Hildegarde's Holiday Part 20

"I thought of it," said the old lady, as Hildegarde bent over the pretty trinket in wondering delight, "when I saw your forget-me-not room last winter. The clasp, you see, is a turquoise; I believe, rather a fine one. My grandfather brought it from Constantinople. A pretty thing; it will look well on your arm. The Bonds all have good arms, which is a privilege. Good-night, dear child! Sleep well, and be ready to elaborate your great scheme to-morrow."

CHAPTER XVI.

THE WIDOW BRETT.

So it came to pa.s.s that at the breakfast-table next morning no one was so bright and gay as Miss Wealthy. She was full of the new plan, and made one suggestion after another.

"The first thing," she said, "is to find a good housekeeper. There is nothing more important, especially where children are concerned. Now, I have thought of precisely the right person,--pre-cisely!" she added, sipping her tea with an air of great content. "Martha, your cousin Cynthia Brett is the very woman for the place."

"Truly, Mam, I think she is," said Martha, putting down the b.u.t.tered toast on the exact centre of the little round mat where it belonged; "and I think she would do it too!"

"A widow," Miss Wealthy explained, turning to Hildegarde, her kind eyes beaming with interest, "fond of children, neat as _wax_, capable, a good cook, and makes b.u.t.ter equal to Martha's. My dears, Cynthia Brett was made for this emergency. Zerubbabel, my lad, are you desirous of attracting attention? We will gladly listen to any suggestion you have to make."

The unfortunate Bubble, who had been drumming on the table with his spoon, blushed furiously, muttered an incoherent apology, and wished he were small enough to dive into his bowl of porridge.

"And this brings me to another plan," continued the dear old lady.

"Bixby, where Cynthia Brett lives, is an extremely pretty little village, and I should like you all to see it. What do you say to driving over there, spending the night at Mrs. Brett's, and coming back the next day, after making the arrangements with her? Zerubbabel could borrow Mr.

Rawson's pony, I am sure, and be your escort. Do you like the plan, Hilda, my dear?"

"Oh, Cousin Wealthy," cried Hildegarde, "it is too delightful! We should enjoy it above all things. But--no!" she added, "what would you do without the Doctor? You would lose your drive. Is there no other way of sending word to Mrs. Brett?"

But Miss Wealthy would not hear of any other way. It was a pity if she could not stay at home one day, she said. So when Mr. Brisket, the long butcher from Bixby, came that morning, and towering in the doorway, six feet and a half of blue jean, asked if they wanted "a-any ni-ice mut-ton toda-a-ay," he was intrusted with a note from Martha to her cousin, telling of the projected expedition, and warning her to expect the young ladies the next day but one.

The day came,--a day of absolute beauty, and though still very hot, not unbearable. Dr. Abernethy had had an excellent breakfast, with twice his usual quant.i.ty of oats, so that he actually frisked when he was brought round to the door. The whole family a.s.sembled to see the little party start. Miss Wealthy stood on the piazza, looking like an ancient Dresden shepherdess in her pink and white and silver beauty, and gave caution after caution: they must spare the horse up hill, and _never_ trot down hill; "and let the good beast drink, dearie, when you come to the half-way trough,--not too much, but enough moderately to quench his thirst;" etc.

Martha beamed through her silver-rimmed spectacles, and hoped she'd given them enough lunch; while Benny, with his hand resting on the head of his "ole fat kyat," surveyed them with rather a serious air.

The girls had been troubled about Benny. They did not want to leave the little fellow, who had announced his firm intention of going with them; yet it was out of the question to take him. The evening before, however, Bubble had had a long talk with "ve boy of ve house;" and great was the relief of the ladies when that youthful potentate announced at breakfast his determination to stay at home and "take care of ve womenfolks, 'cause Jim-Maria [the name by which he persistently called the melancholy prophet], he's gettin' old, an' somebody has to see to fings; and I's ve boy of ve house, so _I_ ought to see to vem."

