Hildegarde's Home Part 3

"A lady came to that lonely bower, And threw her robes aside.

She tore her ling-long yellow hair, And knelt at Barthram's side.

"She bathed him in the Lady-Well, His wounds sae deep and sair, And she plaited a garland for his breast, And a garland for his hair.

"They rowed him in a lily-sheet And bare him to his earth, And the grey friars sung the dead man's ma.s.s, As they pa.s.sed the Chapel Garth.

"They buried him at the mirk midnight, When the dew fell cold and still; When the aspen grey forgot to play, And the mist clung to the hill.

"They dug his grave but a bare foot deep By the edge of the Nine-Stane Burn, And they covered him o'er with the heather flower, The moss and the lady fern.

"A grey friar stayed upon the grave And sung through the morning tide.

And a friar shall sing for Barthram's soul While Headless Cross shall bide."

Now she had reached the fringe of trees at the top of the slope, and found that it was the beginning of what looked like a considerable wood.

"A pine wood!" said Hildegarde, sniffing the spicy perfume with delight.

"Oh, pleasant place! No plants, but one cannot have everything. Oh! how good it smells! and hark to the sound of the sea! I shall call this Ramoth Hill." She walked along, keeping near the edge of the wood, where it was still warm and luminous with sunshine. Now she looked up into the murmuring cloud of branches above her, now she looked down at the burnished needles which made a soft, thick carpet under her feet; and she said again, "Oh, pleasant place!" Presently, in one of the upward glances, she stopped short. Her look, from carelessly wandering, became keen and intent. On one of the branches of the tree under which she stood was a small, round object. "A nest!" said Hildegarde. "The question is, What nest?" She walked round and round the tree, like a pointer who has "treed" a partridge; but no bird rose from the nest, nor could she see at all what manner of nest it was. Finding this to be the case, she transferred her scrutiny from the nest to the tree. It was a st.u.r.dy pine, with strong, broad branches jutting out, the lowest not so very far above her head, a most attractive tree, from every point of view. Hildegarde leaned against the trunk for a moment, smiling to herself, and listening to the "two voices." "You are seventeen years old," said one voice. "Not quite," said the other. "Not for a month yet.

Besides, what if I were?" "Suppose some one should come by and see you?"

said the first voice. "But no one will," replied the second. "And perhaps you can't do it, anyhow," continued the first; "it would be ridiculous to try, and fail." "Just wait and see!" said the second voice. And when it had said that, Hildegarde climbed the tree.

I shall not describe exactly how she did it, for it may not have been in the most approved style of the art; but she got up, and seated herself on the broad, spreading branch, not so very much out of breath, all things considered, and with only two scratches worth mentioning. After a moment's triumphant repose, she worked her way upward to where the nest was firmly fixed in a crotch, and bent eagerly over it. A kingbird's nest! this was great joy, for she had never found one before. There were five eggs in it, and she gazed with delight at the perfect little things. But when she touched them gently, she found them quite cold. The nest was deserted. "Bad little mother!" said Hildegarde. "How could you leave the lovely things? Such a perfect place to bring up a family in, too!" She looked around her. It was very pleasant up in this airy bower.

Great level branches stretched above and below her, roof and floor of soft, dusky plumes. The keen, exquisite fragrance seemed to fold round her like a cloud; she felt fairly steeped in warmth and perfume. Sitting curled up on the great bough, her back resting against the trunk, the girl fell into a pleasant waking dream, her thoughts wandering idly here and there, and the sound of the sea in her ears. She was an enchanted princess, shut in a green tower by the sea. The sea loved her, and sang to her all day long the softest song he knew, and no angry waves ever came to make clamour and confusion. By and by a rescuer would come,--

"A fairy prince, with joyful eyes, And lighter-footed than the fox."

[Ill.u.s.tration: "IT WAS VERY PLEASANT UP IN THIS AIRY BOWER."]

He would stand beneath the green tower, and call to her:--

"Hallo, there! you young rascal, come down! How dare you rob birds'

nests in my woods?"

The voice was deep and stern, and Hildegarde started so violently that she nearly fell from her perch. She could not speak for the moment, but she looked down, and saw a fierce-looking old gentleman, clad in a black velvet coat and spotless white trousers, brandishing a thick stick, and peering with angry, short-sighted eyes up into the tree.

"Come down, I say!" he repeated sternly. "I'll teach you to rob my nests, you young vagabond!"

This was really not to be endured.

