Laura Elizabeth Howe Richards - Queen Hildegarde

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"No, she don't," said Bubble, looking up from his cold chicken; "she
looks like Lars Porsena of Clusium sot in his ivory cheer, on'y she
ain't f'erce enough. Hold up yer head, Pinky, an' look real savage, an'
I'll do Horatius at the Bridge."

Pink did her best to look savage, and Zerubbabel stood up and delivered
"Horatius" with much energy and appropriate action, to the great
amusement of his audience. A stout stick, cut from a neighboring
thicket, served for the "good Roman steel;" and with this he cut and
slashed and stabbed with furious energy, reciting the lines meanwhile
with breathless ferocity. He slew the "great Lord of Luna," and on the
imaginary body he--

"Right firmly pressed his heel,
And thrice and four times tugged amain,
Ere he wrenched out the steel."

But when he cried--

"What noble Lucumo comes next
To taste our Roman cheer?"

the puppy, who had been watching the scene with kindling eyes, and ears
and tail of eager inquiry, could bear it no longer, but flung himself
valiantly into the breach, and barked defiance, dancing about in front
of Horatius and snapping furiously at his legs. Alas, poor puppy! He was
hailed as "Sextus," and bade "welcome" by the bold Roman, who forthwith
charged upon him, and drove him round and round the grove till he sought
safety and protection in the lap of Lars Porsena herself. Then the
bridge came down, and Horatius, climbing nimbly to the top of the rock,
apostrophized his Father Tiber, sheathed his good sword by his side
(_i.e._, rammed his stick into and _through_ his breeches pocket), and
with his jacket on his back plunged headlong in the tide, and swam
valiantly across the pine-strewn surface of the little glade.

Bubble's performance was much applauded by the two girls, who, in the
characters of Lars Porsena and Mamilius, "Prince of the Latian name,"
had surveyed the whole with dignified amazement. And when the boy,
exhausted with his heroic exertions, threw himself down on the
pine-needles and begged "Miss Hildy" to sing to them, she readily
consented, and sang "Jock o' Hazeldean" and "Come o'er the stream,
Charlie!" so sweetly that the little fat birds sat still on the branches
to listen. A faint glow stole into Pink's wan cheek, and her blue eyes
sparkled with pleasure; while Bubble bobbed his head, and testified his
delight by drumming with his heels on the ground and begging for more.
"A ballid now, Miss Hildy, please," he cried.

"Well," said Hildegarde, nothing loth, "what shall it be?"

"One with some fightin' in it," replied Bubble, promptly.

So Hildegarde began:--

"Down Deeside cam Inverey,
Whistling and playing;
He's lighted at Brackley gates
At the day's dawing."

And went on to tell of the murder of "bonnie Brackley" and of the
treachery of his young wife:--

"There's grief in the kitchen,
And mirth in the ha';
But the Baron o' Brackley
Is dead and awa'."

So the ballad ended, leaving Bubble full of sanguinary desires anent the
descendants of the false Inverey. "I--I--I'd like jest to git holt o'
some o' them fellers!" he exclaimed. "They wouldn't go slaughterin'
round no gret amount when I'd finished with em', I tell ye!" And he
flourished his stick, and looked so fierce that the puppy yelped
piteously, expecting another onslaught.

"And now, Pink," said Hilda, "we have just time for a story before we go
home. Bubble has told me about your stories, and I want very much to
hear one."

"Oh, Hilda, they are not worth telling twice!" protested Pink; "I just
make them for Bubble when he takes me out on Sunday. It's all I can do
for the dear lad."

"Don't you mind her, Miss Hildy," said Bubble; "they're fustrate
stories, an' she tells 'em jest like p--'rithmetic. Go ahead, Pink! Tell
the one about the princess what looked in the glass all the time."

So Pink, in her low, sweet voice, told the story of

THE VAIN PRINCESS.

Once upon a time there lived a princess who was so beautiful that it was
a wonder to look at her. But she was also very vain; and her beauty was
of no use or pleasure to anybody, for she sat and looked in her mirror
all day long, and never thought of doing anything else.

The mirror was framed in beaten gold, but the gold was not so bright as
her shining locks; and all about its rim great sapphires were set, but
they were dim and gray, compared with the blue of her lovely eyes. So
there she sat all day in a velvet chair, clad in a satin gown with
fringes of silver and pearl; and nobody in the world was one bit the
better for her or her beauty.

