by Van Reid
Ephram, Eagleton, and Thump gazed up Wiscasset’s steep Main Street; the handsome aspect of the town, with ragged clouds tumbling behind the line of roofs and trees and steeples, seemed rife with dramatic possibilities; here they expected to reunite with Mister Walton, the chairman of their yet unnamed and undefined club.
They were a prepossessing trio, smartly attired, mustaches and beards (excepting Eagleton, who was clean-shaven) trimmed, newly minted luggage stacked about them in expectant pyramids. Eagleton took in the demeanor of the sky with the practiced understanding of a true meteorographer. Ephram checked one of his watches and announced that the train had arrived on time. Thump turned to look past the waterfront buildings at the Sheepscott River—making a mental adjustment in his mind to calculate the tide.
Several young boys gathered about them, offering their services in removing the mounds of luggage to their intended destination.
“Where are the best accommodations in town?” asked Ephram of one lad.
“I don’t know of anybody who uses the stuff,” said the boy with a smile—he couldn’t have been more than ten or eleven years old.
One of the other lads playfully rapped the boy in the back of the head. “The best rooms are at the Wiscasset House, sir,” said this older fellow. He pointed up the street.
“Fine,” said Ephram; then to Eagleton and Thump: “That will be the establishment Mister Walton has patronized.” He liked the fact that the inn bore the name of the town, since it would aid history in recreating this meeting with their illustrious chairman—as, indeed, it would have, had Mister Walton still been there.
“Ah, Wiscasset!” said Eagleton, as they strode up the street with their newly acquired entourage. “Noble borough, where proud meeting waits its consequent season!”
“My word, Eagleton!” said Ephram. “You must put that to paper for the club archives!”
“Hear, hear!” said Thump enthusiastically.
“Nobleboro is north of here,” informed one of the boys.
“Ah, Wiscasset House!” intoned Eagleton, encouraged by his friends and unfazed by this new information. Your walls yet bear no mark as home to institution’s birth!”
“We’ve got a bear loose hereabouts,” said the boy with the facts. “She hasn’t been seen since yesterday, but a fellow from Portland darn near shot her.”
“A bear?” said Ephram.
“Portland?” said Thump.
“Who was this fellow?” asked Eagleton.
“His name was Walton.”
The trio came to a direct halt, and the boys carrying their trunks and bags paused in clusters above them on the slope of the hill as they realized they were leaving the men behind.
“Walton, you say!” said Ephram.
“Tobias Walton, hunting a bear?” wondered Thump aloud. It was too wonderful!
“That was his name,” said the boy. “I carried his bags up the night before last.”
“You say he nearly shot the bear,” said Ephram, wanting to get the facts down cold. “Was he hurt?”
“No, he just got that bear to stand on its head.”
Ephram, Eagleton, and Thump looked at one another, wondering what to think of this extraordinary news.
“Stood on its head?” said Thump in wonderment.
“We must hear about this adventure from the man himself!” announced Eagleton. “It’s . . . well, it is . . . epic!”
“The bear stood on its head?” said Thump. He wasn’t at all sure why Mister Walton would want a bear to stand on its head, but it was a marvelous thing nonetheless.
“Come, let us go meet with this remarkable man!” said Ephram.
He had not gotten more than three or four paces up the street, however, when the boy said: “But he isn’t here anymore.”
Ephram turned about on his heels and nearly fell over. “What?”
“Oh, no, sir. He left this morning.”
“He left with Sundry Moss,” said another boy.
“He nearly got in a fight with a dozen fellows from up at the Wiscasset House,” said another.
The three men could not understand it; purportedly Mister Walton had been on a bear hunt, during which he did not shoot a bear, but caused one to stand on its head; he then came near to violence with a large group of men, and left town with a variety of mosses.
“Where did he go?” asked Eagleton of this fountain of knowledge.
The boy shrugged. “Maybe he did go to Nobleboro. He and Sundry Moss headed across the river in a hired rig this morning.”
