From the Improvement Era, January 1918 –

The Strength of the Hills

By Myrtle Young

Morning stood upon the mountain tops. The glory of the new day filled the land. Thousands of birds sang a welcome to it. Numberless flowers lifted their happy faces to inhale its freshness. All things beheld in its radiance were beautiful.

One awakens on such a morning with a song in the heart. Night has banished the trials and soothed the cares of the yesterday. And at least until the thoughts of the yesterday’s burden rushes to one’s mind, one is happy.

William Gordon awoke with a feeling of joy. A three months’ vacation had, in a measure, brought back his youth. This morning he was in his stately home on Redwood avenue. It was a pleasure to know that today brought work.

He whistled softly as he entered the library. Drawing up the shade, he flooded the room with light. He stood there for a moment gazing at the familiar street. His glance fell upon the little white house across the way.

“Edith!” he exclaimed, “Edith!”

His wife entered the library. Languidly she strolled to the window. There was an air of perfect tranquility about her. His exclamation had produced no visible effect on her composure.

“Did you call me? What is it?” she drawled.

“Old man Peters has rented his place across the street,” he replied, and his voice choked with anger.

“One might naturally suppose that he would do so,” she answered calmly.

“But can’t you see how absurd it is?” he asked; “imagine people like those in our exclusive neighborhood.”

Standing beside him, she gazed down at the little white house. At the gate was a woman with a baby in her arms, and two small children were playing about the lawn.

“Three. That isn’t so dreadfully bad, Mr. Gordon, and perhaps they will keep them in the yard.”

She turned to him but he was looking at something toward the end of the block. Her glance followed his and there she saw a man dressed in the rough, soiled clothes of a workman. A girl, possibly ten years old, walked at one side of him holding to his hand, while at the other side a sturdy little fellow, who might have been eight, trudged proudly, carrying in his chubby fist, a tin dinner pail. When they reached the corner, the street car was almost there. The man stooped to kiss his children good-bye, took the dinner pail, and as he boarded the car, waved a farewell to the woman at the gate. The two children tripped happily back to the little home and followed their mother and the little ones into the house.

“I suppose that it is good-bye to our flower gardens and farewell to our peace of mind while they remain in the neighborhood,” Mr. Gordon exclaimed.

Mrs. Gordon’s eyes were moist. There was a sob in her voice as she answered him, “I wish she’d give the babe to me. Oh, it seems to me that she is so rich while I — ”

“Nonsense, Edith,” he interrupted. “How long would you want to give up your home, your wealth and social position. Those people who have nothing when they start out can’t raise a family and accumulate wealth. We decided this question when we were first married. Don’t be foolish about it.”

“But they seem so happy,” she replied. “Did you see how the baby clung to her with its tiny hands?”

“Things are not always what they seem,” he retorted angrily. “Do you suppose that they will be able to educate those children on his wages? As soon as they are old enough they will be turned out to work. Their heritage is ignorance and poverty. And the parents — what comfort do they have? That’s where we would have been, had we decided to follow that course.”

She did not answer him but sat nervously twisting the rings on her fingers. The breakfast bell rang.

“Come, Edith.” Into his voice there came a note of tenderness. “This is only the emotion of a moment. By dinner time you will be glad that there is no such responsibility on your shoulders.”

He was right. Almost before breakfast was over she was planning parties and dances for the coming season, and before dinner time she was buying dresses, whose price would have made the little woman across the street turn pale.

There was some comfort in knowing that their views regarding the newcomers were shared by all the neighbors, but as the weeks passed by and flower gardens were not molested and the peace of the community was undisturbed, everyone began to view with a greater degree of kindliness, the people in the little white house. A little later, when it was learned that Mr. Brown had bought the old Peters place, there was less consternation than there had been when the family first moved into the neighborhood. Some of the neighbors became very friendly, but William Gordon and his wife held themselves entirely aloof.

Times flies swiftly by. Almost before they realized it, ten years had passed since the Browns came to live on Redwood avenue. The years have brought changes.

In the big stone house on the east side of the street, death has cast its shadow and now Mr. Gordon lives alone, except for his servants. Time and his sorrow have hardened the lines on his set, determined face. Its touch has caused gray hair to mingle with the black. Age has brought him neither understanding nor peace.

