“‘NOW TREAD WE A MEASURE,’ SAID YOUNG LOCHINVAR”
As Christmas day drew near Jan found that down in the bottom of her
heart lurked a dread of the beautiful festival which would crop out at
odd moments when the preparations for the play allowed it opportunity.
It was not that she was homesick now, nor that every one in her uncle’s
house was not affectionate toward her, but Christmas was Christmas and
home was home, and she had never before welcomed one beyond the charmed
circle of the other. When she thought of her little Poppet, Jerry could
not fill her place, and she hardly saw how Christmas could be truly
“merry” without the dear home voices to wish it so. But Jan remembered
her mother’s rule for being happy, which was to forget oneself and make
others as happy as lay in one’s power, and, following this rule, Jan
found it working better than she had believed possible.
Sydney had not been able to return her five dollars yet, and Jan had
written her mother about its loan, explaining to her that lacking it
she could not buy the home presents she had planned to send. The result
of this letter had been one from Mrs. Howe, warning Jan against helping
Sydney in concealing his troubles and mistakes from his father, but
admitting that she was not able to judge the wisdom of Jan’s course
in a household to which she was a stranger, and enclosing another
five-dollar bill to take the place of the one gone to help poor Sydney.
Knowing how scarce dollars were in the little house in Crescendo, Jan
shed a few tears over this letter, but cheered up as she put on her hat
and jacket to go out to do her shopping, hoping that the first five
dollars were to prove a good investment, and feeling sure that she
could never have won Sydney to confession to his father unless she had
first found a way to help him to have less to confess.
There was no time to be homesick and dread Christmas, because every
moment was so full getting ready for its coming. The play required
hard work, for the double change in the cast had thrown it back. Then
every other minute which she could snatch Jan worked fast on gifts for
the Crescendo dear folk and for those around her. It had been hard work
to coax the five dollars into getting her materials for a trifling
remembrance for each one on this long list, even though the nimble
fingers and quick wits were active in fashioning slight foundations
into desirable forms.
Hummie had taught the little girl knitting in the funny German
left-handed fashion, and white Shetland wool was so cheap that fifty
cents gave her enough for a little hood for Poppet, a scarf for her
mother to throw over her head on summer evenings, and another for her
aunt, which Jan knit with misgivings of its acceptability.
Little Dresden flowered linen glove and handkerchief cases, daintily
embroidered, were the best that Jan could do for Gwen and Gladys, and
she made similar cases to hold scarfs for Sydney and her brother Fred.
A scrap-book for Jerry and doll’s clothes for Viva took so much time
that a less cheery and industrious person than Jan might have lost
heart, but she stitched away blithely, and actually accomplished what
she had set out to do.
Gwen found out how slender was her cousin’s store for Christmas gifts,
and was more moved by the thought of trying to make so many purchases
with a sum which she would have spent on one gift than she would have
been by more biting forms of poverty, probably because this touched her
personal experience. The result was that she and Gladys went off on
private shopping tours of their own, and when the day came for packing
the box which Jan was to express to Crescendo beautiful presents came
forth from secret nooks in the girls’ rooms, and Jan was overwhelmed
with the vision of the delight with which the beaming faces so far away
would gleam as the undreamed-of riches were unpacked.
Even Jerry was inspired by the universal outpouring for the Crescendo
children, and nobly tucked, unseen by any eye, into a corner of the box
the rubber top of her discarded bottle, to which she still had recourse
in moments of anguish or when she lay down to sleep, in spite of the
dignity of three years.
How could Christmas be anything but merry, after all, when it brought
such treasures as met Jan’s opening eyes on that morning? A watch from
her uncle, as tiny as it could be and keep time; its beautiful long
chain and chatelaine pin, from her aunt; the set of Dickens, which she
coveted, from Gwen; a charming little brooch of enameled green leaves
and mistletoe berries, from Gladys; a muff given in Viva’s and Jerry’s
name; a fan from Jack; and, best of all, a book from Sydney, who, as he
handed it to her, said with an honest blush: “I earned the money for
this, Miss Lochinvar, trying to be a man, as you suggested, so I have
a right to give it to you. I can’t give you your five dollars yet, but
I’ll do that, too, later.”
Three days after Christmas came the play. Jan never knew precisely how
that evening passed. It was a whirl of light and color and excitement
to her, but delightful beyond all telling. It seemed to her that there
never could be again such talented creatures brought together as the
girls proved. She could not criticize--all were wonderful to her, and
she saw no faults in any one’s acting. But if there were degrees in
the marvelous geniuses before her she felt proudly that the highest
were her own family, for Gwen’s haughty, yet animated, rendering of
the duchess seemed to unsophisticated Miss Lochinvar to prove that she
should give up her dreams of authorship and painting, and tread the
boards without delay, the glorious equal of Bernhardt and Duse.
Nor, in another way, was Gladys inferior--so graceful, dainty and
charming was her rendering of the princess. Jan was so proud of her
cousins that at one point she stood still, quite unconscious that a
burst of applause from the audience was intended for her and not for
Gwen, who had to pinch her and whisper to her to bow, or humble Jan
would not have acknowledged her favors.
