“HE ALIGHTED AT NETHERBY GATE”
The question of meeting the little stranger from Crescendo was solved
by sending Nurse Hummel to the station, as probably any one of the
Graham family could have prophesied that it would be. Most things in
that household connected with a child fell into Nurse Hummel’s hands.
She had come to take charge of Sydney when he was a youth one month
old, with more nebulous features than are considered desirable for
perfect beauty. Consequently she had presided over the earliest moments
of the life of each of the succeeding Graham babies; had nursed them
with love no mere money could recompense through childish and more
serious illnesses, and cherished them with all the warmth of her big
German heart, early bereft of the love of her husband and her own only
little child.
To Nurse Hummel the Grahams repaired with their griefs, not to their
busy mother; and “Hummie” was so fond of them that while they were
small they did not realize that there were children whose mothers could
give them more attention than theirs did, and that mother-love is more
satisfactory than any other.
Mrs. Graham found at the last moment that she could not send Henry with
the horses all the way over to the West Twenty-third Street Ferry; but
Nurse Hummel was despatched, with instructions to select a hansom drawn
by a lively horse, and to come up-town by the way of Fifth Avenue, so
“Miss Lochinvar” would certainly enjoy her drive--probably enjoy it
more than if she had been shut up in the Grahams’ more elegant brougham.
The new cousin was not to arrive until afternoon, a fortunate thing,
for though it never occurred to either Gwendoline or Gladys to go to
meet her, they were most curious in regard to her, and very anxious to
be in the house when she reached it.
They were ensconced behind the long lace curtains of the library on the
second floor, perfectly hidden, yet seeing perfectly, when the hansom
drove up.
Janet Howe had not talked much during that drive, though Nurse Hummel
tried in her most motherly way to draw her out. She thought that the
little girl was bewildered into silence by the splendor, confusion,
and hubbub of the second city of the world, but though this was in a
measure true, it was not the main cause of Janet’s quietness.
All the way during the last half of her two days’ journey--the first
half being given up to longing for the beloved faces and little house
which she had left behind--Janet had let her thoughts leap forward to
the dear cousins, the aunt and uncle who were awaiting her. She was
all ready to love them; she _did_ love them, for they were her
blessed mother’s kindred, who were so good to her in taking her into
their hearts and home, in letting her share the wealth she knew they
possessed, and in sharing one another with her. She knew the names and
ages of each one of them; that Sydney was very handsome and Gwen very
clever. All the Howes knew their Eastern cousins literally by heart,
for they occupied in the minds of the little folk in the plain house
in Crescendo a position something between an embodiment of perfect
kinship and the princes and princesses of the fairy tales. And Janet
knew and loved her Aunt Tina and her dearest Uncle Howard with positive
worship, heightened, if possible, by their kindness to her in offering
her this winter in New York. Her mother had talked to the children of
her happy girlhood with her brother, until every little brook, every
shaded path and meadow in the distant New Hampshire home, and every
trick of voice and manner of this favorite brother Howard were as
familiar to them as were their own lives and one another. Janet felt
quite sure that when she descended upon the platform in the station and
found all the Grahams drawn up in line to meet her, waving their hands
and laughing--for that was the way the Howes always welcomed a stray
guest to Crescendo--that she should be able to pick out each one with
perfect accuracy. She should make no mistake as to which was Sydney,
and which was Jack--she couldn’t very well, since there was nearly six
years’ difference between them--nor which was Gwen and which Gladys,
and quiet Viva, and dear little Geraldine, for whom she hungered most
of all because she was precisely the age of her own precious youngest
sister, her pet Poppet, as she called little Elizabeth. When she did
descend upon the platform on the Jersey City side, a trifle sobered by
the vastness of the station, the rush of the crowd, and the babel of
sounds, there was no line of merry young faces anywhere in sight, no
one that could be Uncle Howard or Aunt Tina, not even one who could be
Sydney, Gwen, or Gladys. Janet caught her breath with a sharp pain,
half fright, half bitter disappointment, and looked wildly around at
the mad-appearing passengers, tearing through the chilly station with
as frantic haste to catch the lumbering ferry-boat as if it had been as
fast as a Bandersnatch.
Just at that dreadful moment a woman in iron gray--all round, face,
body, gait, and all--came toward Janet, smiling with sufficient
expansiveness to cover the lack of several other smiles. “Is this
little Miss Janet Howe from Crescendo?” she asked, with just enough
of the German accent familiar in the West to make this meek, girlish
Lochinvar feel comforted.
“Oh, yes. Where are my aunt and uncle, and my cousins?” cried Janet.
“And who are you, if you please?”
