"Gabrielle."
"Oui, mademoiselle Hazel," came in shrill yet muffled tones from the
depths of the dressing-room closet.
"Bring me my white silk kimono."
"Oui, mademoiselle."
The order, in French, was given in a weak and slightly fretful voice
that issued from the bed at the farther end of a large room from which
the dressing-room opened. The apartment was, in truth, what Doctor
Heath had called it, "a nest of luxury."
It was a bitter Saint Valentine's Day which succeeded the Doctor's
evening visit. The wood-fire, blazing cheerily in the ample fireplace,
sent its warmth and light far out into the room, flashing red
reflections in the curiously twisted bars of the brass bedstead. At the
left of the fireplace stood a small round tea-table, and upon it a
little silver tea-kettle on a standard of the same metal. Dainty cups
and saucers of egg-shell china were grouped about it; a miniature silver
tray held a sugar-dish and a cream-pot and a half-dozen gold-lined
souvenir spoons.
On the richly carved mantel stood an exquisite plate-glass clock, the
chimes of which were just striking nine, and, keeping it company to
right and left, were two dainty figures of a shepherd and shepherdess in
Dresden china. The remaining mantel space was filled with tiny figures
in bisque,--a dachshund, a cat and kittens, a porcelain box,
heart-shaped, the top covered with china forget-me-nots, a silver
drinking-cup, a small oval portrait on ivory of a beautiful young woman,
framed in richly chased gold, the inner rim set round with pearls. A
blue pitcher of Cloisonne and a tray of filigree silver heaped with
dainty cotillion favors stood on one end; on the other, a crystal vase
filled with white tulips.
Soft blue and white Japanese rugs lay upon the polished floor; delicate
blue and white draperies hung at the windows. Dressing-case and
writing-desk of white curled maple were each laden with articles for the
toilet and for writing, in solid silver, engraved with the monogram H.C.
A couch, upholstered in blue and white Japanese silk, stood at the right
of the fireplace, and all about the room were dainty wicker chairs
enamelled in white, and cushioned to match the hangings.
The bed was canopied in pale blue covered with white net and edged with
lace, and the coverlet was of silk of the same delicate color,
embroidered with white violets and edged like the canopy, only with a
deeper frill of lace. The occupant of this couch, fit for a princess
royal, was the little mistress of all she surveyed, as well as the
mansion of which the room formed a small part; and a woebegone-looking
little girl she was, who called again, and this time impatiently:--
"Gabrielle, hurry, do."
"Oui, oui, mademoiselle Hazel;" and Gabrielle tripped across the room
with the white kimono in one hand and fresh towels in the other. She
had just slipped it upon Hazel when there was a knock at the door.
Gabrielle opened it, and Wilkins asked in a voice intended to be low,
but which proved only husky:--
"Nuss say she mus' jes' speak wif Marse Clyde 'fo' she come up, an'
wan's to know if Miss Hazel will haf her breffus now or wait till she
come up herse'f."
Before Gabrielle could answer, Hazel called out, "You may bring it up
now, Wilkins; and has the postman come yet?"
Wilkins' broad smile sounded in his voice, as it came out of its
huskiness.
"Yes, Miss Hazel, ben jes' 'fo' I come up. I ain't seen no hearts, but
dey's thicker 'n spatter by de feel, an' a heap o' boxes by 'spress!"
"Oh, bring them up quick, Wilkins, and tell papa to be sure and come up
directly after breakfast."
"Yes, for sho', Miss Hazel," said Wilkins, delighted to have a word with
the little daughter of her whom he had carried in his arms thirty-two
years ago up and down the jasmine-covered porch of an old New Orleans
mansion.
In a few minutes, he reappeared with two large silver trays, on one of
which was the tempting breakfast of Hamburg grapes, a dropped egg, a
slice of golden-brown toast, half of a squab broiled to the
melting-point, and a cup of cocoa. On the other were boxes large and
small, and white envelopes of all sizes.
Gabrielle cut the string and opened the boxes, while Hazel looked on,
pleased to be remembered, but finding nothing unusual in the display;
for Christmas and Easter and birthdays and parties brought just about
the same collection, minus "the hearts," which Wilkins had felt through
the covers. The only fun, after all, was in the guessing.
Just then Mr. Clyde entered.
"Oh, papa! I 'm so glad you have come; it's no fun guessing alone."
