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Little Girl in Old New York

<h2>CHAPTER VIII</h2> <h3>THE END OF THE WORLD</h3> "'Taint no such thing! The world couldn't come to an end!" Janey Day quite forgot Mrs. Craven's strictures on speech. "It's too strong. And—and——" "And it's round," said the wit of the school. "Round as a ring and has no end. There now." "But the world ain't like a ring." "So isn't my love for you, my friend." There was quite a little shout of laughter. One of the larger girls, Hester Brown, stood with upraised head and earnest countenance. "It is coming to an end in October. It is only two or three weeks off. My father has read it all in the Bible. And we are getting ready." Her demeanor silenced the little group. "But how do you get ready?" "We must repent of our sins. And that's why mother wouldn't let me come to the dancing-class. She thinks it wrong, any way. And mother and Auntie are making their ascension robes. We go to church every night." The girls stood awestruck. "What's going to happen?" asked one. "Why, the world will be burned up. All those who love God are to be caught up to heaven. Then the dead people who have been good will rise out of their graves. And all the rest—everything will be burned." The solemnity of the girl's voice impressed so that they looked at each other in silent fear. "I just don't believe a word of it," declared Janey Day, drawing a long breath. "My father's a good man and goes to church and reads the Bible every night. He's read it through more than fifty times, and he's never said a word about the world coming to an end. And he's building a new house for us to move into next spring." "Fifty times, Janey Day! It takes a long, long while to read the Bible through. My grandmother's read it all through twice, and she's awful old." "Well—twenty times at least. And don't you 'spose he'd found something about it?" "Everybody can't tell. It's in Daniel. There's days and times to be added up." "Five of you, Janey," said the wit with a child's irreverence. "Just when is it coming to an end? Girls, there's no use to study any more lessons." "It will be next week," said Hester with almost tragic solemnity. "But you must all go on doing your work just the same." "I don't see the sense. I've just begun fractions, and I hate them. I won't do another sum." The bell rang and recess was at an end. The girls straggled until they reached the doorway, then suddenly straightened themselves into an orderly line and took their seats quietly. There was a sound of rapidly moving pencils—slates and pencils were in full swing then. No one had invented "pads." One after another read out answers. A few went up to Mrs. Craven for assistance. "Lottie Brower," the lady said presently. Lottie colored. She had a kind of school-girl grudge against Hester. "I—I haven't done my sums," she replied slowly. "Why not?" "Because the world is coming to an end. They're so hard, and what is the use if we're not going to live longer than next week?" Every girl stopped her work and stared at Hester, amazed, yet rather enjoying Lottie's audacity. "How did you come by such an idea?" asked Mrs. Craven quietly. "But is there any use of studying or anything?" Lottie's voice had a little tremble in it. "I'm sure I don't want the world to come to an end, but——" "Do your people believe this?" "No, ma'am," replied Lottie. "Where, then, did you get the idea?" "Hester Brown is sure——" Hester's face was scarlet. She felt that she was called upon to bear witness. "My father and mother believe it, and we are all getting ready. My uncle means to give away all his things next week." The girl was in such earnest that Mrs. Craven was puzzled for a moment. "I do not think we shall know the day or the hour," was the reply. "We are all exhorted to go on diligently with whatever we are doing. And Lottie, Hester has certainly set you an example. She did her sums correctly. She has added works to her faith as the Bible commands. I am aware many people think the end of the world is near, but that is no reason for our being careless and indolent. I doubt if that excuse would be accepted; at all events, I cannot accept yours." "But I hate fractions! The divisors and the multiples get all mixed up and go racing round in my head until I can't tell one from the other." "Bring your slate here." Mrs. Craven made room for her by the table. "Now, what is the trouble?" Twelve o'clock struck before Lottie was through, but she had to admit that it wasn't so "awful" when Mrs. Craven explained the sums in her quiet, lucid manner. The girls rose and went to the closet for their hats and capes. "Girls," began Mrs. Craven, "I want to say a word. I hope each one of you will respect the other's religious belief. Our country has been founded on the corner-stone of liberty in this matter, and one ought to be noble enough not to ridicule or sneer at any honest, sincere faith, remembering that we cannot all believe alike." Hester went out with two or three of the larger girls. "I do not think you were quite kind, Lottie," said her teacher, in a soft tone. "But what would be the use of fractions if the world came to an end?" "Oh, Mrs. Craven! do you believe it? I should feel just dreadful. The world has so many splendid things in it—and to be burned up." "I should just be frightened to death," and one little girl shuddered. "Children, I am sorry anything has been said about this. There are a good many people who believe and who have preached for the last three years that the end of the world is near. The time has been set for next week. Yet the Bible does say that no man knoweth the day nor the hour. I do not believe in these predictions," and she smiled reassuringly. "I think we can all count on Thanksgiving and a merry Christmas as well as a happy New Year. I want you all to be kind to each other, and when Hester is disappointed next week, to refrain from teasing her. If you think for a