The Street of the City

The Street of the City

by Grace Livingston Hill

First published in 1942

This edition published by Reading Essentials

Victoria, BC Canada with branch offices in the Czech Republic and Germany

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The Street of the City

by

Grace Livingston Hill

Chapter 1

1940s

The river wound like a crystal ribbon at the foot of the hill below the house, a clear, shining pathway of solid ice, blue as the sky above it, until it curved around the hemlock bluff where the tall, feathery trees cut it sharply with dark, delicate points against its shining surface. Then beyond, the gleaming pathway swept toward the town and on to the dingy group of munitions plants, then farther to the open spaces banked by the buildings where airplanes were made.

The old lady was sitting in her sunny window with a bit of sewing, now and again glancing out the window and following the bright course of the river. She had been watching the river for years, in all seasons, but she loved it best in this shining garb of winter, with its solid pavement of bright ice in its soft, white setting of snow.

Lady Winthrop, as her friends called her, had come to the house as a bride. It was a pleasant house on the hillside with the river at its feet, and she had had long years to get acquainted with her river. She knew and loved every phase of it. How it had been with her in every change of her life. How she had communed with it during the early days of her young wifehood, shyly watching, learning slowly its quiet moods—singing with it when there were twinkling sparkles on its bosom; gathering comfort from its steady peace when there was sorrow in the house, sadly, patiently waiting when gray skies spread gloom over its stolid surface; or, in times of storm and stress, watching its steady strength, hurrying on angrily, as if so much depended upon its haste.

And sometimes when her life had been quiet, a space for thoughtfulness, she had seen in that river as it were a way into the Heavenly City. Especially was this so in the winter evenings at sunset, when the sun, a great ball of fire, was going down in the break of the distant mountains and casting ruby light over the ice like flaming gold. Often taking a moment out of her busy life she would stand at her window watching it, and would repeat softly to herself, ‘And the street of the city was pure gold, as it were transparent glass.’

Or later, when the sun was slipping over the rim of the world and its last brilliancy flared over the ice like a great blaze, she would murmur, ‘And I saw as it were a sea of glass mingled with fire.’

But today Lady Winthrop was not seeing fire in her river. It was early morning, and she was watching for her day’s parade of people passing by on that pathway of ice. Groups of workmen walking by the river because it shortened their way, rather than going around by the bridge and the road. Bevies of laborers hurrying to their tasks, rough clad, striding along at the edge of the stream with grim, set faces, or bandying rough jokes with raucous laughter. Some wore the hard, determined look of men who were in this war fight to make the most out of it; and others bore themselves as men who had sacrificially laid aside their work in their chosen field of labor to do what was to be done for right’s sake and for loyalty to their country.

But there was one young man who had been going by for several days now, in fact ever since the fierce cold came that locked the river into a deep floor of crystal. He had appeared that first morning after word had gone out that the skating was fine, and he had come sailing smoothly into view with gleaming skates that almost seemed to be tipped with silvered magic. He had glided by with quick, firm strokes, and such assurance and grace as only a natural gift can acquire.

He was young, yet not a boy, for his movements had that control that belongs to maturity.

Lady Winthrop had watched him every day, wondering who he was, where he came from, and what was his place in this new world that the war had brought suddenly into being.

Lady Winthrop liked to watch his tall, straight form moving with such easy precision down the bright ice. She had been watching him morning after morning now, since the ice had been so fine. She felt glad and comfortable in looking for him because the cold had been so steady. The ice would not be gone, nor spoiled by rain or a heavy snowfall—not today, anyway. The sky was clear. There would perhaps be several days yet when he could go down this same way to wherever it was he went in the morning, and he would probably return the same way in the evening. Each day she studied him from her post in the window, caught a glimpse now and then of his vivid young face with the determination of manhood in its lines, and liked it, wished she might see it nearer by. She had even climbed to the attic and searched in an old trunk till she found an old pair of field glasses that she had not used since Judge Winthrop died, a relic of their happy days together and the summer and winter trips they used to take.

