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.