"Of course the first settlers," said the old man, "were fishermen, and they were always a pretty rough lot, though the Reverend John Brock did something to improve them. There are all kinds of stories going about pirates and wrecks and strange happenings in the old times."
"I suppose Captain Kidd buried some of his treasure here," said Herbert sarcastically.
"That he did, at least they say so," responded Captain Dickerson; "and if you and the young ladies are real enterprising, you might dig a while, for it's never been found, and you've as good a chance as any one."
"Thanks," said Herbert, rather taken aback by finding that his chance arrow had hit the mark, "but we've other things to do to-day. Sometime, perhaps, we'll return."
"Well," said the old man, "there's a chance that other treasure might do you just as well. Nigh a hundred years ago, a Spanish ship went to pieces on the islands, and there were other wrecks that perhaps cast treasure on the sands."
"Oh, I remember," exclaimed Clare, "a poem that I learned at school, 'The Wreck of the Pocahontas.' Celia Thaxter wrote it. It begins something like this:—
"'I lit the lamps in the lighthouse tower,For the sun dropped down and the day was dead;They shone like a glorious clustered flower,Ten golden and five red.'"
"'I lit the lamps in the lighthouse tower,For the sun dropped down and the day was dead;They shone like a glorious clustered flower,Ten golden and five red.'"
"Ah, Mrs. Thaxter," said Capt. Dickerson, "there isn't much on the islands that she hasn't put into poetry. But you'll hear all about her over at Appledore, and I won't spoil your fun by trying to tell what other people can tell better."
"Haven't you some stories of your own?"
"There won't be time for a long story," interposed Herbert, looking at his watch. "We must be prompt for dinner."
"Just one," pleaded Martine, smiling at Capt. Dickerson.
"Most of the stories of these parts belong to Kittery and Portsmouth," rejoined Capt. Dickerson. "You'll have to fish them up there. The only one I can think of you mightn't like—except it will interest you if you love dogs—as most young ladies do."
"Well, tell us, please."
"It's about a murder that took place on Smutty Nose once when I was off on a cruise. Two helpless women in a little cottage were killed by a wretch who thought there was money saved in the house. A third woman with a small dog in her arms escaped and hid here among the rocks. She was terribly scared that the little creature would bark and betray her."
"Did it?"
"Well, she crouched in the darkness, while she heard the murderer pass close by, calling and threatening. But the dog seemed to understand, and kept perfectly quiet until daylight. The woman had heard the murderer rowing away at dawn, and when people on Appledore were stirring they saw her making frantic signs, and they came over and got her and the dog."
"Was the murderer ever caught?" asked Herbert.
"Yes—and he paid the penalty. But I don't know how long the dog lived, young ladies, for I see that's what you'd like to hear," added Capt. Dickerson, turning to the girls.
"I wish I could tell you more," he continued, after a pause. "I dare say you know the Shoals were once called 'Smith's Eyelands,' and there's a monument to Capt. Smith on Star. You've heard about Gorges, I suppose; well, they were in Gorges and Mason's grant, and when Massachusetts people stepped into Maine, the most northerly went to Maine, and the others to New Hampshire."
"Any other great men here, besides Smith?" asked Herbert.
"Not many—besides myself," said Capt. Dickerson, smiling, "except, perhaps, Sir Wm. Pepperell. At least his father was one of the early settlers of the Shoals, and he was born here. But you'll hear about him at Kittery. Then, as I said before, Appledore's full of Celia Thaxter, and her father was queer enough to be called a great man. He had been a politician, and when he got out of sorts with his party he quit the mainland, and brought his boys to White Island, where he was lighthouse keeper. They say the boys were fourteen or fifteen before they ever went ashore, and then they were frightened by the first horse they saw."
"Thank you, Capt. Dickerson. I knew you'd have something interesting to tell," and Herbert moved away impatiently. "I'm coming over some day next week to go fishing with you."
"Yes, I shall be expecting you. I could show you a good many things, young ladies, if you'd spend the day, but it is hard to understand even Smutty Nose alone in an hour."
"Oh, but we've enjoyed coming here," replied Martine, and she and Clare shook hands cordially with Captain Dickerson as they said good-bye.
After dinner at Appledore, all sat for a half-hour on the hotel piazza, which was so near the water that it seemed in many ways like the deck of a ship. Miss Byng and Mrs. Trotter, who had taken charge of the party from York Harbor (the girls declined to call them chaperones) met several acquaintances among the hotel guests. Miss Byng, in fact, had spent a summer at Appledore, and she exchanged reminiscences with one of her friends about Celia Thaxter, the "Queen of Appledore."
"She was certainly a wonderful woman," said Miss Byng, as Clare and Martine drew their chairs within her circle. "Sometimes in the early morning when I looked out of my window, I would see her working in her garden. She was often up at four o'clock, and she made the most wonderful flowers grow from this rocky soil."
"Oh, flowers were to her as individual as human beings," added Mrs. Trotter. "She watched over them lovingly while they were in the garden, and when she brought them into the house they were treated sumptuously. Each flower was placed in a vase by itself, and every spot that could hold them had its vases, silver, glass, or china, each with its single blossom."
