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Page 11
Philip greeted Hildegarde and her mother with grave courtesy,
taking no notice of his brother's gibes.
"You find us in a good deal of confusion," he said to Hildegarde,
sitting down on a table, the only available seat. "It takes a long
time to get settled, don't you think so?"
"Oh--yes!" said Hildegarde, struggling for composure, and
conscious of Gerald's eyes fixed intently on her. "But you all
look so home-like and comfortable here."
"Especially Ferguson!" broke in Gerald, sotto voce. "How
comfortable he looks, doesn't he, Miss Grahame? No use, Fergs! We
marked your little footprints in the air, my son."
"Oh!" said Philip, looking much discomposed. "Well, I'll punch
your head, Obe, anyhow."
"Suppose we come out and look at the tennis-court," said Bell. "I
am sure you play tennis, Miss Grahame."
"Indeed I do," said Hildegarde, heartily. "I have often looked
longingly at that nice smooth lawn, and I hoped you were going to
lay it out for a court."
"Phil," said Gertrude aside to her brother, who was still blushing
and uncomfortable, "you needn't mind a bit. Jerry came in walking
on his hands, right into the room, before he saw them at all; and
they are so nice, they didn't care; they liked it."
"Did they?" said Phil, also in a whisper. "Well, that's some
comfort; but I'll punch his head for him, all the same."
And Gerald cried aloud,--
"Away, away to the mountain's brow, For Ferguson glares like an
angry cow. He'll punch my head, and kill me dead, Before I have
time to say 'Bow-wow.'"
And the five young people went off laughing to the tennis-court.
CHAPTER IV.
HESTER'S PLAYROOM.
"'THAR!' said the Deacon. 'Naow she'll dew!'"
Hildegarde spoke in a tone of satisfaction, as she looked about
her room. She had been setting it to rights,--not that it was ever
"to wrongs" for any length of time,--for Bell and Gertrude
Merryweather were coming to spend the morning with her, and she
wanted her own special sanctum to look its best. She was very fond
of this large, bare, airy chamber, with its polished floor, its
white wainscoting, and its quaint blue-dragon paper. She had made
it into a picture gallery, and just now it was a flower-show, too;
for every available vase and bowl was filled with flowers from
wood and garden. On the round table stood a huge Indian jar of
pale green porcelain, filled with nodding purple iris; the green
glass bowls held double buttercups and hobble-bush sprays, while
two portraits, those of Dundee and William the Silent, were
wreathed in long garlands of white hawthorn. The effect was
charming, and Hildegarde might well look satisfied. But Bell
Merryweather, when she came into the room, thought that its owner
was the most beautiful part of it. Hildegarde was used to herself,
as she would have said frankly; she knew she was pretty, and it
was pleasant to be pretty, and there was an end of it. But to
Bell, in whose family either brown locks or red were the rule,
this white and gold maiden, with her cool, fresh tints of pearl
and rose, was something wonderful. Hildegarde's dress this morning
was certainly nothing astonishing, simply a white cambric powdered
with buttercups; but its perfect freshness, its trim simplicity,
made it so absolutely the fit and proper thing, that Bell's honest
heart did homage to the lovely vision; there was something almost
like reverence in her eyes as she returned Hildegarde's cordial
greeting. As for the young Gertrude, all the world was fairyland
to her, and Hildegarde was the queen, opening the door of a new
province. The most important thing in life was not to fall or drop
anything on this first visit to the strange and wonderful old
house, as all the Merryweathers persisted in calling Braeside.
Gertrude was always falling and dropping things. At home nobody
expected anything else; but here it was different, and the poor
child was conscious of every finger and toe as she stepped along
gingerly. Gerald's parting words were still ringing in her ears:
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