A Belated Honeymoon

The haze of a warm September day hung low over the house, the garden, and the dust-white road. On the side veranda, a gray-haired, erect little figure sat knitting. After a time, the needles began to move more and more slowly until at last they lay idle in the motionless, withered fingers.

"Well, well, Abby, taking a nap?" demanded a thin-chested, wiry old man, coming around the corner of the house and seating himself on the veranda steps.

The little old woman gave a guilty start and began to knit vigorously.

"Dear me, no, Hezekiah. I was thinking." She hesitated a moment, then added, a little feverishly, "--it's ever so much cooler here than up to the fair grounds now, isn't it, Hezekiah?"

The old man threw a sharp look at her face. "Hm-m, yes," he said. "Maybe 'tis."

From far down the road came the clang of a bell. As by common consent, the old man and his wife got to their feet and hurried to the front of the house, where they could best see the trolley-car as it rounded a curve and crossed the road at right angles.

"Goes slick, doesn't it?" murmured the man.

There was no answer. The woman's eyes were hungrily devouring the last glimpse of paint and polish.

"And we haven't been on 'em at all yet, have we, Abby?" he continued.

She drew a long breath.

"Well, you see, I--I haven't had time, Hezekiah," she rejoined apologetically.

"Humph!" muttered the old man, as they turned and walked back to their seats.

For a time neither spoke; then Hezekiah Warden cleared his throat determinedly and faced his wife.

"Look a' here, Abby," he began, "I'm going to say something that has been almost tumbling off the end of my tongue for more than a year. Jennie and Frank are good and kind, and they mean well, but they think 'cause our hair's white and our feet ain't quite so lively as they once was, that we're just as good as buried already, and that we don't need anything more exciting than a nap in the sun. Now, Abby, didn't you want to go to that fair with the folks today? Didn't ye?"

A swift flush came into the woman's cheek.

"Why, Hezekiah, it's ever so much cooler here, and--" she paused helplessly.

"Humph!" retorted the man. "I thought as much. It's always 'nice and cool' here in summer, and 'nice and warm' here in winter, when Jennie goes somewhere that you want to go and don't take ye. And when it ain't that, you say you 'haven't had time.' I know ye! You'd talk any way to hide their selfishness. Look a' here, Abby, did ye ever ride in them electric cars? I mean anywhere?"

"Well, I haven't neither, and, by ginger, I'm going to!"

"Oh, Hezekiah, Hezekiah, don't--swear!"

"I tell ye, Abby, I will swear. It's a swearing matter. Ever since I heard of 'em, I've wanted to try 'em. And here they are now almost to my own door, and I haven't even been in 'em once. Look a' here, Abby, just because we're almost eighty ain't no sign we've lost interest in things. I'm spry as a cricket, and so be you, yet Frank and Jennie expect us to stay cooped up here as if we was old--really old, ninety or a hundred, ye know--and it ain't fair. Why, we _will_ be old one of these days!"

"I know it, Hezekiah."

"We couldn't go much when we was younger," he resumed. "Even our wedding trip was chopped right off short before it even begun."

A tender light came into the dim old eyes opposite.

"I know, dear, and what plans we had!" cried Abigail. "Boston, and Bunker Hill, and Faneuil Hall."

The old man suddenly squared his shoulders and threw back his head.

"Abby, look a' here! Do ye remember that money I've been saving off and on when I could get a dollar here and there that was extra? Well, there's as much as ten of 'em now, and I'm going to spend 'em--all of 'em maybe. I'm _going_ to ride in them electric cars, and so be you. And I ain't going to no old country fair, neither, and no more be you. Look a' here, Abby, the folks are going again tomorrow to the fair, ain't they?"

Abigail nodded mutely. Her eyes were beginning to shine.

"Well," resumed Hezekiah, "when they go, we'll be setting in the sun where they say we'd ought to be. But we ain't going to stay there, Abby. We're going down the road and get on them electric cars, and when we get to the Junction, we're going to take the steam cars for Boston. What if 'tis thirty miles! I calculate we're equal to 'em. We'll have one good time, and we won't come home until in the evening. We'll see Faneuil Hall and Bunker Hill, and you shall buy a new cap, and ride in the subway. If there's a preaching service, we'll go to that. They have 'em sometimes weekdays, ye know."

"Oh, Hezekiah, we--couldn't!" gasped the little old woman.

"Pooh! 'Course we could. Listen!" And Hezekiah proceeded to unfold his plans in more detail.

