In the weeks immediately after the recital Martine and Priscilla were both so occupied with their studies and their little duties and pleasures that they saw less than usual of each other. Martine, on whom care sat rather lightly, ceased for the time to worry about her father.
She noticed, it is true, that her mother did not read her father's last letter, which arrived about a week after her conversation with Priscilla.
"Is everything going on properly?" she asked eagerly, as her mother folded the letter within its envelope.
"I hope for the best, dear. It seems too bad that your father had to go away at this time. It was a long, hard journey, and there are still difficulties before him."
"Oh, I wish we could help, Lucian and I, I mean."
"You can help; indeed you have helped me immensely, by being bright and cheerful and—"
"Yes, and economical. Once in a while it seems strange to have to stop and think of money. I bought two-dollar seats for the Paderewski matinee, although the three-dollar seats were much better, but I thought that as I had invited Priscilla and Grace—as well as Miss Mings—our history teacher—and as we were to go to the Somerset afterwards, I ought to be economical."
Even Mrs. Stratford smiled at Martine's intended economy, as she said, "But my dear, I think perhaps it would have been wiser to pass this matinee by. You are not fond of instrumental music, and the whole thing means spending more money than you ought to spend in this way at present."
"Then I'll take it out of my allowance. Of course I meant to anyway. I don't honestly care much about Paderewski myself, but Priscilla does, and most of the girls are wild about him, and everyone is going, so I should feel very silly to have to say I hadn't been."
"Very well, my dear, I cannot criticise you, for I gave you my permission, but in future you must think more about the cost of things."
"Yes, mamma! indeed I often think of economizing, for even though it is pleasant here, living in an apartment with only Angelina and a cook is very different from being in our house at home, and I know we're here to save money. How some of the people we know would stare to see us trying to help with the work! why, the week the cook left I actually saw you washing dishes."
Mrs. Stratford smiled faintly; some of her Boston experiences had been trying, but she had said little to Martine about them.
"So far as I am concerned," added Martine, "I have enjoyed everything in Boston. I have learned lots about cooking, and if it wasn't for school, sometimes I think we could manage just with Angelina. But I am going to economize so that papa will hardly know me when he comes home in June. I can get along with only one tailor-made suit, and perhaps two or three new silks this spring. But I do hope we can plan something worth while for the summer. Wouldn't you like the Yellowstone, with our own special guide, papa, Lucian, and all of us, and I could invite Priscilla, and we might have a few weeks in one of those big hotels among the mountains. What sport it would be!"
Martine paused, almost out of breath.
"We can't make many plans until we hear from your father," replied Mrs. Stratford, quietly, "but what you suggest isn't exactly in the direction of economy."
"Oh, I didn't suppose we'd have to economize always. Then you ought to speak to Lucian, mamma, he has ordered a new touring car."
"That is the worst of indulging a boy from the cradle," and Mrs. Stratford sighed. "Last year your father told him he might have a new car this spring, and Lucian thinks he's very moderate because he is keeping within the two-thousand-dollar limit. I don't like to stop him, for if things come out as well as they may, he can have it."
"Two thousand dollars!" exclaimed Martine, to whom figures usually did not mean much. "That is a large sum! Why, it would put a boy through college."
She was thinking of Balfour Airton, and all that this amount of money would do for him.
"Mrs. Blair," continued Martine's mother, "calls Lucian very moderate in his college expenses. He stands well in his classes, too. She says that Philip spent three times as much."
"And he had to leave Harvard without a degree!"
"He has made it up since, and he is doing splendidly in business."
"Edith says it's Pamela's influence that has done so much for him."
"He was lucky enough to find a girl like her to marry him."
"She certainly is a superior woman—even if she is country-born and a college graduate, as Mrs. Blair would say," responded Martine, smiling. "If only they lived nearer, I should spend half my time with cousin Pamela—if she'd let me, but Lincoln seems far away in the winter. That's one thing we'd gain from Lucian's new car; those out-of-town places would seem close at hand."
Lucian, when Martine spoke to him about his car, admitted that he had ordered it, and he tried to laugh away her concern over family affairs. But his efforts in this direction were not really successful, and he saw that his sister was still troubled in spite of his argument that, if things were really going badly, he would have heard more from his father.
"He'd be the last one to wish me to countermand the order. Why, every fellow in our set has a new machine this spring. I thought I was doing something to send my order in so early, though of course if worse comes to worse, I can get rid of it easily enough. Mine is to be ready in June, and I know a fellow who would take it off my hands gladly enough, as he can't get his until August. I'm going to pray, however, that things won't come to that pass."
Martine, fortunately, was not inclined to borrow trouble, and although she by no means forgot the little conversation with her mother regarding her father's business, remembering it did not depress her. Life in the spring, even in a bleak New England spring, holds so many pleasant things for a girl of seventeen that intangible troubles are not likely to prevent her enjoyment of the present.
