"Fair Meadow," the home of the Merryman family for generations, was a
large old-time farmhouse, built of gray stone, with dormer windows in
the roof, broad window and door sills, and within and without gave the
assurance of genuine home comfort, peace and good-will.
It lay between "My Lady's Manor" and "Friedenheim," within a short
distance of each, and save for a wide lane and a meadow, would have been
opposite the cottage of Jerusha Flint, on the other side of the road. It
was a true Christian home, and its influence, like that of the
Courtneys, was felt throughout the neighborhood.
The Merrymans were generous, genial people, and entertained city and
country friends with cordial hospitality, but it was seldom that the
farmhouse wore such a festive appearance as upon one evening the middle
of the February following the summer and autumn that Jerusha Flint held
possession of the cottage.
The occasion was a reception in honor of a bride and groom, the bride
being Mr. Merryman's sister, married at her father's residence in
Baltimore and returning that evening from a southern tour.
Snow had fallen the day before, which necessitated sending sleighs
instead of carriages to Dorton Station for the bridal party, and Mrs.
Merryman, seeing her husband drive down the lane in the lead of three
other sleighs, realized that time had passed too rapidly; the guests
would soon be there, and she was not dressed to receive them.
With a satisfied glance at the supper table--brilliant with silver,
china and glass--she was hurrying up the stair-way to her dressing-room
when she heard a feeble knock upon the hall door, and, retracing her
steps, she opened it.
A poor wanderer stood with hat in hand waiting there; the wind was
toying with his gray locks, his thin garments protected him but poorly
from the cold, and through his broken shoes could be seen his
stockingless feet.
"They are all busy preparing supper; you need not wait," she answered
hurriedly in response to his humble appeal for a cup of hot coffee.
"No, Archie won't wait," said the wanderer, turning meekly away. "Archie
is hungry and tired, and the snow is cold, but Archie won't wait."
Closing the door quickly, Mrs. Merryman went to her room, dressed as
speedily as possible and descended in time to receive Mrs. Courtney, who
passed on up to the guest chamber to remove her wraps and be in
readiness to help receive.
Mrs. Merryman had no anxiety for the successful serving of the supper,
and later the refreshments, for in addition to her own efficient maid,
Norah, Diana Strong had the management, and through the kindness of Mrs.
Courtney, Kitty was her helper, while Mose, in white apron and gloves,
was proud to have been loaned to wait upon the door and afterward the
table.
Notwithstanding these helps to contentment, Mrs. Merryman carried a
heavy heart under her silken attire. The words of the half-frozen
wanderer kept up a refrain in her memory: "Archie is hungry and tired
and the snow is cold, but Archie won't wait."
Oh, to look about her in that comfortable home; the whole place glowing
with light and heat, the kitchen redolent with roasting poultry; and she
had refused the cup of coffee that might have kept hope and even life in
the stranger!
"I do not deserve to have a roof over my head!" she said to herself as
bitter tears welled to her eyes, but she controlled her feelings, for
the halting of sleighs at the gate gave token that the bridal party had
arrived.
Amid the chattering of merry voices her depression was unnoticed and the
guests passed up to their rooms. Friends invited to meet them were
coming in couples and groups, and she welcomed all smilingly, but her
thoughts were upon the old and poorly clad man whom she had turned from
her door.
At the moment of the arrival of the bridal party, Hilda Brinsfield, in
the cottage of Jerusha Flint, was kneeling upon a chair by the western
window; not watching with childlike interest the passing sleighs with
their joyous jingling of bells, but with a look of interest and hope
upon her pale face to which for many a day it had been a stranger.
"Hilda," said Miss Flint, "I am going up to the village on business, and
wish you to be quiet and patient. I will not be long away."
Hilda made no reply. She was thinking of a picture she had seen at Dr.
Lattinger's where she had been the day before with Miss Flint.
It represented a group of sweet-faced angels, robed in white, grouped
about a harp upon which one of their number was playing an accompaniment
to their singing.
She had asked the nurse where the angels lived, and was told that their
home was in heaven.
"Where is heaven?" she had asked eagerly.
"Do you see that sun?" asked the nurse, pointing to it from the window
of the nursery. "That sun is in heaven."
Hilda had thought of but little else since hearing this. She had at last
located the home where her parents and her Aunt Ashley awaited her. All
that was required of her was to follow the sun and it would lead her to
them. She had watched all day, but the sun had kept itself hidden under
dim clouds.
