THE OLD, OLD STORY, EVER NEW
When Mr. Underhill took Polly home the next day, it was with the
stipulation that she should come back and spend a week. Polly was wild
with delight, and packed up her best things. There were some other
visitors,--cousins of the elderly sort,--so the young people had their
own good times. Daisy and Mr. Andersen were in, and Charlie and they had
the happy enjoyment of youth.
Peter Beekman seemed devoted to them. Jim wouldn't be crowded out where
Daisy was concerned, but he wanted to be first with her. Mr. Andersen
gave way generously, and went over to Hanny, who somehow clung to Polly.
There was a good deal of business to be done for Mr. Herman Andersen.
His father's share in the New York firm was to be transferred to him, as
at the age of twenty-five he had come into possession of his mother's
fortune, that had been accumulating. His father was to take charge of
the Paris house. He spent some hours every morning with Mr. Jasper,
acquiring a knowledge of his new duties; but the afternoons were for
pleasure, until the autumnal business stirred up.
"I do wish young Beekman wouldn't come over here so much," Mrs.
Underhill said in a fretted tone, "or that he would take a real fancy to
Polly."
"They are just having a young people's good time," returned Joe.
"Polly's a nice girl. He might do worse."
"But I am afraid it is not Polly. He watches Hanny like a cat watching a
mouse."
"Nonsense!" declared Joe.
"But he does. And I don't like it."
"Oh, mother dear, you're a hen with one chick. If there is a rustle in
the leaves you think a hawk is going to pounce down."
"Hanny's too young to have lovers." She tried to keep her face in severe
lines.
"Hanny isn't thinking about lovers. And Peter is a fine, solid fellow,
who is going to make his mark, and who may be a sort of ballast to Jim.
I like him."
"Oh, he is well enough. But if there was any fuss it might annoy Dolly.
And we have always been so cordial; Margaret was married too young."
"And you were married too young. Now, if you had waited and done without
Steve and me, and begun with John--"
There was a twinkle in Doctor Joe's eye.
"I should have begun with the most sensible son," returned his mother;
but she could not keep her voice sharp.
"Well, I will look after Hanny and the young man. I think myself that we
don't need any more lovers right away."
She knew she could depend on him.
Then they had some anxiety at Ben's, and Delia's mother was away. Aunt
Boudinot had her third stroke, and lay insensible for several days, then
slipped out of life. Mrs. Underhill was quite surprised with Delia's
good sense, as she called it, and really she wasn't such a bad
housekeeper for a girl with no training.
There was the funeral, with some of New York's oldest families.
Afterward the will was read. Aunt Patty had made a new one on the death
of her sister.
There was a small legacy to the niece who had married; a remembrance to
several relatives and friends. The use of the house was to be Mrs.
Whitney's while she lived; at her death to be sold and divided between
her niece, Delia Whitney, and her grand-niece, Eleanora Whitney. And to
Delia Whitney, if she took faithful care of her until her death, the sum
of five thousand dollars in bank-stock.
She had taken faithful care of her, and would have done it out of the
kindness of her heart without any reward.
"I thought it might be a thousand dollars," she said to Ben, "and I made
up my mind if it should be that, we would take it and go abroad. I had
some savings beside. When Bayard Taylor told us about his tour I felt
sure we could do something like it. We would keep out of the expensive
tourists' ways, and live cheaply, keeping house when we could. Oh, Ben,
won't it be splendid!"
He thought it splendid to have her so generous, but he had some savings
as well.
Five thousand dollars was considered quite a legacy in those days; and
the bank-stock was worth a good deal more than its face.
Every one said they would be crazy to waste their money in such a
frivolous manner.
"I don't mind if I shouldn't ever be rich," declared Ben. "I want a
piece of the big world, with its knowledges and wonders. I shouldn't
care to live there always, but it broadens one to see what other nations
have done; what has made their greatness and what has contributed to
their downfall. And the arts and sciences, the mysteries of the East and
of Egypt. We are young yet as a country, and we have a right to gather
up the riches of experience. I only hope we shall profit by it."
So they planned and planned. Delia looked over the old things, and sent
Dolly and Hanny some antiquities of a century or more. Then she packed
and boxed hers, for she knew her mother might deal them out to
indifferent people. She thought it would be a good plan to hire out the
house to some one who would board her mother and Theodore; and presently
one of the married sisters, Mrs. Ferris, decided she would come. So then
they could plan to go away; and Delia might write her novel while she
was abroad.
