The morning after her arrival at York, Martine stood at the door of the little red farm-house. The air was fresh and cool, a delightful contrast to the last day or two of heat in the city that she had just left. A slight mist from the river softened without hiding the view. Through the rolling meadows that stretched before her across the road, she saw the thread of river winding its way toward the sea. The ocean itself was not in sight, though it made itself known in a certain agreeable saltness of odor that Martine quickly recognized.
Martine gazed across the meadows with a certain pleasant expectancy, such as any young girl in a new place is likely to feel. The houses in the distance looked attractive.
"I wonder if they are summer cottages, or if people really live there. I wonder who has this large house just across the road. It is rather handsome. I hope there are girls in the family. It must be very pleasant there, the garden seems to run down to the river. Our garden needs attention," she concluded, taking a few steps toward the flower beds, where a few stray geraniums and untrimmed rose-bushes were the sole adornments. After a few rather futile efforts to improve the appearance of these beds, Martine turned toward the house.
The red cottage, as she faced it, was far from imposing.
"It's like some of the roadside cottages I have seen in England and Wales. It isn't much larger. I'm glad that it is red instead of white—well I should have had to live in it just the same, but I should have hated a white house. A coat of red paint always makes a house seem picturesque," she concluded.
At this moment Angelina, in a pink calico in which she looked more gypsy-like than ever, ran down the little slope to meet Martine.
"Isn't it lovely," she said, "to be so near the road. We can see the electric cars pass by the corner over there, and hear the train. Didn't you notice the whistle this morning? I did, and it made me think of the city right off."
"I don't often hear an engine whistle in the city."
"Yes, but a steam-engine makes you think of the city. You know that you are not cut off from everything, and that sometime you can go back."
"Why Angelina, I hope that you are not homesick?"
There had been a suspicious quiver in Angelina's voice.
"Not exactly homesick, oh, no, I feel perfectly at home with you and Mrs. Stratford, but still—well, you see, Miss Martine, we haven't as many neighbors as we had in the city. I knew something about every family in the Belhaven, but here I don't see how I'll begin to get acquainted."
"Cheer up, Angelina," said Martine, pleasantly. "Don't let a little thing like that trouble you. A person of your sociable disposition can make acquaintances anywhere. But it's more dignified to proceed slowly. You and I will be busy enough the next few days getting settled. I have an idea that mother may need us now."
"There," cried Angelina, as they stood inside the little entry. "It's small, Miss Martine, but it's real neat, isn't it?"
"Yes, it's neat," and Martine looked at the steep flight of stairs that almost tumbled down into the narrow hall, separating the two front rooms. "It's neat enough, but I am glad we have a strip of red carpet for the stairs. Uncarpeted, the paint might soon wear off, and besides they would be rather noisy. But are you sure that you have finished your kitchen-work, Angelina?"
"Well, I just haven't; I'm glad you reminded me." So Angelina hurried to the back of the house, where soon her voice was heard singing shrilly above the clatter of dishes.
"Martine," said Mrs. Stratford, as her daughter entered the sitting-room at the left of the hall, "the wall paper was very successful. What would this room have been without it?"
"These pale yellow roses certainly brighten it up, and the color is not only cheerful, but increases the size of the room. This little cupboard in the wall is fascinating, and when we get some of our china in, it will be truly æsthetic."
"If only it opened on a piazza," sighed Mrs. Stratford. "It is singular enough that so many New England houses are built without any pretence of a porch or piazza."
"Oh, that can be remedied," responded Martine cheerfully. "There's a very attractive nook between those two trees, and we can send to town for an awning, and if we lay down a rug, and move out a sofa, and some chairs and a table, why we'll have a regular little summer house."
Martine, pausing almost out of breath, noted with regret that her mother did not smile. A shadow crossed Mrs. Stratford's face.
"Mother does not like it here," thought Martine, "neither do I, but I must like it."
"Come, mother," she said aloud, taking her mother by the arm. "Wasn't it a good idea to have the walls of this dining-room painted blue? You see it gets so much sun, and this gives it the effect of coolness."
"I dislike oak furniture." Mrs. Stratford did not answer the question that Martine had put indirectly to her. Her attention was now centred on the ugly extension table and the uncomfortable chairs ranged stiffly around the wall.
"We'll have to put up with the chairs, I suppose, but I have a lovely old blue cotton curtain in one of the trunks that will hide the table and give the room any amount of style."
"You are trying to make the best of everything, my dear, and I dare say you are right. But the house is so much smaller and plainer than I remembered it, that I fear we shall hardly be comfortable."
"Oh, no; come, let me show you, already I have made ever so many plans;" and impressed by Martine's vivacious optimism, Mrs. Stratford at last began to see the pleasanter possibilities of the red cottage.
Martine was not deceiving either her mother or herself in pointing out the best side of things, and yet in her heart there was a certain disappointment in her first survey of "Red Knoll."
"We must have a name for the house," she had said the very afternoon of their arrival. "'Red Farm,' no, that isn't exactly the thing; 'Red Top,' no, the roof isn't red, and besides, that name has been used by some one else. 'Red Knoll'—there, why not, it combines the color of the house and the situation on a knoll—why not, mamma?" and as Mrs. Stratford had no adverse answer, Red Knoll it was from the beginning.
A house needs something besides a picturesque name to make it attractive even to an optimistic girl anxious to see the bright side of things.
