by Van Reid
“No,” she said. “Please.”
“I thought—” he began. He had almost said “Mr. Moss said—” but instead the words “you might like me a bit” came out.
“But I do,” said Madeline.
“You do?”
Madeline felt dizzy.
“Well,” he began again, “maybe more than a bit.”
“But I do,” she said.
“Oh,” he said.
For the first time since this lyric conversation began, he looked at her and she looked at him.
“Oh,” he said again. He was trying to locate the thumping engine inside of him; it seemed to bounce around so and even to take up his entire chest all at once. “Oh!” he said a little more emphatically than before.
They were still looking at one another, neither very sure what to do or say next. The solution to their quandary might seem simple to those who have not been in similar straits, or to those who have forgotten just how narrow and constricting those straits can be. Traveling by train at ten or twelve miles an hour out in the open fields may seem slow enough, but traveling at similar speeds through a town, with all of life and the buildings looming close will seem reckless. Madeline and Johnny might have been standing out in a field, in the physical sense, but in their minds things were pressing very closely as they sped faster than they had ever gone before.
Madeline offered a simple and direct utterance that seemed to carry great philosophy and depth. It was remarkable how much could be gotten out of three syllables. She felt, at that moment, as if she had spoken first, after all, and would have to think very hard in later years to convince herself that he spoke first and from out of the blue sky. She got flushed and embarrassed on the instant, but it was too late.
Johnny echoed those three syllables back to her, reflecting the same sort of philosophy, and certainly the same amount of depth. In fact, those words seemed so deep and so profound, and they gave him such pleasure—almost religious in its emotion—that he said them again. A third party might have grown a little weary of this rudimentary phrase before these two were done, but to the young man and the young woman the words only grew the more deep and philosophic with repetition.
But at some point Johnny thought that even these words no longer sufficed.
Back by the house, lying in the shade of the spreading chestnut with the ducks gossiping about him, the great white spirit of Fern Farm—like some conductor of local telluric currents—gave out a series of seemingly unmotivated, but contented, grunts and shifted his massive self to lie on his other side.
64. A Letter from Abidjan
The train ride south was pleasant enough, most of all (for Sundry, at least) because Mister Walton appeared to have recovered from whatever had felled him at Iceboro. Sundry breathed a small bit easier.
A carriage waited for them when they came out of Portland’s Grand Trunk Depot, and it occurred to Mister Walton that Sundry had wired ahead, perhaps even the day before.
The portly gentleman did not admit to being weary when they pulled up to the house on Spruce Street; he insisted on carrying his valise and only chuckled at Sundry’s frown. The day was bright and warm. Noon was only a few minutes away. Mister Walton startled his friend by lagging behind, but he had only paused to look around at the billowing foliage of elm and oak and chestnut, to smell the breeze that reached Spruce Street from the harbor, to listen to the birds and spot a squirrel on the lawn. There were robins hopping on their stiff legs—perhaps the very robins he had seen almost a week before, for there were seven of them. “How did Mr. Eagleton’s verse go?” he asked.
Sundry couldn’t begin to remember.
“My family’s doctor should have had your concern,” said Mister Walton. “I stepped on an old nail once and he said it would sturdy me up. Said my posture was lacking.” He took another breath of the sea breeze. “If I smell Mrs. Baffin’s cooking when we get inside, I’ll know you did more than wire for a carriage.”
They mounted the steps and Sundry held the door. Mister Walton stepped into the front hall with a strange mix of sensations. He smelled something wonderful from the kitchen, and he looked forward to the kind attentions of the elderly Mrs. and Mr. Baffin, but he was still counting the days till he would see Phileda again. Weariness had reawakened his recent melancholy.
Then she was at the end of the hall, a kitchen towel in her hands and a look of concern on her face. Her brown hair was done up in a practical bun and she wore a dark blue dress and an ivory blouse that Mister Walton had seen before (and thought of since). “Phileda!” he said. He almost dropped the valise.
“Oh, Toby, you do look pale!” she declared as she met him at the door.
Sundry ducked past the doorway and hurried upstairs with the bags.
