One favor stipulated by Fred, after his engagement to Hilda, was that
she should answer his letters promptly when anything prevented his
weekly visit to the farmhouse, and she promised.
At the commencement of this correspondence Fred ignored the title
"cousin" in inditing and ending his epistles, and substituted "My
Dearest Hilda," or "My Beloved Hilda," as the fancy of the moment
dictated, and signed them "Your Devoted Fred." Her answering missives
were guided by his letters, modified, however, by maidenly reserve, but
at his request she ceased to address him as "cousin."
As the winter wore on, snows and rains and like excuses were utilized by
Fred as preventing his weekly visits; and after the spring came and
merged into summer he made only fortnightly visits to the farmhouse, as
was his custom before Hilda became a member of the home circle. His
letters, however, came punctually and gave lively details of the social
festivities in Springfield society. "Dear Hilda" appeared to be a
sufficiently affectionate appellation in inditing these missives, and
before the autumn came "Cousin Hilda" seemed to satisfy his surely
waning affection.
A silent, but none the less attentive observer of all this was Mrs.
Warfield, although she never saw or asked to see a line of the
correspondence. But after Hilda's reception of a letter from Fred she
failed to see the glow of pleasure which had illuminated the sweet face
in the early days of the engagement; instead, a wounded, unsatisfied
expression sat upon the sad lips and tried to hide itself in the depths
of the pensive eyes.
One morning Hilda received her usual letter from Mrs. Merryman and one
from Fred, brought from the village post-office by Ben Duvall. She
hurried to her room to read them. Mrs. Warfield, who had gone to her own
room adjoining, heard her ascend the stairs, enter her room and close
the door, and expected after time was given her to peruse them to hear
her gentle tap upon her door Mrs. Merryman's letter in hand to read
aloud, as was her custom. All remained silent for such a length of time
that Mrs. Warfield had almost concluded that her eyes had deceived her,
and Hilda had not received letters, when she heard her foot-steps pause
at the door.
"Come in, darling, I am here," she called, and Hilda came in slowly with
Mrs. Merryman's letter open in her hand. A bright spot burned on either
cheek, but it was evidently not caused by pleasure. There was a look of
having shed tears, and when she took a low chair near Mrs. Warfield and
read the letter her voice trembled, although she made an effort to
steady it.
Mrs. Merryman's letter was long and interesting. Her former letters had
informed Hilda of the absence of Mr. Valentine Courtney. This one
mentioned the place of his sojourn in the old world as heard through
Mrs. Courtney. It gave details of all the little happenings in Dorton
and in its neighborhood, and of affairs at "My Lady's Manor" under the
management of Mrs. MacQuoid, as reported by Norah, and closed with the
intelligence of the illness of Jerusha Flint.
Mrs. Warfield listened attentively to the letter from beginning to end,
and thanked Hilda for giving her the pleasure of hearing it; at the same
time she heard nothing to warrant the subdued excitement of the reader.
She was quite sure that it was not the illness of Miss Flint or Hilda
would have made allusion to it. Moreover, her manner appeared to take
more of anger than grief, and Mrs. Warfield felt assured in consequence
that a letter had been received from Fred, and it was responsible for
that anger.
As soon as Hilda finished she arose and returned to her own room.
"Aunt Sarah," she said a few minutes later, "do you wish anything from
the village? I am going to the post-office."
"No, dear, I do not know of anything needed."
Hilda went to her room to put on her wraps, and Mrs. Warfield, after a
moment's reflection, laid aside her sewing and followed.
"My dear," she said, as Hilda opened the door for her, "if you are
writing to Fred, I hope you will be careful what you write. He is very
careless of his letters, and other eyes may see what you only intend for
his. I do not seek to question into what should perhaps not concern me,
but you appear a little different from your usual manner and I only wish
to warn you."
The color left the face of the girl for a moment, and she leaned against
her dressing-table for support.
"You are his mother," she said with tear-dimmed eyes. "Read what he
says."
"I hope, my child, that you have not asked me to do this unless you are
desirous that I should read it."
"I did not even imagine, five minutes ago, that I could ever allow
anyone to see it; now I wish you to read it," and tears rolled down the
pale cheeks.
Mrs. Warfield opened the sheet and glanced over the words:
"My Poor Little Hilda:
"No one could have convinced me half a year ago that I would
address you, whom I then loved, to tell you that my feelings in
regard to you have undergone a change. I am heartily ashamed of
myself to have to acknowledge this, and no doubt you will be
disappointed in me. Perhaps if I could have seen you oftener it
might have been different. If I could know what my future
sentiments toward you will be I would gladly tell you. I hope
you will care a little because of this, but I do not wish you to
grieve too much.
