“Teetotaller from the day born,” Milt Jerks said, waving his refusal as he took a chair. “Smoking likewise. I’m a Holy Roller.”
“A holy what?” Mrs. Peel asked faintly. Then, ever the polite hostess. “Ah, yes... I’m a Presbyterian myself. I didn’t know you had a Holy Rolling Church in Sweetwater.” I was only doing my best, she thought unhappily, watching Carla suddenly leave the room mumbling something about hay-fever and handkerchief. The others looked as if they needed a good excuse too. Mrs. Peel frowned at them slightly, and listened with rapt attention to Milt Jerks.
“We don’t,” Milt Jerks was saying gloomily. “That’s one thing I can’t persuade them to have. I’m the only Holy Roller in the place.”
“How lonely for you,” Mrs. Peel said sympathetically. “I mean, all by yourself.”
O’Farlan spilled the entire contents of the cigarette-box, with which he had been playing nervously, and went down on his knees to gather them together.
Mrs. Peel, conscious that his head was bent, that the others were laughing quite beyond all reason, could only shrug her shoulders and try to give a calm smile to Mr. Jerks. He was shaking his head over the uproar which had burst on the room so suddenly. They hadn’t much to laugh at, he thought, as he watched the thin, grey-haired fellow crawl around on all fours. They were all nuts. Writers, of course.
The girl with hay-fever came hurrying back and joined in the laughter. Just nuts, Milt Jerks thought. Only Mrs. Peel was not laughing very much, trying to show the rest of them how sane people behave.
Then Earl Grubbock returned from the cabin. He stood bewildered. He had never seen Prender Atherton Jones enjoying himself so wholeheartedly.
“Hello, Earl,” Esther Park said, suddenly serious. “You’re just in time. But I think it’s awful of us,” she added virtuously. “I really do!”
That silenced everyone, and they looked at her in dismay, waiting for her next words.
“So do I,” Sally said quickly, breathlessly. “We should all have helped Robert.”
“Yes, indeed,” Prender Atherton Jones said, and frowned so heavily that Esther’s mouth, open to speak, just stayed open.
“Must be quite a handful,” Milt Jerks said mildly, and at that moment Mrs. Peel forgave him his extraordinary clothes, which out-Westerned all Easterners.
“What is?” Atherton Jones asked, hoping that the evening’s entertainment was not yet over.
“You all,” Milt Jerks said bluntly. “But I guess you folks are grateful to Mrs. Peel here for the trouble she’s taken to make you all as comfortable as she could. I’ve talked with her over the ’phone often enough, so I know what I’m saying.”
“Really—” Mrs. Peel began, her cheeks colouring violently.
“And we were all talking about you tonight, Mrs. Peel. Sweetwater is buzzing. It isn’t every day we find a famous writer living among us, and it’s not every famous writer that comes and doesn’t let folks know about it.” For a moment he thought regretfully of the higher prices he might have charged if he had only known about Mrs. Peel. Then he became conscious that there was complete silence in the room. He rose to the occasion, literally and figuratively. He pointed to the folded newspapers which Mrs. Peel still held unopened in her lap. “Don’t you want to read what the papers are saying about you? I brought you my Sweetwater Sentinel as well as your New York Times.”
“What on earth is this man talking about?” Prender Atherton Jones asked, and looked with suspicion at the self-avowed teetotaller.
Sally said, “Merely that Margaret wrote a novel once. It was published in 1925, translated into fourteen languages, made into a movie which ran for years. In addition to all that it inspired a musical comedy called Inside Utopia. Its title was The Lady in White Gloves. By Elizabeth Whiffleton. Margaret is Elizabeth Whiffleton.”
“That’s the name,” Milt Jerks said cheerfully. “It was on the tip of my tongue. Elizabeth Whippleton. Miss Whippleton, I’d like to—”
“May I see these newspapers, Margaret?” Atherton Jones asked.
Sally took them and unfolded them. “As we can’t all see them at once, I think someone ought to read them aloud. Margaret has always been much too modest about her work, so I’d better do the reading. In fact, I seem to be the only person here who is calm enough to read them. Now, let me see... With due thanks to Mr. Jerks, we’ll begin with his Sweetwater Sentinel.”
Milt Jerks nodded his approval. “Page one,” he told her.
“Here it is...
