UP-TOWN
There had been so many delightful things in First Street, the little
girl thought at first it would almost break her heart to go away. Her
father, with the inertia of coming years, hated to be disturbed.
"I hoped, when we did make any change, we would build on the old place,"
he said. "I'd like country life again. But I am getting too old to farm;
and none of the boys care about it. If George had stayed at home," and
Father Underhill sighed.
George had not yet found his bonanza. There was gold in plenty in that
wonderful country. There were hardships, too. He kept those to tell of
in after years. It was a wild, rough, marvellous life; and every man of
them was waiting for a run of luck, that he might go East with his pile.
Meanwhile cities were begun.
Mrs. Underhill sighed a little also, in an undecided fashion. All the
children were here, and surely they could not go away and leave them
behind. The attractive, rural aspect of Yonkers had changed, or was it
that she had changed? Some of her old friends had gone to new homes
some had died. Then she had grown so accustomed to the stirring life of
the city.
"No, we should not want to go alone," she said.
"Steve's a bright business-man. John's long-headed, if he isn't quite so
brilliant. Ben will be all for books and travel. And Jim--well, it's
odd, but there won't be a farmer among them."
"No," returned their mother, not knowing whether to be glad or sorry.
"Then farming is changing. And the near-by places are turning into
towns. What the next half of the century will bring--"
Since there was no prospect of the homestead, they allowed themselves to
be persuaded to join the migration. Foreigners were crowding them a
little. There was a finer, freer air up-town.
The Deans suited themselves, and Mr. Reed and Charles went with them.
Charles was now a tall, fair young fellow, rather grave from the shock
of the loss of his mother, intensified perhaps by his sympathy with Mrs.
Dean and Josie. It was a great comfort to keep together.
John looked up a new home; but Cleanthe, with her arms around Mrs.
Underhill's neck, said, in a broken sort of tone:--
"Oh, you must be somewhere near us! I don't feel as if I could live, if
I did not see you every day. I have no mother but you."
Twentieth Street seemed a long way up, to be sure. But there was an odd,
rather oldish house, with a two-story ell that seemed to have been added
as an after-thought. There was a stable and quite a garden. It had been
considered rather a country house in its inception.
Joe insisted that it was just the thing. He could have an office and a
library, and a sleeping-room overhead, without disturbing the family.
Mrs. Underhill declared there was twice too much room; and if any of the
other boys should marry and go away--
"There's only Ben. I am a fixture; and it will be years before Jim
reaches that tempting period. Oh, I think you need not worry!" comforted
the Doctor.
Hanny was glad to go with everybody else. They had one sad sweet time at
the Deans, talking over old days and the tea in the back-yard, when
there had been Nora and the pussy, and the one who was not. It was
rather sad to outgrow childhood. Ah, how merry they had been! What a
simple idyllic memory this was to be for all her later years! Mrs. Reed
always lived in First Street to her; and Tudie Dean used to go up and
down the street, a blessed, beautiful ghost. The little girl was quite
sure she would not be afraid to clasp her white hand, if she should meet
her wandering about those sacred precincts. She could not have put her
idea into Longfellow's beautiful lines; but it haunted her in the same
shape of remembrance.
"All houses wherein men have lived and died
Are haunted houses."
They went down to the Jasper house also. There had been a family of
children to tramp over the flower-beds and leave debris about. There
was no pretty striped awning, no wheeling-chair, no slim, picturesque
negro lad, and no ladies in light lawns sitting about. It looked
common-place.
"We can write Ichabod on it," said Charles, half regretfully.
Hanny asked Joe why they should; and he showed her the verse, "Thy glory
has departed."
"The glory has departed from the whole street," she said, glancing
around. The new-comers were of a different class. No one swept the
debris up to the crown of the street any more; and the city
street-sweepers were infrequent visitors.
"It will be beginning all over again," Dr. Hoffman said to his
brother-in-law. "It seems a pity to waste so much endeavour. Yet if you
_can_ wait, the practice will be better worth while."
"It wouldn't be the fair thing to crowd in on young Dr. Fitch. He did
suggest a partnership, but I thought I would rather strike out for
myself. And I prefer having all my interests at home. Mother begins to
miss the children that have gone out; and there were so many of us."
When Mrs. Underhill looked back, she always thought those early years in
First Street were among the happiest of her life. They were broader and
richer than the first wedded years. They could not keep together always.
She wanted her children to know the sweetness of life and love. Steve
and Margaret were very happy. John and his wife had supped of sorrow;
but they were young and had each other; and children would come to
restore beauty for ashes, and the oil of joy for mourning.
