Delia was happy and charming; but she was very much engrossed with home affairs. Nurses grew tired and went away; and Aunt Patty became more and more helpless.
Then came the great event to Hanny's life, and she was quite nervous over it. This was graduation; but when she had passed the examinations successfully, the real care was over.
And the new clothes! The old ones had been made to do through the spring; but now there was no question about long skirts. There were pretty plaid summer-silks,—everybody wore them then, and they were almost as cheap as now,—lawns, a light grey cashmere for ordinary occasions, and a white India muslin for graduation. The very next evening Dolly was to give her a party.
Grandmother thought it ought to be at home, instead.
"She will want one in the fall," said Dolly, "to announce that she is really Miss Underhill, and ready for society. Home will be the place for that. And she will be getting acquainted with young people through the summer. She's never been anything but a little girl."
There wasn't such a fuss made about sweet girl graduates then; and, later on, Rutgers Institute was to wheel into line and become a college; but even now they had bouquets and baskets of flowers. And some of the girls had lovers, and were engaged, even if there was no co-education. The chapel was crowded with admiring friends; and the girls looked sweet and pretty in their white gowns and flowing curls; for youth has a charm and beauty of its own that does not depend on regular features, or style, or any of the later accessories of life. It is an enchanted land of sunny skies and heavenly atmospheres.
She came home out of it all with a curious new feeling. That night of the banquet it had been almost a masquerade. Even now the blue shimmer and clouds of white ruffles seemed to belong to some other state. She wondered a little if she would ever wear it again.
There were some pretty gifts for her at home. Josie Dean and Charlie Reed came around in the evening. He had passed his first year's examinations successfully.
Doctor Joe and Jim and the elder people were talking very earnestly about the duties and the purposes of life. Josie touched Hanny's hand, and, with a little movement, the sign girls understand, drew her out on the porch.
"Let us walk down the path. Oh, Hanny, I've something to tell you!" and her voice was in a sort of delicious tremble. "May be you have suspected. I told Charlie Imustconfess it to you; though we do not mean to say much about it at present. Oh, Hanny, can't you guess?"
There were so many things; it was something joyful, certainly. She glanced up and smiled. Josie's face was all one roseate flush.
"Oh!" with a mysterious throb.
"We are engaged, dear. I don't know when we began to love each other. We have been so much with each other, you know. He has helped me with my lessons; and we have sung, and played, and read, and gone to church together. It was like having a brother. Tudie and I used to envy you the boys. And it was not quite like a brother either, for another feeling came in. Sometimes I wanted to run away, such a queer tremble came over me. Then there were hours when I could hardly wait for him to come home from the seminary. And for a while, he was so grave, I wondered if I had offended him. And then—do you suppose any one can tell justhowit happens?—though they always do in books. All in an instant, you know some one loves you. It's strange and beautiful and exciting; and it seems as if the best and loveliest of all the world had come to you. We have been engaged a whole week; and every day it grows more mysteriously delightful."
"It is so strange," said Hanny, with a long, indrawn breath. "And—Charlie!"
"Oh, don't you remember how we waylaid Mr. Reed one night, and begged him to let Charlie go to singing-school? He laughed about it the other night, though he said you were the bravest of the three. And he is delighted with it. Then mother is so fond of Charles. Of course it will be a two years' engagement. Mother doesn't want me to teach school now. She thinks I ought to learn about housekeeping and sewing, and fit myself for a minister's wife. That seems so solemn, doesn't it? Oh, I do wonder if I can be good enough! And visiting the poor, and helping to the right way, and being patient and sweet, and real religious! But he will help me; and he is so good! I think he couldn't have been anything but a minister. Idosuppose Mrs. Reed knows about it in heaven. She was so different that last year, sweeter and kinder; and we feel sure she has gone to heaven. But we want her to know; and dear little Tudie! You must come over and spend the day, now that school is ended; and we will do nothing but talk about it. Oh, Hanny, I hope some day you will have a lover! But you seem such a sort of a little girl even yet. And I have worn long skirts a whole year."
A lover! Hanny's face was scarlet in the fragrant dusk.
"We must go in. I promised mother we would not stay late. And Charlie has some examinations for to-morrow. You may tell your mother and Daisy Jasper."
Joe said they needn't hurry off so; and Charles flushed as he looked at Josie. They rose and said good-night; and Josie kissed Hanny in a rapturous kind of fashion.
"I'll bet a sixpence those two youngsters are engaged," said Jim. "Hanny, what was all the long talk about?"
She was not quite sure all the rest were to be taken in the confidence; but she looked so conscious, and Jim was so positive, that she admitted the fact.
"That's just like a theological student."
"It is a very suitable engagement. Mrs. Dean has brought Josie up sensibly; and Charles is such a fine fellow. Of course they must all be pleased about it," commented Mrs. Underhill.
Just a few days later, Mrs. Odell came down for some advice and help, for Janey was to be married. Her betrothed was a well-to-do young farmer up in Sullivan County. He was coming down in August to go to the World's Fair; and he wanted to be married and make a general holiday of it.
"I am not much judge of such matters; but Stephen's wife will go shopping with you. I don't know what we should do without her," said Mrs. Underhill.
That very morning two silver-embossed envelopes came for Miss Nan Underhill. One schoolmate was to be married in church at noon, and go to Niagara on a wedding journey. The other was an evening ceremony with a reception afterward. Mr. James Underhill had an invitation to this also.
Was all the world getting married, or being engaged! Standing on the threshold, Hanny shrank back in dismay. It was looking out of a tranquil cloister into a great, unknown world; and it gave her a mysterious shiver. She didn't feel safe and warm until she had dropped on her father's knee, and had his strong, fond arms about her.
Dolly's party was a great success. The young people were invited to meet Miss Nan Underhill. And Miss Nan wore her graduation dress and blue ribbons. Blue gave her a sort of ethereal look; pink added a kind of blossomy sweetness.
Dolly knew so many young folks. True, there were some older ones. Ben and Delia came up for an hour. Dolly said they were old-fashioned married people already. Hanny thought there didn't seem much difference, only Ben had a new strange sort of sweetness. She was very fond of Delia; and it was a delight to feel free to go down to Beach Street.
