CHAPTER V.
AT THE EXCHANGE.
"And how have you spent the morning, my dear?" asked Mrs. Delansing.
They were sitting at the luncheon-table. Hildegarde could just see the tip of her aunt's cap above the old-fashioned epergne which occupied the centre of the table; but her tone sounded cheerful, and Hildegarde hastened to tell of her delightful morning. She had enjoyed herself so heartily that she made the recital with joyful eagerness, forgetting for the moment that she was not speaking to her mother, who always enjoyed her good times rather more than she did herself; but a sudden exclamation from Mrs. Delansing brought her to a sudden realisation of her position.
"What!" exclaimed the old lady, and at her tone the very ferns seemed to stiffen. "What are you telling me, Hildegarde? You have been spending the morning with—with a gentleman , and that gentleman—"
"Colonel Ferrers!" said Hildegarde, hastily, fearing that she had not been understood. "Surely you know Colonel Ferrers, Aunt Emily."
"I do know Thomas Ferrers!" replied Mrs. Delansing, with awful severity; "but I do not know why—I must add that I am at a loss to imagine how—my niece should have been careering about the streets of New York with Thomas Ferrers or any other young man."
Hildegarde was speechless for a moment; indeed, Mrs. Delansing only paused to draw breath, and then went on.
"That your mother holds many dangerous and levelling opinions I am aware; but that she could in any degree countenance anything so—so monstrous as this, I refuse to believe. I shall consider it my duty to write to her immediately, and inform her of what you have done."
Hildegarde was holding fast to the arms of her chair, and saying over and over to herself, "Never speak suddenly or sharply to an old person!" It was one of her mother's maxims, and she had never needed it before; but now it served to keep her still, though the indignant outcry had nearly forced itself from her lips. She remained silent until she was sure of her voice; then said quietly, "Aunt Emily, there is some mistake! Colonel Ferrers is over sixty years old; he was a dear friend of my father's, and—and I have already written to my mother."
Mrs. Delansing was silent; Hildegarde saw through the screen of leaves a movement, as if she put her hand to her brow. "Sixty years old!" she repeated. "Wild Tom Ferrers,—sixty years old! What does it mean? Then—then how old am I?"
There was a painful silence. Hildegarde longed for her mother; longed for the right word to say; the wrong word would be worse than none, yet this stillness was not to be endured. Her voice sounded strange to herself as she said, crumbling her bread nervously:
"He is looking very well indeed. He has been in Washington with little Hugh, his ward; he had been suffering a great deal with rheumatism, but the warm weather there drove it quite away, he says."
There was no reply.
"Colonel Ferrers is the kindest neighbour that any one could possibly have!" the girl went on. "I don't know what we should have done without him, mamma and I; he has really been one of the great features in our life there. You know he is a connection of dear papa's,—on the Lancaster side,—as well as a lifelong friend."
"I was not aware of it!" said Mrs. Delansing. She had recovered her composure, and her tone, though cold, was no longer like iced thunderbolts.
"I withdraw my criticism of your conduct,—in a measure. But I cannot refrain from saying that I think your time would have been better employed in your room, than in gadding about the street. I was distinctly surprised when Hobson told me that you had gone out. Hobson was surprised herself. She has always lived in the most careful families."
Hildegarde "saw scarlet." "Aunt Emily," she said, "blame me if you will; but I cannot suffer any reflection on my mother. I do not consider that it would be possible for any one to be more careful of every sensible propriety than my mother is; though she does not mould her conduct on the opinions of servants!" she added. She should not have said this, and was aware of it instantly; but the provocation had been great.
"You admit that your mother is human?" said the old lady, grimly. "She has faults, I presume, in common with the rest of humankind?"
"She may have!" said Hildegarde. "I have never observed them."
Silence again. Hildegarde tried to eat her chicken, but every morsel seemed to choke her; her heart beat painfully, and she saw through a mist of angry tears. Oh, why had she come here? What would she not give to be at home again!
Presently Mrs. Delansing spoke again, and her tone was perceptibly gentler.
"My dear, you must not think that I mean to be unkind, nor did I mean—consciously—to reflect upon your mother, for whom your affection is commendable, though perhaps strongly expressed."
"I am sorry!" said Hildegarde, impulsively. "I ought not to have spoken so. I beg your pardon, Aunt Emily!"
Mrs. Delansing bowed. "You are freely pardoned! I was about to say, when this little interruption occurred, that I had hoped you could be content for a few days under my roof, without seeking pleasure elsewhere; but age is poor company for youth."
"But you could not see me this morning, Aunt Emily! You said last night that you never saw anybody before lunch. And what should I do in my room? It is a charming room, but you surely did not expect me to stay in it all the morning, doing nothing?"
