Laura Elizabeth Howe Richards - Queen Hildegarde

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"Don't mean nothing as I knows on," said the boy; "but it sounds kind o'
hahnsome, don't it?"

Hilda shook her head with a smile. She did not think "Gee Whittekers" a
"hahnsome" expression.

"Bubble," she said after a few moments' reflection, during which her
scholar watched her anxiously, "I have an idea. If you _must_ say
'something,' beside what you actually have to say, let it be something
that will remind you of your lessons; then it may help you to remember
them. Instead of Gee--what is it?--Gee Whittekers, say Geography, or
Spelling, or Arithmetic; and instead of 'I swan,' say 'I study!' What do
you think of this plan?"

"Fustrate!" exclaimed Bubble, nodding his head enthusiastically. "I like
fustrate! Ge-_o_graphy! Why, that sounds just like pie! I--I don't mean
that, Miss Hildy. I didn't mean to say it, nohow! It kind o' slipped
out, ye know." Bubble paused, and hung his head in much confusion.

"Never mind!" said Hilda, kindly. "Of course you cannot make the change
all at once, Bubble. But little by little, if you really think about it,
you will bring it about. Next week," she added, "I think we must begin
upon grammar. You are doing very well indeed in spelling and geography,
and pretty well in arithmetic; but your grammar, Bubble, is simply
frightful."

"Be it?" said Bubble, resignedly. "I want to know!"

"And now," said the young instructress, rising, and shaking out her
crumpled frock, "that is enough for to-day, Bubble. We must be going
home soon; but first, I want to take a peep at the lower part of the old
mill, that you told me about yesterday. You have been in there, you say?
And how did you get in?"

"I'll show ye!" cried Bubble, springing up with alacrity, and leading
the way towards the mill. "I'll show ye the very place, Miss Hildy.
'Tain't easy to get in, and 'tain't no place for a lady, nohow; but I
kin git in, jist like--like 'rithmetic!"

"Bravo, Bubble!" said Hilda, laughing merrily. "That is very well for a
beginning. How long is it since the mill was used?" she asked, looking
up at the frowning walls of rough, dark stone, covered with moss and
lichens.

"Farmer Hartley's gran'f'ther was the last miller," replied Bubble
Chirk. "My father used to say he could just remember him, standin' at
the mill-door, all white with flour, an' rubbin' his hands and laughin',
jes' the way Farmer does. He was a good miller, father said, an' made
the mill pay well. But his eldest son, that kem after him, warn't no
great shakes, an' he let the mill go to wrack and ruin, an' jes' stayed
on the farm. An' then he died, an' Cap'n Hartley came (that's the
farmer's father, ye know), an' he was kind o' crazy, and didn't care
about the mill either, an' so there it stayed.

"This way, Miss Hildy!" added the boy, breaking off suddenly, and
plunging into the tangled thicket of shrubs and brambles that hid the
base of the mill. "Thar! ye see that hole? That's whar I get in. Wait
till I clear away the briers a bit! Thar! now ye kin look in."

The "hole" was a square opening, a couple of feet from the ground, and
large enough for a person of moderate size to creep through. Hildegarde
stooped down and looked in. At first she saw nothing but utter
blackness; but presently her eyes became accustomed to the place, and
the feeble light which struggled in past her through the opening,
revealed strange objects which rose here and there from the vast pit of
darkness,--fragments of rusty iron, bent and twisted into unearthly
shapes; broken beams, their jagged ends sticking out like stiffly
pointing fingers; cranks, and bits of hanging chain; and on the side
next the water, a huge wheel, rising apparently out of the bowels of the
earth, since the lower part of it was invisible. A cold, damp air seemed
to rise from the earth. Hilda shivered and drew back, looking rather
pale. "What a _dreadful_ place!" she cried. "It looks like a dungeon of
the Inquisition. I think you were very brave to go in there, Bubble. I
am sure _I_ should not dare to go; it looks so spectral and frightful."

