, both while I lay
listening, and, on the next morning, when I went into the garden,
where they had walked across the flower-beds.

I called at the Bradfords' the next day, meeting no one, however,
save Mr. Bradford, and reported what I had heard and
seen. He looked grave, and while we were speaking a neighbor
entered who reported two burglaries which had occurred on
the previous night, one of them at a house beyond The Mansion.

“I shall spend the night in the streets,” said Mr. Bradford
decidedly.

“Who will guard your own house?” I inquired.

“I shall depend upon Aunt Flick's ears and Dennis's hands,”
he replied.

Our little city had greatly changed in ten years. The first
railroad had been built, manufactures had sprung up, business
and population had increased, and the whole social aspect of
the place had been revolutionized. It had entirely outgrown

its unchanged police machinery and appointments, and now,
when there was a call for efficient surveillance, the authorities
were sadly inadequate to the occasion. Under Mr. Bradford's
lead, a volunteer corps of constables was organized and
sworn into office, and a patrol established which promised protection
to the persons and property of the citizens.

The following night was undisturbed. No suspicious men
were encountered in the street; and the second night passed
away in the same peaceable manner. Several of the volunteer
constables, supposing that the danger was past, declined to
watch longer, though Mr. Bradford and a faithful and spirited
few still held on. The burglars were believed by him to be
still in the city, under cover, and waiting either for an opportunity
to get away, or to add to their depredations. I do not think
that Mr. Bradford expected his own house to be attacked, but,
from the location of The Mansion, and Mrs. Sanderson's reputation
for wealth, I know that he thought it more than likely
that I should have a visit from the marauders. During these
two nights of watching, I slept hardly more than on the night
when I discovered the loiterers before the house. It began to be
painful, for I had no solid sleep until after the day had dawned.
The suspense wore upon me, and I dreaded the night as much
as if I had been condemned to pass it alone in a forest. I had
said nothing to Jenks or the cook about the matter, and was
all alone in my consciousness of danger, as I was alone in
the power to meet it. Under these circumstances, I called
upon Henry, and asked as a personal favor that he would come
and pass at least one night with me. He seemed but little inclined
to favor my request, and probably would not have done
so had not a refusal seemed like cowardice. At nine o'clock,
however, he made his appearance, and we went immediately to
bed.

Fortified by a sense of protection and companionship, I
sank at once into a slumber so profound that a dozen men
might have ransacked the house without waking me. Though
Henry went to sleep, as he afterwards told me, at his usual

hour, he slept lightly, for his own fears had been awakened by
the circumstances into which I had brought him. We both
slept until about one o'clock in the morning, when there came
to me in the middle of a dream a crash which was incorporated
into my dream as the discharge of a cannon and the rattle of
musketry, followed by the groans of the dying. I awoke bewildered,
and impulsively threw my hand over to learn whether
Henry was at my side. I found the clothes swept from the
bed as if they had been thrown off in a sudden waking and
flight, and his place empty. I sprang to my feet, conscious at
the same time that a struggle was in progress near me, but in
the dark. I struck a light, and, all unclad as I was, ran into
the hall. As I passed the door, I heard a heavy fall, and
caught a confused glimpse of two figures embracing and rolling
heavily down the broad stairway. In my haste I almost tumbled
over a man lying upon the floor.

“Hold on to him—here's Arthur,” the man shouted, and I
recognized the voice of old Jenks.

“What are you here for, Jenks?” I shouted.

“I'm hurt,” said Jenks, “but don't mind me. Hold on to
him! hold on to him!”

Passing Jenks, I rushed down the staircase, and found
Henry kneeling upon the prostrate figure of a ruffian, and
holding his hands with a grip of iron. My light had already
been seen in the street; and I heard shouts without, and a
hurried tramping of men. I set my candle down, and was at
Henry's side in an instant, asking him what to do.

“Open the door, and call for help,” he answered between
his teeth. “I am faint and cannot hold on much longer.”

I sprang to the door, and while I was pushing back the bolt
was startled by a rap upon the outside, and a call which I
recognized at once as that of Mr. Bradford. Throwing the
door open, he, with two others, leaped in, and comprehended
the situation of affairs. Closing it behind him, Mr. Bradford
told Henry to let the fellow rise. Henry did not stir. The
ruffian lay helplessly rolling up his eyes, while Henry's head

dropped upon his prisoner's breast. The brave fellow was
badly hurt, and had fainted. Mr. Bradford stooped and lifted
his helpless form, as if he had been a child, and bore him up
stairs, while his companions pinioned his antagonist, and
dragged him out of the door, where his associate stood under
guard. The latter had been arrested while running away, on
the approach of Mr. Bradford and his posse.

