Hildegarde's Harvest

"Here they come!" cried Hugh, who had been watching from the window. "Here they all come, Guardian! My Beloved and her mother, and after them all the others. Oh! but Captain Roger is not with them!"

The four hosts hurried out into the hall to meet their guests, and many and warm were the greetings. Hildegarde in white, Bell in pink, and Gertrude in blue, looked like a posy of fresh flowers, and Kitty like the little rosebud she was. Mrs. Merryweather and Mrs. Grahame were already taking off their wraps, and Miles Merryweather and Phil brought up the rear, with Willy.

"Where's the Professor?" cried the hospitable Colonel, rubbing his hands. "Where is Professor Roger? I was definitely promised that he would be here."

Where was Roger? Hildegarde's heart echoed the question; and though she greeted the Colonel with her own bright smile, it was rather an effort to be as gay as usual; for the disappointment had been severe. Roger had telegraphed that he would be with them that afternoon without fail; and now all the trains had come and gone, and no Roger had come. All the Merryweathers were crying out, and saying that some tiresome man of science must have captured him, and carried him off. Hildegarde was only a little more silent than usual; she slipped quietly into the drawing-room, and took her seat by Mr. Raymond Ferrers, whose smile always seemed like a kind of sublimated music, – music that soothed while it cheered. But when she saw her little Hugh, with his pale face, and the suffering look in his dear blue eyes, she reproached herself for a selfish, unloving girl, and went and sat with her arm round the child, looking affectionately and anxiously at him, and listening to his story of the joy of the blessed day.

"And Gerald?" now cried the Colonel. "Am I to be robbed of half my guests, I ask you? Mrs. Merryweather, my dear madam, this is positively unfriendly, I must inform you. A Christmas Tree without Gerald Merryweather, – the idea is incongruous! I can say nothing more."

"Oh, Colonel Ferrers, that is my fault!" cried Hildegarde. "Gerald will be here in a moment; he ought to be here now, indeed. I very carelessly forgot something, – a little parcel that I wanted to bring, – and Gerald was so kind as to go back for it."

"Quite right, my child!" said the Colonel. "Of course you sent him! Preposterous if you had done anything else." He bustled off, and Hildegarde turned to look out of the window; for truth to tell, the parcel that she had left behind contained a little gift for the Colonel himself (it was a copy of "Underwoods." Hildegarde would have given copies of "Underwoods" to all her friends, if she could have afforded it), and she wanted to catch the first glimpse of Gerald. How long he was in coming! They were lighting the candles, Hugh whispered her; Jack and Mr. Raymond Ferrers and Mr. Merryweather were to light them as soon as the party was assembled. Gerald was wanted to take the second tenor in the carol. Why had she been so careless? Ah! there he was at last!

Hildegarde ran out to the porch, to receive the precious parcel.

"Oh," she cried, "how long you have been, child! I thought you would never come!"

"So did I," said a voice that certainly did not belong to Gerald, "but that is no reason why you should be out here with nothing on your head, and the thermometer at zero."

Hildegarde felt her two hands grasped, and herself drawn firmly back into the house.

"They do not take proper care of you!" said Roger. "And are you glad to see me, Hilda?"

Everything seemed misty to Hildegarde after that. She heard the welcomes and rejoicings; heard Gerald's voice of panting apology, – "Couldn't keep up with the Codger, you know! Couldn't, 'pon my word, he was in such a hurry!" – and received the Colonel's book in time to tie it on the tree. She took her part in the carol, too, and wondered that her voice should be so strong, and not tremble, as the rest of her seemed to be trembling. Yes, and she saw the glorious Tree, in all its splendour, and helped untie the presents, and sat with her lap full of pretty things, sharing the wild delight of Will and Kitty, and the quieter raptures of Hugh.

Yes, the lion was truly splendid; she had never heard such a roar, or seen such a mane. She should really be afraid to come to Pumpkin House, if she would be in danger of meeting him on the stairs. And Hugh's fleet was a joy, and, – yes, certainly they would go sailing together; and they'd go to the Dee, and the Jellybolee, over the land and over the sea —

And all the time, the girl felt that she was in a dream, in which the only real thing was the tall, broad-shouldered figure that moved so lightly and cheerfully among the rest; was the deep, sweet voice that was talking, explaining, parrying, the attack of the Colonel and all his own family?

