Chapter 2

White in the performance of his
duties, and in case you need it, will be the one to render you
assistance to-night. A line to Mr. White, if you doubt me----"

A wave of his meagre hand stopped me. "Do you think you could keep out
of my house to-night, any one I did not wish to enter?" he asked.

"I should at least like to try."

"A ticket is given to every invited guest; but if men are going to climb
the fences, tickets will amount to but little."

"I will see that the fences are guarded," cried I, gratified at the
prospect of being allowed upon the scene of action. "I can hinder any
one from coming in that way, if----" Here I paused, conscious of
something, I could hardly say what, that bade me be cautious and weigh
my words well. "If you desire it and will give me the authority to act
for you," I added in a somewhat more indifferent tone.

"I do desire it," he replied shortly, moving over to the table and
taking up a card. "Here is a ticket that will insure you entrance into
the grounds; the rest you will manage without scandal. I do not want any
disturbance, but if you see any one hanging about the house or peering
into the windows or attempting to enter in any way except through the
front door, you are to arrest them, no matter who they are. I have an
especial reason for desiring my wishes attended to in this regard," he
went on, not noticing the preoccupation that had seized me, "and will
pay well if on the morrow I find that every thing has gone off according
to my desires."

"Money is a powerful incentive to duty," I rejoined, with marked
emphasis, directing a sly glance at the mirror opposite, in whose depths
I had but a moment before been startled by the sudden apparition of the
pale and strongly agitated face of young Mr. Benson, who was peering
from a door-way half hidden by a screen at our back. "I will be on hand
to-night." And with what I meant to be a cynical look, I made my bow and
disappeared from the room.

As I expected, I was met at the front door by Mr. Hartley. "A word with
you," said he. "Jonas tells me you are from the constable of the town.
May I ask what has gone amiss that you come here to disturb my father on
a day like this?"

His tone was not unkind, his expression not without suavity. If I had
not had imprinted on my memory the startling picture of his face as I
had seen it an instant before in the mirror, I should have been tempted
to believe in his goodness and integrity at this moment. As it was, I
doubted him through and through, yet replied with frankness and showed
him the ticket I had received from his father.

"And you are going to make it your business to guard the grounds
to-night?" he asked, gloomily glancing at the card in my hand as if he
would like to annihilate it.

"Yes," said I.

He drew me into a small room half filled with plants.

"Now," said he, "see here. Such a piece of interference is entirely
uncalled for, and you have been alarming my father unnecessarily. There
are no rowdies in this town, and if one or two of the villagers should
get into the grounds, where is the harm? They cannot get into the house
even if they wanted to, which they don't. I do not wish this, our first
show of hospitality, to assume a hostile aspect, and whatever my
father's expectations may be, I must request you to curtail your duties
as much as possible and limit them to responding by your presence when
called upon."

"But your father has a right to expect the fullest obedience to his
wishes," I protested. "He would not be satisfied if I should do no more
than you request, and I cannot afford to disappoint him."

He looked at me with a calculating eye, and I expected to see him put
his hand in his pocket; but Hartley Benson played his cards better than
that. "Very well," said he, "if you persist in regarding my father's
wishes as paramount, I have nothing to say. Fulfil your duties as you
conceive them, but don't look for my support if any foolish misadventure
makes you ashamed of yourself." And drawing back, he motioned me out of
the room.

I felt I had received a check, and hurried out of the house. But
scarcely had I entered upon the walk that led down to the gate, when I
heard a light step behind me. Turning, I encountered the pretty daughter
of the house, the youthful Miss Carrie.

"Wait," she cried, allowing herself to display her emotion freely in
face and bearing. "I have heard who you are from my brother," she
continued, approaching me with a soft grace that at once put me upon my
guard. "Now, tell me who are the rowdies that threaten to invade our
grounds?"

"I do not know their names, miss," I responded; "but they are a
rough-looking set you would not like to see among your guests."

"There are no very rough-looking men in our village," she declared; "you
must be mistaken in regard to them. My father is nervous and easily
alarmed. It was wrong to arouse his fears."

I thought of that steady eye of his, of force sufficient to hold in awe
a regiment of insurgents, and smiled at her opinion of my understanding.

"Then you do not wish the grounds guarded," I said, in as indifferent a
tone as I could assume.

"I do not consider it necessary."

"But I have already pledged myself to fulfil your father's commands."

"I know," she said, drawing a step nearer, with a most enchanting smile.
"And that was right under the circumstances; but we, his children, who
may be presumed to know more of social matters than a recluse,--I,
especially," she added, with a certain emphasis, "tell you it is not
necessary. We fear the scandal it may cause; besides, some of the guests
may choose to linger about the grounds under the trees, and would be
rather startled at being arrested as intruders."

