Chapter XIX: The Bloomingdale Cottage

Youth is very sad at times: to it the future appears vague and unreal as eternity is to old age. A longing desire to know what lies beyond the present—a dreamy melancholy—timid fears of what may be, is sure to settle upon the young, susceptible mind, like morning fog over a garden of roses, making the sunshine more vivid when it comes. To the sensitive and most highly endowed this is certain to be true; and for such real happiness seldom exists, save in snatches and bright gleams, till imagination becomes a power, and then the blossom-season of life is gone.

Gillian Bentley was like an April day, now bright and richly happy, now saddened almost to tears. Neither of these moods, perhaps, had a definite cause, but they were a part of her nature. The shadows which the moonlight casts to the earth, the perishing of a rose she had loved, a gloomy look from her father—each or any of these were enough to cloud her pure forehead, and make her step languid for hours together. Yet when she was cheerful, nothing could be more charming than the exuberant flow of her spirits. She was like the mockingbird of Alabama, when it begins to sing among the great magnolia blossoms as the dawn flushes over them.

Indeed Gillian was a splendid creature in all her moods, and you always associated her with something rich and precious; the glow of life in her was so bright, that it was impossible to class her among those who are born for toil or common suffering. I cannot describe this girl exactly as she appears to me, for her character seemed to vary every moment; and her face—one might as well attempt to make the perfume of a flower visible, as convey an idea of its beautiful changes.

It was only in her sad moods that Gillian visited Mrs. Ransom. When she had been thoughtful an hour or two from any cause, the result was certain to be a visit to her friend, for such that singular woman became from the first.

These calls to the Bloomingdale cottage usually took place in the morning, when Mrs. Ransom was almost sure to be in her library, and equally sure to refuse herself to all other visitors.

On the day after Hurst had made an unsuccessful effort to visit her father’s house, Gillian drove to the Bloomingdale road. She had not recognized the face of the young man, and the conduct of her aunt gave her some little anxious surprise. The old lady had been absent two or three hours after his disappearance, and the usual nervousness of her demeanor increased painfully on her return, until she glided off like a ghost to her own room and had not since appeared.

Gillian felt that she had offended her aunt. She could not even conjecture the nature of her fault; but her quick sensitiveness was aroused, and she fled to Mrs. Ransom for consolation.

Ruby had been taught to admit Gillian at all hours, without question of time or convenience: so the young girl passed her with a light step, and entered the library. It was empty: the writing-table stood in the centre, littered with papers, and the easy-chair she knew so well stood beside it; but the lady herself was nowhere visible.

This was a disappointment. Gillian hesitated a moment, and sat down in Mrs. Ransom’s chair with a feeling almost of reverence. Her eyes fell upon the bronze ink-stand, and instantly her thoughts flew back to Italy and the spot where her mother slept beneath a perpetual bloom of roses. The chair she occupied commanded a fine view of the river. It was spring-time, and early morning; the soft green of the trees, rendered brighter from the dew that was but partially exhaled, framed in glimpses of the river which sparkled in the early sunshine like veins of diamonds. Along the broken slopes of the bank a few old apple trees, heavy with blossoms, drooped to the soft, fresh turf; and, from the crevice of a rock, near the water, a young cherry tree, the growth of some stray seed, was just shedding its delicate flowers like a snow storm over a carpet of wood-moss that crept on to its roots; groups of lilacs and snow-balls broke on the wildness of the scene, and, without knowing it, Gillian began to smile, the stillness was so beautiful.

As she sat gazing through the window, Mrs. Ransom came slowly up from the river with a branch of wild honeysuckle in her hand. Her morning-dress, of a delicate blue, brightened the scene as she passed along. The ribbons of her pretty morning-cap fluttered in the wind, while her animated face and elastic tread gave queenliness to her whole appearance.

The lady was not alone: by her side walked a tall man, not very young in appearance, but with a quiet and calm stateliness which rendered his presence imposing as that of the lady. Sometimes Mrs. Ransom took the gentleman’s arm, and rested on it a moment, as she conversed.

Then she would stoop to pick a fern leaf, or a violet, from the grass, and move on again, with her head bent, as if listening to some subject that interested her greatly. Thus the two came toward the house, mounted the balcony to which the bay window opened, and sauntered through into the library.

Gillian stood up, blushing and confused. She felt like an intruder; and the shy grace which this sensation gave to her appearance was in itself a charm.

Mrs. Ransom started, and almost stepped back, when she saw this queenly girl standing there, with a smile on her lip, and a flush stealing over her whole face; but she recovered herself at once.

“My child—my dear Miss Bentley!” she said, with a confused attempt at welcome, “you here and waiting. Oh! I forgot—Mr. Woodworth, Miss Bentley.”

Mrs. Ransom sat down, panting for breath. It was her habit, when excited, to tear apart any thing that chanced to be in her hand. Thus she began to strip the honeysuckle branch of its blossoms, and scatter them on the carpet, while she watched the two persons she had introduced as they recognized the courtesy.

The gentleman was evidently struck by the glow of Gillian’s face, and by her subdued graciousness. He made some observation about the beauty of the morning, and looked about for a seat, while Gillian glided away from the easy-chair she had occupied, and drew gently up to Mrs. Ransom.

“You are not angry! Tell me, dear lady, have I intruded?” she said, bending gently toward her friend.

Her sweet, deprecating way touched Mrs. Ransom to the heart. Her face brightened with one of those grand, soul-lit smiles that made it resplendent at times.

