CHAPTER X—AN OFFER OF MARRIAGE
One evening nearly a year after the adventure with the gypsies, Fred came out on the train from Springfield to pass the night under the homestead roof, a thrill of boyish delight paying tribute to it, as always, but more pronounced now that it was the dwelling place of Hilda.
They were expecting him, and Mrs. Warfield, with motherly care, had seen that his favorite dishes were prepared for the evening meal, and with a glad light in her beautiful eyes, welcomed him.
“Where is Hilda, mother?” he asked, glancing inquiringly through the open door of the parlor, after pressing a filial salute upon the yet plump and rosy cheek.
“She is in the garden arranging bouquets for the vases. She expects several of the young people, from the village to pass the evening here.”
“I hoped she would have no visitors this evening,” commented Fred, a shadow crossing his handsome face.
“She invited them because she was quite sure you would be here, and, Fred, I hope you will divide your attentions among the girls, and not devote them to one of them, as you have a habit of doing. You know that you care for no one long at a time, so why do you give them reason for thinking you are in earnest?”
“Now, mother, that is cruel!” exclaimed Fred, reddening, while his dark eyes sparkled with amusement. “You will blight my prospects if you proclaim me fickle. I am afraid an earnest girl would be influenced by your opinion of me, and doubt my sincerity should I offer my hand and heart.”
“The idea of a boy making an offer of his hand and heart!” laughed Mrs. Warfield.
“Twenty-one next fall, just in time to cast my first vote! Lots of fellows are settled in life at that age,” and he gayly left the room in search of Hilda.
He did not follow the straight course, but instead took a circuitous path to the arbor, where sat Hilda upon a rustic chair, the table before her covered with flowers, and all framed in by the vine-covered arch.
Very deftly her fingers were adding sweet to sweet, apparently unconscious that a pair of handsome eyes were regarding her with admiration. Her simple gown of dark blue material fitted her graceful figure to perfection, and was finished at throat and wrists with filmy white frills. From the pocket of her white apron peeped the handles of bright scissors, and a broad-brimmed sun hat lay on the bench beside her. Her luxuriant hair was bound by a narrow crimson ribbon, and a crimson rose upon her breast cast its warm glow upon her rounded cheek.
This costume was considered by Fred as the most becoming of any in which he had seen her, yet he called to mind that he had thought the same of every toilet in which she appeared, only that the sunlight flickering through the leaves made the picture more lovely.
An incautious step upon a stick which snapped under the pressure betrayed his near approach. Hilda smiled but did not look up.
“Come in, Cousin Fred,” she said; “don’t be timid.”
“How did you know it was Cousin Fred?” he asked, taking the hand she offered.
“I saw you when you left the house. You reminded me forcibly of the ostrich of school-book renown.”
“Will you make a boutonniere for me to wear this evening?” he asked, laughing, in spite of his wish to frown.
“Certainly! I have just finished one for Cousin Paul. See the little beauty,” and she took it up and inhaled its fragrance.
“Why do you bother to make one for Paul?” he asked, his smile becoming less pronounced. “You know he is engaged.”
“Because, like yourself, he is, by courtesy, my cousin.”
“But Miss Lura De Cormis is the one to make bouquets for him, leaving you at liberty to make them for me, as I am not fortunate enough to claim a lady-love.”
“Were Paul in Philadelphia or Miss Lura here, I am sure there would be no need for me to make a boutonniere for him; but she has gone to purchase her trousseau. Had you forgotten that, Cousin Fred?”
“I should say not, when I am to be best man, and you Miss Lura’s bridesmaid.”
“I would like more foliage for this large bouquet. Will you please get it for me?” and she gave him the scissors.
He obeyed her with a lingering glance upon the fair face bending over the flowers, and a resolve to tell her what was in his heart, for “out of the abundance of the heart the mouth speaketh,” and it came as natural for Fred Warfield to speak of love to a pretty girl as it is for a broker to discuss the rise and fall of stocks, or an artist the lights and shades of a new study. In truth, it was his chief amusement, and practice had made him perfect.
Just now, however, he was ill at ease, and in his own eyes awkward and uncouth as, leaning against the door frame of the arbor, he watched Hilda’s active fingers add the foliage to the artistically arranged bouquet.
“You are very beautiful, cousin,” he said almost involuntarily.