Martine was popular at school, and her invitations far exceeded those of the majority of her classmates. The younger girls liked her because she was always cheerful, and never snubbed them. The older girls admired her because she had an air of knowing the world, and was ever ready with some amusing story. She was popular without having many intimate friends, and Priscilla was proud of the distinction of being the one girl who knew Martine the best. Here and there, naturally enough, there were girls who did not care especially for Martine. There were one or two who professed an inherent dislike of outsiders, as a class, and there were others who found fault with Martine in particular. They said that she was forward, that she was patronizing, and that her liberality in the spending of money was merely a way of "showing off" of which they did not approve. But the fact that Martine, at the beginning of the school year, had been dubbed "Brenda's ward" was more effectual than any other one thing in placing her within the inner circle of the school. In spite of the years that had elapsed since Brenda was a pupil at Miss Crawdon's, she and her doings were still remembered. Older sisters had talked to younger sisters about her, and everyone knew that she had been the most popular girl of her day. She was still spoken of most habitually as "Brenda," even by those who had not known her well. For in Boston the unmarried names of girls cling to them longer than in most cities, and those who immediately recalled "Brenda Barlow" had to think twice when "Mrs. Arthur Weston" was named.
Priscilla, who was nothing if not exact, remonstrated occasionally with girls who spoke of Martine as "Brenda's ward."
"She never was really her ward, you know, only Brenda was to chaperone her, and now that Mrs. Weston has gone away, it seems to me that the name ought to be dropped."
The girls to whom Priscilla spoke only laughed at her.
"My dear child," said Marie Taggart, "from the way you cling to her, I judge you would rather have Martine called 'Priscilla's ward,' but Brenda is so far away that you mustn't be jealous of her, really and truly you must not."
After this Priscilla said no more on this subject, although an observer would have noticed that she herself never spoke of her friend by the obnoxious title.
When Mrs. Stratford and Martine first took possession of Brenda's little apartment, Brenda's mother and sister, Mrs. Barlow and Mrs. Weston, added much to their pleasure by introducing them to their large circle of relatives and friends and in other ways, as Mrs. Barlow put it, "adopting" them in Brenda's place. But before January had come to an end the whole Barlow household was itself preparing to move. His physician had prescribed a change of air for Mr. Barlow, and after a few weeks in Florida the family intended to travel West, to join Brenda in California in the late spring.
It happened, therefore, that the special groups to whom Mrs. Barlow had introduced the Stratfords felt no personal responsibility for them. This was not because they did not find the Chicagoans interesting, but because the latter seemed able to make their own friends without the help of a third person.
"It would be a great bore, mamma," Martine had protested, when one or two of Mrs. Barlow's friends urged that the young girl should join a certain exclusive dancing-class. "It would be a great bore if we had to act as if we were real old Bostonians. We are not, and though some of the sewing circles and dancing-classes, and afternoon-readings are offered us kindly, I do prefer to be independent and know only the people I want to know and do only the things I really wish to do. Anything else would be a nuisance, so please don't let anyone make social engagements for me."
Mrs. Stratford herself was not strong, and she really preferred a quiet life. Later she saw that Martine herself had been very wise in her attitude of independence. Martine indeed was happy enough—happy in her school acquaintances, happy in her friendship with Priscilla, and happier in her affection for Amy. It is true that Amy in this her last year of college was too busy to give much time to Martine, but when occasionally they had a half-day together, no one could have doubted their perfect understanding of each other.
On the morning before the matinee to which Mrs. Stratford had referred, or to be more exact, at twelve o'clock on the very day of the great Paderewski recital, Martine ran out to the letter-box to post two or three notes. Angelina could have taken them for her, or she might better have followed the custom of the house, which was to give them to the hall-boy. But Martine had not been out that morning, as illness among her drawing pupils had occasioned a postponement of the usual Saturday lesson. She had therefore seized on the letters as an excuse for getting a breath of the fresh spring air that came in through the half-open windows, tantalizing her and urging her to leave the house.
"I half wish I were not going to the recital," she said to herself, "on a mild sunny day like this I begrudge the hours I must spend in a crowded hall, and though I won't have to pretend to be in a seventh heaven over the music, yet it will weary me to have to show a proper degree of appreciation in the presence of my guests." So ran the course of Martine's thoughts as she approached the letter-box. After a turn or two in the mall under the trees, she walked back slowly toward the house.
"After all," she mused, "mamma was probably right. I have been extravagant. The tickets have really cost a pretty sum, counting premiums and all. For what is the good in inviting guests, unless one has the very best seats?"
This thought of the seats inclined Martine to look again at her tickets, and as soon as she reached her room she went to her desk to look at them.
"Mamma," she called, "you haven't by any chance seen a narrow envelope with my Paderewski tickets?"
"No, my dear," replied her mother, "surely you haven't lost them?"
