MORNING HOURS.
"The year's at the spring,
And day's at the morn:
Morning's at seven;
The hill-side's dew-pearled:
The lark's on the wing;
The snail's on the thorn;
God's in his heaven--
All's right with the world!"
THESE seemed the most natural words to sing, as Hildegarde looked out of
her window next morning; and sing them she did, with all her heart, as
she threw open the shutters and let the glad June sunlight stream into
the room. All sad thoughts were gone with the night, and now there
seemed nothing but joy in the world.
"Where art thou, tub of my heart?" cried the girl; and she dived under
the bed, and pulled out the third reason for her choosing this room. Her
mother, she knew, would not change for anything the comfortable "sitz,"
the friend of many years; so Hildegarde felt at full liberty to enjoy
this great white porcelain tub, shallow, three feet across, with red and
blue fishes swimming all over it. She did not know that Captain Robert
Aytoun had brought it in the hold of his ship all the way from
Singapore, for his little Hester, but she did know that it was the most
delightful tub she had ever dreamed of; and as she splashed the crystal
water about, she almost ceased, for the first time, to regret the blue
river which had been her daily bathing-place the summer before. Very
fresh and sweet she looked, when at last the long locks were braided in
one great smooth braid, and the pretty grey gingham put on and smoothed
down. She nodded cheerfully to her image in the glass. It was, as dear
Cousin Wealthy said, a privilege to be good-looking, and Hildegarde was
simply and honestly glad of her beauty.
"Now," she said, when the room was "picked up," and everything aerable
hung up to air, "the question is, Go out first and arrange the Penates
after breakfast, or arrange the Penates now and go out later?" One more
glance from the window decided the matter. "They must wait, poor dears!
After all, it is more respectful to take them out when the room is made
up than when it is having its sheet and pillow-case party, like this."
She went down her own staircase with a proud sense of possession, and
opening the door at its foot, found herself in a little covered porch,
from which a flagged walk led toward the back of the house. Here was a
pleasant sort of yard, partly covered with broad flags, with a grassy
space beyond. Here were clothes-lines, well, and woodshed; and here was
auntie, standing at her kitchen door, and looking well satisfied with
her new quarters.
"What a pleasant yard, auntie!" said Hildegarde. "This is your own
domain, isn't it?"
"Reckon 'tis!" replied the good woman, smiling. "Jes' suits me, dis
does. I kin have some chickens here, and do my washin' out-doors, and
spread out some, 'stead o' bein' cooped up like a old hen myself."
A high wall surrounded auntie's domain, and Hildegarde looked round it
wonderingly.
"Oh! there is a door," she said. "I thought mamma said there was a
garden. That must be it, beyond there. Call me when breakfast is ready,
please, auntie." Passing through the door, she closed it after her, and
entered--another world. A dim, green world, wholly different from the
golden, sunny one she had just left; a damp world, where the dew lay
heavy on shrubs and borders, and dripped like rain from the long,
pendent branches of the trees. The paths were damp, and covered with
fine green moss. Great hedges of box grew on either side, untrimmed,
rising as high as the girl's head; and as she walked between them their
cool glossy leaves brushed against her cheek. Here and there was a
neglected flower-bed, where a few pallid rosebuds looked sadly out, and
pinks flung themselves headlong over the border, as if trying to reach
the sunlight; but for the most part the box and the great elms and
locusts had it their own way. Hildegarde had never seen such
locust-trees! They were as tall as the elms, their trunks scarred and
rough with the frosts of many winters. No birds sang in their green,
whispering depths; the silence of the place was heavy, weighted down
with memories of vanished things.
"I have no right to come here!" said Hildegarde to herself. "I am sure
they would not like it." Something white glimmered between the bending
boughs of box which interlaced across her path. She half expected to see
a shadowy form confront her and wave her back; but, pushing on, she saw
a neglected summer-house, entirely covered with the wild clematis called
virgin's-bower. She peeped in, but did not venture across the threshold,
because it looked as if there might be spiders in it. Through the
opposite door, however, she caught a glimpse of a very different
prospect, a flash of yellow sunlight, a sunny meadow stretching up and
away. Skirting the summer-house carefully, she came upon a stone wall,
the boundary of the garden, beyond which the broad meadow lay full in
the sunlight. Sitting on this wall, Hildegarde felt as if half of her
were in one world, and half in the other; for the dark box and the
drooping elm-branches came to the very edge of the wall, while all
beyond was rioting in morning and sunshine.
"The new world and the old one,
The green world and the gold one!"
she murmured, and smiled to find herself dropping into poetry, like
Silas Wegg.
At this moment a faint sound fell on her ear, a far-away voice, which
belonged wholly to the golden world, and had nothing whatever to do with
the green. "Hi-ya! Miss Hildy chile!" the mellow African voice came
floating down through the trees with an imperious summons; and
Hildegarde jumped down from her stone perch, and came out of her dream,
and went in to breakfast.
