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HILDEGARDE'S HOME
[Illustration: HILDEGARDE AND THE CHINA POTS.--_Frontispiece._]
HILDEGARDE'S HOME
BY
LAURA E. RICHARDS
AUTHOR OF "QUEEN HILDEGARDE," "HILDEGARDE'S HOLIDAY," "CAPTAIN JANUARY,"
ETC.
ILLUSTRATED
BOSTON
ESTES AND LAURIAT
PUBLISHERS
COPYRIGHT, 1892,
BY ESTES AND LAURIAT.
TYPOGRAPHY BY J. S. CUSHING & CO., BOSTON.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER PAGE
I. THE HOME ITSELF 11
II. A DISH OF GOSSIP 33
III. MORNING HOURS 51
IV. A WALK AND AN ADVENTURE 71
V. UNCLE AND NEPHEW 100
VI. COUSIN JACK 120
VII. MISS AGATHA'S CABINET 137
VIII. THE POPLARS 155
IX. THE COUSINS 179
X. BONNY SIR HUGH 198
XI. A CALL AND A CONSPIRACY 216
XII. THE SECOND ACT 234
XIII. A PICNIC 255
XIV. OVER THE JAM-POTS 281
XV. AT THE BROWN COTTAGE 292
XVI. GOOD-BY! 309
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
PAGE
HILDEGARDE AND THE CHINA POTS _Frontispiece_
"IT WAS VERY PLEASANT UP IN THIS AIRY BOWER" 81
"JACK FERRERS APPEARED CARRYING A HUGE BUNCH OF ROSES" 121
"HILDEGARDE HAD BEEN MAKING FRIENDS WITH MERLIN" 175
HILDEGARDE FINDING HUGH AND MERLIN BY THE BROOK 201
HUGH AND COLONEL FERRERS 249
OVER THE JAM POTS 280
"HE GAVE ME A LUNGE IN QUART" 301
HILDEGARDE'S HOME.
CHAPTER I.
THE HOME ITSELF.
IT was a pleasant place. The house was a large, low, old-fashioned one,
with the modern addition of a deep, wide verandah running across its
front. Before it was a circular sweep of lawn, fringed with trees;
beside it stood a few noble elms, which bent lovingly above the gambrel
roof. There were some flower-beds, rather neglected-looking, under the
south windows, and there was a kitchen-garden behind the house. This was
all that Hildegarde Grahame had seen so far of her new home, for she had
only just arrived. She stood now on the verandah, looking about her
with keen, inquiring eyes, a tall, graceful girl, very erect, with a
certain proud carriage of the head. Her dress of black and white
shepherd's plaid was very simple, but it fitted to perfection, and there
was a decided "air" to her little black felt hat.
Hildegarde's father had died about six months before the time our story
opens. He had been very wealthy, but many of his investments had shrunk
in value, and the failure of a bank whose cashier had proved dishonest
entailed heavy losses upon him; so that, after his death, it was found
that the sum remaining for his widow and only child, after all debts
were paid, was no very large one. They would have enough to live on, and
to live comfortably; but the "big luxuries," as Hildegarde called them,
the horses and carriages, the great New York house with its splendid
furniture and troops of servants, must go; and go they did, without
loss of time. Perhaps neither Hildegarde nor her mother regretted these
things much. Mrs. Grahame had been for years an indefatigable worker,
giving most of her time to charities; she knew that she should never
rest so long as she lived in New York. Hildegarde had been much in the
country during the past two years, had learned to love it greatly, and
found city life too "cabined, cribbed, confined," to suit her present
taste. The dear father had always preferred to live in town; but now
that he was gone, they were both glad to go away from the great,
bustling, noisy, splendid place. So, when Mrs. Grahame's lawyer told her
that an aged relative, who had lately died, had left his country house
as a legacy to her, both she and Hildegarde said at once, "Let us go and
live there!"
Accordingly, here they were! or to speak more accurately, here
Hildegarde was, for she and auntie (auntie was the black cook; she had
been Mrs. Grahame's nurse, and had been cook ever since Hildegarde was a
baby) had come by an early train, and were to have everything as
comfortable as might be by the time Mrs. Grahame and the little
housemaid, who had stayed to help her pack the last trifles, should
arrive in the afternoon.
It was so pleasant on the wide verandah, with the great elms nodding
over it, that Hildegarde lingered, until a mellow "Miss Hildy, chile!
you comin'?" summoned her in-doors. Auntie had already put on her white
jacket and apron, without which she never considered herself dressed,
and her muslin turban looked like a snow-drift on an ebony statue. She
had opened the door of a large room, and was peering into it, feather
duster in hand.
"'Spose this is the parlour!" she said, with a glance of keen
observation. "Comicalest parlour ever I see!"
