THE LETTER.
"Nurse Lucy," said Hildegarde that evening, as they sat in the porch
after tea, "why have you never told me about Pink Chirk,--about her
being a cripple, I mean? I had no idea of it till I went to see her
to-day. How terrible it is!"
"I wonder that I haven't told you, dear!" replied Nurse Lucy, placidly.
"I suppose I am so used to Pink as she is, I forget that she ever was
like other people. She is a dear, good child,--his 'sermon,' Jacob calls
her. He says that whenever he feels impatient or put out, he likes to go
down and look at Pink, and hear her talk. 'It takes the crook right out
of me!' he says. Poor Jacob!"
"But how did it happen?" asked Hilda. "She says she was only three years
when she--Oh, think of it, Nurse Lucy! It is too dreadful. Tell me how
it happened."
"Don't ask me, my dear!" said Dame Hartley, sadly. "Why should you hear
anything so painful? It would only haunt your mind as it haunted mine
for years after. The worst of it was, there was no need of it. Her
mother was a young, flighty, careless girl, and she didn't look after
her baby as she should have done. That is all you need know, Hilda, my
dear! Poor Susan Chirk! it took the flightiness out of her, and made her
the anxious, melancholy soul she has been ever since. Then Bubble was
born, and soon after her husband died, and since then she has had a hard
time to fend for herself. But Pink has never been any trouble to her,
only a help and a comfort; and her neighbors have done what they could
from time to time."
Dame Hartley might have said that she and her husband had kept this
desolate widow and her children from starvation through many a long
winter, and had given her the means of earning her daily bread in
summer; had clothed the children, and provided comforts for the crippled
girl. But this was not Nurse Lucy's way. The neighbors had done what
they could, she said; and now Bubble was earning good wages for a boy,
and was sure to get on well, being bright and industrious; and Mrs.
Chirk took in weaving to do for the neighbors, and went out sometimes to
work by the day; and so they were really getting on very well,--better
than one could have hoped.
Hildegarde laid her head against the good Dame's shoulder and fell into
a brown study. Nurse Lucy seemed also in a thoughtful mood; and so the
two sat quietly in the soft twilight till the red glow faded in the
west, and left in its stead a single star, gleaming like a living jewel
in the purple sky. All the birds were asleep save the untiring
whippoorwill, who presented his plea for the castigation of the unhappy
William with ceaseless energy. A little night-breeze came up, and said
pleasant, soft things to the leaves, which rustled gently in reply, and
the crickets gave their usual evening concert, beginning with a movement
in G sharp, _allegro con moto_. Other sound there was none, until by and
by the noise of wheels was heard, and the click of old Nancy's hoofs;
and out of the gathering darkness Farmer Hartley appeared, just returned
from the village, whither he had gone to make arrangements about selling
his hay.
"Wal, Marm Lucy," he said, cheerfully, throwing the reins on Nancy's
neck and jumping from the wagon, "is that you settin' thar? 'Pears to me
I see somethin' like a white apun gloomin' out o' the dark."
"Yes, Jacob," answered "Marm Lucy," "I am here, and so is Hilda. The
evening has been so lovely, we have not had the heart to light the
lamps, but have just been sitting here watching the sunset. We'll come
in now, though," she added, leading the way into the house. "You'll be
wanting some supper, my man. Or did ye stop at Cousin Sarah's?"
"I stopped at Sary's," replied the farmer. "Ho! ho! yes, Sary gave me
some supper, though she warn't in no mood for seein' comp'ny, even her
own kin. Poor Sary! she was in a dretful takin', sure enough!"
"Why, what was the matter?" asked Dame Hartley, as she trimmed and
lighted the great lamp, and drew the short curtains of Turkey red cotton
across the windows. "Is Abner sick again!"
"Shouldn't wonder if he was, by this time," replied the farmer; "but he
warn't at the beginnin' of it. I'll tell ye how 'twas;" and he sat down
in his great leather chair, and stretched his legs out comfortably
before him, while his wife filled his pipe and brought it to him,--a
little attention which she never forgot. "Sary, she bought a new bunnit
yisterday!" Farmer Hartley continued, puffing away at the pipe. "She's
kind o' savin', ye know, Sary is [Nurse Lucy nodded, with a knowing
air], and she hadn't had a new bunnit for ten years. (I d' 'no' 's she's
had one for twenty!" he added in parenthesis; "_I_ never seed her with
one to my knowledge.) Wal, the gals was pesterin' her, an' sayin' she
didn't look fit to go to meetin' in the old bunnit, so 't last she giv'
way, and went an' bought a new one. 'Twas one o' these newfangled
shapes. What was it Lizy called it? Somethin' Chinese, I reckon. Fan
Song! That was it!"
