BEGINNINGS
Sunday afternoon, Pauline and Patience drove over to The Maples to see
Hilary. They stopped, as they went by, at the postoffice for Pauline
to mail a letter to her uncle, which was something in the nature of a
very enthusiastic postscript to the one she had written him Friday
night, acknowledging and thanking him for his cheque, and telling him
of the plans already under discussion.
"And now," Patience said, as they turned out of the wide main street,
"we're really off. I reckon Hilary'll be looking for us, don't you?"
"I presume she will," Pauline answered.
"Maybe she'll want to come back with us."
"Oh, I don't believe so. She knows mother wants her to stay the week
out. Listen, Patty--"
Patience sat up and took notice. When people Pattied her, it generally
meant they had a favor to ask, or something of the sort.
"Remember, you're to be very careful not to let Hilary
suspect--anything."
"About the room and--?"
"I mean--everything."
"Won't she like it--all, when she does know?"
"Well, rather!"
Patience wriggled excitedly. "It's like having a fairy godmother,
isn't it? And three wishes? If you'd had three wishes, Paul, wouldn't
you've chosen--"
"You'd better begin quieting down, Patience, or Hilary can't help
suspecting something."
Patience drew a long breath. "If she knew--she wouldn't stay a single
day longer, would she?"
"That's one reason why she mustn't know."
"When will you tell her; or is mother going to?"
"I don't know yet. See here, Patience, you may drive--if you won't hi
yi."
"Please, Paul, let me, when we get to the avenue. It's stupid coming
to a place, like Fanny'd gone to sleep."
"Not before--and only once then," Pauline stipulated, and Patience
possessed her soul in at least a faint semblance of patience until they
turned into the avenue of maples. Then she suddenly tightened her hold
on the reins, bounced excitedly up and down, crying sharply--"Hi yi!"
Fanny instantly pricked up her ears, and, what was more to the purpose,
actually started into what might almost have been called a trot.
"There! you see!" Patience said proudly, as they turned into the yard.
Hilary came down the porch steps. "I heard Impatience urging her
Rosinante on," she laughed. "Why didn't you let her drive all the way,
Paul? I've been watching for you since dinner."
"We've been pretty nearly since dinner getting here, it seems to me,"
Patience declared. "We had to wait for Paul to write a letter first
to--"
"Are you alone?" Pauline broke in hurriedly, asking the first question
that came into her mind.
Hilary smiled ruefully. "Not exactly. Mr. Boyd's asleep in the
sitting-room, and Mrs. Boyd's taking a nap up-stairs in her own room."
"You poor child!" Pauline said. "Jump out, Patience!"
"_Have_ you brought me something to read? I've finished both the books
I brought with me, and gone through a lot of magazines--queer old
things, that Mrs. Boyd took years and years ago."
"Then you've done very wrong," Pauline told her severely, leading Fanny
over to a shady spot at one side of the yard and tying her to the
fence--a quite unnecessary act, as nothing would have induced Fanny to
take her departure unsolicited.
"Guess!" Pauline came back, carrying a small paper-covered parcel.
"Father sent it to you. He was over at Vergennes yesterday."
"Oh!" Hilary cried, taking it eagerly and sitting down on the steps.
"It's a book, of course." Even more than her sisters, she had
inherited her father's love of books, and a new book was an event at
the parsonage. "Oh," she cried again, taking off the paper and
disclosing the pretty tartan cover within, "O Paul! It's 'Penelope's
Progress.' Don't you remember those bits we read in those odd
magazines Josie lent us? And how we wanted to read it all?"
Pauline nodded. "I reckon mother told father about it; I saw her
following him out to the gig yesterday morning."
They went around to the little porch leading from Hilary's room, always
a pleasant spot in the afternoons.
"Why," Patience exclaimed, "it's like an out-door parlor, isn't it?"
There was a big braided mat on the floor of the porch, its colors
rather faded by time and use, but looking none the worse for that, a
couple of rockers, a low stool, and a small table, covered with a bit
of bright cretonne. On it stood a blue and white pitcher filled with
field flowers, beside it lay one or two magazines. Just outside,
extending from one of the porch posts to the limb of an old cherry
tree, hung Hilary's hammock, gay with cushions.
"Shirley did it yesterday afternoon," Hilary explained. "She was over
here a good while. Mrs. Boyd let us have the things and the chintz for
the cushions, Shirley made them, and we filled them with hay."
