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    Queen Hildegarde
    Queen Hildegarde
    Queen Hildegarde
    Ebook177 pages3 hours

    Queen Hildegarde

    By Laura Elizabeth Howe Richards

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    About this ebook

    Queen Hildegarde written by an American writer Laura Elizabeth Howe Richards. This book is one of The Hildegarde Series. First published in 1889. And now republish in ebook format. We believe this work is culturally important in its original archival form. While we strive to adequately clean and digitally enhance the original work, there are occasionally instances where imperfections such as blurred or missing pages, poor pictures or errant marks may have been introduced due to either the quality of the original work. Despite these occasional imperfections, we have brought it back into print as part of our ongoing global book preservation commitment, providing customers with access to the best possible historical reprints. We appreciate your understanding of these occasional imperfections, and sincerely hope you enjoy reading this book.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherPublisher s11838
    Release dateFeb 6, 2018
    ISBN9788827565575
    Queen Hildegarde

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    • 5/5
      This book is really good!
      It shows a lot of kindness, and only a little bit of negativity.

    Book preview

    Queen Hildegarde - Laura Elizabeth Howe Richards

    Queen Hildegarde

    By

    Laura Elizabeth Howe Richards

    Table of Contents

    CHAPTER I. HILDEGARDIS GRAHAM.

    CHAPTER II. DAME AND FARMER.

    CHAPTER III. THE PRISONER OF DESPAIR.

    CHAPTER IV. THE NEW HILDA.

    CHAPTER V. THE BLUE PLATTER.

    CHAPTER VI. HARTLEY'S GLEN.

    CHAPTER VII. PINK CHIRK.

    CHAPTER VIII. THE LETTER.

    CHAPTER IX. THE OLD CAPTAIN.

    CHAPTER X. A PARTY OF PLEASURE.

    CHAPTER XI. THE WARRIOR QUEEN.

    CHAPTER XII. THE OLD MILL.

    CHAPTER XIII. THE TREE-PARTY.

    THE LAST WORD.

    SHE GLANCED INTO THE LONG CHEVAL-GLASS.

    CHAPTER I. HILDEGARDIS GRAHAM.

    And have you decided what is to become of Hilda? asked Mrs. Graham.

    Hilda? replied her husband, in a tone of surprise, Hilda? Why, she will go with us, of course. What else should become of the child? She will enjoy the trip immensely, I have no doubt.

    Mrs. Graham sighed and shook her head. I fear that is impossible, dear George! she said. "To tell the truth, I am a little anxious about Hilda; she is not at all well. I don't mean that she is actually ill, she added quickly, as Mr. Graham looked up in alarm, but she seems languid and dispirited, has no appetite, and is inclined to be fretful,—an unusual thing for her."

    Needs a change! said Mr. Graham, shortly. Best thing for her. Been studying too hard, I suppose, and eating caramels. If I could discover the man who invented that pernicious sweetmeat, I would have him hanged!—hanged, madam!

    Oh, no, you wouldn't, dear! said his wife, laughing softly; I think his life would be quite safe. But about Hilda now! She does need a change, certainly; but is the overland journey in July just the right kind of change for her, do you think?

    Mr. Graham frowned, ran his fingers through his hair, drummed on the table, and then considered his boots attentively. Well—no! he said at last, reluctantly. I—suppose—not. But what can we do with her? Send her to Fred and Mary at the seashore?

    To sleep in a room seven by twelve, and be devoured by mosquitoes, and have to wear 'good clothes' all the time? returned Mrs. Graham. Certainly not.

    Aunt Emily is going to the mountains, suggested Mr. Graham, doubtfully.

    Yes, replied his wife, with sixteen trunks, a maid, a footman, and three lapdogs! That would never do for Hilda.

    You surely are not thinking of leaving her alone here with the servants?

    The lady shook her head. No, dear; such poor wits as Heaven granted me are not yet entirely gone, thank you!

    Mr. Graham rose from his chair and flung out both arms in a manner peculiar to him when excited. Now, now, now, Mildred! he said impressively, I have always said that you were a good woman, and I shall continue to assert the same; but you have powers of tormenting that could not be surpassed by the most heartless of your sex. It is perfectly clear, even to my darkened mind, that you have some plan for Hilda fully matured and arranged in that scheming little head of yours; so what is your object in keeping me longer in suspense? Out with it, now! What are you—for of course I am in reality only a cipher (a tolerably large cipher) in the sum—what are you, the commander-in-chief, going to do with Hilda, the lieutenant-general? If you will kindly inform the orderly-sergeant, he will act accordingly, and endeavor to do his duty.

    Pretty Mrs. Graham laughed again, and looked up at the six-feet-two of sturdy manhood standing on the hearth-rug, gazing at her with eyes which twinkled merrily under the fiercely frowning brows. "You are a very disorderly-sergeant, dear! she said. Just look at your hair! It looks as if all the four winds had been blowing through it—"

    Instead of all the ten fingers going through it, interrupted her husband. Never mind my hair; that is not the point. What—do—you—propose—to—do—with—your daughter—Hildegarde, or Hildegardis, as it should properly be written?

    Well, dear George, said the commander-in-chief (she was a very small woman and a very pretty one, though she had a daughter older than herself, as her husband said; and she wore a soft lilac gown, and had soft, wavy brown hair, and was altogether very pleasant to look at)—well, dear George, the truth is, I have a little plan, which I should like very much to carry out, if you fully approve of it.

    Ha! said Mr. Graham, tossing his tempestuous locks again, ho! I thought as much. If I approve, eh, little madam? Better say, whether I approve or not.

