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ROCKHAVEN
BY CHARLES CLARK MUNN
AUTHOR OF "POCKET ISLAND" AND "UNCLE TERRY"
_ILLUSTRATED BY_
_FRANK T. MERRILL_
BOSTON
LEE AND SHEPARD
MCMII
Published March, 1902.
Copyright, 1902, by Lee and Shepard.
_All Rights Reserved._
Rockhaven.
Norwood Press
J. S. Cushing & Co.--Berwick & Smith
Norwood Mass. U.S.A.
To All
WHO DESPISE HYPOCRISY AND DECEPTION
WHO ADMIRE MANLY COURAGE AND WOMANLY DEVOTION
WHOSE HEARTS YET VIBRATE TO THE
CHORDS OF ROMANCE
AND WHO RESPECT SIMPLE FAITH IN AND
GRATITUDE TO GOD
This Book is Respectfully Dedicated
BY THE AUTHOR
[Illustration: THE OLD TIDE-MILL.]
CONTENTS
I. ON ROCKHAVEN
II. WINN HARDY
III. THE ROCKHAVEN GRANITE COMPANY
IV. WHERE THE SEA-GULLS COME
V. JESS HUTTON
VI. THE BUD OF A ROMANCE
VII. SUNDAY ON ROCKHAVEN
VIII. THE HAND OF FATE
IX. A FRIENDLY HAND
X. MONA HUTTON
XI. THE DEVIL'S OVEN
XII. THE PARTING OF THE WAYS
XIII. WILD ROSES
XIV. J. MALCOLM WESTON
XV. A MATTER OF BUSINESS
XVI. THE GROWTH OF A BUBBLE
XVII. IN THE PATH OF MOONLIGHT
XVIII. IN A FOG
XIX. A PHILOSOPHER
XX. A CLOUD OVER ROCKHAVEN
XXI. THE MOOD OF THE BELLS
XXII. TWO RASCALS
XXIII. THE STARTING OF A "CORNER"
XXIV. THE PROGRESS OF A "CORNER"
XXV. A SUMMER DAY
XXVI. A CLIMAX
XXVII. SEVERING THE TIES
XXVIII. ON 'CHANGE
XXIX. THE BUBBLE RISES
XXX. THE BUBBLE BURSTS
XXXI. TWO DOGS AND A BONE
XXXII. THE AFTERMATH OF A SWINDLE
XXXIII. A TOUCH OF HEROISM
XXXIV. A WOMAN'S WILES
XXXV. THE WHEEL OF FORTUNE
XXXVI. GOING, GOING, GONE!
XXXVII. A SOCIAL CYNIC
XXXVIII. THE END OF AN IDYL
XXXIX. A GRAY-HAIRED ROMANCE
XL. A GOOD SEND-OFF
XLI. EIN WUNDERBARES FRAULEIN
XLII. THE ROAD TO THE TEMPLE
XLIII. THE CYNIC'S SHADOW
XLIV. ONLY A MOOD
XLV. THE OLD HOME
XLVI. A NEW STAR
XLVII. LOVE ETERNAL
XLVIII. CONCLUSION
ILLUSTRATIONS
THE OLD TIDE-MILL
MONA
JESS HUTTON, PHILOSOPHER
THE DEVIL'S OVEN
THE BUBBLE BURSTS
ROCKHAVEN
ROCKHAVEN
CHAPTER I
ON ROCKHAVEN
"It ain't more'n onct in a lifetime," said Jess Hutton to the crowd of
friends in his store, "that luck comes thick 'n' fat to any on us 'n' so
fer that reason I sent over to the mainland fer suthin' o' a liquid
natur; 'n' now take hold, all hands, 'n' injie yerselves on Jess."
With that he began setting forth upon the counter, in battle array,
dozens upon dozens of bottles filled with dark brown liquid and
interspersed with boxes of cigars. For Jess Hutton, the oracle,
principal storekeeper, first selectman, school committeeman, prize story
teller, philosopher and friend to everybody on Rockhaven island, had
sold a few acres of granite ledge he set no value upon, for two thousand
dollars, half cash down; and being a man of generous impulses, had
invited the circle of friends most congenial, to "drop round ternight
'n' I'll set 'em up."
It is true that the cigars he passed out so freely were not imported,
still they were the best he kept, and not the cheap brand most in demand
on Rockhaven, and the bottles contained the vintage of hops and malt
instead of "extra dry," but both were urged upon all in a way that left
refusal impossible.
And of that unique gathering of men, with sea-tanned faces, garbed
mainly in shirt, trousers, and sailor caps, some wearing boots, some
slippers, some barefoot, nearly all addressed one another as "Cap" or
"Cap'n," for to own a fishing sloop or jigger on Rockhaven meant
distinction.
