THAT STRANGE MAN IN THE STREET.
Mr. Bentley had established himself permanently in town. His house stood
upon a corner of an airy cross street and one of our principal avenues.
The dwelling was of stone, broad, high and spacious, with grounds
attached that gave it a dignity almost palatial; for the noble structure
had been erected when some considerable space was possible to a private
dwelling, and Mr. Bentley was rich enough to throw any number of vacant
lots into a garden without fear of ruin.
The façade of this building was enriched with some exquisite sculpture,
though the general effect was chastely simple. The broad,
crescent-shaped steps swept up to the heavy door of carved walnut-wood
with a grand disregard of space that was imposing in itself.
When that massive door was open, you saw through plates of limpid
crystal, draped with a frost-work of lace, a broad, deep, entrance hall,
paved with tesselated marble, and caught a glimpse of marble busts,
bronze statues, and rare vases that reminded you at once of an Italian
palace. This resemblance was carried out by grounds on which some of
those fine old trees under which the Indians once built their wigwams,
were still rooted. Huge elms, with their branches sweeping earthward;
maples, whose blossoms blushed to the early spring, and whose leaves
grew golden or crimson when kissed by the autumn frosts, sheltered the
grass as they had half a century before.
These primeval trees threw their shadows over a little paradise of
flowers, and a stretch of the richest grass that the sun ever shone
upon. Laburnums and lilacs grouped together, mingled the violet and gold
of their blossoms. Wisterias fell in heavy luxuriance around the bay
window and the back porticoes, garlanding them with great masses of
azure. The turf was broken up with beds of glowing flowers; and the very
stables, massive stone buildings as they were, took an aspect of
picturesque beauty from the heavy trumpet flower, and Virginia creepers
which draped them.
This house, half palace, half villa, had lately become the residence of
Mr. Bentley; and Gillian, the bright, beautiful Gillian, was its
mistress. It is true Aunt Hetty had come down from the country, for a
brief time, as a sort of companion to the heiress; but so far as social
life was concerned, she proved as helpless as a human being could well
be. She was so timid, so nervously sensitive under the eye of a
stranger, that it was painful to meet her out of the immediate domestic
circle.
Mr. Bentley, always thoughtful for those he loved, had adorned his
residence with an especial regard to his daughter’s tastes; and every
feature that could remind her of the bright land of song which had
become almost native to her had been harmoniously blended with our
superior home comforts for her especial gratification. All this was
necessary to Gillian. She was a creature so used to the pure and
beautiful, that mere comfort to her would have been poverty. So she took
possession of the Eden her father had created, and graced it like a bird
of paradise. The music of her harp rang from hall to hall; her laughter
sounded merrily among the flowers; and her sweet, clear voice bespoke
the wealth of pure happiness with which she entered the great world,
ready and eager to bear her part therein.
Gillian stood by a front window looking into the street. All at once she
broke out eagerly, and called to her aunt—
“Aunt Hetty, dear Aunt Hetty, do come here and look at this man. I’m
sure he’s the person I met when I made a call on a lady last week. He
has passed up and down two or three times, and looks so earnestly at
this window. Every day, just at this time, he has taken this same
promenade. Who can it be?”
Aunt Hetty came slowly toward the window and looked out. Something
between a sigh and an exclamation broke from her lips, and she retreated
into the room pale and agitated.
“Who is it, aunt? Do you know him?”
“No—no. I have seen that face before—that very face—perhaps he
knows—perhaps it is me that he is in search of.”
Gillian laughed merrily. The idea that a handsome young gentleman like
that had been drawn beneath her window in hopes of seeing little Aunt
Hetty, struck her as comical in the extreme.
Aunt Hetty colored to the temples beneath this sweet laugh, and
attempted to creep from the room; but Gillian ran after her, threw both
arms around her waist, and dancing backward toward the window, dragged
the shrinking woman with her.
“There, you dear, blessed little flirt—you precious, darling old
aunt—just let him see your face, while I hide behind the curtain which
has always kept me from his sight. Now see if he does not take a guitar
from under that Spanish cloak—I wonder what he wears it for this bright
day?—and strike up a serenade.”
Thus gayly dragging her aunt forward, and keeping, as she thought, her
own face concealed, Gillian darted behind the curtains, leaving Aunt
Hetty standing before the plate-glass, which, clear as crystal, revealed
her distinctly to the young person, who still lingered on the opposite
pavement.
The young man cast a long gaze into the window, flung a fold of the
Spanish cloak across his shoulder, and deliberately crossed the street.
“Why, aunt—Aunt Hetty! I say, he is coming over—he is mounting the
steps. What can it mean? Surely, surely he did not discover me peeping
through the curtains? Hark, the bell rings, Aunt Hetty. What can we do?