Pauline, sitting on the edge of the low porch, looked about her with
appreciative eyes. "How pleasant and cozy it is, and after all, it
only took a little time and trouble."
Hilary laid her new book on the table. "How soon do you suppose we can
go over to the manor, Paul? I imagine the Dayres have fixed it up
mighty pretty. Mr. Dayre was over here, last night. He and Shirley
are ever so--chummy. He's Shirley Putnam Dayre, and she's Shirley
Putnam Dayre, Junior. So he calls her 'Junior' and she calls him
'Senior.' They're just like brother and sister. He's an artist,
they've been everywhere together. And, Paul, they think Winton is
delightful. Mr. Dayre says the village street, with its great
overhanging trees, and old-fashioned houses, is a picture in itself,
particularly up at our end, with the church, all ivy-covered. He means
to paint the church sometime this summer."
"It would make a pretty picture," Pauline said thoughtfully. "Hilary,
I wonder--"
"So do I," Hilary said. "Still, after all, one would like to see
different places--"
"And love only one," Pauline added; she turned to her sister. "You are
better, aren't you--already?"
"I surely am. Shirley's promised to take me out on the lake soon.
She's going to be friends with us, Paul--really friends. She says we
must call her 'Shirley,' that she doesn't like 'Miss Dayre,' she hears
it so seldom."
"I think it's nice--being called 'Miss,'" Patience remarked, from where
she had curled herself up in the hammock. "I suppose she doesn't want
it, because she can have it--I'd love to be called 'Miss Shaw.'"
"Hilary," Pauline said, "would you mind very much, if you couldn't go
away this summer?"
"It wouldn't do much good if I did, would it?"
"The not minding would--to mother and the rest of us--"
"And if you knew what--" Patience began excitedly.
"Don't you want to go find Captain, Impatience?" Pauline asked hastily,
and Patience, feeling that she had made a false move, went with most
unusual meekness.
"Know what?" Hilary asked.
"I--shouldn't wonder, if the child had some sort of scheme on hand,"
Pauline said, she hoped she wasn't--prevaricating; after all, Patience
probably did have some scheme in her head--she usually had.
"I haven't thought much about going away the last day or so," Hilary
said. "I suppose it's the feeling better, and, then, the getting to
know Shirley."
"I'm glad of that." Pauline sat silent for some moments; she was
watching a fat bumble bee buzzing in and out among the flowers in the
garden. It was always still, over here at the farm, but to-day, it
seemed a different sort of stillness, as if bees and birds and flowers
knew that it was Sunday afternoon.
"Paul," Hilary asked suddenly, "what are you smiling to yourself about?"
"Was I smiling? I didn't know it. I guess because it is so nice and
peaceful here and because--Hilary, let's start a club--the 'S. W. F.
Club.'"
"The what?"
"The 'S. W. F. Club.' No, I shan't tell you what the letters stand
for! You've got to think it out for yourself."
"A real club, Paul?"
"Indeed, yes."
"Who's to belong?"
"Oh, lots of folks. Josie and Tom, and you and I--and I think, maybe,
mother and father."
"Father! To belong to a club!"
"It was he who put the idea into my head."
Hilary came to sit beside her sister on the step. "Paul, I've a
feeling that there is something--up! And it isn't the barometer!"
"Where did you get it?"
"From you."
Pauline sprang up. "Feelings are very unreliable things to go by, but
I've one just now--that if we don't hunt Impatience up pretty
quick--there will be something doing."
They found Patience sitting on the barn floor, utterly regardless of
her white frock. A whole family of kittens were about her.
"Aren't they dears!" Patience demanded.
"Mrs. Boyd says I may have my choice, to take home with me," Hilary
said. The parsonage cat had died the fall before, and had had no
successor as yet.
Patience held up a small coal-black one. "Choose this, Hilary!
Miranda says a black cat brings luck, though it don't look like we
needed any black cats to bring--"
"I like the black and white one," Pauline interposed, just touching
Patience with the tip of her shoe.
"Maybe Mrs. Boyd would give us each one, that would leave one for her,"
Patience suggested cheerfully.
"I imagine mother would have something to say to that," Pauline told
her. "Was Josie over yesterday, Hilary?"
Hilary nodded. "In the morning."