"I dunno how it all come about," said Jess, when the popping of corks
had ceased and the incense of cabbage leaves began to arise, "but I was
sorter dozin' on the counter that day when this bloomin' freak, with
white duck pants, 'n' cap, 'n' shirt, 'n' gray side whiskers, blew in,
'n' the fust I know'd, I heerd him say, 'Come, wake up, Rip Van Winkle!
I want ter buy yer quarry!'
"Then I sot up 'n' rubbed my eyes 'n' looked at him, sure he must be one
o' them make-believe sailors off a yacht I'd seen run in the night
afore, 'n' had come ashore with skates on.
"'Want ter buy what?' I sez. 'Want ter buy yer quarry,' he sez again. 'I
heerd ye owned the one t'other side o' the harbor, 'n' if ye want ter
sell it cheap, I'll buy it.' Then I looked at him harder'n ever; sure he
had a jag 'n' was makin' game o' me.
"'Yes,' I sez, 'I'll sell ye the quarry, or the hull island, if ye ain't
sure ye own it already. Better go into the back o' the store 'n' lay
down on a pile o' old sails ye'll find thar, 'n' sleep it off. Things'll
look more nat'ral to ye by that time.' With that he laffed fit ter
split. 'You're all right, old sport,' he sez, 'but I ain't drunk, 'n' if
ye'll set the price low enough, I'll buy yer quarry and pay ye cash
fer't.'
"'Wal,' I sez, thinkin' I'd set the price high 'nough ter knock him
galley west, 'I'll take three thousand dollars fer't.'
"'I'll give ye two,' he said, ''n' pay yer half down.' 'Hev ye got it
with ye?' I sed. 'I hev,' he said, 'aboord the boat, or I'll give ye a
check.' 'Checks don't go here,' I said, 'but if ye've got real money,
'n' mean business, it's yourn at that figger.' Then he went off, 'n' I
was so sure I'd never set eyes on him ag'in I went ter sleep. It didn't
seem five minutes till he blew in ag'in. 'How many acres o' that ledge
do ye own,' he said, 'an' how many goes with the quarry?' 'Wall,' I
said, 'there's about a hundred, 'n' if that ain't nuff ter keep ye busy
blastin' the rest o' yer nateral life, I'll throw in the hull o' Norse
Hill jist ter bind the bargain,' fer I didn't no more s'pose he meant
bizniss than I s'posed I'd got wings. 'Wal,' he says, pullin' out a roll
o' bills bigger'n my arm. 'Here's the kale seed, an' when ye'll show me
what I'm buyin' 'n' a deed on't, it's yourn.'
"Wal, I jist pinched myself, ter see if I was 'wake, an' jumpin' off the
counter, fished a deed out o' my safe 'n' took it 'long, an' showed him
round the ledge, believin' all the time when he'd seen it, he'd tell me
ter go soak my head, er suthin' o' that sort. But he didn't, an' arter I
got hold o' the money 'n' counted it, wonderin' if it wasn't all bogus,
'n' give him a receipt, 'n' he'd gone off, I went 'n' stuck a pin into
my leg, jist ter be sure I was awake, after all. That was a week ago,"
continued Jess, lighting one of the cigars he had set forth, "but I
didn't say nuthin' 'bout it till I'd gone ashore with the money an' the
bank folks hed said it was all right, 'n' now I think I've lost jist a
thousand dollars by not askin' four for't. Why, the loonytic acted as
though he owned a printin' press that made money, an' was goin' all the
time."
"Wish I'd been ashore," observed Captain Moore, who was one of the
group, "I'd a tackled him ter buy the _Nancy Jane_. She's been lyin'
inside o' the harbor, half full o' bilge water, fer more'n a year, an'
ain't wuth scuttlin'. Ye'd orter 'a thought on't, Jess, an' persuaded
him he could 'a used 'r to carry stun in."
"An' if I'd a-knowed it," put in Cap'n Jet Doty, another of the group,
"I'd a tried him on 'bout a hundred kit o' mackerel we've got that's a
trifful rusty. He cud a-used 'em somehow. Ye'd orter think o' yer
neighbors, Jess, in such a case, an' let 'em in on't."
"I dunno but ye're right," responded Jess; "but I wus caught nappin',
'n' I cac'late that if any o' ye hed been woke up by sech a lubber with
gray whiskers, like stun'sls, an' dude cloes like these jackdaw yachters
wear, an offerin' ye two thousand dollars fer what ye'd sell fer fifty,
an' no takers, ye'd a-bin sot back, so ter speak. If I'd a hed time ter
think an' knowed what an easy mark the cuss was, I'd a-laid ter sell him
the hull island 'n' divided it up all round."