“I am Nurse Hummel, and I’ve come to take you to your friends,” said
the rotund creature, with such assurance that “all was right in the
world” that Janet began to suspect herself of unreason in expecting her
relatives to meet her.
“None of them could get down here to-day, but that doesn’t matter.
You’ll soon find out that Nurse Hummel looks after all of you. I have
taken care of every Graham child of them all since Master Sydney was a
month old. Give me your check.”
Nurse Hummel led the way, and Janet followed, somewhat reassured, but
still with the lurking sense of disappointment. The capable woman gave
the check for Janet’s battered little trunk to a transfer express, and
put the child into a cab, drawn by the most frisky, high-headed horse
at the New York side of the ferry. Then she got in herself, not without
audible maledictions on joints that were less limber than in her youth.
When the interesting, but confusing, drive ended in the frisky horse
being pulled up so short before the Graham’s door that he almost sat
down on his pathetic, docked tail, Janet looked up and down the house
which was to be her home for many months. She saw a high, brownstone
structure, differing not at all, apparently, from a long line of such
edifices stretching westward from Fifth Avenue as far as she could see,
and eastward again across it. Not a sign of life could she espy; not a
curtain moved; not a face smiled at her; not a hand waved, still less
was there the shouting, gesticulating bevy of cousins on the front
steps which she had hoped to see.
But she was not arriving unnoted. Behind the curtains on the second
floor five eager faces peered out to catch the first glimpse of her.
The Graham children saw a short girl, not quite as tall as Gladys, with
soft, rounding curves throughout her body; a face that was decidedly
pretty, but very pathetic; with big, wistful brown eyes, looking
as if they might quickly be hidden by tears; brown hair, curling
around a broad, white forehead; a skin with a hint of brown beneath
its whiteness, and full, red lips meeting in soft curves, fashioned,
unmistakably, for smiling, but now drooping at the corners in an
attempt to keep them from quivering. They saw also a brown skirt and
jacket, with reddish tints occasionally, showing wear, and revealing,
to more experienced eyes, the fact that they had originally been made
up with the other side of the goods out. A hopelessly unstylish hat
surmounted the beautiful masses of red-brown hair, and woolen gloves
completed a costume that made Gladys groan aloud at its confirmation of
her worst fears. But Gwen, truly artistic, and with truer standards of
judgment than her sister’s, unguided though they were, saw the facts
which the shabbiness of her new cousin’s garments could not conceal
from her more observant eyes.
“She’s awfully pretty, Gladys,” she said. “And she looks like a lady,
and she looks sweet, and--and--oh, I don’t know--trusty, like a dog.
And, dear me, she is really _awfully_ pretty; ever so much
prettier than either of us.”
Gladys gave a derisive sniff. “Pretty! Well, so she might be, if
she looked decent, but, for goodness’ sake, what clothes! Why, our
laundress’s girl looks better! Fancy taking such a guy to school! I
shall die of mortiffication.”
Gwen actually laughed. “Mor_tif_-fication, Gladys? Maybe bad
pronunciation is as bad as old clothes, if you stop to think about it.
And Mary Ellen Flynn does wear citified things, and frizzes and cheap
lace, and so on, but I don’t know that I think she looks better than
that girl down there. At any rate, I suppose there are other clothes
in New York, and if it would save your life, we might make her look
decent.”
“I think she looks as though she could fish and sail a boat, too,”
said Jack, who, while his sisters were frivolously discussing mere
externals, had been silently considering the new cousin from the more
important viewpoint of her possible inheritance of her mother’s talents.
In the meantime, Norah, the waitress, had admitted Nurse Hummel and her
charge, and poor Janet was heavy-heartedly climbing the long flight of
stairs, without a voice to hail her coming. “We always meet people
at home, Mrs. Hummel,” she said at last, in a trembling voice, as
she paused at the landing to turn back to her guide, following with
shortened breath. “Aren’t they glad to see me?”
“What nonsense; just nonsense!” declared Nurse Hummel, with the
increase of accent always perceptible when she was moved. “There iss
different customs, that’s all. Ve iss not der same as you in der
Vest. My younk ladies iss vaiting you in der library, alretty. Yet it
vouldn’t haf hurt if someone came out mit greetings vonce,” she added
to herself, half minded to be indignant for the coldness shown the
little stranger, whose sweet and charming ways had immediately won her
affection.
As Nurse Hummel’s solid tread, passing Janet’s light one in the hall,
fell on the ears of the group in the window, all but Jack and Viva
stepped hastily forward, anxious not to appear to have been indulging
in surreptitious curiosity.
Nurse Hummel opened the door. “My dears,” she said, “here iss your
cousin, quite safe, und as glad to see you as you are to see her.” And
she gently pushed Janet past her toward her relatives.
