Laura Elizabeth Howe Richards - Queen Hildegarde
L >>
Laura Elizabeth Howe Richards >> Queen Hildegarde
Pages:
1 |
2 |
3 |
4 |
5 |
6 | 7 |
8 |
9 |
10 |
11
"Ah!" said the farmer; "Allan-a-Dale. 'Pears to me we left him in
rayther a ticklish situation."
"Oh, but it comes out all right!" cried Hilda, joyously, rising to fetch
the good brown book which she loved. "You will see in the next chapter
how delightfully Robin gets him out of the difficulty." She ran and
brought the book and drew her chair up to the table, and all three
prepared for an hour of solid enjoyment. "But before I begin," she said,
"I want you to promise, Farmer Hartley, to take me with you the next
time you go to the village. I _must_ buy a hat for Pink Chirk."
CHAPTER IX.
THE OLD CAPTAIN.
"Let--me--see!" said Farmer Hartley, as he gathered up the reins and
turned old Nancy's head towards the village, while Hildegarde, on the
seat beside him, turned back to wave a merry farewell to Nurse Lucy, who
stood smiling in the porch. "Let--me--see! Hev you ben off the farm
before, Huldy, sence you kem here?"
"Not once!" replied Hilda, cheerily. "And I don't believe I should be
going now, Farmer Hartley, if it were not for Pink's hat. I promised
myself that she should not wear that ugly straw sun-bonnet again. I
wonder why anything so hideous was ever invented."
"A straw bunnit, do ye mean?" said the farmer; "somethin' like a long
sugar-scoop, or a tunnel like?"
"Yes, just that!" said Hilda; "and coming down over her poor dear eyes
so that she cannot see anything, except for a few inches straight before
her."
"Wal!" said the farmer, meditatively, "I remember when them bunnits was
considered reel hahnsome. Marm Lucy had one when she was a gal; I mind
it right well. A white straw it was, with blue ribbons on top of it. It
come close round her pooty face, an' I used to hev to sidle along and
get round in front of her before I could get a look at her. I hed
rayther a grudge agin the bunnit on that account; but I supposed it was
hahnsome, as everybody said so. I never see a bunnit o' that kind," he
continued, "without thinkin' o' Mis' Meeker an' 'Melia Tyson. I swan! it
makes me laugh now to think of 'em."
"Who were they?" asked Hildegarde, eagerly, for she delighted in the
farmer's stories. "Please tell me about them!"
The farmer shook his head, as was his wont when he was about to relapse
into reminiscences, and gave old Nancy several thoughtful taps with the
whip, which she highly resented.
"Ol' Mis' Meeker," he said, presently, "she was a character, she was!
She didn't belong hereabouts, but down South somewhere, but she was
cousin to Cephas Tyson, an' when Cephas' wife died, she came to stop
with him a spell, an' look out for his children. Three children there
was, little Cephas, an' Myrick, an' 'Melia. 'Melia, she was a peart,
lively little gal, with snappin' black eyes, an' consid'ble of a will of
her own; an' Mis' Meeker, she was pooty stout, an' she took things easy,
jest as they kem, an' let the children--an' 'Melia specially--do pooty
much as they'd a mind to. Wal, one day I happened in to see Cephas about
a pair o' steers I was thinkin' o' buyin'. Cephas was out; but Mis'
Meeker said he'd be right in, she reckoned, an' asked me to take a cheer
an' wait. So I sot down, an' while I was waitin', in come 'Melia, an'
says she, 'Say, Aunt Cilly (Mis' Meeker's name was Priscilla)--Say, Aunt
Cilly, can I go down an' play with Eddie? He wants me to come, reel bad.
