Hildegarde's Home Part 12

He blushed, and evidently did not think it _was_ all right. Hildegarde blushed, too, in real distress.

"My _dear_ Jack," she cried, "how shall I tell you how sorry I am?"

She looked about for a suitable place, and then carefully set down the fly-screen with its precious contents.

"Sit down again," she cried, motioning her cousin to take his place on the fallen tree, while she did the same. "And you will not believe now how interested I really am," she said. "Mamma would never have been so stupid, nor Rose either. But you must believe me. I _was_ thinking about you till--till I saw the Luna, and you don't know what a Luna means when one hasn't a perfect specimen. But now, tell me, do you think it would be quite impossible to persuade your uncle? Why, you _must_ go to Leipsic, of course you must. He--has he ever heard you play, Jack?"

Jack laughed rather bitterly. "Once," he said. "He cried out that when he wanted to listen to cats with their tails tied together, he would tie them himself. Since then I always go up into the garret to practise, and shut all the doors and windows."

"What a pity! and he is so nice when one knows him. I wonder--do you know, Jack, what I am thinking of?"

Her face was so bright that the boy's face brightened as he looked at it.

"I hope it is what I was thinking of," he said; "but I didn't dare--"

"Mamma," cried Hildegarde.

He nodded in delight, colouring with pleasure.

"She is just the person."

"Of course she is; but will she?"

"Of course she will. I am sure of it. Your uncle shall come to tea some evening, and you shall stay at home. I will go away to write letters, and then--oh, you see, Jack, no one can resist mamma."

"What a good fellow you are, Hildegarde! Oh, I _beg_ your pardon!"

"Never mind!" cried Hildegarde merrily. "I did climb the tree, you know.

And now, come along. I must take my beauty, my love, my moonlight rapture, up to his death."

CHAPTER X.

BONNY SIR HUGH.

MEANWHILE Hildegarde had not lost sight of little Hugh Allen, the one link of interest which connected her with The Poplars. He, too, had been won by Mrs. Grahame's smile, and had learned the way to Braeside; and the more they saw of him, the more Hildegarde and her mother felt that he was a very remarkable little boy.

Much of the time he seemed to be lost in dreams, wrapped in a cloud of silent thought; and, again, from this cloud would flash out the quaintest sayings, sudden outbursts of pa.s.sionate feeling, which were startling to quiet, every-day people. When he had been walking with Mrs. Grahame, as he was fond of doing (sneaking out by the back gate from his prison-place, as he called it, and making a _detour_ to reach the road where she most often walked), and when she said, "Now, dear, it is time to say good-by, and go home," he would throw himself on his knees, and hold up his clasped hands, crying, "How can I leave thee?" in a manner which positively embarra.s.sed her.

Now it happened one day that Hugh was sitting with Merlin beside the brook that flowed at the foot of the Ladies' Garden. Hildegarde had told him to come through the garden and wait for her, and it was his first visit to the lovely, silent place. The child went dreaming along between the high box hedges, stopping occasionally to look about him and to exchange confidences with his dog. Merlin seemed to feel the influence of the place, and went along quietly, with bent head and drooping tail.

When the murmur of the hidden streamlet first fell upon his ear, "It is like the fishpools of Heshbon," said the boy dreamily. "Isn't it, Merlin? I never understood before." Merlin put his cool black nose in his master's hand, and gave a little sympathetic shake.

And now the pair were sitting on a bank of moss, looking down into the dark, clear water, which moved so swiftly yet so silently, with only a faint sound, which somehow seemed no louder than when they were at a distance.

[Ill.u.s.tration: HILDEGARDE FINDING HUGH AND MERLIN BY THE BROOK.]

"Do you see that dark round place where it is deep, Merlin?" said the child. "Do you think that under there lives a fair woman with green hair, who takes a person by the hand, and kisses him, and pulls him down? Do you think that, Merlin?" But Merlin sneezed, and shook his head, and evidently thought nothing of the kind. "Then do you think about fishes?" the boy went on. "Dark little fishes, with gleaming eyes, who are sad because they cannot speak. I wish I knew your thoughts, Merlin."

"Wuff!" said Merlin, in his voice of welcome, raising his head, and becoming instantly a living image of cheerfulness. Hugh looked, and there was his Purple Maid, all bright and s.h.i.+ning, standing among the green trees, and smiling at him. The child's face flushed with such vivid light that the place seemed brighter. He held out his arms with a pa.s.sionate gesture that would have been theatrical if it had not been so real, but remained silent.