"Oh, no, I remember now, I put them in a larger envelope; they were lying here with my letters."
A moment later Martine stood before her mother with dismay written on her face. "What do you suppose I have done? it's too foolish and too annoying for anything. I can't find the envelope with the tickets and I really believe that I dropped it into the letter-box."
"Oh, Martine, I thought you'd outgrown those careless habits!"
"I thought so too, but there's no use in crying about spilled milk; I will try to do what I can to get the tickets from the postman."
"There again you talk like a baby," said Mrs. Stratford. "Surely you must know that no postman can give you anything from a letter-box simply because you ask for it."
"Well, I can try, that is if there's time."
"But it's half-past twelve now, and if you are to meet Priscilla at half-past one, you will have all you can do to dress and keep your appointment."
"But, mamma, whatcanI do without tickets? It will be terrible if we can't get in, and how everyone will laugh at me. And they were such good seats in the house."
"I am sorry for you, my child, but I can say little to help you."
While they were speaking, Martine had been making a rapid calculation. The only result at which she arrived was the impossibility of recovering the lost envelope.
"There's one thing I can do," she said. "I'll dress as quickly as I can and run over to the branch postoffice; then I'll beg them to look over their mail and see if an envelope is there with the tickets I describe."
"Of course you can try, but I feel sure that you will not succeed."
"Then what shall I do, mamma? It will be terrible to disappoint three people I've invited to so important an affair as this."
"There is only one thing, my dear. If you fail to recover the tickets, you can pay single admissions at the door, and if you remember the number of your seats or in a general way where they are, you can take possession of them."
"Thank you, mamma, that certainly is the only way, but dear me, four single admissions at one dollar apiece; this is something I hadn't planned for, and I intended to be so economical the rest of the spring."
As quickly as she could, Martine hastened away to the postoffice, only to find that the mail from the box in which she had deposited her letters would not reach the office until half-past two, and that even then it was doubtful if the envelope would be given to her immediately. The only way, then, of saving her reputation as a hostess was to follow her mother's suggestion. She met her friends as she had planned, paid for admission to the hall and after some discussion with a rather obtuse usher at last found herself in possession of her own seats. It is to be feared that her impressions of the great pianist were sadly blurred that afternoon. Her brain was automatically working out problems of expenditure. She was trying to plan in what way she could economize to make up for the extravagance of this Paderewski matinee—to make up not only for this, but for various other needless expenses that she had lately incurred. So abstracted was she that she failed to join in the applause repeatedly showered on the musician, and on leaving the hall, she had very little to say to her friends. At the hotel afterwards, however, she brightened up and confided to Priscilla and Grace the way in which she had lost the tickets.
"I think you managed very well," said Priscilla, "I should not have had the least idea what to do if anything like that happened to me."
"Neither should I," added Grace, "but you are always clever about things, Martine."
"Oh, no, it was all mamma; I felt quite sure at first that I should have to telephone you not to meet me, but 'all's well that ends well,' and I'm so glad that that stupid usher let us have our seats; for you know they told me at the box office that actually there wasn't a seat to sell in the whole house, and ours were about the last admissions."
"You were fortunate enough," said Miss Mings who had listened with considerable amusement to Martine's entertaining account of her mistake adventure.
"Our afternoon with you has been so pleasant that I should have been very sorry to lose it."
"Oh, I should have made it up in some way," responded Martine. "We were bound to have this little tea here, and we might have taken a drive through the Park instead of hearing Paderewski. Truly, now, it would have been more fun, wouldn't it, Priscilla?"
Honest Priscilla shook her head.
"Nothing could have been more delightful than this concert, though of course if we had had to give it up I should have made the best of it."
"As you do of everything, Prissie dear. I only wish that I were half as amiable as you."
Martine's economy did not extend very far. She refrained from doing some things that she would like to have done, when to do them meant going outside of her regular allowance. But each month's spending money was soon laid out on the various little things that pleased her fancy, and as she heard no more of depressing business conditions, she almost forgot her mother's warning.
A week after the matinee Martine received a letter from Elinor Naylor.
"Listen, mother," she said, "isn't this the funniest thing? Elinor says that a few days ago she received an unsealed letter from me—at least the envelope was unsealed, but there wasn't a scrap of writing inside. Instead there were four tickets for a concert by Paderewski. She wondered why I sent them as she didn't receive them until the day after the date on the tickets. Now she returns them—and here they are! Isn't it ridiculous?"
"Your carelessness certainly was ridiculous."
"I understand it all now," cried Martine. "I had addressed and stamped an envelope to Elinor, as I sometimes do when I am intending to write. Then when I wanted to put my tickets away, I picked up this envelope without looking at the addressed side. Of course the tickets went safely to Philadelphia."
