Queen Hildegarde | Page 8

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