Brenda's Ward

by Oliver Optic

  CHAPTER XIV

  TALES AND RELICS

  True to his promise Mr. Stacy called on Priscilla and Martine the secondevening of their stay in Plymouth. He proved even more entertaining as astory-teller than as a guide.

  "What he doesn't know about old-colony life isn't worth knowing,"Priscilla had said, and Mr. Stacy certainly proved the truth of thesewords. Of Bradford and Carver and Winslow and Brewster he spoke asfamiliarly as if they were brothers. He made them live again as hetalked, bringing out little facts that he said every schoolgirl and boyought to know, though Martine had to admit that if she had ever knownthese things, they were now half forgotten. Priscilla modestly concealedher own store of information, but Martine, remembering how eagerly herfriend had drunk in all that Amy and Balfour had had to tell the summerbefore about the English and the Acadians in Nova Scotia, knew thatPriscilla was probably hardly second to Mr. Stacy in her knowledge ofPuritan history.

  "Oh, please, Mr. Stacy, tell us one of your witch stories," demandedMarcus, as they sat around the blazing fire.

  "A witch story! Do you wish me to frighten the young lady from Chicago?"

  "A witch story!" repeated Martine; "why, I thought the witches were onlyin Salem. I supposed people down here were too sensible to believe inwitches."

  "Few localities are so sensible as to escape all delusion. A vaguebelief in evil spirits and witches existed in all the colonies evenwell-through the eighteenth century, although the witchcraft persecutionwas of comparatively short duration."

  "I don't care for witchcraft stories," said Priscilla, quietly.

  "Well, well!" cried Mr. Stacy, smiling; "between two fires, what shall Ido? Mrs. Danforth, you must be umpire."

  "Tell them one little unexciting witch story," replied Mrs. Danforth."Priscilla is too old to be troubled by bad dreams, at least from sosmall a cause."

  "It isn't that," protested staid Priscilla, "only witch stories are sosilly."

  "Oh, if that's the only thing against them," cried Martine, "please tellme as many as you can. I love silly things--sometimes. So please tell usa story, Mr. Stacy."

  "Really," rejoined Mr. Stacy, "I should hardly know what to say, if therules of hospitality did not provide me with an excuse. It is fair, Iimagine, to regard Miss Martine as a guest of Plymouth in general, aswell as of the Danforth family in particular, therefore, fair lady, Iyield to your demand. But what I am going to tell you is neither veryexciting, nor very silly. It merely shows how recently in this corner ofthe globe the plain people retained some of the mediaeval belief inwitches. For I knew a man who in his youth knew a man who believed thisstory. On the outskirts of Plymouth once lived an old woman whom peoplecalled a witch, and once when she was calling at a certain house, Jenny,a girl of twelve, placed the broom with which she was sweeping, underAunt Nabby's chair. Aunt Nabby was the reputed witch, and if you knowanything about witches, you must know that to offer one a broomstick canonly be regarded as an insult. So in this case Aunt Nabby, when sheperceived what Jenny had done, rose in anger, and vowed that she wouldget even with Jenny and her family."

  "Did she?" asked George, who was always over-anxious to hear theconclusion of a story.

  "Wait," replied Mr. Stacy, "you will soon hear. In a day or two Jennybecame very ill, and the old country doctor could not tell what thematter was. She seemed to be fading away. 'Perhaps Aunt Nabby hassomething to do with it,' said poor Mrs. Bonsal, Jenny's mother; andthen the doctor, asking what was meant, heard the story of thebroomstick. 'Go, John Bonsal,' he said to Jenny's father, 'go to AuntNabby's, and find out what she is up to.' When John Bonsal reached AuntNabby's house, there was no one in the kitchen but her big black cat,whom some people thought her assistant in evil doing. So John Bonsalwent down by the brook, where he found Aunt Nabby so much occupied thatshe hardly looked up at his approach."

  "What was she doing?" asked George.

  "Hush," cried Marcus; "listen, and you will find out."

  "Well," continued Mr. Stacy, "Aunt Nabby seemed to be making littledolls of clay that she moulded into shape with water from the brook.When she finished these figures or dolls, she stuck a pin or two intothem, and John Bonsal understood at once that by means of these dollsshe was working a charm on poor Jenny that in time would cause herdeath, unless he could stop the doll-making. Upon this the angry fatherraised the horsewhip that he carried in his hand, and thrashed Nabbywith might and main. As she cried for mercy, he told her that she shouldbe burned as a witch unless she promised to remove the spell that shehad cast over his daughter. At first she refused, but at last shepromised. 'Your Jenny shall get well,' she cried, 'and I will work nomore charms.' Upon this the big black cat that had followed John Bonsalfrom the house gave a great howl, and vanished completely from sight."

