THE BEGINNINGS OF ROMANCE
There was Saratoga and Newport; and Long Branch laid claim to some distinction; even Cape May was not unknown to fame,—still the Jersey coast, with all its magnificent possibilities, really had not been discovered, and was rather contemptuously termed sand wastes. It was getting to be quite the thing to go off awhile in the summer. Some of the style had spent a "season" in London, and seen the young Queen and the Prince Consort and the royal children, and gone over to Paris to see "the nephew of his uncle," who was taking a hand in the new French Republic.
But plain people still visited their relatives a good deal. Ben had taken a holiday, and gone up to Tarrytown after Hanny; and they had made pilgrimages along to different cousins. They sat on the old porch at Fordham; but one of the cousins was married, and gone to her own home, taken the tall, bright-eyed young man who had been about so much the olden summer.
It was really a delightful walk over there. Ben was finding out odd places for Delia, who was now interested in some Revolutionary sketches. They had explored Kingsbridge; they had found Featherbed Lane; they learned the Harlem River once had borne the Indian name of Umscoota. Here, more than forty years before, Robert Macomb had built his dam, in defiance of certain national laws, as he wanted a volume of water for his mill.
Many and ineffectual were the efforts made to remove it by the surrounding property-owners who had large and beautiful estates. For no one dreamed then that the great city would sometime absorb everything, and that here was to stand a beautiful bridge, the pride of the city. But the old dam was one dark night assaulted by a "piratical craft," that demanded entrance, and, on being refused a right through the waterway, demolished the old affair; and the freed and happy river went on to the sea unvexed, and still kept Manhattan an island, to be bridged over as convenience required.
Down in one of the pretty valleys was the home of Cousin Jennie, that Hanny always connected with Mrs. Clemm and the poet. All about were green fields and orchards, hills and valleys. Between them and the Harlem lay a high wooded ridge from whose top you could see the Hudson, and the Harlem was like a cord winding in and out of green valleys. There was Fort George and Harlem plains; and Hanny recalled the two old Underhill ladies whose lives had reached back to Revolutionary times.
They rambled about the historic ground, peaceful enough then. There was the old Poole house, the De Voe house, and further up the Morris mansion. What names they recalled!—Washington, Rochambeau, the Hessian General Knyphausen.
And then Cousin Jennie's husband pointed out a place with a romantic story. When the Hessian Army had swept on in the steps of General Washington's retreating men, they had been encamped for some time, foraging about for food and demanding supplies of the farmers,—an ill-fed, and ill-clothed set of conscripts, without much enthusiasm, many of them torn from home and friends, neither knowing nor caring about the land where they had gone to fight, and perhaps lay their bones.
Among them a young fellow, Anthony Woolf by name, whose mother, in a district in distant Germany, had yielded to the blandishments of a second husband, thus rendering her son liable to conscription, as he was no longer her sole protector. Young Anthony knew his stepfather grudged him the broad acres of his patrimony, and guessed whose influence had sent the press-gang one night, and hurried him off, without even a good-bye to his mother, to the nearest seaport town, and there embarked him for a perilous ocean-journey, to fight against people struggling for their liberty.
He had fought, like many of the others, under a sort of rebellious protest. Several had deserted: some joining the American army from sympathy. But Anthony was sick of carnage and marching and semi-starvation. Winter was coming on. So, one night, he stole out unperceived, and hurried down to the river's edge. On the other side, at some distance, he could see a faint gleam of light between the leafless trees. He had watched it longingly. There were many kindly disposed people who gave shelter to deserters. He threw off his heavy coat, and his boots, with the soles worn through, and made a plunge. The water was cold, the way longer than it looked; but he buffeted across and crawled out in the autumn blast, dripping and shivering, and ran up to the kitchen steps, that looked more friendly than the great wide porch and stately doorway. The maids were frightened, and a man came, to whom he told his story in broken English, and was taken in, warmed and fed and clothed, and kept out of sight for several days.
