BELLEROPHON.
"ALL ready, boys?" asked the Colonel.
"All ready!" responded the boys, namely, Raymond Ferrers, aged sixty,
Jack Ferrers, aged twenty, and Hugh Allen, aged nine. Barring more or
less difference in height, and a trifle of gray hair in one case, they
all appeared of much the same age; nor had the Colonel, evidently, a day
the advantage of them. On the contrary, he was the youngest of the four,
as he walked round and round the Christmas Tree, poking among the
branches, readjusting a string of pop-corn here, or a glittering
ornament there. It was their own tree, every twig, every needle of it
their own. Not Hildegarde herself, nor her mother, nor any Merryweather,
had had a word to say, or knew a single detail about it. They were
invited,--they were coming; that was their part; all the rest had
belonged to the four boys. Had they not gone in town together, and gone
to Schwartz's, and bought out the greater part of the shop? And had they
not spent the greater part of the day (save dinner-time, and
church-time, and the hour that Jack had taken for tobogganing) in
decorating their plaything, and tying on the presents? Surely, such a
tree had never been seen! It glittered from top to toe with icicles; it
shone with globes of gold and silver; it was powdered with diamond snow,
and hung with golden nuts; silver cobwebs draped it, hanging in long
festoons from every bough, while round and round, in graceful festoons,
went the long garlands of snowy pop-corn. Now nothing was left to do,
save to light the candles; and still the Colonel walked and looked,
puffing with pleasure, and still Brother Raymond followed at his heels,
and Jack followed Raymond, and Hugh kept close behind Jack. And
Elizabeth Beadle, surveying this scene from the depth of the hall, was
so moved by it that she retired to the kitchen and wept for a quarter of
an hour, for pure joy.
"Sure you have the pail of water handy, Jack?"
"Yes, sir, quite sure! Stepped into it just now."
"Then you had it footy, not handy!" murmured Hugh. His guardian turned,
and looked anxiously at the boy.
"Hum, ha!" he said. "Talk a little nonsense, eh, Young Sir? That's
right! Feel quite well this evening, hey?"
Hugh certainly did not look well. His rosy color was gone, and there
were dark circles under his blue eyes; but he answered so brightly, and
was so full of joy and delightful anticipation, that Colonel Ferrers
smiled even as he sighed, and turned to his brother.
"Pretty sight, Raymond?" he said, for perhaps the twentieth time.
"Pretty custom, eh? Give you my word, sir, I haven't enjoyed anything so
much for years."
"If you go on at this rate, Tom," rejoined his brother, "you will be in
short jackets again in a year or two. After all, what is there in the
world so good as youth, my dear fellow? Let us hold it fast, say I, as
long as we can!"
"Yes!" growled the Colonel. "But you wouldn't have said that before you
came here, Raymond Ferrers; and I shouldn't have said it before
Hildegarde Grahame came here,--"
"And her mother!" put in Raymond.
"And her mother, of course!" cried the Colonel, testily. "She never
thought of coming here without her mother, did she? Don't be a quibbler,
my good fellow! If there is one thing I find it difficult to have
Christian patience with, it is a quibbler. I tell you, sir, that before
those people came here my life was a stagnant fish-pond, sir; with no
fish in it, either, and--and it shows what a young woman can do, sir,
when she is willing just to _be_ a young woman, and to minister
cheerfulness and joy and--and affection to the people around her. Three
years ago I had not a friend in the world,--or thought I had not, which
amounts to the same thing,--except a round-shouldered fiddle-maker in
another State, whom I never expected to see again. I was morose, sir! I
was unfit for human companionship! And now--" the Colonel stopped to
wipe his eye-glasses, and blew his nose portentously--"now I have a son
in my own house,--two sons just now, for if you pretend that Jack is
more your son than mine, I scoff at you, sir, and I deride you!--and a
daughter close by, who will come to me if my little finger aches. And to
that daughter, sir,--under Providence," and the Colonel bowed his head
and dropped his voice,--"to Hildegarde Grahame, I owe all this, and
more. So I say,--"
"Here they come!" cried Hugh, who had been watching from the window.