"What, then, do you wish me to do?" I asked, leaning toward her, with an
appearance of yielding.

"To accept this money," she murmured, blushing, "and confine yourself
to-night to remaining in the background unless called upon."

This was a seconding of her brother's proposition with a vengeance.
Taking the purse she handed me, I weighed it for a moment in my hand,
and then slowly shook my head. "Impossible," I cried; "but"--and I fixed
my eyes intently upon her countenance--"if there is any one in
particular whom you desire me to ignore, I am ready to listen to a
description of his person. It has always been my pleasure to accommodate
myself as much as possible to the whims of the ladies."

It was a bold stroke that might have cost me the game. Indeed, I half
expected she would raise her voice and order some of the men about her
to eject me from the grounds. But instead of that she remained for a
moment blushing painfully, but surveying me with an unfaltering gaze
that reminded me of her father's.

"There _is_ a person," said she, in a low, restrained voice, "whom I am
especially anxious should remain unmolested, whatever he may or may not
be seen to do. He is a guest," she went on, a sudden pallor taking the
place of her blushes, "and has a right to be here; but I doubt if he at
once enters the house, and I even suspect he may choose to loiter awhile
in the grounds before attempting to join the company. I ask you to allow
him to do so."

I bowed with an appearance of great respect. "Describe him," said I.

For a moment she faltered, with a distressed look I found it difficult
to understand. Then, with a sudden glance over my person, exclaimed:
"Look in the glass when you get home and you will see the _fac-simile_
of his form, though not of his face. He is fair, whereas you are dark."
And with a haughty lift of her head calculated to rob me of any
satisfaction I might have taken in her words, she stepped slowly back.

I stopped her with a gesture. "Miss," said I, "take your purse before
you go. Payment of any service I may render your father will come in
time. This affair is between you and me, and I hope I am too much of a
gentleman to accept money for accommodating a lady in so small a matter
as this."

But she shook her head. "Take it," said she, "and assure me that I may
rely on you."

"You may rely on me without the money," I replied, forcing the purse
back into her hand.

"Then I shall rest easy," she returned, and retreated with a lightsome
air toward the house.

The next moment I was on the highway with my thoughts. What did it all
mean? Was it, then, a mere love affair across which I had foolishly
stumbled, and was I busying myself unnecessarily about a rendezvous that
might mean no more than an elopement from under a severe father's eye?
Taking out the note which had led to all these efforts on my part, I
read it for the third time.

"All goes well. The time has come; every thing is in train, and
success is certain. Be in the shrubbery at the northeast corner
of the grounds at 9 P.M. precisely; you will be given a mask
and such other means as are necessary to insure you the
accomplishment of the end you have in view. He cannot hold out
against a surprise. The word by which you will know your
friends is
COUNTERFEIT."

A love-letter of course; and I had been a fool to suppose it any thing
else. The young people are to surprise the old gentleman in the presence
of their friends. They have been secretly married perhaps, who knows,
and take this method of obtaining a public reconciliation. But that word
"_Counterfeit_," and the sinister tone of Hartley Benson as he said: "It
shall not fail through lack of effort on my part!" Such a word and such
a tone did not rightly tally with this theory. Few brothers take such
interest in their sister's love affairs as to grow saturnine over them.
There was, beneath all this, something which I had not yet penetrated.
Meantime my duty led me to remain true to the one person of whose
integrity of purpose I was most thoroughly convinced.

Returning to the village, I hunted up Mr. White and acquainted him with
what I had undertaken in his name; and then perceiving that the time was
fast speeding by, strolled over to the tavern for my supper.

The stranger was still there, walking up and down the sitting-room. He
joined us at the table, but I observed he scarcely tasted his food, and
both then and afterward manifested the same anxious suspense that had
characterized his movements from the time of our first encounter.

II.

THE BLACK DOMINO.

At half past eight I was at my post. The mysterious stranger, still
under my direct surveillance, had already entered the grounds and taken
his stand in the southwest corner of the shrubbery, thereby leaving me
free to exercise my zeal in keeping the fences and gates free of
intruders. At nine the guests were nearly if not all assembled; and
promptly at the hour mentioned in the note so often referred to, I stole
away from my post and hid myself amid the bushes that obscured the real
place of rendezvous.

It was a retired spot, eminently fitted for a secret meeting. The lamps,
which had been hung in profusion through the grounds, had been
studiously excluded from this quarter. Even the broad blaze of light
that poured from the open doors and windows of the brilliantly
illuminated mansion, sent no glimmer through the broad belt of
evergreens that separated this retreat from the open lawn beyond. All
was dark, all was mysterious, all was favorable to the daring plan I had
undertaken. In silence I awaited the sound of approaching steps.