In his gratitude and delight, he made himself useful. He had been accustomed to farming and herds and flocks. The old Morris estate was large; and when the British Army was safely out of the way, there was work in plenty; and a faithful hand Anthony Woolf proved.
When the long summer days came the next year, there was no end of spinning in the great house, where linen and woollen were made for the family use. The farmers' daughters used to be eager for the chances; and one day, when pretty Phebe Oakley's grandmother was going over to the great house, as it was so often called, the young girl begged her to speak a good word for her, as she could spin both wool and flax.
"They'll be glad to have you," said grandmother on her return. "But, Phebe, they have a young Woolf over there; so look out he doesn't catch you."
Phebe tossed her head. She was in no hurry to be caught. And yet it so fell out that when Anthony Woolf had saved up a little money, and negotiated for a farm over in the valley, he caught pretty Phebe Oakley, and built a house for her, and prospered.
They looked at the place where the Hessian Army had been encamped, and traced the course of the young fellow's daring swim. And here was the old part of the house he had built, and where he had outlived his own son, but left grandsons behind him, one of whom had married Cousin Jennie. Grandmother was still alive,—a little, rather-faded, and shrunken old lady who had once been pretty Phebe Oakley, who lived with her daughter in the old part.
"There are lots of romances lying about unused," said Ben. "I should like to have a story-teller's gift myself."
Hanny was so interested in young Mr. Woolf that she had to tell Joe all the story when she came home; and he said they must go up the historic Harlem some day. And he said Umscoota meant "Stream among the green sedge."
This year it had to be Rutger's Institute for Hanny. There were a great many new schools; but Dolly and Margaret carried the day. She thought at first she shouldn't like it at all; but when she came to know the girls, she began to feel quite at home, and, in some queer fashion, as if she were growing up. But she didn't seem to grow very fast.
Ben came to his twenty-first birthday. He was a tall, well-grown young fellow, and often surprised Jim by the amount of knowledge he possessed. And then he went over to the "Tribune" office, and sometimes tried his hand at queer, out-of-the-way bits of past lore that people were almost forgetting. Just how it came about, he never clearly remembered himself; but one night, when Delia had seemed unusually attractive to three or four young men who haunted the place, he rose abruptly and said he must go. There was a set look in his usually pleasant face, and he shut his lips, as if something had displeased him.
Delia went to the hall door. As he turned, she caught his arm.
"What is it, Ben?" she said in a hurried whisper. "Something has happened to vex you."
"Something!" with youthful bitterness. "We never have any good times any more. There's always such a crowd—"
"Oh, Ben! Are you jealous? Why, you know I like you better than any of them! Gordon only comes to get ideas; he's so very anxious to do something in literature. As if I could help anybody!" and she laughed. "The others come for fun. You're worth them all, Ben. Oh, don't go away angry!" with a voice of tender pleading.
Ben felt suddenly foolish. Was he angry over such a trifle? Then he glanced up in Delia's face; he was on the step below. What was there in her eyes; and she had said she liked him better than any of them, even that handsome Van Doren. Well, he was most jealous of Van Doren, who was in his last year at Columbia, and whose father was rich and indulgent.
"Oh," he said with an indrawn breath, "you must know that I love you. I've always loved you, I think."
She put her arms about his neck, and kissed him. It was very reprehensible, I suppose. Young people were honestly friendly in those days, and seldom had a chaperone; yet they did not play at love, unless they were real flirts; and a flirt soon gained an unenviable reputation.
"Come down a ways with me," he entreated, with a little tremulous sound in his voice that touched her.
The street was very quiet. He put his arm about her, and drew her close to his side.
"Oh, it's cool out here, and you've no wrap!" He was suddenly very careful of her. "But I wanted to say—it isn't only a like, but a love. You do love me, Delia?"
"I love you, love you! I love you and yours."
