My children, you must remember that I am speaking of an old-fashioned
time, and I travelled down to Hillsbro' by coach. The promenade of a
fashionable watering-place had hitherto been my idea of the country.
Imagine, then, how my hungry eyes devoured the new beauties presented to
them. I had provided myself with a book, and I had hoped to fall asleep
over it, yet here I was with my eyes riveted to a pane of glass, afraid
to wink lest I should miss something. Grace's warning, "You will fret
yourself to death, you will be back before a month," grew faint in my
ears. When night shut out my new world and I fell asleep, I dreamed of
extraordinary phenomena--trees stalking about the plains, fairies
leaping out of the foam of the rivers.
I opened my eyes to a rose-coloured dawn. We had stopped before a little
village inn. A row of pigeons with burnished necks looked down on me
from their perch on the signboard above the door; a half-dressed,
curly-headed child peeped out of a window from under the eaves, and
clapped his hands at the steaming horses: and a young man walked out of
the inn with a whip in his hand, and asked if there might be a lady
inside the coach whose destination was Hillsbro' Farm.
I was soon seated by his side in a gig. By a few careful glances I had
easily assured myself that there was nothing of the ploughman in the
appearance of Mrs. Hollingford's son. You will want to know what I
thought of him that morning, and I will tell you. He seemed to me the
beau ideal of a country gentleman: nothing less than this, and something
more. You have known him, my dears, stooped and white-haired, and have
loved him in his age for the sake of the heart that never grew old. But
on that brilliant autumn morning when he and I first sat side by side,
the same lovable spirit was clothed with the strength and beauty of
mortal youth.
The vivid life of the country was sweet to me that early morning. Carts
of hay lumbered past us, almost crushing us into the hedges as they
swept along heavily, leaving a trail of fragrance in the air. Red and
brown leaves lay thick on the ground, making beautiful the undulations
of the roads. Mists of dew hung among the purple folds of the hills, and
the sun dashed the woods and streams with kindling gold. By and by the
whole country side was laughing in the full face of the day.
Hillsbro' Farmhouse was, and is, a low long dwelling built of dark
bricks, and standing among orchards and meadows, green pasture lands and
running streams. Its ivied chimneys had for background the sombre lines
of a swelling moor, belted by a wood of pines which skirted the hollow
wherein the earth nourished the fatness and sweetness of the thrifty
farm acres. Along the edge of the moor the road ran that led to
Hillsbro' Hall, and a short cut through the wood brought one down upon a
back entrance to the squire's own grounds.
The dear old farm! Roses were blowing in that morning at the open sashes
of the big, heavy, roughly hung windows. Two young girls, who were
afterwards dear to me as fibres of my heart, lingered beside the open
door; stately handsome Jane, with her solemn observant black eyes and
trim dark dress, and frolicsome Mopsie, with her laughing face, and her
hat tied down, gipsy fashion, with a red ribbon. They lingered to see
me, to take their share in giving me a welcome, and then set out on
their long walk, discussing me by the way. They told me of it
afterwards. Jane said I was only fit for a glass case, and Mopsie
declared I alighted from the old gig as if I had a mind to dance. They
were awed by the high heels on my boots, the feather in my hat, and the
quilted satin of my pelisse. They wondered I could deign to speak
anything but French, and concluded I did so only out of compliment to
their homeliness.
And I, meanwhile, decked in all the fanciful elegancies of a London
toilette, sat down to breakfast in the long parlour at Hillsbro' Farm,
with something in my heart that would not let me eat though I was
hungry, and something in my eyes that would not let me see very well,
though the sun came rich and yellow through each of the wide windows,
forming one broad golden path down the middle of the room. I saw but
dimly the dark brown walls and ceiling, the stiff-backed chairs with
their worn covers, the jar full of late roses that stood in either
window, the heap of trailing ivy that overran the huge grate. It was
Mrs. Hollingford's face that did it as she sat, kind, careful,
hospitable, pressing on me sweet home-made cakes, fresh butter, fragrant
tea, delicious cream, and delicate pink eggs. Ah me! it was her face
that did it. There was my great lady, my beneficent friend, my valiant
woman. Her eyes were somewhat sunken, the fire of their energy a trifle
slackened, her brow a little seamed; the strain of fortitude had drawn a
tight cord about her mouth. Whence, then, that new touching beauty that
made one see the stamp of heaven's nobility shining on her face? Had I
quite forgotten her, or was she indeed something new? It was as if grief
had chiselled her features afresh out of the superfluous roundings of
prosperity, wasted them into perfect sweetness, hacked them into purer
refinement. She wore a strait black gown of the coarsest material, only
the fair folds of muslin about her throat giving daintiness to her
attire. Her son breakfasted with us, and I fancied he often looked at me
curiously as if to say, "What concern can she have with us? why did she
come? how long will she remain?" I had talked to him without
embarrassment as we drove along, but now I could hardly speak. Never had
I felt so shy in any company as I did in the presence of my mother's
friend.
After breakfast she led me to my room, bright and airy, but scantily
furnished. It had a window looking out on an orchard threaded by long
alleys, over which hung a glowing roof of fruit-laden branches. And here
I unpacked my trunks and stowed away my elegant dresses in a huge
painted wardrobe smelling of apples. I laid aside with a kind of shame
all the little ornaments I was accustomed to wear, and dressed myself in
the plainest gown I possessed. Descending the quaint old staircase
again, I found Mrs. Hollingford walking up and down the hall waiting
patiently for my appearance.
"What a great woman you have grown, my love!" she said, drawing my hand
within her arm, and leading me through the open hall door. "But you have
still your mother's fair hair and sunny eyes. Will you walk with me for
an hour? I have much to say to you, and the sooner it is said the
better."
Then she told me the story of her life, and misfortunes, sternly,
sweetly, with strange humility and fortitude. I knew much of it before,
but she would tell it all.
"And now, my love," she said, "you know us as we are. Your mother, when
she made me your guardian, did not foresee the changes that were to take
place. You have other friends who are willing to give you a home. You
have come here of your own will. When you wish to leave us we shall not
wonder."
I threw my arms round her neck and told her I would not leave her.
Never, since Miss Kitty Sweetman went to India, had my heart gone forth
so completely to anyone.
She bade me not be too hasty. "You will find our life so different from
anything you have ever known," she said. "We all fear it for you. We are
so busy here. We have always a purpose before our eyes to make us work."
"Then I shall work too," I said. "I will not be the only drone in such a
thrifty hive."
She smiled at this, and shook her head. But I immediately began to cast
about for the means by which I might find it possible to keep my word.