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QUEEN HILDEGARDE
BOOKS BY LAURA E. RICHARDS
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Queen Hildegarde
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Hildegarde's Home
Hildegarde's Neighbors
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Three Margarets
Margaret Montfort
Peggy
Rita
Fernley House
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L.C. PAGE & COMPANY (Inc.)
53 Beacon Street Boston, Mass.
[Illustration: "SHE GLANCED INTO THE LONG CHEVAL-GLASS."]
_THE HILDEGARDE SERIES_
Queen Hildegarde
A STORY FOR GIRLS
BY
LAURA E. RICHARDS
Author of
"The Margaret Series," "The Hildegarde Series," "Captain January,"
"Melody," "Five Minute Stories," etc.
_ILLUSTRATED_
[Illustration]
THE PAGE COMPANY BOSTON · PUBLISHERS
_Copyright, 1889, by_
THE PAGE COMPANY
Copyright renewed, 1917
Made in U.S.A.
Thirty-second Impression, August, 1927
THE COLONIAL PRESS
C.H. SIMONDS CO., BOSTON, U.S.A.
TO
MY BELOVED SISTER,
=Maud Howe Elliott.=
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER PAGE
I. HILDEGARDIS GRAHAM 9
II. DAME AND FARMER 31
III. THE PRISONER OF DESPAIR 49
IV. THE NEW HILDA 73
V. THE BLUE PLATTER 94
VI. HARTLEY'S GLEN 111
VII. PINK CHIRK 135
VIII. THE LETTER 160
IX. THE OLD CAPTAIN 178
X. A PARTY OF PLEASURE 198
XI. THE WARRIOR QUEEN 218
XII. THE OLD MILL 237
XIII. THE TREE-PARTY 272
THE LAST WORD 289
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
PAGE
"SHE GLANCED INTO THE LONG CHEVAL-GLASS"
(_See page 32_) _Frontispiece_
"SHE PUSHED THE BUSHES ASIDE AND CAME TOWARDS HIM" 47
"SHE BENT IN REAL DISTRESS OVER THE CURRANTS" 89
"SHE FLUNG THE CORN IN GOLDEN SHOWERS ON THEIR HEADS" 117
"THE PALE GIRL MADE NO ATTEMPT TO RISE" 155
"'SAY, MISS HILDY,--DO YOU LIKE PURPS?'" 205
"EACH TOOK A SKIMMER AND SET EARNESTLY TO WORK" 227
"'TAKE IT AND OPEN IT!'" 267
QUEEN HILDEGARDE.
CHAPTER I.
HILDEGARDIS GRAHAM.
"And have you decided what is to become of Hilda?" asked Mrs. Graham.
"Hilda?" replied her husband, in a tone of surprise, "Hilda? why, she
will go with us, of course. What else should become of the child? She
will enjoy the trip immensely, I have no doubt."
Mrs. Graham sighed and shook her head. "I fear that is impossible, dear
George!" she said. "To tell the truth, I am a little anxious about
Hilda; she is not at all well. I don't mean that she is actually _ill_,"
she added quickly, as Mr. Graham looked up in alarm, "but she seems
languid and dispirited, has no appetite, and is inclined to be
fretful,--an unusual thing for her."
"Needs a change!" said Mr. Graham, shortly. "Best thing for her. Been
studying too hard, I suppose, and eating caramels. If I could discover
the man who invented that pernicious sweetmeat, I would have him
hanged!--hanged, madam!"
"Oh, no, you wouldn't, dear!" said his wife, laughing softly; "I think
his life would be quite safe. But about Hilda now! She _does_ need a
change, certainly; but is the overland journey in July just the right
kind of change for her, do you think?"
Mr. Graham frowned, ran his fingers through his hair, drummed on the
table, and then considered his boots attentively. "Well--no!" he said at
last, reluctantly. "I--suppose--not. But what _can_ we do with her? Send
her to Fred and Mary at the seashore?"
