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- Herausgeber: Booksell-Verlag
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
In "The Red Signal," Grace Livingston Hill intricately weaves a tale that blends romance and suspense against a backdrop of early 20th-century societal norms. The novel follows the story of its heroine, an imaginative and resilient young woman, who encounters both personal and moral dilemmas that challenge her values and beliefs. Hill's lyrical prose and well-defined character arcs reflect the complexities of human emotion, showcasing a narrative style that is both engaging and poignant. Set within a context that mirrors post-World War I America, the book captures the oscillation between hope and despair, all while maintaining a distinctly moral undercurrent that is characteristic of Hill's oeuvre. Grace Livingston Hill, often hailed as the pioneer of Christian romance literature, penned over 100 novels throughout her lifetime. Her writing is deeply influenced by her strong Christian faith, which permeates her narratives, highlighting moral choices and the triumph of love. Hill's own experiences'—growing up amidst the transformative societal shifts of the early 1900s'—inform her character's struggles and aspirations, making her work resonate with authenticity and depth. This captivating novel is an essential read for fans of romance and those intrigued by historical contexts of moral complexity. "The Red Signal" not only entertains but also invites reflection on personal values and societal expectations, making it an enduring classic for contemporary readers seeking both inspiration and insight. In this enriched edition, we have carefully created added value for your reading experience: - A succinct Introduction situates the work's timeless appeal and themes. - The Synopsis outlines the central plot, highlighting key developments without spoiling critical twists. - A detailed Historical Context immerses you in the era's events and influences that shaped the writing. - A thorough Analysis dissects symbols, motifs, and character arcs to unearth underlying meanings. - Reflection questions prompt you to engage personally with the work's messages, connecting them to modern life. - Hand‐picked Memorable Quotes shine a spotlight on moments of literary brilliance. - Interactive footnotes clarify unusual references, historical allusions, and archaic phrases for an effortless, more informed read.
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023
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The Red Signal (Musaicum Romance Classics)
Table of Contents
Introduction
In The Red Signal, a sudden warning flares across ordinary life and refuses to be ignored, summoning courage where timidity once settled, testing loyalties that seemed secure, and drawing lives toward a crossroads where fear and faith, safety and sacrifice, prudence and compassion, all contend for the final word.
Grace Livingston Hill, a pioneering voice in American inspirational romance, sets The Red Signal within the familiar rhythms of early twentieth-century life, where social conventions, personal duty, and spiritual conviction frequently collide. The novel belongs to the tradition of clean, faith-tinged love stories whose emotional stakes are heightened by moral choices and moments of quiet suspense. This Musaicum Romance Classics edition reintroduces Hill’s work to contemporary readers, presenting a period piece whose concerns remain strikingly current. While composed in an earlier era, the book reflects the anxieties and hopes of its time, offering a portrait of everyday people pushed to act under the pressure of an unmistakable alarm.
Without revealing more than the premise suggests, the story pivots on an ominous signal that interrupts routine and compels decisive action. Hill builds her narrative around characters who must quickly discern what is right, whom to trust, and how to respond when the comfortable path no longer suffices. Readers can expect a blend of domestic scenes and taut encounters, rendered in direct, accessible prose that emphasizes clarity of motive and feeling. The mood moves from unease to resolve, softening danger with tenderness, and balancing peril with the steady growth of understanding—hallmarks of a romance designed to stir both the heart and the conscience.
The Red Signal explores the interplay of warning and wisdom: how people read danger, set boundaries, and choose whether to step forward or retreat. Hill’s focus on conscience and character foregrounds questions of integrity, loyalty, and the cost of doing what is right when it is least convenient. The titular signal, whether literal or symbolic, functions as a moral threshold—a moment when delay is itself a decision. Woven throughout are meditations on providence and the sustaining power of trust, suggesting that courage often looks ordinary from the outside, even as it reshapes lives from within.
Stylistically, Hill favors straightforward storytelling, brisk pacing, and dialogue that reveals both resolve and vulnerability. Her scenes unfold with a gentle attentiveness to daily detail—rooms, letters, errands, and quiet conversations—that makes each turning point feel grounded rather than grandiose. The tone remains earnest, but not austere; moments of suspense are tempered by the warmth of growing attachment and the stabilizing presence of community. Readers familiar with Hill’s broader oeuvre will recognize her signature interest in how small acts of kindness, humility, and persistence accumulate into decisive moral momentum, transforming a simple encounter into a life-defining passage.
