Hildegarde's Home

"I had, dear! I had, indeed, once upon a time. But they're no good to me now, and never will be."

She sighed again.

"How no good to you?" queried this artful Jack.

"Oh, 'tis a long story, dear, and you wouldn't care for it at all. You would? Well! well! there's no harm that I know of in speaking of it. I've nothing to be ashamed of. I had a niece, Master Jack, and a dearer one never was, nor married to a finer young man. But they went out West, and he died, and left her with a baby. I wrote again and again, begging her to come home, but she was doing well, she said, and felt to stay, and had friends there, and all. Oh, dear! and last year – a year ago it is now, she died." Mrs. Beadle drew out a handkerchief and wiped her eyes. "She died, my dear; and – I didn't ought to speak of this, Master Jack, it do upset me so – I don't know where the child is to this day."

"Her child?" asked Jack, with a guilty consciousness of his ears being red.

"My own dear niece Martha's child!" repeated the good woman sorrowfully. "A boy it was, as should be seven years old by this time. I've wrote, and I've wrote, but no answer could I get. And whether he is dead, too, or whether his father's people have him, or what, is darkness to me."

"The brute!" exclaimed Jack Ferrers vehemently. "The cold-hearted, odious brute!"

"What is it, my dear?" cried Mrs. Beadle, drying her tears, and looking with alarm at the pony. "His tail over the reins, is it? Well, he will do that, but 'tis only play. He means no harm."

"Oh, I know!" cried Jack in confusion. "I didn't mean – that is – and is that all the relatives you have, Biddy?"

"Why, boys do love questions, don't they?" the good woman said. "I have a nephew living, Master Jack; and if you guessed from now till Sunday week, you never would guess his name."

"Solomon Grundy" rose to Jack's lips, he could not in the least tell why. He did his best to look unconscious, but it was perhaps fortunate that Mrs. Beadle was so absorbed in her own troubled thoughts that she did not look at him.

"Who is it?" he asked. "Do tell me. Biddy! Is it any one I ever heard of?"

"Hush, my dear! don't tell a soul that I mentioned it. I am not one to force myself on them as has got up in the world, and think honest service a disgrace. It's Ephraim Loftus!"

"Not Mr. Loftus at the Poplars?"

"Mr. Loftus at the Poplars! The very same. My own sister's son, and little credit he is to either of us. Don't ask me how he made his money, for I don't know, and don't want to know. When he was a little boy, his pockets were always full of pennies that he got from the other boys, trading and the like, and nobody had a kindness for him, though they loved Martha. Not a soul in the village but loved Martha, and would do anything for her. So when Ephraim was fourteen or so, he went away to New York, and we never heard anything more till he came back three or four years ago, a rich man, and built that great house, and lived there summers. I've never seen him but once; I don't go out, only just in the back garden, except when I drive to town. And that once he looked me all over, as if I was a waxwork in a glass case, and never stopped nor spoke a word. That's Ephraim Loftus! He needn't have been afraid of my troubling him or his, I can tell him. I wouldn't demean myself." Mrs. Beadle's face was red, and her voice trembled with angry pride.

"And – " Jack wished Hildegarde were speaking instead of himself; she would know what to say, and he felt entirely at a loss. "Do you – do you suppose he knows anything about – about his sister's little boy?"

Mrs. Beadle looked as if some one had struck her a blow. "Ephraim Loftus!" she cried. "If I thought that, Master Jack, I'd – I'd – why, what's the matter, sir?" For Jack had risen in his seat, and was waving the whip wildly round his head.

"It's my cousin," he said. "Don't you see her coming?"

"Oh, the dear young lady! yes, to be sure. Walking this way, isn't she? Never mind me. Master Jack!" said the good woman, striving for composure. "I was upset by what you said, that's all. It gave me a thought – who is the little boy with Miss Grahame, dear?"

"He? oh – he's a boy," said Jack, rather incoherently. "His name is Hugh. Good-morning, Hildegarde! Hallo, Hugh! how are you?"

"Good-morning!" cried Hildegarde, as the wagon drew up beside her. "Good-morning, Mrs. Beadle. Isn't it a lovely day? Will the pony stand, Jack?"

"Like a rock!" and Jack, obeying the hint, leaped to the ground.

Mrs. Beadle had turned very pale. She was gazing fixedly at Hugh, who returned the look with wide blue eyes, shining with some strong emotion.

"Dear Mrs. Beadle," said Hildegarde gently, taking the housekeeper's hand in hers as she leant against the wagon, "this is a very dear little friend of mine, whom I want you to know. His name is Hugh; Hugh Allen; and he is staying with his uncle, Mr. Loftus."

"I knew it!" cried Mrs. Beadle, clapping her hands together. "I knew it! And I am going to faint!"

"No, don't do that!" said Hugh, climbing up into the seat beside her. "Don't do that. You must be calm, for you are my great-aunt, and I am your little nephew. How do you do? I am very glad to see you."

"You are sure he will stand?" whispered Hildegarde.

"Look at him! he is asleep already."

"Then come along!" and the two conspirators vanished among the trees.

They pushed on a little way through the tangle of undergrowth, and paused, breathless and radiant, under a great beech-tree.

"Jack," said Hildegarde, "you are a dear! How did you manage it?"

"I didn't manage it at all. I am a stupid ninny. Why, I've thrown her into a fit. Do you think it's safe to leave her alone?"

