CHAPTER XIII
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 NewYork."
"Oh, yes--but Boston is so near--and Priscilla ought to go because shehas the strangest notions about New York people--that they are allfrivolous, with nothing to do but amuse themselves. I would like to haveher at the Waldorf for a few days. Wouldn't she open her eyes? I am justcrazy 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 eachother perfectly, and I should be glad to have you spend your holidaystogether. But New York--no, my dear, we must be careful this springabout spending money--your father has had losses and expenses."
Something in her mother's tone impressed Martine, something in herwords, too, as well as in her tone. She had seldom heard either herfather or her mother talk of economy, except in occasional instanceswhen she herself had been carelessly extravagant. Now the mention of herfather stirred her.
"Oh, I hope that wasn't why papa went away, on account of money. Ofcourse I know we have to be more economical--but a trip to New York isso 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 imagineyour spending the vacation delightfully without leaving the city."
"Oh, I am sure I could, mamma; and now that you have spoken of it, Ishould just love to economize. I don't need a new spring hat--the one Ihad last season is as good as new--and if you would let the cook go--Iam sure that Angelina and I could do all the work." Martine spokeanxiously, even excitedly. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes bright.
"There is no need of any desperate economy just yet. But if you andLucian 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 becarried out--at least, during this particular vacation. For a couple ofdays before school closed an invitation came from Mrs. Danforth, urgingMartine to spend a week at Plymouth. Immediately New York lost all itsattractiveness for Martine. To visit Plymouth was her one desire.
"It will be delightful, Puritan Prissie"--even now she could not resisther love of teasing--"to see the place where you were 'raised,' as theysay down South. I wonder if there's something in the air to makePlymouth people different from others. To be sure, you are the only oneI've ever seen."
"Am I so very different from other people?" Priscilla spoke as if notaltogether pleased with Martine's words.
"Not too different--only you are fearfully conscientious, and you fusstoo much over little things, and you know how to economize--which I wishI did. But for all that, you are not half bad, and your mother isperfectly lovely to invite a girl she has never seen to spend a weekwith her. You must have given a good account of me."
"Of course, Martine, and she has heard of you from others--if only youwouldn'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 thatshe would be so thoughtless.
"I suppose I was rather mean last summer," she reflected, "and it'snatural, perhaps, for Priscilla to lack confidence in me."
When they were ready to start Martine was somewhat disappointed thatthey could not go to Plymouth by boat.
"A train seems so prosaic," she said; "and now when I am going tohistoric ground, I should like to be able to jump ashore--just as thePilgrims did."
"I didn't suppose you'd take so much interest. Last summer--"
"Now, Prissie! After all my efforts this winter, surely you might admitthat I have improved. Why, now, I've wholly forgotten that we ever had aFrench and English question to dispute over. Before we reach PlymouthI'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. Theyhad so much to talk of that the journey seemed short enough, and Martinewas surprised when the conductor called Plymouth.
Hardly had Priscilla's foot touched the platform, when a whirlwind ofheads 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 thecunningest kittens!"
"Yes, and we've had to muzzle Carlo, because a mad dog from Kingston ranthrough town the other day."
"There, there," and Priscilla disentangled herself from the arms of thechildren. "Martine, these are my little brothers and sister. There areonly three of them--though they sound like a regiment. Children, this ismy 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 herhead, as if expecting the kiss that Martine promptly bestowed on her.
The resemblance between the three children was very striking, and theyall looked like Priscilla, with their calm, blue eyes and blonde hair.
"Say, Priscilla," exclaimed Marcus, recovering from the awful moment ofbeing 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 everytime."
"Lucy can come with us," replied Priscilla. "There's no room for youboys."
"Let them all come with us," cried Martine. "We won't mind beingcrowded."
"Of course, I don't mind," responded Priscilla. "I was thinking of you."
The carriage into which the children climbed was an old-fashionedcarryall, the driver an elderly man, who addressed Priscilla withoutformality.
"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'tseen a child for a year."
"You were here Christmas; you didn't go away until New Year's," said theliteral Marcus.
"I mean that I haven't had a chance to talk to a child, not to mentionsqueezing one," responded the smiling Priscilla.
"Aren't there any little girls in Boston?" asked Lucy, timidly. "Haven'tyour 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 carriagebefore it had fully stopped. Again Martine stared at her friend. Couldthis be the cool, unemotional Priscilla? The greetings of mother anddaughter could have been no warmer had they been separated for yearsinstead of months.
"There, there, Priscilla, Martine will think we have forgotten her--Ishould know you, my dear--" and Mrs. Danforth held out both hands toMartine, "from Priscilla's enthusiastic descriptions of you. I can seeyou are just what she said you were."
