BONNY SIR HUGH.
MEANWHILE Hildegarde had not lost sight of little Hugh Allen, the one
link of interest which connected her with The Poplars. He, too, had been
won by Mrs. Grahame's smile, and had learned the way to Braeside; and
the more they saw of him, the more Hildegarde and her mother felt that
he was a very remarkable little boy.
Much of the time he seemed to be lost in dreams, wrapped in a cloud of
silent thought; and, again, from this cloud would flash out the
quaintest sayings, sudden outbursts of passionate feeling, which were
startling to quiet, every-day people. When he had been walking with
Mrs. Grahame, as he was fond of doing (sneaking out by the back gate
from his prison-place, as he called it, and making a _detour_ to reach
the road where she most often walked), and when she said, "Now, dear, it
is time to say good-by, and go home," he would throw himself on his
knees, and hold up his clasped hands, crying, "How can I leave thee?" in
a manner which positively embarrassed her.
Now it happened one day that Hugh was sitting with Merlin beside the
brook that flowed at the foot of the Ladies' Garden. Hildegarde had told
him to come through the garden and wait for her, and it was his first
visit to the lovely, silent place. The child went dreaming along between
the high box hedges, stopping occasionally to look about him and to
exchange confidences with his dog. Merlin seemed to feel the influence
of the place, and went along quietly, with bent head and drooping tail.
When the murmur of the hidden streamlet first fell upon his ear, "It is
like the fishpools of Heshbon," said the boy dreamily. "Isn't it,
Merlin? I never understood before." Merlin put his cool black nose in
his master's hand, and gave a little sympathetic shake.
And now the pair were sitting on a bank of moss, looking down into the
dark, clear water, which moved so swiftly yet so silently, with only a
faint sound, which somehow seemed no louder than when they were at a
distance.
[Illustration: HILDEGARDE FINDING HUGH AND MERLIN BY THE BROOK.]
"Do you see that dark round place where it is deep, Merlin?" said the
child. "Do you think that under there lives a fair woman with green
hair, who takes a person by the hand, and kisses him, and pulls him
down? Do you think that, Merlin?" But Merlin sneezed, and shook his
head, and evidently thought nothing of the kind. "Then do you think
about fishes?" the boy went on. "Dark little fishes, with gleaming
eyes, who are sad because they cannot speak. I wish I knew your
thoughts, Merlin."
"Wuff!" said Merlin, in his voice of welcome, raising his head, and
becoming instantly a living image of cheerfulness. Hugh looked, and
there was his Purple Maid, all bright and shining, standing among the
green trees, and smiling at him. The child's face flushed with such
vivid light that the place seemed brighter. He held out his arms with a
passionate gesture that would have been theatrical if it had not been so
real, but remained silent.
"Dear!" said Hildegarde. "How quiet you are, you and Merlin! I could not
tell whether it was your voice or the brook, talking." The boy and dog
made room for her between them, and she sat down. "Aren't you going to
speak to me, Hugh?" she continued, as he still said nothing.
"I spoke to myself," said the boy. "When I saw you stand there, angelic,
in the green, 'Blessed heart of woman!' I said to myself. Do you like
the sound of that?"
"My bonny Sir Hugh!" said Hildegarde, laying her hand caressingly on the
red-gold hair. "I do like the sound of it. And do you like this place? I
want you to care for it as I do."
The boy nodded. "It is the place of dead people," he said. "We are too
alive to be here."
"I call it the Ladies' Garden," said Hildegarde softly. "Fair, sweet
ladies lived here once, and loved it. They used to sit here, Hugh, and
wander up and down the green paths, and fill the place with sweet,
gentle words. I don't believe they sang; Hester may have sung, perhaps."
"Were they fair as the moon, clear as the sun?" asked the child.
"Where did you find those sweet words, Sir Hugh?"
"In the Bible. 'Fair as the moon, clear as the sun, terrible as an army
with banners.' And 'thy neck is a tower of ivory.' Were they terrible,
do you think?"
