CHAPTER VI—HILDA A LITERAL FOLLOWER OF BUNYAN
“Fair Meadow,” the home of the Merryman family for generations, was a large old-time farmhouse, built of gray stone, with dormer windows in the roof, broad window and door sills, and within and without gave the assurance of genuine home comfort, peace and good-will.
It lay between “My Lady’s Manor” and “Friedenheim,” within a short distance of each, and save for a wide lane and a meadow, would have been opposite the cottage of Jerusha Flint, on the other side of the road. It was a true Christian home, and its influence, like that of the Courtneys, was felt throughout the neighborhood.
The Merrymans were generous, genial people, and entertained city and country friends with cordial hospitality, but it was seldom that the farmhouse wore such a festive appearance as upon one evening the middle of the February following the summer and autumn that Jerusha Flint held possession of the cottage.
The occasion was a reception in honor of a bride and groom, the bride being Mr. Merryman’s sister, married at her father’s residence in Baltimore and returning that evening from a southern tour.
Snow had fallen the day before, which necessitated sending sleighs instead of carriages to Dorton Station for the bridal party, and Mrs. Merryman, seeing her husband drive down the lane in the lead of three other sleighs, realized that time had passed too rapidly; the guests would soon be there, and she was not dressed to receive them.
With a satisfied glance at the supper table—brilliant with silver, china and glass—she was hurrying up the stair-way to her dressing-room when she heard a feeble knock upon the hall door, and, retracing her steps, she opened it.
A poor wanderer stood with hat in hand waiting there; the wind was toying with his gray locks, his thin garments protected him but poorly from the cold, and through his broken shoes could be seen his stockingless feet.
“They are all busy preparing supper; you need not wait,” she answered hurriedly in response to his humble appeal for a cup of hot coffee.
“No, Archie won’t wait,” said the wanderer, turning meekly away. “Archie is hungry and tired, and the snow is cold, but Archie won’t wait.”
Closing the door quickly, Mrs. Merryman went to her room, dressed as speedily as possible and descended in time to receive Mrs. Courtney, who passed on up to the guest chamber to remove her wraps and be in readiness to help receive.
Mrs. Merryman had no anxiety for the successful serving of the supper, and later the refreshments, for in addition to her own efficient maid, Norah, Diana Strong had the management, and through the kindness of Mrs. Courtney, Kitty was her helper, while Mose, in white apron and gloves, was proud to have been loaned to wait upon the door and afterward the table.
Notwithstanding these helps to contentment, Mrs. Merryman carried a heavy heart under her silken attire. The words of the half-frozen wanderer kept up a refrain in her memory: “Archie is hungry and tired and the snow is cold, but Archie won’t wait.”
Oh, to look about her in that comfortable home; the whole place glowing with light and heat, the kitchen redolent with roasting poultry; and she had refused the cup of coffee that might have kept hope and even life in the stranger!
“I do not deserve to have a roof over my head!” she said to herself as bitter tears welled to her eyes, but she controlled her feelings, for the halting of sleighs at the gate gave token that the bridal party had arrived.
Amid the chattering of merry voices her depression was unnoticed and the guests passed up to their rooms. Friends invited to meet them were coming in couples and groups, and she welcomed all smilingly, but her thoughts were upon the old and poorly clad man whom she had turned from her door.
At the moment of the arrival of the bridal party, Hilda Brinsfield, in the cottage of Jerusha Flint, was kneeling upon a chair by the western window; not watching with childlike interest the passing sleighs with their joyous jingling of bells, but with a look of interest and hope upon her pale face to which for many a day it had been a stranger.
“Hilda,” said Miss Flint, “I am going up to the village on business, and wish you to be quiet and patient. I will not be long away.”
Hilda made no reply. She was thinking of a picture she had seen at Dr. Lattinger’s where she had been the day before with Miss Flint.
It represented a group of sweet-faced angels, robed in white, grouped about a harp upon which one of their number was playing an accompaniment to their singing.
She had asked the nurse where the angels lived, and was told that their home was in heaven.
“Where is heaven?” she had asked eagerly.
“Do you see that sun?” asked the nurse, pointing to it from the window of the nursery. “That sun is in heaven.”
Hilda had thought of but little else since hearing this. She had at last located the home where her parents and her Aunt Ashley awaited her. All that was required of her was to follow the sun and it would lead her to them. She had watched all day, but the sun had kept itself hidden under dim clouds.
