A CALL AND A CONSPIRACY.
"AND you really seriously intend passing the winter here?" asked Miss
Leonie Loftus.
This young lady had come to make a parting call at Braeside. It was near
the end of August, and three months of country life were all that she
could possibly endure, and she was going with her mother to Long Branch,
and thence to Saratoga.
"You really mean it?" she repeated, looking incredulous.
"Assuredly!" replied Hildegarde, smiling. "Winter and summer, and winter
again, Miss Loftus. This is our home now, and we have become attached
to it even in these few months."
"Oh, you look at it in a sentimental light," said Miss Loftus, with a
disagreeable smile. "The domestic hearth, and that sort of thing. Rather
old-fashioned, isn't it, Miss Grahame?"
"Possibly; I have never thought of it as a matter of fashion," was the
quiet reply.
"And how do you expect to kill time in your wilderness?" was the next
question.
"Kill him?" Hildegarde laughed. "We never can catch him, even for a
moment, Miss Loftus. He flies faster at Braeside than even in New York.
I sometimes think there are only two days in the week, Monday and
Saturday."
"I hear you have a sewing-school in the village. I suppose that will
take up some time."
"I hope so! The children seem interested, and it is a great pleasure to
me. Then, too, I expect to join some of Miss Wayland's classes in the
fall, and that will keep me busy, of course."
"Miss Wayland, over in Dorset? Why, it is three miles off."
"And even if so? I hear it is a delightful school, and Miss Wayland
herself is very lovely. Do you know her?"
"No!" said Miss Loftus, who had been "dying" as she would have put it,
to get into Miss Wayland's school three years before. "A country
boarding-school isn't _my_ idea of education."
"Oh!" said Hildegarde civilly. "But to go back for a moment, Miss
Loftus. Your speaking of the children reminds me to ask you, is little
Hugh going with you to Long Branch?"
Miss Loftus coloured. "Oh, dear, no!" she replied. "A child at such
places, you know, is out of the question. He is to be sent to school. He
is going next week."
"But--pardon me! are not all schools in vacation now?"
"I believe so! But these people--the Miss Hardhacks--are willing to take
him now, and keep him."
"Poor little lad!" murmured Hildegarde, regardless of the fact that it
was none of her business. "Will he not be very lonely?"
"Beggars must not be choosers, Miss Grahame!" was the reply, with
another unamiable smile. Miss Loftus really would not have smiled at
all, if she had known how she looked.
No sooner was the visitor gone, than Hildegarde flew up to her mother
with the news. The Loftuses were going away; they were going to send
Hugh to school. What was to be done? He could not go! He _should_ not
go.
She was greatly excited, but Mrs. Grahame's quiet voice and words
restored her composure. "'Can't' and 'shan't' never won a battle!" said
that lady. "We must think and plan."
Hildegarde had lately discovered, beyond peradventure, from some chance
words let fall by little Hugh, that his mother had been the sister of
Mr. Loftus; and she felt no doubt in her own mind that good Mrs. Beadle
was aunt to both. The sister had been a school teacher, had married a
man of some education, who died during the second year of their
marriage, leaving her alone, in a Western town, with her little baby.
She had struggled on, not wishing to be a burden either on her rich
brother (who had not approved her marriage) or her aunt, who had nothing
but her savings and her comfortable berth at Roseholme. At length,
consumption laying its deadly hand on her, she sent for her brother, and
begged him to take the boy to their good aunt, who, she knew, would
care for him as her own. "But he didn't!" said Hugh. "He did not do
that. He said he would make a man of me, but I don't believe he could
make a very good one, do you, Beloved?"
Now the question was, how to bring about a meeting between the boy and
his great-aunt, if great-aunt she were.
No child was allowed to enter the sacred precincts of Roseholme, for
Colonel Ferrers regarded children, and especially boys, as the
fountain-head of all mischief, flower-breaking, bird-nesting,
turf-destroying. His own nephew had had to wait eighteen years for an
invitation. How could it be possible to introduce little Hugh, a boy and
a stranger, into the charmed garden?
If "Mammina" could only take him! No one could resist her mother,
Hildegarde thought; certainly not Colonel Ferrers, who admired her so
much. But this dear mother had sprained her ankle a week before,
slipping on a mossy stone in the garden, and was only now beginning to
get about, using a crutched stick.
Mrs. Grahame and Hildegarde put their heads together, and talked long
and earnestly. Then they sent for Jack, and took counsel with him; and a
plan was made for the first act of what Hildegarde called the Drama of
the Conspirators.