It was very early the next morning when the household awoke. By seven o'clock, a two-seated carryall was drawn up to the side door, and by a quarter past, the carryall, bearing Jennie, Frank, the boys, and the lunch baskets, rumbled out of the yard and onto the highway.

"Now, keep quiet and don't get heated, mother," cautioned Jennie, looking back at the little gray-haired woman standing all alone on the side veranda.

"Find a good cool spot to smoke your pipe in, father," called Frank, as an old man appeared in the doorway.

There followed a shout, a clatter, and a cloud of dust--then silence. Fifteen minutes later, hand in hand, a little old man and a little old woman walked down the white road together.

To most of the passengers on the trolley-car that day, the trip was merely a necessary means to an end; to the old couple on the front seat, it was something to be remembered and lived over all their lives. Even at the Junction, the spell of unreality was so potent that the man forgot things so trivial as tickets and marched into the car with head erect and eyes fixed straight ahead.

It was after Hezekiah had taken out the roll of bills--all ones--to pay the fares to the conductor, that a young man in a tall hat sauntered down the aisle and dropped into the seat in front.

"Going to Boston, I take it," said the young man genially.

"Yes, sir," replied Hezekiah, no less genially. "Ye guessed right the first time."

Abigail lifted a cautious hand to her hair and her bonnet. So handsome and well-dressed a man would notice the slightest thing awry, she thought.

"Hm-m," smiled the stranger. "I was so successful that time, suppose I try my luck again.--You don't go every day, I fancy, eh?"

"Sugar! How'd he know that, now?" chuckled Hezekiah, turning to his wife in open glee. "So we don't, stranger, so we don't," he added, turning back to the man. "Ye hit it plumb right."

"Hm-m! Great place, Boston," observed the stranger. "I'm glad you're going. I think you'll enjoy it."

The two wrinkled old faces before him fairly beamed.

"I thank ye, sir," said Hezekiah heartily. "I call that mighty kind of ye, specially as there are them that thinks we're too old to be enjoying of anything."

"Old? Of course you're not too old! Why, you're just in the prime to enjoy things," cried the handsome man, and in the sunshine of his dazzling smile, the hearts of the little old man and woman quite melted within them.

"Thank ye, sir, thank ye, sir," nodded Abigail, while Hezekiah offered his hand.

"Shake, stranger, shake! And I ain't too old, and I'm going to prove it. I've got money, sir, heaps of it, and I'm going to spend it--maybe I'll spend it all. We're going to see Bunker Hill and Faneuil Hall, and we're going to ride in the subway. Now, don't tell me we don't know how to enjoy ourselves!"

It was a very simple matter after that. On the one hand, there were infinite tact and skill; on the other, innocence, ignorance, and an overwhelming gratitude for this sympathetic companionship.

Long before Boston was reached, Mr. and Mrs. Warden and "Mr. Livingstone" were on the best of terms, and when they separated at the foot of the car steps, to the old man and woman it seemed that half their joy and all their courage went with the smiling man who lifted his hat in farewell before being lost to sight in the crowd.

"There, Abby, we're here!" announced Hezekiah, with an exultation that was a little forced. "Gorry! There must be something going on today," he added, as he followed the long line of people down the narrow passage between the cars.

There was no reply. Abigail's cheeks were pink and her bonnet strings untied. Her eyes, wide open and frightened, were fixed on the swaying, bobbing crowds ahead. In the great waiting room, she caught her husband's arm.

"Hezekiah, we can't, we mustn't today," she whispered. "There's such a crowd. Let's go home and come when it's quieter."

"But, Abby, we--here, let's sit down," Hezekiah finished helplessly.

Near one of the outer doors, Mr. Livingstone--better known to his friends and the police as "Slick Bill"--smiled behind his hand. Not once since he had left them had Mr. and Mrs. Hezekiah Warden been out of his sight.

"What's up, Bill? Need assistance?" demanded a voice at his elbow.

"Jim, by all that's lucky!" cried Livingstone, turning to greet a dapper little man in gray. "Sure I need you! It's a peach, though I doubt if we get much but fun, but there'll be enough of that to make up. Oh, he's got money--'heaps of it,' he says," laughed Livingstone, "and I saw a roll of bills myself. But I advise you not to count too much on that, though it'll be easy enough to get what there is, all right. As for the fun, Jim, look over by that post near the parcel window."

"Great Scott! Where'd you pick 'em?" chuckled the younger man.

"Never mind," returned the other with a shrug. "Meet me at Clyde's in half an hour. We'll be there, never fear."

Over by the parcel-room, an old man looked about him with anxious eyes.

