making the one sound incredibly dull, the other incredibly painful, I
used to think that I'd rather go to neither, but just be stuffed, like
Mother's Blenheim, Beau Brummel, whose soul I fancied had leave to stop
in his body so long as moth and rust did not corrupt. He seemed rather
out of things, though, poor dear, standing forever in the same position
in a glass case, with one paw up begging for something which nobody
gave, while the years dragged on; and I'd begun to feel as if I were
falling into his state, when I was roused from a stupid dream by the
man of the steerage suddenly looming over me.
"I beg your pardon," said he, taking off his hat, and speaking in a
nice American voice, as nice for a man as Sally Woodburn's is for a
woman. "Please don't suppose I mean to be rude or intrusive, but I
wanted to tell you that I think you won't be annoyed again; and--just
one thing more. May I thank you for your goodness on shipboard? It
brightened what would otherwise have been a grim experience."
Blind Mrs. Ess Kay to pronounce this man not a gentleman, just because
some strange circumstances had forced him to travel in the steerage! I
did wish that, without his knowing it, I could have slipped into his
pocket my thirty pounds!
"Oh, I did nothing," I answered. "It was the other people who did
everything--the little that was done. It's I who have to thank you, for
taking that person away. He and the other, who came just before, were
so rude."
"They didn't mean to be rude," he said. "They wanted you to tell them
something which they could put into their papers, and they live by
doing that kind of thing. I did the best I could with them, but I wish
I could have saved you from being annoyed in the beginning. I hesitated
at first, for fear you might misunderstand, and think me as bad as they
were; but I wish I hadn't now."
"After what I saw you do, at sea, I couldn't possibly have
misunderstood," I said.
"Thank you for saying that," he returned, "though for what I did then,
I don't deserve any praise. It was done on the impulse; and I'm used to
salt water. As a child, I lived close to it for a time, in California,
and swimming came almost as natural as walking. But I'm not here to
talk about myself. It was only to tell you how grateful I was, and am,
and shall continue to be, for your kindness on the ship. I couldn't go
without speaking of this; and there's something now I'd like to ask.
You won't be offended?"
"If it's something you want to tell me, I know it isn't the sort of
thing which could offend," I said; but I didn't say it as calmly as it
looks when written. I stammered a little, and got the words tangled up;
and I felt my face growing hotter than ever.
"I thank you again. It's only this. If, while you're over on this side
the water, there's ever any way in which a man--a man who'd be as
respectful as your footman, and loyal as your friend--could possibly
serve you--I wish you would let me be that man. I know it seems now as
if such a thing couldn't happen; but nothing's quite impossible in this
queer world, and--and anyhow I shall always be ready. You could trust
me----"
"I know that!" I couldn't resist breaking in.
"I'm--employed for the present at a club in New York. If you'd send
word to Jim Brett, at the Manhattan Club, there's nothing under the sun
that Jim Brett wouldn't do for you, from finding a lost dog, to taking
a message across the world."
"First I must catch my dog before I can lose him," I answered,
laughing. "But if I do, or--or there's anything else, I shan't forget."
"That's a true promise, then; and I have to thank you for the third
time. Now, I'm not going to trouble you any longer. Good-bye."
Without stopping to think who he was, or who I was, I held out my hand,
and his good-looking brown face grew red. He took the hand, pressed it
hard, once; dropped it abruptly; turned on his heel and walked away,
without looking back.
I was so interested in going over the conversation in my mind, that I
forgot to feel like Beau Brummel with one paw up in his glass case; and
though I daresay ten minutes had passed, it hardly seemed two, when a
wonderful little black image in the shape of a boy came sidling up to
me, all rolling white eyes, and red grin, like a nice Newfoundland
puppy. He had some newspapers tucked under his arm, but in his hand was
a small basket of peaches almost too beautiful to be real. But then,
weren't they--and wasn't he--part of my dream?
He grinned so much more that I was afraid his round black face would
break into two separate halves, and looking at me with his woolly head
on one side, he thrust out the basket.
"Fur you, missy," said he, with a funny little accent, for all the
world like Sally Woodburn's.
"They can't be for me. There must be a mistake," said I, wishing there
wasn't, for the peaches did look delicious; and there were two rosebuds
lying on top of the basket; one pink, the other white. "I don't know
anyone who could have sent them."
