Excepting Erma, who was growing into healthy, attractive young
womanhood, Hilda found no change in the Merryman household.
Her room was just as she left it the morning she and Paul set out for
Ohio. She was glad to be again in it, and was as tenderly welcomed to
the home as if she were a beloved daughter, and dropped naturally into
the place she had once filled.
Mrs. Courtney had forwarded Hilda's last letter to her brother
Valentine, and had not expected to write so soon again; but having
called to see Hilda the evening of her arrival, she could not forbear
writing to him as soon as she reached home telling him of the unexpected
call which had brought the young girl to Dorton, and speaking warmly of
her beauty and the sweet dignity of her manner.
The day following that in which Jerusha Flint had been placed in her
resting place in Dorton churchyard, Mrs. Merryman went with Hilda to
visit the cottage abandoned by Diana Strong.
Following the rule adopted at the commencement of her occupancy, of
renting by the year and paying in advance, Jerusha Flint, though in her
grave, held, in a manner, possession of the cottage, so all remained as
she had left it until Hilda could consult with Mrs. Warfield through the
medium of letters.
With the exception of the desk, and a few small articles, there was
nothing that she cared to keep; yet as all there was bequeathed to her
by Mrs. Ashley, she did not wish to act unadvisedly.
The main object of her visit was to examine the writing desk in search
of the papers and the ruby inlaid pen of which Jerusha had spoken.
"I wrote a letter to you with it, but did not send it, as Mr. Merryman,
who called, said a telegram would be better," Diana Strong had told her
the day she came. "I laid the pen back in the desk and while standing at
the gate talking to Mr. Merryman I saw Jerusha rise from her bed, totter
the few steps to the desk, lock it and put the key under the pillow
where we found it."
All searching for the papers was vain, but Hilda never passed the
cottage that she did not examine the desk, believing there was a secret
drawer that was baffling her search.
Her walks to "My Lady's Manor" were resumed, to the delight of Mrs.
MacQuoid and Chloe, who made it a rule to have the library warm and
bright when Hilda came.
Sometimes she remained only long enough to exchange books, but they had
seen her, she had chatted with them, had petted the terrier, exchanged
some words with Sandy and left all cheered by the visit.
One afternoon she extended her walk to Dorton post-office, intending to
call at "My Lady's Manor" upon her return in order to get a volume which
an adverse and scathing criticism had tempted her to read.
She was expecting a letter from Mrs. Warfield, and saw that she was not
to be disappointed when the postmaster, with a benevolent smile,
commenced looking over the mail in the Merryman box.
There was one for her, but not addressed in the feminine script of Mrs.
Warfield, but in the bold, business hand of Fred.
She had not remembered that it was the fourteenth of February, and with
trembling fingers opened it the moment she reached the seclusion of the
library at "My Lady's Manor."
Fred's remorse for his fickleness had found relief in rhyme, and under
the wing of St. Valentine he poured forth his plaint:
"Each sound hath an echo, like to like doth incline,
But where is the heart that respondeth to mine?
In sunshine and shade life is lonely and drear,
I call my beloved, but no answer I hear.
I seek my beloved as the dew seeks the flower,
As moonbeams seek stream, meadow, forest and bower.
Oh, sadly I wander o'er woodland and lea,
And muse on the one so far distant from me!
I question my fate, and try to divine
If Hilda, my loved one, will ever be mine.
But all, all is silent; I wander alone;
I hope against hope, for I know she is gone.
She is loved by another, his bride she will be
And all pleasures in life must seem hollow to me."
His reminiscences had a different effect upon Hilda from what he
intended. They cheered and warmed her heart, it was true, but not for
him. Kind-hearted and sympathetic as she was, the prospective hollowness
of Fred's pleasures did not in the least disturb her serenity. Instead,
the last two lines of his valentine held a prophecy which filled her
heart with sweet content. In the loving arms of kind Destiny she had
been fostered, and she had faith to believe that she would ever there
repose. Fred's written words only confirmed what she in thought was
beginning to cherish. She loved Valentine Courtney, and had the
conviction that the time would come when he would think of her; for that
time she would wait.
It was growing twilight, and folding her letter she left the library,
and to her great pleasure saw Archie sitting by the kitchen hearth, who
spoke to her as he would have done had he seen her every day.
"Got any valentines yet, Miss Hilda?" asked Chloe. "You must not forgit
that you is a valentine yer own self, that Archie done found in the
snow."
"No, Chloe, I can never forget that good Archie saved my life on St.
Valentine's day," replied Hilda, looking kindly upon the wanderer.
"Archie can find no more people in the snow; he has looked and looked
for them," he said sadly.
"I suppose it is yourself that gets plenty of valentines, Miss Hilda,"
remarked Mrs. MacQuoid respectfully, gazing with admiration upon the
fair girl.
