CHAPTER XXI
THE OLD, OLD STORY, EVER NEW
When Mr. Underhill took Polly home the next day, it was with thestipulation that she should come back and spend a week. Polly was wildwith delight, and packed up her best things. There were some othervisitors,--cousins of the elderly sort,--so the young people had theirown good times. Daisy and Mr. Andersen were in, and Charlie and they hadthe happy enjoyment of youth.
Peter Beekman seemed devoted to them. Jim wouldn't be crowded out whereDaisy was concerned, but he wanted to be first with her. Mr. Andersengave way generously, and went over to Hanny, who somehow clung to Polly.
There was a good deal of business to be done for Mr. Herman Andersen.His father's share in the New York firm was to be transferred to him, asat the age of twenty-five he had come into possession of his mother'sfortune, that had been accumulating. His father was to take charge ofthe Paris house. He spent some hours every morning with Mr. Jasper,acquiring a knowledge of his new duties; but the afternoons were forpleasure, until the autumnal business stirred up.
"I do wish young Beekman wouldn't come over here so much," Mrs.Underhill said in a fretted tone, "or that he would take a real fancy toPolly."
"They are just having a young people's good time," returned Joe."Polly's a nice girl. He might do worse."
"But I am afraid it is not Polly. He watches Hanny like a cat watching amouse."
"Nonsense!" declared Joe.
"But he does. And I don't like it."
"Oh, mother dear, you're a hen with one chick. If there is a rustle inthe leaves you think a hawk is going to pounce down."
"Hanny's too young to have lovers." She tried to keep her face in severelines.
"Hanny isn't thinking about lovers. And Peter is a fine, solid fellow,who is going to make his mark, and who may be a sort of ballast to Jim.I like him."
"Oh, he is well enough. But if there was any fuss it might annoy Dolly.And we have always been so cordial; Margaret was married too young."
"And you were married too young. Now, if you had waited and done withoutSteve and me, and begun with John--"
There was a twinkle in Doctor Joe's eye.
"I should have begun with the most sensible son," returned his mother;but she could not keep her voice sharp.
"Well, I will look after Hanny and the young man. I think myself that wedon't need any more lovers right away."
She knew she could depend on him.
Then they had some anxiety at Ben's, and Delia's mother was away. AuntBoudinot had her third stroke, and lay insensible for several days, thenslipped out of life. Mrs. Underhill was quite surprised with Delia'sgood sense, as she called it, and really she wasn't such a badhousekeeper for a girl with no training.
There was the funeral, with some of New York's oldest families.Afterward the will was read. Aunt Patty had made a new one on the deathof her sister.
There was a small legacy to the niece who had married; a remembrance toseveral relatives and friends. The use of the house was to be Mrs.Whitney's while she lived; at her death to be sold and divided betweenher niece, Delia Whitney, and her grand-niece, Eleanora Whitney. And toDelia Whitney, if she took faithful care of her until her death, the sumof five thousand dollars in bank-stock.
She had taken faithful care of her, and would have done it out of thekindness of her heart without any reward.
"I thought it might be a thousand dollars," she said to Ben, "and I madeup my mind if it should be that, we would take it and go abroad. I hadsome savings beside. When Bayard Taylor told us about his tour I feltsure we could do something like it. We would keep out of the expensivetourists' ways, and live cheaply, keeping house when we could. Oh, Ben,won't it be splendid!"
He thought it splendid to have her so generous, but he had some savingsas well.
Five thousand dollars was considered quite a legacy in those days; andthe bank-stock was worth a good deal more than its face.
Every one said they would be crazy to waste their money in such afrivolous manner.
"I don't mind if I shouldn't ever be rich," declared Ben. "I want apiece of the big world, with its knowledges and wonders. I shouldn'tcare to live there always, but it broadens one to see what other nationshave done; what has made their greatness and what has contributed totheir downfall. And the arts and sciences, the mysteries of the East andof Egypt. We are young yet as a country, and we have a right to gatherup the riches of experience. I only hope we shall profit by it."
So they planned and planned. Delia looked over the old things, and sentDolly and Hanny some antiquities of a century or more. Then she packedand boxed hers, for she knew her mother might deal them out toindifferent people. She thought it would be a good plan to hire out thehouse to some one who would board her mother and Theodore; and presentlyone of the married sisters, Mrs. Ferris, decided she would come. So thenthey could plan to go away; and Delia might write her novel while shewas abroad.
Meanwhile the summer was slipping away like a dream. The great fairstill attracted a large concourse. But September came in, and schoolsopened. Jim went back to regular study; Charles to the seminary. Hannyhad some more schoolmates married. There was another baby at Margaret's;and it was so delightful to go down to Delia's and hear all the plans!Now that Hanny had learned so much at the Crystal Palace, she had quitea longing for churches and museums and art galleries. Herman Andersenhad visited so many of them!
Sometimes Daisy Jasper went down with her. Mr. Andersen came for them inthe evening. Delia he thought wonderfully bright and entertaining. Benliked him amazingly.
"But if I had all that money," said Ben, "I wouldn't confine myself tosuch puttering stuff as silks and laces and India shawls; I should wantto do something high up and fine, like a magazine or a paper, that hadinfluence and scope. Some day I mean to own a share in a paper, whereyou have a chance to touch up public opinion."
Herman Andersen seemed very happy and content. Mr. Jasper said he wasgoing to make a fine, reliable business man. He really felt he wouldn'tobject to him for a son.
Grandmother Van Kortlandt was growing more feeble, and now and then hada bad spell. Doctor Joe made light of it, and told her red lavender andaromatic hartshorn were good for old ladies. She seemed to want herdaughter near her. The young man who had alarmed Mrs. Underhill did notcome so frequently, so she began to feel quite safe.
Oh, what a happy, happy summer it had been! The little girl was used toher long frocks, and studied ways of doing her hair, and practisedMendelssohn's "Songs without Words" because some one had said they werethe most beautiful things he had ever heard. She and Daisy and Mr.Andersen talked German, and had no end of fun.
One afternoon Mr. Andersen came in.
"Let us go up to the Crystal Palace," he said. "It is the most gloriousafternoon imaginable. There is a sort of hazy red gold in the air, thatexhilarates one. You feel as if you could soar to heaven's gate."
