THE ISLES OF SHOALS
It never rains but it pours. A day or two after their visit to the
bathing beach, Martine and her mother were seated in their nook under
the trees. It was early afternoon, and, as usual, Angelina was off for a
stroll.
"Why, there are some visitors," exclaimed Mrs. Stratford, and Martine
looked up to see two ladies approaching the front door. Martine wouldn't
have been a girl, if she hadn't glanced down involuntarily at her dress.
"You look very well," said her mother, understanding her glance.
"Well, I hate to have to play the part of maid," said Martine, "but it
can't be helped now." So, laying down the book from which she had been
reading aloud, she went over toward the newcomers.
"I am Mrs. Ethridge, and this is my daughter, Clare. We are really your
nearest neighbors," and she pointed to the large house across the road,
about which Martine had often wondered. "A young girl, your assistant, I
think she calls herself, came over to our house on the evening of the
Fourth. Her fire balloon had gone astray." And Mrs. Ethridge smiled at
the recollection. "She told us you were lonely, but we could not quite
understand. Surely you are Martine Stratford, of whom we have heard so
much from Elinor Naylor; you must have many friends at York; there are
so many Philadelphians and Chicagoans here. Elinor mentioned you in the
letter we had a day or two ago, and we recognized your name as the one
your assistant had given us. In any case we ought to have called
earlier, but we have had a house full of visitors, and--"
"No apologies are necessary," responded Martine, with dignity. "We
expected to be quiet this summer, although my mother will be most happy
to see you." And leading them to Mrs. Stratford's corner, introductions
were quickly made. Hardly had they seated themselves when Clare Ethridge
exclaimed, "Why, there's Peggy Pratt," and Martine looking up,
recognized the girl who was hurrying across the lawn, and a second
later, Peggy was shaking hands with Martine most effusively.
"What a queer girl you are, Martine Stratford; why didn't you let me
know you were in York? Elinor Naylor wrote that you were coming, and I
certainly thought you'd tell me where you were. Of course, I've asked
everybody, but no one had seen you or heard a thing about you. I
couldn't imagine your being hidden in a corner like this; so I supposed
you hadn't yet arrived. I'm sure I didn't know what to do," and she
looked around with an air of injured innocence, as if some one had been
unjustly blaming her.
"You might have inquired at the postoffice," said Mrs. Ethridge smiling,
"you can generally get information about people there."
"Oh, I dare say; but I just concluded she wasn't here."
"But now that I _am_ here and you know that I am here," responded
Martine gayly, "everything is as it should be." She did not mention the
little incident at the beach, for she saw that her judgment of Peggy
then had been wrong, and that the eyes which had seemed to see her had
really been looking at something else.
While Mrs. Ethridge and Mrs. Stratford talked by themselves, Peggy's
tongue flew on reciting the attractions of York. Trips up the river, tea
at the Country Club, yachting, trolley and auto excursions apparently
filled her days; "really I never have a minute to myself," she said,
"and to-morrow we are going to have a fish dinner at the Shoals, the
whole crowd of us. We've got a special car to take us over to
Portsmouth, and then we go by the steamboat; we thought it would be more
fun than simply to sail over. There's a seat for you, Martine; I know
your mother will let you go, and of course we shall see you too, Clare."
"Yes," said Clare, "I had already promised."
"Then it's all settled," cried Peggy; "you can bring Martine to the car,
Clare. Now I must hurry on, for I have an engagement up at the Club, and
I'm so glad to have seen you, Martine. Good-bye, Mrs. Stratford;
good-bye, Mrs. Ethridge." And almost before they could say "good-bye"
themselves, Peggy was out of sight.
"I wonder that girl doesn't wear herself out; she is always flying from
one thing to another," said Mrs. Ethridge.
"It's hard for a girl to settle down in the summer," added Clare,
"especially in a place where there is so much going on as there is
here."
"Habit is everything," and Mrs. Stratford glanced toward Martine,
reflecting that she, at least, had been able to adapt herself the past
few months to a quiet life.
The prospect of the excursion to the Shoals was very agreeable to
Martine, especially as she was to have the companionship of Clare. The
latter was a quiet, dignified girl, possibly a little older than Martine
and reminding her a little of Amy.
Promptly at the appointed hour Martine met Clare at the turn of the
road; they had not long to wait before the special car came in sight. As
it stopped for them, there was a loud clapping of hands and shouts of
welcome from those within. Martine, cut off for what had seemed so long
a time from young people of her own age, was quite bewildered at this.
Two of the boys who had stepped down to assist her and Clare on board,
proved to be old acquaintances, Herbert Brownville and Atherton Grey;
and when once they were fairly off her spirits had risen rapidly. The
car sped on, up hill and down dale, past the golf club, through the
woods, over bright, green meadows, along tressles surrounded by marshes.