"But, Abby, don't ye see?" he urged. "We've come so far, seems as though we ought to do the rest all right. Now, you just sit here and let me go and find out how to get there. We'll try for Bunker Hill first, 'cause we want to see the monument sure."

He rose to his feet only to be pulled back by his wife.

"Hezekiah Warden!" she almost sobbed. "If you dare to stir ten feet away from me, I'll never forgive ye as long as I live. We'd never find each other again!"

"Well, well, Abby," soothed the man with grim humor, "if we never found each other again, I don't see as 'twould make much difference whether ye forgave me or not!"

For another long minute they silently watched the crowd. Then Hezekiah squared his shoulders.

"Come, come, Abby," he said, "this ain't no way to do. Only think how we wanted to get here, and now we're here and don't dare to stir. There ain't any less folks than there was--growing worse, if anything--but I'm getting used to 'em now, and I'm going to make a break. Come, what would Mr. Livingstone say if he could see us now? Where'd he think our boasting was about our being able to enjoy ourselves? Come!" And once more he rose to his feet.

This time he was not held back. The little woman at his side adjusted her bonnet, tilted up her chin, and, in her turn, rose to her feet.

"Sure enough!" she quavered bravely. "Come, Hezekiah, we'll ask the way to Bunker Hill." And, holding fast to her husband's coat sleeve, she tripped across the floor to one of the outer doors.

On the sidewalk, Mr. and Mrs. Hezekiah Warden came once more to a halt. Before them swept an endless stream of cars, carriages, and people. Above, thundered the elevated railway cars.

"Oh-h," shuddered Abigail, and tightened her grasp on her husband's coat.

It was some minutes before Hezekiah's dry tongue and lips could frame his question, and then his words were so low-spoken and indistinct that the first two men he asked did not hear. The third man frowned and pointed to a policeman. The fourth snapped, "Take the elevated for Charlestown or the trolley-cars either," all of which served but to puzzle Hezekiah the more.

Little by little, the dazed old man and his wife fell back before the jostling crowds. They were quite against the side of the building when Livingstone spoke to them.

"Well, well, if here aren't my friends again!" he exclaimed cordially.

There was something of the fierceness of a drowning man in the way Hezekiah took hold of that hand.

"Mr. Livingstone!" he cried; then he recollected himself. "We was just going to Bunker Hill," he said jauntily.

"Yes?" smiled Livingstone. "But your luncheon--aren't you hungry? Come with me; I was just going to get mine."

"But you--I--" Hezekiah paused and looked doubtfully at his wife.

"Indeed, my dear Mrs. Warden, you'll say 'Yes,' I know," urged Livingstone suavely. "Only think how good a nice cup of tea would taste now."

"I know, but--" She glanced at her husband.

"Nonsense! Of course you'll come," insisted Livingstone, laying a gently compelling hand on the arm of each.

Fifteen minutes later, Hezekiah stood looking about him with wondering eyes.

"Well, well, Abby, ain't this slick?" he cried.

His wife did not reply. The mirrors, the lights, the gleaming silver and glass had filled her with a delight too great for words. She was vaguely conscious of her husband, of Mr. Livingstone, and of a smooth-shaven little man in gray who was presented as "Mr. Harding." Then she found herself seated at that wonderful table, while beside her chair stood an awesome being who laid a printed card before her. With a little ecstatic sigh, she gave Hezekiah her customary signal for the blessing and bowed her head.

"There!" exulted Livingstone aloud. "Here we--" He stopped short. From his left came a deep-toned, reverent voice invoking the divine blessing upon the place, the food, and the new friends who were so kind to strangers in a strange land.

"By Jove!" muttered Livingstone under his breath, as his eyes met those of Jim across the table. The waiter coughed and turned his back. Then, the blessing concluded, Hezekiah raised his head and smiled.

"Well, well, Abby, why don't ye say something?" he asked, breaking the silence. "Ye haven't said a word. Mr. Livingstone'll be thinking ye don't like it."

Mrs. Warden drew a long breath of delight.

"I can't say anything, Hezekiah," she faltered. "It's all so beautiful."

Livingstone waited until the dazed old eyes had become in a measure accustomed to the surroundings; then he turned a smiling face on Hezekiah.

"And now, my friend, what do you propose to do after luncheon?" he asked.

"Well, we calculate to take in Bunker Hill and Faneuil Hall sure," returned the old man, with a confidence that told of new courage imbibed with his tea. "Then we thought maybe we'd ride in the subway and hear one of the big preachers if they happened to be holding meetings anywhere this week. Maybe you can tell us, eh?"

Across the table, the man called Harding choked over his food, and Livingstone frowned.

