DAME AND FARMER.
When the first shock was over, Hilda was rather glad than otherwise to
learn that there was to be no delay in carrying out the odious plan.
"The sooner the better," she said to herself. "I certainly don't want to
see any of the girls again, and the first plunge will be the worst of
it."
"What clothes am I to take?" she asked her mother, in a tone which she
mentally denominated "quiet and cold," though possibly some people might
have called it "sullen."
"Your clothes are already packed, dear," replied Mrs. Graham; "you have
only to pack your dressing-bag, to be all ready for the start to-morrow.
See, here is your trunk, locked and strapped, and waiting for the
porter's shoulder;" and she showed Hilda a stout, substantial-looking
trunk, bearing the initials H.G.
"But, mamma," Hilda began, wondering greatly, "my dresses are all
hanging in my wardrobe."
"Not all of them, dear!" said her mother, smiling. "Hark! papa is
calling you. Make haste and go down, for dinner is ready."
Wondering more and more, Hildegarde made a hasty toilet, putting on the
pretty pale blue cashmere dress which her father specially liked, with
silk stockings to match, and dainty slippers of bronze kid. As she
clasped the necklace of delicate blue and silver Venetian beads which
completed the costume, she glanced into the long cheval-glass which
stood between the windows, and could not help giving a little approving
nod to her reflection. Though not a great beauty, Hildegarde was
certainly a remarkably pretty and even distinguished-looking girl; and
"being neither blind nor a fool," she soliloquized, "where is the harm
in acknowledging it?" But the next moment the thought came: "What
difference will it make, in a stupid farm-house, whether I am pretty or
not? I might as well be a Hottentot!" and with the "quiet and cold" look
darkening over her face, she went slowly down stairs.
Her father met her with a kiss and clasp of the hand even warmer than
usual.
"Well, General!" he said, in a voice which insisted upon being cheery,
"marching orders, eh? Marching orders! Break up camp! boot, saddle, to
horse and away! Forces to march in different directions, by order of the
commander-in-chief." But the next moment he added, in an altered tone:
"My girl, mamma knows best; remember that! She is right in this move, as
she generally is. Cheer up, darling, and let us make the last evening a
happy one!"
Hilda tried to smile, for who _could_ be angry with papa? She made a
little effort, and the father and mother made a great one,--_how_ great
she could not know; and so the evening passed, better than might have
been expected.
The evening passed, and the night, and the next day came; and it was
like waking from a strange dream when Hilda found herself in a railway
train, with her father sitting beside her, and her mother's farewell
kiss yet warm on her cheek, speeding over the open country, away from
home and all that she held most dear. Her dressing-bag, with her
umbrella neatly strapped to it, was in the rack overhead, the check for
her trunk in her pocket. Could it all be true? She tried to listen while
her father told her of the happy days he had spent on his grandfather's
farm when he was a boy; but the interest was not real, and she found it
hard to fix her mind on what he was saying. What did she care about
swinging on gates, or climbing apple-trees, or riding unruly colts! She
was not a boy, nor even a tomboy. When he spoke of the delights of
walking in the country through woodland and meadow, her thoughts strayed
to Fifth Avenue, with its throng of well-dressed people, the glittering
equipages rolling by, the stately houses on either side, through whose
shining windows one caught glimpses of the splendors within; and to the
Park, with its shady alleys and well-kept lawns. Could there be any
walking so delightful as that which these afforded? Surely not! Ah!
Madge and Helen were probably just starting for their walk now. Did they
know of her banishment? would they laugh at the thought of Queen
Hildegardis vegetating for three months at a wretched--
"Glenfield!" The brakeman's voice rang clear and sharp through the car.
Hilda started, and seized her father's hand convulsively.
"Papa!" she whispered, "O papa! don't leave me here; take me home! I
cannot bear it!"
"Come, my child!" said Mr. Graham, speaking low, and with an odd catch
in his voice; "that is not the way to go into action. Remember, this is
your first battle. So, eyes front! charge bayonets! quick step! forward,
_march_!"
The train had stopped. They were on the platform. Mr. Graham led Hilda
up to a stout, motherly-looking woman, who held out her hand with a
beaming smile.
"Here is my daughter, Mrs. Hartley!" he said, hastily. "You will take
good care of her, I know. My darling, good-by! I go on to Dashford, and
home by return train in an hour. God bless you, my Hilda! Courage! Up,
Guards, and at them! Remember Waterloo!" and he was gone. The engine
shrieked an unearthly "Good-by!" and the train rumbled away, leaving
Hilda gazing after it through a mist which only her strong will
prevented from dissolving in tears.