moment, you will find it very easy to believe just as your parents do, for you love them the best of any one in this world. And the more you respect and obey them, the more ready you are to be kind and gentle and truthful to all about you, the better you are serving God. You must leave this matter in His hands, and remember that He loves you all, and will do whatever is best. Don't feel troubled about the world coming to an end. I am afraid Lottie here will have a great deal more trouble about fractions. I doubt if she gets through by Christmas. Now run home or you will be late for dinner." The little girl sat very quiet at the table. There was only her mother, John, and the boys. She wished that her father or Steve were here so she could ask them. A strange awe was creeping over her. It seemed so dreadful to have all the world burned up. There might be some people left behind in the hurry. It hurt terribly to be burned even a little. There was a very sober lot of girls at school that afternoon. The jest was all taken out of recess. Hester sat on the steps reading a little pocket Testament. The others huddled together and shook their heads mysteriously, saying just above a whisper, "I don't believe it." "My mother says it isn't so." But somehow they did not seem to fortify themselves much with these protestations. Some of the elder cousins had come to visit and take tea. People went visiting by three in the afternoon and carried their work along. There was an atmosphere of relationship and real living that gave a certain satisfaction. You enjoyed it. It was not paying a social debt reluctantly, relieved to have it over, but a solid, substantial pleasure. Martha took the little girl up-stairs and put on a blue delaine frock and white apron, and polished her "buskins," as the low shoes were called. Then she went into the parlor and spoke to all the ladies. She had her lace in a little bag, and presently she sat down on an ottoman and took out her work. "You don't mean to say that child can knit lace? And oak-leaf, too, I do declare! What a smart little girl!" "Oh, she embroiders quite nicely, also. Hannah Ann, get your apron and show Cousin Dorcas." The apron was praised and the handkerchiefs she had marked for her father were brought out. Then she was asked what she was studying at school. Cousin Dorcas was knitting "shells" for a counterpane. There was one of white and one of red, and they were put together in a rather long diamond shape with a row of openwork between every block. It was for her daughter, who was going to be married in the spring, and it interested the little girl wonderfully. Then they talked about Steve and Dolly Beekman. While the girls were at White Plains, Steve had coaxed his father and mother up to the Beekmans', and the engagement had been settled with all due formality. Dolly and her mother had been down and taken tea. And now Steve went up every Sunday afternoon and stayed to supper, and once or twice through the week, and took Dolly out driving and escorted her to parties. The Beekmans were good, solid people, and Peggy ought to be satisfied that Stephen had chosen so wisely. "Was it true that Steve had been buying some land way out of town? Did he mean to build there?" "Oh, dear, no!" answered his mother. "It was a crazy thing, but John had really persuaded him, and John was too young to have any judgment. But he said the Astors were buying up there, and land was almost given away." "I don't know what it's good for," declared Aunt Frasie. "Why it'll be forty years before the city'll go out there. Well, it may be good for his grandchildren." They all gave a little laugh. Presently another of the cousins sat down at the piano and played the "Battle of Prague." Then Aunt Frasie said, "Do sing something. It doesn't seem half like music without the singing." Maria Jane ran her fingers over the keys, and began a plaintive air very much in vogue: <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> "Shed not a tear o'er your friend's early bier, When I am gone, I am gone." </div> </div> Aunt Frasie heard her through the first verse, and then said impatiently: "You've sung that at so many funerals, Maria Jane, that it makes me feel creepy. You used to sing 'Banks and Braes.' Do try that." It had been said of Maria Jane in her earlier years that she had sung "Bonnie Doon" so pathetically she had moved the roomful to tears. Her voice was rather thin now, with a touch of shrillness on the high notes, but the little girl listened entranced. Then she sang "Scots wha' hae" and "Roy's wife of Aldivaloch." Margaret had come home, the supper-table was spread, the men came in, and they sat down to the feast. They teased Steve a little, and bade John beware, and were so merry all the evening that when it came her bedtime the little girl had forgotten all about the world coming to an end. The girls discussed it the next day. Most of their mothers and fathers had scouted the idea. Josie Dean was very positive it couldn't be—her father had been going over the Bible and the Millerites had made a big mistake. "And girls," said Josie earnestly, "St. John, one of the disciples of our Saviour, lived to be a hundred years old. Some people taught that the world would come to an end before he died. And now it's 1843, and it's stood all this while, though every now and then there's been an excitement about it. And I ain't going to be afraid at all, there now!" The little girl wondered whether she would be afraid. But Friday evening the boys were full of it, and Steve said it was nonsense. She crept up into her father's lap and asked him in a tremulous whisper if he was afraid. "No, dear," he answered, pressing her to his heart. "But if it should come." "Well—I'd take my little girl and mother and Margaret——" "And what would you do?" as he made a long pause. "I'd beg to be taken into heaven. And we would all be together. I think God would be good to us." "And the boys." "Yes, the