A Little Girl in Old New York Part 27

NEW RELATIONS

New Year's Day was gayer than ever. The streets were full of throngs of men in twos up to any number, and carriages went whirling by. There were no ladies out, of course. Margaret had two of her school friends receiving with her, one a beautiful Southern girl whose father was in Congress, and who was staying on in New York, taking what we should call a post-graduate course now, perfecting herself in music and languages.

Margaret was a real young lady now. Joe had taken her to several parties, and there had been quite a grand reception at the Beekmans'.

The little girl was dressed in her blue cashmere and a dainty white Swiss ap.r.o.n ornamented with little bows like b.u.t.terflies. Miss Butler thought she was a charming child. She stood by the window a good deal, delighted with the stir and movement in the street, and she looked very picturesque. Her hair, which was still light, had been curled all round and tied with a blue ribbon instead of a comb. Her mother said "it was foolishness, and they would make the child as vain as a peac.o.c.k." But I think she was rather proud of the sweet, pretty-mannered little girl.

There was one great diversion for her. About the middle of the afternoon two gentlemen called for her father. One was quite as old, with a handsome white beard and iron-gray hair, very stylishly dressed. He wore a high-standing collar with points, and what was called a neckcloth of black silk with dark-blue brocaded figures running over it, and a handsome brocaded-velvet vest, double-breasted, the fashion of the times, with gilt b.u.t.tons that looked as if they were set with diamonds, they sparkled so. Over all he had worn a long Spanish circular which he dropped in the hall. The younger man might have been eighteen or twenty.

Ben was waiting on the door. He announced "Mr. Bounett and Mr. Eugene Bounett."

"We hardly expected to find any of the gentlemen at home," began the elder guest. "We are cousins, in a fashion, and my son has met the doctor----"

"Father is at home," said Margaret in the pause. "Hanny, run down-stairs and call him."

"Miss Underhill, I presume," exclaimed the young man. "I have seen your brother quite often of late. And do you know his chum, Phil Hoffman?

Doctor, I ought to say," laughingly.

"Oh, yes," and Margaret colored a little.

Then her father came up. These were some of the Bounetts from New Roch.e.l.le, originally farther back from England and France in the time of the Huguenot persecution. Mr. Bounett's father had come to New York a young man seventy odd years ago. Mr. Bounett himself had married for his first wife a Miss Vermilye, whose mother had been an Underhill from White Plains. And she was Father Underhill's own cousin. She had been dead more than twenty years, and her children, five living ones, were all married and settled about, and he had five by his second marriage.

This was the eldest son.

They talked family quite a while, and Mrs. Underhill was summoned. The young man went out in the back parlor where the table stood in its pretty holiday array, and was introduced to Margaret's friends. They hunted mottoes, which was often quite amusing, ate candies and almonds and bits of cake while the elder people were talking themselves into relationship. Eugene explained that his next younger brother was Louis; then a slip of a girl of fifteen and two young cubs completed the second family. But the older brothers and sisters were just like own folks; indeed he thought one sister, Mrs. French, was one of the most charming women he knew, only she did live in the wilds of Williamsburg. Francesca was married in the Livingston family and lived up in Manhattanville.

How any one could bear to be out of the city--that meant below Tenth Street--he couldn't see!

"Is that little fairy your sister?" he asked. "Isn't she lovely!"

Margaret smiled. She thought Mr. Eugene very flattering. Then the others came out, and Mr. Bounett took a cup of black coffee and a very dainty sandwich. He left sweets to the young people. And now that they had broken the ice, he hoped the Underhills would be social. They, the Bounetts, lived over in Hammersley Street, which was really a continuation of Houston. And they might like to see grandfather, who was in his ninetieth year and still kept to his old French ways and fashions.

Miss Butler was very enthusiastic about the callers. "Why, you are quite French," she said, "only _they_ show it in their looks."

"We have had so much English admixture," and Father Underhill laughed with a mellow sound. "But I've heard that my great grandmother was a useless fine lady when they came to this country, and had never dressed herself or brushed her hair, and had to have a lady's maid until she died. She never learned to speak English, or only a few words, but she could play beautifully on a harp and recite the French poets so well that people came from a distance to see her. But her daughters had a great many other things to learn, and were very smart women. My own grandmother could spin on the big wheel and the little wheel equal to any girl when she was seventy years old."

"How delightfully romantic!" cried Miss Butler.

"There's a big wheel in the garret at Yonkers, and a little wheel, and a funny reel," said Hanny, who was sitting on Miss Butler's lap, "and we used to play the reel was a mill, and make believe we ground corn."

