GILLIAN’S CONFESSION.
Gillian and her father sat together in the library, a large room opening
from the front vestibule, and forming one of a suit of apartments that
might have befitted a palace, the ceilings were so high, and the fresco
pictures upon them so exquisite as works of art.
Bookcases of dark wood, heavily carved, occupied all those spaces of the
wall not broken by the windows on one side, and a broad bay which
occupied a large portion of the front. These bookcases were surmounted
by bronze busts of the great poets and statesmen that had left the best
part of their lives, the thought which never perishes, in the richly
bound volumes that gleamed through those crystal doors. The tall windows
between were draped to the floor with curtains of heavy crimson silk,
which, drawn back or closed by thick cords and tassels, excluded, or let
in the light, as the inmates of that room might desire cheerfulness or
solitude. In the recess of the broad bay-window stood an elaborately
carved, black marble table, polished like a mirror; an easy-chair and a
richly cushioned bench, which swept round the lower woodwork of the
window, offering a luxurious seat to any one who loved the gorgeous
twilight of the place. Though the window itself was of pure plate-glass,
the inner sashes, gorgeously stained with amber, crimson and purple,
gave an air of indescribable magnificence to the whole room whenever
they were closed over the pure light which shone through the outer
glass. This happened very frequently, for at times Mr. Bentley seemed to
shrink from the broad day, and seek the gloom of that sumptuous library,
as a wounded stag loves the deep hemlock shade.
Sometimes, too, Gillian, the bright, happy Gillian, came like a tropical
bird, and indulged her sweet reveries in this rich twilight. Now that
her soul was brimful of love—when she knew that answering love flowed
back upon her as honey-dew falls upon the leaves—she would gather
herself into this silken nest and think over and over again the sweet
words he had uttered—the glances that had made every nerve in her frame
thrill, and wonder, with pleasant egotism, if any human being were ever
so happy before.
It was broad day out of doors, but a luxurious twilight reigned within.
Gillian sat upon the silken cushions, dreaming over her sweet fancies;
and Mr. Bentley leaned back in the easy-chair close by, reading, or
seeming to read, for a leaf of the stained blind was folded back, and a
stream of pure light fell over him and made a path far out on the carpet
beyond.
He had forgotten that Gillian was in the room, his reverie was so
deep—forgotten every thing in the intense interest excited by the book,
which began to tremble in his hand, while a haze crept over his eyes,
and he found himself, all at once, unable to distinguish the print,
which floated before him like the network of a cobweb.
The slow motion of one hand drawn across his eyes, and a heavy sigh
aroused Gillian.
“What is it, father?” she said, sitting upright, and smiling upon him as
an infant awakes in the morning. “What is it that makes you sigh so
heavily, as if it were sorrow, not joy, which holds your breath?”
Bentley answered her look and her smile, but it was winter meeting
spring. In Mr. Bentley’s smile there was a quivering sadness that made
the heart stand still; in hers, a joy that made it leap.
“Is it the book?” she said, rising and casting a glance over his
shoulder. “Ah, I see—one of Mrs. Ransom’s novels. No wonder you are sad,
papa. I have cried myself ill over those very pages. What power, what
passion she throws into every thing, and yet her pathos is so tender,
like her voice when she pleads for something! Oh, papa, I wish you could
hear her talk!”
“Like this? Does she talk like this?” said Bentley, laying his slender
hand on the open page of the book.
“At times, when she is excited or sad; for I do believe this lady
writes, as she talks, from unstudied impulse; but usually she is gay,
almost joyful; I think she talks nonsense best of all. I never saw
exactly such a woman.”
“But you like her?”
“Oh, yes! so much! It seems to me as if I never really loved till she
taught me how.”
“Ah!” said Bentley, closing the book and looking searchingly into the
glowing face that bent over him, “this acquaintance has sprung into
friendship very suddenly. It is not often that a girl of little more
than seventeen seeks a companion so much her elder; for the author of
this cannot be young: such power and finish renders the idea
impossible.”
“Yes, papa, but you know I have been always with persons older than
myself, and like them best. Young girls are so—so——”
“Well?”
“So full of themselves they will not take time to think of others. I
never saw a person—a lady I mean—young or old, who comprehended all I
wished or felt till Mrs. Ransom permitted me to visit her.”
“Permitted! Why, Gillian, you are growing humble. It was but yesterday
you spoke of visiting Mrs. Lawrence, one of the most distinguished
ladies of the fashionable world, with something almost like contempt.”