As they were going back to the house, they met Mr. Boyd, on his way to
pay his regular weekly visit to the far pasture.
"Going to salt the colts?" Patience asked. "Please, mayn't I come?"
"There won't be time, Patience," Pauline said.
"Not time!" Mr. Boyd objected, "I'll be back to supper, and you girls
are going to stay to supper." He carried Patience off with him,
declaring that he wasn't sure he should let her go home at all, he
meant to keep her altogether some day, and why not to-night?
"Oh, I couldn't stay to-night," the child assured him earnestly. "Of
course, I couldn't ever stay for always, but by'n'by, when--there isn't
so much going on at home--there's such a lot of things keep happening
at home now, only don't tell Hilary, please--maybe, I could come make
you a truly visit."
Indoors, Pauline and Hilary found Mrs. Boyd down-stairs again from her
nap. "You ain't come after Hilary?" she questioned anxiously.
"Only to see her," Pauline answered, and while she helped Mrs. Boyd get
supper, she confided to her the story of Uncle Paul's letter and the
plans already under way.
Mrs. Boyd was much interested. "Bless me, it'll do her a heap of good,
you'll see, my dear. I'm not sure, I don't agree with your uncle, when
all's said and done, home's the best place for young folks."
Just before Pauline and Patience went home that evening, Mrs. Boyd
beckoned Pauline mysteriously into the best parlor. "I always meant
her to have them some day--she being my god-child--and maybe they'll do
her as much good now, as any time, she'll want to fix up a bit now and
then, most likely. Shirley had on a string of them last night, but not
to compare with these." Mrs. Boyd was kneeling before a trunk in the
parlor closet, and presently she put a little square shell box into
Pauline's bands. "Box and all, just like they came to me--you know,
they were my grandmother's--but Hilary's a real careful sort of girl."
"But, Mrs. Boyd--I'm not sure that mother would--" Pauline knew quite
well what was in the box.
"That's all right! You just slip them in Hilary's top drawer, where
she'll come across them without expecting it. Deary me, I never wear
them, and as I say, I've always meant to give them to her some day."
"She'll be perfectly delighted--and they'll look so pretty. Hilary's
got a mighty pretty neck, I think." Pauline went out to the gig, the
little box hidden carefully in her blouse, feeling that Patience was
right and that these were very fairy-story sort of days.
"You'll be over again soon, won't you?" Hilary urged.
"We're going to be tre-men-dous-ly busy," Patience began, but her
sister cut her short.
"As soon as I can, Hilary. Mind you go on getting better."
By Monday noon, the spare room had lost its look of prim order. In the
afternoon, Pauline and her mother went down to the store to buy the
matting. There was not much choice to be had, and the only green and
white there was, was considerably beyond the limit they had allowed
themselves.
"Never mind," Pauline said cheerfully, "plain white will look ever so
cool and pretty--perhaps, the green would fade. I'm going to believe
so."
Over a low wicker sewing-chair, she did linger longingly; it would look
so nice beside one of the west windows. She meant to place a low table
for books and work between those side windows. In the end, prudence
won the day, and surely, the new paper and matting were enough to be
grateful for in themselves.
By the next afternoon the paper was on and the matting down. Pauline
was up garret rummaging, when she heard someone calling her from the
foot of the stairs. "I'm here, Josie," she called back, and her friend
came running up.
"What are you doing?" she asked.
Pauline held up an armful of old-fashioned chintz.
"Oh, how pretty!" Josie exclaimed. "It makes one think of high-waisted
dresses, and minuets and things like that."
Pauline laughed. "They were my great-grandmother's bed curtains."
"Goodness! What are you going to do with them?"
"I'm not sure mother will let me do anything. I came across them just
now in looking for some green silk she said I might have to cover
Hilary's pin-cushion with."
"For the new room? Patience has been doing the honors of the new paper
and matting--it's going to be lovely, I think."
Pauline scrambled to her feet, shaking out the chintz: "If only mother
would--it's pink and green--let's go ask her."
"What do you want to do with it, Pauline?" Mrs. Shaw asked.
"I haven't thought that far--use it for draperies of some kind, I
suppose," the girl answered.
They were standing in the middle of the big, empty room. Suddenly,
Josie gave a quick exclamation, pointing to the bare corner between the
front and side windows. "Wouldn't a cozy corner be delightful--with
cover and cushions of the chintz?"
