OLD HOME WEEK

New Zealand Tablet, Volume XXXI, Issue 43, 22 October 1903, Page 24

OLD HOME WEEK

Enoch Norton looked up from the local columns of the New England • Trumpet, and said to his wife : ' Mother, they're going to have great times 01-d Home Week.' There was no need to ask to whom the ' they ' referred. To this old couple, self-exiled for thirty years, there was but one home. California had never been anything to tiiem but a foreign land. Its beauty had aggravated their nostalgia ; its freedom from convention had shocked their staid standards of right and wrong ; and the monotony of its never-ceasing sunshine— they lived in the southern part of the State— had driven them sometimes almost to the border-land of madness. This will seem a strong statement except to him who has been homesick in California. He will understand. When Enoch's father died and left the old home and its contents to his daughter, there was nothing left for the son to do — or so he thought — but to seek his fortune where the golden fingers of the setting sun seemed to beckon ; so, taking his wife and children, he joined the restless caravan which crossed the continent in a neverending line. And he had prospered— not at first, but in due time. ' Norton's luck ' was proverbial. The scale had never attacked his orange-trees, tfte wells he dug were never brackish, and the gophers and rabbits avoided his ranche and nibbled at the vegetation of his neighbors. Even the boom which wrecked so many fortunes left him unharmed. Ho sold out his surplus land at a propitious moment, and then had the discretion to avoid immediate reinvestment. At the time he heard of Old Home Week ' back East ' he was a wealthy man, even for the happy-go-lucky Land of Sunshine. He and Mary had not seen New England since they left it. At first poverty had prevented ; then the- children had needed them ; then— Eliza had hot invited them, —•Eliza, the fortunate sister who lived in the old home, and was now moving to a fine new bouse of which her last letter had given a description. ' Its name is the Anchorage,' so had the letter run ; 1 and there is an avenue of big trees leading to the front door and a flower-garden back of the house. I don't dare to tell you how many rooms there are, or how much help it takes to keep them in order, "or about the electric lights and the polished floors.' 1 Gracious ! '- -Enoch.' had said fwhen ha read thte. 1 Eliza is getting terrible grand. We'd hardly dare visit her, mother. 1 And ' mother ' had answered': ' Maybe her heart is just the same.'

Week° atters stood when the 7 read of the Old How? go home^ I*''1 *'' Sald Ett ° Ch> ' that the time has come t0 mJ^-^A 11 } 0 * speak - She had waited for this moment for thirty years. Enoch understood her, and taought two tickets for the overland journey. * hriJr°A Plai V ld people « ot off the train at" Hilltop one bright August morning. They were somewhat travelstained and weary, bwt they were happy, and their iour?u 7 h^ dd J been on e of unmixed delight. Even the desert they had crossed was beautiful, for they were coinc home. Mary cried - a little when she first saw the green grass and the trees that grew without irrigation ; while fciiioch only pretended to be vexed with the window that would not open,— the New England man is ashamed of his emotions. They had taken a luncheon with them, and ate it conscientiously even after they found out that the traveller of to-day has his elaborate meals served en route. The sandwiches got very stale and the bottled tea very tasteless : but they did now know it. They would not have minded a diet of lentils and water. They wore spectacles of amber, through which the whole world Jooked golden. When the New England accent greeted their ears- it was like music, and they began to talk to each other after the same fashion : ignoring their r's and supplying them at the end of words where they were not needed — an alternate paucity and prodigality. Would Hilltop be changed, they wondered. No : it was much the same, even though the streets were swarming with people returned for the Old Home Week. The tavern, the town hall, the white meeting-house did not look a day older ; and the roomy mansions, with the exception of one, which boasted a new porch, looked as if th/fcy had .stojod for a century \ witlfout alteration, as indeed they had. It was only when Enoch and Mary began inquiring for the inmates of those ancient houses that they realised the changes. The children were men ami. women, and had flitted far away ; and the friends of their youth —their names were on the stones in the bury ing-ground. Except Eliza, the prosperous and haughty sister who had never asked them to come home again, they had no living kindred on the Atlantic Coast. ' Mother,' said Enoch, ' we must look up Eliza. She can't any more than be kind of high and mighty with us ; but you know living in such style and keeping so much help makes folks that way.' ' Well, let us wait Hill our trunk comes,' answered Mary. ' I want to put on my new silk dress ; and I'm so glad that Amos made you buy that stovepipe hat. I guess Eliza won't be ashamed of you, at any rate ; and we can tell her right away that we've got a room at the tavern, so she won't think we expect to stop with her. Suppose we go around this morning and look at the old house ? It'll be terrible trying I know, father, to see it in stranger's hands— and for my part I can't understand why Eliza moved out— but we'll have to get used to it sooner or later.' The old house, like its neighbors, was unaltered, except for the undefinable air of smartness and fashion and various golfers in scarlet coats were lounging about the lawn. ' Good land, mother ! ' said Enoch. ' I wonder if we've struch an army of redcoats ? Well, grandfather wasn't afraid of them at Bunker Hill, and I'm going to make a call. It isn't the first time I've lifted this old knocker,' he added, rapping with such force that the ser\ant in livery who opened the door lost his accustomed calmness. ' Good morning ! ' said Enoch, thinking that he addressed some official of great dignity. 'My wife and I are making a visit back Easit, and would like to look through this house a little if you've no objection. It belonged to our ' ' Card, Sir ! ' interrupted the man at the door, holding out a silver tray. ' I— l don't understand ! ' said poor Enoch, in dismay. 1 He wants your card,' whispered Mary quickly. ' Oh, yes ! Excuse me ! ' said Enoch, producing a piece of pasteboard with ' Enoch Norton, Proprietor Ramona Vineyards,' printed upon it. The servant looked at it and then handed it back. • No admittance, sir,' he said, • except to gentlemen and ladies bringing card of member, sir.'. ' Member ? ' ' Member of Country Club, sir. This is tne Country Club Houses sir.' Enocth had but one oath, if it could be called that. He used it now. 1 By the Great Horn Spoon ! ' he said, as they turned from the closed door '^^^n t;u^, PW p Hr -,-n- -- ■