Now, one day the princess looked at herself so long and so earnestly
that she fell fast asleep in her velvet chair, with the golden mirror in
her lap. While she slept, a gust of wind blew the casement window open,
and a rose that was growing on the wall outside peeped in. It was a poor
little feeble white rose, which had climbed up the wall in a straggling
fashion, and had no particular strength or beauty or sweetness. Every
one who saw it from the outside said, "What a wretched little plant!
Why is it not cut down?" and the rose trembled when it heard this, for
it was as fond of life as if it were beautiful, and it still hoped for
better days. Inside, no one thought about it at all; for the beautiful
princess never left her chair to open the window.

Now, when the rose saw the princess it was greatly delighted, for it had
often heard of her marvellous beauty. It crept nearer and nearer, and
gazed at the golden wonder of her hair, her ivory skin under which the
blushes came and went as she slept, and her smiling lips. "Ah!" sighed
the rose, "if I had only a tinge of that lovely red, I should be finer
than all the other roses." And as it gazed, the thought came into its
mind: "Why should I not steal a little of this wondrous beauty? Here it
is of no use to anybody. If I had it, I would delight every one who
passed by with my freshness and sweetness, and people would be the
better for seeing a thing so lovely."

So the rose crept to the princess's feet, and climbed up over her satin
gown, and twined about her neck and arms, and about her lovely golden
head. And it stole the blush from her cheek, and the crimson from her
lips, and the gold from her hair. And the princess grew pale and paler;
but the rose blushed red and redder, and its golden heart made the room
bright, and its sweetness filled the air. It grew and grew, and now new
buds and leaves and blossoms appeared; and when at last it left the
velvet chair and climbed out of the casement again, it was a glorious
plant, such as had never before been seen. All the passers-by stopped to
look at it and admire it. Little children reached up to pluck the
glowing blossoms, and sick and weary people gained strength and courage
from breathing their delicious perfume. The world was better and happier
for the rose, and the rose knew it, and was glad.

But when the princess awoke, she took up her golden mirror again, and
looking in it, saw a pale and wrinkled and gray-haired woman looking at
her. Then she shrieked, and flung the mirror on the ground, and rushed
out of her palace into the wide world. And wherever she went she cried,
"I am the beautiful princess! Look at me and see my beauty; for I will
show it to you now!" But nobody looked at her, for she was withered and
ugly; and nobody cared for her, because she was selfish and vain. So she
made no more difference in the world than she had made before. But the
rose is blossoming still, and fills the air with its sweetness.

* * * * *

"My Pink," said Hildegarde, tenderly, as she walked beside her friend's
chair on their homeward way, "you are shut up like the princess; but
instead of the rose stealing your sweetness, you have stolen the
sweetness of all the roses, and taken it into your prison with you."

"I 'shut up,' Hilda?" cried Pink, opening wide eyes of wonder and
reproach. "Do you call _this_ being shut up? See what I have had to-day!
Enough pleasure to think about for a year. And even without it,--even
before you came, Hilda,--why, I am the happiest girl in the world, and I
ought to be."

Hildegarde stooped and kissed the pale forehead. "Yes, dear, I think you
are," she said; "but I should like you to have all the pleasant and
bright and lovely things in the world, my Pink."

"Well, I have the best of them," said Pink Chirk, smiling
brightly,--"home and love, and friends and flowers. And as for the rest,
why, dear Hilda, what _is_ the use in thinking about things one has
not?"

After this, which was part of Pink's little code of philosophy, she fell
a-musing happily, while Hilda walked beside her in a kind of silent
rage, almost hating herself for the fulness of vigor, the superabundant
health and buoyancy, which she felt in every limb. She looked sidelong
at the transparent cheek, the wasted frame, the unearthly radiance of
the blue eyes. This girl was just her own age, and had never walked! It
could not, it _must_ not, be so always. Thoughts thronged into her mind
of the great New York physicians and the wonders they had wrought. Might
it not be possible? Could not something be done? The blood coursed more
quickly through her veins, and she laid her hand on that of the crippled
girl with a sudden impulse of protection and tenderness.

Pink Chirk looked up with a wondering smile. "Why, Hildegarde," she
said, "you look like the British warrior queen you told me about
yesterday. I was just thinking what a comfort it is to live now, instead
of in those dreadful murdering times that the ballads tell of."

"I _druther_ ha' lived then!" cried Bubble, from behind the chair. "If I
hed, I'd ha' got hold o' that Inverey feller."

CHAPTER XI.

THE WARRIOR QUEEN.

Happily, happily, the days and weeks slipped by at Hartley Farm; and now
September was half gone, and in two weeks more Hilda's parents would
return. The letter had just arrived which fixed the date of their
homecoming and Hildegarde had carried it upstairs to feast on it in her
own room. She sat by the window in the little white rocking-chair, and
read the words over and over again. In two weeks--really in two little
weeks--she should see her mother again! It was too good to be true.