Phileda put her soft cool hands on either side of Mister Walton’s face, then pressed his cheek against hers.
“Oh, my!” he was saying. “Oh, my! I am like an empty house without you, Phileda. Everything inside me just rattles around to no end or purpose.”
There were tears behind his spectacles, and then there were tears behind hers. She kissed him, and whatever color his face had lacked till that moment returned to him. As he embraced her slim body, he could hear voices in the kitchen; Sundry had gone down the backstairs to greet the Baffins.
“I will speak to that young man,” he said with some firmness. “I am somewhat put out with him.”
“Are you?” she said, holding him at arm’s length.
He did not look put out at all. He smiled and said, “Not really. Not even a little bit.
With a lace handkerchief from her pocket, she dabbed at her eyes. He made similar adjustments, all the while taking large, life-filled breaths.
“It is a shame for you to leave your aunt’s,” he said. “Whatever Sundry told you, I am fine.”
“There wasn’t anything left for me to do,” she said. “I left the key with the neighbors, and really, Toby, you are not the only empty house when we are apart.” This statement did little to dispel the tears in either of them, and soon they were laughing at themselves, they thought they must look so silly standing there in the hall weeping.
“I am hungry!” he said suddenly, trying to look stern. In her state of high sensation—tears and happiness—Phileda laughed, then put her hand over her mouth.
“Good heavens, what is it?” they could hear Mrs. Baffin’s call from the kitchen.
“Oh, Toby,” said Phileda, as if she had just remembered something. She put a hand to her breast and breathed hard from the roil of emotions. “There’s a letter that arrived the other day. It’s from your sister.”
“Elizabeth?” he said. Phileda thought he paled again.
“It’s postmarked from Abidjan,” she said
“Elizabeth,” he said. His sister was the only other family he had left alive, and he had not heard from her for almost ten years. He was shaking as he walked the hall, Phileda firmly on his arm.
“Why haven’t you heard from her till now?” asked Phileda in a whisper
“I don’t know,” he said. “My mother didn’t approve of her husband.” He laughed softly but regretfully. “He was an Episcopalian, you know. But I know Mother would never have said anything. I do think she was upset when Elizabeth told her she was going with him to Africa, though. I was away—in Indiana, I think—when Mother wrote me about it.” They paused at the threshold, and Mister Walton realized that Sundry Moss and the Baffins were poised in the kitchen waiting to discover what was happening.
“My, but dinner smells marvelous!” he said with an appreciative sigh
Mrs. Baffin’s sweet face crinkled with pleasure at the sight and sound of him. “You sit right down, young Toby.” she said. “I suppose the kitchen is grand enough for corned beef and cabbage. Sundry, you sit down,” she dictated. “Miss McCannon.”
Mister Walton closed in on the kitchen table, but it was the white envelope on its surface that garnered his full attention. He was still shaking a
little when he sat down and opened the letter with a kitchen knife. It was a fat enclosure, and he shook from it a large sheaf of folded, tan-colored paper, the pages of which were filled with a regular, flowing script. He unfurled this missive and proceeded on the instant to read.
Phileda sat beside him and did her best to read his face. Sundry leaned against the counter. He had cut himself a piece of bread, which he folded in half and munched. Mrs. and Mr. Baffin, who had loved Elizabeth (and, in fact, the entire Walton clan) as much as they loved Toby, stood waiting and finally sat, too, at the table, waiting.
“Oh, dear,” said Mister Walton, nearly under his breath but loud enough to be heard in that quiet room. He looked up when he realized what anxiety he might be causing and said, “It’s only that my recent adventures pale before hers.” He returned to the letter, but several times he let out an exclamation of wonder or disbelief. Toward the end of the letter, he grew silent, and he scanned the last page twice and three times over before he laid the missive on the table and took off his spectacles.
“Three months,” he said in an absent voice.
“Toby?” sad Phileda. She put a hand on his.