Can I, Aunt Cilly?' 'Not to-day, dearie,' says Mis' Meeker; 'you was
down to play with Eddie yesterday, an' I reckon that'll do for one
while!' she says. I looked at little 'Melia, an' her eyes was snappin'
like coals. She didn't say nothin', but she jest took an' shoved her
elbow right through the plate-glass winder. Ho! ho! Cephas had had his
house made over, an' he was real proud of his plate-glass winders. I d'
'no' how much they'd cost him, but 'twas a pooty good sum. An' she
shoved her elbow right through it and smashed it into shivers. I jumped
up, kind o' startled by the crash. But ol' Mis' Meeker, she jes' looked
up, as if she was a _leetle_ bit surprised, but nothin' wuth
mentionin'. 'Why, honey!' says she, in her slow, drawlin' kind o' way,
'I didn't know ye wanted to go _that_ bad! Put on yer bunnit, an' go an'
play with Eddie _this minute_!' says she. Ho! ho! ho! Them was her very
words. An' 'Melia, she tossed her bunnit on (one o' them straw Shakers
it was, an' that's what made me think o' the story), and jes' shook the
glass out'n her sleeve,--_I_ d' 'no' why the child warn't cut to pieces,
but she didn't seem t' have got no hurt,--and made a face at her aunt,
an' off she went. That's the way them children was brought up."
"Poor things!" cried Hilda. "What became of them, Farmer Hartley?"
"'Melia, she run off an' married a circus feller," replied the farmer,
"an' the boys, I don't rightly know _what_ become of 'em. They went out
West, I b'lieve; an' after 'Melia married, Cephas went out to jine 'em,
an' I ain't heerd nothin' of 'em for years."
By this time they were rattling through the main street of the little
village, and presently stopped before an unpretending little shop, in
the window of which were displayed some rather forlorn-looking hats and
bonnets.
"Here y'are, Huldy!" said the farmer, pointing to the shop with a
flourish of his whip. "Here's whar ye git the styles fust hand. Hev to
come from New York to Glenfield to git the reel thing, ye see."
"I see!" laughed Hilda, springing lightly from the wagon.
"I'll call for ye in 'bout half an hour;" and with a kindly nod the
farmer drove away down the street.
Hildegarde entered the dingy little shop with some misgivings, "I hope I
shall find _something_ fresh!" she said to herself; "those things in the
window look as if they had been there since the Flood." She quickly made
friends with the brisk little milliner, and they were soon turning over
the meagre store of hats, trimmed and untrimmed.
"This is _real_ tasty!" said the little woman, lifting with honest pride
an alarming structure of green satin, which some straggling cock's
feathers were doing their best to hide.
Hilda shuddered, but said pleasantly, "Rather heavy for summer; don't
you think so? It would be better for a winter hat. What is this?" she
added, drawing from the farthest recesses of the box an untrimmed hat of
rough yellow straw. "I think perhaps this will do, Miss Bean."
"Oh my land, no! you don't want _that_!" cried the little milliner,
aghast. "That's only common doin's, anyhow; and it's been in that box
three years. Them shapes ain't worn now."
"Never mind!" said Hilda, merrily; "it is perfectly fresh, and I like
the shape. Just wait till you see it trimmed, Miss Bean. May I rummage a
little among your drawers? I will not toss the things about."
A piece of dotted mull and a bunch of soft pink roses rewarded her
search; and with these and a bit of rose-colored ribbon she proceeded to
make the rough straw into so dainty and bewitching a thing that Miss
Bean sat fairly petrified with amazement on her little hair-cloth sofa
in the back shop. "Why! why!" she said. "If that ain't the beat of all!
It's the tastiest hat I ever see. You never told me you'd learned the
trade!"
This last was rather reproachfully said; and Hilda, much amused,
hastened to reassure the good woman.
"Indeed, I never learned the trade," she said. "I take to it naturally,
I think; and I have watched my mother, who does it much better than I."
"She must be a first-class trimmer, then!" replied Miss Bean,
emphatically. "Works in one o' them big houses in New York, I reckon,
don't she?"
Hildegarde laughed; but before she could reply, Miss Bean went on to
say: "Wal, you're a stranger to me, but you've got a pooty good
count'nance, an' ye kem with Farmer Hartley; that's reference enough."
She paused and reflected, while Hildegarde, putting the finishing
touches to the pretty hat, wondered what was coming. "I wasn't
calc'latin' to hire help this summer," continued the milliner; "but
you're so handy, and yer ma could give ye idees from time to time. So if
ye'd like a job, I d' 'no' but I'd like to hire ye."