  "Aunt Nabby seemed to be making little dolls of clay."]

  "Where did he go?" asked George.

  "Down to the centre of the earth, probably," replied Mr. Stacy,solemnly. "But it's more to the point that Jenny recovered, and AuntNabby was never again known to carry on any of her witcheries."

  "Thank you, thank you," cried all the circle, except Priscilla, whostill looked as if she thought stories of this kind rather silly.

  "Mamma," cried Lucy, after a moment's pause, as if she, too, sharedPriscilla's feeling, "let us have something more sensible than witchstories."

  "Let us have a charade--you said you had found one in an old book thatyou would give us."

  Mrs. Danforth looked at the clock. "There is just time for one beforeyou go to bed," she said, "and so I will give you the old one you speakof."

  George and Lucy clapped their hands with delight. They were fond ofguessing-games, particularly when their mother played with them.

  "I must tell you," said Mrs. Danforth, picking up a book from the table,"that this is a very short one and must be guessed within five minutesafter I have read it." Whereupon she read slowly:

  "'Just where the heavens grew blue and high, My first that was so pure and bright, Ere it could rise into the sky, Passed in my second out of sight; Before it vanished from the earth My whole rose through it at their birth.'"

  "Only five minutes!" complained George; "I don't think that's longenough. I didn't understand what the first was."

  Patiently Mrs. Danforth read the first two lines, then the second, andfinally, at Lucy's request, the last.

  "I have it," cried Marcus, before three minutes had passed.

  "Can't we have five minutes more? I know I could guess it, if we hadtime enough."

  "You never guess anything, George, no matter how much time there is,"exclaimed Marcus.

  "Neither does Priscilla," rejoined George; "but if we had more time--"

  "Six minutes have passed; you see I have given more than the allottedtime," called Mrs. Danforth at last.

  "What did you make it, Marcus?"

  "Snowballs!" cried Marcus, triumphantly.

  "Oh, no!" protested Lucy; "how could it be 'snowballs?' What is yours,Miss Martine?"

  Martine handed a slip of paper to Lucy on which she had written a word.

  "Yes, yes, that is it. Snowdrops, that is right, isn't it, mamma?"

  "Yes, my dear; it is almost too simple a charade to set before ourguest. It would have been harder to guess if we had tried to act it.Perhaps to-morrow we can act charades."

  When the younger children had gone to bed, Martine enjoyed the quiethour with Priscilla and Mrs. Danforth and Mr. Stacy.

  "I had no idea Plymouth could be so interesting," she said. "I feel thatmy two or three more days will not be enough for all that I wish tosee."

  Nevertheless, Martine spent less time in actual sight-seeing than atfirst she had planned. The second day of her stay was so warm andspringlike, that all voted for a mayflower picnic in the beautifulPlymouth woods. The next day was rainy--a genuine southerly storm, andno one cared to venture out.

  "In town neither of us would think of staying in simply on account of astorm," protest
ed Martine.

  "I know it," responded Priscilla, lazily curling herself up in a cornerof the big settle before the open fire. "But this is vacation, andhome," she concluded, "and we can't behave just as we would in thecity."

  Finally, on the fourth day of their stay, under the guidance of Mr.Stacy, the two went up to Burial Hill.

  "You won't care if I do not pretend to be awfully interested in theepitaphs," said Martine, frankly. "I wish that Amy were here. She lovesold graveyards and inscriptions and everything that has a scrap ofhistory. Now I am fond of funny epitaphs, and I love--oh, what abeautiful view!"

  "I am glad that Burial Hill has something of interest to offer you. Evenin Plymouth we call this a fine view. Generally, we try to be modestabout our possessions, but this really is worth praising."

  "It is wonderful!" and Martine gazed in admiration at the expanse ofblue water that stretched far, far to the East, with only the tinyClark's Island to break its continuity.

  "It looks almost like a toy town," she added, gazing down at the housesand spires of the old town seeming to nestle at the foot of the hill.

  "Those woods toward the West are where the Indians used to lurk, and youcan see how wise our forefathers were in placing their fort here nearthe summit of the hill. You remember, probably, that it was a woodenbuilding made of sawed planks, but the six cannon mounted for itsdefence made it really formidable to the Indians. From this point thedefenders of the town could quickly discover the approach of the enemy.For a time, too, the fort was used as a church."

  "That is why they used the hill as a burying-place, I suppose."

  "Well, oddly enough, the founders of Plymouth were not buried here.Undoubtedly, the first settlers buried their dead near their dwellings.No stones mark the resting-place of most of the Mayflower passengers.There are memorials to many of them put up in later generations here onBurial Hill by their descendants, and two or three who lived to anadvanced age, like John Howland, are buried here. But the earliestgravestone on the hill is that of Edward Gray, who died in 1681."

