AT PLYMOUTH
"Mother," said Martine, a week before Easter, "I have a splendid plan."
"Well, my dear, what is it?"
"Wouldn't it be fine to take Priscilla to New York for the holidays?
Just think! she has never been there--and at her age--!"
Mrs. Stratford could but laugh at Martine's seriousness.
"I imagine many persons twice Priscilla's age have never been in New
York."
"Oh, yes--but Boston is so near--and Priscilla ought to go because she
has the strangest notions about New York people--that they are all
frivolous, with nothing to do but amuse themselves. I would like to have
her at the Waldorf for a few days. Wouldn't she open her eyes? I am just
crazy to take her!"
"I fear it isn't feasible, my dear, to go away now."
"But you like New York, and a change always benefits you."
"Oh, yes."
"You like Priscilla, too?"
"Certainly. She is an excellent companion for you. You balance each
other perfectly, and I should be glad to have you spend your holidays
together. But New York--no, my dear, we must be careful this spring
about spending money--your father has had losses and expenses."
Something in her mother's tone impressed Martine, something in her
words, too, as well as in her tone. She had seldom heard either her
father or her mother talk of economy, except in occasional instances
when she herself had been carelessly extravagant. Now the mention of her
father stirred her.
"Oh, I hope that wasn't why papa went away, on account of money. Of
course I know we have to be more economical--but a trip to New York is
so short, and we always have travelled so much."
"I know it, dear. But, fortunately, neither of us needs change just now.
There is much in Boston that you have not yet seen, and I can imagine
your spending the vacation delightfully without leaving the city."
"Oh, I am sure I could, mamma; and now that you have spoken of it, I
should just love to economize. I don't need a new spring hat--the one I
had last season is as good as new--and if you would let the cook go--I
am sure that Angelina and I could do all the work." Martine spoke
anxiously, even excitedly. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes bright.
"There is no need of any desperate economy just yet. But if you and
Lucian can be contented with me, I can promise you a pleasant vacation."
"I am sure of it, mamma; let us make some plans now."
But the plans that Martine and her mother made were not destined to be
carried out--at least, during this particular vacation. For a couple of
days before school closed an invitation came from Mrs. Danforth, urging
Martine to spend a week at Plymouth. Immediately New York lost all its
attractiveness for Martine. To visit Plymouth was her one desire.
"It will be delightful, Puritan Prissie"--even now she could not resist
her love of teasing--"to see the place where you were 'raised,' as they
say down South. I wonder if there's something in the air to make
Plymouth people different from others. To be sure, you are the only one
I've ever seen."
"Am I so very different from other people?" Priscilla spoke as if not
altogether pleased with Martine's words.
"Not too different--only you are fearfully conscientious, and you fuss
too much over little things, and you know how to economize--which I wish
I did. But for all that, you are not half bad, and your mother is
perfectly lovely to invite a girl she has never seen to spend a week
with her. You must have given a good account of me."
"Of course, Martine, and she has heard of you from others--if only you
wouldn't make fun of everything."
"I won't, I promise you I won't."
Martine looked keenly at her friend, wondering if she really feared that
she would be so thoughtless.
"I suppose I was rather mean last summer," she reflected, "and it's
natural, perhaps, for Priscilla to lack confidence in me."
When they were ready to start Martine was somewhat disappointed that
they could not go to Plymouth by boat.
"A train seems so prosaic," she said; "and now when I am going to
historic ground, I should like to be able to jump ashore--just as the
Pilgrims did."
"I didn't suppose you'd take so much interest. Last summer--"
"Now, Prissie! After all my efforts this winter, surely you might admit
that I have improved. Why, now, I've wholly forgotten that we ever had a
French and English question to dispute over. Before we reach Plymouth
I'll be as good a Puritan as you."
Mrs. Tilworth and Lucian saw the two girls safely on board their train.
But from Boston to Plymouth Priscilla and Martine travelled alone. They
had so much to talk of that the journey seemed short enough, and Martine
was surprised when the conductor called Plymouth.
Hardly had Priscilla's foot touched the platform, when a whirlwind of
heads and arms seemed to engulf her.
"Say, I'm going to ride up in the carriage--"
"No, I am!"
"What did Aunt Sarah send us?"
"Oh, Priscilla, I'm so glad you're home. The yellow cat has four of the
cunningest kittens!"
"Yes, and we've had to muzzle Carlo, because a mad dog from Kingston ran
through town the other day."
"There, there," and Priscilla disentangled herself from the arms of the
children. "Martine, these are my little brothers and sister. There are
only three of them--though they sound like a regiment. Children, this is
my great friend, Martine Stratford."
The children looked up brightly, and held out their hands.
"We are very glad to see you," said Marcus, the elder boy.
"We hope you'll stay a long time," added George, the second.
