The city by the sea sung itself in Hanny's brain. The sweet, young, beautiful wife, ruthlessly torn away, was somewhere in space, among the stars perhaps, and not in the old graveyard. She was floating on and on amidst all lovely things and divine fragrances. She could never grow old; she would never want for anything. Ah, would she not want for the mother and the poet who loved her?
An incident that had moved her strongly only a few weeks before, was a strange bit of reminiscence that could hardly be called a story. Ben had brought home a volume of De Quincey, and "Suspiria de Profundis" was among the papers. The others were too intellectual to interest her; but the touching, tender, immeasurable longing for the little sister gone out of life, filled her inmost soul with an emotion so sacred she could not talk it over with any one. This was akin to it.
Yet Hanny did not live in the clouds or in vague memories all the time. Her father drove up the next day, and found she was not homesick; and her mother was coming up the next week to spend the day; and everybody was well. She had a great deal to tell him; and she seemed very merry. He wasn't quite sure about the crabbing expedition; but Mrs. Odell said there wasn't a mite of danger, for some of the big boys always went along; and that it was a regular frolic for the children.
So Saturday they put on their oldest clothes. Hanny wore an outgrown frock of Polly's. Mr. Odell said he would drive them down to the river, which would save half the walk. He had some business in that direction.
He had the farm-waggon, and put some hay in the bottom, though he insisted Hanny should sit on the seat with him. They stopped at Fordham, and took in another relay; and the children were wild with the unreasoning gladness of youth. Mr. Odell was in an uncommon good-humour, and took them down the river quite a distance, to High Bridge, and then up again, when they espied the boys and baskets and the net, which had a long handle and looked to Hanny like a butterfly-net, only larger.
A motley crew they were. The boys had their trousers rolled above their knees, and some of the girls took off their shoes and stockings and waded about in the wet, sedgy grass. There was a little dock where the boats were tied; and soon two of them were loosened and filled up with a jolly crew. Big, cheerful Cousin Ben took charge of the little girl, and would not allow the others to frighten her. Ann was quite a famous hand on these expeditions.
They rowed out a short distance, and then began business. Oh, the shrieks and laughter that came from the other boat, when some one dipped up two hands full of water and dashed it over the others. And it is strange how much you can make your hands hold at such a time. Hanny was glad she was not in that boat, when they rocked it up and down. But most of the children could swim, and they were not in the channel.
"Quick!" exclaimed Cousin Ann, and the net was held out in a twinkling, Ann drew up a great green fellow with a frightful lot of legs, and he dropped in the net. They dumped him into a basket, and covered him with a piece of old fish-net; and the more he struggled to get out, the more he entangled himself. Hanny felt rather glad he was not down her end of the boat.
They had brilliant luck for a little while. Then the other boat shifted about; they had not caught a single crab, and there were loud murmurs of discontent. The others had the best place.
"You make such a racket you frighten them away," said Ben.
"Can they hear?" asked Hanny.
"I think about everything in this world can see and hear in some fashion."
They certainly were dreadful looking. The laughter and the exclamations, the disappointment at losing one, the funny conundrums the children propounded to one another, and the limp appearance of the voyagers, partly made amends for the sudden fright every time the great sprawling things came up. Hanny would not even undertake the capture of one.
The crabs grew wise presently. Not one of them could be aroused to the faintest curiosity concerning bait. Ben's boat had nineteen, the other eleven. They rowed up to the little dock, and managed to get them all in one basket. Jack showed Hanny how you could take hold of a crab, and render him helpless. It certainly did look funny to see him struggling with all his might and main, and his numerous legs. The two front ones were very fierce.
"He could give you an awful pinch with them," said Jack; and he made believe fling him at a group of girls, who scattered pellmell.
"I suppose the legs are oars, and help him swim," said Hanny.
"And help him grab his prey. He's a sort of savage fellow, and lives on smaller folks."
Then Ben and Jack went to dig for clams. There were very nice clam and oyster beds along the river then. There were not many people to disturb them, and no sewage to starve them out.
Hanny thought planting oysters a very funny idea. They were put in their beds like other babies.
The boys, and some of the girls, picked up the clams, until they had a half-bushel basket full. Tony Creese, the black man who did odd jobs, was to drive down for the "freight;" but he seemed in no hurry. Some of the boys went in swimming; and Janey Odell did wish she had brought another frock along. She could swim very well. They waded instead. Ben walked up to a little bank that, having lain in the sun all day, was warm and dry, and stretched himself out. Ann was too big to go "larking" about with the girls, so she and Hanny, and one or two others, sat down on the soft, sunburned turf.
How beautiful it all was! The sun was going down behind the New Jersey hills. The little rise of ground between this and the Hudson shut out the river; but it could not shut out the amethystine splendour. Back of it all was heaven, to the child's faith. Miss Lois and her sister were there, and old Mr. Bounett, and the poet's young wife, and ever so many others. It was only the other side of the clouds, with their scarlet and gold and green battlements. She could see the ships sailing into port. She recalled "Pilgrim's Progress," and Christiana going across. In that moment of ecstasy she could have gone herself.
Tony came down the road singing "Oh, Susannah;" Ben answered "Hillo!" and shook himself like a great bear. The two baskets were put into the waggon.
"Now you girls who are too delicate for a long walk, or too much worn out by your day's toil, had better hop in. Ann, you go and keep an eye on Hanny. Now who else?"
They were all pretty tired with their racing about, and the three smallest ones were picked out, as there was but one horse. The others formed the rear-guard, and marched on behind, with their arms about each other. They were too tired for even the tempting game of "tag," or the ambition of running races.
