Hildegarde's Harvest

Fine linen, several yards of it, and gold thread, and "Underwoods" in green morocco, – that was really almost a necessity, for Mamma's birthday; and some pink chiffon to freshen up her silk waist, and – and – here she was almost run over, and was shouted at and seized by a policeman, and piloted gently to a place of safety, with an admonition to be more careful.

Much ashamed, Hildegarde stood still to look about her, and found herself at the very door of the Exchange. She went in. The room was filled with customers. "I ought to have come in the morning," she said to herself, and the quick blush mounted to her cheeks, as she made her way to the counter at the back of the shop, where a sweet-faced woman was trying to answer four questions at once.

"No, the Nuns have not come in yet. Yes, they are generally here before this. No, I cannot tell the reason of the delay. Yes, it happened once before, when the maker was ill. I do not know why more people do not make them. Yes, just the one person, so far as I know. Marguerites? Yes, madam, – in one moment. The orange biscuits will come in at two o'clock. No, we have never had them earlier than that. Perhaps you are thinking of the lemon cheese-cakes. These are the lemon cheese-cakes."

She paused for breath, and looked anxiously round. It was plain that she was expecting assistance, and equally plain that it was late in coming. Hildegarde stepped quietly round behind the counter.

"Can I help you?" she whispered.

The lady gave her a grateful glance. "I should be so thankful," she murmured. "All these ladies must be served instantly. The prices are all marked."

The lady who had demanded the "Nuns" had also paused for breath, being stout as well as clamorous; but she now returned to the attack. Hildegarde met her with a calm front, and eyes which tried not to smile.

"Can you – oh! this is a different person. Perhaps you can tell me why the Nuns are not here. It really seems an extraordinary thing that they should not be here at the usual time."

"The messenger may have lost a train, or something of that sort," suggested Hildegarde, soothingly.

"Oh, but that would be no excuse! No excuse at all! When one is in the habit of supplying things to people of consequence, one must not lose trains. Now, are you perfectly sure that they have not come? You know what they are, do you? Little round cakes, with a raisin in the middle, and flavoured with something special. I don't remember what the flavour is, but it is something special, of that I am sure. Have you looked – have you looked everywhere? What is in that box at your elbow? They might have been brought in and laid down without your noticing it. Oblige me by looking in that box at your elbow."

A sudden thought flashed into Hildegarde's mind; she began to unfasten the box, which was her own, whispering at the same time into the ear of her companion in distress.

"Oh! Oh, yes, certainly!" said the latter, also in a whisper. "Anything, I am sure, that will give satisfaction! If you can only – "

"Stop her noise," was evidently what the patient saleswoman longed to say; but she checked the words, and only gave Hildegarde an eloquent glance, as she turned to meet a wild onset in demand of macaroons.

Perhaps Hildegarde's fingers trembled a little as she untied the narrow blue ribbon that bound up her hopes; perhaps she was purposely slow, collecting her thoughts and words. The stout lady fumed and fidgeted. "You should never allow things to be tied in a hard knot! It should be one of the first rules in a place like this, that boxes should be fastened with india-rubber bands. Surely you know the usefulness of india-rubber bands? I hope those Nuns are fresh. If you did not see them come in, or speak to the person who brought them, how can you be sure of their being fresh? Stale cakes are out of the question, you know; nobody could think of enduring stale cakes; and Nuns, in particular, must be eaten the same day they – "

"These are not Nuns, madam," said Hildegarde, as she opened the box. "Perhaps you would like to see – "

"Not Nuns! Then why did you tell me they were Nuns? What are they, I should like to know? H'm! ha! very pretty! What do you call these?"

"Novices!" said Hildegarde, with a flash of inspiration.

"Aha! Novices, eh? Yes, yes! a good name, if they are – are they something new? I have never seen them here before."

"Entirely new!" Hildegarde assured her. "This is the first box that has ever been brought in."

"Eh? the first? Then how do you know they are good? How can you conscientiously recommend them? I always expect conscientious treatment here, you know."

"Will you try one?"

Hildegarde handed her the box; and she was soon crunching and nodding and smiling, all at the same moment.

"De-licious! I assure you, delicious! something entirely new – Novices! Why, they are exactly what I want for my party to-night. Much better than Nuns, – Nuns have really become quite tiresome. What is the price of the Novices?"