  Priscilla, browsing among the stones, returned to Martine with a shadeof disappointment on her face.

  "I am really sorry, but I cannot find a single absurd stone. Some arerather quaint, but there are no amusing epitaphs, at least, of the kindyou like, Martine. Often as I've been here, I have never looked for thatspecial kind of thing before, but now that I have made you a truereport, we might as well turn down toward Memorial Hall."

  "Thank you, Priscilla, I hope Mr. Stacy will not think that I care onlyfor entertaining things that make one laugh. I have been more impressedby this old burying-ground than by any other I have ever visited. Thereis certainly something in the atmosphere that carries one back to thepast. If there were anything here to laugh at I couldn't laugh." Andsilently and reverently Martine followed her friends down the hill intothe quiet streets of the little town.

  "Now for Pilgrim Hall," said Mr. Stacy, as they walked along the MainStreet.

  "And what shall we see there?" asked Martine.

  "Oh, relics of all kinds--driftwood of the past--some things that willmove you to tears, and others that may make you smile."

  "Old furniture, I suppose. There are several shiploads of Mayflowerfurniture scattered through the country, and naturally I would look fora little of it here in Plymouth."

  "It would almost seem as if you had been reading my favorite Holmes,"rejoined Mr. Stacy. "You perhaps recall his verses about the oldpunch-bowl that--

  "'--Left the Dutchman's shore With those that in the Mayflower came--a hundred souls and more Along with all the furniture to fill their new abodes-- To judge by what is still on hand--at least a hundred loads.'"

  "I am not sure," replied Martine, "whether I have heard those particularlines, though the poet's sentiments are mine. Sometimes I wonder if thePilgrims brought any furniture with them. Or if the things they broughtcould have lasted through the centuries."

  "You will soon be able to judge for yourself. I think you can safelybelieve in most of the specimens that you see here. At any rate, wepeople of Plymouth have believed in them so long that they have acquireda certain sanctity."

  When they were at last within the dignified hall, Priscilla and Martineflitted about from object to object, the latter asking questions, theformer answering them, while Mr. Stacy in one or two instances had toact as umpire.

  A chair once owned by Governor Carver, and another brought by WilliamBrewster in the Mayflower, were accepted by Martine without question,and she was equally interested in a cabinet also brought over in theMayflower by the father of Peregrine White.

  "Priscilla," she cried, "your ancestor, John Alden, was particularlygenerous in his bequests. Here's his Bible, and an autograph of his thatmust be genuine because it is so hard to read. It seems to me that theAldens and the Winslows have done well by this exhibition. Isn't this anodd ring, and do you really imagine it was once worn by Governor EdwardWinslow?"

  "Why, yes," replied Priscilla, "I believe it, if that is what theplacard says." And she drew nearer to read the card that was placedbeside the ring.

  "The sword of Myles Standish! What a story it could tell! Really,Priscilla, these things have a wonderful power of calling up thepast--and this little piece of embroidery, just look at the date. It ismore than three hundred and fifty years old, and some of the silkthreads have kept their colors."

  "Please read the verse in the corner," urged Priscilla. "Even when I wasa very small girl I used to stand here, and call up pictures of thelittle Lorena."

  As Priscilla finished her sentence, Martine began to repeat the linesembroidered in the old sampler--for such the bit of work must have been.

  "'Lorena Standish is my name, Lord, guide my heart that I may do Thy will, Also fill my hands with such convenient skill As will conduce to virtue devoid of shame, And I will give the glory to Thy name.'

  "It is touching," said Martine.

  "A true Puritan maiden," commented Mr. Stacy, approaching the girls."But come, you cannot linger too long over any one thing, howeverinteresting. I will not blame you if you pass quickly by the Floridabones, and the Indian relics, and other so-called curiosities thathardly belong in Pilgrim Hall. But there are a number of autographs andold books that I wish to explain to you, and you must study carefullyWeir's beautiful painting, 'The Embarkation of the Pilgrims,' andCharles Lucy's magnificent 'Departure of the Pilgrims.'"

  The pictures held Martine's attention for a long time, and when at lastshe left the hall, she had a new and tenderer feeling for Plymouth.

  "If ever I have time," she murmured in a laughing aside to Mr. Stacy, "Iwill try to hunt up some Mayflower ancestors, for I can't let Priscillacontinue to be so superior to me in this respect."

  "Indeed, I don't feel superior," said Priscilla, "but I can't tell youhow pleased I am, Martine, that you have stopped making fun of Plymouthand the Pilgrims."

  "Dear Prissie, you should not take things so seriously. My fun was onlyfun, and you were too ready to take it in as earnest."