About the time that Miss Flint left the cottage it gleamed forth, and seemed to invite her to follow. A longing to be with father, mother and Aunt Ashley in heaven was too great to be resisted; all was to be gained by following where he led. Without stopping for wraps, the eager child hurried out. The sun, low in the west, seemed very near to her, and she ran to join it on its way. On and on she ran, the snow not crushing under her rapid tread. The air chilled her, but keeping the sun as a guide she pressed on. It sank below the horizon, but Hilda followed, guided by the ruddy glow which marked the spot where it descended. It grew dark and the child became bewildered, retracing her steps or wandering in a circle. Her limbs ached with weariness, and she was about to lie down and rest, when she heard the chatter of happy voices and the sound of sleigh bells, and, encouraged, she followed. But the sound ceased, and again she wandered aimlessly, having nothing to guide her.
At length she saw the gleaming of many lights, and she crept toward them.
“That is heaven!” she said to herself. “It is not far away, but I am so cold, so cold!”
The lights grew more brilliant, but she could scarcely move on toward them. Her thoughts grew confused, strange visions thronged her mind, vivid colors danced before her eyes, sweet music charmed her senses. She was growing less weary; a pleasant warmth comforted her, and her eyelids were heavy with sleep as she toiled on toward the goal, reached it, and sank down between an evergreen shrub and one of the windows of the Merryman farmhouse.
Unconscious of the tragedy transpiring without, the bride, arrayed in a fleecy robe of white, as were her attendants grouped about the piano, was singing, when at the window appeared the wanderer for the second time that evening, bearing in his arms the unconscious form of the little girl.
“She is dead,” he murmured in a dazed, helpless way, as he stepped through the window which Mr. Merryman opened for him; “she was in the cold snow!”
“She may be,” said Dr. Lattinger, coming quickly toward them. “We must take her to a cool room and make efforts to restore her.”
Tear-dimmed eyes gazed upon the pallid face, loving arms were extended to bear her where Mrs. Merryman would direct, when Diana Strong, hearing the subdued exclamations of surprise and pity, came to the parlor door and glanced in.
“It is Hilda!” she exclaimed, clasping her hands and turning pale with emotion. “What could have driven her out this wintry night?”
Although a new anxiety had come to Mrs. Merryman, she experienced relief in again seeing the wanderer, and while Dr. and Mrs. Lattinger, Mrs. Courtney and Diana were doing all in their power to restore the little girl, she took him to the kitchen and soothed her tried conscience by seeing that he was made comfortable with light and warmth and good food at the table with Perry.
“I knows him,” remarked Mose, who with Kitty was enjoying his supper at a table in another corner of the kitchen. “I done seen him many a time on the road.”
“You knows a heap of people, Mose, that don’t knows you,” commented his grandmother.
“Where was the little girl when you found her?” Mrs. Merryman asked Archie, while Diana was pouring his coffee.
“She was sitting among the bushes by the piazza. Archie thought she was looking in at the people. Archie did not know she was dead until he took her up.”
“Why were you here?” asked Mrs. Merryman kindly. “I thought you had left.”
“Archie was cold and hungry and tired. He went to the barn to sleep; he had no other place to go. Archie heard sleigh bells and people coming in with horses, and was afraid they would drive him away. Archie walked about to keep warm; he heard singing and came to look in the window and found the little girl.”
The efforts of Dr. Lattinger were rewarded; after a time Hilda had recovered sufficiently to be taken to the nursery where Diana watched beside her until time to help serve refreshments.
“Where is mamma?” whispered Hilda without opening her weary eyes. “I heard the sweet music and saw the beautiful angels, but did not know my mamma or Aunt Ashley.”
“You will see them after a time,” said Diana tenderly; “go to sleep now and get rested.”
“I will,” whispered the little girl; “I am tired, so tired, but I have found heaven.”
Tears flowed from Diana’s eyes as she watched her sleeping, and tender-hearted Norah wept in sympathy.
Hilda was so changed; she seemed no longer the light-hearted, care-free, high-spirited child which had been loved and cherished by Mrs. Ashley. Sadness had its place upon the wan face, the pinched features, in the deep-sunken eyes. Diana almost censured herself for a share in the cause.
Fortunately Diana could remain at the farmhouse while the bridal company stayed, and her heart was comforted by knowing that Hilda had found a good home; for the next morning Mrs. Merryman received a note from Miss Flint saying that as Hilda had run away from the cottage, she should not be received again under that roof.
