27. CHAPTER XXVII.
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
[ILLUSTRATION]
"How Can Ye Bloom Sae Fresh And Fair?"
[Description: 538EAF. Page 165. In-line Illustration. Image of young boy and girl seated at a table with books on it. The boy has his legs crossed and his hands in his pockets, while the girl looks at an open book. There is a kitten playing with a ball of yarn at the boys feet.]
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.
