Bell might love her Greek and her botany, might delight, too, in rowing and riding, and in all the out-door life that kept her strong, young body in such perfect condition; but, after all, these things filled the second and third place only in her life; her music was first, once and always. All through school and college she had kept it up steadily, seeking always the best instruction, loving always the best music; till now, at eighteen, she was at once mistress and faithful servant of her beloved art. Hildegarde played with taste and feeling, but she never cared to touch the piano when she might listen to Bell instead; there was all the difference in the world, and she knew it far better than modest Bell herself. So when Hildegarde now, up-stairs, heard the firm, light touch on the keys below, she nodded to herself, well pleased, and went on with her work. "Such a treat for Mammina!" she said. "And I do want to finish this, and the dear girl will not know whether she plays five minutes or an hour."
Hildegarde was right. Bell played on and on, one lovely thing after another; and forgot her friend up-stairs, and her walk, and everything else in the world, save herself and die edle Musica.
Now, it happened about this time,—or it may have been half an hour after,—that some one else stood and listened to the music that filled the early December twilight with warmth and beauty and sweetness. A young man had come running lightly up the steps of the veranda, with a tread that spoke familiarity, and eagerness, too; had hastened towards the door, but paused there, at the sound of the piano. A young man, not more than twenty at the most, very tall, with a loose-jointed spring to his gait, that might have been awkwardness a year or two ago, but sat not ungracefully on him now. He had curly brown hair, and bright blue eyes, set rather far apart under a broad, white forehead; not a handsome face, but one so honest and so kindly that people liked to look at it, and felt more cheerful for doing so.
The blue eyes wore a look of surprise just now; surprise which rapidly deepened into amazement.
"Oh, I say!" he murmured. "That can't be,—and yet it must, of course. How on earth has she learned to play like this?" He listened again. The notes of Schumann's "Faschingsschwank" sounded full and clear. The bright scene of the Vienna carnival rose as in a magic vision; the flower-hung balconies, the gardens and fountains, the bands of dancers, like long garlands, swinging hand in hand through the white streets. The young man saw it all, almost as clearly as his bodily eyes had seen it a year before. And the playing! so sure and clear and brilliant, so full of fire and tenderness—
"But she cannot have learned all this in two years!" said Jack Ferrers. "It's incredible! She must have worked at nothing else; and she has never said a word— Ah! but, my dear girl, you must have the violin for that!"
The player had struck the opening chords of the great Mendelssohn Concerto for piano and violin.
The youth lifted something that he had laid down on the veranda seat,—an oblong black box; lifted it as tenderly as a mother lifts her sleeping child. Then he stepped quietly into the twilight hall.
So it came to pass that Bell, who was very near the gate of heaven already, heard suddenly, as it seemed to her, the music of angels; a tone mingling with her own, pure, thrilling, ecstatic; lifting her on wings of lofty harmony, up, up,—far from earth and its uncertain voices, nearer and ever nearer to where love and light and music were blended in one calm blessedness. It never occurred to her to stop; hardly even to wonder what it meant, or who was doing her this service of heavenly comradeship. She played on and on, as she had never played before; only dreading the end, when the spirit would leave her, and she must sink to earth again, alone.
When the end did come, there was silence in the room. It was nearly dark. Any form that she should see on turning round would needs be vague and shadowy, yet she dreaded to turn; and she found herself saying aloud, unconsciously:
"Oh! I thought I was in heaven!"
"I knew I was!" said Jack Ferrers. "Oh, Hilda, how have you done it? How was it possible for you to do it? My dear—"
He was stepping forward eagerly; but two voices cried out suddenly, one in terror, it seemed, the other,—was it joy or pain? The girl at the piano turned round; even in the dark, Jack knew instantly that it was not his cousin. He looked helplessly towards the door, and there stood another shadowy figure; what did it all mean? But now, after that pause of an instant, this second figure came forward with outstretched arms.
"My dear, dearest old Jack! I have been listening; I could not speak at first. Oh, welcome, dear old fellow! Welcome home a hundred thousand times!"
Ah! now Jack knew where he was. This was the welcome he had thought of, dreamed of, all the way home across the ocean. This was the surprise that he had planned, and carried out so perfectly. This was Hilda herself, in flesh and blood; his best friend, better than any sister could be. These were her kind, tender eyes, this was her sweet, cordial voice, in which you felt the heart beating true and steady,—all was just as he had pictured it in many a lonely hour during the past two years. Only,—only, who was it he had gone to heaven with just now? A stranger!
Before his bewildered mind could grasp anything more, Hildegarde had put out her hand, and caught the silent shape that was flitting past her through the doorway.
"No!" she cried. "You shall not go! It is absurd for you two to pretend to be strangers, after you have been playing together like that; absurd, and you both know it. Bell, of course you know this is my cousin Jack, whom I have so wanted you to meet. Jack, I have written you of my friend Isabel Merryweather. Oh, oh, my dears! It was so beautiful! So beautiful! And I am so happy,—I really think I am going to cry!"