Little Lucy was too shy to speak to the newcomer, but she held up her
head, as if expecting the kiss that Martine promptly bestowed on her.
The resemblance between the three children was very striking, and they
all looked like Priscilla, with their calm, blue eyes and blonde hair.
"Say, Priscilla," exclaimed Marcus, recovering from the awful moment of
being introduced to a stranger. "Say, now, I _can_ ride up with you,
can't I?"
"It's my turn," interposed George. "'Tisn't fair for you to ride every
time."
"Lucy can come with us," replied Priscilla. "There's no room for you
boys."
"Let them all come with us," cried Martine. "We won't mind being
crowded."
"Of course, I don't mind," responded Priscilla. "I was thinking of you."
The carriage into which the children climbed was an old-fashioned
carryall, the driver an elderly man, who addressed Priscilla without
formality.
"What did Aunt Sarah send me?" persisted George, as they drove along.
"But, my dear, it isn't long since you had your Christmas presents,"
protested Priscilla.
"You never come home without bringing something."
"Wait and see," said Priscilla, squeezing Lucy. "It seems as if I hadn't
seen a child for a year."
"You were here Christmas; you didn't go away until New Year's," said the
literal Marcus.
"I mean that I haven't had a chance to talk to a child, not to mention
squeezing one," responded the smiling Priscilla.
"Aren't there any little girls in Boston?" asked Lucy, timidly. "Haven't
your friends any sisters and brothers?"
"Martine hasn't, and she's my best friend."
"Oh, how too bad!"
"That I'm Priscilla's best friend?"
"No; that you haven't brothers and sisters."
"I have a big brother, but he's in college."
"Oh!"
"Here we are! There's mother at the door."
In her delight, Priscilla was almost ready to jump from the carriage
before it had fully stopped. Again Martine stared at her friend. Could
this be the cool, unemotional Priscilla? The greetings of mother and
daughter could have been no warmer had they been separated for years
instead of months.
"There, there, Priscilla, Martine will think we have forgotten her--I
should know you, my dear--" and Mrs. Danforth held out both hands to
Martine, "from Priscilla's enthusiastic descriptions of you. I can see
you are just what she said you were."
From that moment when Mrs. Danforth kissed her lightly on the forehead,
Martine felt perfectly at home.
As Martine had approached the Danforth house, she had noticed that the
house was a large, square wooden structure, painted brown. The paint,
indeed, was faded in spots, and the general aspect was rather dingy.
Once inside the house, Martine, without meaning to be critical, was
slightly impressed by the general air of shabbiness. The carpets were
dull from the trampling of many little feet, the furniture was simple,
the pictures old-fashioned, and the gilt frames somewhat tarnished. But
there were books everywhere, in the open bookshelves in hall and
sitting-room. Open fires were blazing in large fireplaces.
When Priscilla led her to her own room there was the same air of
homelikeness, from the easy-chair drawn up before the fire to the large
bowls of mayflowers on mantelpiece and dressing-table.
After supper, when all gathered around her, Lucy on her knee, the boys
hanging over her chair, to hear what she had to tell about Chicago--for
this was their special request--Martine felt as if she had known the
Danforths all her life.
As to Priscilla--Martine now really understood why Eunice Airton and
Priscilla had been so much to each other. Far apart though Plymouth and
Annapolis were, the Danforth household had an atmosphere very similar to
that of the Airton family. It was true that Eunice had no younger
brothers or sister, nor was Mrs. Danforth quite as old-fashioned as Mrs.
Airton in manner and speech.
Mrs. Danforth, indeed, seemed to Martine more like some one she had
always known, and she soon felt completely at home with her. The evening
passed quickly away, as they sat around the open fire, and the children
were allowed to extend their bed-hour an hour beyond the usual time.
"Who is going to be my guide?" asked Martine, before they separated for
the night.
"That depends on what you want to see," responded Marcus, cautiously.
"You are not very gallant," protested Mrs. Danforth. "You should be very
proud to guide a young lady from the city wherever she wishes to go."
"I _am_ proud," interposed George. "I'll go anywhere."
"Well," said the cautious Marcus, "I only meant that I don't want to go
up on Burial Hill. It's very stupid looking at those old gravestones,
and there aren't any real Pilgrims there, at least not any worth
mentioning."
"But there's a lovely view," said Priscilla, "and the first fort stood
up there, and some people like old gravestones."
"To be perfectly frank," said Martine, "I don't care so very much for
them, unless the inscriptions are entertaining. Don't look shocked,
Prissie, epitaphs can be very amusing sometimes. But what would you like
to show me, Marcus?"
"Oh, I'd like to take you out into the woods for mayflowers, for one
thing, and over to Duxbury to see the Standish monument for another; but
I just hate poking about the town, looking for old houses and ruins the
way some people do; for we haven't any ruins here."