"Hy Peters stumped me to go," said Bubble, simply, "so o' course I went.
Most of the boys dassent. And it ain't bad, after the fust time. They do
say it's haunted; but I ain't never seed nothin'."

"Haunted!" cried Hilda, drawing back still farther from the black
opening. "By--by what, Bubble?"

"Cap'n's ghost!" replied the boy. "He used to go rooklin' round in there
when he was alive, folks say, and some thinks his sperit haunts there
now."

"Oh, nonsense!" said Hildegarde, with a laugh which did not sound quite
natural. "Of course you don't believe any such foolishness as that,
Bubble. But what did the old--old gentleman--want there when he was
alive? I can't imagine any one going in there for pleasure."

"Dunno, I'm sure!" replied Bubble. "Father, he come down here one day,
after blackberries, when he was a boy. He hearn a noise in there, an'
went an' peeked in, an' there was the ol' Cap'n pokin' about with his
big stick in the dirt. He looked up an' saw father, an' came at him with
his stick up, roarin' like a mad bull, father said. An' he cut an' run,
father did, an' he hearn the ol' Cap'n laughin' after him as if he'd
have a fit. Crazy as a loon, I reckon the Cap'n was, though none of his
folks thought so, Ma says."

He let the wild briers fly back about the gloomy opening, and they
stepped back on the smooth greensward again. Ah, how bright and warm the
sunshine was, after that horrible black pit! Hilda shivered again at the
thought of it, and then laughed at her own cowardice. She turned and
gazed at the waterfall, creaming and curling over the rocks, and making
such a merry, musical jest of its tumble into the pool. "Oh, lovely,
lovely!" she cried, kissing her hand to it. "Bubble, do you know that
Hartley's Glen is without exception the most beautiful place in the
world?"

"No, miss! Be it really?" asked Zerubbabel, seriously. "I allays thought
'twas kind of a sightly gully, but I didn't know't was all that."

"Well, it is," said Hilda. "It is all that, and more; and I love it! But
now, Bubble," she added, "we must make haste, for the farmer will be
wanting you, and I have a dozen things to do before tea."

"Yes, miss," said Bubble, but without his usual alacrity.

Hilda saw a look of disappointment in his honest blue eyes, and asked
what was the matter. "I ain't had my ballid!" said Zerubbabel, sadly.

"Why, you poor lad, so you haven't!" said Hildegarde. "But you shall
have it; I will tell it to you as we walk back to the farm. Which one
will you have,--or shall I tell you a new one?"

The blue eyes sparkled with the delight of anticipation. "Oh, please!"
he cried; "the one about the bold Buckle-oh!"

Hilda laughed merrily. "The bauld Buccleugh?" she repeated. "Oh! you
mean 'Kinmont Willie.' Yes, indeed, you shall have that. It is one of my
favorite ballads, and I am glad you like it."

"Oh, I tell yer!" cried Bubble. "When he whangs the table, and says do
they think his helmet's an old woman's bunnit, an' all the rest of
it,--I tell ye that's _some_, Miss Hildy!"

"You have the spirit of the verse, Bubble," said Hilda, laughing softly;
"but the words are not _quite_ right." And she repeated the splendid,
ringing words of Buccleugh's indignant outcry:

"Oh! is my basnet a widow's curch,
Or my lance a wand o' the willow-tree,
Or my arm a lady's lily hand,
That an English lord should lightly me?

"And have they ta'en him, Kinmont Willie,
Against the truce of Border tide,
And forgotten that the bauld Buccleugh
Is warden here o' the Scottish side?

"And have they e'en ta'en him, Kinmont Willie,
Withouten either dread or fear,
And forgotten that the bauld Buccleugh
Can back a steed or shake a spear?"

Zerubbabel Chirk fairly danced up and down in his excitement "Oh! but
begin again at the beginning, _please_, Miss Hildy," he cried.

So Hilda, nothing loth, began at the beginning; and as they walked
homeward, recited the whole of the noble old ballad, which if any
girl-reader does not know, she may find it in any collection of Scottish
ballads.

