A rain was drenching the blackness of the night as the New York train
reached the small city that was Phœbe’s destination. Her father had
wakened her a little in advance of their stop, and when she had washed
her face and smoothed her hair, she had peered through the double glass
of a car window a-stream with water—and then recoiled from the panes
with a sinking of the heart. How dark it was out there! how stormy! how
lightless after a life-time in a city which, no matter at what hour she
might awake, was always alight!
A long whistle made her catch up her hat and adjust its elastic under
her chin. The porter had already taken her father’s suit-case and her
own to the forward end of the coach. With a wild thumping in her breast
and a choking in her throat, she followed her father to the vestibule,
where the porter waited with the suit-case and a small, square stool
upon which, presently, she stepped down to meet the rain.
There was a single light in the station, and beside it leaned a young
man in an agent’s cap. With her hand on her father’s arm—for he was
carrying both of the cases—she crossed a double line of glistening rails
to the depot, not taking her eyes from the agent, who represented to
her, at the moment, the sole sign of life and refuge in that black,
roaring downfall.
Then, “Jim!”
“Hello, Bob!” Her father dropped the luggage and stretched both hands
out to a figure that had emerged, in a shining raincoat, from the
blackness.
“And Phœbe!” exclaimed Uncle Bob, lifting Phœbe from her feet and at the
same time turning himself about, so that she was carried forward to the
shelter of a roof. “God bless her! We’ll jump into the surrey, Jim, and
I’ll have you home in a jiffy. What a ghastly night!—It’ll take the snow
off, Phœbe. But we’ll have more. And then for some sleigh-rides!”
The train was gone, booming into the distance, with parting shrieks that
grew fainter and fainter. As Phœbe was helped to the rear seat of the
surrey, Uncle Bob holding aside the curtains that shut out the storm,
she turned her head to look through the night to where great sparks were
going up with the smoke of the engine. The train was leaving her—that
train which seemed her only link with New York, with the beloved
apartment that was to her the home-nest, with her mother—her dear,
beautiful mother.
Phœbe gulped.
From the front seat sounded her uncle’s voice—a nice voice, she
concluded, though not at all like Daddy’s. As if he understood something
of what she was feeling—the lostness, the loneliness, the sensation of
being torn up and thrust out—her father had taken his seat beside her
and put an arm about her, drawing her so closely to him that, for
comfort, she was forced to take off her hat. The surrey was moving. And
its two side-lamps were casting a rain-blurred light upon the flanks of
a bay horse. Phœbe peered forward at the horse. She had pictured him
after horses she had seen in Central Park—shiny-coated saddlers, or
carriage pairs, proud and plump and high-stepping, with docked tails and
arching necks. But this horse was almost thin, and moved slowly, with a
_plop-plop-plop_ through the miry puddles of the unpaved street. This
horse had a long tail, and his head was on a level with his back. Phœbe
was disappointed.
The drive took some time. Yet conversation lagged, and was a one-sided
affair between Uncle Bob and the horse, in which the former urged the
latter to “Get up” and “Go ’long.” Here and there a street light shone
with a sickly yellow flame through the pelting drops. Phœbe tried to see
something of the town, to right and left over Uncle Bob’s wide
shoulders. But only the dim outlines of buildings were discernible.
Strange and stormy was the little she could see. And there rose in her a
feeling against this town into which she was come; so that, with Grandma
and Uncle John still to meet and know, she yet longed for a quick
turnabout, and a train that would carry her away again—away and away to
the great city, to her little bed and her pretty mother.
The surrey drew up beside a large house that showed a dozen glowing
windows, and as the wheels scraped the boards of a step, voices called
out in greeting, and Uncle Bob answered them. “I’ve got ’em!” he cried.
