THE PRISONER OF DESPAIR.
As she followed in angry silence, Hilda had a glimpse through a
half-open door of a cosey sitting-room; while another door, standing
fully open at the other end of the little hall, showed, by a blaze of
scarlet tiger-lilies and yellow marigolds, where the garden lay. And now
the farmer opened a door and set down the trunk with a heavy thump; and
Dame Hartley, taking the girl's hand, led her forward, saying: "Here, my
dear, here is your own little room,--the same that your dear mamma slept
in when she was here! And I hope you'll be happy in it, Hilda dear, and
get all the good we wish for you while you're here!" Hilda bowed
slightly, feeling unable to speak; and the good woman continued: "You
must be hungry as well as tired, travelling since morning. It's near our
dinner-time. Or shall I bring ye up something now,--a cup o' tea and a
cooky, eh? Or would you like solid victuals better?"
"Thank you!" said Hilda. "I am not at all hungry; I could not possibly
eat anything. My head aches badly!" she added, nervously forestalling
her hostess's protestations. "Perhaps a cup of tea later, thank you! I
should like to rest now. And I shall not want any dinner."
"Oh! you'll feel better, dear, when you have rested a bit," said Dame
Hartley, smoothing the girl's fair hair with a motherly touch, and not
seeming to notice her angry shrinking away. "It's the best thing you can
do, to lie down and take a good nap; then you'll wake up fresh as a
lark, and ready to enjoy yourself. Good-by, dearie! I'll bring up your
tea in an hour or so." And with a parting nod and smile, the good woman
departed, leaving Hilda, like the heroine of a three-volume novel,
"alone with her despair."
Very tragic indeed the maiden looked as she tossed off her hat and flung
herself face downward on the bed, refusing to cast even a glance at the
cell which was to be her hateful prison. "For of course I shall spend my
time here!" she said to herself. "They may send me here, keep me here
for years, if they will; but they cannot make me associate with these
people." And she recalled with a shudder the gnarled, horny hand which
she had touched in jumping from the cart,--she had never felt anything
like it; the homely speech, and the nasal twang with which it was
delivered; the uncouth garb (good stout butternut homespun!) and unkempt
hair and beard of the "odious old savage," as she mentally named Farmer
Hartley.
After all, however, Hilda was only fifteen; and after a few minutes,
Curiosity began to wake; and after a short struggle with Despair, it
conquered, and she sat up on the bed and looked about her.
It was not a very dreadful cell. A bright, clean, fresh little room, all
white and blue. White walls, white bedstead, with oh! such snowy
coverings, white dimity curtains at the windows, with old-fashioned ball
fringes, a little dimity-covered toilet-table, with a quaint
looking-glass framed with fat gilt cherubs, all apparently trying to
fold their wings in such a way as to enable them to get a peep at
themselves in the mirror, and not one succeeding. Then there was a low
rocking-chair, and another chair of the high-backed order, and a tall
chest of drawers, all painted white, and a wash-hand-stand with a set of
dark-blue crockery on it which made the victim of despair open her eyes
wide. Hilda had a touch of china mania, and knew a good thing when she
saw it; and this deep, eight-sided bowl, this graceful jug with the
quaint gilt dragon for a handle, these smaller jugs, boxes, and dishes,
all of the same pattern, all with dark-blue dragons (no cold "Canton"
blue, but a rich, splendid ultramarine), large and small, prancing and
sprawling on a pale buff ground,--what were these things doing in the
paltry bedroom of a common farm-house? Hilda felt a new touch of
indignation at "these people" for presuming to have such things in their
possession.
When her keen eyes had taken in everything, down to the neat rag-carpet
on the floor, the girl bethought her of her trunk. She might as well
unpack it. Her head could not ache worse, whatever she did; and now that
that little imp Curiosity was once awake, he prompted her to wonder what
the trunk contained. None of the dresses she had been wearing, she was
sure of that; for they were all hanging safely in her wardrobe at home.
What surprise had mamma been planning? Well, she would soon know.