"Fanchon, wasn't it, perhaps?" asked Hilda, much amused.
"That's what I said, warn't it?" said the farmer. "Fan Song, Fan
Chong,--wal, what's the odds? 'Twas a queer lookin' thing, anyhow, I
sh'd think, even afore it-- Wal, I'm comin' to that. Sary showed it to
the gals, and they liked it fust-rate; then she laid it on the kitchen
table, an' went upstairs to git some ribbons an' stuff to put on it.
She rummaged round consid'able upstairs, an' when she kum down, lo and
behold, the bunnit was gone! Wal, Sary hunted high, and she hunted low.
She called the gals, thinkin' they'd played a trick on her, an' hidden
it for fun. But they hadn't, an' they all set to an' sarched the house
from garrit to cellar; but they didn't find hide nor hair o' that
bunnit. At last Sary give it up, an' sot down out o' breath, an' mad
enough to eat somebody. 'It's been stole!' says she. 'Some ornery
critter kem along while I was upstairs,' says she, 'an' seed it lyin'
thar on the table, an' kerried it off!' says she. 'I'd like to get hold
of her!' says she; 'I guess she wouldn't steal no more bunnits for _one_
while!' says she. I had come in by that time, an' she was tellin' me all
about it. Jest at that minute the door opened, and Abner kem sa'nterin'
in, mild and moony as usual 'Sary,' says he,--ho! ho! ho! it makes me
laugh to think on't,--'Sary,' says he, 'I wouldn't buy no more baskets
without handles, ef I was you. They ain't convenient to kerry,' says
he. And with that he sets down on the table--that Fan Chong bunnit! He'd
been mixin' chicken feed in it, an' he'd held it fust by one side an'
then by the other, an' he'd dropped it in the mud too, I reckon, from
the looks of it: you never seed sech a lookin' thing in all your born
days as that bunnit was. Sary, she looked at it, and then she looked at
Abner, an' then at the bunnit agin; an' _then_ she let fly."
"Poor Sarah!" said Nurse Lucy, wiping tears of merriment from her eyes.
"What did she say?"
"_I_ can't tell ye what she said," replied the farmer. "What did your
old cat say when Spot caught hold of her tail the other day? An' yet
there was language enough in what Sary said. I tell ye the hull
dictionary was flyin' round that room for about ten minutes,--Webster's
Unabridged, an' nothin' less. An' Abner, he jest stood thar, bobbin' his
head up an' down, and openin' an' shettin' his mouth, as if he'd like
to say somethin' if he could get a chance. But when Sary was so out of
breath that she couldn't say another word, an' hed to stop for a minute,
Abner jest says, 'Sary, I guess you're a little excited. Jacob an' me'll
go out an' take a look at the stock,' says he, 'and come back when
you're feelin' calmer.' An' he nods to me, an' out we both goes, before
Sary could git her breath agin. I didn't say nothin', 'cause I was
laughin' so inside 't I couldn't. Abner, he walked along kind o' solemn,
shakin' his head every little while, an' openin' an' shettin' his mouth.
When we got to the stable-door he looked at me a minute, and then he
said, 'The tongue is a onruly member, Jacob! I _thought_ that was kind
of a curus lookin' basket, though!' and that was every word he said
about it."
"Oh, what delightfully funny people!" cried Hilda. "What did the wife
say when you came in to supper, Farmer Hartley?"
"She warn't thar," replied the farmer. "She had a headache, the gals
said, and had gone to bed. I sh'd think she _would_ have had a
headache,--but thar," he added, rising suddenly and beginning to search
in his capacious pockets, "I declar' for 't, if I hain't forgotten
Huldy's letter! Sary an' her bunnit put everything else out of my head."
Hilda sprang up in delight to receive the envelope which the farmer
handed to her; but her face fell a little when she saw that it was not
from her parents. She reflected, however, that she had had a double
letter only two days before, and that she could not expect another for a
week, as Mr. and Mrs. Graham wrote always with military punctuality.
