Hildegarde's Holiday Part 12

CHAPTER IX.

BROKEN FLOWERS.

Miss Wealthy was sitting on the back piazza, crocheting a tidy. The st.i.tch was a new one, and quite complicated, and her whole mind was bent upon it. "One, two, purl, chain, slip; one, two, purl"--when suddenly descended upon her a whirlwind, a vision of sparkling eyes and "tempestuous petticoat," crying, "_Please_, Cousin Wealthy, may I go with Jeremiah? The wagon is all ready. Mayn't I go? Oh, _please_ say 'yes'!"

Miss Wealthy started so violently that the crochet-hook fell from her hands. "My _dear_ Hilda!" she said plaintively, "you quite take my breath away. I--really, my dear, I don't know what to say. Where do you want to go?"

"With Jeremiah, to Fairtown, with the flowers--to see the children!"

cried Hildegarde, still too much out of breath to speak connectedly, but dropping on one knee beside the old lady, and stroking her soft hand apologetically. "He says he will take care of me; and Rose has a long letter to write, and I shall be back in time for dinner. Dear, nice, pretty, sweet, bewitching Cousin Wealthy, may I go?"

Miss Wealthy was still bewildered. "Why, my dear," she said hesitatingly. "Yes--you may go, certainly--if you are quite sure--"

But Hildegarde waited for no "ifs." She whirled upstairs, flew out of her pink gingham and into a sober dark blue one, exchanged her garden hat for a blue "sailor," whirled downstairs again, kissed Rose on both cheeks, dropped another kiss on Miss Wealthy's cap, and was in the wagon and out of sight round the corner before any one with moderately deliberate enunciation could have said "Jack Robinson."

Miss Wealthy dropped back in her chair, and drew a long, fluttering breath. She looked flushed and worried, and put her hand nervously up to the pansy brooch. Seeing this, Rose came quietly, picked up the crochet-hook, and sat down to admire the work, and wonder if she could learn the st.i.tch. "Perhaps some time you would show it to me, dear Miss Bond," she said; "and now may I read you that article on window-gardening that you said you would like to hear?"

So Rose read, in her low, even tones, smooth and pleasant as the rippling of water; and Miss Wealthy's brow grew calm again, and the flush pa.s.sed away, and her thoughts pa.s.sed pleasantly from "one, two, purl, slip," to gloxinias and cyclamen, and back again; till at length, the day being warm, she fell asleep, which was exactly what the wily Rose meant her to do.

Meantime Hildegarde was speeding along toward the station, seated beside Jeremiah in the green wagon, with the box of flowers stowed safely under the seat. She was in high spirits, and determined to enjoy every moment of her "escapade," as she called it. Jeremiah surveyed her bright face with chastened melancholy.

"Reckon you're in for a junket," he said kindly. "Quite a head o' steam you carry. 'T'll do ye good to work it off some."

"Yes!" cried Hildegarde. "It is a regular frolic, isn't it, Jeremiah?

How beautiful everything looks! What a perfection of a day it is!"

"Fine hayin' weather!" Jeremiah a.s.sented. "We sh'll begin to-morrow, I calc'late. Pleasant, hayin' time is. Now, thar's a field!" He pointed with his whip to a broad meadow all blue-green with waving timothy, and sighed, and shook his head.

"Isn't it a good field?" asked Hildegarde, innocently.

"Best lot on the place!" replied the prophet, with melancholy enthusiasm. "Not many lots like that in _this_ neighborhood! There's a power o' gra.s.s there. Well, sirs! gra.s.s must be cut, and hay must be eat,--there's no gainsayin' that,--'in the sweat o' thy brow,' ye understand; but still there's some enj'yment in it."

Hildegarde could not quite follow this sentence, which seemed to be only half addressed to her; so she only nodded sagely, and turned her attention to the ferns by the roadside.

It was less than an hour's trip to Fairtown, nor was the walk long through the pleasant, elm-shaded streets. The hospital was a brick building, painted white, and looking very neat and trim, with its striped awnings, and its flagged pathway between rows of box. One saw that it had been a fine dwelling-house in its day, for the wood of the doorway was cunningly carved, and the bra.s.s knocker was quite a work of art.

Jeremiah knocked; and when the door was opened by a neat maidservant, he brought the box of flowers, and laid it on a table in the hall. "Miss Bond's niece!" he said, with a nod of explanation and introduction.

"Thought she'd come herself; like to see the young ones. I'll be back for ye in an hour," he added to Hildegarde, and with another nod departed.

After waiting a few minutes in a cool, shady parlor, where she sat feeling strange and shy, and wis.h.i.+ng she had not come, Hildegarde was greeted by a sweet-faced woman in spotless cap and ap.r.o.n, who bade her welcome, and asked for Miss Bond. "It is some time since she has been here!" she added. "We are always so glad to see her, dear lady. But her kindness comes every week in the lovely flowers, and the children do think so much of them. Would you like to distribute them yourself to-day? A new face is always a pleasure, if it is a kind one; and yours will bring suns.h.i.+ne, I am sure."

