Hildegarde's Home

"I knew it!" cried Mrs. Beadle, clapping her hands together. "I knew it! And I am going to faint!"

"No, don't do that!" said Hugh, climbing up into the seat beside her. "Don't do that. You must be calm, for you are my great-aunt, and I am your little nephew. How do you do? I am very glad to see you."

"You are sure he will stand?" whispered Hildegarde.

"Look at him! he is asleep already."

"Then come along!" and the two conspirators vanished among the trees.

They pushed on a little way through the tangle of undergrowth, and paused, breathless and radiant, under a great beech-tree.

"Jack," said Hildegarde, "you are a dear! How did you manage it?"

"I didn't manage it at all. I am a stupid ninny. Why, I've thrown her into a fit. Do you think it's safe to leave her alone?"

"Nonsense! a joy fit does not hurt, when a person is well and strong. Oh! isn't it delightful! and you have enjoyed it, too, Jack, haven't you? I am sure you have. And – why, you have a new hat! and your necktie is straight. You look really very nice, mon cousin!"

"Mille remerciments, ma cousine!" replied Jack, with a low bow, which, Hildegarde noticed, was not nearly so like the shutting-up of a jackknife as it would have been a few weeks ago. "Am I really improving? You have no idea what I go through with, looking in the glass. It is a humiliating practice. Have some chocolates?" He pulled out a box, and they crunched in silent contentment.

"Now I think we may go back," said Hildegarde, after her third bonbon. "But I must tell you first what Hugh said. I told him the whole story as we walked along; first as if it were about some one else, you know, and then when he had taken it all in, I told him that he himself was the little boy. He was silent at first, reflecting, as he always does. Then he said: 'I am like an enchanted prince, I think. Generally it is fair ones with golden locks that take them out of prison, but at my age a great-aunt is better. Don't you think so, Beloved?' and I did think so."

"But it was a fair one with golden locks who planned it all!" Jack said, with a shy look at his cousin's fair hair.

"Jack, you are learning to pay compliments!" cried Hildegarde, clapping her hands. "I believe you will go to Harvard after all, and be a classical scholar."

"I would never pay another," said Jack seriously, "if I thought it would have that effect."

When they returned to the wagon, they found Mrs. Beadle still wiping away joyful tears, while Hugh was apparently making plans for the future. His voice rang out loud and clear. "And we will dwell in a corner of the house-top, and have a dinner of herbs!" said the child. "They may have all the stalled oxes themselves, mayn't they, great-aunt? And you will clothe us in scarlet and fine wool, won't you, great-aunt?"

"Bless your dear heart!" cried Mrs. Beadle. "Is it red flannel you mean? Don't tell me those heathen haven't put you into flannels!" And she wept again.

CHAPTER XII

THE SECOND ACT

Colonel Ferrers was taking his afternoon stroll in the garden. Dinner was over; for at Roseholme, as at Braeside, country hours were kept, with early dinner, and seven o'clock tea, the pleasantest of all meals.

With a fragrant Manilla cigar between his lips, and his good stick in his hand, the Colonel paced up and down the well-kept gravel paths, at peace with all mankind. The garden was all ablaze with geranium and verbena, heliotrope and larkspur. The pansies spread a gold and purple mantle in their own corner, while poppies were scattered all about in well-planned confusion. All this was Giuseppe's work, – good, faithful Giuseppe, who never rested, and never spoke, save to say "Subito, Signor!" when his master called him. He was at work now in a corner of the garden, setting out chrysanthemums; but no one would have known it, so noiseless were his motions, so silent his coming and going.

The Colonel, though pleasantly conscious of the lovely pomp spread out for his delight, was thinking of other things than flowers. He was thinking how his nephew Jack had improved in the last two months. Positively, thought the Colonel, the boy was developing, was coming out of the animal kingdom, and becoming quite human. Partly due to the Indian clubs, no doubt, and to his, the Colonel's, wholesome discipline and instructions; but largely, sir, largely to feminine influence. Daily intercourse with women like Mrs. Grahame and her daughter would civilise a gorilla, let alone a well-intentioned giraffe who played the fiddle. He puffed meditatively at his cigar, and dwelt on a pleasant picture that his mind called up: Hildegarde as he had seen her yesterday, sitting with a dozen little girls about her, and telling them stories while they sewed, under her careful supervision, at patchwork and dolls' clothes. How sweet she looked! how bright her face was, as she told the merry tale of the "Midsummer Night's Dream." "Harry Monmouth, sir! she was telling 'em Shakespeare! And they were drinking it in as if it had been Mother Goose." The Colonel paused, and sighed heavily. "If Hester had lived," he said, "if my little Hester had lived – " and then he drew a long whiff of the fragrant Manilla, and walked on.