When the final moment came, however, it seemed very dreadful to see his own Sing-girl drive away, and Posy, and the other boy too; and Benny's lip began to quiver, and his eyes to grow large and round, to make room for the tears. At this very moment, however, Jim-Maria, who had disappeared after bringing the horse to the door, came round the corner, bringing the most wonderful hobby-horse that ever was seen. It was painted bright yellow, for that was the color Jeremiah was painting the barn. Its eyes were large and black, which gave it a dashing and spirited appearance; and at sight of it the Boy of the House forgot everything else in heaven and earth. "Mine horse!" he cried, rushing upon it with outstretched arms,--"all mine, for to wide on! Jim-Maria, get out ov ve way! Goo-by, Sing-girl! goo-by, ev'ryboggy! Benny's goin'

to ve Norf Pole!" and he cantered away, triumphant.

Then Hildegarde and Rose, seeing that all was well, made their adieus with a light heart, and Bubble waved his hat, and Miss Wealthy kissed her hand, and Martha shook her blue checked ap.r.o.n violently up and down, and off they went.

The little village of Bixby was in its usual condition of somnolent cheerfulness, that same afternoon. The mail had come in, being brought in Abner Colt's green wagon from the railway-station two miles away. The appearance of the green wagon, with its solitary brown bag, not generally too well filled, and its bundle of newspapers, was the signal for all the village-loungers to gather about the door of the post-office. The busy men would come later, when the mail was sorted; but this was the supreme hour of the loungers. They did not often get letters themselves, but it was very important that they should see who _did_ get letters; and most of them had a newspaper to look for. Then the joy of leaning against the door-posts, and waiting to see if anything would happen! As a rule, nothing did happen, but there was no knowing what joyful day might bring a new sensation. Sometimes there was a dog-fight. Once--thrilling recollection!--Ozias Brisket's horse had run away ("Think 't 's likely a b.u.mble-bee must ha' stung him; couldn't nothin' else ha' stirred him out of a walk, haw! haw!") and had scattered the joints of meat all about the street.

To-day there seemed little chance of any awakening event beyond the arrival of the green cart. It was very warm; the patient post-supporters were nearly asleep. Their yellow dogs slumbered at their feet; the afternoon sun filled the little street with vivid golden light.

Suddenly the sound of wheels was heard,--of unfamiliar wheels. The post-supporters knew the creak or rattle or jingle of every "team" in Bixby. There was a general stir, a looking up the street, in the direction whence the sound came; and then a gaping of mouths, an opening of eyes, a craning of long necks.

A phaeton, drawn by a comfortable-looking gray horse, was coming slowly down the street. It approached; it stopped at the post-office door. In it sat two young girls: one, tall, erect, with flashing gray eyes and brilliant color, held the reins, and drew the horse up with the air of a practised whip; the other leaned back among the cushions, with a very happy, contented look, though she seemed rather tired. Both girls were dressed alike in simple gowns of blue gingham; but the simplicity was of a kind unknown to Bixby, and the general effect was very marvellous. The spectators had not yet shut their mouths, when a clattering of hoofs was heard, and a boy on a black pony came dashing along the street, and drew up beside the phaeton.

"No, it wasn't that house," he said, addressing the two girls. "At least, there was no one there. Say," he added, turning to the nearest lounger, a sandy person of uncertain age and appearance, "can you tell us where Mrs. Brett lives?"

"The Widder Brett?" returned the sandy person, cautiously. "Do ye mean the Widder Brett?"

"Yes, I suppose so," answered the boy. "Is there any other Mrs. Brett?"

"No, there ain't!" was the succinct reply.

"Well, where _does_ she live?" cried the boy, impatiently.

"The Widder Brett lives down yender!" said the sandy person, nodding down the street. "Ye can't see the house from here, but go clear on to the eend, and ye'll see it to yer right,--a yaller house, with green blinds, an' a yard in front. You 'kin to the Widder Brett?"

"No," said the tall young lady, speaking for the first time; "we are no relations. Thank you very much! Good-morning!" and with a word to the boy, she gathered up the reins, and drove slowly down the little street.

The post-supporters watched them till the last wheel of the phaeton disappeared round the turn; then they turned eagerly to one another.

"Who be they? What d'ye s'pose they want o' the Widder Brett?" was the eager cry. "Says they ain't no blood relation o' Mis' Brett's." "Some o'

Brett's folks, likely!" "I allus heerd his folks was well off."