"And what is to be done, Mammina?" asked Hildegarde, when the "eggs and
the ham and the strawberry jam" were things of the past, and they were
out on the piazza again. "Do you realise, by the way, that we shall live
chiefly on this piazza?"
"It is certainly a most delightful place," said Mrs. Grahame. "And I do
realise that while it would be quite out of the question to change
anything in Miss Barbara's sacred parlour, it is not exactly the place
to be cosy in. But, dear child, I shall have to be in my own room a good
deal, as this arranging of your dear father's papers will be my chief
work through the summer, probably."
"Oh, of course! and I shall be in my room a good deal, for there is
sewing, and all that German I am going to read, and--oh, and quantities
of things to do! But still we shall live here a great deal, I am sure.
It is just a great pleasant room, with one side of it taken off. And it
is very quiet, with the strip of lawn, and the ledge beyond. One cannot
see the road, except just a bit through the gate. Sometimes you can
bring your writing down here, and I can grub in the flower-bed and
disturb you."
"Thank you!" said her mother, laughing. "The prospect is singularly
attractive. But, dear, you asked me a few minutes ago what was to be
done. I thought it would be pleasant if we took out our various little
belongings, and disposed them here and there."
"Just what I was longing to do!" cried Hildegarde. "All my precious
alicumtweezles are crying out from the trunk, and waiting for me. But
don't you want me to see the butcher for you, love, or let auntie tell
me what she is going to make for dessert, or perform any other sacred
after-breakfast rites?"
Mrs. Grahame shook her head, smiling, and Hildegarde flew upstairs,
like an arrow shot from a bow.
In her room stood a huge trunk, already unlocked and unstrapped, and a
box whose aspect said plainly that it contained books. All the dresses
had been taken out the day before and hung in the roomy closet, pretty,
simple gowns, mostly white or grey, for the dear father had disliked
"mourning" extremely. Now Hildegarde took out her hats, the
broad-brimmed straw with the white daisy wreath, the pretty white
shirred mull for best, the black "rough and ready" sailor for common
wear. These were laid carefully on a shelf in the closet, and covered
with a light cloth to keep them from dust. This done as a matter of
duty, the pleasant part began. One after another, a most astonishing
array of things were taken from the trunk and laid on the bed, which
spread a broad white surface to receive them: a trinket-box of ebony
and silver; a plaster cast of the Venus of Milo, another of the
Pompeian Psyche, both "treated" in some way that gave them the smooth
lustre of old ivory; a hideous little Indian idol, carved out of dark
wood, with eyes of real carbuncle; a doll's tea-set of exquisite blue
and white china, brought to Hildegarde from Pekin by a wandering uncle,
when she was eight years old; a stuffed hawk, confidently asserted by
its owner to be the original "jolly gosshawk" of the Scottish ballad,
which could "speak and flee"; a Swiss cuckoo clock; several great
pink-lipped shells; a butterfly net; a rattlesnake's skin; an exquisite
statuette of carved wood, representing Theodoric, King of the
Ostrogoths, a copy of the famous bronze statue at Innsbruck; a large
assortment of pasteboard boxes, of all sizes and shapes; three or four
work-baskets; last of all, some framed photographs and engravings, and a
number of polished pieces of wood, which were speedily put together
into a bookcase and two or three hanging shelves. On these shelves and
on the mantel-piece the various alicumtweezles were arranged and
re-arranged, till at length Hildegarde gave a satisfied nod and
pronounced them perfect. "But now comes the hard part!" she said. "The
pictures! Who shall have the post of honour over the mantel-piece? Come
here, dear persons, and let me look at you!" She took up two engravings,
both framed in gilt laurel leaves, and studied them attentively. One was
the portrait of a man in cavalier dress, strikingly handsome, with dark,
piercing eyes and long, curling hair. The expression of the face was
melancholy, almost sombre; yet there was a strange fascination in its
stern gaze. On the margin was written,--
"John Grahame of Claverhouse,
"Viscount Dundee."
The other portrait showed an older man, clad in a quaint dress, with a
hat that would have been funny on any other head, but seemed not out of
place here. The face was not beautiful, but calm and strong, with
earnest, thoughtful eyes, and a firm mouth and chin. The legend bore, in
curious black-letter, the words,--
"William of Orange Nassau,
"Hereditary Grand Stadt-holder of the Netherlands."
No one save Hildegarde knew that on the back of this picture, turned
upside down in perpetual disgrace and ridicule, was a hideous little
photograph of Philip II. of Spain. It was a constant gratification to
her to know that it was there, and she occasionally, as now, turned it
round and made insulting remarks to it. She hoped the great Oranger
liked to know of this humiliation of his country's foe; but William the
Silent kept his own counsel, as was always his way.
And now the question was, Which hero was to have the chief place?
"You are the great one, of course, my saint!" said Hildegarde, gazing
into the calm eyes of the majestic Dutchman, "and we all know it. But
you see, he is an ancestor, and so many people hate him, poor dear!"
She looked from one to the other, till the fixed gaze of the pictured
eyes grew really uncomfortable, and she fancied that she saw a look of
impatience in those of the Scottish chieftain. Then she looked again at
the space above the mantel-piece, and, after measuring it carefully with
her eyes, came to a new resolution.
