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Little Girl in Old New York

<h2>CHAPTER XII</h2> <h3>A REAL PARTY</h3> The little girl would have felt a great deal better if Lily Ludlow had not been on the other side. Lily was growing into a very pretty girl. They were wearing pantalets shorter now, and she noticed that Lily wore hers very short. Then aprons were made without bibs or shoulder bands, and had ruffles on the bottom. They were beginning to go farther around, almost like another skirt. Lily had two white ones. She walked up and down the block with a very grand air. Then Miss Chrissy met Margaret at the house of a mutual acquaintance, and invited her very cordially to call on her, and Margaret did the same. Miss Chrissy lost no time, but came card-case in hand, and made herself very agreeable. "Would you like to go down and call on Jim's girl?" Margaret asked smilingly. Ben always called her that. "No," replied Hanny, with much dignity. "I don't like her. She called me 'queer' the first time she saw me, and I shouldn't think of calling Nora queer, no matter how she looked. If Jim wants her he may have her, but I do hope they won't live in New York." The temper was so unusual and so funny that Margaret let it go without a word. Everything came back to its normal state. Mr. Theodore and her father and Steve remained the same good friends. The party transparencies and emblems were taken down. It seemed to her that people had not been as deeply disappointed as they ought to be. She was very loyal and faithful in her attachments, and no doubt you think quite obstinate in her dislikes. But something else happened that aroused her interest. Indeed, there were things happening all the time. Miss Jane Underhill, up at Harlem, was dead and buried, and Margaret had taken a great interest in Miss Lois. Cousins had been going and coming. Mrs. Retty Finch had a little son, and Aunt Crete had come down and spent a week with her sister-in-law. But this distanced them all—Steve and Dolly Beekman were going to be married! The Beekmans had been staying up in the country house. All the girls had been married there. There were to be five bridesmaids. Annette and Margaret were among them. Joe was to be best man and stand with Miss Annette. Doctor Hoffman was to stand with Margaret. There was a Gessner cousin, a Vandam cousin, and Dolly's dear friend, Miss Stuyvesant. All the bridesmaids were to be gowned in white India mull, and Dolly was to have a white brocaded silk, and a long veil that her grandmother had worn. Hosts and hosts of friends were invited. The house would be big enough to take them all in. Miss Cynthia made the little girl a lovely dress. First she took her pink merino for a slip. Then there were lace puffs divided by insertion, a short baby waist, short sleeves, pink satin bows on her shoulders, with the long ends floating almost like wings, and a narrow pink ribbon around her waist with a great cluster of bows and ends. She was to have her hair curled all around, and to stand and hold Dolly's bouquet while she was being married. I suppose now we would call her a maid of honor. No one could say that Mr. Peter Beekman had ever given a mean wedding. He liked Stephen very much, and Dolly could almost have wheedled the moon out of him if she had tried. He teased Annette by telling her she would have to be an old maid, and stay home to take care of her father and mother. Grandmother Van Kortlandt came down. She laid off her mourning and wore her black velvet gown with its English crown point lace. Grandmother Underhill came too, but she wore black silk with her pretty fine lace fichu that she had been married in herself. Uncle David, and Aunt Eunice, who wore a gray satin that had been made for her eldest son's wedding. There were Underhill cousins by the score, some Bounetts from New Rochelle, some Vermilyeas, for no one really worth while was to be slighted. The day had been very fine and sunny. That was a sign the bride would be merry and happy and pleasant to live with. And when the evening fell the great lawn was all alight with Chinese lanterns that a second cousin in the tea trade had sent Dolly. All the front of the big old house was illuminated. It was square, with a great cupola on top of the second story, and that was in a blaze of light as well. The Underhills all went up early. Steve was very proud of his mother, who had a pretty changeable silk, lilac and gray, and Joe had given her a collar and cuffs of Honiton lace, to wear at his wedding, he said. They went in to see the bride when she was dressed. Of course she was beautiful, a pretty girl couldn't look otherwise in her wedding gear. Her veil was put on with orange blossoms and buds, and delicately scented. There was a wreath of the same over one shoulder and across her bosom. Her hair was done in a marvellous fashion, and looked like a golden crown. How the carriages rolled around and the silks rustled up and down the stairs. There were gay voices and soft laughs, and presently word was sent that the Reverend Dr. De Witt had arrived. Then the immediate family went down. Dolly stooped and kissed Hanny and told her she must not feel a mite afraid. The young men filed out. Stephen took Dolly, just putting her white-gloved hand on his arm as if it was the most precious thing in the world. Joe, smiling and really much handsomer than Stephen, though you couldn't persuade Dolly to any such heresy; then Doctor Hoffman and the others. They seemed to float down the broad stairs. The rooms were very large, but oh, how full they were! The procession walked through the back parlor; Stephen and Dolly and the little girl went straight up to Dr. De