The little farm-house that Mr. and Mrs. Stratford had so impulsively bought, was barely large enough for the three persons who were now to make it the summer home. The two square rooms on each side of the front door, if thrown together, would have been smaller than the bedroom which had been Martine's in her father's house. Over them, originally, had been two rooms of equal size. One of these was now to be Mrs. Stratford's bedroom. The other had been divided by a partition into two rooms each, resembling the so-called hall bedroom of many city houses. The one nearest her mother Martine appropriated for herself. The second she named euphemistically the guest-room; but for the present she intended to use it as a studio or writing-room, and had removed one or two other pieces of furniture to make room for a large deal table.
Beyond this room, connected by a narrow door, were two ell rooms, one of which was assigned to Angelina. Downstairs in the ell were kitchen and wash-room, both with white-washed walls.
"A small house, but our own," said Martine cheerfully, as she first walked through it. "I'll try to forget how different it is from the place we used to have at Oconomowoc. When father first sold it, he said some time he would buy a place on the New England coast, but he certainly hadn't Red Knoll in mind then."
As the first evening in their new home came on, Martine felt lonely. The shadows gathering around the little cottage seemed to shut her out from the world.
"Will things ever come right? I feel so—so miserable. I wonder what it is—mother, where are you?"
Two or three times she called, before her mother's voice came to her from a corner of the little garden.
"What are you doing out in the damp?"
"Is it damp, my child? But the sunset was too beautiful to miss. You should have been out here with me. Where were you, dear?"
"Helping Angelina."
"That was right; it will take her some time to get perfectly adjusted. You are going to be a great comfort, Martine."
Her mother's praise sounded sweet to Martine, yet she could not shake off a certain strange feeling, that she would have called homesickness had her mother not been with her.
When they reached the house, they sat for a moment by the open window.
"Mother," cried Martine, "I have an idea—I mean a special idea. Wouldn't it be better after this to have tea later, just as it begins to grow dark. Then we needn't miss the sunset."
"Wouldn't that make Angelina's dish-washing come rather late?"
"Oh, listen, listen," cried Martine, with something of her old eagerness. "It is part of my plan to leave the dish-washing until morning. There are only three of us, and so we need not follow old-fashioned housekeeping rules."
"I am not so sure of that," and Mrs. Stratford shook her head as if in doubt. "But we can try the late tea to-morrow, so that we can go up in the meadow behind the house for our sunset. It is a better place for a view than my corner of the garden."
It pleased Martine to hear her mother speak so cheerfully.
"I'll try not to mind the melancholy twilights, and all those strange chirping things and the feeling of being shut off in a corner of the world, if only this place is good for mother."
The later tea hour proved feasible, and Martine at the table with her mother after their little stroll to Sunset Hill forgot the melancholy twilight. Nor had she in their busy first week much time for discontent. The village boy whom Mrs. Stratford engaged to unpack their trunks and boxes was bewildered by their number.
"There are some, Angelina, that are not to be unpacked now, please get him to put them in the unfinished ell room."
"Yes, Miss Martine, I know just which they are, and I'll hurry back to help you hang those pictures."
When all the pictures were hung, when artistic draperies covered some of the ugliest chairs, when pretty sofa cushions softened ugly angles, when books and bric-à-brac were distributed in carelessly homelike fashion, and when a number of really valuable rugs were used to tone down the crudeness of the carpets, Angelina surveyed the result with a pride that could not have been greater if she had been the owner of the cottage.
"There," she cried. "It looks just like a city house, only more so, if anything. Don't you think so, Miss Martine, and I do hope you'll have some callers right away. Why, I almost feel as if I was back at the Belhaven when I look from this Cashmere rug to that Arts and Crafts silver bowl on the mantle-piece. No one can say that we haven't shown perfect taste, can they, Miss Martine?"
"I am glad we brought all these things," replied Martine, "mother thought I was packing too much, but if we are to be here three or four months, we must make it seem as homelike as possible."
"It certainly is homelike," continued Angelina, "especially that picture of Miss Brenda. Mrs. Weston, I mean; when I first saw her I always thought she was stylish, and that was years ago. Of course I hadn't been acquainted with many Back Bay ladies then, excepting one that taught in our Sunday School. But still, after all I've known I just think Mrs. Weston's at the very head of them. You are something like her, too, Miss Martine, in fact I should say you're almost as stylish, and to-day when I rode down to the village I saw a lot of young ladies that are just your kind, in white muslins and high-heeled shoes, and I hope they'll call on you soon. As far as I could make out from something I heard some one on the seat behind me say, they were going to a tea, and it's likely to be a gay summer. I'm glad of this for your sake, Miss Martine, for you've been too quiet lately for one of your age."
Martine was not altogether pleased with Angelina's familiarity, though for the moment it seemed hardly worth while to rebuke her.
Consequently Angelina, unreproved, continued her monologue:
"I noticed a good many people in bathing when I passed the beach, but when I went up I found they were chiefly nurse-maids, employees of the cottagers. There were a lot of pleasant-looking nurses and children playing in the sand, and one that I spoke to, a nurse, I mean, was very accommodating, and told me lots about the cottagers. They bathe at noon every day, and it's a great sight. I presume when I do go in, I'll have to go in with the employees, for I suppose I'll be classed with the nurses and children that generally bathe in the afternoon."
"You'll be classed with the children, if you babble on in this way, Angelina. But as to the bathing, you must ask mother."
