Wheat and Huckleberries Part 18

From Boston to Nahant was the move next on their programme. The place was in its glory then, one of the prettiest of the seaside resorts; and for a week they did everything that anybody does at the sh.o.r.e.

Oh, the delight of it all! The pleasure of sitting on the level sands and watching the tides creep in and out; the transports and trepidations of the first dip into the great salt bath, and the unimagined joy of flying over the bright blue water under sails stretched by a glorious breeze! If anything _could_ have made Kate waver in her conviction that her native state was best favored of all in the length and breadth of the land, it would have been, at moments, the thought of its distance from the sea; and it was a long, devouring look, almost a tearful look, that she sent back at the blue expanse when the hour came to leave it.

The outing had been a complete success, from beginning to end. They were too tired to talk of it, as they rode on the train back to Esterly. To look musingly out of the windows was all that any of them cared to do.

But words came fast again as they rode back to the farm with their grandfather, who was waiting for them, of course, at the depot; and faster still when, with Tom and Aunt Elsie as listeners, they were all seated at the family supper.

"We've had more fun than we expected, positively more," Kate exclaimed, "and I shall never take a bit of stock again in that idea that thinking about things beforehand is better than actually having them. It must have been started by somebody who was too old to enjoy things."

And her grandfather, after grunting a little over the last clause, and calling attention to the fact that _he_, at least, had never seen the time when he could say of any rational enjoyments, "I have no pleasure in them," was inclined to agree with the sentiment.

"Things don't turn out just as you expect them to, of course," he remarked reflectively. "I never knew it to happen that a body didn't miss _something_ of what he'd counted on, but then, on the other hand, something's sure to turn up that you warn't looking for, and you must set one over against the other. There are worse things than old age to keep folks from enjoying themselves," he added acutely, "and one of them is being so taken up with yourself that you feel abused if your own plans don't work out to a T. For my part, I shouldn't wonder if there was more pleasure to be got out of surprises, anyhow."

The allusion to unexpected things of course suggested the meeting with Mr. Hadley, and then followed a full account of all his subsequent attentions. The old gentleman was delighted, and wished he could have been with them when they made that visit to the house on Beacon Street, a wish which it is doubtful whether the girls fully shared. They did not demur to it, however, nor yet to his evident impression that the young man's grat.i.tude for the light which had been thrown on the history of his forefathers had led him to extend these pleasant courtesies to his, Ruel Saxon's, descendants.

Tom was the first to suggest the doubt. "Say, did the nabob talk all the time about his ancestors?" he demanded of Kate, as they sat on the wood-pile after supper, a perch to which she declared she was glad to come back after her fortnight's absence.

"Of course he didn't," she replied. "I don't think he spoke of them once, except when he showed us some of their portraits in the library."

"I thought so," said Tom, kicking a birch stick down from the pile, and sending it with accurate aim against the instrument which he called a "saw-horse" and she called a "saw-buck." Then, looking her in the eyes, he asked coolly, "Which of 'em is it, Stelle or Esther?"

"Both of 'em, I reckon," said Kate, with equal coolness.

"It'll be one of them in particular if it keeps on like this," said Tom, "and I'll bet a s.h.i.+lling it'll be Esther."

For once she did not take up the wager. It had been thrown down between them so often during the summer that nothing had prevented their both becoming bankrupt except the standing quarrel as to the amount involved, Tom maintaining steadily that it was sixteen and two-third cents, one sixth of a dollar, and she insisting with equal obstinacy that it was twelve and a half. This time she let it pa.s.s.

"Tom, you're a goose," she said severely; and then she added: "I suppose you don't think it's possible that he's at all impressed with _me_. I'd like to have you know that we had a great deal of conversation. Why"-she threw a shade of weariness into her voice-"I had to go over most of the ground that I've been going over with you ever since I came. We had _r_ up, of course. I really could not help speaking of it. One would think there was something actually profane about that poor little letter, the way the Bostonians avoid using it. And when I'd fairly made out my case, and he couldn't deny it, he had to pretend, just as you do, that we Westerners make too much of it, when we don't at all; and as if _that_ was any answer!"

"The way you do," observed Tom, sympathetically, "when I show you that you folks mix up the wills and shalls so there's no telling which from t'other, and you get back at me by declaring that we say 'hadn't ought'

and a few things of that sort."

And then they fell to it again in the old fas.h.i.+on, Kate protesting the absolute incapacity of the average mind for grasping the fine distinctions between those two auxiliaries, which, thank Heaven, have still not wholly lost their special uses on our Eastern coast, and finally, after various thrusts at local usage, ending with the charge that New Englanders more than dwellers in the West are guilty of dropping from their speech the final _g_, a point on which the impartial listener might possibly have thought that she had a little the best of it.

