THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE
Yes, Hanny Underhill was a little girl again in gaiter-length dresses,
and her braids tied across at the back of her head. They let her sleep
until the latest moment; and then she had to hurry off to school. But
her eyes were bright; and she could have danced along the street, if it
had been the proper thing to do.
Daisy did not fare so well. She had a headache, and was very languid.
Joe said Hanny had better not go down; and that Daisy would be all right
to-morrow. So Hanny studied her lessons, and began to read "Vanity Fair"
aloud to grandmother. But grandmother said she didn't care about such a
silly girl as Amelia; and though there were wretched women in the world,
she didn't believe any one ever was quite so scheming and heartless as
Becky.
Then Hanny told her father about the dancing, and the partners she had,
and Mr. Andersen, who was going back to Germany to marry some distant
cousin. Altogether, it was a splendid time, only she felt as if there
had been some kind of a Cinderella transformation; and that she was
safe only as long as she wore short frocks.
A week afterward, Mr. Andersen returned to the city, and Hanny was
invited down to tea at the Jaspers. They had a nice time, only the talk
was not quite so charming as when it was interspersed with dancing.
He was to go to Paris also. And now Louis Napoleon had followed in the
footsteps of his illustrious uncle, and was really Emperor of France.
What a strange, romantic history his had been!
After this, life went on with tolerable regularity. There was plenty of
amusement. Old New York did not suffer. Laura Keene thrilled them with
the "Hunchback," and many another personation. Matilda Heron was doing
some fine work in Milman's "Fazio," and the play of "The Stranger" held
audiences spell-bound. Then there were lectures for the more
sober-minded people; and you heard youngish men who were to be famous
afterward. Spirit-rappings had fallen a trifle into disfavour; and
phrenology was making converts. It was the proper thing to go to
Fowler's and have your head examined, and get a chart, which sort of
settled you until something else came along. Young ladies were going
into Combe's physiology and hygiene and cold bathing. Some very hardy
and courageous women were studying medicine. Emerson was in a certain
way rivalling Carlyle. Wendell Phillips was enchanting the cities with
his silver tongue. There had been Brooke Farm; and Margaret Fuller had
flashed across the world, married her Italian lover, who fought while
she wrote for liberty; and husband, wife, and child had met their tragic
death in very sight of her native land.
People were thinking really great thoughts; and there was a ferment of
moral, transcendental, and aesthetical philosophy. Women met to discuss
them in each other's parlours, prefiguring the era of clubs. Alice and
Ph[oe]be Cary's receptions had grown to be quite the rage; and Anne C.
Lynch was another figure in the social-literary world. Beecher was
drawing large audiences in Brooklyn, and telling the old truths in a new
fashion. There is always a great seething and tumult before the water
fairly boils and precipitates the dregs to the bottom.
But whatever comes and goes, young girls are always growing up with the
flush and fragrance and elusive fascinations of spring. To-day, a
credulous tenderness and overwhelming faith in the past; to-morrow, a
little doubtful, hesitatingly anticipative, with the watchwords of "The
True, the Good, and the Beautiful;" and still concerned in the latest
style of doing one's back hair, and if silver combs and gilt pins would
keep in fashion; and flushing celestial rosy red, yet with an odd sense
of importance, when men began to lift their hats in a gravely polite
manner, as if the laughing, hoydenish girl of yesterday, who strung
herself out four or five wide on the sidewalk with books in hand, was
the shy, refined, hesitating, utterly delicious young woman of to-day.
There were times when Hanny stood on the mysterious borderland. She used
to steal up and look at the wraith of a ball-dress hanging in the
third-floor closet, put away with the "choice" garments. The skirt
looked so long, almost uncanny. She could see the girl who had gone to
the banquet, who had danced with young men who asked "the pleasure" with
the politest inclination of the head. And, oh, the lovely dances she had
with Mr. Andersen! The bewitching Spanish movement floated through her
brain; and the young man's voice--what a curious, lingering sweetness it
had--went over her like a wave of music. Of course his German cousin
would fall in love with him,--how could she help it?--and they would
marry. They would go to Paris once a year or so, when business took him;
they would go over to London; but their real home would be in some
German town, or maybe in the castle from which the pretty grandmother
had run away with her American lover. She was so glad there were real
romances left in the world. It wasn't likely any would happen to her.
