Hildegarde's Home

"But how was it possible?" cried Hildegarde. "Did you wear crinoline?"

"No," was the reply, "not a mite of hoop-skirt; but things were very full, you see, Miss Grahame. That brown dress, now; it had a deep side-plaiting all round, and an overskirt, very full too, and the back very deep, flounced, scalloped, and trimmed with narrow piping, looped in each corner with scallops. There was a deep fringe round the basque and overskirt, and coming up from the postilion (that was deep, too), to loop on the left shoulder."

"Well, it sounds awful!" said Leonie frankly. "You must have been a perfect sight, mamma!"

"She was better-looking than you are, or ever will be!" snarled Mr. Loftus. "Are you goin' to sit here all day talkin' about women's folderols? I have to pay for 'em, and I guess that's all I want to know about 'em."

Glad enough was Hildegarde when four o'clock came, and she could plead an appointment to meet her mother at a certain turn of the road, as they were going for a walk together.

"More walking!" cried Mrs. Loftus. "You'll have a fever, I'm certain of it. I don't think girls ought ever to walk, unless it's a little turn in the park while the horses are waiting, or something of that sort." She begged Hildegarde to wait till the horses were harnessed, but our heroine was firm, and finally departed, leaving her good-natured hostess shaking her head in the doorway, like a mandarin in wine-coloured satin.

As she turned the corner by the gilded iron gates, Hildegarde was startled by the apparition of a small boy in brown corduroy, sitting on a post and swinging his legs.

Hildegarde was fond of boys. One of her two best friends was a boy, and she had a little sweetheart in Maine, whose name was Benny, and who loved her with all the ardour of four years old. This boy must be six or seven, she thought. He had red hair, a round, rosy, freckled face, and two eyes so blue and so bright that the very meeting them made her smile. Her smile was answered by a flash, which lighted up the whole face, and subsided instantly, leaving preternatural gravity.

"How do you do?" said Hildegarde. "Is it fun sitting there?"

"No!" said the boy; and down he came. Then shyness seized him; he hung his head and considered his toes attentively.

"My name is Hilda," continued our heroine. "Do you think it is a nice name?"

He nodded, still intent on the boots.

"But I don't know what your name is," she went on sadly. "I should like to tell you about my puppy, if you would walk along by me, but you see I can't, because I don't know your name."

"Hugh Allen," said the lad briefly.

"Hugh!" cried Hildegarde, her cheek flushing and her eyes softening. "That was my dear father's name. We must be friends, Hugh, for the name's sake. Come along, laddie!"

The boy came, and walked in silence by her side, occasionally stealing a glance at the kind, bright face so much higher up than his own.

"Well, my puppy," said Hildegarde, as if she were continuing a conversation. "His name was Patsy, and he was such a funny puppy, – all white, with a great big head, and paws almost as big, and a mouth large enough to swallow – oh! I don't know what! a watermelon, perhaps. I loved him very much. He used to gnaw my boots, and nibble the skirt of my dress; but, of course, I didn't mind, for I knew he was cutting his teeth, poor dear, and couldn't help it. But when he gnawed all the corners off the leather chairs in the dining-room, my mother dear didn't like it, and she said Patsy must go. Then my father said he would take him to his office every day, and keep him out of mischief, and then I could take the dear for a good walk in the afternoon, and have a comfortable time with him, and he could sleep in the shed. Well, I thought this was a delightful plan, and the next day Patsy went off with papa, as pleased and happy as possible. Oh, dear! Hugh, what do you think that puppy did?"

"Perhaps he bit his legs," suggested Hugh, with a gleam of delight in his blue eyes.

"Oh, no!" said Hildegarde. "He wouldn't have dared to do that, for he was a sad coward, my poor Patsy. My father left him shut up in the office while he went to lunch; and as the day was mild (though it was winter), he left his new ulster on a chair, where he had laid it when he first came in. Hugh, when he came back, he found the ulster – it was a stout heavy one – he found it all torn into little pieces, and the pieces piled in a heap, and Patsy lying on top of them."

"Oh-ee!" cried the boy. "And then what happened? Did he smite him hip and thigh, even unto the going down of the sun?"

Hildegarde opened her eyes a little at this scriptural phrase, but answered: "Yes, I am afraid papa gave him a pretty severe whipping. He had to, of course. And then he sent him away, and I never saw poor Patsy again. Don't you think that was sad, Hugh?"

