The Hiltons always waked early. So did their neighbors, the crows and
song-sparrows and robins, the light-footed foxes and squirrels in the
woods. When John Hilton waked, before five o’clock, an hour later than
usual because he had sat up so late, he opened the house door and came
out into the yard, crossing the short green turf hurriedly as if the day
were too far spent for any loitering. The magnitude of the plan for
taking a whole day of pleasure confronted him seriously, but the weather
was fair, and his wife, whose disapproval could not have been set aside,
had accepted and even smiled upon the great project. It was inevitable
now, that he and the children should go to Topham Corners. Mrs. Hilton
had the pleasure of waking them, and telling the news.
In a few minutes they came frisking out to talk over the great plans.
The cattle were already fed, and their father was milking. The only sign
of high festivity was the wagon pulled out into the yard, with both
seats put in as if it were Sunday; but Mr. Hilton still wore his
every-day clothes, and Susan Ellen suffered instantly from
disappointment.
“Ain’t we goin’, father?” she asked complainingly; but he nodded and
smiled at her, even though the cow, impatient to get to pasture, kept
whisking her rough tail across his face. He held his head down and spoke
cheerfully, in spite of this vexation.
“Yes, sister, we’re goin’ certain’, an’ goin’ to have a great time too.”
Susan Ellen thought that he seemed like a boy at that delightful moment,
and felt new sympathy and pleasure at once. “You go an’ help mother
about breakfast an’ them things; we want to get off quick ’s we can. You
coax mother now, both on ye, an’ see if she won’t go with us.”
“She said she wouldn’t be hired to,” responded Susan Ellen. “She says
it’s goin’ to be hot, an’ she’s laid out to go over an’ see how her aunt
Tamsen Brooks is this afternoon.”
The father gave a little sigh; then he took heart again. The truth was
that his wife made light of the contemplated pleasure, and, much as he
usually valued her companionship and approval, he was sure that they
should have a better time without her. It was impossible, however, not
to feel guilty of disloyalty at the thought. Even though she might be
completely unconscious of his best ideals, he only loved her and the
ideals the more, and bent his energies to satisfying her indefinite
expectations. His wife still kept much of that youthful beauty which
Susan Ellen seemed likely to reproduce.
An hour later the best wagon was ready, and the great expedition set
forth. The little dog sat apart, and barked as if it fell entirely upon
him to voice the general excitement. Both seats were in the wagon, but
the empty place testified to Mrs. Hilton’s unyielding disposition. She
had wondered why one broad seat would not do, but John Hilton meekly
suggested that the wagon looked better with both. The little girls sat
on the back seat dressed alike in their Sunday hats of straw with blue
ribbons, and their little plaid shawls pinned neatly about their small
shoulders. They wore gray thread gloves, and sat very straight. Susan
Ellen was half a head the taller, but otherwise, from behind, they
looked much alike. As for their father, he was in his Sunday best,—a
plain black coat, and a winter hat of felt, which was heavy and
rusty-looking for that warm early summer day. He had it in mind to buy a
new straw hat at Topham, so that this with the turnip seed and the hoe
made three important reasons for going.
“Remember an’ lay off your shawls when you get there, an’ carry them
over your arms,” said the mother, clucking like an excited hen to her
chickens. “They’ll do to keep the dust off your new dresses goin’ an’
comin’. An’ when you eat your dinners don’t get spots on you, an’ don’t
point at folks as you ride by, an’ stare, or they’ll know you come from
the country. An’ John, you call into Cousin Ad’line Marlow’s an’ see how
they all be, an’ tell her I expect her over certain to stop awhile
before hayin’. It always eases her phthisic to git up here on the high
land, an’ I’ve got a new notion about doin’ over her best-room carpet
sence I see her that’ll save rippin’ one breadth. An’ don’t come home
all wore out; an’, John, don’t you go an’ buy me no kickshaws to fetch
home. I ain’t a child, an’ you ain’t got no money to waste. I expect
you’ll go, like ’s not, an’ buy you some kind of a foolish boy’s hat; do
look an’ see if it’s reasonable good straw, an’ won’t splinter all off
round the edge. An’ you mind, John”—
“Yes, yes, hold on!” cried John impatiently; then he cast a last
affectionate, reassuring look at her face, flushed with the hurry and
responsibility of starting them off in proper shape. “I wish you was
goin’ too,” he said, smiling. “I do so!” Then the old horse started, and
they went out at the bars, and began the careful long descent of the
hill. The young dog, tethered to the lilac-bush, was frantic with
piteous appeals; the little girls piped their eager good-bys again and
again, and their father turned many times to look back and wave his
hand. As for their mother, she stood alone and watched them out of
sight.