For modern readers, the novel’s relevance lies in its insistence that danger is as much ethical as it is external. The question is not only how to stay safe, but how to remain true when safety demands compromise. The Red Signal invites reflection on the value of heeding warnings—social, spiritual, and personal—before they harden into crises. Its exploration of trust under pressure resonates in an age of competing narratives, asking how one discerns credible guidance amid noise. In portraying courage as disciplined attention to the good, Hill sketches a vision of love that steadies rather than dazzles, and protects without controlling.
Approached as a romance with purposeful moral stakes, The Red Signal offers the satisfaction of watching conviction kindle into action and affection. Its period setting enriches the experience without erecting barriers, as the concerns that drive the plot—safety, honor, compassion, and the risk of being misunderstood—remain perennial. The Musaicum Romance Classics edition provides an accessible gateway to Hill’s legacy, inviting both longtime admirers and first-time readers to revisit a story built on clarity of heart and steadiness of will. It is an invitation to listen for the warning that becomes a calling, and to follow it toward a love forged in courage.
Synopsis
The novel opens with a young woman negotiating the polished routines of a respectable life, attentive to family duties and social expectations that leave little room for independent choice. Her prospects appear secure, shaped by acquaintances who measure success in comfort, connections, and unexamined habit. Yet the narrative hints at unease: beneath the pleasant surfaces lie compromises that trouble her conscience. The title’s motif, a red signal that warns and restrains, quietly threads through her days as an inner caution. That moral stoplight is not dramatic at first; it is a subtle check that makes her pause at the threshold of seemingly harmless decisions.
A chance evening becomes the first true pivot. On the brink of a commitment that promises prestige but carries unspoken costs, she senses a clear and urgent warning—an inward red signal that asks her to halt. In the pause that follows, she meets a stranger whose steady integrity contrasts with the glitter around them. Brief, unplanned, and courteous, the encounter leaves an impression of safety and clarity. Nothing is settled, and no open break occurs, but the moment marks a quiet turning. The story’s pace remains measured, yet the reader understands that what seemed fixed may be reconsidered.
Obligations tighten as invitations and expectations draw her toward a circle led by a confident figure whose charm veils controlling purposes. Friends and relatives, eager for stability, subtly reinforce that path. Withdrawals would be awkward; delays would be noticed. Meanwhile, ordinary responsibilities crowd the days, leaving little space to examine her misgivings. Through routine errands and accidental crossings, the principled acquaintance reappears, offering practical kindness without pressure. The contrast between bright appearances and steady goodness grows sharper. Still, the heroine neither rebels nor submits completely; she proceeds step by step, keeping peace outwardly while weighing the cost of consent.
Gradually, small irregularities come into focus: conversations that stop when she enters, documents withheld until late hours, plans cloaked as favors. What looked like harmless influence begins to resemble manipulation. With tactful caution, she tests what she is told and finds details that do not hold. The red signal returns—not thunderous, but unmistakable—pressing her to wait rather than sign, to ask instead of assume. She seeks counsel from a few trustworthy people and guards her words in public. The narrative builds not by spectacle, but through accumulating evidence that her course, if unaltered, may endanger more than her reputation.
A decisive invitation arrives, framed as an honor and timed to limit reflection. Accepting would align her with strategies she does not understand; declining would offend those who expect gratitude. The principled acquaintance, aware of pressures without prying into secrets, offers a path to delay and the promise of help if needed. The heroine chooses caution. She neither denounces nor capitulates; she slows the march of events and keeps her own counsel. The choice appears minor in public, but privately it marks a commitment to listen to that inward restraint. In the story’s structure, this becomes the hinge for everything that follows.
Resistance brings consequences. Cold politeness replaces charm; opportunities vanish; subtle threats surface in polite phrasing. She senses her movements observed and her loyalties questioned. Circumstances broaden the stakes beyond herself, touching those who depend on her steady income and good name. In this pressure, she discovers both the extent of the hidden scheme and the breadth of honest support around her. The acquaintance introduces her to dependable allies whose help is practical and discreet. Plans take shape for a careful exit: gathering facts, arranging safe alternatives, and choosing when to speak. The red signal now means safety in patience, not fear.