Hildegarde hesitated, and glanced at the saleswoman. The latter leaned swiftly forward, looked, tasted a crumb, —

"Five cents apiece!" she said, quietly. Five! Hildegarde had thought of three, and had built all her castles on that basis.

But the stout lady was crying to heaven against the price. "Impossible! absurd! Why, Nuns were only two cents apiece, Marguerites only three! The price was ridiculous, exorbitant. She could not think of paying – "

Here a small lady, richly but quietly dressed, came up, and looked at the box. "Pretty!" she said. "Graceful and ingenious! Five cents apiece, you say? Give me a dozen and a half, please! I should like to have them sent to me once a week for the season; they are just the things to please my daughter's lunch-club."

She nodded kindly to Hildegarde, and passed on. The stout lady gazed after her reverentially.

"Mrs. Cameron Pine!" she murmured. "She will make them the fashion instantly. I – I will take the rest!" she cried, wildly. "Put them up, and send them to me, – Mrs. Newcomb Rich, Madison Avenue. Send me two dozen every week, – wait! send them the day before you send Mrs. Pine's, do you hear? the day before! Don't forget! It is most important!" and puffing and nodding, she, too, went on.

There was a little lull now, during which the saleswoman turned to thank Hildegarde so heartily that our heroine would have felt well repaid even if she had not sold all her cakes.

"I cannot imagine where Miss Berden is; she is always so punctual. This is our busiest day, and one of our busiest hours, and some of the ladies, as you saw, rather hard to please. I really don't know what I should have done if you had not helped me; it was very kind and thoughtful of you." She gazed earnestly at Hildegarde, and added, "You have a good mother, I know, who has taught you to think and help."

Hildegarde nodded and smiled, but said nothing, for the tears came springing to her eyes.

"And you sold all the pretty cakes!" added the saleswoman. "I knew they would make a hit the moment I saw them. That was partly why I put a good price on them; but it was also because I knew there must be a good deal of nice and careful work in making them. I wonder – you have been so good, I am ashamed to ask you anything more, but there is no one here now; would you be willing to hold the fort while I run to the corner and post a letter?"

Hildegarde assented cheerfully, and Miss Adams (for by this name she now introduced herself) put on her hat and went out. Hildegarde remained mistress of the situation, and occupied herself in tidying up the marble counter, brushing away the crumbs, and rearranging some biscuits that had fallen from their dainty pyramid.

Now voices were heard at the door, and a gay group entered. A splendid carriage stood without, and these rustling, high-plumed ladies had evidently just dismounted from it. There were four of them, and they were joined in another moment by two or three more. Apparently, all had been at some concert, for they were talking all at once, and Hildegarde heard the words, "Exquisite!" "Technique!" "Andante!" etc., repeated over and over. She became interested, and forgot for the moment her position, when something curious recalled it to her. She recognised, in one of the younger ladies, her cousin Blanche Van Dene, one of Mrs. Delansing's granddaughters; and almost at the same instant, she became aware that Blanche had recognised her, and that she was anxious to avoid any open recognition. Her eyes had met Hildegarde's for one second; the next, she had turned her back squarely, and was chattering volubly in the ear of her neighbour.

A wave of anger surged over Hildegarde, leaving the very tips of her ears pink as it receded; but the wave of amusement followed it quickly, and the second wave bore a little spray of malice. Should she call to her, and say, "Dearest Blanche, how is your dear mother?" Or she might put on a twang – Hildegarde had an excellent twang at her disposal, and say, "Hello, Blanchey! Haow's yer haalth, and haow's the folks to home?" Oh! it would be fun! And surely the girl deserved it! Such bad form, to say nothing of bad feeling! But here Hildegarde seemed to hear a certain familiar voice saying, "My dear, a debt of rudeness is one that should never be paid!" So she held her tongue, and contented herself with looking hard at Blanche's back, which showed consciousness and discomfort in every line.

So intent was Hildegarde on her cousin's back, that she did not notice that one of the other ladies had turned round, and was gazing at her in perplexity; next moment a shout rang out, in a clear, joyous voice that made every one start.

"Hilda Grahame, in the name of all that is wonderful! My dear, what sky have you dropped from?"

Hildegarde started, and saw a splendid vision advancing towards her with outstretched hand. A girl somewhat older than herself, with the walk and figure of a goddess and the dress of a queen; a face of almost faultless beauty, and large clear eyes through which looked a soul like a child's; she was one of the famous beauties of the day, famous alike for her loveliness, her great fortune, and the pride of her ancient name.