"The gent knows you, you bet, missy," replied the image. "He guv me a
quarter and axed if I know'd my alphabet 'nuf to find letter 'B,' an'
tote dese yere to the prettiest young lady I'd ever seed. Most wite
ladies, dey looks all jes' alike, to me, but you's different, missy;
an' I reckon de tings must be fur you."
I had a horrible vision of this compliment proceeding from _The
Flashlight_ or _The Evening Bat_. "What was the gentleman like?" I
asked.
"Like mos' any gent, missy, 'cept that he was powerful tall, an' I
reckon if he keeps right on like he's doin' now, he'll get mos' as
brown as me some day."
Then I knew that I was safe in taking the present; so I did, and gave
the comical black image two or three little round white metal things
I'd got from the purser when I changed some English money. I didn't
know how much they were, and they looked ridiculously small, but he
seemed pleased.
When he had run off, I turned my attention to the peaches. They were so
big that there was room only for four in the basket, and they seemed
dreadfully pathetic considering from whom they had come.
That poor fellow must be almost penniless or he wouldn't have been in
the steerage; yet he had bought peaches for me, and given a
"quarter"--whatever that was--to his quaint black doll of a messenger.
I could have cried; nevertheless, I ate two of the peaches, and
reluctantly presented the other two, which I couldn't possibly eat, to
a gloomy "B" child, sitting on a shawl-strap.
As if for a reward of virtue, just as I had disposed of my leavings,
and stuck the roses into my belt, the last of the luggage arrived.
There were two Custom House men near to choose from, and as I've heard,
in choosing between two evils it's better to choose the less, I smiled
beseechingly at the smaller man who had just crammed a pile of lace
blouses into the box of a lady with nervous prostration.
Whether he was sated with cruelty, or whether he was naturally of an
angelic disposition, I shall probably never know now; but the fact
remains that, instead of turning out the Fiend I'd been led to expect,
he was one of the most considerate men I've ever met. He wouldn't even
let me unlock my own boxes, but took the keys and opened them for me
himself. (Didn't an executioner braid the hair of some queen whose head
he was going to chop off? I must look the incident up, when I have
time.) Anyway, I thought of it when the Custom House man was being so
polite; but the analogy didn't go any farther, for my head never came
off at all, and two of the boxes remained unopened.
"You're English, aren't you?" he asked, and when I said yes, and that I
was only on a short visit, he treated my belongings as if they were
sacred. If he disturbed anything, he laid it back nicely, keeping up a
running conversation as he went on. I told him that Englishwomen might
bring home all the pretty clothes they liked from other countries, and
that I considered it most ungallant in such a chivalrous nation as
America to deny ladies a few Paris dresses.
"Do you happen to know, miss, what's the income-tax in your country?"
he asked, tenderly putting back some yellow hairpins which had fallen
out of a box of mine.
"Dear me, no," I exclaimed. "But I think it's sometimes more than a
shilling in the pound; I've heard my brother say so; and as for the
death duties, it's more than your life's worth to die."
"A-ah!" said the nice man. "We haven't got any income-tax on this side,
and folks can die in peace, whenever they please. I guess that kind of
evens things up, don't it?"
I didn't know what to answer, so I thanked him for his kindness, and we
parted the best of friends.
Mrs. Ess Kay appeared so quickly afterwards, that it almost seemed as
if she must have been lying in wait. She was looking pale and
shattered, and Louise, following close behind, was positively haggard.
Only Sally had weathered the storm without being outwardly the worse
for wear; but even she didn't look as good-natured as usual.
"How have you got along, you poor, deserted darling?" affectionately
enquired Mrs. Ess Kay, undismayed by a fixed gaze from Sally, which
apparently signified reproach.
"It wasn't very bad, and I've quite enjoyed myself," I replied,
forgetting some tedious moments in the light of others not tedious, and
hoping that the roses in my belt might pass unnoticed.
Fortunately they did, otherwise I should have been in a difficulty; for
I should have hated to vulgarise the little episode by putting it into
story form for Mrs. Ess Kay; and presumably roses have not been taught
to grow wild on the New York docks, although they say Americans are so
very luxurious in their tastes one would hardly be surprised at
anything.