Peter and Paulus Beekman came; and they were nice, fine, rather stout young men. Peter was a lawyer; he and Jim were quite friends. Paulus was in shipping business.
"Oh," said Peter to Nan, "you look just as you did when you were a little girl and used to come to grandfather's. Do you remember that beautiful Angora cat? That was grandfather's sign. He always took to people Katschina liked. And your hair hasn't grown any darker. I like light hair. Aunt Dolly has such beautiful hair! And I'm glad you have not grown up into a great, tall May-pole. I just adore little women. When I marry, I am going to choose a 'bonnie wee thing,' like the wife in the song."
Hanny flushed rosy red. Oh, why would people talk about being married, and all that? And if Peter wouldn't look at her in just that way! It gave her a touch of embarrassment.
But oh, they had a splendid time! Modern young people would have been bored, and voted it "no spread at all." They played Proverbs, and What is my thought like? and everybody tried to bring out their very best, and be as bright and witty and joyous as possible. They had plain cake and fancy cake, and a new kind of dainty crisp crackers; candies, nuts, raisins, and mottoes, which were the greatest fun of all. Afterward, some dancing with the Cheat quadrille, and it was so amusing to "cut out," or run away and leave your partner with his open arms, and a blank look of surprise on his face.
Doctor Joe came to take the little girl home; for he was quite sure Jim would want to take some one else's sister.
"Aunt Dolly," said Peter, when he was going away without any girl at all, though he had hoped to walk home with Hanny, "isn't Nan Underhill just the sweetest little thing in the world? I don't wonder grandfather liked her so. With that soft, indescribable hair, and her eyes,—twilight eyes, some one put in a poem,—and that cunning dimple when she smiles, and so dainty altogether. What made you say she was not pretty?"
"Why, I said, she was not as handsome as Mrs. Hoffman."
"She suits me ten times better. She is like this,
"'A creature not too bright or goodFor human nature's daily food.'"
"'A creature not too bright or goodFor human nature's daily food.'"
Dolly repeated the talk and the verses to Stephen. "And Peter is such a solid, steady-going fellow. He was really smitten."
"The idea! And with that child!"
Dolly laughed gaily. "I suppose when our girls get to be eighteen, you will still think them children. Why, I wasn't quite fifty when you fell in love with me!"
Fifty! How ridiculous it was to think of Dolly ever being fifty. Ah, it is love alone that holds the secret of eternal youth!
"Well, I hope there won't any one be foolish over Hanny, in a long while," said Stephen, decisively.
"Foolish!" repeated Dolly, in a tone of resentment. But then they both laughed.
The Odell girls came down to make a two days' visit. They went up to the Deans' to tea; and the two engaged girls strayed off by themselves, with their arms about each other, and had confidences in which the masculine pronoun played an important part. And poor Polly bewailed the prospect of being left alone. If she had a brother like Jim, she wouldn't mind.
Jim's girls were a kind of standing amusement to the family. This was a case where there was safety in numbers, Mrs. Underhill felt assured. If she had known of the episode of Lily Ludlow, her confidence would have been a little shaken. Jim was a general lover of the sex, and a good-looking, entertaining young fellow is apt to be spoiled.
Just now he had a penchant for Daisy, who teased him, and was as uncertain as an April shower. She and Hanny were inseparables. Jim took them round to Dolly's, or down to Ben's, or to Mrs. Hoffman, who had a new grand piano, and had refurnished her parlor, quite changing the simplicity of her first wedded life. Through the winter, she had given fortnightly receptions, that had an air and grace of the highest refinement. You always met some of the best and the most entertaining people. It was not a crush and a jam; but men and women really talked at that period, and brought out their best. Knowledge was not at a discount.
Young ladies came to call on Miss Underhill; and in the evenings, they brought their brothers or admirers. When she knew of it beforehand, she always had Daisy to help. Sometimes the whole party would go out for a little walk, and have some cream or water ices. The city was still so airy and open, you did not have to fly out of it at the first pleasant day.
This summer, nearly everybody was staying at home, and waiting for the big fair to open. Rooms at hotels and private houses were engaged; and the plainer country people came in to visit. There would be crowds, of course.
The Underhills had invited some of the elder relatives, since they had plenty of room.
And on July 4th, this great event occurred. The President, Mr. Franklin Pierce at that time, was the grand master of the occasion. Oh, what a Fourth of July it was! The grounds were crowded. The military were out in force; and the fireworks would have done credit to the empire of China. Never had the city seen such a gala time; the Victory of Peace it was called.
The men had it largely to themselves this day. It was more the ceremonies, than the articles exhibited, that attracted attention. That came later on.
There was a great influx of visitors in the city. The streets were thronged; the stages were crowded. One wonders what they did without electric cars. But numbers of people still kept carriages, and temporary lodging-houses were erected in the vicinity of the Palace. It certainly was a great thing for that day. And the interior, with its handsome dome, its galleries, its arched naves, and broad aisles, had a striking and splendid effect.
And, oh, the riches of the world that had contributed some of its choicest treasures! There were many people who never expected to go to Europe, and who were glad beyond measure to have it come to them. Here was the largest collection of paintings and sculpture that had ever been gathered in New York. Then, for the first time, we saw Powers' matchless Greek slave, and Kiss' Amazon, and many another famous marble. There was the row of the Apostles by the sculptor Thorwaldsen, about which there was always a concourse of people; and some of the devout could almost see them in the flesh.
We have had a Centennial since, and a famous White City, and almost any day, in New York, you can see some famous pictures and statuary. Then people run over to Europe, and study up the galleries, and write books of exquisite descriptions; but it was not so at that time. There is the grand Museum of Art near to where the old Palace stood; but all was new then. We had not been surfeited with beauty; we had not had a flood of art critics, praising or denouncing, and schools of this or that fad. It is good for cities, as well as nations, that they should once be young, and revel in the enchanting sense of freshness and delight.
Presently, it became a sort of regular thing to go,—a kind of summer-day excursion. There were delightful walks and drives up above. Bloomingdale was still a garden of sweetness. Riverside was unknown, only as the beautiful bank of the Hudson. You went and carried your lunch, or you found some simple cottage, where a country-woman dispensed truly home-made bread, and delicious ham, and a glass of milk, buttermilk on some days.
