A Little Girl of Long Ago 11 – Douglas · Verses Across
Literature · Historical Fiction
A Little Girl of Long Ago 11The King of Terrors
18
Literature · Historical Fiction
A Little Girl of Long Ago 11
The King of Terrors
DouglasEnglish
They all admitted that Hanny had improved a good deal. She seemed to have grown every way. Her mother was sure she must let her skirts down; and her last winter's frocks were too tight about the shoulders, and too short in the sleeves. She had absolutely gained five pounds, and her little face had rounded out. But still she was smaller than most girls of her age.
She had so much to talk about that her mother said she was a regular little gossip. Her father liked to hear about grandmother and the kindly, large-hearted Major. She had found out that when grandmother was a young girl her name was Hannah Underhill, now it was Horton. So many elderly people had been visiting at Fordham, and her father knew most of them. But Ben and Doctor Joe were interested in the poet Poe; Joe knew more about him than he confessed to his little sister.
Oh, how glad she was to get back to school! There were so many things to learn. But Dolly had to have her one Saturday; and Mrs. French came over and took her to the house Beautiful. Ben was quite in love with Mrs. French. And now they were filling up the conservatory for winter blooming; and Hanny wished they could have some house-flowers. Her mother had hydrangeas and an oleander; but they were put in the end of the stable for winter.
Now and then she went up to Margaret's to stay all night. Daisy was growing to be almost as lovely as Stevie had been; and though she did not suggest Daisy Jasper, the name always recalled her dear friend. And Stevie was quite a big boy. He was getting some rough ways, too, and wanted to drive Hanny about for a horse, just as he did papa. Great-grandmother Van Kortland had knit him some beautiful horse-lines.
And Annie was such a sweet little thing! Stevie wished she was a little brother, "'tause dirls ain't no dood," he said. "You'm dot to be so tareful." He talked quite crooked, and could not pronounce "g" at all. He said "umbebella" and "peaapoket" and "tea-tettletel." Philadelphia always floored him. But then he had been Hanny's first love, and she could never forget the Christmas morning when he came.
There had been another exciting matter as well, and this was a presidential election. Zachary Taylor, Old Rough and Ready, as he was called, had become a great hero to her. She found that he had served gallantly in the War of 1812, fought against the mighty Tecumseh, and been in the Black Hawk War, beside all the late Mexican engagements, where he had so distinguished himself. At the nomination, she had been a little sorry to have her old favourite Harry Clay superseded, and General Scott was a war-veteran as well. Then there had been famous Daniel Webster, whose speeches were the favourite of school-boys, though they had not banished Patrick Henry. But the real race was between Cass, Van Buren, Charles Francis Adams and himself; and Old Rough and Ready won. She wore a rough-and-ready straw bonnet this fall; all the girls did.
Margaret agitated the school question again. Hanny ought to be making some useful friends, and though the "First Avenue and First Street girls might be very nice--"
"Nonsense!" exclaimed Mrs. Underhill. "She's too little to be sent so far off. And I don't want any lovers put in her head this many a year."
Margaret was getting to be rather aristocratic. She kept her whole house now, and had a maid-servant beside the coloured "boy." Some stylish people were building up-town. Dr. Hoffman had a good many friends, and he was very proud of his handsome wife. But Mrs. Underhill sometimes said, in the bosom of her family, that Margaret "put on airs."
Hanny was well satisfied, and found a great many things to learn at Mrs. Craven's.
Then Mr. Theodore Whitney came home, and published a book of travel letters. And another young man, one Bayard Taylor, had been abroad and seen all of Europe with knapsack and staff, and had published his "Views Afoot." Ben was so interested. He often stopped at the Whitneys for supper and a talk.
