YES, at last they had reached the seaside, after much talking and
deliberation, and summer after summer the journey had been constantly
postponed.
But here they were at last, at the “Old Farm,” so called, where seaside
attractions had been praised in all the advertisements. And here they
were to meet the Sylvesters, who knew all about the place, cousins of
Ann Maria Bromwick. Elizabeth Eliza was astonished not to find them
there, though she had not expected Ann Maria to join them till the very
next day.
Their preparations had been so elaborate that at one time the whole
thing had seemed hopeless; yet here they all were. Their trunks, to be
sure, had not arrived; but the wagon was to be sent back for them, and,
wonderful to tell, they had all their hand-baggage safe.
Agamemnon had brought his Portable Electrical Machine and Apparatus, and
the volumes of the Encyclopædia that might tell him how to manage it,
and Solomon John had his photograph camera. The little boys had used
their india-rubber boots as portmanteaux, filling them to the brim, and
carrying one in each hand,--a very convenient way for travelling they
considered it; but they found on arriving (when they wanted to put their
boots directly on for exploration round the house), that it was somewhat
inconvenient to have to begin to unpack directly, and scarcely room
enough could be found for all the contents in the small chamber allotted
to them.
There was no room in the house for the electrical machine and camera.
Elizabeth Eliza thought the other boarders were afraid of the machine
going off; so an out-house was found for them, where Agamemnon and
Solomon John could arrange them.
Mrs. Peterkin was much pleased with the old-fashioned porch and
low-studded rooms, though the sleeping-rooms seemed a little stuffy at
first.
Mr. Peterkin was delighted with the admirable order in which the farm
was evidently kept. From the first moment he arrived he gave himself
to examining the well-stocked stables and barns, and the fields and
vegetable gardens, which were shown to him by a highly intelligent
person, a Mr. Atwood, who devoted himself to explaining to Mr. Peterkin
all the details of methods in the farming.
The rest of the family were disturbed at being so far from the sea, when
they found it would take nearly all the afternoon to reach the beach.
The advertisements had surely stated that the “Old Farm” was directly on
the shore, and that sea-bathing would be exceedingly convenient; which
was hardly the case if it took you an hour and a half to walk to it.
Mr. Peterkin declared there were always such discrepancies between the
advertisements of seaside places and the actual facts; but he was more
than satisfied with the farm part, and was glad to remain and admire it,
while the rest of the family went to find the beach, starting off in a
wagon large enough to accommodate them, Agamemnon driving the one horse.
Solomon John had depended upon taking the photographs of the family in
a row on the beach; but he decided not to take his camera out the first
afternoon.
This was well, as the sun was already setting when they reached the
beach.
“If this wagon were not so shaky,” said Mrs. Peterkin “we might drive
over every morning for our bath. The road is very straight, and I
suppose Agamemnon can turn on the beach.”
“We should have to spend the whole day about it,” said Solomon John, in
a discouraged tone, “unless we can have a quicker horse.”
“Perhaps we should prefer that,” said Elizabeth Eliza, a little
gloomily, “to staying at the house.”
She had been a little disturbed to find there were not more elegant and
fashionable-looking boarders at the farm, and she was disappointed that
the Sylvesters had not arrived, who would understand the ways of the
place. Yet, again, she was somewhat relieved, for if their trunks did
not come till the next day, as was feared, she should have nothing but
her travelling dress to wear, which would certainly answer for to-night.
She had been busy all the early summer in preparing her dresses for
this very watering-place, and, as far as appeared, she would hardly need
them, and was disappointed to have no chance to display them. But of
course, when the Sylvesters and Ann Maria came, all would be different;
but they would surely be wasted on the two old ladies she had seen, and
on the old men who had lounged about the porch; there surely was not a
gentleman among them.
Agamemnon assured her she could not tell at the seaside, as gentlemen
wore their exercise dress, and took a pride in going around in shocking
hats and flannel suits. Doubtless they would be dressed for dinner on
their return.
On their arrival they had been shown to a room to have their meals by
themselves, and could not decide whether they were eating dinner or
lunch. There was a variety of meat, vegetables, and pie, that might come
under either name; but Mr. and Mrs. Peterkin were well pleased.
“I had no idea we should have really farm-fare,” Mrs. Peterkin said. “I
have not drunk such a tumbler of milk since I was young.”
Elizabeth Eliza concluded they ought not to judge from a first meal, as
evidently their arrival had not been fully prepared for, in spite of the
numerous letters that had been exchanged.
The little boys were, however, perfectly satisfied from the moment of
their arrival, and one of them had stayed at the farm, declining to go
to the beach, as he wished to admire the pigs, cows, and horses; and all
the way over to the beach the other little boys were hopping in and out
of the wagon, which never went too fast, to pick long mullein-stalks,
for whips to urge on the reluctant horse with, or to gather
huckleberries, with which they were rejoiced to find the fields were
filled, although, as yet, the berries were very green.
They wanted to stay longer on the beach, when they finally reached it;
but Mrs.