There was no doubt as to the authorship of the letter. The delicate
pointed handwriting, the tiny seal of gilded wax, the faint perfume
which the missive exhaled, all said to her at once, "Madge Everton."
With a feeling which, if not quite reluctance, was still not quite
alacrity, Hildegarde broke the pretty seal, with its Cupid holding a
rose to his lips, and read as follows:--
SARATOGA, July 20.
MY DEAREST, SWEETEST HILDA,--Can it be possible
that you have been away a whole month, and that I have not
written to you? I am awfully ashamed! but I have been so
TOO busy, it has been out of the question. Papa
decided quite _suddenly_ to come here instead of going to
Long Branch; and you can imagine the _frantic_ amount of
work Mamma and I had to get ready. One has to dress so
_much_ at Saratoga, you know; and we cannot just send an
order to _Paris_, as _you_ do, my dear Queen, for all we
want, but have to _scratch round_ (I know you don't allow
your subjects to use slang, but we DO scratch
round, and nothing else can express it), and get things made
here. I have a _lovely_ pale blue Henrietta-cloth, made like
that rose-colored gown of yours that I admire so much, and
that you SAID I might copy. Mamma says it was
_awfully_ good of you, and that _she_ wouldn't let any one
copy _her_ French dresses if she had them; but I told her
you _were_ awfully good, and that was why. Well, then I have
a white nun's-veiling, made with triple box-plaits, and a
_lovely_ pointed overskirt, copied from a Donovan dress of
Mamma's; and a dark-red surah, and oh! a perfect
"frou-frou" of wash-dresses, of course; two _sweet_ white
lawns, one trimmed with valenciennes (I _hate_ valenciennes,
you know, but Mamma _will_ make me have it, because she
thinks it is _jeune fille_!), and one with the new Russian
lace; and a pink sateen, and two or three light chambrays.
But now I know you will be _dying_ to hear about my hats;
for you always say that the hat _makes_ the costume; and so
it _does_! Well, my dearest, I have _one_ Redfern hat, and
_only_ one. Mamma says I cannot expect to have more until I
come out, which is _bitter_. However, this one is a
_beauty_, and yet cost _only_ thirty dollars. It goes well
with nearly all my dresses, and is _immensely_ becoming, all
the girls say: very high, with long pointed wings and stiff
bows. _Simple_, my dear, doesn't _express_ it! You know I
LOVE simplicity; but it is _Redferny_ to a
_degree_, and _everybody_ has noticed it.
Well, my dearest Queen, here am I running on about myself,
as if I were not actually EXPIRING to hear about
you. What my feelings were when I called at your house on
that _fatal Tuesday_ and was told that you had gone to spend
the summer on a _farm_ in the _depths_ of the country,
passes my _power_ to tell. I could not ask your mother many
questions, for you know I am always a little bit
AFRAID of her, though she is _perfectly lovely_ to
me! She was very quiet and sweet, _as_ _usual_, and spoke
as if it were the most _natural_ thing in the _world_ for a
brilliant society girl (for that is what you _are_, Hilda,
even though you are only a school-girl; and you
NEVER can be anything else!) to spend her summer in
a wretched farm-house, among _pigs_ and _cows_ and dreadful
ignorant people. Of course, Hilda dearest, you know that my
admiration for your mother is _simply_ IMMENSE, and
that I would not for _worlds_ say _one syllable_ against her
judgment and that of your _military angel_ of a father; but
I MUST say it seemed to me MORE than
strange. I assure you I hardly closed my eyes for several
nights, thinking of the MISERY you must be
undergoing; for _I_ KNOW you, Hildegarde! and the
thought of my proud, fastidious, high-bred Queen being
condemned to associate with _clowns_ and _laborers_ was
really MORE than I could bear. Do write to me,
darling, and tell me HOW you are enduring it. You
were _always_ so sensitive; why, I can see your lip curl
_now_, when any of the girls did anything that was not _tout
à fait comme il faut_! and the _air_ with which you used to
say, "The _little_ things, my dear, are the _only_ things!"