"Well, I wish you had been going to that tea, Miss Martine; the young ladies looked just your style. I asked the nurse about it, and she said it was given by Miss Peggy Pratt of Philadelphia."
These last words of Angelina's made more impression than all the others. "Peggy Pratt." Martine felt on further reflection particularly aggrieved.
"Elinor must have written Peggy regarding her summer plans, for Elinor was a person of her word, and she had promised to do this. If Elinor had not promised, of course I should have written myself. But now I am glad I did not, for probably I should have been treated just the same. Yet it doesn't seem just like Peggy."
"Martine," called Mrs. Stratford from her corner a few minutes later, and Martine hurried to her mother's side.
"Sit down, dear," added Mrs. Stratford, then with a shade of anxiety in her voice. "But you look tired. I fear you have been working too hard. Perhaps you did more than your share in preparing this boudoir for me."
"Oh, no, Angelina and Timothy worked much harder than I. But itisa cosy corner. Between the awning and the trees, you will be as well shaded from the sun as you would be indoors, and an open window wouldn't begin to give you so much air."
Martine swung herself into the hammock.
"There, I feel like a bird. Mother dear, you called me for something special, what is it?"
"Only to say that Angelina is anxious to know how we will celebrate."
"Celebrate?"
"Yes, Miss Martine." Angelina had reappeared on the scene with Mrs. Stratford's glass of milk. "Celebrate," she repeated. "Why, Miss Martine, you haven't forgotten what day to-morrow is?"
Martine sat upright in the hammock. "I really and truly had, but now you mention it it's the great and glorious Fourth, and what of that?" she concluded, waving her hand dramatically.
"Oh, Miss Martine, it wouldn't be right to pass it by unnoticed. Why at the North End we used to sit up all the night before, and the streets were as full of noise as if a war was going on."
"We couldn't celebrate in exactly that way," responded Martine smiling. "I am almost sure that I won't sit up to-night, and as to fire-crackers, what's the good, unless there's a boy in the house?"
Again the sober expression returned to Martine's face, as this mention of the Fourth brought vividly to mind the many celebrations in which she and Lucian had taken a lively interest. Where was Lucian now? Would the whole family ever be together again?
She came to herself with Angelina's high-pitched voice still ringing in her ears.
"So I felt quite sure that you wouldn't object as the ten weeks is more than past, and as I've paid all that up, why, I made sure you wouldn't mind my spending just a little for fireworks. But I'd like you to look in your little book first."
"I know it's all settled, Angelina, but you can bring me that little red book from the drawer in my writing-table."
While Angelina was in the house, Martine explained to her mother what she had meant by "paying up."
"It is that money Lucian paid for the hall. He told her to give it back to me. So she has been paying a dollar and a half a week. It is Lucian's money, though he wished me to keep it, and I agreed not to let Angelina know that it was he who helped her."
"It is to Angelina's credit that she has paid so promptly."
"It really is, mamma, and I think it has been rather a good thing as it has kept her from spending all her money foolishly. Of course, the hall itself was a foolish expense, yet these last few weeks she has been able to waste only part of her money, but now—"
At this moment Angelina appeared with the little red book, and Martine, quickly turning to the pages with her account, saw to Angelina's satisfaction as well as her own, that the indebtedness for the hall had been cancelled.
"There," cried Angelina, folding up the receipt that Martine with business-like exactness gave her. "I am relieved. Now I can celebrate all I want to, for fire-crackers cost a lot."
"Please don't waste your money on fireworks."
"Really, Angelina, you must not," added Martine.
But Angelina, making no reply either to Mrs. Stratford or Martine—unless a nod and three shakes of the head and a broad smile could be called a reply, flew down the little slope toward the road.
The morning of the Fourth was so quiet that Martine might have forgotten the great and glorious holiday but for Angelina. Before the breakfast dishes were washed, the latter was outside striking torpedoes against the stone that formed the kitchen doorstep.
When Mrs. Stratford went with her books to her retreat under the trees in the garden, she found two small flags standing in the vase that was usually filled with flowers.
When once her mind was turned toward the Fourth, Martine began to recall Independence Days of the past. What fun she and Lucian used to have! Why, they often had been up before sunrise to play with their fire-crackers and torpedoes. Then at night—
"I wonder," mused Martine, "if any other children ever had half the sport we had. Set pieces, and fire balloons, as well as rockets; how indulgent father always was. No wonder I feel blue to-day, and expect too much—when it isn't likely that in this town a single person is thinking about us."
The day, as befitted the holiday, proved hot, and Martine, swinging languidly in the hammock, at length admitted to herself that she was glad that she had no troublesome social engagement to keep, and she maintained this opinion even in face of Angelina's report, after a walk to the village, that there seemed to be a great deal going on.
To oblige Angelina, dinner instead of tea was served at five, and it proved a great success.
"I would like to have served red white and blue ice-cream, but I didn't know how to make it blue, so it's red and white," apologized Angelina.
"I might have supplied the blue this morning," said Martine. "It's too late now." But no one understood her feeble attempt at a pun.
"It seems worse," said Angelina, as they gathered up the dishes, "to leave dinner things to be washed until morning, but if your mother don't mind—"
"I am sure that I don't," said Martine, "and as for mother—why, of course she won't care."
"Well, I have some very important business to attend to—if you'll excuse me."
Upon this Angelina disappeared, and in the pleasant twilight Martine went outside with her mother to the little retreat in the garden.