A day or two after, when Mrs. Beadle drove to the town of Whitfield,
some miles off, on her weekly marketing trip, it was Jack Ferrers,
instead of Giuseppe, the faithful manservant, who held the reins and
drove the yellow wagon with the stout brown cob. He wanted to buy some
things, he said: a necktie, and some chocolate, and--oh, lots of things;
and Mrs. Beadle was only too glad of his company. The good housekeeper
was dressed, like Villikins' Dinah, in gorgeous array, her cashmere
shawl being of the finest scarlet, her gown of a brilliant blue, while
her bonnet nodded with blue and yellow cornflowers. Not a tradesman in
Whitfield but came smiling to his door when he saw Mrs. Beadle's yellow
cart; for she was a good customer, and wanted everything of the best for
her Colonel. When they at last turned Chow-chow's head homeward, the
wagon was nearly filled with brown-paper parcels, and Jack's pockets
bulged out in all directions. As they drove along the pleasant road,
fringed with oaks and beeches, Jack broke silence with, "Biddy, did you
ever have any children?"
"Bless me, Master Jack, how you startled me!" cried Mrs. Beadle, who was
deep in a problem of jelly and roly-poly pudding. "No, dear! no jelly--I
should say, no chick nor child had I ever. I wasn't good enough, I
suppose."
"Nonsense. Biddy!" said Jack. "But you must have had some relations;
some--nieces or nephews, or something of that sort."
Mrs. Beadle sighed, and fell straightway into the trap.
"I had, dear! I had, indeed, once upon a time. But they're no good to me
now, and never will be."
She sighed again.
"How no good to you?" queried this artful Jack.
"Oh, 'tis a long story, dear, and you wouldn't care for it at all. You
would? Well! well! there's no harm that I know of in speaking of it.
I've nothing to be ashamed of. I had a niece, Master Jack, and a dearer
one never was, nor married to a finer young man. But they went out West,
and he died, and left her with a baby. I wrote again and again, begging
her to come home, but she was doing well, she said, and felt to stay,
and had friends there, and all. Oh, dear! and last year--a year ago it
is now, she died." Mrs. Beadle drew out a handkerchief and wiped her
eyes. "She died, my dear; and--I didn't ought to speak of this, Master
Jack, it do upset me so--I don't know where the child is to this day."
"Her child?" asked Jack, with a guilty consciousness of his ears being
red.
"My own dear niece Martha's child!" repeated the good woman sorrowfully.
"A boy it was, as should be seven years old by this time. I've wrote,
and I've wrote, but no answer could I get. And whether he is dead, too,
or whether his father's people have him, or what, is darkness to me."
"The brute!" exclaimed Jack Ferrers vehemently. "The cold-hearted,
odious brute!"
"What is it, my dear?" cried Mrs. Beadle, drying her tears, and looking
with alarm at the pony. "His tail over the reins, is it? Well, he will
do that, but 'tis only play. He means no harm."
"Oh, I know!" cried Jack in confusion. "I didn't mean--that is--and is
that all the relatives you have, Biddy?"
"Why, boys do love questions, don't they?" the good woman said. "I have
a nephew living, Master Jack; and if you guessed from now till Sunday
week, you never would guess his name."
"Solomon Grundy" rose to Jack's lips, he could not in the least tell
why. He did his best to look unconscious, but it was perhaps fortunate
that Mrs. Beadle was so absorbed in her own troubled thoughts that she
did not look at him.
"Who is it?" he asked. "Do tell me. Biddy! Is it any one I ever heard
of?"
"Hush, my dear! don't tell a soul that I mentioned it. I am not one to
force myself on them as has got up in the world, and think honest
service a disgrace. It's Ephraim Loftus!"
"Not Mr. Loftus at the Poplars?"
"Mr. Loftus at the Poplars! The very same. My own sister's son, and
little credit he is to either of us. Don't ask me how he made his money,
for I don't know, and don't want to know. When he was a little boy, his
pockets were always full of pennies that he got from the other boys,
trading and the like, and nobody had a kindness for him, though they
loved Martha. Not a soul in the village but loved Martha, and would do
anything for her. So when Ephraim was fourteen or so, he went away to
New York, and we never heard anything more till he came back three or
four years ago, a rich man, and built that great house, and lived there
summers. I've never seen him but once; I don't go out, only just in the
back garden, except when I drive to town. And that once he looked me
all over, as if I was a waxwork in a glass case, and never stopped nor
spoke a word. That's Ephraim Loftus! He needn't have been afraid of my
troubling him or his, I can tell him. I wouldn't demean myself." Mrs.