"'Until I looked at the date,'" Martine read from Elinor's letter, "'I thought you had heard of my intention of coming to Boston, and meant me to hear Paderewski. But as I do not leave home until next week, there must be some other explanation.'"
"I had no idea that Elinor was coming here," said Martine. "But I am delighted. If she can manage it, mightn't I have her here to spend a day or two with me? I know you would like her."
"Certainly, my dear," replied Mrs. Stratford, and when Elinor accepted her invitation, Martine was delighted. Although Elinor could spare her only two days, both girls made the most of their time, and parted the best of friends, greatly to their own amusement. For both Elinor and Martine, whose friendship was of sudden growth, had begun their acquaintance with more or less prejudice. The acquaintance had developed into friendship chiefly through correspondence, as both girls had a gift for writing interesting letters.
A chance commission which Elinor had entrusted to Martine the day of their drive to Cambridge had occasioned the first interchange of letters after Elinor's return to Philadelphia, and in the succeeding months they had continued to write once a fortnight. Thus their friendship had developed without their having seen much of each other, and Elinor's flying visit was delightful to them both in showing them how much they really had in common.
"Mother," said Martine, a week before Easter, "I have a splendid plan."
"Well, my dear, what is it?"
"Wouldn't it be fine to take Priscilla to New York for the holidays? Just think! she has never been there—and at her age—!"
Mrs. Stratford could but laugh at Martine's seriousness.
"I imagine many persons twice Priscilla's age have never been in New York."
"Oh, yes—but Boston is so near—and Priscilla ought to go because she has the strangest notions about New York people—that they are all frivolous, with nothing to do but amuse themselves. I would like to have her at the Waldorf for a few days. Wouldn't she open her eyes? I am just crazy to take her!"
"I fear it isn't feasible, my dear, to go away now."
"But you like New York, and a change always benefits you."
"Oh, yes."
"You like Priscilla, too?"
"Certainly. She is an excellent companion for you. You balance each other perfectly, and I should be glad to have you spend your holidays together. But New York—no, my dear, we must be careful this spring about spending money—your father has had losses and expenses."
Something in her mother's tone impressed Martine, something in her words, too, as well as in her tone. She had seldom heard either her father or her mother talk of economy, except in occasional instances when she herself had been carelessly extravagant. Now the mention of her father stirred her.
"Oh, I hope that wasn't why papa went away, on account of money. Of course I know we have to be more economical—but a trip to New York is so short, and we always have travelled so much."
"I know it, dear. But, fortunately, neither of us needs change just now. There is much in Boston that you have not yet seen, and I can imagine your spending the vacation delightfully without leaving the city."
"Oh, I am sure I could, mamma; and now that you have spoken of it, I should just love to economize. I don't need a new spring hat—the one I had last season is as good as new—and if you would let the cook go—I am sure that Angelina and I could do all the work." Martine spoke anxiously, even excitedly. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes bright.
"There is no need of any desperate economy just yet. But if you and Lucian can be contented with me, I can promise you a pleasant vacation."
"I am sure of it, mamma; let us make some plans now."
But the plans that Martine and her mother made were not destined to be carried out—at least, during this particular vacation. For a couple of days before school closed an invitation came from Mrs. Danforth, urging Martine to spend a week at Plymouth. Immediately New York lost all its attractiveness for Martine. To visit Plymouth was her one desire.
"It will be delightful, Puritan Prissie"—even now she could not resist her love of teasing—"to see the place where you were 'raised,' as they say down South. I wonder if there's something in the air to make Plymouth people different from others. To be sure, you are the only one I've ever seen."
"Am I so very different from other people?" Priscilla spoke as if not altogether pleased with Martine's words.
"Not too different—only you are fearfully conscientious, and you fuss too much over little things, and you know how to economize—which I wish I did. But for all that, you are not half bad, and your mother is perfectly lovely to invite a girl she has never seen to spend a week with her. You must have given a good account of me."
"Of course, Martine, and she has heard of you from others—if only you wouldn't make fun of everything."
"I won't, I promise you I won't."
Martine looked keenly at her friend, wondering if she really feared that she would be so thoughtless.
"I suppose I was rather mean last summer," she reflected, "and it's natural, perhaps, for Priscilla to lack confidence in me."
When they were ready to start Martine was somewhat disappointed that they could not go to Plymouth by boat.
"A train seems so prosaic," she said; "and now when I am going to historic ground, I should like to be able to jump ashore—just as the Pilgrims did."
"I didn't suppose you'd take so much interest. Last summer—"
"Now, Prissie! After all my efforts this winter, surely you might admit that I have improved. Why, now, I've wholly forgotten that we ever had a French and English question to dispute over. Before we reach Plymouth I'll be as good a Puritan as you."
Mrs. Tilworth and Lucian saw the two girls safely on board their train. But from Boston to Plymouth Priscilla and Martine travelled alone. They had so much to talk of that the journey seemed short enough, and Martine was surprised when the conductor called Plymouth.