boys." He wondered within himself if they were all fit for heaven. But he was quite sure the little girl was. There was a very great excitement. For months there had been meetings of exhortation and prophesying, and appeals to conscience, to terror, to the desire of being saved from impending destruction. Last winter there had been revivals everywhere, yet during the summer thoughtful people had questioned whether the moral tone of the community had been any higher. There were heroic souls, that always rise to the surface in times of spiritual agitation. There were others moved by any excitement, who seized on this with a kind of ungovernable rapture. No one spoke of it in Sunday-school. Hanny brought home "Little Blind Lucy," and was so lost in its perusal that she hardly wanted to leave off for half an hour with Joe. But her mother let her look over to see whether Lucy really did have her eyesight restored. She was so sleepy that when she had said her little prayer she felt quite sure that God would take care of her and the beautiful world He had made. It would be cruel to burn it all up. But the children went to school on Monday. Martha washed as usual. She did think it would be a waste of labor and strength if the world came to an end, though she was sure clean clothes would burn up quicker, and if it had to be, one might as well have it over as soon as possible. All things went on, the buying and selling, the business of the day, and in some houses there were weary pain-racked bodies that slipped out of life gently without waiting for the general conflagration. Still a strange awe did pervade the city. Some of the churches were open, and people were on their knees weeping and sobbing to be made ready; others were full of faith and expectations, singing hymns, and impatiently waiting the moment when the trump would sound and they be caught up to glory. Down on Grand Street Hester Brown's uncle was giving away shoes, and wondering at the fatal unbelief of those who were so ready to accept. Here and there another of abounding faith was doing the same thing, or perhaps giving away things they did not need, hoping it would be accounted to them for good works. Hester was not in school. Neither did she come on Tuesday, and that night was to be the fatal end of all things. A great many people went to church that day. The children did suffer from dread, though Lottie Brower kept up a sort of cheery bravado, as one whistles or sings in the dark. "And I don't think Hester's been such an awful sight better than the rest of us. She answered correct one day when she had talked, and pretended she had forgotten all about it. And she was just mean enough about that clover-leaf pattern and wouldn't show a single girl. And she gets mad just as easy as the rest of us." "I think we oughtn't get mad any more. And, girls, I'll lend you my knife to sharpen your pencils. We ought to try to be just as good as we could, for my Sunday-school teacher said if we died the world came to an end for us." They made many resolves. Mrs. Craven thought they had never been so angelic in their lives. But the little girl was very much "stirred up." People didn't say nervous so much in those days. In fact nervousness was rather associated with whims and tempers. Joe came over to supper—he could get off from the hospital now and then. They were all talking about going to Delancey Street Church, where it was said people would be dressed in their ascension robes, and remain to the final change. Margaret begged to go, and said she knew all her lessons. The boys had theirs to study. Jim scouted the idea of the world's coming to an end. Benny adduced several remarkable reasons why it couldn't come just yet. The Millerites had made a mistake in the true meaning of the "days" in Daniel. "Are you quite sure?" asked the little girl timidly. "Well—you'll see the same old world next week this time. Don't you get frightened, Hanny dear," and Ben kissed her reassuringly. She sat by the boys and knit on her lace a while. Then her mother looked up from the stockings she was darning. She said "she always took Time by the forelock," and the little girl had a fancy some time she would drag him out. She wondered if she would really like to see Time with his hour-glass and scythe, and all his bones showing. Mrs. Underhill looked up at the clock. "My goodness, Hanny!" she exclaimed, "it's time you were in bed half an hour ago. Put up your lace. You'll be sleepy enough in the morning." The little girl wound it round her needles and then stuck the ends in the stem of the spool and put it away in her basket. She kissed Ben and Jim good-night, and followed her mother. Her eyes had a half-frightened look and the pupils were very large. Mrs. Underhill felt out of patience that there should be so much talk about the world coming to an end before children. She knew Hanny was "just alive with terror." She couldn't pretend to explain anything to her; she was of the opinion that as you grew older "you found out things for yourself." And I am really afraid she didn't believe in total depravity for sweet little girls like Hanny. It was well enough for boys. So much of her life had been spent in doing, that she might have neglected some of the "mint, anise, and cummin." She undressed the little girl. Oh, how fair and pretty her shoulders were, and her round white arms that had a dimple at the top of the elbow. She was small for her age, but nice and plump, and her mother felt just this minute as if she would like to cuddle her up in her arms and kiss her as she had in babyhood. If she had, all the fear would have gone out of the little girl's heart. Hanny said her prayer, and added to it, "Oh, Lord Jesus, please don't let the world come to an end to-night." Then her mother patted down the bed, took off one pillow and the pretty top quilt, and put her in, kissing her tenderly, the little trembling thing. Then she stood still awhile. "I