"May we, mother?" Pauline begged in a coaxing tone.
"I suppose so, dear--only where is the bench part to come from?"
"Tom'll make the frame for it, I'll go get him this minute," Josie
answered.
"And you might use that single mattress from up garret," Mrs. Shaw
suggested.
Pauline ran up to inspect it, and to see what other treasures might be
forthcoming. The garret was a big, shadowy place, extending over the
whole house, and was lumber room, play place and general refuge, all in
one.
Presently, from under the eaves, she drew forward a little
old-fashioned sewing-chair, discarded on the giving out of its cane
seat. "But I could tack a piece of burlap on and cover it with a
cushion," Pauline decided, and bore it down in triumph to the new room,
where Tom Brice was already making his measurements for the cozy corner.
Josie was on the floor, measuring for the cover. "Isn't it fun, Paul?
Tom says it won't take long to do his part."
Tom straightened himself, slipping his rule into his pocket. "I don't
see what you want it for, though," he said.
"'Yours not to reason why--'" Pauline told him. "We see, and so will
Hilary. Don't you and Josie want to join the new club--the 'S. W. F.
Club'?"
"Society of Willing Females, I suppose?" Tom remarked.
"It sounds like some sort of sewing circle," Josie said.
Pauline sat down in one of the wide window places. "I'm not sure it
might not take in both. It is--'The Seeing Winton First Club.'"
Josie looked as though she didn't quite understand, but Tom whistled
softly. "What else have you been doing for the past fifteen years, if
you please, ma'am?" he asked quizzically.
Pauline laughed. "One ought to know a place rather thoroughly in
fifteen years, I suppose; but--I'm hoping we can make it seem at least
a little bit new and different this summer--for Hilary. You see, we
shan't be able to send her away, and so, I thought, perhaps, if we
tried looking at Winton--with new eyes--"
"I see," Josie cried. "I think it's a splendiferous ideal"
"And, I thought, if we formed a sort of club among ourselves and worked
together--"
"Listen," Josie interrupted again, "we'll make it a condition of
membership, that each one must, in turn, think up something pleasant to
do."
"Is the membership to be limited?" Tom asked.
Pauline smiled. "It will be so--necessarily--won't it?" For Winton
was not rich in young people.
"There will be enough of us," Josie declared hopefully.
"Like the model dinner party?" her brother asked. "Not less than the
Graces, nor more than the Muses."
And so the new club was formed then and there. There were to be no
regular and formal meetings, no dues, nor fines, and each member was to
consider himself, or herself, an active member of the programme
committee.
Tom, as the oldest member of their immediate circle of friends, was
chosen president before that first meeting adjourned; no other officers
were considered necessary at the time. And being president, to him was
promptly delegated the honor--despite his vigorous protests--of
arranging for their first outing and notifying the other members--yet
to be.
"But," he expostulated, "what's a fellow to think up--in a hole like
this?"
"Winton isn't a hole!" his sister protested. It was one of the chief
occupations of Josie's life at present, to contradict all such
heretical utterances on Tom's part. He was to go away that fall to
commence his studies for the medical profession, for it was Dr. Brice's
great desire that, later, his son should assist him in his practice.
But, so far, Tom though wanting to follow his father's profession, was
firm in his determination, not to follow it in Winton.
"And remember," Pauline said, as the three went down-stairs together,
"that it's the first step that counts--and to think up something very
delightful, Tom."
"It mustn't be a picnic, I suppose? Hilary won't be up to picnics yet
awhile."
"N-no, and we want to begin soon. She'll be back Friday, I think,"
Pauline answered.
By Wednesday night the spare room was ready for the expected guest.
"It's as if someone had waved a fairy wand over it, isn't it?" Patience
said delightedly. "Hilary'll be so surprised."
"I think she will and--pleased." Pauline gave one of the cushions in
the cozy corner a straightening touch, and drew the window
shades--Miranda had taken them down and turned them--a little lower.
"It's a regular company room, isn't it?" Patience said joyously.
The minister drove over to The Maples himself on Friday afternoon to
bring Hilary home.
"Remember," Patience pointed a warning forefinger at him, just as he
was starting, "not a single solitary hint!"
"Not a single solitary one," he promised.
As he turned out of the gate. Patience drew a long breath. "Well,
he's off at last! But, oh, dear, however can we wait 'til he gets
back?"