58
GILLIAN.
“Of the house? Oh! yes, it was of stone; rough, heavy stone, with wings and a porch, over which some vine crept, and sent its branches down like a curtain. In front was a great tree, maple I should think—"
“No, walnut!"
“Oh! walnut, was it? Very well, I know that it seemed a tall tree, through which the sunset shimmered like gold. Beyond that, on the right, sloping down a hill, lay an orchard, from which I had stolen the green apples in my apron.”
“And this is all?”
“How can you think so, father? Would that make a complete picture? No! no! In the centre of the room stood a lady, a tall, beautiful lady, combing her hair. I think, papa, but am not quite certain, that I had torn away her comb while she was striving to take the green apples from my apron; for I have a feeling that she was angry with me, and that I had conquered in something. Was I a very wilful, naughty child, papa?”
“I am afraid you were not the only wilful one in those days, Gillian,” said the father, sadly, “But go on; this is a new revelation to me; why, child, you were but little more than two years old then. But the—the lady?”
“She stood before the looking-glass, holding her hair up with one hand. It was bright and heavy, sweeping down over her arm in waves; the color—yes! father, the color was like mine; and I never thought of it till now. But the lady herself was tall and, and—indeed she was so like myself, when I dress my hair before the glass, that it must have been all a dream. Only, papa, did I ever wear a dress like that pink calico, with a white vine running over it? And, if you ever knew such a lady, did she wear a dress of very dark crimson, sprinkled with tiny leaves of a brighter red?”
“Yes! Gillian, yes! She wore a dress like that. An India silk, rare in those days.”
“And the lady herself? Was she a real, human being? Did I ever know her? Could this picture be in reality my old home?”
“You will know in a little time, Gillian.”
“And the lady—shall I see her?”
A cloud came over Mr. Bentley’s face, and he turned away without answering. But the young lady was not one to be put readily from any purpose. She drew close to his side, and resting one hand on his arm, bent lovingly toward him.
“Was this lady my mother?” she said, almost in a whisper.
He answered, in the same low voice, “Yes! Gillian. The lady was your mother.”
“My mother’s brother, papa? Her own
brother, and my uncle? I never knew before
that we had relatives in this country. What is
he like? Is he married? Has he any children—
daughters? Indeed I hope so How strange it
will seem to have relatives!”
Mr. Bentley smiled gravely at this ardent outburst, and answered her questions one after another.
“Your uncle Hart, I have just said, is an honest, hardy, frank farmer, who has earned his own bread with toil and energy all his life. He has been married, and is a widower, with one child, who keeps the house. This is all I can tell you before you have an opportunity of judging for yourself.”
“And will that be soon, papa? I am getting very tired of this little vessel. It seemed picturesque enough at a distance, but really it is not particularly comfortable.”
“Well, have a little patience, and your pilgrimage is ended. You see where the hills overtop each other at our left. No, not there, but farther up stream. Well, between those hills is a valley, through which a road passes into the country. There our water travel ends, and tonight we shall sleep in the old homestead.”
“How mournfully you speak, papa! Thin visit home seems to give you no pleasure! And yet you were so determined on it!”
“I am far beyond the age of ardent feelings, Gillian. Few things excite me to pleasure now.”
“But pain! Oh! papa, if age takes away all capacities for pleasure, and leaves the powers of pain untouched, I pray God to take me early from the earth,” cried the young girl, with tears