The remembrance of it to Hanny Underhill, through all her after years, was as of a golden summer. The little knot of young people kept together. When Josie Dean recovered somewhat, from the first transports of her engagement, she proved very companionable. Charles, in his long vacation, was quite at their service. Jim couldn't always be at liberty; but he did get off pretty often. Sometimes Joe, sometimes Father Underhill, chaperoned the party; but they were allowed to go by themselves as well. Girl friends joined them; Peter Beekman, and even Paulus, thought it a great thing to be counted in.
Oh, the wonderful articles! It was a liberal education. Sèvres china, Worcestershire with its wonderful tint, Wedgwood, Doulton, Cloisonnée, some rare Italian; and the tragic stories of Palissy, of Josiah Wedgwood, and Charles III. of Naples taking his secret to Spain; some queer Chinese ware, and Delft and Dresden, until it seemed as if half the genius of the world must have been expended in the exquisite productions.
And then the laces, the gossamer fabrics, the silks and velvets, the jewels, the elegant things from barbaric Russia, the wonders of the Orient, the plainer exhibit of our own land rich in mechanical wonders, the natural products, the sewing-machine that now could do the finest of work, the miniature looms weaving, the queer South American and Mexican fabrications, the gold from California,—well, it seemed as if one never could see it all.
Hanny wondered why Peter Beekman should want to stay close by her when Daisy was so bright and entertaining, and when there were other girls. When he looked at her so earnestly her heart gave a great throb, her cheeks burned, and she wanted to run away.
He wished she wasn't so shy and so ready to shelter herself under Charlie's wing, or her father's, or Joe's. And when she felt really safe she was so merry and enchanting!
It was a day in August, rather warm, to be sure; but Polly Odell had come down just on purpose to go, "for now that Janey was married and gone the house was too horrid lonesome!" They stopped for Josie. Doctor Joe brought Daisy up in the afternoon, and they were all in the picture-gallery, where they were ever finding something new. Perhaps Polly had made big eyes at Peter; perhaps Peter liked her because she talked so much about Hanny. Anyhow, they had rambled off way at one end. Daisy was resting, and telling the doctor about some pictures in the Berlin gallery. Hanny moved up and down slowly, not getting very far away. She was fond of interiors, and the homely Dutch or French women cooking supper, or tending a baby, or spinning. And there were two kittens she had never seen before, scampering about an old kitchen where a man in his shirt-sleeves had fallen asleep over his paper. It seemed to her she could see them move.
A man of six or seven and twenty, young for his years, yet with a certain stamp of the world and experience, went slowly along, glancing at the visitors in a casual manner. Of course he would know Miss Jasper and Dr. Underhill. It was like looking for a needle in a hay-stack; but Mrs. Jasper had suggested the picture-gallery; and suddenly he saw a small figure and fair face under a big leghorn hat full of wild roses and green leaves. She was smiling at the playful kittens. Oh, it surely was Miss Nan Underhill!
He came nearer; and she looked startled, as if she might fly. What a delicious colour drenched her face!
"Oh, you surely haven't forgotten me!" he cried. "I should remember you thousands of years, and I could pick you out of a world full of women."
"I—" Then she gave her soft little laugh, and the colour went fluttering all over her face in a startled, happy manner. "But I thought—"
"Did you think me a fixture in German wilds? Well, I am not. It's a long, long story; but I have come over now for good, to be a true American citizen all the rest of my days. The steamer arrived last night; but I couldn't get off until nearly noon. Then I went to a hotel and had some dinner, and came up to see Mrs. Jasper. She sent me here. Where are the others?"
"Daisy is—" she glanced about—"oh, down there with my brother,—and Miss Odell"—how queer that sounded!
"Let us stop here and rest until I get my breath and summon enough fortitude to encounter them. You are dreadfully surprised, I see by your face, I don't wonder. I must seem to you dropped from the clouds."
She wasn't a bit afraid, and sat down beside him. And she wondered if he had married the German cousin and brought her over; but it was strange not to mention her. It must be, however, if he was going to live in America.
"Oh, do you remember that night and the Spanish dance? I have shut my eyes and danced it ever so many times in memory. And you sent me away,"—with a soft, untranslatable laugh.
"I—" She looked amazed. She seemed caught and held captive in the swirl of some strange power. The colour fluttered up and down her sweet face, and her eyelids drooped, their long, soft lashes making shadows.
"Yes, you said I ought to go; and I shall always be glad I went,"—in a confident tone.
"Your cousin?" she said inquiringly, with no consciousness that a word would swerve either way.
"Yes. You know I told you my father's wishes. That sort of thing doesn't seem queer to continental people. But it was not so much his as the aunt's,—the relation is farther back than that; but it serves the same purpose. She had known about my father, and was desirous of being friends. So after I was home about a week, and had confessed to my father that the prospect of the marriage was not agreeable to me, he still begged me to go."
Hanny looked almost as if she was disappointed. He smiled and resumed:—
"It is a lonely spot on the Rhine, not far from Ebberfeld. We will look it up some day. I don't know how people can spend their lives in such dreary places. I do not wonder my grandmother ran away with her brave lover. The castle is fast going to ruins. There was a brother who wasted a great deal of the patrimony before he died. The Baroness is the last of her race. There is a poor little village at the foot of the mountain, and some peasants who work the land; and then the cousin, who is expected to rehabilitate the race by marrying a rich man."
"Yes." There was such a pretty, eager interest and pity in her eyes that he smiled.
"She is six and twenty; tall, fair, with a sorrowful kind of face, that has never been actually happy or pretty. Who could be happy in that musty old rookery! The father, I believe, did very little for their pleasure, but spent most of his time in town, wasting their little substance."
"Oh, poor girl!" cried Hanny, thinking of her own father, so loving and generous.
"She seemed to me almost as old as her mother. And then she told me her troubles, poor thing, and I found her in heart and mind a sort of inexperienced child. She has had a lover for two years; an enterprising young man, who is superintendent of an iron mine some fifty miles distant. It is the old story over again. I wish he had my grandfather's courage and would run away with her. He has no title nor aristocratic blood, and the mother will not consent. But I had made up my mind before I went there, and even if I had been fancy free, I couldn't resign myself to live in that old ruin."
"Oh, what will she do?"