Hardly had Priscilla's foot touched the platform, when a whirlwind of heads and arms seemed to engulf her.
"Say, I'm going to ride up in the carriage—"
"No, I am!"
"What did Aunt Sarah send us?"
"Oh, Priscilla, I'm so glad you're home. The yellow cat has four of the cunningest kittens!"
"Yes, and we've had to muzzle Carlo, because a mad dog from Kingston ran through town the other day."
"There, there," and Priscilla disentangled herself from the arms of the children. "Martine, these are my little brothers and sister. There are only three of them—though they sound like a regiment. Children, this is my great friend, Martine Stratford."
The children looked up brightly, and held out their hands.
"We are very glad to see you," said Marcus, the elder boy.
"We hope you'll stay a long time," added George, the second.
Little Lucy was too shy to speak to the newcomer, but she held up her head, as if expecting the kiss that Martine promptly bestowed on her.
The resemblance between the three children was very striking, and they all looked like Priscilla, with their calm, blue eyes and blonde hair.
"Say, Priscilla," exclaimed Marcus, recovering from the awful moment of being introduced to a stranger. "Say, now, Icanride up with you, can't I?"
"It's my turn," interposed George. "'Tisn't fair for you to ride every time."
"Lucy can come with us," replied Priscilla. "There's no room for you boys."
"Let them all come with us," cried Martine. "We won't mind being crowded."
"Of course, I don't mind," responded Priscilla. "I was thinking of you."
The carriage into which the children climbed was an old-fashioned carryall, the driver an elderly man, who addressed Priscilla without formality.
"What did Aunt Sarah send me?" persisted George, as they drove along.
"But, my dear, it isn't long since you had your Christmas presents," protested Priscilla.
"You never come home without bringing something."
"Wait and see," said Priscilla, squeezing Lucy. "It seems as if I hadn't seen a child for a year."
"You were here Christmas; you didn't go away until New Year's," said the literal Marcus.
"I mean that I haven't had a chance to talk to a child, not to mention squeezing one," responded the smiling Priscilla.
"Aren't there any little girls in Boston?" asked Lucy, timidly. "Haven't your friends any sisters and brothers?"
"Martine hasn't, and she's my best friend."
"Oh, how too bad!"
"That I'm Priscilla's best friend?"
"No; that you haven't brothers and sisters."
"I have a big brother, but he's in college."
"Oh!"
"Here we are! There's mother at the door."
In her delight, Priscilla was almost ready to jump from the carriage before it had fully stopped. Again Martine stared at her friend. Could this be the cool, unemotional Priscilla? The greetings of mother and daughter could have been no warmer had they been separated for years instead of months.
"There, there, Priscilla, Martine will think we have forgotten her—I should know you, my dear—" and Mrs. Danforth held out both hands to Martine, "from Priscilla's enthusiastic descriptions of you. I can see you are just what she said you were."
From that moment when Mrs. Danforth kissed her lightly on the forehead, Martine felt perfectly at home.
As Martine had approached the Danforth house, she had noticed that the house was a large, square wooden structure, painted brown. The paint, indeed, was faded in spots, and the general aspect was rather dingy.
Once inside the house, Martine, without meaning to be critical, was slightly impressed by the general air of shabbiness. The carpets were dull from the trampling of many little feet, the furniture was simple, the pictures old-fashioned, and the gilt frames somewhat tarnished. But there were books everywhere, in the open bookshelves in hall and sitting-room. Open fires were blazing in large fireplaces.
When Priscilla led her to her own room there was the same air of homelikeness, from the easy-chair drawn up before the fire to the large bowls of mayflowers on mantelpiece and dressing-table.
After supper, when all gathered around her, Lucy on her knee, the boys hanging over her chair, to hear what she had to tell about Chicago—for this was their special request—Martine felt as if she had known the Danforths all her life.
As to Priscilla—Martine now really understood why Eunice Airton and Priscilla had been so much to each other. Far apart though Plymouth and Annapolis were, the Danforth household had an atmosphere very similar to that of the Airton family. It was true that Eunice had no younger brothers or sister, nor was Mrs. Danforth quite as old-fashioned as Mrs. Airton in manner and speech.
Mrs. Danforth, indeed, seemed to Martine more like some one she had always known, and she soon felt completely at home with her. The evening passed quickly away, as they sat around the open fire, and the children were allowed to extend their bed-hour an hour beyond the usual time.
"Who is going to be my guide?" asked Martine, before they separated for the night.
"That depends on what you want to see," responded Marcus, cautiously.
"You are not very gallant," protested Mrs. Danforth. "You should be very proud to guide a young lady from the city wherever she wishes to go."
"Iamproud," interposed George. "I'll go anywhere."