    So saying, the good-natured giant sat himself down again, and listened while his wife unfolded her plan; and what the plan was, we shall see by and by. Meanwhile let us take a peep at Hilda, or Hildegardis, as she sits in her own room, all unconscious of the plot which is hatching in the parlor below. She is a tall girl of fifteen. Probably she has attained her full height, for she looks as if she had been growing too fast; her form is slender, her face pale, with a weary look in the large gray eyes. It is a delicate, high-bred face, with a pretty nose, slightly tip-tilted, and a beautiful mouth; but it is half-spoiled by the expression, which is discontented, if not actually peevish. If we lifted the light curling locks of fair hair which lie on her forehead, we should see a very decided frown on a broad white space which ought to be absolutely smooth. Why should a girl of fifteen frown, especially a girl so exceptionally fortunate as all her friends considered Hilda Graham? Certainly her surroundings at this moment are pretty enough to satisfy any girl. The room is not large, but it has a sunny bay-window which seems to increase its size twofold. In re-furnishing it a year before, her father had in mind Hilda's favorite flower, the forget-me-not, and the room is simply a bower of forget-me-nots. Scattered over the dull olive ground of the carpet, clustering and nodding from the wall-paper, peeping from the folds of the curtains, the forget-me-nots are everywhere. Even the creamy surface of the toilet-jug and bowl, even the ivory backs of the brushes that lie on the blue-covered toilet table, bear each its cluster of pale-blue blossoms; while the low easy-chair in which the girl is reclining, and the pretty sofa with its plump cushions inviting to repose, repeat the same tale. The tale is again repeated, though in a different way, by a scroll running round the top of the wall, on which in letters of blue and gold is written at intervals: Ne m'oubliez pas! Vergiss mein nicht! Non ti scordar! and the same sentiment is repeated in Spanish, Latin, Greek, and Hebrew, of all which tongues the fond father possessed knowledge.

    Is not this indeed a bower, wherein a girl ought to be happy? the bird in the window thinks his blue and gold cage the finest house in the world, and sings as heartily and cheerily as if he had been in the wide green forest; but his mistress does not sing. She sits in the easy-chair, with a book upside-down in her lap, and frowns,—actually frowns, in a forget-me-not bower! There is not much the matter, really. Her head aches, that is all. Her German lesson has been longer and harder than usual, and her father was quite right about the caramels; there is a box of them on the table now, within easy reach of the slim white hand with its forget-me-not ring of blue turquoises. (I do not altogether agree with Mr. Graham about hanging the caramel-maker, but I should heartily like to burn all his wares. Fancy a great mountain of caramels and chocolate-creams and marrons glacés piled up in Union Square, for example, and blazing away merrily,—that is, if the things would burn, which is more than doubtful. How the maidens would weep and wring their hands while the heartless parents chuckled and fed the flames with all the precious treasures of Maillard and Huyler! Ah! it is a pleasant thought, for I who write this am a heartless parent, do you see?)

    As I said before, Hilda had no suspicion of the plot which her parents were concocting. She knew that her father was obliged to go to San Francisco, being called suddenly to administer the estate of a cousin who had recently died there, and that her mother and—as she supposed—herself were going with him to offer sympathy and help to the widow, an invalid with three little children. As to the idea of her being left behind; of her father's starting off on a long journey without his lieutenant-general; of her mother's parting from her only child, whom she had watched with tender care and anxiety since the day of her birth,—such a thought never came into Hilda's mind. Wherever her parents went she went, as a matter of course. So it had always been, and so without doubt it always would be. She did not care specially about going to California at this season of the year,—in fact she had told her bosom friend, Madge Everton, only the day before, that it was rather a bore, and that she should have preferred to go to Newport. But what would you? she added, with the slightest shrug of her pretty shoulders. Papa and mamma really must go, it appears; so of course I must go too.

    A bore! repeated Madge energetically, replying to the first part of her friend's remarks. Hilda, what a very singular girl you are! Here I, or Nelly, or any of the other girls would give both our ears, and our front teeth too, to make such a trip; and just because you can go, you sit there and call it 'a bore!' And Madge shook her black curls, and opened wide eyes of indignation and wonder at our ungrateful heroine. I only wish, she added, that you and I could be changed into each other, just for this summer.

    I wish— began Hilda; but she checked herself in her response to the wish, as the thought of Madge's five brothers rose in her mind (Hilda could not endure boys!), looked attentively at the toe of her little bronze slipper for a few moments, and then changed the subject by proposing a walk. Console yourself with the caramels, my fiery Madge, she said, pushing the box across the table, while I put on my boots. We will go to Maillard's and get some more while we are out. His caramels are decidedly better than Huyler's; don't you think so!

    A very busy woman was pretty Mrs. Graham during the next two weeks. First she made an expedition into the country to see an old friend, she said, and was gone two whole days. And after that she was out every morning, driving hither and thither, from shop to dressmaker, from dressmaker to milliner, from milliner to shoemaker.

    It is a sad thing, Mr. Graham would say, when his wife fluttered in to lunch, breathless and exhausted and half an hour late (she, the most punctual of women!),—it is a sad thing to have married a comet by mistake, thinking it was a woman. How did you find the other planets this morning, my dear? Is it true that Saturn has lost one of his rings? and has the Sun recovered from his last attack of spots? I really fear, he would add, turning to Hilda, that this preternatural activity in your comet-parent portends some alarming change in the—a—atmospheric phenomena, my child. I would have you on your guard! and then he would look at her and sigh, shake his head, and apply himself to the cold chicken with melancholy vigor.

    Hilda thought nothing 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

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