Mr. Odell was waiting at the uncle's, having come around the other way. Supper was ready; but he thought they had better be "gettin' on," as mother would wait supper for them.
Hanny was very tired, and went to bed immediately after the meal.
They had some splendid clam-fritters for breakfast. Ben had proposed to divide the crabs; but Mr. Odell reckoned, "He'd go crabbing the first leisure day," and was satisfied with part of the clams.
And then, unexpected delight, Stephen and Dolly and the two babies came up to dinner. Little Stevie captured everybody, he was so merry and cunning; and Polly wished they could keep him.
"When he gets to be a big boy, and has a school vacation, I'll be very glad to send him up, I dare say," was the response.
"But, dear me, we'll be big too," said Polly; "and it won't be any fun."
Dolly told her little sister-in-law all the news, and what everybody was doing. It seemed as if she had been away so long. Mother had spent a day with Martha, which she had been promising to do ever since Martha was married.
The little girl almost wanted to go home with them; but no one invited her, and she would not have been so silly or ungracious as to plead homesickness, for she really wasn't homesick a bit.
Then, on Tuesday, Joe came up with a letter from Daisy, who had gone to some German baths, and was drinking water twice as horrid as that at Saratoga. The things you had to eat were so very queer; but the music everywhere was perfectly bewitching. Everything was so different. She was taking lessons of a Fräulein, and had to talk German at the table. They had been through several churches, and one picture gallery that was magnificent. A little withered-up old German was giving her some painting lessons. If Hanny could only be there, she would be quite content; yet she did think she loved America best.
Hanny was so delighted that her eyes shone, and her cheeks were pink as a rose-leaf.
But Mrs. Odell said she could notice that her appetite was better, and she was doing her best to fat her up a little, and make her look like a country girl.
Mr. Odell took her about with him when he could. There were so many beautiful places up and down the valley of the Bronx. They went up to White Plains, and took everybody by surprise. Grandmother up there was quite feeble now.
Then it happened, rather oddly, that when Cousin Jennie came down for her, as there was no one scarcely at Fordham but the regular family, Mrs. Odell was going to have a houseful of relatives from the West. She just wished they had their new house at such times as these. She could make a bed on the floor for Janey and Polly, and that would give her two spare rooms.
The girls didn't feel so badly, as there were two Western cousins of their age, and they would bring them up to Fordham.
The little girl was not at all tired of her pleasant hosts; but there was a romantic side to the coming visit that she could not talk over with Polly and Janey; and she was most famished for reading, as the Odells were not of the intellectual sort. Mrs. Odell didn't like the children to handle her parlour books, in their red morocco bindings, that were spread around on the centre-table.
Hanny's favourite place at the Fordham house was up on the high piazza. To be sure, it was sunny in the morning; but then Doctor Joe said sunshine was good for her, and one corner soon grew shady. There was some one passing up and down continually: the priests from St. John's College, in their long black coats and queer hats, generally reading as they walked; the labourers who worked on the railroad; the people going to the station; and the girls out calling in the afternoons in their pretty white gowns. There was no Jerome Park for stylish driving. Indeed, it was a plain little country village, and most of the life centred about the corner grocery and the blacksmith shop, where men talked politics and the discovery of California, and discussed the merits of the heroes of the Mexican War.
She sewed some patchwork for Cousin Jennie, who was making several bed-quilts, and who had a lover,—a tall, bright-eyed young man who drove a very handsome horse. Hanny felt quite wise on the subject of lovers; and though no one said anything special, she understood what the preparations meant.
"Now," Cousin Jennie said the next afternoon, "I am going up to Mr. Poe's, to return some books and get others. Will you go along?"
Hanny was very glad. She had seen Mr. N. P. Willis and General Morris, and some others, on the street; but that wasn't like going to their houses. The dead young wife lent him a glamour of romance, to her girlish imagination.
Mrs. Clemm sat on the farther end of the porch. It almost seemed as if she had not stirred since Hanny caught the first glimpse of her. She rose, a tall, rather thin woman with a sad, quiet face and a grave smile; and the two had a little chat.
There was no hall to the house, at least the door opened into the front room. A half closet stood at one side of the chimney, piled with books and papers, an old sofa and some chairs, a table in the centre, strewn with pamphlets and writing-materials, and the poet sitting beside it in a melancholy pose, marking passages in a book.
He glanced up and spoke. The little girl had an impression of a pallid face framed in dark, tumbled hair, and luminous eyes that seemed to be of some other world in their abstracted light.
"You are quite welcome to any of the books, as you well know," said the poet. "I am glad to have some one interested in them."
Then the white hand went on turning pages and making notes. The little girl stood by the window, almost expecting the frail ghost to walk down from the graveyard and enter the door again. Later on, she understood the impression of weirdness, the almost ghostly stillness of the room; and she found herself thinking over the poem that had so impressed her.
Fordham, in those days, was neither poetical nor intellectual. That a man should starve on writing poetry, when there was other work to be done in the world, seemed rather absurd. In some of the centres, literature was becoming an honourable employment; but country places had not emerged from the twilight of respect for brawn rather than brain.
Jennie made her selections, and expressed her obligation. The poet nodded absently.
Mrs. Clemm rose, as they emerged from the door, and walked to the end of the porch with them. There was something wonderfully pathetic in the care-worn face, the reticent air, and gentle voice.
"I wonder if you have a few eggs to spare," she asked, in a hesitating manner. "My poor Edgar's appetite is so wretched. He has had a bad spell, and eats next to nothing."
"Yes, I can find you half-a-dozen, I know. Our hens are afflicted a little with summer laziness," and Jennie smiled. "We have been baking to-day, and I wish you would accept a loaf of bread. I'll send this little cousin up with them."