"And the best of it is, Bubble," said Hilda, "that it is all
true,--every word of it; or nearly every word."

"I'll bet it is!" cried Bubble, still much excited. "They couldn't make
lies sound like that, ye know! You kind o' _know_ it's true, and it goes
right through yer, somehow. When did it happen, Miss Hildy?"

"Oh! a long time ago," said Hildegarde; "near the end of the sixteenth
century. I forget just the very year, but it was in the reign of Queen
Elizabeth. She was very angry at Buccleugh's breaking into Carlisle
Castle, which was an English castle, you see, and carrying off Lord
Scroope's prisoner; and she sent word to King James of Scotland that he
must give up Buccleugh to her to punish as she saw fit. King James
refused at first, for he said that Lord Scroope had been the first to
break the truce by carrying off Kinmont Willie in time of peace; but at
length he was obliged to yield, for Queen Elizabeth was very powerful,
and always would have her own way. So the 'bauld Buccleugh' was sent to
London and brought before the great, haughty English queen. But he was
just as haughty as she, and was not a bit afraid of her. She looked down
on him from her throne (she was very stately, you know, and she wore a
crown, and a great stiff ruff, and her dress was all covered with gold
and precious stones), and asked him how he dared to undertake such a
desperate and presumptuous enterprise. And Buccleugh--O Bubble, I
always liked this so much!--Buccleugh just looked her full in the face,
and said, 'What is it a man dare not do?' Now Queen Elizabeth liked
nothing so much as a brave man, and this bold answer pleased her. She
turned to one of her ministers and said, 'With ten thousand such men our
brother in Scotland might shake the firmest throne in Europe.' And so
she let him go, just because he was so brave and so handsome."

Bubble Chirk drew a long breath, and his eyes flashed. "I wish't I'd ben
alive then!" he said.

"Why, Bubble?" asked Hilda, much amused; "what would you have done?"

"I'd ha' killed Lord Scroope!" he cried,--"him and the hull kit of 'em.
Besides," he added, "I'd like t' ha' lived then jest ter see
_him_,--jest ter see the bold Buckle-oh; that's what _I_ call a man!"
And Queen Hildegardis fully agreed with him.

They had nearly reached the house when the boy asked: "If that king was
her brother, why did she treat him so kind o' ugly? My sister don't act
that way."

"What--oh, you mean Queen Elizabeth!" said Hilda, laughing. "King James
was not her brother, Bubble. They were cousins, but nothing more."

"You _said_ she said 'brother,'" persisted the boy.

"So I did," replied Hilda. "You see, it was the fashion, and is still,
for kings and queens to _call_ each other brother and sister, whether
they were really related to each other or not."

"But I thought they was always fightin'," objected Bubble. "I've got a
hist'ry book to home, an' in that it says they fit like time whenever
they got a chance."

"So they did," said Hilda. "But they called each other 'our royal
brother' and 'our beloved sister;' and they were always paying each
other fine compliments, and saying how much they loved each other, even
in the middle of a war, when they were fighting as hard as they could."

"Humph!" said Bubble, "nice kind o folks they must ha' been. Well, I
must go, Miss Hildy," he added, reluctantly. "I've had a splendid time,
an' I'm _real_ obleeged to ye. I sh'll try to larn that story by heart,
'bout the bold Buckle-oh. I want to tell it to Pink! _She_'d like
it--oh, my! wouldn't she like it, jest like--I mean jest like spellin'!
Good by, Miss Hildy!" And Bubble ran off to bring home the cows, his
little heart swelling high with scorn of kings and queens, and with a
fervor of devotion to Walter Scott, first lord of Buccleugh.

CHAPTER VII.

PINK CHIRK.