"I half wish," said Mrs. Stratford, "that we had had a few fireworks. Even if we are shut off from the world, we ought not to forget the Fourth. I didn't suppose there would be much celebrating down here, but see!"
Looking where her mother pointed, Martine saw a great fire balloon soaring slowly into the air. They watched it until it disappeared and as the twilight deepened, they counted many rockets and Roman candles going up in various directions.
Before Martine could decide whether it would be wise to recall the Fourth when Lucian almost put his eye out by blowing into a fire-cracker to see if it was still burning, Angelina appeared on the scene with a number of packages. These she deposited on the slope in front of the house with consequential air.
"Angelina," cried Mrs. Stratford.
"Yes'm," responded Angelina.
"Angelina," called Martine, and without waiting for a reply walked down to where the girl was undoing her packages.
"Then you really have fire-crackers here?"
"Yes, Miss Martine, and rockets, and Roman candles, and fire balloons, at least only one balloon. It didn't seem homelike not to have something doing on the Fourth, and now that I can spend my own money, there's no reason why I shouldn't celebrate."
Martine had no reply for this unanswerable argument, and in a second she, too, was busy helping.
"I might have bought some myself, if I had thought of it in time."
"That's it, if you'd thought of it in time. My, that's fine," and Angelina clapped her hands, as a rocket shot into the air falling in a shower of golden stars.
"I didn't know I could find pleasure in anything so simple," said Martine, returning to her mother's side.
"It only shows how limited our life here is," and Mrs. Stratford sank back in her chair with a sigh.
"Oh, fireworks amuse everybody," rejoined Martine, "but now I must run back to Angelina. The last, she says,—is finest of all—a fire balloon."
After two or three ineffectual efforts Martine and Angelina at last had the pleasure of sending off the balloon. But alas! Instead of pursuing its upward way, it was borne horizontally by a wandering breeze, and at last was lost to sight.
"I know," cried Angelina. "It has gone somewhere behind the buildings of that estate over the way. I must get it." And in a flash she had run toward the large house regarding whose occupants Martine had so often wondered.
"Our celebration is over, I suppose," said Martine to her mother, "but we might as well stay outside a little longer, and see! What magnificent rockets are going up from the estate across the way." A change of intonation carried out Martine's mimicry of Angelina's words.
"Yes, and there's a balloon that puts Angelina's to the blush," and mother and daughter watched the ball of fire dwindling in the upper air, until it was lost apparently among the stars.
It was some time before Angelina returned, breathless.
"Oh, did you see my balloon? Wasn't it magnificent? They said they were proud to help send it up from their estate, and they only wished they had had some of their own. You see it had got kind of twisted after you and I sent it, and went down sideways, right on the lawn in front of their house. They seemed the most elegant people, and I told them how lonely it was for you up here, and you used to things so very different. When I mentioned your names it seemed to me they'd heard of you before, and so I asked them to come to see you."
"Oh, how could you, Angelina, how could you!" cried Martine.
"There, there," said Mrs. Stratford, as she laid her hand on Martine's arm as they turned toward the house. "I have always told you you would spoil Angelina. It's useless to reprove her now, for she won't understand what you mean, but in future you can be more careful."
"York is pretty dull for you, Martine," said Mrs. Stratford a morning or two after the Fourth. "I was hoping you would run across some one you knew here. Wasn't Elinor to write to some of her friends?"
"I thought so, mamma, but either she has forgotten, or they don't think it worth while to travel up to Red Knoll."
"Of course you have many things to interest you about the house, but still it's quiet for you here, Martine."
"It might be livelier," admitted Martine, "but there's a lot of sight-seeing I can do, while waiting for something to turn up. Amy and Priscilla have quite got me into the sight-seeing habit, and it would be a strange New England town that couldn't show something to a seeker for information."
Mrs. Stratford smiled at her daughter's way of putting things. "York really has some history, and the village, as I drove through it the other day, had a pleasant, old-time aspect, though nothing looked ancient enough to take one back even a hundred years."
"Oh, then you didn't notice the little gaol on the hill; labelled sixteen hundred and something, I've forgotten just what, but I believe it's as old as it claims to be, for it looks something like Noah's Ark. If Angelina will stay with you this afternoon, I will see what is to be seen there. They told me at the postoffice that the Historical Society has it in charge and that it's full of curiosities."
While she was speaking, Martine's face had brightened perceptibly, and her enthusiasm pleased her mother. Later in the day she set off, for Angelina, whose habit it was to take the afternoons for her own amusement, willingly accepted Martine's suggestion that she should stay with Mrs. Stratford.
"At any time when you wish it, Miss Martine, I'll be happy to oblige you," said Angelina, with an air better befitting a princess than a domestic employee, the most of whose time should have been at the disposal of her employer.
"I've never really gone to jail before," cried Martine gayly, as she bade her mother good-bye, "but I'll try so to behave myself that I'll have nothing but good to report when I come back."
For a moment or two, before she entered the gaol, Martine surveyed it from the road below. Her comparison of the little building to Noah's Ark really suited it very well.
"I can't say that it's exactly my idea of a prison," she thought, "although those brick walls may be thick enough to balance the wooden ends; and even if a prisoner found it easy to jump from the upper windows to the ground, I dare say that some of the bolts and bars were strong enough to hold dangerous persons."
