by Van Reid
Deborah Pilican was on the verge of explaining to them just who Mrs. Rudolpha Limington Harold really was, when it occurred to her how disappointed they might be to hear it; she considered herself unprepossessing, and these men seemed so very fond of Mrs. Harold.
“She must be grand lady!” said Mr. Eagleton.
“Oh, my, but she is!” said Deborah Pilican. It was then too late to change course. “She’s very grand, isn’t she, Fale?” she said and almost laughed at her brother’s expression. “Isn’t she grand, Fale?” she said again.
“She’s a bit of a handful,” he admitted, and that did make her laugh.
“My word!” said Mr. Ephram. The three men appeared puzzled by Mr. Field’s statement and by Mrs. Pilican’s humor as well.
“Do you remember Miranda Hobbs in The Atrocious Uncle?” she asked them.
“We do!” and “Why, certainly!” and “Good heavens, yes!” they said
Then Mrs. Pilican informed them that “Miranda was certainly Mrs. Harold’s most telling self-portrait.” The elderly woman had forgotten entirely about being cold and wet and about the pain in her hands.
“I can see it now!” said Mr. Eagleton, as if the book and the woman were both before him.
“Miranda Hobbs, you say!” said Mr. Ephram.
“She is a rare beauty, you know,” said Mrs. Pilican. (’And at about that time,” Fale would say to her later, “I thought you’d gone clean off the porch.”)
“I am sure!” said Mr. Ephram. And he envisioned Mrs. Harold as plainly as if she were before him—and she was not plain at all.
“She met once, you know, with a Mrs. Alvina Plesock Dentin, on a holiday in Christiania. Mrs. Dentin is an authoress herself.”
“We have read a great deal of her!” exclaimed Mr. Ephram.
“Oh, my!” said Mrs. Pilican. There seemed nothing like making matters worse, but she couldn’t deny that she was enjoying herself.
”Arabella’s Winter Home!” said Mr. Eagleton.
“Wembley Upon the Hill!” said Mr. Ephram.
“Hmmm!” said Mr. Thump. “Mrs. Tempest’s Tea Cups!”
“And what did they say?” inquired Mr. Eagleton, who was avid to know. “Mrs. Harold and Mrs. Dentin,” he added when Mrs. Pilican did not seem to understand.
Mrs. Pilican had only her old stories, told to amuse her family, to go by. She said, “I am afraid they were not the best of friends, when all was said and done.”
“I am so sorry!” said Mr. Ephram, though he could believe, from her writing, that Mrs. Dentin was that much more proper than Mrs. Harold.
“Oh, it was fine, but Mrs. Harold did flirt terribly with Mrs. Dentin’s brother.”
The very idea appeared to startle the three men. Mr. Ephram touched the back of his neck, as if the hair there had lifted.
“Is Mrs. Harold’s—?” Mr. Eagleton could not finish the sentence.
“Her husband has gone to his reward,” said Mrs. Pilican. It was news to her, but she could not shock these dear men too much. She must be sure to tell Dee that Mrs. Harold was a widow.
“I’m sure Mrs. Dentin is lovely, too,” said Mr. Ephram.
“She is a dear person, if a little formal,” admitted the elderly woman. “But”—and here she dropped her voice to a near whisper—”she has very large teeth.”
Clearly, the gentlemen of the club did not know what to do with this information.
“But you know these remarkable women!” said Mr. Eagleton.
“As well as anyone, I suppose.” Mrs. Pilican felt the slightest twinge of guilt. She might have told anyone else that she was having them on, but these three dear men were so very enthralled that she couldn’t bear to disillusion them. “You might say that I represent them.”
“How marvelous!” said Mr. Eagleton. (The hyphenated phrase people-in pen in Mr. Siegfried’s telegram made sense to him now.) “And Mrs. Penelope Laurel Charmaine?”
“Why, yes!” said Mrs. Pilican, and it was really her turn to be astonished. “How did you know?” She wondered, Who is having whom on?
“And Mr. Wilmington Edward Northstrophe?” said Mr. Ephram. “You must tell us about him!”
Fale let out a great “Ahem!” and all three of the gentlemen said, “God bless you.”