One lovely morning Hildegarde stood at the back door, feeding the fowls.
She wore her brown gingham frock with the yellow daisies on it, and the
daisy-wreathed hat, and in her hands she held a great yellow bowl full
of yellow corn. So bright a picture she made that Farmer Hartley,
driving the oxen afield, stopped for pure pleasure to look at her.
Around her the ducks and hens were fighting and squabbling, quacking,
clucking, and gobbling, and she flung the corn in golden showers on
their heads and backs, making them nearly frantic with greedy anxiety.

[Illustration: "SHE FLUNG THE CORN IN GOLDEN SHOWERS ON THEIR HEADS."]

"Wal, Huldy," said the farmer, leaning against Bright's massive side,
"you look pooty slick in that gown, I must say. I reckon thar ain't no
sech gown as _that_ on Fifth Avenoo, hey?"

"Indeed, I don't believe there is, Farmer Hartley," replied Hilda,
laughing merrily; "at least I never saw one like it. It _is_ pretty, I
think, and _so_ comfortable! And where are you going this morning with
the mammoths?"

"Down to the ten-acre lot," replied the farmer. "The men are makin' hay
thar to-day. Jump into the riggin' and come along," he added. "Ye kin
hev a little ride, an' see the hay-makin'. Pooty sight 'tis, to my
thinkin'."

"May I?" cried Hilda, eagerly. "I am sure these fowls have had enough.
Go away now, you greedy creatures! There, you shall have all there is!"
and she emptied the bowl over the astonished dignitaries of the
barn-yard, laid it down on the settle in the porch, and jumped gayly
into the "rigging," as the great hay-cart was called.

"Haw, Bright! hoish, Star!" said the farmer, touching one and then the
other of the great black oxen lightly with his goad. The huge beasts
swayed from side to side, and finally succeeded in getting themselves
and the cart in motion, while the farmer walked leisurely beside them,
tapping and poking them occasionally, and talking to them in that mystic
language which only oxen and their drivers understand. Down the sweet
country lane they went, with the willows hanging over them, and the
daisies and buttercups and meadow-sweet running riot all over the banks.
Hilda stood up in the cart and pulled off twigs from the willows as she
passed under them, and made garlands, which the farmer obediently put
over the oxen's necks. She hummed little snatches of song, and chatted
gayly with her kind old host; for the world was very fair, and her heart
was full of summer and sunshine.

"And have you always lived here, Farmer Hartley?" she asked. "All your
life, I mean?"

"No, not all my life," replied the farmer, "though pooty nigh it. I was
ten year old when my uncle died, and father left sea-farin', and kem
home to the farm to live. Before that we'd lived in different places,
movin' round, like. We was at sea a good deal, sailin' with father when
he went on pleasant voyages, to the West Indies, or sich. But sence then
I ain't ben away much. I don't seem to find no pleasanter place than the
old farm, somehow."

"I don't believe there _is_ any pleasanter place in the world!" said
Hilda, warmly. "I am sure I have never been so happy anywhere as I have
here."

Farmer Hartley looked up with a twinkle in his eye. "Ye've changed yer
views some, Huldy, hain't ye, sence the fust day ye kem heer? I didn't
never think, then, as I'd be givin' you rides in the hay-riggin', sech a
fine young lady as you was."

Hilda gave him an imploring glance, while the blood mounted to her
temples. "Please, Farmer Hartley," she said in a low voice, "please try
to forget that first day. It isn't my views that have changed," she
added, "it is I myself. I don't--I really don't _think_ I am the same
girl who came here a month ago."

"No, my gal," said the farmer, heartily, "I don't think ye are." He
walked along in silence for a few minutes, and then said, "'Tis curus
how folks kin sometimes change 'emselves, one way or the other. 'Tain't
so with critturs; 't least so fur's I've obsarved. The way they're born,
that way they'll stay. Now look at them oxen! When they was young
steers, hardly more'n calves, I began to train them critturs. An' from
the very fust go-off they tuk their cue an' stuck to it. Star, thar,
would lay out, and shake his head, an' pull for all he was wuth, as if
there was nothin' in the world to do _but_ pull; and Bright, he'd wait
till Star was drawin' good an' solid, an' then he'd as much as say, 'Oh!
you kin pull all that, kin ye? Well, stick to it, my boy, an' I'll
manage to trifle along with the rest o' the load.' Wo-_hoish_, Star!
haw, Bright! git up, ye old humbug! You're six year old now, an' you
ain't changed a mite in four years, though I've drove you stiddy, and
tried to spare the other every time."

