THE AUTHORESS AT HOME.
A little out from New York, on that side of the Bloomingdale road which
commands a picturesque view of the Hudson, within sound of the city, and
yet not exactly in it, stood a pretty cottage. It was back from the
road, and so near the river that, in the morning, a portion of its
shadow fell upon the water. It was almost concealed from the road by a
growth of old forest trees. The river bank was broken and rocky,
affording pretty hollows, where the ferns grew thriftily, and flat
ledges, on which the moss lay like a carpet. The cottage had once been a
farm-house, but judicious improvements had recently transfigured it into
a picturesque home, unlike any dwelling within view. A porch thrown out
in one direction, a bay window here, a balcony there, and clinging roses
and vines wreathing all into harmony, made the house neither cottage,
farm-house nor villa, but a most desirable residence, for all that. The
house was a type of nothing but itself; or, it may be, of the person who
inhabited it.
She was a woman of middle-age—an earnest, active woman, full of energy,
rich in feeling, and endowed with a rare intellect, which had, at the
time she presents herself in this narrative, won for her commanding
influence, and a wide reputation. This influence sometimes bore heavily
upon herself, from the duties of charity or social kindness which it
imposed; and the reputation, brilliant as it was, she scarcely felt, so
gradual had been its growth, and so little had she sought for it as a
result of her labors.
This woman was an author. Not a mere literary lady capable of little
snatches of song and pretty trifles, that live and die in the world of
letters like wild flowers in a wood; but a maker of books, a worker-out
of thought in its grandest and most beautiful form. She was, at once, a
poet, a prose writer, an artist in soul, and a woman of society.
The room in which she sat opened upon the river, which flowed pleasantly
on in full view of the broad window before which her writing-table was
placed. Bookcases, crowded with volumes, covered every available part of
the room. A marble head or two looked calmly down upon her as she wrote;
and the picture of an old man, that hung over the mantle-piece, seemed
to watch her with grave interest as if he alone knew the history of her
life and intended to guard the secret.
There was none of the frippery, with which female writers in their
callow days love to surround themselves, in that room. Julia Ransom had
got far beyond all that in her ascent up the hill of life. Two or three
substantial easy-chairs, cushioned with embroidery wrought by the female
friends who loved her, stood about. A footstool to match, from which the
roses were worn out by the constant pressure of her slipper, stood near
a table covered with crimson, and littered with pens, paper, books and
pencils, with a bronze ink-stand after the model which Ariosto left.
These objects, with a crimson couch, on which she sometimes rested after
the excitement of hard writing, were sufficiently feminine in their
appointments, without misleading you as to the character of their owner.
Julia Ransom was alone and writing, for it was the morning hour, and she
usually commenced early and wrote late till her task was done, throwing
her whole being into the event she narrated, or the pictures that she
drew. Had you spoken to her, at such times, she probably would not have
heard you, save to be slightly annoyed by the sound. Had she answered
you, the words would have escaped her lips unconsciously, and she might
have given you all she possessed on earth without knowing it. Once
fastened upon a train of thought, it seemed impossible to wrench her
mind away, and from this arose the vigor and intensity which marked all
that she wrote.
Yet Julia Ransom never seemed alone, for the old man over the
mantle-piece was like a guardian to her always. She would sometimes lift
her face from the half-written sheet, and look upon the old man with
smiling lips and an earnest expression of the eyes, which it seemed as
if the very canvas must recognize and answer back with sympathy. Then
she would dash into her subject again, and sheet after sheet left her
hands, till she grew pale with exhaustion, and drooped forward, with her
arms folded on the table, gazing upon the river, too weary for exertion,
yet unable to withdraw her mind from the drama it was creating.
She was sitting thus, with blank paper under her folded arms, and
scattered manuscript lying at her feet, when the door softly opened, and
a Madras kerchief, crowning a handsome, copper-colored face, was thrust
through the opening.
Mrs. Ransom did not look up; so the handsome mulatto, to whom the
kerchief and face belonged, stole softly across the room, and stood so
as to throw her shadow across the paper on which her mistress was
writing.
Mrs. Ransom looked up, impatiently.
