Moss farm, p.5
Moss Farm, page 5
“Oh, my!” said Mister Walton as a single one-eyed jack arrived on his plate with back bacon and hashed potato and onion. He was keen to eat but paused over his breakfast with utensils raised. Quite pleased with his own slyness, he added, “I suppose you must have known a sweetheart or two, growing up in Edgecomb.”
“I suppose,” replied Sundry and so vaguely that only the barest meaning of those two words was conveyed.
Mister Walton felt less sly, of a sudden. “Well,” he said. “I think we should travel to Moss Farm immediately.”
“Better have your breakfast, first,” suggested Sundry with a soft smile. Clearly, he was still wondering if Mister Walton and his mother were in collusion.
“I’ll get your bags out,” said Mr. Baffin and he strode off.
“I’ll pack some food,” said Mrs. Baffin.
“Are we leaving today?” said Sundry.
“No, no,” said Mister Walton. “We must give good warning. I wouldn’t want to arrive like an orphan in a storm.”
“I’ll send a telegram this morning to the Edgecomb City Store and Mr. Stone will be sure to get the word over to the folks. That’ll be plenty of time and we can leave tomorrow.”
Despite Sundry’s cool demeanor, Mister Walton thought he detected a hint of eagerness in his friend, which made him very happy with himself for proposing the visit. “That’s fine,” he said. “I look forward to seeing Moss Farm.”
“I do, too,” said Sundry.
5
Ephram Obscura
Dear Eagleton,
I am taking a constitutional to Deering Oaks to see the Camera Obscura. It would be my delight if you and Thump could meet me in that vicinity and we went together.
Sincerely,
Ephram,
Sep. 29, 1896—10:32 A.M.
Dear Thump,
I am taking a constitutional to Deering Oaks to see the Camera Obscura. It would be my delight if you and Eagleton could meet me in that vicinity and we went together.
Sincerely,
Ephram,
Sep. 29, 1896—10:42 A.M.
Such were the notes that Ephram penned to his friends that morning. (They are both extant.) The difference in time recorded in them would indicate the care he took in the writing (his penmanship was elegant, masculine, and meticulous)—or, perhaps, he was called away between.
It was not his intention to be or even appear to be precipitate; but he had risen (a little earlier than usual) with Mister Walton’s directive in mind and the counsel to know the best of the day in his heart. Furthermore, he may not have deliberately employed the word delight in these missives but it is a telling bit of detail to find it there.
With these notes ensconced in crisply addressed envelopes, Ephram left his rooms, which were so filled with the ticking of clocks and chronometers, the silent swing of pendulums and the precisely spaced rings and gongs of hours and half hours and quarter hours joining forces from every corner and shelf. He stepped into the comparative quiet of the hall and went downstairs to stand for some moments before the door to his landlord’s rooms. He brushed at his mustaches, respectfully situated his top hat (top out) in the crook of his left arm, and went to knock upon the door before he realized that he was holding the envelopes in his right hand.
He looked down at the envelopes in the one hand and his hat in the other, made some vague gestures before him in the air, and switched these items, but not only did he feel awkward knocking with his left hand, he was now holding the envelopes by that extremity.
Ephram thought some more, looked down at the envelopes in the one hand and his hat in the other and back again. “Ah,” he said, switched the items back as they had been and put the envelopes in a coat pocket. Then, with his hat respectfully situated (top out) in the crook of his left arm, he raised his right hand and knocked.
And he waited. Someone on the other side of the door said, “What was that?” and someone else said, “What was what?” and the first someone said, “What was that noise?”
Ephram wondered if he should knock again but that might seem overly insistent and so he continued to wait. He waited in the hall for some minutes before the door was flung open and his landlord’s sister saw him and let out a cry of surprise and alarm, which elicited from Ephram a similar if shorter (and smaller) sort of response.
“What is it?” came a voice from within the landlord’s rooms.
