Queen Hildegarde | Page 4

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