“Well, Ruby, what is it?” she said, beginning to write again.
“A lady—a young lady—came in an open carriage, white horses; boy behind
with a cockade and band; colored driver, looks like a prince right from
Africa.”
“Who is the lady, Ruby?”
“Here’s the card, Miss.”
Mrs. Ransom leaned back in her chair, drew a hand across her forehead,
and languidly received the card.
“Miss Gillian Bentley!”
She read the name over two or three times, drew her hand again and again
across her eyes, then arose and went to the door.
“No,” she said, hesitating, with her hand on the knob. “Let the young
lady come to me here.”
The girl went out, while Mrs. Ransom paced up and down the room two or
three times, apparently annoyed by the intrusion of a stranger upon her
occupation. She was in the middle of the room, and stood, with her eyes
on the door, when it opened to admit Gillian.
The young girl was a good deal embarrassed; for, the reputation of Mrs.
Ransom, with a certain reserved shyness, which was neither pride nor
bashfulness, had its effect on her frank nature: besides this, the lady
did not advance, or smile, but stood, gazing on her with a long, wistful
look, as if she had been the picture of some old friend.
At last Gillian stepped forward, blushing to the temples, and said, in a
frank, childlike way,
“You were busy to-day, and I am intruding: pray let me retire.”
“No! no! Intrusion? no!” was the confused reply. “Be seated, here by the
window. I am not busy—far from it.”
Gillian sat down in a chair near the window. Mrs. Ransom took her old
seat, and, for a little time, there was profound silence between them.
The young girl looked out upon the river; the lady sat gazing on her.
“Indeed, I fear the visit is unpardonable,” she said, at last, glancing
at the lady.
“Did you speak? I beg your pardon; but—but really I am a little
_distraite_ this morning. You wished to see me—to ask some questions,
perhaps. Have no reluctance: it is not an uncommon thing for me to
receive strangers, especially those who have real or fancied sufferings.
You do not seem of that class.”
“No, no,” said Gillian, “I have no sorrows to speak of; and, if I had, I
should not bring them here, or anywhere else. It seems to me that griefs
are sometimes heavenly gifts, and should only be shared with divinity.”
Julia Ransom’s face kindled up, and the color broke into her face, which
had, up to this time, been singularly pale.
“But would you withhold joys as well as griefs from friendly sympathy?”
she said, with a smile that brought a glow into Gillian’s face.
“No, indeed. Joy should be shared with every one like the sunshine and
other bright things. I wish it were in my power to fill your world with
it, lady, for your writings have made half the happiness I ever knew.”
Julia smiled, oh, such a bright, glorious smile! Words like these, full
of sincerity and truth, were a beautiful reward for her toil of thought.
“You like my books, then?” she said, gently.
“Like them? Oh, lady, if I had but words to tell you how much!”
Mrs. Ransom hesitated, smiled, and then, with a slight tremor of the
lip, and some unnatural restraint, inquired if Gillian’s parents also
approved the books she had written.
The face of the young girl clouded painfully, and she answered that she
had but one parent living—her father; and it was from him she had, at
first, learned to love those books.
“He reads them—did you say?” asked Mrs. Ransom, in a low voice.
“Indeed he does. My father is a learned man, you must know, and his mind
is given to research and science rather than what is called light
reading; but he is fond of the classics, and sometimes takes up a modern
novel for an hour. It was in this way he became interested in your
writings. We were in Europe, and a translation fell in his way. The
translation of an American book was a rare thing till lately, you know,
and this fact drew his attention. I think I never saw him so much
interested in any thing as he was in those books. I never saw him cry
but twice in my life, and once was while he was reading them. Indeed his
eyes were dim with tears half the time. It was a strange thing to see
him feel so deeply, especially where the subject was a fiction.”
“The book which makes you feel deeply is never a fiction. It is the
truth which appeals to any heart successfully, no matter in what form
you disguise it,” said Julia Ransom, with emotion.
“I am sure of that,” answered Gillian, who was becoming more and more
interested in the lady. “It seems to me impossible that there should be
no deep emotion in the heart of a writer who can draw tears from the
souls of those who read. I should have no respect for the author who
could excite feelings she did not herself know.”