She was delighted with Joe's decision. That night, when Joe had come
home a very ghost of himself, and dropped down on Hanny's bed, because
he hadn't strength to go up another pair of stairs, and she had clasped
her arms about him and cried, in her terror: "Oh, Joe, my dear son, is
it cholera?" had been an awful moment for her.
"No, mother dear; but if I can't have a few hours' rest, I shall die of
fatigue. Just let me sleep, but watch me well."
She had sat beside him the rest of the night, from midnight to morning,
counting his pulse now and then, which showed no indication of collapse.
Other mothers had their sons snatched from them,--mothers who were
tender and worthy, and who loved as fervently as she did.
When he awoke at the next noon, she felt as if he had been given back to
her out of a great danger. And she was glad now to have him plan for the
home-interest, glad there would be several years before she was called
upon to share him with any other woman.
So they said good-bye to the old house again, and placed their household
gods in a new home. They had gone farther than any of the others, though
they were nearer Margaret and Dolly. The Deans were lower down and on
Second Avenue. Up above them were great open spaces. They had two lots,
which gave them a grassy space beside the drive. The lot being deeper
than usual, they could have a little garden where the fruit-trees did
not shade. There was a tall, gnarled old pear-tree, and they found it
bore excellent fruit. Right by the porch, in a lovely southern exposure,
was a delicious nectarine.
The little girl was deeply interested in Joe's house, as she began to
call it. A door opened from the main hall, and one quite outside from
the flagged path. That would be the patients' entrance, when they began
to come. Joe went up to Yonkers and exhumed some old furniture. There
was a queer, brass-studded, leather-covered sofa, with high roll arms,
and a roll at the back that suggested a pillow. There were two small
spindle-legged tables; some high-backed, oaken chairs, rudely carved,
and almost black with age; and a curious old _escritoire_ that was said
to have come from France with the French grandmother who had landed with
the emigrants at New Rochelle.
His office was plainly appointed, with an oil-cloth on the floor, a row
of shelves for jars of medicines; for even then many doctors compounded
their own prescriptions. There was a plain business-desk, a table, and
some chairs, and a small book-case. All the odd old things were to go in
his sitting-room.
Across one end, he had it filled in with book-shelves. One corner was
for the little girl. And there was to be a special chair for her, so she
could come in and study her lessons, or read or talk to her dear Doctor
Joe.
Mrs. French made a splendid addition to the room in a large Oriental rug
that Doctor Joe valued more highly as the years went on. For then we
were getting bright-hued carpets from French and English looms, and
these dull old things were not in any great favour. Only it was so thick
and soft, the little girl said it was good enough for a bed.
Joe laughed. "I daresay I shall take many a nap on it. You must make me
a nice pillow-cushion, out of some of your bits of silk."
People made real sensible patchwork then, or worked a cover in worsted,
with perhaps a pretty bunch of flowers.
The house had a basement-kitchen at the back, and a dumb-waiter like
Margaret's. Mrs. Underhill thought at first she shouldn't like it. There
was a spacious area, which made Hanny think of Mrs. Dean's in First
Street, where they used to play tea.
It took a long while to get settled, somehow. Ben thought it a great way
up-town; and he often went to the Whitneys to tea, when he wanted his
evening. Jim grumbled a little, too; there were no nice fellows around.
Joe insisted that he had better not hunt up any, but pay strict
attention to his studies, for he was falling dreadfully behind. But when
Jim had to work or study, he went at it with all his might and main, and
generally managed to catch up.
The little girl and her father were perhaps the best pleased. He liked
the little garden spot. He was not confining himself very closely to
business now. There were so many pretty walks around, for it was still
quite rural, and you could find a few wild flowers. There was another
very amusing feature farther up-town, and that was the "squatters," with
their pigs and goats and geese, and their rich, wonderful brogue, their
odd attire, which was in the same style as when they landed. Connemara
cloaks had not then attracted the fashionable eye; but the women seemed
to wear them to keep out both heat and cold. Red, green, and plaided
seemed the favourites. The wide cap-ruffles caught the breeze, for one
always found a breeze in this vicinity.
The little girl's happiness was rendered complete by the gift of a
beautiful Maltese kitten about half-grown. It had a black nose, and
black pads to its feet, and a fashion of pricking up its small ears like
a dog. There was a great discussion about a name; and Joe suggested
"Major," as she was still fond of military heroes.
One evening Ben said: "Jim, the Whitneys are going over into Jersey on
an exploring expedition, to view some curious old places, Cockloft Hall
among them. Don't you want to go?"
