by Van Reid
Priscilla left her cousin’s side to stand next to Sundry. He was conscious of her as he might a source of light or warmth and debated whether he should acknowledge her presence with a glance or affect a cooler attitude. He took a breath, turned his head, and smiled. Priscilla looked up at him and smiled in return. Sundry turned back to the orchestra and tried to swallow the sudden lump in his throat.
The room became quite silent, for a room with so many people in it, and in a moment there was the sound of the baton tapping on a music stand, till the orchestra began the first moving notes of “Where Is My Wandering Boy Tonight?” The voice of Mr. Wyngarde was like aural gold, gliding to the ceiling of the ballroom and piercing the hearts of his listeners.
Portland is a city by the sea, and few people living there toward the end of the nineteenth century were without some wandering boy in their family history. Many of those present at the ball had sons or grandsons who were somewhere on the high sea or seeking their fortune out west. The ball was a venue for intrigue and love affairs, for dancing with old flames and kindling new ones, but for this moment the mood of the evening was changed. Parents held each other’s hands, and grandmothers and grandfathers lowered their heads.
Some in attendance were wandering boys themselves, and the words and notes filled their hearts and minds with intimations of a mother’s soft kiss or a father’s proud grip upon their shoulder.
The song was not yet done, but several handkerchiefs were visible among the crowd, some in the hands of the most stalwart-looking men. In their separate corners, the Moosepathians were greatly affected and momentarily forgot the perilous proximity of their recent dance partners.
Sundry was not unmoved; the voice was so fair and clear, like a fond sound carrying over a meadow. He felt a grip upon his arm and glanced carefully at Miss Morningside, whose eyes were wet with tears. Sundry thought she hardly knew she had taken his arm, and he had a sharp intuition that contrary to the subject of the song, she was thinking of her father. He lowered his head.
When the song finished, soaring at the top of the tenor’s splendid voice, there was a moment of silence in the ballroom and then a great round of applause. Priscilla did not let go of Sundry’s arm to join in this, and Sundry chanced another look in her direction. Priscilla blinked, and Sundry produced a handkerchief for her.
“I’m sorry,” she said, laughing ruefully. “It’s such a sad song.”
“Would you like to sit down?” he asked.
She shook her head.
Mr. Wyngarde stepped down from the dais and shook hands with the orchestra leader. He gave the nod to the musicians and disappeared into the crowd. The leader turned back to his crew, raised his baton, and the opening strains of La Belle Hélène incited the dancers once again. There was a languorous, wistful quality to the music, and everyone sweeping by appeared more serious and perhaps more appreciative of the person in his or her arms.
“Oh, my,” said Priscilla, with another laugh. She gave Sundry his handkerchief and thanked him, tapping at her heart as if she felt herself recovering.
Sundry had fallen from one quandary to another. He thought perhaps here was an opportunity to ask Miss Morningside to dance, yet he feared intruding upon the previous moment or in any way taking advantage of the young woman while she was made vulnerable by memory. Mr. Scott and Miss Underwood glided by, and Sundry marked how sure the guide seemed. Presumably they waltzed in Millinocket, too.
“They do look marvelous,” said Priscilla. She had let go of his arm now, and she stood with her hands clasped before her.
“They are handsome,” said Sundry.
“You don’t know the half,” she said. “Cordelia is like a sister to me, and a best friend, and sometimes just a touch of a mother. Everything is a little better when she is around.”
It seemed that the beauty of Offenbach’s music had affected everyone, for the dance floor teemed with increasing participation. Sundry and Priscilla, concentrating very hard upon each other (while trying not to appear so), found themselves surrounded by waltzing couples till they had to shift to avoid one and then another brace of dancers that twirled in their direction. Sundry turned, unconsciously stepping in time to the music, and Priscilla pivoted so as to remain in the same position relative to him. Their coordinated movements were themselves so much like a dance that when they performed this tandem maneuver a second time, they laughed. Sundry put an arm out, meaning only to imitate a dancing posture as a small joke, but then Priscilla curtsied with a soft smile and took his hand.