"Your Cousin Fred."
The flush which had arisen to the cheek of Hilda was eclipsed by the
glow that spread over the face of Mrs. Warfield. She gave the letter
back without a word, her eyes refusing to meet those of the girl
standing before her.
"Will you read my answer?" asked Hilda, taking it from the envelope not
yet sealed.
"If you wish it, my love."
"Yes, I would rather have you know the whole story."
Mrs. Warfield's face brightened into a smile as she read:
"Dear Cousin Fred:
"Yours received and I reply merely to advise you not to
distress yourself fearing I will grieve. Why should I be
disappointed in you, when it is exactly as I expected? I
was favored with the experience of other girls, and as
you will remember was not willing to engage myself to
you, knowing your fickleness; but after you remained
faithful a few weeks I was foolish enough to believe you
in earnest, and for this I am heartily ashamed. I shall
be in no danger of committing again the folly of
believing it, so you need not trouble yourself to tell
me 'your future sentiments.'
"Your Cousin Hilda."
Mrs. Warfield arose upon finishing the letter, and taking Hilda in her
arms pressed a kiss upon the trembling lips.
"I feared you would not be willing to have me send it," faltered Hilda,
as tears for the sympathy received filled her eyes.
"Yes, send it, by all means, and the earlier the better. It will do Fred
good to find that one girl, at least, is not so much in love with him as
to withhold resentment for his unmanly fickleness."
Hilda put the letter in the envelope, sealed it and went out, and Mrs.
Warfield returned to her room and took up her sewing.
"Without intending it, she has taken the very best way to retain him,"
she communed with herself. "She is a noble girl. Fred will rue this."
Bravely as Hilda had borne the trial, try as she might to conceal her
wounded feelings, Mrs. Warfield, apparently unobservant, knew as time
passed on that the reaction was harder to bear than the first knowledge
of Fred's inconstancy.
Hilda had watched for his coming, the correspondence had been a stimulus
in her uneventful life at the farmhouse, and when it ceased, in spite of
her good sense and excellent judgment for one so young, she felt
desolate and unsettled. She dreaded Fred's next visit home. How could
she meet him under these changed circumstances? What could she say to
him, or he to her, under the piercing, satirical gaze of Mrs. Paul
Warfield? And Mrs. Merryman--what would she think of it, she who was so
glad to know that Hilda had such kind and loving friends in her new
home?
It was a bitter trial to tell her, but Hilda's conscience would not
allow her to leave that faithful friend in ignorance of how matters
stood, and in the postscript to her next letter she said: "Dear Aunt
Grace, the engagement between Cousin Fred and myself is broken."
That was all; she could not tell her now the cause, and was very sure
that Mrs. Merryman would never ask.
Hilda was sincere in saying that she would not grieve. She read, she
studied, practiced the most difficult of the pieces given her by
Professor Ballini, and in other ways kept herself constantly employed;
and Mrs. Warfield's motherly heart yearned toward her as if she were
indeed her own loved daughter.
After a time Fred's letter set Hilda to analyzing the real state of her
feelings toward him. She loved him because, like the others of his
family, he had been so kind to her. He was one of the best of sons, one
of the most affectionate of brothers. She doubted if any girl could have
helped becoming attached to one so handsome and attractive, if placed in
his companionship as she had been.
Yet she realized that the affection she had cherished for him was unlike
that which she had thought a woman's should be for the one who was to
fill the place of protector and life-long companion; different, as she
now discovered, from the affection she entertained for Mr. Courtney.
Yes, like a revelation it came to her in the quietude of her room that
the feeling with which she regarded him was different from that felt for
any other human being. She remembered his manly steadiness and strength
of character; his protecting care of her and of everything feebler than
himself; the repose and peace and contentment she always felt in his
society. She remembered the last evening she passed at "My Lady's
Manor," and tears filled her eyes as she thought of the loneliness that
reigned in the beloved library, now that he was far away.
She took the miniature portrait of Mr. Courtney from its velvet case and
looked long and earnestly at it.
"He has not a superior," she said to herself; "he is noble and true and
I love him and only him, though he may never think of me or see me
again."
That afternoon Mrs. Lura invited Hilda to make parochial calls with her,
after which she intended stopping at Uncle Herbert's store in the
village to purchase material for her embroidery. She was proficient in
all kinds of fancy work, and just at that time was exercised over the
completion of a sofa pillow for a birthday gift for her father.
