Chapter XXVI: 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.”