WINTER HAPPENINGS
Margaret came home and had a party at her house, "Infair" the older
people called it. Then a family tea at home, and another at Stephen's.
Mrs. Verplank, the Doctor's half-sister, gave her a very elegant
reception.
She was oddly changed, somehow, just as sweet, but with more dignity and
composure; and Jim couldn't make her turn red by teasing her. The little
girl noticed that her mother treated Margaret with a peculiar deference
and never scolded her; and she said Philip to Dr. Hoffman.
He had some serious talks with the little girl, for he pretended to be
afraid she would love Dolly and Stephen the best. Everybody had a desire
to hold her, because she was so little and light. She was not to make
the baby an excuse to go the oftenest to Dolly's.
"Oh, dear," she rejoined, with a sigh, "and if John should get married,
and the rest of them, as they grow up, I wouldn't have any time left for
myself. But Joe isn't going to be married."
Dr. Hoffman laughed at that.
John had a sweetheart. He always dressed up in his best on Wednesday
night. Young men in those days thought of homes and families of their
own. There were no clubs to take them in.
An odd little incident happened to Margaret's _menage_. Stephen had one
of Aunt Mary's grandsons as porter in the store. Another, who had been
brought up as a sort of house-servant to some elderly people that death
had visited, came to the city, and Stephen sent him to Dr. Hoffman, who
was inquiring about a factotum. He was a very well-looking and
well-mannered young coloured lad, and knew how to drive and care for a
horse. He was quite a cook also, and soon learned to do the marketing.
Margaret kept house for herself, and enjoyed her pretty new china and
beautiful cut-glass. And after a month or two Dolly persuaded her to
rent two rooms to two ladies, the back room on the second floor, and one
on the third. She was glad to have some company when the Doctor had to
be out. One of the ladies coloured plates for magazines and illustrated
books. This was done by hand then, and was considered quite artistic
work. We had not printed in colours yet. The ladies were very refined,
and had a small income beside the work.
The Doctor took Margaret out every pleasant afternoon. His practice was
not large enough to work him very severely. In the evening they read or
sang, as she played very nicely now. But she missed the breezy boys and
their doings, and her mother's cheery voice ordering every one about,
and, oh, she missed the little girl who didn't come half often enough.
She began a choice piece of work for her, a silk quilt. No one had gone
insane over crazy work then. This was shapely, decorous diamonds, with
the name of the wearer, or a date, embroidered on each block. The
Morgans had given her pieces from Paris and Venice and Holland, and even
Hong Kong. Some were a hundred and more years old, and were gowns of
quite famous people.
This fall the American Institute Fair was held at Niblo's Garden. There
were many curious things. Both telegraphs had been put up,--House's with
its letter printing, Morse's with its cabalistic signs. How words could
travel through a bit of wire puzzled most people. Uncle Faid went with
them one afternoon.
"No use to tell me," he declared. "The fellow at one end knows just what
the fellow at the other end is going to say. Now if they sent it in a
box, or a letter, it would look reasonable."
"I'll send you a message," said Ben; "you go down at the end, and see if
this doesn't come to you."
He wrote on a slip of paper, and gave it to Uncle Faid, who went to the
other end with a disbelieving shake of the head. And when the receiver
wrote it out, and Uncle Faid compared it, the astonishment was
indescribable.
"There's some jugglery about it," he still insisted. "Stands to reason a
bit of wire can't really know what you say."
Hanny brought home her telegraph message; and when she showed it to Nora
Whitney, the child declared it was like the queer things in some books
her papa had, called hieroglyphics. But Doctor Joe told her a stranger
thing than that. He found the verses in the Psalms that were supposed to
prefigure the telegraph:--
"There is no speech nor language, where their voice is not heard.
"Their line is gone out through all the earth, and their words to
the end of the world."
"But they can't go across the ocean," said the little girl, confidently.
