THE SUNSHINE AND SHADOWS OF LOVE.
“Who is speaking of Mr. Hurst?” exclaimed the young man, entering the
room; “not the lovely Martha? I fear with so many admirers she can
hardly find a word to throw away on a poor fellow like me.”
“Because you throw away so many on yourself,” said Martha, laughing as
she arranged the artificial flowers in a little basket on her lap. “Wait
till I put these red roses in against the white, so. There, ain’t I a
pretty flower-girl? and isn’t this just the character for me?”
“It is perfection,” cried the young man, as she coquettishly balanced
the basket on her head, “one almost smells the new-mown hay from which
the flowers were gathered.”
Martha laughed till the basket trembled on her head.
“That’s all you know of real flowers,” she cried. “Why these are made of
muslin, and moss, and ever so many things. Real flowers would wilt under
the first chandelier that shone on them. No, no, real roses for the
country, and artificial ones here. Don’t laugh, I’m a great deal wiser
than you think.”
“Wiser? why there never was such a little philosopher. I am really half
in love with your wisdom, and quite with yourself. What say you, Miss
Hart, shall I propose at once to this pretty flower-girl?”
“Propose! propose! what! you?” faltered the old lady, terrified as she
always was by any thing that led her thoughts into a new channel. “I
never thought of the thing. Our Martha and you! Is this in earnest? You
should not say these dreadful things in joke, Michael. Mr. Hurst, it
shocks one so.”
“Well, then, suppose we change the lady, and say Miss Bentley instead of
Miss Hart?” persisted the young man, with a glance in his eyes that sent
the blood from Aunt Hetty’s face. “That would be one way of making
restitution, don’t you think so, madam?”
The blood that had retreated from Aunt Hetty’s face now left her lips
also, and, with a faint moan, she fell back in her chair, quite
insensible.
Hurst regarded her with a triumphant look, while Martha flung the basket
to the floor, crushing the flowers as she knelt before her aunt, and
Dinah ran up to her chest for a camphor-bottle, with which she soon
appeared, pouring its contents into the palm of her hand as she hurried
along.
“There, them’s um. Dat camphor’ll bring her too if any thing on yearth
will! ’Tain’t none of yer York trash, but the ginuine article ’solved in
rum as id make yer mouth water, temp’rance or no temp’rance! Dar now,
don’t yer see her eyelids are beginning ter flutter? Mighty powerful
stuff dis ’ere camphor! Most raise de dead if ’em hadn’t laid too long.
Dar now, how is yer, Miss Hetty? Lor, when a person is prepared
aforehand wid means ob resurrection, dese fits ’mount to nothin’ nohow.”
“Are you better, dear lady?” said Hurst, bending over the helpless
woman, as she shrunk together in her easy-chair.
She looked at him wistfully, almost in terror.
“What—what did you mean? Restitution! who talks of that?”
“No one talked of any thing that should give you pain. It was a
joke—what else should it be? Are you better? Why, how you tremble!”
“She always trembles when these fits come on,” said Martha, chafing the
cold hands in hers. “The other day, when Cousin Gillian spoke about you,
she didn’t get over shivering all night.”
“Spoke about me? What did the young lady say, pretty Martha?”
Dinah set her broad foot down on Martha’s little slipper with a force
that made the unconscious girl cry out. When she looked up to
expostulate, the old woman’s face was gathered into a thousand warning
wrinkles till it looked like a dried prune.
“What did she say? I was present on dat ’casion, Mas Hurst, and a more
beautifuler complaisance never fell from lubly lips den she ’spressed
’garding yer. Ob course der wasn’t no ’casion for Miss Hetty here ter go
an’ faint like a consarned ole fool, and she didn’t do it nohow.”
Hurst said nothing, but he reasoned with himself.
“So I have been under discussion, and unpleasantly! Well, the sooner we
open the war now the better. If I do not mistake the signs, it is full
time for action.”
“There, now that Aunt Hetty is better,” said Martha, rising from her
knee, scarlet from Dinah’s rebuke, “will you help me pick up my poor
flowers? I have made up my mind, Dinah. The Queen of Sheba may go to
Amsterdam; I’ll be a flower girl and nothing else. With a basket on my
head, wreaths over my shoulder, and a muslin apron running over with
roses, red roses. Let them wilt—who cares? they are sweeter, a thousand
times, when the bloom is gone, than these pretty shams.”
Dinah tossed her head and sniffed the air grandly.