She studied him one night as he came back from his day’s work, and after that keen look put down her glasses, quite satisfied that he was worth her interest.

And so this morning she had settled down by her window, field glasses on the table beside her, watching for him. It was almost the time he usually came by, and she wanted another good look at him to be sure he wasn’t someone she used to know a few years ago. She was lonely and sad. Her own two boys were long since grown up and away at the war, one a naval commander in the Far East, the other an officer in the army. She had given them freely and would not spend her days in sighing for them, but she was trying to get all the cheerful interest she could find in the things around her.

And now suddenly there came into view another skater, a young girl, so tiny she almost seemed a child. She had seen her two or three times before, skating almost uncertainly the first time, as if somehow her skates were unused, or perhaps rusty and had been idle a long time. But here she was again like a little bird, flying along as if she had wings. The skates looked brighter now, or did she imagine that? She had probably been polishing them up. At any rate she seemed to make swifter progress than the first times. And she was a fine skater, very graceful, like a bird of swift wing. Lady Winthrop might be old, and she no longer took frequent trips by herself down the slope of the hill, but she could remember the feel of her own skates long ago when she, too, used to glide down that long smooth stretch of ice, and she felt the swing of her body as if she were out there skimming along. She felt the exhilaration of the keen, bright air, the cut of steel on ice, and drew a deep breath of wistfulness. Oh, for the days when she could skate! How great it would be if even just for one day she could have her young skill and strength back and go down that bright path toward the city herself!

And then suddenly she laughed aloud at herself, a sweet old trill of a laugh. She was actually envying that young girl!

Who was she? A student? Or perhaps a teacher in one of the city schools. But she looked so young, and why had she never seen her before? She might be a worker in some defense plant, a secretary or typist. They gave good salaries in some of those places she had heard. She hoped her salary was adequate for her needs. It was not many times she had seen this girl go down her Crystal Street, as she called it, and yet here she was thinking of the child as if she were a friend!

The girl wore such a look of steady purpose, the look of a worker, not just a girl out for fun or exercise. Ah! Here was another skater of whom she would like to know more. She must find out who she was if possible. Perhaps she came from one of those new houses across the river, the small ones built alike up around the bend of the hill. She could see them from her kitchen windows; they were small frame houses, high on the bluff. She must find out about her. Perhaps the servants could discover who she was.

And that young man must be a stranger in the neighborhood, too. Did his people live up in that new suburb farther up the river, the place they called Cliveden?

How well those two skaters would look together! Did they know one another? Strange thoughts for the dear old lady to have about two young people who were utter strangers to her, two people she had only seen from a distance a few times!

She watched the girl go gliding down the river, till she disappeared at Hemlock rocks, and a moment later reappeared beyond them again and skimmed away into the silvery distance. A mere little speck of a girl in simple garb, with a graceful motion. That was all she could see even with the glasses.

But she could not help thinking again how well those two skaters would look together. If they only knew each other. Both of them living up in the same direction, perhaps they did, and perhaps some day she would see them come down by her house together.

But where was the young man? It was almost five minutes past his usual time for going by. She hoped nothing would hinder him. It would seem as if the day held a big disappointment for her if he didn’t come. It would be something left out from what she had come to expect of a day, not to see him. And that was silly, of course, because it had been only four or five days that she had been seeing him at all. She couldn’t expect it to go on forever. There would soon come a thaw and spoil the ice, or a snow storm and spoil the skating—unless a crowd came out and swept it clean, and that would hardly be likely, sweeping the whole way to town!

Then suddenly she heard footsteps crunching hastily through the crusty snow up the hillside. Young, hurried, frightened footsteps; a quick, insistent pounding on the door beside her window; and a little girl’s voice full of fright calling wildly, Oh please, please, won’t you help me? Please won’t you come quick and open your door? Something has happened to my mamma!

