MORE GREETINGS.
"AND you won't think better of it? Hilda, I am in despair! Think of it,
my dear! Calve, and both the De Reszkes--there will never be such a
performance again, perhaps, in our lifetimes! And all the good time we
should have between the acts--and our box will be simply _full_ of
people all the evening--oh, you must come, Hilda Grahame!"
People said of Helena Desmond that if she had a fault, it was that of
speaking too loud. She was so full of the joy of living, so powerful and
vigorous in all her emotions, pleasurable or painful, that her clear,
resonant voice was apt to be heard like the sound of a trumpet,
dominating other and feebler organs. Mrs. Delansing, sitting erect
behind her tea equipage, heard it, and shivered slightly; but
Hildegarde's reply was spoken so low that she could not catch a
syllable. Then came: "No, no, I shouldn't! Don't tell me! I should do
nothing of the sort! We are to take our opportunities as they
come,--time enough for sacrifices when Lent comes. You know I don't mean
that, Hilda; and you know you are a dear, dear,--" here followed the
sound of good hearty kisses, and Mrs. Delansing shivered again; then the
door closed with a solid slam, and all was silent.
Hildegarde came into the room, her hands full of roses.
"Aunt Emily," she said, "Helena Desmond sent you these! She would have
come in, but she was late already for a reception. Aren't they lovely?"
Mrs. Delansing bent her head over the flowers; they were among the few
things she enjoyed.
"Beautiful!" she said. "It was very kindly done of Miss Desmond. I
should have been glad to see her. Was--was that she at the door,
speaking so loud?"
"Yes," said Hildegarde. "She was speaking rather loud, perhaps; but her
voice is so musical, I don't think one minds it in her, somehow. She is
a glorious creature!"
Mrs. Delansing seemed absent and disturbed. "She--it is not always
possible to avoid overhearing portions of conversations, when carried on
in a high key--I gathered that some invitation had been extended to you,
Hildegarde--for this evening."
"Yes!" said Hildegarde, rather reluctantly. "She wanted me to go to the
opera with her, but I didn't think I would better."
"Why not?" demanded her aunt, severely. "Miss Desmond is not accustomed
to have her invitations refused,--and you are bound to take advantage of
such opportunities as may present themselves to you, living in the
extraordinary way that your mother thinks suitable for you."
"Oh, well!" said Hildegarde, "Helena understood perfectly, and I thought
it best not to go."
She was arranging the flowers as she spoke, and did not see the curious
change that seemed to come over Mrs. Delansing's face. It was as if the
stony repose of her features were broken,--some shifting light seemed
to pass over her, changing into shadow, but a shadow softened into
something approaching tenderness.
"Hildegarde, it is not on my account that you are making this sacrifice?
I cannot permit--"
Hildegarde looked up; then laid down her roses, and crossed the room to
lay her hand on her aunt's shoulder.
"Of course it is, Aunt Emily!" she said, impulsively. "I came here to
see you, not to go to the opera. I have been out already more than I
should to-day, but--but things happened, somehow. And this is the last
evening we shall have together, and you know we are to play the grand
final rubber; and--and I _wanted_ to stay."
The old lady began to tremble in her chair; a mist came over her keen
black eyes.
"My grandchildren would have gone!" she cried. "Blanche and Violette
would have gone, and not have thought it necessary even to tell me. I
have done everything for them, and nothing-- Blanche has been here this
afternoon!" she added, in a different voice, struggling for her usual
composure. "She said--but it is of no consequence what she said."
"No, it really isn't, Aunt Emily!" said Hildegarde, venturing to stroke
the silken shoulder affectionately. "Suppose we don't mind about Blanche
now; she is very young for her age, don't you think? I can finish that
story before I go to dress for dinner."
But Mrs. Delansing had something else to say.
"Thomas Ferrers came to see me, also!" she said. "Did you ask him to do
so?"
"Oh--no!" said Hildegarde. "I--I only told him that you did not go out
very much, and--and he said at once that he should come to see you
before he left town."
"He is grown an old man!" said Mrs. Delansing. "Wild Tom Ferrers! We had
a great deal of talk; much of it about you. I am bound to say that he
gave me a different impression of your life. You--you must all be very
happy there together!"
The tone was piteous in its wistfulness, and Hildegarde responded
heartily. "You must come and see for yourself some day, Aunt Emily! We
_are_ happy, as happy as the day is long!"
The evening passed quickly and pleasantly. Mrs. Delansing unbent more
than Hildegarde could have supposed possible, and even smiled as she
told, over the backgammon board, some anecdotes of Colonel Ferrers's
wild youth. One could not imagine her laughing under any circumstances,
but her smile, when she was amused, was fine and delicate, and made a
wonderful difference in her face.