"Why, they are discussing the feasibility of crossing the Hudson with
some kind of sunken cable. What we shall be doing fifty years from
now--and I shall not be such a dreadfully old man! We are learning how
to live longer as well."
Fifty years! and she would be as old as the grandmothers!
The other wonderful thing was the sewing-machine. Elias Howe had learned
how to thread the needle, the opposite way, by putting the eye in the
point. There was a little bent piece underneath that caught the loop
while a thread ran through it. They gave away samples, and everybody
admitted that it _was_ wonderful.
The little girl said she could sew a great deal better. And her mother
declared such sewing was hardly good enough for a feed-bag. Her father
laughed, and told her rosy fingers were good enough sewing-machine for
him.
Artificial legs and feet interested Doctor Joe very much. They had
curious springs and wires, and the outside was pink, like real
flesh,--in fact, they looked uncanny, they were so real. Hanny had seen
several old men stumping around on cork or wooden legs about which there
could be no deception. But when any one met with a mishap now, they
could fix him up "limber as an eel," Doctor Joe said.
There was a deal of curious machinery and implements that some people
smiled over, which, like the sewing-machines, made fortunes for their
inventors presently; beautiful articles and jewelry; a great vegetable
and flower exhibit; a small loom; weaving; carving of all kinds; and
cloths and silks. Indeed, the Fair was considered a very great thing,
and the country people who came in to visit it felt almost as if they
had been to a strange country. Every afternoon and evening it was
crowded.
Jim liked his new school very much, and soon flung his Latin words at
his little sister in perfect broadsides. Then he found that Ben had
somehow picked up a good deal of Latin, and knew all the Greek alphabet;
and instead of laughing at Charles Reed, as a Miss Nancy, he became
quite friendly with him.
All the children came home for a Christmas dinner, and had a delightful
time. Then Martha was married, and went to her own housekeeping, and a
cousin of the little German girls who lived in Houston Street, who had
just come from Germany, petitioned for a trial. She was so bright and
clean and ambitious to learn American ways that after a fortnight, Mrs.
Underhill decided to keep her.
When all the visitors had gone, Hanny found it very lonely sleeping in a
big room by herself. And as they couldn't move her downstairs, Mr. and
Mrs. Underhill went upstairs and changed their room to the
guest-chamber. Hanny missed her sister very much when night came. But
then she had so many lessons to study; and after the history of Holland,
they took up that of Spain, which was as fascinating as any romance.
Everybody was a good deal excited this winter about a curious
phenomenon. At a small town in Western New York two sisters had
announced that they could hold communication with the spirit-world, and
receive messages from the dead. Little raps announced the spirit of your
friend or relative. To imaginative people, it was simply wonderful. And
now the Misses Fox were giving exhibitions and making converts.
People recalled the old Salem witchcraft, and not a few considered it
direct dealing with the Evil One. Ben was deeply interested. He and Joe
talked over clairvoyance and mesmerism,--a curious power developed by a
learned German, Dr. Mesmer, akin to that of some of the old magicians.
Ben was very fond of abnormal things; but Joe set down communication
with another world as an impossibility. Still, a good many people
believed it.
The children joined the singing-school again, and Charles Reed sang at
several concerts. He went quite often to the Deans, and occasionally
came over to the Underhills. Both houses were so delightful! If he only
had a sister, or a brother! Or if his mother would do something beside
scrub and clean the house! Social life was so attractive to him.
One day she did do something else. It was February, and the snow and ice
had melted rapidly. All the air was full of the sort of chill that goes
through one. She wanted some windows washed, and the yard cleared up,
and was out in the damp a long while. That night she was seized with a
sudden attack of pleurisy. Mr. Reed sprang up and made a mustard
draught; but the pain grew so severe that he called Charles, and sent
him over for Doctor Joe. By daylight, fever set in, and it was so severe
a case that Doctor Joe called a more experienced doctor in consultation,
and said they must have a nurse at once.