"Oh, thank you!" said Hildegarde, shyly. "It is just what I wanted, if you really think they would like it."

Mrs. Murray, as the matron was called, seemed to have no doubt upon this point, and led the way upstairs, the servant following with the flowers.

She opened a door, and led Hildegarde into a large, sunny room, with little white beds all along the wall. On every pillow lay a little head; and many faces turned toward the opening door, with a look of pleasure at meeting the matron's cheery smile. Hildegarde opened her great box, and taking up three or four bouquets, moved forward hesitatingly. This was something new to her. She had visited girls of her own age or more, in the New York hospitals, but she was not used to little children, being herself an only child. In the first cot lay a little girl, a mite of five years, with a pale patient face. She could not move her hands, but she turned her face toward the bunch of sweet-peas that Hildegarde laid on the pillow, and murmured, "Pitty!

pitty!"

"Aren't they sweet?" said Hildegarde. "Do you see that they have little wings, almost like b.u.t.terflies? When the wind blows, they flutter about, and seem to be alive, almost."

The child smiled, and put her lips to the cool fragrant blossoms. "Kiss b.u.t.terf'ies!" she said; and at this Hildegarde kissed her, and went on to the next crib.

Here lay a child of seven, her sweet blue eyes heavy with fever, her cheeks flushed and burning. She stretched out her hands toward the flowers, and said, "White ones! give me white ones, Lady! Red ones is hot! Minnie is too hot. White ones is cold."

A nurse stood beside the crib, and Hildegarde looked to her for permission, then filled the little hands with sweet alyssum and white roses.

"The roses were all covered with dew when I picked them," she said softly. "See, dear, they are still cool and fresh." And she laid them against the burning cheek. "There was a great bed of roses in a lovely garden, and while I was at one end of it, a little humming-bird came to the other, and hovered about, and put his bill into the flowers. His head was bright green, like the leaves, and his throat was ruby-red, and--"

"Guess that's a lie, ain't it?" asked the child, wearily.

"Oh, no!" said Hildegarde, smiling. "It is all true, every word. When you are better, I will send you a picture of a humming-bird."

She nodded kindly, and moved on, to give red roses to a bright little tot in a red flannel dressing-gown, who was sitting up in bed, nursing a rubber elephant. He took the roses and said, "Sanks!" very politely, then held them to his pet's gray proboscis. "I's better," he explained, with some condescension. "I don't need 'em, but Nelephant doos. He's a severe case. Doctor said so vis mornin'."

"Indeed!" said Hildegarde, sympathetically. "I am very sorry. What is the matter with him?"

"Mumps 'n' ague 'n' brown kitties 'n' ammonia 'n' fits!" was the prompt reply; "and a hole in his leg too! Feel his pult!"

He held up a gray leg, which Hildegarde examined gravely. "It seems to be hollow," she said. "Did the doctor think that was a bad sign?"

"It's fits," said the child, "or a brown kitty,--I don't know which. Is you a nurse?"

"No, dear," said Hildegarde; "I only came to bring the flowers. I must go away soon, but I shall think of you and the elephant, and I hope he will be better soon."

"Sing!" was the unexpected reply, in a tone of positive command.

"Benny!" said Mrs. Murray, who came up at this moment; "you mustn't tease the young lady, dear. See! the other children are waiting for their flowers, and you have these lovely roses."

"She looks singy!" persisted Benny. "I wants her to sing. Doctor said I could have what I wanted, and I wants _vat_."

"May I sing to him?" asked Hildegarde, in a low tone. "I can sing a little, if it would not disturb the others."

But Mrs. Murray thought the others would like it very much. So Hildegarde first gave posies to all the other children in the room, and then came back and sat down on Benny's bed, and sang, "Up the airy mountain," in a very sweet, clear voice. Several little ones had been tossing about in feverish restlessness, but now they lay still and listened; and when the song was over, a hoa.r.s.e voice from a corner of the room cried, "More! more sing!"

"She's _my_ more! she isn't your more!" cried Benny, sitting erect, with flas.h.i.+ng eyes that glared across the room at the offender. But a soft hand held a cup of milk to his lips, and laid him back on the pillow; and the nurse motioned to Hildegarde to go on.

Then she sang, "Ring, ting! I wish I were a primrose;" and then another of dear William Allingham's, which had been her own pet song when she was Benny's age.

"'Oh, birdie, birdie, will you, pet?

Summer is far and far away yet.

You'll get silken coats and a velvet bed, And a pillow of satin for your head.'

"'I'd rather sleep in the ivy wall!

No rain comes through, though I hear it fall The sun peeps gay at dawn of day, And I sing and wing away, away.'

"'Oh, birdie, birdie, will you, pet?

Diamond stones, and amber and jet, I'll string in a necklace fair and fine, To please this pretty bird of mine.'