She was not tall, nor elegant, nor handsome; and though she could sing
"Bonnie Doon," "Annie Laurie," "A Rose-tree in Full Bearing," and "The
Girl I Left behind me," for her father, she was not a company singer.
But she really didn't mind. Her father would want her. She wasn't quite
resigned to being an old maid; but then she need not worry until she was
twenty-five. And when you came to that, half the relatives were fighting
for Miss Cynthia Blackfan; and Mr. Erastus Morgan had invited her over
to Paris to see the new Emperor, who was copying in every way his
granduncle who had ruled half Europe.
Then she would close the closet door and run blithely downstairs with a
bit of song. That was Miss Nan Underhill up there; and in her short
school-girl frock she was plain household Hanny.
But they had delightful times. Doctor Joe bought a new buggy, very wide
in the seat, and used to take her and Daisy out when the days were
pleasant. Then Charles and Josie came over evenings, or they went to
Mrs. Dean's, and talked and sang and discussed their favourite poems and
stories, and thought how rich the world was growing, and wondered how
their grandfathers and grandmothers had existed!
The little rue in the Underhills' cup became sweetened presently with
the balm of love and forbearance, that time or circumstances usually
brings about when truth and good sense are at the helm.
Matters had gone rather hard with Delia Whitney of late. In a certain
fashion, she had come to the parting of the intellectual ways. People
were as eager then as now to discover new geniuses. There were not so
many writing, and it was easier to gain a hearing. She had been
successful. She had been praised; her stories and poems were accepted,
published, and paid for. She had been made much of by her brother's
friends, and some of the literary women she had met.
She began to realise it was not altogether wandering at one's sweet
will, unless one had a garden of unfailing bloom in which to gather the
flowers of poetry, or even prose. There were greater heights than even
girlhood's visions. But there must be training and study to reach them,
and she had been lilting along in a desultory way, like a careless
child.
But had she any real genius? When she bent her whole mind to the
cultivation of every energy, what if she should find it was energy and
imagination merely? Her novel did not progress to her satisfaction.
Characters might be common-place; but there was to be force enough in
their delineation to keep the attention of the reader. They must be
clear-cut, vivid; and hers seemed all too much alike, with no salient
points.
"Do you suppose no one ever felt discouraged before?" asked Ben, with
his brave, sweet smile. "That's no sign."
"But if I really wasn't a genius? And I have had so many splendid plans
and plots in my brain; but when they come out, they are flat and weak. I
don't ever expect to stand on the top-most round; but I can't stay down
at the bottom always. I would rather not be anywhere."
Ben comforted her in his quiet fashion.
"Oh, what should I do without you!" she cried. "I want to achieve
something for your sake."
"You will achieve. And if you do not, there is enjoyment left. You
inspire other people."
"With a kind of girlish nonsense that passes for wit. But older minds
demand the real article."
"You have a certain brightness of talk that brings out the best in other
people. That is a rare gift, I am beginning to observe. Put the novel by
for a little while."
"But every time I take it out, it seems worse," she returned ruefully.
Then she admitted another worry.
"Aunt Patty stumbled and fell about a month ago in her room. She was
lame for some days; and I can see she isn't quite the same. Mother
thinks it was a stroke. She is old, you know, and if she should be laid
up! She clings to me so. You see, she misses Nora, who was running in
and out, and the young girls who came here, and--oh, Ben, I am afraid I
am growing stupid!"
Ben laughed and kissed her, and told her not to cross bridges until she
came to them.
Then Theodore went to Washington for a fortnight; and Ben felt that it
was hard for Delia to be bereft of that useful article, a man around the
house. When Theodore returned, there was an imperative journey to the
West. Already there were clouds rising that disquieted the wisest
statesmen who were studying how to prevent any outward clashing. Mr.
Whitney, with his _savoir faire_, was considered one of the best men to
send on a _quasi_ political mission.
"You just drop in to supper every evening, Ben," he said with his
Good-bye. "Dele has a head worth that of any half-dozen women; but I
like to feel some one is looking after her. Mother is away a good deal."
The. had a misgiving Ben and Delia might want to marry; but they
couldn't possibly spare Delia. So he was very friendly and obliging to
Ben.
"Mother," oddly enough, was taking a great interest in the small end of
the woman question, that was pushing its way in among other things. Mr.
