Pocket Island Part 11

"No, to be candid," he replied, "I do not yet; still it may. I am almost sorry I promised to go, but my friend will feel hurt now if I don't. I may obtain a few suggestions that will help me to solve this problem."

She made no reply, for the situation seemed as complex to her as to her suitor. She respected the pride that had made him refuse her father's generous offer, and at the same time she felt herself tortured by conflicting emotions. To desert her father she could not, and to deny her lover his right to herself as a wife was almost as impossible. A long wait seemed the only solution, unless he would accept her father's offer.

Perhaps the same conclusions were reached by Manson, for he said at last: "Do not blame me for going away or looking about to find some way out of this dilemma. I shall never find one here in Southton. The world is wide, and I do not feel it half so hard to face as rebel bullets.

There is room for me in it, and a chance to win a home for you and me, and I am going to fight for that chance. I am too proud to accept your father's farm as a gift, and you are too proud to have me work for him, even if he gave me all the farm produced. Then you can't leave him, and I won't ask you to do so. The only way is to wait and work, and work hard for the girl I love, and her father will be as welcome in that home as she."

He paused, and a look of admiration for his spirited words came into her face.

"Charlie," she said in a low voice, "please don't think I am proud or stubborn. I can't leave father, but I will wait for you as long as you wish or I will marry you when you wish, provided, of course, you give me time to get ready. Only do not feel that I will let pride separate us for long. Whatever you are satisfied to do shall be my law."

Her loving a.s.surance cheered him greatly, for he answered in a hopeful voice:

"Wait patiently until I return, and then we will decide what is best to do."

When it came time to leave their trysting-place he drew from an inside pocket a small pocketbook, worn and stained, and handed it to Liddy. She opened it and found a bunch of faded violets and a lock of golden hair.

CHAPTER XXII.

THE MAINE COAST.

There is no part of the New England sh.o.r.es so charming as the coast of Maine. From Cape Elizabeth on the west to Quoddy Head on the east, there are over a thousand large and small islands, nearly all of which are of bold formation and most of them wholly or in part covered with a growth of spruce and fir. The sh.o.r.es of these islands, as well as the mainland, are mainly rock-ribbed, with many high cliffs, at the foot of which the ocean surges beat unceasingly. Deep fissures and sea caverns into which the green water, changed to yeasty foam, ever churns and rushes by day and night, are common; and when storms arise it bellows and roars like an angry bull. Here the clinging rock-weeds and broad kelpie float and wave idly or are lashed in anger by the waves that seem always trying to tear them loose from the rocks.

Locked in the embrace of these bold sh.o.r.es are countless coves, inlets and harbors, many so land-locked that never a ripple disturbs their surface, and here the fishhawk and seagull seek their food and build their nests undisturbed by man. No sound except the unceasing murmur of the winds in the fir trees, or the low-voiced neighboring ocean, breaks the stillness. Along the rocky sh.o.r.e and over these green-clad cliffs one may wander for days in absolute solitude, seeing or hearing naught of humanity or the handiwork of man. Here may be found the wondrous magic and mystery of the sea in all its moods--pathetic, peaceful or grand, and its society, where none intrude. Here, too, wedged among the wave-washed rocks, can be found many a tale of shipwreck, despair and death, or whispers of luxuriant life in tropical lands, and all the flotsam and jetsam of the ocean, cast ash.o.r.e to bleach like bones in a desert, year in and year out.

Safe harbors are numerous, though not easy of access, for sunken ledges or merciless reefs guard them from approach. In places are deep bays, notably Somes Sound, connected with the ocean by an inlet a few rods wide. Only the accessible harbors have been utilized by man, and but few of these are, even to-day. At the head of one of these, and forming the only safe harbor of the Isle au Haut, there cl.u.s.tered a little fishing hamlet forty years ago, the largest house of which was one occupied by Captain Obed Pullen, a retired sea captain, his wife, two sons--Frank and Obed, Jr., and one daughter.