"Well, my dear," said Dame Hartley's cheery voice, "your papa's gone,
and you must not stand here and fret after him. Here is old Nancy
shaking her head, and wondering why she does not get home to her dinner.
Do you get into the cart, and I will get the station-master to put your
trunk in for us."
Hilda obeyed in silence; and climbing into the neat wagon, took her seat
and looked about her while Dame Hartley bustled off in search of the
station-master. There was not very much to look at at Glenfield station.
The low wooden building with its long platform stood on a bare spot of
ground, from which the trees all stood back, as if to mark their
disapproval of the railway and all that belonged to it. The sandy soil
made little attempt to produce vegetation, but put out little humps of
rock occasionally, to show what it could do. Behind, a road led off into
the woods, hiding itself behind the low-hanging branches of chestnut and
maple, ash and linden trees. That was all. Now that the train was gone,
the silence was unbroken save by the impatient movements of the old
white mare as she shook the flies off and rattled the jingling harness.
Hilda was too weary to think. She had slept little the night before, and
the suddenness of the recent changes confused her mind and made her feel
as if she were some one else, and not herself at all. She sat patiently,
counting half-unconsciously each quiver of Nancy's ears. But now Dame
Hartley came bustling back with the station-master, and between the two,
Hilda's trunk was hoisted into the cart. Then the good woman climbed in
over the wheel, settled her ample person on the seat and gathered up the
reins, while the station-master stood smoothing the mare's mane, ready
for a parting word of friendly gossip.
"Jacob pooty smart!" he asked, brushing a fly from Nancy's shoulder.
"Only middling," was the reply. "He had a touch o' rheumatiz, that last
spell of wet weather, and it seems to hang on, kind of. Ketches him in
the joints and the small of his back if he rises up suddin."
"I know! I know!" replied the station-master, with eager interest. "Jest
like my spells ketches me; on'y I have it powerful bad acrost my
shoulders, too. I been kerryin' a potato in my pocket f'r over and above
a week now, and I'm in hopes 't'll cure me."
"A potato in your pocket!" exclaimed Dame Hartley. "Reuel Slocum! what
_do_ you mean?"
"Sounds curus, don't it?" returned Mr. Slocum. "But it's a fact that
it's a great cure for rheumatiz. A grea-at cure! Why, there's Barzillay
Smith, over to Peat's Corner, has kerried a potato in his pocket for
five years,--not the same potato, y' know; changes 'em when they begin
to sprout,--and he hesn't hed a touch o' rheumatism all that time. Not a
touch! tol' me so himself."
"Had he ever hed it before?" asked Dame Hartley.
"I d'no as he hed," said Mr. Slocum, "But his father hed; an' his
granf'ther before him. So ye see--"
But here Hilda uttered a long sigh of weariness and impatience; and Dame
Hartley, with a penitent glance at her, bade good-morning to the victim
of rheumatism, gave old Nancy a smart slap with the reins, and drove off
down the wood-road.
"My dear child," she said to Hilda as they jogged along, "I ought not to
have kept you waiting so long, and you tired with your ride in the cars.
But Reuel Slocum lives all alone here, and he does enjoy a little chat
with an old neighbor more than most folks; so I hope you'll excuse me."
"It is of no consequence, thank you," murmured Hildegarde, with cold
civility. She did not like to be called "my dear child," to begin with;
and besides, she was very weary and heartsick, and altogether miserable.
But she tried to listen, as the good woman continued to talk in a
cheery, comfortable tone, telling her how fond she had always been of
"Miss Mildred," as she called Mrs. Graham, and how she had the care of
her till she was almost a woman grown, and never would have left her
then if Jacob Hartley hadn't got out of patience.
"And to think how you've grown, Hilda dear! You don't remember it, of
course, but this isn't the first time you have been at Hartley's Glen. A
sweet baby you were, just toddling about on the prettiest little feet I
ever saw, when your mamma brought you out here to spend a month with old
Nurse Lucy. And your father came out every week, whenever he could get
away from his business. What a fine man he is, to be sure! And he and my
husband had rare times, shooting over the meadows, and fishing, and the
like."
