"Go dress yourself, Dinah, in gorgeous array,And I'll take you a-drivin' so galliant and gay."
"Go dress yourself, Dinah, in gorgeous array,And I'll take you a-drivin' so galliant and gay."
"Both of us?" asked the little girl.
"Yes—both of us. I have my new buggy and silver-mounted harness. You must go out and christen it for good luck. Hurry, Peggy, and put on your white dress."
Miss Blackfan had been again and made them two white frocks apiece. The little girl had "wings" over her shoulders and they made her less slim. She wore a pink sash and her hair was tied with pink. Her stockings were as white as "the driven snow," and her slippers looked like dolls' wear. They were bronze and laced across the top several times with narrow ribbon tied in a bow at her instep. She had a new hat, too, a leghorn flat with pale pink roses on it. It cost a good deal, but then it would "do up" every summer and last years and years. Fashions didn't change every three months then. Margaret had a pretty gipsy hat, with a big light-blue satin bow on the top, and the strings tied under her chin, and it made quite a picture of her. Her sleeves came a little below the elbow, and both wore black silk "openwork" mitts that came half-way up the arm.
There had been a shower the night before and the dust was laid. They went over Second Street to the East River, where one or two blocks were quite given over to colored people. There was an African M. E. church, that the little girl was very curious to see. Folks said in revival times they danced for joy. Crowds used to go to hear the singing.
"But do they dance?" asked the little girl wonderingly. She couldn't quite reconcile it with the gravity of worship.
"They simply march up and down the aisles keeping time to the tunes. Well—the Shakers dance in the same fashion." Stephen had been up to Lebanon.
Then a little farther on was another Methodist church, where several notable lights had preached. Nearer the river were some queer old houses, and at almost every corner a store. Saloons were a rarity. Over yonder was Williamsburg, up a little farther Astoria, just a place of country greenery. There were a few boats going up and down, and the ferry-boats crossing.
The houses were no longer in rows. There were some vegetable gardens, and German women were weeding in them; then tracts of rather rocky land, wild and unimproved. After a while it began to grow more diversified and beautiful—country residences and well-kept grounds full of shrubbery at the front and vegetables in the rear, with barns and stables, betraying a rural aspect. The air was so sweet and fresh.
"Oh!" exclaimed Margaret, "Annette Beekman must live somewhere about here. I promised her we would come up some day."
Stephen turned into a country road. There were many grand old elms, hemlocks, pines, and fruit-trees as well. A table stood under one, and some ladies were sitting there sewing and chatting, while several children ran about. And while they were glancing at them a girl in a pretty blue muslin sprang up and ran down to the wide-open gate.
"Oh, Margaret!" cried Annette Beekman. "Why, this is lovely of you, Stephen! Can't you turn in and stop a while with us?"
"I'm showing Margaret New York," said Steve, with his pleasant laugh. "She has begun to think straight down to Rutgers Institute comprised every bit there was of it."
"Oh, Stephen!" deprecatingly.
Some one else came out; a fair, tall girl with great braids of flaxen hair and a silver comb in the top to make her look taller still. She smiled very sweetly.
"Oh, Mr. Underhill!" she exclaimed.
"This is my big sister and this is my little one," explained Stephen. "And this," to Margaret, "is Miss Dolly Beekman."
A warm color rose in Margaret's cheeks as a half-suspicion stole over her.
"You must get out and rest a while after this long ride," said Miss Dolly with winsome cordiality. "The rain last evening was delightful, but the day is warm. We are all living out-of-doors, as you see. And this, I suppose, is your little sister? Drive up and help the girls out, and then go round to the barn. You will find some one there."
Stephen wound slowly up the driveway, nodding to the group of ladies. Dolly walked along the grassy path. She wore a white dotted suisse gown with a "baby waist," and had a blue satin sash with ends that fell nearly to the bottom of the skirt. Her sleeves came to the elbow and were composed of three rather deep ruffles edged with lace. Round her pretty white neck she had an inch-wide black velvet, fastened with a tiny diamond that Stephen had brought her a week ago. She looked like a picture, Margaret thought, and later her portrait in costume was exhibited at the Academy of Design.
Stephen lifted his sisters down. Dolly took Margaret's arm and the little girl's hand and introduced them to almost as many sisters and cousins and aunts as there were in "Pinafore." The small person was not quite comfortable. She had a feeling that the back of her nice frock was dreadfully crushed. Margaret was a little confused. Stephen seemed so at home among them all. Annette had spoken so familiarly of him, yet she had not suspected. How blind she had been!
There was young Mrs. Beekman, thirty or so, already getting stout, and with the fifth Beekman boy that she would gladly have changed for a girl; Mrs. Bond, the next sister, with a boy and a girl; Aunt Gitty Beekman, some Vandewater cousins, and some Gessler cousins from Nyack.
They had rush-bottomed and splint chairs, several rockers, some rustic benches, and two or three tables standing about, with work-baskets and piles of sewing and knitting, for people had not outgrown industry in those days, and still taught their children the verses about the busy bee.
Dolly put Margaret in a rocker, untied her bonnet, and took off her soft white mull scarf—long shawls they were called, and the elder ladies wore them of black silk and handsome black lace. They were held up on the arms and sometimes tied carelessly, and the richer you were, the more handsomely you trimmed them at the ends. Then for cooler weather there were Paisley and India long shawls.
Hanny kept close to her sister and leaned against her knee. She felt strange and timid with the eyes of so many grown people upon her. But they all took up their work and talked, asking Margaret various questions in sociable fashion.
There were three Beekman boys and one little Bond running about. The girl was very shy and would sit on her mother's lap. The Beekmans were fat and chubby, with their hair cut quite close, but not in the modern extreme. They wore long trousers and roundabouts, and low shoes with light gray stockings, though their Sunday best were white. We should say now they looked very queer, and unmistakably Dutch. You sometimes see this attire among the new immigrants. But there were no little Fauntleroy boys at that period with their velvet jackets and knickerbockers, flowing curls and collars.
