Pocket Island
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Charles Clark Munn >> Pocket Island
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When the autumn days and returning health came to Manson, sunshine
seemed to once more smile upon the lives of our two young friends, and
how happy they were during the all too short evenings spent together in
Liddy's newly furnished parlor, need not be described. It was no longer
a courtship, but rather a loving discussion of future plans in life, for
each felt bound by an obligation stronger even than love, and how many
charming air castles they built out of the firelight flashes shall not
be told. In a way, Liddy was a heroine among the little circle of her
schoolmates and friends, and deserved to be, for few there were among
them who could have found the strength to have faced the ghastly scenes
she had, from a sense of duty.
"I do not care to talk about it," she said once to one of those who had
been near her in the old days at the academy; "it all came so suddenly I
did not stop to think, and if I had it would have made no difference. I
did not think of myself at all, or what I was to meet. How horrible it
was to be thrust among hundreds of wounded and dying men; to hear what I
had to, and see what I did, I cannot describe and do not wish to. Under
the same circumstances," she added quietly, "I should face that awful
experience over again if necessary."
Life and all its plans practically resolve themselves into a question of
income finally, and no matter how well aimed Cupid's darts may be, the
almighty dollar and the ability to obtain possession of it, is of
greater weight in the scale than all the arrows the boy-god ever
carried. Even as an academy boy Manson had realized this; faintly at
first, and yet with growing force, as his attachment for Liddy
increased. With a certain pride in character he had resolved to withhold
any declaration of love until he had at least a settled occupation in
life; but when it came to going to war and parting, perhaps forever,
from the girl he loved, to longer remain silent was to control himself
beyond his strength. Now that she had shown how much his life meant to
her by an act of devotion and self-sacrifice so unusual, his ambition to
obtain a home that he could invite her to share, returned with redoubled
force. What to do, or where to turn, he did not know. He was not even
recuperated from the terrible ordeal that had so nearly cost him his
life; but for all that his ambition was spurring him onward far in
advance of his strength. One evening late that autumn, when he found
himself unexpectedly alone with Mr. Camp, he said:
"I have for some time wished to express to you my hopes and ask your
advice regarding my future plans. First, I want to ask you for Liddy,
and beyond that, what I had best turn to to obtain a livelihood. I want
Liddy, and I want a home to keep her in."
Mr. Camp looked at him a moment, while a droll smile crept into his
face, and then replied:
"I am willing you should have Liddy, of course. I wouldn't have taken
her to that hospital to try to save your life if I hadn't believed you
worthy of her; but beyond that I don't think I have much to say in the
matter anyway. I couldn't keep you apart if I would, and I wouldn't if
I could." And then he added a little more seriously: "She is all I have
left in my life, and whatever plans you two make, I hope you will
consider that."
Manson was silent. The perfect confidence and simple pathos of Mr.
Camp's statement came to him forcibly, and made him realize how much he
was asking. He meditated a few moments, and then said:
"I feel that I am asking for more than I deserve, and that I owe you far
more than I can ever repay, but believe me, I shall do all in my power."
"We won't worry about that now," replied Mr. Camp, smiling again; "wait
till your arm is well, and then we will talk it all over. In the
meantime"--and a twinkle came into his eyes--"you have one well arm, and
I guess that's all Liddy needs just at present."
The autumn and winter evenings sped by on wings of wind to Liddy and her
lover, for all the sweet illusions of life were theirs. Occasionally
they called on some of their old schoolmates, or were invited to social
gatherings, and how proud she was of her manly escort, and he of the
fair girl he felt was all his own, need not be told.
One day in the spring Mr. Camp said to Manson: "How would you like to be
a farmer?"
"I have no objections," he replied; "my father is one, and there is no
reason why I should be ashamed of it. It means hard work, but I am used
to that. I am ready and willing to do anything to earn an honest
living."
Mr. Camp looked at him for a moment reflectively, and then said:
"That has the right ring in it, my boy," and after thinking a little
longer added: "I'll tell you what I'll do. Charles, if you can get Liddy
to set the day I will give her a deed of the house and you a deed of the
farm, provided you two will take care of me. That's fair, isn't it?"