There was one place far out on the high-road where she could catch a
last glimpse of the wagon, and she waited what seemed a very long time
until it appeared and then was lost to sight again behind a low hill.
“They’re nothin’ but a pack o’ child’n together,” she said aloud; and
then felt lonelier than she expected. She even stooped and patted the
unresigned little dog as she passed him, going into the house.
The occasion was so much more important than any one had foreseen that
both the little girls were speechless. It seemed at first like going to
church in new clothes, or to a funeral; they hardly knew how to behave
at the beginning of a whole day of pleasure. They made grave bows at
such persons of their acquaintance as happened to be straying in the
road. Once or twice they stopped before a farmhouse, while their father
talked an inconsiderately long time with some one about the crops and
the weather, and even dwelt upon town business and the doings of the
selectmen, which might be talked of at any time. The explanations that
he gave of their excursion seemed quite unnecessary. It was made
entirely clear that he had a little business to do at Topham Corners,
and thought he had better give the little girls a ride; they had been
very steady at school, and he had finished planting, and could take the
day as well as not. Soon, however, they all felt as if such an excursion
were an every-day affair, and Susan Ellen began to ask eager questions,
while Katy silently sat apart enjoying herself as she never had done
before. She liked to see the strange houses, and the children who
belonged to them; it was delightful to find flowers that she knew
growing all along the road, no matter how far she went from home. Each
small homestead looked its best and pleasantest, and shared the
exquisite beauty that early summer made,—shared the luxury of greenness
and floweriness that decked the rural world. There was an early peony or
a late lilac in almost every dooryard.
It was seventeen miles to Topham. After a while they seemed very far
from home, having left the hills far behind, and descended to a great
level country with fewer tracts of woodland, and wider fields where the
crops were much more forward. The houses were all painted, and the roads
were smoother and wider. It had been so pleasant driving along that Katy
dreaded going into the strange town when she first caught sight of it,
though Susan Ellen kept asking with bold fretfulness if they were not
almost there. They counted the steeples of four churches, and their
father presently showed them the Topham Academy, where their grandmother
once went to school, and told them that perhaps some day they would go
there too. Katy’s heart gave a strange leap; it was such a tremendous
thing to think of, but instantly the suggestion was transformed for her
into one of the certainties of life. She looked with solemn awe at the
tall belfry, and the long rows of windows in the front of the academy,
there where it stood high and white among the clustering trees. She
hoped that they were going to drive by, but something forbade her taking
the responsibility of saying so.
Soon the children found themselves among the crowded village houses.
Their father turned to look at them with affectionate solicitude.
“Now sit up straight and appear pretty,” he whispered to them. “We’re
among the best people now, an’ I want folks to think well of you.”
“I guess we’re as good as they be,” remarked Susan Ellen, looking at
some innocent passers-by with dark suspicion, but Katy tried indeed to
sit straight, and folded her hands prettily in her lap, and wished with
all her heart to be pleasing for her father’s sake. Just then an elderly
woman saw the wagon and the sedate party it carried, and smiled so
kindly that it seemed to Katy as if Topham Corners had welcomed and
received them. She smiled back again as if this hospitable person were
an old friend, and entirely forgot that the eyes of all Topham had been
upon her.
“There, now we’re coming to an elegant house that I want you to see;
you’ll never forget it,” said John Hilton. “It’s where Judge Masterson
lives, the great lawyer; the handsomest house in the county, everybody
says.”
“Do you know him, father?” asked Susan Ellen.