The house was a white, square, two-story one with a flat roof built with bulwarks around it, having portholes like those of a man-of-war. There was a small yard in front surrounded by a board fence, and on a knoll just back of the house was a small enclosure containing a few white headstones. Captain Pullen, having ama.s.sed sufficient of this world's goods, lived in peaceful seclusion, far removed from the worldly strife he wished to avoid. With his two sons, he tilled a few acres of land. He fished a little as a pastime, and visited the mainland but seldom. He was a blunt-spoken, but warm-hearted man, with s.h.a.ggy white beard and hair, and a voice and handshake as hearty as a gale of wind.

To this abode of simple cordiality and good will, one summer day, and by invitation of the old captain's son Frank, came our battle-scarred and love-lorn friend Manson. He and young Pullen had much in common, for both loved the sea, and their friendship, formed when both were environed by the dangers of war, made them now the most affectionate of friends. Manson found himself at once welcomed by the entire family as a valued friend and one whom they all seemed proud to entertain.

"We don't put on style down here," said the old captain to him at the first meal, and in a voice that made the dishes rattle, "but we're right glad to see ye, and we'll give ye some fun if the wind holds out. Be ye fond o' fishin'?"

As fishing was a mania with Manson, and as his opportunities had been limited to the peaceful seclusion of brooks, or the calm waters of mill ponds, it is needless to say that he admitted he was fond of that sport.

"Frank tells me," continued the captain with blunt directness, "that ye have got a sweetheart ye left to come here visitin', but ye best quit thinkin' 'bout her if ye go fishin'."

Whether our young friend did or not does not matter; but it is certain that the days which followed, pa.s.sed amid such surroundings, were red letter ones in his history. With two young men of about his own age for companions, a trim and staunch fishing sloop with cabin and cooking conveniences ready at hand, and nothing to do but sail and fish, or explore the wild sh.o.r.es and fir-clad islands all about, was like a new world to him. One day it was a fishing trip and a chowder party composed of the entire family; and the next a frolic in an island grove where the young men dug clams on a bit of sandy sh.o.r.e and afterward steamed them among the rocks. Such opportunities were new to him, and with kind friends near, and a feeling that he was thoroughly welcome in their home added to the marvel of enchantment; while all about, the ever-present sea made him almost forget the vexing problem of his future.

"It's like a visit to a fairy land," he said one day to his friend Frank, as they were slowly drifting past a low green island. It was nearly sundown, and the breeze had almost died away, so that the sloop barely moved through the unruffled waters and every tree and rock on the near-by sh.o.r.e was reflected clear and distinct. "To me," he continued, "it is an entrance into an old-time wonder world, and to sail for hours among these islands or in sight of sh.o.r.es where not a house or even a fish hut is visible, makes it seem as if we were explorers first visiting a new land. When we pa.s.s the entrance to some deep cove I half expect to see an Indian paddling a canoe up into it, or spy a deer watching us out of a thicket. My ideas of the ocean have been obtained where islands are few, and pa.s.sing ships or houses along sh.o.r.e are always visible. Here it is so solitary. We seldom see a vessel and not more than two or three small craft in an all day's cruise."

"That's the best of it," explained Frank, "you have it all to yourself.

But it's different in winter. You have too much of it to yourself then.

Altogether too much, for we are prisoners on the island for weeks at a time, and that graveyard up back of the house makes it seem worse. I wish you could come down here next fall and stay all winter. We don't do a thing but eat and sleep or go ash.o.r.e once a month for papers, and"--laughing--"just think of what a good chance you would have to get acquainted with your wife!"

Manson was silent. The suggestion opened a vein of vexatious thought in connection with his dilemma that was not pleasant.

"Just think it over," continued Frank, not noticing his silence; "dad and mother would be ever so glad to have you, and so would sis, if your sweetheart ain't stuck up; is she?"

"No," replied Manson, "she's just a sensible, everyday sort of a girl, and as sweet and loving as you can imagine. Your folks would like her, I think, and I am sure she would like them."

"Why didn't you splice and bring her along in the first place?" said Frank, laughing. "I wish you had, and then you wouldn't be looking for Injuns in every cove. Do you remember the night we saw a man walking on fog and thought it was a ghost, and how ten minutes after that same ghost took a shot at us?"

"I do," answered Manson, looking serious as the memory of that experience came back, "and I recall the next night, too, when we sat by the camp fire and swapped ghost stories, and you told me about a haunted island down here. Where is it?"

