"All houses wherein men have lived and diedAre haunted houses."
"All houses wherein men have lived and diedAre haunted houses."
They went down to the Jasper house also. There had been a family of children to tramp over the flower-beds and leave debris about. There was no pretty striped awning, no wheeling-chair, no slim, picturesque negro lad, and no ladies in light lawns sitting about. It looked common-place.
"We can write Ichabod on it," said Charles, half regretfully.
Hanny asked Joe why they should; and he showed her the verse, "Thy glory has departed."
"The glory has departed from the whole street," she said, glancing around. The new-comers were of a different class. No one swept the debris up to the crown of the street any more; and the city street-sweepers were infrequent visitors.
"It will be beginning all over again," Dr. Hoffman said to his brother-in-law. "It seems a pity to waste so much endeavour. Yet if youcanwait, the practice will be better worth while."
"It wouldn't be the fair thing to crowd in on young Dr. Fitch. He did suggest a partnership, but I thought I would rather strike out for myself. And I prefer having all my interests at home. Mother begins to miss the children that have gone out; and there were so many of us."
When Mrs. Underhill looked back, she always thought those early years in First Street were among the happiest of her life. They were broader and richer than the first wedded years. They could not keep together always. She wanted her children to know the sweetness of life and love. Steve and Margaret were very happy. John and his wife had supped of sorrow; but they were young and had each other; and children would come to restore beauty for ashes, and the oil of joy for mourning.
She was delighted with Joe's decision. That night, when Joe had come home a very ghost of himself, and dropped down on Hanny's bed, because he hadn't strength to go up another pair of stairs, and she had clasped her arms about him and cried, in her terror: "Oh, Joe, my dear son, is it cholera?" had been an awful moment for her.
"No, mother dear; but if I can't have a few hours' rest, I shall die of fatigue. Just let me sleep, but watch me well."
She had sat beside him the rest of the night, from midnight to morning, counting his pulse now and then, which showed no indication of collapse. Other mothers had their sons snatched from them,—mothers who were tender and worthy, and who loved as fervently as she did.
When he awoke at the next noon, she felt as if he had been given back to her out of a great danger. And she was glad now to have him plan for the home-interest, glad there would be several years before she was called upon to share him with any other woman.
So they said good-bye to the old house again, and placed their household gods in a new home. They had gone farther than any of the others, though they were nearer Margaret and Dolly. The Deans were lower down and on Second Avenue. Up above them were great open spaces. They had two lots, which gave them a grassy space beside the drive. The lot being deeper than usual, they could have a little garden where the fruit-trees did not shade. There was a tall, gnarled old pear-tree, and they found it bore excellent fruit. Right by the porch, in a lovely southern exposure, was a delicious nectarine.
The little girl was deeply interested in Joe's house, as she began to call it. A door opened from the main hall, and one quite outside from the flagged path. That would be the patients' entrance, when they began to come. Joe went up to Yonkers and exhumed some old furniture. There was a queer, brass-studded, leather-covered sofa, with high roll arms, and a roll at the back that suggested a pillow. There were two small spindle-legged tables; some high-backed, oaken chairs, rudely carved, and almost black with age; and a curious oldescritoirethat was said to have come from France with the French grandmother who had landed with the emigrants at New Rochelle.
His office was plainly appointed, with an oil-cloth on the floor, a row of shelves for jars of medicines; for even then many doctors compounded their own prescriptions. There was a plain business-desk, a table, and some chairs, and a small book-case. All the odd old things were to go in his sitting-room.
Across one end, he had it filled in with book-shelves. One corner was for the little girl. And there was to be a special chair for her, so she could come in and study her lessons, or read or talk to her dear Doctor Joe.
Mrs. French made a splendid addition to the room in a large Oriental rug that Doctor Joe valued more highly as the years went on. For then we were getting bright-hued carpets from French and English looms, and these dull old things were not in any great favour. Only it was so thick and soft, the little girl said it was good enough for a bed.
Joe laughed. "I daresay I shall take many a nap on it. You must make me a nice pillow-cushion, out of some of your bits of silk."
People made real sensible patchwork then, or worked a cover in worsted, with perhaps a pretty bunch of flowers.
The house had a basement-kitchen at the back, and a dumb-waiter like Margaret's. Mrs. Underhill thought at first she shouldn't like it. There was a spacious area, which made Hanny think of Mrs. Dean's in First Street, where they used to play tea.
It took a long while to get settled, somehow. Ben thought it a great way up-town; and he often went to the Whitneys to tea, when he wanted his evening. Jim grumbled a little, too; there were no nice fellows around. Joe insisted that he had better not hunt up any, but pay strict attention to his studies, for he was falling dreadfully behind. But when Jim had to work or study, he went at it with all his might and main, and generally managed to catch up.
The little girl and her father were perhaps the best pleased. He liked the little garden spot. He was not confining himself very closely to business now. There were so many pretty walks around, for it was still quite rural, and you could find a few wild flowers. There was another very amusing feature farther up-town, and that was the "squatters," with their pigs and goats and geese, and their rich, wonderful brogue, their odd attire, which was in the same style as when they landed. Connemara cloaks had not then attracted the fashionable eye; but the women seemed to wear them to keep out both heat and cold. Red, green, and plaided seemed the favourites. The wide cap-ruffles caught the breeze, for one always found a breeze in this vicinity.