"Oh, no! they were very gentle, I think, very soft and mild, like folds
of old soft cashmere; only Hester was blithe and gay, and she died,
Hugh, when she was just my age. Think of it! to die so young and go away
out of all the sunshine."
The child looked at her with strange eyes. "Why do you be sad?" he said.
"Don't you know about your Mother dear Jerusalem?"
"A little," said Hildegarde. "Tell me what you are thinking, Sir Hugh."
"It is greener there," said the child, "and brighter. Don't you know,
blessed heart? 'Where grow such sweet and pleasant flowers as nowhere
else are seen.' And more coloured words. Don't you love coloured
words?" The girl laid her hand on his lightly, but said nothing, and he
went on as if in a dream.
"'Thy houses are of ivory,
Thy windows crystal clear,
Thy streets are laid with beaten gold--
There angels do appear.'
"Two of them are papa and mamma," he added after a pause. "Do you think
they mind waiting for me very much? At first I wanted to go to them--oh,
so badly! because those people are devils, and I would rather die; but
now I have you, Purple Maid, and your mother is like balm dropping in
the valley, and I don't mind waiting, if only I thought _they_ didn't
mind it too much." He looked up wistfully, and Hildegarde bent to kiss
him.
"How long is it, dear?" she asked softly.
"A year now, a very long year, only I had Merlin. And Uncle Loftus took
me out of charity, he said; but mamma said I was to go to Aunt Martha,
so that makes me feel wrong, even if I wanted to stay with them, and it
is the pains of hell to me."
"Aunt Martha?" asked Hildegarde, willing to ask more, yet dreading to
rouse the boy's scriptural eloquence on the subject of his relatives at
The Poplars.
Hugh nodded. "Mamma's aunt," he said. "She lives somewhere, not far from
here, but I don't know where; and Uncle Loftus won't tell me, or let me
see her, 'cause she is a menial. What is a menial, dearly beloved?"
"Did your uncle say that to you?" Hildegarde asked, waiving the
question.
"He said it _at_ me!" was the reply. "At my back, but I heard it. She
was a menial, and he wasn't going to have folks saying that his aunt was
housekeeper to a stuck-up old bear, just because she was a fool and had
no proper spirit. And the others said 'hush!' and I went away, and now
they won't let me speak about her."
"Housekeeper to a--why!" began Hildegarde; and then she was silent, and
smoothed the child's hair thoughtfully. An old bear! that was what Mr.
Loftus had vulgarly called Colonel Ferrers. Could it be possible
that--Jack had told her about dear, good Mrs. Beadle, who had been nurse
to his father and uncle, and who was so devoted to them all, and such a
superior woman. She had been meaning to go to see her the next time she
was at Roseholme. Was there a mystery here? was Mrs. Beadle the plump
and comfortable skeleton in the Loftus closet? She must ask Jack.
As she mused thus, the child had fallen a-dreaming again, and they both
sat for some time silent, with the soft falling of the water in their
ears, and all the dim, shadowy beauty of the place filling their hearts
with vague delight.
Presently, "Beloved," said Hugh (he wavered between this and "Purple
Maid" as names for Hildegarde, wholly ignoring her own name), "Beloved,
there is an angel near me. Did you know it?"
"There might well be angels in this place," said Hildegarde, looking at
the boy, whose wide blue eyes wore a far-away, spiritual look.
"I don't mean just here in this spot. I mean floating through the air at
night. I hear him, almost every night, playing on his harp of gold."
"Dear Hugh, tell me a little more clearly."
"Sometimes the moon shines in at my window and wakes me up, you know.
Then I get up and look out, for it is so like heaven, only silver
instead of gold; and then--then I hear the angel play."
"What does it sound like?"
"Sometimes like a voice, sometimes like birds. And then it sobs and
cries, and dies away, and then it sounds out again, like 'blow up the
trumpet in the new moon,' and goes up, up, up, oh, so high! Do you think
that is when the angel goes up to the gate, and then is sorry for people
here, and comes back again? I have thought of that."