Once inside the little building, Martine almost forgot that it was a prison, as she walked about gazing at all kinds of odd things that have been brought together to connect the present with the past. Old china, old pictures, autographs, furniture, fans, and other articles of personal adornment, spoke eloquently of bygone days; so eloquently that Martine shortly realized that a feeling of sadness was taking possession of her. She began to picture the people to whom these things had belonged, to wonder who they were, how long they had lived, and why their homes had been broken up.
"For no one with a home," she said to herself, "would ever part with things of this kind." She looked into the old dungeon, the walls of which were eighteen or twenty inches thick, and turned away hastily when another visitor asked her if she wouldn't like to go farther inside. Then she went to the attendant seated at a table in the front room.
"How old is this building?" she asked, rather to make conversation than because she really cared to know.
"It was built in 1653," was the polite answer, "and is said to be the oldest public building in the United States; there are probably some churches and houses still standing that are a little older, but no building used for more than two hundred years continuously for public purposes. It was built by the Massachusetts people when they took possession of this part of the country in the time of Cromwell."
"Indeed!" Martine was not exactly eager for information, but to hear a little more history would help pass the time.
"Of course you know," continued the other, "that York was founded under a grant to Sir Ferdinand Gorges, and it was always strongly Royalist; it's the oldest incorporated city in the United States, and although its mayor and aldermen and other high officials existed chiefly on paper and the place was only a small village even into the eighteenth century, still we are all very proud of our history."
At this moment a voice at Martine's elbow cried, "Bless my soul," in tones that were strangely familiar, and turning about she met the surprised gaze of Mr. Gamut whom she had last seen at the exercises around the Harvard statue on Class Day.
"So it really is you, Miss Martine," said the Mr. Gamut, holding out his hand. "I had no idea that you were in this part of the world."
"We have a little cottage here this summer," responded Martine.
"Are you all together again? Surely your father—"
"Oh, no, my father isn't here; we've had only one letter since I saw you, and that wasn't encouraging."
Against her will, tears came to Martine's eyes.
"There, there, remember what I told you; things are bound to come out all right."
"Oh, I hope so. Mother says that if things were worse we should probably have had a cable."
"That's the way to look at it. Come, walk around with me for a little while. I suppose you know all about these things. My niece wouldn't come with me. She doesn't care for history. A great place this New England! They seem to have saved all their old odds and ends and have a story to fit everything."
"But York is really old and historic," protested Martine, proud of her recently acquired information. "The first settlers here were Royalists and held high positions."
"On paper," said Mr. Gamut with a laugh. "Oh, yes, I know about Sir Ferdinand Gorges and his remarkable charter. Here are some of the coats of arms of the first settlers," exclaimed Mr. Gamut. "Do you suppose they wore them tied around their necks when they first came out?"
"Not exactly," responded Martine, detecting Mr. Gamut's scepticism.
"Well, I'm only a plain western man," continued the latter, "and I rather think that coats of arms and things of that kind didn't trouble the first settlers in spite of all this foolery," and he pointed to the colors blazoned on the shield and scrolls on the walls.
"They're pretty to look at," apologized Martine.
"Oh, yes, and I suppose people of a certain name have an uncertain right to claim these heraldic ornaments, but for my own part, I prefer something more substantial. Things like this appeal to me more," and he led Martine to a little cradle in which Sir William Pepperell slept in his babyhood. "Or even this," and he pointed out a small table at which Handkerchief Moody used to eat by himself.
"Who in the world was 'Handkerchief Moody'?"
"His story is one of the few York tales that I can tell," replied Mr. Gamut, smiling. "And you ought to know it too, young lady, because Hawthorne, in his way, has immortalized it. This Moody was the son of one of the ministers of the old church; he was intended for the law, but having accidentally killed a friend while out hunting, his father persuaded him to enter the ministry. Remorse, however, so preyed on him that he spent his life in comparative solitude, and whenever he went in public, it is said, he covered his face with a handkerchief; different reasons have been given for his strange behavior, and it may be that he was always mildly insane. At least, there must be some truth in the stories told about him."
Martine, impressed by this curious story, was silent for a few minutes.
"There's one thing," she said, "that I have learned about the old people of York; they must have set what Angelina would call a very handsome table. I've seldom seen in one place so many fine old cups and saucers and drinking glasses and decanters."
"These things don't fit exactly our theories about New England plain living and high thinking. I tell you what, object lessons often teach us much more than books. But now," and Mr. Gamut looked at his watch, "I'm sorry to see that I must hurry back to the house; I am visiting a cousin for a few days and if you'll tell me where your cottage is, I shall have a great deal of pleasure in calling on you and your mother."
As accurately as she could, Martine described the location of Red Knoll, and as suddenly as he had appeared on the scene, Mr. Gamut disappeared. After he had gone, Martine mounted the steep stairs to the second story of the gaol where she examined at her leisure the hand-made quilts and quaint furnishings of an old-time bedroom, and looked with interest at the picturesque costumes giving a somewhat ghostly effect to a number of dummy figures in one of the attics. She saw the cell, or rather the room, where gentlemen prisoners were confined, and going downstairs, took a final survey of the old kitchen, well equipped with cooking utensils of Colonial days.
Her visit to the gaol had diverted her, but as she walked homeward over the dusty road, the old feeling of loneliness returned. Never before had she realized that she was dependent on young companionship; yet never before had she been so cut off from her own special friends.
Mrs. Stratford was pleased to hear that Mr. Gamut intended to visit Red Knoll.
"He probably," she said, "has friends at York, of whom we shall be likely to see something; he and your father were never intimate, but always good friends. I shall be glad to see him and I hope his niece will come with him, for there is no reason why we should live in utter seclusion."
