ANOTHER TEA-PARTY.
It was the very day after the great affair at Roseholme that
Hildegarde had her own tea-party; in fact, it had been planned for
the birthday itself, and had only been postponed when Colonel
Ferrers made known his kind wish. This was a piazza party. The
broad, out-door room was hung with roses,--some of the very
garlands which had graced the dark walls of Roseholme the night
before; but here they were twined in and out of the vines which
grew on all sides of the piazza, screening it from outside view,
and making it truly a bower and a retreat. The guests had been
asked to come at five o'clock, but it was not more than three when
Hildegarde, coming to the door by chance, saw two or three little
figures hanging about the gate, gazing wistfully in. At sight of
her, their heads went down and their fingers went into their
mouths; they studied the ground, and appeared to know neither
where they were, nor why they had come.
"Euleta!" exclaimed Hildegarde; "is that you, child? and Minnie
and Katie, too. Why, you are here in good time, aren't you?"
She ran down and took the children by the hand, and led them up to
the piazza. "I am very glad to see you, chicks," she said. "Shall
we take off the hats? Perhaps we will leave them on for a little,"
she added, quickly, seeing a shade of distress on Euleta's face;
"they look so--gay and bright, and we might want to walk about the
garden, you see."
Euleta beamed again, and the others with her. They were sisters,
and their careful mother had given them hats just alike, dreadful
mysteries of magenta roses and apple-green ribbon. Their pride was
pleasant to see, and Hildegarde smiled back at them, saying to
herself that the dear little faces would look charming in
anything, however, hideous.
Soon more children came, and yet more: Vesta Philbrook and Martha
Skeat, Philena Tabb and Susan Aurora Bulger,--twelve children in
all, and every child there before the stroke of four.
"Well," said Hildegarde to herself, "the tea-table will not be
quite so pretty as if I had had time to make the wreaths; but they
would rather play than have wreaths, and I should not have left it
till the last hour, sinner that I am." She proposed "Little Sally
Waters," and they all fell to it with ardour.
"Oh, little Sally Waters, sitting in the sun,
Crying, weeping, for your young man;
Rise, Sally, rise, wipe your weeping eyes," etc.
Martha Skeat was the first Sally; she chose Susan Aurora, and
Susan Aurora chose Hildegarde. Down went Hildegarde on the floor,
and wept and wrung her hands so dramatically that the children
paused in alarm, fearing that some real calamity had occurred.
"Oh! oh!" moaned Hildegarde; "my young man! Go on, children. Why
are you stopping? Oh, where IS my young man?" she sobbed; and the
children, reassured by a twinkling smile, shrieked with delight.
"What shall I do?" sobbed the girl. "I--haven't--got--any young
man! Now, children, you MUST say 'Rise, Sally,' or my foot will be
sound asleep, and then I couldn't get up at all, and what would
become of your supper?"
Aghast at this suggestion, the children began to chant, hastily,--
"Rise, Sally, rise,
Wipe your weeping eyes;
Turn to the east,
Turn to the west,
Turn to the one that you love the best!"
Hildegarde sprang to her feet, whirled to the east, with her hands
clasped in entreaty; turned to the west, holding out her arms with
a gesture of intense longing; turned to the south,--and saw a
stranger standing and gazing at her with a look of intense
amusement.
For once Hildegarde thought that her wits were gone; she stood
still, her arms dropped to her side, and she returned the
stranger's gaze with a look of such simple, absolute dismay that
he could hardly keep his countenance. Hastily advancing, he lifted
his hat. "Miss Grahame," he said, "I beg your pardon for breaking
in in this way. My sister--I am Roger Merryweather, I ought to say
first--Bell wanted to know at what time she should come over, and
as none of the boys were at hand, I ventured to come over with the
message."
His eyes,--they were kind eyes, as Hildegarde noticed in her
distress,--his eyes seemed to say, "I wish you would not mind me
in the least, my child! Have I not sisters of my own, and don't I
know all about Sally Waters?" It almost seemed as if the words
were spoken, and Hildegarde recovered her composure, and came
forward, with a burning blush, it is true, but holding out her
hand with her own sweet cordiality.
"I am very glad to see you, Mr. Merryweather. You are very good
not to laugh at poor Sally's distresses. Tell Bell that the
children are all here, and the sooner she comes the better. But--will you not come in, Mr. Merryweather? My mother will be
delighted to see you. We have heard so much of you from all the
children."
Roger Merryweather excused himself on the ground of letters that
must be written, but promised himself the pleasure of an early
call; and so, with another kind, sensible look, and a smile and a
friendly word to the children, he withdrew, and Hildegarde saw him
leap lightly over the fence,--a tall, well-knit figure, springy
and light as Gerald's own.
