Hildegarde's Harvest

Now Jack was playing the Chopin berceuse, and all the world seemed lulling to sleep; the sound floated in waves through the darkened room, whispering in corners, rippling round the drowsy child, bearing him on, away, through the gates of pearl, till now he was asleep, in no heavy lethargy this time, but lying easily, breathing deeply, his whole little form at rest, at peace. And seeing this, the weary girl beside him laid her head on the child's pillow, and borne on those waves of dreamy sound, she, too, passed through the white gates, and slept.

They slept so all through that night. Mrs. Grahame and Auntie, coming to relieve Hildegarde, could not bear to wake her. The doctor put his head in at the door, gazed for a moment, and then nodded, and tiptoed off down-stairs and home to bed, wiping his eyes as he went. The Colonel and Jack, making their last call for the night, heard the joyful report, and departed treading on air. And still they slept. The black woman nodded in her chair in the corner; she had put Mrs. Grahame to bed, and returned to watch the night with her charge, all the more precious now that her "own chile" was sleeping beside him. Now and then a coal fell, and tinkled in the fireplace; the night-light burned steadily, but the fire flared, and drooped, and leaped up again, filling the quiet room with flitting lights and shadows. Were they spirits, bending over those two fair heads on the pillow, side by side? The angels might be glad to come a good way to see such a sight as that, Auntie said to herself. And she nodded, and dreamed of the Golden City, and woke again to see always the same quiet room, to hear always the same sweet breathing of peace and rest and returning health.

It was morning when Hildegarde awoke; dim, early morning, with the stars still shining, but with a faint, pearly radiance growing momently stronger in the east. She wondered at first what was the matter, and why she was sitting up in bed, rather stiff, with soft things wrapped round her. Before she moved her eyes fell on the little face beside her, and she remembered all, and gave thanks to God for his mercy before she stirred. Raising herself softly, she saw Auntie sitting in her great chair, bolt upright, but sound asleep.

"Poor dear!" thought the girl. "She need not have come at all. We did not need anything, Hugh and I. We have had a good, good rest."

Beyond changing her position, and stretching her limbs, cramped by staying so long in one posture, she did not move, but sat with folded hands, full of such happy thoughts that the morning seemed to come on wings of gold.

The sun was up before Auntie woke, and her frightened exclamation, "Fo' gracious goodness! ef I ain't be'n 'sleep myself!" though hardly spoken above a whisper, echoed sharply through the silent room.

Hugh opened his eyes, and his glance fell directly on Hildegarde. He smiled, and stretched out his arms.

"Beloved," he said, "I am very glad to see you; but what are you doing in my room?"

Hildegarde made no answer. She bent over and took the child in her arms; raised him a little, with his head resting on her shoulder, so that he could see beyond her. His eyes travelled round the room, growing rounder and larger every moment, as in the broadening light one object after another shone out, familiar, and yet strange.

"Beloved," he said, "I beg your pardon! But what am I doing in your room? Will you make me understand, please?"

"You have been asleep, darling!" said Hildegarde. "You were not very well, and – and you happened to be here at the time, and so – we put you to bed here, you see."

"I don't see very well!" said Hugh, in quite his own manner. "But probably I shall in a little while. How long have I been asleep?"

"Oh, quite a long time. But aren't you hungry now, little boy? See, here is Auntie, and she is going to bring you up some breakfast, the very best breakfast you can think of. What do you say to chicken broth?"

Hugh nodded and smiled at Auntie, who stood devouring him with her eyes.

"Thank you!" he said. "I think I shall be hungry, – when my think comes back a little more. My think – my mind – has been asleep, I am pretty sure!" he added, looking up at Hildegarde with his quiet, penetrating gaze.

"If I had only just gone to sleep with my eyes, Beloved, I should remember about it; and I don't – remember – much of anything."