In the little white house there are three more happy children. Betty, the oldest girl, is in college, and Robert, or Bob as he is called, is a junior in high school. Their home is the center of fun and amusement for their friends, and almost every evening snatches of merry songs and ripples of gay, young laughter come floating across to Mr. Gordon as he sits in his big, silent house.

He is beginning to realize what his life of selfishness has meant, and deep in his heart, although he will not admit it even to himself, he envies the man who carries the dinner pail. But there came a day when the realization of what he had missed was forced upon him.

One afternoon he was hurrying to the office of Bernard Scott, a very prominent attorney, to ask about some legal matters he had placed in the hands of Mr. Scott’s firm, when he met the attorney on the street.

“I really haven’t time to talk to you just now,” Mr. Scott explained, “I’m on my way to the high school building. My son is taking part in a public speaking contest and I have promised not to miss it. You would better come along.”

For a moment Mr. Gordon hesitated, then he said slowly: “If I thought it would be worth while, I believe I should accept your invitation.”

“Well, take my word for it, you won’t lose anything,” his friend replied. “It will really surprise you to learn what the young people can do. I tell you I’m proud of that boy of mine. I have given him all that money and influence can give, but it is worth it.”

His friend’s enthusiasm amused Mr. Gordon but it interested him. He decided that he would see if the man’s pride in his son was justifiable, so he turned and walked to the school with Mr. Scott.

They were a few moments late. The assembly hall was crowded but they managed to find seats, just as it was announced that Clyde Scott would be the first speaker.

The boy’s father leaned forward intent on hearing every word. Mr. Gordon observed that his face was flushed with pride and that his eyes glowed as he watched his son. When the oration was over, every one cheered and applauded, but the stern-faced man smiled a bitter, ironical smile. The fresh young voice had not touched a responsive chord in his nature. He felt that he must say something.

“Very good, indeed,” he remarked to Mr. Scott. “He has done exceedingly well. How many numbers are there?”

“Four,” was the answer.

There was no more conversation between them until the third speaker had finished.

“My word! they are measuring up fine!” Mr. Scott exclaimed; “I would hate to have to decide the winner. What is your opinion?”

“I have scarcely followed the last two, so I really couldn’t say,” he answered.

The last speaker, Mr. Robert Brown, was announced. Mr. Gordon did not hear the name. He did not even look up until the clear, young voice began. There was an earnestness in it that held his attention. The subject of the oration was service, and the boy’s aim was to show that only those who serve are truly happy. As a hammer strikes a blazing spark from an anvil, so his words struck a tiny spark in Mr. Gordon’s soul — a spark that burned into a flame, and then became a great desire. His heart, aching and throbbing, reached out to that boy. He felt that he would give anything — everything — if he but had such a son. He scarcely heard the applause that followed the oration. It seemed to him that he had suddenly grown very, very old, and that his whole life had been squandered.

When it was announced that Robert Brown had taken first and that Clyde Scott had taken second place in the contest, he was not surprised. He even forgot to congratulate Mr. Scott on his son’s success.

“Robert Brown,” he thought; “is it possible that he is my neighbor’s boy? His face seemed familiar and yet I couldn’t place him. There’s Mrs. Brown now. Yes, it is her boy.”

He watched as the boy took his mother’s little brown hands in his big ones. The look that passed between them was one of understanding and love. He threw one arm about her shoulder and they stood there together, receiving congratulations from their many friends.

Mr. Gordon was fascinated by the sight. This was the boy for whom he had predicted drudgery and poverty. The child whose heritage was ignorance. This was the mother whom he had held in contempt because she was fulfilling her life’s mission. The realization of it all brought a sickening sensation to his soul. Blindly he followed the crowd to the street. He felt tired and weak. He had no heart for work, so he turned his steps homeward.

Arriving at the house, he went into the library where he sat for a long time with his head resting on his hands. For the first time the loneliness in the big house seemed unbearable. He wondered how it would seem to hear the patter of little feet upon the stairs, to listen to the sound of gay, childish laughter echoing through the great halls, to see toys and books scattered about the floor. As he sat there the great house suddenly became a home. A little girl danced into the room. She climbed to his knee and reaching up, she ran her little soft fingers through his hair and then holding to his ears with her dainty hands, she pressed her little warm mouth close to his in an affectionate kiss, after which she snuggled down in his arms and went to sleep. There were eager, quick footsteps on the stairs, and a boy rushed in. He threw his cap under the table and sitting down, began to study. How proud he was of this sturdy son. How he loved the airy little creature sleeping in his arms.