Lady Winthrop hurried to open the door.

Why, my dear! she exclaimed. For there stood a little girl about five or six years old, a very tiny little girl, with no hat or coat on, and shivering, with her small, red, cold hands clasped tightly and tears flowing down her cold, round cheeks. Her large, beautiful eyes were full of terror.

What is the matter? asked the old lady tenderly. Come into the house and let me close the door. It is very cold!

Oh no, I can’t come in, said the child excitedly. I must go to my mamma! Won’t you come with me quick?

Why, you poor child! You are trembling with cold. You poor little thing! Who are you, and what is the matter with your mother?

I’m Bonnie Fernley, wailed the child frantically, and I don’t know what is the matter. My mamma just dropped down on the floor with her eyes shut, and she didn’t answer me when I called her. She was clearing off the table and all the dishes she was carrying are broken on the floor! Oh, won’t you come quick and make my mamma wake up?

Oh, my dear! I’m lame and I can’t come myself, but I’ll send somebody! Where do you live?

Right across the river in that redbrick house. Come out here and I’ll show you.

Wait, child! Who is your doctor? I’ll telephone him.

The child began to cry again.

We haven’t got any doctor. We just moved here! Oh, I must go quick! My mamma is all alone!

Wait! said Lady Winthrop sharply. You can’t go that way! You have no coat on, and it is very cold!

No! No! said the child, jerking away. I can’t wait!

The old lady reached to the couch and grabbed a soft, bright knitted afghan, wrapping it quickly around the little shaking shoulders. Then she swung the door wide and looked out on the white morning scene and her shining glass pathway. And then straight into the scene at the upper bend of the road wheeled the tall skater coming at full speed.

The old lady did not pause to consider. She lifted her soft, frail hands, hollowed them around her lips, and made a deep sound like a big boy calling to his mates, a sound that boomed out and became a far-reaching Halloo! Halloo! and then turned sharply into another syllable, Help! Help!

The skater looked up sharply as the word rang out with a carrying quality that an old lady would not have been supposed to be capable of sending out.

H-ee-lp! cried Lady Winthrop with all the power of her frail little body thrown in to the cry.

And now she was standing out in the center of her porch, her little lavender shawl fluttering wildly, with bright strands of her lovely silver hair caught by the sharp morning breeze. She was waving her hands frantically as she cried.

The skater threw up his head attentively and faced her, whirling almost in a circle and coming about in front of the old house on the hill and the pretty old lady.

Are you calling me? he shouted, coming to a halt on his shining blades and looking up.

Yes! answered the old lady, nodding her white head excitedly.

What’s the matter? called the young man.

Woman in trouble!

Where? Up there?

No, over across the river. This child will show you.

She put the little girl before her, pointing to her, and the child started to plunge into the snow and come to him.

Wait! shouted the young man, I’ll come up and carry you. There’s a big drift there! and he swung to the edge of the river deftly and began breaking a way for himself up the crust of the snowy hillside.

Lady Winthrop took her handkerchief out of her pocket and softly, swiftly, wiped the little tear-wet face of the child and tucked the afghan closer around her shoulders. Then she lifted her head and watched the strong, firm steps that broke into the white crust of the hill. The young man was looking up now, taking the hill in great strides, studying the two on the porch.

I’ll carry that child, he announced as he arrived. Sure, I can manage that all right. Are you coming, madam?

No, said the old lady sadly, I have a sprained knee, and I’m very unsteady on my feet. I’m afraid I couldn’t make the grade. Both my servants are out on errands. I’m here alone.

Well, can you tell me where I am going, and what I am to do when I get there?

This child’s mother has been taken sick. She will tell you. They are strangers to me, have just moved into that redbrick house across the river. She says her mother is lying on the floor. That she fell.

She wouldn’t answer me, said the child, catching her voice in a sob. Her eyes were shut tight!