by Oliver Optic
CHAPTER XIX
SIGHT-SEEING
"York is pretty dull for you, Martine," said Mrs. Stratford a morning ortwo after the Fourth. "I was hoping you would run across some one youknew here. Wasn't Elinor to write to some of her friends?"
"I thought so, mamma, but either she has forgotten, or they don't thinkit worth while to travel up to Red Knoll."
"Of course you have many things to interest you about the house, butstill it's quiet for you here, Martine."
"It might be livelier," admitted Martine, "but there's a lot ofsight-seeing I can do, while waiting for something to turn up. Amy andPriscilla have quite got me into the sight-seeing habit, and it would bea strange New England town that couldn't show something to a seeker forinformation."
Mrs. Stratford smiled at her daughter's way of putting things. "Yorkreally has some history, and the village, as I drove through it theother day, had a pleasant, old-time aspect, though nothing lookedancient enough to take one back even a hundred years."
"Oh, then you didn't notice the little gaol on the hill; labelledsixteen hundred and something, I've forgotten just what, but I believeit'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 beseen there. They told me at the postoffice that the Historical Societyhas it in charge and that it's full of curiosities."
While she was speaking, Martine's face had brightened perceptibly, andher enthusiasm pleased her mother. Later in the day she set off, forAngelina, whose habit it was to take the afternoons for her ownamusement, willingly accepted Martine's suggestion that she should staywith Mrs. Stratford.
"At any time when you wish it, Miss Martine, I'll be happy to obligeyou," said Angelina, with an air better befitting a princess than adomestic employee, the most of whose time should have been at thedisposal of her employer.
"I've never really gone to jail before," cried Martine gayly, as shebade her mother good-bye, "but I'll try so to behave myself that I'llhave nothing but good to report when I come back."
For a moment or two, before she entered the gaol, Martine surveyed itfrom the road below. Her comparison of the little building to Noah's Arkreally 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 woodenends; and even if a prisoner found it easy to jump from the upperwindows to the ground, I dare say that some of the bolts and bars werestrong enough to hold dangerous persons."
Once inside the little building, Martine almost forgot that it was aprison, as she walked about gazing at all kinds of odd things that havebeen brought together to connect the present with the past. Old china,old pictures, autographs, furniture, fans, and other articles ofpersonal adornment, spoke eloquently of bygone days; so eloquently thatMartine shortly realized that a feeling of sadness was taking possessionof her. She began to picture the people to whom these things hadbelonged, to wonder who they were, how long they had lived, and whytheir homes had been broken up.
"For no one with a home," she said to herself, "would ever part withthings of this kind." She looked into the old dungeon, the walls ofwhich were eighteen or twenty inches thick, and turned away hastily whenanother 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 thanbecause she really cared to know.
"It was built in 1653," was the polite answer, "and is said to be theoldest public building in the United States; there are probably somechurches and houses still standing that are a little older, but nobuilding used for more than two hundred years continuously for publicpurposes. It was built by the Massachusetts people when they tookpossession of this part of the country in the time of Cromwell."
"Indeed!" Martine was not exactly eager for information, but to hear alittle more history would help pass the time.
"Of course you know," continued the other, "that York was founded undera grant to Sir Ferdinand Gorges, and it was always strongly Royalist;it's the oldest incorporated city in the United States, and although itsmayor and aldermen and other high officials existed chiefly on paper andthe 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," intones that were strangely familiar, and turning about she met thesurprised gaze of Mr. Gamut whom she had last seen at the exercisesaround the Harvard statue on Class Day.
"So it really is you, Miss Martine," said the Mr. Gamut, holding out hishand. "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 sawyou, 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 outall right."
"Oh, I hope so. Mother says that if things were worse we should probablyhave had a cable."
"That's the way to look at it. Come, walk around with me for a littlewhile. I suppose you know all about these things. My niece wouldn't comewith 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 tofit everything."
