Chapter XVII: 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.