Books: The Hero of Hill House
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Mable Hale >> The Hero of Hill House
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11 This eBook was produced by Joel Erickson, Charles Franks, Juliet Sutherland
THE HERO OF HILL HOUSE
BY MABEL HALE
CONTENTS
Home and Mother
The Stricken Home
Austin and His Father
Austin Goes to His Father
Humiliation for Austin
To the Country Again
The Runaway
Wayside Friends
The Captain's Guest
With Uncle John Again
Austin Takes Care of Himself
The Revival
The Young Church-Member
Home Again
The Battle of Two Wills
Seeking New Pasture
To the Hay-Fields
Six Weeks of Haying
Indecision and Restlessness
Mother Hilman's Opinion
Like the Troubled Sea
Planning for Themselves
Austin and Amy
A Shopping-Expedition
Harry Hill
Uncle Philip's Children
The Family Circle Narrows
A Stormy Season
Austin's New Home
The Opinions of Parson Hawley and His Wife
THE HERO OF HILL HOUSE
CHAPTER 1
HOME AND MOTHER
It was the evening of a quiet day in late autumn, and the inmates of the
little farm home were gathered safely together around the supper-table. I
say the family, but they were not all there. Father's place was vacant, for
he had gone to town that afternoon and would not be home till late bedtime.
His reason for being late was the great shadow over this otherwise happy
home. The children, down to baby Doyle, three years old, knew that when he
came, he would be in no condition to be seen in the presence of his
children, and that money which was needed badly in his home would have been
spent for strong drink.
But all the others were there. Mother sat in her place at the foot of the
table, and little Doyle sat at her right hand in his high chair. The others
were ranged on both sides of the table, leaving the vacant place at the
head. There were eight children in all, the eldest a boy of sixteen, and
the youngest little Doyle. The three older children were boys, George and
Wilbur, sixteen and fifteen years old, respectively, and Austin, aged
thirteen. Then were two girls, Amy and Nell. After them came Harry, a fine
little fellow of seven, Lila, a tiny girl of five, and last of all the
baby.
Every child was robust and rosy, ready for a hearty meal and all the fun
that was to be had. Mother sat as queen, a dear, beloved queen, and the
children as they talked back and forth in happy freedom turned to her for
reference and sanction in all that was said. There was not one but bowed in
adoration at the beautiful mother's feet. And her eyes, how lovingly they
rested upon them! And how she seemed to be treasuring them in her heart!
This was indeed her kingdom, and she was happy. But of course there was a
sadness in her happiness, because her husband and the father of her
children was choosing a path that took him out of the family circle. But
since such was his choice, she was determined to make it up to her lads and
lassies to the best of her ability, and throw her teaching and daily
instruction against the influence of their father. She was making this
evening pleasant that they might forget the shadow that hung over them.
With supper over and the evening chores done, the family gathered about the
fireside, some read, the little ones played, and Mother busied with her
sewing. An atmosphere of peace rested upon them, in spite of the shadow
that hangs over every home into which the demon drink has entered.
"Doyle, Lila, it is time for little people to be in bed. Harry, you have no
lessons, you had better go to bed also," said the mother.
"So soon, Mother? May we not play a little longer?"
"Bedtime now, little man, and run along without waiting for more play."
Three little people trooped off to bed to be tucked in a little later after
the good-night kisses and evening prayers. Soon the girls went sleepily off
to bed with a good-night kiss. Just Mother and her boys were left, and now
was the time for a quiet talk with them. A gentle word from her and the
conversation was begun.
Softly she led them on till they were telling her of their doings among the
boys, and their plans and hopes. It was only a friendly visit, but into it
she put wise counsel as well as thoughtful understanding. They wondered,
afterward, if she this evening felt the other shadow which at this time was
entirely hidden from their eyes, that she should talk to them so. Perhaps
she did. We can not know. But deeper than this was her yearning for her
sons just entering manhood. She knew that only a little way at best could
she go with them, and then they must choose their own path. She wanted the
little time left to be filled with those things that would make their
pathway light.
