A Little Girl of Long Ago by Amanda Minnie Douglas (e reader txt) 📖

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