Nora grew like a weed, and developed a good deal of musical ability. They had a steady servant now; and Mrs. Whitney was more "intellectual" than ever, and beginning to be proud of Delia's stories. She was generally paid for them; although young writers of that day were satisfied with the chance of being heard of, and read. She was getting quite a library together, and had her corner of the back parlour, which Mr. Theodore took possession of at once. He had brought home some fine engravings and studies, and half-a-dozen different "Virgins." The aspect of the rooms changed altogether. Delia began to cultivate quite a "circle."
She and Ben were splendid comrades. She had plans for going abroad also; and he entered into them with great zeal. She "didn't suppose she could pay her way like The.; but she was saving up her money for that object." Aunt Clem was real good to her; and when her quarterly allowance was paid she often dropped five dollars into Dele's bank.
"I don't know how much there is, and I am not going to open it under two years. Of course a woman couldn't take matters as Bayard Taylor did; but if she was economical and found cheap places! I do wonder if she could go alone?"
Tourists' parties had not been invented, though men occasionally clubbed together and obtained accommodations more cheaply.
"Two years," returned Ben, musingly.
Dele was certainly growing prettier. Her hair wasn't even Titian colour now, but a decided bright brown, and the curly roughness seemed just to suit her. Then the freckles were disappearing. He didn't know as freckles spoiled any one's complexion when it had that peachy softness and the kind of creamy look. If her mouth was wide, it had some pretty curves, and her teeth were beautiful. A Grecian nose would take all the piquancy out of her face.
"It may be a little more than two years," considered Delia, "and The. may start off again. Oh, I'm pretty sure to go some time!"
"I've quite made up my mind to go some time," Ben announced gravely, then laughed.
"It would be such fun to go together," said Dele, in her harum-scarum fashion, without a thought of any future contingency. "I'll try to make The. wait until I get rich enough."
Ben went home thinking what rare fun it would be to travel with some one who saw the comical side of everything, and who could extract pleasure straight along, as a bee could gather up honey. He enjoyed the fun mightily, but he could not always bring it to pass. Joe and Jim had a humourous side; but John had always been grave and steady-going. Ben wanted some one to stir up the spirit of fun, and then he did his best to keep it going. But he always had so much of the past seething in his brain. The world had such a wonderful history! He was almost afraid that now, when there was no war on hand, only Indian skirmishes, it would grow common-place. There were no breathless romances about it, as there were about Europe and Asia, where such conquerors as Tamerlane, Genghis Khan, Alexander and Philip and Attila, Charlemagne and Napoleon had stalked across the world as it was known then. Not that Ben had any soldierly ambitions, but to youth everyday plodding along seems unheroic.
The pleasant neighbourhood-life went on, though it must be confessed that Hanny often longed for Daisy Jasper. Mr. Jasper had returned; and the plan was now that the others might stay abroad two or three years. Daisy had improved wonderfully at the baths. They would spend the winter at Naples, and go back to Germany in the summer. Daisy was taking lessons in music and painting and Italian.
She wrote about herself to Hanny. She only practised an hour a day, and could stand it very well. Everything was so queer and foreign, though often very beautiful. But the operas were enchanting beyond description.
"I want to learn to play a little for myself," she wrote. "And I find I have quite a good voice. I don't want to drop behind you all, and have you ashamed of me when I come back, for I couldn't spend a whole lifetime here, unless I had you, Hanny, and dear Doctor Joe. Tell me everything about everybody."
Hanny was always two or three days answering the letters. There were new girls in school to talk about, and the many things the others were doing. Charles and Jim were at the Deans so much; Mr. Dean was so interested in them, and Mrs. Dean made it so pleasant! Mrs. Reed was induced to come over now and then. She had softened considerably; but she had never regained her strength, and sometimes she felt quite useless, she declared to Mr. Reed. But he thought they had never been so happy or comfortable.
That left Hanny quite alone. Josie seemed such a very large girl, and she classed Hanny and Tudie as "the children." Tudie was a good deal engrossed with her first large piece of worsted work. Not that Hanny was lonely! She read to her father when lessons were done, or he came upstairs to hear her play. She was learning some of the old-fashioned songs that he had loved in his youth, though I think sometimes he leaned his head against the high back of his chair and went sound asleep.