"Oh, don't trouble! I will come down."
"I shall be glad to do it," said Hanny, with a gentle eagerness.
Cousin Jennie put the bread and the eggs,—she found seven,—and part of a cake, in a little basket, and said, "Run along, Little Red Riding Hood. There are no wolves to catch you."
They teased Cousin Jennie a little because the tall young man with bright eyes was named Woolf.
Mrs. Clemm received the little girl's parcel with her usual quiet air, and thanked her for coming. And before she could hunt up her ever-scanty purse the child had said Good-evening, and vanished.
Hanny heard the "spells" rather rudely explained a day or two after, and understood the melancholy shadow that hung about the house. People were not any more delicate in gossiping about their neighbour's short-comings then than now, when all the little faults and frailties of heroes are paraded to the public gaze and comment.
But the exquisite care with which the mother watched over the son of her heart, made her one of the little girl's heroines later on, when she could fully appreciate the tender solicitude that tried to shield him and save him from temptation, when possible, bearing her burthen with such heroic dignity that she was fain to persuade her own soul that she covered it from critical eyes. When one woman suffers bravely to the death, amid untold privation, and another takes up the dropped burthen with a devotion no anxiety can wear out, is it not proof that there must have been some charm in the poet seen more clearly by those who loved him?
There was a new book by Miss Macintosh among those they had brought home; and this Hanny devoured eagerly, sitting on her high perch, while the rest were busy in the household routine. In the afternoon, she read aloud while the others sewed. Sometimes the Major came in to listen; but he thought there were no novels written nowadays like "The Mysteries of Udolpho," "The Children of the Abbey," and "The Vicar of Wakefield."
"Oh," said the little girl, "isn't this funny! We have the first volume of 'The Grumbler' and the second of 'The Grandfather.' I don't believe I can piece them together," with a bright, mirthful expression.
"And I picked those up myself. No; we are interested in the 'Grumbler' now and must know what became of him."
They were English novels by a Miss Pickering, long since forgotten, while less worthy ones are remembered.
"We'll walk up after supper and change them," continued Cousin Jennie.
But visitors came in shortly afterward to stay to supper. People were not specially invited then; and the hostess did not expect to prepare a feast on ordinary occasions. So Jennie said Hanny might go up alone, if she didn't mind.
She started gladly, yet a sense of diffidence oppressed her as she stood at the door, a half guilty consciousness, as if she had no right to the secret Mrs. Clemm was trying so assiduously to hide.
The poet was pacing up and down the room; but his pallid face and strange, shining eyes seemed looking out from some other world. Mrs. Clemm sat by the window with a magazine in her hand.
Hanny preferred her request timidly.
"Oh, come in and hunt them up. Your cousin is quite welcome to anything. Then there are some upstairs, though I brought down that pile over in the corner this very morning."
The corner looked attractive. Hanny went thither, and knelt down on the checked matting. There were two books of engravings containing portraits of famous people, some old volumes of verse, some new ones, and magazines.
The volumes she wanted were not among them. But she exhumed something else that made her forget the slight, nervous man pacing up and down, and the woman at the window. Turning the leaves of an old novel that had lost one cover, she came across the name of one of her heroes, "Richard of the Lion Heart." She had a passion, just then, for English history. And there was Bulwer's "White Rose of England," in paper covers with a Harper imprint.
"Could I take these beside?" she asked, with some hesitation.
He glanced over at them as he came to that end of the room.
"Those old novels? Yes. Do they let you read novels?"
"I read almost anything," and Hanny glanced up with rising colour. "But there are not so many books up here—I live in New York," she added, by way of explanation.
A half smile crossed his face, but its melancholy haunted the little girl long afterward.
Then she went over to the closet, and soon found her missing volumes, and uttered her gentle Good-afternoon. Mrs. Clemm had folded her sewing, and came out on the porch where the water-pail stood empty, so she started to the well.
"Please thank your cousin for her kindness," she said in a soft tone. "I am glad she is fond of books."
The modern realistic school, or even the analytic school, would flout Madame Cottin's old novel of "The Saracen" to-day. Perhaps in the year two thousand the novels of to-day will be wondered at. The next morning, the little girl was up in her eyrie in the corner of the porch, and began her story. She was deeply interested in the Crusaders as well. Richard, Saladin, and his noble and knightly brother Melek held her spell-bound. She let the patchwork lie unheeded.
Queen Joan, Richard's sister, beautiful and unfortunate in her marriage, almost a prisoner for years, rescued and taken to the Holy Land in company with Berengaria, and treated with Oriental suavity and honour, and loved by Melek Adel, indeed, almost married to him, though history considers it only as one of the many feints of Eastern diplomacy, roused all Hanny's youthful ardour. And Saladin's young nephew, taking knighthood at Richard's hands on Easter morning, was so striking a picture that the child could not understand why Turks and Christians should be bitter enemies, when friendships like this could be cemented, and apparently appreciated by men of such qualities.
She lost interest in the "Grumbler," and I am afraid her mind wandered as she read aloud. She was really glad that for several days there were no children to play with. She sat out of doors, and was pretty sure that would answer Doctor Joe's requirements; and the Major took her out driving, but she smuggled in her book. She was not quite so pale, though that might have been due to sun-burn.
She had just finished her enchanting story one morning, and was glancing idly down the hill, watching the toilers who bent over as if they were carrying heavy loads, or drawing something behind them. Physical culture had not yet been applied to the fine art of walking.
