Mrs. Roberto - Or the Widowy Worries of the Moosepath League

by Van Reid

  “I would indeed,” said Ephram.

  “Thump?”

  “Hmmm,” said Thump.

  “And what an unusual likeness,” added Eagleton as they climbed the steps of the Shipswood Restaurant.

  “Yes,” said Thump.

  “Those other gentlemen were rather shy,” observed Ephram.

  “Nice fellows, however,” said Eagleton.

  “Yes,” agreed Ephram. He held the door. “I hope we meet them again someday.”

  “Look at that and tell me it wasn’t planned! Brave, trying to stop him, they say! They paid the driver, too.” As the cab drove off, Fuzz Hadley stepped back from the corner building on Union “Wharf and watched it pass. He’d never imagined that Thaddeus had friends, not to say relations, in high places. It was a neat thing, their arriving the way they did; Fuzz almost had to admire it. “Jimmy,” he said. “You stay here and follow those gents as best you can.”

  “Okay, Fuzz, but they seemed to know what they were doing.”

  Fuzz grunted. “So do I.”

  “They weren’t a bit fearful,” said Peacock.

  They hadn’t been, it was true, and if Fuzz Hadley was nervous about anything, it was of anyone who was not nervous about Fuzz Hadley—that and the cops.

  “I thought I was cross-eyed when I saw the two of them standing there,” said Jimmy.

  Fuzz shot a look at Peacock Hope, who usually had something high-falutin to say. “Every line in all the marked and singular lineaments of the one were the most absolute identity of the other,” said Peacock, which did not disappoint but, as usual, irritated Fuzz and confused him.

  “You think they’re meaning to take over?” wondered Tony Sutter, after he and the others had thought about Peacock’s observation without much success.

  “If they do, they’ve got a war on their hands,” said Fuzz.

  “What’ll you do, Fuzz?”

  Fuzz thought about it but could only come up with “I’ll think of something.”

  They nodded at one another. Fuzz would think of something.

  “Hankie, you’d better stay with Jimmy.”

  “Okay, Fuzz,” sniffed a gangly fellow, who was drawing a handkerchief beneath his nose.

  “Jimmy.”

  “Yes, Fuzz.”

  “Keep them close. If they take a cab, be sure to listen up where they’re going.” Fuzz nodded to the remainder of his retinue and ambled back onto the sidewalk. He headed west on Commercial Street but cast his eyes two or three times over his shoulder at the Shipswood Restaurant till it had dwindled from sight.

  2. A Bill of Fare

  The crowd at the Shipswood restaurant was bright with the spring weather, and the proprietor, Mr. Pliny, made the round of tables and played the gracious host while a violinist rendered sweet notes at the back of the main room. The restaurant was nearly filled to capacity, and everyone noticed when the first of the Moosepath League arrived to claim their usual table.

  Laughter and cheer followed Mister Walton as he led the way through the dining room, and the humor he induced with a smile here and a happy jest there spread like a wake in good-natured ripples. The presence of Miss McCannon on his arm spread another, quieter ripple among the diners.

  Phileda McCannon was five or six years younger than Mister Walton, who was soon to be forty-eight himself, and her straight and slender carriage made her seem younger still. Her dress inclined toward the plain, which only enhanced her natural grace and energy, and her features, which might have seemed plain in youth (particularly to herself), had in middle age aspired successfully to the attractive. In short, and as so often happens, the outer person had aligned itself to the inner till there was something so particular about her that men, whatever their age, found much to admire. She wore spectacles not unlike Mister Walton’s, but they accomplished something very different upon her face.

  The women diners at the Shipswood extended their hands as Miss McCannon was introduced, and the men stood and bowed. Mister Walton had rarely enjoyed anything so much as he enjoyed being seen with Phileda McCannon. Phileda, for her part, rather glowed.

  Sundry Moss, Mister Walton’s companion and self-termed gentleman’s gentleman, brought up the rear of the trio. At twenty-three, Sundry was the youngest member of the Moosepath League; long and lanky, he held a readiness about him that had been proven time and again during the short history of the club—an apparent readiness that only added to the agreeable aspect of his features that otherwise may have been a shade less than handsome.