"But York is really old and historic," protested Martine, proud of herrecently acquired information. "The first settlers here were Royalistsand held high positions."
"On paper," said Mr. Gamut with a laugh. "Oh, yes, I know about SirFerdinand Gorges and his remarkable charter. Here are some of the coatsof arms of the first settlers," exclaimed Mr. Gamut. "Do you supposethey 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 Irather think that coats of arms and things of that kind didn't troublethe first settlers in spite of all this foolery," and he pointed to thecolors 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 rightto claim these heraldic ornaments, but for my own part, I prefersomething more substantial. Things like this appeal to me more," and heled Martine to a little cradle in which Sir William Pepperell slept inhis babyhood. "Or even this," and he pointed out a small table at whichHandkerchief 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, becauseHawthorne, in his way, has immortalized it. This Moody was the son ofone of the ministers of the old church; he was intended for the law, buthaving accidentally killed a friend while out hunting, his fatherpersuaded him to enter the ministry. Remorse, however, so preyed on himthat he spent his life in comparative solitude, and whenever he went inpublic, it is said, he covered his face with a handkerchief; differentreasons have been given for his strange behavior, and it may be that hewas always mildly insane. At least, there must be some truth in thestories 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 peopleof York; they must have set what Angelina would call a very handsometable. I've seldom seen in one place so many fine old cups and saucersand drinking glasses and decanters."
"These things don't fit exactly our theories about New England plainliving and high thinking. I tell you what, object lessons often teach usmuch more than books. But now," and Mr. Gamut looked at his watch, "I'msorry to see that I must hurry back to the house; I am visiting a cousinfor a few days and if you'll tell me where your cott
age is, I shall havea 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 storyof the gaol where she examined at her leisure the hand-made quilts andquaint furnishings of an old-time bedroom, and looked with interest atthe picturesque costumes giving a somewhat ghostly effect to a number ofdummy figures in one of the attics. She saw the cell, or rather theroom, where gentlemen prisoners were confined, and going downstairs,took a final survey of the old kitchen, well equipped with cookingutensils of Colonial days.
Her visit to the gaol had diverted her, but as she walked homeward overthe dusty road, the old feeling of loneliness returned. Never before hadshe realized that she was dependent on young companionship; yet neverbefore had she been so cut off from her own special friends.
Mrs. Stratford was pleased to hear that Mr. Gamut intended to visit RedKnoll.
"He probably," she said, "has friends at York, of whom we shall belikely to see something; he and your father were never intimate, butalways good friends. I shall be glad to see him and I hope his niecewill come with him, for there is no reason why we should live in utterseclusion."
Two or three days passed away and then a week, and still Mr. Gamut hadnot presented himself. Meanwhile a letter had arrived from Lucian.
"Father is still in a rather critical condition; he is not able toattend to business, though they say he is much better than before Icame; it will be impossible to tell for some time how things reallystand or when we can come home."
"I call that very encouraging," cried Martine, reading the letter aloudfor 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 awaythat her mother might not discern any lack of cheerfulness in her face.For although the letter might have been worse, Martine realized thatafter all it did not promise a great deal for the future. Other letterscame now to Red Knoll. Priscilla wrote affectionately. She knew, shewrote, it was probably warmer at Plymouth than at York and yet, if onlyit could have been arranged, she believed that Martine and her mothermight have enjoyed the South Shore better even than the North.
"The children talk of you constantly; no one ever made a deeperimpression; so I have promised them that Thanksgiving, if not before,you will come again to visit us. Mr. Stacy asks for you whenever he seesme, and that, you know, is fairly often. He says that York is historicin 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 evidentlythinks that York history isn't half as important as our Plymouthhistory, and of course he's right, because this was the earliersettlement; still if there's anything worth knowing about the place, Iam sure you will find it out. For even though you made so much fun ofAcadian history last summer, in the end you really knew more about itthan any of the rest of us. That was because there was so much more toknow about the Acadians than the English, and you may recall I tried notto 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 nextyours; 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 shecouldn't possibly be spared, at least that she oughtn't to wish to bespared; and when Priscilla says 'ought not' she generally means 'willnot.'"
