A WALK AND AN ADVENTURE.
ONE lovely afternoon, after they were well settled, and all the
unpacking was done, Hildegarde started out on an exploration tour. She
and her mother had already taken one or two short walks along the road
near which their house stood, and had seen the brand-new towers of Mrs.
Loftus's house, "pricking a cockney ear" on the other side of the way,
and had caught a glimpse of an old vine-covered mansion, standing back
from the road and almost hidden by great trees, which her mother said
was Colonel Ferrers's house.
But now Hildegarde wanted a long tramp; she wanted to explore that sunny
meadow that lay behind the green garden, and the woods that fringed the
meadow again beyond. So she put on a short corduroy skirt, that would
not tear when it caught on the bushes, slung a tin plant-box over her
shoulder, kissed her mother, who had a headache and could not go, and
started off in high spirits. She was singing as she ran down the stairs
and through auntie's sunny back yard, and the martial strains of "Bonny
Dundee" rang merrily through the clear June air; but as she closed the
garden door behind her, the song died away, for "one would as soon sing
in a churchyard," she thought, "as in the Ladies' Garden." So she passed
silently along between the box hedges, her footsteps making no sound on
the mossy path, only the branches rustling softly as she put them aside.
The afternoon sun sent faint gleams of pallid gold down through the
branches of the great elm; they were like the ghosts of sunbeams. Her
ear caught the sound of falling water, which she had not noticed before;
she turned a corner, and lo! there was a dusky ravine, and a little dark
stream falling over the rocks, and flowing along with a sullen murmur
between banks of fern. It was part of the green world. The mysterious
sadness of the deserted garden was here, too, and Hildegarde felt her
glad spirits going down, down, as if an actual weight were pressing on
her. But she shook off the oppression. "I will not!" she said. "I will
not be enchanted to-day! Another day I will come and sit here, and the
stream will tell me all the mournful story; I know it will if I sit long
enough. But to-day I want joy, and sunshine, and cheerful things.
Good-by, dear ladies! I hope you won't mind!" and grasping the hanging
bough of a neighbouring elm, she swung herself easily down into the
meadow.
It was a very pleasant meadow. The grass was long, so long that
Hildegarde felt rather guilty at walking through it, and framed a mental
apology to the farmer as she went along. It was full of daisies and
sorrel, so it was not his best mowing-field, she thought. She plucked a
daisy and pulled off the petals to see whether Rose loved her, and found
she did not, which made her laugh in a foolish, happy way, since she
knew better. Now she came to a huge sycamore-tree, a veritable giant,
all scarred with white patches where the bark had dropped off. Beside it
lay another, prostrate. The branches had been cut off, but the vast
trunk showed that it had been even taller than the one which was now
standing. "Baucis and Philemon!" said Hildegarde. "Poor dears! One is
more sorry for the one who is left, I think, than for the fallen one. To
see him lying here with his head off, and not to be able to do anything
about it! She cannot even 'tear her ling-long yellow hair'--only it is
green. I wonder who killed him." And she went on, murmuring to
herself,--
"They shot him dead on the Nine-Stane Rigg,
Beside the Headless Cross.
And they left him lying in his blood
Upon the moor and moss,"
as if Barthram's Dirge had anything to do with the story of Baucis and
Philemon. But this young woman's head was very full of ballads and
scraps of old songs, and she was apt to break into them on any or no
pretext. She went on now with her favourite dirge, half reciting, half
chanting it, as she mounted the sunny slope before her.
"They made a bier of the broken bough,
The sauch and the aspen grey,
And they bore him to the Lady Chapel
And waked him there all day.
"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 mass,
As they passed 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
sturdy 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."
[Illustration: "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 trespassing, 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 circumstances."
(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 circumstances!" 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, goddess 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."
"Oh! oh! that was one of my reserves. Azrael, the angel of death."
"Agamemnon, king of men."
"Alecto, Fury."
"Agag, who came walking delicately."