When events accelerate, the novel enters its most suspenseful phase. Timetables narrow; a crucial meeting looms; the cost of silence grows. Moving between bright drawing rooms and shadowed corridors, the heroine must decide whether to reveal what she knows or risk harm through delay. Symbols of stopping and going—literal signals in the city and metaphorical checks within—echo the title and underline the logic of restraint at dangerous thresholds. Without detailing the outcome, the turning point requires her to act in the open with calm resolve, aligning conscience and courage. The confrontation exposes pretenses and tests every alliance.
In the aftermath, consequences are measured rather than sensational. Social veneers crack; private motives are acknowledged; the boundaries of trust are redrawn. Some relationships end quietly; others deepen through honesty. Practical matters—work, home, obligation—find steadier footing as deception recedes. The narrative affords space for reflection and for simple acts of mending: apologies made, responsibilities resumed, futures reconsidered without haste. Romance grows in this cleared light, not as a reward for daring, but as the natural outcome of shared convictions and proven reliability. The heroine’s path is no longer dictated by appearances; it is ordered by principles tested under strain.
The Red Signal conveys a central message of moral discernment: the wisdom to pause when inner warning lights appear and to choose integrity over convenience. Its blend of quiet romance and restrained suspense underscores that decisive goodness often looks like patience, truth-telling, and thoughtful courage. Rather than offer sensational surprises, the book traces how small choices avert larger harms and how faith, expressed in everyday obedience, provides protection and direction. Without revealing final details, the story closes with hope that feels earned: a life realigned around trust, service, and love grounded in character rather than glamour or pressure.
Historical Context
Grace Livingston Hill situates The Red Signal in the United States during the uneasy transition from the 1910s to the early 1920s, when small towns and expanding cities in the Northeast and Mid-Atlantic were reshaped by war, technology, and reform. The novel’s domestic parlors, church-centered communities, boardinghouses, and new commercial districts reflect a world where telephones, electric lights, and motorcars were becoming commonplace. The mood of the setting is postwar: hopeful yet anxious, morally earnest yet tempted by modern entertainments. Rail lines and trolley routes knit suburbs to urban cores, while new social spaces—shops, offices, and civic meeting halls—bring disparate classes into closer daily contact, sharpening questions of propriety, opportunity, and responsibility.
World War I (1914–1918), with U.S. entry on April 6, 1917, profoundly altered American life. Four million Americans served; Liberty Loan drives, rationing, and Red Cross work mobilized the civilian population. The Armistice of November 11, 1918, was followed by rapid demobilization in 1919, bringing veterans home to altered economies and expectations. Communities commemorated the fallen with memorials and Gold Star observances. Hill wrote contemporaneously to this aftermath, and The Red Signal mirrors home-front vigilance and postwar readjustment: characters’ anxieties over duty, sacrifice, and the temptations of sudden peacetime abundance echo the moral questions Americans faced as they weighed personal freedom against communal obligation in the war’s long shadow.
The 1918–1919 influenza pandemic killed an estimated 50 million worldwide, including approximately 675,000 in the United States. Cities such as Philadelphia, Boston, and San Francisco closed schools, churches, and theaters; mask ordinances and volunteer nursing corps became emblematic of civic response. Public grief and the fragility of daily life lingered into the early 1920s. Hill’s fiction often underscores neighborly care and charitable duty, themes that resonate with the pandemic’s lessons. In The Red Signal, the insistence on attentiveness to others and on moral guardrails within community life reflects a society that had recently experienced widespread loss and had learned to value mutual aid and disciplined compassion.
Prohibition reshaped social life after the Eighteenth Amendment’s ratification on January 16, 1919, and the Volstead Act (October 1919) made it enforceable beginning January 17, 1920. The Anti-Saloon League and the Woman’s Christian Temperance Union (founded 1874) had long argued that liquor destroyed families and civic order. Yet the 1920s saw the rise of bootlegging, speakeasies, and organized crime, from Chicago’s syndicates to New York’s hidden bars. Hill, raised in evangelical and temperance circles, wove cautionary moral narratives that track closely with these developments. The Red Signal’s very title evokes a cultural call to stop—warning against indulgences that Prohibition sought to restrain—and dramatizes the personal costs of ignoring those social and legal boundaries.