"Then I suppose you wouldn't condescend to show me Plymouth Rock? For
that, of course, is one of the things I _must_ see."
"Oh, I'll take you there!" interrupted George; "let's go right after
breakfast."
"Very well, I'll be ready; and thank you for your invitation."
And Martine, bending toward the little fellow, kissed him good-night. As
she turned away, George reddened with delight; it was pleasant to be
treated as if he were as old as Marcus; for Marcus, his elder by two
years, had a brotherly habit of making him feel himself to be of the
slightest consequence in the estimation of strangers.
Promptly after breakfast Martine set out with George.
"I know you won't mind my leaving you, Priscilla," she said. "You and
your mother must have so many things to talk over."
"Thank you; a little later I will go join you, but I know that George
will show you just what you wish to see;" and Priscilla kissed Martine
good-bye.
At her first sight of the rock, the Plymouth Rock of history and poetry,
Martine gave a gasp of surprise. It was so much smaller than she had
expected. The little guide-book that Mrs. Danforth had put in her hands
told her that from 1775 to 1880 the rock had been in two pieces, and
that one piece was for a long time exhibited in Pilgrim Hall; but at
last a generous son of Plymouth, feeling that the rock deserved greater
honor, had had the two pieces put together on a spot that was probably
very near the place that it occupied in 1620, and had had it protected
by granite canopy and an iron fence.
"Why, it looks as though I could almost carry it away myself; it's
hardly large enough for a good-sized man to stand on."
"Oh, two or three men could stand on it," said the literal George, who
thereupon began to make calculations to convince Martine of her error.
Martine, somewhat amused by George's earnestness, began to tease the
little fellow.
"Do you really believe that this rock was here in the time of the
Pilgrim Fathers?"
"Why, yes, where else could it have been?"
To this question Martine had no answer ready, and before she had made a
second attempt to puzzle George, an old gentleman who had been standing
near them stepped up.
"You are not skeptical, young lady, about the famous rock?"
"Oh, no," replied Martine; "I don't know enough about it to be
skeptical."
The old gentleman glanced at her quizzically.
"There is more philosophy in that remark than you perhaps realize, young
lady. But this is really _the_ rock, the only one to be found the whole
length of this sandy shore. So it must be the rock on which the
Mayflower's passengers landed."
"I wonder why they didn't just step out on the beach," persisted
Martine. "I should think that would have been ever so much more
comfortable than hopping down on this rock."
"Others besides you have intimated the same thing," persisted the old
gentleman; "but you must admit that a rock is a better foundation for
the sentiment of a nation to base itself on than a sandy beach. Even our
foreign-born children pin much of their patriotism to Plymouth Rock."
"Do you believe--?"
"My dear young lady, in George's presence, at least, you must not
intimate that it is possible to believe anything about Plymouth Rock
except what is usually taught in school histories."
Martine looked earnestly at the old gentleman. She could not tell
whether he was in jest or in earnest, but there was something in his
face that she liked. She felt as if she had always known him. He seemed
really like an old friend.
"Mr. Stacy," interposed George, "I never know exactly what you mean, but
I am sure that the school histories are true."
"Surely, my dear, but I can see that this young lady wishes to go back
of the printed book. She would like to know why we think this is the
rock of the Pilgrims. So, as there is no one else here to inform her,
the duty seems to have fallen on me. We pin our faith to the rock," he
continued, "on account of the testimony of Elder Faunce, a truthful man,
who, in the first half of the eighteenth century--1743, I believe--made
a vigorous protest when certain individuals began to build a wharf,
which would have covered the rock. He said that this stone had been
pointed out to him by his father as the one on which the founders of the
colony had landed. It is true that John Faunce, the father, did not come
over on the Mayflower, and what he knew of the landing he must have
heard from others. But as he had arrived in Plymouth in 1623, he must
have had his information on the best authority. Elder Faunce, the son of
John Faunce, was forty years old when the last of the Mayflower
passengers died, and if the story of the rock was not true, doubtless he
would have heard some one contradict it."
"Did they build the wharf?" asked Martine.
"I believe they did. But the rock was kept in sight, and eventually
became the step of a warehouse. Later, as I dare say you have heard, it
was broken in two pieces, and it is only since 1880 that we have had it
restored here to a spot very near where the Mayflower landed--and
protected," he concluded, with a smile, "so that the relic hunters can't
carry it off bodily. It's a wonder that some one hasn't tried to get it
for one of the World's Fairs now so prevalent in the country."
"I should hate to see it carted around like the Liberty Bell, although
we were glad enough to have it in Chicago."