“Elizabeth’s husband has died,” he said. “She is working at a hospital on the Ivory Coast. And she has a seven-year-old son. Victor.” There was more silence. “I’m thirsty,” he said, upon which announcement he realized that Sundry had placed a glass of cold water before him ten minutes ago. Mister Walton took a long drink and thought it tasted wonderful. “She has sent her son to England till the doctors there are sure he has recovered from a bout of fever. He’s to sail from Bristol, then, to Halifax. He is, in fact, probably on his way.”
“Toby!” said Phileda with quite a different inflection. She knew how much it would mean to him to have family by his side again. She pressed his arm and smiled softly.
“In the instance that this letter did not find me, or did not find me alive, there are arrangements for her husband’s family to take Victor in. Poor Elizabeth. To have lost her husband so young.” Mister Walton came out of the middle distances to regard Phileda with sudden perception. “He might be in Halifax now.”
She did not let go his arm.
“Or arriving any day.” He looked weary again. “It means my missing the ball, of course.”
She nodded. Inside she was as disappointed as any young girl awaiting her first dance, but she showed nothing of her feelings. She thought herself small and selfish.
Sundry bent over a simmering pot as if he might pick something from it.
“And you left what you were doing to come down for me,” said Mister Walton to Phileda.
“Elizabeth’s son,” said Mr. Baffin to himself.
None of them could think what it meant—least of all, what it meant to Mister Walton and Phileda McCannon and any future they might imagine together to have a seven-year-old boy coming to live on Spruce Street.
“I must go to Halifax,” said Mister Walton.
“Of course,” said Phileda.
“Sundry?” said Mister Walton. One might have guessed he was asking the young man’s opinion.
“I’ll check the steamer schedules,” said Sundry.
“Thank you.” Mister Walton couldn’t imagine doing it himself, he felt so confused and distracted.
“Elizabeth’s son,” said Mr. Baffin again.
“Hush,” said Mrs. Baffin, but softly.
Phileda looked to Sundry with an expression of concern. She was missing Mister Walton already, but, more than that, she had recently been swept up by her beau’s sense of time passing all too swiftly—a sense (or an intuition, perhaps) that was all the more potent for her knowledge of his recent spell.
Sundry was no happier with the thought of Mister Walton traveling, and he was also conscious of the anxiety that must accompany such a new charge. He showed nothing of these misgivings, however, and simply nodded to Miss McCannon with an expression of immutable confidence.
65. Another Knot (or Two)
Sundry imagined that the solution was simple enough, though he understood that it might seem otherwise, were he in Mister Walton’s place. He knew he’d been more than a little tongue-tied himself in the presence of Miss Morning-side. In fact, reflecting upon Mister Walton and Miss McCannon, his thoughts quickly associated themselves with the young woman, and he experienced such a series of complex emotions that he was glad to step outside and into the day again.
The breeze had shifted into the west, and the ocean seemed further away when the fragrance of salt water was less palpable, but he heard the toot of a distant tug and the answering call of a steamer that might even now be standing into the harbor. The sun was just past its height and every blade of grass upon the front lawn was articulated against its own shadow. The trees were so green they almost hurt Sundry’s eyes; they had not been leafed out so long that he could take them for granted. There were robins on the lawn and he thought to count them, though he couldn’t remember what the number seven was supposed to auger.
He was in search of a newspaper and the departure schedules for ships communicating between Portland and Halifax. He was hankering for some roasted peanuts. Most of all, he thought it meet to get out from underfoot; Mister Walton might view his situation in simpler terms were there fewer people in the house, and particularly if everyone but Miss McCannon cleared out.
On the sidewalk, Sundry paused and considered Spruce Street in all its June glory. A gentleman with a top hat and cane came down the hill, greeting Sundry with quiet dignity as he passed. He put Sundry in mind of certain acquaintances, and it occurred to him that a newspaper was surely to be had on upper Danforth Street at the home of Matthew Ephram. He had never been to Mr. Ephram’s apartments but he knew the address, which was not far away.