“I do,” answered John Hilton proudly. “Him and my mother went to school
together in their young days, and were always called the two best
scholars of their time. The judge called to see her once; he stopped to
our house to see her when I was a boy. An’ then, some years ago—you’ve
heard me tell how I was on the jury, an’ when he heard my name spoken he
looked at me sharp, and asked if I wa’n’t the son of Catharine Winn, an’
spoke most beautiful of your grandmother, an’ how well he remembered
their young days together.”
“I like to hear about that,” said Katy.
“She had it pretty hard, I’m afraid, up on the old farm. She was keepin’
school in our district when father married her—that’s the main reason I
backed ’em down when they wanted to tear the old schoolhouse all to
pieces,” confided John Hilton, turning eagerly. “They all say she lived
longer up here on the hill than she could anywhere, but she never had
her health. I wa’n’t but a boy when she died. Father an’ me lived alone
afterward till the time your mother come; ’twas a good while, too; I
wa’n’t married so young as some. ’Twas lonesome, I tell you; father was
plumb discouraged losin’ of his wife, an’ her long sickness an’ all set
him back, an’ we’d work all day on the land an’ never say a word. I
s’pose ’tis bein’ so lonesome early in life that makes me so pleased to
have some nice girls growin’ up round me now.”
There was a tone in her father’s voice that drew Katy’s heart toward him
with new affection. She dimly understood, but Susan Ellen was less
interested. They had often heard this story before, but to one child it
was always new and to the other old. Susan Ellen was apt to think it
tiresome to hear about her grandmother, who, being dead, was hardly
worth talking about.
“There’s Judge Masterson’s place,” said their father in an every-day
manner, as they turned a corner, and came into full view of the
beautiful old white house standing behind its green trees and terraces
and lawns. The children had never imagined anything so stately and fine,
and even Susan Ellen exclaimed with pleasure. At that moment they saw an
old gentleman, who carried himself with great dignity, coming slowly
down the wide box-bordered path toward the gate.
“There he is now, there’s the judge!” whispered John Hilton excitedly,
reining his horse quickly to the green roadside. “He’s goin’ down-town
to his office; we can wait right here an’ see him. I can’t expect him to
remember me; it’s been a good many years. Now you are goin’ to see the
great Judge Masterson!”
There was a quiver of expectation in their hearts. The judge stopped at
his gate, hesitating a moment before he lifted the latch, and glanced up
the street at the country wagon with its two prim little girls on the
back seat, and the eager man who drove. They seemed to be waiting for
something; the old horse was nibbling at the fresh roadside grass. The
judge was used to being looked at with interest, and responded now with
a smile as he came out to the sidewalk, and unexpectedly turned their
way. Then he suddenly lifted his hat with grave politeness, and came
directly toward them.
“Good-morning, Mr. Hilton,” he said. “I am very glad to see you, sir;”
and Mr. Hilton, the little girls’ own father, took off his hat with
equal courtesy, and bent forward to shake hands.
Susan Ellen cowered and wished herself away, but little Katy sat
straighter than ever, with joy in her father’s pride and pleasure
shining in her pale, flower-like little face.
“These are your daughters, I am sure,” said the old gentleman kindly,
taking Susan Ellen’s limp and reluctant hand; but when he looked at
Katy, his face brightened. “How she recalls your mother!” he said with
great feeling. “I am glad to see this dear child. You must come to see
me with your father, my dear,” he added, still looking at her. “Bring
both the little girls, and let them run about the old garden; the
cherries are just getting ripe,” said Judge Masterson hospitably.
“Perhaps you will have time to stop this afternoon as you go home?”
“I should call it a great pleasure if you would come and see us again
some time. You may be driving our way, sir,” said John Hilton.
“Not very often in these days,” answered the old judge. “I thank you for
the kind invitation. I should like to see the fine view again from your
hill westward. Can I serve you in any way while you are in town?
Good-by, my little friends!”
Then they parted, but not before Katy, the shy Katy, whose band the
judge still held unconsciously while he spoke, had reached forward as he
said good-by, and lifted her face to kiss him. She could not have told
why, except that she felt drawn to something in the serious, worn face.
