CHAPTER XIII—HILDA BY THE MERRYMAN FIRESIDE
Excepting Erma, who was growing into healthy, attractive young womanhood, Hilda found no change in the Merryman household.
Her room was just as she left it the morning she and Paul set out for Ohio. She was glad to be again in it, and was as tenderly welcomed to the home as if she were a beloved daughter, and dropped naturally into the place she had once filled.
Mrs. Courtney had forwarded Hilda’s last letter to her brother Valentine, and had not expected to write so soon again; but having called to see Hilda the evening of her arrival, she could not forbear writing to him as soon as she reached home telling him of the unexpected call which had brought the young girl to Dorton, and speaking warmly of her beauty and the sweet dignity of her manner.
The day following that in which Jerusha Flint had been placed in her resting place in Dorton churchyard, Mrs. Merryman went with Hilda to visit the cottage abandoned by Diana Strong.
Following the rule adopted at the commencement of her occupancy, of renting by the year and paying in advance, Jerusha Flint, though in her grave, held, in a manner, possession of the cottage, so all remained as she had left it until Hilda could consult with Mrs. Warfield through the medium of letters.
With the exception of the desk, and a few small articles, there was nothing that she cared to keep; yet as all there was bequeathed to her by Mrs. Ashley, she did not wish to act unadvisedly.
The main object of her visit was to examine the writing desk in search of the papers and the ruby inlaid pen of which Jerusha had spoken.
“I wrote a letter to you with it, but did not send it, as Mr. Merryman, who called, said a telegram would be better,” Diana Strong had told her the day she came. “I laid the pen back in the desk and while standing at the gate talking to Mr. Merryman I saw Jerusha rise from her bed, totter the few steps to the desk, lock it and put the key under the pillow where we found it.”
All searching for the papers was vain, but Hilda never passed the cottage that she did not examine the desk, believing there was a secret drawer that was baffling her search.
Her walks to “My Lady’s Manor” were resumed, to the delight of Mrs. MacQuoid and Chloe, who made it a rule to have the library warm and bright when Hilda came.
Sometimes she remained only long enough to exchange books, but they had seen her, she had chatted with them, had petted the terrier, exchanged some words with Sandy and left all cheered by the visit.
One afternoon she extended her walk to Dorton post-office, intending to call at “My Lady’s Manor” upon her return in order to get a volume which an adverse and scathing criticism had tempted her to read.
She was expecting a letter from Mrs. Warfield, and saw that she was not to be disappointed when the postmaster, with a benevolent smile, commenced looking over the mail in the Merryman box.
There was one for her, but not addressed in the feminine script of Mrs. Warfield, but in the bold, business hand of Fred.
She had not remembered that it was the fourteenth of February, and with trembling fingers opened it the moment she reached the seclusion of the library at “My Lady’s Manor.”
Fred’s remorse for his fickleness had found relief in rhyme, and under the wing of St. Valentine he poured forth his plaint:
“Each sound hath an echo, like to like doth incline,
But where is the heart that respondeth to mine?
In sunshine and shade life is lonely and drear,
I call my beloved, but no answer I hear.
I seek my beloved as the dew seeks the flower,
As moonbeams seek stream, meadow, forest and bower.
Oh, sadly I wander o’er woodland and lea,
And muse on the one so far distant from me!
I question my fate, and try to divine
If Hilda, my loved one, will ever be mine.
But all, all is silent; I wander alone;
I hope against hope, for I know she is gone.
She is loved by another, his bride she will be
And all pleasures in life must seem hollow to me.”
His reminiscences had a different effect upon Hilda from what he intended. They cheered and warmed her heart, it was true, but not for him. Kind-hearted and sympathetic as she was, the prospective hollowness of Fred’s pleasures did not in the least disturb her serenity. Instead, the last two lines of his valentine held a prophecy which filled her heart with sweet content. In the loving arms of kind Destiny she had been fostered, and she had faith to believe that she would ever there repose. Fred’s written words only confirmed what she in thought was beginning to cherish. She loved Valentine Courtney, and had the conviction that the time would come when he would think of her; for that time she would wait.
It was growing twilight, and folding her letter she left the library, and to her great pleasure saw Archie sitting by the kitchen hearth, who spoke to her as he would have done had he seen her every day.
“Got any valentines yet, Miss Hilda?” asked Chloe. “You must not forgit that you is a valentine yer own self, that Archie done found in the snow.”
“No, Chloe, I can never forget that good Archie saved my life on St. Valentine’s day,” replied Hilda, looking kindly upon the wanderer.
“Archie can find no more people in the snow; he has looked and looked for them,” he said sadly.
