Queen Hildegarde | Page 9

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-b
elow-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.
CHAPTER III.

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