Whereupon a hand pulled at the curtain of the surrey on Phœbe’s side,
and here, under an umbrella, was a tall, thin gentleman in black, who
wore eye-glasses and had large teeth. “Our dear little niece!” he
exclaimed. And Phœbe climbed down to him, steadying herself by his hand,
and was led by him to a wide door where Grandma was waiting—a slender
little lady in a gray dress.
Phœbe permitted herself to be kissed, first by Grandma, then by Uncle
John, as the man with large teeth proved to be, then by Uncle Bob, who
had shed his raincoat and now stood forth, a heavy-set person, quite
bald, and apple-cheeked, with smiling blue eyes.
The greetings over, Phœbe fell back a step, felt for and found her
father’s hand, and then lost herself in contemplation of the trio of new
relatives. Of them, Daddy had, assuredly, spoken frequently. But,
man-like, he had never essayed a description of them, never endowed them
either with virtues or faults, never taught her in advance to render to
the three any love or loyalty. So that now, appraising them, Phœbe was
unprejudiced in her judgment, and viewed them as she might have viewed
three strangers who were not related. How very old Grandma was! Phœbe
noted that the white head trembled steadily, as if Grandma were,
perhaps, cold. As for Uncle John, there was something altogether
forbidding about him—eye-glasses, teeth and all. Aloofness was a part of
her feeling toward this clerical uncle. But Uncle Bob—upon his
apple-round cheeks glistened drops that Phœbe knew were not rain. And
his eyes were shining with something that Phœbe recognized—the something
she knew as love. He was big, he was round, he was, oh, so very homely.
But straightway, with a child’s true instinct, Phœbe loved him.
Behind the three was another figure. Phœbe first glimpsed the white
apron, which to her city-bred eyes meant that here was a maid. And such
a funny maid, in a lavender dress, with no cap on tousled yellowish hair
that had been kinked rather than curled. The maid had a wide, grinning
mouth, and eager, curious, hazel eyes. Yet altogether she was a likeable
person, Phœbe decided. Youth spoke to youth across the Blair
sitting-room. So that when all were seated in the high-ceilinged
dining-room for a bite of supper, Phœbe answered Sophie’s smile with one
of her own, and for the cup of steaming chocolate that was set at her
plate murmured a friendly “Thank you.”
The supper was a quiet affair. Grandma bobbed and nodded over her
chocolate, speaking only when Sophie was to fetch something or when one
of the three men needed to be urged to another helping. Uncle John spoke
not at all—after he had said what Phœbe afterwards learned was “a
blessing”. He looked at his food crossly. Phœbe’s father had little to
say, too. He looked tired and white. And when he smiled at Phœbe, he
seemed not to see her, but to be looking beyond somehow. Only Uncle Bob
appeared cheerful. His eyes danced when Phœbe lifted her eyes to him
shyly. Every now and then he patted her shoulder. But—compared by her
New York standards—Phœbe voted the supper altogether dreary—the result,
she felt sure, of having Uncle John present.
A little later, she was conducted to her room by Sophie. How unlike was
that strange bed-chamber to the wee, cosy place, all rose hangings and
sheer white, which for as long as her memory could trace had held her
white bed and the twin one that was her mother’s! The new room was at
the top of a long, wide stairway that wound back upon itself. The new
room was high, and surely as large, Phœbe thought, as all of the New
York apartment made into one. It had lace curtains at both windows, and
there was an old-style dressing-table, slabbed over its top with mottled
marble. When Phœbe touched the marble, she drew back from it, and
stared, a little amazed. It was so cold!
Sophie seemed to guess something of what was passing through Phœbe’s
mind. “I’ll just put a fancy towel on it t’morra,” she promised. “Ain’t
had time today.”
“Thank you,” murmured Phœbe. Certainly the dressing-table needed
something.
