The Late Miss Hollingford | Page 6

out of a window from under the eaves, and
clapped his hands at the steaming horses: and a young man walked out
of the inn with a whip in his hand, and asked if there might be a lady
inside the coach whose destination was Hillsbro' Farm.
I was soon seated by his side in a gig. By a few careful glances I had
easily assured myself that there was nothing of the ploughman in the
appearance of Mrs. Hollingford's son. You will want to know what I
thought of him that morning, and I will tell you. He seemed to me the
beau ideal of a country gentleman: nothing less than this, and
something more. You have known him, my dears, stooped and
white-haired, and have loved him in his age for the sake of the heart
that never grew old. But on that brilliant autumn morning when he and
I first sat side by side, the same lovable spirit was clothed with the
strength and beauty of mortal youth.
The vivid life of the country was sweet to me that early morning. Carts
of hay lumbered past us, almost crushing us into the hedges as they
swept along heavily, leaving a trail of fragrance in the air. Red and
brown leaves lay thick on the ground, making beautiful the undulations
of the roads. Mists of dew hung among the purple folds of the hills, and
the sun dashed the woods and streams with kindling gold. By and by
the whole country side was laughing in the full face of the day.
Hillsbro' Farmhouse was, and is, a low long dwelling built of dark
bricks, and standing among orchards and meadows, green pasture lands
and running streams. Its ivied chimneys had for background the sombre
lines of a swelling moor, belted by a wood of pines which skirted the
hollow wherein the earth nourished the fatness and sweetness of the
thrifty farm acres. Along the edge of the moor the road ran that led to

Hillsbro' Hall, and a short cut through the wood brought one down
upon a back entrance to the squire's own grounds.
The dear old farm! Roses were blowing in that morning at the open
sashes of the big, heavy, roughly hung windows. Two young girls, who
were afterwards dear to me as fibres of my heart, lingered beside the
open door; stately handsome Jane, with her solemn observant black
eyes and trim dark dress, and frolicsome Mopsie, with her laughing
face, and her hat tied down, gipsy fashion, with a red ribbon. They
lingered to see me, to take their share in giving me a welcome, and then
set out on their long walk, discussing me by the way. They told me of it
afterwards. Jane said I was only fit for a glass case, and Mopsie
declared I alighted from the old gig as if I had a mind to dance. They
were awed by the high heels on my boots, the feather in my hat, and the
quilted satin of my pelisse. They wondered I could deign to speak
anything but French, and concluded I did so only out of compliment to
their homeliness.
And I, meanwhile, decked in all the fanciful elegancies of a London
toilette, sat down to breakfast in the long parlour at Hillsbro' Farm, with
something in my heart that would not let me eat though I was hungry,
and something in my eyes that would not let me see very well, though
the sun came rich and yellow through each of the wide windows,
forming one broad golden path down the middle of the room. I saw but
dimly the dark brown walls and ceiling, the stiff-backed chairs with
their worn covers, the jar full of late roses that stood in either window,
the heap of trailing ivy that overran the huge grate. It was Mrs.
Hollingford's face that did it as she sat, kind, careful, hospitable,
pressing on me sweet home-made cakes, fresh butter, fragrant tea,
delicious cream, and delicate pink eggs. Ah me! it was her face that did
it. There was my great lady, my beneficent friend, my valiant woman.
Her eyes were somewhat sunken, the fire of their energy a trifle
slackened, her brow a little seamed; the strain of fortitude had drawn a
tight cord about her mouth. Whence, then, that new touching beauty
that made one see the stamp of heaven's nobility shining on her face?
Had I quite forgotten her, or was she indeed something new? It was as
if grief had chiselled her features afresh out of the superfluous

roundings of prosperity, wasted them into perfect sweetness, hacked
them into purer refinement. She wore a strait black gown of the
coarsest material, only the fair folds of muslin about her throat