Then they were dancing, waltzing at half an arm’s length so that they could see each other and speak to each other as they coursed the ballroom floor. Just to rest his hand lightly upon her waist sent such powerful waves of longing through him that it took several bars of music before he could regain his breath and consider the necessity of saying something.
“I don’t want to cause you any trouble with your mother,” he said, certain that he had chosen the one statement that would doom any sense of romance between them.
A raft of complex emotions passed over her face and sparked, then troubled, then again sparked her bespectacled eyes. She smiled, a little sadly at first and then with a hint of impish humor. “Thank you,” she said demurely. “But we just passed her.”
20. Principally Speaking
There is always a point during such a function as the Morrells’ Annual Charitable Ball when the hosts cease to have very much to do with anyone’s pleasure or boredom. The guests have taken over, as it were, and they will eat and drink as long as eat and drink hold out, and dance as long as the musicians’ fingers last; many a tryst in a lonely alcove or business deal in the front hall will be under way, and people will have gotten used to seeing one another in their finest trappings—gowns of every color swirling upon the dance floor and jewelry winking in the light of the chandeliers.
Each year Philbrook Morrell looked forward to the moment when his duties became moot and he imagined consequently that he could relax. He was just beginning to feel it that night when he caught sight of Mrs. Morningside and Charleston Thistlecoat. They were seated somewhat apart from their nearest neighbors, and by the look on Mrs. Morningside’s face, Thistlecoat was holding forth on some dull subject. Mrs. Morningside stared into the crowd, the dance card in her hands looking the worse for having been worried. Philbrook had greeted Thistlecoat in the hall earlier that evening, the guest filled with pomp and flourish. The host might have forgone any further contact with the fellow if he hadn’t thought it his obligation to offer Mrs. Morningside some respite. “Charleston,” he said with guarded familiarity as he approached them.
“Philbrook, how are you,” said the man, standing to shake hands with his host again. “Another successful event to add to your wife’s laurels. Have you met Mrs. Morningside?”
“I have had that pleasure, yes.” Philbrook gave Mrs. Morningside a formal bow. “I hope you’re enjoying yourself this evening.”
“Very much,” said Mrs. Morningside, looking like anything but her words. She continued to exhibit an interest in the crowd upon the dance floor, and Philbrook guessed that she was watching for her daughter.
“How’s business, Charleston?” asked Philbrook. This was the most bland question that came to mind at quick notice and he realized, regretfully, the one most likely to prompt a lengthy reply.
“Splendid, splendid,” said Thistlecoat. “We had a strong first quarter on the P. and R. and I am looking to vary my profits into shipping.”
“The railroad is doing very well for you, it seems.”
“Yes, but it seems a stodgy business, on the whole, don’t you think?”
“I don’t know,” said Philbrook. His own fortune had been greatly augmented by railroad stock, but he did not remind his guest of this.
“It’s just trains,” said Thistlecoat, putting on his best appearance of philosophy. “They’re mundane, I think. The grand steamers have a sublimity about them that the railroads cannot hope
to imitate.”
“They both get you from one place to another,” suggested Philbrook.
“There’s a good deal more mixing on trains,” said Thistlecoat, marking by his expression some distaste for this feature of railroad travel.
“Ah,” said Philbrook without the least agreeing with the man.
“And speaking of which,” said Thistlecoat, “I must say, your open door policy here at the ball is all very good, but it does invite some odd customers.”
“Guests, not customers,” said Philbrook, whose hospitable nature jumped with small offense at this last statement.
“This Moosepath Club is laughable enough, to be sure, but to pay host to one of their servants must gall you.”
“There are several people who give tickets to their employees,” said Philbrook, not looking in the least galled.
“This Moss fellow, however, has been making an annoyance of himself regarding Mrs. Morningside’s daughter.”
“Oh? I did see this Moss fellow and Miss Morningside talking together, but she didn’t appear very annoyed.”
“That is precisely what concerns her mother.”