"To sleep in a room seven by twelve, and be devoured by mosquitoes, and
have to wear 'good clothes' all the time?" returned Mrs. Graham.
"Certainly not."
"Aunt Emily is going to the mountains," suggested Mr. Graham,
doubtfully.
"Yes," replied his wife, "with sixteen trunks, a maid, a footman, and
three lapdogs! _That_ would _never_ do for Hilda."
"You surely are not thinking of leaving her alone here with the
servants?"
The lady shook her head. "No, dear; such poor wits as Heaven granted me
are not yet entirely gone, thank you!"
Mr. Graham rose from his chair and flung out both arms in a manner
peculiar to him when excited. "Now, now, now, Mildred!" he said
impressively, "I have always said that you were a good woman, and I
shall continue to assert the same; but you have powers of tormenting
that could not be surpassed by the most heartless of your sex. It is
perfectly clear, even to my darkened mind, that you have some plan for
Hilda fully matured and arranged in that scheming little head of yours;
so what is your object in keeping me longer in suspense? Out with it,
now! What are you--for of course I am in reality only a cipher (a
tolerably large cipher) in the sum--what are you, the commander-in-chief,
going to do with Hilda, the lieutenant-general? If you will kindly
inform the orderly-sergeant, he will act accordingly, and endeavor to
do his duty."
Pretty Mrs. Graham laughed again, and looked up at the six-feet-two of
sturdy manhood standing on the hearth-rug, gazing at her with eyes which
twinkled merrily under the fiercely frowning brows. "You are a very
_dis_orderly-sergeant, dear!" she said. "Just look at your hair! It
looks as if all the four winds had been blowing through it--"
"Instead of all the ten fingers _going_ through it," interrupted her
husband. "Never mind my hair; that is not the point.
_What_--do--you--propose--to--do--with--your daughter--Hildegarde, or
Hildegardis, as it should properly be written?"
"Well, dear George," said the commander-in-chief (she was a very small
woman and a very pretty one, though she had a daughter "older than
herself," as her husband said; and she wore a soft lilac gown, and had
soft, wavy brown hair, and was altogether very pleasant to look
at)--"well, dear George, the truth is, I _have_ a little plan, which I
should like very much to carry out, if you fully approve of it."
"Ha!" said Mr. Graham, tossing his "tempestuous locks" again, "ho! I
thought as much. _If_ I approve, eh, little madam? Better say, whether I
approve or not."
So saying, the good-natured giant sat himself down again, and listened
while his wife unfolded her plan; and what the plan was, we shall see by
and by. Meanwhile let us take a peep at Hilda, or Hildegardis, as she
sits in her own room, all unconscious of the plot which is hatching in
the parlor below. She is a tall girl of fifteen. Probably she has
attained her full height, for she looks as if she had been growing too
fast; her form is slender, her face pale, with a weary look in the large
gray eyes. It is a delicate, high-bred face, with a pretty nose,
slightly "tip-tilted," and a beautiful mouth; but it is half-spoiled by
the expression, which is discontented, if not actually peevish. If we
lifted the light curling locks of fair hair which lie on her forehead,
we should see a very decided frown on a broad white space which ought to
be absolutely smooth. Why should a girl of fifteen frown, especially a
girl so "exceptionally fortunate" as all her friends considered Hilda
Graham? Certainly her surroundings at this moment are pretty enough to
satisfy any girl. The room is not large, but it has a sunny bay-window
which seems to increase its size twofold. In re-furnishing it a year
before, her father had in mind Hilda's favorite flower, the
forget-me-not, and the room is simply a bower of forget-me-nots.
Scattered over the dull olive ground of the carpet, clustering and
nodding from the wall-paper, peeping from the folds of the curtains, the
forget-me-nots are everywhere. Even the creamy surface of the toilet-jug
and bowl, even the ivory backs of the brushes that lie on the
blue-covered toilet table, bear each its cluster of pale-blue blossoms;
while the low easy-chair in which the girl is reclining, and the pretty
sofa with its plump cushions inviting to repose, repeat the same tale.