When bedtime came, she held Hildegarde's hands in hers for several
minutes, looking at her with a searching gaze.
"You have not found it too dull?" she said. "Hobson says she heard you
singing in your room to-day! You do not find this a dreary cage, where
no young life could be happy?"
Hildegarde had found it so the first day, but now all was changed, and
she could answer heartily, "No, indeed, Aunt Emily! I have had a very
pleasant visit, and I am--oh, _so_ glad I came! I don't believe I
should ever have known you if I had not been here in the house; and I am
very, very glad to know you, Aunt Emily. May I come again?" She bent,
and kissed the old lady's cheek, and was delighted to have her kiss
warmly returned.
"Come whenever you will, my child!" Mrs. Delansing said. "Come as often
as you can; I shall be better for every time I see you."
So it was arranged that later in the winter Hildegarde was to come to
Gramercy Park for a good visit, and hear the German opera; and when the
aunt and niece finally said good-bye at the bedroom door, Hildegarde
felt that she had made a new friend; while the lonely old woman went to
bed with a warmer heart than she had felt in her bosom for years.
"Why, mum," said Hobson, "I declare to goodness, you look ten years
younger since that young lady come here!"
"I _am_ ten years younger, Hobson!" said Mrs. Delansing, gravely. "I
will have the nightcap with the Valenciennes frill, if you please."
Hildegarde sent her little trunk off by the expressman, and after
bidding good-bye to Hobson, who begged her most earnestly to come again
soon, started off for her final shopping-bout. She had some idea of
lunching at Purcell's, and taking an afternoon train for home. There
were still several things to be attended to, and she might--it was not
very far from Blank & Blank's--she might be able to run round and see if
Rose Flower were at home. It was doubtful, for she had been away most of
the fall, but there was always a chance of her having returned. The dear
Rose! How good it would be to see her, and Doctor Flower, and, perhaps,
Bubble!
It was eleven o'clock before she reached Blank & Blank's, and the vast
shop was filled with a surging crowd of women, young and old, smart and
dowdy, rich and poor. Here and there a lone man was seen, standing
bewildered, with a sample in his hand of something that he was to match;
here and there, too, stood the floor-walkers, in calm and conscious
dignity, the heroes of the shopping-world; but these were only
occasional flecks on the frothing tide of womanhood. Hildegarde, after
several vain attempts, succeeded in reaching the counter she sought.
Before it stood a row of women, elbow to elbow, each bent on her own
quest; behind it were the shop-women, endeavouring to satisfy all
demands at one and the same moment.
Endeavouring, most of them, that is; but even the shop-woman, tried as
she is in the furnace, is not always pure gold. The young woman who
stood near Hildegarde may have been too tired, or may have been ill; she
certainly was rude. Hildegarde had taken her stand directly behind a
plainly dressed, elderly woman, shrewdly judging that she would be
likely to make some definite purchase and then depart, instead of
fingering half the goods on the counter, as many of the customers were
doing. The elderly woman was evidently in haste. She held up the black
cashmere that she had been examining, and said, civilly, "Will you
please tell me the price of this?" The question was repeated several
times; the shop-woman, after one glance at the quiet, unstylish figure,
turned her shoulder, and began to press some goods volubly on a
departing shopper.
"Please!" said the quiet woman again. "I am in haste, and want to buy
some of this. Will you please tell me the price?"
"You'll have to wait your turn, lady!" was the reply; and voice and tone
were equally ill-bred. "I can't wait on everybody at once."
"I have been waiting fifteen minutes," was the reply; "and my turn has
come over and over again."
That was enough for Hildegarde. She reached over the woman's shoulder,
and rapped sharply on the counter. "Will you tell the lady the price of
this cashmere, or shall I call Mr. Jones?"
The shop-woman looked up hastily, caught sight of two blazing eyes, and
a face like white lightning, and quailed.
"I--I'm sure I was doing my best!" she muttered. "It's sixty cents a
yard."
"If this is your best, you have no place here!" said the flashing person
before her. "How many yards would you like, madam? You shall--oh! oh,
my dear! Oh, Nurse Lucy, it is not really you?"
"Oh, my blessed lamb!" cried Nurse Lucy, "Am I awake or dreaming, I says
to myself the minute I heard your darling voice!"