And while the good-natured dispute went on, another and more important conversation was being held in the house on the old county road, where Esther sat with Aunt Katharine in the growing twilight. She had slipped away from her grandfather's as soon as supper was over to make the call.

There had been so many of these calls since her three days' visit there that no one was surprised at them any more or offered to accompany her.

It was recognized by all that there was something of genuine intimacy between these two, an intimacy at which every one smiled except Kate, whose dislike of her lonely old relative seemed to increase with her sister's fondness.

Aunt Katharine had heard the click of the gate as the girl came up, and for once she had hobbled down the walk to greet a guest. There was almost a hungry look in her eyes as they searched the bright young face, and her brother had not inquired more eagerly than she for the particulars of the trip. And Esther went over it all, with a cheery pleasure that warmed her listener's heart, talking as she might have talked to her mother of the things she had seen and felt, gayly, without reserve, and sure always of the interest of the other.

It was a rare hour to Aunt Katharine. Not in years had any fresh young life brought its happiness so willingly to her, and her heart responded with a glow and fulness like the sudden out-leaping of a brook in the spring.

At the last Esther had said, a little wistfully, that she was glad these days had come so late in this summer visit. It was almost ended now, but its climax of pleasure had been reached, and the memory of it would be a joy forever.

"Do you have to go back, both of you, the first of September?" Aunt Katharine asked suddenly. "Why couldn't _you_ stay a while longer? They don't need you at home for anything special, do they?"

The idea took definite shape as she caught the outlines of it, and her keen eyes kindled. "You like things here better 'n Kate does, and you're older. S'pose you should stay at the farm and see what a New England fall is like-you can't know your mother's country without knowing that-and then spend the winter in Boston with Stella. She'd like it, and she'd let you into a lot of things you want to know about. I never cared much for pictures and music and such, but you do; and you or' to have a taste of 'em while you're young."

She paused, and Esther said with a gasp: "Oh, that would be glorious, glorious! But the expense of it, Aunt Katharine! Father couldn't possibly afford to let me do it, and I couldn't pay my own way, you know, as Stella does."

"I wasn't counting on your father's bearing the expense, nor you either," said Miss Saxon, dryly. "I guess I could afford to do that much for you, and a few other things too, if you took a notion to 'em." And then a tenderer note crept into her voice as she added, "I missed most of the things I wanted when I was a girl, and I'd like to make sure of it that _you_ fared better."

There was no talking for a minute or two after that. The delights that seemed to open before Esther through the avenues of this plan almost took her breath away, and the generosity that proposed it made her eyes dim with tears. It was Aunt Katharine, not she, who could discuss it coolly, and to the old woman the thought seemed to grow every moment dearer. There were friends of hers in Boston-not Stella's friends, she added, with a peculiar smile-people who would be good to Esther for her sake. Perhaps Esther would come to feel toward them as she herself did, and then she looked at the girl for a moment as if taking her measure with reference to something larger than she knew.

The dew was falling and the whippoorwills were calling across the hills through the twilight that had deepened almost into night when Esther rose at last to go home. She had never kissed Aunt Katharine before, but the old woman drew her face down to hers and held it for an instant as she bade her good night. Then she said almost brusquely:-

"You'd better hurry home now. They'll think I've lost my wits entirely to be keeping you so long. And you've got that letter to write to your mother. Tell her everything, and be sure it goes in the morning."

And Esther, with feet almost as light as the wings of the night birds, hurried across the fields to tell the surprising news to the two circles-the household at home, and the one at her grandfather's.

CHAPTER XII

WHEN GREEK MEETS GREEK

It was a long letter that went to Mrs. Northmore the next morning.

Indeed, there were three; for Stella, in her delight over the prospect of keeping Esther, filled a sheet with an ecstatic picture of the joys which a winter in Boston would surely furnish, and Ruel Saxon supplied another, impressing upon his daughter his own deep satisfaction in the thought of having one of her children with him a little longer, and adding tenderly that since she herself went out of the home so long ago, no young presence there had been as dear and comforting to him as this of Esther.

He had been amazed when the girl brought the news of Aunt Katharine's proposal, and certainly nothing in his sister's behavior for years had pleased him as much. He visited her promptly the next morning to a.s.sure her of his approval, and congratulate her (as he told Aunt Elsie) on having for once acted with such eminent good sense. But either he did not do it in the most tactful manner, or he found his sister in an unfortunate mood, for it appeared from his own account of it that, after the brightest preliminaries, she had proceeded to air her most obnoxious views; views which, as he pensively declared, he had smitten hip and thigh and put utterly to rout more than once; and he ended his report of the interview with an expression of irritated wonder as to how so amiable a girl as Esther Northmore ever came to be a favorite with her Aunt Katharine Saxon.

