GABRIEL AT HOME.
During all this time Gabriel Bennet is becoming a merchant. Every morning
he arrives at the store with the porter or before him. He helps him sweep
and dust; and it is Gabriel who puts Lawrence Newt's room in order,
laying the papers in place, and taking care of the thousand nameless
details that make up comfort. He reads the newspapers before the other
clerks arrive, and sits upon chests of tea or bales of matting in the
loft, that fill the air with strange, spicy, Oriental odors, and talks
with the porter. In the long, warm afternoons, too, when there is no
pressure of business, and the heat is overpowering, he sits also alone
among those odors, and his mind is busy with all kinds of speculations,
and dreams, and hopes.
As he walks up Broadway toward evening, his clear, sweet eyes see every
thing that floats by. He does not know the other side of the fine dresses
he meets any more than of the fine houses, with the smiling, glittering
windows. The sun shines bright in his eyes--the street is gay--he nods
to his friends--he admires the pretty faces--he wonders at the fast men
driving fast horses--he sees the flowers in the windows, the smiling
faces between the muslin curtains--he gazes with a kind of awe at the
funerals going by, and marks the white bands of the clergymen and the
physicians--the elm-trees in the hospital yard remind him of the woods at
Delafield; and here comes Abel Newt, laughing, chatting, smoking, with an
arm in the arms of two other young men, who are also smoking. As Gabriel
passes Abel their eyes meet. Abel nods airily, and Gabriel quietly; the
next moment they are back to back again--one is going up street, the
other down.
It is not one of the splendid houses before which Gabriel stops when he
has reached the upper part of the city. It is not a palace, nor is it
near Broadway. Nor are there curtains at the window, but a pair of
smiling faces, of friendly women's faces. One is mild and maternal, with
that kind of tender anxiety which softens beauty instead of hardening it.
It has that look which, after she is dead, every affectionate son thinks
he remembers to have seen in his mother's face; and the other is younger,
brighter--a face of rosy cheeks, and clustering hair, and blue eyes--a
beaming, loyal, loving, girlish face.
They both smile welcome to Gabriel, and the younger face, disappearing
from the window, reappears at the door. Gabriel naturally kisses those
blooming lips, and then goes into the parlor and kisses his mother. Those
sympathetic friends ask him what has happened during the day. They see if
he looks unusually fatigued; and if so, why so? they ask. Gabriel must
tell the story of the unlading the ship _Mary B._, which has just come
in--which is Lawrence Newt's favorite ship; but why called _Mary B._ not
even Thomas Tray knows, who knows every thing else in the business. Then
sitting on each side of him on the sofa, those women wonder and guess
why the ship should be called _Mary B._ What Mary B.? Oh! dear, there
might be a thousand women with those initials. And what has ever happened
to Mr. Newt that he should wish to perpetuate a woman's name? Stop!
remembers mamma, his mother's name was Mary. Mary what? asks the
daughter. Mamma, _you_ remember, of course.
Mamma merely replies that his mother's name was Bunley--Mary Bunley--a
famous belle of the close of the last century, when she was the most
beautiful woman at President Washington's levees--Mary Bunley, to whom
Aaron Burr paid his addresses in vain.
"Yes, mamma; but who was Aaron Burr?" ask those blooming lips, as the
bright young eyes glance from under the clustering curls at her mother.
"Ellen, do you remember this spring, as we were coming up Broadway,
we passed an old man with a keen black eye, who was rather carelessly
dressed, and who wore a cue, with thick hair of his own, white as snow,
whom a good many people looked at and pointed out to each other, but
nobody spoke to?--who gazed at you as we passed so peculiarly that you
pressed nearer to me, and asked who it was, and why such an old man
seemed to be so lonely, and in all that great throng, which evidently
knew him, was as solitary as if he had been in a desert?"
"Perfectly--I remember it," replies Ellen.
"That friendless old man, my dear, whom at this moment perhaps scarcely
a single human being in the world loves, was the most brilliant beau
and squire of dames that has ever lived in this country; handsome,
accomplished, and graceful, he has stepped many a stately dance with the
queenly Mary Bunley, mother of Lawrence Newt. But that was half a century
ago."
"Mamma," asks Ellen, full of interest in her mother's words, "but why
does nobody speak to him? Why is he so alone? Had he not better have died
half a century ago?"
"My dear, you have seen Mrs. Beriah Dagon, an aunt of Mr. Lawrence
Newt's? She was Cecilia Bunley, sister of Mary. When she was younger
she used to go to the theatre with a little green snake coiled around
her arm like a bracelet. It was the most lovely green--the softest color
you ever saw; it had the brightest eyes, the most sinuous grace; it had
a sort of fascination, but it filled you with fear; fortunately, it was
harmless. But, Ellen, if it could have stung, how dreadful it would have
been! Aaron Burr was graceful, and, accomplished, and brilliant; he
coiled about many a woman, fascinating her with his bright eyes and his
sinuous manner; but if he had stung, dear?"
Ellen shakes her head as her mother speaks, and Gabriel involuntarily
thinks of Abel Newt.
When Mrs. Bennet goes out of the room to attend to the tea, Gabriel says
that for his part he doesn't believe in the least that the ship was named
for old Mrs. Newt; people are not romantic about their mothers; and Miss
Ellen agrees with him.