Meanwhile the summer was slipping away like a dream. The great fair
still attracted a large concourse. But September came in, and schools
opened. Jim went back to regular study; Charles to the seminary. Hanny
had some more schoolmates married. There was another baby at Margaret's;
and it was so delightful to go down to Delia's and hear all the plans!
Now that Hanny had learned so much at the Crystal Palace, she had quite
a longing for churches and museums and art galleries. Herman Andersen
had visited so many of them!
Sometimes Daisy Jasper went down with her. Mr. Andersen came for them in
the evening. Delia he thought wonderfully bright and entertaining. Ben
liked him amazingly.
"But if I had all that money," said Ben, "I wouldn't confine myself to
such puttering stuff as silks and laces and India shawls; I should want
to do something high up and fine, like a magazine or a paper, that had
influence and scope. Some day I mean to own a share in a paper, where
you have a chance to touch up public opinion."
Herman Andersen seemed very happy and content. Mr. Jasper said he was
going to make a fine, reliable business man. He really felt he wouldn't
object to him for a son.
Grandmother Van Kortlandt was growing more feeble, and now and then had
a bad spell. Doctor Joe made light of it, and told her red lavender and
aromatic hartshorn were good for old ladies. She seemed to want her
daughter near her. The young man who had alarmed Mrs. Underhill did not
come so frequently, so she began to feel quite safe.
Oh, what a happy, happy summer it had been! The little girl was used to
her long frocks, and studied ways of doing her hair, and practised
Mendelssohn's "Songs without Words" because some one had said they were
the most beautiful things he had ever heard. She and Daisy and Mr.
Andersen talked German, and had no end of fun.
One afternoon Mr. Andersen came in.
"Let us go up to the Crystal Palace," he said. "It is the most glorious
afternoon imaginable. There is a sort of hazy red gold in the air, that
exhilarates one. You feel as if you could soar to heaven's gate."
"We haven't been up in almost a fortnight," said Hanny, laughing.
"The more need of our going now. I enjoy these superb days to the full."
Hanny went to get her hat. Grandmother generally took her nap early in
the afternoon. Mother was not in her own room, she saw, as she looked
in, so she ran on down. She was not in the kitchen either.
"Joe," she cried--there was no one in the office, and he sat with his
legs stretched out, and a book on the table beside him, looking very
comfortable,--"Joe, where is mother?"
"Up with grandmother, dear. Don't disturb her. What did you want?"
"Oh, nothing--only to say--we are going up to the fair."
"Very well; run along. You look as sweet as a pink."
A bright color flashed over her face, and settled in her dimple, making
it look like a rose as she smiled.
She was putting on her blossom-coloured lace mitts as she entered the
room. Some one else thought she looked as sweet as a pink when he rose,
and led the way.
She turned down the street.
"Oh, Daisy is not going," he said. "She had a headache all the morning.
You don't mind?"
"Oh, no. Poor dear Daisy! And I didn't go in!" Her voice was touched
with the sweetest regret and compassion.
Doctor Joe went upstairs presently, to grandmother.
"Her breathing is better," he said. "I have tried a new remedy. When she
has had some sleep she will be all right. This isn't quite a normal
state yet. Call me if there is any special change."
Then he went down to the office again. People came more in the morning
or the evening, and he had attended to his urgent calls. He was glad not
to go out just then. But he thought of the young people on their way to
the palace of delight. Had he ever been young and joyous, as the youth
of to-day? He had studied and worked, taught some, used up all his time,
and had none for the passing vagaries. What made him feel old, and as if
some of the rarest delights would pass him by?
There was a light tap at the office-door, though it stood ajar. He rose
and opened it wider.
"Why, Daisy Jasper!" he cried in amazement. "Or is it your wraith? I
thought you had gone to the fair with Hanny."
She had been very pale; now she flushed a little. There was a
tremulousness about her, and shadows under her eyes.
"I had a headache all the morning; most of the night as well. It has
gone off somewhat, but I didn't feel well enough for that."
"No, of course not." He led her to the pretty library, that was always
having a picture or a set of books added. You couldn't put in any more
easy-chairs. He placed her in one. As he touched her hand, he felt the
feverish tremble.
"My dear child, what is it?"
Her eyes drooped, and tears beaded the lashes.