"Of course we will have to wait. We are both young. But I'm doing a bit of outside work, and have a chance to come up—"
"If we did marry, you'd have to come and live with me; for I have promised Aunt Patty never to leave her. I haven't really thought about marriage. There is so much to my life all the time. Oh, yes, we can wait. But you must not feel afraid, Ben. I like fun and nonsense, and plenty of people to talk to. I'm not sure I shall make a good wife, even, though both of my sisters do."
"I want you, good or bad," said Ben, sturdily.
They both laughed, and then he kissed her again.
"Oh, you must go back! You'll get an awful cold."
"I never do take cold. I'll run like a flash. Come to-morrow night. Oh, Ben!"
"Oh, Delia, my darling!"
Then she flew back. How long had she been gone? She re-entered the room with a most nonchalant air; and in two minutes she had them all in a whirl of conversation, even if they did look rather curious.
Ben sauntered up home. It was quite early. Hanny was upstairs reading to grandmother, who went to bed at nine, and liked to have Hanny come in and read to her. Joe sat in his office, poring over an abstruse medical article. He glanced up and nodded.
"Joe," the lad began, with a bright flush that gave a certain tenderness to his eyes, which were dewy sweet,—"Joe, listen a minute. I am engaged to Delia Whitney,—just to-night. But I hate mean, underhand things. I wanted some one to know it. And—shall I tell mother? Of course she won't like it; though I don't see why."
"Ben, I don't believe I would just now. You are young, and you won't be married under a year or two. No, I would wait a little. She may settle to it presently," said the elder, thoughtfully.
"I don't want her to feel hurt. I'd just like to go and tell her, I am so happy."
He looked so brave and manly that Joe was almost sorry not to send him. But he did know that his mother objected to it strenuously, and might say something that would cut Ben to the heart.
Latterly, he had been cherishing a vague belief that the affair would end in a sort of a good comradeship.
"Thank you," Ben laid his hand on the elder's shoulder. "You are a dear good brother, Joe. Don't you suppose you will ever marry? No one will be quite good enough for you. You're a splendid fellow."
Joe went back to his book; but it had lost interest. Well—it was rather queer. He had been made very welcome in several houses; and Margaret had given delicate little suggestions. But he had never cared for any one. He would be nine and twenty on his next birthday,—quite a bachelor.
It was somewhat curious; but Ben, who had never cared for fixing up, though he was always clean, suddenly developed a new care for his cuffs and collars, and indulged in light-coloured neckties, and gloves that he could no longer "run and jump in," as Jim had accused him of doing. He went out Sunday evening to tea, which was a new thing, though he often stayed at the Whitneys' through the week. There was a certain air of being of supreme consequence to some one; Mrs. Underhill rather resented it.
Jim was very gay this winter. A good-looking young collegian who was bright and full of fun, and could sing college glees in a fine tenor voice, tell a capital story, and dance well, was not likely to go begging.
One evening he stumbled over his old friend Lily Ludlow, whom he had not seen for two years,—a tall, stylish girl, handsome in the ordinary acceptation of the word, but lacking some of the finer qualities, if you studied her closely. There had been some great changes in her life. Her father had died suddenly, leaving but small provision for them. Chris had her hands full trying to live pretentiously on a rather small income.
They had found an elderly aunt of Mr. Ludlow's who, in her day, had been quite a society woman. She had an old-fashioned but well furnished house in Amity Street, and had not given up all her acquaintances. The house was to go to her husband's family when she was done with it, there being no children; and her income ended with her life, so there was nothing to expect from her.
"But I do want a housekeeper and a nurse, sometimes," she said to Mrs. Ludlow. "If you like to fill the place, you will have a good home and good wages. And Lily's fine looks ought to get her a husband."
Amity Street still had a rather select air, if its fashion was falling off a little. The house was old, but not out of date, and quite imposing; and the big doorplate, with "Nicoll" on it, stamped it as undeniably aristocratic, Miss Lily thought. She urged her mother to accept it.