It was fairyland to roll homeward in one’s own carriage after the
play with one’s fellow-actresses, rumpling one’s high-piled, powdered
hair recklessly against the carriage cushions, and burying one’s nose
luxuriously in the flowers which the usher had handed up to each young
artist, and which filled the carriage with their fragrance.
“It would never do for me to take to playacting and dressing up too
often,” said Jan with a sigh of delight and regret as the carriage
pulled up at the door, and Susan began to gather up the trophies. “If I
had much of this sort of thing I wouldn’t be any good for real things.”
“You would soon get used to them and not care so much,” said Gladys
with a touch of her old-time superiority and the air of an experienced
woman of the world.
“I think New Year’s is a queer, no-kind-of-a-sort of a day,” said
Gladys disconsolately on that morning. It was raining, and there was an
air of melancholy abroad which justified a dismal view of the holiday.
“I know it!” exclaimed Gwen. “Christmas is over, and school and lessons
are just ahead, and yet it is a holiday and you feel as though you
ought to be having a good time, but you’re not. I never did like New
Year’s day.”
“Besides, it’s so sad to get old and know you’ve got to be grown-ups in
just a few New Years more,” sighed Viva, so mournfully that the others
shouted, for at seven there hardly seems to be immediate necessity for
grieving over the approach of age.
“I wonder if there isn’t anything interesting we could do, something we
never do, to begin the year with a rush, and cheer us up,” said Jan,
characteristically, casting about for something to cheer her, even
while inadvertently admitting that she needed cheering.
Jerry uttered a wail, and Gwen swooped down on Jack, who was tormenting
her. “Let Jerry alone, you trying boy!” she cried. “What is the matter
with you this morning?”
“He got out of bed the wrong way,” said Sydney, who was lolling in the
window. “I had to trounce him for bothering Drom while I was getting
dressed.” Drom, who was quite recovered, save for a slight stiffness in
the leg which had been broken, wagged his tail at the mention of his
name, as if corroborating Sydney.
“There isn’t anything to do, Jan,” said Gwen, replying at last to
Jan’s suggestion. “We might get up something with the girls this
afternoon--if they’re not all off somewhere.”
“I think we are enough to have fun among ourselves,” said Jan, with an
eye on Sydney, who looked so glum that she longed to shake him out of
his thoughts and not let him go off to find amusement outside.
“Let’s play house!” exclaimed Jerry hopefully, a suggestion hailed with
a laugh from her sisters and a hug from Jan.
“See that little Italian boy with the violin,” cried Gladys. “Let’s get
him in to play for us to dance.”
“Oh, dancing in the morning!” said Sydney scornfully, but Gwen and Jan
fairly tore to the door without waiting to discuss the question--they
both would dance at any time of the day or night, and all day and
night, apparently.
The Italian came wonderingly, but smilingly, at their summons. He could
not speak English, and at first he thought that they wanted to order
him on, and eagerly protested with eloquently outspread palms that he
would not play within their hearing; that he was but beginning his
day’s work having been to the cathedral for mass.
All of this was lost on the girls, but they saw that he had
misunderstood them, and, falling back on pantomime, they signified
that he was to follow them up-stairs and play for them to dance.
“Ah, si, si, si,” he cried, smiling at his own misapprehension, at
them, and at the world at large, and obeyed them gladly.
In the nursery the impromptu ball began without loss of a moment.
The wandering minstrel played well. Even Sydney’s indifference
thawed beneath the strains of an inspiring waltz, and he swung the
girls around with considerable enjoyment, while the others danced
together, Jack also condescending, though he was at that mid-stage of
boyhood when he regarded all social customs as not only a bore, but a
conspiracy against true freedom.
[Illustration: The impromptu ball began without the loss of a moment.]
But Jack was certainly in a trying mood that morning. He contrived to
be exasperating in a dozen ways, suited to each person’s weaknesses,
and Gwen threatened to banish him if he did not reform at once, while
Jan--usually so patient with mischief--informed him that he was a
nuisance, and had begun the year about as badly as he could.
This stern remark made Jack both angry and ashamed, angry enough,
unfortunately, not to allow the shame to bring forth fruit. As the
smiling musician struck up a polka that must have made it hard for the
chairs to keep their legs still, and did make Jerry pick up her skirts
in an improvised dance all her own, Jack grew more obstreperous.
Gwen and Jan were dancing together, Sydney was trying the heel-and-toe
with Gladys, and Viva was polkaing with her largest doll, her face as
sweetly grave as usual, and her little form swaying most gracefully,
for serious Viva was a born dancer.
Suddenly the music became irregular in time, and Gwen called over Jan’s
shoulder as they whirled: “What are you doing, boy? You would have to
have crutches to dance that time, it is so hitchy!”
The Italian only smiled. To all blame as well as to praise he presented
the same unvarying smile, as a safe way to meet the uncertainties of an
unknown race and clime.
