Hildegarde's Harvest

CHAPTER VIII.

CHRISTMASING

The next day seemed to be largely spent in running to and fro between the two houses. Kitty and Willy were at Braeside before breakfast, eager to embrace their dear Mrs. Grahame and Hilda, and full of wonderful tales of school and play. Then, as soon as Hildegarde had finished breakfast, she must go back with them to greet Mrs. Merryweather, and tell her how delighted she was at their coming, and hear a more detailed account of the girls' movements. Mrs. Merryweather was sitting at her desk, with a pile of papers before her, and books heaped as high as her head on every side.

"My dear," she said, after greeting Hildegarde most affectionately, "I am just looking for the girls' letter. It came this morning, and I put it somewhere, – in quite a safe place, as I knew the boys would want to see it, and then I meant to send it on to your father, – I mean to their father, of course. Here it – oh, no! that is an old one! Now, this is really unfortunate, for I was to send something to Gertrude, and I cannot remember what it was. Dear me! I am really too – would you mind saying over a few things, Hildegarde, that she would be likely to want? Perhaps it will come back to me; and I can keep on looking all the while, not to lose time."

Much amused, Hildegarde began to suggest, – "Boots, hat, muff, handkerchiefs, gloves," – but at each article named Mrs. Merryweather shook her head, and sighed as she sorted papers.

"No, dear, no! Thank you just as much; but it was none of those. This only shows, dear Hildegarde, the dreadful misfortune of being unmethodical. I have no manner of doubt that I have wasted at least ten good years of life in looking for things. My sister-in-law, now, could find a needle in a top bureau drawer at midnight, without a moment's hesitation. It is a gift! I trust you cultivate – now, you see, I may spend half the morning hunting for this letter, when I might – what amuses you, my dear?"

For Hildegarde's eyes were dancing, and her whole face eloquent of fun.

"Dear Mrs. Merryweather, – I know you will excuse me, – but is not that the letter, pinned to your dress? It looks like Gertrude's handwriting."

Mrs. Merryweather looked down, and gave a sigh of relief.

"My child, your coming in was providential, nothing less. Of course, I remember now, I pinned it there for fear I should do – what I thought I had done. Well, well! and it is a Roman sash that the child wants, – I am sure I should never have thought of that. Ah, dear! I do miss my girls, Hildegarde. You see, they inherit from their father a sense of order, – in a measure, – and they help me a great deal. Are my glasses on my forehead, dear? Whereas Gerald and Phil are rather like me, I am afraid. I wonder if Gerald has found his waistcoat yet? He is wearing – ah, there he is now! Gerald, you are really an object for a circus, my son."

Gerald looked down thoughtfully at himself. He was attired in white corduroy knickerbockers, an ancient swallow-tail coat so large that it hung in folds upon him, and a red velvet waistcoat reaching to his knee.

"I hesitated about coming in," he said. "Hildegarde is so susceptible, I fear the impression I shall make upon her tender heart. The lily is painted, the fine gold is gilded. Hilda, confess that I am the dream of your existence."

"What does it mean?" asked Hildegarde, laughing.

"Trunks not come yet; not mine, at least. Upset a bath-tub over my only suit this morning, – lo, the result! Wouldst not that I were ever habited thus, mirific Mammy? Consider the beauty of your offspring."

He seated himself on his mother's desk, drawing the folds of the dress-coat about him, and beamed upon her.

"If you would send him away, dear Mrs. Merryweather," said Hildegarde, "I should be so glad to help you a little with the papers and books. I have a whole hour to spare, – do let me help!"

"My dear, I should be only too thankful," said Mrs. Merryweather. "Jerry, go away, and find something to do! You might unpack the blankets, like a dear."

But Gerald declared that a wet blanket was the only one with which he had any concern after this cruel treatment, and retired weeping bitterly, wiping his eyes with a long coat-tail.