About the time that Miss Flint left the cottage it gleamed forth, and
seemed to invite her to follow. A longing to be with father, mother and
Aunt Ashley in heaven was too great to be resisted; all was to be gained
by following where he led. Without stopping for wraps, the eager child
hurried out. The sun, low in the west, seemed very near to her, and she
ran to join it on its way. On and on she ran, the snow not crushing
under her rapid tread. The air chilled her, but keeping the sun as a
guide she pressed on. It sank below the horizon, but Hilda followed,
guided by the ruddy glow which marked the spot where it descended. It
grew dark and the child became bewildered, retracing her steps or
wandering in a circle. Her limbs ached with weariness, and she was about
to lie down and rest, when she heard the chatter of happy voices and the
sound of sleigh bells, and, encouraged, she followed. But the sound
ceased, and again she wandered aimlessly, having nothing to guide her.
At length she saw the gleaming of many lights, and she crept toward
them.
"That is heaven!" she said to herself. "It is not far away, but I am so
cold, so cold!"
The lights grew more brilliant, but she could scarcely move on toward
them. Her thoughts grew confused, strange visions thronged her mind,
vivid colors danced before her eyes, sweet music charmed her senses. She
was growing less weary; a pleasant warmth comforted her, and her eyelids
were heavy with sleep as she toiled on toward the goal, reached it, and
sank down between an evergreen shrub and one of the windows of the
Merryman farmhouse.
Unconscious of the tragedy transpiring without, the bride, arrayed in a
fleecy robe of white, as were her attendants grouped about the piano,
was singing, when at the window appeared the wanderer for the second
time that evening, bearing in his arms the unconscious form of the
little girl.
"She is dead," he murmured in a dazed, helpless way, as he stepped
through the window which Mr. Merryman opened for him; "she was in the
cold snow!"
"She may be," said Dr. Lattinger, coming quickly toward them. "We must
take her to a cool room and make efforts to restore her."
Tear-dimmed eyes gazed upon the pallid face, loving arms were extended
to bear her where Mrs. Merryman would direct, when Diana Strong, hearing
the subdued exclamations of surprise and pity, came to the parlor door
and glanced in.
"It is Hilda!" she exclaimed, clasping her hands and turning pale with
emotion. "What could have driven her out this wintry night?"
Although a new anxiety had come to Mrs. Merryman, she experienced relief
in again seeing the wanderer, and while Dr. and Mrs. Lattinger, Mrs.
Courtney and Diana were doing all in their power to restore the little
girl, she took him to the kitchen and soothed her tried conscience by
seeing that he was made comfortable with light and warmth and good food
at the table with Perry.
"I knows him," remarked Mose, who with Kitty was enjoying his supper at
a table in another corner of the kitchen. "I done seen him many a time
on the road."
"You knows a heap of people, Mose, that don't knows you," commented his
grandmother.
"Where was the little girl when you found her?" Mrs. Merryman asked
Archie, while Diana was pouring his coffee.
"She was sitting among the bushes by the piazza. Archie thought she was
looking in at the people. Archie did not know she was dead until he took
her up."
"Why were you here?" asked Mrs. Merryman kindly. "I thought you had
left."
"Archie was cold and hungry and tired. He went to the barn to sleep; he
had no other place to go. Archie heard sleigh bells and people coming in
with horses, and was afraid they would drive him away. Archie walked
about to keep warm; he heard singing and came to look in the window and
found the little girl."
The efforts of Dr. Lattinger were rewarded; after a time Hilda had
recovered sufficiently to be taken to the nursery where Diana watched
beside her until time to help serve refreshments.
"Where is mamma?" whispered Hilda without opening her weary eyes. "I
heard the sweet music and saw the beautiful angels, but did not know my
mamma or Aunt Ashley."
"You will see them after a time," said Diana tenderly; "go to sleep now
and get rested."
"I will," whispered the little girl; "I am tired, so tired, but I have
found heaven."
Tears flowed from Diana's eyes as she watched her sleeping, and
tender-hearted Norah wept in sympathy.
Hilda was so changed; she seemed no longer the light-hearted, care-free,
high-spirited child which had been loved and cherished by Mrs. Ashley.
Sadness had its place upon the wan face, the pinched features, in the
deep-sunken eyes. Diana almost censured herself for a share in the
cause.
Fortunately Diana could remain at the farmhouse while the bridal company
stayed, and her heart was comforted by knowing that Hilda had found a
good home; for the next morning Mrs. Merryman received a note from Miss
Flint saying that as Hilda had run away from the cottage, she should not
be received again under that roof.
