Moss farm, p.32
Moss Farm, page 32
He had another muffin.
He went to his desk and found his letter opener beneath an opened almanac, where he had been conferring about the coming tides. He slit the envelope and pulled from it a single pale blue sheet of hotel writing paper. He unfolded it, leaned forward, and read:
Dear Mr. Thump,
I cannot properly convey my gratitude to you and to Mr. Eagleton and Mr. Ephram for your unbounded kindness to me during our recent adventures. I quite pressed myself on you on the grounds of no invitation other than your obviously gracious natures. I have not so enjoyed myself since Mr. Mint left me a widow nor felt such warmth and friendship. A widow is more often than not handled like an invalid but though you and your fellow club members treated me with the utmost courtliness, it was never as anything but an entire person. Most marvelous is that you never had to think about it but only acted as was honest in your character. These past few days and your companionships have lightened the burden of my later hours and my widowed life for years to come. And without you I would not have met the charming Mr. Cutts, who is accompanying me, this morning, back to my brother’s home in Saco.
I do hope you have the opportunity to meet Mrs. Roberto again.
Thank you, by the way, for letting Millard know that I was safe and cared for.
I do so look forward to meeting your Mister Walton, someday.
And I apologize if my other acquaintances sometimes got out of hand. Sometimes, the less said . . . .
My eternal friendship and regard,
Actonia Mint
Mrs. Mint was precise about one salient point; the Gentlemen of the Club had behaved toward her within the strict parameters of their collective and individual natures. Thump was puzzled at the hint, in her letter, that there might have been any other way to proceed.
Several deep impressions weighed upon and lifted Thump. The loveliness of Mrs. Mint’s sentiments, above all, quite filled his heart. He was startled at the mention of Mrs. Roberto. (Just to see her name!) The Charter Members had told the crowd at McGivney’s about the ascensionist but how had Mrs. Mint understood the manner in which Mrs. Roberto had struck him? He was also surprised that Mrs. Mint had known he was communicating with her brother, and he was a little abashed by the seeming ruse, now. It was quite understandable that she should want to meet Mister Walton. But what did she mean by her other acquaintances? Who had gotten out of hand?
Ah, well! The less said . . . !
It did seem that Mr. Seams, his daughter, Miss Gray, and perhaps Mrs. Mint herself had reason to fend off careless talk. Thump’s mother had been quite definite about such things. “Allow people to tell their own story,” she used to say, “and you will still have plenty to talk about.”
He thought about his mother for a while. Then he roused himself, gathered his writing implements before him, and was almost ready to write to Ephram and Eagleton when he realized that such a gracious lady as Mrs. Mint had surely written them, as well. He had as little doubt about it as he had question about how to treat such a lovely person.
Friday—Deering Oaks; Saturday—Biddeford and Saco; Sunday—Munjoy Hill; and Monday—Deering Oaks again! He felt weary but accomplished when he considered the past four days. He imagined that he and Ephram and Eagleton would speak of their adventures with Mister Walton and Mr. Moss when they met again, but quietly and no further.
Thump looked into his almanac and compared its register of the day’s high tide with the latest edition of the Portland Courier. Then he went over to one of his bookcases and pulled out his well-thumbed copy of Mrs. Rudolpha Limington Harold’s The Rose Beneath the Street. Thump reclined on the divan and opened the book. He had only read a page or two before he was fast asleep with the book clutched fondly to his breast.
32
Cool Heads and Clear Water
Mister Walton had stifled several yawns and more or less lost the sense of how far or how long they had been driving when along a descending, tree-lined stretch of road, the mare slowed her pace and the trap’s movement slackened from a jaunt to an amble. The unexpected decrease in their speed roused the bespectacled fellow and he sat up, blinking at the broad, sunlit trunks, the grassy banks falling golden and gentle toward a narrow margin of bright and flashing water on the one hand, and rising ever so slightly past the town hall and the cemetery into a series of broad, stonewalled fields on the other.
“That path just a little further on,” said Sundry with a nod of his head, “to the right, just past the graveyard. That heads up to the Trask Farm.”
“Andrew’s family?” asked Mister Walton.
“His uncle and aunt. Andrew’s parents died eight or ten years ago.”
“Ah, yes. You did say.”
The horse and trap were still traveling, if slowly, and Mister Walton stiffened an arm against the rail as they rocked over a granite nub in the road.
“His aunt and uncle helped him sell off his parent’s place,” continued Sundry, “but they hung on to a few acres so he could build a house someday. He’s already cleared a good deal of it and dug a cellar hole. He helps out with his aunt and uncle’s farm for room and board these days, and built himself a workshop there for his preferred trade.”
“Joinery,” said Mister Walton.
“Yes, his father was a joiner of some skill and folks who can remember think Andrew a better one yet.”
They had passed the town hall by this time. It was a handsome structure standing on a knoll above the road and presiding over the ranks of cemetery stones beyond. The grassy lane leading to the Trask Farm was drawing near.
“After your praise of his work,” said Mister Walton, “I would like to see what Andrew does. I don’t suppose there’s any easy way to get to Wiscasset by way of that path.”
