A Little Girl of Long Ago 16 – Douglas · Verses Across
Literature · Historical Fiction
A Little Girl of Long Ago 16Counting Up the Cost
18
Literature · Historical Fiction
A Little Girl of Long Ago 16
Counting Up the Cost
DouglasEnglish
Jim failed miserably. What was the matter? He couldn't seem to remember the simplest thing. Did it make any difference to him whom she married? Well--if it had been Weir; but that imperious, pretentious, half-dissipated Williamson, who report said had run though with one fortune, and two years ago had fallen heir to another! Why were some people so lucky! Grandmother Van Kortlandt had some money; but Hanny was named for her, and Joe was a great favourite. Then Jim flushed hotly. The idea of counting on any one's money!
Still he had a boyish, chivalric idea that he would like to snatch Lily from this awful peril, as it seemed to him. Could it be really true? The older men said Williamson was a braggart. There might be no truth in it. He would ask Lily.
Several days passed before Jim achieved his desire. Then, as he loitered around one afternoon, he saw Williamson leave the house. After a few moments he knocked.
"Miss Lily is indisposed, and cannot see any one," announced the maid.
"She will see me," returned Jim, with an air of dignity; and he walked into the parlour that had an atmosphere of twilight, quite determined to remain until she came down.
She seemed in no hurry, and Jim's temper began to loose its serenity. The maid came and lighted the gas jet in the hall. Then there was a rustle of silken garments on the stair.
"Oh, Jim dear," the entreating voice said, "I've had such a horrid headache all the afternoon. I've been in the bed. I really did not feel fit to see any one," with a languid, indifferent air.
And Williamson had just gone away!
"So you will excuse me, if I'm stupid--"
"Is the story true about your--your engagement?" asked the young fellow, abruptly.
"My engagement? Well, I've had an offer of marriage,--two of them. Wouldn't you advise me to take the best one?" rather archly.
The tone rang flippantly. Jim felt she was evading.
"You see I can't be young always. And Aunt Nicoll may go without a moment's warning. She had a bad spell yesterday; and she does get in such horrid tantrums! Mother is awfully tired of staying with her. And most girls get married--those who have a chance." She ended with a forced little laugh.
"Is it Williamson? You don't know the sort of man he is," and Jim's voice was husky with emotion.
"Oh, everybody gets talked about sooner or later! He has been rather wild; but he wants to settle down now. And I'm not a sentimental girl. Yes, I do think I'll take him," hesitatingly.
"Lily!"
"Oh, Jim, you are very young and inexperienced! If you were ten years older, there wouldn't be a man on the whole earth I'd marry as soon. But you know I said we could only be friends; and I hope you haven't been cherishing any silly romances about me," tossing her head coquettishly. "I shall always like you, and I want us to keep friends. But you can't understand all the reasons. Some girls might drag you into an engagement, and waste all your young years; but I could not be so mean to any friend I cared about. We have settled all this matter."
Her tone took on a rather sharp business accent. It was almost curt.
Yes, it had been settled. Yet she had demanded a lover-like devotion, and allowed him to speculate on what might have been if she were rich or he older. And though Jim's sturdy common-sense had kept him from going very deep, he felt wretched and jealous that any other man should have the supreme right; and yet he had a conviction that the friendship or flirtation ought to end.
"He thinks you are Mrs. Nicoll's heiress."
She gave a light laugh. "Oh, that will do to talk about; and she may leave me a little. If I was her heiress--"
The glance roused Jim's anger. He rose suddenly.
"I hope you love Williamson," he said, in a tone that he meant to sound bitterly cutting. "A girl who sells herself for money to such a man--"
"Nonsense, Jim!" She rose also. "You'll find most of the world will consider it a good marriage; and anyhow, I have to look out for myself. It's too bad to break up the pleasant times we've had this winter; but you must not be angry. You will understand it better presently. I wouldn't let you go off in this way if I hadn't such a wretched headache; but you will come in again."
Jim said good-evening with superb dignity. What a stylish fellow he was. Of course he felt a little "huffy" now; but next winter, when she had a home of her own, she would give attractive parties, and invite Jim among the very first. By that time he would be over his boyish folly. And now, what must she wear to the theatre to-night? She must look her prettiest. Her wretched headache was gone.