For the first time in her life the child had felt the charm of manners;
perhaps she owned a kinship between that which made him what he was, and
the spark of nobleness and purity in her own simple soul. She turned
again and again to look back at him as they drove away.
“Now you have seen one of the first gentlemen in the country,” said
their father. “It was worth comin’ twice as far”—but he did not say any
more, nor turn as usual to look in the children’s faces.
In the chief business street of Topham a great many country wagons like
the Hiltons’ were fastened to the posts, and there seemed to our
holiday-makers to be a great deal of noise and excitement.
“Now I’ve got to do my errands, and we can let the horse rest and feed,”
said John Hilton. “I’ll slip his headstall right off, an’ put on his
halter. I’m goin’ to buy him a real good treat o’ oats. First we’ll go
an’ buy me my straw hat; I feel as if this one looked a little past to
wear in Topham. We’ll buy the things we want, an’ then we’ll walk all
along the street, so you can look in the windows an’ see the han’some
things, same’s your mother likes to. What was it mother told you about
your shawls?”
“To take ’em off an’ carry ’em over our arms,” piped Susan Ellen,
without comment, but in the interest of alighting and finding themselves
afoot upon the pavement the shawls were forgotten. The children stood at
the doorway of a shop while their father went inside, and they tried to
see what the Topham shapes of bonnets were like, as their mother had
advised them; but everything was exciting and confusing, and they could
arrive at no decision. When Mr. Hilton came out with a hat in his hand
to be seen in a better light, Katy whispered that she wished he would
buy a shiny one like Judge Masterson’s; but her father only smiled and
shook his head, and said that they were plain folks, he and Katy. There
were dry-goods for sale in the same shop, and a young clerk who was
measuring linen kindly pulled off some pretty labels with gilded edges
and gay pictures, and gave them to the little girls, to their exceeding
joy. He may have had small sisters at home, this friendly lad, for he
took pains to find two pretty blue boxes besides, and was rewarded by
their beaming gratitude.
It was a famous day; they even became used to seeing so many people
pass. The village was full of its morning activity, and Susan Ellen
gained a new respect for her father, and an increased sense of her own
consequence, because even in Topham several persons knew him and called
him familiarly by name. The meeting with an old man who had once been a
neighbor seemed to give Mr. Hilton the greatest pleasure. The old man
called to them from a house doorway as they were passing, and they all
went in. The children seated themselves wearily on the wooden step, but
their father shook his old friend eagerly by the hand, and declared that
he was delighted to see him so well and enjoying the fine weather.
“Oh, yes,” said the old man, in a feeble, quavering voice, “I’m
astonishin’ well for my age. I don’t complain, John, I don’t complain.”
They talked long together of people whom they had known in the past, and
Katy, being a little tired, was glad to rest, and sat still with her
hands folded, looking about the front yard. There were some kinds of
flowers that she never had seen before.
“This is the one that looks like my mother,” her father said, and
touched Katy’s shoulder to remind her to stand up and let herself be
seen. “Judge Masterson saw the resemblance; we met him at his gate this
morning.”
“Yes, she certain does look like your mother, John,” said the old man,
looking pleasantly at Katy, who found that she liked him better than at
first. “She does, certain; the best of young folks is, they remind us of
the old ones. ’Tis nateral to cling to life, folks say, but for me, I
git impatient at times. Most everybody’s gone now, an’ I want to be
goin’. ’Tis somethin’ before me, an’ I want to have it over with. I want
to be there ’long o’ the rest o’ the folks. I expect to last quite a
while though; I may see ye couple o’ times more, John.”
John Hilton responded cheerfully, and the children were urged to pick
some flowers. The old man awed them with his impatience to be gone.
There was such a townful of people about him, and he seemed as lonely as
if he were the last survivor of a former world. Until that moment they
had felt as if everything were just beginning.
“Now I want to buy somethin’ pretty for your mother,” said Mr. Hilton,
as they went soberly away down the street, the children keeping fast
hold of his hands. “By now the old horse will have eat his dinner and
had a good rest, so pretty soon we can jog along home. I’m goin’ to take
you round by the academy, and the old North Meetinghouse where Dr.
