Earl Biggers - Seven Keys to Baldpate

But no cheery voice replied in terms of sun, wind, or rain. Surprised, Mr. Magee sat up in bed. About him, the maple-wood furniture of suite seven stood shivering in the chill of a December morning. Through the door at his left he caught sight of a white tub into which, he recalled sadly, not even a Geoffrey could coax a glittering drop. Yes — he was at Baldpate Inn. He remembered — the climb with the dazed Quimby up the snowy road, the plaint of the lovelorn haberdasher, the vagaries of the professor with a penchant for blondes, the mysterious click of the door-latch on the floor above. And last of all — strange that it should have been last — a girl in blue corduroy somewhat darker than her eyes, who wept amid the station’s gloom.

“I wonder,” reflected Mr. Magee, staring at the very brassy bars at the foot of his bed, “what new variations on seclusion the day will bring forth?”

Again came the rattling noise that had awakened him. He looked toward the nearest window, and through an unfrosted corner of the pane he saw the eyes of the newest variation staring at him in wonder. They were dark eyes, and kindly; they spoke a desire to enter.

Rising from his warm retreat, Mr. Magee took his shivering way across the uncarpeted floor and unfastened the window’s catch. From the blustering balcony a plump little man stepped inside. He had a market basket on his arm. His face was a stranger to razors; his hair to shears. He reminded Mr. Magee of the celebrated doctor who came every year to the small town of his boyhood, there to sell a wonderful healing herb to the crowds on the street corner.

Magee dived hastily back under the covers. “Well?” he questioned.

“So you’re the fellow,” remarked the little man in awe. He placed the basket on the floor; it appeared to be filled with bromidic groceries, such as the most subdued householder carries home.

“Which fellow?” asked Mr. Magee.

“The fellow Elijah Quimby told me about,” explained he of the long brown locks. “The fellow that’s come up to Baldpate Inn to be alone with his thoughts.”

“You’re one of the villagers, I take it,” guessed Mr. Magee.

“You’re dead wrong. I’m no villager. My instincts are all in the other direction — away from the crowd. I live up near the top of Baldpate, in a little shack I built myself. My name’s Peters — Jake Peters — in the winter. But in the summer, when the inn’s open, and the red and white awnings are out, and the band plays in the casino every night — then I’m the Hermit of Baldpate Mountain. I come down here and sell picture post-cards of myself to the ladies.”

Mr. Magee appeared overcome with mirth.

“A professional hermit, by the gods!” he cried. “Say, I didn’t know Baldpate Mountain was fitted up with all the modern improvements. This is great luck. I’m an amateur at the hermit business, you’ll have to teach me the fine points. Sit down.”

“Just between ourselves, I’m not a regular hermit,” said the plump bewhiskered one, sitting gingerly on the edge of a frail chair. “Not one of these ‘all for love of a woman’ hermits you read about in books. Of course, I have to pretend I am, in summer, in order to sell the cards and do my whole duty by the inn management. A lot of the women ask me in soft tones about the great disappointment that drove me to old Baldpate, and I give ’em various answers, according to how I feel. Speaking to you as a friend, and considering the fact that it’s the dead of winter, I may say there was little or no romance in my life. I married early, and stayed married a long time. I came up here for peace and quiet, and because I felt a man ought to read something besides time-tables and tradesmen’s bills, and have something over his head besides a first and second mortgage.”

“Back to nature, in other words,” remarked Mr. Magee.

“Yes, sir — back with a rush. I was down to the village this morning for a few groceries, and I stopped off at Quimby’s, as I often do. He told me about you. I help him a lot around the inn, and we arranged I was to stop in and start your fire, and do any other little errands you might want done. I thought we ought to get acquainted, you and me, being as we’re both literary men, after a manner of speaking.”

“No?” cried Mr. Magee.

“Yes,” said the Hermit of Baldpate. “I dip into that work a little now and then. Some of my verses on the joys of solitude have appeared in print — on the post-cards I sell to the guests in the summer. But my life-work, as you might call it, is a book I’ve had under way for some time. It’s called simply Woman . Just that one word — but, oh, the meaning in it! That book is going to prove that all the trouble in the world, from the beginning of time, was caused by females. Not just say so, mind you. Prove it!”

“A difficult task, I’m afraid,” smiled Magee.

“Not difficult — long,” corrected the hermit. “When I started out, four years ago, I thought it would just be a case of a chapter on Eve, and honorable mention for Cleopatra and Helen of Troy, and a few more like that, and the thing would be done. But as I got into the subject, I was fairly buried under new evidence. Then Mr. Carnegie came along and gave Upper Asquewan Falls a library. It’s wonderful to think the great works that man will be responsible for. I’ve dedicated Woman to him. Since the new library, I’ve dug up information about a thousand disasters I never dreamed of before, and I contend that if you go back a ways in any one of ’em, you’ll find the fluffy little lady that started the whole rumpus. So I hunt the woman. I reckon the French would call me the greatest cherchez la femme in history.”

“A fascinating pursuit,” laughed Mr. Magee. “I’m glad you’ve told me about it, and I shall watch the progress of the work with interest. Although I can’t say that I entirely agree with you. Here and there is a woman who more than makes amends for whatever trouble her sisters have caused. One, for instance, with golden hair, and eyes that when they weep—”

“You’re young,” interrupted the little man, rising. “There ain’t no use to debate it with you. I might as well try to argue with a storm at sea. Some men keep the illusion to the end of their days, and I hope you’re one. I reckon I’ll start your fire.”

He went into the outer room, and Mr. Magee lay for a few moments listening to his preparations about the fireplace. This was comfort, he thought. And yet, something was wrong. Was it the growing feeling of emptiness inside? Undoubtedly. He sat up in bed and leaning over, gazed into the hermit’s basket. The packages he saw there made his feeling of emptiness the more acute.

“I say, Mr. Peters,” he cried, leaping from bed and running into the other room, where the hermit was persuading a faint blaze, “I’ve an idea. You can cook, can’t you?”

“Cook?” repeated the hermit. “Well, yes, I’ve had to learn a few things about it, living far from the rathskellars the way I do.”

“The very man,” rejoiced Mr. Magee. “You must stay here and cook for me — for us.”

“Us?” asked the hermit, staring.

“Yes. I forgot to tell you. After Mr. Quimby left me last night, two other amateur hermits hove in view. One is a haberdasher with a broken heart—”

“Woman,” cried the triumphant Peters.

“Name, Arabella,” laughed Magee. “The other’s a college professor who made an indiscreet remark about blondes. You won’t mind them, I’m sure, and they may be able to help you a lot with your great work.”

“I don’t know what Quimby will say,” studied the hermit. “I reckon he’ll run ’em out. He’s against this thing — afraid of fire.”