And be it said that if all the landowners of Rockhaven had obtained even
what they valued their holdings at, they would have sold cheerfully, for
out of the eighty odd square miles of the island, not one quarter was of
soil, and much of that so sandy that only bayberry bushes and wild
roses grew on it, or else thickets of stunted spruce. The only means of
livelihood to most was the sea, and if nature had not endowed the island
with a capacious land-locked harbor and a few acres of productive soil
beyond it, and shut in by wall-like shores, Rockhaven would have been
left to the sea-gulls that infested its cliffs, or the fish-hawks that
found its harbor good fishing ground.
"What'd ye s'pose he's goin' ter do with it, now he's got it?" put in
Cap'n Doty, when Jess had finished his recital, and having in mind his
stock of rusty mackerel. "Will he come down here 'n' go ter quarryin'?"
"Mebbe he wants it fer ballast fer a new boat," interposed young Dave
Moore. "Or fer buildin' a house," put in Dave's brother, Sam. "Cheer up,
uncle, we may sell him the _Nancy Jane_ yit. He'll hev ter hire or buy
suthin' ter carry stun 'way from the island. He can't make a raft on't."
"An' if he does," asserted Cap'n Moore, addressing Cap'n Doty, who sat
opposite him on a cracker barrel, "ye'd git a chance to work off them
mackerel."
"I dunno what he's goin' ter do with it," asserted Jess, when a pause
came, "nor care, so long's I git t'other thousand as is comin' when
deeds is passed. I ain't sure I'll git that, either," he added
candidly, "but if I don't the quarry's still mine 'n' a cool thousand o'
that freak's good money's gone out o' circulation anyhow, which is some
comfort."
Then came a lull in conversation, and in place the popping of more corks
and "Here's to yer good luck, Jess," as bottles were elevated and
pointed downward.
"Come, Jess," said Dave Moore, when this second libation had been
indulged in, and who was in a mood for hearing yarns, "tell 'em 'bout
old Bill Atlas."
Now this tale, antedating the day and generation of most of Jess
Hutton's auditors, was nevertheless a favorite with him and one he
always enjoyed telling.
"Wal," he said, "if ye want ter hear 'bout old Bill, I'll tell ye,
though some o' ye here hez heerd 'bout him afore, I reckon. It's been a
good many years since Bill took to his wings, humsoever, 'n' so his
hist'ry may be divartin'. Bill used ter live all 'lone in a little shack
he'd built out o' drift, half way 'tween here and Northaven. That is, he
slept thar nights when he was ashore, fer he was away fishin' most o'
the time. He were the worst soaker on the island, an' from the time he
sot foot ashore 'n' got his pay until every cent was spent, he didn't
draw a sober breath. Thar wan't no use arguin' with Bill, or doin'
anything to reform him. Jist the moment he got a dollar, jist that
moment he started in ter git drunk 'n' allus succeeded. Even Parson
Bush, who hed jist come here then 'n' anxious ter do good, failed on
Bill. No 'mount o' argufyin' 'bout the worm that never dies or the fate
o' sinners hed a mite o' influence on Bill.
"'Parson,' he'd say, 'thar ain't no use a-talkin' ter me. Licker was
made ter be drunk, else why was it made at all, 'n' if the Lord Almighty
didn't cac'late fer me ter drink it, why did he make me hanker for't? Ye
jist preach ter them as is like ter mind it an'll foller it. I ain't,
an' it'll do no good.' An' then Bill'd roll away an' fill up. He wa'n't
a quarrelsome cuss, jist a good-natured soaker who meant ter git drunk,
'n' done it, an' never meant ter bother nobody when he was.
"But some on us young folks in them days sot out to hev fun with Bill
once upon a time, an' we did, an' more'n that, we joggled him so he quit
drinkin' fer most a year. He'd had one er two fits o' tremens afore that
time, 'n' had sorter got skeery 'bout seein' things, so our trick worked
fust rate. One o' the smacks hed jist brought in a hogfish that day, an'
it was the worst lookin' critter that ever growed in the sea. It
weighed 'bout fifty poun' 'n' was 'most all mouth 'n' teeth. Bill was up
in the corner o' a fish house sleepin' off a jag when the critter was
h'isted onto the dock, 'n' the moment we spied it we said we'd try it on
Bill. We told everybody ter keep quiet 'n' then we went at it. Fust we
lugged the hogfish over ter Bill's shack, which was out on the end o' a
little pint 'n' sorter shut in 'tween the rocks, 'n' then we got an old
bit o' sail and went ter work. We sot the critter up on stuns, right in
front o' the shack, 'n' made a tail 'bout forty feet long out o' the
sail, an' stuffed it nat'ral like, 'n' then rigged lines running over
the shanty to work the critter's mouth 'n' tail up 'n' down when the
time come. It was 'long in the arternoon when we sot about 'n' we
cac'lated Bill 'd wake up sometime arter dark 'n' come to his shack in
jist the mood ter 'preciate the good thing that we hed waitin' fer him.