The little girl's happiness was rendered complete by the gift of a beautiful Maltese kitten about half-grown. It had a black nose, and black pads to its feet, and a fashion of pricking up its small ears like a dog. There was a great discussion about a name; and Joe suggested "Major," as she was still fond of military heroes.
One evening Ben said: "Jim, the Whitneys are going over into Jersey on an exploring expedition, to view some curious old places, Cockloft Hall among them. Don't you want to go?"
Jim glanced up lazily. The boys were to play ball, as they often did, on Saturday afternoon.
"Oh, that's the place where the Salmagundi Club used to meet," cried Hanny, with eager interest. "It is in Newark."
"Yes; and there's another queer nest on the Passaic where a great sportsman lives, Henry William Herbert, the Frank Forrester of some stirring adventures. Mr. Whitney is to see him. And there are some other old haunts; Delia was looking them up,—the Kearny house, and an old place that was once used as a sort of fort."
"Dele Whitney goes round just like a boy!" said Jim, disdainfully.
"Well, why shouldn't she go with her brother?"
"Oh, Ben, can't I go with you?" pleaded Hanny.
"Jersey's a queer sort of State," said Jim, teasingly. "The Blue Laws are still in operation. You are not allowed to stay out after dark."
"Are they printed in blue? And you don't mean to stay out after dark, do you, Ben?"
Hanny's expression was so simply honest they all laughed, which rather disconcerted her.
"It is because you feel pretty blue when you have to obey them; and Jersey is out of the United States."
"It just isn't, Mr. Jim!" cried Hanny, indignantly. "It's one of the Middle States."
It was quite the fashion then to laugh at New Jersey, in spite of the geography; though even at that remote date New Jersey peaches were held in high esteem.
"But if you went with Dele Whitney, we shouldn't know when to look for you—hardly where," and Jim winked.
That was an allusion to an old visit at the Museum, when they stayed all the evening, for the same admittance.
"I've half suspected you were the ringleader of that scheme, Jim," said his doctor-brother. "I have a mind to go. One good thing about the Whitneys is that you can invite yourself, and no one takes umbrage."
"Oh, do go!" said Ben; and Hanny came around to give his hand a tender, persuasive squeeze. "I haven't explored the State very much, but it has some curious features. The magnolia and many Southern flowers grow there. I believe almost every kind of mineral, even to gold, is found in the State. And it is rich in historic lore."
"There was Valley Forge," said Hanny, softly.
"Yes, the Delaware River is beautiful. And the Passaic winds half around the State. It is twenty-seven miles by water,—a delightful sail we must take some time, Hanny."
"We shouldn't have time for that now. We are to start at one. Delia'll be glad enough to have you go, Hanny."
"Then you may count on us," returned Joe.
"Well, I'll take the ball game," said Jim.
Mrs. Underhill had been settling on a final negative. She had a little feeling about Delia Whitney; she could not quite approve of grown girls running about so much with boys. And she thought if she was going to set up for a genius, she ought to be delicate and refined. But Joe always carried the day, and she could trust her darling with him.
It was Margaret's Saturday, so Hanny ran around in the morning to tell her of the new arrangements. They were to meet the Whitneys at Courtlandt Street, so they had an early lunch, and started in good time. Hanny was so interested in everything that she was a charming companion.
It seemed queer that Mr. Whitney could remember when there was no railroad, and you travelled mostly by stage-coaches. It had cost almost a quarter then, with the ferriage and toll-gates, if you walked to Newark. And now you could go through to Washington on the train.
She thought it quite a fearful thing to go through the Harlem tunnel; but here there was a road cut through great, high, frowning rocks that made you feel as if you were in a dungeon. Then a long, level stretch of salt meadows with ditches cut across them, that suggested a vague idea of Holland. We did not know the world quite so well then.
Newark, in those days, was a sort of country town with country roads in all directions. At intervals, a stage went up Broad Street, which was handsome and wide and lined with stately trees. They thought it best to wait awhile for this, lest Hanny should get too tired.
"But you can't half see," declared Delia.
"When we come to the curiosities, we will get out," said Mr. Whitney. "We can't afford to miss them."
They passed a pretty park full of magnificent elms, with an old grey stone church standing in it, one of the oldest churches in the State. There were a number of stores, interspersed with private dwellings, and everything wore a sort of leisurely aspect. A little farther up was another park,—commons, they were called then. The modest old houses and large gardens and fields gave it a still more complete country aspect.
The stage stopped at a tavern where some people were waiting. The sign was "The Black Horse Tavern."
"We will get out and begin our adventures," said Mr. Whitney, smilingly. "This little sort of creek was called First River. I dare say in past days it came rushing over the hill in quite a wild way."
"Is there a Second River?" asked Delia, mirthfully.
"Indeed there is, at Belleville. There used to be an old mill hereabouts, and this was the mill brook. Once or twice, in a freshet, the stream has risen so that it swept the bridge away."
"It's meek enough now," said Ben. "Black Horse Tavern! That ought to be in a book."
It was a small one-story building, looking very old even then. Over opposite, a pretty house stood on a slight elevation, that dated back to 1820, with its sloping lawn and green fields, its churn and bright milkpans standing out in the sunshine.
"We shall have to go round, as the frogs advise," said Mr. Whitney, looking about him with an air of consideration. "We might get through some of these driveways; but there seems to be no regular street."
"And if we go round?" commented Delia, questioningly.