“’Tisn’t the boy, Gwen, it’s Jack!” cried Viva, who had stopped, after
vain pursuit of the time.
“Jack, what are you doing?” cried Gwen, and Jack grinned at her from
behind the ragged arm holding the bow which he had been joggling.
“Now I am going to have you put out!” cried Gwen, stopping short. “It’s
too bad for you to spoil our sport! I should think you’d be ashamed,
a great boy like you, to make yourself a nuisance and a baby! Hummie,
Hummie! come get Ivan, please; he’s bad.”
It was the second time that Jack had been called a nuisance in less
than half an hour, and the first time it had been Jan who had said it.
He was in an exasperating and exasperated frame of mind at best, and
Gwen’s words infuriated him. Besides, she had called him a baby, and
summoned the nurse! His hot temper, always in danger of flaring up,
flamed now. With a cry of rage he darted out from behind the musician,
snatched up a triangular block, one of Jerry’s architectural building
blocks lying by the table, and threw it with all his might at Gwen.
Sydney sprang to catch the uplifted hand, but too late. The block had
flown, with the undeviating course of a violent throw, straight at
Gwen’s face, and with a moan of pain the poor child threw her arms
above her head, covering her eyes, and sank to the floor on her knees.
For an instant no one moved, then Jan and Gladys, white with terror,
went to her and tried to raise her, but she drew away from their touch,
and groaning, “My eye--my eye is gone!” pitched forward fainting.
“Hummie, Hummie!” shrieked Viva, while Sydney lifted Gwen’s head to his
shoulder, and Jack, his wrath spent in the outburst which had done the
unknown harm, stood shaking in every limb, a pathetic image of horror,
and Jerry ran away screaming “Hummie!” at the top of her voice. Nurse
Hummel heard and ran, brushing past Jerry in the hall, and lifted Gwen.
“Was is happened?” she demanded, looking suspiciously toward the
Italian standing with his bow raised and his violin at his feet, his
face white under the brown tint.
“Jack threw a block--he was mad,” said Gladys hoarsely. “O Hummie, is
Gwen blind?”
“Blind! Mein Gott im Himmel!” murmured Hummie, and turned the
unconscious girl’s face toward her. Then she hastily let it fall
back on her shoulder and gathered her up as though she had been a
baby. “Ach, mein liebchen, my smart Gwen, mit die beautiful eyes!” she
moaned, and bore her away without answering Gladys’s awful question.
Mr. Graham was out, but Mrs. Graham was in her room in the extension,
away from the sounds of the household. Nurse Hummel called her as she
carried Gwen to her room, and the horror in the old nurse’s voice
penetrated Mrs. Graham’s ears through the closed doors.
She rushed out, and in an instant the children heard her low cry,
and then her voice raised to a shriek. “Sydney, Sydney!” she cried,
“ride on your wheel for a doctor as fast as you can! Get the first one
who will come! Then ride for Dr. Amberton, the oculist. Look in the
directory for his address. Hurry, oh, for Heaven’s sake, hurry, Syd!”
Sydney rushed from the room, and with one impulse Gladys and Jan turned
to each other, and held each other close, too frightened for tears.
Viva was comforting Jerry on the stairs. No one remembered Jack, who
most of all in the stricken household was to be pitied then. The boy
slunk away, withdrawing his hand from Drom’s compassionate tongue, and
crawling up the stairs, never stopped till he had reached the top of
the house, and crept shivering into the cupola, where he lay down, a
little heap of misery, to wait till Gwen had died, and they came to
seize him.
For hours it seemed to him he waited, yet no one came. He was cold,
but he did not mind that. In those awful moments he lived and thought
such agony that it seemed to him if they did not imprison him it would
do no harm to let him go free, for never again, never, could he be
insane with a fit of passion such as had made him begin the New Year by
killing his sister--or blinding her, was it? It did not matter. Jack
was wise enough to know that Gwen blind would not care for life.
At last a step came slowly, lightly, up the stairs, and Jack cowered
breathless. It was but one person, and not a policeman, not his father,
than whom Jack would rather face an army. It was a girlish step--Jan?
For the first time a ray of hope penetrated the gloom of poor Jack’s
mind. Jan always came to help. The door opened. It was Jan.
“O Jack, poor, poor little Jack,” she sobbed, and, kneeling, put her
arms around him with a tenderness he was too broken to resent. “I’m so
sorry for you! I know how dreadfully you feel now.”
“Is Gwen dead?” whispered Jack.
“No, oh, no, dear,” said Jan.
“Blind?” whispered Jack again.
“They don’t know. They can’t tell yet,” groaned Jan. “O poor, poor,
clever, dear Gwen, with all her plans, and her beautiful eyes!”
Jack shivered, and Jan remembered that she had come to comfort the
warm little heart, which was full of noble impulses, though black rage
sometimes held it in control.
She laid her cheek softly against Jack’s without speaking, and the boy
nestled close to her, feeling there might be pardon for him somewhere
since Jan did not cast him off.