Women’s suffrage culminated in the Nineteenth Amendment, ratified on August 18, 1920, following decades of activism by figures such as Susan B. Anthony and Carrie Chapman Catt. Wartime service in factories, nursing, and civil organizations strengthened claims to citizenship; women increasingly entered clerical work and higher education. The period also sparked debates over modern femininity, from club movement reformers to flapper culture. Hill’s heroines typically exercise principled independence, choosing employment, philanthropy, or leadership while maintaining spiritual conviction. The Red Signal reflects this transition by presenting women whose agency operates within a moral framework, portraying the practical and ethical decisions facing newly enfranchised citizens navigating both public voice and private virtue.
Automobiles transformed American mobility and urban form. Ford’s Model T (1908–1927) and assembly-line production lowered costs, swelling registrations from 500,000 in 1910 to over 8 million by 1920. Governments paved roads under the Federal Aid Road Act (1916) and the Federal Highway Act (1921). Traffic control modernized quickly: the first electric traffic signal operated in Cleveland in 1914, and William Potts introduced the three-color system in Detroit in 1920. Rising fatalities spurred safety campaigns and a new etiquette of streets. The Red Signal deploys this technological lexicon—literally and metaphorically—as a warning system amid speed and risk. Whether in scenes of hurried urban crossings or moral choices, the book treats “stop” as a civic and spiritual imperative.
Urbanization and unrest marked 1919–1921: the Seattle General Strike (February 1919), the Boston Police Strike (September 1919), and the First Red Scare, including the Palmer Raids (1919–1920), signaled conflicts over wages, authority, and radicalism. Immigration surged earlier in the decade, then faced restriction culminating in the Emergency Quota Act (1921). City neighborhoods stratified by class and ethnicity, while philanthropic settlement work attempted relief. Hill’s narratives often critique social snobbery and the moral complacency of wealth. In The Red Signal, attention to cross-class interaction—church relief, respectable work, and principled friendship—mirrors contemporary hopes for civic harmony, resisting both elitist isolation and reactionary panic by emphasizing charity, fairness, and law-abiding reform.
As social and political critique, the book challenges the era’s worship of speed, novelty, and license, exposing how postwar prosperity and urban pleasures could erode conscience and civic duty. It rebukes hypocrisy in Prohibition-era respectability, warns against predation enabled by class privilege, and urges readers to recognize the “red signals” that institutions, laws, and faith traditions placed before danger. By dignifying women’s ethical agency after suffrage and affirming the worth of honest labor across classes, the narrative advances a communitarian ethic over conspicuous consumption. Its critique is not partisan but structural: it calls for ordered freedom—self-governed restraint for the good of neighbors—amid the disorienting currents of the early 1920s.
The Red Signal (Musaicum Romance Classics)
CHAPTER I
Hilda Lessing stood hesitating fearfully before the wide expanse of railroad tracks that seemed to be fairly bristling with menacing engines, some moving, some standing still. In her bewilderment she could not be sure which were moving and which were standing still. They all seemed alive; waiting to pounce upon her if she stirred.
The conductor had told her, when he put her off the express, that the other train made good connection, and she had no time to waste. He had pointed across all those tracks, and across them she must go. She made a wild dash, accomplished half the distance, and suddenly found herself snatched from the very teeth of a flying express that had appeared like a comet out of the mêlée, and held in strong arms against a bit of rail fence that traversed the space between the tracks for a little distance.
It seemed ages that she clung with trembling arms to a big rough shoulder, her body pressed against the fence, one hand still gripping the suitcase jammed between her and the fence, while an interminable train rushed, car after car, past her reeling brain, the hot breath of its going blasting her cheeks. To add to the horror, another train dashed into sight on the other side of the frail fence and tore along in the opposite direction. She felt like a leaf in a crevice with a great roaring avalanche on either side. If she should let go her feeble hold of the rescuer for a single instant, or if he failed her, she was lost. Her horrified eyes were strained and fascinated with the fearful spectacle till it seemed she could bear it no longer; then she closed them with a shiver and dropped her face to the broad blue jean shoulder that offered the only relief.
The strong arms seemed to hold her closer with a reassuring pressure that comforted her. The rushing of the train was growing less as if some spell had it within control now, and she felt herself lifted and borne swiftly beyond the noise and confusion. She dared not open her eyes until he put her down upon a quiet bench at the far end of the platform away from the crowds.