‘Famous Authoress chooses Upshot County for Residence. News has just reached us that the world-renowned authoress Elizabeth Whiffleton, who wrote The Lady in White Gloves, sensation of the nineteen-twenties in America and Europe, is none other than Mrs. Margaret Hunterbriar Tharkington Peel who purchased her present residence, Rest and be Thankful, from James Brent, of Flying Tail Ranch, early this summer. Mrs. Peel, who is of a retiring disposition, has been living quietly at her beautiful home. She is well known to the residents of Sweetwater, however, who have remarked on the charm of her delightful conversations over the telephone with them. Our reporter, who tried to reach Mrs. Peel on the telephone this afternoon, but without any success unfortunately, hopes to be able to interview her before our next issue appears next week.
‘Meanwhile we know that everyone joins us in wishing Mrs. Peel a long and happy life in her new home. It is situated in one of the most beautiful parts of the State, and is rich in historical associations besides, for which Upshot County is justly famous. It was over the old Stoneyway Trail, which passes through Stoneyway Valley, where Rest and be Thankful is located, that Portugee Phillips brought to Fort Laramie the tragic news from Fort Phil Kearney of the Fetterman Massacre in his famous ride, which broke all records for speed and endurance, in the hard winter of 1866. Some historians claim that Portugee Phillips took the Bozeman Trail, and that may be true to a certain extent, but there is proof that he took the cut-off at Coolwater Creek, which brought him over the Stoneyway Trail for a distance of at least six miles in his record ride to Fort Laramie, there to give warning of the Sioux uprising. Mrs. Isabella Lang, of 15 Cottonwood Street, Sweetwater, recalls the fact that her father, John MacIvar, was a small boy when he saw the snow-covered horseman gallop past his father’s cabin on the Stoneyway Trail early in the afternoon of December 24, 1866. “There was a dark grey sky, and the snow was falling,” John MacIvar said. Portugee Phillips shouted to John MacIvar to tell his father to gather in all the livestock, and shutter the cabin and keep the guns mounted, and he (Portugee Phillips) would bring help from Laramie. John MacIvar, a resident of Sweetwater until his untimely death at the age of eighty-nine last year, was fond of recounting this story. Mr. MacIvar was a guide along with our Joshua (Cheesit) Bridger, no relation of Jim Bridger, in the 1876 expedition to Yellowstone Park under Gibbon’s command.
‘Sweetwater and Three Springs—indeed, the whole of Upshot County—are proud to welcome you, Mrs. Peel!’
There was a small, subdued silence. The shock, Sally thought thankfully, had been too great. She poured herself a glass of water.
Milt Jerks, who had been watching Mrs. Peel’s face with admiration and sympathy, registered the fact (for the next issue of The Sentinel) that Mrs. Peel seemed overcome with emotion. “Now,” Sally said, “for the New York Times.”
“Page twenty-two,” Milt Jerks said.
Sally cleared her throat.
“Elizabeth Whiffleton, author of The Lady in White Gloves, is now revealed as Mrs. Jonathan Peel. The novel created much interest in 1925, when it was issued here by Hitchpfeffer and McMullins. The book was also published in Austria, Denmark, England, France, Germany, Hungary, Italy, Norway, Russia, Sweden, and various other countries, including South America. Mrs. Jonathan Peel, who was connected with the Calvados Press in Paris before the War, resided in France until 1942. She is now in the United States.”
There was a long, intense silence.
Robert O’Farlan came forward to Mrs.
Peel and took her hand. “How wonderful!” Carla said, and ran to take Mrs. Peel’s other hand.
Sally stood back and let the others rush forward, offering their congratulations, talking with a sudden outburst of energy and excitement.
“How fantastic!” Prender Atherton Jones said, before he could stop himself. “But what on earth made you keep it a secret, Margaret?”
Mrs. Peel only smiled as she looked at him.
“Why don’t we celebrate?” Carla cried gaily. “Let’s go up and rout out the boys and get them to come over. We’ll have a dance. Go on, Earl; tell them all to come. And Ned must bring his guitar.”
“Good idea,” Grubbock said, “but I guess tonight’s the wrong night for it.” He sat down stiffly on a chair near Mrs. Peel. “Dr. Clark will be over here soon,” he said quietly. “Everything’s all right. But Karl will have to take things easy for a day or two. Dr. Clark said he was glad you called him, though.” Then he dropped his voice still more. “What’s this I hear about Norah? Is she leaving?”