She put up her peaked, sallow little face for the good-morning kiss; and
her father, with the thought of his last night's struggle, took the face
in both hands and kissed brow and mouth with unusual tenderness.
"Why, papa!" she exclaimed, "that kiss is my best valentine; you never
kissed me that way before."
"Well, it's time I began, Birdie; let's see what you have for nonsense
here. What's this--from Cambridge?"
"Oh, that's Jack, I 'm sure; he always sends me violets; but what is
that in the middle of the bunch?" With a smile she drew out a tiny
vignette of her Harvard Sophomore cousin. It was framed in a little
gold heart, and on a slip of paper was written, "For thee, I 'm all
'art."
"Jack 's a gay deceiver," laughed her father; "he 's all ''art' for a
good many girls, big and little. What's this?--and this?"
One after another he took out the contents of envelopes and
boxes,--candy hearts by the pound in silver bonbon boxes, silk hearts,
paper hearts, a flower heart of real roses ("That's from you, Papa
Clyde!" she exclaimed, and her father did not deny the pleasant
accusation), hollow gilt hearts stuffed with sentiments, a silver
chatelaine heart for change, and last, but not least, an enormous
envelope, a foot square, containing a white paper heart all written over
with "sentiments" from the girls in her class at school.
"Come now, Birdie," said her father, after the last one had been opened
and guessed over, "eat your breakfast, or nurse will scold us both for
putting play before business."
"I don't think I want any, papa," said Hazel, languidly, for, after all,
the valentines had proved to be almost too much excitement for the
little girl, who was just recovering from weeks of slow fever; "and,
Gabrielle, take the flowers away, they make my head ache,--and the other
things, too," she added, turning her head wearily on the pillow.
"But you must eat, Hazel dear," said her father, gently but firmly; and
therewith he took a grape and squeezed the pulp between her lips. Hazel
laughed,--a faint sound.
"Why, papa, if you feed me that way, I shall be a real Birdie. Yes,"
she nodded, "that's good; I 'll take another;" and her father proceeded
to feed her slowly, now coaxing, now urging, then commanding, till a few
grapes and a half egg were disposed of.
"There, now, I won't play tyrant any longer," he said, "for your real
tyrant of a doctor is coming soon, and I must be out of the way."
"Are you going to be at home for luncheon to-day, papa?"
"No, dear, I 've promised to go out to Tuxedo with the Masons, but I
shall be at home before dinner, just to look in upon you. I dine with
the Pearsells afterwards. Good-bye." A kiss,--two, three of them; and
the merry, handsome young father, still but thirty-seven, had gone, and
with him much of the brightness of Hazel's day.
But she was used to this. Ever since she could remember anything, she
had been petted and kissed and--left with her nurse, her governess, or a
French maid.
Her young mother, a Southern belle, lived more out of her home than in
it, with the round of gayeties in the winter months interrupted and
continued by winter house-parties at Lenox, a yachting cruise in the
Mediterranean, an early spring-flitting to the mountains of North
Carolina, and the later household moving to Newport.
In all these migrations Hazel accompanied her parents; in fact, was
moved about as so much goods and chattels, from New York to the
Berkshires, from the Berkshires to Malta, from Malta to the Great
Smokies, from the mountains to the sea; her appurtenances, the governess
and French maid, went with her; and the routine of her home in New York,
the study, the promenade, the all-alone breakfasts and dinners went on
with the regularity of clockwork, whether on the yacht, in the
mountains, or in the villa on the Cliff.
So now, although she wished her father would stay and entertain her, it
never occurred to her to tell him so; and likewise it never occurred to
the father that his child needed or wished him to stay. Nor had it ever
occurred to the young mother that she was not doing her whole duty by
her child; for she never omitted to go upstairs and kiss her little
daughter good-night, whether the child was awake or asleep, before going
out to dinner, theatre, or reception.
She died when Hazel was nine, and it was a lovely memory of "mamma" that
Hazel cherished: a vision of loveliness in trailing white silk, or
velvet, or lace,--her mother always wore white, it was her Southern
inheritance,--with a single dark-red rose among the folds of Venetian
point of the bertha; always a gleam of white neck and arms banded with
flashing, many-faceted diamonds, or roped with pearls; always a sense of
delicious white warmth and fragrance, as the vision bent over her and
pressed a light kiss upon her cheek. And if, in her bliss, she opened
her sleepy eyes, she looked always into laughing brown depths, and
putting up her hand caressed shining masses of brown hair.