"My bonny Sir Hugh!" said Hildegarde gently. "Would you care less about
the lovely music if it was not really made by an angel? if it was a
person like you and me, who had the power and the love to make such
beautiful sounds?"
The child's face lightened. "Was it you?" he said in an awe-struck
voice.
"Not I, dear, but my cousin, my cousin Jack, who plays the violin most
beautifully, Hugh. He practises every night, up in the garret at
Roseholme, because--only think! his uncle does not like to hear him."
"The ostrich gentleman!" cried Hugh, bursting into merry laughter. "Is
it the ostrich gentleman?"
Hildegarde tried to look grave, with moderate success. "My cousin is
tall," she said, "but you must not call names, little lad!"
"Never any more will I call him it," cried Hugh, "if he is really the
angel. But he does look like one. Must we go?" he asked wistfully, as
Hildegarde rose, and held out her hand to him.
"Yes, dear, I am going to the village, you know. I thought we would come
this way because I wanted you to see the Ladies' Garden. Now we must go
across the meadow, and round by the back of Roseholme to find the road
again."
They crossed the brook by some mossy stepping-stones, and climbed the
dark slope on the further side, thick-set with ferns and dusky
hemlock-trees. Then came the wall, and then the sudden break into the
sunny meadow. Hugh threw off his grave mood with the shadow, and danced
and leaped in the sunshine.
"Shall I run with Merlin?" he asked. "You have never seen us run,
Beloved!"
Hildegarde nodded, and with a shout and a bark the two were off. A
pretty sight they were! the boy's golden head bobbing up and down in
full energy of running, the dog bounding beside him with long, graceful
leaps. They breasted the long, low hill, then swept round in a wide
circle, and came rushing past Hildegarde, breathless and radiant. This
was more than our heroine could bear. With a merry "Hark, follow!" she
started in pursuit, and was soon running abreast of the others, with
head thrown back, eyes sparkling, cheeks glowing.
"Hurrah!" cried Hugh.
"Hurrah it is!" echoed the Purple Maid.
"Wow, _wow_!" panted Merlin, ecstatically.
As the chase swept round the hill the second time, two gentlemen came
out of the woods, and paused in amazement at the sight. Hildegarde's
long hair had come down, and was flying in the wind; her two companions
were frantic with delight, and bobbed and leaped, shouting, beside her.
So bright was the sunshine, so vivid in colour, so full of life the
three runners, they seemed actually to flash as they moved.
"Harry Monmouth!" cried Colonel Ferrers. "Here is a girl who knows how
to run. Look at that action! It's poetry, sir! it's rhythm and metre and
melody.
"'Nor lighter does the swallow skim
Along the smooth lake's airy rim.'
After her, Master Milksop, and let me see what your long legs can do!"
Jack Ferrers needed no second bidding, and though his running was not
graceful, being rather a hurling himself forward, as if he were
catapult and missile in one, he got over the ground with great rapidity,
and caught his cousin up as she came flying round the meadow for the
third time. Hildegarde stopped short, in great confusion.
"Jack!" she faltered, panting. "How--where did you come from? You must
have started up out of the earth."
Turning to capture her flying tresses, she caught sight of Colonel
Ferrers, and her confusion was redoubled.
"Oh!" she cried, the crimson mounting from her cheeks to her forehead,
bathing her in a fiery tide. "Oh! how could you? He--he will be _sure_ I
am a tomboy now."
"Nothing of the kind, my fair Atalanta!" exclaimed the Colonel, who had
the ears of a fox. He advanced, beaming, and flourishing his stick.
"Nothing of the kind!" he repeated. "He is delighted, on the contrary,
to see a young creature who can make the free movements of nature with
nature's grace and activity. Harry Monmouth! Miss Hildegarde, I wish I
were twenty years younger, and I would challenge you to a race myself!"