Hilda's Mascot Part 28

"She is at death's door. It appears that only her longing and hope of seeing you have kept her alive. She has something on her mind that troubles her, poor creature, and has fretted and worried to see you, and I had to get Mr. Merryman to telegraph for you to come."

"Hilda," moaned a feeble voice, "won't you come?"

"I am here," replied the young girl, pa.s.sing into the room, and bending over the invalid. "Tell me what I can do for you, and it shall be done gladly."

And thus the two whose heredity and paths in life had so contrasted met for the last time upon earth.

"Forgive me, oh, forgive me for my cruelty to you!" implored the fast failing voice slowly and falteringly.

"I do forgive you, freely and fully, as I hope to be forgiven."

"I am almost gone," whispered Jerusha. "I was unjust to you as well as cruel. Your Aunt Ashley left-two letters-for you. I read them-and destroyed-one. All in the cottage-was-yours,-there was money-I kept-every penny-of it-safely for you. It-is with the-letter, and-her pen-in the-the-"

Eagerly as Hilda listened, she heard no more. Jerusha's lips were closed in death.

CHAPTER XIII-HILDA BY THE MERRYMAN FIRESIDE

Excepting Erma, who was growing into healthy, attractive young womanhood, Hilda found no change in the Merryman household.

Her room was just as she left it the morning she and Paul set out for Ohio. She was glad to be again in it, and was as tenderly welcomed to the home as if she were a beloved daughter, and dropped naturally into the place she had once filled.

Mrs. Courtney had forwarded Hilda's last letter to her brother Valentine, and had not expected to write so soon again; but having called to see Hilda the evening of her arrival, she could not forbear writing to him as soon as she reached home telling him of the unexpected call which had brought the young girl to Dorton, and speaking warmly of her beauty and the sweet dignity of her manner.

The day following that in which Jerusha Flint had been placed in her resting place in Dorton churchyard, Mrs. Merryman went with Hilda to visit the cottage abandoned by Diana Strong.

Following the rule adopted at the commencement of her occupancy, of renting by the year and paying in advance, Jerusha Flint, though in her grave, held, in a manner, possession of the cottage, so all remained as she had left it until Hilda could consult with Mrs. Warfield through the medium of letters.

With the exception of the desk, and a few small articles, there was nothing that she cared to keep; yet as all there was bequeathed to her by Mrs. Ashley, she did not wish to act unadvisedly.

The main object of her visit was to examine the writing desk in search of the papers and the ruby inlaid pen of which Jerusha had spoken.

"I wrote a letter to you with it, but did not send it, as Mr. Merryman, who called, said a telegram would be better," Diana Strong had told her the day she came. "I laid the pen back in the desk and while standing at the gate talking to Mr. Merryman I saw Jerusha rise from her bed, totter the few steps to the desk, lock it and put the key under the pillow where we found it."

All searching for the papers was vain, but Hilda never pa.s.sed the cottage that she did not examine the desk, believing there was a secret drawer that was baffling her search.

Her walks to "My Lady's Manor" were resumed, to the delight of Mrs.

MacQuoid and Chloe, who made it a rule to have the library warm and bright when Hilda came.

Sometimes she remained only long enough to exchange books, but they had seen her, she had chatted with them, had petted the terrier, exchanged some words with Sandy and left all cheered by the visit.

One afternoon she extended her walk to Dorton post-office, intending to call at "My Lady's Manor" upon her return in order to get a volume which an adverse and scathing criticism had tempted her to read.

She was expecting a letter from Mrs. Warfield, and saw that she was not to be disappointed when the postmaster, with a benevolent smile, commenced looking over the mail in the Merryman box.

There was one for her, but not addressed in the feminine script of Mrs.

Warfield, but in the bold, business hand of Fred.

She had not remembered that it was the fourteenth of February, and with trembling fingers opened it the moment she reached the seclusion of the library at "My Lady's Manor."