“How do you do?” said Gladys, in her most grown-up, and, as she fondly
flattered herself, most elegant air. “I hope you are not too tired
after your journey.” With which enthusiastic speech of welcome she bent
gracefully forward and lightly pecked Janet’s cheek, apparently not
seeing that the fresh young lips were ready to be met by hers.
Now Gladys’s affectations always exasperated Gwen beyond bearing, no
matter what called them forth, and she was really sorry for her cousin,
who looked as bewildered as hurt by this piece of nonsense. So it was
a commingling of temper and kindliness which made her own manner more
than usually simple and hearty as she put her arms around Janet and
kissed her, saying, “You look very nice, Janet, and I hope you will
like New York and us.”
Janet raised her wet eyes to the tall girl above her, returning the
kiss with warmth and interest. “You’re Gwen, the clever one; I am
sure I shall just love you,” she said, and Gwen smiled with sincere
pleasure.
“Hallo, Jack! hallo, Viva!” cried Janet, partly restored to
cheerfulness by Gwen’s welcome, and glad to display her ready knowledge
of her family. “Come out here, and let me see you better. You don’t
know how I miss Bob and Nannie; they’re your ages. And Geraldine! If I
don’t love babies, then I don’t love anything on this whole earth! Do
you think I’d scare her if I kissed her? Is she shy? Poppet is--just at
first, you know.”
“Oh, I don’t think she’s at all shy!” said Gladys. “She sees so many
people; mamma receives a great deal, and Jerry sees quantities of
people, because they always think they have to ask for the youngest.
She isn’t much to rave over; she’s a cross, spoiled little kid, I
think.”
Janet stared at this remark, both because she had been taught that
slang was not well-bred, and Gladys was so very fine-ladified, and
because she could not imagine any one taking that attitude toward her
baby sister. Jerry stamped her foot. “I’m not tross! You are tross,
Tladys Traham! I love dis new one better’n you.” And she turned with
an angelic smile to throw herself into Janet’s outstretched arms,
which closed on her as their owner gave a quick sob, fancying they held
Poppet to her breast.
“You’re a darling, pretty, little petsy-cousin,” declared Janet, with
such unmistakable sincerity that Jerry melted still more.
“An’ you’re a darlin’, pretty, _bid_, pets’ tousin,” she retorted.
And from that instant Janet had one devoted adherent in her new home.
“Why do they call you Miss Lochinvar?” asked Viva, suddenly. She had
been considering Janet with her own grave thoughtfulness, and her
question fell like a bomb upon the ears of her shocked sisters.
Janet looked quickly from one to the other of her two elder girl
cousins.
“I hope you won’t mind, Janet; Syd called you that the morning we heard
you were coming, and it was so nice we couldn’t help adopting it,” said
Gwen, her color mounting high. “He didn’t mean it unkindly; neither did
we. It was only because you were coming ‘out of the West,’ you know.
You don’t mind, do you?”
“No, I don’t mind. Why should I?” replied Janet, with an uneasy little
laugh. “Young Lochinvar carried everything before him. It is rather
complimentary. And you might as well call me Jan. They always do at
home; Janet seems so long. Though, of course, if you like it better, it
doesn’t matter.”
“No; Jan is cozy, and it suits you somehow,” said Gwen. “Don’t you
want me to take you to your room? You must be tired, and feel all over
cinders; I always do after I have been traveling.”
“Thanks. Is Aunt Tina away?” asked Janet timidly.
“Oh, mamma is out; she has no end of things to attend to; she isn’t at
home much,” said Gladys. “We are all dreadfully busy; I never have a
moment myself! Papa dines here--no, he doesn’t either! Papa and mamma
dine out to-night. Well, that’s just the way. You’ll find New York
rather different from a little town.”
“You’ll find New York very nice, and full of all sorts of things; it’s
too big to be all one way,” said Gwen, filled with an unsisterly desire
to shake Gladys’s high-and-mighty air out of her, as she saw the blank
look of loneliness that came over the pretty, sensitive face before
her. “Come up-stairs with me.--Gladys, you may tell the girls I won’t
be around to-day.--Viva, you go with Hummie and Jerry.--Come on, Jan.”
Janet followed the one friendly person, except the big nurse Gwen
called “Hummie,” whom she had met in this strange household. Gwen put
her arm around the little brown figure, and Jan returned her pressure,
yet she kept her eyes down on the way up-stairs, lest Gwen should see
the tears, and she could not help feeling that she had passed through
a sort of mental Russian bath, plunging from the warm affection of her
own humbler home, and her loving anticipations of this new one, into
the actual chill of her welcome to it.