“No author can excite feelings which she does not herself know, either
through experience or the imagination,” answered Mrs. Ransom, earnestly.
“This was exactly what my father said!”
Mrs. Ransom did not answer, but arose and walked to the window. Then she
turned with one of her bright smiles, and laid her hand on Gillian’s
head. It was a beautiful picture—that noble woman, with her face
eloquent of some grand but unexplained feeling; and the blushing girl,
who lifted her eyes, with an expression so gentle and pleased, to meet
the glance which fell lovingly upon her.
“You do not seem like a stranger to me, dear lady,” said Gillian, as the
hand glided softly adown her tresses; “but then, to whom could you be a
stranger? I was afraid of being disappointed—everybody said it must be
so—but—but——”
She stopped suddenly, and her eyes filled; for the lady stooped down and
kissed her on the forehead, so fervently that it left a crimson flush
behind.
Gillian started up with a quick impulse, attempted to throw her arms
round the lady’s neck, but dropped them again, blushing, and frightened
at her own familiarity. But the lady reached forth her arms and drew the
fair girl to her bosom, murmuring soft words over her, which Gillian
could never remember afterward without a swell of the heart, though
their exact import never reached her.
“I have written to you so often, dreamed of you, thought of you. Oh, I
wonder if every one worships genius as I worship it in you!”
Gillian laid her head tenderly down on the lady’s shoulder as she spoke;
and Mrs. Ransom smoothed her hair while she smiled upon her.
“Then you have written to me?”
“Yes, so often, and you have answered me too. It is now six months since
I first ventured on a letter. I was sad, very sad then; for we had just
come to the country, and some things that were told me about my family
made me thoughtful. Besides, I am full of wild fancies, and so must put
them into poetry. I dared not show them to my father, or any one, but
sent them to you under a feigned name. You liked the poetry and the
letters a little, I suppose, for your answers were very kind, and so I
came.”
“Thank you, love! a thousand times thank you! So it was you sent those
letters, and the poetry. It was a pleasant introduction,” said Mrs.
Ransom. “I have little time for letter-writing, but yours were so
natural, and frank, that I could not help answering them.”
“I was determined to know you in some way,” said Gillian, with a
childlike laugh. “With no mother or sister, I sometimes feel very
lonely. The society here seems strange, and I long for some one to love:
not a young girl like myself, but a woman, older, wiser and more kindly
than girls are to each other. Oh, lady, you would pity me if you knew
how I sometimes want a mother!”
Mrs. Ransom’s face changed. Some gloomy thought seemed to force all the
cheerfulness out of it. She held Gillian close to her bosom, which
scarcely appeared to throb with a breath.
“Oh, if I only had a child like you! but it can never be. I am a lonely
woman, chastened, irritable at times; a daughter’s love would be heaven
to me; but I am used to living without affection.”
“You, lady? oh!”
Mrs. Ransom smiled a sweet, piteous smile, that brought the tears into
Gillian’s eyes.
“Except from the poor that I can serve, and the friends who never
thoroughly know one.”
“But, lady, you have so many friends. It seems as if you must be so
happy. Success, reputation, the greatest of all blessings—a free
expression of thought.”
“You misunderstand,” answered the lady, with a grave smile. “I did not
speak of myself as absolutely unhappy, but childless, without family
ties, and very lonely at times. But even outside the affections life has
a great many pleasures, which no one is warranted in casting away
because he or she cannot grasp every thing. It is something to give
happiness—to have earned the power of conferring it. There is absolute
pleasure in labor, be it of thought or action. Do not think, young lady,
that I complain or imagine misery poetical—far from it: grief is
frequently more selfish than joy. When I say that one blessing is denied
to me, that of kindred and household affections, it is but to share the
fate of hundreds more worthy than myself, who, perhaps, have not so many
resources of happiness as I possess. It must be a gloomy nature, indeed,
which cannot find in this beautiful world more sunshine than storm.”
“But you, so affectionate, so warm-hearted, to exist without a return of
affection, that seems to me impossible; it is starving the heart!”