Hildegarde devoted the morning to helping her friends, and when she went home at noon the rooms wore a very different aspect. The books were all off the chairs and on the tables, or in the bookcases.

"Not that it makes any permanent difference," said Mrs. Merryweather, plaintively. "They will put books on the chairs, Hildegarde. It is against the rules, – but it is their nature. I made a rhyme about it once:

Hildegarde especially enjoyed helping to arrange the girls' room, tacking up the curtains, and putting fresh flowers (from the Roseholme greenhouse) in the vases. To-morrow she would see those dear girls, and then who so happy as she!

And to-morrow came, and with it Bell and Gertrude, escorted by their father. All the Merryweathers were now here, except Roger. The question was on Hildegarde's lips several times, "When will he come?" but somehow she waited a little each time, and the moment passed, till she heard Mr. Merryweather say:

"A letter from Roger, Miranda! He will be here next week, – day uncertain, but surely in time for Christmas."

A chorus of joy arose, in which Hildegarde joined heartily.

"Think!" said Bell. "We have not seen Roger since the summer; hardly since we have seen you, Hildegarde. Oh, my dear, how long it seems since camp! and yet when you look at it the other way, it might be yesterday. Heigh, ho! whose turn is it to get supper to-night? and who is going to get the fish for the chowder?"

"Dear, happy days!" said Hildegarde. "I have not lost a minute of one of them, Bell. If I should wake up to-morrow morning and find myself at camp, I should not be in the least surprised, but should just 'put the kettle on and stand by to go about.'"

"Dear old camp motto!" said Bell. "It makes a pretty good one anywhere, Hilda, do you know? If they give me the class oration, – the girls are talking about it, – I might take that for my text."

"Are you talking camp and graduation," put in Gertrude, who came into the room at this moment, "when Christmas is almost here? Oh, think of it, and we have not planned what we are going to do, or – or anything!"

"Speak for yourself, Gertrude," laughed Hildegarde. "I have three bureau drawers full of things ready, and I ought to be tying up a box this minute, to go out West."

"Missionary box?" asked Bell.

"No, – at least, not in the regular way. But there are some distant cousins out in Colorado, – they have a hard time to get along, and there are a great many of them, – and Mamma and I always send them a box at Christmas. A kind of grab-bag box, with clothes and whatever we can think of."

"My dear," cried Bell, sitting up with shining eyes, "don't you want some contributions? Let me tell you, – this is the position! We also have such cousins, – fourteen in number, – in Minnesota. And there was an auction at school, and I got all kinds of odd picknickles and bucknickles, thinking they would do for the box, – and I returned to find that Mother had sent it off three days ago, filled to overflowing. You see, the boys are just behind ours in age and size, so there are always lots of jackets (never any trousers, of course), and she thought they would be needed for the cold weather, – and I forgot to tell her about my purchases. What do you say, Hilda? Oh, come up into my room, and see some of the things! They are rather nice, some of them, and others just funny. Come on!"

Away went the three girls, up to Bell's sunny room, where the trunks stood open, with trays of hats on the bed, and a general effect of "just-arrived-and-haven't-had-time-to-get-settled" pervading all. Bell cleared a chair for Hildegarde, and bidding Gertrude "perch where she could," began to pull things out of the big, brown trunk, talking as she went.