The evening passed, and after a time all were in their beds. Only one low
light remained, and that was set to guide the father when he should return.
When the father came, if he had been in condition to notice, he would have
seen a bare little room now that the mother was out of it, with signs of
poverty everywhere. The old table and worn chairs, bare floors scarred with
the tread of little feet, the scant cupboard, the worn shoes by the fire,
all told how little the queen of the home had to work with. There was
nothing of beauty here but herself and her love.
But Henry Hill did not think any of these thoughts. He was already half
asleep, and he crawled into his bed without a word or thought for those
whom he should have loved and protected. And in the morning each one of the
family secretly thanked God that Father had lain down without disturbing
them.
The morning brought another day of busy care for Elizabeth Hill. Her hands
were full from morning till night helping, lifting the heavy burdens, and
directing the work of the children, in all bearing the responsibility of
the family.
Was she happy? Yes, in their love, and in the anticipation of the future of
her children, especially her boys just entering manhood. Her thoughts were
always with them, and her prayers followed them in all that they did. So
much was at stake. Three lives to be made or marred. Three men to bless the
world or to curse it. And they had the blight upon them which their father
was bringing. Every woman who is a real mother knows that Elizabeth Hill's
face was often wet with tears as she contemplated what the future might
bring. And happy are the sons who are blessed with such a mother. Her value
is untold. The wealth of the world has nothing to compare with her. Yet how
often it is taken for granted that she will be as good as she is, and her
life made unhappy by the ones for whom she works and prays!
If Elizabeth Hall had known, and if her boys had known, what lay just
ahead, perhaps the days would have been made fuller yet of loving counsel
and happy association. But the veil was before their faces, and they did
not know. Possibly that was best. If the veil were lifted and we knew our
future, our hearts might faint within us. It is enough that for each day is
given grace for its toils. Elizabeth loved her boys and was giving them the
best of herself, and that is all she could have done if she had known.
CHAPTER 2
THE STRICKEN HOME
Henry Hill sat before the fire with his head in his hands and his elbows
upon his knees, a picture of utter dejection and sorrow. The house was
quiet with an unearthly quietness, those who were compelled to speak using
the lowest tones, and tiptoeing about. The little ones, Doyle, Lila, and
Harry, were not at home. Amy and Nell were silently, tearfully, trying to
wash the few dishes that had been used at the almost untouched breakfast.
The boys were attending to the morning chores, with faces as solemn and
hearts as heavy as each could carry. A neighbor woman, kind, sympathetic,
and busy, but with the same sadness pictured upon her face, kept coming and
going between the bedroom and the room in which Mr. Hill sat.
Only that morning the physician had been there and had told them that she
whose life had been the light and strength of the home was lying now upon
her death-bed, that she would never again rise to take the burdens of life,
that they would have to let her go. He had felt for Henry Hill as he had
spoken, for the white horror and anguish in the man's face would have
called out sympathy from a harder heart; but he wanted to say also that had
she been given a lighter load to carry, if some of the anxiety and concern
that now stirred his heart had been expressed when his wife was well,
things might not now be as they are. But the kind doctor left these words
unsaid. Henry Hill had all he could bear without them.
The holidays, with their festivities, were over, and life had just settled
back into its every-day way, when Elizabeth Hill fell sick. She had never
been ailing before. Her children had always known her as able to take the
constant care and oversight of the family. Without her they were helpless
and distraught, for there was no one to take her place. And when after one
day's illness it became certain that her condition was critical, the
anxiety and tension became intense. He who should have lightened her burden
long ago now awoke to her need and was constantly by her side doing all
that was in his power to restore her to health. But the black cloud settled
heavier upon the home as each day saw the mother coming nearer the gates of
death. The children looked at one another with pale faces and wide,
frightened eyes as they saw the kind neighbor women come from their
mother's bed with averted faces.
Though all was done that could be done, they could not hold her, and one
night, with her weeping family around her, she loosed from her earthly
habitation and went away. She who had been the soul of that home, lay dead.