"Dear!" said Hildegarde. "How quiet you are, you and Merlin! I could not tell whether it was your voice or the brook, talking." The boy and dog made room for her between them, and she sat down. "Aren't you going to speak to me, Hugh?" she continued, as he still said nothing.

"I spoke to myself," said the boy. "When I saw you stand there, angelic, in the green, 'Blessed heart of woman!' I said to myself. Do you like the sound of that?"

"My bonny Sir Hugh!" said Hildegarde, laying her hand caressingly on the red-gold hair. "I do like the sound of it. And do you like this place? I want you to care for it as I do."

The boy nodded. "It is the place of dead people," he said. "We are too alive to be here."

"I call it the Ladies' Garden," said Hildegarde softly. "Fair, sweet ladies lived here once, and loved it. They used to sit here, Hugh, and wander up and down the green paths, and fill the place with sweet, gentle words. I don't believe they sang; Hester may have sung, perhaps."

"Were they fair as the moon, clear as the sun?" asked the child.

"Where did you find those sweet words, Sir Hugh?"

"In the Bible. 'Fair as the moon, clear as the sun, terrible as an army with banners.' And 'thy neck is a tower of ivory.' Were they terrible, do you think?"

"Oh, no! they were very gentle, I think, very soft and mild, like folds of old soft cashmere; only Hester was blithe and gay, and she died, Hugh, when she was just my age. Think of it! to die so young and go away out of all the suns.h.i.+ne."

The child looked at her with strange eyes. "Why do you be sad?" he said.

"Don't you know about your Mother dear Jerusalem?"

"A little," said Hildegarde. "Tell me what you are thinking, Sir Hugh."

"It is greener there," said the child, "and brighter. Don't you know, blessed heart? 'Where grow such sweet and pleasant flowers as nowhere else are seen.' And more coloured words. Don't you love coloured words?" The girl laid her hand on his lightly, but said nothing, and he went on as if in a dream.

"'Thy houses are of ivory, Thy windows crystal clear, Thy streets are laid with beaten gold-- There angels do appear.'

"Two of them are papa and mamma," he added after a pause. "Do you think they mind waiting for me very much? At first I wanted to go to them--oh, so badly! because those people are devils, and I would rather die; but now I have you, Purple Maid, and your mother is like balm dropping in the valley, and I don't mind waiting, if only I thought _they_ didn't mind it too much." He looked up wistfully, and Hildegarde bent to kiss him.

"How long is it, dear?" she asked softly.

"A year now, a very long year, only I had Merlin. And Uncle Loftus took me out of charity, he said; but mamma said I was to go to Aunt Martha, so that makes me feel wrong, even if I wanted to stay with them, and it is the pains of h.e.l.l to me."

"Aunt Martha?" asked Hildegarde, willing to ask more, yet dreading to rouse the boy's scriptural eloquence on the subject of his relatives at The Poplars.

Hugh nodded. "Mamma's aunt," he said. "She lives somewhere, not far from here, but I don't know where; and Uncle Loftus won't tell me, or let me see her, 'cause she is a menial. What is a menial, dearly beloved?"

"Did your uncle say that to you?" Hildegarde asked, waiving the question.

"He said it _at_ me!" was the reply. "At my back, but I heard it. She was a menial, and he wasn't going to have folks saying that his aunt was housekeeper to a stuck-up old bear, just because she was a fool and had no proper spirit. And the others said 'hus.h.!.+' and I went away, and now they won't let me speak about her."

"Housekeeper to a--why!" began Hildegarde; and then she was silent, and smoothed the child's hair thoughtfully. An old bear! that was what Mr.

Loftus had vulgarly called Colonel Ferrers. Could it be possible that--Jack had told her about dear, good Mrs. Beadle, who had been nurse to his father and uncle, and who was so devoted to them all, and such a superior woman. She had been meaning to go to see her the next time she was at Roseholme. Was there a mystery here? was Mrs. Beadle the plump and comfortable skeleton in the Loftus closet? She must ask Jack.

As she mused thus, the child had fallen a-dreaming again, and they both sat for some time silent, with the soft falling of the water in their ears, and all the dim, shadowy beauty of the place filling their hearts with vague delight.