THE COUSINS.
HILDEGARDE and her cousin Jack soon became fast friends. His fear of
Mrs. Grahame vanished the first time he saw her smile, and he found, to
his great amazement, that a girl was not necessarily either "dreadful"
or stupid; moreover, that a girl's mother might be a very delightful
person, instead of a mixture of harpy and Gorgon. He was invited to come
to tea and bring his violin. Colonel Ferrers was invited, too, but
promptly declined.
"A fiddling nephew, dear madam," he said, "is a dispensation to which I
resign myself, but I do not wish to hear him fiddle."
Mrs. Grahame suggested that the fiddle might be left at home.
"No, no! Let him bring it! by all means let him bring it! if you can
really endure it without discomfort, that is. It will be the greatest
pleasure to the lad, who is a good lad, though a deplorable milksop."
So Jack came with the precious black box under his arm. Tea was set out
on the verandah, a symphony in white and gold,--golden croquettes,
butter, honey, snowy rolls, and cream cheese,--and Hildegarde pouring
the tea, in white with gold-coloured ribbons at waist and throat.
Jack Ferrers had never seen anything of this sort. "Daddy" and he had
always been together, and neither of them had ever cared or thought how
anything looked. He wondered if his cousin Hildegarde was very
frivolous. Girls were, of course; and yet--she was certainly very
pretty; and, if she really cared for music--and then, being eighteen
and hungry, he gave his undivided attention to the croquettes, which
truly deserved it.
And after tea, when they had sat quiet in the twilight for a little,
Hildegarde said softly, "Now, Cousin Jack!" And Jack took his violin and
began to play.
At the first note Mrs. Grahame laid down her knitting; at the second,
she and Hildegarde exchanged glances; at the third, they forgot each
other and everything else save the music. First came a few simple
chords, melting into a soft harmony, a prelude as low and sweet as the
notes of the mother-bird brooding over her nest; then, suddenly, from
this soft cloud of peaceful harmony there leaped a wonderful melody,
clear and keen as the same bird's song at daybreak,--a melody that
mounted higher and higher, soaring as the lark breasts the blue morning,
flight upon flight of golden notes pouring out as if the violin were a
living thing, a breathing, singing creature, with heart and soul filled
and brimming over with love and joy and beauty.
On and on the boy played, while the two women listened spellbound,
feeling that this was no ordinary playing; and as he played his whole
aspect seemed to change. He straightened himself and stood erect, save
for the loving bend of the head over the beloved instrument. His blue
eyes flashed, his whole countenance grew luminous, intense. The gawky,
listless, indolent lad was gone; and one saw only the musician rapt in
his art.
When it was over, they were all silent for a moment. Then Mrs. Grahame
held out her hand. "My dear boy!" she said. "My dear Jack, you ought to
be the happiest fellow in the world. To be able to give and to enjoy
such pleasure as this, is indeed a great privilege."
Hildegarde could only look her thanks, for the music had moved her
deeply; but her smile told Jack all that he wanted to know, and it
appeared that girls were not all frivolous; also that it must be very
nice to have a mother.
Then he played again. Indeed, they left him no choice,--the Mozart
concerto, of which he had spoken, and then one lovely thing after
another, barcarolle and serenade and fairy dance, melting finally into
the exquisite melody of an old Gaelic lullaby.
"Oh!" said Hildegarde, under her breath; and then, as her mother bade
her, she sang softly the words she loved,--
"Slumber sweetly, little Donald."
Such a happy evening it was, on the wide verandah, with the moon shining
down, softening everything into magical wonders of ivory and silver!
It was the first of many such evenings, for soon Jack came to spending
half his time at Braeside. At nine o'clock Colonel Ferrers would come
striding up the gravel walk, swinging his big stick; and then the violin
would be tenderly laid away, and half an hour of pleasant chat would
follow, after which uncle and nephew would go off together, and the last
the two ladies heard of them would be passionate adjurations from the
former to "step out," and not to "poke your head forward like an army
mule following a grain-cart, sir!"
One day the two cousins were taking a walk together. At least they had
been walking, and now had sat down to rest on the mossy trunk of a
fallen tree,--in fact, of the same great sycamore which Hildegarde had
christened Philemon, on the memorable day of the tree-climbing. They had
been talking about everything and nothing, when suddenly Jack shook his
head and began earnestly, "Did your mother mean that the other night?"
Hildegarde simply looked at him, and raised her eyebrows.
"I mean about my being happy," the boy continued. "Because I'm not
happy, and I never expect to be."
"What is it?" Hildegarde asked, seeing that a confidence was coming.
"There is only one thing in the world that I want," cried the boy, "and
that is just what I cannot have. I want to go to Leipsic, and Uncle Tom
won't hear of it; calls it nonsense, and is going to send me to Harvard.
We are poor, you know; Daddy doesn't know anything about money, and--and
who cares about it, anyhow, except for--for things one wants? Uncle Tom
says I can't make a bow, and--oh, all kinds of rubbish! What's the use
of making a bow? I'm not going to be a dancing-master, Hildegarde!"
"Indeed, you would not be a good one!" his cousin said; "but,
considering that one must make bows, Jack, isn't it just as well to do
it well as to do it badly?"
"Who cares?" cried the boy, shaking his head wildly. "If a man is going
to _be_ anything, who cares how he bows? And--oh, of course that is one
item. I am to go to Harvard, and learn to bow and to dance, and to be a
classical scholar, and to play base-ball. I _hate_ base-ball, Hilda!
it's perfect idiocy, and it makes my head ache, and any one can see that
I'm not cut out for athletics. Are you laughing at me?"
"Indeed I am not!" said Hildegarde, heartily. "But, tell me! you want to
go to Leipsic, to study music?"
"Of course!" was the reply. "And Daddy wants me to go, and Herr Geigen
is going over in the autumn, and he would place me, and all; but Uncle
Tom hates music, you know, and if I speak of it he goes off in a rage,
and talks about rascally Dutch fiddlers, and says I walk like a giraffe
with the palsy. At least, that was the animal this morning. Yesterday I
was a gouty ostrich, and I suppose we shall go through the whole
menagerie."
"You like him?" Hildegarde said interrogatively.
"He is _very_ kind, in his way," replied Jack. "Awfully kind, and he
loves my father, and I know he wants to do things for me; but--it all
has to be done in his way, don't you see? And--well, there isn't
anything in me except music. I know that, you see, Hildegarde. Just
nothing!"
"I don't feel so sure of that!" Hildegarde said. "Perhaps you never
tried to develop the other side of you. There must be other sides, you
know."
"No, there aren't!" said Jack positively. "None at all!"
"But that is nonsense!" cried Hildegarde impatiently. "Do you mean to
say that you are a flat surface, like a playing-card, with 'music'
painted on you?"
"I didn't know I was flat!" rather stiffly.
"You see, you are not! then why not try to care for something else
_beside_ music, without caring any the less for that?"
"What is there to care for? a parcel of musty old books, such as Uncle
Tom is forever reading."
"Oh! oh! you Goth! As if it were not a rapture simply to look at the
outside of your uncle's books. To see my heart's own Doctor in dark blue
calf, with all that beautiful tooling--"
"What Doctor? what are you talking about, Hildegarde?"
"Johnson, of course! Is there another? as the man in _Punch_ says about
his hatter. And even in your own line, you foolish boy! Have you never
read that beautiful 'Life of Handel'? I looked into it the other day,
and it seemed delightful."
"No," said Jack, looking blank. "Where is it? I never saw it."
"Bookcase between the south windows, fourth shelf, about the middle;
three fat volumes in green morocco. And you never saw it, because you
never look at the books at all. What _do_ you look at, Jack, except your
music and your violin? For example, do you ever look in the glass? I
know you don't."
"How do you know?" and Jack blushed hotly.
"Because--you won't mind? I am your cousin, you know!--because your
necktie is so often crooked. It is crooked now; a little more to the
right! that's it! And--and you ought to brush that spot off your coat.
Now, if you made it a point always to look in the glass before leaving
your room--"
"Is that one of the sides you want me to develop?" asked Jack slowly.
"Caring about dress, and looks, and that sort of thing? I didn't know
you were of that kind, Hildegarde."
"Of what kind?" cried our heroine, blushing furiously in her turn, and
feeling that she was in great danger of losing her temper. "I certainly
do care about my dress and looks, as every one ought to do. Suppose the
next time you came to tea, you found me with my hair tumbling down, and
a great spot of ink on my gown, and my ruffles torn! Is that the kind of
person you like to see? I always thought Herrick's Julia was a most
untidy young woman, with her shoe-strings, and her 'erring lace' and
all."
"I don't know who she is," said Jack meekly. "But I beg your pardon if I
was rude, Hilda; and--and I will try to 'spruce up,' as Uncle Tom is
always trying to make me. You see," he added shyly, "when _you_ look in
the glass you see something nice, and I don't!"
"Nonsense!" said Hildegarde, promptly. "And then, Jack--that is only one
thing, of course. But if you had the habit of using your eyes! Oh! you
don't know what a difference it would make. I know, because I used to be
as blind as you are. I never looked at anything till about two years
ago. And now--of course I am only learning still, and shall be learning
all my life, I hope; but--well, I do see things more or less. For
example, what do you see at our feet here?"