"Oh, never mind about it now, Hughie! When you feel stronger we will talk it all over. See! I want to bathe your face and smooth your hair before breakfast comes. Now you shall be my baby, and I will curl your golden locks for you. Shall I put something good in the water? There! Isn't that nice and fresh? And now you shall put on my dressing-jacket; my beautiful new dressing-jacket, that Bell made for me. Here it is, all fluttering with pink ribbons. Wasn't it dear of Bell to make it?"

"Bell!" said Hugh, meditatively; he seemed to be searching for something in his mind.

"Bell – Bellerophon!"

"Never mind about Bellerophon now, dear," said Hildegarde, trying to hide her anxiety, and to speak lightly. "We will have Bellerophon by and by; we don't want him here."

But Hugh was not to be turned aside; his brain was now fully awake, and at work, but his look was so calm and clear, his voice so natural and peaceful, that Hildegarde felt relieved in spite of herself.

"I have to consider a little, Beloved," he said, cheerfully, "just to straighten out my think, which appears to be somewhat mixed. What – was – I – doing – on a roof?"

Hildegarde held her peace. The child must take his own way, she felt; she did not dare to cross him.

"I went up – on a roof!" Hugh went on. "I think it was a roof, Beloved?"

Hildegarde nodded.

"And there – I was Pegasus, you remember; I have been Pegasus a great deal lately, but I shall not be him for a good while now, because I have had enough, – I was Pegasus, and I wanted Bellerophon. The Christmas Tree frightened him away, so I came – somewhere – perhaps here? and I thought it was a mountain. I thought it was Helicon, and if I climbed up to the top, Bellerophon would come to me, and we would fly down and kill the Chimæra, don't you see?"

"I see, dear, of course! And then – ?"

"Then I called out to Bellerophon that I was ready, and we would fly. But – but just as we were going to fly, some strong person took hold of me, and I looked, and I was on a roof, with Captain Roger holding me. Where is Captain Roger, Beloved? And where was the roof?"

"The roof was here, dear child! You were walking in your sleep, Hugh. You climbed up to the upper roof, and – and Captain Roger saw you, and went after you, and brought you down. That is how you came to be in my room, Hugh. Now you understand it all, darling, and you will not worry any more about it."

Hugh looked relieved.

"Now I shall not worry any more about it!" he repeated, with satisfaction. "It was puzzling me dreadfully, Beloved, and I could not get straight till I saw how it was, but now I see. My head has been queer ever since I fell down on the ice; I think Bellerophon got bumped into it, don't you? But now he is bumped out again, and he may go and kill the Chimæra himself, for I sha'n't stir a step."

His laughter rang out fresh and joyous; and at the sound Mrs. Grahame came running in, at first in great anxiety, fearing delirium; but when she saw the two happy faces, beaming with smiles, and heard Hugh addressing her in his own quaint fashion, and hoping that she had slept very well indeed, she could not keep back the tears of joy. Seeing these tears, Hildegarde must needs weep a little, too; but they were such tears as did no one any harm, and Hugh said at once, "This is a sun-shower! And now we shall have a rainbow, and after that some breakfast."

When the breakfast came, you may be sure it was served on the very best tray the house afforded, – the gold-lacquered one, with the bronze dragon curling about it; and the broth was in the blue Sèvres bowl, with golden pheasants strutting round it.

"Dem's de nearest to chick'ns I could find!" said Auntie, and Hildegarde forbore to point out to her that she, Hildegarde, had never been allowed to so much as dust this precious piece of china, much less to eat out of it. And the toast was like thin strips of edible gold, so that both Hugh and Hildegarde declared King Midas could not have had such a bad time of it after all, if he had a cook anything like Auntie. It was hard to tell who most enjoyed the broth and toast, Hugh who ate it, Auntie who made it, or Hildegarde who held the spoon, and broke off the crisp bits. It was a happy little feast, and the doctor was a joyful man when he looked in on it an hour or so later. He said that all would go well now.

