In an August orchard six children and a grown-up were sitting around the
pulpit stone. The grown-up was Miss Reade, who had been up to give the
girls their music lesson and had consented to stay to tea, much to the
rapture of the said girls, who continued to worship her with unabated
and romantic ardour. To us, over the golden grasses, came the Story
Girl, carrying in her hand a single large poppy, like a blood-red
chalice filled with the wine of August wizardry. She proffered it to
Miss Reade and, as the latter took it into her singularly slender,
beautiful hand, I saw a ring on her third finger. I noticed it, because
I had heard the girls say that Miss Reade never wore rings, not liking
them. It was not a new ring; it was handsome, but of an old-fashioned
design and setting, with a glint of diamonds about a central sapphire.
Later on, when Miss Reade had gone, I asked the Story Girl if she had
noticed the ring. She nodded, but seemed disinclined to say more about
it.
“Look here, Sara,” I said, “there’s something about that ring--something
you know.”
“I told you once there was a story growing but you would have to wait
until it was fully grown,” she answered.
“Is Miss Reade going to marry anybody--anybody we know?” I persisted.
“Curiosity killed a cat,” observed the Story Girl coolly. “Miss Reade
hasn’t told me that she was going to marry anybody. You will find out
all that is good for you to know in due time.”
When the Story Girl put on grown-up airs I did not like her so well, and
I dropped the subject with a dignity that seemed to amuse her mightily.
She had been away for a week, visiting cousins in Markdale, and she had
come home with a new treasure-trove of stories, most of which she had
heard from the old sailors of Markdale Harbour. She had promised that
morning to tell us of “the most tragic event that had ever been known on
the north shore,” and we now reminded her of her promise.
“Some call it the ‘Yankee Storm,’ and others the ‘American Gale,’” she
began, sitting down by Miss Reade and beaming, because the latter
put her arm around her waist. “It happened nearly forty years ago, in
October of 1851. Old Mr. Coles at the Harbour told me all about it. He
was a young man then and he says he can never forget that dreadful time.
You know in those days hundreds of American fishing schooners used to
come down to the Gulf every summer to fish mackerel. On one beautiful
Saturday night in this October of 1851, more than one hundred of these
vessels could be counted from Markdale Capes. By Monday night more than
seventy of them had been destroyed. Those which had escaped were mostly
those which went into harbour Saturday night, to keep Sunday. Mr. Coles
says the rest stayed outside and fished all day Sunday, same as through
the week, and HE says the storm was a judgment on them for doing it. But
he admits that even some of them got into harbour later on and escaped,
so it’s hard to know what to think. But it is certain that on Sunday
night there came up a sudden and terrible storm--the worst, Mr. Coles
says, that has ever been known on the north shore. It lasted for two
days and scores of vessels were driven ashore and completely wrecked.
The crews of most of the vessels that went ashore on the sand beaches
were saved, but those that struck on the rocks went to pieces and all
hands were lost. For weeks after the storm the north shore was strewn
with the bodies of drowned men. Think of it! Many of them were unknown
and unrecognizable, and they were buried in Markdale graveyard. Mr.
Coles says the schoolmaster who was in Markdale then wrote a poem on the
storm and Mr. Coles recited the first two verses to me.
“‘Here are the fishers’ hillside graves,
The church beside, the woods around,
Below, the hollow moaning waves
Where the poor fishermen were drowned.
“‘A sudden tempest the blue welkin tore,
The seamen tossed and torn apart
Rolled with the seaweed to the shore
While landsmen gazed with aching heart.’
“Mr. Coles couldn’t remember any more of it. But the saddest of all the
stories of the Yankee Storm was the one about the Franklin Dexter.
The Franklin Dexter went ashore on the Markdale Capes and all on board
perished, the Captain and three of his brothers among them. These four
young men were the sons of an old man who lived in Portland, Maine, and
when he heard what had happened he came right down to the Island to see
if he could find their bodies. They had all come ashore and had been
buried in Markdale graveyard; but he was determined to take them up and
carry them home for burial. He said he had promised their mother to take
her boys home to her and he must do it. So they were taken up and put
on board a sailing vessel at Markdale Harbour to be taken back to Maine,
while the father himself went home on a passenger steamer. The name of
the sailing vessel was the Seth Hall, and the captain’s name was Seth
Hall, too. Captain Hall was a dreadfully profane man and used to swear
blood-curdling oaths. On the night he sailed out of Markdale Harbour the
old sailors warned him that a storm was brewing and that it would catch
him if he did not wait until it was over. The captain had become very
impatient because of several delays he had already met with, and he was
in a furious temper. He swore a wicked oath that he would sail out of
Markdale Harbour that night and ‘God Almighty Himself shouldn’t catch
him.’ He did sail out of the harbour; and the storm did catch him, and
the Seth Hall went down with all hands, the dead and the living finding
a watery grave together. So the poor old mother up in Maine never had
her boys brought back to her after all. Mr. Coles says it seems as if it
were foreordained that they should not rest in a grave, but should lie
beneath the waves until the day when the sea gives up its dead.”
“‘They sleep as well beneath that purple tide
As others under turf,’”
quoted Miss Reade softly. “I am very thankful,” she added, “that I am
not one of those whose dear ones ‘go down to the sea in ships.’ It seems
to me that they have treble their share of this world’s heartache.”
“Uncle Stephen was a sailor and he was drowned,” said Felicity, “and
they say it broke Grandmother King’s heart. I don’t see why people can’t
be contented on dry land.”
Cecily’s tears had been dropping on the autograph quilt square she was
faithfully embroidering. She had been diligently collecting names for it
ever since the preceding autumn and had a goodly number; but Kitty Marr
had one more and this was certainly a fly in Cecily’s ointment.
“Besides, one I’ve got isn’t paid for--Peg Bowen’s,” she lamented, “and
I don’t suppose it ever will be, for I’ll never dare to ask her for it.”
“I wouldn’t put it on at all,” said Felicity.
“Oh, I don’t dare not to. She’d be sure to find out I didn’t and then
she’d be very angry. I wish I could get just one more name and then I’d
be contented. But I don’t know of a single person who hasn’t been asked
already.”
“Except Mr. Campbell,” said Dan.
“Oh, of course nobody would ask Mr. Campbell. We all know it would be
of no use. He doesn’t believe in missions at all--in fact, he says he
detests the very mention of missions--and he never gives one cent to
them.”
“All the same, I think he ought to be asked, so that he wouldn’t have
the excuse that nobody DID ask him,” declared Dan.
“Do you really think so, Dan?” asked Cecily earnestly.
“Sure,” said Dan, solemnly. Dan liked to tease even Cecily a wee bit now
and then.
Cecily relapsed into anxious thought, and care sat visibly on her brow
for the rest of the day. Next morning she came to me and said:
“Bev, would you like to go for a walk with me this afternoon?”
“Of course,” I replied. “Any particular where?”
“I’m going to see Mr. Campbell and ask him for his name for my square,”
said Cecily resolutely. “I don’t suppose it will do any good. He
wouldn’t give anything to the library last summer, you remember, till
the Story Girl told him that story about his grandmother. She won’t
go with me this time--I don’t know why. I can’t tell a story and I’m
frightened to death just to think of going to him. But I believe it is
my duty; and besides I would love to get as many names on my square
as Kitty Marr has. So if you’ll go with me we’ll go this afternoon. I
simply COULDN’T go alone.”