The boys tried to inveigle Hanny among them. Pety offered her the small wooden bench he was carrying round. Paulus asked her "to come and see Molly who had great big horns and went this way," brandishing his head so fiercely that the little girl shuddered and grasped Margaret's hand.
"Don't tease her, boys," entreated their mother. "She'll get acquainted by and by. I suppose she isn't much used to children, being the youngest?"
"No, ma'am," answered Margaret.
The boys scampered off. Annette knelt down on the short grass, and presently won a smile from the little girl, who was revolving a perplexity as to whether big boys were not a great deal nicer than little boys. Then Stephen came back and Mr. Paulus Beekman, who was stout and dark, and favored his mother's side of the family. The ladies were very jolly, teasing one another, telling bits of fun, comparing work, and exchanging cooking recipes. Miss Gitty asked Margaret about her mother's family, the Vermilyeas. A Miss Vermilye, sixty or seventy years ago, had married a Conklin and come over to Closter. She seemed to have all her family genealogy at her tongue's end, and knew all the relations to the third and fourth generation. But she had a rather sweet face with fine wrinkles and blue veins, and wore her hair in long ringlets at the sides, fastened with shell combs that had been her mother's, and were very dear to her. She wore a light changeable silk, and it still had big sleeves, such as we are wearing to-day. But they had mostly gone out. And the elder ladies were combing their hair down over their ears. There were no crimping-pins, so they had to braid it up at night in "tails" to make it wave, unless one had curly hair. Most of the young girls brushed it straight above their ears for ordinary wear, and braided or twisted it in a great coil at the back, though it was often elaborately dressed for parties.
Aunt Gitty was netting a shawl out of white zephyr. It was tied in the same manner that one makes fish-nets, and you used a little shuttle on which your thread was wound. It was very light and fleecy. Aunt Gitty had made one of silk for a cousin who was going abroad, and it had been very much admired. The little girl was greatly interested in this, and ventured on an attempt at friendliness.
Dolly took them away presently to show them the flower-beds. Mr. Beekman had ten acres of ground. There were vegetables, corn and potato fields and a pasture lot, beside the great lawn and flower-garden. Old Mr. Beekman was out there. He was past seventy now, hale and hearty to be sure, with a round, wrinkled face, and thick white hair, and he was passionately fond of his grandchildren. He had not married until he was forty and his wife was much younger.
There were long walks of dahlias of every color and kind. They were a favorite autumn flower. A great round bed of "Robin-run-away," bergamot, that scented the air and attracted the humming-birds. All manner of old-fashioned flowers that are coming around again, and you could see where there had been magnificent beds of peonies. In the early season people drove out here to see Peter Beekman's tulip-beds.
There were borders of artemisias, as they were called, that diffused a pungent fragrance. We had not shaken hands so neighborly with Japan then, nor learned how she evolved her wonderful chrysanthemums.
The little girl grew quite talkative with Mr. Beekman. You see, in those days there was a theory about children being seen and not heard, and no one expected a little six-year-old to entertain or disturb a room full of company. The repression made them rather diffident, to be sure. But Mr. Beekman gathered her a nosegay of spice pinks, carnations now, and took her to see his beautiful ducks, snowy white, in a little pond, and another pair of Muscovy ducks, then some rare Mandarin ducks from China. She told him about the ducks and chickens at Yonkers and how sorry she was to leave them.
And then came the handsome white Angora cat with its long fur and curious eyes that were almost blue, and when she said "mie-e-o-u" in a rather delighted tone, it seemed as if she meant "O master, where have you been? I'm so glad to see you!"
He stood and patted her and they held quite a conversation as she arched her neck, rubbed against his leg, and turned back and forth. Then she stretched way up on him and gave him her paw, which was very cunningly done.
"This is a nice little girl who has come to see me," he said, as she seemed to look inquiringly at Hanny. "She's fond of everything, kitties especially."
Kitty looked rather uncertain. Hanny was a little afraid of such a curious creature. But presently she came and rubbed against her with a soft little mew, and Hanny ventured to touch her.
"She likes you," declared old Mr. Beekman, much pleased. "She doesn't often take fancies. She loves Dolly, and she won't have anything to do with Annette, though I think the girl teases her. Nice Katschina," said her master, patting her. "Shall we buy this little girl?"
Perhaps you won't believe it, but Katschina really said "yes," and smiled. It was very different from the grin of the "Chessy cat" that Alice saw in Wonderland.
Some one came flying down the path.
"Father," exclaimed Dolly, "come and have a cup of tea or a glass of beer. Stephen and his sister think they can't stay to supper. But may be they'll leave the little girl—you seem to have taken such a notion to her."
Hanny didn't want to be impolite and she reallydidlike Mr. Beekman, but as for staying—her heart was up in her throat.
Dolly picked up Katschina and carried her in triumph. Two white paws lay over Dolly's shoulder.
There was a table with a shining copper tea-kettle, a pewter tankard of home-brewed ale, bread and butter, cold chicken and ham, a great dish of curd cheese, pound cake, soft and yellow, fruit cake, a heaping dish of doughnuts and various cookies and seed cakes. Scipio, a young colored lad, passed the eatables. Young Mrs. Beekman poured the tea. The mother sat near her. She was short and fat and wore her hair in a high Pompadour roll, and she laughed a good deal, showing her fine white teeth of which she was very proud.
Katschina sat in her master's lap, and the little girl was beside him. The boys were given their hands full and sent away. It was a very pretty picture and the little girl felt as if she was reading an entertaining story. One of the Gessler cousins had been knitting lace, double oak-leaf with a heading of insertion. It looked marvellous to the little girl. She said she was making it to trim a visite. This was a Frenchy sort of garment lately come into vogue, though the little girl did not know what it was, and was too well trained to ask questions. But the lace might be the desire of one's heart.