Beadle's face was red, and her voice trembled with angry pride.
"And--" Jack wished Hildegarde were speaking instead of himself; she
would know what to say, and he felt entirely at a loss. "Do you--do you
suppose he knows anything about--about his sister's little boy?"
Mrs. Beadle looked as if some one had struck her a blow. "Ephraim
Loftus!" she cried. "If I thought that, Master Jack, I'd--I'd--why,
what's the matter, sir?" For Jack had risen in his seat, and was waving
the whip wildly round his head.
"It's my cousin," he said. "Don't you see her coming?"
"Oh, the dear young lady! yes, to be sure. Walking this way, isn't she?
Never mind me. Master Jack!" said the good woman, striving for
composure. "I was upset by what you said, that's all. It gave me a
thought--who is the little boy with Miss Grahame, dear?"
"He? oh--he's a boy," said Jack, rather incoherently. "His name is Hugh.
Good-morning, Hildegarde! Hallo, Hugh! how are you?"
"Good-morning!" cried Hildegarde, as the wagon drew up beside her.
"Good-morning, Mrs. Beadle. Isn't it a lovely day? Will the pony stand,
Jack?"
"Like a rock!" and Jack, obeying the hint, leaped to the ground.
Mrs. Beadle had turned very pale. She was gazing fixedly at Hugh, who
returned the look with wide blue eyes, shining with some strong emotion.
"Dear Mrs. Beadle," said Hildegarde gently, taking the housekeeper's
hand in hers as she leant against the wagon, "this is a very dear little
friend of mine, whom I want you to know. His name is Hugh; Hugh Allen;
and he is staying with his uncle, Mr. Loftus."
"I knew it!" cried Mrs. Beadle, clapping her hands together. "I knew it!
And I am going to faint!"
"No, don't do that!" said Hugh, climbing up into the seat beside her.
"Don't do that. You must be calm, for you are my great-aunt, and I am
your little nephew. How do you do? I am very glad to see you."
"You are sure he will stand?" whispered Hildegarde.
"Look at him! he is asleep already."
"Then come along!" and the two conspirators vanished among the trees.
They pushed on a little way through the tangle of undergrowth, and
paused, breathless and radiant, under a great beech-tree.
"Jack," said Hildegarde, "you are a dear! How did you manage it?"
"I didn't manage it at all. I am a stupid ninny. Why, I've thrown her
into a fit. Do you think it's safe to leave her alone?"
"Nonsense! a joy fit does not hurt, when a person is well and strong.
Oh! isn't it delightful! and you have enjoyed it, too, Jack, haven't
you? I am sure you have. And--why, you have a new hat! and your necktie
is straight. You look really very nice, _mon cousin_!"
"_Mille remerciments, ma cousine_!" replied Jack, with a low bow, which,
Hildegarde noticed, was not nearly so like the shutting-up of a
jackknife as it would have been a few weeks ago. "Am I really improving?
You have no idea what I go through with, looking in the glass. It is a
humiliating practice. Have some chocolates?" He pulled out a box, and
they crunched in silent contentment.
"Now I think we may go back," said Hildegarde, after her third bonbon.
"But I must tell you first what Hugh said. I told him the whole story as
we walked along; first as if it were about some one else, you know, and
then when he had taken it all in, I told him that he himself was the
little boy. He was silent at first, reflecting, as he always does. Then
he said: 'I am like an enchanted prince, I think. Generally it is fair
ones with golden locks that take them out of prison, but at my age a
great-aunt is better. Don't you think so, Beloved?' and I did think so."
"But it _was_ a fair one with golden locks who planned it all!" Jack
said, with a shy look at his cousin's fair hair.
"Jack, you are learning to pay compliments!" cried Hildegarde, clapping
her hands. "I believe you will go to Harvard after all, and be a
classical scholar."
"I would never pay another," said Jack seriously, "if I thought it would
have that effect."
When they returned to the wagon, they found Mrs. Beadle still wiping
away joyful tears, while Hugh was apparently making plans for the
future. His voice rang out loud and clear. "And we will dwell in a
corner of the house-top, and have a dinner of herbs!" said the child.
"They may have _all_ the stalled oxes themselves, mayn't they,
great-aunt? And you will clothe us in scarlet and fine wool, won't you,
great-aunt?"
"Bless your dear heart!" cried Mrs. Beadle. "Is it red flannel you mean?
Don't tell me those heathen haven't put you into flannels!" And she wept
again.