The room in which they sit is small, and very plain. There are only a
sofa, and table, and some chairs, with shelves of books, and a coarse
carpet. Upon the wall hangs a portrait representing a young and beautiful
woman, not unlike Mrs. Bennet; but the beauty of the face is flashing and
passionate, not thoughtful and mild like that of Gabriel's mother. But
although every thing is very plain, it is perfectly cheerful. There is
nothing forlorn in the aspect of the room. Roses in a glass upon the
table, and the voice and manner of the mother and daughter, tell every
thing.
Presently they go in to tea, and Mr. Bennet joins them. His face is pale,
and of gentle expression, and he stoops a little in his walk. He wears
slippers and an old coat, and has the air of a clergyman who has made up
his mind to be disappointed. But he is not a clergyman, although his
white cravat, somewhat negligently tied, and his rusty black dress-coat,
favor that theory. There is a little weariness in his expression, and an
involuntary, half-deferential smile, as if he fully assented to every
thing that might be presented--not because he is especially interested in
it or believes it, but because it is the shortest way of avoiding
discussion and getting back to his own thoughts.
"Gabriel, my son, I am glad to see you!" his father says, as he seats
himself, not opposite his wife, but at one side of the table. He inquires
if Mr. Newt has returned, and learns that he has been at home for several
days. He hopes that he has enjoyed his little journey; then sips his tea,
and looks to see if the windows are closed; shakes himself gently, and
says he feels chilly; that the September evenings are already autumnal,
and that the time is coming when we must begin to read aloud again after
tea. And what book shall we read? Perhaps the best of all we can select
is Irving's Life of Columbus; Mr. Bennet himself has read it in the
previous year, but he is sure his children will be interested and
delighted by it; and, for himself, he likes nothing better than to read
over and over a book he knows and loves. He puts down his knife as
he speaks, and plays with his tea-spoon on the edge of the cup.
"I find myself enchanted with the description of the islands in the
Gulf, and the life of those soft-souled natives. As I read on, I smell
the sweet warm odors from the land; I pick up the branches of green
trees floating far out upon the water; I see the drifting sea-weed,
and the lights at night upon the shore; then I land, and lie under
the palm-trees, and hear the mellow tongue of the tropics; I taste the
luscious fruits; I bask in that rich, eternal sun--" His eyes swim with
tropical languor as he speaks. He still mechanically balances the spoon
upon the cup, while his mind is deep sunk in reverie. As his wife glances
at him, both the look of tenderness and of anxiety in her face deepen.
But the moment of silence rouses him, and with the nervous smile upon his
face, he says, "Oh--ah!--I--yes--let it be Irving's Columbus!"
Toward his wife Mr. Bennet's manner is almost painfully thoughtful. His
eye constantly seeks hers; and when he speaks to her, the mechanical
smile which greets every body else is replaced by a kind of
indescribable, touching appeal for forgiveness. It is conveyed in
no particular thing that he says or does, but it pervades his whole
intercourse with her. As Gabriel and Ellen grow up toward maturity, Mrs.
Bennet observes that the same peculiarity is stealing into his manner
toward them. It is as if he were involuntarily asking pardon for some
great wrong that he has unconsciously done them. And yet his mildness,
and sweetness, and simplicity of nature are such, that this singular
manner does not disturb the universal cheerfulness.
"You look a little tired to-night, father," says Gabriel, when they are
all seated in the front room again, by the table, with the lamp lighted.
"Yes," replies the father, who sits upon the sofa, with his wife by his
side--"yes; Mr. Van Boozenberg was very angry to-day about some error he
thought he had discovered, and he was quite short with us book-keepers,
and spoke rather sharply."
A slight flush passes over Mr. Bennet's face, as if he recalled something
extremely disagreeable. His eyes become dreamy again; but after a moment
the old smile returns, and, as if begging pardon, in a half bewildered
way, he resumes:
"However, his position is trying. Fortunately there wasn't any mistake
except of his own."
He is silent again. After a little while he asks, "Couldn't we have some
music? Ellen, can't you sing something?"
Ellen thinks she can, if Gabriel will sing second; Gabriel says he will
try, with pleasure; but really--he is so overwhelmed--the state of his
voice--he feigns a little cough--if the crowded and fashionable audience
will excuse--he really--in fact, he will--but he is sure--
During this little banter Nellie cries, "Pooh, pooh!" mamma looks
pleased, and papa smiles gently. Then the fresh young voices of the
brother and sister mingle in "Bonnie Doon."
The room is not very light, for there is but one lamp upon the table by
which the singers sit. The parents sit together upon the sofa; and as the
song proceeds the hand of the mother steals into that of the father,
which holds it closely, while his arm creeps noiselessly around her
waist. Their hearts float far away upon that music. His eyes droop as
when he was speaking of the tropic islands--as if he were hearing the
soft language of those shores. As his wife looks at him she sees on his
face, beneath the weariness of its expression, the light which shone
there in the days when they sang "Bonnie Doon" together. He draws her
closer to him, and his head bows as if by long habit of humility. Her
eyes gradually fill with tears; and when the song is over her head is
lying on his breast.
While they are still sitting in silence there is a ring at the door, and
Lawrence Newt and Amy Waring enter the room.