"It was sad for you," replied the boy, "but sadder for Patsy. Would you like to be a dog?" he added, looking up suddenly into Hildegarde's face.

"I – think – not!" said that young woman meditatively. "I should have to eat scraps and cold bones, and that I could not endure. Besides, you couldn't read, or play on the piano, or anything of that sort. No, I am quite sure I should not like it, Hugh."

"But you would have a tail!" cried the boy, with kindling eyes. "A tail to wag! And – and just think how you would go with four legs!" he added, giving a jump with his two stout little limbs. "And never to have to sit up straight, except for fun sometimes; and no boots to lace, and not to have to cut up your dinner. Oh! it would be such fun!"

"Yes, and never to be able to change your clothes when they are wet or muddy," replied the girl, "and to have to lie on the floor" – "I like to lie on the floor," put in Hugh – "and to have unnatural people, who don't like dogs, say, 'There! there! get away, dog!' when you are trying to make yourself agreeable."

"Yes, that is bad!" Hugh admitted. "Aunt Loftus beat Merlin yesterday when he hadn't done anything, just not anything at all. Just he wagged his tail to tell me something, and there was an old jug in the way, and it fell over and broke. And now he isn't to come into the house any more. I felt like 'many oxen come about me, fat bulls of Basan compass me on every side,' when she glared at me and said that."

Hildegarde turned her face away, and was silent for a minute.

"Merlin is your dog?" she asked presently, with a suspicious quiver in her voice.

"Would you like to see him?" cried the lad joyfully. "He stayed behind with a bone, but I'll call him." He gave a long, clear whistle, and a superb collie came bounding down the avenue, and greeted his master with violent affection.

"Down, Merlin!" said Hugh Allen gravely. "This is the Purple Maid I told you about, but her real name is Hilda. A Purple Maid was what I called you when I saw you coming up the steps," he explained, turning to Hildegarde. "I didn't know any other name, you see."

"But why 'Purple Maid'?" asked Hildegarde, feeling more and more that this was a very queer little boy. "I had been walking fast, but was I actually purple, Hugh?"

"Oh, no!" said the boy. "It wasn't that at all. Your cheeks were like the rosy eve. But 'purple' has a nice sound, don't you think so? a kind of rich sound. Do you mind my calling you a Purple Maid?"

Hildegarde assured him that she did not, and then, from mere idle curiosity, as she afterwards assured herself, she added, "And what do you call your cousin Leonie?"

"A vinegar cruet!" replied Hugh promptly. "And Aunt Loftus is a fat – "

"Oh, hush! hush! my dear little boy!" cried Hildegarde hastily. "You must not say such things as that."

"You asked me," replied Hugh simply. "That is what I do call them when I think about them."

"But it is not nice to think rude and unkind things," said the Purple Maid, reprovingly.

"Then I won't think about them at all," said the boy. "For they really are, you know. I'd rather think of you, anyhow, and mamma, and Merlin."

While this dialogue was going on, Hildegarde had been making friends with Merlin, who responded with cheerful cordiality to her advances. He was a beautiful creature, of true collie brown, with a black nose, and the finest white waistcoat in the world. His eyes were wonderful, clear, deep, and intelligent, in colour "like mountain water when it's flowing o'er a rock."

"Dear lad!" said Hildegarde, taking his black paw and pressing it affectionately. "I know you are as good as you are handsome. Will you be my friend, too? Hugh is going to be my friend."

"He will!" cried Hugh eagerly. "We always like the same people, and almost always the same things. He won't eat apples, and I don't chase cats; but those are nearly the only things we don't like together."

At a turn in the road, Hildegarde saw in the distance a black figure walking toward them.

"There is my mother dear!" she exclaimed. "She said she would come and meet me. Will you come and see her, Hugh? – she is very nice!" she added, seeing that the boy hung back. But Hugh studied his boots again with rapt attention, and apparently read in them a summons back to The Poplars.

"I think I have to go back!" he said. "I love you, and you are my Purple Maid. May I come to see you once?"

"You may come fifty times, dear little lad!" cried Hildegarde warmly. "Come as often as you like."

But Hugh Allen shook his head sagely. "Maybe once will be enough," he said. "Come, Merlin! Good-by, Purple Maid!" And he and Merlin disappeared in a cloud of legs and dust.

