SNAP-SHOTS
Bell Ward set the new song to music, a light, catchy tune, easy to pick
up. It took immediately, the boys whistled it, as they came and went,
and the girls hummed it. Patience, with cheerful impartiality, did
both, in season and out of season.
It certainly looked as though it were getting to be a habit to be happy
among a good many persons in Winton that summer. The spirit of the new
club seemed in the very atmosphere.
A rivalry, keen but generous, sprang up between the club members in the
matter of discovering new ways of "Seeing Winton," or, failing that, of
giving a new touch to the old familiar ones.
There were many informal and unexpected outings, besides the club's
regular ones, sometimes amongst all the members, often among two or
three of them.
Frequently, Shirley drove over in the surrey, and she and Pauline and
Hilary, with sometimes one of the other girls, would go for long
rambling drives along the quiet country roads, or out beside the lake.
Shirley generally brought her sketch-book and there were pleasant
stoppings here and there.
And there were few days on which Bedelia and the trap were not out,
Bedelia enjoying the brisk trots about the country quite as much as her
companions.
Hilary soon earned the title of "the kodak fiend," Josie declaring she
took pictures in her sleep, and that "Have me; have my camera," was
Hilary's present motto. Certainly, the camera was in evidence at all
the outings, and so far, Hilary had fewer failures to her account than
most beginners. Her "picture diary" she called the big scrap-book in
which was mounted her record of the summer's doings.
Those doings were proving both numerous and delightful. Mr. Shaw, as
an honorary member, had invited the club to a fishing party, which had
been an immense success. The doctor had followed it by a moonlight
drive along the lake and across on the old sail ferry to the New York
side, keeping strictly within that ten-mile-from-home limit, though
covering considerably more than ten miles in the coming and going.
There had been picnics of every description, to all the points of
interest and charm in and about the village; an old-time supper at the
Wards', at which the club members had appeared in old-fashioned
costumes; a strawberry supper on the church lawn, to which all the
church were invited, and which went off rather better than some of the
sociables had in times past.
As the Winton _Weekly News_ declared proudly, it was the gayest summer
the village had known in years. Mr. Paul Shaw's theory about
developing home resources was proving a sound one in this instance at
least.
Hilary had long since forgotten that she had ever been an invalid, had
indeed, sometimes, to be reminded of that fact. She had quite
discarded the little "company" fiction, except now and then, by way of
a joke. "Who'd want to be company?" she protested. "I'd rather be one
of the family these days."
"That's all very well," Patience retorted, "when you're getting all the
good of being both. You've got the company room." Patience had not
found her summer quite as cloudless as some of her elders; being an
honorary member had not meant _all_ of the fun in her case. She wished
very much that it were possible to grow up in a single night, thus
wiping out forever that drawback of being "a little girl."
Still, on the whole, she managed to get a fair share of the fun going
on and quite agreed with the editor of the _Weekly News_, going so far
as to tell him so when she met him down street. She had a very kindly
feeling in her heart for the pleasant spoken little editor; had he not
given her her full honors every time she had had the joy of being
"among those present"?
There had been three of those checks from Uncle Paul; it was wonderful
how far each had been made to go. It was possible nowadays to send for
a new book, when the reviews were more than especially tempting. There
had also been a tea-table added to the other attractions of the side
porch, not an expensive affair, but the little Japanese cups and
saucers were both pretty and delicate, as was the rest of the service;
while Miranda's cream cookies and sponge cakes were, as Shirley
declared, good enough to be framed. Even the minister appeared now and
then of an afternoon, during tea hour, and the young people, gathered
on the porch, began to find him a very pleasant addition to their
little company, he and they getting acquainted, as they had never
gotten acquainted before.
Sextoness Jane came every week now to help with the ironing, which
meant greater freedom in the matter of wash dresses; and also, to
Sextoness Jane herself, the certainty of a day's outing every week. To
Sextoness Jane, those Tuesdays at the parsonage were little short of a
dissipation. Miranda, unbending in the face of such sincere and humble
admiration, was truly gracious. The glimpses the little bent, old
sextoness got of the young folks, the sense of life going on about her,
were as good as a play, to quote her own simile, confided of an evening
to Tobias, her great black cat, the only other inmate of the old
cottage.