“Oh, my, you startled me!” said the woman.
“I do beg your pardon,” said Ephram. “I knocked.”
“Was that you?”
“What is it?” was the demand again and Mr. Fennell appeared with a glower. Mr. Fennell was a glowering sort of man but he had glowered less at his second floor tenant since learning of Mr. Ephram’s robust and adventurous nature. The papers had been full of the business concerning the Underwood girl and the recovered (and then lost again) treasure, and Mr. Fennell was not a little proud (and perhaps daunted) to have such an intrepid fellow for a lodger. Besides, Mr. Ephram was never late with his rent.
“Oh,” said Fennell. “Mr. Ephram.”
“I knocked,” explained Ephram.
“Good morning,” said Fennell, the forecast on his face much improved. “You know my sister, Mrs. Whinier.”
“I have had the pleasure,” said Ephram. He reached with his right hand to doff his hat, only to remember that it was in his left hand. He raised the hat in his left hand as he lowered his right, as if he might put it on for sole purpose of taking it off again. That seemed complicated, however, and he reversed these gestures, then reversed them again. Then he stilled his arms and said, “A pleasure, ma’am.” Then he was able to add, “Two minutes before the hour of eleven,” because he somehow had one of the three or four watches that he kept about his person opened before him.
“Oh, my!” said she with a satisfied expression. Mrs. Whinier (who visited her brother more often these days) was widowed, a mother of an energetic eight-year-old boy, and a little swoony in the presence of Mr. Fennell’s lodger. She was some years younger than Ephram and some years older in how life had dealt with her—a little aged in the face and a little stooped by labor, yet she had not allowed loss or maternal care to entirely weigh her down. Never beautiful, she yet had a smile that might make her seem so. Lately, her presence in the house had become quite common.
For his part, Ephram was almost tall, dark of hair and mustaches, and in appearance not unlike a thousand heroic protagonists as depicted in the popular literary journals. When he felt out of his element, as he did at this moment, his countenance took the look of serious purpose, which made him all the more impressive. “I was hoping your son might deliver some letters for me,” he said with a slight bow.
“Oh, but he’d be delighted, Mr. Ephram!” said she. She knew her son would be delighted, as Mr. Ephram was famously generous. Indeed, the gentleman handed her a separate and very generous coin to answer for each letter. (Mrs. Whinier would give her son one of them.)
“I would not have him dash rashly,” said Ephram, “but if he would deliver them with all advisable speed, I would be most grateful.”
“Why, Mr. Ephram!” she said, touching his arm—his left one that held the shiny top hat, “I’ll retrieve him immediately! He’ll place them as quick as you could slip on ice!”
On more than one occasion, Ephram had slipped on ice and the memory (not to mention Mrs. Whinier’s touch upon his arm) caused him to flinch a bit. Mrs. Whinier noticed the little start and it caused her to glance at him slyly and pat his arm again. Ephram felt misplaced as he followed her out of the house, paused on the steps to put on his top hat, and walked a little stiffly behind her down the flagstone path to the sidewalk of upper Danforth Street.
“Going my way?” she lilted when he had caught up with her. (She was simply standing in wait at the end of the walk.) He had no chance to respond or even to consider which way she might be going. (It wouldn’t have mattered.) She wove her arm into his and gave the most delicate pull toward town and not in the direction of Deering Oaks at all.
“Two minutes past the hour of eleven,” said Ephram and almost dropped the watch he was inspecting.
She chatted and laughed the whole way, as merry as the giddiest coquette. Ephram would recall none of what she said but he did his best to be gallant and had enough presence of mind to explain to the woman that he had a meeting to keep when she stopped before a somewhat used-looking home and asked if he would like to come in for coffee and some pound cake that she had baked just yesterday.
“Jimmy will be that happy to deliver your letters!” she declared as he tipped his hat and took a more or less westward bearing. She stood at the end of her weedy walk and waved several times, once for every time he glanced over his shoulder.