Jim glanced up lazily. The boys were to play ball, as they often did, on
Saturday afternoon.
"Oh, that's the place where the Salmagundi Club used to meet," cried
Hanny, with eager interest. "It is in Newark."
"Yes; and there's another queer nest on the Passaic where a great
sportsman lives, Henry William Herbert, the Frank Forrester of some
stirring adventures. Mr. Whitney is to see him. And there are some other
old haunts; Delia was looking them up,--the Kearny house, and an old
place that was once used as a sort of fort."
"Dele Whitney goes round just like a boy!" said Jim, disdainfully.
"Well, why shouldn't she go with her brother?"
"Oh, Ben, can't I go with you?" pleaded Hanny.
"Jersey's a queer sort of State," said Jim, teasingly. "The Blue Laws
are still in operation. You are not allowed to stay out after dark."
"Are they printed in blue? And you don't mean to stay out after dark, do
you, Ben?"
Hanny's expression was so simply honest they all laughed, which rather
disconcerted her.
"It is because you feel pretty blue when you have to obey them; and
Jersey is out of the United States."
"It just isn't, Mr. Jim!" cried Hanny, indignantly. "It's one of the
Middle States."
It was quite the fashion then to laugh at New Jersey, in spite of the
geography; though even at that remote date New Jersey peaches were held
in high esteem.
"But if you went with Dele Whitney, we shouldn't know when to look for
you--hardly where," and Jim winked.
That was an allusion to an old visit at the Museum, when they stayed all
the evening, for the same admittance.
"I've half suspected you were the ringleader of that scheme, Jim," said
his doctor-brother. "I have a mind to go. One good thing about the
Whitneys is that you can invite yourself, and no one takes umbrage."
"Oh, do go!" said Ben; and Hanny came around to give his hand a tender,
persuasive squeeze. "I haven't explored the State very much, but it has
some curious features. The magnolia and many Southern flowers grow
there. I believe almost every kind of mineral, even to gold, is found in
the State. And it is rich in historic lore."
"There was Valley Forge," said Hanny, softly.
"Yes, the Delaware River is beautiful. And the Passaic winds half around
the State. It is twenty-seven miles by water,--a delightful sail we must
take some time, Hanny."
"We shouldn't have time for that now. We are to start at one. Delia'll
be glad enough to have you go, Hanny."
"Then you may count on us," returned Joe.
"Well, I'll take the ball game," said Jim.
Mrs. Underhill had been settling on a final negative. She had a little
feeling about Delia Whitney; she could not quite approve of grown girls
running about so much with boys. And she thought if she was going to set
up for a genius, she ought to be delicate and refined. But Joe always
carried the day, and she could trust her darling with him.
It was Margaret's Saturday, so Hanny ran around in the morning to tell
her of the new arrangements. They were to meet the Whitneys at
Courtlandt Street, so they had an early lunch, and started in good time.
Hanny was so interested in everything that she was a charming companion.
It seemed queer that Mr. Whitney could remember when there was no
railroad, and you travelled mostly by stage-coaches. It had cost almost
a quarter then, with the ferriage and toll-gates, if you walked to
Newark. And now you could go through to Washington on the train.
She thought it quite a fearful thing to go through the Harlem tunnel;
but here there was a road cut through great, high, frowning rocks that
made you feel as if you were in a dungeon. Then a long, level stretch of
salt meadows with ditches cut across them, that suggested a vague idea
of Holland. We did not know the world quite so well then.
Newark, in those days, was a sort of country town with country roads in
all directions. At intervals, a stage went up Broad Street, which was
handsome and wide and lined with stately trees. They thought it best to
wait awhile for this, lest Hanny should get too tired.
"But you can't half see," declared Delia.
"When we come to the curiosities, we will get out," said Mr. Whitney.
"We can't afford to miss them."
They passed a pretty park full of magnificent elms, with an old grey
stone church standing in it, one of the oldest churches in the State.
There were a number of stores, interspersed with private dwellings, and
everything wore a sort of leisurely aspect. A little farther up was
another park,--commons, they were called then. The modest old houses and
large gardens and fields gave it a still more complete country aspect.
The stage stopped at a tavern where some people were waiting. The sign
was "The Black Horse Tavern."
"We will get out and begin our adventures," said Mr. Whitney, smilingly.
"This little sort of creek was called First River. I dare say in past
days it came rushing over the hill in quite a wild way."
"Is there a Second River?" asked Delia, mirthfully.