"What a strange idea!" cried Clare.
"The effect was beautiful, the brilliant flowers, the picture-covered walls—and the queenly mistress of the house with snow-white hair, in her clinging grey gown—the favorite costume of her latter years."
"Appledore is not the same now," and Mrs. Trotter sighed, "do you recall Mrs. Thaxter's lines—
"The barren island dreams in flowers, while blowThe south winds, drawing haze on sea and land,Yet the great heart of ocean, throbbing slowMakes the pale flowers vibrate where they stand."
"The barren island dreams in flowers, while blowThe south winds, drawing haze on sea and land,Yet the great heart of ocean, throbbing slowMakes the pale flowers vibrate where they stand."
"Oh dear!" whispered Martine to Clare, "I feel as if I were at a funeral. Let's find what Peggy has been doing."
"But I'd like to have known Mrs. Thaxter, wouldn't you?"
"Yes, though a person who had lived most of her life on an island of four hundred acres must have been different from the rest of the world."
"Shedidwrite poetry," replied Clare.
"Yes, that made her different from most of us. But here come Peggy and the rest. I wonder where they've been."
Peggy and her party explained that they had been watching the surf on the farther side of the island.
"Yes," exclaimed Peggy, "it was fine, I can tell you, and the view, why, we could see miles and miles; if we had had a glass, I believe we could have heard people talking at York." Whereat, in the fashion of young people, all laughed as heartily as if Peggy had said something really funny. While they stood there, Herbert was looking nervously at his watch.
"Excuse me, but I really think—"
Carlotta, after the manner of sisters, laughed derisively.
"Listen! I believe he wishes to make an original remark." Herbert was farther off than the others and had not heard just what Carlotta said.
"If we are not careful," he said again, looking at his watch, "we shall miss the boat."
"There," said Carlotta, "I told you that he was going to make an original remark."
This time Herbert heard her words, and when all laughed except Martine, he reddened deeply.
"It's better to be early than late," remarked Martine consolingly; "I've often missed a boat or a train just by thinking I had plenty of time."
Herbert turned gratefully towards Martine and walked back with her to the hotel. As a matter of fact they had half an hour to spare and were able to say good-bye to all their acquaintances without undue haste. The return trip was unexciting, and they reached Portsmouth in good spirits just in season to get the Ferry for Kittery.
As they came to their special car, "Here's your admirer," said Peggy mischievously to Martine.
"What do you mean?" asked Martine.
"Why, the conductor; didn't you notice him coming over? Carlotta did."
"Yes," added Carlotta, "I certainly thought he was going to speak to you."
"Nonsense!" said Martine.
"Do you know him?" whispered Peggy mischievously, as the car speeded along the Kittery shore.
"I haven't even looked at him," replied Martine indignantly. "Herbert has had charge of the fares, and as the conductor stands on the back platform, and as I have no eyes in the back of my head, I couldn't recognize him even if he were an old friend."
Later, however, as the young man moved along and stood for a while beside the motorman, Martine had a chance to see him, though it was only a back view.
"Carlotta," she said, "that conductor does remind me of some one. I wonder if it's any one we know at home? Do you see a resemblance? A resemblance to any one you know?"
"No," said Carlotta, "really I do not." And so the matter dropped.
It was nearly dusk when Martine and Clare left the car at the turn of the road.
"Step carefully," said the conductor, holding out his hands to help the two. Martine started, turned and looked toward the car, but it was already on its way down the hill.
"I wonder,"—but she did not complete the sentence, though all that evening she continued to ponder over the strange resemblance.
After the Shoals excursion Martine's life was less placid than before. Peggy, as if to make amends for her apparent neglect, tried to draw her into some of the gayer doings of the younger set.
"It's very kind of Peggy, but I can't make her understand that I didn't come here wholly for fun; or rather that I find fun in things that she would consider quiet. Clare feels as I do, and we try to make Peggy see that we enjoy a morning under the trees, or a walk in the meadow, quite as well as a game of golf with tea at the Club."
"Golf is good exercise, and you used to like it."
"I know it, but I don't need it in midsummer, and besides—"
Martine did not explain that she did not care to engage in golf, or in anything that would take her away too much from Red Knoll. "Besides," she said to herself, "I won't accept invitations that I can't return, and we are not in the mood for entertaining this summer, even if we had money to waste."
Angelina thought it strange that Mrs. Stratford and Martine preferred the quiet life, and by gentle hints tried to impress on them that they were losing a great deal by declining some of the invitations that came to them. Mrs. Brownville, among others, had called. A day or two after the Shoals excursion, Mrs. Brownville and Carlotta drove up to Red Knoll. Martine at the moment was carrying on an argument with the butcher, who had drawn his cart up nearer the front door than the back. Martine was balancing a chicken in one hand and holding a large cabbage in the other, and was gently arguing with the butcher regarding his prices.