“No, it is only withholding its most exquisite nutriment. There is
enough that is wholesome and good left, on which an earnest nature can
live, and thrive, too,” said Mrs. Ransom, with one of those noble
expressions that bespoke so much earnestness. “Duties have their value
as well as feelings; thought is rich with pleasure when properly
exercised. Believe me, child, it is far better to be useful and good
than to be happy.”
“But I so hoped and wished to find you happy!”
“And so I am,” answered the lady, with a low sigh. “Remember this is but
the beginning of eternity with us: the first rudiments of any thing are
sure to be acquired with mistakes and difficulties; but time and effort
conquers all things. If our first lessons in life are full of
disappointments, the future is before us in which they can be turned
into blessings, if not in this life, in that to which we go.”
The solemnity and gentleness with which all this was said touched
Gillian profoundly. It reminded her of many conversations she had held
with her father: the same sweet pathos was there, the same proof of deep
thought.
“This is so like my father’s,” she said, lifting her earnest eyes to the
noble face bending over her. “Oh, how I wish you knew my father!”
The features on which she gazed broke into a smile of unspeakable
tenderness: but the lady made no answer. She sat gazing into Gillian’s
face with a look so wistful and sad, that the young girl bowed her head
and began to weep.
“Forgive me,” she said, shaking the tears away, and laughing like an
April morning. “I am always fancying strange things—and that moment it
seemed as if we had been acquainted thousands of years.”
“Be careful how you indulge in wild thoughts like these,” said the lady,
with a gentle shake of the head.
Gillian colored and looked distressed. It was seldom that even the most
gentle rebuke was extended to her, and she scarcely knew how to receive
even this delicate caution. But when Mrs. Ransom smiled again, it was
apology enough.
Gillian arose to go, but, as she stood with her hand in the lady’s
clasp, the door was again opened, and the mulatto glided in.
“Mr. Hurst,” she began to say; but that instant the young man, whom we
saw last in the gambling-saloon, came hurriedly in, pushing the girl
aside as he entered.
“My dear madam, what has come over Ruby? She insists on announcing me as
if I were an ambassador.”
Here he saw Gillian, gave a little start, and bowed profoundly.
“I beg pardon,” he continued. “I see now what my impatience prevented
her telling me. You are engaged.”
“No, no,” said Gillian, in her prompt way, “I was just going. Mrs.
Ransom will forgive me for having stayed too long already.”
The young girl turned her eyes on Mrs. Ransom, as she spoke, and saw
that the lady had become suddenly pale, that her eyes sparkled, and a
strange excitement shook the hand she still clasped in her own.
Hurst smiled and drew near; his audacity was graceful, but not the less
offensive to Mrs. Ransom for that.
“I shall never forgive myself, if I drive so much beauty away by this
rude intrusion,” he said, covering Gillian with his bold glance of
admiration.
Mrs. Ransom started; her eyes flashed, and a frown swept her brows
heavily. Gillian was terrified by the haughty anger of that look, and
Hurst drew a step back, evidently surprised by it.
Still grasping Gillian’s hand, the lady led her from the room, sweeping
by Hurst with the same angry look, and closing the door after them. But
the moment they stood in the tiled pavement of the hall, her face
changed suddenly, as you see a storm go off in summer.
“May I come and see you again?” whispered Gillian, rendered timid by the
anger which had passed away.
“Does—does your father know of this visit?”
“Yes; I told him of my great wish to see you, and he consented.”
“Then come again when you desire it. Often, very often, if you can learn
to love me a little.”
“I love you already,” was the reply.
They parted in the hall, but instead of returning to the room where
young Hurst was waiting, Mrs. Ransom stood by the door motionless as a
statue, and gazed into the distance long after the carriage, which
conveyed Gillian, disappeared in the winding road that led from her
house. At last she was disturbed by a hand laid on her arm. Young Hurst
had come from the study, impatient of her absence, and with his usual
daring broke in upon her reverie.
She drew a deep breath, and turned toward him with a smile of ineffable
happiness. But the moment her eyes met his the smile was gone, and she
returned to the study with evident reluctance.