Sophie hung about for a little, shifting her weight from one substantial
foot to the other, and making offers of aid. Could she unpack Phœbe’s
jo-dandy suit-case? Phœbe replied with a polite, “No, thank you.” Could
she unbutton the blue linen dress? (“My, it’s pretty!”) Again, “No,
thank you.” Then the windows had to be raised a trifle, and lowered
again because of the rain. There were two windows, great, high affairs
against which tall green blinds were fastened. Next, Sophie displayed
the clothes-closet, and hung Phœbe’s serge coat on a nail. Last of all,
she caught up the two thick pillows on the wide bed, beat them as a
baker beats his dough (and with a touch of something almost like
temper), flung them down into place once more, and grudgingly sidled to
the door.
Phœbe, standing in the middle of the floor, hat still in hand, made a
pathetic little figure that appealed to Sophie’s heart. “Ain’t there
anything I can do?” she inquired, persisting.
Phœbe nodded. “If—if Daddy will please come up to kiss me good-night,”
she answered, choking; “and—and put out my light.”
“I’ll tell him, you betcha,” declared Sophie, heartily. She went out,
turning her tousled head to smile a good-night.
Phœbe hurried with her undressing. There was no running water in the big
room, and she could not bring herself to open her door and call down, or
go down, in quest of it. Presently, however, she caught sight of a tall
pitcher standing in a wide, flowered bowl, both atop what seemed to be a
cupboard. She went to peer into the pitcher. Sure enough! The pitcher
was full of water; and Phœbe, using all the strength of her slender
arms, heaved it up and out and filled the bowl.
“How funny!” she marveled. And once in bed, with a single electric light
shining full into her face from where it hung on a cord from the high
center of the ceiling, she studied the room itself, walls, furniture,
curtains, carpet. “How queer!” she murmured, over and over.
“Well, big eyes!” hailed her father, when he came in.
She raised on an elbow. “Daddy,” she whispered, “isn’t it so—so
different here—everything. Why, in New York nobody has water-pitchers.”
Her father laughed. “This is a wonderful old house,” he declared. He sat
down beside her.
“It’s so big!” Phœbe lay back. Her hand crept into her father’s and she
looked up at the high ceiling, with its covering of wall-paper in a
wavy, watered design.
“You’ll get used to it,” he promised, “and you’ll like it. And do you
know how happy Grandma is to have you?—Uncle John and Uncle Bob, too? I
can see they love my little girl already.”
“And they’ll love Mother,” added Phœbe, stoutly “You just wait till she
comes back well again. Won’t they, Daddy?”
Her father rose, and the smile in his eyes gave place to an expression
of sudden pain. “I don’t doubt it,” he answered hastily. Then leaning to
smooth back the hair from her brow, “You’re tired, aren’t you, darling?
And so is Daddy. We’ll say good-night now, and in the morning there’ll
be so much to see, and do, and talk about.”
“Yes, sir.”
He laid his cheek against hers, so babyish still. “God bless my
daughter,” he said tenderly.
Her arms went round his neck then. “Oh, Daddy,” she implored brokenly,
“how long will I be away from mother? Oh, Daddy, just one day and I miss
her so!”
He soothed her. “I can’t tell, Phœbe,” he asserted. “But will you trust
me to do the best that I know how?”
With her wide eyes upon him, he stood at the middle of the room, his
right arm raised to put out the electric light. He pulled at the cord,
and the room went dark. He felt his way to the door then, and went out
with a last affectionate good-night which Phœbe answered cheerily
enough.
But when the sound of his footsteps died away in the hall, she stared
into the blackness, seeing him still there at the room’s center with his
arm upraised. And her loneliness and loss she told silently to that
picture of her father which still remained under the swinging globe in
the blackness.
“I want Mother,” she said, over and over. “Oh, Daddy, I want to go back
to New York, to Mother. Oh, Daddy, don’t leave me here without Mother.”
Then, “Oh, Mother, if I could only be with you! Oh, dear, dear Mother!”
The tears came then,—tears of weariness as well as grief. And Phœbe,
curled up in the wide bed, her face buried in the curve of an arm,
sobbed herself to sleep.