A barouche, drawn by two nodding horses, came slowly along. There were four ladies in it; but one especially attracted the child. She wore a gown of softest cerulean blue, a bonnet of blue crape with delicate pink roses, and a large bow of airy tulle tied under her chin. Her long ringlets, the fashion of the day, drooped about her lovely face, that smiled and dimpled as she talked. Her hands were daintily gloved, and one held her parasol up high so she could glance about. Hanny was quite sure she espied her, for her companion leaned out and looked also.
She left the child in a daze as she went by. Hanny had a secret, exultant consciousness that she had seen her ideal poet; then she smiled and wondered if she could write poems. Dolly was quite as pretty, but she couldn't; and Margaret was handsomer. She could not quite associate the sad, abstracted man up the road with "Annabel Lee." What a puzzle it all was!
She went downstairs presently, and was sitting on the area steps watching Cousin Jennie iron, when the tall figure in her shabby black hat and veil, which she invariably wore, came up the outer steps. Hanny ran to open the gate.
Mrs. Clemm was always quietly dignified. It was the intangible good breeding that distinguished her from the ordinary country-folk. She had a small tin kettle in her hand, and her manner was apologetic.
"They had some unexpected visitors from the city, dear friends of Eddie's" (she oftener called him that than any other name, and she often said "My poor dear Eddie!"). "Could they spare her some milk, and a few eggs? They had no milk at the store."
"With pleasure," said Jennie, who went to the milk-room, and cast a glance around to see if there was not something else that would help out the feast.
The little girl wanted to ask some questions, but she hesitated from diffidence.
She wondered afterward how the quiet, almost listless woman could concoct dainty feasts for these illustrious people out of her poverty; for they were illustrious in their day. Were the wit and poesy and knowledge the successive desserts, and bright gossip the sparkle of the Barmecide wine? She thought of the little cottage, when she read of Madame Scarron among the French wits.
She described them to Cousin Jennie when the tall black figure was going slowly up the road.
"Yes, they have a good many visitors," said Jennie. "They did last summer, when poor Mrs. Poe was alive."
"Wasshevery beautiful?"
"Oh, child, beauty isn't everything!" and Jennie smiled. "Yes; it was said she was. But she was so thin and pale. She used to sit out there on the porch, wrapped in a white shawl, with his arm about her, or her head resting on his shoulder. You see no one knew much about them then, and they kept so to themselves. Then there is his unfortunate habit, that you cannot help feeling ought not to belong to a person of his intelligence. It is a great pity."
Hanny sighed. She was to know a great deal more about the world later on, and the appreciation that was spread as a garment about the poet when his life's fitful fever ended.
There was an influx of quite elderly people one afternoon; and Hanny, gathering up some books, stole up to the little cottage, quite assured no one would need her, or even miss her.
The corner of books had been "cleared up." In the wide fireplace, there was a jar of feathery asparagus, and on the table a vase of flowers. There were a number of pictures, Hanny noticed. She had hardly glanced about the room before,—the plain, low-ceiled room to which people were to make pilgrimages as time went on.
The poet sat by the table in a dreamy, indolent mood.
"Did you find what you wanted the other day?" he asked gently.
"Oh, yes! And I have read 'The Saracen.' It interested me so, I couldn't leave it a moment. I didn't want to like Saladin so much; but I had to. But I shall never give up Richard."
He smiled a little at that, kindly, cordially, and her heart warmed to him. The pervasive eyes were so deep and beautiful! In spite of the pallor and attenuation, the face had a rare charm.
"So Richard is your hero? Well, you will doubtless change your heroes a good many times before you get through with life. I think I had a boy's fancy for Saladin once. Yet heroes come to be quite common-place people after all. I wonder if I have any more that you would like?"
Hanny said they had several books yet, and she was going down to West Farms in a few days. She wanted to finish "The White Rose of England."
"History in romance,—I dare say that suits young people best."
She stood in a sort of vague uncertainty.
"Well?" in a voice of suggestive inquiry, as if she might ask him anything.
"Oh!" she cried, summoning all her courage, and flushing as she did so, "will you please tell me who the pretty lady in blue was, who came up the other day in the carriage? She looked like a poet!"
He did laugh then, softly, as if laughing was a little strange.
"Is that your idea of a poet? Well, sheisone,—an airy, light-winged poet with dainty conceits, and a charming woman, too. I must tell her she captured you at sight. That is Frances Sargent Osgood. And beside her sat Mrs. Gove Nichols, one of the new lights. Stay, I think I can find a poem or two of Fanny Osgood's for you."
He hunted up two or three magazines. Hanny sat down on the door-sill; it was so softly, so enchantingly bright out-of-doors, and the room a little gloomy. She wanted to have a glimpse of sunshine, for Mrs. Osgood looked as if she belonged to the brighter world.
They were dainty and bright. One was set to music afterward; and the little girl learned to sing it very prettily:—
"I've something sweet to tell you,And the secret you must keep,For remember, if it isn't night,I'm talking in my sleep."
"I've something sweet to tell you,And the secret you must keep,For remember, if it isn't night,I'm talking in my sleep."
Then they talked about poetry. I dare say he was amused at a little girl whose ideal poem was "Genevieve," by Coleridge, and who knew "Christobel," "The Ancient Mariner," and "The Lady of the Lake" half by heart. When, in her young womanhood, she read some of his sharp, scathing criticisms, she wondered at his sweetness that afternoon. With a little more courage, she would have asked him what was really meant by "the high-born kinsman;" but she did not know as it was quite proper to talk to him about his own verses.
The wood-robins were singing in the tall trees, and the sun made dancing shadows on the stoop that was always clean as a floor. Mrs. Clemm brought her splint rocker out, and begged her to try it, and asked after the cousins, sending thanks for the cake that she had found in her basket, and the pot-cheese that had proved such a treat to her visitors.
