The Anna Katharine Green Mystery Megapack

by Anna Katharine Green

  “Perhaps he speculates?”

  “If he does, it must be through his son, for he never leaves home himself.”

  “Has two children, you say?”

  “Yes, a son and a daughter: a famous young man, the son; not so much liked, perhaps, as universally respected. He is too severe and reticent to be a favorite, but no one ever found him doing any thing unworthy of himself. He is the pride of the county, and if he were a bit suaver in manner might have been in Congress at this minute.”

  “How old?”

  “Thirty, I should say.”

  “And the girl?”

  “Twenty-five, perhaps.”

  “A mother living?”

  “No; there were some strange stories of her having died a year or so before they came here, under circumstances of a somewhat distressing nature, but they themselves say nothing about it.”

  “It seems to me they don’t say much about any thing.”

  “That’s just it; they are the most reserved people you ever saw. It isn’t from them we have heard there is another son floating somewhere about the world. They never speak of him, and what’s more, they never write to him; as who should know better than myself?”

  An interruption here occurred, and I took the opportunity to saunter out into the crowd of idlers always to be found hanging around a country store at mail-time. My purpose was, as you may conceive, to pick up any stray bits of information that might be floating about concerning these Bensons. Not that I had as yet discovered any thing definite connecting this respectable family with the gang of counterfeiters upon whose track I had been placed; but business is business, and no clue, however slight or unpromising in its nature, is to be neglected when the way is as dark as that which lay before me. With an easy smile, therefore, calculated to allay apprehension and awaken confidence, I took my stand among these loungers. But I soon found that I need do nothing to start the wheel of gossip on the subject of the Bensons. It was already going, and that with a force and spirit that almost took my breath away.

  “A fancy ball!” were the first words I heard. “The Bensons give a fancy ball, when they never had three persons at a time in their house before!”

  “Yes, and what’s more, they are going to have folks over from Clayton and Lawrence and Hollowell and devil knows where. It’s to be a smash up, a regular fandango, with masks and all that kind of nonsense.”

  “They say Miss Carrie teased her father till he had to give in in self-defence. It’s her birthday or something like that, and she would have a party.”

  “But such a party! who ever heard the like in a respectable town like this! It’s wicked, that’s what I call it, downright wicked to cover up the face God has given you and go strutting around in clothes a Christian man might well think borrowed from the Evil One if he had to wear them in any decent company. All wrong, I say, all wrong, and I am astonished at Mr. Benson. To keep his doors shut as he has, and then to open them in a burst to all sorts of folly. We are not invited at our house.”

  “Nor we, nor we,” shouted some half dozen.

  “And I don’t know of any one in this town who is,” cried a burly man, presumably a butcher by trade. “We are not good enough for the Bensons. They say he is even going to be mean enough to shut the gates and not let a soul inside who hasn’t a ticket. And they are going to light up the grounds too!”

  “We can peep through the fence.”

  “Much we will see that way. If you had said climb it—”

  “We can’t climb it. Big John is going to be there and Tom Henshaw. They mean to keep their good times to themselves, just as they have kept every thing else. It’s a queer set they are anyway, and the less we have to do with them the better.”

  “I should like to see Hartley Benson in masquerade costume, I would.”

  “Oh, he won’t wear any of the fol-de-rol; he’s too dignified.” And with that there fell a sudden hush over the crowd, for which I was at a loss to account, till, upon looking up, I saw approaching on horseback, a young man in whom I had no difficulty in recognizing the subject of the last remark.

  Straight, slight, elegant in appearance, but with an undoubted reserve of manner apparent even at a distance, he rode up to where I stood, and casting a slight glance around, bowed almost imperceptibly, and alighted. A boy caught the bridle of his horse, and Mr. Benson, without a word or further look, passed quickly into the office, leaving a silence behind him that was not disturbed till he returned with what was evidently his noonday mail. Remounting his horse, he stopped a moment to speak to a man who had just come up, and I seized the opportunity to study his face. I did not like it. It was handsome without doubt; the features were regular, the complexion fair, the expression gentlemanly if not commanding; but I did not like it. It was too impenetrable perhaps; and to a detective anxious to probe a man for his motives, this is ever a most fatal defect. His smile was without sunshine; his glance was an inquiry, a rebuke, a sarcasm, every thing but a revelation. As he rode away he carried with him the thought of all, yet I doubt if the admiration he undoubtedly inspired, was in a single case mixed with any warmer feeling than that of pride in a fellow townsman they could not understand. “Ice,” thought I; “ice in all but its transparency!” So much for Benson the son.