The heiress of all the Grahams wanted to laugh at this naive proposal,
but good feeling and good manners alike forbade. She thanked Miss Bean
for her kind offer, and explained that she was only spending her school
vacation at Hartley Farm; that her time was fully occupied, etc., etc.
The little milliner looked so disappointed that Hilda was seized with a
royal impulse, and offered to "go over" the hats in the window while she
waited for Farmer Hartley, and freshen them up a bit.
"Well, I wish't ye would!" said poor Miss Bean. "Fact is, I ain't done
so well as I c'd wish this season. Folks is dretful 'fraid o' buyin' new
things nowadays."
Then followed a series of small confidences on the hair-cloth sofa,
while Hilda's fingers flew about the forlorn hats and bonnets, changing
a ribbon here and a flower there, patting and poking, and producing
really marvellous results. Another tale of patient labor, suffering,
privation. An invalid mother and an "innocent" brother for this frail
little woman to support. Doctors' bills and hard times, and stingy
patrons who were "as 'fraid of a dollar-bill as if 'twas the small-pox."
Hilda's eyes filled with tears of sympathy, and one great drop fell on
the green satin hat, but was instantly covered by the wreath of ivy
which was replacing the staring cock's feathers.
"Wal, I declare to gracious!" exclaimed Miss Bean. "You'd never know
that for the same hat, now, would ye? I thought 'twas han'some before,
but it's enough site han'somer now. I shouldn' wonder a mite if Mis'
Peasley bought that hat now. She's been kind o' hankerin' arter it, the
last two or three times she was in here; but every time she tried it on,
she'd say No, 'twas too showy, she guessed. Wal, I do say, you make a
gret mistake not goin' into the trade, for you're born to it, that's
plain. When a pusson's born to a thing, he's thrown away, you may say,
on anything else. What _was_ you thinkin'--"
But at this moment came a cheery call of "Huldy! Huldy!" and Hildegarde,
cutting short the little woman's profuse thanks and invitations to call
again, bade her a cordial good-by, and ran out to the wagon, carrying
her purchase neatly done up in brown paper.
"Stiddy thar!" said the farmer, making room for her on the seat beside
him. "Look out for the ile-can, Huldy! Bought out the hull shop, hev ye?
Wal, I sh'll look for gret things the next few days. Huddup thar,
Nancy!" And they went jingling back along the street again.
As they passed the queer little shops, with their antiquated signboards,
the farmer had something to say about each one. How Omnium Grabb here,
the grocer, missed his dried apples one morning, and how he accused his
chore-boy, who was his sister's son too, of having eaten them,--"As if
any livin' boy would pick out dried apples to eat, when he hed a hull
store to choose from!" and how the very next day a man coming to buy a
pair of boots, Omnium Grabb hooked down a pair from the ceiling, where
all the boots hung, and found them "chock full" of dried apples, which
the rats had been busily storing in them and their companion pairs.
How Enoch Pillsbury, the "'pottecary, like t' ha' killed" Old Man Grout,
sending him writing fluid instead of the dark mixture for his
"dyspepsy."
How Beulah Perkins, who lived over the dry-goods store, had been
bedridden for nineteen years, till the house where she was living caught
fire, "whereupon she jumped out o' bed an' grabbed an umbrella an'
opened it, an' ran down street in her red-flannel gownd, with the
umbrella over her head, shoutin', 'Somebody go save my bedstid! I ain't
stirred from it for nineteen years, an' I ain't never goin' to stir from
it agin. Somebody go save my bedstid!'"
"And was it saved?" asked Hilda, laughing.
"No," said the farmer; "'t wa'n't wuth savin', nohow. Besides, if't
_hed_ been, she'd ha' gone back to it an' stayed there. Hosy Grout, who
did her chores, kicked it into the fire; an' she was a well woman to the
day of her death."
Now the houses straggled farther and farther apart, and at last the
village was fairly left behind. Old Nancy pricked up her ears and
quickened her pace a little, looking right and left with glances of
pleasure as the familiar fields ranged themselves along either side of
the road. Hilda too was glad to be in the free country again, and she
looked with delight at the banks of fern, the stone walls covered with
white starry clematis, and the tangle of blackberry vines which made the
pleasant road so fragrant and sweet. She was silent for some time. At
last she said, half timidly, "Farmer Hartley, you promised to tell me
more about your father some day. Don't you think this would be a good
time? I have been so much interested by what I have heard of him."