I had no idea he really was drawn here by your face. What will you say
to him?”
“Oh! Gillian,” almost sobbed Aunt Hetty, shrinking back into the room,
“how could you be so cruel?”
She was pale as snow, and seemed almost as cold, for her very lips
trembled in the chill of her feelings.
“Oh, aunt, I did not mean it. Who would have thought this impudence
possible? I only wish father were here to chastise the adventurer as he
deserves,” cried Gillian, all in a glow of indignation.
“Your father chastise him? No—no, girl, it has not come to that. Your
mother, had she been living, might rebuke him, but no one else; most of
all, your father.”
The little woman grew almost handsome as she spoke. Her lips turned red,
and her cheeks burned. She looked spirited and haughty almost as Gillian
herself.
Gillian gazed upon her with open lip and quick astonishment in her eyes.
“Why, aunt!”
“Hush, the servant!”
The footman entered. “A gentleman was below who wished to speak with the
ladies.”
Before Hetty could speak, Gillian answered him.
“Tell the young gentleman that the ladies of this house never receive
strangers in the absence of its master.”
Hetty seized her arm with both those little, shivering hands.
“Not that message—not that—say we are not at home—that some other
time—only reflect, he may be a gentleman, and have real business.”
“Not with you or with me,” answered Gillian, kindling more and more
brightly in her pride. “He asked for the ladies; I alone am responsible
for the answer.”
Then turning to the footman, she repeated still more haughtily:
“Miss Bentley’s compliments to the strange gentleman who forgets to send
up his name, and say that she cannot receive him.”
“But for me—you understand—please say that I am not well—not at all
well—but some other time——”
Aunt Hetty broke off, for her voice quivered out of speech, and her poor
white face looked the plea for forbearance that she could not utter.
The servant went out, greatly bewildered. Aunt Hetty followed him slowly
to the door, and, leaning over the threshold, listened keenly with both
hands pressed to her heart.
Gillian stood in the midst of the room flushing red to the fair temples,
amazed and angry. But when Aunt Hetty heard the outer door close, and
fell into a chair wavering to and fro, while faint moans broke through
the two hands locked over her face, this excitement faded away, and with
that graceful humility which sprung from a warm heart, she drew close to
her aunt and stole an arm around her neck.
But poor, meek, Aunt Hetty rose up like a princess, and cast that white
arm aside.
“You have driven him from your door—you a Bentley, and her child, have
done this thing. May God forgive you—may the saint who is in heaven
forgive you! I fear—I fear I never can.”
Gillian turned white, and for a moment stood motionless; but there was
something in Aunt Hetty’s air that awoke both sympathy and admiration.
She would not be repulsed.
“Why, what is this? How can the dismissal of this intrusive person
affect you so, dear aunt? Surely he had no right to hang about the house
for days, and insult us by this attempt to force his way at last. In
what have I done wrong, Aunt Hetty?”
The poor lady looked up and tried to smile, but it was a woful attempt,
and only ended in a quiver of the lips.
“He should not have been driven forth like a dog for your mother’s
sake—for——”
“Why, Aunt Hetty, are you crazy? What has my mother in common with this
person?”
“Your mother, our Sarah! Nothing, of course! How could she, and in her
grave so many years? How came your mother to be mentioned? I did not do
it!”
“I do not know—it was I perhaps who named her,” said Gillian, subdued at
once almost to tears by this mention of her mother. “But what has she in
common with this stranger? Who is he, aunt? Tell me, and then let me go
away and cry alone: this mention of my mother, and both of us in a
passion, wounds me to the heart.”
Aunt Hetty arose and put her away with a wave of her little hand.
“Not now, Sarah: we will talk of it another time,” she said, looking
away into the distance.
Gillian was deeply touched by that look, it was so full of yearning
tenderness, and the unconscious application of her mother’s name added
to the sad impression.
“Aunt,” she said, quietly, and with tears in her eyes, “aunt, your mind
is away—you are thinking of something afar off.”
“Yes,” said the aunt, in a whisper, “far off as heaven and earth,
Sarah.”
“Indeed you are ill, dear aunt!”
Hetty turned her face a little to avoid the gentle eyes that were bent
upon her, and with the motion her look fell through the opposite window.
The young man was standing upon the side-walk as he had first been
discovered. A gleam came over her face, and without a word she left the
room.
Gillian was bewildered by the scene that had just passed, and sat down
to recover her thoughts; but her eyes were fixed on the window, and her
hearing grew keen. The outer door closed softly, and after a moment she
saw Aunt Hetty cross the street without bonnet or shawl, and speak to
the strange man. A single word, it scarcely seemed more, and then he
walked rapidly down the block, while Hetty returned to the house.