CHAPTER IX

THE COUSINS

Hildegarde and her cousin Jack soon became fast friends. His fear of Mrs. Grahame vanished the first time he saw her smile, and he found, to his great amazement, that a girl was not necessarily either "dreadful" or stupid; moreover, that a girl's mother might be a very delightful person, instead of a mixture of harpy and Gorgon. He was invited to come to tea and bring his violin. Colonel Ferrers was invited, too, but promptly declined.

"A fiddling nephew, dear madam," he said, "is a dispensation to which I resign myself, but I do not wish to hear him fiddle."

Mrs. Grahame suggested that the fiddle might be left at home.

"No, no! Let him bring it! by all means let him bring it! if you can really endure it without discomfort, that is. It will be the greatest pleasure to the lad, who is a good lad, though a deplorable milksop."

So Jack came with the precious black box under his arm. Tea was set out on the verandah, a symphony in white and gold, – golden croquettes, butter, honey, snowy rolls, and cream cheese, – and Hildegarde pouring the tea, in white with gold-coloured ribbons at waist and throat.

Jack Ferrers had never seen anything of this sort. "Daddy" and he had always been together, and neither of them had ever cared or thought how anything looked. He wondered if his cousin Hildegarde was very frivolous. Girls were, of course; and yet – she was certainly very pretty; and, if she really cared for music – and then, being eighteen and hungry, he gave his undivided attention to the croquettes, which truly deserved it.

And after tea, when they had sat quiet in the twilight for a little, Hildegarde said softly, "Now, Cousin Jack!" And Jack took his violin and began to play.

At the first note Mrs. Grahame laid down her knitting; at the second, she and Hildegarde exchanged glances; at the third, they forgot each other and everything else save the music. First came a few simple chords, melting into a soft harmony, a prelude as low and sweet as the notes of the mother-bird brooding over her nest; then, suddenly, from this soft cloud of peaceful harmony there leaped a wonderful melody, clear and keen as the same bird's song at daybreak, – a melody that mounted higher and higher, soaring as the lark breasts the blue morning, flight upon flight of golden notes pouring out as if the violin were a living thing, a breathing, singing creature, with heart and soul filled and brimming over with love and joy and beauty.

On and on the boy played, while the two women listened spellbound, feeling that this was no ordinary playing; and as he played his whole aspect seemed to change. He straightened himself and stood erect, save for the loving bend of the head over the beloved instrument. His blue eyes flashed, his whole countenance grew luminous, intense. The gawky, listless, indolent lad was gone; and one saw only the musician rapt in his art.

When it was over, they were all silent for a moment. Then Mrs. Grahame held out her hand. "My dear boy!" she said. "My dear Jack, you ought to be the happiest fellow in the world. To be able to give and to enjoy such pleasure as this, is indeed a great privilege."

Hildegarde could only look her thanks, for the music had moved her deeply; but her smile told Jack all that he wanted to know, and it appeared that girls were not all frivolous; also that it must be very nice to have a mother.

Then he played again. Indeed, they left him no choice, – the Mozart concerto, of which he had spoken, and then one lovely thing after another, barcarolle and serenade and fairy dance, melting finally into the exquisite melody of an old Gaelic lullaby.

"Oh!" said Hildegarde, under her breath; and then, as her mother bade her, she sang softly the words she loved, —

"Slumber sweetly, little Donald."

Such a happy evening it was, on the wide verandah, with the moon shining down, softening everything into magical wonders of ivory and silver!

It was the first of many such evenings, for soon Jack came to spending half his time at Braeside. At nine o'clock Colonel Ferrers would come striding up the gravel walk, swinging his big stick; and then the violin would be tenderly laid away, and half an hour of pleasant chat would follow, after which uncle and nephew would go off together, and the last the two ladies heard of them would be passionate adjurations from the former to "step out," and not to "poke your head forward like an army mule following a grain-cart, sir!"

One day the two cousins were taking a walk together. At least they had been walking, and now had sat down to rest on the mossy trunk of a fallen tree, – in fact, of the same great sycamore which Hildegarde had christened Philemon, on the memorable day of the tree-climbing. They had been talking about everything and nothing, when suddenly Jack shook his head and began earnestly, "Did your mother mean that the other night?"

Hildegarde simply looked at him, and raised her eyebrows.