"You see," she said, taking up a third picture, a beautiful photograph
of the Sistine Madonna, "I put _her_ in the middle, and you on each
side, and then neither of you can say a word."
This arrangement gave great satisfaction; and the other pictures, the
Correggio cherubs, Kaulbach's "Lili," the Raphael "violin-player," and
"St. Cecilia," were easily disposed of on the various panels, while over
the dressing-table, where she could see it from her bed, was a fine
print of Murillo's lovely "Guardian Angel."
Hildegarde drew a long breath of satisfaction as she looked round on her
favourites in their new home. "So dear they are!" she said fondly. "I
wish Hester could see them. Don't you suppose she had _any_ pictures?
There are no marks of any on the wall. Well, and now for the books!"
Hammer and screwdriver were brought, and soon the box was opened and the
books in their places. Would any girls like to know what Hildegarde's
books are? Let us take a glance at them, as they stand in neat rows on
the plain, smooth shelves. Those big volumes on the lowest shelf are
Scudder's "Butterflies," a highly valued work, full of coloured plates,
over which Hildegarde sighs with longing rapture; for, from collecting
moths and butterflies for her friend, Bubble Chirk, she has become an
ardent collector herself, and in one of the unopened cases downstairs is
an oak cabinet with glass-covered drawers, very precious, containing
several hundred "specimens."
Here is "Robin Hood," and Gray's Botany, and Percy's "Reliques," and a
set of George Eliot, and one of Charles Kingsley, and the "Ingoldsby
Legends," and Aytoun's "Lays of the Scottish Cavaliers," which looks as
if it had been read almost to pieces, as indeed it has. (There is a mark
laid in at the "Burial March of Dundee," which Hildegarde is learning by
heart. This young woman has a habit of keeping a book of poetry open on
her dressing-table when she is doing her hair, and learning verses while
she brushes out her long locks. It is a pleasant habit, though it does
not tend to accelerate the toilet.)
On the next shelf is "Cranford," also well thumbed, and everything that
Mrs. Ewing ever wrote, and "Betty Leicester," and Miss Yonge's
historical stories, and the "Tales of a Grandfather," and "Lorna Doone,"
and the dear old "Days of Bruce," and "Scottish Chiefs," side by side
with the "Last of the Barons," and the "Queens of England," and the
beloved Homer, in Derby's noble translation, also in brown leather.
Here, too, is "Sesame and Lilies," and Carlyle on Hero-Worship.
The upper shelf is entirely devoted to poetry, and here are Longfellow
and Tennyson, of course, and Milton (_not_ "of course"), and Scott (in
tatters, worse off than Aytoun), and Shelley and Keats, and the Jacobite
Ballads, and Allingham's Ballad Book, and Mrs. Browning, and "Sir
Launfal," and the "Golden Treasury," and "Children's Garland." There is
no room for the handy volume Shakespeare, so he and his box must live on
top of the bookcase, with his own bust on one side and Beethoven's on
the other. These are flanked in turn by photographs of Sir Walter, with
Maida at his feet, and Edwin Booth as Hamlet, both in those pretty glass
frames which are almost as good as no frame at all.
"And if you are not a pleasant sight," said Hildegarde, falling back to
survey her work, and addressing the collection comprehensively, "then I
never saw one, that's all. _Isn't_ it nice, dear persons?" she
continued, turning to the portraits, which from their places over the
mantel-piece had a full view of the bookcase.
But the persons expressed no opinion. Indeed, I am not sure that William
the Silent could read English; and Dundee's knowledge of literature was
slight, if we may judge from his spelling. I should not, however, wish
Hildegarde to hear me say this.
Failing to elicit a response from her two presiding heroes, our maiden
turned to Sir Walter, who always knew just how things were; and from
this the natural step was to the "Lay of the Last Minstrel" (which she
had not read so _very_ lately, she thought, with a guilty glance at the
trunk and box, which stood in the middle of the room, yawning to be put
away), and there was an end of Hildegarde till dinner-time.
"And that is why I was late, dear love!" she said, as after a hasty
explanation of the above related doings, she sank down in her chair at
the dinner-table, and gave a furtive pat to her hair, which she had
smoothed rather hurriedly. "You know you would have brained me with the
hammer, if I had not put it away, and that the tacks would have been
served up on toast for my supper. Such is your ferocious disposition."
Mrs. Grahame smiled as she helped Hildegarde to soup. "Suppose a
stranger should pass by that open window and hear your remarks," she
said. "A pretty idea he would have of my maternal care. After all, my
desire is to keep tacks _out_ of your food. How long ago was it that I
found a button in the cup of tea which a certain young woman of my
acquaintance brought me?"
"Ungenerous!" exclaimed Hildegarde with tragic fervour. "It was only a
glove-button. It dropped off my glove, and it would not have disagreed
with you in the least. I move that we change the subject." And at that
moment in came Janet with the veal cutlets.