“I suppose it is yourself that gets plenty of valentines, Miss Hilda,” remarked Mrs. MacQuoid respectfully, gazing with admiration upon the fair girl.
“No, Mrs. MacQuoid, there is no prospect of my getting many,” smiled Hilda.
“Archie wishes that he could bring one,” said the old man. “He would find one in the snow if he could.”
“Thank you, Archie, I am sure you would bring me a valentine if you could find one,” and nodding a cheery good-bye, Hilda ran down the steps of the porch and in a little while reached “Fair Meadow.”
“Miss Hilda,” said Norah, “Mr. Merryman had a message from his sister in Baltimore, saying that relatives from Boston on their way south for the winter are there to remain over night, and she would like Mr. and Mrs. Merryman to come there for supper, and they have gone.”
“Very well, Norah; then you will please bring in the tea while I run up to my room to lay aside my wraps.”
Hilda had worn a crimson cashmere dress to the village, a costume very becoming to her fair face; and, adjusting the soft lace about throat and wrists, she put on a filmy white apron with a pocket to accommodate the ball of some fleecy white knitting, and with it in her hand descended to the tea-room, which was very bright and cheery in the lamp and fire-light.
Hilda’s brisk walk in the crisp air had made the simple meal very enjoyable, and as soon as Norah had again put the center-table in order, Hilda drew it closer to the hearth and was soon absorbed in her book. Nothing disturbed the stillness of the room save the singing of the hickory wood blazing in the open grate, or the purring of the kitten upon the hearth.
At the same hour the household of “My Lady’s Manor” was agreeably surprised at the unexpected arrival of Mr. Courtney; and his welcome home, so far as they were concerned, was all that could be desired.
But during his voyage across the Atlantic, and every reflective moment since, he had pictured a fair girlish face that he longed to see brighten at his coming, and had felt the clasp of a dimpled hand that was dearer to him than all else upon the broad earth.
“I hope you will not allow my coming to disturb you, Mrs. MacQuoid,” he said kindly when both arose from their evening meal at his entrance. “Do you and Sandy finish your tea; I will chat with Archie a while and then rest in the library until it suits you to ring for me.”
Archie had been asleep in his chair, but awoke at the sound of Mr. Courtney’s voice and looked up at the handsome, kind face with an appreciative smile.
“Archie is glad you are home; he has often been here, but could not see you,” he said.
“Miss Hilda was here this afternoon, sir,” said Mrs. MacQuoid. “She was reading in the library.”
Mr. Courtney’s heart thrilled with pleasure, and a smile illumined his countenance. He was now where she had lately been; the sweet consciousness of her presence made his home doubly dear.
While he was chatting with Archie and asking Mrs. MacQuoid for the welfare of Rev. Carl and family and the neighborhood in general, Sandy lighted the library lamp, drew the blinds, and wheeled Mr. Courtney’s favorite chair before the grate.
“If we had knowed that Marse Val was comin’,” remarked Chloe, after he had withdrawn to the library, “we could have had fried chicken and hot waffles, an’ invited Mis’ Emma an’ Miss Hilda over, an’ it would have been like ol’ times.”
“He knows we didn’t expect him, Chloe, and I am sure this rich ham, and your beautiful white rolls, and the sweet butter and honey will suit him,” replied Mrs. MacQuoid as she placed glass and china for one upon the tea-table.
“He allus was that easy to please; never had no bother nohow with Marse Val, and Marse Carl an’ Miss Emma. They is angels, that is certain sure.”
“True for you, Chloe, and now if the coffee is ready, I will ring for the master.”
“It’s done ready, an’ is the Simon-pure an’ no mistake. Kitty done say, she did, that when Marse Val was a little fellah, he couldn’t be humbugged when it come to coffee. He knowed the very fust sip that the culled folks’ Rio wasn’t the white folks’ Mocha.”
The meal appeared to suit Mr. Courtney perfectly. Refreshed in spirit by his sojourn in the library, his manner proved the return of hope. When he finished he again sought the library.
On his homeward journey he had read and reread Mrs. Courtney’s two latest letters, received by the same mail—one telling him of the broken engagement, the other of Hilda’s return to Dorton. They had found him lonely, restless, seeking for happiness that change did not bring. After reading them he was, as it were, in another realm, and obeying a sudden impulse made haste to return to his native land, was now at “My Lady’s Manor” in his favorite room. Alone and at leisure, he had time to reflect.
If, after all, his coming were fruitless, what had life to offer in compensation for his great disappointment? He reasoned that the broken engagement was, perhaps, the result of a misunderstanding which had been explained away, and the engagement renewed upon a firmer basis than before.
He called to mind that business alone had brought Hilda to Dorton. She had not come because she wished to see him or “My Lady’s Manor,” for she knew of his absence, and could have no knowledge as to when he would return.