"Oh, don't!" cried Bell and Jack together; and the sheer terror in their voices made Hildegarde laugh instead.
"And you thought it was I!" she cried, still a little hysterical. "Jack, how could you? I thought better of you!"
"I—I didn't see how it could be," said honest Jack. "I didn't see how you could possibly have done it in two years, or,—or in a lifetime, for that matter; but how could I suppose,—how could I know—"
"You couldn't, of course. Oh, and to think of all the delight you are going to give us, the two of you! Jack, your playing is—I can't tell you what it is. My dear, I am afraid to light the lamp. Shall I see a totally different Jack from the old one? You have learned such an infinity, haven't you?"
"I should be a most hopeless muff if I hadn't learned something!" said her cousin. "But you needn't be afraid to light the lamp, Hilda. You will see the ostrich, or the giraffe, or the kangaroo, whichever you prefer. But first I must thank Miss Merryweather for playing so delightfully. You have played with the violin before, of course? I felt that instantly."
There was no reply; for Bell, feeling simply, desperately, that she must get away, must relieve the two cousins of her presence, since it could not by any possibility be welcome, had seen her moment, and slipped quietly out while Hildegarde was busy with the lamp.
The light sprang up, and both looked eagerly round.
"Why, she is gone!" cried Jack. "I say! And I never thanked her. What an idiot she must think me!"
"She thought nothing of the sort," said Hildegarde. "She is the most modest, unselfish creature in the world, and she thought we would rather be without her. I know her!"
"Well, I suppose she was right," yet Hildegarde fancied a shade of regret in his hearty tone; "anyhow, she is a brick, isn't she?"
"How would you define a brick?" asked Hildegarde, demurely.
"A musician," said Jack, emphatically; "and a—a good fel—Oh, well, you know what I mean, Hilda! And isn't it pretty hard, now, when a fellow has been away two years, that he should come back and have the girl of his heart begin to tease him within five minutes? Oh, I say, Hilda, how well you're looking! You have grown prettier; I didn't suppose you could grow prettier. Would you mind shaking hands again?"
Hildegarde held out her hand gladly, and laughed and blushed when her cousin raised it to his lips in the graceful European fashion.
"You have learned something besides violin-playing, Jack," she said. "If any one had proposed your kissing hands two years ago, what would you have done?"
"Taken to the woods," replied Jack, promptly. "But—well, they all do it there, of course; and I saw the gnadige Frau—Frau J.—expected it when I went to dine there, so—so I learned. But all the time, Hilda, I thought I was only learning so that I could kiss your mother's hand,—and yours!"
"Dear lad!" said Hilda. "Mamma will be pleased; she always wishes people would be 'more graceful in their greetings.' Can't you hear her say it? But why do we stand here, when she is waiting for us in her room? She has rheumatism to-day, so I would not let her come down, poor darling; and here I am keeping you all to myself, like the highwayman I am."
"Yes, I always thought you were cut out for a highwayman," said Jack. "Come along, then! I have a thousand things to tell you both."
Hand in hand, like happy children, the two ran up-stairs. Mrs. Grahame was waiting with open arms. Indeed, she had been the first to hear the notes of the violin; and her cry—"Hilda! Jack is come! our boy is come!"—had brought Hildegarde flying from the recesses of the linen-closet. Her eyes were full of happy tears; and when Jack bent to kiss her hand, she folded him warmly in her arms, and pressed more than one kiss on his broad forehead.
"My boy!" she said. "My boy has come back to me! Hilda, it is your brother; do you understand? It is as if my little son, who went away so long ago, had been sent back to me."
"Yes, Mother," said Hildegarde, softly. "I know; we both know, Jack and I. Dear Mother, blessed one! let the tears come a little; it will do you good."
They were silent for a little. The two young people pressed close to the elder woman, who felt the years surge up around her like a flood; but there was no bitterness in the waters, only sweet and sacred depths of love and memory. The boy and girl, filled with a passionate longing to cheer and comfort her whom they loved so dearly, felt perhaps more pain than she did, for they were too young to have seen the smile on the face of sorrow.
But now Mrs. Grahame was smiling again.
"Dears!" she said. "Dear children! They are such happy tears, you must not mind them. And now they are all gone, and that is enough about me, and too much. Jack, sit down on that stool; draw it close, so that I can see you in the firelight. So! And you are there, Hilda?"
"On the other stool!" said Hildegarde. "Here we are, love, close beside you."
"That is good! And now, Odysseus, let us hear! Mr. Ferrers has the floor."
"He certainly has a good deal of it!" said Jack, looking rather ruefully at his long legs, which did extend a prodigious distance along the hearth-rug.
"What do you think of my having grown two whole inches since I went away? I call it a shame! Uncle Tom measured me with his stick before I had been in the house five minutes; six feet four! It is disgraceful, you know!"