"Addison, Joseph, writer."
"Antony, Mark, Roman general, lover of Cleopatra."
"'Amlet, Prince of--"
"Hilda!" cried Mrs. Grahame. "For shame! It is certainly high time to go
on to B, if you are going to behave in this way, and I shall put _e d_
after it."
"Oh, no!" said Hildegarde, "I will be good. It isn't nine o'clock yet, I
know. Buccleugh, Bold, Duke of, Warden here o' the Scottish side. I was
determined to get him first."
"Balaam, prophet."
"Beatrice, in 'Much Ado about Nothing.'"
"Beatrix Esmond."
"Bruce, Robert, King of Scotland."
"Burns, Robert, King of Scottish poets."
"Oh! oh! well, I suppose he is!" Hilda admitted reluctantly. "But Sir
Walter makes an admirable viceroy. I think--who is that? Mamma, there is
some one coming up the steps."
"Mrs. Grahame?" said a deep voice, as two shadowy forms emerged from the
darkness. "I am delighted to meet you again. You remember Colonel
Ferrers?"
"Perfectly!" said Mrs. Grahame, cordially, advancing and holding out her
hand. "I am very glad to see you. Colonel Ferrers,--though I hardly do
see you!" she added, laughing. "Hildegarde, here is Colonel Ferrers,
whom you met this morning."
"Good evening!" said Hildegarde, thinking that mamma was very cruel.
"Delighted!" said Colonel Ferrers, bowing again; and he added, "May I be
allowed to present my nephew? Mrs. Grahame, Miss Grahame, my nephew,
John Ferrers."
A tall figure bowed awkwardly, and a voice murmured something which
might have been a greeting in English, Choctaw, or pure Polynesian, as
it was wholly unintelligible.
"It is too pleasant an evening to spend in the house," said Mrs.
Grahame. "I think you will find chairs, gentlemen, by a little judicious
groping. Oh! I trust you are not hurt, Mr. Ferrers?" For Mr. Ferrers had
tumbled over his chair, and was now sprawling at full length on the
piazza. He gathered himself up again, apparently too much abashed to say
a word.
"Oh! he's all right!" said Colonel Ferrers, laughing. "He's always
tumbling about; just got his growth, you see, and hasn't learned what to
do with it. Well, many things have happened since we met, Mrs. Grahame;
we won't say how many years it is."
"Many things, indeed!" said Mrs. Grahame with a sigh.
"Yes! yes!" said Colonel Ferrers. "Poor Grahame! met him last year in
town; never saw him looking better. Well, so it goes. Changing world, my
dear Madame! Poor Aytoun, too! I miss him sadly. My only neighbour. We
have been together a great deal since his sisters died. Yes! yes! very
glad I was to hear that he had left the property to you. Not another
soul to speak to in the neighbourhood."
"Who lives in the large new house across the way?" asked Mrs. Grahame.
"I know the name of the family is Loftus, but nothing more."
"Parcel of fools, I call 'em!" said Colonel Ferrers, contemptuously.
"New people, with money. Loftus, sharp business man, wants to be a
gentleman farmer. As much idea of farming as my stick has. Wife and
daughters look like a parcel o' fools. Don't know 'em! don't want to
know 'em!" Mrs. Grahame, finding this not an agreeable subject, turned
the conversation upon old friends, and they were soon deep in matters of
twenty years ago.
Meanwhile Hildegarde and the bashful youth had sat in absolute silence.
At first Hildegarde had been too much discomposed by her mother's
allusion to the morning's adventure to speak, though she was able to see
afterwards how much better it was to bring up the matter naturally, and
then dismiss it as a thing of no consequence, as it was, than to let it
hang, an unacknowledged cloud, in the background.
As the moments went on, however, she became conscious that it was her
duty to entertain Mr. Ferrers. He evidently had no idea of saying
anything; her mother and Colonel Ferrers had forgotten the presence of
either of them, apparently. The silence became more and more awkward.