A beautiful electric carriage, bigger than a brougham, was waiting for
us, and we left Louise, with a butler or some other man servant out of
livery, to wrestle with the luggage, and bring it in cabs (which they
called "hacks"), up to Mrs. Ess Kay's house in New York, where I knew
she meant to stop for a few days before going on to Newport.
The minute we drove away from the Docks I began to notice dozens of
things which made me tremendously conscious that I was in a foreign
country. One would think, as so many of these people were English, or
anyway, British, before they were Americans, that their buildings and
everything else would be enough like to remind one of home. But each
street we turned into showed me that this isn't at all true in New
York. There are bits like Paris--at least you think so, on a
superficial glance--but nothing in the faintest degree like London.
Something in the air too, made me feel excited, as it does in Paris.
Sparks of electricity snapped in my veins, and I had a presentiment of
interesting things that must surely happen.
I've always been very sensitive to smells, which can make me joyful or
miserable, just as music does. Vic says I oughtn't to tell people this,
as it signifies I'm still in close touch with brute creation. But I
don't much mind if I am, for so many animals are nicer than we are;
dogs and horses, for instance; and then one has to acknowledge, whether
one likes or not, that a monkey is a kind of poor relation. Each place
I've ever visited has its own smell for me, and even houses and people.
I would know the smell of Battlemead towers, if I were taken there by
winding ways, with my eyes blindfolded. It's the smell of old oak, and
_potpourri_, and books and chintz, and autumn leaves and pine trees,
mixed together. Mother smells like a tea rose, and Vic like a wax doll.
London has a rich, heavy scent, which makes you feel as if you had a
great deal of money and wanted to spend it, but not in a hurry. The
smell of Paris makes you want to laugh, and clap your hands and go to
the theatre. The smell of Rome makes you feel as if you wished to be
very beautiful, and move to the slow accompaniment of a magnificent
church organ, with the Vox Humana stop drawn out. But New York--the
smell of New York! How shall I describe the sensation it gave me, as
Mrs. Ess Kay's electric carriage smoothly spun me up town? The heavy
feeling of homesickness which I had had on the ship for the last few
days was gone; and instead I felt a wild sense of exhilaration, as if
I'd come dashing home after a glorious run with the hounds, and plunged
into a cold bath with two bottles of Eau de Cologne poured into the
water.
It was amazingly hot, but the breeze gave a hint of the sea, and every
shop and house we passed seemed to keep spices stored away, for the
breeze to blow over.
Even the old-fashioned houses, no higher than those in London, were as
different from ours as possible; and it was extraordinary to see
people--nicely dressed women, and pretty girls--perched on the front
steps under awnings, without so much as a pocket-handkerchief lawn
between them and the street. Persons of that class at home would be far
too shy to lounge about and be stared at, not only by the neighbours,
but by twenty strangers a minute; yet here they sat on rugs, and read,
or did embroidery, or swung back and forth in chairs that rocked like
cradles, paying no more attention to the passers than if they had been
flies.
By and by we came out of the quiet streets walled in with monotonous
rows of red brick or brown stone houses, into a scene of terror. It was
a street, too; but what a street! I thought that I'd grown accustomed
to motoring through traffic, for once Stan took me in his Panhard, all
the way from Battlemead to Pall Mall, where he stood me a very jolly
luncheon at the Carlton Hotel, but that experience was nothing to this.
I felt a little jumpy with Stan when we shot between omnibuses in a
space which looked twice too narrow, and once when I thought a
frightfully tall horse was going to bite off my hat; but I soon got
used to it.
If I were driven every day of my life for a year, through this terrible
street in New York, though, I should be no more used to it on the last
day than on the first. The only change in me at the end of that time
would be in my hair, which would have turned snow white, and be
standing up permanently all over my head like Struempel-Peter's, only
worse.
London roars--a monotonous, cannon-balls-in-the-cellar roar, with just
a light tinkle of hansom cabs sprinkled over the top of the solid
sound; but that great straight street into which we suddenly flashed
had no solid sound. It shrieked in short, sharp yells, made up of a
dozen distinct noises, each one louder and more insistent than the
other.
There were trams and tram bells, and motors and carriages, and over all
an appalling thunder of trains rushing to and fro above our heads, on
lines roofing the entire street, built upon iron stilts. Every minute
they swooped by, running north and south, and I trembled lest they
should leap their tracks and crush us into powder.