She dimly felt that people were looking curiously, excitedly, after her, and that the trainmen, with startled faces, were calling out something to her companion; but she paid no heed to any of them. She only saw his face bending solicitously over her, his pleasant eyes so brown and merry, and heard his cheery voice:
“Say, kid, that was a close call! Didn't you know any better than to cross those tracks with both fliers due? Where was the station man, I'd like to know, that he let you start?”
“Oh!” gasped Hilda, turning whiter than ever. “I didn't know! I couldn't find a way across, and I had to make my train!” Then the tears came in a flood of nervous reaction and she dropped her face into her hands and sobbed.
The man in the blue overalls sidled up to her in dismay and put his big arm awkwardly around her, forgetful of his amused comrades not far away.
“There! There! Kid! Don't cry! It's all over, and you're perfectly safe!”
He patted her slender shaking shoulders gently with his big blackened hand, and looked helplessly down at the girl.
“What train were you meaning to take?” he asked with sudden inspiration.
Hilda lifted a pair of drenched blue eyes, large and wide, with a new fear, and started to her feet.
“Oh! The train to Platt's Crossing! Has it gone? I ought to hurry! Which way do I go?”
The young man looked at his watch. He had nice hair and a handsome head. She liked the way the dark curl fell over his white forehead, and the strength of the bronzed neck above the jumper.
“You’ve plenty of time. Number ten isn't due for fifteen minutes. Come over to the restaurant and have a cup of coffee. That'll put some pep into you.”
He seized the suitcase and led the way. She noticed that he did everything as if he were a gentleman. She liked the way he pulled out the chair and seated her at the table. He gave an order for sandwiches, coffee, baked apples and cream. It looked good to her after a night and morning of fasting.
“Do you live at Platt's Crossing?” His brown eyes were fixed pleasantly, respectfully upon her.
“No! That is—I live in Chicago—or I did till father died. I'm going to work at Platt's Crossing.”
She spoke as if it were an unpleasant fact that had not yet become familiar enough to lose the pain of its expression.
“You look young to go to work,” he said kindly, interestedly. “What line? Telephone girl or stenography?”
The color stole up under her clear skin.
“Neither,” she said bravely. “It's a truck farm. They're Germans my uncle knows. I'm to help. Housework, I suppose. I'm going to try to like it, but I wanted to teach. I had finished high school and was going to normal next fall if father hadn't died. But something happened to our money and I had to take this place. Mother's got a place as matron in an orphan asylum, where she could take my little brother with her. It isn't very pleasant, but it was the best that we could do.”
“That's tough luck, kid!” said the young man sympathetically, “but brace up! If you've got it in you to teach you'll get your chance yet[1q]. Are you German?”
“No,” said the girl decidedly. “Father was. He was born in Germany. He liked this country, though, and didn't keep running hack to Germany every year the way my uncle does. But mother and I are Americans. Mother was born in Chicago.”
“Well, you'd better keep your eyes open, kid! Those German truck farms[1] have been getting a bad name since the war broke out. There are lots of spies around just now. You can't tell what you may come across.”
There was a twinkle of fun in his eyes, but a strain of earnestness in his voice. The girl looked at him in wide-eyed wonder.
“You don't suppose there would be any such thing as that?” she asked, dropping her spoon. “I thought spies were just newspaper talk. Our high school teacher used to say so.”
“Well, there are plenty of spies around all right!” be said seriously. “It's not all newspaper talk. But don't you worry. It isn't likely they'll come around you, and you might not know them for spies if they did.”
“Oh! I should be so frightened!” she said, her hand fluttering to her throat. “What do people do when they discover spies?”
“Just lie low and send word to Washington as quick as they can. But don't look like that, kid; I was just talking nonsense!”
She tried to answer his smile with another.
“I know I'm silly,” she said contritely, “but it seems so dreadful to come to this strange place among people I don't know anything about.”
“Oh, you'll come out all right. It won't be so bad as you think. They'll likely turn out to be fine.”
She took a deep breath and smiled bravely.
“I don't know what mother would say if she knew I was talking to you,” she remarked anxiously.
“She brought me up never to speak to strange young men. But you've been so kind saving my life! Only I wouldn't like to have you think I'm that kind of a girl———”
“Of course not!” he said indignantly. “Anybody could see that with a glance. I hope you haven't thought I was fresh, either. I saw you were all in and needed a little jollying up. I guess those two expresses sort of introduced us, didn't they? I’m Dan Stevens. My father is—has a position—that is, he works on the railroad, and I'm engineer just at present on number five freight. I'll be glad to be of service to you at any time.”