It was somewhat disconcerting to have Mrs. Brownville and Carlotta, in elaborate gowns and flower-laden hats, descend upon her while she was wearing an apron over her gingham skirt. There was no escape for Martine, and before she could decide what to do with the chicken or the cabbage, Mrs. Brownville had advanced toward her with outstretched hand. At this moment, Angelina fortunately appeared on the scene to relieve Martine of her burdens, and Mrs. Brownville politely ignored what she had seen. Martine, however, after the first greetings, broke the ice by plunging into a humorous discussion of summer housekeeping.
"It's the funniest thing," she said, "that clothes and food are so much alike."
"Yes," said Mrs. Brownville, though her expression showed that she could not grasp Martine's meaning.
"Yes," repeated Martine; "in both cases we have to pay highest for the trimmings. When I order three pounds of beef-steak and only get a pound and a half, though I pay for three, the butcher says, 'It's all on account of the trimmings' and it's so with chickens, and lamb, and almost everything except eggs; though for eggs there are three grades of fresh eggs."
"Really?" said Mrs. Brownville, not knowing what else to say. She had a small sense of humor combined with a kind heart; that is, she was always willing to do a kindness when it came directly in her way to do it. She was not quite sure whether or not Martine was making a demand on her for sympathy. Before she could decide what to say, Carlotta interposed. She suspected that Martine was laughing at them both and she wished she could escape the special errand which had brought her. A moment later Martine had led the way into the little sitting-room where her mother received the guests; and soon Carlotta made her errand known.
"I am going to have a little dance at the Club on Saturday evening and I do hope you can come," she said to Martine.
"Yes," added Mrs. Brownville, "it's going to be the most elegant dance of the season, that is for the young people."
A shade of annoyance crossed Carlotta's face; she had wished to pretend it was to be a very simple affair, so that her guests would be the more impressed in the end by all the expense lavished on it.
"Oh, thank you very much," replied Martine, "but I'm not going out at all evenings at present."
"Herbert will be so disappointed."
At this speech of her mother's Carlotta felt an annoyance that she did not show. She did not wish Martine to know that her invitation was due only to Herbert's urging.
"I know it would be delightful," said Martine, "but really I am not dancing this summer."
Carlotta for the moment felt that she would do almost anything to get Martine to take back her refusal. It was irritating that a girl living in as humble a house as Red Knoll should show so little appreciation of an invitation that should have been accepted almost with gratitude. So she rose to her feet and rather abruptly said good-bye to Mrs. Stratford and Martine.
"I must hurry on," she explained, "as I have an engagement at the Club. Mamma, I will send the carriage back for you." And with another word or two of good-bye, Carlotta made a rather hasty departure. After her daughter had gone Mrs. Brownville talked on in her usual rather rambling fashion. She admired the wall papers and the furnishings of the little room.
"Really you've made the most of everything," she said in a manner savoring of patronage that irritated Martine, though she knew Mrs. Brownville did not mean to offend her.
A little later Herbert appeared on the scene.
"Oh, do change your mind," he urged; "I told Carlotta—"
"Then it was you who asked her to come? I thought so."
Again Herbert reddened.
"Well, you see you weren't on the list when the first invitations were sent out, and I was afraid you might be offended, only I thought you were too sensible, and so—"
"There, there," interposed Martine; "I am sensible, that is, I am not offended really, because Carlotta did not think of me in the first place."
"Then you will accept?"
"Oh, no, I am not going out this summer, at least to things of that kind."
"Then I won't go either," said Herbert sulkily; "I hate summer dances and I know a lot of fellows who will stay away too."
"Now, Herbert," said Martine emphatically, "don't be a goose. You ought to try to please Carlotta once in a while, and really, if I hear that you stay away from Carlotta's party, I won't be friends with you."
Whether or not Martine influenced him she never knew, but it was a fact that Herbert and his friends went in force to Carlotta's dance, which Martine heard was really a very successful affair.
For a week or two after this Martine herself felt rather left out of things. She had few friends in the Philadelphia group. Peggy, it is true, as if to make up for her early apparent neglect, did try on more than one occasion to get Martine to join some excursion.
But Martine was firm. She saw that she could not well accept one invitation and refuse another, and she decided that she could afford neither the time nor the money that these outings required.
Mrs. Stratford watched Martine with some concern. The change from her former self was almost too great. But when her mother remonstrated with her, Martine invariably replied that she was perfectly contented—that housekeeping that involved a constant oversight of Angelina afforded excitement enough.
"Besides," she added, "there is Clare; she is livelier than Priscilla, though almost as improving. To-morrow we are going down by Spouting Rock; she, to take photographs, I, to sketch, and she knows any number of picturesque places."
"Your plan sounds improving, if not exciting," responded Mrs. Stratford, smiling.
"We think it will be more fun than going off with a crowd. Instead of riding to Bald Head Cliff with Peggy and her crowd, Clare has asked me to go to Ogunquit on Saturday. We shall drive over, and she is going to ask you too. Her cousin, Mr. Carrol, has a studio there, and we are all invited to luncheon, so please say you will go, mamma."
