Hildegarde's Neighbors Part 7

"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 amus.e.m.e.nt.

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 p.r.o.ne 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 peac.o.c.k, 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 a.s.sumed 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 a.n.a.lyze 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 ap.r.o.n 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: