RAINBOW HILL
A white clapboarded house with moss-green shutters and a dark oak
"Dutch" door, the upper half of which swung hospitably open--this was
Rainbow Hill in the light of the late June afternoon sun. A little
jewel of a house set in the center of a close-cropped emerald-green
lawn and circled by sturdy old trees, elms and maples that had marked
the site of the old homestead and now guarded the "new house" as it had
been called ever since it had been built six years before to replace
the farmhouse destroyed by fire.
"Welcome to Rainbow Hill," said Mrs. Joseph Hildreth, coming out on the
red tiled walk as a car swept up to the door and stopped.
Mrs. Hildreth, the wife of the tenant farmer, was a young woman with
wide-awake blue eyes and an air of capability that struck terror to the
souls of the lazy. She was known far and wide as "a hustler" and she
had been known to do a large washing and baking in the morning and
drive the hay rake in the field in the afternoon on occasions when her
husband was short of help. It was a pity her voice was so loud and
rasping, but then not everyone is sensitive to voices.
"I guess you'll find everything about ready for your supper," said Mrs.
Hildreth when Doctor Hugh had introduced Sarah and Shirley and Winnie,
the three members of the party she had not met previously. "I brought
up a pail of strawberries--they'll be better next week. Mrs. Hammond
said you were to have half the garden, same as they did. The butter
may be a little soft, but Joe will get you a piece of ice in the
morning at the creamery. We weren't sure you'd get here to-day, so I
didn't order it."
With a few more confidences, directed mainly to Winnie, she went back
to her own house--an attractive story and a half bungalow just visible
from the side porch, and the Willis family were free to take possession
of Rainbow Hill.
"Isn't it darling!" Rosemary kept exclaiming. "Aren't the rugs
pretty--and the white curtains! Wait till you see the rooms upstairs."
In spite of Winnie's warning that supper would be ready in fifteen
minutes and Doctor Hugh's declaration that he must go back to Eastshore
as soon as the meal was over, it was impossible to refrain from running
upstairs for a peep at the second story. There was a large and airy
bedroom for the mother, a connecting room which was allotted to
Rosemary and across the hall a smaller room with twin beds which would,
it was instantly decided, "fit" Sarah and Shirley. Next to this was
the guest room which Doctor Hugh would occupy during his visits, and at
the other end of the hall, next to the shining blue and white tiled
bathroom, a square room with two windows and a narrow balcony that
delighted Winnie.
"There's no nicer place to dry your hair," she explained seriously to
Mrs. Willis. "I can sit out there and darn stockings while my hair is
drying."
The trunks and one or two boxes, packed with necessary possessions
mostly of a personal nature, had been sent on ahead in the morning and
were already in the halls. The house was tastefully furnished
throughout and Mrs. Willis assured her son that as soon as she had
rearranged a few trifles and had unpacked her treasures she was sure
she would feel contented and at home.
"I want to go everywhere!" declared Sarah, subsiding into a chair at
the dining-room table with visible reluctance. "I want to see the
horses and the cows and the pigs. Say, Hugh, do you think we could
keep pigs when we go home? There's room in the yard."
"You want to go to bed early and save your exploring until to-morrow,"
advised the doctor. "I have to be back at the house by eight and
that's bed-time for one little girl I know. Shirley looks sleepy now."
"I'm not," said Shirley automatically, her invariable remark whenever
the subject was mentioned.
Although the doctor had an appointment waiting him, he seemed to find
it hard to tear himself away from the pleasant picture the mother and
her three daughters made on the spacious side porch after supper that
night. Winnie had insisted on displaying her convenient kitchen and
though there was no gas range she declared that the oil stove would
fulfill all her requirements except for her weekly baking when she
would build a fire in the range. There Were electric lights throughout
the house; and the outbuildings, as they learned later, as well as the
tenant house, were also wired.
"Here comes somebody!" said Sarah in a loud whisper. "It's the
farmeress."
"No it isn't, it's two of them," asserted Shirley, pressing her small
nose against the wire screen and acquiring a plaid pattern on the tip.
"Hush--they'll hear you," said Mrs. Willis, rising and opening the
screen door as two young men came across the lawn.
"Mrs. Willis?" said the taller. "Mr. Hildreth sent us up to see if you
wanted any help, unpacking. This is Richard Gilbert," he introduced
his companion, "and I am Warren Baker. We're working for Mr. Hildreth
this summer."
Doctor Hugh came forward at once and while they were being introduced
the three girls studied the newcomers with interest. They were both
apparently about eighteen years old, both deeply tanned, both slim and
muscular and wholesome-looking. Richard Gilbert was slightly shorter
and heavier than Warren, who was really thin. The latter had dark hair
and gray eyes, while Richard's hair and eyes were brown. Both boys
were neatly, if not smartly, dressed and gave a pleasant impression of
cleanliness, coolness and comfort, though they had done a heavy day's
work and their day had started at five that morning. Rosemary
instantly decided that she liked them both.
So did the rest of the Willis family, and Doctor Hugh delayed his
departure till he declared that one more moment would mean he must
break the speed laws to get back to town. It had been arranged that he
was to take his breakfast and dinner with the hospitable Welles, a most
convenient plan since their house was the nearest. He was seldom home
for lunch and his telephone calls would be taken care of at the "Jordan
office" as Eastshore still called the rooms which had been occupied by
the old and popular physician whose practise had been taken over by
Doctor Hugh.