"We go straight up this road until we come to a winding path called the Gully, then down to the river, where we shall find Herbert's, thence down the river to Cockloft Hall. But we will return by the upper railroad, as we shall be near that."
"Come on, then," said Dele, laughingly, when her brother had ended his explanations, "if youcango straight on a crooked road; and if Hanny gets tired, Ben and I will make a chair and carry her."
Joe smiled down at his little sister. He had linked his arm within hers. Ben and Delia were fond of falling behind. They were so merry, that Hanny was a little curious to know what they found to laugh about. It does not take much to amuse healthy young people before their tastes become complicated.
The old road wound a little, and had the curves that prove no one horse or man ever walks in a straight line. But, oh, how beautiful it was with the fruit-trees and shrubbery in bloom, wild flowers, and stretches of meadow, where cows were pastured, and here and there a small flock of sheep! Up above, on the brow of a hill, a wooded background gave it a still more picturesque appearance.
They passed an old stone house on the west side that was really a Revolutionary relic. The stone ran up to the eaves; but the two gables were of timber. It was on quite a bit of hill then, and had broken stone steps up to the first terrace, where great clumps of brownish yellow lilies were in bloom. When strolling parties of British soldiery went marauding about, the residents of this vicinity used to flee to the old Plum house as a place of refuge. The heavy double doors and wooden shutters could not well be battered down, though bullet-marks could be traced here and there.
A Captain Alden lived in it now, who was himself quite a character. He had been in the British navy, with Admiral Nelson's command. When his time in the service ended, he had shipped with what he understood was a merchant vessel, but on learning it was a slaver, bound for Africa to gather up a human cargo, he sprang overboard, when he saw a vessel passing that halted for his signal. Several shots were fired at him, which he escaped. Later on, he was impressed in the naval service again, but at the first opportunity came to America. A hale, hearty old man, rather short in stature, but lithe and active, and with a merry look on his weather-beaten face, he was still proud of his schooner that lay at Stone Dock, at the launching of which, in the early part of the century, the Jersey Blues had turned out, and Major Stevens had christened it the "Northern Liberties." It had been all built of Essex County lumber, and constructed on the Passaic. But the river had been quite a famous stream in those days. There were no factories using up its volume of water.
They sat on the stone coping and listened to the Captain's stories, indeed, could have spent all the afternoon, so entertaining did he prove. Then he took them through the old house with its ample hall and spacious rooms on one side. They concluded it must have been able to stand quite a siege, judging from its present solidity. And Mrs. Alden treated them to a pitcher of freshly churned buttermilk, and a slice of excellent rye bread, which they found delightful.
"I shall have to come over again, and get some material for a story," declared Delia, when they were fairly started, tearing themselves away with quite a struggle. "That experience on the 'Slaver' was very graphic."
"If you want to hear something that will make your hair stand on end," said Doctor Joe, "come up and talk to father. When I was a little lad, we had a farm-hand working for us who had gone through with it all, been to Africa for a cargo, and come to the States with what was left of it. He never spoke of it when sober; and though he was in the main steady, once in a while he drank enough to start him going, and he always rehearsed this horrible experience. I remember father used to lock him in the barn to sober up; because he did not want us children to hear the terrible story."
"Were the slaves brought that way?" asked Hanny, with a shudder.
"Most every civilised country condemns that part of the awful practice," answered Ben. "But it is a fact that the native tribes in Africa sell prisoners to one another, or whoever will buy them. Do you suppose Africa will ever be explored?" and Ben looked up at Mr. Whitney.
We did not know much about Africa even then. But Ben was afterward to see the great explorer Stanley, whose journey across that country was a wonderful romance. And although the question of slavery was seething even then, he could not have dreamed, this lovely afternoon when all was at peace, that one day he should be in the thick of the battle himself, with many another brave soul, when his country was nearly rent in twain.
A few lanes led up to places, the outline of streets, and lost themselves in the fields. Cottages had been built to face nearly every way. Here and there was an old colonial house of greater pretensions, some of them at the end of a long driveway lined with stately trees. Here also were the remnants of orchards, meadows where cows were pasturing, thickets of shrubbery with bread-and-butter vine running over them, showing glossy green leaves.
Mr. Whitney paused at a queer, long, one-story house with a high-peaked roof in which were set three small dormer windows. There was a little dooryard in front, a Dutch hall door with an iron knocker, a well near by with the old oaken bucket General Morris had immortalised, and back of the house a picturesque ravine through which ran a clear stream of water that presently found its way out to the Passaic. Willows bent over it, elms and maples stood, tall and handsome, like guardian sentinels.
A little old woman sat sewing by the window.
"We haven't time to stop," said Mr. Whitney. "Hanny, that lady is your hero's grandmother, and the mother of General Watts Kearny. He not only distinguished himself in the Mexican War, but also in the War of 1812. Then he was Governor of Vera Cruz and the City of Mexico."
"And the hero of no end of stories," added Ben. "Jim and I were wild over them a few years ago. Why do people keep saying we have no romance in our own country, because we have no ruined old castles? Why, Mexico itself is a land of historical romance!"
"What a lovely cool dell!" exclaimed Dele. "Just the place to take your book on a hot summer day."
"I believe your young hero Philip was born in New York. But this is the old home, one of the landmarks."