"That's curus, now," said Farmer Hartley slowly, flicking the dust with
the long lash of his whip. "It's curus, Huldy, that you sh'd mention
Father jest now, 'cause I happened to be thinkin' of him myself that
very minute. Old Father," he added meditatively, "wal, surely, he _was_
a character, Father was. Folks about here," he said, turning suddenly to
Hilda and looking keenly at her, "think Father was ravin' crazy, or
mighty nigh it. But he warn't nothin' o' the sort. His mind was as keen
as a razor, an' as straight-edged, 'xcept jest on _one_ subject. On
_that_ he was, so to say, a little--wal--a little _tetched_."
"And that was--?" queried Hilda.
"Why, ye see, Huldy, Father had been a sea-farin' man all his days, an'
he'd seen all manner o' countries an' all manner o' folks; and 'tain't
to be wondered at ef he got a leetle bit confoosed sometimes between the
things he'd seen and the things he owned. Long'n short of it was, Father
thought he hed a kind o' treasure hid away somewhar, like them pirate
fellers used to hev. Ef they _did_ hev it!" he added slowly. "I never
more'n half believed none o' them yarns; but Father, he thought _he_ hed
it, an' no mistake. 'D'ye think I was five years coastin' round Brazil
for nothin'?' he says. 'There's di'monds in Brazil,' he says, 'whole
mines of 'em; an' there's _some_ di'monds _out_ o' Brazil too;' and then
he'd wink, and laugh out hearty, the way he used. He was always
laughin', Father was. An' when times was hard, he'd say to my mother,
'Wealthy, we won't sell the di'monds yet a while. Not this time,
Wealthy; but they're thar, you know, my woman, they're thar!' And when
my mother'd say, 'Whar to goodness be they, Thomas?' he'd only chuckle
an' laugh an' shake his head. Then thar was his story about the ruby
necklace. How we youngsters used to open our eyes at that! Believed it
too, every word of it."
"Oh! what was it?" cried Hilda. "Tell me, and I will believe it too!"
"He used to tell of a Malay pirate," said the farmer, "that he fit and
licked somewhere off in the South Seas,--when he sailed the 'Lively
Polly,' that was. She was a clipper, Father always said; an' he run
aboard the black fellers, and smashed their schooner, an' throwed their
guns overboard, an' demoralized 'em ginerally. They took to their boats
an' paddled off, what was left of 'em, an' he an' his crew sarched the
schooner, an' found a woman locked up in the cabin,--an Injin princess,
father said she was,--an' they holdin' her for ransom. Wal, Father found
out somehow whar she come from,--Javy, or Mochy, or some o' them places
out o' the spice-box,--an' he took her home, an' hunted up her parents
an' guardeens, an' handed her over safe an' sound. They--the
guardeens--was gret people whar they lived, an' they wanted to give
Father a pot o' money; but he said he warn't that kind. 'I'm a Yankee
skipper!' says he. ''Twas as good as a meal o' vittles to me to smash
that black feller!' says he. '_I_ don't want no pay for it. An' as for
the lady, 'twas a pleasure to obleege her,' he says; 'an' I'd do it agin
_any_ day in the week, _'xcept_ Sunday, when I don't fight, ez a rewl,
when I kin help it.' Then the princess, she tried to kiss his hand; but
Father said he guessed that warn't quite proper, an' the guardeens
seemed to think so too. So then she took a ruby necklace off her neck
(she was all done up in shawls, Father said, an' silk, an' gold chains,
an' fur an' things, so 's 't he couldn' see nothin' but her eyes; but
they was better wuth seein' than any other woman's hull face that ever
_he_ see), and gave it to him, an' made signs that he _must_ keep that,
anyhow. Then she said somethin' to one o' the guardeens who spoke a
little Portuguese, Father understandin' it a little too, and he told
Father she said these was the drops of her blood he had saved, an' he
must keep it to remember her. Jest like drops of blood, he said the
rubies was, strung along on a gold chain. So he took it, an' said he
warn't likely to forget about it; an' then he made his bow, an' the
guardeens said he was their father, an' their mother, an' their
great-aunt, an' I d' 'no' what all, an' made him stay to supper, an' he
didn't eat nothin' for a week arterward."