"I reckon Uncle Paul would be rather surprised," Pauline said one
evening, "if he could know all the queer sorts of ways in which we use
his money. But the little easings-up do count for so much."
"Indeed they do," Hilary agreed warmly, "though it hasn't all gone for
easings-ups, as you call them, either." She had sat down right in the
middle of getting ready for bed, to revel in her ribbon box; she so
loved pretty ribbons!
The committee on finances, as Pauline called her mother, Hilary, and
herself, held frequent meetings. "And there's always one thing," the
girl would declare proudly, "the treasury is never entirely empty."
She kept faithful account of all money received and spent; each month a
certain amount was laid away for the "rainy day"--which meant, really,
the time when the checks should cease to come---"for, you know, Uncle
Paul only promised them for the _summer_," Pauline reminded the others,
and herself, rather frequently. Nor was all of the remainder ever
quite used up before the coming of the next check.
"You're quite a business woman, my dear," Mr. Shaw said once, smiling
over the carefully recorded entries in the little account-book she
showed him. "We must have named you rightly."
She wrote regularly to her uncle; her letters unconsciously growing
more friendly and informal from week to week. They were bright, vivid
letters, more so than Pauline had any idea of. Through them, Mr. Paul
Shaw felt himself becoming very well acquainted with these young
relatives whom he had never seen, and in whom, as the weeks went by, he
felt himself growing more and more interested.
Without realizing it, he got into the habit of looking forward to that
weekly letter; the girl wrote a nice clear hand, there didn't seem to
be any nonsense about her, and she had a way of going right to her
point that was most satisfactory. It seemed sometimes as if he could
see the old white parsonage and ivy-covered church; the broad
tree-shaded lawns; the outdoor parlor, with the young people gathered
about the tea-table; Bedelia, picking her way along the quiet country
roads; the great lake in all its moods; the manor house.
Sometimes Pauline would enclose one or two of Hilary's snap-shots of
places, or persons. At one of these, taken the day of the fishing
picnic, and under which Hilary had written "The best catch of the
season," Mr. Paul Shaw looked long and intently. Somehow he had never
pictured Phil to himself as middle-aged. If anyone had told him, when
the lad was a boy, that the time would come when they would be like
strangers to each other--Mr. Paul Shaw slipped the snap-shot and letter
back into their envelope.
It was that afternoon that he spent considerable time over a catalogue
devoted entirely to sporting goods; and it was a fortnight later that
Patience came flying down the garden path to where Pauline and Hilary
were leaning over the fence, paying a morning call to Bedelia, sunning
herself in the back pasture.
"You'll never guess what's come _this_ time! And Jed says he reckons
he can haul it out this afternoon if you're set on it! And it's
addressed to the 'Misses Shaw,' so that means it's _mine, too_!"
Patience dropped on the grass, quite out of breath.
The "it" proved to be a row-boat with a double set of oar-locks, a
perfect boat for the lake, strong and safe, but trig and neat of
outline.
Hilary named it the "Surprise" at first sight, and Tom was sent for at
once to paint the name in red letters to look well against the white
background and to match the boat's red trimmings.
Its launching was an event. Some of the young people had boats over at
the lake, rather weather-beaten, tubby affairs, Bell declared them,
after the coming of the "Surprise." A general overhauling took place
immediately, the girls adopted simple boating dresses--red and white,
which were their boating colors. A new zest was given to the water
picnics, Bedelia learning to know the lake road very well.
August had come before they fairly realized that their summer was more
than well under way. In little more than a month the long vacation
would be over. Tom and Josie were to go to Boston to school; Bell to
Vergennes.
"There'll never be another summer quite like it!" Hilary said one
morning. "I can't bear to think of its being over."
"It isn't--yet," Pauline answered.
"Tom's coming," Patience heralded from the gate, and Hilary ran indoors
for hat and camera.
"Where are you off to this morning?" Pauline asked, as her sister came
out again.
