by Van Reid
“Besides, there are people like you . . . and that nice young man who kept me from falling overboard. I wish I had gotten his name.” She looked back over her shoulder, as if she might catch sight of him. “You’ve been to Portland before, then?” she asked, when they came to the street.
“Oh, yes, my dear. I was born and raised here.”
“Are you related to the Waltons who own the shoe factory?”
“I am the Walton whose family once owned the shoe factory.”
“I’m wearing shoes from Walton’s! Have you come back to visit your family?” asked Cordelia.
“As a matter of fact, my aunt died recently, and I have come back to decide what to do with the family estate.”
They were crossing the street now, and Cordelia very nearly stopped at midstream to convey her condolence. “Oh, I am sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.”
“Not at all,” insisted Mister Walton. He patted her hand as he urged her forward. Changing the subject, he said: “Your parents won’t be alarmed, I hope, seeing you on the arm of a strange man.”
“Oh, Mister Walton,” she said with a laugh—a reaction he found cryptic and, yet, somehow pleasing. The truth was that he was so amiable, with his cheery smile and deep chuckle, his rolling gait (hindered now by injury), his round face with honest brown eyes appearing large behind thick spectacles—he was so unclelike, even fatherly, that the thought of anyone being alarmed at the sight of him made her laugh. Her laughter was infectious, and he laughed as well, the very innocence of which delighted her.
It wasn’t till they reached the carriage that Mister Walton remembered his valise. Cordelia would have gone back for the bag herself, but he insisted on paying the boy who had been watching the Underwoods’ horse and carriage to retrieve it.
While they waited for this mission to be completed—Mister Walton seated on a nearby bench and Cordelia holding the horse’s bridle—two men emerged from the Custom House with the sea chest. Followed by Cordelia’s parents and Mr. Pue, they descended the steps to the street and carried the trunk to the back of the carriage.
“Mama, Papa,” called Cordelia from the mare’s side. James and Mercia were surprised to find her tending the horse, but she gave them little opportunity to ask questions. “I want you to meet Mister Walton,” she said; then: “Oh, Mister Walton, don’t get up. Your ankle.”
“Oh, not at all,” he said and, rising from the bench, extended a hand to James, who shook it with polite firmness. “I’m pleased to meet you, sir,” said Mister Walton. “Your daughter saved me from going overboard.”
“He lost his hat,” said Cordelia.
Since he was holding a hat, albeit still in a wet condition, it seemed proper to explain. “It went overboard,” he said.
“A sailor from one of the ships brought it to him,” said the young woman. “There was a nice young man who kept me from falling off the wharf.”
“A very capital fellow, I am sure,” assured Mister Walton.
“And Mister Walton has hurt his ankle. And he forgot his valise.”
None of this was very illuminating to Cordelia’s parents, and their bemused expressions indicated the confusion caused by such a bewildering string of unconnected detail.
“Good heavens!” said Mister Walton, chortling happily. “I’ve been a complete disaster since stepping on dry land!”
The sight of the portly gentleman, so pleased with his disastrous state, caused Cordelia to almost shout with laughter. James and Mercia smiled themselves, so disarming was Mister Walton’s humor over his own misfortune. “Oh, good heavens!” he said again, still laughing.
“Is it Mister Walton, of the shoe factory, then?” asked Mr. Pue. “Jacob Walton’s son?”
“Yes, sir,” said Mister Walton, wiping tears from his eyes. “I am pleased to meet you.”
“Nathaniel Pue,” said the inspector. “Shall I hail a carriage for you? Perhaps you would like to have that ankle looked at.”
“That is quite all right, Mr. Pue,” said James Underwood. “We should be glad to take Mister Walton wherever he needs to go.”
“Oh,” he said, waving a hand. “I have been far too much trouble to your lovely daughter already.”
“It’s no trouble at all,” said Mercia. She was quite taken with him.
“All tied in then, sir,” said one of the workmen. He tugged experimentally at the ropes that held the chest to the back of the carriage, and nodded, satisfied.