"Here they all come, Guardian! My Beloved and her mother, and after them
all the others. Oh! but Captain Roger is not with them!"
The four hosts hurried out into the hall to meet their guests, and many
and warm were the greetings. Hildegarde in white, Bell in pink, and
Gertrude in blue, looked like a posy of fresh flowers, and Kitty like
the little rosebud she was. Mrs. Merryweather and Mrs. Grahame were
already taking off their wraps, and Miles Merryweather and Phil brought
up the rear, with Willy.
"Where's the Professor?" cried the hospitable Colonel, rubbing his
hands. "Where is Professor Roger? I was definitely promised that he
would be here."
Where was Roger? Hildegarde's heart echoed the question; and though she
greeted the Colonel with her own bright smile, it was rather an effort
to be as gay as usual; for the disappointment had been severe. Roger had
telegraphed that he would be with them that afternoon without fail; and
now all the trains had come and gone, and no Roger had come. All the
Merryweathers were crying out, and saying that some tiresome man of
science must have captured him, and carried him off. Hildegarde was only
a little more silent than usual; she slipped quietly into the
drawing-room, and took her seat by Mr. Raymond Ferrers, whose smile
always seemed like a kind of sublimated music,--music that soothed while
it cheered. But when she saw her little Hugh, with his pale face, and
the suffering look in his dear blue eyes, she reproached herself for a
selfish, unloving girl, and went and sat with her arm round the child,
looking affectionately and anxiously at him, and listening to his story
of the joy of the blessed day.
"And Gerald?" now cried the Colonel. "Am I to be robbed of half my
guests, I ask you? Mrs. Merryweather, my dear madam, this is positively
unfriendly, I must inform you. A Christmas Tree without Gerald
Merryweather,--the idea is incongruous! I can say nothing more."
"Oh, Colonel Ferrers, that is my fault!" cried Hildegarde. "Gerald will
be here in a moment; he ought to be here now, indeed. I very carelessly
forgot something,--a little parcel that I wanted to bring,--and Gerald
was so kind as to go back for it."
"Quite right, my child!" said the Colonel. "Of course you sent him!
Preposterous if you had done anything else." He bustled off, and
Hildegarde turned to look out of the window; for truth to tell, the
parcel that she had left behind contained a little gift for the Colonel
himself (it was a copy of "Underwoods." Hildegarde would have given
copies of "Underwoods" to all her friends, if she could have afforded
it), and she wanted to catch the first glimpse of Gerald. How long he
was in coming! They were lighting the candles, Hugh whispered her; Jack
and Mr. Raymond Ferrers and Mr. Merryweather were to light them as soon
as the party was assembled. Gerald was wanted to take the second tenor
in the carol. Why had she been so careless? Ah! there he was at last!
Hildegarde ran out to the porch, to receive the precious parcel.
"Oh," she cried, "how long you have been, child! I thought you would
never come!"
"So did I," said a voice that certainly did not belong to Gerald, "but
that is no reason why you should be out here with nothing on your head,
and the thermometer at zero."
Hildegarde felt her two hands grasped, and herself drawn firmly back
into the house.
"They do not take proper care of you!" said Roger. "And are you glad to
see me, Hilda?"
Everything seemed misty to Hildegarde after that. She heard the
welcomes and rejoicings; heard Gerald's voice of panting
apology,--"Couldn't keep up with the Codger, you know! Couldn't, 'pon my
word, he was in such a hurry!"--and received the Colonel's book in time
to tie it on the tree. She took her part in the carol, too, and wondered
that her voice should be so strong, and not tremble, as the rest of her
seemed to be trembling. Yes, and she saw the glorious Tree, in all its
splendour, and helped untie the presents, and sat with her lap full of
pretty things, sharing the wild delight of Will and Kitty, and the
quieter raptures of Hugh.