"Dear Colonel Ferrers!" cried Hildegarde. "Isn't he coming soon, to tell us how happy he is? Why, Jack, do you know, he was so funny about you last night! I asked when you were coming, and he quite growled, the dear, and called you irresponsible, and wouldn't tell us a thing."
"Of course he wouldn't! Spoil my surprise, that I had planned so carefully? It is well he did not! But he told me about it, too,—about last night, I mean. He said you would persist in asking questions, and looking straight at him as you asked them, so that his only refuge was in gruffness. Yes, Hilda, he is coming over after tea,—I may stay to tea, mayn't I? He—I thought they wouldn't mind being alone for a bit,—Oh, wait! I haven't come to that yet. Where shall I begin? Come back to Leipsic with me, will you?"
Both ladies signified their willingness to take the voyage at once.
"I have spread the magic carpet!" cried Jack. "Be seated, if you please! Whisk! Presto! Behold us in Leipsic. Mesdames, let me have the honour of presenting you to Herr J,——the greatest living violinist. Herr Professor, these are the people I love best in the world, except two. Well, you see it is very simple, after all. The Maestro was going on a tour in Russia; was invited to play before the Czar, and all kinds of things. He will be gone all winter; so he said, why should I not come home and see my father and uncle, and talk over plans with them? He—the Maestro—wants me to work for the Royal Medal. It's only given out once in three years, and it's a pretty big thing, but he thinks I would better try for it. I—did I write you about the scholarship I got? No? Well, I think I did, but it must have been in my last letter, and Uncle Tom thinks my last letters did not get posted, or something. Well, yes; I got a pretty good scholarship, enough to pay my expenses both ways, and leave me a hundred dollars besides."
"Oh, Jack! how splendid!" cried Hildegarde, in delight. "That is pretty glorious, I do think. Wasn't Colonel Ferrers enchanted? Oh! and when can you see your father? Is he still in Virginia? Of course you want to fly to him."
"Not in the least!" replied Jack. "I am coming to that presently. I think that hundred dollars rather went to my head. The first thing I did when I got it was to cable to my father that I was coming on the Urania. Then I shut myself up in my room and played a bit, and then I turned somersaults till my head was like—like an apple dumpling; and then I went shopping."
"Shopping, Jack? I can hardly fancy you shopping."
"Well, I did! I got a pipe for my father,—oh, a beauty!—meerschaum, of course, carved with a head of Schumann, the most perfect likeness! Hilda, when the smoke comes out of it, you expect to hear it sing the 'Davidsbündler,' one after another. Of course anybody except Schumann would have been ridiculous, but it seems to suit him. Then for Uncle Tom—a pipe is horror to him, of course—I got a walking-stick, ebony, with no end of a Turk's head on it. He hates the Turks so, you know. I knew he would enjoy squeezing it, and rapping it up against things, and he does like it, I think. And then—" the boy began to fumble in his pockets, blushing with eagerness—"Mrs. Grahame, I—I saw this in a shop, and—it made me think of you. Will you put it somewhere, please, where you will see it now and then, and—and think of me?"
The tiny parcel he held out was wrapped in folds of soft, foreign-looking paper. Mrs. Grahame, opening it, found an exquisite little copy of the Nuremburg Madonna, the sweetest and tenderest figure of motherhood and gracious womanliness.
"My dear boy!" she said, much moved. "What a beautiful, beautiful thing! Is it really mine? How can I thank you enough?"
"So glad you like it! Is it right, Hilda?"
"Quite right," said Hilda; and they nodded and smiled at each other, while the mother bent over her treasure, absorbed in its beauty.
"And you, Hilda!" said Jack, searching his pockets again. "Do you suppose I have anything for you? Do you really suppose I had time to stop and think about you?"
The boy was in such a glow of happiness, the joy so rippled and shone from him, that Hildegarde could not take her eyes from his face.
"Dear fellow!" she said. "As if I needed anything but just the sight of you, and the sound of your—fiddle! And yet,—oh, Jack! Jack! How could you? How could you let yourself do it?"
Jack had put something into her hands, and was now leaning back in perfect content, watching her face in turn, and delighted with every light that danced over it. The something was a bracelet; a little, shining garland of stars, each star a cluster of "aquamarine" stones, clear as crystal, with the faintest, most delicate shade of green, hardly seen in the full light. Not a jewel of great value, but as pretty a thing as ever a girl saw.
"Jack!" sighed Hilda again. "How could you? There never was anything so beautiful in the world; that is confessed."
"And the clasp is the moon, you see!" Jack explained, eagerly. "I thought it looked like the Moonlight Sonata, Hilda, and you used to like me to play it, you know; and so I thought—you do like it? Now I am quite happy! Fate has nothing better for me than this. Except one thing!" he added, turning with boyish shyness from Hilda's warm, almost reproachful thanks,—she was hardly reconciled to his spending his hard-earned money on trinkets for her, yet she was genuinely delighted with the exquisite gift, as any right-minded girl would have been.
