Hildegarde's Harvest Part 8

The tears sprang to her eyes. Then came the vision of their two selves, herself and her friend, in their happy, happy holiday summer at Cousin Wealthy Bond's; the gradual recovery, the roses coming in the pale cheeks, the step, growing ever firmer, more elastic. Then--but there was time for no more. Here she was at the door, Rose Flower, no longer a cripple, no longer even an invalid, but the happy wife of one of the best men in the world.

Rose's cry of surprise was very different from the clarion shout with which Helena Desmond had greeted her friend. It was soft and low,--a note like that of a bird coming home to its nest. "Hilda! my Hilda! oh, happy, happy day!"

The two girls (for Rose was a girl still, if she was a married woman!) held each other close for a little, without a word; the words did not come, nor was there need of them; each knew the other's heart was full of love that had had steady life and growth for five years. "My dear!"

they said; and then again, "My dear!" and that was all.

But a few minutes later, when all four were seated in a circle, the girls hand in hand, the old people looking from one to the other with eyes of delight, the words came fast enough.

Rose had to tell of her summer abroad, of all the new worlds that had opened before the country-bred girl,--worlds of which she had dreamed all her life, which she had never thought to see with her bodily eyes.

Then Hildegarde must tell of her summer, all the wonders of the camp, the new friends, grown so dear in so short a time; of Hugh and the Colonel, and all the delights of Braeside and Roseholme; and then both girls must hear all about affairs at Hartley's Glen, from the greatest to the least.

"Oh, Nurse Lucy, is the old yellow hen still alive--Mrs. Whittaker, I mean? Surely you know the hen we always called Mrs. Whittaker. She used to tell us her name whenever she laid an egg. And the cats! How are the dear cats? Do you think Camaralzaman remembers me, Nurse Lucy? And do you try to say his whole name once in a while, so that he will not forget it? And how are all the people in the village? How is Miss Bean?

Does she still trim hats?-- Oh, Rose, do you remember the funny hats?

There was a green satin one, the first time I went there--my dear! she wanted me to buy it! But she was so good, and kind, and nice! Everybody in the village is nice!"

"Hilda, do you remember when Bubble sprained his ankle, and the letter he wrote you? Oh, such a funny letter, wasn't it?"

"Remember it? I have it in one of my most precious portfolios! But, oh, Nurse Lucy, you haven't told us a word about the cows. Dear cows! How are they all?"

And so on, and so on, happy, foolish talk, with laughter breaking through it at every moment, as one recollection brought up another. And in the midst of it all, who is this tall youth who comes silently into the hall, and stands silent in the doorway, gazing at all the merry talkers? No one sees him; he stands and looks from one to the other, with shining eyes. A slight, trim figure, well-dressed, alert, quickness and energy in every line of it; a face not handsome, certainly, but so full of life and intelligence and good-will that whoever looks at it once is sure to look again. There he stands, silent, absorbed; and so standing, he, too, sees visions. A garden, and a boy at work in it; a freckled, towsled boy, fighting weeds with a hoe, but keeping one eye on a tattered spelling-book that lies beside him. Ten weeds to a word, that was the rule; big weeds, of course,--he did not count chickweed. What was the word,--ah! yes! _antic.i.p.ate!_ That was it! And then he looked up, and saw the face looking through the hedge,--the beautiful face, with the proud, pretty mouth, and the bright eyes. It had hardly changed, save that the mouth was now gentle, instead of proud. And then she came forward, and talked to him,--to him, in his old shirt and trousers, and asked about his lessons, and offered to teach him. Ah, yes! that was the beginning of it all, the new life, the new world, the new joy!

There was a suspicion of moisture in the youth's bright blue eyes, but they twinkled nevertheless; and when he spoke, it was in the old, homely speech that he loved, and in the very words that he had spoken that day, all these happy years ago.

"I swan!" said Zerubbabel Chirk. "I reelly do! I swan to man!"

CHAPTER VII.

MERRY WEATHER SIGNS.

BUT the best of all, perhaps, was telling about it afterward. Sitting by the fire that evening, in the pleasant sitting-room, Hildegarde told her mother all about the Great Frisk, as she called it; and it would have been hard to say whether narrator or listener were the more interested.

"But, child," said Mrs. Grahame, "how was it possible for you to do so much, and see so many people in three days, or, rather, two days and a half? I cannot comprehend it!"

"Nor can I!" laughed Hildegarde. "But--it just happened, you know! Why, dear, it seemed to _rain_ friends! Wherever I turned I ran into some one I loved. Oh, I feel so rich,--rich in every way! The money in my pocket is the least part of it all, and yet I am glad enough of that, too. Only _think_ of my getting such a price! And eight or ten dozen to send every week! It is like a fairy story, isn't it, darling? And then to meet Helena,--dear Helena! Oh, she was so delightful! And just to see her was enough to fill one with beauty for the whole day. She wears her hair brushed back now,--you remember how it waves,--wonderful hair! And she was in dark blue velvet, trimmed with chinchilla, and--and altogether, my love, if the Queen of Sheba had seen her, her spirit would have died within her twice over. And just the same dear, whole-souled creature as ever! She never can change. She promises to come out here before she goes to Washington."