Whitney had been the most indulgent of husbands, and her sons had
accepted household discomforts with no grumbling. But she took most
kindly to the emancipation of women. She had a friend in Brooklyn who
was lecturing on the subject; and she had vague aspirations that way
herself. She was still a woman of fine presence and a fair share of
intelligence.
Bridget had married, and been superseded by an untrained Katy. Aunt
Patty was growing rather weak-hearted and childish, so Delia did have
her hands full, and but little time for writing.
Theodore had been absent hardly a week when the stroke came. One
morning, Aunt Patty was unable to move hand or foot on one side, and
could hardly speak intelligibly, though her face kept its sweet
expression. Mrs. Whitney had gone away somewhere with her friend.
When Ben heard the sad story that night, and folded the trembling,
sobbing girl to his heart, his resolve was taken. A nurse had come, to
be sure; but Delia should not bear this trial alone. He must live here,
and comfort her with his love.
He went home quite early that evening. His father and Hanny were in
Joe's study; his mother sat alone, darning stockings.
She glanced up and smiled; but when she saw his grave face, she said,
"Oh, Ben, what has happened?"
"They are in great trouble down at Beach Street. Old Aunt Boudinot has
had a stroke of paralysis. Mrs. Whitney has gone on a little journey
with a friend; and Delia is alone. Mother, I have resolved to be married
and help her bear her burthen. There is no immediate danger of Miss
Boudinot dying, I believe; but since The. is away--they need some one--"
"Ben!"
Then she looked in her boy's face. Benny Frank and Jim were still boys
to her. There was Joe to be married before it came their turn, and poor
George, if he should live to come back. But it was not a boy's face, nor
a boy's pleading eyes, that met hers. A man's grave sweetness, and sense
of responsibility, shone in the clear, deep grey orbs, and the whole
face had matured, so that she was amazed, bewildered.
"Mother dear," he began, "can't you wish me God speed, as you have the
others? I've never loved any one but Delia; I never shall. I know I can
make her happy; and isn't there some duty on my side? Am I to demand
everything, and throw out a few crumbs of comfort now and then? We have
known each other long enough to be quite sure, quite satisfied. But she
has said all along she would not marry me until she could be considered
a daughter of the house. I shall persuade her to now, unless--mother,
can't you give her a welcome?"
He put his arms about his mother's neck. Was there some mysterious
strength and manliness in him she had not realised before, even in his
very voice. When had she lost her boy? What a pang went to her inmost
heart. Yes, he was a man, and he had a right to himself. She was not a
selfish woman; but her face dropped down on his shoulder and she cried
softly.
"Mother--dear." There was a sweet, faint break in his voice, and he
kissed her brow softly.
"You have been such a good boy, Ben. I've been a little worried
sometimes about Jim; but you have gone on so straight and steadfast. I
do thank the Lord for all of you. And I have wanted you to have the
best--"
"She is the best to me, mother. Like her a little for my sake," he
pleaded tenderly.
"I _do_ like her. If she makes you happy--"
That was all. If Delia made her son as happy as Dolly or Cleanthe--
Ben kissed his mother. Ten years ago she had thought kissing rather
foolish for anybody but the little girl. Now her big sons always kissed
her. Perhaps there was more love in the world.
They began to make plans presently. Ben was in favour of a quiet
marriage; and of course he would remain at Beach Street. Delia had
promised to care for her aunt; and there was no one else to take
charge.
"I don't know as I have been just right about it," said Mrs. Underhill.
"But Mrs. Whitney's carelessness and inefficiency have always tried me.
Still, the children have turned out well. Delia is smart, and capable;
and since you are quite resolved--"
Ben smiled then; and it went to his mother's heart. He knew he had won
the victory.
The next morning she said to him:--
"Ben, I've decided to go down and see Delia. I have never been there but
once, since they went to Beach Street. Could you stop and tell her? Give
her my love. I'm very sorry all this should happen, and she alone."
Mrs. Underhill was not given to half-hearted measures. When the work was
done, and the dinner planned out, she dressed herself and went
down-town. Delia was a little embarrassed at first; but they talked
about Aunt Boudinot, and she went up to see her. The sweet old face
lighted up, and she reached out her "best hand," in a sad sort of
fashion; but she could utter only one word at a time.
"Ben said, I must keep you to dinner, and he would come up," exclaimed
Delia, with a bright blush. It was so like old times to hear her
cheerful voice. "And you will be late at home."