"Slowly! slowly! No hurry! Keep him here a while yet, and don't let him see too many people; no excitable folks, who will weep over him," – Hilda and her mother exchanged a guilty glance, – "keep him in bed for a day or two, till he gets his balance entirely. Good-bye! God bless you!"

The good man trotted off briskly, and they heard him greeting some one on the veranda below.

"Doing finely! finely! All right now; a little quiet, a little care, – going in? Yes! Oh, yes! See you all right! Told them to keep noisy folks away. Good-morning!"

Mrs. Grahame went out, and spoke in a low voice with some one now in the hall. Some one was speaking in return, very low; yet not so low but that Hildegarde's heart began to throb, and the colour to mount high over cheek and brow; not so low but that Hugh, who had the fine ear of some woodland creature, sat up in bed, and clapped his hands.

"It is Captain Roger, Beloved! It is himself; do you hear his voice? And he must come up, please, this moment of time, to see me, and to let me tell him what is in my heart for him."

Hildegarde hesitated; there was a tumult within her that made her feel uncertain what was best to do or say; but in this moment Mrs. Grahame had brought Roger up-stairs, and now he was here, on the threshold. He was in the room; he was holding her hand, and looking at her with his bright, kind gaze.

Neither of them spoke; it was Hugh who broke the silence. Roger had sat down by him, after that first silent greeting, and kissed his forehead, and took both the child's hands in his.

"I heard you, Captain Roger; I heard the first tone of your voice, and you sounded like an angel."

"Did I, Hugh? I don't think I look like an angel, do you? Did you ever see a picture of one with a moustache?"

"Perhaps not; but it says that they don't always look like themselves, you know. Many times they looked just like common men in the Bible. And you were an angel when you came to me on the roof the other night."

Roger glanced quickly at Hildegarde; the girl nodded.

"He knows," she said. "I could not keep it from him, the moment he was himself again. He pieced it all out, with hardly any help from me."

Roger looked grave, but his anxious look rested on Hildegarde, not on Hugh.

"Did you take cold?" he asked.

"I? No, certainly not! Why should I take cold?"

"In your thin evening dress!" said Roger, reproachfully. "With slippers on your feet, – there you stood in the snow, and would not go in when I told you. I have thought of nothing but pneumonia and consumption ever since. But – you look pretty well, I think!"

Hildegarde laughed in spite of herself.

"I – I thought you believed in being wet!" she said.

"For myself – of course! We are all polar bears, more or less; but it is different with you."

"Very different!" said Hildegarde. "I had snow-boots on, Captain Roger, all the time! Your anxiety has been thrown away, you see."

"So!" said Roger, with a look of intense relief. "I never thought of that! I – I didn't think – "

"You didn't think I had sense enough!" cried Hildegarde. "No more I had! They just happened to be on my feet, because I hadn't taken them off. I had been sitting and looking out of the window, ever since the Christmas Tree."

"So had I!" said Roger. "That was how we both happened to see. The moral is – "

He did not say what the moral was, but sat pulling his moustache, and looking at Hildegarde. Hildegarde felt herself blushing again; she tried to speak of some trivial thing, but the words died on her lips; the silence deepened every moment, and it seemed as if she and Roger were drowning in it, going deeper and deeper down, down, —

Hugh looked cheerfully from one to the other; he saw that they were embarrassed for some reason, and came to the rescue with his usual calm philanthropy.

"Have you forgotten what you wanted to say? When I am going to say anything, and then forget what I wanted to say, I say, 'I love you!'"

Roger broke into a short laugh.

"Thank you, Hugh!" he said. "There is not much need of my saying it, but – shall I, Hilda?"

Hildegarde could not speak. She looked up, and meeting her eyes, Roger held out his hand across the little bed, – the strong, faithful hand that had helped her now so many times, – and she laid hers in it, and felt its earnest clasp, and knew that there was no more any parting between Roger and her.

THE END