"Indeed there is, at Belleville. There used to be an old mill
hereabouts, and this was the mill brook. Once or twice, in a freshet,
the stream has risen so that it swept the bridge away."
"It's meek enough now," said Ben. "Black Horse Tavern! That ought to be
in a book."
It was a small one-story building, looking very old even then. Over
opposite, a pretty house stood on a slight elevation, that dated back to
1820, with its sloping lawn and green fields, its churn and bright
milkpans standing out in the sunshine.
"We shall have to go round, as the frogs advise," said Mr. Whitney,
looking about him with an air of consideration. "We might get through
some of these driveways; but there seems to be no regular street."
"And if we go round?" commented Delia, questioningly.
"We go straight up this road until we come to a winding path called the
Gully, then down to the river, where we shall find Herbert's, thence
down the river to Cockloft Hall. But we will return by the upper
railroad, as we shall be near that."
"Come on, then," said Dele, laughingly, when her brother had ended his
explanations, "if you _can_ go straight on a crooked road; and if Hanny
gets tired, Ben and I will make a chair and carry her."
Joe smiled down at his little sister. He had linked his arm within hers.
Ben and Delia were fond of falling behind. They were so merry, that
Hanny was a little curious to know what they found to laugh about. It
does not take much to amuse healthy young people before their tastes
become complicated.
The old road wound a little, and had the curves that prove no one horse
or man ever walks in a straight line. But, oh, how beautiful it was with
the fruit-trees and shrubbery in bloom, wild flowers, and stretches of
meadow, where cows were pastured, and here and there a small flock of
sheep! Up above, on the brow of a hill, a wooded background gave it a
still more picturesque appearance.
They passed an old stone house on the west side that was really a
Revolutionary relic. The stone ran up to the eaves; but the two gables
were of timber. It was on quite a bit of hill then, and had broken stone
steps up to the first terrace, where great clumps of brownish yellow
lilies were in bloom. When strolling parties of British soldiery went
marauding about, the residents of this vicinity used to flee to the old
Plum house as a place of refuge. The heavy double doors and wooden
shutters could not well be battered down, though bullet-marks could be
traced here and there.
A Captain Alden lived in it now, who was himself quite a character. He
had been in the British navy, with Admiral Nelson's command. When his
time in the service ended, he had shipped with what he understood was a
merchant vessel, but on learning it was a slaver, bound for Africa to
gather up a human cargo, he sprang overboard, when he saw a vessel
passing that halted for his signal. Several shots were fired at him,
which he escaped. Later on, he was impressed in the naval service again,
but at the first opportunity came to America. A hale, hearty old man,
rather short in stature, but lithe and active, and with a merry look on
his weather-beaten face, he was still proud of his schooner that lay at
Stone Dock, at the launching of which, in the early part of the century,
the Jersey Blues had turned out, and Major Stevens had christened it the
"Northern Liberties." It had been all built of Essex County lumber, and
constructed on the Passaic. But the river had been quite a famous stream
in those days. There were no factories using up its volume of water.
They sat on the stone coping and listened to the Captain's stories,
indeed, could have spent all the afternoon, so entertaining did he
prove. Then he took them through the old house with its ample hall and
spacious rooms on one side. They concluded it must have been able to
stand quite a siege, judging from its present solidity. And Mrs. Alden
treated them to a pitcher of freshly churned buttermilk, and a slice of
excellent rye bread, which they found delightful.
"I shall have to come over again, and get some material for a story,"
declared Delia, when they were fairly started, tearing themselves away
with quite a struggle. "That experience on the 'Slaver' was very
graphic."
"If you want to hear something that will make your hair stand on end,"
said Doctor Joe, "come up and talk to father. When I was a little lad,
we had a farm-hand working for us who had gone through with it all, been
to Africa for a cargo, and come to the States with what was left of it.
He never spoke of it when sober; and though he was in the main steady,
once in a while he drank enough to start him going, and he always
rehearsed this horrible experience. I remember father used to lock him
in the barn to sober up; because he did not want us children to hear the
terrible story."
"Were the slaves brought that way?" asked Hanny, with a shudder.
"Most every civilised country condemns that part of the awful practice,"
answered Ben. "But it is a fact that the native tribes in Africa sell
prisoners to one another, or whoever will buy them. Do you suppose
Africa will ever be explored?" and Ben looked up at Mr. Whitney.
We did not know much about Africa even then. But Ben was afterward to
see the great explorer Stanley, whose journey across that country was a
wonderful romance. And although the question of slavery was seething
even then, he could not have dreamed, this lovely afternoon when all was
at peace, that one day he should be in the thick of the battle himself,
with many another brave soul, when his country was nearly rent in twain.