"Well," said the cautious Marcus, "I only meant that I don't want to go up on Burial Hill. It's very stupid looking at those old gravestones, and there aren't any real Pilgrims there, at least not any worth mentioning."
"But there's a lovely view," said Priscilla, "and the first fort stood up there, and some people like old gravestones."
"To be perfectly frank," said Martine, "I don't care so very much for them, unless the inscriptions are entertaining. Don't look shocked, Prissie, epitaphs can be very amusing sometimes. But what would you like to show me, Marcus?"
"Oh, I'd like to take you out into the woods for mayflowers, for one thing, and over to Duxbury to see the Standish monument for another; but I just hate poking about the town, looking for old houses and ruins the way some people do; for we haven't any ruins here."
"Then I suppose you wouldn't condescend to show me Plymouth Rock? For that, of course, is one of the things Imustsee."
"Oh, I'll take you there!" interrupted George; "let's go right after breakfast."
"Very well, I'll be ready; and thank you for your invitation."
And Martine, bending toward the little fellow, kissed him good-night. As she turned away, George reddened with delight; it was pleasant to be treated as if he were as old as Marcus; for Marcus, his elder by two years, had a brotherly habit of making him feel himself to be of the slightest consequence in the estimation of strangers.
Promptly after breakfast Martine set out with George.
"I know you won't mind my leaving you, Priscilla," she said. "You and your mother must have so many things to talk over."
"Thank you; a little later I will go join you, but I know that George will show you just what you wish to see;" and Priscilla kissed Martine good-bye.
At her first sight of the rock, the Plymouth Rock of history and poetry, Martine gave a gasp of surprise. It was so much smaller than she had expected. The little guide-book that Mrs. Danforth had put in her hands told her that from 1775 to 1880 the rock had been in two pieces, and that one piece was for a long time exhibited in Pilgrim Hall; but at last a generous son of Plymouth, feeling that the rock deserved greater honor, had had the two pieces put together on a spot that was probably very near the place that it occupied in 1620, and had had it protected by granite canopy and an iron fence.
"Why, it looks as though I could almost carry it away myself; it's hardly large enough for a good-sized man to stand on."
"Oh, two or three men could stand on it," said the literal George, who thereupon began to make calculations to convince Martine of her error.
Martine, somewhat amused by George's earnestness, began to tease the little fellow.
"Do you really believe that this rock was here in the time of the Pilgrim Fathers?"
"Why, yes, where else could it have been?"
To this question Martine had no answer ready, and before she had made a second attempt to puzzle George, an old gentleman who had been standing near them stepped up.
"You are not skeptical, young lady, about the famous rock?"
"Oh, no," replied Martine; "I don't know enough about it to be skeptical."
The old gentleman glanced at her quizzically.
"There is more philosophy in that remark than you perhaps realize, young lady. But this is reallytherock, the only one to be found the whole length of this sandy shore. So it must be the rock on which the Mayflower's passengers landed."
"I wonder why they didn't just step out on the beach," persisted Martine. "I should think that would have been ever so much more comfortable than hopping down on this rock."
"Others besides you have intimated the same thing," persisted the old gentleman; "but you must admit that a rock is a better foundation for the sentiment of a nation to base itself on than a sandy beach. Even our foreign-born children pin much of their patriotism to Plymouth Rock."
"Do you believe—?"
"My dear young lady, in George's presence, at least, you must not intimate that it is possible to believe anything about Plymouth Rock except what is usually taught in school histories."
Martine looked earnestly at the old gentleman. She could not tell whether he was in jest or in earnest, but there was something in his face that she liked. She felt as if she had always known him. He seemed really like an old friend.
"Mr. Stacy," interposed George, "I never know exactly what you mean, but I am sure that the school histories are true."
"Surely, my dear, but I can see that this young lady wishes to go back of the printed book. She would like to know why we think this is the rock of the Pilgrims. So, as there is no one else here to inform her, the duty seems to have fallen on me. We pin our faith to the rock," he continued, "on account of the testimony of Elder Faunce, a truthful man, who, in the first half of the eighteenth century—1743, I believe—made a vigorous protest when certain individuals began to build a wharf, which would have covered the rock. He said that this stone had been pointed out to him by his father as the one on which the founders of the colony had landed. It is true that John Faunce, the father, did not come over on the Mayflower, and what he knew of the landing he must have heard from others. But as he had arrived in Plymouth in 1623, he must have had his information on the best authority. Elder Faunce, the son of John Faunce, was forty years old when the last of the Mayflower passengers died, and if the story of the rock was not true, doubtless he would have heard some one contradict it."
"Did they build the wharf?" asked Martine.
"I believe they did. But the rock was kept in sight, and eventually became the step of a warehouse. Later, as I dare say you have heard, it was broken in two pieces, and it is only since 1880 that we have had it restored here to a spot very near where the Mayflower landed—and protected," he concluded, with a smile, "so that the relic hunters can't carry it off bodily. It's a wonder that some one hasn't tried to get it for one of the World's Fairs now so prevalent in the country."