"Nonsense! a joy fit does not hurt, when a person is well and strong. Oh! isn't it delightful! and you have enjoyed it, too, Jack, haven't you? I am sure you have. And – why, you have a new hat! and your necktie is straight. You look really very nice, mon cousin!"

"Mille remerciments, ma cousine!" replied Jack, with a low bow, which, Hildegarde noticed, was not nearly so like the shutting-up of a jackknife as it would have been a few weeks ago. "Am I really improving? You have no idea what I go through with, looking in the glass. It is a humiliating practice. Have some chocolates?" He pulled out a box, and they crunched in silent contentment.

"Now I think we may go back," said Hildegarde, after her third bonbon. "But I must tell you first what Hugh said. I told him the whole story as we walked along; first as if it were about some one else, you know, and then when he had taken it all in, I told him that he himself was the little boy. He was silent at first, reflecting, as he always does. Then he said: 'I am like an enchanted prince, I think. Generally it is fair ones with golden locks that take them out of prison, but at my age a great-aunt is better. Don't you think so, Beloved?' and I did think so."

"But it was a fair one with golden locks who planned it all!" Jack said, with a shy look at his cousin's fair hair.

"Jack, you are learning to pay compliments!" cried Hildegarde, clapping her hands. "I believe you will go to Harvard after all, and be a classical scholar."

"I would never pay another," said Jack seriously, "if I thought it would have that effect."

When they returned to the wagon, they found Mrs. Beadle still wiping away joyful tears, while Hugh was apparently making plans for the future. His voice rang out loud and clear. "And we will dwell in a corner of the house-top, and have a dinner of herbs!" said the child. "They may have all the stalled oxes themselves, mayn't they, great-aunt? And you will clothe us in scarlet and fine wool, won't you, great-aunt?"

"Bless your dear heart!" cried Mrs. Beadle. "Is it red flannel you mean? Don't tell me those heathen haven't put you into flannels!" And she wept again.

CHAPTER XII

THE SECOND ACT

Colonel Ferrers was taking his afternoon stroll in the garden. Dinner was over; for at Roseholme, as at Braeside, country hours were kept, with early dinner, and seven o'clock tea, the pleasantest of all meals.

With a fragrant Manilla cigar between his lips, and his good stick in his hand, the Colonel paced up and down the well-kept gravel paths, at peace with all mankind. The garden was all ablaze with geranium and verbena, heliotrope and larkspur. The pansies spread a gold and purple mantle in their own corner, while poppies were scattered all about in well-planned confusion. All this was Giuseppe's work, – good, faithful Giuseppe, who never rested, and never spoke, save to say "Subito, Signor!" when his master called him. He was at work now in a corner of the garden, setting out chrysanthemums; but no one would have known it, so noiseless were his motions, so silent his coming and going.

The Colonel, though pleasantly conscious of the lovely pomp spread out for his delight, was thinking of other things than flowers. He was thinking how his nephew Jack had improved in the last two months. Positively, thought the Colonel, the boy was developing, was coming out of the animal kingdom, and becoming quite human. Partly due to the Indian clubs, no doubt, and to his, the Colonel's, wholesome discipline and instructions; but largely, sir, largely to feminine influence. Daily intercourse with women like Mrs. Grahame and her daughter would civilise a gorilla, let alone a well-intentioned giraffe who played the fiddle. He puffed meditatively at his cigar, and dwelt on a pleasant picture that his mind called up: Hildegarde as he had seen her yesterday, sitting with a dozen little girls about her, and telling them stories while they sewed, under her careful supervision, at patchwork and dolls' clothes. How sweet she looked! how bright her face was, as she told the merry tale of the "Midsummer Night's Dream." "Harry Monmouth, sir! she was telling 'em Shakespeare! And they were drinking it in as if it had been Mother Goose." The Colonel paused, and sighed heavily. "If Hester had lived," he said, "if my little Hester had lived – " and then he drew a long whiff of the fragrant Manilla, and walked on.

As he turned the corner by the great canna plant, he came suddenly upon Mrs. Beadle, who was apparently waiting to speak to him. The good housekeeper was in her state dress of black silk, with embroidered apron and lace mitts, and a truly wonderful cap; and Colonel Ferrers, if he had been observant of details, might have known that this portended something of a serious nature. Being such as he was, he merely raised his hat with his grave courtesy, and said: "Good-afternoon, Mrs. Beadle. Is it about the yellow pickles? The same quantity as usual, ma'am, or perhaps a few more jars, as I wish to send some to Mrs. Grahame at Braeside."

Mrs. Beadle shivered a little. She had made the yellow pickles at Roseholme for five and twenty years; and now, – "No, sir," she said faintly. "It is not the pickles." She plucked at the fringe of her shawl, and Colonel Ferrers waited, though with a kindling eye. Women were admirable, but some of their ways were hard to bear.

Finally Mrs. Beadle made a desperate effort, and said, "Do you think, sir, that you could find some one to take my place?"

Colonel Ferrers fixed a look of keen inquiry on her, and instantly felt her pulse. "Rapid!" he said, "and fluttering; Elizabeth Beadle, are you losing your mind?"

"I have found my little boy, sir," cried Mrs. Beadle, bursting into tears. "My dear niece Martha's own child, Colonel Ferrers. He is in the hands of heathen reprobates, if I do say it, and it is my duty to make a home for him. I never thought to leave Roseholme while work I could, but you see how it is, sir."