There has been much speculation concerning Mister Walton’s appearance in Mrs. Mulligan’s parlor at that moment. Many have asked, What might have been revealed between the members of the club and Mrs. Pilican? and What might have been surmised? Ephram’s, Eagleton’s, and Thump’s litany of her pseudonyms was about to engender a path of inquiry from the elderly woman when the chairman of the Moosepath League stepped into the room with a characteristically cheerful greeting.
“Mister Walton!” declared Eagleton, who was greatly excited by their conversation with Mrs. Pilican.
“Our chairman!” added Ephram, which was both announcement and introduction.
Fale Field rose from his seat and Mister Walton crossed the room to shake his hand. “Tobias Walton,” said the portly fellow.
Introductions were made twice, as Sundry Moss entered soon after. The elderly folk hardly blinked at his name.
“We quite admire your daughter, Mrs. Pilican,” he said when he shook the old woman’s hand, and there was a touch of humor and interest in his face that was not offensive to Mrs. Pili can but only curious.
“How are you feeling, Mister Walton?” wondered Ephram.
“Much rested after a bit of sleep, thank you,” replied the bespectacled fellow. “Sundry, however, sat up all morning keeping watch.” This was meant to stand for a reprimand but Sundry looked undaunted, if a little pale.
The Moosepathians were adamant that the new arrivals sit themselves down. Mister Walton’s face darkened when he had a glimpse, past Mr. Field, of the ruins of the icehouse across the way. “Oh, my,” he said softly.
The fire was reduced to not much more than smoke and smolder after the welcome rain, but the crowds had hardly dispersed. It was sad to see the dazed and weary postures and the discouraged droop of people’s heads.
“So much ruin and injury,” said Mister Walton. “And what it will mean to the town’s livelihood, I can’t guess.” He was not a man to dwell on dark things, however, and he lifted his head again and said, “Your daughter is a courageous woman, Mrs. Pilican.”
“It takes my breath away to think of what she did, Mister Walton,” said the old woman.
“Ah, well—” he said gently.
“She has little caution,” said Fale Field, but he was obviously proud of his niece. “I can’t think why I let her out of my sight.”
“We can’t guess what she gets up to when she’s away for the summer,” added the elderly woman, almost to herself.
“Does she travel?” asked Mister Walton with a sense of renewed caution regarding the identity of the Miss Pilican in question.
“She stays in Portland in the summer,” said Mother Pilican. “Perhaps you might see her at the park someday. She tells me she’s quite fond of Deering Oaks.”
Another entrance had its own effect in ending this singular meeting; Mr. Fern came in, looking wet and dreary. “The clouds are breaking in the east,” he announced. “Perhaps it is time to go home and let Mrs. Fern know what has occurred.”
“Your aunt—?” queried Mister Walton.
“She and her prospective groom have disappeared once again.
“Hercules seemed much improved,” said Sundry recalling the fierce and spirited attitude of the pig when they last saw him.
Then the clouds appeared to break over Mr. Fern’s countenance and in the eastern sky at about the same instance. “You’re right, of course, Mr. Moss,” he said. “Thank you for reminding me.”
Sunlight came through the window. The older folk and the Moosepathians knew nothing about a vanished aunt or about someone named Hercules, but it was time for each party to pick up and continue on its way.
“We should be getting back, Deborah,” said Fale Field.
“Dee will be as distracted as you and I when she finds us away.”
“Yes, of course. Where are the Sproat and Fallow boys?”
“If they’re not handy, I’ll drive us home. I guess we might find a strong gentleman or two who would take you out to the carriage.”
He was not mistaken. Thump and Sundry carried Mrs. Pilican out amidst many courteous good-byes and words of praise between the older folk and the members of the Moosepath League. The Sproat boy and the Fallow boy, as it happened, turned up pretty quick.
“If you are ever near Dresden,” said Mrs. Pilican to the members of the club, “you must visit us, not a quarter mile from the post office. Anyone in town will point you the way.”
“Good-bye, Mrs. Pilican,” said Eagleton. “Please send our best wishes and fondest admirations to Mrs. Harold.”
“And Mrs. Dentin,” added Ephram.
“And Mrs. Charmaine.”
“And Miss Plotte.”
“And Mr. Northstrophe.”