As he turned the corner by the great canna plant, he came suddenly upon Mrs. Beadle, who was apparently waiting to speak to him. The good housekeeper was in her state dress of black silk, with embroidered apron and lace mitts, and a truly wonderful cap; and Colonel Ferrers, if he had been observant of details, might have known that this portended something of a serious nature. Being such as he was, he merely raised his hat with his grave courtesy, and said: "Good-afternoon, Mrs. Beadle. Is it about the yellow pickles? The same quantity as usual, ma'am, or perhaps a few more jars, as I wish to send some to Mrs. Grahame at Braeside."

Mrs. Beadle shivered a little. She had made the yellow pickles at Roseholme for five and twenty years; and now, – "No, sir," she said faintly. "It is not the pickles." She plucked at the fringe of her shawl, and Colonel Ferrers waited, though with a kindling eye. Women were admirable, but some of their ways were hard to bear.

Finally Mrs. Beadle made a desperate effort, and said, "Do you think, sir, that you could find some one to take my place?"

Colonel Ferrers fixed a look of keen inquiry on her, and instantly felt her pulse. "Rapid!" he said, "and fluttering; Elizabeth Beadle, are you losing your mind?"

"I have found my little boy, sir," cried Mrs. Beadle, bursting into tears. "My dear niece Martha's own child, Colonel Ferrers. He is in the hands of heathen reprobates, if I do say it, and it is my duty to make a home for him. I never thought to leave Roseholme while work I could, but you see how it is, sir."

"I – see how it is?" cried the Colonel, with a sudden explosion. Then controlling himself by a great effort, he said with forced calmness, "I will walk over to the end of the garden, Elizabeth Beadle, and when I return I shall expect a sensible and coherent – do you understand? —coherent account of this folderol. See how it is, indeed!"

The Colonel strode off, muttering to himself, and poor Mrs. Beadle wiped her eyes, and smoothed down her apron with trembling hands, and made up her mind that she would not cry, if she should die for it.

When the grim-frowning Colonel returned, she told her story with tolerable plainness, and concluded by begging that her kind friend and master would not be angry, but would allow her to retire to a cottage, where she could "see to" her niece's child, and bring him up in a Christian way.

"Pooh! pooh! my good Beadle!" cried the Colonel. "Stuff and nonsense, my good soul! I am delighted that you have found the child; delighted, I assure you. We will get him away from those people, never fear for that! and we will send him to school. A good school, ma'am, is the place for the boy. None of your Hardhacks, but a school where he will be happy and well-treated. In vacation time – hum! ha! – you might take a little trip with him now and then, perhaps. But as to disturbing your position here – Pooh! pooh! stuff and nonsense! Don't let me hear of it again!"

Mrs. Beadle trembled, but remained firm. "No school, sir!" she said. "What the child needs is a home, Colonel Ferrers; and there's nobody but me to make one for him. No, sir! never, if I gave my life to it, could I thank you as should be for your kindness since first I set foot in this dear house, as no other place will ever be home to me! but go I must, Colonel, and the sooner the better."

Then the Colonel exploded. His face became purple; his eyes flashed fire, and, leaning upon his stick, he poured out volley upon volley of reproach, exhortation, argument. Higher and higher rose his voice, till the very leaves quivered upon the trees; till the object of his wrath shook like an aspen, and even Giuseppe, in the north corner of the garden, quailed, and murmured "Santa Maria!" over his chrysanthemums.

How much more frightened, since theirs was the blame of all the mischief, were two guilty creatures who at this moment crouched, concealed behind a great laurel-bush, listening with all their ears!

Jack and Hildegarde exchanged terrified glances. They had known that the Colonel would be angry, but they had no idea of anything like this. He was in a white heat of rage, and was hurling polysyllabic wrath at the devoted woman before him, who stood speechless but unshaken, meekly receiving the torrent of invective.

Suddenly, there was a movement among the bushes; and the next moment a small form emerged from the shade, and stood in front of the furious old gentleman. "Is your name Saul?" asked Hugh quietly.

The two conspirators had forgotten the child. They had brought him with them, with some faint idea of letting the Colonel see him as if by accident, hoping that his quaint grace might make a favourable impression; but in the stress of the occasion they had wholly forgotten his presence, and now – now matters were taken out of their hands. Hildegarde clutched her parasol tight; Jack clasped his violin, and both listened and looked with all their souls.