"To think," exclaimed Martine, "these cars almost pass our house and
this is my first trip on them. Angelina went over to Portsmouth one day
and was so enthusiastic she almost persuaded me to make a trip with her;
but she is so easily pleased that I didn't quite believe all she said;
but now I believe it and more too."
After a time their road led them past quaint old houses and pleasant
summer cottages. There were occasional glimpses of water on one side,
and once in the distance, across the water, rose the massive outlines of
a hotel.
"This is Kittery," exclaimed Clare. "We are almost on the boundaries of
Maine and New Hampshire; that water is the mouth of the Piscataqua; you
must go down on the shore some time; artists love it."
"I should like to sketch one of these tree-shaded old houses myself,"
replied Martine; "that one over there looks as if it could tell a story
if it would."
"Oh, that's one of the William Pepperell houses; I never could remember
which was his special house and which his daughters lived in, but you
know he set out for Louisburg from Kittery, and two or three of these
houses have hardly been changed since his day."
"Dear me!" sighed Martine, "have I got to follow the French and Indian
war in this corner of the country? I had so much of it last summer in
Acadia that I'd like something a little different now."
"Acadia," exclaimed Peggy, overhearing Martine. "How sick I grew of that
word last summer. Some people were with us in Nova Scotia, went about
with guide books and histories and acted as if they were crazy; but I'm
happy to say that I sailed away from Yarmouth without knowing a thing
more than before I travelled."
"I believe you," commented Clare. "But if I were you, I wouldn't boast.
Some of us _do_ care for history."
"Unfortunately they do; there's my aunt; when she heard we were coming
to the Shoals to-day, she gave me a lot of interesting information that
went in one ear and out the other; for I told her that I was simply off
for a good time and I never meant to learn anything if I could help it
outside of school."
Several of the party applauded Peggy's sentiments, but Martine could not
help thinking that a speech of this kind from a girl of Peggy's age was
rather shallow; and she admitted to herself that there was a time, not
so very long ago, when she too would not only have expressed herself in
the same way, but would have felt just exactly as Peggy professed to
feel.
Soon after passing the Navy Yard, the car reached the shore of the
Piscataqua, where they crossed the ferry to Portsmouth. Soon they were
on the little steamboat, bound for the famous Isles of Shoals.
"There's one thing that I do remember," said Peggy. "There are nine of
these islands and they are nine miles out at sea, and they are partly in
Maine and partly in New Hampshire; but please don't ask me another word,
Martine Stratford, for I can see by your expression that you're
thirsting for information."
Martine reddened at Peggy's words, because Herbert Brownville, who was
standing beside her, was known to have a special dislike for bookish
girls. Martine was ashamed of herself for giving even a thought to
Herbert's opinion, and in consequence, she reddened more deeply when
Herbert asked in surprise, "Have you really come out only for
information, Miss Martine, as Peggy told me on the car?"
This question decided Martine; she did not care for Herbert's opinion;
she would show him so plainly, and so she decided to mystify him.
"Yes," she replied politely. "You know I have travelled a great deal,
and some time I intend to write a book describing my travels. So
wherever I go, it is necessary for me to get all the facts I can.
Somehow I forgot to bring my notebook to-day, but perhaps you can lend
me a pencil and paper."
Poor Herbert looked at Martine in surprise. Was this the girl who was
famous for her wit, who was one of the best dancers and riders in their
set two or three years ago? How sad that she should have changed so; but
it was all on account of Boston; no girl could live in Boston a year
without becoming affected. But what a pity that a pretty girl like
Martine should turn into a bookworm! Nevertheless, Herbert handed
Martine the desired pencil and paper, and he sat beside her while she
made a great show of writing down the few facts that she had gathered
from the volatile Peggy.
"I'm so glad," continued Martine, "that you are willing to help me; and
when we reach the islands I'm going to ask you to find some one who will
tell me all about them."
"There can't be much to tell," replied poor Herbert; "you know they are
small and rugged and very queer. I've been there many a time on a yacht
and I'm perfectly sure from what I've seen that they haven't any
history."
"In such matters," responded Martine solemnly, as if she were preaching
a sermon, "you cannot be too positive. No corner of the world is so
obscure as to be without history."
Again Herbert looked at her in amazement. Her head was turned from him
and he did not see the mischievous expression lurking in her brown eyes.
He liked Martine, and since there seemed to be no help for it, it would
be only proper in him to promise what she asked.