“Oh, papa, not that. I was only careless, impatient at the worst; but
Mrs. Lawrence is only a rich, fashionable woman, who thinks herself good
judge of style, and talks eternally about her carriage-horses, is
delighted when she is mistaken for a Frenchwoman, and wonders why any
country can be so vulgar as to have ‘Yankee Doodle’ for a national air.
Indeed, papa, I don’t like that kind of person at all.”
“Well, well, I am not asking you to like her. She is rather too advanced
for a companion to my Gillian. But is there no young lady?”
“None but Cousin Martha Hart that I care a rose-leaf for; she is honest
as steel, and fresh as a violet. Indeed I do love Cousin Matty dearly. I
intend she shall make a dozen conquests at our party.”
“But to go back where we began, Gillian; this lady author, have you
invited her?”
“Yes, papa.”
“And she comes, of course. I believe your first party is to be the rage,
daughter, so we may depend on this lady.”
“I don’t know,” answered Gillian, thoughtfully: “she promised at one
time, but now rather shrinks from the throng that will be here.”
A cloud came over the young girl’s face—a look of hesitation and
distress, which her father observed.
“Well, what is it, child? Is there any thing more about this lady? She
seems to have taken a strange hold on you.”
Still Gillian blushed and trembled. Her eyes were downcast; her lips
began to quiver.
Mr. Bentley grew anxious. Why should his child be so agitated? Had this
author really obtained some subtle power over that high nature? Was
there a secret which he did not know?
“Look at me, Gillian.”
“Well, father, I do.”
“With your eyes—not with your soul.”
“With all my soul!” she answered, smiling bravely. “I was a coward, but
it was only for a minute.” She did not think how difficult it would
prove. “Oh, father! the heart should have a language for itself, to be
used only once or twice in a lifetime.”
“And if you had this language at command, what would it reveal,
Gillian?”
Gillian sunk slowly to her knees, took her father’s hand and pressed her
lips to the palm. The hand shook; a cloud of anxiety darkened Bentley’s
face.
“Gillian—Gillian, what have you done? What does this mean?”
She lifted her face, radiant and glistening with tears; her eyes were
like wet periwinkles; her mouth a rose-bud shaken by rain-drops.
“Father, as my mother loved you, I—I——”
He snatched his hand away, and shook her off as if she had been a viper.
His face was ashen white, and he shrunk together chilly and hoarse.
“Love as your mother loved me! Girl—girl, what demon put those words
into your mouth?”
She staggered back, clasping her hands.
“Father!”
He struggled with himself stoutly. You could see the veins swell on his
forehead, and the great drops gather there.
“Speak on, Gillian, my child; I frightened you. Something you were ready
to tell me.”
“Father!” said Gillian, gently, and in a low voice; for she was still
pale and frightened. “It is at Mrs. Ransom’s request—indeed at her
command—that I tell you this with my own lips, rather than wait for a
stranger to startle, perhaps offend you with the knowledge that she says
you should have had long ago. The gentleman is a friend of hers.”
“What gentleman, my child?”
His accents were mournful, his lips white.
“Mr. Woodworth.”
For a moment there was silence; then Mr. Bentley spoke.
“And you love this man?”
“He is a good man, father.”
“And you love him?”
“Forgive me, father—but I do.”
“Entirely, to the exclusion of every other love, of every other thought,
with the whole might of your being? Is this the love you mean?”
She was on her knees before him. He took her clasped hands between his
and lifted them upward, as if enforcing an oath.
“Father, I do love him even as you say—to the exclusion of every other
love, of any other thought.”
“Better than your father—your lonely, lonely father?”
“Differently; but not better.”
“That is wrong, Gillian, very wrong. When a woman loves, it should be
with all her soul; no affection must stand before that love. No man
should be content without the whole being of his wife—or is content
without it.”
“Oh, father! I dare not tell you how much I do love him; my heart is
breaking to speak, but cannot.”
How beautiful she was! how proudly modest there on her knees speaking of
her love!
“But will it last? I do not ask what the man is—that for another
time—but will this love hold out to the end? Is it pure gold ingrained
into the soul, or snow ready to melt under a new smile?”
“Oh, father! remember I am your daughter!”
“And hers!”
No words can describe the passionate bitterness of these two syllables:
they fell like heated shot from his lips—a fierce wrath broke over his
face. Gillian stood up cold and white.
“You speak of my mother!”
He did not answer her, but dropping his face on the two hands which he
had clasped on the table, shook like a leaf.