“Tomorrow, I think.” Mrs. Peel watched his face carefully. “After all, it is only a few days earlier than she had planned. Partings can’t be postponed, can they? People come and people go. Don’t they?”
“Yes,” Earl Grubbock said gloomily, “I suppose they do.” He sat staring at the fire.
“But Earl,” Carla called over, “the evening’s quite young. It’s only a little after nine o’clock. Well, if you won’t go—Robert, you go and get the boys. Isn’t it a good idea, Mrs. Peel?”
“If they feel like it,” Mrs. Peel said doubtfully.
Carla laughed as if it were all decided, and began kicking the rugs back from the polished floor. “Come on, Prender,” she said, “I’m going to teach you some real dancing. The Varsoviana, or the Marsoviana, or whatever it’s called. You know... ‘Put your little foot there.’ Bert showed me how. It’s fun. Why”—she stared at the doorway—“here’s Mimi come down to join us!”
Mimi came into the room. She looked as decorative as ever in her man-tailored, feminine-chosen negligé. “I heard the most extraordinary sounds,” she said, “and no one came upstairs to tell me why.” She looked at the dishevelled room and the smiling faces. “What’s it all about?”
As Carla, hindered by Esther, told the story all over again, the men from the ranch began to arrive. Jim Brent was there too.
Mrs. Peel looked at Mimi doubtfully. “Do you think it’s wise coming downstairs?” she asked.
“My temperature’s normal,” Mimi said. “I’m getting better every minute. I’ll be at the rodeo and the dance on Saturday.” She smiled at Jim Brent settled in the chair nearest the fire, and draped the long, wide skirt of her robe about her legs. Most of the men seemed impressed. Mrs. Peel glanced quickly at Sally, but Sally was somehow looking remarkably untroubled. In fact, Sally wasn’t even avoiding Jim Brent now. She was talking to him. So Mrs. Peel relaxed and listened to Mimi’s congratulations about her book with real pleasure.
* * *
Everyone was there now except Karl Koffing. Even old Chuck had come to listen to the music and the laughter.
His quick eyes watched tolerantly. The young folks didn’t know much about the old dances, but what they didn’t know in steps they made up in noise. Now when I were a young fellow, he thought, I could keep neat time, never miss a step. And the girls, with their long, wide skirts swinging out above their trim ankles, was as light as a floating feather. But young fellows was different nowadays. Couldn’t keep their legs moving—all them darned sit-and-take-it-easy gadgets like automobiles. Take young Grubbock, for instance, a fine, healthy-looking young fellow, but he wasn’t dancing. Just sitting there with a cloud of gloom on his face. Yet once, after a couple of weeks on the trail, we’d be coming back to dance until sun-up. A celebration was what we’d been planning, all the way back down the trail, and a celebration we had. Why, even Ned and Robb and Bert, by the time it got round to one or two o’clock in the morning, would be saying they had to sack in and get a couple of hours’ sleep. Young Koffing was already in bed, and now Grubbock looked as if he were leaving.
Then the sharp old eyes noticed that Norah had just gone from the room, and Mrs. Gunn was too busy pairing off with Dr. Clark in the Virginia reel to see it. But Mrs. Peel, swinging as neatly as a girl of eighteen on Jackson’s arm, had noticed it all too. She smiled happily, and Chuck nodded. His hands began to clap the rhythm, just to help them all along.
24
ALARMS AND EXCURSIONS
On the day before the rodeo in Sweetwater, for which great plans were being made at both Flying Tail Ranch and Rest and be Thankful, Esther Park began her adventure.
It puzzled the others at first. That was before they started being alarmed. But as they had been puzzled by Esther Park when they had first met her, and then had stopped thinking about her (except as something to be avoided if possible, like draughts or bad cooking), her disappearance didn’t trouble them until the evening came and she was about to miss a second meal. That, as Mimi said, was really very odd.
At luncheon they had only noticed that for the first time in four weeks there was no Esther to keep inserting herself. There was a feeling of relief, mixed with mild speculation about where she had gone for her picnic (for Mrs. Gunn had reported that Miss Park had taken some food from the pantry that morning, when she was leaving after an early breakfast); and luncheon was an amiable meal.
“By the way,” Mrs. Peel said suddenly, after the lemon-meringue pie had melted away and Prender Atherton Jones had enjoyed his Bel Paese too, “I had a letter this morning that might interest all of you. It was from Drene.”
Everyone stopped talking.