Opposite was a rather pretty place,—a rambling brick house with sharp, pointed roofs, and a long stretch of evergreens. It was beautiful in this soft atmosphere. The birds made a swift dazzle now and then, and filled the air with melody.
"Up here is a hedge of hawthorn that was brought over from England by a Yorkshireman living up above. It is out of bloom now; but another year you can come over early in May and see the 'hawthorn blossoms white' that poets never tire of praising."
Dele broke off a sprig for herself, and one for Hanny. The spaces were larger, the houses farther apart. On the west side was a tree-nursery and garden, and two quaint old frame-houses that hardly looked large enough for any one to live in; but there were children playing about; and on the other side a cemetery. All this tract was known as Mount Pleasant.
At the north of the cemetery, they plunged down a stony way called a road, mostly by courtesy, though it was the only way of getting up from the river. Great trees overhung it on one side, and gave it a weird, darkened aspect.
"It might be a ghost-walk, at night," exclaimed Delia. "Edgar A. Poe could have put a story here. I like the tragic; but I'm not so fond of the horrible."
Another turn showed them the river and the opposite shore crowned with green glittering in the afternoon sunshine. They all paused, it was such a wonderful outlook.
And when they reached it, and glanced up and down, it was a picture indeed. The river made little bends, and wound around tiny points, edged with the greenest of sedge grass in some places, then grey stones with mossy sea-growth, or willows dipping their branches in the lightly ruffled water. Not a soul to be seen anywhere, not a sound save the voices of birds; but while they looked, a flock of geese came floating grandly down.
"On thy fair bosom, silver lake,The white swan spreads her snowy sail,"
"On thy fair bosom, silver lake,The white swan spreads her snowy sail,"
quoted Delia.
"It is not the first time swans have proved geese," said Mr. Theodore, with a smile. "But for the sake of the picturesque we will let it pass."
"I wonder if the Wye or the Severn would be so enchanting to us if poets had not lived there and immortalised them?"
"When we are an old country, we will, no doubt, sigh for relics. In 1666, this was called 'Neworke or Pesayak towne;' and a little more than a hundred years ago this Gully was made the dividing line between the towns. There are many historic spots in Belleville, and an old copper mine that once made a great addition to her prosperity. But my quest ends here. I don't know as I have a hero exactly, Miss Hanny, yet my friend, Frank Forrester, has had a varied and eventful life. This way."
Mr. Whitney led them up a path mostly over-grown with pale, spindling grass that had no chance for sunshine, so close and tall were the trees. It was undeniably gloomy, hidden away here. A little old brown, weather-beaten house hung with vines, that even stretched up into the trees; small, narrow windows, with diamond-shaped panes that could not let in much light, it would seem.
"It's a horrid place," cried Dele. "Hanny, we shall surely see a ghost. The idea of living at the very foot of a burying-ground!"
Hanny held tight to Joe's hand. She was beginning to have what Miss Cynthia called the "creeps."
If the outside was gloomy, it had a queer, disorderly, and rather cheerful aspect within, for the sun was pouring a flood of gold in one window where it happened to strike a spot between two trees. And Frank Forrester was by no means melancholy to-day. He shook hands cordially with Mr. Whitney, and welcomed the rest of the party with the utmost affability,—a fine-looking Englishman with a picturesque air, due largely to his rather long hair, which fell about his forehead and neck in a tumbled manner, suggesting a tendency to curls.
"These young people may like to look over my curiosities, while we have our talk," he said. "Take a cigar, and I'll bring a bottle of wine. Won't you join us, Doctor? Here, young folks, are curiosities from everywhere."
He ushered them into a small room that was library and everything by turns. There were trophies of hunting expeditions, some rare birds stuffed and mounted, looking so alive Hanny would not have been surprised if they had suddenly begun to warble; books in every stage of dilapidation, some of them quite rare copies, Ben found; portfolios of old engravings; curious weapons; foreign wraps; Grecian and Turkish bits of pottery; and the odd things we call bric-à-brac nowadays.
Delia began to make some notes. Ben laughed a little. Interviewing was not such a fine art then; and people were considered greater subjects of interest than their belongings. But Delia was saving up things for stories which she meant to write as she found time.
Doctor Joe had come in here with the young people, leaving the two friends to discuss their business. He, too, found much to interest him; and he was amused at Delia's running comments, some of them very bright indeed. She was quite a spur to Ben, he found; and he was surprised at the varied stock of knowledge Ben had accumulated.
It did not seem as if they had explored half, when Mr. Whitney opened the door.
"Young folks, we must be going, if we expect to reach home that very same night, like the old woman with her pig," he said.
"Are you talked out?" asked Delia, archly; "for we haven't half looked through things."
"I want your brother to stay and have some supper with me. I'm my own housekeeper now; but I think we could manage."
"What fun it would be," said Delia. "As there are no stores, we should have to start at the foundation of things."
"I have a loaf of bread, and some cold mutton, and eggs, I think, and tea and coffee. Come, you had better accept my hospitality."
"I must be home in the early evening," remarked Doctor Joe.
"And Hanny's not to stay out after dark," appended Ben.
"We are going down to Cockloft Hall," explained Mr. Whitney. "I am sorry we cannot accept."
"Then you must bring your happy family again. If they are fond of curiosities, the old house could entertain them all day long."
"And if they are fond of adventures, which they are, they might put you to the test," said Delia, daringly.
Herbert laughed at the vivacious tone.