Hildegarde stepped lightly across the threshold. It _was_ a singular
room, but, she thought, a very pleasant one. The carpet on the floor was
thick and soft, of some eastern fabric, but so faded that the colours
were hardly distinguishable. Against the walls stood many chairs,
delicate, spider-legged affairs, with cushions of faded tapestry. The
curtains might once have been crimson, when they had any colour. A table
in the exact centre of the room was covered with a worked cloth of
curious and antique pattern, and on it were some venerable annuals, and
"Finden's Tableaux," bound in green morocco. In a dim corner stood the
great-grandmother of all pianos. It was hardly larger than a spinnet,
and was made of some light-coloured, highly polished wood, cunningly
inlaid with ivory and mother-of-pearl. Over the yellow keys was a
painting, representing Apollo (attired, to all appearance, like the "old
man on a hill," in his grandmother's gown), capering to the sound of his
lyre, and followed by nine young ladies in pink and green frocks. The
last young lady carried a parasol, showing that the Muses thought as
much of their complexions as other people do. At sight of this venerable
instrument Hildegarde uttered a cry of delight, and, running across the
room, touched a few chords softly. The sound was faint and tinkling, but
not unmusical. Auntie sniffed audibly.
"Reckon my kittle makes a better music 'an that!" she said; and then,
relenting, she added, "might ha' been pooty once, I dassay. That's a
pooty picture, anyhow, over the mankel-piece."
Hildegarde looked up, and saw a coloured print of a lady in the costume
of the First Empire, with golden ringlets, large blue eyes,
particularly round rosy cheeks, and the most amiable simper in the
world. Beneath was the inscription, "Madame Recamier, Napoleon's first
love."
"Oh!" cried Hildegarde, half-laughing, half-indignant, "how ridiculous!
She wasn't, you know! and she never looked like that, any more than I
do. But see, auntie! see this great picture of General Washington, in
his fine scarlet coat. I am sure you must admire that! Why!--it cannot
be--yes, it is! it is done in worsted-work. Fine cross-stitch, every
atom of it. Oh! it makes my eyes ache to think of it."
Auntie nodded approvingly. "That's what I call work!" she said. "That's
what young ladies used to do when I was a gal. Don't see no sech work
nowadays, only just a passel o' flowers and crooked lines, and calls it
embr'idery."
"Oh! you ungrateful old auntie," cried Hildegarde, "when I marked your
towels so beautifully last week. Here! since you are so fond of
cross-stitch, take this dreadful yellow sofa-pillow, with pink roses
worked on it. It will just fit your own beloved rocking-chair, with the
creak in it, and you may have it for your very own."
The pillow flew across the room, and auntie, catching it, disappeared
with a chuckle, while Hildegarde resumed her examination of the quaint
old parlour. The "cross-stitch" was everywhere: on the deep, comfortable
old sofa, where one leaned against a stag-hunt, and had a huntsman
blowing his horn on either arm; on the chairs, where one might sit on
baskets of flowers, dishes of fruit, or cherubs' heads, as one's fancy
dictated; on the long fender-stool, where an appalling line of dragons,
faintly red, on a ground that had been blue, gaped open-mouthed, as if
waiting to catch an unwary foot.
"Oh! their _poor_ eyes!" cried Hildegarde. "How _could_ their mothers
let them?" She passed her hand compassionately over the fine lines of
the stag-hunt. "Were they girls, do you suppose?" she went on, talking
to herself, as she was fond of doing. "Girls like me, or slender old
spinsters, like the chairs and the piano? Mamma must have known some of
them when she was a child; she said she had once made a visit here. I
must ask her all about them. Uncle Aytoun! what a pity he isn't alive,
to show us about his house! But if he were alive, we should not be here
at all. So nice of you to leave the house to mamma, dear sir, just as if
you had been her real uncle, instead of her father's cousin. You must
have been a very nice old gentleman. I like old gentlemen." The girl
paused, and presently gave an inquiring sniff. "What is it?" she said
meditatively. "Not exactly mould, for it is dry; not must, for it is
sweet. The smell of this particular room, for it, suits it exactly. It
is"--she sniffed again--"it is as if some Aytoun ladies before the flood
had made _pot-pourri_, and it had somehow kept dry. Let us examine this
matter!" She tiptoed about the room, and, going round the corner of the
great chimney, found a cupboard snugly tucked in beside it. She opened
it, with a delightful thrill of curiosity. Hildegarde did love
cupboards! Of course, there might be nothing at all--but there was
something! On the very first shelf stood a row of china pots, carefully
covered, and from these pots came the faint, peculiar perfume which
seemed so to form part of the faded charm of the room. The pots were of
delicate white porcelain, one with gold sprigs on it, one with blue
flowers, and one with pink. "Belonging to three Aytoun sisters!" said
Hildegarde. "Of course! dear things! If they had only written their
names on the jars!" She lifted the gold-sprigged jar with reverent
hands. Lo, and behold! On the cover was pasted a neat label, which said,
"Hester's recipe, June, 18--." She examined the other two jars eagerly.