Thump looked distressed, but he was only thinking—attempting to picture Mister Walton in a carriage with stacks of assorted mosses on the seat beside him. “Perhaps they’re for medicinal purposes,” he ventured.
The proprietor of the Wiscasset House was pleased to discover three dapper gentlemen, surrounded by luggage, in the foyer of his inn; he was puzzled when they began to ask questions concerning the whereabouts of their chairman; and he was chagrined when the name of Tobias Walton drew the annoying Alfred Lofton from the parlor.
The tall Lofton chose Thump, the shortest of the three, as the man he would address, since he could more effectively look down his nose upon him. “Are you representatives of the law?” he asked.
Ephram, Eagleton, and Thump thought about this.
“I thought, perhaps,” explained Lofton, “that you were here to arrest him on some charge of fraud.”
“Fraud?” said Ephram, the first to find his voice.
“Now Mr. Lofton,” said the proprietor. “I am sure the confusion was simply the result of an honest mistake.”
“Idiocy, then?”
“Idiocy?” said Eagleton. His clean-shaven countenance gave him the look of youth and energy above his companions, though he was their senior by several months. “Are you using such terms as fraud and . . . well, this other word . . . in conjunction with the name of Mister Tobias Walton?” There was the hint of guarded outrage in his voice.
“If name and character are one and the same,” said Lofton, managing to peer down his nose at Eagleton, though they were of a height, “in a gentleman they are the same of course. In the case of this . . . Walton . . . well, he has a name, I suppose—but character? I do doubt it.”
“Ephram?” said Eagleton, as if calling for help.
“I am just speechless,” said Ephram, and save for those words, this proved true. His mouth opened and closed several times without anything like a sound passing from it. When he did speak again, it was only to repeat himself. “I am just speechless.”
“Thump?” said Eagleton, when Ephram proved stricken.
“He is the finest of fellows,” said Thump, looking at his feet. Lofton raised one eyebrow. “He is a rare gentleman.”
Lofton smiled with one side of his mouth.
“He is . . .”
Lofton chuckled nastily.
Thump looked up at the sound of Lofton’s amusement. “He is our chairman!”
“I shall warn you,” said Eagleton, pointing to his short friend, “this man is an expert in the ring!”
Thump’s eyes bulged at this statement, and the expression of shock on his face, engendered by Eagleton’s remarkable statement, looked very much like outrage.
Lofton looked less sure of himself now; Thump was shorter than he, but stockily built, and his massive beard lent him a wild and bristly look. Lofton’s smirk sunk into a sneer, saying: “I suppose he uses you to protect himself much as he uses Moss.”
Thump and his friends were mystified by the suggestion that Mister Walton had protected himself with a form of plant life; it was beyond their understanding, although several strange scenarios ran through their minds as they stared indignantly at Alfred Lofton. Had Mister Walton used ground cover to hide himself from the bear as a duck hunter uses a blind? Had their chairman used moss as a form of talisman? Did he have a botanical background?
Thump had had enough of Lofton’s superiority, and what he said next was said with a most pugn
acious tone of voice. “The gardener,” he announced, “knows his blossoms better than the footman!”
There was an extended silence after this statement. Lofton looked vaguely confused. Ephram gave him a superior take that sort of expression and led the way from the foyer of the Wiscasset House.
Lofton, who realized that he may have queered business between these three men and the proprietor of the inn, looked suddenly sheepish.
Eagleton gave his short friend a proud pat on the back. “Come, Thump,” he said. “Let us find our chairman.” His expression towards Lofton was of the he told you variety.
Thump was the last to leave, followed by the entourage of boys with their trunks and bags. Ephram and Eagleton waited for him on the street; they each shook his hand warmly.
“You were a lion, Thump,” said Eagleton. “A veritable lion. I can’t tell you. . .” There were almost tears in Eagleton’s eyes.