Everybody was always wanting her; and her mother said she was a sad little gad-about. Even John's wife insisted upon a share of her. Cleanthe wasn't bright and full of fun like Dolly, but she was very fond of the little girl, and both she and John considered it a great treat to have her come in to tea.
There was a grand time when Zachary Taylor was inaugurated. Stephen and Dolly and the Doctor and Margaret went on to Washington with many others. They were fain to take Hanny.
"Such a crowd is no place for children," said Mrs. Underhill. "There'll be presidents likely, if the world should stand, and she'll have chances to go when the journey will do her more good."
Ben went with Mr. Whitney. And at the eleventh hour, Theodore gave in and said Delia might go, and she needn't rob her bank either.
Oh, what a splendid time they had! Washington has changed wonderfully since then; but the White House and some of the government buildings are just the same. Ben was a little startled at the splendour. Mr. Theodore was much engrossed with some friends, so Ben and Delia rambled about, lost themselves, and came to light in out-of-the-way places, hunted up famous spots, and rehearsed old-time stories of brave men and notable women. The sail down the Potomac was delightful. There was Alexandria and Mount Vernon and Richmond, all of which were to become a hundred times more famous in the course of a few years. Ben went over this youthful trip, so full of delight, many a time when, as a soldier, he slept under the stars, not knowing what the morrow would bring.
They were just a big boy and girl, in search of fun and knowledge, and they found plenty of both. Ben made up his mind that, when he did go abroad, Delia certainly should be his companion.
Margaret and her husband went to Baltimore at once, as they were not partial to crowds; and Dolly felt that she must get back to the children. But Mr. Theodore had some business on hand, so the young people had their holiday lengthened.
Still the season in New York had been a rather brilliant one, with various noted singers. An opera troupe from Havana had been giving some famous operas; and Hanny was delighted to hear "La Somnambula," because now she could compare notes with Daisy Jasper.
And in May, the famous rivalry between two leading theatres, that culminated in a great riot, occurred. Edwin Forrest, the great tragedian of that day, and many a year later, and Macready, a celebrated English actor, seemed almost pitted against each other in the same play, Hamlet. A certain party coming into existence had taken for its watchword Americanism of a rather narrow sort, and was protesting against all foreign influence. Macready had played, and then gone to fulfil another engagement, but was to return and play again. Some of the hot heads decided he should not; and though all precautions were taken, the feeling was that the better sense of the community would prevent any absolute disturbance. But the mob had grown larger and stronger in their narrow prejudice, and, before the play was half through, an onslaught was made on the opera-house. The rioters were in such force that the famous Seventh Regiment had to be called out. It was a night of terror and tragedy, and the whole city was wild with alarm. So serious did it become, that it was not quelled without bloodshed; and for days the whole city seemed amazed that such a thing could have happened.
But before the surprise and regret had died away, a sudden sound of alarm ran through the city, in curiously muffled tones that blanched the bravest faces,--a visitant, then feared beyond measure, that science had not been able to cope with. People spoke of it with bated breath. It was not simply among the poor and destitute, or those indifferent to cleanliness and order, but it spread everywhere,--the dreaded, mysterious cholera.
The older people remembered the scourge of almost twenty years before, and many of them prepared to fly to places of safety. The plague spot of the city was then the old Five Points, where the lowest and poorest, beggars and thieves, and sometimes murderers, had crowded in until it was a nest to be shunned and feared. Through this tract the plague swept like wildfire.
Margaret had accepted the urgent invitation of the cousins at Tarrytown, and gone thither with her baby, insisting also upon taking her little sister. Father Underhill was glad to have her out of danger, and was fain to persuade his wife to follow.
"No," she said stoutly; "Joe must remain; and you and Stephen cannot run away from business. With Margaret and Hanny safe, I shall stay to keep watch over the rest of you. I may be needed."
