Brenda's Ward Part 35

"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 companions.h.i.+p 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 a.s.sist 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 pa.s.s 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 ma.s.sive outlines of a hotel.

"This is Kittery," exclaimed Clare. "We are almost on the boundaries of Maine and New Hamps.h.i.+re; that water is the mouth of the Piscataqua; you must go down on the sh.o.r.e 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 pa.s.sing the Navy Yard, the car reached the sh.o.r.e 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 Hamps.h.i.+re; 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 s.m.u.tty Nose who's lived there a long time, and what he can't tell probably would not be worth knowing."

Thus Herbert const.i.tuted 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 s.m.u.tty 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 quant.i.ties 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.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "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 d.i.c.kerson; "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 s.h.i.+p 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 cl.u.s.tered flower, Ten golden and five red.'"

"Ah, Mrs. Thaxter," said Capt. d.i.c.kerson, "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. d.i.c.kerson.

"Most of the stories of these parts belong to Kittery and Portsmouth,"

rejoined Capt. d.i.c.kerson. "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."