"You shouldn't have come out. Why did you not send for me?"
"I--I wanted to come. I knew Hanny would be gone. I wanted to see you."
She was strangely embarrassed.
He was standing by the side of the chair and took her hand again. How
limp and lifeless it seemed!
"I wanted to see you--to ask you, to tell you--oh, how shall I say
it!--if you could help me a little. You are so wise, and can think of so
many ways--and I am so afraid he loves me--it would not be right--"
Yes, that was it. This bright, charming, well-bred, fortunate young
fellow loved her. He could keep her like a little queen. And she had
some conscientious scruple about her health, and her trifling lameness,
and all. A word from him would keep her where she was. He had carried
her in his arms, his little ewe lamb. No man could ever give her the
exquisite care that he would be able to bestow. Oh, could he let any one
take her out of his life!
Yet some one younger and richer loved her. Yes, he _must_ stand aside.
"My child,"--he would be grave and fatherly,--"I think you are making
yourself needless trouble. Why should you refuse a good man's love? You
have your beauty, and a gift that is really a genius, and though you may
not be as strong as some women, that is no reason why you should deny
yourself the choicest blessing of a woman's life."
"But"--she gave a little sob--"I thought you might blame me for being
heedless. We have all been such friends. And I don't want anything to
mar the perfect pleasantness. I know it is not right because--how can I
make you understand! It might wound you if I said it--I think it can
never be that kind of love--"
Did he hear aright, or was it some subtle temptation?
"You, of all other women, should be careful not to make a mistake. It
would mean more to you afterward--if matters went a little wrong."
"And he is so gay, so full of life and fun, and always wanting one to
keep up to the highest pitch. It would not be the right thing for him."
"But he is very gentle as well."
"Dr. Underhill, tell me that it isn't the right step for me to take,
_ever_," Daisy said decisively.
"I cannot tell you any such thing. I will not bar you out of any
happiness."
Perhaps he really approved of it. They were all in a way proud of the
younger brother. And Jim thought there was no such splendid man in the
world as the doctor. Oh, if she only knew! She was heroic enough to
please them all for the sake of the past and present friendship. But she
had a doubt of Mrs. Underhill's approval. She might give in as she had
to Delia; and now she had really begun to find virtues in Ben's wife.
But with Jim's brilliant nature always on the alert for amusement, she,
Daisy, would be worn out trying to keep up to his standard.
She rose slowly. "I ought not have come," she began in a despondent
tone. "I thought I could talk it all over with you; but I must decide,
and bear the pain. You may all feel hurt, even if you acknowledge the
wisdom of my decision. It would be a delight to come and live with you
all; I who have had no brothers or sisters. But I think Jim will soon
get over it, especially if _you_ point out the unwisdom of it all. Maybe
you will take me back into favour then, when the soreness is spent."
"Jim," he repeated, in a vague, absent sort of way. "Jim! Who are you
talking about, Daisy?"
Her face was scarlet, and her eyes full of tears.
"Your brother James. It is a shame, I know, to betray one man's inmost
secrets to another. But I am quite sure that I ought not, that I cannot,
marry him. Oh, will you all forgive me, and help him to forget all but
the friendship?"
She took a step toward the door. The scarlet went out of her face, and
she swayed as if her strength was all gone. He caught her, and put her
back in the chair.
"Jim!" now in a tone of great surprise, and giving a little incredulous
laugh. "Why, I thought it was Herman Andersen."
Joe's heart seemed suddenly to enlarge and fill his whole body. There
was a ringing in his ears, as of joy-bells.
"Herman Andersen!" she said composedly. "Oh, have you all been blind?
Why, he is in love with Hanny! He came back to America to win her, and
he will if he serves seven years."
Doctor Joe looked at her in amaze. Ah, yes, they had been blind. They
had fenced out young Peter Beckman, and opened the door wide to this
unsuspected lover. And he knew as well as it Hanny had confessed it,
that her heart had gone to meet his on the magic sea of love, and they
would come into port no longer twain, but one.
He sat down on the broad arm of the chair. He could see Daisy's long
agitated breaths quiver through her body; and she looked tired and
spent. Poor little girl!
"No, I had never thought of Jim," he began gravely, "because he is so
fond of girls; a general worshipper. Not but what he might be very true
and devoted to one. He seems so young yet. Daisy,"--his voice
fell,--"did he ask you--"
Her head drooped a little, and her shining curls hid her face.