"Dragons, do you hear?" she cried, turning towards the wash-handstand.
"You have seen my mother, Dragons, and she has washed her little
blessed face in your bowl. I should think that might have stopped your
ramping, if anything could. Or have you been waving your paws for joy
ever since? I may have been unjust to you, Dragons."

The blue dragons, as usual, refused to commit themselves; and, as usual,
the gilt cherubs round the looking-glass were shocked at their rudeness,
and tried to atone for it by smiling as hard as they possibly could.

"Such dear, sympathetic cherubs!" said the happy girl, bending forward
to kiss one of them as she was brushing her hair. "_You_ do not ramp and
glower when one tells you that one's mother is coming home. I know you
are glad, you dear old things!"

And then, suddenly, even while she was laughing at the cherubs, a
thought struck her which sent a pang through her heart. The cherubs
would still smile, just the same, when she was gone! Ah! it was not all
delight, this great news. There was sorrow mingled with the rapture.
Her heart was with her parents, of course. The mere thought of seeing
her mother's face, of hearing her father's voice, sent the blood dancing
through her veins. And yet--she must leave the farm; she must leave
Nurse Lucy and the farmer, and they would miss her. They loved her; ah!
how could they help it, when she loved them so much? And the pain came
again at her heart as she recalled the sad smile with which the farmer
had handed her this letter. "Good news for you, Huldy," he said, "but
bad for the rest of us, I reckon!" Had he had word also, or did he just
know that this was about the time they had meant to return? Oh, but she
would come out so often to the farm! Papa and mamma would be willing,
would wish her to come; and she could not live long at a time in town,
without refreshing herself with a breath of _real_ air, country air. She
might have _wilted_ along somehow for sixteen years; but she had never
been _really_ alive--had she?--till this summer.

Pink and Bubble too! they would miss her almost as much. But that did
not trouble her, for she had a plan in her head for Pink and Bubble,--a
great plan, which was to be whispered to Papa _almost_ the very moment
she saw him,--not quite _the_ very moment, but the next thing to it. The
plan would please Nurse Lucy and the farmer too,--would please them
almost as much as it delighted her to think about it.

Happy thought! She would go down now and tell the farmer about it. Nurse
Lucy was lying down with a bad headache, she knew; but the farmer was
still in the kitchen. She heard him moving about now, though he had said
he was going off to the orchard. She would steal in softly and startle
him, and then--

Full of happy and loving thoughts, Hildegarde slipped quietly down the
stairs and across the hall, and peeped in at the kitchen-door to see
what the farmer was doing. He was at the farther end of the room, with
his back turned to her, stooping down over his desk. What was he doing?
What a singular attitude he was in! Then, all in a moment, Hilda's heart
seemed to stop beating, and her breath came thick and short; for she saw
that this man before her was not the farmer. The farmer had not long
elf-locks of black hair straggling over his coat-collar; he was not
round-shouldered or bow-legged; above all, he would not be picking the
lock of his own desk, for this was what the man before her was doing.
Silent as her own shadow, Hildegarde slipped back into the hall and
stood still a moment, collecting her thoughts. What should she do? Call
Dame Hartley? The "poor dear" was suffering much, and why should she be
disturbed? Run to find the farmer? She might have to run all over the
farm! No; she would attend to this herself. She was not in the least
afraid. She knew pretty well what ugly face would look up at her when
she spoke; for she felt sure that the slouching, ungainly figure was
that of Simon Hartley. Her heart burned with indignation against the
graceless, thankless churl who could rob the man on whose charity he had
been living for two years. She made a step forward, with words of
righteous wrath on her lips; then paused, as a new thought struck her.
This man was an absolute ruffian; and though she believed him to be an
absolute coward also, still he must know that she and Dame Hartley were
alone in the house. He must know also that the farmer was at some
distance, else he would not have ventured to do this. What should she
do? she asked herself again. She looked round her, and her eyes fell
upon the old horse-pistol which rested on a couple of hooks over the
door. The farmer had taken it down only a day or two before, to show it
to her and tell her its story. It was not loaded, but Simon did not know
that. She stepped lightly up on a chair, and in a moment had taken the
pistol down. It was a formidable-looking weapon, and Hildegarde surveyed
it with much satisfaction as she turned once more to enter the kitchen.
Unloaded as it was, it gave her a feeling of entire confidence; and her
voice was quiet and steady as she said:

"Simon Hartley, what are you doing to your uncle's desk?"