They bore similar legends, with the names "Agatha" and "Barbara." On all
the writing was in minute but strongly marked characters; the three
hands were different, yet there was a marked resemblance. Hildegarde
stood almost abashed, as if she had found herself in presence of the
three ladies themselves. "The question is"--she murmured
apologetically--and then she stooped and sniffed carefully, critically,
at the three jars in turn. "There is no doubt about it!" she said at
last. "Hester's recipe is the best, for it has outlived the others, and
given its character to the whole room. Poor Miss Agatha and Miss
Barbara! How disappointed they would be!" As she closed the cupboard
softly and turned away, it almost seemed--almost, but not quite, for
though Hildegarde had a lively imagination, she was not at all
superstitious--as though she heard a faint sigh, and saw the shadowy
forms of the three Aytoun sisters turning away sadly from the cupboard
where their treasure was kept. The shadow was her own, the sigh was that
of an evening breeze as it stole in between the faded curtains; but
Hildegarde had a very pretty little romance made up by the time she
reached the other side of the long room, and when she softly closed the
door, it was not without a whispered "good evening!" to the three ladies
whom she left in possession.
Shaking off the dream, she ran quickly up the winding stairs, and turned
into the pleasant, sunny room which she had selected as the best for her
mother's bedchamber. It was more modern-looking than the rest of the
house, in spite of its quaint Chinese-patterned chintz hangings and
furniture; this was partly owing to a large bow-window which almost
filled one side, and through which the evening light streamed in
cheerfully. Hildegarde had already unpacked a trunk of "alicumtweezles"
(a word not generally known, and meaning small but cherished
possessions), and the room was a pleasant litter of down pillows,
cologne-bottles, work-implements, photograph cases and odd books. Now
she inspected the chairs with a keen and critical eye, pounced upon one,
sat down in it, shook her head and tried another. Finding this to her
mind, she drew it into the bow-window, half-filled it with a choice
assortment of small pillows, and placed a little table beside it, on
which she set a fan, a bottle of cologne, a particularly inviting little
volume of Wordsworth (Hildegarde had not grown up to Wordsworth yet, but
her mother had), a silver bonbonniere full of Marquis chocolate-drops,
and a delicate white knitting-basket which was having a little sunset of
its own with rose-coloured "Saxony." "There!" said Hildegarde, surveying
this composition with unfeigned satisfaction. "If that isn't attractive,
I don't know what is. She won't eat the chocolates, of course, bless
her! but they give it an air, and I can eat them for her. And now I must
put away towels and pillow-cases, which is not so interesting."
At this moment, however, the sound of wheels was heard on the gravel,
and tossing the linen on the bed, Hildegarde ran down to welcome her
mother.
Mrs. Grahame was very tired, and was glad to come directly up to the
pleasant room, and sink down in the comfortable chair which was holding
out its stout chintz arms to receive her.
"What a perfect chair!" she said, taking off her bonnet and looking
about her. "What a very pleasant room! I know you have given me the
best one, you dear child!"
"I hope so!" said Hildegarde. "I meant to, certainly-- Oh, no!" she
started forward and took the bonnet which Mrs. Grahame was about to lay
on the table; "this table is to take things from, dear. I must give you
another to put things on."
"I see!" said her mother, surveying the decorated table with amusement.
"This is a still-life piece, and a very pretty one. But how can I
possibly take anything off it? I should spoil the harmony. The
straw-covered cologne-bottle makes just the proper background for the
chocolates, and though I should like to wet my handkerchief with it, I
do not dare to disturb--"
"Take care!" cried Hildegarde, snatching up the bottle and deluging the
handkerchief with its contents. "You might hurt my feelings, Mrs.
Grahame, and that would not be pleasant for either of us. And you know
it is pretty, _quand meme_!"
"It is, my darling, very pretty!" said her mother, "and you are my dear,
thoughtful child, as usual. The Wordsworth touch I specially appreciate.
He is so restful, with his smooth, brown covers. Your white and gold
Shelley, there, would have been altogether too exciting for my tired
nerves."
"Oh! I have nothing to say against Mr. W.'s _covers_!" said Hildegarde
with cheerful malice. "They are charming covers. And now tell me what
kind of journey you had, and how you got through the last agonies, and
all about it."