"I advised her to run away." Herman Andersen laughed softly. "But I think I persuaded them both to come to the city and visit my father. They will find business isn't so shocking. They have lived in loneliness until they know very little of the real world. The old castle is not worth saving. Then I went home, and after a good deal of talking have arranged my life in a way that is satisfactory to my father, and I hope will be eminently so to myself. Some day I will tell you about that. Now where shall we find the others?" and he rose.
"Daisy is down here." Hanny rose also; but she had a queer sort of feeling, as if the world was turning round.
It seemed to Doctor Joe that he so rarely had a good talk with Daisy now, that he would make the most of this opportunity. Jim was always hovering about her. It was natural she should like the younger people. He was like a very much older brother. She was looking pale and tired. She could not stand continual dissipation. And while she often had a brilliant color and Hanny very little, the latter possessed by far the most endurance.
She liked to be alone with Doctor Joe. There was something restful and inspiriting, as if she absorbed his generous, superabundant strength.
So they almost forgot about Hanny, or thought her with the others. And now she came walking slowly down to them with a strange young man.
"Why, who can it be?" in a tone of surprised inquiry.
Daisy Jasper studied a moment. "Why, it looks like—no, it cannot be—yes, it is Mr. Andersen."
"I thought he was in Germany."
Daisy looked puzzled. Then she sprang up with a quick colour and a smile of pleasure, stretching out both hands.
"Oh, Miss Jasper!" and Mr. Andersen took her hands in a fervent clasp. "Do you know this is going to be a red-letter day in my life,—one of the happiest of days? Your mother sent me up here on a venture. First, I found Miss Underhill, and now you. And one might go all over the world and miss one's best friends. Ah, Dr. Underhill!"
A curious shock went over Dr. Underhill. He had to compel himself to take the outstretched hand. For what had this young man "crossed the seas?" He was not going to marry the cousin.
"But when did you come?" inquired Daisy. It was odd, but he took the seat the other side of her, and Hanny was by Joe.
Then Mr. Andersen told his voyage all over again, and that he had come for good. He was to take his father's money share in the house here, and his father's was to be transferred to Paris, where one of the elderly partners was in failing health and wished to retire.
"I am just delighted," exclaimed Daisy, enthusiastically. "If you would only come and board at our house! There are some people going away. Wouldn't it be splendid, Hanny?"
Hanny assented with a smile.
"I will see if I can find the others," said the doctor, rising and looking at his watch. "Father was to drive up with the Surrey at half-past five. Don't go away from here."
He walked slowly, looking a few moments in every room. Yes—there was Charles. He caught his eye and beckoned.
The estrays soon rejoined the others. Then they went out to the southern entrance, and so along to the gateway.
Yes, there was Mr. Underhill. He would take the four girls, and one more, as he had a team. This was decided to be Mr. Andersen, as he was to go to the Jaspers' to tea. The others would ride down in the stage. The doctor said he must make a few calls. Mr. Beekman expressed his intention of coming up in the evening, as Miss Odell was going to stay; and Miss Odell's eyes shone with delight.
Daisy having a lover! Dr. Underhill had not felt alarmed about Jim's attentions, he had so many fancies. But this young man—
Would it be best or wise for Daisy to marry? She appeared quite well, but she was not strong, and there was a remnant of the old spinal trouble that came out now and then in excruciating nervous headaches. Somehow she had seemed his especial property since she had cried in his arms with all the pain and suffering, and he had encouraged her to bear the little more. He had meant always to stand her friend. It wasn't likely he would marry, for he had seen no one yet that he wanted. But if this child went out of his life! For, alas! the child had grown to womanhood.
When Mr. Underhill took Polly home the next day, it was with the stipulation that she should come back and spend a week. Polly was wild with delight, and packed up her best things. There were some other visitors,—cousins of the elderly sort,—so the young people had their own good times. Daisy and Mr. Andersen were in, and Charlie and they had the happy enjoyment of youth.
Peter Beekman seemed devoted to them. Jim wouldn't be crowded out where Daisy was concerned, but he wanted to be first with her. Mr. Andersen gave way generously, and went over to Hanny, who somehow clung to Polly.
There was a good deal of business to be done for Mr. Herman Andersen. His father's share in the New York firm was to be transferred to him, as at the age of twenty-five he had come into possession of his mother's fortune, that had been accumulating. His father was to take charge of the Paris house. He spent some hours every morning with Mr. Jasper, acquiring a knowledge of his new duties; but the afternoons were for pleasure, until the autumnal business stirred up.
"I do wish young Beekman wouldn't come over here so much," Mrs. Underhill said in a fretted tone, "or that he would take a real fancy to Polly."
"They are just having a young people's good time," returned Joe. "Polly's a nice girl. He might do worse."
"But I am afraid it is not Polly. He watches Hanny like a cat watching a mouse."
"Nonsense!" declared Joe.
"But he does. And I don't like it."
"Oh, mother dear, you're a hen with one chick. If there is a rustle in the leaves you think a hawk is going to pounce down."
"Hanny's too young to have lovers." She tried to keep her face in severe lines.
"Hanny isn't thinking about lovers. And Peter is a fine, solid fellow, who is going to make his mark, and who may be a sort of ballast to Jim. I like him."
"Oh, he is well enough. But if there was any fuss it might annoy Dolly. And we have always been so cordial; Margaret was married too young."
"And you were married too young. Now, if you had waited and done without Steve and me, and begun with John—"
There was a twinkle in Doctor Joe's eye.
"I should have begun with the most sensible son," returned his mother; but she could not keep her voice sharp.
"Well, I will look after Hanny and the young man. I think myself that we don't need any more lovers right away."
She knew she could depend on him.
Then they had some anxiety at Ben's, and Delia's mother was away. Aunt Boudinot had her third stroke, and lay insensible for several days, then slipped out of life. Mrs. Underhill was quite surprised with Delia's good sense, as she called it, and really she wasn't such a bad housekeeper for a girl with no training.
There was the funeral, with some of New York's oldest families. Afterward the will was read. Aunt Patty had made a new one on the death of her sister.
There was a small legacy to the niece who had married; a remembrance to several relatives and friends. The use of the house was to be Mrs. Whitney's while she lived; at her death to be sold and divided between her niece, Delia Whitney, and her grand-niece, Eleanora Whitney. And to Delia Whitney, if she took faithful care of her until her death, the sum of five thousand dollars in bank-stock.