The girl drew a long breath of dismay, but it quavered, and
finally ended in a hearty laugh.
"And how PERFECTLY he behaved!" she said aloud. "If one had to
make a spectacle of one's self,--and apparently it is to be my
fate through life,--surely no one could choose a kinder looking
spectator."
Here she became aware of the children, standing at gaze, and
evidently waiting for her next word.
"Why, what am I thinking about?" she cried, merrily. "Do you think
we have had enough of 'Sally,' children? I--I think perhaps I
have. And what shall we play next? I fear it is too hot still for
'I Spy;' we must keep that till after tea. What are you saying,
Martha? Speak out, dear, and don't be afraid to say just what you
would like best. This is your own party, you see, and it is to be
the kind of party you all think pleasantest."
Martha murmured inaudibly several times, but spurred by digs in
the ribs with several pairs of sharp elbows, finally spoke aloud
with a sudden yelp. "Oh, PLEASE!--Susan Aurora Bulger, I'll go
right and tell your mother this minute!--please, 'The Highland
Gates to Die.'"
"What?" asked Hildegarde, in amazement. "Say it again, Martha,
please. The Highland--what?"
"Gates to Die!" said Martha Skeat, and all the children took up
the chorus. "'The Highland Gates to Die,' please, Teacher!"
Hildegarde repeated the words to herself, but no light came. "I
don't understand," she said. "You will have to show me how to
play, for I never heard of the game. Highland Gates--well, I shall
learn it quickly, I hope. Euleta, will you take the lead?"
Euleta, a sheep-faced child, with six whitey-brown pigtails,
motioned to the others, who at once joined hands in a circle. Then
she began to pace slowly round the circle, and all the children
broke out into a wild chant:
"Go round and round the level,
Go round and round the level,
Go round and round the level,
The Highland Gates to die."
Now the arms were lifted, and the leader wove her mystic paces in
and out among the children, while the words changed.
"Go in and out the window,
Go in and out the window,
Go in and out the window,
The Highland Gates to die."
Euleta took Vesta Philbrook by the hand, led her into the circle,
and knelt solemnly before her; and the others sang, wildly,--
"Kneel down and face your lover,
Kneel down and face your lover,
Kneel down and face your lover,
The Highland Gates to die."
"What ARE, you playing?" cried Bell Merryweather, who had come in
quietly, and was watching the proceedings in amazement.
"Don't ask me!" Hildegarde replied, "watch and listen, and learn
if you can. Oh, this is tragedy, indeed!" For Euleta had thrown
herself backward, not without a certain dramatic force, and now
lay prone at Vesta's feet; and the children chanted, solemnly,--
"She's dead because she loved him,
She's dead because she loved him,
She's dead because she loved him,
The Highland Gates to die."
This ended the game, and the children smiled joyously, while
Euleta plumed herself like a little peacock, taking to herself the
credit of all the interest shown by the young ladies.
"But what an extraordinary thing!" cried Bell; "Hildegarde, have
you an idea what it can mean?"
Hildegarde shook her head. "It must be something old," she said.
"It must come from some old story or ballad. Oh, if we could only
find out!" They questioned the children eagerly, but could learn
nothing. It was merely, "The Highland Gates to Die," and they had
always played it, and everybody else always played it,--that was
all they knew.
At this moment a well-known brown bonnet was seen bobbing
apologetically up the drive; the Widow Lankton had been making
frantic efforts to catch Hildegarde's eye, and now succeeding,
began a series of crab-like bows.
"Oh!" cried Hildegarde, eagerly, "there is Mrs. Lankton, and she
will know all about it."
"Yes," chimed in the children, in every variety of shrill treble.
"Widder Lankton, SHE'LL know all about it, sure!"
Mrs. Lankton was surrounded in a moment, and brought up on the
piazza. Here she sat, turning her head from side to side, like a
lean and pensive parrot, and struggling to get her breath.
"It's ketched me!" she said, faintly, in reply to the girls'
questions. "Miss Grahame, my dear, it's ketched me in my right
side, and I like t' ha' died on your thrishold. Yes, my dear," she
nodded her head many times, and repeated with unction, "I like t'
ha' died on your thrishold."
"Oh, I am so sorry, Mrs. Lankton!" said Hildegarde, soothingly,
while she quieted with a look Bell's horrified anxiety.
"I think you will be able to go in and get a cup of tea presently,
won't you? And that will take away the pain, I hope."