Barstow used to preach. Can’t you think o’ somethin’ that your mother ’d
want?” he asked suddenly, confronted by a man’s difficulty of choice.
“She was talkin’ about wantin’ a new pepper-box, one day; the top o’ the
old one won’t stay on,” suggested Susan Ellen, with delightful
readiness. “Can’t we have some candy, father?”
“Yes, ma’am,” said John Hilton, smiling and swinging her hand to and fro
as they walked. “I feel as if some would be good myself. What’s all
this?” They were passing a photographer’s doorway with its enticing
array of portraits. “I do declare!” he exclaimed excitedly, “I’m goin’
to have our pictures taken; ’twill please your mother more ’n a little.”
This was, perhaps, the greatest triumph of the day, except the
delightful meeting with the judge; they sat in a row, with the father in
the middle, and there was no doubt as to the excellence of the likeness.
The best hats had to be taken off because they cast a shadow, but they
were not missed, as their owners had feared. Both Susan Ellen and Katy
looked their brightest and best; their eager young faces would forever
shine there; the joy of the holiday was mirrored in the little picture.
They did not know why their father was so pleased with it; they would
not know until age had dowered them with the riches of association and
remembrance.
Just at nightfall the Hiltons reached home again, tired out and happy.
Katy had climbed over into the front seat beside her father, because
that was always her place when they went to church on Sundays. It was a
cool evening, there was a fresh sea wind that brought a light mist with
it, and the sky was fast growing cloudy. Somehow the children looked
different; it seemed to their mother as if they had grown older and
taller since they went away in the morning, and as if they belonged to
the town now as much as to the country. The greatness of their day’s
experience had left her far behind; the day had been silent and lonely
without them, and she had had their supper ready, and been watching
anxiously, ever since five o’clock. As for the children themselves they
had little to say at first—they had eaten their luncheon early on the
way to Topham. Susan Ellen was childishly cross, but Katy was pathetic
and wan. They could hardly wait to show the picture, and their mother
was as much pleased as everybody had expected.
“There, what did make you wear your shawls?” she exclaimed a moment
afterward, reproachfully. “You ain’t been an’ wore ’em all day long? I
wanted folks to see how pretty your new dresses was, if I did make ’em.
Well, well! I wish more ’n ever now I’d gone an’ seen to ye!”
“An’ here’s the pepper-box!” said Katy, in a pleased, unconscious tone.
“That really is what I call beautiful,” said Mrs. Hilton, after a long
and doubtful look. “Our other one was only tin. I never did look so high
as a chiny one with flowers, but I can get us another any time for every
day. That’s a proper hat, as good as you could have got, John. Where’s
your new hoe?” she asked as he came toward her from the barn, smiling
with satisfaction.
“I declare to Moses if I didn’t forget all about it,” meekly
acknowledged the leader of the great excursion. “That an’ my yellow
turnip seed, too; they went clean out o’ my head, there was so many
other things to think of. But ’tain’t no sort o’ matter; I can get a hoe
just as well to Ira Speed’s.”
His wife could not help laughing. “You an’ the little girls have had a
great time. They was full o’ wonder to me about everything, and I expect
they’ll talk about it for a week. I guess we was right about havin’ ’em
see somethin’ more o’ the world.”
“Yes,” answered John Hilton, with humility, “yes, we did have a
beautiful day. I didn’t expect so much. They looked as nice as anybody,
and appeared so modest an’ pretty. The little girls will remember it
perhaps by an’ by. I guess they won’t never forget this day they had
’long o’ father.”
It was evening again, the frogs were piping in the lower meadows, and in
the woods, higher up the great hill, a little owl began to hoot. The sea
air, salt and heavy, was blowing in over the country at the end of the
hot bright day. A lamp was lighted in the house, the happy children were
talking together, and supper was waiting. The father and mother lingered
for a moment outside and looked down over the shadowy fields; then they
went in, without speaking. The great day was over, and they shut the
door.