"Then you'd have to find me in the mood. In that respect, I am variable."
"Do you have a mood for each day? Then your friends could be sure—"
"A good idea, like the ladies' reception-days. Must I put on the card, Serious, Jolly, Adventurous, etc.?"
"And supernatural. I should come on the ghost days. For if ever a ghost walked out of its earthy habitation, I should think it would be here. Did you ever see a ghost, Mr. Herbert?"
"I have seen some queer things. But these up here," nodding his head, "seem a very well behaved community. I can't say that they have troubled me; and I've come down the road at twelve or so at night. Perhaps my imagination is not vivid enough in that line. Have you ever seen a ghost, Miss Whitney?"
"No, I have not, except the ghosts of my imagination. I can shut my eyes now, and see them come trooping down that lonely road by twos and threes."
Herbert laughed again. "A vivid imagination is worth a good deal at times," he said. "There ought to be a ghost-walk about here; and next time you come over, we'll arrange one so perfectly that he shall defy detection. I'll walk a bit with you, if I am not a ghost."
When he put on his wide-brimmed, rather high-crowned hat, he looked more Spanish than English. They went through another room that opened on a porch, and, from thence, through the garden, or an attempt at one that did not betoken signal success.
The cemetery sloped down from a high hill that was such a thicket of woods it hid all indications of the City of the Dead. The placid river, in which there was only a gentle tide up here, lapped the shores with a little murmur as it came up from the bay. The green, irregular shore opposite showed here and there a house. The wood-robins were beginning their vespers already. Hanny thought them the sweetest singers she had ever heard.
Just here there was a terraced garden-spot and an old house adorned with all kinds of blossoming shrubbery.
"You see we two are guardians of the place, at either end. Miss Whitney, this house could tell some interesting tales of the bygone time; but the glory is departing. In a few years the city will stretch out and invade our solitude."
A wild spot of ground it was below, hilly, gravelly, sloping sharply down to the river. But people were beginning to take advantage of the shore-edge for business. There were shops, and a foundry stretching out smoky, dingy arms in various directions.
They said their good-byes here, as they were in sight of the old Gouverneur mansion. And no one guessed then that a tragedy of love and desperation to madness was soon to follow, and that in the dreary old house "Frank Forrester" was to lie, slain by his own hand, that he waved so jauntily to them as he bade them "Come again."
They scrambled up the small ascent, and sprang over the wall. Here was where the Nine Worthies used to come for their merry-making in their exuberant youth, and, as one of their number said afterward, "enlivened the solitude by their mad-cap pranks and juvenile orgies." The house had not been much modernised up to that period. Its young owner, Mr. Kemble, who was the Patroon of the merry company, still held it. They found the old honeydew cherry-tree standing; but some of its long-armed branches were going to decay. The odd, octagonal summer-house had not then fallen down.
They went up to the old room in the south-western angle, the green moreen chamber, as it had been called, where the Nine Worthies used to congregate, and where Irving concocted some choice bits of fun for the Salamagundi Club. And here was the great drawing-room where they disposed themselves to sociable naps on Sunday afternoons, the vine-covered porch on which they sat and smoked starlit evenings, and the grassy lawn over which they rambled. And now Mr. Washington Irving had been minister to Spain, and the guest of noted people in England and on the continent. He had won fame in more than one line, and hosts of appreciative readers.
Hanny could hardly realise it all, as she thought of the still handsome though rather delicate man, past middle life, gracious and dignified and kindly, sitting on his own porch at Sunnyside. She couldn't help going back to her first love, the old "Knickerbocker History" that seemed so real to her, even now.
The hand of improvement touched Cockloft Hall shortly after. The old summer-house was taken down; the famous cherry-tree, where the robins sang and reared their young for so many generations, succumbed to old age and wintry blasts; but she was glad she had seen it in its romantic halo.
They were not far from the upper railroad station then,—the old Morris and Essex that had stirred up the country people mightily when it first went thundering through quiet vales, and screaming out at little way-stations. They were just in time for a train. The sun had dropped down behind the Orange Mountain, though the whole west was alive with changeful gold and scarlet, melting to fainter tints, changing to indescribable hues and visionary islands floating in seas of amber and chrysoprase.
Hanny was quite tired, and leaned her head on Joe's shoulder. Ben and Delia were in front, and Mr. Whitney in the seat behind. They kept up an animated conversation, and thought it had been a delightful afternoon.
"And I feel like quoting a bit out of a letter of the Poet Gray," said Ben. "'Do you not think a man may be the wiser, I had almost said better, for going a hundred or two miles?' We have gone a tenth or so of that, and I feel ever so much richer as well as wiser. How is it with you, little Hanny?"
"I've been to the land of heroes," she replied, with a soft smile. "I shall insist that Jim must honour New Jersey in the future."
"Bravo!" said Mr. Whitney. "And there are many more heroes in it, and I think some heroines, that we must hunt up at a leisure day. There was Ann Halsted of Elizabethtown, who saw the British foraging expedition coming over from Staten Island, where the ship lay at anchor; and, donning a suit of her father's clothes, and taking an old musket, she went down to the only road they could come up, and blazed away at them with such intrepidity that the red-coats were alarmed lest a whole squad might be quartered there, and retreated in haste. It was said when Washington heard of it, he toasted the young lady. And there were the brave women of Valley Forge."
"And Moll Pitcher, don't forget her," put in Ben. "We in New York don't own quite everything."