"Well," began Livingstone slowly.

"I think," interrupted Harding, taking a newspaper from his pocket, "I think there are services there," he finished gravely, pointing to the glaring advertisement of a ten-cent show, as he handed the paper across to Livingstone.

"But what time do the exercises begin?" demanded Hezekiah in a troubled voice. "Ye see, there's Bunker Hill and--sugar! Abby, ain't that pretty?" he broke off delightedly. Before him stood a slender glass into which the waiter was pouring something red and sparkling.

The old lady opposite grew white, then pink. "Of course that ain't wine, Mr. Livingstone?" she asked anxiously.

"Give yourself no uneasiness, my dear Mrs. Warden," interposed Harding. "It's lemonade--pink lemonade."

"Oh," she returned with a relieved sigh. "I ask your pardon, I'm sure. You wouldn't have it, 'course, no more than I would. But, ye see, being pledged so, I didn't want to make a mistake."

There was an awkward silence; then Harding raised his glass.

"Here's to your health, Mrs. Warden!" he cried gayly. "May your trip----"

"Wait!" she interrupted excitedly, her old eyes alight and her cheeks flushed. "Let me tell ye first what this trip is to us, then ye'll have a right to wish us good luck."

Harding lowered his glass and turned upon her a gravely attentive face.

"Almost fifty years ago we was married, Hezekiah and me," she began softly. "We'd saved, both of us, and we'd planned a honeymoon trip. We was coming to Boston. They didn't have any electric cars then, nor any steam-cars only half-way. But we was coming, and we was planning on Bunker Hill and Faneuil Hall, and I don't know what all."

The little lady paused for breath, and Harding stirred uneasily in his chair. Livingstone did not move. His eyes were fixed on a mirror across the room. Over at the sideboard, the waiter vigorously wiped a bottle.

"Well, we was married," continued the tremulous voice, "and not half an hour later, mother fell down the cellar stairs and broke her hip. Of course, that stopped things right short. I took off my wedding gown and put on my old red calico and went to work. Hezekiah came right there and ran the farm, and I nursed mother and did the work. 'Twas more than a year before she was up 'round, and after that, what with the babies and all, there didn't never seem a chance when Hezekiah and me could take this trip.

"If we went anywhere, we couldn't seem to manage to go together, and we never stayed for no sight-seeing. Late years, my Jennie and her husband seemed to think we didn't need nothing but naps and knitting, and somehow we got so we just couldn't stand it. We wanted to go somewhere and see something, so."

Mrs. Warden paused, drew a long breath, and resumed. Her voice now had a ring of triumph.

"Well, last month they got the electric cars finished down our way. We hadn't been on 'em, neither of us. Jennie and Frank didn't seem to want us to. They said they was shaky and noisy and would tire us all out. But yesterday, when the folks was gone, Hezekiah and me got to talking and thinking how all these years we hadn't never had that honeymoon trip, and how by and by we'd be old--real old, I mean, so's we couldn't take it--and all of a sudden we said we'd take it now, right now. And we did. We left a note for the children, and--and we're here!"

There was a long silence. Over at the sideboard, the waiter still polished his bottle. Livingstone did not even turn his head. Finally Harding raised his glass.

"We'll drink to honeymoon trips in general, and to this one in particular," he cried a little constrainedly.

Mrs. Warden flushed, smiled, and reached for her glass. The pink lemonade was almost at her lips when Livingstone's arm shot out. Then came the tinkle of shattered glass and a crimson stain where the wine trailed across the damask.

"I beg your pardon!" exclaimed Livingstone, while the other men lowered their glasses in surprise. "That was an awkward slip of mine, Mrs. Warden. I must have hit your arm."

"But, Bill," muttered Harding under his breath, "you don't mean--"

"But I do," corrected Livingstone quietly, looking straight into Harding's amazed eyes.

"Mr. and Mrs. Warden are my guests. They are going to drive to Bunker Hill with me by and by."

When the six o'clock accommodation train pulled out from Boston that night, it bore a little old man and a little old woman, gray-haired, weary, but blissfully content.

"We've seen 'em all, Hezekiah, every single one of 'em," Abigail was saying. "And wasn't Mr. Livingstone good, a-getting that carriage and taking us everywhere; and it being open so all 'round the sides, we didn't miss seeing a single thing!"

"He was, Abby, he was, and he wouldn't let me pay one cent!" cried Hezekiah, taking out his roll of bills and patting it lovingly. "But, Abby, did ye notice? 'Twas kind o' queer we never got one taste of that pink lemonade. The waiter-man took it away."