Peterkin and Elizabeth Eliza insisted upon turning directly back, as it
was not fair to be late to dinner the very first night.
On the whole the party came back cheerful, yet hungry. They found the
same old men, in the same costume, standing against the porch.
“A little seedy, I should say,” said Solomon John.
“Smoking pipes,” said Agamemnon; “I believe that is the latest style.”
“The smell of their tobacco is not very agreeable,” Mrs. Peterkin was
forced to say.
There seemed the same uncertainty on their arrival as to where they were
to be put, and as to their meals.
Elizabeth Eliza tried to get into conversation with the old ladies, who
were wandering in and out of a small sitting-room. But one of them was
very deaf, and the other seemed to be a foreigner. She discovered from
a moderately tidy maid, by the name of Martha, who seemed a sort of
factotum, that there were other ladies in their rooms, too much of
invalids to appear.
“Regular bed-ridden,” Martha had described them, which Elizabeth Eliza
did not consider respectful.
Mr. Peterkin appeared coming down the slope of the hill behind the
house, very cheerful. He had made the tour of the farm, and found it in
admirable order.
Elizabeth Eliza felt it time to ask Martha about the next meal, and
ventured to call it supper, as a sort of compromise between dinner and
tea. If dinner were expected she might offend by taking it for granted
that it was to be “tea,” and if they were unused to a late dinner they
might be disturbed if they had only provided a “tea.”
So she asked what was the usual hour for supper, and was surprised when
Martha replied, “The lady must say,” nodding to Mrs. Peterkin. “She can
have it just when she wants, and just what she wants!”
This was an unexpected courtesy.
Elizabeth Eliza asked when the others had their supper.
“Oh, they took it a long time ago,” Martha answered. “If the lady will
go out into the kitchen she can tell what she wants.”
“Bring us in what you have,” said Mr. Peterkin, himself quite hungry.
“If you could cook us a fresh slice of beefsteak that would be well.”
“Perhaps some eggs,” murmured Mrs. Peterkin.
“Scrambled,” cried one of the little boys.
“Fried potatoes would not be bad,” suggested Agamemnon.
“Couldn’t we have some onions?” asked the little boy who had stayed
at home, and had noticed the odor of onions when the others had their
supper.
“A pie would come in well,” said Solomon John.
“And some stewed cherries,” said the other little boy.
Martha fell to laying the table, and the family was much pleased, when,
in the course of time, all the dishes they had recommended appeared.
Their appetites were admirable, and they pronounced the food the same.
“This is true Arab hospitality,” said Mr. Peterkin, as he cut his juicy
beefsteak.
“I know it,” said Elizabeth Eliza, whose spirits began to rise. “We have
not even seen the host and hostess.”
She would, indeed, have been glad to find some one to tell her when the
Sylvesters were expected, and why they had not arrived. Her room was in
the wing, far from that of Mr. and Mrs. Peterkin, and near the aged deaf
and foreign ladies, and she was kept awake for some time by perplexed
thoughts.
She was sure the lady from Philadelphia, under such circumstances, would
have written to somebody. But ought she to write to Ann Maria or the
Sylvesters? And, if she did write, which had she better write to? She
fully determined to write, the first thing in the morning, to both
parties. But how should she address her letters? Would there be any use
in sending to the Sylvesters’ usual address, which she knew well by this
time, merely to say they had not come? Of course the Sylvesters would
know they had not come. It would be the same with Ann Maria.
She might, indeed, inclose her letters to their several postmasters.
Postmasters were always so obliging, and always knew where people were
going to, and where to send their letters. She might, at least, write
two letters, to say that they--the Peterkins--had arrived, and were
disappointed not to find the Sylvesters. And she could add that their
trunks had not arrived, and perhaps their friends might look out for
them on their way. It really seemed a good plan to write. Yet
another question came up, as to how she would get her letters to the
post-office, as she had already learned it was at quite a distance, and
in a different direction from the station, where they were to send the
next day for their trunks.
She went over and over these same questions, kept awake by the coughing
and talking of her neighbors, the other side of the thin partition.
She was scarcely sorry to be aroused from her uncomfortable sleep by the
morning sounds of guinea-hens, peacocks, and every other kind of fowl.
Mrs. Peterkin expressed her satisfaction at the early breakfast, and
declared she was delighted with such genuine farm sounds.
They passed the day much as the afternoon before, reaching the beach
only in time to turn round to come back for their dinner, which was
appointed at noon.
Mrs. Peterkin was quite satisfied. “Such a straight road, and the beach
such a safe place to turn round upon!”
Elizabeth Eliza was not so well pleased. A wagon had been sent to the
station for their trunks, which could not be found; they were probably
left at the Boston station, or, Mr. Atwood suggested, might have been
switched off upon one of the White Mountain trains. There was no use to
write any letters, as there was no way to send them. Elizabeth Eliza now
almost hoped the Sylvesters would not come, for what should she do if
the trunks did not come and all her new dresses? On her way over to the
beach she had been thinking what she should do with her new foulard and
cream-colored surah if the Sylvesters did not come, and if their time
was spent in only driving to the beach and back. But now, she would
prefer that the Sylvesters would not come till the dresses and the
trunks did. All she could find out, from inquiry, on returning,
was, “that another lot was expected on Saturday.” The next day she
suggested:--“Suppose we take our dinner with us to the beach, and spend
the day.” The Sylvesters and Ann Maria then would find them on the
beach, where her travelling-dress would be quite appropriate. “I am a
little tired,” she added, “of going back and forward over the same road;
but when the rest come we can vary it.”