They sipped their tea or raspberry shrub, or enjoyed a glass of ale. They were all very merry. The little girl wondered how Dolly dared to be so saucy with Stephen when she only knew him such a little. Mrs. Beekman could hardly accept the fact that they would not stay to supper, and said they must come soon and spend the day, and have Stephen drive up for them, and that she hoped soon to see Mrs. Underhill. "It is quite delightful and we are all well satisfied," she added, nodding rather mysteriously.
Dolly put on the little girl's hat and kissed her, giving her a breathless squeeze. Miss Gitty kissed her as well and told her she was a "very pretty behaved child." The buggy came round and Stephen put them in amid a chorus of good-bys.
"The little one looks delicate," commented the younger Mrs. Beekman when they had driven away. "I'm afraid she doesn't run and play enough. But she's beautifully behaved. And what a fancy father took to her!"
"Miss Underhill doesn't seem like a real country girl," said another.
"The Underhills are a good family all through, English descent from some Lord Underhill. They were staunch Royalists at one time."
"And the Vermilyeas are good stock," said Aunt Gitty. "There's nothing like being particular as to family. It tells in the long run."
"Well, Dolly, we think he will do," said Mrs. Beekman laughingly, as Dolly, having said her good-bys, sauntered back to the circle. "He might be richer, of course. There's a large family and they can't have much apiece."
"Stephen Underhill's got the making of a good substantial man in him," grunted father Beekman. "If he'd been a poor shoat he wouldn't have hung around here very long, would he, Katschina? We'd 'a put a flea in his ear, wouldn't we."
Katschina arched her back. Dolly laughed and blushed. Stephen was her own true-love anyway, but she was glad to have them all like him. With the insistence of youth she felt she never could have loved any other man.
Stephen clicked to Prince, who was rested and full of spirits. They drove almost straight across the city, about at the end of our first hundred numbered streets. But the road wound around to get out of a low marshy place, a pond in the rainy season, and some rocks that seemed tumbled up on end. They struck a bit of the old Boston Post Road, and that caused the little girl to stop her prattle and think of the old ladies they had never visited. She must "jog" her father's memory. That was what her mother always said when she recalled half-forgotten things.
Stephen and Margaret had only spoken in answer to the little girl. He had a young man's awkwardness concerning a subject so dear to his heart. Margaret was awed by the mystery of love, captivated by Dolly's friendliness, and puzzled to decide what her mother would think of it. Stephen married! Any of them married for that matter. How strange it would seem! And yet she had sometimes said, "When I am married."
The place was wild enough. You would hardly think so now when hollows have been filled and hills levelled, and rocks blasted away. After they turned a little stream wound in and out through the trees and bushes. Amid a tangled mass the little girl espied some wild roses.
"Oh, Steve!" she cried, "may I get out and pick some?"
"I will." He handed the reins over to Margaret and sprang down, running across a little bridge, and soon gathered a great handful.
"Oh, thank you," and her eyes shone. "What a funny little bridge."
"That's Kissing Bridge."
"Who do you have to kiss?" asked the little girl mirthfully.
"Well, a long while ago, in Van Twiller's time, I guess," with a twinkle in his eye, "there wasn't any bridge. The lovers used to carry their sweethearts over, and the charge was a kiss."
"But there wasn't any kissingbridgethen," she said shrewdly.
"When the bridge was built they stopped and kissed out of remembrance."
"Was it really so, Margaret?"
"It has been called that ever since I can remember."
"You unkind girl, not to believe me!" exclaimed Stephen, with an air of offended dignity. "And I am ever so much older than Margaret."
"You didn't carrymeover, but you carried the roses, so you shall have the kiss all the same," and as she reached up to his cheek they both smiled.
Then they came down Broadway to Bleecker Street, and over home. Father Underhill was sitting on the stoop reading his paper. Jim begged to take the horse round to the stable. Margaret went up-stairs to pull off her best dress and put on her pink gingham. She had just finished and was calling for Hanny, when Stephen caught her in his arms.
"Dear Peggy—you must have guessed."
"Oh, Stephen! It seems so strange. Is it really so? I never dreamed——"
"I fell in love with Dolly months ago. There were so many caring for her that I hardly hoped myself. But there's some mysterious sense about it, and I began to see presently that she preferred me. Though I didn't really ask her until Sunday night. And they all consented. We are regularly engaged now."
"Oh, Stephen! To lose you!"
That is the first natural thought of the household.
"You are not going to lose me. We shall be engaged a long while; a year surely."
"But, father—and our coming here."
"That is all right. It can't make any difference. Only you will have a new sister. Oh, Peggy, try to love her," persuasively, yet knowing she could not resist her.
"She is very sweet."
"Sweet! She's just cream and roses and all the sweetest things of life put together! I tell you, Peggy, I'm a lucky fellow. Of course it will seem a little strange at first. But some day you'll have your romance, only I don't believe you can ever understand how glad the other fellow will be to get you. Girls can't. And you'll try to make things smooth with mother if she feels a little put out at first? Dolly wants to love you all. She's admired Joe so much, and they are all proud of him."
The supper bell rang impatiently. Stephen kissed his sister and gave her a rapturous hug.
Hanny came up-stairs and Margaret hurried through her change of attire.
"I thought you never were coming," began their mother tartly. "'Milyer, you're the worst of the lot when you get your nose buried in a newspaper. Boys, do keep still, though I suppose you're half starved," with a reproachful look at those who had delayed the meal.