"So you are from Chicago," said Mr. Stacy; "then I must try to make you
think that Plymouth is the centre of the earth. From your being with
George I thought you were one of Priscilla's Boston friends. By the way,
perhaps you may recall the lines in Miles Standish, where John Alden and
others went down to the seashore:
"'Down to the Plymouth Rock, that had been to their feet as a door,
Into a world unknown--the cornerstone of a nation!'
I always thought that a fine line, though it isn't quoted as often as it
might be; 'the cornerstone of a nation,'" repeated Mr. Stacy. "Well,
Priscilla and I always have a pretty little quarrel over this particular
doorstep. You know she is very proud of her descent from Priscilla and
John Alden."
"So am I," piped up little George.
"Of course, my boy, just as I am of descending from Mary Chilton. Well,
traditions are somewhat confused as to who stepped first on Plymouth
Rock--providing anyone of the Mayflower people really stepped on it at
all. The honors are divided apparently between Mary Chilton and John
Alden. I'd like to give them to a lady--Priscilla, for example, but in
that case I should have to slight another lady, my ancestress, Mary
Chilton; so there you have the two horns of a dilemma."
"Oh, I know better than that," cried George; "Mary Chilton wasn't in it,
of course she wasn't."
"In what, my child? or are you merely indulging in slang?"
"Oh, you know, Mr. Stacy, she wasn't in that first shallop that went
ashore from Clark's Island. Of course a woman wouldn't come out in a
little boat, when they were trying to find a landing-place. No, of
course it was John Alden."
"Your reasoning is pretty reasonable--for a little boy," said Mr. Stacy.
"But, my dear Miss Chicago," he continued, "if you are on a sight-seeing
walk, let me go with you. I need not say to an up-to-date young lady
that none of the houses of the original Pilgrims are here, though as we
walk along we shall pass near the sites of many of them. The old
Plymouth was chiefly down here near the water, not so very far from the
rock. This is the first street, close to the brook that ran down from
Billington Sea."
"It must be very pleasant in summer," and Martine glanced down the long
tree-lined street. The trees were budding, but the leaves were not yet
out.
"It is a calm, shady street," rejoined Mr. Stacy; "sometimes we wish the
electric cars were not so near, but the curse has been partly taken off
by the names they bear. Probably you have noticed 'Priscilla,'
'Pilgrim,' 'Samoset,' and the other historical names. Perhaps it is just
as well there are none of the old houses left. The descendants of
forefathers might have been ashamed of them, of the houses--I mean.
Perhaps you remember Holmes' lines on the subject. The Autocrat had the
faculty of hitting the nail on the head and in speaking of the Pilgrim,
he says:--
"'His home was a freezing cabin
Too bare for a freezing rat,
Its roof was thatched with ragged grass,
And bald enough for that.
The hole that served for casement
Was glazed with a ragged hat.'
But this description applies only to the very first houses. Those that
were built for the next twenty or thirty years were plain enough, but
comfortable. Plymouth never had many of the elaborate Colonial houses
that are shown in some of the New England towns."
"I wish one or two of those oldest houses were left," said Martine.
"Isn't there even one?"
"Why, I believe you are really interested in old Plymouth," said Mr.
Stacy, smiling at Martine. "If you don't mind walking with me I'll show
you the oldest house now standing. But this old Doten house was built
only a few years before 1660, and is very little changed from its
original appearance, at least so far as the outside is concerned."
"The trees look as if they might be almost as old as the house," said
Martine, as they stood before the little low-roofed house in Sandwich
Street in front of which two great trees with gnarled trunks stood as
sentinels.
"Say, Martine, let's go up to the Monument," whispered George. "I'm
afraid Mr. Stacy will want to take us up on Burial Hill."
Mr. Stacy heard the loud whisper, and Martine herself was amused at
George's entreaty.
"Why, that was what Marcus didn't want to do, and you said you would go
anywhere with me."
"I want to show you something myself. You can go with Mr. Stacy to the
hill some other day."
"There, George, you have suggested just what I had in mind. Please tell
your mother that I hope to come over to see Priscilla and her friend
this evening. Then we can arrange about our visit to Burial Hill."
After Mr. Stacy had said good-bye Martine and George retraced their
steps, and climbed the hill to the monument to the Forefathers.
"There's nine acres in the park," explained George, "and the monument is
eighty-one feet high. That's the figure of Faith on top, and I think the
whole thing is fine, don't you?"
"It certainly _is_ fine," responded Martine, amused at George's
eagerness.
"You know down at Provincetown they say the Pilgrims landed there first,
and they're going to build a monument that will beat this all to pieces.
But I don't believe they can, do you, Miss Martine?"
"No," said Martine, "indeed I do not."
Whereupon, after she had sufficiently admired the historic bas-reliefs
depicting scenes in the lives of the Forefathers, George led his guest
down the hill, well pleased with her appreciation of his favorite work
of art.