  The ball was to take place that very night; and the knowledge of this fact threw a different light over the letter I had read. The word mask had no longer any special significance, neither the word counterfeit, and yet such was the tenor of the note itself, and such the exaggerated nature of its phrases, I could not but feel that some plot of a reprehensible if not criminal nature was in the process of formation, which, as a rising young detective engaged in a mysterious and elusive search, it behooved me to know. And moved by this consideration, I turned to a new leaf in my memorandum-book, and put down in black and white the following facts thus summarily collected:

  “A mysterious family with a secret.

  “Rich, but with no visible means of wealth.

  “Secluded, with no apparent reason for the same.

  “A father who is a hermit.

  “A son who is impenetrable.

  “A daughter whose tastes are seldom gratified.

  “The strange fact of a ball being given by this family after years of reserve and non-intercourse with their neighbors.

  “The still stranger fact of it being a masquerade, a style of entertainment which, from its novelty and the opportunities it affords, makes this departure from ordinary rules seem marked and startling.

  “The discovery of a letter appointing a rendezvous between two persons of the male sex, in the grounds of the party giving this ball, in which the opportunities afforded by a masquerade are to be used for forwarding some long-cherished scheme.”

  At the bottom of this I wrote a deduction:

  “Some connection between one or more members of this family giving the ball, and the person called to the rendezvous; the entertainment being used as a blind if not as a means.”

  It was now four o’clock, five hours before the time of rendezvous. How should I employ the interval? A glance at the livery-stable hard by, determined me. Procuring a horse, I rode out on the road toward Mr. Benson’s, for the purpose of reconnoitring the grounds; but as I proceeded I was seized by an intense desire to penetrate into the midst of this peculiar household, and judge for myself whether it was worth while to cherish any further suspicions in regard to this family. But how to effect such an entrance? What excuse could I give for my intrusion that would be likely to serve me on a day of such tumult and preoccupation? I looked up and down the road as if for inspiration. It did not come. Meanwhile, the huge trees that surrounded the house had loomed in sight, and presently the beauties of lawn and parterre began to appear beyond the high iron fence, through which I could catch now and then short glimpses of hurrying forms, as lanterns were hung on the trees and all things put in readiness for the evening’s entertainment. Suddenly a thought struck me. If Mr. Benson was the
man they said, he was not engaged in any of these arrangements. Mr. Benson was a hermit. Now what could I say that would interest a hermit? I racked my brains; a single idea came. It was daring in its nature, but what of that! The gate must be passed, Mr. Benson must be seen—or so my adventurous curiosity decided—and to do it, something must be ventured. Taking out my card, which was simply inscribed with my name, I wrote on it, “Business private and immediate,” and assuming my most gentlemanly and inoffensive manner, rode calmly through the gate to the front of the house. If I had been on foot I doubt if I would have been allowed to pass by the servant lounging about in that region, but the horse carried me through in more senses than one, and almost before I realized it, I found myself pausing before the portico, in full view of a dozen or more busy men and boys.

  Imitating the manner of Mr. Benson at the post-office, I jumped from my horse and threw the bridle to the boy nearest me. Instantly and before I could take a step, a servant issued from the open door, and with an expression of anxiety somewhat surprising under the circumstances, took his stand before me in a way to hinder my advance.

  “Mr. Benson does not receive visitors today,” said he.

  “I am not a visitor,” replied I; “I have business with Mr. Benson,” and I handed him my card, which he looked at with a doubtful expression.

  “Mr. Benson’s commands are not to be disobeyed,” persisted the man. “My master sees no one today.”

  “But this is an exceptional case,” I urged, my curiosity rising at this unexpected opposition. “My business is important and concerns him. He cannot refuse to see me.”

  The servant shook his head with what appeared to me to be an unnecessary expression of alarm, but nevertheless retreated a step, allowing me to enter. “I will call Mr. Hartley,” cried he.

  But that was just what I did not wish. It was Benson the father I had come to see, and I was not to be baffled in this way.

  “Mr. Hartley won’t do,” said I, in my lowest but most determined accents. “If Mr. Benson is not ill, I must beg to be admitted to his presence.” And stepping inside the small reception room at my right, I sat down on the first chair I came to.

  The man stood for a moment confounded at my pertinacity, then with a last scrutinizing look, that took in every detail of my person and apparel, drew slowly off, shaking his head and murmuring to himself.

  Meanwhile the mingled splendor and elegance of my surroundings were slowly making their impression upon me. The hall by which I had entered was spacious and imposing; the room in which I sat, a model of beauty in design and finish. I was allowing myself the luxury of studying its pictures and numerous works of art, when the sound of voices reached my ear from the next room. A man and woman were conversing there in smothered tones, but my senses are very acute, and I had no difficulty in overhearing what was said.