The farmer paused, and Hildegarde drew a long breath, "_Oh!_" she cried,
"what a delightful story, Farmer Hartley! And you don't believe it? _I_
do, every word of it! I am _sure_ it is true!"
"Wal, ye see," said the farmer, meditatively; "Ef' t was true, what
become o' the necklace? That's what _I_ say. Father believed it, sure
enough, and he thought he hed that necklace, as sure as you think you
hev that bunnit in yer hand. But 'twarn't never found, hide _nor_ hair
of it."
"Might he not have sold it?" Hilda suggested.
Farmer Hartley shook his head, "No," he said, "he warn't that kind.
Besides, he thought to the day of his death that he hed it, sure enough.
'Thar's the princess's necklace!' he'd say; 'don't ye forgit that,
Wealthy! Along with the di'monds, ye know.' And then he'd laugh like he
was fit to bust. Why, when he was act'lly dyin', so fur gone 't he
couldn' speak plain, he called me to him, an' made signs he wanted to
tell me somethin'. I stooped down clost, an' he whispered somethin'; but
all I could hear was 'di'monds,' and 'dig,' and then in a minute 'twas
all over. Poor old Father! He'd been a good skipper, an' a good man all
his days."
He was silent for a time, while Hilda pondered over the story, which she
could not make up her mind to disbelieve altogether.
"Wal! wal! and here we are at the old farm agin!" said the farmer
presently, as old Nancy turned in at the yellow gate. "Here I've been
talkin' the everlastin' way home, ain't I? You must herry and git into
the house, Huldy, for _I_ d' 'no' how the machine's managed to run
without ye all this time. I sha'n't take ye out agin ef I find anythin's
wrong."
CHAPTER X.
A PARTY OF PLEASURE.
On a certain lovely afternoon the three happiest people in the world (so
they styled themselves, and they ought to know) were gathered together
in a certain spot, which was _next_ to the prettiest spot in the world.
"You should have had _the_ prettiest, Pink," said Hilda, "but we could
not get your chair down into the glen, you know. My poor, dear Pink, you
have never seen the glen, have you?"
"No," answered Pink Chirk, cheerily. "But I have heard so much about it,
I really feel as if I had seen it, almost. And indeed I don't think it
_can_ be much lovelier than this place."
However that might be, the place they had chosen was certainly pretty
enough to satisfy any one. Not far from Mrs. Chirk's cottage was a
little pine-grove, easy of access, and with trees far enough apart to
allow the wheeled chair to pass between them. And in the grove, just in
a little open space where two or three trees had been cut away, was a
great black rock, with ferns growing in all its cracks and crannies, and
a tiny birch-tree waving like a green and white plume on its top. And at
the foot of the rock--oh, what a wonderful thing!--a slender thread of
crystal water came trickling out, as cold as ice and as clear as--as
itself; for nothing else could be so clear. Bubble had made a little
wooden trough to hold this fairy stream, and it gurgled along the trough
and tumbled over the end of it with as much agitation and consequence as
if it were the Niagara River in person. And under the rock and beside
the stream was a bank of moss and ferns most lovely to behold, most
luxurious to sit upon. On this bank sat Queen Hildegarde, with Bubble
at her feet as usual; and beside her, in her chair, sat sweet Pink,
looking more like a white rose than ever, with her fresh white dimity
gown and her pretty hat. Hilda was very busy over a mysterious-looking
basket, from whose depths she now drew a large napkin, which she spread
on the smooth green moss. A plate of sandwiches came next, and some cold
chicken, and six of Dame Hartley's wonderful apple-turnovers.
"Now, Bubble," said Hilda, "where are those birch-bark cups that you
made for us? I have brought nothing to drink out of."
"I'll fetch 'em, Miss Hildy," cried Bubble, springing up with alacrity.