But it was always a good-night vision. In the morning mamma did not
breakfast until ten, and Hazel was off to the little private school at
half-past nine. At noon mamma was either out at lunch or giving a
lunch-party; and in the afternoon there was the promenade in the Park
with the governess, and sometimes, as a treat, a drive with mamma on her
round of calls, when Hazel and the maid sat among the furs in the
carriage. Then Hazel played at being grown up, and longed for the time
when she could wear a reception dress like mamma's, of white broadcloth
and sable, and trip up the steps of the various houses, and trip down
again with a bevy of young girls laughing and chatting so merrily.
All that had ceased when Hazel was nine, and the young father had made
her mistress in her mother's place. It was such a great house! and there
were so many servants! and the housekeeper was so strict! and it was so
queer to sit at the round table in the big dining-room and try to look
at papa over the silver epergne in the centre!
When she was eleven, she entered one of the large private schools which
many of her little mates attended. Soon it came to be the "girls of our
set" with Hazel; and then there followed music-lessons, and
violin-lessons, and riding-lessons, and dancing-class, and riding-days
in the Park, and lunch-parties with the girls, and
theatre-matinee-parties, and concerts at Carnegie Hall, and birthday
parties, and sales--school and drawing-room affairs--and Lenten
sewing-classes; until gradually her little society life had become an
epitome of her mother's, and when she began to shoot up like a
bean-sprout, lose her round face and the delicate pink from her cheeks,
uncles and aunt and cousin and friends whispered of her mother's frail
constitution, and that it was time to take heed.
Then it was that the physician, who had helped to bring her into the
world, was summoned hastily to prevent her early departure from it.
This was the "curious case" that so bothered him; and this pale, languid
girl of thirteen in the blue-canopied bed was the one he intended to
transplant into another soil.
A short, sharp tap announced his arrival. The nurse opened the door.
"Good-morning, little girl--ah, ah! Saint Valentine's Day? I had
forgotten it; all those came this morning?" he said cheerily, pointing
to a table on which Gabrielle had placed all the remembrances but the
flowers.
"Yes, Doctor Heath; but my best valentine, you know, is papa, and after
him, you."
"Hm, flatterer!" growled the Doctor, feeling her pulse. "Pretty good,
pretty good. Think we can get you up for half a day. What do you say,
nurse?"
"I think it will do her good, Doctor Heath; she has no appetite yet, and
a little exercise might help her to it."
"No appetite?" The two eyebrows drew together in a straight line over
the bridge of his nose, and, from under them, a pair of keen eyes looked
at Hazel.
"Well, I 've planned something that will give you a splendid one,
Hazel,--the best kind of a tonic--
"Oh, I don't want to take any more tonics. I am so sick of them," said
Hazel, in a despairing tone, for although she adored the Doctor, she
despised his medicines.
"You won't get sick of this tonic so soon, I 'll warrant," he said,
unbending his brows and letting the full twinkle of his fine eyes shine
forth,--"at least not after you are used to it. I won't say but that it
may cause a certain kind of sickness at first; in fact, I 'm sure of
it."
"Oh, will it nauseate me?" cried Hazel, dreading to suffer any more.
"No, no, it won't do that, but--"
"But what _do_ you mean, Doctor Heath? Are you joking?"
"Never was more in earnest in my life," replied the Doctor, rubbing his
hands in glee, much to Hazel's amazement. "Hazel," he turned abruptly
to her, "papa is a splendid fellow; did you know that?"
Hazel laughed aloud, a real girl's laugh,--Doctor Heath was so queer at
times.
"Have you just found that out?" she retorted.
"No, you witch,--don't be impertinent to your elders,--I have n't; but
really he is, take it all in all, just about the most common-sense
fellow in New York City."
"What has he done now, that you are praising him so?"
"Just heard to me, my dear, and agreed to do just as I want him to,"
said the Doctor, demurely.
"Why," laughed Hazel, "that's just when I think he is a most splendid
fellow, when he does just what I want him to. Is n't it funny you and I
think just alike!" And she gave his hand a malicious little pat. The
Doctor caught the five slender digits and held them fast.
"Now we 're agreed that you have the most splendid, common-sense father
in the world, I want you to prove to me that your father has the most
splendid, common-sense daughter in it, as well."