The same afternoon as Perry was returning from the village with a wagon, Miss Jerusha stopped him at her gate and helped him place in it three trunks which had belonged to Mrs. Ashley. They contained clothing, books and bric-a-brac, Jerusha retaining the furniture until claimed by Mrs. Warfield.
Cast upon the charity of Mr. and Mrs. Merryman, Hilda was heartily accepted, and Miss Flint went from her cottage in the morning and returned to it in the evening, rejoicing that she was at last free from the burden that had oppressed her. So sprightly did she become, in addition to her naturally independent and arbitrary manner that she gave no one reason to suspect that her conscience was troubled by three secrets, one of which in after years she strove vainly to divulge to Hilda.
The bridal company had been entertained at the Courtneys, the Lattingers and several other homes, had seen the places of interest in the neighborhood, had heard the traditions and chronicles, especially that of the spectre that haunted “My Lady’s Manor” and had returned to their homes.
One evening Norah was preparing the evening meal and crooning an Irish melody—to which Hilda, sitting in Erma’s cradle, was listening attentively—and had just placed tea biscuits in the oven when the door opened and Archie came in.
He was comfortably clothed in the suit given him by Mr. Merryman, and without glancing at Norah or Hilda he went directly to the seat in the corner of the hearth which he had occupied the night of the reception.
“It is Archie!” cried Hilda in delight, “he has brought me a mocking bird.”
“No, Archie is ashamed that he could not bring one,” said the wanderer sadly. “He has tried and tried to catch one, but Archie has brought something,” and untying a plaid handkerchief he gave her a dead oriole, a bit of moss, several snail and mussel shells, and other trifles which he had gathered in the woods and streams perhaps miles away.
When Mr. and Mrs. Merryman and their little Erma returned from Dorton and with Hilda sat down to tea in the dining-room, Archie fell asleep in his chair, but awoke to take supper with Norah and Perry; then went to the room over the kitchen which he had previously occupied, and before the sun rose was away upon his aimless wanderings.
Thus the years passed, and in the home of the Merrymans contentment and peace reigned. Hilda was looked upon as the elder daughter of the house and was treated as kindly as though indeed their own. She went daily to the village school and was beloved by teachers and companions.
Although each school day she passed the cottage twice, and the same on Sabbaths to the village church, she never had a glimpse of Jerusha Flint, from which the inference could be rightly drawn that Jerusha had frequent glimpses of her.
One Saturday morning Hilda was helping Mrs. Merryman arrange the potted plants upon the porch when Mose, hat in hand, made his appearance with a note from Mrs. Courtney inviting them to take tea at “Friedenheim” that evening.
Hilda’s eager glance at Mrs. Merryman, hoping for acceptance of the invitation, was met by an assenting smile; a reply was written and Mose hurried away.
When it came time to dress for the visit Norah, who took great pride in Hilda’s beauty, arranged her hair in soft, full ringlets and helped her don a pretty pink gown, Hilda’s favorite, and singularly becoming.
The visit was one of unalloyed pleasure, for during the afternoon Mr. Valentine Courtney drove out from the city in a handsome carriage drawn by a pair of ponies, and finding Hilda and Erma there took them out for a drive, and after tea he took them the short walk to “My Lady’s Manor,” too short to Mr. Courtney, so interested and amused was he with the conversation of Hilda.
He enjoyed her quaint manner of telling the events which transpired within the range of her knowledge, among them the arrival of Norah’s aunt from Scotland, an event of great interest to Norah, and through her to Hilda.
“She is now at your Uncle Merryman’s, I suppose?” remarked Mr. Courtney, with a view to keeping up his share of the conversation.
“No, she is in Baltimore, but she wants to come to Dorton to be near Norah; and Aunt Merryman will try to get her a place as housekeeper. She is a very good housekeeper,” concluded Hilda sagely.
When they reached “My Lady’s Manor,” Mr. Courtney unlocked the front door, and they passed in; and after closing it he led the way through the wide hall to the rooms on either side, all seeming to Hilda like the almost forgotten remembrance of a dream. Then they ascended to the second floor, then to the third and from thence up the narrow stair-way to the walk on the roof, where Mr. Courtney pointed out the prominent places in the city and noted the changes in Hilda’s expressive countenance, as in her quaint manner she gave her views of them.
It was growing twilight and so they turned to descend, Hilda being the first to reach the stair-way.
“There is a lady waiting to come up!” she said in a half whisper, “I think she is very old.”
