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.