The tale is again repeated, though in a different way, by a scroll
running round the top of the wall, on which in letters of blue and gold
is written at intervals: "Ne m'oubliez pas!" "Vergiss mein nicht!" "Non
ti scordar!" and the same sentiment is repeated in Spanish, Latin,
Greek, and Hebrew, of all which tongues the fond father possessed
knowledge.
Is not this indeed a bower, wherein a girl ought to be happy? the bird
in the window thinks his blue and gold cage the finest house in the
world, and sings as heartily and cheerily as if he had been in the wide
green forest; but his mistress does not sing. She sits in the
easy-chair, with a book upside-down in her lap, and frowns,--actually
frowns, in a forget-me-not bower! There is not much the matter, really.
Her head aches, that is all. Her German lesson has been longer and
harder than usual, and her father was quite right about the caramels;
there is a box of them on the table now, within easy reach of the slim
white hand with its forget-me-not ring of blue turquoises. (I do not
altogether agree with Mr. Graham about hanging the caramel-maker, but I
should heartily like to burn all his wares. Fancy a great mountain of
caramels and chocolate-creams and marrons glacés piled up in Union
Square, for example, and blazing away merrily,--that is, if the things
would burn, which is more than doubtful. How the maidens would weep and
wring their hands while the heartless parents chuckled and fed the
flames with all the precious treasures of Maillard and Huyler! Ah! it is
a pleasant thought, for I who write this am a heartless parent, do you
see?)
As I said before, Hilda had no suspicion of the plot which her parents
were concocting. She knew that her father was obliged to go to San
Francisco, being called suddenly to administer the estate of a cousin
who had recently died there, and that her mother and--as she
supposed--herself were going with him to offer sympathy and help to the
widow, an invalid with three little children. As to the idea of her
being left behind; of her father's starting off on a long journey
without his lieutenant-general; of her mother's parting from her only
child, whom she had watched with tender care and anxiety since the day
of her birth,--such a thought never came into Hilda's mind. Wherever her
parents went she went, as a matter of course. So it had always been, and
so without doubt it always would be. She did not care specially about
going to California at this season of the year,--in fact she had told
her bosom friend, Madge Everton, only the day before, that it was
"rather a bore," and that she should have preferred to go to Newport.
"But what would you?" she added, with the slightest shrug of her pretty
shoulders. "Papa and mamma really must go, it appears; so of course I
must go too."
"A bore!" repeated Madge energetically, replying to the first part of
her friend's remarks. "Hilda, what a _very_ singular girl you are! Here
I, or Nelly, or _any_ of the other girls would give both our ears, and
our front teeth too, to make such a trip; and just because you _can_ go,
you sit there and call it 'a bore!'" And Madge shook her black curls,
and opened wide eyes of indignation and wonder at our ungrateful
heroine. "I only wish," she added, "that you and I could be changed into
each other, just for this summer."
"I wish--" began Hilda; but she checked herself in her response to the
wish, as the thought of Madge's five brothers rose in her mind (Hilda
could not endure boys!), looked attentively at the toe of her little
bronze slipper for a few moments, and then changed the subject by
proposing a walk. "Console yourself with the caramels, my fiery Madge,"
she said, pushing the box across the table, "while I put on my boots. We
will go to Maillard's and get some more while we are out. His caramels
are decidedly better than Huyler's; don't you think so!"
A very busy woman was pretty Mrs. Graham during the next two weeks.
First she made an expedition into the country "to see an old friend,"
she said, and was gone two whole days. And after that she was out every
morning, driving hither and thither, from shop to dressmaker, from
dressmaker to milliner, from milliner to shoemaker.
"It is a sad thing," Mr. Graham would say, when his wife fluttered in
to lunch, breathless and exhausted and half an hour late (she, the most
punctual of women!),--"it is a sad thing to have married a comet by
mistake, thinking it was a woman. How did you find the other planets
this morning, my dear? Is it true that Saturn has lost one of his rings?
and has the Sun recovered from his last attack of spots? I really fear,"
he would add, turning to Hilda, "that this preternatural activity in
your comet-parent portends some alarming change in the--a--atmospheric
phenomena, my child. I would have you on your guard!" and then he would
look at her and sigh, shake his head, and apply himself to the cold
chicken with melancholy vigor.