Yes, the lion was truly splendid; she had never heard such a roar, or
seen such a mane. She should really be afraid to come to Pumpkin House,
if she would be in danger of meeting him on the stairs. And Hugh's fleet
was a joy, and,--yes, certainly they would go sailing together; and
they'd go to the Dee, and the Jellybolee, over the land and over the
sea--
And all the time, the girl felt that she was in a dream, in which the
only real thing was the tall, broad-shouldered figure that moved so
lightly and cheerfully among the rest; was the deep, sweet voice that
was talking, explaining, parrying, the attack of the Colonel and all his
own family?
"Well, but it is true, my dear Miranda. I could not have helped it;
really I could not. No, I dined with no other friends. I dined on a cold
sausage, at a railway restaurant. I have travelled day and night to get
here, and I do not mean to be abused for my efforts. There was a railway
accident,--"
"An accident! Oh, Roger! are you hurt? Where are you hurt? How did it
happen? Tell us all about it? Whose fault was it? Was any one killed?"
Thus the Merryweathers in chorus, with Colonel Ferrers thundering a
bass. Roger Merryweather looked from one to the other; his eyes
twinkled, but he was silent.
"Well, sir?" cried his brother Miles, in a fine baritone solo.
"Well, sir!" retorted Roger. "I thought you were all doing it so
beautifully, it was a pity to interrupt. No,--no one was hurt. A
freight train broke down, and blocked all the trains on the road. The
delay was apparently endless; there seemed no particular reason why we
should ever go on. Finally, I ran ahead, and found the engineer of the
night express, the first train in the block, fighting mad, and vowing
that he would plough his way through the freight train, if they didn't
get it out of the road in five minutes. A lot of us took hold in good
earnest, and in ten minutes the track was free. Then the express driver
found that his fireman was hurt,--I forgot him! He was really the only
one,--and he was madder than ever, and said he could not go on without a
fireman. So I said I was his fireman, and his long-lost uncle besides;
and I jumped on, and off we went. It was an exhilarating ride. We were
an hour late, and we made up half of it; but that did not let me make my
connections. Finally, here am I; the question is, are you glad to see
me, or shall I go back?"
Well, there seemed little doubt that they were glad to see him. It
seemed to Hildegarde, still sitting in her corner, with Hugh's hand in
hers, as if the other children would fairly devour him; and the elders
were not much better. Miles must hear all about the mines, and piled
question upon question till his brother cried for mercy. Will and Kitty
hung about his neck, Bell and Gertrude could hardly take their eyes off
him. Only Gerald, after the first moment, came and sat by Hildegarde,
and asked if he should not take Hugh, and if she did not want to go and
join the others.
"No!" cried Hildegarde. "Go yourself, Jerry, and hear all about it. I--I
shall hear it all another time."
"I met him, you see!" said Gerald, guiltily. "I heard it all as--as we
came from the other house. We came along together, and then he--he got
ahead of me somehow, and came in first."
Hildegarde heard him, but only half understood what he said. Now,
however, there came a change in the boy's voice, and he rose hastily.
"I--I think I will go, Hilda, if you really don't mind,--if you will
excuse me. I think Phil wants me for something--"
He vanished, and Hildegarde turned to find Roger at her elbow.