"There is one thing more!" said Jack. "And I think I am going to have that now. Hark! Is not that a step on the veranda? May he—may they come up here, dear Mrs. Grahame?"
Mrs. Grahame hesitated a moment, glancing at her dainty tea-gown, and then around at the perfection of the pleasant sitting-room.
"Certainly!" she said, heartily. "If you do not think Colonel Ferrers will mind,—such an old friend, and he knows I am not well to-day."
Jack and Hilda flew down-stairs as fast as they had flown up; indeed, Hilda was nearly overthrown by her cousin's impetuous rush.
"I haven't told you yet!" he cried. "Hilda, you guess, don't you? You know what the best of all is to be? He is here! He—here he is!"
He threw open the door. Colonel Ferrers's stalwart form loomed against the pale evening sky, and behind it was a tall, slender figure, stooping somewhat, with a shrinking air like a shy boy.
"Hilda, it is my father!" cried Jack, now at the top of his heaven, and "Hilda, my dear, my brother Raymond!" cried the Colonel, not a whit less pleased. Hilda found her hand taken between two slender, white hands, that trembled a little, as they drew her towards the light.
"My boy's best friend!" said Mr. Ferrers; and Hilda thought that the gentle blue eyes were even kinder than those fierce gray ones of the Colonel's, now twinkling with tears, which he brushed away with furious impatience.
"My boy's kind sister and helper! God bless you, my dear! I owe you a great debt, which only love can repay. And now take me to your mother. I have not seen her for many a long year."
Hildegarde hardly knew how they all got up-stairs, she was so flurried, so joyfully shaken and melted and confused. But it was only a moment before the tall man was bending over her mother's chair, taking her hands in turn, and gazing at her wistfully, tenderly.
"Mildred Bond!" said Raymond Ferrers. "Am I fifty years old, or fifteen, Mildred? Where are the years gone, my child? You are utterly unchanged."
But this was more than the Colonel could bear.
"Raymond, you are as great an ass as ever!" he cried, bringing down his hand with formidable violence on the slender, stooping shoulder. "Jack, what did I tell you? I said he was a mixture of angel and idiot. Look at him! Hear him! and contradict me if you dare." And then, as his brother turned and laid an arm round his shoulder, the Colonel fairly broke down, and was heard to mutter behind his handkerchief that the world consisted principally of a parcel of fools, and that he was the biggest of them.
CHAPTER XI.
THE BOYS.
"Mammina!"
"Yes, Hilda!"
"Are you quite sure you will not mind my asking?"
"I am not at all sure! Suppose you try it, and find out."
"Well,—I don't believe you will really mind. But—was not Mr. Raymond Ferrers—very fond of you, dear?"
Mrs. Grahame coloured like a girl.
"Yes, dear, he was. He was—I am afraid—very fond of me, Hilda. It was years and years ago, of course; he was only a lad. But,—well, it happened that we had never met since, you see; I think we were both a little overcome, for I, too, was very fond of him, Hilda, though not in the way he wished. Poor Raymond!"
"You—you couldn't care for him, dear?"
"My child! I had seen your father; how could I think of any one else? But Raymond did not know that; and—and it was hard for him. I trust I did not appear foolish, Hilda?"
She spoke anxiously, and Hilda laughed outright.
"Darling, you appeared like an angel, and were perfectly calm. I never should have guessed it from you; but—he, it was all over him, at the first glance."
"Poor Raymond!" said Mrs. Grahame again, meditatively. "And yet he was very happy in his marriage, I have always heard. His wife was a lovely person, and sincerely attached to him. But—I suppose the seeing me brought back his boyhood, and some of the old feeling,—we are singular creatures, Hilda. Perhaps you think I might have told you of this before, Hilda. You see, I never thought of it as anything belonging to me, dear."
"Of course," said Hilda. "I know! And I should not have asked if—if he had not made it so very obvious. But, oh, how charming,—how lovely he is! And how beautiful to see him with Jack, and the dear Colonel with both of them! My mother, do you know that we have the very most delightful friends in the habitable universe?"
"It really does seem so," said her mother. "And what a Christmas we shall have, with so many of them around us! Let me see! Mr. Merryweather came to-day. Now the whole Smiling Signal Service, as absurd Gerald calls it, is here,—except the good Roger."
Except, indeed! Hildegarde's heart gave a great bound, and she felt the colour rushing to cheek and forehead.
"We shall be very glad to see Roger?" said Mrs. Grahame. "Very glad, daughter dear?"
"Very glad indeed, dearest mother!" said Hilda. She met her mother's loving glance bravely, with her own bright smile; here, the blushing did not matter, for the two hearts, mother's and daughter's, beat in such true time together that words were hardly needed to carry the swift thought from mind to mind.
There was a moment's pause; then Mrs. Grahame went on.
"And are they not planning all kinds of merrymaking for Christmas week? Dear me! Why, it is this very coming week, Hilda! Where has the month gone?"