"You see, girls, the way of it was this. There is always an auction at the end of the year, and generally things stay over for that; but this time there had been a fire in the town, and a good many poor families were left destitute. Mrs. Tower suggested that, perhaps, we might make up a little purse, or take charge of one family for the winter. We agreed to do the latter, and made up a committee to order coal and wood, and another to make clothes for the children, – seven children, poor little things! and the father so badly hurt in saving the youngest baby that he will not be able to work for several weeks. Well, I was on the committee to order the things; but when I came to collect the money, some of the girls, who wanted most to help, were very hard up, myself included. So near the end of the term, you see, and we had been buying Christmas things and all. So I said, 'Suppose we have an auction!' for there were some girls – not many, but I suppose there are a few everywhere – who didn't care a bit about the poor family, and yet we knew they had money, and we were bound to get some of it. I had the sale in my room. It was great fun. I hung out a red flag, and posted flaming notices in all the halls and corridors; and we had a great crowd. Me! oh, no, I was not auctioneer! I could not possibly talk fast enough. Caroline Hazen did it splendidly. Her mother was Irish, and she can drop into the most delicious brogue you ever heard, and she was so funny, we were in fits of laughter all the time. We made twenty dollars, – think of it! – all in a little over an hour. And some of these things I bought with what little money I had, and the rest were just left over, and as the girls would not take them back, I brought them along for the box. See! here is a pair of knitted shoes, – really perfectly new. Anna Waring said that she had a dear aunt who sent her a pair every Christmas and every birthday, and she has ten pair now, and never hopes to catch up. Three pair were sold beside these; got them for ten cents, and see how pretty they are!"

"Why, charming!" cried Hildegarde. "Bell, why don't you wear these yourself?"

"I! Perish the thought! I never wear any shoes in my room, Hilda; bare feet are part of my creed."

"But – but you have no carpet here, dear," said Hildegarde, with a little shiver. "And it must be very cold – "

"Delightfully cold!" cried Bell. "I know few things pleasanter than the touch of a good cold floor to the bare feet on a winter morning."

"She is volcanic, Hilda!" put in Gertrude. "She sleeps under a sheet all winter, and never looks at a blanket; it is true!"

Bell nodded gaily in answer to Hildegarde's horrified look. "No use, dear! I am hardened in mind as well as in body, and cannot change my ways. Look here! Perhaps one of the boys might like this?"

She held up a string of chenille monkeys, and danced them up and down.

"Of course he would," said Hildegarde. "And what – what is that, Bell Merryweather?"

Bell looked rather ruefully at the object she now drew from the trunk.

"Nobody else would buy it," she said. "The girl who brought it down is new and shy, and – well, somehow, you felt that she wanted to help, and had nothing else to bring. I was so sorry for her, – I gave my last quarter for it."

It was a long strip of coarse twine lace, with a yellow ribbon quilted in and out its entire length. One of those objects that sometimes appear at fancy fairs, for which no possible use can be imagined.

"It is queer," said Bell. "I suppose it must have been meant for something; I didn't like to ask her what."

"Oh, but, my dear, it is a lovely ribbon!" said Hildegarde. "Why not take the ribbon out, and make bows and things? I am sure you must want ribbon for some of your Christmasings."

Bell confessed that she might, and the ribbon was carefully laid aside, freed from its snarl of twine.

"Here," said Bell, diving into the trunk again, "is a highly interesting article, mesdames! a pheasant, you see, carved, – Swiss, I suppose, – with all his feathers spread out. Now, I think I did pretty well to bring that home without breaking. Is there a boy in your box, Hilda? I meant this for a boy."

"There is, indeed, and I know he will be enchanted with such a pretty thing. Oh, and the marbles! Now, Bell, will you tell me what college girls do with marbles?"

"I will," said Bell, laughing. "She – Martha Sinclair – is very near-sighted, poor thing. She thought these were moth-balls. She brought a lot of them from home, and put them up with her furs this spring, and was horrified to find them – the furs – all moth-eaten this fall. Poor Martha! That, Hildegarde, is the sad tale of the marbles. They are very good ones! I should not dare to let Willy see them, – here, put them in your pocket! Here are assorted pen-handles, – went in one lot, – forty cents for the dozen of them. Some of them are rather nice, I think."

"This is a beauty!" cried Gertrude. "This Scotch plaid one. May I have this, Bell?"

"Certainly, dear! Hilda shall have the pearl one, – there! This is the prettiest, Hilda – "

"But why am I to have all the prettiest?" inquired Hildegarde. "You are very reckless, Bell."