“My name is Hilda Lessing,” said the girl shyly. “You certainly have been kind to me, I shan't ever forget that I would have been killed if it hadn't been for you. I guess you might have been killed, too. You were very brave, jumping in between those trains after me. I shan't feel quite so lonesome and homesick now, knowing there's someone I know between Platt's Crossing and Chicago.”
“Oh, that wasn't anything!” said the young man lightly. “That’s part of the railroad business, you know. But say! It's rank to be homesick! Suppose I give you a signal as I pass Platt's Crossing. I get there at 2:05 usually, unless we're late. It will maybe cheer you up to let you know there's somebody around you know. I’ll give three long blasts and two short ones. That'll be to say: ‘Hello! How are you? Here's a friend!’ I know where that truck farm is, right along the railroad before you get to the bridge, about, a quarter of a mile this side. There isn't much else at Platt's Crossing but that farm. We stop to take on freight sometimes. Here, tell you what you do. If everything's all right and you think things are going to go you just hang a towel or apron or something white out your window, or on the fence rail somewhere. I'll be watching for it. That will be like saying: ‘I'm very well, thank you.’ Won't that make you feel a little more at home?"
“It certainly will. It will be something to look forward to,” said Hilda smiling shyly. “I shan't be half as much afraid if I know there is somebody going by to whom I could signal if I got into trouble. Of course, I know I won't, but you understand.”
“Of course,” said the engineer rising. “That’s all right. If you get into trouble or find that spy or anything, you can hand out a red rag for a danger signal, and then I'll know there is something that needs to be looked after. See? Now, I guess we had better beat it. It's time for that train of yours. I'm glad to have met you. You're a mighty plucky[2] little girl and I honor you.”
He pushed back his chair and picked up the suitcase. She noticed again the ease of every movement, as if he were waiting on the greatest lady in the land. Then the train boomed in; he put her on, found a seat for her, touched his greasy cap with courteous grace and was gone. A moment more and she was started on her way to Platt's Crossing.
She paid little heed to the landscape by the way, for she was going over and over again all that had happened since she set her first timid step across that labyrinth of tracks, and was caught from sudden death by the strong arms of the young engineer. Various sensations that had hardly seemed to register at the time now came back to make her heart leap and her pulses thrill with horror or wonder or a strange new pleasure. How strong he had been! How well he had protected her, with never a quiver of his sturdy frame while those monster trains leaped by! How little and safe and cared-for she had felt in spite of her fear! And how thoughtful he had been, taking her to get some lunch and planning to cheer her up a little on her first lonely day at the new home! Perhaps mother would not quite think that was proper, for she had warned her many times to have nothing to do with strange young men, but, then, mother surely would understand if she could see him. He was a perfect gentleman, if he did wear blue jean overalls: and besides, they would never likely see each other again. What possible harm could a whistle and a white towel banging out a window do? He wouldn't likely do it but once, and, of course, she wouldn't; and it was pleasant to feel that there was someone to whom she could appeal if anything really frightened her, which, of course, there wouldn't. And, anyhow, he had saved her life and she must be polite to him.
It seemed ages since she had left her mother and little brother the day before to start on this long journey into the world. She seemed to have come a lifetime in experience since then. What would it be like at the farm? Was she going to like it, or was it going to be the awful stretch of emptiness that she had pictured it ever since Uncle Otto had told her she was to go? Somehow, since she had talked with the young engineer there was just the least bit of a rift in the darkness of her despair. He had said that if she had it in her to teach she would get her opportunity. Well, she could be patient and wait. Meantime, it was pleasant to think of that handsome young man and the courteous way in which he had treated her. He reminded her of a picture she had once seen of a prince. True, he was not dressed in princely robes, but she was American enough to recognize a prince in spite of his attire.
She still had the dream of him in her mind when she got out at Platt's Crossing and looked around bewildered at the loneliness of the landscape.
There was nothing more than a shanty for a station, and the only other building in sight was a dingy wooden house across some rough, plowed fields, with a large barn at a little distance from it.
She looked about in dismay for something else to guide her, and perceived a man coming toward her. He was attired in brown jeans with an old straw hat on his head, and he was as far as possible from any likeness to the young man who had put her on the train. Idealism soaring high and sweet above her head suddenly collapsed at her feet and she went forward to meet the stolid-looking man.