Witt, who stood there in his gown and bands, a sweet, reverential old man. The bridesmaids and groomsmen made a half-circle around. There was some soft beautiful music, then a silence. Dr. De Witt began. Dorothea Beekman and Stephen Decatur Underhill promised each other and all the world, to love and cherish, and live together according to God's holy ordinance all their lives. The little girl held the flowers and listened attentively. She had an idea there must be a great deal more to it and was almost disappointed, for she could not understand that it included all one's life. Dr. De Witt bent over and kissed the bride with solemn reverence. Then Stephen kissed his wife. There was a great deal of kissing afterward, for the new husband kissed the bridesmaids, and the groomsmen had a right to kiss the bride. The mothers had their turn next, and afterward all was laughing confusion. In the midst of this Philip Hoffman leaned over Margaret. "I believe you kiss the bridesmaid, too," he said, in a serious fashion, and touched her soft red lips with his. Margaret's face was scarlet, and her breath seemed taken away. They made a pretty semicircle afterward, and all the guests came up with good wishes. There were so many elegantly dressed people that the little girl was half dazed. I forgot to tell you that she wore her string of gold beads, and they always had a wedding flavor after that. Presently the procession re-formed and went out to the dining-room, where the table ought to have groaned, if tables ever do. There were some immaculate black waiters who handed one thing after another. The bride cut the cake of both kinds—pound cake like gold, and fruit cake rich enough to give you indigestion. And this wasn't the regular supper. The bride had to grace the head of every table. What merry quips and jests there were! People were really gay and happy in those days. No one thought of being bored, they had better manners and kindlier hearts, and enjoyment was a duty as well as pleasure. The musicians were playing softly in the hall. By and by the elder people, who had a long drive to take and who had passed their dancing days long ago, began to say good-by to the bridal couple. In the upper hall a table was piled with white boxes tied with narrow white ribbon, containing a bit of the bride's cake, and a maid stood there handing them to the guests. You put some under your pillow and dreamed on it. If the dream was delightful you might look for it to come true. If it was disagreeable you felt sure you didn't believe in such nonsense. Then the dancing commenced. There were three large rooms devoted to this. Several of the old men went up-stairs to Mr. Beekman's special room to have a smoke and a good game of cards. But oh, how merry they were down-stairs! They danced with the utmost zest because they really liked to. The little girl danced, too. Steve took her out first, and she went through a quadrille very prettily. Then it was Joe, and after that Doctor Hoffman begged her mother to let her dance just once with him, and though she was a little afraid, she enjoyed it very much. Dolly introduced her to ever so many people, and said she was her little sister. "Am I really?" said Hanny, a little confused. "Why, yes," laughingly. "And one reason why I wanted to marry Stephen was because he had so many brothers. Now they are all mine, five of them." The little girl studied a moment. "It's queer," she said with a smile, "but I have one more than you. And are you going to have Margaret, too?" "Yes, and your mother and father. But I am going to be very good and not take them away. Instead, I shall come to see you and have my little piece. I'm quite in love with Benny Frank. And Jim's a regular mischief." Jim did wish, when he saw all the pretty girls, that he was a grown man and could dance. Ben found some men to talk to, and Mr. Bond, who was in a large jewelry establishment, told him about some rare and precious stones. Old Mrs. Beekman made much of them and said she envied Mrs. Underhill her fine boys. There was supper about midnight. Cold meats of all kinds, salads, fruits, and ice cream, to say nothing of the wonderful jellies. Tea and coffee, and in an anteroom a great bowl of punch. After that Mrs. Underhill gathered her old people and her young people, and said they must go home. Joe promised he would look out for George, and Margaret was to stay to the bridesmaid's breakfast the next morning. Dolly slipped a ring on the little girl's finger. "That's a sign you are my little sister for ever and ever," she said, with a kiss. "Can't I ever grow big?" asked Hanny seriously. Mr. Beekman laughed at that. "You must come down and see me," he exclaimed. "We're going to move next week, and we always take Katchina. Come and have a good time with us." The little girl was asleep in grandmother's arms when they reached home. And the old lady gently took off her pretty clothes and laid her in the bed. "She's by far the sweetest child you've got, Marg'ret," she said to Mrs. Underhill. That was not the end of the gayeties. Relatives kept giving parties, and the bridesmaids were asked. Margaret began to feel as if she knew Doctor Hoffman very well. He liked Annette, too. Perhaps he would marry Annette. They had all been saying, "One wedding makes many." It seemed so queer to be without Stephen. The little girl began to realize that they had somehow given him away, and she did not quite enjoy the thought. He and Dolly came down and stayed two days, and, oh, dear! Dolly was the sweetest and merriest and funniest being alive. She played such jolly tunes, she sang like a bird, and whistled like a bobolink, could play checkers and chess and