From that moment when Mrs. Danforth k
issed her lightly on the forehead,Martine felt perfectly at home.
As Martine had approached the Danforth house, she had noticed that thehouse 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, wasslightly impressed by the general air of shabbiness. The carpets weredull from the trampling of many little feet, the furniture was simple,the pictures old-fashioned, and the gilt frames somewhat tarnished. Butthere were books everywhere, in the open bookshelves in hall andsitting-room. Open fires were blazing in large fireplaces.
When Priscilla led her to her own room there was the same air ofhomelikeness, from the easy-chair drawn up before the fire to the largebowls of mayflowers on mantelpiece and dressing-table.
After supper, when all gathered around her, Lucy on her knee, the boyshanging over her chair, to hear what she had to tell about Chicago--forthis was their special request--Martine felt as if she had known theDanforths all her life.
As to Priscilla--Martine now really understood why Eunice Airton andPriscilla had been so much to each other. Far apart though Plymouth andAnnapolis were, the Danforth household had an atmosphere very similar tothat of the Airton family. It was true that Eunice had no youngerbrothers 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 hadalways known, and she soon felt completely at home with her. The eveningpassed quickly away, as they sat around the open fire, and the childrenwere allowed to extend their bed-hour an hour beyond the usual time.
"Who is going to be my guide?" asked Martine, before they separated forthe night.
"That depends on what you want to see," responded Marcus, cautiously.
"You are not very gallant," protested Mrs. Danforth. "You should be veryproud 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 goup on Burial Hill. It's very stupid looking at those old gravestones,and there aren't any real Pilgrims there, at least not any worthmentioning."
"But there's a lovely view," said Priscilla, "and the first fort stoodup there, and some people like old gravestones."
"To be perfectly frank," said Martine, "I don't care so very much forthem, unless the inscriptions are entertaining. Don't look shocked,Prissie, epitaphs can be very amusing sometimes. But what would you liketo show me, Marcus?"
"Oh, I'd like to take you out into the woods for mayflowers, for onething, and over to Duxbury to see the Standish monument for another; butI just hate poking about the town, looking for old houses and ruins theway some people do; for we haven't any ruins here."
"Then I suppose you wouldn't condescend to show me Plymouth Rock? Forthat, of course, is one of the things I _must_ see."
"Oh, I'll take you there!" interrupted George; "let's go right afterbreakfast."
"Very well, I'll be ready; and thank you for your invitation."
And Martine, bending toward the little fellow, kissed him good-night. Asshe turned away, George reddened with delight; it was pleasant to betreated as if he were as old as Marcus; for Marcus, his elder by twoyears, had a brotherly habit of making him feel himself to be of theslightest 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 andyour mother must have so many things to talk over."
"Thank you; a little later I will go join you, but I know that Georgewill show you just what you wish to see;" and Priscilla kissed Martinegood-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 hadexpected. The little guide-book that Mrs. Danforth had put in her handstold her that from 1775 to 1880 the rock had been in two pieces, andthat one piece was for a long time exhibited in Pilgrim Hall; but atlast a generous son of Plymouth, feeling that the rock deserved greaterhonor, had had the two pieces put together on a spot that was probablyvery near the place that it occupied in 1620, and had had it protectedby granite canopy and an iron fence.
"Why, it looks as though I could almost carry it away myself; it'shardly large enough for a good-sized man to stand on."
"Oh, two or three men could stand on it," said the literal George, whothereupon began to make calculations to convince Martine of her error.
Martine, somewhat amused by George's earnestness, began to tease thelittle fellow.
"Do you really believe that this rock was here in the time of thePilgrim Fathers?"
"Why, yes, where else could it have been?"
To this question Martine had no answer ready, and before she had made asecond attempt to puzzle George, an old gentleman who had been standingnear 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 beskeptical."
The old gentleman glanced at her quizzically.
"There is more philosophy in that remark than you perhaps realize, younglady. But this is really _the_ rock, the only one to be found the wholelength of this sandy shore. So it must be the rock on which theMayflower's passengers landed."
"I wonder why they didn't just step out on the beach," persistedMartine. "I should think that would have been ever so much morecomfortable than hopping down on this rock."
"Others besides you have intimated the same thing," persisted the oldgentleman; "but you must admit that a rock is a better foundation forthe sentiment of a nation to base itself on than a sandy beach. Even ourforeign-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 notintimate that it is possible to believe anything about Plymouth Rockexcept what is usually taught in school histories."
Martine looked earnestly at the old gentleman. She could not tellwhether he was in jest or in earnest, but there was something in hisface that she liked. She felt as if she had always known him. He seemedreally like an old friend.