The man started violently and turned round, his hands full of papers,
which he had taken from one of the drawers. He changed color when he saw
"the city gal," as he invariably termed Hilda, and he answered sullenly,
"Gitt'n someth'n for Uncle."

"That is not true," said Hildegarde, quietly, "I have heard your uncle
expressly forbid you to go near that desk. Put those papers back!"

The man hesitated, his little, ferret eyes shifting uneasily from her to
the desk and back again. "I guess I ain't goin' to take orders from no
gal!" he muttered, huskily.

"Put those papers back!" repeated Hildegarde sternly, with a sudden
light in her gray eyes which made the rascal step backward and thrust
the papers hurriedly into the drawer. After which he began to bluster,
as is the manner of cowards. "Pooty thing, city gals comin' hectorin'
round with their airs an'--"

"Shut the drawer!" said Hildegarde, quietly.

But Simon's sluggish blood was warmed by his little bluster, and he took
courage as he reflected that this was only a slight girl, and that no
one else was in the house except "Old Marm," and that many broad meadows
intervened between him and the farmer's stout arm. He would frighten her
a bit, and get the money after all.

"We'll see about that!" he said, taking a step towards Hilda, with an
evil look in his red eyes. "I'll settle a little account with you fust,
my fine lady. I'll teach you to come spyin' round on me this way. Ye
ain't give me a civil word sence ye come here, an' I'll pay ye--"

Here Simon stopped suddenly; for without a word Hildegarde had raised
the pistol (which he had not seen before, as her hand was behind her),
and levelled it full at his head, keeping her eyes steadily fixed on
him. With a howl of terror the wretch staggered back, putting up his
hands to ward off the expected shot.

"Don't shoot!" he gasped, while his color changed to a livid green.
"I--I didn't mean nothin', I swar I didn't, Miss Graham. I was
only--foolin'!" and he tried to smile a sickly smile; but his eyes fell
before the stern glance of the gray eyes fixed so unwaveringly on him.

"Go to your room!" said Hilda, briefly. He hesitated. The lock clicked,
and the girl took deliberate aim.

"I'm goin'!" shrieked the rascal, and began backing towards the door,
while Hilda followed step by step, still covering him with her deadly(!)
weapon. They crossed the kitchen and the back hall in this way, and
Simon stumbled against the narrow stairs which led to his garret
room.

"I dassn't turn round to g' up!" he whined; "ye'll shoot me in the
back." No answer; but the lock clicked again, more ominously than
before. He turned and fled up the stairs, muttering curses under his
breath. Hildegarde closed the door at the foot of the stairs, which
generally stood open, bolted it, and pushed a heavy table against it.
Then she went back into the kitchen, sat down in her own little chair,
and--laughed!

Yes, laughed! The absurdity of the whole episode, the ruffian quaking
and fleeing before the empty pistol, her own martial fierceness and
sanguinary determination, struck her with irresistible force, and peal
after peal of silvery laughter rang through the kitchen. Perhaps it was
partly hysterical, for her nerves were unconsciously strung to a high
pitch; but she was still laughing, and still holding the terrible pistol
in her hand, when Dame Hartley entered the kitchen, looking startled
and uneasy.

"Dear Hilda," said the good woman, "what has been going on? I thought
surely I heard a man's voice here. And--why! good gracious, child! what
are you doing with that pistol?"

Hildegarde saw that there was nothing for it but to tell the simple
truth, which she did in as few words as possible, trying to make light
of the whole episode. But Dame Hartley was not to be deceived, and saw
at once the full significance of what had happened. She was deeply
moved. "My dear, brave child," she said, kissing Hilda warmly, "to think
of your facing that great villain and driving him away! The courage of
you! Though to be sure, any one could see it in your eyes, and your
father a soldier so many of his days too."

"Oh! it was not I who frightened him," said honest Hilda, "it was the
old pistol." But Nurse Lucy only shook her head and kissed her again.
The thought of Simon's ingratitude and treachery next absorbed her mind,
and tears of anger stood in her kind blue eyes.

"It was a black day for my poor man," she said, "when he brought that
fellow to the house. I mistrusted him from the first look at his sulky
face. A man who can't look you in the eyes,--well, there! that's my
opinion of him!"

"Why did the farmer bring him here?" asked Hilda. "I have often
wondered."