Hastily unlocking the trunk, she lifted out one tray after another and
laid them on the bed. In the first were piles of snowy collars and
handkerchiefs, all of plain, fine linen, with no lace or embroidery; a
broad-brimmed straw hat with a simple wreath of daisies round it;
another hat, a small one, of rough gray felt, with no trimming at all,
save a narrow scarlet ribbon; a pair of heavy castor gloves; a couple of
white aprons, and one of brown holland, with long sleeves. The next tray
was filled with dresses,--dresses which made Hilda's eyes open wide
again, as she laid them out, one by one, at full length. There was a
dark blue gingham with a red stripe, a brown gingham dotted with yellow
daisies, a couple of light calicoes, each with a tiny figure or flower
on it, a white lawn, and a sailor-suit of rough blue flannel. All these
dresses, and among them all not an atom of trimming. No sign of an
overskirt, no ruffle or puff, plaiting or ruching, no "Hamburg" or
lace,--nothing! Plain round waists, neatly stitched at throat and
wrists; plain round skirts, each with a deep hem, and not so much as a
tuck by way of adornment.
Hildegarde drew a deep breath, and looked at the simple frocks with
kindling eyes and flushing cheeks. These were the sort of dresses that
her mother's servants wore at home. Why was she condemned to wear them
now,--she, who delighted in soft laces and dainty embroideries and the
clinging draperies which she thought suited her slender, pliant figure
so well? Was it a part of this whole scheme; and was the object of the
scheme to humiliate her, to take away her self-respect, her proper
pride?
Mechanically, but carefully, as was her wont, Hilda hung the despised
frocks in the closet, put away the hats, after trying them on and
approving of them, in spite of herself ("Of course," she said, "mamma
_could_ not get an ugly hat, if she tried!"), and then proceeded to take
out and lay in the bureau drawers the dainty under-clothing which filled
the lower part of the trunk. Under all was a layer of books, at sight
of which Hilda gave a little cry of pleasure. "Ah!" she said, "I shall
not be quite alone;" for she saw at a glance that here were some old and
dear friends. Lovingly she took them up, one by one: "Romances of the
Middle Ages," Percy's "Reliques," "Hereward," and "Westward, Ho!" and,
best-beloved of all, the "Adventures of Robin Hood," by grace of Howard
Pyle made into so strong an enchantment that the heart thrills even at
sight of its good brown cover. And here was her Tennyson and her
Longfellow, and Plutarch's Lives, and the "Book of Golden Deeds." Verily
a goodly company, such as might even turn a prison into a palace. But
what was this, lying in the corner, with her Bible and Prayer-book, this
white leather case, with--ah! Hilda--with blue forget-me-nots delicately
painted on it? Hastily Hilda took it up and pressed the spring. Her
mother's face smiled on her! The clear, sweet eyes looked lovingly into
hers; the tender mouth, which had never spoken a harsh or unkind word,
seemed almost to quiver as if in life. So kind, so loving, so faithful,
so patient, always ready to sympathize, to help, to smile with one's joy
or to comfort one's grief,--her own dear, dear mother! A mist came
before the girl's eyes. She gazed at the miniature till she could no
longer see it; and then, flinging herself down on the pillow again, she
burst into a passion of tears, and sobbed and wept as if her heart would
break. No longer Queen Hildegardis, no longer the outraged and indignant
"prisoner," only Hilda,--Hilda who wanted her mother!
Finally she sobbed herself to sleep,--which was the very best thing she
could have done. By and by Dame Hartley peeped softly in, and seeing the
child lying "all in a heap," as she said to herself, with her pretty
hair all tumbled about, brought a shawl and covered her carefully up,
and went quietly away.
"Pretty lamb!" said the good woman. "She'll sleep all the afternoon now,
like enough, and wake up feeling a good bit better,--though I fear it
will be a long time before your girlie feels at home with Nurse Lucy,
Miss Mildred, dear!"
Sure enough, Hilda did sleep all the afternoon; and the soft summer
twilight was closing round the farm-house when she woke with a start
from a dream of home.