“A lady?” ejaculated Mr. Courtney, in surprise, and, stepping to the stair-way, he glanced down.
The little lady in black, of whom he had so often heard, stood at the foot, with bowed head and folded hands, but before Mr. Courtney could address her, she disappeared.
When they descended to the attic, Mr. Courtney, without commenting upon the subject, glanced into the rooms, but not a living creature was to be seen, nor in the rooms below it; the house was silent save for their footfalls.
“This mystery shall be explained, if possible, and that at the earliest moment,” he said to himself as he locked the hall door upon their exit, and if Hilda noticed that he was silent on their walk back to “Friedenheim” she made no comment.
Mr. Courtney joined the Rev. Carl, Mrs. Courtney and Mrs. Merryman upon the piazza, while Hilda and Erma, attracted by the cheerful appearance of the kitchen, halted at the door.
“Come right in, honey,” cried Uncle Andy, heartily. “We is mighty glad to see yer; we has no little chillen no mo’, an’ ’pears like we can nebber git used ter doin’ widout ’em.”
“Where have they gone?” asked Hilda as, holding Erma’s hand, she stepped in.
“Roy an’ Cecil has done mos’ growed up, an’ de little gal hab gone to heaven whar ol’ Andy will go in de heavenly Master’s own good time. Ol’ Andy will soon go, honey.”
Hilda longed to send a message by him to her father and mother and her Uncle and Aunt Ashley, but had not courage to go near enough to him to whisper her request. Her indecision brought the delicate bloom to her cheek, which always appeared under any little excitement, and which awakened anew the admiration of Chloe.
“She is as pretty as a picture; that is just the truth,” she remarked to Kitty.
“Now, Chloe, jes’ yer hab done wid dat,” exclaimed Andy, turning sharply about. “Ol’ Satan an’ de lookin’ glass will done tell her dat fas’ enough widout yore help.”
“They will tell her the truth, Uncle Andy, you know that your own self,” replied Chloe nonchalantly.
“Purty is as purty does, honey; don’t disremember dat,” advised Andy, turning to Hilda; “don’t let nobody make you sassy of yer beauty, fer bime-bye, if de good Lord spares yer dat long, de wrinkles will done scare de beauty away. Den whar is yer?”
“Never scared no beauty away from Mis’ Emma,” asserted Chloe defiantly. “Wrinkles is coming to stay, but she is a beauty in spite of them.”
“’Kase mistess wan’t sassy ob her beauty, dat’s what I done jes’ say, Chloe; de strongholt is mine, not yourn,” and Andy laughed and coughed exultantly.
“Missus come of a pretty family,” interposed Kitty. “She couldn’t have been ugly if she had tried. When she an’ Mars Courtney was bride and groom, dey was de han’somest couple in de state, an’ her mother an’ grandmother were beauties in der day.”
“’Kase dey was Christians, an’ had der treasures laid up in heaven. Yes, Kitty, dey was good to de pore an’ ’flicted, and too busy helpin’ dem dat could not help demselves to be sassy about der beauty.”
“They was too good for dis yer world, dat’s certain,” responded Kitty.
“Deed was dey, an’ nebber done forgit dar manners to nobody. When I was de coachman, and used ter bring Selim to de block for young mistus—dat was dis Misus Courtney’s grandmother—honey,” he said, turning to Hilda, “an’ she done come sweepin’ down de piazzy steps, holdin’ de long train ob her habit ober her arm, an’ her pearl handled whip in her han’, an’ de long plumes in her hat bowin’ an’ noddin’, tell yer what, honey, she suttenly was purtier dan any picture.”
“So she was,” echoed Kitty. “I was young then, but I remember that she looked like Mis’ Emma.”
“But you done forget about the manners, Uncle Andy,” said Chloe flippantly.
“Oh, yes! When I done led Selim to de block an’ would pat de proud-sperited creetur ’till mistus mounted into de saddle, an’ took the bridle, an’ was startin’ away, she allus said, ‘Thanky, Andy!’ She nebber disremembered dat, nebber.”
“Yes, and Mis’ Emma is just as polite as her mother and grandmother,” said Kitty, proudly, “they was born ladies and couldn’t be anything else.”
It came time for Mrs. Merryman to go. Hilda and Erma were summoned. Mrs. Courtney and her brother Valentine accompanied them across the meadow to their home, and their conversation on the return walk was of “My Lady’s Manor,” now bathed in the splendor of the moonlight.