  Martine from the first had no trouble in winning the affection of allthe Danforths. George and Marcus struggled for the first place in heraffections, and Lucy admitted that she loved her next to her mother andPriscilla. Martine made other friends in Plymouth besides the members ofthe Danforth family. A number of Mrs. Danforth's special friends calledon her, and at an informal tea-party she met all the young people whomPriscilla cared for especially.

  "Every one seems to have heard of me, I am awfully pleased that youshould have talked to people about me, but why am I called a 'heroine'?Three people have said to me, 'We are so pleased to meet the youngheroine we have heard so much about.' What do they mean?"

  "It's the fire," cried Lucy. "Priscilla told us not to say too much toyou about it, because you were so modest, but everybody knows how braveyou were to pull Priscilla out of the burning house."

  "The burning house? Oh, at Windsor; but I d
idn't pull her out. Therewasn't the least danger, and I only tapped at the door. Why, I hadalmost forgotten about it. It was nothing at all, so far as I wasconcerned."

  But Lucy only shook her head, as she repeated shyly, "But we think you aheroine all the same." Nor could any words of Martine's have made herchange her mind. Had she not always been taught that the truly greatwere modest? Martine's very denials were a strong evidence that she wastruly great.

  There was nothing, therefore, for Martine to do but accept the place onthe pedestal where they put her.

  In spite of this idealizing, however, Priscilla's younger friends werenot afraid of Martine. If they had felt any awe before they saw her itimmediately passed away when they had looked into her frank brown eyes,and had heard the clear notes of her ringing laugh.

  Pleasanter even than the tea-party to Martine was the second eveningthat Mr. Stacy spent with her and Priscilla.

  "Everything that you haven't told me before about Plymouth and its earlydays you must tell me now," Martine had said. "When I go back to BostonI wish to astonish my brother by my display of historical knowledge. Iam sure that he doesn't know the difference between a Puritan and aPilgrim, which you have so carefully explained to me, Mr. Stacy; andthere are fifty other things that I shall spring on him, and mortify himto death, for Lucian thinks that he knows a lot of history, but as faras I can make out he hasn't got far beyond Charlemagne in his two yearsat Harvard."

  "Yet he went to school first?" asked Mr. Stacy, quizzically.

  "Yes, but everyone knows that boys in the fitting schools remember aslittle as they can of American history--although," with an afterthought,"I will admit that Lucian did take an interest last summer in theEnglish and Acadian history of Nova Scotia."

  This mention of Acadia suggested various questions to Mr. Stacy, andsoon Martine had plunged into a vivid account of their experiences ofthe preceding summer.

  "I have heard part of this before from the lips of Priscilla," said Mr.Stacy, "and her description of the various protegees gathered in by yourparty interested me greatly. I know that she has not forgotten Eunice,and, indeed, we all expect to see the little Annapolis girl in Plymouthbefore many summers have passed. But what about Yvonne and Pierre, whoon the whole interest me rather more than Eunice--as much, perhaps,because of their infirmities as on account of their foreign blood?"

  "As to Pierre," responded Martine, "Amy hears from him regularly, and heis very happy this winter in his work. A little money that was given himlast autumn (Martine did not mention that this was her father's generousgift) has enabled him to have regular drawing lessons from a goodteacher to whom he goes twice a week at Yarmouth. He insisted in usingpart of the money for his mother, and, like all Acadians, she seems tohave spent it very thriftily."

  "But what of Yvonne? she, I believe, is your especial pet."

  "Oh, Yvonne, too, has had a little money to spend, and so the Babetshave let her board with friends at Annapolis. Her eyes have had someattention from a good doctor, and she has been taking music lessons. Iwas hoping to arrange to have Alexander Babet bring Yvonne to Boston fortreatment by a specialist, but for the present I have to wait."

  Here Martine sighed a deep sigh. This allusion to Yvonne reminded her ofher father and his caution about economy. "I wonder if we shall alwayshave to economize and give up the things we wish to do. Mother talkedabout economy when I spoke of inviting Priscilla to go to New York. Iwonder--" and then a question from Mr. Stacy recalled Martine'swandering thoughts.

  "You scold me sometimes for being absent-minded," said Priscilla, "butwe spoke to you three times before you heard."

  "I was only thinking, Prissie," responded Martine; "and I can't do twothings at the same time--listen and think."

  Martine at last said good-bye to Plymouth with genuine regret--forPlymouth people at least, and for the Danforth family in particular.

  "New York wouldn't have been half as much fun," she said as the trainsteamed out of the station, "because I know it so well."

  Priscilla, who had not heard of Martine's New York plan, did notunderstand her friend's allusion; and as Martine made no furtherexplanation, she had no opportunity for discontent--if the loss of atrip to New York would have made her discontented.