"I mean about my being happy," the boy continued. "Because I'm not happy, and I never expect to be."

"What is it?" Hildegarde asked, seeing that a confidence was coming.

"There is only one thing in the world that I want," cried the boy, "and that is just what I cannot have. I want to go to Leipsic, and Uncle Tom won't hear of it; calls it nonsense, and is going to send me to Harvard. We are poor, you know; Daddy doesn't know anything about money, and – and who cares about it, anyhow, except for – for things one wants? Uncle Tom says I can't make a bow, and – oh, all kinds of rubbish! What's the use of making a bow? I'm not going to be a dancing-master, Hildegarde!"

"Indeed, you would not be a good one!" his cousin said; "but, considering that one must make bows, Jack, isn't it just as well to do it well as to do it badly?"

"Who cares?" cried the boy, shaking his head wildly. "If a man is going to be anything, who cares how he bows? And – oh, of course that is one item. I am to go to Harvard, and learn to bow and to dance, and to be a classical scholar, and to play base-ball. I hate base-ball, Hilda! it's perfect idiocy, and it makes my head ache, and any one can see that I'm not cut out for athletics. Are you laughing at me?"

"Indeed I am not!" said Hildegarde, heartily. "But, tell me! you want to go to Leipsic, to study music?"

"Of course!" was the reply. "And Daddy wants me to go, and Herr Geigen is going over in the autumn, and he would place me, and all; but Uncle Tom hates music, you know, and if I speak of it he goes off in a rage, and talks about rascally Dutch fiddlers, and says I walk like a giraffe with the palsy. At least, that was the animal this morning. Yesterday I was a gouty ostrich, and I suppose we shall go through the whole menagerie."

"You like him?" Hildegarde said interrogatively.

"He is very kind, in his way," replied Jack. "Awfully kind, and he loves my father, and I know he wants to do things for me; but – it all has to be done in his way, don't you see? And – well, there isn't anything in me except music. I know that, you see, Hildegarde. Just nothing!"

"I don't feel so sure of that!" Hildegarde said. "Perhaps you never tried to develop the other side of you. There must be other sides, you know."

"No, there aren't!" said Jack positively. "None at all!"

"But that is nonsense!" cried Hildegarde impatiently. "Do you mean to say that you are a flat surface, like a playing-card, with 'music' painted on you?"

"I didn't know I was flat!" rather stiffly.

"You see, you are not! then why not try to care for something else beside music, without caring any the less for that?"

"What is there to care for? a parcel of musty old books, such as Uncle Tom is forever reading."

"Oh! oh! you Goth! As if it were not a rapture simply to look at the outside of your uncle's books. To see my heart's own Doctor in dark blue calf, with all that beautiful tooling – "

"What Doctor? what are you talking about, Hildegarde?"

"Johnson, of course! Is there another? as the man in Punch says about his hatter. And even in your own line, you foolish boy! Have you never read that beautiful 'Life of Handel'? I looked into it the other day, and it seemed delightful."

"No," said Jack, looking blank. "Where is it? I never saw it."

"Bookcase between the south windows, fourth shelf, about the middle; three fat volumes in green morocco. And you never saw it, because you never look at the books at all. What do you look at, Jack, except your music and your violin? For example, do you ever look in the glass? I know you don't."

"How do you know?" and Jack blushed hotly.

"Because – you won't mind? I am your cousin, you know! – because your necktie is so often crooked. It is crooked now; a little more to the right! that's it! And – and you ought to brush that spot off your coat. Now, if you made it a point always to look in the glass before leaving your room – "

"Is that one of the sides you want me to develop?" asked Jack slowly. "Caring about dress, and looks, and that sort of thing? I didn't know you were of that kind, Hildegarde."

"Of what kind?" cried our heroine, blushing furiously in her turn, and feeling that she was in great danger of losing her temper. "I certainly do care about my dress and looks, as every one ought to do. Suppose the next time you came to tea, you found me with my hair tumbling down, and a great spot of ink on my gown, and my ruffles torn! Is that the kind of person you like to see? I always thought Herrick's Julia was a most untidy young woman, with her shoe-strings, and her 'erring lace' and all."

"I don't know who she is," said Jack meekly. "But I beg your pardon if I was rude, Hilda; and – and I will try to 'spruce up,' as Uncle Tom is always trying to make me. You see," he added shyly, "when you look in the glass you see something nice, and I don't!"