The little girl had eaten so many of the delicious cookies that she wasn't a bit hungry. So she entertained her father with the miles of dahlias and the wonderful cat, so soft and furry and different from theirs, and with truly blue eyes, and who could understand everything you said to her. And Mr. Beekman was very nice, but not as nice as father. The little boys were so short and so funny. "And I don't believe I likelittleboys. Jim and Benny, Frank and all of you are nicer. Perhaps itisthe bigness."
They all laughed at that.
She sat in her father's lap afterward and went on with her quaint story, until her mother came and routed her out and said, "I do believe, 'Milyer, you'd keep that child up all night."
Afterward Mr. Underhill went out on the front stoop, where he and Stephen had a long talk, while Margaret sat at the piano making up for her afternoon's dissipation, but in the soft, vague light she could see Dolly Beekman with her laughing eyes and crown of shining hair, and was sure she would make a delightful sister. Mrs. Underhill sat and darned stockings and sighed a little. Yet she was secretly proud of Margaret, even if she did study French and music. Whether they would ever help her to keep house was a question. Where would she have found time for such things?
"Yes; come get out once in a while."
"I've no time to spare," said Mrs. Underhill. "Some one has to work or you'd all be in a fine case. Here's Margaret spending her time drumming on the piano and studying French and what not. I dare say you'll be called upon some time to take your daughter to Paris to show off her accomplishments."
"I hope we'll do credit to each other," he returned with a dry, humorous laugh, as if amused.
"The world goes round so fast one can't keep up with it. If the work only rushed on that way! Why don't some of you smart men who have plenty of time to sit round, invent a machine to cook and sew and sweep the house?"
"Martha's a pretty good housekeeping machine, I think. And you might find another to sew."
She had no idea that Elias Howe was hard at work on a tireless iron and steel sewing-woman and was puzzling his brains day and night to put an eye in the needle that would be satisfactory.
"You'd need to be made of money to hire all these folks! Margaret ought to be sewing this very minute, but she's fussing over those drawings of John's. I've such a smart family I think they'll set me crazy. And what you will do when I am gone——"
"We're not going to let you get away so easy. And if you would just go out a bit now and then. Come, mother," with entreaty in his voice.
"Oh, 'Milyer," she said, touched by something in the tone, "I really can't go to-day. I've all those shirts to cut out, and Miss Weir told me of a girl who would be glad to come and sew for fifty cents a day. I think I'll have her a few days. And you look up the poor old creatures and see if they are in any want. Then if I reallycando them any good I'll go."
She always softened in the end. She felt a little sore and touchy about Steve's engagement, and proud, too, that Miss Beekman had accepted him. Stephen had insisted some one must come in and help sew, and that his mother must have a little time for herself. Seven men and boys to make shirts for was no light matter. The little girl was learning to darn stockings very nicely and helped her mother with those.
So father Underhill took the little girl and Dobbin and the ordinary harness, for Steve had Prince and the silver-mounted trappings, and the elders could guess where he had gone. Business was dull along in August, so the men had some time for diversion, and the father always enjoyed his little daughter. Her limited knowledge and quaint comments amused him, and her sweet, innocent love touched the depths of his soul.
It was quite in the afternoon when they started. Dobbin was not as young and frisky as Prince, so they jogged along, looking at the gardens, the trees, the wild masses of vines and sumac, and then stretches of rocky space interspersed with squatters' cabins and the goats, pigs, geese, and chickens. Sometimes in after years when she rode through Central Park, she wondered if she had not dreamed all this, instead of seeing it with her own eyes.
They went over to Mr. Brockner's to inquire.
"Oh," he exclaimed, "Mrs. Brockner will be so sorry to miss you. She has talked so much about your little girl, and threatened to hunt her up. And now she's gone to Saratoga for a fortnight, to see the fashions. But you must come up again."
Then he directed them, and they drove over in a westerly course and soon came to the little stone house that bore evident marks of decay from neglect as well as age. The first story was rough stone, the half-story of shingles, that had once been painted red. There were two small windows in the gable ends, but in front the eaves overhung the doorway and the windows and were broken and moss-grown. There was a big flat stone for the doorstep, a room on one side with two windows, and on the other only one. The hall door was divided in the middle, the upper part open. There was a queer brass knocker on this, and the lower part fastened with an old-fashioned latch. The little courtyard looked tidy, and there was a great row of sweet clover along the fence, but now and then the goats would nibble it off.
When they stepped up on the stoop they saw an old lady sitting in a rocking-chair, with a little table beside her, and some knitting in her lap. She had evidently fallen into a doze. Hanny stretched up on tiptoe. A great gray cat lay asleep also. There were some mats laid about the floor, two very old arm-chairs with fine rush bottoms painted yellow, a door open on either side of the hall, and a well-worn winding stairs going up at the back.
Mr. Underhill reached over and gave a light knock. The cat lifted its head and made a queer sound like a gentle call, then went to the old lady and stretched up to her knees. She started and glanced toward the door, then rose in a little confusion.
"I am looking for a Miss Underhill," began the visitor.
"Oh, pardon me." She unbolted the lower door. "I believe I had fallen asleep. Miss Underhill?" in a sort of surprised inquiry. "I am—one of the sisters. Walk in."
She pushed out one of the arm-chairs and gave her footstool to the little girl.
"I am an Underhill myself, a sort of connection, I dare say. We heard of you some time ago, but I have been much occupied with business, yet I have intended all the time to call on you."
"You are very good, I am sure. We had some relations on Long Island, and I think some here-about, but we lost sight of them long ago. We really have no one now. My sister Jane is past eighty, and I am only three years younger."
She was a slim, shrunken body and her hands were almost transparent, so white was her skin. Her gown was gray, and she wore a white kerchief crossed on her bosom like a Quakeress. Her fine muslin cap had the narrow plain border of that denomination.
Mr. Underhill made a brief explanation of his antecedents, and his removal to the city,—then mentioned hearing of them from Mr. Brockner.
