THE CHRISTMAS DRAWER.
CHRISTMAS was coming. Christmas was only three weeks off. Oh, how the
time was flying! "How shall I ever get ready?" cried Hildegarde,
quickening her pace as she spoke, as if the holiday season were chasing
her along the road.
"One is always busy, of course; but it does seem as if I were going to
be about five times as busy as I ever was before. Naturally! there are
so many more people that I want to make presents for. Last Christmas,
there was Mammina, and Col. Ferrers and Hugh, and the box to send to
Jack,--dear Jack!--and Auntie, and Mrs. Lankton and the children,
and,--well, of course, Cousin Wealthy and Benny, and all the dear people
at Bywood,--why, there were a good many, after all, weren't there? But
now I have all my Merryweathers in addition, you see. Of course I
needn't give anything to the boys,--or to any of them, for that
matter,--but I do want to, so very much; if only there were a little
more time! I will go up this minute, if Mammina does not want me, and
look over my drawer. I really haven't looked at it--thoroughly, that
is--for three days! Hilda Grahame, what a goose you are!"
By this time she had arrived at Braeside, the pretty house where she and
her mother passed their happy, quiet life. Running lightly up the steps,
and into the house, the girl peeped into the sitting-room and parlour,
and finding both empty, went on up the stairs. She paused to listen at
her mother's door; there was no sound from within, and Hildegarde hoped
that her mother was sleeping off the headache, which had made the
morning heavy for her. Kissing her hand to the door, she went on to her
own room, which always greeted her as a friend, no matter how many times
a day she entered it. She looked round at books and pictures with a
little sigh of contentment, and sank down for a moment in the low
rocking-chair. "Just to breathe, you know!" she said. "One must breathe
to live." Involuntarily her hand moved towards the low table close by,
on which lay a tempting pile of books. Just one chapter of "The Fortunes
of Nigel," while she was getting her breath?
"No," she said, replying to herself with severity, "nothing of the kind.
You can rest just as well while you are looking over the drawer. I am
surprised,--or rather, I wish I were surprised at you, Hilda Grahame.
You are a hard case!"
Exchanging a glance of mutual sympathy and understanding with Sir Walter
Scott, who looked down on her benignly from the wall, Hildegarde now
drew her chair up beside a tall chest of drawers, and proceeded to open
the lowest drawer, which was as deep and wide as the whole of some
modern bureaus. It was half filled with small objects, which she now
took out one by one, looking them over carefully before laying them
back. First came a small table-cover of heavy buff linen, beautifully
embroidered with nasturtiums in the brilliant natural colors. It was
really a thing of beauty, and the girl looked at it first with natural
pride, then went over it carefully, examining the workmanship of each
bud and blossom.
"It will pass muster!" she said, finally. "It is well done, if I do say
it; the Beloved Perfecter will be satisfied, I think."
This was for her mother, of course; and she laid it back, rolled
smoothly round a pasteboard tube, and covered with white tissue paper,
before she went on to another article. Next came a shawl, like an
elaborate collection of snowflakes that had flitted together, yet kept
their exquisite shapes of star and wheel and triangle. Cousin Wealthy
would be pleased with this! Hildegarde felt the same pleasant assurance
of success. "There ought to be a bit of pearl-coloured satin ribbon
somewhere! Oh, here it is! A bit of ribbon gives a finish that nothing
else can. There! now that is ready, and that makes two. Now, Benny, my
blessed lamb, where are you?"
She drew out a truly splendid scrap-book, bound in heavy cardboard, and
marked "Benny's Book," with many flourishes and curlicues. Within were
pictures of every imaginable kind, the coloured ones on white, the black
and white on scarlet cardboard. Under every picture was a legend in
Hildegarde's hand, in prose or verse. For example, under a fine portrait
of an imposing black cat was written:
"Is this Benny's pillow-cat?
No! it is not half so fat!
No! it is not half so fair,
So it mews in sad despair,
Feeling that it has not any
Chance for to belong to Benny."