"I don't feel as if I could be at that queer old woman's beck and call. I remember when we were first married she said some very mean things. My family was quite as good as your father's, Lily. Neither of his brothers amounted to much, though his sister married a rich Southerner and went off to forget all her relatives. We've never asked anything of the Ludlows, and I don't want to now."
"But it will only be for a year or two. Of course I shall marry; and then you will have two homes."
"I'd a sight rather go with Chris. And if you could teach—seems to me you might, with your education. And you have had two lovers already."
"Who couldn't take care of me. I am not going to marry that way. But, as Aunt Nicoll says, 'We shall be sure of a good home.'"
Lily gained her point. Early in the preceding spring they had gone to Amity Street. The spacious, old-fashioned parlours were a little out of date, but had been elegant in their day. Lily laid off her mourning, and fell heir to some handsome gowns that Chris helped her remodel. Mrs. Nicoll was queer and bad-tempered; and the difficulty had been to keep servants who would submit to such exactions. Matters went a little smoother; but poor Mrs. Ludlow had to suffer.
Lily spent a month at Saratoga with Mrs. Nicoll and the maid. The old lady was a good deal entertained by the airs and graces and bright ways of her grand-niece. Lily made several conquests; but the desirable offer of marriage was not forth-coming.
Mrs. Nicoll gave a reception early in the season,—a thing she always did; and her friends attended with a certain kindly feeling that she was old, and the duty might never be required of them again. Miss Lily made quite an impression; and cards and invitations were left for her. And when she attended a dance at the Apollo Rooms, the height of her ambition was reached.
At a pretty private dance she met her school-day admirer again, and tried her charms, which had increased notably since that youthful period. She did dance beautifully, and had no lack of the small talk of the day. Jim promised to call, and did so at an early date, rather surprised at the solid elegance of the place. Lily expatiated skilfully on dear old Aunt Nicoll, who would have mother come and stay with her; since they were alone it seemed the best thing to do; and Aunt Nicoll had no near relatives of her own. There were plenty of her husband's family "hungry for what she had," said Lily, with a sort of sneer, as if they might find themselves mistaken in the end.
Certainly, Jim thought, Lily had dropped in a clover-field. He found that Mrs. Nicoll was considered a rich woman. Lily was handsomely dressed, and no doubt she would be kindly remembered in the old lady's will. Not that Jim was speculating on any part or lot in the matter. He was too young; he would have his three years in the law school, and after that, getting established.
Lily begged him to bring some of his friends. The house was lonely, with no young people for companionship; and she raised her eyes in the old pleading fashion that even now had quite an effect upon him.
Jim chose several young men that he associated with. Some of them had sisters, who declared Miss Ludlow charming. She was not anxious now to have any of the Underhills on her visiting-list; but she did mean to make use of Jim. She had grown quite worldly-wise and experienced.
Two of Jim's friends were generously supplied with pocket-money. One was a young Virginian, Mr. Weir, the other, Harry Gaynor, and both spent lavishly. Flowers were costly then; and Lily was the recipient of many a handsome bouquet. In return, she now and then gave a dainty supper, simple to be sure, or a card-party, with some delightful confections, and a little coffee or chocolate. Mrs. Nicoll always retired early, and took some drops to make sure of sleeping the first part of the night, so she was not easily disturbed.
Then there were stars at the theatres. Parodi was emulating Jenny Lind, who had gone to Havana; and the houses were crowded, if the tickets were not so high. It was so easy to spend money when an artful girl, with softest voice and bewitching eyes, planned for you. And it was so easy to borrow, when you had good friends.
Miss Lily looked carefully over her ground; Harry Gaynor was gay and delightful, but one couldn't be quite sure he was not flirting. And though Mr. Weir had plenty of money, there was a large family of brothers and sisters, and they lived on an extensive plantation miles away from any considerable town. There was a Mr. Lewis, not so young, who had an interest in an old well-established leather firm that had been left him by an uncle. There were some non-eligibles.