"Well, but it is true, my dear Miranda. I could not have helped it; really I could not. No, I dined with no other friends. I dined on a cold sausage, at a railway restaurant. I have travelled day and night to get here, and I do not mean to be abused for my efforts. There was a railway accident, – "

"An accident! Oh, Roger! are you hurt? Where are you hurt? How did it happen? Tell us all about it? Whose fault was it? Was any one killed?"

Thus the Merryweathers in chorus, with Colonel Ferrers thundering a bass. Roger Merryweather looked from one to the other; his eyes twinkled, but he was silent.

"Well, sir?" cried his brother Miles, in a fine baritone solo.

"Well, sir!" retorted Roger. "I thought you were all doing it so beautifully, it was a pity to interrupt. No, – no one was hurt. A freight train broke down, and blocked all the trains on the road. The delay was apparently endless; there seemed no particular reason why we should ever go on. Finally, I ran ahead, and found the engineer of the night express, the first train in the block, fighting mad, and vowing that he would plough his way through the freight train, if they didn't get it out of the road in five minutes. A lot of us took hold in good earnest, and in ten minutes the track was free. Then the express driver found that his fireman was hurt, – I forgot him! He was really the only one, – and he was madder than ever, and said he could not go on without a fireman. So I said I was his fireman, and his long-lost uncle besides; and I jumped on, and off we went. It was an exhilarating ride. We were an hour late, and we made up half of it; but that did not let me make my connections. Finally, here am I; the question is, are you glad to see me, or shall I go back?"

Well, there seemed little doubt that they were glad to see him. It seemed to Hildegarde, still sitting in her corner, with Hugh's hand in hers, as if the other children would fairly devour him; and the elders were not much better. Miles must hear all about the mines, and piled question upon question till his brother cried for mercy. Will and Kitty hung about his neck, Bell and Gertrude could hardly take their eyes off him. Only Gerald, after the first moment, came and sat by Hildegarde, and asked if he should not take Hugh, and if she did not want to go and join the others.

"No!" cried Hildegarde. "Go yourself, Jerry, and hear all about it. I – I shall hear it all another time."

"I met him, you see!" said Gerald, guiltily. "I heard it all as – as we came from the other house. We came along together, and then he – he got ahead of me somehow, and came in first."

Hildegarde heard him, but only half understood what he said. Now, however, there came a change in the boy's voice, and he rose hastily.

"I – I think I will go, Hilda, if you really don't mind, – if you will excuse me. I think Phil wants me for something – "

He vanished, and Hildegarde turned to find Roger at her elbow.

"I have a little gift for you," he was saying. "I – I won't give it to you to-night, I think, but bring it to-morrow, if I may. It is something I made myself, and I am rather proud of it. May I come to-morrow morning? Oh, it is good to be at home again! Good to see what one has been dreaming about for all these – "

"Supper! supper!" cried the Colonel, rubbing his hands. "Come, young folks! the tree is stripped, and now for an honest, old-fashioned supper. None of your kickshaws and folderols! No flummery, that leaves a man tired and hungry when he leaves the table. Food, my dear madam, is one of the blessings – what was it this Boy said about food the other day, Raymond? Hugh, you understand, Mrs. Grahame; more and more astonishing that child grows, as he grows older. He was disappointed the other day, – Hildegarde could not come as he expected, or something happened, – hum, ha! And he was distressed; a good deal distressed. Then he ate his supper, – ate it like a man, and I told him so, sir, and congratulated him on keeping his appetite. He looks up at me, and says he, 'Food stops sorrow!' His very expression, give you my word! Food stops sorrow! Ha, ha! so it does, my dear madam, so it does! This way, if you please! Hildegarde, my child, you will bring the Boy? He is – hum, ha! – not quite up to concert pitch to-night. Nothing much the matter, – growing boys, eh, Mrs. Grahame? Come on, all hands!"

Well, the supper was great, and the games were glorious. Hildegarde did her very best to appear just as usual, and, indeed, no one who had seen her flying down the long drawing-room in the Virginia reel (the Colonel had engaged her for it a month before) would have thought her anything but the gayest of the gay; but, happy though she was, the world still seemed misty, the rooms confused, the talk mere babble; and she was glad, for once, when the frolic was over, and the greetings said, and she was at home once more, in her own quiet room.

