AT THE BROWN COTTAGE.
HILDEGARDE'S mind was still full of her cousin and his future, as she
sat that afternoon in Mrs. Lankton's kitchen, with her sewing-school
around her. The brown cottage with the green door had been found the
most central and convenient place for the little class, and it was an
object of absorbing interest to Mrs. Lankton herself. She hovered about
Hildegarde and her scholars, predicting disease and death for one and
another, with ghoulish joy.
"Your ma hadn't ought to let you come out to-day, Marthy Skeat. You
warn't never rugged from the time you was a baby; teethin' like to have
carried you off, and 'tain't too late now. There's wisdom teeth, ye
know. Well, it's none o' my business, but I hope your ma's prepared.
Good-mornin', Miss Grahame! I'm tellin' Marthy Skeat she ain't very
likely to see long skirts, comin' out in this damp air. You're peart,
are ye? That's right! Ah! they can look peart as ain't had no troubles
yet. I was jist like you oncet, Miss Grahame. I've had a sight o'
trouble! no one don't know what I've ben through; don't know nothin'
about it. You've fleshed up some since ye came here, ain't ye? Well,
they do flesh up that way sometimes, but 'tain't no good sign. There's
measles about, too, they say."
"How bright and pretty your plants are, Mrs. Lankton!" said Hilda,
trying to make a diversion. "No, Jack!--I mean Jenny! you will have to
take that out again. See those long stitches! They look as if they were
all running after each other, don't they? Take them out, dear, and make
me some nice, neat little stitches, stepping along quietly, as you do
when you have on those new shoes you were telling me about. Lizzie, I
wonder what turns your thread so dark? See how white my seam is! What do
you suppose is the matter with yours?"
Lizzie giggled and hung her head. "Forgot to wash my hands!" she
muttered.
"That was a pity!" said Hildegarde. "It spoils the looks of it, you see.
I am sure Mrs. Lankton will let you wash your hands in that bright tin
basin. Vesta Philbrook, where is your violin?"
"Ma'am?" said Vesta Philbrook, opening her mouth as wide as her eyes.
"Your thimble I mean, of course!" said Hildegarde, blushing violently,
and giving herself a mental shake. "Now go to work, like a good girl.
Mary, here is the patchwork I promised you, already basted. See, a pink
square, a blue square, a white one, and a yellow one. They are all
pieces of my dresses, the dresses I wore last summer; and I thought you
would like to have them for your quilt."
"Oh, thank you!" cried the child, delighted. "Oh, ain't them pretty?"
"Handsome!" said Mrs. Lankton, peering over the child's shoulder. "Them
is handsome. Ah! I pieced a quilt once, with nine hundred and
ninety-nine pieces into it. Good goods they was; I had good things then;
real handsome calico, just like them. Ah, I didn't know what trouble was
when I was your age, children. Wait till you've had lumbago, an'
neurology, an' cricks in your necks so's't you can't stand straight, not
for weeks together you can't, and your roof leakin', an' dreepin' all
over yer bed, an'--"
"Why, Mrs. Lankton!" exclaimed Hildegarde. "Surely the roof is not
leaking again, when it was all shingled this summer!"
"Not yet it ain't, dear!" sighed the widow. "But I'm prepared for it,
and I don't expect nothin' else, after what I've been through. I was
fleshy myself, once, though no one wouldn't think it to look at me."
"I wonder, Mrs. Lankton," began Hildegarde gently.
"You may wonder, dear!" was the reply. "Folks do wonder when they think
what I've bean through. Fleshy was no name for it. There! I was fairly
corpilent when I was your age."
"Oh!" said Hildegarde, in some confusion. "I meant--I am very thirsty,
Mrs. Lankton, and if you _could_ give me a glass of your delicious
water--"
"Suttingly!" exclaimed the widow with alacrity. "Suttingly, Miss
Grahame! I'll go right out and pump ye some. It _is_ good water," she
admitted, with reluctant pride. "I've been expectin' it would dry up,
right along, lately!" and she hastened out into the yard.
"Now, children," said Hildegarde hastily, "I will go on with the story I
began last time. 'So Robert Bruce was crowned king of Scotland; and no
sooner was he king than'--"
By the time Mrs. Lankton returned with the water, every child was
listening spellbound to the wonderful tale of Bruce at the ford, and no
one had an eye or an ear for the doleful widow, save Hildegarde, whose
"Thank you!" and quick glance of gratitude lightened for a moment the
gloom of her hostess's countenance.
So deep were teacher and pupils in Bruce and patchwork that none of them
heard the sound of wheels, or the sudden cessation of it outside the
door, till Mrs. Lankton exclaimed with tragic unction: "It is Colonel
Ferrers! driving hisself, and his hoss all of a sweat. I hope he ain't
the bearer of bad news, but I should be prepared, if I was you, Miss
Grahame. Poor child! what would you do if your ma was took?" Hildegarde
hastened to the door, but was instantly reassured by the old gentleman's
cheery smile.
"Why did you move?" he said. "I stopped on purpose to have a look at
you, with your flock of doves around you. Hilda and the doves, hey? you
remember? 'Marble Faun!' yes, yes! But since you have moved, shall I
drive you home, Miss Industry?"
Hildegarde glanced at the clock. "Our time is over," she said to the
children. "Yes, Colonel Ferrers, thank you! I should enjoy the drive
very much indeed. Can you wait perhaps five minutes?"
The Colonel could and would; and Hildegarde returned to see that all
work was neatly folded and put away.
"And, Annie, here is the receipt I promised you. Be sure to mix the meal
thoroughly, and have a good hot oven, and you will find them very nice
indeed, and your mother will be so pleased at your making them
yourself!"
"Vesta, did you try the honey candy?"
"Yes, 'm! 'twas dretful good. My little brother, he like t'ha' died, he
eat so much."
"Dear me!" exclaimed Hilda, rather alarmed at this result of her neat
little plan of teaching the children something about cookery, without
their finding out that they were being taught.
"But you must see to it, Vesta, that he doesn't eat too much. That is
one of the things an elder sister is for, you know.
"Now, whose turn is it to sweep up the threads and scraps? Yours,
Euleta? Well, see how careful you can be! not a thread must be left on
Mrs. Lankton's clean floor, you know."
Soon all was in order, workbags put away, hats and bonnets tied on; and
Hildegarde came out with her doves about her, all looking as if they had
had a thoroughly good time. With many affectionate farewells to
"Teacher," the children scattered in different directions, and Colonel
Ferrers chirruped to the brown cob, which trotted briskly away over the
smooth road. The Colonel was deeply interested in the sewing-school.
Hester Aytoun had had one for the village children, and there had been
none from her death until now. He asked many questions, which Hildegarde
answered with right good will. They were dear children, she said. She
was getting to know them very well, for she tried to see them in their
homes once a fortnight, and found they liked to have her come, and
looked forward to it. Some of them were very bright; not all, of course,
but they all _tried_, and that was the great thing. Yes, she told
them all the stories they wanted, and they wanted a great many.
[Illustration: "HE GAVE ME A LUNGE IN QUART."]
"Speaking of stories," said the Colonel, "I find I have work laid out
for the rest of _my_ life."
"Hugh?" said Hildegarde, smiling.