"I am _not_ robbing the nest, sir!" cried Hildegarde, indignation overcoming her alarm. "I never did such a thing in my life. And I--I am not a boy!"

"Harry Monmouth!" exclaimed the old gentleman. "I beg ten thousand pardons! What are you?"

Hildegarde's first impulse was to say that she lived in Alaska (that being the most distant place she could think of), and was on her way thither; but fortunately the second thought came quickly, and she replied with as much dignity as the situation allowed:--

"I am the daughter of Mrs. Hugh Grahame. I live at Braeside" (I have forgotten to mention that this was the name of the new home), "and have wandered off our own grounds without knowing it. I am extremely sorry to be trespa.s.sing, but--but--I only wanted to see what kind of nest it was."

She stopped suddenly, feeling that there was a little sob somewhere about her, and that she would die rather than let it get into her voice.

The old gentleman took off his hat.

"My dear young lady," he said, "the apologies are all on my side. Accept ten thousand of them, I beg of you! I am delighted to make the acquaintance of Mrs. Grahame's daughter, under--a--any circ.u.mstances."

(Here he evidently suppressed a chuckle, and Hildegarde knew it, and hated him.) "Permit me to introduce myself,--Colonel Ferrers.

"I have been annoyed lately," he added kindly, "by thieving boys, and, being near-sighted, did not distinguish between a persecutor and a protector of my birds." He bowed again. "And now I will continue my walk, merely remarking that I beg you to consider yourself entirely free of my grounds, in any and every part. I shall do myself the honour of calling on your mother very shortly. Good-morning, my dear Miss Grahame!" and, with another bow, Colonel Ferrers replaced his felt wide-awake, and strode off across the meadow, flourishing his stick, and indulging in the chuckle which he had so long suppressed.

"Harry Monmouth!" he said to himself, as he switched the daisy-heads off. "So we have a fair tomboy for a neighbour. Well, it may be a good thing for Jack. I must take him over and introduce him."

Now Hildegarde was not in the least a tomboy, as we know; and the intuitive knowledge that the old gentleman would think her one made her very angry indeed. She waited till he was out of sight, and then slid down the tree, without a second glance at the kingbird's nest, the innocent cause of all the trouble. She had meant to take one egg, to add to her collection; but she would not touch one now, if there were a thousand of them. She ran down the long sunny slope of the meadow, her cheeks glowing, her heart still beating angrily. She was going straight home, to tell her mother all about it, and how horrid Colonel Ferrers had been, and how she should never come downstairs when he came to the house--never! "under any circ.u.mstances!" How dared he make fun of her?

She sat down on the stone wall to rest, and thought how her mother would hear the tale with sympathetic indignation. But somehow--how was it?--when she conjured up her mother's face, there was a twinkle in her eye. Mamma had such a fatal way of seeing the funny side of things.

Suppose she should only laugh at this dreadful adventure!

Perhaps--perhaps it _was_ funny, from Colonel Ferrers's point of view.

In short, by the time she reached home, Hildegarde had cooled off a good deal, and it was a modified version of the tragedy that Mrs. Grahame heard. She found this quite funny enough, however, and Hildegarde was almost, but not quite, ready to laugh with her.

That evening, mother and daughter were sitting on the broad verandah as usual, playing Encyclopaedics. This was a game of Mrs. Grahame's own invention, and a favourite resource with her and Hildegarde in darkling hours like this. Perhaps some of my readers may like to know how the game is played, and, as the Dodo says of the Caucus Race, "the best way to explain it is to play it."

They began with the letter "A," and had already been playing some time, turn and turn about.

"Aphrodite, G.o.ddess of Love and Beauty."

"Ahasuerus, king of Persia, B.C. something or other, afflicted with sleeplessness."

"Alfred the Great, unsuccessful tender of cakes."

"aeneas, pious; from the flames of Troy did on his back the old Anchises bear; also deserted Dido."

"Ananias, liar."

"Anacreon, Greek poet."

"Allan-a-dale, minstrel and outlaw."

"Andromache, wife of Hector."

"Astyanax, son of the same."

"Oh--don't you think it's time to go on to B?" asked Hildegarde.

"I have several more A's," replied her mother.

"Well, my initials are not 'B. U.,'" said the girl, "but perhaps I can manage one or two more."

"B. U.?"

"Yes! Biographic Universelle, of course, dear. Artaxerxes, also king of Persia."

"Anne of Geierstein."

"Arabella Stuart."

"Ap Morgan, Ap Griffith, Ap Hugh, Ap Tudor, Ap Rice, quoth his roundelay."