Fred's remorse for his fickleness had found relief in rhyme, and under the wing of St. Valentine he poured forth his plaint:

"Each sound hath an echo, like to like doth incline, But where is the heart that respondeth to mine?

In sunshine and shade life is lonely and drear, I call my beloved, but no answer I hear.

I seek my beloved as the dew seeks the flower, As moonbeams seek stream, meadow, forest and bower.

Oh, sadly I wander o'er woodland and lea, And muse on the one so far distant from me!

I question my fate, and try to divine If Hilda, my loved one, will ever be mine.

But all, all is silent; I wander alone; I hope against hope, for I know she is gone.

She is loved by another, his bride she will be And all pleasures in life must seem hollow to me."

His reminiscences had a different effect upon Hilda from what he intended. They cheered and warmed her heart, it was true, but not for him. Kind-hearted and sympathetic as she was, the prospective hollowness of Fred's pleasures did not in the least disturb her serenity. Instead, the last two lines of his valentine held a prophecy which filled her heart with sweet content. In the loving arms of kind Destiny she had been fostered, and she had faith to believe that she would ever there repose. Fred's written words only confirmed what she in thought was beginning to cherish. She loved Valentine Courtney, and had the conviction that the time would come when he would think of her; for that time she would wait.

It was growing twilight, and folding her letter she left the library, and to her great pleasure saw Archie sitting by the kitchen hearth, who spoke to her as he would have done had he seen her every day.

"Got any valentines yet, Miss Hilda?" asked Chloe. "You must not forgit that you is a valentine yer own self, that Archie done found in the snow."

"No, Chloe, I can never forget that good Archie saved my life on St.

Valentine's day," replied Hilda, looking kindly upon the wanderer.

"Archie can find no more people in the snow; he has looked and looked for them," he said sadly.

"I suppose it is yourself that gets plenty of valentines, Miss Hilda,"

remarked Mrs. MacQuoid respectfully, gazing with admiration upon the fair girl.

"No, Mrs. MacQuoid, there is no prospect of my getting many," smiled Hilda.

"Archie wishes that he could bring one," said the old man. "He would find one in the snow if he could."

"Thank you, Archie, I am sure you would bring me a valentine if you could find one," and nodding a cheery good-bye, Hilda ran down the steps of the porch and in a little while reached "Fair Meadow."

"Miss Hilda," said Norah, "Mr. Merryman had a message from his sister in Baltimore, saying that relatives from Boston on their way south for the winter are there to remain over night, and she would like Mr. and Mrs.

Merryman to come there for supper, and they have gone."

"Very well, Norah; then you will please bring in the tea while I run up to my room to lay aside my wraps."

Hilda had worn a crimson cashmere dress to the village, a costume very becoming to her fair face; and, adjusting the soft lace about throat and wrists, she put on a filmy white ap.r.o.n with a pocket to accommodate the ball of some fleecy white knitting, and with it in her hand descended to the tea-room, which was very bright and cheery in the lamp and fire-light.

Hilda's brisk walk in the crisp air had made the simple meal very enjoyable, and as soon as Norah had again put the center-table in order, Hilda drew it closer to the hearth and was soon absorbed in her book.

Nothing disturbed the stillness of the room save the singing of the hickory wood blazing in the open grate, or the purring of the kitten upon the hearth.

At the same hour the household of "My Lady's Manor" was agreeably surprised at the unexpected arrival of Mr. Courtney; and his welcome home, so far as they were concerned, was all that could be desired.

But during his voyage across the Atlantic, and every reflective moment since, he had pictured a fair girlish face that he longed to see brighten at his coming, and had felt the clasp of a dimpled hand that was dearer to him than all else upon the broad earth.

"I hope you will not allow my coming to disturb you, Mrs. MacQuoid," he said kindly when both arose from their evening meal at his entrance. "Do you and Sandy finish your tea; I will chat with Archie a while and then rest in the library until it suits you to ring for me."