Then came a tippet of white marabou feathers, b.u.t.toned into a silk case, and smelling faintly of camphor; a gown of rose-coloured satin, brocaded with green, and one of ruby-coloured velvet, which bore the inscription: "This was the gown on which our great-grandmother Ponsonby wore the diamond b.u.t.tons which have since been divided among her descendants. A sinful waste of money which might have been put to good purpose."

"How _very_ frivolous Great-grandmother Ponsonby must have been!" said Hildegarde. "I think Miss Agatha is rather hard on her, though. Perhaps the b.u.t.tons were wedding presents. I wonder what has become of them all!

See, Mammina, here are her red shoes--just like Beatrix Esmond's, aren't they? My foot would not begin to go into them. And here--oh! the lace!

the lace!" For there was a whole drawer full of lace, all in little bundles neatly tied up and marked. Here was Madam Aytoun's wedding veil, Grandmother This One's Mechlin tabs, Aunt That One's Venetian flounces.

It would take pages to describe all the laces, and the pleasure that mother and daughter had in examining them. What woman or girl does not love lace? Finally, in a corner of the drawer, was a morocco box containing a key, whose ivory label said: "Central compartment.

Miniatures."

"This will be the best of all!" cried Hildegarde, eagerly. "Perhaps we shall find Great-grandmother Ponsonby herself. Who knows?"

The ivory door flew open as the key turned, and revealed a s.p.a.ce set round with tiny drawers. Each drawer contained one or more miniatures, in cases of red or green morocco, and Hildegarde and her mother examined them with delight. Here, to be sure, was Great-grandmother Ponsonby; in fact, she appeared twice: first, as a splendid young matron, clad in the identical ruby velvet with the diamond b.u.t.tons, her hair powdered high and adorned with feathers; and, again, as a not less superb old lady, with folds of snowy muslin under her chin, and keen dark eyes flashing from under her white curls, and a wonderful cap. Here was Grandfather Aytoun, first as a handsome boy, with great dark eyes, and a parrot on his hand, then as a somewhat choleric-looking gentleman with a great fur collar.

"How they do change!" said Hildegarde. "I am not sure that I like to see two of the same person. Let me see, now! He married--"

"The daughter of Great-grandmother Ponsonby," replied Mrs. Grahame.

"Here she is! Caroline Regina Ponsonby, _aet._ 16. Named after the royal patroness, you see. What a sweet, gentle-looking girl! I fear her magnificent mother and her decided-looking husband may have been too much for her, for I see she died at twenty-three."

"Oh! and he married again!" cried Hildegarde, opening another case. "See here! Selina Euphemia McKenzie, second wife of John Aytoun. Oh! and here is a slip of paper inside the frame.

"'Sweet flower, that faded soon In Rapture's fervid noon.

'J. A.'

"Dear me! he must have written it himself!" she added. "It is not like Miss Agatha's handwriting. Why, she only lived three months, poor dear!

He makes very sure about the rapture, doesn't he?"

"I think he does," said her mother, smiling, "considering that he married a third time, inside a year from the fading of the sweet flower.

Look at this aquiline dame, with the remarkably firm mouth, and the bird of paradise in her turban. 'Adelaide McLeod, third wife of John Aytoun. She survived him.' I'll warrant she did!" said Mrs. Grahame.

"She carries conquest in her face. All the children were of the first marriage, and I fear she was not a gentle stepmother. I wonder who this may be!" She took up a heavy bracelet of dark hair, with a small miniature set in the clasp. "What a pretty, pretty child! Good Miss Agatha has surely not left us in the dark concerning him. 'Little John Hesketh, 1804.' That is all."

"Why Hesketh?" asked Hildegarde. "I have never heard of any Heskeths."

Mrs. Grahame was about to plunge into genealogical depths, when Hildegarde, who had been opening a case of purple morocco, carefully secured with silver clasps, gave an exclamation of pleasure.

"Hester!" she cried. "This is Hester, I know."

Her mother looked, and nodded; and they both gazed in silence at the lovely face, with its earnest grey eyes.

"The dear!" murmured Hildegarde. "How I should have loved her! I am sure we should have liked the same things. I wish she had not died."

"You must remember that she would be a dear old lady now, were she alive, and not a young la.s.sie. What does the slip say, darling? Miss Agatha's hand is rather trying for my eyes."

"'Our dearest Hester,'" Hildegarde read. "'A duplicate of the one painted for Robert Ferrers.' Robert Ferrers!" she repeated thoughtfully.

"Is that Colonel Ferrers? and do you suppose--"

At this moment came a knock at the door, and Janet informed them that Mrs. Lankton was in the hall, and would like to speak to one of the ladies.

"I will go," said Hildegarde, laying down the miniature reluctantly.

"We will both go," said her mother. "The poor old dame! We have neglected her all these days."

They locked the drawer of the treasure-cabinet, and Hildegarde ran to put the precious keys in a safe place, while her mother went directly downstairs. By the time Hildegarde appeared, Mrs. Lankton was launched on the full tide of her woes, and was sailing along with a good breeze.