James Underhill felt as he had sometimes in the old school days, that he had been duped. He was angry with her, with himself. He had brought his friends to the house; and he knew Weir was really in love with her, yet she had laughed daintily about some of his peculiarities. What if she had laughed with Gaynor about him? She did satirise people. It was strange how many faults he saw in her! Yet he did hate to have her marry Williamson.
He heard of her being at the theatre that evening with an array of diamonds, which young girls seldom wore. In a week or so the marriage was discussed with a little wonder. Mrs. Nicoll was one of the old New Yorkers, a Ludlow herself. It was fortunate for Lily's prestige that her plain, unambitious father was dead, and her mother kept well in the background. No one quite knew about the fortune.
Richard Weir was certainly hard hit. He made a pretence of devoting himself to his studies to keep away from Gaynor's raillery. But one day he said to Jim,--
"Something ought to be done to save Miss Ludlow from such an awful sacrifice; don't you think so, Underhill? That old aunt has egged her on, and she's doing this for her mother's sake. If I was in a position to marry, I know I could persuade her to throw it up. What shall I do, Jim? I know she really loves me. She is heroic about it. She thinks it would spoil my life in the very beginning. I don't know how father would take it; and there's such a family of us to provide for."
"Let her alone," returned Jim, gruffly. So she had played with this honest-hearted young fellow as well; and the saddest of all was that he really believed in her.
"She will marry Williamson, no matter what comes. Weir, I'm sorry enough I introduced you, if you are going to take it that way. Lily Ludlow is a flirt, pure and simple. I've never believed it until now. There is no use in our wasting our sympathies upon her."
"You don't half do her justice, Jim; if you could hear her side--"
"I have heard it," laconically. "Weir, I'm awful sorry," and he wrung the young fellow's hand.
There was another aspect to Jim beside the mortification. He had dropped behind in his standing. Late hours and planning all sorts of amusements had distracted his attention. And there was another fact to face. He had been spending money with a lavishness that he wondered at now. He had borrowed of Weir, of Gaynor, of Ben. When he counted up the total he was dismayed. His father had been generous. They had all been very proud of him. How could he confess the miserable fiasco to any one? Perhaps, after he had taken his degree--
But he had to study hard for that. No more frolicking about! He had a good deal of resolution, when it was put to the test. He would ask sober-going Ben to lend him a hundred dollars, which he would pay back by degrees. No girl should ever win a smile out of him again. He would never borrow when he was once out of this difficulty.
He knew Dick Weir really needed his money, and this emboldened him to apply to Ben. Alas!
"I'd do it in a minute Jim; but I've been trying a sort of experiment. I had a chance to buy some capital stock, five hundred dollars' worth, and I just scraped up everything I had, and borrowed, so I'm behind, and must catch up. You've been pretty gay, haven't you, Jim?"
"I have been an idiot," replied Jim, sturdily. "But I have learned a lesson."
"You just go to Joe. He's the best fellow in all the world. Don't worry father about it; he takes such pride in his young collegian," and Ben smiled with generous kindliness upon his younger brother.
That was the best thing certainly; yet it was days before Jim could summon sufficient courage. And then he found, as he blundered a little over the matter, that Joe thought it worse than it really was.
"Have you been gambling?" the elder asked gravely.
"No, not that, Joe. It's all been a silly sort of extravagance. I am mad at myself when I think of it." He wouldn't say he had been tempted by a girl into much unwise expenditure. How could he have been so weak!
"It will be all right," returned Joe. "I am glad it is not gambling debts; though a hundred dollars wouldn't cover much. I hope you are coming through in good shape."
"You may be sure of that. Oh, Joe, how kind you are!"
"What is brotherhood for, if not that?" said Joe gravely.
He would not put himself in the way of meeting Miss Ludlow, though she did send him two rather plaintive notes. Early in June, the marriage took place; and the bride's trousseau was quite magnificent, if it was not made in Paris. Mrs. Nicoll was delighted with what she termed her grandniece's good sense, and gave her a handsome set of rubies, beside having her diamonds reset for her. And when she died, some two months later, it was found she had made a new will on Lily's wedding day, in which she bequeathed the bride all her personal effects and some valuable bank-stock, if the amount was not very large. The next winter, Mrs. Williamson took her place in society, and was quite a married belle, managing her husband as adroitly as she had managed her lovers.