The green lane broke off suddenly, and such a blaze of sunlight flashed
upon them that Hilda involuntarily raised her hand to shield her eyes.
The great meadow lay open before them, an undulating plain of gold. The
haycocks looked dull and gray-green upon it; but where the men were
tossing the hay with their long wooden rakes, it flashed pale-golden in
the sunlight, and filled the air with flying gleams. Also the air was
filled with the sweetness of the hay, and every breath was a delight.
Hilda stood speechless with pleasure, and the old farmer watched her
glowing face with kindly gratification.

"Pooty sightly, ain't it?" he said. And then, in a graver tone, and
removing his battered straw hat, "I don't never seem to see the glory
of the Lord no plainer than in a hay-field, a day like this. Yes, sir!
if a man can't be a Christian on a farm in summer, he can't be it
nowhere. Amen!" and Farmer Hartley put on his hat and proceeded
straightway to business. "Now, Huldy," he said, "here ye be! I'm goin'
to load up this riggin', an' ye kin stay round here a spell, if ye like,
an' run home _when_ ye like. Ye kin find the way, I reckon?"

"Oh, yes!" said Hilda; "yes, indeed! But I shall stay here for a while,
and watch you. And mayn't I toss the hay too a little?"

But her courage failed when she found that to do this she must mingle
with the crowd of strange haymakers; and besides, among them she saw the
clumsy form and shock head of Caliban, as she had secretly named the
clownish and surly nephew of her good host. This fellow was the one
bitter drop in Hilda's cup. Everything else she had learned to like, in
the month which had passed since she came to Hartley's Glen. The farmer
and his wife she loved as they deserved to be loved. The little
maidservant was her adoring slave, and secretly sewed her boot-buttons
on, and mended her stockings, as some small return for the lessons in
crochet and fancy knitting that she had received from the skilful white
fingers which were a perpetual marvel to her. But Simon Hartley remained
what she had at first thought him,--a sullen, boorish churl. He was a
malevolent churl too, Hildegarde thought; indeed she was sure of it. She
had several times seen his eyes fixed on his uncle with a look of
positive hatred; and though Farmer Hartley was persistently kind and
patient with him, trying often to draw him into conversation, and make
him join in the pleasant evening talks which they all enjoyed, his
efforts were unsuccessful. The fellow came in, gobbled his food, and
then went off, if his work was over, to hide himself in his own room.
Hilda was quite sure that Nurse Lucy liked this oaf no better than she
herself did, though the good woman never spoke impatiently or unkindly
to him,--and indeed it would be difficult for any one to like him, she
thought, except possibly his own mother.

Our Queen took presently her seat on a right royal throne of fragrant
hay, and gave herself up to the full delight of the summer morning, and
of the "Field of the Cloth of Gold," as she had instantly named the
shining yellow plain, which more prosaic souls knew as "the ten-acre
lot." The hay rustled pleasantly as she nestled down in it, and made a
little penthouse over her head, to keep off the keen, hot sun-arrows.
There was a great oak-tree too, which partly shaded this favored
haycock, and on one of its branches a squirrel came running out, and
then sat up and looked at Hildegarde with bright, inquisitive eyes. A
maiden, all brown and gold, on a golden haycock! What strange apparition
was this? Had she come for acorns? Did she know about the four young
ones in the snug little house in the hollow just above the first branch!
Perhaps--dreadful thought!--she had heard of the marvellous beauty of
the four young ones, and had come to steal them. "Chip!" whisk! and
Madam Squirrel was off up the branch like a streak of brown lightning,
with its tail up.