"It's only the Elevated, deah," said Sally, pitying my agitation, "and
it's never fallen down yet, so I don't believe it will to-day. You
shall take a ride with me if Cousin Katherine will let you, which she
probably won't. You can't think what fun it is shooting past the
windows of the houses; just like glancing into an exciting story book
you know you'll never have a chance to finish. You do get a peep into
tragedies and comedies, sometimes."
"My goodness!" I exclaimed. "I'm thankful I don't have to live in one
of those houses. It must be impossible ever to take a bath, or to get
engaged, properly."
Fortunately for my peace of mind, we didn't stop very long in that
fierce street, but cut across again, and came out in Fifth Avenue, of
which one seems to be born knowing a little more than of other streets
in America. Just as almost everyone in English novels lives in Park
Lane, so all the New Yorkers you read of live in Fifth Avenue; and I
should have been disappointed if Mrs. Ess Kay hadn't, because in that
case I should eventually have to go home without studying home life in
the States from the right standpoint.
At first, I didn't see where the grand houses I'd heard of, kept
themselves, for everywhere were smart shops, and public buildings,
and--so close now that we could put down our sunshades--mountainous
"sky-scrapers." The shops were beautiful, though Mrs. Ess Kay
apologised for them by saying that it was out of season, and I'd never
seen so much brilliance of colour or variety in a street. I tried to
search for the cause of this effect, but I couldn't define it. Perhaps
it was partly the clearness of the atmosphere, but there was a great
deal more than that. Everything you passed seemed to be pink, or pale
green or gold, or ivory white, or ultramarine blue; yet when you really
thought it out detail by detail, it wasn't. And though I'd considered
the sky-scrapers awful, from a distance, spinning along at their feet I
couldn't deny them a fantastic kind of attractiveness.
At our rate of speed, I hadn't to wait many minutes for the grand Fifth
Avenue houses; and oh, poor London--poor, dear London! I wanted to fly
back and tear down Buckingham Palace.
Mrs. Ess Kay had always talked about her "New York home," which made it
sound rather small and modest, so I was surprised when we stopped
before a huge, square pile, built of rich-looking, rough brown stones,
so nearly the colour of a Christmas plum pudding that it made me
hungrier than ever to look at it. The house is trimmed with three wide
bands of carving, made of the same kind of stone; and there are carved
bronze railings and lamps on the porch; and the front door is carved,
too, like the door of a cathedral.
We were let into a vestibule, all coloured mosaic and things; and that
opened into a big, square, glassed-over garden, with a great marble
fountain playing in the middle. I never saw such a wonderful place in
my life, but until I got used to it, I couldn't help feeling that it
was more like a splendid foreign hotel, than a mere house. The garden
isn't a real garden, when you come to examine it, for it's paved with
rare stones of different colours, like the jewels in Aladdin's Cave;
but all round the fountain beautiful flowers are growing, and pink and
white water lilies float in the marble basin. There are orange trees in
pots, and a forest of tall palms, all of which are reflected and
repeated over and over again in the mirrors of which the walls are
made; and on the little tables standing about here and there among
groups of inlaid chairs are bowls overflowing with roses. The roof is a
skylight, over which creepers have been trained, so that the light
which filters through is a lovely green. No doors are visible at first
glance, but when you are initiated, all you have to do is to walk up to
the mirror-wall, find a gold button, press it, and a door opens into a
room as marvellous as the fountain court, round which, it seems, all
the rest of the house is built.
"We'll have something to drink here," said Mrs. Ess Kay, "before we
take off our things." So we all sat down, among the palms and orange
blossoms, and a delicious sense of peace after storm stole over us with
the coolness and the green dusk, and the perfume of flowers.
I supposed that "something to drink" at this time of day meant tea; but
almost immediately a footman came through the glass wall, carrying a
tray with nothing on it except tall tumblers. There were straws
sticking out of the tumblers, and as the man moved, I could hear a
faint tinkle of ice.
For a minute, I was bitterly disappointed, because the thought of tea
had supported me for hours. But when I tasted the stuff in my glass I
wasn't disappointed any longer. It had two or three strawberries, some
bits of pineapple, and a white grape bobbing about on top, and it was
full of chopped ice. I don't know what it was, for nobody mentioned
it's name, and I was ashamed to ask, lest it might seem too ignorant;
but it was good, and tasted as if it might have a little wine in it,
mixed with fizzy water and other things. When I had drunk mine, I felt
a different girl; quite merry, and so friendly towards Mrs. Ess Kay. I
had never thought her such a nice woman. I laughed at almost everything
that she and Sally said, and I said some rather funny things myself.