"Out by the Cross-roads' Meeting-House," Tom answered. "Hilary has
designs on it, I believe."
"You'd better come, too, Paul," Hilary urged. "It's a glorious morning
for a walk."
"I'm going to help mother cut out; perhaps I'll come to meet you with
Bedelia 'long towards noon. You wait at Meeting-House Hill."
"_I'm_ not going to be busy this morning," Patience insinuated.
"Oh, yes you are, young lady," Pauline told her. "Mother said you were
to weed the aster bed."
Patience looked longingly after the two starting gayly off down the
path, their cameras swung over their shoulders, then she looked
disgustedly at the aster bed. It was quite the biggest of the smaller
beds.--She didn't see what people wanted to plant so many asters for;
she had never cared much for asters, she felt she should care even less
about them in the future. Tiresome, stiff affairs!
By the time Tom and Hilary reached the old Cross-Roads' Meeting-House
that morning, after a long roundabout ramble, Hilary, for one, was
quite willing to sit down and wait for Pauline and the trap, and eat
the great, juicy blackberries Tom gathered for her from the bushes
along the road.
It had rained during the night and the air was crisp and fresh, with a
hint of the coming fall. "Summer's surely on the down grade," Tom
said, throwing himself on the bank beside Hilary.
"So Paul and I were lamenting this morning. I don't suppose it matters
as much to you folks who are going off to school."
"Still it means another summer over," Tom said soberly. He was rather
sorry that it was so--there could never be another summer quite so
jolly and carefree. "And the breaking up of the club, I suppose?"
"I don't see why we need call it a break--just a discontinuance, for a
time."
"And why that, even? There'll be a lot of you left, to keep it going."
"Y-yes, but with three, or perhaps more, out, I reckon we'll have to
postpone the next installment until another summer."
Tom went off then for more berries, and Hilary sat leaning back against
the trunk of the big tree crowning the top of Meeting-House Hill, her
eyes rather thoughtful. From where she sat, she had a full view of
both roads for some distance and, just beyond, the little hamlet
scattered about the old meeting-house.
Before the gate of one of the houses stood a familiar gig, and
presently, as she sat watching, Dr. Brice came down the narrow
flower-bordered path, followed by a woman. At the gate both stopped;
the woman was saying something, her anxious, drawn face seeming out of
keeping with the cheery freshness of the morning and the flowers
nodding their bright heads about her.
As the doctor stood listening, his old shabby medicine case in his
hand, with face bent to the troubled one raised to his, and bearing
indicating grave sympathy and understanding, Hilary reached for her
camera.
"Upon my word! Isn't the poor pater exempt?" Tom laughed, coming back.
"I want it for the book Josie and I are making for you to take away
with you, 'Winton Snap-shots.' We'll call it 'The Country Doctor.'"
Tom looked at the gig, moving slowly off down the road now. He hated
to say so, but he wished Hilary would not put that particular snap-shot
in. He had a foreboding that it was going to make him a bit
uncomfortable--later--when the time for decision came; though, as for
that, he had already decided--beyond thought of change. He wished that
the pater hadn't set his heart on his coming back here to practice--and
he wished, too, that Hilary hadn't taken that photo.
"Paul's late," he said presently.
"I'm afraid she isn't coming."
"It's past twelve," Tom glanced at the sun. "Maybe we'd better walk on
a bit."
But they had walked a considerable bit, all the way to the parsonage,
in fact, before they saw anything of Pauline. There, she met them at
the gate. "Have you seen any trace of Patience--and Bedelia?" she
asked eagerly.
"Patience and Bedelia?" Hilary repeated wonderingly.
"They're both missing, and it's pretty safe guessing they're together."
"But Patience would never dare--"
"Wouldn't she!" Pauline exclaimed. "Jim brought Bedelia 'round about
eleven and when I came out a few moments later, she was gone and so was
Patience. Jim's out looking for them. We traced them as far as the
Lake road."
"I'll go hunt, too," Tom offered. "Don't you worry, Paul; she'll turn
up all right--couldn't down the Imp, if you tried."
"But she's never driven Bedelia alone; and Bedelia's not Fanny."