They went rumbling into the tunnel, and Hanny started. She was used to the Harlem tunnel; but this came upon her unexpectedly.
"And there are three considerable tunnels," laughed Delia. "Yet there are people who believe the State is one vast sandy plain, and that the agricultural products are solely watermelons and peaches. Some one always stands ready to believe ridiculous things."
"Hereafter, we will take up the cudgels for New Jersey," declared Ben. "I am hungry as a bear! That rye bread was splendid, wasn't it! We must ask mother to make some, Joe."
Mr. Whitney begged them to stop to tea; but Doctor Joe thought they had better get home. They were late, of course; but Mrs. Underhill had a nice supper for them.
When Jim heard about Captain Alden, he half wished he had gone.
"But I had to come in and save the day, or we should have been beaten out of sight, so I was of some use," he announced.
Mrs. Underhill was put on her mettle by hearing about Mrs. Alden's rye bread; and the very next week she made some quite as splendid.
Hanny displayed her sprig of hawthorn,—real hawthorn.
"Are you sure it isn't artificial?" asked Jim, teasingly.
"An artificial branch can't grow," she said indignantly.
The next week at school, the girls' compositions had to be read aloud; and Hanny wrote about her tour, which received the highest commendation.
Delia came up to get the story of the man who had been on board the slave ship. She had a sketch of her own under way, and she wanted to make it very thrilling.
"And I shall have to give you half the money for it," she said laughingly.
It had a rather amusing hitch about its acceptance. The editor of the paper to which it was offered liked it extremely for its vigourous treatment, but begged her to use a masculine name, or simply initials, because it didn't sound like a young girl's story.
She told this over with great gusto, and showed her check for twenty dollars. But Mr. Underhill magnanimously refused to accept the half of it.
"I don't approve of so much mannishness in a girl," Mrs. Underhill said decisively. In her heart she wished Ben did not like her so well. But they really were more like two boys than lovers.
She took every occasion to make sharp little comments. Delia was rather careless in her attire; and while she dressed her heroines in the styles of their period, or in good taste, if they were modern, she had a rather mismatched look herself, except when she wore white, which she nearly always did evenings at home.
And she made home a really delightful place. She was quite ambitious for reception evenings. Mrs. Osgood was holding them for a literary circle. Of course she could not aim at anything as elegant as that; but newspaper men, young and old, were in the habit of dropping in upon Mr. Whitney quite informally. About ten, they might be asked down to the dining-room, where there was a dainty little spread, sometimes a Welsh rarebit that Dele could concoct to perfection. To be sure, they smoked the room blue; and Mr. Whitney often brought out a bottle of wine, as was the custom then; true, he waited until Delia and Nora had gone upstairs, and taken some of the younger men. Delia had made a strong protest against it, in her humourous way.
"I don't so much mind you old fellows, who, if you haven't sense enough not to addle your brains, never will have. But the young men oughtn't have the temptation thrust in their way. They think it looks smart and manly; and they make themselves so silly that I'm like a lump of ice to some of them. I like clear-brained people."
So upstairs they had music and recitations. Every young man of any elocutionary ability felt himself empowered to recite "The Raven," that much admired and sharply discussed poem by the Poet Poe, whose melancholy end still created much interest. Critical spirit ran high. One party could see only a morbid faculty heightened by opium and intoxicants; others found the spirit of true and fine genius in many of his efforts, and believed the circumstances of his life had been against him.
Ben was reading one evening in Doctor Joe's cosy library, enjoying the most capacious arm-chair, and improvising a foot-rest out of one not quite so luxurious. The Doctor had been making out bills, and feeling quite encouraged, perhaps lighter-hearted than he would when he had waited a year for the payment of some of them.
"Joe," began his brother, abruptly, "what do you suppose makes mother so bitter about Delia Whitney?"
"Bitter?" repeated Joe, in the tone of indecision people often use when a proposition or question takes them by surprise.
"Yes. We all used to be so nice and jolly together, and Delia likes us all so much. Hanny has such good times down there, with the old lady who sings such pretty old-fashioned songs, if her voice is rather cracked and tremulous; and Nora is bright and entertaining. But the other day mother wouldn't let her go; and she was dreadfully disappointed; and mother is not as cordial to Delia as she used to be. Dele spoke of it."
Ben looked straight at his brother, out of the frankest of eyes. It was Joe who changed colour.
"I hate things to go crosswise. And when something keeps you just a little ruffled up all the time—"
Ben drew his brows. Was he really unconscious of the trouble?
"You go there a good deal, you know. Some of the men are not quite the company a young fellow should choose, mother thinks."
That was begging the main issue, of course.
"I don't see much of the older men. They're mostly smoking downstairs, and I don't care a bit for that. But their talk is often worth listening to. People who just keep in one little round have no idea how rich the world is growing intellectually, scientifically; and on what broad lines it is being laid."
"It is not the men altogether. Ben, you don't go anywhere else. Perhaps it would be wisdom to enlarge your acquaintance among girls, young ladies," and Joe gave a short laugh that betrayed the effort.
"I don't care a penny for girls in general," said Ben, with elderly gravity. "Delia sometimes asks them in; and we seldom have as good a time. She's a host in herself; and I've always liked her."
"You haven't had a very wide experience. And you are too young to make up your mind about—anything."