  As was suggested by its name, and by its proximity to the waterfront, the Shipswood Restaurant began its existence with a patronage largely comprised of men who made their living on or by the sea; but the fame of the Shipswood’s cook and the good taste and pleasant nature of its proprietor eventually gave rise to broader commerce, till this very night when it seemed that the customers within were very little concerned with matters nautical and about equally divided between male and female. The atmosphere of the dining room was less blue with the smoke of cigars and pipes than evenings past.

  Once seated, Mister Walton and his companions chatted quietly, till they were conscious of some excitement outside their window. A cab had pulled up before the restaurant with a sudden jerk; the horse reared a bit. Sundry stood to see what was happening. Someone had nearly been run over, it seemed. “It’s the fellow who looks so much like Mr. Thump,” said Sundry.

  “Mr. Spark?” said Mister Walton with concern. He craned his neck to see what was happening. “Is he hurt?”

  “Only startled, I think. And there’s Mr. Eagleton, and Mr. Ephram, and Mr. Thump himself.”

  “I would liked to have seen that meeting,” said Phileda McCannon.

  “It’s happening right now,” said Sundry. “But who are those fellows on the street, and why are they backing away?” Sundry had half a mind to go out and see what was happening but the fellows moving backward had already reached the opposite sidewalk.

  When Ephram, Eagleton, and Thump entered the restaurant, they were in a high degree of excitement. “We have just met the most exceptional fellow,” said Eagleton. “He bore a remarkable resemblance to our Thump, actually. We very nearly ran him down.”

  “Not for that reason, I take it,” said Sundry, but Eagleton did not seem to hear this.

  “We did meet Mr. Spark when we came in,” said Mister Walton with a wry glance toward Sundry.

  “Ever in the fore!” said Ephram. They quite admired Mister Walton’s ability to stay one step ahead.

  Mister Walton chuckled. “I believe it is my midsection that is in the fore these days,” he said, patting this portion of himself.

  Thump did not add much to this colloquy. He had been a little startled by the mirrorlike image of Mr. Spark.

  “Who were those other fellows?” asked Sundry. “The ones walking backward.”

  “I believe,” said Eagleton, “they had attempted to rescue Mr. Spark, who was running in front of our carriage.”

  “I might have guessed they had been chasing him,” said Sundry.

  Mister Walton cocked his head to one side, and Miss McCannon looked ready to ask Sundry to clarify this point, but Ephram said, “I think they were embarrassed when we praised them for their efforts,” and it seemed worthwhile to go on to other subjects.

  Mister Walton invoked the day’s pleasant weather, and they rather expected a forecast from Eagleton but he seemed to be having trouble unfolding his menu. Ephram picked up the skein of thought, however, and impressed his friends by raising his water glass (the State of Maine had been under prohibition against alcohol for some forty-six years by this time) to offer the simple toast: “To Spring.”

  “To Spring!” concurred his companions, and several nearby tables joined them in the salute.

  Ephram stood and raised his glass, saying “Moxie!” which, due to a previous misunderstanding, he and Eagleton and Thump thought to be a common toast. Mister Walton, Sundry, and Miss McCannon, all of whom understood th
is misunderstanding (yet did not have the heart to put it right), joined in heartily with a chorus of “Moxie!” Interestingly, this toast had acquired some fame at the Shipswood and certain tables echoed it just as heartily.

  “‘In the spring,’” quoted Mister Walton,

  “‘a livelier iris changes on the burnished dove;

  “‘In the spring a young man’s fancy lightly

  turns to thoughts of love.’”

  "Oh, my!” said Eagleton. He blushed a bit, and when Mister Walton took stock of what he had said and met Miss McCannon’s raised eyebrow, he reddened to the ears as well.

  “I can testify to that sentiment myself,” said Sundry, which admission surprised them all. He was a healthy-seeming fellow, suspected of harboring normal sensations, but he was generally closemouthed about personal matters.

  “Oh, my!” said Eagleton again. (He might himself have testified in this vein, but would never have ventured to say so.)

  “Well, I can,” said the young man. “My father proposed to my mother in the spring, and I think it surprised him.”

  “Ah, well,” said Phileda, “that is a sentimental tale,” but Sundry had turned to his menu.