Mrs. Willis watched him drive away, satisfied that his comfort was
provided for; and then, as she had decreed that no unpacking was to be
done that night, Richard and Warren took their leave, after promising
to show the girls the whole farm the next morning.
"If they know what they're about, they'll tie a rope to Sarah," said
Winnie, going about locking doors and windows as though she expected a
siege.
She had managed to "get a good look," as she said, at the visitors and
had approved of them whole-heartedly.
"Nice, ordinary boys," she said to Mrs. Willis at the first
opportunity. "Not a bit stiff or shy. did you notice, and yet not any
of these smart Alecs that can't stop talking long enough to listen to
what a body has to say."
"What are you locking up all the windows for, Winnie?" Sarah questioned
her, sitting down on the rug to take off her sandals as a preparation
for the trip upstairs. "You'll have to open them all in the morning
again."
"Well, maybe I will," admitted Winnie, turning the key in the front
door and sliding both bolts with emphasis, "but I won't come downstairs
and find the parlor full of skunks and owls and bats--we'll be saved
that."
"They couldn't get through the screens," protested Sarah, whose natural
tendency to argue was intensified by weariness.
"You never can tell," was Winnie's answer to this. "I'm not taking any
chances in the country."
She thought Sarah had gone up to bed and was startled a few minutes
later, when busy in the kitchen, to hear the door open behind her.
"What are you doing, Winnie?" demanded Sarah, her dark eyes instantly
coming to rest on the table where, spread out in imposing array, were
three mousetraps and the cheese with which Winnie intended to bait them.
"If you must know," said Winnie, exasperated, "I'm setting mousetraps."
"Oh!" Sarah gulped. "Oh, Winnie--the poor little mice!"
"Now, Sarah, don't begin all that," Winnie pleaded. "I'm dead tired
and I haven't the heart to start a debate with you. I'll say one thing
and then I'm through; I don't intend and nothing shall induce me, to
have a lot of nasty little mice tramping over my pantry shelves."
"How do you know they will?" asked Sarah.
"Because," said Winnie with terrible finality.
Sarah and Shirley were asleep two minutes after their heads touched the
pillow; and the house was in darkness soon after, for they were all
tired from the events of the day.
In her room, though, Rosemary did not find that sleep came immediately.
After lying quietly in bed, staring into the soft darkness, she felt
more wide-awake than ever. She slipped softly to the floor, felt for
and found her pretty white dressing gown and slippers--Rosemary was
very fond of white--which were close at hand and, wrapping herself up
comfortably, pattered over to the open window.
It was a moonlight night, warm and sweet, and Rosemary knelt down with
a little gasp at the loveliness spread before her. She rested her
elbows on the low window sill and leaned forward, drinking in the scent
of new hay and roses and dewy grass. The shrill, insistent chorus of
insects was music, and when the mournful cry of a distant hoot owl came
out of the woods that rose shadowy and dark across the white ribbon of
road, why that was music, too. Country nights are no more absolutely
silent than nights in the town or city, but some enchantment weaves the
noises of the countryside into graceful harmony. The cry of a bird,
the soft stirring of the animals in the barns, the far barking of a
watchful dog--all these Rosemary heard; and the insects filled in the
pauses.
She did not know how long she had been at the window when,
faintly--miles away, she would have said--she heard the notes of a
violin.
"Rosemary!" whispered someone from the doorway. "Are you awake,
darling?"
Mrs. Willis came across the room and knelt beside her daughter.
"Did you hear it, Mother? It couldn't be a violin--yes, it is! But at
this time of night and way out in the country!"
"Listen!" said Mrs. Willis softly.
Rosemary had inherited her passionate love for music from her, and her
delight and wonder were no greater than her mother's as the music came
nearer. Someone was playing Schubert's "Serenade" in the moonlight.
"I see him!" whispered Rosemary. "Look, Mother--an old man!"
Sure enough, as they watched, a halting figure came down the road which
the moonlight had changed to a silver ribbon. They knew he was old for
he was stooped and walked with the shuffling gait that comes from
feebleness. His head was bent over his violin, and as he walked those
unearthly sweet strains melted into the moonlight and became a part of
the silver mist. Just as he reached a point opposite the house he must
have stopped. A tree hid him from the two watching. Probably he sat
down on the large rock at the side of the road to rest--to rest and
play. For, hidden from the enthralled listeners, he played the
"Serenade" through twice, lovingly, delicately, with a haunting
yearning that held a touch of genius. Then, still playing, he shuffled
on. They caught a glimpse of him as he came out from behind the tree,
saw the light flash on his bow and he was gone. They listened until
his music had died away in the distance--always the "Serenade," over
and over.
"Oh--Mother!" Rosemary raised her blue eyes, swimming in tears.
"Yes, dearest--" there was a little catch in Mrs. Willis' tender voice.
"It was very beautiful and very wonderful--but you must go to bed now.
It is late."
Rosemary, turning drowsily to pillow her cheek on her hand after her
mother's kiss, was conscious of a hope that the old violin player might
not lack a comfortable bed and the peace and security of a
home--somewhere.
"It is so nice at Rainbow Hill," murmured Rosemary, drifting off into
delicious slumber.