"Oh, it is to be a great time!" said Hildegarde. "The flower party, and lots of people coming down from town for it; and a toboggan-party,—if the snow will only come! and the tree at Roseholme, and I don't know what else. Do you know, I almost thought the Colonel and Mr. Merryweather would quarrel about the tree; both wanted it so much. And then they both gave up at the same minute, and each insisted that the other should have it, till I thought they would quarrel over that. But it all ended most happily. Hugh, of course! He came up quietly, and held out two straws; and they drew, and neither said another word. Oh, Mother, Hugh is so happy with Jack! I met them just now; his little face was shining like a star. Jack was chattering German to him, and he did not understand a word, but that made no difference at all. And dear old Jack! I believe he would have liked to kiss every stone in the garden wall—there! he is calling me now! I promised to go for a walk when my work was done. Are you sure you don't want anything, darling? absolutely sure? Then good-bye for an hour!"
Hildegarde ran down, and found Jack pacing the veranda with yard-long strides.
"Do you remember," he said, abruptly, "the first time I came here, Hilda?"
"Of course I do!" said Hilda.
"How I fell over a chair, and then knocked down a hanging-basket? Hilda, I do believe I should have made away with myself that night, if there had been any weapons about. I was simply full of rage and misery; I hated everybody, myself included; and it did seem to me as if you might let me alone, and not insist upon making me talk. I couldn't talk, you know."
"No, dear, you certainly could not; but you had to learn. And you are not sorry now, Jack?"
"Sorry! well, rather not! Fancy, if I had stayed the hateful noodle that I was that night! Fact is, I was brimful of my own self; that was the trouble with me. Ah—who are all these people Uncle Tom has been telling me about, next door, in the yellow house? I didn't bargain for strangers, Hilda!" And my lord looked slightly injured.
"No, dear!" said Hildegarde. "Of course we ought to have thought of that, and have prevented their coming here. We don't own the house, it is true, but we might have turned the hose on them, or put rat-poison about, or kept them off in some way."
"Oh, there you go!" cried Jack. "I say! I haven't been teased for two years. I forget what it's like. But seriously, are they really nice? Do you care for them? I—I really am jealous, Hilda; you needn't laugh. I thought I was going to have you all to myself, and now here are a lot of people,—with unreasonable names, it seems to me,—and Uncle Tom says they are your most intimate friends, and that he loves them all like brothers."
"That was one of them you met last night," said Hildegarde, demurely.
"Oh, I say! I was going to ask you,—was it, though? of course; I didn't notice her name much, but I remember now. Well, Hilda, she is a musician, and of course I'm glad you have had such a friend as that. I liked her face, too,—"
"You couldn't see her face!"
"Oh, I saw enough. I saw her eyes just for a minute, and I know what she's like, anyhow; didn't I play the Mendelssohn Concerto with her? So that's all right, and I mean to get her to play with me a lot, if she will. I like to play with the piano, only you so seldom find any one—any pianist—who understands the violin; they are generally thinking about their own playing. But—well, what was I saying? It is so jolly to be talking one's own language again, and talking to you. I just want to go on and on, whether I say anything or not."
"So I infer!" said Hildegarde.
"Oh, I say!" cried Jack again. "But—well, to go back to these people,—there are a lot of them, aren't there? A lot of fellows, or something?"
"There are!" said Hildegarde, gravely "Here are two of them coming now, Jack. These are the twins, Phil and Gerald; they are particularly nice fellows, and I want you to meet them."
"Look here, Hilda! I can't, you know. I'm going to cut across the field here. I didn't expect to see anybody this first morning. You won't mind if I—"
"I shall mind very much indeed!" said Hildegarde, with decision. "Jack, you must not be absurd! You are behaving like a child.
"Oh, good-morning, Phil! Good-morning, Gerald! I am so glad to see you! This is my cousin, John Ferrers, who came last night, and is staying at Roseholme. Jack, these are my neighbours, Philip and Gerald Merryweather."
The three bowed with mutual distrust.
"Glad to see you!" said Phil, in a tone which contradicted his words.
"Fine morning!" said Gerald. "You had a pretty rough passage, I ho—I'm afraid!"
"Thanks!" said Jack, with a detestable little drawl, which Hildegarde had never heard before. "I had an excellent passage."
The three drew back and looked at each other, so exactly like strange dogs that the tails only were wanting, it seemed to Hildegarde. She had difficulty in keeping her countenance. "What a comfort," she thought, "if I could only shake them all, and tell them to behave themselves!" But outwardly she was calm and smiling, looking from one scowling face to the other as if all were wreathed in smiles.
"And whither are you bound, boys?" she asked. "And what frolic is there on hand for to-day? If the snow would only come! I do want some tobogganing."
"There is good skating on Jimmy's Pond!" said Gerald. "We were just coming to see if you would go this afternoon, Hilda."
At the familiar name, Jack Ferrers glared so ferociously that Hildegarde almost expected to hear him bark, and to see him spring at the other lad's throat. Gerald perceived the impression, and hastened in pure malice to deepen it.