"Grass!" said Jack, peering about. "Green grass. Do you think I don't
know that?"
Hildegarde laughed, and clapped her hands.
"Just what I should have said two years ago!" she cried. "There are
twelve different plants that I know--I've been counting them--and
several more that are new to me."
"Well, they're all green, anyhow!" said Jack. "What's the difference?"
Hildegarde scorned a direct reply, but went on, being now mounted on her
own hobby.
"And as for moths, Jack, you can have no idea of what my ignorance was
in regard to moths."
"Oh, come!" said Jack. "Every one knows about moths, of course. They eat
our clothes, and fly into the lamps. That is one of the things one finds
out when one is a baby, I suppose."
"Indeed!" cried Hildegarde. "And that is all there is to find out, I
suppose. Why--" she stopped suddenly; then said in a very different
tone, "Oh, Jack! this is a wonderful coincidence. Look! oh, _will_ you
look? oh! the beautiful, beautiful dear! Get me something! anything!
quick!"
Jack, who was not accustomed to feminine ways, wondered if his fair
cousin was going out of her mind. She was gazing intently at a spot of
lighter green on the "grass" at her feet. Presently the spot moved,
spread; developed two great wings, delicate, exquisite, in colour like a
chrysoprase, or the pure, cold green one sometimes sees in a winter
sunset.
"What is it?" asked Jack, in wonder.
"A Luna!" cried Hildegarde. "Hush! slip off on the other side, quietly!
_Fly_ to the house, and ask auntie for a fly-screen. _Quick_, Jack!"
Jack, greatly wondering, ran off none the less, his long legs scampering
with irreverent haste through the Ladies' Garden. Returning with the
screen, which auntie gave him without question, being well used to the
sudden frenzies of a moth-collector, he found Hildegarde on her knees,
holding her handkerchief over the great moth, which fortunately had
remained quiet, being indeed stupid in the strong light. The girl's face
was all aglow with triumph and delight.
"A perfect specimen," she cried, as she skilfully conveyed the great
moth under the screen. "I have two, but the tails are a little broken.
Isn't he glorious, Jack? Oh, happy day! Come, good cousin, and let us
take him home in a triumphal procession."
Jack looked rather blank. "Are you going home now?" he asked.
"Of course, to put my beauty in the ammonia jar."
"What is it?" she added, seeing that her cousin looked really vexed.
"Oh--nothing!" said Jack. "Nothing of any consequence. I am ready."
"But _what_ is it?" Hildegarde repeated. "You would a great deal better
tell me than look like that, for I know I have done something to vex
you."
"Well--I am not used to girls, you know, Hildegarde, and perhaps I am
stupid. Only--well, I was going to ask you seriously what you thought
about--my music, and all that; and first you tell me to look in the
glass, and then you go to catching moths and forget all about me. I
suppose it's all right, only--"
He blushed, and evidently did not think it _was_ all right. Hildegarde
blushed, too, in real distress.
"My _dear_ Jack," she cried, "how shall I tell you how sorry I am?"
She looked about for a suitable place, and then carefully set down the
fly-screen with its precious contents.
"Sit down again," she cried, motioning her cousin to take his place on
the fallen tree, while she did the same. "And you will not believe now
how interested I really am," she said. "Mamma would never have been so
stupid, nor Rose either. But you must believe me. I _was_ thinking about
you till--till I saw the Luna, and you don't know what a Luna means when
one hasn't a perfect specimen. But now, tell me, do you think it would
be quite impossible to persuade your uncle? Why, you _must_ go to
Leipsic, of course you must. He--has he ever heard you play, Jack?"
Jack laughed rather bitterly. "Once," he said. "He cried out that when
he wanted to listen to cats with their tails tied together, he would tie
them himself. Since then I always go up into the garret to practise, and
shut all the doors and windows."
"What a pity! and he is so nice when one knows him. I wonder--do you
know, Jack, what I am thinking of?"
Her face was so bright that the boy's face brightened as he looked at
it.
"I hope it is what I was thinking of," he said; "but I didn't dare--"
"Mamma," cried Hildegarde.
He nodded in delight, colouring with pleasure.
"She is just the person."
"Of course she is; but will she?"
"Of course she will. I am sure of it. Your uncle shall come to tea some
evening, and you shall stay at home. I will go away to write letters,
and then--oh, you see, Jack, no one can resist mamma."
"What a good fellow you are, Hildegarde! Oh, I _beg_ your pardon!"
"Never mind!" cried Hildegarde merrily. "I did climb the tree, you know.
And now, come along. I must take my beauty, my love, my moonlight
rapture, up to his death."