The plan was agreed to, but Mr. Peterkin and the little boys remained to
go over the farm again.
They had an excellent picnic on the beach, under the shadow of a ledge
of sand.
They were just putting up their things when they saw a party of people
approaching from the other end of the beach.
“I am glad to see some pleasant-looking people at last,” said Elizabeth
Eliza, and they all turned to walk toward them.
As the other party drew near she recognized Ann Maria Bromwick! And with
her were the Sylvesters,--so they proved to be, for she had never seen
them before.
“What! you have come in our absence!” exclaimed Elizabeth Eliza.
“And we have been wondering what had become of you!” cried Ann Maria.
“I thought you would be at the farm before us,” said Elizabeth Eliza to
Mr.
Sylvester, to whom she was introduced.
“We have been looking for you at the farm,” he was saying to her.
“But we are at the farm,” said Elizabeth Eliza.
“And so are we!” said Ann Maria.
“We have been there two days,” said Mrs. Peterkin.
“And so have we, at the ‘Old Farm,’ just at the end of the beach,” said
Ann Maria.
“Our farm is old enough,” said Solomon John.
“Whereabouts are you?” asked Mr. Sylvester.
Elizabeth Eliza pointed to the road they had come.
A smile came over Mr. Sylvester’s face; he knew the country well.
“You mean the farm-house behind the hill, at the end of the road?” he
asked.
The Peterkins all nodded affirmatively.
Ann Maria could not restrain herself, as broad smiles came over the
faces of all the party.
“Why, that is the Poor-house!” she exclaimed.
“The town farm,” Mr. Sylvester explained, deprecatingly.
The Peterkins were silent for a while. The Sylvesters tried not to
laugh.
“There certainly were some disagreeable old men and women there!” said
Elizabeth Eliza, at last.
“But we have surely been made very comfortable,” Mrs. Peterkin declared.
“A very simple mistake,” said Mr. Sylvester, continuing his amusement.
“Your trunks arrived all right at the ‘Old Farm,’ two days ago.”
“Let us go back directly,” said Elizabeth Eliza.
“As directly as our horse will allow,” said Agamemnon.
Mr. Sylvester helped them into the wagon. “Your rooms are awaiting you,”
he said. “Why not come with us?”
“We want to find Mr. Peterkin before we do anything else,” said Mrs.
Peterkin.
They rode back in silence, till Elizabeth Eliza said, “Do you suppose
they took us for paupers?”
“We have not seen any ‘they,’” said Solomon John, “except Mr. Atwood.”
At the entrance of the farm-yard Mr. Peterkin met them.
“I have been looking for you,” he said. “I have just made a discovery.”
“We have made it, too,” said Elizabeth Eliza; “we are in the
poor-house.”
“How did you find it out?” Mrs. Peterkin asked of Mr. Peterkin.
“Mr. Atwood came to me, puzzled with a telegram that had been brought to
him from the station, which he ought to have got two days ago. It came
from a Mr. Peters, whom they were expecting here this week, with his
wife and boys, to take charge of the establishment. He telegraphed to
say he cannot come till Friday. Now, Mr. Atwood had supposed we were the
Peterses, whom he had sent for the day we arrived, not having received
this telegram.”
“Oh, I see, I see!” said Mrs. Peterkin; “and we did get into a muddle at
the station!”
Mr. Atwood met them at the porch. “I beg pardon,” he said. “I hope you
have found it comfortable here, and shall be glad to have you stay till
Mr. Peters’ family comes.”
At this moment wheels were heard. Mr. Sylvester had arrived, with an
open wagon, to take the Peterkins to the “Old Farm.”
Martha was waiting within the door, and said to Elizabeth Eliza, “Beg
pardon, miss, for thinking you was one of the inmates, and putting you
in that room. We thought it so kind of Mrs. Peters to take you off every
day with the other gentlemen, that looked so wandering.”
Elizabeth Eliza did not know whether to laugh or to cry.
Mr. Peterkin and the little boys decided to stay at the farm till
Friday. But Agamemnon and Solomon John preferred to leave with Mr.
Sylvester, and to take their electrical machine and camera when they
came for Mr. Peterkin.
Mrs. Peterkin was tempted to stay another night, to be wakened once more
by the guinea-hens. But Elizabeth Eliza bore her off. There was not much
packing to be done. She shouted good-by into the ears of the deaf old
lady, and waved her hand to the foreign one, and glad to bid farewell to
the old men with their pipes, leaning against the porch.
“This time,” she said, “it is not our trunks that were lost”
“But we, as a family,” said Mrs. Peterkin.