"Is your name Saul?" repeated the boy, as the Colonel, astonishment choking for an instant the torrent of his rage, paused speechless. "Because if it is, the evil spirit from God is upon you, and you should have some one play with his hand."

"What – what is this?" gasped the Colonel. "Who are you, boy?"

"I am my great-aunt's little nephew," said Hugh. "But no matter for me. You must sit down when the evil spirit is upon you. You might hurt some one. Why do you look so at me, great-aunt? Why don't you help Mr. Saul?"

"Come away, Hughie, love!" cried Mrs. Beadle, in an agony of terror. "Come, dear, and don't ever speak to the Colonel so again. He's only a babe, sir, as doesn't know what he is saying."

"Go away yourself!" roared the Colonel, recovering the power of speech. "Depart, do you hear? Remove yourself from my presence, or – " he moved forward. Mrs. Beadle turned and fled. "Now," he said, turning to the child, "what do you mean, child, by what you said just now? I – I will sit down."

He sank heavily on a garden seat and motioned the child before him. "What do you mean, about Saul – eh?"

"But you know," said Hugh, opening wide eyes of wonder, – "are you so old that you forget? – how the evil spirit from God came upon King Saul, and they sent for David, and he played with his hand till the evil spirit went away. Now you remember?" He nodded confidently, and sat down beside the Colonel, who, though still heaving and panting from his recent outburst, made no motion to repel him. "I said Mr. Saul," Hugh continued, "because you are not a king, you see, and I suppose just 'Saul' would not be polite when a person is as old as you are. And what do you think?" he cried joyously, as a sudden thought struck him. "The ostrich gentleman plays most beautifully with his hand. His name isn't David, but that doesn't matter. I am going to find him."

"Play, Jack," whispered Hildegarde. "Play, quick! Something old and simple. Play 'Annie Laurie.'"

Obeying the girl's fleeting look, Jack laid fiddle to bow, and the old love tune rose from behind the laurel-bush and floated over the garden, so sweet, so sweet, the very air seemed to thrill with tenderness and gentle melody.

Colonel Ferrers sank back on the seat. "Hester's song," he murmured. "Hester's song. Is it Hester, or an angel?"

The notes rose, swelled into the pathetic refrain, —

"And for bonny Annie Laurie,I'd lay me down and die."

Then they sank away, and left the silence still throbbing, as the hearts of the listeners throbbed.

"I thought it was an angel," cried Hugh, "when I first heard him, Mr. Saul. But it isn't. It is the ostrich gentleman, and he has to play up in the attic generally, because his uncle is a poor person who doesn't know how to like music. I am so sorry for his uncle, aren't you?"

"Yes," said Colonel Ferrers gruffly. "Yes, I am. Very sorry."

A pause followed. Then Hugh asked cautiously: "How do you feel now, Mr. Saul? Do you feel as if the evil spirit were going away?"

"I've got him," said the Colonel, in whose eyes the fire of anger was giving place to something suspiciously like a twinkle. "I've got him – bottled up. Now, youngster, who told you all that?"

"All what?" asked Hugh, whose thoughts were beginning to wander as he gazed around the garden. "About the poor person who doesn't know how to – "

"No, no," said the Colonel hastily, "not that. About Saul and David, and all that. Who put you up to it? Hey?"

His keen eyes gazed intently into the clear blue ones of the child. Hugh stared at him a moment, then answered gently, with a note of indulgence, as if he were speaking to a much younger child: "It is in the Bible. It is a pity that you do not know it. But perhaps there are no pictures in your Bible. There was a big one where I lived, all full of pictures, so I learned to read that way. And I always liked the Saul pictures," he added, his eyes kindling, "because David was beautiful, you know, and of a ruddy countenance; and King Saul was all hunched up against the tent-post, with his eyes glaring just as yours were when you roared, only he was uglier. You are not at all ugly now, but then you looked as if you were going to burst. If a person should burst – "

Colonel Ferrers rose, and paced up and down the path, going a few steps each way, and glancing frequently at the boy from under his bushy eyebrows. Hugh fell into a short reverie, and woke to say cheerfully: —

"This place fills me with heavenly joys. Does it fill you?"

"Humph!" growled the Colonel. "If you lived here, you would break all the flowers off, I suppose, and pull 'em to pieces to see how they grow; eh?"

Hugh contemplated him dreamily. "Is that what you did when you were a little boy?" he answered. "I love flowers. I don't like to pick them, for it takes their life. I don't care how they grow, as long as they do grow."