"Most astonishing child I ever saw in my life!" the Colonel cried. "Most
amazing child! to see how he flings himself on books is a wonder. I
don't let him keep at 'em long, you understand. A brain like that needs
play, sir, play! I've bought him a little foil, and--Harry Monmouth! he
gave me a lunge in quart that almost broke my guard, last night. But
stories! 'More about kings, please, Sire!'--he's got a notion of calling
me Sire--ho! ho! can't get Saul out of his head, d'ye see? I feel like
Charlemagne, or Barbarossa, or some of 'em. 'More about kings when they
were in battle.' He's learned 'Agincourt' by heart, just from my
reading it to him. 'Fair stood the wind for France,' hey? Finest ballad
in the English language. Says you read it to him, too. And if I am busy
he goes to Elizabeth Beadle and frightens her out of her wits with
sentences out of the Lamentations of Jeremiah. Now this boy--mark me,
Hildegarde!--will turn out something very uncommon, if he has the right
training. That scoundrelly knave, Ephraim Loftus, wanted to make a
gentleman of him! Ho! Ephraim doesn't know how a gentleman's shoes look,
unless he has been made acquainted with the soles of them. I kicked him
myself once, I remember, for beating a horse unmercifully. This boy will
be a great scholar, mark my words! And whatever assistance I can give
him shall be cheerfully given. Why, the lad has genius! positive
genius!"
"Oh!" said Hildegarde, her heart beating fast. "Then you think, Colonel
Ferrers, that a--a person should be educated for what seems to be his
natural bent. Do you think that?"
"Harry Monmouth! of course I do! Look at me! D'ye think I was fitted for
a mercantile life, for example? Never got algebra through my head, and
hate figures. The army was what I was born for! Born for it, sir!
Shouldered my pap-spoon in the cradle, and presented arms whenever I was
taken up. Ho! ho! ho!"
Hildegarde began to tremble, but her courage did not fail. "And--and
Jack, dear Colonel Ferrers," she said softly. "He was born for music,
was he not?"
The Colonel turned square round, and gazed at her from under brows that
met over his hooked nose. "What then?" he said slowly, after a pause.
"If my nephew was born for a fiddler, what then, Miss Hildegarde
Grahame? Is it any reason why he should not be trained for something
better? I like the boy's playing very well, very well indeed, when he
keeps clear of Dutch discords. But you would not compare playing the
fiddle with the glorious Art of War, I imagine?"
"Not for an instant!" cried Hildegarde, flushing deeply under the
Colonel's half-stern, half-quizzical gaze. "Compare music, lovely music,
that cheers and comforts and delights all the world, with fierce, cruel,
dreadful war? Look at Jack, with his mind full of beautiful harmonies
and--and 'airs from heaven'--they really are! making us laugh or cry, or
dance or exult, just by the motion of his hand. Look at him, and then
imagine him in a red coat, with a gun in his hand--"
"Red is the British colour," said the Colonel.
"Well, a blue coat, then. What difference does it make?--a gun in his
hand, shooting people who never did him any harm, whose faces he had
never even seen. Oh, Colonel Ferrers, I would not have believed it of
you!"
"And who asked you to believe it of me, pray?" asked the Colonel, as he
drove up to the door of Braeside. "To tell the truth, young lady, war is
very much more in your line than in my nephew's. Harry Monmouth! Bellona
in person, I verily believe. My compliments to your mother, and say I
shall call her Madam Althaea in future, for she has brought forth a
firebrand."
Instantly Hildegarde's ruffled plumes drooped, smoothed themselves down;
instead of the flashing gaze of the eagle, a dove-like look now met the
quizzical gaze of the old gentleman. "Dear Colonel Ferrers!" this
hypocritical girl murmured, as, standing on the verandah steps, she laid
her hand gently on his arm. "Thank you so _very_ much for driving me
home. You are always so kind--to me! And--and--I want to ask one
question. Can you tell me the first lines of Dryden's 'Song for St.
Cecilia's Day'?"
"Of course!" said the simple Colonel.
"'From harmony, from heavenly harmony,
This universal frame began.'
Why do you--oh! you youthful Circe! you infant Medea, you--" he shook
his whip threateningly.
"Good-by, dear Colonel Ferrers!" cried Hildegarde. "I am so glad you
remembered the lines. Aren't they beautiful? Good-by!"