“Now, where is your valise?” said Cordelia, still holding the horse’s bridle. The boy was crossing the street without Mister Walton’s bag, his expression apologetic as he approached them.
“The fellow on the wharf says a kid took it,” he said simply.
“Not a goat, I’m sure you mean,” said Mr. Pue, who was a stickler for accuracy.
The boy tossed him a frown. “He says his friend chased after him.”
“Who is this fountain of information?” wondered Mr. Pue.
“Mr. McQuinn.”
“Oh, well, then. I daresay, nothing much gets past Horace McQuinn.”
The boy shrugged profoundly.
“Are you still at your family’s place, Mister Walton?” asked the inspector.
“Why, yes, I am.”
“Well, I know where that is—and if your bag shows up, I’ll have it sent to you.”
“I am very much obliged.”
“Should we talk to this McQuinn fellow, and see what else he knows?” wondered James.
“No, no,” said Mister Walton. “It’s taken up far too much of everybody’s time already.”
“Here you are, son.” James put a generous coin in the boy’s palm.
“The gentleman’s already paid me,” said the boy.
James merely waved a hand, and unlooped the reins from the knob on the carriage headboard. The boy tipped his hat and scurried across the busy street. The ladies climbed in; then Cordelia and her father helped Mister Walton onto the front seat.
“We should look after that ankle of yours, Mister Walton,” said Mercia.
“I really do believe it’s getting better,” said he.
“Mr. Pue,” said James, with a salute.
“Happy Independence Day to you,” said the inspector.
“I am so glad for your bunting,” said Mercia, as Melody picked up the shake of the reins and the carriage pulled away from the curb. Mr. Pue and the two workmen watched them disappear in the traffic.
“A kid might have taken the man’s valise,” said the inspector to no one in particular. “Goats will eat anything.”
3 An Almost Empty House
“I’M SO SORRY ABOUT YOUR AUNT, MISTER WALTON,” SAID MERCIA UNDER-wood as James pulled the carriage up to the walk that led to the front door of the Walton family home.
“Thank you,” he replied. “I wish you could have known her—she was such a grand lady. She lived a full life, though, and passed quietly, I am told. I am only sorry that I wasn’t with her when she died.”
“Are you celebrating the Fourth with anyone?” inquired James. “We’re picnicking in Freeport with Mercia’s Aunt Delia, and there is sure to be plenty of good food to go around.”
Mister Walton was touched by the offer. “Oh, you are too kind. But I couldn’t impose upon your generosity any further.”
“Not at all, sir,” said James.
“Nonsense, Mister Walton,” said Cordelia.
“Mister Walton may have other plans,” said Mercia, patting her daughter’s knee. “But if you find yourself at the fairgrounds in Freeport, Saturday noontime, I hope you watch for us, and join us for lemonade and a sandwich.”
“I will most certainly, ma’am,” he said as he stepped down to the street. His ankle seemed much better now. With heartfelt thanks, he waved goodbye and watched, with an unexpected pang of regret, as Mr. Underwood turned the carriage about and shook Melody’s reins. He had grown to like these generous people during his short acquaintance with them, and especially felt a paternal fondness
for Cordelia, who turned and waved one last time as they drove out of sight around the next corner.
So Mister Walton came home with little more than his wet hat in his hands and the key to the front door in his pocket. His stomach grumbled as he turned up the walk.
The house on Spruce Street was an example of the Federal style—his father, Jacob, had once termed it “modestly grand”—a brick building, with gardens along the south and east walls. Except for the black wreath on the front door, it was little changed since Mister Walton had last seen it; the lawn had recently been trimmed, and the flowers of early summer were bright in the midday sun. Mr. and Mrs. Baffin, who had been in the employ of his family for as long as he could remember, lived now on the other side of town, but had continued, obviously, to watch over the grounds and keep house.
He paused on the walk, momentarily disheartened by the prospect of seeing his family home uninhabited for the first time since it had been built. Until now, there had always been someone to greet him—his parents, his sister (before she went to Africa), his aunt. He turned and looked back at the street: the tops of the elm trees shifted with the breeze; a robin bobbed quickly on the lawn and flew off.