"Oh, do believe that when I thought of it first I did try to evade,
to--to laugh him out of it. That was a month ago. He kept saying little
things I would not heed or seem to understand. It has been such a gay,
happy summer for us all! And there was Charlie's engagement. Last
evening mamma and papa had gone out to call on a friend, and we were
quite alone--"
How much was volatile temperament and the love of pursuit, and how much
the deeper regard? Let him do his young brother justice.
"Charlie is young, to be sure, but he is a very steady-minded fellow,
and his mother's and Tudie's death brought them together in a very
sympathetic manner. Then Charles is about certain of a good position.
Jim has his fortune all to make. And you are right about some other
qualities. Herman Andersen would be a much better companion for you. Jim
is strong and energetic, full of life, and will always be among the busy
bustling things, and deep in excitements. He would wear you out."
"And don't you see that when he is five or six and twenty he will need
something better than an invalid wife, who might have to go to bed with
a headache when he was giving an important dinner, or having a brilliant
sort of evening with some stylish guests? He ought to have a wife
something like Mrs. Hoffman, who would help him to the finest things of
life. And though I seem well, I shall never be real strong; and I do not
care for grand society. I like a good deal of quiet and ease, and just
everyday living, a little painting when I feel inspired, a little
reading and talks with friends, and old-fashioned music. I sometimes
feel as if I was an old girl, and ought to have lived a century ago.
Perhaps I shall make a queer, stuffy old woman. And--I ought not to
marry."
"You shall not give up the divine right," he made answer, earnestly.
"Oh, I have a pretty face just now, and people, I find, _do_ admire
beauty. But that will fade." Then she sprang up suddenly, parted her
long ringlets, and stood with her back to him. "See," and her voice
trembled, he knew there were tears in her eyes, "I have a little crook
in my back, and one high shoulder. There has to be half an inch of cork
in one boot-sole to keep me straight and from limping. No, I shouldn't
do for a handsome young man like Jim, for I may grow lamer and crookeder
as I grow older; nor for any man, although you try to comfort me with an
almost divine compassion."
She was sobbing in his arms then. It was not the first time she had wept
out her sorrow there.
He raised the golden head a little, and kissed down amid the passionate
tears that were sweeping away a kind of regret that sometimes haunted
her. He had kissed her often as a little child, but rarely since her
return from abroad. Her girlhood had been a quality fine and rare and
sacred to him.
"Except the one man who has always loved you from the poor little child
in her pitiful pain and anguish, and the little girl who began to take
courage and face the world, the larger girl who was brave and
sunny-hearted, and looked out with hopeful eyes on the world that had so
many blessings. And he knows now that no skill can ever shut out all
suffering; but his sympathy and tender affection will help her through
years that may be weary and sorrowful, and endure with her whatever
burden comes, make her pathway easy and pleasant and restful."
"Oh, you must not," she cried, with a pang of renunciation. "Whatever
applies to another man applies with double force to you. You are so
noble, so tender; so worthy of what is best in life! And you have to
carry so many burdens for other people that you must have some one brave
and strong and full of energy and in perfect health--"
"The woman I love will be better than all this to me," he returned, with
a sweetness in his voice that went to her very heart, and brought the
tears to her eyes again. Then he dropped down in the great chair and
took her gently in his arms, and he knew his case was as good as won.
"When you were a little girl you once said to Hanny if you could have a
brother out of the clan you would like it to be me. And for days the
quaint, generous little soul could hardly resolve whether it was not her
duty to give me away. Then don't you remember you both planned to come
and keep my bachelor-home? Some one else will take her. And we will
wait, dear. We will go on in the same friendly, kindly fashion. You must
run in and out and come to me with your headaches and perplexities, and
I shall scold you a little and give you a bitter tonic; and when
everything is just right I shall ask you to marry me; but all the time I
shall be loving you so much that it will be impossible for you to refuse
me. So you know what is in store, and no one need trouble about the
future. You are not engaged, you are quite free; and, like Ben, I will
wait seven years or twenty years for you. But I think you never can
belong to any one else."
Ah, what delightful security!
"Dear, dear Doctor Joe. Oh, it would be too much happiness! No, I ought
not; mamma thinks I ought not to marry. And," raising her head and
showing a face full of scarlet flushes and tears, and eyes shining with
love's own light, "it looks just as if I had come in here and really
asked you to marry me. We have forgotten all about poor Jim. You will
think me a coquette, and you ought to despise me."
