PORTSMOUTH AND AFTERWARD
It was not until they were on their way to Portsmouth, that Clare and
Martine had their first good chance to talk to Balfour about the
burglar.
"It is really true," said Balfour, "that the fellow has been arrested
for entering a Portsmouth shop. I was pretty sure of him, and when this
shop was entered, I told the police about this man. He was wearing a
pair of topaz sleeve-links, and you said, I remember, that these were
the only things missing from Miss Elinor's trunk."
Balfour spoke modestly. From him the girls could get no idea of the many
hours he had put into the case until he had assured himself that this
was the very man wanted by the police of more than one city.
"How excited Angelina will be if she really identifies him as the man
who took her mother's money long ago."
"Yes," added Martine, "if she is only called in court as a witness, she
will be perfectly happy."
At Kittery, as on the day they went to the Shoals, Balfour was left with
his car on the Kittery Shore.
"I believe this will be the pleasantest of all our excursions," said
Martine to Clare as the two strolled about. "A crowd would seem out of
place in these quiet old streets."
"Is there anything you especially care to see before we go to Cousin
Mary's?" asked Clare. "You know she expects us there to luncheon, and
she always has any number of stories to tell."
"I'd like to see Strawberry Bank," replied Martine. "It sounded so
attractive when I came across it in my History as the first name of
Portsmouth."
"I fear there are no strawberries there now, though the first settlers
are said to have built the Great House in the centre of ground covered
with wild strawberry-vines. There's little to see there now, though you
have enough imagination to picture where the Great House stood in the
time of Mason."
So they went down on Water Street, and thence to the substantial little
house where Washington's secretary, Tobias Lear, lived. Here Washington
himself called on Madame Lear when he visited Portsmouth soon after his
inauguration.
As they turned back toward the statelier mansions of Congress and
Pleasant Streets, Clare tried to fit the things she had heard about old
Portsmouth to the right persons and people.
"I remember that some distinguished French nobleman described the
Langdon House as elegant and well furnished. Washington, too, called it
the handsomest house in Portsmouth, and when Louis Philippe was in exile
here, he lived for some time in this house. But I like this old
Wentworth House better because I really remember one of the romantic
stories connected with it."
"Tell me, please."
"Oh, this is simply about Frances Wentworth who jilted her cousin John
because he was too poor. John went to England, and Frances married
Theodore Atkinson, who was rich and amiable and delicate. In the course
of time John Wentworth returned from London as governor of the Province,
and when two years later the husband of Frances died, she mourned only
ten days, and then became the bride of her cousin John. But here we are
at Cousin Mary's, and I ought to have left this story for her. She can
tell it so dramatically."
Cousin Mary lived near the old Warner house, and she had much to say to
the girls about a former owner of this historic dwelling, whom her
mother remembered as one of the last of the townsmen to wear a cocked
hat and knee-breeches. After luncheon she took her young visitors to
call at the Warner mansion, where they saw the curious wall paintings
that no one had known about, until the removal of several layers of
paper brought the paintings to the light a few years ago.
"You can see how little this house has been changed," said the owner,
proudly. "It is really an eighteenth century house of the best type."
"Such as Amy Wentworth dwelt in," added Martine, reciting.
"'With stately stairways worn
By feet of old Colonial knights,
And ladies gentle-born.
And on her from the wainscot old
Ancestral faces frown,
And this has worn the soldier's sword,
And that--the judge's gown?'
"You did not know I could quote Portsmouth poetry?" asked Martine,
turning mischievously to Clare, "but I caught the habit from Amy last
summer, as she had a ballad or a story for every place we visited."
"Portsmouth is full of stories," responded Clare; "I wish, Cousin Mary,
we could stay here three or four days. Martine would enjoy
everything--old stories as well as old houses--"
"We have plenty of both, my dear," said Cousin Mary, laying her hand on
Martine's arm.
"I have been wondering about the houses, there are so many more of what
you might call 'stately mansions,' than there are in Plymouth," and
Martine looked enquiringly at Cousin Mary.
"Oh, that is easily explained," replied the older woman, understanding
Martine's unexpressed question. "Portsmouth was a Royal Province, and
its merchants were prosperous and fond of the good things of life. They
vied with one another in the eighteenth century in building handsome
dwellings. There were also many government officials here, who felt that
fine surroundings were their rightful due. When the Revolution came,
Portsmouth was full of Tories, as you may have read in some of the
recent historical novels. They were far from pleased with the change in
government."
"Martine and I certainly must come over again," cried Clare, looking at
her watch, "there are two or three special stories that I hope you will
tell her, though they are too long for to-day. I am afraid we have
barely time for the church, if we mean to get back to York to-night."
"This church," explained Cousin Mary, as they drew near old St. John's,
"is interesting because it succeeds the old Queen's Chapel. It may
surprise you to learn that in Portsmouth the first church observed the
forms of the Church of England. But after the earliest years, for a long
time there was no Episcopal church until the Queen's Chapel was built in
the early eighteenth century."
"They couldn't have a Queen's Chapel after the Revolution!" exclaimed
Martine.
"Well, it was Queen's Chapel for a few years. This was its name when
Washington attended service here. But in 1791, when the parish was
re-organized, the new church was known as 'St. John's.'"
The girls made the most of the short time they had to spend at the old
church. There were a number of things to see, but nothing, not even the
famous Queen Caroline chairs interested Martine more than the old bell
in the tower. For Cousin Mary told her that it had been brought from an
old church at Louisburg by Sir William Pepperell's victorious men.