Depositing his burden upon a bed, Mr. Bradford found
another candle and came down to light it. Giving hurried
directions to his men as to the disposition of the arrested
burglars, he told one of them to bring Aunt Flick at once from
his house, and another to summon a surgeon. In five minutes
the house would have been silent save for the groanings of
poor old Jenks, who still lay where he fell, and the screams of
the cook, who had, at last, been wakened by the din and commotion.

As soon as Henry began to show signs of recovery from his
fainting fit we turned our attention to Jenks, who lay patiently
upon the floor, disabled partly by his fall, and partly by his
rheumatism. Lifting him carefully, we carried him to his bed,
and he was left in my care while Mr. Bradford went back to
Henry.

Old Jenks, who had had a genuine encounter with ruffians
in the dark, seemed to be compensated for all his hurts and
dangers by having a marvelous story to tell and this he told
to me in detail. He had been wakened in the night by a noise.
It seemed to him that somebody was trying to get into the house.
He lay until he felt his bed jarred by some one walking in the
room below. Then he heard a little cup rattle on his table—
a little cup with a teaspoon in it. Satisfied that there was
some one in the house who did not belong in it, he rose, and
undertook to make his way to my room for the purpose of giving
me the information. He was obliged to reach me through
a passage that led from the back part of the house. This he
undertook to do in the stealthy and silent fashion of which he
was an accomplished master, and had reached the staircase

that led from the grand hall, when he encountered the intruder
who, taking him at once for an antagonist, knocked him down.
The noise of this encounter woke Henry, who sprang from his
bed, and, in a fierce grapple with the rascal, threw him and
rolled with him to the bottom of the staircase.

I could not learn that the old man had any bones broken, or
that he had suffered much except by the shock upon his nervous
system and the cruel jar he had received in his rheumatic joints.
After a while, having administered a cordial, I left him with the
assurance that I should be up for the remainder of the night
and that he could sleep in perfect safety. Returning to my
room I found Aunt Flick already arrived, and busy with service
at Henry's side. The surgeon came soon afterwards, and
having made a careful examination, declared that Henry had
suffered a bad fracture of the thigh, and that he must on no account
be moved from the house.

At this announcement, Mr. Bradford, Henry and I looked at
one another with a pained and puzzled expression. We said
nothing, but the same thought was running through our minds.
Mrs. Sanderson must know of it, and how would she receive
and treat it? She had a strong prejudice against Henry, of
which we were all aware. Would she blame me for the invitation
that had brought him there? would she treat him well, and
make him comfortable while there?

“I know what you are thinking of,” said Aunt Flick sharply,
“and if the old lady makes a fuss about it I shall give her a
piece of my mind.”

“Let it be small,” said Henry, smiling through his pain.

The adjustment of the fracture was a painful and tedious
process, which the dear fellow bore with the fortitude that was
his characteristic. It was hard for me to think that he had
passed through his great danger and was suffering this pain for
me, though to tell the truth, I half envied him the good fortune
that had demonstrated his prowess and had made him for the
time the hero of the town. These unworthy thoughts I thrust
from my mind, and determined on thorough devotion to the

companion who had risked so much for me, and who had possibly
been the means of saving my life.

It seemed, in the occupation and absorption of the occasion,
but an hour after my waking, before the day began to dawn;
and leaving Aunt Flick with Henry, Mr. Bradford and I retired
for consultation.

It was decided at once that Mrs. Sanderson would be offended
should we withhold from her, for any reason, the news
of what had happened in her house. The question was whether
she should be informed of it by letter, or whether Mr. Bradford
or I should go to her on the morning boat, and tell her the
whole story, insisting that she should remain where she was until
Henry could be moved. Mr. Bradford had reasons of his
own for believing that it was best that she should get her intelligence
from me, and it was decided that while he remained in
or near the house, I should be the messenger to my aunt, and
ascertain her plans and wishes.

Accordingly, bidding Henry a hasty good-morning, and declining
a breakfast for which I had no appetite, I walked down
to the steamer, and paced her decks during all her brief passage,
in the endeavor to dissipate the excitement of which I
had not been conscious until after my departure from the house.
I found my aunt and Mrs. Belden enjoying the morning breeze
on the shady piazza of their hotel. Mrs. Sanderson rose with
excitement as I approached her, while her companion became
as pale as death. Both saw something in my face that betokened
trouble, and neither seemed able to do more than to utter
an exclamation of surprise. Several guests of the house being
near us, I offered my arm to Mrs. Sanderson, and said:

“Let us go to your parlor: I have something to tell you.”

We went up-stairs, Mrs. Belden following us. When we
reached the door, the latter said: “Shall I come in too?”

“Certainly,” I responded. “You will learn all I have to
tell, and you may as well learn it from me.”

We sat down and looked at one another. Then I said:
“We have had a burglary.”

Both ladies uttered an exclamation of terror.

