She had been proud of her ankles, proud of her hair, proud of her hands, proud of her power over men and women although she knew enough about love to know that this impulse has no reflection. Pridefully she had given toys to the poor on Christmas. Pridefully she had smiled at this image of her magnanimity. Pridefully she had invented a whispering chorus of admiration. Glorious Honora, Generous Honora, Peerless Honora Wapshot. One brought energy to life, there was nothing to equal its velocity, its discernment, but could the spirit of an old woman take wing on the rain wind? She had no boisterousness left. Her usefulness was over. She tied a noose in the clothesline and dragged a trunk to beneath the rafter. This would be a trap for her gallows. The trunk lid was ajar and she saw that the papers inside had been rifled. They were family papers, private things. Who would have done this? Maggie. She was into everything: Honora’s desk, Honora’s pockets. She pieced together the torn letters in the fireplace. Why? Was it like the magic that an empty house works on a child? The King and Queen are dead. She roots through Daddy’s stud box, puts on Mummy’s beads, stirs up the humble contents of every drawer. Honora put on her glasses and looked at the disordered papers. “The President and the Board of Trustees of the Hutchins Institute for the Blind request . . .” Beneath this was a letter in faded ink: “Dear Honora, I shall be in Boston for perching cloathing for summer and fawl but will return thursday. I thinch its plaine enof now that Lorenzo wold like to have bought my land when he was theare. I am ankshus to sell. I know thears no prospect of getting a faire prise from him, jidging from the past. Dishonesty is his polesy but if you spoke with him it might affect a saile. . . .” Below this she read: “He who reads me when I am ashes is my son in wishes.”
It was in Leander’s hand, some pages of that execrable journal or autobiography that had occupied the last months of his life.
Cousin Honora Wapshot is a skin-flint [he had written]. Head-cheese of every local charity. Dispenser of skinny chickens and pullet’s eggs to the poor. Prays loudly in church for those who travail and are heavy-laden but will not loan one hundred bucks to only, only cousin for safe investment and guaranteed income in local water-powered tack factory. No work in St. Botolphs. No coin. Village dying or dead. Writer at age of nineteen forced by Honora’s parsimony to take job as night desk clerk in Travertine Mansion House ten miles down river.
Travertine Mansion House ranked with wonders of the ages. Compared in free literature to monuments in Karnak, Acropolis in Greece, Pantheon in Rome. Large, frame, brine-soaked fire-trap with two-story piazzas, palatial public rooms, 80 bedrooms, 8 baths. Wash-basins and chamber-pots still widely in use. Accounted for poignant smell in hallways. Public rooms and some suites lighted by gas but many chambers still dependent on kerosene lamps for illumination. Palm trees in lobby. Music played for all meals, excepting breakfast. American plan. Twelve dollars a day and upwards. Writer worked at desk from 6 P.M. until last gun was fired, usually around midnight. Salary was seventeen dollars including board wages. Wore swallow-tail coat and flower in buttonhole. Speaking tubes but no telephones. Limited bell system connected to dry-cell batteries. Fine view of beach from piazza. Tennis courts and croquet lawn at side of hotel. Some saddle horses brought up from livery stable. Some boating. Principle evening recreation was attendance at lectures. Glories of Rome. Glories of Venice. Glories of Athens. Also some philosophical and religious subjects.
Among guests was Shakespearean actress. Lottie Beauchamp. Pronounced Beecham. Played supporting roles with Farquarson Grant Stratford and Avon Shakespearean Co. Traveled with own bed-linen, silver, jams and jellies. Mlle. Beauchamp as she was then known to writer appeared at desk late in evening with sad tale. Had lost pearl necklace on beach. Remembered where she had left it but was reluctant to venture on dark shore alone. Writer accompanied star-boarder on search. Mild night. Moon, stars, etc. Gentle swell. Found necklace on stone in sheltered cove. Admired scenery, warmth of night air, moon riding in west. Mlle. Beauchamp breathing heavily. Pleasant hour ensued. Writer dozed off. Woke to find famous Thespian jumping up and down in moonlight, holding breasts to keep from jouncing. Moon madness? What are you doing? Well, you don’t want me to have a child do you? says she. Jumped up and down. Never experienced such behavior before or since. Seemed to work.