Philbrook stole another glimpse of Mrs. Morningside. “Come, Charleston. A little flirtation? I daresay you or I won’t travel too many generations back to find some humble origins.”
Thistlecoat straightened his already impeccable posture and looked across his nose at Philbrook. “I have decided to speak to the boy,” he intoned. “You say that you saw him?”
“I believe he was in the foyer,” Philbrook lied.
Thistlecoat bowed slightly, said, “Excuse me,” and returned to Mrs. Morningside. “If I may be so bold,” he said, and with (Philbrook had to admit) a look of great elán and gallantry, he bowed, took the dance card from her hand and affixed his name upon it. “I will return,” he said, and without informing her of his errand, he marched off to the cadence of La Belle Hélène in the direction of the foyer.
Philbrook did not feel the least bit guilty for misdirecting the man. “May I get you a drink, Mrs. Morningside?” he asked.
“No, thank you, Mr. Morrell,” she said. “I am quite all right.” Again her expression and manner belied her words. She was disturbed by the dance card in her hands. Until the moment before, it had simply been something to grip and fuss with, but now, with Mr. Thistlecoat’s name registered upon it, she held it as if it had just come out of a bed of glowing coals.
“Charleston is a man of large opinions,” said Philbrook to the woman in a kindly, almost fatherly tone. “I think they may get in the way of his seeing when someone is content to sit and watch.” He could see Mercia and James Underwood making their way along the perimeter of the dance floor. “Here come your sister and her husband,” said Philbrook quietly. “Would you like me to take that for you?”
Mrs. Morningside looked up, not sure what he meant. Then she considered the dance card in her hand, appeared to notice it for the first time (and unhappily), and held it out to him. It was an old custom that a woman without a dance card did not want to dance, and one that even Charleston Thistlecoat would silently honor when he returned. “Thank you, Mr. Morrell,” she said.
He bowed again, waved to the approaching Underwoods, and hurried off. At first he slipped the dance card into a pocket, but then he halted in his step, pulled the card out again, and considered it with a frown. He scanned the crowd. As host, he thought, he had certain privileges and (when he came to think of it) responsibilities.
“You look pale,” said Mercia to her sister, and she went so far as to touch Grace’s forehead before she sat down in the chair previously occupied by Mr. Thistlecoat. Mercia and James, who stood nearby looking handsome and droll, had been closely watching Grace and Charleston and they approached after the man had made his bow and left. “I thought that man was going to ask you for a dance,” said Mercia offhandedly.
Grace grew paler.
“I wager he’s a good dancer,” said James without turning about.
“I do hold you partly to blame for this,” Grace said to her sister.
“For Mr. Thisdecoat?” said Mercia with wide eyes.
“You know what I mean.”
“Yes, I’m afraid that I do.”
“If you hadn’t let Cordelia go wandering off with this Mr. Scott—”
Mercia gave out a short laugh. “She didn’t go wandering off with Mr. Scott; she was kidnapped, if you remember—something that her father and I did not arrange. It was Mr. Scott—Dresden—who rescued her, and it occurs to me that they fell in love with one another without any assistance.”
“You set a tone, and Priscilla has been touched by it through her cousin.”
“If I did, or we did, I am not sorry for it,” said Mercia. “Dresden is a grand fellow and everything a parent could want in a son-in-law.”
“He’s seems very nice, I’m sure,” Grace conceded stiffly.
“Henry would have liked him very much,” said Mercia.
Grace looked down at her knees at the mention of her husband’s name.
Mercia was sorry, but not exactly regretful, for offering this salvo. She looked up and aimlessly watched the dancers reel by. Suddenly Priscilla and Mr. Moss came out of the crowd, waltzed past, looking more awestruck (the both of them) than happy, and disappeared once again in the massive entity that was the ball’s ostensible purpose. Mercia almost said, “There’s Priscilla now,” simply out of surprise, but she stifled that comment and said, softly, “I do hope she is having a good time.”