His clasp tightened a little.
"I am sorry that Jim should have been so heedless. Perhaps it will be
better to let him learn how much in earnest you are with your refusal.
It may not be flattering to a young girl to think a man will forget
her."
"But I want him to forget that part," she interrupted eagerly.
"I think he will. And if he comes to me for comfort, I will try to be a
wise father-confessor. And yet I can't help pitying the man a little who
will lose you. Only in this case it would be like having an exotic
without a conservatory, and not quite knowing how to build one."
"Joseph!" his mother called from upstairs.
Daisy sprang up and smoothed her ruffled plumes, Joe gave her one long,
dear kiss, and she flashed out of the little room.
She held her head very high. It was the most splendid thing that could
happen to a girl; but she was not going to spoil her dear Doctor Joe's
life.
Are there days that the Lord of all the earth has created for love? Some
days seem made especially for sorrow. But this had such an exquisite
serenity brooding in the air. It was not late enough to have any regrets
for the passing of summer, and oh, what a summer it had been!
"Do you really want to go up to the fair?" Herman Andersen had asked,
when they reached the corner.
"Why,--" Hanny hesitated,--"we have seen it a good many times," and she
gave her soft, rippling laugh.
"Let us go over to Tompkin's Square." He had something to say to her
that would be easier said in those deserted walks. You could always find
them except on Saturday or Sunday.
"Very well," with her graceful assent.
The birds, done with their summer housekeeping and child-rearing, had
time to sing again. But it was all low, plaintive songs, as if they
said: "We must go away from the place in which we have been so happy.
Will we be sure to come another spring?" Now and then a branch stirred.
The grass had been cut for the last time, and there were sweet little
winrows that filled the air with fragrance. He was quiet, for he liked
to hear her enchanting talk. It had turned upon when she was a little
girl, and how queer things were! It didn't seem as if everything could
change so. And what a great gay time they had at the Beekmans' when
Stephen was married! So they walked around, and were at an entrance. A
cabman put down a woman and some children just as Mr. Andersen had said,
"We were going up there some day, you know; we ought to go before
everything has faded."
"Yes," she made answer.
"See here, we might get this cab and go up now"--looking up with eager
inquiry.
Dickens had not created Mr. Wemmick with his delightful off-hand
premeditated happenings; but other people had them even then.
She made no demur, but assented with her innocent eyes full of exquisite
sweetness.
He helped her in and sat along side of her. He had all kinds of young
lover-like thoughts, and really he so seldom had her alone. He wanted to
snatch up the hand and kiss it. It made such a tempting background for
the lace mitt. No one but old ladies wore gloves, except on very fine
occasions. And her slim little fingers, with their pink nails, were so
pretty! If he could even hold her hand!
But they jolted over rough streets, through little clumps of Irish
villages, and laughed over the pigs, and geese, and children. Then
wastes again, with long, straight lines where streets were to be.
"That is the house over there," she said.
"I wonder if you could walk back? Or shall I keep the cab?"
"Oh, no. It is so delightful to walk!"
Ah, how the hand of improvement had disfigured everything! leaving ugly,
square, naked blocks, with here and there a house, then a space where
the trees were still standing; but the children despoiled the lilacs and
dogwood in the spring, and thrashed the lindens and black walnuts all
the later summer, until the poor things had a weary, drooping aspect.
Over here was the great garden, and a street ran through it. The old
house was shabby, and needed painting; and most of the vines had been
cut away. The steps were broken. Several families inhabited it now. The
cousin had thrown it up in disgust.
But the young man saw it through her eyes, glorified with the glamour of
childhood. Slim young Dolly, Aunt Gitty netting, the ladies in
rocking-chairs with their sewing under the trees, Mr. Beckman and
Katschina, and the tea on little tables; and the boys she was afraid of.
"They were such pudgy little boys," she says, with a laugh in which
there is only a remembered mirth. "They were like some of Irving's
descriptions. You wouldn't expect them to grow up into such fine-looking
men, now, would you? I think Peter is almost handsome."
It gives him a little twinge. He was jealous of Peter awhile ago; but he
admits bravely that Peter is very good-looking.
And here are some poor willows. Oh, the lovely shrubbery that is
neglected and dying!