She had taken faithful care of her, and would have done it out of the kindness of her heart without any reward.
"I thought it might be a thousand dollars," she said to Ben, "and I made up my mind if it should be that, we would take it and go abroad. I had some savings beside. When Bayard Taylor told us about his tour I felt sure we could do something like it. We would keep out of the expensive tourists' ways, and live cheaply, keeping house when we could. Oh, Ben, won't it be splendid!"
He thought it splendid to have her so generous, but he had some savings as well.
Five thousand dollars was considered quite a legacy in those days; and the bank-stock was worth a good deal more than its face.
Every one said they would be crazy to waste their money in such a frivolous manner.
"I don't mind if I shouldn't ever be rich," declared Ben. "I want a piece of the big world, with its knowledges and wonders. I shouldn't care to live there always, but it broadens one to see what other nations have done; what has made their greatness and what has contributed to their downfall. And the arts and sciences, the mysteries of the East and of Egypt. We are young yet as a country, and we have a right to gather up the riches of experience. I only hope we shall profit by it."
So they planned and planned. Delia looked over the old things, and sent Dolly and Hanny some antiquities of a century or more. Then she packed and boxed hers, for she knew her mother might deal them out to indifferent people. She thought it would be a good plan to hire out the house to some one who would board her mother and Theodore; and presently one of the married sisters, Mrs. Ferris, decided she would come. So then they could plan to go away; and Delia might write her novel while she was abroad.
Meanwhile the summer was slipping away like a dream. The great fair still attracted a large concourse. But September came in, and schools opened. Jim went back to regular study; Charles to the seminary. Hanny had some more schoolmates married. There was another baby at Margaret's; and it was so delightful to go down to Delia's and hear all the plans! Now that Hanny had learned so much at the Crystal Palace, she had quite a longing for churches and museums and art galleries. Herman Andersen had visited so many of them!
Sometimes Daisy Jasper went down with her. Mr. Andersen came for them in the evening. Delia he thought wonderfully bright and entertaining. Ben liked him amazingly.
"But if I had all that money," said Ben, "I wouldn't confine myself to such puttering stuff as silks and laces and India shawls; I should want to do something high up and fine, like a magazine or a paper, that had influence and scope. Some day I mean to own a share in a paper, where you have a chance to touch up public opinion."
Herman Andersen seemed very happy and content. Mr. Jasper said he was going to make a fine, reliable business man. He really felt he wouldn't object to him for a son.
Grandmother Van Kortlandt was growing more feeble, and now and then had a bad spell. Doctor Joe made light of it, and told her red lavender and aromatic hartshorn were good for old ladies. She seemed to want her daughter near her. The young man who had alarmed Mrs. Underhill did not come so frequently, so she began to feel quite safe.
Oh, what a happy, happy summer it had been! The little girl was used to her long frocks, and studied ways of doing her hair, and practised Mendelssohn's "Songs without Words" because some one had said they were the most beautiful things he had ever heard. She and Daisy and Mr. Andersen talked German, and had no end of fun.
One afternoon Mr. Andersen came in.
"Let us go up to the Crystal Palace," he said. "It is the most glorious afternoon imaginable. There is a sort of hazy red gold in the air, that exhilarates one. You feel as if you could soar to heaven's gate."
"We haven't been up in almost a fortnight," said Hanny, laughing.
"The more need of our going now. I enjoy these superb days to the full."
Hanny went to get her hat. Grandmother generally took her nap early in the afternoon. Mother was not in her own room, she saw, as she looked in, so she ran on down. She was not in the kitchen either.
"Joe," she cried—there was no one in the office, and he sat with his legs stretched out, and a book on the table beside him, looking very comfortable,—"Joe, where is mother?"
"Up with grandmother, dear. Don't disturb her. What did you want?"
"Oh, nothing—only to say—we are going up to the fair."
"Very well; run along. You look as sweet as a pink."
A bright color flashed over her face, and settled in her dimple, making it look like a rose as she smiled.
She was putting on her blossom-coloured lace mitts as she entered the room. Some one else thought she looked as sweet as a pink when he rose, and led the way.
She turned down the street.
"Oh, Daisy is not going," he said. "She had a headache all the morning. You don't mind?"
"Oh, no. Poor dear Daisy! And I didn't go in!" Her voice was touched with the sweetest regret and compassion.
Doctor Joe went upstairs presently, to grandmother.
"Her breathing is better," he said. "I have tried a new remedy. When she has had some sleep she will be all right. This isn't quite a normal state yet. Call me if there is any special change."
Then he went down to the office again. People came more in the morning or the evening, and he had attended to his urgent calls. He was glad not to go out just then. But he thought of the young people on their way to the palace of delight. Had he ever been young and joyous, as the youth of to-day? He had studied and worked, taught some, used up all his time, and had none for the passing vagaries. What made him feel old, and as if some of the rarest delights would pass him by?
There was a light tap at the office-door, though it stood ajar. He rose and opened it wider.
"Why, Daisy Jasper!" he cried in amazement. "Or is it your wraith? I thought you had gone to the fair with Hanny."
She had been very pale; now she flushed a little. There was a tremulousness about her, and shadows under her eyes.
"I had a headache all the morning; most of the night as well. It has gone off somewhat, but I didn't feel well enough for that."
"No, of course not." He led her to the pretty library, that was always having a picture or a set of books added. You couldn't put in any more easy-chairs. He placed her in one. As he touched her hand, he felt the feverish tremble.
"My dear child, what is it?"
Her eyes drooped, and tears beaded the lashes.
"You shouldn't have come out. Why did you not send for me?"
"I—I wanted to come. I knew Hanny would be gone. I wanted to see you." She was strangely embarrassed.
He was standing by the side of the chair and took her hand again. How limp and lifeless it seemed!
"I wanted to see you—to ask you, to tell you—oh, how shall I say it!—if you could help me a little. You are so wise, and can think of so many ways—and I am so afraid he loves me—it would not be right—"
Yes, that was it. This bright, charming, well-bred, fortunate young fellow loved her. He could keep her like a little queen. And she had some conscientious scruple about her health, and her trifling lameness, and all. A word from him would keep her where she was. He had carried her in his arms, his little ewe lamb. No man could ever give her the exquisite care that he would be able to bestow. Oh, could he let any one take her out of his life!