Hilda thought nothing of her father's remarks,--papa was always talking
nonsense, and she thought she always understood him perfectly. It did
occur to her, however, to wonder at her mother's leaving her out on all
her shopping expeditions. Hilda rather prided herself on her skill in
matching shades and selecting fabrics, and mamma was generally glad of
her assistance in all such matters. However, perhaps it was only
under-clothing and house-linen, and such things that she was buying. All
that was the prosy part of shopping. It was the poetry of it that Hilda
loved,--the shimmer of silk and satin, the rich shadows in velvet, the
cool, airy fluttering of lawn and muslin and lace. So the girl went on
her usual way, finding life a little dull, a little tiresome, and most
people rather stupid, but everything on the whole much as usual, if her
head only would not ache so; and it was without a shadow of suspicion
that she obeyed one morning her mother's summons to come and see her in
her dressing-room.
Mr. Graham always spoke of his wife's dressing-room as "the citadel." It
was absolutely impregnable, he said. In the open field of the
drawing-room or the broken country of the dining-room it might be
possible--he had never known such a thing to occur, but still it _might_
be possible--for the commander-in-chief to sustain a defeat; but once
intrenched behind the walls of the citadel, horse, foot, and dragoons
might storm and charge upon her, but they could not gain an inch. Not an
inch, sir! True it was that Mrs. Graham always felt strongest in this
particular room. She laughed about it, but acknowledged the fact. Here,
on the wall, hung a certain picture which was always an inspiration to
her. Here, on the shelf above her desk, were the books of her heart, the
few tried friends to whom she turned for help and counsel when things
puzzled her. (Mrs. Graham was never disheartened. She didn't believe
there was such a word. She was only "puzzled" sometimes, until she saw
her way and her duty clear before her, and then she went straight
forward, over a mountain or through a stone wall, as the case might
be.) Here, in the drawer of her little work-table, were some relics,--a
tiny, half-worn shoe, a little doll, a sweet baby face laughing from an
ivory frame: the insignia of her rank in the great order of sorrowing
mothers; and these, perhaps, gave her that great sympathy and tenderness
for all who were in trouble which drew all sad hearts towards her.
And so, on this occasion, the little woman had sat for a few moments
looking at the pictured face on the wall, with its mingled majesty and
sweetness; had peeped into the best-beloved of all books, and said a
little prayer, as was her wont when "puzzled," before she sent the
message to Hilda,--for she knew that she must sorely hurt and grieve the
child who was half the world to her; and though she did not flinch from
the task, she longed for strength and wisdom to do it in the kindest and
wisest way.
"Hilda, dear," she said gently, when they were seated together on the
sofa, hand in hand, with each an arm round the other's waist, as they
loved best to sit,--"Hilda, dear, I have something to say that will not
please you; something that may even grieve you very much at first." She
paused, and Hilda rapidly reviewed in her mind all the possibilities
that she could think of. Had anything happened to the box of French
dresses which was on its way from Paris? Had a careless servant broken
the glass of her fernery again? Had Aunt Emily been saying disagreeable
things about her, as she was apt to do? She was about to speak, but at
that moment, like a thunderbolt, the next words struck her ear: "We have
decided not to take you with us to California." Amazed, wounded,
indignant, Hilda could only lift her great gray eyes to meet the soft
violet ones which, full of unshed tears, were fixed tenderly upon her.
Mrs. Graham continued: "Your father and I both feel, my darling, that
this long, fatiguing journey, in the full heat of summer, would be the
worst possible thing for you. You have not been very well lately, and it
is most important that you should lead a quiet, regular, healthy life
for the next few months. We have therefore made arrangements to leave
you--"
But here Hilda could control herself no longer. "Mamma! mamma!" she
cried. "How can you be so unkind, so cruel? Leave me--you and papa both?