"Why, yes, when I am really invited," replied Mrs. Stratford, smiling; and a few moments later, when Clare appeared with her message from Mrs. Ethridge, the drive was quickly arranged.
The day at Ogunquit was one of many pleasant, quiet days that Martine spent with Clare on the shore or up the river. Almost always Mrs. Stratford and Mrs. Ethridge went with them. In a short time Martine had become an expert paddler, and she was proud enough to have her mother entrust herself to her care. One afternoon, in two canoes, the four went three or four miles up the river to have tea in a little cove on the Bans. It did not detract from Martine's pleasure, when they passed the Country Club, to hear Peggy and Carlotta shout from the piazza:
"Don't go past."
"There's a landing here."
Or rather, if they did not hear clearly they judged that this was the meaning of the words that were accompanied with signals and gestures. But without heeding the sirens, Martine and Clare paddled on and their outing was a complete success. It cannot be said that they made their passage upstream without difficulties. It was near the turn of the tide, and part of the way the current was against them. But of two evils they had to choose the less, as Clare thought it wiser to return down the river with the current wholly in their favor.
"If the York were a real river, we wouldn't have to do so much planning, but you see it's only an arm of the sea, and in its whole seven miles from the harbor, the tide has to be closely reckoned with."
"Yes, I've heard weird tales of canoeists left high and dry on the shore because they had forgotten to calculate the rise and fall of the tide," added Martine.
"It's generally worse for the parents at home than for the stranded young people. I have known mothers half-distracted while waiting to hear from missing daughters," said Mrs. Ethridge.
"Then we were wise in coming with the girls," added Mrs. Stratford.
"As if we would have come without you. The whole fun to-day is showing you the river," responded Martine, who had been up with Clare before. "There," she continued, "I forgot to give you my one piece of information—that Sewall's Bridge near the Country Club is the oldest pier bridge in the United States, and was built by the same Major Sewall who built the first bridge between Cambridge and Boston."
"Unimportant, if true," and Mrs. Stratford smiled at Martine's earnestness. "I approve, my dear, of your zeal for history, but in New England people often make too much of unimportant trifling things."
"Bridges and houses."
"Yes, and Indians and wars and—"
"Then you won't appreciate this verse that Clare recited the other day:
"Hundreds were murdered in their bedsWithout shame or remorse,And soon the floors and roads were strewedWith many a bloody corse."
"Hundreds were murdered in their bedsWithout shame or remorse,And soon the floors and roads were strewedWith many a bloody corse."
"Evidently the writer of those lines had a real tragedy in mind," replied Mrs. Stratford.
"Yes," interposed Clare, "it was the Indian massacre of 1792, when more than three hundred savages came into York on snow-shoes, and killed half the people of the place,—all in fact except those who had taken refuge in the old garrison house. The minister, Rev. Shubael Dummer was shot while standing at his door—and—"
"Tell her, Clare, about the little boy," said Martine.
"Oh, Jeremiah Moulton, the only person within the Indian's reach whom they spared. He was a fat little boy, and when he caught sight of the savages he waddled away as fast as his little legs would carry him. This so amused the Indians that they laughed and laughed and spared him. Though hardly more than a baby at the time the boy never forgot his fright, and years later he revenged himself on the Indians in what was known as the Harmon Massacre,—and many people have since blamed him for his cruelty."
"Probably they had never been chased by Indians," responded Martine. "He jests at scars who never felt a wound."
"We must go to the McIntire garrison house some day," continued Clare. "Though it wasn't the refuge during that particular massacre, the two houses were probably much alike, and this is one of the oldest buildings in the country—built in 1623."
"Clare," exclaimed Martine, "excuse my interrupting you, but you are tremendously like Amy when you are imparting information, though at other times I hardly notice the resemblance. I shall forget half you have told me, and I wonder how you happen to remember so much."
"If you should come here as many summers as I have come, you would unconsciously imbibe dates and scraps of information."
"But now," said Martine, "we are hungry for something more substantial than dates, and with your permission, Mrs. Ethridge, we'll open the basket."
The sandwiches prepared by Angelina's deft fingers, and the cakes and fruit brought by Clare made a supper fit for a king, as Martine phrased it, and the journey home with wind and tide in their favor brought to an end one of the pleasantest afternoons of the season.
A few days after the canoe trip Martine and Clare started out for a day at Newcastle, accompanied by Angelina. Mrs. Stratford was spending the day with Mrs. Ethridge, and Angelina was in a seventh heaven of delight as she walked along carrying the basket. Angelina had an especial interest in Clare dating from the night of the Fourth, for she considered that her fire-balloon and the tact with which she had rescued it from Mrs. Ethridge's grounds had led to the acquaintance between the Red Knoll household and the family across the road.
She did not know, since she was not a mind-reader, that Mrs. Ethridge would have called on Mrs. Stratford within a few days of the Fourth, even without her intervention. But as her own belief made her so happy, no one had pricked the bubble of Angelina's illusion.
While the girls were waiting for the car, Herbert came in sight.