"Mamma!" she called quickly, raising herself from the bed. For one
moment she stared in amazement at the strange room, with its unfamiliar
furnishing; but recollection came only too quickly. She started up as a
knock was heard at the door, and Dame Hartley's voice said:
"Hilda, dear, supper is ready, and I am sure you must be very hungry.
Will you come down with me?"
"Oh! thank you, presently," said Hildegarde, hastily. "I am not--I
haven't changed my dress yet. Don't wait for me, please!"
"Dear heart, don't think of changing your dress!" said Dame Hartley.
"You are a country lassie now, you know, and we are plain farm people.
Come down just as you are, there's a dear!"
Hilda obeyed, only waiting to wash her burning face and hot, dry hands
in the crystal-cold water which she poured out of the blue dragon
pitcher. Her hair was brushed back and tied with a ribbon, the little
curls combed and patted over her forehead; and in a few minutes she
followed her hostess down the narrow staircase, with a tolerably
resigned expression on her pretty face. To tell the truth, Hilda felt a
great deal better for her long nap; moreover she was a little curious,
and very, very hungry,--and oh, how good something did smell!
Mrs. Hartley led the way into the kitchen, as the chief room at Hartley
Farm was still called, though the cooking was now done by means of a
modern stove in the back kitchen, while the great fireplace, with the
crane hanging over it, and the brick oven by its side, was used, as a
rule, only to warm the room. At this season the room needed no warming,
and feathery asparagus crowned the huge back-log, and nodded between the
iron fire-dogs. Ah! it was a pleasant room, the kitchen at Hartley
Farm,--wide and roomy, with deep-seated windows facing the south and
west; with a floor of dark oak, which shone with more than a century of
scrubbing. The fireplace, oven, and cupboards occupied one whole side of
the room. Along the other ran a high dresser, whose shelves held a
goodly array of polished pewter and brass, shining glass, and curious
old china and crockery. Overhead were dark, heavy rafters, relieved by
the gleam of yellow "crook-neck" squashes, bunches of golden corn, and
long festoons of dried apples. In one window stood the good dame's
rocking-chair, with its gay patchwork cushion; and her Bible,
spectacles, and work-basket lay on the window-seat beside it. In
another was a huge leather arm-chair, which Hilda rightly supposed to be
the farmer's, and a wonderful piece of furniture, half desk, half chest
of drawers, with twisted legs and cupboards and pigeon-holes and tiny
drawers, and I don't know what else. The third window Hilda thought was
the prettiest of all. It faced the west, and the full glory of sunset
was now pouring through the clustering vines which partly shaded it. The
sash was open, and a white rose was leaning in and nodding in a friendly
way, as if greeting the new-comer. A low chair and a little work-table,
both of quaint and graceful fashion, stood in the recess; and on the
window-seat stood some flowering-plants in pretty blue and white pots.
"I suppose _I_ am expected to sit there!" said Hilda to herself. "As if
I should sit down in a kitchen!" But all the while she knew in her heart
of hearts that this was one of the most attractive rooms she had ever
seen, and that that particular corner was pretty enough and picturesque
enough for a queen to sit in. You are not to think that she saw all
these things at the first glance; far from it. There was something else
in the room which claimed the immediate attention of our heroine, and
that was a square oak table, shining like a mirror, and covered with
good things,--cold chicken, eggs and bacon, golden butter and honey, a
great brown loaf on a wonderful carved wooden platter, delicate rolls
piled high on a shallow blue dish, and a portly glass jug filled with
rich, creamy milk. Here was a pleasant sight for a hungry heroine of
fifteen! But alas! at the head of this inviting table sat Farmer
Hartley, the "odious savage," in his rough homespun coat, with his hair
still very far from smooth (though indeed he had brushed it, and the
broad, horny hands were scrupulously clean). With a slight shudder Hilda
took the seat which Dame Hartley offered her.
"Well, Huldy," said the farmer, looking up from his eggs and bacon with
a cheery smile, "here ye be, eh? Rested after yer journey, be ye?"
"Yes, thank you!" said Hilda, coldly.