Hildegarde had spent many loving hours over this book; her verses were
not remarkable, but Benny would like them none the less for that, she
thought, and she laid the book back with a contented mind. Then there
was a noble apron for Martha, with more pockets than any one else in the
world could use; and a pincushion for Mrs. Brett, and a carved
tobacco-stopper for Jeremiah. Beside the tobacco-stopper lay a pipe,
also carved neatly, and Hildegarde took this up with a sigh. "I don't
like to part with it!" she said. "Papa brought it from Berne, all those
years ago, and I am so used to it; but after all, I am _not_ likely to
smoke a pipe, even if I have succumbed to the bicycle, and I do want to
send some little thing to dear Mr. Hartley. Dear old soul! how I should
like to see him and Marm Lucy! We really must make a pilgrimage to
Hartley's Glen next summer, if it is a possible thing. Marm Lucy will
like this little blue jug, I know. We have the same taste in blue jugs,
and she will not care a bit about its only costing fifteen cents. Ah! if
everything one wanted to buy cost fifteen cents, one would not be so
distracted; but I _do_ want to get 'Robin Hood' for Hugh, and where am I
to get the three dollars, I ask you?"
She addressed William the Silent; the hero drew her attention, in his
quiet way, to his own sober dress and simple ruff, and seemed to think
that Hugh would be just as well off without the record of a ruffling
knave who wore Lincoln green, and was not particular how he came by it.
"Ah! but that is all you know, dear sir!" said Hildegarde. "We all have
our limitations, and if you had only known Robin, you would see how
right I am."
And then Hildegarde fell a-dreaming, and imagined a tea-party that she
might give, to which should come William of Orange and Robin Hood, Alan
Breck Stuart and Jim Hawkins.
"And who else? let me see! Hugh, of course, and Jack, if he were here,
and the boys and--and Captain Roger; only I am afraid he would think it
nonsense. But Bell would love it, and I would invite Dundee, just to
show her how wrong she is about him. And--oh, none of the King Arthur
knights, because they had no sense of humour, and Alan would be at their
throats in five minutes; but--why, I have left out David Balfour
himself,--Roger would love David, anyhow,--and Robin might bring Little
John and Will Scarlet and Allan-a-Dale. We would have tea out on the
veranda, of course, and Auntie would make one of her wonderful chicken
pies, and I would ask Robin whether it was not just as good as a
venison pasty. Alan would have his hand at his sword, ready to leap up
if it was denied; but jolly Robin would make me a courtly bow, and say
with his own merry smile--Come in! oh! what is it?"
Rudely awakened from her pleasant dream by a knock at the door,
Hildegarde looked up, half expecting to see one of her heroes standing
cap in hand before her. Instead, there stood, ducking and sidling,--the
Widow Lankton.
"How do you do, Mrs. Lankton?" said Hildegarde, with an effort. It was a
sudden change, indeed, from Robin Hood and Alan Breck, to this forlorn
little body, with her dingy black dress and crumpled bonnet; but
Hildegarde tried to "look pleasant," and waited patiently for the
outpouring that she knew she must expect.
"_Good_-mornin', dear!" said the widow, ducking a little further to one
side, so that she looked like an apologetic crab in mourning for his
claws. "I hope your health is good, Miss Grahame. There! you look
pretty well, I must say!"
"I hope you are not sorry, Mrs. Lankton," smiling; for the tone was that
of heartfelt sorrow.
"No, dear! why, no, certainly not! I'm pleased enough to have you look
young and bloomin' while you can. Looks ain't allers what we'd oughter
go by, but we must take 'em and be thankful for so much, as I allers
say. Yes, dear. Your blessed mother's lyin' down, Mis' Auntie told me.
_She_ seems slim now, don't she? If I was in your place, I should be
dretful anxious about her, alone in the world as you'd be if she was
took. The Lord's ways is--"
"Did you want to see me about anything special, Mrs. Lankton?" said
Hildegarde, interrupting. She felt that she was not called upon to bear
this kind of thing.
The widow sniffed sadly and shook her head.
"Yes, dear! You're quick and light, ain't you, as young folks be! Like
to brisk up and have done with a thing. Well, I come to see if I could
borry a crape bunnit, to go to a funeral; there, Miss Grahame, I hope
you won't think me forth-puttin', but I felt that anything your blessed
ma had worn would be a privilege, I'm sure, and so regardin' it, I
come."
"Oh!" said Hildegarde, with a little shudder. "We--we have no crape,
Mrs. Lankton. My father--that is, my mother never wore it."
"Didn't!" said Mrs. Lankton. "Well, now, folks has their views. I was
one that never liked to spare where feelin's was concerned. Ah! I've
wore crape enough in my time to bury me under, you might say. When my
poor husband died, I got a veil measured three yards, countin' the hem;
good crape it was, too. There! I took and showed it to him the day
before he was took. He'd been failin' up quite a spell, and I was never
one to hide their end from them that was comin' to it. 'There, Peleg!'
says I. 'I want you should know that I sha'n't slight nothin' when
you're gone,' I says. 'I'll keep you as long as I can,' I says, 'and
I'll have everything right and fittin' as far as my means goes,' I
says. He was real gratified. I was glad to please him, goin' so soon as
he was.