“Truthfully, the way is a little less direct—narrower, and less traveled—but it will get us there. Just a cart path between farms, from Trask Farm to Hutchins to Huff to Patterson, and finally past the Cunningham place and back onto the road to Newcastle. From there we can turn back to the Eddy Road or keep going till we come to the next road west, which will then take us direct to Wiscasset.” Sundry had slowed the trap even more. Clearly he was thinking that with one more opportunity he might settle the question regarding his sister and Andrew Trask. “And just beyond the Huff place,” he added, as if more reason were needed, “we can step off the main path and stop at one of the best springs in town.”
“Would it be an imposition to drive their private roads?” wondered Mister Walton.
“No one would think so. Mrs. Huff might insist we stop for biscuits and buttermilk.”
“On top of that workman’s breakfast your mother served, I may just be able to fit it.”
“We will most likely have to wait for a later train,” Sundry warned.
“It is a beautiful morning,” said Mister Walton. “I can’t think of a finer way to spend it than to explore less common paths and see the fields in harvest.”
“Is that a poem?” asked Sundry with a slight smile. He knew that his friend and employer had occasion, now and then, to write in verse.
“Not yet!” said a happy Mister Walton as they turned onto the rutted, grassy lane.
When Europeans first cruised the rock-gnarled and ever-winding shores of the Maine, great ranks of trees stood like fortress walls upon the seacoast hills and backed the sandy beaches. The interior was dark and mysterious with ancient park-like forests of hardwood—broadly trunked and deeply canopied, and king pine—straight and top-lofty. The myriad hills and mountains and the uncounted rivers and streams, the granitic outcrops and glacial castoffs were hidden from all but the most immediate view.
But the woodsman’s axe and, later, the rough-toothed saw, coupled with a nautical society hungry for building materials and a European notion of agronomy, laid bare the land for farm and pasture in an astonishingly short span of years. By the time of Mister Walton’s first tour of Edgecomb’s northern quarter, field and lea ruled the landscape and trees only lined the odd stretch of road, or sheltered farm houses in small huddles, or simply stood alone as meadow sentinels and landmarks by which to guide the traveler’s path. What had been lost to the eye in the way of sylvan magnificence and beauty had been gained in the knowledge of the ancient glacier’s labor, like an artist’s hand that smooths rough-hewn seams and severe and hackled peaks (the most primordial and once the highest on the continent) into gentle sweeps and slopes and renders the hard and stony work of previous epochs into something that resembled living, sensual bends and curves and hillocks.
Traveling these placid slopes in a wheeled conveyance at moderate speed, Mister Walton experienced a pleasant rocking up and down, as on broad and petrified waves, or perhaps a gentle bounce upon the lap of Mother Earth. All about him there was the lullaby of crickets mourning summer, and birds of several tribes discussed their coming journey south. The day grew pleasantly warm, the sun was at his back, and he half closed his eyes and knew a dream-like state that was yet, in its way, alert and thinking. When Sundry announced that they were passing the Clifford place, the portly fellow roused himself enough to take note of a small and homely cape, nestled among oak and willow. They returned the friendly wave of the woman at the front door, but continued on into the whispery shade of hardwoods that, like guards, lined the next stretch of lane. The song of birds increased above them.
“Here we are,” said Sundry, soon after. The trees had opened up to a series of broad fields, punctuated by the occasional stand of three or four oaks or maples or a family of birch and drawn in by wooden fences and stone walls. Almost immediately in front of the lane was a neatly kept farmhouse (as well as its attendant barns and outbuildings) that partly blocked the view. The first of these smaller buildings was a modest, barn-like structure, its double doors swung wide to avail the sound of some manual saw at work within.
“I have had half a thought,” said Mister Walton.
“Have you?” replied Sundry as he drew back on the reins. “That’s more than I can claim.”
“I wonder if someone who cannot declare a parent’s or a brother’s concern might find it simpler to discover a fellow’s intent or what he might have already stated in quiet but not to the world at large.”
Sundry leaned a little further against the reins, straightening his back and casting a curious expression toward his companion. “It might appear that I had shirked my duty,” he said.
“Not at all,” returned Mister Walton. “Only that you passed it on to a friend who might be better suited to it.”
“Andrew will wonder why I’m sitting out here and you’ve gone in.”
“That’s true. But didn’t you say there was a spring hereabouts?”
“I did. Not on the straight path, however.”
“And shouldn’t we fill the water bottle in the hamper?”
“After I’ve poured it out, yes.”
Mister Walton gave a short nod to indicate they understood one another, barely waited for the trap to come to a complete halt before climbing down, and gave a wave as he said, “I will see you shortly.”
Andrew was standing in the broad opening to the workshop as Sundry shook the reins and rattled away and Mister Walton approached. The young man in the carpenter’s apron gave a wave to the departing trap and a puzzled look to the bespectacled gentleman from Portland.
“Good morning, Andrew,” said Mister Walton.
“Mister Walton!” said the young man. “Good morning! What brings you out this way, today? I thought you and Sundry were going back to Portland.”
“We are, but Sundry had such praise of your work that I asked him to take us the long way around so that I could come and see for myself.”
“That’s mighty kind of him,” said Andrew. “But where’s he gone?”
