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; 't was a good while, too; I wa'n't married so young as some. 'T
was 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 't is 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 hand 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 Meeting-house 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; 't will 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 't ain'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.