The calamity came upon the family like a shock. It left no spirit nor life
in them. They knew not which way to turn. From the father down to Baby
Doyle they were bereft. She to whom they had always looked for counsel and
guidance lay in a sublime sleep from which they could not waken her.
As Henry Hill looked upon the motionless form of the woman whose love and
confidence he had gained and who had been to him such a faithful wife in
spite of his fickleness, he wept, and vowed; but what are tears and vows
when the will has been weakened by self-indulgence? He looked about him
helplessly. What was he to do? What could he do without her? He was almost
a stranger to his children, and had no idea how to care for them. She had
always carried the burden, taken the oversight, been the one to go ahead.
He faced the future as helplessly as one of his little children.
Her boys looked upon her and knew that they had lost their best friend.
Home would have little more attraction for them. George and Wilbur took
selfish comfort in the thought that they were old and strong enough to care
for themselves, but Austin forgot himself in wondering what would become of
the children. The little ones spoke to Mama, but she did not answer, they
called to her, but she did not hear, and they went away weeping; for though
they could not tell what, they knew something dreadful had happened.
Kind friends and neighbors came in and did what has to be done at such a
time. They pitied with full hearts the afflicted family, and they wept for
their friend, for they too had loved her. They took her and laid her with
others of death's sleepers in the silent churchyard, and her orphaned
children returned with their helpless father to the lonely and broken home.
Only those who have returned home after Mother is gone know what these
children and father suffered. Kind hands had put the house in order and the
familiar furniture in its accustomed place, endeavoring to make the house
look as if all were well. But they could not bring back the one who had
made this house home, and to the children it was a dreary, lonely place.
Fearfully they crept out-of-doors, only to find it as cheerless there.
That first night around the fireside without her, what a desolate place it
was! The father sat with drooped head and heaving breast, and the children
huddled together and some of them sobbed. Just to escape their misery they
went early to bed, and little pillows were wet with tears. When they were
all in bed a gentle hand tucked them in with a kind caress. "It is what
Mother would have done," thought Austin, as he made the rounds.
In those first days of sorrow every one seemed to remember only his own
heartache: but hearts can not always lie broken; in a little while they
began to live again.
It was now, when life was dropping back into its old ways, that the
greatness of their calamity became apparent. If Henry Hill had understood
his opportunity, he might have stepped into his children's affections and
been a true father to them. But he forgot them in his own self-pity. He was
lonely, unspeakably lonely, and the house was dreary and dull without
Mother. He who had always sought first of all his own pleasure and comfort
now reached out for solace somewhere. And he found it with his old
associates in his old haunts. When he returned to his home after these
seasons he found the gloom and emptiness there more hard to bear. He hated
with a deeper hatred the feeling of responsibility and care that was thrust
upon him by the sight of his motherless children. He felt himself sinking
under the strain, and he longed to ease himself in some way. If only a
friend had been found to take the burden and bear it, how gladly would he
have relinquished his place; but there was no one who would accept it. The
neighbors were willing to help him with the children, but none of them were
willing to do his part, and they waited for him to take the place that a
father should.
George and Wilbur were restless at home since their mother was no longer
there. It had been her influence that had kept them at home and in school
for some time, and now she was not there they felt free to go when they
wished, and they were out of the home in a short while. Night after night
when the shadows crept over the fields, only Austin was at home with the
children. It was he who cooked their meals and waited upon them. He loved
them with a yearning love, thinking always of their mother and how she had
labored for them. He was a boy thoughtful beyond his age, and, looking
ahead, he saw what probably lay in store for them. To him home meant all,
and the thought of the children's being scattered, never to know the
sweetness of home association, was more than he could bear.
Added to his own feelings in the matter was the thought of his mother. If
she knew, how it would grieve her to have her babies among strangers, and
possibly to be ill-treated! Austin believed also that his father would be
glad to see the home circle broken and the children scattered. It seemed
that there was but one person to stand between the children and a broken
home, and that person was himself. Though but a boy of thirteen he
dedicated himself to them with a determination to stand by them and keep
the home together. He put out of his mind every thought of following the
example of his brothers, and settled himself to the care of the children.