There was no kindly greeting, no lighting of the face, nor twinkling of the little pig eyes. She might have been a plow or a bag of fertilizer just deposited, for all the personality he allowed to her. He asked her if she was the girl from Chicago in much the same way he would have looked at the markings on some freight to be sure it was his before he went to the trouble of carrying it home.
Hilda had a shrinking notion that he was rather disappointed in her appearance. He pointed across the plowed ground to the forlorn house in the distance and told her she could go on up, they were waiting for her; as if it were her fault that she had not been there before.
Hilda picked up her heavy suitcase, looked dubiously at the long, rough road before her and glanced at the man. He had apparently forgotten her existence. He made no effort to carry her burden for her. With a sudden set of her firm little chin and a keen remembrance of the strong young engineer who had carried it so gallantly a little while before, she started bravely on her way, slowly, painfully toiling over the rough ground, and in her inexperience taking the hardest, longest way across the furrows.
The stolid woman who met her at the door with arms akimbo, furiously red face and small blue eyes that observed her apprizingly was a fit mate for the man who had directed her to the house. She gave no smile of welcome. Her lips were thin and set, though she was not unkindly. Hilda gathered that her coming had not been exactly looked forward to with pleasure, and that her presence was regarded more in the light of an unpleasant necessity than that of a companionable helper, as her uncle would have had her think.
“So! You’ve come!” Said the woman in a colorless voice.
“Yes!” said Hilda. “Is this Mrs. Schwarz?”
The woman nodded, meantime giving her closer scrutiny.
“You ain't so strong!” she announced sternly, as if the girl were somehow defrauding her of what she had a right to expect.
Hilda put down her suitcase and straightened her slender back, tilting her delicate chin just a shade.
“I'm never sick,” she said coldly. She looked regretfully back across the rough way she had come to the friendly railroad tracks gleaming in the distance and wished she dared turn and flee. Then she saw the stolid man moving heavily across the field, and turned back to her fate.
“You can take it up to your room,” the color-less voice directed, pointing to the suitcase. “Up the stairs und the first door in front. Ged in your vork cloes und cum down und help me. I haf mooch to do!”
Hilda fled up the stairs. A sudden desire to cry had stung in her eyes and crowded into her throat. She must not break down now, just at this first hour in her new home and before her employers.
She drew the door shut and noticed with joy that there was a lock. She turned the key softly and went to the one little window, looking out stealthily. Yes, it was on the side of the house toward the railroad track, whether front or back she could not tell, the house was of so nondescript a fashion. But her heart rejoiced that at least she would not have to manoeuvre and contrive to fling out her signal.
Opening her suitcase she took out a little white apron and hung it out the window by its strings. She removed her hat, bathed her face, smoothed her hair, and changed her dress for a neat school gingham. She was about to go downstairs when a low distant rumble broke on her ear. Hurrying to the window, she knelt on the floor and looked out. Yes, it was a freight train winding far down the valley, coming up the shining steel track. Was it his train? Would he remember to look or would he not expect her to have the signal ready before tomorrow?
Forgetful of her waiting mistress and the new duties below stairs, she knelt and watched the train crawl like a black writhing serpent up the track; and just as it drew near and was almost in front of her window the voice of her mistress sounded raucously up the passageway with insistency:
“I haf told you to hurry! You should cum down at vonce!” The tinge of German accent was stronger under excitement.
“Yes, in just a minute, Mrs. Schwarz!” called Hilda, turning her head excitedly from the window to answer. At that instant the clear piercing shriek of the whistle sounded forth:
——————!——————!——————!————!———!
The voice of the mistress was drowned beyond all hearing. Hilda leaned out of her window, caught the little white apron and fluttered it forth at arm's length. The train was opposite the house now, and the girl could distinctly see a cap waved from the caboose of the engine, although the distance across the fields was not short. Something happy leaped up in her heart, making her cheeks glow and her eyes shine. And then came the blast of the whistle again:
——————! ——————! ——————! ————! ———!
The train passed on over the big bridge, whose high stone arches reflected in the stream below; and echoing back its signal as it passed it wound on between the hills and was gone. Then Hilda got to her feet with illumined face and went down to meet her future. She had not even seen the young lout in cowhide boots and brown overalls who had appeared out of the clods of the earth it would seem, in color like unto them, and stood leaning against a fence, leering up at the window.