fox and geese, and she brought Jim a backgammon board. They talked a good deal about building a house way up-town. Mr. Beekman had offered Dolly a lot. John said it was going to be the finest part of the city. Stephen couldn't really afford to build, but they would like to begin in their own home. Property was getting so high down-town that young people like them, just beginning life, must look around and consider. "You just go up-town, you can't miss it. And Mayor Harper is going to make a beautiful place of Madison Square. The firm I am with count on that being the fine residential part," declared John. "We can't afford much grandeur on the start," says Dolly, with charming frankness. "When we get to be middle-aged people, perhaps——" Mrs. Underhill is very glad to have her so prudent. She will make a fine wife for Stephen. Stephen took his new wife up to Yonkers to spend a Sunday, so that Aunt Crete would not feel slighted. She seemed quite an old lady. And though it was cold and blustering they walked up on the hill where father's new house was to be built, by and by, a lovely place for the children and grandchildren to cluster around a hearthstone. Meanwhile Margaret was learning to cook and bake and keep house. She practised her music diligently, she kept on with her French, and she began to read some books Dr. Hoffman had recommended. There were calls to make and invitations to tea, and a Christmas Eve party at one of her schoolmate's. Joe said she must let him know when she wanted an escort, and John was ready to go for her at any time. It did not seem possible that Christmas could come around so soon. Santa Claus was not quite such a real thing this year, so many gifts came to the little girl by the way of the hall door. But she hung up her stocking all the same, and had it full to the topmost round. There was a beautiful set of dishes, and they came with best love from "Dolly and Stephen." There was cloth for a pretty new winter coat, blue-and-black plaid, some squirrel fur to trim it with, and a squirrel muff. Among the gifts bestowed on Margaret was a box of lovely hothouse flowers. There was only "Merry Christmas" on the card. Stephen and Dolly came to the Christmas dinner, but they strenuously denied any knowledge of it. Mrs. Underhill had all her family together, and she was a happy woman. In truth she was very proud of Stephen's wife. Grandmother Van Kortlandt had come to make a visit. Aunt Katrina was down also staying with her son, as the two old ladies found it rather lonesome now that there were no active duties demanding their attention. And Grandmother Underhill had sent the little girl her Irish chain bedquilt, finished and quilted. The Dean children came in during the afternoon to exchange notes and tell a grand secret. Their aunt and two cousins were coming from Baltimore. Bessy was quite a big girl, fourteen, and Ada was ten. Their mother had said they might have a real party of boys and girls, not just a little tea party and playing with dolls; but real plays with forfeits. "You know I've just studied with all my might and main, and mother said if I had all my lessons and a good record that I could have the thing I wanted most, if it didn't cost too very much. And I said I wanted a real party." "It will be just splendid!" declared Hanny. "And we've been counting up. We have seven cousins to ask. And the girls at school—some of them. I wish we knew some more boys. Oh, do you think Jim would come?" "I'll ask him if you would like." "Oh, just coax him. I suppose Benny Frank will feel that he's too old. But he's so nice. Oh, do you s'pose John Robert Charles' mother would let him come? Oh, there! I promised to call him Charles, but I think Robert's prettier, don't you? And mother said she'd write the invitations on note-paper. And she has some lovely little envelopes." That did look like a party. "I think John Robert Charles is real nice," said Hanny timidly. "But I am afraid of his mother." "Oh, so is he, awful! Yet she isn't real ugly to him, only cross, and so dreadful particular. She makes him go out and wipe his feet twice, and wear that queer long cloak when it rains, and that red woollen tippet. She bought red because it was healthy; he said so. He wanted blue-and-gray. She lets him come over to our house sometimes, and he can sing just splendid. But the boys do make fun of him." Poor John Robert Charles often thought his life was a burden on account of his name and his mother's great virtue of cleanliness. He was not allowed to play with the boys. Ball and marbles and hopscotch were tabooed. He could walk up and down and do errands, and that with going to school was surely enough. Then she exaggerated him. His white collars were always broader; if trousers were a little wide, his were regular sailor's. She bought his Sunday suit to grow into, so by the second winter it just fitted him. His every-day clothes she made. And oh, she cut his hair! It is very hard to be the daughter of such a mother, a rigid, uncompromising woman with no sense of the fitness of things, of harmony or beauty, or indulgence in little fancies that are so much to a child. Quite as hard to be the son. Charles had everything needful to keep him warm, in good health, and books for study. When it rained hard he had six cents to ride in the omnibus. And he did have the cleanest house, and the cleanest clothes, and, his mother thought, a very nice time. Luckily there were no boys this end of the block. They were quite grown up, or little children. But there were enough below to torment the poor lad. In the summer when the charcoal man went by they would sing out: "John Robert Charles, what did you have for