"I have been counting on a skate with you, Hilda; you remember the last we had together? I never shall forget it!"
Now Hildegarde had never skated with Gerald in her life, and she had no idea of putting up with this kind of thing.
"I shall be delighted to come!" she said, with a little ring of steel in her voice that all three lads knew very well; "if you can find a pair of skates for my cousin. I know you have a whole closet full of them. You would like very much to come, Jack? Very well, then, that is settled! We will be ready at three o'clock. Good-morning, boys! Bell and Gertrude will come, too, of course!"
And with a quick, decided nod she walked on, Jack following after, after a defiant bow which was returned with interest.
The cousins walked on in silence for a few steps; then—
"I don't think you really misunderstood what I said, Hildegarde!" said Jack, coldly. "I did not say that I should like to go skating. I said I should be unable to go. Of course it is of no consequence."
"Of none in the world!" said Hildegarde, turning upon him with gleaming eyes. "The absurd behaviour of three ridiculous boys,—Jack! How could you? I was so mortified,—so ashamed of you all! All! But you are my own; I am responsible for your behaviour. I never—" but here she caught a glimpse of Jack's face, and suddenly burst into a fit of laughter.
"Oh, it was so funny! Jack, none of you will ever know how funny it was. I am very angry, but I—cannot—help laughing."
"I am glad you are amused!" said Jack Ferrers, stiffly. "It was worth while to come home for that."
"Jack! I—I won't laugh any more—if I can help it! Oh, dear! If you had only seen—"
But Hildegarde saw that her cousin was really hurt. Instantly she controlled her laughter, and laid her hand quietly on his arm.
"Dear lad," she said, "you are not really angry, any more than I was. Dear Jack, think about it a little!"
They walked on in silence. Jack was still smarting under a sense of injury; yet the steady, friendly hand on his arm seemed to smooth down his ruffled feelings, whether he would or no.
"You know how it is," he said, presently, speaking in a more natural voice. "I have been thinking so long about the home-coming! I thought it was going to be—just the same. I thought I should have you all to myself; and now—"
"Jack, dear," said Hildegarde, quietly, "are you thinking of falling in love with me, by any chance?"
Jack looked down at her with startled eyes.
"Why—no! I wasn't, Hilda; but I will, if you want me to. I—what makes you say that? I thought we were brother and sister."
"I thought so, too," said Hildegarde, smiling. "But if my brother is going to show his teeth and growl at all the other dogs—I mean boys—he meets, I don't think I shall find it comfortable. There was a dog in a manger once; perhaps you have heard of him."
Jack winced, but owned he had.
"And—and even if you were not my brother," Hildegarde went on, "the idea of being jealous of the twins is so funny that—well, when you know them, Jack, you will laugh as much as I did. They are not that kind of boy, at all. No boys were ever less so."
"That red-haired fellow," said Jack, still distrustful; "what was he saying about skating with you before? I thought he sounded decidedly spoony, Hilda. I won't be disagreeable any more, but I say this seriously."
"Gerald! naughty, naughty Gerald! that was so like him! He is quick as a flash, Jack, and he said that just to torment you. I have never skated with him in my life; I never knew them till this last summer. Oh, he is such a funny boy! Come on, and I will tell you some of his pranks as we go along!"
Gerald and Philip Merryweather walked home in moody silence. They came upon a loose stone, and kicked it along before them with savage and purposeful kicks. Neither mentioned the fact of the stone's representing any particular person, but when either made a specially successful kick, he looked at the other for sympathy, and found it in a grim nod and chuckle. Only once did they break silence.
"Poor Codger!" said Gerald.
"H'm!" growled Philip, assenting.
"Know when he's coming?"
"No! Don't suppose it will make any difference, though."
"S'pose not!"
"H'm!"
"H'm!"
Reaching the house, they sat down on the steps and pitched gravel stones in gloomy rivalry. So sitting, it chanced that Bell came upon them; Bell, with a face more than commonly bright (though she was always one of the most cheerful of mortals), with her hands full of ground pine, fresh from a walk in the woods, humming a fragment of the Mendelssohn Concerto.
"What's the matter with my boys?" she demanded, promptly.
"Nothing!" responded the twins, with alacrity. And they lowered like toppling thunderclouds.
"Then tell me all about it!" said Sister Bell, sitting down on the step, and taking a hand of each.
"What happened to my twinnies? Did some one throw away their tadpoles, or did the dog eat their molasses candy?"
This allusion to early misfortunes could generally bring a smile, but this time it failed, and Bell looked from one to the other in genuine concern.
"Phil! Jerry! What is it?" she asked again. "Oh, there has been no bad news, boys? Roger!—"
Gerald groaned.
"Roger!" he said. "That's just it, Bell! No, nothing of the kind you mean. He's well, poor dear old Codger. Better than he will be, when he hears what is going on."
"What is going on? Come, boys, I really must know."