Ephram shared the sentiment. “I couldn’t have said it better. Mister Walton himself would have done well to have said it better.” None of them could have explained what Thump’s statement had meant, but Ephram and Eagle-ton were sure it had served the purpose.
“It was something my mother used to say,” said Thump quietly.
“She was a wise woman,” said Eagleton.
“We must hire a rig and follow Mister Walton,” said Ephram. “Perhaps he has merely gone to the next town.”
“We must find out what the next town is,” said Eagleton.
“The boy said ‘sundry,’ ” said Thump, looking at his feet. “How many types of mosses do you suppose there are?”
36 An Unexpected Expedition
PRISCILLA HAD NEVER FELT SO PRESCIENT AND CORDELIA NEVER SO shocked as when John Benning appeared in the front hall of the Morning-side home with Aunt Delia. Priscilla wasn’t at all sure that she hadn’t conjured up the man with her suggestion of the previous night.
The young women were in the arbor behind the house and the last to know of the arrivals. Ethan came out to announce that Aunt Delia had arrived with a man, which was more than enough to pique their interest.
Grace and Mercia were the first to greet their aunt and the unexpected guest. Mercia offered her hand, which Mr. Benning took with quiet poise. Grace considered such intimacy with a new acquaintance to be improper and did not offer the same. John Benning met their eyes with something like frankness and Grace considered his candid manner a touch audacious.
James Underwood came next, and one might have expected the younger man’s self-assurance to wilt somewhat in the presence of Cordelia’s father, but he shook James’s hand and looked him in the eye as if he hadn’t danced with the man’s daughter an entire night.
Ethan Morningside, by this time, had been hugged and kissed by his great-aunt Delia, and he charged outside to spread the news of the new arrivals.
It took a while for Cordelia and Priscilla to reach the front hall—they did not want to arrive out of breath, and so appear too eager to see this unidentified man.
Priscilla had never met Mr. Benning, but she instinctively knew who he must be. She was quite charmed before he ever spoke, but charmed further still when he introduced himself, adding: “You must be Miss Morningside. Your cousin spoke of you so glowingly that I could not mistake you.”
The cousin in question entered then. Cordelia heard the man’s voice before she saw him, and thought for a moment that her heart had constricted to the point of stopping. All eyes were upon her as she entered, and she had never done anything so difficult as to look at ease as she smiled her recognition of him.
“Miss Underwood,” said John Benning with the most obvious regard.
“Mr. Benning,” returned Cordelia. “I do meet you in the most surprising places.”
This statement, along with the involuntary blush in Cordelia’s cheeks, startled her Aunt Grace like a whispered secret.
Priscilla was feeling giddy; and standing shoulder to shoulder with her cousin, she was able to drive an elbow into Cordelia’s side while smiling beatifically for the rest of the gathering. Amongst the swirl of skirts Cordelia gave Priscilla’s ankle a swift kick as she stepped forward to greet the handsome young man.
Aunt Delia had watched all this with amusement, and she alone guessed what the loud thock was, and why, when the gathering moved into the parlor, Priscilla limped slightly.
“It’s so nice to see you again, Mr. Benning,” said Mercia, “when there is no music to distract us from getting to know one another.” She adroitly offered the young man her arm as they were directed to the parlor, saving her daughter the embarrassment over the proper procedure.
“I fear that your daughter’s patience with me on the dance floor was more than I could resist,” returned the man.
“Oh, dear,” said Aunt Delia to no one in particular; “This is going to take a long time.”
The Morningsides’ toy fox terrier, Teacup, had made herself at home in John Benning’s lap, and the young man had accepted this sign of tolerance from the household pet with aplomb. While Teacup’s namesakes, along with attendant saucers and silverware, were being handed out to the gathering by the elderly butler, Merton, John Benning explained his arriving with Aunt Delia.
“When I found no one at your home and no servants to tell me when you would return, I worried that something untoward had happened. Knowing your relation to Mrs. Frost,” and here he nodded to Aunt Delia, “I returned to Freeport. I feared she would think me forward, asking after you, but I inquired only as to your well–being and not your whereabouts.”