Two or three days passed away and then a week, and still Mr. Gamut had not presented himself. Meanwhile a letter had arrived from Lucian.
"Father is still in a rather critical condition; he is not able to attend to business, though they say he is much better than before I came; it will be impossible to tell for some time how things really stand or when we can come home."
"I call that very encouraging," cried Martine, reading the letter aloud for the second time. "I'm so glad that Lucian went out there."
"He has certainly taken hold very well," responded Mrs. Stratford, "although I cannot agree with you that the letter is very encouraging."
"But it might have been so much worse," murmured Martine, turning away that her mother might not discern any lack of cheerfulness in her face. For although the letter might have been worse, Martine realized that after all it did not promise a great deal for the future. Other letters came now to Red Knoll. Priscilla wrote affectionately. She knew, she wrote, it was probably warmer at Plymouth than at York and yet, if only it could have been arranged, she believed that Martine and her mother might have enjoyed the South Shore better even than the North.
"The children talk of you constantly; no one ever made a deeper impression; so I have promised them that Thanksgiving, if not before, you will come again to visit us. Mr. Stacy asks for you whenever he sees me, and that, you know, is fairly often. He says that York is historic in its way, and he hopes that you will find a lot to interest you there, so that you can tell him all about it when you see him. He evidently thinks that York history isn't half as important as our Plymouth history, and of course he's right, because this was the earlier settlement; still if there's anything worth knowing about the place, I am sure you will find it out. For even though you made so much fun of Acadian history last summer, in the end you really knew more about it than any of the rest of us. That was because there was so much more to know about the Acadians than the English, and you may recall I tried not to remember the Acadian history that Amy talked so much about."
"Martine," said Mrs. Stratford, "I hope that Priscilla will visit you; she is the kind of girl to be quite comfortable in that little room next yours; there are some people we wouldn't care to put there."
"Oh, Priscilla would just love it, but she wrote me a while ago that she couldn't possibly be spared, at least that she oughtn't to wish to be spared; and when Priscilla says 'ought not' she generally means 'will not.'"
A day later Martine had her first letter from Amy, who was enjoying her first trip abroad; she and her mother had gone directly from Liverpool to North Wales, where Mrs. Redmond was anxious to spend a week or two sketching in the neighborhood of Snowdon.
"She was here years ago, before her marriage," wrote Amy, "and so this is a kind of sentimental journey for her; she thinks that I have made a sacrifice in postponing our visit to London; but indeed, I find it very attractive here, and perhaps it is just as well to rest for a little while before we set out on a regular sight-seeing tour."
"Martine," said Mrs. Stratford, as her daughter replaced Amy's letter in its envelope, "you haven't yet gone down to the beach?"
"No, mamma, I haven't really felt like going."
"Well, Idofeel like going to-day," said Mrs. Stratford. "Let us take the next car and ride down as near as we can; people bathe about twelve and we shall be in season to see all that is going on."
"Very well, mamma;" Martine's tone implied resignation to something that she did not wholly approve. In a few moments mother and daughter were well on their way to the beach. After they were once fairly started Martine's spirits revived. She and her mother had never passed through the village together and Martine pointed out the gaol and the old white church with its high spire, fronting a little green; and the old churchyard across the road, whose inscriptions she said she would not try to decipher until she could have Priscilla with her. It was a warm morning, but the motion of the car produced a refreshing breeze, and when at last they left it to walk toward the beach, both mother and daughter were in good spirits. At the edge of the sands a gay sight met them. Two large pavilions, roofed over, but open at the sides, were filled with gayly dressed people; the tide was fairly low, and on the sand in front half-grown boys and girls were romping in their bathing-suits, and nurse-maids with little children were disporting themselves in large numbers. From the bath houses behind the pavilions, a long plank extended to the water. Here bathers were coming and going, some dripping from their plunge, others ready to go in. Martine and her mother seated themselves on the first empty seat they came to at the edge of the pavilion. Martine, impressed by the gay hats, fluttering, colored veils, and thin muslin gowns, seen on every side, glanced involuntarily at her own plain linen suit.
Mrs. Stratford, understanding her glance, spoke encouragingly. "You look very well, Martine; your dress is entirely suitable for the morning. Some of these other costumes are too elaborate."
"I had no idea it would be so gay," responded Martine; "evidently we are in York, but not of it."
Instantly she was sorry. But if Mrs. Stratford had heard her words, she made no comment. Mother and daughter sat for some time idly watching the crowd. Once or twice they recognized people they had known in Chicago, not intimate friends, but persons with whom they had a speaking acquaintance.
"There's Mrs. Brownville," exclaimed Mrs. Stratford, as an elderly woman with an elaborate hat walked down on the sands. "I will drop a line to her; probably Carlotta is here too, and they will be glad to see you."
"No, no, mamma," exclaimed Martine; "I never did like them, except at a distance, and I should hate to have them get in the habit of running to see us."
"They might not take the trouble to come at all; we are out of the way," rejoined her mother.
Martine made no further reply; her attention was fixed on a girl who was walking up from the sands past the end of the pavilion. She seemed to be looking directly at Martine, and the latter rose from her seat as if to speak to the other; but before she could make her way outside, this girl had passed on without a sign of recognition.
"That's a nice looking girl," said Mrs. Stratford.
"Yes," responded Martine. "That was Peggy Pratt."