"And you would take all the birds' eggs," continued the Colonel, "and throw stones at the birds, and trample the flower-beds, and bring mud into the house, and tie fire-crackers to the cat's tail, and upset the ink. I know you!"

Hugh rose with dignity, and fixed his eyes on the Colonel with grave disapproval. "You do not know me!" he said. "And – and if that is the kind of boy you were, it is no wonder that the evil spirit comes upon you. I shouldn't be a bit surprised if you did burst some day. Good-by, Mr. Saul! I am going away now."

"Hold on!" cried the Colonel peremptorily. "I beg your pardon! Do you hear? Shake hands!"

Hugh beamed forgiveness, and extended a small brown paw, which was shaken with right good will.

"That's right!" said Colonel Ferrers, with gruff heartiness. "Now go into the house and find your great-aunt, and tell her to give you some jam. Do you like jam?" The boy nodded with all the rapture of seven years. "Give you some jam, and a picture-book, and make up a bed in the little red room. Can you remember all that?"

"Yes, Mr. Saul!" cried Hugh, dancing about a little. "Nice Mr. Saul! Shall I bring you some jam? What kind of jam shall I say?"

"What kind do you like best?"

"Damson."

"Damson it is! Off with you now!"

When the boy was gone, the Colonel walked up and down for a few moments, frowning heavily, his hands holding his stick behind him. Then he said quietly, "Jack!"

Jack came forward and stood before him, looking half-proud, half-sheepish, with his fiddle under his arm.

The Colonel contemplated him for a moment in silence. Then, "Why in the name of all that is cacophonous, didn't you play me a tune at first, instead of an infernal German exercise? Hey?"

Jack blushed and stammered. He had played for his uncle once only, a fugue by Hummel, of which his mind had happened to be full; he felt that it had not been a judicious choice.

"Can you play 'The Harp of Tara'?" demanded the Colonel; and Jack played, with exquisite feeling, the lovely old tune, the Colonel listening with bent head, and marking the time with his stick. "Harry Monmouth!" he said, when it was over. "Because a man doesn't like to attend the violent ward of a cats' lunatic asylum, it doesn't follow that he doesn't care for music. Music, sir, is melody, that's what it is!"

Jack shuddered slightly, and did silent homage to the shade of Wagner, but knew enough to keep silence.

"And – and where did you pick up this child?" his uncle continued. "I take it back about his having been put up to what he did. He is true blue, that child; I shouldn't wonder if you were, too, in milksop fashion. Hey?"

"Skim-milk is blue, you know, uncle," said Jack, smiling. "But I didn't discover Hugh. Isn't he a wonderful child, sir? Hildegarde discovered him, of course. I believe Hildegarde does everything, except what her mother does. Come here, Hildegarde! Come and tell Uncle Tom about your finding Hugh."

But Hildegarde was gone.

CHAPTER XIII

A PICNIC

"My dear Colonel, I congratulate you most heartily! Indeed, I had little doubt of your success, for this was a case in which Reynard the Fox was sure to have the worst of it. But I am very curious to know how you managed it."

"Nothing could be simpler, my dear madam. I went to the fellow's house yesterday morning. 'Mr. Loftus, your little nephew is at my house. Your aunt, Mrs. Beadle, has taken charge of him, according to his mother's wish, and I undertook to inform you of the fact.' He turned all the colours of the rainbow, began to bluster, and said he was the boy's nearest relation, which is very true. 'I want him to grow up a gentleman,' said he. 'Precisely,' said I. 'He shall have a chance to do so, Mr. Loftus.' The fellow didn't like that; he looked black and green, and spoke of the law and the police. 'That reminds me,' I said, 'of a story. About twenty-five years ago, or it may be thirty, a sum of money was stolen from my desk, in what I call my counting-room in my own house. Am I taking up too much of your valuable time, sir?' He choked and tried to speak, but could only shake his head. 'The thief was a mere lad,' I went on, 'and a clumsy one, for he dropped his pocketknife in getting out of the window, – a knife marked with his name. For reasons of my own I did not arrest the lad, who left town immediately after; but I have the knife, Ephraim, in my possession.' I waited a moment, and then said that I would send for the little boy's trunk; wished him good-day, and came off, leaving him glowering after me on the doorstep. You see, it was very simple."