"My dear," she repeated, taking both Hildegarde's hands in hers, "what sky have you dropped from, and what are you doing here?"

"Dear Imperia!" said Hildegarde, calling her by the old familiar school name that came naturally to her lips. "How delightful to see you! I am selling cakes; will you have some? There were some that I made myself, but they are all sold. Here are various others, doubtless inferior, but still good."

"Of course I will have some!" cried Imperia. "Why, this is perfectly delightful! Do you really come here? regularly, I mean, and have all the cakes you want? I never heard of such fun. Give me three dozen of everything, and we'll have a carouse. Here, girls!" she turned and called to the others, who were looking curiously at the two; "come here, and tell me who this is! Shade of Madame Haut-ton, hover over us, and bless this reunion!"

"Hildegarde Grahame! Hilda! Queen Hildegarde!" cried several voices; and Hildegarde was instantly surrounded by the crowd of butterflies, all caressing and questioning, laughing and talking at once. One or two looked puzzled, other one or two sad, as they saw their gay schoolmate of former days standing behind the counter, quiet and self-possessed, and apparently entirely at home. But visible distress was on one countenance, and Hildegarde, charitable, refrained from looking at her cousin, when Imperia exclaimed, "Why, here is Blanche Van Dene! She is your cousin, isn't she? Blanche, here is Hilda, who used to be so good to you at school, and help you with your spelling. Dear me, Hilda, do you remember how Blanchey used to spell?"

Hildegarde shook hands with her cousin composedly, and only her dancing eyes showed any consciousness of the situation. Blanche muttered some greeting, and then recollected an engagement and hurried off. The lady Imperia looked after her with good-natured contempt.

"Same little animal, my dear! I beg your pardon, Hilda, but really, you know, we remember her in her pinafores, and she was a snob then. But now tell us all about it, like a good girl! You are not in trouble, dear old thing?"

At this moment the door opened and Miss Adams came hurrying in, breathless and apologetic. There had been a block in the street – she was on the wrong side and could not get back – would Hildegarde please excuse her for being so long?

"Oh, but I have had a delightful time, Miss Adams!" cried Hildegarde. "And I have sold three dozen of everything – was that a real offer, Imperia?"

Imperia vowed that it was; and Hildegarde and Miss Adams together tied up the parcels, while all chatted together like old friends. The situation was explained, and so many dozens of "Novices" were ordered for every week that Hildegarde declared her intention of taking back with her to Braeside a chef and three kitchen-maids to help her in the manufacture. Finally, she was whirled away in her friend's purple chariot for a drive in the park, and had the pleasure of passing her cousin Blanche on the way, looking sad and sorry.

CHAPTER VI.

MORE GREETINGS

"And you won't think better of it? Hilda, I am in despair! Think of it, my dear! Calvé, and both the De Reszkes – there will never be such a performance again, perhaps, in our lifetimes! And all the good time we should have between the acts – and our box will be simply full of people all the evening – oh, you must come, Hilda Grahame!"

People said of Helena Desmond that if she had a fault, it was that of speaking too loud. She was so full of the joy of living, so powerful and vigorous in all her emotions, pleasurable or painful, that her clear, resonant voice was apt to be heard like the sound of a trumpet, dominating other and feebler organs. Mrs. Delansing, sitting erect behind her tea equipage, heard it, and shivered slightly; but Hildegarde's reply was spoken so low that she could not catch a syllable. Then came: "No, no, I shouldn't! Don't tell me! I should do nothing of the sort! We are to take our opportunities as they come, – time enough for sacrifices when Lent comes. You know I don't mean that, Hilda; and you know you are a dear, dear, – " here followed the sound of good hearty kisses, and Mrs. Delansing shivered again; then the door closed with a solid slam, and all was silent.

Hildegarde came into the room, her hands full of roses.

"Aunt Emily," she said, "Helena Desmond sent you these! She would have come in, but she was late already for a reception. Aren't they lovely?"

Mrs. Delansing bent her head over the flowers; they were among the few things she enjoyed.

"Beautiful!" she said. "It was very kindly done of Miss Desmond. I should have been glad to see her. Was – was that she at the door, speaking so loud?"