However, half an hour later, Patience drove calmly into the yard,
Towser on the seat beside her, and if there was something very like
anxiety in her glance, there was distinct triumph in the way she
carried her small, bare head.
"We've had a beautiful drive!" she announced, smiling pleasantly from
her high seat, at the worried, indignant group on the porch. "I tell
you, there isn't any need to 'hi-yi' this horse!"
"My sakes!" Miranda declared. "Did you ever hear the beat of that!"
"Get down, Patience!" Mrs. Shaw said, and Patience climbed obediently
down. She bore the prompt banishment to her own room which followed,
with seeming indifference. Certainly, it was not unexpected; but when
Hilary brought her dinner up to her presently, she found her sitting on
the floor, her head on the bed. It was only a few days now to
Shirley's turn and it was going to be such a nice turn. Patience felt
that for once Patience Shaw had certainly acted most unwisely.
"Patty, how could you!" Hilary put the tray on the table and sitting
down on the bed, took the tumbled head on her knee. "We've been so
worried! You see, Bedelia isn't like Fanny!"
"That's why I wanted to get a chance to drive her by myself for once!
She went beautifully! out on the Lake road I just let her loose!" For
the moment, pride in her recent performance routed all contrition from
Patience's voice--"I tell you, folks I passed just stared!"
"Patience, how--"
"I wasn't scared the least bit; and, of course, Bedelia knew it. Uncle
Jerry says they always know when you're scared, and if Mr. Allen is the
most up in history of any man in Vermont, Uncle Jerry is the most in
horses."
Hilary felt that the conversation was hardly proceeding upon the lines
her mother would have approved of, especially under present
circumstances. "That has nothing to do with it, you know, Patience,"
she said, striving to be properly severe.
"I think it has--everything. I think it's nice not being scared of
things. You're sort of timid 'bout things, aren't you, Hilary?"
Hilary made a movement to rise.
"Oh, please," Patience begged. "It's going to be such a dreadful long
afternoon--all alone."
"But I can't stay, mother would not want--"
"Just for a minute. I--I want to tell you something. I--coming back,
I met Jane, and I gave her a lift home--and she did love it so--she
says she's never ridden before behind a horse that really went as if it
enjoyed it as much as she did. That was some good out of being bad,
wasn't it? And--I told you--ever'n' ever so long ago, that I was
mighty sure Jane'd just be tickled to death to belong to our club. I
think you might ask her--I don't see why she shouldn't like Seeing
Winton, same's we do--she doesn't ever have fun--and she'll be dead
pretty soon. She's getting along, Jane is--it'd make me mad's anything
to have to die 'fore I'd had any fun to speak of. Jane's really very
good company--when you draw her out--she just needs drawing out--Jane
does. Seems to me, she remembers every funeral and wedding and
everything--that's ever taken place in Winton." Patience stopped,
sheer out of breath, but there was an oddly serious look on her little
eager face.
Hilary stroked back the tangled red curls. "Maybe you're right, Patty;
maybe we have been selfish with our good times. I'll have to go now,
dear. You--I may tell mother--that you are sorry--truly, Patty?"
Patience nodded. "But I reckon, it's a good deal on account of
Shirley's turn," she explained.
Hilary bit her lip.
"You don't suppose you could fix that up with mother? You're pretty
good at fixing things up with mother, Hilary."
"Since how long?" Hilary laughed, but when she had closed the door, she
opened it again to stick her head in. "I'll try, Patty, at any rate,"
she promised.
She went down-stairs rather thoughtful. Mrs. Shaw was busy in the
study and Pauline had gone out on an errand. Hilary went up-stairs
again, going to sit by one of the side windows in the "new room."
Over at the church, Sextoness Jane was making ready for the regular
weekly prayer meeting; never a service was held in the church that she
did not set all in order. Through one of the open windows, Hilary
caught sight of the bunch of flowers on the reading-desk. Jane had
brought them with her from home. Presently, the old woman herself came
to the window to shake her dust-cloth, standing there a moment, leaning
a little out, her eyes turned to the parsonage. Pauline was coming up
the path, Shirley and Bell were with her. They were laughing and
talking, the bright young voices making a pleasant break in the quiet
of the garden. It seemed to Hilary, as if she could catch the wistful
look in Jane's faded eyes, a look only half consciously so, as if the
old woman reached out vaguely for something that her own youth had been
without and that only lately she had come to feel the lack of.