"I should have thought you might find plenty of occupation!" said Mrs. Delansing. "In my time it was thought not too much for a young lady to devote the greater part of the day to the care of her person; this, of course, included fine needlework and other feminine occupations."
"I did not bring any work with me," said Hildegarde. "You see, I must go back to-morrow, Aunt Emily, and there are so many errands that I have to do. This afternoon I must go out again; and is there anything I can do for you? I shall be going by Arnold's, if you want anything there."
"I thank you; Hobson makes my purchases for me!" said Mrs. Delansing, stiffly. "She would better accompany you to Arnold's; there is apt to be a crowd in these large shops, which I consider unsuited for gentlewomen. I will tell Hobson to accompany you."
But Hildegarde protested against this, saying, with truth, that she must pay a visit first. The idea of going about with Hobson at her heels was intolerable for the girl who had spent the first sixteen years of her life in New York.
She finally carried her point, and also obtained permission to read to her aunt for an hour before going out. It was a particularly dull weekly that was chosen, but she read as well as she knew how, and had the pleasure of seeing Mrs. Delansing's stern face relax into something like cheerfulness as she went through two chapters of the vapid, semi-religious story. At length the cold, gray eyes closed; the stately head nodded forward; Aunt Emily was asleep. Hildegarde read on for some time, till she was sure that the slumber was deep and settled. Then she sat for a moment looking at the old lady, and contrasting her face and form, rigid even in sleep, with those of dear Cousin Wealthy Bond, who always looked like the softest and most kissable elderly rose in her afternoon nap. "Poor soul," she said, softly, as she slipped out of the room to find Hobson. "So lonely, and so unloved and unloving! I can't bear to hear Blanche and Violette speak of her,—I can hardly keep my hands off them,—and yet—why exactly should they be fond of her? She is not fond of them, or of anybody, I fear, unless it be Hobson."
The visit was paid, and Hildegarde took her way towards the Woman's Exchange, with a beating heart. It beat happily, for she had enjoyed the half-hour's talk with the kind cousin, an elderly woman, who seldom moved from her sofa, but whose life was full of interest, and who was the friend and confidante of all the young people in the neighbourhood. She had heard with pleasure of the proposed plan, and had given Hildegarde a note to the manager of the Exchange, whom she knew well; had tasted a crumb of one of the cakes, and predicted a ready sale for them. Moreover, and this was the best of all, she had talked so wisely and kindly, and with such a note of the dear mother in her voice, that Hildegarde's homesickness had all floated away, and she had decided that it was not, after all, such a hardship to spend three days in New York as she had thought it an hour ago.
As I said, she took her way towards the Exchange, carrying her neat paper box carefully. As she went, she amused herself by building castles, à la Perrette. How many things she would buy with the money, if she sold the cakes; and she should surely sell them. No one could resist who once tasted them, and she had made several tiny ones for samples; just a mouthful of "goody" in each.
Fine linen, several yards of it, and gold thread, and "Underwoods" in green morocco,—that was really almost a necessity, for Mamma's birthday; and some pink chiffon to freshen up her silk waist, and—and—here she was almost run over, and was shouted at and seized by a policeman, and piloted gently to a place of safety, with an admonition to be more careful.
Much ashamed, Hildegarde stood still to look about her, and found herself at the very door of the Exchange. She went in. The room was filled with customers. "I ought to have come in the morning," she said to herself, and the quick blush mounted to her cheeks, as she made her way to the counter at the back of the shop, where a sweet-faced woman was trying to answer four questions at once.
"No, the Nuns have not come in yet. Yes, they are generally here before this. No, I cannot tell the reason of the delay. Yes, it happened once before, when the maker was ill. I do not know why more people do not make them. Yes, just the one person, so far as I know. Marguerites? Yes, madam,—in one moment. The orange biscuits will come in at two o'clock. No, we have never had them earlier than that. Perhaps you are thinking of the lemon cheese-cakes. These are the lemon cheese-cakes."
She paused for breath, and looked anxiously round. It was plain that she was expecting assistance, and equally plain that it was late in coming. Hildegarde stepped quietly round behind the counter.
"Can I help you?" she whispered.
The lady gave her a grateful glance. "I should be so thankful," she murmured. "All these ladies must be served instantly. The prices are all marked."
The lady who had demanded the "Nuns" had also paused for breath, being stout as well as clamorous; but she now returned to the attack. Hildegarde met her with a calm front, and eyes which tried not to smile.
"Can you—oh! this is a different person. Perhaps you can tell me why the Nuns are not here. It really seems an extraordinary thing that they should not be here at the usual time."
"The messenger may have lost a train, or something of that sort," suggested Hildegarde, soothingly.