"I should hate to see it carted around like the Liberty Bell, although we were glad enough to have it in Chicago."
"So you are from Chicago," said Mr. Stacy; "then I must try to make you think that Plymouth is the centre of the earth. From your being with George I thought you were one of Priscilla's Boston friends. By the way, perhaps you may recall the lines in Miles Standish, where John Alden and others went down to the seashore:
"'Down to the Plymouth Rock, that had been to their feet as a door,Into a world unknown—the cornerstone of a nation!'
"'Down to the Plymouth Rock, that had been to their feet as a door,Into a world unknown—the cornerstone of a nation!'
I always thought that a fine line, though it isn't quoted as often as it might be; 'the cornerstone of a nation,'" repeated Mr. Stacy. "Well, Priscilla and I always have a pretty little quarrel over this particular doorstep. You know she is very proud of her descent from Priscilla and John Alden."
"So am I," piped up little George.
"Of course, my boy, just as I am of descending from Mary Chilton. Well, traditions are somewhat confused as to who stepped first on Plymouth Rock—providing anyone of the Mayflower people really stepped on it at all. The honors are divided apparently between Mary Chilton and John Alden. I'd like to give them to a lady—Priscilla, for example, but in that case I should have to slight another lady, my ancestress, Mary Chilton; so there you have the two horns of a dilemma."
"Oh, I know better than that," cried George; "Mary Chilton wasn't in it, of course she wasn't."
"In what, my child? or are you merely indulging in slang?"
"Oh, you know, Mr. Stacy, she wasn't in that first shallop that went ashore from Clark's Island. Of course a woman wouldn't come out in a little boat, when they were trying to find a landing-place. No, of course it was John Alden."
"Your reasoning is pretty reasonable—for a little boy," said Mr. Stacy. "But, my dear Miss Chicago," he continued, "if you are on a sight-seeing walk, let me go with you. I need not say to an up-to-date young lady that none of the houses of the original Pilgrims are here, though as we walk along we shall pass near the sites of many of them. The old Plymouth was chiefly down here near the water, not so very far from the rock. This is the first street, close to the brook that ran down from Billington Sea."
"It must be very pleasant in summer," and Martine glanced down the long tree-lined street. The trees were budding, but the leaves were not yet out.
"It is a calm, shady street," rejoined Mr. Stacy; "sometimes we wish the electric cars were not so near, but the curse has been partly taken off by the names they bear. Probably you have noticed 'Priscilla,' 'Pilgrim,' 'Samoset,' and the other historical names. Perhaps it is just as well there are none of the old houses left. The descendants of forefathers might have been ashamed of them, of the houses—I mean. Perhaps you remember Holmes' lines on the subject. The Autocrat had the faculty of hitting the nail on the head and in speaking of the Pilgrim, he says:—
"'His home was a freezing cabinToo bare for a freezing rat,Its roof was thatched with ragged grass,And bald enough for that.The hole that served for casementWas glazed with a ragged hat.'
"'His home was a freezing cabinToo bare for a freezing rat,Its roof was thatched with ragged grass,And bald enough for that.The hole that served for casementWas glazed with a ragged hat.'
But this description applies only to the very first houses. Those that were built for the next twenty or thirty years were plain enough, but comfortable. Plymouth never had many of the elaborate Colonial houses that are shown in some of the New England towns."
"I wish one or two of those oldest houses were left," said Martine. "Isn't there even one?"
"Why, I believe you are really interested in old Plymouth," said Mr. Stacy, smiling at Martine. "If you don't mind walking with me I'll show you the oldest house now standing. But this old Doten house was built only a few years before 1660, and is very little changed from its original appearance, at least so far as the outside is concerned."
"The trees look as if they might be almost as old as the house," said Martine, as they stood before the little low-roofed house in Sandwich Street in front of which two great trees with gnarled trunks stood as sentinels.
"Say, Martine, let's go up to the Monument," whispered George. "I'm afraid Mr. Stacy will want to take us up on Burial Hill."
Mr. Stacy heard the loud whisper, and Martine herself was amused at George's entreaty.
"Why, that was what Marcus didn't want to do, and you said you would go anywhere with me."
"I want to show you something myself. You can go with Mr. Stacy to the hill some other day."
"There, George, you have suggested just what I had in mind. Please tell your mother that I hope to come over to see Priscilla and her friend this evening. Then we can arrange about our visit to Burial Hill."
After Mr. Stacy had said good-bye Martine and George retraced their steps, and climbed the hill to the monument to the Forefathers.
"There's nine acres in the park," explained George, "and the monument is eighty-one feet high. That's the figure of Faith on top, and I think the whole thing is fine, don't you?"
"It certainlyisfine," responded Martine, amused at George's eagerness.