My suspense was of short duration. In a few moments I heard a low rustle
in the bushes near me, then a form appeared before my eyes, and a man's
voice whispered:

"Is there any one here?"

My reply was to glide quietly into view.

Instantly he spoke again, this time with more assurance.

"Are you ready for a counterfeit?"

"I am ready for any thing," I returned, in smothered tones, hoping by
thus disguising my voice, to lure him into a revelation of the true
purpose of this mysterious rendezvous.

But instead of the explanations I expected, the person before me made a
quick movement, and I felt a domino thrown over my shoulders.

"Draw it about you well," he murmured; "there are lynx eyes in the crowd
to-night." And while I mechanically obeyed, he bent down to my ear and
earnestly continued: "Now listen, and be guided by my instructions. You
will not be able to enter by the front door, as it is guarded, and you
cannot pass without removing your mask. But the window on the left-hand
balcony is at your service. It is open, and the man appointed to keep
intruders away, has been bribed to let you pass. Once inside the house,
join the company _sans céremonie_; and do not hesitate to converse with
any one who addresses you by the countersign. Promptly at ten o'clock
look around you for a domino in plain black. When you see him move,
follow him, but with discretion, so that you may not seem to others to
be following. Sooner or later he will pause and point to a closed door.
Notice that door, and when your guide has disappeared, approach and
enter it without fear or hesitation. You will find yourself in a small
apartment connecting with the library.

"There is but one thing more to say. If the wineglass you will observe
on the library table smells of wine, you may know your father has had
his nightly potion and gone to bed. But if it contains nothing more than
a small white powder, you may be certain he has yet to return to the
library, and that by waiting, you will have the long-wished-for
opportunity of seeing him."

And pausing for no reply, my strange companion suddenly thrust a mask
into my hand and darted from the circle of trees that surrounded us.

For a moment I stood dumbfounded at the position in which my
recklessness had placed me. All the folly, the impertinence even, of the
proceeding upon which I had entered, was revealed to me in its true
colors, and I mentally inquired what could have induced me to thus
hamper myself with the details of a mystery so entirely removed from the
serious matter I had in charge. Resolved to abandon the affair, I made a
hasty attempt to disengage myself from the domino in which I had been so
unceremoniously enveloped. But invisible hands seemed to restrain me. A
vivid remembrance of the tone in which these final instructions had been
uttered returned to my mind, and while I recognized the voice as that of
Hartley Benson, I also recognized the almost saturnine intensity of
expression which had once before imbued his words with a significance
both forcible and surprising. The secret, if a purely family one, was of
no ordinary nature; and at the thought I felt my old interest revive.
All the excuses with which I had hitherto silenced my conscience
recurred to me with fresh force, and mechanically donning my mask, I
prepared to follow out my guide's instructions to the last detail.

The window to which I had been directed stood wide open. Through it came
the murmur of music and the hum of gay voices. Visions of a motley crowd
decked in grotesque costumes passed constantly before my eyes. Sight and
sound combined to allure me. Hurrying to the window, I stepped
carelessly in.

A low guttural "Hugh!" at once greeted me. It was from a mask in full
Indian costume, whom I saw leaning with a warrior's well-known dignity
against the embrasure of the window by which I had entered. Giving him a
scrutinizing glance, I came to the conclusion he was a young and not
inelegant man; and impelled by a reasonable curiosity as to how I looked
myself, I cast my eyes down upon my own person. I found my appearance
sufficiently striking. The domino, in which I was wrapped was of a
brilliant yellow hue, covered here and there with black figures
representing all sorts of fantastic creatures, from hobgoblins of a
terrible type, to merry Kate Greenaway silhouettes. "Humph!" thought I,
"it seems I am not destined to glide unnoticed amid the crowd."

The first person who approached me was a gay little shepherdess.

"Ah, ha!" was the sportive exclamation with which she greeted me. "Here
is one of my wandering sheep!" And with a laugh, she endeavored to hook
me to her side by means of her silver crook.

But this blithesome puppet possessed no interest for me. So with a growl
and a bound I assured her I was nothing more than a wolf in sheep's
clothing, and would eat her up if she did not run away; at which she
gayly laughed and vanished, and for a moment I was left alone. But only
for a moment. A masked lady, whom I had previously observed standing
upright and solitary in a distant corner of the room, now approached,
and taking me by the arm, led me eagerly to one side.