Mrs. Pilican was laughing delightedly, for some reason.
“They’ll hear much about it, I promise you,” said Fale.
“And your daughter,” said Thump. He had not joined in the list of authors to be commended. His expression was almost ardent, and it took Mrs. Pilican by the heart. “Please forward our best to your lovely daughter. And,” he added, which was telling to the old woman, “my best as well.”
The old woman reached out the carriage window and touched his shoulder. She almost said “I will,” then almost said “Thank you,” but instead she only smiled till the horse was nickered into motion and the carriage taken off.
60. Briefly Back at Fern Farm
“They’re back! They’re back!” came the cry from the upper hall of the farmhouse, followed by the clatter of two pair of feet half tripping down the stairs. Patient as scouts (and greatly fortified with oatmeal cookies), James and Homer had been watching from an upper window all morning for Father and Aunt Beatrice and their guests, but now the alarm was up. “They’re back!” came an echoing cry from the parlor, though Susan and Bonny had seen nothing yet.
“They’re back!” said Mrs. Fern more in a gust of relief than excitement
The girls reached the kitchen first, but the boys were quick on their heels and soon passed them. Madeline practiced a little more dignity in her response, though she was surprised at the stab of pleasure she felt at the thought of seeing Mr. Moss again.
Along with a bit of wind, some heavy rain had come through earlier that morning, but the nor’ easter traveled quickly, piling clown the coast and inland till it blew itself out somewhere beyond Portland. By ten-thirty, the sun had broken through the clouds, taking command till the day was dewy and bright. Madeline and Mrs. Fern stepped outside, blinking in the sunshine.
Hercules stood at the edge of the drive almost like his old self, grunting happily and letting out squeals of delight when he realized that the family carriage was coming over the nearest rise. The pig could hardly contain himself, trotting circles in the yard before he settled like a footman by the kitchen stoop; the activity wearied him and he blew a great sigh as the carriage trundled up to the house. One of the boys threw an arm around the pig’s neck and leaned against him, and they all stood with Hercules in such an elegant group they might have been posing for their portrait. It made Sundry smile to see them.
“Well!” said Mrs. Fern before Sundry had pulled the horse up and stopped the carriage. A breeze accompanied this arrival and the lilacs rustled fragrantly. “Well!” she said again when she thought she could be heard.
The carriage door opened and Mr. Fern stepped out, his face and posture manifesting a great stir of emotions. “We’re all home safe, it seems,” he announced, though he looked less than certain. “Aunt Beatrice has gone to get herself married to Jacob Lister,” he added, almost as a by the way. He looked astonished when his wife laughed.
“Oh, Vergil!” she said. The children’s reaction was a composite of their parents’—astonishment and laughter. “You’ve been to Iceboro,” said Mrs. Fern amid the sudden hail of questions. “Did you catch her up?” and “Was the fire very terrible?” and “Was Auntie there?” asked the children.
Mr. Fern embraced his wife and managed to nudge or kiss each boy and girl before he hunkered down to commune with Hercules. The pig grunted happily and boxed at the farmer’s hand with his nose.
“He’s been waiting for you all morning,” said Ruth. She could not remain exasperated with Vergil, he was so happy to see his pig on the mend. “He might have gone to Iceboro himself when that bolt of lightning struck, but I called him back.”
“Mr. Moss,” said the farmer, “I believe your remedy has worked.”
Hopping down from the driver’s seat, Sundry said simply, “I am glad.”
“Is that Hercules, looking so gallant?” came a cheery voice as Sundry held the door. Mister Walton stepped out easily enough, but Mrs. Fern thought Sundry deferred to his friend and employer with more than his usual concern.
The children’s excitement had revived, and Hercules, too, had rested up it seemed, for he rose from his haunches and jogged about the yard with James and Homer running at either side and Bonny and Susan performing unladylike somersaults across the lawn.
“How did you know we were at Iceboro?” wondered Vergil Fern of his wife when they got inside the kitchen. He and their guests smelled of smoke.
“I only guessed,” she replied. “News of the fire came up the road this morning. We heard the thunder while we waited for you in the kitchen last night. I suppose your aunt and Mr. Lister were there as well.”