They were still in the wood-road, now jolting along over ridges and
hummocks, now ploughing through stretches of soft, sandy soil. Above and
on either side, the great trees interlaced their branches, sometimes
letting them droop till they brushed against Hilda's cheek, sometimes
lifting them to give her a glimpse of cool vistas of dusky green, shade
within shade,--moss-grown hollows, where the St. John's-wort showed its
tarnished gold, and white Indian pipe gleamed like silver along the
ground; or stony beds over which, in the time of the spring rains,
little brown brooks ran foaming and bubbling down through the woods. The
air was filled with the faint cool smell of ferns, and on every side
were great masses of them,--clumps of splendid ostrich-ferns, waving
their green plumes in stately pride; miniature forests of the graceful
brake, beneath whose feathery branches the wood-mouse and other tiny
forest-creatures roamed secure; and in the very road-way, trampled under
old Nancy's feet, delicate lady-fern, and sturdy hart's-tongue, and a
dozen other varieties, all perfect in grace and sylvan beauty. Hilda was
conscious of a vague delight, through all her fatigue and distress How
beautiful it was; how cool and green and restful! If she must stay in
the country, why could it not be always in the woods, where there was no
noise, nor dust, nor confusion?
Her revery was broken in upon by Dame Hartley's voice crying cheerily,--
"And here we are, out of the woods at last! Cheer up, my pretty, and let
me show you the first sight of the farm. It's a pleasant, heartsome
place, to my thinking."
The trees opened left and right, stepping back and courtesying, like
true gentlefolks as they are, with delicate leaf-draperies drooping low.
The sun shone bright and hot on a bit of hard, glaring yellow road, and
touched more quietly the roofs and chimneys of an old yellow farm-house
standing at some distance from the road, with green rolling meadows on
every side, and a great clump of trees mounting guard behind it. A low
stone wall, with wild-roses nodding over it, ran along the roadside for
some way, and midway in it was a trim, yellow-painted gate, which stood
invitingly open, showing a neat drive-way, shaded on either side by
graceful drooping elms. Old Nancy pricked up her ears and quickened her
pace into a very respectable trot, as if she already smelt her oats.
Dame Hartley shook her own comfortable shoulders and gave a little sigh
of relief, for she too was tired, and glad to get home. But Hilda
tightened her grasp on the handle of her dressing-bag, and closed her
eyes with a slight shiver of dislike and dread. She would not look at
this place. It was the hateful prison where she was to be shut up for
three long, weary, dismal months. The sun might shine on it, the trees
might wave, and the wild-roses open their slender pink buds; it would be
nothing to her. She hated it, and nothing, nothing, _nothing_ could
_ever_ make her feel differently. Ah! the fixed and immovable
determination of fifteen,--does later life bring anything like it?
But now the wagon stopped, and Hilda must open her eyes, whether she
would or no. In the porch, under the blossoming clematis, stood a tall,
broad-shouldered man, dressed in rough homespun, who held out his great
brown hand and said in a gruff, hearty voice,--
"Here ye be, eh? Thought ye was never comin'. And this is little miss,
is it? Howdy, missy? Glad to see ye! Let me jump ye out over the wheel!"
But Hilda declined to be "jumped out;" and barely touching the proffered
hand, sprang lightly to the ground.
"Now, Marm Lucy," said Farmer Hartley, "let's see you give a jump like
that. 'Tain't so long, seems to me, sence ye used to be as spry as a
hoppergrass."
Dame Hartley laughed, and climbed leisurely down from the cart. "Never
mind, Jacob!" she said; "I'm spry enough yet to take care of you, if I
can't jump as well as I used."
"This missy's trunk?" continued the farmer. "Let me see! What's missy's
name now? Huldy, ain't it! Little Huldy! 'Pears to me that's what they
used to call ye when ye was here before."
"My name is Hildegardis Graham!" said Hilda in her most icy
manner,--what Madge Everton used to call her
Empress-of-Russia-in-the-ice-palace-with-the-mercury-sixty-degrees-below-zero
manner.
"Huldy Gardies!" repeated Farmer Hartley. "Well, that's a comical name
now! Sounds like Hurdy-gurdys, doosn't it? Where did Mis' Graham pick up
a name like that, I wonder? But I reckon Huldy'll do for me, 'thout the
Gardies, whatever they be."
"Come, father," said Dame Hartley, "the child's tired now, an' I guess
she wants to go upstairs. If you'll take the trunk, we'll follow ye."
The stalwart farmer swung the heavy trunk up on his shoulder as lightly
as if it were a small satchel, and led the way into the house and up the
steep, narrow staircase.