A Little Girl of Long Ago, Amanda Minnie Douglas [the kiss of deception read online .txt] 📗

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 She has the young man's arm,--that has gone out of date for engaged people,--and her head inclines toward him.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? Did _her_ mother 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.


CHAPTER XXII

1897

All that was long ago. It is nearing the end of the century, and the little girl who thought it a great thing to see the half-century mark, bids fair to shake hands with the new one. There have been many changes, there have been sorrows and deaths, and such exquisite satisfying happiness that she could say with the poet,--


"Let come what come may
I shall have had my day."


She is in the older generation now, and a grandmother. You may see her in Central Park, or some of the surburban places, a fair, sweet small personage, with a face more nearly beautiful than in her girlhood. Her hair has that shining silvery tint, her complexion is clear and fine, and her eyes, though they have wept bitter tears, still look out gladly, serenely, on life.

In the carriage will be her twin granddaughters, and sometimes a young man, her son. They are pretty children, and will be "summer girls" when their time comes, and "winter girls" as well, clad in cloth and velvet and furs. They will dance Germans instead of the bewildering Spanish dance she had that first night with her lover. Even children have changed in half a century. Beauty is no longer considered a delusion and a snare. Physical culture gives strength and grace and growth.

The lover of her youth and the husband of her love, and her first-born daughter, who was wedded, and who with her husband faced a railroad tragedy and were its victims, have gone into that "goodly land and large." It seems to many of us as we grow older that there is only a thin wall between this and the other country where we shall see them again. Sometimes she can almost fancy them leaning over the jasper walls, like the Blessed Damosel, and smiling down on her. There are so many of them now! And the children were given to her. They are spoiled, all the aunts and cousins declare. But grandmamma lives another youth over in them,--a delightful life, rich in love and interest.

For conditions have changed. The world, and all that therein is, has changed. It is Greater New York now, and it stretches out everywhere. What was Brooklyn, and Williamsburg, and many a pretty town up above the city, have all been merged into one grand metropolis. What it will do in the next fifty years passes conjecture.

As they drive around nothing interests them more than to have grandmamma talk of what it was like when she was a little girl. They find the places, and look at them through her eyes. There is no longer any Bowling-Green, only in name, and though part of the Battery is left, the elevated roads go winding about among the tree-tops; Castle Garden, after many vicissitudes and debasements, is again a place of interest and entertainment. Here was where she heard that sweet and wonderful Jenny Lind, who, with Parepa Rosa, and many another divine voice, is singing up in the New Jerusalem. And though hundreds in the glare of light and blaze of diamonds listen to Patti, she wonders if the enthusiasm is as deep and sincere.

Over opposite where modest Brooklyn lived its simple, friendly life fifty years ago, stretching out into country ways and green fields, there are miles of houses, and the great bridge is such an everyday affair one hardly gives it a second thought. And all is business now, with tall buildings that the glance can hardly reach. There is no City Hall Park, but a great space of flagging, though the fountain remains. Business crowds hurry to and fro where ladies used to sit and chat while the young people strolled about.

Stewart's old marble building is common-place and dingy. Delmonico has gone on up-town stride by stride, and people have forgotten the old balcony where Jenny Lind sang, and Koenig played to a street packed with people. And the Prince de Joinville was here; also Louis Napoleon, the nephew of his uncle, who followed his steps as Emperor and loser of crown and all, and exile. And the young Prince Imperial, whose birth, so long desired and celebrated with state as was that of the young King of Rome, met with as melancholy a fate and early death as the Duc de Reichstadt. And here the young Prince of Wales dined. He came down Broadway with his suite and procession, and the little wife thought it a fine sight as she stood there to see.

Broadway stretches on and on. Union Square is really a thoroughfare; but she came up here with father and the boys when it was a grand new thing.

Did she really live in First Street with Aunt Daisy for a playmate, and Auntie Reed, and Nora, who was a much admired singer in her day, and who married a Roman Count; and the little Tudie who died? Did she have that splendid Christmas and the beautiful wax doll, that seems sacredly alive to them both; only under some spell of enchantment laid upon her by Merlin's clan?

Oh, how full the streets are now with their great high tenement-houses, pouring out their myriads of children all day long, of every nationality! But you still hear the old plays, "Open the Gates," and "Scotland's Burning," and "Uncle John is very Sick," and "Ring around a Rosy." Little Sally Waters still sits in the sun,--


"Crying and sighing for a young man,"


though modern poesy advises her to--


"Rise, Sally, rise,
Wipe your eyes out with your frock."


And the strange Chinatown, with its cabalistic signs, its men in blue shirts and pigtails, and often snowy white stockings and queer pointed slippers!

They wind slowly about Central Park. Was the Crystal Palace here? And no park? To them it seems as if New York must have been born this way, with electric lights, and push-buttons, and telephones, and cars, and telegraphs, and everything. And did grandmamma come up here to the Fair; and was it anything like the Museum of Art? And wasn't there any menagerie, or playground, or donkey-riding or bicyclers?

Here is Washington Arch, with its memory of a great anniversary. Over on the west side there is a curious spot fenced in with wooden palings, where Alexander Hamilton planted thirteen trees for the Union, when there were only thirteen States, and named them all. Even before his sad death, South Carolina was braced to keep her from growing crooked; but she went awry in spite of it all. They have moved the house in which he lived, across the street, to save it from destruction; and it is in the shadow of a church. And here is the old mansion where Aaron Burr lived a brief while with Madame Jumel for his wedded wife,--a beautiful old place on a hill.

They go on up to the grand Washington Bridge. They are very fond of the story of Anthony Woolf swimming across the Harlem that dark night to get away from the Hessian regiment, and begging shelter of kindly hearts. They turn into a shaded road, and pass by lovely grounds, where wealth has made gardens and terraces akin to those of Paradise. And winding down the old road leading to the vale, they find a little dark-eyed girl whose great-great-grandfather was this same Anthony Woolf. And the Revolutionary War was a century and a quarter ago! Here they have lived for generations. The Cousin Jennie has gone, but the tall bright-eyed man who married her is still hale and hearty, with snowy hair and beard.

Yes, it is all New York up to Kingsbridge. There are many historic spots, and several old manor houses still standing. But it has a city aspect in spite of some wildness. They go around to Fordham; the old house perched on the hill is there, though it has been enlarged, and the street widened and straightened. Up