"Have some chick'n!" he continued, putting nearly half a chicken on her
plate. "An' a leetle bacon, jes' ter liven it up, hey? That's right!
It's my idee thet most everythin' 's the better for a bit o' bacon,
unless it's soft custard. I d' 'no ez thet 'ud go with it pitickler.
Haw! haw!"
Hilda kept her eyes on her plate, determined to pay no attention to the
vulgar pleasantries of this unkempt monster. It was hard enough to eat
with a steel fork, without being further tormented. But the farmer
seemed determined to drag her into conversation.
"How's yer ha-alth in gineral, Huldy? Pooty rugged, be ye? Seems to me
ye look kin' o' peaked."
"I am quite well!" It was Queen Hildegarde who spoke now, in icy tones;
but her coldness had no effect on her loquacious host.
"I s'pose ye'll want ter lay by a day or two, till ye git used ter
things, like; but then I sh'll want ye ter take holt. We're short-handed
now, and a smart, likely gal kin be a sight o' help. There's the cows
ter milk--the' ain't but one o' them thet's real ugly, and _she_ only
kicks with the off hind-leg; so 't's easy enough ter look out for her."
Hilda looked up in horror and amazement, and caught a twinkle in the
farmer's eye which told her that he was quizzing her. The angry blood
surged up even to the roots of her hair; but she disdained to reply, and
continued to crumble her bread in silence.
"Father, what ails you?" said kind Dame Hartley. "Why can't you let the
child alone? She's tired yet, and she doesn't understand your joking
ways.--Don't you mind the farmer, dear, one bit; his heart's in the
right place, but he do love to tease."
But the good woman's gentle words were harder to bear, at that moment,
than her husband's untimely jesting. Hilda's heart swelled high. She
felt that in another moment the tears must come; and murmuring a word of
excuse, she hastily pushed back her chair and left the room.
An hour after, Hilda was sitting by the window of her own room, looking
listlessly out on the soft summer evening, and listening to the
melancholy cry of the whippoorwill, when she heard voices below. The
farmer was sitting with his pipe in the vine-clad porch just under the
window; and now his wife had joined him, after "redding up" the kitchen,
and giving orders for the next morning to the tidy maidservant.
"Well, Marm Lucy," said Farmer Hartley's gruff, hearty voice, "now thet
you have your fine bird, I sh'd like to know what you're a-goin' to do
with her. She's as pretty as a pictur, but a stuck-up piece as ever I
see. Don't favor her mother, nor father either, as I can see."
"Poor child!" said Dame Hartley, with a sigh, "I fear she will have a
hard time of it before she comes to herself. But I promised Miss Mildred
that I would try my best; and you said you would help me, Jacob."
"So I did, and so I will!" replied the farmer. "But tell me agin, what
was Miss Mildred's idee? I got the giner'l drift of it, but I can't seem
to put it together exactly. I didn't s'pose the gal was _this_ kind,
anyhow."
"She told me," Dame Hartley said, "that this child--her only one, Jacob!
you know what that means--was getting into ways she didn't like. Going
about with other city misses, who cared for nothing but pleasure, and
who flattered and petted her because of her beauty and her pretty, proud
ways (and maybe because of her father's money too; though Miss Mildred
didn't say that), she was getting to think too much of herself, and to
care too much for fine dresses and sweetmeats and idle chatter about
nothing at all." (How Hilda's cheeks burned as she remembered the long
séances in her room, she on the sofa, and Madge in the arm-chair, with
the box of Huyler's or Maillard's best always between them! Had they
ever talked of anything "worth the while," as mamma would say? She
remembered mamma's coming in upon them once or twice, with her sweet,
grave face. She remembered, too, a certain uneasy feeling she had had
for a moment--only for a moment--when the door closed behind her mother.