Still, I'm not sure that as a regular thing, I wouldn't rather have
tea.
We sat resting for some time, though I wasn't tired at all now. I could
have run a mile, but suddenly I felt a little sleepy, and I was glad
when Mrs. Ess Kay proposed to go to our rooms. Leaving the fountain
court, we came into a hall, hung with tapestry; and from it a wide
stairway led us up to a gallery, lighted from the top, which runs all
round the house, with the doors of the bedrooms opening off from it.
Mine is so gorgeous that I haven't known one thoroughly comfy moment in
it, since I came, except at night when I'm asleep.
One would think, as Battlemead is ranked among the finest old Tudor
places in England, and people come on Thursdays and give shillings to
see it (a very good thing for us, though it's extremely inconvenient,
as it pays for all the gardens and all the servants' wages) that it
would be grander than quite a new house, in a country like America. But
Battlemead, in its palmiest days, must have been _shabby_ beside Mrs.
Ess Kay's "home" in New York.
Our grandest bedroom,--the one where Queen Elizabeth slept--is quite a
dull old hole compared to Mrs. Ess Kay's splendid room. Mine, at home,
has all the furniture covered with faded chintz, and the curtains are
made of plain white dimity. But I love the deep window seats where I
can curl up among cushions, with a cataract of roses veiling the
picture of the terrace with its ivy-covered stone balustrade, the
sun-dial, the two white peacocks, and far away, the park with a blue
mist among the trees. And I haven't learned yet to love my beautiful
room at Mrs. Ess Kay's, though I admire it immensely--admire to the
verge of awe.
It's pink and white and silver. The carpet is pink, and feels like
moss, as you step. The wall is covered with pink and silver brocade,
except where there are panels with Watteau-like pictures. The curtains
are foamy lace, with the pink and silver brocade falling over them. The
furniture looks as if it were made of ivory; there's a mirror in three
parts, reaching from the floor half way to the ceiling, so that you see
yourself in front, and two profiles, like astral bodies, things which
I've always wanted to cultivate, as they would be so nice for trying on
dresses, or making calls on dull people. On the dressing-table is
another mirror, an oval one, framed with pink roses, each of which has
an electric light hidden in its heart; and the bedspread is of pink and
silver brocade to match the hangings, with a large, hard roll like an
ossified bolster, at the top.
I believe it's that bed more than anything else, which makes me feel
that it's always Sunday in my room at Mrs. Ess Kay's. I'm used to
old-fashioned, ruffly pillows and a plain white coverlet smelling of
lavender, on which I can flop down whenever I like, to read a novel or
to have a nice little "weep." But there's no flopping on this gorgeous
pink and silver expanse, and it's small consolation to know that no
queen of England ever had one as handsome.
Mrs. Ess Kay and Sally escorted me to my room, when I came to it first.
After I'd admired everything enough to satisfy them, I was taken to see
the bathroom adjoining, and then a kind of wardrobe room opening out of
that. I was almost prostrated by the magnificence of both, which
pleased Mrs. Ess Kay very much; and in the grand wardrobe room,
smelling deliciously, though faintly, of cedar, my poor boxes--already
arrived--looked mean and insignificant. Mrs. Ess Kay's and Sally's huge
"Innovations" would have been much more appropriate than my
dress-baskets, which had been squashed into lop-sided deformity under
heavier things, in the hold.
Louise was on the scene armed with my keys and Mrs. Ess Kay wouldn't
hear of letting me do anything myself. "_Now_, I'll explain why I had
to desert you on the dock," she said. "Or perhaps I needn't explain. If
you watch Louise unpacking for a few minutes, you'll see for yourself.
And I do hope, sweet child, that you'll excuse my taking a liberty."
This made me curious. Louise opened one of my boxes which had been
labelled "Not Wanted," and I could hardly believe my eyes when she
lifted out an exquisite poppy-coloured chiffon, embroidered with sprays
of golden holly and berries made of some gleaming red jewel.
"Why, there's been some extraordinary mistake!" I exclaimed. "That
can't be my box. I've no such dress."