Why, I shall die! Of course I shall die, all alone in this great house.
I thought you loved me!" and she burst into tears, half of anger, half
of grief, and sobbed bitterly.
"Dear child!" said Mrs. Graham, smoothing the fair hair lovingly, "if
you had heard me out, you would have seen that we had no idea of leaving
you alone, or of leaving you in this house either. You are to stay
with--"
"Not with Aunt Emily!" cried the girl, springing to her feet with
flashing eyes. "Mamma, I would rather beg in the streets than stay with
Aunt Emily. She is a detestable, ill-natured, selfish woman."
"Hildegarde," said Mrs. Graham gravely, "be silent!" There was a moment
of absolute stillness, broken only by the ticking of the little crystal
clock on the mantelpiece, and then Mrs. Graham continued: "I must ask
you not to speak again, my daughter, until I have finished what I have
to say; and even then, I trust you will keep silence until you are able
to command yourself. You are to stay with my old nurse, Mrs. Hartley, at
her farm near Glenfield. She is a very kind, good woman, and will take
the best possible care of you. I went to the farm myself last week, and
found it a lovely place, with every comfort, though no luxuries, save
the great one of a free, healthy, natural life. There, my Hilda, we
shall leave you, sadly indeed, and yet feeling that you are in good and
loving hands. And I feel very sure," she added in a lighter tone, "that
by the time we return, you will be a rosy-cheeked country lass, strong
and hearty, with no more thought of headaches, and no wrinkle in your
forehead." As she ceased speaking, Mrs. Graham drew the girl close to
her, and kissed the white brow tenderly, murmuring: "God bless my
darling daughter! If she knew how her mother's heart aches at parting
with her!" But Hilda did not know. She was too angry, too bewildered,
too deeply hurt, to think of any one except herself. She felt that she
could not trust herself to speak, and it was in silence, and without
returning her mother's caress, that she rose and sought her own room.
Mrs. Graham looked after her wistfully, tenderly, but made no effort to
call her back. The tears trembled in her soft blue eyes, and her lip
quivered as she turned to her work-table; but she said quietly to
herself: "Solitude is a good medicine. The child will do well, and I
know that I have chosen wisely for her."
Bitter tears did Hildegarde shed as she flung herself face downward on
her own blue sofa. Angry thoughts surged through her brain. Now she
burned with resentment at the parents who could desert her,--their only
child; now she melted into pity for herself, and wept more and more as
she pictured the misery that lay before her. To be left
alone--_alone!_--on a squalid, wretched farm, with a dirty old woman, a
woman who had been a servant,--she, Hildegardis Graham, the idol of her
parents, the queen of her "set" among the young people, the proudest and
most exclusive girl in New York, as she had once (and not with
displeasure) heard herself called!
What would Madge Everton, what would all the girls say! How they would
laugh, to hear of Hilda Graham living on a farm among pigs and hens and
dirty people! Oh! it was intolerable; and she sprang up and paced the
floor, with burning cheeks and flashing eyes.
The thought of opposing the plan did not occur to her. Mrs. Graham's
rule, gentle though it was, was not of the flabby, nor yet of the
elastic sort. Her decisions were not hastily arrived at; but once made,
they were final and abiding. "You might just as well try to oppose the
Gulf Stream!" Mr. Graham would say. "They do it sometimes with icebergs,
and what is the result? In a few days the great clumsy things are bowing
and scraping and turning somersaults, and fairly jostling each other in
their eagerness to obey the guidance of the insidious current. Insidious
Current, will you allow a cup of coffee to drift in my direction? I
shall be only too happy to turn a somersault if it will afford
you--thanks!--the smallest gratification."
So Hildegarde's first lessons had been in obedience and in truthfulness;
and these were fairly well learned before she began her ABC. And so she
knew now, that she might storm and weep as she would in her own room,
but that the decree was fixed, and that unless the skies fell, her
summer would be passed at Hartley's Glen.