“I know it,” she replied serenely, without glancing in his direction.
Fred gazed upon her in undisguised astonishment.
“This is not new to you; you have been told so by others,” he said.
“By admiring glances and appreciative smiles, never in words.”
“Do you consider it good form, Cousin Hilda, to express your opinion of your own beauty?” he inquired of her, with commendable hesitation.
“If you remember, cousin, it was not I who expressed the opinion; I only agreed with yours,” and she gave minute attention to the placing of colors in the second bouquet.
“Yes,” he responded uneasily, “but suppose someone else should tell you; some stranger, for instance. It would not be good form to agree with a stranger’s opinion.”
“Thank you, cousin; you are very thoughtful, and I mean it for your comfort when I suggest that a stranger will not be at all likely to comment upon my beauty in my presence. That bridge is so far out of my latitude there is not the least danger of my having to cross it.”
“You are so indifferent to me and my opinions. Cousin Hilda! You keep me quite out of spirits.”
“I do not wish that; instead, I hope to see you in your very best spirits this evening, and willing to charm us with your choicest pieces on piano and mandolin. I wish I were the accomplished musician you are. You cast me in the shade.”
“You will soon surpass me. Professor Ballini remarked the last time that he went back to Springfield in the train with me that ‘Meesh Heelda haf ze exqueesite taalent for ze moozique; she is one woondare.’”
Fred was a good mimic. Hilda laughed heartily at the expression of face and tone of voice assumed for the occasion.
“Oh, Fred, I hope I won’t think of you when I take my next lesson!” she said, wiping away tears of mirth with her handkerchief.
“You never wish to think of me; I am only Cousin Fred to you.”
“Oh, yes, I do think of you, and am grateful for it is you who merit the praise for any progress I have made in music. You gave me such thorough instruction in the rudiments that my progress could not fail in pleasing Signor Ballini. You have been very kind to me.”
“Then why not show a little interest in me? You know that I care for no one but you!”
“Oh, Fred, I should, instead, try not to have interest in you, except as a cousin!” replied the girl, flushing deeply as she bowed her head over her work.
“Why should you try? We are suited to each other in age, position and disposition!” was his quick reply.
“Not in disposition; you have not my quick temper.”
“Temper, Cousin Hilda!” ejaculated Fred in surprise. “We have never seen the least evidence of it.”
“Because there has been no occasion; and, moreover, I have been taught to control it. Dear Aunt Merryman saw many an evidence of it.”
“But we are wandering from the subject in hand. Have you forgotten that I asked you to care for me, and told you that I cared for no one but you?”
“No, I have not forgotten, but you have said the same to so many girls that I do not put much confidence in it.”
“Now, cousin, that is too cruel, and I know who told you. It was Celeste Prettyman.”
“Have you been flirting with her, too, Cousin Fred? She thinks you very handsome, and wonders that you are so much handsomer than Paul, when the same description answers for both.”
“I suppose she compares me with her brother Jack. It is a pity that he is such a burlesque upon his own name. I take it for granted that he will be as awkward as ever this evening and will break his goblet and upset his chair before he leaves.”
“Yes, one cannot help noticing his awkwardness,” said Hilda, laughing in spite of herself; “but I think it is caused by embarrassment, and he has so many good traits that one can easily overlook such small defects.”
“You seem to be well posted as to his good qualities. Please inform me of what they consist,” remarked Fred dryly.
“In kindness to his mother and sister; in his genuine goodness, earnestness and stability; there is nothing trifling in his manner; one may be sure that he means what he says, and can depend fully upon him.”
“You appear to have made quite a study of our friend Jack,” commented Fred, flushing uneasily. “I scarcely thought that one year’s acquaintance could make one so thoroughly competent to judge.”
“But I have the opinion of others; everyone speaks well of Jack Prettyman.”
“Have you more than a friendly interest in him?”
“Not at all; I never thought of such a thing; but am only saying what is my real opinion of him. He is your friend; you should be glad to know that he is appreciated.”
“So I am in a certain sense, but if I tell the truth I must say that he is awkward and uncouth.”
“That is owing to his having so little confidence in himself. He hasn’t a particle of conceit. Conceited people are so comfortable that they can afford to be agreeable. It really appears to be a desirable thing to have a good opinion of one’s self. Don’t you realize this?”