But Madge had laughed, and said, "Isn't your mother perfectly sweet? She
doesn't mind a bit, does she?" and she had answered, "Oh, no!" and had
forgotten it in the account of Helen McIvor's new bonnet.) "And then
Miss Mildred said, 'I had meant to take her into the country with me
this summer, and try to show the child what life really means, and let
her learn to know her brothers and sisters in the different walks of
this life, and how they live, and what they do. I want her to see for
herself what a tiny bit of the world, and what a silly, useless, gilded
bit, is the little set of fashionable girls whom she has chosen for her
friends. But this sudden call to California has disarranged all my
plans. I cannot take her with me there, for the child is not well, and
country air and quiet are necessary for her bodily health. And so, Nurse
Lucy,' she says, 'I want _you_ to take my child, and do by her as you
did by me!'
"'Oh! Miss Mildred,' I said, 'do you think she can be happy or contented
here? I'll do my best; I'm sure you know that! But if she's as you say,
she is a very different child to what you were, Miss Mildred dear.'
"'She will not be happy at first,' says Miss Mildred. 'But she has a
really noble nature, Nurse Lucy, and I am very sure that it will triumph
over the follies and faults which are on the outside.'
"And then she kissed me, the dear! and came up and helped me set the
little room to rights, and kissed the pillows, sweet lady, and cried
over them a bit. Ah me! 'tis hard parting from our children, even for a
little while, that it is."
Dame Hartley paused and sighed. Then she said: "And so, here the child
is, for good or for ill, and we must do our very best by her, Jacob, you
as well as I. What ailed you to-night, to tease her so at supper? I
thought shame of you, my man."
"Well, Marm Lucy," said the farmer, "I don't hardly know what ailed me.
But I tell ye what, 'twas either laugh or cry for me, and I thought
laughin' was better nor t'other. To see that gal a-settin' there, with
her pretty head tossed up, and her fine, mincin' ways, as if 'twas an
honor to the vittles to put them in her mouth; and to think of my
maid--" He stopped abruptly, and rising from the bench, began to pace up
and down the garden-path. His wife joined him after a moment, and the
two walked slowly to and fro together, talking in low tones, while the
soft summer darkness gathered closer and closer, and the pleasant
night-sounds woke, cricket and katydid and the distant whippoorwill
filling the air with a cheerful murmur.
Long, long sat Hildegarde at the window, thinking more deeply than she
had ever thought in her life before. Different passions held her young
mind in control while she sat motionless, gazing into the darkness with
wide-open eyes. First anger burned high, flooding her cheek with hot
blushes, making her temples throb and her hands clench themselves in a
passion of resentment. But to this succeeded a mood of deep sadness, of
despair, as she thought; though at fifteen one knows not, happily, the
meaning of despair.
Was this all true? Was she no better, no wiser, than the silly girls of
her set? She had always felt herself so far above them mentally; they
had always so frankly acknowledged her supremacy; she knew she was
considered a "very superior girl:" was it true that her only superiority
lay in possessing powers which she never chose to exert? And then came
the bitter thought: "What have I ever done to prove myself wiser than
they?" Alas for the answer! Hilda hid her face in her hands, and it was
shame instead of anger that now sent the crimson flush over her cheeks.
Her mother despised her! Her mother--perhaps her father too! They loved
her, of course; the tender love had never failed, and would never fail.
They were proud of her too, in a way. And yet they despised her; they
must despise her! How could they help it? Her mother, whose days were a
ceaseless round of work for others, without a thought of herself; her
father, active, energetic, business-like,--what must her life seem to
them? How was it that she had never seen, never dreamed before, that she
was an idle, silly, frivolous girl? The revelation came upon her with
stunning force. These people too, these coarse country people, despised
her and laughed at her! The thought was more than she could bear. She
sprang up, feeling as if she were suffocating, and walked up and down
the little room with hurried and nervous steps. Then suddenly there came
into her mind one sentence of her mother's that Dame Hartley had
repeated: "Hilda has a really noble nature--" What was the rest?
Something about triumphing over the faults and follies which lay
outside. Had her mother really said that? Did she believe, trust in, her
silly daughter? The girl stood still, with clasped hands and bowed head.
The tumult within her seemed to die away, and in its place something was
trembling into life, the like of which Hilda Graham had never known,
never thought of, before; faint and timid at first, but destined to gain
strength and to grow from that one moment,--a wish, a hope, finally a
resolve.