breakfast?" and the refrain would be, "Charcoal." "What did you have for dinner?" "Charcoal." "How do you keep so clean?" "Charcoal." Early this autumn the boy had made a protest. Day after day he said it over to himself until he thought he had sufficient courage. "Mother, why don't you call me just Charles, as my father does?" His mother's surprise almost withered him. "Because," when she had found her breath, "John is after my father, who was an excellent man, and Robert was for the only brother I ever had, and Charles for your grandfather Reed. If you grow up as good as any of them you'll have no occasion to find fault with your name." Yet boys at school called him Bob, and he really did enjoy it. He went to a very nice, select school where there were only twenty boys. He had made quite an acquaintance with the Dean girls. He could play house, and they had such delightful books to read. "And the party must be some time next week. Thursday, mother thought, would be convenient. I should give the invitations out on Monday," Josie said. "And, oh, try to coax Jim." The cousins came. Hanny saw them on Sunday, and on Monday two little girls went round with a pretty basket and left pale-green missives at the houses of friends. There was one for Ben also. "H-m-m," ejaculated Jim. "A baby party. Will they play with dolls?" "Oh, Jim! it's going to be a real party with refreshments. Of course there won't be dolls." "Washington pie and round hearts." The tears rushed to Hanny's eyes. "Never mind about him," said Ben, "I'll go. I'll be your beau. And see here, Hanny, it's polite to answer an invitation. Now you write yours and I'll write mine, and I'll leave them at the door." Hanny smiled and went up-stairs for her box of paper. Jim gave a whistle and marched off; but when he saw the pretty Baltimore cousin, he reconsidered, though he was afraid Lily Ludlow would laugh at him when she heard of it. Margaret dressed the little girl in her pretty blue cashmere, and she felt very nice with her two brothers. Most of the children were ten and twelve, but the two cousins were older. Bessie Ritter was quite used to parties and took the lead, though the children were rather shy at first. They played "Stage-coach," to begin with. When the driver, who stood in the middle of the room, said, "Passengers change for Boston," every one had to get up and run to another seat, and of course there was one who could not find a seat, and he or she had to be driver. That broke up the stiffness. Then they had "Cross Questions," where you answered for your neighbor, and he answered for you, and you were always forgetting and had to pay a forfeit. Of course they had to be redeemed. Charles Reed came, though his mother couldn't decide until the last moment. He looked very nice, too. He had to sing a song, and really, he did it in a manly fashion. But the little girl thought "Oats, peas, beans," the prettiest of all. It nearly foreshadowed kindergarten songs. The children stood in a ring with one in the middle, and as they moved slowly around, sang: <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> "Oats, peas, beans, and barley grows, 'Tis you nor I nor nobody knows How oats, peas, beans, and barley grows. Thus the farmer sows his seeds, Thus he stands and takes his ease, Stamps his foot and claps his hands And turns around to view his lands; A-waiting for a partner, A-waiting for a partner, So open the ring and take one in, And kiss her when you get her in." </div> </div> The children had acted it all, sowing the seed, taking his ease, stamping, clapping hands, and whirling around. They looked very pretty doing it. Bessy Ritter had asked Ben to stand in first and he had obligingly consented. Of course he chose her. Then the children sang again: <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> "Now you're married you must obey, You must be true to all you say, You must be kind, you must be good, And keep your wife in kindling-wood. The oats are gathered in the barn, The best produce upon the farm, Gold and silver must be paid, And on the lips a kiss is laid." </div> </div> The two took their places in the ring, and Jim next sacrificed himself for the evening's good and chose another of Josie's cousins. Then John Robert Charles manfully took his place and chose Josie Dean. So they went on until nearly all had been chosen. Then Mrs. Dean asked them out to have some refreshments. They were all very merry indeed. Mr. Dean sang some amusing songs afterward, and they all joined in several school songs. "I've just been happy through and through," admitted Charles. "I wish I could give a party. You should come and plan everything," he whispered to Josie. It was time to go home then. There was a Babel of talk as the little girls were finding their wraps, mingled with pleasant outbursts of laughter. Mr. Dean was to take some of the small people home, and Jim obligingly offered his escort. It had not been so very babyish. Ben wrapped his little sister up "head and ears," and ran home with her. How the stars sparkled! "It's been just splendid!" she said to her mother. "Don't you think I might have a party some time, and Ben and all of us?" "Next winter, may be." Her father looked up from his paper and smiled. She seemed to have grown taller. What if, some day, he should lose his little girl! The very next day Mr. Whitney announced that he was going to take the Deans and their cousins and Nora to the Museum. He wanted the little girl to go with them. Delia was visiting in Philadelphia. He promised, laughingly, to have them all home in good season. <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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