"No, my love, I am not," said Bell. "Pen-handles are, generally speaking, a drug in this family. For several Christmases Willy – dear child! – could not think of anything else to give us, so we had pen-handles all round – how many years, Gertrude?"

"Three, I think," said Gertrude. "Then some one laughed, and hurt his dear little feelings, and he never gave us any more. I miss the Christmas pen-handle myself, for I always get mine nibbled pretty short in the course of the fall term. It is the only way I can possibly write a composition."

"And is your next composition to be on the 'Scottish Chiefs?'" asked Hildegarde. "Or do you hope to cure yourself by the taste of varnish and red paint?"

"Puppies!" cried Bell, emerging once more from the depths of the trunk. "Five china puppies in a row. And thereby hangs a tale."

"I don't see a sign of a tail," said Gertrude, inspecting the five little terriers, all sitting up very straight, with their paws exactly on a line.

"Spell it the other way, miss; and don't forget your Shakespeare," said her sister.

"This reminds me of the very most foolish charade I ever heard. We were playing one evening in Martha Sinclair's room; and Janet Armour took this row of puppies from the mantelpiece and set it on the floor, and told us to look at it. Then she kicked it over with her foot, and told us it was a word of three syllables, all three and the whole word given at once. See if you can guess, Hildegarde? You give it up? Well, it is too silly to guess. 'Kick-a-row,' do you see? Cicero, Gertrude, my lamb. I explain on account of your tender years."

"She must be a silly girl," said Gertrude. "We wouldn't put up with such a poor charade as that here, would we, Hilda?"

"There are different kinds of brains," said Bell, laughing. "Janet Armour leads the whole college in mathematics, and is head of the basket-ball team. So you see, dear, talents vary. Well, Hildegarde, I am afraid there is nothing else that would do; unless you would like this cologne-bottle doll? She is a superior doll."

"Very," said Hildegarde. "And you know Kitty would be enchanted with her. No, Bell, I shall take nothing else, and I am ever so much obliged for all these nice things. Now you must come over with me and help me fasten up the box. You, too, dear Gertrude."

The three raced across the lawn and through the hedge, and were soon in Hildegarde's room. Bell looked round her with a sigh, half admiration, half regret.

"Hilda, there is no room but this!" she said. "How do you make it so – so – well, your own portrait in a way? If I were to be shown into this room in the furthest corner of the Soudan I should say, 'And is Hildegarde in, or shall I wait for her?'"

Hildegarde laughed, and looked about her, her eyes resting lovingly on this or the other treasure of picture or book.

"Dear room!" she said. "I am glad you like it, for I love it very much. And if it looks like me – "

"You must be pretty good-looking!" cried Gertrude. "Is that what you were going to say, Hilda?"

"No, you absurd child, it was not. But – well, girls, of course it is different when people have two or three places, in town and country, and move about as you do, to and from school and college, and all that. But this, you see, is my home, my only home and abiding-place; and so my own things grow to be very real to me, and very much a part of my life. I suppose that is it. I know – you will understand what I mean, Bell – whenever I go out of this room, it seems as if one part of me stayed here, and was ready to greet me when I came back. But that is enough about me," she added, lightly. "Here is the box! Now we shall see how nicely all Bell's prettinesses will fit into the corners!

"This is Mamma's present for Cousin Ursula. A nice, fat down puff, for her feet in winter; it is very cold there, and she is not strong, poor dear. And I trimmed this hat for Mary, the daughter. Rather pretty, do you think?"

"Rather pretty!" cried both girls. "Hilda, it is a perfect beauty! Oh, how did you learn to do these things? Will you trim all our hats for us, for the rest of our lives?"

"I should be delighted," said Hildegarde, laughing. "I learned all I know from my mother. She is clever, if you will. I cannot compare with her in skill. Yet I was once offered a position as assistant to a milliner. These things underneath are things we have worn, but they are all good."