Yet some one younger and richer loved her. Yes, hemuststand aside.
"My child,"—he would be grave and fatherly,—"I think you are making yourself needless trouble. Why should you refuse a good man's love? You have your beauty, and a gift that is really a genius, and though you may not be as strong as some women, that is no reason why you should deny yourself the choicest blessing of a woman's life."
"But"—she gave a little sob—"I thought you might blame me for being heedless. We have all been such friends. And I don't want anything to mar the perfect pleasantness. I know it is not right because—how can I make you understand! It might wound you if I said it—I think it can never be that kind of love—"
Did he hear aright, or was it some subtle temptation?
"You, of all other women, should be careful not to make a mistake. It would mean more to you afterward—if matters went a little wrong."
"And he is so gay, so full of life and fun, and always wanting one to keep up to the highest pitch. It would not be the right thing for him."
"But he is very gentle as well."
"Dr. Underhill, tell me that it isn't the right step for me to take,ever," Daisy said decisively.
"I cannot tell you any such thing. I will not bar you out of any happiness."
Perhaps he really approved of it. They were all in a way proud of the younger brother. And Jim thought there was no such splendid man in the world as the doctor. Oh, if she only knew! She was heroic enough to please them all for the sake of the past and present friendship. But she had a doubt of Mrs. Underhill's approval. She might give in as she had to Delia; and now she had really begun to find virtues in Ben's wife. But with Jim's brilliant nature always on the alert for amusement, she, Daisy, would be worn out trying to keep up to his standard.
She rose slowly. "I ought not have come," she began in a despondent tone. "I thought I could talk it all over with you; but I must decide, and bear the pain. You may all feel hurt, even if you acknowledge the wisdom of my decision. It would be a delight to come and live with you all; I who have had no brothers or sisters. But I think Jim will soon get over it, especially ifyoupoint out the unwisdom of it all. Maybe you will take me back into favour then, when the soreness is spent."
"Jim," he repeated, in a vague, absent sort of way. "Jim! Who are you talking about, Daisy?"
Her face was scarlet, and her eyes full of tears.
"Your brother James. It is a shame, I know, to betray one man's inmost secrets to another. But I am quite sure that I ought not, that I cannot, marry him. Oh, will you all forgive me, and help him to forget all but the friendship?"
She took a step toward the door. The scarlet went out of her face, and she swayed as if her strength was all gone. He caught her, and put her back in the chair.
"Jim!" now in a tone of great surprise, and giving a little incredulous laugh. "Why, I thought it was Herman Andersen."
Joe's heart seemed suddenly to enlarge and fill his whole body. There was a ringing in his ears, as of joy-bells.
"Herman Andersen!" she said composedly. "Oh, have you all been blind? Why, he is in love with Hanny! He came back to America to win her, and he will if he serves seven years."
Doctor Joe looked at her in amaze. Ah, yes, they had been blind. They had fenced out young Peter Beckman, and opened the door wide to this unsuspected lover. And he knew as well as it Hanny had confessed it, that her heart had gone to meet his on the magic sea of love, and they would come into port no longer twain, but one.
He sat down on the broad arm of the chair. He could see Daisy's long agitated breaths quiver through her body; and she looked tired and spent. Poor little girl!
"No, I had never thought of Jim," he began gravely, "because he is so fond of girls; a general worshipper. Not but what he might be very true and devoted to one. He seems so young yet. Daisy,"—his voice fell,—"did he ask you—"
Her head drooped a little, and her shining curls hid her face.
"Oh, do believe that when I thought of it first I did try to evade, to—to laugh him out of it. That was a month ago. He kept saying little things I would not heed or seem to understand. It has been such a gay, happy summer for us all! And there was Charlie's engagement. Last evening mamma and papa had gone out to call on a friend, and we were quite alone—"
How much was volatile temperament and the love of pursuit, and how much the deeper regard? Let him do his young brother justice.
"Charlie is young, to be sure, but he is a very steady-minded fellow, and his mother's and Tudie's death brought them together in a very sympathetic manner. Then Charles is about certain of a good position. Jim has his fortune all to make. And you are right about some other qualities. Herman Andersen would be a much better companion for you. Jim is strong and energetic, full of life, and will always be among the busy bustling things, and deep in excitements. He would wear you out."
"And don't you see that when he is five or six and twenty he will need something better than an invalid wife, who might have to go to bed with a headache when he was giving an important dinner, or having a brilliant sort of evening with some stylish guests? He ought to have a wife something like Mrs. Hoffman, who would help him to the finest things of life. And though I seem well, I shall never be real strong; and I do not care for grand society. I like a good deal of quiet and ease, and just everyday living, a little painting when I feel inspired, a little reading and talks with friends, and old-fashioned music. I sometimes feel as if I was an old girl, and ought to have lived a century ago. Perhaps I shall make a queer, stuffy old woman. And—I ought not to marry."
"You shall not give up the divine right," he made answer, earnestly.
"Oh, I have a pretty face just now, and people, I find,doadmire beauty. But that will fade." Then she sprang up suddenly, parted her long ringlets, and stood with her back to him. "See," and her voice trembled, he knew there were tears in her eyes, "I have a little crook in my back, and one high shoulder. There has to be half an inch of cork in one boot-sole to keep me straight and from limping. No, I shouldn't do for a handsome young man like Jim, for I may grow lamer and crookeder as I grow older; nor for any man, although you try to comfort me with an almost divine compassion."
She was sobbing in his arms then. It was not the first time she had wept out her sorrow there.
He raised the golden head a little, and kissed down amid the passionate tears that were sweeping away a kind of regret that sometimes haunted her. He had kissed her often as a little child, but rarely since her return from abroad. Her girlhood had been a quality fine and rare and sacred to him.
"Except the one man who has always loved you from the poor little child in her pitiful pain and anguish, and the little girl who began to take courage and face the world, the larger girl who was brave and sunny-hearted, and looked out with hopeful eyes on the world that had so many blessings. And he knows now that no skill can ever shut out all suffering; but his sympathy and tender affection will help her through years that may be weary and sorrowful, and endure with her whatever burden comes, make her pathway easy and pleasant and restful."