Then he added, with a smile, "I guess you can coax her consent if you
try hard."
The proposition was so unexpected and surprising that for a moment
Manson could not speak, and then, when it all came to him, and he saw
the door of his dream of happiness opened wide by such an offer, the
tears almost started. For one instant he was in danger of yielding, but
he recovered himself.
"No mere words can possibly express my gratitude, sir," he replied, "but
I could not accept so much. All I ask for, and all I will accept is
Liddy, and that is enough. To let you give me your farm would make me
feel that I was robbing you. I could not do it, sir."
And then, as he saw a look of pain come into his would-be benefactor's
face, he continued: "Now, I will tell you what I am willing, and should
be more than glad to do. Let Liddy and me keep house for you, and I will
manage the farm, under your direction. That is enough, and all I can
accept."
"I respect your feeling of independence," replied Mr. Camp, a little
sadly, "but it won't work. A young man, to be content, must feel that he
has a home that is, or soon will be, all his own. I do not want to put a
burden on your feelings, but I want to make both you and my child happy,
and"--with a little tremor in his voice--"I've only got Liddy to care
for me in my old age, and it's hard to give her up. Can't you believe
what I offer is wisest and best? Would it make you feel any better to
give me a note and pay it when you chose? I would never ask you for it."
That evening when the lovers sat under the freshly leaved maples, he
told her what her father had offered.
"I've known it for some time," she said, "and I feared you would feel
hurt and refuse it, and hurt father, and I hope you did not. Put
yourself in father's place," she continued seriously, "and tell me how
you would feel. Remember that I am all he has to love and care for him,
and he is very dear to me. He would not hurt you for the world, and what
he thinks is the best way I believe _is_ the best."
"I will think it over," was Manson's comment. "It's so sudden and
overwhelming I do not know what to say or do. I can't see a way out of
it, either," he went on reflectively. "I want you and I want a home to
keep you in, all our own, but how, or where it's coming from, I can't
see. Then it's too much to ask him to give you up."
He paused, and leaning over and resting his face on his hands, continued
rather sadly:
"I guess it would have been just as well if you had left me to die in
the hospital."
It was a cruel remark and he saw it in an instant, for he said quickly:
"Forgive me, I didn't mean that. I've got you and two hands to work
with, and that's hope enough. Give me time and I'll solve the problem,
never fear!"
When they parted she put one arm around his neck and whispered:
"It's the old vocation enigma over again, Charlie, isn't it? But don't
let it make you miserable, and don't ever say such a thing as that you
just said again. Do you know, when I came to you in the hospital that
morning, I had not slept one moment for two long days and nights! Now
try and be happy to pay me for it, and remember:
"'The happiest life that ever was led
Is always to court and never to wed.'"
Then she kissed him, in her tender way, and if he did not think she was
right, it was because he was like most young men who don't know when
they are well off and happy.
CHAPTER XXI.
BLUE HILL.
Three years from the day Manson led Liddy to the carriage, blinded by
tears and heart broken at the separation in store, they once more
visited that dearly loved spot. It was a place more sacred to them than
a church, for it had been hallowed by the tears of love and sanctified
by the noblest impulses of two honest and true hearts. It was far
removed from all the vain pomp and display of humanity and the sordid
and selfish influences of life. To Liddy and her lover it was a spot
that appealed to all that was holiest and best in their natures, and
lifted them above selfish thought.
"Can you realize how I felt," Manson said on the way, "the day I rode in
silence up here and then told you I had enlisted?"
"No," she answered; "no more than you can imagine how I felt. I think I
suffered the more, for I was in suspense and you were not. That makes
me think of a question I have long wanted to ask you. You won't mind
now, will you?" she continued with a smile and a twinkle in her eyes.
"Why did you tell the bad news first and propose afterward? Why didn't
you pop the question first?"
"I thought you would be more apt to say 'yes' if I put it the way I
did."
"I think you knew it wouldn't be 'no,'" she said. "I knew that was
coming weeks before."
"You did," he replied, a little surprised. "How did you know?"