And the stately maiden in blue serge, and the gray-haired woman in black
alpaca, fell on each other's neck, and fairly cried for joy, while the
roar of the shopping actually ceased--for one moment. Then it rose
again,--what did it matter to anybody, when a bargain sale was on, who
met or who parted? And the two friends, holding each other fast by the
hand, got into a quiet corner apart, in a haven dedicated to Marseilles
quilts, which nobody was buying, and sat down on two stools, and gazed
their fill.
"I wonder what is the meaning of it all!" cried Hildegarde. "One after
another, I keep meeting all the people I care most about; first one
friend, and then another,--and now you, you dear, blessed Nurse Lucy.
Oh! what _are_ you doing here? and where is Mr. Hartley? and--and--have
you seen Rose and Bubble? I was wondering whether I could find them.
And--oh, do tell me all about everything, _please_!"
She paused, breathless, and Nurse Lucy took up the tale, drying her
joyful tears the while.
"My pretty! to think of it being you! and me thinking of you miles away,
and wishing I could run down and see you and your blessed mother, as
you've asked me a many times so kind. And Jacob,--why, he's right
outside, dear, waiting for me. He can't abear a crowd of people, you
know, and New York almost smothers him anyway, poor soul. We came up for
the day, dear, to see Pinkrosia, and Bubble, and the Doctor. We had a
note from Doctor Flower--ah! what a good man he is!--and he wouldn't
take no for an answer, but we must come up and see them in their own
home; and so here we are,--came up on the early train this morning, as
Jacob had business in the city. And now!--and my dear looking so well
and so beautiful, and the living spirit of her mother--"
"Oh, hush, Nurse Lucy! you must not flatter me!" cried Hildegarde. "See!
there is your parcel all done up! I will take it for you; and I don't
think that young woman will neglect a customer again for one while."
Arm in arm, they passed through the crowd. As they reached the street,
Mrs. Hartley pressed Hildegarde's arm. "Hush, dear! stop a minute!
there's Jacob; waiting so patient, poor soul! To think how surprised he
will be! What shall we say to him?"
"I know!" said Hildegarde. "Let me tell him, Nurse Lucy!"
A tall, stalwart man was standing with his back to them; his legs were
rather wide apart, his shoulders squared, and he seemed to have planted
himself against the throng of people that hurried and jostled by him.
Discontent was visible in every line of his figure, and Hildegarde knew
just how his mouth was puckered, though she could not see it.
Hildegarde stepped up softly behind him, and spoke in his ear.
"And what do you expect to get for winter wheat, Mr. Hartley?"
The farmer turned round as if he had been shot. "What in--now take me
away! take me away home, before I lose any senses this place has left
me. This ain't Huldy Grahame, no way of the world!"
Convinced that it was that young person herself, he seized her two
hands, and drew her forcibly along, as he made his way through the
crowd. "Lucy found ye?" he said. "I bet Lucy found ye. Nothin' like
women! I've been thinkin' about ye all this blessed day, and looked at
every gal that went by, and they was about ten thousand of 'em, and not
one I'd look at twice. Come along, Lucy! I've done all the shoppin' I
want! Let's get home to Doctor Flower's, and have a sight at this gal,
before I wake up and find she's a dream!"
As the good man spoke, he hurried Hildegarde along at a surprising rate,
Nurse Lucy following as best she might. Hildegarde was fairly bewildered
by all these sudden meetings. She began to feel as if every street
corner must reveal some new vision; she looked for Bubble,--for the
Merryweathers; it seemed to her, too, almost dreamlike in its
strangeness. Yet after all, there is nothing wonderful in meeting all
sorts and conditions of men in the course of two days in New York.
A short walk brought them to a quiet, pleasant street, where the usual
brown stone houses had rather a special look of care and neatness. There
were many flowers in the windows; the curtains were more often muslin
than lace, but they were fresh and white, and one felt that it was a
pleasant neighbourhood, a neighbourhood of homes.
"You have been here before, dear?" asked Mrs. Hartley.
"No," replied Hildegarde. "I have been meaning all the fall to come,
ever since they came back from Europe and took this house, but one thing
and another has prevented. As I told you, I meant to try to see them
to-day, in any case. But Rose does not know I am in town; it will be
another surprise. Dear Rose!"
"Well, I do suppose Pinkrosia'll be glad to see you!" said Jacob
Hartley. "But if she sets up to be as glad as Marm Lucy and I be, she'll
have to hear something, that's all. Huldy Grahame's my gal this time,
and no mistake!"
Hildegarde wondered what the Colonel would say to this; wondered also if
there were any one else--but the thought dismissed itself unfinished.