“To the spring, nearby. The day is getting warm and we will both be feeling a little thirsty with travel, I suppose.”
Andrew swung an arm behind him and said, “Come in, come in. I don’t imagine a man from Portland will see much in my workshop to make him wonder.”
He was mistaken.
Coming in from the bright day to the relative darkness of the cool building, Mister Walton’s vision was, at first, a little dazzled. The smell of wood shavings and sawdust greeted him—a pleasant fragrance that brought to mind his uncle’s barn in Richville, when he was a child. But then, the foot-treadled lathe came to view, and the long bench occupying the left side of the large room, spotted with tools and interestingly shaped pieces of wood. More tools hung neatly from the back wall and pieces of furniture and cabinetry—nearer to being finished—occupied a bench there. Mister Walton thought how right it all looked, how clever were the shapes of wood that Andrew had been working, and how accomplished the unfinished pieces promised to be.
Then he took in the more shadowed side of the shop, where two finished chairs, an occasional table, and a magnificent desk and secretary bookcase waited on platforms and shelves. These works glowed with hand finish, oils, and waxes and gave the impression, as he approached them, of fastidious attention to detail and an eye for pleasing geometry. And every locked and joined part of these lovely wholes was fastened without recourse to nail or screw.
“My word, Andrew!” said Mister Walton. “Sundry could only express half of what you’re able to do! A body needs to stand in front of these pieces and see for themselves!”
“You’re very nice, sir,” said the young man.
“Not in the least!” assured the portly fellow, who had a flash of doubt—not about his assertions concerning Andrew’s accomplishments but about his own plan of action, for he realized as he spoke, that the young man’s skills made his intended line of inquiry that much easier—and that much more perilous. Mister Walton stepped closer to an intricately inlaid table-top and admired it over his spectacles. “Marvelous!” he said with all sincerity. “Marvelous! But can your work keep you busy in a small town like Edgecomb?”
“Oh, these pieces are made on speculation,” said Andrew, indicating the works before them. “I work on them when things are otherwise quiet and the chores are done for Uncle Alan and Aunt Helen. I take in regular carpentry and make what people ask of me. But these I’ll mostly sell to summer rusticators down to the harbor hotels.”
“Marvelous!” said Mister Walton a third time. He continued his inspection of Andrew’s work—admiring those joints that were all but invisible and those that were purposely visible as part of the overall design. Here, Andrew gave himself away as something of an artist and Mister Walton guessed at a deep and thoughtful nature behind the young man’s unassuming—even self-deprecating—exterior.
Andrew stood quite still and silent as his guest moved from piece to piece, his open, freckled face alight with an almost childlike pleasure in Mister Walton’s admiration.
When the older man turned back to Andrew, he understood that the rightness of such a place must always center upon the artisan himself. Like a deer in a high meadow or a bird on a branch, he thought. Then he said, “Have you ever thought of coming to Portland with your trade?”
“Selling things there, you mean?” asked Andrew.
Mister Walton gave a measured nod over a thoughtful frown. “Yes, that, too. But also coming to Portland to work your trade.”
“Oh,” said Andrew.
“It would put you nearer to those summer rusticators for all the months they’re home,” said Mister Walton, adjusting his spectacles so that he could better inspect the scallop-backed chair before him. (Andrew, as it happened, was also a hand at caning seats.) “They might be more easily talked into a wardrobe or a desk,” continued the portly fellow, “if they didn’t have to pack it from Edgecomb to Portland themselves.”
“I suppose they might,” said Andrew with a vaguely stunned expression on his face.
“And that’s not to speak of all the great houses up and down the wealthier streets. Not all the well-to-do of Portland summer in Boothbay.”
“I don’t suppose—”
“And merchants down by the waterfront who would gladly broker your work to Boston and New York.”
“Oh, my!” said Andrew. “It’s more than a single man could cope with!”
“It would most certainly be,” agreed the portly fellow with studied deliberation and a finger waving before him. “I suppose you could hire other men to turn your lathes and rough out the simpler parts. And clerks and secretaries to take care of your accounts and business correspondence!”
“Oh, my!” said Andrew again.
“Why, you could come and stay with Sundry and me till you had yourself established!”
“But—!”
“I suppose you couldn’t come with us today—” mused Mister Walton, as if to himself.
“Today?”
“No, you would want to give your uncle and aunt some warning.”
“Warning—?”
“Finish up whatever tasks you have left undone.” Mister Walton had been talking to his feet but now he looked up with the most affable (and sincere) expression of encouragement and belief.
“But—!” said Andrew.
“You have a fine talent, young man!”
“Mister Walton—”
“Yes, son?”
“I don’t think I could—”
“Looking at your work, here, Andrew, I have every faith that you can.”
“No, that’s not it, Mister Walton!”
“And I’m sure your uncle and aunt would be happy for you.”
“I’m sure they would, but—” Andrew stopped, gaping.
“Yes?” said Mister Walton after some moments of silence.
“Well—”
“Yes?”
“Mister Walton—”
“Yes?”
Andrew gulped. “You and Sundry are heading out for Portland, so I don’t suppose it matters.”