Ephram hailed the first empty cab that came his way.
It was twenty-seven minutes before twelve.
Across the foot-bridge into Deering Oaks, then west along the path that took a person back toward the pond, stood the temporary structure known (and prominently billed) as Professor Longthorne’s Incredible Camera Obscura, Portland’s Own Animate Photograph, All the World’s a Stage! It did indeed function as an oversized photographic device—consisting of a darkened room, an aperture to let in light, and a lens to re-right the image that a bright day would cast upon the farther wall, where a negative plate would be waiting in an ordinary (and ordinarily sized) camera. Unlike the more common device, Professor Longthorne’s contraption was large enough to hold a dozen people and the image projected (when the light of day was sufficiently bright) was ever in motion and never caught for posterity.
It was a charming little building, meant to look like a simple (and miniature) country cottage—hip-roofed, white clapboarded, trimmed in red—and as such it fit neatly in the environs of Deering Oaks, with its grassy, flower-strewn paths, its duck pond and rustic bridge. The park’s titled trees were tall and broad and magnificent, and walking among them, Ephram found it a simple and pleasant duty to delight in the morning, which was warm, sunny, and filled with the hum of nature and humanity.
It was a Friday, a workday for many, but there were those who let their work or their path to work lead them through the park. And there were those few, like Ephram, who were at a kind of leisure. Nursemaids and governesses and even the occasional mother in cream colored dresses (not the pure white of high summer) wheeled their charges’ prams, themselves like pale ambulatory hydrangeas in the golden sunlight. Men in less summery attire paced the walks or sat among the benches with newspapers unfolded or cigars or pipes spilling fumes about them.
The neighborhood of the camera obscura was not entirely empty of these strollers and languideers, but the vicinity impressed Ephram, when he came upon it, with a sense of relative seclusion. He wandered up and down the lawn, turning to face the little building with every few steps. He stood back on the bank of the pond by a young maple tree and considered the hole in the southern side of the structure that must act as the camera’s aperture. It occurred to him, as he craned his neck and bobbed his head, that his image (unaware, as it were) must be playing upon the back wall of the little house.
Ephram made a sound not unlike that which Thump would make when in deep thought and he gazed up and down the path beside the pond, looking for his friends. Which way would they come? He tipped his hat to several women and nodded to several men. One of the nursemaids, passing by with a baby in a pram, gave him an odd smile, and there was something both accusatory and friendly about the expression that he could not parse out.
He considered the camera obscura again and wondered what the image of all this traffic—the women in their pale dresses, the ducks on the pond—would look like, shining on the back wall. There were a few fleecy clouds advancing across the sky and he thought they might be in a path to pass before the sun. It seemed too bad not to take advantage of the best light and he and the other Charter Members had taken on the duty of viewing the device in order to bring back an account of the experience to their revered chairman.
“That will be a nickel, sir,” said a man in bright, summer-striped clothes, who seemed to step from nowhere when Ephram approached the entrance to the little building.
“Oh!” said Ephram. “Of course.” He took a watch from one of his coat pockets so he could better retrieve the purse beneath it. He produced a nickel from the purse, gave the coin to this fellow, and considered the time before he put back both purse and watch. “Fourteen minutes before the hour of one,” he said to the doorman.
“There’s no time limit,” advised the fellow.
“You’re very kind,” said Ephram.
“Watch your head.”
A brightly painted sign by the low entrance said the same thing. Ephram doffed his tall hat and ducked inside. Coming in from the brilliant light of day, it took some moments before his eyes adjusted to the relative dark, and after bumping into a wall, he realized he was in a narrow passage that led to his left. He felt his way through this corridor and stepped past the end of the right-hand wall into a small airless room. He was a little confused, at first, because all his senses told him he was indoors, except for his eyes, which seemed to be looking at the park and the pond (albeit a little dimly)—and in the wrong direction.