“What was carried away?” said Mrs. Sanderson sharply.

“The burglars themselves,” I answered.

“And nothing lost?”

“Nothing.”

“And no one hurt?”

“I cannot say that,” I answered. “That is the saddest part
of it. Old Jenks was knocked down, and the man who saved
the house came out of his struggle with a badly broken limb.”

“Who was he? How came he in the house?”

“Henry Hulm; I invited him. I was worn out with three
nights of watching.”

Mrs. Sanderson sat like one struck dumb, while Mrs. Belden,
growing paler, fell in a swoon upon the floor. I lifted her
to a sofa, and calling a servant to care for her, after she began
to show signs of returning consciousness, took my aunt into
her bed-room, closed the door, and told her the whole story in
detail. I cannot say that I was surprised by the result. She
always had the readiest way of submitting to the inevitable of
any person I ever saw. She knew at once that it was best for
her to go home, to take charge of her own house, to superintend
the recovery of Henry, and to treat him so well that no
burden of obligation should rest upon her. She knew at once
that any coldness or lack of attention on her part would be
condemned by all her neighbors. She knew that she must put
out of sight all her prejudice against the young man, and so
load him with attentions and benefactions that he could never
again look upon her with indifference, or treat her with even
constructive discourtesy.

While we sat talking, Mrs. Belden rapped at the door, and
entered.

“I am sure we had better go home,” she said, tremblingly.

“That is already determined,” responded my aunt.

With my assistance, the trunks were packed long before the
boat returned, the bills at the hotel were settled, and the ladies
were ready for the little journey.

I had never seen Mrs. Belden so thoroughly deposed from
her self-possession as she seemed all the way home. Her agitation,
which had the air of impatience, increased as we came
in sight of Bradford, and when we arrived at the door of The
Mansion, and alighted, she could hardly stand, but staggered
up the walk like one thoroughly ill. I was equally distressed
and perplexed by the impression which the news had made
upon her, for she had always been a marvel of equanimity and
self-control.

We met the surgeon and Mr. Bradford at the door. They
had good news to tell of Henry, who had passed a quiet day;
but poor old Jenks had shown signs of feverish reaction, and
had been anxiously inquiring when I should return. Aunt
Flick was busy in Henry's room. My aunt mounted at once
to the young man's chamber with the surgeon and myself.

Aunt Flick paused in her work as we entered, made a distant
bow to Mrs. Sanderson, and waited to see what turn affairs
would take, while she held in reserve that “piece of her mind”
which contingently she had determined to hurl at the little mistress
of the establishment.

It was with a feeling of triumph over both Henry and his
spirited guardian, that I witnessed Mrs. Sanderson's meeting
with my friend. She sat down by his bedside, and took his
pale hand in both her own little hands, saying almost tenderly:
“I have heard all the story, so that there is nothing to say,
except for me to thank you for protecting my house, and to
assure you that while you remain here you will be a thousand
times welcome, and have every service and attention you need.
Give yourself no anxiety about anything, but get well as soon
as you can. There are three of us who have nothing in the
world to do but to attend you and help you.”

A tear stole down Henry's cheek as she said this, and she
reached over with her dainty handkerchief, and wiped it away
as tenderly as if he had been a child.

I looked at Aunt Flick, and found her face curiously puckered
in the attempt to keep back the tears. Then my aunt

addressed her, thanking her for her service, and telling her that
she could go home and rest, as the family would be quite sufficient
for the nursing of the invalid. The woman could not
say a word. She was prepared for any emergency but this,
and so, bidding Henry good-night, she retired from the room
and the house.

When supper was announced, Mrs. Sanderson and I went
down stairs. We met Mrs. Belden at the foot, who declared
that she was not in a condition to eat anything, and would go
up and sit with Henry. We tried to dissuade her, but she was
decided, and my aunt and I passed on into the dining-room.
Remembering when I arrived there that I had not seen Jenks,
I excused myself for a moment, and as silently as possible
remounted the stairs. As I passed Henry's door, I impulsively
pushed it open. It made no noise, and there, before me,
Mrs. Belden knelt at Henry's bed, with her arms around his
neck and her cheek lying against his own. I pulled back the
door as noiselessly as I had opened it, and half stunned by
what I had seen, passed on through the passage that led to the
room of the old servant. The poor man looked haggard and
wretched, while his eyes shone strangely above cheeks that
burned with the flush of fever. I had been so astonished by
what I had seen that I could hardly give rational replies to his
inquiries.

“I doubt if I weather it, Mr. Arthur; what do you think?”
said he, fairly looking me through to get at my opinion.

“I hope you will be all right in a few days,” I responded.
“Don't give yourself any care. I'll see that you are attended
to.”

“Thank you. Give us your hand.”