A day later Martine had her first letter from Amy, who was enjoying herfirst trip abroad; she and her mother had gone directly from Liverpoolto North Wales, where Mrs. Redmond was anxious to spend a week or twosketching in the neighborhood of Snowdon.
"She was here years ago, before her marriage," wrote Amy, "and so thisis a kind of sentimental journey for her; she thinks that I have made asacrifice in postponing our visit to London; but indeed, I find it veryattractive here, and perhaps it is just as well to rest for a littlewhile before we set out on a regular sight-seeing tour."
"Martine," said Mrs. Stratford, as her daughter replaced Amy's letter inits 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 takethe next car and ride down as near as we can; people bathe about twelveand we shall be in season to see all that is going on."
"Very well, mamma;" Martine's tone implied resignation to something thatshe did not wholly approve. In a few moments mother and daughter werewell on their way to the beach. After they were once fairly startedMartine's spirits revived. She and her mother had never passed throughthe village together and Martine pointed out the gaol and the old whitechurch with its high spire, fronting a little green; and the oldchurchyard across the road, whose inscriptions she said she would nottry to decipher until she could have Priscilla with her. It was a warmmorning, but the motion of the car produced a refreshing breeze, andwhen at last they left it to walk toward the beach, both mother anddaughter were in good spirits. At the edge of the sands a gay sight metthem. Two large pavilions, roofed over, but open at the sides, werefilled with gayly dressed people; the tide was fairly low, and on thesand in front half-grown boys and girls were romping in theirbathing-suits, and nurse-maids with little children were disportingthemselves 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 hermother seated themselves on the first empty seat they came to at theedge of the pavilion. Martine, impressed by the gay hats, fluttering,colored veils, and thin muslin gowns, seen on every side, glancedinvoluntarily at her own plain linen suit.
Mrs. Stratford, understanding her glance, spoke encouragingly. "You lookvery 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 arein York, but not of it."
Instantly she was sorry. But if Mrs. Stratford had heard her words, shemade no comment. Mother and daughter sat for some time idly watching thecrowd. Once or twice they recognized people they had known in Chicago,not intimate friends, but persons with whom they had a speakingacquaintance.
"There's Mrs. Brownville," exclaimed Mrs. Stratford, as an elderly womanwith an elaborate hat walked down on the sands. "I will drop a line toher; 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 adistance, and I should hate to have them get in the habit of running tosee 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 waswalking up from the sands past the end of the pavilion. She seemed to belooking directly at Martine, and the latter rose from her seat as if tospeak to the other; but before she could make her way outside, this girlhad 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 shedoesn't wish to recognize me here. I suppose she thinks that I'll betroublesome 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. "Motherand I," wrote Edith, from the North Shore, "would both be delighted tohave a visit from you, a fortnight at least, a month if you can stay aslong. Your mother, we hear, is much better, and she su
rely does not needyou all the time."
For a moment Martine was strongly tempted to show the letter to hermother, who, she knew, would certainly urge her to accept theinvitation. It is true that Edith and her friends were some years olderthan Martine, but the latter knew that they would do their best to giveher a good time. She would have a fine riding-horse, there would betrips of all kinds up and down the shore, and delightful afternoons atthe Essex Country Club, pleasant evenings on the Blairs' piazza afterdinners with bright and agreeable people. Under these circumstances, shecould put up for a time with the patronizing manners of her mother'scousin, Mrs. Blair; for Edith was always sweet and agreeable, if alittle slow. Really, it would be sensible to spend two weeks in thisway. She could make herself more entertaining to her mother on herreturn. But here Martine drew herself up. Duty for the time beingpresented only one face; her place, for the present, was at Red Knoll;so without mentioning the invitation, she merely gave her mother thepersonal messages contained in Edith's letter.