Here they were now, in a pretty, homelike parlour, hung with
rose-colour,--ah! Doctor Fowler always had the prettiest ideas!--waiting
for their hostess. A light step on the stairs! As it came down, quickly
and steadily, Hildegarde saw many pictures, all in a moment. First, a
girl in a wheeled chair, pale and sweet-faced, saying quietly that she
could not walk,--that she had not walked since she was three years
old,--pointing out the beauty and convenience of her precious chair, in
which she was a prisoner. Then, herself, Hildegarde Grahame, walking up
and down the anteroom of the hospital, waiting in an agony of suspense
for news; then her mother's face, and Doctor Flower behind her, both
smiling, and the blessed words, "It is all right!"
The tears sprang to her eyes. Then came the vision of their two selves,
herself and her friend, in their happy, happy holiday summer at Cousin
Wealthy Bond's; the gradual recovery, the roses coming in the pale
cheeks, the step, growing ever firmer, more elastic. Then--but there was
time for no more. Here she was at the door, Rose Flower, no longer a
cripple, no longer even an invalid, but the happy wife of one of the
best men in the world.
Rose's cry of surprise was very different from the clarion shout with
which Helena Desmond had greeted her friend. It was soft and low,--a
note like that of a bird coming home to its nest. "Hilda! my Hilda! oh,
happy, happy day!"
The two girls (for Rose was a girl still, if she was a married woman!)
held each other close for a little, without a word; the words did not
come, nor was there need of them; each knew the other's heart was full
of love that had had steady life and growth for five years. "My dear!"
they said; and then again, "My dear!" and that was all.
But a few minutes later, when all four were seated in a circle, the
girls hand in hand, the old people looking from one to the other with
eyes of delight, the words came fast enough.
Rose had to tell of her summer abroad, of all the new worlds that had
opened before the country-bred girl,--worlds of which she had dreamed
all her life, which she had never thought to see with her bodily eyes.
Then Hildegarde must tell of her summer, all the wonders of the camp,
the new friends, grown so dear in so short a time; of Hugh and the
Colonel, and all the delights of Braeside and Roseholme; and then both
girls must hear all about affairs at Hartley's Glen, from the greatest
to the least.
"Oh, Nurse Lucy, is the old yellow hen still alive--Mrs. Whittaker, I
mean? Surely you know the hen we always called Mrs. Whittaker. She used
to tell us her name whenever she laid an egg. And the cats! How are the
dear cats? Do you think Camaralzaman remembers me, Nurse Lucy? And do
you try to say his whole name once in a while, so that he will not
forget it? And how are all the people in the village? How is Miss Bean?
Does she still trim hats?-- Oh, Rose, do you remember the funny hats?
There was a green satin one, the first time I went there--my dear! she
wanted me to buy it! But she was so good, and kind, and nice! Everybody
in the village is nice!"
"Hilda, do you remember when Bubble sprained his ankle, and the letter
he wrote you? Oh, such a funny letter, wasn't it?"
"Remember it? I have it in one of my most precious portfolios! But, oh,
Nurse Lucy, you haven't told us a word about the cows. Dear cows! How
are they all?"
And so on, and so on, happy, foolish talk, with laughter breaking
through it at every moment, as one recollection brought up another. And
in the midst of it all, who is this tall youth who comes silently into
the hall, and stands silent in the doorway, gazing at all the merry
talkers? No one sees him; he stands and looks from one to the other,
with shining eyes. A slight, trim figure, well-dressed, alert, quickness
and energy in every line of it; a face not handsome, certainly, but so
full of life and intelligence and good-will that whoever looks at it
once is sure to look again. There he stands, silent, absorbed; and so
standing, he, too, sees visions. A garden, and a boy at work in it; a
freckled, towsled boy, fighting weeds with a hoe, but keeping one eye on
a tattered spelling-book that lies beside him. Ten weeds to a word, that
was the rule; big weeds, of course,--he did not count chickweed. What
was the word,--ah! yes! _anticipate!_ That was it! And then he looked
up, and saw the face looking through the hedge,--the beautiful face,
with the proud, pretty mouth, and the bright eyes. It had hardly
changed, save that the mouth was now gentle, instead of proud. And then
she came forward, and talked to him,--to him, in his old shirt and
trousers, and asked about his lessons, and offered to teach him. Ah,
yes! that was the beginning of it all, the new life, the new world, the
new joy!
There was a suspicion of moisture in the youth's bright blue eyes, but
they twinkled nevertheless; and when he spoke, it was in the old,
homely speech that he loved, and in the very words that he had spoken
that day, all these happy years ago.
"I swan!" said Zerubbabel Chirk. "I reelly do! I swan to man!"