by Van Reid
Philbrook dearly loved his daughter, but he was content to let his wife conduct Fretty’s education in matters of courtship. He hardly understood the dynamics by which his own wooing had come to fruition and had only a vague memory of his and Tabitha’s engagement and marriage. He hadn’t a notion of what Tabitha was talking about when she instructed their daughter. “Can’t she just wear a pretty dress and smile at people?” he had asked when, passing through the parlor one day, he overheard some of these strategies. Fretty had said, “Daddy!” Tabitha had simply enunciated her husband’s name with an indulgent laugh. Philbrook had rolled his eyes, retrieved his newspaper, and gone back to the more rudimentary matters of politics and high finance.
The host of the June Ball was content to let matters run their course as regarded his daughter. He trusted that he would in time be provided with a fairly presentable son-in-law from well-to-do stock. It was all too predictable to interest him very much, and he had distracted himself already by picking the principals for the night.
Philbrook had that lucky knack for carrying on a conversation about one or another of the standard topics—the aforesaid politics and high finance—while occupying the bulk of his mind with the immediate and physical world around him. He fulfilled his duties, greeting the patriarchs and providers of other clans, trading observations about the ball and its participants, commenting about the weather, forecasting the fate of the local ball team and politicians. The mayor himself was there with his wife and daughter, “mending gossip,” as Philbrook’s mother used to say. The mayor’s brother-in-law had recently run afoul of the state’s laws against the sale and consumption of liquorous spirits, and the mayor had come under hot criticism for using his position to rescue his fallen in-law, but a certain amount of palm pressing and a hearty laugh or two did much to cloud people’s memories.
Philbrook was amenable to having his ear bent, and he chuckled with the mayor and bowed over the hand of the mayor’s wife. The mayor was not particularly corrupt, beyond the generally accepted bounds of nepotism, but politics are by nature like the iceberg that reveals only the smallest portion of itself above the surface of the water. There was a good deal of the mayor below the surface, and the present crisis would prove a small storm in his career, once the initial gusts had blown themselves out.
It was while laughing at one of the mayor’s jokes (one that he would not recall at evening’s end) that Philbrook saw one of the Moosepath League dance past with Mrs. Allglow—a three-time widow and notorious flirt, who was no doubt casting the roiling waters of the ball for a fourth husband.
Philbrook was fascinated by this Moosepath society (it wasn’t a brotherhood inasmuch as a woman purportedly was part of its cadre). And this Ephram fellow had the appearance of an inexperienced juggler—his limbs stiff with effort, his mouth slack with concentration. Mr. Ephram’s hand occasionally touched his partner’s waist, and each time he might have received a static shock for the sudden jump of his eyebrows. Soon Mr. Ephram and Mrs. Allglow swirled into the eddy of dancers and disappeared.
“So Francis said to me,” the mayor was saying, “he said, ‘I can’t ask Mr. Williamson that! He’s a deacon at church!’ ” and the mayor lifted his ruddy face and let out a great roar. “A deacon at church!” he said again, and several people who had not heard the anecdote were encouraged to laugh simply by his conspicuous jollity. Philbrook laughed also, and not insincerely. He knew enough of the actors in the story to appreciate the punchline without having taken in the entire tale that led to it.
Then Mr. Eagleton, the blond Moosepathian, whirled into view with Mrs. Nostrum in his tentative clutch. Mrs. Nostrum was another woman bereft of husband and only a little less obviously looking for the next than was Mrs. Allglow. Mr. Eagleton looked like a man who has had snow fall under his collar and doesn’t dare move for fear of sending the chilly melt down his back, but Mrs. Nostrum was unconcerned for her frightened partner and animated enough for the both of them. They, too, moved out of Philbrook’s view as other dancers made the rounds of the ballroom floor.