But there was one person who found it even harder than he to understand the partiality. This was Kate; and in her the wonder was mingled with a sort of resentment which she could not throw off. She alone of the household had not rejoiced when her sister came in that night with the announcement of the invitation which seemed to her such great good fortune. There was no touch of envy in it. To the exclamation of all, "If Kate could only stay, too!" she had responded with perfect honesty, "I don't want to. I've had a splendid time here; but I'm about ready to go home now, and I wouldn't stay away longer than we planned if I could."

It was none of her business perhaps,-she said it to herself again and again,-but she did not like the growing influence which Aunt Katharine was gaining over Esther. It did not matter so much while the intimacy was thought to be only pa.s.sing, and going home lay in the near distance, but to leave her sister behind, within touch of this masterful spirit, and all the more open to her influence through receiving her favors, _this_ was a prospect before which Kate chafed with a growing uneasiness. That thing which Tom had told her so long ago, which had only amused her then, that Aunt Katharine had said she would leave her money to that one of her female relatives who would promise never to marry, came back to her now to vex and trouble her. That the woman would definitely make so bald a proposal, or that the girl would definitely accept it, were suggestions which at moments seemed too foolish to entertain; she could brush them aside with scorn; and then, in some new form, they would come creeping back. If not a definite proposal, a formal promise, there might be tacit understanding, something which would rest upon the girl and bind her as subtly as any pledge. Poor Kate! She could not even understand her own state of mind. Was it love of Esther? Was it thought of Morton Elwell, and a haunting sense of a hope which she felt sure he carried deep in his heart? Or was it simply the revolt of a spirit as stout as Aunt Katharine's own against the possibility of any bondage, for her sister as for herself?

As the days went on-the days before the letter came from home which finally settled the question-she grew restless and depressed. Even the disputes with Tom fell off, and he rallied her sometimes on her lack of spirit.

"I believe it's the notion of going West again that makes you so down in the mouth, for all you pretend you're so keen to go," he said to her once, as they were tramping home in the late afternoon from the wood-lot, where they had gone in search of sa.s.safras.

She tossed her head. "You know better," she said, "and between ourselves and the post you aren't so very lively yourself lately. I believe you'd like to go home with me and grow up with the West a while."

They exchanged a good-natured laugh. There was no denying that there were moments when the thought of parting with his cousin Kate really depressed Tom Saxon. She had the next word, and she said it with unaffected seriousness.

"Honestly, Tom, I don't know what ails me. If I could have a good out-and-out cry I believe I could get over it; but there isn't anything really to cry about. I'll tell you how I do sometimes at home, when I feel blue. I get down d.i.c.kens, and read, the death of little Nell, or how they killed Sydney Carton, or something awfully harrowing like that, you know, and then I have it out and feel better. But you haven't got d.i.c.kens here," she added ruefully.

"Grandfather's got Foxe's 'Book of Martyrs,'" said Tom, grinning, and then he added, in a tone of curiosity, "Do _you_ cry over books?" It was a feminine weakness which he had not suspected of Kate.

"Cry!" she repeated. "Yes, I do; and I don't care who knows it. I'll tell you how I got through 'Nicholas Nickleby.' It used me up so every time I read how Squeers treated those poor fellows in his school that I couldn't stand it. Well, I knew he got his come-up-ance from Nicholas in the end, so every time I read one of those mean places, I'd just turn ahead and read how Nicholas flogged him. I reckon I must have read that scene a dozen times before I fairly came to it, and it did me more good every time. I believe that story would have killed me if I hadn't."

There was plenty of fight in Kate. Tom had known that for some time.

That there were tears, too, need not have surprised any one but a boy, and he liked her none the less for it. She gave a long sigh, and came back to her own troubles. The sympathetic tone in which Tom said, "I wish I could do something for you," was a comfort in itself, and the need of talking to some one drew her on.

"Right down at the bottom of it, Tom, I suppose it's the thought of going home without Esther; and yet it isn't because I hate to leave her behind. I shall miss her, of course; but I could stand that. She was off at school a whole year and I didn't pine for her so dreadfully much.

But-but it's Aunt Katharine! Tom, I can't bear to have Esther get so intimate with Aunt Katharine."

She had actually said it now, and for the rest of the way home she poured out her heart with a girlish freedom. Perhaps her feelings grew more clear to herself as she tried to make them plain to him. He understood better than she expected, and fully agreed with her as to the undesirability of Aunt Katharine's "making a slave of Esther"; but he thought her fears on this point much exaggerated, and it was good advice that he gave her as they neared the house.