do wonder what I did with your red coat," she began. "Cousin Cynthia said it might be let down and do for this winter. There's no little girl to grow into your clothes. Let me see—I put a lot of things in this closet. I remember pinning them up in linen pillow-cases, but I meant to store them in the cedar chest. I wonder if I have been that careless." She stood up on a chair and threw down some bundles with unnecessary force. Then she stepped down and began to look them over, keeping up a running comment. She would not have admitted that she was talking against time, secretly hoping the little girl would drop off to sleep. But the coat was not in any of the bundles. "I think it must be in the chest. While I'm about it I may as well go and see. If you have outgrown it, it could be made over into a dress; it's nice, fine merino, a little thicker than I'd buy for a dress, but your father would have just that piece. I'll get a candle and go up-stairs—I wouldn't trust a glass lamp with this horrid burning-fluid in my storeroom. Hanny, be sure you don't get up and touch it," as if there was the slightest possibility. "I'll be down again in five minutes." That was a shrewd motherly excuse not to leave the little girl alone in the dark, though she was never afraid. She lay there very still, with a feeling of safety since her mother was up-stairs. Of course she was old enough to know a great many things and to have ideas on religious subjects. But I think the Underhills were more intelligent than intellectual, and people were still living rather simple lives, not yet impregnated with ideas. They had not had the old Puritan training, and the ferment of science and philosophy and transcendentalism had not invaded the country places. To-night in the city there were wise heads proving and disproving the times and half times, and days and signs, but they really had no interest for Mrs. Underhill, who was training her family the best she knew how, making good men and women. And the little girl's ideas were extremely vague. She thought her soul was that part of her heart that beat. When it ceased beating you died and the body was left behind; so of course that was what went to heaven. And when she had been naughty or when she had left something undone and was hurrying with all her might to do it, this thing beat and throbbed. If she wanted something very much and was almost tempted to take it, the feeling came up in her throat, and she knew that was conscience. She was trying now to recall and repent of her sins, and oh, she did so wish her father was here. Would he be back before the end came, and take them all in his strong arms? and they would run—Oh, no! they were to be caught up in the clouds. But she would be safe where he was. Years afterward, she was to understand how human and finite love foreshadowed the eternal. But then she could only believe, and her faith in her human father was the rock of her salvation. And when her mother came down she had fallen asleep, but she thought it would be just as well to leave the lamp burning until Margaret's return. She would look in now and then to see that it didn't explode. Burning-fluid was considered rather dangerous stuff. Hanny was so tired that she slept soundly. It was almost midnight when the folks came home, and Mrs. Underhill begged Margaret to go to bed quietly and not disturb her. And it was all light with the sun rising in the eastern sky and shining in one window when she opened her eyes. Margaret stood before the glass plaiting her pretty, long hair. The little girl sat up. Something had happened. There was a great weight—a great fear. What was it? Oh, yes, this was their room; they were all alive, for she heard Jim's breezy voice, and Joe, who had stayed all night, said impatiently: "Peggy, are you never coming down?" Hanny sprang out of bed and clasped her little arms about her sister. "Oh!" with a great exultation in her sweet child's voice—"the world didn't come to an end, did it? Oh, you beautiful world! I am so glad you are left. And everybody—only—Margaret, were the people at the church dreadfully disappointed? What a pity God couldn't have taken those who wanted to go; but I'm so glad we are left. Oh, you lovely world, you are too nice to burn up!" I think there were a great many people in the city just as glad as Hanny, if they did not put it in the same joyful words. Margaret smiled. "Hurry, dear," she said, "Joe will have to go, and I know he wants to see you." Hanny put on her shoes and stockings, and Margaret helped her with the rest, washed her and just tied up her hair with a second-best ribbon. Joseph had eaten his breakfast and was impatiently waiting to say good-by. John was off already. Nothing had happened. The world was going on as usual. True there had been the comet and falling stars and wars and rumors of wars, but the old world had sailed triumphantly through them all. The dear, old, splendid world, that was to grow more splendid with the years. Perhaps it did rouse people to better and kindlier living and more serious thought. Before Mr. Underhill went away his wife said: "'Milyer, hadn't you better look after those old people up at Harlem. I suppose they had some garden truck, but there's flour and meat and little things that take off the money when you haven't much. And fuel. I'll try to go up some day with you and see what they need to keep them comfortable in cold weather." The girls could hardly study at school, there was so much excitement. Did people really have on their ascension robes? What would Hester say? Hester did not come to school all the week. Of course they had made a mistake in computing the time, but a few weeks couldn't make much difference. Still, the worst scare was over, and if one mistake could be made, why not another? Were they so sure all the signs were fulfilled? <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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