  There was a decidedly British inclination to the bill of fare that night, and as Ephram had lately been reading Wadleigh of Kent, or the Lady’s Cousin by Mrs. Henrietta Morstan-Stewbridge he led the table in championing the cock-a-leekie soup, roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, marinated cucumbers, and burnt cream.

  “Hear, hear,” said Eagleton, and Thump was heard to express his wordless agreement.

  Phileda, who felt full just reading about roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, yet had faith in her appetite and ordered the chestnut chicken and chutney. “I am compelled to eat alliteratively tonight,” she announced. Ephram, Eagleton, and Thump were impressed by this, and Eagleton jotted the thought into the notebook that he kept in his coat pocket.

  When they had chosen their meals, and while they awaited the first course, Ephram raised his glass again and invoked his wishes for Miss McCannon’s safe journey to Orland.

  “Indeed,” echoed a wistful Mister Walton, who had already expressed similar sentiments in the carriage. The others concurred.

  Phileda accepted their good wishes with a smile and a nod. “I have put off dealing with my aunt’s house all winter,” she said, “so it is time, sad to say.” She did look a little sad. Mister Walton did as well, and Phileda put a hand on his for the sake of mutual comfort. “But every instance that I leave you gentlemen,” she added, “I fear I will be absent when you’re off on one of your exploits.” This was said with only a small bit of irony. “You do seem to save them for yourselves.”

  “Oh, we never intend, Miss McCannon,” assured Eagleton. “They arise quite by surprise.”

  “If we feel one coming on,” promised Mister Walton, “we will let you know.”

  “I must be satisfied with your word,” said she, by which statement Ephram, Eagleton, and Thump suspected that Miss McCannon was being droll; no one could have had the smallest doubt of Mister Walton’s word. “In any event,” said she, “or should I say ‘barring unforeseen events,’ I shall return in time for Mrs. Morrell’s June Ball.” She gave Mister Walton’s hand the hint of a squeeze before folding her hands before her.

  Everyone was happier with this thought; Ephram, Eagleton, and Thump sighed in unison, they were that gratified by the image of Miss McCannon and Mister Walton attending the coming gala. After a moment’s fond contemplation, however, they realized that Miss McCannon was sweeping them with something like an expectant gaze, and they were visibly startled when she suggested that they attend the ball as well.

  “Ah, well!” said Ephram, who referred to Eagleton.

  “My goodness!” said Eagleton, who referred to Thump.

  “Hmmm?” said Thump.

  “And Mr. Moss,” she said, seemingly unsatisfied with the table’s present level of alarm.

  “The June Ball?” said Sundry as if she had suggested that he attend the next meeting of the Portland Ladies’ Club.

  “I think you would cut a lively swathe among the gentle flowers of Portland’s elite,” she added, looking as if she would like to see it.

  “Good heavens!” said Mister Walton, as she had couched the sentiment in such dire terms.

  Sundry crossed his arms before him and squinted an eye at Miss McCannon. He took in the faces of the charter members, pausing briefly at Mr. Joseph Thump, whose immense beard masked his expression but whose eyes were wide at the thought of anyone cutting swathes through gentle flowers.

  “Ahem,” said Thump.

  “We must consider it,” said Eagleton bravely.

  “I believe you are right, Eagleton,” said Ephram.

  “Oh, well—!” said Eagleton, and with a wave of the hand he brushed off anything like praise.

  “No, I certainly do,” insisted Ephram. “What do you think, Thump?”

  “Hmmm?” said Thump.

  “It is decided, then,” said Phileda puckishly.

  This was news to the three gentlemen, and they wondered at what juncture the decision had been made and which one of them had decided. They thought it impolite to disagree with her, however, and simply nodded.

  She had not done with them, however, and announced, “I shall expect each of your names on my dance card.”

  This brought renewed reserves of uncertainty into the faces of Ephram and Eagleton. Thump looked as if he had caught something in his throat. They had, the three of them, taken dance lessons at Mrs. De Riche’s Academy of Ballroom Science more than two years ago, but only Thump had put to use what they had learned (famously, of course, with the extraordinary Mrs. Roberto).

  “Eight minutes past eight,” said Ephram.