Jim studied day and almost night to make up for the dissipation of the winter, and passed with honour, though Joe had hoped he would have one of the orations. He went immediately into the law office of a friend of Stephen's as clerk and copyist while he was waiting for the new term of the law school.
Charles Reed did distinguish himself, and was one of the heroes of the occasion. He was a fine, manly fellow now, and Mrs. Dean loved him like a son. Indeed, it seemed as if he might be her son, the young people were so much to each other. Josie would graduate the next year at the high school.
Ben and Delia had gone along through the winter with very little change, except to learn how much they loved each other. The young men did not have quite such rollicking good times, though Nora was developing into a very attractive young girl and enchanted them with her singing. Delia was very busy trying her best to come up to some high standards of literary work. Everybody was not a genius in those days. Colleges had not begun to turn them out by the score, and the elder people were very often helpful to the younger ones.
There was, it is true, a certain kind of Bohemianism among the men that proved dangerous to more than one fine, promising mind. Ben liked the bright wit and keen encounters, and the talk that ran through centuries of intellectual activity as if it was only yesterday. He was taking a curious interest in politics as well, for some great questions were coming to the fore.
Mrs. Underhill had preserved a cautious silence respecting Delia, indeed, ignored the whole matter. Dolly was cordial when they met. Jim had been so taken up with his engrossing experience that he rarely went to Beach Street; and the two sets of society were widely apart. Delia had supposed everything would come around straight; it generally did in her happy-go-lucky fashion.
But on Commencement day, when she was all smiles and gladness, Mrs. Underhill's coolness and Mrs. Hoffman's stately distance quite amazed her.
"Ben," she said, "something has happened with your people. Your mother hardly spoke to me, and Margaret was icy. And now that I come to think of it, Hanny hasn't been near us since Nora's birthday--February that was. Are they offended because--don't they like our engagement? And I love them all so, from least to greatest; only Margaret is rather high up."
"Hanny's had such lots of lessons, and her music, and she's corresponding with Daisy Jasper in French. Grandmother takes her time, too. You don't have so much leisure out of childhood."
"What jolly times we had back there in First Street! Oh, Ben, I did like you all so much! And I can't bear to have the good feeling die out."
There were tears in Delia's brown eyes. Ben was moved immeasurably.
"May be I ought to have said something to mother; Joe counselled me to wait."
"Then it has been talked about!" Delia stood up very straight, and looked like a spirited picture. "What is their objection to me? Your family are all prospering. Stephen is really a man of mark; Of course Dr. Hoffman was rich to begin with. And John's wife had quite a fortune when her parents died. Joe is up among the important people; and Jim will make a smart lawyer, every one says. You are a splendid lot!" and her honest admiration touched him.
"I don't know. I've never felt very splendid."
"You are solid, and strong, and sensible. What a pity that alliteration won't do in a poem!" and she laughed in her joyous manner. "I don't care if you never are rich, so long as we have good times. And as you can't write a bit of verse, you dear, lovely old Ben, nor a story, I do not believe our tastes will clash. Why shouldn't we agree just as well when we are married as we do now? Even that tremendous, gloomy, erratic Edgar Allan Poe adored not only his wife, but his mother-in-law. To be sure, there was Milton and Byron, and Mrs. Hemans and Bulwer, and a host of them; but Mr. and Mrs. Browning are going on serenely. And 'The Scarlet Letter' hasn't made trouble in Hawthorne's family yet. I think it is temper, rather than genius. And I have a good temper, Ben," looking up out of honest, convincing eyes.
"You just have," returned Ben, with emphasis, kissing her fondly.
"Ben, I love you too well to make you unhappy."
"You will never make me unhappy."
"May be I'm not careful enough in little things."
"I don't fret about the little things," said Ben. "We both like easy-chairs, and evenings at home, and reading about famous people, or queer people, and wonderful places. We both like a fire, and a cat; I adore a nice cat, it is such a comfortable thing. And we like to go out where people are bright and vivacious, and know something. We're fond of music, and pictures, and like a good play. Oh, there are things enough to agree upon all our lives; so what would be the use of hunting round to find a few things to dispute about."