"Certainly," he replied, "I dare say we can find out something for your
book; they have a very intelligent clerk at the hotel, and I know a man
in a cottage on Smutty Nose who's lived there a long time, and what he
can't tell probably would not be worth knowing."
Thus Herbert constituted himself Martine's guide for the day, and kept
beside her and Clare until the boat touched Appledore. True to his
promise, when they had finished dinner, he got a row-boat and took them
over to Smutty Nose, where the old Captain proved very talkative. He
explained that the name of the islands did not come from their
structure, but from the quantities of fish found in the waters near the
"schooling" or "shoaling" of fish. He told them that the Shoals had
probably been visited by Captain John Smith, and Christopher Leavitt in
1623 had written something about them.
[Illustration: "The old captain proved very talkative."]
"Of course the first settlers," said the old man, "were fishermen, and
they were always a pretty rough lot, though the Reverend John Brock did
something to improve them. There are all kinds of stories going about
pirates and wrecks and strange happenings in the old times."
"I suppose Captain Kidd buried some of his treasure here," said Herbert
sarcastically.
"That he did, at least they say so," responded Captain Dickerson; "and
if you and the young ladies are real enterprising, you might dig a
while, for it's never been found, and you've as good a chance as any
one."
"Thanks," said Herbert, rather taken aback by finding that his chance
arrow had hit the mark, "but we've other things to do to-day. Sometime,
perhaps, we'll return."
"Well," said the old man, "there's a chance that other treasure might do
you just as well. Nigh a hundred years ago, a Spanish ship went to
pieces on the islands, and there were other wrecks that perhaps cast
treasure on the sands."
"Oh, I remember," exclaimed Clare, "a poem that I learned at school,
'The Wreck of the Pocahontas.' Celia Thaxter wrote it. It begins
something like this:--
"'I lit the lamps in the lighthouse tower,
For the sun dropped down and the day was dead;
They shone like a glorious clustered flower,
Ten golden and five red.'"
"Ah, Mrs. Thaxter," said Capt. Dickerson, "there isn't much on the
islands that she hasn't put into poetry. But you'll hear all about her
over at Appledore, and I won't spoil your fun by trying to tell what
other people can tell better."
"Haven't you some stories of your own?"
"There won't be time for a long story," interposed Herbert, looking at
his watch. "We must be prompt for dinner."
"Just one," pleaded Martine, smiling at Capt. Dickerson.
"Most of the stories of these parts belong to Kittery and Portsmouth,"
rejoined Capt. Dickerson. "You'll have to fish them up there. The only
one I can think of you mightn't like--except it will interest you if you
love dogs--as most young ladies do."
"Well, tell us, please."
"It's about a murder that took place on Smutty Nose once when I was off
on a cruise. Two helpless women in a little cottage were killed by a
wretch who thought there was money saved in the house. A third woman
with a small dog in her arms escaped and hid here among the rocks. She
was terribly scared that the little creature would bark and betray her."
"Did it?"
"Well, she crouched in the darkness, while she heard the murderer pass
close by, calling and threatening. But the dog seemed to understand, and
kept perfectly quiet until daylight. The woman had heard the murderer
rowing away at dawn, and when people on Appledore were stirring they saw
her making frantic signs, and they came over and got her and the dog."
"Was the murderer ever caught?" asked Herbert.
"Yes--and he paid the penalty. But I don't know how long the dog lived,
young ladies, for I see that's what you'd like to hear," added Capt.
Dickerson, turning to the girls.
"I wish I could tell you more," he continued, after a pause. "I dare say
you know the Shoals were once called 'Smith's Eyelands,' and there's a
monument to Capt. Smith on Star. You've heard about Gorges, I suppose;
well, they were in Gorges and Mason's grant, and when Massachusetts
people stepped into Maine, the most northerly went to Maine, and the
others to New Hampshire."
"Any other great men here, besides Smith?" asked Herbert.
"Not many--besides myself," said Capt. Dickerson, smiling, "except,
perhaps, Sir Wm. Pepperell. At least his father was one of the early
settlers of the Shoals, and he was born here. But you'll hear about him
at Kittery. Then, as I said before, Appledore's full of Celia Thaxter,
and her father was queer enough to be called a great man. He had been a
politician, and when he got out of sorts with his party he quit the
mainland, and brought his boys to White Island, where he was lighthouse
keeper. They say the boys were fourteen or fifteen before they ever went
ashore, and then they were frightened by the first horse they saw."
"Thank you, Capt. Dickerson. I knew you'd have something interesting to
tell," and Herbert moved away impatiently. "I'm coming over some day
next week to go fishing with you."
"Yes, I shall be expecting you. I could show you a good many things,
young ladies, if you'd spend the day, but it is hard to understand even
Smutty Nose alone in an hour."