"He turned up his toes less than twenty-four hours after I said them
words; died off real nice. His moniment is handsome, if I do say it. I
have it scrubbed every spring, come house-cleanin' time, and it looks as
good as new. Yes, dear! I've got a great deal to be thankful for, if I
have suffered more than most."
Hildegarde set her teeth. Inwardly she was saying, "You dreadful old
ghoul! When will you stop your grisly recollections, and go away?" But
all she said aloud was, "Well, Mrs. Lankton, I am sorry that we cannot
help you. Perhaps one of the neighbours,--but I ought to ask,--I trust
it is no near relative that is dead?"
"No, dear!" replied the widow, with unction. "No relation, only by
marriage. My sister's husband married this man's sister for his third
wife; old man Topliffe it is, keeps the grocery over t' the Corners."
"Why, I did not know he was dead!" said Hildegarde.
"Not yet he ain't, dear!" said Mrs. Lankton. "But he's doomed to die,
and the doctors don't give him more than a few hours. I'm one that likes
to be beforehand in such matters,--there's them that looks to me to do
what's right and proper,--and I shouldn't want to be found without a
bunnit provided. Well, dear, I must be goin'. Ah! 'twill seem nat'ral to
be goin' to a funeral again, Miss Grahame. I ain't b'en to one for as
much as five months. I've seen the time when three funerals a week was
no uncommon thing round these parts, and most all of 'em kin to me by
blood _or_ marriage. Yes, no one knows what I've b'en through. You're
gettin' fleshy, ain't you, dear? I hope the Lord'll spare you _and_ your
ma,--she's like a mother to me, I allers say,--through _my_ time. It
ain't likely to be long, with these spells that ketches me. _Good_-by,
dear!"
With a tender smile, and another sidelong duck, the widow took herself
off; and Hildegarde drew a long breath, and felt like opening all the
windows, to let the sunshine come in more freely. The door of her room
being still open, she became aware of sounds from below; sounds as of
clashing metal, and rattling crockery.
What could Auntie be about? she would wake Mamma at this rate.
Running down-stairs, Hildegarde went into the kitchen, and was
confronted by the sight of Auntie, perched on top of a tall step-ladder,
with the upper part of her portly person buried in the depths of a
cupboard.
"Auntie, what _are_ you about?" she cried. "Do you know what a noise you
are making? Mamma is asleep, and I don't want her to wake till tea-time,
for her head has ached all day."
Auntie did not seem to hear at first, but continued to rattle tins in an
alarming way; till Hildegarde, in despair, grasped the step-ladder, and
shook it with some force. Then the good woman drew her head out of the
depths, and looked down in astonishment.
"Why, for goodness sake, honey, is dat you?" she said. "I t'ought 'twas
dat old image cacklin' at me still. She gone, is she? well, dat's mercy
enough for one day!"
She sat down on the top of the ladder and panted; and Hildegarde burst
out laughing.
"Auntie, did you go up there to get rid of Mrs. Lankton?"
"For shore I did, chile! I'd ha' riz through de roof if I could, but dis
was as fur as I could git. She was in hyar an hour, 'most, 'fore she
went up-stairs,--and I told her not go near you, but she snoke up, and I
dassn't holler, fear ob waking yer ma,--and my head is loose on my
shoulders now, listenin' to her clack. So when I hear her comin' down
again, I jest put up de ladder here, and I didn't hear no word she said.
Did she hab de imp'dence to ask you lend her a crape bunnit?"
"Yes; that is what she came for. We had none, of course."
Auntie snorted. "None ob her business whedder you had none or a
hunderd!" she said. "I tole her if she ask you dat, I'd pull her own
bunnit off'n her next time she come; and I will so!"
"Oh, no, you won't, Auntie!" said Hildegarde.
"Well, now, you'll see. Miss Hildy chile! I had 'nuff ob dat woman. Ole
barn-cat, comin' snoopin' round here to see what she can git out'n you
and yer ma, 'cause she sees yer like two chillen. What yer want for
supper, honey, waffles, or corn-pone?"
"Waffles," said Hildegarde, with decision. "But--Auntie, what have you
there? No, not the pitcher; those little tin things that you just laid
down. I want to see them, please."