There was a cosy little fire burning on the hearth, and late though it was, Hildegarde was in no mood for going to bed. She sat down by the window and looked out. The snow lay clear and white in the moonlight; here and there the dark evergreens rose like steadfast guardians; all was peaceful and lovely. Lovely! How brown and handsome he looked! And had he really been glad to see her? She thought so; yes, surely he was glad, only somebody interrupted him every time he came near her. Of course, selfish creature that she was! They were his own dear people, he was theirs; he belonged to them. They had not seen him for months, and how preposterous of her to expect to have any of his time the very first evening. Besides, he said particularly that he was coming in the morning. Would the day be fair? But men did not mind weather, certainly not the Merryweather men. And – and her mother would be so glad to have a good talk with him.

Were they all asleep now, the good, merry neighbours? They made a good deal of noise sometimes, but they all meant so well, and were so hearty and genuine. Gerald was the most like Roger, after all; she had never noticed before how much alike they were. Dear Jerry! He had always been her favourite, though Phil was as nice as he could be, and, of course, she was very, very fond of Bell, and all of them. How perfectly clear and still it was! Silver and pearl and diamond, – oh, what beauty!

"Deep on the convent roof the snowsAre sparkling to the moon."

She wondered if her white dress was really the one she should have worn, or whether – whether any one would have thought the pink one prettier. No; he always liked white; she remembered his saying so. There was a light in the corner room of Pumpkin House; ah, yes! it was Roger's room. Such a funny room, all full of minerals and dried specimens, and with lengths of copper wire hanging all about the walls. Jerry said that Roger had put them there against the time he should be crossed in love, so that he could hang himself whenever he felt like it. What was it he had brought for her? A specimen, probably. No! for he had made it himself. What was he doing now, she wondered. Oh, it was so good, so good, to know that he was near, and that she should see him in the morning!

"But now," said Hildegarde, shaking her shoulders, and pulling herself together, "you are going to bed, miss! Let me have no more of this ridiculous moon-gazing, do you hear? Have you any sense? Take one look at the white glory of it, and then off with you!"

Wrapping a shawl round her (for she was still in her white evening dress, though it was an hour and more since she came back from Roseholme), she opened the window for an instant, – softly, for fear of rousing her mother, and leaned out, to take one deep draught of the magical beauty of the night. As she gazed, held as with a charm, – what was that, that seemed to move by the corner of the hedge? What was it, white against the snow, that was stealing along by the garden wall, silent as a dream? Was she, indeed, dreaming? Hildegarde's heart stood still for a moment. A little figure came forward now across the lawn, – it stood out clear against the dark firs. Good heavens! It was little Hugh! Barefoot, in his white nightgown, his head held high, his eyes gazing straight forward, the child came on, with swift, certain steps. One more glance told Hildegarde the truth; he was walking in his sleep.

In a flash she had stolen down the stairs, only stopping to snatch a warm cloak from the hall as she went. The bar and chain delayed her, for she dared not strike a match, – her mother's light sleep was too precious, – still, it seemed only an instant before she was on the lawn, gazing wildly about her. The child was gone! An instant she stood undecided; was it possible that the whole had been a vision, a hallucination, brought on by excitement and fatigue? No! For here were the little footprints in the snow.

Oh, the little, tender feet, stung by the bitter cold! How was it possible that the touch of the snow had not waked him? But here was her clue; in another moment, surely, she should have him in her arms. Breathless and panting, Hildegarde ran round the corner of the house, following those little white tracks – and stopped. The footsteps broke off short. Looking up, bewildered, she uttered a low cry of terror. Hugh was climbing up the wall. This part of the house was low, a kind of shed or outhouse, seldom used. It was easy climbing enough, a window-sill here, a cornice there, and a spout that ran the whole way up to the shingled roof. Hildegarde had climbed it herself, in pursuit of a runaway kitten; if the child would only stop at the shed roof she could easily follow him. But above rose the steep-pitched upper roof! What should she do if he went on? What should she do? She dared not call, for now the little figure, steadily climbing upward, stood on the shed roof; hesitated a moment, turned half towards her, – then turned back, and set his foot on the short ladder that led to the upper roof. Instantly Hildegarde's knee was on the first low window-sill. She was reaching up, on the point of raising herself to her feet, when she started violently, and nearly lost her balance. A hand was laid on her shoulder; a steady, restraining hand.