"You are very good to hunt us up," she said, with a touching tremble in her voice. "I don't think now I could tell anything about my father's relatives. He was killed at the battle of Harlem Heights, and my only brother was taken prisoner. The Ferrises, my mother's people, owned a great farm here-about. But much of it was laid waste, and a little later the old homestead burned down. This house was built for us before the British evacuated the city. My brother had died in prison of a fever, and there were only my mother and us two girls."
Hanny was sitting quite close by her. She reached over and took the wrinkled hand gently.
"Do you mean you were alive then—a little girl in the Revolutionary War?" she exclaimed in breathless surprise.
"Why, I was nine years old," and she gave a faded little smile. "I doubt if you're more than that."
"I am a little past eight," said Hanny.
"And the battle was just over yonder," nodding her head. "We all hoped so that General Washington would win. My father was very patriotic and very much in earnest for the independence of the country. The armies were separated by Harlem Plains, and General Howe pushed forward through McGowan's Pass, the rocky gorge over yonder. But our men forced them into the cleared field, and if it had not been for a troop of Hessians they would have driven the British off the field. But I believe Washington thought it best to retreat. I've heard it was almost a victory, still it wasn't quite. But we were wild with apprehension, for we could hear the noise and the firing. And then the awful word came that father was killed."
"Oh!" cried the little girl, and she laid her soft cheek on the wrinkled hand. What if she had been alive then!—and she looked over atherfather with tears in her eyes.
"It was a sad, sad time. Some of the Ferrises were on the King's side. You know a great many people believed the rebels all wrong and said they never could win. My Uncle Ferris was bitterly opposed to father's espousing the Federalists' cause."
"But you didn't want England to win, did you?" inquired the little girl, wide-eyed.
"We were so full of trouble. Mother was very bitter, I remember, and folks called her a Tory. Then brother, who was only seventeen, was taken prisoner. Uncle Ferris said it would be a good lesson for a hot-headed young fellow, and that two or three months in prison would cool his ardor. But he was taken sick and died before we knew he was really ill. Then our house burned down. Mother thought it was set on fire. Oh, my child, such quantities of things as were in it! My mother had never gone away from the old house because grandmother was a widow. Then the land was divided, and this smaller house built for mother and us. The British took possession of the city, and it was said uncle made money right along. But the English were very good to us, and no one ever molested us after that. Dear, we used to think it almost a day's journey to go down to the Bowling Green."
The little girl was listening wide-eyed, and drew a long breath.
"There have been many changes. But somehow we seem to have gone on until most everybody has forgotten us. You might like to see sister Jane, though she's quite deaf and hasn't her mind very clear. I don't know,"—hesitatingly.
"Do you live all alone here?" Mr. Underhill asked.
"Not exactly alone; no. We sold the next-door lot four years ago to some Germans, very nice people. The mother comes in and helps with our little work and looks after our garden, and sleeps here at night. The doctor thought it wasn't safe to be left here alone with sister Jane. It made it easy for them to pay for the place. It's nearly all gone now. But there'll be enough to last our time out," she commented with a soft sigh of self-abnegation.
"And you have no relatives, that is, no one to look after you a bit?"
"Well, you see grandmother made hard feelings with the relatives. She didn't think the colonies had any right to go to war. And after father's death mother felt a good deal that way. They dropped us out, and we never took any pains to hunt them up. We never knew much about the Underhills. I must say you are very kind to come," and her voice trembled.
Just then the door opened and Miss Underhill sprang up to take her sister's arm and lead her to a chair. She was taller and stouter, and the little girl thought her the oldest-looking person she had ever seen. Her cap was all awry, her shawl was slipping off of one shoulder, and she had a sort of dishevelled appearance, as she looked curiously around.
Lois straightened her up, seated her, and introduced her to the visitors.
"I'm hungry. I want something to eat, Lois," she exclaimed in a whining, tremulous tone, regardless of the strangers.
Miss Underhill begged to be excused, and went for a plate of bread and butter and a cup of milk.
"Perhaps you'd like to see our old parlor," she said to her guests, and opened the door.
There were two rooms on this side of the house. The back one was used for a sleeping chamber. She threw the shutters wide open, and a little late sunshine stole over the faded carpet that had once been such a matter of pride with the two young women. There were some family portraits, a man with a queue and a ruffled shirt-front, another with a big curly white wig coming down over his shoulders, and several ladies whose attire seemed very queer indeed. There was a black sofa studded with brass nails that shone as if they had been lately polished, a tall desk and bookcase going up to the ceiling, brass and silver candlesticks and snuffers' tray, as well as a bright steel "tinder box" on the high, narrow mantel. A big mahogany table stood in the centre of the room, polished until you could see your face in it. But there was an odd tall article in the corner, much tarnished now, but ornamented with gilt and white vines that drooped and twisted about. Long wiry strings went from top to bottom.
"I suppose you don't know what that is!" said Miss Lois, when she saw the little girl inspecting it. "That's a harp. Young ladies played on it when we were young ourselves. And they had a spinet. I believe it's altered now and called a piano."
"A harp!" said the little girl in amaze. Her ideas of a harp were very vague, but she thought it was something you carried around with you. She had heard the children sing
"I want to be an angelAnd with the angels stand;A crown upon my forehead,A harp within my hand,"
"I want to be an angelAnd with the angels stand;A crown upon my forehead,A harp within my hand,"
and the size of this confused her.
"But how could you play on it?" she asked.
"You stood this way. You could sit down, but it was considered more graceful to stand. And you played in this manner."
She fingered the rusted strings. A few emitted a doleful sort of sound almost like a cry.
