Hildegarde's Harvest Part 5

There was a painful silence. Hildegarde longed for her mother; longed for the right word to say; the wrong word would be worse than none, yet this stillness was not to be endured. Her voice sounded strange to herself as she said, crumbling her bread nervously:

"He is looking very well indeed. He has been in Washington with little Hugh, his ward; he had been suffering a great deal with rheumatism, but the warm weather there drove it quite away, he says."

There was no reply.

"Colonel Ferrers is the kindest neighbour that any one could possibly have!" the girl went on. "I don't know what we should have done without him, mamma and I; he has really been one of the great features in our life there. You know he is a connection of dear papa's,--on the Lancaster side,--as well as a lifelong friend."

"I was not aware of it!" said Mrs. Delansing. She had recovered her composure, and her tone, though cold, was no longer like iced thunderbolts.

"I withdraw my criticism of your conduct,--in a measure. But I cannot refrain from saying that I think your time would have been better employed in your room, than in gadding about the street. I was distinctly surprised when Hobson told me that you had gone out. Hobson was surprised herself. She has always lived in the most careful families."

Hildegarde "saw scarlet." "Aunt Emily," she said, "blame me if you will; but I cannot suffer any reflection on my mother. I do not consider that it would be possible for any one to be more careful of every sensible propriety than my mother is; though she does not mould her conduct on the opinions of servants!" she added. She should not have said this, and was aware of it instantly; but the provocation had been great.

"You admit that your mother is human?" said the old lady, grimly. "She has faults, I presume, in common with the rest of humankind?"

"She may have!" said Hildegarde. "I have never observed them."

Silence again. Hildegarde tried to eat her chicken, but every morsel seemed to choke her; her heart beat painfully, and she saw through a mist of angry tears. Oh, why had she come here? What would she not give to be at home again!

Presently Mrs. Delansing spoke again, and her tone was perceptibly gentler.

"My dear, you must not think that I mean to be unkind, nor did I mean--consciously--to reflect upon your mother, for whom your affection is commendable, though perhaps strongly expressed."

"I am sorry!" said Hildegarde, impulsively. "I ought not to have spoken so. I beg your pardon, Aunt Emily!"

Mrs. Delansing bowed. "You are freely pardoned! I was about to say, when this little interruption occurred, that I had hoped you could be content for a few days under my roof, without seeking pleasure elsewhere; but age is poor company for youth."

"But you could not see me this morning, Aunt Emily! You said last night that you never saw anybody before lunch. And what should I do in my room? It is a charming room, but you surely did not expect me to stay in it all the morning, doing nothing?"

"I should have thought you might find plenty of occupation!" said Mrs.

Delansing. "In my time it was thought not too much for a young lady to devote the greater part of the day to the care of her person; this, of course, included fine needlework and other feminine occupations."

"I did not bring any work with me," said Hildegarde. "You see, I must go back to-morrow, Aunt Emily, and there are so many errands that I have to do. This afternoon I must go out again; and is there anything I can do for you? I shall be going by Arnold's, if you want anything there."

"I thank you; Hobson makes my purchases for me!" said Mrs. Delansing, stiffly. "She would better accompany you to Arnold's; there is apt to be a crowd in these large shops, which I consider unsuited for gentlewomen.

I will tell Hobson to accompany you."

But Hildegarde protested against this, saying, with truth, that she must pay a visit first. The idea of going about with Hobson at her heels was intolerable for the girl who had spent the first sixteen years of her life in New York.

She finally carried her point, and also obtained permission to read to her aunt for an hour before going out. It was a particularly dull weekly that was chosen, but she read as well as she knew how, and had the pleasure of seeing Mrs. Delansing's stern face relax into something like cheerfulness as she went through two chapters of the vapid, semi-religious story. At length the cold, gray eyes closed; the stately head nodded forward; Aunt Emily was asleep. Hildegarde read on for some time, till she was sure that the slumber was deep and settled. Then she sat for a moment looking at the old lady, and contrasting her face and form, rigid even in sleep, with those of dear Cousin Wealthy Bond, who always looked like the softest and most kissable elderly rose in her afternoon nap. "Poor soul," she said, softly, as she slipped out of the room to find Hobson. "So lonely, and so unloved and unloving! I can't bear to hear Blanche and Violette speak of her,--I can hardly keep my hands off them,--and yet--why exactly should they be fond of her? She is not fond of them, or of anybody, I fear, unless it be Hobson."

The visit was paid, and Hildegarde took her way towards the Woman's Exchange, with a beating heart. It beat happily, for she had enjoyed the half-hour's talk with the kind cousin, an elderly woman, who seldom moved from her sofa, but whose life was full of interest, and who was the friend and confidante of all the young people in the neighbourhood.

She had heard with pleasure of the proposed plan, and had given Hildegarde a note to the manager of the Exchange, whom she knew well; had tasted a crumb of one of the cakes, and predicted a ready sale for them. Moreover, and this was the best of all, she had talked so wisely and kindly, and with such a note of the dear mother in her voice, that Hildegarde's homesickness had all floated away, and she had decided that it was not, after all, such a hardship to spend three days in New York as she had thought it an hour ago.

As I said, she took her way towards the Exchange, carrying her neat paper box carefully. As she went, she amused herself by building castles, _a la_ Perrette. How many things she would buy with the money, if she sold the cakes; and she should surely sell them. No one could resist who once tasted them, and she had made several tiny ones for samples; just a mouthful of "goody" in each.

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 a.s.sistance, 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; n.o.body 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 a.s.sured 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?"