It was one of the older houses on Danforth Street—a handsome, white clapboard home of the Colonial style, square and upright. A maid answered the door and was very intent on Sundry as he asked for Mr. Matthew Ephram; he might have found his own way up the single flight of stairs, but she accompanied him, chatting pleasantly about the weather and how very kind Mr. Ephram was. She was a few years older than himself, Sundry guessed—a round-faced woman with bright eyes and rather obviously enamored of the second-floor tenant. “He’s been very adventurous of late!” she declared. “Are you a member of his club?”
“I have heard of it.” Sundry waited patiently for her to realize that they had reached the landing.
“The papers have followed them very closely,” she said, wide-eyed. “Oh! Let me knock for you. I’m sure he’s home.”
Even before the door opened and Mr. Ephram appeared on the other side of it, Sundry was conscious of a gathered medley of ticks and tacks that had discovered sympathy in the very walls around them, so that the plaster and lathes and the woodwork seemed themselves to tick and tack. But this was nothing to the symphony that grew in volume when the door opened, and Sundry thought the experience was not unlike walking into a concert hall when the performance has already begun.
“Mr. Ephram,” said the maid. “I beg your pardon, but Mr. Moss is here to see you.”
“Mr. Moss?” said Ephram. “Mr. Moss?” he said again when he had located Sundry beside the maid. “Mr. Moss! How very good to see you! And how very kind of you to stop by! Please come in! Thank you, Miss Blythe.”
The maid curtsied prettily and hurried down the stairs. Sundry stepped past Ephram’s beckoning arm and thought he had visited the home of Father Time himself. All about him were clocks and chronometers, swinging pendulums and shivering indicators. Sundry peered from wall to table, from settee to wall, his hands behind him as if he were walking the corridors of a museum.
“Please, please,” Ephram was saying. “Come in, please. How is Mister Walton? Recovered, I hope?” A stricken look then showed on his face as this line of thought coalesced with the possible reason for Sundry’s unexpected visit. “Good heavens, Mr. Moss! The chairman is well, isn’t he?”
“He’s mu
ch better, I think,” assured Sundry. “He’s going to Halifax.
“Oh, my!” said Ephram. He looked so amazed, Sundry might have told him that Mister Walton was swimming to China.
“I was looking for a newspaper,” said Sundry. “The departure schedules on the shipping page.”
“Certainly, yes,” said Ephram. “That would be the place to look.” Then he looked amazed all over again and realized that Sundry wanted to peruse his Eastern Argus. “Why, yes! Come in, come in!” Ephram led the way, through a room or two, past any number of clocks, till they came to a comfortable den lined with books and populated by three overstuffed chairs. A table stood before the single window, and here there were certain mementos and oddments, along with a short stack of books, a small standing clock, a pair of reading glasses, and a neatly folded newspaper.
Ephram watched while Sundry perused the timetables in the shipping column. “The Manitoba is leaving on Saturday morning for Halifax,” said Sundry. “She’s down at the Atlantic and St. Lawrence Railroad Wharf.”
“That’s on the other end of Commercial Street,” informed Ephram, “just across from Thump’s family business.”
“Is it?” Sundry carefully folded the newspaper and laid it on the table. “Maybe that’s a good sign.”
Ephram was delighted when Sundry invited him along for the walk. He gathered his watches and calling cards, a ring with two keys, and a billfold, then matched each of these articles to the proper pockets about his person, found his new hat, checked one of his watches against the clock in the den, and he was ready.
“Mr. Spark’s establishment is not far from here,” said Ephram when they were near the comer where they would turn off Danforth Street. “The Faithful Mermaid.”
“Is it?” said Sundry. He remembered, now, that the fellow outside the Shipswood Restaurant had spoken of the place. “Nearby, you say?”
A few minutes later they were standing before the tavern, and Sundry considered the lady above the door with great interest. There was something generous about her that made a person feel hopeful. Sundry was further impressed by the level of excitement occasioned by their entrance. Several people, including a coterie of older women in one comer, greeted Ephram familiarly and one or two even raised a glass, as if he might join them in a quaff of ale. (Sundry could smell the tavern’s primary item of trade.) The news of their arrival found its way very quickly to the kitchen, and the image of Mr. Thump came striding out to welcome them heartily.