“No, not angry, child; and you never can intrude—remember that!” she answered, casting the torn branch away, as if it were some painful thought which she flung off with an effort. “I was a little jealous that another should see you, that is all: so just scatter those roses back from your face—you have nothing to blush at.”

Mrs. Ransom spoke in a subdued tone, and Gillian imitated her as she answered:

“I have been sitting in your chair, dear lady, with the old gentleman looking down upon me so earnestly. It almost made my heart stand still when I first met his glance. It seemed as if he wanted to tell me something. Is it the likeness of some one you have loved?”

The gentleman had taken up a book, and was glancing over its pages, as this low-toned conversation commenced. Thus the two ladies were left, in a measure, to themselves. Mrs. Ransom’s face changed again, and, with a saddened look, she lifted her eyes to the portrait.

“Yes!” she said, almost in a whisper, “I loved him, heaven only knows how much! Loved him almost better than myself—than—than— He was a good man, Gillian—a rare man. I think that shame, or a knowledge of sin in those he loved, would have broken his heart. But nothing of this kind ever reached him. He died calmly, happily, I think.”

Her eyes, did not fill with tears as she spoke, but a flush rose about them, and her voice was low and hoarse.

“It is a calm, stern face,” whispered Gillian, drawing closer and closer to her friend; “I cannot tell why, but his look almost brings the tears to my eyes. He is not at all like papa, but there is something that reminds me of him about the picture.”

“Indeed, is your father like that? But it is not likely that a resemblance could exist between the two. It is because you like the picture.”

“Like it? Yes, but that would not account for this feeling. His eyes make me sad.”

Mrs. Ransom pressed the hand which Gillian had unconsciously laid in her clasp, but she did not speak; for that moment Mr. Woodworth closed his book and laid it on the table, conscious that the conversation was becoming oppressive to Mrs. Ransom, but apparently only weary of turning over the leaves.

With a quiet, almost indifferent manner, he began to converse about a poem that he had read. Mrs. Ransom replied in her usual earnest, frank way. Gillian did not speak, but her eyes began to kindle, and her cheeks grew red. In her whole life she had never heard a voice like that, so deep-toned, so clearly musical. The objection that Mrs. Ransom made to some sentiment that escaped him brought the fire to his soul. He began to talk earnestly, eloquently—so eloquently that Mrs. Ransom became interested—her thoughts flashed back to his own—her laugh rang out, full and clear. Spite of her age—spite of a certain troubled expression that habitually lay upon her—she grew brilliant beyond any thing that Gillian had believed her capable of.

The conversation was of a kind the young girl had never listened to before, running from subject to subject: poetry, prose, wild fancies that possessed all the elements of poesy without its rhythm, flashed before her. She was a being to feel all that was beautiful in the meeting of two minds so richly gifted, and her sympathies went with them to the full. Hitherto she had almost reverenced Mrs. Ransom as an author; now her whole soul went forth in homage to her womanliness and the truth of her character.

Woodworth read all that was passing in that fresh, young heart, with a glance. The admiration, and even homage, he saw there, inspired him with feelings more worthy than those of gratified vanity, but he scarcely addressed her in words, and he was entirely free from any of those pretty arts with which smaller men attempt to ingratiate themselves into favor with a young and beautiful woman. Indeed he was a man far above the usual level of society.

Perhaps the presence of Mrs. Ransom might have rendered his conduct, so far as she was concerned, more reserved than was usual to him; for he could not but remark how vigilantly her eyes followed his glances whenever they wandered toward the bright creature by her side. There was something anxious and almost stern in her manner, once or twice when she thus intercepted his admiration, which he could not understand.

At last Gillian arose to go; for, from the first, she had felt almost like an intruder. Mrs. Ransom did not urge her to stay, but arose and walked with her toward the door.

Woodworth smiled. He was too thorough a man of society to be baffled in this way; and, seeing some wild flowers on the table where Mrs. Ransom had cast them down, he took up a few of the violets and handed them to Gillian, smiling half-maliciously in Mrs. Ransom’s face, as he lifted his head from the profound inclination that had accompanied the gift.

Mrs. Ransom frowned, but instantly a smile crossed her lip at being thus outgeneraled; for she was a woman to forgive, nay, admire the quickness of wit that overmastered her own, even when it baffled her wishes.

As for Gillian, she blushed like a sudden dawn, and, with unconscious grace, lifted the violets to her lips, casting a purple shadow over the smiles that hovered there. In her whole life she had never received a gift which stirred her heart so pleasantly. She forgot Aunt Hetty—the young man of the side-walk—every thing, in the happy bewilderment that fell upon her.

Mrs. Ransom went forth with her to the outer door, kissed her with sweet tenderness of manner, and stood, with the young man at her side, while the carriage rolled away. As it swept round a curve of the road, they caught a last glimpse of her, leaning back in the carriage and holding the violets to her lips—the violets over which a soft, low sigh passed—giving and taking perfume as the horses swept her away from the spot that had been to her the paradise of an hour.

“And who is she?” inquired Woodworth, as his eyes met those of Mrs. Ransom, which were all at once clouded with sadness.

“She is—she is an angel—a good, bright angel, that keeps me from wishing to die,” said Mrs. Ransom; and her sad eyes swam in tears.

“She is a happy one to excite such emotions in a heart like yours,” answered the young man; and, with the tact born of perfect refinement, he left the lady to her solitude.