"Yes," said Hildegarde. "She was speaking rather loud, perhaps; but her voice is so musical, I don't think one minds it in her, somehow. She is a glorious creature!"

Mrs. Delansing seemed absent and disturbed. "She – it is not always possible to avoid overhearing portions of conversations, when carried on in a high key – I gathered that some invitation had been extended to you, Hildegarde – for this evening."

"Yes!" said Hildegarde, rather reluctantly. "She wanted me to go to the opera with her, but I didn't think I would better."

"Why not?" demanded her aunt, severely. "Miss Desmond is not accustomed to have her invitations refused, – and you are bound to take advantage of such opportunities as may present themselves to you, living in the extraordinary way that your mother thinks suitable for you."

"Oh, well!" said Hildegarde, "Helena understood perfectly, and I thought it best not to go."

She was arranging the flowers as she spoke, and did not see the curious change that seemed to come over Mrs. Delansing's face. It was as if the stony repose of her features were broken, – some shifting light seemed to pass over her, changing into shadow, but a shadow softened into something approaching tenderness.

"Hildegarde, it is not on my account that you are making this sacrifice? I cannot permit – "

Hildegarde looked up; then laid down her roses, and crossed the room to lay her hand on her aunt's shoulder.

"Of course it is, Aunt Emily!" she said, impulsively. "I came here to see you, not to go to the opera. I have been out already more than I should to-day, but – but things happened, somehow. And this is the last evening we shall have together, and you know we are to play the grand final rubber; and – and I wanted to stay."

The old lady began to tremble in her chair; a mist came over her keen black eyes.

"My grandchildren would have gone!" she cried. "Blanche and Violette would have gone, and not have thought it necessary even to tell me. I have done everything for them, and nothing – Blanche has been here this afternoon!" she added, in a different voice, struggling for her usual composure. "She said – but it is of no consequence what she said."

"No, it really isn't, Aunt Emily!" said Hildegarde, venturing to stroke the silken shoulder affectionately. "Suppose we don't mind about Blanche now; she is very young for her age, don't you think? I can finish that story before I go to dress for dinner."

But Mrs. Delansing had something else to say.

"Thomas Ferrers came to see me, also!" she said. "Did you ask him to do so?"

"Oh – no!" said Hildegarde. "I – I only told him that you did not go out very much, and – and he said at once that he should come to see you before he left town."

"He is grown an old man!" said Mrs. Delansing. "Wild Tom Ferrers! We had a great deal of talk; much of it about you. I am bound to say that he gave me a different impression of your life. You – you must all be very happy there together!"

The tone was piteous in its wistfulness, and Hildegarde responded heartily. "You must come and see for yourself some day, Aunt Emily! We are happy, as happy as the day is long!"

The evening passed quickly and pleasantly. Mrs. Delansing unbent more than Hildegarde could have supposed possible, and even smiled as she told, over the backgammon board, some anecdotes of Colonel Ferrers's wild youth. One could not imagine her laughing under any circumstances, but her smile, when she was amused, was fine and delicate, and made a wonderful difference in her face.

When bedtime came, she held Hildegarde's hands in hers for several minutes, looking at her with a searching gaze.

"You have not found it too dull?" she said. "Hobson says she heard you singing in your room to-day! You do not find this a dreary cage, where no young life could be happy?"

Hildegarde had found it so the first day, but now all was changed, and she could answer heartily, "No, indeed, Aunt Emily! I have had a very pleasant visit, and I am – oh, so glad I came! I don't believe I should ever have known you if I had not been here in the house; and I am very, very glad to know you, Aunt Emily. May I come again?" She bent, and kissed the old lady's cheek, and was delighted to have her kiss warmly returned.

"Come whenever you will, my child!" Mrs. Delansing said. "Come as often as you can; I shall be better for every time I see you."

So it was arranged that later in the winter Hildegarde was to come to Gramercy Park for a good visit, and hear the German opera; and when the aunt and niece finally said good-bye at the bedroom door, Hildegarde felt that she had made a new friend; while the lonely old woman went to bed with a warmer heart than she had felt in her bosom for years.

"Why, mum," said Hobson, "I declare to goodness, you look ten years younger since that young lady come here!"

"I am ten years younger, Hobson!" said Mrs. Delansing, gravely. "I will have the nightcap with the Valenciennes frill, if you please."