Mrs. Lankton's countenance assumed a repressed cheerfulness. "You
may be right, dear!" she said. "I shouldn't go to contradict your
blessed mother's darter, not if she told me to get a hull supper,
let alone a cup o' tea, as is warming to the innards, let him deny
it who will. There! I feel it a leetle better now a'ready," she
announced. "Ah, it's a blessed privilege you have, Miss Grahame!"
Without stopping to analyze these remarks too closely, Hildegarde
said a few more soothing words, and then went straight to the
matter in hand.
"Mrs. Lankton, can you tell us anything about a game the children
have been playing, the game of 'The Highland Gates?' We are very
much interested in it, Miss Merryweather and I,--this is Miss
Merryweather,--and we want to know what it means."
"To be sure, my dear!" cried the Widow Lankton. "'The Highland
Gates to Die.' Dear me, yes! if ever a person could tell you--and
Miss Bellflower, is it? Ah! she looks rugged, now; don't she? and
livin' in the old Shannon house, too. 'T is dretful onhealthy,
they say, the Shannon house; but havin' a rugged start, you see,
you may weather it a consid'able time, dearie, and be a comfort to
them as has you WHILE they has you. My Philena, her cheeks was
just like yours, like two pinies. And where is she now? Ah! I've
seen trouble, Miss Bellwether. Miss Grahame here can tell you of
some of the trouble I've seen, though she don't know not a quarter
part of it."
"Oh yes, Mrs. Lankton," said Hildegarde, with what seemed to
wondering Bell rather a scant measure of sympathy; "Miss
Merryweather shall hear all about it, surely. But will you tell us
now about the game, please? We want to know so very much!"
"To be sure, dearie! to be sure!" acquiesced Mrs. Lankton with
alacrity. "'T is a fine game, and anncient, as you may say. Why,
my grandmother taught me to play 'The Highland Gates' when I was
no bigger than you, Vesta Philbrook. Ah! many's the time I played
it with my sister Salome, and she died just about your age."
"Well, Mrs. Lankton," said Hildegarde, encouragingly.
"Well? oh, bless you! no, dearie! She was terrible sick! that was
why she died. Oh, my, yes! She had dyspepsy right along, suffered
everything with it, yet 'twas croup that got her at last. Ah!
there's never any child knows when croup 'll get her; girl NOR
boy!"
Hildegarde began to feel as if she must scream, or stamp her foot,
or do some other impossible thing.
"Mrs. Lankton," she said, gravely, "I am sure Auntie has the
kettle on, and you will be the better for your tea, so will you
not tell us as quickly as you can, please, about the game? The
children are waiting, you see, to go on with their play."
"Jest what I was going to say, dear," cried Mrs. Lankton. "Let 'em
play, I says, while they can, I says; for its soon enough they get
the play squenched out of 'em, if you'll excuse the expression,
Miss Henfeather."
At this apostrophe, delivered with mournful intensity, Bell
retreated hastily behind a post of the veranda, and even Susan
Aurora Bulger giggled faintly, with her apron in her mouth.
Hildegarde was silent, and tried the effect of gazing severely at
the widow, apparently with some success, for after a pause of
head-shaking, Mrs. Lankton continued:
"But as you was saying, dearie, about the game. Ye--es! Well, my
grandmother, she was an anncient woman; some said she was ninety-seven, and more called it ninety-eight, but she didn't rightly
know herself, bein' she had lost the family Bible. Burned up with
the house it was, before she came from the Provinces, and some
said it was because of starting a new fire in the cook-stove on
Sunday; but I don't want to set in judgment, not on my own flesh
and blood, I do not, Miss Grahame. And I remember as if it was
this day of time, she settin' in her chair in the porch to our
house, smokin' her pipe, if you'll excuse me ladies, bein' an
anncient woman, and I HAVE heard great ladies took their pipes in
them times, but so it is. And she says to me, 'Drusilly,' she
says, 'Why don't you play with Salome?' and I says, ''Cause I
ain't got nothin' to play.' And she says, 'Come here,' she says,
'and I'll learn ye a game,' she says. So I called Salome, and we
two stood there, and Gram'ther she taught us 'The Highland Gates
to Die.' Salome, she had been feedin' the hens, and when she come
back she left the gate open, and they all got out and went and
strayed into the woods, and my father got so mad we thought we
should lose him, for sure. Purple he used to get when he was mad,
same as a late cabbage, and an awful sight. Yes, children, be
thankful if you're learned to keep your tempers. So that's all I
know, Miss Grahame, my dear, and you're welcome as air to it; and
I do believe I see Mis' Auntie lookin' out the kitching winder
this minute, so if you'll excuse me, ladies, bein' I feel a
goneness inside, and if I should faint away, how your blessed
mother would feel!"