"Oh, you must not," she cried, with a pang of renunciation. "Whatever applies to another man applies with double force to you. You are so noble, so tender; so worthy of what is best in life! And you have to carry so many burdens for other people that you must have some one brave and strong and full of energy and in perfect health—"
"The woman I love will be better than all this to me," he returned, with a sweetness in his voice that went to her very heart, and brought the tears to her eyes again. Then he dropped down in the great chair and took her gently in his arms, and he knew his case was as good as won.
"When you were a little girl you once said to Hanny if you could have a brother out of the clan you would like it to be me. And for days the quaint, generous little soul could hardly resolve whether it was not her duty to give me away. Then don't you remember you both planned to come and keep my bachelor-home? Some one else will take her. And we will wait, dear. We will go on in the same friendly, kindly fashion. You must run in and out and come to me with your headaches and perplexities, and I shall scold you a little and give you a bitter tonic; and when everything is just right I shall ask you to marry me; but all the time I shall be loving you so much that it will be impossible for you to refuse me. So you know what is in store, and no one need trouble about the future. You are not engaged, you are quite free; and, like Ben, I will wait seven years or twenty years for you. But I think you never can belong to any one else."
Ah, what delightful security!
"Dear, dear Doctor Joe. Oh, it would be too much happiness! No, I ought not; mamma thinks I ought not to marry. And," raising her head and showing a face full of scarlet flushes and tears, and eyes shining with love's own light, "it looks just as if I had come in here and really asked you to marry me. We have forgotten all about poor Jim. You will think me a coquette, and you ought to despise me."
His clasp tightened a little.
"I am sorry that Jim should have been so heedless. Perhaps it will be better to let him learn how much in earnest you are with your refusal. It may not be flattering to a young girl to think a man will forget her."
"But I want him to forget that part," she interrupted eagerly.
"I think he will. And if he comes to me for comfort, I will try to be a wise father-confessor. And yet I can't help pitying the man a little who will lose you. Only in this case it would be like having an exotic without a conservatory, and not quite knowing how to build one."
"Joseph!" his mother called from upstairs.
Daisy sprang up and smoothed her ruffled plumes, Joe gave her one long, dear kiss, and she flashed out of the little room.
She held her head very high. It was the most splendid thing that could happen to a girl; but she was not going to spoil her dear Doctor Joe's life.
Are there days that the Lord of all the earth has created for love? Some days seem made especially for sorrow. But this had such an exquisite serenity brooding in the air. It was not late enough to have any regrets for the passing of summer, and oh, what a summer it had been!
"Do you really want to go up to the fair?" Herman Andersen had asked, when they reached the corner.
"Why,—" Hanny hesitated,—"we have seen it a good many times," and she gave her soft, rippling laugh.
"Let us go over to Tompkin's Square." He had something to say to her that would be easier said in those deserted walks. You could always find them except on Saturday or Sunday.
"Very well," with her graceful assent.
The birds, done with their summer housekeeping and child-rearing, had time to sing again. But it was all low, plaintive songs, as if they said: "We must go away from the place in which we have been so happy. Will we be sure to come another spring?" Now and then a branch stirred. The grass had been cut for the last time, and there were sweet little winrows that filled the air with fragrance. He was quiet, for he liked to hear her enchanting talk. It had turned upon when she was a little girl, and how queer things were! It didn't seem as if everything could change so. And what a great gay time they had at the Beekmans' when Stephen was married! So they walked around, and were at an entrance. A cabman put down a woman and some children just as Mr. Andersen had said, "We were going up there some day, you know; we ought to go before everything has faded."
"Yes," she made answer.
"See here, we might get this cab and go up now"—looking up with eager inquiry.
Dickens had not created Mr. Wemmick with his delightful off-hand premeditated happenings; but other people had them even then.
She made no demur, but assented with her innocent eyes full of exquisite sweetness.
He helped her in and sat along side of her. He had all kinds of young lover-like thoughts, and really he so seldom had her alone. He wanted to snatch up the hand and kiss it. It made such a tempting background for the lace mitt. No one but old ladies wore gloves, except on very fine occasions. And her slim little fingers, with their pink nails, were so pretty! If he could even hold her hand!
But they jolted over rough streets, through little clumps of Irish villages, and laughed over the pigs, and geese, and children. Then wastes again, with long, straight lines where streets were to be.
"That is the house over there," she said.
"I wonder if you could walk back? Or shall I keep the cab?"
"Oh, no. It is so delightful to walk!"
Ah, how the hand of improvement had disfigured everything! leaving ugly, square, naked blocks, with here and there a house, then a space where the trees were still standing; but the children despoiled the lilacs and dogwood in the spring, and thrashed the lindens and black walnuts all the later summer, until the poor things had a weary, drooping aspect. Over here was the great garden, and a street ran through it. The old house was shabby, and needed painting; and most of the vines had been cut away. The steps were broken. Several families inhabited it now. The cousin had thrown it up in disgust.
But the young man saw it through her eyes, glorified with the glamour of childhood. Slim young Dolly, Aunt Gitty netting, the ladies in rocking-chairs with their sewing under the trees, Mr. Beckman and Katschina, and the tea on little tables; and the boys she was afraid of.
"They were such pudgy little boys," she says, with a laugh in which there is only a remembered mirth. "They were like some of Irving's descriptions. You wouldn't expect them to grow up into such fine-looking men, now, would you? I think Peter is almost handsome."
It gives him a little twinge. He was jealous of Peter awhile ago; but he admits bravely that Peter is very good-looking.
And here are some poor willows. Oh, the lovely shrubbery that is neglected and dying!
"After all, itisthe people who give the charm to places,—the loving care, the home delight. But no one could keep it up. Property gets too valuable, and taxation is too high; and there are so many poorer people who must have homes."
These sententious bits of wisdom he considers utterly charming. She has caught them from John.
Then they sit down on a great stone and rest, though she protests she is not tired. She can walk for hours.
Now he ought to tell her all that is in his heart. If the world stands thousands of years there will never be such a golden opportunity again. She breaks off a bit of yarrow and sticks it in her belt. How beautifully the lashes droop over her eyes, deepening and softening the tint, until it looks like a glint of heaven!