Cordelia was not fooled by John Benning’s formality of speech, for it was clear that he was gauging his words for the room’s highest common denominator of propriety—Aunt Grace. Priscilla had giggled twice since they gathered in the parlor, and Cordelia gripped her cousin’s hand with quiet meaning, but she nearly laughed herself at the frown on her father’s face as he listened to Mr. Benning’s stilted discourse.
Hoping to cut short the explanation, Aunt Delia said: “I thought it polite, since he had been invited to call on you, to explain where you had gone and what you were doing. John was very gracious, 1 thought, to offer his services as a surveyor when you go to view your land.”
“Oh, dear,” said Aunt Grace, her teacup poised inches from her lips.
Nothing else was said as they digested this. To Cordelia, the notion was thrilling, and more than a little daunting—to have someone so near to a beau, and yet a stranger, making such obvious advances toward her. To Aunt Grace it was improper, with no room for argument.
“Of course,” said John Benning, “I would make my own arrangements and arrive separately from your party.” It was clear that Aunt Delia had startled him by introducing his proposal so early in the conversation. “I do understand that your land is situated in something of a rustic venue. I’ve had a bit of practice, in my line of work, with roughing it, and you might find my experience of some use.”
“That’s very generous of you,” said Cordelia’s father.
There was almost a tone of refusal in his voice. Grace, approvingly, drew the cup that had remained hovering in the air to her lips and drank with the assurance that her brother-in-law would take care of the situation.
James glanced at his daughter, who didn’t know if she wanted this impulsive young man along with them or not. Suddenly the idea of not having a suitor seemed very simple and pleasing. James himself was thinking of the complications that chaperonage would add to the trip.
“I think that traveling separately is rather silly,” announced Aunt Delia. “I’m going with you, and I’m not traveling separately.” This was the first anyone had heard of it, but it did put paid to further discussion. Clearly Aunt Delia had instigated the entire proposal in an effort to bolster Cordelia’s social life, and it seemed that she had no intention of missing out on any further developments. “Priscilla, you shall go too.”
“Aunt Delia!” said Grace.
Priscilla, who had nearly laughed ou
t loud several times during the course of this discourse, was almost as shocked as her mother. She had intended to broach this very subject (or, indeed, to let Cordelia broach it) but had, like John Benning, fallen victim to her great-aunt Delia’s precipitate method.
As was her wont, great-aunt Delia was having a good time upsetting the apple cart. “Grace,” she said, as if she were talking to someone who would have difficulty understanding. “Priscilla needs an experience. She’s altogether too pale, and Cordelia will perhaps want . . . the company. Certainly I am not able to gallivant over hill and dale once we arrive at some base camp.” This reference to Cordelia’s need for a chaperone was by no means artful, but it stumped Grace.
“Well,” she said. “This is true.” There was a moment’s silence. Grace was of the opinion that a chaperone of the same age was no chaperone at all. She also realized that it was up to her to make the situation as proper as it could be. She knew her duty and she followed it. “I am in need of some fresh air myself, I think, so I too will go along.”
“Yippee!” shouted young Ethan. He leaped from his chair and danced about the room. “Yippee! That means I go too!”
“Ethan!” said Grace in a stage whisper, as if his behavior wouldn’t be noticed if she spoke quietly enough. Then she leaned back in the love seat she occupied, her hand to her breast, her eyes fluttering. She was having one of her faint spells. “Oh, Priscilla,” she said mournfully. “Do you see what you teach your brother with your dancing about the yard?”
“Here,” said Mercia, doing her best to hide her irritation. “Have a sip of tea, dear.”
“Priscilla is pale, Lord knows,” said Aunt Delia to a bemused James. “But Grace is death warmed over.” She leaned toward John Benning, who had just finished pouring tea for Grace, patted the young man on the knee, and said: “I think you’ve come just in time.”