"We haven't been up in almost a fortnight," said Hanny, laughing.
"The more need of our going now. I enjoy these superb days to the full."
Hanny went to get her hat. Grandmother generally took her nap early inthe afternoon. Mother was not in her own room, she saw, as she lookedin, so she ran on down. She was not in the kitchen either.
"Joe," she cried--there was no one in the office, and he sat with hislegs stretched out, and a book on the table beside him, looking verycomfortable,--"Joe, where is mother?"
"Up with grandmother, dear. Don't disturb her. What did you want?"
"Oh, nothing--only to say--we are going up to the fair."
"Very well; run along. You look as sweet as a pink."
A bright color flashed over her face, and settled in her dimple, makingit look like a rose as she smiled.
She was putting on her blossom-coloured lace mitts as she entered theroom. Some one else thought she looked as sweet as a pink when he rose,and led the way.
She turned down the street.
"Oh, Daisy is not going," he said. "She had
a headache all the morning.You don't mind?"
"Oh, no. Poor dear Daisy! And I didn't go in!" Her voice was touchedwith the sweetest regret and compassion.
Doctor Joe went upstairs presently, to grandmother.
"Her breathing is better," he said. "I have tried a new remedy. When shehas had some sleep she will be all right. This isn't quite a normalstate yet. Call me if there is any special change."
Then he went down to the office again. People came more in the morningor the evening, and he had attended to his urgent calls. He was glad notto go out just then. But he thought of the young people on their way tothe palace of delight. Had he ever been young and joyous, as the youthof to-day? He had studied and worked, taught some, used up all his time,and had none for the passing vagaries. What made him feel old, and as ifsome of the rarest delights would pass him by?
There was a light tap at the office-door, though it stood ajar. He roseand opened it wider.
"Why, Daisy Jasper!" he cried in amazement. "Or is it your wraith? Ithought you had gone to the fair with Hanny."
She had been very pale; now she flushed a little. There was atremulousness about her, and shadows under her eyes.
"I had a headache all the morning; most of the night as well. It hasgone off somewhat, but I didn't feel well enough for that."
"No, of course not." He led her to the pretty library, that was alwayshaving a picture or a set of books added. You couldn't put in any moreeasy-chairs. He placed her in one. As he touched her hand, he felt thefeverish tremble.
"My dear child, what is it?"
Her eyes drooped, and tears beaded the lashes.
"You shouldn't have come out. Why did you not send for me?"
"I--I wanted to come. I knew Hanny would be gone. I wanted to see you."She was strangely embarrassed.
He was standing by the side of the chair and took her hand again. Howlimp and lifeless it seemed!
"I wanted to see you--to ask you, to tell you--oh, how shall I sayit!--if you could help me a little. You are so wise, and can think of somany ways--and I am so afraid he loves me--it would not be right--"
Yes, that was it. This bright, charming, well-bred, fortunate youngfellow loved her. He could keep her like a little queen. And she hadsome conscientious scruple about her health, and her trifling lameness,and all. A word from him would keep her where she was. He had carriedher in his arms, his little ewe lamb. No man could ever give her theexquisite care that he would be able to bestow. Oh, could he let any onetake her out of his life!
Yet some one younger and richer loved her. Yes, he _must_ stand aside.
"My child,"--he would be grave and fatherly,--"I think you are makingyourself needless trouble. Why should you refuse a good man's love? Youhave your beauty, and a gift that is really a genius, and though you maynot be as strong as some women, that is no reason why you should denyyourself the choicest blessing of a woman's life."
"But"--she gave a little sob--"I thought you might blame me for beingheedless. We have all been such friends. And I don't want anything tomar the perfect pleasantness. I know it is not right because--how can Imake you understand! It might wound you if I said it--I think it cannever be that kind of love--"
Did he hear aright, or was it some subtle temptation?
"You, of all other women, should be careful not to make a mistake. Itwould mean more to you afterward--if matters went a little wrong."
"And he is so gay, so full of life and fun, and always wanting one tokeep up to the highest pitch. It would not be the right thing for him."
"But he is very gentle as well."
"Dr. Underhill, tell me that it isn't the right step for me to take,_ever_," Daisy said decisively.
"I cannot tell you any such thing. I will not bar you out of anyhappiness."
Perhaps he really approved of it. They were all in a way proud of theyounger brother. And Jim thought there was no such splendid man in theworld as the doctor. Oh, if she only knew! She was heroic enough toplease them all for the sake of the past and present friendship. But shehad a doubt of Mrs. Underhill's approval. She might give in as she hadto Delia; and now she had really begun to find virtues in Ben's wife.But with Jim's brilliant nature always on the alert for amusement, she,Daisy, would be worn out trying to keep up to his standard.
She rose slowly. "I ought not have come," she began in a despondenttone. "I thought I could talk it all over with you; but I must decide,and bear the pain. You may all feel hurt, even if you acknowledge thewisdom of my decision. It would be a delight to come and live with youall; I who have had no brothers or sisters. But I think Jim will soonget over it, especially if _you_ point out the unwisdom of it all. Maybeyou will take me back into favour then, when the soreness is spent."
"Jim," he repeated, in a vague, absent sort of way. "Jim! Who are youtalking about, Daisy?"
Her face was scarlet, and her eyes full of tears.
"Your brother James. It is a shame, I know, to betray one man's inmostsecrets to another. But I am quite sure that I ought not, that I cannot,marry him. Oh, will you all forgive me, and help him to forget all butthe friendship?"
She took a step toward the door. The scarlet went out of her face, andshe swayed as if her strength was all gone. He caught her, and put herback in the chair.
"Jim!" now in a tone of great surprise, and giving a little incredulouslaugh. "Why, I thought it was Herman Andersen."
Joe's heart seemed suddenly to enlarge and fill his whole body. Therewas a ringing in his ears, as of joy-bells.
"Herman Andersen!" she said composedly. "Oh, have you all been blind?Why, he is in love with Hanny! He came back to America to win her, andhe will if he serves seven years."