"Why, 'tis a long story, my dear," said Nurse Lucy, smoothing her apron
and preparing for a comfortable chat ("For," she said, "Simon will not
dare to stir from his room, even if he could get out, which he can't.").
"Of all his brothers, my husband loved his brother Simon best. He was a
handsome, clever fellow, Simon was. Don't you remember, my dear, Farmer
speaking of him one day when you first came here, and telling how he
wanted to be a gentleman; and I turned the talk when you asked what
became of him?" Hilda nodded assent "Well," Nurse Lucy continued, "that
was because no good came of him, and I knew it vexed Farmer to think on
it, let alone Simon's son being there. It was all through his wanting to
be a gentleman that Simon got into bad ways. Making friends with people
who had money, he got to thinking he must have it, or must make believe
he had it; so he spent all he had, and then--oh, dear!--he forged his
father's name, and the farm had to be mortgaged to get him out of
prison; and then he took to drinking, and went from bad to worse, and
finally died in misery and wretchedness. Dear, dear! it almost broke
Jacob's heart, that it did. He had tried, if ever man tried, to save his
brother; but 'twas of no use. It seemed as if he was _bound_ to ruin
himself, and nothing could stop him. When he died, his wife (he married
her, thinking she had money, and it turned out she hadn't a penny) took
the child and went back to her own people, and we heard nothing more
till about two years ago, when this boy came to Jacob with a letter from
his mother's folks. She was dead, and they said _they_ couldn't do for
him any longer, and he didn't seem inclined to do for himself. Well,
that is the story, Hilda dear. He has been here ever since, and he has
been no comfort, no pleasure to us, I must say; but we have tried to do
our duty by him, and I hoped he might feel in his heart some gratitude
to his uncle, though he showed none in his actions. And now to think of
it! to think of it! How shall I tell my poor man?"

"What was his mother like?" asked Hildegarde, trying to turn for the
moment the current of painful thought.

Nurse Lucy gave a little laugh, even while wiping the tears from her
eyes. "Poor Eliza!" she said. "She was a good woman, but--well, there!
she had no _faculty_, as you may say. And homely! you never saw such a
homely woman, Hilda; for I don't believe there could be two in the
world. I never think of Eliza without remembering what Jacob said after
he saw her for the first time. He'd been over to see Simon; and when he
came back he walked into the kitchen and sat down, never saying a word,
but just shaking his head over and over again. 'What's the matter,
Jacob?' I said. 'Matter?' said he. 'Matter enough, Marm Lucy' (he's
always called me Marm Lucy, my dear, since the very day we were married,
though I wasn't _very_ much older than you then). 'Simon's married,' he
said, 'and I've seen his wife.' Of course I was surprised, and I wanted
to know all about it. 'What sort of a girl is she?' I asked. 'Is she
pretty? What color is her hair?' But Jacob put up his hand and stopped
me. 'Thar!' he says, 'don't ask no questions, and I'll tell ye. Fust
place, she ain't no gal, no more'n yer Aunt Saleny is!' (that was a
maiden aunt of mine, dear, and well over forty at that time.) 'And what
does she look like?' 'Wal! D'ye ever see an old cedar fence-rail,--one
that had been chumped out with a blunt axe, and had laid out in the sun
and the wind and the snow and the rain till 'twas warped this way, and
shrunk that way, and twisted every way? Wal! Simon's wife looks as if
she had swallowed one o' them fence-rails, and _shrunk to it_! Dear,
dear! how I laughed. And 'twas true, my dear! It was just the way she
did look. Poor soul! she led a sad life; for when Simon found he'd made
a mistake about the money, there was no word too bad for him to fling at
her."

At this moment Farmer Hartley's step was heard in the porch, and Nurse
Lucy rose hurriedly. "Don't say anything to him, Hilda dear," she
whispered,--"anything about Simon, I mean. I'll tell him to-morrow; but
I don't want to trouble him to-night. This is our Faith's
birthday,--seventeen year old she'd have been to-day; and it's been a
right hard day for Jacob! I'll tell him about it in the morning."

Alas! when morning came it was too late. The kitchen door was swinging
idly open; the desk was broken open and rifled; and Simon Hartley was
gone, and with him the savings of ten years' patient labor.

CHAPTER XII.

THE OLD MILL.

It was a sad group that sat in the pleasant kitchen that bright
September morning. The good farmer sat before his empty desk, seeming
half stupefied by the blow which had fallen so suddenly upon him, while
his wife hung about him, reproaching herself bitterly for not having put
him on his guard the night before. Hildegarde moved restlessly about the
kitchen, setting things to rights, as she thought, though in reality she
hardly knew what she was doing, and had already carefully deposited the
teapot in the coal-hod, and laid the broom on the top shelf of the
dresser. Her heart was full of wrath and sorrow,--fierce anger against
the miserable wretch who had robbed his benefactor; sympathy for her
kind friends, brought thus suddenly from comfort to distress. For she
knew now that the money which Simon had stolen had been drawn from the
bank only two days before to pay off the mortgage on the farm.

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