"Why, there wouldn't be. But I want your mother to like me, and to feel sure I shall do my best to make you happy. Of course, we may not get rich."
"Bother riches! But I'm not going to give you up for anybody in Christendom."
"You are very sweet, Ben." There was a sound of tears in Delia's voice.
"I'll see what it is," subjoined Ben. "Oh, it will all come straight, I know."
"I shall not marry you for the next seven years, no, not for twenty, until everybody is willing," said Delia, decisively.
Why couldn't people be kindly affectioned one toward another, as the Apostle enjoined, when there was nothing very objectionable in the other? It puzzled Ben. He was passionately fond of his mother, too; but the issue had to be met. And the very next evening when Mrs. Underhill was out watering her garden, that had in it all manner of sweet herbs and the old-time flowers dear to her heart, Ben came wandering down the clean-cut path.
"Mother," when they had both stood silently several minutes,--"mother, I want to tell you--Delia Whitney and I are engaged."
"I supposed as much," said his mother, tartly. Then she turned to come up the path.
"Mother, you have welcomed Dolly and Cleanthe; and we have all been like brothers and sisters. Haven't you a tender word for Delia? You used to like her."
"Delia Whitney was well enough for a neighbour. You have run and run there, Ben, and really never taken the trouble to look about. You are young, and hardly know what is best for you. You could have looked higher. But you've gotten in with those newspaper people; and they do drink, and are not very choice in their company."
"And lawyers drink; yet we are going to make a lawyer out of Jim. And we have known country farmers addicted to the habit. Newspaper-men are quite up to the average. But that has nothing to do with Delia."
"No, women don't so often take to drinking. But she is in it all; and I don't like such public business for a woman. A wife's place is at home; and Mrs. Whitney is a very poor housekeeper. Ben, a great deal of a man's happiness depends on the way his house is kept."
"But their house is always bright and pleasant. And think how Delia used to work in First Street. She can keep house good enough for me."
"You have always had things so neat and orderly, Ben, that you don't know how trying that sort of helter-skelter housekeeping can be. A woman can't run hither and yon, and write stories and what not; and now they are beginning to lecture and talk, and make themselves as mannish as possible! No, I don't like it. And I pity the man who has to live in that sort of neglected home. And then, Ben, come disputes and separations."
He had heard the narrow reasoning before. Mrs. Reed came into his mind. With her passion for cleanliness and order, she certainly knew nothing about a happy, comfortable home. His mother still scouted a sewing-machine. Delia had hired one with a good operator, and declared that in a week they had done up all the summer sewing. He knew his mother would say it was only half-done. To be sure, Delia's mother was a great novel-reader and had neglected her household many a time for an interesting book. But she wrote neither stories nor verses.
"Of course, you will do as you like. And you think you are the only one that will suffer. But a mother has many sorrowful hours over a son's unhappiness and discomfort."
Then she passed him, and went into the house. And, after the fashion of unreasoning women, she hurried up to her own room and cried a few bitter tears. Ben had been such a good, upright, pleasant son. He ought to have the best wife in the world, for he was easy-going and would put up with almost anything. She was disappointed.
She would have scouted the idea of being aristocratic or mercenary; yet she did want him to look higher. There had been such an attractive Hoffman cousin spending a month with Margaret, who thought Ben delightful. There were two or three girls in the neighbourhood. In fact, a young man might as well marry some one of distinction and character; Dolly and Cleanthe were none the worse for their money.
"I don't know what I can do," Ben said to Dolly, with a sigh. "Delia has a suspicion that mother is against her. I'm not in a hurry to marry; but Delia won't marry me until everybody is ready to welcome her."
"Yes, you are young; and a good many things come around straight if you give them time, just like a northeast wind. Ask Delia to come up to tea, whenever she and you are at liberty."
Dolly kissed Ben. In some respects he was still boyish.
Margaret was vexed over the certainty. It was said Nora Whitney had a chance to go abroad with a Madame Somebody who used to sing in operas. She would be educated for a professional. Of course a Jenny Lind or a Parodi or Malibran was different; but just an ordinary singer!--or one could admire an acknowledged woman of genius who had a position, or any social prestige!
Ben said nothing to Delia; but she guessed his announcement had not been satisfactory. She had not been to the Underhills for six months or more. But, in her generous fashion, she made no comment.