"We've all grown old together," she said sorrowfully. "It was considered a great accomplishment in my time. I believe people still play on the harp. We had a great many curious things, but several years ago a committee of some kind came and bought them. We needed the money sadly, and we had no one to leave them to when we died. There was some beautiful old china, and a lady bought the fan and handkerchief that my grandmother carried at her wedding. The handkerchief was worked at some convent in Italy and was fine as a cobweb. My mother used it, and then it was laid by for us. But we never needed it," and she gave a soft sigh.
She had glided out now and then to look after Jane, who was eating as if she was starved. And in the broken bits of talk Mr. Underhill had learned by indirect questioning that they had parted with their land by degrees, and with some family valuables, until there was only this old house and a small space of ground left.
Miss Jane was anxious now to see the visitors. But she was so deaf Lois had to repeat everything, and she seemed to forget the moment a thing was said. Dobbin whinnied as if he thought the call had been long enough.
Mr. Underhill squeezed a bank-note into the hand of Miss Lois as he said good-by. "Get some little luxury for your sister," he added.
"Thank you for all your friendliness," and the tears stood in her eyes. "Come again and bring your sister Margaret," she said to the little girl.
They drove over westward a short distance. The rocky gorge was still there, and at its foot was one of the first battle-fields of this vicinity. Hanny looked at it wonderingly.
"Then Washington retreated up to Kingsbridge," began her father. "They found they could not hold that, and so went on to White Plains, followed by some Hessian troops. They didn't seem very fortunate at first, for they were beaten again. Grandmother can tell you a good deal about that. And a great-uncle had his house burned down and they were forced to fly to a little old house on top of a hill. My father was a little boy then."
The little girl looked amazed. Did he know about the war?
"It seems such a long, long time ago—like the flood and the selling of Joseph. And was grandmother really alive?"
"Grandmother is about as old as Miss Lois."
"Miss Lois doesn't look so awful old, but the other lady does. I felt afraid of her."
"Don't think of her, pussy. It's very sad to lose your senses and be a trouble."
"You couldn't," was the confident reply after much consideration. She didn't see how such a thing could happen to him.
"I hope I never shall," he returned, with an earnest prayer just under his breath.
Dobbin insisted upon going home briskly. He was thinking of his supper. The little girl was so sorry not to have Benny Frank to talk over her adventures with. Margaret and her mother were basting shirts; John was drawing plans on the dining-room table. He had found a place to work at house-building and was studying architecture and draughting. A man had come in to see her father, so she was left quite alone. The Deans and several of the little girls on the block had gone visiting. She walked up and down a while, thinking how strange the world was, and what wonderful things had happened, vaguely feeling that there couldn't be any to come in the future.
At the end of the week she and Margaret went up to White Plains, as grandmother was anxious to see them.
Her grandmother was invested with a curious new interest in her eyes. That any one belonging to her should have lived in the Revolutionary War seemed a real stretch of the imagination for a little girl eight years old. Grandmother consideredherwonderful also. She wasn't so much in favor of short frocks and pantalets that came down to your ankles, but the little girl did look pretty in them. And when she found how neatly she could hemstitch and do such beautiful featherstitch, and darn, and read so plainly that it was a pleasure to listen to her, she had to admit that Hannah Ann was a real credit, and, she confessed in her secret heart, a very sweet little girl.
"I've begun your new Irish chain patchwork," she said. "I've made one block for a pattern, and cut out quite a pile. Aunt Eunice lighted upon some beautiful green calico. I was upon a stand whether to have green or red, but an Irish chain generally is pieced of green. It seems more appropriate."
And yet people had not begun to sing "The Wearing of the Green."
"I declare," said Cousin Ann, "you're such an old-fashioned little thing one can hardly tell which is the oldest, you or grandmother."
"Is it anything"—what should she say?—wrong or bad seemed too forcible—"queer to be old-fashioned?"
"Well, yes,queer. But you're awful sweet and cunning, Hannah Ann, and we'd just like to keep you forever."
With that she almost squeezed the breath out of the little girl and kissed her a dozen times.
Grandmother could tell such wonderful stories as they sat and sewed. All the glories of the old Underhill house, and the silver and plate that had come over from England, and the set of real china that a sea captain, one of the Underhills, had brought from China and how it had taken three years to go there and come back. And the beautiful India shawl it had taken seven years to make, and the Persian silk gown that had been bought of some great chief or Mogul—grandmother wasn't quite sure, but she thought they had a king or emperor in those countries. She had a little piece of the silk that she showed Hanny, and a waist ribbon that came from Paris, "For you see," said she, "we were so angry with England that we wouldn't buy anything of her if we could help it. And the French people came over and helped us."
"What did they fight about, grandmother?"
"Oh, child, a great many things. You can't understand them all now, but you'll learn about them presently. The people who came here and settled the country wanted the right to govern themselves. They thought a king, thousands of miles away, couldn't know what was best for them. And England sent over things and we had to pay for them whether we wanted them or not. And it was a long struggle, but we won, and the British had to go back to their own country. Why, if we hadn't fought, we wouldn't have had any country," and grandmother's old face flushed.
The little girl thinks it would be dreadful not to have a country, but her mind is quite chaotic on the subject. She is glad, however, to have been on the winning side.
Nearly every day Uncle David took her out driving. They saw the old house on the hill in a half-hidden, woody section where the family had to live until the new house was built. They went round the battlefield, but sixty years of peace had made great changes, and the next fifty years was to see a beautiful town and many-storied palaces all about. She dipped into the history of New Amsterdam again and began to understand it better, though she did mistrust that Mr. Dederich Knickerbocker now and then "made fun," not unlike her father.
The visit came to an end quite too soon, grandmother thought, and she was very sorry to part with the little girl. She thought she would try and come down when the fall work was done, and she gave Hanny only four blocks of patchwork, for if she went to school there wouldn't be much time to sew.