"You know down at Provincetown they say the Pilgrims landed there first, and they're going to build a monument that will beat this all to pieces. But I don't believe they can, do you, Miss Martine?"
"No," said Martine, "indeed I do not."
Whereupon, after she had sufficiently admired the historic bas-reliefs depicting scenes in the lives of the Forefathers, George led his guest down the hill, well pleased with her appreciation of his favorite work of art.
True to his promise Mr. Stacy called on Priscilla and Martine the second evening of their stay in Plymouth. He proved even more entertaining as a story-teller than as a guide.
"What he doesn't know about old-colony life isn't worth knowing," Priscilla had said, and Mr. Stacy certainly proved the truth of these words. Of Bradford and Carver and Winslow and Brewster he spoke as familiarly as if they were brothers. He made them live again as he talked, bringing out little facts that he said every schoolgirl and boy ought to know, though Martine had to admit that if she had ever known these things, they were now half forgotten. Priscilla modestly concealed her own store of information, but Martine, remembering how eagerly her friend had drunk in all that Amy and Balfour had had to tell the summer before about the English and the Acadians in Nova Scotia, knew that Priscilla was probably hardly second to Mr. Stacy in her knowledge of Puritan history.
"Oh, please, Mr. Stacy, tell us one of your witch stories," demanded Marcus, as they sat around the blazing fire.
"A witch story! Do you wish me to frighten the young lady from Chicago?"
"A witch story!" repeated Martine; "why, I thought the witches were only in Salem. I supposed people down here were too sensible to believe in witches."
"Few localities are so sensible as to escape all delusion. A vague belief in evil spirits and witches existed in all the colonies even well-through the eighteenth century, although the witchcraft persecution was of comparatively short duration."
"I don't care for witchcraft stories," said Priscilla, quietly.
"Well, well!" cried Mr. Stacy, smiling; "between two fires, what shall I do? Mrs. Danforth, you must be umpire."
"Tell them one little unexciting witch story," replied Mrs. Danforth. "Priscilla is too old to be troubled by bad dreams, at least from so small a cause."
"It isn't that," protested staid Priscilla, "only witch stories are so silly."
"Oh, if that's the only thing against them," cried Martine, "please tell me as many as you can. I love silly things—sometimes. So please tell us a story, Mr. Stacy."
"Really," rejoined Mr. Stacy, "I should hardly know what to say, if the rules of hospitality did not provide me with an excuse. It is fair, I imagine, to regard Miss Martine as a guest of Plymouth in general, as well as of the Danforth family in particular, therefore, fair lady, I yield to your demand. But what I am going to tell you is neither very exciting, nor very silly. It merely shows how recently in this corner of the globe the plain people retained some of the mediæval belief in witches. For I knew a man who in his youth knew a man who believed this story. On the outskirts of Plymouth once lived an old woman whom people called a witch, and once when she was calling at a certain house, Jenny, a girl of twelve, placed the broom with which she was sweeping, under Aunt Nabby's chair. Aunt Nabby was the reputed witch, and if you know anything about witches, you must know that to offer one a broomstick can only be regarded as an insult. So in this case Aunt Nabby, when she perceived what Jenny had done, rose in anger, and vowed that she would get even with Jenny and her family."
"Did she?" asked George, who was always over-anxious to hear the conclusion of a story.
"Wait," replied Mr. Stacy, "you will soon hear. In a day or two Jenny became very ill, and the old country doctor could not tell what the matter was. She seemed to be fading away. 'Perhaps Aunt Nabby has something to do with it,' said poor Mrs. Bonsal, Jenny's mother; and then the doctor, asking what was meant, heard the story of the broomstick. 'Go, John Bonsal,' he said to Jenny's father, 'go to Aunt Nabby's, and find out what she is up to.' When John Bonsal reached Aunt Nabby's house, there was no one in the kitchen but her big black cat, whom some people thought her assistant in evil doing. So John Bonsal went down by the brook, where he found Aunt Nabby so much occupied that she hardly looked up at his approach."
"What was she doing?" asked George.
"Hush," cried Marcus; "listen, and you will find out."
"Well," continued Mr. Stacy, "Aunt Nabby seemed to be making little dolls of clay that she moulded into shape with water from the brook. When she finished these figures or dolls, she stuck a pin or two into them, and John Bonsal understood at once that by means of these dolls she was working a charm on poor Jenny that in time would cause her death, unless he could stop the doll-making. Upon this the angry father raised the horsewhip that he carried in his hand, and thrashed Nabby with might and main. As she cried for mercy, he told her that she should be burned as a witch unless she promised to remove the spell that she had cast over his daughter. At first she refused, but at last she promised. 'Your Jenny shall get well,' she cried, 'and I will work no more charms.' Upon this the big black cat that had followed John Bonsal from the house gave a great howl, and vanished completely from sight."