Philbrook was fascinated! Everyone in town was talking about the Moosepath League and marveling how, only last week, the members of the club had appeared at the terrible fire in Iceboro with a small army of hobos in tow to help save the town. Apparently Messrs. Ephram, Eagleton, and Thump had proved men of quick thought and action and no little pluck, though they had appeared so uncertain of themselves to Philbrook out on the portico and a deal more uncertain in the arms of these wealthy widows.
“So Williamson said to me,” the mayor was saying, “he said, ‘One should never be businesslike about one’s religion or religious about one’s business.’ ”
“Ah, yes,” said Philbrook, smiling and nodding.
“Businesslike about religion and religious about business,” said a newcomer to the conversation. “I like that.”
Philbrook continued to nod, but here came Mr. Thump! and what a remarkable catch the bearded fellow had made! or rather, what a remarkable catch he had been made of! Mrs. Pleasance was not a widow at all, though she was perhaps as much on the lookout for something like a husband as the first two ladies. Once considered one of the beauties and fine wits of the city, she had been married off (it was commonly agreed) to a lout in order to save her own family from bankruptcy (a famous scandal!). What had once been lovely about her had turned a tad bit hard; what once had been wry and admirable in her humor had fluctuated to the calculating and predatory.
With his extraordinary brush of beard, Mr. Thump looked like some mammalian prey in the clutches of Mrs. Pleasance. He, too, was swept into the general stream and disappeared. Mrs. Pleasance was still a fairly stunning woman, but Philbrook did not envy Mr. Thump—much.
Then his eyes were snagged by the two young principals of his imaginary tale. How did that happen? he wondered. Had he misread all these people? This young man and woman had seemed to him mutually enamored, completely unaware of each other’s admiration, and about equally petrified. Now they came out of the crowd, she on his arm, he looking affable as he pulled a face and said something that made her smile. They looked like old companions, blessed with the sort of friendship that the happiest couples comprehend.
But he soon realized that they had not been dancing, and their being together at this moment was a surprise, perhaps a shock, to them both. They were putting a brave face on the situation, the young man staring off, hoping to formulate another complete sentence, the young woman looking down at her feet, still smiling, but not as easily as Philbrook had first thought. They were walking more stiffly than was initially apparent, too, and after some awkward decision-making, they approached one of the punch tables.
“So Williamson got up at the next board meeting,” the mayor was saying, “and he took a collection plate from behind his seat and gave a little speech about tithing. They said Francis looked as if he’d been kicked by a horse!”
The mayor was laughing again, along with his wife and several other listeners, but Philbrook had lost track of the tale, which seemed convoluted. He nodded again, indicating just how much he liked this part of the recitation by way of old-fashioned Yankee underreaction. “I hope you folks enjoy the evening,” said the host. “I must go perform my duties.”
“Yes, Philbrook, of course,” said the mayor, who may have suspected he was losing the man’s attention.
Mr. Morrell shook hands with everyone in the immediate vicinity again and made his way toward the punch table in hopes of having a better vantage from which to view his chosen principals.
18. Charmed
“Mr. Ephram,” declared Mrs. Allglow when Ephram had announced the hour for perhaps the fifth time, “I believe you are endeavoring to make me laugh.”
“Good heavens!” said Ephram. “I wouldn’t presume, ma’am.”
Then she did laugh, and so close to his ear that the hair at the nape of his neck rose up. She had a deep and mellifluous voice, and when she was amused, those robust notes contrasted p
leasingly with her delicate, if not youthful, features. There was something equally robust in her eye when she considered Ephram, and this did nothing to calm his nerves.
It did occur to Ephram that his duty was done and that a swift and honorable retreat was called for, but Airs. Allglow (or Airs. Charmed, as he continued to think of her) had a seemingly casual grip upon his arm, and they were standing by themselves in a relatively shadowed comer of the ballroom. The orchestra had commenced the beautiful waltz from Gounod’s Faust, and he watched for his fellow Moosepathians among the elegant couples dancing by, but as it fell out, Eagleton and Thump had finished the previous dance in other corners of the room and were struggling with similar issues.