Again Hazel laughed. She was used to her friend's ways.
"That means that you want me to take that old, new tonic of yours."
"Yes, just that," said the Doctor, emphatically; "and now, as you don't
appear to care to hear about it, I 'm going to make a long call and tell
you its entire history."
"Have you brought it with you?" asked Hazel, somewhat mystified.
"No, I can't carry around with me in a cab five children, a hundred
acres of pine woods, a whole mountain-top, and a few Jersey cows."
"What _do_ you mean? You _are_ joking."
Then the physician clasped the thin hand a little more closely and told
her of the country plan.
At first, Hazel failed to comprehend it. She gazed at the speaker with
large, serious eyes, as if she half-feared he had taken leave of his
senses.
"Did papa know it this morning?" was her first question.
"Yes, my dear."
"Then that is why he kissed me the way he did," she said thoughtfully.
"But," her lip quivered, "I sha'n't have him to kiss me up there,
and--and--oh, dear!" A wail went up from the canopied bed that made the
Doctor turn sick at heart, and even the nurse hurried away into the
dressing-room.
Somehow Doctor Heath could not exhort Hazel, as he had her father, to
use common-sense. He preferred to use diplomacy.
"You see, Hazel, a year won't be so very long, and it will give your
hair time to grow; and perhaps you would not mind wearing a cap for a
time up there, while if you were here you certainly would not care about
going to dancing-school or parties in that rig; now would you?"
Hazel sniffed and looked for her handkerchief. As she failed to find
it, the Doctor applied his own huge square of linen to the dripping,
reddened eyes, and tenderly stroked the smooth-shaven head.
Hazel had her vanities like all girls, and her long dark braids had been
one of them. After the fever, she had been shorn of what scanty locks
had been left to her, and many a time she had wondered what the girls
would say when they saw her. After all, the new plan might be endured,
for the sake of the hair and her looks.
She sniffed again, and this time a good many tears were drawn up into
her nose. The Doctor, taking no notice of the subsiding flood,
proceeded,--
"My patients always look so comical when the fuzz is coming out. It's
like chicken-down all over the head--"
"Fuzz!" exclaimed Hazel, with a dismayed, wide-eyed look; "must I have
fuzz for hair?"
"Why, of course, for about five months," was the Doctor's matter-of-fact
reply. "Then," he continued, apparently unheeding the look of relief
that crept over Hazel's face, "you are apt to have the hair come out
curly."
"Oh!"
"Yes, and it really grows very fast--that is," he said, resorting to
wile, "if any one is strong and well; but if the general health is not
good, why--hem!--the hair is n't apt to grow!"
"Goodness! I don't want to be bald all my life!"
"No, I thought not, and for that very reason it did seem the best thing
for you to get into the country where you can get well and strong as
fast as ever you can."
"Shall I have to eat my breakfast and dinner alone up there?" was her
next question.
Doctor Heath laughed. "What! With all those five children! You will
never want for company, I can assure you of that. And now I 'll be off;
as it's Saint Valentine's Day, which I had forgotten, I 'll wager I have
five valentines from those very children waiting for me at home."
"Will you show them to me, if you have?"
"To be sure I will. Now sit up for half a day, and get yourself strong
enough to let me take you up there by the middle of March."
"Oh, are you going to take me? What fun! Are they friends of yours?"
she added timidly.
"Every one," said the Doctor, emphatically. He turned at the door.
"You have n't said yet whether you will honor me with your company up
there."
"I suppose I must," she said, with something between a sigh and a laugh.
"But I don't know what Gabrielle will do; she 'll be so homesick."
"Gabrielle!" cried the Doctor, in a voice loud with amazement; "you
don't think you are going to take Gabrielle with you, do you?"
Before Hazel had time to recover from her astonishment, Gabrielle,
hearing her name called so loudly, came tripping into the room.
"Oui, oui, monsieur le docteur;" and Doctor Heath beat a hasty retreat
to avoid further misunderstandings.
In the afternoon, Hazel received a box by messenger, with, "Please
return by bearer," on the wrapper. On opening it, she found the
Doctor's valentines with the following sentiments appropriately
attached.
I
By Rose-pose made, by March adorned,
'T is not a Heart that one should scorn:
For use each day, the whole year through,
Where find a Valentine so true?