If she loved Fred Warfield, this visit to Dorton would not weaken the attachment, nor would he wish it to do so; yet her return to Fred would leave him desolate, and “My Lady’s Manor” a prison.
What presumption—he reflected—for one whose age was nearly double her seventeen years to hope to win one so lovely! What advantage had he over the bright, buoyant beauty, the youthful companionship of Fred Warfield, except his wealth? And he knew Hilda’s noble nature too well to believe for a moment that she would make of it the most remote object. He arose from his place by the hearth and walked to and fro in the quiet room.
The library door opened softly and Archie came in. “I want you!” he said, in a subdued, impatient tone. “I promised her. Come!”
Mr. Courtney made no response; mutely he obeyed, and swiftly and silently Archie led the way across the meadow to Mr. Merryman’s. Taking neither path that led to the front entrance, he took his accustomed way, opened the tea-room door, and they stood in the presence of Hilda.
“I have brought you a valentine, but I could not find one in the snow,” said Archie in a low tone. “Archie would have tried and tried, had there been any snow.”
Hilda arose, a flush of joy illumined her sweet face, she advanced a step toward Mr. Courtney, then withdrew.
“She does not love me, Archie,” said Mr. Courtney, noticing the action, “youth and loveliness can have no affinity with middle age.”
“Please tell him, Archie,” said Hilda, gently, “that youth trusts to middle age for faithful love and protection. Hair tinged with silver is beautiful in my eyes.”
Mr. Courtney advanced eagerly and taking her hand in his pressed his lips upon it.
“Oh, Archie, dare I ask for this dear hand?”
“If he asks, Archie, it is his,” said Hilda.
“But the heart, Archie? The hand is valueless to me unless the heart goes with it.”
“Tell him, good Archie, that the heart has always been his, though part of the time it knew not its master.”
“I feel as if in a dream,” faltered Mr. Courtney; “an hour ago despairing, now filled with greater happiness than I had dared imagine.”
“We owe our happiness to Archie. He has been my good genius from childhood. He is my mascot.”
“I will make another effort to have him share our home at ‘My Lady’s Manor’,” said Mr. Courtney. “Your persuasion will, I think, prevail.”
“Our home!” Hilda’s heart thrilled at the sweet words. An orphan, homeless, save for the goodness of dear friends, she was now the promised wife of one who would protect and care for her as long as life was granted, one whom she could truly love and honor for his noble, tender and steadfast nature. How could she ever be grateful enough to God for His goodness to her?
“This is one of Archie’s homes; Archie will stay till morning,” and, passing into the kitchen, the old man, without so much as a word to the occupants thereof, went up to his room, leaving Norah and Perry amazed at his sudden appearance.
With a look of supreme content Mr. Courtney took a chair beside the center-table whereupon lay the book which Hilda had been reading. His glance fell upon the letter lying beside it and a look of pain crossed his handsome features.
“It is only a valentine,” said Hilda. “Will you read it?” and she gave it into his hands.
“This is from young Mr. Warfield, I suppose?” he commented with a smile as he finished the closing lines.
“Yes, it is from Cousin Fred, and I suppose it is my duty to tell you that he once asked me to be his wife.”
“You loved him, of course,” said Mr. Courtney, a little anxiously.
“I will tell you, sir, exactly as it was,” she replied, with the straightforward look and manner of one who had nothing to conceal. “The girls told me that Fred is fickle, and they did not believe that he could really love anyone. When he told me of his affection for me, I knew it was what he had said to every girl with whom he was well acquainted, so did not believe him sincere. He wished to correspond with me, and through his letters I began to have a warmer affection for him, and was disappointed when they began to grow cold, or failed to come when expected. It ended by his writing, releasing himself from the engagement.”
“And you were grieved, my darling?”
“Yes, sir, and I was angry. His letter was so patronizing, so full of his own importance, that had I asked him to marry me, he could scarcely have worded it differently. I let him know that, attractive as he considered himself, I could quickly give him up.”
“But you were sorry it occurred?”
“For a while I missed his visits and his letters, then I grew glad it happened, for I would not have known my feelings toward you had not Fred engaged himself to me, and then broken the engagement. I compared him with you, and he appeared boyish and unstable. I could have no confidence in him. He would change his mind at the altar if he should see a prettier face among the spectators.”
“Was Mrs. Warfield aware of the engagement?” asked Mr. Courtney, amused at the quaint seriousness of the little woman.
“Oh, Mr. Courtney, no mother could have acted more nobly than she! I told her all, and gave her his letter and my reply.”
“Could you welcome Mrs. Warfield and her younger son to our home without one regret for ‘the might have been?’”
“Without one regret.”