Delia ran down and put on a clean cloth, and wiped the dishes over with
a dry towel, to take off the roughness Katy always left behind in her
manipulations. And she broiled the steak herself. She could do that to
perfection.
Then they arranged about the marriage. Delia certainly did need some
one. It was not worth while to make any fuss. Mrs. Whitney would surely
be back by Monday, and it was appointed for that evening.
Dolly took the news with cordial sweetness. Margaret was sorry that Ben
had not looked a little higher; but since it must be, they would make
the best of it. Hanny was delighted. Joe went down that very evening,
and gave the young people his best love.
Mrs. Whitney came home on Saturday. She considered the step very
judicious. She thought they had been engaged long enough. Then Ben and
The. were such good friends; and with The. away so much, it was
lonesome. "She was glad they had set the marriage for Monday evening,
for she had promised to go out to Buffalo on Tuesday with Mrs. Stafford.
A nurse was the proper thing for Aunt Patty. It was too bad, to be sure;
but at her time of life, one might expect almost anything. And she, Mrs.
Whitney, never had been any sort of a nurse; so it was folly for her to
undertake it." She was very sweet to Aunt Patty. She had a good deal of
the suavity that helps matters to run easily, and her sympathies were
boundless.
Delia's sisters, and their children, and a few friends were invited. All
the Underhills came, and Hanny was bridesmaid; but she wore her last
summer's embroidered muslin, which was not long in the skirt.
They missed Ben a good deal, though he ran up every now and then. And
Theodore was gone six weeks, instead of two or three. Now that Mrs.
Underhill had really "given in," she was most cordial and sympathetic to
her new daughter. Doctor Joe went down every day, though very little
could be done, since even a physician could not fight against old age.
Joe thought Delia very sweet and patient.
There were two great undertakings engrossing the public mind. One was a
grand library. Old Mr. John Jacob Astor, some years previous, had left a
large sum of money for this purpose; and there were heated discussions
as to its scope and purpose. It would be a reference library rather than
an entirely free library for general readers. But it would be a fine
addition to the city.
The other was the Crystal Palace. There had been the first famous
World's Fair at Sydenham, opened by the Prince Consort. And now, we were
trying our energy and ingenuity to have something worthy of attracting
the nations. Reservoir Square had been selected; and the great iron
braces and supports and ribs had been watched with curiously eager eyes,
as they spread out into a giant framework, and were covered with glass
that glinted in the sun like molten gold. When its graceful dome arose,
enthusiasm knew no bounds.
We had not dreamed of the great White City then. But we were only in the
early middle part of the century.
A park had been opened on the east side, out of an old tract known as
"Jones's Woods," and was quite a picnic-place for the working-people on
a holiday. There was a talk about another, and, perhaps, the inspiration
was evolved as the Fair grounds were being put in attractive order. A
short time afterward, the Central Park board was appointed, with
Washington Irving as president.
The country was wild and rough all about. Here and there, clusters of
houses began to indicate the coming city. Kip farm had not disappeared;
and people talked of Strawberry Hill and Harlem Heights; and there
remained some fortifications of the old Rock House of 1812 memory. The
old times were recalled, as people went rambling around.
Broadway still kept its vogue and elegance on the dollar side. There was
Thompson's and Taylor's, where the stylish young ladies stopped in the
afternoon for chocolate or cream and confections, and theatre parties
went after the play. But, on the whole, there were mysterious strides
up-town.
The old streets were quaint and cool in summer, with the trees that had
grown for years in ungrudged spaces. The park in Beach Street was still
lovely; and now Hanny often went over from school and stayed to tea with
Ben and Delia. Daisy came down as well; and they talked of Nora, who was
getting on famously, and who had sung at an out-of-doors fete for a
children's charity.
Delia was happy and charming; but she was very much engrossed with home
affairs. Nurses grew tired and went away; and Aunt Patty became more and
more helpless.
Then came the great event to Hanny's life, and she was quite nervous
over it. This was graduation; but when she had passed the examinations
successfully, the real care was over.
And the new clothes! The old ones had been made to do through the
spring; but now there was no question about long skirts. There were
pretty plaid summer-silks,--everybody wore them then, and they were
almost as cheap as now,--lawns, a light grey cashmere for ordinary
occasions, and a white India muslin for graduation. The very next
evening Dolly was to give her a party.
Grandmother thought it ought to be at home, instead.