"Oh, we ought to go on," she says presently; and with a dainty smile and motion, she rises. Ah, if she knew what he is wild to utter!
They turn their steps homeward. A wood-robin in a thicket sings, "Sweet, sweet, I love you, I l-o-v-e you," with a maddening, lingering cadence.
Why is he not as brave as the bird? Are there any choicer, more exquisite words in which to say it?
They come to a little stream. "Oh, just down here is Kissing Bridge," she says, with a kind of girlish gleefulness.
She had made her father tell the old Dutch story one evening, when they were all sitting on the stoop. And as they go on, she, with a sort of eager, heedless step, as if she was not walking on his heart, tells about Stephen, and how he jumped out of the carriage and gathered a great bunch of roses for her. They have reached the spot. The stream has shrunken. You could step over it.
"They were just there." She indicates the spot with a pretty gesture of her head. "But there are no wild-roses now;" and a soft sigh escapes her, as she turns to him, and their eyes meet.
"Are there none?" he asks, his eyes drinking in the sudden radiance. For if ever dainty, delicate, ethereal wild-roses bloomed, they are in her cheeks; and oh, what are her scarlet lips that have meant to answer, and are mysteriously tranfixed with the rarest sweetness!
He kisses her—once, a dozen times. There is no one near. They own the city,—the whole world, for love is Lord of all.
He slips her hand in his arm. Its tremble thrills every nerve in his body. He experiences the overwhelming joy of possessorship, for sheishis.
"My darling little Nan;" and his voice is unsteady with emotion.
He has rechristened Baby Stevie's pet name; but it has never sounded so enchanting before.
Then they walk on in delicious silence. Another bird sings in a drowsy afternoon tone,—
"Sweet, sweet, I love you, I l-o-v-e you."
They glance at each other, and both translate it. Her cheeks are redder than wild-roses now; and her dimple holds the sweetness of a great mystery. They both smile, and he kisses her again. Why not? There is no one about.
"My darling, can you guess when I first began to love you?" He wants her to know all the story. It seems as if his whole life will not be long enough to get it told and he must begin at once.
"When?" There is a startled sound in her voice, as if she was amazed that love had a beginning.
"That night in the dance,—the Spanish dance. We will go somewhere this winter and dance it over again; and the music beats will say—'I love you.'"
"Oh, so long ago?" she exclaims.
"Yes; and I have a visiting-card of yours." He hunts in his card-case. "Here it is—'Miss Nan Underhill.' I've kissed it thousands of times. I have almost worn it out. And when I went home I told my father about the little girl in New York that I must come back and win."
"Oh, did you!" She is touched by the revelation.
"He is a delightful father. Some time I must take you over to see him, or he may come here. But he had promised that I should go to Ebberfeld; and so I did. The aunt had proposed the match."
"And your poor cousin!" Her voice is full of such infinite pity that he gives the little hand a tender pressure for thanks.
"I couldn't have loved her anyhow. She seems older than I; and I am a very boy in heart. Then she was too large. I like little women."
"I am so glad," she cries, with unaffected joy, "for I am small; and I never can grow any larger. But I don't mind now."
"So when my father found how much in earnest I was, he planned the business change. It was my own mother's money, you know. But he has been a good father to me, and I am glad he has some other children. I was to go to Paris."
That seems so magnificent she is almost conscience smitten.
Ah, how much there is to say!
"But you will get tired with all this long walk," he exclaims anxiously. Oh, blessed thought! he will have the right to keep her rested and happy, and in a realm of joy.
"Oh, no," she returns. "Why, the walk has not seemed long." The surprise in her voice is enchanting.
Is any walk ever too long for love? Is any day too long,—even all of life?
The crickets and peeps come out; a locust drones his slow tune. The sun has dropped down. Well, they are in an enchanted country that needs no sun but that of love. And if they walked all night they could not say all that has been brought to light by the mighty touch that wakes human souls.
At home grandmother's difficult breathing has returned, and they have had a troubled hour. But now she is all right, except that she will be weaker to-morrow. Mrs. Underhill goes downstairs and bustles about the supper as a relief from the strain. She makes a slice of delicately-browned toast. Joe comes rushing in.
"I'm sorry, but the servant at the Dentons has cut her hand badly. Don't wait supper for me," he exclaims.
"Jim has not come in, and no one can tell when those children will be back. If the fair should keep open three months longer every one will be dead with fatigue. Yes, we'll wait. I am going to take some toast up to mother."
"The children!" Doctor Joe has a strange, guilty sort of feeling. What if to-night should bring her a new son, as some future night will bring her a new daughter?
Father Underhill sits on the front stoop reading his paper. He glances up now and then. When he espies a small figure in soft gray with a wide-brimmed leghorn hat, and a young man, he studies them more attentively. What is this? She has the young man's arm,—that has gone out of date for engaged people,—and her head inclines toward him. She glances up and smiles.
And then a great pang rends the father's soul. They come nearer, and she smiles to him; but, oh! there is a light in her face, a gladness shining in her eyes, a tremulous sweetness about the mouth. Did he read all this in her mother's face years and years ago? Didhermother have this awful pang that seems to wrench body and soul asunder?
They say good-evening and that it has been a glorious afternoon. The young man will lose no time,—hasn't he been dangling three months already?
"Mr. Underhill, may I see you a moment?"
How brave and sweet and assured the voice is! And he helps the little girl up the steps, through the hall space, and the three stand in the parlour, where the young man prefers his request with such a daring that the elder man is almost dazed. Then the father holds out his arms as if he was grasping for something lost. She comes to them, and her head is on his breast, her hands reaching up to clasp him about the neck.
"And this little girl, too!"
His voice is broken, his face goes down to hers. The sweetest thing of his life,—how can he give her up?
"Oh, father, father!" The cry is so entreating, so piteous, and he feels the tears on her sweet face. "Oh, father, can I not love you both?"
She loosens one hand and holds it out to the young man. He feels the motion, and accepts the fact that her heart is divided. She draws her lover in the circle. "You will love him for my sake."
Alas! alas! she is his little girl no longer. She is another man's sweetheart, and will one day be his wife. It is the fashion in this world; it has God's favor and sanction.