Dolly had taken her two children up to her sisters', who lived on the Hudson near Fort Washington. Stephen could drive up every day or two with news of everybody.
It did not seem at all alarming up at the Morgan's rural home. True, Cousin Famie was aging fast, and had grown more feeble than her years really warranted. Mrs. Eustis was quite the head of the house, and very bright and chatty, with a rather romantic turn of mind, just as fond of reading as some of the younger folks.
And it seemed to them as if the world was quite full of famous people then. For beside Cooper and Irving, there were Prescott's splendid histories, that were full of romance. And for story-writers, Miss Leslie, who was entertaining magazine-readers, and Miss Sedgwick and Lydia Maria Child. Then there was Hanny's favourite Mrs. Osgood, Alice Carey, and Mrs. Welby coming into notice, and Longfellow, Hawthorne and Emerson. The Doctor brought them up the new magazines, and said everybody kept well. Ben came up and stayed a week, and added to their stock of books.
They went down to Sleepy Hollow, though it had not become so famous for pilgrimages. Mr. Irving had come home from Madrid, and friends dropped in upon him. He always had a delightful welcome for them. They used to sit out on the old porch and talk; or, when there were no guests, his two nieces and some of his brothers' kept him company.
Ben summoned up courage and went down to see the charming man, beloved of so many friends, taking his little sister with him. What a delightful hour it was! Hanny was too shy to talk much, although she had been so brave on the poet's old stoop at Fordham. Perhaps, really, there was no opportunity, Ben kept the floor so entirely. They went in and looked at the drawings from Rip Van Winkle and Ichabod Crane and Katrina. But she still loved the old history that had charmed her so at first, and she would have given him her child's adoration freely, if he had written nothing else.
Ben had already seen a number of notable people. They often came in at the Harpers'. He used to talk them over with Delia; and he thought now what a fascinating story he should have to tell her.
The next day they went over to see grandmother and Uncle David. Jim was up making a visit. His mother preferred to have him out of danger. He and Ben were to go down to Yonkers; and though they were loth to spare the little girl, she went back to Tarrytown.
It was October before the Doctor would let Margaret return to the city. Daisy had grown so much, and was talking in a cunning, broken fashion. Mrs. Underhill had made two brief visits; and though she seemed rather nervous for her, she declared, "She had been very well all summer, and that they had a great deal to be thankful for. She couldn't have left father and the boys."
She had never been so demonstrative to Hanny, much as she had loved her. She kept one arm around her, and could hardly bear her out of her sight.
"Had she been content, and not made any trouble, and waited upon Cousin Famie, and helped all she could? She was such a large girl now, and ought to be useful."
Hanny smiled, and kissed her mother, and said: "She had tried to do her best. And she had been very, very happy."
"Cousin Margaret, I do wonder if you appreciate that child," said Roseann, when Hanny had gone out on the porch to have a romp with little Daisy. "She's such a smart little thing, and not a bit set up about it. I've been clear beat to see how she understands books, and people, too. And she's so industrious and pleasant-tempered. She makes me think of Grandmother Underhill and Aunt Eunice. I do hope you'll be able to keep her. It's a providential mercy she hasn't been in the city all summer. The cholera has been just awful! I don't see how you had the courage to stay."
"My sons were there." The tears came to Mrs. Underhill's eyes. "And though they were spared, they often needed me. No one really can know what it was, unless they have been through it. Joe came home one night so worn out that he stayed in bed all the next day. I just prayed every moment; I felt as if I'd never prayed before. And there was all of John's trouble. Yes; many a one has been called upon to part with their nearest and dearest."
John Underhill's wife had lost both father and mother, within twenty-four hours of each other. Then Cleanthe's little baby had been born dead; and they had to move her to Mother Underhill's, more dead than alive; but good care had at last restored her. The old Archer cousins in Henry Street had gone; and many another among friends and relatives.