"I have a little gift for you," he was saying. "I--I won't give it to
you to-night, I think, but bring it to-morrow, if I may. It is something
I made myself, and I am rather proud of it. May I come to-morrow
morning? Oh, it is good to be at home again! Good to see what one has
been dreaming about for all these--"
"Supper! supper!" cried the Colonel, rubbing his hands. "Come, young
folks! the tree is stripped, and now for an honest, old-fashioned
supper. None of your kickshaws and folderols! No flummery, that leaves a
man tired and hungry when he leaves the table. Food, my dear madam, is
one of the blessings--what was it this Boy said about food the other
day, Raymond? Hugh, you understand, Mrs. Grahame; more and more
astonishing that child grows, as he grows older. He was disappointed the
other day,--Hildegarde could not come as he expected, or something
happened,--hum, ha! And he was distressed; a good deal distressed. Then
he ate his supper,--ate it like a man, and I told him so, sir, and
congratulated him on keeping his appetite. He looks up at me, and says
he, 'Food stops sorrow!' His very expression, give you my word! Food
stops sorrow! Ha, ha! so it does, my dear madam, so it does! This way,
if you please! Hildegarde, my child, you will bring the Boy? He is--hum,
ha!--not quite up to concert pitch to-night. Nothing much the
matter,--growing boys, eh, Mrs. Grahame? Come on, all hands!"
Well, the supper was great, and the games were glorious. Hildegarde did
her very best to appear just as usual, and, indeed, no one who had seen
her flying down the long drawing-room in the Virginia reel (the Colonel
had engaged her for it a month before) would have thought her anything
but the gayest of the gay; but, happy though she was, the world still
seemed misty, the rooms confused, the talk mere babble; and she was
glad, for once, when the frolic was over, and the greetings said, and
she was at home once more, in her own quiet room.
There was a cosy little fire burning on the hearth, and late though it
was, Hildegarde was in no mood for going to bed. She sat down by the
window and looked out. The snow lay clear and white in the moonlight;
here and there the dark evergreens rose like steadfast guardians; all
was peaceful and lovely. Lovely! How brown and handsome he looked! And
had he really been glad to see her? She thought so; yes, surely he was
glad, only somebody interrupted him every time he came near her. Of
course, selfish creature that she was! They were his own dear people, he
was theirs; he belonged to them. They had not seen him for months, and
how preposterous of her to expect to have any of his time the very first
evening. Besides, he said particularly that he was coming in the
morning. Would the day be fair? But men did not mind weather, certainly
not the Merryweather men. And--and her mother would be so glad to have a
good talk with him.
Were they all asleep now, the good, merry neighbours? They made a good
deal of noise sometimes, but they all meant so well, and were so hearty
and genuine. Gerald was the most like Roger, after all; she had never
noticed before how much alike they were. Dear Jerry! He had always been
her favourite, though Phil was as nice as he could be, and, of course,
she was very, very fond of Bell, and all of them. How perfectly clear
and still it was! Silver and pearl and diamond,--oh, what beauty!
"Deep on the convent roof the snows
Are sparkling to the moon."
She wondered if her white dress was really the one she should have worn,
or whether--whether any one would have thought the pink one prettier.
No; he always liked white; she remembered his saying so. There was a
light in the corner room of Pumpkin House; ah, yes! it was Roger's room.
Such a funny room, all full of minerals and dried specimens, and with
lengths of copper wire hanging all about the walls. Jerry said that
Roger had put them there against the time he should be crossed in love,
so that he could hang himself whenever he felt like it. What was it he
had brought for her? A specimen, probably. No! for he had made it
himself. What was he doing now, she wondered. Oh, it was so good, so
good, to know that he was near, and that she should see him in the
morning!
"But now," said Hildegarde, shaking her shoulders, and pulling herself
together, "you are going to bed, miss! Let me have no more of this
ridiculous moon-gazing, do you hear? Have you any sense? Take one look
at the white glory of it, and then off with you!"
Wrapping a shawl round her (for she was still in her white evening
dress, though it was an hour and more since she came back from
Roseholme), she opened the window for an instant,--softly, for fear of
rousing her mother, and leaned out, to take one deep draught of the
magical beauty of the night. As she gazed, held as with a charm,--what
was that, that seemed to move by the corner of the hedge? What was it,
white against the snow, that was stealing along by the garden wall,
silent as a dream? Was she, indeed, dreaming? Hildegarde's heart stood
still for a moment. A little figure came forward now across the
lawn,--it stood out clear against the dark firs. Good heavens! It was
little Hugh! Barefoot, in his white nightgown, his head held high, his
eyes gazing straight forward, the child came on, with swift, certain
steps. One more glance told Hildegarde the truth; he was walking in his
sleep.