“We saw them, yes,” said Vergil, nodding absently.
“Really, Vergil,” said Ruth with sudden heat and not deferring to the presence of guests. “You shouldn’t go careening off in such an all-fired huff. Beatrice is a grown woman, if you haven’t noticed, and quite capable of making her own mistakes without your assistance.”
“I wasn’t attempting to assist her.” The pleasant feelings so apparent upon his face when he saw his revived pig were replaced now with something more troubled and difficult.
“It’s all the same if one of you turns a carriage over and someone is hurt!” said the wife. This storm was brief and to the point, however, and blew itself out as quickly as the morning’s rain.
“Yes,” drawled Mr. Fern. He had recalled that it was his aunt and her lover who had sickened Hercules in the first place. But he shook off this dark train of thought and considered what his wife had said. “There’s more truth than you know in the charge,” he said, and, if his wife’s annoyance abated, his embarrassment did not. “I owe Mister Walton and Mr. Moss particular apologies for embroiling them in several adventures last night.”
“Certainly not!” said Mister Walton, though there was a pallid hue about the man. ‘“All’s well that ends well,’ and I would not have missed any of it.”
“Mister Walton has had a bad spell while helping to fight the fire,” explained Mr. Fern. He was determined to have his guilt fully disclosed.
“I’m fine, I’m fine,” said Mister Walton. Sundry looked less certain
“Please,” said Mrs. Fern. “Sit yourselves down.”
Mister Walton insisted that he was unharmed by the night’s exertions. He had slept at Mrs. Mulligan’s. Nonetheless, he still looked tired and Sundry encouraged him into a kitchen chair.
Outside, the pig had sprawled onto his vast side, grunting contentedly—a massive island of white upon the lawn—and the children left him for news of the fire at Iceboro and the chase after Aunt Beatrice and her bridegroom. Hercules rolled onto his back and swung his feet in the air like a dog.
It was not typical of Mister Walton to lose interest in his surroundings. His sympathy for nature, human or otherwise, and the general level of his curiosity were, as a rule, quick to lift him from personal travail; action—that is, forward movement of any sort—was almost always enough to generate his famous optimism. Even now, har
dly hearing the conversation or tasting breakfast, he was practiced enough at these characteristics so that his hosts would hardly guess that he longed for nothing more than his own home and Phileda McCannon.
Everyone has some aspect of the contrary in their temper, however, and he would have objected had he known that Sundry Moss had already wired Miss McCannon from Iceboro.
Sundry, too, was usually more attuned to his surroundings, and certainly he could do justice to most any meal, but he was as anxious to see Mister Walton home and to have Miss McCannon’s opinion on matters. All morning he hardly felt he had his wits about him.
While the Family Fern listened with rapt expressions to the father’s tale of pursuit in the night, of fire and hazard in Iceboro, Mister Walton only nodded or said “Yes” when his corroboration seemed needed, and Sundry said less. Mister Walton considered, in the midst of a palatable breakfast, what Mrs. Baffin might be cooking at home, and Sundry—the object of esteem and even awe for his part in curing Hercules and in the adventures of the night—wished his friend and employer (and, by extension, himself) away from all distraction and worry.
But the tale needs be told, and Mr. Fern warmed to his task, describing the precarious chase through the night, the (now) comic exchange between himself and Aunt Beatrice at the ford, and the startling advent of that single bolt of lightning.
“And who should appear at the end of it all,” finished Mr. Fern, “but Mister Walton’s and Mr. Moss’s fellow club members—one arriving in time to rescue a woman from a burning building and the other two assisting a lawman in apprehending burglars!” And this meant, of course, that nothing was finished at all, but that the whole tale—or as much as the farmer and his guests knew of it—must be started at the beginning.
61. The Hospitable Reciprocation of the Family Spark
(June 1, 1897)
Strolling the lower blocks of Danforth Street in the late-afternoon sun, the members of the club could hardly credit that here was the scene of recent hazard. The street was no more hectic than many another commercial avenue, and the folks along the sidewalk appeared congenial. Ephram, Eagleton, and Thump doffed their newly purchased hats to those they passed and were gratified to be similarly saluted. They had never imagined how divided in character a place might be between sunlit day and fogbound night.