"I clean forgot 'em. Say, Pink, shall I--? would you?" and he made
sundry enigmatical signs to his sister.
"Yes, certainly," said Pink; "of course."
The boy ran off, and Hilda fell to twisting pine tassels together into a
kind of fantastic garland, while Pink looked on with beaming eyes.
"Pink," said Hilda, presently, "how is it that you speak so differently
from Bubble and your mother,--so much better English, I mean? Have
you--but no; you told me you never went to school."
"It was Faith," said Pink, with a look of tender sadness,--"Faith
Hartley. She wanted to be a teacher, and we studied together always.
Dear Faith! I wish you had known her, Miss Graham."
"You promised not to call me Miss Graham again, Pink," said Hildegarde,
reproachfully. "It is absurd, and I won't have it."
"Well, Hilda, then," said Pink, shyly. "I wish you had known Faith,
Hilda; you would have loved her very much, I know."
"I am sure I should," said Hilda, warmly. "Tell me more about her. Why
did she want to teach when she was so happy at home?"
"She loved children very much," said Pink, "and liked to be with them.
She thought that if she studied hard, she could teach them more than
the district school teachers about here generally do, and in a better
way. I think she would have done a great deal of good," she added,
softly.
"Oh! _why_ did she die?" cried Hilda. "She was so much needed! It broke
her father's heart, and her mother's, and almost yours, my Pink. Why was
it right for her to die?"
"It _was_ right, dear," said Pink, gently; "that is all we can know.
'Why' isn't answered in this world. My granny used to say,--
"'Never lie!
Never pry!
Never ask the reason why!'"
Hilda shook her head, and was about to reply earnestly; but at this
moment Bubble came bounding back with something in his arms,--something
covered with an old shawl; something alive, which did not like the
shawl, and which struggled, and made plaintive little noises, which the
boy tried vainly to repress.
[Illustration: "'SAY, MISS HILDY,--DO YOU LIKE PURPS?'"]
"Say, Miss Hildy," he cried, eagerly, "do ye like--be still, ye critter;
hesh, I tell ye!--do you like purps?"
"'Purps,' Bubble?" repeated Hilda, wonderingly. "What are they? And what
have you there,--your poor old cat? Let her go! For shame, you naughty
boy!"
"Puppies, he means," whispered Pink.
"'Cause if ye do," cried the breathless Bubble, still struggling with
his shrouded captive, "I've got one here as--Wal, thar! go 'long, ye
pesky critter, if ye _will_!" for the poor puppy had made one frantic
effort, and leaped from his arms to the ground, where it rolled over and
over, a red and green plaid mass, with a white tail sticking out of one
end. On being unrolled, it proved to be a little snow-white, curly
creature, with long ears and large, liquid eyes, whose pathetic glance
went straight to Hilda's heart.
"Oh, the little darling!" she cried, taking him up in her arms; "the
pretty, pretty creature! Is he really for me, Bubble? Thank you very
much. I shall love him dearly, I know."
"I'm glad ye like him," said Bubble, looking highly gratified. "Hosy
Grout giv him an' another one to me yes'day, over 't the village. He was
goin' to drownd 'em, an' I wouldn' let him, an' he said I might hev 'em
ef I wanted 'em. I knew Pink would like to hev one, an' I thought mebbe
you liked critters, an' so--"
"Good Bubble!" said Hilda, stroking the little dog's curly head. "And
what shall I call him, Pink? Let us each think of a name, and then
choose the best."
There was a pause, and then Bubble said, "Call him Scott, after the bold
Buckle-oh!"
"Or Will, for 'the wily Belted Will,'" said Pink, who was as inveterate
a ballad-lover as her brother.
"I think Jock is a good name," said Hildegarde,--"Jock o' Hazeldean, you
know. I think I will call him Jock." The others assented, and the
puppy was solemnly informed of the fact, and received a chicken-bone in
honor of the occasion. Then the three friends ate their dinner, and very
merry they were over it. Hildegarde crowned Pink with the pine-tassel
wreath, and declared that she looked like a priestess of Diana.
Pages:
1 |
2 |
3 |
4 |
5 |
6 | 7 |
8 |
9 |
10 |
11