Mrs. Nicoll had said, in her caustic way:—
"You make the most of your time, Lily Ludlow. I'm past eighty, and you may find me dead in my bed some morning. I have not a stiver to leave any one; so don't you count on that. I can hardly pay my own way."
Still she had every luxury for herself; for years she had considered nothing but her own wants and indulgences.
Poor Jim! In his young mannishness he was quite sure there was no danger of falling in love; of course such a thing would be wildest folly. But Lily was very fascinating and very flattering. She put it on the score of old friendship; but, with a coquette's ardour, she did enjoy the young fellow's struggles to keep himself on a firm footing. And when he saw Gaynor's attentions, and listened to Weir's rhapsodies, a passion of boyish jealousy sprang up in his heart.
Miss Lily kept her other admirers out of the way, except as she might meet them at dances or whist parties. She was not much in love with Mr. Lewis; he was slow and really conceited, and, for a young man, rather careful of his money. If she only dared run the risk, and take Mr. Weir, who was to finish his college course in the summer! And then arose a new star on her horizon.
Mr. Williamson was forty and a widower; but he drove an elegant pair of bays, belonged to a club, and had apartments at a hotel. She tried captivating simplicity, and succeeded, to her great surprise, though she knew his habits were not irreproachable. She had begged of Mr. Lewis a little time for consideration, when one morning Mr. Williamson astonished her by a call, and an offer of his hand and fortune.
Miss Ludlow did not show her amazement, neither did she jump at the offer. She was very delicately surprised. Was he quite certain of his wishes? And—it was so unexpected!
So certain indeed that he would bring her a ring that very afternoon, and take her out driving,—a man of his years not to know his own mind!
She could hardly believe her good fortune. For a fortnight she engineered her way skilfully, still keeping Mr. Lewis in reserve. And then she was convinced, and dismissed him.
"Guess who is engaged?" Harry Gaynor cried, one morning. "I never was so beat in my life! Jim, maybe this will hit you hard. Seems to me you've been rather distraught of late and sighing like a furnace."
"These exams are enough to make any one sigh. And I am way behind. I must study day and night."
"There are always engagements at this season, and weddings at Easter," returned Weir, laughingly.
"That isn't guessing, Jim!"
"Oh, bother! What do I care?"
"Then your charmer told you last night?"
"My charmer? What are you driving at, Gaynor?"
"Oh, how innocent! Miss Lily Ludlow."
"I've met that Lewis there," returned Jim, with an air of bravado, though he flushed a little. "He's a regular stick."
"But it isn't Lewis. It's that Gerald Williamson,—a man about town. And the queer thing is that he thinks he has struck a fortune. Do you know, Jim? Is she to be the old lady's heir?"
Jim was silent. What should he say?
"Of course she is," said Weir. "That is—I think it depends on whether Mrs. Nicoll approves of the marriage."
He had turned very pale.
"Are you sure it is Williamson?" asked Jim.
"He announced it himself. My cousin heard him. And as for the old lady—the house is willed away. I've heard some talk; I can't just remember what. She's been shrewdly giving the impression."
"It would be a shame to sell her to the highest bidder! And Williamson's double her age. No sister of mine would be allowed to do such a thing. She can't love him! Why, she has only been driving out with him a few times."
"If she's sold, she has done the business herself. She's a girl to look out for the main chance. Weir, I hope you haven't been hovering too near the flame. The Ludlow is capital to flirt with,—quick, spicy, sentimental by spells, not the kind of a girl to waste herself on a young, impecunious fellow like our friend Jim, here, so he goes scot-free. Weir, I hope you're not hard hit. We've all had a good time; but I think now we must address ourselves to the examinations in hand, and let the girls go. Though I am in for two big weddings, presently."
There was a summons to the class-room that stopped the chaffing. Jim felt very sober. Lily had indirectly led him to think she cared a great deal about him, and if matters only were a little different! He ought not to get engaged; but the preference was flattering when a man like Weir was head over heels in love with her!
But to marry an old man like Gerald Williamson! thought the young fellow, disdainfully.