Doctor Joe looked at her in amaze. Ah, yes, they had been blind. Theyhad fenced out young Peter Beckman, and opened the door wide to thisunsuspected lover. And he knew as well as it Hanny had confessed it,that her heart had gone to meet his on the magic sea of love, and theywould come into port no longer twain, but one.
He sat down on the broad arm of the chair. He could see Daisy's longagitated breaths quiver through her body; and she looked tired andspent. Poor little girl!
"No, I had never thought of Jim," he began gravely, "because he is sofond of girls; a general worshipper. Not but what he might be very trueand devoted to one. He seems so young yet. Daisy,"--his voicefell,--"did he ask you--"
Her head drooped a little, and her shining curls hid her face.
"Oh, do believe that when I thought of it first I did try to evade,to--to laugh him out of it. That was a month ago. He kept saying littlethings I would not heed or seem to understand. It has been such a gay,happy summer for us all! And there was Charlie's engagement. Lastevening mamma and papa had gone out to call on a friend, and we werequite alone--"
How much was volatile temperament and the love of pursuit, and how muchthe deeper regard? Let him do his young brother justice.
"Charlie is young, to be sure, but he is a very steady-minded fellow,and his mother's and Tudie's death brought them together in a verysympathetic manner. Then Charles is about certain of a good position.Jim has his fortune all to make. And you are right about some otherqualities. Herman Andersen would be a much better companion for you. Jimis strong and energetic, full of life, and will always be among the busybustling things, and deep in excitements. He would wear you out."
"And don't you see that when he is five or six and twenty he will needsomething better than an invalid wife, who might have to go to bed witha headache when he was giving an important dinner, or having a brilliantsort of evening with some stylish guests? He ought to have a wifesomething like Mrs. Hoffman, who would help him to the finest things oflife. And though I seem well, I shall never be real strong; and I do notcare for grand society. I like a good deal of quiet and ease, and justeveryday living, a little painting when I feel inspired, a littlereading and talks with friends, and old-fashioned music. I sometimesfeel as if I was an old girl, and ought to have lived a century ago.Perhaps I shall make a qu
eer, stuffy old woman. And--I ought not tomarry."
"You shall not give up the divine right," he made answer, earnestly.
"Oh, I have a pretty face just now, and people, I find, _do_ admirebeauty. But that will fade." Then she sprang up suddenly, parted herlong ringlets, and stood with her back to him. "See," and her voicetrembled, he knew there were tears in her eyes, "I have a little crookin my back, and one high shoulder. There has to be half an inch of corkin one boot-sole to keep me straight and from limping. No, I shouldn'tdo for a handsome young man like Jim, for I may grow lamer and crookederas I grow older; nor for any man, although you try to comfort me with analmost divine compassion."
She was sobbing in his arms then. It was not the first time she had weptout her sorrow there.
He raised the golden head a little, and kissed down amid the passionatetears that were sweeping away a kind of regret that sometimes hauntedher. He had kissed her often as a little child, but rarely since herreturn from abroad. Her girlhood had been a quality fine and rare andsacred to him.
"Except the one man who has always loved you from the poor little childin her pitiful pain and anguish, and the little girl who began to takecourage and face the world, the larger girl who was brave andsunny-hearted, and looked out with hopeful eyes on the world that had somany blessings. And he knows now that no skill can ever shut out allsuffering; but his sympathy and tender affection will help her throughyears that may be weary and sorrowful, and endure with her whateverburden comes, make her pathway easy and pleasant and restful."
"Oh, you must not," she cried, with a pang of renunciation. "Whateverapplies to another man applies with double force to you. You are sonoble, so tender; so worthy of what is best in life! And you have tocarry so many burdens for other people that you must have some one braveand strong and full of energy and in perfect health--"
"The woman I love will be better than all this to me," he returned, witha sweetness in his voice that went to her very heart, and brought thetears to her eyes again. Then he dropped down in the great chair andtook her gently in his arms, and he knew his case was as good as won.
"When you were a little girl you once said to Hanny if you could have abrother out of the clan you would like it to be me. And for days thequaint, generous little soul could hardly resolve whether it was not herduty to give me away. Then don't you remember you both planned to comeand keep my bachelor-home? Some one else will take her. And we willwait, dear. We will go on in the same friendly, kindly fashion. You mustrun in and out and come to me with your headaches and perplexities, andI shall scold you a little and give you a bitter tonic; and wheneverything is just right I shall ask you to marry me; but all the time Ishall be loving you so much that it will be impossible for you to refuseme. So you know what is in store, and no one need trouble about thefuture. You are not engaged, you are quite free; and, like Ben, I willwait seven years or twenty years for you. But I think you never canbelong to any one else."
Ah, what delightful security!
"Dear, dear Doctor Joe. Oh, it would be too much happiness! No, I oughtnot; mamma thinks I ought not to marry. And," raising her head andshowing a face full of scarlet flushes and tears, and eyes shining withlove's own light, "it looks just as if I had come in here and reallyasked you to marry me. We have forgotten all about poor Jim. You willthink me a coquette, and you ought to despise me."
His clasp tightened a little.
"I am sorry that Jim should have been so heedless. Perhaps it will bebetter to let him learn how much in earnest you are with your refusal.It may not be flattering to a young girl to think a man will forgether."
"But I want him to forget that part," she interrupted eagerly.
"I think he will. And if he comes to me for comfort, I will try to be awise father-confessor. And yet I can't help pitying the man a little whowill lose you. Only in this case it would be like having an exoticwithout a conservatory, and not quite knowing how to build one."
"Joseph!" his mother called from upstairs.
Daisy sprang up and smoothed her ruffled plumes, Joe gave her one long,dear kiss, and she flashed out of the little room.
She held her head very high. It was the most splendid thing that couldhappen to a girl; but she was not going to spoil her dear Doctor Joe'slife.
Are there days that the Lord of all the earth has created for love? Somedays seem made especially for sorrow. But this had such an exquisiteserenity brooding in the air. It was not late enough to have any regretsfor the passing of summer, and oh, what a summer it had been!
"Do you really want to go up to the fair?" Herman Andersen had asked,when they reached the corner.
"Why,--" Hanny hesitated,--"we have seen it a good many times," and shegave her soft, rippling laugh.