"Off for the day, portfolio, camera, easel!" he exclaimed. "Then surely you will let me go with you."
"No," replied Martine firmly, "this isn't a picnic. We are just going off to work a little, and enjoy ourselves."
"I like that. As if I would interfere. Atherton will be along in a minute, and he would enjoy the excursion too."
"No," repeated Martine, with increasing firmness. "We have made our plans. We wish to go by ourselves."
Clare, who saw no good reason for Martine's attitude toward Herbert, yet thought it wiser not to interfere.
Herbert, who so seldom was out of temper, now seemed offended.
"Very well," he said abruptly, "I won't trouble you," and turning on his heel, he walked away.
"I can't help it," explained Martine in answer to Clare's look of wonder. "One boy, or two, for that matter, would be terribly in the way in a little trip like this. Here's the car, and I am glad enough to be off."
Now it happened that Carlotta and another girl who knew Martine went as far as Kittery on the same car. On their return to York they found Herbert on the links.
"You were on the same car with Martine; did she say where she was going with Grace?" he asked abruptly.
"She mentioned Newcastle," replied Carlotta. "They will cross on the ferry, and may row back across the river."
"How foolish girls are!" grumbled Herbert. "They think because they can paddle up York River that it's perfectly safe to row anywhere else. I hope they won't try it alone. There's a fearful current at the mouth of the Piscataqua."
"I don't see why you should care," responded Carlotta sharply. "Besides, Martine can generally take care of herself. Besides, I must tell you a funny thing. You know there was a young conductor on the special the day we went to the Shoals. Peggy says he watched Martine when she wasn't looking, and I know Martine asked me if he reminded me of any one I knew at home. Well, to-day he was on the regular car—and once when we waited at a turnout, Clare and Martine got off and stood by the side of the road, and in a minute he and she were talking as if they had always been acquainted. They actually stood there under the trees and talked, and Angelina stood there grinning like a Cheshire cat, the way she always does."
"Well, why not? Why shouldn't Martine talk to whom she pleases? Really, Carlotta, how silly you are!" and Herbert walked off with an expression of disdain for a foolish sister.
Now this is what had really happened. Martine and Clare had not been long on their way when the former exclaimed excitedly, "Do you remember, Clare, that boy I told you of, Balfour Airton, whom we met in Nova Scotia, who was so clever and knew everything about old Port Royal, whom I discovered to be a kind of cousin? Well, he's the conductor."
"What conductor?" asked Clare, who had not quite followed the course of Martine's thought.
"Why, our conductor on this car, and he was on the special the other day; I thought so then, but now I am quite sure. He hasn't given me a chance to speak to him, because I wasn't noticing him when you paid the fares, but as soon as I can I am going to recognize him."
A moment after this, the car reached the turnout where it had to wait for the car from Portsmouth, and then Martine had her opportunity. So Carlotta was right. Martine and Clare did spend a minute or two talking to the young conductor, who admitted that he had recognized Martine on the former occasion, though he had hesitated to reveal his identity to her.
"Your uniform was almost a disguise, though at the last moment I knew it was your voice; but of course I had no idea you were in this part of the world."
Balfour had no time to explain before the other car appeared in sight, but as he assisted the girls back to their seats Martine said cordially, "You must be sure to look us up."
It was not long before they reached the point on the Kittery shore where they were to take the little ferry for Newcastle.
"The Piscataqua is more of a river than the York," said Clare, "and there's a good deal to see along these banks. We'll have to content ourselves with Newcastle to-day, but sometime we might go farther down and touch at the other landings."
"We mustn't forget that we have come here to work to-day," replied Martine. "I am really anxious to do one sketch—and here is just the spot," she concluded, taking her position at a point from which she had a perfect view of an old house well shaded at the head of a little beach.
While Martine was sketching, Clare fluttered about, taking first one thing and then another that pleased her fancy, and often including Angelina in her views to the great delight of the latter.
"How blue the water is, and the sky! I haven't felt so thoroughly in the mood for good work since I left Acadia," exclaimed Martine.
"But the sun is terribly hot," replied Clare, "and I am hungry. Let us go inside Fort Constitution for our luncheon. There will surely be more shade there."
"Your word is law," and Martine reluctantly gathered up her belongings, and soon the three had ensconced themselves in a shady corner within the crumbling walls of the old grass-grown Fort.
"'Fort William and Mary' was the name of the first Fort near this spot," explained Clare, returning to her rôle of guide, "and even before his ride to Concord and Lexington, Paul Revere is said to have posted up here to tell the people of Portsmouth that the British were sending one hundred men to take all the powder away.
"Accordingly four hundred men of Portsmouth marched out to Fort William and Mary, and required the Captain in command and his five men to surrender. Then they took the powder to a safer hiding-place, and later it was sent down to Boston, where it is said to have been used in the Battle of Bunker Hill. That other little tower is called the Walbach Tower, for Col. Walbach who commanded the fort in the War of 1812. There's a funny story about the building of this tower. Any one can see that it probably isn't true, although a poem has been written on the subject. The story is simply that the people of Portsmouth, alarmed by the sight of some British ships in the harbor, came over here in the night and worked like bees, men, women, and children, laying stones until this tower was built. There isn't an atom of proof that this is true."
"But it's a pretty story," said Martine.
After luncheon, Clare gave Martine the choice of two walks—to Odiorne's Point, called the "Plymouth Rock of New Hampshire," as the first settlement was made there, or to Little Harbor.
Martine promptly chose the latter, because she was anxious to see the old Wentworth house. To their disappointment, when the girls reached it, the three found the old house closed; but the grounds were open to them and the curious exterior amused Martine, reminding her, as she said, of half a dozen small houses piled and twisted together to make one large one.
"This is the house where Martha Hilton was married," explained Clare. "I am sorry we cannot go inside. The rooms with their polished floors and old-time furniture are really fascinating. Cousin Mary—I hope you will meet her some time in Portsmouth—says that Benning Wentworth, in spite of being Governor, was a plain man, and son of a plain farmer, so that his marriage with Martha Hilton was not such a tremendous mesalliance."
"Oh, I remember that poem," cried Angelina, "how the Governor married the servant maid. It's by Longfellow, and the story's something like Agnes Surriage. The minister didn't want to marry them. I can say some of it, and she recited dramatically:
"'This is the lady, do you hesitate?Then I command you, as Chief Magistrate.The Rector read the service loud and clear.Dearly beloved, we are gathered here—And so on to the end. At his commandOn the fourth finger of her fair left hand,The governor placed the ring, and that was all.Martha was Lady Wentworth of the Hall.'
"'This is the lady, do you hesitate?Then I command you, as Chief Magistrate.The Rector read the service loud and clear.Dearly beloved, we are gathered here—And so on to the end. At his commandOn the fourth finger of her fair left hand,The governor placed the ring, and that was all.Martha was Lady Wentworth of the Hall.'
"So I'm glad to see this hall," she added, after Clare and Martine had sufficiently praised her recitation,—"and there's one thing more that I'd like to see,—the island in the harbor, where they kept the Spanish prisoners two years ago. You know I used to think I must be partly Spanish myself, I had so much sympathy for Cervera and all his men. I'm sorry they didn't stay here longer. It would be so pleasant to go to the island and console them."
"Perhaps you'll be as well pleased if you canseeSeavey's Island," replied Clare, smiling. "We passed the other day on our way to the Shoals; and sometime you must take the same trip."
For the time this suggestion satisfied Angelina, and she heard with evident pleasure all that Clare and Martine had to say about old Newcastle.
Intending to catch the last ferry of the afternoon, Clare and Martine cut short their stay at Little Harbor, delightful though they found the neighborhood with its suggestions of antiquity. They had a long walk before them—long at least for an August afternoon, and they did not reach the pier as quickly as they had hoped.
In spite of Clare's intention and Martine's efforts to be prompt, the little tug had left the landing a minute before they reached it. By close calculation, as they glanced at the time-table, they saw that they would be altogether too late in reaching home, if they waited for the next boat.
"Isn't it aggravating?" cried Martine, "to have to stand here and wait, when the distance across to Kittery is so little."
"There's nothing to do but wait," replied Clare.
Martine followed the direction in which she pointed, and saw an old man in a row-boat approaching the pier.
"Do you suppose he would take us over?"
"Why not? Let's ask him."
The two friends, with Angelina following close behind, stood on the end of the pier while the old man was mooring his boat.
"Will you row us over to the other side?" asked Martine.
He paid no attention to them, but continued tying a knot in his rope. The question was repeated in a slightly different form, and still the old man made no answer.
"He must be deaf," said Angelina.
"Or the wind's blowing in the wrong direction," said Clare. "We must wait till he comes up to us."
When the old man approached, by signs and words they made him understand what they wished, and he smiled pleasantly when Clare put a dollar bill in his hand.
"It's worth it," she said in an aside to Martine. "If we cross with him, we shall save two hours on our homeward journey."
So the old man untied his boat, which was ample enough for the four, and the girls quickly took their places.
"I can't say that I like a deaf boatman," said Clare, "in case of an accident we might find it awkward that he can't hear."
"An accident!" exclaimed Martine, who seldom feared any unseen things; "there certainly could be no accident in this quiet water." Before they had gone very far, however, she began to change her mind. The breeze which they had noticed while they were on the landing, now seemed to be blowing violently, and despite its heavy freight the boat rocked violently; it not only rocked, but veered from its course. Martine held her breath, while the excitable Angelina began to scream.
"Hush! hush!" said Martine, "it's nothing."
"Nothing?" cried Angelina, as a great wave broke over the end of the boat, half drenching her.
"It's only the Piscataqua current," said Clare. "But ask him if there's any danger."
The boatman ignored the question. Probably he had not heard it. A great wave slapped the boat sidewise, and this time Clare's screams were added to Angelina's. Billows rose all around them. Apparently they were no longer on the surface of a quiet river, but in the midst of a disturbed ocean and their boat was small. Martine kept her eyes on the distant shore; she saw that they were approaching it, slow though their progress was. The old man seemed to be doing his best, when suddenly one of his oars broke and they heard him mutter, "that's bad." Bad, it certainly was; even Martine's courage waned. One thing, however, led her to hope that they might escape disaster. She had noticed a little boat pushing out from the other side. How rapidly it seemed to approach! Very soon after the old man's oar snapped, she recognized one of the rowers in the approaching boat. It was Herbert Brownville.
As the boat drew nearer, they saw that Atherton was Herbert's companion. The boys rowed steadily and swiftly, and soon their boat was beside the other. Leaning over, Herbert extended an oar to the old man who accepted it with a nod of thanks; it wasn't a time for words; Angelina was in tears, Clare was barely calm, and even Martine, the courageous, looked disturbed. The old man bent to the oars, the two boats, almost side by side, went on in a straight line.
"Thank you, thank you!" cried Clare, as they got into calmer water.
"You weren't really scared, were you?" shouted Herbert.
"Just a little," replied Martine.
"You should have known of the current," added Herbert. "It was just the wrong time to cross in a small boat, especially with only one oar."
The wind continued to blow, but the rest of their short journey was so calm compared with the turbulent five minutes, that Martine was ashamed of their needless alarm; and yet she was glad enough when at last she found herself standing on the Kittery bank of the river.
"I knew you'd need a rescuer," exclaimed Herbert, after he had helped them ashore.
"But how in the world did you know where to find us?" asked Martine.
Herbert was silent; he did not really care to tell her what Carlotta had said.
Mrs. Stratford was interested in Martine's account of her interview with Balfour Airton.
"I should certainly like to see him, and if he's as you describe him, and I am sure he is, I should be glad to welcome him as a long lost cousin. From what Mrs. Redmond has said, I'm sure that he contributed a great deal to your pleasure last summer."
Several days passed and Balfour did not appear. At last Mrs. Stratford sent a note to the headquarters of the trolley line addressed to Balfour and inviting him to tea. On the appointed evening he made his appearance at Red Knoll.
"It is not often," he said, "that I can get enough time off to accept an invitation of this kind; but I can tell you that it's very delightful to be among friends. That's the worst of going so far from home. You're among strangers and nobody cares especially for you."
Although Martine and her mother were both somewhat curious as to what had brought Balfour to this corner of the world, for the moment they asked no questions. Martine inquired about Eunice.
"Of course she writes regularly to Priscilla," she said, "and Priscilla keeps me informed about Annapolis happenings. Do you think your sister will go to college?"
Balfour shook his head.
"I am not sure; I am not even sure that Eunice knows her own mind; but if she does wish to go to college, some one will certainly find a way for her to carry out her wishes."
Martine, looking at him, felt that Balfour was likely to be that "some one."
"I ought to say," added Balfour, turning to Mrs. Stratford, "that the money so kindly sent Eunice last autumn did an immense amount of good. It was the first money of her own that she had ever had to handle, and I may add," he concluded smiling, "that she has at least half of it still stored away for a rainy day."
At last Martine could not control her curiosity.
"How did you happen to think of coming up here?" she asked.
"Oh, some of my friends had had opportunities as extra men on the New England trolley lines, and I decided that I could spend my time more profitably here than on the vehicle I drove last summer.
"That wasn't such a bad vehicle," interposed Martine. "If you hadn't been driving it, I might still be lost in the fog."
During this conversation the three had gone outside to sit. And now in the darkness they heard a voice inquiring anxiously, "Is this Red Knoll?"
"It's Mr. Gamut," exclaimed Martine, and rushing forward, was soon greeting the old gentleman.
"I've only just come back," he cried volubly after he had joined the group. "You must have thought it strange that I disappeared so completely; but I was called away on business, and my niece has been visiting friends on the South Shore. Now tell me about your father; what do you hear? Good news, I hope."
Martine said nothing.
"What we hear is indefinite," said Mrs. Stratford.
"Oh, well, 'no news is good news' and you must expect the best. Young people who have no care don't realize the ups and downs of life; they expect things to move along in an upward line. You, young man," he continued, "expect life to continue to be one continual round of pleasure; you bathe, play golf, drive, have evening excursions, and it's all right for the summer; but after a while you will have a hard hill to climb, and that is right too; it's part of life; only you mustn't let the summer spoil you."
"Oh, but Mr. Gamut," began Martine.
"Yes, I know," said Mr. Gamut, turning to Balfour, "you think perhaps there needn't be a hill for every one."
"I think I know what Miss Stratford meant to say; she meant to tell you that I am not a pleasure seeker, but a worker. I am simply a conductor on the trolley line."
"Bless my soul!" exclaimed the old gentleman, and though the light was too dim for him really to see, Balfour realized that Mr. Gamut had raised his glasses and had fixed his eyes upon him.
"A conductor!" he exclaimed; "how extraordinary! do you really think it will lead to something? That's what a young man should always ask himself."
"It will lead to my having more money at the end of the season than I had before," responded Balfour.
"Yes, yes; but it's very unusual." Before Mr. Gamut could complete his sentence, a loud scream from the direction of the kitchen fell on the ears of the four.
"I wish Angelina were not so excitable," said Mrs. Stratford. "It takes so little to make her scream; probably she has seen a mouse."
When the scream rang out a second time, Balfour started to his feet and in another instant was racing to the gate in pursuit of a flying figure; an instant later, the others had reached Angelina.
"It was a burglar," she cried. "He was opening the trunks in the ell room, and when I came through with the safety lamp in my hand I saw him plainly, and he started and ran, leaving his booty on the floor," she concluded dramatically.
"But those were empty trunks," cried Martine, climbing the stairs.
"Come and see," said Angelina, leading the way upstairs, where indeed the floor was strewn with clothing. Martine picked up a delicate muslin skirt.
"This isn't mine, mamma," she said. "The man must have had a bundle with him that he dropped here; these things are not mine; it all seems very queer."
"Yes," said Angelina, "especially as the burglar is an old acquaintance of mine."
Thoughts of collusion crossed Mrs. Stratford's mind while Angelina continued:
"It was years and years ago, and I'd know him anywhere; especially because I've seen his twin brother since, and he looks just like him, though this wasn't the twin. He's an honest man and he lives in Salem."
"Let us get out into the fresh air again," said Mrs. Stratford. "I feel faint."
"Angelina's story makes me feel fainter," added Martine.
"I hope that interesting young conductor hasn't been hurt by the burglar; if he should catch him, I wonder if he'd know what to do with him."
"We can only wait."
Their time of waiting was not long. Balfour came back rather crestfallen.
"He gave me a great run," said Balfour, "and I couldn't catch up with him. But I'm sure he won't trouble you again, and on my way home I'll telephone so that the authorities here and in Portsmouth can be on the lookout for him. Do you suppose he took anything of yours?"
"I hardly think so," replied Martine, "he seems to have left something behind him."
"Oh, he's nothing but a sneak thief," continued Angelina. "I know him."
"A friend of yours?" asked Balfour in surprise.
"Oh, Angelina was just going to tell us about him," said Mrs. Stratford, trying to repress certain suspicions regarding Angelina that had come to her since the girl had said that she knew the intruder.
"It was this way," continued Angelina, pleased, as usual, to be the centre of interest. "It was my mother he took the money from a long time ago, when she lived at the North End. It was the money that was to take us to the country, that Miss Brenda and her Club had made at a bazaar; and he went off to some far country, and now he's come back, I suppose he'll go on stealing. Miss Brenda had to make up the money out of her own allowance, because she had been careless in giving the money too soon to my mother. So if you had caught this thief, Mister—" here Angelina hesitated, not knowing Balfour's name,—"we might have recovered what he took."
"I'm sorry that I did not," replied the young man, "but I'll do my best to help some one else catch him."
A little later Mr. Gamut and Balfour walked off together, and the Red Knoll household, left to itself, talked over the exciting evening. Mr. Gamut and Balfour had both offered to stay, or even to sit up all night if Mrs. Stratford or the girls felt timid. But at last all agreed that the intruder had been so effectually put to flight that there was no danger of his returning.
That night Martine's dreams were filled with visions of a burglar chasing Balfour, with Mr. Gamut in a white muslin skirt following closely in pursuit. They were all late for breakfast, and were still at the table when the grocer brought the mail. There was but one letter for Martine, and she read it eagerly.
"What do you think?" she asked, when she had finished. "Elinor is going to stay over at York on her way to the mountains. She is to be at the Hotel for a day or two. Oh, I wish that she could stay here! What do you think, mamma? she could be comfortable in my room, and I would take the little one next."
"Certainly, my dear, you may ask her as soon as she arrives. When does she arrive?"
"Why, it must be to-day—for this is Thursday. I wonder why the letter was so slow. I'll go over as soon as the work is done."
Now it happened that Elinor herself made the first visit, as she had come in from Portsmouth on an early train. After they had talked of other things for half an hour, Martine told Elinor of their excitement of the evening before.
"Are you sure he didn't take anything?" asked Elinor. "I should think you wouldn't have slept a wink. I should have been awake all night after such a fright."
"I can't say I was frightened; it seemed rather funny. Do come upstairs with me now. I must see what the man left behind."
Elinor followed Martine upstairs.
"Why, Martine, what is this?" she cried, raising the white skirt "It is—why, it must be the gown I lost Class Day—and this—it really is my trunk," and she gave Martine a severe glance as she bent toward a small trunk in the corner.
"Nonsense," cried Martine. "That is a skirt the burglar left, part of his 'booty,' as Angelina calls it, and this is one of our packing trunks. It has been here all summer."
"But it has my name on it," protested Elinor.
Martine shook her head. Elinor's manner reminded her of her manner on the day of their first meeting, and it annoyed her.
Nevertheless she bent down towards the label on the trunk.
"Don't look at me in that tone of voice," she said gayly, as she turned again toward her friend. "The label is certainly marked,