She thanked Mrs. Clemm prettily for the chair, but said she must go home. The poet nodded. He had taken up his pen then, and she wondered what the spell was like that inspired a poem.
The next forenoon, they saw Mr. Poe going down to the station. Cousin Jennie shook her head; and the stout old Major said, "It was a pity Mrs. Clemm couldn't keep him at home steadily."
She was never to see him again; but when she heard of his tragic death, her heart ached for the poor desolate mother.
They all admitted that Hanny had improved a good deal. She seemed to have grown every way. Her mother was sure she must let her skirts down; and her last winter's frocks were too tight about the shoulders, and too short in the sleeves. She had absolutely gained five pounds, and her little face had rounded out. But still she was smaller than most girls of her age.
She had so much to talk about that her mother said she was a regular little gossip. Her father liked to hear about grandmother and the kindly, large-hearted Major. She had found out that when grandmother was a young girl her name was Hannah Underhill, now it was Horton. So many elderly people had been visiting at Fordham, and her father knew most of them. But Ben and Doctor Joe were interested in the poet Poe; Joe knew more about him than he confessed to his little sister.
Oh, how glad she was to get back to school! There were so many things to learn. But Dolly had to have her one Saturday; and Mrs. French came over and took her to the house Beautiful. Ben was quite in love with Mrs. French. And now they were filling up the conservatory for winter blooming; and Hanny wishedtheycould have some house-flowers. Her mother had hydrangeas and an oleander; but they were put in the end of the stable for winter.
Now and then she went up to Margaret's to stay all night. Daisy was growing to be almost as lovely as Stevie had been; and though she did not suggest Daisy Jasper, the name always recalled her dear friend. And Stevie was quite a big boy. He was getting some rough ways, too, and wanted to drive Hanny about for a horse, just as he did papa. Great-grandmother Van Kortland had knit him some beautiful horse-lines.
And Annie was such a sweet little thing! Stevie wished she was a little brother, "'tause dirls ain't no dood," he said. "You'm dot to be so tareful." He talked quite crooked, and could not pronounce "g" at all. He said "umbebella" and "peaapoket" and "tea-tettletel." Philadelphia always floored him. But then he had been Hanny's first love, and she could never forget the Christmas morning when he came.
There had been another exciting matter as well, and this was a presidential election. Zachary Taylor, Old Rough and Ready, as he was called, had become a great hero to her. She found that he had served gallantly in the War of 1812, fought against the mighty Tecumseh, and been in the Black Hawk War, beside all the late Mexican engagements, where he had so distinguished himself. At the nomination, she had been a little sorry to have her old favourite Harry Clay superseded, and General Scott was a war-veteran as well. Then there had been famous Daniel Webster, whose speeches were the favourite of school-boys, though they had not banished Patrick Henry. But the real race was between Cass, Van Buren, Charles Francis Adams and himself; and Old Rough and Ready won. She wore a rough-and-ready straw bonnet this fall; all the girls did.
Margaret agitated the school question again. Hanny ought to be making some useful friends, and though the "First Avenue and First Street girls might be very nice—"
"Nonsense!" exclaimed Mrs. Underhill. "She's too little to be sent so far off. And I don't want any lovers put in her head this many a year."
Margaret was getting to be rather aristocratic. She kept her whole house now, and had a maid-servant beside the coloured "boy." Some stylish people were building up-town. Dr. Hoffman had a good many friends, and he was very proud of his handsome wife. But Mrs. Underhill sometimes said, in the bosom of her family, that Margaret "put on airs."
Hanny was well satisfied, and found a great many things to learn at Mrs. Craven's.
Then Mr. Theodore Whitney came home, and published a book of travel letters. And another young man, one Bayard Taylor, had been abroad and seen all of Europe with knapsack and staff, and had published his "Views Afoot." Ben was so interested. He often stopped at the Whitneys for supper and a talk.
Nora grew like a weed, and developed a good deal of musical ability. They had a steady servant now; and Mrs. Whitney was more "intellectual" than ever, and beginning to be proud of Delia's stories. She was generally paid for them; although young writers of that day were satisfied with the chance of being heard of, and read. She was getting quite a library together, and had her corner of the back parlour, which Mr. Theodore took possession of at once. He had brought home some fine engravings and studies, and half-a-dozen different "Virgins." The aspect of the rooms changed altogether. Delia began to cultivate quite a "circle."
She and Ben were splendid comrades. She had plans for going abroad also; and he entered into them with great zeal. She "didn't suppose she could pay her way like The.; but she was saving up her money for that object." Aunt Clem was real good to her; and when her quarterly allowance was paid she often dropped five dollars into Dele's bank.
"I don't know how much there is, and I am not going to open it under two years. Of course a woman couldn't take matters as Bayard Taylor did; but if she was economical and found cheap places! I do wonder if she could go alone?"
Tourists' parties had not been invented, though men occasionally clubbed together and obtained accommodations more cheaply.
"Two years," returned Ben, musingly.
Dele was certainly growing prettier. Her hair wasn't even Titian colour now, but a decided bright brown, and the curly roughness seemed just to suit her. Then the freckles were disappearing. He didn't know as freckles spoiled any one's complexion when it had that peachy softness and the kind of creamy look. If her mouth was wide, it had some pretty curves, and her teeth were beautiful. A Grecian nose would take all the piquancy out of her face.
"It may be a little more than two years," considered Delia, "and The. may start off again. Oh, I'm pretty sure to go some time!"
"I've quite made upmymind to go some time," Ben announced gravely, then laughed.
"It would be such fun to go together," said Dele, in her harum-scarum fashion, without a thought of any future contingency. "I'll try to make The. wait until I get rich enough."
