The tourist, with his day or two at a down town hotel, calls Boston a
city of narrow streets and ancient graveyards; the dweller in one of the
newer avenues is enthusiastic about the modern architecture and regular
streets of the Back Bay region. Yet neither of these knows the real
Boston, the old West End, with its quaint tree-lined streets sloping
from the top of Beacon Hill toward the river.
Near the close of any bright afternoon, walk from the State House down
the hill, pause half-way, and, glancing back, note the perfect Gothic
arch formed by the trees that line both sides of Mount Vernon Street.
Admire those old houses which have taken on the rich, deep tones that
age so kindly imparts to brick. Then look across the river to the sun
just setting behind the Brookline hills,--and admit that even in a
crowded city we may catch glimpses of the picturesque.
Half-way down one of the quiet, hilly West End streets is the house of
Miss Theodora--no, I will not tell you her true name. If I should, you
would recognize it at once as that of a great New England jurist. This
jurist was descended from a long line of scholars, whose devotion to
letters had not prevented their accumulating a fair amount of wealth.
Much of this wealth had fallen to the jurist, Miss Theodora's father,
with whom at first everything went well, and then everything badly.
It was not entirely the great man's extravagance that wrought the
mischief, although many stories were long told of his too liberal
hospitality and lavish expenditure. He came, however, of a generous
race; it was a cousin of his who divided a small fortune between Harvard
College and the Provident Association, and for more than a century back
the family name might be found on every list of contributions to a good
cause.
Yet it was not extravagance, but blind faith in the financial wisdom of
others, as well as an undue readiness to lend money to every man who
wished to borrow from him, which brought to Miss Theodora's father the
trouble that probably hastened him to his grave. When he died, it was
found that he had lost all but a fraction of a former fortune. His widow
survived him only a few years, and before her death the family had to
leave their roomy mansion on the hill, with its pleasant garden, for a
smaller house farther down the street.
Here Miss Theodora tried to make a pleasant home for John, her brother.
He had just begun to practise law, and, with his talents, would
undoubtedly do well, especially if he married as he should. Thus, with a
woman's worldliness in things matrimonial, reasoned Miss Theodora,
sometimes even going so far as to commend to John this girl or that
among the family connections. But one day John put an end to all her
innocent scheming by announcing his betrothal to the orphan daughter of
a Plymouth minister, "a girl barely pretty, and certainly poor." It was
only a half consolation to reflect that Dorothy had a pedigree going
back to John Alden and Priscilla.
Ernest, John's boy, was just a month old when Sumter surrendered; yet
John would go to the war, leaving Dorothy and the baby to the care of
his sister. Eagerly the two women followed his regiment through each
campaign, thankful for the bright and cheerful letters he sent them.
They bore bravely that awful silence after Antietam, until at length
they knew that John would never come home again.
It was simply of a broken heart that Dorothy died, said every one, for
little Ernest was scarcely three years old when he was left with no one
to care for him but Miss Theodora. How she saved and scrimped to give
him what he needed, I will not say; but gradually her attire took on a
quaintness that would have been thought impossible for her even to favor
in the days of her girlhood, when she had been a critic of dress. She
never bought a new gown now; every cent beyond what was required for
living expenses must be saved for Ernest.
Before the boy knew his letters, Miss Theodora was planning for his
career at Harvard. He should be graduated at the head of his class. With
such a father, with such a grandfather, Ernest certainly must be a
great man. The family glory would be renewed in him.
Little by little Miss Theodora withdrew from the world. She had not
cared for gayety in her younger days; she hardly missed it now; yet she
was not neglected by her relatives and old friends--even the most
fashionable called on her once a year. These distant cousins and formal
acquaintances had little personal interest in Miss Theodora. Their cards
were left from respect to the memory of the distinguished jurist rather
than from any desire to brighten the life of his daughter.
If Miss Theodora's invitations grew fewer and fewer, she herself was to
blame, for she seldom accepted an invitation, even to luncheon, nor
confided to any one that pride forbade her to accept hospitalities which
circumstances prevented her returning.
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