"Oh, Joe!" she whispered, "is it you? How glad I am to have you here,
and how I hope we are going to be happy at last!"

Fearing to address a person seemingly so well acquainted with the young
man whose place I had usurped, I merely pressed, with most perfidious
duplicity, the little hand that was so confidingly clasped in mine. It
seemed to satisfy her, for she launched at once into ardent speech.

"Oh, Joe, I have been so anxious to have you with us once again! Hartley
is a good brother, but he is not my old playmate. Then father will be so
much happier if you only succeed in making him forget the past."

Seeing by this that it was Miss Carrie Benson with whom I had to deal, I
pressed the little hand again, and tenderly drew her closer to my side.
That I felt all the time like a villain of the blackest dye, it is quite
unnecessary for me to state.

"Has Hartley told you just what you are to do?" was her next remark.
"Father is very determined not to relent and has kept himself locked in
his library all day, for fear you should force yourself upon his
presence. I could never have gained his consent to give this ball if I
had not first persuaded him it would serve as a means to keep you at a
distance; that if you saw the house thronged with guests, natural
modesty would restrain you from pushing yourself forward. I think he
begins to distrust his own firmness. He fears he will melt at the sight
of you. He has been failing this last year and--" A sudden choke stopped
her voice.

I was at once both touched and alarmed; touched at the grief which
showed her motives to be pure and good, and alarmed at the position in
which I had thrust myself to the apparent detriment of these same
laudable motives. Moved by a desire to right matters, I ventured to
speak:

"And do you think," I whispered, in purposely smothered accents, "that
if he sees me he will relent?"

"I am sure of it. He yearns over you, Joe; and if he had not sworn never
to speak to you again, he would have sent for you long ago. Hartley
believes as well as I that the time for reconciliation has come."

"And is Hartley," I ventured again, not without a secret fear of the
consequences, "really anxious for reconciliation?"

"Oh, Joe! can you doubt it? Has he not striven from the first to make
father forget? Would he encourage you to come here to-night, furnish you
with a disguise, and consent to act both as your champion and adviser,
if he did not want to see you and father friends again? You don't
understand Hartley; you never have. You would not have repelled his
advances so long, if you had realized how truly he had forgiven every
thing and forgotten it. Hartley has the pride of a person who has never
done wrong himself. But even pride gives way before brotherly affection;
and you have suffered so much and so long, poor Joe!"

"So, so," thought I, "Joe is then the aggressor!" And for a moment, I
longed to be the man I represented, if only to clasp this dear little
sister in my arms and thank her for her goodness. "You are a darling," I
faintly articulated, inwardly determined to rush forthwith into the
garden, hand over my domino to the person for whom it was intended, and
make my escape from a scene which I had so little right to enjoy. But
at this instant an interruption occurred which robbed me of my
companion, but kept me effectually in my place. A black domino swept by
us, dragging Miss Benson from my side, while at the same time a harsh
voice whispered in my ear:

"To counterfeit wrong when one is right, necessarily opens one to
misunderstanding."

I started, recognizing in this mode of speech a _friend_, and therefore
one from whom I could not escape without running the risk of awakening
suspicion.

"That is true," I returned, hoping by my abrupt replies to cut short
this fresh colloquy and win a speedy release.

But something in my answer roused the interest of the person at my side,
and caused a display of emotion that led to quite an opposite result
from what I desired.

"You awaken a thousand conjectures in my mind by that reply," exclaimed
my friend, edging me a little farther back from the crowd. "I have
always had my doubts about--about--" he paused, hunting for the proper
phrase--"about your having done what they said," he somewhat lamely
concluded. "It was so unlike you. But now I begin to see the presence of
a possibility that might perhaps explain much we never understood. Joe,
my boy, you never said you were innocent, but----"

"Who are you?" I asked boldly, peering into the twinkling eyes that
shone upon me from his sedate mask. "In the discussion of such matters
as these, it would be dreadful to make a mistake."

"And don't you recognize your Uncle Joe?" he asked, with a certain
plaintive reproach somewhat out of keeping with his costume of "potent,
grave, and reverend signior." "I came over from Hollowell on purpose,
because Carrie intimated that you were going to make one final effort to
see your father. Edith is here too," he murmured, thrusting his face
alarmingly near mine. "She would not stay away, though we were all
afraid she might betray herself; her emotions are so quick. Poor child!
_she_ never doubted you; and if my suspicions are correct----"

"Edith?" I interrupted,--"Edith?" An Edith was the last person I
desired to meet under these circumstances. "Where is she?" I tremulously
inquired, starting aside in some dismay at the prospect of encountering
this unknown quantity of love and devotion.