Ben went home thinking what rare fun it would be to travel with some one who saw the comical side of everything, and who could extract pleasure straight along, as a bee could gather up honey. He enjoyed the fun mightily, but he could not always bring it to pass. Joe and Jim had a humourous side; but John had always been grave and steady-going. Ben wanted some one to stir up the spirit of fun, and then he did his best to keep it going. But he always had so much of the past seething in his brain. The world had such a wonderful history! He was almost afraid that now, when there was no war on hand, only Indian skirmishes, it would grow common-place. There were no breathless romances about it, as there were about Europe and Asia, where such conquerors as Tamerlane, Genghis Khan, Alexander and Philip and Attila, Charlemagne and Napoleon had stalked across the world as it was known then. Not that Ben had any soldierly ambitions, but to youth everyday plodding along seems unheroic.
The pleasant neighbourhood-life went on, though it must be confessed that Hanny often longed for Daisy Jasper. Mr. Jasper had returned; and the plan was now that the others might stay abroad two or three years. Daisy had improved wonderfully at the baths. They would spend the winter at Naples, and go back to Germany in the summer. Daisy was taking lessons in music and painting and Italian.
She wrote about herself to Hanny. She only practised an hour a day, and could stand it very well. Everything was so queer and foreign, though often very beautiful. But the operas were enchanting beyond description.
"I want to learn to play a little for myself," she wrote. "And I find I have quite a good voice. I don't want to drop behind you all, and have you ashamed of me when I come back, for I couldn't spend a whole lifetime here, unless I had you, Hanny, and dear Doctor Joe. Tell me everything about everybody."
Hanny was always two or three days answering the letters. There were new girls in school to talk about, and the many things the others were doing. Charles and Jim were at the Deans so much; Mr. Dean was so interested in them, and Mrs. Dean made it so pleasant! Mrs. Reed was induced to come over now and then. She had softened considerably; but she had never regained her strength, and sometimes she felt quite useless, she declared to Mr. Reed. But he thought they had never been so happy or comfortable.
That left Hanny quite alone. Josie seemed such a very large girl, and she classed Hanny and Tudie as "the children." Tudie was a good deal engrossed with her first large piece of worsted work. Not that Hanny was lonely! She read to her father when lessons were done, or he came upstairs to hear her play. She was learning some of the old-fashioned songs that he had loved in his youth, though I think sometimes he leaned his head against the high back of his chair and went sound asleep.
Everybody was always wanting her; and her mother said she was a sad little gad-about. Even John's wife insisted upon a share of her. Cleanthe wasn't bright and full of fun like Dolly, but she was very fond of the little girl, and both she and John considered it a great treat to have her come in to tea.
There was a grand time when Zachary Taylor was inaugurated. Stephen and Dolly and the Doctor and Margaret went on to Washington with many others. They were fain to take Hanny.
"Such a crowd is no place for children," said Mrs. Underhill. "There'll be presidents likely, if the world should stand, and she'll have chances to go when the journey will do her more good."
Ben went with Mr. Whitney. And at the eleventh hour, Theodore gave in and said Delia might go, and she needn't rob her bank either.
Oh, what a splendid time they had! Washington has changed wonderfully since then; but the White House and some of the government buildings are just the same. Ben was a little startled at the splendour. Mr. Theodore was much engrossed with some friends, so Ben and Delia rambled about, lost themselves, and came to light in out-of-the-way places, hunted up famous spots, and rehearsed old-time stories of brave men and notable women. The sail down the Potomac was delightful. There was Alexandria and Mount Vernon and Richmond, all of which were to become a hundred times more famous in the course of a few years. Ben went over this youthful trip, so full of delight, many a time when, as a soldier, he slept under the stars, not knowing what the morrow would bring.
They were just a big boy and girl, in search of fun and knowledge, and they found plenty of both. Ben made up his mind that, when he did go abroad, Delia certainly should be his companion.
Margaret and her husband went to Baltimore at once, as they were not partial to crowds; and Dolly felt that she must get back to the children. But Mr. Theodore had some business on hand, so the young people had their holiday lengthened.
Still the season in New York had been a rather brilliant one, with various noted singers. An opera troupe from Havana had been giving some famous operas; and Hanny was delighted to hear "La Somnambula," because now she could compare notes with Daisy Jasper.
And in May, the famous rivalry between two leading theatres, that culminated in a great riot, occurred. Edwin Forrest, the great tragedian of that day, and many a year later, and Macready, a celebrated English actor, seemed almost pitted against each other in the same play, Hamlet. A certain party coming into existence had taken for its watchword Americanism of a rather narrow sort, and was protesting against all foreign influence. Macready had played, and then gone to fulfil another engagement, but was to return and play again. Some of the hot heads decided he should not; and though all precautions were taken, the feeling was that the better sense of the community would prevent any absolute disturbance. But the mob had grown larger and stronger in their narrow prejudice, and, before the play was half through, an onslaught was made on the opera-house. The rioters were in such force that the famous Seventh Regiment had to be called out. It was a night of terror and tragedy, and the whole city was wild with alarm. So serious did it become, that it was not quelled without bloodshed; and for days the whole city seemed amazed that such a thing could have happened.
But before the surprise and regret had died away, a sudden sound of alarm ran through the city, in curiously muffled tones that blanched the bravest faces,—a visitant, then feared beyond measure, that science had not been able to cope with. People spoke of it with bated breath. It was not simply among the poor and destitute, or those indifferent to cleanliness and order, but it spread everywhere,—the dreaded, mysterious cholera.
The older people remembered the scourge of almost twenty years before, and many of them prepared to fly to places of safety. The plague spot of the city was then the old Five Points, where the lowest and poorest, beggars and thieves, and sometimes murderers, had crowded in until it was a nest to be shunned and feared. Through this tract the plague swept like wildfire.