“She’s well, and very happy. They have been staying in Colorado Springs, and they are now going to Hollywood. I gathered Dewey may work there—Firmament Films seem interested in him. And Drene’s learning French; because, after Hollywood, they are going to the Riviera.”
“Do let us see the letter,” Prender urged, forgetting noble attitudes in his amazement and curiosity.
“Oh,” Mrs. Peel said lightly, “that’s all there was to see.” She didn’t produce the letter. It was written in violet ink on the palest of pink paper with a purple monogram. Its sentences were kept short, and simple, and free from the hazards of punctuation. Dewey, or whoever was teaching her, was very wise. He would have to attend to her spelling, though. But that was always difficult: most women preferred simplified spelling.
“And Dewey Schmetterling married Drene Travers!” Mimi was incredulous.
“Definitely,” Mrs. Peel said, remembering the end of the letter. Say hello to all the gang for me. I am well. Hopping you are too, Truly yours, Mrs. Dewey Schmetterling. (Diana Travers Schmetterling.)
“I wonder if Dewey knew she had written you,” Prender Atherton Jones said.
Mrs. Peel, still remembering the end of the letter, only smiled.
“Dewey is really very clever,” Sally said. “Colorado Springs, Hollywood, the Riviera.”
“Just made to order for his problem,” Robert O’Farlan agreed. “Then after a year or two he won’t have any problem left.”
“Just a very spectacular production,” Karl Koffing said.
“I don’t suppose he will ever finish his book now. That’s the end of his literary career.” Prender Atherton Jones spoke regretfully, even if he felt somewhat relieved.
“I don’t know,” Sally said. “Once he has collected his money from Hollywood he’ll no doubt write a satire about it. Then later on, he can write a novel about the Riviera—it is even a richer field for satire than Hollywood.”
“But he will have to keep moving all the time,” Carla said. “I mean, people aren’t going to speak to him once he tears them apart in a book.”
“Dewey doesn’t listen to people, anyway,” Sally said. “He just likes to see them perform. And he hates to stay in one place.”
“How long has he actually lived in America?” Koffing asked.
/> “He went to live with an aunt in Paris when he was a child. I don’t think he ever set foot in America again until the War started. But Prender can tell you much more about him: he’s the authority on Dewey.”
“I’ve known him a considerable time,” Prender Atherton Jones admitted. “We’d keep meeting. London, Paris, Rome.”
“Oh,” Carla said, and sighed. “I’ve always wanted to travel. How wonderful to be able to say London, Paris, Rome, just like that.”
“You can have all those other places,” Mimi said. “I’ll take Paris.”
“The grass is always greener...” Sally said, with a smile. “The girls I met in Rome used to talk about New York. And I’ve rarely met a London girl whose eyes didn’t shine when she thought of a holiday in Paris or Rome.”
“What about the girls in Paris?” Earl Grubbock asked, breaking his gloomy silence. “Where do they want to go?”
Mrs. Peel smiled as she punctured Sally’s theory. “Paris,” she said.
They all laughed, and went back to discuss Dewey.
* * *
Their laughter would have sounded bitter in the ears of Esther Park. For at that moment she was imagining them round the dining-table, tortured with anxiety.
They would be talking worriedly. They couldn’t eat much. And they’d all feel guilty. Look at the fuss they had made about Drene, and Sally, and Mimi, and Karl. You’d have thought that Earl and Karl were heroes when they got back from that trip into the mountains. Well, they could start worrying now about her. Yes, they’d be talking about her, arranging to send out search-parties.
She hoped it wouldn’t take long before they found her. She was bored. She had been here for hours. She was hungry. She had eaten the doughnuts and sweet rolls which she had taken from the pantry this morning, when Mrs. Gunn had been too busy in the kitchen to notice. She had also finished the two bars of chocolate, brought with her in the pocket of her buckskin jacket. All she had to do was to wait.
It was so silent, silent and strange. Almost as if she were lost. But she wasn’t. She was well hidden from the ranch, though. For when she left the trail she had followed a path through a little wood; and then she had climbed round a small hill, crossed a shallow stream, and entered this high glade through another little wood. It was quite simple, she reassured herself. She had ridden miles and miles on the trail, but the distance from the trail to the glade was short, short and twisted and safe. Then she looked about her, and noticed there were several little woods to be seen from the high glade where she sat. And although she was positive she knew the hill which she had skirted, she could count three small hills all folding into each other from the direction she had travelled.