"Do you see that little patch of green away out beyond Spoon Island?"

answered Frank, pointing seaward. "Well, that's the famous Pocket Island that I told you about, and the abiding-place of not only a bellowing bull's ghost, but lots of others as well. When we are likely to have a good spell of weather I am going to take you out there and" (with a laugh) "give you a chance to satisfy your mania for ghost hunting, for I believe that is one of your hobbies."

"Well, not so much as it was when we carried a musket," said Manson, "for I am not as superst.i.tious as I was then. Still, I want to see your haunted island just the same and hear that strange noise. Is there a harbor there where we can run in?"

"Yes, and a queer freak of nature it is, too," answered Frank, "but I do not know the channel in, and would not dare to try to enter. All I can do is to wait for a fair day and lay outside while Obed takes you ash.o.r.e."

That night when Manson had retired he lay awake a long time thinking over the interesting impressions made upon him by his visit, and especially the suggestion that he at some time should bring Liddy down here as his wife! That alone was such an entrancing thought that he could not go to sleep when he tried to. What a new world it would be to take her into, and what supreme delight to show her these beautiful islands and placid coves, and the bold cliffs at the foot of which the white-crested billows were beating! How he would enjoy seeing her open her big, blue eyes with wonder and sweet surprise at all the grand and beautiful bits of scenery and all the magic and mystery of the ocean, far removed from man!

"Some day I will bring her here," he thought, and then he fell asleep and dreamed he heard the ominous sound of some monster bellowing in anger.

CHAPTER XXIII.

BIG SPOON ISLAND.

The next morning our young friends prepared for a three days' trip on their little sloop. For a week they had discussed it and had carefully considered when it was best to go.

"I want to wait till the moon fulls," Frank had said, "for then the weather will be better, and as our friend Manson is in a romantic frame of mind, he will enjoy it all the more."

Everything likely to be needed was put on board their boat; provisions, water, extra clothing, guns, fishing gear, and also, it must be said, a bottle of good old whiskey, for on such a trip it might be even more needful than food.

"We will take along the banjo," Obed said, for he was quite an expert with that cheerful instrument, "and evenings we can have some darkey songs."

"What is the program?" asked Manson, when everything was stowed, the sails set, and with Frank at the helm they were gliding out of the little island harbor. "Where are we going?"

"Well," replied Frank, "I think we will run to Big Spoon Island first and try for mackerel. There is a nice little harbor there if it comes on to blow, and two miles out are some good cod grounds. I suppose you would like to visit Pocket Island?"

"I would like to just call there," said Manson, "for you have excited my curiosity. I have a weakness for ghost hunting, you told me once, and now you must gratify it, you see."

There is, perhaps, no pleasanter way for three or four young men to spend a day or two than to have a tidy little yacht all to themselves, and sail her away off among the Maine coast islands, with a summer day breeze and clear skies to cheer them.

To feel themselves just lifted over the broad ground swells, ruffled by a light wind that smells sweet and crisp; to watch some distant green island gradually coming nearer, or the seagulls lighting on the water just ahead, or the white clouds in the blue sky, and with no sense of danger, but only the care-free buoyancy of youth and good spirits, is to many the very acme of enjoyment. At least, it was to Manson, to whom such an experience was entirely new. When they reached Spoon Island he went into raptures over it, for it was a rarity, even among the many beautiful ones he had visited. As its name implied, it was shaped like a spoon, about five hundreds rods long and formed of white sand, with a growth of green sedge gra.s.s all over it. On the broadest part was a cl.u.s.ter of spruce forming a little thicket and beside this, and entered by a narrow inlet the tiniest bit of a harbor, just large enough to shelter a small sloop. The seagulls had also discovered its beauty, for thousands hovered about it, and the small harbor was alive with them.

The island was a favorite nesting-place for them as well, and their shrill cries at being disturbed almost obliterated the voice of the ocean.

"We will anchor under the lee," said Frank, as they drew near, "and try for mackerel, and then run into the harbor, make everything snug, and stay here to-night, or"--with a droll look at Manson--"perhaps you would prefer to go to Pocket Island and have ghosts for company!"