"Oh, but that would be no excuse! No excuse at all! When one is in the habit of supplying things to people of consequence, one must not lose trains. Now, are you perfectly sure that they have not come? You know what they are, do you? Little round cakes, with a raisin in the middle, and flavoured with something special. I don't remember what the flavour is, but it is something special, of that I am sure. Have you looked—have you looked everywhere? What is in that box at your elbow? They might have been brought in and laid down without your noticing it. Oblige me by looking in that box at your elbow."
A sudden thought flashed into Hildegarde's mind; she began to unfasten the box, which was her own, whispering at the same time into the ear of her companion in distress.
"Oh! Oh, yes, certainly!" said the latter, also in a whisper. "Anything, I am sure, that will give satisfaction! If you can only—"
"Stop her noise," was evidently what the patient saleswoman longed to say; but she checked the words, and only gave Hildegarde an eloquent glance, as she turned to meet a wild onset in demand of macaroons.
Perhaps Hildegarde's fingers trembled a little as she untied the narrow blue ribbon that bound up her hopes; perhaps she was purposely slow, collecting her thoughts and words. The stout lady fumed and fidgeted. "You should never allow things to be tied in a hard knot! It should be one of the first rules in a place like this, that boxes should be fastened with india-rubber bands. Surely you know the usefulness of india-rubber bands? I hope those Nuns are fresh. If you did not see them come in, or speak to the person who brought them, how can you be sure of their being fresh? Stale cakes are out of the question, you know; nobody could think of enduring stale cakes; and Nuns, in particular, must be eaten the same day they—"
"These are not Nuns, madam," said Hildegarde, as she opened the box. "Perhaps you would like to see—"
"Not Nuns! Then why did you tell me they were Nuns? What are they, I should like to know? H'm! ha! very pretty! What do you call these?"
"Novices!" said Hildegarde, with a flash of inspiration.
"Aha! Novices, eh? Yes, yes! a good name, if they are—are they something new? I have never seen them here before."
"Entirely new!" Hildegarde assured her. "This is the first box that has ever been brought in."
"Eh? the first? Then how do you know they are good? How can you conscientiously recommend them? I always expect conscientious treatment here, you know."
"Will you try one?"
Hildegarde handed her the box; and she was soon crunching and nodding and smiling, all at the same moment.
"De-licious! I assure you, delicious! something entirely new—Novices! Why, they are exactly what I want for my party to-night. Much better than Nuns,—Nuns have really become quite tiresome. What is the price of the Novices?"
Hildegarde hesitated, and glanced at the saleswoman. The latter leaned swiftly forward, looked, tasted a crumb,—
"Five cents apiece!" she said, quietly. Five! Hildegarde had thought of three, and had built all her castles on that basis.
But the stout lady was crying to heaven against the price. "Impossible! absurd! Why, Nuns were only two cents apiece, Marguerites only three! The price was ridiculous, exorbitant. She could not think of paying—"
Here a small lady, richly but quietly dressed, came up, and looked at the box. "Pretty!" she said. "Graceful and ingenious! Five cents apiece, you say? Give me a dozen and a half, please! I should like to have them sent to me once a week for the season; they are just the things to please my daughter's lunch-club."
She nodded kindly to Hildegarde, and passed on. The stout lady gazed after her reverentially.
"Mrs. Cameron Pine!" she murmured. "She will make them the fashion instantly. I—I will take the rest!" she cried, wildly. "Put them up, and send them to me,—Mrs. Newcomb Rich, Madison Avenue. Send me two dozen every week,—wait! send them the day before you send Mrs. Pine's, do you hear? the day before! Don't forget! It is most important!" and puffing and nodding, she, too, went on.
There was a little lull now, during which the saleswoman turned to thank Hildegarde so heartily that our heroine would have felt well repaid even if she had not sold all her cakes.
"I cannot imagine where Miss Berden is; she is always so punctual. This is our busiest day, and one of our busiest hours, and some of the ladies, as you saw, rather hard to please. I really don't know what I should have done if you had not helped me; it was very kind and thoughtful of you." She gazed earnestly at Hildegarde, and added, "You have a good mother, I know, who has taught you to think and help."
Hildegarde nodded and smiled, but said nothing, for the tears came springing to her eyes.
"And you sold all the pretty cakes!" added the saleswoman. "I knew they would make a hit the moment I saw them. That was partly why I put a good price on them; but it was also because I knew there must be a good deal of nice and careful work in making them. I wonder—you have been so good, I am ashamed to ask you anything more, but there is no one here now; would you be willing to hold the fort while I run to the corner and post a letter?"
Hildegarde assented cheerfully, and Miss Adams (for by this name she now introduced herself) put on her hat and went out. Hildegarde remained mistress of the situation, and occupied herself in tidying up the marble counter, brushing away the crumbs, and rearranging some biscuits that had fallen from their dainty pyramid.