"Peggy Pratt; isn't she a friend of yours?"
"A school friend," responded Martine bitterly. "But evidently she doesn't wish to recognize me here. I suppose she thinks that I'll be troublesome in some way."
"Perhaps she didn't really see you."
"She couldn't help it," replied Martine.
That very day an invitation from Edith Blair came to Martine. "Mother and I," wrote Edith, from the North Shore, "would both be delighted to have a visit from you, a fortnight at least, a month if you can stay as long. Your mother, we hear, is much better, and she surely does not need you all the time."
For a moment Martine was strongly tempted to show the letter to her mother, who, she knew, would certainly urge her to accept the invitation. It is true that Edith and her friends were some years older than Martine, but the latter knew that they would do their best to give her a good time. She would have a fine riding-horse, there would be trips of all kinds up and down the shore, and delightful afternoons at the Essex Country Club, pleasant evenings on the Blairs' piazza after dinners with bright and agreeable people. Under these circumstances, she could put up for a time with the patronizing manners of her mother's cousin, Mrs. Blair; for Edith was always sweet and agreeable, if a little slow. Really, it would be sensible to spend two weeks in this way. She could make herself more entertaining to her mother on her return. But here Martine drew herself up. Duty for the time being presented only one face; her place, for the present, was at Red Knoll; so without mentioning the invitation, she merely gave her mother the personal messages contained in Edith's letter.
It never rains but it pours. A day or two after their visit to the bathing beach, Martine and her mother were seated in their nook under the trees. It was early afternoon, and, as usual, Angelina was off for a stroll.
"Why, there are some visitors," exclaimed Mrs. Stratford, and Martine looked up to see two ladies approaching the front door. Martine wouldn't have been a girl, if she hadn't glanced down involuntarily at her dress.
"You look very well," said her mother, understanding her glance.
"Well, I hate to have to play the part of maid," said Martine, "but it can't be helped now." So, laying down the book from which she had been reading aloud, she went over toward the newcomers.
"I am Mrs. Ethridge, and this is my daughter, Clare. We are really your nearest neighbors," and she pointed to the large house across the road, about which Martine had often wondered. "A young girl, your assistant, I think she calls herself, came over to our house on the evening of the Fourth. Her fire balloon had gone astray." And Mrs. Ethridge smiled at the recollection. "She told us you were lonely, but we could not quite understand. Surely you are Martine Stratford, of whom we have heard so much from Elinor Naylor; you must have many friends at York; there are so many Philadelphians and Chicagoans here. Elinor mentioned you in the letter we had a day or two ago, and we recognized your name as the one your assistant had given us. In any case we ought to have called earlier, but we have had a house full of visitors, and—"
"No apologies are necessary," responded Martine, with dignity. "We expected to be quiet this summer, although my mother will be most happy to see you." And leading them to Mrs. Stratford's corner, introductions were quickly made. Hardly had they seated themselves when Clare Ethridge exclaimed, "Why, there's Peggy Pratt," and Martine looking up, recognized the girl who was hurrying across the lawn, and a second later, Peggy was shaking hands with Martine most effusively.
"What a queer girl you are, Martine Stratford; why didn't you let me know you were in York? Elinor Naylor wrote that you were coming, and I certainly thought you'd tell me where you were. Of course, I've asked everybody, but no one had seen you or heard a thing about you. I couldn't imagine your being hidden in a corner like this; so I supposed you hadn't yet arrived. I'm sure I didn't know what to do," and she looked around with an air of injured innocence, as if some one had been unjustly blaming her.
"You might have inquired at the postoffice," said Mrs. Ethridge smiling, "you can generally get information about people there."
"Oh, I dare say; but I just concluded she wasn't here."
"But now that Iamhere and you know that I am here," responded Martine gayly, "everything is as it should be." She did not mention the little incident at the beach, for she saw that her judgment of Peggy then had been wrong, and that the eyes which had seemed to see her had really been looking at something else.
While Mrs. Ethridge and Mrs. Stratford talked by themselves, Peggy's tongue flew on reciting the attractions of York. Trips up the river, tea at the Country Club, yachting, trolley and auto excursions apparently filled her days; "really I never have a minute to myself," she said, "and to-morrow we are going to have a fish dinner at the Shoals, the whole crowd of us. We've got a special car to take us over to Portsmouth, and then we go by the steamboat; we thought it would be more fun than simply to sail over. There's a seat for you, Martine; I know your mother will let you go, and of course we shall see you too, Clare."
"Yes," said Clare, "I had already promised."
"Then it's all settled," cried Peggy; "you can bring Martine to the car, Clare. Now I must hurry on, for I have an engagement up at the Club, and I'm so glad to have seen you, Martine. Good-bye, Mrs. Stratford; good-bye, Mrs. Ethridge." And almost before they could say "good-bye" themselves, Peggy was out of sight.
"I wonder that girl doesn't wear herself out; she is always flying from one thing to another," said Mrs. Ethridge.
"It's hard for a girl to settle down in the summer," added Clare, "especially in a place where there is so much going on as there is here."
"Habit is everything," and Mrs. Stratford glanced toward Martine, reflecting that she, at least, had been able to adapt herself the past few months to a quiet life.
The prospect of the excursion to the Shoals was very agreeable to Martine, especially as she was to have the companionship of Clare. The latter was a quiet, dignified girl, possibly a little older than Martine and reminding her a little of Amy.