"Let us go over to Tompkin's Square." He had something to say to herthat would be easier said in those deserted walks. You could always findthem except on Saturday or Sunday.
"Very well," with her graceful assent.
The birds, done with their summer housekeeping and child-rearing, hadtime to sing again. But it was all low, plaintive songs, as if theysaid: "We must go away from the place in which we have been so happy.Will we be sure to come another spring?" Now and then a branch stirred.The grass had been cut for the last time, and there were sweet littlewinrows that filled the air with fragrance. He was quiet, for he likedto hear her enchanting talk. It had turned upon when she was a littlegirl, and how queer things were! It didn't seem as if everything couldchange so. And what a great gay time they had at the Beekmans' whenStephen was married! So they walked around, and were at an entrance. Acabman put down a woman and some children just as Mr. Andersen had said,"We were going up there some day, you know; we ought to go beforeeverything has faded."
"Yes," she made answer.
"See here, we might get this cab and go up now"--looking up with eagerinquiry.
Dickens had not created Mr. Wemmick with his delightful off-handpremeditated happenings; but other people had them even then.
She made no demur, but assented with her innocent eyes full of exquisitesweetness.
He helped her in and sat along side of her. He had all kinds of younglover-like thoughts, and really he so seldom had her alone. He wanted tosnatch up the hand and kiss it. It made such a tempting background forthe lace mitt. No one but old ladies wore gloves, except on very fineoccasions. And her slim little fingers, with their pink nails, were sopretty! If he could even hold her hand!
But they jolted over rough streets, through little clumps of Irishvillages, and laughed over the pigs, and geese, and children. Thenwastes again, with long, straight lines where streets were to be.
"That is the house over there," she said.
"I wonder if you could walk back? Or shall I keep the cab?"
"Oh, no. It is so delightful to walk!"
Ah, how the hand of improvement had disfigured everything! leaving ugly,square, naked blocks, with here and there a house, then a space wherethe trees were still standing; but the children despoiled the lilacs anddogwood in the spring, and thrashed the lindens and black walnuts allthe later summer, until the poor things had a weary, drooping aspect.Over here was the great garden, and a street ran through it. The oldhouse was shabby, and needed painting; and most of the vines had beencut away. The steps were broken. Several families inhabited it now. Thecousin had thrown it up in disgust.
But the young man saw it through her eyes, glorified with the glamour ofchildhood. Slim young Dolly, Aunt Gitty netting, the ladies inrocking-chairs with their sewing under the trees, Mr. Beckman andKatschina, and the tea on little tables; and the boys she was afraid of.
"They were such pudgy little boys," she says, with a laugh in whichthere is only a remembered mirth. "They were like some of Irving'sdescriptions. You wouldn't expect them to grow up into such fine-lookingmen, now, would you? I think Peter is almost handsome."
It gives him a little twinge. He was jealous of Peter awhile ago; but headmits bravely that Peter is very good-looking.
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And here are some poor willows. Oh, the lovely shrubbery that isneglected and dying!
"After all, it _is_ the people who give the charm to places,--the lovingcare, the home delight. But no one could keep it up. Property gets toovaluable, and taxation is too high; and there are so many poorer peoplewho must have homes."
These sententious bits of wisdom he considers utterly charming. She hascaught them from John.
Then they sit down on a great stone and rest, though she protests she isnot tired. She can walk for hours.
Now he ought to tell her all that is in his heart. If the world standsthousands of years there will never be such a golden opportunity again.She breaks off a bit of yarrow and sticks it in her belt. Howbeautifully the lashes droop over her eyes, deepening and softening thetint, until it looks like a glint of heaven!
"Oh, we ought to go on," she says presently; and with a dainty smile andmotion, she rises. Ah, if she knew what he is wild to utter!
They turn their steps homeward. A wood-robin in a thicket sings,"Sweet, sweet, I love you, I l-o-v-e you," with a maddening, lingeringcadence.
Why is he not as brave as the bird? Are there any choicer, moreexquisite words in which to say it?
They come to a little stream. "Oh, just down here is Kissing Bridge,"she says, with a kind of girlish gleefulness.
She had made her father tell the old Dutch story one evening, when theywere all sitting on the stoop. And as they go on, she, with a sort ofeager, heedless step, as if she was not walking on his heart, tellsabout Stephen, and how he jumped out of the carriage and gathered agreat bunch of roses for her. They have reached the spot. The stream hasshrunken. You could step over it.
"They were just there." She indicates the spot with a pretty gesture ofher head. "But there are no wild-roses now;" and a soft sigh escapesher, as she turns to him, and their eyes meet.
"Are there none?" he asks, his eyes drinking in the sudden radiance. Forif ever dainty, delicate, ethereal wild-roses bloomed, they are in hercheeks; and oh, what are her scarlet lips that have meant to answer, andare mysteriously tranfixed with the rarest sweetness!
He kisses her--once, a dozen times. There is no one near. They own thecity,--the whole world, for love is Lord of all.
He slips her hand in his arm. Its tremble thrills every nerve in hisbody. He experiences the overwhelming joy of possessorship, for she _is_his.
"My darling little Nan;" and his voice is unsteady with emotion.
He has rechristened Baby Stevie's pet name; but it has never sounded soenchanting before.
Then they walk on in delicious silence. Another bird sings in a drowsyafternoon tone,--
"Sweet, sweet, I love you, I l-o-v-e you."
They glance at each other, and both translate it. Her cheeks are redderthan wild-roses now; and her dimple holds the sweetness of a greatmystery. They both smile, and he kisses her again. Why not? There is noone about.
"My darling, can you guess when I first began to love you?" He wants herto know all the story. It seems as if his whole life will not be longenough to get it told and he must begin at once.
"When?" There is a startled sound in her voice, as if she was amazedthat love had a beginning.
"That night in the dance,--the Spanish dance. We will go somewhere thiswinter and dance it over again; and the music beats will say--'I loveyou.'"
"Oh, so long ago?" she exclaims.
"Yes; and I have a visiting-card of yours." He hunts in his card-case."Here it is--'Miss Nan Underhill.' I've kissed it thousands of times. Ihave almost worn it out. And when I went home I told my father about thelittle girl in New York that I must come back and win."