  “Oh, what an exciting day this has been!” cried the female voice. “I have wanted to ask you a dozen times what you think of it all. Will he succeed this time? Has he the nerve to embrace his opportunity, or what is more, the tact to make one? Failure now would be fatal. Father—”

  “Hush!” broke in the other voice, in a masculine tone of repressed intensity. “Do not forget that success depends upon your prudence. One whisper of what you are about, and the whole scheme is destroyed.”

  “I will be careful; only do you think that all is going well and as we planned it?”

  “It will not be my fault if it does not,” was the reply, uttered with an accent so sinister I was conscious of a violent surprise when, in the next instant, the other, with a burst of affectionate fervor, cried in an ardent tone:

  “Oh, how good you are, and what a comfort you are to me!”

  I was just pondering over the incongruity thus presented, when the servant returned with my card.

  “Mr. Benson wishes to know the nature of your business,” said he, in a voice I was uncomfortably conscious must penetrate to the next room and awake its inmates to a knowledge of my proximity.

  “Let me have the card,” said I; and taking it, I added to my words the simple phrase, “On behalf of the Constable of the town,” remembering I had heard the postmaster say this position was held by his brother. “There,” said I, “carry that back to your master.”

  The servant took the card, glanced down at the words I had written, started and hastily drew back. “You had better come,” said he, leading the way into the hall.

  I was only too glad to comply; in fact, escape from that room seemed imperative. But just as I was crossing the threshold, a sudden, quick cry, half joyful, half fearful, rose behind me, and turning, I met the eyes of a young lady peering upon me from a lifted portière, with an expression of mingled terror and longing that would have astonished me greatly, if it had not instantly disappeared at the first sight of my face.

  “Pardon me,” she exclaimed, drawing back with an embarrassed movement into the room from which she had emerged. But soon recovering herself, she stepped hastily forward, and ignoring me, said to the servant at my side: “Jonas, who is this gentleman, and where are you taking him?”

  With a bow, Jonas replied: “He comes on business, miss, and Mr. Benson consents to see him.”

  “But I thought my father had expressly commanded that no one was to be allowed to enter the library today,” she exclaimed, but in a musing tone that asked for no response. And hastily as we passed down the hall, I could not escape the uneasy sense that her eager eyes were following us as we went.

  “Too much emotion for so small a matter, and a strange desire on the part of every one to keep Mr. Benson from being intruded upon today,” was my mental comment. And I was scarcely surprised when upon our arrival at the library door we found it locked. However, a knock, followed by a few whispered words on the part of the servant, served to arouse the hermit within, and with a quick turn of the key, the door flew back on its hinges, and the master of the house stood before me.

  It was a moment to be remembered: first, because the picture presented to my eyes was of a marked and impressive character; and secondly, because something in the expression of the gentleman before me showed that he had received a shock at my introduction which was not to be expected after the pains which had been taken to prepare his mind for my visit. He was a tall, remarkable-looking man, with a head already whitened, and a form which, if not bowed, had only retained its upright carriage by means of the indomitable will that betrayed itself in his eyes. Seen against the rich background of the stained-glass window that adorned one end of the apartment, his stern, furrowed face and eagerly repellant aspect imprinted itself upon me like a silhouette, while the strong emotion I could not but detect in his bearing, lent to the whole a poetic finish that made it a living picture which, as I have said, I have never been able to forget.

  “You have come from the constable of the town,” said he, in a firm, hard tone, impressive as his look. “May I ask for what purpose?”

  Looking around, I saw the servant had disappeared. “Sir,” said I, gathering up my courage, as I became convinced that in this case I had a thoroughly honest man to deal with, “you are going to give a fancy ball tonight. Such an event is a novelty in these parts, and arouses much curiosity. Some of the men about town have even been heard to threaten to leap the fences and steal a look at your company, whether you will or not. Mr. White wants to know whether you need any assistance in keeping the grounds clear of all but your legitimate guests; if so, he is ready to supply whatever force you may need.”

  “Mr. White is very kind,” returned Mr. Benson, in a voice which, despite his will-power, showed that his agitation had in some unaccountable way been increased by my communication. “I had not thought of any such contingency,” he murmured, moving over to a window and looking out. “An invasion of rowdies would not be agreeable. They might even find their way into the house.” He paused and cast a sudden look at me. “Who are you?” he abruptly asked.

  The question took me by surprise, but I answe
red bravely if not calmly: “I am a man who sometimes assists Mr. White in the performance of his duties, and in case you need it, will be the one to render you assistance tonight. 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 tonight, 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 tonight.” 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?”