Hildegarde sent her little trunk off by the expressman, and after bidding good-bye to Hobson, who begged her most earnestly to come again soon, started off for her final shopping-bout. She had some idea of lunching at Purcell's, and taking an afternoon train for home. There were still several things to be attended to, and she might – it was not very far from Blank & Blank's – she might be able to run round and see if Rose Flower were at home. It was doubtful, for she had been away most of the fall, but there was always a chance of her having returned. The dear Rose! How good it would be to see her, and Doctor Flower, and, perhaps, Bubble!

It was eleven o'clock before she reached Blank & Blank's, and the vast shop was filled with a surging crowd of women, young and old, smart and dowdy, rich and poor. Here and there a lone man was seen, standing bewildered, with a sample in his hand of something that he was to match; here and there, too, stood the floor-walkers, in calm and conscious dignity, the heroes of the shopping-world; but these were only occasional flecks on the frothing tide of womanhood. Hildegarde, after several vain attempts, succeeded in reaching the counter she sought. Before it stood a row of women, elbow to elbow, each bent on her own quest; behind it were the shop-women, endeavouring to satisfy all demands at one and the same moment.

Endeavouring, most of them, that is; but even the shop-woman, tried as she is in the furnace, is not always pure gold. The young woman who stood near Hildegarde may have been too tired, or may have been ill; she certainly was rude. Hildegarde had taken her stand directly behind a plainly dressed, elderly woman, shrewdly judging that she would be likely to make some definite purchase and then depart, instead of fingering half the goods on the counter, as many of the customers were doing. The elderly woman was evidently in haste. She held up the black cashmere that she had been examining, and said, civilly, "Will you please tell me the price of this?" The question was repeated several times; the shop-woman, after one glance at the quiet, unstylish figure, turned her shoulder, and began to press some goods volubly on a departing shopper.

"Please!" said the quiet woman again. "I am in haste, and want to buy some of this. Will you please tell me the price?"

"You'll have to wait your turn, lady!" was the reply; and voice and tone were equally ill-bred. "I can't wait on everybody at once."

"I have been waiting fifteen minutes," was the reply; "and my turn has come over and over again."

That was enough for Hildegarde. She reached over the woman's shoulder, and rapped sharply on the counter. "Will you tell the lady the price of this cashmere, or shall I call Mr. Jones?"

The shop-woman looked up hastily, caught sight of two blazing eyes, and a face like white lightning, and quailed.

"I – I'm sure I was doing my best!" she muttered. "It's sixty cents a yard."

"If this is your best, you have no place here!" said the flashing person before her. "How many yards would you like, madam? You shall – oh! oh, my dear! Oh, Nurse Lucy, it is not really you?"

"Oh, my blessed lamb!" cried Nurse Lucy, "Am I awake or dreaming, I says to myself the minute I heard your darling voice!"

And the stately maiden in blue serge, and the gray-haired woman in black alpaca, fell on each other's neck, and fairly cried for joy, while the roar of the shopping actually ceased – for one moment. Then it rose again, – what did it matter to anybody, when a bargain sale was on, who met or who parted? And the two friends, holding each other fast by the hand, got into a quiet corner apart, in a haven dedicated to Marseilles quilts, which nobody was buying, and sat down on two stools, and gazed their fill.

"I wonder what is the meaning of it all!" cried Hildegarde. "One after another, I keep meeting all the people I care most about; first one friend, and then another, – and now you, you dear, blessed Nurse Lucy. Oh! what are you doing here? and where is Mr. Hartley? and – and – have you seen Rose and Bubble? I was wondering whether I could find them. And – oh, do tell me all about everything, please!"

She paused, breathless, and Nurse Lucy took up the tale, drying her joyful tears the while.

"My pretty! to think of it being you! and me thinking of you miles away, and wishing I could run down and see you and your blessed mother, as you've asked me a many times so kind. And Jacob, – why, he's right outside, dear, waiting for me. He can't abear a crowd of people, you know, and New York almost smothers him anyway, poor soul. We came up for the day, dear, to see Pinkrosia, and Bubble, and the Doctor. We had a note from Doctor Flower – ah! what a good man he is! – and he wouldn't take no for an answer, but we must come up and see them in their own home; and so here we are, – came up on the early train this morning, as Jacob had business in the city. And now! – and my dear looking so well and so beautiful, and the living spirit of her mother – "