"Oh, did you!" She is touched by the revelation.
"He is a delightful father. Some time I must take you over to see him,or he may come here. But he had promised that I should go to Ebberfeld;and so I did. The aunt had proposed the match."
"And your poor cousin!" Her voice is full of such infinite pity that hegives the little hand a tender pressure for thanks.
"I couldn't have loved her anyhow. She seems older than I; and I am avery boy in heart. Then she was too large. I like little women."
"I am so glad," she cries, with unaffected joy, "for I am small; and Inever can grow any larger. But I don't mind now."
"So when my father found how much in earnest I was, he planned thebusiness change. It was my own mother's money, you know. But he has beena good father to me, and I am glad he has some other children. I was togo to Paris."
That seems so magnificent she is almost conscience smitten.
Ah, how much there is to say!
"But you will get tired with all this long walk," he exclaims anxiously.Oh, blessed thought! he will have the right to keep her rested andhappy, and in a realm of joy.
"Oh, no," she returns. "Why, the walk has not seemed long." The surprisein her voice is enchanting.
Is any walk ever too long for love? Is any day too long,--even all oflife?
The crickets and peeps come out; a locust drones his slow tune. The sunhas dropped down. Well, they are in an enchanted country that needs nosun but that of love. And if they walked all night they could not sayall that has been brought to light by the mighty touch that wakes humansouls.
At home grandmother's difficult breathing has returned, and they havehad a troubled hour. But now she is all right, except that she will beweaker to-morrow. Mrs. Underhill goes downstairs and bustles about thesupper as a relief from the strain. She makes a slice ofdelicately-browned toast. Joe comes rushing in.
"I'm sorry, but the servant at the Dentons has cut her hand badly. Don'twait supper for me," he exclaims.
"Jim has not come in, and no one can tell when those children will beback. If the fair should keep open three months longer every one will bedead with fatigue. Yes, we'll wait. I am going to take some toast up tomother."
"The children!" Doctor Joe has a strange, guilty sort of feeling. Whatif to-night should bring her a new son, as some future night will bringher a new daughter?
Father Underhill sits on the front stoop reading his paper. He glancesup now and then. When he espies a small figure in soft gray with awide-brimmed leghorn hat, and a young man, he studies them moreattentively. What is this? She has the young man's arm,--that has goneout of date for engaged people,--and her head inclines toward him. Sheglances up and smiles.
And then a great pang rends the father's soul. They come nearer, and shesmiles to him; but, oh! there is a light in her face, a gladness shiningin her eyes, a tremulous sweetness about the mouth. Did he read all thisin her mother's face years and years ago? Did _her_ mother have thisawful pang that seems to wrench body and soul asunder?
They say good-evening and that it has been a glorious afternoon. Theyoung man will lose no time,--hasn't he been dangling three monthsalready?
"Mr. Underhill, may I see you a moment?"
How brave and sweet and assured the voice is! And he helps the littlegirl up the steps, through the hall space, and the three stand in theparlour, where the young man prefers his request with such a daring thatthe elder man is almost dazed. Then the father holds out his arms as ifhe was grasping for something lost. She comes to them, and her head ison his breast, her hands reaching up to clasp him about the neck.
"And this little girl, too!"
His voice is broken, his face goes down to hers. The sweetest thing ofhis life,--how can he give her up?
"Oh, father, father!" The cry is so entreating, so piteous, and he feelsthe tears on her sweet face. "Oh, father, can I not love you both?"
She loosens one hand and holds it out to the young man. He feels themotion, and accepts the fact that her heart is divided. She draws herlover in the circle. "You will love him for my sake."
Alas! alas! she is his little girl no longer. She is another man'ssweetheart, and will one day be his wife. It is the fashion in thisworld; it has God's favor and sanction.
CHAPTER XXII
1897
All that wa
s long ago. It is nearing the end of the century, and thelittle girl who thought it a great thing to see the half-century mark,bids fair to shake hands with the new one. There have been many changes,there have been sorrows and deaths, and such exquisite satisfyinghappiness that she could say with the poet,--
"Let come what come may I shall have had my day."
She is in the older generation now, and a grandmother. You may see herin Central Park, or some of the surburban places, a fair, sweet smallpersonage, with a face more nearly beautiful than in her girlhood. Herhair has that shining silvery tint, her complexion is clear and fine,and her eyes, though they have wept bitter tears, still look out gladly,serenely, on life.
In the carriage will be her twin granddaughters, and sometimes a youngman, her son. They are pretty children, and will be "summer girls" whentheir time comes, and "winter girls" as well, clad in cloth and velvetand furs. They will dance Germans instead of the bewildering Spanishdance she had that first night with her lover. Even children havechanged in half a century. Beauty is no longer considered a delusion anda snare. Physical culture gives strength and grace and growth.
The lover of her youth and the husband of her love, and her first-borndaughter, who was wedded, and who with her husband faced a railroadtragedy and were its victims, have gone into that "goodly land andlarge." It seems to many of us as we grow older that there is only athin wall between this and the other country where we shall see themagain. Sometimes she can almost fancy them leaning over the jasperwalls, like the Blessed Damosel, and smiling down on her. There are somany of them now! And the children were given to her. They are spoiled,all the aunts and cousins declare. But grandmamma lives another youthover in them,--a delightful life, rich in love and interest.
For conditions have changed. The world, and all that therein is, haschanged. It is Greater New York now, and it stretches out everywhere.What was Brooklyn, and Williamsburg, and many a pretty town up above thecity, have all been merged into one grand metropolis. What it will do inthe next fifty years passes conjecture.
As they drive around nothing interests them more than to have grandmammatalk of what it was like when she was a little girl. They find theplaces, and look at them through her eyes. There is no longer anyBowling-Green, only in name, and though part of the Battery is left, theelevated roads go winding about among the tree-tops; Castle Garden,after many vicissitudes and debasements, is again a place of interestand entertainment. Here was where she heard that sweet and wonderfulJenny Lind, who, with Parepa Rosa, and many another divine voice, issinging up in the New Jerusalem. And though hundreds in the glare oflight and blaze of diamonds listen to Patti, she wonders if theenthusiasm is as deep and sincere.