A woman in a pink and white dress, a broad pink hat, and brandishing a furled white parasol strolled by and as Ephram’s eyes became adjusted to the dim room, he realized there was a man in darker clothes beside her. Another man walking a bicycle went past in the other direction. A child pulled on the arm of his nursemaid closer to the pond, picked up a rock, and threw it (if wide) at one of the ducks. Ephram stood, mouth wide with astonishment as he watched the soundless splash of the rock.
“Why, the rascal!” he said and watched with mixed feelings as the nursemaid gave the child a shake and marched him out of view. Ephram looked about the room and realized that he was not alone. A young woman in a pale dress and frock coat and topped with a large, fashionably feathered hat sat on a bench opposite the ghostly, silent image on the back wall. “I beg your pardon,” said Ephram. He would not have expressed himself so strongly about the little boy if he had known that someone else (not to say a woman!) had been there. He had always liked ducks but hesitated to inform the young lady of this.
She gave Ephram only the most fleeting glance before returning to an engrossed, frowning study of the passing scene, apparently uninterested in the newcomer or his choice of locutions.
Ephram wondered if it were proper to stay with an otherwise unescorted woman in such a small room, but the obverse choice—to simply turn and leave—seemed also impolitic. “How do you do,” he said as he sat on the other end of the bench. He concentrated on the image upon the wall—a sort of golden and green glow, flowered with pale dresses and shadowed by the darker outfits of men. People sauntered by, pausing to look at the ducks and the pond, chatting with one another, men tipping hats, women smiling their greetings, prams, a child, a dog running with a dangling leash and a moment later a man running after.
Ephram was filled with a strange conflict of emotions. He saw these people and they were unaware of it, or at least they carried on without considering the possibility very much. It made him feel a little guilty and, at the same time, rather thrilled him, which made him feel guilty all over again. “Well, it’s what the papers advertised,” he said, not realizing he spoke aloud. “Mister Walton did request that we look into it.”
The woman turned her head slightly to consider Ephram with a dull expression and one that he had the strange presentiment was dulled by worry. She did seem unhappy and he wished (not for the last time) that he had the powers of their chairman to instill confidence and optimism. “I beg your pardon,” said Ephram again. He was not sure what he thought about it all, but he did not leave and the two of them sat for some time in silence, watching the muted vision of strollers and sight-seers. Ephram wondered why others were not coming in to see, but the camera obscura had been here all summer and perhaps the novelty had worn away.
For a moment the scene was devoid of people—only a duck or two drifting on the pond, a third breaking the surface from a dive. The leaves of a young maple swayed with the light breeze. A man appeared. He was well-dressed and sported a handsome brown bowler that was pressed a little too firmly upon his crown. He paused in the middle of the clearing and glanced around the lakeside, throwing such a searching gaze in the direction of the camera obscura (and seeming to stare straight at Ephram) that that worthy fellow almost sprung from his seat.
Ephram thought the woman sitting on the other end of the bench had been similarly affected, for she stiffened suddenly and did jump up. The Moosepathian lost track of the image on the wall as he became engrossed by his fellow observer, whose feet moved back and forth from the bench half a dozen times while her entire form and posture bespoke indecision and agitation. Then with a sound like a gasp she hurried for the exit.
“Good day!” Ephram called after her. He sat back and considered the image on the wall. A cloud had passed before the sun and the picture was duller and more ghostly than ever. Something white that lay on the bench beside him caught his eye. It was a newspaper that had been sitting there on the other side of the young woman. “Oh, dear,” said Ephram. That did seem too bad. He looked at the wall again and caught the briefest glimpse of her disappearing from the lens’s purview.
Ephram picked up the newspaper and hurried after, almost striding headlong into someone (who let out a cry of alarm) in the little corridor that led outdoors. He pulled himself up short, leaned his head back, and asked effusively the pardon of the man in the brown bowler whom he had just seen staring from the back wall.