It occurred to Mister Walton, while turning the key in the lock, that he had never had to let himself in in this fashion. The tumblers boomed in the tall oak door and, swinging it open, he was conscious of an echoing space in the hall beyond, though it was as filled with a stairway, a hat rack, an umbrella stand, and two chairs as it had ever been. A great wave of memory met him as he caught the scent of waxed floors and polished furniture. Long-stilled voices rushed to greet him like lonely friends, and he was suddenly filled with a sympathetic melancholy for these phantoms.
He closed the door behind him, and could not keep himself from one small (and, perhaps, superstitious) greeting. “Halloo,” he said quietly to the empty house. Dust—stirred by the movement of the door and a brief exposure to the day’s light breeze—ascended in graceful spirals, lit by a shaft of light that slanted from an unseen window in the upstairs hall. Mister Walton half-expected someone to appear at the head of the stairs.
Hanging his wet hat in the hall, he moved into the noiseless parlor, where the drapes were closed and the resulting shadow breathed with a strange chill. The old folk were still here somehow. He could almost see them; certainly he could sense them—his father in his chair by the window with his head buried in a book, his mother crafting mittens or tatting doilies by the fireplace—and he was in the midst of conjuring these images (and doing so with such a degree of success that goosebumps rose on his forearms) when an unidentifiable sound came from the further precincts of the house.
Mister Walton’s eyes, already wide behind his spectacles, were larger yet with an unpleasant thrill as he paused in midstep and keened his ear. Perhaps, he thought, it was a mouse. True, it hadn’t sounded like a mouse; and if it were a mouse, it was a particularly large one. Strange, that his old familiar home could seem so uncanny to him; that a single creak of an aging timber, or bang of a loose shutter, could paralyze him so. He was poised on one foot; his mouth was open and his shoulders were hunched in fear. He forced himself to relax, scoffing at these whim-whams.
Then came the sound again, this time more definitely. Someone had shut the door to a cupboard—a pantry cupboard, he would vow. The noise, a seeming ghost of life in this silent place, brought back all his gooseflesh and petrification. Was this a ghost indeed; or a thief, unaware of being heard in his search for felonious gain? Well, thought Mister Walton, if a ghost, better to meet it; if a thief, better to frighten him away.
“Halloo?” he questioned the rear portion of the house, but the word sprang out in an apprehensive squeak. He listened for a moment, then said “Halloo?” again, with more of his natural voice.
Something like a low human utterance reached his ears, and Mister Walton crept forward, cringing at the complaint of a noisy floorboard. The room that in later years Aunt August had used for a bedroom was just behind the parlor, and he stood in this doorway, peering through the draped gloom to the hall beyond. He heard footsteps now, and was tempted to retrace his path with greater speed than he had originally taken.
“Who is there?” came an uncertain voice behind him, and despite his lack of height, Mister Walton came within an inch of hitting the top of the door frame as he jumped with fright. He landed a full one hundred and eighty degrees opposite the position from which he had taken off, and nearly repeated this gymnastic feat at the sight of a head suspended in the doorway to the front hall. He let out two whooshing gasps in the midst of his physical gyrations, and was barely heartened by a similar sound emanating from the face in the doorway.
It occurred to him then that the head was not disembodied (which had been his first impression) but attached to a form that was crouched in similar fright behind the door frame. “Master Toby?” came a familiar voice, and the bent form of Cedric Baffin, the Walton family’s ancient retainer, established itself beneath the gray head.
“Mr. Baffin?” said Mister Walton with a gust of relief.
“Master Toby?” came the question again. Cedric Baffin stepped cautiously into the parlor and peered through the gloom to be sure of his eyes.
“Mr. Baffin,” said Mister Walton, “I cannot tell you how grateful I am for the sight of you.” He actually laughed then—partly with relief, partly with joy at seeing the old fellow, and partly with a hilarity that shook from the foundation of his great heart as he imagined the figure he must have cut, pirouetting his stoutness in midair.
“Toby! Toby!” shouted the elderly servant. He embraced Mister Walton where they met in the middle of the parlor. “Lucinda said you’d be home soon!”