The same afternoon as Perry was returning from the village with a wagon,
Miss Jerusha stopped him at her gate and helped him place in it three
trunks which had belonged to Mrs. Ashley. They contained clothing, books
and bric-a-brac, Jerusha retaining the furniture until claimed by Mrs.
Warfield.
Cast upon the charity of Mr. and Mrs. Merryman, Hilda was heartily
accepted, and Miss Flint went from her cottage in the morning and
returned to it in the evening, rejoicing that she was at last free from
the burden that had oppressed her. So sprightly did she become, in
addition to her naturally independent and arbitrary manner that she gave
no one reason to suspect that her conscience was troubled by three
secrets, one of which in after years she strove vainly to divulge to
Hilda.
The bridal company had been entertained at the Courtneys, the Lattingers
and several other homes, had seen the places of interest in the
neighborhood, had heard the traditions and chronicles, especially that
of the spectre that haunted "My Lady's Manor" and had returned to their
homes.
One evening Norah was preparing the evening meal and crooning an Irish
melody--to which Hilda, sitting in Erma's cradle, was listening
attentively--and had just placed tea biscuits in the oven when the door
opened and Archie came in.
He was comfortably clothed in the suit given him by Mr. Merryman, and
without glancing at Norah or Hilda he went directly to the seat in the
corner of the hearth which he had occupied the night of the reception.
"It is Archie!" cried Hilda in delight, "he has brought me a mocking
bird."
"No, Archie is ashamed that he could not bring one," said the wanderer
sadly. "He has tried and tried to catch one, but Archie has brought
something," and untying a plaid handkerchief he gave her a dead oriole,
a bit of moss, several snail and mussel shells, and other trifles which
he had gathered in the woods and streams perhaps miles away.
When Mr. and Mrs. Merryman and their little Erma returned from Dorton
and with Hilda sat down to tea in the dining-room, Archie fell asleep in
his chair, but awoke to take supper with Norah and Perry; then went to
the room over the kitchen which he had previously occupied, and before
the sun rose was away upon his aimless wanderings.
Thus the years passed, and in the home of the Merrymans contentment and
peace reigned. Hilda was looked upon as the elder daughter of the house
and was treated as kindly as though indeed their own. She went daily to
the village school and was beloved by teachers and companions.
Although each school day she passed the cottage twice, and the same on
Sabbaths to the village church, she never had a glimpse of Jerusha
Flint, from which the inference could be rightly drawn that Jerusha had
frequent glimpses of her.
One Saturday morning Hilda was helping Mrs. Merryman arrange the potted
plants upon the porch when Mose, hat in hand, made his appearance with a
note from Mrs. Courtney inviting them to take tea at "Friedenheim" that
evening.
Hilda's eager glance at Mrs. Merryman, hoping for acceptance of the
invitation, was met by an assenting smile; a reply was written and Mose
hurried away.
When it came time to dress for the visit Norah, who took great pride in
Hilda's beauty, arranged her hair in soft, full ringlets and helped her
don a pretty pink gown, Hilda's favorite, and singularly becoming.
The visit was one of unalloyed pleasure, for during the afternoon Mr.
Valentine Courtney drove out from the city in a handsome carriage drawn
by a pair of ponies, and finding Hilda and Erma there took them out for
a drive, and after tea he took them the short walk to "My Lady's Manor,"
too short to Mr. Courtney, so interested and amused was he with the
conversation of Hilda.
He enjoyed her quaint manner of telling the events which transpired
within the range of her knowledge, among them the arrival of Norah's
aunt from Scotland, an event of great interest to Norah, and through her
to Hilda.
"She is now at your Uncle Merryman's, I suppose?" remarked Mr. Courtney,
with a view to keeping up his share of the conversation.
"No, she is in Baltimore, but she wants to come to Dorton to be near
Norah; and Aunt Merryman will try to get her a place as housekeeper. She
is a very good housekeeper," concluded Hilda sagely.
When they reached "My Lady's Manor," Mr. Courtney unlocked the front
door, and they passed in; and after closing it he led the way through
the wide hall to the rooms on either side, all seeming to Hilda like the
almost forgotten remembrance of a dream. Then they ascended to the
second floor, then to the third and from thence up the narrow stair-way
to the walk on the roof, where Mr. Courtney pointed out the prominent
places in the city and noted the changes in Hilda's expressive
countenance, as in her quaint manner she gave her views of them.
It was growing twilight and so they turned to descend, Hilda being the
first to reach the stair-way.