“Do you speak from experience?”
“Yes, and from observation.”
“Conceit would be too ridiculous in Jack Prettyman with his red head and pug nose.”
“But he is very entertaining. The last time he took me out driving he taught me the language of flowers.”
“I did not know that you go out driving with him,” responded Fred, his face flushing and his eyes shadowed.
“Neither did I know that it was expected of me to inform you. Aunt Sarah sanctioned it and I supposed that sufficient.”
“It is cruel in you to take that tone with me. Oh, Hilda, I feel so uncertain of you! You never appear to believe me in earnest. Promise that you will not go driving with anyone but me.”
“Wouldn’t you think it selfish if I asked the same of you?”
“No, indeed; I promise gladly. Do you agree to it?”
“Yes, I don’t care. Aunt Sarah and I drive out as often as I wish to go.”
“Then you only agree because you sacrifice nothing. Hilda, why are you so cold, so indifferent to me? You keep me always anxious. Promise me—” taking her reluctant hand in his, “promise to be my wife!”
“Oh, Fred, what is the use of promising? You will change your mind as soon as you see a new face.”
“Promise! I will not let go your hand until you do!”
“The tea-bell is about to ring. I heard Angie take it from the sideboard.”
“Then promise!”
“I will,” the hand was pressed, then released, and Hilda gathered up the bouquets.
“Here is yours, Cousin Fred,” she said, holding the boutonniere toward him.
“I had forgotten it,” he said, candidly.
“You will notice that I have arranged them according to their language. See, here is a sprig of arbor-vitæ:
“‘The true and only friend is he,
Who, like the arbor-vitæ tree,
Will bear our image in his heart.’
“With it I have placed
“‘The generous geranium
With a leaf for all who come.’
“Then a spray of myrtle:
“‘Myrtle placed on breast or brow,
Lively hope and friendship vow.’
“Then two pansies:
“‘Pray you love, remember.
There’s pansies, that’s for thought.’”
Fred placed the boutonniere without comment in the button-hole of his coat, and they went up the broad path to the house.
Mrs. Warfield read in Fred’s happy face and in the bloom upon the fair cheek of Hilda that which she had hoped for was in the way of being realized, but gave no evidence of it by word or manner—she would wait until the young people saw their own time to tell her of the agreement into which they had entered.
Fred was at his best that evening in the way of entertaining their guests, and Mrs. Warfield smiled at the dignity of his demeanor, bespeaking as it did the engaged young man, while Hilda comported herself as if engagements of marriage had ceased to be a novelty.
The luckless Jack Prettyman succeeded in passing one evening without upsetting his chair or breaking his goblet, and to all it was an enjoyable evening.
The next morning Fred arose earlier than usual and descended to the garden, which was dewy and fragrant, and wended his way to the arbor. Birds were twittering in the trees overhead, and colonies of ants dotted with their hills the ground at his feet. Innumerable filmy webs festooned the evergreen borders and flowering shrubs, which, jeweled with dewdrops, sparkled in the beams of the sun.
Happy as Fred had been in all his favored life, he had never been so happy as that morning. Owing to the relations existing between them, he fully expected that Hilda would give him a few minutes of her society before he left for Springfield. But anxiously as he looked toward the house, he saw no evidence of her coming. Instead, Angie rang the bell and he went in to his breakfast, and found Hilda quietly reading by the window which commanded a view of the arbor.
“She could not have helped seeing me,” thought Fred; “she might have come out for a few words!”
It had always been his custom to leave for Springfield as soon as breakfast was finished, and he had no excuse for waiting that morning. Moreover, Paul, his mother and Hilda lingered, as usual, to say good-bye before separating for the duties of the day.
“I may not let two weeks elapse before coming home next time, mother,” he said, as he kissed her at parting.
“Come whenever it suits you, my son; your homecoming is always a joy to us.”
Coke and Blackstone gave precedence to Hilda Brinsfield in Fred’s mind for several days after his visit home, and with chair tilted back, feet elevated and eyes closed, he recalled the conversation in the arbor, while alone in the office of Mr. Meade, attorney-at-law.
Mr. Meade noticed the abstraction and surmised the cause, but was not disturbed in the least, satisfied that in Fred’s case the malady was not incurable.