They stopped at Yonkers two days and picked up the boys, who were brown and rosy. Aunt Crete was much better and did not have to go about with her face tied up. She said there was no place like Yonkers, after all. Retty seemed happy and jolly, but there was a new girl in the kitchen, for Aunt Mary had gone to live with her children. George said he should come down a while when the crops were in.
School commenced the 1st of September sharp. It was hot, of course. Summer generally does lap over. The boys who had shouted themselves hoarse with joy when school closed, made the street and the playground ring with delight again. If they were not so fond of studying they liked the fun and good-fellowship. And when they marched up and down the long aisles singing:
"Hail Columbia, happy land;Hail ye heroes, heaven-born band.Who fought and bled in freedom's cause!"
"Hail Columbia, happy land;Hail ye heroes, heaven-born band.Who fought and bled in freedom's cause!"
you could feel assured another generation of patriots was being raised for some future emergency. Oh, what throats and lungs they had!
Mrs. Underhill had been around to see Mrs. Craven, and liked her very well indeed. So the little girl was to go to school with Josie and Tudie Dean.
Some new people had come in the street two doors below. Among the members was a little girl of seven, the child of the oldest son, and a large girl of fourteen or so, two young ladies, one of whom was teaching school, and the other making artificial flowers in a factory down-town, and two sons. The eldest one was connected with a newspaper, and was in quite poor health. His wife, the little girl's mother, had been dead some years. The child was rather pale and thin, with large, dark eyes, and a face too old for her years and rather pathetic. And when Mrs. Whitney came in a few days later to inquire where Mrs. Underhill sent her little girl to school, she decided to let her grandchild go to Mrs. Craven's also.
"She's quite a delicate little thing and takes after her mother. I tell my son, she wants to company with other children and not sit around nursing the cat. But Ophelia, that's my daughter who teaches down-town, where we used to live, says the public school is no place for her. And your little girl seems so nice and quiet like."
Nora, as they called her, was very shy at first. Hanny went after her, and found the Deans waiting on their stoop. Nora never uttered a word, but looked as if she would cry the next moment. Mrs. Craven took her in charge in a motherly fashion, but it seemed very hard for her to fraternize with the children.
Mrs. Craven lived in a corner house. The entrance to the school was on Third Street, and the schoolroom was built off the back parlor, which was used as a recitation-room for the older class. There were about twenty little girls, none of them older than twelve. At the end of the yard was a vacant lot, fenced in, which made a beautiful playground.
There were numbers of such schools at that period, but they were mostly for little girls. Hanny liked it very much. On Wednesday afternoon they had drawing, and reading aloud, when the girls could make their own selections, which were sometimes very amusing. On Friday afternoon they sewed and embroidered and did worsted work. There was quite a rage about this. One girl had a large piece in a frame—"Joseph Sold by his Brethren." Hanny never tired of the beautiful blue and red and orange costumes. Another girl was working a chair seat. And still another had begun to embroider a black silk apron with a soft shade of red. Then they hemstitched handkerchiefs, they marked towels and napkins with ornate letters, and really were a busy lot. Little Eleanora Whitney couldn't sew a stitch, and some of the girls thought it "just dreadful."
Friday from half-past three until five Miss Helen Craven gave the children, whose parents desired it, a dancing lesson. If Nora couldn't sew, she could dance like a fairy. Her education was a curious conglomeration. She could read and declaim, but spelling was quite beyond her, and her attempts at it made a titter through the room. She could talk a little French, and she had crossed the ocean to England with her papa. So she wasn't to be despised altogether.
"'Taint no such thing! The world couldn't come to an end!" Janey Day quite forgot Mrs. Craven's strictures on speech. "It's too strong. And—and——"
"And it's round," said the wit of the school. "Round as a ring and has no end. There now."
"But the world ain't like a ring."
"So isn'tmy love for you, my friend."
There was quite a little shout of laughter.
One of the larger girls, Hester Brown, stood with upraised head and earnest countenance.
"Itiscoming to an end in October. It is only two or three weeks off. My father has read it all in the Bible. And we are getting ready."
Her demeanor silenced the little group.
"But howdoyou get ready?"
"We must repent of our sins. And that's why mother wouldn't let me come to the dancing-class. She thinks it wrong, any way. And mother and Auntie are making their ascension robes. We go to church every night."
The girls stood awestruck.
"What's going to happen?" asked one.
"Why, the world will be burned up. All those who love God are to be caught up to heaven. Then the dead people who have been good will rise out of their graves. And all the rest—everything will be burned."
The solemnity of the girl's voice impressed so that they looked at each other in silent fear.
"I just don't believe a word of it," declared Janey Day, drawing a long breath. "My father's a good man and goes to church and reads the Bible every night. He's read it through more than fifty times, and he's never said a word about the world coming to an end. And he's building a new house for us to move into next spring."
"Fifty times, Janey Day! It takes a long, long while to read the Bible through. My grandmother's read it all through twice, and she's awful old."
"Well—twenty times at least. And don't you 'spose he'd found something about it?"
"Everybody can't tell. It's in Daniel. There's days and times to be added up."
"Five ofyou, Janey," said the wit with a child's irreverence.
"Justwhenis it coming to an end? Girls, there's no use to study any more lessons."
"It will be next week," said Hester with almost tragic solemnity. "But you must all go on doing your work just the same."
"I don't see the sense. I've just begun fractions, and I hate them. I won't do another sum."
The bell rang and recess was at an end. The girls straggled until they reached the doorway, then suddenly straightened themselves into an orderly line and took their seats quietly. There was a sound of rapidly moving pencils—slates and pencils were in full swing then. No one had invented "pads."
One after another read out answers. A few went up to Mrs. Craven for assistance.
"Lottie Brower," the lady said presently.
Lottie colored. She had a kind of school-girl grudge against Hester.
"I—I haven't done my sums," she replied slowly.
"Why not?"