"There is a lady waiting to come up!" she said in a half whisper, "I
think she is very old."
"A lady?" ejaculated Mr. Courtney, in surprise, and, stepping to the
stair-way, he glanced down.
The little lady in black, of whom he had so often heard, stood at the
foot, with bowed head and folded hands, but before Mr. Courtney could
address her, she disappeared.
When they descended to the attic, Mr. Courtney, without commenting upon
the subject, glanced into the rooms, but not a living creature was to be
seen, nor in the rooms below it; the house was silent save for their
footfalls.
"This mystery shall be explained, if possible, and that at the earliest
moment," he said to himself as he locked the hall door upon their exit,
and if Hilda noticed that he was silent on their walk back to
"Friedenheim" she made no comment.
Mr. Courtney joined the Rev. Carl, Mrs. Courtney and Mrs. Merryman upon
the piazza, while Hilda and Erma, attracted by the cheerful appearance
of the kitchen, halted at the door.
"Come right in, honey," cried Uncle Andy, heartily. "We is mighty glad
to see yer; we has no little chillen no mo', an' 'pears like we can
nebber git used ter doin' widout 'em."
"Where have they gone?" asked Hilda as, holding Erma's hand, she stepped
in.
"Roy an' Cecil has done mos' growed up, an' de little gal hab gone to
heaven whar ol' Andy will go in de heavenly Master's own good time. Ol'
Andy will soon go, honey."
Hilda longed to send a message by him to her father and mother and her
Uncle and Aunt Ashley, but had not courage to go near enough to him to
whisper her request. Her indecision brought the delicate bloom to her
cheek, which always appeared under any little excitement, and which
awakened anew the admiration of Chloe.
"She is as pretty as a picture; that is just the truth," she remarked to
Kitty.
"Now, Chloe, jes' yer hab done wid dat," exclaimed Andy, turning sharply
about. "Ol' Satan an' de lookin' glass will done tell her dat fas'
enough widout yore help."
"They will tell her the truth, Uncle Andy, you know that your own self,"
replied Chloe nonchalantly.
"Purty is as purty does, honey; don't disremember dat," advised Andy,
turning to Hilda; "don't let nobody make you sassy of yer beauty, fer
bime-bye, if de good Lord spares yer dat long, de wrinkles will done
scare de beauty away. Den whar is yer?"
"Never scared no beauty away from Mis' Emma," asserted Chloe defiantly.
"Wrinkles is coming to stay, but she is a beauty in spite of them."
"'Kase mistess wan't sassy ob her beauty, dat's what I done jes' say,
Chloe; de strongholt is mine, not yourn," and Andy laughed and coughed
exultantly.
"Missus come of a pretty family," interposed Kitty. "She couldn't have
been ugly if she had tried. When she an' Mars Courtney was bride and
groom, dey was de han'somest couple in de state, an' her mother an'
grandmother were beauties in der day."
"'Kase dey was Christians, an' had der treasures laid up in heaven. Yes,
Kitty, dey was good to de pore an' 'flicted, and too busy helpin' dem
dat could not help demselves to be sassy about der beauty."
"They was too good for dis yer world, dat's certain," responded Kitty.
"Deed was dey, an' nebber done forgit dar manners to nobody. When I was
de coachman, and used ter bring Selim to de block for young mistus--dat
was dis Misus Courtney's grandmother--honey," he said, turning to Hilda,
"an' she done come sweepin' down de piazzy steps, holdin' de long train
ob her habit ober her arm, an' her pearl handled whip in her han', an'
de long plumes in her hat bowin' an' noddin', tell yer what, honey, she
suttenly was purtier dan any picture."
"So she was," echoed Kitty. "I was young then, but I remember that she
looked like Mis' Emma."
"But you done forget about the manners, Uncle Andy," said Chloe
flippantly.
"Oh, yes! When I done led Selim to de block an' would pat de
proud-sperited creetur 'till mistus mounted into de saddle, an' took the
bridle, an' was startin' away, she allus said, 'Thanky, Andy!' She
nebber disremembered dat, nebber."
"Yes, and Mis' Emma is just as polite as her mother and grandmother,"
said Kitty, proudly, "they was born ladies and couldn't be anything
else."
It came time for Mrs. Merryman to go. Hilda and Erma were summoned. Mrs.
Courtney and her brother Valentine accompanied them across the meadow to
their home, and their conversation on the return walk was of "My Lady's
Manor," now bathed in the splendor of the moonlight.