Charles had never seen her ill before. And when the doctors looked so
grave, and the nurse spoke in such low tones, he was certain she could
not live. He was so nervous that he could not get his lessons, and
roamed about the house in a frightened sort of way. The nurse was used
to housekeeping as well, and when she was needed downstairs Charles
stayed in the sick-room. His mother did not know him or any one, but
wandered in her mind, and was haunted by the ghosts of work in a manner
that was pitiful to listen to. The nurse said she had made work her
idol. There were two days when Mr. Reed stayed at home, though he sent
Charles off to school. They had a woman in the kitchen now, a relative
he had written for, Cousin Jane that Charles had once met in the
country. She was extremely tidy; but she put on an afternoon gown, and a
white apron, and found time in the evening to read the paper.
On the second afternoon both doctors went away just as Charles came
home. His father was standing on the stoop with them, and Doctor Joe
looked down and smiled. The boy's heart beat with a sudden warmth, as he
went down the area steps, wiped his feet, and hung up his cap and
overcoat with as much care as if his mother's sharp eyes were on him.
There was no one in the room; but he sat down at once to his lessons.
Presently his father entered. His eyes had a pathetic look, as if they
were flooded with tears.
"The doctor gives us a little hope, Charles," he said, in a rather
tremulous voice. "It's been a hard pull. The fever was broken yesterday;
but she was so awful weak; indeed, it seemed two or three times in the
night as if she was quite gone. Since noon there has been a decided
change; and, if nothing new happens, she will come around all right. It
will be a long while though. She's worked too hard and steady; but it
has not been my fault. At all events, we'll keep Cousin Jane just as
long as we can. And now I must run down-town for a few hours. Tell
Cousin Jane not to keep tea waiting."
Charles sat in deep thought many minutes. His father's unwonted emotion
had touched him keenly. Of course he would have been very sorry to have
his mother die, yet how often he had wished for another mother. The
thought shocked him now; and yet he could see so many places where it
would be delightful to have her different. Careful as she was of him, he
had no inner consciousness that she loved him, and he did so want to
have some one he could love and caress, and who would make herself
pretty. Hanny loved her father and mother so much. She "hung around"
them. She sat in her father's lap and threaded his hair with her soft
little fingers. She had such pretty ways with her mother. She didn't
seem ever to feel afraid.
Neither did the Deans. Of course they were all girls; but there were Ben
and Jim and, oh, Doctor Joe teased his mother, and was sweet to her, and
even kissed her, grown man that he was!
Charles could hardly decide which mother he liked the most, but he
thought Mrs. Dean. Mrs. Underhill sometimes scolded, though it never
seemed real earnest.
He felt more at home with the Deans. Perhaps this was because Mrs. Dean
had always coveted a boy, and, like a good many mothers, she wanted a
real nice, smart, refined boy. Charles was obedient and truthful, neat
and orderly, and always had his lessons "by heart." He was very proud
of his standing in school. He could talk lessons over with more freedom
to Mr. Dean than with his own father. And Josie was always so proud of
him. Perhaps the reason he liked the Deans so well was because he was
such a favourite with them, and appreciation seemed very sweet to the
boy who had so little in his life.
Mr. Dean seemed to think there was great danger of his growing up a
prig; but Mrs. Dean always took his part in any discussion. Mr. Dean was
very fond of having him over to sing; and Josie gave him her piano
lessons, only she kept a long way ahead.
Oh, how many, many times Charles had wished he was their son! There were
so many boys in the Underhill family, he was quite sure they couldn't
want any more.
But just now he felt curiously conscience-stricken, though greatly
confused. He supposed his mother _did_ want him, though she always
considered him so much trouble, and talked about her "working from
morning to night and getting no thanks for it." He had felt he would
like to thank her specially for some things, but ought he, _must_ he, be
grateful for the things he did not want and were only a trouble and
mortification to him? And was it wicked to wish for some other mother?
He would try not to do it again. He might think of Mrs. Dean as his
aunt, and the girls his cousins. And he would endeavour with all his
might to love his own mother.