"Because the world is coming to an end. They're so hard, and what is the use if we're not going to live longer than next week?"
Every girl stopped her work and stared at Hester, amazed, yet rather enjoying Lottie's audacity.
"How did you come by such an idea?" asked Mrs. Craven quietly.
"Butisthere any use of studying or anything?" Lottie's voice had a little tremble in it. "I'm sure I don't want the world to come to an end, but——"
"Do your people believe this?"
"No, ma'am," replied Lottie.
"Where, then, did you get the idea?"
"Hester Brown is sure——"
Hester's face was scarlet. She felt that she was called upon to bear witness.
"My father and mother believe it, and we are all getting ready. My uncle means to give away all his things next week."
The girl was in such earnest that Mrs. Craven was puzzled for a moment.
"I do not think we shall know the day or the hour," was the reply. "We are all exhorted to go on diligently with whatever we are doing. And Lottie, Hester has certainly set you an example. She did her sums correctly. She has added works to her faith as the Bible commands. I am aware many people think the end of the world is near, but that is no reason for our being careless and indolent. I doubt if that excuse would be accepted; at all events, I cannot accept yours."
"But I hate fractions! The divisors and the multiples get all mixed up and go racing round in my head until I can't tell one from the other."
"Bring your slate here." Mrs. Craven made room for her by the table. "Now, what is the trouble?"
Twelve o'clock struck before Lottie was through, but she had to admit that it wasn't so "awful" when Mrs. Craven explained the sums in her quiet, lucid manner. The girls rose and went to the closet for their hats and capes.
"Girls," began Mrs. Craven, "I want to say a word. I hope each one of you will respect the other's religious belief. Our country has been founded on the corner-stone of liberty in this matter, and one ought to be noble enough not to ridicule or sneer at any honest, sincere faith, remembering that we cannot all believe alike."
Hester went out with two or three of the larger girls.
"I do not think you were quite kind, Lottie," said her teacher, in a soft tone.
"But what would be the use of fractions if the world came to an end?"
"Oh, Mrs. Craven!doyou believe it? I should feel just dreadful. The world has so many splendid things in it—and to be burned up."
"I should just be frightened to death," and one little girl shuddered.
"Children, I am sorry anything has been said about this. There are a good many people who believe and who have preached for the last three years that the end of the world is near. The time has been set for next week. Yet the Bibledoessay thatnoman knoweth the day nor the hour. I do not believe in these predictions," and she smiled reassuringly. "I think we can all count on Thanksgiving and a merry Christmas as well as a happy New Year. I want you all to be kind to each other, and when Hester is disappointed next week, to refrain from teasing her. If you think for a moment, you will find it very easy to believe just as your parents do, for you love them the best of any one in this world. And the more you respect and obey them, the more ready you are to be kind and gentle and truthful to all about you, the better you are serving God. You must leave this matter in His hands, and remember that He loves you all, and will do whatever is best. Don't feel troubled about the world coming to an end. I am afraid Lottie here will have a great deal more trouble about fractions. I doubt if she gets through by Christmas. Now run home or you will be late for dinner."
The little girl sat very quiet at the table. There was only her mother, John, and the boys. She wished that her father or Steve were here so she could ask them. A strange awe was creeping over her. It seemed so dreadful to have all the world burned up. There might be some people left behind in the hurry. It hurt terribly to be burned even a little.
There was a very sober lot of girls at school that afternoon. The jest was all taken out of recess. Hester sat on the steps reading a little pocket Testament. The others huddled together and shook their heads mysteriously, saying just above a whisper, "I don't believe it." "My mother says it isn't so." But somehow they did not seem to fortify themselves much with these protestations.
Some of the elder cousins had come to visit and take tea. People went visiting by three in the afternoon and carried their work along. There was an atmosphere of relationship and real living that gave a certain satisfaction. You enjoyed it. It was not paying a social debt reluctantly, relieved to have it over, but a solid, substantial pleasure.
Martha took the little girl up-stairs and put on a blue delaine frock and white apron, and polished her "buskins," as the low shoes were called. Then she went into the parlor and spoke to all the ladies. She had her lace in a little bag, and presently she sat down on an ottoman and took out her work.
"You don't mean to say that child can knit lace? And oak-leaf, too, I do declare! What a smart little girl!"
"Oh, she embroiders quite nicely, also. Hannah Ann, get your apron and show Cousin Dorcas."
The apron was praised and the handkerchiefs she had marked for her father were brought out. Then she was asked what she was studying at school.
Cousin Dorcas was knitting "shells" for a counterpane. There was one of white and one of red, and they were put together in a rather long diamond shape with a row of openwork between every block. It was for her daughter, who was going to be married in the spring, and it interested the little girl wonderfully.
Then they talked about Steve and Dolly Beekman. While the girls were at White Plains, Steve had coaxed his father and mother up to the Beekmans', and the engagement had been settled with all due formality. Dolly and her mother had been down and taken tea. And now Steve went up every Sunday afternoon and stayed to supper, and once or twice through the week, and took Dolly out driving and escorted her to parties.
The Beekmans were good, solid people, and Peggy ought to be satisfied that Stephen had chosen so wisely. "Was it true that Steve had been buying some land way out of town? Did he mean to build there?"
"Oh, dear, no!" answered his mother. "It was a crazy thing, but John had really persuaded him, and John was too young to have any judgment. But he said the Astors were buying up there, and land was almost given away."
"I don't know what it's good for," declared Aunt Frasie. "Why it'll be forty years before the city'll go out there. Well, it may be good for his grandchildren."
They all gave a little laugh.
Presently another of the cousins sat down at the piano and played the "Battle of Prague."
Then Aunt Frasie said, "Do sing something. It doesn't seem half like music without the singing."
Maria Jane ran her fingers over the keys, and began a plaintive air very much in vogue: