Brenda's Ward Part 34

"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 gla.s.ses 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 furnis.h.i.+ngs 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 companions.h.i.+p; 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 pa.s.sed 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 Sh.o.r.e 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, I _do_ feel 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 pa.s.sed 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 refres.h.i.+ng 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 pa.s.sed 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 Sh.o.r.e, "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 sh.o.r.e, and delightful afternoons at the Ess.e.x Country Club, pleasant evenings on the Blairs' piazza after dinners with bright and agreeable people. Under these circ.u.mstances, 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.

CHAPTER XX

THE ISLES OF SHOALS

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 a.s.sistant, 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 a.s.sistant 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.