• Don't get excited, father ! ' said his wife, straightening his hat, which showed an alarming tendency to rest on one ear. 4 I suppose Eliza rented them the house. She couldn't live in both houses, and boys always break the windows of empty ones. They're better rented. I'm sure Ehza'll explain everything. And now t we'll go and get our dinner, and then we'll go to see her. The man said the trunk would be here by noon, you know ; and I hope my dress isn't much mussed.' 1 Can you tell us the way to The Anchorage ? ' Enoch asked of the landlord after their noon dinner. 1 The Anchorage ? Oh, yes ! Turn by the buryingground and go soutto a quarter of a mile. You can't miss it. It's a big new red brick house with a long lane leading to it.' 1 I was going to tell him my sister owned it ; but I thougjht I'd wait and see how she took our surprising her,' Enoch said. • She may be flustered,' answered Mary. * Maybe we'd better have written her and risked hear not wanting to see us. I suppose she's changed some.' ' Maybe we have too,' said Enoch ; and they both laughed. They were so happy thai* not even the thought of the lack of a welcome could disturb them. They had each other, and the sea was near ; and, in spite of everything, they were at home again — yes, at home ; although their warmest welcome was at an inn and every face was that of a stranger. ' That must be it ! ' exclaimed Mary. 'My ! to think one of our relations owns such a house as that ! ' ' She must take boarders, 1 imagine,' replied Enoch. 1 See the folks strolling around.' • Boarders ! Why, they're Old Home Week folks, like us ; though, of ooursc, they ain't relations.' There was a natural, if unconscious, feeling of proprietorship in the minds of the worthy couple as they walked up the shaded avenue and rang the very modern electric bell. A stout woman responded, bidding them come in and ushering them into a reception room. ' We'd like to see Miss Norton,' began Enoch. 1 Take seats,' said the stout woman, in a businesslike way. ' I'll tell her.' ' There isn't as much style as I expected,' said Enoch beginning to feel an unaccountable strangeness in the surroundings. ' 1 guess maybe it's the fashion to have things sort plain,' answered Mary. ' Anyway, I ain't afraid of Eliza any more. I wonder how she will look ? She was an awful nice-looking girl. I always wished I had her complexion. And, then, her hair— kind of curly, you know ; and she was so straight, though she was a little too fleshy far some folks' taste.' ' This way ! ' said the stout woman, reappearing. She led them through a long hall and up a flight of stairs, and threw open the door of a room. ' There she is ! ' she said, pointing to a sunny corner near a window where a canary was singing. Enoch Norton was a brave man, and usually a selfcontained one ; but he' never performed a greater feat than when he put the picture of his pretty young sister qiuite out of his mmfi and greeted the poor little paralytic who lay upon the bed. ' Well, Eliza dear,' he said. 'Do you know us ? ' She put out one thin hand. • I'd know you anywhere from your likeness to father,' she answered. After long separations, people often— nay, usually— talk of the most trivial matters. They spoke of the hour for the tide to go out, of the uncommonly fine weather, and of the gathering of absent sons and daughters during the Old Home Week. At last Enoch said : 1 You've a fine house here, Eliza.' Eliza's eyes flashed. 1 I hate it— l hate every brick of it. It's killing me '' •My goodness ! ' observed her brother. ' Then, why don't you sell it and go back home ? ' She looked at him a moment, and then answered quietly and steadily :— 1 Enoch ! Can it be— is it possible you don't know ?' • Don't know what ? ' ' That this place is the almshouse ? This is no more my house than it is yours or the poorest beggar's. I've been paralysed for 20 years and had to be nursed. I kept the house till the mortgages ate it up. I was ashamed to let you know, and was afraid you'd think I wanted you to help me.' Enoch was speechless, but Mary managed to say : ' But the letters ? ' ' The woman next house wrote them. Now I feel better. I never encouraged you to come, for I didn't want you to find out. I knew you'd never know without coming ; and now you're here, and I suppose you despise me ' ' Despise you ! ' And Mary's- arms were about her, while Enoch winked hard and tried to make the acquaintance of the canary. Meanwhile he arranged a plan of campaign.

'Mother' he said, 'you just stay here with Eliza till I con.c back.' In less than an hour he returned. ' Ehza, 1 said he, •if you're able you'll have to move again the Ist of the month. The old house— father's furniture and all— is on the market, and I've got the refusal of it. What's more, I'm going to huy It ; and what's more, we three are going to live in it ; and what's more » he fairly shouted, « not one of those redcoats over there can get in it without the proper card I ' 1 Enoch,' Mary remonstrated, • some one'll hear you ! ' Let 'em hear ! ' he said. • I want 'em to know that the country s going to get paid for all it's done for Eliza, and that she's going back where she belongs. This is Old Home Week, and we're all going home. — ' Aye Maria.'