In the fancy line Uncle Herbert's stock was far from extensive at any
time, and at that particular epoch was poor indeed, and Mrs. Lura was
unable to obtain any of the shades of silk desired. Consequently she
lost her temper and sharply reminded him that he ought to keep a store
where customers could get at least a third of the articles called for,
or give it up that a more enterprising man might take his place.
Uncle Herbert laughed good-naturedly at this candid opinion, accompanied
by a frown upon the fair brow and the flashing of brilliant black eyes,
and informed her that he intended going to Philadelphia on the early
morning train to purchase his half yearly supply of merchandise, and
would be happy to get anything she needed.
Equanimity restored, Mrs. Lura made out a list which Uncle Herbert put
carefully in his memorandum book, searchingly watched by Mrs. Lura,
accompanied by the injunction not to forget until she came for the silks
that it was there.
The errands all completed, they drove back to the farmhouse, at the
entrance of which Mrs. Warfield met them, more disturbed than they had
ever seen her.
"My love," she said taking Hilda's hand, "a telegram has just come from
Dorton. Jerusha Flint is very ill; they think she cannot live, and she
says she must see you, and you cannot go alone."
"Uncle Herbert is going to Philadelphia in the morning," said Mrs. Lura
promptly. "Hilda can go with him."
"That is an excellent opportunity," exclaimed Mrs. Warfield. "I will
send immediately to the village and tell him that Hilda will meet him at
the station in good time."
"Planchette and the carriage are yet at the gate," said Mrs. Lura,
glancing through the window. "I will drive back and tell Uncle Herbert,
although I wonder that Hilda is willing to trouble herself to visit one
who treated her so unkindly as did Miss Flint. I should not go near
her."
"I grieve to have Hilda leave us, but it is a duty. Miss Flint must have
some important reason for wishing to see her. She has possession of the
few articles of furniture which were my sister's, and she may wish to
see her in regard to them; or she may wish to ask forgiveness for her
cruelty. Be the reason what it may, she must have her wish granted, if
possible."
Hilda passed the evening packing her trunk, and although she reproached
herself that she could be glad to go from friends who were so tenderly
kind, and her conscience troubled her that she could not be more sorry
for the cause that was calling her back to Dorton, in spite of her
reasoning she could not help rejoicing over the prospective visit.
"I will see dear Aunt Merryman and all my Dorton friends," she said to
herself with an exultant throb of her heart. "Besides, I shall miss
seeing Cousin Fred."
The next morning Mrs. Lura, who had another commission for Uncle
Herbert, took Hilda to the Woodmont station, where he had not arrived,
much to her displeasure, for it was nearing train time and she
prophesied that with his usual want of punctuality he would be left.
Just as she arrived at the stage of impatience as to be upon the point
of driving to the village for him and giving him a piece of her mind, he
came in sight, walking at his usual leisurely, dignified pace, and in a
few minutes they were off and Mrs. Lura went home.
Uncle Herbert was a genial traveling companion, and Hilda enjoyed the
trip thoroughly. He accompanied her to the Baltimore depot as soon as
they reached Philadelphia, and saw her on her way. Mr. Merryman's
carriage met her at Dorton Station and conveyed her to the cottage of
Jerusha Flint. And thus, without a moment's delay which could be
avoided, Hilda stood again in one of the homes of her childhood.
Diana Strong was in attendance upon the invalid and welcomed Hilda
warmly.
"How much you have grown!" she said softly. "I never would have thought
that a person could improve so much in less than two years; you are
really an elegant young lady."
"Is she very ill?" asked Hilda in the same tone, as she laid aside hat
and gloves in the little sitting-room.
"She is at death's door. It appears that only her longing and hope of
seeing you have kept her alive. She has something on her mind that
troubles her, poor creature, and has fretted and worried to see you, and
I had to get Mr. Merryman to telegraph for you to come."
"Hilda," moaned a feeble voice, "won't you come?"
"I am here," replied the young girl, passing into the room, and bending
over the invalid. "Tell me what I can do for you, and it shall be done
gladly."
And thus the two whose heredity and paths in life had so contrasted met
for the last time upon earth.
"Forgive me, oh, forgive me for my cruelty to you!" implored the fast
failing voice slowly and falteringly.
"I do forgive you, freely and fully, as I hope to be forgiven."
"I am almost gone," whispered Jerusha. "I was unjust to you as well as
cruel. Your Aunt Ashley left--two letters--for you. I read them--and
destroyed--one. All in the cottage--was--yours,--there was money--I
kept--every penny--of it--safely for you. It--is with the--letter,
and--her pen--in the--the--"
Eagerly as Hilda listened, she heard no more. Jerusha's lips were closed
in death.