"No, Mrs. MacQuoid, there is no prospect of my getting many," smiled
Hilda.
"Archie wishes that he could bring one," said the old man. "He would
find one in the snow if he could."
"Thank you, Archie, I am sure you would bring me a valentine if you
could find one," and nodding a cheery good-bye, Hilda ran down the steps
of the porch and in a little while reached "Fair Meadow."
"Miss Hilda," said Norah, "Mr. Merryman had a message from his sister in
Baltimore, saying that relatives from Boston on their way south for the
winter are there to remain over night, and she would like Mr. and Mrs.
Merryman to come there for supper, and they have gone."
"Very well, Norah; then you will please bring in the tea while I run up
to my room to lay aside my wraps."
Hilda had worn a crimson cashmere dress to the village, a costume very
becoming to her fair face; and, adjusting the soft lace about throat and
wrists, she put on a filmy white apron with a pocket to accommodate the
ball of some fleecy white knitting, and with it in her hand descended to
the tea-room, which was very bright and cheery in the lamp and
fire-light.
Hilda's brisk walk in the crisp air had made the simple meal very
enjoyable, and as soon as Norah had again put the center-table in order,
Hilda drew it closer to the hearth and was soon absorbed in her book.
Nothing disturbed the stillness of the room save the singing of the
hickory wood blazing in the open grate, or the purring of the kitten
upon the hearth.
At the same hour the household of "My Lady's Manor" was agreeably
surprised at the unexpected arrival of Mr. Courtney; and his welcome
home, so far as they were concerned, was all that could be desired.
But during his voyage across the Atlantic, and every reflective moment
since, he had pictured a fair girlish face that he longed to see
brighten at his coming, and had felt the clasp of a dimpled hand that
was dearer to him than all else upon the broad earth.
"I hope you will not allow my coming to disturb you, Mrs. MacQuoid," he
said kindly when both arose from their evening meal at his entrance. "Do
you and Sandy finish your tea; I will chat with Archie a while and then
rest in the library until it suits you to ring for me."
Archie had been asleep in his chair, but awoke at the sound of Mr.
Courtney's voice and looked up at the handsome, kind face with an
appreciative smile.
"Archie is glad you are home; he has often been here, but could not see
you," he said.
"Miss Hilda was here this afternoon, sir," said Mrs. MacQuoid. "She was
reading in the library."
Mr. Courtney's heart thrilled with pleasure, and a smile illumined his
countenance. He was now where she had lately been; the sweet
consciousness of her presence made his home doubly dear.
While he was chatting with Archie and asking Mrs. MacQuoid for the
welfare of Rev. Carl and family and the neighborhood in general, Sandy
lighted the library lamp, drew the blinds, and wheeled Mr. Courtney's
favorite chair before the grate.
"If we had knowed that Marse Val was comin'," remarked Chloe, after he
had withdrawn to the library, "we could have had fried chicken and hot
waffles, an' invited Mis' Emma an' Miss Hilda over, an' it would have
been like ol' times."
"He knows we didn't expect him, Chloe, and I am sure this rich ham, and
your beautiful white rolls, and the sweet butter and honey will suit
him," replied Mrs. MacQuoid as she placed glass and china for one upon
the tea-table.
"He allus was that easy to please; never had no bother nohow with Marse
Val, and Marse Carl an' Miss Emma. They is angels, that is certain
sure."
"True for you, Chloe, and now if the coffee is ready, I will ring for
the master."
"It's done ready, an' is the Simon-pure an' no mistake. Kitty done say,
she did, that when Marse Val was a little fellah, he couldn't be
humbugged when it come to coffee. He knowed the very fust sip that the
culled folks' Rio wasn't the white folks' Mocha."
The meal appeared to suit Mr. Courtney perfectly. Refreshed in spirit by
his sojourn in the library, his manner proved the return of hope. When
he finished he again sought the library.
On his homeward journey he had read and reread Mrs. Courtney's two
latest letters, received by the same mail--one telling him of the broken
engagement, the other of Hilda's return to Dorton. They had found him
lonely, restless, seeking for happiness that change did not bring. After
reading them he was, as it were, in another realm, and obeying a sudden
impulse made haste to return to his native land, was now at "My Lady's
Manor" in his favorite room. Alone and at leisure, he had time to
reflect.
If, after all, his coming were fruitless, what had life to offer in
compensation for his great disappointment? He reasoned that the broken
engagement was, perhaps, the result of a misunderstanding which had been
explained away, and the engagement renewed upon a firmer basis than
before.
He called to mind that business alone had brought Hilda to Dorton. She
had not come because she wished to see him or "My Lady's Manor," for she
knew of his absence, and could have no knowledge as to when he would
return.