"I see," said Mrs. Grahame. "But is it possible that Mr. Loftus – "

"Very possible, my dear Mrs. Grahame. As I told him, I have the knife, with his name in full. One hundred dollars he stole; for Elizabeth Beadle's sake, of course I let it go. Her peace of mind is worth more than that, for if she's thoroughly upset, the dinners she orders are a nightmare, positively a nightmare. That is actually one reason why I planned this picnic for to-day, because I knew I should have something with cornstarch in it if I dined at home. Why cornstarch should connect itself with trouble in the feminine mind, I do not know; but such seems to be the case."

Mrs. Grahame laughed heartily at this theory; then, in a few earnest words, she told Colonel Ferrers how deeply interested she and her daughter were in this singular child, and how happy they were in the sudden and great change in his prospects.

"And I know you will love him," she said. "You cannot help loving him, Colonel. He is really a wonderful child."

"Humph!" said the Colonel thoughtfully. Then after a pause, he continued: "I thought I had lost the power of loving, Mrs. Grahame; of loving anything but my flowers, that is, any living creature; lost it forty years ago. But somehow, of late, there has been a stirring of the ground, a movement among the old roots – yes! yes! there may be a little life yet. That child of yours – you never saw Hester Aytoun, Mrs. Grahame?"

"Never," said Mrs. Grahame softly. "She died the year before I came here as a child."

"Precisely," said Colonel Ferrers. "She was a – a very lovely person. Your daughter is extremely like her, my dear madam."

"I fancied as much," said Mrs. Grahame, "from the miniature I found in Uncle Aytoun's collection."

"Ah! yes! the miniature. I remember, there were two. I have the mate to it, Mrs. Grahame. Yes! your daughter is very like her. There was a strong attachment between Hester and myself. Then came a mistake, a misunderstanding, the puff of a feather, a breath of wind; I went away. She was taken suddenly ill, died of a quick consumption. That was forty years ago, but it changed my life, do you see? I have lived alone. Robert Aytoun was a disappointed man. Wealthy Bond, – you know the old story, – Agatha an invalid, Barbara a rigorous woman, strict Calvinist, and so forth. We all grew old together. The neighbours call me a recluse, a bear – I don't know what all; right enough they have been. But now – well, first the lad, there, came – my brother's son. Duty, you know, and all the rest of it; father an unsuccessful genius, angel and saint, with an asinine quality added. That waked me up a little, but only made me growl. But that child of yours, and your own society, if you will allow me to say so – I see things with different eyes, in short. Why, I am actually becoming fond of my milksop; a good lad, eh, Mrs. Grahame? an honest, gentlemanly lad, I think?"

"Indeed, yes!" cried Mrs. Grahame heartily. "A most dear and good lad, Colonel Grahame! I cannot tell you how fond Hilda and I are of him."

"That's right! that's right!" said the Colonel, with great heartiness. "You have done it all for him, between you. Holds up his head now, walks like a Christian; and, positively, I found him reading 'Henry Esmond,' the other day; reading it of his own accord, you observe. Said his cousin Hilda said Esmond was the finest gentleman she knew, and wanted to know what he was like. When a boy takes to 'Henry Esmond,' my dear madam, he is headed in the right direction. Asked me about Lord Herbert, too, at dinner yesterday; really took an interest. Got that from his cousin, too. How many girls know anything about Lord Herbert? Tell me that, will you?"

"Hildegarde has always been a hero-worshipper!" said Mrs. Grahame, smiling, with the warm feeling about the heart that a mother feels when her child is praised. "You make me very happy, Colonel, with all these kind words about my dear daughter. What she is to me, of course, I cannot tell. 'The very eyes of me!' you remember Herrick's dear old song. But I think my good black auntie put it best, one day last week, when Hildegarde had a bad headache, and was in her room all day. 'Miss Hildy,' said auntie, 'she's de salt in de soup, she is. 'Tain't no good without her.' But hark! here they come back, with the water; and now, Colonel, it is time for luncheon."

The speakers were sitting under a great pine tree, one of a grove which crowned the top of a green hill. Below them lay broad, sunny meadows, here whitening into silver with daisies, there waving with the young grain. In a hollow at a little distance lay a tiny lake, as if a giantess had dropped her mirror down among the golden fields; further off, dark stretches of woodland framed the bright picture. It was a scene of perfect beauty. Mrs. Grahame sat gazing over the landscape, her heart filled with a great peace. She listened to the young voices, which were coming nearer and nearer. She was so glad that she had made the effort to come. It had been an effort, even though Colonel Ferrers's thoughtfulness had provided the most comfortable of low phaetons, drawn by the slowest and steadiest of cobs, which had brought her with as little discomfort as might be to the top of the hill. But how well worth the fatigue it was to be here!