"This has never been worn!" exclaimed Bell, lifting a pretty gray silk blouse, trimmed with knots of cherry-coloured ribbon. "This is just out of the box, Hildegarde. Oh, what a pretty, dainty thing!"

Hildegarde laughed. "I am proud of that!" she said. "I made that out of an old underskirt of Mamma's. Yes, I did!" as the girls exclaimed with one accord. "It was good silk to begin with, you see. I washed it, and pressed it, and made it up on the other side; and it really does look very nice, I think. The ribbon is some that Mamma had had put away ever since the last time they wore cherry colour, – twenty-five years, she says. Lovely ribbon! Well, and I knew that Mary, the daughter, is just my age, so I had to 'run for luck,' and make it to fit me. I do hope she will like it!"

"Like it!" exclaimed Bell. "If she does not like it, she deserves to wear brown gingham all her life. It is as pretty a blouse as I ever saw."

"What is the matter with brown gingham?" asked Hildegarde. "One of my pet dresses, a year or two, was a brown gingham."

"Oh, but not like our brown gingham!" said Bell. "You see – well, it is treasonable, I know, Gerty, but Hildegarde is almost like ourselves. You see, our blessed Mammy (this was long ago, when Toots was a baby, and the boys still in kilts) got tired of all our clothes, and felt as if she could not bear to think about them for a while. So she got a whole piece of brown check gingham, – forty mortal yards, – and had it all made up into clothes for us. Oh, dear! Shall I ever forget those clothes? It was a small check, rather coarse, stout gingham, because she thought that would wear better than the Scotch. It did! I had four frocks of it, and the boys each had three kilt suits, and even the baby wore brown slips. You cannot remember it, Toots?"

Gertrude shook her head.

"I remember the effect on the family mind," she said, laughing.

"Yes," said Bell. "I don't know whether you have ever noticed, Hildegarde, that none of us ever wear brown? Well, we never do! Pater will never see it. He did not realise for some time what had been done. But one day, – oh, you ought to hear the Mammy tell about this! I can't begin to make it as funny as she does. One day he came home, and the twinnies were playing in the front yard. He stood and looked at them for a while.

"'Are you making mud pies, boys?'

"'No, Papa!'

"'Then why have you on these clothes?'

"The boys didn't know much about their clothes; he looked at them a little more, and then he came into the house. There was I, in my brown gingham, playing with my doll.

"'Great Cæsar!' says Papa. 'Here's another! Been making mud pies, Pussy?'

"'No, Papa! I am playing with my dolly.'

"'Do you get dirty, playing with your dolly?'

"'Why, no, Papa!'

"'Then why do you wear such things as this?'

"I was just going to tell him that 'this' was the dress I was wearing every day and all day, when dear Mammy came out of the sitting-room with the baby. And, Hilda, the baby wore a brown gingham slip, and Mammy had on a long, brown gingham apron.

"'Napoleon Bonaparte!' said Papa. 'Here's two more of 'em.' Then he sat down on the stairs, and looked from one to the other. Then he went to the door and called the boys; and he took us all into the sitting-room, and stood us in a row, and sat and looked at us.

"'Miranda,' he said, 'What have you been doing here?'

"'Doing, my dear Miles?' said Mamma. 'What should I have been doing? Dressing baby after her afternoon nap, to be sure.'

"'Dressing her!' says Pater. 'Dressing her!' Then he broke off, Mammy says, and put his hand to his forehead, as if he were in a kind of dream.

"'Miranda,' he said, 'I have been greatly occupied for the last few weeks, and have not fully realised what was going on. I have been dimly aware that, when I came home, the whole world seemed to turn brown and dingy. At first I thought it was the weather; then I thought it was the condition of business; at last I began to think that my sight must be failing, and cataracts forming, or something of the kind, so that I could see nothing without a brownish tinge over it. Now, I – I realise what the matter is; and I ask what —what is this stuff in which my family is masquerading?'