Over opposite where modest Brooklyn lived its simple, friendly lifefifty years ago, stretching out into country ways and green fields,there are miles of houses, and the great bridge is such an everydayaffair one hardly gives it a second thought. And all is business now,with tall buildings that the glance can hardly reach. There is no CityHall Park, but a great space of flagging, though the fountain remains.Business crowds hurry to and fro where ladies used to sit and chat whilethe young people strolled about.
Stewart's old marble building is common-place and dingy. Delmonico hasgone on up-town stride by stride, and people have forgotten the oldbalcony where Jenny Lind sang, and Koenig played to a street packed withpeople. And the Prince de Joinville was here; also Louis Napoleon, thenephew of his uncle, who followed his steps as Emperor and loser ofcrown and all, and exile. And the young Prince Imperial, whose birth, solong desired and celebrated with state as was that of the young King ofRome, met with as melancholy a fate and early death as the Duc deReichstadt. And here the young Prince of Wales dined. He came downBroadway with his suite and procession, and the little wife thought it afine sight as she stood there to see.
Broadway stretches on and on. Union Square is really a thoroughfare; butshe came up here with father and the boys when it was a grand new thing.
Did she really live in First Street with Aunt Daisy for a playmate, andAuntie Reed, and Nora, who was a much admired singer in her day, and whomarried a Roman Count; and the little Tudie who died? Did she have thatsplendid Christmas and the beautiful wax doll, that seems sacredly aliveto them both; only under some spell of enchantment laid upon her byMerlin's clan?
Oh, how full the streets are now with their great high tenement-houses,pouring out their myriads of children all day long, of everynationality! But you still hear the old plays, "Open the Gates," and"Scotland's Burning," and "Uncle John is very Sick," and "Ring around aRosy." Little Sally Waters still sits in the sun,--
"Crying and sighing for a young man,"
though modern poesy advises her to--
"Rise, Sally, rise, Wipe your eyes out with your frock."
And the strange Chinatown, with its cabalistic signs, its men in blueshirts and pigtails, and often snowy white stockings and queer pointedslippers!
They wind slowly about Central Park. Was the Crystal Palace here? And nopark? To them it seems as if New York must have been born this way, withelectric lights, and push-buttons, and telephones, and cars, andtelegraphs, and everything. And did grandmamma come up here to the Fair;and was it anything like the Museum of Art? And wasn't there anymenagerie, or playground, or donkey-riding or bicyclers?
Here is Washington Arch, with its memory of a great anniversary. Over onthe west side there is a curious spot fenced in with wooden palings,where Alexander Hamilton planted thirteen trees for the Union, whenthere were only thirteen States, and named them all. Even before his saddeath, South Carolina was braced to keep her from growing crooked; butshe went awry in spite of it all. They have moved the house in which helived, across the street, to save it from destruction; and it is in theshadow of a church. And here is the old mansion where Aaron Burr lived abrief while with Madame Jumel for his wedded wife,--a beautiful oldplace on a hill.
They go on up to the grand Washington Bridge. They are very fond of thestory of Anthony Woolf swimming across the Harlem that dark night to getaway from the Hessian regiment, and begging shelter of kindly hearts.They turn into a shaded road, and pass by lovely grounds, where wealthhas made gardens and terraces akin to those of Paradise. And windingdown the old road leading to the vale, they find a little dark-eyed girlwhose great-great-grandfather was this same Anthony Woolf. And theRevolutionary War was a century and a quarter ago! Here they have livedfor generations. The Cousin Jennie has gone, but the tall bright-eyedman who married her is still hale and hearty, with snowy hair and beard.
Yes, it is all New York up to Kingsbridge. There are many historicspots, and several old manor houses still standing. But it has a cityaspect in spite of some wildness. They go around to Fordham; the oldhouse perched on the hill is there, though it has been enlarged, and thestreet widened and straightened. Up on the old porch grandmamma sat andread; and it still hangs out with a tempting aspect, just as when shewatched the pedestrians and the reverend fathers, who yet go up anddown. And here is the little old Poe Cottage, about which such a flavorof romance lingers, though the place has been modernised into a"Terrace," and built about with city pretentiousness. It is still thesame little low place, not a bit changed since she sat there on thedoor-sill and talked over her heroes with the poet. She can still seethe tall spare figure of Mrs. Clemm in her rocking-chair doing her bitof mending and casting anxious glances at the son of her love, aboutwhom so much has been written in later days. People still quote the"Raven" and "Ullalume," but all she cares to remember is "Annabel Lee,"and the weird stories are not to her taste.
The old Odell house at West Farms was swept away long ago; Janey is agrandmother on a big farm that is crowded with summer boarders. Pollyis in Oregon, her sons coming up with the country. And up a shortdistance, Jerome Park used to be thronged by the beauty and fashion ofthe city on racing days. And that has gone, too.
A little to the eastward is the beautiful Bronx Park, that is going totread clos
ely on its down-town rival. Oh, is Central Park reallydown-town? There are woods and wilds, ravines and the leisurely stream,trees that have been brought from everywhere, walks and drives, hillsclothed with verdure, and the old Lorillard mansion still grand, withits legend of love and tragedy. Its gardens have changed indeed.Grandmamma remembers the small old man, who used to gather his roseleaves day by day from the fragrant beds,--Lorillard's rose-snuff was agreat thing two generations ago.
"Did they really take snuff?" asks Ethel, in disgust. "How queer!"
"And you know," says Rose, "that Uncle Herman told us of a man whodeclined to take snuff, because if nature had intended his nose for adust-pan, she would have put it the other side up."
How they both laugh at that!
They have a governess friend at home, but they are continually pickingup knowledge in their rides and rambles about. They know the old citythat was afraid to stray above Union Square, they know the modern citywith its fifty years of improvements, and they will grow up to womanhoodin Greater New York, the Star City of the Continent.
Here in one of the pleasant streets overlooking the park, they live.They are not rich; no one is now who doesn't go up in the millions.There is a pretty house looking like a hotel, an apartment house,--verymoderate since it only accommodates three families. Joseph, the eldestson, who should have been a doctor, but is a fine architect, is married,and with his wife and two babies, and a dear friend who is an artist,has one side, and the other is grandmamma's. It is quite like a house bythemselves, only there is a beautiful square hall, and a handsomestairway one could hardly have space for in a small house. Herman, thesecond son, lives with them, and is a scientist, and wields the pen of aready writer. He has no taste for the toil and moil of money-getting,--arefined, studious, thoughtful young man.