"That will be delightful!" said Mrs. Grahame. "I shall be very glad to see Helena again; I have always hoped that when she came back you would see something of her again. She was the one of your schoolmates that my heart always warmed to. How came Mrs. Desmond to be willing to leave Paris? When she went away, she said it was for life."

"Oh, Helena would come!" said Hildegarde. "She told me about it; they must have had a scene. She said to her mother, 'Mamma, I am an American!

I have never committed any crime, and I refuse to be exiled from my native country any longer. If you will come with me, it will be much the pleasantest thing; if not, I go alone.' Well, it was not the thing to say, of course, but--"

"I am not sure about that!" said Mrs. Grahame, flushing slightly. "I am inclined to think Helena was perfectly justified. When a woman has not sense enough to guide her daughter, she must submit to be guided. The idea of keeping that girl over there five years, frittering about the continent; preposterous! My sympathy is entirely with Helena."

Mrs. Grahame sat very erect, and her eyes were very bright; then, catching Hildegarde's eyes, full of laughter, she relaxed her muscles, and began to laugh too.

"I am sorry, dear," she said. "I never could like Mrs. Desmond."

"I should think not!" said Hildegarde, promptly. "I should be under the painful necessity of disowning you if you did. But you love Mrs.

Honiton, Mammina!"

"Ah, Mrs. Honiton! how could two sisters be so different? It is Margaret Honiton who should be Helena's mother,--they are wonderfully alike."

"Yes. Helena feels that. She is lovely with her mother,--firm, but devoted,--but Aunt Margaret is the one of the world to her. It is a _terrible_ thing for a girl to have an incompetent mother!"

"Yes, darling, it is indeed," said Mrs. Grahame, meekly. "I feel it so in your case. No, don't kill me, Hildegarde! my time is not yet come.

Tell me more about Rose and her husband. She is very happy, you say?"

"Happy as the day is long. I told you I did not see Doctor Flower,--the only one I missed, really; he was in Philadelphia. But their house is as pretty as pretty; it is evident that he furnished it,--you know what taste he has; and everywhere roses, roses! carved and painted and embroidered,--it is really the Rose-bower, as he calls it. Her own little sitting-room, up-stairs--oh, such a little rosy-posy nest!

rosewood desk,--and everything soft covered with rose-flowered chintz--curtains, too,--and the most de-lightful sofa I ever did see!

And her little work-table, and--oh, well, Mammina, I think, after all, that made me happier than anything,--unless it was the sight of Nurse Lucy's face when she recognised me! But, remembering all that Rose suffered, and all the cramped, anxious days and years, and then seeing her, a rose in full bloom, in her own pretty house, with such signs of loving care all about her,--it was good, good!"

"Yes, indeed!" said Mrs. Grahame, heartily. "I am sure that was a real treat, darling. And Bubble--you say he is grown such a fine lad!"

"Bubble is enchanting! not handsome--well, but you need not laugh, Mammina, for he is _very_ good looking, and certainly has an air of distinction. He holds his head so well; and he walks well, and, altogether--oh, I am proud of Bubble. And Rose says that Doctor Flower is sure the boy has a career before him; he never had so apt a pupil.

And he speaks such beautiful English, Rose says."

"Rose says!" repeated Mrs. Grahame. "I thought you had a good little talk with the boy himself."

"Oh, so I had, but he _would_ not talk anything but the broadest Yankee.

He insisted that he was precisely the same freckled boy that he was when I first saw him; and he carried on in the most absurd way. He was almost like Gerald; dear Gerald! I didn't see any of the Merryweathers, Mamma; so there was something lacking, after all."

"It would be a weary world if there were not," said her mother. "But speaking of the Merryweathers--have you noticed, Hilda dear, whether the night is clear?"

"Whether the night is clear, Mammina? No, I did not look. What do you mean, darling? Shall I go to the door--"

"No; not to the door," said Mrs. Grahame. "Go to the window, child; the west window, that looks across the hedge. Tell me if the stars are out."

Wondering greatly at this sudden solicitude about the weather, Hildegarde crossed the room and drew the curtain.

"Clear as a bell," she said. "Stars all out, and wind,--oh, oh, Mammina!

Why, there are lights in the windows of Pumpkin House! Mamma, they have come!"

She turned upon her mother with eyes alight with happy inquiry.

"They have come," Mrs. Grahame repeated. "Some of them, that is. Oh, things can happen here as well as in New York, mademoiselle! They came yesterday,--Mrs. Merryweather and Kitty and--"

"And you never told me!" cried Hildegarde. "And you have let me talk on and on for three,--four hours,--oh, Mrs. Grahame!"

"You never asked me," replied that lady, demurely. "You had a great deal to tell, and I wanted very much to hear it; perhaps, too, I did not want to have your mind distracted until I had had my turn. Mrs. Merryweather is looking very well."

"Oh, the dear!" cried Hildegarde. "Oh, Mammina, do you think I might go over? Do you think it is too late? It is only half-past eight. _Don't_ you think I might run over now?"

"Hark!" said Mrs. Grahame, raising her hand. "What is that?"

Hildegarde, in full tide of excitement, checked herself, and listened.

Under the window some unseen hand swept the strings of a guitar, lightly, yet firmly; and next moment a voice broke out, singing the old air of "Gentle Zitella."