Then to sorter liven up matters, we took a handful o' matches, an'
dampenin' 'em, rubbed the ends round the eyes an' mouth o' the critter,
'n' in spots 'long the tail, where we was to hist it a little. It was
clear dark afore we got the trap all sot 'n' baited, 'n' then five on us
took the lines and tried the joke. It worked pretty slick, 'n' ter see
that critter's mouth, more'n a foot long 'n' full o' teeth, 'n' eyes
with rings of phosphorus round 'em, a-workin' up an' down, to say
nothin' 'bout the tail, would a-skeered a sober man into fits arter
dark, let alone one who 'spected snakes. When Bill's welcome home was
all ready, we sot a watch on Bill, who was still asleep, 'n' the rest on
us went home ter supper. Then we got together, 'bout two dozen on us
that knew Bill best, 'n' gittin' sheets ter wrap up in, to sorter
stiffen the hogfish effect, all hands hid round his shanty an' inside
on't. It was purty late 'fore Bill showed up, but he came 'long finally,
kind o' wobblin' some and hummin':--
"'I'm a gallant lass as ever you see,
And the roving sailor winked at me.'
"Bill was allus feelin' that way when half full 'n' now jist happy 'n'
comfortable like. There was a new moon that sorter lit up the path, 'n'
jist as he got to where it made a turn, 'bout ten feet from the shanty,
I made a signal by squeakin' like a gull, an' the boys begun workin' the
lines, 'n' 'bout two dozen white figgers rose up from behind the rocks
or stepped out o' the cabin. I never knew which skeered Bill the worst,
the awful critter snappin' at him thar in the path, or the ghosts, for
Bill gave one screech that could a' been heard five mile, 'n' ye never
seen a man run the way he did. He didn't stop ter keep in the path
either, but jist went right over the rocks anywhere. He tumbled two or
three times 'fore he got out o' sight, 'n' you'd a-thought he was made
o' rubber, the way he got up 'n' yelled, 'Help, help, O Lord,' all the
time. I'll 'low it was the fust time he'd ever called on the Lord fer
help, but it wa'n't the last, fer he made straight fer the parson's
house 'n' begun pummellin' on the door.
"'O Lord, take me in,' he said when the parson opened it, 'I'm come fer
at last 'n' the divil's arter me. Pray fer me, parson, an' for God's
sake, do it quick!' An' then he went down on his knees, 'n' sayin',
'Lordy, Lordy, I'll never drink 'nother drop's long's I live!' Parson
Bush was a good deal took back, fer he didn't know the joke, 'n' 'lowed
Bill had the tremens. 'Better go back to yer shanty, ye sot,' he said,
'an' when you git sober come here 'n' I'll talk with ye,' an' with that
he shet the door 'n' Bill jist laid down 'n' bellowed like a calf. 'N'
he didn't go back to his shanty, either, that night, not by a jugful;
he'd seen 'nough o' that spot ter last him quite a spell. 'N' when he
did thar warn't nuthin' out o' ordinary, fer we'd chucked the hogfish
off the rocks, 'n' 'twas more 'n a year 'fore Bill found out the trick
we played, 'n' in all that time he kept sober. He did find out arter a
spell, fer a joke like that can't be kept allus, 'n' when Bill did, he
took ter drink agin, 'n' finally jumped off the dock one night in a fit
o' the jims 'n' that was the last o' him. It's hard to larn an old dog
new tricks."
For an hour the little crowd of Jess Hutton's friends lingered,
wondering and speculating on what the outcome of this investment in a
granite ledge would be. To most it seemed a piece of folly or the act of
a madman. These worthless rocks had stared them in the face so many
years, had so interfered with house building, or the convenient placing
of fish racks, or road making, that they had one and all come to hate
their very sight. In their estimation they were a nuisance and a curse,
and for any sane man to buy twenty acres of ledge to quarry and
transport five hundred miles, seemed worse than folly.
Then, having given due expression to this common sentiment, and
congratulating Jess upon his good luck, they shook hands with him and
went their way. And when the sound of their footsteps upon the one
narrow plank walk of Rockhaven had ceased, and only the murmur of the
near-by ocean was heard, Jess, as was his wont when lonesome, drew his
old brown fiddle from its hiding place and sought consolation from its
strings. And also, as usual, the melodies were the songs of Bonnie
Scotland.