“Der am pussons as kin ’commodate demselves ter any sitewation; and dem
as can’t do it nohow. I don’t want to make collusions, but every one
understands her own compassity best. Now if yer was to say, ‘Dinah, am
you compacitated to be a Queen of Sheba, or any udder ’public?’ I should
say to once, ‘Yes, I is—don’t look furder—Dinah’s here.’ But der am a
difference ’tween folks and folks, no doubt ’bout dat. Dere was our
Sarah, Miss Gillian’s mudder, she was a born queen, dyed in de wool:
couldn’t a-made her carry a basket ob roses nohow. Wid one toss ob her
head she’d a-sent ’em flyin’; but den she was white folks.”
“You remember Mrs. Bentley, then?” inquired Hurst, with sudden interest.
“Well, I ’spect likely. Why not?” answered the old woman, with a shrewd
gleam in her eyes.
“Did you live at Mr. Hart’s at the time of her marriage?”
“’Spect likely,” replied Dinah, suddenly becoming shy and laconic.
“And before—when the first Mr. Bentley was killed?”
“Ask agin. I ’spect it was afore dat, I fust went to live at de stun
house, ’cause my nancestors was born slaves in dat ’dentical family, and
none of their ’scendants would be born anywhere else on no ’count. Liz
am de last sprout on de ancestrous tree, and her cradle stands in a
garret, circumstantious ebidence ob her bein’ born in de hum ob dem
honorous colored pusons as descended afore her.”
“Then you have always lived with the Harts?”
“Them’s um,” answered Dinah, with a nod of the head. “Come wid em from
down-east.”
“And you know the entire history of the family?”
“Mr. Hurst—Mr. Hurst—how can you?” cried Martha, pointing to Aunt Hetty,
who had risen, and stood gazing on the young man, white as snow, with
her pale lips parted, as if she wished to speak but could not.
Hurst turned suddenly and stood mute, while Aunt Hetty moved toward him
like a ghost, and, touching his arm with her finger, said hoarsely,
“Young man, desist. In the name of the dead, desist!”
He stooped his head and whispered,
“I will, dear lady, when you tell me the whole truth.”
She looked wildly around the room, as if searching for some means of
escape; then her eyes turned to his with a fascinated stare, and she
said, in the same hoarse voice,
“Come with me then.”
He followed her out of the room toward her own chamber, and they
disappeared through the door.
“Now dat consarned ole fool has gone full jump down de young sarpent’s
throat, jus’ as I’ve seen a robin fly inter de mout’ ob a black snake,
singin’ all de time. Dinah! Dinah! if it wasn’t for your ’scretion what
would dey all come to?—corn shucks and rye straw, nothing more
’stantial. Marcy Lord! hasn’t I a time on it?”
Away Dinah went, leaving Martha bewildered among her flowers; but she
was just in time to see Miss Hart’s door shut and the key turned in her
face.
“Well,” said she, with enforced philosophy, “when de debil gets de start
ob Dinah, look out for cinders! If dat darned ole maid wants to turn up
Jack, she’ll do it now. Dat young feller has a good idea about de
handkerchers as is becoming to de fair sex, but de ole sarpent is in
him, or I don’t know de horns ob de debil when de poke out ’daciously.
Now, ole nigger, be on yer guard, for der am troubles brewin’, no
mistake ’bout dat.”
The old woman went to her own room, for she was handsomely accommodated
in the upper story, where her chest formed a conspicuous ornament to the
room; but she was really too anxious for rest anywhere, and hovered for
an hour about the door of Hetty Hart’s chamber, really alarmed, and
wondering what could be the subject of this long conference.
At last the door opened, and young Hurst came out. His face was flushed,
and his eyes were dusky with passion—burning, fierce passion—that made
you recoil, like the poisonous gases in a well. He swept by the old
negress without appearing to see her, but still possessed presence of
mind enough to step softly and leave the house without observation.
Dinah went into Aunt Hetty’s room, and found the poor lady prostrate on
a couch, trembling so violently that every thing around her shook. She
must have wept passionately—an unusual thing with her, for a cushion
that had been thrust under her head was wet, and the tears were still
streaming down her face, which was white and contracted, as if an attack
of cholera had left her prostrate.
“Miss Hetty, what hab you been and done? I ’plore ye tell yer ole
servant all ’bout it! If trouble of all kind falls on de Hart family,
who kin bear it better den de old nigger woman as watched ye from yer
cradle, and knows more ’en she’ll eber talk ’bout?”
Hetty lifted one hand, with which she swept the tears from her eyes. The
look which she cast on Dinah was heart-rending.
“What did you tell him? Tell de old woman or yer heart ’ill bust for
sart’in, and de Lord on’y kin help yer if she can’t! Speak out! what did
ye say ter him?”
“I don’t know, Dinah.”
“And he stayed here a hull hour?”