Promptly at the appointed hour Martine met Clare at the turn of the road; they had not long to wait before the special car came in sight. As it stopped for them, there was a loud clapping of hands and shouts of welcome from those within. Martine, cut off for what had seemed so long a time from young people of her own age, was quite bewildered at this. Two of the boys who had stepped down to assist her and Clare on board, proved to be old acquaintances, Herbert Brownville and Atherton Grey; and when once they were fairly off her spirits had risen rapidly. The car sped on, up hill and down dale, past the golf club, through the woods, over bright, green meadows, along tressles surrounded by marshes.
"To think," exclaimed Martine, "these cars almost pass our house and this is my first trip on them. Angelina went over to Portsmouth one day and was so enthusiastic she almost persuaded me to make a trip with her; but she is so easily pleased that I didn't quite believe all she said; but now I believe it and more too."
After a time their road led them past quaint old houses and pleasant summer cottages. There were occasional glimpses of water on one side, and once in the distance, across the water, rose the massive outlines of a hotel.
"This is Kittery," exclaimed Clare. "We are almost on the boundaries of Maine and New Hampshire; that water is the mouth of the Piscataqua; you must go down on the shore some time; artists love it."
"I should like to sketch one of these tree-shaded old houses myself," replied Martine; "that one over there looks as if it could tell a story if it would."
"Oh, that's one of the William Pepperell houses; I never could remember which was his special house and which his daughters lived in, but you know he set out for Louisburg from Kittery, and two or three of these houses have hardly been changed since his day."
"Dear me!" sighed Martine, "have I got to follow the French and Indian war in this corner of the country? I had so much of it last summer in Acadia that I'd like something a little different now."
"Acadia," exclaimed Peggy, overhearing Martine. "How sick I grew of that word last summer. Some people were with us in Nova Scotia, went about with guide books and histories and acted as if they were crazy; but I'm happy to say that I sailed away from Yarmouth without knowing a thing more than before I travelled."
"I believe you," commented Clare. "But if I were you, I wouldn't boast. Some of usdocare for history."
"Unfortunately they do; there's my aunt; when she heard we were coming to the Shoals to-day, she gave me a lot of interesting information that went in one ear and out the other; for I told her that I was simply off for a good time and I never meant to learn anything if I could help it outside of school."
Several of the party applauded Peggy's sentiments, but Martine could not help thinking that a speech of this kind from a girl of Peggy's age was rather shallow; and she admitted to herself that there was a time, not so very long ago, when she too would not only have expressed herself in the same way, but would have felt just exactly as Peggy professed to feel.
Soon after passing the Navy Yard, the car reached the shore of the Piscataqua, where they crossed the ferry to Portsmouth. Soon they were on the little steamboat, bound for the famous Isles of Shoals.
"There's one thing that I do remember," said Peggy. "There are nine of these islands and they are nine miles out at sea, and they are partly in Maine and partly in New Hampshire; but please don't ask me another word, Martine Stratford, for I can see by your expression that you're thirsting for information."
Martine reddened at Peggy's words, because Herbert Brownville, who was standing beside her, was known to have a special dislike for bookish girls. Martine was ashamed of herself for giving even a thought to Herbert's opinion, and in consequence, she reddened more deeply when Herbert asked in surprise, "Have you really come out only for information, Miss Martine, as Peggy told me on the car?"
This question decided Martine; she did not care for Herbert's opinion; she would show him so plainly, and so she decided to mystify him.
"Yes," she replied politely. "You know I have travelled a great deal, and some time I intend to write a book describing my travels. So wherever I go, it is necessary for me to get all the facts I can. Somehow I forgot to bring my notebook to-day, but perhaps you can lend me a pencil and paper."
Poor Herbert looked at Martine in surprise. Was this the girl who was famous for her wit, who was one of the best dancers and riders in their set two or three years ago? How sad that she should have changed so; but it was all on account of Boston; no girl could live in Boston a year without becoming affected. But what a pity that a pretty girl like Martine should turn into a bookworm! Nevertheless, Herbert handed Martine the desired pencil and paper, and he sat beside her while she made a great show of writing down the few facts that she had gathered from the volatile Peggy.
"I'm so glad," continued Martine, "that you are willing to help me; and when we reach the islands I'm going to ask you to find some one who will tell me all about them."
"There can't be much to tell," replied poor Herbert; "you know they are small and rugged and very queer. I've been there many a time on a yacht and I'm perfectly sure from what I've seen that they haven't any history."
"In such matters," responded Martine solemnly, as if she were preaching a sermon, "you cannot be too positive. No corner of the world is so obscure as to be without history."
Again Herbert looked at her in amazement. Her head was turned from him and he did not see the mischievous expression lurking in her brown eyes. He liked Martine, and since there seemed to be no help for it, it would be only proper in him to promise what she asked.
"Certainly," he replied, "I dare say we can find out something for your book; they have a very intelligent clerk at the hotel, and I know a man in a cottage on Smutty Nose who's lived there a long time, and what he can't tell probably would not be worth knowing."
Thus Herbert constituted himself Martine's guide for the day, and kept beside her and Clare until the boat touched Appledore. True to his promise, when they had finished dinner, he got a row-boat and took them over to Smutty Nose, where the old Captain proved very talkative. He explained that the name of the islands did not come from their structure, but from the quantities of fish found in the waters near the "schooling" or "shoaling" of fish. He told them that the Shoals had probably been visited by Captain John Smith, and Christopher Leavitt in 1623 had written something about them.