[Illustration: "A LITTLE FIGURE ... STOOD OUT CLEAR AGAINST THE DARK
FIRS."]
In a flash she had stolen down the stairs, only stopping to snatch a
warm cloak from the hall as she went. The bar and chain delayed her, for
she dared not strike a match,--her mother's light sleep was too
precious,--still, it seemed only an instant before she was on the lawn,
gazing wildly about her. The child was gone! An instant she stood
undecided; was it possible that the whole had been a vision, a
hallucination, brought on by excitement and fatigue? No! For here were
the little footprints in the snow.
Oh, the little, tender feet, stung by the bitter cold! How was it
possible that the touch of the snow had not waked him? But here was her
clue; in another moment, surely, she should have him in her arms.
Breathless and panting, Hildegarde ran round the corner of the house,
following those little white tracks--and stopped. The footsteps broke
off short. Looking up, bewildered, she uttered a low cry of terror. Hugh
was climbing up the wall. This part of the house was low, a kind of shed
or outhouse, seldom used. It was easy climbing enough, a window-sill
here, a cornice there, and a spout that ran the whole way up to the
shingled roof. Hildegarde had climbed it herself, in pursuit of a
runaway kitten; if the child would only stop at the shed roof she could
easily follow him. But above rose the steep-pitched upper roof! What
should she do if he went on? What should she do? She dared not call, for
now the little figure, steadily climbing upward, stood on the shed roof;
hesitated a moment, turned half towards her,--then turned back, and set
his foot on the short ladder that led to the upper roof. Instantly
Hildegarde's knee was on the first low window-sill. She was reaching up,
on the point of raising herself to her feet, when she started violently,
and nearly lost her balance. A hand was laid on her shoulder; a steady,
restraining hand.
"What upon earth does this mean?" asked Roger Merryweather.
His voice was stern, or Hildegarde fancied it so; she answered like a
child:
"I am going after Hugh!"
"Going after--" began Roger, stupefied. Then following her upward
gesture, he broke off short.
"Go into the house, my child!" he said, quickly, in his own kind tone.
"Go at once; you must not stay out another moment in this thin dress. I
will bring him to you in the house. It will be only a minute now, and he
will be quite safe."
With that he was up like a cat, clinging here, springing there, never
pausing, never seeming to take his eyes from the little white figure,
which had now reached the summit of the steep-pitched roof. Hildegarde
gave one glance at the child, and saw him standing with outstretched
arms on the ridge-pole itself. His voice came down, clear and calm.
"I am ready, dear Bellerophon! We will fly together now, down, down,--"
The girl covered her face, and prayed. It was a breath of time, it was
eternity, before Roger's voice came down to her, strong and cheerful.
"We will go down together, Hughie. I was up here, too, and I will take
you down, because you will be more comfortable that way. Put your arms
round my neck, so! Hold on tight--that's right! Now, down we go!"
Hildegarde stood still in the snow, her hands still clutching the
window-sill. She seemed incapable of speech or motion; could only listen
to the quiet, steady voice, as it soothed the now awake and frightened
child.
"Why, I suppose you went up to get a ball, or something that had been
thrown up there. Eh? No? Something about Bellerophon? Where is he? Well,
he may be in the house, laddie. We'll go in and see, anyhow. Your
Beloved is there, you know, and she will be--_Hildegarde_!"
"Yes, Roger!" said Hildegarde, faintly.
"I told you to go into the house!"
"Yes, Roger; I am going!" And then Hildegarde sank down in a little
white heap at Roger's feet, and knew nothing more.