21. Principals in Action
Whether dancing with him or simply standing beside him, watching the dancers, Mrs. Pleasance had not let go of Joseph Thump’s arm since she first caught hold of it. Thump’s expression was difficult to gauge, peering as it did from behind such a forest of beard, but his eyes hardly blinked, and his brow was perpetually furrowed up in an expression of unyielding surprise.
Mrs. Pleasance possessed certain material attributes that did not belie her (married) name, but she was otherwise something of a trial for a man of Thump’s reticent nature; she had interesting, if not always flattering, things to say about the people who passed them, and she cooed in Thump’s ear, which rather paralyzed him.
Thump said, “Hmmm,” several more times than we are absolutely able to verify and was even heard to utter the occasional “Hmmm!” Once or twice he disclosed the hours of the week’s remaining high tides; he generally didn’t think this far ahead, so these announcements have been interpreted as a signal of a distracted mind. To be truthful, and to refer to his journal entry of the next day, he was “much in mind of Mrs. Roberto,” with whom he had danced almost a year ago at the Freeport Fourth of July Celebratory Ball and who had cooed in his ear (if it can be so called respectfully) to a much more salutary, if similarly paralyzing, effect. For all her self-assurance, Mrs. Pleasance did not coo as well or as nicely as the beautiful and noble ascensionist.
Occasionally Mrs. Pleasance did say something that required a specific answer from Thump—for instance, when she said, “Don’t you think Miss Carruther’s bustle is a bit lavish?” and he said, “I wonder where Ephram and Eagleton got to.”
He continued to wonder this and continued to hope that they might emerge from the dance floor and assist him in bearing the weight of Mrs. Pleasance’s generous regard. They continued not to show up, though help was in the offing from another, unforeseen source.
Philbrook Morrell was looking for someone else when he came through the crowd along the edges of the dance floor. He had decided to place himself within striking distance of Miss Morningside and Mr. Moss for the purpose of heading off Thistlecoat if that man should come meddling around. He thought he might enjoy telling the overstuffed fellow what station he could get off on his railroad. Mr. Thistlecoat would do well to leave Philbrook’s principals to their own devices.
As he wandered the periphery of dancers, it was not with the purpose of rescuing his old school chum, but when he did spot Mr. Thump with Mrs
. Pleasance stuck to his side like a barnacle, Philbrook was moved by a sudden concern for the bewildered fellow.
“Mr. Thump,” Mrs. Pleasance was saying, “I think it quite wayward of you to ask for the one dance of a lady and then to let her simply pine upon your arm the rest of the evening.” It was very prettily (and pretty fer-vendy) said, and the suggestive intensity of Mrs. Pleasance’s gaze upon Mr. Thump seemed to have a direct correlation to the accumulated heat beneath his collar. Mr. Thump couldn’t remember having asked Mrs. Pleasance to dance, but he didn’t like to contradict her.
“Joseph,” said Philbrook when he reached them, “I hope you’re enjoying yourself.” Mrs. Pleasance had to let go of Thump’s right arm so that the two men could shake hands.
“Hmmm,” said Thump. “Yes, yes. A felicitous gathering.” It was a phrase he had read in the Portland Courier recendy.
“Mr. Morrell,” said Mrs. Pleasance, “I believe you have just interrupted an invitation to the next waltz.”
“Mrs. Pleasance,” admonished Philbrook pleasandy, “you’re not monopolizing the Moosepath League, are you? There are only the four of them, you know, and not really enough to go around.”
Thump looked starded to be described somewhat along the lines of a scarce comestible.
“We ladies must watch out for ourselves,” sang Mrs. Pleasance.
“Oh, Mr. Thump,” said Philbrook suddenly, as if he had just remembered something of importance, “Mr. Ephram was looking for you, I think.” He had seen Mr. Ephram in the clutches of Mrs. Allglow and could well believe that the fellow might be looking for help.
“Hmmm?” said Thump.
“Something about club business, if I’m not mistaken.”
“Hmmm.”
“I’m sure Mrs. Pleasance will excuse you,” said Philbrook, proving none too subde for the woman in question and probably just subde enough for Mr. Thump. “I will do my best to entertain her in your absence.”