"Do you think I was blind?" she answered archly. "A girl usually knows
when that question is liable to come for months beforehand, and if it is
to be 'no' the man in the case will have hard work to obtain a good
opportunity."
When they were seated beside the rock once more she said: "Now, sir,
three years ago I told you we must feel and act like children one day up
here, and you minded me very well; but it was hard work, I think. It was
for me, I am sure."
"It will be easier to-day," he responded, "for I've only one thing to
worry about, and that is the proposition your father made."
She looked at him a moment, and in her eyes he saw a little of the same
humorous twinkle he had at one time noticed in her father's eyes, and
then she said:
"Suppose I should say I would not marry you until you had a home of your
own to take me to; how would that seem?"
"I would not blame you," he answered soberly; "only you would have to
see clouds on my face a long time, I fear."
"Oh, I haven't said so yet," she continued as she saw one gathering
there then, "only I thought it might make you see father's proposition
in a new light. Poor father," she went on musingly, "he wants to make us
both happy, and he doesn't know how to bring it about."
"Why can't he accept my plan, then?" said Manson. "I am ready and
willing."
"But I haven't said I was," responded Liddy. "I am not sure that I want
people to think my husband is working for my father on the farm. Oh, I
didn't mean it that way," as she saw a frown coming, "only I have some
pride as well as you; that is all. Now, Charlie, please don't say
another word about it to-day. Remember, we are children!"
Then she told him about her lone visit to this spot a year before, and
how it affected her.
"Do you know," she explained, "I was terribly scared, and I imagined I
heard ghostly footsteps all around here, and when I reached home I was
as pale as a ghost myself."
"It was a foolish thing to do," he said, "and a silly promise for me to
exact."
"I should have kept it just the same," was her answer, "as long as I
lived."
At noon he rebuilt the little lattice table, and after the dainty dinner
was disposed of, they gathered flowers, picked wintergreen, wove wreaths
for each other's hats and talked silly nothings for hours, and enjoyed
it, too, as lovers will. Late in the afternoon, when tired of this, he
arranged the carriage robe and cushions beside the rock and asked her to
sit beside him. It was a preliminary to some serious utterance, she
felt, for he at once remarked:
"Liddy, I've something to tell you."
She looked at him for a moment, while a smile crept into her face, and
then said:
"Now, Charlie, if you have any more startling or painful things to tell
me, don't bring me up here first, or I shall always dread to come."
"Was my confession of love, made here, painful?" he remarked.
"Of course not," she answered, "nor startling, either, for, as I told
you, I knew that was coming. But the other part of it nearly broke my
heart. You must have thought me silly!"
How earnestly, and in what manner he assured her she did not act silly
on that occasion, but was the sweetest and dearest girl that ever lived,
need not be specified. When that little episode was over and she had
adjusted her hat, she said:
"Now tell me your story, Charlie."
"Well," he replied, "one night nearly two years ago I was on picket
duty, and I made the acquaintance of a young fellow by the name of Frank
Pullen, who belonged to a Maine regiment. We kept up an acquaintance for
two months and in that time became very good friends. We were in much
the same state of mind, for he, too, had a waiting sweetheart at home,
and when we separated we each promised to write to the other, if we
lived to do so. His father is a retired sea captain, and well-to-do, and
lives in a little out-of-the-way place in Maine. A month ago I received
a letter from Frank and an urgent invitation to visit him, and I've
promised to do so."
"That's nice," said Liddy regretfully, "to be told I am to be left alone
all summer! The next time you ask me up here I shall say: 'Tell me the
bad news first!'"
"Liddy," he replied seriously, "it's not for a pleasure trip that I am
going. He knows how I am situated and a good deal about my hopes and
plans, and he has promised to help me."
She was silent, for this opened a new field of conjecture and for a long
time she mused upon it, and at last said:
"I do not see how his assistance will help matters much, do you?"
"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 assurance 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 shores 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 shores 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 shores 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 shore 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 ashore 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 clustered 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 amassed 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 shaggy 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, passed 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 shores 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 shore 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 shore 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 shores 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 pass 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 passing ships or houses along shore 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 ashore 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 superstitious 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
ashore."
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!
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