"Oh, but we've enjoyed coming here," replied Martine, and she and Clare
shook hands cordially with Captain Dickerson as they said good-bye.
After dinner at Appledore, all sat for a half-hour on the hotel piazza,
which was so near the water that it seemed in many ways like the deck of
a ship. Miss Byng and Mrs. Trotter, who had taken charge of the party
from York Harbor (the girls declined to call them chaperones) met
several acquaintances among the hotel guests. Miss Byng, in fact, had
spent a summer at Appledore, and she exchanged reminiscences with one of
her friends about Celia Thaxter, the "Queen of Appledore."
"She was certainly a wonderful woman," said Miss Byng, as Clare and
Martine drew their chairs within her circle. "Sometimes in the early
morning when I looked out of my window, I would see her working in her
garden. She was often up at four o'clock, and she made the most
wonderful flowers grow from this rocky soil."
"Oh, flowers were to her as individual as human beings," added Mrs.
Trotter. "She watched over them lovingly while they were in the garden,
and when she brought them into the house they were treated sumptuously.
Each flower was placed in a vase by itself, and every spot that could
hold them had its vases, silver, glass, or china, each with its single
blossom."
"What a strange idea!" cried Clare.
"The effect was beautiful, the brilliant flowers, the picture-covered
walls--and the queenly mistress of the house with snow-white hair, in
her clinging grey gown--the favorite costume of her latter years."
"Appledore is not the same now," and Mrs. Trotter sighed, "do you recall
Mrs. Thaxter's lines--
"The barren island dreams in flowers, while blow
The south winds, drawing haze on sea and land,
Yet the great heart of ocean, throbbing slow
Makes the pale flowers vibrate where they stand."
"Oh dear!" whispered Martine to Clare, "I feel as if I were at a
funeral. Let's find what Peggy has been doing."
"But I'd like to have known Mrs. Thaxter, wouldn't you?"
"Yes, though a person who had lived most of her life on an island of
four hundred acres must have been different from the rest of the world."
"She _did_ write poetry," replied Clare.
"Yes, that made her different from most of us. But here come Peggy and
the rest. I wonder where they've been."
Peggy and her party explained that they had been watching the surf on
the farther side of the island.
"Yes," exclaimed Peggy, "it was fine, I can tell you, and the view, why,
we could see miles and miles; if we had had a glass, I believe we could
have heard people talking at York." Whereat, in the fashion of young
people, all laughed as heartily as if Peggy had said something really
funny. While they stood there, Herbert was looking nervously at his
watch.
"Excuse me, but I really think--"
Carlotta, after the manner of sisters, laughed derisively.
"Listen! I believe he wishes to make an original remark." Herbert was
farther off than the others and had not heard just what Carlotta said.
"If we are not careful," he said again, looking at his watch, "we shall
miss the boat."
"There," said Carlotta, "I told you that he was going to make an
original remark."
This time Herbert heard her words, and when all laughed except Martine,
he reddened deeply.
"It's better to be early than late," remarked Martine consolingly; "I've
often missed a boat or a train just by thinking I had plenty of time."
Herbert turned gratefully towards Martine and walked back with her to
the hotel. As a matter of fact they had half an hour to spare and were
able to say good-bye to all their acquaintances without undue haste. The
return trip was unexciting, and they reached Portsmouth in good spirits
just in season to get the Ferry for Kittery.
As they came to their special car, "Here's your admirer," said Peggy
mischievously to Martine.
"What do you mean?" asked Martine.
"Why, the conductor; didn't you notice him coming over? Carlotta did."
"Yes," added Carlotta, "I certainly thought he was going to speak to
you."
"Nonsense!" said Martine.
"Do you know him?" whispered Peggy mischievously, as the car speeded
along the Kittery shore.
"I haven't even looked at him," replied Martine indignantly. "Herbert
has had charge of the fares, and as the conductor stands on the back
platform, and as I have no eyes in the back of my head, I couldn't
recognize him even if he were an old friend."
Later, however, as the young man moved along and stood for a while
beside the motorman, Martine had a chance to see him, though it was only
a back view.
"Carlotta," she said, "that conductor does remind me of some one. I
wonder if it's any one we know at home? Do you see a resemblance? A
resemblance to any one you know?"
"No," said Carlotta, "really I do not." And so the matter dropped.
It was nearly dusk when Martine and Clare left the car at the turn of
the road.
"Step carefully," said the conductor, holding out his hands to help the
two. Martine started, turned and looked toward the car, but it was
already on its way down the hill.
"I wonder,"--but she did not complete the sentence, though all that
evening she continued to ponder over the strange resemblance.