Margaret had accepted the urgent invitation of the cousins at Tarrytown, and gone thither with her baby, insisting also upon taking her little sister. Father Underhill was glad to have her out of danger, and was fain to persuade his wife to follow.
"No," she said stoutly; "Joe must remain; and you and Stephen cannot run away from business. With Margaret and Hanny safe, I shall stay to keep watch over the rest of you. I may be needed."
Dolly had taken her two children up to her sisters', who lived on the Hudson near Fort Washington. Stephen could drive up every day or two with news of everybody.
It did not seem at all alarming up at the Morgan's rural home. True, Cousin Famie was aging fast, and had grown more feeble than her years really warranted. Mrs. Eustis was quite the head of the house, and very bright and chatty, with a rather romantic turn of mind, just as fond of reading as some of the younger folks.
And it seemed to them as if the world was quite full of famous people then. For beside Cooper and Irving, there were Prescott's splendid histories, that were full of romance. And for story-writers, Miss Leslie, who was entertaining magazine-readers, and Miss Sedgwick and Lydia Maria Child. Then there was Hanny's favourite Mrs. Osgood, Alice Carey, and Mrs. Welby coming into notice, and Longfellow, Hawthorne and Emerson. The Doctor brought them up the new magazines, and said everybody kept well. Ben came up and stayed a week, and added to their stock of books.
They went down to Sleepy Hollow, though it had not become so famous for pilgrimages. Mr. Irving had come home from Madrid, and friends dropped in upon him. He always had a delightful welcome for them. They used to sit out on the old porch and talk; or, when there were no guests, his two nieces and some of his brothers' kept him company.
Ben summoned up courage and went down to see the charming man, beloved of so many friends, taking his little sister with him. What a delightful hour it was! Hanny was too shy to talk much, although she had been so brave on the poet's old stoop at Fordham. Perhaps, really, there was no opportunity, Ben kept the floor so entirely. They went in and looked at the drawings from Rip Van Winkle and Ichabod Crane and Katrina. But she still loved the old history that had charmed her so at first, and she would have given him her child's adoration freely, if he had written nothing else.
Ben had already seen a number of notable people. They often came in at the Harpers'. He used to talk them over with Delia; and he thought now what a fascinating story he should have to tell her.
The next day they went over to see grandmother and Uncle David. Jim was up making a visit. His mother preferred to have him out of danger. He and Ben were to go down to Yonkers; and though they were loth to spare the little girl, she went back to Tarrytown.
It was October before the Doctor would let Margaret return to the city. Daisy had grown so much, and was talking in a cunning, broken fashion. Mrs. Underhill had made two brief visits; and though she seemed rather nervous for her, she declared, "She had been very well all summer, and that they had a great deal to be thankful for. She couldn't have left father and the boys."
She had never been so demonstrative to Hanny, much as she had loved her. She kept one arm around her, and could hardly bear her out of her sight.
"Had she been content, and not made any trouble, and waited upon Cousin Famie, and helped all she could? She was such a large girl now, and ought to be useful."
Hanny smiled, and kissed her mother, and said: "She had tried to do her best. And she had been very, very happy."
"Cousin Margaret, I do wonder if you appreciate that child," said Roseann, when Hanny had gone out on the porch to have a romp with little Daisy. "She's such a smart little thing, and not a bit set up about it. I've been clear beat to see how she understands books, and people, too. And she's so industrious and pleasant-tempered. She makes me think of Grandmother Underhill and Aunt Eunice. I do hope you'll be able to keep her. It's a providential mercy she hasn't been in the city all summer. The cholera has been just awful! I don't see how you had the courage to stay."
"My sons were there." The tears came to Mrs. Underhill's eyes. "And though they were spared, they often needed me. No one really can know what it was, unless they have been through it. Joe came home one night so worn out that he stayed in bed all the next day. I just prayed every moment; I felt as if I'd never prayed before. And there was all of John's trouble. Yes; many a one has been called upon to part with their nearest and dearest."
John Underhill's wife had lost both father and mother, within twenty-four hours of each other. Then Cleanthe's little baby had been born dead; and they had to move her to Mother Underhill's, more dead than alive; but good care had at last restored her. The old Archer cousins in Henry Street had gone; and many another among friends and relatives.
They did not tell Hanny until she came home who had gone out of the neighbourhood. Mrs. Reed had been among the first. She was getting ready to go away with Charles, when the summons came. But the greatest sorrow of all to her was the loss of Tudie Dean. She had been rather drooping for several days; and one night Doctor Joe had been summoned, but in vain. Two of the prettiest of the little Jewish children who had come to the Whitney house were buried on the same day.
Cleanthe was still at home, as she called her mother-in-law's house. She was very pale and wan, and just hugged Hanny to her heart, and cried over her.
Charlie Reed sorrowed deeply for his mother.
"I don't just know how it came about," he said tremulously; "but we were getting to be such friends; she took such a real interest in my studies; and she seemed to want father to be happy in the things he liked. He's most broken-hearted over it; and the house seems dreadful! Cousin Jane advises father to break up and board; I think she's kind of nervous, and wants a change. Oh, what a terrible time it has been; I am glad you were away. And poor little Tudie Dean!"
They both cried over her. And when she went in to see Josie, she was almost heart-broken; for Josie looked so strange and grown-up, and was so grave.
Mrs. Dean pressed her to her heart.
"Thank God, my little dear," she exclaimed, "that your mother hasn't to sorrow over any loss. Your brother has been heroic; and there was one time when we were all afraid. He was so dead-tired that I know he couldn't have lived if it had been cholera. The doctors were all heroes; and many of them have given their lives."