“He was pleading—threatening—wounding me to death all the time. Oh,
Dinah, my good Dinah, pity me, pity me; for I have no friend on
earth—nothing but you; for you lived with us then, and for that, if
nothing else, I love you, Dinah.”
“Poor chile! poor chile! Jes as she was when I held her in dese arms a
baby. She hain’t been so nat’ral since that day. Look up, chile; Dinah
’ill take care of yer. Now jis try and ’member ’bout what ye told dat
feller, for ’fore de Lord I ’spects him.”
“Don’t! oh! don’t, Dinah! my heart is so sore from his cruelty! He would
not believe me! He frightened the words out of my bosom, and then raved
that they did not please him! What shall I do, Dinah? tell me what I can
do?”
“What can you do! Why, jes dis: Till dat young rapscallion begs
pardon—for dat ’ere is de word as come uppermost to my mout’—tell him to
keep ’bout his business, and not come near yer ag’in. You’ve acted like
a bird twitterin’ to get out ob de way ob a snake ever since he came
here so much. Miss Gillian loves him like p’ison, and my own young
Misses will soon be getting skeery when he comes in. If it wasn’t for
you, Miss Hetty, ’fore de Lord I don’t believe he’d come at all!”
“I know, I know!” moaned Hetty, writhing on the bed. “I wish they
wouldn’t feel so toward him; it only makes bitterness and works danger.
Tell Martha not to turn against him, for my sake—for Gillian’s sake.”
“Look a-here!” exclaimed Dinah, sniffing the air after her old fashion
when an unpleasant idea presented itself, “if yer means ter ’siniwate
dat dis feller is wantin’ to spark Miss Mattie, an’ I’se to look on
widout ’spressin’ my ’pinion on de suggect, ’tain’t of no use. He’s a
mean specimin, and I’ll tell her so.”
“Oh! it isn’t that. He doesn’t want Martha. It isn’t for her sake he
comes here. I wish it was.”
“P’raps yer does; but I dusent. If yer wants to let a fox enter a brood
ob young chickens, or hatch a rattlesnake in a hen’s nest, try it, but
Dinah won’t help. He give me a handke’cher, and I’se grateful; but de
young Misses is under my ’tection, and he shan’t took at her over a pair
of six rail-bars, if I can ’fend her from it.”
Hetty was not listening; her eyes were fixed on the wall, and her hands
clasped hard, as if she were trying to pray and could not.
Dinah began to speak again; but the poor woman motioned her off with a
despairing movement, and closed her eyes wearily, as if they ached.
“So yer bound not ter tell what’s on yer heart?” said the old negress,
wiping her eyes. “Well, de Lord be wid yer; per’aps yer’ll tell Him what
’tis dat ’stresses yer so. Nobody else can’t do nothin’ ’cause dere’s no
comprehensionizing de fust princ’pals ob de suggect.”
So Dinah went forth, angry that all her eloquence had obtained no
knowledge of a subject that had interested her so deeply, and grieved to
the depths of her really kind heart to see her mistress so unhappy.
Dinah had scarcely left the chamber when Aunt Hetty, pale as death, and
with a strange look on her face, as if tears had washed all the light
and color away, arose and tottered around her chamber, with one hand
lifted to her forehead. She was searching for a bonnet and shawl, which
she put on with dreary slowness. Then she sat down on a bed, and fell to
thinking, hour after hour, till the light faded, leaving her almost in
darkness. At last she looked suddenly toward the window, gathered the
shawl around her, and stole out by a back staircase seldom used by any
one except the servants.
Gillian had parted from her lover and gone to her own room—that
sanctuary of a maiden’s thoughts which should be, like the owner, pure
as snow. This feeling had possessed Mr. Bentley when he took so much
pains to combine simplicity with luxury in the arrangements of the suit
of rooms appropriated exclusively to his daughter. Bright and fragrant
was Gillian’s chamber as she entered it; more fragrant than usual, for a
basket of moss roses and heliotrope had reached her in the morning, so
arranged that she had no doubt of the giver; and clusters of these
lovely flowers were scattered about the room: you could see them through
the delicate curtains of the bed, resting upon the pure linen pillows,
and sending a pink glow up to the soft masses of embroidery which clung
to the lace like snowflakes. They were grouped in the tall vermilion
glasses that stood upon the sculptured whiteness of the mantle-piece,
just in quantities to send a faint fragrance through the room and no
more.
The window draperies were of lace, like those of the bed, and floated
over blinds of a blue so delicate that they seemed patches of a warm sky
breaking the edge of a summer cloud. A faint tinge of blue damask, with
which the couch and easy-chairs were cushioned, stole out from the fine
linen covers; and clusters of white roses, tied by blue ribbons, formed
a beautiful pattern to the blue and drab ground of the carpet.