Ben started up suddenly and flushed. What a fine, strong, solid face he had! It wasn't the face of one turned about with every wind of doctrine; it was not as handsome as Jim's bid fair to be, but it had hardly a weak or selfish line in it. Ben had always been such a good, generous, steady boy.
"You don't mean," he began with a little gasp,—"Joe, you can't think that mother—that any one would object if the time came for me to—to marry Delia?"
"You are too young to think of such things, Ben," said his brother, gently.
"Why—I've been thinking of it ever since Mr. Theodore came home. We were talking one time about going to Europe—"
"Are you really engaged, Ben?"
The young fellow laughed and blushed.
"Well—I suppose not exactly," he answered slowly. "We've never come to that boshy stuff you find now and then in stories. But we know all about each other's plans; and we like so many of the same things; and we always feel so comfortable together, not a bit as if we were trigged up in Sunday clothes. I don't think she's the most beautiful girl in the world; but she has lovely eyes, and I've never seen a handsome girl I have liked as well. Steve chose his own wife, and so did John. Cleanthe's a splendid housekeeper; but she doesn't have time to read a newspaper. Dolly's well informed, and has something fresh to talk about. But it seems to me Margaret is always caring about society and etiquette, and who is in our set, and a hundred things that bore me. Phil has all his life been used to style, so Margaret's just the one for him. And why shouldn't I have just the one for me?"
Joe laughed heartily then.
"I'd wait a year or two," he answered drily. "You are not out of your time; and it is an unwise thing to take the responsibilities of life too early. Delia may fancy some one else."
"Oh, no, she won't," replied Ben, confidently. "We just suit. I can't explain it to you, Joe; but it is one of the things that seem to come about without any talking. Are some things ordained? I should be awful sorry to have mother object to it; but I know Dolly would stand by us when the time came."
"Well—don't hurry; and, Ben, take the little comments patiently. If mother was convinced that it was for your happiness, she would consent. We all know there are unwise marriages, unhappy ones, as well."
"Oh, we're not in any hurry! You see, Delia is really needed at home. The old aunt is awfully fond of her. And she's so interested in her stories. We have such fun planning them out; and she does some capital little sketches."
Joe nodded in a friendly manner, as if he did not altogether disapprove. But there was a belief that literary women could not make good wives. People quoted Lady Bulwer and Lady Byron; and yet right in the city were women of literary proclivities living happily with their husbands.
And Joe had found careless, fretful, indifferent wives and poor housekeepers among women who could not even have written a coherent account-book. Come to think, he liked Delia a good deal himself. And if she wasn't such a great worker, she did have the art of making a cheerful, attractive home, and putting everybody at ease.
The new woman and cooking-schools were in the far future. Every mother, if she knew enough, trained her daughter to make a good wife, to buy properly, to cook appetisingly if not always hygienically, to make her husband's shirts, and do the general family sewing, to keep her house orderly, to fight moths and mice, and to give company teas with the best china and the finest tablecloth.
To be sure there was a little seething of unrest. Mrs. Bloomer had put forth a new costume that shocked the feminine world, though they were complaining of the weight of heavy skirts and the various devices for distending them. Lucretia Mott and some other really fine women were advocating the wider education of the sex. Women were being brought to the fore as teachers in schools, and higher institutions were being discussed. There was a Mrs. Bishop who had preached; there were women who lectured on various subjects.
The sewing-machine was making its way; and the argument in its favour was that it would save a woman's strength and give her more leisure. But employment of any kind out of the housewasconsidered derogatory unless one had no father or brother to supply her needs.
Still, the old simple life was going out of date. There was more style; and some leaders of opinion professed to be shocked at the extravagance of the day. There was a sudden influx of people up-town. There were new stores and offices. One wondered where all the people came from. But New York had taken rapid strides in her merchant-marine. The fastest vessels in the China trade went out of her ports. The time to both California and China was shortened by the flying clippers. The gold of that wonderful land of Ophir was the magic ring that one had only to rub, if he could get hold of it, and work wonders.
But the little girl went on her quiet way. They were finding friends in the new neighbourhood; yet Daisy Jasper could not be superseded. Every letter was carefully treasured; and, oh, how many things she found to say in return.
They kept up the intimacy with the Deans, though Josephine seemed almost a young woman. Mr. Reed enjoyed the pleasant home wonderfully. Charles spent much of his leisure over music, of which he was passionately fond. He and Jim were not so intimate. Jim was going with a gayer lot of young fellows, while Charles was seriously considering his life-plans.
Were people more enthusiastic in old New York than they are at the end of the century? We have done so much, we have had so many wonderful happenings since then. To be sure, Dickens had been over and made, people thought, a somewhat caustic return for the hospitable welcome; Harriet Martineau had made a tour, and gone home rather favourably impressed; and the winter before the intellectual circle—and it was getting to be quite notable—had honoured the Swedish novelist, Frederica Bremer, and been really charmed by her unaffected sweetness. If they were not quite ready to take up her theories for the advancement of women, they fell to reading the delightful "Neighbours" and "Home." And now there was to be another visitant, "The Swedish Nightingale."