"I must come down some Sunday," she said, "just to hear it. In Nova
Scotia they tell some weird stories about these old French bells," and
as she spoke, Martine recalled her afternoon with Balfour and Amy near
the site of the Acadian church.
"You certainly must spend a day or two with me soon," said Cousin Mary,
and when the girls bade her good-bye, the day was set for a longer visit
from Clare and Martine.
A slight fog overtook them as they rode home, and this, perhaps, lowered
Martine's spirits. Had Clare known Martine longer, she would have been
even more surprised than she was at her friend's despondent tone, for
those who knew her best had seldom seen her out of spirits.
It was Clare herself, however, who had turned the conversation in a
direction not exactly enlivening.
"I suppose we shall see Herbert to-morrow," she said. "He won't be
exactly pleased when he hears about Carlotta's luncheon."
"You mean my being left out? Oh, he won't care. Boys never take up those
things. Besides, I hope no one will tell him. Besides, I shouldn't have
cared if it hadn't been for Mrs. Dundonald, though I shall probably have
a chance to meet her again, somewhere."
"Of course," responded Clare, "she is likely to be in Boston, and you
know so many people. I think you have been very amiable about the whole
thing. For certainly it was hard to bear."
Now sympathy is often the last straw to break one down, and as she
replied to Clare, Martine did not control a little quaver in her voice.
"Naturally no one likes to be slighted, but then nothing has gone
exactly right this summer. I have hardly done a thing I wanted to, and I
have been left out of things I might have gone to."
"But, my dear, I have heard you say over and over again that you
wouldn't have any gayety on account of your father and--"
"Yes, that is true," replied Martine, undisturbed by her own
inconsistency, "but all the same it isn't pleasant to be left out, and I
really don't like being economical, although I have to pretend I don't
mind. I suppose that's why some people slight me. I never believed
before that money made any difference, but now I know."
"Martine," said Clare, "you are ridiculous. I believe you have been
working too hard, and so are a little run down."
"I haven't slept well lately," Martine admitted, "I have been thinking
so much about my father and Lucian."
"Isn't your father improving?"
"The last letter was more cheerful. But we haven't heard for three
weeks, and I am wondering what we shall do next year if he has lost
_all_ his money. It will be so hard for Lucian to give up college."
Clare was at a loss for a reply. Mrs. Stratford and Martine were new
friends and she really knew little about their affairs. She had to
content herself with rather vague attempts to cheer Martine, and she was
gratified before they reached their stopping place to see the smiles
return to Martine's face.
It was almost dusk as the car sped down a long hill near the Country
Club.
"Why, that was Carlotta driving," exclaimed Clare, as they passed a
restive horse that was driven by a girl in a high cart.
"She has poor control of her horse," rejoined Martine.
"It's curious," added Clare, "that Carlotta, who is so good at other
sports, knows so little about a horse. She seldom drives alone. I wonder
how it happens that no one is with her now."
"She may swim better than I," rejoined Martine, "but I believe I could
give her points about managing a horse."
Soon the two friends had reached their corner and were about to part
when they heard the clatter of hoofs and wheels.
"Keep to the side, Clare," cried Martine. "It's Carlotta, the horse is
running away."
Hardly had she uttered these words when the horse and carriage were upon
them. The reins had fallen, and Carlotta, helpless, was clinging to the
side of the carriage. Martine did not hesitate. Instantly she plunged
forward, and unheeding Clare's warning scream, flung herself before the
horse. Yet, in spite of her impetuosity, she knew what she was doing.
The creature's speed was less than it seemed to the frightened Clare.
Martine with a sure aim reached the bridle. Although she was dragged a
few steps, the horse slackened his pace, and stopped. Carlotta, too much
shaken to resume control, jumped to the ground on the opposite side from
Martine.
"Look!" cried Clare, running up to her as she came to the horse's head.
"Is she hurt?" asked Carlotta, anxiously, as Clare stooped down toward
Martine, who had fallen to the ground.
"She must be," replied Clare. "What shall we do?"
"I cannot very well leave my horse," responded Carlotta, still with her
hand on the bridle; "if only somebody--"
At that moment "somebody" did appear, in the shape of Mr. Gamut.
"Bless my soul!" he exclaimed, "What is this? An accident?"
Martine lay white and still. Clare, stooping down, could not rouse her.
"Let us take her to the house, and then I will go for Mrs. Stratford,"
cried Clare; "she has been spending the day with my mother."
"I was on my way to Red Knoll," said Mr. Gamut. "I came on the afternoon
train, and I felt anxious to talk over the good news; but now, this
looks serious," he continued, as together he and Clare lifted Martine
from the ground.
"May I take my horse to your stable, Clare?" asked Carlotta. "He is
quiet enough, but I would rather not drive now, and then I will hurry to
the village for a doctor. I am so sorry for all this," she concluded.
"There are certainly no bones broken," said the practical Clare; "she
has simply fainted."
Clare and Mr. Gamut slowly carried Martine to the side of the road, and
now Clare was supporting her friend's head on her knee, while Mr. Gamut
had gone to Red Knoll for water.
As Carlotta disappeared down the lane leading to the Ethridge house,
Martine stirred slightly, and opened her eyes.
"Where am I?" she asked, faintly. "Oh--yes--I remember," and though she
closed her eyes again, she no longer lay a dead weight against Clare's
arm.