Chapter I: Up the River

A steamer was making its way very quietly up the Hudson. She was a small affair, mostly devoted to freight, and ran to one of those river towns which are of little note in themselves, but form an outlet for the products of many a rich hill-side and valley lying back of that noble stream.

It made a pretty object on the river, because the season was autumn, when every thing that lives and moves through the hazy atmosphere takes some form of beauty. It was soon after the first frosts; the forests were heavy with a sumptuous richness of leaves, and their gorgeous tints were reflected in the water, till the currents that were in shadow seemed running with liquid jewels.

So the steamer moved on with the breath of that soft Indian summer sighing across its deck, so quietly, that the shadows through which it passed deepened without being broken, and the sunshine laughed around it as it does when the water-birds are frolicking, turning the foam to pearls and the spray to diamonds.

Two persons sat upon the deck—a man of fifty, wrapped in a travelling-cloak of foreign make, and a young girl of seventeen, also muffled in a cloth mantle lined with fur, in which she shivered as you see a poor Italian grayhound under all its pretty housings when winter begins to threaten us with cold.

Yet the girl was tall and fair, with that charming type of loveliness which makes an American woman a model all over the world—so delicate, so bright, and, alas! so evanescent is her beauty. Her air was foreign. The wonder with which she gazed abroad upon the hills, clothed in their autumnal foliage, bespoke her a stranger to the land; but her gray eyes, the abundance of rich auburn hair that fell in waves from under her hood of blue silk, and the energy of mind that spoke in every sweet feature was truly American, as the gorgeous foliage upon the hill-sides.

But there she sat upon the deck shivering in her furs, though the wind came laden with the breath of dying fern-leaves, and to one accustomed to our climate would have seemed balmy and fragrant rather than cold.

“Papa, do you hear me?”

The gentleman started and looked around with a nervous sort of terror in his eyes. Her voice had drawn his thoughts back from the long-ago with a pang, but he answered gently and smiling—

“Well, Gillian?”

The girl had spoken in Italian, and her voice rendered even that sweet language more melodious by its rich tones. Her father answered in English, and in that tongue she spoke the second time—

“Father, why have we come to this country? Is it to live here forever?”

“It is your native land, Gillian. Look abroad and tell me if Italy is more beautiful?”

“It is strange, gorgeous, oppressively gorgeous, father; but those grand old trees drink up all the warmth. I am chilled and lonely here.”

“It is my fault, Gillian. A daughter of America should not be chilled by a wind like this. I have done wrong to keep you away from home till you have forgotten your native land.”

“Not quite, papa. I remember it a little: the spot which I recollect is not like these hills, but a broken country, scattered with houses, with one at the foot of a rugged hill, which seemed to be my home. I only recollect it at one time, and in one way. The door was open; a glow of sunset fell upon the sill, crossing softly along the room in which I sat playing. I remember the very dress I wore. It had a pink tint, and was protected by a little white apron, rounded at the corners and frilled all round; in that apron I held some flowers, a handful of green apples, and a doll’s tea-set, huddled together.”

The girl paused, smiling: then she suddenly added, with a half-forced laugh, for there was something in her father’s eyes that made her hesitate—

“These are trivial things to remember so long, but somehow they will always come up, clear as a picture, when I think of this land. I could almost promise to recognize the very pattern of my dress on the moment, if it were before me; as for the toys, nothing has ever seemed so pretty to me since.”

“And is this all? Have you no remembrance of the house or its inmates?” asked the father, in a low voice.

“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 masses 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 his daughter 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.”

He raised the hand which still lay upon his knee in saying this, wrung it with a violence she had never witnessed before, and, arising suddenly, went down to the little cabin, waving her back as she attempted to follow.

Gillian looked after him, surprised and almost terrified. What had she said or done, to arouse so much emotion? Was it wrong for a child to inquire regarding the mother, who had died almost before her remembrance? These thoughts disturbed her greatly, and, joined to the loneliness around, left her sad.

After a little, Mr. Bentley returned and resumed the conversation of his own accord.

“We are going,” he said, “to the house which rests so marvellously in your memory, Gillian. It is now inhabited by your mother’s brother—a plain, simple farmer, who has held possession ever since I went abroad.”

“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 craft. It seemed pretty 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 to-night we shall sleep in the old homestead.”

“How mournfully you speak, papa! This 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 in her eyes; and taking her father’s hand, she kissed it tenderly.

Mr. Bentley drew his hand away, not angrily, but as one who shrinks from any unusual display of sentiment. His action was not that of a cold man, but of one who shielded deep feelings from a sudden assault.

“I did not say this, Gillian. All seasons of life have their blessings, if we only learn to use them. But see how quietly we are drawing towards the hills. In a little time we shall be on shore.”

Gillian started up and went into the cabin, a little excited and eager to leave the vessel. New scenes were before her, and at her age novelty had a vivid charm, come in what form it might.