“Have I understood the rumors about you correctly?” asked the lady.
“Rumors?” said Ephram.
“That you are a member of this club everyone is talking about?”
“Really?” said Ephram. “I mean, I beg your pardon?”
“The Moosepath League, isn’t it?”
“Yes, certainly.”
“Oh, you dear fellows! How gallant you are!”
“Oh, my, that’s very—” He was searching for words.
“Modern,” she said with a sly smile.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I say, you’re very modern.”
“Are we?”
“With a woman in your lists?”
“Miss McCannon, yes. I mean, Mrs. Walton.” Ephram had never thought of himself or the club as modern; it seemed so indefinite.
“The men view you with some misgiving, certainly, but we women are sure you’re wonderful.” Ephram caught that robust glint in Mrs. Charmed’s eye again and let out a sound that was very like one of Thump’s Hmmms.
“Mr. Ephram?” came a new and (to the Moosepathian) welcome voice. A young woman, dressed a bit less lavishly than some of the other guests and holding a pencil and notebook, approached Ephram and Mrs. Allglow from out of the nearest group of talkers at the perimeter of the dance floor. “Mr. Ephram?” she said again.
Ephram bowed deeply.
“I’m Jenny Darwin. Eastern Argus. The social column.”
“Oh?” Something about this information surprised Ephram.
“Mrs. Ephram?” the young woman asked with a smile.
“No, no!” said Ephram, who then realized that he was perhaps too zealous in the correction. He looked from Mrs. Allglow to Miss Darwin and back again with such an expression of astonishment that the young woman could be forgiven for thinking that she had interrupted an intrigue. “This is Mrs. Charmed,” said Ephram.
Mrs. Allglow looked surprised to hear it.
“Charmed,” said Miss Darwin, not sure that she had heard correctly.
“Thank you,” said Ephram, who was not sure what he had done to be so addressed. “The pleasure is mine.”
Now Miss Darwin looked surprised. In fact, all three of them looked so surprised that several people in other circles began to watch the ensuing conversation with immense curiosity.
“I believe that Mr. Ephram is having some fun with you,” said the older woman, who did not mind suggesting that the younger woman was beneath his serious attention.
“Oh?” said Miss Darwin, looking vaguely offended.
“I am?” said Ephram, looking more than vaguely at sea.
“The name is Allglow,” said the older woman.
“No, no,” said the Moosepathian. “It’s Ephram!”
“My dear Mr. Ephram,” said Mrs. Allglow with an indulgent smile. She almost laughed at his antics and may have looked and sounded to Miss Darwin like a wife gently chastising her husband for too much levity.
Clearly, Miss Darwin was to receive very little in the way of information from this fellow. She turned to Mrs. Allglow, pencil poised over notebook, and said, “Mrs. Ephram.”
“Charmed!” shouted Ephram, so that even people dancing could hear him over the music. A rumor began to circulate that the young woman to whom he was communicating was slightly deaf, and another story gaining momentum was that a romantic triangle had come to a sudden point, as it were, though experts on the subject disagreed which of the women in the affair was the injured party. “No, no,” some said about Mrs. Allglow, “she’s much older than he,” and “No, no,” said others about Miss Darwin, “she’s much too young.” Still others who could name one or more of the parties involved suspected even deeper waters.
Eagleton was shocked when the story traveled to his corner, where he was nervously keeping company with Mrs. Nostrum. (He would have been more shocked if the names of the participants had made the journey.) “Good heavens!” he said when an otherwise idle fellow informed him and Mrs. Nostrum of the scene that was playing out at the other end of the ballroom.
“Gussie Davis,” said the man to Eagleton, offering his hand.
“Christopher Eagleton,” said the blond Moosepathian.
Mr. Davis inclined his head toward Mrs. Nostrum. “Your charming wife?” he asked.
“No, no,” said Eagleton. “Mrs. Delighted.”
