The Hero of Hill House Part 1

The Hero of Hill House.

by Mable Hale.

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 la.s.sies 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 ch.o.r.es 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 pa.s.sed, 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 G.o.d 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 antic.i.p.ation 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 a.s.sociation. 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 ch.o.r.es, 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 a.s.sociates 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 a.s.sociation, 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 n.o.ble 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.