They have all had their share of happiness. Dolly and Stephen are reallyold people, and have a flock of grandchildren. Hanny can see her ownfather again in Stephen, and Dolly, since she has grown stout andwhite-haired, suggests her mother. Stephen's sons are promising youngbusiness-men. There is only one little grave marking their prosperouspathway,--a baby girl, who went so soon they have hardly missed her.
Margaret is still handsome and aristocratic. Dr. Hoffman long ago gaveup practice, his property interests increased so rapidly. Their sons anddaughters are of the higher society order, intellectual, fine and noble,and a power in the land. One daughter has married an Englishman ofrank, the other is the wife of a Bishop. Margaret is serene andsatisfied, and still very fond of her little sister.
Dear Doctor Joe lectures mostly, and attends to hospital surgery, stillkeeping his tender sympathy for suffering humanity. After GrandmotherVan Kortlandt went away, he brought Daisy Jasper home, to help fill thevacant spaces. And presently, when Mrs. Jasper was left alone, she came,too, the house being so large. Two mothers-in-law, according to therules of family lore, ought to have quarrelled and sulked, but theydidn't. And the babies that came were a source of delight. Though therewas suffering in Daisy's life, there was so much joy that, to her, itwas the unalloyed delight of living.
And Jim outgrew his fancy, and had many another one that did not strikedeep enough in the soil to lead him to ask a woman to marry him. But heand Daisy were fast friends, and he saw that no one could ever havecared for her as well and wisely as dear Doctor Joe, with his wonderfultenderness.
Jim, brilliant and gay and witty, was a fine, fluent speaker, studyingsuch eloquent models as Webster and Choate, and the vanished Clay. DidHanny remember, when they had lost his election, and he, Jim, had turnedout with the Democratic boys? There are grave questions now, on widerthan party lines, and sometimes the hearts of thoughtful statesmen beatwith an undefined fear.
The fun-loving, dancing side of his nature often asserts itself. Womenadore him. Though he is not rich, the mothers smile on him for the"promise yet to be." Even Lily Williamson tries her arts; admiration iswhat she lives for now. She is one of the handsome, fascinating societyvampires, who make great capital out of matrimonial infelicities, toappeal to the sympathies of really good and generous men, who are themore easily caught in the silken nets. One day she leaves her worthlessdrunken husband, when his money is all spent, and elopes with a youngfellow of excellent family who has just come into a fortune, and laterbecomes one of the adventuresses that disgrace Americans in the eyes ofEuropean propriety.
Ben and Delia go abroad,--Ben in the interest of his paper, which isnext to his wife; Delia to write travel letters for a weekly, and findmaterial for her novel. It is quite a picnic, and they enjoy theeconomies.
Then the clouds that have been gathering a long, long while, break overthe country, and all is tumult from end to end. The Seventh Regiment"boys" go down to Washington, with brave, laughing, high-hearted Jim,who understands that it is no child's play, but a bitter struggle thatwill call forth the best energies of the country, and who enlists for"three years or the whole war." Ben hurries home, and takes his place inthe ranks. When things are at their lowest ebb, and men's hearts aresinking with fear, quiet, grave John buckles on a soldier's haversackand marches away. The others have substitutes.
Ah, what times they were! It is well that flowers can spring up on abattlefield. The little girl keeps track of her heroes. Kearny, who hasseen Magenta and Solferino, meets his fate at Chantilly. Many anotherone who has come up to fame, many new ones, who are on the march to winor die.
John is wounded, patched up in a hospital, and honorably discharged,lamed for life. But he has done good work. Ben has a slight mishap, andDelia sends her two babies and their nurse to her sister's, and goes tothe hospital, and remains. Women of brains and kindly impulses are muchneeded.
And one night some wounded are brought in. There has been a fatefulreconnoisance, but it has saved the regiment from destruction on thenext day. This limp figure in a captain's uniform is laid tenderly on acot; but the surgeon, after a brief examination, shakes his head. Oh,surely, she knows that handsome face with the clustering dark curls!
He opens his eyes, and after an instant says in a faint voice, "Oh,Dele, is that you?" then lapses into insensibility. There is nothing tobe done; that is the cruelest of all. Once again, after a long while, hemoves his head, and opens his eyes again, brave and clear even in death.
"Delia," in a strange, strong voice that surprises her, "kiss them allgood-night for me;" and James Odell Underhill has gone to the land ofeverlasting morning.
The war ends; and Ben comes home none the worse. He has reached hisambition, and is a "newspaper man" in every sense of the word. Deliasets up housekeeping, takes home the babies, and in the course of timeadds two more to them.
But there is another ferment, and women are coming to the fore. Thereare clubs and suffrage meetings, lectures; women have even invadedchurches, and preach; and colleges for higher education are springing upeverywhere. There are poets and philosophers, there are teachers andorators; some of them ill-judged, because they are fond of notoriety;but there are always some wry sheep in the best of flocks. Have menalways been honest and wise and honourable and grand?
Delia lectures and writes, and is one of the able women of the day. Mrs.Hoffman on her serene heights _is_ mortified. Mother Underhill is sureBen has to go to a restaurant, that his stockings are never mended, hisbuttons always off. But patent buttons are invented, and collar-buttonsthat cannot be ironed off by the "washerwoman," supply a long-felt want.Ben is stout and comfortable-looking, and the same grave, affectionatefellow. The children seem to come up without much sickness or trouble.When Mother Underhill feels disposed to cavil and criticise, for she_is_ shocked by the new woman's heresies, she recalls the "lastgood-night kiss," and is silent. What if there had been no one at handto bring it home?