Now voices were heard at the door, and a gay group entered. A splendid carriage stood without, and these rustling, high-plumed ladies had evidently just dismounted from it. There were four of them, and they were joined in another moment by two or three more. Apparently, all had been at some concert, for they were talking all at once, and Hildegarde heard the words, "Exquisite!" "Technique!" "Andante!" etc., repeated over and over. She became interested, and forgot for the moment her position, when something curious recalled it to her. She recognised, in one of the younger ladies, her cousin Blanche Van Dene, one of Mrs. Delansing's granddaughters; and almost at the same instant, she became aware that Blanche had recognised her, and that she was anxious to avoid any open recognition. Her eyes had met Hildegarde's for one second; the next, she had turned her back squarely, and was chattering volubly in the ear of her neighbour.
"'HILDEGARDE GRAHAME, IN THE NAME OF ALL THAT'S WONDERFUL!'"
A wave of anger surged over Hildegarde, leaving the very tips of her ears pink as it receded; but the wave of amusement followed it quickly, and the second wave bore a little spray of malice. Should she call to her, and say, "Dearest Blanche, how is your dear mother?" Or she might put on a twang—Hildegarde had an excellent twang at her disposal, and say, "Hello, Blanchey! Haow's yer haalth, and haow's the folks to home?" Oh! it would be fun! And surely the girl deserved it! Such bad form, to say nothing of bad feeling! But here Hildegarde seemed to hear a certain familiar voice saying, "My dear, a debt of rudeness is one that should never be paid!" So she held her tongue, and contented herself with looking hard at Blanche's back, which showed consciousness and discomfort in every line.
So intent was Hildegarde on her cousin's back, that she did not notice that one of the other ladies had turned round, and was gazing at her in perplexity; next moment a shout rang out, in a clear, joyous voice that made every one start.
"Hilda Grahame, in the name of all that is wonderful! My dear, what sky have you dropped from?"
Hildegarde started, and saw a splendid vision advancing towards her with outstretched hand. A girl somewhat older than herself, with the walk and figure of a goddess and the dress of a queen; a face of almost faultless beauty, and large clear eyes through which looked a soul like a child's; she was one of the famous beauties of the day, famous alike for her loveliness, her great fortune, and the pride of her ancient name.
"My dear," she repeated, taking both Hildegarde's hands in hers, "what sky have you dropped from, and what are you doing here?"
"Dear Imperia!" said Hildegarde, calling her by the old familiar school name that came naturally to her lips. "How delightful to see you! I am selling cakes; will you have some? There were some that I made myself, but they are all sold. Here are various others, doubtless inferior, but still good."
"Of course I will have some!" cried Imperia. "Why, this is perfectly delightful! Do you really come here? regularly, I mean, and have all the cakes you want? I never heard of such fun. Give me three dozen of everything, and we'll have a carouse. Here, girls!" she turned and called to the others, who were looking curiously at the two; "come here, and tell me who this is! Shade of Madame Haut-ton, hover over us, and bless this reunion!"
"Hildegarde Grahame! Hilda! Queen Hildegarde!" cried several voices; and Hildegarde was instantly surrounded by the crowd of butterflies, all caressing and questioning, laughing and talking at once. One or two looked puzzled, other one or two sad, as they saw their gay schoolmate of former days standing behind the counter, quiet and self-possessed, and apparently entirely at home. But visible distress was on one countenance, and Hildegarde, charitable, refrained from looking at her cousin, when Imperia exclaimed, "Why, here is Blanche Van Dene! She is your cousin, isn't she? Blanche, here is Hilda, who used to be so good to you at school, and help you with your spelling. Dear me, Hilda, do you remember how Blanchey used to spell?"
Hildegarde shook hands with her cousin composedly, and only her dancing eyes showed any consciousness of the situation. Blanche muttered some greeting, and then recollected an engagement and hurried off. The lady Imperia looked after her with good-natured contempt.
"Same little animal, my dear! I beg your pardon, Hilda, but really, you know, we remember her in her pinafores, and she was a snob then. But now tell us all about it, like a good girl! You are not in trouble, dear old thing?"
At this moment the door opened and Miss Adams came hurrying in, breathless and apologetic. There had been a block in the street—she was on the wrong side and could not get back—would Hildegarde please excuse her for being so long?
"Oh, but I have had a delightful time, Miss Adams!" cried Hildegarde. "And I have sold three dozen of everything—was that a real offer, Imperia?"
Imperia vowed that it was; and Hildegarde and Miss Adams together tied up the parcels, while all chatted together like old friends. The situation was explained, and so many dozens of "Novices" were ordered for every week that Hildegarde declared her intention of taking back with her to Braeside a chef and three kitchen-maids to help her in the manufacture. Finally, she was whirled away in her friend's purple chariot for a drive in the park, and had the pleasure of passing her cousin Blanche on the way, looking sad and sorry.