When he had made this decision, it seemed to him that his mother was near
and was well pleased with what he had done. The children were quick to
recognize in him their true friend and champion, and turned to him as if he
had been their mother. So it was not long till apparently home was running
along as smoothly as ever. Of course those living there felt a terrible
void, which never could be filled.
Austin's father looked on with secret satisfaction at the course the boy
was taking, glad that some one, if only this child, was willing to carry
the responsibility of home. Day after day, as the household settled back
into order and harmony, he felt his burden slipping; but the loss of his
wife was as keenly before him as ever. He had loved her as much as he was
capable of loving any one, and he felt the loss of her. Now that Austin was
doing so well with the children he determined to get away from it all for a
while.
"Austin, you could get along very well with the children if I were to be
gone a few weeks, could you not?" he asked one day. "I am not feeling well,
and it is so lonely here that I am not myself. Perhaps if I could have an
outing, I should be better able to endure it."
CHAPTER 3
AUSTIN AND HIS FATHER
Though Austin was but a child, he knew that his father was acting very
selfishly in going away at this time, and that his real desire for going
was to avoid responsibility rather than to cure loneliness. Many thoughts
pressed in upon the boy as he contemplated his father's long absence, but
the thought that gave him an answer was that if he refused, the home might
be broken up. He seemed to see his mother's face, and it encouraged him to
be brave. It was only a moment that he hesitated in answering, "Yes, Papa,
I think I could manage all right; I might have to miss school part of the
time."
"Well, I shall go with some of the boys down into the hills for a while to
see if I can not get straightened out so that I shall be more fit for work.
Your uncle John will look after you and see that nothing happens to you."
So the matter was settled. In a few days Henry Hill was off for a month of
pleasure, leaving the children in Austin's care. He was right in thinking
that his brother-in-law, John Moore, would look after the children. Mr.
Moore was a brother to the children's mother and had the same noble
principles as she had. He would gladly have taken the entire care of the
children, but he thought it was their father's place to have their
oversight, so stood back and said little. But when he knew they were left
alone in the farmhouse, he was careful to know each morning and evening
that all was well with them.
"Austin is as steady and reliable as a little old man," said his uncle
after one of his visits. "He manages things over there as well as many an
older person could."
"How a father could put so much on a mere child is a mystery," said some of
the neighbor women.
"I would hate to be tied to a kitchen and a row of babies like he is," was
his cousin Frank's opinion.
But of all these comments Austin was ignorant, nor did he think he was
doing anything brave. He was doing the one thing that would keep the
children together, and was encouraged with the thought that his mother was
pleased with him, for it seemed to him that she knew.
Though Henry Hill was a selfish man, he often thought of his children while
away, but stifled every remorseful thought with the assurance that Austin
was taking good care of them. He assured himself that they were getting
along as well as if an older person were with them; and this was true, for
in the month that he was away, nothing of enough importance for comment
occurred. The days went by as evenly as if the father had been there. But
if Henry Hill thought that his mind would be more settled by his absence,
he was disappointed; for as soon as he was again in sight of the house, the
old loathing of the place attacked him. He longed to be away from it all
forever. And when a man has all his life given way to his own personal
impulses rather than stand by his duty, you need not expect him to brace up
at a time like this and do his part.
From the point of reasoning which Mr. Hill took he was justifiable in
feeling as he did. Everything about the little farmhouse reminded him of
the woman he had loved. He never came to the house without a pang of
painful loneliness at her absence. He felt himself incapable of caring for
the children. She had always done that, and he did not know what they
needed nor why. It would be better both for him and the children to be away
from this dreary, grief-laden spot. But he could not take the children with
him, and what would he do with them if he did? But there was Austin. Why
should he feel tied to the children when Austin was willing to look after
them? The thing to do was to get out and find a more suitable place,
leaving Austin to look after home and the little ones.