"Nonsense!" said Hildegarde, promptly. "And then, Jack – that is only one thing, of course. But if you had the habit of using your eyes! Oh! you don't know what a difference it would make. I know, because I used to be as blind as you are. I never looked at anything till about two years ago. And now – of course I am only learning still, and shall be learning all my life, I hope; but – well, I do see things more or less. For example, what do you see at our feet here?"

"Grass!" said Jack, peering about. "Green grass. Do you think I don't know that?"

Hildegarde laughed, and clapped her hands.

"Just what I should have said two years ago!" she cried. "There are twelve different plants that I know – I've been counting them – and several more that are new to me."

"Well, they're all green, anyhow!" said Jack. "What's the difference?"

Hildegarde scorned a direct reply, but went on, being now mounted on her own hobby.

"And as for moths, Jack, you can have no idea of what my ignorance was in regard to moths."

"Oh, come!" said Jack. "Every one knows about moths, of course. They eat our clothes, and fly into the lamps. That is one of the things one finds out when one is a baby, I suppose."

"Indeed!" cried Hildegarde. "And that is all there is to find out, I suppose. Why – " she stopped suddenly; then said in a very different tone, "Oh, Jack! this is a wonderful coincidence. Look! oh, will you look? oh! the beautiful, beautiful dear! Get me something! anything! quick!"

Jack, who was not accustomed to feminine ways, wondered if his fair cousin was going out of her mind. She was gazing intently at a spot of lighter green on the "grass" at her feet. Presently the spot moved, spread; developed two great wings, delicate, exquisite, in colour like a chrysoprase, or the pure, cold green one sometimes sees in a winter sunset.

"What is it?" asked Jack, in wonder.

"A Luna!" cried Hildegarde. "Hush! slip off on the other side, quietly! Fly to the house, and ask auntie for a fly-screen. Quick, Jack!"

Jack, greatly wondering, ran off none the less, his long legs scampering with irreverent haste through the Ladies' Garden. Returning with the screen, which auntie gave him without question, being well used to the sudden frenzies of a moth-collector, he found Hildegarde on her knees, holding her handkerchief over the great moth, which fortunately had remained quiet, being indeed stupid in the strong light. The girl's face was all aglow with triumph and delight.

"A perfect specimen," she cried, as she skilfully conveyed the great moth under the screen. "I have two, but the tails are a little broken. Isn't he glorious, Jack? Oh, happy day! Come, good cousin, and let us take him home in a triumphal procession."

Jack looked rather blank. "Are you going home now?" he asked.

"Of course, to put my beauty in the ammonia jar."

"What is it?" she added, seeing that her cousin looked really vexed.

"Oh – nothing!" said Jack. "Nothing of any consequence. I am ready."

"But what is it?" Hildegarde repeated. "You would a great deal better tell me than look like that, for I know I have done something to vex you."

"Well – I am not used to girls, you know, Hildegarde, and perhaps I am stupid. Only – well, I was going to ask you seriously what you thought about – my music, and all that; and first you tell me to look in the glass, and then you go to catching moths and forget all about me. I suppose it's all right, only – "

He blushed, and evidently did not think it was all right. Hildegarde blushed, too, in real distress.

"My dear Jack," she cried, "how shall I tell you how sorry I am?"

She looked about for a suitable place, and then carefully set down the fly-screen with its precious contents.

"Sit down again," she cried, motioning her cousin to take his place on the fallen tree, while she did the same. "And you will not believe now how interested I really am," she said. "Mamma would never have been so stupid, nor Rose either. But you must believe me. I was thinking about you till – till I saw the Luna, and you don't know what a Luna means when one hasn't a perfect specimen. But now, tell me, do you think it would be quite impossible to persuade your uncle? Why, you must go to Leipsic, of course you must. He – has he ever heard you play, Jack?"

Jack laughed rather bitterly. "Once," he said. "He cried out that when he wanted to listen to cats with their tails tied together, he would tie them himself. Since then I always go up into the garret to practise, and shut all the doors and windows."

"What a pity! and he is so nice when one knows him. I wonder – do you know, Jack, what I am thinking of?"

Her face was so bright that the boy's face brightened as he looked at it.

"I hope it is what I was thinking of," he said; "but I didn't dare – "

"Mamma," cried Hildegarde.