If she loved Fred Warfield, this visit to Dorton would not weaken the
attachment, nor would he wish it to do so; yet her return to Fred would
leave him desolate, and "My Lady's Manor" a prison.
What presumption--he reflected--for one whose age was nearly double her
seventeen years to hope to win one so lovely! What advantage had he over
the bright, buoyant beauty, the youthful companionship of Fred Warfield,
except his wealth? And he knew Hilda's noble nature too well to believe
for a moment that she would make of it the most remote object. He arose
from his place by the hearth and walked to and fro in the quiet room.
The library door opened softly and Archie came in. "I want you!" he
said, in a subdued, impatient tone. "I promised her. Come!"
Mr. Courtney made no response; mutely he obeyed, and swiftly and
silently Archie led the way across the meadow to Mr. Merryman's. Taking
neither path that led to the front entrance, he took his accustomed way,
opened the tea-room door, and they stood in the presence of Hilda.
"I have brought you a valentine, but I could not find one in the snow,"
said Archie in a low tone. "Archie would have tried and tried, had there
been any snow."
Hilda arose, a flush of joy illumined her sweet face, she advanced a
step toward Mr. Courtney, then withdrew.
"She does not love me, Archie," said Mr. Courtney, noticing the action,
"youth and loveliness can have no affinity with middle age."
"Please tell him, Archie," said Hilda, gently, "that youth trusts to
middle age for faithful love and protection. Hair tinged with silver is
beautiful in my eyes."
Mr. Courtney advanced eagerly and taking her hand in his pressed his
lips upon it.
"Oh, Archie, dare I ask for this dear hand?"
"If he asks, Archie, it is his," said Hilda.
"But the heart, Archie? The hand is valueless to me unless the heart
goes with it."
"Tell him, good Archie, that the heart has always been his, though part
of the time it knew not its master."
"I feel as if in a dream," faltered Mr. Courtney; "an hour ago
despairing, now filled with greater happiness than I had dared imagine."
"We owe our happiness to Archie. He has been my good genius from
childhood. He is my mascot."
"I will make another effort to have him share our home at 'My Lady's
Manor'," said Mr. Courtney. "Your persuasion will, I think, prevail."
"Our home!" Hilda's heart thrilled at the sweet words. An orphan,
homeless, save for the goodness of dear friends, she was now the
promised wife of one who would protect and care for her as long as life
was granted, one whom she could truly love and honor for his noble,
tender and steadfast nature. How could she ever be grateful enough to
God for His goodness to her?
"This is one of Archie's homes; Archie will stay till morning," and,
passing into the kitchen, the old man, without so much as a word to the
occupants thereof, went up to his room, leaving Norah and Perry amazed
at his sudden appearance.
With a look of supreme content Mr. Courtney took a chair beside the
center-table whereupon lay the book which Hilda had been reading. His
glance fell upon the letter lying beside it and a look of pain crossed
his handsome features.
"It is only a valentine," said Hilda. "Will you read it?" and she gave
it into his hands.
"This is from young Mr. Warfield, I suppose?" he commented with a smile
as he finished the closing lines.
"Yes, it is from Cousin Fred, and I suppose it is my duty to tell you
that he once asked me to be his wife."
"You loved him, of course," said Mr. Courtney, a little anxiously.
"I will tell you, sir, exactly as it was," she replied, with the
straightforward look and manner of one who had nothing to conceal. "The
girls told me that Fred is fickle, and they did not believe that he
could really love anyone. When he told me of his affection for me, I
knew it was what he had said to every girl with whom he was well
acquainted, so did not believe him sincere. He wished to correspond with
me, and through his letters I began to have a warmer affection for him,
and was disappointed when they began to grow cold, or failed to come
when expected. It ended by his writing, releasing himself from the
engagement."
"And you were grieved, my darling?"
"Yes, sir, and I was angry. His letter was so patronizing, so full of
his own importance, that had I asked him to marry me, he could scarcely
have worded it differently. I let him know that, attractive as he
considered himself, I could quickly give him up."
"But you were sorry it occurred?"
"For a while I missed his visits and his letters, then I grew glad it
happened, for I would not have known my feelings toward you had not Fred
engaged himself to me, and then broken the engagement. I compared him
with you, and he appeared boyish and unstable. I could have no
confidence in him. He would change his mind at the altar if he should
see a prettier face among the spectators."
"Was Mrs. Warfield aware of the engagement?" asked Mr. Courtney, amused
at the quaint seriousness of the little woman.
"Oh, Mr. Courtney, no mother could have acted more nobly than she! I
told her all, and gave her his letter and my reply."
"Could you welcome Mrs. Warfield and her younger son to our home without
one regret for 'the might have been?'"
"Without one regret."