"What upon earth does this mean?" asked Roger Merryweather.

His voice was stern, or Hildegarde fancied it so; she answered like a child:

"I am going after Hugh!"

"Going after – " began Roger, stupefied. Then following her upward gesture, he broke off short.

"Go into the house, my child!" he said, quickly, in his own kind tone. "Go at once; you must not stay out another moment in this thin dress. I will bring him to you in the house. It will be only a minute now, and he will be quite safe."

With that he was up like a cat, clinging here, springing there, never pausing, never seeming to take his eyes from the little white figure, which had now reached the summit of the steep-pitched roof. Hildegarde gave one glance at the child, and saw him standing with outstretched arms on the ridge-pole itself. His voice came down, clear and calm.

"I am ready, dear Bellerophon! We will fly together now, down, down, – "

The girl covered her face, and prayed. It was a breath of time, it was eternity, before Roger's voice came down to her, strong and cheerful.

"We will go down together, Hughie. I was up here, too, and I will take you down, because you will be more comfortable that way. Put your arms round my neck, so! Hold on tight – that's right! Now, down we go!"

Hildegarde stood still in the snow, her hands still clutching the window-sill. She seemed incapable of speech or motion; could only listen to the quiet, steady voice, as it soothed the now awake and frightened child.

"Why, I suppose you went up to get a ball, or something that had been thrown up there. Eh? No? Something about Bellerophon? Where is he? Well, he may be in the house, laddie. We'll go in and see, anyhow. Your Beloved is there, you know, and she will be —Hildegarde!"

"Yes, Roger!" said Hildegarde, faintly.

"I told you to go into the house!"

"Yes, Roger; I am going!" And then Hildegarde sank down in a little white heap at Roger's feet, and knew nothing more.

CHAPTER XV.

AT LAST

Hildegarde was sitting by Hugh's bedside. He had been laid in her bed that night; how long ago was it? She hardly knew, – and was still too ill to be moved. A concussion of the brain, the doctor said, the result of his fall on the ice. There was danger of brain fever, but it might be averted. Absolute quiet for a few days, and the trouble might pass off without any serious developments. Meantime, a shaded room, plenty of ice, no noise, and as little change of faces around him as might be, – they would hope for the best.

Hildegarde had hardly left his side, save when Auntie came in to watch through the night, or her mother took her place for the short time that her strength allowed. Mrs. Grahame was far from strong, and was not allowed to take charge of the nursing, as she would so gladly have done. Colonel Ferrers hung about the house all day, like a man distracted; and it took all Mrs. Grahame's tact, and all his brother's and Jack's watchful devotion, to keep him out of the sick child's room. He seemed to have aged ten years in these few short days. His ruddy colour was gone; his eyes had lost their fiery spark; his military stride had given place to an anxious shuffle.

"We shall have you ill, sir!" Elizabeth Beadle remonstrated, with many tears.

"You ain't like Mr. Raymond, sir; you cannot go without your food. It's hard enough as I can't go to my baby, my own dear niece's child, to nurse him myself, as go I would if I was let, though Miss Hilda may be a better nurse, as you say; but blood is thicker than water, Colonel Ferrers, and if I have to have you sick, too, it will be more than I can bear, sir; yes, it will!" Thus Mrs. Beadle, with her apron at her eyes. The Colonel, roused for a moment from his anxious musing, turned upon her with something like his natural fury.

"You go to the child, Elizabeth Beadle? You, who cannot keep from crying for ten minutes together? If you would stop poisoning my food with salt water, ma'am, you might have less complaint to make of my not eating. You have no more sense, ma'am, – no more sense than – than some other people have. Don't look at me in that manner, I desire you! God bless you, my dear old soul; go along, will you, or I shall be crying, too."

Rumours of these things, and others like them, came to Hildegarde, as she sat hour after hour by the sick child's side, shifting his pillow now and then when it grew hot, laying the cool wet cloths on his forehead, giving him food, drink, medicine, at the appointed times. The whole world seemed narrowed down to this one room; everything outside was unreal, all save the scene in white and black that she saw whenever she closed her eyes, – the moonlight on the snow, the black firs, the child in his white dress, fronting death with his sleeping smile, and by her side the friend who was to save him. How long ago was it? Had she been sitting here three days, or three weeks?

