“SO BOLDLY HE ENTER’D THE NETHERBY HALL”
Janet could not repress a cry of pleasure as Gwen threw open the door
of her room, despondently as she had approached it. It was one of the
smallest rooms in the large house, but it was quite big enough for one
small girl, and it was so pretty! The furniture was bird’s-eye maple;
the paper, carpet, hangings, all a harmony of soft old-rose color; and
the few pictures both good and cheerful.
“Is this really my room?” cried Jan, who had loved the big, bare, sunny
room at home, which she had shared with her two sisters next in order
to her, but who had always longed secretly for a lovely room, such
as she read of in her favorite stories, and which should be all her
own. And now, behold, here was her wish gratified beyond her wildest
imaginings--at least, while she was an inmate of her uncle’s household.
“Yes. Do you really like it? It isn’t very large, but maybe you won’t
mind,” said Gwen, looking around her critically. “The next room is the
nursery. Hummie sleeps there, and Jerry’s crib is there; Viva does
her lessons there in the morning--she has a governess; she hasn’t
begun school. If you want anything, you must go in to Hummie--that’s
headquarters for any Graham in distress. Gladys has the middle room on
this floor, and mine is the back one; Viva has the one beside mine at
the end of the hall. We won’t hear one another much, because the house
is so dreadfully deep, and the dressing-rooms are between the chambers;
that’s one good thing. Syd calls this floor ‘the hennery,’ because all
the girls’ rooms are here. I told him that I didn’t mind; if he and
Jack were roosters, it was proper they should roost above us--they are
on the next floor, you know. And he didn’t like it, though I think my
joke is quite as good as his--it’s the same joke, in fact.” And Gwen
laughed in malicious enjoyment of these exquisite sallies of wit.
Janet had been looking out of the window, and discovered that the
identity of the architecture of the houses in the street was less than
she had taken it to be; there were many points of difference between
her uncle’s house and his neighbors’, though the uniform brownstone
made them drearily similar to eyes used to long stretches and plenty
of space. But she had also caught a glimpse of trees and grass as she
leaned out, and she drew her head in to inquire of Gwen what they
meant, forgetting the pretty room, and not hearing what her cousin had
been saying.
“That is Central Park; the entrance is just above us, at Fifty-ninth
Street,” said Gwen, wondering at Jan’s brightening eyes. “It is nice to
have it so near; I often go there to think out my plans--stories and
poems and such things--and Glad and I are learning to ride.”
“I know you are awfully clever. Uncle sent mamma some of your poetry,
cut out of a magazine,” said Janet, removing her hat and shaking out
her masses of warm-tinted, curling hair.
“Oh, my, what bea-u-tiful hair!” cried Gwen involuntarily. “And what
lots of it! If that doesn’t make that conceited old Daisy Hammond turn
green when she sees it! She’s so vain of her hair, it fairly disgusts
one! Oh, those verses were only in the back part of St. Nicholas, where
the children’s things are. It was ever so long ago--certainly two
years. I hope I can do better than that now.”
“Do you expect to write when you are grown up?” asked Jan, with the awe
for a person who could look forward to such a career natural to a girl
who dearly loved books, and who felt that they who made them belonged
to an order of beings apart from common mortals.
“I can’t tell,” said Gwen, seating herself on the bed beside her cousin
and taking her knee into the clasp of both her hands--it was not often
that she found any one willing to listen to her hopes, much less treat
them with positive veneration. “You see,” she continued, “I can paint
just as well as I can write, and my teacher says I have a very good
voice. I might become an artist instead of an author, or I might go
on the stage and become a great opera singer, like Melba. I shouldn’t
like you to mention it, Jan, because they all--except mamma--make fun
of me, but I mean to make a big name for myself somehow, and as long
as I do that I don’t care which way I do it. Gladys likes society,
and dress, and such stuff,” continued the ambitious young person,
with withering scorn, “but I want to be something that is something.
It’s pretty hard, though, when you’re one of such a dreadfully big
family. I would like to get off by myself on a desert island, like
Robinson Crusoe, and only see them on birthdays, and Christmas, and
Thanksgiving, and such times.”
“Mercy!” exclaimed Jan, rather shocked, though she realized that genius
was not to be measured by ordinary standards. “That would never suit
me.”
“What do you want to do? What’s your special talent?” asked Gwen.
“I haven’t any,” replied Jan. “Unless,” she added, with a twinkle, “it
is a talent to wash and dress children, and dust, and wash dishes, and
make cake, and those things--I can do all that.”
“How perfectly awful!” cried Gwen with conviction. “You poor little
soul, have you been leading such a poky, drudge’s life as that? I am
glad, then, that papa got you here, after all.”
Janet was too quick-witted to miss the implication that Gwen had not
always been glad of her coming, but she said with spirit: “You needn’t
pity me, Gwen, for no girl ever had more fun than I have. I like to do
those things--at least, usually I do.” Jan was too honest not to leave
a margin for those occasions when household tasks had been irksome. “I
have the very nicest home in all the world, and it would be bad enough
if I weren’t willing to do something in it! And we children have the
loveliest times--you ought to see what a splendid little crowd they
are! I don’t know, but I shouldn’t wonder if--” Jan stopped short, not
wishing to impart to her cousin her first impression that the Grahams
were less happy than the Howes.
Gwen was too preoccupied to notice the halt. “And what do you mean to
do, then, when you are grown up?” she insisted.
Jan hesitated. “I believe,” she said slowly, “I don’t want to be very
much of anything--not anything famous or showy, I mean. Papa says it
is hardest, and greatest of all, to be a true-hearted, noble woman who
makes home happy and helps everybody to be good. I believe I would
rather do that--be the sort of woman mamma is--than anything.”
“What sort of woman is she?” asked Gwen respectfully; the glow in Jan’s
eyes and the loving tremor in her voice impressed the girl, who had
never had this side of life presented to her aspirations before.
“She is so cheery and kind, she makes you feel better, no matter how
miserable you are, if she just walks through the room,” said Jan. “She
never thinks of herself at all--it keeps us busy to stop her going
without things for us all the time. She never is too tired to listen to
our fusses, nor too busy to unsnarl us. She never says a word if she is
sick or troubled, but puts it all out of sight so no one else will be
unhappy, too. And she makes time, somehow, for her neighbors’ troubles.
And she not only cooks, and sews, and nurses us children, but she reads
to us, and talks to us, and we each feel as though we were all alone
in the world with her. And she never breaks a promise to us, whether
it is to do something pleasant for us or to punish us, and she is
never the least wee bit partial or unjust. And when we’re bad, or have
crooked days, she is so patient! And she just loves us straight and
good. And there isn’t one of us that wouldn’t just die if we thought we
had deceived or disappointed her, because she trusts us. And everybody
wonders why the Howe children are so square, and honorable, and good,
on the whole. As if they could help being--with such a mother!
Oh, I love her, I do love her!” And Jan’s tears rolled over as she
remembered how many miles now separated her from this dear woman, and
how long it must be before she held her tight in her arms again.
Gwen sat motionless, looking down on the long fingers clasping her
knee, as Jan stopped speaking. Her face was sweet and serious, although
a trifle puzzled. Jan had given her an entirely new point of view, had
filled her mind with new thoughts; and it was a fine mind, guiding a
noble nature, both quite capable of appreciating the picture her cousin
had painted.
“Thank you, Jan,” she said at last, to Jan’s surprise, as she rose to
leave her. “I think I see what you mean. I shouldn’t wonder if your
ambition was better than mine; I mean to think that over. By and by
you’ll tell me more about Crescendo and Aunt Jennie; I wish I knew her;
I wish--” Here Gwen stopped in her turn. “Don’t be homesick, and don’t
mind Gladys. She is so silly that it doesn’t mean one thing. Come down,
when you get ready, to the library--where we were when you came. Papa
will want to speak to you before he goes out. And don’t miss those nice
people too much; we’ll try to be decent, and I guess you’ll like New
York. I’ll tell Norah to have your trunk sent up when it comes.”
Gwen left the room with a smile intended to be reassuring, but which
was rather wistful, and Jan proceeded to wash away the tears, which she
immediately checked, and with them the cinders from her long journey.
The little trunk was long coming, and while Janet was wondering whether
she should go down without waiting for it Viva knocked softly at her
door.
“O Viva, darling, I’m so glad it’s you! Come in and talk to me,” cried
Jan.
[Illustration: “My dear little niece, you don’t know how glad I am to
see you.”]
“I can’t, Janet, because papa sent me up to say, won’t you please come
down and talk to him for half an hour before he gets dressed to go
out?” said Viva gravely.
“If you’ll just wait till I braid my hair,” said Jan, kissing the pale
little face, from which dark eyes looked out seriously upon her. “Has
auntie come home, too?”
“Yes; mamma’s in,” said Viva. “If I were you, I’d let my hair hang all
around like that. It’s so very, very pretty. You are pretty, too; much
prettier than Gwen and Gladys--Gwen said so, too.”
“‘Pretty is that pretty does,’ you know, little cousin,” laughed Janet.
“Gladys is graceful and stylish, and Gwen looks clever; besides she has
perfectly glorious eyes. Come, then, if you think I’m nicer with my
hair crazy.” And Jan took the hand extended to her with a sinking of
the heart of which she was ashamed.