“I beg pardon, sir — ”

The vision was gone and he was alone in the room. His Japanese servant stood in the doorway holding in his hands a bundle of papers and magazines.

“I beg pardon, sir, but I forgot your magazines and papers. They are here, sir.”

“Thank you.”

The servant left the room. Mr. Gordon looked the bundle over and selected his favorite literary magazine. On the frontispiece was the picture of a bright-eyed, laughing girl. Underneath he read: “Miss Betty Brown, 137 Redwood avenue, Freburg, the author of the new serial commencing in this issue.”

Carefully he read the story, then reverently he placed the magazine on the table and went over to the little house across the street.

They were on the lawn. Mr. Brown and Bob were trimming the edges of it, while Betty and her mother gathered asters. He did not notice that they were surprised but extended his hand and one after another they took it in a firm, warm clasp.

Mrs. Brown invited him to come into the house, but he shook his head.

“No, thank you, Mrs. Brown, “I came over to tell you that I have been to the contest today and that I have just read Betty’s story. I’m glad that success is coming to you. I suppose you won’t care for my congratulations but I hope that you will accept my apology. I have treated you with contempt for ten years because I resented the fact that vou moved into this neighborhood.”

“I can’t understand why you should do so,” Mr. Brown answered; “we have never interfered with your rights or property.”

“Do not judge me too harshly,” he said pleadingly. “Ten years ago I told Mrs. Gordon that you were doing wrong to bring children into the world — children whose heritage must be ignorance and poverty. I see now that you have given them something better. I know not what.”

“I’ll tell you what it is, Mr. Gordon,” Betty spoke and, although here eyes were dimmed with tears, she smiled; “it is that same power that has enabled father and mother to strive through the long, hard years to give us the best. It is far more precious than riches, that marvelous power that gives people courage to strive onward, to serve, to live. That is our heritage — the strength of the hills.”

“I see, little girl, I see,” he replied softly, then turning to Mr. Brown he said, “You deserve your happiness. You have given the best you had to them and you have sacrificed much to give it, but it has come back to you. Tonight I envy you. The shadows of old age are falling and I have no child to comfort my declining years. The darkness gathers and I stand alone.”

“Not alone, Mr. Gordon,” Mrs. Brown answered; “you have friends. Our door is always open to you. We’d love to have you come any time.”

“Thank you.” He stood at the gate as he spoke. “If your sunshine is as contagious as your invitation is sincere, I believe that you can do me much good.”

They watched him until he crossed the threshold of his own door.

“Poor, lonely man,” murmured Mrs. Brown, “it is often sad when people reap what they have sown.”

They lingered in the garden. The western sky blazed with glowing embers. One by one the crimson lights began to fade into orange, yellow, violet and gray, and the calmness of the closing day fell upon the land.

A song burst forth upon the stillness — a glad, free song, sung by lusty young voices.

“Listen Bob,” Betty cried joyously, “it’s the crowd coming to celebrate your victory.”

“And to tell you that they have learned of your success,” Bob answered.

Down the avenue they came laughing and singing. Betty and Bob with their father and mother greeted them at the gate, and led them into the house.

The last gleams of crimson and orange faded from the western sky. Twilight spread her soft, gray mantle over the city, hushing its clamor, subduing its gorgeousness, and hiding; its defects. In the fading light the little white cottage on Redwood avenue was beautiful and inviting. Lights gleamed from the windows, music and laughter floated out on the stillness of the night.

Glancing inside one might have guessed that the last rays of the setting sun had been imprisoned there, until the shadows had made it too dark for them to seek the west. In the parlor the young people were gathered about the piano, singing. In the dining room the small children were playing games. Mr. and Mrs. Brown sat there watching them. They were thinking of the lonely man across the street.

“Aren’t you glad that we will not have to face regret when the years of our lives grow few?” he asked as his arms stole around her.

“And aren’t you glad,” she whispered, as her head found a resting place on his shoulder, “that we have been able to give them a heritage that is worth while?”

The great stone house across the street was in darkness and the shadows seemed to concentrate about it. Mr. Gordon sat by the library window and watched the trees melt into the darkness. Like a pantomime his past life rose up before him. The darkness of the house seemed to mock him.

He turned on the light and taking his diary, wrote in an unsteady hand: “This day I learned that it is harvest time and I have planted nothing.”