But my companion, seizing me by the arm, drew me back. "She is not far
away; of that you may be sure. But it will never do for you to try and
hunt her up. You would not know her in her mask. Besides, if you remain
still she will come to you."

That was just what I feared, but upon looking round and seeing no
suspicious-looking damsel anywhere near me, I concluded to waive my
apprehensions on her account and proceed to the development of an idea
that had been awakened by the old gentleman's words.

"You are right," I acquiesced, edging, in my turn, toward the curtained
recess of a window near by. "Let us wait here, and meantime you shall
tell me what your suspicions are, for I feel the time has come for the
truth to be made known, and who could better aid me in proclaiming it
than you who have always stood my friend?"

"That is true," he murmured, all eagerness at once. Then in a lower tone
and with a significant gesture: "There _is_ something, then, which has
never been made known? Edith was right when she said you did not steal
the bonds out of your father's desk?"

As he paused and looked me in the face, I was obliged to make some
reply. I chose one of the non-committal sort.

"Don't ask me!" I murmured, turning away with every appearance of
profound agitation.

He did not suspect the ruse.

"But, my boy, I shall have to ask you; if I am to help you out of this
scrape, I must know the truth. Yet if it is as I suspect, I can see why
you should hesitate even now. You are a generous fellow, Joe, but even
generosity can be carried past its proper limits."

"Uncle," I exclaimed, leaning over him and whispering tremulously in his
ear, "what are your suspicions? If I hear you give utterance to them,
perhaps it will not be so hard for me to speak."

He hesitated, looked all about us with a questioning glance, put his
mouth to my ear, and whispered:

"If I should use the name of Hartley in connection with what I have to
say, would you be so very much surprised?"

With a quick semblance of emotion, I drew back.

"You think--" I tremulously commenced, and as suddenly broke off.

"That it was he who did it, and that you, knowing how your father loved
him and built his hopes upon him, bore the blame of it yourself."

"Ha!" I exclaimed, with a deep breath as of relief. The suspicions of
Uncle Joe were worth hearing.

He seemed to be satisfied with the ejaculation, and with an increase of
eagerness in his tone, went quickly on:

"Am I not right, my boy? Is not this the secret of your whole conduct
from that dreadful day to this?"

"Don't ask me," I again pleaded, taking care, however, to draw a step
nearer and exclaim in almost the same breath: "Why should you think it
must necessarily have been one of us? What did _you_ know that you
should be so positive it was either he or I who committed this
dishonest action?"

"What did I know? Why, what everybody else did. That your father,
hearing a noise in his study one night, rose up quietly and slipped to
the door of communication in time to hear a stealthy foot leave the room
and proceed down the hall toward the apartment usually occupied by you
and your brother; that, alarmed and filled with vague distrust, he at
once lit the lamp, only to discover his desk had been forcibly broken
into and a number of coupon bonds taken out; that, struck to the heart,
he went immediately to the room where you and your brother lay, found
him lying quiet, and to all appearance asleep, while you looked flushed
and with difficulty met his eye; that without hesitation he thereupon
accused you of theft, and began to search the apartment; that he found
the bonds, as we both know, in a cupboard at the head of your bed, and
when you were asked if you had put them there you remained silent, and
neither then nor afterward made any denial of being the one who stole
them."

A mournful "Yes" was all the reply I ventured upon.

"Now it never seemed to occur to your father to doubt your guilt. The
open window and the burglar's jimmy found lying on the floor of the
study, being only so many proofs, to his mind, of your deep calculation
and great duplicity. But I could not help thinking, even on that
horrible morning, that your face did not wear a look of guilt so much as
it did that of firm and quiet resolution. But I was far from suspecting
the truth, my boy, or I should never have allowed you to fall a victim
to your father's curse, and be sent forth like a criminal from home and
kindred. If only for Edith's sake I would have spoken--dear, trusting,
faithful girl that she is!"

"But--but--" I brokenly ejaculated, anxious to gain as much of the truth
as was possible in the few minutes allotted me; "what has awakened your
suspicions at this late day? Why should you doubt Hartley now, if you
did not then?"

"Well, I cannot really say. Perhaps Edith's persistent aversion to your
brother has had something to do with it. Then he has grown cold and
hard, while you have preserved your boyish freshness and affection. I--I
don't like him, that is the truth; and with my dislike arose doubts,
and--and--well, I cannot tell how it is, but I will believe you if you
say he was the one to blame in this matter; and what is more, your
father will believe you too; for he does not feel the same satisfaction
in Hartley's irreproachable character that he used to, and--and--"

A sudden movement in the crowd stopped him.