“How is Mrs. Baffin?”
“Suffering from the rheumatism, I fear. Rather more than she lets on, as you might guess.”
“Yes, of course.”
“Ah, young Toby, let me look at you! Are you just back, then?”
“Yes, but I hadn’t expected anyone to be in the house. The door was locked.”
“I came in by the back, you see.”
Mister Walton laughed again to think of the fright he had just experienced. Mrs. Baffin, it seems, had been prescient in her expectation of his arrival and for the past week had been sending a basket of food each day so that young Toby might not be greeted with an empty larder. Mister Walton was greatly moved (the more so since the Baffins were no longer in the employ of his family) and doubly gratified when Mr. Baffin led the way to the kitchen and laid out a plate of cold meat, warm bread, pickled beets, and a slice of strawberry pie.
Cedric Baffin sat at the table next to his young Toby and watched delightedly while each morsel disappeared. He told Mister Walton of recent news and local gossip—of the strange incident of the highwayman on Vaughan Bridge and the next-door neighbor’s visiting cousins, of the riot that nearly destroyed the Saco Town Hall and the recent ordinances passed to discourage the smuggling of demon rum—and whenever he was momentarily stumped for something to say, he would simply repeat: “Well, Lucinda said you’d be coming home soon.”
“She is a fine woman!” said Mister Walton with great sincerity as he sized up the piece of pie before him. “And the house! Dear me, Mr. Baffin, you must be spending as much time at it as ever.”
“Well, Toby, things shouldn’t go to seed.”
Mister Walton leaned back in his chair and took a deep breath. He felt both hurt and joy in his heart; to come home to an almost empty house, to see these rooms without the warm presence of his family, but to be greeted by this beloved friend, and now to have Mrs. Baffin’s famous cooking placed before him—it all rushed in upon him in a disorder of emotion, and tears came to his eyes before he knew what he was about.
Old Cedric smiled, but a tear showed on his own cheek and he felt no shame for it. He put his hand over Mister Walton’s and they sat for some moments nodding and smiling and wiping their eyes.
4 The Sea Chest
“YOU H
AVEN’T WASTED ANY TIME,” SAID CORDELIA. SHE HAD HALF-EXPECTED some sort of ceremony to commemorate the opening of Uncle Basil’s sea chest. Instead, she and her mother found James in the parlor with the trunk flung open and the first of its revealed contents in small piles at his feet.
“I’m sorry,” said her father. “Should I have waited for you?” He looked up from a bundle of letters. They had been tied together with a red ribbon, which lay now, with the loose envelopes, on his lap. James filed through these, noting the postmarks and the handwriting.
“Are those from us?” asked Cordelia. She and Mercia stood each to one side of his chair and looked over his shoulder.
“Some of them, yes. Look at this one. From the handwriting, which is mine, and the date of the postmark, I would guess that this carries news of your birth.”
“Oh, really? You wrote to Uncle Basil about me?”
“Of course I did.”
“He kept all his correspondence?” wondered Mercia.
“A good deal of it, at any rate; there are four more bundles of letters in there. Now whose handwriting is that?” James lifted an envelope past his shoulder and his wife took it from him.
“It’s a woman’s hand,” she said. “Postmarked from Hallowell. Whom do we know in Hallowell?”
“Or, more to the point,” suggested Cordelia, “whom did Uncle Basil know in Hallowell?”
Her mother flipped the envelope over several times, as if some clue might reveal itself. “Hallowell—that’s near Augusta, isn’t it.”
Mercia had given up the envelope, and now James looked at it, front and back, several times over. “Hmm,” he added, after several silent moments. Clearly curiosity was tugging at him.
“Should we read it?” Cordelia asked.
“I wonder why Basil had Mr. Stimply pack these letters.” James fidgeted with the envelope absently. “Perhaps, in his sickness, he didn’t remember that this was among them.”
“Do you suppose there are others?” wondered Cordelia. It wasn’t entirely admirable, she knew, but she felt no compunction about opening the letter and reading its contents.