"I've done many a day's spinning!" exclaimed Mrs. Underhill. "The Hunters raised no end of flax, and we spun the thread for our bed and table linen. One of our neighbors had a loom and did weaving. Cotton goods were so high we were glad to keep to linen. Ah, well, the world's changed a deal since my young days."

They were disturbed by an influx of guests. The fashionable young men came late in the afternoon and evening. The gilt candelabrum on the mantel was lighted up, and it had so many branches and prisms it was quite brilliant. Then there were sconces at the side of the wall to light up corners, and these have come around again, since people realize what a soft, suggestive light candles give. The Underhills had no gas in their house, it was esteemed one of the luxuries. Even the outskirts of the city streets were still lighted with oil.

Steve came in and teased the girls and begged them to eat philopenas with him. He seemed to find so many. And he said the best wish he could give them for 1845 was that they might all find a good husband, as good as he was making, and if they didn't like to take his word they were at liberty to go and ask his wife.

Quite in the evening the two doctors called, and Joe announced that he was going to have a Christian supper and a cup of tea, so that he would be able to attend to business to-morrow, as half the city would be ill from eating all manner of sweet stuff. After he had chaffed the girls a while he took Doctor Hoffman down-stairs, "out of the crowd," he said, and Mrs. Underhill gave them a cup of delicious tea. She and Martha were kept quite busy with washing dishes and making tea and coffee. Joe had requested last year that they should not offer wine to the callers.

He went out in the kitchen to have a talk with his mother about the Bounetts. Dr. Hoffman played with his spoon and would not have another cup of tea. Mr. Underhill wondered why he did not go up-stairs and have a good time with the girls. They could hear the merry laughter.

"Mr. Underhill----" he began presently.

"Eh--what?" said that gentleman, rather amazed at the pause.

Doctor Hoffman cleared his throat. There was nothing at all in it, the trouble was a sort of bounding pulsation that interfered with his breath, and flushed his face.

"Mr. Underhill, I have a great favor to ask." He rose and came near so that he could lower his voice. "I--I admire your daughter extremely. I should choose her out of all the world if I could----"

Father Underhill glanced up in consternation. He wanted to stop the young man from uttering another word, but before he could collect his scattered wits, the young man had said it all.

"I want permission to visit her, to see--if she cannot like me well enough to some day take me for a husband. I have really fallen in love with her. Joe will tell you all you want to know about me. I'm steady, thank Heaven, and have a start in the world beside my profession. I wanted you to know what my intentions were, and to give me the opportunity of winning her----"

"I never once thought----" The father was confused, and the lover now self-possessed.

"No, I suppose not. Of course, we are both young and do not need to be in a hurry. I wanted the privilege of visiting her."

"Yes, yes," in embarra.s.sed surprise. "I mean----"

"Thank you," said the lover, grasping his hand. "I hope to win your respect and approval. Joe and I are like brothers already. I admire you all so much."

Hanny came flying in with pink cheeks and eager eyes.

"Where is Joe? Margaret wants him--she said I must ask them if they wouldn't please to like to dance a quadrille, and come up-stairs when they had finished their tea."

Joe was sitting astride a chair, tilting it up and down and talking to his mother.

"Oh, yes, your royal highness. Phil, if you have finished your tea----"

and Joe laughed, inwardly knowing some other business had been concluded as well.

They had a delightful quadrille. Then Miss Butler sang a fascinating song--"The Mocking-Bird." Two of the gentlemen sang several of the popular airs of the day, and the party broke up. The little girl had gone to bed some time before, though she declared she wasn't a bit tired, and her eyes shone like stars.

The very next day it snowed, so the ladies could have no day at all.

There was sleigh-riding and merry-making of all sorts. One day Dr.

Hoffman came and took Margaret and her little sister out in a dainty cutter. Then he used to drop in St. Thomas' Church and walk home with her evenings. Father Underhill felt quite guilty in not forewarning his wife of the conspiracy, but one evening she mistrusted.

"Margaret is altogether too young to keep company," she declared in an authoritative way.

"Margaret is nineteen," said her father. "And you were only twenty when I married you."

"That's too young."

"Seems to me we were far from miserable. As I remember it was a very happy year."

"Don't be silly, 'Milyer. And you're so soft about the children. You haven't a bit of sense about them."

In her heart she knew she would not give up one year of her married life for anything the world could offer.

"Margaret knows no more about housekeeping than a cat," she continued.

"Well, there's time for her to learn. And perhaps she will not really like the young man."