"Mr. Stacy," interposed George, "I never know exactly what you mean, butI am sure that the school histories are true."
"Surely, my dear, but I can see that this young lady wishes to go backof the printed book. She would like to know why we think this is therock 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," hecontinued, "on account of the testimony of Elder Faunce, a truthful man,who, in the first half of the eighteenth century--1743, I believe--madea vigorous protest when certain individuals began to build a wharf,which would have covered the rock. He said that this stone had beenpointed out to him by his father as the one on which the founders of thecolony had landed. It is true that John Faunce, the father, did not comeover on the Mayflower, and what he knew of the landing he must haveheard from others. But as he had arrived in Plymouth in 1623, he musthave had his information on the best authority. Elder Faunce, the son ofJohn Faunce, was forty years old when the last of the Mayflowerpassengers died, and if the story of the rock was not true, doubtless hewould 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 eventuallybecame the step of a warehouse. Later, as I dare say you have heard, itwas broken in two pieces, and it is only since 1880 that we have had itrestored here to a spot very near where the Mayflower landed--andprotected," he concluded, with a smile, "so that the relic hunters can'tcarry it off bodily. It's a wonder that some one hasn't tried to get itfor one of the World's Fairs now so prevalent in the country."
"I should hate to see it carted around like the Liberty Bell, althoughwe were glad enough to
have it in Chicago."
"So you are from Chicago," said Mr. Stacy; "then I must try to make youthink that Plymouth is the centre of the earth. From your being withGeorge 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 andothers 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 itmight be; 'the cornerstone of a nation,'" repeated Mr. Stacy. "Well,Priscilla and I always have a pretty little quarrel over this particulardoorstep. You know she is very proud of her descent from Priscilla andJohn 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 PlymouthRock--providing anyone of the Mayflower people really stepped on it atall. The honors are divided apparently between Mary Chilton and JohnAlden. I'd like to give them to a lady--Priscilla, for example, but inthat case I should have to slight another lady, my ancestress, MaryChilton; 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 wentashore from Clark's Island. Of course a woman wouldn't come out in alittle boat, when they were trying to find a landing-place. No, ofcourse 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-seeingwalk, let me go with you. I need not say to an up-to-date young ladythat none of the houses of the original Pilgrims are here, though as wewalk along we shall pass near the sites of many of them. The oldPlymouth was chiefly down here near the water, not so very far from therock. This is the first street, close to the brook that ran down fromBillington Sea."
"It must be very pleasant in summer," and Martine glanced down the longtree-lined street. The trees were budding, but the leaves were not yetout.
"It is a calm, shady street," rejoined Mr. Stacy; "sometimes we wish theelectric cars were not so near, but the curse has been partly taken offby the names they bear. Probably you have noticed 'Priscilla,''Pilgrim,' 'Samoset,' and the other historical names. Perhaps it is justas well there are none of the old houses left. The descendants offorefathers might have been ashamed of them, of the houses--I mean.Perhaps you remember Holmes' lines on the subject. The Autocrat had thefaculty 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 thatwere built for the next twenty or thirty years were plain enough, butcomfortable. Plymouth never had many of the elaborate Colonial housesthat 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 showyou the oldest house now standing. But this old Doten house was builtonly a few years before 1660, and is very little changed from itsoriginal appearance, at least so far as the outside is concerned."
"The trees look as if they might be almost as old as the house," saidMartine, as they stood before the little low-roofed house in SandwichStreet in front of which two great trees with gnarled trunks stood assentinels.
"Say, Martine, let's go up to the Monument," whispered George. "I'mafraid Mr. Stacy will want to take us up on Burial Hill."
Mr. Stacy heard the loud whisper, and Martine herself was amused atGeorge's entreaty.
"Why, that was what Marcus didn't want to do, and you said you would goanywhere with me."
"I want to show you something myself. You can go with Mr. Stacy to thehill some other day."
"There, George, you have suggested just what I had in mind. Please tellyour mother that I hope to come over to see Priscilla and her friendthis evening. Then we can arrange about our visit to Burial Hill."
After Mr. Stacy had said good-bye Martine and George retraced theirsteps, and climbed the hill to the monument to the Forefathers.
"There's nine acres in the park," explained George, "and the monument iseighty-one feet high. That's the figure of Faith on top, and I think thewhole thing is fine, don't you?"
"It certainly _is_ fine," responded Martine, amused at George'seagerness.
"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-reliefsdepicting scenes in the lives of the Forefathers, George led his guestdown the hill, well pleased with her appreciation of his favorite workof art.