  “A turn in the weather is expected,” said Eagleton. “Clouds gathering tonight, showers probable tomorrow.”

  Thump made a low noise.

  “Very good, Thump,” said Eagleton, though Thump had said nothing.

  “Dramatic production, tomorrow night,” said Ephram. “Tomorrow night, Portland Theater.”

  “I read something of it in the Daily Advertiser,” said Eagleton, grasping at this welcome change of subject.

  “Portland Courier,” added Thump with a nod.

  “‘Local patrons of the arts’” read Ephram from the day’s edition of the Eastern Argus which he had expertly opened to the correct page with a single movement. “Yes, “Local patrons of the arts will be gathered Friday night to welcome Miss Ethel Tucker back to the stage of the Portland Theater, where she has known many a triumph and ovation.’”

  “Ah, yes,” said Eagleton. They had seen her the previous fall while attending a play with Mister Walton, and they had been much impressed.

  “Please, read on,” said Mister Walton

  Thus encouraged, Ephram smoothed out the paper before him, lifted it again at a polite level before his face and started at the top of the article, which read as follows:

  Local patrons of the arts will be gathered Friday night to welcome Miss Ethel Tucker back to the stage of the Portland Theater, where she has known many a triumph and ovation. When last she graced the “boards” of our fair city, she drew gales of laughter from her audience as the perplexed and marriageable “Kitty” in Hoyt’s Black Sheep. In this production, she will, no doubt, elicit softer emotions in the dramatic role of a woman caught in desperate circumstances not entirely of her own making.

  At 8 o’clock tomorrow evening, the curtain will rise on Elliot Hendrixon’s While She Waits in Silence. Miss Tucker will assay the role of “Wanda McCintyre,” a woman whose zealous nature leads her to throw over the man who loves her for the imagined honor of her family, the men of whom, unbeknownst to Wanda, are involved with dangerous and criminal activities. It is an innovation on the more common tale of the undeserving lover, and we are told that Frederick Mulbar makes the part of the jilted fiancé (who is also a secret emissary of the law) as noble and inspiring as he made hi
s previous role (in the aforementioned Black Sheep) vain and absurd.

  Those of nervous temperament might fairly be warned that from the moment Wanda comprehends the evil designs of her miscreant family, the tension grows tight as a drawn bow.

  The evening will begin with a round of familiar melodies, sung by a double male quartet and led by Dick Jose. These will include “The Old Oaken Bucket,” “In New Madrid,” “The Bridge,” and other old-fashioned songs.

  But all the performers who trod the boards tomorrow night will understand, we hope, if we in the audience seem impatient for the entrance of Miss Ethel Tucker, whose lovely presence and dulcet voice will once again grace the Portland air.

  “Dulcet voice,” said Ephram; he was quite pleased with the phrase, as well as the honeyed tones it conjured in his mind.

  “Very nice, Ephram,” said Eagleton. “A very nice piece, but your reading of it, in particular, did great justice to Miss Tucker.”

  “Ah, well—”

  “That Black Sheep was very funny,” said Sundry.

  “Yes,” drawled Eagleton. Some of it had perplexed him, actually.

  “‘The play’s the thing“,” said Mister Walton.

  “Is it?” said Eagleton, who was pleased to be informed.

  “The play,” said Ephram. Eagleton and Thump took this to be a new toast and they raised their glasses and echoed their friend.

  “And Miss Tucker,” said a suddenly bold Eagleton.

  “Miss Tucker!” joined the others, particularly Ephram and Thump.

  “To the ball,” said Thump.

  Ephram and Eagleton looked to one another with some hesitation; this salutation seemed to commit them, somehow. Ephram said “Hem,” quietly and Eagleton said, “Yes?” Then they joined in with appropriate vigor.

  “To the ball!”

  “To the ball, Mr. Moss,” said Phileda wryly.

  “Barring unforeseen events,” said Sundry as he raised his glass.

  3. A Plan to Stave Off Melancholy

  Outside the Shipswood, the assembled league paused to breathe the night air; the warmth of the day had roused the scents of salt and tar along the waterfront so that a hint of summer, when those smells are most potent, hovered somewhere in the darkness beyond the streetlamps.