For Mr. Barnum was still the prince of entertainers. Theatres waxed and waned, and new stars came to the front who had still their laurels to win; people strove for cards to the Steven's Terrace, just back of Columbia College on Park Place. Bleecker Street was not out of date, though Mrs. Hamilton Fish had gone up to Stuyvesant Square, and was gathering about her a political clique. There were card-parties and dances; there were Christy's Minstrels and the Hutchinson family; and some of the more intellectual circles had conversaziones where the best talent displayed itself. Still, Barnum could not be crowded out. No sarcasm withered him; and his variety was infinite. It was a safe place for mothers to go and take their children. The men had formed several ambitious clubs, and were beginning to entertain themselves.
Jenny Lind had already captivated Europe. Mr. Barnum judiciously brought interest up to fever heat. After the bargain was made known, and the young singer had taken her passage with her suite, a musical rage pervaded the very city. The streets leading to the wharf were thronged by crowds in the wildest enthusiasm. Triumphal arches were built across Canal Street, and as she came down the gang-plank of the steamer, shouts rent the very air.
The young traveller and poet, Bayard Taylor, had captured the prize offered for the finest ode to be sung at her first concert. Two hundred dollars seemed a large price at that time, as Tennyson had not been offered a thousand for a poem. So great was the inquiry for tickets, that they were sold at auction a few days previous. And Mr. Genin, a Broadway hatter, signalised himself by making the highest bid for a ticket,—two hundred and twenty-five dollars. Over one thousand tickets were sold on the first day.
The concert was to be at Castle Garden. At five, the doors were opened, and people began to throng in, though each seat had been secured to its proper owner; and by eight, the audience was in a perfect transport of expectation. It was said to be the largest audience assembled to listen to her. And when she was led on the stage by her manager, the enthusiasm was beyond description. It seemed to divine beforehand that the fair-haired Swedish songstress would meet all expectations; and she passed beyond it.
Ben had been caught by the enthusiasm, and squandered his savings on a ticket. He and Jim had been in the crowd around the hotel, that first night when the New York musical society had serenaded her, and she had bowed from the old stone balcony to the admiring crowds.
"There isn't any word to express it," declared Ben, at the breakfast-table the next morning. "Joe, you must hear her, and Hanny—all of you. Never mind the cost."
"Ben, you have lost your senses," said his mother, with a touch of her old sharpness. "As if we were all millionaires! And I have heard people sing before."
"Not anything like that. You can't imagine such melody. And the enthusiasm of the crowd is worth something!"
The little girl looked up wistfully. She was beginning to understand the value of money.
"Yes," returned Joe; "Hanny must hear her. I wouldn't have her miss it for anything. But the tickets won't be so high after a little."
They dropped to regular prices, but that was high for the times; and the rush continued unabated. New York broke out in a Jenny Lind furore. There were gloves, and hats, and shawls, and gowns, beautiful little tables, and consoles, and furniture of all sorts that bore her name. The bakers made Jenny Lind cake. What a time there was! Enthusiastic adorers took her carriage from its shafts, and dragged it from Castle Garden to the hotel. Was New York old in those days? Rather, it was the glowing, fervid impetuosity of early youth.
And the serenade, when Broadway was jammed for blocks, and lighted by torches in the street, and illuminations in the houses and stores. There was a wonderful cornetist, Koenig, who could have won another Eurydice from the shades with his playing. Out on the balcony he stood and moved the crowd with his melody. Then she came out beside him, and, in the hush, a thousand times more appreciative than the wildest applause, the magnificent voice sang to its large, free audience, "Home, Sweet Home," as no one will ever hear it sung again. That alone would be fame enough for any writer of song!
The furore did not abate. But they must all go,—Stephen and Dolly, Margaret and her husband, Joe and the little girl, and her father.
"It is nonsense for an old fellow like me," he declared, half humourously.
"But I shall like it so much better, and then we can talk it over afterward. That's half the pleasure."
She looked so wistful out of her soft eyes, and patted his hand with her caressing little fingers, of course he couldn't say No.
It was so much harder to persuade Mrs. Underhill. "It certainlywaswicked to spend so much money just to hear one woman sing. She had heard the 'Messiah,' with Madame Anna Bishop in it; and she never again expected to hear anything so beautiful this side of heaven."
They carried the day, however, in spite of her objections. Castle Garden looked like fairyland, with its brilliant lights, its hundred ushers in white gloves and rosettes, their wands tipped with ribbon as if for some grand ball. The quiet was awe-inspiring. One did not even want to whisper to his neighbour, but just sit in fascinated silence and wonder what it would be like.
Then Jenny Lind was led on the stage, and the entire audience rose with one vast, deafening cheer,—a magnificent one, as hearty as on her first night. It seemed as if they would never stop. There was a cloud of waving handkerchiefs, shaking out fragrance in the air.
A simple Swedish maiden in her gown of soft, white silk, with no blaze of diamonds, and just one rose low down in her banded hair, only her gracious sweetness and simplicity, a thousand times finer and more effective than flashing beauty. She has heard the applause many a time before, in audiences of crowned heads; and this from the multitude is just as sweet.
When all is listening, attentive silence, she begins "Casta Diva." "Hark to the voice," and every one listens with such intensity that the magnificent sound swells out and fills the farthest space. There is no striving for effect. A woman singing with a God-given voice, in simple thanks for its ownership, not a queen bidding for admiration. Had any voice ever made such glorious melody, or so stirred human souls?
The applause has in it an immensity of appreciation, as if it could never get itself wholly expressed.
Then another favourite, which everybody sang at for years afterward: "I dreamt I dwelt in marble halls." In some of the sorrows of her womanhood, the little girl was to recall the sweet refrain—