How _true_ it is! I feel it more and more _every_ day. So
_do_ write _at once_, and let me know _all_ about your dear
self. I picture you to myself sometimes, pale and thin, with
the "_white disdain_" that some poet or other speaks of, in
your face, but enduring all the HORRORS that you
must be subjected to with your OWN DIGNITY. Dearest
Hilda, you are _indeed_ a HEROINE!
Always, darling,
Your own deeply _devoted_ and _sympathizing_
MADGE.
Hildegarde looked up after reading this letter, and, curiously enough,
her eyes fell directly on a little mirror which hung on the wall
opposite. In it she saw a rosy, laughing face, which smiled back
mischievously at her. There were dimples in the cheeks, and the gray
eyes were fairly dancing with life and joyousness. Where was the "white
disdain," the dignity, the pallor and emaciation? Could this be Madge's
Queen Hildegarde? Or rather, thought the girl, with a sudden revulsion
of feeling, could this Hildegarde ever have been the other? The form of
"the minx," long since dissociated from her thoughts and life, seemed to
rise, like Banquo's ghost, and stare at her with cold, disdainful eyes
and supercilious curl of the lip. Oh DEAR! how dreadful it was
to have been so odious! How could poor dear Papa and Mamma, bless them,
have endured her as they did, so patiently and sweetly? But they should
see when they came back! She had only just begun yet; but there were two
months still before her, and in that time what could she not do? They
should be surprised, those dear parents! And Madge--why, Madge would be
surprised too. Poor Madge! To think of her in Saratoga, prinking and
preening herself like a gay bird, in the midst of a whirl of dress and
diamonds and gayety, with no fields, no woods, no glen, no--no
_kitchen_! Hilda looked about the room which she had learned so to love,
trying to fancy Madge Everton in it; remembering, too, the bitterness of
her first feeling about it. The lamplight shone cheerily on the yellow
painted walls, the shining floor, the gleaming brass, copper, and china.
It lighted up the red curtains and made a halo round good Nurse Lucy's
head as she bent over her sewing; it played on the farmer's silver-bowed
spectacles as he pored with knitted brows and earnest look over the
weekly paper which he had brought from the village. The good, kind
farmer! Hilda gazed at him as he sat all unconscious, and wondered why
she had not seen at once how handsome he really was. The broad forehead,
with its deep, thoughtful furrows; the keen, yet kindly blue eyes; the
"sable-silvered" hair and beard, which, if not exactly smooth, were
still so picturesque, so leonine; the firm, perhaps obstinate, mouth,
which could speak so wisely and smile so cordially,--all these combined
to make up what the newspapers would call a "singularly attractive
exterior." And "_Oh!_ how good he has been to me!" thought Hilda. "I
believe he is the best man in the world, next to papa." Then she thought
of Madge again, and tried to fancy her in her Redfern hat,--pretty
Madge, with her black eyes and curly fringe, under the "simplicity" of
the heaven-aspiring wings and bows; and as she smiled at the image,
there rose beside it the fair head of Pink Chirk, looking out like a
white rose from the depths of her dingy straw tunnel. Then she fancied
herself saying airily (she knew _just_ how she used to say it), "The
_little_ things, my dear, are the _only_ things!" and then she laughed
aloud at the very funniness of it.
"Hut! tut!" said Farmer Hartley, looking up from his paper with a smile.
"What's all this? Are ye keepin' all the jokes to yerself, Huldy?"
"It is only my letter that is so funny," replied Hilda. "I don't believe
it would seem so funny to you, Farmer Hartley, because you don't know
the writer. But have you finished your paper, and are you ready for
Robin Hood?"
"Wal, I am, Huldy!" said the good farmer, laying aside his paper and
rubbing his hands with an air of pleasurable anticipation. "'Pears to me
we left that good-lookin' singin' chap--what was his name?"
"Allan-a-Dale!" said Hilda, smiling.
"Ah!" said the farmer; "Allan-a-Dale. 'Pears to me we left him in
rayther a ticklish situation."
"Oh, but it comes out all right!" cried Hilda, joyously, rising to fetch
the good brown book which she loved. "You will see in the next chapter
how delightfully Robin gets him out of the difficulty." She ran and
brought the book and drew her chair up to the table, and all three
prepared for an hour of solid enjoyment. "But before I begin," she said,
"I want you to promise, Farmer Hartley, to take me with you the next
time you go to the village. I _must_ buy a hat for Pink Chirk."