The Street of the City
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Authors: Grace Livingston Hill
© 2014 by Grace Livingston Hill
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All scripture quotations are taken from the King James Version of the Bible.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual people, organizations, and/or events is purely coincidental.
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Contents
1940s
T
he 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.