"She will want one in the fall," said Dolly, "to announce that she is
really Miss Underhill, and ready for society. Home will be the place for
that. And she will be getting acquainted with young people through the
summer. She's never been anything but a little girl."
There wasn't such a fuss made about sweet girl graduates then; and,
later on, Rutgers Institute was to wheel into line and become a college;
but even now they had bouquets and baskets of flowers. And some of the
girls had lovers, and were engaged, even if there was no co-education.
The chapel was crowded with admiring friends; and the girls looked sweet
and pretty in their white gowns and flowing curls; for youth has a charm
and beauty of its own that does not depend on regular features, or
style, or any of the later accessories of life. It is an enchanted land
of sunny skies and heavenly atmospheres.
She came home out of it all with a curious new feeling. That night of
the banquet it had been almost a masquerade. Even now the blue shimmer
and clouds of white ruffles seemed to belong to some other state. She
wondered a little if she would ever wear it again.
There were some pretty gifts for her at home. Josie Dean and Charlie
Reed came around in the evening. He had passed his first year's
examinations successfully.
Doctor Joe and Jim and the elder people were talking very earnestly
about the duties and the purposes of life. Josie touched Hanny's hand,
and, with a little movement, the sign girls understand, drew her out on
the porch.
"Let us walk down the path. Oh, Hanny, I've something to tell you!" and
her voice was in a sort of delicious tremble. "May be you have
suspected. I told Charlie I _must_ confess it to you; though we do not
mean to say much about it at present. Oh, Hanny, can't you guess?"
There were so many things; it was something joyful, certainly. She
glanced up and smiled. Josie's face was all one roseate flush.
"Oh!" with a mysterious throb.
"We are engaged, dear. I don't know when we began to love each other. We
have been so much with each other, you know. He has helped me with my
lessons; and we have sung, and played, and read, and gone to church
together. It was like having a brother. Tudie and I used to envy you
the boys. And it was not quite like a brother either, for another
feeling came in. Sometimes I wanted to run away, such a queer tremble
came over me. Then there were hours when I could hardly wait for him to
come home from the seminary. And for a while, he was so grave, I
wondered if I had offended him. And then--do you suppose any one can
tell just _how_ it happens?--though they always do in books. All in an
instant, you know some one loves you. It's strange and beautiful and
exciting; and it seems as if the best and loveliest of all the world had
come to you. We have been engaged a whole week; and every day it grows
more mysteriously delightful."
"It is so strange," said Hanny, with a long, indrawn breath.
"And--Charlie!"
"Oh, don't you remember how we waylaid Mr. Reed one night, and begged
him to let Charlie go to singing-school? He laughed about it the other
night, though he said you were the bravest of the three. And he is
delighted with it. Then mother is so fond of Charles. Of course it will
be a two years' engagement. Mother doesn't want me to teach school now.
She thinks I ought to learn about housekeeping and sewing, and fit
myself for a minister's wife. That seems so solemn, doesn't it? Oh, I do
wonder if I can be good enough! And visiting the poor, and helping to
the right way, and being patient and sweet, and real religious! But he
will help me; and he is so good! I think he couldn't have been anything
but a minister. I _do_ suppose Mrs. Reed knows about it in heaven. She
was so different that last year, sweeter and kinder; and we feel sure
she has gone to heaven. But we want her to know; and dear little Tudie!
You must come over and spend the day, now that school is ended; and we
will do nothing but talk about it. Oh, Hanny, I hope some day you will
have a lover! But you seem such a sort of a little girl even yet. And I
have worn long skirts a whole year."
A lover! Hanny's face was scarlet in the fragrant dusk.
"We must go in. I promised mother we would not stay late. And Charlie
has some examinations for to-morrow. You may tell your mother and Daisy
Jasper."
Joe said they needn't hurry off so; and Charles flushed as he looked at
Josie. They rose and said good-night; and Josie kissed Hanny in a
rapturous kind of fashion.
"I'll bet a sixpence those two youngsters are engaged," said Jim.
"Hanny, what was all the long talk about?"
She was not quite sure all the rest were to be taken in the confidence;
but she looked so conscious, and Jim was so positive, that she admitted
the fact.
"That's just like a theological student."
"It is a very suitable engagement. Mrs. Dean has brought Josie up
sensibly; and Charles is such a fine fellow. Of course they must all be
pleased about it," commented Mrs. Underhill.