A few lanes led up to places, the outline of streets, and lost
themselves in the fields. Cottages had been built to face nearly every
way. Here and there was an old colonial house of greater pretensions,
some of them at the end of a long driveway lined with stately trees.
Here also were the remnants of orchards, meadows where cows were
pasturing, thickets of shrubbery with bread-and-butter vine running over
them, showing glossy green leaves.
Mr. Whitney paused at a queer, long, one-story house with a high-peaked
roof in which were set three small dormer windows. There was a little
dooryard in front, a Dutch hall door with an iron knocker, a well near
by with the old oaken bucket General Morris had immortalised, and back
of the house a picturesque ravine through which ran a clear stream of
water that presently found its way out to the Passaic. Willows bent over
it, elms and maples stood, tall and handsome, like guardian sentinels.
A little old woman sat sewing by the window.
"We haven't time to stop," said Mr. Whitney. "Hanny, that lady is your
hero's grandmother, and the mother of General Watts Kearny. He not only
distinguished himself in the Mexican War, but also in the War of 1812.
Then he was Governor of Vera Cruz and the City of Mexico."
"And the hero of no end of stories," added Ben. "Jim and I were wild
over them a few years ago. Why do people keep saying we have no romance
in our own country, because we have no ruined old castles? Why, Mexico
itself is a land of historical romance!"
"What a lovely cool dell!" exclaimed Dele. "Just the place to take your
book on a hot summer day."
"I believe your young hero Philip was born in New York. But this is the
old home, one of the landmarks."
Opposite was a rather pretty place,--a rambling brick house with sharp,
pointed roofs, and a long stretch of evergreens. It was beautiful in
this soft atmosphere. The birds made a swift dazzle now and then, and
filled the air with melody.
"Up here is a hedge of hawthorn that was brought over from England by a
Yorkshireman living up above. It is out of bloom now; but another year
you can come over early in May and see the 'hawthorn blossoms white'
that poets never tire of praising."
Dele broke off a sprig for herself, and one for Hanny. The spaces were
larger, the houses farther apart. On the west side was a tree-nursery
and garden, and two quaint old frame-houses that hardly looked large
enough for any one to live in; but there were children playing about;
and on the other side a cemetery. All this tract was known as Mount
Pleasant.
At the north of the cemetery, they plunged down a stony way called a
road, mostly by courtesy, though it was the only way of getting up from
the river. Great trees overhung it on one side, and gave it a weird,
darkened aspect.
"It might be a ghost-walk, at night," exclaimed Delia. "Edgar A. Poe
could have put a story here. I like the tragic; but I'm not so fond of
the horrible."
Another turn showed them the river and the opposite shore crowned with
green glittering in the afternoon sunshine. They all paused, it was such
a wonderful outlook.
And when they reached it, and glanced up and down, it was a picture
indeed. The river made little bends, and wound around tiny points, edged
with the greenest of sedge grass in some places, then grey stones with
mossy sea-growth, or willows dipping their branches in the lightly
ruffled water. Not a soul to be seen anywhere, not a sound save the
voices of birds; but while they looked, a flock of geese came floating
grandly down.
"On thy fair bosom, silver lake,
The white swan spreads her snowy sail,"
quoted Delia.
"It is not the first time swans have proved geese," said Mr. Theodore,
with a smile. "But for the sake of the picturesque we will let it pass."
"I wonder if the Wye or the Severn would be so enchanting to us if poets
had not lived there and immortalised them?"
"When we are an old country, we will, no doubt, sigh for relics. In
1666, this was called 'Neworke or Pesayak towne;' and a little more than
a hundred years ago this Gully was made the dividing line between the
towns. There are many historic spots in Belleville, and an old copper
mine that once made a great addition to her prosperity. But my quest
ends here. I don't know as I have a hero exactly, Miss Hanny, yet my
friend, Frank Forrester, has had a varied and eventful life. This way."
Mr. Whitney led them up a path mostly over-grown with pale, spindling
grass that had no chance for sunshine, so close and tall were the trees.
It was undeniably gloomy, hidden away here. A little old brown,
weather-beaten house hung with vines, that even stretched up into the
trees; small, narrow windows, with diamond-shaped panes that could not
let in much light, it would seem.
"It's a horrid place," cried Dele. "Hanny, we shall surely see a ghost.
The idea of living at the very foot of a burying-ground!"
Hanny held tight to Joe's hand. She was beginning to have what Miss
Cynthia called the "creeps."