"We met Hilda just now," said Gerald. "Her cousin's come; kind of fiddler-chap from Germany. I'm afraid it's all up with the Codger, Bell."
"Indeed!" said Bell, quietly. "And what makes you think that, Jerry?"
"Oh, we met them just now! He—he's about nine feet tall, to begin with."
"That is a beginning! Where does he expect to end? But I have seen Mr. Ferrers, Jerry. I saw him last night."
"You did? Why didn't you tell a fellow?"
"Oh, I—I—hardly know!" said downright Bell, unused to even the whitest fib. She really could not, perhaps, have put into words the feeling that had kept her silent about the scene of the night before.
"But that is no matter!" she went on. "What else is the matter with him, besides height? He can't help that, you know."
"I don't suppose he can. But he can help making up to Hilda, Bell, and he'd better!" savagely. "Only it's too late now, I suppose!" despondently. "Why on earth the fellow couldn't stay and fiddle over there, where he's wanted,—don't admire their taste, by the way!—instead of coming over here to spoil everything, is more than I know!"
"Horrid shame!" murmured Phil, taking careful aim with a pebble at an innocent cat that was crossing the lawn.
Bell struck his hand up.
"I won't have the cats teased, Phil! And as for all this nonsense—"
"It isn't nonsense!" cried both boys, earnestly.
"I tell you we met them just now," Gerald went on, "and when he saw us, he looked black as thunder, and had hardly manners to speak to us. Perfectly odious; wasn't he, Ferguson?"
"Absolutely!" echoed Phil.
"And you were very cordial to him, of course?" said Bell. "You let him see that you were glad to meet him, and that as Hilda's warm friends you were anxious to welcome her cousin cordially, and to show him all the courtesy you could?"
The twins looked at each other. Bell had an extraordinary way of putting things sometimes.
"We didn't do anything of the sort!" said Phil, with an attempt at bluster.
"Because if you did not," his sister went on, "I am afraid you must have seemed very rude, my children. Rude and silly!"
"I wouldn't call names, Tintinnabula!" said Gerald, turning red.
"Sorry to be obliged to," retorted his sister, in perfect good humour. "But if you looked at Mr. Ferrers as you are looking now, there really can be no doubt about the matter. Now listen, boys! I know—Hilda has told me—a great deal about this Mr. Jack Ferrers. Hilda loves him dearly, as dearly as if he were her own brother, and in exactly the same way. You need not shake your heads and try to look wise, my dears, because you are not wise! You are two very foolish boys, who are trying to run your heads against a stone wall when there is no wall there. That is the state of the case about Mr. Ferrers. I know Hildegarde pretty well, and I am sure of what I am saying. You need have no fear of him. As for Roger,—well, I don't think you need have any fear for Roger either."
"Has he—has she—do you think they are—"
"Hush!" cried Bell, putting a hand over the mouth of each. "I don't think anything! At least—well, that isn't true, of course; but it does no good to talk about these things, dear boys. I do not think Hilda and Roger are—are engaged." Bell dropped her voice to a whisper. "But I feel quite sure they will be some day, when the time comes. I think they understand each other very well. Roger will be here soon; suppose you leave it all to him, Phil and Jerry, and don't worry about it. But there is one thing you can do, and it should be done soon."
"What?" cried both boys, eagerly.
"Put on your good clothes, and your good manners, and go to call at Roseholme."
"We'll be shot if we will!" cried the twins.
"Be just as nice as you know how to be to Mr. Jack Ferrers. He—he is a remarkable person, I have reason to think. You see," she spoke rather hastily, "Hilda has told me so much about him. And I—well, I heard him play last night, and he is a very wonderful performer, boys. You never, in your little lives, heard anything like his playing. He is too much in love with his art to think of any such nonsense as has been troubling your silly heads; you will understand that, the moment you hear him."
Gerald made a feeble protest to the effect that he hated fiddling, but there was little hope in his tone. And he was promptly reminded of his having spent his last fifty cents the winter before on a ticket for Sarasate's concert, and saying that it was the best investment he ever made.
The boys knew that their cause was lost; and when Bell added, as a clincher, "Ask Mammy, and see what she says," they retired from the unequal contest.
"Oh, we know what Mammy will say! Don't hit us when we are down, Bell. We'll go, and make asses of ourselves as well as we know how."
"Oh, not that, dears, I entreat!" cried Bell; and then ran swiftly into the house, laughing.
The twins resumed their occupation of pitching gravel stones, but a change had come over their spirits. Phil was actually whistling, and Gerald hummed a bass with perfect cheerfulness. The cat came back across the lawn, and they threw stones before her nose and behind her tail, avoiding contact with her person (for she was a beloved cat, in hours of joy), and contenting themselves with seeing her skip hither and thither in uninjured surprise.
"Philly!"
"Yes, Jerry!"
"Us feels a lot better, don't us, Philly?"
"H'm!" said Phil, and the sound was now one of content and peace.