"And it's comin' in, Mis' Grahame--I'd say like a house afire, if 'twa'n't that 'twas wet. Dreepin' all down the chimbley, and runnin'

over the floor in streams. I stepped into a pool o' water with my bar'

feet, gittin' out o' bed; likely I caught my death, but it's no great matter. Ah! Mis' Grahame, I've seen trouble all my life. Mr. Aytoun, he was like a father to me. He wouldn't never ha' let me go bar'foot in water if he'd ben alive. I've ben a hard-workin' woman all my life, and he knowed it. I hope your own health is good, dear?"

"What can I do for you, Mrs. Lankton?" asked Mrs. Grahame, kindly, as a moment's pause gave her a chance to get in a word. "Does the roof need shingling?"

"Mr. Aytoun was goin' to have it shingled for me last Janooary," said Mrs. Lankton, with a sigh that was almost a groan; "and he was called on to die in Febooary. Jest afore he pa.s.sed away, he was tryin' dretful hard to say somethin', and I ain't no manner o' doubt myself but what 'twas 'Shingle!' He had it on his mind; they needn't tell me. But n.o.body seemed to feel a call after he was gone. Ah, dear me! You don't know nothin' about it, Mis' Grahame. You ain't never stepped bar'foot out o'

your bed into a pool o' water, and you all doubled up with neurology in your j'ints. Ah, well, 'twon't be long now that I shall trouble anybody."

"Which is your house, Mrs. Lankton?" asked Mrs. Grahame. "I will try to have something done about the roof at once."

"I know!" said Hildegarde, quickly. "It is a brown cottage with a green door."

"See how she knows!" exclaimed Mrs. Lankton, with a sad smile. "Ain't that thoughtful? Ah! she'll be a comfit to you, Mis' Grahame, if you've luck to raise her, but there's no knowin'. Don't you set your heart on it, that's all. Ah! I know what trouble is."

"Don't you think I am 'raised' already, Mrs. Lankton?" Hilda asked, smiling down on the weazened face that did not reach to her shoulder.

"So fur ye be, dear!" replied the widow, with a doleful shake of the head. "So fur ye be, but there's no knowin'. My Phrony was jest like you, hearty and stout, and she's gone. Ah! dear me! She had a store tooth, where she knocked out one of hers, slidin', and she swallered it one night, and she never got over it. Lodged on her liver, the doctor said. He went down and tried to fetch it up, but 'twa'n't no use. She was fleshy, same as you be. Yes, gals is hard to raise."

At this, Hildegarde retreated suddenly into the parlour, and Mrs.

Grahame, in a voice which shook a little, expressed proper regret and sympathy, and repeated that she would have the roof attended to.

"And now," she added, "go into the kitchen, and auntie shall give you a cup of hot tea. You must dry your feet, too, before you go out again."

"The Lord'll reward you, dear!" said Mrs. Lankton, turning with a faint gleam of cheerfulness toward the kitchen door. "It ain't long before I shall go the way of all, but it doos seem as if I mought go dry, 'stead o' dreepin'. But _you_'ll be rewarded, Mis' Grahame. I felt as if you'd be a mother to me, soon as I sot eyes on ye. _Good_-mornin', dear!" and with a groan that ended in a half-chuckle, she disappeared.

CHAPTER VIII.

THE POPLARS.

PUNCTUALLY at half-past one on Friday, Hildegarde walked up the avenue which led to "The Poplars." It was a broad avenue, and the steps to which it led were broad, and the whole house had an air of being spread out. "But Mrs. Loftus needs a good deal of room!" said Hildegarde to herself, and then cuffed herself mentally for wickedness.

Very fair and sweet she looked, our Hildegarde, in her white serge gown, with the pretty hat of white "chiffon" which "Mammina" had made only the evening before. Standing on the verandah, with eyes and cheeks brilliant from walking, she met the entire approval of a young gentleman who was reclining behind the hedge. He was a _very_ young gentleman. He wore corduroy knickerbockers, and he was lying flat on his stomach, with his heels in the air, sucking a large bull's-eye. The sudden apparition of a tall maiden in white, with shining eyes, nearly caused him to swallow the bull's-eye, but he recovered himself, and gazed steadfastly at her.

When the door opened to admit her, the young gentleman sighed, and considered that it was not so fine a day as he had thought it. "She is a beautiful girl!" he said to himself with fervour; "she is a Purple Maid!" and then he rolled over on his back, to see if the bull's-eye would taste as good in that position.

Hildegarde, meanwhile, unconscious of the approving scrutiny of the infant connoisseur, was ushered by a stately butler through room after room, until she came to one where Mrs. and Miss Loftus were waiting to receive her. They were both very cordial, one in a ponderous, the other in an airily patronising way.

"But I did not hear you drive up," said Mrs. Loftus, "and we have been listening every moment; for I said to Leonie, 'Suppose she should not come, after all!' And so you must have driven up very quietly, you see."

"I walked," said Hildegarde, smiling; "so there were no wheels to hear, Mrs. Loftus."

"Walked! Is it possible?" cried Mrs. Loftus, while her daughter raised her eyebrows and regarded Hildegarde with languid curiosity. "My dear, you must be terribly heated. Let me ring for some Florida water. No, I insist!" as Hildegarde made a gesture of protest. "It is _so_ dangerous to walk in the heat of the day. The brain, you know, becomes heated, and it does something to the spinal marrow. Do you feel any dizziness?

Really, the best thing would be for you to lie down at once for half an hour. I will darken the room, and--"