Yet the world went on, over the thousands who had dropped out of it. Business resumed its sway; even amusements started up. But there were many sad households.
And though the Underhills had not taken Cleanthe to their hearts with quite the fervor Dolly had awakened, they loved her very tenderly now; and she seemed to slip in among them with a new and closer bond.
There would be a good deal of business to settle. John thought it better to look about for a new partner. Mr. Bradley had left quite a fortune for the times. He had been investing in up-town property, and John thought it would be wise to build, and sell or rent as his wife desired. The old home was dismantled, the best of the furniture stored for further use.
He tried to persuade his father to go farther up-town. Joe was also a factor in this matter.
For though the cholera had spared Dr. Fitch, the infirmities of age and hard work had overtaken him. A nephew who had recently graduated, and had the prestige of the same name, was anxious to take the practice. Joe felt as if circumstances were shaping a change for him; and he was ready now to take up a life of his own.
Then the Deans sold, and were to go up a little farther. Sometime, and before many years, there would be street-cars, instead of the slow, awkward stages, and people could get to and fro more rapidly. The trend was unmistakably up-town.
Mr. Reed hired out his house furnished, and went over to the Deans to board.
It seemed to Hanny that no one was quite the same. Nora Whitney was almost a head taller than Hanny, and was getting to be a very stylish girl. Her voice was considered promising, and was being cultivated. But poor old Pussy Gray had rounded out his life, and slept under a great white rosebush at the end of the yard. Mrs. Whitney's hair was nearly all white, and she was a very pretty woman. Mr. Theodore was showing silver in both hair and beard; but Delia changed very little. Aunt Clem went on living in her serene and cheerful fashion.
And then the bells rang out for the mid-century, 1850! How wonderful it seemed.
"I wonder if any one of us will live to nineteen hundred," questioned Hanny, with a strange thrill of awe in her voice.
"I don't suppose I will," replied her father; "but some of you may. Why, even Stephen wouldn't be much above eighty; and you'll be a little past sixty!" He laughed with a mellow, amused sound. "And all you young people of to-day will be telling your grandchildren how New York looked at the half-century mark. Well, it has made rapid strides since eighteen hundred. I sometimes wonder what there is to happen next. We have steam on land and water. We have discovered Eldorado, and invented the telegraph; and there are people figuring on laying one across the ocean. That may come in your day."
"And a sewing-machine," added the little girl, smilingly.
The sewing-machine was attracting a good deal of attention now, and making itself a useful factor.
But to live to see nineteen hundred! That would be like discovering the fountain of perpetual youth.
There had been so many delightful things in First Street, the little girl thought at first it would almost break her heart to go away. Her father, with the inertia of coming years, hated to be disturbed.
"I hoped, when we did make any change, we would build on the old place," he said. "I'd like country life again. But I am getting too old to farm; and none of the boys care about it. If George had stayed at home," and Father Underhill sighed.
George had not yet found his bonanza. There was gold in plenty in that wonderful country. There were hardships, too. He kept those to tell of in after years. It was a wild, rough, marvellous life; and every man of them was waiting for a run of luck, that he might go East with his pile. Meanwhile cities were begun.
Mrs. Underhill sighed a little also, in an undecided fashion. All the children were here, and surely they could not go away and leave them behind. The attractive, rural aspect of Yonkers had changed, or was it that she had changed? Some of her old friends had gone to new homes some had died. Then she had grown so accustomed to the stirring life of the city.
"No, we should not want to go alone," she said.
"Steve's a bright business-man. John's long-headed, if he isn't quite so brilliant. Ben will be all for books and travel. And Jim—well, it's odd, but there won't be a farmer among them."
"No," returned their mother, not knowing whether to be glad or sorry.
"Then farming is changing. And the near-by places are turning into towns. What the next half of the century will bring—"
Since there was no prospect of the homestead, they allowed themselves to be persuaded to join the migration. Foreigners were crowding them a little. There was a finer, freer air up-town.
The Deans suited themselves, and Mr. Reed and Charles went with them. Charles was now a tall, fair young fellow, rather grave from the shock of the loss of his mother, intensified perhaps by his sympathy with Mrs. Dean and Josie. It was a great comfort to keep together.
John looked up a new home; but Cleanthe, with her arms around Mrs. Underhill's neck, said, in a broken sort of tone:—
"Oh, you must be somewhere near us! I don't feel as if I could live, if I did not see you every day. I have no mother but you."
Twentieth Street seemed a long way up, to be sure. But there was an odd, rather oldish house, with a two-story ell that seemed to have been added as an after-thought. There was a stable and quite a garden. It had been considered rather a country house in its inception.
Joe insisted that it was just the thing. He could have an office and a library, and a sleeping-room overhead, without disturbing the family.
Mrs. Underhill declared there was twice too much room; and if any of the other boys should marry and go away—
"There's only Ben. I am a fixture; and it will be years before Jim reaches that tempting period. Oh, I think you need not worry!" comforted the Doctor.
Hanny was glad to go with everybody else. They had one sad sweet time at the Deans, talking over old days and the tea in the back-yard, when there had been Nora and the pussy, and the one who was not. It was rather sad to outgrow childhood. Ah, how merry they had been! What a simple idyllic memory this was to be for all her later years! Mrs. Reed always lived in First Street to her; and Tudie Dean used to go up and down the street, a blessed, beautiful ghost. The little girl was quite sure she would not be afraid to clasp her white hand, if she should meet her wandering about those sacred precincts. She could not have put her idea into Longfellow's beautiful lines; but it haunted her in the same shape of remembrance.