"After all, it _is_ the people who give the charm to places,--the loving
care, the home delight. But no one could keep it up. Property gets too
valuable, and taxation is too high; and there are so many poorer people
who must have homes."
These sententious bits of wisdom he considers utterly charming. She has
caught them from John.
Then they sit down on a great stone and rest, though she protests she is
not tired. She can walk for hours.
Now he ought to tell her all that is in his heart. If the world stands
thousands of years there will never be such a golden opportunity again.
She breaks off a bit of yarrow and sticks it in her belt. How
beautifully the lashes droop over her eyes, deepening and softening the
tint, until it looks like a glint of heaven!
"Oh, we ought to go on," she says presently; and with a dainty smile and
motion, she rises. Ah, if she knew what he is wild to utter!
They turn their steps homeward. A wood-robin in a thicket sings,
"Sweet, sweet, I love you, I l-o-v-e you," with a maddening, lingering
cadence.
Why is he not as brave as the bird? Are there any choicer, more
exquisite words in which to say it?
They come to a little stream. "Oh, just down here is Kissing Bridge,"
she says, with a kind of girlish gleefulness.
She had made her father tell the old Dutch story one evening, when they
were all sitting on the stoop. And as they go on, she, with a sort of
eager, heedless step, as if she was not walking on his heart, tells
about Stephen, and how he jumped out of the carriage and gathered a
great bunch of roses for her. They have reached the spot. The stream has
shrunken. You could step over it.
"They were just there." She indicates the spot with a pretty gesture of
her head. "But there are no wild-roses now;" and a soft sigh escapes
her, as she turns to him, and their eyes meet.
"Are there none?" he asks, his eyes drinking in the sudden radiance. For
if ever dainty, delicate, ethereal wild-roses bloomed, they are in her
cheeks; and oh, what are her scarlet lips that have meant to answer, and
are mysteriously tranfixed with the rarest sweetness!
He kisses her--once, a dozen times. There is no one near. They own the
city,--the whole world, for love is Lord of all.
He slips her hand in his arm. Its tremble thrills every nerve in his
body. He experiences the overwhelming joy of possessorship, for she _is_
his.
"My darling little Nan;" and his voice is unsteady with emotion.
He has rechristened Baby Stevie's pet name; but it has never sounded so
enchanting before.
Then they walk on in delicious silence. Another bird sings in a drowsy
afternoon tone,--
"Sweet, sweet, I love you, I l-o-v-e you."
They glance at each other, and both translate it. Her cheeks are redder
than wild-roses now; and her dimple holds the sweetness of a great
mystery. They both smile, and he kisses her again. Why not? There is no
one about.
"My darling, can you guess when I first began to love you?" He wants her
to know all the story. It seems as if his whole life will not be long
enough to get it told and he must begin at once.
"When?" There is a startled sound in her voice, as if she was amazed
that love had a beginning.
"That night in the dance,--the Spanish dance. We will go somewhere this
winter and dance it over again; and the music beats will say--'I love
you.'"
"Oh, so long ago?" she exclaims.
"Yes; and I have a visiting-card of yours." He hunts in his card-case.
"Here it is--'Miss Nan Underhill.' I've kissed it thousands of times. I
have almost worn it out. And when I went home I told my father about the
little girl in New York that I must come back and win."
"Oh, did you!" She is touched by the revelation.
"He is a delightful father. Some time I must take you over to see him,
or he may come here. But he had promised that I should go to Ebberfeld;
and so I did. The aunt had proposed the match."
"And your poor cousin!" Her voice is full of such infinite pity that he
gives the little hand a tender pressure for thanks.
"I couldn't have loved her anyhow. She seems older than I; and I am a
very boy in heart. Then she was too large. I like little women."
"I am so glad," she cries, with unaffected joy, "for I am small; and I
never can grow any larger. But I don't mind now."
"So when my father found how much in earnest I was, he planned the
business change. It was my own mother's money, you know. But he has been
a good father to me, and I am glad he has some other children. I was to
go to Paris."
That seems so magnificent she is almost conscience smitten.
Ah, how much there is to say!
"But you will get tired with all this long walk," he exclaims anxiously.
Oh, blessed thought! he will have the right to keep her rested and
happy, and in a realm of joy.
"Oh, no," she returns. "Why, the walk has not seemed long." 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.