Years afterward, he came to know how great an influence this hour had on
him in moulding his character. But he did not realise how long he had
dreamed until he heard Cousin Jane's brisk voice,--it was not a cross or
complaining voice,--saying:--
"Why, Charles, here in the dark! Well, we have had a pretty severe time;
but your mother's good constitution has pulled her through. And that
young doctor's just splendid! I haven't had much opinion of young
doctors heretofore. To be sure, there has been Dr. Fitch; but I think
Dr. Underhill works more as if his life depended on it. And if you
weren't very hungry, Charles, we might wait until your father comes
home. About seven, he said. I must confess that Cousin Maria has one of
the best and most faithful of husbands. He isn't sparing any expense,
either."
Charles flushed with delight to hear his father praised for his devotion
to his mother.
"I'd like to wait, Cousin Jane," he replied in an eager tone.
"I'll make a cup of tea and take a bit of bread and cold meat up to Mrs.
Bond. Then I'll come back and set the table."
She had lighted the lamps while she was talking, and Charles hurried up
with his neglected lessons, studying in earnest.
It was half-past seven when his father came in. No one fretted, however.
His brisk walk had given him a good colour, and his eyes had brightened.
He seemed so pleased that they had waited for him. Cousin Jane did make
events go on smoothly. The tea was hot, as he liked it; and there was a
plate of toast, of which he was very fond.
When he took out his paper, he said to Charles:--
"You might run over to the Deans and tell them the good news. They have
been so kind about inquiring. I wouldn't stay more than ten or fifteen
minutes."
He had not been over in a week, and they were glad to see him, as well
as to hear the hopeful tidings. But the girls had quite a bit of
casuistry in their talk that night as they were going to bed, partly as
to how Charles could be so glad, and partly whether one ought to be glad
under all circumstances, when events happened that did not really tend
to one's comfort.
"But Mary Dawson said she wasn't sorry when her stepmother died, and she
wouldn't tell a story about it. Her stepmother wasn't much crosser than
Mrs. Reed. You know Mrs. Dawson wouldn't let the girls go to
singing-school, and she made them wear their outgrown dresses, and she
did whip them dreadfully. I couldn't have been sorry either."
"But it would be awful not to have any one sorry when you were dead."
"I think," began Josie, gravely, "we ought to act so people _will_ be
sorry. If you are good and kind, and do things pleasantly--Mrs. Reed is
always doing; but I guess it is a good deal the _way_ you do. You see
mother and father do think of the things we like, when they are right
and proper. They show they love us and like to have us love them in
return."
"Oh, I just couldn't live without mother!" and the tears overflowed
Tudie's eyes.
"And I know it would break her heart, and father's, too, if they lost
us. And so we ought to try and make each other happy. I mean to think
more about it. And, oh, Tudie, if Mrs. Reed could be converted! People
are sometimes when they've been very ill. Suppose we pray for that."
They did heartily; and Josie resolved not to miss one night. It would
make bonny Prince Charlie so happy to have his mother changed into a
sweet, tender woman.
Charles didn't dare pray for that. God knew what was best for any one,
and He _did_ have the power. He wondered what things were right to put
in one's prayers. Some years after he came to know it was "all things,"
just as one might ask of a human father, knowing that sometimes even the
father after the flesh, in his larger wisdom, saw that it was best to
deny.
"Don't you want to look in on your mother?" Cousin Jane said the next
morning. He had not seen her in several days.
"Oh, yes," answered Charles.
Mrs. Reed had been thin before; but now she looked ghostly, with her
sunken eyes and sharpened nose and chin. Charles had a great desire to
kiss her; but she did not approve of such "foolishness." Her poor
skeleton hand, that had done so much hard and useless work, lay on the
spread in a limp fashion, as if it would never do anything again.
Charles took it up and pressed it to his cheek. Mrs. Reed opened her
eyes, and a wavering light, hardly a smile, crossed her face.
