Earl Biggers - Seven Keys to Baldpate

“As we walked back over the sands and grass-grown streets to the hotel, his heart got away from that cupid’s lunch-counter, and he was almost cheerful. I was gay to the last, but as I parted from him my own heart sank. I knew I had to go back to her, and that she would probably give me a scolding about the carpet slippers. I parted from McMann with a last word of cheer. Then I went to the ship — to her. My wife. That was the lie, you understand. She traveled everywhere with me. She never trusted me.

“We were due to sail that night, and I was glad. For I worried some over what I had done. Suppose my wife and Alexander McMann should meet. An estimable woman, but large, determined, little suggesting the butterfly of the footlights I married, long before. We had a bad session over the carpet slippers. The boat was ready to sail, when McMann came aboard. He carried a bag, and his face shone.

“ ‘She’s sent for me,’ he said. ‘Marie wants me. I got a letter from my brother. I’ll blow into Kansas like a cyclone, and claim her.’

“I was paralyzed. At that minute a large black figure appeared on deck. It headed for me. ‘Jake,’ it says, ‘you’ve sat up long enough. Go below now.’

“McMann’s face was terrible. I saw it was all up. ‘I lied, McMann,’ I explained. ‘The idea just came to me, it fascinated me, and I lied. She did turn me down — there in the wings. And she shed that tear I spoke of, too. But, when I was looking over the railroad folders, she sent for me. I went — on the wings of love. It was two blocks — but I went on the wings of love. We’ve been married twenty years. Forgive me, McMann!’

“McMann turned around. He picked up the bag. I asked where he was going. ‘Ashore,’ he said, ‘to think. I may go back to Kansas City — I may. But I’ll just think a bit first.’ And he climbed into the ship’s boat. I never saw him again.”

The hermit paused, and gazed dreamily into space.

“That,” he said, “was my one great lie, my masterpiece. A year afterward I came up here on the mountain to be a hermit.”

“As a result of it?” asked Miss Norton.

“Yes,” answered Mr. Peters, “I told the story to a friend. I thought he was a friend — so he was, but married. My wife got to hear of it. ‘So you denied my existence,’ she said. ‘As a joke,’ I told her. ‘The joke’s on you,’ she says. That was the end. She went her way, and I went mine. I’d just unanimously gone her way so long, I was a little dazed at first with my freedom. After fighting for a living alone for a time, I came up here. It’s cheap. I get the solitude I need for my book. Not long ago I heard I could go back to her if I apologized.”

“Stick to your guns,” advised Mr. Max.

“I’m trying to,” Mr. Peters replied. “But it’s lonesome here — in winter. And at Christmas in particular. This dressing-gown was a Christmas present from Ellen. She picked it. Pretty, ain’t it? You see why I can’t come down and cook for you. I might get the fever for society, and shave, and go to Brooklyn, where she’s living with her sister.”

“But,” said Mr. Magee, “we’re in an awful fix. You’ve put us there. Mr. Peters, as a man of honor, I appeal to you. Your sense of fairness must tell you my appeal is just. Risk it one more day, and I’ll have a cook sent up from the village. Just one day. There’s no danger in that. Surely you can resist temptation one little day. A man of your character.”

Miss Norton rose and stood before Mr. Peters. She fixed him with her eyes — eyes into which no man could gaze and go his way unmoved.

“Just one tiny day,” she pleaded.

Mr. Peters sighed. He rose.

“I’m a fool,” he said. “I can’t help it. I’ll take chances on another day. Though nobody knows where it’ll lead.”

“Brooklyn, maybe,” whispered Lou Max to Magee in mock horror.

The hermit donned his coat, attended to a few household duties, and led the delegation outside. Dolefully he locked the door of his shack. The four started down the mountain.

“Back to Baldpate with our cook,” said Mr. Magee into the girl’s ear. “I know now how Cæsar felt when he rode through Rome with his ex-foes festooned about his chariot wheels.”

Mr. Max again chose the rear, triumphantly escorting Mr. Peters. As Mr. Magee and the girl swung into the lead, the former was moved to recur to the topic he had handled so amateurishly a short time before.

“I’ll make you believe in me yet,” he said.

She did not turn her head.

“The moment we reach the inn,” he went on “I shall come to you, with the package of money in my hand. Then you’ll believe I want to help you — tell me you’ll believe then.”

“Very likely I shall,” answered the girl without interest. “If you really do intend to give me that money — no one must know about it.”

“No one shall know,” he answered, “but you and me.”

They walked on in silence. Then shyly the girl turned her head. Oh, most assuredly, she was desirable. Clumsy as had been his declaration, Mr. Magee resolved to stick to it through eternity.

“I’m sorry I spoke as I did,” she said. “Will you forgive me?”

“Forgive you?” he cried. “Why, I—”

“And now,” she interrupted, “let us talk of other things. Of ships, and shoes, and sealing-wax—”

“All the topics in the world,” he replied, “can lead to but one with me—”

“Ships?” asked the girl.

“For honeymoons,” he suggested.

“Shoes?”

“In some circles of society, I believe they are flung at bridal parties.”

“And sealing-wax?”

“On the license, isn’t it?” he queried.

“I’ll not try you on cabbage and kings,” laughed the girl. “Please, oh, please, don’t fail me. You won’t, will you?” Her face was serious. “You see, it means so very much to me.”

“Fail you?” cried Magee. “I’d hardly do that now. In ten minutes that package will be in your hands — along with my fate, my lady.”

“I shall be so relieved.” She turned her face away, there was a faint flush in the cheek toward Mr. Magee. “And — happy,” she whispered under her breath.

They were then at the great front door of Baldpate Inn.

Inside, before the office fire, Miss Thornhill read a magazine in the indolent fashion so much affected at Baldpate Inn during the heated term; while the mayor of Reuton chatted amiably with the ponderously coy Mrs. Norton. Into this circle burst the envoys to the hermitage, flushed, energetic, snowflaked.

“Hail to the chef who in triumph advances!” cried Mr. Magee.

He pointed to the door, through which Mr. Max was leading the captured Mr. Peters.

“You got him, didyu?” rasped Mrs. Norton.

“Without the use of anesthetics,” answered Magee. “Everybody ready for one of Mr. Peters’ inimitable lunches?”

“Put me down at the head of the list,” contributed the mayor.

Myra Thornhill laid down her magazine, and fixed her great black eyes upon the radiant girl in corduroy.

“And was the walk in the morning air,” she asked, “all you expected?”

“All, and much more,” laughed Miss Norton, mischievously regarding the man who had babbled to her of love on the mountain. “By the way, enjoy Mr. Peters while you can. He’s back for just one day.”

“Eat, drink, and be merry, for to-morrow the cook leaves, as the fellow says,” supplemented Mr. Max, removing his overcoat.

“How about a quick lunch, Peters?” inquired Magee.

“Out of what, I’d like to know,” put in Mrs. Norton. “Not a thing in the house to eat. Just like a man.”

“You didn’t look in the right place, ma’am,” replied Mr. Peters with relish. “I got supplies for a couple of days in the kitchen.”