I pressed his hand, attended to some trifling service that he
required of me, and went down stairs with a sickening misgiving
concerning my old friend. He was shattered and worn,
and, though I was but little conversant with disease, there was
something in his appearance that alarmed me, and made me
feel that he had reached his death-bed.

With the memory of the scene which I had witnessed in
Henry's room fresh in my mind, with all its strange suggestions,
and with the wild, inquiring look of Jenks still before me,
I had little disposition to make conversation. Yet I looked
up occasionally at my aunt's face, to give her the privilege
of speaking, if she were disposed to talk. She, however, was
quite as much absorbed as myself. She did not look sad.
There played around her mouth a quiet smile, while her eyes
shone with determination and enterprise. Was it possible that
she was thinking that she had Henry just where she wanted
him? Was she glad that she had in her house and hands another
spirit to mould and conquer? Was she delighted that
something had come for her to do, and thus to add variety to
a life which had become tame with routine? I do not know,
but it seemed as if this were the case.

At the close of the meal, I told her of the impression I had
received from Jenks's appearance, and begged her to go to his
room with me, but she declined. There was one presence into
which this brave woman did not wish to pass—the presence
of death. Like many another strongly vitalized nature hers
revolted at dissolution. She could rise to the opposition of
anything that she could meet and master, but the dread
power which she knew would in a few short years, at most,
unlock the clasp by which she held to life and her possessions
filled her with horror. She would do anything for her old
servant at a distance, but she could not, and would not, witness
the process through which she knew her own frame and
spirit must pass in the transition to her final rest.

That night I spent mainly with Jenks, while Mrs. Belden
attended Henry. This was according to her own wish; and
Mrs. Sanderson was sent to bed at her usual hour. Whenever
I was wanted for anything in Henry's room, Mrs. Belden
called me; and, as Jenks needed frequent attention, I got very
little sleep during the night.

Mrs. Sanderson was alarmed by my haggard looks in the
morning, and immediately sent for a professional nurse to attend

her servant, and declared that my watching must be
stopped.

Tired with staying in-doors, and wishing for a while to separate
myself from the scenes that had so absorbed me, and the
events that had broken so violently in upon my life, I took a
long stroll in the fields and woods. Sitting down at length in the
shade, with birds singing above my head and insects humming
around me, I passed these events rapidly in review, and there
came to me the conviction that Providence had begun to deal
with me in earnest. Since the day of my entrance upon my new
life at The Mansion, I had met with no trials that I had not
consciously brought upon myself. Hardship I had not known.
Sickness and death I had not seen. In the deep sorrows of the
world, in its struggles and pains and self-denials, I had had no part.
Now, change had come, and further change seemed imminent.
How should I meet it? What would be its effect upon me?
For the present my selfish plans and pleasures must be laid
aside, and my life be devoted to others. The strong hand of
necessity was upon me, and there sprang up within me, responsive
to its touch, a manly determination to do my whole duty.

Then the strange scene I had witnessed in Henry's room came
back to me. What relations could exist between this pair, so
widely separated by age, that warranted the intimacy I had
witnessed? Was this woman who had seemed to me so nearly
perfect a base woman? Had she woven her toils about Henry?
Was he a hypocrite? Every event of a suspicious nature
which had occurred was passed rapidly in review. I remembered
his presence at the wharf when she first debarked in the
city, his strange appearance when he met her at the Bradfords
for the first time, the letter I had carried to him written
by her hand, the terrible effect upon her of the news of his
struggle and injury, and many other incidents which I have not
recorded. There was some sympathy between them which I
did not understand, and which filled me with a strange misgiving,
both on account of my sister and myself; yet I knew that
she and Claire were the closest friends, and I had never received

from her anything but the friendliest treatment. Since
she had returned, she had clung to his room and his side as if
he were her special charge, by duty and by right. One thing
I was sure of: she would never have treated me in the way
she had treated him.

Then there came to me, with a multitude of thoughts and
events connected with my past history, Mrs. Sanderson's singular
actions regarding the picture that had formed with me
the subject of so many speculations and surmises. Who was
the boy? What connection had he with her life and history?
Was she tired of me? Was she repentant for some great injustice
rendered to one she had loved? Was she sorrowing
over some buried hope? Did I stand in the way of the realization
of some desire which, in her rapidly declining years,
had sprung to life within her?

I do not know why it was, but there came to me the consciousness
that events were before me—ready to disclose
themselves—shut from me by a thin veil—which would change
the current of my life; and the purpose I had already formed
of seeking an interview with Mr. Bradford and asking him the
questions I had long desired to ask, was confirmed. I would
do it at once. I would learn my aunt's history, and know the
ground on which I stood. I would pierce the mysteries that
had puzzled me and were still gathering around me, and front
whatever menace they might bear.