What could she say to this gawky youth, whose face she could not even
see? "What a lovely day it has been!" she finally remarked, and was
startled by the sound of her own voice, though she was not usually shy
in the least.
"Yes," said Mr. Ferrers, "it has been a fine day."
Silence again. This would never do! "Do you play tennis?" she asked
boldly.
"No--not much!" was the reply. "Doesn't pay, in hot weather."
This was not encouraging, but Hildegarde was fairly roused by this time,
and had no idea of being beaten. "What _do_ you do?" she said.
Mr. Ferrers was silent, as if considering.
"Oh--I don't know!" he said finally. "Nothing much. Poke about!" Then,
after a pause, he added in explanation, "I don't live here. I only came
a few days ago. I am to spend the summer with my uncle." Apparently this
effort was too much for him, for he relapsed into silence, and
Hildegarde could get nothing more save "Yes!" and "No!" out of him. But
now Colonel Ferrers came to the rescue.
"By the way, Mrs. Grahame," he said, "I think this boy must be a
relation of yours, a Scotch cousin at least. His mother was a Grahame,
daughter of Robert Grahame of Baltimore. His own name is John Grahame
Ferrers."
"Is it possible?" cried Mrs. Grahame, greatly surprised. "If that is the
case, he is much more than a Scotch cousin. Why, Robert Grahame was my
dear husband's first cousin. Their fathers were brothers. Hugh often
spoke of his cousin Robert, and regretted that they never met, as they
were great friends in their boyhood. And this is his son! is it
possible? My dear boy, I must shake hands with you again. You _are_ a
boy, aren't you, though you are so big?"
"To be sure he is a boy!" said Colonel Ferrers, who was highly delighted
with his discovery of a relationship. "Just eighteen--a mere snip of a
boy! Going to college in the autumn."
"Hildegarde," continued Mrs. Grahame, "shake hands with your cousin
John, and tell him how glad you are to find him."
Hildegarde held out her hand, and John Ferrers tried to find it, but
found a hanging-basket instead, and knocked it over, sending a shower of
damp earth over the other members of the party.
"I must take him home," exclaimed Colonel Ferrers, in mock despair, "or
he will destroy the whole house. Miss Hildegarde," he added, in a very
kind voice, "you probably thought me an ogre this morning. I am
generally regarded as such. Fact is, you frightened me more than I
frightened you. We are not used to seeing young ladies here who know
how to climb trees. Harry Monmouth! Wish I could climb 'em myself as I
used. Best fun in the world! Come, Jack, I must get you home before you
do any more mischief. Good-night, Mrs. Grahame! I trust we shall meet
often!"
"I trust so, indeed!" said Mrs. Grahame heartily. "We shall count upon
your being neighbourly, in the good old country sense; and as for John,
he must do a cousin's duty by us, and shall in return receive the
freedom of the house."
"Hum mum mum!" said John; at least, that is what it sounded like; on
which his uncle seized him by the arm impatiently, and walked him off.
"Well, Mammina!" said Hildegarde, when the visitors were well out of
hearing.
"Well, dear!" replied her mother placidly. "What a pleasant visit! The
poor lad is very shy, isn't he? Could you make anything out of him?"
"Why, Mammina, he is a perfect goose!" exclaimed Hildegarde, warmly.
"_I_ don't think it was a pleasant visit at all. As to making anything
out of that--"
"Fair and softly!" said Mrs. Grahame quietly. "In the first place, we
will not criticise the guests who have just left us, because that is not
pretty-behaved, as auntie would say. And in the second place--your dear
father was just eighteen when I first met him, Hildegarde; and he put
his foot through the flounce of my gown, upset strawberries and cream
into my lap, and sat down on my new ivory fan, all at one tea-party."
"Good-night, dear mamma!" said Hildegarde meekly.
"Good-night, my darling! and don't forget that barn-door rent in your
corduroy skirt, when you get up in the morning."