Hilda laughed at the squirrel's alarm, and then turned her attention to
a large green grasshopper who seemed to demand it. He had alighted on
her knee, and now proceeded to exhibit his different points before her
admiring gaze with singular gravity and deliberation. First he slowly
opened his wings, to show the delicate silvery gauze of the under-wings;
then as slowly closed them, demonstrating the perfect fit of his whole
wing-costume and the harmony of its colors. He next extended one leg,
calling her attention to its remarkable length and muscular
proportions. Then, lest she should think he had but one, he extended
the other; and then gave a vigorous hop with both of them, to show her
that he did not really need wings, but could get on perfectly well
without them. Finally he rubbed himself all over with his long antennae,
and then, pointing them full at her, and gazing at her with calm and
dispassionate eyes, he said plainly enough: "And now, Monster, what have
_you_ to show _me_?"

Hildegarde was wondering how she could best dispel the scorn with which
this majestic insect evidently regarded her, when suddenly something new
appeared on her gown,--something black, many-legged, hairy, most
hideous; something which ran swiftly but stealthily, with a motion which
sent a thrill of horror through her veins. She started up with a little
shriek, shaking off the unlucky spider as if it had been the Black Death
in concrete. Then she looked round with flaming cheeks, to see if her
scream had been heard by the hay-makers. No, they were far away, and
too busy to take heed of her. But the charm was broken. Queen Hildegarde
had plenty of courage of a certain sort, but she could _not_ face a
spider. The golden throne had become a "siege perilous," and she
abdicated in favor of the grasshopper and his black and horrent visitor.

What should she do now? The charm of the morning had made her idle and
drowsy, and she did not feel like going home to help Nurse Lucy in
making the butter, though she often did so with right good-will. She
looked dreamily around, her eyes wandering here and there over the great
meadow and the neat stone walls which bounded it. Presently she spied
the chimneys and part of the red roof of a little cottage which peeped
from a thick clump of trees just beyond the wall. Who lived in that
cottage, Hilda wondered. Why should she not go and see? She was very
thirsty, and there she might get a glass of water. Oh! perhaps it was
Bubble's cottage, where he and his mother and his sister Pink lived. Now
she thought of it, Bubble had told her that he lived "over beyont the
ten-acre lot;" of course this must be the place. Slowly she walked
across the meadow and climbed the wall, wondering a good deal about the
people whom she was going to see. She had often meant to ask Bubble more
about his sister with the queer name; but the lesson-hour was so short,
and there were always so many questions for Bubble to ask and for her to
answer besides the regular lesson, that she always forgot it till too
late. Pink Chirk! what could a girl be like with such a name as that?
Hilda fancied her a stout, buxom maiden, with very red cheeks and very
black eyes--yes, certainly, the eyes must be black! Her hair--well, one
could not be so sure about her hair; but there was no doubt about her
wearing a pink dress and a blue checked apron. And she must be smiling,
bustling, and energetic. Yes! Hilda had the picture of her complete in
her mind. She wondered that this active, stirring girl never came up to
the farm; but of course she must have a great deal of work to do at
home.

By this time Hildegarde had reached the cottage; and after a moment's
hesitation she knocked softly at the green-painted door. No one came to
open the door, but presently she heard a clear, pleasant voice from
within saying, "Open the door and come in, please!" Following this
injunction, she entered the cottage and found herself directly in the
sitting-room, and face to face with its occupant. This was a girl of her
own age, or perhaps a year older, who sat in a wheeled chair by the
window. She was very fair, with almost flaxen hair, and frank, pleasant
blue eyes. She was very pale, very thin; the hands that lay on her lap
were almost transparent; but--she wore a pink calico dress and a blue
checked apron. Who could this be? and whoever it was, why did she sit
still when a visitor and a stranger came in? The pale girl made no
attempt to rise, but she met Hilda's look of surprise and inquiry with a
smile which broke like sunshine over her face, making it for the moment
positively beautiful. "How do you do?" she said, holding out her thin
hand. "I am sure you must be Miss Hilda Graham, and I am Bubble's sister
Pink.

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