Little Hugh lay still, with his eyes shut. He seemed unconscious for the most part. Only now and then came a motion of the head, a low moan that was hardly more than a whisper; then the blue-veined lids would lift heavily for an instant, and the sweet eyes look out, but with no light in them; and after a moment the lids would fall again wearily, and the heavy sleep close round him again like a curtain. How long would it last?

More snow had fallen. She heard the sound of bells, and the soft swish of sleigh-runners passing swiftly by. The voices of her neighbours came to her, now and then, but never calling loud and joyous, as they were wont to do. Every sound was subdued; every one moved softly and spoke low, with the sick child constantly in their thoughts.

Guests came to Pumpkin House; long-invited guests, who could not well be put off. Hildegarde knew this, and knew that her friends loved her and the child no less because they were now forced to play the hosts, and to make pleasure for the holiday visitors. Was this the evening of the Flower Party? Her dress was hanging ready in the closet. Such a pretty dress! She was to be a wild rose, and the graceful pink petals curved over the skirt, and curled upward to form the bodice.

What a pity that some one could not wear it! She might send it over, in case some one of the guests had no costume ready. Bell was to be an apple-blossom; Gertrude, a lily. The twins would be splendid as Larkspur and Scarlet Runner. And would Roger – would he go in fancy dress? She could not imagine him doing anything of the kind, somehow. She thought of him in boating dress, or in his camp jersey and knickerbockers – or, as she saw him last, in evening dress, climbing over the snowy roofs – she shuddered, and laid her hand on Hugh's arm, to make sure that he was there. The child was safe, at any rate. He was not going to die. Hildegarde kept this thought resolutely away from her, and was only conscious of it as a dim horror, lurking in a corner of her brain. He would be better soon, perhaps in a day or two. It might even be that she would see Roger before he went back to the West, – for he would be going soon, no doubt. He would be sorry, she thought, to go without seeing her. But she had his gift; he had sent it to her the day after Christmas. She put her hand to her throat, to make sure it was there – the brooch that he had made himself for her, digging the gold, refining, hammering, fashioning it, all with his own hands. She would never wear any other brooch! Dear old Jack, too. He was missing her from his vacation, she knew. Her mother said that he and Bell were practising together every day, and that all the Merryweathers were delighted with him. He and the twins were becoming fast friends. But they all missed her. They all said that there was no luck about any of the houses, with Hildegarde awa'. The tears came to the girl's eyes. Everybody was so good to her, so kind, so loving!

Hugh moved uneasily, and she bent over him; his lips moved. "Play!" said the child.

"Dear!" said Hildegarde, softly. "My laddie! Do you want something?"

Hugh did not open his eyes, but a smile, or the shadow of a smile, hovered about his lips for an instant.

"Play – Jack – play!" he whispered.

"Yes, dear! He shall come. We will send for him; rest now, my boy, quietly!"

But now, seeing her mother at the door, Hildegarde stole softly to her, and told of the whispered words. "Will you ask the doctor? He might – it might – do him good, if he is thinking about it? You will see what is best, dear!"

Mrs. Grahame nodded, and went away. An hour passed, as all the others passed. Then Hildegarde heard steps on the veranda; the door opened and closed quietly; the next moment the voice of the violin came stealing through the house. Ah! what was it? Were angels singing the child to sleep? Schubert's Cradle Song; there is no sweeter melody on earth, and many times had Jack played little Hugh to sleep with it, in the days before he went abroad. Hildegarde watched the child intently. At the first note of the music he stirred, and opened and closed his hands, which lay listless on the counterpane. Then, as the song flowed on, so low, so tender, it seemed the voice of a spirit, or of some wandering wind, caught and trained to melody; the brows which had been knitted, as if in an effort to think, relaxed, a smile came to the sweet lips and settled there happily.

"Schlafe, schlafe, süsser, holder Knabe!Leise wiegt dich deiner Mutter Hand."

"Sing!" whispered Hugh; and Hildegarde sang, her heart beating high with joy and hope; for this was the first time she had been sure of his knowing her. She bent over him, hoping for a glance of recognition; but he did not open his eyes. His face seemed to clear and lighten every moment; it was as if a cloud were passing, and the day shining out fair and lovely; but he turned his head drowsily, and whispered, "Sleepy!"