"She's not a bad sort, the Tintinnabula!" Gerald went on, meditatively. "She doesn't harry a fellow, as some fellows' sisters do. She pokes you up and smooths you down at the same time, somehow. That's the way a girl ought to be—my opinion. Come along, Ferguson, and let's do something to celebrate!"
"All right!" said Phil. "What shall we do?"
"Oh, any old thing! Come along!"
And they went and wrestled in the conservatory, and broke three flower-pots, and had a delightful morning.
CHAPTER XII.
JIMMY'S POND.
So it came to pass that, as Jack Ferrers was strolling about the garden with Hugh after dinner, talking about old times, and pausing at every other step to greet some favourite shrub or stick or stone,—it came to pass that he heard steps at the gate, and, turning, saw the Messrs. Merryweather, holding themselves very straight, and looking very sheepish. They had compromised with Bell on skating dress, instead of the detested "good clothes," and Gerald carried several pairs of skates in his hand. They fumbled with the latch a moment, during which Jack felt extremely young, and was conscious of redness creeping up to his ears. But then, they were quite as red, he reflected; and, after all, as Hilda said, he was two years older than these boys, and if they really were all she made them out to be—why—
So it was a very different-looking Jack who advanced to meet the embarrassed boys at the gate. It was perhaps the first time in his young life that Gerald had been embarrassed, and he found the sensation unpleasant.
Before any of them could speak, however, a joyous whoop was heard from another quarter. Hugh had been investigating an old nest, and had just caught sight of the friends from Pumpkin House. He came running now, his face alight with welcome.
"Oh, Jerry! How do you do? How do you do, Phil? I am very well, thank you! Do you know my Jack? Because he has come home; and he is almost the dearest person in the world. And he has grown up his own beanstalk, he says, and that is what makes him so tall. And he has brought me the most beautiful soldiers that ever were, and we are going to have battles, even the prancings, the prancings of their mighty ones! Hurrah!"
"Hurrah it is!" said Jack. "How d'ye do?" And he held out his hand cordially enough. "Awfully good of you to bring the skates! Come in, won't you, and see my father and my uncle?"
"Didn't know whether you liked Acmes or Clubs," said Gerald, "so I brought both. Clubs are the best, we all think."
"So do I! These are just right, I think. Awfully good of you, I'm sure! You ought to see the things they wear in Germany; like the old ones Uncle Tom has hanging up in that trophy in the hall."
Chatting cheerfully, they moved on towards the house, taking note of one another as they went. Jack found the tones of the boys' voices very clear and good, free from any nasal quality; Phil and Gerald decided that there must be a good deal of muscle in those long, lean arms, and that it would not be so easy to "lick" the stranger as they had thought on first seeing him.
On Phil's remarking that his sisters and the "kids" had gone across the fields to the pond, there to await the rest of the party, Jack said he would be ready in three minutes, and ushered them into the library, where the two reunited brothers were peacefully smoking together. The Colonel received the boys most cordially, and, while Jack hurried away to put on jersey and knickerbockers, presented them to "My brother Raymond. Jack's father, young gentlemen! I trust you and my nephew Jack will be friends. The young should be friendly,—eh, Raymond? My brother Raymond, boys, is a man of genius. He is probably studying the lines of a fiddle at this moment,—an imaginary fiddle, you understand,—and I doubt if he is aware of your presence, or of one word I have been saying."
"Not quite so bad as that, Tom!" said Mr. Ferrers, holding out his hand to the boys, with the peculiarly sweet smile that won all hearts to him at the first glance, "not quite so bad as that. I am delighted to see you, young gentlemen. I have already heard a good deal about your cheerful circle here. I am, it is true, somewhat absent-minded,—"
"Absent-minded! Jupiter Capitolinus! When it comes to a man putting sugar and cream on his mutton-chop at breakfast,—"
"How do you know that I do not prefer it so, Tom? We have many curious customs in Virginia, you know. It wasn't bad, really!"
"Not bad!" snorted the Colonel. "Five-year-old mutton, hung a fortnight, and broiled by Elizabeth Beadle; and this man treats it as a pudding, and then says it was not bad! Elizabeth Beadle wept when Giuseppe told her about it; shed tears, sir! Said there was no pleasure in feeding you."
"Poor Elizabeth!" said Raymond Ferrers, laughing. "Dear, good soul! I must go and ask her to make me some molasses cookies with scalloped edges. Will that pacify her, Tom? Where is the boy?"
"Raymond, do not try me further than I can bear!" said his brother, with marked ferocity. "Ask for the boy every five minutes, my dear brother! a shorter interval than that is beyond my powers of endurance, which have their limits. The boy, sir, if you persist in applying that epithet to a young giraffe who has already scraped more paint off my lintels than I can supply in six months,—well, I will make it three, if you specially desire it,—is putting on his togs, to go skating with these young fellows. And what is more, Raymond, I know two old fellows who are going to be asses enough to put on their togs and go skating with the youngsters. Come along, sir! Jimmy's Pond, Ray! Come along!"