Two doors opened from this chamber, opposite the entrance: one led to
her dressing-room, which, with all its luxurious paraphernalia, was
closed; and the other to her bath-room, which was cool and pure as a
white marble floor and slabs advancing a yard up the polished walls
could render it.
A marble bath, in the form of a huge conch shell, occupied one end of
the room, the lip of the shell curving downward, and an inner lining of
pale amber, flushing off to pink as it retreated to the heart of the
shell, melted softly into its edges.
Above the bath, and forming a sort of cornice to the marble behind, was
a lovely statuette, one of those generous purchases with which Mr.
Bentley loved to encourage struggling genius. It was a female, softly
falling to sleep, with her head resting on one arm, and her figure
reclining on a bank. At her feet, the lotus, with its broad leaves,
suggested the neighborhood of water, which was artfully carried out by
the liquid drops that gushed through them and fell raining into the
bath.
The bell-like tinkle of these water drops was in harmony with Gillian’s
thoughts. She lay down on a couch which commanded a view of the
statuette, gazing dreamily on the sweet face, where a perpetual smile
was frozen, which, after all, was but a shadow of her own warm, living
joy.
There the young girl lay, with her head uplifted by the pillows of the
couch, her hands softly folded over her heart, and her lips parted as
sweet, unuttered words died away upon them in smiles.
You could have counted the beatings of her heart through the muslin
folds of her dress; the rise and fall of the white hands clasped over
it, and crushing out perfume from the spray of moss rose-buds which
trembled to each thrill of happiness that stirred her bosom.
Then she turned her head upon the pillow, giving her glowing cheeks to
the air. She gathered the roses from her bosom and pressed them to her
lips with both hands, murmuring softly, as the water drops fell, “He
loves me! He loves me!”
Deep feeling is poverty-stricken when it seeks for adequate expression.
It was the gush and warmth of this tender whisper which would have told
you how happy the young girl was.
Love is childlike in its simplicity—inexplicable to those who have never
felt the joy of knowing it, and of that number are, perhaps, ninety-five
people out of a hundred. Gillian was one of the happy few. Heart, mind,
and taste went with her affections. The pure romance of her nature was
satisfied entirely with the man who had won her. Pride, high, womanly
pride, which was her fault and her glory, crested itself on the choice
she had made. She could look up to him for strength, and yet feel that
she was his mate—that he had a right to be proud of her, as she was of
him.
Then she thought of her father with a feeling that she had never loved
him so thoroughly as then. In the breaking up of her heart a thousand
precious feelings were found which she had not dreamed of before. In the
glow of a great happiness, all her old affections took new vigor. To
love and be loved is to man or woman the crowning joy of existence, and
such it was to Gillian.
Gillian felt this beautiful truth to the depths of her being, and it
made a child of her. She kissed the roses he had given till their
perfume glowed on her mouth. She kissed her own white hands because his
lips had touched them last. She got up and surveyed herself in the tall
mirror of her dressing-room, jealous that she was not beautiful enough,
and greedy of more loveliness for his sake.
She let down her heavy, auburn hair, that it might ripple through her
hands and over her arm while she exulted in its lustre. The glow and
bloom of her beauty became precious to her for the first time, and all
for his sake.
All at once she became more simple in her tastes: diamond and emerald
rings were taken from her fingers and thrown into the pretty caskets.
Such gauds should not come in contact with the little circlet of gold
which Woodworth had, that morning, placed upon her hand. Henceforth his
taste should adorn her. She would value no ornament which he did not
choose. He should be all the world to her—more than the world; for
Gillian could have no idea of a happy eternity which he did not share.
When Gillian made this little sacrifice—for she longed to give up
something for her lover—she went back to the couch again. Her hands
stole up and clasped themselves over her heart—which beat more softly
now—and, closing her eyes, she fell into a sweet dream.
All this time Aunt Hetty lay in the agony of some great sorrow, moaning
on her bed in the chamber above—perfect happiness and deep suffering
within twenty feet of each other, without jarring or sympathy.
When Gillian fell to dreaming on her couch, Aunt Hetty stole out from
her chamber, and crept like a ghost by the door which shut in so much
joy. She did not feel it, but went on her own icy way, doubting if the
world held any thing but pain and sorrow.
Dinah sat in the upper hall, folding for herself a turban of colored
gauze, which was intended for the great party. She saw the quiet lady
stealing down the back staircase, and, hurriedly laying down her finery,
snatched up a shawl and followed, muttering to herself, “I wonder what
secret she kin have dat ole Dinah hain’t got a right ter know.”