“My dear little niece, you don’t know how glad I am to see you,” said
a voice heartily as she entered the library, and then she felt a
warm kiss on each cheek, mingled with the odor of a very good cigar.
After this Janet ventured to lift her eyes. She saw a handsome man,
keen-eyed, yet smiling, looking at her closely, while from across
the room a pretty woman in a beautiful _negligée_ came languidly
toward her. “How do you do, child? I hope you are not too tired,” she
said, in a manner recalling Gladys as much as the words did. Janet
kissed this new aunt, but her eyes wandered back to her uncle, seeking
a resemblance in him to her mother. He smiled upon her, and said: “You
are like Jennie in expression more than in features. By Jove, I wish
she were here, too! Dear little woman!” Janet’s lip quivered, and her
uncle quickly drew her beside him upon the couch.
“Now tell me everything you can think of about that blessed mother of
yours,” he said. “She’s the dearest woman in the world--I hope you know
that?”
“Indeed I do!” cried Jan fervently, and in a few moments was rattling
off to her uncle, in response to judicious questions, the simple story
of her life.
The half-hour passed too quickly; in it Jan was completely happy, and
it was long enough to win her heart to her uncle with an affection that
subsequent days could not annul. After he and her aunt, of whom she
had a resplendent glimpse in her dinner gown, had driven away there
was a dull half-hour of waiting, at the end of which Gwen and Gladys
appeared, and they were called to dinner in the big dining-room, which
struck a chill as well as awe to Jan’s soul. Here she saw Sydney for
the first time, but beyond a nod to her when Gwen introduced her he
did not notice Janet throughout the meal, nor speak except once to
contradict Gladys flatly, and once to ridicule Jack for a slip of the
tongue. Janet’s heart sank lower and lower; it seemed to her that she
was stifling, and her loving heart exaggerated the really unfortunate
state of affairs in her new surroundings.
After dinner Gladys disappeared, as did Sydney, and Gwen, having been
polite to the guest for a while, picked up a book and was soon lost in
it. Viva had gone to bed, and Jack was up-stairs struggling with his
lessons. Wondering if she was doing an unpardonably rude thing, Janet
slipped out of the room and sought the nursery. Here she found Jerry
sleeping in her crib; her flushed, baby face brought comfort and the
sense of home to the lonely “Miss Lochinvar.” Here, too, was Hummie,
darning stockings and humming the Lorelei, a most inappropriate theme
to her bulk. And here was Jack, his hair tousled, his cheeks hot over
refractory examples that would not come right.
“I won’t wake the baby; may I help him?” whispered Janet, and Hummie
nodded hard.
“Let me help you; I love arithmetic, and I always help Bob,” Janet
whispered, going over to the afflicted boy. If the sky had fallen, Jack
would not have been more amazed. Not only was it inconceivable that any
one should like arithmetic, but to offer to help him! He yielded at
once, from sheer inability to grasp the situation.
But here was a girl that was a girl--if she wasn’t a good angel.
Jack’s admiration grew as his troubles diminished. With a word here
and an illustration there, Jan threw light upon his darkened path, and
she actually whispered funny things as she did so. Jack found himself
positively giggling under his breath as he worked over the hated sums.
“Gee! You’re a dandy!” he remarked audibly, forgetful of Jerry,
as he saw the task completed. “And you can explain as old Ramrod
can’t--that’s my name for our teacher, he’s so stiff; ain’t it great?
I understand just how you did that, and I don’t believe I ever saw
through the stuff before. Thanks, lots, Jan.”
“Not a bit; I have had a nice time with you, Jack. I’ll come every
night, if you’ll let me, and I don’t have lessons of my own to do at
night,” said Jan heartily. “Even if I do, we can make time. You know I
like this sort of thing, because at home we children help each other,
and it makes me less lonesome.”
“Gee!” said Jack again. “What a queer house yours must be! Nice,
though.” And Jan had gained one more devoted admirer among her new
cousins.
This little adventure sent her to bed in a much happier mood than
she had expected to go in, and Gwen, moved with compunction when she
aroused from her pages to find her cousin gone, came up to make her a
little visit. The trunk had come, and Gwen eyed with pitying glance
its slender and shabby contents, inwardly resolving to set the matter
of dress right before Jan made her appearance in the Misses Larned’s
formidable halls of learning.
Jan had intended crying herself to sleep--had laid the plan during
the dreary dinner--but helping Jack and talking to Gwen so cheered
her--besides she was so tired--that she quite forgot it, and fell
asleep almost at once after she had laid herself down for the first
time in her pretty bed, for her first night in vast New York.