They did not tell Hanny until she came home who had gone out of the neighbourhood. Mrs. Reed had been among the first. She was getting ready to go away with Charles, when the summons came. But the greatest sorrow of all to her was the loss of Tudie Dean. She had been rather drooping for several days; and one night Doctor Joe had been summoned, but in vain. Two of the prettiest of the little Jewish children who had come to the Whitney house were buried on the same day.
Cleanthe was still at home, as she called her mother-in-law's house. She was very pale and wan, and just hugged Hanny to her heart, and cried over her.
Charlie Reed sorrowed deeply for his mother.
"I don't just know how it came about," he said tremulously; "but we were getting to be such friends; she took such a real interest in my studies; and she seemed to want father to be happy in the things he liked. He's most broken-hearted over it; and the house seems dreadful! Cousin Jane advises father to break up and board; I think she's kind of nervous, and wants a change. Oh, what a terrible time it has been; I am glad you were away. And poor little Tudie Dean!"
They both cried over her. And when she went in to see Josie, she was almost heart-broken; for Josie looked so strange and grown-up, and was so grave.
Mrs. Dean pressed her to her heart.
"Thank God, my little dear," she exclaimed, "that your mother hasn't to sorrow over any loss. Your brother has been heroic; and there was one time when we were all afraid. He was so dead-tired that I know he couldn't have lived if it had been cholera. The doctors were all heroes; and many of them have given their lives."
Yet the world went on, over the thousands who had dropped out of it. Business resumed its sway; even amusements started up. But there were many sad households.
And though the Underhills had not taken Cleanthe to their hearts with quite the fervor Dolly had awakened, they loved her very tenderly now; and she seemed to slip in among them with a new and closer bond.
There would be a good deal of business to settle. John thought it better to look about for a new partner. Mr. Bradley had left quite a fortune for the times. He had been investing in up-town property, and John thought it would be wise to build, and sell or rent as his wife desired. The old home was dismantled, the best of the furniture stored for further use.
He tried to persuade his father to go farther up-town. Joe was also a factor in this matter.
For though the cholera had spared Dr. Fitch, the infirmities of age and hard work had overtaken him. A nephew who had recently graduated, and had the prestige of the same name, was anxious to take the practice. Joe felt as if circumstances were shaping a change for him; and he was ready now to take up a life of his own.
Then the Deans sold, and were to go up a little farther. Sometime, and before many years, there would be street-cars, instead of the slow, awkward stages, and people could get to and fro more rapidly. The trend was unmistakably up-town.
Mr. Reed hired out his house furnished, and went over to the Deans to board.
It seemed to Hanny that no one was quite the same. Nora Whitney was almost a head taller than Hanny, and was getting to be a very stylish girl. Her voice was considered promising, and was being cultivated. But poor old Pussy Gray had rounded out his life, and slept under a great white rosebush at the end of the yard. Mrs. Whitney's hair was nearly all white, and she was a very pretty woman. Mr. Theodore was showing silver in both hair and beard; but Delia changed very little. Aunt Clem went on living in her serene and cheerful fashion.
And then the bells rang out for the mid-century, 1850! How wonderful it seemed.
"I wonder if any one of us will live to nineteen hundred," questioned Hanny, with a strange thrill of awe in her voice.
"I don't suppose I will," replied her father; "but some of you may. Why, even Stephen wouldn't be much above eighty; and you'll be a little past sixty!" He laughed with a mellow, amused sound. "And all you young people of to-day will be telling your grandchildren how New York looked at the half-century mark. Well, it has made rapid strides since eighteen hundred. I sometimes wonder what there is to happen next. We have steam on land and water. We have discovered Eldorado, and invented the telegraph; and there are people figuring on laying one across the ocean. That may come in your day."
"And a sewing-machine," added the little girl, smilingly.
The sewing-machine was attracting a good deal of attention now, and making itself a useful factor.
But to live to see nineteen hundred! That would be like discovering the fountain of perpetual youth.