"I've been very sick," and, oh, how faint the sound was, quivering, too,
as if it had not the strength to steady itself! And then the thin lids
fell. The death-like pallor startled him.
"But you're going to get well again."
The boy's sweet, confident tone touched her. She did not dare open her
eyes, lest she should cry, she was so weak. Then he said,
"Good-morning," and went softly out of the room, feeling that he was
glad in every pulse of his being that God had given her back to them.
Doctor Joe had a good deal of credit for the case. Dr. Fitch admitted
that it had been very severe, and required the utmost watchfulness. Mrs.
Underhill was very proud of her son's success "in his own country," as
she termed it. And she said when Mrs. Reed was well enough to see
visitors, she would go over and call. Indeed, it had created a good deal
of interest in the neighbourhood, and Charles found himself treated with
a peculiar deference among the children.
Mrs. Reed's recovery was very slow, however. Mrs. Bond went away when
she could begin to go about the room and help herself. Cousin Jane was a
good nurse, and she declared, "There wasn't work enough to keep her
half busy." She did the mending and the ironing; Mr. Reed insisted they
should have a washerwoman. Mrs. Reed sighed when she thought of the
expense. It had been the pride of her life that she never had a fit of
illness, and had never hired a day's work done except when Charles was
born.
She was sure now that the house must be in an awful plight. She never
found time to sit down in the morning and read a book or paper. Cousin
Jane changed her gown every afternoon, and wore lace ruffles at the
neck, just plain strips of what was called footing, that she pleated up
herself. Then, too, she wore white muslin aprons,--a very old fashion
that was coming back. And though Mrs. Reed couldn't find fault when she
saw Charles and his father always as neat as a pin, still she was sure
there must be a great need of thoroughness somewhere. She prided herself
upon being "thorough."
Mrs. Underhill came over one day with the Doctor, and they had a really
nice call. Of course Mrs. Reed couldn't understand how she ever managed
with such a houseful of boys. Yet she was fresh and fair, and seemed to
take life very comfortably. Then they were always having so much company
at the Underhills.
"Yes," said Mrs. Underhill, with a mellow sort of laugh that agreed
capitally with her ample person,--"yes, we have such a host of
cousins,--not all own ones, but second and third. And since my daughter
was married, the house seems lonesome at times. All the boys are away
at work but Jim; and Hanny has so many places to go, that, what with
lessons and all, I don't seem to get much good of her. But I've a nice
kitchen-girl. She was a great trial when she first came, with her not
knowing much English, and her German ways of cooking. But she's quite
like folks now, and very trusty. How fortunate you found a relative to
come in and do for you! And the Doctor says you must give up hard work
for a long while to come."
Mrs. Reed sighed, and said she should be glad enough to get about again.
The Deans came over, and some of the other neighbours; and Mrs. Reed
found it very pleasant. One afternoon late in March, Mr. Reed came home
quite early, and carried his wife down into the dining-room. He had
asked the Deans over to tea, and Doctor Joe. And there was the table,
spick and span, the silver shining, the windows so clean you couldn't
see there was any glass in them, the curtains fresh, the tablecloth
ironed so that every flower and leaf in it stood out. There wasn't a
speck of dust anywhere!
The kitchen was in nice order; the range black and speckless, the
closets sweet with their fresh white paper. And Cousin Jane's bread and
biscuit were as good as anybody's, her ham tender and a luscious pink,
her two kinds of cake perfection.
Charles sat next to his mother, a tall, smiling boy with a clean collar
and his best roundabout. It was the first tea-party he ever remembered,
and he was delighted. He was so polite and watchful of his mother that
it really went to her heart.
For seven weeks the house had gone on without her, and she couldn't see
any change for the worse. Mr. Reed looked uncommonly well, and was a
very agreeable host. The Doctor complimented her, and said next week he
should come and take her out driving; and that, to do him real credit,
she must get some flesh on her bones.
It was a very pleasant time; and Charles was so happy that his mother
wondered if there wasn't something better in the world than work and
care.