19. Priscilla
“Punch has been served,” announced Cordelia when she returned from her errand.
“Thank you,” Priscilla mouthed to her cousin, but when Cordelia was close enough, she said quietly, “Was my mother white as a ghost?”
“Pale enough, I should say, and rather startled to see me.”
“Oh, dear,” said Priscilla, looking crestfallen. “Perhaps I should go to her.”
Sundry stood a small distance away and politely appeared unaware or uninterested in their tête-a-tête. Dresden stood closer, with his arms folded, and if he looked every bit the fish out of water, he was (in Sundry’s later characterization) “a pretty big trout.” The ball could last only so long, and it was not going to daunt Dresden Scott.
Cordelia took her fiancé’s arm without looking at him and said with definite emphasis to her cousin, “Priscilla, I dearly love your mother, but you can’t live in a shadow all your life.”
“She is,” said Priscilla sadly.
“God bless her,” said Cordelia. “She thinks she’s doing right by you, I know.”
“No, I don’t think she does,” said Priscilla. It was a terrible admission, and she couldn’t say why she let it out just then and in such a public place; perhaps that is exactly why she had let it out, for she could say it yet be obliged by her surroundings not to think about it or cry or look bitter. Cordelia studied her beloved cousin’s face and wondered what exactly Priscilla had meant. “She doesn’t,” said Priscilla. “She doesn’t think she’s doing right at all, and that’s what makes her miserable. She’s just afraid to lose Ethan and me. Ever since Daddy died, she’s clutched at us like a drowning person.”
“She wouldn’t lose you, would she,” said Cordelia softly.
“She might, on her present course.”
Cordelia shook her head. She leaned closer, looking less somber, and said, “And think what a nice son-in-law she’d get.”
“Cord! Please!”
“He can’t hear us.”
“It doesn’t matter. It’s foolish—”
“Why?”
“I’ve met him twice before tonight, Cord.”
“Mr. Scott believes that he fell in love with me when he saw me in my bare feet, and that was the second time we met.”
“I always said you had pretty feet,” said Priscilla with a short laugh.
“And I have never disagreed with you. But notice that he didn’t fall in love with me when he saw my face.”
“A lot of people here,” Dresden was saying to Sundry. He did his best not to hear the women’s conversation, his arms still folded and Cordelia upon one elbow; this dialogue could last only so long, and it was not going to daunt Dresden Scott.
“I wonder if there is any one person who knows everybody,” said Sundry.
Dresden considered this with a frown. Priscilla almost laughed to see him looking as solemn as a cigar store Indian. Under he
r breath, she said to Cordelia, “Bare feet! Don’t tell my mother!”
Sundry glanced at Priscilla just as she was saying this. She was smiling conspiratorially, looking particularly winsome, and this vision, added to the unfamiliar milieu of the ball and the accurate perception that there were those close to her who would think little of his wooing, suddenly felt too large and daunting. Sundry’s chest was weighted, and his breath came hard. There was a moment when he thought everything would be a good deal less complicated if he simply excused himself, went outside, and hailed a cab; he was considering several possible reasons why he might have to leave when he was aware that the ballroom was growing quiet.
In fact, the musicians had been silent for a minute or so before the guests thought to turn and see what was going to happen next. Three or four hundred people were in attendance, and it was a great, grand assembly that waited upon the orchestra leader as he mounted the dais to announce his hope that an ovation from everyone might encourage Mr. Sampson Wyngarde, a celebrated tenor among them, to step forward and join the orchestra in a song. There was no doubt about the general consensus, and after a roar of applause a pleasant-appearing gentleman separated himself from the crowd and mounted the dais to shake hands with the orchestra leader.
Sundry was almost relieved. An artificial break in the evening’s mood had been provided for him, and he had a moment of comparative quiet in which to explain that he must leave.
The orchestra leader and the singer conferred briefly. Then the leader returned to the floor and faced both singer and musicians.