But it would be pretty hard to leave so many children on one boy. The
neighbors would have a great deal to say. Maybe he had better get a place
for some of them. But where could he find a place? Why, to be sure--why had
he not thought of that before?--he would take Lila and Doyle to his
mother's, and Austin could manage the rest. That was just the thing, and no
one could find fault with the arrangement, at least no one who knew Austin.
And reasoning thus, he had his plans all made before he mentioned them. The
sunny, pleasant days of spring had come, and the air was balmy and sweet
with the perfume of blossoms, making the vagrant soul of Henry Hill sick
with wanderlust, and he could hardly wait to put his plans into action.
"Austin, I believe I shall take Lola and Doyle out to your grandmother's,
and try to get work there," he said one morning at the breakfast-table.
"You can stay on here with the other children, and can get along very well
if I am gone all summer. It will make it easier for you if I have the
little ones."
Austin's chin dropped, and he looked at his father in blank amazement.
Surely he had heard wrong. He started to protest, but another suggestion
stopped him. "If I refuse, he will take all the children away, and we shall
have no home; that would grieve Mother," mused the boy. Because Austin
hesitated in answering, his father continued to explain his plan. "If I
find a good job I shall get a house and send for the rest of you children
and we shall live near your grandmother and uncles. I believe we can do
better there than here." And having said this, he waited for Austin to
speak.
"Yes, I suppose we could manage to get along a while," the boy said,
choking a little. How lonely and bare his path looked before him he could
not explain, and intuition told him it would be useless for him to try to
do so. His father seemed to forget that he was lonely too, and missed the
gentle mother.
Little more was said on the subject, but Mr. Hill arranged his affairs and,
taking the two younger children with him, went to a distant State, leaving
Austin and his two sisters and younger brother to look out for themselves
for an indefinite period.
John Moore and his wife were shocked beyond measure when they learned Mr.
Hill's plans, but knowing that it would be useless for them to remonstrate,
they said nothing. However, they vowed in their hearts to look after the
orphans in their father's absence. But there was one feature of his
father's absence that Austin had not told any one. Had his uncle John known
this, he would have been more than angry with his brother-in-law. Henry
Hill had not left sufficient means with Austin for the care of the
children. He had needed a neat sum for his fare and had taken almost all
from the family purse, promising to send something back to Austin soon. One
week had passed, and a second, and although a letter had come announcing
their safe arrival, nothing had been said about money. The little home was
becoming bare of food, and Austin did not wish to tell his circumstances to
any one. He would have to find a way to make money for himself.
The neighborhood in which he lived abounded in market-gardens, and Austin
decided to get work in the garden of a neighbor, with permission to bring
the children with him and allow them to work what they could also. All of
them together would be able to support themselves till their father found
work and should help them again. With Austin to decide was to act, and the
very next morning he went to the house of Mr. Long and asked for work. Mr.
Long had been observing the boy and liked his pluck, and gave him work as
he wished.
Now began a new epoch with Austin. There was a feeling of independence in
making and using his own money that was very pleasant. He did not wonder
that the older boys had gotten out to do for themselves. Though he had to
rise early and work late to keep up his house-work and home chores, and his
field-work, he did not count it a hardship. He felt manly and strong in
doing it.
Mr. Hill smiled with pleasure when he read in Austin's letters of the
arrangements he had made and how well they were getting along. That was
just the thing. With the wages of the children they would not need much
from him, and he would have more for himself. There was no need of Austin's
having more than was actually necessary, and that would not be much. It was
certainly fortunate that Austin had such a head for business.
But the best-laid plans sometimes prove to have a flaw, and this was
unpleasantly true in this case. Though Mr. Hill explained at length to his
parents how nicely Austin was getting along, he could not make them think
all was _well_. They seemed to think, and others were of the same mind,
that he was neglecting his duty.
"Who has the care of the children?" his mother asked him one day.
"Austin is looking after them," was the easy reply.
"You do not mean to say you left that boy with the care of the children,"
she exclaimed in amazement.
"Why, Mother, he manages them fine. I was gone a month a while back and
everything was running along all right when I came home, and he had Lila
and Doyle then, also."
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