"Why, we got through very well indeed!" said Mrs. Grahame. "Janet was
helpful and quick as usual, and Hicks nailed up all the boxes, and took
charge of everything that was to be stored or sold. Sad work! but I am
glad it is done." She sighed, and Hildegarde sat down on the floor
beside her, and leaned her cheek against the beloved mother-hand.
"Dear!" she said, and that was all, for each knew the other's thoughts.
It was no light matter, the breaking up of a home where nearly all the
young girl's life, and the happiest years of her mother's, had been
passed. Every corner in the New York house was filled with memories of
the dear and noble man whom they so truly mourned, and it had seemed to
them both, though they had not spoken of it, as if in saying good-by to
the home which he had loved, they were taking another and a more final
farewell of him.
So they sat in silence for a while, the tender pressure of the hand
saying more than words could have done; but when Mrs. Grahame spoke at
last, it was in her usual cheerful tone.
"So at last everything was ready, and I locked the door, and gave the
keys to the faithful Hicks" (Hicks had been the Grahames' butler for
several years), "and then Hicks came down to the station with me, and
did everything that was possible to secure a comfortable journey for
me--and Janet."
"Poor Hicks!" said Hildegarde, smiling. "It must have been very hard for
him to say good-by to you--and Janet."
"I think it was!" said Mrs. Grahame. "He asked me, very wistfully, if we
should not need some one to take care of the garden, and said he was
very fond of out-door work; but I had to tell him that we should only
need a 'chore-man,' to do odds and ends of work, and should not keep a
gardener. At this he put on a face like three days of rain, as your
Grimm story says, and the train started, and that was all.
"And now tell me, Sweetheart," she added, "what have been your
happenings. First of all, how do you like the house?"
"Oh, it's a jewel of a house!" replied Hildegarde with enthusiasm. "You
told me it was pleasant, but I had no idea of anything like this. The
verandah itself is worth the whole of most houses. Then the parlour!
such a wonderful parlour! I am sure you will agree with me that it would
be sacrilege to put any of our modern belongings in it. I did give
auntie one hideous sofa-pillow, but otherwise I have touched nothing. It
is a perfect museum of cross-stitch embroidery, sacred to the memory of
Miss Barbara, Miss Agatha, and Miss Hester."
Mrs. Grahame smiled. "How did you discover their names?" she asked. "I
was saving them for an after-supper 'tell' for you, and now you have
stolen my thunder, you naughty child."
"Not a single growl of it!" cried Hildegarde eagerly. "I am fairly
prancing with impatience to hear about them. All I know is their names,
which I found written on three bow-pots in the cupboard. I went mousing
about, like little Silver-hair, and instead of three porridge-pots,
found these. Miss Hester's was the only pot that had any 'sniff' left to
speak of; from which I inferred that she was the sprightliest of the
three sisters, and perhaps the youngest and prettiest. Now _don't_ tell
me that she was the eldest, and lackadaisical, and cross-eyed!"
"I will not!" said Mrs. Grahame, laughing. "I will not tell you anything
till I have had my tea. I had luncheon at one o'clock, and it is now--"
"Seven!" cried Hildegarde, springing up, and beating her breast. "You
are starved, my poor darling, and I am a Jew, Turk, infidel, and
heretic; I always was!"
She ran out to call Janet; when lo, there was Janet just coming up to
tell them that tea was ready. She was the prettiest possible Janet, as
Scotch as her name, with rosy cheeks and wide, innocent blue eyes, and
"lint-white locks," as a Scotch lassie should have. "No wonder," thought
Hildegarde, "that Hicks looked like '_drei Tage Regenwetter_' at parting
from her."
"Tea is ready, you say, Janet?" cried Hildegarde. "That is good, for we
are 'gay and ready,' as you say. Come, my mother! let us go and see what
auntie has for us."
Mother and daughter went down arm-in-arm, like two school-girls. They
had to pick their way carefully, for the lamps had not been lighted, and
there was not daylight enough to shed more than a faint glimmer on the
winding stairs; but when they reached the dining-room a very blaze of
light greeted them. There were no less than six candles on the table,
in six silver candlesticks shaped like Corinthian columns. (Auntie had
hidden these candlesticks in her own trunk, with a special eye to this
effect.) On the table also was everything good, and hot blueberry cake
beside; and behind it stood auntie herself, very erect and looking so
solemn that Mrs. Grahame and Hildegarde stopped in the doorway, and
stood still for a moment. The black woman raised her head with a gesture
of tenderness, not without majesty.
"De Lord bless de house to ye!" she said solemnly. "De Lord send ye good
victuals, and plenty of 'em! De Lord grant ye never want for nothin',
forever an' ever, give glory, amen!"
And with an answering "amen!" on their lips, Hildegarde and her mother
sat down to their first meal in their new home.