All the pride went out from Gillian’s heart. She drew close to her
father, and bending down kissed his hot forehead again and again,
murmuring—
“Father, forgive me—oh! forgive me, whatever my sin may be! It kills me
to feel you tremble so: I never saw you weep before, father. What have I
done?—what have I done?”
Bentley looked up and tried to smile, but with the heavy drops trembling
on his face, the smile was like pale lightning after rain.
“Father!”
He looked at her, but did not speak.
“Father, does it pain you that I love this gentleman? He is noble—an
honorable man; but I will die rather than see you unhappy.”
Mr. Bentley drew her toward him, kissed her forehead, and said very
tenderly, but with a sadness that went to her heart,
“Pain! No, Gillian, you never gave me pain in your life. I know
something of this man: he is both honorable and of great ability. Why
should I grieve that you love him? It is such qualities that should win
a Bentley.”
“Oh, my father!”
She could say no more. Grateful joy broke her voice. That moment she
would have worshipped her father.
“Go, my child, go now. This is one of the moments that sweep over one
like a hurricane. Half an hour ago you were my daughter—all mine. Now
you belong to another—a stranger whom I have not seen half a dozen times
in my life. You cannot pull up a wild flower by the roots without
disturbing the ground; do not think thus to dislodge a child from her
father’s heart and leave no anguish behind.”
Gillian did not speak, but obeying the motion of his hand went out
weeping bitterly.
Mr. Bentley walked the library, up and down, at first wildly, and by
degrees with steadiness, till his usual calm demeanor came back. He was
neither a weak nor selfish man, but this declaration had come upon him
so suddenly that the shock was overpowering.
He had scarcely seated himself in the chair again when a servant
announced Mr. Woodworth, and directly that gentleman entered the
library. Actuated by an honorable wish to deal frankly with the father
of Gillian, he had come at once to declare all that had passed between
them, and henceforth retire from his suit, or urge it under the parental
sanction.
No one, to have seen Mr. Bentley when he arose with grave courtesy to
receive his visitor, would have believed in the storm of passion that
had just swept over him. True, he was pale, and his eyes were heavy, but
he had moved out of the clear light, and Woodworth saw nothing but a man
of remarkable refinement, waiting to see his guest seated before he
resumed his own position by the table.
Woodworth was a proud man—too proud for that undue estimate of Mr.
Bentley’s wealth which might have embarrassed an ordinary suitor.
Possessed of great talent, and a high position won by that talent, it
never entered his mind to feel that any inequality existed between him
and the millionaire. On the contrary, had he found Mr. Bentley of the
ordinary stamp of rich men, insolent or purse-proud, it is just possible
that the pride of genius might have recoiled from the connection. For
genius can ill brook the presumption of wealth, and Woodworth knew his
own powers well enough to be sure that they could win gold in the end,
as they had already secured political position and literary fame.
But there was no reason for distrust here. Mr. Bentley was not a man to
think of wealth when a separation from his child was the question. It
was to him a matter of no consequence whatever that Woodworth lacked the
means of adding to his own broad possessions. Being neither mercenary
nor capable of suspecting others of so mean a feeling without just
cause, he waived the question of property altogether, just as his
high-souled daughter had done. He did not make it important enough to
feel self-complacency that he was able to endow the man of genius with
the wealth he neither despised nor coveted. In this respect the two men
were alike. It was the fair girl who sat in a tremor of expectation
up-stairs of whom both thought, and for whom both acted.
Gillian had heard the footsteps of her lover in the vestibule, and
listened breathlessly till the library door closed upon him. She had no
apprehension of the result of this visit to her father, but still her
heart beat loudly, and her cheek flushed. They were talking of her: for
the first time her noble father and lover were standing face to face in
their new relations. How would they like each other? How would the
sensitive and retiring nature of her father meet the frank energy of the
young man?
The interview was not long. She heard the library door open and close—a
footstep, not his, for her heart did not leap to the sound, but stood
still, expectant, sounded on the marble floor. It was her father who
mounted the grand staircase and approached her own room. The same sad
smile was on his lip—the same look of pain on his forehead. Gillian’s
heart began to ache as she saw him; for she was not one of those who
could be happy while any thing she loved was in sorrow. The smile with
which he addressed her was indescribably sweet.
“Gillian, go down: some one is waiting for you in the library.”
She arose and went up to him with that exquisite grace which springs
from deep feeling.
“Father,” she pleaded, bowing her stately head like a white lily when it
thirsts for night-dew—“father, bless me before I go.”
He laid one hand on her head and blessed her with tears in his eyes.