Meanwhile the phaeton was making its way along slowly, as I said, for Rose was tired after the long drive.

"But not too tired!" she averred, in answer to Hildegarde's anxious inquiry. "Oh, no, dear! not a bit too tired, only just enough to make rest most delightful. What a funny little street!--something like the street in Glenfield, isn't it? Look! that might be Miss Bean's shop, before you took hold of it."

"Oh, worse, much worse!" cried Hildegarde, laughing. "These bonnets are positively mildewed. Rose, I see the mould on that bunch of berries."

"Mould!" cried Rose, in mock indignation. "It is bloom, Hilda,--a fine purple bloom! City people don't know the difference, perhaps."

"See!" said Hildegarde; "this must be 'the Widder Brett's' house. What a pretty little place, Rose! I am sure we shall like the good woman herself. Take the reins, dear, while I go and make sure. No, Bubble, I will go myself, thank you."

She sprang lightly out, and after patting Dr. Abernethy's head and bidding him stand still like the best of dears, she opened the white gate, which stuck a little, as if it were not opened every day. A tidy little wooden walk, with a border of pinks on either side, led up to the green door, in front of which was one broad stone doorstep. Beyond the pinks was a bed of pansies on the one hand; on the other, two apple-trees and a pleasant little green s.p.a.ce; while under the cottage windows were tiger-lilies and tall white phlox and geraniums, and a great bush of southernwood; altogether, it was a front yard such as Miss Jewett would like.

Hildegarde lifted the bright bra.s.s knocker,--she was so glad it was a knocker, and not an odious gong bell; she _could_ not have liked a house with a gong bell,--and rapped gently. The pause which followed was not strictly necessary, for the Widow Brett had been reconnoitring every movement of the new-comers through a crack in the window-blind, and was now standing in the little entry, not two feet from the door. The good woman counted twenty, which she thought would occupy just about the time necessary to come from the kitchen, and then opened the door, with a proper expression of polite surprise on her face.

"Good-day!" she said, with a rising inflection.

"How do you do?" replied Hildegarde, with a falling one. "Are you Mrs.

Brett, and are you expecting us?"

"My name is Brett," replied the tall, spare woman in the brown stuff gown; "but I wasn't expectin' any one, as I know of. Pleased to see ye, though! Step in, won't ye?"

"Oh!" cried Hildegarde, looking distressed. "Didn't you--haven't you had a letter from Martha? She promised to write, and said she was sure you would take us in for the night. I don't understand--"

"There!" cried Mrs. Brett. "Step right in now, do! and I'll tell you.

This way, if _you_ please!" and much flurried, she led the way into the best room, and drew up the hair-cloth rocking-chair, in which our heroine entombed herself. "I _do_ declare," the widow went on, "I ought to be shook! There _was_ a letter come last night; and my spectacles was broken, my dear, and I can't read Martha's small handwriting without 'em. I thought 't was just one of her letters, you know, telling how they was getting on, and I'd wait till one of the neighbors came in to read it to me. Well, there! and all the time she was telling me something, was she? and who might you be, dear, that was thinking of staying here?"

"I am Hilda Grahame!" said the girl, suppressing an inclination to cry, as the thought of Rose's tired face came over her. "If you will find the letter, Mrs. Brett, I will read it to you at once. It was to tell you that I was coming, with my friend, who is in the carriage now, and her young brother; and Martha thought there was no doubt about your taking us in. Perhaps there is some other house--"

"No, there isn't," said the Widow Brett, quickly and kindly,--"not another one. The idea! Of course I'll take you in, child, and glad enough of the chance. And you Miss Hildy Grahame, too, that Marthy has told me so much about! Why, I'm right glad to see ye, right glad!" She took Hildegarde's hand, and moved it up and down as if it were a pump-handle, her homely face shining with a cordiality which was evidently genuine. "Only,"--and here her face clouded again,--"only if I'd ha' known, I should have had everything ready, and have done some cleaning, and cooked up a few things. You'll have to take me just as I am, I expect! However--"

"Oh, we _like_ things just as they are!" cried Hildegarde, in delight.