Delia's girls grow up into "modern women." It is true they do not spendhalf a day a week darning stockings, neither have they learned to putthe exquisite over and under darns in tablecloths that the little girlcould do by the time she was ten. But they sing and play; they are readyspe
ech-makers, and clubs are glad to get them. They know about Greekantiquities and Central American wonders; they can take up the questionsof the day intelligently; one paints really very well, and has enteredpictures at the Academy. One is interested in industrial schools forgirls, and the doctor, who is "Daisy Jasper," a tall, bright,good-looking woman, has a big, tender heart for all babies who aresuffering, and trains many a poor mother how to care judiciously for heroffspring.
But all the nieces think Aunt Nan just the loveliest and sweetest bodyin the world. They send her flowers and bric-a-brac; they beg her tocome here and there to receptions and charity bazaars, and reunions ofall sorts. She is so small and dainty, and they are all growing up tothe new stature.
George has come home at last, after varying fortunes. He has seen SanFrancisco built and destroyed by fire, and rebuilt, and at last plannedinto a handsome city. He has mined and been in the wild life known onlyto the few remaining "forty-niners." He has gained and lost, been burnedout and robbed, been one of the heads of a Vigilance Committee, andmayor of a town; and at last, when all is serene and prosperous, a greatwave of homesickness overtakes him.
It is twenty years since he went away, though he has been home once inthe time. He is spare, and has a weather-beaten look, and is old for hisyears. Is the money worth all the sacrifice?
He will build a house on their part of the old farm at Yonkers, wherehis heart has turned in many a weary hour; but Uncle Faid and Aunt Creteare dead. Barton Finch and Retty are living in town, and Barton is athriving manufacturer. Yonkers has stretched out; and the suburbs are inthat ugly transition state of new unworked streets and dingy cottages,for property has been cut up and lots sold cheaply. Father Underhill isoffered a great price for his, and sells it. It is no longer George'sideal home.
Mrs. Eustis begs him to come up to Tarrytown. All the other Morgans aregone, and she is left alone. The place shall belong to George if he willgive her a home her few remaining years.
He will not listen to this, but buys it, and builds on a new part. Thenhe marries a nice girl whose youth is past, and who is delighted withher kindly, indulgent husband. They have no children; but the nieces andnephews flock hither for rest and recreation, and are always fascinatedwith Uncle George's adventures.
Delia is at middle life when she writes her book, but then it is noyoung girl's story with an imperious Rochester-like hero, that we usedto shiver over and adore. It is a serious, inspiriting woman's book, andcarries weight in spite of the flood of new literature.
Charles Reed has followed a manly, pure, and high-minded Christiancourse, and left an impress on the hurrying world. Josie has grownbroader and more intelligent, and made a delightful household mother.There have been children enough to satisfy Grandmamma Reed.
These old friends meet now and then, and talk as people will when theybegin to go down the decline on the other side of the hill that theyclimbed with such a light step and high heart. How simple life was thencompared with the ramifications of to-day!
The old songs, the old poets, the old novelists are gone. "Jane Eyre" nolonger holds us spell-bound, though the three sisters in the bleak oldHaworth Rectory will never be forgotten; nor that strange "Rosemary,"and Huntingdon's "Lady Alice," thought to be so unsettling to the faith.We read "Robert Elsmere," and "John Ward, Preacher," and go our waytranquilly. Education has become almost a synonym for genius.
The gold of the Pacific Coast, the oil wells, the rich spoils of theearth, have been touched with the wand of industry and science.Railroads run to and fro; vessels dot the ocean; we cross it now in lessthan a week. Cables bring us hour-old news from everywhere. We go abroadfor seasons and touch elbows with royalty, and are not abashed. Wegather the beauty and wisdom of the old world. We build palaces, andspend on an evening's entertainment what would have been a fortune fiftyyears ago. We have private palace-cars, and luxurious yachts forpleasure, and others for speed, so swift that the "America's Cup" hasremained in our keeping all these years.
Will we presently utter the old cry of the wise man who "gat himeverything," "that all is vanity"?
When the children are asleep the little grandmother goes down to herson's study. He is not ambitious for show or wealth, but he has a ratherluxurious side. The rugs are soft; the chairs are easy, the library isfilled with choice books. Sometimes she sits and reads, and brave oldThackeray is one of her favourites. It is as her lover said,--it takesyears and experience to see all the tender, hidden mysteries of his bestspeech.
Then she puts aside her book, and he his work, and they talk. "What yourfather said" and "your father thought this way," always has a charm forhim, and he misses his father more than any one can imagine. He knowsabout the trip to Germany, and the visit to grandfather, with Paris atits highest estate and the beautiful Empress Eugenie. And London withits Queen, who has reigned sixty years, and who, like his mother, hasmade part of the pilgrimage with a great sorrow buried in her heart.Some day he is going over it all; but he will not see the handsome,golden-haired empress, who is but a pale, sorrowful ghost, and perhapsnot the Queen. He would go to-morrow, if he could take the littlemother.
They talk, too, of the future. There have been fifty magical years whenyou look back,--years of discovery, of perfection in art and invention,of nations making rapid strides, of Africa illumined by explorers, ofJapan coming to the front when hardly fifty years have elapsed since shefirst opened her gates to strangers.
And of the great City that has gathered the little towns of children whowent out from her again in her arms,--will she be beautiful and grandand wise, and a power among men and cities? She has gathered heroes,living and dead, in her bosom, and for the greatest of all reared amarble temple. Oh, what will she be in fifty more years?
"You may live to see it," the little mother says, and smiles.
For herself there is the other country, and the loves she holds mostdear. And because they go, when the worst sorrow is spent, one knowsthey will be found again, and that immortality is no myth, but the crownand seal of God's love to human love.
THE END
* * * * *
The "Little Girl" Series
By AMANDA M. DOUGLAS
In Handsome Cloth Binding
A Little Girl in Old New York
A Little Girl of Long Ago A sequel to "A Little Girl in Old New York"
A Little Girl in Old Boston
A Little Girl in Old Philadelphia
A Little Girl in Old Washington
A Little Girl in Old New Orleans
A Little Girl in Old Detroit
A Little Girl in Old St Louis
A little Girl in Old Chicago
A Little Girl in Old San Francisco
A Little Girl in Old Quebec
A Little Girl in Old Baltimore
A Little Girl in Old Salem
A Little Girl in Old Pittsburg
A. L. BURT COMPANY, PUBLISHERS52, 58 Duane Street New York
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