Late that summer a wonderful thing happened that filled everybody with elation, and for twenty-four hours set the city wild. Every show-window had a picture of a trim, spirited yacht that seemed to have triumph written all over her; and men and boys crowded around to look at it, and cheered it with an enthusiasm seldom inspired nowadays. We were all going wild over our great triumph; for we had distanced England on the seas and in British waters. The gallant "America" had borne off the "Queen's Cup," the prize offered for the fleetest yacht in the great race.
We had been very proud of our fleet "clippers" that were scudding about to different ports. Then the Steers brothers had built the "America" for Mr. Stevens, of the New York Yacht Club; and he decided to take her over to the great contest that was to be a race around the Isle of Wight. She met with a little mishap in the beginning; but, nothing daunted, her courageous captain kept on to the end, eighty-one miles, and distanced all competitors. Other yachts of all nations were entered; and it must have been a magnificent sight when she had eight minutes to spare, and could glance back at her really splendid rivals. The pretty story of Queen Victoria and the Prince Consort was told over many times. The Queen asked the captain of the royal yacht who was first.
"The 'America,' your Majesty."
"And who is second?"
"There is no second, your Majesty," returned the Captain, gallantly admitting the defeat.
So the brave "America," after being flattered and feted, brought home her trophy; and thousands rushed to see that and the beautiful yacht. But the English Club did not mean to resign honours so easily, and announced that efforts would be made to win back the famous cup. And to-day the cup is still ours, after many challenges and trials.
But the enthusiasm then knew no bounds. There were little flags with a miniature yacht and the American colours; and the patriotic boys wore them in their jackets. Jim put up a handsome engraving in his room.
He had been working like a Trojan all summer, except a brief fortnight, and had begun to pay back his debt.
Nora Whitney was to go abroad under the care of a well-known musician and his wife, who was a fine concert-singer. It seemed such an excellent opportunity; and Nora had an ambition to reach a high standard. The Professor and Madame had visited the Whitneys, and both parties were mutually satisfied.
"I could never let a child of mine go away among strangers in that manner," declared Mrs. Underhill. "No one can tell what will happen to her. I shouldn't have thought it of Mr. Theodore. The women, of course, are not overweighted with common sense, and the poor child has no mother."
"Oh, dear," sighed Hanny, "all the little girls are dropping out; and we used to have such nice times. I do wonder if Daisy means ever to come back. And Josie Dean is a young lady with long dresses, and does up her hair."
"Elenora Whitney is not worth worrying about," subjoined Mrs. Underhill, tartly; "and Josie Dean is a very nice, modest girl."
Charles Reed and Josie had dropped into a fashion of making frequent calls during the summer. The young fellow made a confidant of Doctor Joe, as young people were very apt to do, he was so sympathetic and kindly.
Mr. Reed had quite a fancy at first that he should study medicine.
"It is a fine profession, when one's heart is in it," said Doctor Joe. "And there are so many new discoveries and methods all the time. Still, I can't quite fancy Charlie taking up the disagreeable side."
"He could be a professor, I suppose," commented his father, rather reluctantly. "He loves study and books, and he ought to turn his education to some account. I would do anything for him; he knows that. He is all I have; and he is a fine boy."
It was odd; but Charlie talked his desire over with Josie first of all, and she approved of it enthusiastically. Then he rather timidly confessed it to his father.
"I used to believe that I never wanted to be a clergyman; but, after mother died, I began to think it over. She was so sort of sweet and changed that last year, almost as if she had a presentiment; and though she took such an interest in my studies, she never spoke of that, though I know it was her heart's desire. All the time I seem to have had a leaning towards it. It is a grand life, when one's heart and soul are in it; and I am sure now mine would be. I should feel as if I was keeping near to her, and doing something for her happiness. And if you would not feel disappointed--"
"My boy, I should be gratified," said his father, warmly. "I should not have tried to influence your choice; but I do think, in certain ways, you are especially fitted for this profession. I can trust you never to bring discredit on so sacred a calling; and I think you are alive to the true responsibility of it. Yes; it is what she would like, if she were here."
Jim declared he had felt sure of this decision all the last year. They all decided Charles Reed would make a fine conscientious clergyman.