Gillian felt her own eyes fill. Seldom, in her life, had she seen her
father weep before that day. It was thus with a swell of holy tenderness
at her heart that she went down to meet her betrothed.
Woodworth stood within the dim room, waiting. All his pride was gone:
the tenderness of a great love reigned in its place. For the first time
his soul gave away to the ardor of its new passion; his eyes flashed;
his lip curved with joyous smiles. She lost all other thoughts as her
eyes met his and became radiant as the morning.
They could not speak, for such love has no adequate language, but her
hand was in his, a strong arm glided around her, and she felt the
beating of his heart; his lips fell like a honey-bee to the bloom of
hers: and then they sat down together on the silken cushions of the
great window, happy as the angels when they have secured a soul for
heaven.
As they sat thus in the sumptuous twilight the library door opened, and
Michael Hurst stood in the gloom closely regarding them. The pliant
hinges in that house seldom made a noise, and it was some minutes before
either Woodworth or Gillian saw the intruder. When they did look up, the
cold surprise on Hurst’s face made the young girl recoil. The serpent
had entered their paradise.
“I beg pardon; but the servant informed me that I should find Miss Hart
in the library,” said Hurst, advancing to the window, and searching the
two with his eyes.
Gillian only bowed, while Woodworth remained silent, annoyed by the
intrusion, but unconscious that it had any importance.
“Shall I find her in the drawing-room?” persisted the insolent young
man, still fixing his eyes on Gillian; “or may I expect her here?”
“I do not know where my aunt is,” said Gillian, with a proud lift of the
head; “but she seldom visits this room: it is my father’s.”
“The servant will be able to tell me, perhaps,” said Hurst, bowing
profoundly, and moving toward the door; “do not let me disturb you.”
There was a sneer in his voice which Gillian felt keenly. Why was she
compelled to see that man beneath her father’s roof? What infatuation
was it which gave him so much power over Aunt Hetty? That sad, nervous
woman, usually so still and yielding, had proved obstinate in receiving
him at all hours, seasonable and unseasonable. Martha Hart, too, had
brought the force of her innocent will into the contest—for there had
been one—and could not understand what Gillian could find against a
young man so handsome, and who always had some charming thing to say,
which was enough to make any woman like him. As for old Dinah, she was
infatuated with the young man. He had given her a real Madras
handkerchief, which she wore triumphantly as a turban, and always
designated her as Miss Hart’s maid, a distinction she was resolute in
maintaining with a high hand if that proved necessary.
Hurst found the elder and younger Miss Hart in a cosy little
sitting-room up-stairs, where he had known them to be all along; but the
servant had told him that Miss Bentley was in the library with a
gentleman, and he had gratified an audacious curiosity as we have
related.
Martha—really it is quite impossible to tell the changes that had come
over pretty Martha Hart since her retreat from the country. She was so
pretty in her white muslin dress and cherry-colored ribbons, her round
arms had grown so white, and her plump hands so daintily soft and
dimpled, that she seemed more like a good-natured, happy child than a
full-grown girl, as she really was. Fresh from her farm-life, she
enjoyed the luxury of her new existence like a bird when he finds the
cherry trees laden with fruit, and received all the flattery bestowed on
her with an appetite as keen as the little songster’s.
Aunt Hetty and Dinah had been called to a consultation with regard to
the costume in which Martha was to appear at the great party now close
at hand. A curious council it was. Aunt Hetty, of course, had no opinion
to give: she never had, poor thing! Martha herself was very much in
favor of appearing as a flower girl, with a basket of roses on her head;
while Dinah impetuously expressed her preference for an oriental
costume, glittering with gold-lace, and gorgeous with contrasting
colors.
“Now, young Misses, what’s the use of dem daisies and cowslops down here
in York?—got nuff and plenty ob dem tings on de farm; jes yer put on
dese garmins as some Queen ob Sheba hab worn afore yer, and stand up wid
de best on ’em. What if Miss Gillian is a head taller than you is, an’
walks proud as de peacock afore him fedders drop, hain’t yer got de same
blood in yer veins, wid eyes like black huckleberries, and a skin like
curd now you’ve got de tan off? Jes yer let ’em see as der is more en
one queen under dis horspertal roof. Miss Gillian is a smart gal, but
she ain’t all cr’ation no more den udder folks. Golly no!”
“Hush!” said Aunt Hetty, nervously, “some one is coming!” and the old
lady held her breath as the footsteps approached.
“Oh, golly, I’se satisfied. It’s only Mister Hurst, and he’s sartin ter
gree to my ’pinion. We has de same taste: jes look at dis handkercher
and see.”