"I been rummagin' dis shelf," said Auntie. "I put a lot ob odd concerns
up here,--foun' em in de place when we come,--and dey ain't no good, and
I want de room. Dose? Dem's little moulds, I reckon. Well, now, I don't
seem as if I noticed dem before. Kin' o' pretty, ain't dey, honey?"
She handed down a set of tin moulds, of fairy size and quaint, pretty
shapes. Tulips, lilies, crocuses,--"Why, it is a tin flower-bed!" cried
Hildegarde. "Why did you never show me these before, Auntie?"
But Auntie was not conscious of having noticed them before. She had
cleaned them,--of course,--but her mind must have been on her cooking,
and she did not remember them.
"And what could one do with them?" Hildegarde went on. "Oh, see! here is
a scrap of parchment fastened to the ring of one of them. 'The moulds
for the almond cakes. The receipt is in the manuscript book with yellow
covers.' Why, how interesting this is! Almond cakes! It sounds
delightful! Do you remember where I put that queer old book, Auntie? You
thought the receipts so extravagant that I have not used it at all. Oh!
here it is, in your table-drawer. I might have been sure that you would
know exactly where it was. Now let us see. This may be a special
providence, Auntie."
"I don't unnerstand what you talkin' 'bout, chile," said Auntie,
good-naturedly. "I made you almond cake last week, and I guess dat was
good 'nuff, 'thout lookin' in de grandmother books. But you can
see,--mebbe you find somethin' different."
Hildegarde was already deep in the old manuscript book. Its leaves were
yellow with age, the ink faded, but the receipts were perfectly
legible, many of the later ones being in Miss Barbara Aytoun's fine,
crabbed, yet plain hand.
"'Bubble and Squeak!' Auntie, I wish you would give us Bubble and Squeak
for dinner some day. You are to make it of cold beef, and then at the
end of the receipt she tells you that pork is much better.--'China
Chilo! Mince a pint basin of undressed neck of mutton'--How _is_ one to
mince a basin, do you suppose? I should have to drop it from the roof of
the house, and then it would not be fine enough.--'Serve it fried of a
beautiful colour'--no! that's not it!--'Pigs' feet. Wash your feet
thoroughly, and boil, or rather stew them gently'--Miss Barbara, I am
surprised at you!--'Ramakins'--those might be good. 'Excellent
Negus'--ah! here we are! 'Almond cakes!' H'm! 'Beat a pound of almonds
fine'--and a pleasant thing it is to do--'with rose water--half a pound
of sifted sugar--beat with a spoon'--ah, this is the part I was looking
for, Auntie! 'Bake them in the flower-moulds, watching carefully; when a
beautiful light gold colour, take them out, and fill when cold with
cream into which is beat shredded peaches or apricots.' O--oh! doesn't
that sound good, Auntie?"
"Good 'nuff," Auntie assented, nodding her turbaned head. "Good deal of
bodder to make, 'pears to me, Miss Hildy. I'm gittin' old for de fancy
cakes, 'pears like."
"Oh, you dear soul! I don't want you to make them," cried Hildegarde. "I
want to make them myself. Now, Auntie, I am going to be very
confidential."
Auntie's dark face glowed with pleasure. She loved a little confidence.
"You see," Hildegarde went on, "I want some money. Not that I don't have
enough for everything; but I want to earn a little myself, so that I can
make all the Christmas presents I want, without feeling that I am taking
it out of the family purse. You understand, I am sure, Auntie!" and
Auntie, who had held Hildegarde in her arms when she was a baby, nodded
her head, and understood very well.
"So I thought that possibly I might make something to send to the
Woman's Exchange in New York. I saw in a magazine the other day that the
ladies who give a great many lunches are always wishing to find new
little prettinesses for their tables. I saw something of that myself,
when I was there this fall." But Hildegarde checked herself, feeling
that she was getting rather beyond Auntie's depth.
"And I had been wondering what I could make, this very afternoon, and
thinking of one thing and another; and when I saw these pretty little
moulds, it seemed the very thing I had been looking for. What do you
think, Auntie?"
"T'ink? I t'ink dem Noo York ladies better be t'ankful to git anything
you make for 'em, Miss Hildy; dat's my 'pinion! And I'll help ye make de
cake, and fuss round a little wid de creams, too, if you let me."
But Hildegarde declared she would not let her have any hand whatever in
the making of the almond cakes, and ran off, hearing her mother's voice
calling her from up-stairs.
"My dear suz!" said the black woman, gazing after her. "T'ink ob my
little baby missy growed into dat capable young lady, wat make anything
she touch her finger to. Ain't her match in Noo York, tell yer; no, nor
Virginny, nudder!"