A quick lump came into the girl's throat. Life had seemed so bright
and full of untried possibilities only that very morning, up there on
Meeting-House Hill, with the wind in one's face; and then had come that
woman, following the doctor down from the path. Life was surely
anything but bright for her this crisp August day--and now here was
Jane. And presently--at the moment it seemed very near indeed to
Hilary--she and Paul and all of them would be old and, perhaps,
unhappy. And then it would be good to remember--that they had tried to
share the fun and laughter of this summer of theirs with others.
Hilary thought of the piece of old tapestry hanging on the studio wall
over at the manor--of the interwoven threads--the dark as necessary to
the pattern as the bright. Perhaps they had need of Sextoness Jane, of
the interweaving of her life into theirs--of the interweaving of all
the village lives going on about them--quite as much as those more
sober lives needed the brightening touch of theirs.
"Hilary! O Hilary!" Pauline called.
"I'm coming," Hilary answered, and went slowly down to where the others
were waiting on the porch.
"Has anything happened?" Pauline asked.
"I've been having a think--and I've come to the conclusion that we're a
selfish, self-absorbed set."
"Mother Shaw!" Pauline went to the study window, "please come out here.
Hilary's calling us names, and that isn't polite."
Mrs. Shaw came. "I hope not very bad names," she said.
Hilary swung slowly back and forth in the hammock. "I didn't mean it
that way--it's only--" She told what Patience had said about Jane's
joining the club, and then, rather reluctantly, a little of what she
had been thinking.
"I think Hilary's right," Shirley declared. "Let's form a deputation
and go right over and ask the poor old soul to join here and now."
"I would never've thought of it," Bell said. "But I don't suppose I've
ever given Jane a thought, anyway."
"Patty's mighty cute--for all she's such a terror at times," Pauline
admitted. "She knows a lot about the people here--and it's just
because she's interested in them."
"Come on," Shirley said, jumping up. "We're going to have another
honorary member."
"I think it would be kind, girls," Mrs. Shaw said gravely. "Jane will
feel herself immensely flattered, and I know of no one who upholds the
honor of Winton more honestly or persistently."
"And please, Mrs. Shaw," Shirley coaxed, "when we come back, mayn't
Patience Shaw, H. M., come down and have tea with us?"
"I hardly think--"
"Please, Mother Shaw," Hilary broke in; "after all--she started this,
you know. That sort of counterbalances the other, doesn't it?"
"Well, we'll see," her mother laughed.
Pauline ran to get one of the extra badges with which Shirley had
provided her, and then the four girls went across to the church.
Sextoness Jane was just locking the back door--not the least important
part of the afternoon's duties with her--as they came through the
opening in the hedge. "Good afternoon," she said cheerily, "was you
wanting to go inside?"
"No," Pauline answered, "we came over to invite you to join our club.
We thought, maybe, you'd like to?"
"My Land!" Jane stared from one to another of them. "And wear one of
them blue-ribbon affairs?"
"Yes, indeed," Shirley laughed. "See, here it is," and she pointed to
the one in Pauline's hand.
Sextoness Jane came down the steps. "Me, I ain't never wore a badge!
Not once in all my life! Oncet, when I was a little youngster, 'most
like Patience, teacher, she got up some sort of May doings. We was all
to wear white dresses and red, white and blue ribbons--very night
before, I come down with the mumps. Looks like I always come down when
I ought to've stayed up!"
"But you won't come down with anything this time," Pauline pinned the
blue badge on the waist of Jane's black and white calico. "Now you're
an honorary member of 'The S. W. F. Club.'"
Jane passed a hand over it softly. "My Land!" was all she could say.
She was still stroking it softly as she walked slowly away towards
home. My, wouldn't Tobias be interested!